Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11083260.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Shameless_(US)
  Relationship:
      Ian_Gallagher/Mickey_Milkovich
  Character:
      Ian_Gallagher, Mickey_Milkovich, Fiona_Gallagher_(briefly), Terry
      Milkovich_(briefly)
  Additional Tags:
      Fluff, Internalized_Homophobia, Sick_Ian, Alternate_Universe, Travel,
      Underage_Drinking, Slow_Burn, Eventual_Smut, Angst, Underage_Ian, North
      Side_Ian, Underage_Substance_Use, Swearing, Emotional, Explicit_Sexual
      Content, Implied/Referenced_Abuse, Oral_Sex, Post-Traumatic_Stress
      Disorder_-_PTSD, dark_themes, Homophobic_Language, Homosexual
      relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-06-03 Completed: 2017-06-27 Chapters: 11/11 Words: 41840
****** Make Me Feel ******
by Gallabitch
Summary
     A sheltered Ian Gallagher finds out he is terminally ill and the only
     person he wants to spend his final days with is the thug he meets on
     the South Side who offers him the chance to experience life.
     Trailer:
     https://youtu.be/h4NZyPrdp80
Notes
     This is my first fan fiction so I hope you enjoy it! :)
     I'll be adding tags as the story progresses.
***** Desperate *****
"ID?"
Ian Gallagher patted the front and back pockets of his jeans and supplied an
apologetic smile to the man behind the counter. He assumed by the roll of the
other man's eyes that this was a scenario he witnessed more frequently than Ian
had hoped.
"No ID, no booze." The overweight man flicked his wrist towards the exit,
fanning his fingers to shoo Ian out of his line of sight while dragging the
bottle of Jack Daniel's from the counter with his other hand. He then promptly
returned his gaze to the magazine in front of him as if Ian had never existed
in the first place.
Ian's mouth opened to protest but it quickly closed, unable to muster the
energy to form a credible argument. This was just the shit that he needed to
pile on top of his already shitty day. He shoved his hands in his pockets and
turned to saunter out of the building, the sound of the bell mocking him as he
exited empty handed.
His fingers twitched at his sides as he began his journey back to the North
Side. If he was being honest with himself, he had half-expected the outcome.
After all, the only luck he seemed to be having was bad.
It was dark and humid during the nighttime in Chicago but the darkness of the
South Side was much different than what Ian was accustomed to from the North
Side. It was eerie. He found himself glancing over his shoulder more often than
he’d like to admit. And though he should have found some comfort in being
completely alone, it made his body tremble ever so slightly.
A hand on his shoulder paired with a sharp "aye!" was enough to pull him out of
his head.
Startled, he turned around only to be greeted by a pair of tattooed knuckles
shoving a bottle of Jack into his chest. His fingers wrapped around the neck of
the bottle hesitantly, loosening it from the grasp of the stranger. He peered
at him curiously. "Th-thanks." He followed the inked letters which found a home
just above battered knuckles, up to the face of his new acquaintance.
The other boy nudged the tip of his nose with the pad of his thumb. "Yeah." The
brown -almost black- haired boy turned away, lighting a cigarette, and his feet
began to take him further down the empty sidewalk, leaving a flabbergasted Ian
in his wake.
Ian watched in awe as the mysterious figure shrank into the distance. He shook
his head to gather himself then jogged after the stranger down the unfamiliar
stretch of road. "Hey!" He called after him, the sudden courage in his voice
sounded foreign to his own ears. When the brunette didn't turn around, he tried
again, only louder. "Hey!" Ian's fingers latched onto the hem of his shirt,
causing the other boy to swat him away.
"The fuck?" The soft face that had initially greeted him was now hardened,
almost appearing disgusted. Pale blue eyes glaring into earthy green ones for
only a second before the brunette huffed his annoyance and turned on his heels
to swagger away again.
Ian's brows furrowed. Had he imagined the guy that purchased the bottle for him
only moments before? The guy walking away from him didn't appear to give two
shits about him now. He was tempted to simply leave with the bottle but being
stubborn was an inherent part of his personality. His shoes started to carry
him across the pavement before his brain fully processed what was happening.
"Hey!" He tried a third time. "Would you just stop for a second?"
The shorter man curled the fingers of his free hand into a tight fist while
lowering the cigarette from his lips with the other, attempting to steel
himself. Ian swallowed the tightness in his throat at the apparent anger in the
other boy but the fact that he stopped in his tracks made him feel a little
lighter.
"You obviously ain't from around here, kid. So I'm gonna give you a chance to
walk the fuck away before I take the bottle back out of your hand and smash it
on that carrot top." The threat escaped his mouth with a plume of smoke. He
didn't need to turn around to know that Ian looked terrified.
"I just..." why was he still talking? "I just wanted to say, y’know, thanks."
The brunette’s shoulders stiffened at the words and he raised the cigarette
back to his lips to take another pull. "You fuckin' said that already."
Ian knew he should run away while the other boy's back was still facing him. He
was already given more chances than he deserved. He took a brief moment to
assess the situation; there was an obvious height advantage on his part but he
knew it would take a lot more than a few inches to be able to win against the
thug threatening him. Yet, his lips kept moving. "Yeah well I-" his eyes
widened when the other boy shifted to bring his body closer to Ian so he could
grab the collar of his shirt and press his weight against the brick wall of the
abandoned building beside them, dropping his cigarette to the ground in the
process.
"Are you fuckin' deaf?" He was nearly cross-eyed peering up at Ian in such
close proximity but the confidence and power emanating off of him made up for
what he lacked in height.
Ian shook his head frantically. His fearful eyes danced around the face of the
other boy, admiring the features he could see more vividly through the stream
of light pouring down on them from the streetlamp above. Sure, he knew this
wasn’t the time to be giving someone the once over, seeing as how he was being
assaulted and all, but damn if he couldn’t help himself.
The thug released the fabric of Ian’s shirt after he felt his point had been
made. "Then get out of here. I ain't sayin' it again." His foot fell heavily
against the burning cigarette on the ground, extinguishing it.
"Will you just tell me why?" Ian could've smashed the bottle over his own head.
The boy’s eyebrows flew up so far they nearly touched his hairline. "You
fuckin' serious?"
Ian walked back a few steps. "Fine. Fine. I'm going." He shook the bottle in
the other boy’s direction, continuing to walk backwards.
Mickey inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils before sputtering out the
words, taking pity on the kid and somewhat admiring his perseverance. "You
looked desperate, alright?"
Ian paused mid-step, eyebrows scrunching together. "What? Desperate?" He
couldn’t decide if he was more stunned by the choice of words or the fact that
something other than a threat came out of the other boy’s mouth.
His thumb found the side of his nose once again. "Yeah. Desperate. Like you
needed some of that." He waved his hand towards the bottle in Ian's.
Ian felt as though he should be offended but he knew what the other boy said
was true. He was desperate. Desperate to experience something he hadn't before.
Desperate to wash away his pain. Desperate to feel numb. To feel nothing at
all. "Yeah." A quiet chuckle managed to escape. "You're right about that." He
could tell the other boy was uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to
foot as he fumbled for another cigarette.
The summer air was still aside from a few crickets singing nearby. The silence
stretched between them for longer than either of them were comfortable with.
"Yeah well then. You're welcome, or whatever." The words would've been missed
by Ian's ears had the atmosphere not been so quiet.
The corners of Ian's lips tugged into a small smile. "What's your name?"
Blue eyes raised from the uneven concrete to meet Ian's. "You don't give up, do
you?" He let out a soft laugh despite himself. When Ian continued to stare at
him, he rolled his eyes. "Mickey."
Ian took a few steps forward to meet Mickey again. "Ian." He outstretched his
hand then awkwardly pulled it back to rub the nervous sweat from his palm
against the thigh of his jeans when all Mickey did was stare at the gesture.
"Where did you even come from?" Mickey tilted his head heavenward, silently
admonishing himself for not leaving this awkward redhead where he stood when he
had the chance.
Ian's eyes blinked a few times in rapid succession. "Monica." Was all he could
manage to spit out. He knew it was stupid as soon as he said it but the small
laugh from Mickey made it worth it.
"Okay, wise guy. Where did Monica squeeze you out?" Mickey raised his eyebrows,
smiling around his cigarette.
Ian paused for a moment before answering, dumbfounded by the turn of the
conversation. "North Side."
Mickey nodded his head slowly. "The fuck you doin' here then?"
Ian shrugged innocently. "Not old enough." He shook the whiskey bottle at
Mickey again.
Mickey laughed, tossing his cigarette to the side. "No fake?" When Ian shook
his head, he pieced the story together. "So what you thought you'd come to the
shit side of town and get away with it?" His eyebrows hitched once again and
Ian couldn’t help but observe that perhaps they had more personality than any
person he had ever met.
Another innocent shrug.
"Watchu so desperate for, anyway? Your nanny not cut the crust off your
sandwich?" The corners of Mickey’s lips threated to curl into a smile at the
sound of his own humor.
Ian nibbled on the inside of his cheek for a few beats. He chose to ignore the
dig and let the truth of his visit to the dingy liquor store steal the
spotlight. "Cancer."
Mickey audibly sucked in the breath he was releasing.
Ian kicked at some of the loose pieces of concrete that had broken away from
the main slab. They were both quiet, his eyes never leaving the ground until a
freshly lit cigarette was lingering in his direction. "You're gonna offer a
cancer stick to someone who just said they have cancer?"
"Y'already got it. Can't get it again."
Ian found himself staring at Mickey. Not in anger. But in relief. When his
family found out only hours ago, they cried. Sobbed. They suffocated him with
tight limbs and showered his face with chapped lips. The doctors even choked
back their words before they spilled through their reluctant mouths. Ian
understood why they did it. Bad things didn’t happen to them often. There was
never much suffering in the Gallagher household so when it made an appearance,
no one knew how to properly handle it. Yet here Mickey stood, a man he had
known for less than an hour, making jokes about his illness.
He found himself accepting the offer, pulling the cigarette from Mickey's
marked fingers. He raised it to his lips and took a short drawl from it before
choking when the smoke filled his lungs.
Mickey laughed in amusement but refused to take the stick back when Ian held it
out to him. "You need it more than I do."
After his coughing fit subsided, he attempted it again. This time the coughing
sounds were a little less violent.
Mickey nodded approvingly. "So, how long you got then, North Side?"
"Couple months."
Mickey chewed on the skin of his bottom lip. He wasn't exactly the comforting
type so, he supposed they were both experiencing some firsts in the same
moment. "When'd you find out?"
"Today." Ian attempted the cigarette again.
Today. His entire world changed today. The entire day had seemed like a blur of
colors and noise. He racked his brain to remember anything after “stage four
lung cancer” had been introduced to his ears. He remembered practically hearing
his older sister’s heart shatter in her chest. The tears flowing down her
cheeks as if the dam keeping them at bay had shattered too. Fiona was more of a
mother to him than either of his mom’s had ever been. Monica could barely pass
as a functioning member of society, let alone a maternal figure. And Lucy, his
step-mother, resented him most days for sharing Monica’s DNA. But Fiona took
care of him when the other women fell through. She was always there for him
when he needed advice, encouraged his dreams, held his hand after his heart was
broken by the boy down the street. She was his rock. The one solid figure in
his life. And in that moment, as he sat with his long legs draped over the edge
of the table in the doctor’s office, he was witnessing his strong sister
crumbling into ashes on the floor.
Mickey's tongue ran against the now freshly torn skin. "Damn." It wasn't much,
he knew that. But what do you say to someone who is dying? He'd seen death.
He'd caused death. He'd been up close and personal with death. But never in
someone who appeared to be his own age. And never caused by something that
didn't involve drugs or weapons or bare hands.
"Can we walk?" Ian knew he was pushing his luck. The guy had already bought his
alcohol, spared his life, and listened to him talk about his problems. But
standing in one place for so long was making him anxious and he wasn't ready to
end their conversation.
Mickey hesitated for a moment then nudged his head in the direction behind him,
signaling his compliance.
Ian took the few steps it took to reach Mickey's side so they could begin
walking together.
It was a silent walk for awhile which Ian expected after dropping his nuclear
disease bomb. There weren't really many conversations that could fill the space
after that. But he was grateful just for Mickey's presence. Although he didn't
give off the most warm and welcoming aura, that's what Ian needed right now. He
was tired of the pity; from others and even himself. No amount of wallowing was
going to cure him. Love wouldn't save his life. Praying wouldn't remove the
illness from his body. That's why he left the North Side. To get away from the
pity and the sadness.
The next time Ian took in his surroundings, it was because of the sound of the
L racing on the tracks overhead. Mickey stretched his arm out to make Ian come
to a halt then he plopped down into the grass. Ian followed suit, leaning his
back against the graffitied pillar supporting the tracks above.
Mickey sat back as well, propping his elbow against his bent knee. "You wanna
crack that open?"
Ian looked at him curiously then peered at the bottle he had forgotten he had
in tow. "Oh. Yeah, sure."
Mickey smirked and held his hand out for Ian to pass it to him. Once it was in
his hand, he unscrewed the top and took the first swig before holding it back
out to Ian. His eyebrows waggled at Ian's hesitation. "C'mon, Firecrotch. Don't
pussy out on me."
Ian reluctantly took the bottle. Sure he had planned on taking his first drink
tonight. But not in the company of someone else. He raised the lip of the
bottle to his mouth and tossed the liquor down his throat with an audible gulp.
His nose crinkled and a disgusted frown formed on his face as he coughed out
the alcoholic heat.
All Mickey could do was laugh. "You get used to it."
They passed the bottle back and forth in companionable silence for a while
until Ian spoke.
"This sucks."
Mickey scoffed. "This was your idea."
"Not this." Ian motioned between the two of them. "The cancer, man." He leaned
his heavy head against the cold of the pillar.
Mickey hummed his acknowledgement.
"Didn't even make it to eighteen."
Mickey looked like someone punched him in his gut at that information. The kid
was barely two years younger than himself. Not even an adult yet. Sure he
hadn't lived nineteen years of bliss but he wasn't fucking dying.
"I've lived seventeen years in a... a box." The redhead’s words came out in a
long slur and his head fell heavily to the side so his hooded eyes met
Mickey's. "Clayton is a rich asshole."
Mickey raised his eyebrows and tipped the bottle towards Ian in mock cheers
then sloshed what was left of the bottle into his mouth. He didn't know who
Clayton was, but the name alone sounded like that of an asshole, so he’d drink
to that.
"I don't wanna go home." Ian mumbled.
"So don't." Mickey finally spoke. He pointed up to the now-empty L track above
their heads. "You have a way out right there."
Ian was silent.
"Just jump on and don't get off until you feel like it. Go fuckin’ live, or
whatever." Mickey tapped the empty bottle against the dirt beside his leg. He
offered the idea with a hilt of confidence because he had thought about taking
his own advice several times before when things got too rough for him at home.
"The fuck does this shitty place have anyway? Ain't nothin' to leave behind."
Ian attempted to sit his head back up straight on his shoulders. "You're
right." His leaded eyelids drooped low, shielding his pupils almost entirely.
Mickey looked at him with growing eyes, having not known if Ian was actually
still awake or coherent enough to understand that suggestion. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Ian started to push his body out of the grass but fell miserably to the
side. "Let's go."
"Woah, woah, woah." Mickey shook his head. "Let's?"
"Let's, Mickey." Ian successfully pushed himself off of the ground this time
and stood up on shaky legs, throwing his arms out to his sides. "You said it.
Ain't nothin' to leave behind." Looking at Mickey, Ian felt a pang of jealousy.
He was everything Ian wanted to be. Tough, fearless, self-assured. He could
tell Mickey didn’t give a shit what anyone thought in the way he carried
himself. That was the life Ian wanted so desperately but never had the chance
to experience.
Mickey quickly stood up to catch Ian by the arm before he fell flat on his
face. "You're drunk as fuck man, we need to get you home." He pulled Ian’s body
closer to his own, supporting the weight of the taller man by wrapping his
gangly arm around his shoulders.
"No!" Ian winced at the volume of his own voice. "I don't want to go home." He
leaned into Mickey, causing them both to nearly topple over.
"You don't have shit with you man. What are you plannin' to do when you wake up
on the L with nothin'?" Mickey started to drag Ian forward, into the direction
of his own house. He was pretty sure the last time he heard the L was the final
time it would be running that night and with Ian’s current disposition, he’d be
dead before he managed to pull him all the way to his home on the North Side.
"We'll figure it out then."
"We can figure out fuck all. This is all you, man." Ian was essentially no help
in carrying his own body down the street, causing Mickey to huff out air with
each of his own off-kilter steps.
Ian gripped onto Mickey's forearms with force. Partially to sturdy himself and
partially to get the other man's full attention. "I'm dying, Mickey." It was
the first time he allowed himself to actually say the words rather than think
them and damn did they taste bitter. His life was actually ending.
The sadness that encompassed Ian's puppy face in that moment was enough to make
his stony Milkovich heart flip in his chest. His eyes shifted between Ian’s for
a moment. What was he doing? He met this kid a couple of hours ago. His first
mistake was making the alcohol purchase, his second was joining the kid to
drink said alcohol. But the biggest mistake was dragging him all the way to the
front stoop of his rundown house and depositing him in his bed. After Mickey
ignored Ian’s comment about dying, Ian had kept his mouth shut for which Mickey
was truly grateful, however, he had also fallen asleep leaving his heavy body
fully as the shorter man’s responsibility. He pulled the pristine shoes off of
the kid’s feet once his drunken body was settled into the mattress and dropped
them on the ground with a thud before leaving the room and pulling his door
shut behind him.
Mickey threw himself down onto the deteriorating couch in his living room and
flicked the abandoned lighter he plucked from the coffee table, bringing the
flame to the cigarette perched between his lips. He sat alone for a few
heartbeats, taking in the rare silence of his home. Normally there were bodies
bustling in and out; whether it be his siblings, his Terry (referring to him as
his father would be giving him too much credit), whoever his sister was
shacking up with, or the drug fiends they called their friends, so the silence
was a welcomed friend. Even with all of the people that usually surrounded him
on a daily basis, Mickey still couldn’t help but feel alone most days. He was
different than his siblings deep down, though the guard he always had up made
him seem more like the other Milkoviches. Terry instilled fear and
heartlessness into his children at a young age. Mickey learned early on that
defying Terry was a move that he did not want to make because it usually ended
with him curling into his own broken, bloody body and the sound of Terry’s
drunken yelling filling his ringing ears. Maybe a change of scenery wouldn’t be
the worst thing for him, either.
“Ain’t nothin’ to leave behind.”
***** Hungover *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
He watched it in movies, heard stories about it from friends, observed Monica
and Frank stumbling through it their whole lives, but Ian had never had the
unfortunate pleasure of waking up with his stomach in his throat and the
rhythmic beat of his heart in his head until now. The feeling of scratchy
sheets was not something Ian was used to either. The cheap material was bundled
beneath his chin and clutched against his palm and however far-off from what he
was used to, the sheet provided a sense of unfamiliar comfort for him. When his
eyes cracked themselves open, he was greeted by an unpleasant light filtering
in through the makeshift curtains strung loosely against the window. He
attempted to sit up but immediately abandoned that plan when the curdling in
his gut took over. His eyelids peeled apart further to give him a clear view of
the room he was lying in. He scanned the area for any indication of where he
was. This was definitely not a room that belonged to someone on the North side.
Old rock posters taped to the chipped walls, beer cans and stale cigarettes
scattered on every open surface, laundry littered on the floor. It was kind of
disgusting in comparison to what his own home looked like but he could almost
imagine Mickey walking through the door shredding each layer, not caring where
it landed, until he made it into his bed. This bed. The bed Ian was snuggled
into. Mickey’s bed. That’s where he was.
He gave pulling himself into a sitting position another chance and when the
contents of his stomach threatened to pour out of his mouth, he concluded that
alcohol was not all it was cracked up to be.
Ian had always wanted to try alcohol. He longed for the sense of carelessness
it provided. The feeling of not being in control of his own actions. Not having
to be responsible for once in his life. He always envisioned it would be at a
party or at a club, with house music thumping through his veins, making his
ribs rattle together. Laughing with friends while wildly dancing, letting his
hips guide him through the songs and the rush of the alcohol taking over his
body. Just letting go. After his diagnosis though, his plans for getting drunk
had been drastically altered. All he wanted was to be by himself after being
bombarded in the doctor’s office with sympathetic looks and touches and words.
He wanted to walk into the liquor store, be handed the bottle solely based on
his charm (as he had with so many things before) and not his birthdate, then
wallow in his own self misery while he drowned in Jack Daniel's, the only brand
of alcohol he had recognized on the shelf.
What he did not expect was to run into a dark haired boy with contrasting blue
eyes settled against paper-white skin. A complete stranger who went out of his
way to gift a bottle of unprescribed medication to him with absolutely no
knowledge of the pain he was suffering from. When Mickey ran off, Ian almost
felt sicker than he had when he heard his diagnosis. A fact he had yet to take
the time to dissect. That's why he chased him. Sure, he wanted to thank the
stranger again for shelling out cash for someone he hadn’t even met yet, but
there was more to his motives than that.
Ian lived a very sheltered life where tales of prostitutes, drug addicts, and
cold blooded killers were the only occupants of the streets in the South side.
Being surrounded by rich people living the high life who thought the sun shined
out of their asses had clouded his judgement. He didn't expect the most
selfless person he had ever met to be residing in the hood in which he was
raised to fear.
With the thoughts of Mickey flowing heavily through his alcohol-ridden brain,
he pushed himself off the mattress to fumble with the doorknob. He peered into
the family room once the door squeaked open on its hinges. At first, he almost
thought he was all alone until noticing a pair of socked feet lying limply on
the arm of the sofa. He tiptoed to the piece of furniture and peered over the
back to gaze at a sleeping Mickey. He looked carefree lying there with his arm
tucked beneath his tired head. Ian took note of the scattered bruises and
scrapes against his pale skin that he hadn't recognized previously in the dim
Chicago night. He found himself curious, wanting to hear the stories of every
mark, consciously catching his fingers from reaching out to trace the outlines
embedded in his skin.
After studying the sleeping boy for a few minutes, he started to feel creepy
and images of Mickey springing awake to deck the shit out of him flashed
through his mind. He found his shoes strewn against the floor in Mickey's
bedroom and laced them around his feet before dropping his long fingers to the
doorknob of the door separating him from the outside. As he tugged it open, a
heavy Chicagoan accent sliced through the dewy morning air.
"Where you goin'?"
Ian stopped his feet from pulling him into the headache-inducing morning sun
and instead turned around to look at the man on the couch who was stretching
his thick, muscular arms into the empty space above his head.
"I was just heading out." Ian offered in an attempt to cover up his gawking. He
had seen two completely different sides of Mickey in the short span of time he
knew him. There was the side that threatened his life, and the side that saved
it. There was no way of knowing which side the brunette would take on this
early in the morning and Ian wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.
"How's your head?" Mickey gave him a knowing smirk when Ian's nose crinkled in
the center of his face. "You got a few minutes? I got somethin' to make you
feel better."
Ian moved to close the door and fully re-enter the home more eagerly than he
should have but Mickey didn't seem to notice in his tranquil state. Hope filled
Ian’s body that he was being reacquainted with kind-Mickey.
The brunette drug his legs to the front of the sofa, knees cracking through
their stiffness as he stood up from the furniture. He walked into the kitchen,
opening different drawers and cabinets and pulling a few items from the
refrigerator. Eventually he came back with a concoction that Ian imagined his
lunch would look like if it came back up and smelled even worse.
"Shit's nasty but. It helps." Mickey was persistent, not reeling his hand back
until the cup with the logo from the pizza place a few blocks over had been
taken from it.
Ian was in no position to doubt the magical powers being held within the
confines of the putrid liquid in front of him. After all, Mickey seemed to be a
veteran when it came to dealing with drunkenness and hangovers. Ian pinched his
nose and chugged the thick mixture, gagging his way through until he smacked
the plastic cup onto the coffee table with an intense shiver passing through
him. He cupped his mouth with one hand and pressed his fingers into his stomach
with the other as his gagging continued.
Mickey’s eyes widened, knowing exactly what was about to happen. He jumped back
from his position near the couch just in time for Ian to hunch over and vomit
on his own feet and the carpet beneath them. His head hung low in udder
embarrassment, too afraid to look up at Mickey. He was surprised when a roll of
paper towels was shoved in his face.
“S’not the first time that’s happened there, but I ain’t cleanin’ up after your
sorry ass.” Mickey crossed his arms and watched on as Ian wiped the back of his
hand against his mouth and began cleaning up the mess he made, an entertained
expression gleaming against his face. "So," he started, corners of his mouth
falling back into a straight line, "how was your first time?"
Ian scoffed and shook his swirling head. "Not so good." That was a lie. If the
hangover was what Mickey was referencing, then Ian could say wholeheartedly
that he never wanted to engage in any kind of drinking ever again. But his
first time actually drinking had been oddly better than he hoped. There were no
flashing colored lights, no grinding against sweaty bodies, no music bumping
through his core. But he had Mickey. And he couldn't help but think that
might've just been better.
"We’ll get you used to it." Mickey clapped Ian on the shoulder.
Memories of the night before lit Ian's brain up like a Christmas tree. He
distinctly remembered throwing the word "we" around as if he and Mickey were a
packaged deal. The thought still made his insides swim but he also remembered
Mickey's retort against the idea of them doing anything as a "we". He knew he
was looking too far into it. Maybe Mickey was still in a haze of sleep. Maybe
he was still drunk. Or maybe he was actually considering the possibilities of a
“we” forming.
Mickey stood up abruptly from the couch when Ian didn't offer a response, too
preoccupied with forming a pile of filthy paper towels. "You hangin' out or are
you done slummin' it?" He dawdled into his room before Ian could respond, then
reappeared momentarily with one towel slung over his stout shoulders and
another in his hand. He raised a challenging eyebrow at Ian, hitched high
enough to form wrinkles on his forehead. Ian thought he counted four. He had
never seen such an expressive face in his life. He concluded Mickey never
needed to speak again because his facial expressions did all of his talking for
him.
"Water pressure is shit." He warned as Ian pulled the towel into his own hand
then Mickey proceeded to fall into the couch to wait his turn.
Ian bowed his head in thanks, finding sentences too difficult to form out of
embarrassment. He found his way to the bathroom through Mickey's bedroom and
took his shower, letting the spray wash away the grime and vomit he felt on his
body and ease the pain still living in his head. Though he could feel it
dulling thanks to the remnants of the magical drink in his system that Mickey
courteously prepared for him.
~~
He emerged from the shower after indulging in the relief the water provided for
far too long. He had tugged his jeans back on but left his dirty shirt to hang
in his hand freely when he exited the bathroom, a trail of steam bellowing out
behind him. His eyes fell to Mickey who had his feet propped up on the coffee
table, crossed at the ankles, and a video game controller in his hands. He
climbed over the back of the couch to take the empty seat next to Mickey. If
Ian was a gambler, he would have bet all of his money that he saw the other
man’s thumbs freeze on the sticks of the controller when their denim-clad
thighs pressed against one another. He took the opportunity to pluck the
controller from Mickey's stilled grasp and began to play for him.
Unless his peripheral vision was playing tricks on him, Mickey's eyes had
fallen against his bare freckled skin. Ian had to take a few deep breaths to
stop the flush of warmth from creeping up his neck to redden his fair skin. Too
suddenly he felt the weight lift from the other side of the couch, followed by
the bathroom door closing in the other room.
Ian’s throat constricted at the thoughts suffocating his brain. There was no
way the big bad thug of the South side preferred tall, muscular boys over
pretty, petite girls. Right?
~~
Morning turned to afternoon and both boys were settled on the couch in the
living room playing match after match of Mortal Kombat and sharing a bag of
cheese puffs. Their happy peace was interrupted by the sound of the heavy front
door slamming into the wall. Ian's eyes grew to the size of walnuts at the
sight of the grey haired man barreling his way into the residence. He eyed
Mickey whose whole body had instantly tensed at the intrusion. Ian gathered his
dirty shirt off of the ash-covered coffee table and pulled it over his torso.
Terry blew past the statuesque boys and into the kitchen to grab a beer, and
even with Ian's limited knowledge of alcohol, he guessed he had already had a
few too many.
"Who's the ginger?" Terry's yell was obscured by the cigarette in his mouth but
the volume still made Mickey pinch the bridge of his nose between his index
finger and thumb.
"The fuck's it matter to you?" Mickey spit out while ushering Ian to the door a
little too roughly.
Terry twisted the cap of the beer bottle off and flung it to the ground.
“Fucker’s sittin’ naked on my couch with my boy lookin’ like a couple of fags.
That’s why it fuckin’ matters, you prick.” He took a long swig from the chilled
bottle then replaced it with his cigarette.
Ian let Mickey guide him but his heart was pounding in his chest. He didn't
know anything about Mickey’s life but he had a sickening feeling that he might
not be safe in his own home.
Mickey ignored Terry’s accusations and pressed his hands firmly against Ian’s
chest to shove him through the threshold. "Listen." He started with a whisper
so quiet that Ian had to lean in to him to hear the rest of his sentence. "If
you were serious, y'know, about runnin'." His fingers were tucked beneath his
chin, his thumb running across his bottom lip nervously. "Meet me at the liquor
store at 8." And with that, the door closed in Ian's face. He stood staring at
the wood he was faced with for a few moments before the sound of muffled
yelling breached his ears from the inside of the house. There were several loud
thuds and harsh shouting for a while until all the sound ceased. Ian swallowed
the lump in his throat before forcing his legs to walk him to the L so he could
travel back to the North side.
~~
The Gallagher family was strange to say the least. Ian lived with his father
Clayton and his step-mother Lucy after being surrendered by Monica when he was
not even one year old. She preferred to spend her money on cocaine and alcohol
rather than baby formula and diapers. His five siblings shared Monica’s DNA but
rather unfortunately for them, were fathered by Clayton’s brother Frank
instead. When Frank died from the most advanced case of alcohol poisoning the
doctor’s had ever witnessed, Fiona won custody of the children and took care of
them on her own. All of the children except Ian, of course. They were rarely
welcomed into the North side home due to Lucy’s harsh views of the other
Gallagher’s as “white-trash”, and never let Ian spend time with them at their
house because she was afraid they would negatively influence Ian’s life.
Ian wheezed as he passed through the front door of the Gallagher estate, one of
the symptoms of his cancer that landed him in the doctor’s office to begin
with. His eyes met Lucy’s as he coughed into the crook of his elbow and he
cringed at the flash of annoyance that washed over her face. She never cared
about him. She only cared about how her image was effected by him. He waved her
off with furrowed eyebrows and trekked up the spiraling staircase that led to
his room on the second floor. He never realized how unnecessary all the extra
space in their home was until today. Or how clean it was. Their home barely
even looked lived in. Routinely dusted and vacuumed. All the pillows were
always fluffed to max capacity. Laundry was promptly tucked away in drawers and
hung in closets. Ian always naively assumed that was how everyone lived.
He threw himself down onto his made bed and stared at the ceiling. The scent of
Mickey’s cigarettes wafting into his nose from his shirt. He thought after
hearing the words the day prior, all he would be able to think about was dying.
About how his body was choosing to give up on him more and more every second.
About how in a few weeks he probably wouldn’t recognize himself when he looked
in the mirror. Or if he’d even be able to stand to look in the mirror. But
instead, he was picturing blue. Every image in his head was blue. He never had
a favorite color until twelve hours ago.
And now, he was given the opportunity to see blue until his last day. Mickey
wanted to run away with him. Away from what he couldn’t say for sure but a
solid guess could be made based off of what he heard after the door was slammed
in his face. The thought brought the nauseous feeling back to his stomach. But
Mickey was tough. Ian knew that much. And he silently prayed that Mickey was
able to hold his own against his father.
After half an hour of mapping out all of the possible outcomes of running away
with Mickey, Ian reached for his phone to dial Fiona’s number.
“Hey, sweetface.” Ian could hear the broken smile that was settled on her face
when she greeted him with the endearing name he adopted as a child.
“Hey, Fi.” His large hand slid down his face as he contemplated how to explain
his situation to his sister. He wasn’t sure if he was looking for her to give
him a reason to stay or a reason to go.
“You okay?” It was a stupid question. They both knew the answer already. He
would never be okay.
“Listen, Fi. I need to tell you something. And it’s… It’s going to sound
insane, I know.” His eyes closed and he inhaled a slow breath through his
nostrils.
Radio silence.
“I think I need to leave.” Dancing around the topic wasn’t going to make it any
easier so he delve into it head first.
“Leave where? North side? You know you can stay with us.” Fiona begged for
years for Clayton and Lucy to let Ian stay with her on numerous occasions but
the answer always remained the same. Her voice sounded hopeful. As if his
diagnosis would change their response.
“Chicago.” His heart was racing in his chest. “I need to leave Chicago.” He
clarified.
A humorless laugh escaped her lips. “Leave Chicago? And go where, Ian?” The
hurt was evident in her voice.
“I don’t know. I-I met someone last night. We talked about leaving and I think
I want to.” The story sounded ridiculous to his own hears. Mickey was a
complete stranger yet Ian felt like he knew him without knowing him at all.
There was something about the other boy that stirred up emotions Ian hadn’t
felt with such intensity. Excitement, carelessness, freedom, the rush of the
unknown, and even a hint of fear.
“Ian… Do you hear yourself? You can’t just leave with some guy you met last
night. You’re sick. You need to be with us. Your family. You need be close to
Dr. Teller.”
“I’m not just sick, Fi. I’m dying!” He didn’t want to raise his voice at her
but he was so upset with the whole situation that he was losing control. “I’m
not doing chemo. I’m not spending the last few months of my life in a hospital
bed while the world goes on around me. I-I can’t Fi. That’s not what I want. I
want to live. I can’t do that here. I know it sounds crazy. I know it does. But
I need this. Please try to understand.”
Fiona’s voice was broken and wet on the other line. “I can’t change your mind?”
He shook his head then supplied a response upon remembering that he was on the
telephone. “No.” His mind was made up now. The longer he mulled it over, the
more appealing the offer was. This was his opportunity to live the life he
dreamed about. A chance to experience everything the world had to offer him
outside of the confines of the walls of his mansion. “I just needed to tell you
so you didn’t think I disappeared.”
“Be safe.” Fiona knew Ian too well to challenge his decision. He had been
stubborn since he came out of Monica’s womb. Trying to deter him from what he
wanted was a lost cause. So with those two words, she hung up the phone.
When the line went dead, he sat down at his wooden desk and began constructing
a letter to leave for his parents.
~~
Mickey was leaning against the wall of the liquor store with his duffel bag at
his feet and a half-burned cigarette dangling from his swollen lips. He checked
the time through the cracks on the screen of his burner phone. He still had ten
minutes to wait for the redhead to show up. That also meant he had ten minutes
to split. The kid had passed out on the way to his house so there was no way
he’d be able to locate him. But he did walk to the L when he left that morning.
Fuck. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He didn’t make decisions like this.
The only emotion he ever thought with was anger. That’s how he was taught. But
he felt something for this kid. Sympathy, he thought. It was a foreign concept.
But he was dying for fuck’s sake. He was doing him a favor by getting him out
of his prison in Chicago. And maybe, just maybe, Ian was doing Mickey a favor
too.
But maybe Ian would pussy out. After all, he had originally agreed to the idea
when he was highly inebriated. Mickey beat himself eternally for suggesting the
idea a second time. Why would Ian want to venture off with him in the first
place? Mickey was poor and just as, if not more, uneducated about the rest of
the world as Ian was.
Chain smoking and weighing his options made time fly by because when Mickey
blinked his eyes for what felt like the first time, a mop of red hair caught
his eye under the light of the moon and the flickering light bulb settled in
the lantern hanging from the liquor store.
“Hey.” Ian greeted him with a timorous smile, casting his green eyes to
Mickey’s figure to study him intently as if he took his gaze away, he would
disappear. His eyes were caught on the fresh bruises on his cheekbones and the
scabbed over split in his bottom lip. The sight made his insides twist. He
wanted to ask Mickey what happened. He wanted to ask him if he pummeled his
father the way he himself was pummeled. But he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut
out of fear of driving him away.
He came. “You ready, Firecrotch?” Mickey dropped his cigarette, refusing to
look at the other boy for too long to appear disinterested. He pulled his
duffel bag by its strap from the ground then started to walk towards the L
without checking to see if Ian was following him.
Ian silently thanked his creator for blessing him with long legs so he could
quickly catch up with the shorter man after being pulled out of his stupor.
“You know, I was doing a little research. The L won’t take us very far. We need
to get on a Greyhound.” He let out a deep cough into his elbow.
Mickey raised his eyebrows at the violent hacking that sounded as bad as when
Ian sucked down the first cigarette he was offered. “Won’t make it to either if
you go dyin’ on me on the fuckin’ sidewalk.”
Once again, Ian wasn’t offended. “Asshole.” He forced out a laugh once his
coughing fit ended and shoved Mickey teasingly with his shoulder.
Mickey nudged him back. “So where’re we gonna go then?” He rarely left the
South side to venture to other parts of the city unless it was to do a run with
Terry or his older brothers so his knowledge of public transportation was
limited. And unlike the redhead, the last thing he’d be caught dead doing was
fucking research.
“Let’s just get on the L for tonight and figure everything out. We can go
wherever we want on the Greyhound.” Ian beamed. He was really trying his best
not to sound too giddy but dammit, he was excited. Excited to leave, excited to
experience things he never had before, and perhaps most importantly, excited to
be back with Mickey.
“Yeah, alright.”
They were taciturn for the rest of their journey. They agreed to ride the L for
the night while they –mostly Ian talking while Mickey nodded his head and
stared out the window- sorted out the details of where they would go from that
point on.
Chapter End Notes
     I will not normally post more than one chapter in the same day but I
     have a few done already and I am so excited about this project that I
     wanted to post Chapter 2 :)
     ***I'm on vacation for 2 weeks so I won't be as active but I do have
     the next 2 chapters already finished so I will post them throughout
     these weeks :D
***** Overwrought *****
After what Mickey could have sworn was days of discussing but had actually only
been a couple of hours, they decided they wanted to venture South because
neither of them had ever been to the beach and Ian had his heart set on it.
Wanted to “feel the sand between his toes” or some corny shit like that. Mickey
tried to listen, he really did, but the kid never stopped talking and he was so
tired. A swat to the bicep woke him up from his five second nap and when his
eyes sprung open, he was left staring at an incredibly pouty redhead.
"Listen man, I'm fuckin' tired." Mickey drug his teeth against the split in his
lip until he tasted copper on the tip of his tongue.
"Fine. Let's get off at the next stop then and find somewhere to stay for the
night. Then we can get our bus tickets in the morning." Ian crossed his arms
over his broad chest as Mickey settled against the window to sneak some shuteye
before the next stop.
~~
There was a dingy motel a few blocks away that the two boys agreed would be
satisfactory for one night. Ian strolled up to the counter and pulled out his
wallet, paying the unenthused blonde woman with a few crisp bills and
pleasantly accepting the room key with a polite grin.
Mickey waited, uninterested in mingling with the staff. He smoked his cigarette
while leaning against the outside wall. When Ian returned, he expertly blew the
smoke out through his nostrils and held out his hand for his key.
Ian raised his eyebrows curiously. "What?"
Mickey looked back at him as if he grew an extra head. "My key, dumbass."
"Our key." Ian jingled the key between his fingers then started to walk towards
their room before a hand grabbed onto his arm and stopped him dead in his
tracks.
"The fuck you mean our key? You ain't got enough dough from daddy for two
rooms?" Ian had informed him on the L that he had a credit card as well as a
load of cash stuffed into an envelope in the bag he brought along. Mickey
rolled his eyes when the news was delivered to him because of course the kid
was loaded, but it was much to his relief because he only had a couple hundred
dollars to his name from drug sales.
"I just figured we'd share. We slept in the same place last night." Ian's
throat grew dry as the blue eyes bore into him.
"We slept in different rooms, dipshit. In case you forgot, your seven-foot ass
was in my bed while I was on the couch." Mickey took one last long draw from
his cigarette then flicked it to the ground beneath their feet.
Ian weighed the outcomes of the different responses he could give. He could get
Mickey his own room to keep the peace and spare himself from the physical
assault he might take otherwise. Or he could persuade Mickey that the better
option would be to share for no reason other than Ian wanted to.
He assumed the latter might end up with him being throttled to death so he
decided on option three and marched his way over to the desk, leaving Mickey
where he stood. He leaned into the lady and slid her an extra $20, whispering
"play along".
He waited a believable amount of time before sauntering back to Mickey with a
shrug of his shoulders. "Sorry, Mick. This is the last room."
"The last fucking-- are you kidding me?" He clenched his fists and stomped his
feet to the woman. "Are you trying to tell me that there are enough people
staying in this one-star shithole that there's only one goddam room left?"
The woman's eyes shifted from Mickey's raging figure, over to Ian's winking
face, then back again. "Yes sir."
Steam was nearly spouting from Mickey's ears as he turned on his heels and
continued to stomp past Ian, snatching his duffel from the ground as well as
the key in Ian’s hand in the process. "I'm takin' the fuckin' bed."
Ian laughed and bowed his head to the woman then proceeded to follow Mickey's
trail to their room.
It was just as shitty as they had both expected. Brown stains on the once-white
carpet, nicotine residue on the walls and the ceiling, floral print wallpaper
peeling off in both the bedroom and the dinky bathroom, and an even uglier
floral print comforter tucked into the mattress. It reeked of mildew and what
Mickey’s nose registered as weed.
Mickey flopped down face first onto the mattress despite it all, spreading his
short limbs out like a starfish. It's not like he lived in a fucking castle
anyway.
Ian eyed the hideous maroon chair that was shoved in the corner next to the
television with the broken antennae and assumed that would be his bed for the
night. He sighed and sat down, propping his feet against the mattress so he at
least felt like he was laying down. His arms crossed over his stomach and he
closed his eyes, the only sound filling his ears was the soft snores emitting
from the man on the bed. Before floating to sleep, his mind wandered through
the events of the past two days. In forty-eight hours, he was diagnosed with
terminal cancer, befriended a thug, indulged in his first taste of alcohol,
experienced his first hangover resulting in a violent fit of puking, ran away
from home, and now he was rooming with the most badass person he had ever met
in his seventeen years. "Goodnight, Mickey."
~~
When Mickey woke up it was from the sound of rattling pipes in the walls. He
blinked his eyes open and rubbed a hand down his face before sitting upright
and settling his back against the wall where the headboard was supposed to be.
He reached for the remote that was conveniently resting on the end table beside
the bed then thumped his head back against the wall, turning on the television.
The reception was absolute shit which was to be expected with a duct-taped
antennae, but he managed to find a grainy episode of the Andy Griffith Show
playing on one of the stations. A pack of Marlboro's worked its way out of his
back pocket in the night and laid near his feet so he snatched it and plucked
one from the pack then lit it up after nestling back into his previous spot.
When the water shut off, his eyes shifted to the closed bathroom door which
opened seconds after. He quickly tore his glance away when Ian stepped out with
only a white towel wrapped around his waist. Mickey flicked his tongue against
his lips and narrowed his eyes at the screen, watching with intent at the black
and white characters.
"Good morning, Mick." Ian offered a tight-lipped smile. "Or should I say, good
afternoon." He passed in front of the television, blocking Mickey's view for
just long enough that his eyes hooked onto his body and followed him to the
other side of the room without turning his head.
Mickey grunted in response and turned back to the television, pulling
desperately on his cigarette. Why didn't the kid ever put a shirt on?
"You hungry? I asked Siri for some places to eat. There's a diner a little ways
down from here." Ian pulled his bag from the floor and began digging though it
in search of an outfit for the day.
Mickey scoffed. "Siri wasn't real helpful with the room situation so I don't
trust that bitch’s restaurant suggestions."
Ian froze in place before bursting into a full blown belly laugh, resting his
hands on his abdomen.
"The fuck is wrong with you?" Mickey stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray
that was provided on the end table then stared genuinely confused at the
redhead.
"Siri isn't the lady at the desk. She's the robot lady on my phone. You ask her
questions, she gives you answers." Ian couldn't shake the grin on his face. He
had assumed everyone knew the software programmed into the iPhone but the
thought never occurred that Mickey probably couldn’t afford the product,
leaving him in the dark.
Mickey's face turned red in embarrassment and he couldn't think of any smart
ass comments to make himself feel or sound less stupid. He crossed his arms
over his lap and glared at the television.
"Are you always this grumpy in the morning?" Ian pulled out a grey tshirt and a
pair of boxer briefs that were the same shade. He threw the shirt over his
slightly damp torso and cringed at the feeling of the material sticking to the
remaining drops of water on his skin.
Mickey's eyes found their way back to Ian's body and he studied the muscles in
his back that were still visible through the skin-tight material. "You always
buy clothes a size too small?"
Ian spun around to face him with a smirk on his face. "I'll take that as a
yes." He walked back into the bathroom to slip into his underwear and pull on
the jeans he wore the day before. He hung his wet towel on the doorknob of the
bathroom, remaining in the doorway. "So, are you hungry or not?"
Mickey's stomach grumbled as if on cue. "Yeah I guess." He crawled off of the
bed and sidestepped past Ian in the doorway of the bathroom, sliding his chest
against the taller boy's.
He chanced a glance behind him and found the other boy's eyes looking back. His
icy-blue’s bounced back and forth between the green eyes looking into them for
a few heartbeats then he put his hand against Ian's chest and shoved him out of
his way before closing the door in his face.
Ian stared at the wood and found himself asking the same question from the day
before, only this time with a tad more confidence. Maybe the big bad thug did
like tall, North side, ginger boys.
~~
Mickey propped his diner menu in front of his face on the table to prevent
himself from sneaking glances at the redhead seated across from him. What was
his problem, anyway? He didn't get like this. Mickey Milkovich did not pine
after anyone. Especially not some rich dickhead from the North side.
A crumpled straw wrapper flew over the top of his menu and tapped against his
forehead, causing him to smack his plastic menu on the table top. "How fuckin'
old are you?"
Ian giggled. Actually fucking giggled like a schoolgirl. "I can't see you
behind that menu."
"That's kinda the fuckin' point, Sherlock." Mickey began raising the menu back
into place but a set of alien fingers blocked the top. His eyebrows shot up as
he studied the innocent look on Ian's face. How could someone so annoying be so
attractive? He visibly shook the thought from his head and continued to study
the breakfast options.
"The next time the waitress comes over here, you better know what you want.
You've turned her away three times but you've been looking at the menu for ten
minutes." Ian settled back in the booth, tossing his arms over the back and
drumming his fingers against the red faux leather of the empty seat behind him.
"Sorry we don't all have the luxury of eatin' out every fuckin' day, princess."
He closed his menu in irritation after deciding on a large plate of chocolate
chip pancakes and an even larger side of bacon.
The waitress approached their table cautiously after previously being barked at
by a hungry, moody Mickey. They both placed their orders and she smiled
politely at Ian before scurrying away.
"You took that long to settle on chocolate chip pancakes? And you're
questioning my age?" Ian laughed and fiddled with his napkin in his lap.
Mickey rolled his eyes. "You ordered some fruity oatmeal shit. You act like a
five year old but eat like my grandma."
"Your grandma must have wonderful taste, then." Ian dodged the wadded napkin
sailing his way and started to laugh until he noticed that for the first time,
Mickey was laughing. Not with his lips sewn shut as he had so many times
before. Not a chuckle. An actual hardy laugh that made his cheeks dimple and
put his teeth on display for the first time. They weren't definition perfect.
There was the tiniest space between his two front teeth and years of smoking
cast a faint tint to them. But it was a perfect sight to Ian.
When Mickey noticed Ian was admiring him, he instantly pulled his lips together
and picked at the chipped corner of the table top.
A silence fell on the table until their food came. And even then, the
conversation was minimal. So of course, Ian took it upon himself to change
that.
"Why did you change your mind?" It was a question that had been on his mind
since Mickey suggested them meeting at the liquor store to run away together
after being adamant the night before that there was no way he was tagging
along.
Mickey ripped into a piece of bacon after dipping the end in the syrup from his
pancakes. "What d'you mean?"
Ian hesitated briefly, choosing his words carefully. "About leaving. Why did
you decide to board the L?"
Mickey didn't say anything and he debated on keeping it that way. But he
decided on the best answer he continued to settle on that said just enough
without telling his entire story. "Ain't nothin' to leave behind."
Ian accepted it at face value. But he knew there was a deeper meaning for
Mickey. After the short amount of time he spent at the Milkovich residence, he
gathered enough information to know that Mickey had a hard life and he couldn't
blame him for wanting to get out. Mickey wore constant reminders of the shit he
went through at home. Ian idly wondered how many of the visible bruises and
scars on his body were from his own father, and he also wondered how many
others there were that he couldn't see. He wanted to ask more questions. Why
now? Why with Ian?
He kept his questions to himself, figuring they were stuck together now and
he’d wait until a more appropriate opportunity presented itself once Mickey
felt more comfortable opening up to him. When the bill came, Ian pulled out his
wallet. "Guess this was a date, huh?"
Mickey froze in his seat. If his skin could get any paler than it already was,
it did right then and there. His fists clenched where they rested on the table.
"I'm kidding, Mick. It was a joke." Ian watched on as Mickey furiously pulled
cash from his own pocket and smacked it down over the receipt at the edge of
the table.
"I ain't fuckin' gay." Mickey started to pull himself out of the booth,
entirely done with this conversation. Who did Ian think he was? Making that
kind of assumption without even knowing Mickey for more than a couple days. He
beat people up for implying that shit in the hood.
Ian stayed in his seat, quietly observing Mickey storm out of the diner. His
eyes followed him through the window that gave a clear view of the parking lot
until Mickey disappeared down the sidewalk that led to their motel. It's a good
thing he wasn't a gambler or he'd be piss-poor.
~~
Ian knocked on the door of the motel, praying Mickey was inside after his fit
of rage. As soon as the door opened, he released a breath he didn't realize he
was holding. When he stepped into the room, Mickey returned to his duffel bag,
zipping it closed.
"Mick can we just talk for a minute?" Ian pushed the door closed behind him and
chanced taking a step closer to the brunette. "I didn't mean it. It was just a
joke."
Mickey reared his hands in Ian's direction, grasping his collar and pinning him
against the bedroom wall, finding them in the exact same position as the night
they met. "You ever say that shit again, I'll knock your teeth out of your
fuckin' skull, you hear me?" His stubbly jaw was clenched and his teeth were
gritted as hard as they could be.
Ian could feel Mickey's breath fanning against his face. A perfect mixture of
smoke and pancake syrup filling his nose a mere millimeter from the other
boy’s. "Yeah. Yeah, I hear you." There was venom in Mickey's words. Ian could
tell this wasn't the first time he had fought someone over this accusation.
Relief fell over him when Mickey let go and returned to the ugly chair to
hastily grab his bag. He shouldered Ian out of his way and threw the door open
to make his exit.
Once Ian gathered his things, he followed after Mickey, but took note of the
direction he was going in. "Where are you headed? The bus station is the other
way."
"I ain't goin' to the bus station." Mickey had a clear destination in mind and
it was obvious in the way he was walking.
Ian's stomach dropped. He never should have joked about the date. Now Mickey
was aborting their plan and leaving him on his own before they even left the
state of Illinois. He really needed to learn to keep his mouth shut. "Mickey,
listen. I know I pissed you off and I'm sorry. It won't happen again. But
please don't go back home. I-I want you to stay. I don't want-"
"Would you shut the fuck up? I'm not goin’ home." Pure annoyance spilled out in
those few words. He led them into a seemingly empty parking lot of a gas
station/fast food building and started scoping out cars and unzipping his bag
to pull out a wire hanger he stole from their motel room.
"Then what are you doing? Getting snacks? That’s not a bad idea." Ian watched
on innocently then hitched a skeptical eyebrow as Mickey approached a vehicle.
"Yeah, I'm draggin' us over here for a box of fuckin' Ho-Ho's." He looked over
his shoulders before standing beside a green car parked at the side of the
building. He wedged the hanger between the window and the top of the car door,
jiggling it a little as it extended down to the lock.
"Mickey what are you doing?!" Ian shrieked and started looking around
frantically. "You can't do that!"
"Watch me." He used his hands to force the window down the rest of the way when
his luck failed with the hanger. He then pushed the lock down with his fingers
and popped the door open. "You wanted fuckin' life experiences, or whatever."
He motioned for Ian to climb into the passenger seat. "These are the life
experiences of Mickey Milkovich." He shut Ian's door after he reluctantly
climbed in then went around to sit in the driver's seat where he made quick
work of hot wiring the vehicle and peeling out of the parking lot.
As the car went down the road, Ian grasped onto the oh-shit handle and wondered
what in the actual fuck he had gotten himself into.
***** Desired *****
It would take approximately four hours to reach their first destination of
Lexington, Kentucky from where they departed in Olney according to the GPS Ian
programmed after recollecting himself once the shock of traveling in a stolen
vehicle wore off. He still found his palms sweating and his heart racing every
time a police officer drove past them but it only took Mickey yelling "play it
cool" at him one time to make him get his shit together and resign his freak-
out's solely to internal affairs.
They were three-quarters of the way there, leaving one hour between them and
the next city they would call home. They had listened to music after inevitably
arguing over the radio station for twenty minutes before Mickey gave up and let
the redhead choose some awful pop music. They had stopped at two different gas
stations; once to fill up the car, and a second time to get candy. Ian told
stories, much to Mickey's dismay. He still had yet to figure out how the kid
managed to never stop talking. Even when Mickey wasn't responding, he just
carried on the conversation with himself. And now, he was actually trying to
suggest a rousing game of twenty-questions.
"Please, Mick?" The redhead had resorted to begging, his pleading green eyes
resembling those of a Disney character.
"Yeah, alright. Go ahead and try to guess what I'm thinking of right now."
Mickey looked effortlessly cool leaning against the car door with his left
elbow perched out of the window and a cigarette between his lips. He
occasionally used his knees to steer the car when his arms needed a break.
Ian stared at him and his shoulders slumped over. "Not like that. I want to ask
you twenty questions about yourself and you have to answer them." It was non-
traditional but Ian had an inkling that it might be the only way to get Mickey
to talk.
"What is this, a thirteen year old girl's sleepover?" Mickey was far from an
open book and that's exactly how he liked it to be. He was more like a closed
book thrown inside of a locked chest with no key in sight.
"Please Mickey? I'm bored." He dramatically threw his long limbs out, slumping
the best he could with his tall body crammed into the tight space. His head
fell dangerously close to the unamused brunette's exposed shoulder.
"Well that's too bad." Mickey inhaled the smoke from his cigarette,
appreciating the nicotine flowing through his body and settling his nerves so
he didn’t clock Ian with his fist purely out of annoyance.
"What's your favorite color?" Ian peered at him from his spot against the
shoulder of Mickey's seat with an ornery smile on his lips.
Mickey released an exaggerated sigh inside of a thick plume of smoke. "Black."
Ian rolled his eyes at the response because of course it was. That was the only
color he ever wore. Even now, he was dressed in a black shirt that Ian assumed
was once a sweatshirt but the sleeves had been sloppily removed. He paired it
with a pair of black ripped jeans. "That one doesn't count as a question
because I already knew that."
"Then why did you ask?" He pitched his cigarette butt out the window and
settled his hand back on the steering wheel.
"Why did you answer? I thought you weren't playing?" Ian wiggled his eyebrows
and chuckled until the brunette shouldered his head away from his seat.
"Fuck off." Mickey rubbed his knuckles against the side of his nostril and
inhaled an awkward sniff. "I’m bored too."
A wide grin grew on Ian's face. "So you'll play?"
"Don't get weird." Mickey's eyebrows met in the middle to appear annoyed. He
waved his hand at Ian to make him continue with his questions before he changed
his mind.
"Okay, okay." Ian clapped his hands once then rubbed his palms together. “When
did you get your tattoos?”
“Fourteen when I was in juvie. Did ‘em myself.” The words rolled off of his
tongue as if it was normal as discussing the weather.
Ian looked taken aback for a split second before shaking it off. He should have
assumed as much. “What were you in for?”
“Punched some dickhead from school for not payin’ me his share for the coke I
sold him.” Ian should have been alarmed by how casually Mickey shared these
details, but instead, he was sad for the life he had endured. When Ian was
fourteen, he was playing soccer for his school and shooting the breeze with his
friends from the neighborhood. When Mickey was fourteen, he was selling hard
drugs, assaulting classmates, and sitting in a cell.
"Do you have siblings?" He attempted a more lighthearted question.
"Yeah."
Ian closed his eyes in frustration at Mickey's blasé response. "Would you care
to elaborate?"
"No. And that counts as a question."
Ian huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head to watch as
the trees blurred past them.
Mickey glanced at him and rolled his eyes yet again as the redhead pouted.
"Three brothers and one sister." He watched on as the smile tugged on Ian's
lips and he couldn't help the one tugging on his own.
"You guys close?" Ian continued to peer out the window, trying not to look too
excited that Mickey was participating. He wanted to know everything there was
to know about Mickey Milkovich.
That was a hard question for Mickey to answer. Milkoviches weren't raised as
lovers. They were raised as fighters. Close relationships, even with family,
weren't the standard. At the end of the day, the only person that anyone had
was themselves. "We have each other's backs. But we ain't close."
Ian nodded his head slowly. He didn't understand how anyone could not be close
with their siblings. Even living in separate households, the Gallagher's took
care of each other and spoke almost every single day. They always made him feel
included, even when his parental situation made it difficult. "Is that how you
want it to be?"
Mickey was quiet. He had never really given it much thought. "Don't matter what
I want. That's how I was brought up, man. Someone fucks with 'em, I've got 'em.
But we ain't sittin' around singin' Kumbaya over family dinner."
If Ian read between the lines, he could gather that the way Mickey was brought
up didn't necessarily correspond with how he wanted to be. It was how he had to
be to survive.
Ian decided to ease away from their game of questions after that. The brunette
seemed more sullen than he had before, sucking down another cigarette and
turning up the volume on the radio. And this time, Ian didn't argue when Mickey
changed the station to the rock music he wanted.
~~
As they neared their destination, Ian began searching for a place to call home
for the night. Their GPS led them to a hotel because both boys agreed that
their experience in the motel had been less than satisfactory. Once the car was
parked, they pulled their bags from the backseat and strolled to the entrance
of the hotel.
Mickey nearly dropped his bag on the floor in awe as they passed through the
doorway and into the grand lobby, decorated in all white with ornate paintings
hanging on the walls, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a piano just
below it in the center of the room. He immediately felt self-conscious. There
were several other men dressed in all black, however, they were wearing
business suits, not secondhand clothes from their older brothers.
Ian walked up to the counter to make arrangements, chatting pleasantly with the
woman working behind the granite ledge. He politely accepted the key cards then
tapped on Mickey's shoulder. "Come on, Mick."
Mickey immediately followed, not wanting to stand in the middle of a place that
was so unfamiliar to him for any longer. They rode the elevator to the third
floor then Ian led them halfway down the hall and stopped in front of room 322,
sliding the keycard into its designated slot. When Mickey started following
behind him into the room, he produced a second card and held it out to him. "I
almost forgot. This is my room." He grabbed ahold of Mickey's wrist and placed
the second keycard into his hand. "We don't have to share here. You're in 323."
He pointed to the room directly across from his then turned back to his own
room.
Mickey palmed the card, his stomach sinking as he watched Ian walk deeper into
his room, the door closing on its own after a few seconds. He stepped across
the hall to enter room 323, an intense rush of cold air emitting from the air
conditioner inside. Aside from the hum of the unit, the room was silent and he
found himself instantly missing the constant flow of words from a particular
someone buzzing in his head. He dropped his duffel and fell against the
mattress as he had in the motel, making short work of passing out.
~~
Upon waking up, Mickey fumbled for his flip-phone to check the time. He had
been asleep for two hours according to the clock which now read 8:04pm. He
pulled himself out of bed and began digging around in his bag for a change of
clothes. The most presentable articles of clothing he had were a plain black
short-sleeved shirt and a pair of blue jeans that only had two tears in them at
the knees. He made quick work of changing, double checked his coif in the
mirror, and then headed towards room 322.
His inked knuckles rapped against the door a few times before it opened.
Ian offered a gentle smile, eyes running wild over the shorter man's change in
appearance. "Hey, Mick."
"You uh, you wanna go do somethin'?" His knuckles flicked against his nose,
eyes looking anywhere but Ian; two nervous habits that Ian was quickly picking
up on.
"Yeah." Ian nodded his head casually. "Let's go do something." He held his door
open and moved to the side to allow Mickey to enter. When he obliged, he shut
the door and pulled an outfit out of his bag. "What should we do?"
Mickey shrugged. He hadn't thought that far ahead. All he knew was that it
needed to include an annoying redhead. "Gotta be bars and shit around here."
"There are bars everywhere, Mickey. But in case you forgot, we aren't old
enough." Ian said pointedly while disrobing down to his underwear.
Mickey licked his lips, counting each individual muscle in Ian's abdomen before
turning away with increasingly hot cheeks. "I have a fake."
"Yeah, well I don't. Plus, I don't want to just sit." He buttoned his pants and
began sliding a belt through the loops. "I want to dance."
Mickey didn't know it was possible to roll his eyes as hard as he did in that
moment. "I don't dance."
"Oh come on!" Ian stepped closer to the brunette, now fully clothed in an
emerald green v-neck tshirt. "We're supposed to be living!" He couldn't help
but cringe at the irony of his own statement.
Mickey mulled over his words. This plan was initiated by the thought that Ian
would be experiencing things for the first time. Who was he to tell a boy on
his last leg of life that he couldn't dance a little? "Fine. But I ain’t
dancin'."
Ian pumped a victorious fist in the air, surprised by how easily the other man
cracked. "But, I still don't have an ID."
"Like they're gonna turn away some pretty rich boy." The words fell out of his
mouth before he even knew what was happening.
"You think I'm pretty?" Ian batted his eyelashes and smirked at the aggravation
bubbling in Mickey's body. Maybe he should've been scared after the last time
he had accused such a thing. But the irritation felt different this time.
Rather than being directed at Ian, it seemed to be internal. That he was upset
over his admission rather than Ian’s implication.
"No. I don't." Mickey stomped off with a blush painted across his cheeks.
~~
If someone told Mickey Milkovich three days ago that on this day he would be
sitting at a bar tossing back shots of whiskey, it would have sounded like any
other Saturday. However, if that same someone told him he'd be taking shots of
whiskey in a cowboy bar in Lexington, Kentucky watching a rich, fire-haired boy
shake his ass in the middle of the small dance floor, he would have pulled out
his AK47 and shot them where they stood.
Getting Ian in was easy because of course Saturday nights were Gay Nights. Why
wouldn't they be? They practically begged Ian to enter their bar as soon as he
stepped up to the doorway. Ian provided the cash, Mickey provided the ID, and
the bartender provided the alcohol. It was a beautiful plan.
But even more beautiful was the way the flashing lights reflected off of Ian's
pasty skin. The way his body rolled with the music as if it were specifically
designed for it. The way Ian smiled so freely like he didn't have a single care
in the world. He looked invincible. As if the weight of the world wasn't
crushing his masterfully sculpted shoulders. As if death didn't plague his
lungs underneath his broad chest. Mickey didn't understand it. He wanted to,
but he couldn't. There were so many evil people in the world; hell, he lived
with one of the most evil people he had ever known. So why Ian? Why now? The
only explanation Mickey could conjure was that he was too good for this world.
Too pure.
Mickey gripped the shot glass so tight he was surprised it didn't shatter from
the impact. He released the glass to press the heels of his hands against his
eyes, warding off the tears forming there. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing
through him. Or maybe it was the part of him that hadn't been corrupted by
Terry. But he made himself a promise in that moment that he was going to
protect Ian for the rest of his life.
~~
Thirty minutes later, Ian danced his way over to Mickey, flashing him a coy
smirk.
"Havin' fun?" Mickey held out a shot glass for Ian as he had multiple times
that night. When the redhead pressed his fingers against Mickey's wrist,
leading the glass back to the counter, Mickey raised his eyebrows suspiciously.
"You done for the night?"
Ian's eyes were hooded and dark. "Just want something different."
Mickey nodded his head and reached for the little plastic menu that listed
their specialty drinks. "You want some of that fruity shit?" He froze on his
barstool when long fingers tucked beneath his chin and his head was turned to
face Ian.
"What I want isn't on the menu." Ian's voice was husky, almost unrecognizably
so.
Mickey's eyes widened but he made no effort to remove the hand on him. He
swallowed hard.
Ian ran his fingers down from Mickey's chin, tracing a long line with his index
finger over his Adam's apple to his collarbone, pulling the loose collar of his
shirt down to expose the bone. He leaned forward, breath tickling the tender
skin of Mickey's neck.
Mickey's eyes fluttered shut as the redhead's soft lips landed gently just
below his earlobe. Teeth raked against the shell of his ear then a light
whisper trickled in. "I want you."
Mickey adjusted the hardening crotch of his pants then raised his hand to cup
the back of Ian's neck and tilted his head back as wet kisses began splaying
against his alabaster skin. His throat, the space between his neck and his
shoulder, his jaw line; they were all being assaulted by Ian's tongue and lips
and teeth. All sense of gentleness gone as quick as it came.
Ian slid his hand from atop Mickey's shoulder, across his chest, over his
little belly, and landed in a firm grip on his inner thigh. "Want you so bad."
Mickey bit his bottom lip and moaned quietly in response.
"You want me?" Ian admired his work on Mickey's neck, planting a simple kiss
against the wine-colored stain he created then forming a trail from the mark,
to his jawline, to his still-healing cheekbone, to the corner of his mouth, to
his-
"Not like this." Mickey turned his head just before Ian could settle against
his lips. When Ian tried again, he pressed a firm hand between his pectorals,
restraining him from moving closer. "You're drunk, Gallagher."
"So?" Ian pushed his weight against Mickey's hand, causing the shorter man to
stand up from his stool.
"So, we need to get you back to the hotel." Mickey pressed his free hand
against his pants, willing his erection down.
Ian's smirk returned. "'Cause there's a bed there?" He slurred.
"Yeah. So you can go to sleep." Mickey slid enough money to pay for the shot
neither of them took plus a tip, then began guiding a pouting Ian out the door.
"Don't you want me?" Ian stumbled through the doorway, tripping over his own
feet occasionally as he leaned against Mickey.
Mickey chose to ignore the question. "How do I keep gettin' stuck draggin' your
drunk ass places?"
"Because." Hiccup. "You're a nice person, Mick."
"Yeah, yeah." He looped one arm around Ian's waist to keep him steady.
"You're like the nicest person I've ever-" Hiccup. "Met."
"Don't push it." Mickey had never once been called nice before in his life. He
never had a reason to be labeled that way.
"I mean it!" Ian argued.
They let the conversation fall, the only sound between them was Ian's hiccuping
and humming of the song that was playing as they exited the bar.
The awkwardness of walking into the hotel was even worse the second time,
however this time it was more because of Ian than Mickey.
He pulled them all the way to the elevator then to Ian's room. "Where's your
key, man?"
Ian tilted his head to rest on Mickey's shoulder. "My pocket."
"Yeah, okay. Which one?" Mickey raised his eyebrows, unamused.
"Gotta find out." Ian sang with closed eyes and offered a flirtatious smile.
Mickey bit down on the inside of his cheek then started fishing through Ian's
front pockets. A red heat was working its way across his face as he fingered
through the material without prevail. He actually felt as though his body
temperature raised ten degrees when he moved to Ian's back pockets. Ian's
giggling didn't help. He found the keycard deep in his right-back pocket then
slid it inside the slot. He pushed Ian's body into the door to hold it open
then deposited him on top of his mattress. "Get under the covers."
Ian stared up at him, trying to look sexy but he just looked flat out shit
faced. "Get in with me."
"No. You're goin' to bed. So get under the fuckin’ covers." Mickey crossed his
arms over his chest, standing his ground.
"You're no fun." Ian kicked his shoes off then sloppily pulled his jeans off
and crawled under the soft sheets.
His lips pursed at the comment but he knew he was making the right choice.
"Good. You're gonna feel like shit tomorrow." Mickey warned then turned to
exit.
"Will you stay with me?" Ian's voice had mostly returned to normal, sounding
sleepy and slurred rather than sultry.
"No." Mickey shook his head. Despite all the reasons he wanted to crawl in next
to Ian, there were twice as many why he shouldn't.
Ian didn't respond, as he had already fallen into a deep, drunken sleep.
Mickey looked at him for a moment before walking quietly to the side of his
bed. He peered down at the sleeping figure and pulled a shaky breath in through
his nose. He reached to rest his hand on the side of his face, brushing a few
long strands of hair from his slightly sweaty forehead. “G’night, Ian.” With
that, he walked towards the door and flipped the light off, pulling the door
shut quietly and shuffling to room 323.
***** Breathless *****
Ian walked from the shoreline and into the water, keeping his eyes open as he
submerged his body beneath the waves. He swam to the bottom passing the sea
creatures at the ocean floor. Resting at the lowest point was a massive, gaudy
city lit up by the jellyfish passing by. He swam closer, admiring the beauty
held inside the deep blue. He played with a stingray, danced with a mermaid,
and had a meal with the fish kingdom. He was amazed at how free he felt while
swimming in the salty water as opposed to the chlorinated pool water he was
used to. But he was even more surprised by how long he was able to be
underwater.
As the water grew darker, from the sun setting on above, he figured it was time
to reemerge, leaving the city behind.
When he began to swim to the surface, water filled his lungs. His body grew
heavier, making it harder for him to swim to the top. He started to scream for
help despite knowing that no one could save him. His words were lost in empty
bubbles that rose to the surface and popped without a trace. His arms pushed
through the water, trying desperately to push him into the warm air but he
slowed down as if something was pulling him back to the city below. He was
drowning. His vision was blurring.
Ian woke up with a start and he knew immediately that something was wrong with
him. Not only because his hangover was in full swing, it was deeper than that.
His chest felt tight and heavy and he was finding it hard to breathe. He
gripped his chest, pleading for air to fill his lungs. At first he thought it
might've been a panic attack from his dream, then he remembered his illness. He
had put the thought in the back of his mind ever since he met Mickey but now it
was coming back in full swing. The sudden pain and urgency was similar to the
day he was diagnosed; the whole reason he visited Dr. Teller. But this time it
was worse. He needed help.
He threw the sheets off of his body, tears forming in his eyes as he started to
wheeze. All of the nauseous feelings in his stomach from his alcohol indulgence
were temporarily forgotten as he ran himself to his door then across the hall
to room 323. He raised a shaking hand and frantically pounded on the door. He
couldn't muster the breath to yell for Mickey, but luckily the brunette pulled
his door open.
His usual grouchy disposition dissipated immediately when he peered into Ian's
wild and desperate eyes. He placed his hands against his shoulders, centering
his focus on him. "What's happening?" Mickey's voice was level and calm despite
his confusion.
Ian shook his head as tears started to stream down his flushed cheeks. "Mick I
can't-" his large hand grasped his throat, begging Mickey to fill in the rest
of his sentence when he wasn't able to.
"Okay, you need to calm down. C'mon." Mickey led Ian into his room then down to
sit on the bed. Once they were both seated, he returned his hands to Ian's
shoulders, slowly rubbing them down Ian's biceps to soothe his panic. "Shh.
It's okay. Look at me." Mickey modeled even breathing, hoping if Ian could
manage to calm down, he could pull the air into his lungs. He reached one hand
to Ian's cheek, swiping his thumb against the tears painting the constellations
of freckles formed there.
Mickey didn't have any experience with lung cancer, but he knew a lot about
panic attacks as he often had his own. Usually they were at night and he was
always by himself, which forced him to learn methods of recollecting himself
and easing the breaths in and out of his body to bring him back to the real
world. He knew Ian was suffering from something else but he was determined to
try his best to help.
Ian leaned into Mickey's touch, eyes shifting back and forth between the calm
sea of Mickey's blue's. It reminded him of what he imagined the crystal clear
waters would look like surrounding a tropical island. He transported himself
there. Despite the dream he had woken up from, he found peace where he imagined
being now. He wasn't alone this time. He was with Mickey. Sitting in the sand
as the tide crashed against the beach sending waves of that serene blue over
their feet. The warm breeze stroking their bodies the way Mickey's hands were
stroking his arm. He pictured that perfect smile he caught a glimpse of at the
diner spreading Mickey's pink pout so he could admire the happiness the
brunette kept hidden away. Ian could almost feel their fingers intertwined
against the grains of sand beneath their hands, the sounds of seagulls calling
to each other overhead.
His chest began to rise and fall more rhythmically, lungs filling with deeper
breaths. Mickey's voice was the smoothest sound he had ever heard, repeatedly
telling him he would be okay. He leaned his forehead against Mickey's shoulder,
expecting to be instantly pushed away. Instead, strong arms were wrapped around
his body and a hand was placed against the back of his head, fingers lightly
stroking the nape of his neck, holding him in place.
Ian continued to cry, overwhelmed by his medical emergency as well as the
compassion coming from this man he had only met a few days before. Rather than
sending Ian away, he took him into his arms and didn't let go.
After a few minutes, Ian's breathing came back to him. The tightness in his
chest was still very much present, but at least his lungs were inflating. He
raised his reddened, damp face to peer at Mickey who was making no attempt to
retract his arms. "Thank you." Ian whispered. Those two simple words couldn't
convey everything he wanted to say in that moment but they were the best he
could do.
Mickey nodded his head and whispered back, "I've got you." Rubbing the pads of
his fingertips into the shaved hair on Ian's scalp, then up to the longer
strands. He had never been good at composing his feelings into sentences. But
he promised himself that he was going to take care of Ian whether the redhead
knew it or not and he was nothing if not a man of his word.
The three words made Ian's heart swell. After hearing Mickey's tales of his
relationship with his siblings and the way he was raised, he knew it was hard
for Mickey to care about anyone. That he didn't know how. But in his own way,
he cared about Ian and he had shown it from their first encounter. Ian was
determined to show Mickey that letting people into his life didn't always have
to be a bad thing.
~~
"Why don't we just stay in today?" Mickey asked while he was towel drying his
hair. He sat with Ian for as long as he needed then once he seemed as collected
as he could be, Mickey let him use his shower before he took one of his own.
"That sounds great." Ian was curled up on Mickey's side of the bed,
occasionally sniffing the brunettes pillowcase, getting high off the smell that
could only be described as Mickey. His eyes stilled on Mickey's short figure
exiting the doorway to cross to the front of the room. Unlike Ian, Mickey took
clothes with him and dressed inside the bathroom.
Mickey plucked the single-sided menu from the television stand then began
raking their options over. He sat down on the bed, nudging Ian's legs with his
hand. "Get the fuck off my side." When Ian smirked at him from beneath the
covers, he rolled his eyes and moved to the other side of the mattress,
wondering when he turned so soft.
"Do they have anything good?" Ian inquired, raising his head just enough to
peek at the menu.
"Yeah if you like eatin' shit you can't pronounce." Mickey searched desperately
for a meal that didn't cost as much as his house payment with a name that
didn't sound like it needed to be eaten with an orchestra performing in the
background.
Ian snatched the menu from Mickey, releasing a harsh cough into his arm. He
looked at their choices. "You can't pronounce lobster?" He chuckled at his own
sarcasm.
"Fuck off." Mickey crossed his arms in his lap and grabbed the remote to turn
up the volume on the television, drowning out Ian's laughter.
Ian grabbed for the phone and dialed the number for room service. He placed two
orders of lobster then clicked the landline back in its place. "Is that Steven
Seagal?" He narrowed his eyes at the television screen.
"He's got a powerful ponytail, man. Don't disrespect it." All joking in
Mickey's tone was gone.
Ian stared at him for a moment then shook his head disapprovingly. "Van Damme
is so much better."
Mickey shot him a look of disbelief then pointed a stern finger to the door.
"Get the fuck out of my bed."
Ian laughed harder and rolled onto his side to face the irritated thug. He knew
Mickey was trying to look intimidating and most of the time, he did. But Ian
thought he looked cute instead when he was all riled up over the smallest of
things. So, he continued to poke the bear. "Have you seen Double Impact Van
Damme? That is some double-Damme."
When Mickey shoved his arm, his laugh grew louder causing the shorter man to
get off of the mattress and walk to the side Ian occupied. He grabbed his arm
and started to pull him out of the bed. "Get your corny ass out of my room. I'm
eatin' both lobsters."
"Like hell you are!" Ian took ahold of Mickey's arms and pulled him back into
the bed.
They wrestled playfully until Mickey was on top, legs straddling Ian's hips and
pinning the strong arms of his opponent above his head. They were both
laughing, chests moving rapidly. As Mickey looked down at Ian's face, a mutual
silence fell over both of them. Their eyes had a voiceless conversation, and in
a split second, Mickey was leaning down and Ian was sitting up the best he
could from his current position. Eager lips crashed hastily against each other.
Mickey released Ian's arms to allows the redhead to sit up, settling his body
against the headboard with the shorter man seated fully in his lap. He rested
his arms loosely around Mickey's shoulders and felt strong hands cup his
cheeks.
Ian was the first to part his lips, allowing Mickey's tongue access. The
electricity between the two of them was so strong they were both visibly
shaking. Teeth tapped together, noses bumped, and tongues tangled into a
beautiful mess of needed passion.
Tattooed fingers wove in and out of fiery tresses. Freckled hands gripped
cotton, tugging their bodies impossibly closer. Ian could feel hard heat
pressed against his abdomen through Mickey's sweatpants and knew he wasn't
hiding his own erection resting achingly underneath Mickey's fleshy ass.
He rubbed his hands against Mickey's chest before putting his full palm flank
against it and shoving him onto his back. He took control of the kiss for a few
minutes as his hands wandered curiously around the muscles of the thug's body.
He knew Mickey was incredibly closeted and the last thing he wanted was to
scare him off but he wanted him so bad that his reluctance was overshadowed by
necessity.
Mickey breathed heavily into Ian's mouth when long fingers gripped his girth
through the material of his pants. This was what he wanted. He couldn't say it.
Or initiate it. But like hell was he going to stop it. From the minute he laid
eyes on the tall, sculpted redhead in the liquor store, he was captivated.
Ian stroked Mickey's shaft slowly before walking his fingers to his waistband
and dipping his hand inside not only his sweatpants, but his boxers as well.
"Is this okay?" On Mickey's approving nod, he gripped Mickey's solid cock and
began pumping him slowly but with intent. He felt himself hardening to his
maximum potential when the other man keened at the touch. He ran his thumb over
the slit at the tip, drawing the drip of precum down his shaft. When he peered
into Mickey's blown pupils, he was done for.
He pulled his lips away, a quiet moan of protest escaping the other's mouth. He
crawled down, pulling down Mickey's underwear and pants in one fluid motion. He
licked his lips hungrily at the sight of Mickey's cock standing at full
attention and repositioned his body. He placed open-mouthed kisses on the
insides of Mickey's thick thighs, grasping skin between his teeth.
"You look so good like this, Mick." His voice adopted the huskiness from the
night before as he took in the view of Mickey propped up on his elbows, gazing
down at the redhead while he worked. After leaving light indentations on pale
skin, he raised his head, ghosting his lips over the head before taking every
inch into his mouth. The salty taste of precum mixed with the scent of his
freshly showered skin caused a whirlwind of stimulation to Ian's senses.
"Fuck, Gallagher." Mickey immediately gripped red hair, tugging lightly when
his cock was engulfed by the wet heat of Ian's mouth. The feeling of his tongue
tasting every inch of his shaft made his toes curl and his back arch, pushing
into the feeling.
Ian bobbed his head back and forth, hollowing out his cheeks when he felt the
tip of Mickey's dick hitting the back of his throat. His eyes never left the
face of his lover, and when moans filled his ears, he reached a hand into his
own pants to stroke himself to relieve some of the pain.
Mickey squeezed his eyes shut from the stimulation, knowing he wouldn't last
much longer. Being closeted didn't allow much time for hooking up and jacking
off wasn't even close to bringing the same amount of pleasure as a warm,
clearly experienced, mouth. His endurance wasn't as good as he would like.
Ian licked a fat stripe up the underside of his cock then engulfed it
completely again with the assistance of Mickey's hand pressing against he back
of his head, leading him further down.
"Fuck. Gonna cum." The words were barely out of his mouth before his release
coated the back of Ian's throat. His entire body shuddered through his orgasm,
sweat beading on his forehead.
Ian swallowed happily then removed his mouth with a wet pop, lapping up the
remaining drops clinging to the tender skin.
Once Mickey caught his breath and regained his bearings, he pulled his pants up
from around his ankles then knocked Ian's hand off of his own cock, reached
inside his pants and picked up where Ian left off. His heart thudded rapidly in
his chest at the length of the redhead's cock in his hand, imagining it filling
him up as Ian railed him from behind. He bit hard on his bottom lip from the
combination of the image in his head as well as the panting coming from Ian.
Normally Mickey didn't give hand jobs to the guys he was with, not worrying
about whether or not they got off. He was always the one doing the fucking so
once he came, he buckled his pants and left the guy with blue balls. This time
was different. He wanted to make Ian feel good, the way Ian had done for him.
It wasn't long before Ian was spilling his seed with a shout over Mickey's firm
hand and into his boxer briefs. Once the touch disappeared from his cock, he
fell against the mattress beside Mickey.
"Holy fuck." Mickey blew out while staring at the ceiling and wiping his sticky
hand against his comforter. He turned his head to look at Ian who was already
staring at him. They smiled at each other, basking in the afterglow.
A knock at the door with the announcement of "room service" broke them from
their sheepish grinning. Ian hopped up to answer the door, accepting the food
and tipping the attendant. He sat the trays down on the bed then flopped back
down.
They devoured their lobsters in silence, neither of them wanting to shatter the
moment with words.
Ian wanted to ask questions as he always did. He wanted to ask why Mickey told
him he wasn't gay when he so clearly was. Why it angered him to the point of
physically attacking Ian when he brought it up. But he couldn't bear to ruin
the moment he wanted to share with the brunette so badly. So he stole glances
at him, studying his profile which was highlighted by the light filtering in
through the window. He was beautiful. He felt himself blushing at the thought
as if Mickey could read his mind. He assumed he was never called that. Mickey
had such a rough history and a hard exterior that most people probably wouldn't
consider him a masterpiece. But Ian did. He appreciated every stroke that went
into painting the boy in front of him. He couldn't help but think that whatever
deity was responsible for their creation woke up and decided they wanted to
make something special that day. And thus, Mickey Milkovich entered the world.
In all of his beautiful, badass glory.
Mickey didn't want to talk about what happened between them. He desperately
hoped Ian didn't try to pry and make him open up about his feelings. Being
raised by a homophobic father caused Mickey pain his entire life. He never
considered himself gay. Being gay was a disease in the Milkovich household. But
Mickey knew he wasn't attracted to girls. He tried for years to fuck the girls
from his neighborhood to please his brothers and Terry and even himself. He
willed himself to be rid of the "disease". But he quickly realized he spent
time watching the local boys more often than he ever did the girls. He jacked
off often since he was never able to get off from sleeping with a woman. He
tried the traditional ways of getting himself off but eventually ended up
experimenting with inserting fingers inside his ass which he quickly realized
brought him more pleasure than sticking his dick in any vagina ever had.
He fucked a few guys but that's all it ever was. Strictly fucking. Which is why
he never thought he was gay. He was never emotionally connected with another
man. He would never stick around for conversation or a meal or, god forbid,
cuddling. He never had that desire. However, sitting across from Ian, all he
wanted to do was crawl underneath his covers and bury his head into the firm
muscles of his chest and fall asleep. And he wanted to protect and take care of
Ian more than he ever had any other person in his life. The only people he ever
protected were his siblings but he didn't choose that. He didn't choose them.
But now he had a choice. And he was choosing Ian.
***** Euphoric *****
It stormed the next couple of days after their encounter which meant both boys
stayed in the hotel, holed up in their individual rooms. Ian attempted to visit
room 323 a few times but Mickey never answered, usually pretending to be
asleep. Ian had spent his free time replaying their unexpected act of passion
in his head. He had jacked off more to the thoughts of the brunette's tongue
circling his and the way his callused hands felt against his skin than he'd
ever admit. But he couldn't resist the urge every time the images came back to
him. He wanted to do it again. He wanted more. More tasting, more touching.
Mickey was his drug of choice and now he was addicted.
He should've expected Mickey to hide from him after he kicked him out of his
room. Ian tried his best to convince Mickey to let him sleep in his room after
their movie marathon came to a close but he was quickly ushered out at the
suggestion. Now he was avoiding him all together and Ian wondered if his lover
was even still occupying the room across the hall.
When he didn't have his hand down his pants, he was lost in thoughts that were
less dirty. Such as, why was Mickey avoiding him? They had both been completely
sober during the hook-up and he asked Mickey if he was okay with the advances.
Mickey might've been vulnerable in the situation but he certainly wasn't one to
not speak his mind when he didn't like how shit was going down.
It was now Wednesday afternoon and the rain had finally cleared up so Ian was
determined to leave the four walls he was forced to stare at for the past
forty-eight hours. The room was beginning to feel less like a hotel room and
more like a prison cell and the only person whose bitch he wanted to be was
ignoring him.
He threw on an outfit from his dwindling supply of clean clothes and took the
few steps across the hallway to the door he was becoming close friends with. He
rapped his knuckles against the wood, reacquainting himself with the silence
from the other side. His face twisted into a look of frustration. "Mickey!"
With no response, he pressed his ear to the door to listen for any indication
that he hadn't packed his bag up and ditched Ian in the middle of the night.
Pale fist met mahogany several times, each punch packing more force than the
last. He shouted the brunette's name again then huffed his annoyance, raising
his fist to knock one last time.
Mickey pulled the door open, eyebrows meeting in the middle of his face in
aggravation. "The fuck do you want, Firecrotch?"
Ian paused his fist in midair, taking in the view. He wanted to be angry that
Mickey was ignoring him but his demeanor changed completely now that he was
actually looking at him instead of imagining him. He looked exhausted, like he
hadn't slept for a single minute since Ian last saw him. He was completely
disheveled and even grouchier than he usually was which Ian didn’t think was
possible.
"I wanted to hang out, Mick. I haven't seen you and I-"
"It ain't happenin' again. I told you. I ain't some faggot. So if that's what
you came for, fuck off." Mickey leaned with one hand against the door. He was
looking straight through Ian as if he couldn't actually see him.
The words made Ian feel sick to his stomach. All of the progress he was making
with Mickey was suddenly receding. "Mickey, come on. You-you can't say that."
Ian could feel hot tears prickling his eyes. He wanted to appear strong in
front of Mickey, not like some weak kid. He had to remind himself that that's
exactly what he was.
"D'you hear me? It's done." Mickey's accent was harsher than normal and the
tone he used was the one Ian assumed he used to threaten the other thugs on the
South Side.
Ian redirected his eyes to the end of the hall, not wanting to show any signs
of the heartache he was experiencing. He nodded his head in reluctant
acceptance. He heard Mickey sniff uncomfortably, an indication that he wasn't
feeling as tough as he was acting. When the door started to close in Ian's
face, he caught it before the lock clicked into place. "Can we at least go do
something?" His voice was small but his wet eyes were hopeful.
Mickey nibbled on the inside of his cheek, eyes searching for something to
focus on other than the red brim of the eyes begging him. "Like what?"
Ian started filing through all of the activities that he had found while
researching Kentucky the past few nights. "What about hiking?"
Mickey's nose crinkled. "Hiking? I'd rather be shot in the fuckin' skull."
"C'mon, Mick. It's fun. What's wrong with fun?" One side of his mouth curled up
into a gentle smile when Mickey rolled his eyes then started to visibly
consider the idea.
"Fine."
~~
The only cardio Mickey Milkovich ever participated in was running away from the
cops. Yet here he was, hiking through the forest with a bottle of water in
hand, sweating through his clothes. He wasn't out of shape but trying to keep
up with Ian made him feel like he was.
"I told you this was fun!" Ian beamed, walking backwards to admire a sweaty
Mickey.
"For you maybe." Mickey held onto the trunk of a tree to pull himself up the
steep hill they were climbing then pulled the neck of his shirt out to fan air
into his face. He took a long swig of the lukewarm liquid, attempting to
replenish the water that was profusely dripping from his pores.
Ian smirked at the memory of Mickey's sweating, writhing body underneath his
flashing through his brain. God, he was gorgeous.
Mickey grumbled, pushing past Ian's gawking. "Wipe that look off your face,
Gallagher."
"What? Want me to look angry all the time like you?" Ian teased, raising his
eyebrows and lightly bumping his hip into Mickey's side.
Mickey pushed him again, laughing quietly to himself when the redhead lost his
balance and bumped into a tree. "Not grumpy all the time."
"You're right." He pushed away from the tree, dusting off the side of his
pants. "You aren't grumpy all the time." He bit his bottom lip and waggled his
brows, hoping he wasn't signing himself up for certain death by referencing
their day of ardor.
Mickey's scowl increased. "Don't do that."
"Don't do what?" Ian batted his eyes innocently. He knew exactly what he was
doing. He liked to push the envelope and it was so easy with Mickey because he
got an attitude over everything. But Ian was quickly learning that when he
showed anger, many times it was out of fear or rage within himself rather than
at Ian. He knew he needed to at least try to convince Mickey that it was okay
to be interested in men, specifically him.
Mickey ignored the redhead and continued on his journey. He lit a cigarette
despite the irony of doing something healthy while simultaneously doing
something unhealthy, showing no interest in whether or not he was followed. He
trekked over the hill then stilled when his eyes fell to the view in front of
him.
He was standing atop a large waterfall cascading from the hilltop. Natural
inclinations from dirt and stone created a path from the bottom to the top. The
sun was high in the sky, littering streams of sunlight through the leaves and
branches of the tall trees around them.
When Ian approached from behind, his jaw dropped. "This is even more beautiful
than the pictures."
"This why you dragged my ass out here?" Mickey watched on, mesmerized by the
water falling against the few smooth rocks lying at the bottom.
Ian hummed in response then grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over
his head, dropping it to the dirt floor. He clapped Mickey between his shoulder
blades then stepped closer to the edge.
Mickey's eyes followed Ian to his place at the ledge. He traced the outline of
the muscles in his bare back, admiring the way the sun made his skin glitter.
The beauty of the outdoors surrounding them paled in comparison to the majesty
that was Ian Gallagher. "The fuck you doin'?" He drew from his cigarette.
Ian turned his head to flash a smirk at Mickey who was watching him intently.
"I'm jumping in." He kicked his shoes off then dropped his hands to unfasten
his pants, letting them pool at his ankles before stepping out of them. "You
coming?"
"Nah. You have fun." He leaned his torso against the rough bark of a
neighboring tree, pulling from his cigarette and attempting to count the
ripples of Ian's cut body.
After receiving the incorrect response, Ian approached Mickey. He stood as
close as he could to him, dropping his gaze the five inches that separated his
eyes from Mickey's. "You're coming." Ignoring Mickey's protests, he plucked the
stick from his lips and tossed it to the side, stomping out the flame.
"You wanna die?" Mickey's fists clenched at his sides at the separation from
his nicotine.
"I want you." Ian tucked his fingers underneath Mickey's shirt, tugging it from
his body.
"Fuck off, Gallagher. I told you, it ain't happenin' again." Mickey took the
material of his shirt from Ian's grasp to cover his abdomen again.
"Someone thinks a lot of their dick skills." Ian ran his tongue against his
lips teasingly then slipped his hands inside of Mickey's shirt, placing his
them against the soft skin of his sides. "I meant I want you to jump with me."
He slipped his hands back out faster than he put them there and turned around.
"Besides, I've had better." He approached the ledge again.
A fire grew in Mickey's belly at the thought of another man putting his hands
on Ian the way he had. "Fine. I'll fuckin' jump." He muttered more curse words
under his breath and couldn't help the small smile forming on his lips when Ian
turned back to him. "And I'm the best you've ever had." His heart stuttered in
his chest when Ian's long fingers curled back into his shirt, lifting it from
his body.
Ian licked his lips hungrily again, staring at Mickey like he was a prime rib.
He hovered his face over the brunette's and ran his palms down the front of his
body until he could slide the button of his jeans through the designated hole.
He made short work of unzipping them then letting the heavy material fall to
the ground.
Mickey stepped out of them then crossed his arms over his tummy, feeling
inadequate in the presence of Ian's defined abs.
Ian reached forward, pulling Mickey away from himself so he could take his
first full frontal view. Much to Ian's dismay, there were numerous scars
painted across his body; some more severe than others. None of them appeared
properly attended to, leaving dark, poorly healed marks distinguishably
embedded on snowy skin. "Damn, Mick." Despite the hideous stories behind the
marks littered there, Ian thought Mickey was anything but hideous. In fact, he
thought the flaws made him more human. More gorgeous. He snaked his hands
around the stout man's waist to roughly grab two handfuls of his plump ass.
Mickey rolled his eyes but couldn't help the smile playing on his mouth. His
eyes fluttered closed when full lips were pressed to his pulse point. Ian lay
his tongue flat against Mickey's neck, suckling a little before tugging lightly
on his earlobe with his teeth.
Mickey fidgeted under the feeling, willing away the tenting in his exposed
boxers. He was only slightly relieved when Ian pulled away and dragged him by
his wrist to the ledge.
"Ready?" Ian watched for Mickey's nod in his peripheral then counted down to
three, jumping hand-in-hand with the nervous brunette down the length of the
waterfall.
As his body free-fell, Mickey held his breath, whole body tensing in
anticipation of the impact he would meet at the bottom. When they breached the
water, it was as if a layer of fear was washed away.
This wasn't Mickey. He didn't do gay things like this. But for the first time
in his life he was questioning if that was because he didn't want to or because
he wasn't allowed. Living in constant fear of being beaten for having different
opinions or interests wasn't easy. He had always had an image to protect. His
own and, more importantly, his family’s. But where he was now, no one knew him.
No one knew the thug from the South side. The man who sold cocaine and guns to
pay for alcohol and cigarettes. The man who broke bones because he was looked
at the wrong way. But now, he was beginning to think Ian might be the only
person in the world who knew who he wanted to be. Who he would've been if he
hadn’t been destroyed by the monster who raised him.
Their heads emerged from the water and they both burst into a harmony of
laughter. Ian slicked his long bangs away from his face before doing the same
for Mickey. They splashed each other a few times before Ian pulled Mickey's
soaking body flank against his own. Mickey attempted to fight it. He pushed
Ian's shoulders and kicked at his shins beneath the water.
"Kiss me." Ian held Mickey's body still, using his long limbs to his advantage.
Mickey scoffed, continuing to struggle.
Ian raised one hand to grab Mickey's chin and turn his face towards his own.
"Kiss me." He repeated, pleased when Mickey's body stilled, eyes looking
between his. He wasn’t forcing him to do something he didn’t want to. He was,
however, forcing him to come to terms with who he was and what he wanted.
Mickey felt his heart skip a few beats. He was never a kisser. It was too
intimate for him. But he broke his own standard when he kissed Ian in the
hotel. It didn't seem too intimate with him. It was what felt right. Ian wasn't
judging him for the way he felt. He didn't think he was plagued for being
attracted to a man. He was inviting him in. Asking for affection.
He didn't need to be prompted a third time. He cocked his head to the side and
leaned into Ian, pressing their wet, pink lips together. His chest slid against
Ian's as he bobbed in the deep water, unable to touch the bottom.
Ian reciprocated the kiss, relieved that his request ended this way rather than
with a fist to his jaw. He was learning to read Mickey and regardless of the
way he tried to push him away, he had a strong feeling that this was what he
wanted. He wanted to love and be loved in return. He never had that in his
life. And Ian wanted to show him how it felt. He had never been in love either,
but he was always loved by his family. Mickey never experienced any type of
familial affection. Though Ian wasn't in love yet, he knew he was falling fast.
Mickey raised his hands to the soaking strands sprouting from Ian's head,
curling his fingers into red. His lips moved swiftly apart, allowing his tongue
to satisfy its craving for Ian.
Ian moved in time with Mickey, wanting him to set his own pace. He pressed the
fingers of his left hand into the dip of Mickey's lower back and grabbed his
leg with his right hand to wrap it around his waist. Mickey complied and in
turn, placed his other leg on the other side to fully encompass Ian's body.
Sprinkles of water danced across their skin as it splashed against the rocks
surrounding the end of the waterfall.
Ian massaged his hands into Mickey’s back, never wanting to let go. He was
hyperaware of his condition in that moment. The realization that this couldn’t
last forever hitting him like a tidal wave. His grip on the brunette tightened
as if he loosened his arms, Mickey would disappear or his illness would take
him on the spot. His lips poured the heavy emotions he was feeling into the
other boy.
~~
“Sit down.” Mickey instructed after fastening his jeans over wet skin, now
digging through his pockets in search of his marijuana. He produced a small
baggie then separated the plastic from itself and pinched the contents between
his fingers, sprinkling it into a rolling paper.
Ian watched on, perplexed. He followed Mickey’s instructions and situated
himself on the ground with his bare back resting against the base of the tree.
Mickey ran the tip of his tongue along the joint, sealing it together then
raised the flame of his lighter to the end and took a steady inhale, holding
the smoke in his lungs before he started sputtering. He took the empty space
next to Ian and passed the joint to him.
“Do you always carry weed with you?” Ian accepted and raised it to his lips
nervously, watching the smoke roll in waves from between Mickey’s lips.
Mickey shrugged in response then flicked his lighter to relight the end of the
blunt against Ian’s mouth. “Breathe it in.”
Ian attempted to draw the smoke into his lungs, coughing the moment the thick
taste coated his tongue. His face scrunched up, tears forming in his eyes from
the violence of his coughing.
“Try again.” Mickey smirked at the hesitance evident in Ian’s expression. He
took another draw, allowing the novice to catch his breath. Once the coughing
subsided, Mickey lifted the blunt to Ian’s lips, encouraging him to make
another attempt. He hummed approvingly, a smile spreading on his mouth in the
proud moment.
Ian released the smoke much faster than Mickey did but he was pleased with
himself for not choking this time. He watched Mickey take another inhale. The
back of his head was tilted against the tree, face heavenward toward the hot
afternoon sun lingering in the blue sky. Ian’s eyes skirted around his exposed
skin. He wanted to reach out and touch him but he withheld from doing exactly
that. “Can I ask you something?”
“If I say no, you’re gonna ask anyway so yeah.” Mickey didn’t move a muscle.
“Why did you buy the alcohol?” He had asked before but Mickey avoided the
answer like the Black Plague. They were in a comfortable enough space now that
he figured he could ask without receiving the vague response he received
previously.
“Told you, man. You looked desperate.” He passed the joint to Ian, THC settling
heavily in his body.
Ian would normally accept the answer for what it was but he didn’t want to this
time. He wanted to push Mickey. “So you would’ve done that for any desperate
looking schmuck who walked in there?” He raised questioning eyebrows and took a
short drawl.
Silence lingered at the question briefly.
“Nah.”
“Then why me?” Ian passed it back, and settled back against the tree, ignoring
the sharp bark scratching at his skin.
Mickey sighed and closed his eyes, pulling smoke into his body to give him the
courage he needed to have this conversation. “I don’t know, man. I just-“ He
paused, searching for the words he needed. “You looked sad, or whatever. And
I’ve been there.”
Ian was relieved that he was peeling a layer from the complexity that made up
Mickey. He needed to keep going. To know more. “Yeah?”
Mickey took another hit then passed the burning nub to Ian. “Sometimes, you
just need some fuckin’ Jack Daniel’s. Forget shit, y’know?”
The way the words came out, Ian could tell Mickey was well-versed in self-
medicating. He took the final drag from the blunt then handed it back so it
could be properly disposed of. “What do you try to forget?”
Mickey was quiet. The high was taking over his body. “Everything.”
Ian’s stomach dropped at the declaration. He was well aware of Mickey’s abusive
father, of his struggles to maintain an income, of his poor views of love and
family. However, it felt like he was learning it for the first time when the
word entered his ears.Everything. His life was so challenging that he wanted to
pretend that none of it existed. “You’re away from it now, Mick.” He didn’t
understand the depths of his pain but it seemed that escaping was all he really
wanted. And he had finally done it. He placed his hand on Mickey’s thigh and
was pleasantly surprised when Mickey’s tattooed knuckles carded between his
long fingers.
“Gotta go back sometime.” Mickey lightly rubbed the pad of his thumb across
soft freckles.
Ian’s heart thumped in his chest at the feeling. “Why?”
“Won’t last forever. This.” He waved his unoccupied hand through the empty
space around them. “When it’s over. I’m gonna have to go back.”
“You mean when I’m dead.” The blunt delivery made them both cringe. But it was
their reality.
Mickey shrugged, unsure how to respond. It was inevitable. He was made
painfully aware of the fact that Ian’s time was limited on the day they met. He
struggled with the fact when it was initially introduced to him but now it made
him physically sick. They were more than strangers now. They were friends. They
were more than friends. They were lovers. Maybe they were even more than
lovers. He wanted to wrap his arms around Ian to shield him from all of the
pain in the universe. Mickey was more than capable of protecting Ian from
anyone who attempted to lay a finger on his body. Could threaten anyone who
looked at him wrong. Destroy anyone who even thought Ian was anything less than
magnificent. But he couldn’t protect him from himself. No amount of brute force
could cure his illness.
“So then, you’re just going to go back to that awful place?” Ian changed the
subject back to the initial point, knowing his fate was a sensitive subject.
“What choice do I have? I’m fucked for life, man.” He straightened his short
legs out in the dirt and rested his arm across his bare tummy.
Ian squeezed Mickey’s hand gently. “Don’t say that. You’re smart, Mick. And
you’re kind. You can make something of yourself. You’re more than drugs and
violence.”
Mickey shook his head, refusing to accept the compliment. He didn’t believe it.
Why would he? “Just blowin’ smoke up my ass.”
Ian’s grip grew tighter, hoping it would reinforce the truth behind his words.
“I’m not. Mickey, look at me.” He tilted the brunette’s face towards his own,
peering at him through his haze. “You don’t need to go back. You can make a
life for yourself away from the South side. Away from your dad.”
Mickey pulled his hand away at the mention of his father, the gentleness in his
face dissipating. “You don’t know shit about my life.”
“Then tell me. Let me in, Mick. I want to know. I want to understand.” His
fingers grabbed futilely for Mickeys wrist, wanting to bring back the
vulnerability that had melted before his eyes into the defensive man he was
looking at now.
Mickey’s eyebrows mended together in frustration. “You don’t give a shit. No
one gives a shit.” He crossed his arms in his lap, refusing to give Ian what he
wanted.
“I do!” Ian’s voice was louder than he meant for it to be. “I do.” He repeated,
much quieter this time. “I care about you, Mickey.” He swallowed the lump
forming in his dry throat. “I know we just met, and I know that it sounds
crazy. But I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.” It was true. “I want you
to be comfortable with me. The way I am with you.”
“Yeah well.” Mickey’s knuckle met his nostril. “Not everybody gets to just
blurt out how they fuckin’ feel every minute.”
Ian outstretched his hands to Mickey’s face and when he tried to push him away,
he didn’t budge. He forced fleeting blue eyes to focus on him. His voice was
calm. “I care about you, Mickey. And I know you’re not used to that.” Mickey
tried to push him away at that statement, but remained unsuccessful. “You’re
not used to it and its okay. You’ve done so much for me. Let me do something
for you. Let me show you that not everyone is bad. Not everyone is going to
hurt you.” His eyes pleaded with Mickey’s, wanting so badly to be let in. To
break down the walls that Mickey built in self-defense.
Mickey didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Instead, he leaned forward to press a chaste
kiss against the sweetest lips he had ever tasted. He was terrified. But he
trusted Ian in a way he never had before. He believed he wouldn’t hurt him. And
in turn, he knew he would never hurt Ian either. Because for the first time in
his life, he wasn’t being fueled by anger. He wasn’t in survival mode. He was
free out here in the forest with this redhead who he thought he was saving but
he was beginning to realize was actually saving him.
***** Exposed *****
Chapter Notes
     TW: Child abuse
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Kentucky came and went as the week came to a close. Ian offered to drive to
their next destination; Tennessee. Mickey agreed before he knew how slow the
car would be moving with Ian behind the wheel. He groaned and grumbled the
entire drive, putting up with the redhead's desire to play I Spy and the
License Plate game. His incessant need to ask to stop at every lamely
advertised attraction on the billboards made him simultaneously want to choke
the redhead and kiss him all over his stupid face.
Now they were pulling into a mom and pop restaurant that was built from an old
barn. The inside had been refurbished but the elements of a barn remained. They
walked inside and were greeted by women dressed like milk maids and chickens
pecking around at the ground.
"Table for two?" The raven haired girl asked while plucking menus from the
stand to her left. On Ian's nod, she led them to their table. "Andrew's gonna
take care of y'all." She smiled politely and ducked back to her podium at the
front of the restaurant.
Ian grinned as he admired the interior of the barn. Strong wood held the
structure together, colored pictures were taped along the beams from the
children who dined there. Old farm equipment was scattered throughout and hay
littered the ground.
Their waiter approached dressed like a farmer; a white tshirt tucked into jeans
that were held up by navy blue suspenders. Complete with a straw hat and a long
strand of hay between his teeth resting against his bottom lip. "I'm Andrew.
I'll be takin' care of y'all. Can I getcha started with somethin' to drink?"
His smile was blinding. And also directed at Ian.
Mickey wanted to punch him in his sun kissed face.
"I'll have a lemonade, please." Ian smiled at Andrew then when silence fell
from across the table, he shifted his eyes to Mickey. "Mick?"
"Water." His eyebrows scrunched together as he glared at Andrew.
Andrew nodded his head at their requests, not even noticing the look he was
receiving from Mickey because his focus was elsewhere. "Would you like a lemon
in that?"
Mickey looked repulsed. "No I don't want a fuckin' lemon in that." He barked
then looked to Ian when he was kicked beneath the table.
Andrew bowed his head then walked away to fill their drink orders.
"What's got you so grumpy?" Ian raised an eyebrow.
"Nothin'. Just don't want fruit in my water." Mickey scanned over the menu,
avoiding the green eyes he knew were staring disapprovingly at him.
"Mhm." Ian laughed quietly to himself then followed Mickey's lead in figuring
out what he wanted to eat, leafing through the pages of paper.
When Andrew came back, he placed their drinks down in front of them. They were
served in old mason jars with handles. "Figure out what you want to eat or do
you need a few minutes?"
"I think we're ready." Ian beamed. He paused for any protest that may come from
his counterpart and when nothing was said, he began to speak. "I'd like the
house salad, please."
Mickey eyed him with a look that mirrored disgust. A salad was not a meal.
"Country chicken with gravy. And I want..." his eyes shifted around the space
then he pointed at the closest chicken pecking a few tables away from them.
"That one."
Ian shoved his shoe into Mickey's shin again, eyes wide. "He's kidding." His
words were directed at Andrew. "He doesn't get out much."
Mickey smirked and folded his menu back into itself and slid it to the edge of
the table for their waiter to gather. Andrew looked at him with anything other
than amusement, snatching up their menus and leaving the boys to exchange
glances.
"You're ridiculous." Ian laughed out, shaking his head at Mickey. He reminded
him of his older brother when he said things like that. Always cracking
inappropriate jokes to unsuspecting people.
Mickey shrugged and leaned back, tucking one arm behind his chair. "Like you
said, don't get out much.”
Ian was only half kidding when he initially made the remark but now that it was
confirmed, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Ian was sheltered, there
was no question about that, but at least he had experience in restaurants. "You
didn't eat out with your parents?"
Mickey dipped his fingers into the bowl of peanuts that were provided for them.
He cracked the shell and flicked it at Ian. "You fuckin’ serious?"
Ian brushed the shell away then took a sip of his lemonade. His lips puckered
at the sour taste. "Yeah."
"You met my old man. He look like the type to take his family out for dinner?"
Mickey concentrated on cracking open another shell, doing his best to not raise
his eyes to Ian.
"No. I guess not." Ian replied, almost inaudibly. He studied Mickey's figure,
now huddled in on himself at the uncomfortableness of the conversation. "What
about your mom?"
Mickey nearly sank into the floor. "Dead." He slipped the peanut into his
mouth, pushing it around with the tip of his tongue before chewing.
Ian nodded slowly. "What happened?"
A heavy sigh fell across the table. "Overdose."
Ian sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. "I'm sorry, Mick."
"I'm not. Can't blame her for wantin' to get away from Terry. Fucker beat the
shit outta her like the rest of us." Mickey surprised himself at the way he let
his family secrets spill out of him but something about Ian made it easy. He
didn't feel judged for the first time in his life.
Ian took a long sip from his glass, allowing himself time to process the
outpour of information. He had a lot of questions but there was one that stood
out above the rest. "Do you hit him back? To protect yourself?" The question
made Mickey angry. He could tell by the way his fingers clamped onto the shell
of the peanut in his hand.
"You got a fuckin' question for everything?" He couldn't bear to tell Ian that
he didn't protect himself. The most feared thug on his side of town didn't
defend himself from his own father. He couldn't. He threatened everyone and
always followed through with his promises of broken bones, setting their shit
on fire, or hunting down family members. But when Terry started coming at him,
he curled into himself and took every brutal hit. He learned early on that
fighting back added fuel to the fire.
When Mickey was six, he was running around the house playing cops and robbers
with his older brother. Ironically, Mickey was the robber. In an attempt to
escape from ‘Officer Iggy’, he ran around the corner and into the coffee table
in the center of the living room where his father was making a drug deal with
some of the locals. They were testing the product when Mickey’s body fell into
the table, causing a cloud of white cocaine to flutter away from the top. He
had never seen Terry so outraged in his life. Mickey was too small to fight
then. Too fragile. He fell victim to the hands that were supposed to care for
him. Beaten by the man who should have loved him. Taught him right from wrong.
Bandaged his injuries. Instead, he inflicted the pain; broke two of his ribs
and left him with an outpour of blood from his nose, which he was then scolded
for dirtying the carpet.
His mother attempted to rush him to the emergency room but the brutality was
then turned against her. Terry refused to accept the charges he would so
rightfully face if his abused son was admitted to the hospital. Mickey tried to
save her even in his broken state. He put his body between his parents, daring
his father to lay a hand on the woman who was only in danger because she was
trying to help him. As a young boy, Mickey had seen more than most adults in
any other part of town. He knew abuse like the back of his hand. And he would
rather deal with it himself than watch his mother in pain.
He ended the night battered and unconscious. From that day on, Mickey learned
that retaliating made it worse. He would always defend his mother to the best
of his abilities. Always taking the brunt of the violence. But he took it
without throwing a punch of his own.
That was as much of an answer as Ian expected but it said a lot. He observed
that when Mickey was avoiding telling him something, he supplied a 'fuck off'
or turned the conversation onto Ian to take the heat from himself. Ian
understood. He talked a lot and shared more details than he should and not
everyone was like him. "Is that a problem?" He smirked, realizing that was also
a question.
When their food was delivered, Mickey gritted his teeth at Andrew who was
making more conversation with Ian than was needed. He didn't really have a
concrete reason to be jealous. They never established any kind of rules. They
weren't even a couple. Not officially. Sure they made out in their hotel rooms.
Ian sucked Mickey off in the off-chance the brunette didn't shove him away. But
that didn't make them boyfriends. Mickey didn't do boyfriends anyway. So why
was he having vivid premonitions about snapping Andrew's neck like a twig? "You
fuckin' mind? We're tryin' to eat here." He waved his fork at his meal,
scowling.
Andrew held his hands up in mock defense and backed away from their table,
leaving Ian with his jaw hanging open. "Why did you do that?!"
"Fucker's tryin' to get in your pants. 'M helpin' you out." Mickey shoveled in
a mouthful of chicken.
Ian cocked an eyebrow as the realization set in. "Oh yeah? Helping me out, huh?
Are you sure you aren't jealous?"
Mickey blew air out between his tight lips. "Jealous of that desperate twink?
Nah." Lie.
"You sure, Mick? I mean, I think I might have a farmer kink. Those suspenders
are really turning me on." Ian burst into laughter as the red crawled from the
base of Mickey's neck to his cheekbones. He quickly retracted his previous
statement. "Never mind. I have a jealous Mickey kink." He chuckled as Mickey
started fidgeting in his seat.
Mickey looked across the table to Ian's salad bowl then down to his half-
finished chicken in an attempt to look anywhere but Ian's face. He was taken
aback by the untouched food. "Why aren't you eatin'?"
Ian’s eyes followed the pattern Mickey's took then shifted to his silverware
which was still wrapped in his napkin on the table. "I uh, I'm not really
hungry."
Mickey chewed his food slower. "What d'you mean you ain't hungry? You haven't
eaten all day."
Ian shrugged and nervously picked at the edge of the table. The color faded
from his face and the smile he was sporting disappeared. He didn't have the
heart to correct Mickey. To tell him that it had actually been days since he
ate a meal. "I just haven't been hungry lately." He licked his chapped lips.
"They said it's part of the... y'know, the cancer." His eyes flicked to meet
Mickey's. They were sadder than he had seen them. No matter how many
conversations they had about Mickey's awful life, nothing could compare to the
sullenness that fell as soon as Ian's illness was mentioned.
"You feelin' okay?" Mickey set his fork against the edge of his plate, suddenly
losing his appetite as well.
"Yeah, Mick. I'm fine." His voice was uncharacteristically quiet.
"Don't lie to me, man." Mickey licked his lips, letting his eyes dance across
the expression on Ian's face. They were both so wrapped up in the adventure
they were on that the reason behind all of this was often lost on them
Ian hesitated. He didn't like to talk about it. It made it too real. "I'm just
not hungry."
Mickey scooted to the edge of his seat and slid his leg between Ian's
underneath the table. He wasn't good with words so the touch was the most
comfort he could offer Ian. "Should you see like, a doctor or somethin'? Make
sure you're okay or whatever?"
Ian wrapped his long fingers around his mason jar and squeezed Mickey's knee
between his legs. "I'm not okay, Mick. That's what they're going to tell me.
Then they're going to try to make me do chemo, put me on a bunch of meds. Make
me all tired and shit until I'm dead. That's not what I want." He raised the
jar to his lips, sipping the water to wet his increasingly dry mouth.
Mickey nodded, trying not to think too deeply about the reality of everything
Ian said. "If you don't eat, you're gonna get tired and shit anyway." He wasn't
a doctor but that was common knowledge.
"I know it doesn't make any sense but I'm not dying in a hospital bed. I didn't
get any say in having cancer. So I'm at least having a say in that." His words
were matter of fact.
"Yeah, okay." Mickey was in no position to dispute what Ian said. If he didn't
want to go to the doctor, he couldn't force him to. He couldn't judge how Ian
was feeling because it was something he had never had to deal with. "So what
d'you want then?"
A gentle smile curled on Ian's lips at the certainty of his next words. "This.
You. Us."
Mickey's eyes searched Ian's face for any sign of falsity in the declaration
but he found none. He nodded his head once to reassure Ian that he understood.
~~
When the bill was placed on the table, Mickey reached into his pocket to supply
enough bills to cover the cost of both meals. His eyes shifted to meet Ian’s.
“Guess this was a date, huh?”
Ian’s heart swelled at the drastic difference from their initial dining
experience. He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. “Yeah, I
guess it was.”
~~
"You really are cute when you're jealous, Mick." Ian shouldered the shorter man
as they walked side by side from their car to the lobby of their hotel.
"Wasn't jealous and I ain't cute." Mickey drew the last of the smoke from his
cigarette then tossed the butt to the ground. He pulled the door open, allowing
Ian to enter first then followed behind.
"You were. Couldn't stand the thought of me being with Andrew." Ian baited as
he made his way up to the counter with Mickey on his heels.
Mickey's stomach flipped because Ian was absolutely right. He didn't even want
Ian to joke about hooking up with their waiter. The very thought made him want
to light the other man on fire.
Ian tapped his skinny fingers against the countertop while he waited for the
man to give him his attention. When he turned to help him, he smiled politely.
"We need two rooms, please."
"One." Mickey interjected quietly. When Ian turned to look at him, he raised
his voice. "One room." He cleared his throat and scuffed the sole of his shoe
against the tile below.
A smile emerged on Ian's face so wide that it could have ripped him in two.
"One room, please." He announced proudly to the man. He offered up his name and
his card then excitedly took the room key. He grabbed his bag from the floor
then headed towards the elevator with Mickey. He gave him the side eye, trying
not to burst at the seams. "So. One room, huh?"
Mickey pushed the 'up' arrow several times in rapid succession, despite the
fact that it was already lit up. "Just thought it'd save some money."
Ian ran his tongue across the top row of his teeth. "Is that the only reason?"
Mickey could feel his temperature rising. When the elevator doors opened he
scanned the small space briefly for other passengers before shoving Ian inside
and pinning him against the wall. His gaze met Ian's before he moved to plant
an open-mouthed kiss to the redhead. His fingers fumbled to press the button
for their floor then he gripped the sides of Ian's face, sliding their tongues
together. He couldn't tell if his stomach was flipping from the elevator rising
to their floor or from the nervousness he felt from what he wanted to do with
Ian.
The doors slid open and announced the arrival to their floor with a ding.
Mickey pulled their mouths apart then grabbed onto Ian's wrist and led him to
their room. He inserted the card into its slot, pushed the door open, and then
let it fall shut behind them. The instant the lock clicked into place, he was
on Ian like a moth to a flame. His hands fell to the hem of Ian's shirt and
peeled it from his taught torso. He ran his rough fingertips against each
muscle in his abdomen.
Ian separated Mickey's shirt from his body as well, only pulling his lips away
long enough to remove the clothing. He was shocked by the initiative Mickey had
taken but it was a welcomed surprise. They fumbled desperately with buttons and
zippers until both sets of pants were lying in a heap on the floor.
"Don't want you with anyone else." Mickey breathed heavily into Ian's mouth. He
drug his teeth against Ian's bottom lip and dipped his hand into the waistband
of Ian's boxer briefs.
Ian smiled at the admission and tilted his head away when Mickey's fingers
wrapped around his girth, relieving some of the aching in his cock. His knees
buckled when wet kisses fell against his collarbone, leaning his back against
the wall to support his limping weight. He perched his arms around Mickey's
shoulders as he got to work, stroking him to full hardness.
Mickey bit at skin, all sense of gentleness non-existent in his brain. He knew
what he needed and he needed it now. "Bed." Was all he could force out of his
mouth. When Ian lowered himself onto the mattress, Mickey climbed on top of him
and resumed their hasty kiss; all tongues and teeth and heat.
Ian slid his hands inside Mickey's boxers to knead his ass. Gripping hard
enough to leave pink imprints in the fleshy mounds. A groan grew deep in his
throat when Mickey grinded their groins against each other.
Mickey tore away from Ian's hungry lips to plant a trail of kisses down his
neck and across his chest. He inched his body down to suck at one of his
nipples then traced each of his delicious abs painfully slowly with the tip of
his tongue, wanting to savor the salt of his skin. He licked around his belly
button then gripped the elastic of his underwear between his teeth and pulled
them down.
Ian propped himself up on his elbows to watch the brunette seduce him. He
thought it might be the sexiest thing he had ever seen. He lifted his hips to
allow Mickey to slide the tight material from his waist, down his legs. His
eyes followed him back up, muscles tightening in preparation for what was to
follow.
Mickey's tongue swirled in circles around the head of Ian's straining cock. He
sucked him down, eyes watering as the thickness filled up all of the space in
his mouth. His head bobbed up and down, cheeks hollow and flushed.
"So good to me, Mick. Don't want anyone else." Ian's eyes rolled back into his
head as Mickey worked him. He wove his fingers into dark chocolate locks,
guiding the mouth up and down his shaft.
Mickey hummed, knowing the vibration would stimulate Ian further. He didn't
suck dick. Ever. So he was channeling all of the things he liked to receive in
an attempt to drive Ian wild. Which had apparently worked because Ian was
tugging on his hair, pulling him away.
"Get up here." Ian demanded. When Mickey complied, he grabbed a hold of his
sides and flipped him onto his back. He made short work of removing Mickey's
boxers then leaned down to suck a mark into the tender skin of his throat. He
raised one finger to Mickey's lips. "Suck." He placed the digit between his
compliant lips and once he felt it was sufficiently wet, he lowered it between
Mickey's legs. He pushed his thighs apart, spreading his legs open wide then he
slid his finger in the crack of his ass and traced the hole.
Mickey swallowed hard and locked eyes with Ian. Fuck he wanted him so bad. He
nodded his head once then closed his eyes tight as soon as the long finger
pushed its way through the tight ring of muscle. He gritted his teeth in
pleasure as Ian worked him open; one finger, two, three, until his knees were
trembling. "Fuckin' get on me, Gallagher." He was moaning. He knew it. But he
couldn't control it. He whined at the emptiness when Ian removed his fingers
from inside of him.
Ian spit into his palm then used it to slick himself up. He placed one hand
against Mickey's kneecap to keep his legs spread apart, then held onto his cock
with the other, aligning himself with Mickey's entrance. He pressed the head to
the ready hole and both boys groaned once it was breached.
"Fuck." Was all Mickey could manage as each inch slid into him, stretching his
walls and filling him up. He twisted the sheet into his grasp when Ian bottomed
out, back arching at the feeling.
Ian gave them both time to adjust to the unfamiliar feeling of each other then
he started to thrust at an agonizingly slow pace. Mickey was so tight. Tighter
than Ian had ever felt before. It made his hips stutter then steady into a
quicker pace. The sound of the mattress squeaking, Mickey's whining, and his
balls meeting his lover's ass cheeks was sending him over the moon. "Love this
ass, Mick."
Mickey raised his hands from the sheets to Ian's shoulders, dragging his blunt
nails against his sweaty skin, paving a perfect red path from his shoulder
blades to the center of his back. "Harder." He demanded between gritted teeth.
His mouth fell open when Ian did exactly as he wanted. He wrapped his legs
around Ian's lower back as he pounded into him, giving Ian a new angle directly
at his prostate.
Ian knew he found the sweet spot when Mickey started crying out. He was amazed
at how loud the brunette was in bed. He never wanted anyone else to witness the
way he sounded, looked, felt in this moment. He was doing this to him. For him.
With him. And fuck if it wasn't the most exhilarating experience of his
seventeen years. He'd fucked other men but not like this. Never with this much
desire or emotion.
Mickey bucked his hips with each jab to his prostate, the knowledge that his
orgasm was creeping up on him very present with the way his cock was rubbing in
between their sweaty abdomens. "Fuck, I'm close."
Ian quickened his pace as he was teetering on the edge as well. He put his
hands above Mickey's scarred shoulders, throwing his head back as he fucked
Mickey into the mattress. He grunted as his orgasm erupted through his entire
body, filling Mickey up with his release.
Mickey crossed the bridge seconds after, rivulets of white sticky liquid
coating the front of their bodies. His heart stuttered in his chest, his entire
body quaking at the feeling of Ian's cock throbbing inside of him and his body
desperately trying to find itself again.
Ian fell onto the mattress and began peppering kisses all over Mickey's rose-
colored face. "You're amazing."
The blush increased at the compliment. He pulled the comforter from the bed and
wiped them both down, then tossed the comforter to the floor. They were too hot
for it anyhow. Mickey's chest was rising and falling so hard he wasn't sure it
would ever stop. He turned his head to look at Ian and it made his breathing
more sporadic. The freckles on his skin looked like the millions of stars
hanging high in the sky. The way the sunlight illuminated his hair turned it to
a beautiful copper. He looked like a painting. Mickey reached out to touch him
just to make sure he was real.
Ian smiled sweetly at him. The heat and intensity of their fucking shifted into
a different desire of closeness. He slid one arm beneath Mickey's body and
wrapped the other one over his side, pulling him into his body. He tucked his
face into the space where his neck meets his shoulder and inhaled a deep breath
through his nose. Mickey smelled of sweat and cigarettes and whatever cologne
he used and it was utterly intoxicating to Ian's senses.
They laid that way for a while before Mickey pushed Ian onto his back so he
could rest his head against his broad chest. He traced circles against his
sternum.
Ian closed his eyes at the touch. "I really like you."
Mickey didn't hold back the smile on his face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Ian stroked Mickey's side slowly, appreciating every inch of skin he
could feel.
Mickey was quiet for a few heartbeats. "I'm gonna take care of you, y'know? I'm
not gonna let shit happen to you."
Ian nodded at the sentiment. He knew it was a promise Mickey couldn't keep. He
was living with a bomb strapped to his chest. Each second that ticked by was
one step closer to the end. Neither of them knew how much time he had. But he
still chose to believe him. "I know."
"We're gonna get to the beach. You're gonna feel the fuckin' sand between your
toes." Mickey sniffed and nibbled on the corner of his mouth, holding back the
tears threatening to fall.
Ian raised his hand from Mickey's side to his hair and brushed it back. "I
can't wait to see the ocean with you."
Mickey nodded and settled his body with increased pressure against Ian, wanting
to be as close as humanly possible. He planted a soft kiss on Ian's chest,
drifting to sleep with images of Ian on the beach and the sound of his
heartbeat echoing in his head.
Chapter End Notes
     I just wanted to say thank you guys so much for reading this. Your
     feedback makes me so happy. <3
***** Profound *****
Faggot.
Mickey's body thrashed against the mattress, eyebrows merging in anger or
confusion or fear.
Pole-smoking queer.
The mattress shook beneath him in waves of violent, restless convulsions.
Sounds of fists cracking bones, images of deep red spilling, then black. Pitch
black overtaking his vision. He felt bruised. Beaten. Pathetic. Lonely. Sad.
Angry. Scared. Lost. The emotions washed over him like a wave in the ocean. He
thought he might've been running. His legs were trying to move but he was
tacked down. His heart was racing. He could feel that much. He wanted to go. He
wanted to escape. But he couldn't. Terry was charging at him. Face red. Fury
brewing.
"Mick?" Ian placed his hands on Mickey's trembling body. He jumped backwards
off the mattress when a tattooed fist soared in his direction.
Mickey opened his eyes and sat up. He was sweating. Heart nearly bursting out
of his chest. Unaware of the time, the date, where he was. His eyes fell on Ian
who was watching him cautiously. He knew him. He knew what they did. And so did
Terry.
Ian's fingers twitched at his sides, eyes wide. The boy on the mattress didn't
look like Mickey. His eyes were different. They were full of fire and fear.
They were dark, pupils blown. "Mick? Are you okay?" He dared to outstretch his
hand to reach for Mickey.
"Get out." Mickey barked. His entire body was rising and falling with each
breath. When Ian didn't move, he raised his voice. "Get the fuck out!"
Ian remained stationary. He was fully aware that he should oblige to Mickey’s
request and exit the room but he couldn’t make his legs move. Something was
wrong. Mickey was seething. Ian would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't
terrified.
Mickey rose from the mattress, searching for his clothes amongst the mess on
the floor. He dressed into his boxers then bared his teeth to Ian. "Don't make
me say it again."
Ian ran to his clothes and began throwing them on. He watched on as Mickey
began pacing in front of the bed. Heavy, shallow breaths filled the room each
time he passed Ian. Hands pressed to his eyes, stopping the emotion from
spilling out of them. As Ian pulled his shirt on, a thought struck him. He
walked forward to press his fingers to Mickey's arm gently, offering his
comfort. The instinct to push people away came naturally to Mickey when he
didn't know how to handle the way he was feeling. Anger was the only emotion
that was perfectly executed every time.
"Don't touch me." Mickey pushed out of Ian's grasp and shoved him towards the
door. "Just fuckin' go! I don't want you here!"
Fucking homo.
Memories of a past encounter flashed through his mind; his cock in another
man’s mouth. Eyes rolled back in pleasure. Disrupted by a drunken Terry
unexpectedly barreling through the front door. Shouts of homophobic slurs. The
side of a pistol connecting with his skull. Terry’s body suffocating his own.
Ian pursed his lips and moved his eyes back and forth between the door and
Mickey. He took a step forward to the raging man before him. He fought every
thought in his head telling him to run. But it didn't matter what Mickey said,
he needed him now more than ever.
Mickey instinctually lunged at Ian the moment he took a step in his direction.
His knuckles connected with the side of Ian's face. Regret masked by wrath.
Ian cupped his cheek, streaks of red smeared on his fingers. The initial shock
of being hit sank when his eyes darted around Mickey who was running his palm
down the length of his own face. Straightening himself up, he grabbed Mickey by
his shoulders in an attempt to shake him from whatever distant planet he was
on. "Stop."
Mickey pushed him repeatedly but Ian stood his ground. Grip tightened. "Get the
fuck out of my face."
Ian shook his head, refusing the request. "You don't mean that." What Mickey
lacked in height, he made up for in strength. Ian was forced to take a few
steps back at the force of the weight moving him across the room. "Mick, stop.
You're scared."
"Fuck you." Mickey spat. He drug Ian down to the floor and raised his fist to
give another blow to the redhead's face but the green eyes staring at him
triggered something inside of him. They were speaking to him. Telling him to
calm down. Telling him he was safe here. He didn't have to fight. He didn't
have to hurt. His hand started to lower.
Ian squeezed his eyes shut and flinched at the skin to skin contact, expecting
something much more painful. Instead, a thumb was gliding underneath his fresh
wound. He cracked his eyes open to peer up at the man squashing him to the
ground. "It's okay. You're okay." He whispered, reassuring Mickey that their
space was safe.
Regret was now taking over. He jumped up, eyes settled on the mark he left on
Ian. He told him he would take care of him but instead, he let the Milkovich
inside of him take control. Reacting in the way he was taught from childhood.
"I-I didn't mean-"
"I know." He did. He believed Mickey when he told him he was going to take care
of him, even after this. This wasn’t the Mickey he knew. He pushed himself from
the floor and wrapped his long arms around Mickey's shaking figure. They were
both scared. But the fear in the brunette trumped his own. "What happened?"
Mickey stood stock still. He didn't deserve to be held by Ian after he lashed
out but being wrapped in the warmth offered the comfort he needed. A feeling
lost on him after a lifetime of abuse and neglect.
"Talk to me." Ian whispered and brushed sweaty hair from sticky skin. Both of
their hearts were beating sporadically. Ian needed to calm him down. To bring
peace back into their bubble where nothing bad could happen. Mickey didn't look
strong anymore. He looked fragile. As if a misdirected breath would make him
crumble to the floor.
Mickey shook his head and closed his damp eyes. He couldn't cry. Not here. Not
now. Not in front of Ian. His problems were mundane when compared to the ones
the boy in front of him was suffering from. Weighing him down with tales of his
childhood would only add to the world pressing on his shoulders. "Just go."
There was no malice in his words this time. They were soft, broken, and wet.
"I'm not leaving you, Mick. Not now. Not ever." There was a confidence in his
voice that shouldn't have been there given the circumstances. But he believed
his own words. He knew that in an alternate universe where he wasn't ill, he
would never leave Mickey's side.
Mickey's face nuzzled into the crook of Ian's neck. His arms lay limp at his
sides as the dam behind his eyes broke; Silent tears plastering themselves
against his cheeks. There was so much he wanted to say to Ian but it was
impossible to find the strength to speak. Standing in Ian's embrace was more
than he could ask for. "I'm sorry." He choked out.
Ian thought he understood. Not fully, but enough. Based on the brief scene he
witnessed at the Milkovich residence when Terry called them faggots while
playing video games followed by Mickey being beaten as soon as the door closed
in Ian’s face, and the way Mickey hid his sexuality, there were enough clues to
piece together a general idea. "You're safe. No one can hurt you here." His
fingers stroked the scars on Mickey's bare shoulders. His stomach sank, visions
of an abused Mickey straining his mind. "You can't go back. Promise me you
won't, Mickey. Promise me you'll never go back."
Mickey choked back his sob, considering Ian's words. He had nowhere else to go.
The South side was the only home he had ever known. If a roof over his head was
the only component necessary to be considered a home. The idea of leaving
permanently had never crossed his mind before meeting Ian. And even still, the
only motivator for his leaving was going to be taken away at any moment. But,
how could he go back to a place where he wasn't accepted after living in this
world with Ian where he wasn't only accepted, but cherished? "I promise."
Ian craned his neck down to kiss the top of his head. He pulled away from
Mickey to look at his face; eyes swollen and cheeks puffy. "Don't let anyone
tell you to hide who you are. Because the Mickey that I know is strong. He's
selfless. He's intelligent. And he's beautiful." He kissed Mickey's quivering
lips gently. "You're so beautiful."
The smallest smile appeared on Mickey's mouth. Pretty words were never used to
describe him and he had never wanted them to. Until now. "I want you to stay
with me." The voice was so fragmented that his ears couldn't conceive it as his
own.
The admission made Ian break into a pained smile. "I wish I could."
Mickey studied Ian through the film fogging his vision. He cupped his hand
behind Ian's head to lower him enough to press an apologetic kiss to the mark
he made. "Let's clean you up."
Ian nodded his head and allowed Mickey to lead him to the bathroom sink. A
dampened towel grazed his skin causing him to cringe. "I've never been punched
before."
"Add it to the list of fuckin' firsts then." He attempted a joke even though
there was no humor in what happened moments before. He wiped away the dry blood
staining Ian’s skin then placed the towel on the counter. Even though they left
the conversation in the bedroom, he needed to ask the question burning in his
head. "You really think I got a chance?"
Ian was surprised but he responded immediately. "I know you do."
Mickey dropped his eyes to his fingers, stained with the ink that would always
remind him of the mistakes he made. It would be easy to go back to his life on
the streets. Beating people into submission, convincing himself that was the
life he was born to lead. And he would never understand why it only took one
person to change his perspective. But he made a promise to Ian and he intended
to keep it.
~~
Tennessee was beautiful. Hot. Very hot. But beautiful. Coming from the South
side of Chicago, the majority of the scenery Mickey saw was made up of thick
smoke clouds, blood stained sidewalks, and graffitied walls. The sounds his
ears heard were drunken yelling, car horns blaring, and guns cocking. He wasn't
used to all this nature. Open skies and whistling birds. The soft breeze
tickling his milky skin.
Now they were laying across a stretch of red dirt, hidden between massive
amounts of trees bordering a lake, barricading them in seclusion. Ian insisted
on this one after his copious amounts of ‘of fuckin’ course’ research. The lake
was home to campers and boaters, families and fishermen. But at night, it was
different. At night it was home to quiet waves and crickets.
"I can never see the stars at home." Ian tucked one of his arms beneath his
head, the other draped across his taught stomach.
Mickey hummed in acknowledgement around his joint but he'd be lying if he said
he ever noticed. "Never looked for 'em." There was enough space separating them
that none of their limbs were touching.
Ian accepted the blunt as it was passed back to him. He hallowed his cheeks as
he inhaled and started hacking out puffs of smoke. "God dammit, when does the
coughing stop?" He passed the burning joint to Mickey's eager fingers.
Mickey took a slow, steady inhale then purposefully blew a stream of smoke into
Ian's face. "When you stop bein' a pussy." He smirked when Ian fanned the smoke
away.
Ian reached a hand out to shove Mickey, slightly embarrassed by his lack of
skill in something Mickey was so experienced with.
Mickey chuckled, unperturbed by the redhead's attempt at settling the score. He
took another long drag before letting Ian try again.
Ian's thoughts were clouded but the THC settling in his body had him hyper
focused on one particular subject. "Where do you think I'll end up after this
is over?"
"What d'you mean?" Mickey started connecting the stars he could see into
patterns, figures, stories.
"Do you believe in heaven? Do you think I'll be a ghost? Will I just disappear
into thin air? Poof. Like I never existed?" He demonstrated an imaginary
explosion with his hands, wiping his existence from the planet.
"Dunno, man." His response was short for two reasons: he never really thought
about where people went. Death was death to him. He saw it every week.
Strangers, family members, friends, they all died. It was as sure as the sun
rising in the morning and setting in the evening. But the thought that they
were any more than a corpse at that point was never something he considered.
The second reason was that he hated to think of Ian being anywhere other than
right beside him.
Ian felt like the ground was sinking beneath him. Like the whole world was
swallowing him up limb by limb as the smoke took over his body. His words were
spaced out as he spoke, feeling like his mouth and time were moving in slow
motion. "I can't believe I'm actually dying." His lips turned upwards and a
laugh escaped his lips. "I’m dying, Mickey." He repeated it as if he was just
realizing his fate for the first time. But instead of being sad, he was
actually cackling.
"'S'not funny, man." Mickey tore the blunt from Ian's fingers since he was
showing signs that he had already inhaled enough, possibly too much.
"It is!" Ian sat up, brain sloshing in his head. "I could just die right now!"
His eyes crinkled in the corners as he barked out hysterical laughter. He
flopped back down on the ground and crossed his arms in an 'X' over his chest.
"Okay shh. I'm dead." He tried to form his lips into a straight line but they
trembled before bursting into giggles.
Mickey sat up and looked at Ian. He felt a mixture of sadness and anger staring
at this boy who was actually joking about succumbing to his illness. "Would you
fuckin' stop? That shit ain't funny." Mickey hesitated to draw from the joint
but he hated to waste quality weed and he hoped that the drug would settle his
nerves.
"C'mon, Mick. Stop being so grumpy." He flipped onto his side and gazed
longingly at Mickey's disgruntled manner.
"Don't like when you say that shit." The anger on his face modified to worry.
Ian drug his blunt fingernails across Mickey's denim-clad thigh. His hysterics
subsided but a smile still lingered on his face. "We both know what's happening
to me, Mick. What's the point in being sad over it?"
"Because it is fuckin' sad, Ian!" The volume of his voice shocked him more than
it did Ian, who was soaring so high in the clouds that he didn't take note of
Mickey calling him by his actual name for the first time. Mickey knew that the
laughter was a direct side effect of the drugs coursing through Ian but he was
unable to find it in himself to let the topic appear any less devastating than
it was.
"Okay, okay. Sorry Mr. Rumblefish." Ian drastically lowered his voice, mocking
Mickey's uproar. His eyes widened when Mickey brought himself to his feet,
obviously fed up with his behavior. "Mick..." He whined.
Mickey stomped off, walking himself to the edge of ground where the dirt met
the lake water. He dropped the joint, letting the remnants burn up. He looked
across the empty water, hoping the sound would ease him.
Ian struggled to get to his feet, sighing as the phantom blanket that he
imagined enveloping his tired body drifted away. He stood behind the shorter
man, draping his arms around his back and clasping his hands in front of his
chest. "I'm sorry." He pressed a kiss to the side of Mickey's neck.
Mickey didn't accept the apology right away, too aggravated by Ian's
indifference towards the situation. "You're goin' to heaven." He mumbled.
Ian's face lit up like the full moon overhead. "You think so?"
Mickey nodded. He wasn't sure he believed in heaven or God or angels. But if
anyone was going to make it up there and prove him wrong, Ian would be the one
to do it.
"I hope so. Then I can fly down and see you all the time." He kissed Mickey's
neck again.
"Fuckin' better. Gonna miss your annoying ass." His voice was quiet. The
sentiment was sincere in its own way. It wasn't poetic or romantic. But it
conveyed everything Mickey knew how to say.
"Mickey Milkovich just admitted he's going to miss me." Ian giggled then turned
Mickey's body around so he was facing him. He leaned down to plant pecks
against pink lips.
Mickey returned the gesture with more ease than he ever thought possible for
himself. He still couldn't fathom how much he had changed in the short amount
of time since he had met Ian. Before he knew it he was wrapping his arms around
his waist, pulling their bodies as close as possible.
Between the emotion seeping from the other man and the epic high he was riding,
he couldn't help himself but to want to feel more. And clearly, Mickey had felt
the same. Soon, they were stripping each other of the clothes forming a barrier
between the skin that needed to be felt. Hands roamed bodies that were becoming
more familiar to each other.
Ian drug Mickey to a thick tree and instructed him to bend over. Mickey did
just that, presenting his ass and gripping bark to steady himself for the
welcomed intrusion of long fingers probing him. Once he was fully stretched
out, Ian spit into his hand to make his own lubricant, dragging his wet palm up
and down the length of his shaft. He slapped his cock against Mickey's ready
gape, pleased by the way the muscles contracted at the feeling. "Ready for me
to fuck you, Mick? Show you how much I care about you?"
Mickey bit his lip and peered over his shoulder to admire Ian illuminated by
the bright moon and it's reflection off the lake. He was being driven by
sadness, hormones, cannabis, and... something else he had never felt before.
Something strong. "Show me."
Ian did just that, lining his cock up with Mickey's hole and guiding himself
inside the tight walls. His head fell back, hands gripping Mickey's waist so
tight he could practically feel the bruises he was leaving against his skin.
Once he was in deep and felt no resistance, he started thrusting slow and hard.
Mickey's head dropped below his shoulders. "Fuck. Show me, Ian. Show me what I
mean to you."
The power behind each plunge increased until the body beneath him was trembling
in pleasure. He slid one hand from his waist to his chest, pushing his body
upright so Mickey's back was flank against his chest. He held him there,
breathing hot air against his ear. “Need this ass, Mick. Need you.”
Mickey moaned in response before opening his mouth to initiate a sloppy kiss.
His grip dug into the bark of the tree so hard he could feel the skin splitting
on the pads of his fingers. His knees buckled when Ian wrapped his long fingers
around his cock to jerk him in time with his thrusts.
When Ian's orgasm came, it shocked his body like a bolt of lightning. Sending
his muscles into an overwhelming convulsion as he painted Mickey's insides
white. The roll of his hips slowed as his cock grew soft inside of Mickey, but
he continued to jerk his hand until Mickey was whispering his name in weighty
breaths and decorating the tree with his release.
Once their bodies were separated, they pulled each other into an embrace tight
enough to fit all of each other's broken pieces back into place. They were both
flawed. They both had baggage too heavy to carry alone. They were both missing
parts of themselves that the other had. That's why they needed each other. To
help, to care, to teach, to heal.
"Hey Mick?" Ian whispered softly against Mickey's temple.
"Yeah?"
"I think I..." Ian hesitated, afraid to shatter the beautiful moment that they
had created together. The emotion and sincerity of what his heart felt for the
other man was too real to ignore. Too profound to not profess. Even if the
feeling wasn’t reciprocated, he needed to say it while he had the chance. "I
think I'm falling in love with you."
Mickey was silent. He didn't know what love was. He had never felt it. Never
seen it. Never even considered it. He didn't think it was supposed to happen
this suddenly. But if wanting to be with someone indefinitely, wanting to
breathe them in in lieu of oxygen, wanting to trade places with them to rid
them of pain, if that was love, he wasn’t only falling in it, he was drowning
in it, soaking it into his soul, breathing it out of his lungs, bleeding it
from his veins. "Yeah." He took a deep breath before expelling the the most
sincere words he'd ever spoken. "Me too."
***** Safe *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is segmented into moments over the course of the next
     few weeks following the previous chapter.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
"It looks good on you, Mick. You're just mad because it isn't black." Ian put
his hands on Mickey's sides from behind, looking at his lover in the floor
length mirror in the dressing room of the mall they were visiting in their next
state; Georgia. The supply of clothes they traveled with wasn't very extensive
and constantly stopping at the laundromat was becoming tedious. Ian proposed
they spend a day shopping to eliminate the frequency in which they washed their
clothes, however, he had ulterior motives of expanding Mickey's color pallet.
"No, I'm mad because it's fuckin' pink." He attempted to cross his arms over
the soft cotton of the t-shirt Ian forced him into but his arms were restrained
and pulled out to his sides by the taller boy.
"Who cares? You look hot. And if you get this one, we can go back and get it in
black, too. Deal?" Ian kissed the side of Mickey's head who huffed in annoyance
but mumbled a 'fine' inside of several curse words.
"Fuck a dude and suddenly you're wearin' pink." He stared at their reflections,
rolling his eyes at the smile on Ian's face. He couldn't pinpoint the exact
moment he softened into this pile of mush who gave into every request Ian made
but he was beginning to like the softer version of himself better than the
monster he had been for nineteen years.
Ian's bottom lip was pulled between his teeth, hands sliding down Mickey's
belly to the crotch of his pants. "Wear pink and suddenly you're getting your
dick sucked." He ran the tip of his tongue along his lips and turned Mickey
around to face him before he could respond. He double checked that the door was
closed behind them before dropping to his knees and unbuckling his boyfriend's
(they had wordlessly reached that level of commitment) pants and freeing his
half-hard cock from the material restraining him.
"Can't get enough, can ya?" Mickey smirked and rested his head back against the
cold glass of the mirror when his cock was swallowed down by the redhead. He
decided in that moment that maybe pink wasn't such a horrible color to add to
his wardrobe.
Ian held onto Mickey's powerful thigh in one hand with a bruising grip and
pressed his fingers against his perineum with the other, gagging at the way the
cock in his mouth felt hitting the back of his throat. His eyes flicked to
their reflections in the mirror and he could feel himself growing hard
underneath the denim of his skinny jeans. It was better than porn. To watch
himself expertly sucking down a thick cock, fingers meddling the sensitive spot
that made Mickey's knees buckle with each touch. Seeing the act made him suck
harder, move faster. His fingers moved further up, teasing Mickey's hole before
breaching. He was still stretched open from their rounds of sex earlier in the
morning which turned Ian on even more.
"Christ, Gallagher." Mickey tangled his fingers in long red tresses, forcing
himself as far down Ian's throat as possible. The choking and sputtering from
the hot mouth around him made his body burn in ecstasy. "Got such a pretty
mouth." He began bucking his hips, simultaneously fucking deep into Ian's
throat and pushing back on the fingers inside of him until the redhead was
pulling back, pre cum and spit threading his lips to his cock.
Ian broke his eyes away from his own reflection to make eye contact with the
brunette. "You should see yourself from down here, Mick." He scissored his
fingers, delving deeper inside. He flicked his tongue against the swollen head
then sucked him down again, letting the tears fall from his eyes when Mickey
fucked into his mouth harder. He didn't stop until the familiar tang of cum
laced his taste buds. He swallowed every drop, licking Mickey clean. He slid
his fingers out from his ass, smirking at the moan released from the panting
man above him. "Have I told you lately how sexy you are?"
A genuine smile was glowing on Mickey's face as he reached down to redress his
lower half. "Yeah but I like hearin' it." Mickey bent down to guide his hands
under Ian's armpits. "C'mere." He pulled him to his feet and planted a hungry
kiss against Ian's red lips, licking inside his mouth and tasting himself on
Ian's tongue.
After what felt like hours of being lost in the kiss but was actually only
minutes, Ian patted him on the ass and pulled away. "Get changed so we can head
out." He turned to exit, pushing the door open and stepping out.
"Wait. What about you?" He watched Ian through the mirror as he halted,
stripping the pink shirt from his body to replace it with the black one he was
originally wearing.
"What about me?"
"Made me put this stupid shit on, where's yours?"
"Oh. I uh, I already tried them on. They didn't really fit." His eyes flicked
away from Mickey's in sudden discomfort.
He took the few steps separating them, fingers reaching for him. He lightly
brushed his fingertips against Ian’s sides where he could count each rib with
ease, much more prominent now that Ian hardly ate. Blue eyes searched for green
but they were lost, looking anywhere else. "Ian..."
Ian pushed his searching hands away and continued to exit the dressing room.
"Let's just buy your things."
Mickey watched him walk away, guilt twisting inside of him. He was at an
extremely difficult crossroads; either doing what was best for Ian's health or
doing what was best for Ian's heart. From day one, this was the plan they
agreed on. Living life until his last second. He couldn't do that from a
hospital bed. Mickey had to continue reminding himself that this was what Ian
wanted; no medication, no hospitals, no doctor’s appointments.
~~
"Please Mick? Can't we just play with one?" Ian had his hands folded underneath
his chin, pleading with those sappy green eyes.
Mickey inhaled deeply in an attempt to steel himself but caved once the eyelash
batting began. "Yeah, yeah, alright." He leaned his shoulder against the wall,
watching as Ian practically skipped down the line of glass cases with varied
colors of kittens and adult cats.
He journeyed up and down the cases, pausing occasionally when particularly cute
cats struck his eye. But the moment he saw a black haired kitten squatting in
the corner by itself showing no interest in the other kittens who were
presumably its siblings, he started pointing enthusiastically. "Look, Mick!
It's you!"
Mickey rolled his eyes, then wandered over to his boyfriend. He stood next to
Ian and looked at the small bundle of black fur at his eye level. The
resemblance was uncanny. He snorted in laughter. "Looks like a Milkovich."
"Can we take it out?"
"Yeah, why not."
Ian made his way to the desk to approach the teenage girl working. She obliged
to his request, offering up the tiny kitten and an even tinier felt mouse toy.
They plopped down onto the floor in the provided square of space with half
walls. Ian sat the kitten down, which was now identified as a male. It sat and
stared at them, appearing more bothered than curious. "You are so grumpy just
like my Mick." He lightly poked a teasing finger to its side and laughed when
its paw reached for him. "Hm. Maybe he likes me."
Mickey settled his back against the wall with his legs stretched out in front
of him. "Got good taste."
"I was never allowed to have a cat growing up. My stepmom's allergic. That's
what she said anyway. Probably just hates animals like she hates everything
else." Ian dangled his finger above the kitten, smiling wide when his tiny paw
attempted to catch it.
"Sounds like a real bitch."
"You've got that right. All she ever cared about was her rep with the other
suburban moms." Ian placed the kitten in his lap and cooed when he started
nuzzling his head into his abdomen. "She never wanted me. She signed me up for
all these sports and tutor sessions so I'd never be home."
Mickey nodded his head in understanding. He had plenty of experience with
having a parent who didn't give half a shit about his existence, only rather
than sports and tutors, he was sent on drug runs. "Maybe we do have shit in
common after all."
Ian gave him a half-smile. "Soccer wasn't so bad. But I hated the study groups.
I never needed the help, I only went because she made me."
"Ah, so Gallagher's a nerd?" Mickey raised his eyebrows teasingly and started
stroking the kitten along its soft black fur.
He barked out a laugh and punched him in the shoulder. "Strict parents, in case
you forgot. All I did was study."
"What were you gonna do with that big brain of yours, huh?" He jerked his hand
back when sharp teeth pierced his skin.
Ian picked the kitten up and clicked his tongue, reprimanding his bad behavior.
"I wanted to help people. Like maybe as an EMT or something. Ironic, huh?"
Mickey didn't respond verbally, his raised eyebrows answered the question for
him instead. It was ironic, but the vision in his mind of Ian in his blue
uniform, responding in emergency situations, using the calming tone Mickey was
very familiar with, it all made him smile to himself. It was the perfect career
for Ian.
"What about you, Mick? What are your plans?" He danced the mouse toy across the
tile, mindlessly chasing the kitten in circles.
Plans? As if a Milkovich would ever be anything other than a jailbird. "Don't
got any plans. Didn't get past freshman year, man. Sellin' coke is all I've
ever done."
Ian tore his eyes from the kitten to stare at the brunette, admonishing him for
thinking that was an acceptable response. "You're done with that, remember? You
need to make a new plan."
"Don't know what to do. Never thought about it." Mickey's voice was quiet with
the admission. He wasn't raised to follow your dreams. He was raised to beat
people up and steal their shit.
The kitten curled into Ian's crossed legs, purring softly while dozing off to
sleep. "Have you thought about getting your GED? Or maybe doing some vocational
training?"
Mickey shrugged his shoulders, feigning disinterest. The truth was, taking his
future into his own hands never crossed his mind. The thought that he could
amount to anything more than his older brothers or Terry was nothing more than
a figment of the imagination. "Trainin' for what? Gotta be good at somethin'
first for that shit."
Ian rested his back against the wall, lightly petting the animal in his lap as
it slept. He tilted his head from side to side, visibly sorting through career
paths in his head. "Well, you're good at following orders. You don't like to
talk to people. You're good with your hands. You look good when you're
sweating..." He trailed off, winking and nudging the smirking man with his
elbow. "What about construction?"
Mickey shoved his elbow away then looked down at his hands. He knew fuck all
about building shit, but it wasn't the worst idea Ian could have suggested.
"Could be worse I guess."
Ian clapped him on the shoulder, satisfied that he was at the very least
considering the idea. Knowing Mickey could only stay in the spotlight for so
long, a change in topic was seemingly necessary. "Can we get this cat?"
Mickey looked away from his hands, to the kitten balled up against Ian's thigh,
then to those damn green eyes. "Where the fuck are we gonna put a kitten?"
"We can find one of those pet-friendly hotels!"
"Abso-fucking-lutely not."
~~
"Lavender? Really? Could you have picked anything more gay?"
"We are gay, Mick." Ian shook his head and pulled his shirt from around his
shoulders. He crossed his arms over his body, a newly formed habit after the
amount of weight he had shed.
Mickey didn't rebuke at the comment this time, fully accepting that Ian was
right. He stripped down to nothing and stepped into the Jacuzzi built into
their luxurious hotel bathroom. "C'mon. Get your gay ass in here." He motioned
for Ian to join him and he settled them both into the lavender scented bubbles.
He eased Ian's body against his chest, wrapping his arms around his bony
shoulders to clasp his hands in front of Ian's pectorals.
"Not so bad, huh?" Ian would normally want to be the one wrapped around
Mickey's much smaller body, but the amount of comfort he felt tangled in
Mickey's short limbs was astounding.
"Nah. Not so bad." Mickey plucked the provided bar of soap from its tiny shelf
and dunked it in the water before returning his hand to Ian's chest, lathering
up his soft skin.
Ian dropped his head back, resting it against Mickey's broad shoulder. He
closed his eyes, soaking up the feeling of the small circles being traced on
his body. "Feels good." He said lowly.
Mickey took a deep inhale, savoring the smell of lavender and Ian. Regardless
of the amount of drugs and alcohol he indulged in on a regular basis, he would
never be able to get as high as he did off of Ian's scent or drunk off the love
he was drowning in. The circular pattern he was drawing slowed. "I love you."
"I love you too, Mick." His heart fluttered inside his chest, stomach tying
itself into a knot. It wasn't the first time his ears heard the words, but each
time sounded more sincere than the last. "Can I ask you a question?"
Mickey laughed softly through his nose. He returned the bar of soap to its
shelf then began scooping water onto Ian's chest, letting the soap wash away.
"Why do you even ask?"
Ian smiled to himself, he didn't have an answer to that question. "Would you
ever get married?"
He never thought he'd ever find someone he could stand being around for more
than five seconds without rearranging their face with his fist so the thought
of marriage had never been on the table. "I dunno. Never thought about it.
Never met anyone I actually liked before."
"Before what?" Ian knew. But he liked to hear it.
"Before your stupid ass walked into the liquor store with no ID thinkin' you'd
buy a bottle with your fuckin' charm."
Ian laughed, followed by a short fit of coughing. "So you'd marry me then?"
Mickey pushed Ian up gently into a more self-sufficient sitting position so he
could begin lathering up his back. Visions of the two boys dressed in tuxedos,
exchanging heartfelt vows with promises of the future, promises of sickness,
health, all that shit. He wouldn’t bother to look out to the people attending
the wedding, considering none of his family members would be there. He didn’t
know Ian’s family but from the stories he was told, his siblings would be
blubbering messes. Offering up love and words of encouragement. It didn’t sound
too awful. "Maybe."
It wasn't a no, and that was close enough to a yes to make Ian smile wider than
he ever had in his life.
~~
Mickey could not fathom that he was once again, seated at a bar with a beer
bottle wrapped up in his fingers while trap music pounded in his head. But then
again, he had turned into a complete bitch for the redhead over the course of
just over a month. So, there he sat. Tapping his fingers against the bar top,
eyes glued to the body of the boy who he was head over heels for.
Ian was there somewhere. Mickey knew that. But the exterior wasn't the same. He
was thinner. Paler. Restless. But he was out there, trying. Trying desperately
to be the person he still felt on the inside. He was hanging on to the remnants
of who he was before his diagnosis. The strong, jubilant, magnetic boy lost in
the shell of a body he was contained in now.
His dancing didn't appear nearly as confident as it had the first time Mickey
was mesmerized by his movements. He looked tired from fighting a battle he
could never win. Recently, he became exhausted just from walking to the
bathroom to brush his teeth or take a piss. Mickey knew he had to be running
out of fuel trying to keep in time with the music. But until Ian approached him
and asked him to leave, he wasn't going to stop him from having every ounce of
fun that his heart desired.
~~
Ian was thriving for their first weeks together, never appearing sick or
complaining of pain. But as of late, Mickey was watching him deteriorate before
his eyes.
The redhead walked cautiously from the bathroom after his shower, not bothering
to drape a towel around his waist. He shuffled his feet to the bed where Mickey
laid out clean boxer briefs, a pair of black Nike sweatpants because despite it
being the middle of the summer, Ian’s illness caused him to be constantly cold,
and a plain white t-shirt. As soon as he was in front of the bed, his hands
fell to the mattress, pausing to catch his breath. His head fell low between
his shoulders, struggling to continue standing.
The boy was a fighter, always refusing help for simple tasks, insisting he was
able to take care of himself. It broke Mickey to correct him but it hurt more
to watch Ian struggle with things that were once so easy. He always granted
Ian’s wish of at least attempting to do things on his own before he would
silently approach and assist where he could. Mickey peeled the sheet from over
his legs and swung them over the side of the bed to stand. Eyes stayed glued to
Ian as he plucked the underwear from atop the comforter and attempted to turn
Ian to face him.
“Stop! I can do it myself.” Ian attempted to push Mickey away but he was barely
able to raise his hand to meet his arm. He always turned argumentative when
help was offered and he knew it but he didn’t want to believe that he was truly
incapable of caring for himself.
“Let me help you.” Mickey’s voice was low, the feeling of his heart breaking
with each word. He placed his warm hand against Ian’s still damp waist. He
brought their bodies closer, supporting his weight. His stomach fell to floor
and Ian raised a shaky leg and inserted into one side of his underwear,
followed by the other.
“I can do it myself.” It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself
rather than Mickey. He leaned against Mickey as his pants were pulled on,
offering no assistance.
“I know you can. I just want to help you,” Mickey reassured. It wasn’t the
truth. Ian’s self-sufficiency was rapidly depleting. But as much as it pained
him to admit it to himself, he knew that Ian was having an even more
challenging time accepting his current condition.
Once his shirt was pulled on and he was fully dressed, he let Mickey lead him
to his side of the bed where he laid down and awaited the blankets to be
bundled around his body. He closed his eyes when a kiss was pressed gingerly to
his forehead. As soon as his head met the pillow, he could feel his body
drifting to sleep. He hated being this tired all of the time but it was nearly
impossible to fight off. As soon as the exhaustion set in, he was forced to
give in. Trying to stay awake made him more tired in the long run.
~~
Sex wasn't the same with the lights off but Mickey was learning to accept that
it was the only way Ian was willing to engage anymore, too embarrassed with his
appearance to let it be seen in the light. Mickey flicked the lights off and
crawled on top of his boyfriend's lap, peeling his boxers off in the process.
The urgency that usually drove their fucking was non-existent. His lips danced
across skin so pale it was nearly transparent now. He kissed the chapped lips
that constantly relayed the kindest words his ears would ever hear. The chest
that harbored the heart that belonged to him. The ribs that looked as though
they would tear the skin covering them if pressed too roughly. The abdomen that
once appeared to be chiseled from stone but was now sunken in and starving. He
was getting to the point where he felt like he would break the redhead if he
moved the wrong way, but Ian begged him to stop looking at him like that. He
wanted to feel normal.
Over the course of the past few weeks, Mickey started riding Ian through the
night. At first they both took great pleasure in the new position. Mickey liked
taking the reins, putting himself in control. He liked to watch Ian writhe
beneath him, hearing him whine as Mickey bounced on him relentlessly hour after
hour. However lately, both boys knew it was less about a position of power and
more because Ian was unable to perform anymore, growing increasingly too weak
and tired to kneel or stand long enough to make love.
Mickey would be lying if he wasn't relieved that by the time he situated his
body above Ian's, the redhead had already fallen asleep. It wasn’t that he
didn’t want to have sex with Ian, but it pained him to do it like this. He felt
as though he was taking advantage of Ian regardless of the fact that he begged
him to. He curled his naked body against Ian's, staring at him with tears
burning in his eyes that were now fully adjusted to the darkness.
Feelings of rage and melancholy began boiling inside of him. It wasn't fair
that this was happening to Ian and there was absolutely nothing Mickey could do
to help him. He wanted to rip Ian's chest apart and pull the illness out with
his bare hands. To return the vibrancy and joy to his life. He wanted to trade
him places. Ian had a family who loved him. Bright dreams and an even brighter
future. He had a heart so big that Mickey was surprised it never erupted out of
his chest. He had plans for the rest of his life. People who would miss him.
None of those things made up Mickey or his life. So why couldn't their roles be
reversed?
He cupped Ian's sunken cheek, stroking it with his thumb. The tears in his eyes
ran out like a river, soaking the pillow where his head was resting.
He felt selfish for being angry. He didn't think he would ever find love. That
his heart would ever find a home. But it did; in the palms of that rich red
headed boy from the liquor store. He had only himself for nineteen years and
now the only person who knew him, who accepted him, who wanted him, who loved
him, was getting ripped away from him and he couldn't prevent it. When Ian
passed, it wouldn't only take away the love his life, it would take all of the
parts of himself that he didn't despise. Because Ian was the only person that
made him feel that he was good enough.
He wiped the steady stream of tears from his eyes and pecked Ian's skin as
gently as he could, careful not to disturb his slumber. "I love you so much."
He inhaled a breath that was so shaky, his entire body trembled at the intake.
"And I'm sorry." His whisper was soft enough that he wasn't sure if he actually
said it out loud or just thought it. "I wish I could help you." His attempt at
keeping his sobbing silent was so strenuous that his head started throbbing.
The unfamiliar salt of his tears crept against his tongue as he licked his
lips. Crying was not the Milkovich way of expressing emotions. It showed severe
weakness, an attribute that was not only frowned upon, but often resulted in a
beating. But he knew he was safe with Ian. Ian worshipped the ground he walked
on and though he would never understand why Ian loved him, he would spend every
second he had left making sure he never regretted it.
Mickey let his index finger glide from Ian's cheekbone to his cracked lips then
to his heart. The steady thump rattled his chest which inspired Mickey to
replace his hand with his head. He rested his head against the cold skin,
closing his wet eyes and listening to the rhythmic beat of the only physical
part of Ian that remained the same since the day they met. The part that he
loved the most.
He could feel it deep inside, the notion that the end was near setting in. He
had pushed the thoughts away for so long, pretending that the inevitable wasn’t
happening. But he couldn’t avoid the truth anymore. He didn’t know how much
time he had left but given the state Ian was in, it was apparent that the clock
was ticking. The acidic taste of bile tickled in the back of his mouth at the
thought of waking up without Ian after he had become so accustomed to it. His
fingers tingled with the painful idea of never being intertwined with the long
ones they often held, or the soft red hair they stroked every night. His eyes
strained harder, attempting to preserve the image of Ian’s once meticulously
crafted figure.
Soon, memories would be all he had and he was thankful that they had made
enough in the nearly two months they had known each other to last him a
lifetime. No amount of time would ever be enough but he was beyond grateful for
the experiences that they shared over the course of their relationship. When he
visited his usual liquor store that day, he was expecting to leave with a
bottle of alcohol but instead, he left with the boy who would steal his heart
and unknowingly rescue him from himself.
Chapter End Notes
     ** I am @goddamgallagher on Twitter which I very recently created
     specifically to talk to other people who love Shameless as much as I
     do/post updates about my work so. Follow me/talk to me if you want <3
     As always, thank you so much for reading!!!!
***** Numb *****
Chapter Notes
     TW: Vomit and death.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It was a Tuesday morning, humidity high, the rain pitter-pattering against the
glass of their hotel window each time the wind blew the drops sideways. Mickey
struggled to sleep most nights, constantly watching for the rise and fall of
Ian's chest to be sure life was still pumping through him. But last night, he
managed to sleep for more than a few hours.
A bright bolt of lightning struck nearby, and the roar of thunder that echoed
outside forced him awake with a start. He immediately sat up and instinctively
turned to Ian's side of the bed. His heart raced in his chest at the sight of
the empty mess of sheets. "Ian?" He threw the blankets off of his body and
stood up in a panic. Ian was in no state to go anywhere by himself so the
sudden disappearance had him breaking out in a sweat. He cursed himself for
ever falling asleep.
"Ian?!" He walked around to Ian's side of the bed to see if perhaps he had
fallen to the floor in the middle of the night, but there was no one there. He
placed one hand on his hip and pushed his hair back with the other hand, eyes
scanning the span of the room. The only other place he could be in their suite
was the bathroom so he walked hurriedly to the threshold. His stomach sunk at
the sight of his boyfriend laying on the cold tiled floor in front of the
toilet. Dried vomit was streaked against the corners of his mouth and plastered
to the front of his shirt.
Mickey dropped to his knees and grabbed for Ian's body. "Ian, what the fuck?
Ian?!" He pressed his fingers to Ian's pulse point, relieved at the faint beat
thrumming against the pads of his index and middle fingers. He stood back up to
pull the hand towel from its designated metallic ring and ran it under warm
water. Once it was sufficiently wet, he returned to Ian's body and gently wiped
the vomit from his face. Ian never ate, so the only liquids in his stomach were
a combination of water and bile. He dabbed at the stain on his shirt but chose
to remove the clothing instead, tossing it with the towel to the floor. He
tucked his hands under Ian's delicate body and pulled him into his lap. "Hey."
He whispered for his first attempt then raised his voice to its normal octave
for a second attempt when he received no response.
Ian's eyes barely cracked open, dry lips separating to push out the words he
wanted to say. He tried swallowing but a pained look struck his face.
"Shh. Don't have to say nothin'. Needed to know you were still with me." He
stroked the red hair he loved so much. It was overgrown, bangs draping over the
green eyes that once spoke volumes all on their own. "Fuckin' scared me man.
Didn't know where you were."
Ian pressed his eyes shut tight, tongue attempting to wet his lips but it was
just as dry as the rest of his mouth. He had something important to say but no
matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't get the words out. His head was
clouded. He could hear the pain in Mickey's voice, see the sadness encompassing
his face, feel the tremble in his typically strong hands, but it was as if he
was watching it from an aerial view. His body wasn't his own. He had no control
over himself. Exhaustion was rearing its ugly, unwelcome head into his body.
Not now.
"Gonna move you back into the bed, okay?" Mickey withdrew his fingers from
their place in Ian's hair then hooked his arms under the other boy's upon
standing, helping him to his feet. It was far less difficult to carry Ian's
weight now than the first time Mickey had been responsible for transporting
him; sloppily drunk but full of life. He'd trade everything he had to be
tugging that Ian to bed. His Ian.
Ian could barely feel the movement as his body was surrendering itself to
extreme fatigue. He knew he was moving, different shades of color passing by
his vision but he didn't know where he was going.
Mickey rested Ian’s limp body on his side of the bed then grabbed a new shirt
from the dresser drawer where they stuffed their wardrobe. He wasn't sure whose
shirt it was at this point, seeing that both boys wore the same size now, but
he dressed him in the first one he saw. Once Ian was situated and bundled up,
he sat down next to him and curled around his body.
"M-"
Mickey perked back up at the sound that escaped Ian's mouth. "What?"
Ian's chest was aching, as if a phantom beast was crushing him from the inside
out. "M-... Mick." It was nearly inaudible, almost missed if Mickey hadn’t been
listening carefully.
"What? What is it?"
When his eyes won the battle against themselves to open, all he could see was
Mickey's distressed face staring at him with so much sadness and fear in his
eyes. He wanted to hold him, to thank him, to tell him things would be okay.
But he couldn't, and he probably never would again. "I'm-" he cringed as he
swallowed the words down, physically and emotionally hurting. "I-"
Mickey was holding onto the edge of every syllable Ian forced out. He felt
useless not being able to help him gather the strength to speak.
Ian was getting angry. He felt trapped inside of a nightmare. Mouth moving
desperately but not emitting any sound. He wanted to reach down his throat and
pull out the string of words he needed to say. He needed to tell Mickey what
was happening to him. His eyelids drooped heavily, threatening to once again
send him away to a state of unconsciousness.
"You what, Ian? I don't know what you're tryin' to say." He didn't mean to
raise his voice, not wanting to pressure Ian to force his body to do something
it wasn't capable of in the moment, but he couldn't stand this not knowing.
He was drifting between conscious levels, unable to identify his dream and his
reality. "I need... to go." He wasn't sure which realm the words were delivered
to, but he was hoping they made it to Mickey.
Mickey's stomach churned, stirring up a familiar feeling of nausea. "Go where,
Ian?" Suddenly his eyes were damp and fluttering, teeth gritting as he held
back the rush of emotion as best as he could. When Ian responded, it was
incomprehensible. "What? Where do you need to go? We'll go. Wherever it is.
We'll fuckin' go." He placed his palm against Ian's cheek, not ready to lose
him to sleep again.
In Ian's mind, he was already there. He already made it as far as he needed to
go. Salt in the air. Sun kissing his pale skin. Water grazing his feet. He was
strong again. Happy. Mickey was by his side. Hands intertwined.
"Ian!" Mickey let the tears fall. He was frustrated, sad, and fucking helpless.
"Where? The hospital? Do you need to go to the hospital?" Mickey jumped off the
bed, ready to do just that.
They were alone. Sharing the entire shoreline with no one but each other. It
was even more beautiful than he hoped.
Mickey slipped his shoes on then slung all of the clothing from the drawers
into their duffel bags. He wrapped the straps around his shoulders then scooped
his boyfriend out of the bed. Adrenaline took over as he made his way out the
door and down the hallway to the elevator, carrying Ian's body the entire way.
~~
Ian's eyes opened from the constant rocking his body was feeling. He was in an
entirely different place than before. The world was rushing past him. But
Mickey was beside him. "Mick?"
Mickey did a double take when his eyes fell against Ian's face, more alert than
it had been earlier in the morning.
His voice was quiet and fragmented. "Where are we going?" He recognized the
vehicle they were in. They didn't use it much after arriving in Georgia. Mickey
always argued Ian was in no condition to travel.
"Takin' you to the hospital, man. You need some fuckin' help." Mickey nudged
his right nostril with his knuckle, nervousness reflecting in the habitual
action. He knew it wouldn't bode well with the redhead but the illness was
beyond both of their control now.
"No!" Ian tried to yell but it caused him more pain than he was already in.
"No... hospitals." They made it this far with only each other. He knew what was
happening to him and he'd be damned if he was going to spend the time he had
left wasting away in a gown with tubes stringing from his body, pumping
medicine into his system that would do nothing but prolong the inevitable for a
little while longer.
"I don't know what to do Ian! I thought I could do this but I can't! I'm not a
fuckin' doctor. I can't help you. I can't watch you-" His grip tightened around
the steering wheel. The rest of his sentence would taste like poison if it
rolled off of his tongue.
"The beach." Ian's breathing was stuttered and shallow as he fought to keep the
air flowing to his lungs.
"It's too far. You need a doctor."
The words took Ian by surprise. Their entire adventure had been Mickey's idea
in the first place and now he was trying to take it all back. "You promised."
His words were muffled by labored breaths and the rain beating against the
window, partially broken windshield wipers noisily attempting to clear their
view.
Mickey's knuckles were turning white around the rubber in his clutch. "I know
what I said but this is too much. Can't fuckin' stand seein' you like this."
Ian blinked his eyes slowly, tears working their way to his lash line. This was
too much. He was too much. He was causing Mickey pain and sadness and
heartache. "I can't go."
Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, pulling at a split he created the previous
time he gnawed on the tender skin purely out of nerves. He was torn. He wanted
to grant Ian's last wish as they originally planned. But if there was any
chance that taking him to a hospital could save his life, how could he live
with himself knowing he didn't try.
"Please." Ian broke Mickey out of his thoughts with a broken cry.
Mickey took one look at his desperate face before nodding his head. It wasn't
his choice to make. He didn't feel right about forcing Ian into a decision that
wasn't his own. If Ian wanted to go to the beach, that's where they'd fucking
go.
~~
Ian slept through most of their journey up to this point. When he woke, he
could hear that the rain had let up after the torrential downpour. It was
darker out than when he had been awake last. His head was dizzy, stomach
uneasy. He shifted his eyes to the driver's side, just to reassure himself that
Mickey was still with him. Of course, he was. His eyes glazed over the
unsuspecting brunette. He never would have thought this is where they'd be.
When he chased after him down the cracked sidewalk to ask him his name, he
expected to be pummeled into nothing more than dust on the pavement. Perhaps he
was secretly hoping for that instead of living out his reality. But what
happened to him was even better:
He fell into the wildest love with the most magnificent man that his mind
wasn't even capable of conjuring up. Their story was nothing shy of their own,
fucked up fairytale. Sometimes he didn't believe that it had actually happened.
Maybe he was already dead and his experiences with Mickey were his version of
heaven. But that wasn't possible because soon he'd be losing him and that was
hell on earth.
The thought made the twisting in his stomach increase and before he knew it, he
was cupping his bony hand over his mouth and vomiting violently into it.
Mickey swerved the car out of shock from the noise coming from his boyfriend
whom he thought was asleep. Once he gathered his bearings, he pulled over to
the side of the highway. "What happened?"
Ian began dry-heaving into his palm, unable to answer Mickey's question.
Mickey popped his door open and walked around to the passenger side, pulling
that door open as well. He reached inside to unbuckle Ian's seatbelt and helped
him turn his body to position himself over the pavement and grass while still
seated. He rubbed soothing circles against Ian's shoulder blades, standing
slightly to the side to avoid being in the line of fire if Ian's heaving
produced more of the contents from his stomach.
Ian knew what needed to be done. It wasn't ideal, seeing as how they were still
hours from their destination but he needed a break. The constant motion of the
vehicle was disturbing his insides. The confined interior was making his joints
ache. The smoke from the cigarettes Mickey tried to smoke halfway out the
window in a failed attempt to not bother the redhead was adding to the
constriction in his lungs. He needed out of the car.
Once the heaving subsided, he wiped his hand against his already stained shirt,
having no other option. "I need to stop." He was talking to the ground,
disappointed in himself for not being able to survive through the entire
journey in one night.
Mickey nodded his head. He didn't want to push Ian past the limit he had
clearly reached. "Gonna piss then we'll find a place to stay." He lightly
patted Ian's shoulder then started to walk to the tree line.
Ian's eyes focused on Mickey's figure as it grew into only a silhouette. His
eyelids fluttered before dropping shut. His head started falling to the side,
pulling his weary body further out of his seat with the weight of his head
leading him downward.
“We finally made it.” Mickey handed him a glass with a wide smile. “Just
sandals and tequila from here on, man.”
Ian accepted, tossing the liquid down his throat. He draped one arm around
Mickey’s bare shoulders, happiness evident across both of their faces.
As Mickey started back towards the car, his pace quickened when his eyes fell
on his boyfriend, body folded in on itself, chest flank against his lap,
fingertips brushing the ground below. Mickey lightly shook him, mind instantly
assuming the worst. "Hey. Hey! Ian, wake up." He put his hands on Ian's
shoulders and sat him upright, bringing back a faint glimpse of awareness to
glassy green eyes.
"Sorry." Ian muttered and let Mickey guide his body back into his seat,
buckling his seatbelt before shutting the door. Once he was also inside, the
car sputtered to life and was brought back down the highway.
Ian was processing his surroundings in slow motion regardless of how quickly
their stolen vehicle was moving them to their target. He was tired of being so
utterly tired. It was the only feeling he had anymore and the fight against it
was useless because he was fighting a losing battle. He wanted to give in this
time.
~~
Making it into their hotel room was a blur and he was okay with that. He didn't
want to try to focus anymore. He needed to sleep.
Mickey stripped Ian of his dirty shirt and changed him into a clean one from
one of the duffel bags he threw to the floor. "How do you feel?"
If there was ever a time for Ian to be completely honest, this was it. He
wanted to be done. Done with the pain, done with the fatigue, done with relying
on someone other than himself. And his body was done, too. He could feel it
giving up, like the gears inside of a machine jamming one by one. He inhaled a
breath that made his body quake before expelling the painful truth. “I think
it’s… happening.”
The color drained from Mickey's face, turning him as white as snow. He wasn't
ready. He couldn't let him go yet. He didn't have enough time to adjust to the
idea. "No, Ian. No it's not. We ain't done yet." His eyes welled up with tears,
hand reaching to hold Ian's.
“I love you.” Ian tried to look at Mickey the best he could but his mind was
already trying to escape him. He wanted to be with Mickey more than he had ever
wanted anything in his life but not like this. "I'm so tired, Mick." The amount
of energy it took just to whisper was more than his body could handle.
Mickey squeezed Ian's hand tight in his grasp. He was breaking down faster than
he could even attempt to control. "Ian I-I'm not ready to let you go. You
can't! You can't do this yet!" His emotions overtook him and he wasn't sure
which one was leading; Anger. Guilt. Sadness.
Ian's breathing was shallow but steady.
"Ian!" Mickey croaked out, shattered into a relentless sob. "I love you!
Please. I love you and I need you here. I need you with me." He had months to
prepare for this exact moment but no matter how many times he envisioned it
happening, nothing could have readied him for how crestfallen he was now. He
patted his pocket frantically with his free hand, removing his cellphone from
his jeans. With trembling hands and rapidly emptying tear ducts, he dialed 911
and practically screamed the situation to the operator. This was a promise he
had to break.
"I'm sorry, Mick. I think it’s time for you to leave.” Ian removed his arm from
around Mickey, offering him an apologetic look.
Ian could almost feel himself lying there, weak and shattered. His chest was
still rising, heart still pumping blood through his veins. But that body wasn't
him anymore. He could feel Mickey's fingers tight around his own. He was trying
to pull him back into himself. But he couldn't. He needed to let go. To leave
this life behind. To leave Mickey behind. He didn't want to. But there was
nothing left for him in the lifeless cage of himself that he had been trapped
in for weeks.
Mickey leaned over Ian's body to rest his forehead against his shoulder once he
hung up the phone. "Ian please!" His voice broke, body heaving. "Please..." he
was whispering now, exuding all of his energy into crying. “Just stay with me.
They’re coming. They can help you."
"You'll be okay, Mickey. You have to let me go now." Ian ghosted his hand
against the back of Mickey's head. "I’ll see you soon. I love you." He pressed
a kiss to Mickey’s lips one last time before the image of the brunette
dissipated in the rays of the sun.
Mickey sat up to look at Ian's stilled body. Then, as if he could hear Ian’s
final declaration, he responded with the only words he could find to wrap up
the feelings that he felt so strongly. "I love you." He pressed a lingering,
chaste kiss to Ian's lips before settling his head against his chest. His tears
created a puddle against Ian's skin, listening to the heart that would forever
belong to him. The heart that was responsible for the boy who showed him a
world outside of the dismal place he grew up in. The boy who taught him how it
felt to be loved and love someone in return. The boy who built up the
confidence he needed to believe he could be someone more than he was. The boy
who taught him home was not a roof over his head or a bed with sheets strewn
about. Home wasn't food on the table or a hot shower in the morning. Home was
red hair and freckled skin. It was long limbs and broad shoulders. Stolen
kisses and warm embraces. Home was Ian.
There was no staircase leading Ian to a bright white light in the sky. There
were no pearly white gates. There were only sandy beach towels and lawn chairs
shadowed by oversized umbrellas. The squawking of seagulls and crash of blue
waves rushing. His hair was flitting in the afternoon breeze, pale skin pinking
under the hot gleam of the sun. There was a bright smile on his face as his
gaze skipped around the wide open space. He walked out to the water, sand
tickling between his toes. Mickey was gone, but he would wait until he came
back for him. For now, he was choosing to enjoy the view because he had finally
made it to the beach.
~~
Mickey listened to each beat until the sound subsided, telling him that Ian’s
soul had been lifted from the body beneath him. He could tell the exact moment
Ian took his last breath, the last time his eyelids twitched as he dreamt. The
last time he could feel his pulse in his wrist, which Mickey refused to let go
of. Because when the moment came, the light that illuminated the darkness of
his world went out. He could feel his heart rupturing in his chest the second
he heard Ian’s final beat echoing through his ears. His entire body was numb.
When there was a knock on their door, he took a moment to peer down at the
empty body of the boy he loved. He brushed his red hair back for the final time
then ran his hand down his cheek, wanting to engrain the feeling of his skin
against his fingertips. “I love you, Ian.” Tears rolled down his face, painting
trails of every memory they made; stealing kisses every chance they had.
Sneaking admiring glances whenever he thought Ian couldn’t see him. Making love
when the sun was barely breaking the surface in the early morning, casting Ian
in an orange hue. Wrapping his body around Ian’s sturdy figure at the bottom of
a waterfall where he first realized he was falling in love. Hearing his
feelings confirmed by the other boy for the first time like the most beautiful
song he had ever heard. Seeing white teeth glowing in pure happiness as he
erupted into that belly laugh that brought out one of his own. Pretending to be
bothered by incessant questions that he secretly loved answering.
Pounding on the door brought him back to the reality of what he had to do. He
would never be ready to let go. But he knew this time, he had no choice. He
pulled his hand away from Ian then drug himself to the door before opening it.
He didn’t speak when he saw the emergency personnel, he simply moved out of
their way. He watched on painfully as they grabbed the love of his life,
checking for a pulse and appearing devastated when they found none. They were
too late. Mickey’s numbing heart twanged in pain watching the fragile body
being lifted from the bed. He couldn’t help but be taken back to when Ian told
him this was the job he saw himself doing. But instead of living out his dream,
he was being carried away by the very people he wanted to work alongside of. He
provided them with Fiona's name and phone number, opting out of being included
in any decisions that were to be made concerning where Ian would end up.
When sorrowful apologies and well wishes were given, Mickey waved them away,
head hung low. He sat down in the chair by the window, looking out over the
tops of the surrounding buildings. Cars driving by, a few night owls still
strolling the streets in the late hours. They had no idea of the tragedy that
had occurred. No idea of the loss the world took mere minutes before.
His eyes rose to the few stars he could see, most being outshone by the city
lights. He wondered if Ian made it to heaven and if he was already proving him
wrong as he always did. He hoped he was safe. Free of all of the pain he had
felt for so long. Most of all, he hoped he knew how much he was loved and how
much he always would be.
Mickey didn’t know where his life would take him without Ian by his side. He
could barely imagine a life without him at all. But he owed it to Ian to carry
on their tale and live his life out the way he promised him he would. The way
Ian would have wanted him to had he been there to coach him. In spite of
everything that had taken place, Mickey pressed the heels of his hands to his
eyes before lowering them and resting his head against the back of the chair.
The faintest smile played on his mouth through the agonizing pain he was
feeling. Because no matter how short their time was together, it was more than
he could have ever hoped for. And in the time they shared, they experienced
more of life’s greatest adventures than most people had in their entire
lifetimes. He was angry with the world for taking away the boy he foresaw
spending his life with, but he was also grateful for the time he had been
given. Because one minute spent with Ian surpassed an eternity spent with
anyone else.
Chapter End Notes
     Please don't hate me. This was the most emotionally challenging thing
     I have ever written.
     All that remains now is the epilogue.
***** Free - Epilogue *****
Chapter Notes
     This epilogue is 90% dialogue because I wanted Mickey to tell his own
     story.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The North side of Chicago looked much different than the ghetto of the South
side Mickey grew up in. The yards were healthy and well-maintained, the
sidewalks were evenly paved, and neighbors were waving to each other rather
than screaming slurs and threatening lives. Mickey felt out of place but he
kept his head low as he made his way to his destination, trying to blend in.
His soft pink shirt would’ve drawn attention on the streets, but here, it
seemed more normal than not.
During the year following Ian's death, Mickey contacted Fiona only one time to
ask her where Ian had been buried. She tried to talk to him for longer than he
was comfortable with, asking questions and offering her thanks for taking care
of her younger brother in his final days, but it was too fresh for him. The
aftermath of those few months were like a festering wound that he had been
patching up. Hearing Fiona’s sobbing was like kicking him while he was down. He
spent many nights wondering if he made the right choice; taking Ian from his
family, not convincing him that he needed to seek medical attention. The
constant battle with himself was hard enough without hearing the cries of Ian’s
own flesh and blood.
The cemetery made him uncomfortable, seeing as how he had never actually been
to one. When his mother overdosed, Terry had her taken away and never followed
up for cremation or burial. They never held a service. The family barely took
the time to grieve. So being surrounded by all of the headstones with
inscriptions of the names of strangers sent a shiver down his spine. He had a
new perspective on death, now. Knowing that all of the people around him once
had families, partners, aspirations, and stories. They all meant the world to
someone, just as Ian had to him.
He walked the path that lead towards the back of the lot, counting each
headstone as he went until he reached row fourteen as Fiona instructed. Three
plots into the row, he swallowed down the lump of nerves that bundled
themselves into the pit of his throat.
Ian Clayton Gallagher
Son, Brother, Friend.
"Our Fingerprints Don't Fade From the Lives We Touch"
May 11, 1996- July 26, 2013
Mickey bit the inside of his cheek as his eyes scanned across the words. He
didn’t recognize the quote as having any significant meaning to Ian personally,
however it was certainly true. The redhead had left a permanent mark in his
life. The headstone was simple. Not gaudy enough to represent the spirit of Ian
or the life he wanted to live, but Mickey figured as much since his parents
never knew who he really was. They never had the pleasure of acquainting
themselves with the boisterous, infectious boy that they spent so much time
pushing themselves away from. He approached slowly and ran his fingers over the
rough edge at the top of the headstone. His heart rate increased as he squatted
down to trace each letter of his name.
"Hey, Ian." He whispered while blinking back the tears that he promised himself
he would attempt to control upon his first visit. He chose not to attend Ian's
funeral to avoid the awkward interactions with his family who would be hounding
him with questions and emotions that he wasn't prepared to handle. He made the
decision to make his first appearance today because it was the anniversary of
Ian's passing. One year ago, he lost his best friend, lover, and savior.
He extended his hand which was wrapped around the stems of a bouquet of bright
sunflowers that he picked up from a small shop on the corner. "I uh, I brought
you these. Dunno if you like flowers but it uh, it seemed like some gay shit
you'd like." He rested the flowers on the dirt at his feet then sat down with
his knees bent, arms wrapped around his legs. He sat silently staring at the
grave. He prepared this conversation in his head a thousand and one times, but
now that he was here, he couldn't form the words.
"I made it to Florida." He almost felt guilty as the words rolled out, wishing
so badly that Ian could have reached their destination with him. "Wish you
could see it. You'd love it, man." He closed his eyes tight, transporting
himself to the place Ian wanted so desperately to see. "It's hot as balls but
it's real fuckin' nice. Never learned to swim but, I just like walkin' on the
beach sometimes. Sand between my toes and shit." If he inhaled deep enough, he
could smell the salt of the ocean and the refreshing air surrounding it. "Gotta
wear fuckin' SPF 5000. Bet your ass would burn like a mother fucker, too." He
chuckled at the image of Ian turning as red as a lobster underneath the
intensity of the sun.
"Live there now, actually." His stomach sank before he admitted his next
statement, knowing how disappointed Ian would have been in him. However, he
felt guiltier withholding the information than he did telling the truth. "I
beat the shit outta some guy a week after I got there. Don't really know why.
Pigs took me in. Got let outta the can after a month though for overcrowding."
He bit his lip and nodded his head as if he could hear Ian screaming at him in
disapproval. "I was so mad, man. I didn't know what else to do. Took it out on
that fucker."
A week after arriving in Florida, Mickey found himself sitting at a bar,
sipping Jack Daniel's alone when a blonde man near his age approached and made
small talk. No one was allowed to imply that Mickey was gay except Ian because
the redhead was the only person who awakened any feelings that made him feel as
such. With thoughts of Ian weighing heavily on his mind, it only took a few
shitty attempts at flirting before Mickey rose to his feet and got that
satisfying crunch of his fist meeting the nose of the stranger. He had been so
enraged by the loss of Ian that he didn't know what else to do. No one would
ever be able to take Ian's place and the fact that the other boy thought he
stood a chance stirred up a blinding rage that he had only been able to
maintain in the company of the redhead. He took it too far, throwing blow after
brutal blow. As soon as the familiar metal was clasped around his wrists and
his Miranda Rights were rattled off, he regretted his decision. Ian's words
were echoing in his head as he was thrown into the backseat of the cruiser that
he was indeed better than the tainted Milkovich blood that ran through his
veins. Without the constant reassurance, the idea that he wasn’t destined for a
lifetime behind bars was often lost on him.
"Met a guy on the inside. Old dude, don't worry." He reassured, envisioning
Ian's jealous scowl growing on his face with his arms crossed protectively over
his own chest. "He asked me what I was plannin' on doin' when I got out. Told
him I had fuck all. Said he could hook me up with some boys he knew workin' on
some demolition shit." Mickey picked at the grass mindlessly. A small smile
crept onto his face. "Turns out your idea wasn't so shitty. When I got out, I
met one of the guys; Ronny. He got me a job tearin' down some old strip mall so
they could build a nursin' home." Mickey could see Ian's proud smile shining on
his face. "Ronny asked me to stick around for some more demo so I thought,
y'know, might as well. Back hurts all the fuckin' time but the pay's pretty
good. Anyway, I crashed with Ronny for a while before I could pay for the
shitty one-bedroom I got now. It ain't much but I don't need a lot. Just me,
y’know." His eyes fell down to the piece of grass he was tugging from the dirt.
A flash of sadness washed over his formerly content expression. "Miss you
sleepin' next to me. Still ain’t used to it."
Nights were either too cold or too hot since the unit in his apartment was a
piece of shit and didn't work properly the majority of the time. His landlord
was worthless and rarely took care of anything he complained about; which was a
lot. He had Ronny and the other boys take a look at the place but they were
more skilled at tearing things down than they were at fixing them. Many nights
Mickey found himself bundled in blankets, limbs wrapped around the extra pillow
he purchased. He told himself it was in case he wanted to prop up against it
while watching television. Provides more cushion, he would say. But deep down
he knew it was so he had something to snuggle. It could never compare to a warm
body, but it was the best he could do.
His memory returned to the atrocity of the first few days after he lost Ian.
His voice was quiet as he reminisced about the decisions he made. "I almost
came back here, man. I almost came back to the South side. Didn't know what the
fuck I was gonna do without you." His tongue wetted his lips, eyes closed
tighter to hold back his emotions. "Could hear your annoyin' ass tellin' me not
to. Tellin' me to just keep goin'. So that's what I did. Made it there the next
day. Slept on a fuckin' bench the first few nights. Didn't have enough cash to
get a motel. Was kinda glad I got thrown in the clink so I had somewhere to
sleep, y'know?" He opened his eyes and let a stray tear trickle down his cheek.
"I was so fuckin' lost without you. Still am. When I ain't workin' it's the
worst. When I'm stuck in that shithole apartment."
His stomach churned, body tingling with the need to release his pent up
emotions. He spent the early weeks following Ian's death doing a lot of crying.
Sobbing in his cell with his face buried in his pillow to muffle the sounds of
his weakness. Screaming into the pitch black of his bedroom at the absence of
his redhead. It wasn't a permanent fix but it usually made him feel better in
the moment. He ceased all communication with his siblings once he met Ian, and
he chose to not rekindle their relationship once he made a life for himself in
Florida. He didn't want Terry to be able to trace him to his new home and he
doubted his presence was even recognized as missing. It seemed like the right
decision, but that only left his co-workers as "friends" and they didn't know
him. They would never understand him. Not the way Ian did.
"Sometimes I think you're there in the apartment. I dunno if you are. But I
swear I can fuckin' feel you." He titled his head back and checked his
surroundings to be sure he was alone before letting the tears fall down his
face. "I miss you so fuckin' much." His jaw locked, teeth clenched impossibly
tight. "Sucks comin' home and not bein' able to talk to you about shit. Never
thought I'd want that. But I do. Ronny and the boys are fine for grabbin' a
beer or whatever but it ain't the same. Just want to come home to you, Ian. See
that fuckin' dopey smile. Kiss you and shit. I miss it, man." He clenched his
fingers into a fist, nails leaving indentations against his palms.
"Can't even think about bein' with anyone else. I was with you for two fuckin'
months and you wrecked me. Like my dick's fuckin' broken or some shit. Don't
even think about it anymore. Don't even try. What's the fuckin' point? Ain't
nobody gonna be like you. Already had the best." He wiped his cheeks off with
the heels of his hands, a gentle laugh breaking through the silence. "Got me
fucked up even a year later. Don't know how you turned my ass so gay but fuck,
you're under my skin, man. The fuck can I do?" He shook his head at himself
then reached into his pocket for a cigarette and lit it with a trembling hand.
He took a long draw before exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.
"Tried to quit." He studied the burning stick perched between his fingers. "Did
alright for a couple days but." He shook the referenced stick at the phantom
presence he felt sitting with him. "Didn't work out s’good in the long run." He
took another deep inhale then fought the instinct to pass it over to waiting
fingers. "Cut back a little though. Can't really afford 'em anyway." He stared
intently as the grey smoke billowed from the end. “Joined a gym. One of the
boys knows the owner or somethin’. Got me a discount. It ain’t so bad. Not
runnin’ on any fuckin’ treadmills but I like liftin’.” He knew he was rambling
but he wanted Ian to know every detail of how he was turning his life around
for the better. To convince him that he was more than the scum that he
initially met.
"I'm sorry," he broke his own silence, "that I couldn't help you more." He
nudged his nostril with his knuckle and licked the corner of his mouth with the
tip of his tongue. "You fuckin' saved me and I couldn't save you." He swallowed
hard, berating himself for breaking down once again. He couldn’t dance around
the main purpose of why he came today any longer. His heart was heavy with the
words he never had the chance to tell Ian. "Kept me away from a lotta shit.
Away from my dad, away from dealin', away from myself. Fuckin' saved me." It
was worth repeating because it was the truth. Without Ian, Mickey knew exactly
where he would be: On the streets, fighting people for chump change, running
drugs for Terry, or rotting in prison. He had a setback when he lost Ian but
that wasn't him anymore. He wanted to be better because Ian told him he could
be.
"I love you, Ian. And I-I hope you know that. I know I'm shit at talkin' but I
really fuckin' love you. You would've been happy in Florida, man. We could've
gotten away from all of the shit in Chicago together. That's how it shoulda
been." He took the final draw from his cigarette before pitching it into the
grass a few feet away. He sat quietly, listening to the rustle of the leaves of
the trees hanging overhead. There was so much he wanted to say but part of him
still felt that Ian was always with him. That he already knew what Mickey's
life was like now and Mickey was simply telling him the things he witnessed
from the day his soul was set free.
He stood up from his place in the grass and rested a hand on the top of Ian's
headstone. His eyes grazed over it one last time. "I hope you're happy wherever
y'are now. Hope there's fruity oatmeal every day. And a big fuckin' bed for
your tall ass. And a whole lotta cats." He smiled, memories playing in his mind
like a film. "I love you, Gallagher." He squeezed the headstone with his
fingers as if it was Ian's hand inside of his own. Tears lie idly at his lash
line, waiting for permission to fall. He sniffed and removed his hand from the
slab of concrete that marked the resting place for the love of his life. It
wasn't easy to walk away but he knew he couldn't stay there forever.
He shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached the gate he entered from.
His head was hung low but his eyes caught on movement in the bushes. The closer
he came, the source of the rustling grew clearer. He pulled his bottom lip in
with his teeth before a laugh was emitted from his mouth. "Fuckin' Gallagher."
He squatted down to the orange Tabby cat slinking out from beneath the foliage.
He held his hand out for the animal to sniff before it started rubbing its back
along the length of Mickey's outstretched arm. He looked around for any signs
of a potential owner, secretly hoping the cat was a stray.
He may not have been a strong believer in any kind of afterlife before Ian, but
now it seemed foolish not to be. Either the cat was a sign from Ian that he was
with him, or the world had a sick sense of humor. He petted the cat along its
matted fur for a few minutes before reaching a relatively easy decision. He
scooped the cat up and held it under one arm against his side. "Gonna call ya
Jack." His tears dried against his cheeks as his eyes shifted back and forth
between the underfed animal. He took one last look behind him at the graveyard,
promising Ian that he would return the following year on this very date. He
snuggled Jack closer to his side and let his feet take him back down the
sidewalk to where that ugly stolen green car of his was parked further down the
street. He popped the door open and deposited Jack in the passenger seat so the
pair could start their journey back to Florida.
Mickey's life was nowhere near perfect. But it was better than he ever could
have hoped for himself and he had Ian to thank for that. If their paths had
never crossed, he would be someone he couldn't recognize now. He'd miss Ian
until he took his final breath, but when that time came, he'd be ready because
that meant they would be reunited beyond the stars. Until then, he was going to
try his hardest to make Ian proud of him for the person he had become.
Chapter End Notes
     Words cannot even begin to express how thankful I am for every single
     person who read this story. I know it was painful to read but I
     wanted to convey that Mickey and Ian's love would survive any
     situation. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for
     every kudo, every comment, and every read.
     @goddamgallagher on Twitter :)
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