Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1932609.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Shameless_(US)
  Relationship:
      Ian_Gallagher/Mickey_Milkovich
  Character:
      Fiona_Gallagher, Debbie_Gallagher, Lip_Gallagher, Mandy_Milkovich, Ian
      Gallagher, Mickey_Milkovich, Svetlana_Milkovich
  Additional Tags:
      Private_School_AU, Boarding_School_AU, Smoking, Marijuana, UST, Sexual
      Tension, Internalized_Homophobia, Masturbation, showering, Alternate
      Universe, wealthy!_ian, Concert, Dancing
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-10 Completed: 2014-07-30 Chapters: 12/12 Words: 27313
****** Private (School) Parts ******
by Lonov
Summary
     Ian hadn’t expected much from his junior year of high school, spent
     at the prestigious and expensive Chicago Academy. Then he meets
     Mickey Milkovich, his detention-seeking, chain smoking, rebel-
     without-a-cause roommate, attending the school on a scholarship he
     never wanted, and everything changes.
Notes
     FYI, I have never been to a boarding school or lived in Chicago. I
     did some research while I was writing this to make it as realistic as
     possible, but if you're a boarding-school kid reading this and going,
     "that doesn't happen!" consider it artistic license.
***** Introductions *****
For the first time in years, Ian was nervous about going back to school. He
wasn’t sure why—generally speaking, he didn’t care for his pretentious boarding
school or the people who went there. His best friend was his brother Lip and
always had been; there wasn’t a person there he was excited to see or a class
he was thrilled to attend. But it seemed a part of him was under the impression
that was going to change this year and so, electric with nerves and excitement,
Ian tossed and turned all night.
 
Thanks to his insomnia, the next morning came sleepily. Ian hit snooze too many
times to count, struggled to get out of bed, and finally stumbled down to the
kitchen around the same time he was supposed to be arriving at school. Lip
wasn't much better; the girl in the townhouse down on West Madison had been
over again—her name was Karen, Ian remembered, from the first and only time
they'd been introduced. If their loud fucking had managed to keep Ian awake the
night before, he could only imagine how exhausted Lip was. Both boys appeared
in the kitchen late the next morning, and Lip only had time to grab money for
bagels and coffee before they were scrambling to get out the door.
 
Classes didn't start until the following Monday, after orientation weekend; as
a boarding school, the Chicago Academy liked to give its students some time to
settle into their new home. The Gallaghers had been late to the start of the
school every year Ian had been in high school, and this year no exception.
 
It was difficult—with wealthy, drunk parents who were always in New York or
Paris, an older sister who spent most mornings trying to escape her latest one
night stand, and younger siblings whose private elementary school didn't start
until weeks later—to pack everything they would need for the next few months,
drag their suitcases to the L, and still manage to arrive at school on time.
Truthfully, the Gallaghers were not the most responsible bunch. Usually Ian
just packed what he couldn't do without for a while and went back for the rest
of his clothes later. The fact that Ian and Lip were still attending school at
all was a success. Since the Gallagher Beer corporation was such a success,
none of them really had to go to school in the first place; their older sister
Fiona had already dropped out. They had an enormous bank account and a job
available at Gallagher Beer whether they went to school or not.
 
Not that their irresponsibility was really a problem, because when the Chicago
Academy did call their parents to complain, Frank and Monica flung a few
thousand dollars their way and the issue was solved.
 
It would have been nice to start on a good note, though, Ian thought through a
yawn as he walked with Lip to the main office to sign in late. He'd had such
high hopes, too—but Ian often felt like something exciting was going to happen
to him, and truthfully, nothing ever did. Usually the feeling was just a result
of one of his manic phases, and was easy to control with the right amount of
medication.
 
Junior year was going to be the same as ever.
 
He waited patiently while the two kids in front of him signed in first. They
weren't people Ian had ever seen before, but The Chicago Academy was a
relatively big place, and new students weren’t rare.
 
What caught Ian's attention about the pair were their matching sullen
expressions. They were clearly related, with the same silky dark hair and
pallid skin; there was even the hint of a black eye on each of their faces.
 
"It's your fuckin' fault we're in this shit hole," the boy muttered to what Ian
assumed was his sister, as they stepped away from the late sign-in book and
turned to leave.
 
She ignored him and instead caught Ian's eye. "The fuck are you looking at?"
she hissed.
 
"Um," Ian began, but Lip cut him off.
 
"He wasn't looking at anything," Lip said, and he dragged Ian over to the sign-
in book.
 
The girl glared and left the office, trailing closely behind her brother.
 
"The fuck was that?" Ian wondered.
 
Lip shrugged. "No idea. She was pretty hot, though."
 
"You'd think anyone with a black eye was hot," Ian pointed out.
 
"Not true," Lip defended. "You gave that kid a black eye last year after he
called you a fag, but he wasn't very hot at all."
 
Ian grimaced at the memory. "Don't pretend you don't get into fights just
because it gets your motor going."
 
They scribbled their signatures into the book, and Ian glanced at the name
above theirs on the paper. Two jagged signatures were written there: Mandy and
Mickey Milkovich. No one else was on the page.
 
"At least we aren't the only ones who are late to orientation weekend," Ian
said optimistically. "For once."
 
"Hm," Lip frowned. "You think they hate us?"
 
Ian laughed. "They don't even know who we are. But, yeah, seems like it."  As
they left the office, Ian watched him from the corner of his eye. "You like
that girl."
 
Lip smirked.
 
"You've got some serious problems, man," Ian said, punching his brother in the
arm. "She didn't even say hi to me before she told me to fuck off."
 
"It's how I like them," Lip sighed. The first floor of the school seemed empty,
with most of the students settling into their rooms on the upper levels. The
boys paused in the hallway to recheck the letters the Academy had sent earlier
that month with their room numbers. "Fifth floor?"
 
"Sixth," Ian replied unhappily. They stepped into the elevator. "I thought
Frank called them to say they have to dorm us on the same floor."
 
"As if Frank ever does what he fucking says he will. He said he and Monica
would be home to say goodbye before we left for the Academy, too."
 
"I guess." Ian said. “I’d rather have them as far away as possible, anyway.”
 
Lip nodded his agreement. "Junior orientation started already. You probably
won't have time to put your stuff down and make it. Lucky for me, senior
orientation hasn't even begun,” he didn’t look happy about it. The elevator let
out a self-assured ding, and Lip stepped into the revealed hallway. "Hey, I'll
text you after, tell you how it goes. Let me know if anything cool happens
while I'm falling asleep to the sound of Dean Minster's voice."
 
Ian smiled. They had a similar conversation every year. The Academy's schedule
of the first day at school began with four orientations—one for each grade—in
the auditorium. The Gallagher boys always seemed to arrive in time to miss the
boring lectures from the dean, who got thrills out of telling the students,
barely through the doors of the school, all the things they weren't allowed to
do. Since senior orientation was last, they'd actually arrived in time for Lip
to make his this year.
 
The elevator opened to the sixth floor, and Ian carried his suitcases through
the hallways. It was funny that Lip had told him to watch out for anything
cool: apart from the rare fights and the times they didn’t get carded buying
cigarettes, cool things didn't happen to the Gallaghers. They lived the life of
spoiled rich kids whose parents didn't care about them, and it made them
exactly like every other person at their school.
 
Ian opened the door to his assigned room; he assumed his roommate wouldn't be
there, since orientation for juniors was still underway, and people were roomed
with someone else from their grade, so he was surprised to see a figure
standing on a sloppily-made bed, hanging a poster on the wall.
 
When he heard the door open, the boy turned around.
 
"Oh, fuckin' great," the boy muttered. "It's carrot top."
 
Mickey Milkovich glared at Ian through his black eye, and Ian thought he might
actually have some interesting news to tell Lip.
 
Mainly, he was pretty sure his roommate wanted to kill him.
 
"Actually, it's Ian," he said. "Ian Gallagher."
 
He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused that his roommate hated him
already, and for no reason.
 
Mickey ignored him, and Ian turned to his own side of the room. The walls next
to his bed were sparse, and he didn't have any posters to hang, but he was used
to calling these small, empty rooms at the Academy home.
 
"You're a junior this year, right?" Ian asked. In past years his roommates were
always the ones the initiate conversation, but judging by the pained expression
on Mickey's face whenever he talked to Ian, Ian thought he would have to step
up this year.
 
Ian refused to spend the next ten months living with someone who hated him.
Mickey Milkovich was going to like him whether he wanted to or not.
 
"The fuck do you care?" Mickey asked.
 
Ian shrugged. "Just making conversation. Maybe we'll have some of the same
classes. I'm not great at math but I'm good at English, so we might be able to
help each other out."
 
Mickey glared subsided, somewhat. "I can't do math for shit, man."
 
Ian's mouth curled into a half-smile. "Me neither. My older brother Lip—the one
who came to sign in late with me—he's good at it. Maybe he can help both of
us."
 
Mickey hummed but said nothing else. He went back to hanging his posters. "Why
were you late, anyway? I thought you rich bitches lived for this shit.
Expensive schools and fuckin' punctuality and crap."
 
Ian let out an involuntary snort. Ignoring Mickey's question, he asked
incredulously, "Did you just call me a bitch?"
 
"I call 'em like I see 'em, Gallagher."
 
"You don't even know me."
 
"Don't gotta know you," Mickey said as he finished hanging his last poster,
hopped off his bed, and began unpacking the rest of his suitcase. "I know
people like you."
 
Ian rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to spend the year fighting with his
roommate. If Mickey didn't want to be here, that was his own problem; Ian
wasn't going to get caught in the crossfire.
 
"Whatever, dude," he muttered, annoyance creeping into his voice. "I'm not
gonna fight you."
 
"Yeah, ‘cause you’d fuckin’ lose," Mickey muttered.
 
"’Cause I have better things to do,” Ian informed him. "We could spend all year
arguing or we could try to be civil to each other. So, tell me: is that a
Unified Knife poster on your wall?"
 
Mickey raised his eyebrows, seemingly taken aback. "Fuck, yeah, it is. You
listen to them?"
 
"Sometimes," Ian admitted. "Usually when I'm working out."
 
"It's some good shit to work out to," Mickey agreed. "They got a gym at this
school?"
 
"There's one on the next block. If you show your student pass at the door they
let you in for free."
 
"Cool," Mickey said. He collapsed onto his bed and proceeded to ignore Ian
entirely.
 
Satisfied with their developing amity, Ian returned to his suitcases.
 
A long time passed with them in silence, Mickey lying on his bed and Ian
sorting through his clothes. Eventually, Mickey broke the silence. "Name's
Mickey Milkovich, by the way," he said, not knowing Ian had seen it written in
the late arrival book that morning.
 
A warm feeling filled Ian's chest as their eyes met, and it was stupid—so
stupid—but Ian’s stomach was full of butterflies.
 
No, Ian told himself. Bad. No crushing on roommates. Absolutely no crushing on
roommates who probably hate you. That is the worst thing you can do.
 
“Nice to meet you, Mickey,” Ian said, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a
smile.
 
Mickey stared at him for a moment before he turned back to face the wall.
“Yeah, you too, Gallagher.”
 
***** Arguments and Doodles *****
Orientation weekend passed quickly, which Ian was grateful for. After they
moved their things in on Friday, Ian and Lip proceeded with their usual pre-
class schedule, which mostly consisted of getting yelled out by the dean for
being late to orientation, hanging out in the park across from the Academy, and
meeting up with their friends. Or Lip’s friends, really, because Ian had never
really had a strong enough connection with someone for it to last into the next
school year.
For whatever reason, it was difficult for Ian to make friends at the Academy.
In previous years Ian had befriended people, hung out with them, even hooked up
with some, but the relationships were never deep between them. Regardless of
the reason why, he didn't have a lot of friends; truthfully, he wasn't terribly
upset about it. Lip had always been his best friend.
So when Lip left Ian to go out with his friends from robotics club that Sunday
night, Ian was stuck trudging back to his dorm room. He didn't expect to see
Mickey, who had been largely absent since their initial conversation on Friday,
presumably because he was with Mandy, beating up some freshmen.
But that wasn’t why, when he saw that Mickey was in the room, Ian was so
surprised. No, he was shocked to see that Mickey had one of Ian's storage
boxes, and he was rummaging through it like he was looking for something.
"Yo, what the fuck, man?" Ian asked, immediately walking over to where Mickey
was sitting on his bed. "Is that mine?"
"Yeah," Mickey said through the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "You don't
have anything good."
"What the fuck?" Ian repeated. He could barely think, he was seeing such a deep
shade of red. His fucking roommate was trying to steal from him. That was some
shit Ian had never dealt with before. Mostly because they had the money to go
out and buy whatever they wanted, anyway, instead of taking a used version of
it from someone else.
Furiously, he swung at Mickey—and was startled when, before his fist could make
contact with the other boy's face, his hand was trapped in Mickey's grip. They
struggled for a while, Ian trying to get his right hand back and simultaneously
hitting Mickey with his weaker left one, and Mickey, ducking Ian's swings until
finally, with a grunt, he managed to pin Ian onto the floor. Still fighting
against Ian's struggles, Mickey crushed him with his weight and sat on Ian's
chest, his own hands circling Ian's throat in a clear warning. He glared into
the other boy's face.
"Don't ever fight a kid from the fuckin' South Side," Mickey barked, though
really, Ian thought, he had no right to be angry. The only reason Ian had tried
to punch him in the first place was because Mickey had been trying to steal his
things.
But... wait. "South Side?" Ian asked, surprised, and his voice came out choked
from lack of air. He'd never met anyone from the South Side—at least, not the
part of the South Side Mickey was talking about, where everyone knew how to
fight and carried weapons like extra limbs. The part of the South Side that had
been in the news just last week when someone was gunned down on the sidewalk.
Mickey loosened his grip on Ian's neck, but didn't get up.
Ian breathed deeply now that he was able to again. "I didn’t know you were
South Side.”
"Fuck you," Mickey said, but now that oxygen was coming back to Ian's brain he
could tell something was off. Mickey's breathing was more labored than it
should be after such a brief scuffle, and his hands—his hands were still at
Ian's throat, so what was digging into Ian's chest?
"Oh, shit," Ian said, eyes going wide as he realized what was happening.
Mickey scrambled to get off the floor and tugged his t-shirt over his loose-
fitted sweat pants.
An obvious bulge was still visible though the fabric.
"I," Ian began, but he didn't know how to finish. I hope you won't go through
my things again now that I've given you a hard-on? I hope that boner changed
your mind about beating me up?
Before any coherent thoughts were formulated in his brain, though, Mickey had
him by the throat again and they were up against the wall.
For a very brief moment, Ian thought he was about to be kissed.
When he saw the fire in Mickey's eyes he realized just how unlikely that was.
Mickey leaned his face in close to Ian's and spat, "If you tell anyone, I will
fucking kill you."
Then he stormed out of the room. He didn't even grab his shoes first.
Ian didn't move for a while after that. And not just because there was a
noticeable tightness in his own jeans.
                                    ******
Ian's alarm went off at seven o'clock the next morning, and he rolled out of
bed, literally, onto the floor. In his defense, the twin-sized bed at the
Academy were much smaller than his bed at home. The fact that he'd stayed up
late waiting for Mickey to come back (with no avail—Ian had given up around
midnight when he still hadn't showed up) hadn't helped, either, and he was so
tired when he woke up it took him a minute to orient himself.
Then he remembered. He was at the Chicago Academy, on the floor of the room he
now shared with Mickey Milkovich, a boy who hated him enough to want to steal
his things, but not enough to have a soft dick when their bodies were close.
Also, Ian noted with some appreciation as he untangled himself from his
blankets and glanced over at the sleeping figure in Mickey's bed, a boy who had
gone a day without shaving and now had an impressive amount of stubble.
Ian had always liked stubble, but he wasn't about to tell Mickey that.
He got dressed sluggishly, grabbed his bag of toiletries, and headed over to
the communal bathroom. On weekdays he liked to get up early so he had time to
fully wake up, shower, and get breakfast, which the school served at seven,
before classes began at eight. When he got back to his room and found Mickey
still asleep at 7:45, he determined he was the only one who felt that way.
It wasn't like Ian wanted to help Mickey out, really, because he'd been a real
dick and Ian deserved an apology, but, if he was honest with himself, he wanted
to know what would happen if he poked the sleeping lion.
He also wanted to examine this new pliant, sleeping Mickey up close, and see if
he looked quite as intimidating in the morning sunlight coming through the
window.
"Hey," Ian said. Nothing happened. Louder he said, "you should wake up."
Mickey made an annoyed sound. Without opening his eyes, his middle finger came
out from under the blankets to point directly at Ian. A second middle finger
came soon after.
For the first time, Ian noticed the tattoo on his knuckles. It read "F U C K -
U - UP," and it was enough to make Ian reconsider waking him.
"Yeah, okay," Ian muttered to himself. He needed to get to class, anyway; his
first period was Geometry with Ms. Zenger, and he'd heard she was tough on the
students. On his way out the door he noticed that the blankets had adjusted
around Mickey, and they now fell low enough that Ian could check out Mickey's
chiseled pectorals, which were easy to see through his undershirt.
With one last sigh, Ian shut the door behind him.
Luck seemed to be on his side, because he stepped into class just as the bell
was ringing. The other students were there already, and the only open seats
were a pair in the back, so Ian quietly sat down and took out his notebook. The
first day always consisted of the teachers lecturing them about what they could
and could not do for the rest of the year, so after about a minute of class,
Ian’s attention was lost.
He was paying so little attention that he barely noticed someone sit next to
him, and if it hadn’t been for the annoyed huff when Ms. Zenger chastised him
for being late, Ian may not even have noticed that his new roommate was now
beside him.
Perhaps luck wasn’t on his side after all, Ian reasoned, as he watched Mickey
out of the corner of his eye. Mickey looked aggravated, as usual, and he was
seated as far away from Ian as he possibly could be, considering their desks
were right beside one another. He was leaning so far over he looked as if he
were about to fall off the seat.
He was also biting his lip, straight teeth over pale skin, and Ian couldn’t
help but stare. Fuck, Mickey was so hot—rugged as fuck, that was the only way
Ian could describe him, and his unshaven stubble only added to the picture.
They should probably discuss last night before any more time passed where
Mickey thought Ian hadn’t enjoyed their close proximity just as much as he had.
Impulsively, Ian ripped a piece of paper out of his notebook and wrote, “We
should talk about last night.”
He folded the paper and slid it onto Mickey’s desk. The other boy’s eyes
flashed to the note, then to Ian’s face, and back again before he finally
picked it up and opened it. He spent a long time leaning over his desk while he
scribbled a reply.
When he flicked the note back onto Ian’s desk, he understood why. Under Ian’s
messy handwriting was a detailed sketch of a stick-figure Mickey standing with
his fist embedded in stick-figure Ian's face. He had even used a red pen to
draw a mop of hair on Ian’s head.
Ian choked out a laugh, disguised as a cough when Ms. Zenger turned to glare at
him.
“I think you got our heights mixed up,” Ian scribbled back. “I should be the
one towering over you.”
He tossed the note onto Mickey’s desk. His only response was the middle finger.
“It’s only 8:45 in the morning and that’s the third time you’ve flipped me off
today,” Ian whispered, foregoing the note-passing since they were in the back
of the room, anyway, and he doubted anyone could hear them. “The effect of it
is starting to wear off.”
“Fuck you,” Mickey growled.
Ian shrugged and turned away. As much as he genuinely enjoyed pissing Mickey
off—he liked to watch the angry pink blush fill Mickey’s cheeks, because it
reminded him of the arousal on Mickey’s face the night before—he was getting
tired of the abrasive attitude constantly being directed at him.
He liked Mickey’s hard-to-get persona, but it would be nice if they could share
an actual conversation, one that didn’t involve the words “fuck you” or the
middle finger. They’d sort of done that for a few minutes on Friday; it was
Ian’s goal to get back to that place again.
When the period ended and Mickey pulled him aside, it became clear that they
wouldn’t be there anytime soon.
He waited for the other students to leave before he turned to Ian. For a second
it seemed like he was going to grab Ian—his hand raised but then fell, as if
he’d thought better than to touch him.
“Whatever you think happened last night, it didn't happen," Mickey said, voice
brimming with aggression. He looked furious, and his face was close enough to
Ian that he could see how bloodshot his eyes were.
Ian couldn't help it: Mickey made him nervous. Something like fear tickled the
hair on the back of his neck, and a quiet voice in the back of his head
reminded Ian that, regardless of how fun to tease or attractive or possibly-gay
Mickey was, he was still South Side, and that meant he was dangerous. He didn’t
do idle threats.
"You’re high," Ian whispered, examining Mickey’s face. This wasn’t a
conversation he wanted to have in the back of his math class, and it definitely
wasn’t one he wanted to have when Mickey was stoned, but Ian couldn’t bring
himself to move. Blue eyes pinned him to the spot.
“Is there a problem, boys?” Ms. Zenger asked.
Ian let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. “No. We were just
leaving.”
He tried to grab Mickey by the hand, but the other boy shook him off. “You
don’t tell anyone what you think happened,” he warned, as he made his way
toward the door. Students from the next class were starting to trickle in, and
Mickey seemed intent on ditching Ian and running as far away as possible. “You
hear me, Gallagher?” he demanded, moments before he was swallowed up into the
sea of people in the hallway. “No one.”
Then he was gone, lost in the crowd. With a sigh, Ian rubbed his aching head
and made his way to second period.
It was going to be a long year.
***** Shitty Chinese Food *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
School ended at 3 o’clock, and by 3:15 Ian was waiting for Lip in the park
across the street from the Academy. They had a three-year tradition of hanging
out together almost everyday after school. Today was different: there was an
additional figure trailing behind Lip as he approached. She was tall and slim,
with dark hair, pale skin, and an immediately recognizable face.
“Hey,” Lip greeted as they sat down on the bench beside Ian. He took out a pack
of cigarettes and passed it around. “This is Mandy. Mandy, my brother Ian.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mandy said. It sounded sarcastic, but maybe that was only
because Ian wasn’t used to the Milkoviches being polite to him. “You’re the one
rooming with my brother, right? He told me he was stuck with a firecrotch and a
Gallagher.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”
Mandy snorted. “I feel bad for you. We shared a house for seventeen years, and
it ain’t fuckin’ easy.”
“No, it isn’t,” Ian agreed. Then, because he had nothing to lose, he added,
“Why’s he such an asshole, anyway?”
“How should I know? Probably got his brain fucked up from being pistol-whipped
too many times,” she said.
“Pistol-whipped,” Lip repeated. “What, like being hit in the face with a gun?”
“Um, duh.” Mandy said. “What, they don’t do that on the Far North?”
Ian and Lip exchanged glances.
“Some people probably do,” Lip ventured.
“No one’s home for long enough at our house to get pistol-whipped,” Ian added.
It was true: his parents had money to blow and they blew it, spent twelve
months out of the year traveling the globe on Frank's family's cash. But Ian
didn't dedicate much of his thoughts to them; he was thinking back to the scene
with Mickey earlier, where he’d been so full of aggression that Ian thought he
was about to get hit. If he came from a family like the one Mandy said they
did—well, the aggravation made more sense if he was raised on anger.
“Anyway, this is the park,” Lip said, arms gesturing around lazily. “I promised
I’d give you a tour, so here it is.” When he grinned at Mandy she punched him
in the arm and dragged him down for a kiss.
Not wanting to intrude on their personal moment, Ian turned his eyes away.
There usually was a girl on Lip’s arm this early in the school year, someone
who he was using for sex just as much as she was using him for it, but he’d
never brought someone to their spot in the park before. Ian wondered if that
meant anything.
He also wondered about that punch, and if that was how Milkoviches showed
affection. It seemed like it. Perhaps all he needed to do was get Mickey to
fight him again, and that was the way to his heart.
The thoughts made Ian feel slightly ridiculous—the fact that he was still
interested in someone who was consistently a jerk to him, even more so—so he
decided to change the subject.
When Mandy and Lip pulled apart, Ian asked, “So this is your first year here?”
“Yeah,” Mandy replied. “Some do-gooder wanted to sponsor a poor South Side
family, and we were the lucky ones. There was a drawing and all you had to do
was put your name in, so I figured why not. I needed to get out of there.
Thought this would be my great escape.” She scoffed. “So far it’s just a bunch
of spoiled rich dickfucks circle-jerking over their newest Mercedes and their
grades in advanced chemistry.
“But I know Mickey hates it here,” she added, expression unreadable. “He didn’t
want to come in the first place—didn’t even want me to enter the fucking
contest, but I wasn’t about to let us stay South Side forever, not if we had
the chance to get away.”
“He seems… angry,” Ian said.
Mandy snickered. “That’s Mickey. Always looking for a fight."
“You have any homework yet?” Lip asked. Ian shook his head. “Good. We were
going to head over to that Chinese food place down the street, skip out on the
crappy school dinner. You in?”
“Yeah, sure,” Ian said. They got up to leave, and just as they were about to
start their trek down to road, he paused. “Should we invite Mickey?”
Mandy stared at him. “If you feel like getting verbally abused all through
dinner,” she muttered.
“I think it would be nice if we all went together,” Ian said, because he did.
He liked Mandy, and as stupid as it was, he liked Mickey. He wanted to spend
more time with both of them—wanted to crack Mickey’s shell open until he saw
his inner layers.
Mandy seemed to disagree, but she took out her phone nonetheless. “Mickey? It’s
Mandy. I’m going out for Chinese with the Gallaghers. Firecrotch wanted to
invite you… Yeah, well, that’s what I said. He insisted… All right, fine.
Whatever. Fuck you.” She snapped her old phone shut and looked at Ian. “He said
to fuck off with your shitty Chinese food.”
Ian sighed.
“Ready to go?” Lip asked, rubbing his hands together.
“Yup,” Ian replied, with faux-satisfaction. "I'm starving."
He was hungry, but he wasn't sure what for. Attention, maybe. Attention from
Mickey. Apparently that was the lot he had drawn in life.
                                    ******
Somehow, some way, in the hour he was out to dinner with Lip and Mandy, Ian
managed to piss Mickey off. He knew this because when he got back to his dorm
room, Mickey was lying on his bed and ninja stars were being thrown at the
wall. More specifically, Ian's ninja stars.
"Dude," he said. "You need to stop going through my shit."
One of the stars flew toward Ian and wedged in the wall six inches to his left.
"Dude!"
"The fuck were you doing inviting me out to dinner with you, Gallagher? You
tryin' to set me up on some gay fuckin' date?"
"Jesus Christ," Ian said, keeping a wary eye on the star still in Mickey's
hands. He was fingering it rather innocently, slender fingers working over the
smooth back, but Ian didn't doubt that if Mickey wanted to make a point he
wouldn't hesitate to use them.
"Fuck, Mickey. They're gonna charge you to repair the walls."
"Good thing it's not my fuckin' money they're getting, then." The last ninja
star whizzed across the room and embedded itself in one of Mickey's posters. He
watched it for a second and then fixed glaring blue eyes onto Ian. "Why the
fuck did you invite me to go with you, Gallagher?"
"To be friends, Mickey," Ian said honestly. "Not for a 'gay date,' so you can
stop worrying. I just thought it would be nice if we all hung out, since it
looks like Lip and Mandy are together now. You're new to the Academy and this
part of the city, so—"
"You don't get to talk about where I'm fuckin' from," Mickey spat.
"Right," Ian said, left hand carding through his hair. "Yeah, okay. Whatever,
Mickey. You want me to leave you alone, I'll leave you alone. Sorry to have
fucking bothered you."
He stripped down to his underwear and threw his dirty clothes in his laundry
basket. He was exhausted; the first day of school always wore him out. His
sleeping schedule was sporadic thanks to his manic episodes, even now that he
was on his meds, so he took sleep where he could get it. He planned on going to
bed early tonight—if only he could find his pajamas.
"Did you see my pajamas when you were looking through my shit before?" Ian
asked, "Or did you sell those somewhere on the black market?"
"Third drawer," Mickey said immediately. Ian looked up at him and was surprised
to see the other boy staring openly at him; suddenly, Ian was aware of just how
little clothing he was wearing. When their gazes met Mickey turned away, back
to the comic book spread out across his lap. "There ain't no black market for
pajama pants."
His tone wasn't condescending, though—it was playful, almost, like he found the
idea amusing. Like he found Ian amusing.
It was enough for Ian to ignore the fact that Mickey had looked through all his
drawers.
As it turned out, Ian’s pajamas were exactly where Mickey said they would be.
Feeling awkward in front of a roommate for the first time since his freshman
year, Ian changed hurriedly and crawled into his bed.
There was a new television show he’d been meaning to watch, so with nothing
else to do he pulled out his laptop and streamed it online. But the more time
Ian spent attempting to pay attention to the faces on the screen, the more
Mickey’s face flashed into his mind. The more he heard the voices of random
male actors, the more he wanted to hear Mickey’s voice instead.
He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he was going to talk to Mickey.
Ian was nothing if not determined.
“So,” he began, shutting his laptop. “How was your first day?”
Mickey looked up from his comic with confusion on his face. “Which part of me
ignoring you makes you think I wanna have a conversation?”
“What comic book is that?”
With a sigh, Mickey held it up for Ian to read. It was bright and colorful, but
that was all Ian could observe; he didn’t really know anything about comics.
“I like that one,” he lied.
“Yeah? Well I fuckin’ don’t,” Mickey muttered, and he threw it to the floor.
“Wish that rich fucker had bought me a laptop instead of sending me to this
boring fuckin’ school.”
Seeing his opportunity, Ian went for it. “Do you want to use my laptop? I was
just trying to watch that new show with the superheroes.”
“The one with that hot chick in leather?”
Confused, Ian said, “Um, I guess, yeah.”
Mickey eyed him for a moment and then turned away. “Nah, it’s cool, man. I’ll
probably use it tomorrow when you aren’t here.”
Ian laughed at his honestly. “You can use whatever you want, just don’t hock
anything.”
“I don’t know if I can guarantee that,” Mickey said, but there was a small
smile on his face and he was obviously joking. He got off the bed abruptly and
pulled his t-shirt over his head.
Rather than face any more awkward situations, Ian turned toward the wall and
tried not to imagine the view he was missing out on. If the hardness of
Mickey’s legs and abs during their tussle the night before had been any
indication, it was definitely regrettable that he couldn't see them out from
under the cotton blockade that was his clothing.
Ian had never been attracted to a roommate before. He wasn’t really sure what
to do about it.
He decided to think up something else for them to talk about, instead of doing
what he really wanted to do, which was jump Mickey’s bones.
A memory from this morning tickled in the back of his head, and Ian spoke
before thinking. “You were high this morning, though, weren’t you?”
Mickey glared at him. “That too hoodrat for you, Gallagher?”
Ian laughed. “Lip and I get stoned every weekend. It's a Gallagher family
tradition. I was just asking because—well, you missed orientation, and one of
the big things they go over is how against drugs the school is. If they find
one joint on you they throw you out. I’ve never actually been to orientation…”
at Mickey’s raised eyebrows, Ian shrugged sheepishly, “we always get here late.
But there’s kind of a tradition at this school of people overdosing, so they
really crack down on drugs.”
“There’s a tradition of overdosing?” Mickey asked. “Here?”
The rest of the question was heavily implied. Here, where everyone has money
and couldn’t possible have problems?
Ian met his gaze. “Everyone’s got issues, man.”
Mickey chewed his lip and turned away from him.
“I just wanted to warn you,” Ian said. “They freak out over weapons and stuff,
too, so don’t show those ninja stars to anyone.”
“Okay… thanks,” Mickey muttered.
He was still biting on his lip. Ian couldn’t bring himself to look away.
“The fuck you looking at?” Mickey demanded, and Ian’s gaze snapped up.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I’m going to brush my teeth.”
Mickey’s comforting response was, “You don’t gotta tell me what you’re doing,
man. Just ‘cause we’re roommates doesn’t make us fuckin’ married.”
“Obviously. But sometimes friends do things together,” Ian said as he grabbed
his toothbrush and headed out of the room. “Like brush their teeth.”
Mickey watched him for a moment before slowly gathering his own toothbrush from
his bedside table. “Yeah, okay,” he mumbled, and returned Ian’s smile with his
own slightly-forced one. They walked down the hallway together, Mickey a few
steps behind Ian.
“You have a lot of friends, Gallagher?” he asked, and kept his gaze on the
floor when Ian looked at him.
“Not really, no,” Ian admitted.
Mickey huffed a breath and met his eyes. “Me neither,” he said. Ian couldn’t
tell if he was upset about that or glad for it. Sometimes it seemed like Mickey
didn’t actually want any friends. But it was an act… it must all be an act. Ian
had spent his high school years far too lonely to believe that someone wouldn’t
want friends.
Some of the other boys from their floor were in the bathroom when they arrived
there, and since Ian knew them from previous years, he introduced Mickey to
them. They ended up talking about—of all things—ninja stars, and how Mickey had
thrown them into the wall. Dripping with wealth and living lives of luxury, the
other boys longed for the rebellious attitude and disrespect for authority that
Mickey had, which they could never dream of, and they worshipped him for it.
Mickey was less tense than Ian had ever seen him, and unless Ian’s eyes had
deceived him, he even wore a full-blown grin.
Chapter End Notes
     Comments and kudos are lovely!
***** The Showers *****
"Am I ever going to get to try it?"
 
Ian, cross-legged on his bed, looked up from his laptop. "Try what?"
 
"The family business," Mickey said with a grin. "Gallagher Beer."
 
Ian snorted. "Sure, let me get out one of the several hundred cases I carry
around specifically for moments like these." When a slim comic book crossed the
room and hit him in the chest, he laughed. "Okay, okay, yeah, I'll get you some
beers. Lip actually does have a supply of them for when he hangs out with his
friends from robotics club, so I can ask him for some."
 
"Thanks, Ian," Mickey said, leaving his side of the room to pluck the comic
from Ian's lap.
 
Ian tried not to gape at him. That was the first time Mickey had called him by
his first name, rather than his last, or any of the various nicknames Mickey
had made up for him, most of them offensive. Perhaps Ian had ascended his role
as Firecrotch.
 
"So, what, you only call me by my first name when I do something for you?"
 
He meant it to be joking, but it wasn't taken that way. As though startled by
what Ian said, surprised had called Ian by his true name, Mickey opened and
closed his mouth a few times.I didn't mean to, his face seemed to say, though
Ian wasn't sure why it would be wrong if he had. He liked the way his name
sounded on Mickey's lips. It was a sound he could listen to over and over.
 
Eventually Mickey shrugged and turned away. From that moment he seemed control
his words more carefully, as though afraid something else would slip out that
he didn't want said.
 
It's just a name, Ian wanted to say, multiple times. Of course, he loved the
music of his name on Mickey's tongue. It made him feel as if they were closer
than ever—but perhaps it was for that reason that Mickey didn't want to say it
anymore.
 
Every time one of Mickey's walls came down, it seemed, two more rose.
 
                                    ******
 
Still, as the days passed, they got along better. For the first time in a long
time, Ian had a friend who wasn’t immediately related to him.  Soon Ian's
favorite activity became watching his presumptions about Mickey crumble.
 
By mid-October he was beginning to realize just how different the real Mickey
was from the aggressively rough facade he put forward. He was tough—that wasn't
debatable. He'd already been in detention once for getting into a fight with a
kid in his freshman biology class (apparently the kid had whispered some
comment under his breath about South Side imbeciles, and Mickey had put him
right. Ian couldn’t help but to side with Mickey. By any stretch he couldn't be
considered stupid, but the lack of funding and resources at his old public
school left him with little of the information he needed to succeed at the
Academy. When snotty, spoiled brats tried to pretend it was his own fault,
Mickey did his duty to the community and punched them in the face).
 
But Mickey wasn't inconsolable. He wasn't unnecessarily violent. He wasn't half
as impulsive as Ian—though, okay, Ian had his disorder to thank for this. When
it came down to it, Mickey did what he needed to do in any given situation, and
if that meant punching someone in the gut or getting outlandish knuckle tattoos
to appease his father, he did it.
 
Actually, he was rather like a chameleon; it seemed he could adjust to any
environment he was thrust into and come out in one piece. He was a survivor,
and Ian was coming to truly admire him for it.
 
Now that they were actually something close to friends, it was getting more
difficult for Ian to pretend he wasn't attracted to Mickey. He never watched
him get dressed, because the creepy idea of it made his skin crawl, but that
didn't mean it was easy for him to avert his eyes when he knew Mickey was naked
three feet away.
 
Those were usually the times Ian disappeared to the bathroom to brush his
teeth, or wash his face, or masturbate. Sometimes he even thought about other
people when he was doing it, like the boy Luke who also lived on his floor, or
Kash Karib, the Chemistry teacher he’d had an affair with the year before.
(And, okay, Ian would never admit aloud how attracted he was to his teacher,
but he'd always had a thing for older men. Actually, he would probably admit to
his affair with Mr. Karib before he admitted to checking out Mickey's ass every
chance he could, but that was only because he wanted to keep his teeth in the
event that his roommate found out who Ian got a stiffy for).
 
They'd been living together for two weeks, and Ian still didn't really know if
Mickey was gay. The signs seemed to point to bisexual, considering his woodie
when he wrestled Ian and his constant comments amount the female physique.
Recently, however, Ian had come to notice how false Mickey's voice was when he
commented on a fellow female student, or the leather-wearing woman on their
television show (which they'd been watching together almost nightly, though
Mickey always sat feet away from Ian when they did). If Ian didn't know any
better, he'd have guessed that Mickey was pretending to be attracted to women,
was repeating the objectifying things he heard men say on TV and in reality, in
an attempt to pretend he was straight.
 
Though why he would think he needed to prove his supposed straightness to Ian
was a mystery. Unless he hadn't realized Ian was gay, in which case, well, his
radar was off, and Ian would have to correct that misconception as soon as
possible.
 
He'd thought about breaching the subject once or twice, but their friendship
was still fragile. There were times that Ian said exactly that wrong thing and
Mickey went off. If he was trying so hard to cover up his sexuality—and maybe
he wasn't, maybe Ian had mistaken what had happened when they wrestled, and
none of it meant anything—then there must be a reason for it. Ian wasn't sure
about South Side politics, but he knew enough about juvie to know what happened
to the kids who were perceived as weak. Mickey had been in juvie, more times
than he could count, he'd said, and Ian wasn't about to push him about what had
happened there, or what life was where he grew up.
 
Part of Ian—the English-nerd-with-a-death-wish part—wanted to slip Mickey some
Oscar Wilde to read and let him know that the rumors about boarding schools
being playgrounds for sexual experimentation were true. He didn't bother,
mostly because he knew Mickey wouldn't read anything other than shitty comic
books, and those only when he was bored to death.
 
Mickey had told him that himself one day, about refusing to read, and Ian had
though he was exaggerating until he realized that he wasn't. This was
determined one day, about two weeks into the start of the term, when Mickey
came stomping into their room after school had ended. Lip and Mandy had been
busy (Ian tried not to think about what they were doing), so he'd gone straight
to his dorm after classes were over. Ian had been doing his homework for half
an hour before Mickey crashed into the room and slammed the door shut, flexing
his fists and grinding his teeth.
 
"Where were you?" Ian asked, looking up from his Chemistry work.
 
"I got called me into the dean's office," Mickey said, annoyed. "And when I got
there she gave me this huge fuckin' lecture about how I'm not applying myself,
as if I even signed up for this shit." He collapsed onto his bed. "If I still
lived at home I wouldn't even be in school. My cousin's got a weapon business
and he said I can help him when I drop out. I wasn't even going to go to school
this year 'til Mandy put us in that stupid fucking draw and we got sent here."
 
Ignoring the idea of Mickey dealing illegal weapons, which made Ian's stomach
knot in uncomfortable ways, Ian asked, "Why didn't you just stay there and let
Mandy come alone?"
 
"Rich fucker wanted to sponsor a family," Mickey said as he shoved a cigarette
into his mouth. Ian moved to open the window and let the smoke out. "I wasn't
about to fuck Mandy over. One time when we were younger I ate one of her Pop-
Tarts and she shaved my head in my fuckin' sleep, man. That bitch is crazy.
Imagine what she'd do if I stopped her from coming here."
 
After a long moment of silence, Ian said quietly, "I'm glad you came."
 
Mickey stared at him from his place on the bed, scarred fingers wrapped around
his cigarette. "Don't say gay shit like that to me, Gallagher."
 
Ian frowned.
 
"You want a cigarette?"
 
They smoked out the window and Mickey told him the rest of what had happened in
the dean's office. Apparently Mickey—who was still in freshman English—was
already failing the class this year.
 
Ian couldn't help it: he laughed. "That takes some serious dedication."
 
Mickey laughed with him, smiling as he flicked ashes into the air. "What can I
say, man, I'm committed to my craft."
 
"They say what they're gonna do if you fail out?"
 
"I'll probably get expelled or some shit. Kicked back to the South Side." He
blew circles with the cigarette smoke. "All the pot around here is shit,
anyway."
 
The knots in Ian's stomach tightened at the thought of Mickey leaving. He could
tell Mickey was trying to lighten the situation by joking about weed, and Ian
wondered if it was for Mickey's sake or his own. He did seem to legitimately
want to go back home—but it soothed Ian slightly to know that Mickey cared
about him enough to acknowledge that it would be sad for Ian if he left.
 
And it would be sad. Actually, Ian would be devastated. Mickey was the closest
friend he had other than Lip, and while that mostly spoke for how bad Ian was
at making friends with other people, rather than how close he actually was to
Mickey, their friendship still meant a lot to him.
 
"I can help you with your English work if you want," Ian offered. "I'm in an
advanced course this year, but I can probably remember back to freshmen year."
 
Cigarettes finished, they shut the window. The cool October air filled the
room, and Ian grabbed a sweatshirt and socks to layer himself in. Now that he
wasn't standing next to Mickey, he felt much colder.
 
Mickey shrugged at Ian's suggestion. Unclear what that meant, Ian tapped his
fingers on his dresser. "If you change your mind, let me know. Mandy could
still kick your ass if you get expelled."
 
Mickey grinned as though he had said something funny rather than pointed out a
looming threat. His teeth, sharp and white, glinted at Ian from behind full
lips. For a moment when their gazes locked, Ian couldn't breathe.
 
The spell was broken when Mickey turned and grabbed some work-out gear from his
bag.
 
"Gym time?" Ian asked, though he already knew the answer.
 
"Leg day," Mickey informed him."You wanna come?"
 
"Yeah, all right," Ian said. "Nothing better to do."
 
He wasn't lying, either: he really didn't have anything better to do than watch
Mickey get all red and sweaty from lifting weights. It was possible he would
never have anything better to do in his life.
 
                                    ******
 
An hour and a half later both boys returned to the dormitory aching and covered
in perspiration.
 
Ian loved working out with Mickey. He’d never had a workout buddy before, and
having Mickey there with him to spur him on and support him helped Ian get some
of the best workouts he’d ever had. Even if Mickey’s idea of support tended to
be along the lines of, “Come on, Gallagher, drop those weights now and you’re
weak. Two more sets, let’s go!”
 
He also loved how, after the workout on their walk home, Mickey opened up.
Post-exercise conversation was the most personal it got between the two of
them, as if all of Mickey’s tension had been released in the gym and he was
finally allowing himself freedom.
 
That night’s topic of conversation had been sex. Mickey had started it when one
of the women walking down the road reminded him of an old fling—or, as Mickey
had said, a fuckbuddy.
 
“Everybody fucked Angie,” Mickey said as they walked along. Ian couldn’t help
but laugh at how blatant, how unapologetically blunt Mickey was. “Seriously. If
you’d have been there, you’d have fucked her too.” Ian doubted that but chose
not to interrupt. “Once I showed up to her house wasted, and I started talking
to her little brother, telling him to get the fuck outta the room so me and
Angie could get down to business. I wound up passing out on the couch, and when
I woke up a few hours later Angie said it was her dog I’d been yelling at, and
told me to fuck off.” He watched Ian’s reactions to his story, and seemed
pleased with the hysterical laughter.
 
He prompted Ian for tales of his own sexual escapades, but Ian decidedly
refused to share.
 
“I don’t have any interesting stories,” Ian informed him. In truth, there were
some moments he could have brought up, like starting that rumor about Roger
“Donkey Dick” Spikey, or unwittingly fucking one of the married men in his
apartment complex after they met at a club, but he didn’t say anything. He
didn’t want to tell Mickey he was gay—and that was a problem, because he
considered Mickey a close friend, but he also knew about Mickey’s very strict
boundaries. Mickey didn’t talk about being gay. Instead, he made homophobic
comments and pretended he’d never accidentally rubbed his hard dick against
Ian's chest.
 
Ian wasn’t sure how Mickey would react if he knew he was gay, but he had a
feeling it wouldn’t be good. So Ian kept quiet about his own misadventures, and
gladly listened to Mickey’s stories.
 
He was so busy thinking about how much he genuinely enjoyed Mickey’s company
that he never had time to wonder what would happen when they got back to the
dorms. He always showered in the morning—he woke up before the line got too
long and it jump-started him for the rest of the day—and Mickey always showered
at night. It worked out for Ian that way, because it meant he only had to think
about Mickey naked and in close proximity when he changed in the morning and at
night, and never had to worry about what would happen if he encountered a
dripping wet, warm, showering Mickey in the bathroom.
 
Except tonight, because Ian definitely needed a shower after that workout, and
he was sure Mickey did, too. Which meant they would be in the same place, at
the same time, soaking wet and completely naked.
 
The thought alone was enough to send blood rushing to Ian’s groin.
 
So when Mickey grabbed a towel and body wash and headed to the bathroom, Ian
was thrown when he yelled, “Coming, Gallagher?”
 
Because first of all, yes, Ian would be coming to the thought of Mickey in the
shower. But also, no, he was not sure he could handle showering next to him
right now.
 
Since he couldn’t explain this to Mickey, and didn’t have time to think up some
grandiose excuse, Ian followed Mickey into the bathroom with a looming sense of
dread.
 
There were four stalls and none of them were taken, so Ian quickly disappeared
into the one farthest from the entrance, thinking Mickey would choose the one
closest to the door. When Mickey instead brought his stuff to the shower stall
next to him, Ian froze on the spot.
 
“You okay, Gallagher?” Mickey asked as he stripped. “You look sick. Did we work
you too hard at the gym?”
 
Ian unfroze for long enough to turn his face away from Mickey’s body before
scrambling into the stall. “Uh, yeah,” he said loudly. “It’s been a while since
I worked my legs like that.”
 
“You really haven’t been getting much action lately, then,” Mickey joked.
 
Ian pretended like his dick wasn’t half-hard. He went through the motions of
turning the water on and grabbing his soap, despite the fact that he’s never
wanted to be more dirty in his life than he did at this moment with Mickey
Milkovich.
 
The hot water did nothing to make Ian feel better; he imagined the way it was
also falling against Mickey's skin, feet away, and how easy it would be for him
to walk into the other stall and join him. At this point, he had to conclude
that Mickey didn't like him back, regardless of any random post-wrestling
boners that had occurred between them, because if Mickey did like him there was
no way he would have invited Ian to the showers with him.
 
Not that he'd really invited Ian to the showers, he'd just asked if Ian were
coming since he knew Ian needed one. But now that the thought was in Ian's mind
he couldn't stop imagining what would have happened if Mickey had been under
the spray of water—completely naked and hard and with that fucking smirk on his
face—when he'd said "coming, Gallagher?" instead of in the hallway.
 
Fuck. There was no way Ian would be able to not jerk off right now. But he
could do it quietly... yes, he'd spent enough years living in a roommate to
know how to do it quietly.
 
When Ian finally allowed his slender fingers to wrap around his dick, he let
out a sigh that was lost in the sound of the water beating down around them. It
was a good cover for the noise as he continued to jerk himself, slow at first
and then faster and faster, concentrating mostly on the head of his cock as he
relaxed into it. One hand rubbed his balls gently, and he bit his tongue to
prevent sound from escaping his mouth.
 
He thought about Mickey bending over for him right there in the shower so that
Ian could see that neat little hole twitch as he got closer, and he imagined
what that would look like, Mickey's total abandon. In his fantasy he was
fingering Mickey slowly, carefully, jerking him slowly with his other hand
until finally he was opened up far enough that Ian could get inside him.
 
His fantasy didn't get much farther than that before it was sending him over
the edge. With a loud gasp he came, white ribbons coating his hands, and his
entire body convulsed in the best orgasm he'd had in a while.
 
As soon as the haze faded away and Ian could think straight again, he began to
worry about how loud he'd been. It was easy for him to be quiet when he needed
to be, but if there was one time he shouldn't be making even one sound, it was
now. He waited a few seconds, listening intently over the shower spray, to see
if Mickey was going to say anything. If he asked about the noise, Ian could say
he slipped and it made him gasp—yes, that was a good excuse
 
Ian couldn't hear anything, though; there was only silence and water around
them. He was about to put his face back under the showerhead when something did
catch his attention: a small, soft sigh came from Mickey's shower stall.
 
Before he could help it, Ian's mouth dropped open in shock. There was no way
Mickey was jerking off, too. It was impossible. If Ian was afraid to masturbate
near Mickey, then Mickey, master of squashing his feelings and internalized
homophobia, certainly wouldn't.
 
Right?
 
There was another sigh from Mickey's stall, this one slightly louder, and then
only the sound of water. A few moment later, the pop of a shampoo bottle being
opened.
 
It occurred to Ian that he would never actually know what Mickey had or hadn't
been doing just now. For all he knew, Mickey was the one who had accidentally
fallen and gasped in surprise... twice.
 
It was altogether infuriating and sexy. Ian would really like a clue as to what
the fuck was going on between them, and if his attraction was one-sided. Then
again, he would also really like to not get punched in the face for hitting on
Mickey, so that was where the issue lay.
 
The faucet of Mickey's shower shut off, and Ian was relieved when he heard the
other boy gather his things and head back to the room. The last thing he needed
was to see Mickey in a towel right now.
 
He gave it a few minutes before he was sure Mickey would have changed into his
pajamas, and then he headed to the room after him.
 
When he got there Mickey was sprawled out on his bed staring at the ceiling,
and neither of them said anything at all.
***** Unexpected Naps *****
Ian was used to being told what to do. It came with the boarding school
territory. He was used to the wifi getting turned off at eight every night, a
meeting with a chiding administrator if he skipped a meal, and adhering to
every annoying rule unless he wanted an even more annoying punishment.
 
Mickey was used to doing whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever the fuck he
wanted to do it. That was why it wasn’t really surprising when, four days in a
row, Mickey didn’t get back to their room until after 5 P.M., long after school
had ended and even after Ian had returned from hanging out with Lip.
 
“Where were you?” Ian asked from where he lay on his bed, as Mickey stomped
into the room and shut the door behind him.
 
“De-fucking-tention,” Mickey mumbled. Ian watched with amusement as he threw
his books onto the floor.
 
“You actually brought your books to class today,” Ian said, fighting to keep
the smirk off his face. Mickey looked furious, and it made Ian want to kiss him
all over.
 
“No!” Mickey said, flailing his arms as he spoke animatedly. “No, I fucking
didn’t! They fuckin’ gave me new ones. I showed up to detention and the fucking
dean is there, and she’s talking about how much she wants me to succeed,”
Mickey spits the word. “She asked me why my grades are so shitty and I told her
to fuck off.”
 
Ian tried to imagine the expression that must have been on Dean Minster’s face
when he said that, but he couldn’t. There was no way she’d heard that from a
student before, ever.
 
“You fuckin’ smirkin’ over there, Gallagher?” Mickey asked, but the aggression
had left his voice.
 
“It’s just… funny,” Ian said honestly, and he couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
“Jesus Christ, Mickey.”
 
“Ay, fuck off,” Mickey said with no heat. His eyes were starting to twinkle.
“That’s why I had detention all week. They lectured me for fuckin’ ever and
then gave me these textbooks,” he motioned to the pile he’d unceremoniously
thrown onto the floor, “saying how they hope I’ll reach my full potential now.
The fuck do they know about my full potential?  My full fuckin’ potential was
making a buck a day selling coke on the street.” He took out a pack of
cigarettes and out of habit they both automatically moved toward the window.
 
They spent a few minutes in comfortable silence, breathing smoke out the window
in an even pattern. Their eyes met for a long moment until Mickey coughed and
looked away.
 
“You think they’ll expel you?” Ian asked, eyes trained to car on the street
below in an effort to keep them from locking with Mickey’s again.
 
“Nah,” Mickey said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “They would’ve done it already.
You’re stuck with me, Gallagher.”
 
“Lucky me,” Ian murmured. Their eyes met again, and where they were situated,
both hanging out the window to keep the smoke from entering the room, left
little space between them. The first time they stared at each other could have
been a fluke. The second time, with that electricity between them and their
breath caught in their throats, Ian thought they were going to kiss.
 
They didn’t. Mickey flung his half-smoked cigarette out the window and
disappeared back into the room.
 
Ian let out an involuntary sigh. He needed this cigarette, considering the
stress of his everyday living arrangement. Mickey continued to talk to him even
as Ian leaned out the window.
 
“If I was South Side right now I wouldn’t even be in school.”
 
“You say that a lot, but you’re still here.”
 
“It ain’t for the schooling,” Mickey muttered.
 
Ian glanced back at where he was sprawled on his bed. “Then why are you?”
 
Mickey didn’t answer.
 
“Mickey?” Ian prodded.
 
“What, you wanna have a fuckin’ sleepover, Gallagher? Share all our fuckin’
secrets and read our fuckin’ horoscopes and shit?”
 
Ian said, “Not really.”
 
There wasn’t much to do after that. He finished his cigarette in silence.
 
                                    ******
 
Ian didn't get much sleep that night, and he awoke the next morning with heavy
eyes. He'd been on medication for a while now, and while he was lucky that it
had helped his moods, it also tended to make him sleepy. He'd starting taking
it at night in order to quell those side-effects, but every once in a while he
still sagged throughout the day, exhausted for no real reason.
 
Today, in a change of roles for once, Mickey was the one telling Ian he'd
better get up and go to breakfast if he didn't want to get in trouble. Mickey
had actually said that—"Time to get up, princess, or the dean's gonna have your
ass"—and it was so unusual to have Mickey warning him of trouble that Ian
actually did get out of bed.
 
He got ready for class quickly and followed Mickey to the dining hall in a haze
of sleepiness. They sat at what had become their usual table, where Lip and
Mandy sat as well, and Ian all but collapsed into the bench.
 
"Rough night?" Mickey said sarcastically, because he knew Ian had gone to bed
at a decent hour.
 
"Rough morning," Ian corrected. He didn't reach for any of the food spread out
on the table, and instead filled a mug with coffee. Mickey stacked his plate
high with food and relaxed next to him on the bench.
 
The dining hall was never quiet, but in the mornings when everyone was still
waking up it tended to stay at a delicate hush. It was perfectly quiet, and Ian
could feel his body sag. Heavy eyelids obscured Ian's vision as he gazed into
his mug. Across the table a student hummed a soft song that made his eyes
droop...
 
Everything smelled good, like clean linens and cigarettes, and it engulfed Ian.
He knew that scent. He must be sitting in his dorm room, on Mickey's bed, lying
on his pillow and taking in the scent of his hair. He could sleep forever here,
it was so perfect... he could stay here and take in the scent of Mickey and the
quiet sounds around him... all he needed was for Mickey to come... but the air
smelled like him. He should be here soon...
 
"Looks like someone had a wild night." Mandy's loud voice came across the table
and startled Ian awake. He wasn't in Mickey's bed, he was in the dining hall,
and his head—he turned to the side and found his face in Mickey's sleeve. It
took Ian a moment to realize his head lay against Mickey's shoulder.
 
As soon as he did realize this he scrambled away, desperate to extract himself
before Mickey could call him gay for it.
 
"Have a nice nap?" Lip asked cheekily.
 
Ian frowned. "Didn't realize I was falling asleep..." He yawned and looked at
Mickey. "Was I out for a while?"
 
"About ten minutes," Lip supplied.
 
Mickey didn't say anything. His eyes avoided Ian's.
 
"Mickey here was a nice little pillow for you," Lip added unhelpfully. Mandy
rolled her eyes.
 
Ian blinked down at Mickey. "Why didn't you wake me up?"
 
Mickey bit the side of his lip. "You seemed tired."
 
"Oh," Ian said. "Thanks."
 
"Yeah, no problem," Mickey said.
 
Ian wasn't really sure what to do now, because his heart was beating
sporadically, and he was pretty sure he'd just cracked through every outer
layer of Mickey at once and gotten straight to the part where he didn't mind
being a pillow. He sipped his coffee. Beside him, Mickey looked similarly out
of sorts.
 
Heavy eyes drooped once more, and before Ian could stop himself, he was falling
asleep at the table again. This time he only narrowly managed to wake at the
sudden falling motion before his head landed in a bowl of cereal.
 
Ian sighed. "Would you mind if—"
 
"Go ahead." Mickey murmured quietly, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear,
and he stuck out his shoulder for Ian to lean on.
 
"Thanks, Mick," Ian said dreamily as he fell asleep again, that wonderful smell
all around him. "You're... best roommate..."
 
Lip might have laughed at that, but Ian wouldn't know; seconds after placing
his head onto that muscular shoulder, he was asleep. 
 
***** Frustrations *****
Chapter Notes
     In which both boys are... pretty juvenile, really.
Thanks to his early-morning nap, by the time breakfast was over Ian was awake
enough to make it through his classes for the day. He did have a special pass
to get out of class in case he ever had an episode or was too depressed to
leave his room, but he'd never needed to use it. Today Mickey's shoulder had
worked as a better remedy to Ian's rough morning than just about anything else
he could think of. Mickey could probably mend Ian’s bones just by touching them
to his shoulder. It was that kind of magical.
 
They had a day of notes first period, which meant they were mostly writing and
Ian was mostly paying attention. He was continuously distracted by Mickey's
pen, which kept finding it's way into Mickey's mouth in a way that made Ian
very, very jealous.
 
It was a relief that Ian didn't have to worry about Mickey coming into their
room after school now, because Ian knew first period that he needed to jerk off
as soon as he got back to his dorm. It was too much to watch Mickey suck on and
bite the end of his pen as if he had a fucking oral fixation—Ian needed an
escape from his sexual frustration. He was actually lucky that Mickey had
detention that afternoon: Ian would have the room all to himself.
 
He'd been happily anticipating it all day, so that afternoon he'd barely closed
the door to his dorm before his pants were unzipped and pushed down his thighs.
Ian collapsed into his bed with a happy sigh, grabbed some lotion from the
drawer beside his bed, and wrapped a hand around his dick.
 
God, he'd been looking forward to this.
 
Ian thought back to Mickey's lips around his pen and imagined it was his mouth
around Ian's dick instead, with Mickey on his knees in front of Ian, hungrily
sucking away. He slid his thumb over the head of his dick and imagined it was
Mickey's tongue licking his slit, Mickey's throat swallowing his precum. God,
if only Mickey were here to do it himself so he could look up at Ian, mouth
still around his cock, and Ian could be engulfed in the warm blue of his eyes.
 
Ian's left hand came up to massage his balls as his other hand tugged faster
and harder. He was so close—so ready to come down Mickey's throat—
 
"Hey, Gallagher, guess who got out of deten—" Mickey stopped dead halfway
through the door, shocked eyes wide and glued to where Ian's fist was wrapped
around his cock. "Oh, fuck!"
 
"Oh, shit," Ian said desperately. No matter how fast he scrambled to make it
look like this wasn't exactly what it was, it was too late. The damage was
done.
 
Ian wasn't sure if he should have the Earth swallow him up in his embarrassment
or keep going just to see how Mickey would respond.
 
It was very likely that response would be Mickey throwing Ian out the window,
which was why Ian quickly pulled his pants up and sat up so he could bury his
face in his arms.
 
"What the fuck, Gallagher?" Mickey demanded. He'd turned to face the wall after
he got over his initial shock, and he was still standing with his back to Ian.
"We've been out of class for, what, ten minutes?"
 
"I thought you had detention!" Ian said loudly, unafraid to look at Mickey now
that the other boy wasn't facing him and therefore couldn't see the bright red
color of his face.
 
Mickey ignored him. "Next time send a fucking warning text. 'Hey Mickey, I'm
tugging one out in the room, steer clear for half an hour.' Communication,
Gallagher!"
 
"You weren't supposed to be here!"
 
"Fuck," Mickey said, and he finally moved away from the wall. It occurred to
Ian that it was strange for him to face away for so long. It had been minutes
since Ian had pulled his pants back up and sat on his bed, but Mickey was
completely turned toward the wall. Ian had a flash of that night weeks ago when
Mickey had gotten hard when they wrestled, and with a twist of his stomach he
wondered if Mickey wouldn’t turn the front of his body towards him today for
the same reason.
 
But... no, that couldn't be it. This was too much of a fucking embarrassing
situation for both of them.
 
"Look, this sort of thing happens a lot at boarding schools," Ian said, in an
attempt to reassure both of them that there was nothing weird about what had
just happened, even though there definitely was. "It's one of the many thrills
of living on a floor with ten other dudes."
 
And even though it was true—in fact, Ian had walked in on his roommate jerking
off last year, and while it had been weird, it hadn't been so cripplingly
awkward—Ian couldn't help but feel like this was different. Maybe it was the
way Mickey's eyes had lingered on his dick, or the way he'd faced away from Ian
for so longer afterwards, but either way, Ian was going to go crazy if they
didn't fucking settle the sexual tension between them. Soon.
 
Finally Mickey turned to him. They stared at each other, equally embarrassed.
 
After a long, awkward moment, Ian repeated, "It's not a big deal."
 
"Yeah, whatever, Gallagher," Mickey said, malice underlying his tone."But I'm
not fucking gay, okay? I don't want to see any more dicks. Keep that fuckin'
thing in your pants, Firecrotch."
 
"Oh, fuck off," Ian muttered. "You're fucking jealous."
 
"Of what, your anaconda? I'm surprised people ain't running away from that
thing."
 
Ian snorted and laughed, caught off guard by the comment. The backhanded
compliment, really. If Mickey had seen enough of his dick to gawk at how big it
was, Ian supposed there was no point pretending that this hadn't actually
happened. "I've never had any complaints."
 
"It ain't the size of the boat, man, it's the motion of the fuckin' thing."
 
"Is that what people say to you?"
 
Mickey flipped him off. "No more dick-talk. This is too fuckin' weird. We're
acting like a couple of fags."
 
Ian's jaw clenched. He hated when Mickey used that word; maybe it was different
on the South Side, but where Ian came from it was strikingly offensive. He
barely thought about what he was going to say before the words came out of his
mouth. "Man, I am a fucking fag."
 
The air in the room turned stagnant, as if they had both stopped breathing.
Mickey looked paler than usual.
 
"Don't say that shit to me," he said.
 
"Yeah?" Ian asked, entire body tense. "Why not?"
 
"Because I don't wanna fucking hear that shit."
 
"Why don't you want to hear it, Mickey?" Ian pushed. "You scared you feel the
same way?"
 
Mickey was across the room and in his face before Ian could blink. His fist
connected with Ian's jaw just as quickly; Ian was lucky his reflexes were good,
or he would have been hit with more than a grazing of knuckles.
 
"Fuck you," Ian whispered, because he didn't know what else to say. Some small,
stupid part of him thought Mickey might be accepting of his confession—might
even have a confession of his own to make.
 
Instead both boys stood inches apart in the middle of the room, the tension in
the air so thick it was almost tangible.
 
Mickey didn't say anything.
 
"Fuck you," Ian repeated, louder this time, the words flying out of his mouth
like venom. He didn't wait for Mickey to respond; he grabbed his pajamas off
the bed and stormed out of the room.
 
He decided he would sleep in Lip's room that night. Mandy was probably over,
but Ian didn't care. Anything was better than rooming with Mickey right now.
 
When he arrived at Lip's room his hypothesis was realized: Mandy was lying on
Lip's bed, somehow snuck in through the window. Lip's roommate, as usual, was
on the other side of the room largely ignoring them.
 
"'Sup, Ian?" Lip asked when Ian sat on the edge of his bed.
 
"Mickey's being an asshole. Can I sleep in here?"
 
"Yeah," Lip said. "I'm surprised it's taken this long."
 
Mandy scoffed her agreed. “Mickey can be a real piece of shit. What’d he do
this time?”
 
Ian bit his lip; he wasn’t sure if he should explain what had happened. Mandy
was from the same household Mickey was from—if he was homophobic, she probably
was as well. Though, Ian reasoned, if she was, it would be better for Lip if
they knew about it now. Lip would never stay with someone like that, especially
not after finding out about Ian’s sexuality a few months earlier.
 
Ian decided to tell them, if only to judge Mandy on her reaction. “He was being
a homophobic prick.”
 
Mandy rolled her eyes. “Sounds like him.”
 
“Sounds like a fucking asshole,” Lip added. He was looking at Ian was narrowed
eyes and a flabbergasted expression. He mouthed, Mickey? You’ve got to be
kidding me, and Ian blushed. Trust Lip to put the pieces together before he
even had all of them.
 
Mandy whipped out her crappy phone to text Mickey something—more precisely, to
text him “U R AN ASSHOLE,” and while she was staring at her phone, Lip stared
at Ian.
 
Ian gave his most intense sad puppy expression, and Lip looked annoyed.
 
And he was entitled to be angry, really. He’d known about Ian’s terrible taste
in men since he found about about his brief affair with his married-with-two-
children Chemistry teacher the year before; from the look on his face, he
didn’t consider Mickey much of a step up.
 
Mandy’s phone buzzed with a new message, and she snorted when she read it.
 
“Mickey says, ‘no shit,’” she informed them. “How about you just move in here,
Ian?”
 
“Can’t if you already are,” Ian pointed out, and she laughed.
 
“All right, all right,” Lip said, “everyone relax. There’s a way all three of
us can fit on the bed…”
 
Yeah, Ian decided he was going to stay here for a while. A cramped bed was
better than having to deal with Mickey’s shit.
 
***** Tensions and Invitations *****
Breakfast was awkward the next morning, mainly because neither Ian nor Mickey
had a place to sit besides their regular seats next to each other. The meal
passed with an unspoken tension between them, a heavy cloud that clung to them
and followed them to math class.
 
It was uncomfortable. Ian eagerly awaited the end of the period, and was more
thankful now than ever that he didn’t have any other classes with Mickey.
 
There was nothing that could save him from having to go back to their dorm room
later on, though. He’d already gone one day without his books and class
supplies; he would need to get those out if he was going to stay in Lip’s room
(and he would figure out how to get through the school’s shitty security system
later—usually the teachers who acted as resident assistants were lenient for
one night, but if Ian tried to stay in Lip’s room again, they would definitely
have something to say. Luckily they could easily be persuaded with money, and
Ian had plenty of that).
 
With the hope that Mickey would be at detention, or in the dean’s office
getting yelled at, or beating some kid up in the park across the street, Ian
went to his room right after school.
 
Because he wasn’t lucky in the slightest way, Mickey was lying on his bed
playing with a pocket knife when Ian entered the room.
 
Their eyes made contact for a long second before Ian looked away angrily. He
could feel his face getting red and willed it to stop.
 
“Hey,” Mickey said, voice softer than usual.
 
Ian was surprised at being spoken to, but he tried not to show it. Instead he
turned his back to Mickey, grabbed his backpack, and began loading the things
he needed for class into it.
 
“So, uh,” Mickey said awkwardly, “what’s up, Gallagher?”
 
“What’s up?” Ian repeated, incredulous. He whirled around to watch where Mickey
was avoiding his gaze on the bed. “What’s up, seriously?”
 
“They don’t say that where you come from, or somethin’?” Mickey said
sarcastically, and Ian could practically feel the other boy’s hackles going up.
“What’s up—it’s like, how’s it going?”
 
“I’m fucking fine, Mickey,” Ian said. “Fucking great. Just taking the things I
need for class tomorrow because I’m staying with Lip instead of my homophobic
roommate.”
 
Mickey sighed. “Look, man, I’m not homophobic—” Ian laughed bitterly. “That’s
how we talk, where I come from! We say shit like fag and no one gets offended.”
 
“Yeah? You punch people for being gay and they don’t get offended about that,
either?”
 
Mickey bit his lip. He still wouldn’t make eye contact with Ian. “I was just a
little surprised, that’s all.”
 
“That’s really not my problem,” Ian said, and he turned to go.
 
Mickey frowned. “No, don’t.”
 
“Don’t leave?” Ian guessed.
 
“Just, don’t.” Mickey looked at a loss for what to say.
 
“Whatever,” Ian said. “See you in geometry.”
 
He left the room, but he lingered at the door for a few moments after he shut
it, and he could have sworn he heard the thud of a knife going into awall.
 
Ian went back to Lip’s room feeling conflicted. It was strange how Mickey had
reached out to him, almost as if Mickey felt remorse for what had happened the
night before. Though an apology would have been nicer than an attempt at
awkward conversation, Ian thought. Not that he expected an apology from
Mickey—not in a million years.
 
After the cramped sleeping from the night before, Mandy had decided to stay in
her own room tonight, which meant that not only did Ian get a lot more foot
space on the bed, he also got to deal with Lip badgering him about what was
happening with Mickey. His roommate was napping with headphones on, which was
nice—privacy was so rare at boarding school that it was a pleasant surprise
when it actually happened.
 
“Well?” He said expectantly.
 
Ian sighed. Seemingly all in one breath he said, “We got into a fight a while
back and he wound up pinning me to the floor, and I could tell he had a woodie
from it, but then he said all this stuff about how it never happened, and we
never talked about it again. Obviously I never said anything, and he always
talked about having sex with women, and used the word fag, so I thought maybe
he really wasn’t gay. But there’s so much weird fucking sexual tension between
us, and one time he caught me jerking off and fucking stared at my dick. Last
night I said I’m gay, and he tried to punch me, but now today he was making
conversation like he feels bad, or something.”
 
“Holy shit,” Lip said.
 
“Yeah.”
 
They were silent for a moment.
 
“Ever heard of internalized homophobia?” Lip asked. Ian shook his head. “It’s
when someone who’s gay hears so many bad things about gay people they start to
think there’s something wrong with them.”
 
Ian rubbed his eyes. He needed a cigarette.
 
“Seems like Mickey has a major case,” Lip said unnecessarily.
 
“Maybe,” Ian said dejectedly. “Maybe we just come from two different places. He
says no one on the South Side gets offended over the word fag.”
 
“That doesn’t make this your fault.”
 
“I know,” Ian said, though he didn’t. Perhaps he was blowing this out of
proportion. If Mickey didn’t want to talk about possibly being gay, well, Ian
couldn’t do anything about it. He ought to find someone else in the meantime
and hope that by the end of the year, Mickey would come around. Or come out, as
the case may be.
 
"You know you can stay here for as long as you want," Lip told him. "No need to
stay with a repressed, homophobic roommate."
 
"Thanks," Ian said quietly. His brother, at least, would always be there for
him. When Ian felt crushed by the weight of what made him different, that fact
was always a beacon of light.
 
"Wanna sneak out and get Chinese food?"
 
Ian grinned. "You already know the answer to that.”
 
                                    ******
Ian would be lying if he said he wasn't dreading the next morning, because he
was sure Mickey must be even more angry with him after he'd snubbed him the
night before. For that reason he had Lip tell the teachers on duty that he was
ill so he could skip breakfast. That, at least, was half an hour less time
today that would be dedicated to awkward time with Mickey.
 
He couldn’t skip geometry, because there was a test the next day he needed to
review for, so he trudged to the classroom and prepared himself to deflect any
and all sneered comments he might face.
 
Ian was more than ready to get into a fight in the middle of class.
 
Mickey hadn't seemed to have gotten the memo that they were supposed have
planned on beating each other up.
 
For the first time all year Mickey was in class before the bell rang—and before
Ian, for that matter. When Ian arrived, he was nervously tapping his fingers on
the desk.
 
"Gallagher," he greeted when their eyes met.
 
Ian ignored him.
 
"Listen," Micky began. Sharp teeth worried his bottom lip. "You should come
back to the room today after school."
 
"No need," Ian informed him. "I have all my stuff for class."
 
"Come by anyway. I have something for you."
 
"You don’t get to tell me what to do," Ian said defensively. "And you have
what, a shiv? No, thanks. If you want to fight it out we can do it right here,
right now."
 
Mickey blinked at him in surprise. "You escalated that pretty quickly,
Gallagher. I’m not trying to start anything. And..." He frowned. "It's not a
shiv. Come by later and find out what it is or don't, I don't care."
 
He must have cared or he wouldn't have asked, but Ian decided not to mention
that. A small amount of guilt weighed Ian down; he shouldn’t have accused
Mickey of having a shiv. They had been friends for three months before their
recent fight, and perhaps Ian shouldn’t write him off so quickly.
 
Ian opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment the teacher came into class
and called for silence. He wasn't sure what he would have said, anyway.
 
He was too busy trying to quell the part of him that was hoping Mickey was
trying to make up for what had happened to think coherently about much else. A
desperate part of him was hoping they would overcome this and go back to being
friends who went to the gym and watched bad television together.
 
Against his better judgement, Ian decided he would go to his dorm after school.
In the end he was far too curious about what Mickey had for him, and too eager
to renew their friendship, to stay away. He made up his mind, unlocked his
room, and cautiously opened the door.
 
Mickey wasn't in the room yet, so Ian sat on his bed and waited. After a few
minutes of sitting patiently, Ian got up to search through his possessions.
Everything was there, it seemed, which meant Mickey hadn't sold any of his
belongings on the black market. That was a good sign.
 
A wave of guilt flooded Ian as he stood staring at his laptop. It wasn't fair
for him to have even wondered if Mickey had stolen all his things. Just because
he was from the South Side didn't mean he was a terrible person. Ian shouldn't
keep assuming the worst of him (which, Ian realized, he was doing). So maybe he
was being classist, or whatever Debbie was always going on about in her
(decidedly well-placed) concerns for social justice. Maybe it was time for him
to try to see things from Mickey's point of view.
 
Ian didn't really understand why Mickey did the things he did, but if what Lip
had said was true and it was some form of internalized homophobia, that was
sad. Ian had never had to fear for his well-being or panic about his family
accepting him, because they weren't perfect but they were his family, and that
meant they loved him no matter what.
 
But Mandy hadn't even seemed to know that Mickey was gay. She'd said it was
normal for him to make homophobic comments, but nothing more. Which meant
either he wasn't actually gay (which would be really shitty, Ian thought), or
he hadn't told his sister. And if he hadn't told his sister, there must be a
reason...
 
Ian wasn't great at investigative work; that had always been Lip's forte.
Perhaps he should make a List of Confusing and/or Stupid Things Mickey
Milkovich Has Done and bring it downstairs for Lip to see, in the hopes that
his brother could figure out what Ian couldn't.
 
This was just beginning to seem like a viable option when the door opened and
Mickey walked into the room.
 
He threw his backpack down on the floor, eyes never leaving his side of the
room, as if he didn't actually expect anyone else to be here with him.
 
"Hi, Mickey," Ian said, and he tried to keep all curiosity out of his voice. He
didn't think Mickey would like it very much if he knew Ian had been sitting
here attempting to analyze him.
 
Mickey turned quickly and stared into Ian's face, mouth open in surprise, as if
he really didn't think Ian would show.
 
Ian, for his part, really wished this could be less awkward. He sat back down
on his bed.
 
"Gallagher," Mickey greeted, blank going carefully blank as he gained his
composure. "You showed."
 
"Yeah, well," Ian scuffed his shoes against the floor. "Ain't got nothing
better to do."
 
Mickey walked over to dresser and opened the first drawer. He pulled out a
shoebox and handed it over to Ian.
 
"Um, thanks, Mickey, but I can buy my own shoes."
 
"No shit, Gallagher. Open the box."
 
Ian did. Inside was a small collection of items—Mickey's phone, a small stack
of dollars, an expensive-looking ring—that Mickey seemed to be keeping safe.
 
On top of the pile was a pair of tickets, and Mickey carefully chewed his lip
when Ian lifted them out of the box.
 
"These?" Ian asked Mickey nodded.
 
Ian held them up to his face to examine them closer. Two tickets for Unified
Knife the next weekend.
 
"Holy shit, that's awesome," Ian said honestly. "Who are you taking?"
 
Mickey stared at him. "You joking?"
 
And that's when Ian registered what was happening, because Mickey had said he
had something for him, and now he was showing them these tickets, and there
were two, and Ian was very stupid for not realizing this right away.
 
"Yeah, joking," Ian lied, laughing at his own stupidity. "So this is, what, a
peace treaty?"
 
Mickey smirked. "Basically. Anyway, I want my roommate back, because someone's
gotta do my English homework before they expel me."
 
Ian couldn’t help it; he grinned. The relief that filled him upon realizing he
and Mickey could still be friends was greater than he’d expected it to be.
 
“So you wanna go?” Mickey asked, the picture of nonchalance.
 
“Yeah, ‘course,” Ian said excitedly. “I’ve never been to a concert before.”
 
Mickey stared at him in disbelief. “No way. You’ve never been to a concert
before?”
 
Ian shook his head. “Nope.”
 
“Aw, man, you’re missin’ out,” Mickey said as he took a cigarette and lighter
out of his pocket.
 
“Not anymore,” Ian said, fighting to get the smile off his face and losing.
 
“Mm,” Mickey grunted. He looked away. “Just keep your schedule open next
Friday. And help me with this English project shit I gotta do."
 
For once Ian didn't even put up a fight, because who was he kidding? Of course
he would do Mickey's homework. He would probably do anything for Mickey, which,
he told himself, was nothing more than a testament to their great friendship.
 
Ian had never had a friendship before where he'd cared enough to make up with
the other person. That was something he'd always done with Lip and Fiona, but
never had he cared about someone outside his family enough to bother being nice
to them even when he was annoyed, or get over his anger after the other person
pissed him off.
 
And Mickey had really pissed him off. But now... Ian didn't want to be angry
anymore, and he didn't want Mickey to be mad at him, either.
 
So this, Ian decided, was kind of a big deal. The fact that he forgave Mickey
for their fight. The fact that he was now willing to do something for him, like
his homework.
 
The fact that Mickey had bought them concert tickets for a band he knew Ian
liked, because not only did Mickey want to spend time with Ian outside of
school, but he paid attention to what Ian liked.
 
Ian was trying to keep the smile off his face, he really was. It wasn't his
fault his lips didn't seem to want to go back down.
 
If he wasn't on a steady diet of his medication, Ian might have worried that
the elation he was feeling was because of the chemicals in his brain. He still
struggled to sort out sometimes whether the emotions he felt were actually his
or the results of his bipolar disorder—but he knew when he looked at Mickey's
face that the happiness he felt was fully his own.
 
And unlike when he was in his manic phase, the warmth in his stomach and the
happiness in his heart didn't make him feel like he might fly away or explode
at any moment. Instead it made him feel whole, and like he wanted to walk
across the room and kiss Mickey on the lips.
 
Except he couldn't do that. He didn't even know for sure that Mickey was into
boys.
 
But he hoped.
 
"All right, fine," Ian said. "What's this English project about?"
 
Mickey grinned.
 
***** Telephone Conversations *****
Ian spent the next few days flying high, too thrilled about Mickey’s concert
invitation to think about much else.
 
Not that it was big news, Ian had to remind himself, for what was probably the
sixteenth time that day. They were two friends going to a concert. Friends went
to concerts all the time.
 
But that didn’t mean Ian had an inexplicably strong bubble of hope that this
would let them turn into something more.
 
When the school day ended, Ian sought time alone. He wanted to think about
this, and what it meant, so he braced the bitter December cold to go for a walk
around the city.
 
As soon as he left the campus, his phone rang. Assuming it was Lip asking why
they couldn’t meet up at the park, he prepared to ignore it—but then he saw the
caller ID and answered eagerly.
 
“Fiona!” he answered happily.
 
“Ian?” Fiona’s voice came over the line.
 
“Hey,” Ian replied with a smile she couldn’t see. It was so good to hear her
voice.
 
“Hey, little bro. What’s up?”
 
“Uh, nothing, really. I was about to go ditch Lip to go for a walk.”
 
Fiona laughed. “Nothing new, then. So how’s everything, how’s school? I feel
like we haven’t talked in forever. You like your classes? Is your roommate
okay?”
 
“The classes are fine, I guess,” Ian said.
 
“You better be studying hard,” Fiona warned, voice full of admonition. “We
don’t need any more Gallaghers going on a bender and dropping out.”
 
“We’ve got a long way to go to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Ian said faux-
seriously. “Lip and I should be okay, and Debbie, but I don’t know how Carl is
going to survive at the Academy. Nothing for him to blow up. Nothing for him to
even attempt to blow up.”
 
Fiona’s rough laugh sounded through the line again. “Hopefully I’ll have that
kind sorted out by then. If not we’ll just have Frank send a big check with
lots of zeros.”
 
Her words reminded Ian of something; perhaps Fiona could give him an outsider’s
opinion about what was going on with him and Mickey.
 
“Hey, you wanna know something interesting?” Ian said, “My roommates from the
South Side—he and his sister won a scholarship here, or something—and he’s
pretty cool. Like, really cool. He got us concert tickets for next weekend.”
 
“Oh, yeah? What band?”
 
“Unified Knife.” The long silence informed Ian that Fiona didn’t know what he
was talking about. “It’s that band I always play in our fitness room.”
 
“Is that what they’re called?” Fiona asked. “I always just assumed it was a
recording of the homeless guys living down the street banging on their garbage
can lids.”
 
Ian snorted. “Whatever. It’s gonna be fun.” He paused for a moment, stomach
twisting in knots. “Listen, Fiona… what does it mean when a guy buys something
like that for you? I mean, concert tickets or something.”
 
“If a guy bought concert tickets for me I’d assume he wanted to get in my
pants,” Fiona informed him. “But I’m not as well-versed in the mating habits of
the gay community. Has he been sending you signals?”
 
Ian thought of Mickey’s pants tented against him as they wrestled on the floor.
“Kind of.”
 
“Maybe he’s interested. Maybe he’s just trying to be nice. Either way, Ian, I
wouldn’t recommend starting something with your roommate. It could get tricky
fast, and then you’ll have nowhere to go.”
 
“I could room with Lip,” Ian reminded her, purposefully leaving out the fact
that he’d done that already, “Or go on a bender and be the second Gallagher to
drop out.”
 
“That one isn’t an option,” Fiona said sternly. “Now go study your ass off or
something. Make me proud.”
 
“Yeah, I should. I have an Economics test tomorrow. Hey, do you think if I get
an A and tell Frank he’ll care this time?”
 
“Um, no, sweetie. I don’t even know where he is right now. But you know I’ll be
proud of you.”
 
Ian smiled. “I know. Thanks, Fiona.”
 
“No problem,” she said. “I’ll talk to you soon, Ian.”
 
They hung up the phone, and Ian was left feeling much the same way he had
before. He was still confused, still too hopeful for his own good. His stomach
still filled with butterflies when he thought about how Mickey had gone out of
his way to do something nice for him.
 
And he hadn’t just don’t it because he wanted Ian to do his homework, either,
because it turned out he hadn’t even had an English project. He was just using
that as an excuse to make his attempts to rebuild their friendship seem less
heartfelt.
 
At this thought, Ian grinned. No, he didn’t know what he going on with him and
Mickey. He didn’t know what would happen at the concert. But he had a feeling
everything would crescendo soon.
                                    *******
 
“Hey, man, what’s up? You’re bouncin’ off the walls.”
 
It was late, and they were both in their room splayed out on their respective
beds. Ian’s laptop was in the center of the room, between them so they could
both watch
 
“I’m excited,” Ian said.
 
“For what?”
 
Ian had thought it was self-explanatory: he was excited for the concert, which
was two days away, and the time he’d get to spend with Mickey. Evidently, this
was not at the front of Mickey’s mind, like it was in Ian’s.
 
He scrambled for something else, a different excuse to explain why he was in
such a good mood.
 
“To watch Van Damme beat Seagal into the ground, that’s what,” he lied, sending
a smirk Mickey’s way.
 
Mickey watched him with a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re out of your mind. Have
you seen that fucking ponytail? It’s a powerful ponytail. Seagal could totally
kick Van Damme’s ass.”
 
“No way, dude,” Ian said. “It’s Van ‘Double Impact’ Damme. Seagal doesn’t stand
a chance.”
 
“You wanna put a bet on that, Gallagher?”
 
Ian smirked. “‘Course I do.”
 
They made the bet and watched the fight, cheering loudly whenever it seemed
like their man would win. At the end of the night, the boys went from actively
watching the show to not watching it at all; instead, they swapped stories of
the fights they themselves had gotten into, Mickey’s list infinitely longer. In
the end Mickey won the bet, but he didn’t take the money.
 
It wasn’t until after two in the morning that they fell asleep, and they both
woke up exhausted.
 
“Oh, man,” Mickey muttered. “This is gonna be a rough day.”
 
“Mmm,” Ian agreed sleepily. They were in the dining hall, Mickey downing all
the bacon in sight, Ian trying not to fall asleep.
 
Failing.
 
He woke up on Mickey’s shoulder after the other boy’s body jostled when he
reached for a sausage.
 
“Oh, sorry, Mick,” Ian said in a groggy voice. “Don’t mean to keep doing that.”
 
Mickey didn’t say anything, but he also didn’t punch Ian in the face, which was
a good sign.
 
“You know,” Lip said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you didn’t sit so close
together, you wouldn’t have to worry about these accidents that keep
happening.”
 
“Leave ‘em  alone, Lip,” Mandy said. “It’s fucking early.”
 
Lip just rolled his eyes.
 
“It’s fine,” Ian said to his brother. He knew Lip was just trying to stand up
for him, and that, knowing about his homophobic outbursts, he thought Mickey
might hurt him.
 
But right now Ian was more serene than he’d been in a while, and he didn’t want
anything taking that away.
 
“You don’t mind, Mick, right?” Ian asked.
 
“Uh, I guess not,” Mickey said. He looked uncomfortable admitting it. Ian’s
heart soared.
 
“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” Lip said. He stood up from the table. “I have a physics
project I need to work on. See you guys later.”
 
When they said goodbye and he left the dining hall, Mandy turned to the two of
them.
 
“I think it’s nice you’ve finally got a friend, Mickey,” She teased, smirking
at him. “Try not to fuck this one up.”
 
Mickey gave her the finger. “FUCK-U-UP,” his knuckles warned, but Mandy didn’t
seem concerned.
 
“You’ve barely gotten into a fight since we got here,” she informed him. “You
don’t scare me.”
 
“I could change that easily,” Mickey said.
 
“Yeah, but you won’t. Dad’s not here to push violence down your throat.” Her
tone was serious now; she meant what she was saying. “I was hoping this would
happen, Mickey. You’re happier away from him.”
 
“I’d be happier if you’d shut the fuck up.”
 
Mandy snorted. “Someday you’ll thank me for filling out that application and
getting us in here.”
 
“Not likely,” Mickey said, but there was an underlying tone in his voice,
something Ian couldn’t place. It sounded almost self-deprecating, like he was
saying the words just because he thought he was supposed to.
 
“It’s not that bad, Mick,” Ian said.
 
The bell rang, signaling the transition from breakfast to first period.
 
“Whatever. Just no fallin’ asleep on me in class, okay?”
 
Ian grinned. “Yeah, sure.” He’d already had one nap, after all.
 
***** Crossfaded *****
Chapter Notes
     Crossfaded (n.): The act of being intoxicated by a combination of
     substances at the same time, most commonly marijuana and alcohol.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The day of the concert, Ian awoke with butterflies in his stomach. He didn’t
even bother to feel ridiculous about it, and this time when Mickey asked what
had him so happy, Ian told him the truth.

“Didn’t realize it would mean this much to you, Gallagher,” Mickey said,
looking uncomfortable.

He didn’t like to talk about feelings, Ian knew that. Actually, he was starting
to appreciate the way Mickey got flustered when Ian talked excitedly about
their time together—whether it was about their upcoming non-date or past
memories. All Ian had to do was say, “those comics you drew this morning about
Ms. Zenger were hilarious,” and Mickey became an awkward, mumbling mess.

It was Ian’s new favorite thing to do.

They left for the concert around six, because it was an eight o’clock show and
they wanted a good standing place near the front. They look the L downtown, all
the while Mickey telling Ian about the last time he’d seen the band live.
Apparently, they hadn’t been great.

“Then why buy tickets again?” Ian asked.

Mickey ran a hand through his hair. “I’m hoping they’ll be better this time.”

They did get a good place in the crowd, one row back from the front, and even
Mickey was excited at that point. More people arrived, the crowd grew, and as
the space in the venue shrunk, the two boys were forced closer and closer
together.

Their shoulders touched, and Mickey pulled away too quickly. It solved the
problem for a few minutes, until even more people arrived and they were shoved
back together.

Just as Ian put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder to pull him closer and tell him
maybe it would be best for them to move to the back of the crowd, a large man
with a handlebar mustache winked at Ian and licked his lips. Unconsciously, Ian
tightened his grip on Mickey’s shoulder; Mickey looked at him with furrowed
eyebrows until he noticed the man standing next to Ian and staring him down.

“Hey, big boy,” Mickey said, cracking his knuckles to implicate a fight. “How
‘bout you keep your greasy eyes off my friend here.”

It wasn’t a question. The man looked back and forth between them for a moment
before he gave a low chuckle. “Didn’t realize he was yours.” He sucked his
teeth at Ian. “I do love me a twink, though. You give me a call if shortcake
ever splits.”

“That all you think he is? A twink?” Mickey growled.

But the man didn’t say anything, just turned and made his way back through the
crowd.

Ian met Mickey’s gaze. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Mickey bit his lip. “Ian, do you—”

The crowd erupted in yells as the first band came onto the stage. Hundreds of
cheers drowned out Mickey's voice.

"What?" Ian yelled over the noise, "What did you say?"

But Mickey just shook his head. Either he couldn't hear what Ian had said or
the moment had passed and he no longer wanted to finish the question.

The first chord was strung and the crowd erupted even louder than before. It
was unlike anything Ian had heard in his life; the thunderous instruments
fighting to be heard over the roaring crowd as the audience convulsed with the
rhythm of the music. A circle formed in the center of the dance floor, and Ian
watched in awe as a few brave teenagers flung themselves into the midst of it,
punching and kicking in every direction.

"What's happening?" Ian asked loudly.

"Mosh pit," Mickey explained. "It's fun 'til you get your teeth knocked in. You
wanna join, Ian?"

Ian flexed away instinctively, and Mickey, who was watching him, laughed.

"You'll get used to it," he said. Ian wasn’t so sure about that. He wondered
what Lip would say about him being in a place like this, cheap and grimy and
the exact opposite of what they were used to. Without a doubt this was the
least posh place Ian had ever been.

The pit intensified as more people joined in, causing the crowd to bunch closer
together. Ian let Mickey fall into place in front of him, so that he, in his
shortness, didn't miss what was happening on stage. The crowd contracted and
released like a pair of lungs, and each time Ian's hips bumped against Mickey's
backside his entire body filled with air.

When Ian imagined a concert, this hadn't been what he'd seen at all. He'd been
expecting a giant venue with hundreds of seats, and instead he was standing in
the front of a small room filled with enough people to break the fire code. He
was repeatedly kicked in the face by crowd surfers, elbowed in the face by fans
overflowing with enthusiasm, and covered in other people's sweat.

He fucking loved it.

Despite the uncomfortable fact he was forced to reconcile with, which was that
his groin was pressed just above the ass of the person he most wanted to fuck,
Ian felt like he belonged. The energy in the room was contagious. The
population—unafraid of judgment, willing to risk broken bones for a chance to
stagedive, more strung out more than not—was glorious. This was a culture Ian
loved, one he'd never been able to partake in because of his upbringing; he
wouldn't have even known places like this existed, let alone how easily they
could fill him with excitement, if it hadn't been for Mickey.

They were practically dancing together; hips bumped and shoulders shook to the
music, and Ian felt so alive he couldn't resist yelling along with the crowd.
Mickey shot him a smirk, thrown so briefly over his shoulder Ian thought he
might have misinterpreted it, except Mickey danced even harder after that, and
Ian was left with no doubt in his mind that Mickey was very proud of himself
for doing Ian the honor of bringing him here.

Honestly, Ian concentrated more on the sweaty mop of black hair in front of him
than the band on stage. For his part, Mickey didn't seem to notice the semi
that was slowly but surely growing in Ian's pants.

Ian noticed, though, and he wasn't convinced it was because of the energy of
the room. Just being around Mickey aroused him these days. Being crushed up
against his ass in a crowd of thriving people was enough to give Ian shivers.

For once in his life, Ian lucked out: the band finished the final song in their
set and left the stage; Mickey used the few seconds the crowd settled between
the first and seconds bands to take a leak.

As soon as he was gone, Ian sighed with relief. The drummer from the second
band was already walking onto the stage, sliding his drumsticks together in a
way that wasn't lewd, not at all, but still made Ian think of the things he
wanted to do to Mickey.

The slamming of a tambourine brought Ian back into the present. The second band
came onto the stage one by one and prepared their instruments; each time one
walked on stage, the crowd roared. Ian figured had another two minutes at most
to get himself under control before the band started their set and Mickey came
back. And, Ian told himself, he had to get under control, because he refused to
be one of those creepy fuckers who ground his hard cock into the ass of
unsuspecting standers-by. Even if the standerby in question was Mickey and
there was literally not a single thing in the world that Ian would rather do.

The crowd jostled behind him as Mickey made his way back to through the room
toward the stage. He appeared with four drinks, a beer and a plastic shot cup
balanced precariously in each hand; he shoved one arm toward Ian, and Ian
grabbed two drinks. Mickey cradled the two he still had and licked spilled
liquid off his wrist.

Ian stared unabashedly as his pink tongue followed dripping liquid down his
arm. Mickey was too busy to notice.

“How’d you get these?” Ian asked loudly. “Didn’t they card you?”

“Nah,” Mickey shouted back. “They didn’t card me. Mostly because I stole these
off the counter when they weren’t looking.”

Ian guffawed, and Mickey smirked back, clearly happy to have surprised him.

“No one noticed?”

Mickey shrugged. “It’s pretty crowded by the bar. Drink up, man.”

They clinked plastic cups and exchanged wide grins.

On the count of three they took their shots at the same time.

“Aw, shit, I gotta get some more of these,” Mickey said. Ian nodded his
agreement.

Getting drunk with his amazingly attractive, possibly-gay roommate was not on
the top of Ian’s List of Good Ideas, but that didn’t stop him from chugging
down as many beers and shots as Mickey could steal off the bar.

Anyway, his ability to reason was lessening with every drink he gulped down,
and by the time he was on his third shot he’d all but forgotten why it would be
bad for him to get shit-faced while standing so close to Mickey. This inability
to reason doubled tenfold when, after Mickey prodded him roughly on the
shoulder, Ian turned to face a fat blunt.

"We're in public!" Ian shouted, casting worried glances around them.

"No one cares here, dude," Mickey laughed. "This venue's run by some women from
the South Side. They don't give a shit what we do."

He lit the joint and held it out; without another doubt, Ian took a hit.

"That's some good shit," he said appreciatively, passing it back.

"Yeah, man, I told you." Mickey grinned as if proud of himself. It made Ian
want to ruffle his hair—which was weird, Ian decided. He should try to stay
away from that.

The second band came and went without Ian paying much attention to them; he was
concerned more with the way Mickey was dancing even more sensually than before;
the alcohol loosened him up, and he was all but grinding against Ian by the
time Unified Knife played their first song amid the cried of the audience.

It’s only because he’s drunk, Ian thought, but he couldn’t remember why this
mattered. If Mickey hadn’t been drunk, he wouldn’t be dancing against Ian. He
wouldn’t keep insisting on more drinks until neither of them could stand up
straight.

He wouldn’t, on the L-train ride home, kiss Ian on the mouth, with tongue and
without inhibitions.

But he did, and it was fucking amazing.

They’d stumbled through the station, laughing as they tripped up the stairs,
and when Mickey had gotten too close to the tracks, Ian had pulled him back.
For a long moment Mickey just stared at him, dilated pupils gazing deeply into
Ians face. The train had pulled up, but neither of them had moved until a
homeless man—who smelled remarkably similar to Frank on his bad days—shoved
past them. Ian had dragged Mickey onto the train behind the man, who had
already walked into another segment of the L. It was late, and the place was
empty; they were the only people in their cart.

Ian had looked at Mickey, who was still staring at him.

“‘Sup, Mick?” Ian had slurred.

Mickey responded by crashing his lips against Ian’s. There was no finesse to
it, just unskilled drunken lips against each other, but Ian was in heaven. His
cloudy mind could only concentrate on Mickey’s tongue curling around his own,
and the tastes of cigarettes and liquor on his tongue. It was like all the
kisses Ian had imagined but better, because Mickey was real this time, and he’d
been the one to initiate it, and he was the one who continued to pull Ian
closer as he slipped his hands around Ian’s waist.

They’d been so caught in their make-out session they’d missed their stop. Two
stops later they finally realized it, and stumbled the remaining distance back
to the Academy. Mickey, as if from habit, pulled a knife out of his pocket and
let it hang unopened in his hand.

“Gonna stab somebody?” Ian asked with a heavy tongue.

“F’r protection,” Mickey mumbled. “Can’t be out this late without it. Fuckin’
gangs… muggers.”

It was all the explanation Ian needed. He tried to tell Mickey that in this
part of the city, they should be fine without it—but Mickey insisted, and Ian
didn’t want to argue with him. That might stall the kissing that he was hoping
would come later.

They arrived past curfew at their dorm, but the teacher on the ground floor let
them in on the grounds that it was the first time they’d arrived late. Either
she hadn’t noticed their states of inebriation or she hadn’t cared.

Ian wasn’t aware of how long it took to stumble up to their room. The only
thing on his mind was the kiss he and Mickey had shared on the train, and how
desperately he needed it to happen again, now. Every moment away from Mickey’s
mouth was like torture.

In the same second Ian shut the door of their room, he slammed Mickey up
against it. This time when their lips met it was with a cracking of teeth. They
kissed sloppily, tongues battling for dominance, each mouth aching for the
other. Ian’s hands clenched in Mickey’s shirt and he pulled the fabric up until
he could feel the flatness of his abs.

It was rough and intense and wonderful. After a while Mickey pushed Ian toward
the bed, kissing him as they stumbled backwards.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian exclaimed as he fell back onto his comforter and was
immediately covered by Mickey’s body on his. An elbow hit Ian’s face, and he
went from drunken giggling to a cry of pain. “Ouch, you—oh, god,” Ian pushed
Mickey out of the way and ignored his annoyed yelp as he scrambled to the side
of the bed.

“Migh’ throw up,” Ian admitted.

“Nah, man…” Mickey tried weakly to wrap his arms around Ian, to pull him back
towards him, but Ian kept leaning over the side of the bed.

He stayed there for a long while, until the wave of nausea passed. It was
better than vomiting on Mickey after their first make-out session.

When he turned back to the bed, Mickey was passed out on his pillow.

Ian snickered drunkenly and folded himself in next to him. Minutes later he
fell asleep beside Mickey’s warm body.
Chapter End Notes
     I love how much support you people are showering me with. It gives me
     life.
     And finally, I do have another_Gallavich_fic, and for those of you
     waiting for the explicitly-rated parts in this one, it's basically a
     PWP, so it might scratch that itch ;)
***** Aftershock *****
Chapter Notes
     I want to clear something up based on a common I recently received.
     The audience should assume that in this universe Mickey is aware of
     Ian's disorder (considering how difficult it would be for him to miss
     the fact that Ian takes medication every day). That being said, I
     don't want anyone reading this expecting there to be a big reveal or
     an episode. Ian is on his medication, as mentioned several times in
     the fic, and that's all there is to it. I want to allow him to be
     more than his disorder. As someone with bipolar disorder, I don't
     often appreciate the pity constantly leveled at Ian, and I'm not
     willing to throw his mental well-being under the bus to add drama to
     the story. There are enough fics like that out there. I've always
     been more about snark and sexual tension than hurt/comfort, anyway.
The next morning came too soon, and was accompanied by a skull-splitting
headache. Ian groaned as he cracked open his eyes, reaching out blindly for the
bottle of aspirin on his side table, waving his hand around in a poor attempt
to orient himself.
 
His hand hit something fleshy and human, and Ian gasped in surprise. He sat up,
one hand to his aching head, the other still touching the boy next to him in
bed.
 
Mickey was already scrambling to leave. He practically jumped over Ian in his
effort to get away, and the way it made the bed quake sent a wave of nausea
through Ian.
 
"Wait, Mick, come back," Ian said quickly, grabbing Mickey in a desperate
attempt to get him to stay, but Mickey just shoved his hands off.
 
"Don't touch me," he hissed.
 
"I..." Ian said lamely, "I don't understand. Why are you..."
 
But the moment the words were out of his mouth, Ian realized what was
happening. Mickey was running. He was running away from Ian, away from Ian's
bed, and away from what they had done the night before.
 
"Mickey," Ian said quietly, voice thick in his attempt to quell the lump in the
back of his throat. "You don't have to do this."
 
"I ain't doing nothing, Gallagher," Mickey said defensively.
 
They were back to Gallagher now. The comfort Mickey had felt when he'd called
Ian by his first name was gone.
 
"You're running," Ian said, sounding a lot stronger than he felt. He wondered
if he was going to throw up; if he did, he was sure it would have more to do
with this conversation than the amount of alcohol he'd consumed the night
before. "You're always running."
 
The other boy didn't respond.
 
"Mickey, you kissed me."
 
"I was drunk," Mickey said immediately. "I don't remember that."
 
Ian swallowed the lump in his throat and squared his shoulders. Gingerly, he
stood up and took the bottle of aspirin off the table. The dry ache of them
going down his throat without water was a relief. He could feel something other
than his bleeding heart, then.
 
"Mickey, I like you," he said, not looking at the other boy. "And I think you
like me, too.” Mickey opened his mouth as if to object, but Ian raised a hand
to silence him. “Maybe I’m wrong. But if you do, when you're ready, you let me
know."
 
Mickey didn't say anything.
 
With a shake of his head, Ian left the room.
 
Breakfast was later on Saturdays than during the week, which meant Ian had time
to clean himself up and allow his stomachache to dissipate before he had to
face Mickey again.
 
Actually, he was hoping Mickey would decide to skip breakfast—Ian would have,
since he couldn’t stomach food yet anyway, but he didn't want to be berated for
it, particularly since they'd already arrived after curfew the night before.
 
When he entered the dining hall and saw Mickey at their usual table, hair
tussled and eyes sleepy, Ian cursed.
 
Fuck, he thought as he approached the table. He'd kissed that mouth. He'd
touched those soft lips, had turned them red from friction.
 
And now he'd never get to do it again.
 
Ian didn't look at Mickey as he sat next to him at the table, though he did
make an effort to push himself as far away as possible without touching the
girl on the other side of him, one of Lip's friends from robotics who barely
glanced at Ian or acknowledged his new closeness to her.
 
Invisible as usual, Ian thought. It wasn't helping with his mood.
 
"Bad night?" Lip asked when he saw Ian's face.
 
"How was the concert?" Mandy inquired.
 
"Fine," Ian muttered as he reached for the coffeepot.
 
"It was all right," Mickey said blandly. "Almost caught one of the drumsticks
when the guy threw it, but I missed."
 
The lump in Ian's throat came back with a vengeance. "Thought you said you
didn't remember last night."
 
"I don't," Mickey muttered.
 
"You just said—"
 
"Fuck you, Gallagher," Mickey exploded. "Maybe I remember, maybe I don't
remember. It doesn't fucking matter. This doesn't change anything." At the last
sentence he looked Ian dead in the eye, and the message was clear.
 
The fact that I kissed you doesn't change anything.
 
The fact that you kissed me back only makes it worse.
 
Without another word, Mickey rose and left the table. His shoes thundered away
down the aisles of students with enough force to pause conversations and
attract curious looks.
 
Ian was left to deal with the confused faces.
 
"You two get in a fight last night or something?" Mandy asked as she watched
her brother leave the breakfast hall.
 
Ian rubbed a hand over his face. "Kind of."
 
Mandy shrugged. "Don't let it get to you. He's probably just mad about the
drumstick."
 
"Yeah," Ian said. "Maybe."
 
*****
 
He spent the day in the park across from the school, half-heartedly doing his
homework. Debbie called at one point, and he put on his best happy voice, but
she could see right through it.
 
"Is it another Code Pink?" She worried, and Ian could practically see her
brainstorming all ways she could help him.
 
She cared so much. He was lucky to have her.
 
"I'm okay, Debs," he said. "No Code Pink. Just code... dumb heart, I guess."
 
"Same here," Debbie said. "I met this guy, but he doesn't want to date me
because because I'm too young. He said I'm not ready."
 
"Sounds like he's looking out for you. But I wouldn't take it too personally."
Ian tried not to notice the parallels in their situations. It was incredibly
painful, caring for someone who isn’t able to reciprocate yet. "He probably
wishes you were ready. Probably wants it more than anything."
 
"Um, okay," Debbie said, voice crackling on the other end of the line. "You're
being weird. Are you sure you don't want me to send Fiona over there?"
 
"Yeah, I'm sure, Debs. I think I'm going back to my dorm soon, anyway. Thanks,
though."
 
They hung up, and Ian made his way back to his room. He thought of everything
he could that didn't include Mickey—as it turned out, he'd had so few thoughts
in that vein lately that it was nearly impossible to come up with something. In
the end he stopped pretending he didn't care, and fell into the comfortable
numbness of his injured heart.
 
He hadn't expected much would happen when he got back to his room; maybe Mickey
would try to mumble a poor excuse for an apology or punch Ian in the face, or
perhaps the both of them would have an unspoken agreement not to talk to each
other at all. Ian went over these options in his head on the walk back to the
dorms.
 
There weren't any other foreseeable options. There were no other circumstances
Ian could think of that would come from their drunken make-out session and
awkward morning. Unless Mickey wasn't in the room, one of those three things
would happen; if he wasn't there, they would just happen later on.
 
Apparently Mickey hadn't gotten that memo, because when Ian unlocked the door
of their room and walked in, he was decidedly not doing any of the things Ian
thought he would be.
 
He was wrapped around a girl from the grade below them, both of their shirts on
the floor, mouths pressed together.
 
Ian dropped his dufflebag of books on the floor and stared.
 
The girl pulled away and looked at him. "Oh," she said uncomfortably. "Um,
Mickey, we should probably go somewhere else."
 
Neither boy looked at her. They were staring at each other with such fire
between them that she eventually rose, mumbled something about seeing herself
out, grabbed her shirt, and left the room.
 
Their stare didn't break.
 
"Way to bust my game, Gallagher," Mickey finally said, but his voice was too
thick to be joking.
 
For an infinite moment, Ian didn't say anything. He wasn't sure he could.
 
Tears stung the back of his eyes. He fought back the tight knot at the base of
his throat.
 
"You can't lie to me, Mick," he said quietly, jaw clenched. "You can lie to
that girl, and yourself, and everyone else, but not to me. I see you. You're
running away from your feelings for me because you're scared. And whether
you're gay or not, bi, or straight, whatever—I don't care. But you kissed me,
and I know there's some part of you that wants me, because you can't—you can't
look at me the way you do and not feel anything. So when you're ready to stop
running, let me know. Because I'll be waiting."
 
The only proof he had that Mickey had heard him was the increased tension in
Mickey's shoulders. Otherwise he didn't move, or speak, or do anything to
indicate he understood what Ian had said.
 
Regardless of whether or not he had, Ian was done. He couldn't stay here—in
their room or at the Academy. He needed to leave, to get as far away as
possible.
 
Frank was still in Europe, and he'd probably let Ian stay with him if Ian
promised not to bother him. He'd always spoken vitriol at school, anyway. You
didn't need an education to brew good beer, he always said, and considering how
much money their family made off Gallagher brew, perhaps he was right.
 
Without another word Ian left the room, not bothering to close the door behind
him. It swung open, an open invitation for Mickey to pursue.
 
But no one called Ian's name as he walked away.
 
***** Reparations *****
Ian had one more night before he would leave. He would wait until the next day,
gather Lip—and maybe Mandy, because he'd always liked her—to help him move his
stuff out of the dorm, and hail a cab to take him back to Lincoln Park. Until
then he crashed in Lip's room, obstinately refusing to talk about what had made
him decide to leave the Academy, and hiding his puffy eyes under a pillow.
 
It was barely early evening, so both of them laid awake in Lip's bed for a long
time. Lip clattered away at a research paper for his advanced physics class;
Ian tried his best not to cry.
 
He didn't need Mickey Milkovich, and he didn't need the fucking Chicago
Academy. It wasn't like he'd ever really cared about school, though he might
miss English class. Perhaps in his travels he could take classes online, or
make it his mission to read all the classics...
 
Somehow, despite his pain, Ian fell asleep that night. It was a rest filled
with uneasy dreams: he was on the roof of the Academy, and Mickey was there,
but they were so close to the edge, and Mickey was falling... Ian was
falling... he was approaching the ground at top speed, reveling in the feel of
the wind around him, but Mickey was shrieking... he was calling out for Ian,
calling his name over and over...
 
"Ian!" Lip yelled, loud enough to wake his this time. "Ian, get up. Hurry."
 
"Wha—?" Ian mumbled. He lifted a hand to rub sleep out of his eye and was
intercepted by Lip grabbing it.
 
"Dude, we gotta go. Mickey's been kicked out."
 
A shot of adrenalin went through Ian's previously half-asleep body and he
sprung from the bed. "Mi—wait—Mickey? Why?"
 
It was a stupid question, because there were dozens of reasons the school would
want to kick Mickey out. Hundreds, even. Ian wasn't sure there was a rule in
the book he hadn't broken.
 
"Security did a random check of your room last night," Lip said as he and Ian
rushed through the halls toward the elevator. "They found cigarettes and a
pocket-knife in Mickey's things."
 
"They—shit," Ian cursed, barely able to process what was happening. "So what if
they found a pocket-knife? Where are we going?"
 
"It's against the rules to have any sort of concealed weapons on campus. He'll
be expelled," Lip said flatly. He jammed the elevator buttons harder than he
needed to. "We're going to find Mandy."
 
They soared up to the next level of the building and rushed over to Ian's dorm.
The door was unlocked; when they opened it Mandy was sitting on Mickey's bed,
face in her hands.
 
She lifted her head when they came in. Dark streaks of makeup marred her
cheeks. All around her Mickey's possessions were thrown, his sheets askance
against the mattress.
 
"They fucking took him," she sobbed, voice somewhere between furious and
desolate. "They fucking took him to back to the South Side. Now we're never
getting out."
 
"How do you know he's expelled?" Ian asked.
 
"They fucking told me he was," she replied bitterly. "And I bet they were
fuckin' happy about it, too. Probably all took bets on when the poor kids would
get kicked out. I bet that's the only reason they even searched his room." She
buried her head in her hands again, voice dissolving in angry sobs.
 
Lip moved over to her and reached a hand out. "Mandy," he began.
 
"Don't touch me," she said, and stood to leave. "I have to get the fuck out of
here before they get the cops to escort me, too."
 
"Maybe you can stay," Lip said.
 
Mandy scoffed. "I'm not staying without my brother."
 
"Mandy, wait," Ian said hurriedly. She paused in the doorway and looked at him
expectantly. "Tell him I said sorry."
 
She gazed at him for a few more seconds before exiting the room. After a moment
Lip ran after her.
 
Suddenly alone, Ian slid to the floor. With tired eyes he looked at the mess
across from him.
 
A knife. Mickey had had a pocketknife.
 
Ian thought back to the first day, when Mickey had gone through his things.
He'd borrowed a knife then. Did he have any of his own? Ian couldn't remember.
 
Could that have been Ian's knife, the one that had gotten Mickey into trouble?
 
For the first time Ian let his eyes slide over to his own side of the room.
There wasn't a book out of place.
 
So Mandy was right, then. It was prejudice. They were looking for an excuse to
kick the Milkoviches out.
 
Ian ground his teeth. He was filled with a sudden strong urge to protect
Mickey. Seek him, find him, help him. Make sure he had a different school to go
to, even if it was the local public one. Make sure he had a place to stay and
money for food. It was December, after all, it the air was freezing; there was
no way he could survive outside. Would Mickey have to go back to the house his
father pistol-whipped him in? Would he prefer it there, anyway, since he was
always complaining about how stuck up the Academy was?
 
Just before he rushed to stand, Ian took a deep breath. For all he knew, Mickey
didn't even want to see him. They hadn't exactly parted on a positive note. He
wasn't sure Mickey ever wanted to see him again, wasn't sure he was anything
more than a reminder of who Mickey really was, and what he really wanted.
 
And more than anything, Ian didn't want to make Mickey uncomfortable. He liked
Mickey too much, and knew how much the other boy had dealt with already.
 
If Mickey wanted to contact him, he would. He had a cell phone, even if it was
old and the screen was cracked. Ian's number was in the address book. Short of
that, Mickey knew exactly where to find Ian most days after school; if he
really wanted to see Ian, he could hang out in the park across the street. Even
recently, after the temperature dropped, Ian sat there to smoke and study. He
pretended the hope that Mickey would contact him wasn't the only reason he'd
stayed at the school.
 
With a heavy sigh, Ian decided it would be best to wait for Mickey to make a
move. If he makes a move, a voice in the back of his head whispered, but Ian
couldn't think about that. The idea of never talking to Mickey again was too
terrifying. They were best friends. Certainly Mickey would want to talk at some
point.
 
Ian snickered to himself, somewhat hysterically.
 
For a while there at the beginning of the semester, he'd thought this year was
going to work out. Now, as his classes came to a wrap and prepared for their
respective midterms and the weather became liable to freeze bones, Ian realized
how foolish he'd been.
 
He would see Mickey, that he was sure of. All he had to do was wait and hope it
didn't take too long for Mickey to reach out to him.
 
                                    *******
 
Over the next four weeks, Ian spent an embarrassing amount of time lying on his
back in bed, rubbing at his eyes and waiting desperately for a phone call. Or a
text message. Something to reassure himself that he hadn't imagined the
chemistry that had been there between him and Mickey, the sexual energy, the
drunken kiss.
 
Lip tried to get him to come out of his room more than once, and every so often
he did, either going to the park or the gym or, sometimes, when Lip's
persuasion techniques were particularly good, skipping dinner in the dining
hall to go to the Chinese food place they both love. Still, Lip began to
realize how painful this really was for Ian, and by extension, how much he
cared about Mickey. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Lip didn't
pull judgmental faces when Ian talked about him (which was often).
 
"You just don't understand where he comes from," Ian had told Lip one day, and
Lip, nodding, had agreed. Of course he didn't: neither of them could. It was
like that time Fiona had dated Steve Lishman, that South Side mechanic. The
different lifestyles were too much for them to handle.
 
Sometimes people who would be perfect for each other in another life just
couldn't make it work in this one. Ian thought about that a lot. He worried
over it like a wound.
 
In any case, after a month passed since the Milkoviches had left, Ian still
couldn't get his mind off of Mickey. He was starting to think he'd never get
the call he'd been waiting for. Perhaps his perceptions had been wrong, and
Mickey really wouldn't ever get up the courage to show Ian his true feelings.
 
Ambitiously Ian decided that, should one more day pass without contact from
Mickey, he would be the one to initiate it. Nothing too brash or heavy yet.
Just something to remind Mickey that he'd meant it when he said he'd be waiting
when Mickey was ready.
 
After this decision he turned his phone off, shoved it in his bedside drawer,
and busied himself with other things. He refused to wait by the phone anymore.
 
That night, before Ian went to bed, he turned his phone back on. He wasn't
expecting much. Unsurprised by the image of a dead frog Carl had sent him with
the message, "figured out what would happen if I put it in the microwave!!!"
Ian scrolled through the rest of his messages. Nothing new. Nothing
interesting.
 
A new message lit up at the top of his screen.
 
From: Mick Milkovich
Im ready to stop running
 
Ian read it twice. Then he whooped.
 
He'd give it a good ten minutes before responding. That would be good, right?
Long enough that Mickey didn't think he was waiting by the phone, but short
enough so that Mickey didn't start to panic.
 
Oh, fuck it. Ian couldn't wait any longer.
 
To: Mick Milkovich
I want to see you.
 
It neared midnight, but Ian would trek across the city for Mickey regardless of
the time. Ian was desperate to see him.
 
From: Mick Milkovich
6 pm tomorrow. The Alibi Room on the South Side
 
Fighting hard against the urge to keep the conversation going, to give Mickey a
call, to hear his voice and be updated on his life, Ian texted back a quick
agreement and turned his phone back off. He didn't want to bombard Mickey over
text message—and anyway, part of Ian was worried they might see each other
tomorrow and have nothing to say, or make awkward conversation the whole time.
At least now they had a lot to go over. Like what Mickey was doing now that he
was expelled, for example, and how Mandy was coping with being sent back home.
 
He had a difficult time getting to sleep that night. It was just like the night
before the first day of school, and the familiar buzz of excitement and nerves
kept Ian awake for hours.
 
The bundle of angst in his gut only increased into the next day and through his
classes. It was impossible to concentrate on Geometry and English when he knew
he would be seeing Mickey soon. He doodled stick figures and tiny hearts on his
papers instead of taking notes.
 
He had it bad and he knew it.
 
As soon as he finished his homework he boarded the L, though it was only just
after five and he knew he'd arrive early. But Ian decided sitting at the
restaurant was better than pacing around his dorm room, so he hopped the train
and tried not to tick nervously all the way downtown.
 
                                    *******
 
The restaurant in question was a hole-in-the-wall; if it hadn't been for the
adequate directions Mickey had texted him that day, he might have walked right
by the Alibi Room.
 
He was half an hour early but, Ian noticed when he walked inside, he wasn't the
only one.
 
"Gallagher," Mickey said with a grin. He held his arms out. "Ian."
 
Surprised at his initiation of contact in public, Ian allowed himself to be
pulled into a hug. "You look good, Mickey. You look healthy."
 
"I'm feelin' pretty good," Mickey said. He looked giddy. "I missed ya."
 
"You did?" Ian asked as the two of them sat at opposite ends of a rickety
table. The bubble of hope that was in his chest inflated even further. "I
missed you, too. School's not the same without you."
 
"How is that shitty old place?"
 
"Shitty as ever," Ian laughed. "Nothing's really changed, except Lip is all
mopey because Mandy's gone, and I'm..." he paused. "I wish my best friend was
still around."
 
Mickey lifted a hand to scratch at his forehead, keeping his gaze on the floor.
"Yeah, he wishes he was, too."
 
"How's the South Side?"
 
Mickey snorted. "Shitty as ever," he parroted. Ian smiled at him a little
awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Before he could respond, Mickey called out to
someone behind the counter. "Svetlana, hey."
 
A tall woman with dyed red hair and a pointed gaze found her way to their
table.
 
"Ian, this is Svetlana. Svet, Ian," Mickey gave quick introductions. "Svetlana
works upstairs."
 
She glared at Ian.
 
"Hello," she said, eyes piercing and Russian accent thick. "You are gayboy
also?"
 
"I—" Ian stuttered, caught off guard.
 
"This one," she gestured to Mickey, "gay as could be. He tries to hide it for
years, fools nobody except stupid father."
 
"Jesus Christ, all right, how 'bout you shut up now?" Mickey said, as if he
regretted inviting her over.
 
"Um," Ian tried again, "What kind of work do you do upstairs?"
 
"Prostitution," Svetlana informed him.
 
"Um," Ian repeated.
 
"Okay, okay, get outta here." Mickey stood and made to guide her back toward
the counter. "Don't you have someone waiting for blowjob upstairs?"
 
"You are the one waiting for blowjob. You have been waiting for blowjob from
Carrotboy for month." She turned to Ian. "He gets drunk and talks about red-
headed boy. He smashes mirror because he misses old roommate."
 
"Go the fuck away!" Mickey called, but she was already walking away with a
smirk on her face. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, she likes to make an impression."
 
"Seems that way," Ian replied.
 
"Yeah, but she's not that bad," Mickey defended, and Ian couldn't help but feel
moved by how quickly he could go from cursing a person off to arguing for his
or her honor. "My dad knew her a while back, so she stayed with us for a while.
Her old pimp stopped paying her so she moved the business upstairs here, and
now she runs it like a pro. She's the baddest pimp around. And she's kind of a
sister to me, which is why she was busting my balls."
 
"Is she okay?" Ian asked, because he couldn't help himself.
 
Mickey gave him a strange look. "'Course she's okay. She makes a living, treats
the other girls fair. It's a good deal. What, you've never seen a prostitute
before?"
 
"Well," Ian said. "No."
 
"Huh. Guess we know you didn't get your money from politics, then."
 
Ian smiled at him. "She seems interesting."
 
"She's nice when you get to know her. She told me if I ever need a kid she
would be the surrogate, since, well," Mickey bit his lip, unsure. "Since I
won't have kids of my own, probably."
 
This was the conversation Ian had been waiting for, the moment where Mickey
made it clear that, yes, he was gay, and, yes, he acknowledged it. He wasn't
ashamed. He was ready to stop running.
 
"Ready to order?" Mickey asked.
 
Ian glanced down; he hadn't even realized there was a menu. It was all pub
food, sticky wings and french fries, but it sounded delicious. Mickey placed
their orders at the counter, and when he came back they fell into comfortable
conversation. Ian explained everything that had happened at school after Mickey
left, from fights in the dining hall to tests he'd done well on, and Mickey
detailed the time he spent working with his father.
 
"But isn't that illegal?" Ian asked, eyes wide as he listened to yet another
story that involved fired bullets and a get-away car.
 
"Gotta make money somehow," Mickey pointed out. "We ain't all be born rich."
 
Plates of wings were put in front of them by a tall man with a ponytail, who
smacked Mickey on the side of the head when he set the plates down. Mickey gave
him the finger, but he was grinning. They dug into the food, which was, in
Ian's not-so-expert opinion, fantastic.
 
Mickey told Ian he wasn't going back to school, with an expression on his face
like he was nervous about how Ian might react. For his part, though, Ian just
shrugged. They really did come from two different worlds, the two of them; Ian
would get into any college he applied to because of his family name, and Mickey
wasn't welcome in half the patronage of the South Side because of his.
 
For all their differences, though, Ian saw a lot of similarities. Both of their
fathers were deadbeats, even if Ian's happened to be one with a bigger bank
account. They were both stark defenders of their siblings. They were both able
to understand where the other's point of view was based.
 
The only issue Ian was seeing was the gaping chasm between where their
friendship was now and where it could be if they talked about any of the deeper
things that had happened between them. Mickey seemed very much like he was
avoiding that conversation, but Ian was determined to see it through.
 
"Listen, Mickey, we should talk about what happened," Ian said as their plates
were cleared away.
 
Mickey looked at him.
 
"You said you wanted to stop running."
 
"I do. I am." He exhaled loudly and ran a hand up the back of his neck, clearly
uncomfortable. "We should go upstairs."
 
Ian's raised eyebrows were met with a chortle.
 
"Not like that," Mickey said. "But it's somewhere private. My dad, or...
someone could come in at any moment. The Alibi's the most popular bar around
here."
 
"The most popular bar around, and you brought me here?" Ian said mockingly as
they stood and made for the stairs across the room, "Gosh, Mick, you must
really care."
 
Mickey flipped him off, and Ian noted he was doing a lot of that lately.
 
The upstairs of the bar was dimly lit and smelled of cigarettes and filth. The
sounds of sex came from somewhere across the room, from one of my many
partitioned-off areas where the prostitutes worked.
 
"This is where you want to have our deep conversation?" Ian asked. He followed
Mickey into one of the sections far away from the others. "In a brothel?"
 
"It ain't a fuckin' deep conversation," Mickey mumbled. They stood about a foot
away in their tiny room, crowded by gray moveable walls. "It's just..." He took
a deep breath. "I'm fuckin' gay. Are you happy now?"
 
The corner of Ian's mouth lifted, a breath away from a smile. "Almost, Mick.
Don't look so miserable about it."
 
"I can't tell my dad."
 
"Then don't," Ian said honestly. "I don't give a shit if your dad knows. I just
want you to know. And maybe, like, my family, and your sister."
 
Mickey chewed his lip and said nothing.
 
"Are we together?" Ian asked impulsively.
 
Blinking, Mickey said, "We're both here right now, aren't we?"
 
Ian's half-lipped smile broke into a grin.
 
Suddenly he remembered something. "You stole my knife."
 
Mickey laughed. "Nah, man. I was fixing it. I tried to borrow it the other day
but the blade was all dull, so I sharpened it for you. I didn't realize I was
gonna be expelled before I could give it back. And you know what happened after
that." He took the knife in question out of his pocket and handed it to Ian.
Just like he said, the blade was newly shiny. It was sharp to the touch—though
when Ian reached a finger out towards it, Mickey objected loudly.
 
"No hurting yourself," he warned.
 
Ian grinned. "What, Mick, you care about me or somethin'?"
 
"Fuck you," Mickey said without heat. He tucked the knife into Ian's front
pocket. "Maybe I do. Whatcha gonna do about it?"
 
Instead of answering in words, Ian responded by cupping Mickey's chin in his
hands and leaning in for a kiss. It was as if his entire body gave over to
Mickey when their lips touched; he could feel himself warming all over, filled
with the lovely buzz of adoration and arousal.
 
It was one hundred times better to kiss Mickey when they were both sober. His
hands could feel every contour on his face; his lips could taste every subtlety
of his tongue. He could feel every crevice of Mickey's body when they molded
themselves together, could touch the flat of Mickey's hips with his hands and
rub the tight muscles of his back. The stale smells of the Alibi Room melted
away and were replaced with the fresh smell of Mickey.
 
The longer they kissed the more Ian could feel, until something hard dug into
Ian's leg and Ian gasped at the introduction. He hadn't felt another boy
against him like this in so long—and this was Mickey, which made it infinitely
more exciting. It was as if Ian had been waiting his entire life for this
moment. He ground his hips into Mickey as Mickey did the same, and they
developed a hot, heavy rhythm.
 
"Fuck," Ian breathed, when Mickey pulled away for long enough that they could
both breathe. Before him, Mickey dropped to his knees. In Ian's arousal-fogged
mind it was difficult to register what was happening. "Fuck, that was—Mick,
what are you—"
 
But Mickey was already unzipping Ian's jeans, and Ian quickly realized what was
going on.
 
"Oh, shit," he gasped, because just the thought of Mickey's mouth on him was
enough to put Ian on the edge. It was so soon; they'd only kissed twice. And
they were in a brothel. As far as timing went, Ian wasn't sure about this; but
it was Mickey, spread out and revealing himself in front of him, ready to give
Ian what he'd wanted for so long, and Ian couldn'tsay no. "That's—you don't
have to—"
 
"Ian," Mickey said, lips inches away from Ian's exposed cock, "Shut up."
 
He wrapped his mouth around Ian and the room spun. "Oh, shit," Ian said again,
followed by a babbling of words and noises he couldn't control. "Fuck, that's
so—that's so good, Mickey, you're so good—you're amazing, wow—"
 
He stuggled against fluttering eyelids to watch Mickey. When Mickey raised his
eyes and they made eye contact, that was it. With a cry that was definitely
heard by the other people upstairs, Ian came. Mickey held his hips steady and
swallowed what Ian gave him.
 
"That—wow," Ian stuttered, unable to produce a full sentence. His body was
spent; he collapsed against the probably-filthy plastic-covered bed behind
them. "God, you—you've done that before?"
 
Mickey shrugged. "No. But it was good, right?" he looked a bit desperate for
the compliment, and Ian, overcome by affection, lifted himself off the bed to
pull Mickey closer.
 
"So good," he said. "Jesus Christ."
 
They stood after that, both eager to get away from the bed and the brothel.
 
"We should, uh," Mickey said. "Go somewhere. I mean, we can come here when we
need to be alone, but—"
 
"Mickey, no offense, but I never want to be in a brothel again for the rest of
my life," Ian laughed. "We can go to my house. My family's cool, they don't
care. And I have a nice, soft bed. King-sized. Ready to be disheveled."
 
They kissed and exited the Alibi Room, with a promise to Svetlana and the pony-
tailed guy behind the counter (Mickey said his name was Kevin, and Ian had a
feeling he was going to like him) that they'd be back soon.
 
"Let's go to my house," Mickey said out of the blue.
 
"Okay, sure," Ian agreed. He noted how carefully Mickey was watching him, but
he wasn't sure why.
 
They walked to Mickey's house from the Alibi Room, Mickey pointing out
different things on their way.
 
"That's where Ken Morris was shot in a drive-by," he said as he gestured to a
park made up of graying grass and a broken-down swingset. He pointed to a spot
on the sidewalk across the street. "My brother was stabbed there once in a bad
deal, but he's fine now."
 
"Holy shit," Ian muttered. "Someone was shot at a park? That's terrible." All
the different areas Mickey pointed out, all the instances of violence that Ian
had never considered, never had to worry about before, were making him
depressed. The rotting buildings around them didn't help. He couldn't fathom
how the South Side, this place darkened by poverty, had been around all these
years without Ian giving it a second thought. Without him trying to help end
the poverty that disenfranchised the people here.
 
The two of them walked up steps to what was presumably Mickey's house, and they
stopped on the stoop outside.
 
Mickey eyed him carefully. "You gonna run now?"
 
"What?" Ian was taken aback. "Of course not. Why would I?"
 
Jaw clenched, Mickey just shrugged. "It's different from where you grew up."
 
"So?" Ian said, still confused. It took him a moment to process that Mickey had
been testing him, seeing if his rough neighborhood would scare Ian
away."Mickey, it's not your fault this is where you come from," Ian said,
seriously and with honesty. "I'm proud of you. I mean, you're amazing. You're
living here and you're doing fine and... it makes me sad, yeah, because there
are so many people living in poverty, but... fuck, I don't know."
 
The only reaction was a stare, like Mickey was waiting for more.
 
"No one has a perfect life," Ian said. "You're poor. I'm bipolar. Lip's a
genius and he pisses it away. We all have shitty things in our lives, Mick. You
don't have to apologize for where you come from."
 
A smile crossed Mickey's face, and he dipped his head to hide it. Ian tried not
to be offended that Mickey thought he could scare him off so easily.
 
"So are we actually going inside, or what?"
 
“We’re going inside,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes. He paused for a moment,
looking uncharacteristically nervous. “And you can, um, stay for however long
you want.”
 
Then Mickey opened the door and invited Ian into his home. It was a lot like
being welcomed into his life.
 
***** Epilogue *****
Firstly, he no longer spent his days alone. He never had to worry about a lack
of friends, because Mickey was always right there, either beside him or a call
away. They became close, the kind of close Ian had only ever felt before with
his immediate family; he would risk his life for Mickey, would do whatever it
took to make him happy. Rather than binding them together, though, this was
freeing: Ian put all his love into Mickey, and he knew Mickey was doing the
same for him. It wasn’t always obvious by the things he said, but considering
how careful Mickey was that Ian took his medication daily, and kept an eye on
him to ensure he was happy and healthy (and never sexually frustrated), Ian
couldn’t doubt it.
 
Ian realized that just because someone expressed love differently than him
didn’t mean the love wasn’t there. It warmed him from the inside out, and even
when Mickey seemed less-than happy, when he struggled with himself, when he
snapped at Ian or bit back gay slurs, Ian knew the part of him that called Ian
“mumbles” and stroked his hair when he thought Ian was asleep was still there.
 
Secondly, Ian learned more about Gallagher Beer than he ever would have
imagined. This was because he pulled some strings and got Mickey a job with the
company. Since he was out of the Academy, and didn’t intend to go back to
public school, Mickey needed some way to make money. The idea of him selling
weapons to greasy men made Ian’s skin crawl, so they compromised: Ian got
Mickey a job for the weekdays and didn’t push him about what he did with his
family on the weekends.
 
Mickey’s job was to sell Gallagher Beer to the bars on the South Side that
usually sprung for the cheaper stuff. The Alibi Room, of course, was the first
place he won over; from then on, he was one of the best salespeople in the
Chicago area. Ian wasn’t sure if he achieved this by charming people or
threatening them, but either way, it worked. The company loved him. And as much
as he liked seeing Mickey in his formal salesman clothes, he loved the
weekends, when Mickey reverted back to his usual guinea tee and baggy pants
ensemble.
 
After a few months on the Gallagher Beer Corp. payroll, Mickey had enough money
to buy a little apartment. He stayed on the South Side, because it was his
home, and Ian visited him most days after school. Sometimes he even brought
Debbie--who constantly asked Mickey for his opinions on things like America's
largely unsuccessful war on poverty and its effect on gun violence. Mickey, for
his part, couldn't tell Debbie much about the politics of it, but he never
looked annoyed at her prying questions, and he scarcely flinched away from
telling her the gritty details about a lack of gun control on Chicago's South
Side—or Carl, who was a little too interested in Mickey's weapon collection.
Even Lip came once, and make decent conversation, and only left after he
clapped Mickey on the back and told Ian he was glad they'd worked it out.
 
Ian's family loved Mickey almost as much as he did, and he couldn't think about
that without wanting to burst with happiness.
 
The third thing that changed for Ian, which happened largely thanks to Mickey’s
new apartment and the privacy it granted them: Ian and Mickey had sex. A lot of
sex.
 
This was only amplified in the summer, when the Academy was closed for the year
and Ian was able to visit Mickey at his apartment so often he practically lived
there. Even after all the time they spent as roommates, he still learned
something knew about Mickey every day.
 
Like, for example, that Mickey loved to give head.
 
“Oh, God,” Ian gasped, hands knotted in Mickey’s hair. “That’s—that’s so good,
Mickey, you’re so—oh!”
 
Mickey, avidly sucking Ian’s cock, grinned as best as he could considering how
his mouth was othewise occupied. Blue eyes raised to meet Ian’s, and it was all
Ian could do not to come right there.
 
“Stop, stop,” he said, hurriedly. “I want to come in you.”
 
As quickly as possible, Mickey scrambled back, shucked his pants off, and bared
his ass to Ian. He’d been waiting for that.
 
With a soft laugh, Ian leaned forward. They’d done this more times than he
could count, but each time was equally amazing. Mickey laid on his elbows on
his bed, backside in the air, tilting himself up so Ian could work him open.
 
With both hands Ian spread Mickey’s cheeks and breathed hotly onto the exposed
area. Mickey’s hole twitched, and he groaned.
 
Sometimes Ian wasn’t sure what Mickey liked better: the sex or the build up.
 
Ian nipped gently at Mickey’s cheeks and licked a slow path from his lower back
to his exposed asshole. When his tongue finally made contact with that hidden
place, Mickey whimpered.
 
Steadily at first, Ian glided his flat tongue around the wrinkled edges. He
stiffened his tongue and pushed the rim apart, tasting Mickey as he lapped at
his hole, forcing his tongue in as far as it could go. Spit dribbled down Ian's
chin as he worked the tip of his finger into that spit-shined hole.
 
“Fuck,” Mickey hissed. “Fucking—fuck me.”
 
Obediently, Ian pulled back and slick his fingers with the nearby jar of lube.
When they were coated he slipped a finger delicately into Mickey, staring into
Mickey’s face, turned back to watch Ian.
 
“You can do better than that,” Mickey challenged, as Ian moved one finger
carefully inside him. “Gallagher.”
 
The use of his last name always worked Ian up; it was a reminder of the months
he’d spent bursting with unresolved sexual tension, and it just about pushed
him over the edge. No longer delicate, Ian used on lubed hand to reach around
for Mickey’s dick, and worked two more fingers into his asshole.
 
When Mickey’s only response was a soft moan and not sarcastic commentary, Ian
knew he was doing a good job.
 
He lined himself up to Mickey’s hole and pushed in slowly, stopping after the
first few inches so Mickey could adjust. The stretch of it was the best part
for both of them. Mickey loved the feeling of being opened wide, so much so
that they had a small but growing collection of sex toys, including several
enormous dildos and a set of Ben Wa balls. Ian loved the feeling of taught
muscles surrendering to him.
 
When they were both used to the sensations, Ian pushed the rest of his dick in
and began to fuck Mickey, slowly at first, but with increasing thrusts and
precision. At one point Mickey cried out, and Ian proceeded to fuck that same
spot, over and over, until Mickey’s whole body tensed up and he came all over
the sheets.
 
Changing angles so he didn’t overwork Mickey’s sensitive prostate, Ian kept up
a steady pace until his thrusts turned erratic, and with Mickey’s rough voice
prompting him to come, come on, come inside me, Ian gave one final push as far
into Mickey as he could and came.
 
They collapsed together on the bed, Ian’s chest aligning with Mickey’s back and
they curled together above the blankets.
 
“Love you,” Mickey mumbled, voice etched with post-coital bliss.
 
“Love you, too, Mick,” Ian murmured into his hair.
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