Chapter Text
Mickey tries not to stare too obviously, but it’s fucking difficult considering the sight in front of him.
Gallagher’s holding the model 10 revolver like a pro and his stance is damn near perfect. The beer cans Mickey had lined up earlier are flying like birds into the air one by one.
Mickey’s dick seems to enjoy the display way more than it should – he’s sporting a fucking semi because apparently watching goddamn redheads systematically shoot at beer cans is a major turn-on for him now
“Shit,” he says, without meaning to. Gallagher must’ve heard though, because he turns around and smirks at Mickey with an entirely too satisfied look on his face.
“Told you,” he says. He’d taken off the lame varsity jacket earlier and it’s obvious to Mickey how much Gallagher works out those arms of his, the stupid close-fitting plain grey t-shirt isn’t really helping matters either.
But Mickey doesn’t enjoy being bested. He thanks the fucking lord that he’s wearing his loose pair of jeans and saunters up to Gallagher with probably more confidence than he’s really feeling.
“Yeah, your fancy fuckin’ military training paid off, but so what? It’s obvious you’re missin’ something – and it’s called Greaser style.”
Gallagher starts grinning. He raises his eyebrows, “So you’re saying I don’t have style?”
“Greaser style.” Mickey corrects. He walks towards the log and starts setting up a new line. When he comes back, he puts his hand out and Ian gives him the gun without a word.
The weight is familiar in Mickey’s hand. He reloads it and readies his stance.
His fire is on-target and he feels pretty good about himself – until the last one. Mickey goddamn fucks up and misses by a good amount.
He knows that if there was ever a time to feel downright embarrassed that it’s probably now, but Mickey’s a fighter. He’s just about ready to spout out some bullshit about how he’d done it on purpose, when he feels Ian’s presence behind him.
It seems as if he’s standing way too close, Mickey can feel warm puffs of breath on the back of his neck. He belatedly remembers that this kid has absolutely no sense of personal space. He’s about to step forward when the weight of Ian’s hand on his arm makes him pause.
“Straighten your arm a little here,” he says. His hands are so fucking gentle as he pushes Mickey’s arm into place. Mickey feels like he’s frozen on the spot and somehow the thought of pushing Ian away doesn’t even cross his mind. “Oh, and you should probably steady your hand more here.” He touches Mickey’s wrist and Mickey practically fucking shivers.
“Now shoot,” Ian says, real intimate and close to Mickey’s right ear.
Jesus fuck, this guy will be the death of him. Mickey shoots.
The blasting sound of the bullet hitting the can seems to break them both out of whatever weird trance they were in. He feels Gallagher stumble backwards and when Mickey turns around, Ian looks a little sheepish – maybe even a little guilty.
“You showed me Greaser style,” he says, sounding embarrassed. “Guess I just wanted to give you a few pointers on what we call Ian Gallagher’s style.”
Mickey stares at him for a moment, before barking out a laugh.
“Man,” Mickey shakes his head. “That was really fucking lame.”
Ian grins at Mickey, all freckles and bright eyes. “My technique still works though.”
“Yeah,” Mickey says. Ian waits for him to go on. Mickey chews on his lips. “So why’d you fuckin’ drop out anyway?”
“From ROTC?” Ian shrugs. “Um, I guess it was a whole bunch of stuff that lead up to it…. Everyone else was too busy when my mom got sick. I was the only one who could afford time to take care of her, so I dropped out.”
Mickey tries not to, but he pictures an image of his own mom lying in bed pale as the sheets under her, hardly conscious most of the time. “Your mom’s sick?”
“Yeah,” Ian nods. “It’s hard to explain, but sometimes someone has to keep watch over her at all times. In case…” he trails off suddenly and looks down. Mickey wonders how they even got here and wants to kick himself for bringing it up. It’s none of his fucking business anyway; he wonders why Ian even told him so much.
“Probably best if we head back now, right?” Ian asks suddenly.
“Yeah,” Mickey nods. He packs his shit up and they start heading to the car.
“So you sure your brother doesn’t mind? Y’know, that you missed work and all.”
Mickey shrugs and shuffle out a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He lights up and takes a drag before answering. “Nah, man. He owes me anyway, so whatever.”
He can feel Ian eyeing him as they walk, and Mickey can take a guess on what he’s thinking.
It probably has something to do with wondering why exactly Mickey asked him to ditch school in the first place. Why they’re here right now, the two of them alone in some makeshift outdoor shooting range.
The truth is, Mickey has no fucking idea why he asked. Sometimes he feels like he’s being torn apart two ways when it comes to Ian Gallagher – one side is telling him, no fucking way don’t do it – being near this guy will make you want to fucking touch him all the time, and Mickey knows what that eventually leads to. A decent fag-bash or good ol’ honor killing. Mickey’s heard of it happening before.
But the other side. Goddamn the other side, because it’s pushing him towards Ian like they’re fucking magnets or some shit. Mickey hates that he probably doesn’t mind it as much as he should.
*
After they’d parted ways with Mickey dropping Ian off two blocks away from his school, Mickey doesn’t see Ian around for almost a week. It’s fucking weird, because he jolts every time he sees a flash of red hair or a tall figure wearing flannel. But it’s never him and Mickey doesn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
He’s starting to think that all their little encounters were straight out of that stupid show Iggy secretly watches – the fucking Twilight Zone or some shit.
And it’s typical that just when Mickey’s starting to feel like that he’s maybe probably, possibly okay with never seeing Ian Gallagher again – he fucking shows up at Mickey’s work.
“Nice ride,” Mickey says and nods over to the white Corvair.
“Not mine,” Ian replies. “Lip said he’d pay me to take it to the gas station. And I figured why not, since you’re here.”
For a moment, Mickey’s dumbstruck by how blunt Gallagher’s being. He doesn’t know exactly what to say to that, so he goes about giving Gallagher the right amount of change.
“What time do you get off work?”
Mickey considers lying. But when he glances up, Ian looks so fucking earnest he practically blurts out the truth.
“In about ten minutes.”
“Okay,” Ian smiles. “I’ll wait.”
“Wait for fucking what?”
“For you.”
Mickey honestly doesn’t know how to feel then. He glares at Ian, because why the fuck is he being so…honest?
“There’s a movie showing downtown in about half an hour. We can probably make in time if we hurry.”
“Wait, are you asking me –” he stops himself from finishing that sentence and stutters a little. “What, so you fucking wanna be friends, again?”
“Maybe,” Ian smiles. Like it’s no big fucking deal.
Mickey sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. He thinks about saying “No, fuck off”, and he almost does. But that thing – that other side, it makes him pause, makes him think that he should say yes because otherwise he’ll miss out on a whole afternoon with Ian Gallagher and his stupid freckles and smirks.
“What fucking movie is it?” Mickey asks, and Ian practically beams.
“Don’t worry,” he smiles again. “I think maybe you’ll like it.”