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Chapter Text

Mickey finds himself looking into green eyes. Beautiful, aggressive, green eyes and it catches him off guard, body hitting the mat on his shoulder before he knows what’s happened. Three points to greenie. Fuck this guy. He weasels out of his grip, rolls to the side and pulls his knees up, springing up and turning his opponent in the air and smashing him down onto the mat, landing him squarely with his shoulders pinned. The referee blows his whistle and it’s all over. Instant win for Mickey. Of course. They shake hands with each other and the official, then Mickey walks off without another word, pulling his water out of his gym bag even though he’s not even broken a sweat.

It’s the first round of the Chicago Scholastic Freestyle-Wrestling Championship and at such an early stage Mickey’s competition is pretty pathetic. He made it to the state finals last year and it looks like he’s going to cruise through this in the number one spot. The competition only hots up by the final rounds and Mickey’s itching for a real fight, something that’ll really let his aggression out.

He doesn’t watch the other matches. He’s pretty good at controlling his attraction to other men in general, but lycra singlets are completely unforgiving when it comes to erections and with no actual competition here his mind will invariably wander. Once things get harder he’ll be able to focus on the fights, analytical mind processing his opponents’ strengths and weaknesses.

Harder. Fucking dumbass.

Once it’s over and he’s showered he’s definitely ready for nicotine and heads for a side door, fishing around in his gym bag as he goes.

Except his cigarettes aren’t there. Some jackass who doesn’t know who the fuck they’re dealing with has taken them. He smashes the door open and startles the person standing next to it in the alley, puffing away the way Mickey’s desperate to do.

It’s greenie.

“Can I bum a smoke?” he asks gruffly.

“Ahh sorry,” the redhead replies, “this is my last one.” He flips open his cigarette carton to show that he’s not lying.

“Fuck,” Mickey scowls.

The guy is looking at him pensively, seeming to weigh up if Mickey’s going to bite.

“I mean … I only just lit up. We could share this one?” 

Mickey can’t think of many things worse, but not having a smoke is one of them, so he snatches it over and takes a long drag before passing it back.

“It was Milkovich, wasn’t it?”

Oh great, he’s a talker.

Mickey grunts in response.

“What’s your first name?”

“The fuck’s it to you?”

The boy looks a bit surprised, but then smiles amusedly.

“All right formal. Milkovich it is then,” he says, pronouncing Mickey’s name in as good a posh English accent as he can manage.

“You can call me Ian though.”

Mickey doubles down on his scowl. North Side fuck.

“How about I call you shut the fuck up?” Mickey spits back.

“Nah, it’s my cigarette, you owe me a few minutes of small talk.” 

He snatches the smoke back. They’re quiet for a moment though, before his talker starts up again.

“You’re good you know. I really thought I had you there, but then nope, you switched it around completely.” Then he pauses, apparently waiting for Mickey to say he wasn’t so bad himself, which was never gonna happen. Luckily the cigarette is nearly finished so Mickey drops it, stubs it out and turns to leave, but then stops in his tracks and hunches his shoulders to brace himself.

“Mickey.”

“Huh?”

“My name is Mickey.” Then he’s off, without a backwards glance.

He next sees Ian a few months later. Mickey wins, of course, but the kid has gotten better and might actually be some stiff competition if he keeps improving like that.

Stiff. Shut up.

And he definitely doesn’t watch his lycra-clad body moving around in his other matches. Definitely not.

Mickey’s been putting out the feelers with this other guy; different high school but still South Side, so if he’s right about him he’s probably as closeted as he is and unlikely to out him. The looks exchanged between them get longer and Mickey does his best not to look like he wants to murder him, so that by the end of the competition he’s 90% sure he’s got an in. Sure enough, the guy takes his time in the locker room and the two of them are the last to hit the showers. Then, obscured by the clouds of steam, he grabs Mickey’s dick. It’s too risky there, but he’s pretty sure they can find an empty classroom or something. It’s not like their family have come to watch and are waiting for them after, like those North Side pricks.

Mickey’s not going to bottom; not the first time when he’s not 100% sure the guy won’t reveal him as a fag who also likes to take it in the ass. Thankfully he seems more than happy with this arrangement, so he uses some soap as lube and starts in on him. He bets that stings. Not jealous about it either. Definitely not. He hates the burn. Hates it.

Anyway, he’s balls-deep in the guy and it’s beginning to feel pretty good, when suddenly the door bursts open and they don’t even have time to react. It’s Ian. Of course it’s fucking Ian. Even worse, he breaks out in a huge amused smile.

“Whoa! Sorry, my girlfriend and I were kinda looking for a place to do the same thing.” He scratches at the back of his head awkwardly. “I’ll uh, leave you guys to it.”

Mickey has his pants up in two seconds flat and catches up to Ian in the hall in another two. He slams him against the lockers, pinning him there by the collar of his preppy shirt.

“You tell anyone about this you’re dead! You do not want to fuck with me. You have no idea!”

But this little shit’s still smiling and the idiot seems to have a death wish, because he tells him: “Well I’m straight, so no, I don’t want to fuck with you Mickey.” 

He slams him against the lockers again, much harder, and Ian finally seems to be getting the message, putting a hand up to rub at the back of his sore head.

“Of course I won’t tell anyone, but come on Mickey it’s 2013 – it’s okay to be gay.”

“Not where I’m from it ain’t.” Mickey growls. He smashes him one more time for good measure, then turns around and retraces his steps to get his gym bag. The little faggot he was fucking is long gone by the time he re-enters the classroom. He really needs a smoke to calm his nerves. He heads out the side door of the gym into an alley and rips open his bag to get his cigarettes out. But there’s nothing there. Some bastard has stolen them again. Then the door slams open beside him and, like a groundhog day, Ian fucking Gallagher is standing there, smiling at him.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Mickey growls in frustration, but Ian waggles a carton at him.

“Got a whole pack this time.”

For a second Mickey thinks he must be the idiot who took them from his bag, but he quickly notes that they’re a different brand.

Ian pulls one out and offers them to Mickey, who wants to light it up and stub it out in the weirdo's eyes, but he’s quickly realizing that resistance is futile with this guy. He really does want the nicotine, so he just accepts it mutely and sparks it with his own lighter. They both take a few drags and lean back against the wall in relaxation. Surprising both himself and Ian, Mickey speaks first.

“What happened to your girlfriend?”

“Eh, I think she’s still looking for a place to bang.”

“That’s kind of a dick move isn’t it? Leaving her to wander around?”

Dick move? Really?

If Ian notices he doesn’t say anything though, and the kid has a big fucking smile every time he thinks something’s funny, so Mickey’s pretty sure he’s in the clear. Instead, Ian sighs.

“Yeah, you’re right. Honestly, I should be breaking up with her, but I’m too chicken. I’m going to West Point in the fall and she thinks we’re gonna have a long distance relationship, but I know it’s not gonna happen.”

“West Point eh? Don’t officers get shot first?” Ian smiles but doesn’t respond.

“Anyway, she’s a really sweet girl and deserves someone better than me, but she’s way more into me than I am to her. I want her to have time to move on before she’s off to college, but I keep putting it off. I need to man up.”

“Yeah, “Mickey replies and he’s surprised to realize that he’s actually listening intently to what Ian’s saying, when ordinarily he wouldn’t give a shit. They pause for a minute, comfortably, before Ian brings up the inevitable.

“I really won’t tell anyone you know?” he says sincerely. “I’m sorry you have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Hide. It can’t be easy having to cover up who you are.”

Mickey doesn’t really have an answer to that so he just grunts.

“Why do you do it?” Ian asks after another minute.

“Isn’t it fucking obvious Einstein? I like cock.” Mickey spits back, thinking he’s still talking about his gay ass. Ian grins again.

“No, sorry. Why do you wrestle?”

“You’re gonna have to start getting a lot more specific with the questions, Riddler,” Mickey snaps.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Ian smiles. “So why is it?”

“Nothing deep. Helps me deal with my anger. ‘Cause I have a whole fucking lot of anger. Problem is it only works if it’s actually a challenge. Hard to find enough people who are up to it.”

“Well you owned me again.”

“You’re getting better. Come back in a year and it might be a fair fight.”

“Won’t you be in college then?”

For the first time Mickey relaxes enough to splutter and then tips his head back and laughs.

“Are you fucking shitting me?! College?!”

“Why not? I get that you probably can’t afford it, but you’re really good. Like, really good. I bet you could get a full-ride sports scholarship.”

Mickey snorts.

“Yeah, sure. You clearly haven’t seen my academic record; I haven’t passed a single class. They only keep me around ‘cause I bring in the only silverware we’ve got and I don’t have to go to classes. And then there’s my criminal record. Nah man, I’m fucked for life.”

“So why do you do it?” he asks Ian, after another minute.

“Nothing deep. I wasn’t exactly going to make the football team, but I was good enough to be varsity in this and chicks dig letter jackets, right?”

“As if I’d know.”

“And I guess it helps get my anger out too.”

“Like you have anger issues Gallagher.”

“No, not like you Mickey,” he smiles sadly.

Mickey realizes then that they’ve gone through two smokes apiece without him even noticing.

“Anyway, guess we should get the fuck out of here before people think we’re doing something gay, right?”

Ian’s ear-to-ear smile is back and he looks at Mickey fondly. Who does this guy think he is, looking at him like he’s the love of his life or some shit?

“I like you Mickey,” he says finally. “But we probably won’t see each other again, will we? I got eliminated.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Mickey’s definitely not disappointed though. Definitely not.

“Let’s swap numbers, keep in touch.” And he says it like he actually means it; isn’t just saying it as a formality.

“Jesus Christ, you want to spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars next?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. You never know, you might actually get to like me with time,” he laughs, knocking Mickey’s shoulder with his own. Mickey gives a theatrical sigh, but dictates his digits, then feels his pocket vibrate as Ian sends him his own. He’s still smiling at him knowingly though, and Mickey’s beginning to wonder how he’s gonna get out of there.

“You’re a fucking onion, aren’t you Mickey Milkovich? Layers and layers under that brittle shell.” 

Mickey’s stomach definitely doesn’t turn over at that. Definitely not. For one of the very few times in his life, Mickey actually feels seen. Seen by this freckled, fucking alien-looking carrot-top.

He’s definitely something special. Definitely.

Chapter Text

One message from Fuckface Ian Gallagher, 8.35 p.m.

Illinois Junior Champion huh?

What? Like it’s hard?

Leave your dick out of this Mickey.

Mickey really hates to admit it, but Ian had been right. He had grown to like him. He likes his sense of humor, he likes that he’s completely unfazed by his gruff demeanor, but most of all he likes that they can banter back and forth like this without making him feel like a little bitch. That he’s no different or less of a man because he’s gay. He just accepts him as he is.

I thought about going to the competition, but I didn’t want to distract you.

You’re not as pretty as you think you are. I’m not gonna lose my shit over you.

Actually, I was going with my turning up with pom-poms and doing a bunch of cheers to make you cringe, but okay, thanks for the compliment.
So … how do you not get boners all the time when you’re wrestling? You’ve gotta admit the whole thing is pretty gay.

This conversation is getting deleted Gallagher.

Come on. Pretty please.

I’m pretty good at repression, had to do it all my life. And if I’m thinking about dick instead of concentrating then I’m gonna lose. Gays aren’t fucking horn-dogs every second of the day.

So how does winning feel?

Okay, I guess.

It’s a big deal! You should be proud. I’m proud of you.

The douche actually sends him a heart emoji, so Mickey snaps back with the only one he ever uses – the middle finger.

It’s weird. Trophy’s nearly as big as I am. Could barely get it in the car.

A whole four inches then?

Another middle finger emoji.

Has it got pride of place on your mantle piece now?

Mantle piece?! The fuck you think this is? The North Side? Trust me, that thing’s gonna be chopped up for parts before the day is out.

What do you use trophy parts for?

I dunno, weapons I guess, all that marble. Pretty much anything can be a decent weapon if you know what you’re doing. And we know what we’re doing.

Ooooooh so scary!

You wouldn’t last a second on the South Side. And even less in my house.

Was I just invited to a sleepover?

Fuck you is what you were invited to.

Apparently Ian really does want to come to his house though, and he brings it up a few more times before Mickey caves. Although they’ve been messaging, they haven’t actually seen each other since that last competition and he’s not opposed to seeing those green eyes for a little bit, if he’s honest. Which he isn’t very often. He’s not sure why Ian wants to come down to him though, instead of bringing him uptown. Poverty tourism maybe, or he’s embarrassed to introduce him to his rich friends. Or maybe he just figures Mickey’ll be more uncomfortable on the North Side than he’ll be on the South Side.

One weekend his dad announces that he’s going to take his brothers out of town on a run, so it’ll just be him and Mandy at the house for a couple days. He meets Ian at the L station, because he really wasn’t joking about him not lasting a second on the South Side, but thankfully he’s dressed down in sweats, which don’t scream ‘rich boy’ too loudly. He watches Ian carefully as they approach his house and walk in, and yeah, it’s what he expected. Ian tries to cover it up, but he can clearly see that he’s shocked by what he finds. The level of poverty Mickey exists in is completely new to him. He doesn’t look disgusted by it though, or too patronisingly pitying, just sad. Mickey throws some pizza rolls in the oven and suggests a movie to get Ian comfortable, but then his bitch of a sister walks in, of course.

He greets her with a 'douchebag' and she returns with an 'assface' as she slips into her room without looking over. Ian however is craning his neck around, wide eyed.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

“Mandy. Sister,” he grunts.

“Wow! She’s like you, but hot.”

Mickey screws up his face in disgust and gets up to sharpen some knives his brothers’ll be needing when they get back.

“She straight?” Ian asks.

“Yeah. But don’t touch my sister.”

“I broke up with my girlfriend so …”

“I mean it. Don’t touch my sister,” and he emphasizes his point with a few swipes through the air with his knife, but Ian only smiles.

“All right psycho, I won’t touch your sister.” He pauses. “Unless she wants me to.”

Mickey stabs the knife down into the wooden table and goes to fetch the pizza rolls.

The week after that Mandy announces that she’s going to Ian’s prom with him. Mickey doesn’t know how they even swapped numbers and he makes it very fucking clear that he doesn’t like it.

“Oh come the fuck on Mickey. We don’t even get a prom at our school; fuck me for wanting to have something nice. I’ll get to eat foie gras and drink champagne and fuck in a hotel room that doesn’t have bedbugs and dirty needles on the floor.”

“You’re gonna feel like a piece of trash if you go. All those kids’ll just look down their noses at you and laugh behind your back.”

“Ian won’t, he’s nice. He’s kind. Anyway, you’re just a jealous bitch.”

“The fuck I am! You know what would happen to me if I went to some fancy prep-school prom with a guy, huh? Besides, what are you gonna wear?”

“I’ll lift something from a quinceañera store.”

“How the fuck are you gonna hide all that tulle?” 

“Jesus Christ Mickey, you’re not gonna be able to stay in the closet around here much longer if you admit you know what tulle is.”

Mandy comes back from the prom pissed.

“I told you you’d hate it. What’d he do, lean you over a dumpster in an alley and make you feel like trash or something?”

“It’s worse than that!”  Mickey’s suddenly very worried.

“He wouldn’t fucking touch me! Said it would be weird, given how close you two are, but I know it was you, you cunt! You scared him off!”

Ian thinks they’re close.

Chapter Text

Ian finally leaves for West Point in August and Mickey tries to pretend he doesn’t care. Now that he’s officially out of High School he’s kind of at a loose end. He does odd jobs, some legal and some very much not so. He’s still at home, still hiding in the closet and still trying to give his dad as wide a berth as possible. It feels like everyone is moving on except him. And he doesn’t even have wrestling anymore, being out of the scholastic system and not in college.

When Ian comes back at Christmas he’s angry with him. Angry that he’s letting his life and talents slip away, that he’s still living under his dad’s thumb and that he’s taking it like a passive bitch. Ian’s a delusional North Sider with the optimism that comes from privilege, but he’s deadly serious and tells him that if Mickey’s not going to take control of his life, he will. His Christmas gift is a fucking month-by-month planner of the all things he should be doing next year, color coded and highlighted, even laying out how much he should be spending – as if Mickey has money to spend. He resents the intrusion into his life, but a part of him is really fucking touched that Ian seems to give a shit about him and his welfare. No one's ever cared before.

Ian does give him one really solid lead though. He finds a job opening for a wrestling coach at a charity that teaches the sport to underprivileged kids. Mickey would have killed for a club like that when he was growing up. Ian nags and nags and he finally applies, although he’s convinced he totally screwed up the interview. To his surprise though, he gets it, possibly because he’s so underprivileged himself. The pay is pretty low, but it’s still miles better than what he was bringing in before. Once he’s back for spring break, Ian forces him to open a bank account so that he’s less likely to get his cash stolen by his delinquent brothers and then forces him to get a savings account too. He wants him to get a deposit together so he can finally get the fuck out from under his miserable roof and actually start living his life. Maybe he’s right.

Next up is wrestling. That one’s a little harder. There’s a few amateur clubs dotted around the suburbs, but none of them are operating at Mickey’s level. The universities only allow students to take part, although he can rent mat time. That doesn’t give him any opponents or coaching though and Mickey can’t afford the fees anyway. Finally Ian gets through to the regional center of the Illinois Wrestling Association, which trains high-level athletes in the state. They give Mickey a try-out on the basis of his junior title and he makes the cut, but they’re based out of Northwestern University and Mickey has to drive an hour each way to fucking Evanston. He sucks it up though, grateful for the challenge, even if his car’s probably gonna give out within weeks from the mileage. But it keeps him out of the house most of the day and between the job and the training his life gets a lot better.

Finally, by the time July rolls around, Mickey has enough to move out. Ian would have jumped at the chance to give him a deposit, but he knows Mickey’s too proud for that. His budget isn’t big, but Ian persuades him to get a two-bedroom hovel instead of a one, as he’ll be able to get more money by subletting the other room at a higher rate if he does a little superficial DIY to fix it up.

He finds an apartment close to the charity and kind of near the University of Chicago campus, so that he can milk a student for rent. It’s far enough away that the rent’s cheap and South Side enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s living in some hipster hell, but close enough that he can still attract said student. It’s got two bedrooms, one and a half baths, an open-plan living room/kitchen with an island, and peeling paint and moldy carpet.

Ian buys him a gigantic, top-spec TV for his house-warming gift and threatens to cut off their friendship if Mickey sells it, unless he’s desperate for the money.

Unfortunately, the next thing on Ian’s list is Mickey’s love life.

“Let’s go to Boystown and find you a date!”

“Fuck off.”

“It’ll be fun! I can be your wingman.”

“You’re straight.”

“Doesn’t matter, I can play along. I’ll distract the one you don’t want and leave you two to get to know each other. All gay guys have a fag hag that tags along, right? Yours’ll just be a guy instead of a girl.”

“I can get laid without your help, thank you very much.”

“Come on, don’t you want to meet someone you actually like? Talk to them for more than a couple of dirty minutes? You must be lonely like this.”

“Nope.”

“You’re lying.”

Mickey takes a big sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You really want to do this, don’t you? All right, I’ll go to your faggy bar, for you.”

Ian’s got that gigantic goofy smile back on his face though, so it takes the sting out of it a little.

Ian picks a divey enough place that Mickey feels comfortable and insists on buying the drinks, which for once he doesn’t mind. Ian looks around the bar, really fucking obviously and tries to guess who's Mickey’s type. In the end two guys approach them, and yeah, they’re definitely not too bad, one in particular - but he’s pretty sure they’re both after Ian. They play some pool and get the small talk out of the way, then sit in a booth and get drunk. One of them, the hotter one in Mickey’s opinion, does actually seem to be into him, although he may just be playing wingman too.

Soon enough, Mickey feels a hand under the table brushing up against Ian’s knee, close enough that he can feel it. Then there’s a foot and Mickey starts to get real jealous. Ian doesn’t flinch away either and Mickey wonders if he’s enjoying the attention. He must be, because when the guy stands up and says he’s going to the bathroom Ian smiles in a distinctly sultry way and Mickey’s fists clench under the table.

“You know he’s gonna try and suck your cock in there?” Mickey whispers, leaning over to Ian.

“Hey it might be fun. A mouth’s a mouth, right? I’ll just keep my eyes closed and use my imagination.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

But Ian gets up anyway and Mickey and his date leave before he returns.

He’s woken with a hangover and a sore ass at about 11am the next morning by a message from Ian.

A mouth is not a mouth.

I told you, idiot. What happened?

It was kinda okay at first, but then he grabbed my dick and started pumping the part that wasn’t in his mouth and he had REALLY calloused hands, so I definitely couldn’t pretend it was a girl. And then he started grunting with his deep voice, so that was another turn off and finally he tried to stick his fingers up my ass. Not doing that again.

You should have used a glory hole.

Do I want to know what that is?

You ever go in a toilet and see a hole in the wall about four inches wide between the stalls? You stick your cock in there and the guy on the other side sucks it. You don’t have to see who it is and they definitely can’t shove their fingers in your ass.

I’d say thanks, but I don’t think there’s going to be a next time.

What a fucking moron. Too bad Mickey loves him.

Chapter Text

Mickey’s roommate is a douche, but his ad hadn’t gotten as many hits as he’d expected and he was into his second month having to cover the rent by himself, so he’d caved. The guy doesn’t look like he’s a crackhead, or a murderer and seems rich enough to make rent, so beggars can’t be choosers.

Except he is late with the rent, all the fucking time. Mickey knows this guy isn’t struggling, he's just throwing his parents’ money away on too much booze and weed and hookers. After the third month he threatens to go smash up his parents’ house with a baseball bat, which works for the next three months. Then he actually does have to go, battering these weird gnome figurines in their garden and taking one back as proof it was him. That works another three months. Mickey’s really itching to do some actual damage, not this weak-ass intimidation, but he’s promised Ian he wouldn’t get into trouble, so he bites back on his more violent impulses and channels it into training. He can’t wait to get this fucker out when the year is up though and starts advertising to get his replacement months before. Except he doesn’t find one and starts to wonder if what’s scaring people off isn’t the neighborhood but him. He resigns himself to the fact that he’s probably going to have to keep the bastard, though thankfully he’s on month-to-month now, since his year is up.

Ian comes to visit him every time he’s back from West Point, talking enthusiastically about the increasingly numerous ways he can kill a man. Mickey relishes their time together, but he can’t help being a little sad that they’re not as close as they used to be when they were first getting to know each other. They still message a lot and call occasionally, but it slowly ebbs away; though Mickey’s pretty sure he’s the only one who’s noticed. There’s a girlfriend here and there, but not anyone serious and it doesn’t seem like Ian’s brought any of them home to meet the family. That makes Mickey a bit too relieved if he’s honest, even though he genuinely wants him to be happy. He knows it’s only a matter of time though.

Mickey, on the other hand, does get brought home. Ian’s older brother Lip is pretty arrogant, apparently due to his being a genius or some shit, enrolled in a fancy PhD program somewhere on full tuition. Mickey appreciates the fact that he thinks he’s better than him because he’s smarter though, rather than richer. His sister Debbie does turn her nose up however, but he can tell she’s an idiot who’s gonna get her ass handed to her when real life bends her over once she leaves the nest. The next one, Carl, is following in Ian’s footsteps and aiming for West Point. He’s a lot less friendly though and Mickey gets the feeling he’s going to be the kind of officer that eventually gets court martialed for war crimes – not that that actually happens. The youngest is Liam, the token adopted black kid from some third world country, who seems to have the most sense of any of them. Supposedly there’s also an older sister with a family of her own and a successful business career.

Despite their individual flaws, the group as a whole is much greater than the sum of its parts. They clearly love one another and bring out the best in each other. Ian’s mother also seems to be nice. A bit airheaded, but full of warmth for her kids and he recognizes a lot of Ian in her, explaining where he got his good qualities. His parents are divorced and his mom lives on the spousal support payments that allow them all to attend fancy private schools. Mickey wonders what his life might have been like if he had had a family like this.

However, during a particularly quiet and vulnerable moment, when they’ve had a lot to drink, Ian confesses that he hadn’t actually had as idyllic a childhood as Mickey assumed. Apparently his mother has bipolar disorder and, although she’s now taking meds and is stable, their lives had been periodically upended by her episodes. What’s more, Ian is the product of one of those manic periods, where she’d disappeared for three months and come back depressed and pregnant. Although they’d never say it, Ian’s always felt that his siblings judge him just a little for this. That his only being a half-brother puts him a little further down the totem in their hearts. Even worse, he worries that he’s going to get it too, being the most like his mother.

Mickey wants to tell him that he doesn’t care. That he’d love him even if he were completely batshit crazy. But he doesn’t, of course. Instead he says that nothing’s predestined, that there’s no guarantee that it’ll happen and even if it does he’ll probably take it in his stride, knowing how to fight it after so many years of watching his mom make the wrong choices. Even she had gotten on top of it eventually. Ian’s the strongest person he knows and he’s sure that all that West Point grit will allow him to completely fuck the disorder in the ass. This still seems to mean a lot to Ian though and he puts his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, rests his head there and mumbles a ‘thanks’ into his neck. Mickey has to go to the bathroom pretty soon after, because he’s either going to get a boner or shed a tear, and he doesn’t want to find out which.

Ian doesn’t come home the summer of his second year, deployed overseas for more training, and Mickey wasn’t prepared for how much he’d miss him. Fuck does he miss him. He’d gotten used to him being gone for months at a time, but now it will have been nine of them by the time Ian’s back for Christmas. He only found out about him going a few weeks beforehand too, when he'd already started counting down the days unconsciously. Sometimes he imagines what his return would be like if Mickey could hold him and then kiss him. Taste him just once. Just once. But that way madness lies and Ian’s blow job experiment had proven pretty conclusively that they were never gonna go there, so he tramples down his desires, knowing that their friendship is still the most important thing he’s got and definitely not worth risking for a simple kiss.

The weeks drag, even though his athletic career is really starting to take off, finally daring to believe he might make the national team. He can contact him of course, but it’s even more sporadic and the time difference is great. When Ian finally returns, bearing some freaky Japanese gay porn DVDs as a Christmas gift, Mickey comes real fucking close to losing control of his façade. Ian even stays over for a few days, once he’s had his fill of his family (which doesn’t take long). He sleeps on the couch and bitches about Mickey’s troglodyte of a roommate whenever the guy’s out of earshot. The place feels like a home for the first time.

Mickey’s got a meet coming up just after New Year and Ian’s still got a week’s leave left, so he insists on tagging along. Mickey’s still too poor to be able to fly, so it’s going to be a road trip in his old banger, even though it means a full twenty-four hours of driving, sleeping in the car because Mickey can’t afford a motel either. Ian finally insists on paying for one himself though, claiming that his lily-white North Side ass can’t bear to sleep in the car, even though Mickey knows West Point’s taught him to sleep on fucking boulders. He appreciates that he tries not to intrude on his self-sufficient South Side pride though, even if it’s bloody obvious what he’s doing. Plus Mickey can admit a good night’s sleep might actually help his performance.

It turns into a pretty good outcome for him. Not a top place finish, but enough to bump him up the rankings and send him to nationals. Ian doesn’t follow through on his old threat to bring pom-poms, but Mickey can hear him cheering him on and, rather than serving as a distraction, it pushes him harder; probably making more of a difference to his performance than he could have imagined. Ian treats him to a huge carb dinner at a diner that evening before they hit the road and takes the first shift driving so that Mickey has a chance to sleep off his fatigue in the tipped-back passenger seat. He’s out like a light. At 3 a.m. they pull into a gas station to fill up and Ian wakes him gently.

“Hey, I’m getting pretty sleepy, you gonna to be okay to take over?”

Mickey’s bleary, but he says yes and jogs around the station a couple of times in the cool air to rouse himself, while Ian deals with the tank and buys him a coffee and a kind bar to keep him going. Mickey visits the men’s room and then they’re off again. Ian doesn’t lie back straight away, just rolls the seat upright again and flicks through the radio stations instead. They’re right in the middle of Bumblefuck, so the choices consist of country or evangelical chat-shows. Ian finally settles on one playing country oldies and yodels along like a baying dog, forcing Mickey to cover his ears and, when that doesn’t work because he’s only got one hand free, grab for the radio to put the poor old dog out of its misery by changing the channel.

Then a blinding light fills the car.

Chapter Text

When Mickey comes round he’s totally disoriented and numb. Then the pain hits him like a train and he tries to shout out in agony, but he can’t make any noise. He feels really faint but tries to take some deep breaths to control his swooning and racing heart enough to understand what’s going on. He wishes he hadn’t. He looks down and sees why he’s in pain. His body is pinned to his seat by the steering wheel, the lower part lodged deeply in his abdomen. He knows he must have some broken ribs and at least one arm, but the worst pain is coming from his legs that are tangled around the pedals, crushed by the impact that’s concertinaed the footwell to a fraction of its usual volume.

He starts to swoon again but is forced back into the present when he sees flames emerging from the hood of the car that’s hit them head-on. Mickey can’t even form words in his head right now but he knows how much danger they’re in, especially with the engine still on. He tries to move his arm but he’s completely pinned, despite his excruciating wriggling.

He sees movement in his peripheral vision and turns his head to see Ian moving and almost passes out at the sight of him. His left arm is bent at a very unnatural angle but that’s not what’s so horrific. His face is completely covered in blood and Mickey can see all kinds of glass and metal embedded in his face and, worst of all, sticking out of one eye. He seems to be blinking back blood, but he’s more alert and wipes his sleeve across his face with his working arm, then manages to undo his seatbelt by reaching across, his body not pinned.

With great effort he leans over towards Mickey and turns the key in the ignition to the off position, then pulls it out. His legs seem to be working too and he pushes his door open with his good arm and a leg and rolls out of the car, a loud shout of pain going up as his broken arm hits the ground. He gets up though and limps around the car to Mickey’s side, coughing from the smoke and trying to pull the door open. It’s clear that it’s completely fucked though and he looks at Mickey desperately, panicking as he pulls harder and harder with his one arm.

Luckily that’s the point where the fire brigade and paramedics arrive, quickly dousing the cars to quench the developing inferno. He sees someone coax Ian away from his door and that’s enough relief to make him pass out again.

He wakes again to the sound of power tools grinding as they try to cut him out of the wreck and then again in the ambulance, blood bags and fluids dangling above and worried faces over him, but after that he’s out for good.

When he finally comes round again he’s feeling less painful but still groggy as shit. He blinks and moans, lolling his head to the side and realizing Ian’s there, once his vision clears. He’s looking semi-conscious in a chair that’s far too small for him, legs drawn up to his chest, in one of those hospital gowns that are open at the back so everyone can see your ass. He’s got a neck brace on and a full arm cast but, more disturbingly, most of his face is wrapped up in bandages like a mummy.

He slowly comes into himself when he hears Mickey’s vague moans and drops his legs, scooting his chair up to Mickey’s bed and grasping his needle studded hand.

“You in there?” he asks.

“Hghguhb,” Mickey gargles out, having not quite regained the use of his lips.

“Haahww, hooow, how long b,” he struggles out.

“It’s been three days,” Ian chokes, a huge lump in his throat.

Mickey tries to sit up, but Ian quickly presses him back into the bed and he can barely move an inch anyway.

“Not so fast Speedy Gonzales. You’re in a bad way.”

“Whaat bad waa?” He stumbles, pushing through a haze of morphine and fatigue.

Mickey can’t see much of Ian’s expression, but he flinches a bit, as if to steel himself.

“Well you have a bunch of broken ribs, a broken arm, internal bleeding, a ruptured spleen, a broken leg and, and …” he stutters, losing his voice and looking at the ground. He swallows hard and takes a deep breath, seeming to steady himself before looking back at him.

“Your left leg Mickey. It was completely mangled. They uh, they had to cut it off.”

“Waaah?”

“Not the whole thing!” Ian blurts out quickly. “Just below the knee.”

Mickey rolls his head back to the middle of his pillow, not fully comprehending what Ian is saying. It must be the morphine. He’s out of his mind and he quickly drops off to sleep again.

The next time Mickey wakes up Ian’s still there, swaddled in bandages but wearing normal clothes. He’s a little less bleary today and when Ian shuffles over he’s able to get some proper words out.

“Hey, how’re you feeling?” he asks softly.

“Shit.”

“Not surprised. I was worried you weren’t gonna make it for a little while,” Ian whispers, shakily. Apparently Mickey’s disinhibited by all the drugs because he reaches his hand out and Ian seizes it with his good arm, rubbing his thumb over the skin.

“Was … is it really true? What you said?”

“You remember?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Yeah. I’m really sorry Mickey.”

He turns his head back to the middle of the pillow and exhales.

“I can’t- I don’t- I don’t even know how I feel.”

“It’ll take some getting used to, but there’s really good prosthetics out there these days. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.” Ian winces at his choice of words, but Mickey doesn’t care.

“What about you?”

“Well I’ve got whiplash, a busted arm and I took a bunch of shrapnel to the face, but I got off a lot lighter than you. They’ve already discharged me.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, mostly. I um … I’m gonna be a cyclops from now on, but chicks dig scars, right?”

Mickey doesn’t quite understand this for a minute, but then that awful image of Ian’s bloody face flashes in his mind.

“Your eye?”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a minute, Ian stroking Mickey’s skin with his fingers, apparently searching for something to say.

“Did I- Did I fuck up?” Mickey finally asks.

Ian’s hand constricts around his violently.

“No! No not at all Mickey! You did nothing wrong. It was a drunk-driver. They drifted across into our lane.”

That’s a load off his mind, at least. He’s starting to feel sleepy again.

“I guess … on the bright side, I’m not going back to West Point now, so we’ve got more time to drive each other crazy?” Mickey doesn’t know how to interpret that, so he just blinks his increasingly heavy eyelids and Ian seems to understand what that means.

“Get some more rest Mickey, you’re gonna need it,” he smiles sadly.

Then Mickey’s out for the count again.

The first thing he learns, when he’s finally well enough to sit up in bed, is that he fucking hates physiotherapy. He hates the woman who comes and prods at his stump and manipulates his limbs, pushing and pulling them up and down. He hates the nurse who wraps and unwraps the bandages on his leg 50,000 times a day. And he hates feeling like a cripple who can’t even push himself around in a wheelchair because he has a cast on. 

Mickey does have insurance but it’s pretty shit, though in truth he’s kind of glad to be turfed out of the hospital as soon as possible, which is still about three weeks too late. Unfortunately his doctors insist that he go to a rehab facility for at least another three, for more of the intensive physiotherapy that he hates, before he’ll be allowed home. 

Ian’s family had insisted that he fly back to Chicago with them once he was discharged after four days, so Mickey’s been bored out of his mind, stuck in Bumblefuck. Ian had tried to convince him to fly Mandy down at his family’s expense, but he refused. He’s still too proud to let her see him looking this weak and he doesn’t want to upset the balance at a time when she’s really making progress in carving out a normal life for herself. It was bad enough having to see Ian all choked up over him; he’s not doing it twice.

When Ian and Lip return to take him back to Chicago at the end of his stay, he travels on an airplane for the first time in his life. He hates it. He has to get pushed around in a wheelchair and his gaping jeans and missing shoe make it obvious that he’s lost something. He also has to get on the plane first and off last, manhandled into his seat by a burly attendant since he can’t lift himself. There’s too many people, the guy in front of him smells of BO, there are children screaming for most of it and his seat is uncomfortable as fuck. He’s never doing it again.

When he gets to rehab Ian comes to visit most days, now only wearing an eye patch and sporting some pretty gnarly red wounds on his face. Once he tries to cheer Mickey up by pushing his chair really fast down the hall and jumping on the back to glide, but he only succeeds in tipping the thing backwards and barely catches him with his one arm before Mickey’s head hits the floor. He appreciates the effort though. Mandy comes too, but that’s about it, the rest of his family apparently not giving a shit – maybe because he hasn’t exactly been hiding his sexuality since he moved out.

Although he’s still in a wheelchair most of the time, he gets fitted for a prosthetic leg. It's a 'beginners' piece of crap initially, that he drags along the floor with his other leg in a walker cast, holding himself up on the parallel bars and shaking like crazy because his arms are so weak, one having just gotten out of a cast. Slow and steady they tell him, and Mickey wants to tell them all to go to hell instead.

And it hurts. Fucking hell does it hurt. He’d assumed that when you lose a leg it’s just kind of gone, but no, the pain kicks like a motherfucker. Apparently it’s all the blood vessels and particularly the nerves healing themselves from being truncated, but they seem to be taking their own sweet time. At least there are plenty of drugs – morphine initially, then switching over to oxycodone. And thank God for them because right now they’re the only thing in Mickey’s whole shitty life that’s bringing him any pleasure.

Chapter Text

When Mickey’s finally sent home he gets picked up by Monica, because Ian’s still not allowed to drive. He’s looking much better, with his wounds mostly healed and his arm out of the cast, the only real indication of what he’s just been through the eye patch he still has to wear.

Mickey’s apartment was on the ground floor, so luckily he doesn’t have to move out, and when he gets there he discovers Ian’s built a little ramp so he can get up the single step. He’s supposed to be spending short periods of time on his leg now, wobbling around like Bambi on ice, learning how to balance, but most of the time he’s still stuck in the chair, grumbling because he can’t reach shit. Thankfully his roommate hasn’t burned the house down, or sold the TV, and the place actually looks pretty liveable. He wonders how many hours Ian had to put in to get it that way.

Monica leaves and his roommate’s out getting fucked up somewhere, so it’s just the two of them. Ian offers Mickey the first beer he’s had in weeks and he sucks it down in seconds, like an infant with a bottle. Another and he’s finally starting to relax, so Ian comes and joins him on the couch, knees knocking together and pressing up against each other.

“How are you doing?” Ian asks softly.

“Fine. At least now I have beer.” But he’s peeling the labels off the bottles and he knows Ian knows that that’s a nervous habit of his.

“How are you really doing?”

“I don’t know what to tell you man. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel right now. I feel shit, but that’s normal, right?”

“I guess.”

He’s not about to tell him the frequency with which Ian’s bloody face flashes into his mind, or the guilt he’s carrying, or the goddamn heaviness that’s weighing him down and never seems to leave, no-matter what he does.

“What about you?” he asks, not so deftly trying to deflect the conversation.

Ian sighs. “I think I’m okay for the most part, but having to leave West Point’s a pretty big blow, if I’m honest. I only ever saw myself in the military, pretty much all my life. I have no fucking clue what I’m gonna do with myself now. I’m sure you know what I mean. I was so confident you were going to make it in wrestling. Go all the way, you know? Internationally.”

This belated show of support does nothing to boost Mickey’s spirits.

“Paralympics maybe?”

“Not a sport,” he grunts.

“Oh.”

They sit in sad silence for a minute, Mickey eventually opening his mouth for no particular reason.

“The eye thing not bothering you?”

“Kinda, but it might do my ego some good not being so pretty anymore.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes.

“And my parents are getting me a fancy custom prosthesis, so I hopefully won’t look too googly eyed.” 

“That gonna be your party trick now? Popping your eyeball out? I hear chicks dig that.” Mickey smiles for the first time and he gets one in return.

“Nah, I told you this thing’s fancy. You need surgery to get it put in and attach it to all the muscles and membranes and stuff. Has to stay in there. It even moves around, although I’ll probably still have a serious lazy eye. But the part with the fake iris is kind of like a fat contact lens, so I can pull that out. It’s not as gross as the whole thing though.”

“Well it’s better than my trick.”

“What’s that?”

“Get drunk and fall on my face because I can’t balance.”

“I’m sure it’ll get better.”

But Mickey just scowls.

“So … is your eye, like, still in there or what?” he asks after another minute.

“Nope, I already had the surgery to put the fake one in. It just has to heal for a few months before I get the iris part. You wanna see?” Ian asks enthusiastically.

Mickey screws up his face in disgust.

“No.”

“Come on, it’s cool!”

“No.”

“Please?”

Mickey shakes his head and sighs, but he knows he’s got no choice in this.

“All right, let’s get this over with.”

Ian flips his patch up and Mickey looks at a white ball with a clear piece of plastic or something over it. It’s pretty weird.

“Yeah, I can see why you wear that patch. You’d definitely scare children.”

“Can’t wait for Halloween!”

Mickey smiles again, but it doesn’t last long, thinking about his own freaky stump. He warms up though, when Ian puts his arm around his shoulders and squeezes him.

“Look, with your peg-leg and my eye patch we make a whole pirate. All we need now is a parrot. And one day you’re gonna meet some guy who wants to pound you in the ass and he’ll know how to peel back your onion layers without crying too, okay? Your leg won’t matter to anyone who loves you.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two, but then Mickey feels Ian stiffen by his side.

“Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you … I was thinking maybe I could, you know, move in here?”

“What?!” Mickey blurts out, as surprised as if he had asked him to marry him. Apparently it comes out rather hostile though, because Ian snatches his arm back and starts talking rapidly.

“It’s just an idea! No pressure or anything! It’s just I’m gonna get my credits from West Point transferred and it looks like UChicago will take me and you’re close and I know you hate your roommate and you know I’m good for the rent so-”

“Fucking hell!” Ian shrinks some more. “Yes! Thank fuck! I’ve wanted to turf that bastard out from the day he moved in.”

“Oh okay,” Ian smiles in relief and Mickey’s stomach lurches around uncontrollably. He takes three oxy to celebrate.

Mickey gives his asshole roommate notice that day and starts counting down the hours until Ian arrives. And he gets him a housewarming gift of his own.

“Is that- holy shit, a parrot!” Ian stares, standing in the door with his first box. "Please tell me you named it Captain Flint?!"

“Who?” Mickey asks, giving him a WTF look.

“Long John Silver’s parrot in Treasure Island.”

“It’s a parrot. Parrots are called Polly. I don’t make the rules.”

Ian’s still smiling like a loon though.

“I can’t believe you bought a parrot.”

Mickey chews on his lip and scratches at the back of his neck. 

“I mean … I didn’t exactly buy her, but yeah. Bitch seems to hate me though,” he adds, sticking a finger near her to demonstrate, as she tries to bite him.

“Fuck off!” she squawks.

“Well I can see she’s bonded with you in one way, at least. Anyway, you’ve got to get her used to your fingers Mickey, it’s like foreplay.”  

“Eww.”

Ian drops his box and walks over to inspect the large green bird perched on the kitchen island.

“She thinks you’re either a snack or a danger when you do that. You got any vegetables we can feed her as a treat?”

Mickey snorts. “You know I don’t do veg.”

“What exactly are you feeding her?”

“Like … peanuts.”

“Please tell me they’re not the salted kind!”

“No.”

“Well that’s a start, at least. Where are they?”

Mickey hands over the bag. They’re the kind still enclosed in the husk and Ian holds it by the base and offers it to the bird, who grasps it with her foot and chews at it with her beak, quickly dispensing with the shell and getting at the nuts within. While she’s busy Ian keeps his finger near her, just getting her used to it being there, while he grabs another peanut with his free hand and repeats the process. He moves his finger a little higher, so that it’s in contact with her breast this time and strokes it gently, then moves it up over her shoulders to the back of her head after the third try. He touches her feathers there and she freezes up, but after a few seconds seems to relax. Then Ian massages her further up her head, going against the grain of the feathers so that he can get at her skin and she closes her eyes and leans into him, like a happy cat getting a good scratch.

“You’re the fucking parrot whisperer huh?” Mickey smiles. “Should’ve known a rich kid like you would have a pet as stupid as this.”

“Nah, I was only allowed little things like parakeets, but there was a pet store just down the road from my elementary school, so I used to go there all the time and play with the big birds.”

He looks around the room and sees absolutely nothing in the way of parrot paraphernalia.

“How long have you had her Mick?”

“Only a week.”

“You need to get a lot of stuff: she needs a big cage she can go in when you’re not home, perches and a lot of toys. Parrots are like toddlers: they’re smart but they wreck everything and shit everywhere if you don’t supervise them. And you have to get her some proper food, she can’t just eat nuts. She needs special parrot pellets and fruits and vegetables.”

Of course Ian comes back that weekend with hundreds and hundreds of dollars’ worth of parrot shit: bags of food and supplements, a huge cage, some dead looking tree that it’s supposed to climb on, swings, mirrors and probably ten times as many toys as Mickey had as a child. As long as it makes him happy, Mickey’s not going to complain. And if it makes the parrot happy, so that it doesn’t shit on the couch, then he guesses that’s a win too.

Chapter Text

He wishes he could say that Ian moving in with him changes everything; that all the shit he was feeling disappears once he’s more deeply rooted in his life. But it doesn’t. He’s happy that he’s there, definitely, but Mickey’s guilty burden increases every time he looks at Ian and sees his scars or eyes out of alignment. It’s a constant reminder of everything they’ve gone through – what Ian’s gone through – because of him.

Ian often goes out in the Loop, usually with old friends from high school, to fancy joints that sound like Mickey’s idea of hell. He’s not a good socializer at the best of times, but he can barely deal with getting laid and catching the occasional movie with Ian these days. The only thing he can imagine worse than going to douchey bars, is going to them with frat boys with money to burn.

Despite his guilt though, Ian’s injuries don’t seem to have hurt his prospects with the ladies and he reliably brings one home each weekend. He’s always a gentleman, letting them stay until morning and making them pancakes, even if he admits the night was a total disaster after they’ve gone. If Mickey times it right he gets pancakes too, and Ian puts bananas in them for him, as he assesses the flavor of the week. He’s got a type: brunettes with pretty eyes.

Mickey’s more of a Grindr guy; he hates having to make small talk in bars. When he brings men home, usually when Ian’s out, they’re gone as soon as they’ve get their clothes back on. No lie-ins or pancakes for these guys. Mickey’s always used sex as a distraction, but it’s not working so well these days. He’s still feeling anxious, no matter how many dicks he shoves up his ass, and his interest begins to wane.

He still fucking hurts. His doctors are now telling him that phantom limb pain can last for years. Something about the brain having to rewire the signals from the part that’s no longer there. Yeah, they’re hopeful it’ll settle down, but what if it doesn’t? As if he doesn’t have enough emotional pain there’s all this physical shit to go with it. 

He’s got his permanent prosthesis now and it’s kind of shit, but at least more functional than his last piece of crap, so that’s a plus. Ian wants to buy him some fancy thing with a microprocessor and hydraulics and all this other bullshit, but Mickey shuts him down completely. Partly he’s just too proud, unwilling to accept charity and knowing he’ll never be able to pay it off if he offers it to him as a loan. But the other half is just straight up sadness. Ian’s done so much for him over the years, so much, and never wanted anything in return. He can’t bear to take any more.

He does go back to work, finally. The structure is good for him, and he’s glad to see the little shits again, but it too is a constant reminder of all the things he’s lost. They used to be as proud of him as they were of the kids, holding up his success as something within their grasp, something they could be too: a mouthy South Side prick that grew up just like them, on his way to the Olympics. Now he’s just a cripple.

He has nightmares. Horrific, vivid nightmares, all the fucking time. Sometimes the metal projectiles hit Ian in the chest instead, and he bleeds out in front of him. Sometimes their car catches fire too, and he hears him screaming in agony. Sometimes Ian’s driving, and he sees him crushed to a pulp. The daytime is no better. Every time he hears the screech of tires his adrenaline hits the roof, throwing him into a panic attack. And the irony is that, even though his body is hyper-vigilant and constantly on edge, his soul is becoming deader and deader as the months pass. Thank God for Oxy, because otherwise he doesn’t think he’d be able to feel a fucking thing.

His guilt builds. He thinks about the crash over and over and over again. It might have been a drunk-driver that hit them, but it’s Mickey’s fault they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He shouldn’t have gone to the bathroom. He shouldn’t have been speeding. He shouldn’t have been playing with the radio, or else he’d have had time to swerve.

He just wants to get out of there. Spare Ian the burden of having to live with a piece of shit like him who mopes around and snaps in irritation every day. And Ian’ll never be his. He’s sick of pining, sick of knowing no-one else can take his place and sick of dreading the day that he finally finds the right girl and walks out of his life. He wants to smash his head against the wall to escape it.

Time drags on. Spring turns to summer, then fall, then winter. He goes to the Gallaghers’ for Christmas and grits his teeth through meals and party games and expensive gifts he’ll never use. The anniversary of it all is just around the corner. His New Year’s wish, at the stroke of twelve, is that he’ll die.

Ian doesn’t know. Mickey wouldn’t burden him with that. He’s still so optimistic about life, entering his final semester at college. He’s glad that he’ll be able to move on and move up in life; get a fresh start away from here. Be free to live his life the way he deserves, with those who deserve him. He’ll free him.

His Oxy use had spiraled pretty quickly once he was out of the hospital. Initially it was just because he’d developed a tolerance from taking more than he was supposed to because his dosage didn’t last as long as he needed. But as his emotional deadening had progressed, so had his need for the mood-boosting effects of the drug. He was so heavy and weighed down by everything he was carrying it became very difficult to keep up the charade. He knows there’s no way he could still get his ass to work, or be there for Ian, were it not for the pills. It was not hard to get more. In fact Mickey’s biggest problem was finding a dealer who didn’t know who he was because of his family connections. In the end he had to go up to the North Side to buy from some bougie prick at twice the price he should’ve been paying. Then again, it wasn’t like it was hard to find the extra cash, given his criminal upbringing. Once he’s formulated a plan though, he decides on something a little stronger. He might as well be happy as he dies.

For the first time in years, Mickey returns to the Milkovich house. It’s not for a family reunion. It’s a bitterly, bitterly cold night, but Mickey still cases the joint for hours, watching his relatives come and go, figuring out when it’s most likely to be empty. The doors are never locked of course, so he slips in easily. Almost nothing has changed, besides the layer of grime being a little thicker. They’re still using the same old hidey-holes too, so Mickey quickly finds what he’s after, escaping after only a few minutes.

He heads for a quiet alley off South Ashland where knows he’s unlikely to be disturbed and there’ll probably be some needles lying around. He’s thought this part through carefully. He didn’t want Ian to have to find him, so he definitely wouldn’t do it at home. Then he had to balance the risk of being found too early against that of being found too late. He doesn’t want Ian to have to ID a badly decomposed corpse either, so an abandoned building was out of the question. This seems like a good compromise.

Yesterday’s snow is still carpeting the street, but he spies a used syringe under the dumpster, so sits and pulls out his baggie. At the Milkovich level of the supply chain it’s bound to be pretty potent and relatively unadulterated. It’s also the white powder kind, so there’s no need to add citric acid or heat it; just add a little water, stir it up and fill his vessel. He’s never taken heroin before, but he figures why not? Don’t have to wait around for all those pills to kick in, just short and sweet. He’s been chilled to the bone for hours and he struggles with some of the parts of the operation that require dexterity in his fingers, but he’s soon ready. His veins are good, but sunken because of the cold, so he pulls his coat off and tightens a shoelace around his bicep to pump them up. After a minute he removes it, sticks the needle in and pushes the plunger down.

A rush of warmth and euphoria hits, as Ian swims before him – the Ian from before the accident with his stupid, goofy grin. 

Then he swiftly passes out.

Chapter Text

Ian’s leaning over him, hand clenched firmly in his, looking absolutely furious.

“I swear to God Mickey, I’d knock you into a coma if you hadn’t just come out of one.”

Mickey looks at him blearily, still disoriented and swooning from the lights.

“I’m still alive?” he stammers out half deliriously. “I knew I should’ve used a gun.” He feels Ian’s hand constrict around his in surprise as he collapses back into his chair, dropping his hand as he goes. The sedation pulls Mickey back under before he can absorb anything else anyway.

The next time Mickey wakes Ian’s still there, face and eyes puffy and red. Apparently he can still cry with his right eye. He swallows when he hears Mickey moving and pulls his chair up to the bed.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice thick and gravelly.

“My whole fucking body is screaming.”

“Yeah, you had a lot of Narcan. You’re in withdrawal already. They’re giving you sedatives though.”

Ian drops his head down to look at his feet and sniffles.

“What happened Mickey, I don’t understand? How could I have missed what was going on?”

Mickey pulls the hand that doesn’t have a bunch of needles in it up to his face and rubs it, sighing wearily.

“It was the pain pills. I got addicted. I’ve had to hide my whole life Ian, it wasn’t hard to keep it from you either. I felt so heavy and they were the only damn thing keeping me together. Your bloody face would flash into my mind every second of the day. That piece of metal in your eye. My life is over. It has been for a long time.”

“Don’t say that,” Ian sobs. “It’ll get better.”

“All I can feel is darkness and pain.”

“We can change that. We can get you help!”

“I don’t want to get better Ian, that’s the sad truth. You’ve got to want it to make it work, right?”

“Fuck Mickey, I can’t lose you. Please.” 

But tiredness is overtaking him again and he rolls his head back to the middle of the pillow and sighs into sleep.

The third time he wakes, Ian looks more determined, although his face is still a red, raw mess. He takes Mickey’s hand in his gently and interlaces his fingers with his own, rubbing his thumb along the side and giving it a light squeeze.

“We need to get you into rehab. And then a psych ward. I’m sorry Mickey, but this is the only way; you’ve got to deal with your demons. I’ll be here every step of the way, if you’ll let me.”

“No Ian.”

“Jesus Christ! Why not?!”

“I’ve taken too much already. You never want anything back.”

“Stop being a fucking martyr Mickey.” 

“I don’t think I can do this. This is hell.”

“And what, you think I’m not in there too? That I won’t be for the rest of my life if you don’t? I hate to play this card because it’s manipulative, but I’m calling in all those favors you owe me and then we’ll be square. If you give half a shit about me, half, do this. Do it for me. And you’re getting that expensive leg, end of story. It’ll make a real difference in your life. You can do this Mickey; I know you can. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Mickey goes. 

Of course Ian’s family insist on paying, so Mickey pukes and shits and sweats his way though detox in a fancy place with a swimming pool. He’d never told Ian that he couldn’t swim. Then the pain from his leg kicks back in, and he has to push through it with ibuprofen, which barely takes the edge off.

Next he’s off to some kind of country mansion where he’s locked in a ‘seclusion room’ full of suicide-proof plastic furniture, drugged to the eyeballs with antipsychotics so that he can’t do anything. After a few days he’s finally allowed out and Ian starts visiting, but he’s still so bleary he can’t follow a conversation. He spends pretty much all his time in his tastefully furnished room, staring at the walls between long sleeps.

He feels like he’s clawing his way through a scorching desert. His soul is still completely empty, but he tries to believe what Ian said about things changing is true and not just some optimistic bullshit that healthy people with no concept of suffering say. He’s still terrified about how much it’s going to hurt to go back to that same place of unrequited love, once he can actually feel something – because right now he might as well be a cardboard box – but he’s suffering now and he’ll suffer again because Ian needs him. He told him that. He doesn’t need to be freed; he needs him. So Mickey’s gonna drag his ass through the desert, because he thinks that maybe Ian would do the same for him.

Slowly, the fog begins to lift. Only his drug induced fatigue initially, but after about two weeks he does feel noticeably lighter. He can finally talk with Ian, whose smile gets brighter each time he visits. But then he has to start therapy. He sits in a circle with a bunch of rich bitches moaning about their cocaine addictions, because daddy didn’t love them and blah, blah, blah. Mickey’s tempted to tell them about some real hardship, but he swallows it down, trying to remember that pain is still pain. His psychiatrist notices too, but actually seems pleased with this because anger is an emotion – it takes energy and drive to hate the rich. He’s quickly given diagnoses of PTSD and depression. They also start him on anti-seizure and tricyclic anti-depressant meds for his pain, which makes no sense to Mickey, but they actually work. Not perfectly, but he’s blown away by the difference and then angry that his doctors hadn’t tried this from the start, leaving him to get addicted to opioids instead.

He comes home after six weeks and even Polly seems glad to see him. Ian is hovering over him but all he wants is a cold fucking beer. He tears through the fridge, slowly coming to the realization that there’s nothing in the house.

“I’m not an alcoholic!”

“You’re not supposed to drink on your meds, Mickey.”

“I don’t need a fucking caretaker, all right?!”

“Fuck me for giving a shit, you prick!”

Mickey sulks for a while, but eventually goes to find Ian, who’s sitting on the step chain-smoking.

“I’m sorry I’m grouchy,” Mickey starts, as he drops down beside him. “This is still all too big for me.”

“I know. And I know it’s not personal. I said I’d stick by you, so I’m hardly gonna run off because you’re being a little bitch. But don’t be an asshole Mick.” 

Ian reaches out and wraps an arm around Mickey’s waist, who leans in and rests his head on his shoulders. Then Ian shoves a smoke in Mickey’s mouth and they puff away in silence, finally feeling content for the first time in a very long while.

Chapter Text

Slowly things get brighter. He still has cravings and an urge to just run away and fuck everything up, but he bites down his pride and goes to NA meetings, because he’d promised Ian he would. He had been right about his new leg too; it really does make a difference and more importantly makes Mickey feel less self-conscious.

Ian though, seems to be having a harder time. After Mickey’s back the girls come more and more frequently, yet the pancakes stop and he seems less and less happy, despite probably getting more sex than he’s ever had in his life. Mickey’s a little worried about him, recognizing a few of the symptoms of what he’s just gone through. He hopes it doesn’t spiral, but he’s more than ready and willing to stand by Ian, if it comes to it. After all, he’d forced himself back from the brink of total annihilation only because he loved him – looking after him would be a cinch by comparison. Mickey just hopes it isn’t his suicide attempt that’s done this to him. 

They get better at giving and taking. Mickey works to be less irritable and Ian hovers less, although he still looks at Mickey nervously every time he has more than two small beers, even after he pulls out the medication inserts and shows him that it only says don’t drink while you’re adjusting.

They start to go out more. Ian says it’s for Mickey’s benefit; that he needs to reconnect with the world so that he doesn’t withdraw like depression tells him to. So Mickey goes to bars and movies and restaurants – not because he thinks he’s right, but because he can tell that withdrawing seems to be exactly what Ian’s fighting. At least Mickey’s love life isn’t a project that’s back on the cards this time.

And so it is that Mickey finds himself in a fucking nightclub with some frat boys and Ian, exactly like he’d been avoiding for the last three years. He uses the excuse of his leg to avoid dancing, even though Ian knows full-well that he gets around just fine now and he sits in their VIP booth, rapidly working his way though the $500 vodka bottle, trying to make this company bearable. For once Ian looks like he’s having a good time though, so he guesses it’s worth it, as he avoids watching his body sway in time to the music. Eventually Ian tires himself out and comes back, body a little sweaty and asks Mickey if he wants to grab a cigarette. Mickey doesn’t tell him that he’s been sneaking out every twenty minutes anyway and agrees. There’s some fancy outdoor area for smokers, with fairy lights and heat lamps and blankets, despite spring being in the air, but they opt to exit through a fire door into the alley instead. They lean against the wall and tilt their heads back, enjoying the nostalgia of what had brought them together all those years ago. Then they light up a second and finally get to talking.

“How are you doing?” Mickey asks.

“Not too bad. I’ve got a good buzz, but I don’t think you’re gonna have to carry me home.”

“Good, ‘cause your ass is fucking heavy and I probably couldn’t keep your giraffe legs off the ground anyway. But that wasn’t what I was asking. How are you doing doing?”

“Yeah, fine,” he smiles.

“Come on Ian, you’re a crap actor. I’ve seen you flagging. The last few months can’t have been easy for you either – you’re allowed to be depressed by it all.”

Ian takes a deep sigh but avoids looking at Mickey. 

“I guess you’re right. And yeah, it has been hard, but I’m so fucking glad to see you getting better, it’s a huge relief. I guess I just have a lot on my mind in general. Finals, graduation, trying to figure my shit out once I’m done with it. I still don’t really know what I want to do with my life.”

Mickey wraps his arm around his shoulders.

“How about a parrot circus? Or a gigolo? You get around enough.” Ian finally smiles and looks over.

“I think my parents might disinherit me if I did either of those.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing?” Mickey replies and Ian looks at him fondly.

“Thanks Mick, for everything you’ve done for me over the years. I know you feel like it’s all been one way, but trust me, it hasn’t.”

His smile turns a little sad then, but before Mickey can think of something else to cheer him up with he feels Ian’s lips on his, hand reaching out to cup his face. He’s frozen completely for a moment as Ian’s lips move and he pulls at Mickey’s waist with his other arm, but then his adrenaline kicks in, jerking him away and taking a step back, crashing into the dumpster behind him.

“Ian, what the fuck?!”

“I just-  I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

“The fuck are you doing?!”

Ian moves towards him, beginning to look panicked, but Mickey dodges out of his reach, weaving around the dumpster and taking a few more steps back. Ian stretches his arm out, but Mickey’s still acting like a deer in the headlights.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Mickey please! Let’s just talk for a minute! I’m sorry!”

“I said don’t fuck with me Ian! I’ve been through enough already. Leave me alone!”

“I’m not-  I’m not-” 

But Mickey doesn’t wait around to hear any more and sprints out of the alley, hearing Ian’s steps trail off a short while later. He runs and he runs and he runs, not stopping until his lungs are heaving and his stump is throbbing and his throat so dry that he chokes. It’s the kind of adrenal panic reaction he hasn’t had in months, since his depression got too deep.

He can’t believe Ian had it in him to be so cruel. He’s sure he must’ve known for years how Mickey feels about him. He’s done everything for him and yet he wants to fuck with his heart. He’ll lose the only good thing he has if he gets muddled up with his straight best friend who wants to check off another bucket-list item.

An hour later he arrives back at his old house, and this time he leaves with a gun.

He comes home three days later and Ian looks like he’s seen a ghost. Then his expression darkens and he barrels over and grabs Mickey by his grubby shirt, pinning him up against the wall.

“Did you relapse Mickey?”

Mickey doesn’t reply, looking down at his toes.

“Did. You. Relapse. Mickey?” he spits, shaking him by the collar.

“No,” he finally whispers truthfully, not about to tell him just how close it had got.

Ian lets out a big sigh and pulls him into him, wrapping his arms around to squeeze his shoulders and cradle his head, forcing it down into his neck.

“Fuck Mickey, I was so worried,” he murmurs. “I called all the hospitals five times over. Please don’t ever do that again. We’ve been through too much to run from each other. I know we’ll be able to work things out.” 

“I’m sorry.” Mickey whispers into his neck, lump in his throat. He knows there’s nothing else he can say that would mean anything. He feels like a load of shit that definitely doesn’t deserve what he’s got.

Ian drops his arms and Mickey finally lifts his head to see the tears streaking his face. Mickey’s got some of his own too.

Chapter Text

They tiptoe around each other for three weeks, Ian afraid to even touch him. They don’t talk about it any more either. Mickey feels embarrassed by how he’d reacted and definitely remorseful for what he’d put Ian through, but the sheer blind panic that had seized him lingers in his bones, still desperately afraid that he’s going to lose him. He’s built his walls thicker than Fort Knox to keep his heart safe from attack, but now he’s wondering if even that’s enough to survive the moment Ian realizes he can’t love him the same way.

Mickey’s answer to anxiety is to pop some narcotics, but since that’s out of the question his second best approach is booze. Maybe he can kill two birds with one stone and get Ian to loosen up a little while trampling down his own fear. He brings it up as they’re watching a movie, sitting at opposite ends of the couch.

“Maybe we should, like, get out of here. Do something fun.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Movie? Dinner?”

Normally Ian would crack a joke about a date here, but any kind of innuendo had gone out the door with Mickey’s vanishing act.

“I guess … I guess there’s that new restaurant on 55th?”

“Sure.”

Mickey doesn’t say ‘it’s a date’.

The place is quite a bit out of Mickey’s usual price range, but he figures he definitely owes Ian, so he picks up the tab, cringing every time the flagrantly gay waiter comes over and smirks at them, clearly assuming they’re on a date. At least the wine relaxes them a little and as they’re walking home Ian stops and tugs at Mickey’s sleeve.

“How about a nightcap?” he asks, inclining his head towards a dive bar they sometimes frequent.

They come home wrecked.

Mickey fumbles for the light switch and flips it on, but nothing happens. He tries it a couple more times, but it’s clear it’s fucked.

“Is the bulb gone?”

“Nah, I think it’s the fuse.”

“I guess I could get to the plug-in lamp over there.”

“I’ll try the fuse box.”

Mickey stumbles towards the other side of the room, groping his way along the kitchen island, but then bumps into something and feels himself falling face first to the ground. A moment later the lights go on and Ian returns to the room, having tripped the circuit breaker.

“Mickey! It’s your party trick!” he laughs, looking gleefully at his prostrate body. Mickey’s hooked his fake foot around the legs of a kitchen stool and fallen, his stump getting pulled out of its fucking socket because the seal had grown less secure as the day wore on.

“Shut up bitch.”

Ian sidles up to him, but before he even knows what’s happened he’s brought crashing to the ground on his back, shoulders pinned in another instant win for Mickey, leaving them side-by-side.

“Ooof!” Ian moans, clearly winded.

“Still got it.”

“Yeah, you always owned my ass.”

“You wish Gallagher.”

“I kind of do,” Ian whispers softly, rolling his head towards him.

“Don’t start that shit Ian. You’re straight.”

“I’m not, Mickey.”

“Yes you are!”

“I’m not.”

“You are!” he growls, starting to get heated.

“No I’m not! I’m not! I’ve known for a while now,” Ian shoots back.

“What happened to a mouth’s not a mouth?”

“I wasn’t ready. I freaked the fuck out, okay? I liked it too much and too little at the same time. And he wasn’t the right guy,” he murmurs, fixing Mickey with his damn puppy eyes, so that he doesn’t even know how to respond. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries to stave the panic off.

“Don’t do this. Don’t do this, all right? I’ve got everything to lose here. I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

“I’ve already ruined it Mickey! I’ve already ruined it. I can’t put the genie back in the bottle, I’m sorry,” Ian sighs.

“I’m not some lab project for you to experiment with.”

“For fuck’s sake can you feel this?!” Ian snarls, grabbing Mickey’s right wrist roughly and pushing his hand into his crotch so that he can feel the unambiguous erection through his jeans. “Hmmm?” Then Ian yanks Mickey’s arm even further across his body, so that they’re forced together nearly chest to chest. He lets it go and moves his hand up to Mickey’s jaw instead, bringing their lips together and kissing him slowly, but deeply.

“Can you feel this?” he whispers, pulling back so that their foreheads are pressed together.

“Yeah,” Mickey finally manages to choke out.

“So don’t tell me what I do and don’t want.”

Mickey’s fucking terrified that everything is spiraling like this, but he’s also absolutely rooted and his damn body is betraying him, dick straining in his pants, arms wrapping themselves around Ian and lips keening to pick up where they let off. Then he lets himself go.

They kiss for another minute on the floor, Ian hitching Mickey’s right thigh up to tangle with his own and grind gently against each other. Soon they’re both breathless and Ian stands, offering an arm to pull Mickey up. He starts hopping around, trying to untangle his prosthesis from the chair it had wrapped itself around when Ian taps him on the shoulder.

“Jump on Skippy,” he grins, motioning at his lap. Mickey leaps up as best he can and wraps his arms and legs around, while Ian wobbles backwards and knocks into the wall, unsteady on his feet after all that alcohol. Mickey feels like a fucking bride being carried over the threshold, but he really doesn’t give a shit right now.

Ian has to kick awkwardly at his door a couple of times to get it open, then he moves towards his bed and drops Mickey down onto it, crawling onto him immediately to kiss. They both grope at their crotches, trying to rearrange the material enough to get comfortable, but Ian gives up first and just goes for Mickey’s belt instead, then his own. He moves out of the way enough to let them both pull their pants and boxers down, but Mickey freezes as Ian kicks his off. He’s always studiously avoided looking at him in even a towel, so realizes for the first time quite what a donkey dick he’s packing. He reaches out and grabs it instinctively, as Ian leans over him. 

“Jesus, so this is how an ugly motherfucker like you got all the girls?” 

Ian laughs and drops a kiss down onto Mickey’s hair.

“I guess so.” Then he leans back on his haunches so that he can pull the rest of Mickey’s jeans over his legs and throws them to the ground. Both of them ditch their shirts next and then pause to look at each other’s naked bodies. Ian’s a fucking Adonis and Mickey’s panic begins to rise again, the enormity of what’s happening beginning to hit. It must show too, because Ian smirks and tells him: “Don’t worry princess, I’ll be gentle.” That breaks the ice and Mickey reaches for his shoulders to pull him back down. Ian braces his weight on his forearms, but lets his lower body fall on the bed, grinding his crotch against his. 

“You’ve got lube, right?” Mickey asks breathlessly, after a minute.

Ian quirks a brow and looks at him a bit disdainfully.

“Of course.”

“I bet you’ve got that water-based pussy shit though. Should use silicone like a real man.”

“You’re not gonna care in a few minutes, Mick.”

Ian leans over and pulls the drawer of his nightstand open and Mickey sticks his hand out to demand some. He gives the blue blob Ian squirts into his palm a withering look, but doesn’t say anything and when Ian lies back down on top of him he takes both their dicks in hand and frots, rubbing them together as they kiss lazily. He hears Ian take a few ragged breaths though, which he knows means they should probably get on with it. He pushes him off gently and flips around on all fours in anticipation.

Ian settles back behind him and squirts some of the gel into Mickey’s crack, rubbing it up and down with his long fingers.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” he asks.

“Oh what, you think I’ve never fucked a girl in the ass? Your hole isn’t special because you’re gay Mickey. After all a ho-” Mickey cuts him off. 

“If you say a hole is a hole, I will hop the fuck out of here Ian.” He hears him chuckle behind him and then feels a kiss on one of his asscheeks.

Ian sticks one finger in exploratively and Mickey exhales, relaxing while he moves around. Then he drags his finger over his prostate reasonably firmly and Mickey shudders, so he quickly pulls his finger out.

“Did that hurt? Sorry.”

“Absolutely not.”

Ian puts his finger back in and pokes at the spot again.

“What it that? It feels different.”

“Prostate,” Mickey grunts.

“Oooh, so that’s what it feels like. I thought it would be a big lump or something.”

“If it feels like a big lump you’ve got cancer.”

Ian traces his finger over and around it fairly clinically and Mickey begins to feel more like he’s having a medical exam.

“Hey, we’re not playing doctors and nurses here Gallagher.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Then he plunges a second digit in all the way and it joins with the first, stroking the spot.

“Better?” he coos.

“Definitely,” Mickey replies, starting to bear down on his fingers, pulling them in as deeply as they can go.

“Time to get on me,” he whispers.

“You sure? You don’t need more? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know what the fuck I’m doing Ian. If I say I’m good, I’m good. Now get with the program,” he demands, thrusting his ass back in Ian’s face.

Ian leans over and grabs a condom, rolls it down and applies some extra lube as he goes.

“Let me know if you need me to stop. Should we have a safe word?”

“How about shut the fuck up and pound me? That good enough for you? Jesus I can tell you’ve only done this with girls, all this kid-gloves bullshit.”

Ian smiles and sits back on his haunches, lines up to him and then pushes himself all the way in, causing Mickey to tip his head back. 

Wow.

“Good enough for you?” Mickey just nods. Ian holds both cheeks in his hands and rubs his thumbs over them gently, waiting a minute for him to get comfortable.

“Has anyone ever told you you have a great ass? Because you have a great ass Mickey.”

Mickey wiggles it impatiently, so Ian starts to move. Slowly, which might be because he’s still worried about hurting him, but Mickey doesn’t care because those long, lazy motions feel really fucking good, especially with the extra inches. It’s sensual, which isn’t something he ordinarily craves. Once Ian seems satisfied that Mickey’s warmed up he gently nudges his body forwards so that he can kneel completely upright against him and takes his hips firmly in hand to speed up. Those extra inches help inside too, even when the thrusts are shallower, and yeah, Ian’s every bit as capable of pounding him as he is of stroking him. 

He really likes this. Too much.

After a few minutes of blissful action Mickey drops down onto his elbows so that his entrance is up at a higher angle, hips rotated towards the bed, in the position that permits the best contact with his prostate. Then a moan slips out of him when they start to move again, which is immediately followed by a sharp exhale from Ian, and he picks up the pace. He spreads his cheeks just a little wider with one hand, so that he can get as deeply into him as possible, and Mickey’s not sure he’s ever been so into something. Maybe it’s just because it’s Ian, but all his senses feel heightened and he’s definitely got a swarm of butterflies trying to escape his stomach. He can’t believe it’s happening. Ian Gallagher has his dick in his ass and there’s no going back from this. He’s still fighting the urge to run, trying to protect his heart, but it’s like Ian is quite literally drilling a hole into him, trying to weasel his way past the walls and Mickey doesn’t know if he’s a Trojan horse or everything he’s ever wanted. 

He’s not going to last much longer.

“Put your hand-” He inhales raggedly as Ian’s cock really hits the right spot.

“Put-” But Ian’s already tightened it around his slicked-up dick, pumping it in time with his thrusts.

“Come on Mickey, I know what a reach-around is.”

He’s got good rhythm. For a guy who supposedly doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing it’s pretty impressive.

Mickey’s cock is leaking more and more and Ian adjusts his grip to ensure that his fingers are rubbing over his frenulum each time, so that it’s only another twenty seconds before his body constricts and he spills over into Ian’s hand, making a mess on the comforter. He can feel Ian’s self-satisfied smile behind him as his arms begin to shake. Ian stops for a minute and grabs a tissue to get the worst of the mess off his hands and the sheets, letting Mickey pant, then pulls his body further upright so that he’s supporting his weight on his hands instead. Ian looms right over him and puts one arm down beside Mickey’s to brace and wraps the other under his armpit and over his shoulder to get a good grip. Then he starts pushing hard, rolling his hips with each stroke and soon Mickey feels the grip tighten on his shoulder, Ian finally grunting as he starts to come inside him. He drops his arm from his shoulder and puts it down on the mattress so that he doesn’t collapse, but leans a lot of his body weight onto Mickey’s back, heart fluttering against his skin for a minute while he rests. Then he drops his head down and kisses the back of his neck and mumbles a ‘thanks’, before sitting up and pulling out, allowing both of them to roll onto their sides, facing each other.

“Did I do okay?” he asks and Mickey just nods. Ian reaches down and tugs at Mickey's hips, wrapping his arms around and pulling him into his chest. They lie there for a good minute or two before Ian whispers into his hair: “You smell really good. I never realized before just how much I like your scent.”

Mickey feels safe; safer than he’s ever felt in his life - although he’s not sure that’s something he even knew he wanted until now. His head is swirling, but that might just be the alcohol.

Then they both yawn.

“I’m getting real sleepy here Mick, will you stay? I’ll spoon you like a girl if you want.”

Mickey hadn’t even thought about going back to his room, to be honest.

Ian pulls the now gaping condom off his dick and pulls the covers back, so that they can slide in, as Mickey removes his stump socks and liner and throws them off the bed. Then Ian rolls him over, pulling him in tight to his belly.

“It’s just us Mickey, okay?” He whispers. “Just us figuring our shit out. No-one has to know.” 

"Just us,” he soothes, interlacing his fingers with Mickey’s left hand and kissing his hair, before they both nod off.

Mickey wakes slowly, keeping his eyes closed, soon becoming aware of the throbbing pain in his head. He opens his crusty lids, blinded by the strong sunlight streaming in, but his adrenaline kicks in as he realizes that the curtains are red, instead of the blue of his room. He looks down to see a large freckled hand wrapped over his stomach, another under his neck. 

Oh fuck. That really did happen, didn’t it?

He wants to slide out quietly and sneak back into his room, hopefully convincing Ian that it was all a dream, but when he looks over the edge of the bed he can’t see his leg. 

It came off in the living room. Damn it! 

He knows there’s no way he can hop back to his room without waking Ian, having lost the element of surprise along with his leg, so he braces himself for the inevitable freak out that’s coming when Ian opens his eyes and realizes it wasn’t some girl he took to bed last night. He rolls over in his arms, roughly enough to wake a bleary Ian, who also blinks slowly and sleepily before opening them wide in surprise. 

Here it comes.

But instead, a look of great relief washes over his face and he exhales deeply and happily.

“Guess I finally said it, huh?” he smiles. “Yeah,” is all Mickey can offer back and Ian leans in and presses his lips against his.

“Pancakes?”

“Isn’t that a bad sign?”

“Not when they’ve got bananas in them.”

Chapter Text

Thankfully, things don’t get weird between them after that night. Ian’s smile might be a little brighter, but otherwise they relax into their usual roles, kind of like nothing had happened.

Mickey’s still troubled though. Alcohol will do strange things to people, especially Ian, who turns into a gigantic horn-dog if the last few months are anything to go by. Good things don’t happen to Mickey Milkovich and his onion layers feel rawer than ever, having entered such vast, dangerous territory. Ian’s always been a bit flighty, seizing on and then abandoning new hobbies and interests with the wind. Mickey knows his sanity won’t survive becoming flavor of the week.

He has to know. He has to know soberly.

“Hey, you want one?” Ian asks, popping the lid on a beer and reaching inside the fridge to pull a second bottle out.

Mickey’s feet finally make a decision for him and he takes a couple of strides to the fridge, bangs it shut and pins Ian up against it, yanking the beer from his hand and leaning in to kiss him hard. Ian melts into him, taking a great sigh and follows his lips as Mickey leans back to drop the beer onto the surface behind him, without breaking their kiss. He feels Ian’s legs begin to quiver against his, as though he’s going to swoon in his arms, so he takes another step back, allowing Ian to push him against the counter of the kitchen island, knocking the beer over and sending it rolling towards the edge, as he props his elbows up to support both their bodies. Ian’s got one hand down, gripping the counter edge and the other up around Mickey’s neck, holding it tightly and kissing him desperately, like a drowning man finally taking his first breath of air. Their hips grind against each other and Mickey’s jeans are becoming really uncomfortably tight and he knows Ian’s must be even worse, being stupid skinny things. 

“Come on,” Mickey whispers, pushing him upright. Ian wraps himself around him, refusing to stop their kiss and they trip backwards awkwardly, soon hitting the wall by the front door and rolling to the side. 

“Fuck Mickey,” Ian breathes into his mouth, tugging him up by his shirt and starting to pull him towards his room, but Mickey stops and finally drags himself away from Ian’s lips. 

“No. Mine.” He needs to do it on home turf, where he’s fucked dozens of guys before, to see if Ian’s any different from those men. 

He pulls away properly and grabs Ian’s hand, leading him swiftly into his bedroom and pushing him down onto the bed, as they both tear off their shirts. The next thing he knows Ian is tugging at his belt buckle and he rips Mickey’s pants and boxers down in one fell swoop and grabs his dick, stuffing it into his mouth immediately as he pulls Mickey’s hips forward, taking him in as deep as he can go. Mickey tenses up even though it feels amazing, looking at Ian’s head bobbing up and down, acting like he was born to suck cock. It’s so fucking gay. He’d figured that on some level, Ian could pretend Mickey was a girl if he was doing him from behind, doggy style, but this – this can’t be explained away and that realization makes his body uncoil, letting his hands wander into Ian’s hair and finally allowing himself to enjoy it. He thrusts into his mouth gently, Ian still taking it like a champ, even though Mickey doubts he’s ever done this before. But then he does this thing with his tongue that he’s never experienced, and it feels so damn good he knows he’s got to stop or else he’s gonna come right now. 

Where the fuck did he learn that?!

He pulls back and pushes Ian down onto his back, the latter’s eyes wide and cheeks flushed, expression a mixture of shock and awe. Ian reaches for his own buckle, scrabbling to pull his jeans down and move further onto the bed, as Mickey steps out of his, wobbling when he stands on his left leg, then crawls onto him, pulling his leg off as he goes. Ian groans beneath him as they kiss again, grabbing Mickey’s hips and pulling him down into his lap, dicks rubbing up against each other, Ian’s unquestionably very, very hard. 

“Lube?” Ian manages to get out and Mickey rises up again, leaning over him to pull his bedside drawer open as he gets increasingly overheated. Ian’s not even going to let him do that in peace and he grabs Mickey’s cock, running a tight fist up and down. He passes the bottle and a condom to him, then rolls onto his side as Ian crashes down behind him. 

“It’s an easier angle this way,” Mickey explains, but Ian seems far too distracted for a lesson, immediately plunging two slicked up fingers into him, all the way, catching Mickey by surprise so that he gasps out. Ian pauses and then Mickey feels lube running down his crack, Ian pulling his fingers out half way so that his thumb has space to spread it around. Then he plunges them all the way back in and moves them up and down, finger fucking him hard in the way that Mickey loves, but has never told him. 

“You were right, silicone is definitely better,” Ian says, but Mickey’s already breathless enough that all he can get out is an ‘Uh-huh,’ for once not caring about scoring a point over him. Suddenly there’s three fingers inside him and Mickey really begins to fall apart and it’s only a few more strokes before he swats Ian’s hand away. 

“Get. On. Me. Now.” 

They both roll to their knees and Ian shuffles back as Mickey stuffs his ass in the air, weight on his elbows. There’s a little pause as Ian applies the condom and lube to his dick, then looms over him, leaning forward and pinning Mickey’s neck with his hand, pushing it down into the bed as he uses his other to guide himself in. It’s hot as hell, but he’s not really capable of telling him that and the pressure is removed when he glides in, slower this time and pausing part way, before sliding the rest of the way home. He waits a minute, even though Mickey doesn’t really want him to, as he redistributes his weight, one arm braced on the mattress, the other gripping Mickey’s shoulder. It feels really good and Mickey has to start distracting himself almost immediately so that he doesn’t come too fast, as Ian thrusts in and out of him, balls smacking up against Mickey’s perineum, which has always been a weird turn on for him. He knows this is going to be a good one – a great fuck and an even greater orgasm, but figures he might as well go for broke and make it even better. 

“Hold on,” he says, reaching his left arm up to tap Ian’s hand on his shoulder. “What’s up?” Ian asks, as Mickey stretches out on his belly, pulling his dick out of his ass. 

“Are you not liking this? Does it hurt? Am I doing something wrong?” 

“Definitely not doing something wrong,” Mickey chuckles, rolling over to his side as Ian rests back on his haunches. He opens his bedside drawer and pulls out a little 1oz bottle of poppers, unwraps the colorful plastic packaging and unscrews the lid. He figures he should be a gentleman and passes it over to Ian first, who looks at it strangely. 

“Why do you want a five-hour energy shot right now?” he asks curiously and Mickey bursts out laughing, real bellyfuls, to the point where he has to wipe the tears from his eyes before he starts up again. 

“You ain’t as fluent in gay as you think you are, tough guy,” he finally squeezes out between snorts. He pauses to drink in Ian’s confusion once more and then continues. 

“It’s poppers. You inhale it - don’t swallow it, it’ll fuck you up. It gives you a rush and relaxes your muscles. Here,” he gestures, taking the bottle back and bringing it up to his nose. He inhales the evaporating liquid several times and then passes it over to Ian, while heat and adrenaline rush through him, uncoiling him and making his body heavy. Ian’s still looking at it sceptically but he brings it to his nose and breathes in deeply a few times, before his eyes open wide. 

“Holy–  Holy shit Mickey!” he blurts out, immediately taking another sniff. 

“Good huh?” Ian just nods in response and pulls Mickey towards him, flipping him onto his back and stuffing himself back in, then immediately starts thrusting hard. Mickey’s surprised by this change to face-to-face fucking, yet another sign that Ian isn’t imagining a girl in his head, and his rush turns into something rather more intimate, stomach churning inside him. Then Ian leans forward all the way, bracing his weight on his forearms and looping Mickey’s legs over his elbows so that his hips are forced upwards.

“Oh Jesus! Goddamn! Fuck Mickey, fuck!” 

Mickey thinks he’s gonna get a cramp from laughing so hard, watching Ian lose his shit, so he reaches up and pulls his face down to his by the neck and Ian groans against his smiling lips. His amusement fades away after a few seconds though, when Ian forces his tongue into his mouth, thrusting increasingly aggressively as Mickey returns to enjoying his high. There’s good friction on his dick from Ian’s belly and he knows that’s going to be enough for him. His legs are bent far back, like he likes it, ass a little in the air, so he wraps one arm around Ian’s lower back and the other around his shoulders to get the best grip he can, and grinds himself to a huge orgasm. He moans and breaks their kiss, turning his head to the side so that he can gasp for air and Ian sticks his head into Mickey’s neck instead and starts up his swearing again, murmuring into his ear. 

“Shit! Mmmm fuck!” he cries, as Mickey feels him clench inside him and exhale sharply, sighing out as he starts to come. 

“I love you Mickey. Fuck I love you,” he whispers, as his cock throbs through his orgasm and he collapses all of his weight onto him, releasing his legs and letting out a huge groan of pleasure. 

“That was the best orgasm of my life,” he mumbles into his hair, but Mickey’s still too shocked and tensed up by what Ian’s said to shoot anything back. What’s more, Ian then starts to twitch and breathe heavily and Mickey realizes incredulously that he’s fucking fallen asleep, dick still firmly lodged inside him. He doesn’t know what to think, so many emotions swirling around inside him and he lets him lie there, absentmindedly stroking his back for a few minutes before wriggling out from underneath him to the side, Ian’s limp dick finally sliding out. He doesn’t wake as his body rolls onto the comforter and Mickey reaches out to grab a few tissues from the nightstand, cleaning up his stomach. He lies there on his side, watching a little trail of drool emerge from Ian’s mouth, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do next. Ian’s always been excitable, so it’s possible he just got carried away with his high, but they’re both stone–cold sober otherwise and Ian certainly seemed to be into it before he gave him anything. He guesses he has to take him at his word now that he’s definitely not in this just for the kicks, or some weird experimentation thing, but that he genuinely, very sincerely, wants to fuck the life out of Mickey. He doesn’t know what to do with all of this, still desperately frightened that it’s going to fuck up the most important and lasting relationship of his life. Half of him wants to run away and never look back and the other half wants to stay like this forever, even though he doesn’t trust himself not to say something stupid.

In the end he follows the call of nature, picking up his crutches and stumbling into the bathroom. He doesn’t flush, not wanting to wake Ian, but when he quietly sticks his head around the door a couple of minutes later Ian is under the covers, but apparently still as deeply asleep. He watches him for a little while, finally surrendering to his impulses and joining him. He sits on the edge of the bed and then slips in quietly, still trying not to wake him. Not quietly enough though, because Ian blearily puts his arms out and drags Mickey towards him, throwing an arm and a leg over and burying his nose in his neck, still not opening his eyes. A minute later he hears the soft snores start again, so Mickey gives in and wraps his arms around Ian too and before long his body is also feeling mighty heavy, as he drifts off to sleep without even realizing it.

When Mickey wakes up he’s startled by Ian’s green eyes only nine inches from his face, staring intently at him. He has to admit, that fake one is pretty good.

“Hi.”

“That’s creepy man.”

Ian smiles dopily.

“How long have you been there?”

“Only twenty minutes.”

Mickey shakes his head and sits up, grabbing his water bottle from the nightstand and taking a few big swigs. Then he lays back down again and turns on his side to face Ian, who reaches out with his left arm and rests his fingers on Mickey’s chest, lazily running them around in swirls; another sensation that’s new to him.

“What’s on your mind?” Ian asks.

Mickey thinks about it for a few seconds, but decides to be honest.

“It’s so weird your being gay now.”

Ian shrugs. “Some people take longer to work it out. I thought it was normal that I’d never clicked with anyone before; guys my age aren’t supposed to want to settle down. And I figured I was curious because I was open minded.”

Mickey rolls his eyes a bit, although in truth he’s still confused by the whole thing; how Ian can suddenly be interested in cock after the parade of women around here for the last year. Ian seems to know what he’s thinking though and he lifts Mickey’s chin towards him to force him to look him in the googly eyes.

"Look, maybe nine times out of ten it’s been women, but now you’re the one Mickey, okay?"

“Fucking hell Gallagher, that’s the cheesiest shit I ever heard,” Mickey grumbles, even as his stomach does cartwheels and his heart seizes in his chest. But Ian just smiles knowingly at him, the way he’s always done when calling his bluff. Then he kisses him softly for a minute and Mickey forgets what he was complaining about.

“Don’t forget,” Ian says, once they’ve pulled apart. “It’s just us.” Mickey feels safe again and he sighs happily as his smile becomes just as dopey as Ian’s.

“Now how about those beers?”

Chapter Text

This guy’s dumb as shit, but he is hot. Like really hot, even more than Ian, so he seems like fair competition as far as his dick is concerned. He wasn’t even trying to get laid, just wanted to get drunk enough to turn the dial down on his anxiety about what’s going on with Ian, but the guy sidles up to him at the bar and Mickey knows what’s up. He’s some surfer dude from Santa Cruz in California and Mickey has no idea what the hell he’s doing in Chicago, as he tolerates a few big-wave anecdotes before asking if he wants to fuck. Turns out Surfer Dude is staying in a dormitory at a hostel though, so they can’t go back there and trying to squeeze into toilet stalls is always more trouble than it’s worth, so he bites the bullet and grudgingly brings him back to his, knowing Ian’s at his brother’s birthday party and he can screw this guy and have him out the door within an hour. A hole is just a hole, after all.

He knows what he’s doing is shitty, but mindless sex, besides substance abuse, has always been one of the few ways he knows to get out of his constantly churning head. He feels safe around Ian in the moment, but as soon as he comes down from it the fear returns and won’t let him be, like last year. And he still doesn’t trust that he won’t up and leave when he finds the right girl. He’s switched sides once; it’s probably inevitable that he’ll do it again. 

Mickey’s teetering on the edge of the precipice and he knows that if he lets himself go, lets his heart go, it’ll be the end of him if it doesn’t work out. Ian was what brought him back from the dead; it’s no surprise that he can’t live without him. And the hardest lesson he’s ever had to learn in life, over and over again, is that a little hope is a dangerous thing. 

Dude talks non-stop for the entire subway ride and walk to Mickey’s apartment. He gives serious consideration to just strangling him in an alley instead, but he figures karma is just dishing out what he deserves. There’s a light on, but he assumes one of them left it that way and he sticks his key in the door to unlock it, tall Surfer Dude close behind him. 

Ian’s standing there with Polly on his shoulder, looking like he just got hit by lightning. Mickey’s stunned into silence too.

“Whoa, dude, is that a parrot?! That’s so cool!” Surfer Dude asks, as he pushes past Mickey in the door. “Hey, uh, where’s your room?”
He sticks his head into the bathroom, then opens Mickey’s door. “I bet it’s this one!” 

Ian finally moves, putting Polly down and lunging for the door, brushing Mickey’s shoulder as he passes and slamming it shut behind him. 

Fuck.

He turns to run after him but something stops him. Maybe he should let him go. Let him run back to the bosom of his family, who actually deserve him. Surfer Dude calls out then and Mickey just follows him on autopilot like he’s hypnotized, wondering what the fuck he’s doing and why his legs are leading him that way. He’s always been a self-saboteur.

Surfer Dude looks even better with his clothes off and he starts to pull Mickey out of his while he’s still shell-shocked by what’s happened. But when he pulls his pants down and sees Mickey’s prosthesis it finally drags him out of his dissociation.

“My dude, you’re missing a leg?”

“Yeah, that a problem?” Mickey snaps back.

“No, right on man, it’s gnarly. Did a shark get you?” he asks enthusiastically.

“Yeah, it did. In Lake Michigan,” Mickey drawls, thinking it’s impossible for this guy to get any stupider.

“Rad,” says Dude, pushing a completely numb Mickey back on the bed.

It turns out that what this guy lacks in brains he makes up for in brawn and Mickey knows this should be the best fuck he’s had in a long while, but he can’t get Ian’s stupid sad face out of his mind, even as he circles the drain, constantly approaching, but never reaching climax. He pushes the guy off in frustration and opens his drawer to pull out his bottle of poppers. 

“You want some?” he asks half-heartedly and the guy’s eyes light up. 

“Totally!” he responds, like a walking stereotype. Mickey inhales way more than his fair share, getting really fucking high, but Ian’s wounded face is still firmly lodged in his mind’s eye, the way he used to be in PTSD flashbacks. 

Surfer Dude’s a great lay, but even he can’t last forever and by then Mickey just wants it to be over, having clearly made the wrong choice.

“Hey man, you didn’t get off. Did I do something wrong? This doesn’t usually happen; I’m like the motion of the ocean, Mavericks style, y’know?”
Mickey almost doesn’t answer, but he figures it would be shitty to hurt two guys in one day, so he just tells him: “It’s not you; it’s me. Got too much on my mind.”

“Okay, excellent. Hey, can you pass my pants? I’ve got a sweet Sour Diesel phatty in there. Wanna get hella mellow?”

“Nah, I’m just gonna go to the bathroom,” Mickey says, slipping on his leg so fast it hurts and getting the hell out of there. He spends a few minutes inside, splashing his face with cold water and wondering how the fuck he’s going to make this up to Ian, but when he returns to his bedroom he sees the idiot isn’t there, although his clothes are and what’s worse he’s left the used condom on Mickey’s bed. Thankfully nothing’s escaped, but he lifts it gingerly with the very tips of his fingers, carefully rolling down the unused portion so that he’s in less danger of touching its contents and ties a knot in it. He walks towards the kitchen, holding it away from his body as if it’s a dangerous snake when, to his horror, the front door swings open and Ian steps back inside. He doesn’t spot Mickey, who’s to his right and partly down the hall in his blind area; just looks ahead with an angry expression.

“Hey! Stop chasing Polly!” he shouts at Surfer Dude, who Mickey can see is following the parrot around the room, joint dangling from his lips. He’s got his boxers on, but there’s an unmistakeable patch of wetness where pre-cum has been absorbed by the cotton. In spite of himself, Mickey inches closer, unwisely drawn to the commotion in the room. Ian’s finally rescued Polly, who’s squawking ‘Fuck off!’ and scrambling up his arm to get away. The guy is still looking at it with childish glee though and Ian sighs, seemingly recognizing that he’s not going to be able to get rid of him until he lets him have some kind of interaction with the bird.

“Okay look. Polly doesn’t know you. You’ve got to introduce yourself with a treat to build trust.” He puts the bird down on the kitchen island and opens the fridge, takes out a Tupperware box filled with pre-chopped carrot sticks and passes them to the idiot.

“Here, offer one of these, but keep your fingers back so you don’t get bit. Then put your hand out in front like a perch and it might hop on.” 

Ian sighs wearily and Mickey is flooded with emotions: anger, shame, embarrassment, guilt – but most of all love. Love for this beautiful man who is kind enough to help this moron, even though he probably wants to knock the guy from here to Timbuktu. Mickey’s eyes water as his body fills with heat, love cascading over him like a waterfall, as the force of years of repressed emotions and desires are released, sweeping away his defenses. He’s totally rooted to the spot and unfortunately that’s the moment when Ian looks over and sees him, condom in hand, looking like a deer in the headlights. His eyes go wide and Mickey knows that even with one eye there’s no mistaking what he’s holding. His face does one of those slow-motion car crashes, expression going from surprise, to sadness, to hurt and he looks even more pained than before.

Mickey regains the use of his body then and turns on his tail and flees to his bedroom, tossing the condom into the darkest recess he can find and gathering all of Surfer Dude’s shit up in his arms, wrenching the front door open and tossing them outside. Then he grabs the asshole (who’s just succeeded in coaxing Polly onto his hand), by the arm and drags him out the door in his boxers.

“That means go, goodbye, thank you. Holy fuck!” he says, slamming the door in his face before he can get a word of complaint in. They stare each other down for a moment before Mickey breaks.

“Ian I’m so sorry! I’m really, really sorry! Can we please talk about this?!”

“What the fuck is there to talk about Mickey?” Ian snarls, but then his face falls and he looks at his toes instead.

“It’s not that big a deal anyway,” he mumbles. “We’re not officially together, or dating or anything; it’s not like you’re really cheating on me.” He lifts his head. “It just hurts is all,” he sighs, looking like it feels a lot worse than simple pain. 

“Not a big deal?! Are you listening to yourself?! Of course it’s a big fucking deal!” But Ian ignores him and moves over to the door to look out of the peephole and see if Surfer Dude is still outside, getting his clothes on.

“Listen, I’m gonna go home okay - I should’ve just done that in the first place, instead of coming back here.”

“You are home! This is your home! Here, with me!” he cries desperately, but Ian just sighs and fishes around in his pockets to make sure his wallet and keys are still in there.

“It doesn’t feel like that anymore Mick,” he says sadly, looking through the peephole again and, finding the coast clear, sticks his hand on the knob and turns it. “I need some space Mickey, okay? I did the same for you.” Then he pulls the door open and steps over the threshold, so Mickey tells him the only thing he can, to get him to stop.

“Ian I love you. I have since I was seventeen years old, okay? Seventeen!”

It stops Ian from closing the door behind him, but he doesn’t look back.

“Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear, Mickey.”

“It’s true!” he continues desperately, knowing full well this conversation is audible to all their neighbors.

“You were kind to me. You were the first person in my whole fucking life who looked at me like I wasn’t a huge piece of shit. Who did all that without wanting anything back. Gave me what I didn’t deserve, like you just did with that dipshit.” His voice breaks.

“How could I not love you?

“But you were straight and our friendship was the only thing I had, so why would I risk it? How could I even let myself feel that when it meant a lifetime of pining like a little bitch for something I wasn’t gonna get?”

Ian finally makes up his mind and turns around, stepping back onto the doormat and closing the door behind him. His gaze however, is still fixed firmly on the floor.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have done this.”

“I’m terrified Ian, okay? Fucking terrified. The last week has fucked with my head so damn much, I needed to get out of it. I just couldn’t believe that someone as perfect as you could really love someone as broken as me.”

Ian’s head finally rises and he looks him in the eyes aggressively. 

“You’re not broken Mickey. You’re fucking beautiful. I mean it.”

Mickey chokes on his heart.

Ian’s face is still angry, but there’s compassion there too.

“I’m pissed as fuck with you and you’ve shaken my trust, but you gotta listen to what I’m saying Mick, not what you expect or think you deserve. I told you that I love you and I meant it, every word. I love every inch of you, from your head to your metal toes.” It’s another cornball line, but that doesn’t even register with Mickey.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “Please just give me another chance. I love you too: always have, always will.”

Ian finally smiles at him gently.

“You ready?” he asks softly and Mickey sniffles and nods his head.

“Yeah, I couldn’t pretend anymore even if I wanted to.”

“C’mere,” Ian whispers, and Mickey goes, body lighting up like a Christmas tree.

Chapter Text

Mickey makes love for the first time in his life that night. Slow and steady, gazing into each other’s eyes, fire in his body building to the best orgasm he’s ever had. He understands then that it’s not just a cheesy, bullshit metaphor – it really is love made physical. His heart is wide open and unguarded.

In the afterglow he drinks Ian in, as he’s been secretly craving to do for nearly four years, still not daring to believe that this isn’t a dream he’s going to wake from. He marvels at just how goddamn lucky he is to have this beautiful man, who inexplicably seems to love him.

He's come home.

After a few more peaceful minutes though, Mickey asks what he’s been dying to learn all night.

“When did you know?”

Ian rolls over onto his back, but draws Mickey into his side and wraps his arm around him, pulling his head onto his shoulder. Like a fucking girl, but Mickey doesn’t care. He can hear Ian's heartbeat through his skin.

“Your suicide. I realized that I couldn’t live without you and not just because you’re my best friend. You were the fucking love of my life instead. I totally lost it. It was just as well you were unconscious most of the time, because once I knew it wasn’t an accident, that you really did want to die, it all hit me like a freight train. I know I was tough on you then, but it was only because I was terrified that I was gonna lose you forever. I made a promise that I’d never let you go again, no matter what happened between us. Even if you didn’t want me. But of course I let my feelings get the better of me, like an idiot, and nearly scared you off for good.”

“So I was what you were depressed about?”

“Yeah.”

“I still can’t believe I was such a dumbass that I couldn’t see the wood for the trees with you,” Mickey laughs.

“Wood.”

“Shut up.”

“I’ve always loved you Mickey, it just took me a while to understand that. We’re both dumbasses. Dumbasses in love.” They both smile, but then Ian pinches Mickey’s nipple hard.

“I can’t believe I had to have that guy’s sloppy seconds though! Where did you even find him?! I still can’t get my head around the fact that someone like him exists.”

“At least you didn’t have to actually talk, or worse, listen to the guy. That was penance enough.” Ian kisses the top of Mickey’s head and murmurs an “all right,” into his hair. He breathes him in for another minute, before he looks down and smirks.

“Hey Mick, there’s something thing I’ve never told you before.”

“What’s that?”

“It was me who stole your cigarettes, all those years ago. To force you to talk to me.”

“Wait, how? That doesn’t make sense. We hadn’t even met the first time.”

“Well, the first time I didn’t have an ulterior motive, I was just out and saw yours in your bag and swiped them. It was your last cigarette we smoked that day. But you intrigued me, so the second time I took them so that you’d have to come find me again. I just made sure I had another pack ready so you wouldn’t think it was me.”

“So your girlfriend wasn’t really wandering around?”

“Nah, she didn’t even come that day. I went looking for you because you hadn’t come out in the alley like I expected. Obviously I didn’t anticipate walking in on you fucking that guy, but it broke the ice, didn’t it? After you’d broke my skull, that is.”

“You sneaky little shit,” Mickey grins, tipping his chin up to kiss him gently.

“I fucking love you.”

“I fucking love you too, Mickey.”

The next few days pass in a haze of endorphins. They have sex on every surface of the house, they can’t get through a movie without one of them crawling into the other’s lap and Polly gets jealous from all the neglect. When they finally run out of food and have to go to the store, Ian takes his hand while they’re walking and refuses to let it go, leaving them to dodge around poles and signs because they’re now two people wide. Mickey blushes like a grapefruit and feels like a little girl, thrilling at the touch and wondering how he managed to keep a lid on the blazing inferno in his chest for so many years. It’s not that he’s worried about being seen in public, as he’s been out and proud for years, but it’s such an alien experience, having never been on more than a couple of dates in his life. 

He feels fucking … calm. Peaceful. Tranquil. All these gay-ass adjectives that he hadn’t understood before now. He never thought he could feel this good - couldn’t even conceive of it, let alone think he had it in him. Ian’s completely fucked him up, and he loves it.

He’s fucked for life.

In the end it’s Ian’s birthday that forces them out of their bubble. They’d both have happily stayed home fucking all day, but unfortunately birthdays aren’t really for the person in question, at least in Ian’s family. This year Mickey gets a message from Lip telling him about the secret party they’re throwing. He says he’ll chop Mickey’s nuts off if he tells Ian, who of course is reading over his shoulder, still lying where he’d come twenty minutes earlier. Mickey groans. 

“I fucking hate parties. Especially North Side parties. And especially ones with your family.” 

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Ian teases. 

“I’ve already done that today,” Mickey smiles.

“Anyway it’s happening so …”

“Does this mean I have to buy you a fucking present?”

“Uhh how about some lube, we’re almost out?” Ian says, shaking the bottle of silicone on the night-stand.

“Didn’t you just buy some last week?”

“Yeah but umm …” he trails off, arching his brow and squeezing one of Mickey’s delightfully round asscheeks.

“I mean, lube’s not a bad gift idea: might finally let the cat out of the bag about us with my family,” Ian ventures.

“If we’re going that way it’s gotta be way more than lube. Buy a full dungeon set to really shock their WASP asses.”

“Surely that’s just gonna let on how much of a power bottom you are?” Ian grins, which earns him a middle finger in return. He trails his fingers over Mickey’s belly lazily for a minute, making him squirm. They've only recently discovered that he's ticklish.

“You’re all right with it though? Telling them?” he asks softly.

“I know I’m gonna cringe like a motherfucker and have to take shit from your brothers for weeks, but yeah, might as well get it over with.”

“I’m kinda looking forward to seeing the shock on their faces,” Ian smirks.

A few days later they ride the Red Line uptown to Ian’s childhood home, Ian keeping Mickey’s hand clasped firmly in his own once again. He finally drops it as they approach the house, pausing to let him school his face a bit to feign surprise when he walks in. Mickey knows he’s gonna lose his nuts though, because the idiot can’t keep his face straight for more than a second.

The lights are off, with the curtains drawn, as Ian pulls out his keys and opens the door.

“SURPRISE!”

And to his credit, Ian does a passable half-second’s worth of shock, before his megawatt grin returns. Then he gathers Mickey into his arms and kisses him, before smiling at his family. 

“Surprise!” 

“Well it’s about fucking time!”