Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the summer of 1998, a group of kids from LeHigh stole the green Wallace Road sign right off its pole. Two days later, some fuckhead taped up White Trash Bovelard in its place, and it remained there for weeks until the posterboard was soggy with rainwater and the red Sharpie had bled down the page like a threat.

Ian saw it every day when he’d walk the quarter mile to the end of the road to get the mail. He considered taking it down, but even at ten, he knew that wasn’t how you spelled boulevard, and he also knew that the road clearly wasn’t a boulevard to begin with. He figured it just made the kid who taped it there look stupid, and plus, he knew it wasn’t about the Gallaghers anyway. If the Milkoviches wanted to do something about it, they could take it down themselves.

Not that the Gallaghers weren’t white trash. It’s just that they weren’t the kind of white trash the kids at LeHigh cared about. Fiona was poor, but she ran track and made good grades and since she was the oldest girl, she got all her clothes from the store instead of an older sister’s dresser drawer.

Colin and Iggy Milkovich weren’t like that. According to Fiona, they barely went to school, and when they did, they lived in the ISS room because they cussed at their teachers. Their clothes smelled like cigarettes and cat pee, they dipped in class and spit it in the science room sink, Iggy always got dress-coded because he wore a hoodie that said Guns, Gas, Tits, and Ass, and Colin had once got suspended for two weeks because he’d stolen PJ Watson’s thong from her gym bag and was caught trying to sell sniffs for fifty cents a pop.

Everybody hated the Milkoviches. In 1998, Colin and Iggy were both in 9th grade at LeHigh, and they weren’t twins but nobody knew which one had been held back a year. At the elementary school with Ian and Lip, there was Mickey and Mandy. Previously, Mickey had always been in Lip’s class and Mandy in Ian’s, but that year, Ian had ended up with both Milkoviches in his fourth grade class because Mickey didn’t get promoted to fifth.

It was no wonder. The teachers hated the Milkoviches, too. Their fourth grade teacher hated Mickey so much that she put him in jail for almost the whole day, every day. She had an unfolded refrigerator box she would set up in the back corner, and Mickey’s desk was put behind it so he couldn’t bother the class. Mrs. Hollis gave him worksheets when the rest of the kids got to do activities, but Ian didn’t think Mickey completed any of them. Instead, he chewed the erasers off pencils and threw them over the top of the box during class, and when he got extra bored, he said he had to go to the bathroom and then wouldn’t come back until Mrs. Hollis sent another boy to go find him.

One unlucky time, Ian got sent. Mickey wasn’t in the bathroom, but he found him in the gym, playing with a fingerboard he’d stolen from one of the kids in PE. When Ian told him to come back to class or else he was going to get in trouble, Mickey called Ian gay, the teacher gay, and the school gay, flipped him off, and left the building. The principal and resource officer ended up chasing him through the woods behind the school, and after they caught him, he got OSS for two weeks.

When Ian checked the mailbox that Saturday, he found a note ripped from a small notepad that just read, Ian G: Your a tatel tail and I will kill you!!!

---

The Gallaghers and Milkoviches were the only two families living on Wallace, which was a one-mile dead-end dirt road stretching off Southdown Highway near the Baptist church. A quarter of a mile down the road on the left was the Gallagher place, a two-story farmhouse built in the 20s with peeling blue paint, a wrap-around porch with missing spindles along the railings, a vegetable garden, and a chicken coop that was so regularly attacked by coyotes that they’d stopped naming the hens.

At the end of the road was the Milkovich place, a house far too small to hold a family of five and with paint so peeled that most of the graying wood beneath was exposed. Hanging over the porch railing was a faded confederate flag with frayed edges, and another flag was mounted off the side of the roof featuring a skull with two rifles in place of crossbones and the words, Liberty or Death. Attached to the house was a single-bay auto garage with T RRYS AU O displayed in half-missing metal letters, and the yard was littered with car parts, old bicycles, and random junk that looked like it was hauled in from the landfill.

The Milkoviches owned most of the pasture land up and down the road and raised cattle to be sold at the meat market. On the side, Terry, the patriarch with the mean face and perpetually oil-stained hands, worked on the cars of whomever was gullible enough to trust him. It was well known around town that the Milkoviches were as crooked as they come. Growing up, Ian didn’t remember seeing more than one or two strange vehicles per week pass the house on their way to the garage, and even Frank, who had a worse reputation than Terry, called them all a bunch of redneck shysters.

The only good thing about Terry was that he didn’t come around too much. He drank and worked the pastures with his brothers and made jury-rigged car repairs for poor fucks who were passing by on their way to Atlanta. But unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the kids, who seemed to spend every waking hour of their summers trying to bother the Gallaghers.

They were never upfront about it. Nobody came to their door. But they were always around. Ian and Lip would be swimming in the creek, and Mickey’d throw rocks at them from behind a tree. Fiona’d be running the road, practicing her mile, and Iggy’d lean against the fence alongside and yell at her to show him her titties. Even Mandy, who was by far the most innocuous of the bunch, spent the whole summer she grew boobs trying to get Lip to go to second base with her. When he finally did, she ran off and told her brothers, who proceeded to beat the shit out of him so badly Fiona had to take him to urgent care and spent her whole Patsy’s paycheck on his bill.

---

In 10th grade, Iggy and Colin dropped out of school and started helping Terry full-time, and by then, the Gallagher parent situation was such that Fiona was out, too, withdrawing with just a semester left. Monica, who had always been a force of nature, popping in and out whenever she was on and off her meds, had shown up with a baby and then left without him. Frank was missing, incensed by Monica’s arrival and hasty exit, but it wasn’t like he’d have gotten a job or taken care of a baby even if he were at the house. A small vegetable garden, inconsistent egg yields, and Fiona’s after-school diner job weren’t enough to sustain a family of six.

The kids took on more responsibilities. Fiona split her time between working at Li’l Wonders Daycare and Patsy’s Pies. Lip sold Skoal and cigarettes to eighth graders between classes. Debbie was paid two dollars a day to keep Carl out of trouble after school. And Ian took up gardening.

He checked out books from the public library, and he learned everything he needed to know about how to grow tomatoes, beans, carrots, and potatoes. Fiona had always been the one to put in the work before, the kids mostly just picking, spraying, and fertilizing when necessary. She’d done it since she was a little girl, her hair back in a braid and gardening gloves so big on her they came up to her elbows. It was the one thing she’d picked up from when Monica was sober and medicated--from when she was a regular mom who stayed.

But once she took on the second job, she no longer had the time or energy, and when Ian stepped in, a part of it felt like a tribute to his big sister.

He worked his ass off on that garden. It wasn’t large, and the soil wasn’t always the best, and there were times when the yields were poor. But Ian put his blood, sweat, and tears into it from the age of twelve, and by the time he was fifteen, it was the thing he was most proud of in the whole world.

It was 2003 by then. The older Milkoviches were miniature Terrys. Fiona was 21 and the Gallagher kids’ court-won legal guardian following a DFCS investigation declaring Frank an unfit parent. Debbie and Carl were running an after school babysitting business, and Ian, Lip, Mickey, and Mandy were at LeHigh.

Puberty had done a number on the kids. Lip crashed parties to sell weed, had sex with girls, and got into fights. Mandy was known as the sophomore class skank, a title she wore like a badge of honor. Ian, who’d yet to be kissed, jerked off on the toilet every morning to pictures of Justin Timberlake in Debbie’s copy of Teen Beat.

And then there was Mickey.

The blatant misbehavior he’d displayed at eleven had faded into pure apathy by seventeen. He came to school regularly after the truancy officer had gotten on his case, but he didn’t do a damn thing. He slept in class, and when he was awake, he doodled dicks and other lewd images in a notebook he carried around. He didn’t have any friends, he cycled between just three outfits, and the boots he wore always smelled like cow shit.

He was in Ian’s English class, and they both sat on the back row but on opposite sides of the room. Whenever the class was popcorn reading, Mickey would put his head down so nobody would call on him, and when Mrs. Lanning was pulling popsicle sticks, she never called on Mickey because she knew he’d just say “I don’t know” or would somehow give her a reason to write up an office referral.

Ian didn’t know why he didn’t just drop out like Iggy and Colin. It wasn’t like he was going to college. He was going to end up working the field like his dad and brothers. He’d run a hay baler. He’d ride a tractor. He’d fill feeders. He’d tag, dehorn, and castrate. He’d forage parts from junkyards and install them in cars for people who would unknowingly pay him for the price of a new one.

But for some reason, he stayed enrolled, and though he didn’t do any work and certainly not enough to pass his classes, he showed up almost every day.

In October, Mrs. Lanning assigned a partner project with a presentation component. The pairs had to analyze a poem and teach it to the class, focusing on its elements of style and figurative language and how they contribute to the overall meaning. Ian had been out sick the day it was assigned, so when he showed up at school the next day, everyone was already paired off.

Everyone except Mickey, of course, who, when the class was given the last half hour to work on their projects, put his head down on his desk.

Mrs. Lanning had assigned the two of them Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” and, taking a deep breath, Ian walked his packet over to Mickey and sat down in the empty desk beside him.

There was a long moment of silence while Ian decided how to approach the situation. Mrs. Lanning, from over at her desk, gave him an apologetic look. Ian bit his lip.

But then, as he was just about to clear his throat, Mickey grumbled, “The fuck do you want?”

Ian sighed. “We gotta work on this project. You’re my partner.”

“What project?”

“The one Mrs. Lanning assigned. It’s due Monday.”

“Find somebody else.”

“There’s nobody else.”

“I ain’t doin’ that shit.”

“Well, I ain't doin’ it by myself.”

Mickey finally lifted his head. There was a red crease-mark across his cheek from where his face had rested on his hand.

He studied Ian for a moment, and the other boy thought he was going to relent, but all he did in the end was murmur, “Leave me alone,” and put his head back down.

Ian sat there for five minutes, reading over the poem on his own, before taking his packet up to Mrs. Lanning.

“Do you think I could just be a third person in another group?” he asked, hopeful. “Mickey won’t work with me.”

Mrs. Lanning looked unsure for a moment, pursing her lips like she was about to stand firm in her decision to pair up Ian and Mickey. But finally, she said, “You can work by yourself if you want.”

It was better than having an uncooperative partner. Ian agreed and went back to his own desk.

He spent the following twenty minutes doing a casual analysis of the poem, summarizing it and making note of some of the figurative language that stood out to him. When the bell rang for class change, he gathered his things to go and was halfway to the door when he heard someone say his name.

It was Mickey. He had another copy of the assignment packet in his hand, rolled up like a telescope.

“Whatever, Gallagher,” he said, blue eyes aimed toward the floor.

Ian didn’t quite know what to make of it, but he assumed that was Mickey’s way of telling him he’d work with him after all. And despite the fact that he hated the Milkoviches as much as the next guy, he didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d got permission to work on his own.

Feeling at least a little optimistic, Ian told Mickey which poem they were doing and even took his packet from him and dog-eared the page. They made plans to work on it in class together the next day.

But when the next day came, Mickey slept again while Ian did all the work. And the next day, he doodled a picture of a woman with massive tits on his packet while Ian drew up a rough draft of their poster on a piece of printer paper. In essence, Mickey did nothing.

Ian was pissed. It was one thing to be doing the project all on his own, but there was no way in hell Mickey Milkovich was sharing in Ian’s potential A after doing nothing.

On Friday, with just the weekend in between to complete the project, Ian stopped Mickey before he left the classroom.

“Are you planning to work on it over the weekend?” he asked, not a little bit snippy.

Mickey looked at him like he had two heads. “What do you think?”

“So you’re just planning to show up on Monday, help me give the presentation, and take my A?”

“No.” Mickey dug in his pocket and pulled out a folded packet of grape Big League Chew, which he opened, scooped out, and shoved messily into his mouth. He chewed it almost menacingly--in a way that asked, Whatcha gonna do about it?

Ian stiffened his chin. “So you’re gonna tell Mrs. Lanning you didn’t do any of the work?”

“I meant no, I’m not gonna help you give the presentation.”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Ian was livid. Mickey started to walk away toward the classroom door, but the other boy followed on his heels. “If you’re not gonna tell her, I will.”

“Why do you give a shit? Ain’t like I’m gonna pass the class, anyway. I ain’t done a single assignment.”

“Because it’s not fair.”

“Who gives a fuck about fair?”

“I give a fuck about fair.”

Mickey stopped his walking and leaned back against the lockers, crossing his arms over his chest. He studied Ian for a long moment, and then, when the redhead was about to ask, Well?, he groused, “Fine. We’ll meet at your house. Saturday.”

---

For all the fact that the Gallaghers and Milkoviches had shared a road since birth, none of them had ever actually been inside the other’s home. Even when they wanted to beat each other up, they always took it to the woods.

So when Mickey showed up at a random late afternoon hour on Saturday, Ian was nervous, and the rest of the Gallaghers stared like the Milkovich kid was from outer space.

Mickey was dressed in a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, dirty Wranglers that were too long for him and bunched around his feet, and his boots that smelled like shit. It was evident from the stripe of what looked like cow snot on his shirt and the fresh mud on his shoes that he’d been in the pasture all day. His nails were also filthy, and he had BO strong enough to singe Ian’s nose hairs when he came too close.

The two of them stood around the living room awkwardly for a few minutes. Debbie and Carl were watching TV, and Fiona was in the bathroom, helping Liam wipe his ass.

Mickey kept wandering around, picking things up and studying them before putting them back. A baseball. One of Monica’s Precious Moments figurines. He came across one of Carl’s pocket knives and flipped it out, then closed it and put it in his pocket.

Ian made a face at him. “Put that back!”

Mickey rolled his eyes like he thought the other boy was stupid for calling him out, but ultimately, he did as requested.

Eventually, Ian got tired of the hemming and hawing and led Mickey into the kitchen. They got an apple each and then made their way up the back stairway to the room Ian shared with Lip.

It wasn’t much, but it was home. He had his own side, and his own dresser, and above his bed, he had US Army posters and a Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition spread of Daniela Pestova that had been fooling his family since 2000.

Mickey munched his apple noisily and sat down on Lip’s bed, peering around.

Ian had bought the posterboard from Dollar Tree, and he had it spread out on his bed along with Debbie’s Magic Markers, his copy of the poem, and the poster rough draft.

He turned to Mickey. “Wanna get started?”

Mickey shrugged in assent, but in the end, he didn’t do much. Ian managed to get him to copy down quotes from the poem he had highlighted on his paper, but Mickey’s handwriting was awful, and he kept misspelling words and scribbling them out, making the poster look sloppy.

Ian held his breath and let him do it, but when he was done, he didn’t protest when the other boy stretched out on Lip’s bed and started tossing the baseball he’d taken from downstairs up into the air and catching it, over and over.

Ian finished up the poster on his own and then taped it to the wall so they could review their presentation. He’d already structured it in class on Friday; they just needed to go over who said what.

“So you can read the poem,” Ian said, “and I’ll do the summary.” He turned toward Mickey. “Then do you wanna do symbolism or rhyme scheme? I kinda wanna do theme if that’s cool with you.”

“Whatever.”

“Do you have a preference? Which one do you know better?”

Mickey blew a raspberry. “Told you I don’t know shit about poetry.”

Ian bit his lip and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re gonna have to present on this in two days.”

“And I’ll do it,” Mickey said, brows raised like he thought Ian was slow. “Just give me the notes and I’ll learn it for Monday.”

Ian wasn’t so sure, but he gave Mickey his copy of the poem, complete with his notes, and highlighted the parts he wanted the other boy to learn. He attempted to get Mickey to practice with him, but he just rolled his eyes, sat up, and mumbled that he had to go.

Fine. Thanks for nothing, Ian wanted to say. Instead, he reiterated the parts of the notes he wanted Mickey to study and then sat on his bed and watched him leave, Ian’s old baseball still in his hand.

---

On Monday, for the first time in a full month, Mickey didn’t come to school. Ian had to give the entire presentation himself using their ugly-ass poster with the sloppy scribbles. And even though he was fairly certain Mickey had no intention of learning the information and would’ve just screwed up their presentation anyway, he was angry to the point of wanting to punch something over the fact that he didn’t show.

Mrs. Lanning asked Ian if Mickey was out because he was sick. How the fuck was he supposed to know? He told her he didn’t know because he and Mickey weren’t friends and then stalked back to his seat, his face red.

He was being childish, he knew, but that shit pissed him off. Mickey had taken his notes, and Ian had needed to redo all of them so he’d have his own to study with, and the whole time, the other boy was probably planning to skip school Monday.

Ian got a 96 on the presentation, the four points docked because the poster was sloppy, and just to be petty, he crossed out Mickey’s name on the rubric Mrs. Lanning handed him before he put it in his notebook.

---

Mickey was out of school all week. By Wednesday, Ian’s ire had cooled enough that he was only mildly irritated, and by Friday, he was mostly just curious about the other boy’s whereabouts.

Mrs. Lanning asked the class if anybody had heard from him, and of course, no one said anything. Mickey didn’t have any friends.

Mandy was at school. She and Ian didn’t have any classes together that semester, but they knew each other, of course, and were cordial. He passed her every day in the hall on the way to Biology, and every time, he contemplated stopping her and asking about her brother. He didn’t.

On Saturday, he considered walking down to the Milkovich house to see if he could spot him working in the pasture--just to check--but he figured nothing good would come of it. So what if he saw him? What was he supposed to say?

Instead, Ian put on his ratty jeans and T-shirt and headed out to work in the garden.

It was a good thing he didn’t travel down the road after all, as Mickey, wonder upon wonders, ended up coming to him.

Ian was harvesting some of his tomatoes when he heard a creaking sound coming from the wooden fence to the right of him. He looked up to find Mickey in the process of climbing up and perching on top.

He had dip in his mouth, and he had a Mountain Dew bottle with an inch of dark spit inside, and around his right eye was a shiner of epic proportions. To make matters worse, his eyeball was partially a deep, purple-red where what must have been a punch had ruptured a vessel. It gave him an alien appearance, and Ian’s stomach hurt from looking at it.

He glanced away, back down to his tomatoes. He worked quietly for a minute, the only sound that of Mickey spitting into his bottle, but after a while, he just had to look up again.

Mickey wasn’t looking at him. Ian huffed a breath to get his attention.

“Are you gonna tell me why you weren’t at school? We got an A, by the way, no thanks to you.”

And Ian may not have known Mickey very well, despite being acquainted with him for fifteen years, but he thought he knew him enough to know that his response to Ian’s testiness was going to be an argument.

Ian wanted it, honestly. In pure Milkovich fashion, Mickey’d clearly been in a fight with some kid, probably over a girl or something equally as stupid, and instead of owning up to the fact that he’d got his ass kicked, he’d stayed out of school to lick his wounds like a pussy. He’d left Ian hanging.

But what Ian realized that afternoon was that he really didn’t know the other boy at all. Rather than argue, Mickey simply hopped down off the fence and left.

---

He was back in class the next week, and he was the talk of the school. Everybody asked, “Did you see Mickey’s eye?” and “Who beat the shit outta Milkovich?” Rumor had it that he’d fought a former junior who’d dropped out the year before. It was something about a gun. Mickey hadn’t actually lost, but the other guy had got quite a few punches in.

Ian thought that the rumor sounded made up, but he didn’t question it. It didn’t matter, anyway. Win or lose, it was just more Milkovich shit.

Mrs. Lanning moved on to drama. They started A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Mickey continued to sleep in class, and he and Ian never once spoke to each other.

But then Saturday rolled around, and Ian was out in his garden in the late afternoon, the sun hanging low in the sky. He was starting his lettuce, planting from seeds, his hands bare in the dirt because he liked it that way, the soil all cool and damp between his fingers on such a hot October day.

The fence creaked again, so he looked up. There was Mickey, drinking a Mountain Dew this time. His eye was better, some of the livid color having faded from both the surrounding skin and the eyeball, but something was still a little off about his face like his cheekbone was swollen.

“Take a picture,” Mickey mumbled between sips of his drink, and Ian rolled his eyes and looked back down at his hands.

“What are you doing here?” he asked a minute later, once the other boy showed no sign of leaving.

“What’s it to you?”

“Uh, you’re on my property.”

“Oh, you own this property now? Is your name on the deed?”

“Fuck off.”

Mickey snickered, and Ian looked up again to catch him watching him.

“So what’s that?” the other boy asked, gesturing with his Mountain Dew toward the soil mounds.

“Lettuce. Or it will be.”

“You got like a green thumb or somethin’?”

“Maybe. What’s it to you?”

Mickey shrugged and took an obnoxiously loud gulp of his drink. When he was done, he belched, and Ian made a face at him and got back to work.

For a while, he heard him fidgeting, the fence creaking. What the hell did he want? Ian considered asking, but he didn’t much want to engage with Mickey past whatever was going on there, so he focused instead on his lettuce.

Finally, with one last creak of the fence, there was a thud. Ian looked up just in time to spy Mickey leaving again.

---

He came back the next Saturday and then the next. Each time, he didn’t stay long. He drank his drink or chewed his dip. Ian complained at him for the latter because he’d forgone a bottle in favor of just spitting onto the ground, and a streak of it had ended up on the fence.

They didn’t talk about much. Mickey asked questions about Ian’s garden--whether the peppers were good yet, how long until he could harvest his lettuce, are his tomatoes still growing, what about the squash. Ian asked Mickey about the cattle business, something he didn’t care much about. And then, once the poor excuse for a conversation died down into a long moment of silence, Mickey left without saying goodbye.

The next week, he showed up again for the fourth Saturday in a row. It was mid-November by then, and the leaves were beginning to fall, coating Ian’s garden in a thin layer of oak leaves he did his best to rake away. The night before, squirrels had gotten into his pepper and tomato plants. Pesky assholes. They’d stolen them right off the bush. He’d found a red pepper on the edge of the woods, nibbled, along with a stray tomato, and it was all he could do to keep himself from getting Carl’s pellet gun, following the trail, and tracking down the little fuckers.

He was mostly pissed about the tomatoes, really, as the county was due for its first hard freeze soon, and he knew they wouldn’t last much longer. He was hoping for a good final harvest so Fiona could make soup to freeze for the winter, but no such luck.

Ian was in a huff when Mickey arrived. He had on somebody’s giant buffalo-check flannel over his usual dirty T-shirt and jeans, and he’d had a haircut. For a while, he’d been working on what looked like an attempt at a mullet, but he’d apparently given up and evened out his hairline, making him look cleaner-cut than he had in a year.

For a Milkovich, he wasn’t bad looking. He had nice eyes and a good nose. He was short, and none of his clothes fit right, but there were worse-looking rich kids at LeHigh. Unlike his older brothers, Mickey had the kind of look that suggested he’d be a handsome adult in a few years once he grew into his skin.

That day, he wasn’t carrying a Mountain Dew bottle, and his mouth was free of chewing tobacco. Instead, he had a Tootsie Pop sucked down enough that the chocolate candy inside was visible. The inner ring of his lips was orange.

“Whatchu so pissed for?” he said by way of greeting before shoving his sucker back into his mouth.

“Asshole squirrels raided the garden last night.”

For a moment, Mickey’s eyes flashed with interest, but he immediately tamped them down again.

“Oh,” he said, not even bothering to remove the sucker.

“Yeah, ‘oh.’ It’s like they knew I was about to pick ‘em.”

“Maybe they did. Want me to shoot ‘em?”

Ian chuffed. “Nah. Carl can do it.”

“Suit yourself.”

They got quiet again as Ian went back to surveying his garden with anger. After a minute, nothing for it, he picked up his rake and got back to business.

Mickey just sat on the fence and watched him, sucking that damn Tootsie Pop. It was awkward with nobody saying anything, so Ian tried to make conversation.

“Did you read Act 4?”

“Of what.”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“I ain’t read a single page of anything in like five years.”

Ian should’ve predicted that. He shrugged without looking up.

“Hey,” he said after a minute.

“What.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why don’t you just drop out?”

He did look up then. Mickey was chewing at the Tootsie Roll center of his sucker, and his eyes were avoidant.

“Why don’t you drop out?” the boy finally countered.

“‘Cause I wanna go to college.”

“Pssh. Goody-two-shoes.”

“Maybe.” A beat. Ian stopped raking and instead rested his hand and chin on top of the handle. He looked at Mickey. “You don’t wanna go to college, though. You’ve got a job waitin’ for you. You’re seventeen. You obviously hate school. So why do you still go?”

“‘Cause if I didn’t go, I’d be stuck here all day.” Finished with his sucker, Mickey tossed the stick onto the ground. “I’d have to be around my family from sunup ‘til sundown.”

Ian hadn’t considered that. It had only made sense to him that all the Milkoviches got along--that they were the only ones in the world who could stand to be in a room with each other.

“Oh,” he said, going back to raking.

After a long, quiet few minutes, Mickey jumped down from the fence with a thump. And this time, for the first time ever, he said “See ya” as he walked away.

---

Maybe Mickey Milkovich wasn’t so bad. For whatever reason, he clearly wanted to be around Ian, as he insisted on hanging out on the fence every Saturday. Not that he said much, and not that there were any blatant displays of friendliness. But at least he wasn’t being a total dick to him.

Despite the happenings on those Saturday afternoons, there was no change at school. In English class, they still sat across the room from each other. They still never spoke. Mickey still slept in class every day, and Mrs. Lanning finished up A Midsummer Night’s Dream and moved on to The Crucible.

Even so, Ian was beginning to feel better about the other boy, and his anger over him skipping out on their presentation had faded to nothing.

The week of Thanksgiving break, though, things took a turn.

Monday morning, Ian got up early, pulled on his thick flannel and jeans, and went out to gather some eggs for breakfast. They hadn’t had a missing hen in a while, and they were statistically due for one. Every morning, Ian half expected it, yet every morning for the past couple of months, he had been proven wrong.

After gathering a total of seven eggs from their twelve chickens, he crossed behind the house to the garden to check on his lettuce, which he was hoping to harvest before Thursday. As of Saturday, the plants hadn’t yet reached full maturity, but being the loose leaf kind, they were quickly approaching a length at which they could be used for salads and sandwiches.

What he found was odd. The squirrels had been at it again, apparently, but this time, they had only taken one full stalk of lettuce right up out of the ground, leaving a hole in the middle of ten otherwise perfect bunches of leaves.

Curious, Ian searched the spot near the woods where he’d before found the dropped pepper and tomato, but there was nothing there--not one single scrap of lettuce.

Maybe it wasn’t a squirrel, then. Maybe a deer? There were plenty of them around the area, and over the past few years, they’d been an on-again-off-again problem. Ian had installed a small picket fence around the garden the previous summer to keep them away, and that had seemed to do the trick.

Weird. He checked the rest of the garden and found nothing missing, so chalking it up to a strange coincidence and a fastidious animal, he grabbed his basket of eggs and headed back into the house.

And he would’ve forgotten about it completely if not for the fact that on Wednesday, exactly half his lettuce was missing. He had planted ten, and five of them were gone--four more in addition to the one from Monday.

But even that wouldn’t necessarily have been enough to prick up his ears if it hadn’t been for the fact that the five missing were in a straight line. Five perfectly removed stalks. Five holes in the soil.

In addition to the missing lettuce, part of his winter squash crop was gone in an equally tidy fashion--nothing haphazard or animal-brained about the ones that were taken--and in the henhouse, they were somehow down to four eggs, which was the lowest they’d ever had in a morning.

Somebody was fucking with him.

Somebody was fucking with him, and it was the goddamn Milkoviches. It had to be. Who else could’ve snuck over in the middle of the night to steal his vegetables?

Ian fumed. He picked up his rake and tossed it across the yard like a javelin. Motherfuckers!

Without a thought, he ran back into the house, pulled on his flannel, and tugged a blue toboggan over his head and ears.

Fucking Mickey. Fucking Mickey, asking him about his garden like he was interested. Fucking Mickey, sitting on his fence and watching him work like he just wanted to hang out with him. Fucking Mickey, saying oh after Ian had complained about the squirrels taking off his peppers and tomatoes that first time.

Ian left the house, his ears steaming, and ran down the road like he was out for blood. He hadn’t been near the Milkovich house in what had to be at least a year, always taking the woods path if he ever wanted to go further along Wallace. It took him five minutes to get there at a jog, and he wasn’t at all surprised to find that it hadn’t changed one bit since he last saw it.

The flags were still there, the letters were still missing from TERRYS AUTO, and the child-sized bicycles the Milkovich kids used to ride when they were in elementary school were still lying in a pile in the yard, three feet of weeds growing through and around them like they were being absorbed back into the earth.

Carried forward by fiery anger, Ian ran up the porch steps and, with only a moment’s hesitation, knocked on the door. He wasn’t sure what he would say should any Milkovich other than Mickey answer. He didn’t know Terry well at all, and his dealings with Iggy and Colin consisted of them skidding dirt at him with their bicycles when he was out playing in the yard as a kid. Mandy would be alright, maybe. He’d ask her about her brother.

But in the end, all his wondering was futile. Nobody answered the door. Ian knocked twice more and then gave up, sauntering back down the porch steps.

Assholes. He took a look around, idly wondering if there was anything he could steal, but there wasn’t anything he wanted. The Milkovich place looked like a junkyard. Even if he were to set something on fire, it would be doing the family a favor.

Cracking his knuckles, Ian began making his way back to his house. He took the woods path because he hadn’t traveled it in a while, cutting through a gap in the brush near the barbed-wire fence at the edge of the pasture.

It was almost ironic that the path existed in the first place, a clear-cut trail that led exactly between the Gallagher and Milkovich homes. All the kids used it every summer, as the midpoint was the swimming hole, a deep part of the creek the families had taken silent turns damming up.

When Ian was a kid, he and Lip would strip down and jump in, braving cottonmouth snakes and leeches to swim like two fish in leafy, muddy, ice-cold water. At ten, the creek seemed so deep in the dammed areas that it was up to their shoulders, the boys doing flips underwater and swinging like Tarzan on a hanging vine, dropping into the water with a splash. At fifteen, however, Ian’s last trip to the swimming hole had resulted in nothing but a discovery of tepid, knee-deep water and animal shit on the rocks.

That cold November afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, when Ian’s blood sizzled with annoyance and fists tingled with the desire to punch, he came across something altogether different at the swimming hole.

He heard them before he saw them. Distinctly male, pubescent voices laughing. The sound of a splash followed by a shivery shout.

Careful not to be spotted, Ian creeped along slowly, tree to tree, remaining as covered as possible at all times.

By the swimming hole, in the middle of deep fall, were the three Milkovich boys stripped down to their underwear. They were daring each other to jump in, making bets, saying you’re a pussy if you don’t.

They were fucking stupid. The Milkoviches were idiots with worms for brains. Ian used the fact that they were thoroughly distracted by each other to his advantage, continuing his slow creep past the swimming hole and onto the path leading to the Gallagher house.

But just as he was nearly free, he heard Mickey shout, “Okay, okay, motherfuckers. I’m gonna do it.”

And he knew he shouldn’t, but Ian couldn’t help himself. The Milkoviches were about to be monumentally stupid, and Ian hated them, and he wanted nothing more than to watch them suffer. He turned back and pressed himself behind a thick oak in order to view the proceedings.

Mickey was wearing a pair of light blue boxers that reached mid-thigh. They were a little too large for him, likely belonging to one of his brothers, and they were tinged slightly pink from where they’d been washed with someone’s red clothing.

He had an average body, Ian found himself observing. He wasn’t as strong as Colin, and he wasn’t as soft in the stomach and narrow in the chest as Iggy. He was compact. Not skinny or fat, muscular or scrawny. He was small and flat-stomached, but he looked capable of bulking up if he wanted to. Ian swallowed as he watched him inch his way toward the creek.

He was nice to look at if you liked Milkoviches.

Mickey closed his eyes for a moment and shook out his arms. Iggy put his hands on his brother’s shoulders from behind, and Mickey told him he’d bust a cap in his ass if he pushed him in.

“Then get a move on, fucko.” Iggy nudged him, and Mickey stumbled but didn’t fall. He turned and socked his brother in the shoulder hard enough to leave the other kid wincing before taking a deep, audible breath and leaping into the water.

They’d dammed it up, so it was waist-deep. Mickey’s knees buckled when he hit, and he fully sat down on the creek floor before launching himself upward and back out of the water, screeching.

Ian had to hold a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

Idiot.

Mickey was dripping and jumping, yelling, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” with every breath. “Ten bucks!” he managed to push out as he grabbed his sweatshirt and pulled it on over his wet upper half, the fabric sticking uncomfortably on its way down. “You fuckers owe me!”

His boxers, which were light colored to begin with, were almost transparent with water. Ian’s heart beat so hard he could hear it in his ears as he watched Mickey squeeze at the legs of them, wringing them out and causing them to pull against his body.

It was Iggy’s turn next. The other two Milkoviches taunted him into submission. Ian stayed for just long enough to watch Mickey sling his jeans over his shoulder and step into a pair of cowboy boots--for him to turn directly to face the creek, his ass mostly visible through the back of his shorts.

---

Ian felt dirty as hell.

He knew he wasn’t. All the Gallagher kids had gone to Vacation Bible School at Southdown Baptist every summer they’d been alive, but it was solely for the food. They didn’t subscribe to Christianity past a pervasive Southern belief in God and Jesus and a tendency to pray for a miracle when they couldn’t pay the electric bill, so there wasn’t really a fear of going to hell for being queer.

But gay wasn’t a thing people just were in Ian’s town. There were 700 students at LeHigh, and the only gay kid Ian could think of was Josh Robertson, who was rumored to have AIDS because he got fucked in the ass by the other Town Gay, Tricky Ricky, the drug addict who wore women’s clothing and got spit at whenever he begged for money at stoplights.

There was no such thing as coming out or being yourself when being yourself consisted of wanting to have another guy’s dick in your mouth. Even if Ian didn’t feel wrong for being gay from a moral standpoint, he felt wrong for admitting to himself that the sight of Mickey Milkovich half-naked and wet made him a little horny.

Because if there was any family you didn’t want to put any gay energy toward, it was the Milkoviches. Ian was pretty sure one of them had started the Josh Robertson rumor. They were the quintessential right-wing family that was right-wing because they were racist, xenophobic, anti-gay, anti-muslim, Confederacy-supporting and gun-toting, all in the name of Jesus Christ their Lord and Savior whom they’d never worshipped a day in their life.

Ian felt like he was being almost homophobic toward himself for staring at Mickey’s ass--like he was just asking to get his head bashed in when he inevitably slipped up and got caught.

The thought was so distracting that it did, at least, cool down some of his ire over the fact that the Milkoviches had fucked with his garden. He made it back to the Gallagher house, harvested the remainder of the lettuce, and brought it inside without another word.

That doesn’t mean he didn’t fume again later on when Fiona asked him what happened to the rest of his yield. He just did it while also thinking about the dimples on Mickey’s lower back and how he’d murder Ian for liking them.

---

Ian didn’t garden the Saturday of Thanksgiving week. Fiona had a new boyfriend--an older guy named Pete who owned apartment communities in Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina. He took the Gallaghers out for dinner that night at Texas Roadhouse and let them get steaks, and in all the excitement, Ian never once thought about whether Mickey had come over to see him.

But he did think about it at school on Monday. For the first time, Mickey made brief eye contact with him in class--just for a second while Mrs. Lanning called the roll--and it maybe seemed as if he wanted to say something to him. He never did, though, even when given the opportunity, and Ian let it go.

The rest of the week was much the same as usual. Mrs. Lanning assigned a four-page research essay to be completed in the two weeks leading up to final exams. They had to choose a pro/con topic, fill out formulaic research notecards using books from the library, and then use them to write their papers. Ian chose to write on the death penalty. Mickey slept.

On Saturday, Ian raked out his garden again and then, because the rest of the yard needed doing, got to work on that. Mickey showed up when he was raking around the faded plastic kiddie table and chairs that had been there since he and Lip were toddlers.

Mickey started off in his regular spot on the fence. He was wearing that same buffalo-check flannel over a white T-shirt, jeans with dried mud around the cuffs, and the scuffed cowboy boots he’d put on when he was half-naked in the woods. On his head was a baseball cap on backwards, and he was eating from a packet of sunflower seeds and spitting the shells onto the ground.

Ian acknowledged his presence but didn’t otherwise say anything. He raked around the table and chairs and then moved on to the turtle-shaped sandbox that had long been emptied and was perpetually filled with rainwater and dirt. He sat down the rake and dumped it, the contents pouring out like a waterfall and forming a puddle in the yard.

The fence creaked. Ian looked up to find Mickey had hopped down again and was on his way over. In the end, he didn’t come close, but he had clearly moved in order to be nearer to Ian, stationing himself at the broken swingset to Ian’s right and sitting down on the last remaining swing. Ian put his head back down and continued to rake.

“So are you writing that paper?” he asked. It was stupid of him. He knew Mickey wasn’t.

“What paper?”

Ian looked up again. “There’s no way. We’ve been in the library all week.”

Mickey shrugged, dumped out some sunflower seeds into his palm, and scooped them all into his mouth. After chewing them for the longest time, he spit the shells out in a gross mouthful and then swiped the sleeve of his flannel over his salty lips.

“No, I ain’t writin’ it,” he finally said. “I ain’t gonna pass, so it don’t matter.”

“Maybe you’ll pass if you do make-up work.”

Mickey shrugged again and looked away, uninterested. Ian went back to raking.

It was quiet--too quiet--just the skkkish of the rake through the dry leaves and the sound of Mickey spitting seed shells breaking the silence.

Ian paused his raking and rested his hand and chin on the handle. “Did you have a good Thanksgiving?”

“Sure.”

“Does your family do a turkey, or…”

Mickey shrugged, his eyes darting away. “Nah.” He dumped out more sunflower seeds, but instead of scooping them into his mouth, he picked up just one and dropped it in. Cracked it with his back molars, blew out the shell.

“No turkey? So what’d you have?”

Ian picked back up his raking while he waited, and he managed to clear a long swath around the swingset before Mickey murmured, “Nothin’, really. Dad and my brothers went huntin’.”

“Did they get a deer?”

“No.”

“You didn’t go?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Mickey made an annoyed sound, then, and twisted in the swing, doing a loop and then lifting his legs so that he spun in a jerky circle. “You’re nosy.”

Ian huffed and moved to the other side of the swingset. He let Mickey’s comment go, and after a minute, said, “I don’t really hunt, either. Carl does. Squirrels and rabbits. The occasional cat. Lip used to go with Frank before he went off the deep end.”

“Jesus Christ. Frank Gallagher with a rifle.”

“Yeah.” Ian smiled. “We had to hide all the guns under the floorboards when he started back up his drinking.”

“Good move.”

“Yep.”

Ian finished up raking around the swingset and then began moving each leaf pile he’d made toward the woods. Mickey got up again and wandered around with him, watching.

“So why don’t you like to hunt?” he asked belatedly, practically scaring Ian into a jump. “You like animals and shit?”

Ian made a face. “Yeah, I like animals.” He shrugged. “Not really the reason, though. I’m just not that interested.”

“You like guns, though.”

“How do you know?”

“You do shootin’ team.”

The fact that Mickey knew that made Ian’s heart pound, though it wasn’t as if it was a secret. He’d done it since freshman year, just as he’d done ROTC. He had a black windbreaker jacket he wore that said John F. Leester High Shooting Team in gold lettering across the back. He’d had his name called over announcements before for placing 2nd at regionals.

Still. Ian tried to tamp down the pinkening of his cheeks, but he wasn’t sure it worked. He distracted himself and Mickey by switching leaf piles and raking as loudly as possible.

“Yeah,” he said simply, giving a shrug. “I like guns.”

He finished up his raking, eventually moving all the individual piles to the edge of the woods and with one final series of strokes, sending them to join their friends on the forest floor.

When he returned to the yard, Mickey was at the garden, bent over and digging idly at the soil with his fingers.

“What’re you doing?” Ian asked, frantic, coming up beside him. “Stop.”

“Pssh.” Mickey stood straight and dusted off his hands. “You and your fuckin’ garden.”

“Yeah, me and my garden. I’ve been workin’ on it for three years.”

“Why d’you like it so much? Every Saturday, you got your hands in the dirt.”

Ian put down his rake and crossed his arms over his chest. He pursed his lips, thinking.

“It feels good to work at something,” he finally said. “You can see the results of everything you do, y’know.”

Mickey appeared to take it in. He glanced around the garden and then focused his eyes down on his shoes. Kicked at the grass beneath.

Ian studied him as much as he could. There was the sheen of a salt crystal on his cheek from the sunflower seeds. There was a faded scar on his cheekbone where it looked like he’d once been punched by someone wearing a ring. His lips were chapped.

Finally, Ian sniffed and said without heat, “I know you stole from my garden.”

Though obviously, he was expecting some casual kick-back, he wasn’t at all expecting the sheer amount of defensiveness that fell over Mickey’s body like a veil.

Ian had been proud of himself for remaining measured in his tone. It had been a full week and a half, and he wasn’t that angry anymore. It had happened, he’d been unbelievably pissed about it, and then it was over.

Mickey, however, reacted as if Ian had told him he’d fucked his dad.

“I ain’t stole shit!” he practically shouted, taking a big step away from him.

“Or your brothers did.”

“We ain’t stole nothin’.”

Ian huffed. “Then who did? Somebody stole half my fuckin’ lettuce and some of the squash right before Thanksgiving. Some eggs, too.”

“Maybe it was your deadbeat dad.”

Not that it would be beyond Frank to take from the garden, but if it had been him, he would’ve cleaned Ian out completely and then set up a produce stand in town.

Ian stared at Mickey, whose breathing had picked up to a degree that could indicate nothing but guilt. And the fact that he was not only denying it but trying to pin it on a Gallagher, even if it was the one Ian didn’t give a fuck about, just pissed him off. He’d worked so hard on his garden. The least Mickey could do was own up to fucking with it.

“I would’ve given you some if you’d asked,” he said, trying to keep his voice as level as possible despite his growing irritation. “But you didn’t. You came in, and you stole it.”

Mickey’s face crumpled. He took another step back. “I ain’t stole shit, and my brothers ain’t either. Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

“Just admit it. I don’t even give a fuck anymore.”

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”

His face was red--beet red like he was embarrassed--and his feet kept shuffling in the grass as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay or run.

Finally, in one swift motion, he looked down at the garden, right at the place where the five lettuce stalks had been removed, turned, and took off.

It was the run of a kid caught in a lie. It was the run Ian had done when he was in first grade and his teacher saw him at recess with the pudding cup he’d already promised he didn’t take from the rich kid’s lunchbox.

It was juvenile. Mickey Milkovich, who never backed down from a challenge, should have tried to punch Ian in the face. Instead, he’d turned tail and ran.

Like a dog in pursuit of a squirrel, the thrill of the chase spurring him on, Ian took off after him.

He wasn’t angry anymore. He was mystified. He wanted to catch Mickey because he wanted him to stop.

They ran through the woods, first on the path and then off, shooting out through knee-deep leaves and fallen trees and spots of mud near a trickling stream that made Ian slide in his boots. With shorter legs, Mickey was slower than Ian, his only advantage the head start, so Ian gained on him the further they ran.

The woods around Wallace were thick but not unending. There was a hill they were running toward that looked like a leaf-covered mountain, the main part of the creek winding its way alongside it. Ian and Lip had been up it many times, taking backpacks and going exploring on summer days. At the top was an abandoned cow pasture--small and overgrown--surrounded by rusty barbed wire that a rotten tree had crashed through.

At the foot of the hill, Mickey took a running leap over the creek and just made it, his foot sliding in the mud at the edge, and Ian followed him. They raced up the hill, at times bending to use their hands to help dig their way up, the leaves high and slippery and every movement a loud shushh-shushh.

“Mickey, will you fucking stop!” Ian yelled halfway up. He was tired, and his palms hurt, and more than anything, he was only chasing him because Mickey was running, and he felt like if he just let him go, the universe would somehow explode.

“Fuck you!” Mickey yelled back, moving faster somehow, already nearing the top of the hill.

With a burst of regained energy, Ian rushed after him, getting so close at the top that if he’d only reached out a hand, he could’ve grabbed his flannel. Mickey got upright, his hands no longer needed, and took off toward the break in the barbed-wire.

The tree, almost fully intact the last time Ian was there, was now broken into a few soft pieces Mickey leaped over on his way through. The disruption of movement did, however, serve to slow him down further, and Ian was able to get in behind him and push him through until they were both in the clearing.

The weeds were thigh-high and dying with the season, softening up and wilting, but all it did was make it thicker and nearly impossible to rush through. Mickey did his level best, jumping whenever his feet would get tangled and making a beeline toward the rusted gate at the other end of the pasture.

It wasn’t enough. Ian was gaining on him and then was a breath away. With a final push, he jumped on his back and tackled him to the grass, the ridiculousness of the situation crashing down on him just as their bodies crashed to the ground.

They wrestled, Mickey twisting onto his back and Ian trying to pin him down below him. The whole time, all Ian could think was, Why the fuck am I doing this? What’s going on?

Nobody threw a punch, and nobody dug their nails in to hurt. Mickey grabbed Ian’s upper arms and shoved and shoved, and somehow, Ian’s frenzied mind making him weak, he was overpowered and rolled onto his back, the other boy climbing on top.

“Get the fuck off me!” Ian yelled, Mickey surging up above him. His knees were sharp and dug into Ian’s thighs, and his hands pushed and pushed at his shoulders, pinning him into the scratchy weeds, which crunched beneath him and rose up around him, tickling his face and neck.

“I ain’t fuckin’ stole none of your shit,” Mickey asserted, voice dangerous, and well, Ian was already in deep. He might as well push further.

He grabbed Mickey by the arms and tried to break their hold on his own shoulders. “Will you just fucking admit it, you asshole!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!”

With a great heave, Ian was able to knock Mickey unsteady, his arms buckling and bending until their chests were flush. It happened so quickly that Ian lost his breath, the sudden weight of Mickey against him beating it out of his lungs with a whoosh.

“Fuck you,” Mickey said again, his hands moving from Ian’s shoulders to his upper arms, pinning them out to the sides in a way that felt like it might bruise, his fingers digging painfully into Ian’s biceps, even through his shirt. “Fuck you, fuck you.”

Ian winced because his grip hurt. His knees were hard, his chest was heavy. His fingers squeezed and squeezed and--

The next thing Ian knew, Mickey kissed him.

It was the quickest thing in the world, his lips pressed against Ian’s and then gone before the other boy even had a chance to react. It was whisper-soft, the exact opposite of the squeezing and the pressing and the heavy, crushing chest against his.

Ian was stunned. He gasped. Opened his eyes. Mickey was looking down on him like he wanted to cry, and then like he wanted to hurt.

Before Ian could part his lips to breathe, before he could say anything, even before he could gather his thoughts, Mickey’s fist came down on his face so hard he thought it might have knocked him out.

It was an immediate burst of pain, his head bouncing back and hitting the hard ground beneath the weeds with a thud he felt as a vibration in his skull.

There was another punch, then another. Ian’s lip split open, his top teeth cutting a line through it, and blood filled his mouth.

Ian’s hearing was nothing but a ring as it happened again and again until finally, it slowed enough that he could get his own punch in, making weak contact with Mickey’s nose but contact enough that he heard the crunch of knuckle meeting cartilage, that he felt wet on his fingers.

Mickey jerked back at it and tried to punch Ian again, but the other boy managed to dodge it, Mickey’s hand hitting the ground beside him and throwing him off balance to the degree that Ian was able to roll out from under him.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Mickey moaned. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, you fuckin’ queer. I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

He coughed, and he panted, and as Ian scrambled to get to his feet, blood dripping out his own nose and down his chin, he noticed that Mickey was crying.

He kept saying over and over again, his voice getting weaker and weaker, “I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna kill you. Fuckin’ queer, I’m gonna kill you.” The cry turned to a sob, and he bent and pressed his bloody palms to his eyes, his shoulders shaking.

“Mickey,” Ian choked, everything so fucked up he didn’t know what to do. His head hurt, and his face was on fire, and Mickey had just kissed him and punched him and now he was crying so hard something inside Ian broke.

“Get the fuck outta here!” Mickey yelled at the top of his lungs, standing suddenly and kicking at the ground. “Leave! Fuckin’ leave!”

Ian swallowed, tasting blood, and feeling like the universe might’ve exploded all the same, he ran.

He ran and he ran and he never looked back for fear that if he did, he’d turn to a pillar of salt.

He threw up everything in his stomach like an exorcism. He was weak, his muscles lax. His nose hurt so bad his brain buzzed, Ian’s knuckles like a sledgehammer to his face.

What had he done. What the fuck had he done. How the fuck could he have done that how the fuck how the fuck.

Mickey pressed his bloody palms to eyes and saw Ian’s freckles, his crooked jaw and his parted lips and his bottle-green irises--a tragedy.

What the fuck had he done.

He’d kissed him. He’d done the queerest thing he could’ve done--worse than getting a blowjob, worse than any kind of sex because what he’d done was soft and it was his first and it should’ve been a punch but it was a caress.

His knuckles hurt. They were bruised already, swollen at the knobs of bone. The skin was split, and there was his blood and Ian’s blood all mixed up, red-on-red, indistinguishable from each other.

Mickey was going to die. There was no way around it. He had done the thing he was never going to do, and he was going to die because of it.

It was an overwhelming feeling, the logistics unclear and yet the ultimate result the only possible outcome. Mickey had kissed a boy, the world would know, his life was over.

His chest hurt. A heart attack? He couldn’t breathe.

He sat down in the weeds, the scratchy burn of them against his lower back where his shirt rode up, and he buried his face in his knees. He cried until he thought he might throw up again if only he had something to lose, his throat squeezing, his chest squeezing harder.

Mickey was going to die.

---

The next three days of his life were a fiery hell of worry.

On Sunday, he expected Gallagher to beat on his door with his own bruised fist, to come after him with a gun or with his brother or to say to Terry, Just so you know, your son’s a fuckin’ queer. Your son kissed me. Your son prob’ly woulda done more if I hadn’t punched his faggot ass.

It didn’t happen. Mickey kept a pistol under his pillow anyway, just in case.

On Monday, he stayed out of school. He expected Gallagher to tell everybody in class what happened--expected it to spread like wildfire that Mickey Milkovich had kissed him.

When Mandy got home, he asked her if she’d seen the ugly-ass ginger Gallagher kid that day. She said she hadn’t.

On Tuesday, he asked her again.

“Yeah,” she said, dropping her bookbag on the living room floor. “D’you know what the hell happened to him? Looked like he’d been in a fight.”

On Wednesday, when Mandy arrived home with yet again no rumors about her brother to report, Mickey finally allowed himself to breathe.

---

Mrs. Lanning called on Friday. She left a message on the answering machine saying she was checking on Mickey and wanted to remind him that his pro/con essay was due Monday and that he needed to study his literary terms for her exam. He deleted it--not that Terry would give a fuck even if he heard it--and left the house.

He went out to the west pasture, which they’d emptied over Thanksgiving break, moving all the cattle closer in for the winter season. The creek bisected the field, the bank growing high and muddy there--high enough that you could sit on a rock in the summer and be hidden from anyone looking out over the pasture. Mickey liked to sit there sometimes with his sketchbook, working on his drawings. His brothers always made fun of him for liking that shit, so he had to hide it, and they never knew to look for him in the west pasture creek bed.

It was too cold to sit there in December. Mickey bypassed it and instead, climbed the hill to the upper pasture and sat in a sunny spot. He smoked for a while, peering out over the fields. From up there, he could see the chimney of the Gallagher house in the distance, peeking up from behind the woods. They had a fire going even though it wasn’t cold enough for one yet, the smoke curling upward in a gray-white cloud.

The Milkoviches waited until the freeze--until they couldn’t stand it. Mickey always had to go chop and gather the wood, and Mandy’d build the fire. It was their chore since they were kids, and Mickey liked it because it got him out of the house in the months when Terry was inside too much.

Goddamn Gallaghers. They were poor as dirt like the rest of them, but they always had the nerve to act like the Milkoviches were trash. Fiona thought she was hot shit. The oldest boy, Lip, was a fucking prick who always thought he was better than Mickey because he sold ditch weed and made good grades. The little kids were lunatics. Fucking psychopath boy who shot at anything with four legs. Crazy-ass ginger girl who had a nervous breakdown when the bus was late.

Ian was the worst of all of them. Him and his stupid fucking garden and his shooting team and his getting all excited over a dumb poem that didn’t make no damn sense to nobody.

Mickey thought he’d probably picked the worst person in the world to ruin his life over.

He shouldn’t have stolen the vegetables. He didn’t know why he did it the first time, sneaking in with a flashlight the month before and taking some of his tomatoes and peppers. It had felt dangerous. Part of him had wanted to mess with the ginger fucker--to get a rise out of him. In the end, Ian’d just thought it was squirrels, and it was funny as hell.

The second time had been a crime of opportunity. Terry was drinking, and Mickey had to get out of the house. He found himself in the Gallagher yard and then in Ian’s garden with the ten perfect lettuce stalks. He took one just because--because it was Ian’s, and Mickey had watched it grow every Saturday. He didn’t even eat it. He’d lobbed it into the pasture on his way back to the house, and it’d felt good in the moment. Mickey’d felt like he was winning something.

The third time, Terry was taking Colin and Iggy on a drug run, and it was just him and Mandy for Thanksgiving. On Tuesday, when Terry was in the field, he’d sent Mandy to Kroger in town with a handful of bills he’d managed to scrounge up, and she’d come back with two cans of Chunky soup, some Wonderbread already at its sell-by date, and a pack of store-brand boloney. He’d hidden the soup and bread under his bed so his brothers couldn’t get to it before Thursday, and it was fine. It was enough.

He shouldn’t have gone back to the garden. But he knew Ian had the lettuce. He could put some ranch on it for a salad for Mandy. She liked that shit.

So he snuck back to the Gallaghers’ Tuesday night and took what he could before Ian could get to it the next day. He didn’t feel good about it that time--like he was taking food from someone who trusted him--but he felt better than he would have if he’d had to see his little sister just eating a stale sandwich in front of fucking Charlie Brown. He took some squash, too, thinking maybe Mandy could fry it up later, and some eggs for two days of breakfast.

The Gallaghers had Fiona. Maybe they wouldn’t have all their vegetables, but they had an adult who spent money on food instead of drugs, booze, and gambling. They’d have a turkey. The psycho kid might’ve got them a rabbit.

Mickey did what he had to do.

He should've known Ian would call him out because he was like that, yet somehow, he didn’t expect it when it happened. Worse yet, he didn’t expect it to scare the shit out of him, to embarrass him.

Because at the end of the day, it was fucking embarrassing to live on a beef cattle farm and not have food, and it was fucking embarrassing to get caught stealing shit, and it was fucking embarrassing to feel like his stomach dropped to his boots when Ian Gallagher said he knew.

He’d ran. He’d ran like a pussy, and Ian had chased him, and then there was the disaster.

In the pasture that day, almost a week later, Mickey stretched out on his back in the dead grass and watched the sky.

He’d done the grossest thing he could’ve ever done, yet it hadn’t felt gross at all. That was the worst part.

---

He stayed out of school for the rest of the semester. Then January rolled around, and the new semester started on the 5th. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror at seven o’clock in the morning and stared at himself.

He had another shiner, though this time his eyeball didn’t look like a fucking cyborg’s, and his bruise was faded enough by now that the kids at school probably wouldn’t say anything about it. Fuck ‘em if they did. He’d stopped caring much about what kids at school had to say when it came to his injuries, anyway.

After Mandy yelled at him to stop hogging the bathroom, he left the room and went outside to smoke. It was cold, and the recent rains had turned the road in front of his house into a rutted mess of mud.

He looked down at his shoes: boots he’d stolen from a yard sale in November--some dead guy’s old El Dorados with scuff marks on the toes. He’d always wanted a pair of cowboy boots, even if working the pastures was the last thing he wanted to do with his life.

Terry had liked them. He’d said if Mickey didn’t have such tiny feet he’d wear them, himself, and that had made him feel good even though he knew it was backhanded.

He finished his cigarette and dropped the butt onto the damp ground, squishing it into the mud with the toe of his boot. He looked toward the old, blue pick-up the Milkovich kids drove. Mandy had already fought Mickey over the keys that morning, and he’d let her win. She would be coming out the door any minute, and they would get in and drive four miles to LeHigh, parking in the back lot behind the band room because they didn’t buy a parking pass in August.

In the distance, Mickey could see smoke rising up from the Gallaghers’ chimney again. The Milkoviches had made a fire the night before, too, but it was out that morning, and Mickey hadn’t had time to get wood in and get ready for school at the same time since he’d gotten up late. Terry had been drunk and on his case all night, and he hadn’t been able to lie down until almost three.

Idly, Mickey wondered if the Gallagher kids were already at the bus stop. Bus 21 stopped at Wallace at 7:20, so the likelihood was high. He fidgeted with the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, contemplating taking out another as he thought about potentially having a class with Ian.

It made him want to puke. It’d been a month, and Ian hadn’t told, or if he had, whoever he told had kept it a secret. The mere notion that there was another person out there who knew what Mickey had done gave him chest pains again, this tightness he had to breathe deeply through, rubbing at his sternum with his palm.

He hated himself. He hated every single thing about himself. He took out another cigarette and lit up just as Mandy pushed through the door and told him to stop staring at his ugly, gay boots and get in the truck.

Fuck her. He gave her a titty-twister, and she whacked him in the face with her purse.

---
---

They held him back again. He started the second semester of 10th grade as a first semester 10th grader all over, his classes repeats of his core subjects from the fall but with different teachers. The guidance counselor called him out of 1st period to go over the straight F’s on his last report card and told him about Southdown Academy, a fancy name for the alternative school, which was well-known as the place the at-risk students were sent in an effort to keep the LeHigh drop-out rate low.

Iggy and Colin had both spent a couple weeks there before they dropped out. They’d said it was bullshit. They sat you in front of a computer all day and made you do some program that was supposed to teach you the basics of all the core subjects so you could pass the state tests. They said you couldn’t talk to anybody, even during lunch, and if you slept, they put you on afterschool janitorial duty.

Mickey told the counselor no, he wasn’t doing that shit. She wrote something down in her notebook and asked when was a good time to have a conference with his dad and the principal.

That wasn’t fucking happening. He stood up and went back to class. It was Algebra 2, and Mrs. Hill had brought single-serving bags of chips to celebrate the first day.

On his way to 2nd period, Mr. Aarons, the principal, got him out of the hall and made him go with him to the office. He showed him his grades again and asked him if he planned to do some work that semester. Mickey said no. The principal picked up his phone and called Terry, but of course, he didn’t answer. He hung up the phone and told Mickey that if he wasn’t going to do any work, he had no choice but to send him to Southdown Academy, so he better make a serious decision about his plans for the semester.

Mickey went back to class and put his head down.

---

In the end, he dropped out.

He’d gone to the bathroom in 3rd period and had run into Ian at the sinks. He was washing a mustard stain off his ugly tan shirt that was too big for him and showed his collarbone, and Mickey wanted to die.

He’d tried to leave the bathroom straight from the stall, but Ian, fuck him--fuck him--had called, “You forgot to wash your hands.”

Mickey had turned around and stared at him, and his chest hurt again, and he was so tired, so fucking tired, and he said, “Leave me the fuck alone, Gallagher,” and left.

He had to go outside because he needed air. He sat out on the sidewalk near the faculty parking lot and pulled out a cigarette, but he didn’t light it. His hands shook too badly. He put it back in the pack and placed his palms over his face.

Breathe. Breathe.

---

He got written up for skipping, his 3rd period teacher meeting him at the door with a pink slip to take to the office. Mickey stared him in the eye, wadded the paper up in a ball, and dropped it on the floor.

He went back to his seat and sat down, but Mr. Hoffman picked up the phone and dialed zero, and he knew what was coming to him. He stood, grabbed his sketchbook from under his desk, and walked out.

He left the school. Mandy had the truck keys, so he went through the woods behind the parking lot to the highway and made his way home that way. He managed to walk a mile and a half before the SRO pulled over beside him in his car, the lights flashing.

“Will you turn that shit off?” Mickey asked, irritated. The lights were giving him a headache.

“Get in the car, Milkovich.”

“Yeah, fuck off, pig.” It wasn’t like Samuels was going to haul him to jail. Mickey’d done the whole song and dance before. He’d get in the car, Samuels would call Aarons, who’d try to get in touch with Terry, who’d tell them all to fuck off, and Samuels would take him home. End of story.

“Milkovich. In the car.”

Mickey laughed. “What’re you gonna do? You can’t do shit. You ain’t even a real cop.”

“What are you gonna do?” Samuels countered, getting out of the car, closing the door, and leaning against it.

Mickey turned to look at the officer. He crossed his arms over his chest, his sketchbook held against him like a prized possession.

“What’re you gonna do?” the man asked again. “You’re seventeen years old doin’ your first semester of 10th grade again. You tell the principal you ain’t gonna do your work. The school can only keep you for so long if you puttin' in no effort. What’re you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna drop out.”

“Then what? Gonna work with your daddy? Gonna work on the farm durin’ the day and sell drugs at night?”

“No.”

“You gonna be a drunk? Gonna gamble away all your money?”

“No.”

“What’re you gonna do, then? You gonna get a girl pregnant and live in her parents’ house ‘til she kicks you out and you flip burgers to pay child support for the next eighteen years?”

“Fuck you, fuckin’ asshole!” Mickey whipped around and started walking away. His stomach hurt. The edges of his sketchbook dug into his arms through his thin shirt.

Footsteps came up behind him. Samuels was a tall motherfucker. He gained on him quickly, and Mickey considered running, but part of him worried about what was going to happen if he did.

“You got drugs on you, Milkovich?”

“No,” Mickey spat.

“You got tobacco?”

“No.”

“You tellin’ me I won’t find cigarettes or dip on you?”

“You don’t have cause to search me, and even if you did, what you gonna do? Arrest me for some fuckin’ Copenhaggen and a pack of Marlboro Reds? I ain’t afraid of no pigs. ‘specially not wannabe ones.”

A hand reached out and landed on Mickey’s shoulder, and the boy shrugged it away and walked faster.

“Mickey. Get your ass in the car.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, how many times I gotta tell you to leave me the fuck alone.”

“Stop walking. Get in the car. I’ll drive you home.”

“Maybe I’m not goin’ home.”

“Where you goin’, then?”

Mickey stopped walking.

“I gotta take you somewhere, Mickey. Legally, the school’s gotta know where you are when you leave campus.”

“Why does anybody give a fuck?” He turned to look at Samuels, who had his hands on his hips.

The man shrugged. “Legally, they gotta know.”

It was fucking stupid, but somehow, that made him feel worse. He was an obligation so the school could cover its ass. Samuels was a piece of shit. The school was a piece of shit. Mickey was a piece of shit who was going to work the farm by day and sell drugs by night.

He was quiet as he followed Samuels to his car and got in. In the front seat, despite being told to do so, he didn’t buckle up. He held his sketchbook to his chest and watched the man use the car phone to call the school. The principal okayed Samuels taking Mickey home.

Mickey’s eyes went foggy as he watched the farmland along Southdown pass by. The winter-yellow grass turned to wet blurs.

“The state gotta fix this road,” Samuels complained as he turned onto Wallace, the ruts bad enough to rock his car to and fro. “Shoo!”

Mickey hooked his fingers in the door latch. “You can stop,” he said, pulling on it over and over until Samuels stopped the car and unlocked the doors.

“You go straight home,” the man said, already eyeing the side mirror to check whether he was good to back up.

Mickey didn’t reply. He slammed the door behind him, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his pack of Marlboros. He lit up and smoked the whole way home.

---
---

PJ Watson started coming around a few weeks later. She was a popular chick at LeHigh--a senior with blonde hair, huge tits, and a tiny waist. She cheered for the Leester Lions and was only slumming with the Milkoviches because she wanted to piss off her overbearing parents.

She was after Iggy. They went on a Saturday afternoon date to Applebee’s, which Terry paid for, giving his son a proud slap on the shoulder on his way out.

Mickey was on the porch smoking when they got back, and he ended up catching them having some attempt at sex in the truck. He couldn’t see much, so it wasn’t that gross. Mostly, it was just hilarious. PJ was on Iggy’s lap, and his hands were up under the back of her sweater, trying unsuccessfully to unhook her bra the entire time. After two minutes of squirming on his lap, PJ climbed off and got out of the truck, an unimpressed look on her face.

“‘ey, you fuckin’ perv!” Iggy yelled after hearing Mickey laughing at him.

Mickey flipped him off as he watched his brother climb out of the truck as well, zipping up his jeans. “Kinda sad, man,” he joked. “That whole thing lasted less time than it took me to smoke.”

Iggy ran after Mickey, chasing him out into the road and leaping onto his back. They wrestled and punched each other for a minute before PJ told Iggy to leave poor Mickey alone.

“Yeah, asshole,” Mickey said. “Leave poor Mickey alone.”

Iggy didn’t get a goodbye kiss at the end of the date, and PJ drove her little blue Miata home with hardly another glance in his direction.

“I didn’t even get my dick in her, man,” he admitted to his brother as they watched the dust settle once more on the road. “I think I jizzed on her thigh.”

Mickey snorted. “Keep that shit to yourself. That’s embarrassing.”

“How many chicks you banged?”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re seventeen, man. Too old to still have your V-card.” He took a dip can out of his pocket and thumped it. “You ain’t queer, are you?”

Mickey socked him in the shoulder. “I oughta be askin’ you that shit. You don’t even know how to unhook a girl’s bra.”

“Suck a dick, bro.”

“Sure that’s not what you wanna do?”

“Get the fuck away from me with that gay shit.” Iggy packed his lip with dip and kicked his brother in the shin.

Mickey snatched the other boy’s Skoal tin right out of his hand, took a pinch, and did the same.

---

Even though she was clearly done with Iggy, PJ kept coming around. Mickey thought she was after Colin next, even though he’d been the one who got suspended for stealing her thong, but she came by one day when his brothers were gone and sat on the porch while Mickey smoked.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what she wanted. He knew she wanted a dirty, redneck boyfriend to take home to her lawyer dad and nurse mom because they wouldn’t let her date some other dude she was actually into.

Mickey finished his cigarette, and when she asked for one, he gave it to her. She coughed after the first puff but did alright after, holding steady.

She was objectively pretty. She had a form that was supposed to be hot to guys. She had a reputation as being a total rich bitch, but she was nice to Mickey, even if it was fake.

He sat on the porch that afternoon and smoked another cigarette, watching her finish up her own. He thought about what he’d done in the upper pasture, about how he could never, ever, as long as he lived do it or anything like it again. He thought about Ian. You forgot to wash your hands. Ian with his stupid collarbones and his stupid hand-me-down shirt and how he was the ganglyest motherfucker at fifteen but would probably be beautiful as hell in a couple years.

And when PJ put out her cigarette and scooted closer, he held his breath and closed his eyes and let her kiss him.

---

She came around every day after she got out of school for the next week. Mickey would take her to his bedroom, lock the door, and they’d lie on his bed and make out for half an hour or more. PJ gave him hickeys up and down the side of his neck to the point that he looked like he’d been attacked by a vampire.

Mandy called him gross, and Iggy called him an asshole punk for stealing his girl, but his dad nodded at him approvingly and nobody called him a fag.

PJ wanted to have sex. She’d started rubbing her hand on Mickey’s dick through his pants while they kissed. He’d gotten a little hard from the friction, so he was pretty sure it would all work if they went through with it, but still, he held off.

It was weird--the whole idea of it. Kissing her was okay. He didn’t feel good about it, but he didn’t feel bad, either. It was unremarkable, the only thing interesting being the fact that he was making out with someone in the first place.

He was out in the woods one day, thinking about it, when the worst thing that could ever happen ended up happening.

He was sitting on a rock by the swimming hole, swatting at the water with a stick. It was an idle action, no rhyme or reason for it, his mind flooded with what if? and how the fuck will that work? and a simmering fear that his life was going to end up exactly the way Samuels said it would.

There was a noise behind him--a thwack--and he turned to find Ian coming down the Gallaghers’ side of the path with his own stick, knocking it against the trees and looking as pissed as Mickey had ever seen him.

Upon spotting the other boy, Ian froze in his tracks, dropping the stick on the ground in surprise.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Ian’s eyes wandered over Mickey’s face and landed on his neck, on the smattering of hickeys, and his face got pink. Mickey suddenly felt the strongest compulsion to place his hands over his throat, to hide them from the fucking ginger who’d ruined his life. He didn’t.

Instead, he stood up from the rock and squared his shoulders. Ian took a step forward, then another.

Mickey hadn’t seen him face-to-face in over a month--not since that day in the bathroom, his last day in school. He’d seen him out in his yard a few times. He’d passed him on the road as he’d driven the truck out to town, Ian headed toward the end of Wallace to get the mail.

He’d gotten a haircut, that stupid, floppy look with the bangs now shorter, making him look older than he’d looked the last time Mickey had seen him.

“Hey,” the boy said, lips barely moving with it.

Mickey looked away, then back, his heart beginning to pound. “Hey.”

Ian took another step forward. “Heard you dropped out.”

“Yeah.”

A beat. The redhead watched him carefully. “Why?”

“‘Cause it was that or Southdown.”

“But you don’t--” Ian paused like the words had escaped without his permission, like they were running away from him. He swallowed heavily, then finished, “But you don’t like bein’ home all day.”

Mickey kicked the leafy woods floor with the toe of his boot. “No.” He didn’t look at Ian.

There was a long period of silence. The leaves rattled as Ian shifted. Mickey finally looked up again to find the other boy looking at him. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“Why’re you here?” he asked, gesturing around them.

Ian shrugged. “Why’re you?”

“Fuck off. I asked you first.”

The other boy rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “Just…family drama. Fiona’s ‘bout to fuck us over, I think. I was tired of listenin’ to everybody argue.”

Mickey nodded. He dug his stick into the ground and looked down at the half-circle he’d carved out of the leaves.

“Your turn,” Ian said.

Mickey huffed. He wanted to say, none of your business, but he didn’t. Instead, he murmured, “Drama, too. With my girlfriend.”

The moment it was out of his mouth, he regretted it.

“Oh,” Ian replied.

“Yeah.”

“Well.”

Mickey waited for the rest of it, but it never came. He looked up, and Ian was glancing around at the trees. He looked back down.

They stood there in awkward silence for a moment before Ian finally said, “I should probably get back. Make sure my family hasn’t killed each other.”

“‘kay.”

“Well. See ya.”

Mickey nodded. “Later.”

He watched Ian leave. He watched him for so long that he was able to catch the moment his ant-like form exited the other end of the woods. His chest tightened, and he rubbed his hand over it, panting.

Before he turned to go, Mickey threw the stick as hard as he could, and he was only moderately satisfied when it hit the trunk of a tree and snapped in half.

---

He and PJ had sex. Everything worked how it was supposed to, and it lasted long enough that she was happy with it, too.

It was fine. It wasn’t life-changing. He didn’t see stars. He didn’t look at her afterward and want to kiss her or hold her or do it again. He thought, realistically, that kind of thing just wasn’t in the cards for him. He’d never be able to have sex that would end in any of that stuff, and he would have to be okay with it. It was how things were. It was how his life would have to go.

---

It became a regular thing to the point that by March, it was almost like they were actually dating. They wouldn’t really do any of that romantic shit, but Mickey’d take her to get fast food sometimes, and they’d eat it in the truck while parked in the Kroger parking lot overlooking town. Afterward, she’d start kissing him, and they’d lay down, take off their pants, and do it on the bench seat.

They always used condoms. Mickey was careful about that, what Samuels had said to him burned into his brain. All that other shit might come true, but there was no way in hell he was going to be some chick’s babydaddy at seventeen. Or ever, for that matter. He’d rather shoot himself in the face than have kids.

---

By the beginning of April, he was kind of wondering when the whole situation would be over and done. In three months, he hadn’t met PJ’s parents, so unless she was telling them shit about him, he wasn’t sure how he was serving a purpose.

By the middle of April, he’d decided that she somehow liked him for real.

He liked her, too, honestly. Not in a girlfriend way, but in a way that made it okay to hang out with her. She listened to shitty music, and she had terrible taste in movies, but she laughed when Mickey made fun of her for it.

She invited him to senior prom. He told her to fuck off, and she laughed at that, too, and said she’d just go with her friends like it was no big deal. He did agree to go with her to the county fair, though, if only because her dad gave her a hundred bucks to spend and that meant free rides and funnel cake for him.

The fair was in early May. By then, Mickey and PJ had stopped kissing. It was a gradual thing, gone little by little even as their sex life remained consistent. Mickey wasn’t sure what to think about it, but he wasn’t complaining. He was even less sure what to think about the fact that she asked him one night, as they were fooling around in his room, if he wanted to fuck her in the ass--that she was okay with it if he wanted that.

Something about it made his chest hurt, and he told her, “No, I don’t wanna do that gay shit,” his breath fast, and she looked him in the eyes like she knew something she wasn’t saying and asked him, instead, if he wanted her to blow him.

He laid in bed that night after she left, staring at the ceiling and asking himself over and over whether he’d said or done anything to make her suspicious. There was no fucking way. Aside from not holding her hand or doing that romantic junk, he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done wrong.

Fuck, it pissed him off that she’d said that shit. Because what it meant was that even when he tried to fight it, that thing inside him kept bubbling up. That thing scared him. He didn’t want it there. He wanted it gone. Because knowing that it was there, knowing that other people could see it, made him feel like he was going to die all over again. How could he keep himself going if he couldn’t hide? If he tried and tried and still, people could see?

He punched his pillow and then pulled it against his face, screaming and screaming until all he heard was a muffled, high-pitched whine that did nothing other than make his head hurt and cause the lump in his throat to develop into a sob.

---

Shit just got worse after that. Worse than he ever could’ve imagined. He felt like he was in fucking Wonderland, everything upside down, stuff that should be good making him sick.

PJ’s openness.

Terry’s approval.

Ian Gallagher leaving his life.

He should’ve been okay with those things; in fact, they should’ve made him happy. Someone who got him. His dad laying off the beatings. His worst nightmare moving away.

But try as he might to view them differently, they still felt like hell.

In late January, Fiona’d had news. Pete had asked her and the kids to move to Florida with him. He’d got her a ring and a job at one of his Jacksonville apartment communities, and he had a four bedroom house waiting to be filled and enough promises to last a lifetime.

Ian didn’t trust him. Fiona did.

Lip refused to leave. He tried to drop out of school and get a job, but Fiona wouldn’t sign for him. He then ran off to Atlanta for a week and came back with a broken nose and bruised knuckles and a fat stack of cash he offered his sister in exchange for not moving to Florida.

Ian, for his part, brooded. He didn’t have many friends, so he wasn’t upset about leaving his school. He would miss LeHigh’s shooting team, but his new high school in Jacksonville had a team, as well, and probably a better one.

Mostly, what bothered him was the thought of leaving his home. He longed for an exciting life in a more urban environment. He was excited about living in a nice house near the beach. But he would miss his rundown farmhouse and his little garden. He would miss quiet, cold mornings gathering eggs. He would miss the wet smell after a rain, the cows dotting the pastures around him. He would miss the possibility of seeing Mickey Milkovich again, even if nothing would ever come of it.

He knew he should be pissed at him. You weren’t supposed to like people who punched you, after all. Who yelled at you and told you to leave them alone. But when Ian thought of the incident in the upper pasture, try as he might, all he could picture was Mickey sobbing, bent over with it, his shoulders shaking.

---

In the end, despite Lip’s protestations, despite Ian’s nerves, despite Frank’s scheming, they made plans to leave at the end of the school year.

The day it was all settled, Ian saw Mickey on the woods path. He was out on a walk, blowing off some steam after Fiona’d given them the final verdict, when he spotted the other boy sitting on a rock by the creek, slapping at the water with a stick. He was in that same buffalo-check flannel he’d worn that day in the upper pasture, and he was in his cowboy boots.

Ian had been careless with his movements, not expecting to run into anyone and therefore unconcerned about being loud, and when he approached the creek, Mickey immediately turned to look at him.

For a moment, he seemed stunned, as if seeing Ian was somehow a surprise despite the fact that they shared a road. After a moment of staring, however, he appeared to school his expression, putting on an irritated pout and furrowing his brow.

It was then that Ian noticed the hickeys on his neck--big, thumbprint-sized things that would’ve been mistaken for strangulation bruises if you didn’t have an older brother who showed up with them on the regular and therefore knew what you were looking at.

So he had a girlfriend now. Obviously. Ian knew everything was fucked, and he knew the kiss Mickey had given him probably didn’t mean anything. He also knew that the violence following the kiss certainly didn’t bode well for any future romance.

That didn’t mean the sight didn’t make his guts sink.

They continued to stare at each other for a moment. Ian dragged his eyes from the hickeys to Mickey’s face.

They talked some. Ian wanted desperately to tell the other boy that he was moving, though he knew it wouldn’t matter to him. He didn’t. He was vague about why he was in the woods that afternoon, and then Mickey confirmed that he had a girlfriend, and all Ian heard from there on out was a ringing in his ears.

---

He tried to find out who she was, but all his casual attempts were fruitless. To Lip, he mentioned, “I heard Mickey Milkovich has a girlfriend,” and all his brother said in response was, “Yeah? Well, I hope she gets a regular STD panel.”

At school that Monday, he told Trig Bailey that he’d seen Mickey with hickeys all over his neck. Trig wasn’t ever Mickey’s friend, but Mickey had gotten suspended in 8th grade for going into business with him, selling cigarettes behind the gym during lunch. Ian figured he might know something.

He didn’t. He just commented how he hadn’t heard from Mickey in a while and said it was good he was getting some action since he dropped out.

It didn’t matter. For all Ian knew, Mickey was straight, that moment in the upper pasture some weird byproduct of aggression. The best thing he could possibly do was get the fuck over himself and move on with his life. He was moving, anyway. In three months, he would be four and a half hours away, living in some old guy’s house on the beach. He’d have a new school in a high-population city, and he might even get his first boyfriend.

Ian didn’t think it would last, of course. Fiona never stayed with a guy too long, engaged or not. But he had a feeling that once he left Wallace Road, he wouldn’t be coming back, even if they eventually moved back to town once everything went south in Florida. And if he wasn’t living on Wallace, he and Mickey would probably never talk to each other ever again.

So he kept his head down for the remainder of the school year. He went to state with his shooting team and placed fifth in small-bore pistol and fourth in air rifle. He made A/B Honor Roll. He won the class achievement award in Horticulture II and got a $50 check presented to him at the county CTE luncheon and a table at the fair in May, where he got to sell some of his produce and keep the profits.

He was most excited about that. He had a Saturday evening shift at the CTE table, and that was always the busiest time. That day, Ian arrived at four and set up, and for the next three hours, he sold his carrots, cucumbers, and mint for double the price as they went at the farmer’s market because he knew people were happy to pay it to support a LeHigh kid.

He was moderately successful, bringing in just under fifty bucks in sales and donations. Fiona, Debbie, Carl, and Liam came by at the end of his shift, and he gave his sister the bag of leftover produce to take home.

With his earnings, he bought tickets for rides and distributed them evenly amongst his siblings. The five of them stuck together for an hour, getting corndogs and a funnel cake and then wandering over to the kiddie section so Debbie could go on rides with Liam. Ian took Carl to shoot balloons and then rode with him in the Scrambler until they had to stop the ride because the kid hurled, his funnel-cake vomit flying and getting on Ian and at least two other riders.

Carl had always had a pukey stomach because he tended to stuff his face and then run around before he’d had a chance to digest. Ian apologized profusely as he got off the ride with his brother, the attendant radioing a clean-up crew, and then delivered him back to Fiona, who decided to take them home. She gave Ian the rest of their tickets, and after washing up in the bathroom, he set off on his own.

He loved the county fair at night. The lights. The smells. The screams from people on the pirate ship ride--high-pitched at its apex and then full of laughter on its way down. He bought a caramel apple and munched it as he wandered the agriculture stalls, checking out the prize-winning pumpkins, the goat kids, and the cow that had given birth earlier in the day, its calf still leggy and wobbly and a sheen of slime still on its coat.

On his way out, he dumped his apple stick and then headed back to the rides. He rode the pirate ship and the Spider and then got in the long, sprawling line for the ferris wheel.

It was his first time riding it by himself. While Fiona had always taken the younger kids around with her, he and Lip used to go off together, partnering up on all the rides. But Lip had gone to Atlanta for the weekend on some academic retreat he’d been coerced into attending because of the stipend, and Ian was alone.

It didn’t matter. At least on his own, he didn’t have to worry about his dumbass brother rocking the car.

He waited in line for several minutes before anyone else got in behind him. It was a pair of loud girls and a guy they kept talking to. Ian didn’t turn to look right away, just stepped forward dutifully when it was time and watched the ferris wheel spin in the night sky.

But then the girl said something about LeHigh, so Ian turned. He thought he would throw up just like Carl--chuck his guts all over the dusty ground.

It was PJ Watson, her blonde hair twisted and pinned back with butterfly clips and her lips glossy. With her was Kimbrel Curran of the richest family in the county, and off to the side of them, the most extreme version of a third wheel, was Mickey Milkovich.

None of it made sense. In what world did a Milkovich from Wallace Road off Southdown hang out with people who lived in River Oak? It was so ridiculous that Ian wanted to laugh. It was so ridiculous that unable to help himself, he looked Mickey in the eye and gave him an exaggerated, what the fuck is this? face.

Was Mickey dating one of those girls? It was unbelievable.

Ian had been expecting to feel sick when he saw the girl Mickey was with, but for some reason, all he felt was angry. It was fucking bullshit. There was no way it was real.

PJ reached out in the middle of her conversation with Kimbrel and poked Mickey in the chest in some annoying, flirtatious thing a girlfriend would do, and Ian lost his mind. He twirled back in the opposite direction before he straight-up asked what the fuck was going on. PJ Watson had been sucking on Mickey’s neck. One of the most popular girls at LeHigh was dating a Milkovich. There was no way.

Ian crossed his arms over his chest and huffed.

How the fuck.

He fumed the rest of the way through the line, listening to PJ and Kimbrel chatter so loud and annoying like a pair of hens in a henhouse and imagining Mickey having sex with someone who talked about rec cheer and a summer job at American Eagle and a gap year to figure out her passion before applying to Emory.

He remembered all the drawings Mickey would do in his sketchbook in English class. The girls with the huge tits. He probably had a crush on PJ the whole time.

Ian’s blood boiled, though he knew it didn’t have a right to. Mickey Milkovich hadn’t shown him an ounce of interest past that two-second kiss in the upper pasture. It was just that Ian had thought about him, and he’d wondered about him, and he’d replayed over and over the way he’d cried after punching him--how he’d bent at the waist and sobbed like his heart was broken. For a gay kid whose entire world was full of straight, Republican Bible-thumpers, what happened that day wasn’t nothing to him. It felt like a drop of water in a goddamn desert.

But that night in line, Ian knew it had to have been nothing to Mickey. It had to have been some kind of fucked up mistake.

Mickey had punched Ian no less than five times in the face after kissing him. He’d yelled at him to get away. He’d told him to leave him alone in the bathroom that day when Ian had just been trying to break the ice.

But in that moment, listening to PJ tell Kimbrel about how she was probably going to go back to Mickey’s place later, Ian’s heart shattered into a million pieces.

He considered leaving the line and going home, but by the time he’d gathered his courage, he was next up. The ride attendant opened the gate and gestured for him to get on, and he did, his feet carrying him without his brain’s consent as if he were on autopilot.

He sat down, the pink and green car wobbling with his movement, and leaned back so the attendant could pull down and lock the bar. It never happened.

Instead of the voice of a middle-aged carny woman, there was the voice of a gruff seventeen-year-old boy.

“Move over, dickbreath.”

It was the queerest shit he’d ever done--even more than that thing he did in the upper pasture. The ferris wheel cars were no more than two people per, and PJ was talking about girl shit with Kim, whose other friends had ditched her for a party. Kim was going to end up riding by herself, and PJ was going to try to cuddle and shit with Mickey when they were stopped at the top.

Without even thinking about it, he jumped in with Ian.

He decided in that moment that he must’ve had a gay brain the way people talked about having a lizard one. It was the only way he could explain how PJ gave him looks sometimes like she wanted to ask a question but never did and why he didn’t just tell Kim to go with Gallagher because at least they knew of each other from school.

He heard PJ say, “Mickey?” in a confused tone of voice just as he said, “Move over, dickbreath” to Ian. He didn’t look at her as he sat down and held his breath, the other boy’s outer thigh pressing against his and their arms pulling together when the carny woman pushed down the bar and locked them in.

Then they were off.

They stopped after just a few feet so PJ and Kim could get in the next car, and that gave Ian enough time to open his mouth.

“Hey,” he said, shifting closer to the side of the car, their arms breaking contact.

Mickey stared straight ahead. “Hey.”

It was a rocky several minutes as the attendant unloaded and reloaded the wheel, Ian and Mickey slowly creeping their way up. Mickey could hear PJ talking loudly in the cart behind them, apparently completely fine with the fact that she wasn’t riding with her boyfriend. Fucking good. Mickey shifted in the car, causing it to rock.

“Don’t,” Ian scolded, reaching a hand out and squeezing the other boy’s forearm. It was just once--there and gone--but it made Mickey’s heart pound.

“Scaredy cat.”

“Fuck off. I just don’t like people rockin’ it.”

“What, like this?” Mickey grabbed the metal bar before him and leaned forward, tilting the car for a little bump forward and then back.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

“Not if I kill us, first.” He rocked the car again, harder that time in a way that even gave his own stomach a lurch, and Ian socked him in the arm just as the attendant got on the mic and told him to stop the rocking or he’d be removed from the ride.

“What’s your problem?” Ian seethed, gripping the bar for dear life.

“Pssh. Goody-goody.”

“Fuck off. Am not.”

Mickey was about to say are too in a childish taunt that made his skin prickle when PJ called from the cart beneath them, “Hey, Mick!”

He leaned over as best he could, rocking the car a little in the process and making Ian cuss at him, and peered down at her. She held up a heart made of her thumbs and index fingers, and Mickey straightened so quickly in his seat he almost gave himself whiplash.

He heard PJ and Kim laughing about it, so everything was okay in the end, but it still made his stomach hurt.

The other boy stared at him.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” Mickey asked.

Ian swallowed, a lump in his throat the size of a goose egg. “PJ, huh?”

Mickey’s eyes dropped to the ground below them, the people beginning to shrink to doll-size as they slowly made their way to the top. He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“No offense, but like--”

“Shut your mouth, Gallagher.”

“She’s a cheerleader.”

“So?”

“It would be like Mandy dating Kimbrel’s asshole jock brother.”

“Mark’s a fuckin’ homo.”

Ian huffed and relaxed into his seat, watching the sky rise around them the higher they climbed.

“No offense,” he reiterated. A beat. “I didn’t mean you’re not good enough or whatever.”

“I know what you mean, Carrot Top.”

They were quiet for one more jerky movement of the wheel. Ian and Mickey were one stop from the top, the second to last pair of riders switching out.

Out the corner of his eye, Ian watched Mickey work his mouth like he was struggling to form words before finally managing, “It’s weird. I dunno.”

Ian looked at him, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments. The ferris wheel moved again, just a tick, and finally, they were stopped at the top.

Diverting their eyes from each other, they peered off over the fairgrounds. At nine on a weekend night, it was crowded, filled with mostly teenagers from LeHigh and the neighboring Greenhill. The rides were full, and there were lines of people laughing, talking, and eating fried food curling around the gates.

“Sorry you had to drop out,” Ian murmured, not quite knowing why those exact words escaped his lips.

Mickey made a chuffing sound and nudged at his nose with his knuckle. “Was always gonna end up droppin’ out, anyways.”

“Maybe not.”

“Wasn’t like I had a lot goin’ for me.”

“You’re smarter than you act.”

“That s’posed to make me feel good?” Mickey eyed him.

Ian laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how the fuck’d you mean it?”

“I just mean you’re not like your dad and brothers.”

“Watch it.”

“You don’t fuck shit up.”

“I fucked up your garden.”

“You stole from my garden. Big difference.”

Mickey looked like he was going to protest, his lips parted, but after a moment, he pressed them shut again and looked away, blinking fast.

The ferris wheel started moving, now full of all new riders. It did several complete circles. Ian closed his eyes and let the world spin.

---

When the ride came to an end, they got off and then waited for PJ and Kimbrel.

“Thanks for ditching me,” PJ quipped, not looking too angry about it. She came up to Mickey and looped her arm through his and then laughed when he shook her off.

Ian felt awkward--like he shouldn’t be there.

“Uh, I’m gonna get goin’,” he said, nodding vaguely in the direction of the fairgrounds behind them.

PJ turned to him. “You’re Ian, right? You’re on the shooting team.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you here by yourself?”

Ian had always known of PJ as a snobby bitch like the rest of the cheerleaders. But then again, he never really knew her. She was a pretty, popular senior, and he was a nobody sophomore.

Somehow, she ended up talking Ian into hanging out with the three of them for the rest of the night. The whole time she was speaking, Mickey looked like he was choking on his tongue, his eyes wide and a flush making its way up from his throat.

Whatever. So what if the other boy hated Ian. If he had that much of a problem with it, he could tell his girlfriend to fuck off.

“Yeah, okay,” Ian agreed, pulling out the strips of extra tickets he had in his pocket. “We can use these up, too, if you want.”

Mickey was going to die. He didn’t believe in any of that telepathy shit, but the whole time PJ was explaining to Ian why it made sense for him to walk around with them for the rest of the night, Mickey was thinking at her, hard, Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up no no no.

The thing he fucking hated about her in that moment was what he liked about her to begin with: that she was actually a nice person if you overlooked the fact that she was spoiled as shit.

And fuck it all, Ian agreed to hang out and even pulled about a bajillion tickets from his pocket like Mr. Moneybags. The girls went wild over those even though PJ had enough dough on her to buy them tickets for every ride in the place twice over.

So that was how he ended up spending two hours on a Saturday night wandering the county fairgrounds with two rich girls and his worst nightmare.

He rode most of the two-person rides with PJ, but on shit like the Scrambler, the girls pretended they got motion sickness so Mickey had to go with Gallagher. Before the ride started, Ian told him how he’d already been on it that night and his psycho brother had blown chunks all over it, and Mickey had just enough time to say, “What the fuck,” before the ride slung them around like they were in a fucking mixing bowl.

The worst part of that ride was that gravity pulled them to the left, and Mickey spent the entire two minutes with the other boy squished so hard against his side that his arm went numb. Afterward, they both laughed awkwardly, and Mickey thought he was going to burst into flames, his face and neck so hot from the extended and unexpected body contact.

They found the girls drinking slushees and watching people fail under the ring toss tent, and Mickey didn’t know why, but his first reaction was to walk up and put his arm around PJ’s lower back for just a second. It wasn’t something he’d ever done before, but she liked it, and it made his blood cool a bit.

Ian cleared his throat and said he was going to go pee.

Kimbrel walked with him to the bathrooms, and Ian knew immediately what she was going to try to do. He also knew that outside the weird social bubble that had formed that night, she wouldn’t give a single fuck about him.

He obviously wasn’t into her, but she was pretty as far as girls went. Silky brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Golden skin she clearly fried like a chicken at the salon in town.

Ian was newly sixteen, a virgin, and curious. When she cornered him in the dark behind the rest-building, he almost let her kiss him even though he knew he would’ve hated every second of it. She put her hand on his chest, and her thumb brushed over his nipple, and he thought, I don’t like this, but I could do it just because. He was pretty sure she would’ve gotten on her knees right then and there and given him his first blowjob if he’d let her. He didn’t.

Instead, he gently pushed her away and told her it wasn’t personal, and she huffed loudly, clearly embarrassed, and took off back to PJ and Mickey.

When Ian made his way back from the bathroom, the girls were gone. Apparently, he’d made Kimbrel cry, which was fucking stupid.

“What’d you do to her?” Mickey asked, slurping away at PJ’s slushee, a small smile tilting up the corners of his lips.

Ian flipped him off. “Nothing. Shut up.”

They loitered outside the carnival games until PJ returned. Kimbrel had gone home, she said. She gave Ian a dirty look.

Clearly, it was his time to go, as well. Very uninterested in being a third wheel, he stretched his arms up above him and put on a yawn. “Yeah, I’m gonna head out, too.”

“Cool,” PJ said, way too quickly for it to have not been on the tip of her tongue. “See ya, Ian.”

Ian raised his brows at her and Mickey and, with a wave, turned to go. But he wasn’t four steps away when a hand came down on his shoulder before pulling back like it’d burned.

“How you gettin’ home?” Mickey asked, all in a rush. Ian turned to stand before him.

Fuck being good-looking for a Milkovich. Mickey was good-looking for just about anybody. The purple and gold fair lights lit up his skin and made his eyes glow.

Ian swallowed. “Uh, I was just gonna walk.”

It wasn’t far. The fairgrounds were about a mile away from Wallace--a short walk on Southdown and then to the left on Tomkins Farm. It was dark, but there was plenty of fair traffic out and about, and he had his flashlight so he wouldn’t get snake bit. He and Lip made the walk every year, and it was always fine.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “No, you’re not, dumbass. I’m goin’ your way. C’mon.”

He did it mostly, he thought, because PJ was being a bitch for once. She wasn’t outright with it, but Mickey’d been around her enough to know that she had on her cheer captain, lawyer’s daughter face when she got back from talking Kim down from whatever imaginary bridge she’d been about to jump off of.

Mickey didn’t get girls. Even his sister, sometimes. The way Kim’d described what happened when she came back from the bathroom crying, it sounded like there wasn’t shit that happened. She’d tried to kiss Ian and he’d told her no? Big fucking deal. She’d barely even talked to him all night. And somehow that sent her into a goddamn conniption to the point that she had to leave and PJ insisted on walking her to her car only to come back looking like she was out for blood.

It was a knee-jerk reaction, going after Gallagher. The moment the words were out of his mouth, Mickey almost wished they’d stayed in there. But then the boy turned and looked at him, and the lights made his eyes shine and his hair look red as hell.

“Yeah, sure,” Ian said with a shrug. “Thanks.”

Mickey’s legs turned to jelly. He spun quickly to find PJ giving him a what’re you doing? face, and he simply returned to her and said, “Gotta take Gallagher home.”

She wasn’t happy. That was fucking stupid as shit. Ain’t a single person done a thing wrong.

“Well, can you please take me home first?” she asked, voice sugary-sweet like she was playing at being nice. She was usually pretty genuinely nice. She wasn’t actually a bitch. She was just a girl with girl loyalty, and girls were fucking annoying--not to mention unbearably confusing.

Mickey nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Thanks.”

She kissed him for the first time in what had to have been weeks--just a peck on the mouth--and Mickey couldn’t help but think she was doing that because she was pissed.

He turned to Ian. He’d clearly seen the whole thing and was standing awkwardly, pretending to study the water gun game going on behind them.

---

They walked out to the truck. PJ climbed into the front beside Mickey, and rather than getting in after her, Ian said he was just going to get in the back because it was a nice night.

Whatever. Mickey murmured, “Be my guest,” and cranked the engine.

Mickey kept the windows down and turned the music up. He listened to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” almost painfully loud to the point that Ian was sure a cop would pull them over for excessive noise.

Somehow, they managed to get all the way to River Oak without blue lights, though, and to his credit, the boy did turn the stereo down as he hung a right into the housing development.

It was the neighborhood where all LeHigh’s rich kids lived--almost predictably so. The lawyer and doctor families. The parents of the jocks and cheerleaders. The Currans, the Watsons, the Fletchers, the Teagues. It was beautiful, the houses at least $500,000 each, bought new or built right onto the lot. The grass was green, the road was paved and crack-free, and at the bottom of each driveway was a uniform plaque with the house number on it.

Mickey drove for about a mile and then took a right into a cul de sac. At the end, spotlights mounted in the grass and shining on the house like it was the fucking National Monument, was 287. The mailbox read The Watson Family. Mickey idled at the bottom of the driveway, not going any closer to the house, and Ian tried not to watch whatever happened in the cab of the truck.

He couldn’t help it, though. PJ had opened the door a crack, so the light came on, and Ian, sitting in the back, was helpless to see anything but the inside of the Milkovich pick-up.

“Sure you don’t wanna come to church with me?” PJ asked sweetly, leaning in close.

Mickey scoffed. “Yeah, I’ll pass.”

The girl smiled at him like she hadn’t expected anything else and kissed him on the lips, then on the neck, before scooting back across the bench seat and climbing out of the truck, ignoring Ian completely.

Jesus Christ, she kept fucking kissing him. Mickey’d thought he was in the clear with that shit, but apparently not. That was two separate occasions within the past hour when it was supposed to have stopped altogether.

He blew out a breath and waited until she was inside her house in case she got murdered, then looped around and took off back through the neighborhood. He stopped at the end of PJ’s road and idled the truck.

“Hey,” he called, leaning out the window. “You can get in, now. She ain’t here to rip off your head in Kim’s honor.”

A laugh came from the darkness in the back, and after a long pause as if the other boy was contemplating, the truck bounced as he jumped out.

The passenger door opened. “That wasn’t the reason,” Ian claimed, climbing in and closing the door behind him.

“What was the reason?”

“Didn’t really wanna be squished in here with a guy and his girlfriend. Too awkward.”

“Pssh. Ain’t like we were gonna fuck.”

“How was I to s’posed to know?”

“Common sense.” Mickey started up his mixtape again, the last few seconds of “Thunderstruck” ending and "Shout at the Devil" beginning. He turned it up but not too loud this time.

It was barely three minutes from the end of River Oak to the start of Wallace, so it was easy for the two of them to remain quiet the whole time. Mickey kept stealing glances at Ian, who was leaned into the corner up against the door, his head resting on the window.

Nobody said anything until Mickey took a right onto their road. It was Ian who finally broke the silence, sitting up straighter and crossing his arms over his chest.

“It’s just so weird you’re dating her,” he said, voice as filled with wonder as a little kid’s at Christmas.

“No matter how many ways you say that shit,” Mickey joked, “it never comes out like a compliment.”

“I know. But you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“You think you’ll get married one day?”

“Fuck no.”

“Why not?”

“To PJ?” Mickey scoffed and slowed down, dodging a massive rut in the road. “Lawyer’s daughter PJ? Somethin’ tells me her dad wouldn’t approve.”

“You’ve never met the parents?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You’re a nosy-ass.”

The Gallagher house was coming up on the left. The lights were on, sending glowing V’s of light into the yard. It looked nice at night, the peeling paint and general disrepair hidden. Mickey slowed down even further until the truck was barely crawling along.

Ian didn’t seem to notice.

“Just curious,” he said. “How’d you get together?”

“Is there a reason you wanna know every detail? You writin’ a fuckin’ exposé?”

“Maybe.”

Mickey had zero interest in the conversation at hand, but he kept slowing the truck down, anyway, until they were just by the Gallagher driveway and stopped completely. He pressed his foot against the brake like it was holding him together.

Ian huffed and turned in the seat to face Mickey more fully. “I just don’t get it, I guess,” he said.

“Again. Not a compliment.”

Mickey had a feeling deep inside that you’re not socially compatible wasn’t all that Ian meant. His stomach started to hurt. His brain kept flipping over and over, You kissed him. You’re both aware of that.

“You don’t gotta get it,” Mickey added more seriously because he always had to make things worse, somehow. “It ain’t your business.”

Ian pressed his lips together hard enough that they formed crinkles before nodding. “Yeah. You’re right. Sorry.”

At that point, he almost wished Ian would ask him if he was queer. He wanted to get that shit over with, wanted to stop that fucking conversation. Mostly, he wanted to find out what he’d do in the end. Would he say yes? Would he punch him in the face?

Ian didn’t ask. The two of them looked out the window, peering out over the Gallagher yard toward the house.

“We’re moving,” the other boy said suddenly, the impact of it like a shot to the back of Mickey’s head. His breath stopped, abrupt.

Moving? What the fuck did that mean?

“Moving where?” Mickey asked, hoping he didn’t sound as inexplicably winded as he felt.

“Florida. Jacksonville.”

“Why?”

“Fiona’s engaged to a rich dude.” Ian shrugged like the remainder of the why wasn’t worth sharing. “We’re goin’ at the end of the school year, so. Two weeks?”

Why did it feel like his world was crashing down? Ian Gallagher was his biggest nightmare. He’d ruined his life by existing. Mickey’d fucked himself over by kissing him that day, and now he was in hell.

But the fact that he wouldn’t see him anymore made a lump form in his throat. He swallowed around it and looked away.

“Jacksonville,” he murmured, twisting his hands on the steering wheel. “That’s a big city.”

“Yeah.”

“You like that shit?”

“Maybe.” Ian shifted in his seat, and for a second, Mickey was afraid he was going to get out. He didn’t. Instead, he finished with, “Just been to Atlanta so far, so I don’t know if I’ll like it or not. You ever been? To Atlanta, or…”

He’d been there a few times on drug runs--in and out.

“No,” he said to Ian, keeping his eyes on the Gallagher yard.

“You should go someday.”

“Prob’ly, yeah.”

He felt tired, all of a sudden, like he wanted to sleep. He twisted his hands once more on the steering wheel, and Ian shifted again in his seat but this time popped open the door.

“I should prob’ly go,” he said, nodding toward his house, where two small shadows were in the window, watching.

“Uh, yeah. ‘Kay.”

“Thanks for driving me. You didn’t have to.”

Mickey shrugged and watched Ian open the door fully and slide out.

The other boy turned to say goodbye, and when he did, Mickey asked, words flooding from his lips like vomit: “Why didn’t you kiss Kimbrel?”

At the question, Ian’s eyes went from studying Mickey’s face to staring intently at the rip in the truck seat. He shrugged. “Didn’t want to.” A beat. Ian looked up. Gave a wave. “Later, Mickey.”

Mickey swallowed. “See ya.”

---
---

On Monday, PJ came by after school. They had sex and then went out to the porch to smoke. She was back to not kissing him, apparently, as there hadn’t even been an attempt before, during, or after. Thank Christ.

Mickey handed her a lit cigarette and watched her smoke it for a moment before turning back to his own.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked after a minute, a cloud forming around her head.

He hated that question. He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Your friend Ian.”

“Not a question. Not my friend.”

“You know him, though.”

Mickey hummed his assent.

“Is he gay?”

He should’ve expected it. The clues were all there.

“Why?” he asked before quickly adding, “Fuck if I know. Don’t think so.”

PJ studied the end of her cigarette before tapping off the ash. “I thought maybe he was.”

Mickey pressed his lips together and leaned back against the porch railing. The girl finished her cigarette and put it out on the step beside her, and he watched her the whole time, a theory forming in his head.

“Hey,” he said, brows crinkling. He finished up his own cigarette, put it out, and flicked the butt into the yard.

PJ turned to him.

“You asked Kim to try to kiss Gallagher, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“That whole shit was too dramatic. Ain’t no fuckin’ way she was that torn up about it seein’ as she barely said two words to him the whole night and didn’t even know his name before.”

PJ brought her thumb up to her mouth and bit at her nail. It was the most uncharacteristic thing--this put-together rich girl who bit her nails. It was something Mickey liked about her.

“Admit it,” he said, pulling his knees to his chest.

She sighed. Nodded. “Yeah. I asked her to try to kiss him.”

“Why? Why do you give a fuck if he’s queer or not?”

Without hesitating, PJ took a deep breath and said, “‘cause I thought maybe you were, too.”

“The fuck?” His heart beat so hard he heard the rush of his blood in his ears.

“It’s okay if you are. I don’t mind.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“I had my suspicions before. You never liked to kiss me. You weren’t affectionate. When we had sex, you always closed your eyes like you didn’t wanna look at me.”

“Fuck you. I’m not a fuckin’ queer.”

“And then I saw the way you looked at Ian Saturday night. I thought you might like him.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Then when he didn’t kiss Kim, I figured he was gay, and I got jealous. That’s why I was kind of a bitch.”

Mickey’s chest tightened. He took deep, gasping breaths and rubbed his hand over it, trying to massage it away. Fuck. Fuck.

“Like I said, I don’t mind,” PJ murmured. A beat. “I mean, that’s a lie. I do mind. I like you, and you’re the only guy who’s ever made me come.” She huffed a laugh. “But I’ll get over it.”

“Fuck you. Jesus Christ, fuck you.” Mickey stood and, breath still coming in harsh pants, descended the stairs. He walked a lap around the front part of the house, rubbing his hands against the thighs of his jeans over and over again as he tried to think.

There was no fucking way that was happening. No fucking way.

“I’m not fuckin’ gay,” he tried to say, but it came out so breathily he wasn’t sure it was intelligible. He swallowed. Tried again. “I’m not a queer.”

PJ watched him for a minute and then stood. She was wearing her Leester Lions Cheer Squad 2004 shirt and a pair of athletic shorts that were almost hidden by the length of her shirt. She looked fucking bizarre standing on the front steps of the Milkovich house--this pretty, All-American blonde girl with a dainty cross around her neck and a ring on her finger that said True Love Waits.

“I’m not gay,” Mickey said again, his breath short. He stopped pacing and instead stood stock still, staring down at his boots in the dirt.

PJ left the porch and came to stand by him.

“Mickey,” she said, voice soft. “Either way. I’m not gonna say anything. I swear to God.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him.

Mickey stared at her, biting the insides of his cheeks. Her eyes were kind.

And he didn’t admit to anything, but he murmured, “You can’t say anything. I’ll be fuckin’ dead.”

“I won’t,” she repeated. “Swear to God.”

---

She continued to come over almost every day after school, and like before, they’d go to his room and lock the door. But instead of having sex, they’d talk. The week after that day on the porch, PJ sat in a chair and Mickey sat on his bed with his sketchbook, drawing her.

To everyone else’s knowledge, they were still dating. They still went to get McDonald’s in the Milkovich truck. They still smoked together on the porch. When Terry was around, they sat uncomfortably close on the couch, and when he left, they separated.

Mickey stared up at his ceiling at night and thought about how it was a new phase of his life--a new step in his forever. Finding a girl who knew, who wouldn’t tell, who’d pretend.

Those nights, he also thought about Ian. He thought about how he hadn’t kissed Kim, about how he’d been so curious as to the origins of his and PJ’s relationship.

He thought about how the last day of school was Friday, and Ian was going to leave.

He didn’t tell anyone at school he was moving. It was stupid, maybe, but he didn’t have close enough friends for it to matter.

Ian’s last days at LeHigh were quiet. He passed his exams and maintained his A/B Honor Roll status. He went straight home after school and packed his things.

Since he was coming home earlier than usual, he was around to see PJ Watson’s little blue Miata drive up Wallace almost every day. Every time, it made him feel sick.

He hoped more than he’d ever hoped before that Mickey would come see him before Sunday. He knew it was a dumb, fruitless hope because there was no reason for him to. They were nothing to each other except a first kiss, and Mickey had a girlfriend he’d been with for four months.

After four months, you were saying I love you. After four months, you were probably having sex a lot. And even though Mickey’d said he would never marry PJ, after four months, relationships were sometimes pretty serious.

Even if Mickey wasn’t straight, he was still with PJ, and no amount of wishful thinking on Ian’s part could change that.

---
---

On the evening of the last day of school, Ian got to go on the football field during the high school graduation ceremony and fire the rifle before the pledge as part of the posting of the colors.

PJ was graduating. Paige Josephine Watson. Ian spotted Mickey in the crowd on his way off the field with the other ROTC members. He was sitting by himself at the top right corner of the bleachers with his arms crossed over his chest.

And Ian had to squint to see, but he could’ve sworn he was looking at him.

---

He spent Saturday finishing up packing and then helping Fiona and the kids with the rest of theirs. They were leaving everything that wouldn’t fit in the van along with six people and a carseat, and it was silly, but looking at the random shit they were leaving behind gave Ian hope that maybe one day he’d be back.

Chances were, Frank would just sell everything. Ian wouldn’t be surprised if he one day returned to find the home burned to the ground, turned into a basecamp for a cult, or deteriorated into a trap house, Frank at the front and center.

If it happened, it happened. Nobody had control of shit in the world.

---

In the late afternoon, he went out to his garden. Knowing he was leaving, he’d let it go by the wayside, though somehow, miracle upon miracles and with zero upkeep, a few of his vegetables had continued to grow. His squash plant was still there, now dominating the surface area. There were some peppers that were spotty and soft but good for the squirrels. Ian plucked a few of them from the bush and tossed them off into the woods.

He placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the area. He’d be by the beach in Jacksonville, and there wouldn’t be the possibility of a garden. Fuck. His whole life was going to change, wasn’t it? What kind of person would he be after spending the next few years of his life in a city after only knowing the middle of nowhere?

He reached down and picked up a spongy cucumber. Broke it in half. Launched it into the woods.

Then, miracle upon miracles again, he heard the fence behind him creak. His heart stopped.

“Hey,” Mickey said when Ian turned.

He was in a plain white T-shirt, his jeans, and boots, and he had a piece of candy in his mouth that bulged out his cheek.

Ian smiled. “Hey.”

He came.

“You busy?” Mickey asked, hooking the heels of his boots on the fence board beneath his feet.

“No.”

“Wanna go walkin’?”

They took the Gallaghers’ woods trail. It was hot as hell outside, and while the woods wasn’t much cooler temperature-wise, the shade made it feel like it was.

Mickey picked up a long stick and broke it in half. He dropped one end and used the other to smack at skinny branches they passed like a kid would do. Ian was glad he got to see that before he left.

They didn’t talk much, just walked together down the path toward the swimming hole. Ian looked up at the canopy of trees above him and wondered if it would be the last time he’d ever see it--if next time he was there, they’d all be gone, Frank and Terry one day agreeing to cut it all down and sell the wood for profit.

He wouldn’t put it past either of them.

When he and Mickey reached the dammed up part of the creek, by mutual, silent agreement, they walked over, kicked off their shoes, and sat on rocks, dipping in their legs. A beam of sunlight cut through the trees and hit directly on the water in front of them, making that which was really brown, dirty, and leaf-filled sparkle beautifully.

Ian looked down at Mickey’s feet, which were floating beside his. They were proportionate to his height--smaller than Ian’s but nothing out of the ordinary. He had red marks on the joints of his big toes from his boots, and on his right foot, his third toe was crooked like it had once been broken and didn’t heal right.

Clearly catching Ian watching, Mickey wiggled his toes, uncomfortable, and Ian chuckled and looked away.

He expected the other boy to say something about it, but he didn’t. Instead, he remained quiet and peered around the woods.

“It’s weird it’s my last day,” Ian said, the awkwardness of the silence getting to him.

Mickey hummed. “Yeah. Think you’ll ever come back?”

“Do I think Florida’s gonna be a bust? Yeah.”

“Not the question.”

Ian shrugged and, after taking a deep breath, decided to be honest. “Not anytime soon.”

“I don’t blame you. Get the fuck outta here, y’know.”

“Yeah.”

“Stuff’s prob’ly easier in the city.”

Ian reached over and dragged a finger through the water, stirring a swirl in the slowly-moving current. “What d’ya mean?”

The other boy sucked his teeth but didn’t say anything for a long time. Ian turned to look at him.

“I dunno what I mean,” Mickey finally murmured after catching Ian’s eyes. “Just…shit’s prob’ly not as hard as it is here is all.”

He wasn’t being clear, and Ian wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but he somehow got it all the same.

“Yeah,” he said. “Prob’ly.”

---

They remained there in the woods for half an hour. Sitting. Talking. At one point, they pulled their feet from the water and let them dry on the sunny rocks so they wouldn’t have to squish them back into shoes still wet.

They sat facing each other, legs pulled up. Mickey wrapped his arms around his and rested his chin on his knee like he was hugging himself.

Ian watched him.

It was his last day--his last day before who the hell knew how long he’d be in Florida. Once he got to Jacksonville, there was no telling where his life would lead. What friends would he make? What job would he have? Would he come out? Would he fall in love? Would he be happy?

He was leaving his current life behind, and there was no guarantee that he’d ever return to it. It was doubtful he ever could.

One thing he was sure of in that moment, as he watched the other boy’s face--with his beautiful blue eyes, his freckles, and his scars--was that Mickey had kissed him back in December. At the fair, he’d ridden with him on the ferris wheel, and afterward, he’d driven him home.

And that day, Ian’s last day, he’d come to say goodbye, inviting Ian to the swimming hole so they could sit comfortably side-by-side, dipping in their feet and existing together, exactly as they were, in peace and in private.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter at all; it wouldn’t if they never saw each other again. Even still, Ian couldn’t leave without knowing.

“Hey, Mickey?” he whispered, his heart thudding hard against his chest.

“Hm?”

“Did you mean to kiss me that day?”

Mickey closed his eyes, and his breath sped until it was audible.

“It’s okay if you did,” Ian added. “I wanted you to know that.”

“Hey, fuck off with that shit,” Mickey said, raising his head and opening his eyes.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I said so.”

“But why? Yes or no? Did you mean to do it?”

“I ain’t talkin’ about this.”

“Yes or no.”

Mickey closed his eyes again. Swallowed. When he opened them, they looked pained. “Ian.”

“What?”

“Think what you want. I just… I can’t, okay. Not ever.”

“Can’t what?”

“Will you fuck off? You know what.”

Mickey stood up, then. His feet weren’t dry enough, and they left prints on the rock as he made his way back up the bank and started pulling on his boots without socks.

Ian stood, too, and followed. “Mickey.”

“Please. Please.” Mickey turned to him. “Whatever it was, whatever you saw, I can’t.”

The other boy was beginning to look panicked, his hands moving quickly and his eyes flitting from place to place, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He stood in his shoes with his old, ratty socks in his hands and stayed put.

Ian took a step toward him, stomach twisting. “You can’t. But do you want to?”

Mickey pulled at his hair with two fists. “I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s okay.”

And it was. Most days, Ian didn’t know what he wanted, either. Parts of his life he was certain about, but he still didn’t know where he was going with it or how it would all turn out in the end.

Mickey closed his eyes, and Ian said it again.

“That’s okay.”

The other boy swallowed, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.

“Do you wanna kiss me?” Ian asked in a soft, quaking voice.

“Yeah.”

---

Maybe that brush of lips in the upper pasture wasn’t their first kiss.

Maybe this was.

Mickey leaned in and touched their lips together for a press so soft that it felt like nothing and yet everything. Ian put his hands on the other boy’s shoulders and held on.

He didn’t know much. Half the time, the shit inside him--his heart and his emotions and all the things people spent their lives trying to figure out--felt like a puzzle with all the pieces mixed up.

Mickey couldn’t have this shit in the end. But in that moment, one thing he did know was that the gentle press of his lips against Ian’s gave him more in his heart than months of being with PJ combined.

It made him hurt as much as it made him feel good because it was one breath of fresh air after seventeen years of suffocation, and it was probably the only one he was ever going to get.

He wasn’t stupid. He was never going to see Ian Gallagher again. The boy was going to leave, and Mickey would stay with PJ until she wanted a real boyfriend, and then he’d spend the rest of his life with girls he could never love, working with Terry’s cattle, and feeling the inevitable draw of death, whether he’d eventually succumb or not.

Because Mickey Milkovich wasn’t fucking gay. He could never be.

They pulled back and huffed twin embarrassed laughs that slowly, like wind-up toys winding down, lost their smiles. Ian let go of Mickey’s shoulders. Mickey stepped back as if Ian’s touch had hurt and then immediately started rubbing at his chest and taking deep, even breaths.

“I gotta go,” he pushed out, and Ian stepped closer.

Mickey stepped back again, then again. He shook his head. Ian stopped advancing on him.

“I gotta go,” the boy repeated, and Ian nodded.

“‘kay. Yeah.”

Ian tried to think of something good to say, but the only thing that came to mind was Have a nice life.

It sounded so final, so wrong, though he knew in his heart it was probably the most appropriate thing he could ever say.

He didn’t say it.

Mickey looked him in the eye, and it hurt somehow, paradoxically, like a loss of something he never had to begin with.

And without another word from either of them, he turned around and left.

Ian watched him go, and though he knew he couldn’t control the future, he hoped upon hope that it was kind to Mickey Milkovich.

Chapter Text

The call came in just as he was in the middle of some mediocre head.

He was with a hook-up from Grindr--a 25-year-old desperately trying to hold on to his twink status--and to be honest, he was struggling through it, the guy too loud, too oooh, fuck my mouth, daddy for his tastes. Ian gripped him by his floppy blond hair and was in the midst of urging him on, trying to reach the end before he got another unfortunate squeal out of him, when his phone vibrated on the nightstand.

They were in the Holiday Inn Express off 202, and Ian was pissed the second he heard the whir, his family somehow always knowing he was in Jacksonville like they were fucking psychic.

He ignored the ringing once, then twice, trying his best to relax back into the pillows and get off on the view below. But when his phone started up a third time, the hook-up pulled back, wiped the saliva off his mouth, and asked, “Hey, d’ya need to get that?”

It was a Friday night. There was nobody who could possibly be calling him other than one of his siblings, as it wasn’t like Ian had a rich social life full of people who wanted to chat at 10:27 PM.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he murmured, pressing down on the blond’s head.

“Suit yourself.” The guy went back in again, and Ian had just enough time to close his eyes when his phone chimed with a voicemail. Not thirty seconds later, there was a text, then another.

He sighed, and the hook-up pulled back again, exasperation in his brown eyes. Ian grabbed his phone.

------------------------

Debbie (10:28 PM): Will u get ur dick out of some guy’s mouth and call me

Debbie (10:28 PM): It’s urgent!!

------------------------

If there was one thing to be said about Gallaghers, it was that they had no fucking boundaries. Ian forewent the call and instead replied to the text.

------------------------

Ian (10:29 PM): What

Ian (10:30 PM): I’m getting tired of this bullshit, Debs

Debbie (10:30 PM): Frank’s dead, pick up ur damn phone!!

------------------------

When she called again, he answered after the third ring, his thumb shaking as he swiped it across the phone screen.

It wasn’t the Frank thing, really. It was everything else. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and asked, “What the hell’d he do this time?”

---
---

In the end, Fiona and Debbie went back to Greenhill to deal with Frank’s body. Lip and Carl were “busy” with work, and Liam barely knew the guy. Ian could’ve gotten a week of paid leave due to a death in the family, but he didn’t actually give enough of a fuck to be bothered with the whole song and dance of sympathetic staff emails and the English Department arranging a meal train he’d have to graciously accept.

In fact, Ian never actually told anyone at work that his dad died. He ignored it, mostly, and let his sisters make the four and a half hour drive. When Debbie texted an update via the Gallagher group chat, Ian sent along a simple thumbs-up emoji.

------------------------

Debbie (4:02 PM): Had him sent over to Millers, cremation sometime in the nxt week

Carl (4:05 PM): cool

Liam (4:09 PM): thanks deb

Lip (4:27 PM): Hope you bought the cheapest cremation package

Ian (5:58 PM): 👍

------------------------

He wasn’t even a hundred percent on how exactly Frank died. A fentanyl overdose had sent him to the hospital, apparently, and then he’d just kicked it the next day. It was hard to believe that after all that, Frank Gallagher had been taken out by a fucking overdose, as if that wasn’t the thing he’d done as a fun weekend activity once a month when Ian was a kid.

If he were honest, he’d been expecting a meteor. The apocalypse. A rogue cow. Anything but the same thing Frank had been doing his whole life, just with a hipper drug.

Lip suggested he’d killed himself. That didn’t sound right, either. Frank Gallagher was too stuck up his own ass to kill himself. If he had, however, it was admittedly like him to wait to do it until all his kids were grown adults when he could’ve done it 20 years earlier and made all their lives easier.

Ultimately, Ian felt just about as many emotions over Frank’s death as he’d felt when his Grindr hook-up had left him hanging and gone home after the phone call. He didn’t mind all that much, as he hadn’t been having a good time, anyway.

It’s ironic, looking back, that he’s the one who took the house. Of course, he didn’t do it in remembrance of Frank or because he was too tied into Gallagher family loyalty to leave it on the market for some out-of-towner to buy.

He did it because no one else wanted it. He did it because the realtor Fiona’d hired had said the house was going to be a tough sell without significant repairs and upgrades, and part of Ian felt like putting in the work--like with his garden when he was a kid, watching his efforts turn into results.

Most of all, though, he did it because he needed to get away and feared that if he didn’t, nothing in his life would ever change.

He may have also been manic, but sue him. At least that time, he was still on board even as he began to level out. The same couldn’t be said for the $700 worth of unreturnable baking equipment he never did find space for in his cabinets.

---
---

His principal was pissed when he met with him about resigning. In the middle of the pandemic, teachers were leaving left and right, and his list of positions that needed filling for the fall was already a mile long.

Sitting in John’s messy office, Ian had a panicky feeling bloom in his chest. It was the same one he gets sometimes as he’s starting to come down after a period of mania, this slowly building what the fuck do I think I’m doing? like when he once realized he’d spent two weeks putting together a detailed itinerary for a month-long trip to the British Isles he would only be able to pay for if he sold his car, which he was also actively trying to do on Facebook Marketplace.

Jesus Christ. He was planning to go back to his hometown like some guy in a country song. To do what, get hate-crimed by a pack of Trumpers with Impeach Biden flags in their yards?

He’d already started the online application for the Fall 2021 English openings at both LeHigh and Greenhill. He’d polished up his résumé and looked into the teaching license reciprocity between Florida and Georgia. He’d spent two hours in a Jacksonville coffee shop with Fiona being smiled and nodded at like he was a fucking nutcase just so he could tell her his plans. He needed a change. He’d move. Put his own money into fixing up the house. When they sold it, he’d split the profits with the family less the money he’d put into it.

Just like the British Isles trip, it had sounded so good. As Ian explained the situation to his boss, he sounded like a stupid kid with silly dreams who was making the biggest mistake of his life in the middle of a global pandemic.

He suffered through the rest of the meeting but felt a bit better when he grabbed his bag from his classroom and got in his car to leave for the day. He was going to go home to his two-bedroom rental, chain smoke on the back porch with two Bud Lights and his work-issued laptop, and then go inside for leftover ham and cheese bake before he bored himself to sleep in front of the TV by 9:00. No way could Greenhill be any worse. At least if someone spray-painted Hell to homos!!! Trump 2024 on the side of his house, he’d have something to do with his weekend other than drive an hour into Jacksonville to have sex and avoid his family.

Plus, it wasn’t like anyone would miss him. Not really. Lip, maybe. Liam. He saw them often enough, and they didn’t actually make him feel like a mental patient let out of the looney bin for the day. Ian could always visit, and so could they. Greenhill was only a morning drive for Lip, after all, and even closer for Liam, who was just three hours away at Florida State.

He didn’t have any friends in Gainesville. All the ones he had in college were married with kids. The guys he’d met when he’d tried to involve himself in the gay scene in his 20s had all moved on, leaving him with just the souvenir of a small pride flag tattoo on his wrist to prove he was ever part of the friend group.

He’d dated pretty steadily off and on since 2008, but nobody had stuck. His most recent relationship had been with a math professor at UF who was so hot one of his students had gone viral on TikTok with a video of him during a lecture overlaid with a dreamy pop song. In a fucked up turn of events, he’d broken up with Ian the day COVID quarantine began in March 2020, stating he didn’t want to quarantine together because he thought it would push the bounds of what he was comfortable with in their current relationship, and he also didn’t want to risk catching the virus to meet up with him periodically.

To the untrained ear, that sounded reasonable, but Ian knew it was an excuse to not have to deal with him anymore. They’d only been together for four months, but it still felt like shit. And even though Ian wouldn’t even consider blaming the sudden breakup for what happened that summer, it sure as hell didn’t help.

Then there were his coworkers at Coburn High. They were all either old enough to be his parents, had spouses and a handful of school-aged kids, or were fresh out of college Gen-Zs who made him feel so uncool that he wondered whether he should just hang it up and subscribe to AARP.

They’d miss him at work, sure. He was a good teacher--one of the things he was most confident about in his life--and he ran Pride Club and always went to the digital learning conferences and reported back to the school during faculty meetings. He was well-liked by students and staff, and for better or worse, everyone knew his name. But he didn’t hang out with any of his colleagues outside of school. He didn’t go out for drinks with them or text them just because.

Simply put: if Ian were to leave Florida, he could leave a lot behind with very little consequence. It wasn’t a great place to be at going on 33 years old, and maybe that was the biggest indicator of all that he needed to move on.

So he did.

He finished and submitted his applications, and he got Zoom interviews and ultimately job offers for both schools. He accepted the LeHigh position because it was for 11th grade, and even though it was a state-tested course, American Literature was his favorite. He turned 33 and spent the month of May packing up his closets, books, cookware, extra sheets, and knicknacks. He sold off his furniture on Marketplace and at the Methodist church yard sale, and in June, he traded in his car and bought a black 2019 Jeep Cherokee.

In July, he packed seventeen years of his life into the back of the vehicle--just a 43” TV and six medium-sized boxes--and he couldn’t help but be embarrassed that that was all he had to show for it.

---

Lip drove down from Jacksonville the night before Ian left. His entire family had offered to help him move and then had offered to throw him a going away party. He’d turned them down because he couldn’t stand to see the disguised pity on their faces and to field the questions about his mental health and whether he was doing okay with his meds, whether he was happy, whether he’d thought about the previous year again, did it bother him, was that why he was moving, was it because everybody at work kept whispering about him, still, even months after he returned from the dead?

Plus, he hadn’t seen them all together since his coming home party, and a crowd of Gallaghers, once a comfort, now just made him feel sick. He’d call them when he got there, he said. He’d FaceTime them. He’d send pictures to the groupchat. They could come visit him whenever they wanted. No big deal. He’d just be four and a half hours away.

Lip brought the house keys with him along with a six-pack of Bud, and he and Ian sat out on the porch and drank for an hour.

It shouldn’t have been as fucking depressing as it was. Ian wasn’t going off to war. He wasn’t dying. He was getting a house without a mortgage. His job would have a slight salary increase. He was likely going to see his siblings just as often as he had over the past ten years he’d been in Gainesville.

Still, their silences were loud. Lip smoked and watched his brother, who drank his beer and watched him right back.

Finally, as if to break the melancholy quiet, Lip mumbled, “Don’t you go off and turn into a Bible-thumpin’ Republican.” He nudged the other man with his foot. They were sitting on the porch floor, up against the house with their legs stretched out in front of them because Ian had sold the deck chairs.

“I’ll get me a little red hat. Refuse to wear a mask.”

“Don’t even joke about that shit, man. Next time you go looney-toons, Conspiracy Ian might come out on Facebook as a member of fuckin’ QAnon.”

“Hell no. Conspiracy Ian would never. He’s much more likely to get into the whole government tracking thing.”

“The microchip in your vaccine?”

“And your phone.”

“One batshit Facebook post, and me ‘n Carl are loadin’ up the truck and haulin’ your ass outta there.”

Ian laughed and took a pull off his beer. “Don’t worry. Haven’t seen Conspiracy Ian in a minute.”

“Yeah, we just got Betty Crocker Ian and Ho-cation Ian.”

“I’m still takin’ that ho-cation. Gonna fuck my way through the British Isles.”

“Coulda picked somewhere a little more exotic.”

“Yeah, but I wanna see the Globe Theatre and do the Jane Austen tour.”

“That’s pretty gay.”

“Unapologetically Gay Ian, at it again.”

Lip chuffed and tapped off his ash. A beat. He turned to his brother. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Moods are--”

“Fine. Stable. Ish.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ian leaned over and stole Lip’s pack of Marlboro Reds, tugging one out and lighting up. “I’m not like, leaving Florida ‘cause I’m manic or whatever.”

“You were manic when you made the decision.”

“Yeah.” Ian shrugged. “But I’m not anymore. I just--” He took a long, slow drag. “I gotta get the fuck out. Go somewhere else.”

“Plenty of places you can go. None of ‘em gotta be Bumfuck, Greenhill.”

“I know.” The redhead smoked for a while, the burn in his lungs satisfying like a stretch. “You think I fucked up?”

There were moments when he thought so, when he came home to find his living room empty and when he checked his mail to find Alachua County Schools had sent him his last paycheck. It felt a bit like a door closing before he’d made it all the way over the threshold.

Lip finished up his own cigarette and put it out. He looked his brother in the eye for a moment, studying him, before saying, “No, I don’t think you fucked up. I think you’re gonna regret it. But you got your shit you need to work through. I get it. Last summer was--”

“I don’t wanna talk about last summer.”

“You gotta talk about it sometime.”

“No.” Ian put out his cigarette before he was done with it and stood, flicking it away. It landed on the porch floor, still smoking, and he walked over to it and crushed it out with the toe of his sneaker. “I just wanna move the fuck on, so.”

Lip got up, too, and followed him over to the railing, where they leaned and looked out over the weedy field behind Ian’s house. It didn’t belong to him, so he didn’t mow it. It was a fucking eye sore, and he hated looking at it every time he went out to smoke.

He felt a sweaty arm curl around his shoulders and pull him in. His brother smelled warm and nostalgic, like summer nights under the covers when they were boys, sharing a bed out of necessity. Lip always ran hot, his little body like a furnace, and Ian remembered kicking his sweat-sticky legs away from his and complaining that he was taking up too much space.

Out on the porch that night, the oppressive heat descending upon them and the mosquitos tickling their bare legs, it was too hot to stand like that but Ian didn’t move away. Instead, he merely hummed in acknowledgment.

“When you’re up there, y’know,” Lip murmured before a pause, his fingers squeezing at his brother's shoulder. He cleared his throat and started over. “When you’re up there, and you think you might…”

“I won’t.”

“Yeah, but if you think you might…”

“I’ll call you.”

“Call 911. Call me.” He swallowed. “I’ll move a fuckin’ mountain to get to you, little brother.”

It was too sentimental for Lip. He’d gone too soft. He sniffed and removed his arm from around Ian’s shoulders and then took a step to the side. Part of Ian wanted his arm back. His eyes watered.

“Thanks,” he said, soft. He peered around him. It was going on nine, and while not entirely dark, it was getting there. The cicadas were loud, almost deafeningly so, and it soothed him. It reminded him of being a kid, sitting out on the porch on summer nights with a can of Pepsi, the condensation wet against his fingers.

He left the railing and went over to grab his beer from where he’d left it. The condensation was the same, dampening his palm.

“Love you, big brother,” he murmured, too embarrassed to say it to his face though it was true. Always was. Lip had been by his side since he was born. They’d had their moments, of course, but in the end, he’d always ended up in his corner.

His brother came up to him again and bumped him with his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, ya softy,” he said. There was a long pause before he added, “Love you, too.”

---

The next morning, Ian climbed into his SUV. He started it up and put on the radio, checked the positioning of his boxes in the rearview mirror, and gave his little house with the porch and weedy field behind it one last look.

He’d lived there for six years, yet leaving it for the final time felt like nothing. Leaving Gainesville felt like nothing. He wondered if he was broken, somehow, his ability to form attachments gone. He could leave the country and never look back, disappear into the darkness, and be okay with it.

It wasn’t depression talking. He didn’t want to turn to dust. It simply felt as if he was wired all wrong now, as if he’d died and woken up in a mixed-up body, Frankenstein’s monster, his parts all sewn together but disconnected in all the ways that counted.

As he pulled away, down the short, gravel driveway, and took a left on the state road, he remembered the last time he’d done that--packed everything up and moved, trading one life in for another. He was newly graduated from UNF, bright and shiny and yet to have fucked it all up, leaving Jacksonville for his first teaching job. He’d felt like the world was before him, everything he could ever want at his fingertips. His goddamn oyster. He’d been alright, then.

Ian made his way down the road to the stop sign and then idled so he could start up the GPS on his phone.

Starting route to 36 Wallace Road, Greenhill, Georgia. Travel West on Haddon Road for 1.2 miles, and at the stoplight, make a right.

Ian squeezed the steering wheel. He remembered the first time, too.

Wallace Road.

He remembered the boy with the bruised face. The boy who hurt his heart when he thought of him--when he saw him in his students, sometimes, in the ones who slept in class and wore dirty clothes.

Ian was a kid, then. He was dumb and self-centered and didn’t know what he was looking at when he saw it, seeing something frightening in an eye made bloody by a father’s knuckle.

Mickey Milkovich. His first real, tangible crush. His first kiss and his second. The boy who’d punched him and cried, who’d looked like his heart had been broken by what he’d done, as if he’d betrayed everything within him to touch a boy.

There were years and miles between them. Ian doubted he’d see him again, even if Terry still lived on Wallace. His brothers might’ve stayed, but Mickey wouldn’t have. He’d have married that girl he was with even though he said he wouldn’t. PJ, the rich cheerleader. He’d have moved to another part of town and got a job he could live with. He’d have gone to church and made babies and raised them to pray. It was what you did in Greenhill. You survived however you could, no matter the cost.

Richer than rich or poorer than poor, you grew up, and you got on with it. There wasn’t room for anything else.

Maybe that would happen to Ian, too. He’d grow up. He’d move on.

It was a good night for a bonfire: hot but with a breeze cool enough to keep the sweat to a minimum--just enough to make your arms feel like paper’d stick to the insides of your elbows.

The cicadas were screaming. The cows were asleep, dark shadows on the ground barely visible in the moonlight.

Mickey fucking loved it. He hadn’t been a whole lot of places in his life. He’d only left the state twice, and it’d been a year since he’d gone further than Macon. But as he sat in a lawn chair beneath the stars, the whine of all those horny insects loud enough to make you grit your teeth and the lightning bugs glowing like stars, like a porchlight flickering in the darkness, he couldn’t imagine that anywhere in the world could be prettier or better.

It wasn’t always like that. He had his moments when he’d give an arm and a leg to get as far the fuck away as he could. They were less frequent now--now that Terry was put away and he didn’t have anyone to answer to except himself. But there were still the early mornings out on the tractor, the world quiet before the sun was high in the sky and when everything was too still. He needed the chaos sometimes, needed the loud to block out the thing hitching a ride in his guts that refused to go away no matter how much he begged.

Maybe that was why he liked the night so much. It was wild with noise.

He lit a cigarette and sucked it down, tracking with his eyes the familiar pair of headlights rounding the curve just past the old Gallagher place and coming in his direction. In preparation, he leaned over and popped open the cooler, several beer cans bobbing in the melted ice.

It was just her that time, dressed in a John F. Leester High PTA T-shirt because she was one of those moms. Predictably, PJ’d gone all basic bitch soccer mom when she got married, though she was raising a pair of weird-ass kids you’d never think were hers in a line-up.

She was carrying a Tupperware container and had her blonde hair in a high ponytail that swished when she walked.

“Hey, Sweets,” she greeted, leaning down over Mickey and planting an obnoxious kiss on his cheek. “Doin’ good?”

He cringed at the kiss but held on to her anyway, getting his arms around her shoulders and pulling her in for a squeeze before he let her go. “Depends on what ya brought me.”

PJ handed over the Tupperware container, and Mickey popped it open to reveal four no-bake peanut butter chocolate cookies.

“Boden.”

“Did you make her wash her hands?” He reached in and grabbed one, the cookie still warm and soft enough for his thumb to press through. He took a bite without waiting for PJ’s answer.

“Oops. Caught her picking her nose just before, too.”

Mickey chewed up the bite of cookie and opened his mouth, showing her the chocolate-oatmeal mush on his tongue. He swallowed and took another bite. “Your kids are fuckin’ animals. Why didn’t you bring ‘em?”

“Bodie had homework. Nugget’s grounded. Just work and home ‘til next weekend.”

“What’d that dumbass do this time?”

“Wow. You’re so good with kids.” PJ blew a raspberry and sat down in one of the three empty chairs he’d set out across from him on the other side of the fire. She shrugged. “Mark snooped on his phone again. Found like twenty porn tabs in his browser.”

“Mark’s a bitch-ass. Let the kid live.” Mickey laughed, taking another bite of cookie before closing the container and setting it on the ground. He leaned his head back and chewed up at the stars, saying with his mouth full, “What, was he into nasty shit? I’d love to see Saint Mark’s face.”

“Didn’t ask. Don’t wanna know.” PJ gestured with her hand, and Mickey took his cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of his T-shirt and tossed them to her. Her husband didn’t know she smoked. She had mouth spray in the side pocket of her car door for such occasions.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the pop of the fire. PJ tossed back the cigarettes and Mickey took out another for himself. He lit up and took a hard drag before blowing the smoke toward the fire.

“Hey,” PJ said, shifting in her chair. “Think you could talk to him?”

“Lawyer Mark? Hell no.”

“Nugget.”

“The fuck about?”

“Porn.” She reached out and tapped off her ash over the fire. “Sex. You know Mark won’t. He just punishes and embarrasses him for doing normal boy stuff.”

“I ain’t talkin’ to your kid about sex. You tryna get me on the fuckin’ offender list? You know Hubbie’d love to see it.”

“Mickey.”

“Fuck off.”

If there was one man other than Terry Milkovich that Mickey hated, it was Mark Curran. He and PJ had gotten together late 2004 and had flown under the radar for almost a year before she and Mickey ended their sham so she could go off and get married. It boils Mickey’s blood to this day that Mark thinks PJ left Mickey for him--probably makes the asshole’s dick hard to think White Trash Boulevard Mick was unknowingly getting cucked for eight months before he had the balls to kiss his girlfriend goodbye.

There was fuck-all Mickey could do about it at the time other than beat Mark’s face in, which he did with pleasure. PJ’d got so pissed at him for doing it she’d stopped talking to him for two months, and Mickey understood. She loved the douchebag, and nobody’d actually been cheating, though Mickey thought Mark’s intent was what counted.

But ultimately, Mickey loved PJ, and he wanted her to be happy. He’d called her up one Friday night and invited her to the Milkovich bonfire, and she’d come and let him hug her and then punched him in the eye. Whatever. They’d gotten over it.

He still doesn’t know what she sees in that prick, but Mark and PJ have a marriage and a family, whatever that means, and for the most part, Mickey tries to behave himself. He gets a funny sort of satisfaction, though, over the fact that seventeen years on, she still sneaks out to the Milkovich bonfire every now and again and sometimes even brings the kids.

“What beer do you have?” PJ asked that late July night, craning her neck to peer across at the cooler.

Mickey hummed. “Get your ass up and come see.”

With not a little bit of grumbling, she did, dropping her cigarette butt in the fire on the way.

The two of them grabbed a pair of Bud Lights and popped the tops. Mickey slurped down the foam and guzzled a few inches of the drink before pulling away and burping loudly.

PJ sat in the seat closest to him this time and made a face. “You’re gross.”

He burped at her again for good measure. It made her laugh because it always does in the end, and Mickey stuck his tongue out at her.

“But anyway,” she said after a moment of calm, recalling their earlier conversation. “You still takin’ him to that concert in a couple weeks?”

“Depends on whether your husband finds out about it.”

“He won’t.”

“Better not.”

“He won’t.”

Mickey took another slurp off his beer and swished the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing. Greta Van Fleet was in Atlanta on August 7th, and PJ’d asked Mickey to take the kid because the only other alternative in her mind was him sneaking out and getting murdered ninety minutes away.

Lawyer Mark kept a house like a fucking funeral parlor--cold and stiff and filled with sad, silent kids and church music. He hadn’t always been that way. When he first got with PJ, he used to blast Nickelback, which somehow was only the third most annoying thing about him. She would suck his dick while he drove his bitch-boy Mercedes around town, revving his engine at the stop light and cranking up “Rockstar.” Mickey would laugh his ass off when she’d tell him about it because it was the funniest shit he’d ever heard.

Somewhere along the way, Mark had rededicated his life to the Lord or whatever. That was after he and PJ were married. He’d thrown out his secular CDs and replaced them with Contemporary Christian and started wearing a hemp bracelet with a tiny wooden cross pendant. It was around the time he started working at his dad’s law office. PJ once told Mickey that he wore that stupid bracelet every single day, tucked under the sleeve of his Brooks Brothers jacket like a secret.

So to say that he wasn’t exactly down with rock concerts in Atlanta was an understatement. According to PJ, the kid had taken to not telling his dad a goddamn thing about his life and instead pissed off to wherever he wanted to go, whenever, as long as he had an excuse at the ready, which he always did. Rather than rat him out, she’d learned to just go with it.

She hadn’t enlisted Mickey’s help before, but he and the kid got along good enough, so he’d only told her no twice before ultimately relenting. Plus, it gave him a bit of a thrill to think he was helping pull the wool over Mark’s eyes.

Mickey finished his beer, crushed the can, and threw it aimlessly onto the ground. He burped again.

“He excited?”

PJ hummed and sipped daintily at her own Bud. “Guess so. You never know with him.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“So will you talk to him?”

“Bitch, I said no.”

“On the drive up there? Somebody needs to.”

“You’re his mom. You do it.”

PJ sighed heavily. “Fine. Sixteen-year-old boys love having their mom talk to them about the birds and the bees.”

“Pretty sure sixteen-year-old boys already know that shit.”

“I just don’t want him to be ashamed of himself. Mark’s a frickin’ prude who won’t say a word to him about that kinda thing. I don’t want Nugget to get weird stuff in his head from the porn and think that’s what sex is supposed to be like.”

“Step one: stop calling him ‘Nugget.’”

“Mickey, be serious.”

No way in hell was he talking to Mark Curran’s kid about sex. Mark’d find a way to be a dick about it if he found out, spinning it into Mickey being some weird motherfucker driving a teenager out of town and talking to him about porn. He told PJ to fuck off and grabbed up the cookie container again, popping the lid and holding it out to her.

The two of them finished Boden’s booger cookies, drank another beer each, and then went in the house to cool off.

Mickey put on the Greta Van Fleet album he had on vinyl because PJ wanted to “connect with her kid,” and they got some water and sat on the couch together like they did when they were in high school.

After their conversation on the porch following the fair, they’d stopped touching when not under the watchful eye of Mickey’s family. Now that they were both in their thirties, Mickey didn’t mind it so much. He liked when she sat close and hugged him against her. It was fucking sad, really. It was just that he didn’t get that shit anywhere else, and it was safe with PJ. She knew the deal, and she wouldn’t try to kiss him or grab his dick.

He had sex. He wasn’t a monk. He had Tinder on his phone just like the next guy, and he drove out of town once a month or so to get a blowjob in his truck or to bang a girl doggy-style at the Days Inn. He’d tried relationships. After PJ, there was Hailey, who broke up with him after a month because of his emotional unavailability. Then there was Summer, who was much the same. His most recent relationship was with Callie, the manager at Red Lobster. It never went anywhere. He took her out a handful of times, and they had sex twice. He ended up breaking that one off because it was all just bullshit and even thinking about it pissed him off as much as it made him weary.

Mickey got so fucking tired when he was with women. He couldn’t help it, this burning exhaustion boiling up in his guts that made him standoffish and stiff and not a little bit angry.

He tried so hard. He dealt with the kissing and the fondling and flirting. Then there’d be the sex, and it would go alright at first. After he came, however, he always wanted to punch a hole in the wall, his fists vibrating.

If the woman didn’t come while he was inside her, he’d struggle to get her off afterward and most often wouldn’t try, that sizzle in his guts making him sick because he couldn’t pretend. When he was fucking, he could close his eyes and think of something else. Same when he was getting his dick sucked. But there was no way in hell he could pretend while rubbing a girl off or eating her out. She was sticky and soft and had a high voice when she orgasmed that made him hate himself and hate sex and hate the way his body and mind were made.

He and PJ used to get on okay, but that was back when everything was new and weird and he wasn’t accustomed to sex enough to feel anything but curious when she’d slide his hand into her underwear. Later, it got to a point where, without being asked, he just dutifully did what he had to do so she could get off, too. He liked her, and it was the decent thing. If he was getting his rocks off, why shouldn’t she?

With Tinder hook-ups, he couldn’t do that. His chest got red, and his breath picked up, and he grappled for any excuse to leave.

The aggressive girls called him a prick. The quiet ones shrugged it off. The bold ones masturbated on their backs on the bed and asked him if he was gay or married. He hated that shit more than anything--told them to shut the fuck up and got the hell out of there.

He was a selfish asshole and a shitty lay, and try as he might, he couldn’t imagine a future in which that changed. Celibacy for the rest of his life wasn’t an option, and neither was the other thing.

So he let PJ wrap her arms around his torso and hug him while they sat on his overstuffed couch and listened to music, and he knew she just felt sorry for him, but the non-sexual physical comfort was good enough to let her.

“You okay?” she asked that night, giving him a squeeze.

“You already asked that.”

He felt her body rise and fall in a heavy sigh.

“I worry about you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Since that guy down the road died, it’s just you over here.”

“Yeah, Frank Gallagher’s dead. Wallace has 100% fewer thieves and addicts.”

“Do you get lonely?”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off before he could say anything.

“I know you do. I wish you could…”

Mickey sat up and shrugged her off. PJ scooted to the other end of the couch and turned to face him, pulling her leg up and curling it under her like she meant business. She was 35 and sitting the way she did when she was eighteen and about to challenge him to Gin Rummy when they were hiding out in his bedroom.

“I wish you could--”

“Shut up.” Mickey ran his hands over his face. “I don’t wanna hear that shit.”

“Things aren’t so bad now.”

“Said I don’t wanna hear it.”

He chanced a glance at her. She was biting her lip, a high schooler again. He almost expected her to start chewing at her thumbnail.

“That’s okay,” she said, soft.

Mickey didn’t reply. He got up and trudged over to the little kitchen, getting himself a beer from the fridge. He didn’t want it, but he opened it anyway and drank while watching the record spin on the player.

PJ meant well, but she pissed him off when she got that way. It was always, Things are better now and There’s even a gay couple at church and Would you ever wanna try hooking up with a man? To a straight, white, beautiful rich girl, everything was as easy as doing it. The fact of the matter was that she was born with the ability to be and do whatever she wanted, and though there wasn’t an intentionally closed-minded bone in her body, she simply didn’t understand anything outside her own life experience.

It was what she and Mark had in common. It was what made them suited for each other. It was what separated the Watsons and the Currans from the Milkoviches and what separated River Oak from Wallace.

Mickey didn’t beat her up about it. Most of the time, he let it go. He’d get up and drink a beer, change the subject. She always figured it out and backed off, her rich girl manners coming through at the last moment.

“I get why you boys like this,” she said that night, standing from the couch and nodding toward the record player.

Mickey chuffed. “No, you don’t.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Yeah, okay.” He let PJ change the subject over to Greta Van Fleet and her kid and how Mark pitched a fit over the music he listened to lately. They shared the rest of his beer and then headed back outside to smoke another cigarette around the fire before she went home for the night.

She hugged him again outside her white 2021 Escalade, and he kissed her head because he does that sometimes. After, he watched her get in, spray her mouth with mint and her clothes with a travel-size Febreze bottle, and then crank the vehicle. Country radio started up at a perfectly reasonable volume, but she still turned it down to be polite.

“I’ll text you with more details about the 7th,” she called out her open window. “Think about talking to Nugget?”

Mickey knocked his knuckles against the door. “Think about not callin’ him ‘Nugget.’”

PJ blew him a kiss. “Bye.”

He knocked again. “Later.”

It always felt like the moments following an affair when she would leave. She’d told Mickey time and again that it wasn’t Mark’s business what she did and that as much as he tried, her husband couldn’t control her friends. He obviously knew about Mickey--knew he and his wife were still close, knew his kids saw him as much as they saw their Aunt Kimbrel. Never once, however, did Mickey get invited over for dinner or to the annual Curran Christmas party. He’d never, in the ten years the family had lived in the River Oak craftsman, been inside their house. Upon returning home from Mickey’s, PJ probably told Mark she’d been with a girlfriend. When she brought the kids, too, they’d been at Aunt Ashley’s, and they’d all been swimming or hiking.

It was how things were and how they’d always been--PJ Watson slumming with the Milkoviches from Wallace Road.

She didn’t see it that way. Mickey got that. She liked him for whatever reasons people like their friends, and she worried about him and shit. She made sure he was in her kids’ lives. When Bodie was born hard of hearing, PJ’d bought him a subscription to an app where he could learn basic ASL. The kid had mostly used her hearing aids after the age of three, but Mickey had learned to sign all the basic things that Bodie knew as a toddler. PJ had looked so fucking proud when, for the first time, Mickey had signed, Play? and Drink?.

But even as he knew she truly and genuinely cared, he couldn’t help but feel like a dirty little secret. It didn’t bother him much--never did--but he considered it a fact that there would always be a divide between him and PJ, even if they were good friends.

When she was gone that night, her tail-lights finally disappearing around the curve, Mickey stood in the driveway and smoked in her absence, peering up at the endless stretch of stars.

---
---

The next morning, after spending three hours out in the fields, he loaded up the truck and drove over to the garden.

It was small. He hadn’t bothered to expand it, as horticulture had never been his thing. He wasn’t a farmer, and he never pretended to be. He had his garage and his cows and his little vegetable garden. He got his groceries at Kroger and had Chick-Fil-A or Taco Bell twice a week. The most he ever really got out of the garden were tomatoes and lettuce to go on his sandwiches and squash Mandy would use to make him soup if he got it to her at a time in which she wasn’t busy with the kids or fighting with Nick. That wasn’t often.

Mostly, he used the garden for stress-relief. He’d pull his truck into the yard and leave the radio on and the windows down, and he’d listen to Classic Rock 94.8 for an hour or so while he worked.

That day, he didn’t have anything to harvest, so he simply checked on his crops and then climbed up on the fence behind. He sat at the top, hooked his boots on the lower board, and pulled out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket.

He wandered his eyes over the old Gallagher house. It looked like shit. The outside hadn’t been painted in a solid 30 years, and it was taking on the weathered gray look of a building long abandoned. The panes were all intact, and it wasn’t dilapidated, but there was no doubt nobody lived there. The porch was barren--no pile of kids’ shoes or mismatched rattan furniture. There was no pot of wilting flowers in the kitchen window. The upstairs boys’ room window no longer had the Superman decal in the lower right pane, and the kinked green water hose that used to always lie coiled like a snake near the spigot was long gone--as were the annoying-ass kids who used to hook it up and spray each other in the summer months.

Most of that shit had been missing for years--way before Frank kicked the bucket. Mickey had to admit, though, that since he’d been gone, the emptiness was all the more apparent even if he was hardly there to begin with.

He hadn’t even died at home. The story around town went that he and Gail Buckner had been doing drugs and banging it out at her place in Deer Path for a week, and she’d taken a shower and come back to find him unconscious. And that was that. The end of the road for him.

Apparently none of the Gallaghers gave much of a fuck about his death. Mickey’d seen Fiona and the ginger girl out in the yard one day on his way into town. He hadn’t seen them in almost seventeen years, and it’d felt a bit like someone’d reached down his throat and squeezed his heart.

Fiona had to be almost forty. The younger one was probably in her mid-twenties. Both looked like middle-class Florida moms with their ponytails and sunglasses.

He’d driven to town and back maybe a little faster than usual, but when he’d passed by again on the way home, they were inside the house and there didn’t seem to be anyone else with them. They had filled the backseat of a green Honda Civic with random junk, so there wouldn’t have been space for an additional rider.

Fiona had come back a few weeks later, and another car had pulled up alongside hers. Mickey’d parked his truck up against the fence across from the Gallagher drive and climbed over to check on his pregnant cow, which he’d seen lingering in the area. It turned out that the other car belonged to a real estate agent, whom he’d spotted exiting the house with Fiona, carrying a clipboard and a camera.

After that, no one else came. The house had been empty and devoid of life for five months. Not like he really gave a shit, but Mickey wondered what the Gallaghers were planning to do with it. They hadn’t listed the house; he’d checked Zillow on his phone one night. No one else had returned to move in or haul out and sell the furniture. It was just sitting there.

He’d considered breaking in just to see what was inside. It’d be easy as hell to do. He never got around to it, though, and instead sat on the fence and stared at it as he smoked as if it were a faded headstone in a graveyard.

It might as well have been. The Gallaghers and Milkoviches: two tombs side-by-side--one filled and the other still waiting for a body.

He finished his cigarette, put it out on the fence, and flicked it into the yard. Then, changing his mind, he hopped down, picked it up, and carried it with him back to his truck, where he stuck it in the overflowing ashtray in the door.

Once in the driver’s seat, he put his hands on the wheel and leaned forward, resting his forehead against it. He closed his eyes and thought for a minute, then with a heavy sigh, straightened and cranked the truck.

Whatever. Back to work. Back to another distraction. He had a few oil changes and a tail-light repair scheduled for the afternoon, then in the evening he’d smoke a blunt on the porch before he went and scrounged something up for dinner. There was the leftover chicken fingers from Beck’s, and Mandy had snuck him two extra containers of honey mustard. Maybe he’d call Iggy later--see if he had Merle for the weekend and did they wanna go fly fishing at the river the next morning and if she was at her mom’s did he wanna come over and take a look at Etta’s twin calves.

He had laundry to do, too. He’d been wearing the same pair of jeans for a week straight, and he’d dirtied them beyond a casual spot-clean when he’d slid down the creek bank in the west pasture that morning, the mud making it slick, and landed on his knees.

Back to work. He put the truck in gear and pressed the gas.

In 400 feet, take a right on Main Street.

Ian hasn’t needed the GPS for the past six miles, the county roads coming back to him crystal clear even after seventeen years of hardly sparing a thought for them.

Though he knows the roads like the back of his hand, he’s still flabbergasted at how much things have changed. The little town of Greenhill in the early 2000s was home to hardly more than a courthouse, post office, bank, and a smattering of fast food restaurants: McDonald’s, Burger King, KFC. There’d been a single strip mall housing a Kroger, Dollar Tree, and urgent care center. Down Main Street was Beck’s Diner, Patsy’s Pies, an antique shop, video store, and a place called Living Angels that had realistic baby dolls in the window that cost $100 a pop.

Now, there’s a town square that’s been built behind Main, the woods all knocked down to make room for a small shopping plaza. There’s a Cato, JoAnn, and Payless, plus a Christian bookstore and Marshalls. In the center are Chick-Fil-A and Taco Bell, and further back is a half-erected structure with a sign out front proclaiming it to be the future home of Cracker Barrel.

Ian hasn’t eaten since breakfast, so he goes around the Taco Bell drive-thru and gets two Crunchwrap Supremes and a tea. The accent of the girl at the window gets to him--brings back the kind of memories that tingle in his gut. It’s a lilting drawl--not thick like it can get in Alabama and Mississippi but all the friendlier for it, words like honey and baby rolling off her tongue like they belong there and she’s happy about it.

Monica spoke like that when she was still alive. When she was out of her mind with drugs, it was high and intercut with a cackling laugh, and when she was low, it was a soft, murmured, Hey, baby. You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me.

Ian thinks he’s lost most of his own accent, though his siblings with the exception of Lip and Liam have all kept theirs. Going to college, making friends with people from all over the US, and getting an English degree will do that to you, Ian having somehow trained himself out of his colloquial ain’ts and I seens and his soft, rounded southern accent flattening out to become something a little less noticeable.

The woman at the window hands him his paper bag and sweet tea and wishes him a blessed day, and well, there’s that aspect of Greenhill, too. A few minutes later, Ian passes a large Jesus Saves cross mounted on the side of the road just off Main Street, followed by a row of VBS signs displaying a date that’s already passed, Southdown Baptist written in faded, rain-run black Sharpie beside the big, bold Where:. The car in front of him has a silver Jesus fish emblem and a bumper sticker that reads, Warning: In event of Rapture, this vehicle will be unmanned.

Ian takes a right onto a side road and loops around to Southdown Highway. He imagines the Rapture taking place then and there, the cars around him all crashing into each other, people evaporating into thin air and leaving their clothes, jewelry, fillings, and implants behind. He sees himself slamming on his brakes, getting stuck behind a pile-up, the only one left. The sun would fall. A theatrical kaboom! in the distance. “Jesus fucking Christ!” he’d yell out the window, laying down on his horn.

Someone actually honks at him, then, and he realizes he’s been idling at the stop sign for too long. He checks left, then takes a right onto Southdown, his heart creeping up into his throat.

After half a mile, he passes the school on the left, which has been outfitted with a new digital sign blinking, Parking Passes Available July 26-28, Freshman Orientation July 28, First Day of School Aug. 2. The grass along the highway is perfectly manicured, and there’s a line of young dogwoods framing the hill leading up to the tennis courts.

It feels as if the town has gotten a makeover, its appearance after seventeen years akin to that of someone from your past having had plastic surgery--a nose job, boob job, tummy tuck--and showing up at the high school reunion looking like a new person. Even Southdown looks better, the road repaved, smooth and black with bright yellow lines down the middle.

Ironically, the River Oak sign is exactly the same--still this swirling gold on green but faded with age. Rather than looking out of place with the upgraded surroundings, it just looks timeless in the sort of way Greenhill’s rich were. No doubt the neighborhood still houses the Currans and the Teagues and the Fletchers and the Watsons, their families having expanded, mingled, mixed. Kimbrel Curran probably married Kevin Fletcher and had a bunch of beautiful babies named things like Bentleigh and Emmaleigh. They probably have a beach house in Key West and season tickets to Braves games.

Ian lets those thoughts distract him as he approaches the sprawling pastures in the distance that mark his proximity to Wallace. Here, Southdown breaks up a bit, a gentle bump in the road signifying the end of new asphalt and the road turning a lighter gray with faded center lines as if the county felt the need to distinguish for all visitors the beginning of the poor area.

He passes the Barton house, which looks the same as ever--squat and brown and with a yard filled to the brim with knicknacks and lawn ornaments bisected by a pole displaying both a Confederate flag and the new addition, a Thin Blue Line American flag.

Ian takes a deep breath and holds it, the Barton house meaning next is Howard Road, then the little turn out where Old Joe used to have his produce stand--fuck, he’s dead now, isn’t he?--and finally the dilapidated garage with piles and piles of tires outside it with a cardboard sign reading, tires $30, best offer.

He exhales as he passes it. The tires are still there, but the garage is gone, replaced by a new outdoor storage unit and a professionally-printed sign that reads, Tires, Tires, Tires. Ian takes another deep breath, in and in until his lungs hurt.

And there it is.

The sign’s new. Maybe someone had stolen the other one again. It shines in the sunlight, the reflectors all modern and metallic rather than the scratched green and white surface Ian was once used to. He idles his SUV for a moment, gulping down his tea with nerves, before hanging a right onto Wallace.

So much has changed. One thing that has remained entirely the same is the absolutely abysmal condition of the road. It’s the same, dusty dirt with just the memory of gravel somewhere mixed in, and the surface itself is pitted with craters like acne scars. The Jeep bounces and sways as Ian makes his way down, and Jesus fuck, if he’s going to live here again, he’s reporting it to the state.

The violent movement is a distraction, though. Ian rolls down his windows, the dusty heat pelting him across the face, and peers out into the pastures on either side of the road. There are more cows than there were seventeen years ago--baby ones, too, a pair of twins chasing each other around while their mother looks on. The fence has been redone--the wood new, light-colored 2x4s, no longer rotting with peeling paint--and the barbed wire is silvery-gray rather than rusted and covered with balls of cow hair where they’d rubbed their necks against it and got it caught.

It looks nice, actually. Maybe Iggy or Colin’s doing. No way in hell would Terry have put in the money and effort.

As Ian approaches the Gallagher drive, he slows the Jeep and looks off down the rest of the road bending along toward the Milkovich place. His new neighbors. Again. Seventeen years is a fucking lifetime. Ian squeezes the steering wheel and tries to predict the whereabouts of them all.

He’s certain Iggy’s the one who stuck with Terry’s farm. He probably still lives at the Milkovich house with his dad, maybe with a wife and a couple kids, too. He can imagine Mandy moved in with some guy right out of high school and that Colin’s been arrested multiple times and probably lives with stoner roommates or a babymama.

Then there’s Mickey. He got out. He had to have gotten out.

Fuck.

Ian hangs a left onto the Gallagher drive, his knuckles white around the steering wheel.

---

The house looks exactly how he imagined it would; in fact, it doesn’t look all that different from how it did when he left it. More of the paint is gone. The window panes are foggy with dirt kicked up by the wind. The porch is empty, and the lawn is overgrown. But for the most part, everything is holding together. The wreath hanger over the door is the one that was always there--the one used to display the holiday wreaths Monica would hang and which she kept in the hall closet, Fiona ultimately taking it upon herself to switch them out six times a year until their very last day.

Ian pulls the Jeep up in front of the house--right in the yard because the gravel parking area is grown over with weeds--and cuts the engine. He sits in the oppressive heat for a while, his eyes scanning the environment through the windshield, before finally removing the keys, opening the door, and climbing out.

---

The front door is swollen and sticks when Ian tries to open it. He has to shoulder his way in, the doorframe rattling with the force of the push.

Inside is like a leap into the past.

The power’s on. Ian’d taken care of getting all that set up online and over the phone the week prior, and service had started the day before. The living room bulb is dead, though, the ceiling fan working but not the light. He steps over to the window and pulls back the curtains, bathing the bottom floor in golden sunshine.

Although dusty, the house is clean--Fiona and Debbie took care of that months ago--and all the rooms are staged for the realtor as if a family still lives there. Pillows are tucked into the corners of the couch and recliner. On the coffee table is a winter-scented Bath and Body Works candle and the remote to the late-90s model TV with a built-in VHS player.

There are bookshelves filled with shit Ian had hardly even glanced at the entire time he’d lived there. The hall closet has all the wreaths plus some miscellaneous junk and a couple jackets that belonged to Frank once upon a time--a flannel and a denim one with nicotine staining on the sleeve.

The downstairs bathroom is empty, and there’s brownish water puddling around the moldy sink drain--a persistent, months-long drip. Equally empty is the kitchen. The cookware is gone, as are all the dishes, the cabinets just holding random papers and shit that had been crammed in to get it out of the way.

He climbs the stairs two at a time and bypasses the other rooms in the hall for his old room. The barrenness almost makes his eyes water: nothing on the walls, dressers, or beds. He remembers he and Lip had taken basically everything--their sheets, posters, and all their clothes. It makes sense why there’s nothing there, yet it feels the lonely kind of empty all the same, like something horrible has happened to the boys who once lived there.

The feeling is so overwhelming that Ian actually leaves the room in favor of another: Frank’s, the biggest one, as empty as the boys’ room. After poking around and finding nothing, he checks out Debbie’s old room, then Fiona’s, then the tiny one Carl shared with Liam. That last one contains some little kid detritus--toys, a container of broken crayons, an empty diaper bag, a stuffed animal net filled to the brim.

The upstairs bathroom is last, and it’s in better condition than the one downstairs. The sink, tub, and toilet need a serious scrub, but there’s a relatively clean shower curtain up. Ian flushes the toilet. Opens the tap. Check. Pump works, as does the hot water heater. That’s one huge issue dodged.

He opens all the doors upstairs and then pulls up all the windows to air out the place. It’s hot as hell outside, but inside smells stale like dirty sheets and old wood.

After doing the same downstairs, he goes out to the Jeep and begins carrying in his boxes, one by one, placing them in the appropriate rooms. Frank had the best room, but it feels weird to take it even though Ian didn’t have any sort of relationship with him worth mentioning since he was a kid. He takes Fiona’s old room, instead, and spends some time making up the bed with his own sheets and unpacking his clothes, stacking them in the dresser drawers.

Once the bedroom is done, he tackles the kitchen, pulling out some of the random shit from the cabinets and replacing it with his pots, pans, and dishes. In the living room, he checks the TV to find that it works but that it obviously has a shitty display. He switches it out for the one he’d brought from Gainesville and lugs the dinosaur out onto the porch along with a few other pieces of junk he’d found along the way.

He needs cleaning supplies, paper products, and trashbags--not to mention at least a few days’ worth of food. It’s blazing hot inside, but he’d survived an entire childhood of summers without air conditioning and he’ll live one night until he can travel to a big-box store to get a couple window units. He can’t, however, get by without a way to wipe his ass.

After washing his hands and face with water, he grabs his keys and hits the road again. It’s nearing 5 PM by the time he reaches town, and Greenhill is busier than it was when he first came through at lunchtime. Traffic’s picked up, and the parking spaces lining the sides of Main Street are full, locals going to Beck’s or Patsy’s for dinner after work.

Ian drives up the hill behind Beck’s to the grocery store. It looks identical to how it did seventeen years ago down to the early-2000s style Kroger logo, and the parking lot pavement is cracked and pitted.

He pulls into a spot near the front and heads in. Inside, he picks up some all purpose and bathroom cleaning sprays, sponges, Clorox Wipes, gloves, and paper towels. He gets trash bags, toilet paper, hand soap, and dish detergent. In the personal care aisle, he grabs some shampoo and body wash and then, because he’d tossed his half-empty bottle before he moved, some lube.

After picking up sandwich supplies, eggs, a case of beer, and a few cans of soup, Ian takes his items to the check-out and loads them onto the conveyor belt. The guy at the register is a high school kid. He has one of those mullets that are inexplicably back in style--shorter on top, blunt bangs, and swooping down almost like a duck’s tail at the nape of his neck. It’s black and clearly dyed, the tiniest sliver of mousy-brown roots visible at his crown, and he’s bleached out his eyebrows white-blond in a way that makes him look unearthly.

“Hey,” he greets, giving Ian a bored nod, and Ian nods back.

He isn't wearing a nametag, but the other kid working the register behind him calls him “Alex” when he asks if he knows the code for donuts.

Ian takes out his wallet and fishes around for the hundred he knows he has somewhere, glancing up after finding it just in time to catch the kid scanning the lube with a smirk on his face.

Ha ha, Ian wants to say. Instead, he straightens the hundred and waits for the kid to announce his total. $66.42. He holds it out.

As Alex goes to take the bill, his eyes immediately land on Ian’s tattoo, which is pretty much front and center.

It’s small--less than the size of a postage stamp and easily concealed under long sleeves or covered with a bandaid or make-up if he needs to hide it. He hadn’t really needed to in Florida. Not that Floridians weren’t as homophobic as everybody else, but the population was more diverse in the particular areas in which he lived and it was never an issue.

Truth be told, he’d sort of forgotten about the fact that he would be boldly displaying the Pride flag in the middle of redneck country whenever he was in short sleeves.

The kid stares at his tattoo, then looks at his face as if to discern the identity of the New Queer in Town. Ian is suddenly thankful as hell he’d worn his mask.

With another smirk positively dripping with judgment, Alex turns to the cash register, punches in some numbers, and the drawer pops out.

Yeah, yeah, Ian thinks. At least I don’t look like a fuckin’ Talladega goth.

“$33.58,” the boy mumbles, and Ian holds out his hand again--his other one, this time--and takes his change.

It’s annoying, the judgment. Maybe he needs to invest in more of that Dermablend shit before school starts.

It’s not that Ian isn’t proud. He’s out, and he has no interest in ever going back. He’s always been open with his coworkers about it and honest with his students whenever they’d ask him if he had a girlfriend.

He realizes he’s lucky that, all things considered, his life as a gay man has gone relatively smoothly. He’s never been hate-crimed. His family accepted him from the beginning. He had boyfriends in college. Despite growing up in poverty, he’s a privileged white dude whose sexuality has never been a major issue the way it is for a lot of queer people.

His complaints feel petty and wrong. It’s just a pain in the ass to have to constantly experience other people’s realization of your sexuality, positive or negative. People always have some sort of reaction, and they’re shit at hiding it.

Alex probably isn’t a raging homophobe. He’s an immature kid thinking about his customer using the lube he’s buying to have gay sex, and that shit’s funny to teenage boys. Ian’s a high school teacher. He gets it.

It’s still annoying. On his way out of the store, self-conscious, he adjusts the positioning of his watch on his wrist so that it mostly covers the tattoo.

---

Back at the house, he puts away his food, paper products, and toiletries, and because it’s the smallest room in the house, starts off his deep clean with the downstairs bathroom. He puts on a KN95 mask, sprays all the porcelain with Clorox spray, and scrubs it out until it’s shining. Then, he takes a sponge and goes over the floor tiles with cleaner, using the rougher side to dig into the crevices and clean the years worth of stains from the grout.

All in all, it takes him about an hour, and he’s starving. After washing his hands, he makes himself a sandwich and some soup on the electric stovetop and eats it in front of the TV, where he’s managed to pick up ABC using the dog-ears.

He checks his phone. It’s 8:15. He should probably call Lip. Ian’d texted the Gallagher group chat while he was at the grocery store, letting his family know he was there, the house was livable, the power was on, et cetera, but his brother had requested a FaceTime house tour, and he’d promised to deliver.

No time like the present. He pulls up his contacts and is just about to give Lip a call when he notices he has no signal--nothing but the occasional blip of one tiny bar that quickly changes to No Service whenever he breathes wrong.

Of course Wallace would be a dead zone. How could it be anything but?

Cell service had never been a problem seventeen years ago. They had a landline. The whole world had landlines. If you had a cell phone, it was a brick and you were probably rich. None of the Gallaghers had one; they made calls when they were home and didn’t when they weren’t. They didn’t have Internet, either--not even dial-up--and it wasn’t even an issue.

Fuck. Ian had been planning to use his phone as a hotspot so he could take care of more utilities shit that night, but that’s a no-go. Not to mention, he currently has no way of communicating with the outside world, including his job, where he starts work in four days.

He gets up and carries his phone outside, holding it up and wandering around the porch and then the front yard like an absolute moron. Nothing. Maybe closer to the road?

Out at the end of the driveway, he gets a patch of a steady, one-bar signal. It’s enough that he’s able to place a shaky, skippy call to Lip, though the call drops before his brother even picks up.

Goddammit. Ian huffs and puts his hands on his hips.

It’s getting dark, the sun nothing but a pink glow behind the mountains in the distance and the world cast in shade. Grasshoppers tickle his ankles where he stands in the calf-high grass in shorts. He takes a deep breath.

The country is hot in his lungs. It smells of hay and damp, earthy grass and manure. A bull trots around near the edge of the fence across the road, bending at the longer grass just on the other side of it and munching. Ian watches for a few minutes, taking in the sounds growing around him. The rhythmic high hum of the cicadas, the frogs, the low of cows in the distance.

It’s something he missed while he was away. Florida has its sounds, some of them the same. The cicadas are there. There’s the pesky buzz of mosquitos. The sometimes haunting hoooop of birds. It isn’t the same. Missing are the smells and the cattle sounds, the faint, trickling hiss of the creek meandering its way along. A shot in the distance, a hunter’s rifle.

The wind blows, and Ian closes his eyes and breathes it in--all the dust and the heat and the tang of wild garlic. Ready or not. He’s already fucking here.

A rumble comes from the right, the sound of it growing progressively louder. Ian opens his eyes and turns his head to see a pair of headlights coming up Wallace in the distance. There’s a thumping undertone--rock music, Led Zeppelin, maybe.

As the vehicle gets closer, he can see that it’s a black, early 2000s model double-cab pick-up with big, offset tires and a suspension lift. It’s dirty, with mud specks clear up onto the hood. Ian steps back away from the road when it approaches.

In the growing darkness, it’s hard to make out the person behind the wheel. It’s a man wearing a black T-shirt and a dark-colored cap. The truck slows to a crawl as it reaches the driveway, but then, as if spotting Ian, speeds off, the dust kicking up behind it almost to an obnoxious degree reminiscent of Iggy and Colin skidding dirt at him with their bikes when they were kids.

A cloud of it floats toward Ian, and he coughs, waving it away and walking backward along the driveway toward the house to escape it.

Damn Milkovich. Always the same.

He’s on his way back from Iggy’s place. They’d put together a bed for Merle Iggy’d picked up at a yard sale and had then driven out of town to get the kid some unicorn-princess-whatever the fuck sheets to rub in the face of her mom, who thinks Iggy’s a shitty parent and is trying to petition for full custody.

It’s true, more or less. He has no idea what to do with a kid and the fact that he’s so adamant about shared custody is beyond Mickey. He’d named his daughter Merle, for fuck’s sake.

She’s five and looks so much like Iggy it’s as if her mom had no part in her creation. Acts like him, too, this hyperactive little nutcase that’s always running around and getting into shit. Iggy doesn’t discipline her for anything--just lets her in when her mom drops her off every other weekend and then goes out to his shop to smoke and do his woodworking. Predictably, Merle always gets bored and starts messing with stuff. She’d almost burned the house down once while trying to light a candle using a box of matches, and all Iggy’d done was pour water on the burnt spot on the carpet, take the matches away from her, and tell her to go outside.

He isn’t deliberately neglectful--just fucking clueless like he’s always been and has too many lost braincells from a lifetime of drugs and getting blackout drunk. He does okay for himself, despite it, working with Trigg Bailey’s construction business as a painter and doing a bit of woodworking on the side.

He still smokes more weed than anybody Mickey’s ever known. On the way back from Walmart, they stopped at his dealer’s house and smoked with him for two hours. Iggy popped a pill and got knocked on his ass, and he spent the whole ride home with his eyes glazed over, laughing. Mickey had slapped him across the face because he was being an annoying bitch, shoved him into the house, and pushed him down in the bathtub before turning on the cold water.

While his brother cussed at him, Mickey made up Merle’s bed and then left, pocketing Iggy’s bottle of percs on his way out because he was supposed to be getting his fucking kid the next day. Jesus Christ.

On his way home, Mickey stopped by Beck’s to get take-out dinner and see Mandy. She gave him a free cheeseburger meal but made him pay for his overpriced large Pepsi, and he affectionately called her a cunt and earned a pinch on his arm he knows will bruise.

As he makes his way up Wallace, he’s tired. It’s not even 8:30, but he’d been up since the asscrack of dawn, moving the cattle into the south pasture and filling the feeders all before breakfast. It’ll be an early night, probably. He’ll eat, have a couple beers, and hit the sack before ten. He yawns and cranks up the stereo, “Black Dog” playing loud enough to keep him awake.

When he approaches the quarter-mile mark, he notices something that gives him pause, his foot easing off the gas and the truck slowing. There’s lights on at the Gallagher house--a shit-ton of them, the entire bottom floor lit up like whoever’s there is afraid of the dark.

Mickey squints and can just see a dark SUV parked up close, near the front steps. There’s shit out on the porch, too, but it’s too dim to see. He slows to almost a complete stop, trying to figure out who the hell’s there--whether it’s one of those Gallagher women back or whether the house has been sold--when he spots him.

And the moment it happens, he feels like his stomach has heaved up into his throat.

Mickey’d recognize him anywhere. He’s all grown up, sure, that lanky, bony-hipped boy gone and replaced by a tall, broad-shouldered, physically fit man in a baby blue V-neck and gray athletic shorts. But there’s no doubt--immediately, even--that it’s Ian.

He’s squinting back at him like he’s trying to figure out who he is, and Mickey’s guts go cold. He floors it, the tires of his truck spinning in the gravelly-dirt, and takes off in the direction of the house.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

He doesn’t remember getting all the way home, parking, or making his way into the house. His keys clanging in the bowl on the kitchen counter is his first memory since seeing the redhead--fucking Ian--and his second is standing in front of the bathroom sink a minute later, splashing water over his face.

It was like something from a weird dream verging on a nightmare. It’s dark, and you’re driving home, and the music is blaring, and out to your left--out of nowhere and illuminated by the headlights--is this kid you knew when you were seventeen. Mickey’s sweating. He runs his wet hands up through the front of his hair until it sticks up and then pushes it back down again. He turns, leaves the bathroom, and moves into the kitchen.

There are a thousand reasons Ian could be at the Gallagher house. He’s in town for some reason and needed a place to stay. He’s here with Fiona, and they’re getting shit together before they try to sell again. He’s on his way somewhere else and wanted to stop by for old time’s sake.

The power’s on, though. The house didn’t have power; it’d been cut after Fiona and her sister left, and Mickey knew it because he’d tried to get water out of the spigot a week later and nothing came out but twenty seconds of a weak stream. You wouldn’t have the power turned back on if you were just visiting, but you would if you were going to try to sell. You would if you were staying there for an extended period of time.

Mickey grips the edge of the counter and breathes. How the fuck.

He’d looked for him months ago when the other two had been at the house, yet now that he’s actually seen him, it strikes Mickey that he’s the last person he thought he’d ever see again.

Gallagher’d been out by the road. What had he been doing? Mickey closes his eyes and tries to recall the image. He’d looked confused, maybe. He’d had something in his hand. His phone? Probably trying to get a signal. Good luck with that.

Gathering his bearings, Mickey runs his hands over his face one more time before going back out to the truck to get his dinner, which he’d left behind in his frenzy. Inside, he finds his burger is a little cold and his fries are soggy. He eats as much as he can stomach but slurps down his entire Pepsi, the sugar making him feel wild.

Ian fucking Gallagher.

Mickey grabs his phone. He does a Google search for him, not knowing what he’s even looking for, and finds nothing but the same Coburn High School staff directory entry he’d found basically ten years ago when he’d been drunk and thinking about people from his past.

Mickey already knows Ian teaches English, and the staff directory gives him nothing else but his school email, phone number extension, and class schedule. There isn’t even a picture. A Google Image search of ian gallagher coburn high yields just one relevant result: a group shot of about eight teachers doing some sort of team-building exercise involving holding hands and untangling a knot they’ve made of themselves. Ian’s just visible in the corner, but he’s turned to the side and partially blocked from view.

Mickey tosses his phone onto the couch.

He tries not to get ahead of himself, imagining the two of them becoming neighbors on this lonely dirt road out in the middle of nowhere like some shit from a Hallmark movie.

It happens, anyway, but less Hallmark and more horror. This is his worst nightmare.

He’d thought Ian was his nightmare when he was a kid--a stupid, scared little kid who didn’t know what to do with the stuff inside him--but the way Mickey sees it, Adult Ian has to be worse. Fifteen-year-old Ian was a nerdy freckle with bangs and legs too long for his torso. He was ugly, sort of, in the way all fifteen-year-olds were ugly back in 2003, and his social skills involved being a prissy, goody-two-shoes smartass and saying the kind of shit to Mickey you’d hear in an after school special.

Adult Ian is a fucking teacher. Jesus Christ.

Whatever. There’s nothing for it. Mickey gets that beer he’d been thinking about all day and knocks it back in only a handful of swallows before burping and grabbing another. He takes this one out back and sits in the lawn chair around the dead fire pit that still smells like charred wood and smoke whenever the wind blows.

If PJ finds out Gallagher’s on Wallace, she’ll have a field day. Mickey had never talked to her much about him, but there was that whole thing at the fair, and shit had been implied and then not denied. She’ll start up her whole, Things are better than ever thing, talking about The Gays in Greenhill as if they even exist past a pair of butch Republican lesbians that for whatever reason go to Whitney First Baptist and are in PJ’s Women of Faith group.

There are no fucking gays in Greenhill. Not adult ones, at least. Maybe at LeHigh. PJ’s kid is queer as hell if you ask Mickey, which nobody ever does, so he keeps it to himself. Mark probably grounded him because he was looking at guys getting rawed.

Idly, Mickey wonders if Ian’s queer. He’d looked it. He was wearing a V-neck, which Greenhill hasn’t seen on a guy since Tricky Ricky.

If he is, he’s come to the wrong place. He’ll have to drive out of town to get his dick sucked--probably all the way to Atlanta if he doesn’t want shit making it here from Macon. Of course, that’s not that different from what Mickey does, only Mickey goes out of town for sex because he don’t want to hook up with girls he went to school with or who’ve fucked his brothers, not because he’s trying to hide anything.

He’s getting ahead of himself again. There’s zero evidence aside from electricity at the Gallagher house that Ian’s even staying overnight, let alone for a while.

Mickey finishes his second beer and with his loudest belch all night, tosses the can into the fire pit.

Ian sweats all night. It’s a true testament to the fact that he’s gone soft over the years. They had box fans when he was a kid, but that was it, and for a good portion of his childhood, he had someone else in the bed with him contributing to the body heat. Somehow he made it. He doesn’t even remember taking a thousand showers, which he feels like doing now, but of course, maybe he just walked around stinking and nobody ever told him.

He gets up at six, his back plastered to the sheets and his neck having left a sweat mark on the pillow, and stands under the cold shower spray for five minutes before he even picks up his shampoo.

Once showered, he gets dressed, makes coffee to wake up, and then drives 40 minutes to the closest Walmart, which is out near Macon. He buys two AC window units--one for each floor--plus a lighter-weight pair of sheets and more necessities he’d neglected to purchase the night before.

On the way back home, he gets Chick-Fil-A breakfast despite the fact that they hate gay people and eats it while listening to oldies radio because it’s the first station he lands on. Examining his phone as he nears Southdown, he finds that the signal begins to deplete significantly just past Tires, Tires, Tires and is down to an unstable two bars at the turn out.

There, he pulls over and calls Lip. It rings four times before he answers, and when he does, he’s yawning. Ian checks the time and sees that it’s barely nine.

“Hey, big brother,” he greets, pulling in his tea for a drink, the ice rattling.

“Look who it is. He’s alive. Freddie tried to FaceTime you last night.”

“Ahhh. Tell Freddie Uncle Ian currently lives in a dead zone.”

Lip chuffs. “Shoulda guessed that.”

“Yeah. Who’d’a thunk Wallace would be behind the times.”

“Mm.” A beat. “The house okay?”

“Yeah. A million degrees, but I got some window units. Most everything looks the same. Same furniture, same TV, same shit on the walls. I’ll take some pictures tonight and send them whenever I can get back to a signal.”

“Neighbors still there?”

Ian huffs and, after setting down his styrofoam cup, pulls his back of cigarettes from his pocket. He hums to indicate he’ll reply in a moment before lighting up, taking a puff, and saying, “Somebody. Big pick-up with a lift kit. Blaring Zeppelin.”

“Obviously a Milkovich.”

“Yeah. Obviously. Don’t know which one, though.” Ian takes another drag and rolls down his window. “You ever heard what any of ‘em are up to now?”

“Nah. Figured ‘prison,’ but apparently at least one of ‘em’s out.”

“I think it’s prob’ly Iggy. He was always out in the pasture.”

Lip laughs. “He was always high.”

“Everybody was always high. You were always high.”

“Functionally high. There’s a big difference. Iggy was always losin’ his shit. Surprised he isn’t a wannabe drug lord like Terry.”

“I’m not. Iggy was a dumbass.” Ian taps off his ash. “Y’know, I don’t think I ever realized the Milkoviches were into drugs ‘til I was like, 25.”

“How?”

“I was a naive kid. I remember Mickey tellin’ me his dad and brothers had gone hunting on Thanksgiving and I thought he meant like, actual hunting.”

“Terry Milkovich ran drugs and beat his kids. Everybody knew that shit.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t.”

“Fuckin’ babe in the woods.”

Ian blows a raspberry and finishes up his cigarette. When he’s done, he tosses the butt out the window.

“Lemme know which terror awaits you at the end of the road.”

“Yeah, yeah. I will.” Ian smiles.

There’s a moment of silence. He knows exactly what his brother’s gearing up to ask and considers cutting him off before it even comes out. Before he can do it, though, he’s already heard the question.

“You doin’ okay?”

“Believe it or not, my symptoms don’t usually manifest within just twelve hours of a moderately stressful event, so. Yeah.”

Lip ignores his attitude. “Got your prescription transferred?”

“Not yet. Still got almost 30 days of meds left, and I’ve gotta get a doctor or whatever before they’ll transfer it.” A long pause. “Don’t get all Fiona and Debbie on me. Drives me fuckin’ crazy.”

“You called ‘em?”

“Hell no.”

“Ian.”

“Lip. Will you please, for the love of fucking God, let me hate my entire family for a while?”

“Your entire family, huh?”

Ian huffs a laugh. “Except Liam.”

“The fuck did Carl do?”

“He’s a cop.”

There’s a breathy sound as Lip laughs. He knows the drill. He knows the whys and hows and whos.

“Just don’t hate ‘em too much,” he murmurs after a moment, serious. “And you can hate me, too, or whatever, but don’t get all Pissy Ian at me for sayin’ that they were just trying to help.”

“They were wrong, though.”

“Maybe?” Lip doesn’t sound sure, and Ian knows it’s because he secretly agrees with them. He’s known it for a whole year now. He wouldn’t doubt that Lip was actively involved. Still, he tucks all that into the back of his mind because it would hurt to have to hate him, too.

They finish up their conversation. Ian asks if there are any last words before he disappears into the dead zone.

“You know you can call me whenever,” Lip says, his voice off--the way it gets when he’s being too emotionally upfront for his own comfort.

“I know.”

“And I’m not gonna text Fi and Debs, but if they ask…”

“And they will.”

“...then I’m gonna tell ‘em you’re good, so.”

Ian takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “That’s fine.”

Frankly, if it would stop them from calling him, he’d be okay posing for pictures Lip could send along. Look, Ma: no slashed wrists.

They say goodbye and end the call. Ian sits in the SUV for a long time, thinking, before he finally cranks the engine and returns to the house.

---

He spends the rest of the morning installing the air conditioning units in the living room and upstairs hallway and then continues with his mission to deep clean the entire house. He scrubs the living room floors, throws the pillows and blankets in the washer, and takes the vacuum he’d found in the closet to the area rug and all the crevices in the couch and recliner. He dusts all the surfaces, bags all the useless shit on the bookshelves, and sorts through the actual books, boxing up ones he doesn’t want and adding his own books to the shelves along with the ones he does.

When he’s done, it’s 1:00. He makes himself another sandwich and eats it in front of the air conditioner with his shirt off. After, he decides to go check out the yard.

There’s an old push mower lying on its back in weeds. Ian tries it out and finds that it’s rusted to hell and the tank’s empty, so he’ll either need to be optimistic and get some gas for it or haul it to the landfill along with the rest of the junk on the porch and invest in a new one. He sets it up straight and heads around to the back of the house.

The chicken coop’s still there but in ill-repair. In theory, Ian’d like to get hens--just a few he can easily care for around work and fixing up the house. It’s something to look into, at least.

Back near the fence, the swing set’s still there, but the seat of the one remaining swing now hangs pathetically, broken on one side. Despite its rough appearance, the set itself is pretty sturdy. With a coat of paint and three new swings, it’d be good as new and ready for whatever kids ended up there in the end--his siblings' or those of the strangers who’ll buy the place.

Finally, Ian wanders over to the side nearest the woods, to the small garden into which he’d put his boyish energy, spending hours with his hands in the dirt.

He’s expecting it to be nothing more than overgrown weeds and struggling, viney plants munched on by all manner of bugs and wildlife. What he finds is something different altogether.

Somehow, a goddamn Christmas miracle in July, the garden is perfect. There’s the lettuce and the tomatoes. There’s the bell peppers, the cucumbers, and the carrots. There’s mint and parsley. Squash. Not much of any of it but a variety of all, as if whomever had been working on it had wanted samplings rather than bushels. Ian’s flabbergasted.

Who the fuck?

He takes out his phone to text the group chat about whether Frank was a secret gardener, but he remembers he has no signal and tucks it back in the pocket of his shorts. Anyway, Frank’s been dead for five months, and these plants have been tended in the last week. Unless he’s a ghost, which Ian wouldn’t put past him--bent on torturing his kids even in death--that’s a no on that one.

Fucking weird. Ian peers around him as if looking for a hidden camera before eyeing what he now notices are tire impressions in the weeds leading to the backyard. Someone’s been driving here, parking, getting out, and tending Ian’s garden. For a while, it looks like, if only because most of the crops are the same types Ian had grown when he was a teenager.

The first thought that comes to his mind is too ridiculous. But then again, his second and third thoughts are also ridiculous and involve random strangers driving up Wallace from town to use somebody else’s tiny garden to grow a handful of vegetables.

The thing is, there’s no way in hell Mickey Milkovich is driving out here to preserve Ian’s garden. And for what? The only thing he can figure is that Mickey’s somehow still living at the Milkovich house, and that just doesn’t make any sense unless the whole family is still there well into their 30s, which would be stupid. It’s the fucking south where redneck boys don’t know how to wrap it. They’d all have four kids each by now, and the Milkovich house would’ve erupted at the seams.

Iggy and Colin were following in Terry’s footsteps. Mickey wanted something different. He didn’t like farming, and he didn’t like being around his family--least of all his dad.

He isn’t still living there, and Ian’s going to prove it.

He told Lip he’d find out which Milkovich was at the end of the road, and he’s going to. He needs to figure out the cell service situation, anyway, because surely even the Milkoviches have iPhones in 2021.

Without a second thought, he sets off down the road. It’s a long walk and a hot walk, the sweat dripping from his temples and down his throat, but determination settles in his bones and keeps him going. There is no way. There’s no way in hell.

He feels like he did when he was fifteen and had just found out a Milkovich had been stealing from his garden. Not angry, this time, but present, feeling the pound of his shoes against the ground, running through his options in his mind.

What if Mickey does live there? Jesus Christ. The last time he saw him, they’d kissed out in the woods. That was a lifetime ago, the years nullifying the meaning behind the event but not the memory.

What if he lives there and has a wife and kids? That’d be fucking trippy, Ian knocking on the door and finding on the other side his first kiss with a toddler on his hip.

It’s somehow both entirely plausible and also the most ridiculous thing Ian’s ever heard. Every bit of it. His last memory of Mickey Milkovich was his face when he said he couldn’t, and when he thinks of him, it’s what he pictures first and foremost. To see him--that Mickey--seventeen years older, an adult man, feels surreal.

Ian huffs. But of course, that’s if he still lives there, and he doesn’t. There’s no way. He rounds the curve, putting the Milkovich house in view for the first time since he was a kid.

It’s a shock.

It’s been cleaned up, for one, the yard free of miscellaneous shit and the grass neatly cut. The house itself has been painted a dark, navy blue. The porch railings have been re-done, a deep mahogany, and the front door is the same wood with a shiny brass knob. Gone are the flags. Gone is the trash. The house doesn’t look brand new, nor does it look like it’ll be winning any craftsmanship awards, but it’s neat and tidy and currently much better looking than the Gallagher house.

As he approaches the porch steps, Ian hears a noise. He peers over at the single-bay garage to find that it, too, has been greatly improved. The missing metal letters have all been removed and replaced by a simple, minimalist sign that reads in Arial font,

There’s a blue Honda inside the garage, its hood lifted, and the overhead light is on indicating someone’s working. Ian stops in his tracks. Waits.

He hears the noise again--someone digging through a box of tools, maybe, this metallic shuffling. Terry?

Looking around, Ian spies only the black truck from the night before, parked on the other side of the garage where the Milkovich boys used to park the blue pick-up. Iggy?

There’s a bumper sticker on the truck; he sees it now, clear as day.

Warning: In event of Rapture, I’m taking all your shit.

Ian has to cover his mouth to keep the sound in. He must not be very successful because the next thing he knows, a man is stepping out from behind the side of the garage door, a wrench in his greasy hands.

“Uh, hey, can I help…” He falters, his voice dropping out when his eyes find Ian. “...you?”

Ian breathes so hard he’s sure Mickey Milkovich can hear it from where he stands not ten feet away.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Ian’s brain is awhir, blood rushing in his ears. He’d been thinking about this possibility the whole way over, yet part of him must not have been convinced it was actually possible, as the impact of its realization is great. It’s made even more so by the fact that Mickey looks the way he does.

He’s still small, still on the leaner side but with a bit of broadness to his chest he didn’t have as a teenager. His hair is long up top and cropped along the sides in a way that would suggest he’d be able to style it into a quiff if he wanted. For now, it’s just messy and pushed back, the places where his hair naturally parts greasy from sweat or lack of wash. He’s dressed in navy coveralls that he’s just wearing like pants, his upper body out of them and the fabric hanging at his waist. He has on a white tank top covered in oil stains, and he has black smudges up his arms and one at his jawline.

He’s handsome as hell. Like, really. Ian remembers thinking as a kid that Mickey was fine-looking if you were okay with Milkoviches, but as an adult, he’s genuinely a looker. The overwhelming emotion Ian feels in that moment is jealousy of that man’s wife.

That’s fucked up. That’s so fucked up.

Ian swallows heavily and gives a small wave.

“Uh, hey. Mickey.”

The other man presses his lips together. “Gallagher.” He looks around like he’s on Candid Camera. “The fuck’re you doin’ here?”

“I live here.” A beat. “At my house. My old house.” Like a dumbass, Ian thumbs in the direction from whence he came as if Mickey doesn’t know the location of the Gallagher house.

“Live?”

“Yeah. As of yesterday. Frank…died, and. Yeah.”

Mickey stares at him, his eyes so pretty and blue, before turning abruptly and going back to whatever he was doing. Ian steps closer to the garage and sees he’s standing at a filthy metal table pushed up against the wall, using a wrench on some auto part Ian couldn’t even begin to name.

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey murmurs. “Saw the lights on last night. I wondered.”

Ian steps closer and closer until he’s up near the Honda--close enough that he can hear the other man’s breaths when they’re deep.

“So, how’ve you been?” he asks before holding his own breath.

Mickey stops what he’s doing and turns part-way, leaning with his hip against the side of the table so he can see Ian. He crosses his arms over his chest, his fingers leaving black streaks on the insides of his elbows.

“Uhh, okay,” he says. “You?”

Ian nods. “Okay.”

Mickey had known it was coming. There was no way in hell he was going to pass the Gallagher house every day of his life and never come face-to-face with Ian--if not for the sheer statistics of the matter then for the fact that the universe has proved time and time again that it hates him.

He’d spent the last twelve hours or so thinking about it, the hows and the whens. He’d known it was coming; he only wishes it had happened when he didn’t look like a fucking grease monkey.

Not that it matters--it’s just that most people probably don’t want their first encounter with someone in seventeen years to be when they’re sweaty, covered in motor oil, and haven’t showered in two days. He should’ve known better. He should’ve planned.

Mickey takes a deep breath, squeezing the wrench tightly in his hand, and watches Gallagher tell him he’s been okay, whatever that means.

He looks different than he did as a kid. His freckles have faded some, his hair is floppy on top and shorter on the sides, and he looks like he goes to the gym, his arms toned with visible muscle when he moves them in a certain way.

He dresses different, too, all in that same form-fitting clothing Mickey’d seen him in the night before. Today, he’s wearing a purple tank-top and light-wash denim shorts that are cuffed just above the knee. He looks gay as hell, and his white Nike high-tops don’t help matters as they’re paired with purple socks that peak out about an inch. Who the fuck wears purple socks?

Mickey takes a deep breath and turns back to his work. He has no idea what to say or do. Ian clearly has no idea, either, as he huffs but otherwise stays silent.

Finally, after a minute of foot-tapping, he says, “So, hey. What d’you do about cell service?”

Mickey turns back to him. Ian’s scratching his upper arm, awkward. Mickey’s eyes land on his wrist, and when his watch shifts with his movements, he sees a goddamn rainbow flag tattoo. It’s about the size of a piece of confetti, smack dab in the center of his wrist over his pulse-point. Mickey feels, for some reason, like someone’s stuck their hand through his belly and rearranged his organs.

“You okay?”

He breathes heavily--just once--out his mouth. “Uh, yeah. What?”

“I asked what you do about cell service.” Ian reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone as if in demonstration. He has an iPhone in a gray Otterbox case. “It’s a dead zone. I got nothin’.”

Mickey’s flustered. He doesn’t want to be there anymore. He feels like his windpipe’s busted, like his guts are going to drop to his shoes.

“Uhh, I don’t,” he says, reaching for a towel and wiping off his hands--anything to stay busy.

“You don’t? You don’t have a phone?”

“Yeah. No. Yeah.”

Ian stares at him like he’s stupid. “Do you have a phone?”

“Yeah.” Mickey huffs, frustrated. “I use wifi. Call Argus. It’s all we get out here, but it’s okay.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“Yeah.” He turns away again. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing anymore, the stupid car part just a jumble of shapeless metal. All he can see in his head is that ugly rainbow flag tattoo and the fact that it’s on Ian Gallagher’s wrist.

He doesn’t know why, but all he can think to say is, I’m not gay. Why are you standing so close? but the fact of the matter is that Ian isn’t standing any closer than anybody else would stand when they’re talking to someone, and he hasn’t said one single queer thing the whole time he’s been there.

Still, Mickey feels like a deer caught in headlights or like one in a hunter’s line of sight. His brain fogs.

“Okay. Cool,” Ian repeats.

Mickey nods but doesn’t turn around.

“I will…do that.” There’s a shuffling sound as he starts to walk away. Something inside Mickey breaks at the thought of him leaving because he thinks he’s done something wrong.

He has and he hasn’t. He hasn’t literally done anything wrong. He’s just fucked up Mickey’s life again already--in just four minutes. Everything out the window.

“Yeah,” Mickey repeats, more as a buffer than anything. He turns this time, and Ian’s still watching him, walking backwards. “Call Argus.”

“I’ll call Argus.”

“‘kay.”

“‘kay.”

“See ya.”

“Bye, Mickey.”

Mickey watches him go and wants to drown himself in the bathtub.

Jesus Christ.

Ian crosses his arms over his chest as he makes his way back down Wallace. He doesn’t think it’s possible for a person to be less interested in talking to him than Mickey had been.

The whole encounter, Ian had felt like he’d killed the other man’s beloved dog in a past life, like Mickey was being civil for the sake of not ripping his head off. He’d been huffing like a wolf.

That was weird as fuck. Ian has no idea how to interpret that shit.

He replays the conversation--what little of it there was--over again in his mind. The other man hadn’t actually said anything mean, and he’d answered Ian’s question in the end. Still, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Mickey wanted to tell him to shut up and go back home after every sentence. He’d basically good day, sir’d him like in Willy Wonka, turning away from him to work on that car…thing.

It’s not as if Ian expected a hug. He expected awkwardness--which he got in spades. He just didn’t expect the strange, wild look in Mickey’s eye when he’d turned to look at him that one time. He’d also expected the man to have progressed at least a little bit past the kid in his 10th grade English class who told him he wasn’t going to work with him on the poetry project.

They’d kissed, for fuck’s sake.

Time’s a bitch. And Ian had been so flustered that he hadn’t even had a chance to ask Mickey about the garden before he’d been dismissed.

Brows drawn together, he walks back to the house and goes straight to his truck. He gets in and drives back to Old Joe’s turn out and uses his cell signal to search up Argus Communications. In the ten minutes he has to wait to speak to an actual human, he Googles Milkovich Auto Services.

He has 4½ stars and 11 reviews on his Google business page. Like night and day from how it used to be!! and Service fast and cheap, Mick honest and good guy, highly recommend they say. So Mickey’s a mechanic. Obviously, based on the grease and coveralls. Ian swallows heavily and taps over to the Facebook page that is listed as the business website.

It’s basic. The banner is a picture of the sign. There are 47 likes, 31 reviews, and 16 check-ins. The business has never posted anything. Ian closes out of it and presses the phone back to his ear, focusing in on the stupid strings music and hoping he doesn’t seem gruff with the person who eventually answers.

Mickey can’t get shit done. His customer calls asking for an estimated repair time for the Honda, and he gives her an answer that makes her happy enough and then goes inside and takes a shot of straight vodka.

He should’ve offered to let Ian use his wifi to make the call. It didn’t even occur to him. He’s a fucking asshole. He’s an awkward, scared fucking asshole. It was a stupid tattoo. Obviously, Ian’s queer. It ain’t like it’s a surprise. Mickey’s kissed him twice, the second time completely prompted.

Jesus Christ. That thought makes him need to take another shot and then grab a beer from the fridge.

He goes back out to the garage and puts the radio on loud, and he sips his beer and fixes Mrs. Hamrick’s car and thinks about how Ian Gallagher has moved back to Wallace.

He thinks about how much trouble he’s in.

Chapter Text

Ian spends the weekend scrubbing the house, even going so far as to take a toothbrush to the grimy baseboards. He cleans out the fridge and fills it with as much reasonably healthy food as he can. He washes and rehangs all the curtains, WD-40s the door hinges, puts down a welcome mat he found in the hall closet, and hangs the summer wreath.

In the months to come, he’ll work on planning out and installing the upgrades. He’ll definitely need to get central heating and air if they want a chance of selling. The kitchen needs upgraded appliances, and he wouldn’t mind having the countertops redone. The bathrooms will need to be overhauled, and there’s probably a thousand structural repairs that need to be made. Ian’ll have to take out a loan to cover it all, but he’ll be able to pay it right back once the house sells. Plus, for as long as he’s here, he’ll be saving $1,300 per month by not having to pay rent, so nothing about this situation is going to put him in the poorhouse.

He feels optimistic enough on Sunday to take a fuel can to the gas station rather than buy a brand new push-mower. Turns out, he probably should’ve gone ahead and made the purchase because though he does get it running, it doesn’t cut worth shit, the length of the grass and weeds certainly not helping matters. It takes him an inordinate amount of time to mow the lawn, and even then, there are still stray blades sticking up every few feet that he ends up chopping with a pair of hedge clippers while praying a man in a black truck doesn’t drive past and spot him trawling the lawn like a lunatic.

It’s late afternoon by the time he’s finished. He drives into town, gets himself a Double Quarter Pounder meal, a Coke, and an iced caramel macchiato, and sits on his laptop in the McDonald’s parking lot. He uses their wifi to type up an awkward introductory email for the LeHigh staff and then spends nearly an hour using Google to stalk the Milkoviches.

He searches Mickey and doesn’t find much--just a few Whitepages type websites providing his Wallace Road address and naming him owner of Milkovich Auto Services. Ian can’t find him on Facebook or Instagram. There are no mugshots or references to him in any of the searchable online issues of The Greenhill Gazette.

Satisfied that there’s nothing, he turns his searches over to Mickey’s siblings. Colin returns a slew of horrifying results: multiple charges for domestic abuse and resisting arrest. According to a February 2020 issue of the paper, he’s currently serving three years for an aggravated assault conviction after he’d held a gun to the head of his ex-wife. Iggy, on the other hand, while receiving a couple minor drug charges back in the early 2010s, shows up in the Gazette’s birth announcements for having a daughter named Merle McKenzie Milkovich with Amber Peck, who’d been Fiona’s friend in school.

Mandy is the only Milkovich with social media. Ian finds her on Facebook. She’s married to a guy named Nick Crawford and has four kids between the ages of two and twelve. She has dyed, reddish hair now and looks older than her 33 years--indicative of a life that’s overworked her and given her little in return.

Ian pulls down the visor and examines his own face in the mirror, wondering if people look at him and see the same thing. He looks like shit, he thinks, his under-eyes purplish. These days, he’s either sleeping too little or too much, and both have taken a toll on him. Pictures from even just before quarantine show him bright-eyed and smiley. Now, he just looks tired--like he needs a week at a spa and a solid night’s rest rather than the gallon of coffee regularly pumping through his veins.

He slurps his macchiato, flips up the visor and closes his laptop, and cranks the Jeep.

---

It doesn’t help that he can’t sleep Sunday night due to nerves. Monday morning comes after he’s received just three hours of shut-eye, and after waking, he showers and downs enough black coffee to give him the shakes.

He really shouldn’t--caffeine supposedly fucking with his meds--but he’s been doing it in spells the entire seven years since his initial diagnosis, and nothing’s happened other than him occasionally going the kind of nuts that the doctor says he’s supposed to get used to.

So fuck it. He fills his Yeti with more coffee, grabs his bag, and hits the road.

It’s an eight minute drive to LeHigh. Ian thinks he might puke when he arrives and pulls into the faculty parking lot right near the dumpster where the burnouts used to smoke between periods.

It’s his third time doing this but his first in over ten years: starting a teaching job at a new school. He has a full week of pre-planning workdays before classes begin Monday the 2nd, and he cringes in advance at the awkward meet-and-greets he’ll have to do.

In theory, he doesn’t hate meeting people, but first weeks at new jobs are never fun, as everybody looks at you like you’re inept until they get to see you in action.

After a deep breath and not a little bit of wondering what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, Ian grabs his things, puts on his mask, and climbs out of the vehicle.

The school looks mostly the same. There’s a fresh mural painted on the brick half-wall that was always popular with the Inuyasha crowd, and the awnings lining the sidewalks are new, the metal roofs and canary yellow poles shiny. But aside from that and some decent landscaping, the rest is exactly as he remembers it.

He enters the building through the front door and hangs a left to the office in order to meet administration in person and get his keys. The principal is Ellen Briggs, a squat, kind-faced woman of about fifty who taught Geometry when Ian was at LeHigh. She wears a black Whitney County Schools mask but pulls it down to her chin whenever she speaks, and on her office wall is a sign from Hobby Lobby that reads, Trust God. Trust the Process.

She’s nice enough and seems to like him, blathering on about how excited they are to have him, asking him to call her by her first name, and giving him her cell phone number. Afterward, she hands him his keys and then walks him around the office, introducing him to the rest of the staff--people whose names he forgets the moment they’re spoken--and showing him where he can get coffee, where he can get his temperature taken every morning, and where he has to clock in by 7:15.

He meets the assistant principal, who was a year ahead of Lip in school. His name is Cody Clark, and all Ian remembers about him is how he used to do donuts in the back parking lot with a bunch of kids who spent their weekends riding four-wheelers on the dirt track just down the road from Wallace. At the Zoom interview, he’d only pretended to remember Ian but had asked about Lip, and Ian mistakenly gets into another How’s Lip doin’? conversation circle with him that morning for five full minutes before Ellen’s able to pull him away to take him to his room.

Funnily enough, Ian’s been placed in Mrs. Lanning’s old room, which he still knows like the back of his hand. She’d retired early due to a health condition after the Fall 2020 semester, and they’d had a long-term sub for the remainder of the year.

Her room’s a mess; not planning to teach again, she’d left all her things behind: shelves and shelves of ancient teaching books, file cabinets full of old student work, copies of worksheets, and outdated shit like transparencies. Her bulletin board is still decorated, the diecut letters spelling out English 3 Buzz Words having been there for so long that the N and O that have fallen off are still visible, the blue paper backing darker where the letters used to be. On everything is an inch of dust, and Ian goes into a sneezing fit after Ellen leaves him.

He spends the entire day clearing the room, not even getting a chance to log into the computer. His neighbor, Jana Garcia--also American Literature--shows him where to get a dolly, and he hauls piles and piles of shit to the dumpster for literally four hours straight and then spends the hours after lunch wiping down every inch of the room with Clorox and Pledge wipes.

Along the way, he meets the rest of the English Department and a smattering of other colleagues. His other neighbor is Todd Davis, who’s about sixty and at the edge of retirement. Across the hall are Taylor Campbell, who’s 27 and was in Debbie’s class, and Connor Simmons, a first year teacher fresh out of college who looks like a high school sophomore dressed up for a mock job interview.

They’re nice. Todd at first seems like a piece of work, but Jana and Taylor playfully give him shit, and he’s receptive in the kind of way grumpy older men are when they’d rather be sipping a beer on their front porch but are forced to hang around millennials instead. He calls Ian kid in a slightly condescending way but then offers to get the hand-truck and help him haul off some of Mrs. Lanning’s junk.

By the time Ian’s home for the day, he’s exhausted enough to take a three hour nap on the couch before he has enough energy to make dinner.

The rest of the week is a little easier. On Tuesday and Wednesday, he decorates his room, hanging his posters and string lights and turning his bulletin board into an inspiration wall where he’ll have his students staple quotes and pictures of things that inspire them. He arranges his desks so that they’re as far apart from each other as physically possible, turns one of Mrs. Lanning’s smaller bookshelves into a class library, and uses black masking tape to make a Daily Goals and Agenda space on the left side of the whiteboard.

There’s a faculty meeting on Thursday, and Ian is formally introduced to the entirety of the staff, which is surprisingly young, over half the teachers under forty. They all clap for him, and a few stop by his room later on to personally introduce themselves. As if reading from a script, the older ones all ask about his family and siblings and whether they may have taught them, and the younger ones ask him where he went to college and why the hell he decided to move back to Greenhill.

At lunch time, he goes into town with Jana, Taylor, and Christian, a 29-year-old science teacher who wastes absolutely zero time sussing out whether Ian’s gay.

“So, are you dating anybody?” he asks as the four of them cram into the back booth at Patsy’s, barely waiting until Ian’s scooted all the way to the wall before opening his mouth.

“Uhhh, no. Not right now.”

“How long have you been in Greenhill?”

Ian picks up his menu and begins to scan the lunch options. “Since Thursday?”

“Any ladies catch your eye yet? Or…guys?”

Taylor reaches over and whacks Christian with her menu. “Oh my God, Chris. He just got here.”

Ian shrugs it off. “No. Neither,” he says, knowing exactly what the other man’s getting at but not giving him the pleasure of making it easy.

Chris hmmms and brings the tips of his steepled fingers to his mouth like Sherlock Holmes. Ian looks at him.

“Neither…?”

He shrugs.

The other man glances down at Ian’s wrist, just a sliver of the Pride flag peeking out from beneath his watchband.

“Are you a supporter, or…?”

“Yeah, I’m a supporter.”

“Of gay people.”

“Yeah?”

Chris narrows his brown eyes at him, and Ian glances back down at the menu.

The other man clears his throat and after a moment, murmurs, “I like your tattoo.”

“Thanks.”

Jana taps her finger against Ian’s menu. “Hey, Ian?”

He looks up.

“Chris wants to know if you’re gay.”

“Shut up, Jana! I do not.” Chris turns to the side and hmmms again. “So are you?”

Ian chuckles, giving in. “Yeah.”

“Oh, thank God!”

The girls across the table laugh, and Chris suddenly goes dramatic like he’d been stifling his true personality until he knew for sure.

“I’ve been waitin’ my whole frickin’ life for this day!”

Ian snorts. “What day?”

“When LeHigh got another gay. I’ve been the only one for seven years.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you!”

Ian smiles down at his menu. Chris is okay. He’s got floppy brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses. He looks very teachery, and his style is a bit 2010: skinny khakis and Mr. Rogers cardigans over plaid button-downs. Not that they’re going to and not that their like sexual orientations means it has to even be an option, but he’s the kind of guy that Ian would date for two months and break up with because he got too clingy, too soon.

He asks him if he’s dating anybody--just because he’s curious--and Chris sighs. “Next question,” he says, causing the whole table to laugh.

The four of them have their sandwiches and pie. Ian finds it nice to hang out with people close enough to his age that he feels like they have similar interests and world-views. He likes Taylor, Jana, and Chris. They’re all a bit bitchy in the same way he can get sometimes, and their personalities mesh nicely with his as they talk about LeHigh and teaching and where they all grew up.

“So you grew up here,” Jana confirms, nodding toward Ian.

“Yeah. Moved to Jacksonville when I was sixteen.”

“Oooh. Have you had any blasts from the past?”

Ian huffs a laugh. “You could say that.”

A bit of an understatement.

He hasn’t seen Mickey at all since that night in his garage, but that doesn’t mean anything. Ian’s gone from seven until four every day, and as tired as he’s been, it isn’t as if he’s hanging around outside after work. Despite sharing a road, it’s easy to miss each other completely.

In the past week, his garden hasn’t been tended. There was hardly a chance that it was anyone but Mickey who’d been maintaining it, but the seven days without tire tracks in the grass seems to spell it out nicely. It was him, and now that Ian’s here, he isn’t planning to visit it anymore.

Ian wouldn’t mind if he did. In fact, it’s a little disheartening that he seems to have dropped it. Ian had gone out to check the garden the day before, but he’d felt awkward enough about touching the crops that he’d just left them as they were--even the ones that were ready for harvest. He can’t very well call Mickey up and suggest he come back and collect his squash, so for now, he’s waiting.

He has to see him again sometime; it’s statistics. Their first meeting didn’t go so hot, and Ian’d felt a little beaten down by it for a few days. He’s mostly over it now. Mickey’s always been unfriendly--even when he was a kid. Ian might’ve changed a lot in seventeen years, but that doesn’t mean the other man has.

Blast from the past, indeed.

“Earth to Ian,” Taylor sing-songs, reaching out and waving her hand in front of his face.

In that moment, he sees her as a little blonde nine-year-old out in the yard with Debbie. She’d somehow kept her front baby teeth until she was ten, two tiny things surrounded by big, crooked adult teeth.

Her teeth are beautiful now after what was probably years of dental work.

“Where’d you go?” she asks, and Ian, snapping back to the present, shrugs.

“Hey,” he says, bent on changing the subject. “Remember when my sister had the babysitting service?”

He doesn’t mean to be a fucking creep. In fact, he isn’t being a creep. He’s checking to see if Ian’s taken back over the garden.

He’s noticed that Ian’s away from early morning until at least after three. Monday and Tuesday, his Jeep had been gone both when Mickey went out for the day and when he came home in the afternoon.

Presumably, Ian’s still a teacher. Teachers have workdays before school starts. Mickey thinks he’s figured it out.

On his way to Beck’s on Thursday, he slows his truck to a crawl and then a stop in front of the Gallagher drive and cuts the engine. He twists his hands around the steering wheel as if wringing its neck and thinks for a long moment, his brain abuzz.

Finally, before he can talk himself out of it, he exits the truck, walks gingerly along the driveway, and follows his usual path around toward the back yard.

Gallagher had mowed the grass over the past weekend, and it already needs doing again, errant blades sticking up every few feet like it’s had a bad haircut. Mickey itches to bring his Cub Cadet over and do it like he did when it got too long before.

Frank would never do it. He’d started once with a little push-mower, and Mickey had found him passed out in the yard when he was driving by on his way to town. He’d gone out there, checked to make sure he wasn’t dead, and then got back in the truck and left again.

Whatever. It’s none of Mickey’s business, and cutting the Gallagher yard ain’t his responsibility. He ignores the tickling blades of grass and wanders out to the garden.

It hasn’t been touched. What’s more, his squash is ready. He places his hands on his hips and stares it down like the answer to all his problems will magically appear.

He can’t harvest it. This garden isn’t his anymore--it never was, really--and if he were to take the squash, it’d be a dead giveaway that he’s been in Ian’s yard like a fucking weirdo.

He sucks his teeth. Fuck.

Annoying-ass Gallagher. Mickey leaves the back yard and for some inexplicable reason, goes and sits on the porch steps to smoke.

He hasn’t seen him at all since that night. He lives far enough back that unless they pass each other on the road or unless Ian’s out in his yard when he drives by, he won’t see him. That’s fine. The redhead can keep his fucking gay pride tattoo away from him.

He doesn’t mean it like that. He doesn’t, and he does. All he knows is that Ian had felt radioactive--like if he got too close Mickey’d get cancer or explode, one of the two.

He rubs his chest and breathes deeply, holding his lit cigarette out to the side. That shit’s happening again. Anxiety, PJ says it is. He used to get it a lot when his dad was on his case, this feeling like his chest was tight and his breaths couldn’t make their way out.

He got it worse than ever that day in the upper pasture, followed by off and on again for months after.

Mickey closes his eyes. Breathes in, then out. He brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a slow drag, as even as he can make it.

Shit.

When the tightness dissipates some, he opens his eyes again and peers around. Ian’s put out a dingy welcome mat and a sunflower wreath. He’s making himself at home.

He’d said he was living here. Not staying. Not visiting. Living. This is his fucking home.

Suddenly feeling like a trespasser, Mickey quickly gets up and smokes his way back to the truck. He gets in, slams the door shut, and after turning the key in the ignition, puts on the radio as loud as it’ll go to drown out the incessant noise in his head.

---
---

Mandy’s off today, so when he enters Beck’s, rather than calling out for his sister, he nods at Nicole, who points toward the back booth where PJ is waiting, a sweet tea and a sweating Pepsi on the table in front of her.

She’s dressed for work in her rich bitch garb--a skirt, blazer, and blouse with a white gold necklace that probably cost more than Mickey’s entire life. PJ’s a realtor specializing in the county’s best and brightest. She’s good at her job and makes a fuck-ton of money to pile on top of the fuck-ton of money her husband brings home, and it’s a goddamn miracle Mickey can stand to be around her when she’s in work mode.

He snags the booth seat across from her and grabs the straw she’d gotten for him.

“How’s business?” he greets, stabbing his straw against the tabletop until it pops through the paper.

“Got a showing in an hour for the Kelly house.”

“Ooooh.”

“Yeah, oooh. Gotta pay for my babies’ college.”

“It’s alllllll up to you.”

“Might be if Nugget doesn’t wanna be a doctor or lawyer. And spoiler alert: he doesn’t.”

“Your husband’s a fuckin’ dick. I wanna beat his ass.”

“Mickey.”

“What.” He stares at her. She stares back until he breaks by rolling his eyes. “Whatever. Where’s the menu?”

They order and make small talk while they wait. PJ fills him in on the kids, and he tells her about a batshit customer he’d had at the garage that week. When the food comes, he digs in, starving, and talks with his mouth full until PJ calls him an animal. He then proceeds to show her his mouthful of ketchupy fries, and she calls him disgusting but laughs at him. He fucking loves her.

“So, hey,” he says, not knowing it’s coming until it does. “D’you remember that ugly ginger kid that used to live on Wallace? The boy.”

It pisses him off that he brings it up because it’s the last thing he wants PJ to know. He’d specifically considered ways in which he could avoid her ever finding out. But it’s his stupid brain thing again--the same one that makes him do shit on impulse before he’s even fully considered the consequences.

PJ stabs into her salad and dips her forkful of lettuce into the little cup of honey mustard. “Yeah. Ian, right? Wasn’t he the one--”

“No. Shut up.” Mickey takes a messy bite of his burger, using it to plug up his mouth before he says anything else.

“What about him?”

“Nothing.”

PJ doesn’t look convinced. She chews her bite of salad, swallows, and reaches for her glass of tea. “Is he okay?”

“I guess.”

She waits him out like usual. She knows that eventually, Mickey’s stupid brain thing is going to lead him astray like it always does.

He swallows his food and sighs. “He moved back.”

It never takes long.

PJ raises her brows, which--unlike her hair--have darkened to a mousy brown. “To Greenhill.”

“To his old house.”

“No!”

Mickey shrugs. “And I think he’s a queer. He’s got like a fuckin’...rainbow flag tattoo.”

PJ sets down her tea and reaches over to tap at his hand. “Is he cute?”

“Gross.”

“Mickey.”

“Fuck no, he ain’t cute. Quit it with that shit. I don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Fine.” PJ picks up her fork again and resumes eating. “Why’d he move back? When’d you talk to him?”

“Guess his dad died so he’s takin’ the house.” Mickey takes another bite of his burger and continues mid-chew. “Saw him last week. He showed up outside the garage.”

“He was lookin’ for you.”

“Told you to quit it. He was askin’ about cell service.”

“Did you give him your number?”

“Why the hell would I give him my number? Quit it with your weird shit.”

PJ rolls her eyes at him, and they continue to eat for a moment in silence. “Hear me out,” she says finally, and Mickey groans.

“No.”

“The concert on the 10th. Ask him to go.”

“You’re crazy. Ain’t no way.”

“Why not?”

“I barely even said two words to the guy the other day. Plus, me and the kid already got tickets. Fuck off.”

“Whatever. I just think it’d be good.”

“Stop tryna push shit on me. It pisses me off.”

“I’m not pushing anything.”

“You’re always pushin’ gay shit on me.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, cut it out. You’ve known me long enough to know that’s not my thing and it ain’t never gonna be my thing.”

PJ sighs. “Yeah, okay.” She puts on her snooty rich girl face but goes back to her salad. “Sorry.”

Mickey shrugs and drags a fry through his mound of ketchup. “Just leave me alone about that shit, P. I was tellin’ you he’s back in town, and that’s all I meant.”

She reaches out and steals one of his fries. “Fine.”

He picks up another fry and dips it in her honey mustard. “Fine.”

They finish up. Mickey sweet-talks Nicole into getting them free vanilla milkshakes because he’s Mandy’s brother, and they hang out until PJ has to leave.

When it’s time, he walks her to her vehicle and leans against the door once she’s in and buckling up.

After cranking the Escalade, PJ rolls down the window. “I am sorry,” she says, reaching out and smoothing back Mickey’s hair.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s fine.”

“I just want you to have that in your life.”

Mickey reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He steps back, lights up, and takes a drag. “Have what you and Hubby have, you mean?”

PJ makes a chuffing sound and breaks eye contact. “I hope you never have what me and Mark have.”

“Huh.”

“I love him. I just…” She rolls her eyes. “He’s a lot right now.”

Mickey smokes for a moment, thinking, before asking, “He ain’t puttin’ hands on you, is he? Or on the kids?”

PJ suddenly makes a face and looks around as if worried someone could’ve overheard. “No. He isn’t. Don’t even say that, Mickey.”

Mickey shrugs. “If he does, I’ll knock his teeth down his throat.”

“He hasn’t, and he won’t. He’s just a loudmouth. Wants everybody to be like him.”

“The kid.” Mickey bites his lip. “Is he…?”

“He’s fine. He just told us last night he wanted to go to art school to be an illustrator, so Mark’s on his case.”

“He any good?”

“Text him. Ask him to send you pictures from his sketchbook.”

“Nah. That’s kinda weird.”

“I give you full permission.”

“Whatever.” Mickey taps off his ash and takes another drag. He blows out the smoke in a slow stream straight up in the air. “I’ll see ya.”

PJ reaches out an arm, and Mickey steps closer. “Love you.”

He lets her pull him in for a quick hug through the window. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Love you, too.”

When the Escalade pulls away, he stands on the sidewalk and finishes his cigarette.

It’s a nice day. Not too hot. Mickey peers around, checking out his surroundings. Main Street is crowded, all the parking spaces up front taken by people getting lunch at Beck’s or Patsy’s. A steady line of cars loops around into the town square behind, seeking out Chick-Fil-A or Taco Bell.

Cracker Barrel’s set to open in October. Mickey gives it five years before they’ve got a Target and a Golden Corral, too.

He doesn’t mind it much; he ain’t one of those backwoods rednecks cursing modernization. It’s just not what he’s used to--this idea that he can drive ten minutes into town and get whatever he needs rather than having to take the interstate thirty miles west to get to Walmart or to pick up a chicken tenders platter from Applebee’s.

Shit changes. He drops his spent cigarette on the sidewalk and presses it out under the toe of his boot. There’s no stopping it.

Ian’s climbing back into Jana’s Camry when he sees him. He’s standing outside a big white SUV, smoking and talking to the blonde woman inside.

They’re on the other side of the street, so Ian can’t get a good look at either of their faces, but he’d recognize Mickey anywhere: the black T-shirt, the dark-wash Wranglers, the muddy boots. He’s leaning against the door--close to the woman like they’re sharing secrets. The back window of the SUV has stick-figure decals of a family of four--two parents, a boy, and a girl--plus a dog. There’s a paw-shaped magnet down below that reads, I ❤️️ My Golden Retriever.

While his new friends buckle up and settle in, arguing over the radio and deciding whether they want to make a coffee run before heading back to the school, Ian watches Mickey smoke and murmur like he’s annoyed by something.

Finally, just as Jana cranks the car, the blonde woman reaches out her arm, and Mickey steps closer and leans his head and shoulders through the window, letting her hug him. It’s intimate enough to make Ian feel like he shouldn’t be witnessing it, the woman’s face tucked into Mickey’s neck and her arms looped around him like she loves him.

Jesus Christ. Ian rolls down his window.

“Hey, you mind if I smoke?” he asks, reaching for his cigarettes and lighter.

Jana peers at him in the rearview mirror. “Knock yourself out.”

He looks away and lights up.

Of course Mickey dates. He’s in his mid-thirties. He may not be married with kids, but he dates and has sex like everybody else. The whole ride up the hill to Kroger for the in-store Starbucks, Ian smokes and imagines Mickey fucking a faceless blonde woman in the missionary position.

Once he has his grande iced coffee, he slurps it and hate-thinks about Mickey getting his dick sucked and what kind of sounds he makes when he comes.

It’s none of his business. Ian doesn’t even know him anymore, and it isn’t fair of him to be weird, even in his thoughts. He smokes another sneaky, prohibited cigarette behind the dumpsters after they arrive back at LeHigh and then goes inside to continue his planning for next week.

---
---

Monday comes much faster than he’d wanted it to. He’d spent most of the weekend at the school because the Argus guy doesn’t come until the 10th, which is frankly fucking ridiculous in this day and age--having an almost three week wait time on an Internet installation.

He’s nervous as hell, but that’s nothing new. Even when he was at Coburn, where he’d taught for ten years, he got jitters on the first day of each semester--wondering about his students, about whether they’d like him, about whether he’d be able to reach them.

When he arrives at the school, he’s running on just a couple hours of sleep, cigarettes, and a pot of coffee. He feels like his skin is jumping.

He has first period off for planning, which has always been his favorite because he can ease into his morning. That morning, it just makes him more nervous, as he has to wait until 9:25 to meet his kids.

At 7:50, he stands out in the hall and watches the students begin to pile into the school after the bell signalling they can make their way to first period. It’s funny the way they all dress now--how everybody dressed when Ian was in high school but more stylish. They’ve got their wide-leg pants and layered shirts, and the girls wear cropped cardigans, flared jeans, and claw clips in their hair.

The mullets are making a comeback, too. The only guys who had them back when Ian was at LeHigh were the rednecks, but now some of the kids who look like Gen-Z’s River Oak royalty have them--a few of them even permed.

Speaking of, Ian sees the kid who’d been at the register at Kroger. His bangs are wavy like he’d tried to curl them back out of his face, and if he didn’t have unnaturally blond eyebrows, it’d look as if he’d come straight out of the early 90s--clothes and all. He’s wearing a baggy, buffalo-check flannel over a black T-shirt, and his straight-leg gray jeans are double-cuffed, rolled high enough that his red socks and the tops of his scuffed Doc Martens are visible.

He’s one of the 20% of kids wearing a mask. The only problem is that it says, in a font small enough that you’d have to be close to read it, Get the fuck out of my face.

Ian’s only able to catch it because Mr. Harris, the history teacher on the other side of Jana, stops him.

“Son, I know you’re not wearing that mask,” Harris says, voice dripping with attitude.

The kid, Alex, stops in his tracks and crosses his arms over his chest. His brows lower, and Ian can tell he’s about to play dumb.

“What?” he asks, shifting on his feet. “I don’t wanna get COVID.”

“Get to the office. Get yourself a new one.”

“I like this one.”

“Son, there is a dress code.”

“Well, you can’t see my underwear, so I think I’m good.”

“Son.”

Alex shakes out his hair. “Not your son.” He turns to walk away. “Have a great day, Mr. Harris.”

Todd, having been watching this, steps in. “Alex, you have five seconds to get your butt to the office.”

The kid turns back around and adjusts the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. “What’s the problem? I’m wearing a freakin’ mask! Who cares what it says?”

“You ain’t playing dumb with me. Get to the office.”

“‘Ain’t’ is improper grammar, Mr. Davis. You’re an English teacher. You should know that.”

Rather than continue to argue, Todd steps back into his classroom, and Ian peeks around to see him picking up his phone and dialing zero.

“Hey, I know you,” Alex says, and Ian turns to find he’s talking to him. “What’s your name?”

“Uhhh, Mr. Gallagher,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s your name?”

“Alex.” The kid nods at him. Though he has to know the assistant principal’s about to come get his ass, he doesn’t appear to care, nor does he apparently plan to go anywhere.

Ian narrows his eyes at him. “Why’d you wear that mask? You had to have known you were gonna get in trouble.”

Alex points a finger at him and makes a clicking sound with his mouth. “Last year, I went all day with a shirt that said No Fucks Given and didn’t get in trouble.”

Jana chuffs. “It was COVID. I don’t think anybody cared about anything. We were just glad to not be virtual anymore.”

“It’s still COVID.” Alex pulls his mask down and shows Jana his exaggerated, gotcha! grin. The woman playfully tells him to get his butt to the office and tell Mr. Clark he’s sorry.

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Nobody said you’re afraid of him. You better be afraid of your dad, though.”

“My dad can kiss my ass.” Alex rolls his eyes but does, in fact, start making his way to the office. “Bye, Mrs. Garcia. Do I have you this year?”

Jana nudges Ian. “I think you have Mr. Gallagher next semester.”

“I’m gonna try to switch in.”

“My class is full.”

“I’m still gonna try.”

“Bye, Alex.”

The kid pulls his mask down again to stick his tongue out at her and then turns to leave. Jana breathes an exasperated sigh.

“Your class totally isn’t full,” Ian comments.

“Nah.” The woman chuckles. “I had him for World Lit last year. It’s somebody else’s turn.”

“Who is he?”

“Alex Curran.”

Ian’s eyes go wide. “Wait. Who’s his dad?”

“Mark Curran. He’s the lawyer on all the billboards as you’re driving out of town.”

“No shit. I went to school with him.”

“Oh yeah?” Jana shrugs. “I go to church with his whole family. Alex isn’t a bad kid. Used to be the sweetest little boy.”

“What happened?”

“He’s rebelling. His dad’s Lawyer Mark. He’s a B/C-student who dresses the way he does. Those things don’t mesh.”

Ian nods. “Guess not.”

The fact that this kid is the spawn of the richest, most popular family who’s ever walked the halls of LeHigh is surreal. Mark was the jockiest of jocks and Kimbrel was a cheerleader who always smelled like Cucumber Melon body spray. Alex wears a mask to school featuring the F-word and expects that to be okay.

Jana taps his shoulder. “Give him a chance. He tries to pull the dad card all the time, but it’s posturing. He’s a funny kid once you get to know him, and he has a good heart.”

If Ian has him next semester, he guesses he’ll find out.

---

The day passes smoothly. He has a good schedule, which is rare for the new kid in town. He has American Lit, 9th Grade Lit, lunch, then American Lit again.

His freshmen are babies, most of the boys still pre-pubescent and tiny with middle schooler energy, but they’re all nervous to start high school after their last normal year being seventh grade, and Ian’s able to be a reassuring voice.

His juniors have a good sense of humor and take well to his goofy teaching style. A girl in his fourth period asks out loud if he has a wife and kids, and he has one of those moments where he’s not sure how much to say just yet. Ultimately, he decides to leave it at “Nope” and figures they’ll end up circling back to it eventually.

He thinks he can officially check his first day off as a success. He calls Lip on his way home, then stops at Old Joe’s to text the Gallagher groupchat that he’s still alive and had a decent first day on the job.

He waits for a while, but nobody replies, so he cranks the Jeep and heads on up the road toward the house.

---

The rest of the week passes without a hitch. He starts The Crucible with his juniors and The Odyssey with his freshmen. By Wednesday, he’s able to get more than three hours of sleep at night, his nerves calming, and that immediately boosts his mood. He comes home from work on Thursday and feels good enough to go jogging.

He’s careful not to approach the Milkovich house, as once he rounds the curve, he’s basically in their driveway. But he runs up to the curve and then back down to the mailboxes at the end of Wallace three times for a total of about six miles.

It feels nice. He loves moving his body--keeping active and fit. If he had wifi or data, he’d look into a gym, but for now, he’s just got his road.

After he’s done and rested, he goes back outside with a plastic shopping bag and picks the squash in the garden, filling the bag to the brim. By now, it’s clear Mickey isn’t coming back, and though it feels like he’s overstepping, there’s no point in letting perfectly good gourds go to waste. When he’s done, he goes back inside, knots the bag, and sets it in the fridge for later before grabbing a beer and heading into the living room to watch TV.

He feels good.

---

Things change on Friday.

It’s Taylor’s week for after school detention duty, but she has a date in Atlanta. With only a week on the job, Ian’s still in boss-pleaser mode, so he volunteers to cover for her.

At LeHigh, every teacher is assigned a week during the school year where they have to host detention students until four. From what Ian’s heard, it’s usually easy as pie. The only rule is that the kids have to be silent and can’t be on their phones; other than that, they’re free to sit quietly, do work, be on their Chromebook, or sleep.

Ian waits at the door after the 3:00 bell as the Friday detention kids filter in. He has nine students on his list, including A. Curran, who is doing his last day of a five day sentence for both breaking dress code and disrespecting two teachers.

Of course Alex would be the last to arrive, showing up at 3:07 with a pair of headphones on, music blaring so loudly Ian can hear the tinny beat of it from across the room before the kid turns it off. He’s dressed in a Velvet Underground banana T-shirt, jeans, and black low-top Converse with L and R written on the toes in Sharpie.

“You’re late, bud,” Ian comments, checking his name off the list.

Alex rolls his eyes and mumbles, “Send me to detention, then,” causing the rest of the kids to snicker.

Choosing to ignore that, Ian sits down behind his computer and starts working on his lesson plans for Monday. He looks up periodically to make sure nobody’s on their phone. For the most part, with the exception of a few kids he has to nod at to put their devices back in their pocket, everyone’s obedient. That is until Ian’s typing up a Google Slides presentation to aid Monday’s mass hysteria activity and he hears a sudden, one-second blare of music.

The class snorts, and Ian looks up to find everybody looking at Alex, who’s staring at his lap.

“Yo. Alex.” The kid looks up at him. “Phone away, please.”

Alex sighs but does as he’s told, lifting up so he can put it in his pocket.

Ian keeps an eye on him after that, paying attention to his every movement. The boy digs around in his backpack unnecessarily loudly for a full minute and eventually pulls out a sketchbook and pencil. He never opens it, though, just sits there and glances around the room, reading Ian’s Wall of Inspiration.

Five minutes later, he’s either looking at his dick or he has his phone out again.

“Alex,” Ian says evenly, voice soft enough to not be too harsh. He doesn’t personally give a fuck about the kids being on their phones, but rules are rules, and if he allows it, all the other teachers will have a hard time enforcing it in the future.

“I’m not doing anything.”

Ian sighs. “You’ve got your phone out.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Put it away. You have one more chance, and then I’m takin’ it.”

The kid doesn’t move his phone from his lap but puts his head down on his desk in response. Fine. Ian lets that be okay. He picks up his coffee, unhooks his mask, and takes a heavy swallow.

And everything would’ve been totally okay if Alex didn’t do it again with the sound on. Ian’d even half-decided that he was going to ignore him for the rest of the hour rather than call him down again.

But then Alex plays a video at full volume, and Ian stands.

“Bring it here, Alex. What’re you tryna do?”

“I’m not doin’ anything.”

“Bring me your phone.”

Alex groans like a middle schooler being told to put away his video games and climbs out of his desk with such ferocity that he drags it with him about six inches.

“Fuck!” he yells loudly, kicking the leg of it until it moves a foot in the opposite direction.

Jesus Christ. Now Ian has to address that shit. He sighs.

“In the hall,” he says, tired, pointing toward the door.

Alex makes a what the fuck? face and holds out his hands, his iPhone clutched in his right. “I’m not goin’ out in the hall.”

“In the hall. I’m not askin’ you again.”

“Then don’t ask me.”

Ian stares at him, dead-eyed, until the kid finally makes a noise like a petulant toddler and stomps toward the door.

In the hall, Ian closes the door. He looks Alex in the eye.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Alex shrugs. “You’re bein’ a dick.”

“Dude. I’m a teacher. You can’t say that to me.”

“Why not? I can if you’re bein’ a dick.”

“You can’t say it for the same reason you can’t be on your phone during detention and also can’t yell the F-word.”

“Why can’t I be on my phone? If Landon can sleep, I can watch Netflix with subtitles. You’re an English teacher. It’s basically reading.”

It’s a solid point, but unfortunately, that’s not how shit works. Ian crosses his arms over his chest. “Listen. It’s a school rule that I didn’t make but that I’ve gotta enforce. So you can either go back in there and sit quietly for the next twenty minutes, or I can call your dad. Your choice.”

Alex makes a chuffing sound and tosses his hair the way he’d done before he’d talked back to Harris Monday morning. “Do it. Call my dad. Mark Curran. Pretty sure he’s not gonna like the fact that the school’s lettin’ us literally sleep during detention but won’t let us read on our phones.”

Two can play that game. Ian pulls his iPhone out of his back pocket. “Okay, cool. What’s his number?”

Alex huffs like he wasn’t expecting that, his bleached brows wrinkling. His natural mousy-brown hairs are already starting to grow in, giving them a strange, two-toned look.

“I dunno,” he says. “I don’t know his number by heart.”

Ian nods toward his phone. “You’ve got him in your contacts. Look it up.”

Alex makes another displeased sound before unlocking his phone. Ian watches him open his contacts and scroll down to “Dad.” But before he taps the entry to bring up the number, he suddenly locks his phone again, shoves it in his pocket, and grabs the door handle.

“You’re such a dick,” he whispers before shoving the door open and going back to his desk.

Ian would reprimand him for that, but well, he’s too proud of himself. He follows Alex in and stands at the front of the class until detention’s over. The kid doesn’t make a grab for his phone even once.

---
---

He spends the weekend working on the house. He rents a steam cleaner and does all the furniture, rugs, and the carpeting in the upstairs bedrooms. On Sunday, he goes over the lawn again with the shitty push-mower, cursing every step.

He’s taking a break, sitting on the porch with a gallon jug of water and a cigarette when he sees that big white SUV pass by. Mickey must be dating that woman. Ian blows out a breath and feels the need to smoke down the whole pack in his hand.

It bothers him how much he gives a shit. He shouldn’t. He hasn’t even spoken to the man in two weeks, and that one time had been the first in seventeen years.

The thing is, it’s just like when he was a kid, this interest in Mickey Milkovich. The two of them never once dated or hugged or held hands or even admitted they liked each other, yet Ian remembers hearing nothing but white noise when he found out Mickey had a girlfriend--when he saw he had hickeys up and down his neck.

This time, he keeps imagining Mickey having sex with that blonde woman in ridiculously graphic ways, and it pisses him off.

He probably needs to get laid.

He’d fucked a guy he met on Grindr three nights before he left for Greenhill. It was good. Satisfying. The guy was hot and made nice noises. But it wasn’t really enough to tide him over for two weeks.

Ian has a moderately high sex drive. If he had a choice in the matter, he’d get it at least five times a week. He could if he wanted, he guesses. There’s always Grindr, and he never has trouble finding a hook-up. He just has to be careful these days because he doesn’t want to accidentally fuck the dad or older brother of one of his students. That’s why he always drives out of town, and he can’t feasibly drive an hour there and back every night after work.

A secondary factor right now is that he also doesn’t have wifi or data, so there’s no porn to use when he jerks off. For the past couple weeks, he’s been getting off to his memories alone, and that’s simply not as good.

Ian leans back, lying down on the porch with his legs stretched over the stairs. He smokes.

Whatever. Maybe he’ll get a boyfriend one day. At least Tuesday he’ll be able to watch Hot Roommate Bareback Fuck and get off to a guy taking a load up his ass.

PJ brings Bodie by to drop off the M&M brownies she’d made him for his birthday.

“Hey, hey, Princess Peach,” Mickey greets, letting the two of them into the house and accepting a hug from the kid.

She’s ten now and one of those little girls who looks stereotypically smart and also like she’s going to grow up to be a vegan. She favors the Currans rather than Watsons looks-wise, her hair long, stick-straight, and dark brown. She wears thick-rimmed glasses, has a smattering of dark freckles across the bridge of her nose, and braces with pink bands. One of the funniest things about her is that she takes out her hearing aids whenever she doesn’t want to listen to you. She’s gotten in trouble multiple times for taking them out during math class simply because her teacher was boring. Mickey thinks she’s a badass.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Mick,” she says, handing him the Tupperware container of brownies on which is taped a card with his name on it in curled, girly handwriting.

“Wrong day,” he jokes. “My birthday ain’t ‘til Tuesday.”

She blows a raspberry at him, and he affectionately flicks her nose.

She wants to see Etta’s twins, so Mickey and PJ grab brownies and walk with her out to the pasture, hanging back while she runs off.

Mickey chuckles as he watches her long braid fly behind her. “You didn’t have to do this shit,” he comments before taking a bite of brownie.

“I didn’t do anything. It’s all her.”

“Sure.”

PJ bumps him with her shoulder. “Us Currans love you. What can we say.”

“Mmhm.” Mickey wraps his arm around her and watches Bodie lean over the fence in the distance to watch the calves run.

“Did you text him?” PJ asks after a long moment, her mouth full of brownie.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“He doesn’t talk to me other than to tell me something’s not fair or to complain about Mark.”

Mickey presses his lips together. He’d never intended to follow PJ’s direction, but he’d ended up texting him on Wednesday, the decision coming after he’d been looking through his own sketchbook--the nice, leatherbound one Mandy’d got him for his 18th birthday and that he keeps in a box under his bed.

Mickey’d always enjoyed drawing, though he was never that great at it. Maybe if he’d practiced more or had passed enough classes in school to take a visual art elective one semester. Now, at days shy of 35, it’s been probably ten years since he’s sat down to draw anything. He lost a lot of desire for that kind of shit the older he got.

It was around the time Terry got locked up and his brothers flew the coop. Suddenly, he had the cows and the garage to take care of, and there wasn’t a whole lot of time for mediocre landscape drawings in an overpriced sketchbook.

It was kind of nice that PJ’s kid was into that, though. Mickey’d texted him on a whim, writing,

Whats this I hear about you bein Picasso

and the kid had texted back,

nahhh haha who said

They’d texted back and forth for a few minutes, and eventually, Mickey’d received a handful of pictures from the kid’s sketchbook. He’d drawn caricature type pictures of his family members, and they were fucking great. He’d drawn Mark with a huge head, stern expression, and tiny body. PJ had big doe eyes and a wedding ring with a rock so heavy it was weighing down her hand. Boden’s was the best. She was a beanpole with massive glasses and big teeth with braces, and she was pointing her middle finger straight ahead in the ASL sign for fuck you.

Mickey turns to PJ. “He’s fuckin’ good at that shit.”

She laughs. “Did he show you the one he did of me? Flattering, huh? Love that he sees me that way.”

“That’s just his way of sayin’ the only good quality Mark has is his money. Otherwise, he wouldn’t’a got you.”

“Either way, I’m still a gold-digger in his eyes.”

“Can’t be a gold-digger if you already got your own gold.” Mickey shrugs. “Class-obsessed, maybe.”

PJ smacks him.

“What?” Mickey laughs and crams the rest of his brownie in his mouth. “It’s true. Otherwise, you woulda married me.”

“Oh, we would’ve made a great pair. Can you imagine?”

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have wanted to spend your days as a farmer's wife.”

“Yeah, what farmer?”

“Fuck you. I’m a farmer.”

“Okay.”

“I woulda even let you have sex with me once a year on your birthday.”

“Mickey, I would literally die if I had to have sex with you.”

Mickey balks. “Bitch, why? I didn’t hear any complaints when we were in high school.”

“Eew.” PJ shrugs his arm off her shoulders and comes to stand in front of him. “It’d be like sleeping with my brother.”

“Woulda been a good arrangement, though.” Mickey pulls his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taps one out, and presses it between his lips. “That way I wouldn’t have to use fuckin’...” He lights up. “...Tinder.”

PJ allows him a drag before holding out her fingers. He gives her the cigarette and then takes another out of the pack.

“Sure,” she says, turning her back on the field behind her so Boden won’t catch her mom smoking. “But if we were married, you wouldn’t be able to seduce Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey lightly kicks her shin. “What’s wrong with you? Told you to quit that shit.”

She smiles and shrugs a shoulder as she smokes. “That’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Fine.”

They smoke the rest of their cigarettes in silence.

---

Bodie and PJ leave at four, and Mickey has a beer and another brownie while standing in the kitchen.

He sticks the unopened birthday card to his fridge door so he won’t forget to open it on Tuesday and then thinks about what PJ had said.

Seduce Ian Gallagher.

She pisses him off so much sometimes. Jesus Christ. There’s no way in hell he could ever do that shit. He knows it and she knows it, yet there she goes bringing it up again.

He never should’ve told her. He hates himself for doing it--for reaching out about it because in the end, he needed somebody to talk to about the fact that his biggest nightmare was back.

He forgoes the rest of his beer in favor of the jar of moonshine he’d bought from Jim Tomkins last weekend. It tastes like straight hand sanitizer and makes him gag, but he’s getting stuck in his head, and he needs something stronger than a Bud and a brownie with peanut M&Ms to get him back out again.

Ian’s out at the end of the driveway, finishing up mowing the last patch of grass, when the white SUV comes back by.

He’s close enough now to see it’s the blonde woman again--this time with a little girl in the passenger’s seat. He squints at the vehicle but not enough to be obvious, he hopes, and the next thing he knows, it’s slowing to a stop. The passenger side window rolls down.

Curious, he cuts off the mower and walks over, swiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

A country song by a female artist is playing low on the stereo, and the woman reaches out and cuts it off completely when Ian approaches.

“Hey!” she greets, giving him a bright, bleached-white smile.

It’s then that he recognizes her. It’s PJ Watson. She’s barely changed, her skin as wrinkle-free as it was when she was eighteen save for three shallow lines in the center of her forehead when she grins.

Ian smiles back. “PJ, right?”

“You remember!”

“Yeah, of course.”

“What brings you back? Mickey told me you’d moved in.” She gestures toward the house behind him.

“Uhhh, yeah. Just…” He shrugs. “Normal stuff, I guess. My dad died, and the house was empty.”

“Sorry to hear that.” PJ looks genuinely sympathetic, and Ian wishes she wouldn’t.

“Don’t be,” he says. “He wasn’t a great guy.”

PJ hums. “Fair enough.”

He turns his attention to the little girl. She’s cute. Dark-headed with big blue eyes. There are hearing aids in both of her ears, and in her lobes are earrings shaped like pink strawberries.

Dark hair. Blue eyes. No fucking way.

Facially, she looks nothing like Mickey, but the coloring is certainly not PJ. In that moment, Ian scans his brain to remember the exact shade of Mandy’s hair when they were kids--before she started dying it black. It was dark brown, wasn’t it? Darker than Iggy’s and Colin’s but a couple shades lighter than Mickey’s. He blows out a breath.

“Uh, hey,” he says to her. “What’s your name?”

The kid studies him like she’s trying to figure him out. Finally, she says, “Boden.”

He glances at PJ. “Cool name.”

The woman thanks him, and Ian watches her fidget with the knob on the AC. He decides that it’d be too weird to ask Boden’s last name, so instead, he steps back away from the window and swipes the sweat once more off his forehead.

“Well, it’s good to see you again,” PJ says, giving him a wave. “We better head out.” She smiles. “You working anywhere?”

“I teach English at LeHigh.”

“Oh yeah?” PJ lets her foot off the brake just enough for the SUV to tick forward an inch. “Well, I’ve got one there, so watch out for him.”

In his fluster, rather than asking the kid’s name, Ian just says, “I will,” and she winks at him and waves again.

“You have a good day,” she says in lieu of goodbye. “And get some water. It’s blazing out here.”

He waves back as she leaves, a thousand questions running through his mind.

So Mickey might have married PJ after all, and they might have a kid. Ian thinks of the decal on the back of the SUV. They might have two kids? Is Mickey a fucking stick figure man on the back of a basic white woman’s Escalade?

It was literally everything he’d predicted and yet it still seems unbelievable. Ian sits down in the grass beside the lawn mower and pulls his knees to his chest.

What the fuck?

---
---

Somehow, Ian finds himself tricked into co-advising the school service club called LeHigh Helping Hands. He’d been thinking of maybe running Pride, but faculty aren’t allowed to start clubs--just advise the ones commissioned by students--and it’s far too early in the semester for him to know of any queer kids yet.

Harris had sent out an email Friday morning asking if any of the newbie teachers wanted to help out, and Ian had emailed him back for the same reason he’d volunteered to cover Taylor’s detention duty.

Harris had apparently told Jana about it, as she corners Ian in his room Monday morning and tells him he’s in trouble.

“Great,” he says, backing away from her. “What’s wrong with the club?”

She laughs. “Nothing. The club’s great. It’s just a lot of responsibility, and Harris is gonna try to put it all on you. Just watch. He’s been trying to offload that club for years.”

Ian sighs.

Their first meeting is Tuesday, and Harris volunteers Ian’s room for it without asking, the afternoon announcements declaring the LeHigh Helping Hands will meet in Mr. Gallagher’s room, E-7, at 3:05.

Jana texts him, What did I say? 😉, and Ian wonders whether it’s too soon in their friendship to send her back a middle finger emoji.

---

At the meeting, he’s surprised as hell to see that Alex Curran is one of the first kids in the room. The boy walks immediately to the desk in the back corner and sits down.

Ian stands in front of his teacher desk and waves at him. “How’s it goin’, Alex?”

The kid takes out a sketchbook and pencil and rolls his eyes. “Don’t get your panties in a wad,” he says. “I’m forced to be here.”

Ian presses his lips into a straight line. “Well. Glad you’re here, anyway.”

Alex makes a vaguely bored sound and opens his sketchbook. His mask today says, If you can read this, you’re too close, and the font is deliberately large so it can be read across the room.

---

Harris is a jackass. He’s lazy and corny in the sort of way that annoys teenagers rather than endears them. For Club Meeting #1, he stands beside Ian with his mask beneath his chin and sweats and spits as he tells the students about Helping Hands and asks for service project ideas without writing any of them down. Feeling useless, Ian scampers over to his computer, projects a Google Doc, and starts recording in bulleted form what the kids say.

The meeting lasts for about thirty minutes, and in total, 27 kids show up. Ian writes down all of their names before they leave and gives each of them a piece of candy from his class treat basket in thanks. On his way out, Harris takes a handful of candy for himself and nods at Ian.

“So you got that list, huh?” he asks, unwrapping a mini Twix.

Ian stares at him. “Yeah?”

“Since you’re new, I’ll let you pick whatever you want to start with, and we’ll do it next meeting.”

It’s a dirty trick. Ian scans his eyes over the projected list, knowing he’s going to have to be the one to gather all the materials for whatever he decides. He takes a deep breath.

“Thanks, Mr. Harris,” he says, choosing to be a team player for the sake of his job.

Harris winks at him and pats him hard on the shoulder. “Thanks, Andy. See you tomorrow.”

Ian narrows his eyes at his back as he watches him leave.

Who the fuck is Andy?

---
---

When he gets home, Dave--the Internet guy--is waiting on him, thank God. He’s a good ole boy--plump, red-faced, and in a chambray button-down with sweat rings around his armpits and Argus Communications embroidered in red on the pocket.

Turns out, the installation will take at least an hour and requires access to both the interior and exterior of the house. Ian mixes up some pink Country Time like a southern housewife and gives him a pitcher and a glass while he works.

---

It’s just after five by the time he’s done, and Ian could jump for joy when he’s finally able to connect his phone to the Internet, make calls, and send and receive text messages. In celebration, he sits out on the porch when Dave leaves and FaceTimes Lip.

“Alright, little brother,” Lip greets from where he sits on his couch, four-year-old Amelia on his knee and ten-year-old Freddie standing behind him, his head resting on his dad’s shoulder.

Ian waves and announces, “I have entered the digital age.”

“Good for you, man.”

“So good for me.”

He talks to his brother, niece, and nephew for ten minutes, giving them a walking tour of the house and grounds. When they’re done, they hang up and then Lip calls him back the old fashioned way. Ian goes back out to the porch, smokes, and drinks a beer while they talk. Based on the sounds of his brother’s breaths and swallows, he can tell he’s doing the same down in Jacksonville.

“Doin’ okay?” Lip asks, voice heavy with smoke.

“Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Ian takes a drag off his own cigarette. “But can I tell you something crazy?”

“Shoot.”

“I think Mickey and PJ Watson are like, married or something. Or were, at least. I don’t think they live together.”

“The fuck.”

“Yeah.” Ian laughs. “I’m not sure, but she visits him, and I saw them hugging. You know they dated back when we were kids.”

“Think I remember somethin’ like that.”

“Oh, oh, oh.” Ian takes another drag and quickly blows away the smoke. “And I think they have two kids.”

“No way PJ Watson let a Milkovich blow his load in her.”

“I’m pretty sure. There was this little girl in PJ’s SUV the other day. Had hair kinda like Mandy’s used to look.”

“You said ‘two.’”

“And PJ said she has a son at LeHigh. Also, the stick figures on her back window show two kids, a mom, and a dad.”

Lip is silent for a long time, and Ian taps his foot impatiently while he waits.

Finally, with a staticky sigh, his brother asks, “You’re on your meds, right?”

“Oh, fuck off, Lip.” Ian tosses his cigarette off the porch and then chases it down, crushing it out under the toe of his sneaker before it catches the grass on fire. “Yes. I am. Twice a day, every day.”

“You just…” A beat. “You’re talkin’ kinda fast.”

“So?”

“And you sound kinda like Detective Ian.”

“Fuck off again.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

Ian wishes he hadn’t killed his cigarette. He takes out another and lights up, sitting back down on the top porch step.

Whatever. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, feeling the smoke fill his lungs.

“I’ve got Internet, now, so I’ll work on gettin’ a doctor.”

“Good.”

“I’m not manic, though. Really.”

He isn’t. Maybe he’s a little elevated above baseline, but nothing extreme. He’s always either slightly above or slightly below, days when he’s perfectly evened out few and far between.

Ian sniffs. Swallows. “Don’t text Fiona.”

“I never do.”

“I know.”

Lip blows out a breath. “I think you should call her sometime, though.”

“I message her in the groupchat.”

“You message all of us in the groupchat.” There’s a wet sound--lips against the mouth of a beer bottle. “‘Hey guys. I’m alive. House is good. Work’s good. Miss you,’” Lip recites.

“Nobody replied to that.”

“Yeah. They’re fuckin’ tired of it.”

“Fuck off, Lip.” Ian stands, drops and puts out his second unfinished cigarette, and runs a hand over his face. He descends the porch stairs and starts pacing around the yard instead, kicking at piles of cut grass.

“Just call Fiona. Hell, call Carl.”

“Why would I call Carl?”

Lip makes a frustrated noise. “Just call anybody who isn’t me. Let ‘em know you’re alright.” He blows out a breath. “I can’t keep relayin’ shit, y’know.”

“You’re not s’posed to be relayin’ anything.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t voluntarily, but they ask whenever I see them.”

Ian chews his thumbnail, ripping it down to the quick without even realizing until it stings so bad he has to pull it away from his mouth to check if it’s bleeding. It isn’t. He rips it the rest of the way off and spits it out.

“Look, Ian.” Lips voice is low and serious. “I know you don’t wanna hear this, and I know you’ve got a different view on all of it.”

Ian closes his eyes.

“But that shit last summer was fuckin’ scary. For everybody.” A beat. “And I’m not tellin’ you how to feel. Whatever you wanna feel’s fine, even if you wanna think we’re all traitor assholes who put you in the looney bin and caused you to do what you did. That’s okay.” Lip takes a drink, the liquid gulping down as he swallows. “But you need to let your sisters give a shit about you right now because if you don’t, I guarantee you they’re gonna stop trying.”

“Maybe I want them to stop trying.”

“You don’t want them to stop.”

Ian sits down in the grass, right where he stands. His eyes water. His brother thinks he’s being a selfish, inconsiderate asshole, and maybe he is. It just feels like a fuck-ton of responsibility is being placed on him to heal the situation, and try as he might, in the soundest of mind he’s been in a while, he can’t see how that’s fair.

He blows out a breath, and after a moment of thinking, murmurs, “I just called to tell you I have wifi now, so. I’m gonna go.”

“Ian.”

“I’m gonna go, Lip.”

Neither of them hang up. They listen to each other breathe for the longest time before Lip whispers, “Hey.”

“What.”

“I love you. We all fuckin’ love your crazy ass.”

“You’re a dick.”

Lip chuckles. “Call me whenever,” he says after he’s settled. “Call Fiona. Call Carl. See what kinda pig bullshit he’s up to.”

Ian huffs. “You don’t tell me to call Debs.”

“Who the fuck wants to call Debs?”

He laughs, then, and it feels good in his belly.

He probably won’t call them, but it’s fine to let Lip think he will. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it.”

They say goodbye. After he ends the call, Ian tosses his phone into the grass beside him and lies back, stretching out on the ground and staring up at the tree above. Its branches are massive, long and sprawling, reaching all the way to the house as if searching for a connection.

He’ll eventually need to hire someone to cut them; otherwise, they’re liable to grow through the upstairs windows.

Mickey doesn’t get around to opening the birthday card until he’s about to leave to meet PJ and the kid in the McDonald’s parking lot.

He pops open a can of Pepsi, chugs it down, and then burps loudly as he uses his pocket knife to slash open the envelope.

Inside is a store-bought card featuring a monkey holding two bunches of bananas, which are stuck to short springs and bounce with the slightest movement. With a fond eye roll, Mickey opens it up and reads the inside.

It’s your birthday! it says. Go bananas!

We love you, Mickey, PJ’s written below. Have a day as wonderful as you are.

And beneath that, they’ve all written their names in their own varied styles of handwriting:

PJ in impeccable cursive.

Boden in sloppy, swirly, girly print.

Aleks in all caps, perfect like a stencil.

---

On his way past the Gallagher house, he sees Ian lying on his back in the grass under the big oak tree. He slows the truck to a stop and rolls down his window, wondering if he’s going to have to call the motherfucker’s name to see if he’s still alive. It reminds him of Frank, konked out beside the push-mower, only Ian’s death seems a little less likely.

But no. After not ten seconds of the other man idling, Ian sits up and looks at him.

There’s too long a distance between them for Mickey to see his face, but he can tell his hair’s a wreck like he’s been running his hands through it.

He doesn’t know what to do, the most bizarre amount of adrenaline suddenly coursing through his veins.

After a moment of thinking about it, he swallows and does the only thing that comes to mind now that he knows Gallagher hasn’t kicked the bucket: he rolls his window back up and floors it, his tires spinning in the gravel and a cloud of dust forming in his wake.

Ian probably thinks he’s a lunatic. Whatever. It’s also a lunatic thing to lie in the grass like you’re dead.

---

When he reaches McDonald’s, PJ and Aleks are already there, backed into a space in the shade with their windows down. The kid’s feet are up on the dash, crossed at the ankles, and his mother smacks them down when she sees Mickey pull in.

It feels fucking shady what they’re doing--like they’re attempting a drug deal in broad daylight. It is kind of the same thing, really. Mark’d probably try to call the cops if he found out what was going on.

PJ hugs Aleks inside the car, and Mickey can hear her through the open windows telling him to stay safe and text her when they get there.

“Hey,” she calls to Mickey as her son opens the Escalade door and slides out. “You brought your vaccination card, right?”

Mickey pats at his wallet through the pocket of his jeans. “Got it.”

“Tickets?”

“On my phone.”

“License?”

Mickey rolls his eyes and shoos her with his hand. “Bye, Mom,” he says, popping open the passenger door for Aleks, who climbs in.

Once the two of them are safely ensconced in the truck, Mickey rolls up the window, turning PJ’s incessant questions into nothing but mouth movements. Aleks laughs and holds up a peace sign, which is met with a blown kiss.

Mickey pulls out of the parking space and loops around McDonald’s, stopping at the entrance to wait for traffic to pass. He glances over.

“The fuck happened to your brows, Nugget? You look like Uncle Fester.”

Aleks hits buttons on the radio until he lands on the classic rock station. “Dick.”

Mickey chuckles. The kid’s got good hair, his mullet wavy and stylish without looking like a costume wig, though he had liked it better when it was his natural brown. But the eyebrows are unquestionably…a choice. He doesn’t quite know what to make of them, as they change the appearance of his entire face. He doesn’t look like himself.

“So are you gonna keep ‘em?” Mickey asks, hinting but not trying to be pushy, turning up the volume on “Baba O’Riley'' until the windows rattle.

Aleks shrugs. “Mom cried when she saw ‘em.”

“‘Cause you look like somebody else’s kid.”

“Maybe I’ll keep ‘em, maybe I’ll let ‘em grow out.”

“You do you.” It ain’t Mickey’s job to police what the kid decides to do with his own body. He pulls out onto Main Street and then tosses him his phone. “GPS.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

---

“So how much trouble would you be in if Mark found out about this?” Mickey asks once they’re on the interstate making their way toward Atlanta.

Aleks looks up from where he’s been playing on his phone. “Grounded for the rest of my life.”

“Even if your mom gave you permission?”

“Ehhh, I wouldn’t rat her out.”

“No way would she let you take the fall.”

“No, but I’d make it look like she was lying to try to protect me.”

Mickey presses his lips together. He shouldn’t bring up Mark. He can’t trust himself to be neutral like he should be, and unintentional or not, he knows everything always comes out as him egging Aleks on and subtly encouraging his dislike of him. That’s a shitty thing to do.

He wrings the steering wheel in his hands until he can hear the squeak of it. “She do that a lot?” he asks. “Lie to protect you?”

Aleks leans back in his seat and nods. “‘Cause Dad hates me.”

“He don’t hate you.”

“Nah. He does.” The kid shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I do everything wrong. I’m not like him.”

“Yeah.” Mickey sniffs and leans against the side window, watching the asphalt as they speed along. “That don’t mean you’re doin’ everything wrong, though.”

“I dunno.”

“And like…” He looks away, nervous. After a moment, he manages to cringe his way through, “There’s stuff you prob’ly do, y’know, that’s totally normal and not like, gross or weird or--”

“What’re you talking about?”

Mickey presses his lips together and inhales deeply through his nose. “Stuff you look at on your phone, or--”

“Oh my God. Shut up.” Aleks pretends to gag. “I hate my mother.”

“Well, she wanted me to say that to you, so.”

“Fuck, that’s even worse.”

“Probably.” Mickey trains his eyes on the road and twiddles his fingers against the steering wheel. He takes a deep breath, figuring he should at least cover the rest of it since he went this far.

“She’s right, though,” he says, not looking at the kid.

“Mickey, you really don’t gotta tell me this stuff.”

“And I dunno what you were lookin’ at exactly, and I don’t wanna know, but it prob’ly wasn’t like, realistic, so don’t think that’s how you’re s’posed to do it all the time or that that’s what people are always like during the whole…thing...’cause it ain’t always like that, and people are into different stuff, and--”

“Oooooh my God. Mickey, you gotta shut up.”

“And I think your mom wants me to tell you that you can ask me questions about shit, and you can, but like, you gotta give me a heads up or whatever ‘cause--”

“Mickey.”

“--I gotta prepare and shit, and--”

“Mickey.”

Mickey takes a deep breath. “Yeah?”

“Stop.”

“Okay. Yeah.”

Aleks snorts and leans his cheek against the passenger window, avoiding Mickey’s eyes.

Whatever. He did it, and if PJ ever asks him to do anything like that again, she can fuck off.

He sucks his teeth and checks the time. “Decide where you wanna eat,” he says after a long moment of silence. “We got an hour to spare.”

---

They pull off at an exit about forty miles down the road. As it’s Tuesday night, the LongHorn isn’t too busy, so they’re able to get in and seated without having to wait.

The kid eats like an animal--ripping apart his chicken with his fingers and getting barbeque sauce on his mouth. It makes Mickey laugh inside at the fact that this rich kid from River Oak doesn’t give a fuck about politeness. It also reminds him of how he used to eat as a baby--how he’d make noises when he’d nurse and how PJ’d call Mickey into the room so he could listen to him. Like a little puppy.

“So.” Mickey sets down his own piece of chicken and wipes his hands on a napkin. “How’s school?”

Aleks sniffs and swipes his nose with the side of his wrist. “Sucks.”

“Why?”

“Assholes.”

“Teachers or students?”

“Both.”

Aleks doesn’t elaborate. Mickey takes a slurp off his tea and nods awkwardly. PJ’s always worried about him and his socialization. He’s a weird kid--not in a bad way, just in a way that never made him anybody’s first choice for a project partner and that didn’t get him invited to birthday parties or sleepovers after the age of ten. He’s always done his own thing and has never cared much about fitting in, and while that’s all well and good, his mom, who’s never in her entire life experienced anything like that, worried for a while that he was going to turn into a school shooter until he turned out to be an Anti-Trump, mask-wearing pro-vaxxer.

Mickey’s pretty sure he’s just a run-of-the-mill odd kid who likes drawing and doesn’t like people telling him what to do. He can’t blame him.

He watches him eat for a moment before asking, “So why’re they assholes?”

Aleks chews, swallows, and wipes his mouth on his napkin. “They’re all fake.”

“Uhh, wanna elaborate?”

“The kids don’t care about anything but appearances and followers and the teachers don’t care about anything but enforcing bullshit rules.”

“Bullshit rules like ones about how you can’t wear a mask that says ‘Get the fuck out of my face’?”

Aleks grins, his teeth showing. “Mom told you about that.”

“Told me about how you talked back to a teacher and got a week of detention.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Mickey chuffs and picks back up his chicken. “Just don’t do stupid shit. Take it from somebody who did stupid shit.”

“Like what?”

“None of your business.”

“How am I s’posed to know what’s considered ‘stupid shit’ if you won’t tell me?”

Mickey kicks the kid’s shoe under the table. “Finish your food, Nugget. We gotta hit the road.”

He gets up and goes to the bathroom. Five minutes after he comes back, when Aleks is stalling by waiting on a Pepsi in a to-go cup, the entire staff comes out singing “Happy Birthday” and sets a lava cake dessert in front of him.

It’s embarrassing as fuck. What makes matters worse is the fact that Aleks films the whole thing with his phone.

“The hell’d you do that for?” Mickey asks once they’re gone, and in response, the kid just smirks, picks up two forks, and stabs them into the cake.

After a dinner of pasta salad, which he barely ate, Ian decides to go for a run. He changes into shorts and a tank-top, slings on his Nikes, and heads out to the end of his driveway.

Mickey had left about an hour before as evidenced by the mortifying moment in which Ian had been caught lying in the grass like a dead soldier on a battlefield. He hadn’t come back in, either--or at least Ian hadn’t heard him--so he decides to hang a left at the end of his drive and use the opportunity to run the entire length of Wallace rather than stopping at the Milkovich curve.

He puts in his earbuds and runs it twice, from just in front of Mickey’s house to the mailboxes and then back and down again. His third time tapping the wooden fence at the edge of the Milkovich drive, Ian gets a cramp and has to take a break.

Wincing, he shakes out his right leg and then leans down to massage around his upper thigh, where the muscle is spasming. He crouches and even sits down on his ass in the dirt, stretching out his leg straight and leaning forward until he feels a burn down the back of it.

After a minute, the cramp eases, and Ian massages it for a moment more before standing and dusting off the seat of his shorts. He sighs and paces for a bit, slowly working the muscle, before pausing, placing his hands on his hips, and looking around.

The garage is closed and locked, a hand-written sign taped up reading, CLOSED 8/10 - Sorry for the inconvenience. For no reason other than because he’s admittedly nosy, Ian sneaks around the garage to the back yard, where he’s never been in his life.

The yard slopes upward from the back door and plateaus into a grassy area about thirty feet from the edge of the pasture. In the middle is a nicely rocked firepit with charred wood and beer cans inside, and around it are a few camping chairs in various colors.

Several yards back is a metal storage shed that, in theory, should definitely be locked but that is currently not only unlocked but wide open, the doors pushed to either side. Ian doesn’t go in because he isn’t a creep, but he stands near the opening and, curious, peers in.

There’s a yellow and black Cub Cadet zero-turn mower that had to have cost thousands of dollars, two child-sized bicycles, a couple neon plastic snow-sleds, and an empty beer keg.

Ian’s about to turn to go when something else catches his eye. Leaning against the back wall of the shed is a dinner plate sized decorative piece of wood with a pair of inky black baby hand and footprints in the center.

The concert’s great. It’s Mickey’s very first, and Aleks has the time of his life--screaming the songs at the top of his lungs. They manage to stand right up against the front bars at the edge of the stage, and Mickey gets some pictures of Aleks with the band performing behind him. On their way out, they buy matching T-shirts: black ones with the band name in gold above the album cover for The Battle at Garden’s Gate.

GVF is awesome. They have serious Zeppelin vibes, and what they lack lyrically, they make up for in sound. The kid’s obsessed. Even when it’s over and they’re back in the truck, he’s putting on the This is Greta Van Fleet Spotify playlist and turning the volume up so loud Mickey can barely think.

They stop for late night milkshakes on the way out of Atlanta and slurp them for the first chunk of the trip back. Aleks sings the chorus to “Black Smoke Rising,” and when he looks over once or twice, Mickey catches him Googling pictures of the band on his phone and zooming in on their faces.

That doesn’t mean anything. The kid’s allowed to want to know what somebody looks like up close. Still, Mickey can’t help but read into it because he sees other stuff in him, too. The almost effeminate inflection in his voice when he’s excited. His uncharacteristic awkwardness when PJ asks him about a girl. The fact that he’s inching up on seventeen and has never brought one around or shown any interest whatsoever.

But that’s none of Mickey’s business. He keeps his eyes on the road and focuses on getting them back to Greenhill safely.

---

They’re crossing over into the county when Aleks murmurs, “Hey. Happy birthday, by the way.”

Mickey reaches over and gives him a tap on the shoulder with his knuckles. “Thanks.”

Aleks texts PJ they’re back in town, and they head once more over to McDonald’s to park. While they wait, they make small talk. Aleks tells Mickey about his classes and complains about random stuff that matters a lot when you’re sixteen and not at all when you’re 35.

When they spot the Escalade at a stoplight down the road, they get quiet for a minute. Mickey sucks his teeth and glances at Greenhill around them--dark but dotted with lights.

“Uh, hey,” he says, turning to Aleks. He can hardly see him save for the gleam of his blue eyes in the light shining in through the side window. “I just wanted to say that if you ever wanna talk or whatever, you can text me.”

“Eew, Mickey. I don’t wanna talk about--”

“Not that.” Mickey huffs. “I mean, if you ever need to, then we can, but. I mean other stuff, too.” He swallows and looks away, watching the Escalade slowly begin to move once the light turns green. “Talk to PJ, y’know. And…Mark. But. If there’s ever anything else, you can talk to me if you want.”

He turns back to Aleks, who nods solemnly.

“Your dad’ll prob’ly kick my ass for it, but…” He blows out a breath. “I got your back, and I like knowin’ you’re okay.”

The kid watches him, his eyes shining. He nods again.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thanks.”

Mickey taps him with his knuckles once more, and it feels like the most awkward thing in the world.

---

He gets out of the truck when PJ arrives and lets her hug him and kiss his cheeks and call him Sweets and tell him happy birthday and I love you.

When Aleks is in the Escalade with the doors closed and windows up, Mickey hugs her back and tells her to take care of him.

“Hey,” she says, stepping back. “Are you okay?”

Not really. He nods and says, “Yeah.” Yawns. “Just tired.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

PJ hugs him again. “Alright, well. Be careful driving home.”

“Yeah. You too.”

---

When Mickey gets home, he parks his truck out by the garage, grabs his GVF shirt, and with a full-bodied yawn, climbs out and makes his way up to his front door.

It’s dark, so he can’t see much. He fumbles with his key in the door, and just as he pushes it open, he almost trips over something at his feet.

Curious, he reaches down and finds a plastic shopping bag. He picks it up and takes it in the house, flipping on the lights as he goes.

And when he sees it, his heart beats harder than it has in a while.

It’s the squash from the garden.

The following week is Ian’s week for detention duty. Monday and Tuesday go by smoothly, just a handful of quiet kids to watch who do nothing but sleep or play games on their Chromebooks.

Wednesday, however, is a different story.

A. Curran -- 8/18-19 shows up on the detention list again. Ian sits on the edge of his teacher desk at 3:00 and waits for the class to fill. When 3:05 comes and goes with no Alex, he asks one of the detention regulars if he’s seen him.

“Yeah,” the kid says. “He was in the bathroom on his phone.”

Ian crosses his arms over his chest and continues to wait.

Alex doesn’t show up until 3:40, his headphones on full blast, watching videos on his phone as he shoulders open the classroom door and swaggers through. All eyes move in his direction, and the longer he continues to listen to his music, the more kids start to whisper.

Ian clears his throat, and the rest of the students quiet down; Alex, however, obviously can’t hear him. He goes to his desk and sits down, phone still out, still watching videos, music still on.

It’s blatant disrespect, and it pisses Ian off. The kid’s old enough and self aware enough to know damn well what he’s doing, and the most frustrating thing about it is that he also has to be aware that the only probable outcome is for him to get in trouble. Again.

Ian calls his name. The boy doesn’t so much as look up.

He walks over to his desk and knocks on it, finally getting his attention. Rather than turning off his music, Alex pulls his headphones down, loud rock, unimpeded by his ears, now playing out as if through surround-sound speakers.

“Hey.” Ian knocks on his desk again. “Turn that off and put your phone away.”

Alex pulls the headphones back on, sets his phone down on his desk, and leans in as if preparing to watch a movie.

Ian knocks on his desk again and bends down this time, his blood boiling. The other kids are turned in their seats, watching.

“Music off. Phone on my desk.”

Alex pulls his headphones down again. “Will you just leave me alone? I’m havin’ a crappy day.”

“Get up.”

“I’m not gettin’ up.”

The class oooooohs, and Ian takes a deep breath. He locks eyes with Alex. “Get. Up.”

Alex doesn’t even acknowledge his existence, his eyes simply flitting away and then closing.

What the hell can he even do now? Call the principal? The kid’s already in detention. With all eyes on him, Ian returns to the front of the room, grabs a sticky note, and writes,

Detention Start: 3:40
Detention End: 4:40
Text your dad

He walks over and sticks it to Alex’s desk, right in his line of vision. The kid reads it and wrinkles his brows before picking it up, crumpling it into a ball, and dropping it on the floor.

---

At 4:00, Ian releases the rest of the kids. When Alex sits up and grabs his bag to go, his headphones finally blessedly off and silent, Ian tells him to sit down.

Alex just looks at him, his arms holding himself up out of his chair like he’s been frozen in time. After a moment, as if considering it, he stands anyway and starts making his way to the door.

Ian goes to stand in front of it. “Sit down.”

The kid comes up to him and stands a foot away. He pulls his mask down to his chin.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, and for the first time, Ian can see how pissed he is, his mouth a scowl and his eyes blazing.

“Sit down.”

“You wanna get in trouble for holdin’ me hostage?”

Ian pulls his own mask down and makes a What the fuck?! face. He pulls it back up.

“Dude, go sit down,” he says. “You were forty minutes late for detention. D’you think I’m just gonna let that slide?”

Alex stares at him, challenging, but when Ian doesn’t back down, he returns to his seat with a murmured, “Go fuck yourself” that Ian chooses to ignore because the alternative would be to sling him out the window.

For the next 35 minutes, Ian works on his lesson plans for the next day, and Alex watches TikToks with his volume turned all the way up and his headphones off. The teacher doesn’t even bother to tell him to stop because he knows it’d just start another argument. Instead, he listens to CEO entrepreneur, born in 1964, Jeffrey, Jeffrey Bezos-- I was runnin’ through the 6 with my woes, I was RUNNIN’ THROUGH THE 6 WITH MY WOES-- Baby, I’m a gangster, too, and it takes two to tango-- until he feels like his brain’s going to leak out his ears and he’s seriously considering putting on some fucking Barry Manilow to see if it’ll make him shut up.

Finally, with five minutes left of Alex’s detention, Ian gets up and comes around to the other side of his desk, leaning back against it and crossing his arms over his chest.

The kid keeps watching TikToks for a moment, but finally, looking up, he stops.

“What.”

Ian pulls his mask down to his chin so the kid can see he means business. He waves his hands around.

“What…what is this?”

Alex stands up and shoves his phone in his pocket. “It’s nothing. You’re annoying.”

“Well, I’ve got you in here tomorrow, too, and if you’re late, I’m sendin’ you straight to Briggs and callin’ your dad ‘cause I’m not dealin’ with this.”

“Why you actin’ like this shit’s my fault? I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re late. You’re disrespectful.”

“Well, you’re disrespectful to me.”

Ian sputters. “Alex, I’m not gonna argue with you.”

“Well stop bein’ such a fuckin’ dick and don’t argue with me. I’ve had a shitty day, and I don’t need you on my ass, too. So fuckin’ what if I was late? I showed up.”

“Alex.”

“Like, literally go fuck yourself. I’m so fuckin’ tired of teachers. I’m fuckin’ tired of gettin’ in trouble. I’m fuckin’ tired of everybody tryna call my fuckin’ dad. Like, BIG FUCKING DEAL!” he yells. “Call my fuckin’ dad. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t give a fuck about anything.”

There’s nothing to do. Alex is losing his shit, his temper escalating and escalating until he turns around, kicks over a desk, and storms out of the classroom, his forehead red and eyes burning like’s he’s about to shoot laser beams.

Ian follows him out into the hall, meaning to intercept him, but he’s already gone by the time he gets there, the outer side door swinging back to close with a slam.

Jesus Christ.

Doing his due-diligence, Ian calls Ellen to let her know the situation. Late for detention. Outburst. Enraged kid storming out of the school. She seems completely unfazed--as if Alex acting that way is a regular occurrence--and tells Ian she’ll call the boy down to the office the next day and for him to not fret about it.

“It happens,” she says. “His parents have got him spoiled rotten.”

Ian sighs and rubs his fingers over his sleepy eyes. “Guess so.”

“Poor Mr. Walker.” Ellen tuts. “Alex called him the D-word today because he made him go up to the board to solve for X.”

The man neglects to tell her Alex called him every name under the sun. No sense adding to an already massive pile. He thanks her, hangs up, and puts his head down on his desk.

Those kinds of kids are the hardest. Years of schooling on how to be a teacher never really scratches the surface. He can deal with the ones who don’t want to do their work. He can deal with fights and drama and the ones who come to school just to sleep. The ones who smell and the ones who always raise their hand to answer questions when Ian’s giving out snacks as prizes. But he’s never sure how to deal with the ones with a chip on their shoulder and the ones who look for every opportunity to buck authority for seemingly no good reason.

Ian sits up straight again and turns to his computer. He spends the next 45 minutes finishing up for the next day as best as possible and drinking enough coffee to raise his blood pressure to stroke levels, brain full of that kid, wondering what’s going on with him, what happened, what he’d meant when he’d said he’d been having a shitty day.

He doesn’t get to leave the school until 5:30, as he struggles to concentrate, his mind moving fast-fast. Then it’s as if all his energy runs out in a flood; despite the coffee, he’s practically listing on his way to the faculty lot.

Once at his Jeep, he hits the button on his key fob to open the cargo door and is about to toss in his bag and lunchbox when he notices debris on the ground. Upon further inspection, he sees both tail-lights have been smashed out, the orange plastic coverings for them in pieces on the ground and the bulbs exposed and broken.

Oh hell no. Ian slings his bag down and stalks back into the school, blood surging so loudly in his ears he can’t even hear himself think. That fucking asshole.

Ian had tried to reason with him. He’d sat there for almost a fucking hour after school so distracted with confusion over the kid that he couldn’t focus. And that spoiled little prick had gone out and smashed his fucking tail-lights!

He’d been feeling sorry for him--had been wondering what the hell it took for a River Oak Curran from the richest family in the county to end up a regular in detention rather than on the football field on Friday night.

Ian would feel like Alex had played him if it weren’t for the fact that he hadn’t played him at all; he’d been totally consistent in his behavior from beginning to end, and Ian was the one who’d played himself. He takes a deep breath and heads to Jana’s room.

“What’s Mark Curran’s phone number?”

He calls him from right outside her door, but nobody answers, so he next asks her for his address. Ten minutes later finds Ian taking a backroad to River Oak because he doesn’t want to get a ticket for driving with two busted tail-lights.

Maybe it’s out of line for him to go to a student’s house. It probably is. But what the hell else is he supposed to do? He’s fundamentally against calling the cops, though he knows that’s what Ellen would suggest if he told her about it. Plus, she’d pull up the surveillance video, and Alex would probably be sent to Southdown Academy.

Ian’s not about that shit. He’s not about punishments for rebellious teenagers involving law enforcement or being kicked out of school, their entire life ruined because they have a behavioral issue probably caused by something completely unrelated to the teacher they disrespected.

He isn’t, however, opposed to knocking on the kid’s door and having his rich-ass lawyer daddy pay every cent owed in damages under the threat of Ian taking things further.

Jesus Christ.

This is great. This is fucking great.

Ian fumes. He turns off the gravel road he’s been on for the past five minutes, travels a quarter of a mile on Southdown, and hangs a left into River Oak.

He hasn’t been there since that night he’d ridden with Mickey and PJ back from the fair, and that alone had only been his second or third time venturing into the neighborhood.

Seventeen years ago, it had seemed lavish, all the homes multistory and brand new, with perfect paved driveways and cul-de-sacs that featured houses worthy of a sitcom about a zany American family somewhere in Southern California.

River Oak’s still gorgeous in 2021; it’s just that most of the houses are verging on twenty years old now, and the paved drives are beginning to crack with age. Mark Curran lives at 109 Sparrow Lane, which is about a mile into the neighborhood back near where PJ had lived when she was in high school.

When Ian reaches the road, he hangs a right and follows it barely fifty yards to a beautiful, two-story blue-gray craftsman up a hill on the left. It’s massive, with a wide porch, the kind of steps you can picture a family posing on with pumpkins on Halloween, a wine-colored front door with a magnolia leaf wreath, and a perfectly manicured lawn that Ian would kill to have.

He pulls along the side of the road near the mailbox just as the garage door closes on a vehicle that had apparently driven in minutes before Ian arrived. At the top of the driveway is a black Mercedes, its brake lights on where the person inside hasn’t yet put it into park.

Perfect timing, apparently, the whole family just now getting home. Ian kills the engine and opens the door right when the Mercedes cuts off and Alex exits the side door to the garage. He scurries toward the backseat of the Mercedes, opening the door and reaching in to pull out a stack of two pizzas. The driver’s door opens, too, and Mark climbs out.

He sure as hell didn’t age well. At just 35, he’s verging on complete baldness, his hair nothing but a dark brown shadow around the front and sides. He’s dressed impeccably, in a stylishly cut navy shirt tucked into khakis and a solid cornflower blue tie, but his body is now that of a fifty-year-old dad who drinks too much beer and has a perpetual sunburn from being on the golf course every weekend.

Ian puts a foot on the ground, about to climb out of the Jeep because it’s the ideal fucking time for him to make his appearance--perp and judge right out in the open--when Mark does something unexpected. He slams the door to the Mercedes, grabs the pizzas from his son, and sets them on the roof of the car before getting in his face.

His finger comes out in a point, held an inch from Alex’s nose, and Ian may be all the way at the bottom of the driveway, but he can hear him as loud as if he were sitting beside him in the car.

“If I get one more call from the school tellin’ me my idiot son has detention for usin’ an inappropriate word with a teacher, mark. my. words., your butt is going straight to Greenhill Christian. What’s wrong with you, Alex?”

Alex takes a step back. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Straight to Greenhill Christian. You wanna answer my question?”

“What question?”

“What’s wrong with you? Do me and your mom need to take you to the doctor? Do you have somethin’ wrong with your head?”

“No--”

“‘Cause I can’t for the life of me figure out why my son would act like he’s been raised in a barn unless he’s got somethin’ screwed up in his head.”

“I don’t have anything wrong with--”

“Then why are you actin’ like you were raised in a barn?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a spoiled little brat. Your mama’s turned you into a sissy and a brat who won’t listen to nobody. If I had acted the way you do, my daddy would’ve taken a belt to my tail ‘til I couldn’t walk. You’re lucky I don’t beat my kids.”

Alex takes another step away from his dad and shoves his hands in his pockets. He stares down at his shoes.

“Look at me.”

When he doesn’t, Mark repeats, “Look. at. me.”

The boy raises his head.

“Take the pizzas in the house, get your supper, and get your butt in your room.”

Alex nods and reaches for the pizzas. Before he can get them, Mark steps in front. “What do you say?”

“Dad.”

“What do you say?”

“Dad.”

Mark waits, arms crossed over his chest, and though it takes a moment, Alex eventually steps back and murmurs something Ian can’t hear.

“Louder.”

The kid kicks at the ground with his boot, clearly frustrated. “Sorry,” he says, voice that of a child’s.

“Liar. Get your butt in your room. I don’t wanna see you for the rest of the night.”

Ian pulls the door closed and, without a second’s hesitation, cranks the Jeep.

More yelling is not something Alex needs right now.

His heart pounds. Jesus Christ.

He’s out mending the fence across from the Gallagher driveway when Ian arrives home from work with two busted tail-lights that look like someone’s taken a bat to them. Despite the fact that Mickey’s right up against the road, Ian doesn’t look at him when he passes, his hands clutched at his steering wheel and the radio on some Top 40 pop song, the girl screaming good for you.

Mickey tries to go back to work, clipping the replacement wire he’s fastening to the fencepost, but he can’t help but look up every now and again after the music cuts and he hears the sound of the door slam.

Rather than entering his house, Ian stands out by the Jeep and surveys the damage. He crouches and pokes at it. It’s relatively far away, but Mickey can see him pull a small hunk of plastic off and study it as if attempting to figure out its chemical makeup.

Did somebody fuck with his Jeep? They had to have, the damage too precise and Ian seemingly too torn up about it for it to have been anything else.

Whatever. It’s none of his business. Mickey puts his head back down and finishes up with the repair. When he looks up again, Ian’s leaning against the side of his vehicle, his elbows on the roof and face in his palms. He stands like that for a long time before smacking his fist against the door hard enough to dent it and then turning around, stalking off toward the house.

Mickey’s done what he needed to do. A couple of the cows had collapsed the wire earlier by leaning their weight on it as they’d eaten grass from the other side of the fence. It’s all repaired now. He should head back.

He checks his watch. It’s almost 6:30. He’s got dino nuggets to nuke and some of PJ’s banana pudding. He needs to go over his appointments for tomorrow and make sure he has what he needs.

Packing up his tools and spool of wire, Mickey heads back to his truck, which he’s parked in the pasture a few yards away, and tosses everything into the back.

Yeah. He’ll go back and nuke his dino nuggets and eat them in front of Wheel of Fortune. Maybe he’ll smoke before he gets on the garage computer; Iggy’d scored him some good shit.

He then opens the door and climbs in, settling behind the wheel. It’s fucking hot in there--even that late in the day and even with both windows down--and it’s oppressive enough to give Mickey pause. He leans his elbow out the window and, pulling a pack of cigarettes down from where they’re closed up in the visor, peers out at the Gallagher house.

Ian’s come back outside, and he’s standing on the porch now, leaning with his elbows on the railing. He’s still dressed for work--a fancy shirt and some khakis--and he’s a vaguely pinkish smudge mark on the brown of the porch, surrounded by the gray-blue of the house’s peeling paint.

Mickey takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Fucking Gallagher. He’s going to be the death of him.

---

Ian’s in a wicker chair on his porch when Mickey arrives after having gotten out of the truck, hopped the fence, and made his way up the drive. He hadn’t been particularly quiet, his feet crunching in the gravel, but Ian had apparently been too preoccupied with his thoughts and the phone in his hands to notice, for when Mickey clears his throat, the other man practically jumps out of his skin.

“Jesus fuck!” he yells, nearly dropping his phone, and it takes everything within Mickey to keep from laughing at him.

Instead, he clears his throat again. “Uhh,” he starts. “Hey?”

Ian blows out a breath through pursed lips like a woman in labor. “Hey. What’re you…” He looks around as if unsure of why another living being would ever be in his yard. His lower lash line is red like he’s either been crying or was about to when Mickey showed up.

Mickey licks his lips. His palms are wet with nervous sweat. “Saw you were kinda havin’ a breakdown over your Jeep,” he says.

“Fuck.” The other man bends in half, resting his head in his palm for a moment before straightening again. Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look so distressed.

“Yeah, but it’s stupid,” Ian says. “Not really a big deal. I’m just…” He takes a deep breath as if trying to steel himself. “Some kid busted out my tail-lights. I’m a teacher.”

Mickey lowers his brows. “The fuck did you do to the kid?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive. Maybe.” Ian stands and runs both hands over his face like he’s about to scream into them. “I dunno. I’m losin’ my fuckin’ mind.”

Mickey stares at him. He looks as if he’s working on blowing a gasket, his hair a wreck and face red. He’s rolled the sleeves of his gay-ass pastel pink button-down to his elbows, and Mickey can see the rainbow flag tattoo peeking out from under his watchband like a taunt.

The redhead’s also sweating, pit rings visible even when his arms are down and several drips making their way down his forehead. Mickey’s sweating, too. He can smell himself a little, his deodorant from 4:30 that morning having already died a miserable death.

“Uhh,” Mickey stutters. “D’ya want me to like, look at it or whatever?”

“No.” A beat. “I mean, yeah, but you don’t have to.”

“Well, unless you’re plannin’ to hitchhike to work tomorrow, you gotta get that shit fixed. Cops’ll be on your ass like white on rice.”

Ian looks distressed again. “I can call somebody.”

Dumbass. The fuck’s his problem.

“Here,” he says. “Drive it over to my place, and I’ll check it out.”

Ian swallows heavily and runs both hands over his face again. When he does, the watchband moves, and Mickey can see the whole tattoo, bright against the pale inside of his wrist.

The other man shifts on his feet, but nods. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay.”

Mickey presses his lips together and gestures in the direction of his own truck in the pasture across the road. “‘kay. See ya in a minute.”

He backs off the porch steps and makes his way on unsteady legs down the driveway, feeling like someone’s put his guts in a blender.

What the fuck is he doing?

He thinks he might be manic or at least edging in that direction. There’s no reason for him to be having an absolute nervous breakdown over a pair of broken tail-lights, but he is. Only it’s not just the tail-lights, is it. It’s the tail-lights and Alex Curran and the fact that Mark Curran will forever be a giant, bloated douchebag. It’s everything else, too. It’s Mickey not ten feet away from him and baby footprints and PJ Watson hugging him through the window of her Escalade.

Somewhere on Southdown after leaving River Oak, he’d felt like his brain had broken and leaked out all over his insides, his skin suddenly itchy with the need to move and his breathing fast.

Maybe this is just a panic attack. But there’s no real reason for the panic attack, either, as he’s been in situations a thousand times worse than some troubled kid knocking out his tail-lights.

Fuck. Ian watches Mickey walk back the way he came and takes slow, even breaths, trying to calm himself. He goes inside and chugs some water, considers popping a pill but doesn’t want to pass out in Mickey’s garage in half an hour, and then heads back out to the Jeep.

He waits until Mickey cranks his truck out in the pasture across the road and then rolls out, driving slow enough that he doesn’t beat the other man there by more than a minute or two. He parks inside the open garage and climbs out, not wasting any time skirting around the vehicle and into the driveway.

Mickey parks his truck nearby and gets out. Ian holds his breath as he watches him.

He’s wearing a shirt that says Greta Van Fleet, and his jeans are all bunched up around the tops of a pair of camel-colored work boots with mud caked in the tread. He pushes his hair back off his forehead when he comes over to the Jeep, and maybe Ian is going nuts, but he looks like a fucking Disney prince.

That’s fucked up. That’s so fucked up. Mickey’s got a girl, and he’s probably got kids. He swallows heavily, a stone in his throat and in his belly.

“So what’d you say happened?” the other man asks, cutting on the bright garage lights and crouching down to examine the damage.

Ian huffs. “Nothing, really.”

“Some kid busted your tail-lights?”

“Yeah. I dunno. I pissed him off.”

“Clearly. Jesus Christ.” Mickey straightens, grabs a tool from off his work desk, and sets in to remove the light covers and bulbs. “What’d you do? Give him too much homework?”

“Made him serve his whole detention time.”

“What’d he do?”

“Called his math teacher a dick.”

“Well, was his math teacher a dick?”

Ian scratches at his neck and smiles, just an uptick of his lips. “Probably. Most of the LeHigh math teachers are.”

“Well there ya go.”

“Pssh. You should be a teacher.”

Mickey makes a grunting noise as he pops out a piece of plastic that’d been knocked into the light fixture. He chuffs. “Fuck no.”

Ian snorts.

It takes a few minutes, but the man successfully removes all the broken parts and pats the side of the Jeep.

“So I can fix it,” he says, “but I don’t got the parts.” He nods in the direction of the missing light panels. “Basically, you just need brand new light assemblies ‘cause the whole thing’s busted out. Even if I put new bulbs in, which I do have, they wouldn’t work.”

Ian purses his lips. “So what do I do now?”

Mickey stares at him. He moves his mouth like he’s about to say one thing but last-second decides on another.

“Uhh, two options,” he says. “Leave your car here and get some meth-head on Southdown to take you to work tomorrow…” He nods toward his truck. “Or get in.”

Ian’s heart beats so quickly it skips several beats in a row, causing him to cough. He huffs a breath. “Where would we go?”

Mickey narrows his eyes like Ian’s just asked him something idiotic. “Um. Auto parts store?”

“Oh. Duh.” Ian scratches the stubble at his jaw. “Okay. Yeah.”

“You can stay at your house or whatever,” Mickey adds quickly, like he’d forgotten to address it, “but it’s gonna be about four hundred bucks I ain’t got on me.”

“Yeah. Shit.” Ian pats at the wallet in his pocket. “I got a card.”

“‘kay.” Mickey sniffs. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with it. “Let’s ride, then.”

He’s a fucking liar. He’s a fucking obsessed, perverted fucking liar. He has four hundred dollars on him. He has a fucking card he uses for business shit. Plus, it’s not like Ian--like any other customer--wouldn’t have paid after the service was done.

Jesus Christ.

Mickey’s blood feels like it’s shooting through his veins a thousand miles an hour. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He hates himself.

He tries to catch his breath as he leads Gallagher over to the truck, but even still, he finds himself a moment later too afraid to say anything for fear that Ian will hear how stupidly winded he is.

After climbing in, he unlocks the passenger door and waits as the other man gets in and buckles up. Once done, he cranks the truck, backs out, and starts making his way down Wallace.

Every now and again, he cuts his eyes toward Ian. He feels a bit like he’s kidnapped him, like he’s lied and cheated his way into getting him in the truck like a fucking weirdo. He breathes through his mouth in an attempt to calm down, but that’s weird, too--not to mention loud in the quiet--so he tries his best to relax and evens out his breathing through his nose.

Ian smells like sweat every bit as much as Mickey does, that panic attack he’d been having apparently doing a number on him. There’s a darker pink ring around his collar where the nape of his neck had sweat against it. Mickey clears his throat.

“I’d’a thought you’d’a got the kid to pay for this.”

Ian jerks a little as if Mickey’s scared him--jumpy fuck--and coughs again. “Uhh, no. It’s kinda complicated.”

A beat. Mickey presses his lips together.

“Complicated how?”

“I kinda…” The other man laughs breathily as if embarrassed. “I kinda went to his house. Was gonna knock on his door or whatever. But I saw his dad yellin’ at him about somethin’ else, and the kid looked kinda beat down. I didn’t have the heart.”

“This is gonna be a 400 dollar job, man. Unless you’re Mr. Moneybags, you’re bein’ kinda soft.”

Ian shrugs. “Maybe.”

They’re quiet for the time it takes for them to reach the end of Wallace. Mickey hangs a left.

“But it was kinda self-preservation, too,” the other man finally adds. “I didn’t wanna deal with his dad.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey reaches casually to adjust the AC. “Who’s his dad?”

Ian relaxes back into the passenger’s seat of Mickey’s truck. The setting sun beats in on him, and it’s good in a way that calms him--that lets him finally feel like he can breathe, some of the panic beginning to subside. It helps, too, that he’s got someone with him, his brain able to focus on something other than the situation at hand.

He takes a deep breath. Mickey’s truck smells like motor oil, wet mud, and surprisingly, strawberry air freshener.

“Mark Curran,” he says, turning to give the other man a look. “Lawyer Mark, I should say.”

Mickey gives a sharp intake of breath like Ian’s just said, your mom.

The redhead chuckles. “What. You in trouble with him or something?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“No way. Really?”

“Ah. Nah.” Mickey shrugs. “He’s just still a lil bitch like he was in high school.”

“Huh.” Ian leans against the window and peers out at the road. “I figured.”

“So what was he yellin’ about? You said he was yellin’ at the kid.”

Ian hums. “Yeah. The school’d called him about what he’d said to his teacher. He was pissed about that. Asked him what was wrong with him, was his head screwed up. Other things, too. Typical asshole dad shit.”

Mickey stares straight ahead, but his lips tighten. After a moment of silence, he says, “Good move not fuckin’ around with him. He’d’a just took it out on the kid. Wouldn’t’a paid you himself.” He tightens and then loosens his hands around the steering wheel, then does it again. Shrugs. “Could prob’ly get the kid to pay ya back, though, if you just talk to him.”

“Yeeeeah. I’ll think about it. You know the family?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything else, though he looks thoughtful, his chapped bottom lip pinned by his top front teeth. Ian waits, but when nothing comes, he lets it go.

---

The auto parts store is a discount warehouse in the neighboring county. It’s a twenty minute drive, and they spend most of it quiet. Ian leans against the window like he did back when they were kids and Mickey was driving him home from the fair. Mickey puts on the radio and taps his fingers idly along to the beat as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

“So, hey,” Ian murmurs when they’re five minutes away. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Since last time we talked?”

“Since…seventeen years ago.”

Mickey snorts. “Nothin’, really.” He reaches over and turns down the radio. “You?”

Ian smiles. “Nothin’.” He scratches his neck. “I got wifi. Thanks for the tip.”

“No problem.” He hangs a left onto a side street and begins circling around toward a strip-mall featuring the auto parts store, a Baskin-Robbins, and a Chinese place called Dragon Palace Ian had eaten at for Debbie’s ninth birthday.

Ian assumes that’s all until the other man adds, “Yeah, pretty much nobody gives a fuck about lower Southdown. It’s been like, fifteen fuckin’ years since we’ve been usin’ cells instead of landlines and we still ain’t got service.”

It’s idle conversation. Ian listens to the warmth of the other man’s voice and plays with his watchband. He eyes his tattoo. Wonders, briefly, if Mickey’s seen it and if he has, what he thinks.

He feels the pressure on his chest of another bit of panic coming over him, so he tamps it down, casting his eyes on their surroundings and asking about Mickey’s job, instead.

---

In the store, Ian isn’t really needed for anything other than his debit card. Mickey knows the guy behind the register--calls him by his first name, even, and laughs at some inside joke they apparently share.

It takes a minute, but they get the parts. The total is $369.42, and Ian winces when he scans his card.

“See,” Mickey says on the way out. “Get the money from the kid. Just tell him how much, and he’ll pay it.”

Ian chuffs. “Do you know this kid?”

“Just do it. Don’t be a scaredy-cat.”

They get back in the truck, but rather than leaving the area, Mickey drives into the Arby’s parking lot nearby and gets in line behind four other cars.

“Did you tell the principal or whatever?” he asks, lifting up and pulling out his wallet.

Ian shakes his head. “Nah. He’d get kicked out.”

Mickey nods. “Yeah, prob’ly best you don’t.” He sniffs. “What’s your order?”

The Arby’s thing was a knee-jerk reaction, and it reminds him of the ferris wheel back when they were kids. He doesn’t even like Arby’s, and he already has his dino nuggets waiting on him.

But then he’d looked at the time once they got back in the car, and it was after 7:30. Gallagher probably needed food. And anyway, it turns out he hadn’t tattled on Aleks to the principal, so Mickey figured he deserved something for it.

He gets their roast beef sandwiches and curly fries and sets the bag on the console between them. Ian’d got a water, probably because he’s one of those health conscious queers, and Mickey’d got a large Coke because he isn’t like that.

He tells Ian he can eat on the drive, but the redhead doesn’t make any move to unwrap his sandwich, so Mickey doesn’t either. He slurps his Coke and gets back on the highway, and they begin the twenty minute drive back to Wallace.

The whole situation with Aleks is fucking nuts. The kid can be a wild card. Mickey knows it, PJ knows it. He’s smart, and he’s really not an asshole, but he has an attitude sometimes, and when something even mildly bothers him, he tends to let it spiral until he’s full-on angry about it.

Mickey can’t say he’s surprised about the tail-light thing, though he’s a bit taken-aback that Gallagher’s involved. Good thing, though, as anybody else would’ve called the cops on the kid’s ass, and that’s the last thing Aleks needs.

“Hey,” Ian says once they cross county lines. “You mind if I smoke?” He makes a reach for his pocket, and Mickey shrugs.

“Only if I can bum one.”

Mickey doesn’t need it. Fuck him. He has his own. Still, he takes one of Gallagher’s when offered and presses it between his lips.

They light up with their own BICs. Mickey rolls both windows down, and they smoke with the hot summer wind in their faces. The closer they get to home, the better it smells--less like fast food and more like hay. Mickey slows to a stop at the end of the sideroad out of town and takes a right onto Southdown.

“Did you get the squash?” Ian asks randomly. Mickey turns his head to catch him quickly glancing away.

It’s fucking embarrassing. He presses down on the gas a little too hard, the truck making a revving sound as it kicks into a higher gear, before easing off again.

“Yeah,” he says and brings the cigarette to his lips. He takes a slow drag and blows it out. “Thanks.”

“Yep.” Silence. Mickey glances over. Ian’s watching the fields pass by outside the window.

There was something about the baby hand and footprints. They could’ve been anyone’s. Could’ve belonged to Iggy’s kid. Could’ve belonged to one of Mandy’s four. But the idea of Mickey once having a little baby whose tiny feet and hands he’d dipped in paint and pressed to a piece of wood had made Ian jog back to the house and get the bag of squash from the fridge.

It was meant to be a peace offering, a maybe our first meeting in seventeen years was bad, but it’s okay. It was also meant to be a little bit of a sorry I’m weirdly jealous of whatever PJ is to you. I don’t mean to be. I’m glad you’re doing okay.

“I haven’t been workin’ in the garden,” he says, not looking at the other man.

Mickey makes a soft sound with his mouth and teeth. “Thought you always liked that shit.”

Ian shrugs. “I did when I was a kid. Haven’t really planted anything since.”

They’re quiet. They pass the Barton house, then Tires, Tires, Tires, then Old Joe’s turn out. Mickey slows the truck and takes a right onto Wallace.

“You should start,” the man murmurs. Ian nods.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

He wants to tell Mickey he can keep working in the garden--that Ian’s gone from seven to four every day, so he can have it all to himself. Instead, he just watches the pastures roll by as they make their way down the road.

Mickey drops Ian off at his house and tells him he’ll bring the Jeep back when he’s done. The other man sticks the Arby’s bag with his untouched food under his arm and tosses him his keys.

Mickey looks down at them as Ian calls, “See ya. Thanks again,” and walks away. There’s a black keychain with a faded rainbow flag on it that says, Gainesville Pride 2016. There’s not a damn soul who can see him holding it, but Mickey still huffs and puts the keys in the cup holder as if they sting.

---

Back at the garage, he unwraps his sandwich and eats it as he prepares to install Ian’s new tail-lights. Pausing to think for a moment, he grabs his phone out of his pocket and brings up his texts.

With his mouth full of roast beef and Arby’s sauce, he writes,

------------------------

Mickey (7:32 PM): 370 to Mr. Gallagher

------------------------

He’s balling up the foil sandwich wrapper and tossing it in the trash when the kid replies.

------------------------

Aleks (7:39 PM): haha what

Mickey (7:39 PM): Haha you know what

Mickey (7:40 PM): If you don’t got it ask your mom but you have to tell her why

Aleks (7:40 PM): how do you know this…

------------------------

Mickey snaps a picture of Ian’s Jeep parked in his garage and sends it along, to which Aleks replies

------------------------

Aleks (7:42 PM): oh

Mickey (7:42 PM): Yeah oh, he’s my neighbor

Aleks (7:42 PM): 😅

------------------------

Mickey puts his phone back in his pocket and goes to get the bag of tail-light assemblies. After taking them out and unpackaging them, he huffs and pulls the phone back out again.

------------------------

Mickey (7:48 PM): Are you doin ok?

Aleks (7:48 PM): yeah

Mickey (7:49 PM): Don’t sound like it to me, whats goin on

------------------------

The kid doesn’t reply. Mickey sets his phone on the table just in case.

He gets to work.

Just after nine, Ian’s researching doctors in the area on his laptop when he hears his Jeep horn. He goes out onto the porch a minute later to find Mickey standing at the foot of the stairs, swinging his keys around on his finger.

He tosses them over. “Done.” He nods in the direction of the Jeep, and Ian follows him over to it.

The tail-lights look perfect. Ian makes a grab for his wallet, opens it up, and starts leafing through for a fifty.

Mickey catches on and shakes his head. “Nah, I ain’t takin’ your money. You already paid for the lights.”

“But that’s like, three hours of your life you’re not gettin’ back. This is for labor.”

The other man shakes his head, shoves his hands in his pockets, and starts making his way down the driveway. “Nah, it’s cool.”

“Mickey.”

“You can just owe me. No big deal.”

“Or I could just pay you and not owe you.”

Mickey huffs and shakes his head again, his speed picking up. “Later,” he calls, nodding Ian’s way, and the redhead stands there by his Jeep, watching him go.

---
---

The next morning during planning, he’s putting together a Google Slides presentation while downing his third cup of coffee when Alex comes in. He’s dressed in his buffalo-check flannel outfit from the first day of school, and he’s carrying a wooden hall pass that reads Davenport in big, block letters.

“Alex. Hey,” Ian says, turning his attention away from his computer.

The kid comes over and drops a crumpled wad of bills on Ian’s desk and then shoves both hands in his pockets.

“I wanted to say sorry,” he murmurs, eyes downcast. “I was a dick to you. You’re like, really nice and all, and I was feelin’ bad about some stuff yesterday and took it out on you, so. Sorry. Sorry about your lights.”

Ian examines the little pile of money, then glances back at Alex. “Thank you for apologizing,” he says. “But I don’t wanna take your money.”

It’s completely fair and right for the kid to pay him back, but in the moment, it feels wrong to accept what looks like a few hundred from a student. He’s about to pick up the money and hand it back when Alex rolls his eyes and says, “Take the money, Mr. Gallagher. Don’t be weird about it.” He brushes the money closer to the teacher.

“Feels wrong. That’s a lot of money.”

“Half of it ain’t even mine. It’s my mom’s.”

Ian laughs. “Did you tell your mom what you did?”

“I dunno. Just take the money.”

The man blows out a breath and stares at the kid for a minute, but eventually, he picks up the bills, stacks them, and nods. “Thanks, Alex.”

“You’re welcome.”

Ian smiles. He may piss him off, but he's just a kid.

Alex turns to leave, but before he takes a step, he pauses and asks, “Are we okay?”

Ian nods. “We’re good. Just promise me you’re not gonna do that shit again.”

“Oooooh, Mr. Gallagher. You just said the s-word in front of a student.”

“I didn’t say anything. I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Alex laughs. “Yeah, okay. I promise.”

“Alright. Good.” Ian playfully shoos him away. “Now get outta here before I give you detention for a month.”

“I’ll prob’ly end up with it anyway.”

“Maybe not.” Ian shrugs at him.

Alex doesn’t look so sure. He makes a clicking sound with his mouth. “We’ll see.”

---

Ian doesn’t get around to counting the money until the end of his planning.

He’s expecting it to be maybe three hundred, as he’d already seen at least two hundred dollar bills. And that would’ve been fine. He’d have covered the rest if it meant the kid felt forgiven. In the end, sometimes you react to shit going on in your life, and sometimes you need somebody to help you out rather than kick you down, even if you’re the one who fucked up to begin with.

But what amazes Ian, as he separates the bills into three stacks, is that Alex Curran has given him exactly $370.

He stares down at them. Straightens them out. Flattens the bent corners.

How the hell did he know?

Chapter Text

He doesn’t see PJ again until Friday. She’s off work, so while the kids are at school, she and Mickey get lunch at Patsy’s and then she rides around town with him while he does his weekly errands: supply store, bank, gas station, Kroger for beer and a giant bag of sunflower seeds.

They’re on their way back to Wallace, and despite Mickey’s complaints, PJ’s got Josh Turner blaring on the radio. She’s pulled her hair back into a bun, and her mascara has raccooned around her eyes a bit from the heat, giving her the kind of messy look Mickey always liked her for: beautiful rich blonde girl who bites her nails, smokes in secret, and sweats off her makeup in the same way Mandy always did.

She’s drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper from a jumbo-sized gas station cup, and it’s sweating all over her fingers to the point that she has to wipe them off, leaving wet streaks on her tanned thigh that shine in the sunlight.

Mickey leans against the door, relaxing into the drive, and looks over at her.

“I’m guessin’ he gave Gallagher the money,” he says with no preamble.

PJ reaches over and turns down the radio by half. “He said he did. Go ask Ian. Knock on his door.”

“Fuck off.”

The woman laughs and scoots back, bringing her legs up and resting them on the dash the way she used to do when they were kids driving around on one of their dates. “Well, I’d say smashing a teacher’s tail-lights is a step up from B&E and destruction of property, so he’s getting better with age.”

“Good job, Mama. Raisin’ him right.” Mickey chuckles. “He’s a little shit.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Who, you?”

“Asshole.” PJ rarely swears, and Mickey always gets a kick out of it when she does. He smiles, and she flicks him in the arm for it.

They settle and drive a few hundred feet, slurping their drinks. Mickey has a blue icee that’s so hard-packed he has to about suck his brains out to get anything from the straw. When he does, he swishes the mouthful around and swallows.

“Hey,” he says.

PJ shifts to peer at him.

“D’you think he’s alright? Like… I dunno. Mental stuff.” Mickey looks away, his question embarrassing him. He turns the radio back up. Florida Georgia Line. He hates this shit.

PJ shakes her drink, the ice rattling. “I think he’s unsure of himself, and I think that makes him mad.”

He wonders if she’s noticed it, too. She’s his mom. She has to have. She noticed that shit in Mickey--ain’t no way she doesn’t see it in the boy who’s been with her every day of his life.

Still, it feels wrong to say anything. Mickey nods. “Ian said Mark yelled at him.”

“Yeah. It’s just his usual. Head blows up, then a couple hours later, it’s like nothing ever happened ‘til it happens again.”

Mickey must breathe in a particular way, as PJ interjects, “You can’t kill him.”

“Why not? It’d be a helluva insurance payout. You and the kids ‘d be set for life.”

“True, but the state prison’s too far a drive to bring Bodes and Nugget to visit every weekend.”

“Sure about that?”

“I’ll let ya know if I change my mind.” She huffs a breathy laugh.

Mickey knows that shit pisses her off--both his threats toward her husband and proclamations about what he’s willing to do just to get his hands on him. He also knows it sometimes makes her smile, and it’s that little bit of a break in her facade that he likes to chip at.

He turns onto Wallace and rolls their windows down.

“Did you tell Ian about Aleks?” PJ asks once the Gallagher house comes into view in the distance.

Mickey shakes his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s none’a his business.”

“Mickey.”

“Kinda hard to work that shit into a casual conversation.” He shrugs. “He’ll find out eventually.”

“Sure, but he’ll also wonder why you didn’t tell him before.”

“So?”

PJ reaches over and flicks him again. He grabs her hand before she pulls it away and gives it a squeeze.

She squeezes his hand back. “Sorry.”

“For what.”

“Bein’ pushy.”

“Wouldn’t be you if you wasn’t.”

She blows a raspberry and pulls her hand back.

He cusses when he hits a rut in front of the Gallagher drive, the truck bouncing to and fro. PJ peers out the window.

“You should go ask him if Aleks gave him the money, though. Otherwise, you’ll never know.”

“Pushy bitch.”

“I already apologized.”

Mickey snorts. “D’you ever get tired of tryna make me a giant queer?”

“No. I won’t settle ‘til you’ve got a rainbow tattoo like your future boyfriend.”

Mickey jerks the steering wheel violently to the left, causing PJ to have to grab the oh-shit handle. She smacks him over and over as he rights them again, laughing.

“I rest my case,” she grumbles, leaning back in her seat and flipping him off with both hands. “Takes one to know one.”

---

“Job for you,” she says once they’re parked back at the house and climbing out of the truck. She grabs her purse and starts making her way over to her Escalade. “Will you track down that picture of Nugget with the Braves hat? I’m gonna try to do baby picture recreations with the kids for Mama’s birthday.”

Mickey takes an obnoxiously loud slurp of his icee, which is finally soft enough to sip normally. He says with his mouth full of blue sludge, “He’s gonna hate that more than your fuckin’ Christmas pajamas.”

“I’m his mom. I have to make him dress up for cute pictures. It’s the law.”

She comes over and kisses Mickey’s cheek. “Gotta go. Car rider line calls.”

Mickey grabs on to her and pulls her in for a hug, which he then pretends to be disgusted by. “Blech. Later,” he grumbles as if she has cooties. “Tell ‘em I said ‘hey.’”

“I will.” She pulls away from him and makes her way over to her vehicle, unlocking the door with her fob and climbing in. “Find the picture. And any others you think would be recreatable.”

Mickey gives her a salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

He lights a cigarette as she starts up the Escalade and then smokes it as she pulls out and away. Before she rounds the curve, she rolls down her window, sticks out her arm, and waves.

He chuffs and waves back, ending it by flipping her off. Pssh. He’ll never understand why she loves him the way she does.

Chris intercepts Ian on his way to his car, pulling him onto the sidewalk where he’s doing car line duty and trying to engage him in small talk. Ian hates small talk, and unfortunately for him, Chris is the king of it.

He likes the guy. He just doesn’t want to talk about his plans for the weekend or how work went that week--Were your kids bouncing off the walls like mine? Ha! Is it a full moon?--and he sure as hell doesn’t want to hear about Chris’s predictions for the county’s imminent move back to a mask requirement for all.

But he listens dutifully and hums appropriately, trying his level best not to be an asshole.

“Sorry, Ian,” Chris says when he’s finally managed to take a breath. He reaches out and squeezes his arm. “I’m talking your head off. You prob’ly wanna get outta here.”

He’s noticeably slow to remove his hand, and Ian has enough time to glance down at it before it’s gone.

“Uhh, yeah,” he says, nodding in the direction of the Jeep. “I should hit the road before all the car rider traffic gets out.”

“Definitely.”

There’s an awkward pause while Ian considers his best option for escaping without being rude. It’s enough time for Chris to clear his throat and ask, “So what’re you in such a hurry for?”

“Uhh, I’m not. Taylor’s coverin’ my last day of detention duty ‘cause I covered for her a couple weeks ago. Just gettin’ outta here.”

Chris runs a hand through his hair and smiles. “Thought you might have a hot date.”

“Nope.” Ian shakes his head and takes a step backward. “Only hot date I’ve got is with my couch.”

“Fair enough.” The other man holds out his fist and makes intense eye-contact. “Have a good one.”

Ian fist-bumps him. “See ya Monday.”

He turns to go and scrunches up his face as he does, considering it.

Maybe?

Chris is fine looking if you’re into guys who look exactly like their job title: Young Male Science Teacher. Ian wouldn’t mind getting into bed with him. He’s got experienced vibes--the kind that give him away as someone who probably went clubbing a lot in his early 20s and who likely frequents Grindr. He might be good in the sack. But does Ian really want to risk a work relationship when things inevitably go south? Probably not.

He decides against it. He’s not into him enough for it to ever be more than sex, and he might be horny as fuck, but he’s not really looking for anything like that right now--too messy, especially after just a few weeks on the job when he hasn’t yet proven himself. Been there, done that. He has a bad habit of getting into bed with coworkers, and it never turns out well. Even the ones he ended up dating ended poorly, and it sucks not being able to avoid them after the break-up.

Chris is watching him when he looks back just to see, and Ian gives him a smile and a wave, which is warmly returned. He turns back around afterward and huffs a breath.

The car rider line is bumper-to-bumper and at a relative stand-still. School releases at 3:00, but it takes a solid half hour for the line to be more than a slow crawl along the sidewalk, high schoolers taking their sweet time getting to their parents’ cars. Ian is able to cross easily, scooting in between a Honda and a Ford F-150 and hopping up onto the sidewalk.

He walks around toward the front of the school, dodging kids playing hacky-sack and ones wandering around with their eyes glued to their phones, when he suddenly hears someone call his name.

He looks over to find PJ Watson with an arm out her window, waving him over.

“Ian!” she greets. “How are you?”

As he walks over, he opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, she says, “Listen. I need to personally apologize.”

He lowers his brows. “For what?”

“For my son. When he told me what he did to your vehicle, I ‘bout had a heart-attack. Grounded him. Gave him bathroom duty for a month. And his little butt better have paid you every cent he owes for the damage.”

Ian’s heart falls. Wait. What?

“You’re Alex’s mom?” he asks, out of breath. Alex Curran’s mom, as in married to Mark Curran. Lawyer Mark.

“Oh, yes! I’m so sorry! I should’ve led with that.”

“No, you’re fine,” Ian murmurs, scratching his head. “And Alex did pay me back, so.”

“Thank God. I swear, Ian, he’s a good kid, and I love him to death. He’s just…” She makes a comical strangulation motion with her hands. “He’s a mess. But he was really sorry about what he did. Please don’t let that change your view of him.”

“Of course not, PJ. He apologized and brought me the money. I had him in detention yesterday, too, and he was a perfect angel.”

“Oh, thank God.” She smiles, relieved, her teeth gleaming like a paid actor’s in a toothpaste ad. “Well, I’m holdin’ up the line.” She leans out the window and mouths sorry! to the car behind her. “You take care, Ian. Thank you for being so sweet.”

They say their goodbyes, and he’s walking away, his head spinning, when PJ adds, “Mickey was the one who got your money back for you, by the way. You should thank him when you see him!”

“Uhh, yeah,” Ian says. “Definitely.”

Holy fucking shit.

Like an immature kid, he snorts with laughter when PJ drives off. What the hell? So Mickey’s banging Mark Curran’s wife? That’s the most ridiculous thing Ian’s heard all day, and he teaches high schoolers.

Fuck! His heart pounds as he makes his way to his Jeep and climbs in. There’s no way. Without thinking twice, he pulls up Facebook, and instead of searching PJ Watson, which he’s already tried, he searches up PJ Curran and then Paige Curran when that yields no relevant results.

He finds a completely public profile page with every piece of information he could ever want to know. Married to Mark Curran since December 2005. Works at McKinney-Reese Realty since 2014. He taps through her pictures and sees albums and albums full of the most stereotypical rich white American family he’s ever seen. Disney World 2017. Our 10th Anniversary!!! Boden Amelia Curran 6-11-11. Christmas 2020. LeHigh Class of 2004 LOL. He doesn’t bother looking through the albums, as the profile picture’s all he needs to see: a family photo taken on a beach at dusk, all four people in white linen pants and each with a different colored polo shirt.

There’s Mark and PJ in the middle, and on either side of them, a parent’s arm around their waists, are Boden and Alex. It’s pre-mullet Alex, his hair shoulder-length and mid-tone brown with golden streaks from the sun, and he’s smiling with his mouth closed, his dimples showing.

No wonder Mickey’d been a little weird and cagey about the Jeep thing, only telling Ian he knew the family and nothing more. He’s apparently fucking the kid’s mom. Is he fucking her? He has to be fucking her. They were hugging in front of Beck’s, Mickey leaning in the car window and PJ’s face buried in his neck.

But then does that mean the little girl--Boden--knows? Does that mean Alex knows, too? Is that too nuts to be what’s actually going on?

Ian doesn’t know what to make of that potentiality when placed alongside Mickey at seventeen, unexpectedly kissing him on the mouth--soft and heartbreaking, his face crumpling afterward like it was something he’d wished for and yet something he hated. Or Mickey by the swimming hole--the way his body had shook when they’d brought their lips together.

Do you want to kiss me?

Yeah.

There’s bisexuality, of course. There’s also experimentation and curiosity. There’s being closeted, still, even in your mid-thirties.

Ian’s thought about it a lot since seeing Mickey and PJ hugging outside Beck’s. It’s none of his business either way, but it makes his stomach hurt with the kind of jealousy he knows he shouldn’t have when he thinks about the two of them having something spanning over a decade--from hickeys on Mickey’s neck to him knowing her kids, hugging her after a lunch date, and being visited at home.

Even if it’s merely friendship they have, which is probably the more likely story, Mark Curran being openly cheated on a more and more ridiculous concept the more Ian thinks about it, it makes him inexplicably sad. It makes him wonder what could’ve happened if he hadn’t left.

Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. A couple simple kisses wasn’t enough to establish a lifelong relationship. But maybe they would’ve become friends. Maybe they would’ve talked and met up and figured some stuff out together. Maybe Ian would’ve continued to work on his garden, and maybe Mickey would’ve climbed up on the fence and watched him, dressed in that buffalo-check flannel and those cowboy boots that seemed to make him so proud.

His brain’s moving fast again. Ian sets down his phone, grips the steering wheel, and leans in, pressing his forehead against it. He needs to calm his shit.

He’d made an appointment at NewDay Medical Associates, and because he’ll be a brand new patient, the earliest they were able to schedule him was the second week in September. He may have also told them he’s fine, his symptoms are minimal, and no, he has no thoughts of suicide.

Maybe it’s true in comparison to last summer, but he’s probably overselling his mental health. Lip’d bitched at him when he’d told him his appointment was three weeks away because he apparently thinks he’s lost his goddamn mind, which is stupid. They definitely would’ve gotten him in sooner if he’d used words like anxiety, spiraling thoughts, and occasional agitation, but he’s gone through a million times worse, and at this point, he considers his everyday bullshit his baseline.

Ian sits up straight again and pulls down the visor mirror, looking himself in the eye. That helps. They’re veiny from lack of sleep. Sleep would help, too.

He cranks the Jeep.

He has to get high when he looks at this stuff. There’s no other way to do it.

It wasn’t too long ago that he’d had the box out, looking through his old sketchbook. He gets it out again that afternoon because PJ’s a fucking lunatic who likes to dress her kids up like show dogs.

The thing is, he’s seen this shit so many times it shouldn’t have an effect anymore, the manila envelope full of CVS-developed photos as familiar to him as the magnets on his fridge. Yet he still feels the need to be high when he flips through them, and he always somehow ends up flipping through them whenever he’s got the box open, digging for one thing or another: an old CD, his social security card, a high school yearbook that he likes to look through sometimes when he remembers a face but not a name.

The envelope is like contraband or a hidden stash of coke. Whenever he opens it and spreads the pictures out on his bed, he feels like the cops could burst in at any moment and tell him to put his hands up.

He takes a hit off the blunt, spills the pictures out, and turns on the lamp.

PJ always liked to take pictures. Mickey thought it was cheesy. In the ones of the two of them, they look like they’re twelve, dressed in ugly early 2000s clothes with their skin washed out from the flash. They’re sitting on the couch together, they’re eating McDonald’s in Mickey’s truck, Mickey’s holding a pistol on his way to shoot cans with Iggy, his Marlboro baseball cap on backwards.

Then there’s the other stack. Most of them are missing, PJ putting them in albums probably lining the Curran bookshelves. My Pregnancy in Pictures one of them had said on the front in gold, swirly font. What’s left are the extras--the ones where she’s blinking, the ones where the camera flash had come on unexpectedly and made a burst of light in the bathroom mirror. He doesn’t even know why he has these--all of them taken at the Watson house.

In the third stack, all taken in 2005, Mickey finds the picture PJ needed. The back of it reads Future #1 Braves Fan in her perfect handwriting--like something out of a fucking lettering handbook. Mickey’d been the one to take the picture, laughing as the girl put a toddler-sized baseball cap on Aleks’s two-month-old head, the hat so large on him she had to turn it to the side to get the bill out of the way of his face. In the picture, she’s holding him backwards against her chest, her arms scooping under him, and he’s got on a striped onesie, his bare legs scrawny and his blue socks too big on his feet.

They’d sat on the couch afterward--Mickey remembers clear as day--PJ with her legs pulled up on the coffee table and Aleks resting back against her thighs, his little body cradled in the divot between them.

“Hi, baby,” she’d whispered in a sweet, high-pitched voice, leaning in so Aleks could see her. She’d kissed him and then whispered it again up against his face, his mouth opening as he tried to nurse on the tip of her nose.

She was always a good mom. She loved the hell out of her kids--this pure, affectionate love from day one where you could just tell she thought they were the most perfect baby alive. Mickey’d never seen anything like that. He was eighteen years old and had never once been around a mom who just said, “Oh no, sweetie,” when the kid projectile vomited milk all over her shirt.

“You want him?” she’d asked that day, scooping Aleks up and handing him over. Mickey had put his legs like PJ’s had been--his toes against the edge of the coffee table--and gently rested the baby on his thighs.

He’d tickled his belly and made a farting noise with his mouth. Of course Aleks was too young to know what was happening, but it made him wiggle and kick out with his arms and legs, so Mickey’d done it again and again, trying to get a smile out of him. He’d got one before by kissing the bottoms of his feet and loudly pretending to eat them. Mandy had said it was just gas, but Mickey had sworn it was real.

This time, though, Aleks was too tired to bother. Mickey’d given up the tickles after a minute, the baby yawning and stretching his arms over his head like a cartoon baby. He’d always yawned so dramatically. In response, Mickey had run his thumb up and down the bridge of his nose in a soothing pattern, looking him over up close as he fell asleep. He was kind of perfect looking for a rugrat.

He sets the picture on his nightstand so he can text a photo of it to PJ and then idly flips through the others. Most of them were taken by Mark or by PJ’s parents or by her sister, Ashley--shots of Aleks in his nursery at the Watson house, shots of him at a family get-together, some relative holding him. But then a good chunk of them were taken at the Milkovich house. Aleks stretched out on Mickey’s bed in just a diaper. Aleks sleeping on Mandy’s shoulder. Aleks, when he was able to support his own head and back, sitting in Mickey’s lap, the two of them on the porch steps probably a month before he’d beaten the shit out of Mark Curran, his fist turning bloody with it.

He doesn’t have many pictures of him after the summer of 2005. PJ’d brought him little wallet-sizes of all his school photos up through middle school. He has his baptism picture and a few with Santa and the Easter Bunny. But among other things, the disposable cameras had stopped in favor of digital ones, and Mickey had never bought one of those. Plus, at that point, it was weird to take pictures of him every time he saw him--even if he was growing like a weed.

He snatches up a few more shots of Aleks in particularly recreatable poses and outfits, takes pictures of them with his phone, and sends them to PJ before putting everything back in the box and sliding it under the bed. When he straightens, he notices he’s left one out--the most familiar one he has, a Polaroid that had developed imperfectly, the edges green and orange.

Rather than bothering to get the box back out, he takes another hit off his blunt, sets the picture on the nightstand, and leaves the room to go get some shit done.

In the kitchen, he takes one last puff off the blunt before putting it out against the cutting board and then seals it back up in the little container where he keeps his goods. Then he heads outside.

He unloads his truck, emptying the bed of bird seed, a replacement rake wheel, and fence wire and netting. He brings in his groceries and then grabs a lukewarm beer from the case of Budweiser he’d bought. He pops the tab and takes a slurping sip.

There’s not much going on for the afternoon. He’ll take care of the birdseed and do a walk of the east pasture perimeter to check the fence, but he’ll save that for the evening when the sun’s less intense. No rush.

It’ll be a nice night later on, the weather decent, so he’ll make a fire when it’s dark. He’s got re-wiring the small pasture fence in the morning, and he’s got to make space in the barn for the hay delivery coming in later. But that’s Saturday.

Mickey takes his beer into the living room and sits down in the recliner. He puts his feet up and flips on the TV. It’s nothing but soaps. He shuts it off.

He drinks his beer while staring at the clock above the TV. It’s one of those singing bird ones they used to advertise on local channels on mid-morning Sundays, and Mickey has no idea where it came from, as there’s no way in hell Terry Milkovich dialed in an order. To his memory, it’s always been there. The batteries die once a year or so, and it takes a few days for anybody to change them out, but they always do.

When Mickey’s done with his beer, he gets up and goes outside. He sits on the top porch step, takes out a cigarette, and lights up.

It’s quiet. Every now and again, when traffic’s heavy on Southdown due to an event at the fairgrounds, you can hear car horns and the occasional siren--sometimes a backfire or some teenager’s souped up truck with the obnoxious muffler Mickey would’ve killed to have as a kid. When Ian’s out mowing his lawn, you can hear that, too, this faint rumble in the distance.

Ian’s at work now, obviously. Mickey checks the time on his phone. 3:19. Maybe he’s just leaving. At any rate, he probably isn’t home. He isn’t there to make any noise--anything to make Wallace sound a little less dead.

There are the birds, of course, and the insects, and the cows’ll periodically give a sonorous low. For now, though, the burn of Mickey’s cigarette is the loudest thing around. He leans against the rail post.

Ian. PJ’s so goddamn pushy about that. Go knock on his door. That’s bullshit.

The funny thing is that she doesn’t even know the half of it. She thinks he’s just some guy Mickey crushed on when he was seventeen who’s suddenly back in town. She’d lose her mind if she knew about what Mickey’d done that December day in the upper pasture. She’d treat him like a poor, heartsick baby if she knew about what had happened in the woods. No way in hell is he ever telling her that shit. That’s for him and him alone.

Him and Ian, he guesses.

His cheeks burn when he thinks about it. He feels a little sick, and he holds on to his cigarette for dear life. He’d been stupid. So stupid. Just a stupid kid chasing shit he shouldn’t have been. And Ian knows all about it. Fucking embarrassing.

It’s torture, and it’s worse because Ian showed up looking the way he does--with his rainbow flag tattoo and his pastel button-downs. Ian’s a queer, a proud one, and Mickey’d kissed him when they were kids, and now he has to see him every once in a while and know that the other man remembers. That he remembers how scared Mickey’d been in the woods, how he’d said over and over that he couldn’t but when asked, had said, yeah and had let Ian put his mouth on his like something out of a sad, homo Hallmark movie.

His blood sizzles when he thinks about it. He finishes up his cigarette and tosses it into the driveway, watching it smoke itself out in the gravely dirt.

Maybe tomorrow night he’ll get on Tinder and see what he can find.

It’s been over a month, and the itch is starting to turn into something else--something sick in his belly. His video searches have begun to stray, and the night before, he’d found himself clicking away from solo stuff and landing on a page with two intersecting blue Mars symbols.

He needs to get laid.

He stands and stretches, and it’s then that his phone vibrates in his pocket.

It’s PJ, replying to the pictures he’d sent. Mickey rolls his eyes and feels like launching his phone into the woods when he reads her messages.

------------------------

PJ (3:27 PM): Thx sweets

PJ (3:27 PM): Just saw ur loverboy in the car rider line 🥰️ He looks cute 2day

PJ (3:27 PM): Bow chicka wow wow

------------------------

Yeah. He’s definitely getting laid.

After a trip to the local nursery, Ian spends Saturday morning working in the yard. He puts in his earbuds and listens to Local Natives while he plants marigolds, snapdragons, and alyssum wearing a pair of gardening gloves he’d found in the hall closet. He thinks they were Monica’s, the pattern on them outdated and the backs of them stretching tight across his knuckles.

When he’s done, he grabs a sandwich and some water from the house, then cranks the lawn mower and pushes it along the sides of the drive. The yard needs a good, close cut like a morning shave, but he does what he can with what he has.

He could probably figure out a way to sharpen the blade, as he’s certain that’s the problem, but part of him wants to wait for his next paycheck so he can invest in a better push mower to begin with, this one likely nearing eighteen years old, if not more. He can’t imagine Frank buying one, so it had to have been Fiona back when they still lived at the house. Ian’s amazed it still works, as it’s rusted and creaks with every push.

It’s fucking hot outside. He pulls off his T-shirt and slings it over the porch railing. His chest is white as a sheet, and it’s been over a month since he’s done anything with his body hair, the ginger thatches growing in awkwardly and a little patchy after years of consistent landscaping. He chugs down half his bottle of water as he makes his way back to the mower and picks up where he left off.

Not ten minutes later, as he’s skimming the patch at the side of the road near where he’d planted his marigolds, Mickey drives past in his truck, his rock music blaring loud enough to be heard on fucking Main Street.

Ian watches, mowing along, as he slows his truck a tick and then another, and then, after a moment of hesitation, puts his vehicle in reverse and backs up until he’s idling by the redhead, who eyes him as he leans over and turns the radio down.

Ian slowly releases the handlebar, the mower sputtering to a stop.

“Been in any fights with high schoolers lately?” Mickey calls, and Ian’s belly jumps before he’s able to compose himself. He huffs and, abandoning his mower, walks over to the truck and stands by the open passenger window.

He crosses his arms over his bare chest. “Not since Wednesday.”

The other man chuffs and looks away, rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. When he turns back, he nods toward the mower. “That thing’s a piece’a shit. I got a good ridin’ mower if you wanna use it.”

It’s true, but Ian still somehow takes offense, his words coming out a bit snippy. “Nah, I’m good.”

Mickey raises a brow. “The yard looks like crap.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Ain’t your fault. Here, lemme…” He backs up several feet and hooks around into the driveway to turn around. “Gimme a sec.”

Ian stands, shirtless, in the cloud of dirt left behind by the truck, Mickey peeling out and driving back toward his house where he came from.

---

Fifteen minutes later, he returns with the black and yellow Cub Cadet in the back of his Chevy. He parks at the end of the drive and climbs out. Ian watches as he drops the tailgate, unfolds the loading ramp, and jumps up and onto the mower like what he’s doing is just another simple, everyday thing.

He drives it down the ramp and into the driveway before getting out, nodding at it, and saying, “Use this. I’m tired of lookin’ at your ugly-ass yard every time I pass.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re fucking charming?” Ian asks, walking over and peering at the equipment.

“A time or two. Just shut up and use it.”

“Do I know how?”

Irritatedly, Mickey points out a few of the features, showing Ian how to start it up, steer it, and cut it off. It’s one of those zero-turn ones with a steering wheel, and Ian feels like he’s in a go-kart when he climbs on.

“Just bring it back whenever,” Mickey says, wiping his palms on the thighs of his jeans. He’s wearing a green tank-top with them, and the side is pulled up an inch, revealing a sliver of a black underwear band.

Briefs. Interesting. Ian has to force himself to stop staring. He remembers seeing Mickey in those water-transparent blue boxers when they were kids, his heart creeping up into his throat with the kind of excitement only an inexperienced fifteen-year-old can have.

“Uhh, yeah,” he says, patting the steering wheel. “Definitely. Thanks, Mickey.” That’s fucking nice of him, even if he’s acting like a grumpy old man about it. “I’m prob’ly gonna get a new mower soon, so you won’t have to look at my ugly-ass yard anymore.”

Mickey shrugs. “Whatever. ‘Til you do.” He waves a hand toward the Cub Cadet, and then, with another rub of his jaw, says, “See ya.”

He goes back to his truck, puts the ramp away, and pushes up the tailgate. Ian watches him as he then climbs in the front, cranks it, and leaves. He takes a right down Wallace toward Southdown. Ian grips the steering wheel in his hands and breathes deeply.

Was that weird?

No. Definitely not weird, but unusual, maybe. Why, though? Too stereotypically neighborly? Not that Mickey hasn’t already fixed his tail-lights for free, requesting an IOU rather than payment. He’d been unfriendly as fuck the first time they’d seen each other in seventeen years, but he’d been genuinely really decent about the car thing, even going so far as to seek Ian out rather than wait for him to ask.

So maybe him offering up the Cub Cadet isn’t odd at all. Maybe it only feels that way because Ian’s thinking about seventeen-year-old Mickey and the rest of the Milkoviches--the Milkoviches who’d just as soon steal your shit and skid dirt in your face than help you out.

Mickey’s a grown-ass man now.

Hell yeah, he is. And he looks so damn good. Ian has to admit he kind of gets a kick out of Mickey helping him for that reason alone, allowing himself to read way too much into it because it feels nice.

Before, Ian had known him in his awkward stage, his features starting to grow into a man’s but his body still scrawny and his muscles undeveloped. Now, he has muscles in his arms from laboring in the fields, and his jaw has grown sharper. It’s unbearably frustrating in the best sort of way, and it doesn’t help that his clothes finally fit him and that he’s still got that same wonderfully agitated persona he had as a seventeen-year-old--all the unnecessary attitude that’s as endearing as it is annoying.

Ian wonders if he’s ever had his dick sucked by a guy.

Goddamn. His brain needs to shut the fuck up.

Even still, he starts the mower and drives it around the yard for a minute, blades up, thinking about Mickey’s body and his jaw rub and his exposed underwear band like a fucking pervert.

At around three o’clock on Saturday, the auto parts store called him about a part he’d had on order for Mrs. Hilburn's Cadillac. He was just finishing up in the barn, raking out all the stray hay and rearranging some of the older bales to make room for what Hank Prince was going to bring later.

After heading inside to take a piss and get something to drink, he grabbed his wallet and keys and went out to his truck. There was the faint drone of Gallagher cutting his grass, and for a moment, Mickey held his hand on the door handle, contemplating going back inside. Ultimately, he decided that would just make him a giant pussy, and with not a little irritation, he pulled open the car door and climbed in.

He put on loud music to drown out the sound of the mower in the distance, and he pulled out of the driveway and began making his way down the road.

He’d hoped Ian would be in the back yard, allowing him to scoot by without notice, but no such luck. Instead, he found him hacking at the lawn right near the road with his fucking shirt off.

Jesus Christ. He looked like he’d accidentally climbed out of his coffin before nightfall, and Mickey was surprised his chest wasn’t sparkling like a goddamn Twilight character. City boy.

And he should’ve driven past. There wasn’t a reason in the world why he should’ve slowed his truck the way he did. He’d already beaten himself up about the Ian shit the night before, ruminating on it until his chest had gotten tight. He’d finished off his blunt by the bonfire and leaned his head on the backrest of his chair and looked up at the sky, nearly spiraling into a breakdown about the universe and how it was either proof that God didn’t exist or proof that God existed and hated him that Ian Gallagher had to end up his neighbor.

So fuck, yeah, he should’ve driven past. But he didn’t. In the end, he slowed his truck because the Gallagher yard just always looked so shitty with the uneven cut, and Ian’s chest was white as snow, and his push mower was a thousand years old.

After slowing, Mickey backed up and idled. And before he could even think about it, he offered to lend Ian the Cub Cadet.

The other man was so fucking distracting with his white-ass bare chest. Mickey avoided letting his eyes fall on it, and he knew he should just get the hell out of there, but somehow, he still didn’t take no for an answer when Ian said he didn’t need to use his mower.

The whole damn trip back to the house, his blood felt like a rushing river after a rainstorm. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. It wasn’t fair that Mickey had to be like that because he didn’t want it, and it made him crazy. Made him stupid.

Worse yet, it kept drawing him in no matter how hard he tried to avoid it. Ian’s chest with the patchy ginger fuzz like he couldn’t grow it right. He was wearing shorts, too, these olive training ones that hit just above the knee and that had a drawstring that was tucked into the front of them a little, only a loop sticking out. Mickey had glanced at it once, and after, all he could think of was reaching over and tugging at that loop until he’d pulled the string out from where it was tucked between the band of Ian’s shorts and his belly.

He’s a pervert.

Once he’s done dropping off the mower with Ian, he smokes two back-to-back cigarettes on his way into town and listens to his classic rock station so loud his dashboard vibrates.

---

On his way back home, he passes Ian on the mower and slows the truck enough to watch him for a minute while still being subtle. The man’s sweating and shiny, and there’s already pink on his freckly shoulders. He isn’t paying attention to anyone passing on the road, his body turned away, and he’s got in those white bluetooth earbuds he has that are some kind of Apple knock-off.

Mickey speeds up once he’s seen enough, his tires spinning in the gravel. Gallagher still doesn’t hear him, and he knows that shit because he watches him in the rearview mirror until he has to turn the curve.

---

Once he’s back at the house, Mickey sits on the porch with a can of beer and stares at his phone screen for a solid two minutes before he opens up Tinder.

It’s not that he’s delusional. It’s not that he’s pretending or that he’s trying to convince himself that it’s what he wants and needs, this God-fearing idea that he’s supposed to be straight, that he was originally made that way and he’s just got fucked in the head somewhere leading up to puberty.

He knows. He ain’t fucking stupid. It’s goddamn 2021, and despite it all, he’s aware that queers are born like that. They’ve got to be. Nobody touched his dick when he was a kid. He barely even had a mom, let alone one who smothered him. Terry would’ve beat his ass even more than he already did if he caught him playing with dolls, and he wasn’t put in a dance class or made to sing in the church choir or taken to a homo parade when he was impressionable. He was given guns and taught to shoot them, and he grew up with his brothers and watched out for his sister in the sort of way that meant beating the shit out of anyone who messed with her. He learned he should touch himself when he looked at nudie mags, and he learned he was supposed to want to look up girls’ skirts and grab their tits.

It ain’t his fucking upbringing and it ain’t any trauma he experienced. He knows for damn sure because if it had been, he’d have managed to straighten out by now after over seventeen years of avoiding that shit at all cost. Nothing could’ve gone that wrong--especially if he can’t even remember the inciting incident in the first place.

So he doesn’t go on Tinder because he’s trying to convert himself or get in touch with his God-intended form like an old Baptist preacher would say. He’s got it in his gut, and he knows it, and he wants it gone, but he knows it won’t ever go. He was born with a fucking curse.

Instead, he goes on Tinder because he hopes.

It’s the same shit he’s been hoping since he was a teenager, letting PJ ride him on his bed like she was supposed to and squeezing her tits like he was supposed to and asking himself over and over, What if it works? What if it clicks? Maybe one day he’ll fuck somebody, and he’ll feel something else. Maybe he’s bi and doesn’t know it; maybe he hasn’t met the right one.

He liked PJ back then. He actively wanted to be around her after a couple months of hanging out, something about her presence comforting. Maybe one day something would spark, he thought, and he’d look at her and want to kiss her.

Maybe he’s just a little off, one of those weird relatives you hear about who don’t get married until they’re fifty. He’s able to fuck, after all. Girls don’t necessarily give him limp dick; he can get hard if they touch him right, and when he closes his eyes, their bodies feel good enough around him that he wants more of it--wants to keep doing it until he comes. That’s got to count for something, he figures. He’s pretty sure full-on queers are supposed to scream theatrically when they see a pussy.

But there’s still that sickness he feels when it’s done. There’s still the energy rushing through his fists, still the fact that he hates himself when he pulls out and pushes his dick against the top of the girl’s ass and watches himself pulse out into the condom.

There’s the disgust, too--the kind that makes him sad sometimes. Sad is the word; there’s none other to describe it. And the sadness just makes him angry.

Maybe he is fucked in the head.

Maybe the main reason he goes on Tinder is because he wants to hurt himself--fucking a woman as good as cutting his wrists.

---

He swipes for a while until he finds a couple options. Eventually, he settles on Dani. Brunette. Late-20s. Lives just outside Macon and is willing to meet for something casual. They exchange numbers, and she sends him a titty pic. They’re smallish and perky, and they do absolutely nothing for him, but he texts her back that she’s hot and that he’ll be in town around eight and does she wanna meet?

When it’s all settled, he shoves his phone in his pocket, bends over, and rubs his hands over his face.

He thinks taking up cutting would probably be more convenient and would cost him a whole lot less in gas.

As Ian’s finishing up his yard, a truck and trailer bounces its way down the rutted road with hay bales stacked in the back, and it returns empty half an hour later when he’s sitting on the mower, deciding what to do next.

He should drive it over to Mickey’s, obviously, as he’s done with it for the time being. He knows this, though that doesn’t stop him from wringing his hands around the steering wheel and getting fully in his head.

It was nice as fuck of Mickey to lend him the mower. He had zero obligation and yet did it anyway, even going so far as to stop on his way somewhere else and turn around just so he could help Ian out. It’s only right to give him something in return.

With that something in mind, Ian climbs off the mower, gets his shirt off the porch railing, and goes inside to grab his keys. He heads into town, calling in an order on the way, and picks up two large extra pepperonis from Planet Pizza before driving them back to Wallace.

At the house, he takes one of the pizzas inside to the kitchen and then runs back out, grabs the other, and climbs on the lawn mower. As careful as he can, he cranks it up and starts making his way down the driveway, steering with one hand and holding the pizza box on his thigh.

It’s a treacherous journey, the ruts in the road making it nearly impossible to drive without nearly toppling the box onto the ground. Somehow, he makes it anyway, parking the mower outside the Milkovich garage and cutting it off.

The door to the house opens as Ian’s climbing out of the seat, the pizza gripped in both hands. Mickey steps out. He’s changed his clothes, now dressed in clean dark-wash jeans and a thin, blue plaid button-down opened over a gray tank-top, and his feet are bare.

Ian carries the pizza over to him.

“Uhh, hey,” he greets as he climbs the stairs and stands two feet away from the other man, who’s seemingly rooted to the welcome mat.

Mickey raises his brows. He looks surprised as hell to see Ian there.

“Hey?”

“Brought back your mower and figured I’d thank you.” Ian hands over the pizza, and Mickey stares at it awkwardly for ten full seconds before taking it.

“Uhh, thanks,” he says, holding it in both hands. “You don’t gotta--”

“I wanted to. It was nice of you to let me use it.”

Mickey shrugs and fidgets, running the soles of his feet over the surface of the welcome mat and creating a brushing sound. “It’s cool.”

“Well.” A beat. Ian feels awkwardness settle around them like a rising heat. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. Whenever you need it, just…lemme know.”

“‘kay.”

Ian gives a quick smile and a little wave and begins making his way back down the porch steps.

He huffs when he reaches the bottom and turns, hand gripping the railing.

“Hey,” he says, and Mickey, who’s still frozen and holding the pizza, raises his brows at him again.

Ian shifts and lets a more natural smile form. “You coulda told me, y’know.”

“Toldja what.”

“About you and PJ.”

Mickey chuffs and sets the pizza down on a little table near some rickety wicker benches. “What’s there to tell?”

Truly, Ian has no idea why he brought it up. He’d just been taking the final step onto the gravel at the bottom of the stairs, and a little voice inside him had told him to say something, anything, because they’re too damn old to be so awkward.

“What?” Mickey repeats, and Ian purses his lips.

“You’re like…hangin’ out with her or whatever.” Ian chuckles softly. “You just coulda told me is all. I wouldn’t’a said anything.” He draws a cross over his heart and immediately feels stupid for it. Mickey just stares at him.

He deserves it, too, because he’d pretty much decided she and Mickey had to be just friends for a whole slew of factors that made a hell of a lot more sense than open-secret affair, and yet he’d gone with the sex narrative because it might get a rise out of him. He hates himself.

“Who told you that?” Mickey sputters, finally leaving the welcome mat to come a step closer.

Success.

Again, he hates himself.

“Nobody. I just saw you two huggin’ outside Beck’s a couple weeks ago, and she visits you sometimes.” He shrugs. “I connected the dots.”

“Well, you did a shitty job.” Mickey goes over to the table and pops open the pizza box. He grabs a slice and takes a massive bite, and with his mouth full, adds, “I ain’t fuckin’ PJ. Not anymore, at least. We’re good friends.”

“Oh.”

“Jesus Christ. Jump to conclusions, much? The hell are you on?”

Ian laughs awkwardly and scratches at his eyebrow. “Sorry?”

Mickey stares at him like he doesn’t know whether to laugh at him or tell him to leave. In the end, he merely tuts and nods toward the pizza box. “Here. Come get a couple slices, Harriet the Spy. I can’t eat all this shit by myself.”

Ian should absolutely tell Mickey he has his own back at the house. Instead, with hardly a moment’s thought, he walks back up the stairs with the tips of his ears burning and grabs a slice.

Mickey leans against the side of the house. “Why do you care, anyway?”

“I don’t. I’ve just seen PJ like, twice, and she told me you were the one who got Alex to pay me.” Ian shrugs. “Just weird you didn’t say anything about you like, knowin’ him, knowin’ him when you were fixin’ my lights. Figured it had something to do with your…situation.”

“She told you I got him to pay you.”

“Yeah?” Ian takes a bite of his pizza and because Mickey’s doing it, continues with his mouth full, “I talked to her in the car line yesterday.”

“Jesus Christ.” The other man rolls his eyes for some unknown reason and grabs another slice from the box.

“So you two are…close?” Ian finishes chewing and swallows before adding, “You were dating back when I moved.”

Mickey nods. “Yeah. Broke up not long after, but…” He takes a bite of pizza. “Stayed friends or whatever.”

“Cool. That’s kinda nice.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“A lotta shit prob’ly changed since I left.” Ian peers around--at the garage, at the pastures, through the windows of the house. “Is your family…?”

Mickey eats for a moment, letting the partial question rest, before finally replying, “Two outta the four in prison. Mandy manages at Beck’s and’s got four rugrats. Iggy’s over on Watertower. Has a kid, but…” He shrugs.

Ian nods. They continue eating in silence for a full minute. He makes a point not to stare, but every now and again, Mickey shifts on his feet, and Ian’s eyes immediately land on him. Thankfully, the other man doesn’t seem to catch him, just finishes up his slice and wipes his mouth inelegantly on the back of his wrist, leaving an orangey sauce-streak on it.

Ian reaches over and grabs another slice.

Mickey hates this. He’s also the dumbest motherfucker alive. All that shit could’ve stopped with a simple, fine, whatever, after Ian’d given that sassy little apology for thinking he and PJ were still hooking up, but no. He’d had to go and spoil it all by asking the ginger dickhead to eat some of the pizza.

And now he’s standing in his olive shorts and white T-shirt that shows the shadow of his nipples, which is basically worse than him being shirtless, and he’s eating the pizza he brought and talking with his mouth full.

Mickey eats his own slice of pizza and keeps his head down. The silence grates on him, even though it shouldn’t, and pretty soon he’s wanting to kick himself in the head but asking, “So how was Florida?”

Ian shrugs. “Okay. Fine.”

“You moved back.”

“I did.”

Mickey lets that go, Ian’s reticence a little too palpable, but in the end, the other man forges on after all.

“Yeah, it was time for something different. Needed a...change of environment.”

“And you didn’t wanna go somewhere better than this shithole?” Mickey chuffs. “Like, literally anywhere else?”

Ian grins, and his eyes crinkle when he does it. There are fine lines along the sides of his mouth that he didn’t have when he was teenager, and his freckles aren’t as dark, but otherwise, he’s all fifteen-year-old Ian when he smiles. Mickey bites the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling back.

“Yeah, yeah.” Ian nods. “But it’s not so bad here.”

“For me, maybe, but comin’ from Jacksonville? It’s gotta be.”

“Maybe. Gainesville, though. Much smaller.”

“Your family end up there?”

“Nah, just me.” He sighs. “Got a teaching job there outta college. Everybody else is still in or around Jacksonville.”

When he was a kid, Gallagher loved talking about his family. It was always Lip this and Fiona that. Now, he looks uncomfortable at the mention of them. There’s something he’s not saying, but it ain’t any of Mickey’s business.

“Got it,” he says and finishes his slice of pizza.

There’s a long moment of silence as Ian finishes up his own slice. He examines the crust for a moment as if contemplating eating it like he did the other, but in the end, he holds on to it until Mickey motions for him to toss it in the grass. The birds’ll get it.

“So what happened with Aleks?” the man asks afterward, changing the subject completely. “For the kid of PJ Watson and Mark Curran, he’s kinda…” He scrunches up his face.

Mickey finishes for him. “A shithead?”

Ian laughs. “No. I mean, sorta. Rebellious is what I was gonna say.”

“Yeah, he’s…” Mickey shrugs. “He’s his own kid. He’s not bad once you get to know him.”

“I don’t doubt it. Kinda worried about him, though. Maybe I shouldn’t be.”

“Don’t gotta worry. He ain’t yours.”

“I know, but… Teacher shit. We’re all like this.”

“Since when?” Mickey snorts. “Can’t think of a single teacher who was like that when we were in school.”

“Yeah, well. I think we had shitty teachers.”

He can’t argue with that. There were a few who tried--who pulled him to the side after class and asked him if he was doing alright, who called his house and told Terry he was a good kid who was a joy to have in class even though it was a laughable lie. A lot of them, though, didn’t care about much other than whether he did his work and when the answer was no, whether they could stick him in ISS for the day.

He nods at Ian’s statement and crosses his arms over his chest.

The other man shifts and places a hand on the railing like he’s going to leave soon. He glances around him, his eyes landing on the tinkling wind chimes for a moment before returning to Mickey’s face.

“You called Mark a ‘little bitch’ the other day.”

Mickey snorts. “‘Cause he is.”

“So do you like, know him? The way you apparently know Aleks?”

“Nah. Kicked his ass a couple times, but I try to stay away if I can.”

Ian smiles at that, and his eyes flash. “Coooool.”

“What.”

“Nothing.”

The redhead smirks like he’s thinking about something amusing, but he wipes it away soon enough. He scratches the back of his neck and nods toward the pizza box. “Thanks for lettin’ me mooch.”

“You bought that shit.”

“Ah, well. Thanks anyway.”

Mickey nods, and Ian smiles at him again. It makes his insides feel like someone’s taken a lighter to them.

“Alright,” the other man says. “Gonna go.”

“‘kay.” He watches as Ian descends the stairs and then turns around once he’s in the drive.

“Thanks again for the mower.”

“Stop thankin’ me.”

“My lawn looks pretty now.”

“Impossible.”

Ian flips him off, and it feels so good Mickey could cry. He has to turn away from it, reaching down to pick up the pizza box, and when he turns back, Ian’s giving him a wave and setting off toward his house.

“See ya,” Mickey says, backing toward the front door to take the pizza in, and he doesn’t know whether the other man hears it or not; at any rate, he gives him one more glance before turning quickly away.

---

Back in the house, Mickey sets the pizza on the kitchen counter and then goes to his room. He gets his phone where he’d left it on the nightstand and sits down on the bed with it, cradling it in his lap.

He reads over his text messages with Dani. She’d got the motel room--a Ramada right off the highway--and had asked him to bring $25 so they could split the cost.

She seems okay--had just texted sounds good to me when Mickey’d reiterated that he wanted a one-time thing. He locks the phone and tosses it to the foot of the bed before dropping backward onto his pillows. He gets out a cigarette, lights up, and smokes it and then another until he needs to finish getting ready.

---

At seven, he pulls on clean socks and his nice boots--a pair of chocolate brown Timberlands he’d got for $69.99 at the discount shoe outlet. He puts gel in his hair and brushes his teeth.

Just as he’s about to head out, patting his pockets for his wallet and keys, Dani texts him a picture of her masturbating, her hand down the front of her pink lacy underwear. A lump forms in his throat. He texts her that he’s on his way and slams the door a little too hard on his way out, already feeling the tension in his fists and the nausea in his belly.

When he passes by Ian’s house, all the lights are on, the other man inside doing whatever teachers do on weekends. He can’t help but slow his truck under the guise of examining the freshly cut lawn, creeping along past before speeding away once the living room windows are no longer in view.

He feels dirty for doing it and dirty for going where he’s going--caught in between two warring sides, both making him want to cry.

---

He arrives at the Ramada at 8:04 and meets Dani, who’s nice enough. She’s the kind of girl high school Mandy would’ve called cute with a smirk like she looked down on her for it. “Cute” implied cute clothes, cute shoes, cute jewelry, cute River Oak life.

They fuck. It’s unremarkable. Dani makes a medium amount of noise, and she gets herself off with a vibrator during the act so Mickey doesn’t have to look like an asshole afterward when he can’t stomach it. He manages to get through the whole thing, start to finish, in 35 minutes, and after, he locks himself in the bathroom to scrub his hands and his dick and to run a rough washcloth over his belly and chest.

He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, the garish lighting highlighting every mark on his flushed skin.

There are a thousand things in his life that aren’t fair, and after 35 years of living with them, he’s come to accept them for what they are. He’s poor, and he’s a drop-out, and his dad beat the shit out of him so bad that he doesn’t think he really understands what a father’s supposed to be.

But he’s made peace with that unfairness. He doesn’t want it, but it’s there, and it’s like a bad neighbor on either side of him that he can ignore if he just keeps his head down. He deals with it.

He can’t ignore this.

In the mirror, he sees a sad, pathetic son of a bitch. A liar and a coward.

He wonders what you’re supposed to feel after sex--in the moments when you’re in the bathroom like this, washing up. It barely makes sense to him that normal people probably don’t feel hatred.

He guesses that’s not fair, either.

Dani knocks on the door then, three impatient raps as if she couldn’t have just said his name from the other side of it.

“Hey,” she says. “Not to go all TMI on you, but I’m extremely prone to UTIs, and I kinda need to get in there to pee.”

Mickey grabs a towel from beneath the sink, buries his mouth in it, and screams.

Ian’s out on the porch with a nighttime beer when Mickey drives past.

He’d been dressed up before--more so than usual, at least--and now that Ian knows for certain he isn’t with PJ, he wonders if he’d maybe gone on a date with someone else. It’s Saturday night, after all.

Whatever. Ian pulls one leg up into the chair with him and wraps his arm around it as he drinks.

He’d be lying if he said he isn’t intrigued by Mickey in the sort of way he gets intrigued by guys he crushes on, his curiosity a thrill that makes his stomach churn with nervous excitement.

He’s intrigued by him in other ways, too. He likes that he called him Harriet the Spy and that he tried to act all tough about Mark but had seemed like a growling puppy, instead. He likes how he looks in blue.

After finishing his beer, Ian moves to the steps and smokes a cigarette as he watches the moths circle the bulb of the porch light, every now and again throwing themselves at it, the contact making a faint ticking sound he can hear even over the cicadas and frogs.

He casts his eyes out over the endless black before him, nothing but the stars and the faint glow of moonlight by which to see. This far out, the darkness is all-encompassing--vast like an ocean. On his lit porch, he feels like he’s on the edge of the world as much as he’s being drowned inside of it.

---

He tidies up his room before bed, tosses the laundry down the chute to deal with the next day, and then climbs under the covers. With the two box units going, the house is cool enough for blankets at night, and his pillow is crisp against the back of his neck as he rests his head on it and pulls the comforter up under his chin.

He gets scared sometimes in the dark. It’s stupid. It’s just that he’s the only person here, and excepting the chatter of insects, it’s the quietest quiet you’ll ever hear--the countryside on a summer night. Especially for someone who grew up in a house full of people and who shared a room with at least one brother at all times, the silence is deafening.

It’s embarrassing to admit, but sometimes, he imagines Frank coming back from the dead to haunt him. He imagines opening his eyes and seeing him standing in the doorway, staring at him. Worse yet, he imagines rolling over and finding him in bed with him--his flesh rotten and the tang of beer still wafting from his gaping hole of a mouth.

It’s times like those that Ian misses his twin bed. More than once, he’s considered moving back to his childhood bedroom, but there, he’s got the perfect view of the hallway if the door’s ever ajar, and he doesn’t like that, either. He’s afraid of seeing something at the end of it.

There are times, too, that he wishes he was a little boy again, six or seven years old and snuggled up with Lip. They would smack each other and complain about the blankets being hogged. One of them would fart, and they’d laugh about it until they couldn’t breathe. And then they’d go to sleep, and when Ian would wake in the middle of the night, scared of monsters and ghosts, he would just scoot in close. Lip would call him a stupid baby but would let him sleep up next to him, their heads on the same pillow.

If he told his brother now about wanting to go back to his first grade self, Lip would just call him a sap and then remind him of all the shit he’d have to relive. Sometimes Ian thinks it’d be worth it. He thinks he’d do pretty much everything differently.

That night, it takes him forever to eventually fall asleep. It’s a Saturday night, so it doesn’t really matter, but his alarm clock reads 2:12 the last he checks it, and he’d gotten in bed at 11:30. It’s the coffee, probably. It’s his brain, too. The insomnia comes in spells--often when he’s on his way toward or coming down off a period of mania. He pulls the covers up over his head and squeezes his eyes shut.

Eventually, it takes. He wakes at a little after eight Sunday morning feeling like he’s been hit by a bus. The blankets are twisted around his legs, and despite the AC running on high all night, the backs of his knees are sweaty and his shirt and boxers stick to his skin. With a groan, he climbs out of bed, flings himself into the shower and then into a shirt and shorts, and wanders, zombie-like, down to the kitchen for coffee.

After half a pot, he grabs his keys and heads out in the Jeep. He figures he’ll hit Patsy’s for a stack of syrupy pancakes before making his way to the grocery store to stock up for the week.

His plan is thwarted when he finds Patsy’s temporarily closed due to lack of staffing, COVID ransacking Greenhill’s small restaurants and businesses. He goes next door to Beck’s, instead. They’re not known for their breakfast--fried lunch and dinners their specialty--but their omelets are pretty good, as is their country-fried steak if you don’t mind half a day of heartburn. Ian goes inside and grabs an empty booth in the back.

He orders a coffee and a ham and cheese omelet with hash browns and plays around on his phone while he waits. There’s a pack of kids at the booth in front of him, screaming about something or another, the little ones’ mouths purple with sticky grape jelly.

When his coffee comes, he gulps it because after five minutes of listening to a toddler boy and an elementary-aged girl argue over an iPad, he needs it. It tastes like battery acid and settles thick as tar in his gut, but the bitter bite of it gives his brain a defibrillating jolt.

Still, he rubs at the corner of his eye with his thumb and somehow has the audacity to yawn. A woman’s sharp voice snaps him out of it.

“Will y’all hush, you goofies!” the voice says, and Ian comes back to life to see a thin woman in red lipstick tousle the girl’s hair before leaning down and kissing her forehead. The kid complains, and when the woman pulls back, she rubs a lipstick mark away with her thumb.

“Lily, stop bein’ a weasel and give your brother the iPad. Put it on CoComelon before he goes frickin’ nuts.”

“Mommy.”

The woman sticks out her tongue. “Do it.” She turns to the eldest children--a skinny preteen with her hair in a messy bun and a quiet upper-elementary schooler reading Harry Potter. “Girls, watch ‘em. They’re gonna get me fired.”

“They can’t get you fired,” the older one counters.

“Wanna bet?” The woman smiles and winks at her daughter, and in that moment, Ian recognizes her for who she is. He doesn’t know why he didn’t immediately. Maybe it was the lipstick or the way her dyed, coppery hair was tied up in a bandana.

Barely a moment later, she sees him too and does a double-take. Ian can see the recognition flash over her face and can identify the moment she asks herself whether or not she should pretend not to know him. But in the end, she comes over and grins, her tired eyes crinkling.

“Ian?”

He smiles and gestures at her with his coffee mug, which is halfway to his lips. “Mandy, hey.”

“Oh my God. It’s been forever!” She sits down across from him, and the two arguing kids turn around in their seats to watch, the littlest one standing in the booth and trying to climb over to get to his mom.

With barely even a reaction, Mandy reaches over and pulls him down and into her lap. He’s curly and dark-headed, and he looks the most like a Milkovich of any of her kids, the other three blonde and with thin lips and noses.

She kisses the boy’s head. “How’ve you been? I heard you moved back.”

“Yeah, I moved back. I’ve been good. How ‘bout you?”

“Crazy.” She huffs and nods in the direction of her kids. “Had a litter.”

“Looks like it. They’re cute.”

“Sometimes.”

Lily, who’s still watching, scrunches up her nose at Mandy. “Heeeey.”

Mandy reaches back without looking and gives her a tap on the cheek. “Hush and turn around.”

With a huff, she does, but not before sticking out her tongue at the back of her mom’s head.

Ian holds in a laugh so as to not give her away. “So you work here?” he asks, instead.

Mandy nods. “Sixteen years. Can you believe it?”

“Damn.” He makes a face. “Darn.”

She waves away his swear as no big deal. “Since the summer before 12th grade. What’re you doin’ now? Heard you were a teacher.”

“Yeah. Back at LeHigh.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “So, do people just talk about me, or…?”

Mandy smiles. “Wouldn’t be Greenhill if they didn’t. You still livin’ at the house?”

“Yep. Sharing a road with your brother.”

“Good luck. The shithead.”

“Naaah.”

“Yeah. Pain in the ass. Comes in here and makes me give him free food.”

“Resourceful.”

Mandy shrugs and starts scooting back out of the booth, her hands holding her toddler under the armpits. “Gotta get back.” When she stands, she sets the boy down in the booth beside his sister. “Don’t be afraid to holler at the kids if they get too loud. Is Nicole your waitress? I’ll go check on your food.”

“Thanks. Good to see you, Mandy.”

She smiles at him, and it’s warmer than it ever was when she was a kid.

They weren’t friends back then. They were neighbors, and they were in the same grade at school, but they didn’t have a lot of classes together. Anyway, she was never really interested in being his friend. She hung out with older boys, wandering around town with guys at least three years her senior and then siccing her brothers on them like she did Lip when they’d break her heart. She’d never have been interested in hanging out with nerdy little Ian past copying his homework. But he never disliked her.

It looks like she turned out alright--at least judging by appearances. It’s nice to see. Greenhill’s notoriously rough on girls if you aren’t born wealthy. The domestic abuse rate is off the charts to the point that despite it being such a small county, there’s a women and children’s shelter down the road behind the middle school that’s full most of the week. Not that you can tell by looking at somebody, but from what he can see, it seems Mandy hasn’t lost that spark she always had. Plus, he’s pretty sure her brothers would’ve murdered her husband if he’d ever put a hand on her. They’d once beaten Lip bloody for consensually touching her tits, after all.

The little girl, Lily, turns around in her seat again and stares at him. He smiles and waves at her.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m Lily. What’s your name?”

“Hi Lily. I’m Ian.”

Now the little boy gets up again, his blue eyes peeping over the back of the booth seat. Ian smiles and points at him.

“What’s your name?”

The boy disappears, and Lily huffs. “That’s JoJo. He’s my baby brother. Do you know my mommy?”

Ian makes small talk with a vaguely six-year-old for five minutes because she won’t shut up. Finally, Nicole returns with his food and snaps her fingers at her to turn around, the kid clearly a regular at Beck’s and also clearly a little Milkovich. She brings her thumbs to her temples, her fingers splayed like antlers, and sticks her tongue out at the poor waitress.

---

On his way back home, Ian sees Mickey at the mailbox, pulling out what looks like a stack of bills and whispering something at them in annoyance. Ian doesn’t need to get the mail, but he turns onto Wallace and stops the Jeep anyway, putting on the emergency brake and hopping out, cool as a cucumber.

Mickey glances up at him and then back down. “Yo,” he says to his mail.

“Hey, Mickey.”

Ian busies himself at his mailbox, pretending there’s more than a measly postcard-sized ad for a meal subscription service inside. He takes it out, folds it, and shoves it in his pocket like it’s a prized letter.

“So, hey,” he says, turning to the other man, who’s shoving his own actual letters down his back pocket. “Just ran into your sister.”

Mickey chuffs and makes a grab for his cigarettes. He lights up and takes a drag. “At Beck’s?”

“Yeah. She had her kids there.”

“Did they annoy you to death?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

They chuckle together, both breathy and quiet. Mickey hums.

“Lily’s a pistol. The littlest girl?”

“Yeah, I met her.”

Mickey holds up air-quotes. “‘Met.’ Got your ears talked off, you mean.”

Ian smiles, and Mickey peers at him for a minute before quickly looking away. It makes something swim in the redhead’s belly--that shy glance. He huffs, his breath hot in his lungs.

“Anyway,” he drawls, not knowing what else to say.

Mickey smokes and digs lines in the dirt with the toe of his boot. He doesn’t leave, though. He seemingly has everything he walked to the mailbox for, but he isn’t giving a disinterested see ya and taking off even though he has every reason to. Ian watches him and feels something bubble up in his chest.

Before he can think twice about it, he asks, “You wanna come for dinner tonight?” He gestures toward the Jeep where his groceries rest in the backseat. “Steak and baked potato?”

Mickey looks up so fast Ian’s surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. He swallows hard, his eyes bugging and face going red, and says quickly, “Uhh, no. I’m busy.”

Ian’s heart falls. “Oh, okay. Cool.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem. Another time, maybe.”

Without answering, Mickey begins fidgeting, and his feet shuffle backward--slow enough to not be so obvious but clear to Ian all the same.

“Hey, I gotta go,” he says, nodding in the direction of home.

Ian’s immediate thought is to offer him a ride, but before he can, Mickey’s already waving and beginning his walk.

“See ya,” he calls, his back to Ian, reaching for a second cigarette before he’s even finished the first.

He doesn’t have anywhere to be. He isn’t busy. Mickey smokes another cigarette moments after tossing down his first and feels like his insides are melting.

Ian passes him in the Jeep not a minute later, and it’s the most awkward thing in the world. Mickey glances at him for just long enough to catch him raising a hand in a final wave, and not wanting to be a total asshole, he nods back.

What had he meant by come for dinner? Like, a friend thing? Or something else? Mickey feels like he’s losing his mind when he thinks about it, his feet skidding in the dirt as he walks like a fucking drunk.

When he passes by the Gallagher drive, he sees Ian, both hands full of plastic grocery bags, lugging them into the house.

What the hell had he meant? Mickey smokes deeply and wanders his way back home.

---

He spends the day in the garage, working on the old busted four-wheeler he’d picked up for cheap and has been slowly tinkering with for a few months now. In the late afternoon, he takes his truck out to survey the pasture and check on Millie, his old cow, who’s got joint problems in her old age. She’s one of the ones Mickey’d kept after Terry was put away--a red Angus who would’ve been burgers on somebody’s grill if the old man was still around.

She’s a sweet old girl. He drives up next to her and lets her stick her head in his window, her tongue snaking out. He gives her a piece of apple, some pats on the head, and tells her a few nice things before slowly nudging at her to get back so he can move on.

When he makes it back to the house, it’s just after seven and the sun’s going down. He considers leaving--driving into town to bug Mandy for some chicken tenders or heading over to Watertower to check on Iggy.

He doesn’t like to leave him for too long without making contact. He’s got that babymama drama and a generous dealer, and well. Mickey doesn’t know what he might do if he’s feeling a certain way. Colin’s a lost cause--always has been, his mean ass taking shit out on women in a way you should never do. Iggy just might be okay if he can keep his head above water.

Instead of going anywhere, though, Mickey calls Iggy up. They talk for seventeen minutes about Merle and her mom and how he ain’t put a gun to his head yet, bro. Mickey feels better when he ends the call.

For dinner, he scrounges up some shit from the freezer. He’s got a frozen porkchop from the store he thaws out under hot running water and then tosses in the frying pan. He empties a can of seasoned green beans into the pan during the last half of the frying process and lets them heat up in the pork juice. When everything’s done, he dumps it all on a plate, covers it in ketchup, and eats it in front of the TV with a beer and a blunt.

He’s got a full line-up of appointments tomorrow, so he doubts he’ll stay up late. He watches the rest of America’s Funniest Home Videos and then the start of a Sunday night college football game and thinks about Ian Gallagher down the road at his house, having his steak and his potato all by himself.

Mickey was lying. Ian could tell by the way he acted right after, this lightning-quick response like it was a knee-jerk no rather than a genuine one.

He also knows he was lying by the fact that he doesn’t leave his house at all for the rest of the day. Not that Ian watches. He just finds himself out on his porch most of the afternoon, grading papers and planning his Monday lessons, and he happens to notice that not a single vehicle passes by--in or out.

Whatever. It was his fault, anyway, springing it on him like that. Even he didn’t know it was coming, really, unless you count the way his heart raced in the moments before the question. He doesn’t have a right to be hurt by it. Mickey didn’t want to have dinner with him, and that was fine. It was a big question--one meant relatively innocently but likely not taken that way. Ian cringes at the memory and drowns it all out in one beer too many.

Just past tipsy, he fries up his steak and bakes his potato in the oven, and he eats it in front of America’s Funniest Home Videos, laughing at shit that isn’t funny to begin with and feeling like he just might be very fucking lonely.

---
---

The first project meeting of the LeHigh Helping Hands takes place Tuesday after school. From the list they’d created a few weeks prior, Ian’d decided the club should make no-sew cloth masks to put in the front office for students and visitors. He’d gone to JoAnn’s the night before for cloth, and now a group of over twenty kids sit in his room, folding and cutting. Harris grades papers at the table in the corner, providing nothing but a physical presence, and Ian walks around, monitoring progress.

One of the kids is Alex, whose attitude has apparently done a complete 180 since the previous week. He’s helpful and friendly; he sits with an alt girl named Halle, the fronts of their desks pushed together to make a small table, and they chat while they work, the two of them forming a small pile of masks.

“Mr. Gallagher, I can take these to the office when we’re done if you want,” he offers when Ian passes, and the man can’t help but lower his brows at him for a second, utterly puzzled and yet delighted by his behavior. He agrees, tells him he’s doing a great job, and wanders over to Harris, who’s looking as confused as Ian feels.

“The hell’s up with Curran?” he whispers.

Ian shrugs. “Turned over a new leaf?”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Hey. He’s not a bad kid.”

Harris gives him an incredulous look over the top of his glasses, hums, and goes back to his papers.

---

At the end of the meeting, Ian collects all the masks in a shoebox and hands them to Alex, who happily takes off to the office to deliver them.

The kids clear out, and Harris shakes his papers at Ian and thanks him boredly for his hard work so far. The redhead smiles in return, though it feels insincere. He doesn’t mind running the club, really. He did Pride for six years at his previous school, and he loves working with kids, giving back through service, and doing what he can for the school culture. He just hadn’t intended to be 90% to Harris’s 10% off the bat, and he hates feeling like he’s been tricked into it.

Fake smile or not, Harris doesn’t pick up on it. He waves and tells Ian to have a good night, and Ian straightens up the desks and then returns to his own desk to finish his planning for the next day.

He’s midway through setting up his agenda when Alex comes back into the room. He hadn’t left his stuff when he went to the office, so there’s no reason for him to be back. Ian smiles at him in greeting before he puts his mask back on.

“Um. Hey, Mr. Gallagher,” the kid says, slowly making his way over to Ian’s desk.

“Hey, Alex. What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing.” Alex reaches down and picks up a small Big Ben snow globe one of Ian’s kids from Gainesville had gotten him for Christmas one year. He gives it a shake and then watches intently as the glitter swirls around and then falls.

“What’d the office say?”

“They said ‘thank you.’ I told ‘em it was from Helping Hands.”

“Great. Thanks, Alex.”

The boy nods and then shakes the snowglobe again before setting it back down and tapping the Shakespeare bobblehead that rests beside it.

“D’you like England?” he asks, looking up. Ian can only see half his face, but what he can see seems nervous. He nods.

“Never been, but I think I’d like it. I wanna go one day.”

“Cool.”

The two of them are quiet for a moment. Ian feels awkward, so he goes back to typing up his slide, the click of his computer keys loud and soothingly rhythmic.

When Alex still doesn’t say anything and instead continues messing with knick-knacks on the desk, Ian pauses his typing, looks up, and asks, “You okay, bud?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. What’s up?”

Alex scratches at the back of his head. He shrugs, and after a minute of Ian waiting him out, says, “Will you do me a favor?”

“Depends.”

“Will you email my dad and tell him I did really good today?”

There it is: the reason for the change in behavior. Ian smirks behind his mask at the realization, though the fact that the kid wants him to write such an email makes his heart hurt.

“Why?” he asks, curious. Alex huffs.

“‘cause he’s on my case and none of my other teachers’ll do it.”

“On your case about what?”

“None of your business. Just do it. Please.”

Ian snorts. “Demanding.”

Alex clasps his hands together. “Please, please, please.”

“Oh my God.”

“Pleeeeeeeease?”

“If you tell me what he’s on your case about.”

Alex walks around Ian’s desk and sits in the chair the man uses when he conferences with his students. He sighs loudly like giving Ian that information is painful.

“He wants me to go to college to be a lawyer or a doctor, and I wanna go to art school.”

“You’re a first-semester junior. He’s already on your case about that?”

“Yeah? And some other stuff, too. Just write the email, Ian.”

“Uhhh, try ‘Mr. Gallagher’? And then try ‘please’?”

“I said ‘please’ like a thousand times already.”

“This is not an appropriate way to talk to a teacher.”

“Oh my God, Mr. Gallagher. Please just do it.”

Ian’s mostly giving him a hard time for fun because of how completely unapologetically rude he’s being. He doesn’t give a fuck about kids talking to him informally as long as they’re not being malicious jerks, and Alex’s rudeness is mostly of the goofy, friendly sort. Plus, Ian’s obviously going to write the email. All sources say the kid’s dad’s an asshole, and he wants to help him if he can.

Unbelievably, Alex puts his feet up on the desk, and Ian reaches over and smacks his nasty Converse. The kid sighs and puts them back down again.

“Will you write it?” he asks, nodding toward the computer.

Ian rolls his eyes dramatically and pulls up his email. “Fine. What do you want me to say?”

“Tell him I was really nice to you today, and I worked hard, and you were impressed by my work ethic.”

“You were really nice to me, huh?”

“Mr. Gallagher.”

Ian smiles and makes a huffy laugh sound so Alex will know he’s just messing with him. He tells him to make himself useful and sanitize his desks while he writes the email, and the boy does without question, jumping up and running over to grab the container of alcohol wipes.

He writes a paragraph-long email to Mark Curran, detailing how kind, helpful, and hard-working Alex was at Helping Hands that day, and ends it with, He’s a great kid, and I’m looking forward to teaching him next semester. You should be very proud.

Alex is finished cleaning desks by the time he’s done, and he calls him over to approve it before sending. The kid squints at the screen for a few seconds before saying, “You spelled my name wrong.”

“I did? How’s it spelled? I-X?”

“No, K-S instead of X.”

“Really?” Ian goes through and changes all the spellings of Alex to Aleks. “What’s it short for?”

What he says sounds exactly like Alexander, so he picks up Ian’s marker and writes on the board, ALEKSANDR in all caps.

“I’m half Ukrainian.”

Ian doesn’t mention the fact that “Watson” and “Curran” are wildly English and Irish and instead, nods with interest. Kids are always making lofty, untrue claims about shit like that in order to be impressive.

After letting Aleks review the email one last time, he sends it and then knocks on his desk for emphasis. “Now you get to tell me the,” he holds up air quotes, “‘other stuff’ he’s on your case about.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Aleks.”

The kid blows an irritated raspberry but sits back down in the chair. He twists back and forth in half-circles, causing a grating squeak, but eventually admits, “I think he’s just kinda tired of me being the way I am.”

Ian lowers his brows. “The way you are. How are you?”

“Just…different. From him. And my sister. And Mom.”

“I know your mom from high school. Saw her recently. Your sister, too. Boden, right?”

“Yeah.”

Ian had thought Aleks would ask questions about it--the hows and the whys--but he doesn’t. Instead, he runs his hand through his messy hair and leans back in the chair.

“So tell me how you’re different and why that would annoy your dad.”

“If you know my mom, you already know the answer to that.” Aleks shrugs. “I don’t care about the shit they care about. I’m not popular or smart. I don’t wanna work in a law office or sell houses. I don’t wanna be in a frickin’ school club.”

Ian smiles. “Is your dad makin’ you be in Helping Hands?”

“Duh. I wouldn’t be caught dead in this nerd club otherwise.”

“Heeey.”

“No offense.” Aleks chuffs. “Had to bring Halle today so I didn’t stab the scissors through my eyes.”

“She your girlfriend?”

“Ha!” He spins in a circle but doesn’t say anything further. After a moment, he shoves up to standing. “My mom’s gettin’ me at 4:45, so I prob’ly need to go.”

“Alright.” Ian nods and playfully shoos him. He watches as the kid grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, and he’s about to tell him goodbye when he suddenly says without thinking, “You’re okay, right?”

Aleks turns. “I’m awesome.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.” He waves. “See ya, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Bye, Aleks.”

Ian watches the boy leave, his Converse squeaking against the floor, and he hopes upon hope that everything’s actually okay with him.

After seeing and talking to him multiple times over the past several days, he doesn’t see Gallagher at all throughout the next week. It’s easy to miss each other. Unless Mickey passes him in the yard or at the mailbox, it’s as if he doesn’t even have a neighbor.

He spends the week in his pasture and in his garage. On Thursday, Iggy comes over. He’s been to his dealer, and before he even greets his brother, he crosses through the living room and into the kitchen and drops what his dealer calls a Party Bag on Mickey’s countertop. It’s a $100 bundle of various pills and three joints. Mickey stares at it.

“Get that shit outta here.”

Iggy blows a raspberry at him and opens it up excitedly, pulling out a yellow, oval-shaped pill, dropping it in his mouth, and swallowing it down with a random half-finished beer he finds near him.

“When’d you turn into such a straight-edge bitch?” he asks, picking up the bundle and holding it out to Mickey, who shakes his head.

“I’m not. Fuck off.”

He isn’t. He has his own weed, and there’s a bottle of Xanax in his medicine cabinet that was never prescribed to him, plus a baggie of other stuff under his mattress. He just hates watching his brother take shit because he knows he’s not really doing it for fun.

Somewhere along the way, Iggy’d skipped over the alcoholic phase of life and jumped right to pills.

“You’re really no fun, bro,” he says, twisting the top of the bag and knotting it. “What’d I even come here for?”

“To cry about your babymama, I’m guessing.”

“Fuck you.” Iggy goes over and gets a fresh beer out of Mickey’s fridge. “She’s a bitch, too.”

“When’s the court date?”

“End’a next month. Did I tell ya they did some kinda revokement shit with my custody ‘til the court date? I’m back to supervised visitation. If I wanna see my girl, I gotta be watched like a fuckin’ kiddie-diddler.”

“You mentioned it.” Twice on the phone while he was high.

“Fuckin’ bullshit.”

Mickey huffs and goes to get his own beer. Once he has it in hand, he cracks it open and takes a heavy gulp.

“Y’know, this might sound crazy, but…” He leans back against the stove, Iggy mirroring his position against the counter across from him. “Kinda thinkin’ this shit has to do with the fact that you were off your ass on oxy when Amber came to drop her off last weekend.”

“Fuck you. That bitch Amber’s the one who makes me wanna do all that shit. She stresses me out. It’s her fault.”

“It’s her fault you got fucked up before you were s’posed to have your five-year-old for the weekend?”

“Fuck you, Dr. Phil.” Iggy steps forward and shoves him, both palms on his chest. “I’m not listenin’ to your shit. The fuck happened to you?”

He wanders away, toting his beer and baggie with him, and collapses on the couch like he owns the place. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ fucked up the ass. Pussy.”

Mickey breathes hard through his nose.

“And like you got room to talk, anyways,” Iggy continues. “I ain’t givin’ up my fuckin’ kid.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey stalks toward him.

“Still don’t get how you coulda done that. You sure you’re a Milkovich? Me ‘n Mandy was talkin’ about it the other day. What kinda man--”

Mickey leans down and punches him--just once, just to shut him up.

Iggy makes a grab for him with both hands, yanking him down onto the couch and laying in on him. Mickey’s able to dodge most of it, only getting a weak sock in the cheekbone, and he focuses all his energy on wrestling his brother.

They roll around on the couch and then hit the floor. Mickey gets a slap in--almost comically loud and hard, right upside Iggy’s face--and then slides off him. Iggy shoves him a few more times before giving up and straightening, leaning back against the front of the couch.

Mickey gets up, grabs his beer, and joins him, the two of them shoulder-to-shoulder. They look at each other. Iggy laughs, and then Mickey does, too. They toast.

“You’re a bitch,” Mickey murmurs before taking a sip of his beer.

“Fuck you, Mickey.”

They drink together for a minute. Absently, Iggy scratches at the knee of his jeans hard enough that little lines are drawn in the denim.

Mickey looks at him. “You’re gonna lose your kid,” he says, matter-of-fact.

After a beat, Iggy nods. “Yeah.”

“Do you want custody of her?”

Iggy huffs into his can, making a tinny, echoey sound. He doesn’t speak for a long time, and when he does, it’s not with an answer to the question.

“I love her,” he says. “I’m glad she was born.”

Mickey nods. “But do you want her to live with you? Do you think she deserves that?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m not bein’ an asshole. Would you just…answer the fuckin’ question?”

Iggy chugs the remainder of his beer, crushes the can, and tosses it across the room. He burps loudly, and it smells like Taco Bell. He’s a fucking mess. Mickey shoves him.

“Do you think it’s good for her to be with you?”

“A kid needs its dad.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything further. He drinks his beer and waits. Iggy scratches at his knee again and then pushes both hands through his greasy hair.

Finally, he murmurs, “She’s my girl.”

“Nothing’s gonna change that, man.” A beat. “But she’s a little kid, and you’re fucked up right now.”

“I’m not fucked up.”

Mickey shoves him again. “Whatever,” he says. “If you want any kinda custody, you ain’t actin’ like it, and there ain’t a judge in the state that’s gonna let you keep unsupervised weekends, so you’re shit outta luck, anyway.”

He’s expecting an argument, but he doesn’t get one. Iggy sighs and stands up to get another beer.

“So you think I should give her up?” he asks once he has it, popping the tab.

Mickey scoots up onto the couch. He grabs the remote. Iggy took a pill, and now he’s planning to get drunk, and they’re in for an afternoon together.

He shrugs. “I think Merle deserves to be safe.”

“You’re just sayin’ that shit ‘cause you’re jealous.”

“The fuck am I s’posed to be jealous of?”

Iggy doesn’t answer. He sits down on the cushion beside Mickey even though there’s three on the couch.

“Hey,” he says. “Turn it to Dr. Phil.”

---
---

He has a bonfire Friday night. PJ brings a 50-piece honey barbeque wing box from Beck’s, and the kid hops out of the Escalade after her, toting a big bag of Ruffles and a six-pack of Pepsi.

Mickey brings out the card table and sets it up by the fire. They set the wing box on it, and the three of them sit around, eating and drinking. Aleks talks a lot. He complains about everything in his entire life and won’t let the others get a word in edgewise until PJ reaches over and playfully puts her hand over his mouth.

He bites her finger, and she pulls it away and gives him a thwap on the back of his head, making the two of them laugh like the best of friends.

Mickey chuffs. “Stop bitin’ your mom. You prob’ly got rabies. You look like it with those brows.”

Aleks flips him off. “Dick.” He presses his lips together afterward, though, like he’s trying not to smile, and Mickey gets a kick out of it. Got him.

“Language.” PJ pokes her son. “And your finger. That’s really impolite.”

“Uhh, I’m not tryna be polite?”

“Oh, well, if that’s the case…” PJ rolls her eyes.

Mickey leans back in his chair and chuckles as he drinks his beer.

“Hey,” he says to the kid after a minute, reaching over and grabbing another wing. He’s got sauce all over his fingers and the corners of his mouth, but whatever. He’ll clean up after. “How’s school goin’?”

Aleks sticks out his tongue and makes a farting noise as he gives a thumbs down.

PJ beams and looks over at Mickey, something conspiratorial in his eyes. “Mr. Gallagher sent a very sweet email on Tuesday about how good and hard-working he is in Helping Hands.”

Mickey chokes on his wing. He leans over and coughs up the piece of chicken caught in his throat. To cover it up, he forces out, pounding at the center of his chest, “Whatchu in that nerd club for, Nugget?”

After pausing to watch Mickey nearly choke to death, Aleks holds up air quotes. “‘It looks good on college applications.’”

PJ adds, as if finishing her son’s quote, “And it’s good to have a servant’s heart.”

The kid shrugs and takes a sip of his Pepsi.

After a minute, the woman says, “Aleks, will you go in and get some wet paper towels? Mickey looks like a toddler.”

Mickey flips her off with a saucy finger. He knows what she’s doing. And sure enough, the moment Aleks is far enough away from where they sit, she leans in and says, “Sooooo. Have you talked to Loverboy lately?”

“Literally fuck off.”

PJ laughs maniacally. “C’mon. It’s been a week since we talked about him. You have to have seen him.”

Mickey shrugs and drinks his beer.

“Mickey.”

“Paige.”

“Now I know you’ve seen him. Tell me, tell me. Hurry, before Nugget comes back.”

“I fuckin’ hate you.”

“No, you don’t. Tell me.”

Mickey sighs loudly and peers up at the sky. He runs a hand over his face. “I let him borrow my mower on Saturday, and he brought it back and gave me a pizza.”

“Seriously?”

“We ate a couple slices together. Then on Sunday, he asked me to his house for dinner, but I said no ‘cause that’s too fuckin’ weird.”

PJ smacks him on the arm hard enough that he winces.

“Ow! Bitch!”

“You’re an idiot. Are you kidding me?”

“What.”

“You said no? What is wrong with you?”

“How is it not fuckin’ weird for some dude to just ask you over for dinner out of the blue like that? I don’t even really know him, and--”

“It wasn’t about dinner, Mickey! He was trying to see if you were interested!”

“Interested in what?”

“You can’t be serious.”

Mickey makes a huge, exasperated sound and tosses his chicken bone into the fire. He reaches for another and busies himself with stuffing his face.

“Mickey Milkovich, I’m furious.”

“Fuck off, PJ,” Mickey says with his mouth full. “Why don’t you go suck Ian’s dick? You’re apparently obsessed with him.”

“I’m obsessed with him for you. Also, I said nothing about doing that.” She leans over and digs around in the cooler until she finds a can of Diet Mountain Dew. Once she has it in hand, she pops the tab and takes a drink. Mickey watches her run the back of her hand over her mouth, impolite.

Suddenly, she turns back to him and reaches for his arm. “Oh my gosh. Mickey.”

“What now?”

“Go ask him to come hang out with us.”

“You’re insane.”

“No, it’s perfect. There’ll be four of us, so no pressure. You can say we have tons of leftover wings and need help takin’ ‘em down.”

“What the fuck.”

“Mickey, please.”

“I’m not askin’ him over. You’re nuts. I don’t even have his number.”

“Drive over there!”

“And what? Knock on his door like a fuckin’ Jehovah’s Witness?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“He asked you for dinner. He’ll be thrilled!”

“You’re psycho.”

“Mickey, if you don’t do it, I’m sending Aleks. You don’t want Aleks to do it.”

“Oh my God. If you do that shit, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Then you’re gonna have to do it.”

Jesus Christ.

He wants to throw himself into the fire. PJ’s lost her goddamn mind. There is no way in hell he’s getting in his truck, driving to Gallagher’s house, knocking on his door, and asking him to come to the bonfire. That’s completely insane. It’s the stupidest thing he could possibly do because it’s just going to make everything so, so much worse.

---

Obviously, ten minutes later finds him sitting behind the wheel of his truck, cranking it up. God-fucking-dammit. He slams his fist into the seat beside him.

The thing about PJ is that he can never tell when she’s serious and when she’s bluffing, and her sending the kid to Gallagher’s house was a possibility he didn’t want to take a chance on. That would’ve been weird on multiple levels--mostly because Aleks runs his mouth, and there’s no damn telling what he would say without Mickey’s permission.

Mentally kicking himself, he pulls out of the drive and sets off down the road. When he rounds the curve, he sees the house lights on in the distance, the whole thing lit up like Ian’d gone through and flipped every switch. That’s not the first time Mickey’s seen that. The man’s power bill’s got to be sky high.

He breathes deeply as he approaches and then holds his breath altogether when he takes a sharp right into the driveway. It’s long enough that in the dark, he can’t tell that the Jeep is gone until he’s mid-way up it. Mickey slows the truck to a stop and idles there for a long moment, wondering what he should do.

If the Jeep’s gone, logically, Ian’s probably gone, too.

But then all the house lights are on. It’s possible he let a friend borrow his vehicle for the night. Mickey taps his fingers against the steering wheel in an agitated, rhythmic pattern. He blows out a breath. Fuck it.

He travels the rest of the way up the driveway, parks, and gets out.

It’s almost scarily dark in the areas not covered by the porch lights, the black seeming like it’s about to swallow up the house at any moment. Mickey carefully makes his way up to the porch, climbs the steps, and then pauses at the door.

Before he knocks, he takes a step to the side and peers in the living room windows. The TV’s off. He doesn’t see anybody. He steps back, and with a deep breath, knocks.

He knocks three separate times with several seconds of waiting in-between. After the third series of knocks, he waits for a full minute. He rings the doorbell and hears it chime within the house.

Still, nothing.

Fuck. Now Mickey feels embarrassed, his cheeks hot. He turns and goes back to his truck, unsure whether he’s relieved or disappointed.

He thinks he might be a bit of both.

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have gone all the way to Atlanta.

It was his first time setting up a Grindr hook-up since he’s been in Greenhill, and Atlanta felt like the safest place as Macon, while more convenient, seemed a little too close for comfort.

Maybe he shouldn’t worry so much about his hook-ups. It’s not illegal. He can’t get fired for having consensual sex with another adult on his own time. It’s just that he’d set up a routine while he was in Gainesville, and it’d worked problem-free for ten years whenever he was between relationships.

He drove at least an hour out of town and only fucked in motel rooms. He was paranoid about running into current or former students, was worried about ending up in bed with a student’s older sibling or, even worse, with their dad. And then when you add Greenhill to the mix--a place where you have to leave town to get to a motel to begin with--ending up with your dick in the mouth of Aiden from 2nd period’s closeted dad doesn’t seem too unlikely.

Atlanta was the safer bet for the sake of anonymity. Still, Ian’s not sure it’s worth the trouble just for a forty-five minute meet-up in a Clarion near the airport.

The guy’s name is Chance, and he’s 29. He’s cute as hell and looks like Schmitt on Grey’s Anatomy. The sex is good--some blowjobs and fingering for foreplay, then Chance lies flat on the bed and Ian fucks him stretched across his back before he gets him up on his knees and finishes doggy-style.

He enjoys himself more than he usually does during hook-ups, the guy a smiley sweetheart who makes really great noises. Chance seems to have a good time, too. As Ian’s pulling on his jeans at the end, the other man hands him a piece of paper from the hotel room notepad with his name, number, and socials on it in small, neat handwriting.

“Uh, yeah, maybe,” Ian says after reading it, folding it twice and shoving it in his back pocket.

He lets Chance kiss him goodbye--a soft smooch that feels more endeared toward him than it probably should--and heads out.

He doesn’t mean to be an asshole, and he doesn’t think Chance takes it that way. He still feels like one.

The thing is, Chance is just too nice for him. It’s the same with Chris. As he gets back in his Jeep, he can picture in his mind’s eye having either of them over for the weekend, Ian waking to breakfast in bed and a little note with a heart on his pillow.

That shit’s sweet if it’s with the right guy, probably. Ian’s just never found the right guy, and he doesn’t think the right guy’s name is Chris or Chance.

He likes to think he’ll know him when he has him.

---
---

He’d left all the lights on because he hates coming in when it’s dark, the house feeling like a mausoleum. He climbs out of the Jeep, closes and locks the doors, and makes his way over and up onto the porch.

As he’s working on unlocking the front door, he hears a faint murmur of music coming from out Mickey’s way. He hears a male and then a female voice laugh, this happy, twinkling sound echoing in the distance. Sounds like Mickey’s having a party.

Ian shoves open the front door, closes it, and locks it behind him. After getting some water and then shutting off all the downstairs lights, he goes upstairs and takes a shower. It isn’t very late--not even ten--but he’s tired, and all he wants to do is wash off the hook-up, climb under the covers, and sleep like the dead.

After the shower, he takes his clothes into the bedroom and dumps them in the laundry hamper. He thinks about Chance’s number in his back pocket. On a whim, he finds his jeans and takes it out, unfolding it and reading over it once more.

Chance Gagnon

He sets it on his dresser while he pulls on boxers and a T-shirt. Before he gets in bed, though, he abruptly picks it up, takes it into the bathroom, and drops it in the trash.

Once in bed, he lies in the dark for the longest time, staring up at the ceiling. The house creaks.

The fear usually sets in, if it does, around the time he starts hearing the sounds of the house settling. The pop of the pipes after his hot shower. The scurry of a mouse in the wall. The scratch of a tree limb against the window in the room across the hall. He imagines faces in the darkness. He imagines hands grabbing at his feet beneath the covers.

He sits up and opens the window beside his bed. The music’s still playing over at Mickey’s. It’s low enough to be indistinguishable--just a muted thump--but the occasional laughter allays his fears and calms his nerves.

Altogether, it makes him feel a little less lonely.

---
---

He spends Saturday finishing up with his landscaping. He’d ordered a local black mulch delivery, and the driver dumps a pile of it in the spot where he usually parks his Jeep. It takes Ian four hours to scoop it and spread it along the sides of his driveway, filling the gaps between flowers and making it all look pretty damn nice if he says so himself. He’ll order some edging stone next--Hollis’s has some nice ones for cheap--and line everything up.

When he’s done with the mulch, he does some basic maintenance in the garden. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with it. Obviously, the best thing would be to keep it--replanting and maybe installing a better fence to keep the critters out. It feels wrong somehow, though, like he’s treading on Mickey’s property. But of course, the property was never Mickey’s, and the other man apparently isn’t using it now, anyway.

Maybe he should start it back up again.

He’s busy staring at it, contemplating his options, when he hears a commotion from the pasture across from the house. He turns and spots Mickey out in the field with a guy who has a silver livestock trailer attached to his truck. He’d ridden out there with him, and now they seem to be gathering supplies to capture one of the cows and a calf.

Ian hates seeing that shit. He’d grown up with it, and meat’s his favorite food group, but he’s always liked animals, and watching cows get hauled off to their deaths makes his stomach hurt. He turns away and busies himself with the garden until he hears the truck driving off again.

When he turns back, to his surprise, he sees Mickey still out there, sorting through something in his hands. Ian decides he needs to check on his flowers by the road again. He leaves the garden and makes his way down the drive until he’s within shouting distance of Mickey, who’s folding a stack of money and putting it in his pocket.

He looks up then and nods at Ian, who waves back. Without thinking, the redhead crosses the road over to him.

They’re separated by the fence, but Mickey comes as close as he can, leaning on the wooden post. He’s wearing a navy T-shirt, jeans, and his scuffed boots, and there’s snot and grass on his forearms from moving the cows.

“Can I help you?” he asks irritably, and Ian bites back a smile. He shrugs.

“Guess I figured you’d stopped with the slaughterhouse stuff over the past seventeen years. Don’t know why.”

The other man rolls his eyes. “Just sellin’ ‘em. That was Tim Evans. Lives on Watertower?”

At that moment, Tim rounds the curve from Mickey’s and starts making his way back toward Southdown. The two of them are quiet until he passes, giving him a wave when he does.

“He’s lookin’ to expand,” Mickey adds. “I only do that slaughter shit like, twice a year. Got a private guy--nothin’ commercial. I sell ‘em to him once they hit about three years, and he takes care of everything.”

Ian nods.

“Why d’you care, anyway? Florida made you a vegetarian?”

“Hardly.” Ian watches as Mickey pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. To his surprise, he flips it open and holds it out, and with shaking fingers, Ian reaches through the fence and takes one, placing it between his lips and accepting the yellow BIC in order to light up.

They smoke quietly for a minute. Mickey takes off his baseball cap and puts it on again backwards, and Ian nearly gets a stiffy. At any rate, it makes him cough a puff of smoke. Thankfully, Mickey ignores it, his brows drawn in like he’s thinking.

Finally, he murmurs, “So why did you come back here?”

Ian blows out a breath, fluttering his lips. “Already told you. Needed a change of location.”

The other man’s lips purse like he’s considering pushing, but in the end, he doesn’t. Instead, he asks, “You regret it?”

Ian thinks about it but eventually lands on, “Not yet.”

Mickey nods, and then the two of them finish up their cigarettes. Mickey tosses his butt over the fence and onto the road, and Ian goes and puts it out for him with the toe of his Nike.

“Sounded like you had a party last night,” he says, nodding in the direction of the Milkovich house.

Mickey hums. “Yeah. PJ and…” He pauses. “We do a bonfire thing sometimes.”

“Does your best friend Mark not get jealous?”

“I don’t give a fuck if he does.” The man shrugs. “She usually don’t tell him, anyway.”

“You sure you’re not fucking?”

“Fuck off.” Mickey holds up his middle finger, and something about it makes Ian’s blood sing. He chuckles.

They kick at the dirt for a minute. Mickey reaches over and wiggles at the barbed wire, checking its stability.

Ian’s racking his brain for something else to say when the man suddenly murmurs, “Came over last night to see if you wanted to join or whatever, but you were gone, so.”

Ian’s heart stops. No fucking way. He huffs and wants to kick his own ass.

“Yeah…” he says. “I was…takin’ care of something in Atlanta.”

Mickey squints at him, and for a second, he’s sure the other man’s going to call him out. Instead, he simply nods and makes a noise with his teeth.

“But hey,” Ian quickly adds. “Give me a heads up next time, and I’ll make sure I’m around.” He smiles warmly, but Mickey looks strange. He isn’t meeting his eyes and is instead peering around, distracted.

“Uhh, yeah,” he finally says. “Maybe.”

Ian nods, the atmosphere suddenly awkward.

“I’ll letcha go,” Mickey says, nodding toward the house. “Saw you were workin’ in the yard. Landscapin’ looks good.”

Ian lets his smile fade. “Oh, yeah. Thanks. It’s a work in progress, but it’s gettin’ there.”

Mickey pats the fence post. “Well, keep at it.” He pushes away and starts walking in the direction of the Milkovich place. “See ya.”

Ian waves. “Later, Mickey.”

---
---

The remainder of the weekend passes uneventfully. In fact, the first several days of the next week do, too, the only thing of note being the Helping Hands meeting after school on Tuesday.

Aleks shows up without Halle this time, dressed in a Greta Van Fleet T-shirt just like Mickey’s and a pair of distressed black jeans with a thick piece of masking tape over the thigh hole because it’d been deemed too high to pass dress code. Ian’d already heard the gossip. The kid had announced that it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard and that Mrs. Ortiz shouldn’t be looking at him like that, anyway, and he’d subsequently gotten sent to ISS for the day.

It was pretty stupid.

The Helping Hands meeting that week is just business, so Aleks sits in the back and ignores everyone the entire time, instead drawing in his sketchbook and listening to music.

When it’s over and the room clears out, Ian calls him up to his desk.

“You’re not gettin’ on to me about this,” the kid declares, slamming his sketchbook down on the front of Ian’s desk. “I was quiet the whole time.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “You’re not in trouble. Sit down.”

“Are you suuure I’m not in trouble?”

“Positive.” Ian points to the front row student desk, and Aleks sighs loudly and sits down.

“What?” he asks the moment his butt touches the seat.

“I wanted to ask you about the email. How’d it go?”

Aleks shrugs. “Good, I guess.”

“You guess?”

The kid blows a bored raspberry. “It was good.”

“‘kay. Good.”

“Can I go now?”

“No.” Ian purses his lips and stares at him, deciding how to approach the question he wants to ask. He’s pretty sure of the answer. He feels like he would’ve somehow heard either through Mickey or the grapevine if his worries were true. Still, he feels like he should ask.

Aleks raises his brows at him, his blue eyes wide like he thinks the redhead is crazy. Ian clears his throat.

“Your dad,” he murmurs. “He doesn’t hurt you, does he? Like, I didn’t write an email to keep something bad from happening, did I?”

The boy sighs dramatically like he’s heard this question a million times. Frankly, he might have.

“No,” he says, matter-of-fact. “It’d prob’ly make more sense to you if he beat me. This whole, ‘I act up in school ‘cause I’m gettin’ hit at home’ thing.” He shrugs. “But I’m not. I didn’t even get spanked as a kid.”

Ian nods and lets him finish.

“My mom’s really nice. And my dad’s a dick now, but he was nice when I was little. Guess he just doesn’t like me since I dyed my hair.” He laughs at the last thing, but Ian knows it hurts him.

He takes a deep breath.

“Confession,” he says before he has a chance to stop himself. “I went to your house a couple weeks ago and saw him yell at you. Does he do that a lot?”

Aleks stands, anger blooming on his face so quickly it’s like he’s put on a mask of it. “What the fuck? You went to my house?”

Ian remains calm. “Uhhh, yeah? You busted out my tail-lights.”

“So what were you gonna do? Beat me up?”

The question is so innocent and yet so confident in its assumption that Ian can’t help but laugh. He does it breathily, putting his hand over his face.

“Aleks, what? Of course not. I was gonna talk to your dad.”

“You were gonna yell at me.”

“Was not.”

“You were gonna yell at me, and now you’re asking me about my dad yellin’ at me.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “No, that’s not what I went for, but I’m sure I would have if you’d given me the chance. Still can’t believe you did that.”

Aleks shrugs. “It was a shitty day.”

“So you did $400 worth of damage on my Jeep?”

“I dunno.”

“What even happened?”

“I had detention ‘cause I called Mr. Walker a dick ‘cause I didn’t know the math problem and he made me go up to the board anyways.” He sounds like such a little boy when he says it, and Ian can imagine his bottom lip wobbling beneath his mask.

Ian nods. “Same thing happened to me when I was in high school, y’know. Plenty of times. That’s what math teachers are for: puttin’ you on the spot.”

Aleks rolls his eyes. “It’s different.”

“Why?”

He shrugs but doesn’t respond. Normally, Ian would let it go, as the kid clearly doesn’t want to share, but something makes him want to push.

He holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor, I won’t tell.”

“What?”

“Boy Scouts?” Ian rolls his eyes. “I promise I won’t say anything. What happened?”

Aleks stares at him for the longest time as if assessing his honesty. Ultimately, Ian must pass the test, as he eventually blows out a breath and says, “Assholes make fun of me.”

“For what?”

“Everything. When I don’t know stuff, when I get in trouble, when I get called on in class. Other shit, too.” He shrugs. “It pisses me off.”

Ian watches him make himself small, curling in and bringing his elbows to the table.

“So that’s why you got mad when Mr. Walker made you go up to the board. ‘Cause the kids were gonna pick on you?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “They don’t usually say anything or whatever. They just take snaps of me. I know they do it. I’ve seen ‘em.”

Poor kid. That shit sucks, and being a high schooler in the age of social media has to be hard as hell.

“Well, hey,” he says, not knowing what to say other than this. “Those kids are mean and so insecure that they feel like they have to tear somebody else down to make themselves feel better. Sucks for them.”

Aleks snorts. “Nothing sucks for them. Their lives are perfect.”

Ian taps his desk. “Nah. They’re just pretending ‘cause they’ve got a reputation to uphold. Without that, they’ve got nothing.” He smiles. “Want me to talk to admin about ‘em?”

“Hell no. I ain’t no snitch.”

“Well, if you ever want me to, just lemme know.”

“Got it.”

“And stop callin’ your teachers ‘dicks.’ And stop breakin’ out tail-lights.”

That gets a smile out of him. Ian can tell by the way his eyes go squinty.

“And since I promised not to say anything about why you were havin’ such a bad day, you’ve gotta promise me you’ll tell me if your dad does or says anything that hurts you, okay? Or tell your mom, or… Hey, your mom's friend, Mickey. My neighbor?”

Aleks drops his head down on his desk at that, laughing, and Ian doesn’t know what’s so funny.

“What?” he asks, raising a brow at him when he sits up straight again.

“Nothing.” His voice is filled with amusement.

Ian smiles, though he doesn’t quite know what at. “Speaking of, that shirt.” He points at it. “Mickey’s got one.”

“Uhhh, yeah.” Aleks looks wildly confused for a moment before he snorts like he has an inside joke with himself.

“Anyway.” Ian shrugs. “I like it. And Mickey’s somebody you can tell, too, prob’ly. I don’t know how well you know him, but I think he’s a good guy to have in your corner.”

“Yeah.” The kid nods. “He is.”

“Cool. Well. Promise?”

“Promise.”

Ian shoos him. “Alright, get outta here. I gotta get ready to be brilliant tomorrow.”

Aleks makes a farting sound with his tongue and stands. “Bye, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Bye, Aleks. Don’t beat up my car when you leave.”

“Can I flip you off? Just in a joking way?”

“No.”

Aleks sighs. “Fine.

“Have a good day, bud.”

“You, too.”

Ian stares at his computer for a long time after he leaves. Aleks Curran is the most familiar kid he’s ever met in his life. He racks his brain for the student he reminds him of, scanning through ten years of troublemakers with tender hearts.

Try as he might, he just can’t put his finger on it.

Mickey’s in bed when his phone chimes on the charger. That’s so rare an occurrence that he assumes it’s Iggy, texting him from a smuggled phone in the county jail after he’s burned Amber’s lawyer’s house down.

He’s surprised to find it’s Aleks. They text so very infrequently that Mickey can’t even remember the reason he has his number to begin with--probably PJ gave it to him a while back in case the kid ever had an emergency.

He squints at the screen.

------------------------

Aleks (11:38 PM): haha mr. gallagher was talking about you today

Mickey (11:39 PM): ?

Aleks (11:39 PM): he told me to tell you if dad ever beats me 🙃 hah

Mickey (11:40 PM): I mean he’s right but ???

Aleks (11:40 PM): he doesn’t know does he

------------------------

Mickey takes a deep breath.

------------------------

Mickey (11:41 PM): No

Aleks (11:41 PM): haha i figured

Aleks (11:41 PM): he was telling me about you and thought he had to clarify who you were 🤪

------------------------

Telling the kid about him? Mickey taps his fingers against the sides of his phone, wondering how to ask without sounding like a fucking weirdo.

In the end, he goes with a simple

------------------------

Mickey (11:43 PM): What did he say

Aleks (11:43 PM): that you were a good guy to have in my corner

Aleks (11:43 PM): in case dad beats me ig 💀

------------------------

Mickey’s breath catches in his lungs. He reads the kid’s message over and over again.

Ian doesn’t know shit about him anymore and certainly not enough to know whether that statement he made is true. Nevertheless, it makes Mickey feel good. He snuggles down in his comforter and types a reply.

------------------------

Mickey (11:45 PM): Cool

Mickey (11:45 PM): Also yeah

Mickey (11:45 PM): M ain’t been beatin on you has he

Aleks (11:45 PM): no mr. g is just an anxiety ball

Aleks (11:45 PM): but he’s cool

Mickey (11:46 PM): Yeah

------------------------

He takes a deep breath.

------------------------

Mickey (11:46 PM): He’s a good one to have in your corner too so be nice to him

Aleks (11:46 PM): k

------------------------

Mickey doesn’t really know him anymore, either, but he doesn’t think he’s wrong about that.

He texts Aleks goodnight and leans over to plug his phone back into the charger.

On the way, he bumps the picture he’d set on his nightstand a week and a half prior, sending it teetering to the floor. He hadn’t really looked at it at all since then, as he’s rarely in his room for anything other than to get dressed and sleep. He leans over, picks it up off the floor, and takes a minute to study it.

He remembers the moment it was taken down to the millisecond. It’s of him, eighteen years old and scared shitless, sitting in a chair in PJ’s hospital room. In his arms is Aleks, who’s swaddled in his hospital-issued baby blanket with the blue and pink stripes on the end.

“Hey, Nugget,” he’d whispered, struck by how tiny he was--how pink and delicate and light as air. He’d reached down and touched his hand, running his thumb over his baby doll fingers and the translucent purple nails.

In that moment, he couldn’t believe he was his. He couldn’t believe that he’d had a part in making something so little, even by accident--something that trusted him already, that slept so peacefully in his arms.

PJ’d taken the picture. It was during one of the rare moments it was just the three of them in the room. Mickey remembers laughing and telling her to fuck off after the flash had made him see spots, and he remembers her pulling out the photo and shaking it, a pleased smile on her face.

Mickey takes a deep breath and reads the words at the bottom of the Polaroid written in his best friend’s perfect handwriting. The words he thinks about sometimes when Aleks is around. The words he thinks he’s probably not allowed to think--shouldn’t think, really, because he no longer has a claim to them.

Chapter Text

The day after Labor Day, Ian gets coverage for his 4th period class so he can go to his doctor’s appointment. NewDay is a nice, modern office primarily specializing in family medicine but with a psychiatrist on staff two days a week.

He sees a GP, Dr. Palmer, who gives him a physical and an HIV test and then transfers and submits refills for his PrEP, lithium, and antidepressant. They talk about his bipolar, about his symptoms and meds, and Ian holds his breath while he waits for the doctor to bring up the note he’d made on his new patient paperwork, the pen marks shaky from his nerves as he’d sat in the waiting room with the clipboard in his lap. Earlier, he’d watched the blank-faced nurse type them into his file after she'd taken his vitals.

It doesn’t take long. Ian sees the moment Dr. Palmer considers his approach, his lips pursing and his finger coming up to push his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

“I see here you had some mental health struggles a little over a year ago. How are you doing now?”

Mental health struggles. It almost makes Ian laugh considering the words he’d written, the doctor’s phrasing so soft in comparison to how he’d described it in blue ink. It had been the scariest seven weeks of his life, and thinking about it makes him hate himself in a way that feels sick in his stomach.

It’s embarrassment and regret and the kind of pain that comes with acknowledging that he’s that sick--that this thing he’s been living with since he was 26 can be more than just periodically making him a little crazy in the sort of way he jokes about with Lip, naming all his flavors of illness like they’re fun personalities: Conspiracy Ian. Philanthropist Ian. Depressed Ian. Little Suzy Homemaker.

Ian puffs up his cheeks before blowing out a breath. He nods. “I’m okay.”

“Have you recently experienced any thoughts of suicide? Of hurting yourself or others?”

“No.”

Dr. Palmer stares at him for a long time as if assessing his features for signs of a lie. Finally, he nods, glances down at his laptop, and begins typing.

In the end, he refers Ian to the psychiatrist, Dr. Cara Healy, and though it’s the last thing he wants to do, he goes along with it and schedules an appointment for the 22nd. He hates it, but he’s also old and aware enough to know that it’s probably something he needs more than he’d ever admit.

---

On the way home after his appointment, he stops by McDonald’s for a large fry and an iced caramel macchiato, and he’s just leaving the drive-thru when his phone rings.

He swears when he reads the caller ID, his heart plummeting into his gut.

Jesus Christ, his whole fucking family is full of psychics. He stares at the phone for four rings before answering the call with a trembling thumb.

“Hey,” he says, voice shaky.

“Hey, Sweetface!”

Ian has to pull over, dipping into a spot near the parking lot exit and cutting the engine. He’d told Lip weeks ago that he’d “think about” calling Fiona, but he hadn’t done it. Frankly, aside from the occasional response to a message in the group chat, he’s made very little contact with anyone.

“Hey, Fi,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press his forehead against the steering wheel. “Everything okay?”

His sister makes a breathy sound, and just from the pitch of it, he can tell she’s smiling in the forced way she always smiles when she’s trying to be kind even when she feels like wringing someone’s neck.

“Everything’s…great,” she says. “Are things good with you?”

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“Haven’t heard from you in a while. You said you’d call…what was it? All the time?”

“Sorry. Yeah. I’ve been…busy.”

“Well, you can’t forget about us. We’re all thinkin’ about you. What’ve you been up to?”

Ian leans back in his seat. “Just…work, y’know. Fixin’ up the house, too.”

“Tell me all about it!”

She’s still fake-smiley and too happy. It pisses him off, and all he can think about is her talking to him when she’d driven him home from the hospital the first time--like he was a four-year-old who didn’t understand manic-depression, justifying the reason she’d had a grown-ass man involuntarily committed and pumped full of downers.

The logical side of him knows it’s more complicated than that. But it doesn’t change the way Fiona’s over-the-top enthusiasm makes his eyes tear up. It doesn’t change the fact that he wants to hang up on her because he’s 33 years old, not fifteen, and he feels like he’s died and come back as someone else--like the boy Fiona loved, the kid who had a garden and optimism and endless affection for everyone around him was buried last summer, and in his place is some sad sack of a guy creeping his way toward middle age.

He tells her about the house, and he tells her about work. He smiles so she’ll hear it in his voice. She wants to come visit, and he says maybe for Thanksgiving. Maybe he’ll have the whole family up and it’ll be like old times.

She’s appeased. He drinks his iced coffee, the sugar going straight to his head.

They’re quiet at the end of the call. He hears Fiona shuffling, probably in the office at work, moving around papers for something to do.

Finally, there’s a pause, then: “I’m worried about you.”

Ian sighs. “Don’t be. I’m doing real good, Fiona. I got some friends at work. The house is starting to come together. I just got back from getting a physical at the doctor’s. You don’t need to worry.”

After a beat, she asks, “Are we okay?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Ian.”

“What.”

“I love you.”

He sucks his bottom lip for a moment. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I love you, too.”

---

Back at home, he takes a half-hour power nap before freshening up and changing his shirt. He has Open House that night, so once he’s ready, he fills his Yeti with black coffee and heads back to the school.

It’s possibly his least favorite night of the year when it comes to his teacher-related duties. At LeHigh, Open House nights are much more structured than they were back in Gainesville, the bells ringing every fifteen minutes between five and six so parents can follow their kids through their entire daily schedule.

There isn’t a huge crowd--mostly just the River Oak families--but Ian still goes through his introductory slideshow for each group and answers questions about student behavior and grades and whether CRT is something he addresses in his American Literature class.

It’s only an hour-long process, but by the time the kids and parents are making their way to the gym for the club fair, Ian’s already exhausted. Still, he grabs his LeHigh Helping Hands flyers, a basket of candy, and a tri-fold poster a couple of the members had made at the last meeting, and follows the herd.

---

The gym is hot, overcrowded, and a veritable superspreader event waiting to happen. Ian stands behind his designated table and hands out flyers. Gianna, the club president, shows up late, and even then, rather than telling passersby about the club, she stares at her phone while limply holding out the candy basket.

In the end, it’s relatively painless. At 6:30, Ian lets Gianna go and starts folding back up the poster to take back to his room.

Though Open House is technically over, it’s in that moment that the Currans, sans Mark, arrive. After a brief glance around the gym, PJ’s eyes land on Ian as if she were looking for him, and she immediately starts making her way over, Boden on her heels and Aleks several feet behind, his hands stuffed down the pockets of his jeans in the perfect image of teenage angst.

“Ian, hi!” she greets once she arrives, reaching out and touching his forearm. “Sorry we’re late. Bodie had her open house, too, so we’re a little all over the place tonight. You doing okay?”

Her smile is warm, and she’s well-dressed and pretty, her shiny blonde hair up in a bun and her jewelry and purse perfectly complimenting her army green romper. She looks like a Pinterest Mom, and Ian gets a kick out of seeing her and Aleks together, the boy coming up and standing beside her in front of the Helping Hands booth with freshly bleached eyebrows and a mustard yellow shirt that reads, IT STARTED IN THE HAYLOFT.

Ian hasn’t seen him without a mask frequently enough to commit his bare face to memory, but even from the nose-bridge up, he can still see the resemblance between mother and son. He and PJ have the same coloring: fair, blue-eyed, lightly freckled, and with the general appearance of people who were once very blond children.

Aleks takes a mini Twix from the candy basket, but rather than eating it himself, he hands it to his little sister.

“I’m okay,” Ian says in response to PJ’s question. “It’s been a long day, but--” He shrugs.

The woman smiles empathetically. “I bet.”

“Did you want me to tell you about Helping Hands?” He glances teasingly at Aleks, who’s now tearing open a package of SweeTarts. “The club of which Aleks is a dedicated member?”

The kid makes a farting noise with his tongue before lowering his mask beneath his chin and dropping all three candies into his mouth at once. He leaves the mask down while he chews, and though the coloring is the same, Ian notes that aside from having her perfect teeth and upturned eye shape, he actually doesn’t look that much like PJ after all, his nose slimmer and lips fuller. He’s a cute kid--younger and sweeter than you’d expect him to look given the way he presents himself.

He and Boden eat an enormous amount of candy while Ian tells PJ about Helping Hands, the woman clearly knowing all about it but acting interested in order to be kind. Ian tries his best to talk Aleks up because he likes doing that for his students, wanting their parents to be proud of them. It seems to work; PJ makes an endeared face and wraps her arm around her son when Ian tells her how hard he works on their service projects.

“And he hasn’t busted out your tail-lights again, has he?” she jokes, and Aleks wiggles out of her side-hug.

“Not yet.”

“I oughta give you some extra money for the trouble. I still can’t believe he did that.”

Ian waves away her offer. “Thanks, but we’re good.” He reaches over and pokes Aleks’s shoulder. “We discussed it. He’s a good kid, and he just made a dumb mistake. Right?”

“Stop talking about it,” the boy in question complains, making to wander off in order to get away from adults talking about something that embarrasses him. PJ takes hold of his hand to stop him, and at that, Aleks makes a blech noise and shakes it off.

“Well, thanks for being understanding.” PJ leans in and lowers her voice. “And for not calling the police.”

“Mom.”

“What if you got arrested?” Boden asks her brother, her grin huge and showing off her braces. “That would’ve been hilarious.”

Aleks shoves her lightly. “I wouldn’ta got arrested.”

“What if you had to do community service?”

“What if you shut up?”

“What if you try and make me?”

PJ rolls her eyes, and while the kids argue, she steps around to Ian’s side of the table.

“So, how ‘bout this,” she starts, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “We’re about to go get some breakfast for dinner at Patsy’s. Why don’t you join us? My treat.”

“Uh.”

“Is that weird?” PJ smiles like she knows it is but doesn’t actually care. “We could catch up! It’s been, what? Sixteen, seventeen years?”

Ian thinks PJ must be forgetting the fact that not only were they not friends, but they also were in completely separate social circles, not to mention grades. That one night at the fair and the awkward, slightly contemptuous ride home in Mickey’s truck was their only true interaction back then.

“Ahh, thanks for the offer,” he says, “but I can’t impose.”

“You definitely wouldn’t be imposing! We’d love to have you.”

“I dunno.”

PJ nods toward her kids. “At the very least, you can keep me from strangling my children.”

Ian sighs, not really knowing how he can get out of this. He could claim to have dinner already made, but that’d be a lame excuse. He could say he had grading to do, which wasn’t untrue, but he’d have to eat dinner sometime anyway, and it isn’t as if Patsy’s is an inconvenience.

“Yeah, okay,” he eventually agrees. “But I’ve gotta put some stuff in my room first, so--”

“Take your time!” PJ beams at him. “We’ll head on over and grab a table.”

Overwhelmed but trying his best to hide it, Ian agrees and finishes packing up the Helping Hands stuff while PJ rounds up Bodie and Aleks and leaves.

Should he have said no? He huffs a breath and grabs the tri-fold board, candy basket, and remaining flyers. He guesses he’ll find out.

Mickey’d already made dinner, but he ends up dumping it into a tupperware container and putting it in the fridge after PJ calls. She and the kids are getting food at Patsy’s since Mark’s at a conference in Atlanta. Ain’t no way he’s going to turn down pancakes and hashbrowns.

He pulls on a pair of jeans and switches out his ancient white tank-top for a green crewneck, grabs his keys, and hits the road.

---

It’s 6:50 when he arrives at the restaurant, and it’s so packed that he has to park across the street in front of the doll store. Inside, he finds that PJ and the kids are already there, sitting at one of the rounded booths that seat six instead of their usual booth for four. He heads over and scoots in beside Aleks and across the table from PJ.

“Yo, yo,” he greets, picking up the menu. He smiles at Boden. “‘Sup, Princess Peach.” He swipes his thumb over one of Aleks’s re-bleached eyebrows. “Blondie.” To PJ, he asks, “What’s this big-ass booth for?”

Aleks turns to him. “Mr. Gallagher’s coming.”

“Mr. Who?”

PJ bounces her eyebrows at him, and Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever gotten so pissed, so quickly. He shoots daggers at her. “What did you do?”

“I invited Ian.” She shrugs like it’s nothing, and Mickey can tell by the look on her face that if the kids weren’t around, she’d be singing it with a smirk.

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“Language. I thought it’d be good to catch up. Plus, I wanted to buy him dinner as a thank you for being nice about you know who,” she points to Aleks, “doing you know what.”

Mickey blanches. “So why am I here?”

“Because I wanted you to be?”

“Why did you want me to be, PJ?” He’s seething, and he knows Aleks isn’t an idiot. The kid’s old enough that he’s got to be picking up on the tension. Mickey glances his way and spies him slurping at his Pepsi, his blue eyes bouncing between his mom and Mickey like he’s watching a really interesting tennis match.

PJ finally allows herself to smile the way she’s clearly wanted to all along--a wide, Cheshire Cat one. “I thought it’d be good. Get a grip and decide what you wanna eat.”

“I’m the one who should be pissed,” Aleks interjects. “I’ve gotta have dinner with a teacher.”

PJ taps the table in front of her son. “He’s a nice man. Much nicer than he should’ve been. If you say one mean thing, I’m taking your PlayStation.”

“Why would I say anything mean? He’s alright.”

“Just don’t.”

Aleks holds up his hands, palms facing his mother. “Fine.”

Mickey sighs and starts flipping through the menu. What a fucking nightmare.

---

It’s 7:00 before Ian arrives, and Mickey’s heart stops when he sees him.

He looks exhausted, the long part of his hair is limply flopping over his forehead, and he’s wearing a chambray short-sleeved button down and khakis, both articles of clothing fitting him really fucking good.

He looks gay as hell.

He doesn’t have his watch on, and even from across the room, Mickey can see the colorful rectangle on the inside of his wrist when he raises his hand to push back his hair.

Aleks cups his hands around his mouth. “Ian.”

The redhead turns toward the voice, and his eyes land immediately on Mickey. It feels like a shot. Mickey looks away, catching PJ’s eye, and that’s no help. He holds up his menu and begins studying it intently.

He can’t do it for long, though, because before he knows it, Ian’s awkwardly standing by the table. PJ scoots in closer to Bodie, letting Ian sit down beside her, and Mickey doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than the other man sitting beside him, as now he’s directly across the table like they’re on some fucked up double date with the whole family.

He hates PJ.

Mickey jerks his feet back when Ian’s shoes bump his under the table, and he looks up, giving a nod in greeting as Ian apologizes with a Sorry. Hey, Mickey.

“Hey,” Mickey mumbles in response, looking back down at his menu.

“Thanks for coming!” PJ greets sweetly, and Mickey shoots her a couple more daggers in the moment it takes the waitress to saunter over with her notepad.

Mickey watches over the top of the menu as Ian orders black coffee, orange juice, and a tall stack of blueberry pancakes with bacon. He’s friendly to the waitress, and after he’s ordered, he hands her his menu and sits back, peering around the place. He has dark circles beneath his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping well, and they’re purple in the bright overhead lights.

Mickey’s so busy looking at them that he almost misses the waitress asking for his order, only catching on when Ian glances his way expectantly as if waiting for him to speak.

He blurts out something about banana pancakes and hashbrowns and, once the waitress leaves, is left with PJ making eyes at him in a way that makes him want to get up and walk out.

---

The biggest problem with Ian--aside from the fact that he looks like a fucking gay-ass ginger Ken doll--is that he’s nice. He talks to PJ like an old friend and asks Bodie about fifth grade. He jokes around with Aleks, who calls him Ian and complains just about as much to him as he does to Mickey and his mom.

He’s goofy, too, in this corny way that rather than making him annoying just makes him likable.

Mickey doesn’t say much. When the food comes, he keeps his eyes on his plate and only contributes to the conversation when asked a direct question.

After his second pancake, Ian points his fork at him. “So how’s business? How’s cows?”

Mickey can’t tell whether or not he’s being funny, the question so small-talky and formal and Ian’s voice dramatic like a radio announcer’s. At any rate, he doesn’t get a chance to answer, as Ian immediately smiles at him with his mouth closed and asks a more serious question. “You doin’ okay?”

“Fine.” A beat. “You?”

Ian smiles again. “Fine.”

Mickey stuffs his mouth with more pancake.

“So Ian…” PJ starts, having been watching the brief exchange. “Are you seeing anybody?”

Bitch.

Ian makes a grab for his orange juice and takes a heavy swallow. “Uhh, no,” he says, and Mickey had guessed that, but it still makes him feel weird in his stomach to hear. He keeps his eyes on his plate.

“Not right now.”

“Are you looking?”

He’s going to scream.

He chances a glance upward and catches Ian’s eyes darting around as if he’s feeling awkward. The freckled tips of his ears are red.

Still, he manages to answer the question, and Mickey hopes PJ’s fucking happy with it because he thinks if she asks one more like that, he’ll burst into flames.

“Uhh, maybe?” Ian says, digging back into his blueberry pancakes. “Guess I’m always looking, y’know. I’m not like, actively dating around right now or anything if that’s what you mean.”

“So what kinda…people...do you like?” Aleks asks, and he’s being totally obvious. Mickey wonders if he’s going to have to shoot him a few daggers now.

“I mean, it’s cool whatever,” the kid continues. “I wouldn’t care if you’re like, gay or something. Me and Bodie aren’t homophobes.”

PJ makes a what am I, then? face, her hands out to the sides.

Aleks looks at her. “You’re not homophobic, but you’re really Christian.”

“So are you?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Since when?”

“I dunno. Leave me alone.”

“Did something happen?”

“Oh my God. No. I’m just not twelve anymore.”

“Do we need to talk about it?”

“Mom.”

“I’m okay with you questioning, y’know. It’s normal.”

“Mom.

Mickey wants to crawl under the table because now the kid and his mother are launching into a fucking theological discussion with a ten-year-old attempting to moderate. Somehow more infuriating is the fact that Ian just laughs at it all and doesn’t ever get around to answering Aleks’s initial question.

Not that Mickey doesn’t already know the answer. The motherfucker has a goddamn rainbow flag on his wrist. He’d just kind of like to hear what he has to say about it, anyway.

If you’d asked Ian 24 hours ago where he’d be on Tuesday night, he certainly wouldn’t say, at Patsy’s, sitting across a table from Mickey while PJ Watson-Curran assures her kids it’s healthy and normal to question their belief systems.

He laughs at it because it’s kind of hilarious, and Mickey looks at him, raising his dark, expressive brows in the first true friendly gesture he’s given him all night.

It was clear he wasn’t thrilled about Ian joining and hadn’t expected it. When the redhead had entered the restaurant, through his shocked delight at finding the other man in the booth beside Aleks, he’d felt a bit of a kick in the gut over the fact that upon spotting him, Mickey’s brows had knit together and he’d glanced back down at his menu, annoyed.

Later, he’d tried to make conversation, but Mickey never really took the bait, even eschewing conversation with PJ and the kids in favor of staring intently at his plate.

Now, there’s a slight uptick to the corner of his mouth, and Ian can’t help but want to push that a bit further.

“Whaaaat is happening?” he asks, nodding in the direction of the Currans.

Mickey seems to allow himself to relax a little, his lips shaping themselves into a smirk. “Typical PJ shit. Welcome to my world.”

“So you’re like, best friends, huh? How the hell’d you avoid telling me that the whole time you were changing out my lights?”

“Wasn’t relevant to the conversation.”

“It was pretty relevant.”

“Whatever.” Mickey picks up his glass of Pepsi and takes a drink. He turns to the rest of the party, who are now talking about agnosticism. “Y’all are boring,” he says. “Save this shit for later.”

PJ makes vaguely scolding sounds, but the kids cackle at him, and it’s abundantly clear how much they like him.

“What about you guys?” Aleks asks. “Do you believe in God?”

Mickey blows a raspberry. “I’m tryna eat my pancakes.”

“Ian?”

It’s a complicated question. He hadn’t really grown up practicing anything super particular, but God and all that? He’s dabbled in it. Got real serious about it for a summer back in Gainesville, mania leading him inside the Episcopal church one Sunday because it had the Pride flag hanging up outside. It didn’t really stick, the novelty wearing off along with his elevated mood, but he still prays sometimes on his worst days even if he no longer buys into a lot of it.

He shrugs. “Depends on the day.”

“Fair enough.” Aleks picks up a piece of bacon and takes a bite. He turns to Mickey, who looks back at him. “You don’t believe in God, do you?”

Mickey groans. “Your mom won’t like any answer I give you, Nugget, so…” He forks in a bite of pancake and bounces his brows at PJ.

Ian thinks he’s brushed it off completely, but a moment later, he adds with his mouth full, “Just like, don’t be an asshole or whatever. Don’t matter what else you believe.”

PJ slowly rocks her head from side to side like she only agrees with part of it, but she doesn’t add anything else to the conversation. Mickey winks at her, and Ian can tell they have an understanding that runs deep. She’s religious; Mickey isn’t. They’re both okay with that.

Aleks seems to take it in stride. He watches Mickey’s face for a long moment even though the other man doesn’t catch it, and he smiles a little when he looks away again.

The two of them are similar, really, and Ian can understand why they’d get along. Aleks may be friendlier and more youthful from growing up with parents who let him be a child, but there’s something about them that matches--this soft-heartedness beneath a tough exterior.

It’s strange seeing Aleks so in his element. All gruff, angsty teen is gone and in its place is a kid who talks endlessly and smiles so often it’s as if it’s his default state. Both PJ and Mickey call him Nugget, PJ exclusively and Mickey just once or twice in a way that could almost come across as affectionate. Ian’s still beside himself over the fact that Mickey had listened to his story and fixed his tail-lights without even once mentioning the fact that the Currans are a major part of his life.

After the religion conversation, Mickey talks more. PJ tells Ian about her real estate job, and Mickey interjects funny little comments every now and again that make the whole table smile.

He’s cute. Ian feels a bit like a fifteen-year-old again, and he hopes it doesn’t show.

All in all, it’s a nice outing. He has a good time. PJ insists on paying for his meal, so he lets her, if only because he knows it’ll make her feel better for what her kid did to his Jeep.

Mickey slinks away to the bathroom after handing PJ a twenty, so Ian doesn’t get to say goodbye to him, feeling awkward about waiting around. He says goodbye to PJ, Aleks, and Bodie outside the restaurant door, the lights from inside casting them all in a yellow glow.

He makes a grab for his cigarettes on his way back across the street toward his vehicle and lights up once he’s reached it, leaning against the back of it and watching the Currans pile into PJ’s white Escalade. Mickey exits the restaurant then and rushes over to stick his head in PJ’s window. Ian sees her arms come out to wrap around his neck in a brief hug.

Fucking weird. He smokes.

Is it? Maybe not. It’s probably because he’s just never had a friend like that other than his brother, and he sure as hell doesn’t hug Lip around the neck very often.

Mickey’s truck is parked two spaces down with no car in-between to act as a barrier. Ian almost feels like he should get back in the Jeep to finish his cigarette, his loitering awkward. He doesn’t get a chance. Mickey spots him when he turns to cross the street, and it’s too late to make a getaway without looking like a giant weirdo.

To his surprise, rather than making a beeline for his Chevy, the other man fumbles for his own pack of cigarettes, takes one out, and lights up.

“Hey,” Ian greets.

Mickey nods at him. “Hey.”

They smoke together in silence for a minute before Ian adds, “‘Nugget,’ huh?” He smiles. “Should I be calling him that?”

“Pssh.” Mickey shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else.

“Still weird that you didn’t tell me you guys are basically one big happy family.”

“Ain’t a big deal.”

“It is, though. In a good way.”

“Whatever.” Mickey inhales deeply. He tilts his head back to blow out the smoke almost artfully, his face aglow from the streetlamp above them. He’s beautiful. Ian’s stomach twists to the point that he has to look away for a moment.

He hears Mickey’s feet shuffling against the pavement, so he turns back. Watches him. He remembers something suddenly, and a smile forms on his lips.

“Hey,” he says.

Mickey hums in acknowledgment.

“Am I meant to assume from that unhinged religion conversation that you’re a homophobe? I noticed Aleks didn’t mention you in his oh-so-exclusive list of people who aren’t.”

He’s just joking. It’s the wrong thing to say, though, clearly, because Mickey doesn’t look amused and is instead irritated. He turns his body away and starts slowly walking toward his truck.

“Don’t assume shit,” he mumbles, pausing near his door but not reaching out to open it.

Ian huffs, embarrassed. He’s made an ass of himself.

“I know,” he blurts. “I’m kidding.”

“I don’t give a fuck what people do.”

“Cool.” His cigarette’s burning low. With a quick inhale, he takes one last puff before dropping it to the ground. “Me neither.”

Mickey turns to look at him then, squinting a little like he’s trying to figure him out. After several tense seconds, he gives a small shrug and leans back against the truck door to finish his own cigarette.

Ian’s now empty-handed. There’s no reason to stick around. Still, he relaxes back against his own vehicle and watches Mickey smoke.

He’s pissing him off. It’s stupid that he is, but that doesn’t stop it from happening.

He was kidding. Mickey gets that. It still makes him feel a little sick to be called a fucking homophobe because he knows Ian’s thinking about what they did when they were teenagers. The ginger asshole thinks he’s being coy, thinks he knows something, and it’s almost unbearable. Mickey turns away.

“Sorry,” Ian apologizes. “I don’t know why I said that. It wasn’t funny.”

“It’s fine.”

Ian’s done with his cigarette, but he isn’t leaving. A part of Mickey wishes he would. He turns back so he can see him.

He’s leaning against his Jeep, fidgeting, and the light from the streetlamp makes his hair golden fire. He looks a little torn up about what he’d said--like it was the worst thing in the world and not a dumb, off-handed comment.

Mickey finishes up his cigarette and drops it on the ground. “Don’t know why the kid gives a fuck,” he says, crushing it out with the toe of his boot. “He’s nosy.”

Ian smiles to himself, and it’s all very stupid, but Mickey’s glad to see it.

“He’s fine,” the man says. “He’s a curious kid. And I mean--” He holds up his wrist.

Mickey doesn’t know how to respond to that, and he isn’t sure he even can, his throat going tight. He doesn’t have his cigarette to distract himself, so he crosses his arms over his chest and peers up at the streetlamp, watching the moths bounce against the glass around the bulb.

Eventually, the silence becomes awkward. He sucks his teeth before finally asking, “When’d you get that?”

Ian looks down and runs his thumb over the tattoo. “My early 20s. Got a matching one with some guys I was hangin’ out with.”

“‘Some guys.’” Mickey snorts.

“Ha. Yeah. Not like that, but.” He shrugs. “I was newly graduated from college. Had my first adult job. I dunno. Felt like something to do.”

Mickey doesn’t get that shit at all. He can’t imagine being proud of something a lot of people would love to beat the shit out of you for. Ian walks around with proof of his queerness permanently inked on his wrist--somewhere people are always going to see unless he wears long sleeves for the rest of his life. Nothing sounds more horrible.

“Your students see it and shit,” he says.

“Yeeeeah. Fewer than you’d think, though. Watchband usually covers most of it.” Ian shrugs. “But it’s alright. I’m not shy about that kinda thing.”

Mickey gets that people are cool with themselves. It just doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to him. He nods in response and looks away.

The conversation’s over, and Ian begins shifting around like he doesn’t know what to do next. Eventually, he pulls out his phone and checks the time.

“Prob’ly need to head back. Got some papers to grade.”

“‘kay.”

“It was good to see you outside of…Wallace, y’know. And good to catch up with PJ. Seems like she’s done well for herself.”

“Husband’s a lil bitch.”

“So you’ve said.” Ian smiles, and it’s pretty nice--enough that Mickey has to look away from it and reach for the truck door. After opening it, he turns back in order to catch the other man’s, “See ya, Mickey.”

He nods in response and gives him a small salute, two fingers to his temple.

“Later,” he says, climbing into the truck and pulling the door shut behind him.

He waits until Ian pulls out and speeds off and then takes his phone out of his pocket. He texts PJ.

------------------------

Mickey (7:58 PM): Wtf is wrong with you

------------------------

Not a minute later, he receives a response.

------------------------

PJ (7:58 PM): hah what did she do

------------------------

It’s Aleks, probably answering her texts while she drives.

------------------------

Mickey (7:59 PM): Nothing nvm

------------------------

Goddammit. He can’t even be properly pissed at her. He cranks the truck, puts on the metal station, and turns it up loud enough that the windows rattle.

Helping Hands is affiliated with a larger state service organization that hosts trainings and conferences a few times a year. On Thursday, Harris saunters into Ian’s room in the middle of his American Lit class and drops a fat envelope on his desk before leaving without a word.

It’s information about a two-night club kick-off conference at an Atlanta Marriott in early November. Due to COVID precautions, just two adults and four students from each school are permitted to attend.

Might be fun. Ian emails Harris and administration about logistics and how the school is able to help them financially and then sends out an interest poll to the club officers. Though Aleks isn’t an officer, he shares the poll with him, as well, if only because he thinks it might be a good opportunity for him to branch out and meet new kids.

Harris replies immediately, telling Ian he’ll try to make it, which isn’t encouraging, but the principal’s reply that the school can pay 50% of all costs is. At any rate, nothing needs to be settled just yet, with forms and payments not due until late October.

Once 3:00 rolls around, Ian finishes up his teaching duties, grades some papers, and heads home. He’s halfway to the house when a ding sounds from his console.

The display reads, Change Oil Soon, and he cycles through the information panel to find that it’d recently dipped below 3% life. He’d had just 25% when he’d bought the Jeep, and he’s been putting maintenance off for a rainy day.

Seems he’s pushed it down to the wire. He drives the rest of the way home and then idles in the driveway, using his two measly wifi bars to look up cheap oil changes in the area. In retrospect, it’s dumb of him to have not immediately thought of Mickey, and in fact, Milkovich Auto being the first result in his oil change near me Google search almost makes him jump.

Obviously, Mickey can do it. He fixed his tail-lights. Ian taps over to the Milkovich Auto contact page and presses his lips together, wondering how to go about this. It seems a little awkwardly formal to call up his business landline.

Fuck it. He puts his Jeep in reverse and backs out of the driveway.

When he arrives at Mickey’s place, he finds the other man on his back beneath an ancient Volvo. Unlike the last time Ian’d seen him busy at work, he isn’t wearing his navy jumpsuit. Instead, he has on grease-stained jeans, old Timberlands, and a threadbare gray shirt with a ring of holes around the bottom seam.

Ian pulls the Jeep into the small parking area near the other man’s Chevy and kills the engine.

Mickey rolls out from beneath the Volvo and sits up, swiping his sweaty forehead with the side of his hand and leaving behind a black streak that does nothing but make him look sexy as hell. Ian swallows heavily.

“So how do I go about making a car appointment?” he asks in place of a greeting, walking over to the other man who looks at him like he has three heads. Ian clears his throat. “Thought it was a bit much to call your business number.”

Mickey chuckles and lies down again, scooting back under the car. “Uhh, I dunno,” he says, reaching out blindly for a nearby tool. “Text me?”

“I don’t have your number.”

The other man immediately starts reciting numbers, and Ian grabs his phone at lightning speed and plugs them into his Notes app, his heart leaping as if his crush has just passed him his number in class.

“Cool,” he says afterward, trying to recover. “I will…do that.”

Mickey rolls back out from under the car and looks at him again, blankly this time, like Ian’s the dumbest person alive.

Maybe he is. He fidgets awkwardly, twirling his phone in his hands.

Finally, Mickey chuckles again and reaches out toward his table and rack of tools. “Hey. Gimme the oil filter wrench?”

Ian moves over and starts scanning the several vaguely wrench-like tools that all somehow look exactly the same.

“Blue handle. Looks kinda like crab claws.”

“Got it.” Ian grabs them and brings them over.

“So, uh.” Mickey sniffs as he slides back under the Volvo with the wrench in hand. “How’s the kid doin’? Like for real. None of that bullshit teacher spiel you gave his mom the other night.”

“Oddly enough, I think I’ve had a breakthrough with him. Couple weeks ago.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t know how much I should say or whatever, but he told me some stuff about his dad.”

“What about his dad?” Mickey rolls back out from under the car and sits up. He grabs a handful of disposable rags from a box nearby and starts wiping off his hands and wrists.

“Nothing you don’t already know, probably. He’s a dick. Aleks thinks he doesn’t like him since he’s gotten older.”

“I fuckin’ hate that fuckin’ asshole.”

“Damn.”

Mickey huffs. “He ain’t hittin’ him, is he?”

“Not that he said. I’d have contacted authorities.”

“Contact me. I’ll kick his head in.”

“Bad blood there, huh?”

Mickey pushes up to standing and stretches. He walks over, pops open a container of orange-scented degreasing wipes, and runs them over his hands. “Long story. I don’t wanna get into it.”

Ian nods. He lets the silence hold for long enough that Mickey begins to look restless, adjusting tools that don’t really need it and shifting his feet anxiously.

Finally, having mercy on him, he says, “You and Aleks get along well.” It’s a casual observation--one Ian’s only giving voice to in order to shift the subject onto something happier.

Mickey shrugs. “Uhh, yeah. I guess.”

Ian smiles warmly. “If I’m honest, he kinda reminds me of you when you were his age. In a good way. This little raise-hell-troublemaker that’s actually a really funny, sweet kid once you get to know him.”

Mickey blows a raspberry and looks away, and Ian obviously can’t read minds, but he has a feeling something about what he’d said made the other man feel good.

He wants to push further.

“So it makes sense, y’know. That you get along. Birds of a feather and all that.”

Mickey stares at him for the longest time, gnawing on his bottom lip, before saying possibly the last thing Ian expects to hear and yet the thing that makes a whole hell of a lot of sense considering.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “And the shared DNA kinda helps.”

He doesn’t know why the fuck he said it. Not that it’s a big secret anymore--at least not really. Well, depending on who you ask.

Ian was going to find out sooner or later, and PJ’d wanted Mickey to tell him. He figured he might as well bite the bullet.

And in the end, it’s really pretty funny how Ian’s eyes go all wide.

“Of-fucking-course,” he says, sounding exasperated but smiling through it. “How’d I not know that?”

Mickey shrugs and looks away, going to wipe down his table and tools even though he isn’t yet even finished with the Volvo. Ian keeps talking.

“Okay, but like, he looks like you. Sort of. I should’ve known the moment I saw him.”

“He doesn’t look like me.”

“He does.”

He actually doesn’t. Not in a way that most people would notice, at least. He looks like Mickey’s mom more than anybody else, with her straight nose and full lips, and she hasn’t been around since the Milkovich kids were in elementary school.

Mickey has similar looks, but everything somehow appears different on Aleks’s face, that nose and those lips mixing with PJ’s softer features and upturned eyes and making the kid look uniquely himself and passably a biological Curran if you squint.

Ian doesn’t back down, though. He proceeds to list every single thing about Aleks he should’ve recognized and ends with, “Damn. Should’ve known he was your son.”

Mickey stops him. “He ain’t really my kid, so. Don’t be like, talkin’ about it like that.”

The redhead’s face softens, like something’s just dawned on him. His mouth goes slack. “Got it,” he says. “Does he know?”

“Think I’d tell you some deep, dark family secret?”

“I dunno.”

“He knows.” Mickey blows out a breath. “As of like, two years ago. Still kinda fresh.”

“Did you know?”

He probably shouldn’t have told Ian after all. He hates talking about this shit.

“Yeah,” he says with a frustrated sigh. “I knew.”

Ian nods, and Mickey can tell he’s dying to ask a million questions. He appreciates that he doesn’t, even if it physically pains him, the tips of his ears going red and his mouth opening and closing.

In the end, he seems to settle on, “How often do you see him?”

“It ain’t like that, man,” Mickey’s quick to say. “Ain’t like a custody thing or a father-son thing. I see him when PJ brings him around. Looked out for him at a concert last month. That’s pretty much it.”

That really gets Ian’s gears turning. He rocks back and forth on his toes with the need to ask questions. Mickey’s almost impressed with how he manages to keep it together.

He does eventually allow himself one question, and it’s an easy one to answer but a hard one to explain, so Mickey doesn’t.

“I’m guessing Lawyer Mark doesn’t like you seeing him?” Ian asks.

“Lawyer Mark can go fuck himself.”

He’s probably getting the wrong idea about the whole situation. He’s probably thinking Mark stole him or that there’s some big, dramatic way he was conceived and ultimately made a Curran. He’s probably imagining PJ pretending he was Mark’s for fourteen years and it all being a scandal that shook the River Oak elite.

Nah. Mickey isn’t actually sure how many people even know the story anymore. Obviously, everybody knew back in 2005--Mickey’s family, PJ’s family, Mark’s family, everybody at their church, all the people they told. But it’s been sixteen years. People forget that shit, and the ones who haven’t forgotten are too full of Southern Manners to mention it. All the scandalized old biddies have died or moved to Florida. Aleks has been Aleksandr Flynn Curran since before he could walk, and that’s all there is to it.

“Now don’t go tellin’ your teacher buddies at LeHigh,” Mickey adds, just in case. “I’m sure some of ‘em already know, but he don’t need nobody to look down on him for somethin’ that ain’t his fault.”

“Of course not.” Ian mimics zipping his lips. “Secret’s safe with me.”

Mickey trusts him. Ian Gallagher was a good kid back in the day--the kind that always did his work and believed in things like proper conduct and values. He grew up to be a teacher, and despite the experiences he’s had in his own past, Mickey thinks he might just be a good one.

He nods in response and, satisfied with the conversation’s end, peers out the garage door toward the Jeep.

“What’s the matter with it?”

“Just needed an oil change.”

“That it?” He holds out his hand for the keys. “I’ll drop it off when I’m done.”

Ian takes a step backward. “You don’t gotta do it like, now. I was just--”

“Hand ‘em over.”

With a breathy laugh, Ian digs in his pocket, pulls out the keys with that gay-ass keychain, and sets them in Mickey’s palm.

---

The first time he had possession of Ian’s vehicle, he’d been too jacked up with nerves to do anything other than get the job done and drive it back to the Gallagher house.

This time, however, after he’s done with the Volvo and is now sitting in the front seat of the Jeep, preparing to drive it into the garage, he takes a minute to look around.

The tidiness is average. There are no food crumbs, but there are fast food receipts and the cup for some kind of McDonald’s coffee drink in the holder, caramel around the rim. In the passenger’s floorboard are a pair of dirty tennis shoes. Mickey picks up a folded paper in the seat beside him, but he only looks at it for a second before feeling like a piece of shit for snooping. That second is long enough for him to catch that it’s a visit record from that new doctor’s office in town, and his eyes linger on a result of NEGATIVE for an HIV test until he has to drop the paper.

Ian must fuck a lot of dudes if he’s worried about that shit. Mickey blows out a breath through pursed lips and cranks the Jeep.

Mickey drops off the Jeep with as little fanfare as there was the first time. He pulls up, honks a few times, and waits while Ian walks out to him.

“How much do I owe ya?”

The man makes a thinking face. “35.”

“That’s kinda cheap,” Ian says, incredulous.

Mickey shrugs. “Discount.”

“For what?”

“Bein’ nice to Aleks.”

Ian smiles, and well. Okay. He nods and makes a grab for his wallet.

---
---

At school the next day, the kid in question shows up wearing a black T-shirt with the image of a skeleton holding up two middle fingers embroidered on the pocket. Obviously, he gets sent to the office, Todd catching him as he crosses the English hall on his way to 1st period, and he shows back up before the 8 AM bell’s even rung with a piece of masking tape over the image. CENSORED is written across the tape in all caps, Aleks clearly having some fun with it.

Ian smiles to himself when he heads back into his room after the bell and takes out his phone.

He probably shouldn’t, but he can’t resist, the thought of having this tangible connection with Mickey like crack.

------------------------

Ian (8:02 AM): Aleks wore a shirt today with a skeleton holding up the double bird.

------------------------

Mickey’s slow to reply, and Ian would be lying if he said he wasn’t distracted his entire prep period, checking his phone every five minutes in case he somehow missed the text alert.

Finally, with ten minutes left until class change, he receives a response.

------------------------

Mickey (9:14 AM): So

------------------------

Ian leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. Why does he keep embarrassing himself? More to the point: why would Mickey give a fuck?

He takes a deep breath and tries to play it off.

------------------------

Ian (9:16 AM): It was funny

Ian (9:16 AM): This is Ian btw

Mickey (9:17 AM): Obviously

------------------------

Great. Ian puts his phone in his pocket and gets up to get his shit ready for American Lit.

---

At the end of the day, Aleks drops by, doing the shave-and-a-haircut knock on the open door before sauntering in. At some point, he’d removed the tape, and his little skeleton buddy is there in all its glory.

“Hey,” he greets, and Ian nods at him, pausing his grading and setting his pen down on a stack of essays.

“What’s up?”

Aleks huffs like he’s both annoyed and amused and unhooks his mask from one ear. He makes a beeline for Ian’s candy basket and grabs a mini Kit-Kat.

“Did you seriously tattle to Mickey about my shirt?” he asks, sitting down in the front student desk and tearing open the Kit-Kat. “I didn’t even get in trouble. They just made me put tape over it.”

Ian makes a face. “Sorry.”

Aleks blows a raspberry at him.

“In my defense, I thought it was funny. I thought he’d get a kick out of it, too.”

“He told my mom. She’s gonna be checking my shirts every morning for a month.”

Goofy kid. Ian rolls his eyes. “You know you can’t wear that to school.”

“That’s stupid.”

“What if I showed up wearing that shirt?”

The boy smiles at that, and Mickey may not think he looks like him, but Ian sees it plain as day. A happier version of him, for sure--one that feels freer to smile--but him all the same.

“I think you’d be a badass,” Aleks says, cramming the Kit-Kat in his mouth with no regard for the two individual sticks.

Ian snorts. “I think I’d get fired. Stop wearing that stuff to school.”

“Whatever.”

The kid chews and swallows the Kit-Kat and then takes out his phone like he’s settling in to hang out. Ian shrugs and goes back to his grading.

After a few minutes of vaguely TikTok-related noises, Aleks says, “You know, don’t you.”

Ian sets down his pen again and looks up. He presses his lips together for a moment before deciding to play dumb. “I dunno,” he says. “Know what?”

“Stop playin’ dumb.”

Fine. Ian gives it a moment, but eventually, he nods. “Yeah. Mickey told me yesterday.”

“You can’t tattle on me to him. He can’t do anything but tell my mom.”

“Cool it, bud. I’m definitely not planning on tattling to him or anybody else about you unless I have to.”

Aleks stares at him.

“I already told you: today was just because I wanted to make Mickey laugh.”

“Fine. Don’t do it again.”

Ian rolls his eyes at him and holds out his hand. “Gimme one of those Kit-Kats.”

They each eat a Kit-Kat, Aleks’s second, and when they’re done, the boy asks, “So does this mean I get special treatment? Since you’re apparently best friends with my sperm donor?”

Ian wrinkles his nose at that term. “Uhh, no?”

Aleks makes a farting noise with his tongue and gives him a thumbs down.

“One special treatment thing: did you check your email? I sent you a poll about a Helping Hands trip.”

“Eew. I’d rather be shot.”

“Aleks.”

“Why would I wanna spend a weekend with a buncha nerds?”

“Oh, c’mon.” Ian smiles. “Did you read the PDF I linked? It actually looks kinda fun. And it’s in Atlanta.”

“I’ve been to Atlanta a thousand times.”

Of course he has. Ian huffs but doesn’t push further. He’s a privileged kid, and a two-night stay in the city isn’t a big thing for him.

“Alright,” he says instead. “Keep it in mind, though. I’ll save you a spot for the rest of the month, but after that, I’ll open it up to someone else.”

Aleks shrugs. “Whatever.”

---

Why did you rat him out?? Ian types after the kid eventually takes his leave, calling out that his mom’s there to pick him up and grabbing a handful of candy on his way.

He deletes it before he sends it. No need to embarrass himself further. Plus, he doesn’t want Mickey to think he’s annoying.

He pockets his phone, finishes up his grading so he doesn’t have to deal with it Sunday night, and packs his things to go.

---

He does wonder about the situation between Mickey and Aleks. Obviously, Aleks was an oops-baby, his birth and PJ’s wedding to Mark both occurring between late 2004 and late 2005, depending on the kid’s birthdate.

So, Mickey and PJ were together, PJ got pregnant, and then what? Did PJ think he was Mark’s? Was there all the messy drama of a DNA test? Did PJ and Mickey know he was Mickey’s but just mutually agreed to let Mark put his name on the birth certificate? Did Mark adopt him at some point after he and PJ were married, Mickey signing away his rights?

Ian didn’t want to ask Aleks for details, as it’s probably a touchy subject, and Mickey hadn’t wanted to talk about it the night before. Maybe one day.

If not, that’s okay. It’s none of Ian’s business. All that matters is that the kid got here somehow, and he has Mickey’s smile.

---
---

The sky is black when Ian pulls into his driveway at five, and by the time he’s making his way into the house with his hands full of grocery bags, fat raindrops are falling, their splatters heavy and loud on the leaves of the trees above him.

He checks the weather app once he’s inside. There’s a severe thunderstorm warning and an alert about heavy rain, high winds, and the possibility of downed power lines. Wonderful.

The thought of being all alone in the house during a storm makes him woozy, and he feels like a small child again, afraid of thunder and the dark and wanting someone to look after him.

He turns on the TV in the living room and some music in the kitchen to distract him while he puts away groceries, and once he’s done, he smokes a cigarette with the back door cracked and calls Lip.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction--is him reaching out for connection--and it’s a mistake. Lip grills him about his doctor’s appointment earlier in the week, and it feels like an interrogation to the point that he ends up changing the subject to the upcoming storm and tells his brother he needs to get off the phone before it rolls in.

He makes himself some dinner while the rain pours and eats it in front of Jeopardy just as the wind starts up, causing the rain to pelt against the windows loud enough that he gets up to check whether it’s actually hail. Then the thunder and lightning roll in.

By seven, the rabbit ears have lost their signal, and Ian shuts off the TV, washes the dishes, and sits down with a book and a cup of coffee.

He’s halfway through Chapter 1 when, after a series of flickers, the lights fluttering like a palpitating heart, the power goes out. He’s cast in darkness.

It’s black everywhere--inside and out, dusk nearly as dark as midnight with the storm and the clouds. Hurriedly, Ian grabs for his phone and turns on the flashlight.

With no power, he has no Internet and therefore no way of making calls. His battery’s at 27%, and stupid him, even with the weather app warning, he hadn’t thought to charge it.

He flips it on its front and sets it on the coffee table, letting the flashlight cast a blue-white glow over the room.

This is great. Perfect. He pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them.

---

Eventually, after ten or so minutes of sitting in the dark and worrying about a thousand things at once, he gets up, grabs his phone, and goes searching for a flashlight. The only one he finds is missing a D battery, so he switches tactics and hunts down every candle in the house.

There aren’t any very useful for light, all of them heavily scented and from places like Bath and Body Works and Yankee Candle, most left over from the initial home staging earlier in the year. He lights them all anyway, scattering them around the living room, and lies on the couch with a blanket listening to the storm wind down.

It’s haunting, the wind howling and the residual rumbles of thunder like something from a horror movie. He closes his eyes once he sees gray spots in the air above him, imagining the nothingness to be demons. Ghosts, maybe. He wonders if Frank ever visits there from Hell, coming back to check the fridge for one last can of beer.

It’s a dumb, childish thought, yet it sticks in the back of Ian’s mind, making his skin crawl. He gets chills despite the humidity, the lack of AC leaving it just warm enough to make him feel sticky in the span of an hour.

He gets up. Finds his cigarettes. Perches on the arm of the couch and smokes two of them to make him feel a bit more like a grown-ass adult and not a six-year-old afraid of the dark.

---

Power outages are notoriously long events for those living on Wallace, the lower Southdown lines seemingly of least importance. Ian’d hoped the times would’ve changed things, the local power company quick to head out to the poles once the storm’s over, but he should’ve known better. It took three weeks for him to get Internet, after all, and even after all this time, Wallace is still a dead zone in the cell signal department.

Ian wonders if anyone’s called to report the outage. That’d be fucking great, Mickey doing his own thing and Ian doing his and the power company not even knowing they’re in the dark.

He knows he should be patient. It’s been off for just over an hour now, and it’s 8:30. It’s Greenhill. He can’t expect things to be resolved as quickly as they would’ve been when he lived in Florida.

Still, he works himself up about it like he always does, resulting to closing his eyes and doing his breathing exercises. He thinks about how much Lip would yell at him if he knew he’d barely mentioned anything about this shit to his doctor. Maybe he’ll tell the psychiatrist. Dr. Palmer would’ve only prescribed him anxiety meds, anyway, and the last thing Ian wants is another daily pill to swallow.

He smokes another cigarette.

---

The storm has mostly rolled out by nine; all that’s left is a sprinkling of rain and heavy cloud cover that mostly blocks out the moon.

His phone battery is dying. Even on Low Power Mode, it’s down to 9% primarily because of his overreliance on the flashlight, which he’d used as a security blanket for a solid hour, the candles doing nothing to allay his anxieties.

Realistically, he should go to bed and sort everything out in the morning. He’ll drive to the mailbox and call the power company. No big deal. Everything’s fine.

He gets up to go shut it all down for the night. He blows out the candles save for the one that emits the most light. He putters around in the kitchen for several minutes, taking his meds and digging around in the cabinets one last time for a battery-powered flashlight. Before he heads upstairs, he decides to go outside to pee, wanting to save the toilet water for when he really needs it.

Ian hears the low rumble of distant thunder, but the lightning seems to have stopped. He makes a grab for the doorknob and pulls it open, stepping out onto the porch.

And with zero warning, he runs smack into a warm body that makes him scream so fucking loudly it echoes in the night.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

It’s the funniest goddamn thing Mickey’s ever seen, the giant ginger asshole opening the front door so abruptly it startles even him and then proceeding to scream like a little girl in a horror movie.

Mickey doubles over, his laughter coming out in coughs while Ian swears at him viciously and punches him once on the shoulder like he can’t help himself.

“You fucking asshole! What the fuck?”

Mickey stands and presses his fist to his lips, his grin huge enough to feel unusual on his face.

“You scared of the dark, man?” he asks, still chuckling, switching on his flashlight and shining it directly in the redhead’s bloodless face.

“No. Shut the fuck up. I think I pissed myself.”

“No fucking way.”

“I almost did.”

Mickey dies laughing again. “The fuck are you doin’ out here?”

“The fuck are you doin’ out here?”

“Drove out to check the line and report the outage. Figured I’d stop by to let you know.”

That’s only partially true. The other part is that he’d wondered if his ass was dead because it was either that or he was sitting in a creepy old house in total darkness.

Ian squints but doesn’t respond, and Mickey lowers the flashlight from his face.

“You got like a flashlight or whatever? Were you sittin’ in the dark?”

“Maybe?”

Mickey stares at him until the other man finally rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. I’m out of batteries for the flashlight, my phone’s almost dead, and I don’t have a car charger.” He swallows. “And all my candles suck.”

“Fuckin’ city boy.”

“Asshole.”

Mickey lowers the flashlight enough that Ian won’t be able to see the smile on his face. He huffs a laugh. “Are you…good?”

“I’m fine. I was going to bed.”

“At 9:00.”

“Maybe I’m tired.”

“Well, here.” Mickey holds out the flashlight. “Take this so you don’t fall down the stairs and kill yourself.”

“No. You’ll need it.”

“I don’t need it. I have a generator, so I got power.”

“I can just drive into town to get one.”

Mickey shakes the flashlight. “Take it. Stop bein’ annoying.”

Ian does. He holds it awkwardly in his hand for a moment before glancing back inside the house, the open door like a gaping mouth and the interior as dark as the bottom of a well.

“How long does it usually take for the power to come back on?”

He sounds strangely nervous, and Mickey’s initial thought is to joke around with him about it, asking him again if he’s afraid of the dark. But then he remembers the fact that Ian always turns on every light in the house, and he wonders if maybe he actually is.

He shrugs. “Prob’ly not ‘til tomorrow. Depends how widespread the outages are.”

“Oh.”

“You sure you’re good?”

“Fuck off. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Ian shines the light directly in his face, and Mickey turns to the side so as to not be blinded by it.

Maybe he is, anyway. Maybe the light goes in his ear and fries a few of his brain cells because somehow, he finds himself saying, “You can come over if you want. Like I said, I got power, so.”

He thinks he might throw up as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

The light beam wobbles like Ian’s nearly dropped the flashlight, and Mickey’s mortified. He runs his hand over his face as if to wipe away the flush and considers leaving.

He doesn’t get a chance. Ian makes a soft noise and shifts back and forth on his feet. “Really?”

“No, I’m joking.”

The redhead smiles, the flashlight casting his face in a yellow glow. “Um.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows.

“If you don’t care, I guess. I don’t wanna bug you.”

“Don’t be stupid. Go get your shit.”

“Um. Yeah.” Ian’s voice goes oddly breathy. “Okay.”

He’s awkward as hell in a way that makes Mickey’s chest go warm. He doesn’t invite him inside, and Mickey knows it’s more out of forgetting than a personal choice.

While he waits, he pulls out a cigarette and lights up, standing in the pitch black dark, the insane heat and humidity making him sweat, while Ian wanders around the Gallagher house with the flashlight.

He returns a few minutes later wearing tan flip-flops and carrying a gay-ass totebag, and Mickey doesn’t say anything--just takes the flashlight from him and leads him out to the truck.

---

He truly has lost his fucking mind. Ian sits quietly in the seat beside him while Mickey tries to control his breathing.

He’s willingly inviting a dude over to his house. He asked Ian if he wanted to come over, and now he’s going to be sitting in his living room with him for hours. If PJ ever finds out about this, she’ll never let him live it down.

Mickey hadn’t necessarily meant for Ian to spend the night. He hadn’t not meant it, either. Really, he hadn’t thought about the specifics of the question he asked. But as Ian had climbed into the truck, Mickey’d spied what looked like a pair of track pants peeking out of his tote bag.

He assumes that when he’d said go get your shit, Ian’d interpreted it to mean for him to pack for an overnight stay, and well. Fine.

Fuck. Mickey grips the steering wheel until his knuckles feel tight and watches the rutted road as he curves around toward his house.

---

Three years ago, he’d invested in an expensive automatic generator because of his farm and garage. It was a seven thousand dollar purchase, and it’d stung, but he hasn’t regretted it a moment since, Wallace’s outages numerous during storm season and outright guaranteed in the rare event that they get a big snow.

Ian looks almost relieved when they park and climb out, the glow from the living room lamp visible through the window.

He hadn’t turned on every light--just a couple lamps. He doesn’t give a fuck about having TV or Internet; mostly, as far as personal matters are concerned, he just uses the generator’s power for the fridge, microwave, and water pump.

They go inside, and as he steps over the threshold, Mickey suddenly feels unbearably nervous at the thought of Ian seeing his house.

It’s clean. He isn’t a neat freak, but he isn’t particularly messy, either. PJ had helped him decorate it around the time they’d repainted the house and shutters, so it’s got some sort of style going. The couch could look better, but he has chrome lamps and an oak coffee table and in addition to the old bird clock, some cheap artwork on the walls PJ’d got him from Hobby Lobby in Macon. There’s a rug, too, Mickey actually picked out himself from the thrift store. The previous owner clearly had a cat, as there are weird scratch marks in the blue fabric, but it’s nothing too noticeable. Plus, he’d got it for $15, and it’s big enough to rest beneath both his couch and coffee table.

He tries not to look at Ian when he waves him in, not wanting to see his reaction to his space. Despite the fact that it’s clean and decorated, it’s an old, shitty house. The walls are ugly brown paneling. The floors are scuffed from years of boots and rowdy boys. It has the same slightly musty smell it’s always had, this scent of vaguely damp carpet Mickey remembers from his childhood that won’t go away no matter how much he cleans.

“It’s nice,” Ian says anyway, and Mickey mumbles something that might be a thanks and turns to face him.

He waves toward the couch. “Make yourself at home.”

He’d meant that Ian could sit or whatever, but it also sort of sounds like he’s showing him where he can sleep. When Ian nods and goes over to set down his bag, Mickey closes his eyes and sighs.

“Thanks for this.”

He opens his eyes again. Ian’s taking off his stupid frat boy flip-flops.

“It’s nice of you.”

Mickey presses his lips together and nods. “Uhh, yeah. No problem.”

The other man smiles at him, and it’s fucking devestating and awful because of it.

Mickey’s expecting him to sit down then, but he doesn’t. He peers around the living room like he wants a tour, but Mickey ain’t doing that shit.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Ian asks abruptly, coming closer.

Mickey takes a step backward. He gestures down the hall to the left of the kitchen. “Last door on the right.”

“I can flush?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Ian holds up a be right back finger and sets off in the direction of the bathroom Mickey hopes isn’t disgusting.

Walking down the tiny hall toward Mickey’s bathroom, Ian’s struck with the same feeling he used to get when he’d go out with friends back in his 20s, the journey from the bar table to the bathroom almost surreal from his drunkenness.

He’d actually spent a bit of time in his youth imagining what it would look like on the inside of the Milkovich house, and he finds that he was pretty damn wrong--at least when it comes to the way the house looks in 2021.

It’s clean, for one, and though the furniture’s a bit mismatched, clear effort has been put into decorating and coordinating around the colors blue, black, and silver.

The hallway’s a little more dated. There are pictures in wooden frames that look like they’ve been there since the dawn of time--a bunch of old people Ian’s never seen before and that could be Terry’s parents or could be a family Terry once murdered for their house and land.

The house is tiny, so it feels awkward to linger on any photos in particular, but Ian notices before he reaches the bathroom door that not a single one includes any of the Milkovich kids.

It’s a standard bathroom. Small and a little messy but cleaner than Ian’s currently is. He shuts the door, pees, and washes his hands, the tap sputtering out air before anything comes out. After looking around for a hand towel and finding none, he wipes his hands on his jeans and then sets in to snoop.

At the sink is a red Solo cup with a blue toothbrush and a tube of Crest inside. Mickey’s hairbrush is solid black, and there’s a tin of sculpting gel by it with the lid ajar. Ian pulls open the mirror-medicine cabinet.

Basic over-the-counter drugs. For some reason three bottles of off-brand Flonase. Antacids. A plastic razor and Barbisol. A CVS prescription bottle of Xanax for someone named Hilda Tyler that expired two years ago.

Most interestingly, there’s an opened box of condoms. Ian takes it out and peeks inside. There are only three left. He puts it back.

It drives him a little insane, and it’s completely unfair. Ian fucks. Mickey’s certainly allowed to do it, too. Obviously. Only suddenly all Ian can think about is who he’s fucking. If not PJ, then what woman--probably--is sucking his dick? Maybe there are multiple women.

Ian closes the medicine cabinet and stares at himself in the mirror. He needs to stop being such a fucking loser. He and Mickey kissed two times back when they were teenagers, and there’s been a lifetime since then--a lifetime for Mickey to figure out he doesn’t like guys after all, to have a baby, and to get girlfriends and fuck buddies. He’s probably on Tinder just like Ian’s on Grindr.

Ian’s pathetic. He blows out a breath and, pushing away from the sink, reaches for the doorknob.

---

Mickey’s loitering in the kitchen, picking up various knick-knacks, spinning them in his hands, and setting them back down again.

“Hey,” he says when Ian makes his way over to him. “Wanna beer?”

Ian accepts the beer can he’s offered and opens it with a pop and a hiss. He took his meds not an hour ago, so he probably shouldn’t, but whatever. He takes a slurping sip.

They wander into the living room. Ian has a seat on the couch while Mickey sits in the armchair near the TV, which is off and certainly doing nothing to break the palpable anxious energy.

The two of them drink quietly as some residual thunder rumbles in the distance.

“So how long have you been living here on your own?” Ian asks, peering over at the other man, who, when he isn’t drinking, is staring down at his lap or at the bird clock above the TV.

“Ten years, give or take.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You surprised?”

“Sort of.” Ian pauses to collect his thoughts before continuing. “Kinda assumed you’d be the one to move out.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

He’s annoying. Mickey huffs.

“Terry got locked up. Colin fucked off in the middle of the night. Iggy ran off with some chick. Mandy moved in with her babydaddy.”

It wasn’t exactly his choice to stay there. He was just the only one left.

“Did you think about moving? Selling the farm?”

“Ain’t mine to sell. I’m just takin’ care of it ‘til…whenever.”

“But you own the garage.”

How the fuck does he know that? Mickey takes a heavy swallow of beer and lets it go. He shrugs. “Yeah.”

It was the only thing he’d really cared to get Terry to sign over to him. The farm? He tends it, and it’s something he’s good at. It brings in enough money to allow him to keep his garage afloat when the shitty location makes it hard to pull in a steady stream of customers. But he’s never been loyal to it. When he was a kid, he used to actively avoid it.

He does like working on cars, though. He likes figuring shit out, and he likes getting his hands dirty.

Ian watches him drink his beer for a moment and then asks, “So what happened with Terry?” A beat. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Hmm.” The redhead smirks. “Espionage?”

“Pssh. I wish.”

“Drugs.”

“Yeah. And not even the interesting kind. Got popped with a trunk full of pills and shit. He was put away for thirteen for possession with intent to sell.”

“Damn.”

“Whatever. Ain’t complainin’.”

They drink for a minute. Mickey pats his pocket for his slightly flattened pack of cigarettes and pulls it out. He takes out two and stands.

Ian follows him out onto the porch, and they light up. Mickey doesn’t remember Ian smoking back when they were kids, but he’s proficient at it now, savoring every drag like somebody who knows well just how good it is.

Mickey tries not to watch him, but he can’t help it, his eyes wandering away and then back, away and then back.

“What’s next for you, then?” Ian asks, and it’s so sudden that it makes Mickey’s skin jump.

“What d’you mean?”

“I dunno. You gonna stay here or eventually move? Or like, wife, kids, that kinda thing?”

“Hell no.”

“To which?”

Mickey chuffs. He lets that be a pointed non-answer because he doesn’t wanna talk about that shit. Him with a wife. Jesus Christ.

Ian, the frustrating asshole, won’t let it go. He takes a hard drag, the cherry of his cigarette flaring up bright in the darkness, and says with his voice light as if he’s talking to someone he knows much better than Mickey, “So no wife? You got a girlfriend?”

What the hell does he even say to that? It’s a fair question. Ian’s just being annoyingly friendly. Still, he can’t think of a single way to answer the question that would accomplish what he wants to accomplish--namely, to get Ian to shut up about it, to tell him no, but also to not accidentally come across as a flaming fucking homo.

“I dunno,” he says in the end, those two words the only ones coming to him. Those are incidentally the worst possible ones to use.

Ian smiles at him amusedly. “You don’t know if you have a girlfriend?”

“It’s complicated.”

“What’s her name?”

Ian’s on a roll now. Something about being brave enough to ask Mickey about Terry just opened up the floodgates, and now it’s all verbal diarrhea and friendly interrogation from here on out.

The beer he drank quickly on freshly ingested lithium might have something to do with it, too, but sue him. It’s a Friday night during a power outage, and he’s on the porch with a hot guy who invited him over to stay the night. He feels like all his blood’s gone to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

In answer to the question about his girlfriend’s name, Mickey just stares at him dumbly.

Ian narrows his eyes. “You said it was complicated.”

“So?”

“And that you don’t know whether or not you have a girlfriend.”

Instead of providing even a modicum of clarity, Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses over to the wicker furniture. He sits down and takes a pull off his cigarette.

Ian thinks he’s simply never going to answer and that this has just been one stupidly bizarre porch conversation when Mickey abruptly says, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Cool. Me neither.” Ian smiles, and he thinks he embarrasses Mickey because the other man shifts on the bench until he’s angled slightly away.

They finish up their cigarettes, and Mickey stands and says he’s going to get another beer and does Ian want one?

Ian shakes his head. “But I’ll take a coke if you have it.”

Mickey nods and returns a few minutes later with a Dr. Pepper and another can of beer. By that time, Ian’s moved to the bench across from where the other man had been sitting. Mickey hands him his Dr. Pepper and sits back down.

It’s kind of funny that Ian’d come over because Mickey had power, and now they’re just sitting on the porch in the dark, anyway. He opens his drink and takes a sip. It feels gross out, the storm’s exit leaving behind the wet kind of heat that makes you feel sweaty inside of five minutes.

Still, it’s relaxing. And maybe it’s the buzz, but the oppressive post-storm heat feels a bit like a warm hug.

“So, hey,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his own pack of cigarettes. Mickey holds out his hand immediately, and Ian gives him one. They light up and smoke for twenty seconds before he bothers to finish his train of thought.

“You ratted out Aleks,” he finally continues. “He was pissed at me.”

Mickey snorts and says fondly, “He’s an idiot.”

“He’s funny.”

“Yeah. And PJ wasn’t mad, anyways. She gets him. He’s fine.”

“I think she’s kinda cool, y’know.” Ian takes a slow drag and blows the smoke out toward the porch ceiling. “She’s different than she was in high school.”

“Nah, man. She’s exactly the same.”

“So why’d you two break up? You clearly love each other.”

Mickey makes a farting noise with his tongue that is so much like what Aleks does that Ian wonders who stole it from whom.

“Not like that,” he adds in response. “Just…y’know. You like each other.”

“Don’t mean we gotta date. She’s my friend.”

“That would be kinda complicated considering she’s married.” Ian smirks. “You sure that’s not what you meant earlier? Is the girl’s name PJ?”

“Fuck off.” Mickey chugs a quarter of his beer and burps softly. “It ain’t like that. At all.”

“Yeah, I know. I get it.”

Ian lets the silence linger for a long moment before asking, “So did you guys just decide you were better as friends?”

“What’s with the interrogation?”

“Just talking.”

Mickey chuffs and then takes an irritated pull off his cigarette. Finally, he says, “I dunno. We just were never really like, romantic or whatever. But I liked her as a friend. Still do.”

“Then she and Mark got together?”

Ian’s trying to figure out the timeline in his head. Technically, high school juniors could’ve been born between October 2004 and September 2005, so PJ could’ve gotten pregnant anywhere from January to December 2004. He knows from her Facebook that she and Mark were married in December 2005, so presumably, they’d dated for a while before that. No matter how he calculates it, it’s a relatively brief window of time between break-up and Mark Curran--especially if a pregnancy was involved.

Mickey stares at him, and Ian gets a bit embarrassed over the fact that he’s clearly been caught doing mental math.

Nosy goof. Mickey rolls his eyes.

“Her mom made her get more involved with her church when she got pregnant, and she and Mark got together at some kinda weekend Jesus retreat.”

“Did he know she was pregnant?”

“She was skinny and hid that shit ‘til she was about to pop.” Mickey chugs the rest of his beer. “But she told him before they banged. He was decent about it.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. His parents weren’t at first, but PJ and Kimbrel were best friends, and the Currans and Watsons all knew each other real good.” He shrugged. “It worked out.”

“And when was this?”

He knows Ian’s trying desperately to figure out the timeline. The problem with the official timeline is that it makes PJ look like shit, and she doesn’t deserve that. It ain’t like he can explain to Ian that the two of them were only pretending to be together for half of their relationship.

He sighs. “It don’t really matter. She got pregnant when we were still banging, then we stopped banging and she got with Mark a few months later.”

Explaining it--even to himself and even in his own head--makes it all sound messy as fuck. But in the end, it wasn’t. It was easy as pie. Mickey, who’d never once been inside PJ without protection, somehow became a statistic--some guy you can reference in sex ed when you talk about 3% perfect use condom failure. If you take away the fake dating aspect, it was just another unplanned pregnancy with an ex situation.

Ian doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t have to be. It’s none of his business, really.

To his credit, he seems to pick up on that and goes back to drinking his Dr. Pepper.

If there’s one good thing he can say about his nosiness, it’s that he knows when he’s making someone uncomfortable. There’s something Mickey isn’t telling him, but he stops before he goes any further, choosing instead to let it rest. He drinks his Dr. Pepper.

He’d be lying if he said the we just were never really like, romantic or whatever didn’t send a surge of the most unbearable amount of hope through his body. It’s Gay 101--dating a girl in high school but not feeling the romance--and throwing in the fact that Mickey somehow not only maintained a relationship with her for 17 years but lets her hug him around the neck the way she does is also wildly Gay Man and Woman Who Knows He’s Gay, and Ian feels like his rib cage might explode.

Still, he makes himself chill because the last thing he wants is for Mickey to get pissed at him for not knowing when to shut up.

They finish their drinks and cigarettes, and the other man stands. Ian gets up, too, and follows him back inside.

“I get up at six, so I’m prob’ly gonna hit the sack,” Mickey mumbles, wandering over to the kitchen and beginning to putter about distractedly. “I’ll get you a blanket and pillow.”

With an expression of determined purpose, he disappears down the hall and returns two minutes later with a pillow in a blue case and a folded flannel blanket that makes Ian sweat just imagining having it over him.

He thanks him and goes to set up the couch for the night.

“I don’t usually use the TV during outages, but you can try it if you want.” Mickey nods toward the kitchen. “There’s drinks in the fridge. If you’re gonna smoke, go out on the porch.”

“Got it.” Ian smiles at him reassuringly. He can tell Mickey’s feeling awkward about having him over. He reaches down to pull a book from his tote. “Prob’ly just gonna read for a bit, and then I’ll konk out, too.”

Mickey presses his lips together and scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. Sounds good.” He shifts his feet against the floor as if he’s thinking of a cool way to end the conversation. Ultimately, he apparently just lands on, “So, uh, yeah. Night. Holler if you set the house on fire or whatever.”

“Will do.” Ian grins. “Night, Mickey.”

---

Maybe he’s a bit of a creep, but he listens carefully to the noises of Mickey down the hall. His bedroom must be the one directly across from the bathroom.

There’s the pitter-patter of feet crossing between that room and the bathroom a couple times. The bathroom door closes. Ian hears the muffled sound of him peeing, flushing, then using the sink for a few minutes.

When he’s done, Mickey leaves the bathroom, and Ian hears the bedroom door close after he goes inside it.

He settles down on the couch, lying lengthwise with his head on the pillow, and takes out his book. He tries to read, but after ten or so minutes of going over the same couple of paragraphs, he gives up and sets it on the coffee table. He changes out of his jeans, pulling on a pair of track pants, cuts off the lamp, and lies back down.

It’s dark in the room, but the fridge rumbles, and the incorrect time on the microwave in the kitchen flashes where the power had cut completely before the generator kicked in. The bird clock above the TV ticks the seconds away.

For a place that once housed a piece of shit like Terry Milkovich, it feels strangely lighter than the Gallagher house at night. Ian lies completely exposed, the flannel blanket bunched at his feet, and for the first time in a while, he doesn’t feel afraid.

The creak of a mattress down the hall helps, Mickey shifting around to get comfortable. Ian imagines Mickey spending ten years worth of nights like this--in this quiet little house out in the middle of nowhere. He wonders if he sometimes gets scared of the dark, too.

After a fitful sleep in which Mickey listened to the quiet noises made by the man down the hall, he wakes at 5:50 and gets dressed. He hangs out in his room for fifteen minutes after that, stalling before he has to figure out what to do about the guy on his couch.

At 6:10, he opens the bedroom door and about gets the shit scared out of him when he finds Ian hanging out awkwardly at the end of the hallway like he’s been stalling, himself.

“Fuck,” Mickey swears. “You look like one of those little girls from The Shining.”

“Nah,” the redhead says with the smirk. “Less blood. And their dresses were prettier.”

Mickey chuffs in response and yawns.

“Anyway,” Ian adds. “Sorry. I was gonna go pee and then head out. It’s after six, so I’m guessing the ghosts have all gone back to their graves by now.”

“Uh, yeah. Prob’ly.” Mickey scratches at the back of his neck. “Knock yourself out. Nuke a Pop-Tart before you leave.”

The other man smiles. It’s just as awful as it was the night before, if not worse, his eyes crinkled at the corners and puffy with sleep.

For some reason, the only thing Mickey can think is, I’ve kissed you. He swallows. Changes his approach.

“Or I can do it,” he says. “Strawberry or Brown Sugar Cinnamon?”

Ian’s smile goes away, but it turns into something else, and his eyes go soft with it. “Strawberry,” he says. “Obviously. It’s the best one.”

Mickey nods, and the corners of his mouth hurt from trying to keep his lips straight. He scoots past Ian in the hall and makes his way to the kitchen.

---

He really hates himself.

He takes out two packs of Strawberry Pop-Tarts, puts the pastries on a paper plate, and microwaves them for 10 seconds because he likes them better nuked than toasted, the outsides going all soft and the insides hot enough to burn your tongue.

He sets them on the counter to let them cool and on a whim, decides to dig around in his bottom cabinets to look for the old coffee maker. He finds it crammed in the back, and he thinks he has a can of Folgers somewhere. He’s got it in his arms and is about to start setting it up on the counter when he realizes he doesn’t have any filters. He puts it back.

He’s just closing the cabinet door again when Ian comes in from the hallway. He’s put his jeans back on and has washed his face, the edges of his hair wet. Mickey almost tells him he can take a shower if he wants, but he immediately decides against it and instead, grabs the two of them beers from the fridge.

Ian stares at the can Mickey holds out to him. “You got any milk? Or juice?”

Fuck. Mickey puts the beer back and takes out the jug of Sunny-D, instead.

He sets down the jug and hands Ian a plastic cup, and while the other man pours himself some juice, Mickey takes his own two Pop-Tarts from the plate and transfers them to a paper towel. He slides the plate over to Ian.

“Thank you,” the redhead says, screwing back on the Sunny-D lid. He takes a sip and then picks up one of the Pop-Tarts. “And thanks again for letting me crash. I’m…not the best with the dark, to be honest.”

He looks sheepish like he’s expecting Mickey to make fun of him for it. And maybe he isn’t wrong. It’s something Mickey would do. This time, though, he doesn’t. He simply mumbles, “No problem,” and takes a bite of Pop-Tart.

“Should be back on today,” he adds with his mouth full.

Ian holds up his cup in a toast.

It’s sweet as hell of Mickey to make him Pop-Tarts. Ian eats them while they talk about the shitty power company, and he finishes them off by chugging down his cup of Sunny-D.

Afterward, he cleans up his bed area, folds the blanket, and stacks the pillow on top of it.

“Where d’you want these?” he asks, and Mickey tells him to leave them. He’ll put them back in his bedroom closet later.

Part of him wants to push because he’s frankly a little desperate to see the inside of Mickey’s bedroom--just to get a glimpse of where he keeps all his little personal things--but he doesn’t. He thanks the other man again and grabs his tote bag.

Mickey offers to give him a ride, but he doesn’t want to bug him. He has a whole farm to take care of that morning. He waves goodbye, thanks him yet again, and heads home on foot.

---

The house is a thousand degrees, and after just twelve hours with no air conditioning, it already smells musty the way it did when Ian first moved in. The humidity’s a little better than it was the night before, so he opens all the windows to let out some of the stagnant air. Afterward, he takes his meds, grabs his wallet and keys, and leaves in his Jeep to go get coffee and some sandwich supplies for later.

---

He does his shopping at Kroger, picking up some D batteries and a couple additional battery-powered lights--if not for this time then for next--and then stops by the in-store Starbucks.

He orders a venti dark roast and is a second away from also impulse-asking for a traveler because he’s addicted and insane, when he feels a tap to his shoulder.

It’s Mandy, just behind him in line. Her hair is in a ponytail with frizzy bits sticking up all around like she’d slept in it, but she’s wearing her bright red lipstick and a mauve tank top and leggings jogging set.

“Good to see you again,” she greets, stepping forward once he’s done and ordering a grande white chocolate mocha with extra white chocolate and a spinach, feta, and egg white wrap. After she pays, the two of them step to the side together to wait for their drinks.

They make casual small talk, discussing the storm and the fact that Wallace lost power. After only a moment of hesitation, Ian tells her he ended up staying the night at Mickey’s place because he has “the fancy generator.”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, chuckling. “Don’t I know it. I packed the kids up during the last snow storm, and we hauled ass over there. It was years ago, so there was just three of ‘em, and they were little. We about had to put Mick on suicide watch.”

Ian laughs. “No kidding.”

“But there was no way in hell I was stayin’ in a single-wide with three kids, a grumpy husband, and no power for a week. Somebody was gonna end up dead.”

“Your husband. What does he do?”

Mandy scrunches up her nose. “Depends on the day. He’s in,” she holds up air quotes, “‘construction,’ but if you ask me, he mostly just smokes weed with his buddies on the job site and hammers a couple boards together.”

“Flattering.”

She sticks out her tongue. “I love him, though.” She laughs. “Clearly. Can’t stop lettin’ him knock me up.”

“Are you having another?”

“Eventually, I’m sure. I want another boy.”

“What if your next is a girl?”

“We try again.”

Ian chuckles. His name is called, quickly followed by Mandy’s, and the two of them grab their orders together and wander side-by-side toward the exit, Ian pushing his shopping cart.

“As you can see,” Mandy says as they approach the doors, nodding down at her outfit. “I’m out jogging.”

“Oh, you are, huh?”

“It’s literally the only way I can get away from my kids for a minute. They all think I’m some olympic athlete.”

“And you want more?”

“I love them with every fiber of my being. They’re just annoying as hell.”

Ian grins and steps through the first set of doors into the area with the shopping carts. Mandy waits while he picks up his three plastic bags and puts his cart away.

And they’re about to exit the store when they run into Aleks, who’s on cart duty, pushing a row of them inside from the parking lot. He’s wearing his blue Kroger apron over black jeans and a white T-shirt, and he actually has his nametag on this time, though he’s put a red smiley face sticker over the last part of it, making his name read, AL.

“Hey, Al,” Ian greets, nodding at him.

He forgets for a moment that Aleks is Mandy’s nephew--at least biologically--and is about to introduce him to her when he notices the way she’s turned to the side and sipping her coffee as if trying to pretend she doesn’t see him.

Huh.

Aleks’s reaction to seeing Mandy is less obvious, though it’s clear he’s uncomfortable. He smiles, still, but when he talks, he does it only to Ian.

“You’re off the hook,” he says, and Ian, feeling strangely protective of him, moves around so that he’s in front of Mandy, placing her out of the kid’s immediate field of vision.

“What d’you mean?” he asks.

“My mom wasn’t mad.”

“Good. You still can’t wear that kinda shirt to school, you hooligan.”

“Try and stop me.” He makes some sort of silly face beneath his mask, his eyes and nose bridge going scrunchy, and Ian rolls his own eyes and tells him to have a good day.

He and Mandy leave the store, and he thought he might ignore it for a minute, but once they’re out on the sidewalk, the doors closed behind them, he decides he can’t.

“Sooo,” he begins, trailing off to let Mandy catch his drift.

She leans back against the building.

“Did he tell you?” she asks, her thumb scratching at her cardboard coffee sleeve.

Ian nods. “Call me psychic, but I’m sensing you and Aleks aren’t on the best terms.”

“Aleks is fine.” She chuffs. “I just hate his mother, and he knows it. It’s this whole big thing.”

“Why do you hate her?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Mandy snorts.

“Um.”

“Oooh, Mickey didn’t tell you, tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

She sighs loudly and pushes away from the building, beginning her walk toward her car. Ian follows.

“What?” he repeats.

“It’s nothing,” she finally says, shaking her head. “It’s water under the bridge, and I’m just a bitter old bitch about it.”

“Mandy.”

“Look.” She stops walking. “Don’t tell him I told you. He gets pissed every time I bring it up. But PJ’s a fucking skanky-ass slut who cheated on him for over half a year while she was carrying his baby, then once the baby was born, she hardly ever brought him over. Her and Mark just played happy family with him until they eventually convinced Mickey to give up his rights so Mark could adopt him once they got married.”

The anger within her--even after 17 years--is visible, her face going red and her eyes shining.

“I haven’t talked to Miss PJ Watson in years,” she continues, “and I don’t ever plan on it.”

Ian swallows heavily. “But she and Mickey are like, best friends.”

“Yeah, ‘cause Mickey’s a pussy. I’m pissed at him, too, when I think about it.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause he basically just bent over and let Mark Curran fuck him. Like, what kinda dad gives up his kid like that? I woulda helped him. I loved Aleks.”

Mandy’s getting worked up, and it’s almost amazing to see. She and Ian were never even remotely close as kids; they barely know each other at all, now. And here she is spilling her guts to him. He takes out a cigarette for himself and offers her one, which she takes without even a thank you, pressing it between her lips and getting out her own lighter.

Her car--a blue, older model Nissan Rogue--is nearby, so they walk to it. Mandy leans against it as she smokes.

“Don’t tell him I told you,” she repeats, looking suddenly apologetic.

“I won’t.”

“And I’m sorry I acted like a bitch when we ran into Aleks. Poor kid. I swear, I have zero ill-will towards him, Ian. He’s my blood, and I’ll care about him forever even if I never get to know him.”

Ian nods. He gets it. He’s extremely confused about the whole Mickey-PJ-Mark situation, but he understands Mandy’s feelings.

He takes a drag off his cigarette. Sniffs. “Do you think Mickey could have Aleks over? Just the two of them? Or bring him to Beck’s? Maybe you could--”

“I’m not dealin’ with it, Ian. I know it sounds shitty of me, but I’m not puttin’ in that kinda effort and gettin’ roped into that.” She smokes tiredly. “The situation’s so fucking complicated, it’s like fucking Maury. It’s a buncha rich assholes, and yet it’s somehow the most redneck shit you ever heard.”

She flutters her lips and looks up at the sky, regret settling in over her features. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m on my period. Ignore me.”

Ian laughs. “It’s fine.”

“Like, we barely even know each other, and here I go, tellin’ you all the family drama.”

“It’s my fault for asking.”

Mandy smiles, and she looks exhausted but beautiful. “Hey,” she says. “Come to Beck’s sometime when I’m on shift. I’ll give you free food.”

“For what?”

“For not callin’ me a psycho bitch for goin’ off like that.”

“Look.” Ian huffs a laugh. “You’ve got four kids, a grumpy husband, and you’re an olympic runner. I’ll cut ya some slack.”

“Lucky me.” She looks down at his wrist, and after a moment, says, “You’re gay, huh?”

It’s so unlike any way Ian’s ever been asked that question that it almost makes him sputter.

“Um. Yeah?” he manages, feeling nervous all of a sudden.

But in the end, he doesn’t need to worry. Mandy just smiles at him.

“What?” he asks.

She sighs. “Just glad I don’t have to worry about you trying to sleep with me.”

He does sputter at that, and she laughs and reaches into her purse for her keys. “Later, Ian.”

The power comes back on just before lunch, when Mickey’s chugging down a beer to quench his thirst after spending the morning out in the pastures. He bets Ian’s glad. He takes out his phone and stares at it. Considers.

Nope. He puts it back.

He nukes himself a rigatoni microwave meal and eats it out on the porch with a second beer, then smokes a cigarette or two while he putters around outside, getting done some general tasks: refilling the bird feeders, spraying off mud from the storm that had splattered up on the side of the house and garage. Thinking what the hell, he drives his truck closer to the hose, grabs a bucket, brush, sponge, and car washing liquid, and gives it a thorough scrub down.

He’s keeping himself busy to keep his mind off shit. He knows this. He thinks he might need to get on Tinder again, only he really doesn’t want to.

When he’s done, he sits on the porch steps and has another cigarette.

He brings up his texts.

------------------------

Mickey (1:03 PM): Hey, can you meet

------------------------

---

They sit in his truck in the McDonald’s parking lot with M&M McFlurries. PJ props her feet up on his dash and puts country on the radio, and it’s like old times. It’s like during those months of their farce, when they’d park there under the tree, PJ pregnant and burning up, and eat chicken nugget meals.

She’d taken his hand once and placed it on her belly, the baby’s kick a little thump against his palm that made him smile as much as it terrified him.

“So what’re we naming him?” she’d asked, keeping his hand there and using it to rub at the spot as if soothing it away.

Mickey’d chuckled. “I dunno. Chicken Nugget.”

“Aww. Our little Chicken Nugget.”

“Chicken Nugget Watson.”

PJ’d shoved him. “Chicken Nugget Aleksandr Milkovich. You think I’m letting you get away with having that gorgeous name and not passing part of it down to our baby? Heck no.”

Mickey’d been really happy that day. It was one of those moments in which it felt like everything was going to work out. It was a moment in which he let himself think about having a little boy--one he hadn’t meant to help create but that he wanted, anyway.

The baby had kicked again, and PJ, still holding his palm on her stomach, dragged it around to catch the next one. Mickey felt it against the heel of his hand, and it felt like his heart had been kicked, instead.

“‘Sup, Nugget,” he’d murmured, and PJ had started crying because she was an emotional mess. Mickey had kissed her head because he loved her.

She’s a hell of a lot less endearing today, as the first thing she asks once they’re situated in the truck is, “Did you have sex with Ian?”

Mickey chokes on a mini-M&M, fully inhaling it until he has to lean over and cough it back up into his mouth.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck,” he sputters, reaching over and shoving at her until she lets herself topple over against the door, laughing. “I fucking hate you.”

“Shut up. You do not. Tell me what happened.”

“How do you know anything happened?”

“Oooh, so something happened?”

“Nothing fuckin’ happened.”

“Oh my gosh, Mickey. If you don’t tell me about how you had sex with Ian last night, I’m going to die.”

“Will you shut the fuck up?”

“Will you tell me your fucking story already?”

Mickey has to pause to absorb the fact that she just said fucking, and it’s enough of a distraction that she’s able to get the upper hand, laughing knowingly in a way that makes him regret ever texting her.

“Okay, okay, okay,” she says. “Tell me about your future boyfriend that you didn’t have sex with last night.”

Because he knows she’ll just flip it around again if he does, rather than counter any part of that sentence, he just says, “Whatever. He spent the night last night. Platonically.”

“What?”

“We had a power outage. He’s afraid of the dark.”

PJ looks like her head’s going to rocket launch off her shoulders. “First of all,” she says, “that’s adorable. Second of all, how?”

“I went over to tell him I’d called the power company, and I dunno. It just slipped out.”

“You asked him to spend the night?”

“I told him he could come over if he wanted, since I have the generator, and he did.”

“Did you actually have sex with him?”

“No! Jesus fuck. We had some drinks and hung out for like an hour and a half, then I went to bed and he stayed in the living room.”

She smacks his shoulder once, then again, harder, and Mickey calls her a bitch.

“I’m so proud of you!” she cheers, and it feels annoyingly infantilizing, like he’s a kid that just pissed on the toilet for the first time.

“You’re annoying. There’s nothin’ to be proud of.”

“There’s so much to be proud of. When are you doing it again?”

“Uhhh, never?”

“Do I need to get Nugget to tamper with the power lines?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Mickey.”

“Oh my God. Why do I tell you shit?”

“Because you love me and because you want my advice.”

“I don’t want your advice.”

“Yes, you do. Invite him to hang out again.”

“No.”

“Invite him out for dinner.”

“No. That’s even worse.”

PJ stares at him, her brows crinkled. “Mickey, I know you have a sex life. But like…how? Are you this charming with the girls on that app?”

“That app is for hook-ups and one night stands, so it’s safe to say they don’t give a fuck about my charm.”

“Is there a gay version of Tinder? What if you sign up and try to find Ian?”

“That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Have you ever had sex with a guy?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

PJ shoves him. “Well? Have you?”

“No. Shut up.”

“Have you kissed one?”

“I dunno! Jesus Christ.” He shoves a massive bite of McFlurry into his mouth in hopes that she’ll take the hint and leave him alone. It doesn’t work. Instead, she starts bouncing in the seat like a kid jacked up on sugar.

“Mickey Milkovich.”

He raises his brows at her in question.

“Who did you kiss?”

He keeps eating his McFlurry.

She gasps. “If you tell me you kissed Ian Gallagher back when you were kids and that’s the reason you’ve been harboring a decades-long crush on him, I’m throwing you out the window.”

“Harboring a what? Come again?”

“Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich.”

“Paige Josephine Curran.”

“Iiiii am gonna need details.” She sets her McFlurry in the cup holder and turns to face him, pulling her right leg up in the seat with her. “Now.”

“PJ.”

“Speak.”

He sets down his own McFlurry and grips the steering wheel with both hands, leaning forward to rest his face on them. He groans loudly and so dramatically that PJ reaches over and flicks his ear.

And then, with a sigh, he tells her.

It makes her cry, and he’s reminded of that day back then, only this time he doesn’t want to kiss her head and instead wants to affectionately push her off a cliff, he’s so embarrassed.

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says, reaching out and taking his hand. “I love you, and I love him, and I want you two to get married.”

“Are you pregnant?”

She laughs, startled. “Not unless my tubes untied themselves.”

“Gross.”

She leans over the center console and kisses his cheek. “In all seriousness, Mickey, I think this is special.”

“I think you’re nuts.”

“I think you need to ask him over for dinner.”

---

They finish their McFlurries, and Mickey gets her to change the subject. She shows him the recreation pictures she’d taken of Aleks and Bodie, and he gets her to text him the one of Aleks in the Braves hat because he looks so damn grumpy and goofy Mickey almost wants to put it on his fridge.

“Can I ask you something?” she asks while they’re finishing up. They’re in the middle of deciding whether they want to go around the drive thru again for coffee before they part ways.

Mickey sighs. “What.”

“Aleks is starting Driver’s Ed next week.”

He waits.

“Say no if you’re uncomfortable with it, but…”

“But...”

“Would you wanna maybe let him practice with you? Maybe take him out to a big parking lot somewhere? Let him drive up and down Wallace?”

Mickey bites his lip. “Why can’t you do it? Or Mark?”

PJ doesn’t answer right away. She takes a moment to peer out the windshield, taking in their surroundings, before returning her eyes to Mickey. Finally, she murmurs, “Because I think you’d be a good friend for him to have.”

Mickey sniffs. “Why?”

They’ve talked about it before. They talked about it at length when Aleks was a toddler and PJ asked if he wanted to take him out on his own sometimes--to the zoo, to the playground.

He’d said no. He’d said he’d go with PJ, that the three of them could take him to see the animals at the fair or to swing at the park behind Southdown Baptist. He wasn’t his dad, and pretending to be for a day wasn’t going to make Mickey’s situation any better. Plus, they would be sneaking around on Mark, and though Mickey didn’t give a fuck about Mark or what he had to say about anything, he was a lawyer in training from a family of lawyers. He knew how to cause trouble.

Aleks didn’t deserve to live a life in which there was any kind of trouble or controversy.

Mickey looks at her now--now, fourteen years later, when the cat’s out of the bag. Why?

“You know why,” she says. She takes a deep breath. “I love him so much, Mickey, and it would kill me if he grew into somebody who hated himself for who he is. And I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t talk to Mark about it. Aleks can’t talk to Mark. He can talk to me, but I’m his mom, y’know.”

Mickey swallows heavily. “Did he tell you he was…?”

“No, but you can’t tell me you don’t see it.”

“What am I s’posed to see?” He’s playing dumb.

PJ doesn’t buy it. She makes eyes at him and doesn’t answer his question. Instead, she takes out her phone and, while searching through her texts, says, “One of the PTO moms texted me this. Said she thought I should see it.” She hands it over to Mickey.

It’s a picture of Aleks standing at the front of his class, holding a notecard like he’s giving a presentation. A horizontal black bar crosses the middle of the picture with the word fag written in white overtop.

Mickey hands the phone back, the picture making his stomach hurt. “What the fuck is that.”

“It’s from Snapchat.”

“Who’s it from? I’ll rip off their fuckin’ head.”

“I dunno. A kid in his grade.” PJ rubs her face. “Anyway. He’s dealing with that, so. It’s no wonder he doesn’t like being called up to the board in class.”

Mickey presses his lips together, his heart in his throat. He cranks the truck, and his voice is scratchy when he forces out, “Let’s get coffee.”

---

They park again afterward, but Mickey keeps the truck running. PJ holds her McCafe like she isn’t going to drink it until the drive home.

“PJ,” he starts.

She reaches over and takes his hand.

“I know what you want me to do,” he continues. “I just… I’m not…”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to say that, y’know. I just really want him to have somebody else he can talk to--somebody with a long term investment in his life.”

Mickey sips his coffee. It’s too hot and burns on the way down.

“Think about it,” she murmurs. “And if the answer is no, that’s okay. But think about it first.”

He nods. She leans over and kisses his head again.

She's asked him if he wants to pretend.

It’s a big fucking ask, and she knows it. That alone makes Mickey feel better about it.

He’d said no back when Aleks was two because it would be torture to hold him on his hip, to carry him around to show him the animals, to sit with him in the swing and smell his hair and think about all the things he couldn’t have.

Aleks is sixteen now, and he knows how he came into the world. He knows at least some version of why things happened the way they did. Maybe this time it won’t be so much pretending as letting himself exist as who he is--50% of Aleks’s DNA and 100% of his negative personality traits and likely the reason that picture exists if shit like that is genetic.

He won’t promise PJ anything. He tells her goodbye and watches her climb out of the truck. He’ll think about it.

“Don’t forget,” she says with a smile, hand on the door and ready to close it.

“Forget what.”

“Ask Ian over for dinner.”

“Get the fuck outta here.”

She cackles as she closes the truck door, and he bites the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling because he doesn’t want to.

He’ll think about the Aleks thing. He won’t think about that.

The power had come back on around noon, and Ian had spent the first part of the afternoon cooling down the house, dumping the perishables from his fridge, and showering.

He makes himself a pot of coffee at around two, fills up his 16 oz mug, and takes his book out to the porch to try, for once, to actually get some reading done.

He manages to work his way through three chapters before he gets distracted. It’s a gorgeous day, the weather cooler after the storm. The sky is blue, and the birds are chirping. Ian leaves his book in the rocking chair and goes out for a walk.

He listens to music as he heads down to the mailbox and back, enjoying the sun and breeze. One of Mickey’s cows sticks her head over the fence on his way back, and Ian stops and gives her a pat on the head, dodging her long, slimy tongue, which lolls out in search of food.

He’s there, petting her, when someone drives up behind him. He turns. It’s Mickey, coming back from town, his windows down.

He has a baseball cap on backwards again, and it’s truly the hottest thing Ian’s ever seen. He leaves the cow and walks up to the truck, resting his elbow on the bottom of the passenger window.

“Stop messin’ with Millie,” Mickey jokes.

Ian smiles. “Millie just told me she likes me more than you, so suck it.”

Mickey flips him off. He sniffs and looks around before asking, “Whatchu doin’?”

“Just walked to the mailbox. On my way back.”

“Bet you’re glad the power’s back on.”

“Yeah. The ghosts can’t get me tonight.”

“Pfft. Chicken.”

“Bwok-bwok.”

Ian taps the truck door and steps backward.

“You good?” Mickey asks, wringing his hand around the top of the steering wheel.

“I’m good. Thanks again.”

“Yup. Go back to seducing Millie.”

“Eew. I don’t know how you talk to her, Mickey, but I was just telling her she’s a sweet girl.”

“Fuck off.” Mickey revs the truck obnoxiously. “See ya.”

“Bye, Mickey.”

Ian watches him drive away, and he doesn’t even bother keeping the grin off his face.

---

When he gets back to the house, he grabs some water from the kitchen and takes his phone out of his pocket. He opens up his text thread with Mickey and stares down at it, reading and rereading their previous exchange, as pathetic as it is.

------------------------

Ian (8:02 AM): Aleks wore a shirt today with a skeleton holding up the double bird.

Mickey (9:14 AM): So

Ian (9:16 AM): It was funny

Ian (9:16 AM): This is Ian btw

Mickey (9:17 AM): Obviously

------------------------

Jesus Christ. He’s so fucking embarrassing. He cringes at himself and puts his phone away.

---

Not two minutes later, he takes it out again.

So I was just thinking… he types, feeling his heart creep its way up into his throat.

Still, he forges on, typing out a quick message and sending it before he has a chance to back out.

------------------------

Ian (3:09 PM): So I was just thinking… I want to thank you for letting me drink your beer and eat your poptarts. I want to cook you dinner! Next Friday? Steak or chicken?

------------------------

He almost gags once it reads Delivered. He shoves his phone back in his pocket, unable to look at it again.

Holy fucking shit.

Ian does the dishes and wipes down the countertops. He cleans the downstairs toilet, scrubs the sink, and is on his way upstairs to do the same with the hall bathroom when he hears his phone chime.

He whips his phone out of his pocket and checks his text, his skin crawling and blood pounding in his ears.

------------------------

Mickey (3:34 PM): Ok

------------------------

Ian makes an embarrassing noise. He texts back at lightning speed.

------------------------

Ian (3:34 PM): Steak or chicken?

------------------------

Mickey texts back just as fast.

------------------------

Mickey (3:35 PM): Steak but don’t tell Millie

Ian (3:35 PM): I won’t! I promise! 🐮

------------------------

It isn’t a date, like, literally at all. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. He gets to hang out with Mickey again.

Ian holds on to the staircase railing because if he doesn’t, he thinks he might float away.

Chapter Text

Mickey gets the four-wheeler going on Tuesday afternoon after a day of quick and easy business at the garage gives him time to spare and enough energy to use that time productively.

It’s an early 2000s army green Polaris Sportsman he’d bought for $200 at the Whitney Flea Market. Aside from the fact that it was almost 20 years old, it had once been wrecked so spectacularly that the whole front end was bent up, and running it caused it to leak gas and smoke. Mickey’d spent the past few months putting hours of work into it when he could, treating it as his own special project. To finally get it going and looking decent feels like a success.

He fuels it up and takes it out into the pastures, speeding around the cow pies and avoiding spooking the herd. The hilly spot in the upper east pasture is fun to zoom through, and Mickey snaps his baseball cap to the back rack and rides around recklessly for a solid half hour before returning to the house.

On a whim, he decides to ride to get the mail, so he takes off down Wallace. When he passes by the Gallagher house, the four-wheeler is loud enough to bring Ian out onto his porch, and Mickey does his best not to slow down too much. Still, he can’t help but turn briefly to watch the other man lean against the railing, his navy short-sleeve button-down open a few inches like he was in the process of taking it off.

Ian waves at him, all motherfucking sunshine, and Mickey throws up a quick hand, proceeding to nearly fly off the ATV when the left wheel hits a deep rut he would’ve avoided had he been paying even a modicum of attention.

He’s sent kareening to the left, the unattended handlebar twisting and jamming into his gut, and he barely manages to grab hold of the front rack in time to keep himself from going over.

Flushing feverishly, he swears, rights himself like his life depends on it, and steers his way past, getting the fuck out of Ian’s field of vision before he has a chance to react to what he just saw.

Mickey’ll hear about that later; he’s sure of it. Maybe Ian’ll bring it up at fucking dinner on Friday, the mere thought of which makes Mickey’s brain go offline.

He has no idea what the hell he’s agreed to--whether it’s some gay thing or a perfectly platonic thank you, and the sheer uncertainty gives him hives.

When he’d received Ian’s text, that overly-cheery, I want to cook you dinner!, he’d been inexplicably angry about it for around ten minutes because how dare Ian propose that shit like it was normal for two dudes to do? Mickey briefly convinced himself he was never going to offer any assistance to Gallagher again if it was going to result in being asked over to his house on a Friday night.

But then he walked around outside like a fucking lunatic, pacing furiously with his hands rubbing over and over again at his cheeks in distress, and finally decided that if he said anything other than Ok in response, he’d hate himself for the rest of his life.

The thought of agreeing made his bones turn to jelly, but the bottom line was that he didn’t want to say no. Saying Ok to that text felt the same as nuking those Pop-Tarts Saturday morning: risky, yet both uncontrollable and inevitable.

So he’d made plans with a dude for Friday night dinner, and said dude just saw him nearly eat shit on his four-wheeler. Mickey uses his thumb to push down on the gas even harder, speeding off toward the end of the road.

He’s a pussy, so he cuts through the woods to get back to the house afterward, entering just behind the east pasture and coming in through the old rusted gate that used to be the horse path entrance back when Grandpa and Grandma Milkovich were still kicking.

After exiting the pasture, he parks the four-wheeler in the garage, closes up shop, and then heads in the house to find some dinner he can bury himself in to hide his embarrassment.

Whole lotta good that does. As soon as his phone is within range to connect to wifi, it buzzes with a text that was sent ten minutes earlier.

--------------

Ian (6:29 PM): Lol are you okay? 🤭

--------------

He chucks his phone at the couch and goes to get himself a beer.

---
---

He avoids Ian like the plague for the rest of the week.

On Friday, PJ comes over with lunch, and he drives her around on the four-wheeler for twenty minutes before they go inside to have their Beck’s chef salads at his two-seater kitchen table.

Mickey knows exactly what she’s after, and it’s nothing to do with wanting to speed through the Milkovich pastures at sixty miles an hour.

One good thing about her is that she immediately gets to the point when given a chance. After they’re seated and have their plastic salad boxes open, she fiddles with her fork before asking, “So are you ready for tonight?”

He wishes he hadn’t stopped smoking in the house. He takes a sip of his beer instead.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be ready for,” he murmurs, not looking his friend in the eye.

“You’re having dinner with Ian.”

“Not a big deal.”

“It’s dinner.”

“So?”

He’s not particularly convincing, but she lets it go for a few minutes. They open up their honey mustard containers. Mickey dumps his over his salad, but PJ daintily uses hers for dipping.

They make small talk as they eat. PJ tells him about her rich people bullshit, and Mickey makes fun of it in the sort of way that makes her laugh and concede to the fact that it’s ridiculous and petty.

And he’s just thinking he might be in the clear when she suddenly hits him with, “What if Ian kisses you tonight?”

His cheeks immediately flame up. “Oh, fuck off.”

“What if he wants to have sex?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What if he wants to give you a blowjob?”

Mickey puts his fork down and struggles to chew his mouthful of salad enough to properly argue with her.

“I fuckin’ hate you,” he settles on. “None of that shit’s gonna happen or else I wouldn’t’a agreed to it.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t wanna have sex with him.”

“No, I don’t wanna have sex with him. The fuck?”

“Mickey.”

Mickey stares PJ down until she rolls her eyes and stabs into her salad.

“You don’t fool me,” she says, voice going somber. “Like, I get it. I get you.”

“You clearly don’t get me.”

“No, I do. I just want you to know that you don’t have to pretend around me.”

Mickey presses his lips together and watches her for a long moment. He huffs. “Yeah, whatever.”

She’s right. She gets him in all the ways that matter. It’s just that she wants him to talk about boys with her like a pubescent girl, and that’s not something he does or will ever do. It has nothing to do with pretending.

“The thing with Ian tonight,” he mumbles. “There’s nothin’ to it. It’s a ‘thank you.’ He’s already said it was. It ain’t no different than me ‘n you havin’ dinner.”

“It’s a lot different.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re both…” She gestures with her fork. “Also, he’s adorable, and you’re adorable, and you two have a history.”

Mickey ignores her, mostly. He drinks his beer.

“Would you tell me?” she asks. “If you and Ian… Y’know.”

“No. ‘Cause we’re not goin’ to.”

“Fine.”

She’s unhappy with that answer, and that’s alright. He doesn’t know what she expects him to say during conversations like this, and the constant pushing grates on his nerves.

They finish up their salads and keep to themselves. But before he stands to clean up, Mickey leans back in his chair and asks, “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I want you to have romance in your life.”

“Gross.”

“I think everybody deserves to feel love and affection in that kinda way.”

Mickey scoffs and stands. “I shouldn’t’a asked.”

They clean up the table and dump their trash, then move out to the porch to smoke. PJ has to get back to the office soon, and Mickey has a tune-up at two. They don’t dawdle, just stand together near the steps and suck down a cigarette each.

“Thought any more about driving with Nugget?” PJ asks once the quiet gets to be too much.

Mickey hums. “Yeah.”

“And?”

He takes a drag. Says through a puff of smoke, “I think it’ll be weird.”

“For you or for him?”

Mickey doesn’t answer. He wanders off to find the ashtray.

“That’s okay,” PJ assures. “Like I said, no pressure.”

He busies himself with putting out his cigarette and then brings the ashtray over so the woman can do the same.

She looks at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I just… I’m not sayin’ no or whatever. I don’t wanna be an asshole about it.”

“You’re not being an asshole. Even if you say no.”

Mickey fiddles with the truck keys in his pocket for something to do with his hands. He stays quiet.

“I get it,” PJ says.

She genuinely thinks she does, and it’s one of the most annoying things about her because no matter how much Mickey protests, her boundless heart-of-gold empathy makes her think she’s capable of actually knowing what’s going on in his head.

She thinks Mickey’s worried about Aleks not liking him in a one-on-one situation. She thinks he’s worried things’ll be awkward--that he’ll be stepping into his dad role after sixteen years and is afraid he doesn’t know how to do it. She thinks he’s worried about Lawyer Mark and the legal system.

With absolutely zero ill intentions, she thinks she understands. She doesn’t.

Shitty thing is, whatever she’s making up in her head is a lot less embarrassing than the truth.

“Lemme know when you wanna start,” he says, thumbing his nose. “I can take him out to the old mall parking lot in Spencer.”

Once wouldn’t hurt. He took him to the concert, after all, and they’d done dinner and all that. It wasn’t bad.

PJ studies his face. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She comes up and wraps her arms around him. “I’ll let you know when. Text me if you change your mind.”

“Got it.”

“And good luck tonight. Lemme know how big his dick is.”

Mickey snorts and shoves her away, and she laughs and laughs. “I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

“You have to promise to tell me if you do it, though.”

“We’re not gonna bang, PJ.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Pretty sure I do.”

She swats at his face with two fingers. “Bye. Text me.”

He reaches for his pack of cigarettes and waves her off.

Whatever. Pushy bitch.

Ian spends the entire school day sweating.

He’d been cool about it up through Tuesday, but then seeing Mickey nearly wreck his four-wheeler sent such a surge of affection through his blood that he couldn’t stop himself from attaching more meaning to the dinner than needed.

It isn’t a date--not nearly--but it’s food together on a traditional date night, and Ian has a crush.

He’s glad he’d planned to show Of Mice & Men to his juniors that Friday, as he doesn’t think his nervous absentmindness would be able to handle a full day of lessons.

After work, he stops by Kroger to pick up a pack of ribeyes, two baking potatoes, and some red velvet cupcakes. Once he’s home, he wipes down the counters and kitchen table, washes the dishes in the sink, and goes upstairs to his room to change into jeans and a T-shirt.

He stares at his disheveled bed sheets. They aren’t filthy, but it’s been a couple weeks since he’s washed them.

Not that it matters. Not that he’s going to be having sex with Mickey in them.

A wave of panic consumes him, and before he can think again, he rushes to the closet and takes out a fresh set. After changing the bed, he goes to the bathroom, reapplies his deodorant, and eyes his electric trimmer.

Since officially entering the gay scene in college, he’s been a fastidious groomer, preferring to tame his chest and belly hair and then mowing down his bush a bit in order to keep him looking neat and tidy. It’s been a minute since his last grooming, and he’s getting wooly.

Not that that matters, either. He’s pretty sure a rugged Georgia country boy isn’t going to complain about untrimmed hedges. Not that Mickey would have reason to complain, anyway, as it’s not like he’s going to see Ian’s body hair or lack thereof in the first place.

With a frustrated sigh, he forces himself to leave the bathroom and goes downstairs to sip a beer and calm the fuck down.

---

It doesn’t work. He paces the kitchen and then goes outside to smoke. He wishes he could be cool about shit, but he’s always been awful at it--the one who always panicked, the one who always inadvertently gave away tricks, Lip kicking him under the table when he’d almost spoiled a lie.

It’s just not in him to be nonchalant, his emotions, whether they be nervousness or happiness, kicking into overdrive at the drop of a hat.

He’s being stupid. This is not even remotely as intimate an event as Ian sleeping over at Mickey’s house, and he did fine, then.

He puts out his third cigarette, checks his watch, and heads back inside to start dinner.

---

At five past six, Ian’s seasoning the uncooked steaks when he hears the roar of the four-wheeler coming up the driveway. Quickly, he finishes up and washes his hands, barely thinking clearly enough to turn down the radio before he makes his way to the door.

Mickey’s just hopping off the ATV when Ian steps out onto the porch.

He looks casual, which is a relief, dressed in jeans, boots, and a black T-shirt with gray heathering. To Ian’s utter delight, he has on a backwards black Marlboro cap, though he tugs it off as he approaches the porch steps, sliding his fingers through his hair afterward as if completely unaware just how good he looks with it mussed.

“‘ey,” the man greets, and Ian smiles at him.

“Hey. Thanks for coming!”

“Yep.”

They go inside, Ian ushering Mickey in ahead of him and taking a moment to compose himself.

Be cool.

When he finally follows Mickey inside, he finds him peering around the living room with a furrowed brow.

“You doin’ okay?” Ian asks.

The other man nods but doesn’t make eye contact.

“So, hey,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t bring nothin’. Like, beer or whatever.”

He sounds a bit lost and even somewhat apologetic, running his hands over his pockets as if looking for something to have fulfilled a rule of social etiquette.

It’s awkward in the sort of way that Ian can’t help but find endearing.

“It’s cool,” he replies. “You didn’t need to.”

Mickey doesn’t look convinced, but his eyebrows do unfurrow. Ian waves him into the kitchen, and after going over with him the various seating options, resumes working on the steaks.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, dropping them into an oiled pan. “How do you like your steak?”

“Mooing.”

“Ha. Same.” Ian pushes them around in the sizzling pan for a minute before using tongs to turn them over.

Mickey wanders around the kitchen in the same way he’d wandered the living room, leaning against various surfaces before finally stationing himself on one of the rickety barstools across the counter from Ian. He’s quiet.

“So the four-wheeler,” Ian starts, giving him a smirk.

“Fuck off.”

“You didn’t reply to my text.”

“What text?”

Fine. Be that way. Ian cuts two slivers of butter and drops them on the steaks.

“So when’d you get it?”

“Couple months ago at the flea market. Fixed it up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Got it for cheap. Figured I could drive it around here when I don’t need to haul shit so I don’t muddy up the truck.”

“Prob’ly pretty fun to speed around on, too. Carl had a little Kawasaki when we were kids. Remember?”

“No.”

“Frank knew a guy who stole ‘em and sold ‘em, and he just showed up with it for Carl’s like, seventh birthday. Totally out of the blue.” Ian shrugs. “It was one of those times he’d gone sober and was tryna be a good dad, I guess. Carl wrecked and broke his arm within three days.”

Mickey hums, unsurprised and probably uninterested, and it’s then that Ian realizes he should offer him a beer. He grabs two from the fridge, opens them, and hands one over.

The other man immediately brings it to his lips and takes a heavy gulp. “So what’s your brothers and sisters doin’?” he asks before going in again.

Ian flips the steaks once more while taking his own sip of beer. “Fiona manages an apartment complex. Debbie’s a welder. Lip’s a coder for this hipster tech company. Carl’s a fuckin’ cop, if you can believe it.” He pauses to allow Mickey’s snort. “And Liam’s in college on a full ride academic scholarship. Wants to be a lawyer.”

Mickey notices that Ian presses his lips together between sentences when talking about his family. It isn’t the first time he’s picked up on it; he’d noticed the same when he’d asked about them when Ian first moved back.

He decides not to push further and instead watches the other man remove the steaks from the frying pan and place them on a plate. He looks around while Ian takes out two baked potatoes that were warming in the oven.

It’s been forever since Mickey’s been in the Gallagher house, but it doesn’t look much different--maybe tidier, no kiddie toys lying around and the sink clean and clear. There’s a laminated school calendar stuck on the freezer door and a small whiteboard on which Ian’s written Psych 9/20 among other random notes, and Mickey wonders if he’s getting his head shrunk.

They’re uncomfortably quiet while Ian plates their food. He’s got the radio on some awful Best of the 80s, 90s, and Today station, and it isn’t turned up loud enough to be more than a faint mumble of Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime.”

When Ian’s done, he asks Mickey to grab the knives and forks from the counter while he carries the plates over to the kitchen table.

He sets the plates across from each other, which feels too awkwardly like a date, but Mickey sure as hell isn’t going to comment on it for fear of drawing attention. Instead, he places a knife and fork beside each, waits while Ian returns to the counter to grab A1, ketchup, and a handful of napkins, and then sits down.

---

The other man absolutely drowns his steak in A1, which is fucking sacrilege.

“What?” he asks innocently when he catches Mickey staring at him.

Mickey rolls his eyes and cuts into his own.

“What?”

“You’re ruining the steak, man.”

After cutting off a hunk with his fork, Ian stuffs it into his mouth and says inelegantly, “I don’t see how people eat meat dry.”

“It ain’t dry. If a steak’s any good, you don’t need sauce.”

“Whatever.”

He’s stubborn. It makes Mickey’s ears feel warm because he’s proud as hell about being a goddamn child, this little smirk creeping onto his lips.

He huffs and shoves his own piece of steak into his mouth.

They talk about work, Ian telling Mickey about all the literature he teaches like Mickey’s supposed to remember it even though he didn’t pay attention to a single second of English class. Mickey talks about business.

Ian’s a little bratty about it without meaning to be, those ginger brows wrinkling when Mickey mentions having fairly regular business at the garage. He’s sure as hell no Meineke, and he couldn’t get by with the farm expenses without the extra income from selling off some of the cattle twice a year, but he does okay.

“So d’you make enough to stay afloat?” Ian asks, nonchalantly squeezing ketchup on his baked potato in a way that infuriates the other man. “Shit. Sorry. That’s rude, huh.”

“I make enough. Ain’t never gonna be rich, but I eat.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

“So what made you wanna be a teacher? Figured you’d do something better.”

Ian looks amusedly aghast, but Mickey hadn’t really meant it that way.

“Something that pays better. Something that don’t involve dealin’ with asshole teenagers every day.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s not.” Ian takes a drink of beer. “I like helping people. I think teaching’s an important job.” A beat. “And I’m good at it.”

Mickey smirks. “You are, are you.”

“Hell yeah.”

“Bet you try to be the,” he holds up air quotes, “‘cool teacher.’”

“Ain’t no trying involved.”

“Pfft.”

“Ask Aleks.”

“Oooh, the kid who busted out your tail-lights?”

Ian grins, and the creases along the sides of his mouth go deep with it. Mickey catches himself staring and has to immediately divert his attention back down to his plate.

“Nah. I’m actually pretty mean,” Ian says, though the tone of his voice does nothing to sell it.

“Yeah, okay. Mean Mr. Gallagher.”

Ian’s grin widens, if that’s even possible, and he makes a breathy sound as he looks down and scoops into his ketchupy baked potato.

Fuck. Mickey stuffs his face with steak and mumbles, “You eat like a baby.”

“Waaah.”

To his surprise, things are easier from there on out.

Ian’s goofy as fuck--this smirky, teasing boyishness to him that gives off the impression that he’d ask you in the middle of dinner if you like seafood and then proceed to let you see the food in his mouth.

When Mickey makes fun of him, he just leans into it and laughs, and he isn’t afraid to give it right back. By the time they’re almost done with their steaks, everything’s going pretty fucking okay, and maybe it’s the beer in him, but Mickey no longer feels quite like stabbing a knife through his temple.

Seems they just needed to warm up.

For a minute, Ian had worried the entire dinner was going to be awkward silences and stilted conversation, but once the topic turns to goofier shit, things smooth out.

Despite the initial reserved demeanor, Mickey’s funny as hell, this childish mean streak to him that makes their conversation entertaining. It isn’t all jokes and comfortable, confident banter--far from it--but they talk about Ian’s love of condiments and why Mickey thinks it makes him a toddler, and Ian throws back at him the other man’s near-wreck on the four-wheeler, asking him if the handlebar bruised his gut, too, or just his ego.

“Fuck off.” Mickey takes a final bite and sets down his fork. “I’d like to see your city boy ass try and drive it. You’d eat shit in two seconds.”

“Would not.”

“Would too.”

Ian holds out his hand. “Gimme the key.”

---

After clearing the table and dumping the dishes in the sink, they go out to the four-wheeler. It seems Mickey has zero intention of showing Ian how to do anything, as he just tosses him the key, pulls out a cigarette, and sits down on the porch steps to watch.

Not one to back down from a challenge, Ian climbs on and, after taking an embarrassingly long moment to find the ignition lock cylinder, shoves in the key and cranks it.

Despite Mickey’s arrogance about Ian’s ignorance, it’s really not that difficult to figure out. Right thumb presses on the gas lever. Release to slow. Pull back on brake levers to stop. Simple.

Steering’s a bitch, the handlebars harder to turn than they look, and hitting even just one bump rocks the rider on the seat. But even that’s okay. Ian presses down on the gas, cuts a jerky turn in the yard, and takes off down the driveway.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to drive an ATV. Mickey smirks around his cigarette as he watches Ian show off like a fucking frat boy, speeding up Wallace, disappearing around the curve for a minute, then returning.

He avoids the ruts, which Mickey would’ve done easily had the ginger asshole not waved at him that day, and he reaches a speed that makes the long bits of his hair fly backward and stick up.

He’s annoying as hell. When he’s done--around the time Mickey’s finished with his cigarette and is looking around for somewhere to put it--he speeds back up the driveway with his left arm straight up in the air, his hand held in the rock on sign. Mickey hates him a little bit.

“Ha!” Ian taunts, parking right in front of the steps, cutting the engine, and climbing off. “What were you saying about my ‘city boy ass?’”

“Fuck off. That was easy as shit.”

“Says the guy who almost bruised his liver.”

“The hilly part of the upper pasture. Try that and you’ll see.”

“Oooh. Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe.” Mickey holds out his hand for the key.

Ian’s fucking thrilled. Everything’s going a hell of a lot better than he ever thought it would.

Not that he thought this was a date in any capacity, and not that there’s a chance in hell that they’ll end up in bed as he’d hoped. But even as a hang out between two dudes who might just be friends one day, there’s exactly nothing to complain about.

Mickey takes the offered key and starts trudging toward the four-wheeler. He stops halfway there as if hit with a perplexing thought.

Ian picks up on it immediately. Mickey was going to drive them to the upper pasture, but it’s not like Ian can sit on the seat behind him, his arms around his waist.

Well, he could. Ian wouldn’t say no, but Mickey likely wouldn’t even entertain the idea.

He nods vaguely in the direction of the upper pasture. “You go on ahead. I’ll like… I dunno. Walk, or--”

“That’s stupid.”

“Well.”

Mickey kicks the dirt and huffs. Finally, after a moment of thinking, he nods toward the back rack. “Hop on.”

---

It’s an awkward fit, the rack clearly meant to hold everything but a 170-pound adult man, but they make do. Ian sits in it like cargo, facing backward with his legs swung over the bars and dangling off the rear of the ATV. He holds onto the bars on either side and tells Mickey in no uncertain terms that if he tries to bump him off, he’ll murder him.

“Calm the fuck down,” Mickey mumbles. “And hang on.”

He drives them up Wallace toward the Milkovich place and then, after stopping to open and then close a metal gate, through the lower pasture, past another gate, and up a bank.

That part of the pasture is spacious and free of cattle, sitting atop a hill and overlooking both the Milkovich and Gallagher land. It adjoins the upper pasture with which Ian’s familiar, that small, weedy, fenced-in spot where he’d been kissed and punched and had his heart broken when he was fifteen and knew nothing about anything.

Mickey stops the four-wheeler and gestures for Ian to get off.

He does and then crosses his arms over his chest and watches Mickey do what can only be described as showing off, flying at top speed over the bumps and hills, the wind whipping back his hair and his lips parted and curved upward in a small smile.

Ian has no idea why Mickey acted like this was a challenge, as he’d argue that the smoother slopes are much easier to deal with than Wallace’s deep ruts and sharp turns. When it’s his turn to drive, he does it cockily, hopping onto the ATV like a horseback rider and speeding off without hesitation.

He laughs as he does it, zooming so fast he feels the sting of gnats colliding with his face, and at one point, he even musters up the courage to stand, hunching over and slowing but wanting Mickey to see the effect of his bravado.

“Fuckin’ show off,” the other man complains, flipping him off as he rides past and reaching for his pack of cigarettes.

They take turns riding around until the sun has descended enough to cast an orange glow on everything it touches. It’s too pretty to not appreciate. Mickey sits sideways on the ATV seat and Ian sits on the grassy ground nearby, leaned back on his palms with his legs stretched out in front of him.

“It’s nice, huh?” Ian asks, turning briefly to catch the other man reaching for a cigarette again, his eyes quickly darting down as if he’d been watching him.

“Yeah, I guess,” Mickey replies, tapping out a cigarette, pressing it between his lips, and lighting up. He takes a slow drag and blows it out with, “If you’re into that kinda thing.”

“Can’t believe you don’t come up here all the time to watch it. This is like a prime spot for sunsets. Bet the sunrise is even better. Rising in the east, y’know.”

Ian talks way too fucking much, making a comment and adding to it a thousand times before Mickey can get a word in.

Once he finally shuts up, Mickey hums and repeats, “Yeah, I guess.”

They watch the goddamn sunset like a pair of queers. It makes Mickey antsy, his skin itchy, and he keeps shifting on the four-wheeler seat as if his body desperately wants him to crank up and get the hell out of there.

Ian takes it all in, leaning back on his hands like a kid in front of the TV and only moving to make a grab for his cigarettes when it’s starting to get dark.

“Hey,” Mickey murmurs, twisting the key halfway and flipping on the headlights. “You ready?”

Ian stands, but he doesn’t act like he’s ready to go. He slowly smokes his cigarette and comes over to lean against the side of the four-wheeler. Mickey sucks his teeth and without further comment, lets him.

After a quiet moment, the redhead says, “On a scale from one to ten, how’s your life been so far?”

The question surprises Mickey enough that his first reaction is to scoff at it.

“The fuck?”

Ian shrugs and flicks away a bit of ash.

“What a weird-ass fuckin’ question.”

“Sorry. I was just… I dunno.”

He was just thinking about how hanging out with Mickey for a mere two hours on a Friday evening has made him feel more alive than he’s felt in months.

He doesn’t mind being alone sometimes. He isn’t miserable on the day-to-day. But this is nice. It’s much nicer than his typical Friday nights.

He wonders if Mickey thinks it’s nice, too--if his normal Fridays are ever like this.

Ian thinks they probably are. Mickey has PJ, after all. They’re apparently thick as thieves.

He’s resigned to the other man not answering his question and is about to climb back onto the rack when Mickey asks, “From one to ten?”

Ian smiles around the last drag of his cigarette. “Yeah.”

“I dunno. Like, a four?”

“Oh.”

“Pfft. What’d you think? And why d’you care?”

“I dunno. I was just curious. It’s been a long time since we--”

“What about you, then? Lemme guess: seven.”

“Not even close.”

“Ten.”

Ian blows a raspberry. “Yeah, right.” A beat. “I was gonna say four, too. A six if I erase the past year.”

“COVID shit?”

“Sorta.”

“Guess it affected you a lot more than me.” Mickey chuffs and waves his arm. “Ain’t like I had to deal with much out here. Didn’t have to close the garage, neither. Didn’t have employees to worry about. Different for a teacher.”

“Yeah.” Ian puts his cigarette out. “It was fuckin’ hard. Still is.” He looks up at the darkening sky, the stars just becoming visible. “There was other stuff, too, but. Yeah.”

Mickey doesn’t respond to that, so Ian adds, “Anyway. I was just gonna say that this was fun.” He nods toward the field. “Felt like a break from the monotony or whatever.”

“You’re dramatic, man.”

Ian laughs and bumps Mickey’s leg with his elbow. “Maybe. Shut up.”

Mickey stands and climbs back on the four-wheeler correctly. “Alright, alright. Get on.”

“I’ll have you know… This rack is a literal pain in my ass.” Ian climbs on anyway, situating himself the way he rode up there. “You oughta let me drive back.”

“Hell no.”

“Why not?”

“You suck. You’ll wreck.”

“Pfft. Then you’re gonna have to listen to me complain the whole time. You try sitting on metal bars with a maniac driving. I’m gonna have bruises. I’m not gonna be able to sit down for a week.”

Mickey cranks up but idles, the four-wheeler making a low sputtering sound. “Will you shut up?”

“No. This is your punishment for making me ride like this all ‘cause you’re afraid of lettin’ a dude sit behind you on the seat.”

“Fuck off. Am not.”

“Looks that way.”

“You’re the one who offered to fuckin’ walk up here.”

“So? You’re supposed to say…” Ian puts on an exaggeratedly manly voice. “‘It’s no big deal, man. Just get on, bro.’”

He’s so fucking annoying.

In retaliation, Mickey peels out, jamming his thumb down on the gas. Ian, unprepared, isn’t holding on, and he’s nearly bucked off, only keeping himself on by making a fevered grab for the metal bars on either side of him.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he yells, and Mickey stops the four-wheeler and laughs.

“That’s what you get,” he says.

“What’d I tell you? You throw me off, I murder you.”

“Fuck off.” Mickey turns to look at him. He’s sprawled pathetically, his legs half in the air.

“Just get the fuck on the seat,” he tells him, feeling like his guts might turn to liquid. “Bro.”

Without needing to be told twice, Ian scrambles around until he’s managed to get his ass on the seat. Mickey holds his breath as he gets situated, feeling that itchiness start again, the need to gun it back to the house boiling in his blood. His skin goes hot, and he imagines he can feel Ian’s own body heat against his back.

There’s no way he actually does, as Ian doesn’t scoot in close. He sits with his feet just behind Mickey’s on the foot rests, his ass as far back on the seat as possible and his hands gripping the rack behind him. The redhead isn’t touching him at all. It’s a respectable distance, and aside from the fact that they’re two dudes sharing a seat, there’s nothing gay about it.

Still, Mickey twists his hands around the handlebars and feels his heart pick up.

The position is neither safe nor sturdy, one deep rut enough to send Ian flying, but Mickey’ll be careful. He won’t say anything about it, either, as the alternative is the other man’s arms around his waist, and that’s not a thing that can happen.

“Hold on,” he warns, gently pressing down on the gas, and Ian huffs a laugh that Mickey can feel against the back of his neck.

He speeds up so that he’s unable to distinguish the wind from Ian’s breath.

When they get back, Ian waits until Mickey’s cut off the four-wheeler before attempting to move. Even still, he hangs back, letting go of the bars behind him and just sitting there, staring at Mickey’s neck and the dark, wind-tousled hair above.

They aren’t even remotely touching, but he can feel the warmth of him against his knees, which rest just inches from either side of his ass. Mickey’s radiating heat from late summer sweat. The back of his neck is blotchy, and there’s a drip of it hanging to a curled bit of hair at his nape.

“You wanna come in?” Ian asks, his voice soft and tentative, nerves creeping in. “I bought red velvet cupcakes. You can get another beer.”

It isn’t that. Not exactly. He knows it probably won’t happen even if Mickey does come in, but it could.

Christ. Ian moves on the seat. His knee accidentally brushes Mickey’s outer thigh.

Unfortunately, he can feel the moment something shifts inside the other man. It’s when he squeezes unnecessarily at the brake levers. Releases. Squeezes. The hydraulics make an airy sound each time until they appear to lock up. Mickey drops his hands from the bars.

“Naaah, it’s cool,” he says. “I gotta get goin’.”

Ian climbs off the four-wheeler but doesn’t move away. He smiles reassuringly, though it stings.

“Uhh, yeah. Cool. That’s okay.”

“But thanks. For dinner, and…” Mickey trails off.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me crash on your couch last week.” Ian huffs. “And I’m gonna come steal the four-wheeler sometimes if that’s okay. It’s too fun, and I’m too good at it.”

“Dumbass. I’m hidin’ the keys.”

“Please?”

The other man snorts and rolls his eyes. After a moment of what looks like surprisingly serious thought, he murmurs, “Just text me or whatever.”

Ian beams.

“Well.” Mickey cranks the four-wheeler. “See ya.”

“Bye, Mickey.”

Ian watches him go.

He didn’t actually have to get going. He has nowhere to be--nothing to do at home other than twiddle his thumbs and get drunk.

His first thought was that he wanted a red velvet cupcake. His second was that he was afraid.

There was nothing at all sexual about their hang out. It wasn’t a gay thing. But they’ve kissed each other, and Mickey had once told Ian that he wanted to do it.

Do you want to kiss me?

Yeah.

Going inside for a cupcake and beer with a man who knows him like that felt like a spectacularly bad idea.

Not that Ian was planning to put moves on him or whatever. He hadn’t said or done anything the whole night that suggested he was. It’s just that Mickey’s hung out with people before, and he’s seen movies. He knows the post-outing invitation inside is loaded with all kinds of implications.

Fuck. He hates this shit.

Back home, he parks the four-wheeler in the garage, locks up, and goes to get himself a beer from his own goddamn fridge.

---

One turns to two, which turns to three. It gets him just a little toasty inside, and he goes out to sit on the porch and chase the beer with a couple cigarettes.

PJ texts him then. He avoids replying for a solid fifteen minutes, but in the end, he decides that it looks suspicious as hell if he leaves it for too long. She’ll think he’s busy getting rawed.

--------------

PJ (8:57 PM): Sooooo… 🥰️

Mickey (9:14 PM): So nothing, untwist your panties

--------------

She calls him immediately.

“What,” he says, voice dripping with exasperation.

“What happened? Tell me.”

He tells her:

“Absolutely fuckin’ nothing. We ate, I took him to the upper pasture to ride the four-wheeler, I dropped him off. The end.”

And she still won’t shut up about it:

“Any almost kisses?” “How’d he act when you dropped him off?” “Did he ask you inside?” “He asked you inside and you said no?! Mickey, you’re a freakin’ idiot! I'm gonna smack you next time I see you!”

“And you’re annoying as hell. I didn’t wanna go inside. Tough.”

“You ‘didn’t wanna go inside’ or you,” she pauses for effect, “didn’t wanna go inside?”

“The fuck’s the difference?” Mickey takes a hard pull off his cigarette and relaxes into the smoke filling his lungs.

“You didn’t wanna have…y’know...or you did but were too nervous to go through with it?”

“Uhhh. Is there another option? Pretty fuckin’ sure that shit wasn’t on the table to begin with.”

“Oh, please.”

“He had cupcakes and beer. Fuck off.” He puts out his cigarette and gathers his empty beer cans to take back inside. “You done?”

“No. Did he look cute?”

“You’re done.”

PJ laughs, and despite his general disdain for the teenage girlishness of it all, Mickey laughs, too.

He left his hat. The first thing Ian does when he goes back inside is pick it up and thoughtfully turn it in his hands like a middle school girl.

It’s a bit dirty and sweat-stained, so though Ian considers it, he doesn’t give it a sniff. Instead, he carries it over and sets it on the mantle, the Marlboro logo and scuffed brim facing outward.

That done, he heads to the kitchen to get himself a cupcake and beer.

He doesn’t know whether or not to be upset over the fact that Mickey didn’t want to come in. It certainly stung in the moment, but maybe it didn’t mean anything. He might’ve been being polite, not wanting to impose. Maybe Ian could’ve been more assertive?

But then again, maybe he saw through the “beer and cupcake” thing and was really saying no to sex, and in that case, he’s glad he didn’t push, though that being the reason for Mickey’s refusal makes him feel like shit.

Not that it should. They haven’t talked about that kind of thing in nearly twenty years. Mickey could very well be straight, and even if he isn’t, there’s no guarantee that he would like or be interested in sex with Ian.

He crams half the cupcake in his mouth and opens the beer. After another minute of eating and feeling anxious, he takes out his phone and calls Lip.

Ian barely allows his brother to form a greeting before launching into, “Say you’re hangin’ out with a chick, right? You invite her in for coffee, but she says no. Does that mean she doesn’t like you?”

“Uhh. I’m married.”

“Lip.”

His brother chuffs, this breathy sound, and Ian can hear him chew something.

“I dunno,” he finally says. “Depends. Why?”

“No reason.”

“So you just called me to ask a hypothetical question that in no way relates to you or your life?”

“Maybe.”

“Who’s the guy?”

Ian takes a huge drink of beer that requires two gulps to get it all down. He needs it.

“If I tell you, you have to swear you won’t say anything,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Out with it.”

“It’s Mickey.”

Lip chokes on whatever he’s eating, and when he’s done coughing, he sputters, “Fuckin’...Milkovich?”

Ian tells him the story, keeping the detail to a minimum so as to avoid making himself look insane. Afterward, he actually has to prompt Lip to speak because the line is dead silent.

“So? What d’you think?”

“Mickey Milkovich takes it up the ass?”

“I dunno! That’s my whole problem.”

“That’s…kind of a lot to process, man.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And I think you should chill the fuck out ‘til you know for sure. No reason to get torn up about him turnin’ down your invitation ‘cause maybe he just didn’t want cupcakes.”

“I’m not torn up about it.” Ian takes another gulp of beer. “So d’you think I should ask him?”

“If he’s a homo?”

“I dunno. Maybe?”

Lip sighs, and it’s loud and familiar. “Like I said, I think you should just chill. If it happens, it happens. D’you really wanna go askin’ a Milkovich if he’s gay?”

“I mean… I’ve kissed him. Twice.”

“Sure. But this is Greenhill, man. Gotta watch yourself, y’know. The Milkoviches are fuckin’ nuts.”

“Mickey isn’t.”

“Yeah, well. You say that. Just be careful.”

There’s the sound of a kid in the background. Lip murmurs something to them, his voice a muffle.

“How’re Tami and the kids?” Ian asks, changing the subject.

He loves his brother, but sometimes talking to him about personal shit makes him feel worse.

“They’re good.” A beat. “Actually, Amelia’s refusing to go to bed, so I prob’ly need to go--”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah. Tell her I love and miss her.”

“But hey, me and Fred were talkin’ about driving up one weekend. I’d like to show him around. Give him a tour of all the old Gallagher haunts. Think you got room for two more?”

Ian smiles. “I’ll make room.”

“Cool. We’ll figure it out. I’ll call you.”

“Cool.”

They say their goodbyes and end the call. Ian gets another cupcake and takes it and his beer out to the porch, where he sits down in the rocking chair and peers out at Wallace in the near-darkness.

He eats his cupcake and wonders what Mickey’s doing.

Lip’s right, of course. He needs to chill out. And there’s no way in hell he can just casually ask Mickey if he’s gay. Even with their history, he has no way of knowing how he’ll react, and he doesn’t want to spoil what could be a good friendship in the event that he’s crossing the line.

He does let his mind water, though. The problem is that Mickey’s fucking cute in the sort of way that not a lot of guys are. There’s the looks of course, with that backwards baseball cap and the unruly dark hair and how he looks like he’s going to yell at you but never does. But then there’s the other stuff, too. His awkwardness. How shy he gets in brief spells. How he likes to show off. How he makes grumpy comments but then smiles afterward to show you he doesn’t mean it.

So, yeah. He should chill out.

But Ian has a mile-long track record of not doing what he should. He takes his phone out of his pocket and opens up their text thread.

Mickey has a complicated relationship with porn. He watches it a couple times per week, pulling it up on his phone and using it to get himself off when he has the time and desire to be a little more leisurely with it.

In the grand scheme of his masturbatory life, he hasn’t actually been using it all that long--just since he’s had the house to himself, an iPhone, and a wifi connection. Because of it, he was a whole-ass 26 years old when he saw gay sex for the first time.

He hadn’t searched it, of course. He’d just been on a porn site, and one click led to another, and he found himself under the Gay filter with his heart in his throat.

The first one he ever watched involved a guy getting sucked off in a locker room and then bent over a bench and fucked. Never in his entire life--even during his horny teenage years--had he ever experienced such arousal. It was to the point that touching himself made him shake, his thigh muscles jerking so hard he had to pause throughout the proceedings to keep himself under control.

Even with the pauses, he came in less than two minutes, and then he immediately felt so awful he wanted to die.

He felt exposed. He felt sad. He felt ashamed of himself because it’d felt so good.

The video was hot.

Mickey knew already what hot meant for him. He knew what kind of people made him feel things. He knew what celebrities in movies gave him tingles in his dick when they took off their shirts.

But seeing it all like that--two completely naked, erect guys kissing and sucking and putting themselves inside each other--made it all feel real in a way that scared Mickey so badly he vowed to never go to that site ever again.

Of course, it didn’t last. After you’ve seen video porn, your imagination simply doesn't do it in the same way.

He forced himself to go back through some of the straight stuff, but the women were so loud and the videos were so focused on them that he couldn’t get off. Eventually, he found an anal video that was shot from the back, a guy fucking a girl missionary with the camera trained on his ass and his dick moving in and out of her. All her other parts were hidden by his body, so as long as Mickey kept the video muted, he could pretend it was something else and yet not feel so panicky and ashamed afterward.

The final place he landed in his porn watching was solo male stuff. Because it was just one guy jerking off, it didn’t feel as bad to watch, and it always got him going and then got him off. That became his go-to for years.

He lies on the couch that Friday night, scrolling through the site. He’d registered for a free account a while back so he could bookmark his favorites, but he doesn’t bother logging in. He presses his lips together.

He should go to bed. It’s barely ten, but he has shit to do Saturday morning, so it’ll be another early start.

Holding his breath, he taps the symbols on the left panel and stares at the intersecting blue ones in the drop-down box. Mickey can never trust his thumbs.

He’d had another beer and half a sleeve of Oreos after ending the call with PJ, and then he’d had too much time on his hands to think. He’d thought about Ian’s breath against the back of his neck. Ian’s knee brushing his outer thigh. Ian inviting him inside when it was pretty much dark out.

He’d wondered what could’ve happened if he’d gone in. He knows what would have happened: nothing. He wouldn’t have allowed himself. But Ian’s an out and proud queer, and he’d been Mickey’s first kiss, and maybe what could’ve happened was another kiss. Or a touch.

It’s an anxiety-inducing thought even if he does wonder if it would be nice.

He clicks the two blue symbols. Without a second thought, he puts on the Amateur filter. He scrolls for two minutes until he finds something nice and clicks it.

It’s called something misspelled and stupid, and the same video’s been uploaded to that site probably a thousand times under different titles. In it, two mid-twenties guys make out on a bed. The taller one, a sandy blond with a scruffy beard and a black tattoo on his shoulder, rubs the shorter one’s dick through his pants until he’s hard, then takes him out, blows him, and after they both strip down, fucks him doggy and then missionary.

He kisses the hell out of him in that position, and they both moan. The bottom whispers, Fuck me, fuck me, and the top one kisses him and does until he comes.

Mickey watches most of it before he even puts his hand in his pants. Then it only takes a minute. He wiggles his jeans down to his thighs, takes himself out of his underwear, and pulls up his shirt so he doesn’t make too much of a mess.

He breathes hard and fast as he strokes himself, watching the top fuck his boyfriend--if you can believe the title--and with a heavy sigh, he comes in a little rush up his belly when the man eventually pulls out, takes the camera, and films himself blowing his own load, aiming so that it lands on the other man’s pubes and spent dick.

Mickey lies there afterward for so long that the semen on his stomach dries into a crusty film. He stares at the ceiling, the fan spinning lazily, and tries to control his breathing.

He thinks he might be a little bit fucked.

To make matters worse, his phone chimes with a text, frankly scaring the shit out of him, an inexplicable fear flooding his body that he’s been caught in the act. Somebody’s been watching. Somebody knows he just jerked off to two dudes banging.

His hand shakes when he brings his phone up to his face. And fuck. It’s Ian. That just adds salt to the wound.

--------------

Ian (10:14 PM): You left your hat 🧢

--------------

Mickey sighs. He rubs his hand over his face.

--------------

Mickey (10:15 PM): Don’t destroy it, I’ll pick it up next time I’m around

Ian (10:15 PM): Darn! Caught me. I was just about to put it down the garbage disposal. 🤪

--------------

Mickey chuffs and climbs off the couch.

He moves to the bathroom, where he takes off his clothes and cleans his stomach with a wet washcloth. He’s deliberately ignoring Ian, but it’s because he doesn’t really know what to say to that, and he’s not sure if he wants to text him back with the same teasing energy.

Obviously, he needn’t have worried. By the time he’s in his bedroom, pulling on the pair of shorts he sleeps in, his phone chimes once more.

--------------

Ian (10:20 PM): I had fun btw! We should do it again!

--------------

He picks up his phone and stares at it for the longest time. Sets it down. He leaves it on the nightstand while he shuts down the rest of the house. When he returns, he pulls back the covers on the bed, climbs under, and switches off the lamp.

He lies there for five minutes before grabbing his phone.

--------------

Mickey (10:28 PM): Yeah I had fun too. Just let me know whenever.

--------------

Ian doesn’t see or hear from Mickey for nearly a week. Life goes on as normal, only with the added bit of optimism coming from the fact that Mickey’d said he’d enjoyed their hangout.

He’d hardly been able to sleep after receiving that text, and for days, all he’s been thinking about in his spare moments is when they can have a repeat.

---
---

On Thursday after work, he goes to Beck’s to pick up some dinner and runs into Mandy on his way out. She’s leaving the back with a pack of cigarettes in her hand, and she greets him, her smile framed by her bright red lipstick, and follows him out the door.

They make small talk for a minute, Ian twisting his plastic dinner bag around his wrist and Mandy reclined against the side of the building, smoking. He asks about her kids. Her oldest, Riley, got suspended for bringing her dad’s vape pen to school. Josiah, the little one, has a bad cold, and Mandy’s been home with him off-and-on all week.

Ian takes a dramatic step back at that, and Mandy rolls her eyes. “It’s not COVID. I got him tested. Plus, we all had it back in June.”

“Well, I’ve made it a year without gettin’ it,” he says. He holds up his index fingers in a cross.

“You’re the only one. You and my brother. I told him the only reason he hasn’t had it is he doesn’t ever leave his cave.”

Ian’s ears prick up. “Mickey?”

“Obviously.” Mandy smirks and blows out a stream of smoke. “D’you ever see him? Unless he’s saving you from a power outage, that is.”

Ian hums. “Actually, yeah. Kinda. We…hung out…on Friday.”

He adds just enough inflection to the words that she can read into them if she knows something about Mickey that Ian’s desperate to know.

Unfortunately, she just snorts. “Mick hangs out with people who aren’t PJ? Since when?”

“I cooked him a steak to thank him for lettin’ me crash at his place.”

“Ahhh, the draw of food. Good one.”

Ian takes out his own pack of cigarettes. He might as well. He lights one up and asks, “So Mickey doesn’t like, hang out with a lotta people, you said?”

“Basically never. PJ. Sometimes Iggy. He picks up food here and sees the kids.” She shrugs. “I don’t even know how he manages to get his rocks off ever. He hasn’t dated anybody in like three years.” A beat. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Ha. Don’t worry.” Ian fidgets with his food bag. “Yeah, I dunno. I haven’t seen him with anybody.”

“Not that you would. Even when he’s got a girl, he doesn’t bring her around. He dated this one named Summer for like six months, and I think I saw her twice. Weirdo.” She takes a slow drag. “But I think the thing with PJ fucked him up. Trust issues, y’know.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Mandy smiles. “Anyways. Enough Milkovich drama. You doin’ okay?”

They talk for enough time for Mandy to finish her cigarette and then part ways. Ian thinks about the girls Mickey’s dated all the way home, his hands wringing the steering wheel.

Mandy’s clearly under the impression that her brother’s straight, and she’d know, right? They grew up together. Even if they aren’t the best of friends, after living in close proximity to your sibling for over thirty years, you usually get a pretty good sense of who they are.

But know or not, the bottom line is that Ian now has concrete evidence that Mickey dates women. Obviously, that doesn’t have to mean anything. That doesn’t mean that 17-year-old Mickey and 35-year-old Mickey aren’t one and the same, overflowing with fear and feelings.

All things considered, though, it certainly doesn’t bode well for Ian’s future chances. Not in this town. Not after this long.

Mickey meets PJ in the McDonald’s parking lot at 3:30. She’d wanted him to pick up Aleks from school, and while that would’ve been convenient, there was no way in hell he was sitting in the car rider line for an hour.

When he’d told her he’d help the kid practice driving, he hadn’t expected her to call him up two days later and ask him to do it Thursday. Bodie has dance from four to six. PJ’ll pick him up from the house on their way back home. Mickey’d agreed with a lump in his throat and had then proceeded to worry about it all week.

The kid looks tired from school. He’s unhappy when he gets out of the Escalade, shrugging away PJ’s attempt at a head kiss and slamming the door behind him. Though it’s 85 degrees, he’s got on that buffalo check flannel he’d stolen from Mickey’s closet, and one of his combat boots is untied, the aglets slapping against the pavement with each step.

Mickey reaches over and pushes open the door for him.

“‘Sup, Nugget.”

“Hey.” Aleks gets in and closes the door, and Mickey rolls down the passenger window and waves at PJ and Bodie.

“Y’alright?” Mickey asks a moment later, pulling out of the parking space. “Whatchu pissed about today?”

“Nothing.”

“Mmhm.”

“Mom’s just being nosy again.”

“About what?”

Aleks huffs, and Mickey glances over. He’s giving him a you’re no better look, but Mickey crosses his eyes at him and makes him smile.

They pull out onto the highway. From McDonald’s, it’s a ten minute drive to Spencer, a neighboring town that’s somehow even smaller than Greenhill. Back in the 90s, it used to have the Whitney Outlet Mall, but the mall itself is now shut down and has been for years, just a Halloween Express popping up in the old Sam Goody from August to November. Most of the time, the parking lot’s completely empty, and when Mickey was in high school, kids used to spin donuts there on weekend nights and then make a speedy getaway once somebody called the cops.

Aleks is quiet most of the way, but once Mickey puts on the radio, he loosens up.

“So how’s Driver’s Ed?”

“Boring. We just sit in the auditorium for six hours on Saturdays and watch videos about how not to die in a car crash.”

“Well, do you pay attention?”

“No.”

“And I’m about to let you get behind the wheel of my truck?”

“I already know how to drive.”

“Sure ya do.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

In Spencer, Mickey pulls into a Dunkin’ drive-thru and gets them a box of Munchkins and some coffee, the kid ordering the sugariest shit on the menu. He then drives them across the road to the deserted parking lot and pulls into a spot.

They get out and trade places, and Mickey sits in the passenger’s seat with the open Munchkins box in his lap.

Aleks reaches immediately to crank the truck, but Mickey gently smacks his hand away.

“First,” he says. “Ten and two.”

“What?”

“Hands on the wheel. Like the clock.”

“Oh.” The kid figures it out, and while he gets comfortable in that position, Mickey looks down at his feet, which are poised with one above each of the pedals.

“Move your left foot to the side. Right foot only.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Just do it. I swear to God, if you wreck us, I’m making you walk home.”

Aleks makes a farting noise with his mouth but does as Mickey asks.

“Now, you’re gonna go slow. Don’t try to show off.” Mickey grabs a donut hole and shoves it in his mouth. “Crank up,” he says, muffled with his chewing. “And do a slow loop around the parking lot.”

Aleks holds out his hand. “For good luck.”

Weird kid. Mickey shakes his hand.

Aleks cackles. “Gimme a munchkin.”

“Pssh.” Mickey hands him one but makes him wait until he’s eaten it before he starts the truck.

---

In the end, Aleks is an okay driver. It’s obvious it’s his first time behind the wheel. His initial loop is almost unbearably slow, and he applies the brake every five seconds, causing the truck to jerk. But by the time he’s on his second and then third loop, he’s much better.

He stops after each loop to eat a couple donut holes and drink his coffee. The caffeine and sugar makes him insane, the goofy kid he is at bonfires coming out full force by the time they’ve progressed to snaking up and down each parking aisle.

He’s confident, and he talks a lot. “Oh my God. Guess what?” he says, making a sharp turn into a new aisle.

Mickey doesn’t even have time to open his mouth before the kid continues with, “The art teacher, Ms. Burroughs, had her nudes leaked.”

Turns out, she posed for a photography student fifteen years ago when she was in college, and it’s a series of black and white pictures with her hands covering her tits that some kid had found in a relative’s digital portfolio.

“Not sure those are classified as nudes,” Mickey says with his mouth full, reaching for his coffee.

“No, that’s literally what they are. But she’s not getting fired or anything ‘cause it’s art.” Aleks shrugs. “She had to talk to all her classes about it today.”

“And that’s what you wanna do, huh? Art?”

“Yeah. Illustrations, though. I’m making my portfolio, and I don’t care if Dad doesn’t pay for me to go. I’ll have to get a scholarship.”

Mickey bites his lip. “Your mom’ll help you out.”

“Nah. She would, but it’d just turn into another fight with Dad, and they do enough of that over me.”

Aleks loops around to the next aisle and then stops at the end to eat another munchkin and drink his coffee.

“PJ and Mark fight a lot?”

“Constantly.”

“About you?”

“About me. About who’s going where. About politics. About church stuff.” Aleks lets his foot off the brake to get the truck moving again and adds, “They don’t do it in front of me and Bodie, but we’re not stupid.”

Mickey nods slowly.

“And before you ask, for the thousandth time, Dad doesn’t hit us.”

“I wasn’t gonna ask.”

“Yeah, you were.”

Yeah, he was. Mickey blows out a breath and takes another drink of coffee. Aleks finishes out the aisle and then practices parking. Mickey watches him do it for a minute before asking, “Do they fight about me?”

The kid purses his lips. He has chocolate donut icing in the corner of his mouth.

“Uhhh, sometimes,” he says.

“About me seein’ you?”

“Kinda. Not like it was before, though.” Aleks pauses, then adds, “Mostly about Mom hangin’ out with you all the time. Dad thinks you two have an,” he pushes down on the brake hard enough to cause them to jerk forward and holds up air quotes. “‘Un-Christlike, codependent relationship.’”

“Watch it.” Mickey takes the kid’s wrist and moves his hand back to the steering wheel. “And what’s that s’posed to mean?”

“I dunno. I think he thinks you two have this toxic thing where you both still have feelings for each other.” Aleks scoffs. “And he doesn’t understand that men and women can just be friends and tells Mom she’s sinning when she hangs out with you ‘cause you’re not her husband.”

Mickey tries to get a word in, but Aleks keeps going.

“Eew, and like, one time my friend Halle brought me home from school, and he told me I should never be alone with a girl who isn’t my wife. That’s some weird-ass Mike Pence shit. And he’s already telling Bodie to ‘save her kisses for her husband,’ which makes me wanna puke. She’s ten.”

He clearly wants Mickey to respond to that, as he stops the truck but doesn’t make a grab for his coffee or the munchkins.

Mickey scratches the back of his neck. “First of all, me ‘n your mom--”

“I know, I know. You’re best friends. You love each other but not like that. Mom’s been telling me since I was born.”

If he could, he’d like to elaborate on that--reassure the kid he’s not banging his mother. But there’s really nothing to address that Aleks didn’t already say himself and that doesn’t in any way imply Mickey literally can’t love his mother like that. He doesn’t continue with that train of thought.

“Second of all,” he says. “Don’t be alone with a girl who don’t wanna be alone with you. But yeah, that other shit’s nuts.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t wanna step on Mark’s toes or whatever.” Mickey huffs a breath. “But y’know, sometimes adults say stupid shit to their kids ‘cause they think they’re right, but they’re not. And it’s okay to ask another adult’s opinion. Like, your mom.” Mickey takes a sip of his coffee to wet his throat. “She’s a good person, and she loves you. And she’s pretty level-headed. I think you should listen to her about most stuff and ignore the other shit you hear.”

Aleks scrunches up his nose, and he looks like a six-year-old. Mickey feels the corners of his mouth tilt upward, unbidden.

“Mom’s annoying, though.”

“All good moms are annoying, kid. That’s their job.”

“Like today.” Aleks grabs a munchkin, shoves the whole thing in his mouth, and starts back up driving and talking with his mouth full. “She thinks I’m gonna kill myself.”

Mickey reaches out immediately and puts his hand on Aleks’s arm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop the truck.”

At first, the kid ignores him, but when Mickey then taps at his knee to get him to put on the brake, he obeys. Mickey reaches for the gearshift himself, puts the car in park, and turns the key to switch off the truck. He pulls out the keys and sets them in the cup holder.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks, turning in his seat to fully face the boy, who isn’t looking at him and is instead picking at his nails. He reaches out and pokes his shoulder. “Why would she think that?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Mickey waits, his heart beating so hard he thinks Aleks can probably hear it.

“Tell me one part of it,” he says when the boy stays mum. “Like, one little thing.”

Aleks looks at him then. He’s chewing on his bottom lip.

And it’s stupid that Mickey thinks about it in that moment, but Aleks has his teeth. They’re whiter than his have ever been, and they’ve been in braces and have never been riddled with cavities. But the shape of them are identical to what Mickey sees in the mirror.

The boy sighs and pulls his teeth back in. Mickey swallows.

“There’s some kids at school who keep fucking with me. Buncha assholes. They take pictures of me. They call me a fag on social media. It’s gone now ‘cause people reported it, but somebody made an Instagram account last week where they posted a picture of my clothes every day so people could make fun of me in the comments.” He bites the insides of his cheeks for a moment and then adds, “I don’t even dress weird.”

Mickey reaches out and tugs at the kid’s flannel. “That why you’re wearin’ this in 85-degree weather?”

“Yeah.” Aleks laughs sadly. “Mom thought I was self-harming. She made me show her my arms when we were waiting on you to pick me up.”

Mickey sniffs. “You ever done that?”

“Cut myself?”

“Yeah.”

He fiddles with the sleeves of his flannel, the one Mickey wore when he was a teenager because he thought it made him look cool.

“Uhh, yeah,” Aleks says. “Not like how some people do it, y’know. But I’ve done it before.”

“Where?”

“My stomach.”

Mickey’s vision goes blurry, but he blinks it back and drinks his coffee to hide it.

“Can I see?” he asks, fingers digging into the side of his cup.

“I told you, I don’t do it regularly. I just said I have.”

“I know.”

Aleks looks away, his face hard like he regrets telling Mickey anything. Mickey waits. After a minute, the kid lifts the front of his shirt and shows him his stomach.

There are a couple of light, straight scars to the right of his navel, but there’s nothing fresh--no scabs or angry pink lines. Mickey allows himself to breathe.

“Told ya,” Aleks says, pulling his shirt back down and reaching for another munchkin.

Mickey swallows heavily. “Hey.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t want you to do that, okay?” he murmurs. “If you ever feel like it, text me. I’ll come get you. We can go shoot bottles or beat the shit outta stuff with a bat.”

Aleks smiles. Yeah. His teeth are the same.

“Last time I beat the shit outta something with a bat, I got in trouble.”

Mickey chuckles. “Yeah, ‘cause you beat the shit outta the Jeep of somebody who didn’t deserve it.”

“I know.” Aleks looks remorseful. “He’s a nice guy. I like him.”

“Yeah.”

“He asked me to go to Atlanta with Helping Hands for some kinda convention thing.”

“Hm. You gonna go?”

“Hell no.”

Mickey grins. “Why not?”

“Who wants to give up their weekend to go stay in a hotel with a buncha nerds?”

“You’re in the club, Nerd.”

“Fuck off.”

Mickey knows he should probably get onto him about telling an adult to fuck off--his mom sure as hell would--but it doesn’t bother him, and he thinks it’s funny. He just laughs, instead, and grabs the last two munchkins from the box, shoving one in his mouth and handing the other to the kid.

---

After driving around for another twenty minutes, they switch places again and Mickey drives them back to Greenhill.

At the end of Wallace, he stops and lets Aleks drive them to the house. When they pass by the Gallagher place, Ian’s out at the end of his driveway, weeding his flower beds dressed in a blue tank top and navy shorts.

Aleks honks the horn as they pass, and something about it is embarrassing as hell. Ian stands up straight and waves at them as the kid sticks his head out the window and yells obnoxiously, “Hi, Ian!”

---

Once they arrive at the house, the two of them go inside. Mickey tosses Aleks the TV remote and tells him he can do “whatever.”

He grabs himself a beer from the fridge and takes out a can of Pepsi for the kid.

“Hey,” Aleks says from where he sits on the couch. He watches Mickey pop the tab on his Bud and take a sip. “Can I have a beer?”

“No.”

“Can I have a sip?”

Mickey narrows his eyes at him. After a moment, he says, “Yeah, okay,” and crosses over to him. He hands his drink over, and without even a second’s pause, Aleks takes a huge gulp.

Mickey laughs at his face when he tastes it--this pinched look of a kid who’s trying to pretend it tastes good. He takes the can back and downs an inch of it, himself.

He burps. “How the hell was that your first sip of beer?”

“Shut up. D’you think my parents have beer in the fridge?”

Fair enough. Mickey shrugs. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with Mark.”

“I think he needs to smoke weed.” Aleks grins. “You got any?”

“Weed?”

“Yeah.”

“No?” Mickey lies, and he’s not sure whether or not the kid believes him. “You think I’m gonna let you smoke a joint? Your mother’d murder me. Put on some cartoons. Here’s a Pepsi.”

---

While Aleks drinks his coke and watches Rick and Morty, Mickey wanders awkwardly around the small house until he decides he just looks stupid and sits down in the recliner instead.

Mickey’s never seen the show before, but it’s pretty okay. It makes Aleks laugh, and Mickey keeps sneaking looks at him when he can get away with it.

What a goddamn world of difference this is from the first time the kid was alone with him here. Mickey’d come home to find his window busted out and his entire house trashed. And then there was fourteen-year-old Aleks, who was sitting on Mickey’s bed with the box of pictures strewn all over the comforter and on the floor, crying his heart out.

He’d been so little, then--a skinny little boy with chin-length sandy brown hair, dressed in a blue polo and khaki shorts. He’d ridden his bike all the way from River Oak and had blisters on his palms from gripping the handlebars. Mickey’d felt them when he’d helped him unclutch the pictures, the kid’s fingers holding them so tightly as he cried and swore that he was giving himself papercuts.

Now, he’s just as skinny, but he’s taller--an inch or two above Mickey. His hair and clothes may have done a 180 over the past two years, going from prep to punk, but he’s drinking a Pepsi and smiling at the TV. Mickey thinks that’s good, even after what he told him in the truck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, turning to watch him without shame.

Aleks bounces his brows in acknowledgment.

Mickey clears his throat. “Those kids at school don’t know shit. I think you’re pretty damn cool.”

The boy’s eyes meet his, blue on blue, and he smiles. He’s a beautiful fucking kid, and it makes Mickey’s heart hurt. He has to look away.

“And if you want me to beat ‘em up, just give me their names and addresses.”

Aleks laughs. “Mickey.”

Mickey smiles. “Or go talk to Ian if anybody’s givin’ you a hard time. Gallaghers know how to throw down.”

“You know I’m not a snitch.”

“Yeah, well.” Mickey sniffs. “If you ever need to…talk or whatever. I’ll listen.”

The kid pulls his legs up on the couch with him. He isn’t small, but like that, he seems that way.

“Thanks.”

“Yep.”

“I swear I’m not gonna kill myself, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Remember what I said.”

Aleks laughs breathily. “We’ll go shoot cans or beat things that aren’t Ian’s Jeep.”

Mickey picks up his beer and gives him an air toast.

This is what PJ doesn’t get.

---

After Aleks goes home, Mickey eats half the pizza PJ’d brought for him in thanks and smokes for the first time in hours. He’s pretty good about not smoking in front of the kids. It’s PJ’s rule, but he’s okay to follow it because he gets it. Smoking sucks.

He inhales two in the span of ten minutes and then, after chugging another beer, changes his clothes and goes out to ride the four-wheeler before it gets dark.

He takes off down Wallace, skirting the fence so he can check on Millie and some of the others who frequent the lower pasture.

Obviously, he has to run into Ian, who’s still out in his yard, repositioning the line of edging stones along his drive that have been washed out by recent rains.

Mickey’s going slow enough on the four-wheeler that it’d be awkward of him to not stop, so he does, idling by the edge of the Gallagher drive and holding his breath.

“Yo,” Mickey greets, and Ian stands up straight, wipes his dirty hands on his shorts, and goes to him.

“Yo, yo, yo. How’s it goin’?”

The other man shrugs. “Alright. You?”

“Okay. Yard work on a Thursday night, so it could be better.” A beat. “I saw the Curran Crew leave. Did you drive with Aleks today?”

“Yeah. PJ asked me to teach him.”

“Brave soul.”

“Tell me about it.”

Ian scratches the sweaty nape of his neck and watches Mickey, who’s squeezing the brake levers and sucking at his bottom lip.

“So, hey,” he says, stomach twisting with nerves. “D’you wanna come in for a beer? I’m just about done here.”

Mickey’s eyes dart away, then back, then away again. His lips part, and he breathes out his mouth like he’s suddenly out of breath.

“Uhhh.” He mulls it over. Ian tries to control his own breathing.

Finally, Mickey murmurs, “Not tonight. But I’ll get my hat.”

“Oh, shit! Yeah. Forgot about that.”

Ian takes off toward the house, the rumble of the four-wheeler following slowly behind. The journey and then the quick dash inside is enough to distract him from feeling emotions over the fact that Mickey turned down his offer.

And it’s fine that he did. Even ignoring the probably-straight bit of the matter, it’s a random Thursday night, and Ian’d sprung it on him out of the blue.

He snatches the hat off the mantle and heads back outside.

“Catch.”

Mickey holds up his hand, and Ian frisbees the hat toward him from the porch. He misaims but not by much, and anyway, he’s ultimately rewarded by the sight of Mickey scooping it backward onto his head, so it’s a win for him.

He’s expecting the other man to call see ya and ride off into the sunset, but he doesn’t. Instead, he idles on the four-wheeler and runs his thumbs over the rubber on the handlebars.

Ian pulls out a cigarette while he waits, and the fact that he’s no longer being stared at apparently gives Mickey courage to speak.

“Hey,” he says, and Ian looks at him. “Aleks told me some kids are messin’ with him at school.”

“Yeah. He told me about it a few weeks ago.”

An unreadable expression crosses Mickey’s face. “You didn’t tell me,” he murmurs, gaze bouncing away.

“Sorry. Yeah. I promised Aleks I wouldn’t.”

“But he’s gettin’ bullied.”

“He told me some kids take snaps of him in math class. It’s why he called his teacher a dick after he made him go up to the board.”

Ian gets where Mickey’s coming from, but it’s complicated. He’d been trying to build trust with Aleks, and the kid had been adamant that he not tell anyone about it.

“Will you tell me if he ever…” Mickey takes a deep breath like the words are hard for him. “I dunno. Just… I just wanna know if he’s gettin’ fucked with.”

Ian nods. “Yeah. I’ll tell you.”

“‘Specially if they’re callin’ him shit.”

“Like what?”

Mickey swallows heavily and runs a hand over his face. “Like fag or something.”

“They’re calling him that?”

“Yeah.”

Ian sighs. “Poor kid. Is he gay?”

“I dunno. It don’t matter.” Mickey idly squeezes at the brakes. “I just wanna know if he’s bein’ fucked with,” he repeats.

“Got it. Yeah. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” A beat. “And don’t tell Mark. If you ever need to call one of his parents, talk to PJ.”

“Okay.”

Mickey huffs and looks up at the tree branches above him. He’s exasperated, and he seems a touch embarrassed at himself.

Ian thinks it’s sweet as hell.

“And don’t tell Aleks I told you, neither. ‘Specially not about the ‘fag’ thing.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Ian pauses. Mickey looks around like he’s preparing to take his leave.

“But hey,” he adds. “If you ever think I should talk to him about that kinda thing.” He holds up his wrist. “I’d be happy to.”

Mickey’s lips press together. He looks unbearably unhappy for the briefest of moments before wiping that look off his face.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think he’s…y’know. Or…” He runs a hand over his eyes like he’s frustrated. “I’m not really close to him, and it’s not my thing or whatever to tell you to do that shit, so. You can talk to PJ. I just wanna know if bitch-ass bullies are messin’ with him, and--”

Mickey cuts himself off, and Ian watches his thumb move to the gas lever like he’s considering zooming away. He’s full of the most frenetic, tense energy Ian’s ever seen, like his insides are pulling him in the opposite direction his body’s trying to go, his words coming out stilted as if they’re being forced through the small end of a funnel.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ian reassures. “I get it. I do.”

Mickey nods. He doesn’t look up.

“Anyways,” he says. “I’m gonna get outta here. Thanks for the hat.”

Ian smiles. “Sure thing. And look at that: totally intact.”

“Hm.” Mickey nods and, still not looking up, smiles back. “Look at that.”

---

Since he doesn’t have Aleks in class until second semester, Ian keeps an eye out for him in the hall on Friday morning. He spots him just a few minutes before the bell rings. He’s dressed in a gray T-shirt and ripped jeans he’s already pre-censored by covering the topmost thigh hole with masking tape, ooooh so sexxxi written on it in black Sharpie.

Ian’s definitely not going to mention anything to him about what Mickey’d told him; he just wants to check in.

“So how many innocent bystanders did you mow down yesterday?” Ian asks as the kid approaches.

Aleks clearly grins under his mask, his eyes scrunching at the corners. “I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent driver.”

“I think Mickey mentioned something to me about bodies in ditches, crashing through storefront windows, and general like, fire and mayhem.”

“He’s a dirty liar.”

Ian smiles. “You doing okay?”

The kid nods. “I’m good. You got any candy?”

Ian leads the way into his room, and Aleks makes a bee-line to the treat basket on Ian’s desk. He grabs an indiscriminate handful of candies and shoves them in his pocket.

“Thought any more about the Helping Hands conference?”

“Hell no.”

“Ahh, c’mon.”

Aleks rolls his eyes. “It’s pointless.”

“You’ll get to meet new people. Might make some new friends?”

“Barf.”

“No parents? Scheduled free time in Atlanta?”

“That’s your best argument yet, but no.”

Ian flutters his lips. “It’s that tough a sell, huh?”

“Yep. Just give up.” Aleks pulls his mask down to show he’s giving Ian a closed-mouth smile. He pulls it back up and salutes him. “Bye.”

“Later, bud.”

The boy’s on his way out the door when he suddenly turns and asks, “Do you hang out with Mickey a lot?”

“Uhh, not really. Sometimes. Why?”

Aleks shrugs, waves, and heads out.

---
---

It’s an uneventful weekend. Ian cleans out some old junk from the closets and bedrooms and hauls it to Goodwill. He travels to Macon to visit various big box hardware stores to do some research on potential new countertops. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but he draws up some ugly sketches of how he’d like to remodel the upstairs bathroom, maybe knock down the wall between it and Debbie’s tiny room because the former could stand to be a little larger and the latter won’t fly as a bedroom when he tries to sell.

On Sunday, he cuts the grass and does some basic garden maintenance. He goes back to the nursery and asks around about flowering shrubs, showing the owner pictures of the house and inquiring about which would look best framing the porch and which colors would go well with blue paint.

He hopes to spend the fall on the outside: painting, planting, and re-staining the porch. In the winter, he’ll work on the kitchen and bathrooms. In the spring, he’ll replant the garden, maybe. Build that fence. Get a chicken coop. Then will come the inspections. He’s sure there will be a million things wrong--the roof, probably mold and termites and whatever the hell else could fuck with preparing a house to sell. He’ll deal with that then.

For now, he looks forward to upgrading the space, turning it from a sad memory to something better.

Despite being in his yard for much of the weekend, he doesn’t see much of Mickey. There was a green four-wheeler speeding around in the pasture Saturday evening. When Ian was too far away to wave, he saw Mickey pass by in his truck, listening to Mötley Crüe with the windows down, “Kickstart My Heart” ringing through as clear as if Ian had his own radio on.

He considered texting him Friday night as he was lying in bed re-reading their previous exchanges.

Saw Aleks today and he was his goofy, loveable self. Just wanted you to know 😊 he would’ve said--because Mickey’d been worried about him Thursday night, and as much as he tries to pretend otherwise, he clearly cares.

Ian couldn’t muster the courage.

---

His appointment with Dr. Healy is Monday at eleven, and Ian takes the whole day off because he knows how he can get after appointments like that.

Not that he has a world of experience getting his head shrunk. There was the stuff right after his diagnosis, then the shit in the hospital last summer; other than that, he’s been flying solo since he was 26, aided only by a GP who’d adjust his meds as needed and siblings who’d either rein him in when he was getting too nuts or break into his house and sit with him in bed when he’d stop answering the phone for weeks.

But if there’s one thing Ian really hates talking about, it’s his feelings, especially where his bipolar is concerned. It never fails to fuck him up--to make him angry and sad and want to crawl under his blankets and never come out.

Though the mature part of him acknowledges that going to psychotherapy is a necessary step to achieve his hopes of overall wellness and functionality as a human being, the rest of him isn’t quite so optimistic.

He isn’t necessarily reassured when he meets Dr. Healy.

The psychiatrist back at the hospital had been in her 50s, a graying, short-haired woman who dressed casually and wore funky earrings. She asked Ian to call her Janet and cursed like a sailor.

Dr. Healy is very much a Dr. Healy. She’s relatively young--probably no more than a couple years Ian’s senior--but she introduces herself as her title and nothing else and sits down in front of him with a clipboard clasped over her skinny black dress pants.

It’s the age of COVID, so there are masks and obviously no handshakes. Ian sits stiffly in his seat as she sits equally stiffly in hers.

“So how’re you doing today, Ian?” she asks, grasping the top of her clipboard. Her nails are neatly manicured and shiny with clear polish.

“I’m okay.”

“Are you doing a half day at work, or did you take the day?”

“Took the day.” He sighs. “Figured I’d need it.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well. It’s a psych appointment.”

Dr. Healy doesn’t comment on that directly, but she rocks her head from side to side as if understanding his point of view though not necessarily agreeing with it.

“Maybe you can enjoy your day off,” she says, reaching for a pen. “I’d just like to get to know you today.”

---

They talk about his job, the house, and his move from Florida. She doesn’t press too much--mostly just sticks to casual conversation one might have with an awkward first date. It isn’t until she brings up his family that things progress from generally fairly boring to frustrating.

“Big family,” she comments after he’s named and described each of his siblings. “Do you all get along?”

“Sometimes.” Ian shrugs. “I mean, we all, y’know, grew up together. Fiona was our legal guardian, and we were poor and pretty much parentless, so we had to make it work. We stuck together.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

“And are you still close?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Dr. Healy hms and writes something on her notepad. He wishes he could read it; she isn’t hiding it from him, but her handwriting is a loopy scrawl, and upside down, is fairly illegible.

“They’re still in Florida?” she asks once she’s done.

“Yeah.”

“Must’ve been hard on you to move away. You said you’re living on your own.”

“Yeah.”

“Any particular reason you made the ultimate decision to move? You mentioned the passing of your father, but from what you said, you weren’t close.”

Here it goes. He could feel it in her from the beginning. She isn’t a natural conversationalist like Janet had been; she’s direct with her questioning. Ian isn’t sure whether or not he appreciates it, the lack of bullshit perhaps a touch refreshing if he’s being honest.

He decides to just be out with it. She’d wanted to get to know him today, but it was always going to come up sooner or later. You can’t really know him without knowing that shit.

Ian sighs. “Last summer, y’know.”

“Your suicide attempt.”

He knew it was coming, but it still feels like a boot to the face to hear. It always does. Janet had made a point to say it in their conversations, her philosophy being that it’s something that happened; he shouldn’t shy away from it and push it down, pretending it doesn’t exist as part of his recent past.

Suicide attempt.

He hates the way it sounds. It isn’t even accurate, really, as it technically wasn’t an attempt. He killed himself, full stop. That they pumped him full of donated blood and brought him back on the ER table doesn’t change the fact. His heart had stopped.

Dr. Healy waits for him to continue. He avoids her eyes when he does.

“Since then, our relationship’s kinda…strained, I guess you could say,” he murmurs. “Especially with my two sisters.”

“How so?”

How does he even begin to explain? Even cycling through the whole thing in his mind makes him feel like a giant asshole.

“Last summer was a really bad time for us,” he settles on.

“Your paperwork mentions you were involuntarily committed into a mental health facility in June of 2020.”

“Yeah.”

“By your sisters?”

“Yeah.”

Dr. Healy shifts in her seat and repositions the clipboard on her lap. “Would you say you’re still feeling distressed over this?”

Ian laughs nervously, a breathy thing. “Do you blame me?”

She rocks her head from side to side again but doesn’t otherwise answer. Her hand busily writes a long note. When she’s done, she studies Ian for a moment as if contemplating continuing her line of questioning, pressing her pen to her lips through the fabric of her mask. Her eyes are a startling gray, and her naturally light lashes are unnaturally dark from mascara.

She suddenly reaches for her laptop. “So all things considered,” she says, clearly in the process of changing the subject. “How are your moods?”

They talk about his bipolar for ten minutes. He gives her a rundown on his diagnosis and what she calls his “Treatment History.” He tells her about Monica. They go over his current medication dosages and discuss his general lifestyle and how that factors into the meds’ effectiveness.

She tells him to stop drinking, and he tells her he doesn’t do it all that much, though it’s a lie. She also tells him his caffeine intake is extreme for even someone unmedicated. She takes his blood pressure. It’s slightly elevated, and his heart rate is through the roof.

“Let’s work on limiting the caffeine intake,” she suggests, typing it out in his record. “Not only can the caffeine interact with your medication, but it is almost certainly contributing to your anxiety.”

He wants to tell her to fuck off because cutting out the caffeine is not something he’s willing to do, thank you very much. It’s the only thing that keeps him awake half the time, his meds and general lack of sleep making him near-constantly drowsy. It’s something he should probably tell her, but he doesn’t. She doesn’t want to go too deep today. Talking about his lack of sleep would be going too deep.

At the end of the half hour, Dr. Healy helps him set up his next appointment, an hour this time.

“Enjoy your time off,” she says, nodding toward the door. “It’s a beautiful day.”

He thanks her and exits the room, carrying his appointment card with him.

---

Ian feels a bit like he’s been hit by a truck when he gets in the car, and they hadn’t even talked about anything, really. It’s the whole idea, though--the vulnerability of it all, of just sitting in an uncomfortable chair being stared at and written about by someone who’s probably trying to diagnose you with everything under the sun.

He sits there in the sweltering heat for ten minutes before cranking up and backing out of the parking spot.

He goes to Beck’s to pick up some lunch, his stomach growling though he doesn’t feel that much like eating. It’s crowded, the take-out line seven people deep just to order. He waits patiently, and once at the front, orders himself a BLT and crispy fries.

The girl behind the counter--Nicole, according to her nametag--hands him a styrofoam cup for his drink, and he takes it over to the tea canister and fills it to the brim.

He’s just turning to go wait on one of the benches near the front when he runs into PJ, who’s leaving the restaurant with a female coworker. She’s dressed in skinny black pants and a flowy pink top, and her hair is down and mermaid-wavy.

“Ian!” she greets, her face lighting up with surprised happiness. “How’s it going?”

They make small talk while PJ’s coworker goes to the bathroom. Ian tells her he’s playing hooky from work, making a joke of it so he doesn’t have to tell her he had an appointment.

She laughs--tells him it’s good he’s treating himself.

He likes her. She’s kind in a way that feels authentic, and none of her smiles are forced for the sake of politeness.

“How’s my boy?” she asks.

For a second, Ian stutters, not really sure whether she’s referencing Mickey or Aleks. Playing it safe, he goes with Aleks, and he’s glad he does, as she seems to be expecting it.

“He stops by my room and steals my candy.” Ian smirks. “But other than a possible sugar addiction, he’s good, as far as I know.”

She nods, and her eyes bounce to the side and then back in a way that lets him know she’s thinking of his bullies--that her question about him wasn’t merely to make conversation.

“So, hey,” he murmurs, deciding to bring it up because he can’t not. “Aleks told me a few weeks ago he was being picked on.”

PJ lowers her voice to a whisper. “Little…assholes.”

“Teenagers suck sometimes.”

“Yeah.” There’s a moment of silence where neither of them really seems to know what to say. Despite her question, PJ clearly wasn’t expecting the conversation to go down that route, as she’s suddenly solemn in a way that fades the smile lines around her mouth.

“You said he told you,” she says eventually, once her coworker comes back. She tells her she’ll see her back at the office and then gives her full attention back to Ian. “Do you two talk some?”

“A little, yeah. Nothing major. He sometimes hangs around my room after club meetings, and we talk while he waits for his ride.”

PJ bites her lip. “Aleks asked if you were…y’know…when we were at Patsy’s.”

“Uhh, yeah.” Ian lowers his brows. “Sorry?”

“Oh, no, no, no. I don’t mean it like that.” She pats his forearm. “I was just wondering if maybe you two have talked about it…?”

“About me being gay?”

“Yeah. Or…other stuff.”

“Like what?”

She looks around and shifts on her feet, and Ian can tell she’d rather take the conversation somewhere more private. He makes a move toward the door, and she follows.

They stand outside on the empty sidewalk, but PJ still speaks in a low, quiet voice when she asks, “Has Aleks mentioned anything to you about what the bullies have been calling him?”

Ian plays dumb because Mickey told him to. He shakes his head.

PJ sighs. “They’ve been calling him the f-word. F-A-G.”

Before he can respond, she adds, “I don’t know if he’s gay or not. I suspect, but…” She huffs, distressed. “And I’m really sorry. I don’t know if I just outed him to you or something. I don’t really know how this works, and--”

“You’re fine.” Ian smiles. “I’m not gonna say anything.” A beat. “Who are the kids? Do you know?”

“It’s more than one. A few athletes with PTO moms. They’ve been giving him a rough time for years ‘cause he likes art, and he’s never been good at sports or making friends. The gay references are new.”

“Have you talked to administration?”

“Called and met with them in person. Apparently, there’s not really much they can do since we’re dealing with deleted social media posts and hearsay. I think Mrs. Briggs talked to the boys in her office, but that was two weeks ago.”

Ian blows out a breath. That shit’s tough. He hates it. The thing with bullying is that schools supposedly have a zero-tolerance policy and yet bullying’s the hardest thing in the world to actually accuse someone of and have it stick. There’s rarely proof, and if there is, it’s often on private social media accounts and posts that were made after school hours. It almost always results in a slap on the wrist and the bully feeling like they’ve won, and it fucking sucks.

He knows from first hand experience that it does. And things are different now, social media adding a whole horrible layer to what teenagers deal with, but as someone who was also called a fag by high school bullies, all the kids are the same, and so are the punishments or lack thereof.

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Ian asks for the second time in four days.

PJ looks relieved. “I’d love for you to talk to him. I’ve asked Mickey to talk to him, too, you know, but he’s got his own special way with him.”

The introduction of Mickey into the conversation comes as a surprise to Ian--one that makes his heart thud against his ribcage.

Obviously, there’s the biological connection between Mickey and Aleks. Ian would be stupid to assume she’d asked him for any other reason. But they are talking about Aleks potentially being gay, right? And needing someone to talk to about it?

Not that a straight guy couldn’t. But still.

Ian must be making a face, as PJ is quick to add, “Of course, I don’t expect you to go out of your way.” She presses her lips together in a manner that reads as nothing but sincere, her eyes soft. “I’d just love for him to have some other adults he can trust who are looking out for him.”

“Absolutely.” Ian gives her a warm smile. “Oh! Did he tell you about the Helping Hands kick-off conference in November?”

Clearly not, judging by PJ’s interested face. He tells her about it, and Ian can’t help but hold in a laugh when she says with conviction that Aleks will definitely be going. The kid’s gonna be pissed.

He promises to email her details soon and then nods toward the doors.

“Better go check on my food,” he says.

PJ smiles and apologizes for holding him up. But just as they’re saying their goodbyes and Ian’s turning to go, she looks down at the styrofoam box in her hands and looks back up at him with something curious in her eyes.

“Are you on your way home?” she asks.

“Yeah? I think so.”

“D’you mind delivering this to Mickey? I was gonna run over there before heading back to the office, but if you’re going that way…”

His heart kicks. “Uhh, yeah! Definitely.” He takes the box from her. “No problem.”

No problem at all.

Mickey’s cleaning his hands with Fast Orange at the kitchen sink when there’s a knock on the door. He checks the time. 12:20. Must be PJ with his food.

He takes his time rinsing, as she’ll eventually give up the knocking and come on in, but by the time his hands are clean and dry, she still hasn’t tried the doorknob.

With a huff, he jogs over to the door and yanks it open.

“You know you can just come in,” he says before the door has widened enough to reveal not a blonde in business casual but a redhead in a gray T-shirt and those jean shorts he’s so fond of, the pair cuffed just above the knee.

“Oh. Hey,” Mickey corrects himself. “Thought you were--”

“PJ. Yeah.” Ian smiles sunnily and shakes the Beck’s container in his hands. “Ran into her gettin’ lunch, and she sent me on a mission.”

Awkwardly, Mickey takes the food. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

In his head, he quickly runs through a list of federal holidays. “No school today?” he asks, peering down briefly at Ian’s white Air Force 1s, which look immaculate in comparison to Mickey’s nasty knock-off Timberlands with black shit all over them from the garage and an inch of dried red mud caked in the tread.

“Uhh, no,” he replies. “I had an appointment, so I’m kinda playin’ hooky.”

“Cool.” Mickey looks up at him. His lips are poised like he wants to continue, but he doesn’t.

They stand there for a long, silent moment before Mickey musters up the guts to ask, “So you wanna come in or…?”

“Oh! No.” Ian holds up both hands like he thinks Mickey thought he was hinting at it by not leaving. “I’ve got my own lunch in the Jeep, and--”

And Mickey doesn’t know why he does it, as it’s truly in his best interest to leave this shit the hell alone, but before he’s had a chance to stop himself, he says, “Well I was just about to eat, and--”

“Oh.”

“Like, if you wanted to--”

“Oh, like…?”

“Like, yeah, you can--” Mickey nods toward Ian’s Jeep, and he doesn’t know how the fuck anything’s been remotely communicated with that like-filled mess, but the other man still somehow knows what he’s saying.

The redhead’s face turns pink just beneath his eyes, and he nods. “Cool. Yeah. Gimme a sec…”

He turns and jogs down the porch steps and over to his Jeep.

---

They don’t actually end up going inside. It’s too nice a day, anyway, the temperature in the low 80s and the sun covered just enough by clouds to soften its burn. They sit on Mickey’s wicker furniture like they have before and open up their take-out boxes.

Ian looks tired, the circles beneath his eyes dark like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Mickey thinks about Ian’s appointment that day, and his mind recalls the Psych 9/20 written on his fridge whiteboard.

“Your appointment go okay?” he asks without thinking too hard about it. He munches a salty fry he’s dipped in Beck’s honey mustard.

“Umm.” Ian hums while he chews his BLT, then nods. “Yep. I’m a fuckin’...therapy bitch now, I guess.”

Mickey smirks. “A therapy bitch?”

“Yeah.”

“Uhh, care to elaborate?”

“Not really.” Ian smirks, and it’s… It’s something. He does it with his eyes more than his mouth.

Mickey thinks he’s actually going to leave him hanging and is about to change the subject when Ian finally adds, “Surprise, surprise, I’m post-quarantine fucked in the head.”

He probably could’ve guessed it. Ian’s depressed. Kinda hard not to be these days, and if Mickey didn’t think therapy was for a bunch of gay and granola weirdos, he knows he’d be a prime candidate, himself.

He nods at the man in acknowledgment and picks up his burger.

“You been doin’ it long?” he asks with his mouth full a minute later.

Ian shakes his head. “Nah. First time in like a year.” A beat. “And it was never a regular thing.”

“Cool.”

“You ever been?”

Mickey laughs outright. “To a fuckin’ shrink?”

“Yeah.”

“Hell no.”

Ian smiles like he gets exactly what Mickey means--like he feels the same way himself, really, and it prompts Mickey to want to ask him why he’s going. He doesn’t, though. That feels like crossing a line.

They eat for a minute in silence.

“So Aleks,” Ian says, his mouth full of fries. “PJ wants me to talk to him. She said she’s enlisted your help, too.”

“Talk to him about…”

“Being gay, I think. Or at least she wants me to be somebody he can talk to about that kinda thing if he wants.”

“PJ don’t even know if he’s gay.”

“I’m obviously not gonna be like, ‘Yo, Aleks. I heard you’re into dudes.’ I’m just gonna be like a,” he holds up air quotes, “gay presence in his life or whatever.”

Mickey snorts. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Ian looks at him weirdly, like he’s trying to figure something out, and Mickey’s guts go cold.

“Whatever,” he says, shaking it off. “You asked me if you should talk to him. Guess that’s your answer.”

“Guess so.”

He watches Ian cram the last bit of his BLT into his mouth and chew, the bite big enough to make his cheeks bulge. They make eye contact for a second, and Mickey looks quickly away, focusing his eyes back down on his food. He crams his own mouth with more fries and wonders what the hell Ian thinks of him.

He wonders if he thinks he’s gay.

It occurs to Mickey that he never showed surprise or really reacted at all to Ian’s own admission of queerness--just asked him when he got the tattoo. It makes sense, too; they kissed back when they were kids. They were two little queer teenagers pressing their mouths together even when Mickey had a girlfriend who would eventually have his biological child. PJ was already pregnant and didn’t know it that day Ian and Mickey were in the woods, and still, none of that changed a thing about what happened.

Do you want to kiss me?

Yes.

Yes, he did.

His chest starts to feel tight again, but he ignores it. He offers to go get them beers and then stands, heading into the house, grabbing two Buds from the fridge, and pausing before exiting the screen door again to rub at the tightness, trying his best to soothe it away.

---

They pop open their beers and drink them as they finish up their food. Ian talks about how his brother Lip and Lip’s oldest kid are coming to visit next month. Mickey asks him about everybody else’s kids.

“How many Gallaghers are there now? Couple thousand?”

Ian grins. “Not quite. It’s just Lip and Debs with kids. Lip’s got Freddie and Amelia, and Debbie has a 12-year-old daughter, Franny.”

“Fiona married?”

“Why, you wanna date her?” Ian sticks out his tongue, and Mickey kicks his shoe.

“Fuck off. Her dance card’s full if she’s anything like she was in high school.”

“Oof!” Ian laughs then says seriously, “Nah. I dunno. She’s always hooking up with somebody, and she’s been married and divorced twice. But I think she’s in her if it happens, it happens state of life right now. She’s almost forty, so.”

“Got it.”

“Yeah. You might be surprised to hear that the Gallaghers haven’t exactly been what you might call ‘lucky in love.’ Lip’s been with Tami for ten years and married for three. But everybody else…” Ian shrugs.

“Milkoviches ain’t too different. You talked to my sister?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s been with her guy forever, but she acts like she hates him half the time. The other half of the time she’s knocked up.”

“Believe it or not, that’s sorta how she described it, too.”

“Colin’s a wife beater. Then there’s Iggy. He’s got the little girl, Merle, but he’s goin’ to court next week to prob’ly lose custody ‘cause he’s a dumbfuck.”

Mickey takes a deep breath. Then there’s him, of course, but that isn’t worth saying.

Ian holds out his beer can and gestures for Mickey to toast. Weird fucker. He does, anyway, and the tips of their fingers touch when the cans collide.

They knock the drinks back and finish them off in several heavy gulps. Mickey burps. Ian chuckles at it.

“Hey,” he says, closing up his take-out box and shuffling around like he’s about to leave.

Mickey looks at him. Waits.

“There’s time for us yet.” He smiles, this huge, closed-mouth thing that makes him look like a teenager and a freckly puppy and the fucking sun all at once. “Maybe me and you will meet the loves of our lives and have long, happy marriages and Golden Retrievers.”

Mickey flutters his lips. “Yeah, okay. Good luck with that in Greenhill.”

“Ehhh. Ya never know.” Ian huffs a laugh and starts gathering his shit. “There’re always apps.”

“What, like, gay Tinder?”

“Grindr, yeah!” For some reason, Ian looks delighted to be discussing this shit, and Mickey feels his heart begin to thud harder and his ears go hot with embarrassment for asking.

Stupid fucking him, he keeps asking goddamn questions that get him nowhere but in trouble.

“D’you actually match with people around here?”

“Want me to show you?” Ian pulls his phone from his pocket, and Mickey feels the strongest urge to run away, his leg muscles itching with it.

“Nah, it’s cool,” he says, standing as well. “I need to get goin’. Got shit to do this afternoon.”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry.” Ian laughs nervously and puts his phone back in his pocket. He bites his lip, and Mickey can see the energy thrumming behind his eyes like he’s about to burst--a balloon being slowly filled with water until the rubber walls start to stretch beyond capacity.

He isn’t sure whether the man’s going to say what he’s clearly thinking, and he doesn’t much want to stick around to find out. He picks up his take-out box and fiddles with it for a moment before opening his mouth to tell Ian goodbye.

He doesn’t get the chance.

“If you want me to show you how Grindr works one day, I can. Y’know. If you’re interested or whatever,” Ian blurts, his words flowing free and fast.

Just as fast, Mickey stammers, “No. I don’t--”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I mean, I just don’t--”

“Yeah, it’s cool.”

Mickey huffs and squeezes the take-out box so hard his finger pokes through the styrofoam.

“I didn’t mean to assume…” Ian starts, then seemingly changes tactics and finishes with, “I didn’t mean it that way. I was just gonna show you if you didn’t know how it works. Just if you were curious or whatever. I didn’t mean--”

“Yeah, no. I don’t really wanna--”

“Yeah. Cool. Cool. Okay.” Ian smiles, and he’s out of breath and red-faced.

Mickey wants to die and he wants to run.

“Anyways.” The other man shakes his empty box. “Thanks for having lunch with me. This was fun. We should…”

Ian’s about to suggest they do it again, but something stops him. Mickey rubs his hand over his face and just says, “Yeah, yeah,” and somehow, after a minute more of fumbling with stupid, half-uttered sentences, they say goodbye.

Jesus Christ.

---

As soon as Ian’s in his Jeep, Mickey goes inside, dumps his trash, and pulls out his phone.

--------------

Mickey (12:57 PM): I fuckin hate you what the fuck was that

Mickey (12:57 PM): 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

PJ (12:58 PM): I love uuuuuu 🥰️😉

--------------

He didn’t actually think he was suicidal anymore, but holy fuck if that conversation with Mickey didn’t change his mind.

Ian sits in his Jeep for a solid twenty minutes before entering the house. He hates himself.

He asked Mickey if he wanted him to show him how to use Grindr?! Jesus fuck. And he can’t even blame it on the beer, really, because sure, it’d made him a little light like a single can does, but he was all there and not even remotely drunk in any kind of meaningful way.

It’s just that in the moment, Ian had seen it as an in even though it has to have been the worst one he could’ve possibly used. He made Mickey feel awkward, and that made him feel awkward, and he’s not even sure what they were saying by the end because it was just a bunch of half-finished sentences that all seemed to scream, Get me out of here!

He gets out of the Jeep and goes inside, then heads to the fridge and grabs himself another beer, which he chugs with intention.

Ian’s embarrassed now, and for what? He didn’t even get his answer. Mickey’d just stuttered and said he didn’t want Ian to show him how to use Grindr, and that could be because he’s straight and could be because, sexuality aside, he just has no interest in using it.

The beer gives him heartburn. He gets a bottle of TUMS from the cabinet and pops two tablets.

And because it’s already been well-established that he’s stupid, an absolute fucking imbecile, he takes out his phone and chews the TUMS while texting,

--------------

Ian (1:26 PM): Haha 😅

--------------

Mickey doesn’t reply. Ian looks longingly at the bottle of Bleach stowed under the kitchen sink.

---
---

The Helping Hands meeting is after school the next day. The club sorts, packages, and then delivers fall-themed candy baggies for the teachers and office staff with encouraging handwritten notes inside.

Afterward, as usual, Aleks returns from his trip down the science wing and parks himself in Ian’s classroom with one of the extra candy bags. He takes his mask off, opens it, and begins munching on the candy inside without a care in the world.

Ian unhooks his mask and tells him to toss him a bag.

They eat candy for a few minutes in silence. Ian clicks around on his computer, and Aleks plays on his phone.

“So when’s Driver’s Ed end?” Ian asks, leaning back in his chair and popping a Sour Patch Kid into his mouth.

Aleks sets his phone down. “Next Saturday. Thank God.”

“It’s that bad?”

“It’s awful. Worse than you can ever imagine.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, Drama.”

“All the videos are from the Dark Ages.”

“Oooh. When? Like, 2005?”

“Maybe. That was literally 16 years ago.”

Fuck. Ian takes a heavy drink of coffee and shakes his head.

“Face it, Ian,” Aleks adds, rubbing it in. “You’re an old man.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re my parents’ age.”

“They’re technically older.”

“Same difference. You’re Mickey’s age, right?”

“Mickey’s over a year older.”

“Oh, yeah.” Aleks dumps a package of M&Ms into his mouth. “I forgot he failed a grade. You two were sophomores when my mom and dad were seniors. Mom said you were on the shooting team and ROTC.”

“So your mom just talks about me?” Ian smiles.

“She talks about Mickey, and sometimes she talks about you when she does. She said you and him were friends.”

They really weren’t, honestly. Ian shrugs. “Sorta. We were neighbors, so we grew up together.”

Aleks finishes up his candy bag, stands, and free-throws it at the trash can. He misses, and Ian makes him go pick it up.

“Question,” the kid says when he returns to his desk. Rather than sit down, he loiters around Ian’s teacher desk, fiddling with his trinkets.

Ian raises his brows at him. “What’s up?”

“Did Mickey like, know you were gay or whatever? When you were kids?” He makes a face. “I mean, I’m guessing you’re gay. You never said, but you’ve got a really gay tattoo and you dress super gay.”

Ian laughs; he can’t help it. “How do I dress super gay?”

“Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror?”

“Jesus Christ, Aleks!”

The kid, who’s had a neutral expression thus far, breaks into a huge grin like he’s absolutely delighted with himself. He picks up Ian’s snowglobe, gives it a shake, and says, “You know what I mean. Answer the question.”

Ian blows out a breath. “Uhh, yeah,” he says, shrugging. “He did.”

Aleks is quiet for a minute, seemingly accepting the answer, before finally responding with a simple, “Oh.”

“Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Ian waits to see if the kid will elaborate. He doesn’t.

“His family was homophobic,” Ian says, filling the silence. “But he wasn’t like them.”

Aleks nods. “Yeah. I figured.” He sets down the snowglobe after watching all the bits of glitter fall to the bottom. “And he was still friends with you even though you were gay? Like, you two hung out and stuff?”

He doesn’t really have the heart to tell the boy that he and Mickey weren’t like that. It seems PJ’s given him a more romanticized view of their childhood, telling her son Ian and Mickey were buddies even when that was never the case.

Ian shrugs. Nods. “Yeah,” he says, even though it’s a partial lie.

“Cool.”

“I think Mickey’s okay with gay people, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Aleks makes a clicking sound with his mouth and goes to pick up his phone.

Ian adds, “I don’t know his politics or whatever, but nothing he’s ever said has made me think he’s not a good guy, so.”

“Gotcha.” The kid sounds disinterested, but Ian knows he isn’t.

Aleks gathers his things and nods toward the door. “Mom’s here,” he says, though Ian checks the time and doesn’t think it’s true. It’s 4:15, and she usually picks him up at 4:30 on club days.

Still, he lets him go. “Later, bud,” he says, giving him a goodbye nod.

Aleks steals another extra candy baggy and waves over his shoulder as he leaves.

Ian doesn’t know whether he did a good job or not. He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do with the kid to begin with. But he figures until Aleks wants to talk--if he ever wants to talk--he can be someone who listens and helps where he can.

Mickey agrees to drive with the kid again. PJ drops him off at the house Thursday after school, and Mickey takes him to Southdown Baptist so they can practice in a more confined space with less room for error.

He looks okay, and he’s shed the flannel in favor of a teal T-shirt and black jeans.

They’ve been in each other’s presence for twenty minutes or longer before Mickey asks, “You doin’ alright?”

“I’m good,” Aleks says, wringing the steering wheel with his hands. He’s practicing his parking, and backing in is giving him trouble, his aim in relation to the other spaces not yet accurate enough.

He huffs when Mickey doesn’t reply right away and adds, “I haven’t been cutting myself. Don’t worry.”

“Assholes at school been givin’ you trouble?”

“The usual.”

“Which is?”

The kid clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, but Mickey doesn’t care. He shifts in his seat so he can see his whole face.

Aleks sighs. “Just existing. Laughing when I get a question wrong in class. Loudly daring each other to ask me to be their project partner.” He shrugs. “I’m used to that shit. And the taking a picture and passing around their phone so they can make fun of it thing. Think they’ve at least stopped taking snaps since Mom went to the office about it.”

“If it gets worse, y’know…”

“I know…”

“Tell Ian. He’ll knock ‘em around for you.”

Aleks smiles, and it makes Mickey feel both happy and sad at the same time.

“Tell me, too,” he adds. “Maybe me and Ian’ll team up and beat the shit out of ‘em.”

“No offense, but I’m pretty sure they could take you.”

Mickey makes a face. “Uhhh, offense taken. Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout?”

“You’re short. They’re like six-three.”

“Says the kid who ain’t much taller.”

“Ha!” Aleks pulls out of the parking space and begins a loop around the church. “I’m still taller, though.”

Mickey makes a grumbly sound and tells him to keep his eye on the road and go easy on the gas.

They drive for another ten minutes and then get bored. Mickey nods toward the highway and tells Aleks he can take a left.

“Now don’t act like a maniac. Traffic’s light. Drive down a mile thataway and hang a left on Tomkins Farm.”

The kid is ecstatic, and Mickey has to tell him to calm his ass before he lets him leave the parking lot.

Once they’re on the road, Aleks is surprisingly decent. The highway’s deserted, and Tomkins Farm isn’t far past Wallace, which is barely a 60-second drive from the church. The boy makes it easily there and takes a left onto the dirt road.

Mickey instructs him to go slow, and they roll down their windows while he tells Aleks about Jim Tomkins’ moonshine and how it tastes like shit.

“And the fair grounds are down there.” He points vaguely in the direction of the huge, empty field Tomkins rents out to the county every May. It’s been years since Mickey’s been--not since Aleks was small enough to ride the baby rides and PJ’d asked him to tag along and help her with him while Mark was out of town.

He remembers sitting on a bench with him while PJ went to the bathroom, Aleks in his lap and Mickey’s arms hugging him against his chest. He’d leaned down and breathed his soft blond hair, and it’d felt wrong of him and had made everything a little bit worse.

Aleks drives them out to the fair grounds and carries them all the way to the metal gate and No Trespassing sign before turning around. They drive back down Tomkins Farm Rd. and then return to the church so the kid can practice parking one more time.

When he’s done, they switch places, and Mickey takes them to McDonald’s and buys them M&M McFlurries with extra toppings to eat while they wait on PJ and Boden to arrive.

Aleks props his feet up on the dashboard and says with his mouth full, “Guess what my mom’s got me doing?”

“What?”

“I have to go to that nerdy-ass convention.”

Mickey laughs. “No shit? I’m guessin’ Ian told her about it.”

“Asshole.”

“Have fun, Nugget. Enjoy the inspirational speaker.”

“Barf.” He scoffs. “You’re an asshole, too.”

“Yeah, okay.”

They eat their McFlurries in silence for a moment before Aleks says out of the blue: “Ian’s gay, huh.”

Mickey nearly chokes. He coughs up the stray M&M that had creeped its way toward the wrong pipe. After swallowing, he clears his throat. “Uhh, yeah. I guess.”

“What d’you think about it?”

Cough. “About Ian bein’ gay?”

“About gay people like, in general.”

Mickey feels like he’s being tortured from all directions. He coughs again and asks, “What d’you even mean?”

“I mean, do you think they’re gross or…”

“I think they’re just people?”

“Oh.”

“I dunno. I don’t really give a fuck what anybody’s into. If you’re an asshole, you’re an asshole; if you’re not, you’re not.”

“Cool.”

Mickey wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks over at the kid, who’s stirring his McFlurry until it’s a melted, chunky liquid, the rainbow M&Ms mixing together to make brown.

“Why?” he asks.

Aleks presses his lips together. Shrugs. “Just wondering.”

Mickey knows why. He obviously knows why. He’s not stupid, and Aleks isn’t nearly as slick as he thinks he is, his questions coming across as obvious rather than covert the way he believes them to be.

It’s funny in that way, really. He may be taller than Mickey, but he’s a child. Sixteen-year-olds are children, and Mickey watches the child beside him take a slurping sip of his melted ice cream because that’s what children do.

“What do you think about The Gays?” he asks in a goofy voice, reaching out and running his hand briefly over the boy’s head.

Aleks takes another slurp of ice cream. And he doesn’t look at Mickey when he murmurs, “Same as you said. I think they’re just people.”

---
---

Ian’s at the mailbox when Mickey turns onto Wallace after returning Aleks to his mom and then stopping by the farm supply store to get more birdseed.

He’s clearly been running, his face red and sweat dripping down his temples, and he’s dressed in a black tank-top and gray jogging pants that are ruched around the calves. Mickey rolls down his window.

“Hey,” he greets, reaching to turn down his radio.

Ian comes over, a stack of mail in his hand. He smiles. “Hey.”

“Need a ride?”

He’d wanted to drown himself in the sink when Ian had offered to show him how to use Grindr. Three days later, he still has no idea what he’d meant by it--whether he meant it in a gay way or was just being his annoying self, trying to show Mickey something he wasn’t actually interested in seeing.

Whatever the case, they’d parted ways awkward and embarrassed as hell, and when Ian had texted him not an hour later, Mickey’d read it and immediately shoved his phone back in his pocket.

Still, he finds himself compelled to give him a ride. It’s his brain again--the impulsive part of it, the part that seemingly insists on shoving him down a big, gay hill in a shopping cart.

Ian smiles brightly at the offer and nods. “Yeah. Definitely. Thanks.”

Mickey reaches over and opens the door for him, and Ian climbs in, the smell of his sweat filling the truck. It’s warm and human and there’s an undercurrent of sport deodorant and that morning’s cologne.

He presses his foot to the gas but not too hard, keeping the truck at a slow crawl toward the Gallagher place.

Ian’s reminded of that May night after the fair, creeping along in the Milkovich truck like Mickey didn’t want to get to his driveway too quickly. He leans against the window like then, too, his elevated body heat fogging it up.

“How’s the driving going?” he asks, noting the two McFlurry cups in the drink holders and the dirt mark on the dashboard where someone’s feet have been.

Mickey shrugs. “He’s actually alright at it. Let him drive from the church to Tomkins Farm and back, and I’m still alive, so.”

Ian smiles. “He’s a smart kid.”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a moment. The Gallagher house is visible in the distance and is slowly growing in size the closer they get.

Ian turns to watch Mickey’s profile. He’s keeping his eyes on the road almost by force, and Ian longs for him to look back at him, for their eyes to connect for even a moment.

“Hey,” he says, and it happens--just briefly, blue meeting green.

“Hm?” Mickey’s expressive eyebrows go up.

“Aleks was asking me about some stuff Tuesday. I think he might be feeling some things out to see if he’s safe to…y’know.”

Ian expects to have to explain further, his language vague, but Mickey gets it immediately. He nods.

“Yeah. He asked me some stuff, too.”

“Cool.”

He hears Mickey swallow, and he looks back over at him. He’s breathing through parted lips like he’s nervous.

While Ian’s watching him, they reach his driveway. Mickey idles the truck but doesn’t say anything to suggest he should get out--no “Alright,” or “Here’s your stop,” or “Get your ass out.”

Ian stays put. Mickey squeezes at the steering wheel so hard his knuckles go white.

“I’m cool with it,” the man says after a tense minute, the air inside the truck thick. “If he’s gay, y’know. It’s how he was born.”

Ian smiles and nods and something about it makes him want to cry. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s how he was born.”

“And I don’t want him to worry about shit. I don’t want nobody fuckin’ with him ‘cause he’s different or makin’ him feel like he’s not okay or…good or…”

Ian lets it settle. Mickey’s breath has turned to huffs.

“Greenhill’s a piece of shit town,” the man continues. “Fuckin’ ass-backwards redneck motherfuckers tryna act like they’re tough and like they know shit. It’s hard to just…” He cuts himself off. Presses his lips together.

“It’s been a long time since I left,” Ian murmurs, speaking to Mickey’s profile. “And I think a lot of that’s prob’ly still true.” A beat. “But things are different, too.”

“You sound like PJ.”

“Do I?”

Mickey chuffs. “Yeah. She keeps tellin’ me she’s got two butch lesbians in her women’s group at church like that’s some kinda proof queers ain’t gonna get strung up and beat if they don’t watch their ass.”

“Sure. But take my students, for example. I came out to them sorta. One girl asked me if I had a wife, and I said no. Then she asked if I had a girlfriend, and I said no.” He chuckles. “Then she asked why not, and I told her I didn’t like girls.”

“Pshh.”

“This was in front of the whole class--like thirty juniors.” Ian shrugs. “And I’m sure a few of them called me a fag under their breath or whatever. But most of them were cool about it.”

“Then you got the kids who call Aleks a fag.”

“Yeah, well. Dickheads are dickheads.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. Ian watches him let go of the steering wheel and settle back into the seat, his foot firmly pressed to the brake.

Ian doesn’t get it, either. And that’s bullshit because you’d think he’d be the one who would.

Mickey leans back in his seat and pats his pockets for a cigarette. He’s itching for it.

Once his pack is found, he takes one out, lights up, and smokes. He hears a snnnick sometime between his first drag and second and turns to find Ian’s smoking his own cigarette. Mickey rolls down his window for him.

They’re quiet for a minute, and it’s frustrating. There’s no reason for them to be sitting there in such a confined space together, smoking, when Ian’s house is right in front of them and Mickey’s is just down the road. It’s unnecessary.

Still, Mickey doesn’t say or do anything to stop it. He keeps his foot on the brake, and he makes no move to suggest Ian get out of the truck.

He thinks about the Grindr thing again, and it pisses him off. Everything pisses him off. It pisses him off that he is how he is. It pisses him off that he’s smoking quietly in the car with a man. It pisses him off that the man has freckles and a smile that makes Mickey’s stomach hurt and that he wonders what it might be like to be alone with him in other ways, too--if it would be nice, maybe.

It pisses him off that Ian probably thinks he knows something, and it pisses him off even more that whatever he thinks he knows is probably true.

“I don’t get how you can be the way you are,” Mickey says before he can even think to hold himself back.

Ian turns to look at him. “What d’you mean?”

“Like…okay with yourself.” He huffs, his skin growing hot with a flush.

The other man is quiet for a long moment before murmuring, “I’m not okay with myself a lot of the time.”

“You wear your fuckin’...V-necks and shorts and shit. You got that rainbow tattoo that anybody can see if they know to look for it.”

He isn’t expecting Ian to laugh, but he does, a breathy thing that makes Mickey hate himself even more because he likes it so much.

The redhead settles down and says in response to Mickey’s claim: “Everybody’s different. We all have different experiences and shit. Different stories, different ways of accepting ourselves. It’s not like I just woke up one morning and was cool with myself. Especially growing up in the Bible Belt, y’know. It took time.”

Mickey gnaws on his lip, and when he releases it from between his teeth, it’s red. He doesn’t look at the other man when he says, “How’d you do it?”

Ian takes a long, hard drag off his cigarette. He blows the smoke out the window. “I had some gay friends in college. They helped me a lot.” He sniffs. “My family. They were good about it.”

Mickey turns to look out the window at that, and it suddenly occurs to Ian that they’re not talking about Aleks. They’re not talking about hypotheticals. He’s certain they’re not.

“I dunno,” Mickey murmurs. “I still don’t get it. People’ll fuckin’...hate you.” He works his lips like he wants to add to it but never does.

Ian nods. “Well. People’ll hate me anyway ‘cause I’m an asshole. Might as well give ‘em something else to hate, too.”

That makes the other man smile a little, his mouth upturning just a tick at the corners.

“For real, though.” Ian goes serious. “I’m gay. It’s just how I am. If I’m ever gonna…I dunno. Fall in love. Share my life with someone. Have really good sex… All that big shit people wanna do in their lives… It’s gotta be with a guy. And I’m not willing to give that stuff up just ‘cause some ignorant Trump-fucker’s gonna hate me for it.”

He makes it sound easy: just be gay. Like that’s a simple thing to do, like a fucking 35-year-old man could show up at Beck’s with a guy--could laugh with him and hold his hand and kick at his feet under the table. Like he could hug him goodbye in public. Kiss him. Like he could ever just be like, “Hey, this is my boyfriend,” or “Hey, I’m in love with this man.”

Even just thinking of it makes him itch, makes him feel like a kid with a fantasy, a happy gay life equivalent to one in which there are dragon-slaying knights and singing unicorns.

His dad will be out in a few years. He hates him with every fiber of his being and yet the thought of him ever knowing his kid is a homo scares Mickey so bad sweat breaks out on his forehead. He feels like a child. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s a child just like Aleks, stirring his McFlurry into a melty liquid.

“But like I said… It’s different for everybody,” Ian adds, and Mickey realizes the other man must have been watching him this whole time. His heart falls into his gut.

He thinks the main difference between him and Ian is that Ian is brave and he isn’t.

“If you ever wanna talk or whatever,” Ian offers, tapping the center console. “I’m your guy.”

There’s a quick inhalation to his left, and Ian looks over to see Mickey grabbing hold of the steering wheel. His foot moves on the brake a little, causing the truck to roll forward an inch.

Ian swallows. “If you ever wanna talk about Aleks and the stuff he’s dealin’ with,” he clarifies falsely.

Mickey appears to come back to himself. He nods once and sniffs. Ian gives him a smile.

“Thanks for the ride,” he says, reaching for the door lever and popping it open. “You saved my life.”

“Pssh. Yeah, okay.”

That gets another smile out of him, and Ian’s glad for it. He taps the console again in acknowledgment and climbs out of the truck. After closing the door, he walks around to Mickey’s side and stands outside his lowered window.

“Text me if you wanna get food or hang out sometime.” His stomach lurches as he says it, but he thinks Mickey wants to hear it even if he doesn’t believe he does. “I have literally no friends outside work and my shrink thinks I have caffeine dependence and am drinking too much coffee when I’m bored.”

“Your shrink sounds like a lunatic.”

“Pretty sure all shrinks are.”

Mickey nods in agreement. His cheeks are pink, and he isn’t making eye contact.

“Uhh, yeah,” he says, rolling forward in the truck again. “Maybe.”

Ian hopes that was a response to his request and not the shrink comment. He waits a beat, then smiles at him.

“Later, Mickey.”

“See ya.”

They part ways. Mickey salutes him before releasing his foot from the brake, and Ian turns to go.

He’s walked several feet up the dusty driveway before he hears Mickey call his name. He turns, his heart in his throat.

“If you ever wanna take the four-wheeler back to the upper pasture, we can. Just lemme know or whatever.”

“Um. Yeah. Definitely.” Warmth floods his body. He smiles. “I’ll text you.”

“Yeah.” Mickey pauses. “Cool.”

He speeds off. Ian stands there for the longest time, watching the dust settle before he turns back toward the house.