Chapter Text
one
(the beginning).
Ian only first meets him through Karen Jackson: she and him have a class close together, and since they have another class relatively close, Ian walks with her across campus to their next class. Karen may be extremely judgemental, bordering on the line of bitchy, but Ian finds that he can tolerate it even on bad days. They’re walking across the quad the day they meet, Karen debating whether or not she should join a sorority, when Karen stops mid-sentence and groans quietly. When Ian asks her what the problem is, she says, “Mickey Milkovich,” pointing to a figure walking across the quad in their direction.
“Is he bothering you?” Ian asks.
“No, we’re working on a group project in psychology, I need to talk with him. But I can only take so many cuss words at a time,” Karen says, shifting her bag on her shoulder and wrinkling her nose. “Hold on, let me go talk to him.” And they walk over to him, Karen calling out a “Mickey!” to make him stop. The figure turns to them, eyebrows raised.
And, yeah.
That’s how they meet.
two.
While Mickey and Karen are talking, Ian looks him over. Mickey is shorter than Ian by a couple of inches, but he has this way of standing and speaking that demands attention, makes him seem bigger. He has letters tattooed across his knuckles, but Mickey is twitching them so much that Ian can’t make them out. Karen mentions how someone in their group didn’t want to do a certain thing (Ian doesn’t have a clue on what they’re talking about), and when Mickey turns in frustration, Ian admires Mickey’s profile, the slope of his nose and the shape of his mouth. His hair and skin contrast nicely enough, Ian supposes, and his eyes are a nice blue. Attractive, in a way, even though Ian thinks Karen is sort of right: Mickey cusses a bit too much, and even when he doesn’t, his voice has this rough quality to it, like he wants to be mouthing off.
“I ain’t gonna pick up any portion of that slacker’s work,” Mickey says. “I’m doin’ my part of this project and that’s it.”
“Sometimes I can’t believe what an absolute fucker you are, Milkovich,” Karen says scornfully. Mickey snorts in what’s almost self-deprecating, says, “Whatever,” fishes a cigarette out of his pocket, a lighter out of another, and it’s--then.
In the seconds between the lighter sparking and Mickey lighting the cigarette, Mickey glances up at Karen and swallows hard. If Ian hadn’t been watching Mickey already, he wouldn’t have seen it. When he brings the cigarette to his lips, he takes a long drag from it, cheeks hollowing out before exhaling with an expression that Ian has seen before. He’d seen it when Fiona would put on a fake smile after being pulled too thin from dealing with work and kids and bills: a superficial mask.
It was seconds between the lighter and the cigarette, and then only a couple more for Mickey to raise the cigarette to his mouth, but in those seconds, Ian saw something else. Ian became curious about what Mickey Milkovich was actually like.
Those few seconds, although he didn’t know it then, would end up ruining him.
three.
When Ian notices Mickey walking across campus, he hurries towards him, calling out a “Hey!”
Mickey stops and looks at him. “What the fuck do you want?”
Ian pauses a little, and he realizes that here people would be offended. Normally if people were annoyed, they’d just say “What do you want?” in a curt tone, and people would immediately catch on. Ian begins to realize that Mickey doesn’t add in the fuck because he wants to be rude, but because that’s just the way he talks.
“You’re Mickey Milkovich, yeah?”
Mickey’s eyes flicker up and down Ian’s body, nodding his head and muttering, “Yeah.” When they don’t say anything for a while, Mickey awkwardly says, “Sorry, I remember your face, but not your name.”
“I’m Ian--”
“Gallagher.” Mickey nods, looking satisfied. “You were with Jackson.”
Jackson? “Oh, Karen,” Ian says. “Do you remember last names better or something?”
“Or somethin’.” Mickey turns a little, shuffling his feet. “Look, man, did you want somethin’?”
“Oh, well, I’m walking in the same direction as you, so I’d thought I’d walk with you,” Ian says.
“You’re walkin’ in the same direction?” Mickey asks. His eyebrows raise dubiously. Ian figures that they’re probably really expressive.
Any direction you’re going, yeah. “Yes,” Ian replies. “Is that okay?”
Mickey gives him a strange look. “Whatever, man.” He allows Ian to walk next to him, although he keeps giving Ian sidelong looks. Sometimes their shoulders brush while walking. Ian again can’t read what his tattoos say because there’s what looks like blue paint covering most of his fingers. They don’t speak the entire time they walk (to the McCullough building, apparently) but it’s a comforting silence the entire time. Ian is surprised, though, that when he asks, “Let’s hang out another time?” Mickey says, “Sure.”
four.
“So what is it you actually study?” Ian asks. “I don’t think you’re a developmental and child psych major like Karen.”
“No?” Mickey says, smiling. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me, what does a man with fuck u-up tattoos look like he majors in?”
Ian shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s pretty good considering that many kids spend their money on expensive Starbucks shit instead of coming here, the small school coffee shop next to the library. Ian had gone in after studying in the library and had been surprised to find Mickey here. Mickey had smiled when he’d seen him and invited him to sit.
“I’m not sure,” Ian replies, “I’ve been cycling through majors and switching them, but I can never decide.”
“You wanna know what kind of yuppie you look like?” Mickey says, leaning forward. “I think you’re rather an English major who cries over nineteenth-century romantic poets or an over-the-top theater major who cries about Wes Anderson films.” Mickey takes a bite out of his muffin. “Am I right?”
“Not even close,” Ian says, taking some of Mickey’s muffin. Mickey makes an offended noise and pulls the plate closer to him. “I’m a biology major. I’m mostly into human and medicinal genetics.”
“What the fuck? Why?” Mickey sips his coffee (black, which had horrified Ian because Mickey had said, “No, Ian, I don’t want creamy shit in there”). “You definitely don’t look like you’re into fuckin’ biology.”
Ian shrugs. “My mom has bipolar disorder, and my siblings and I were always worrying about who would have it. Luckily none of us do, but it got me really interested. Also, my little brother Liam is black but still happens to be my father’s son, which was a really confusing lesson in genetics. So I wanted to know how all that shit worked.” When he sees Mickey giving him a strange look, he asks defensively, “What?”
“Just seems like your family is just as colorful as mine, is all,” Mickey says.
“Alright, asshole, what the hell is your major then?”
The corners of Mickey’s mouth turn up and he says, “Art major.”
“Art major?”
“Fuck yeah,” Mickey says. “I mean, my main style is graffiti, but I’m workin’ on other styles.”
“Art major?” Ian can’t even imagine him being an art major, but then remembers: “That explains all the paint on your hands.”
“Yeah.” Mickey shows him his hands, and there are pencil stains on his hands from where he rubbed against the paper.
“So what do you cry about? Renaissance art?”
“Mostly the post-Impressionists. If it were possible to fuck a painting, I’d choose Van Gogh’s Starry Night any day,” Mickey says, and when their eyes catch, they both burst out laughing.
five.
It’s like this.
Mickey isn’t the most intelligent person Ian’s ever met (maybe Lip’s ruined that expectation), and Ian is totally fine with it. When Ian watches Mickey paint with a quiet concentration on his face and his music blasting, Ian realizes that Mickey gave up intelligence for creativity and inspiration ages ago. And Mickey isn’t the cleanest person. He constantly smokes and his clothes remind people of it. While Ian excuses how Mickey comes off as rude at first, there is no denying the cruelty that he can emit, but most of the time Ian finds his blunt honesty refreshing. Mickey isn’t the funniest person ever, although he does have a way to occasionally make Ian laugh until he cries. He isn’t the most open person. He isn’t the most beautiful person, though Ian is beginning to realize that perception is wrong the more minutes he spends with Mickey. He isn’t the richest, but Ian can hardly judge him for that. He isn’t--
The fact is, Mickey isn’t a lot of things. There’s only two things that Mickey is that Ian cares about: 1. he’s Mickey; 2. he’s exactly who Ian wants.
Falling for him turns out to be easier than Ian ever thought it would be.
six.
Mickey may come off as annoyed twenty-four seven, but when he’s actually mad, you know. Ian’s pretty sure he’s never seen shoulders this stiff before, and since Mickey is normally brusque, Mickey mad must be insane. Ian considers not talking to him, because it would probably be a train wreck, and then decides to just do it anyways.
“Fuck off, Gallagher,” is the first thing Mickey says when Ian walks up to him. If Mickey is using Ian’s last name, he must be pretty pissed. “I ain’t got time for you right now.”
“Are you sure, you seem pretty mad--”
“And that doesn’t tell you to fuck off immediately? Get outta here.”
“Why don’t you just talk to me instead? What happen--”
“Why the fuck do you even hang out with me?” Mickey demands, turning around sharply. “Why the fuck did you even start? This may surprise you, but I don’t need some goddamn puppy following me around all the time. If this was some bet or charity, you can go fuck yourself.”
Ian stares at Mickey, shocked, watching his heavy breathing. He can feel his heart beating quickly, and Ian knows that if he doesn’t say it now, he’ll never say it. So he comments as nonchalantly as possible: “I must be really bad.”
“The fuck?” Mickey demands, and he looks almost angrier, albeit more confused, until Ian says, “Flirting.”
Something in Mickey’s demeanor changes. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it quickly, and he shifts his body so that his shoulders relax. “I mean, I’m rather really bad at flirting,” Ian says slowly, “or you’re really bad a receiving signals.”
A short, incredulous laugh comes out from Mickey’s lips, and wipes his hand over his mouth before saying, “What, you wanna fuck?”
“Outside of a relationship?” Ian asks, and he swears that Mickey freezes entirely. “Not at all.”
Everything seems to rush in at once in the moments where Mickey doesn’t speak: the wind through the trees, the students walking and talking nearby, the crunch of the leaves they step on, some person on a megaphone head slightly in the distance, the way Mickey is looking at him, and especially Ian’s own heart pounding.
Finally, Mickey licks his lips and says, “I think we should go get coffee.”
“Coffee?” Ian asks. Mickey’s not saying no, but he’s not really being clear either. Ian wonders if you’re supposed to feel this breathless after confessing your feelings
Mickey nods, says, “Right now.” He tilts his head towards the coffee shop, a small smile on his lips. Ian has to force himself to put one foot in front of the other, and when they walk over it’s exactly the same: the brush of their shoulders and fingers while they walk, small smiles exchanged over (this time awkward) conversation, and Ian wonders if maybe it wasn’t also the opposite. Maybe Mickey is very bad at flirting, and Ian is very bad at receiving signals.
seven.
Everything changes around Mickey once they admit they’re interested in each other. There are moment where their eyes meet and they stare at each other, longer than necessary, and everything in the room feels charged. When they hang out, it’s less of casual friends goofing off and playing video games or whatever (although there is a lot of that) and more seriousness. Ian tells him about his giant family and all the shit they went through and how they’re still close and they call him every week, and Mickey tells him about his absolute shit family and all the fucked up things they went through and how his sister Mandy is the most important person to him.
Everything is more personal, too. The first time Ian goes to watch Mickey paint, Ian realizes the moment he lays eyes on Mickey’s painting (one hand holding a gun with a bullet exploding a piggy bank across a large canvas) that this is something extremely personal to Mickey. And he realizes how extremely important this moment is, Mickey showing him his paintings, even though Mickey is acting nonchalant. Mickey begins working on another piece of art, one he’s been bitching about because his professor wants him out of his comfort zone and doesn’t want him to use spray paint. It’s of a girl with dark hair and a piercing in her nose, exhaling smoke from her nose, the smoke shifting into a dragon (“Mandy,” Mickey had said, and then smiling, “I can only ever draw her lookin’ badass”).
So Ian looks through all of Mickey’s paintings while Mickey begins working on her hair, and when Ian turns and watches him, something settles in his gut and he realizes that this is initiation, basically. This is Mickey’s taking-home-to-the-parents, in a way, and how Ian knows that what they’re doing is getting serious.
It finally comes to an end when they go to a party at the sorority that Karen decided to join. Ian, Mickey, and a girl named Angie are all standing in a small circle, drinking and laughing about this story Angie’s telling about her roommate, when a guy walks up to Mickey. Mickey looks at him, confused, his expression staying the same as the guy talks to him. The guy’s not really subtle at all, because Ian is pretty sure that even Angie can hear him proposition Mickey. Ian’s trying to keep a straight face and hoping that his grip on his cup doesn’t get strong enough to break it. Finally, after a boulder has dropped into Ian’s stomach and ages have passed, Mickey shakes his head and says, “Sorry, man, but I’m already seein’ someone.” The guy looks skeptical, like he thinks Mickey’s lying, and then walks away angrily.
Angie gives a laugh, says something about Mickey being a cruel bastard, and she continues her story. Ian stares at Mickey and Mickey raises an eyebrow back at him, the corners of his mouth pulling into a smirk like he’s challenging Ian to say otherwise. When Angie finishes her story, Ian says casually, “So, Mickey, I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”
Angie looks at Mickey and says, “Oh yeah, tell us about the mysterious gal.”
Mickey shrugs. “There’s not much to say. Just this random ass kid that began talkin’ to me, and now I can’t seem to shake him off me.”
Angie looks shocked for a minute as she processes the pronoun, and Ian just laughs and says, “Oh, Mickey, fuck you.”
Mickey grins at him and says, “You want another beer? I’m goin’ to go get one.”
Ian shakes his head. “I’ll just go with you.” He turns to Angie, trying to look casual and not like he’s about jump Mickey. “You’ll be okay, Angie?” She says she’s going to go find her friends or something, and Ian has barely turned around when Mickey’s pushing him against the wall and kissing him. Everything narrows down to Mickey’s mouth on his, his fingers on his neck, his body pressed against Ian’s. There’s a moment after they pull back, where they stare at each other and they both start laughing, because it’s ridiculous, really, how long they just didn’t do this. Ian rests his forehead against Mickey’s for a second, says, “I can’t believe you,” and then kisses Mickey again, shivers when Mickey’s fingers slip under his shirt.
They stay there for a while, kissing against the wall, until Mickey pulls back and says breathlessly, “If I recall, your dorm isn’t far away from here.”
Ian stares at him, processing this, and then growls, “We’re leaving. Now.”
eight.
Their relationship isn’t really changed at all after it’s first established. When they finally fuck (the night of the party), there’s nothing really life-changing, except for the fact that they already seem to be so comfortable with each other’s body. The only difference is this strange hesitation that neither of them comment on. Mickey will be walking with Ian after they both get out of class, and there will be this awkward minute where Ian will say hesitantly, “Wanna get some lunch?” and Mickey agrees.
It’s not because they’re both awkward with each other now that they’re in a relationship, but more because now they know that dinners and lunches and breakfasts aren’t just them hanging out anymore, they’re dates. Everything they do now is as a couple, and while there’s not actual hesitation about that, there’s just a minute of realization before one of them asks the other to go to lunch that it’s a date, they’re dating, and then a minute has passed and they blurt it out anyways.
This continues for the first few weeks until it’s broken one night. Ian’s not really sure why that night broke it, and it wasn’t like after this strange hesitation was broken, they could breathe or were set free. They just both noticed that it was gone.
What had happened was they’d gone back to Mickey’s dorm after a movie that was held on campus (a Back to the Future marathon) and they’d sort of fallen into Mickey’s bed in an exhausted heap. Around eleven, Ian forced himself to sit up (disrupting Mickey, who’d closed his eyes with his head on Ian’s stomach) and was about to sit up when Mickey stirred, rubbing his face, and asked grumpily, “Where the fuck’re you goin’?” He slid an arm around Ian’s waist and pressed his face into Ian’s side, where his shirt was riding up a bit.
“It’s late,” Ian said, lacing his fingers with Mickey’s and feeling something warm run through his veins. “I thought I should head back to my dorm.”
Mickey pressed his face into Ian’s side again and chewed on his lip a little before saying quietly, “Why don’t you just stay? You can spend the night here.”
Ian stared at Mickey and Mickey looked up at him. “You should stay,” Mickey said, firmly this time.
Ian pushed his fingertips into Mickey’s hair so that he could brush it back. “You have a shirt?” Ian didn’t really need a shirt, but most of Mickey’s shirts had been washed so many times that they were extremely soft and worn of color, and Ian loved them (especially on Mickey). Mickey got up, threw him some clean shirt, and pulled one on himself, and they both striped to their boxers before climbing back to bed. There had been an awkward pause where they tried to figure out their limbs, but they eventually settled with Ian spooning Mickey, arms around his waist and ankles crossed. Ian pressed his nose into Mickey’s neck and then laughed. “You have paint on the back of your neck,” he whispered in Mickey’s ear.
Mickey laughed quietly and whispered back, “Not a surprise, dumbass, I’m an art major.” For some reason, the smell of the paint calmed Ian, and he pressed himself closer to Mickey and was asleep within two minutes.
They woke up in the same position, but when Mickey turned in Ian’s arms, kissed him, and sleepily asked, “Breakfast at the coffee shop?” there wasn’t any awkward hesitation. And afterwards it continued to be absent, long into their relationship.
nine.
Karen is complaining about some douchebag professor of hers and his horrible assignment policies, something about his grading and his handwriting and his fashion choices, basically anything she can say against him. Ian nods and listens to her, adding in his own professor stories, when a girl comes up to their bench.
It’s this girl Karen had been interested in recently, Svetlana, who asks Karen if their professor had released the grades for the test yet. They talk politely for a bit before trailing into more familiar, conversation territory, and while Karen’s gushing she happens to see Ian eyeing Svetlana up and down. “Oh, sorry,” she says. “This is my friend Ian.”
Svetlana smiles. Ian can kinda see where Karen is drooling over her. “I’ve seen you around.”
“Oh yeah? Where?”
“Walking with that Milkovich guy,” Sveltana says. “I just remember thinking that you were a very brave soul to hang out with him.”
Karen laughs and Ian smiles politely enough, and when Karen stops laughing, he says smugly, “Well, trust me, I get amazing rewards for hanging out with him.”
Svetlana smiles knowingly and Ian returns it. Karen is giving him a strange look, and then smiles sunnily back at Svetlana when she thanks Karen and says goodbye.
The way Karen turns back to him, almost vulture-like, is pretty scary. “What the fuck did that mean?”
Ian doesn’t even try to play innocent. “You really want to know?”
“Um, yes.”
Might as well go straight into it. “Mickey and I are fucking,” Ian says, and there’s this strange, giddy feeling at telling someone.
Karen stares at him. “Fucking,” she repeats.
“Well. Dating, we’re dating,” Ian explains. Karen hits him on the back of his head, ignoring his “Ow, Karen!” and doing it again.
“You motherfucker!” Karen exclaims, hitting him on the arm multiple times. Hard. “Holy shit. You and Mickey? Tell me everything, you bastard.”
ten.
Mickey begins to stay over at Ian’s dorm room more. “It’s just way more convenient than my own dorm,” Mickey says, and Ian doesn’t disagree. Pulling Mickey back into a kiss is always the better choice than arguing anyways.
It is more convenient, though. Ian’s dorm is closer to both of Mickey’s early morning classes, which usually means that Mickey is staying over the night before. Ian’s dorm is closer to the cafeteria than Mickey’s is. Mickey will come over at five or six with all of his books, clothes, sketchbook and/or painting utensils, and beer, and they usually do any work they have while listening to music. Some nights Mickey will bring dinner over to eat, or they’ll head over to the cafeteria. After they finish their work, they just fuck around: sometimes they literally fuck around, but they’ll go and do other shit if it’s not too late. Sometimes Mickey will sit at Ian’s desk and sketch or paint, and Ian will watch him just because Mickey is peaceful to watch. Ian’s window is perpetually open due to the smell of paint and smoke. That’s another reason it’s convenient for Mickey: Ian is on the third floor of dorms, meaning that any smoke from Mickey’s cigarettes go up into the air instead of lingering obviously outside of his first-floor dorm.
And it was just easier this way: easier to spend time together, easier to get to classes, easier way to talk. It was easy, after they were done working or if Ian was going to get dinner, to kiss Mickey on his way out, so easy it felt unreal. It was easy to change into their pajamas, to slip into the covers, and neither of them questioned the way they fell asleep tangled in some position or other.
It became so common that Ian opened a drawer of his dresser to find that all of the clothes in there was Mickey’s. Mickey called him one time and asked him if his textbook was in Ian’s room and it was. Mickey didn’t even ask for it to be dropped off; he had planned on coming over anyways, so he just came and took it when he left in the morning (of course, forgetting his bag of sketching pencils on the desk). Mickey came over so often that Ian just got him a key, claiming that he’d lost his and needed another so the administrators would give him one. Mickey now comes and goes in Ian’s room as he likes, and most of the time, when Ian comes back from a class, Mickey is already there.
It is startlingly domestic, but if domestic is waking up with Mickey most mornings, then Ian is all for it.
eleven.
It’s not surprising to Ian that Mickey has scars everywhere. Ian notices it first when Mickey has his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and there’s a long, white scar on his forearm. Ian stares at it until Mickey says, “Screwdriver,” as if that explains it. At Ian’s shocked face, Mickey laughs and says, “I got a lot of them, Gallagher.”
He’s right. Mickey has only a few cuts on his arms and his hands are more calloused than scabbed, although Mickey tells him that he’s probably had more bruises and broken fingers than anyone he knows. It’s Mickey’s back and chest that have the most scars. The only really scary one is down by his stomach, over his left hip. Ian trails his fingers across it and asks, “What happened?” Mickey shivers and replies, “Stabbed.” Ian finds out later that the easiest way to get Mickey to moan is to suck on that scar.
There’s a scar along Mickey’s collarbones, and three consecutive ones over his left ribs, and then one that fades into his belly button. There’s one that curves over his shoulder slightly, and then two on each shoulder blade, which Ian actually finds really cool. There’s one that follows his spine for a bit, and then a couple more on his lower right back. Ian touches every one of them, asks how Mickey acquired them, and doesn’t even flinch at the stories he tells, because he’s Southside and understands (although he already hates Mickey’s father fiercely). He understands because he’s got scars of his own.
They aren’t as tragic as Mickey’s are: he has a tiny one on his finger from where Liam bit him, three small cuts from when a dog bit him on the ankle, and a scar on his neck that Mickey asks about once, as he’s lifting Ian’s shirt over his head. “My brother, Lip, gave it to me,” Ian responds. When Mickey gives him this bemused look, Ian says, “We’re close, but we got into the occasional fight.” There’s a scar right over the corner of his jaw from when some kid with a ring punched him, a scar on his lower back from his fight (“Looks bad, but I broke that kid’s leg,” Ian whispered when Mickey had lightly touched his fingers to it). There’s one, the only one, from Frank, and Mickey mutters, “Fuckin’ fathers,” when Ian tells him about it.
Ian knows that Mickey considers his tattoos scars, scars from when he was trapped in this scary, vicious, seemingly neverending hell called his childhood. The tattoos are a reflection of what is home life was like, what he was forced to do, just like the rest of his scars are reflections of his father and other shitty things he did.
Ian touches every scar with his fingers and his lips, and Mickey does the same with Ian, leaving the occasional paint mark on Ian’s skin.
twelve.
People always ask him how do you tolerate Mickey?
Tolerate is a very nice word for it, and Ian knows what they really mean: how do you stand the cussing? How do you stand the violence? How do you stand the constant smoking? How do you stand how rude he is? How do you stand how different? How do you--
Ian usually just smiles at them politely, laughs it off with a, “Oh, you don’t know Mickey like I do.” That statement is actually more true than they know. They really don’t understand Mickey, only the persona he gives off, the person they first meet, and in reality they don’t care to understand Mickey.
A small, compacted list (out of a long list) of things that they will never understand:
-
Mickey can say more with a look in his eyes and a brush of his fingertips than he could ever, ever say with words (but you have to be looking and you have to recognize it).
-
When Ian wakes up with his arms in the mornings (or afternoons or nights, depending on when they fuck), he never wants to be anywhere else.
-
Mickey’s overly rude and obnoxious to cover for his quietness and insecurities, so heartfelt feelings and genuine smiles are something to cherish.
-
Not matter how softly or how hard or how quickly or slowly or at what time, Mickey always kisses with intent and meaning behind it (when their mouths meet, Ian feels electrified).
-
Fucking is such a simple explanation for what they’re doing, because yes, they have sex (long, smooth, slow, hurried, rough, playful, serious, any way) but from the first moment that they had sex there was a connection. Not in the love-at-first-fuck way, but in the way that they fell into each other so easily, fitting together as if they’d known each other’s bodies for ages.
-
Mickey’s skin on Ian’s is one of the most amazing feelings in this world.
-
Mickey’s clothes and room occasionally smell like cigarette smoke and he perpetually has a cigarette on him, but it’s worth it to see the way Mickey’s body relaxes when he puts the cigarette to his mouth.
-
Ian looks at Mickey and feels a sense of finality. Not final in that he knows that he’s in love with Mickey (yet), but final it that he knows he belongs with Mickey. Whenever Ian is with Mickey, Mickey has this steady, solid presence and Ian just knows. He was never supposed to be with anyone else.
So people always as him how do you tolerate him, when the real question asked should be how could Ian possibly want to be with anyone but him?
thirteen.
Mickey bursts into his room when Ian is in the middle of writing his essay, immediately flinging off his backpack against a corner wall. Ian spins in his chair, and when he sees Mickey clenching his fists, he knows something wrong. “Mickey, what is--” but Ian is cut off by Mickey’s mouth, and then Mickey’s hands are clutching at him, pulling him closer, and Ian has to pull away to gasp, “Mickey, what, what’s happening, shit.”
“I’m fuckin’ annoyed,” Mickey says against his jaw, and yeah, Mickey’s voice is rough with irritation, and no, that should not turn Ian on. Mickey is crowding him against the desk, pulling at his jacket until the zipper finally unzips, and when Mickey insistently pulls at Ian’s shirt, Ian laughs.
“Don’t you--ever--have any type of work?” Ian asks, helping Mickey to divest at his shirt. “Why is it I’m always the one whose essays and shit gets shoved aside?”
Mickey grabs Ian by the waist and pushes him onto the bed, and Ian is already undoing his jeans when Mickey straddles his hips. “Here’s a great fuckin’ idea,” Mickey mutters against Ian’s stomach, and Jesus. “Shut the fuck up.”
That’s the best idea Mickey’s ever had, Ian thinks, up until Mickey begins sucking his cock. And then that’s overshadowed by Mickey fingering him, and Mickey must be super pissed because he’s taking fucking forever.
“If you don’t hurry the fuck up,” Ian says, and fuck, Mickey’s only putting in the third finger now? “I will--fucking shit--fuck you instead. And better.” It’s a weak threat, considering that Ian has no intention of ever moving Mickey right now, gasping and pushing back against Mickey’s fingers almost desperately, and from the way Mickey laughs against his throat and bites it, he fucking knows it too. All the pleasure seems to blur until Ian doesn’t even realize that Mickey has a condom and stopped fingering him until Mickey is pushing in and biting his throat again. And then it’s rough, fucking amazingly rough, Mickey thrusting in at a ruthless pace and Ian scrabbling at his shoulders, nails digging in, their mouths seeking. Mickey’s grip on Ian’s hip is so tight Ian is sure they’re going to leave bruises, and the idea of bruises in the shape of Mickey’s hands marking his skin makes him feel hotter.
“If this is you”--interrupted by Mickey’s mouth, and Ian groans into it--“if this is you annoyed, you need to come to me more, fuck, Mickey,” Ian moans.
“Too--fuckin’--coherent,” Mickey says, and it’s then, of course, that Mickey thrusts in perfectly as Ian’s raising his hips to meet him, and Ian throws his head back, breath knocked out of him entirely. And after that it’s relentless, Mickey hitting the spot again and again, until Ian comes. Mickey follows not long after.
Later, when Mickey’s pressed along his side and Ian’s been tracing Mickey’s shoulderblade for the last few minutes, Ian says into Mickey’s hair, “What the hell were you so annoyed about?”
Mickey grunts in the tired way of his. “My paintings. I keep painting . . . stars. And sand. And I’ve been gettin’ into pointillism lately, even though pointillism fuckin’ sucks ass and everyone knows it,” Mickey says, voice quiet and rough with sleep.
Ian has no idea what the fuck that means, but he just assumes it’s a painting thing. Mickey sighs and says, “Alright, fuck, let me show you.” He pulls away from Ian’s side (Ian complains), finds his sketchpad in his bag, and brings it back over. He flips to the last page he’d painted on. It’s like Mickey said, some pointillism drawings in different complementary colors, and then he flips to a painting of the stars, then a beach, the sand so detailed it’s almost real, and then two other paintings of the stars. “And this,” Mickey says, flipping to another page, “is why I keep drawing dot-related things.” On the page is Ian; it’s obvious from his red hair and freckles. His back is facing them, bare shoulders hunched a bit, but Ian’s face is turned slightly to them. And then, on the page before that, Ian again, drawing focused on the freckles on his nose. And then the page before that, it’s Ian’s arms, freckled with colored pencil.
“You keep drawing dots because of my freckles?”
Mickey nods. “It’s fucking annoying. I just don’t want to paint anything else.” He clears his throat, embarrassed. “My professor loves it though. She thinks I’m branchin’ out of my comfort zone or whatever. I’m just fuckin’ stuck in a mindset of goddamn freckles.”
Mickey warily watches Ian touch the paper, like he’s worried Ian might not like it. Ian honestly can’t process it: Mickey is so obsessed with his freckles that he hasn’t been able to paint or draw anything not related to it. “Does this mean I’m your muse?” Ian asks, looking up at Mickey.
Mickey smiles at Ian softly. “Means you’re my boyfriend and I have the right to draw you whenever, Gallagher.” He snatches the sketchbook back, saying, “Don’t wanna inflate your ego.”
“You should do a nude drawing of me,” Ian says, joking, as Mickey settles back against his side.
Mickey snorts. “Why the fuck would I draw you when you’re naked in front of me? Fuckin’ dumb.”
fourteen.
Mickey puts a hand on his thigh and says, “Stop bein’ so jittery, fuck.”
“I’m excited,” Ian replies.
Mickey rolls his eyes, but Ian can tell that he’s pleased. “It’s not that important.”
“I’m sorry, you tell me we’re going on a date and then won’t tell me where it is, and you’re telling me it’s not important? Not important my ass,” Ian says.
“Fine. It’s not that fuckin’ special, is all,” Mickey says, moving his hand from Ian’s thigh to Ian’s hand and linking their fingers together. There’s a high school girl sitting across from them on the train who’s trying really hard to be subtle about staring at them.
What’s not fucking special, apparently, is a shooting range. Ian laughs when he sees it, because Mickey would take his dates to the shooting range and because Mickey doesn’t know that Ian can shoot a gun. Ian plays innocent, though, marvels at the guns and watches Mickey explain everything, and then watches Mickey shoot. He’s really good, hitting the marks almost every time. Ian watches his muscles and his concentration, and it’s a strange image: this is what everybody expects Mickey to be like, a gun in hand, when Ian knows that this same concentration is used when Mickey is lost in painting.
After Mickey empties another round, Ian asks, “Can I try?”
Mickey smiles at him playfully, but he looks pleased that Ian’s interested. “Oh yeah, tough guy?” He hands the gun to Ian and gives him little instructions on how to hold it and what to expect when he shoots it.
Only because Ian’s an asshole, he asks Mickey where he should shoot the target, which is just a paper sheet in the shape of a human. Mickey laughs and says, “The middle,” so Ian raises the gun, takes a deep breath as his muscles seem to remember that they did used to hold a gun, and he shoots the target directly in the middle of his torso. Mickey is dumbfounded at first, but not dumb, and he turns to Ian with a speculative glint in his eyes after gaping for a bit. “Hit ‘em in the left shoulder,” he says, and Ian does just that. Mickey laughs then, exclaims, “You’re a douchebag, holy shit,” and they empty the next couple of rounds in a competition of who’s the better shooter.
It’s Ian, as Mickey admits later after they had an amazing fuck and Mickey’s resting with his head on Ian’s chest. Ian laughs and says, “I know” and then, “Mickey, that was a fantastic date.”
“Yeah?”
“I mean, I beat you in a shooting contest, you admitted I was better, and we fucked. I’d say, yeah, it was amazing.”
Mickey is quiet, and just when Ian feels as though he’s about to fall asleep, Mickey raises his head and says, “Do you think me bein’ attracted to you shooting would be considered a power kink or a guy-in-uniform kink?”
Ian laughs so hard that Mickey pushes him off the bed.
fifteen.
“I got an A, by the way,” Karen says.
Ian pauses the notes that he’s taking and looks up at her. They’re hanging out in a small park outside of the library, sitting at a table under a large oak tree. The sunlight filters through the leaves and creates interesting patterns on Karen’s face. She has this strange, knowing smirk on her face that she usually only uses when making some sort of sexual innuendo or something else along those lines.
“You got an A on what?” Ian asks.
“That project that we did,” she says, picking up her coffee and taking a sip. The silver bracelet she wears on her wrist slips down her arm, glinting in the shifting sunlight. Ian is still confused, because he’s sure that they’ve never done a project together. When he furrows his eyebrows, she laughs and says, “Mickey and I, dumbass.”
“You mean that psychology project you did at the beginning of the year?”
“Yes.” Karen sets the coffee cup back on the table, turning it so the neatly written Karen is facing Ian. When Ian continues to look at her in a bemused way, she repeats, “We got an A on it.”
“And?”
“And I just want to remind you that if it wasn’t for me taking the class and me being in that group and me introducing you to Mickey, you’d be a sad little virgin,” Karen says, smiling.
Ian laughs. “Definitely not true, but thanks for the sentiment.” He turns back to his textbook to continue note-taking when he finally realizes what she’s saying, and then he sits back and looks at her. “You just want credit for setting Mickey and me up, don’t you?”
Karen grins. “I demand to be best man.”
“You’re going to exaggerate the story of you ‘helping us’--yes, Karen, I just used quotation marks--until the only reason Mickey and I are together is because you raised us. Or gave birth to us. Whichever is more extreme.”
Karen shrugs. “If that’s what it takes, Ian.” She leans over and shuts Ian’s textbook, snatching it away from him. “Enough about you, I need to tell you about this girl in my class named Estefania. I swear to God, Ian, she has the hottest body I’ve ever seen . . .”
sixteen.
“Alright,” Ian says, and then blanks completely. “Fuck.”
“Hurry, Ian, or you’ll drink,” Mickey says, holding up a shot like it’s a threat.
“Fuck. Um. Lamarck didn’t actually create the theory of acquired inheritance, but he sponsored it like many of the natural historians of his day, and now he’s been stuck with it forever,” Ian says.
Mickey laughs. “You would give a biology fact, you genetic-loving shit.” He smokes his cigarette for a moment, which Ian totally considers cheating because it gives him time to think. “The guy who created the Pringles can had his ashes put in one when he died.”
Ian stares at him. “You’re fucking with me,” he says, and when Mickey shakes his head, he says, “That’s fucking dedication.”
Mickey taps his cigarette against the ashtray and motions for Ian to go. Ian holds back a groan, because he’d never thought that when he and Mickey would play a drinking trivia game that he’d be losing, for fuck’s sake. Alcohol totally makes your mind blank on facts. “A hummingbird is the only bird that can fly backwards,” Ian blurts out, because at this point Mickey’s right: he can only really think about biology facts when he’s this drunk.
Mickey grins. “HA! I already knew that! Drink up, fuckface.” Ian moans pathetically but dutifully knocks back the shot.
“Fuck, I’m gonna die. You go,” Ian says.
“Um, you only get bitten by female mosquitoes,” Mickey says at last, and when Ian grins, Mickey goes, “Fuck. You know that?”
“Yeah. If it relates to biology, I probably do,” Ian says. Mickey sighs but knocks the shot back, and Ian is very distracted by his throat working. Shit. “Let’s see . . . The voice of Mickey mouse married the voice of Minnie mouse.” When Mickey stares at him, Ian says, “Not their actual voices, but you know, the people who voiced them.” Ian is pretty sure he only remembered that fact because of the name Mickey.
“Alright, I got one,” Mickey says. “Alaska is the only state you can type on one row of keys.”
“Seriously?” Ian asks, and Mickey nods. “Oh! That reminds me: forty is the only number whose letters are in alphabetical order.”
Mickey thinks about it, says, “Fuck, that’s true,” and then starts bursting into giggles.
“What?” Ian asks, confused.
Mickey is laughing so hard that tears are coming out of his eyes, and he’s clutching his stomach, but he manages to say between gasps and laughing: “Q-tips used to be called Baby Gays.”
Ian starts laughing too. “How the fuck do you know this shit?”
“I watched a lot of Jeopardy, now it’s your fucking turn.”
“Oh god.” Ian searches his brain for anything, and he finally says: “Octopuses have three hearts.”
“I’ve never trusted those bastards,” Mickey says, smiling, and Ian starts laughing and arguing that “They’re actually highly intelligent Mickey, more so than you--” until Mickey throws a pencil at his head. “Okay, the guy who invented the AK-47 said that he wished he’d invented something to help farmers instead.”
“Um, squirrels can’t burp or vomit,” Ian says, and Mickey stares at him for a second before busting up laughing.
“This was the best fuckin’ idea I’ve ever had,” Mickey gasps. “Fuckin’ shit. The, uh, Rice Krispies saying ‘Snap/Crackle/Pop’ actually used to be ‘Snap/Crackle/Pop/Pow.’”
“Oh my god,” Ian says, because Ian would never have guessed the random shit that Mickey knew. “Owls don’t have eye sockets, they have eye tubes.” Mickey grins and Ian curses. “What the fuck, Mickey? How could you possibly know that?”
“Guess who did a project in the sixth grade on owls?” Mickey hands him a shot and Ian drinks it, coughing slightly on the end when it goes down the wrong pipe.
Mickey smokes on his cigarette, breathing smoke out of his nose. “Topeka, Kansas renamed itself ToPikachu to mark Pokemon’s debut in the U.S. Only on that day, though,” Mickey adds. “That’d be fuckin’ great if they’d kept it.” God, Ian hates him. He can’t even think of another fact to say and all he wants to do is kiss him.
“Um . . . fuck, what the fuck is a fact?” Ian rubs his hands over his face. “Oh god, I can’t think of anything.”
Mickey grins at him. “You givin’ up? You’ll have to take another shot.”
“Fuck no, um. My fact is . . .” Ian really can’t think of anything, but he looks at Mickey grinning at him from across the couch, cigarette in his mouth and paint on his fingertips, and Ian says before he can even think twice: “I love you.” Mickey’s face changes, going from playfully drunk to surprised, looking far more sober than he should. Ian registers what he said and starts panicking. “Oh fuck. Oh, fuck, Mickey--”
“I love you too,” Mickey interrupts, looking the most afraid Ian’s ever seen him. Ian feels all breath leave him, and then he’s laughing, shakily at first, and then harder, and for the first five minutes after they confess they love each other, that’s all they do: Mickey sits there, legs tangled together, smiling a huge grin around his cigarette, and Ian leans his head back against the armrest, staring at the ceiling and laughing.
seventeen
(the end).
This is how it is ends:
- It doesn’t.