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“I like fucking carrot tops, y’know with the, the freckles, and the pale skin… fuckin’ alien lookin?”
Mickey didn’t look up to notice the alarmed reactions of those around him as he spoke for the first time since he’d stepped through the door and ordered enough alcohol to make his head buzz just a little. He had blurted his confession out of the blue to anyone who would listen, having long since drowned out whatever boring conversation Kev was having with the other stray patrons scattered along the bar. It seemed that his mind just so happened to always wander to the same thought, the one thought he can’t escape, no matter how hard he had tried to shove it down these past few months.
Pretty boy extraordinaire, Ian fucking Gallagher.
“Well you might be in luck,”
Mickey shifted immediately to look at the table Kev had nodded towards. Sitting there was a pale, red haired woman, probably around her mid 30s.
A woman.
Oh.
Mickey snorted, startling everyone including himself, before erupting into giggles as his head drooped lower.
“You good? She not your type or some shit? Hey man, it’s just a suggestion, y’know-”
“Nah it’s nothing man, s’just-” Mickey bursted into silly giggles again before he could finish his sentence.
Probably for the best too since what he was actually laughing at definitely was not something he wanted to share with the class. Perhaps, Mickey thought, about three drinks earlier he would’ve actually gone through with it. Could’ve stomached a hookup with someone he was in no way attracted to just for the flicker of a reminder of what he was really searching for, could've shut his brain offline enough that he could pretend he was fucking someone else. A couple drinks prior to this point, he could’ve easily walked up to her with a quick “ay, wanna bang?” before leading her into the bathroom and letting his thoughts wander to another at the pulse of their hips. He could’ve lied to everyone, and himself, to avoid raising any suspicion. Any stupid fucking scary questions fired at him, or any snide remarks at his expense that were too close for comfort. Just done it because fucking a woman is what every real man does when hes lonely and tipsy and horny at a bar. But at his current level of drunkenness, even he could take the concept of himself hooking up with a woman about as seriously as the concept of Terry leading a pride parade.
Hi-larious.
“The fuck you snickering at, man? Thought ya said you liked carrot tops?”
“Oh, no yea I do, just not um,” Mickey’s words slow as he realised he probably shouldn't say the rest out loud, “jusnot that kind,” he mumbled the rest of the sentence into his glass, taking another short swig.
“You got one in particular in mind or sum’n?”
“Well… yeah but uhh,” he punctuated the T and drawled out the rest, his smile slowly dropping as he sucked a breath in through his teeth, “not really an option for me right now.”
Right.
Of course, the particular alien looking carrot top that he’d had in mind was, in fact, gone. Fucked off forever, probably. Never to be seen again, and all thanks to him being too fucking chicken shit to-
“Well mopey, why don’t you buy her a beverage? Might cheer ya up a bit,” Kev casually threw the suggestion at the now sulking boy.
“You seen that chick? Wouldn’t fuckin’ need to.”
Mickey swallowed the last of his drink in a single gulp and stood up, hit with a sudden rush of bravado, some masculine urge to prove himself. But as he turned to face her, the reality of his plan dawned on him and he stopped in his tracks.
It’s not like he hadn’t hooked up with women before. He’d done it multiple times in fact, and it never really seemed to be a huge deal to him until the first time it happened after he hooked up with a guy. That time, it very suddenly became clear what, on some level, Mickey had known all along. His whole life, he had been using sex with women to, at least subconsciously, punish himself. To remind himself of the one thing he wanted that was always just slightly out of his reach. He used to need to get blackout drunk, that way he could still get off without having to remember what went down. But now he knows the truth about himself, even if he hates it, being even a little too drunk for a straight hook up is a complete recipe for disaster.
The best time for Mickey to hook up with a woman was of course at 20%. 20% drunk, 20% stoned, whatever. Just out of it enough that he didn’t have to think too hard. Not so out of it that he’d overthink and start panicking, or as it seems, not so out of it that the mere concept of him hooking up with a woman after finding something that really worked for him and letting that thing escape from his grasp so easily, wasn't completely ridiculous.
But as Mickey looked at her, he no longer had that ridiculous feeling he had earlier. Staring at the woman now, for some reason, felt an awful lot like staring directly down the barrel of a shotgun.
Yeah. He was far too drunk for this.
Mickey breathed out a curse, crashing back down onto the stool, “ahh fuuuck. Fuckin’ can’t, man, i..“
He let out a shaky sigh, his jaw slightly open as he licked at the corner of his mouth, glancing back over to the woman and then up at Kev, who was looking right back at him, knowingly.
Too knowingly.
Far too knowingly for Mickey’s liking.
“It’s okay Mickey, I know.”
Mickey’s jaw snapped shut.
“Know what?” he challenged.
Mickey’s eye contact gained a sudden intensity, though his boldness wasn’t enough mask the pinch of fear hiding just below the surface.
Kev blinked.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Mickey didn’t need be sober or a genius to sense the smugness radiating from Kev’s response. Rage and panic began to blend together in the pit of his stomach.
“Yeah damn right fuckin’ nothin’ you don’t know shit-“ instantly both Mickey’s hands were on the bar as he pushed himself up, lunging at Kev drunkenly.
“Woah woah hey! Cool it!” Kev took a few steps back. “Don’t wanna have to kick ya out, man.”
Mickey’s eye contact hardened as he sank back on the stool and sighed heavily. One hand came up to rub at his eye sockets as he lowered his head, desperate to centre his spinning thoughts and calm his adrenaline.
Then, Kev’s voice came again, from above him. It was closer and quieter now, almost comforting, “you know that I’m in your corner, buddy,”
Mickey didn’t look up.
After a moment, he sensed Kev stepping away to collect some more glasses.
And then he was alone at the bar.
Except, he wasn't alone. Ian’s there. In his mind, Ian is there, grinning at him, laughing freely with his his head tilted back, looking into his eyes, faces close breath tickling Mickey’s cheek. Ian’s there, looking sheepishly at Mickey, smirk spreading wider and wider on his face waiting for Mickey to register another one of his terrible jokes. Ian’s there. Eyes resting on him cautiously yet patiently, free of judgement yet so full of care. Ian’s there. Pressing their foreheads together, hooded eyes pulling Mickey in, drinking him up, their lips moving closer, feeling sparks of electricity as they breathe in each other’s air. Ian’s there, pushing their bodies together tightly from behind, holding his chest snug against the top of Mickey’s back as he wraps his arms around the smaller boy. Smashing his nose into the crook of Mickey’s neck and breathing in deeply, letting out a soft hum as he exhales, smiling. Enveloping Mickey whole.
Mickey’s brain snapped back to reality as he heard the voice of Kev once again.
“So, your carrot top. Tell me about ‘em”
Mickey worried his lower lip between his teeth, apprehensively flicking between each of Kev’s eyes. He took a second to try and decipher the subtext, parse through his inflection, pick up on the intricacies of his expression, to figure out what Kev was really getting at. But his intoxicated mind struggled with this type of recollection on a good day.
Then he took in the mans words. Mickey’s carrot top. Mickey’s Ian. And suddenly Ian is there, invading his thoughts with those damned eyes and goofy smile. And before he realised it, Mickey was grinning up at Kev despite himself.
Ah fuck it.
“Sweet,” he huffed out a laugh, “more like goddamn carrot topped carrot cake, fucking sweet ass motherfucker. You should see those fuckin’ eyes when they light up, like tiny sparklers. Gets giddy as a fuckin’ puppy. Definitely playfights like a puppy too, hell, the fucker knows how to work those puppydog eyes on me every damn time. And pretty. Goddamn fuckin’ pretty boys always ge-“
Kev smiled.
In an instant, all the air was sucked out of Mickey’s lungs and a tightness like no other curled in his chest.
everything froze.
Swallowing thickly, Mickey leaned over the bar.
“listen to me, you breathe a goddamn word of this to anyone an’ I’ll- oh fuck- Kev, please, you can’t-“ Mickey choked as his voice was pulled out from under him. His head spun and he couldn't force any of his words out right, gasping for air. His breaths came sharply in and out as he felt his eyes and throat sting.
“Hey, hey, hey! It’s alright. We’re cool.” Kev scowled, taken aback by the kid’s sudden change in disposition.
“Promise me-“ Mickey growled, biting back the whimper that threatened to bubble over.
Kev held up his hands and as he looked into Mickey’s eyes, he began to soften as the realisation finally kicked in.
Mickey wasn't angry. He was fucking terrified.
“I promise. No ones fucking coming for you, man. You’re safe. You can always trust your friendly neighborhood bartender to keep your secret secure. I certainly don’t give a shit who or what you’re into! Pretty boys, pretty girls, E.T. motherfuckers,” Kev’s voice somehow managed to soothe Mickey into relaxing a little, “now breathe, will you? don’t want you passing out on my floor.”
And he did. The panting breaths that escaped his open mouth eventually steadied as he flicked his tongue soothingly at the corner of his lips, tracing the ridges of his long since empty glass with the tip of his thumb.
Mickey glanced around the bar sheepishly to check if anyone had noticed what had just occurred. He was usually hypervigilant of his surroundings, but it seemed the alcohol and the whirlwind of emotions he had just cycled through in under a minute, meant he really had not been paying much attention to anything at all. His heartbeat rang in his ears as he scanned the room methodically. But Tommy and the others who were sitting by the bar earlier had since left. No one else seemed to have been paying them any mind at all.
He looked up at Kev, who was back to cleaning the glass in his hand. He caught Mickey’s gaze and the corners of his mouth upturned subtly, though not a moment later his brows had furrowed in a gaze that Mickey couldn’t quite distinguish, somewhere around guilt, concern and pity.
His heart lurched.
“You ever have…” Mickey’s voice croaked out before he even registered that it was himself talking, “you ever had everything you ever wanted… everything your soul fuckin’ needed, the one thing that made you actually feel alive after living your entire life like a fucking zombie, only to have it all ripped away from you in the blink of an eye? torn from you like, like wolverine’s reached into your fuckin’ chest and tore your fuckin’ heart out of your body and left you to bleed out while everyone stood there and watched… and you think maybe if you jus- maybe if you could just man the fuck up and say some magic fuckin’ words then you could get it all back again but it’s all too fast n’ it’s too late, it’s too goddamn late and it’s all my fucking fault Kev. It’s all..”
Mickey’s soliloquy ran dry as the boy devolved into quiet empty sobs, still half shielding himself with one hand rubbing at his temple to avoid anyone noticing the wreck he had become. Kev froze in a stunned silence, not quite knowing how to approach this new territory. Usually when customers drank themselves sad he would listen politely to a point, try and offer up a joke or some half-assed advice and then either excuse himself or send them on their way before they dragged the whole mood of the bar down.
But this was Mickey Milkovich. Kev didn’t even know the kid had feelings other than anger and hostility. He took a couple moments to process the bundle of feelings the boy had just vomited up, and instantly, Kev knew exactly what he needed. It was something he’d be surprised if Mickey had ever been offered before. He needed compassion.
Mickey sniffled, attempting to collect himself a little more before opening his mouth speak again, to at least attempt to clarify the jumble of words he just poured out, scrape up whatever scraps of dignity and sense there was left in anticipation of the dawning embarrassment that he was currently too raw and intoxicated to fully feel right now.
“S’jus, I know-“ sniff “if I could’ve jus fuckin’ told him how I actually felt, I know he would’ve stayed,”
“So,” Kev placed his hand gently on the counter in front of Mickey, drawing his attention to look at him once more, “how do you actually feel?”
Like I love him.
“Like a fuckin’ coward,” Mickey chokes in admittance,
“like I love him,”
The words came softly, muttered into Mickey’s lap as he slumped back down onto the bar, head resting on his forearms, like he knew he couldn't stop himself from saying them but tried to at least muffle the sound from his patient listener anyway.
“like my one job,” Mickey punctuated, lifting his head a little, “was to protect him from the horror shit show that is the goddamn Milkovich household and I couldn't even fuckin’ do that…”
And flooding back came the memory of that night, of Terry’s rage, of Ian’s face, of Mickey’s entire world being upended in an instant. Flooding back came the memories of every time the words Mickey needed to say, the words Ian needed to hear, got stuck in his throat, drowned out by booming the voice of Terry Milkovich screaming all his deepest fears at him in his mind.
He may not have fully known what Mickey was thinking about in that moment, but Kev certainly understood enough.
“I'm sorry Mick. I hear you. Really.” Kev’s tone is quiet still, less to calm Mickey so much as to keep their conversation in the metaphorical bubble that had formed around the pair, though it calmed him all the same, “and look man, if you ever need a place to crash, if you need to… just- let me know, okay?”
Mickey looked up at him, eyes wide with gratitude, and gently nodded.
“Really hopin’ I’m so hammered that I don’t remember this tomorrow” Mickey slurred.
“I’d say me too but it’s a little fucking late I think. Now i’ve got the memory of Southside Thug, Mickey Milkovich cryin’ on my barstool all ‘cause I suggested he buy a woman a drink etched into my brain forever!”
Mickey flipped Kev off, covering his face with his hand as he let out a chuckle.
Kev joined it with a gentle laugh as he placed a water down in front of Mickey “c’mon man, lets get you sobered up.”
-
Kev didn’t speak a word of their conversation to anyone. Not the guys at the bar when gay people they knew came up in conversation one evening. Not the other Milkovich siblings who occasionally came to the Alibi to play rounds of pool. Not Fiona when she mentioned Ian seeming a little off after he got back. Not even Veronica when she asked about how it was to have the dirtiest white boy in America as a business partner, if he thought that was really a good idea. Even when Mickey got blackout at the Alibi the night before Terry was set to be released, and refused Kev’s offer of a place to crash with a short “M’fine. Stayin’ at Ians”, Kev didn’t say a word.
The day that Mickey came out at the Alibi, Kev beamed with complete and utter pride.