Vanilla Twilight
If anyone were to ask him, Mickey would blame the incident full heartedly on a sap song that played on a 2-bit plastic cased radio placed on the counter of Kash 'n' Grab where both he and Ian were doing their afternoon shifts.
He was casually flipping through one of the geometry books that Ian was supposed to go through, looking at the pictures of triangles criss-crossed with lines that formed angles. The book was second hand so the amusement of it was the copious amount of commentary left behind by its previous owner.
The song starts when Mickey's attention is focused on Ian's mouth as he chews on the thin aluminum wrap at the end of his pencil. He doesn't really pay attention to it besides the fact that it's too melodic for his taste and maybe he even wants to smash the half wheezing radio into the nearest wall because it's starting to get on his nerves. The only phrase he catches is "The silence isn't so bad, till I look at my hands and feel sad. Cause the spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly"
And that's how the whole thing starts.
So it all starts with that song and the fucking phrase that Mickey can't put out of his goddamn mind. He even contemplated taking a gun to his head and painting the pavement with his brains just to get it out of his mind. He manages to forget about it after a week, and right after he does, he sees Gallagher with the geriatric viagroid. Fucking perfect.
It's not that their together that gets his hackles raised and sets his teeth on edge. The fucker is holding Gallagher's hand. And just like that, that stupid song that Mickey heard from the fucking radio starts replaying in his mind. He bites the inside of his mouth and watches them carefully. More specifically, he studies their intertwined fingers.
They don't fulfill the criteria set out by the fucking song and that makes Mickey feel better. He and Ian aren't fucking boyfriends and he's fine with that. But Mickey is a possessive motherfucker and maybe just maybe he doesn't throw Gallagher under the 'fuck-buddy' label and leave it there. He notices that no, the old fucker's and the Ginger's hands don't fit perfectly with each other. In fact, quite the fucking opposite. Ned or Lloyd or whatever the fuck he's called has perfectly groomed and manicured fingernails that scream about his social status. He's too clean and too neat and that makes him stand out more in the Southside. Gallagher on the other hand, has very rough and bony fingers that show he's not afraid to get his hands dirty and is capable of carrying his own weight around. The cuticles at the top of his fingers are ripped and his nails are shorter than they should be courtesy to the copious amounts of nail-biting Gallagher does when he's nervous (Mickey will never ever admit he notices these small things about Ian but he does).
And maybe that's exactly what makes Mickey feel better. Because Gallagher and Viagroid don't fit together. The old fucker see's him watching them and smiles a smile that's not friendly. Mickey sneers at him and flips him off while walking away.
He can't get the whole incident out of his mind, and for the rest of the day, the stupid song keeps replaying in his mind.
Two days have passed since he watched Ian and Viagroid holding hands. He and Ian are laying side by side coming down from a high induced by a very satisfactory fuck. Ian's hands are splayed on his sides, playing with the rubble on the floor of the abandoned building they chose to meet up at.
Mickey looks down and notices that Ian has a few scrapes on his knuckles that he most probably got when they were fucking with abandon. They're bleeding but only slightly.
He doesn't know how it happens, but his fingers have etched closer to Gallagher's hand and he's wiping the blood away.
"Ow! What the fuck Mick?" Ian glares at him for a second before looking down and taking in what Mickey is doing. Mickey watches as a shit eating grin slowly stretches. Mickey scowls at him and decides to defuse whatever fantasy Gallagher has conjured up in his mind about Mickey caring.
"Don't be a fucking pussy Firecrotch and get that fucking look of your face" leering down at Ian for good measure, Mickey moves to pull his hand away.
Before he does though, Ian flips his hand palm-side up and grabs Mickey's, intertwining their fingers. To say that Mickey is shell shocked would be a grand understatement. It takes two minutes or maybe longer for his mind to register to what just happened and after it does, he waits for the stupid to register on Ian's face for pulling off a pansy ass move like that.
Ian isn't even looking at him anymore. He's looking at the ceiling like the cracks it adorns are the most interesting thing he's ever seen in his life. When Mickey tries to pull his hand away, Ian's fingers tighten around his.
"Fucking let go or I'll break your fucking fingers Gallagher" he growls all the while glaring at the ginger. Ian doesn't give though. He continues to stare at the ceiling while his other hand picks up a stone and starts tapping some unknown rhythm on the floor.
Before Mickey can try and pull his hand free again, a familiar song starts replaying in his mind.
"Cause the spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly"
And fuck, just fuck because Mickey knows right there and then that he's royally screwed. He looks down at their fingers and they fit. Fuck they fit and he thinks he should ignore the warmth that's bubbling where he thinks his heart should be. They fit like to perfect puzzle pieces, like a bullet appointed for a specific gun. A yin-yang thing or some other shit like that. Mickey feels like he belongs and that scares five different kinds of shit out of him. He wants to bash his own head against a brick wall because he's ticked off all the stereotypes he's put on the fag label and there's no coming back from this.
Mickey pretends that he doesn't see the smile that spreads across Ian's face when he stops struggling. He pretends that he doesn't want this and he's only allowing it because Ian is the most decent fuck he's ever had. He pretends like this doesn't matter because for as long as he can remember, denial has saved his white ass one too many times. And maybe he does it for the smile or the fuck or the warmth under his chest that's spreading through his entire body and giving him an ethereal feeling. Maybe it's viagroid and the stupid irritation he felt when he saw them holding hands. Mickey blames it all on the stupid song on the fucking radio that's made him allow this sentimental crap to happen and even feel happy about. It was the fucking song.
Neither of them speak or even look at each other besides small peaks from the corner of their eyes. They don't mention the smile on Ian's face and the exact replica that's unknowingly formed on Mickey's face.
And if Mickey's fingers tighten around Ian's, neither of them comment on it. In this moment they're just two people too lost in each other to give a fuck anymore.
That's enough for them.