Ian Gallagher.

What was it about Ian Gallagher that made Mickey Milkovich want to punch every wall in his stupid fucking house for ten hours straight? Every time Ian opened his mouth, Mickey could feel himself reaching his boiling point. It wasn't anger. Or maybe it was. Maybe he was angry because this stupid little shit sitting in front of him made him feel something. Something that wasn't forced. No—not like the others—simple, but not simple. Ian would grin widely every time he said something to Mickey—no matter how stupid—and he'd have to turn away because he could feel his mouth pulling itself into a grin ten times wider.

There were moments—rare, but they existed—where they would lay in bed and talk as if there wasn't a world that existed around them. These were the moments where Mickey was sure he'd reach way past his boiling point and have to punch a wall or scream at Ian for making him feel this way. It was simple before Ian. He'd fuck girls for the simple pleasure of feeling something and that was it. Ian was supposed to be just that. Pleasure. Of course nothing could ever be simple as long as Ian Gallagher was involved. He'd make it a million times harder than it needed to be just by grinning with his stupid grin and making dumb comments like how he missed Mickey or even worse, that he likes him. There was even a time where he sighed Mickey's name into his ear and he was sure it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. Beautiful? Fuck. He couldn't believe he was even thinking about that word right now.

"Mickey?" Ian's voice ripped Mickey right out of his thoughts and back to reality. They'd just been laying there. Ten whole minutes afterwards and they were still laying there. Being in each other's presence and in silence for this long was a foreign concept. Usually Ian had been talking Mickey's face off this entire time and he'd been only half listening because he had to be careful not to make himself smile. If he smiled at Ian he'd never hear the end of it. He'd ask him what he was doing and Mickey would have to threaten him into being quiet about it—after all, he couldn't allow Ian the satisfaction of being able to tease him. Never. That was Mickey's job and only his.

"What?" He'd allowed himself to dig a hole in his thoughts and at least half bury himself underneath them again. Which means at least two whole minutes had passed since Ian had said his name and he knew, he just knew, that Ian was dying to say something to him.

"Nothing. I just wanted to hear you talk for a minute." Are you fucking kidding me right now, Gallagher? It was cute. Mickey needed to force himself to remain quiet in that moment because every bone in his body wanted to explode. He was going to say something nice. He couldn't. Giving Ian that kind of power over him was the worst possible thing. He already talks a lot—why give him another reason?

"Cute." Mickey's eyes widened as soon as he realized what he'd said. Did he just call him fucking cute? All of those moments trying to avoid giving Ian the satisfaction of knowing how he felt and being able to tease him about it...wasted. He wasn't even looking at Ian anymore but he could just tell that he was wearing a grin the size of fucking Antarctica on his face at that moment.

"You just called me cute. Me, Ian Gallagher, cute. You did that. You just called me cute. Right there. You did that." Mickey looked down at Ian's face and his eyes nearly rolled out of his head. His face felt hotter than sitting outside on the worst of summer days. He couldn't keep himself cool in that moment. It was exactly like a hot summer day—trying to find any way possible to maintain a normal body temperature but ending up even hotter than when you started.

"What are you talking about, Gallagher? I didn't even talk." He couldn't do it. He couldn't pretend like it didn't happen. He kept getting hotter and hotter and he knew that Ian could feel it. After all, his head was laying there on his chest and he was sure that in a minute he'd be sweating.

"You did. You think I'm cute. It's okay to admit you like my freckles and my ginger hair." Like? He didn't just like Ian's hair—he loved it. There were moments when all he wanted to do was run his fingers through his hair for an hour at a time and just confess all of his stupid feelings but for some reason, he just couldn't.

"I didn't mean it like that. You're disgusting, I didn't." He lifted up his arm and punched Ian playfully—not too hard but definitely not too soft. What was the worst about him was the fact that he was quite literally the least disgusting thing that Mickey'd ever seen. He had yet to find a flaw on Ian's body. Sometimes he felt like he wanted to be so close to him that he was smothering himself and Ian in the process—like he couldn't even breathe.

"Alright, fine. You didn't say it." All he could think about was that stupid grin. He was still staring down at his face and the grin hadn't left for a minute, even. He didn't want to say anything back because he just wanted to be there, in that moment—even if it made him feel like he was going to spontaneously combust.

A few minutes had passed and all that came out of the silence was, "But you did. You think I'm cute." That little shit. This was the exact reason he could never let himself slip. Ian already talked a lot but he talks a thousand times more every time something like this happens. Mickey was lost in his head again. He buried himself in thoughts of Ian—his hair, his eyes, his freckles, his voice, his body, his hips, everything. He smiled slightly. He was lucky and although he'd never say it—he knew.

"Mickey?" There it was again. He just couldn't be silent. "I love you." Boiling point. He reached it. Again. He felt such intense anger because all he could do was feel in that moment. It was love. Something Mickey never really understood and always kind of laughed at. He was one of those people that constantly talked about how stupid falling for someone was and how life should be as simple as just fucking someone and moving on.

"I love you too, Ian."

And he did.