Disclaimer: First and foremost, the account holder and authors do in no way, shape, or form, own any characters, names, places, storyline plots, and so forth.
Disclaimer: This Fiction is the work of two authors who shall be duly credited upon publication of the next chapter. The account holder is one of the authors, as well as the editor. Please disregard all, if any, differentiation in the writing style.
Disclaimer: This Fic! Is rooted from a roleplay, rated M for sexual themes and content, language, and violent descriptions, as well as mental health stigma.
Disclaimer: The authors do not support the slurs used in character, in this fic
Author's Note: Hello my lovelies! I know that my main fic, Listen To The Thunder, is taking me a while to update and for that I apologize. However, here is a tasty, queer, Shameless (US) Gallavich fic for you to nom on. I recognize that I am first class Gallavich trash. Xoxo
"Left, right, left right left!" the drill sergeant shouted across the chilly schoolyard.
ROTC reminded Mickey a lot of juvie, with the chain link fence and orders barked incessantly. He shivered uncomfortably, both from the reminder and the cold.
At least the bastards could let them wear a fucking coat.
He sighed in irritation and refused to return the call. Mickey most definitely regretted his decision to join. Who the fuck gave him the bright idea to sign-up for this brainwashing? He looked at Ian out of the corner of his eye, his bright red hair tucked under the camo cap. Fuck, that asshole; but Mickey couldn't help letting out a barely perceptible smile. He planned to.
"Milkovich!" The sergeant shouted.
Oh shit
He hadn't even done anything. He stood a bit straighter and looked forward gritting his teeth.
Don't freak out, don't freak out.
Still, his chest heaved uncontrollably and red edged at the corner of his eyes. He hated the way his heart sped whenever someone yelled at him, like he was some fucking pussy.
"Sir!" He responded through his teeth. He balled his hands in a fist and narrowed his eyes.
"Milkovich. Step out of line."
Mickey felt his stomach drop, and prepared to be humiliated somehow. Instead, the sergeant handed him the rifle tucked under his arm. Mickey's eyebrows rose in surprise, and he grinned. Finally, something he was comfortable with. He glanced at Ian out of the corner of his eye, hopeful to show off a bit.
"Milkovich, have you read the manual? Do you feel confident that you could disassemble and reassemble this weapon?" The sergeant shouted.
Fuck, why does everyone have to yell all the damn time?
Mickey cleared his throat and nodded. "Sir yes sir!" He yelled back, a bit too fervently.
The sergeant gave him a warning look before nodding.
"Proceed!" He ordered.
Mickey let himself relax, leaned the butt of the rifle against his thigh, popped it apart in a few simple steps. It took him maybe thirty seconds. He held the separate pieces out one at a time with a cocky grin on his face. He was about to snap everything back into place when the sergeant grabbed for the pieces.
"I thought you wanted me to-"
The older man cut him off shouting "That WASN'T procedure!"
Mickey felt the anger boil up again quickly, too quickly to stop it. His face heated in embarrassment.
"The fuck you mean procedure? Who fucking cares? That shit was sweet!" He protested crossing his arms.
The sergeant pressed up against him quickly. "You're out of line Milkovich!" He shouted into his face.
Without a moment's thought, Mickey pushed the man by his shoulders.
"What the fuck back off!" He protested. The sergeant moved off quickly and Mickey thought maybe he'd won.
"Milkovich. That was INSUBORDINATION!" He shouted.
Mickey wasn't surprised that he had snapped. This shit was not his thing; he couldn't handle all the shouting. It put him on the defensive quickly. He tried to catch his breath.
"Walk it off!" The sergeant shouted.
"Yeah, yeah." He mumbled, heading to the edge of the courtyard to run a few laps.
Fucking Gallagher.
Ian cringed internally throughout the entire ordeal. He had offered to help Mickey study on multiple occasions, but the little pistol always seemed to have... other plans; and how could Ian resist anything other than frost coming from Mickey's stone cold eyes. Eyes he puzzled after. The mystery of Mickey Milkovich. The ginger often felt like one of the Scooby Doo gang, always trying to find out who was behind the mask. What sentimental bullshit.
"Gal-la-gher!" Spittle christened Ian's sweating brow. He had been so Goddamn lost in that fucking skanky Milkovich.
Mickey began his jog slowly, flicking his eyes away quickly when Ian's name was called. It felt good to be removed from the painfully aggressive order of the drill line.
That's it, he was fucking done; he'd tell Ian later.
He licked his lips self-consciously as he considered the other boy's potential disappointment. Ian had this really fucking annoying way of making him do exactly what he didn't want to do and he let out an irritated sigh knowing he would give it another shot if the red-head asked.
"Yes Sir!?" Ian tested his vocal chords, trying to contain the anger in his voice, chasing out those fleeting thoughts.
"Do you think YOU can do better than that poor excuse for a cadet?" The rifle was shoved under his nose. Gunpowder flared up his nostrils. It had been used before.
Ian took it, unsure, looking for Mickey's gaze from the fields. The last thing he needed was hell from Mick for 'showing off again'.
"ARE YOU WAITING FOR THE SILVER PLATTER PRINCESS?" Words like fire assaulted his ears, fear in his chest. The lesser of two evils.
The lesser.
Two.
Evils.
Mickey shook his head and closed his eyes as he rounded behind the cadets. He opened them again when he heard the sergeant shout in Ian's face. Slowing his pace, he caught those warm brown eyes. An eyebrow rose in his curiosity as to how Ian would react.
Pale, freckled hands delicately fluttered about, dismantling the gun. The Sergeant came the closest to looking pleased he ever could.
Ian Gallagher; asshole extraordinaire.
Mickey knew Ian wanted this more than him, but he also had seen Ian's temper first hand; sometimes their similarities made Mickey's stomach flutter in this awkward way.
The ginger made his choice, tossing the pieces together with rapid-fire. It clicked into place as he cocked it, the way Mickey had shown him.
Watching carefully, and recognizing his own behaviors and gestures as Ian snapped the thing back together, Mickey smirked in Ian's direction and threw him a wink before he could stop himself.
The fuck was that? Mickey wondered.
He felt his face heat again and he sped up his pace letting his embarrassment blossom into hot, comfortable anger burning in the bottom of his throat. He let his feet pound against the brown, frozen dust and he kept his eyes down
The sergeant snatched the gun and began to SCREAM.
Mick listened to the sergeant's shouting.
Didn't that asshole's mouth ever get tired? He listened until the words were just a blur of red pounding in his ears just like his father's constant noise. Motherfucking Hell; why would Ian even bother with him, such a waste of fucking space, pile of shit.
After a ten minute lecture on the importance of going by the book, and what can and will get you killed, Ian was sent to run laps. He picked a steady pace, and gazed around for his teacher.
Ian's skin spotted Mickey before his eyes, as crazy as it made him feel. He always KNEW when those cold eyes came roaming around; it sent a chill up his spine. He could outrun Mickey when it came to distance, but speed he wasn't so sure about.
Quickening his steady rhythm, Ian caught up.
Milkovich was channeling his rage deeply, gasping roughly, when he heard the patter of feet falling in time with his. Mickey slowed unconsciously and looked up to see Ian eager and energetic beside him. He was like a puppy that didn't know how to keep his shit calm. Mickey took a deep breath to calm the sting in his lungs from the cold air.
"Nice technique Gallagher," he commented with a shit-eating grin. "I bet that asshole's never even shot a gun," he bitched, letting his pace fall into rhythm with the redheads.
He felt the weird flutter return to his stomach. It was kind of nice to have a reason to hang out with Ian without all the sneaking around. He'd rather die than admit it.
Ian grinned, and playfully bumped his panting counterpart with his shoulder when Mickey commented on his display. He hadn't failed; soothing waves washed over his mind knowing the Milkovich wasn't displeased. "I have one hellova instructor." He chuckled low in his throat, shooting Mickey a cheeky smile. Being the gay Gallagher wasn't exactly fucking easy. Ian scolded himself internally for being so flirty at ROTC. This was his career, and nobody wanted a fag marine
Mickey fought his urge to throw himself into the fond playful push. Instead, he batted Ian away by the shoulder firmly and held back a flattered smirk. He nodded and kept running, fists balled tight. Keep it together, he reminded himself when he felt a rush of warmth from Ian's breath rush across his neck. Fuck. He found himself slowly running closer to the redhead and as their arms lightly brushed, he looked over at the drill line, thankful that no one was looking. Ian's smile made his heart jump again.
"Yeah yeah, well when you gotta fuck someone up every other week it kinda comes with the territory," he shrugged dismissing the compliment.
Mickey watched Ian run out of the corner of his eye, captivated by the way his freckles blushed brighter as the cold air beat against their faces.
Pussy, he could almost hear his dad grunt and he turned his eyes resolutely ahead.
Ian had reveled in his own tumbling thoughts for a moment too long, plummeting headfirst into the ground. Apparently, he was actually a blonde; he hasn't been watching his footing and had slipped on an icy patch.
Bam BAM
Mickey noticed the missing friction between them first and he looked behind him curiously. The shithead fell?
With a heaving grunt, he picked his head up, a minor gash graced his cheek. Blood trickled, and then flowed freely. "Well what the fuck how fucking perfect." Angry muttering proceeded.
Mickey let out a hearty laugh and ran back to where Ian had fallen. He crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in disbelief.
"Really? Fucking spaz," Mickey muttered with another chuckle. He looked around self-consciously before leaning down to help the redhead up.
It was then that Ian remembered Mickey. Mickey was there. He had watched him trip up like a bitch. Blood flushed his pale cheeks, causing his cut to bleed a little more. He made to stand, but steadied himself before he could do further damage. The ground swam up to meet him.
How fucking pathetic.
Mickey's eyes widened in fear when he noticed how out of it Ian looked and he hoisted the thin boy up quickly.
The intense heat that shot through him as he draped Ian's arm across his shoulder made him grit his teeth. "Hey, hey, you ok?" He asked, trying not to sound as worried as he was. Mickey's attention was glued to Ian's face and the deadness in his usually cinnamon eyes made Mickey feel nauseous. For a moment, he wasn't even thinking about all the other assholes there watching them.
Ian felt electricity crackle across his skin, jumping from freckle to freckle before hitting his spine. Then, a coldness took over.
Mickey.
"FuckImfinegetthefuckoff" he blurted with embarrassment at the flicker of... Something... In the little pistol's voice. He shrugged out of Mickey's touch, surprised at how homosensitive he was being today.
Mickey stiffened at the way that Ian pulled away, so suddenly distant. "Jesus, I'm just tryin ta fucking help," he murmured quietly, pulling himself inward quickly.
The flutter returned to his stomach and he flung out his arms in exasperation. Try to help a guy... he thought but he knew he would've done the same thing. He wanted to tell Ian that it was alright, that he hadn't meant anything by laughing. It's always fun and games till someone gets hurt, and then it's fucking hilarious; might as well be the Milkovich motto.
"I'm just a fucking klutz, okay?" Ian snapped quietly, brushing off any concern towards him. He smeared his hand across his cheek, wiping the blood elsewhere. He had lost his hat, which he grabbed quickly, and placed his camo crown across his reddened head. Ian was enveloped in this anger, even though he was shaking inside. He had to be fucking perfect for this hard ass masochist, or he'd never hear the end of it. Mick could, and OH he fucking would, bitch for days about anything and gazed around to find the sergeant letting a piercing shriek from the whistle around his thick as fuck neck.
Mickey cringed at the sound of the whistle. He was back to hating everything, even with Ian his anger would only briefly lift, like someone drowning who manages to come up for a small breath of fresh air. He wished he could just go back home and beat the shit out of one of his cousins, let off some steam. Instead, he had to stand there in that fucking line like a robot. Mickey's eyes followed Ian as they ran in but he stayed a bit behind trying to breathe through the red hot irritation that had returned.
The ginger's caramel eyes grazed his -
Mickey's face -
As they ran back to the others. The dark haired man's face was blanketed by something unfamiliar. Snowflakes began to lazily drift from cottonball clouds, settling bright against Mickey's short hair.
The anger suddenly fled him, and there was serenity once more. He watched the way Mickey's muscles flexed as they ran, and felt the electricity dip below his belt. Ian quickly readjusted himself; he would handle that later.
Mick tried to focus on Ian's freckles again. Those bright dots kept him grounded as they lined up. Fucking freezing! He shivered as a snowflake melted down the back of his neck. He put his hands behind his back like a good little soldier and stood straight, expectant. Maybe if Ian saw him trying... but he barely had time to finish the thought before the sergeant rounded on the red-head. Was it fuck with the fag day or what? He wondered as anger flared through him again.
The Sergeant growled. "Gallagher! 30 pushups, little girl. Let's go!" Ian dropped immediately on the spot, not daring to look at Mickey. He felt his gaze, and it made him weak.
"COME ON GALLAGHER!"
Ten. Fifteen.
His head was pounding. His anger flared, performing barrel rolls amongst his thoughts. "Are you a little girl? You can't do the pushups?" The big man taunted him relentlessly.
"My baby sister does pushups just fucking fine." The ginger snapped at the final comment. This, of course, expelled a barrage of verbal bricks directly at Ian's aching head. If only he would just shut the fuck up. Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered with this shit.
Mickey was raging. What if Ian had seriously hurt himself, and now he was on the ground like a little bitch? He hated the way that the sergeant compared Ian to a girl; what the fuck difference did that make? Mandy could've probably taken out the thick-necked prick in a couple hits. He started to laugh uncontrollably and shook his head.
"Something funny Milkovich?" the sergeant asked. "Maybe you should join your girlfriend!" He ordered.
Mickey's stomach turned and the world went red. He didn't even hesitate before stepping out of line and throwing a hard uppercut at the sergeant's jaw. The asshole didn't flinch but Mickey didn't stop there; he socked the man in the gut and as his limbs began to swing out rabidly, the world receded. He was vaguely aware of the chaos around him as the cadets rustled and murmured and circled them. The sergeant didn't hit him back. Instead, he tried to pull Mickey's arm into a hold but the warm rage rushing through his blood kept him one step ahead of the bastard somehow.
"Come on you pussy! You too much of a girl to hit me back?" He shouted as the sergeant curled up on the ground taking a swift kick in the stomach. "Fuck me up!" He insisted, spit flying from his angry lips.
It was a flash of red, and another crash. Ian landed atop Mickey with fierceness in his eyes. "Malcolm Milkovich calm the fuck down." Ian hissed as inaudible as he could manage. Mickey's attention snapped back to reality as he felt familiar, tightly muscled arms wrapping around his own. He hated his full name, Ian fucking knew it too. He let out a few heaving grunts against the redhead and tried to calm himself as Ian demanded. The red had begun to recede and the grey world came into view when the sergeant flung the slur like an accusation at the two of them. Mickey jerked roughly against Ian's strong grip, kicking out with all his might. He hated how low his center of gravity was, he couldn't reach that asshole to kick him right in his shit-eating grin. He gave up after a few more failed jabs.
The sergeant grinned menacingly from the ground. "Welcome to Chicago's ROTC, fairies. We're going to have one hell of a time."
"I ain't no fucking fairy," he growled weakly, and his father's maniacal laugh echoed in his head.
After Ian let him go, his muscles turned to mush, his bruises started to ache, and he pushed the balls of his palms against his eyes. He didn't wait for any other order.
Fuck that faggot's orders, he thought as he turned to walk out of the school yard.
Mickey rushed back home, not like he had anywhere else to go. His dad was shouting through the house, as usual, so he dodged out of Terry's sight and slammed the door to his room. Nothing like another beating after an hour of incessant berating.
His father's shouts pounded through his head, shaking the walls of the house. Mickey let out a primal shout.
"FUCK! Can't anyone get some fucking peace around here?" He shouted in response, grabbing a beer from beside his bed. He slurped it down quickly and chucked the can against the wall, unsure of whether he even made the basket. He turned on some music; metal was the best because it matched the chaotic noise in his head.
Fuck this place.
Fuck ROTC.
Fuck Gallagher...
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his mind lingering on the last thought. As much as Mickey wished, he couldn't think "fuck Ian" without thinking about getting fucked by Ian. He flopped back onto his bed and took a long drag on his cigarette. He closed his eyes and let out a hiss at the aches on his body. Mickey shifted uncomfortably and thought about the warm, brown eyes and that spark of bright red that glimmered behind them when he was feeling horny. His stomach fluttered again and a flash of heat rushed down to his crotch. He reached his hand down below the edge of his pants but hesitated. It wouldn't be the same as the real thing; besides, somehow Terry would find his way into Mickey's mind reminding him somehow that he was a backwards piece of shit. He grabbed for his shitty ass flip phone and let his thumb linger over the call button.
A/N : Fin. More to come. Also, all editing is done to assist in word flow, but it is extremely minimum. In this RP, I am playing Ian and my partner is playing Mickey.