Mickey huffed out a breath, pacing in his kitchen. He hated what he was doing, because it was desperate, but his words from earlier still echoed in his head. Why the fuck had he told Ian that he didn't care about him?
Realistically, he knew why. He didn't care about anyone, and caring about Ian freaked him the fuck out. He didn't want to think about what it meant that he wanted Ian around all the time, wanted to hold his stupid fucking hand and kiss his stupid fucking face. It was more of a nuisance than anything.
It was why he'd been calling Ian over and over. Even if it was desperate. And the more the redheaded asshole ignored his calls, the more Mickey wanted to talk to him.
At the beep that signaled Ian's voicemail, he exhaled.
"Hey. I guess you got the plague or whatever, since you won't pick up again," he started, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. That wasn't what he meant.
"We really need to fuckin' talk. About… fuck, us, I guess." He paused, as if waiting for Ian to answer. "I think you totally fucking misunderstood me, Private Dipshit. I kind of… well, what do you want me to say? That I fucking care about you? Fuck you. Don't make me…" He trailed off, groaning in frustration. He really needed to work up to what he was going to say, he was shit at talking about his feelings. Ian knew that. Why the fuck was he making him do this?
He realized after a second that he was leaving Ian hanging, and continued, "Shit. I fucking care about you, Ian. I like having you around. I like hanging out with you, even when you yap the whole time. I like when you show up unannounced and hang out with me, and keep me from getting lonely. I like you, alright? Quit being an asshole and pick up the phone, would you?"
Just as he was about to hang up in frustration, the line clicked as if someone answered. Mickey froze.
"Hey, Mick." It was Ian, sounding somewhat sheepish. "I've, um. I've been screening your calls, so, everyone in the kitchen heard all that."