Mickey doesn't cook. He's not one of those guys. He's a take-it-out-of-the-box-and-put-it-in-the-oven guy and when he has some spare cash he will actually get himself take-out but he doesn't cook. So when he decides to bake a cake for Mandy's birthday because he's bored one afternoon, he's not going to break the habit of a lifetime and get out some recipe and start whisking eggs and flour and shit, and turning all fuckin' Martha Stewart.
Except that he is and he totally does.
When he went to the store for cigarettes, he picked up one of those Betty Crocker cake mixes, expecting it to be "Just Add Water!" and didn't realise until he got it home that it did actually require eggs and oil and mixing.
Mickey threw the box across the kitchen.
Then he remembered that he was bored. Ian and Mandy were at school and everyone else was out and he had nothing else better to do except sit and smoke, so why the fuck not? He went back to the store and picked up oil and eggs – he'd already discovered the cake tins hiding in the back of one of the cupboards and he'd decided not to think about whether his mom used to make birthday cakes for them – and set himself to work.
Mickey doesn't follow instructions well, mainly because he doesn't read them and because, at the end of the day, he doesn't like being told what to do, but these are fairly simple. It's like "mix the stuff together, then pour it in the tins and put them in the oven" and even Mickey reckons he can manage that.
What he fails to do though, is get things ready before he starts. Like a measuring jug. Which they don't have. At this point though he has committed himself and no fuckin' way is he giving up. At least they have a big bowl which he puts the cake mix in, a cloud of powder puffing into the air as he tips it.
The box says he needs 250ml of water. While he thinks about what to do, he takes one of his brothers' beers from the fridge and drinks it, not too slowly. The very slight buzz he gets from swallowing the alcohol so fast also makes him feel better about this all probably going to go really wrong. Then he reads the label which says 330ml and he uses his brain.
When the bottle is empty, he rinses it a couple times and fills it about three quarters full, not entirely sure where his sudden math knowledge has come from that makes him realise this is the right amount. And if the cake tastes a little of beer then he's pretty sure nobody is going to notice.
The instructions for the oil says tablespoons - Mickey vaguely recalls a tablespoon is bigger than the spoon he eats his Lucky Charms with, so he just puts in a little bit extra. He cracks three eggs into the bowl too and curses as pieces of shell gets into the mixture. He starts fishing it out but it keeps sliding back in so he steps away for a moment and takes a deep breath so he doesn't just tip the whole fuckin' lot away. Then he uses the spoon in one hand and his fingers to fish out as much as he can and if anyone asks him what the crunchy bits are he'll just say it's chocolate chip and to stop being so fuckin' ungrateful.
Now he's got to mix it and he starts stirring it at a pace until he notices the word "gently" on the back of the box and slows down. Mickey doesn't really do gentle. It also says "until smooth and creamy" but this is looking a little bit wet and curdled. He keeps mixing though until it looks like something familiar, and a sudden strange memory comes of him and Mandy when they were little, fighting over who gets to lick the bowl and who gets the spoon.
He shakes his head to clear it, and puts the bowl down.
He pours a little of the oil into the cake tins and rubs it around with his fingers to grease them, and then starts to put some of the mixture into each tin. It's at this point that he realises he hasn't even turned on the oven.
"For fuck's sake," he murmurs to himself, wiping the oil off on his jeans. He checks the temperature the oven needs to be heated to, not having a clue whether he has a "fan assisted oven" or not, and leaves everything where it is while he goes to light a cigarette in the other room.
He smokes, taking steady inhales and feeling the nicotine making his head go light, and blowing smoke rings up toward the ceiling on the exhales. Once he's finished, he sits back and puts his feet up on the table and closes his eyes for just a second.
"Jesus Mickey, it's hot as balls in here. What are you doing?" Ian's voice reverberates through Mickey's brain and he wakes up with a jolt.
"Shit!" He sits bolt upright, then jumps up and runs to the kitchen. "Fuck. Is Mandy with you?" he shouts over his shoulder.
Ian is nonplussed. "No she was going to see Lip first. Why?" He follows Mickey into the kitchen where he finds the dark haired boy hurriedly putting cake tins into the oven.
"What did you do?!"
"I didn't do fuck all, alright?" Mickey snaps back, then he hisses as he catches the back of his hand on the oven shelf and pulls it away sharply, pushing the oven door closed with his foot.
Ian rushes over, "Shit Mickey! Are you okay? Here, you need to run that under cold water."
"I'm aware of that thank you." Mickey turns on the faucet and holds his hand under for a second, but it stings, and he takes it away almost instantly.
"No. You need to keep it there." Ian moves over and takes hold of Mickey's hand, pushing it back under the stream of water and holding it there. Mickey doesn't resist, and Ian stays silent, not wanting to spook him.
A few moments go by in silence, Ian holding Mickey's hand. It's just to treat the burn, but it feels so much more intimate. They can both feel it.
All of a sudden, Ian blows lightly across Mickey's cheek. Too startled to react, and a little surprised at the response curling inside his stomach, Mickey just raises an eyebrow at Ian.
"Sorry," the redhead gives a lopsided grin. "You had cocoa powder on your cheek."
They let go of each other then. Mickey half expected he would push himself away from Ian, but lately he hasn't felt like he wanted to. He wipes his hand off on the back of his jeans and Ian does the same.
"You baking?" Ian asks with a smile.
"It's Mandy's birthday." Mickey replies, and that's enough explanation for now. He takes a step in towards Ian's body, breathes in through his nose because Ian smells fuckin' good. He pushes a finger through one of Ian's belt loops and pulls, then he looks up at his face. "They have to be in there for 25 minutes." He nods towards the oven.
"Next time you make a cake, don't forget the frosting," Ian grins, a little naughtily. "It could get nice and messy."
Mickey's face falls.
"What? Doesn't sound like fun?" Ian asks, laughing – only half joking.
"No, douchebag." Mickey mock-punches him, "I did forget the frosting."