Authors Note:: I have had so much Gallavich feels and ideas swirling around in my head, I decided to just dive in head first! So here's my first attempt at these wonderful boys of ours. Set closely after 3x05, before our happy boys became not so happy. Special thanks to the lovely queen of all things Gallavich, TheMintSauce, for cleaning this up as much as possible and writing all her awesomeness! I don't know how she does it! Go check all of her stuff out, it's amazing! Hope you enjoy, feedback is always appreciated! =]
Also, I own nothing.
Ian Gallagher was on a fucking mission.
Mickey's nineteenth birthday was fast approaching and he knew exactly what he was going to do. In the past, birthdays had come and gone without any fuss between them. Ian's was in the summer, and so Mickey had been in Juvie for both that had passed since he and Mickey had hooked up for the first time. Mickey's was October 30th, the irony of which did not escape Ian.
Of course Mickey Milkovich had been born on "The Devil's Night."
The first one had been too early to really push to do anything about, and the second he'd just blown Ian off when he'd suggested they do something a little out of the ordinary for the occasion. So, Ian had simply gotten him a bottle of his favorite rum and some really good weed and they'd gotten high and drunk in the dugout and fucked all night long. Not a bad way to spend a birthday, but Ian still itched to do something special for him.
If only because no one ever had.
Mickey didn't have to tell him that (not that the stubborn ass ever would), he just knew. And despite how Mickey seemed determined to keep the whole thing as a non-issue, Ian was also determined to do something this time.
How could he not be?
And how could he not want to celebrate the day his favorite person was brought into this world?
Then the only problem had been deciding what to do. Nothing romantic like dinner and a movie, he could just imagine the scoff. "Could you possibly think of anything more fucking faggy, Gallagher?" Things had gotten much better between them as of recently, but he was under no delusions that their life would even be cookie cutter like most idealistic romances were. He wouldn't have it any other way though, because it wouldn't be Mickey if it was that way. A vacation together was out of the question, there was too much going on what with Fiona just winning custody of them and beside herself with having all her monkeys in the house again. Not to mention the questions that would raise from the few people that actually paid attention to their presence.
So, what was left?
The idea came to him innocently enough one day, Mickey feeding him the information he needed without even realizing he was doing so. They were sitting under the El, sharing a joint and knocking back a few beers and talking about random shit. Music had gotten brought up at some point, and they'd been going back and forth with bands for the last half hour or so.
"Oh, I saw them a year or two ago actually! Lip surprised me with tickets for my birthday; he worked his ass off tutoring every day for three weeks to afford it." Ian said, smiling fondly at the memory when Green Day got brought up. Suddenly, the redhead stopped and stared at Mickey like he was seeing him for the first time.
Cocking an eyebrow in the air in question at his intense gaze, Mickey downed a beer in a few gulps before throwing it aimlessly into the corner. "What the fuck you looking at?"
"I never realized before…But has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Billie Joe Armstrong?" With the pale skin, spiked dark hair, the light, intense eyes and the shorter, stockier build. Their whole structure was similar.
If he'd been sober maybe there would have been a malicious comeback to that spoken thought, just because; but given that he wasn't, the Milkovich boy just returned his stare blankly before his face contorted into a picture of insane laughter like that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Beer almost flew out his nostrils and he had to double over on himself from his perch on the sidewalk. "That's fucking hilarious, Firecrotch."
He chuckled lightly once he caught his breath, thinking to himself that if anyone else ever thought that, they'd never had the balls to say so. Not that he thought the guy was unattractive so it wasn't an insult or anything, it was just funny. He, Mickey fucking Milkovich, thug of Chicago South Side, being compared to basically the king of (now) pop punk.
Ian shook his head, a smile quirking up the corner of his lips before continuing what he'd been saying before, telling Mickey all about the concert.
Mickey seemed quiet and contemplative, listening intently but trying to hide the fact that he was doing so. Even if he didn't outwardly show it, he always listened to what Ian said. However, Ian could tell the difference between when he was mindfully listening and actively paying attention and participating. After a moment, it was clear why.
"I've never been to a concert." Mickey shared, his voice thoughtful and even maybe a bit wistful as he considered the bubbles in his beer.
"Really?" Ian asked. A metal show seemed like it would be the perfect place for Mickey. He could punch as many people as he wanted, and no one would say shit.
"Yeah, fucking really." The dark haired boy snapped, suddenly irritated as if he didn't like the fact that it bothered him. Such a trivial thing to be bothered by. So he'd never been to a concert, so fucking what? He wasn't crying about it.
And that was all Ian needed to know.
So now, here he was. Sitting on Mickey's bed and waiting patiently for the sound of the water to start. Because, holy shit, Mickey was taking a shower even though he'd just taken one maybe two days ago.
If asked, he would blame it on the fact that he and Ian had just fucked three times in the last two hours, because like hell were they not going to take advantage of the empty Milkovich house. No one but Mandy had been around there in about two weeks, as far as Ian knew. Joey and Iggy were off somewhere, and Terry had gotten arrested the other day for smashing in some guys face at the Alibi because he'd accidentally knocked his drink over.
Once the water had been running for a few minutes, Ian quickly darted over to a little shelf in the corner of Mickey's room that he saw some old beat up CDs sticking out of. He'd gotten a general idea of the older boy's taste in music the night the idea had come to him, but nothing had particularly stood out to him. Curling his fingers around the stacks, he brought them to his lap to shuffle through them. He wasn't surprised, for the most part. Metallica, some old classic rock like Led Zeppelin ("Who in their right fuckin'minds doesn't like Zeppelin?") and Pink Floyd, with some more industrial stuff like Nine Inch Nails, Static-X and Deftones and other stuff along those lines as well as some old school and current punk music, like Sex Pistols, The Misfits, No Ca$h and Leftover Crack. No pussy music here, as Mickey would say.
And then, he saw it and his plan clicked into place. He'd heard something about this band just recently getting back together, one of their bassists had died not too long ago and a few of them had other projects to pursue that took up their and the worlds attention. And Mickey had every single one of their CDs; Ian knew so because he himself liked the band well enough. He only had one or two of any of the other bands. He noticed with a smirk, that even though all of the CDs were there, when he opened the last CD they'd put out, there was a burned copy of the disc with about three or four song titles on it and big, scrawling words written across it on the top. "THE ONLY SONGS ON THIS CD THAT DON'T SUCK BALLS."
Before he could plot any more, Ian heard the water to the shower shut off and he moved hastily to put everything back where it had come from. A pleased smile on his lips, that he fought to hide when Mickey came out of the bathroom, a towel hanging low on his delicious hipbones, hair sticking up at all angles and water droplets sliding slowly down the planes of his chest.
Ian's mouth watered, and he pounced.
He'd plot later.
His plan couldn't be any more perfect if he tried.
It just so happened that the band he'd had in mind for Mickey's birthday present was touring currently, and had a show very close to them on October 30th.
It was like it was meant to be. The tickets weren't too bad, it was only going to be a bit over a hundred for two of them (he paid an extra $20 to get a tour shirt in advance as part of the gift) and they'd just take a train close to the venue and walk. He'd have to pick up an extra shift or two over the next few weeks to make up for his not putting as much as he should in the squirrel fund, but he didn't mind.
Now the only problem was getting Mickey to accept the gift, and figuring out exactly how to do that.
It just kind of happened one day, they were sitting at work, Ian behind the counter glossing over a textbook and Mickey flicking a switchblade back and forth out of boredom when the little bells chimed over the door. There'd barely been any customers all day, and they'd already fucked twice in the freezer so they were kind of out of other shit to do at the moment.
A guy in a uniform went to the counter, looking at Ian expectantly. "Package for Ian Gallagher?"
Green eyes rose to assess the person speaking to him, and a grin spread wide across his cheeks. "That's me," Ian confirmed, reaching forward to sign and receive the package. The delivery guy left without a word, which Ian found kind of rude but brushed it off.
"What's that?" Mickey questioned, pushing off from his lazy perch to the right of the counter where the redhead sat.
"Nothing," Ian mumbled quickly, trying to shove the package in his backpack and out of sight before Mickey could push too much. Mickey's birthday was a week and a half away and Ian didn't want him to find out this soon. He figured the less Mickey knew the better. Lower chance of resistance.
"Why didn't you just have it delivered to your house? The fuck are you hiding?" The dark hair boy pushed, stepping as close to Ian as he could with the counter between them. The look on his face seemed annoyed. He didn't like the fact that Ian was hiding shit, gave him a bad feeling.
"It's nothing, Mick. Just let it go."
But of course, he didn't. They proceeded to bicker back and forth about it for a good five minutes, voices escalating even though it was really a stupid thing to fight over. Mickey reached across the counter to snatch it out of Ian's backpack, a look of triumph coming over his pale features when Ian made a sound of frustration and just tossed it angrily at him.
"Here, ya god damn prick! Have to ruin fucking everything." Huffing, Ian stood up and stalked off to the counter. He was beyond irritated at Mickey's behavior, not that it was anything out of the ordinary. He began shoving bottles into the shelves a little harsher than necessary, fuming. All he wanted was to do something nice for him, and he had to go and be a dickhead and ruin his plans before they were even in action. In theory, it might be better this way because like hell would Mickey even look twice at something that he'd actually wrapped or something.
Ian's ornery mood only increased when the door to the freezer was pulled open, and something was thrown at his chest.
"What the fuck is this?" Mickey snarled, stepping in and crossing his arms across his chest.
With a sigh Ian grabbed the tickets and shirt before they fluttered to the ground and threw them back at his lover, who just let them fall to the floor anyways. "It was supposed to be a surprise. For your birthday."
"You've got to be shitting me."
Laughing bitterly, Ian shook his head. "Nope. Happy fucking birthday."
"What, you gonna take me on a fuckin' date night or some shit? Is that what this is supposed to be? Cause I thought I made it pretty clear that we don't do that shit, and I definitely do not do that shit." The malice in his voice was completely unnecessary and he knew it but it couldn't be helped. The Milkovich boy was freaked out. No one had ever done anything like this, let alone bought him anything for his birthday and he liked it that way. He didn't like the idea of owing anyone anything. Leave it to Gallagher to throw it all out the window. The previous year had been acceptable, nothing out of the usual about drinking and getting high.
This was a different matter entirely, a matter that made Mickey's skin itch. Not because he felt anything about it, of course not. His insides hadn't twisted when he'd opened the package to see the contents. His heart hadn't picked up speed, and a smile hadn't twitched on his lips at the redhead's thoughtful gesture. No fucking way.
Instead of lashing out like he'd expected – hell, wanted- Ian to, the boy just looked sad. Like a kicked puppy.
And that didn't pull on his non-existent heart strings. Not one bit.
"You don't have to be such a prick about it. I'll fucking return them, okay?" Defeated and way past arguing the matter anymore, Ian pushed past Mickey without a glance and made his way to the shipment area. He lifted the door partially like he usually did, lighting a much needed cigarette and inhaling deeply.
Ian scoffed, and silently berated himself. He should have known, could kick himself for thinking that Mickey would honestly take this anything remotely close to well. Whatever, it wasn't like it'd be hard to sell the tickets.
The cigarette between his slender fingers was half gone when the freezer door opened. He kept his eyes trained on the floor at his feet, sucking desperately on his smoke again to keep his nerves together and refusing to meet the stormy blue of his infuriating… whatever the fuck he wanted to call himself. God, the guy was effing confusing. Getting jealous and beating up not one, but two guys because Ian had been screwing them. Rising up to meet his not so subtle dare, only to refuse to kiss him again after that. Well, not really refuse, but he hadn't made any effort for a repeat performance.
And that kind of stung, because it basically meant that it was equivalent to Mickey pissing on his territory rather than acting on instinct.
Fuck, how had he gotten here?
An impatient clearing of the throat drew him out of his own little world, but he still refused to meet the older boys eyes. Didn't need him going off about the 'faggy emotions' he was absolutely sure were raging in them. "What?"
"How did you know?" Came the slow, almost demure reply.
At his tone, Ian's eyes rose to meet his in almost shock. Mickey was never demure. His shock increased tenfold when he noticed the shirt and tickets curled into Mickey's tattooed knuckles resting limply by his side. "Know what?" Even to his own ears, he sounded tired and worn with maybe a slight twinge of hurt.
"That they're my favorite." Mickey responded simply, face and tone giving away nothing he was thinking. It was almost eerie, how void he was.
Ian shrugged dismissively, giving in. "Went through your CDs the other day while you were in the shower. You said you'd never been to a show before, so I wanted to…I don't fucking know, just forget it."
Instead of responding the blue eyed boy stepped forward after a moment to drop his free hand onto Ian's shoulder, fingers digging in. Normally, he'd bristle at the idea of anyone going through any of his things without his permission to do so. He chalked it up to extenuating circumstances. His hand slowly slid down Ian's shoulder as he spoke. "I don't want to forget it, fuckhead. Stop being a baby." And that was as close to an apology as he was going to fucking get, as far as Mickey was concerned. Maybe he'd overreacted; maybe the idea of going to a Slipknot concert with Ian wasn't so bad. And okay, maybe he felt a little guilty about the wrecked look he'd put on Ian's face when the kid was only trying to do something nice for him.
But only a little.
Reaching Ian's wrist, his fingers slid over the smooth skin and tugged his hand in between his legs so the redhead could feel the appreciation he was incapable of vocalizing. This was a language they both spoke well. "I have a package for Ian Gallagher."
Ian's eyes blew so wide it was almost comical, and Mickey couldn't hold back a chuckle as he started to back up towards the freezer again. "Better go lock the door, flip that sign and open your damn package, Firecrotch. It ain't gonna wait all day."
After considering him for a moment, sizing him up like he wasn't sure exactly how to take his sudden calm- poor boy probably was waiting for him to lash out again, not that he could blame him- a shit eating grin split his lips as the redhead scrambled to the door to do as he was told.
Initial reaction be damned, Ian had gotten what he wanted from the hoodlum. He'd accepted the gift. Though he wasn't stupid enough to think there wouldn't be more shit given about it, for now he'd take this. Because the Mickey giving him a hard time about it was the only way he'd allow himself to accept said gift, and Ian knew that. He had to use harsh words and defensive stances, because this was all new to him.
Feet quickly scaling the twenty or so feet keeping him from the object of his desire, he found Mickey leaning back against the cart expectantly. "You gonna buy me some fuckin' flowers too?" He couldn't help but tease the younger boy a little. He'd reacted so powerfully to Mickey's usual irritable demeanor, and even though he knew he'd hurt the boy he was making up for it. Some light taunts wouldn't hurt too much.
Ian smirked, stepping forward and roughly grabbing Mickey's shoulder and shoving him to face the cart. "Shut the fuck up for once, and drop em'."
Well shit, who could argue with that?