Being a Milkovich is a life-time occupation with hazards guaranteed at every step without a warranty attached at the end of the deal to put your mind at ease. The only way out is a reservation 6 feet-under, accompanied by a plethora of maggots for eternal company. At the end of the day, it's not the most tempting of offers dished out to a person, but it's the only one Mickey has.
Most of the time Mickey fucking despises his last name because of the shackles it puts on certain aspects of his life. It's a constant reminder of the boundaries that he can't cross or else he'll paint a target with a certified shot at the back of his head with his dad's finger pulling the trigger.
But the sweet shot of whiskey at the end of his shit-smeared life is the skills that come hand-in-hand with his heritage. It's a known fact that every Milkovich has the 'criminal' gene so deeply etched into their DNA that they might as well have popped out of their mom's uterus with a fresh set of handcuffs and a booking at the nearest county.
His skills come in handy when he and Gallagher are standing side by side at the check-out of a dingy Taco Bell waiting for their order to arrive. After closing Kash 'n' Grab, they decided that stuffing their mouths with food that raises questions about its contents was the most reasonable thing to do. It's something that's transparently found itself into their schedule: interacting without fucking.
This apparently has become their new thing. It's the small moments that they spend outside of boning each other. It's the little moments that are not lost in a desperate frenzy of sweat slicked bodies, trying to express something physically that's verbally unavailable to them. Little walks down the street, smoke breaks and random chatter that fills their ears.
Little parts of themselves that they unknowingly offer to each other and drink up greedily when it's put on the table.
It's still not something they've talked about. It's not something they'll ever talk about. They pussyfoot around the subject like it's a landmine waiting for the wrong step to set off the tense ammunition. They won't use the word 'we' when it comes to them, because that's too dangerous. Right now, they're walking on unstable ground and they might trip and fall and cause a cluster-fuck of chain reactions that they don't have the arsenal to deal with.
So it's all stolen moments lacking labels and they're fine with it. It's something that exists and they're not oblivious to it. Small facts like the grass is green or like how Gallagher is a fire crotch and shit like that. It's factual and it's there.
So yeah, it's because of those unlabeled things that Mickey really feels inclined to pay for the grease smeared junk they're gonna torture their intestines with. He would outwardly if he could because why the fuck not?!
But he knows what would happen if he does.
He knows that like it or not it would solidify what he and Gallagher have and that would open a whole can of worms he's really not prepared to deal with. Whatever they have is going to become more real; and he can't let that happen because as pathetic as it is, Mickey knows this is a temporary fix. He knows it and he'll take all the scraps he can get. He's putting his heart in the line of fire and the last thing he needs is to lower the barricades that are the only thing keeping him from falling victim to a macabre slaughter. So he won't do that.
What he does though is thank his Milkovich heritage that's turned him into the thief he is now. Mickey can steal anything without anyone noticing it.
So that's what he does; he subtly slips his fingers into Gallagher's back pocket and takes out his wallet, discreetly hiding it under his coat. It's his roundabout way of (not) showing that he cares and that sometimes, he wants to do things for Gallagher that he doesn't have the opportunity to do.
He feels like this fuck-up kid he learned about in fifth grade when they were reading a book called Oliver. Artful Dodger, that's what he is.
When the lady with a messy bun behind the counter places their orders in front of them, they both reach back for their wallets to pay their own way because this ain't a fucking date.
Mickey watches Ian as he pats down the back and front of his jeans, searching for the money bag that Mickey knows isn't there. He watches as a frown gradually sets on Ian's square jaw. The bitch behind the counter is tapping her puke green nails on the counter and giving them an impatient look that makes her look constipated.
"The fuck you're taking so long for?' Mickey asks, acting stupid – something he's perfected his entire life.
"My wallet. I can't find it," Ian mutters, "I'm sure I put it in my pocket. . ."
"Whatever Gallagher, hurry the fuck up, I'm starving," Mickey shoots back while watching Ian carefully. He knows how this is gonna play out, because despite what people might say, Mickey isn't fucking stupid. Sure, he pissed on his text books when he was back in school, but street smarts were always something he had under his sleeves. He planned this, so it's going to unfold exactly as he thought it would.
Before Ian can open his mouth again, Mickey mutters a 'fuck it' under his breath and slams two crumpled 10 dollar bills on the counter. He moves on to grab both his and Ian's orders and starts walking out of the Taco Bell before realizing Ian is still rooted on the same spot.
Mickey doesn't know how to describe it, but Ian is beaming at him. He's looking at Mickey like the sun shines out of his ass and his dick spurts out alcohol instead of piss. It's the look you give someone where your internal organs are stitched up painfully together, but you're a masochist and you enjoy that pain. He's smiling at Mickey and there's nothing in there but unadulterated happiness. Fuck, he doesn't even look smug. It's open and all over the place like everything else that is when it comes to Gallagher.
"The fuck are you smiling at Gallagher, I'm not fucking my probation in the ass because you forgot your wallet," Mickey growls out purposefully throwing in as much false annoyance as he possibly can, "Dine and dash ain't really gonna cut the deal here, now fucking walk already."
They walk out together, dragging their shoes across the overheated asphalt and towards one of the abandoned buildings that's become their usual rendezvous point. They throw themselves gracelessly on the ground and start devouring their food and it's all greasy and oily and messy.
Mickey watches Ian from the corner of his eyes, because he ain't a 16-year-old school bitch so he ain't about to do it blatantly in the open. Gallagher has grease smeared at the corners of his mouth and his tongue is elegantly licking off the mess that his fingers are drenched in. It's an innocently erotic image right in front him and Mickey can't help but admire the view.
Fuck dragging their asses to Taco Bell in this heat might have been worth it.
This is when the second part of his plan hits him. He still has Ian's wallet in his jacket pocket and he has to somehow put it back without Gallagher noticing or else he'll throw a bitch fit and demand explanations that Mickey is not ready or willing to give.
When it comes to playing dirty, Mickey does it in aces that puts the devil to shame. It's a survival tactic that's worked perfectly in his day to day life. He's not afraid of getting his hands dirty and even more so when he wants something.
Mickey leans over and slots their lips together. It's not romantic; nothing about them ever is because they're past things they know won't do them any good. It's fast and harsh and full of teeth uncomfortably clashing with each other. It's tongues caught between bites and blood filling their mouths. It's filled with the taste of cheap cheese from their food and the grease that's still on Ian's face. It's dirty and that's the way it's going to be because it's very specifically them.
When Mickey shoves his tongue into Ian's mouth he also slowly slips the wallet back into its original place. He's tactful like that. But he doesn't pull back when he's carried out his elaborate plan. He remembers Ian's face back at the Taco Bell and his inner organs start doing some sort of pleasant back flip. He put that look on Firecrotch's face.
So he continues kissing Ian because he knows how it'll make him feel. He's treading on dangerous ground and he knows it, but he can't stop because there's something intoxicating about this and about them.
Mickey thinks that it's something that he'll never give up. He'll give Ian as much as he can without Ian directly knowing or seeing it. He'll give him the scraps that people throw out and he'll take them back in return. It's maybe now that he might admit to the 'L' word, but that won't change anything either.
It's how they are. Small grease smudges and stolen moments here and there that make a world of a difference, but only to them.
Mickey pulls back and smiles a messy smile at Ian.
He's fucking smiling and he looks content.
Mickey thinks that maybe how they are isn't bad at all.