Mickey pulled his pants from around his ankles and buttoned them back up, turning around to face Ian behind him.
"What's got you all.." he gestured to the tension in Ian's irritatingly broad shoulders, raising both his eyebrows, "stressed?"
He expected the answer to be money, or something about his deadbeat parents, or something annoying about his army aspirations, but with a frustrated groan, Ian huffed out a breath, and said, "Math."
Mickey's eyebrows shot up even higher. "Math? Who the fuck cares about math?" He realized it was probably the wrong thing to say when Ian looked irritated instead of comforted.
"I do," Ian replied, buttoning up his jeans, "If I wanna go to West Point I've gotta stop failing algebra two."
There it was. The fuckin' army. Ian was either stupid or brave for wanting it so much. As much as he'd rather Ian not go, he knew when the redhead wanted something so bad, he got it. He'd done it with Mickey, and he was going to do it with this army shit.
Defeated, Mickey exhaled. "I can help you."
He scowled at the surprised look on Ian's face when he added, "You're good at math?"
Mickey flicked him off. "Hey, fuck you. You want my help or not?" He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, ignoring the fact that Ian was positively beaming at him. Asshole. Nobody ever believed him when he said he was good at school shit. He was smart, even if he wasn't all that keen on using it.
He lit the cigarette, took one puff of it, before passing it over to Ian.
"I thought you flunked out?" Ian asked, smoke pouring out of his mouth. It wasn't attractive at all, Mickey decided as he shrugged.
"Dropped out. Didn't wanna spend anymore time in that shithole. Doesn't mean I wasn't good at it." He was pretty sure he'd told Ian the opposite, but it was too late to lie now. Not when Ian was stressed and he could help out.
Why did he wanna help out, anyways? What did he care if Ian was stressed? He took his cigarette back, inhaling from it to calm his stupid nerves.
"Can you come over tomorrow?" Ian was asking, and Mickey just shrugged.
"Yeah, whatever," he answered, feigning as much nonchalance as possible. Mandy was gonna have a fucking field day with this one.
Come the next day, Mickey was over at Ian's by noon. His younger siblings were running around, and the middle kid (Carl, he learned) kept asking him a bunch of dumbass questions about guns.
With a dramatic groan, Ian tugged Mickey up and into his room. It was a bit cramped, but much more homey and bright than Mickey's, so he didn't particularly mind. Sitting on Ian's bed, he raised a brow.
"What're you stuck on?"
Ian looked miserably back at him, and added meekly, "Everything? But I've got a test on Friday on this stuff." He passed Mickey the worksheet.
Mickey glanced it over. Quadratics. He passed it back, nodded at Ian.
"Alright, show me what you got."
Ian fumbled through the problems, and Mickey pretended like he wasn't watching as he focused. It wasn't attractive at all, he told himself, leaning back slightly against the wall. After a couple minutes, Ian was passing it back to him. Mickey grimaced.
"Jesus, Gallagher, you really are shit."
Ian laughed out loud, and Mickey shook his head. "You got a fuckin' pen?"
When a pen was handed to him, he exhaled, turning to face Ian. "Alright. Let me fix them, I'll show you what you're doing wrong."
He marked up Ian's work, carefully explaining to him the steps. It was probably the longest he's spoke without insulting someone, or telling Ian to fuck off. He scarcely notices- teaching Ian how to do something isn't that bad, he guesses. He hasn't taught anyone much of anything besides teaching Mandy to shoot a gun, and how to stay away from Terry.
He pushed the worksheet back towards Ian. "Try the next one."
Ian huffed out a breath, and took the pen. He still fumbles, Mickey can tell, but he's a bit quicker, and even checks back over some of the work to make sure he doesn't make the same mistakes again. Watching him concentration, Mickey allows himself to admit that it's at least a little cute. Just slightly.
He realizes Ian's talking to him after a second, and rips his eyes from the freckles on his cheeks to pay attention.
"... Like that?" Ian asked, glancing between Mickey and the worksheet problems. Mickey looked it over, and doesn't grimace this time. That's a good sign, at least.
"Sorta," he nodded, taking the pen back. "You almost got it. You got the method, just a couple calculation problems."
Ian practically grins, and Mickey figures he's probably never gotten the method before. Poor kid was bright, but awful with numbers.
"How'd you get so good at this anyways?" Ian asks, as Mickey marks through his work, fixing the few mistakes. He shrugs in response.
"Drugs," he answers, and Ian blinks in surprise.
"Drugs helped you with math?"
Mickey shrugged again. "Been selling them since I was a kid. Taught me how to handle numbers." He paused, just enough to get rid of his embarrassment, before sighing. "My mom was real good with math, too."
He's never talked about his mom before to Ian, and he can tell Ian is a bit surprised when he doesn't answer right away. Getting that kid to stop yapping was hard, and he's just done it. It's a bit embarrassing.
He handed the worksheet back to avoid this conversation, flipping it over to the back. "Try again," he instructs.
They keep on like that until Debbie peeks her head in the room and asks if he's staying for dinner. Both startled and confused, Mickey shakes his head.
"Nah, no thanks," he answers, noticing as Ian actually looks a little disappointed. "Stay," Ian ask, and he pauses, before he realizes he didn't like that look on Ian's face. He liked it when he gave that stupid smile, not the dejected pout.
He groans quietly.
"Fine, whatever, I'll stay."