9. Just kill me
"Mickey. . ."
"Okay."
"Mickey. . . Just kill me. Please, Mickey. . . Mickey!"
"Nargh!" He was torn out of his sleep and was wide awake after that. Ian was fidgeting, murmuring things he couldn't comprehend, gripping at his flesh and hugging him so tight that his lungs felt like they were going to collapse.
He tried to shake him hard, jolt him harder, but seeing those didn't work, he switched to shouting a peaceful yell instead.
"Gallagher, wake the fuck up!"
Ian snapped out, presumably from his nightmare, opened his eyes and blinked at the agitated teen in front of him, relaxing his hold a little before realizing where he was and constricted his limbs around the ex-con again, possibly hard enough to suffocate him this time.
He didn't know what Gallagher's dream was about, but he knew his. He was still shivering when he thought about it. It was like the redhead inceptioned him or some shit, planting the idea in his mind that he must not leave, no matter how fucked up they got. It was creepy, real creepy, creepier than waking up in the middle of the night to see that Carl was watching him sleep with his little psychotic eyes, and that sure said a lot.
A few weeks after that eventful dinner, Ian finally succeeded in convincing Mickey to spend the nights at his house. It was weird, really weird for the ex-con as school was off and Ian was virtually right by his side, all the time. They slept together now, not slept together as in fucked a hell of their brains out, but slept together as in literally slept together, the whole snuggling and cuddling and all those stupid shits. The redhead clung to him tight like a man-sized koala and he woke up with more bruises every day. He really hated that, except it was the best feeling in the world, Ian curling up around him. He even talked Mickey into taking a shower with him on just about a daily basis and, hell, his body was spotless right then. He blamed the fact that the bathroom seemed to be the only fucking room in the shithole that had some sort of privacy tied to it, well, not much, but some.
Ian couldn't be happier. It was like everything he'd ever dreamt of, except that it wasn't. There were no dating, no going out for a movie, no flirting, no hugging, no holding hands, no holding back, and, most importantly, no emotional shits. Just two people enjoying each other's company, kissing while trying to suck each other's insides out, biting, bruising, marking their territories on the other's body, and, of course, fucking until they passed out, the usual stuffs. They fucked face-to-face most of the time now, except in the shower, or when they were in a hurry, or when they were too horny, which were not that often considering they made time to fuck at least three times a day. Ian had to make the trip to a local STD clinic once a week, for free condoms, they would have gone broke otherwise. But it made him happy that his dick was really happy, and with Mickey agreeing to be top every once in a while, that little sweet spot inside Ian could not get happier either. The thing he was happy most about was the fact that Mickey hardly ever kicked him off his bed after fucking now. He couldn't think of any better way to sleep other than curling up around the ex-con and putting his face into the crook of his neck, and sometimes, the older teen "subconsciously" wrapped his arms around him in his sleep, like the ex-con couldn't let go of Ian either, and that made him feel like he was on top of the world.
Lip had moved to sleep in the van for a while now. It prevented him from having to see or hear or smell things that arouse his urge to commit suicide. Ian was really pleased to see that his big brother could eat properly again after a month or so, before this he only ate occasionally and very little at a time, saying he didn't want to throw away good food. He was glad too that his fuckbuddy and his older brother were getting along well together, like the time Mickey didn't bust his brother's head open for making Mandy cry, or the time when Lip accidentally ate his fuckbuddy's Jell-O and didn't get stabbed with a fork. But seriously, they tried to be nicer to each other, for Ian. Their activities revolved around getting high, getting drunk, playing video games while being high and drunk, selling joints and booze so that other people could get high and drunk. Maybe someday, who knew, they might find other ways to tolerate each other that didn't involve jeopardizing their health too.
Carl, on the other hand, had no trouble sharing the same breathing space with the ex-con. They actually had something in common to talk about. Carl once told Ian that Mickey was like a brother he never had, that he loved Lip, Ian and Liam to death and Jimmy was great and all, but he felt that he could relate to the ex-con more as they shared much the same interests. Their conversations were mostly about how to fuck up someone's wellbeing, what is the best thing to smack one's head with, how to effectively shatter other people's kneecaps, which bones made the most delightful sound when cracked, and many other lovely topics that might almost certainly churn average person's stomach. There was one time when his little brother followed Mickey who was asked by Jimmy to collect some debts some scumbags owed him and ended up helping the ex-con put a few people in the hospital. They talked about it for days and Fiona was furious as hell when she found out, which kind of encouraged them even more, until Ian intercepted of course.
Debbie found her way around him. Being Miss Congeniality as she was, she could find a way to be nice to anyone. No matter if that particular someone had a habit of vigorously ignoring her and not letting himself be seen anywhere near her alone. But she just ignored him back and kept telling him about herself, what she did that day, what movie she wanted to see, and other girly stuffs he didn't give two shits about, but he listened nonetheless. The redhead knew this because on Debbie's last birthday, he told Mickey he didn't know what he should get her, and the ex-con didn't respond or anything. He just left the house and, about an hour later, a DVD just appeared out of nowhere and collided with the back of Ian's head. Mickey told him that she was like a smaller, yappier, bitchier version of him, and the redhead knew that basically meant he liked her a lot.
Fiona was reluctant at first, the way she still kind of was until this very day. She didn't understand how all of her siblings could relax around him, not counting Liam because he was just a baby and babies couldn't hate anyone, could they? Anyway, she didn't mind having him around as he had his own way of helping around the house, making Ian happy and satisfying his needs, smacking Lip's head whenever he needed it, keeping Debbie company, being a role model to Carl, helping Jimmy with his business, and scaring the hell out of Frank and people who were dim-witted enough to loan him money.
"The fuck's wrong with you?" asked the exasperated ex-con, trying to free himself from being squeezed to death.
Ian loosened up a bit. "Uh. . . nightmare?" He answered with a befuddled look on his face.
"I figured as much, firecrotch." Mickey pulled a face.
"You wanna know what it was about?" The redhead shot him a meaningful glance.
"You outta your mind?" The older teen countered him with an incredulous look.
"Stranger things do happen." Ian rolled his eyes right after that.
"In case you haven't noticed, talking about dreams sorta falls into the category of fucking stupid emotional shits." The ex-con explained ever so gently.
"Just trying to make conversation, Mick. It happens sometimes," said a scowling Ian.
"That's not a conversation," Mickey said, 'I'm annoyed as hell right now' was written all over his face. "It's a test of how much I can put up with you before I bite your head off."
"That's not stupid, and you know it." The redhead made his case, scrunching up his face.
Mickey fixed him with a half-hearted glare. He tried not to but he somehow found the pouting redhead adorable. He hated himself for that.
"You know you wanna hear it." Ian's lips tensed up, holding back a smile.
"You know, Gallagher, I hate you. I fucking hate you." The ex-con said with so much determination in his voice.
"You know you like me, Mick. And you know damn well that you wanna know what I dreamt about."
"You know what, just shut up. Just. . . shut the fuck up."
"But I didn't tell you my nightmare yet."
Dramatic pause.
"Gallagher. . ." Mickey tried to find something clever to say, anything, but with Ian just stared at him with those wide Bambi-like eyes of his, he decided to crash his head into the wall and fall right back to sleep instead, thinking maybe his nightmare wasn't so bad after all.
I just thought about what I wrote in the previous chapter and how it might have confused you guys. I want to tell you that I didn't mean to mislead you or anything. Okay, maybe a little. Please don't kill me. It was just a dream. For fudge cake, I was about to change the genre to Romance/Humor instead of just Romance before I got the idea. Also, I may or may not have Ian's version of his dream too, and it may or may not involve the whole world got taken over by zombies and Ian got bitten and begged Mickey to slay him before he chomped him down like a humanwich, which sure enough Mickey refused, but that's a whole different story. By the way, did anyone fall for that? Anyone? Huh? Huhhh? Never mind. I already know some of you guys did. And again, please don't kill me.
