Okay, so I think I'm going to say this is the last chapter. I can't think of any other way to end it and I hope it's okay, if not just PM me or something to yell at me and I'll maybe add another chapter. I don't know if I could though. Either way, sorry for the wait and thank you so much for everyone who has reviewed along the way. Enjoy. . .
Mickey couldn't completely explain his reasoning behind it, especially since he still hated the sight of them, but it suddenly became his mission to get Ian to look at the burns on his legs whenever there was an opportunity. He wanted him to say something, wanted the guy to comment and just say something. Maybe it was because he wanted an excuse to blow up in Ian's face or maybe he just wanted to see whether Ian would think they looked as ugly as they made him feel. He didn't really know. He told himself he didn't particularly care.
The best part about it was though, that he didn't even have to try in order to have an excuse to let Ian see the burns. Especially since now that Carl had moved in – not that that was actually a new thing, but still – to his apartment with Tegan, Ian felt like it was compulsory to stop by and see him every few days. He thought for a second it could have been a Gallagher thing, after all they were close, but the instant he saw the surprise in Carl's expression when Ian turned up for a beer yet again, he knew that the real reason was probably more an excuse for Gallagher to get close to him.
Because Mickey wasn't exactly confident about the fact Gallagher could want him still, but he definitely knew that when Ian felt like he wanted to know something, he was like a fucking dog with a bone. And there was definitely something that Ian wanted to know, he just didn't have the balls to ask.
So Ian coming around every few days just to sit in front of the TV next to his brother and drink their beer had become a thing; and Mickey would be damned if he was going to say anything about it. Because even though he wouldn't admit it and he blamed the fact it had been far too long since he'd last gotten laid for the paths his thoughts were following, that stupid part of him that was stuck being an eternal teenager clung to the possibility of getting whatever fragile something he and Ian had had back.
Not that they had had anything for years, but that was beside the point. Mickey was many things, but he wasn't stupid enough to completely give up on the best fuck of his life when there was a possibility he wouldn't have to let said fuck go.
Therefore he swallowed his own insecurities and waited half an hour after hearing Ian walk through the door, Mickey wandered out in his boxers, something that wasn't all that strange since he did actually do that anyway even when Ian wasn't there. "You seen my phone?" he asked Carl, not even bothering to look at Ian where he was stretched out across the couch.
He scratched his stomach and wandered through into the kitchen part of the open plan apartment to grab a beer. Probably not the best thing to be having as a first thing since he'd woken up, but it just felt like one of those days. Like one of those days where everything was pressing in on him. He'd woken up gasping, trying to remember how to breathe and a scream clinging to his vocal cords. He just prayed he hadn't actually screamed since Gallagher was in the apartment.
Carl and Tegan were both more than used to it by now and they both knew better than to say anything. Well, Tegan knew better than to say anything, Carl didn't, but on the other hand the guy didn't really give a shit about anything other than Tegan, blowing shit up and beer. And he had a slight obsession with chicken nuggets, but given that Mickey had gone through fazes of eating nothing but Snickers bars and Jell-O, he didn't think he could really pass too much judgement on that one.
"I think Tee took it," Carl told him, the glazed look in his eyes saying that he was more than a little bit high. Mickey would give it five minutes before he fell asleep and he was glad about that, because then he could dump Carl in his room and attempt to escape the memories that the smell of weed brought up.
Mickey pulled a face, both at the fact that Tegan had taken his phone – who the hell would be calling him was not the point at all – and the smell of weed and pushed Ian's legs off the end of the couch so that he could sit down. Ian looked a little surprised that Mickey hadn't pushed Carl off the armchair he'd announced as his countless times. But really, how was Mickey supposed to explain that he'd been having nightmares since Kara had died and watching Ian die almost every night made him feel some sort of fucked up need to be near the guy?
And more to the point, if he was ever going to explain that – he so wasn't – how the hell was he supposed to make it sound any way not faggy to be admitting that. Mickey hadn't even had nightmares as a kid. Not even when he'd come home to find his brothers beating the shit out of a gay kid and had spent the better part of the remaining week panicking over what they'd do if they found out he was gay. He told himself it didn't count as a nightmare if he was awake. Although, admittedly back then he'd always made sure he was either drunk out of his mind or high beyond belief to even have it in him to dream.
He just wished that was possible now.
"You still working for drug dealers?" Ian asked conversationally after a two minutes. And yes, Mickey was counting because he wanted to know when the hell he was going to be able to move Carl. The smell of weed was making him want to run away, but Mickey didn't run from the likes of a Gallagher. He used to say that he wasn't enough of a coward to run at all, but then looking back at his life now he hadn't exactly done anything else.
Mickey snorted and didn't look away from the television, "Yeah, because I'm qualified to do anything else."
"That's what I think," Ian said randomly, because he'd always been good at oversharing and for some reason that had always seemed to intensify when he was with Mickey, no matter what the older man did to discourage it. Ian just seemed to like blurting out random facts about his life.
He frowned, "You talkin' bout the army?"
That much was obvious really and Mickey didn't actually find it all that strange. It was simple logic. Ian had spent pretty much all of his life, or at least as long as Mickey had known him, wanting to be in the army. It was the only thing he'd really worked for and now that he was done with that he didn't know what to do. He still had a long stretch of life in front of him unless someone introduced the back of his skull to a cricket bat for being a fag, so yeah Mickey thought it was logical that Ian didn't have a fucking clue what he was doing.
Ian nodded, chewing on his bottom lip for a second like he had always used to do. "Yeah, I don't know what I want to do now," he admitted, rubbing a hand through his hair, "I don't know what I can do now."
Mickey snorted. "Do some physical shit or something, like I dunno a physical trainer," he muttered before he could stop himself. Really he was just talking, saying exactly what was popping into his head, which was a weird thing for him, a different thing for him, but really he was just terrified of what Ian could discover if he let the silence stretch out for too long between them. Gallagher had always been good at seeing through Mickey's silences. "Doesn't being an officer in the army mean you already know how to yell at people to get in shape or something?"
He didn't know if it was a good or bad thing that when he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Ian, the redhead actually looked like he was considering that to be a half decent idea. Thankfully he was saved from having to listen to whatever the fuck Gallagher was going to say next by one of Carl's snores rattling through the apartment.
Huffing out a sigh of relief, he pushed off the couch and grabbed one of Carl's hands, hauling him over his shoulder. He didn't care about waking the guy up, because honestly there was no way that was going to happen. Carl could sleep like a rock, something that no doubt came from growing up in a house where there had always been a lot of noise. Mickey was pretty much the same. The other thing that was good about Carl was that he didn't actually weigh a hell of a lot. He was dangerous because he was fucked in the head, but he was a scrawny bastard so it was almost too easy to lift him up.
Mickey dumped the younger Gallagher onto the bed he shared with Tegan, not really doing it ceremoniously or anything, just leaving him sprawled exactly as he landed. It wasn't like Mickey actually gave that much of a shit about him sleeping in his own bed, especially since he was only moving the guy so that he could try and chase the stench of weed out of the living room without looking like a complete pussy.
Although, Ian was still there so he was probably going to have to just deal with it for a little longer anyway.
"So, how did you get those burns?" Ian asked almost as soon as he'd sat down and it hadn't actually occurred to Mickey until then – and seriously, he felt like an idiot for it not having done – that maybe the only reason Ian hadn't caved and asked him about them already was because either Carl or Tegan had always been with them.
Mickey scowled, not sure how he wanted to handle this conversation now that he was actually having it. "In a fire dumbass, how do you think?" he muttered, grabbing another beer from the fridge and automatically getting one for Ian.
Ian stared at him for a minute, his gaze completely unwavering and Mickey wanted to look away but Ian just kept staring, seeming to be searching for something in his expression. Which was exactly what Mickey didn't want him to be doing. He didn't want him to be looking, he didn't want some fucked up part of him to want Ian to be looking for something. So why couldn't he look away?
"Kara's ex tried to kill her by setting our motel on fire," he admitted eventually, finally able to look away the moment that the first word was out. Except it only took another few seconds for him to be looking back to Ian, trying to gauge his reaction, trying to see if there even would be one. "I went in and got her out, end of story."
Ian actually snorted at that, which wasn't really the reaction Mickey had been expecting. Not that he had the faintest clue what the fuck he had been expecting from Gallagher. "Only you could play that off like it's something that doesn't even fucking matter," Ian muttered, rolling his eyes and dragging a hand through his hair again, making Mickey focus on the movements of the muscles in his arms for a second.
Mickey frowned at him a little, not sure what else he was supposed to do because he didn't know how he felt about Ian thinking he was predictable. The only people he'd admitted that to had told him he'd done a good thing, had made it into something heroic and a big deal and he hated it. He hated to be reminded, especially now that it had all been for nothing because he'd failed and let Kara die anyway. He'd let Kara be killed anyway. Yet there was Ian fucking Gallagher just rolling his eyes and not doing anything Mickey could possibly hate him for.
It was stupid. And then. . . "Can I touch them?"
"Fuck off," Mickey said sharply, "This ain't a fucking petty zoo, Gallagher, Jesus."
Of course, Ian leant forwards anyway and dragged his fingers tentatively down Mickey's calf. Mickey sucked in a harsh breath and the expression on Ian's face was unreadable. There was a small frown puckering the skin between his eyebrows, like the simple act of tracing his fingers down the Mickey's leg was taking up all of his concentration. And unless the army had fried pretty much all of Gallagher's brain cells, it really shouldn't have been.
"Does it hurt?" Ian asked, his fingers still moving across Mickey's flesh and honestly, he didn't know why he hadn't lashed out yet. He didn't know why he hadn't put a stop to it. Because he should have. He definitely should have, because this whole thing with the burns wasn't something he was at all comfortable with.
He forced himself to shrug, to seem like this situation wasn't bothering him at all. Even if he knew that Gallagher could see right through him. Always had been able to. He couldn't actually remember when that had stopped freaking him the fuck out and he'd just started accepting it as par for the course. "Not anymore," he muttered reluctantly, his entire body tensed up, "It's just numb, itches sometimes."
Ian nodded like this was exactly what he'd expected.
His fingers worked up from the burn to linger over a scar on the inside of Mickey's thigh near his knee. The question hadn't even been asked, but Mickey answered it anyway. "Jumped a fence running from the cops," he muttered, his voice quiet enough that maybe he could pretend Ian didn't hear him or wasn't listening.
He knew he was when Ian's fingers moved over to the circular patch of scar tissue on his thigh, faded now and barely even noticeable unless you knew to look for it. And of course Ian knew to look for it. "Snickers bar incident," he said without knowing why, but felt sort of pleased with himself when a smile curved the corner of Ian's mouth upwards.
Ian kept one hand pressed over that bullet hole scar, like he was trying to hide it from any prying eyes. And Mickey was forced back to when this had all been a whole lot easier, to when he had just been let over Juvie and Ian used to clamp his hand over the freshly healed scar every time they fucked, acting stupid and possessive over it. He remembering not knowing how to complain, he remembered not really wanting to. He thought the argument would probably be redundant if he tried to have it now, if he tried to explain that that scar out of all of them on his body made him feel and he hated it as much as he never wanted it to fade.
"Broke up a knife fight when I was working as a bouncer," he said obligingly, again needing no prompting when Ian traced a raised line of thin scar tissue on his stomach. He barely even remembered getting that one, he'd just remembered Kara rolling her eyes and Tegan poking at the stitches he'd had to have like she was making sure he wasn't about to fall apart and spill out in front of her.
"Took a bullet for a sociopath," he explained when Ian got to the other bullet wound on his shoulder. He'd actually thought Ian had been told that story, but judging by the way that his head snapped up and his eyes went wide in surprise, he probably hadn't been. He made himself shrug. "Wasn't a big deal," he muttered, looking down and then right back again, nervous for no reason at all, "Just didn't want Tegan to have to lose anyone else."
And that was true, sort of; but he also hadn't wanted Ian to have to lose anyone either. Especially since he knew how much the Gallaghers clung to each other for support that the Milkovich family had never been willing to give to each other.
He was only partially surprised though that Ian moved on from that scar without asking any questions. Although, he had a feeling that those were going to come later. Right then, he didn't know what it was that was hanging between them, but it was fragile and tentative and Mickey wanted to break it but was terrified of doing so all at the same time. He wanted to run, he wanted to switch to his default setting and bolt out of the apartment so fast that he'd probably give one of them whiplash.
But he couldn't stop thinking about everything Kara had said about him running. Suddenly it seemed like it was all he could think of, the way she'd sounded so pleading when she'd told him that he couldn't keep running forever, when she'd made the request so clear that she hadn't even had to voice it at all.
So Mickey stayed put and let Ian's fingers ghosting over the pale flesh of his collarbone, up onto the side of his throat, searching, he let that ground him. He let Ian tie him to the earth again like he had done so many times in the past. He couldn't actually remember a time when he hadn't had Ian grounding him, when the feel of Ian pressing into him, on top of him and against him hadn't felt like the right thing. When the hands that clamped down onto his hips hard enough to leave bruises had become the thing he sought out to pull him back to earth.
Mickey had spent a long time running, but he'd spent even longer feeling like the slightest tap was going to send everything crumbling underneath him. Like if he breathed wrong it would all blow away. Except when he was with Gallagher. He'd always felt like that, except when he had Ian next to him, in him or even just across the room.
So he didn't move, he just let Ian conduct his silent search, let him find the hardly noticeable silver scar of a bite mark at the base of his throat. He shivered when Ian's thumb ghosted over the scar at the same time as his other hand squeezed tight over the other one on his thigh and he would never know how shivering would ever be a sign of okay, but right then it was, because barely even a second after he shivered, he had Ian's large hands framing his face and Ian's familiar weight pressing him into the couch as Ian's mouth crashed down over his.
He moaned low in his throat, not even thinking to remember his rule about kissing as he grabbed Ian by the shirt and moved them so that he could throw a leg over Ian's thighs, straddling him. He slid forwards into Ian's lap, pushing his hands up under the redhead's shirt and ripping it a little at the collar in his desperation to get it off and feel that familiar, too-hot flesh underneath his hands.
"Mickey," Ian gasped out as he bit at the long, exposed column of the redhead's pale throat. He was fumbling underneath him, between them to get Ian's jeans undone, lifting up onto one leg to drag off his boxers. He left them dangling from one ankle, not even being able to think past the feel of Ian underneath him. He didn't even care that technically Firecrotch was still half dressed.
What he did care about – what he was pleased about – was how quickly Ian caught on to what was happening, sucking two fingers into his mouth sloppily before reaching behind Mickey and pressing them to his hole. It had been too long, far too long since Mickey had last had sex and he blamed that for the fact that he almost came from the feel of Ian's long finger pressing into him. He didn't, but only because he grabbed at the base of his cock, squeezing tight enough for it to hurt. Well that and a combination of sheer will power.
"You can come," Ian muttered, his voice low and vibrating through Mickey, making him come undone at the seams just like it had done all those years ago, "I'll just make you do it more than once."
And yeah, there he went, because Jesus fuck, Ian couldn't just say shit like that to him. Not when he felt like he'd been waiting for this for his entire life. Or at least for far too fucking long for Ian to be messing around here. Nevertheless though, his cock jerked between them, thick ribbons of white spurting up and splattering both his and Ian's chest.
He didn't know what made it worth it more though, the fact that he'd just come and knew he would be again soon, or the wide lazy, fucking beautiful smile that Ian got on his face when he did. He'd always been a cocky shit and Mickey would never admit how much that did it for him. Not on anyone else, just on Ian; but then there were a lot of things he only liked that were on Ian.
Ian's fingers pulled out of his ass just long enough for him to wipe Mickey's jizz from both of their chests and then using that for lubrication he was pushing them back inside again, rubbing it into Mickey's hole and feeling the muscle twitch and tense underneath his touch. He moaned when Ian's fingers brushed over his prostate and instantly wished he hadn't because suddenly the three digits were gone.
And then something hotter and thicker and something so much fucking more was pressing inside and he forgot how to properly formulate words that would be required for a complaint. He pressed his face into the side of Ian's neck so that he couldn't see the stupid fucking faces that Mickey was making and then pressed downwards, because he may not have done this for a while, but there was no way Mickey was being a pussy here. He didn't care if it burned and he didn't give a shit if his entire body felt like it was on fire with how sensitive he was right then. He just pressed down and laughed low in his throat at the choked off noise that Ian made in response when he bottomed out.
"Fuck, Mick," he ground out and if it hadn't been so fucking stupid, Mickey would probably have shouted in triumph because there it was. He was Mick again. He'd got to hear it again, had got to hear broken edge to Ian's voice, the way he started murmuring nonsense to Mickey like it was a fucking prayer that he had to get out. He'd got to hear it and even if it was gay, it was just the best thing. It was hands down the best and his cock jumped back to attention quicker than he had thought possible since he'd left his teenage years behind.
He laced his fingers behind Ian's head, pressing his fingers into the bottom of that red hair as he slowly raised himself up, hissing with nothing other than pure need when Ian's hands latched onto his hips and helped slam him down. After that it was just a frenzy, their movements were jerky and erratic, frantic almost as Ian slammed into him, hitting his prostate every time like it was magnetically drawn to it or something.
He bit at Ian's lips in something that wasn't at all a kiss but that the redhead would probably class as one. He didn't care though, he didn't even care if halfway through there was no way of denying that that definitely had been a kiss, because right then was the most relaxed he had ever felt. He'd been stressed out and running, had been so fucking paranoid for so long since he'd last had Gallagher inside of him that he didn't care about anything other than that feeling.
Mickey tumbled over the edge of that cliff first, falling harder than he had ever thought possible, but he got some stupid faggy sort of satisfaction out of the fact that Ian came almost immediately afterwards. Maybe it was the way every muscle in Mickey's body – his ass included – tensed up, or maybe it was just something he had been waiting for, but more than anything Mickey thought it was probably the fact that as he came, Mickey bit Ian hard on the side of his neck. Because Ian had always been and would always be as fucked up as Mickey would, he'd always want that little edge of pain to help shove him over the edge.
And even if it was gay, Mickey would always be more than willing to oblige him in that.
Ian laughed against his shoulder like he'd often used to do after a particularly enthusiastic round and Mickey was practically sucker punched by the familiarity of it. He thought maybe that if he just closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that all of these past years had never happened.
"This doesn't mean I'm going to be your faggy little boyfriend and hold your hand and shit," Mickey said, holding Ian by the hair to make sure he looked at him, to make sure he got that point across.
Ian grinned that shit eating smile that seemed to define Mickey's teenage years and Mickey pointedly ignored the fact that Ian's hand was clamped over the scar on his thigh again as the redhead said, "Okay."
Of course, Mickey still felt he was agreeing to something there, like he was agreeing to more than he would ever be able to feel comfortable with, but to be honest after coming twice in a row, he didn't really give that much of a fuck.