Trevor
Trevor's busy.
He's only at Patsy's to pick up cake order for his meeting with sponsors later and it wouldn't normally be him running errands like this, but they've been a little short-staffed lately and need all the man-power they can swing.
So here he is, queuing by the counter with what he assumes must be the regular crowd, smelling the intense aroma of coffee and fries and thinking how on Earth is he gonna milk forty grand off of those rich assholes in one sitting. One of his shelter homes needs new roofing, fast, and it's gonna be pricey. He doesn't focus on anything in particular as he runs various negotiations scenarios in his head, mostly consisting of a hefty dose of begging and a dash of groveling; some sugar-coated threats; some ass-kissing, figurative and not.
He's too busy trying to keep his cool about all this that he doesn't notice the commotion happening outside until someone body slams him into the counter, barreling through the dinner like an angry missile tank.
The shock only lasts a second, though, and before Trevor can even start to think about his surely bruised ribs, there's another body coming through, following the first man into the back area with equally great speed and force. He's spared this time, thankfully, and it's easy enough to grasp what's going on.
Well.
At least he tries to. But the screaming match that goes off in the kitchen is too sharp, too loud and too full of pointless obscenities for him to catch the gist of it. And it's not like Trevor cares; he doesn't know any of the people involved. The faster they can solve their shit, though, the faster he can get his pies and get the hell out of here.
One of the waitresses seems to have a similar idea, because she storms to the back and a female voice joins the shout-off. Shortly after the blessed silence descends.
It's weird, really, how nobody else seems to react. Trevor's not sure if that's because brawls happening in broad daylight despite all the gentrification are still a regular thing in the South Side or if it's just this place specifically, but it's a little baffling. Same as the fact that nobody really bothers the one man that emerges from the kitchens after the screaming finally subsided, and casually heads to walk out the venue again.
The man is rather short and a little scruffy; more than a little ruffled from whatever happened with the other dude. As he lets his gaze follow after the man outside, Trevor has a lingering feeling he knows him from somewhere, or at least that he's seen him before. He's not exactly sure why, but as soon as the man reaches the door, Trevor expects another violent outburst, maybe some good old fist fight even, but what he actually sees through the door's glass after the man finally leaves, gives him a pause. It's two men unashamedly kissing in the middle of the street, one of which he used to know pretty well.
It's a very thorough kiss, too.
As the man lets go of Ian Gallagher's waist and, surprisingly, walks back into Patsy's, stupid smile blooming on his face looks like it doesn't belong there at all. Trevor chooses to focus on Ian, though. On his hair, longer and even more orange than he remembers, on his shoulders — wider and more buff; on his face, lighten up in a way too goofy to look real and yet somehow radiating more happiness than Trevor ever thought was possible.
When the diner's door open and Ian's partner walks inside, Trevor can hear Ian booming behind him with amusement, "Five o'clock, Mickey!" and his bright laughter as the man — Mickey — promptly flips him off before shutting the door again and cutting all the noise from the outside.
And Trevor really can't help himself but ask the man now leaning against the counter next to him:
"Mickey? You're Mickey Milkovich?"
All the mirth, so clear on his face up to this moment dissolves in a blink of an eye and the man frowns, visibly gauging Trevor as a potential threat.
"Who's askin'?" he retorts with enough suspicion that Trevor is immediately sure this is, in fact, the one and only prison escapee he's heard so much about.
"I'm Trevor. Ian and I used to be friends. You know... before."
If Trevor thought this would take him off the hit list, apparently he was dead wrong, as Mickey's glare only gains on intensity. His frown morphs into an outright hostile scowl and for a second there Trevor thinks he might get treated to yet another shouting charade, only this time with him at the receiving end, but Mickey stays silent. He digs out his phone, fiddling with it for a minute and Trevor's about to give up on the immediate awkwardness and follow up with some other nonsensical admission when Mickey speaks to him again, eyes still glued to his screen.
"And I should care why…?" he asks, all closed off and frigid. Trevor doesn't think it's fair; it's not like he's earned any of this animosity from a man who's never even met him before. He considers for a moment that maybe Mickey's not comfortable having small talk with one of Ian's exes, but he hasn't thought about Ian in that context for years and it was him that Ian left to chase after his felon of an ex-boyfriend, so—
Oh.
Maybe that's the problem.
"Oh. No. I just— I was there when the cops told him you escaped. Didn't know you guys were both back in town, that's all," he says because he doesn't really know how to explain his interest in Mickey otherwise.
It seems to do the trick just fine, though, as Mickey seemingly does a full one-eighty.
His shoulders slump, his face loses its wolfish edge and one of his eyebrows flies skyward in a way Trevor can only describe as wicked.
"Holy shit, you're gay Mother Teresa."
It's teasing mockery all of a sudden and Trevor's thankful for the change of tone, even though he's not entirely sure what prompted it. He's kinda amazed by how fast Miceky's mood can change but he also remembers Ian telling him that one time that Mickey's kinda crazy, too, and Trevor briefly wonders if that's what he had in mind.
"Well that's… not exactly true," he tells Mickey instead and chuckles a little. It's not a term he would ever give himself at all.
"So what do you want?" There is no bite to the question, just plain curiosity and maybe a pinch of jeering glee. It's a tone Trevor could get used to.
"Just saw you outside and wanted to ask how he's doing. With prison and all. You know. Cause last time I saw Ian he's been acting… pretty insane." It's not what Trevor wants to say, not really. Even when they were together, he always left the case of Ian's mental health to Ian, always firmly believing in healthy boundaries and relationship not being therapy. It's what drove them apart, in the end, it's what always would have done, even if the whole Mickey-incident never have happened.
It's not like Trevor didn't care, though. He cared. Ultimately he just cared about his kids and his own wellbeing more. If that makes him an asshole, fine, but it's not what he wants Mickey to know.
Not with the way he can see his defenses flare up again and a cold, vicious fire starting to build up behind his eyes.
"Fuck you, Ian's not crazy!"
Only he is, certifiably so. But that's not something Trevor would ever hold against him, not really. Just something he couldn't really deal with, not when it mattered the most.
"Alright, easy, tiger," he tries to calm Mickey down, not ready for yet another onset in the least, as he can already tell touching this subject wasn't his brightest idea. Well, who would've guessed. Not him, apparently.
Mickey's not responsive, though and Trevor opens his mouth to say something else, maybe joke about fate leading them to talk here for a reason, but Mickey doesn't even look at him anymore, eyes fixed on something across the room.
"Listen, man, you gotta any business with my husband why doncha jus—" Mickey mumbles not facing him and Trevor thinks he maybe misheard that.
"Hold up. You're married?"
That's unexpected. Trevor knew Ian was ruined for anyone else pretty much the moment he realized his boyfriend run off to chase after his fugitive ex, but marriage he didn't expect. Not so soon, at least. Ian couldn't have been out of jail for long now, and how's Mickey parading Chicago streets in plain sight Trevor doesn't even want to imagine. So he's a little shocked at the revelation, that's all. And maybe a little mystified, too, when Mickey smiles, wide and unrestrained, wiggling his ringed-up hand in front of Trevor's face.
"Hell yeah, motherfucker!"
"Wow. Congratulations, then."
And he really means it.
"Thanks," Mickey says offhanded, still focused on something Trevor can't really see, following it through the diner. When their eyes snap together again, Trevor can say Mickey's lost all interest in whatever this wreck of a conversation was and is about to bolt any second now.
"I don't have time for this shit," he says hastily, tapping into his phone that Trevor didn't even notice was back in his hands with furious brutality. "You wanna find Ian, fine. I don't give a fuck 'bout your rainbow bullshit." He pockets his phone and looks at Trevor one last time, simultaneously assessing and indifferent. It's possibly the weirdest look he gave Trevor so far. "We're at the Gallagher house, so," Mickey adds with a small, pointed wave of his hand and with that he just takes off.
Trevor watches him run after the guy from before that he must've been focusing on, and not for the first time muses what's so special about Mickey Milkovich. This time there is no spite behind it, though, only wonder.
"I'll… keep that in mind," he says to the empty space Mickey left behind and can't stifle a smile.
Maybe he should take him up on that offer. He and Ian were always better as friends and he kind of misses that. And who knows, if he's careful enough, maybe this time he can score more than one extra pair of friendly hands to help around the shelter, too.
Mickey Milkovich, huh.
A/N: Yes, Trev, FATE. Her name is T and you are very welcome :3
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