"You wanna go see your real dad?" Mickey asked after a few beats. He could tell by the tears glistening in Ian's eyes that it wasn't exactly something he was aching to do. "You serious?"

Ian swallowed hard and nodded.

"Have you ever met the fuckin' sperm donor before?"

"Once," Ian answered, looking as if he'd rather talk about anything else. "Lip and I found him after I found out Frank wasn't my real dad. We went to his house, met his wife and everything. He, uh, I look exactly like him. I knew he was my dad. I knew he was my dad, but I didn't say anything, we just left."

Mickey scratched his temple as he took in the information. "Do you think he knows he's your dad?"

Ian jumped up from the bed and began pacing. "I don't know, it didn't seem like it. All I know is that I have to do something, right? This guy is loaded, and he might be my dad, and I have to at least try. I have to try to get the money from him. Right?"

When Ian's voice wavered, Mickey strode over to him and placed his hands on his shoulders in an attempt to calm him down. "Hey, if you wanna pay this asshole a visit, we'll pay him a visit," he said. "The worst he can say is fuck off, right? It's worth a shot."

Ian nodded his head warily, still avoiding eye contact. "It's our only option right now."

"Hey, look, I get it," Mickey said. "If this shithead is your real dad, the least he can do is help you out. You can look at it as owed child support or some shit. The bastard owes you that much."

Ian lifted his eyes to meet Mickey's, suddenly looking and sounding like the scared, unsure sixteen-year-old he was. "Will you come with me? I don't wanna do it by myself."

Mickey reached up and cupped the crown of Ian's head, digging his fingers into his hair. "Course I will," he said, his voice low and husky as he searched Ian's wet eyes. He leaned in and kissed him, the action coming naturally to him.

Ian melted into the kiss and allowed Mickey to guide it.

It was surreal how they had been furiously fucking against a table fifteen minutes prior, and then Mickey was kissing Ian so gently and tenderly that it took his breath away and rendered him stupid.

Mickey pulled away and tapped his forehead to Ian's, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. He didn't know how, in just a couple weeks, he'd turned into such a fucking sap, but that was what Ian did to him. He'd never enjoyed kissing before. With Ian, he couldn't seem to get enough. When he spoke next, his words were unsteady. "Where does the douchebag live, anyway?"

"North Side, Forest Glen," Ian answered, looking distracted as he stared down at Mickey's chest. "He has a nice house, fancy car, perfect family, the whole nine yards." His voice caught at the end, giving away his emotions, even though he was trying so hard to hold them back.

Mickey watched him with that familiar tightening in his chest again, like a hand clutching his heart. He grabbed Ian's chin, turning his face toward his. He leaned in for a kiss and slid his arms around Ian's waist, pulling them flush together.

He didn't want to bang; he wasn't doing it to make Ian feel better. He genuinely wanted to kiss him. Wanted to be close to him.

Their tongues slowly tangled, and their hands smoothed over each other's bodies lazily as they pressed together, unable to get enough. They fell back into the jumble of sheets, pillows, and blankets on the bed and continued kissing, never once breaking contact.

Mickey pulled back after a while and stared down into Ian's flushed face, his hand and thumb caressing Ian's velvety cheek. He didn't know what had gotten into him. All he knew was that kissing Ian Gallagher like that was all he wanted to do.

Ian stared up at him with curious eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Mickey smiled faintly and leaned back in, fitting his lips perfectly against Ian's. He kissed him tenderly, tugging at Ian's bottom lip with his teeth before angling his head and going in again.

Ian's hands were slowly roaming over Mickey's back, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Mickey trailed his lips away from Ian's mouth and kissed down his chin, over his throat and back up again, even going so far as kissing the tip of his freckled nose. "You turned me into such a fuckin' sap, you know that?" he murmured affectionately against sweet, warm skin.

"You wanna fuck?" Ian panted, tactful as always.

"No," Mickey grumbled against the hollow of Ian's throat. "I just wanna keep doin' this," he said. He had never felt so connected to another person before. He had never felt so open. With Ian, he felt he could say, do, and feel anything he wanted. With Ian, he wasn't afraid.

With Ian, he felt free.

Ian's fingers were in Mickey's hair, tugging lightly, as their tongues continued dueling languidly. Neither rushed it; they took their time kissing, their emotions running on overdrive. They both knew, deep down, that they were treading on dangerous ground, but both were too far gone at the moment to think much of it.

Ian was the first to wake in the middle of the night. He lifted his head from Mickey's chest, his cheek sticky with drool. He stared down at him, his heart heavy in his chest. He pulled away stiffly, careful not to wake him, and climbed off the bed. He walked to the dresser, tapped a cigarette into his palm, and lit it. He then sat down in the green chair as he smoked, watching Mickey sleep.

Without even realizing it, a tear made its miserable descent down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away before it got too far and sniffed, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth with a shaky hand.

He was going to suggest paying Clayton a visit tomorrow. He was going to suggest packing their stuff, hitting the road, and getting it over and done with. It was time to go home. It was time to let go.

He had already allowed himself to get in too deep with Mickey Milkovich. In a short time, he had fallen in love with him. He had fallen in love with the worst person he could have fallen for. It was time to get on with his life because he knew if he didn't do it soon, he would never be able to let go.

Mickey opened his eyes and caught sight of Ian slumped at the table, his head buried in his hands. He pushed himself into a sitting position, squinting against the glaring sunlight pouring in through the threadbare curtains.

"Hey," he said groggily, his mouth feeling dry. "What fuckin' time did you get up?"

"A few hours ago," Ian answered, his voice sounding rough around the edges.

"A few hours ago?" Mickey repeated before sneaking a glance back at the alarm clock. "You've been sittin' there since five in the morning?"

"Yeah," Ian muttered. "Been thinking."

Mickey rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "Alright. You wanna get breakfast or something?" he asked through a yawn. "I'm fuckin' starving, man."

"I wanna leave," Ian interjected. "I think we should pack up and go, today. We should go see Clayton and get this thing over with. You said it yourself, we've been gone for too long as it is."

Mickey slowly pulled his hand away from his face, Ian's words feeling like a knife to the gut. He knew Ian wanted to go see Clayton but figured they still had a few days to iron out the details. "Today? Like right fuckin' now, today?"

"Yeah," Ian said, avoiding Mickey's eyes. "The longer we put it off, the worse it'll be. The angrier your dad will be, and the deeper we'll be—" He quickly shut his mouth, shaking his head a little. "We need to go."

"Ian, I don't want—" Mickey began, wanting to tell him he wasn't ready to leave, that maybe they could pack up and move somewhere far away and start a better life together, but he didn't; he couldn't. He knew it was impossible, so he settled on, "If you think that's what we should do, then that's what we should do."

Ian nodded and, after a beat, reiterated, "It's what we should do."

"Ian…"

"It's what we should do," Ian said with more finality while looking Mickey in the eyes. "You said it yourself. This was only a limited time deal, right?"

Mickey finally realized that Ian's eyes were brimming with tears. He could only nod and swallow the thick lump in his throat, forcing back his own emotions. "Okay, this is your deal. You call the shots here."

"Trust me, I'm not the one who called these shots," Ian said, his voice softer, that time.

Mickey forced himself to look away and ran a hand over his face, trying to catch his mind up to everything. He eventually flung the blanket away from his body and mentally prepared himself to rebuild those walls; the walls that Ian had so effortlessly and seamlessly and inexplicably torn down.

He knew it had to be over. He just didn't realize it would be over that soon or hurt that much, but he knew Ian was right: the sooner it ended, the better. He knew that kissing Ian the night before like he had, being so sensual and loving, had thrown them both into unfamiliar territory, and it had, apparently, scared Ian just as much as it had him. He was such a fucking idiot.

"Yeah, okay," he intoned as he got up. He avoided Ian's eyes and scratched his eyebrow. "I'm gonna take a shower, then we can pack up our shit, go find a car, and get outta here."

Ian, who was still sitting at the table with his fingers steepled under his quivering chin, nodded with his eyes focused blankly on the wall.

Mickey disappeared into the bathroom and leaned back against the cold, wooden door, his heart thumping miserably in his chest. He clenched his fists as he rocked in place, forcing back his tears, refusing to fucking cry, and sucked in a deep quivering breath before walking to the shower and turning on the water. Only when he was under the hot spray did he allow himself to cry because then he could pretend they weren't tears.

It was always easier to pretend.

Ian went around the room, packing up everything they had acquired over the past two weeks: clothes, shoes, the Monopoly game they had purchased but hadn't opened because they'd been too preoccupied with each other's mouths and dicks to bother.

When there was nothing left to pack up, he looked around the room, his heart heavy. Even though the place was an ugly shithole that smelled like a goddamn shoe, he was going to miss it. He was going to miss everything; their talks that went into the wee hours of the morning, the fucking that had satisfied him to his core, the lazy make-out sessions that always went on a little too long, their idle chitchat about everything and nothing at all as they watched old stupid sitcoms and game shows.

Most of all, he would miss Mickey. He was going to miss his smell, and the way he smiled at one of his lame jokes even when he tried so hard not to. He was even going to miss their constant bickering and fighting because the making up part was always so good.

He sat down in the ugly green chair and wiped at his cheek, trying to pull himself together.

How the hell was he supposed to go back to the South Side and go on about his normal fucking life knowing Mickey Milkovich was somewhere out there, just out of his reach? That he was out there unprotected under his father's thumb?

The door to the room opened, and Mickey sauntered in, stomping the snow from his boots, his cheeks rosy from the cold. "We got lucky. I found a car right down the road. It's a piece of shit, but it should get us where we need to go," he said without bothering to look up. "Let's pack it up and get a move on before someone notices it's missing."

"Mick."

"Don't, Gallagher," Mickey snapped, reducing Ian back to his nickname, his eyes still focused on the floor. "Let's go, alright? Get this shit over with."

Ian nodded curtly and took one last look around the room before grabbing two of the four duffel bags that sat on the table. He brushed past Mickey, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

Mickey grabbed the remaining two bags and followed him out, leaving the room, and the fantasy, behind them.

The ride out of Cicero was deafeningly quiet.

Ian kept sneaking tentative glances in his direction, but Mickey's eyes remained steadfast on the road ahead of them. He turned his head to glance out the window and gnawed on his lower lip. He knew he'd done the right thing, forcing them to take that initial step back to their inevitable reality, but he couldn't help feeling like shit.

"I'm sorry," he said after ten minutes of silence. "I didn't want this to end," he muttered, looking back at Mickey who was still staring at the road with his jaw flexed. "You know I didn't want it to end. If it was up to me, I would never go—"

"It doesn't fuckin' matter anymore, Gallagher," Mickey retorted, his voice uneven as he reached forward and fumbled with the heater knob. "It's done. We both knew it was gonna come to this."

"I know, but I don't wanna—"

"It was fun while it lasted," Mickey interrupted, "but that's all it fuckin' was. Fun."

Ian swallowed thickly and uttered, "That's not all it was for me."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't fuckin' matter anymore, does it?" Mickey spat. "Once we stepped outta that room, it was over."

Ian reached over without thinking and grabbed his hand. It didn't surprise him when Mickey tore his hand away.