Nearly fifteen minutes later, Ian couldn't take the tense silence any longer. Mickey's coldness was pissing him off; he didn't deserve it. Like a child, he reached over and turned the volume of the radio up a few notches, letting his frustration be known. He sat back with a satisfied smirk before his mouth fell slack when Mickey immediately slapped his hand away.
"Ow, that hurt, you dick!"
"Don't touch my radio, asshole."
Ian sat dumbfounded for a beat before glaring sideways at him. "Your radio? Since when is a radio in a stolen car your radio?"
"Since I fuckin' said it was, that's when," Mickey snapped with a sneer. "I'm the driver; the driver gets control of the radio."
"Oh, really?" Ian asked, his brows furrowed. "So, this is how it's gonna be, huh? We're gonna act like fuckin' toddlers now?"
"You're the kid here, Gallagher," Mickey retorted. "Not me."
"Oh, I'm the kid?" Ian exclaimed. "You're the one pissed at me for something you wanted in the first place."
"Fuck off."
"What are you even mad about?" Ian spat. "Wasn't this the deal? We'd fuck each other a few times before tappin' out? Go back to our old lives? You mad that you're not the one who got to end it first? That I beat you to the punch?"
Mickey didn't refute it. He turned the radio up louder, drowning out Ian's words, the bass causing the windows to rattle.
"Now who's actin' like a goddamn child?"
Mickey responded with his middle finger pressed right against Ian's nose.
"You're such an asshole," Ian exclaimed over the music, swatting Mickey's hand away from his face.
Mickey immaturely banged his head to the bass and drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel.
Ian shot a hand out and turned the music down.
"The fuck you think you're doing?"
"I know I'm not doin' this with you."
"Doin' what?"
"Playin' your stupid games," Ian retorted. "Get over your fuckin' ego."
"Fuck you," Mickey spat. "Just so we're clear, you were right. I'm pissed you got to end it first because I've been wantin' to end it with your ass for days now. I was gettin' bored with your cock and constant fuckin' babbling."
Ian smirked at that. "Please, now I know you're butthurt about this because you're flat out lying now. You couldn't get enough of my dick."
"Oh, bullshit! You think your dick's that good, Gallagher?" Mickey asked with a snort. "I can get better cock than that in the fuckin' back alley of the Alibi."
Ian reached over without hesitation and grabbed Mickey's right hand from the steering wheel, bravely placing it over his crotch. "Can you, though?" he asked, pressing Mickey's palm against his growing erection. Fuck, why did fighting with Mickey turn him on so much? It was infuriating.
Mickey didn't look at him, but he didn't move his hand away, either. He visibly swallowed and licked his lips, undoubtedly affected by the fact that his hand was pressed against Ian's dick.
"That's what I thought," Ian spat, once he saw the blush creeping up Mickey's neck. He tossed Mickey's hand away from his lap. "Asshole," he mumbled.
"Fuck," Mickey muttered, running the same hand down his face.
Ian snuck a sidelong glance at him. "I don't like this any more than you do, you know."
"What makes you think I give a shit?" Mickey snapped, still trying to hold on to some shred of whatever dignity he had left.
"Because I know you treat me the worst when you care the most."
Mickey finally glanced away from the road and looked at him, his expression softening around the edges. A moment later, he cursed under his breath and pulled the too-loud shitty stolen car to the side of the road.
Ian watched Mickey as he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. It surprised him when Mickey leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, his shoulders rising and falling with his deep, unsteady breaths.
"I don't know how to fuckin' do this, alright?" Mickey mumbled after a few beats, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could process them. "I've never… I've never done anything like this before. I've never cared this much about anything before, and I don't know how to deal… fuck. How to deal with—"
"Letting go?" Ian finished for him sadly.
"Yeah, something like that," Mickey muttered. "So I do the only thing I know how to do. I push people away and act like I don't fuckin' care, but I do, alright?"
Ian didn't know what to say; he could only look down at his hands.
"Trust me, I wish I didn't care," Mickey said, rubbing a hand down his face. "It would make all of this a lot fuckin' easier if I didn't."
"Hey," Ian said, reaching over and attempting to take Mickey's hand again. That time, he didn't pull his hand away. "At least we'll always have Cicero." He smiled faintly, trying to break the tension even while he was breaking on the inside.
"You're the cheesiest motherfucker I know, you know that?" Mickey returned his faint smile after a few beats before giving Ian's hand a gentle squeeze. He pulled his hand back a few moments later to shift gears and pull back onto the road.
Twenty minutes later, after amicably settling on a radio station they both liked turned to a reasonable volume, they pulled into Clayton Gallagher's cul-de-sac.
"You sure this is it?" Mickey asked as he glanced around the perfectly paved cookie-cutter street.
"Pretty sure," Ian said distractedly as he leaned forward and peered out the window. "There," he pointed out. "It's right there."
"How can you even tell? They all look the fuckin' same." Mickey didn't know why it surprised him. Of course, a guy with a name like Clayton would live in a three-story house, with a perfectly manicured lawn, three-car garage, and white picket fence. The thought that Ian could have grown up there, in that perfect life instead of the shit life he'd been dealt with instead, didn't sit too well with him.
They immediately felt out of place in their dark, inexpensive clothes as they got out of the car and reluctantly made their way up to the front door.
Mickey watched with crossed arms from a few feet away as Ian stood in front of the closed door, his fist frozen in midair.
Ian lowered his hand after a few beats, his shoulders visibly slumping.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't think I can do this," Ian admitted sullenly. "This is fuckin' stupid, Mickey. I can't just knock on the guy's door, turn his entire world upside down, and ask him to cut me a check for two thousand dollars."
"Why the fuck not?" Mickey retorted. "The dickhead owes you."
Ian gave Mickey an agonized look over his shoulder. "It's not that easy, Mickey. What if he doesn't wanna see me? Doesn't wanna help me?"
"Well, fuckin' knock and find out."
"I can't."
Mickey uncrossed his arms and rolled his eyes before stepping up to the door. "I'll do it then." Before Ian could stop him, he lifted his hand and rapped obnoxiously on the door.
"What the fuck are you doin', Mickey?" Ian hissed as he grabbed Mickey's hand, but it was already too late. "I can't believe you just did that!"
"Someone had to take the initiative," Mickey said with a shrug as he casually brought a cigarette to his lips to light it.
"I can't fuckin' believe you," Ian snapped. Just as he was contemplating jumping behind a nearby rosebush, the door opened, and he turned to face Clayton Gallagher for the second time in his life.
Clayton eyed Ian, blinking his eyes slowly a few times with a tilt of his head as if trying to determine if his eyes were deceiving him. "Ian?"
Ian turned fully towards the older man, his heart hammering in his chest. "Um, hi."
Clayton glanced warily into the house behind him before stepping outside, closing the door with him as he went. "What, uh, what are you doing here? I have company over."
Ian swallowed thickly before answering. It was better to just come right out with it; no use in beating around the bush. "I'm, uh, in trouble, real trouble, and I need your help."
Clayton crossed his arms and frowned. "Trouble? I don't understand, what kind of trouble?"
"I… I need money."
Clayton dropped his arms, his frown deepening. "You need money? I don't understand. What is this? Did Frank put you up to this?"
Ian glanced back at Mickey, who gave him a reassuring nod, before looking back at Clayton. "No, Frank doesn't know I'm here. We owe… I owe someone two grand and, if I don't get it to them soon, they'll kill me. Like literally kill me, no bullshit."
"Whoa, slow down, kid," Clayton said, holding up a hand to silence him, his shiny Rolex gleaming in the sun. "I don't know what you think's going to happen here, or what you're trying to get out of this, but—"
"I think you're my dad," Ian blurted. "I mean, I'm pretty sure you're my dad. Well, I'm about ninety-eight percent positive you're my dad. We have the same eyes and shit, and… and I just really think you're my dad."
Behind him, Mickey hung his head, thumbed his lower lip, and hid his gentle smile at Ian's incessant babbling.
Clayton's frown softened as Ian's words sunk in. He then shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his expensive trousers. He looked down at his two hundred dollar pair of shoes, clearing his throat.
Ian watched him, taking in his reaction and expression. "You know, don't you? You know I'm your kid. You knew this whole time, didn't you?"
"Look, kid," Clayton stammered, stepping a little closer and dropping his voice. "You can't be here. You're not welcome here. I have a life, a family. We can't deal with this. There's no room in our lives for you. I shouldn't be forced to deal with a mistake that happened seventeen years ago."
"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" Mickey snapped before Ian could react.
Clayton's eyes shot to Mickey. He shuffled uncomfortably before looking back at a white-faced Ian. "Look, kid, I don't know what you—"
"Ian," Mickey spat. "His name is Ian."
"Ian," Clayton repeated. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're expecting me to do here. Look, if I give you the money you need, you can't bother me again. Do you understand? Forget where I live, forget you know anything."
Ian stared at him dumbly, vaguely feeling Mickey grip his shoulder.
"You're buyin' him off?" Mickey exclaimed. "You fuckin' serious?"
"It has to be this way. Please understand," Clayton continued before opening the door and backing into the house. "I'll be right back."
Ian stared at the closed front door, trying to get his mind right.
"Fuck, Ian," Mickey breathed. "You alright?"
"Yeah," Ian intoned. "Just another parent who doesn't want me. The hell else is new, right?" He turned and headed back to the car.
Mickey watched after him helplessly, not knowing how to handle the situation. The door opened, and he turned just as Clayton thrust the check at him.
"There's two thousand dollars," Clayton whispered, nervously glancing over his shoulder towards the sounds of people laughing and chattering inside. "Tell Ian I'm sorry. This is the way it has to be. My wife, she doesn't want any—"
"Don't you even wanna know what kinda trouble he's in?" Mickey asked. "Or who wants to kill him? He's your fuckin' son, man."
Clayton once again glanced apprehensively over his shoulder.
"Yeah, fuck you," Mickey snapped, snatching the check from Clayton's hand. He folded the check and stuck it in his back pocket as he turned to walk away. He then thought better of it and turned back to glare at the man. "It's your fuckin' loss."
Clayton watched disbelievingly as Mickey spat on his expensive shoes before turning to head down the walkway.
On their way to Canaryville, to which Mickey was driving at least ten miles below the speed limit, not exactly in a hurry to get home any quicker than need be, he kept sneaking sidelong glances in Ian's direction. He hadn't said one word since leaving his sperm donor's house, and Mickey was having trouble broaching a conversation.
Eventually, he blurted, "You alright, Gallagher?"
"Yeah, fine," Ian muttered as he stared blankly out the window at the passing scenery.
"You're not fuckin' fine, Ian. I know you, you're not fine," Mickey said. "You haven't said shit since we got in the car."
"I don't wanna talk about it, alright?" Ian said. "We got what we went there for. We got the money. I wasn't expectin' anything else."
"Yeah, well, it was a pretty shitty thing for him to say to you."
"I'm used to it," Ian assured him. "Frank and Monica have been treatin' me like shit for years."
Mickey swallowed hard, choosing his next words carefully. "Well, you don't fuckin' deserve it." He glanced over at Ian, who had his face turned enough for Mickey to glimpse his teeth gnawing on his quivering bottom lip. He sighed and turned his eyes back to the road, spotting a gas station up ahead. He contemplated his next move for only a beat before saying, "I'm stoppin' for gas."
"We're ten minutes from home," Ian said, finally looking at him, his eyes red-rimmed. "You gonna fill up the tank as reimbursement for stealin' the car?"
Mickey smirked as he pulled into the gas station. He didn't need gas; he was only trying to put the inevitable off for a little while longer. The extreme anxiety he'd been feeling all afternoon at the thought of confronting his dad weighed on his shoulders like a ton of bricks. Plus, he wasn't ready to say goodbye yet.
"You want anything?" he asked as he opened the rusted door to get out.
"Yeah, I guess I'll go take a piss," Ian said as he got out.
Mickey kept the car running. He shut his door and began heading towards the entrance of the gas station, all the while his eyes followed Ian as he headed towards the bathroom at the side of the building.
He froze and rubbed a thumb over his bottom lip, only thinking about it for a split second before heading in the direction Ian had gone.