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Disclaimer: This Fiction is the work of two authors: The account holder, PrettyBoyWithMe, and her awesome co-writer, SilentBobina. The account holder is one of the authors, as well as the editor. Please disregard all, if any, differentiation in the writing style.
Disclaimer: This Fic! Is rooted from a roleplay, rated M for sexual themes and content, language, and violent descriptions, as well as mental health stigma.
Disclaimer: The authors do not support the slurs used in character, in this fic
Disclaimer: Some ideas, memories, and references are owned by and to fictional work done by the FanFic author SilentBobina, and not this account or the account holder.
Author's Note: Welcome back! SilentBobina and myself have been having a BLAST writing this, may I note! She's amazing, so go and check out her work. She has some pretty badass Gallavich fics (as well as many more) which this fic will reference. xoxox
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Fuck Gallagher...
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his mind lingering on the last thought. As much as Mickey wished, he couldn't think "fuck Ian" without thinking about getting fucked by Ian. He flopped back onto his bed and took a long drag on his cigarette. He closed his eyes and let out a hiss at the aches on his body. Mickey shifted uncomfortably and thought about the warm, brown eyes and that spark of bright red that glimmered behind them when he was feeling horny. His stomach fluttered again and a flash of heat rushed down to his crotch. He reached his hand down below the edge of his pants but hesitated. It wouldn't be the same as the real thing; besides, somehow Terry would find his way into Mickey's mind reminding him somehow that he was a backwards piece of shit. He grabbed for his shitty ass flip phone and let his thumb linger over the call button.
.
It was Friday night, thankfully. What that meant was sleep for Ian in the morning, and he hadn't been so thankful for that in a long time. He was sore, that was the fuck for sure. Ian trudged into the bathroom off of the kitchen to wash his hands, and gazed at the ghost of a cut on his fleecy skin. Pathetic. Oh yeah. He had work for Kash in the morning. There went that idea.
As the warm water caressed Ian's hands though, he thought of a different caress. One that was rare, and rougher. How was he going to deal with Mickey? The more pressing question was when that raging asshole would show his face again. Any time Mickey even thought there was a chance someone would find out he took it in the ass, he hid.
With good reason, Ian supposed. His father was more of a piece of shit than Frank, and that was saying something. It made him feel better to know that he wasn't really Frank's kid.
"Dinner LET'S GO GALLAGHERS!" With a quick gaze over his pathetic face, he exited for dinner.
.
It seemed like Ian was the only one Mickey called lately. It wasn't surprising, with Mandy always over there fucking Lip and Iggy in juvie for assault. He took a deep breath and pushed the bright green button. Each ring matched his heartbeat and reminded him that Ian was probably fucking pissed; and why shouldn't he be?
Mickey wouldn't ever be more than the piece trash that Ian had known all his life.
.
Fi had made lasagna, which was one of his personal favorites. Lip and Carl had already laid waste to half a dish. Luckily, Fiona always made four. Big house, big family, big appetites. Ian desperately needed a shower, but as he sank into his chair, the aches reappeared, and it could fucking wait. He laughed at a joke Lip made, and listened to Debbie chatter on about Carl's friend Little Hank; waiting to serve himself.
And then, the phone rang. Eyes were gazing at it, trying to spot the caller ID. All at once, everyone grabbed for it. Alas, Debs won, as per usual.
"This is the Gallagher residence. Who is calling, please?" Debbie had grabbed the phone from where it buzzed on the table.
Mickey cleared his throat at the girlish voice on the line. He wriggled uncomfortably fighting the urge to hang up. "Yeah's Ian around?" He asked. His finger lingered over the red button caressing it like a panic switch.
She listened and made a few polite noises before eyeballing Ian and mouthing - It's for you.
The whole family rounded to look at Ian, who shrugged as he was passed the phone. He rose, and went outside to take the call.
What would Mickey even say? Let's fuck, all that faggot talk got me horny? The thought made his stomach turn and as the phone shuffled and switched hands he took a deep breath and felt the rubber of the button giving ever so slightly just as Ian's gruff voice came through the line.
"Yeah?" He trumped into the mouthpiece.
"Hey," he began, unsure of anything; why he called, what he should say, how he could quell the flutter in his stomach. When Ian heard the voice on the other line, he melted into silence. "El tracks at 10?" He asked simply.
At least he could buy himself more time and who knows, maybe Ian would be in one of those moods where he'd rather fuck than talk. Another day; he could buy a whole day.
Mickey didn't wait for an answer. His finger shook and he tapped the red button as impulsively as he'd pressed the green button. Wasn't that some Matrix shit? He might as well jump into a rabbit hole with how tangled he'd felt lately.
"Fuck no!" But Mickey had already hung up, and Ian had only half meant it anyway. The pussy.
Shaking, he flipped the phone shut. That was just like Mickey, ordering him around. He chuckled with an angry undertone, knowing it was Mickey who got fucked, and not the other way around. He headed back inside.
"Who was that Ian?" Debbie innocently asked. Curiosity choked the air.
Ian was suddenly extremely nervous, so much so he began to sweat. "Mickey." The whisper came out louder than he intended.
"Milkovich!?" Fiona snapped her head up.
"Yeah, Milkovich. Is that a problem?"
Leave it the fuck alone, Fiona. Begging her silently with his eyes, waiting to see if she challenged him.
"Come on, Ian. sit down and eat up. You'll need your strength for thugging around." She hissed.
Goddamnit, Fiona.
"I'm not hungry, but thanks." He stormed upstairs, leaving his empty plate.
He couldn't stomach the thought of food right now. He couldn't stand anything. He didn't want to be touched, or talked to. This complexity of charades with Mickey was getting out of hand. Mickey wasn't afraid of gays, he was afraid of being found out. Homophobia at its finest.
.
Mickey looked at the clock; Seven.
Too much fucking time to kill.
He deadened his music quickly and listened for silence. Thankfully, the yelling had stopped and Mickey poked his head out the door to see his father passed out on the couch. He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and headed into the bathroom. It had been a long day and maybe a shower would wash it all away.
Mickey closed his eyes and relaxed as the lukewarm water dripped dimly across his sore back. He ran his fists under the water and gazed at his tattoos with a grin. Nothing like ripped up knuckles to bring the message home. Still, he considered how he got into this situation in the first place and it always came back to that fucking carrot top—
"Fucking Gallagher," he muttered in irritation.
First things first, he'd tell Ian he could take ROTC and shove it up his tight white ass. He nodded to himself as he struggled to scrub off the dirty thoughts that invaded his mind. He let his hand wander down to clean his junk and it lingered there for a minute but again, the thought of flashes of red hair and incandescent freckled skin held him back. He shook it off.
Secondly, they can't talk at school anymore, he decided. Mickey's cousins had started to get suspicious and Terry was on high alert. Just last week he'd busted up this queer bar.
"Partially for the cash, but mostly for the fun." he'd announced with a grin.
I'm not that way. I'm not a fucking queer, he told himself for the millionth time. I can't be.
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Ian flopped on his bed, grabbing what was left of the Ounce Kev had donated to him, and rolled two fatties and a slim J. The J was lit immediately. Ian breathed with ease for the first time all day, taking another drag. It wasn't that he minded the fucking closet thing, nah. He got that, especially with the way Mick's pop was. The bastard.
Tears started to pour down Ian's pale face. He didn't even know WHY he was crying, or why he was so overwhelmed. These fucking teenage hormones just never quit. The world dissolved around him, as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, tears still pouring from his eyes.
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Mickey got ready to meet Ian by dressing down; in a ratty old sweater, and drinking an entire six-pack of beer. Sometimes it disgusted him, the way he molded himself to his father's life but fuck it, what other options did a hood shit like him really have? He chain-smoked counting down the minutes anxiously...8:35, 8:40, 8:45.
Mickey's cousins burst in loudly around 9 so he ducked out the window to avoid their dumb-ass intrusive questions. It was only a matter of time before an angry and hungover Terry rose with a flood of noise; Mickey couldn't face that assault again today. Once he laid down under the tracks, he kept time with the vibrating tracks as he continued to smoke and warm himself with another beer. Maybe Ian wouldn't show. He had kind of pussied out on him after all. He closed his eyes and waited for that warm rush he felt whenever Ian was within a few feet of him.
.
An abrupt noise woke him. His alarm clock read 9:37 p.m as Lip and Carl rolled into the room, joking about something Ian was positive Carl didn't understand; yet. The clock lazily flipped the minute.
"You good?" Lip offered as Ian rose, remembering he had somewhere to be.
Mickey. That's where he had to be. Shit!
"Yeah sure fine gotta go." He yelled, tossing on an old David Bowie shirt and a thick black hoodie.
Ian pocketed the rest of the J, as well as the two blunts, and raced down the stairs and out the door before anyone could ask any more questions. He didn't know what was up with himself lately, but he hated it and Mickey Milkovich was his favorite fucking fix.
He arrived under the El with three minutes to spare. Relighting the J, Ian allowed some time for his eyes to adjust, pulling in the fragrant smoke. He let his anger boil down to a simmer as the familiar chill raced across every inch of him. Mick had beat him here, literally in the past.
"Since when is a Milkovich ever early? Especially you." He offered the jest out loud, unsure if his fix would even hear him.
.
Mickey felt the familiar heat and smelled the sweet stench of weed. Fuck yeah, something else to push away his racing thoughts.
"Gallagher," he greeted without moving.
He flicked away his cigarette butt and shrugged. "That place is a fucking zoo," was all he said.
He wondered if his absence would be noticed, who knows what bull shit his family would get into tonight. He took a deep breath before letting his eyes slip open easily. The alcohol had warmed him and the world swam brightly before his eyes. Ian's face felt like a breath of fresh air but he had to temper his expectations.
"So how'd you get out'a that mess? The serge take it up the ass for you too?" He asked bitterly.
He knew he had no right to hurl judgments about any of it. Not ROTC, not fucking around, not blaming him for the afternoon. He caught sight of the small scrape on Ian's cheek. As much as Mickey tried to be a badass, he often felt like Ian was the badass and Mickey was his bitch. Ian understood how he felt and wasn't afraid to show it. Ian could relax and take orders instead of lashing out like a beast.
Even so, he was still a bit hung up on how out of it the redhead had gotten that afternoon he just... couldn't show it, not after walking out like a little bitch.
"I ain't going back, but I hope..." Mickey trailed off.
He'd hate to think that he'd fucked up Ian's chances at getting out of here and living his dreams.
I'm a fucking piece of shit. Fucking up everything and living down to the Milkovich name.
He sat up and scooted across the El barrier that he was laying on to give Ian room to join him. He held out a hand and flicked his fingers, wordlessly demanding the joint. He'd need it to deal with the rest of this conversation. Did he, did he really want to talk it out? He wondered. He was such a little bitch.
Ian closed the distance, and took Mickey's hand in his instead; his large hand enclosing over the little pistol's smaller but angrier one. He pulled himself closer, going nose to nose with him. Ian's hazel's bore into Mickey's baby blues. He tightened his grip on his greatest torment.
"Shut the fuck up, Milkovich. If you think I'm letting you lose your one fucking chance out of this little shithole world, you are out of your fucking mind. You can fucking do this, Mickey."
Mickey stiffened as Ian invaded his space without a thought. He clenched his fist inside Ian's warm hand but refused to pull away. He held Ian's gaze hard and strong even as he craned his neck back to keep Ian's lips far from his own. This wasn't what he'd planned and his stomach fluttered as the other boy's soft gestures pulled him in helplessly. Ian gave him a speech that thankfully fueled the flash of anger he needed to scoff and push Ian away with his free hand.
"Fuck you, what's wrong with what I am?" He asked but his voice cracked softy.
He knew Ian was right that he wasn't worth shit, that he was a fucking maggot suffocating in the dirt of this South Side hell hole.
Ian took a long pull from the blunt, and offered it to Mickey, examining him for what was going on inside his head. Why did he have to make it so hard? The decision on how to confront this hadn't been easy. He'd mulled it over the three hours he spent scrubbing the hall floor with a toothbrush.
Mickey Motherfucking Milkovich, oh he hoped not, was not going to quit on his one chance out. Ian thought back to the conversation they'd had when Ian had brought up Mickey joining ROTC mid-fuck. Obviously, Ian had won; he planned to continue to win.
Mickey plucked the joint from Ian's hand and loosened himself from the redhead's grip. He shuffled away quickly, enough of that girly cuddling shit. And yet, something in his chest tugged painfully as he increased the distance between.
"You knew what the fuck you were getting into and I didn't, not with the ROTC shit. Fuck those assholes no one's gonna tell me what to do like a little bitch." Mickey took a few long drags of the joint and handed it back to Ian, very very carefully avoiding the brush of their fingers against one another. The last thing he needed was Ian getting in his head again, turning it fuzzy.
Mickey spat on the ground and looked away. Maybe he could distract Ian. He hadn't expected the fucker to be so wound up over something so pointless, so why not wind him up over something else? "You know what, fuck it, we shouldn't even be talkin at school anyway so just," he sighed deeply and tried to ignore the way his heart strained as he finished his statement.
"Stay the fuck away from me Gallagher." As soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back but Terry's slimy shit-grinning face popped into his mind and stopped him.
The feelings that were developing were like acid in Ian's mind. How could he go feeling like a pansy for a hard ass closet fag who thugs his way in and out of juvie AND any available pussy on a regular basis. Fiona was right, but he had decided he wouldn't let it stay that way. Mickey was better than this. Ian saw it; all these little things that made up this man, and he was learning to love them.
Pussy feelings; fuck that. He braced himself, expecting some sort of retaliation, more likely physical than verbal, eyes solid as stone.
Mick bit his bottom lip nervously and turned to Ian. A dead feeling filled his chest and all he wanted was to close the distance between them and let the heat of Ian's touch make him feel something, anything. He chose anger as he leaned in close and pinned Ian's shoulders against the El tracks with his forearm.
"Capice?" He growled angrily, satisfied by the tingle that rushed through him at the intimidating gesture.
Ian straightened up as Mickey pinned him against the support beam. He had kept his face cold the entire time. He'd been trying to think through the problem, the way Lip always did. Break it down, hypothesize. Mickey fed off of his reactions, or so he thought. Now was not the time to test it, but that sure as hell didn't stop him.
"Fine."
He leaned forward and kissed Mickey. It was hard, and angry. Mickey barely had time to react to Ian's quick maneuver but the kiss sent a tingle to his crotch.
Finally, down to the fucking, he thought, prepared for Ian's rough embrace, the one that made him shiver with anticipation whenever he saw the boy.
But Ian didn't wrestle him into his arms, he didn't press against him with his warm sweet breath on Mickey's ear. Instead, he just walked away He shrugged out from under Mickey's pin with ease, a sidestep he'd learned at ROTC.
Ian walked quickly, snatching up what he hoped was Mick's half-drunken beer. Chugging it quickly, he then tossed it behind him, leaving the sweet shatter in his wake. He flicked the rest of the J over his shoulder, offended that the Milkovich had touched it.
Fuck Mickey fuck! Why the fuck do you have to be such a little punk ass?
His composure was breaking down internally. Guys like Mickey need tough love if they want any, and Ian was willing to try. Anything, a-ny-thing to save this slumdog. For fucking why he couldn't say. It was Mickey.
Not his Mickey, because his Mickey was an imaginary asshole Ian made up to comfort himself.
He broke into a run after he rounded the corner, but he didn't cry.
Mickey's breath heaved heavy as that single word echoed in his ears. Fine. He felt disappointment welling in his stomach and he clutched it worried he might be sick, he had drank a lot and the weed was strong but he knew that wasn't it. He glared at the thin, receding figure of Ian in the dark and cringed as he clattered the can in the hollow, empty street.
"Fuck," He whispered and yet again, his head was fuzzy. Of course Ian left. He wasn't worth fighting for and Ian had said so himself. He was just some Milkovich trash who couldn't go a day without getting a fight.
.
Not until it was close to dawn and the house was quiet did Ian break down. Silently, he wept into his pillow. He had seen a secret behind those beautiful, icy eyes; Ian Gallagher was determined to be the first to read it. He shouldn't have kissed him, though. Ian once read that the surest way to kill a man was to kiss him once, then never again. The ball was in Mickey's court now as to whether he would step up or step out. Ian wiped his face, because either way, it wouldn't matter.
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