Disclaimer: First and foremost, the account holder and authors do in no way, shape, or form, own any characters, names, places, storyline plots, and so forth.

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: We have limited to no knowledge about guns, their uses, makes, and models. All information below is a rough guess, to be honest.

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: Thank you for the patience! As a warning, this fic! Is going in dark places. If you feel this will be an issue, please discontinue reading so that you don't get to attached xoxo

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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.

.

Mickey furrowed his brow and clenched his fists, grateful for the ache in his ripped knuckles. The pain caused the disappointment to blossom into the comfortable feeling of anger again. He punched the frozen concrete of the El barrier hissing in pain as his scrapes reopened and blood trickled down his fist. Gritting his teeth, he felt relieved that Ian was the dull throbbing pain at the back of his head now, and not the sickness that he couldn't drink, smoke, or fuck away.

Fucking queer.

He kicked at the barrier a few times before heading home. The cold stung at Mickey's eyes, hot angry tears forming in the corners; but he wiped them away, accidentally smearing blood across his face in the process.

You let that faggot turn you into this shitty ass mess, he reminded himself. Part of him growled back insistently that he couldn't help himself.

.

Mickey slammed through the front door and was immediately engulfed in a chaotic rumble of shouts. What the fuck now?

Terry caught him out of the corner of his eye. "Hey, Mick, who fucked you up?" he demanded.

"Mind your fucking business," he spat back, thankful that his cousins were busy trying to drag his dad into some idiotic scheme.

He slammed his door and sighed deeply. Even though it meant nothing, the shitty cardboard sign on his door telling the world to fuck off and die always somehow made him feel safe. He went to run his hands under hot water, losing himself in the searing pain of the wounds. He dried off his hands and raw, red spots made him flash back to that fiery red hair.

"Fucking left me with fucking blue balls," he grumbled.

He flipped open his phone but it was too late to call any of the nasty skanks he usually hooked up with on nights like this. Mickey sighed and lit up a cigarette before laying down and taking a few calming breaths. He glared up at the ceiling harshly. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep but the noise in his living room made him shake and he knew that the second he closed his eyes all he would see was Ian's pleading hazel eyes and angelic round face. In his mind Ian was always soft and satisfied, everything that he was not.

Mickey struggled to keep his eyes open and as the chaos in the living room quieted, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Maybe tomorrow he'd stop by Kash and Grab and see if Ian was around.

If not, who cares... he thought vaguely only to slip into a dream full of red hair, pale skin and smiling eyes.

.

Saturday morning in the Gallagher house meant silence until ten, unless Frank rolled in still brazenly drunk, or Fiona had to work, or some other bullshit happened. Ian, however, was up, showered, and dressed by six. He bolted out of the white, peeling door and rocketed off of the porch that had once put a splinter in his ass cheek. But, he didn't talk about that.

The world around him blurred as he set a steady tempo. Kash had offered to let him open the store at seven, since he and Linda were back to fighting. Again. Ian slowed as he rounded the corner to the Kash and Grab, taking the next twenty minutes to smoke through three Newports Lip had dropped him the night before.

Other than one crying fest, the jaeger-bomb ginger hadn't shown a speck of emotional loss in the direction of Mickey Milkovich. He wanted to fight for Mick, but Mickey had to fight for himself first. To realize that he was worth fighting for. Anger bubbled under Ian's flecked skin. In reality, he just wanted to pull the smaller boy in his arms, and show him love like never before.

Ian used to wish Mick was more like Mandy, his best friend. She got it, and used her brain and not her cock to think. He supposed she didn't have one, but goddamn did that girl have balls.

His thoughts jumped tracks as he entered the store, counted a drawer, and flipped on the lights.

Mickey had better show the fuck up. Otherwise, this reverse psychology is fucking useless. He mused aloud as he rotated the perishables.

Opening a bag of pork rinds for breakfast was unhealthy but so comforting. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The sound always reminded him of when Fiona would make him breakfast when he was little and sick. She told him she would know if he ate, because she would hear him crunching, and he had to eat to get better. Mickey had to eat to get better, and more than just his cock. Mick was one fuck of a pole smoker, and it was better than the time Karen Jackson had tried per request of Lip.

Knowing that the store would be dead for another three hours or so, Ian settled down at the counter, and began to draw familiar shapes.

.

Mickey jolted awake angry. He always woke up angry; how the fuck else could he wake up when someone was always yelling or fighting or fucking in his living room before light barely passed through the blinds? This morning, the light seared into his eyes, and he remembered the one too many beers he'd had the night before. It wasn't long before Mandy slammed into his room, and he rubbed his eyes and temples at the pounding noise.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered.

Mandy's face was set in a characteristic scowl and she opened up his draws frantically.

"Mandy," he murmured.

She didn't stop.

"Mandy!" He shouted louder, standing up, and pushing against the open drawer with the full weight of his body, shutting it in her face.

It had been the drawer with his modest gun collection, and he sighed. "It's a little fucking early for murder don't you think?"

Mickey actually wasn't sure what time it was, but he was Goddamn sure Mandy was overreacting. Mandy rolled her eyes, and they both crossed their arms, staring one another down. Mickey had always connected with his sister more than any other member of his family, and something about that fact made his stomach queasy as they mirrored each other's movements.

"Karen Jackson's back," She said.

Mickey shook his head in confusion; so another South Side whore returned, who cares? Mickey had fucked Karen once or twice, before he realized how much better it was to be the one fucked. Shit, who hadn't fucked Karen?

"And?" He asked rolling his eyes impatiently.

"Just thought she could use a little motivation to stay away from Lip," she mumbled, looking away.

Fucking Gallagher, he thought. How many Milkoviches could that family wrap around their greedy, think their better than everyone, self-fucking-righteous fingers. "Shit dude, is it really that much better over there?" He asked gruffly but he let his weight off the drawer.

As long as it was just for intimidation - then he wouldn't get in trouble. He considered what it might be like to wake up to a household that laughed and chattered and smiled as they all shared breakfast and he frowned.

"It really is." Mandy insisted and Mickey shifted uncomfortably trying to shake off his fantasy and the hurt of Mandy's happy second life.

"Alright well - just don't shoot the bitch." he said with concern, giving Mandy a pat on the shoulder. She threw him a devious smile and he rose his eyebrows staring her down seriously.

"I mean it. Or at least use some other asshole's gun." Mickey turned back to his bed and let Mandy go about her business. He lit up a smoke and looked at the clock. It was around ten, and Mickey silently wondered how long he could go without giving in and begging Ian to give him another chance; or, at the very least, fuck him one last time. The question was answered for him when he reached for a new pack of cigarettes from his spare carton, only to find it empty.

"Fuck," he muttered.

He opened his current pack, severely diminished from his nervous breakdown the night before. He only had three after the one currently in his hand; barely enough to get through breakfast, if you consider a beer and stale pop tarts breakfast. Mickey let his face fall into his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, only to start at the pain in his hand. He shook it out, and looked up to Mandy who stood in front of him with his sawed off shotgun and a look of glee.

"Shit, that's a little bit of overkill don't you think?" He asked.

She shrugged and turned to leave before he could stop her. "It'll scare the manipulative whore out of her at least," she said nonchalantly before disappearing.

Mickey gritted his teeth, stamped out his cigarette and lit another. He ducked into the bathroom and stared in the mirror; he looked like shit, and wondered how long he'd slept. He almost slicked back his hair to straighten up. Nah, maybe Gallagher will think he fucked up if I look like I don't give a fuck; he was tired of all the pansy shit he did to look good for that dick.

.

Mickey hurried down the street purposefully, his hands tucked in the pockets of his puffy jacket, swagger in full force. He threw himself into the door of the mini-mart and grabbed the first good thing he saw, a bag of Cheetos, before sidling up to the counter.

By the time the bell rang signifying someone had come in, Ian had almost finished. Cold, icy eyes stared at him from the paper, and sent chills across his skin. Tucking the drawing out of sight, he looked up to see who had wandered in at ten on the dot. And there they were, mirrored on his favorite face. "El tracks at ten." Ricocheted through his mind. Twelve hours since the ordeal with Mickey. Ian prayed he would be strong enough to get through to this boy. If not, he would be another number, just another face the South Side had chewed up and spit out.

Mickey barely looked in Ian's direction as he mumbled. "And some smokes." He watched the boy out of the corner of his eye, focusing instead on the cooler where they'd banged so many times. "And, uh, whatever else you'll give me," he ventured thrusting suggestively against the counter with a raised eyebrow.

Cold oceans met colder sands. He stiffened his chin as he gazed down upon the Milkovich. His Milkovich.

"You came to get fucked?" His voice was solid and icy, resonating in his chest.

Waiting for an answer, Ian reached a hand out to wipe some frosting from Mickey's lower lip. Mickey stood straight as Ian began to move, touching his face teasingly and ranting all the while. The ginger let his thumb trail there, and linger before pulling away, leaning against the counter. Something sparked behind Ian's eyes and Mickey knew that he was going to have to beg. He bit his lip nervously, fixing his eyes on Ian's face cautiously. His skin tingled from Ian's touch. His face turned warm and anger flashed through his chest.

"Call Angie. Or Xena. But don't fucking call me." Ian retreated, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Mickey fucking Milkovich. Hard ass mother fucker who likes to be bottomed out by the Queer of the South Side. Malcolm fucking Milkovich, who could and would kill anyone who looks at him the wrong way, but can't even look at his fucking self and decide what he wants." A shit-eating grin spread snarkily over freckled cheeks

"Fuck you, I'm just cashing in on those blue ball you left me with last night," Mickey spat back like an accusation.

"That used to be all it took to get you going," he pointed out. Clenching his jaw, and grasping onto the counter defensively, Mickey let his hand slide forward and slipped the cigarettes on the counter into his pocket. At least he got that for free, even if he had to sacrifice his dignity for the redhead's fuck.

"Or maybe you do know what you want, and this is it. If you just want a fuck, Mick, find someone else. I'm not your damned toy Mickey. You can't pick me up and play with me whenever you fucking want. Step the fuck up or step out." Ian wanted to kiss him, his anger boiling low in his belly; wanted to throw him against the fucking counter and do him there. The way Mickey liked. Mickey who was always such a dick, loved Ian's hard cock.

What did Ian want from him anyway? Mickey wondered, confused by the way that he slowly rounded the corner and closed in on him.

"What the fuck do you want, Mickey, besides me in your tight faggot ass and a pack of smokes?" He was closing the distance, walking around the counter, and coming up behind the dark haired demon. Ian leaned down, and breathily whispered in his ear. "You don't even like Cheetos."

Mickey had certainly done it this time. Ian was calling him out on every fucking thing even his fucking snack choices. He shivered as Ian's voice vibrated in his ear. Trying to steady his breath, Mickey found himself leaning back into the tall redhead, gasping gruffly. He sighed and turned to face Ian even though he wanted nothing more than for Ian to wrestle him close and give him what he came from. He slipped off his jacket, creating space between them with his arms. He threw it onto the counter and crossed his arms instead. Ian's eyes were so hard, not at all the way he imagined it the night before. He missed the times when Ian's eyes would brighten at the sight of him.

"Can I get some fucking service or what?" He snapped. He tried not to stare too intently at Ian's face but he found himself counting the boy's freckles, at least he wasn't thinking about anything too girly.

"Fine." The word rang out again, clear as day. "Get something you actually want to eat, besides me. And open your fucking mouth about what your problem is."

Mickey went to open his mouth but hesitated momentarily, taking Ian up on the offer of food. Fine. It was like the new f-word only far more impactful since he didn't say it ever other fucking sentence. He hardened his face and headed towards the aisle grabbing one pack of cherry poptarts and stuffing another in his pocket for later. It had been his plan anyway, might as well stick to the grind. He imagined his father's angry face, the one he dodged every morning by grabbing a quick pastry and ducking out. Ian kept rambling. He was always asking stupid questions. How was he? How did he look? Like a fucking wreck and he felt it too, the pain aching through his joints. Ian's face was mysteriously dark, challenging him to withhold.

Red hair shone in the flakey, washed out light as the Gallagher grabbed a bright green apple, and sunk his teeth into it. "The only time you talk more than me is when I'm fucking you. Try a normal conversation for once." He chewed thoughtfully, eyeing Mickey up for the first time in good light in a long time.

He looked- Ian didn't have a word for it. Somewhere between desolate and a maelstrom. Quietly, he watched the whirlpool rip around inside those gorgeous eyes.

"Mick, are you alright?" He asked with a stern force carrying his vocals. "I don't mean yeah you're alive and breathing, and hopefully you ate today. I mean are you alright?"

Taking a step back, Ian watched the nature of Mick. His fluidity; A tidal force that would rip you to shreds and watch with a laugh on his lips. Cold and calculating, with less of the latter. Mickey shoved half a poptart in his mouth in one bite and sighed. He'd never get what he came for if he didn't humor that asshole's concern.

"Of course I'm fucking alright, just the usual bullshit." If Mickey were a little more honest, he'd admit that he was lonely. If he were a little more open, he might take back everything he said last night and just admit that the flutter Ian sent through his stomach make him terrified. Instead, he stared straight into those hazel eyes, hoping that they'd soften just for him. I'm trying, he wanted to say.

How's Mandy?" Mick asked deflecting the conversation.

Ian had noticed Mandy had been doing so much better since his brother had taken her under his wing. Her grades were up; she didn't look so Night of the Living Dead anymore. She was sleeping, and eating, and living. She was recovering. Could Ian ever convince her shit-eating brother to try it?

No.

Ian's eyes froze again in the silence. Mickey didn't like him like that, as he was so apparently making clear. He liked him like three a.m. anal. Like breakfast with blowjobs, or sodomy on Sunday. Ian wondered if both he and Lip were idiots. Was his little pistol really just a coldhearted fuck machine that wanted him for what Ian could give him? He hoped not, brows furrowed, waiting. Insecurity circled like a murder of ravens, feasting upon his open heart. He was either going to get hit, he decided, or Mick was going to leave. Either way, Ian would never be worth it.

Mickey finished the pop tarts and crumpled up the wrapper, shoving it in his pocket. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, far more casually than he felt inside.

"I dunno why you're so hung up on this ROTC thing is all. I got other shit on my plate."

It was one of the more honest things Mickey had said lately. His dad had started dealing again and he'd been sending out Mickey with his brothers and cousins to knock in more teeth than usual. He felt strung out and wound up and the only thing that made the anger bubbling, forever ready to explode, in his chest disappear was the feeling of Ian's thin, bony hips pounding against him. Even a smile from the redhead would do but he couldn't feel that way. Ian was a fuck or he was nothing, just like anyone else and yet he held his breath as he waited for Ian to relax, smile, and forgive him.

Ian let him finish his pop tarts before closing the gap.

"You know how Mandy is. She stopped here before heading to your place. Something about needing something from you. So don't act stupid; because you aren't. You're one of the smartest people I know, like Lip but different." Ian was fully aware of the life Milkoviches led, and even more aware of how much time Mick should be doing, but wasn't.

"Yeah, well, she was a little fucking crazy when I saw her," he admitted.

He blinked in confusion at the compliment. Mickey never saw himself as smart. He struggled so much in school; fuck he wasn't even sure he could read, maybe he just memorized a lot of words.

"Yeah, sure fuck off," he mumbled but he smiled slightly, always one for a good compliment to stroke his ego. At least the asshole was stroking something of his.

The ice melted, molten gold flowing freely. "Come by tonight, Mickey Milkovich." He taunted with candy on his lips; a sweet serenade in five words. "Lip has Fiona's old room, and I've moved into the attic." He wanted to reassure his homophobic boyfuckfriend that he wouldn't be caught. Christ knows that's probably most of what Mick thought about anyway.

Moving in, as smooth as satin, his eyes afire with words unspoken, Ian sighed. He wrapped Mickey in his 300-push-ups-a-day arms, and held him to his chest, tucking his chin atop the spikey dark mop. Mickey let out the anxious breath he was holding as his wish came true and the redhead slid closer, his eyes softer and less defensive. Mickey let Ian slide his arms around him. He stiffened for a moment but something about the familiar smell of cigarettes, fresh laundry, and sweet deodorant he associated with Ian allowed him to let go momentarily, to be free. Would that be the way he felt tonight?

Mickey considered the invitation carefully. He certainly would love to avoid his house for a night and not a single fucking soul would be sober enough to miss him.

"Mandy," he protested gently, but he knew he would be there anyway. He licked his lips self-consciously and nodded.

"Fine, asshole, if it'll make you happy," he accepted grudgingly. "But I expect some kind of action," he insisted giving Ian a look that was half-intimidating, half-pleading.

"Just tell me what the fuck you want, Jesus Christ." He sighed into Mickey's hair. Pulling away, because he was fairly certain that faggola dot com over here hated any sentimental bullshit, Ian turned to go away. "And if you're going to steal something, Malcolm, at least try to not let the shopkeeper see." He crunched into his apple, eyes ablaze and watching

Mickey's heart sped considerably, banging roughly against his rib cage in terror and anticipation. Mickey tried to steady his breath as Ian whispered against him. What did he want?

"I'll tell you when I fucking figure it out ok?" He promised sincerely, wrapped in the safety of Ian's strong arms, an embrace he couldn't bring himself to return as his arms hung there limp. All too quickly it was over, the world came crashing down around him and the anger bubbled up again, insistent and grueling. He watched Ian for a long moment, the fire in his eyes causing the anger to leap into his throat. He raised his eyebrows and flicked his middle finger at Ian; Malcolm god dammit, why did he have to be such a shit head?

"Tonight," was all he said trying to act like he didn't care but as the door rang behind him, the flutter returned to his stomach and his face broke into a goofy smile; free. He turned quickly and left the store.

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A/N: There ya go, cuties! This is definitely going to be along fic, with long chapters. Don't let that intimidate you because the chapters are gloriously written. Love!