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: Things have been troubled as of late. But fuck it, the show must go on.
…
"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.
It sure as fuck was tonight. Ian was sweating in the shower, even though the water was close to freezing. He was nervous as all hell. Mick was coming by, and not to beat the shit out of him, Lip, or Frank; a goddamn miracle. Maybe he'd actually stay.
Ian got out, and dried off, thinking of how he'd cleaned and arranged his room. His big, queen sized bed under the sunroof, his dresser organized, everything folded and put away. Band and book posters littered the walls, as well as drawings from Debbie and Liam. He had vacuumed his black carpet, rolled two J's, chilled three cases of beer that Kev and Lip were hopefully not drinking.
.
Mickey wandered home, but only long enough to shower, pick out a nicer outfit (a sleek beige sweater and some dark pants), and grab his favorite pistol. No one was home, but he needed to be elsewhere to think seriously about what Ian had said. Shit, since when did Mick think on behalf of polesmokers? He headed to his favorite spot, the burnt out courtyard of the broken down factory on the edge of the neighborhood, and set up some empty beer cans he'd left last time he'd visited. Taking a long, deep breath to steady himself, he aimed. What did he want? He let off a shot that missed the bottles miserably.
"Fuck," he huffed. He shook out his hands and cracked his neck before aiming again.
He thought about how he felt about his plans for the evening; all flutters and smiles.
"I just wanna be near him." he hedged aloud, nearly inaudible. It seemed like almost nothing. Almost.
Without the fucking, they might as well be friends; there wasn't much kissing or cuddling or other queer bullshit between them anyway.
Mickey liked the way things were just fine. Hmph.
He let off another bullet, crashing through the bottle stacked on top of the pyramid in a cascade of shattered glass. None of the other bottles budged, and he grinned maniacally. Malcolm was proud of his skill. He may not have been "smart". He may not have known what he wanted, but he knew what he was capable of and it was more than the ROTC fuckers could teach him. He sighed and held up the gun again, confidently.
Just a fuck and maybe a hangout; that was enough wasn't it?
He shot twice in a row this time, once he hit the bottle and the second time he hit air. Irritation at the game of mind-reading he was playing with Ian in this struggle demolished the pride he has just felt. What the fuck did Ian want? He wasn't the clearest motherfucker either. Mickey thought he'd made a statement by joining ROTC to spend more time with him, and it had gone straight to hell. Hell was his home, not Ian's. He heaved a deep breath and cleared the rest of the bottles with a string of well-aimed shots.
Tucking the gun into his belt, Mickey sat on the ground, smoked a cigarette, and quietly waited until the sky became bruised with darkness. He would turn the question-find out exactly what Ian expected him to say. And he'd fall in line, something he never thought he'd do.
.
Mickey headed straight to the Gallagher's, surprised at his brashness to take a direct route, hoping that he wouldn't seem too out of place, willing desperately that Mandy was too busy shooting what's-her-whore-name to check-in for dinner. He slipped in the back door and lit a cigarette. It seemed oddly quiet considering the sheer number of Gallaghers that lived in the tiny shit hole. He looked around anxiously, not sure what he should do. It smelled good, something warm in the oven, not at all like his own house.
"This is a home." He reminded himself. Ian's home.
.
By all miracles, Ian was alone in the house right now. Dinner was in the oven, and he had dashed for the shower. Ian headed upstairs, feeling like a pussy. It seemed like such "date night" shit, but no. He wanted to make sure that Mickey was fed, and comfortable. They didn't have a whole lot, but things were better now that Fi and Jimmy were working. Ian cracked open a cold one, and stretched, cracking his stiff joints.
He put on some deodorant, decided against cologne, and slid into black jeans and a slouchy burgundy sweater. Ian laughed aloud. Thank God Mick didn't get his period. The ginger didn't know if he could handle that from this guy with how he was. But Ian loved how he was. Ian loved -
The oven timer went off, and he barreled downstairs, emerging into the kitchen, surprised to see he wasn't alone after all.
Mickey had just shuffled to the fridge looking for a beer when he heard someone behind him. He jumped and turned, fists raised on the defensive, and he smiled in relief when he saw it was just Ian.
"Jesus you scared me," he whispered quietly. "So where's the rest of the horde?" he asked looking around with wide, scared eyes.
Mickey popped open the beer and took a swig. It was only a matter of time before they all came parading in with a barrage of annoying-ass questions, just like fucking Ian; A whole fucking brood of Ian's.
Ian grinned sweetly, pleased to see Mick had put so much effort into coming to see him. He lingered on the stairs, eyeing him up.
"They mysteriously won a free dinner at that fancy ass restaurant by the river. Mandy helped me score it, and I sent her out for a nice night, like she, like they deserve. So." He rubbed his hands together calmly. "It's just us for the next four hours. There's a chicken roasting in the oven."
Mickey grinned and chuckled lightly. His sister and Ian were truly his rocks, and he was always impressed by their resourcefulness. He relaxed a bit and leaned against the counter. "Well it smells great," he commented.
Something about the way that Ian had it all together and ready reminded him wistfully of his mother. It had been a long, long time since anyone had taken the initiative to cook a meal in his house, shit he wasn't even sure anyone could work the fucking oven. Ian dodged any sort of pussy shit Mick would have thrown up. "I wanted to make sure you were fed, and ready for tonight." He winked, smiling with the malicious, sexual desires coursing through his body. Mickey eyed him with a need twinkling amidst his oceans.
"I'm not letting you quit ROTC. It's your ticket, Mickey fucking Milkovich. You can do it, and I'm going to prove it to you." He purred. Mickey rolled his eyes,
Ian Gallagher, famed in song and story for his extravagant speeches, shut his mouth and crossed to the oven, leaning over suggestively as he checked on dinner. Something useful Monica had taught him. Mickey watched Ian bend over the oven and had to take another swig of beer to calm himself down. Apparently Ian wasn't going to let it drop, even in his little lady of the house fag routine. Maybe he'd drop his pants, instead.
Monica. The word burned acid in his heart, so he let his cock lead him past it, turning on Mickey and crashing his lips into the unsuspecting mouth. "Ticket to whe-" but Ian cut off his question with a soul-crushing kiss. Shit, he thought, all the air rushing from his chest. Ian wanted Mickey, wanted to fuck him until he forgot everything except Ian's name. Ian wanted to forget everything, everything but that tight little body pressed against his.
This was more Mickey's speed and he kissed back hesitantly, still not so comfortable with that much. At the same time, he wrapped his arms around Ian's waist slamming their hips together and kneading his perky ass. He actually gave a shit about this slumdog. The heavens fucking knew why, considering Ian KNEW what he was in for; nothing but heartbreak and hell. Monica had once told him that he had to live in the now, and he fully intended to do so. In Mickey Milkovich's ass, in his mouth. Wrapped around his body. Ian's cock twitched in his jeans, greedy and wanting.
Slowing, and taking a step back, the pale, lean man gave Mickey a moment to breathe, and to process what was happening. More than a fuck, he realized when Ian pulled away leaving him bleary-eyed and wanting more. His mouth hung open in awe and the gold eyes sparkled before him making his stomach and heart flutter in unison. He cleared his throat, every inch of him electric instead of fire.
"And then, I have an even bigger surprise, because you're smart enough to get it."
"A-another surprise Gallagher? Jesus, you plan to wear me out," he teased, hopeful that it was true. The whole smart comment made him furrow his brow in worry but he moved past it and ran a hand up to tangle in Ian's hair. His breath was heavy and he laid his head on Ian's shoulder, unexpectedly spent before the fun had even begun.
Mickey clenched his eyes shut and tried to push away the fear but so much lay out unknown in front of him; what was Ian thinking? What would Ian's family think? What did Ian have planned? He slipped out of Ian's arms when it became too fucking much, when his lungs stopped working and his heart sped too quickly.
"Well, Missus Milkovich," he ventured, worried the nickname would upset Ian, "dinner or bed?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. It didn't matter to him because he was here and they were safe; free.
"Missus Milkovich huh?" Ian blew an exaggerated kiss. "Unless you want me to burn your meal, I suggest you control yourself." The ginger moved with ease, and confidence. Something he had faked for a while; the blood rushed like wildfire through his veins.
Mickey was being warm, his eyes a serene liquid. "Do you have the ability to work some butter into the potatoes" he asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the stove top "Or does the lady of the house do all of the work?" He sneered and cackled like an asshole, turning Mickey's jeer around on him. His fucking queer.
"Will you butter my potatoes, Mister Milkovich?"
Mickey let a cocky half grin settle onto his face. It was comfortable, if unfamiliar. He looked from Ian to the potatoes and his eyes widened with insecurity. He could try, that's what he seemed to do best. He found all the necessary ingredients left out for him so he dolloped some butter into the warm doughy potatoes. His mouth watered from the thick smells of the comfort food he never got filling up the kitchen.
He hoped he hadn't gone overboard as he stirred and the potatoes turned a deep yellow color. He bit his lip in concentration. This asshole even had him doing housework. He stayed quiet, not wanting to talk about the memories that filled his mind; how his dad would've hit his mother if she'd burned the chicken, how he'd never have moved from the couch to butter any fucking potatoes. I'm not like him, he reassured himself as he paused his stirring in some Adobo to take a swig of beer.
Ian pulled the chicken from the oven with care, letting it sit on the rack on the cracked countertop to rest.
"The bird needs a few minutes. Gotta let the meat rest." He chuckled low in his throat as he cracked open his third beer.
He slurped half of it, and lit up a smoke, eyeing Mick from over his shoulder. He needed to breathe, or he was going to lose his composure. Lanky and solid, Ian hopped up onto the counter next to the resting chicken, the smell coating the house in warmth.
He turned to watch Ian who was relaxed on top of the counter as he finished up the potatoes. "Rest?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "I'm the one that makes all the money not that sad sack piss poor excuse for a bird," he raised his voice in mock irritation, mimicking his sorry ass father's bitching. Why wouldn't that asshole's hideous twisted face ever leave his mind when he was with Ian?
Faggot, it sneered.
Taking a long drag, Ian lazily, and blatantly, eyed his companion. "Nice sweater, by the way. It sets off the black of your heart." He meant it lightly, and hoped it would be taken as such.
"Oh yeah?" he threw back with a playful jab at Ian's ribs. "Well at least I don't got a soul for the army to steal," he insisted. He smiled and rubbed his hands across the boy's knees.
After Mickey telling him they couldn't talk at school anymore, Ian had vowed to try his best to show Mick he was worth it. At least that he'd try to be.
"You do good, you know Mick?" He looked up from Mickey's crotch, outlined in his dark pants. "I know you hate the sentimental bullshit, so I'll cut it short, but you do good. And you should know that. So call me a faggot or whatever, 'cause I know you heard me. And yeah." A blush crept across pale, frail cheekbones, lighting up each freckle like a Christmas light. Adoration filled his caramel eyes.
Ian had to go and ruin it. He always pushed too fucking far with too many kisses and too many compliments. He was laying it on thick now and Mickey's face turned red with the bubbling anger returning.
"Fuck, Gallagher, stop slinging bullshit. I ain't ever gonna be more than what I am. I get it. You want me to be like you but-" he trailed off and looked around at the tidy and cozy, if crowded, house around him.
It was a stark contrast to the drafty, dull, dusty, roach-filled place he called home. He took a deep breath and stared at Ian's hopeful, eager face. There he was, the sweet happy boy from his dreams, only inches away but a world apart. Mickey sucked in a ragged breath and lit up a cigarette himself. Something about that face lifted him like a sunny day and he spoke honestly.
"You're the best part of me," he said simply, unable to continue staring into the golden sun of Ian's eyes.
Ian was taken aback. He knew he had pushed too far, but he wanted Mick to know. He had to let him know that someone cared. A pale hand rubbed knuckles playfully across the stubble there, gazing into baby blues.
"Come on and let me down so I can get dinner ready."
Mickey's every nerve was crackling and he backed away from the gentle touch, so different from what he was used to. He pursed his lips tightly and nodded stepping aside. The future marine hopped down, and fixed them both heartily portioned plates. The air between them remained taut but Mickey needed the space and could still enjoy the way that Ian moved so easily and softly around him. What was he so scared of? He shook gently as he watched Ian prepare his plate like some fucking kid.
"You probably like white meat." Ian winked, joking to lighten Mick's mood. He didn't want to push too far, and he knew bringing Mickey home was a big step.
"I sleep with your pasty ass don't I?" he joked. Ian cracked him up easily.
Mickey felt a rumble of unease in his stomach as he realized he hadn't said fucked, boned, banged, etc. Still, it seemed appropriate in the comfiness of their own little world. The little smirk on Ian's face made him hard, just that one little jerk of his lips did it for Mickey. He ran a hand across the small of Ian's back unconsciously as he took the plate.
Tonight, he was going to speak to Mickey in a language he understood. The raw, animalistic primalities of men. Specifically, his man. Mick had spoken in Ian's language, by stirring the potatoes, and miraculously fucking speaking. Even if it was bullshit, Ian didn't care. He was practically glowing like the sun, trying to contain himself as to not overstep with the man he - had over for dinner. He knew that Milkovich tried, and he couldn't ask for more than that. He sure as hell didn't mean to push Mick so hard; realizing that he needed to let Mickey breathe, and move at his own pace, Ian made a game change.
Grabbing a six pack from the refrigerator, and setting it on the table, Ian slid in the seat across the way from the other plate. Cracking open his fifth beer of the night, he waited for Mickey to settle in. Dinner was oven baked chicken, mashed potatoes that were thick and buttery just how Ian loved them, and some sautéed kale with garlic.
At the table, Mickey was grateful for the beer. Unbidden, he took two and chugged one quickly. He had stayed so clear all day working out the dark corners in his head all for those golden eyes that warmed him as they sat together at the long, nice dining room table.
"Okay okay!" He held his hands up in defense. "So maybe this is a little gay and housewifey." The ginger laughed at himself, sharing a warm smile. "But it's goddamn good." Ian took a sip of his beer.
"Are you kidding me!? It's fucking sweet! I haven't seen shit like this in years," he admitted with pep even as he showed just a piece of the darkness that was his life. "Besides, you are a fag," he pointed out with no malice or irony. It wasn't something he even noticed, just the way he grew up, part of his darkness.
"Can you pull the biscuits out of the oven?" He asked rising, in case Mickey said no.
Mickey nodded and stood at Ian's request without a second thought. He wasn't worried about being the bitch when he and Ian were alone. The boy never treated him that way. He brought the tray into the dining room and as the biscuits slid off the metal it caught onto his other forearm.
"FUCK!" He hissed, the biscuits and his spirit clattering to the floor in an instant. Just one slip up and he was done.
"Fuck," he muttered patting the rising blister carefully. He bit the inside of his mouth trying to stem the rise of the fire in his throat. That was when he realized; I'm scared of myself.
.
A/N: I'll end there, and transcript the rest of the scene into the next chapter, since dinner goes on for a bit more. And then, then the boys hit the bedroom. Enjoy ;)