Despite the fact that two days had passed, Mickey couldn't quite believe that it was time for his next anger management class. He had chilled out a little since the last one which was probably down to the fact that he didn't have any more sex dreams about Ian and had joined in when a fight over fuck all had broken out. All he had to show for it was a slight purple bruise across his right cheekbone. The others weren't so fortunate.

Autumn had definitely arrived now and Mickey slightly, well, more than slightly, regretted tying the top half of his jumpsuit around his hips because Christ was it cold on his walk over.

Once uncuffed, he sauntered into the room, only this time there were a load of tables set up with big A3 pieces of paper, paint, pencils and other arts and craft shit spread across them and Mickey felt a wave of relief wash over him because this probably meant that they weren't going to have to talk, or, in his case, listen to the rest of them talk.

Art he could handle.

"Hey Mickey," Richard said with a broad smile, "why don't you find yourself a seat."

Mickey, not so subtlely, looked him up and down a few times. What is this dick wearing? he thought to himself and he had a point. Richard was wearing grey suit trousers, espadrilles, a tie dye t-shirt and a black blazer. Now Mickey certainly wasn't into fashion and faggy shit like that, but even he knew that that was a fucking terrible outfit.

He walked over to the empty side of the room and sat down, folding his arms on the table then resting his chin on them.

All of the art stuff reminded him of one of the rare times that Ian had stayed the night. His dad and brothers were away on "buisness" and Mandy was staying at her friends for a few days so they had had the house to themselves. It's fair to say that they had a shit ton of sex but they also just hung out.

Ian was in the shower taking fucking forever and Mickey began to grow bored. He shoved his hands under his bed and pulled out his sketchbook which he had quite cleverly put inside a book about the second world war that he had stolen because he knew his brothers would never look through that, and if they ever found his sketchbook they'd probably beat the shit out of him.

He picked up a random pencil from the floor and twiddled it between his fingers for a couple of seconds like he always did before he drew. Quickly, he flicked through the covered pages and found a clear one. He crossed his legs and put a pillow atop them and rested his sketchbook there for a moment before he leaned forward slightly and began to draw.

Drawing was probably the only hobby Mickey had that didn't involve some form of drug and he kind of liked it. Liked the fact that he could draw anything, that between him and the paper anything was possible.

"Are you drawing?" Ian's voice was full of confusion and who could really blame him?

Mickey jumped more than he could ever remember doing so in the past. He didn't think he ever really had unless a gunshot was involved.

Ian was stood at the foot of the bed, his torso dripping wet, in nothing but his boxers and Mickey's eyes were glued to him before he actually realised what Gallagher had said.

"Fuck off," he mumbled, covering the sketchbook with the pillow.

"Can I see?" Mickey wantd to punch the wide smile off of Ian's face because now that Ian wanted to see it, Mickey knew that he'd somehow get round to seeing it because he was a persistent fucker.

"Fuck. Off."

Without warning Ian pounced on him, that same smile still plastered across his face, forcing Mickey onto his front with Ian flat against him as one of his hands found the book and the other violently tickled Mickey's armpit. Immediately Mickey began to laugh whilst still trying to hold his composure which resulted in him making the weirdest of noises, much to Ian's amusement.

"Shit, stop stop stop," Mickey yelled out through muffled laughter, squirming and wriggling about like he had no control over his limbs, "Jesus Christ just take it, take it!" he surrendered, because this guy could take multiple punches to the face, but it was tickling that really did him in.

"Ah ha!" Ian swiped the book from beneath him but didn't get up off of him. He opened it against Mickey's shoulder blades whilst Mickey turned his face to the side and rested it on his crossed arms.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, Mickey growing more and more sleepy as Ian slowly took in everything that was drawn from grafiti art to pictures of Mandy.

Mickey knew he had gotten to it when he heard Gallagher's breath catch in his throat and he was so thankful that he wasn't facing him because he could just picture Ian's stupid face smiling like an idiot.

He felt Ian slightly lift off of him and place the book on the floor before he layed down beside him so close that their noses nearly touched.

"You drew me," Ian mumbled, closing his eyes.

"So? I draw anything," Mickey snapped.

"Yeah..." Ian couldn't have sounded less convinced. "You're really talented, Mickey," he whispered softly and that was probably one of the best thing Mickey had ever heard. He hated that.

He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard a word of what Richard had said nor had he noticed Kiera walking over to him and it was only when he stopped stupidly daydreaming that he saw her across the table from him with her own chin rested on her crossed arms and her face dangerously close to his.

He jerked upright. "What he fuck?" he was annoyed and confused and slightly freaked out.

Kiera remained how she was but kept her eyes on his. "We're supposed to draw things that represent us because apparently, and I quote, "the more you know about yourself, the better you'll get at understanding yourself and art is a great way to express one's self"." She sat up and Mickey couldn't help but give her a funny look due to the way she spoke like they were fucking best friends or some shit. It was strange. Everything with this girl was strange.

She suddenly stood up. "Care for some nicotine?" she asked, walking to the window beside them.

Mickey had been asked if he wanted to smoke thousands of times before but never in such an odd way. He shrugged and walked over to her because yes, he could do with some nicotine.

His actions copied hers: opening his side of the window then sitting on the windowpane, one leg dangling out.

Kiera put two cigarettes in her mouth and lit them before handing him one. It was only then that Mickey saw that her eyes were two different colours: one blue and the other a hazel sort of colour.

Before he could stop himself he spoke. "Your eyes are fucking weird." It came out like an insult but he wasn't quite if he had meant it to.

"Thank you," she said without even a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

They sat like that, smoking in silence, for a while before Mickey's curiosity got the better of him. "What's your deal?" he asked, motioning to her with his third cigarette in hand. "I mean, why don't Richard get pissed about you sitting here smoking?"

Her eyes met his for a few seconds before her gaze went back to her swaying foot. "A month ago when I used to have one-on-one sessions with him, I turned up a little early but the door was unlocked so I walked in anyways and, you know the blonde skank who looks like she works street corners?" Mickey nodded and even though she didn't look up at him, she somehow knew so continued. "Well I saw her on her knees with his manlihood down her throat. So now I'm blackmailing him into letting me sit around doing nothing whilst reporting that I'm making wonderful progress." She spoke in that same casual way that Mickey thought was like the only way she knew how.

He looked over at said blonde skank and saw Richard knelt down beside her looking smug as fuck.

"I got you in on it, too," she said simply.

Mickey turned back to face her, one eyebrow raised and her face went from serious, slightly anxious, to smiling in a heartbeat. He wanted ask her why she would even do that when she didn't know a fucking thing about him. For all she knew he could've been just as annoying as the rest of them. He wanted to tell her to stop being so weird, to fuck off, but he just couldn't.

Perhaps it was because there was something so familiar about the situation. Perhaps it was because the way Kiera's eyes wondered over him like she was trying to remember every single detail reminded him of Gallagher. When he thought about it, she reminded him of Gallagher quite a bit: the way she held her cigarette between her fingers so delicately like it was about to snap any second, the way she didn't blow, but breathed out the smoke as if it was clean air from her lungs.

Mickey hated it. Hated it because a piece of Ian was there but it wasn't quite whole; a jigsaw missing half it's pieces. He could look but he couldn't reach out and touch. It made him crave the feeling of Ian's hands on hips, on his back, in his hair more than he craved the cigarette he held. It made him picture Gallagher with that stupid smile on his face. It made him feel. And worst of all, he didn't want to stop, he didn't want to leave when it was time to go because Kiera was the closest thing to Ian he could get and as much as he didn't want to think about it, he knew he wanted to be close to him. By close, though, he meant on all fours with his dick up his ass, not cuddling or some shit. Now way.