Mickey knew it. He seriously fucking knew it. Mandy had used the 'you didn't tell me you were gay and fucking Ian so you're going to spend time with me' line to guilt trip him into going out and getting high with her, which in itself was suspicious because when they hung out it tended to be inside on the X-Box. But then she'd given him this look like he'd just murdered a bunch of kittens or some shit and he couldn't say no to that face. So they were walking, Mandy's black skirt swaying in the wind as she rambled about Louis and, well, Mickey didn't really know what else because he zoned out from pure boredom. But then she was dragging him to the Kash and Grab to get snacks because Mandy always got the munchies crazy bad. Mickey hadn't seen Ian since he'd embarrassed the hell out of himself and he knew he was working because yeah, he knew the guy's work schedule like it was his own. Which was way too gay, but whatever.
Most importantly though, he didn't want to see Ian at all and at the same time that's all he wanted. He wished he could just give in and apologise but he had never in his life done that. He wasn't brought up with the knowledge that when you fuck up, hurt people that you give a shit about, you apologise and try to make it better. The word sorry wasn't one that appeared to belong in his vocabulary. And Mickey was a fucking asshole, he knew that, more comfortable breaking something, even if that was someone's heart, than trying to fix something if it didn't involve using his fists. He didn't think that would ever change but at least he was aware of that. Didn't think he was a good person or that his shit was made of gold. And though Ian was more than aware of that, he was a persistent, stubborn fucker and wouldn't take that as a valid excuse for why Mickey couldn't apologise.
Still, even though Mandy knew all about his incident with Ian - she was totally blackmailing him into sharing fucking everything with her, the bitch - she forced Mickey into the Kash and Grab, way too close to Ian for his liking because, quite honestly, just being in the same country as him was too close. She barked orders at him to get snacks and he was barely gone for a minute when he heard the door slam and Ian shouting "Kiera, what the fuck? Open the door!". He'd thrown down the food and charged across the store, his rage growing inside at the sight of his sister and Kiera standing on the opposite side of the door to Ian who was frantically, and futilely, attempting to open it.
He had really fucking known it and yet he hadn't thought the two she devils would be so fucking evil as to lock him inside the damn Kash and Grab with Ian. He had known something was up, but that? That was some next level torture. Christ, he was surrounded by a bunch of sadists.
There was no point in trying to threaten Kiera into opening the door, though he still did. It had no effect, obviously. The girl never reacted to his threats, regardless of how serious he was being.
And so he and Ian were left alone. Together. Locked inside. Together. Mickey breathed through his nose like one of those cartoon bulls, so pissed off and annoyed that he didn't actually know what to do with himself. But what he couldn't do was look over at Ian, even though he knew he was being stared at with wide eyes.
Startled by the hand that had dropped to his shoulder, Mickey jumped. Though not as much as he did when that hand began forcing him to walk backwards. It took a second for him to react. "The fuck?" he asked slowly, confused, but not removing the hand from his body.
Ian stopped pushing him and now that Mickey was looking at his face, he saw that Ian was just as pissed as he was. "Weed," he said, shrugging his shoulder that had his bag slung over it, like that was the obvious answer to Mickey's question, even though Mickey didn't think that it was and his face must've expressed that because Ian sighed, his free hand running over his face and the other dropping to his side. "I doubt we'll get through this sober, so..." He walked off and opened the store-room door, raising his eyebrows at Mickey. "Linda has the nose of a bloodhound," he explained, leaning against the door.
Mickey froze. One part of his mind told him to stay the fuck away from Ian, especially as he had weed and the guy got real handsy when high. But then the other part, the louder of the two, told him that wouldn't be so bad: if the two of them were high enough maybe they'd slip back into their old ways, Ian forgetting that he wasn't talking to Mickey, or, if not that, the awkwardness that lingered between them may fade. For once, he listened to that part of his mind he often ignored and strolled over to Ian like he hadn't just gone through a dozen thoughts - not particularly straight ones - in a matter of seconds.
A surge of nostalgia slapped him in the face at the sight of the store-room. All of those times he and Ian had spent their breaks fucking and pissing about in there flashed through his mind. He hated the memories because they were reminders of how easy things had been back then. Yeah, they were kind of fucked up, but they were easy. Not like now.
Ian smoothed out his dark jeans with one hand, Mickey's eyes following the movement as he shrugged off his black jacket and threw it to the side against the wall. He slid down it and bunched up his jacket so that it was comfortable to sit on. Quickly, he was joined by Ian, their legs touching and when Ian pulled his bag onto his lap, his elbow lightly dug into Mickey's side. He tried not to sigh too loudly at the contact, because seriously, he shouldn't have been getting turned on by that, he wasn't a fucking thirteen year old virgin.
Ian placed a little baggie half full of weed on one thigh and a small pipe that Kiera had brought him, identical to the one in Mickey's bed side drawer, below it. As Ian zipped up his bag, he nodded at his thigh expectantly and Mickey hastily snatched up the goods and began stuffing the pipe. He lit it up with his lighter and took a hit, holding it in his lungs for longer than he needed to. Blowing the smoke up to the ceiling, he turned to Ian whose eyes were fixed on Mickey's lips, his own making a slight o shape. Mickey smirked smugly, his mouth stretching out to a smile when Ian dropped his head, his face reddening slightly from embarrassment.
If asked, Mickey would blame the weed for what he did next, even though it hadn't had time to have any effect on him. But fuck it, it was the weed that made him scooch across and straddle Ian's thighs, placing the pipe between his lips. Ian, shocked as he was, held onto the pipe as Mickey lit it up. He watched the way Ian's chest rose as he took a long drag; the way his eyes fluttered shut, breathing out the smoke and letting his head fall back against the wall. Honestly, Mickey didn't think he could witness anything hotter than Ian gradually getting high. It was something about the way his eyes would glisten and how his mouth was permanently set in a half-smile that completely fucking wrecked him.
The pipe was passed back to him and he took a short hit as he began to lift off of Ian, reluctantly. But a hand gripped his waist and there was a silent plead in Ian's eyes that unsettled Mickey. It looked like a please, but not just 'please stay on my lap' or 'please don't make these next two hours worse than they have to be'. It was a 'please tell me you're sorry, please tell me you want me and won't leave me if you get scared again, please.' Mickey hovered above Ian, unsure of what to do, unsure of how to respond to the words that never left Ian's mouth yet echoed in his head. In the end Ian let go with a disappointed sigh and moved his legs until Mickey got the hint and sat back down beside him.
Guilt wasn't something that Mickey was used to feeling. Sure, he'd felt it in the past but not like this. Not so strongly. And that was because he knew that, as much as he wanted to and had done in the past, he couldn't blame Ian for this mess. When Ian had burst into his room when he'd gotten out of juvie, he didn't have to comment on the fact that he hadn't had a visit from him, he could have quite easily told Ian that when he had said "done is done" he meant it and yeah, that would have been another lie but every other thing that came out of his mouth was one. He didn't have to pour his apology into a kiss, but he did. That was him, not Ian. And this was no different; Ian hadn't done the wrong thing, the stupid fucking cowardly thing, he had.
"Kiera misses you," he said quietly, randomly, because he needed to say something.
The pipe was snatched from him. ""Kiera misses you"? That's all you have to say?" Ian didn't sound angry, in fact Mickey thought he sounded amused.
"What? It's true," he continued, averting his eyes to his own stretched out legs, "You're never around anymore."
He felt Ian twist to look at him. "Well yeah, it'd be a little awkward, don't you think?" he said with a laugh that actually comforted Mickey. "Besides, it's not exactly easy being around you." Mickey shot him a look and he hoped his confusion outweighed the fact that he was offended. Ian tilted his head. "Because, well..." he trailed off, looking uncomfortable as he took another hit. "I can't do what I want to do," he said softly, thick smoke falling from his lips and drifting up across his face.
Mickey knew what he meant, how could he not? But he still wanted to hear it, wanted to hear Ian confirm that he was still wanted because some days he wasn't so sure. "What do you want to do?" he asked, smug as fuck because he could feel his inhibitions slipping away ever so slightly.
Ian smiled down at his lap, shaking his head. "You already know, asshole, you just wanna hear me say it." Once again proving that he knew Mickey far too well.
Humming in agreement, Mickey took the pipe for a final hit and shifted so that he was closer to Ian because he just wanted to be and his brain wasn't shouting at him to stop and move the fuck away and not show his feelings. In fact, it was telling him to. And when Ian slid a little further down the wall and nosed at his shoulder like a damn puppy, he didn't hesitate to raise his arm and allow Ian to nuzzle against his neck.
It was such a familiar position to be in, yet it felt so different, so new. It felt like the first time he'd ever touched Ian but like it could also be the last. There was a real chance that he could lose Ian and that fact, that obvious, in your face fact, was only just hitting Mickey properly. Whether that be because he was high or feeling nostalgic and like he was homesick or some shit, he didn't know.
Taking in a deep breath, Mickey rested his head atop Ian's and took a moment to gather what little courage it took to say just two words. However, for Mickey, it was more than that. More than words. He'd only heard his parents say it once. His dad slurring that he was sorry for making him bleed then continuing to do so every week until he was big enough to hit back, his mom with mascara running down her cheeks, red lipstick smeared across her face, saying sorry for shooting up again and that she promised she wouldn't do it again. Sorry and a promise in one sentence, what bullshit. Milkovichs weren't taught the meaning of the word sorry, but right then, Mickey knew that he was for maybe the first time in his shitty life. He was sorry and so if he said it, it wouldn't be a lie.
"Hey, Gallagher?"
Ian moved so that he could look up lazily through his lashes at Mickey. "Yeah?"
Mickey ran a thumb across his bottom lip and looked away. A ragged breath left his mouth before he could stop it. Why the fuck was he nervous? All he had to do was say two little words to Ian yet it felt like he was about to make a speech to a crowd of thousands of people. It was so fucking dumb.
Ian's hand gently caressed his cheek, coaxing him to face his way again.
It worked like a charm. Ian's eyes were so big, so hopeful but with a hint of panic in them; Mickey didn't blame him really. "I, uh..." he started, pausing for a moment, "fuck, alright... I'm sorry." He quickly looked away because there was no way in hell he was going to fucking blush in front of Ian.
For a second or two when Ian shuffled about, Mickey thought he was getting ready to leave, only to be surprised when his thighs were weighed down by Ian who was straddling him, eyes focused on Mickey's face vehemently. "You mean it," Ian uttered quietly, more to himself than Mickey. It wasn't a question, no, it was more like a statement.
Mickey nodded once anyway, eyes shifted to meet Ian's. "Yeah, Sherlock," he muttered because this was all getting too emotional for his liking. That earned him a playful punch on the arm. They stared at each other; it could have been for ten seconds or ten minutes, neither of them could tell. Completely and utterly lost in the familiar, intimate way that they loved to look.
Days and days of anxiety and stress that he didn't even know he had, seeped out of Mickey with every passing moment. And his head didn't seem to hurt anymore once Ian snuggled against his side, his whole body draped over him. Ian got real fucking handsy when he was high, and Mickey loved it.