Chapter 2:
"For the entire school year?" Mickey exploded, gaining pitiful glances from some of the football players across the room.
He couldn't decide if he was pleased about the entire situation, or really, really nervous. Maybe both, he thought. He'd done it purposely, obviously. He couldn't pin point why, exactly, but he'd known what he'd been doing when he had hid out in that cubicle for twelve minutes.
Mrs Flynn had been Mickey's English teacher for the past two years and every year, she did the exact same thing: Paired the class up for projects with the person next to them and they remained partnered with that person until the school year ended. Mickey had known that there was little chance that anyone would have sat next to Ian. He was the new kid and he was.. well. He was the way he was. It was like that at McKinley. If you got caught with the target of the footballers' fists, that automatically made you a joined force, thus having yourself placed under the target list also.
So, Mickey had come to class late, aware that there would be only one seat vacant and when he arrived at class, he was both joyful and anxious when he saw that things had gone as planned. Now he had to play the injured party, had to complain that he had to work with this kid, had to pretend it was the biggest travesty ever known to man, knowing that Mrs Flynn would not be moved.
"Yes, for the entire school year, Mr Milkovich," Mrs Flynn said, tiredly. "As you are well aware."
Mickey could feel the kid shifting next to him, could sense how his body had gone rigid and how he was fidgeting with the corners of the pages on his book. He felt a pang of guilt as he spoke to his teacher.
"But he's—he's not really—I mean, he's sort of," Mickey paused, his head hurting a little. "We're not really compatible, are we?"
A few kids snickered at that and Mickey asked the Gods why he'd chosen that word out of all the words he could have used. Mrs Flynn simply shook her head.
"I'm not asking you to marry him, Mickey, just to work with him on some projects."
People were laughing now and Mickey felt the heat creeping up the back of his neck as he swung his head around to meet the eyes of the people who had laughed at him. He shot them an accusing glare and they bowed their heads and ignored his daggered looks.
"Alright, get talking to your partners, everyone and decide how you are going to complete this assignment," Mrs Flynn clapped her hands twice, before sitting down, the class now buzzing with voices, people discussing methods with their partners.
Mickey looked sideways at Ian, who was avoiding his eyes at all costs. He had the urge to apologise to him, but wouldn't because that went against everything Mickey Milkovich was about. Instead, he took a silent breath and turned to his new partner with a smile.
"Mickey Milkovich," he beamed, confidently, extending a hand for the boy to take.
Ian turned his head slowly, his eyes going straight to Mickey's outstretched hand. He eyed it for a few moments, then raised his eyes to meet Mickey's, his blue gaze locking with Mickey's golden syrup one. Finally, he lifted a slender hand and slipped it into Mickey's.
Mickey felt his skin tingling wildly the moment Ian's hand touched his. His skin was baby soft, his hand warm and slow in movement, unsure, as he shook Mickey's hand weakly.
"Ian Gallagher," he told him, quietly.
"New?" Mickey asked, feigning ignorance.
Ian's face twisted then, his expression clearly questioning Mickey's previous statement.
"Are you serious?" he asked, his voice breaking a little. "You don't remember the 'McKinley High Welcome' you gave me this morning? The one where you emptied a cup of coloured ice over my head?"
Mickey gaped at Ian for a moment, his stomach twisting in knots. He was actually feeling bad about it. He wished he wasn't, wished he could laugh in the kid's face and tell him that he would play by his rules and nobody would get hurt, but he couldn't. He didn't want to hurt him, didn't want him to think he was a monster, but at the same time, this was exactly what he wanted, because everyone had to perceive Mickey in the same light, or his reputation at McKinley would be destroyed. He wasn't ready for that, he never would be, but he wasn't sure it would be an easy fete to treat this boy like a piece of garbage on a sidewalk.
"Oh, right, that," he muttered, collecting himself. "Didn't anyone tell you you're not supposed to talk back to me?"
Ian rolled his cerulean eyes and Mickey saw a flicker in them and he knew what that meant; That not one person had spoken to Ian all day, at least none that weren't threatening him with cups of ice. He didn't know what to say, then, because the knots in his stomach had tightened and he felt the urge to reach across and pat Ian on the shoulder, tell him that it wasn't all bad here, that he would have the guys lay off him, but he knew that this would never be a possibility. If he did that, popular as he was, he would be outcast. There were more of them than there was him and he could not risk expulsion, his entire future depended on his senior year and he wasn't about to let some kid with pretty eyes get in the way.
"Look," Ian said finally, eyes on his book. "Do you want me to just do this paper and we can just say we both did it? Then we won't have to—"
"No," Mickey interjected and Ian turned to look at him, eyes filled with curiosity. He'd spoken too quickly, he knew that, but he wasn't about to let the entire plan go to waste, especially when it had been going so well. He still wasn't sure what he hoped to achieve at the end of all this, but part of him told him to keep going, see why it was so important for him to do this, see why he couldn't seem to rid the idea from his mind. "Gallagher, I'm a straight A student. I don't need anyone to do my work for me. Besides," he picked up his book, mostly because he needed something to preoccupy his now shaking hands. "I kinda like this book."
"You like 'Jane Eyre'," Ian said, his voice filled with surprise. "Really?"
Mickey smiled, then.
"Yes, why does that come as such a shock to you?"
Ian shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, small tufts of his brown hair slipping over the tips of his pale ears.
"You don't seem like the type," was all he said.
"I'm full of surprises," Mickey informed him, with a smirk and if he didn't know better, he would have said he'd been flirting with him, but that couldn't be, because Mickey had Quinn and Mickey didn't even like guys and in the extremely far out event that he did, he was pretty sure that his choice in men would have stretched far beyond Ian Gallagher.
Ian's cheeks were flushing now, his eyes locked on the graffitied table in front of him. Mickey felt a little uncomfortable, because he hadn't meant to say that and he most definitely hadn't meant it to come out the way it had. He decided to avert attention from the statement.
"So, listen," he began. "We're going to do this properly. We're going to get an A on this thing, so," he reached across and grabbed the pen that was sitting on the desk in front of Ian. He tugged Ian's copy of 'Jane Eyre' out of his grasp, leaving him open-mouthed. He went to protest but stopped still when he saw Mickey scribbling on the inside cover of the book. "Here's my number, so we can make some sort of arrangement. You'd better give me yours, just in case you decide not to call me and do this thing by yourself, thus inhibiting my learning experience and spurning my ability to work as a team," he shoved his book forward and held out the pen. Ian took it, cautiously, then opened Mickey's book and scrawled his phone number inside. Mickey watched him as he wrote. He looked a little dazed, disbelief on his face, his eyes blinking a few too many times, his long, dark lashes fluttering down into the hollows beneath his eyes.
When they had exchanged numbers, Mickey looked at Ian and smiled, properly this time, no force, no smirk, no feigned confidence, just a Mickey smile.
"Cool," he said, simply.
Ian nodded, just nodded, not speaking a word. Mickey was running out of things to say to him. Luckily, the bell rang soon after, signalling the end of class, so he didn't have to think of a conversation starter. He stood up and looked down at Ian, who returned his gaze, still looking confused.
"I'll call you about our first meeting and we can get started as soon as possible," Mickey said.
Ian nodded again and began packing his things away.
Mickey had been far too nice to him and if the guys heard it back, somehow, he would be teased to no end. He zipped his bag up, mind reeling, in an endeavour to come up with a way to redeem himself. Ian stood up then and began to turn away.
"Oh, and Ian?" Mickey said, stopping him in his tracks.
"Yeah?" Ian turned his head back to Mickey.
Mickey forced himself to meet Ian's gaze. He held it there as he spoke, hoping it would help endorse the threatening statement he was about to give.
"If we don't get a perfect A on this, I'll make sure you don't get a minute of peace at this place," Mickey said, almost reluctantly. "You got that?"
Ian exhaled a little, his chest falling, eyes darting sideways. Mickey ignored the pressing need to take it all back, because that would be beyond ridiculous.
"Fine, whatever," he murmured, before turning away and walking outside.
Mickey smiled because he'd fixed it, but that stupid nagging feeling was still there and he just couldn't figure out why.
"How's school?" Burt Gallagher asked his son at the dinner table, as he reached across for the bottle of ketchup.
Ian watched, knife and fork in hand, as his dad struggled to open the ketchup bottle, muttering obscenities at it, under his breath. Eventually, he laid down his cutlery and leaned across and took the bottle from his father.
"Here," he said, softly. "Let me do it."
He pulled the lid open with a loud pop and handed the bottle back to his father, who muttered a small 'thank you', before turning the bottle upside down and squeezing a large blob of ketchup onto his plate, next to the peas.
"Well?" Burt said, pushing his fork into the breast of chicken on his plate. "How's school?" he asked again.
Ian's dad had been in hospital a couple of months previously. He'd almost died from a heart attack, brought on by an arrhythmia and Ian didn't like to worry him too much. He had already gotten far too stressed out about what had gone down back at his old school, with the bullying and the harassment and Ian was sure the stress did him no good and had probably played a part in the heart attack coming about. He wasn't ready for a repeat, he wanted his dad healthy. Burt had been so enthusiastic when he had told Ian about the garage that was to let over in Lima and that he had already put down a deposit to rent it out and Ian couldn't bear to crush him like that, not when it seemed like things were going so well for him. So, Ian did what he did best when it came to his emotional state; He lied.
"It's great, dad," he said, smiling for affect.
"It is?" Burt grinned, mouth full.
Ian grimaced at the food protruding from his father's lips, then nodded, quickly.
"Yes," he confirmed. "The kids are really nice here."
Ian hadn't ever had friends, at least not since kindergarten. He'd played with some of the kids back then, back when no one was any different, when kids were just kids and stereotypes and labels had not yet been applied. Sometimes Ian missed those days. Sometimes he longed for friendship. He wasn't even asking for a bunch of friends, but maybe just one he could talk to sometimes, one he could laugh with, one who would be there. Most of the time, he told himself that he was better off as he was; Alone. He liked to be alone with his thoughts, figured he didn't need anyone, but on days when he sat alone with nothing to do, or when he saw his dad watching him with pitying eyes, he wished he had a friend.
So when Ian said that, about the kids being nice, it seemed to convince Burt, because he looked genuinely relieved as he reached across and laid a warm hand over his son's. He raised his eyes to meet his Ian's, a smile on his face.
"I wanted to say that I'm proud of you, Ian," Burt told his son. "I know it's been tough and I know it's not easy, startin' a new school and having to make new friends, but.." he paused, searching for words. Burt wasn't really the heart-to-heart-talks type of guy. "Well—I'm just really proud of you, is all and your mom would be, too."
Ian smiled at his father, feeling the tears welling up in his eyes and he couldn't tell if he wanted to cry because his dad had said he was proud of him, or because he'd been lying and life really wasn't getting any better and it didn't look as if it was going to any time soon.
"Thank you, dad," he said, finally and Burt responded with a small shrug of his broad shoulders, before shoving more food in his mouth.
After dinner, Burt went back to the garage to finish up a few things and Ian took the plates to the sink and started washing. Half way through, his cell phone sounded from the coffee table in the living room. Ian's heart was racing as he dried his hands, wondering who could be calling him and why. What if it had to do with his dad? What if he'd fallen sick again? What if—
"Hello?" Ian said, breathlessly, once he'd pressed the phone to his ear.
The voice on the other end was the last person he had been expecting to hear.
"Ian?" the voice said. "It's me, Mickey."
"You think I can lift him? Dude, have you seen me?" Mickey said, referring to his height. Mickey was what many would call short. His mom had called him 'fun sized' in the past. He preferred short.
Iggyerman and Dave Karofsky had Ian pushed up against a brick wall around the side of the school where the trash cans were. Mickey was standing back against one of the large industrial dumpsters, the pungent scent of rotten food filling his nostrils, but he was pretty sure that this wasn't the reason he was feeling so sick.
"You don't say much, do you?" Iggy said, pushing Ian harder against the wall.
Mickey tried to avoid looking at his face, because it made him feel uncomfortable, but Ian emitted a low whining sound when Iggy had pushed him, causing Mickey to glance across. Ian's eyes were half closed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His eyebrows were furrowing in the centre and Mickey could see the distress in his eyes, almost as if he was pleading that he put an end to this.
"We don't even know his name," Karofsky snarled, twisting the arm he had a hold of in his strong hands.
Ian whimpered again and Mickey had to force his eyes down to the ground.
"I said," Karofsky said in an almost-growl. "What's your name?" and he shoved Ian's arm back into the wall, causing him to make another sound, clearly in pain.
"Ian," he breathed, his voice catching. "Ian Gallagher."
Iggy and Karofsky started to laugh, as they pulled him simultaneously by the arms towards the trash can, too preoccupied with the entire charade to notice Mickey was not laughing as he stepped out of the way. Mickey watched as his friends clutched Ian by the arms and by the legs and then lifted him and flung him inside the disgusting can. The sound of Ian groaning and Iggy and Karofsky's laughter filled the air and Mickey didn't smile until Iggy raised a hand to high-five him.
He wondered as he walked away, if Ian would show up later on when they were supposed to meet for their first session.
"You came," were the first words Mickey whispered to Ian when he walked up to him sitting alone at the back of the public library.
Ian said nothing simply pulled out the chair on the other side of the desk and sat down, placing his bag on the ground by his feet. He reached down and pulled out his book, a sheet of paper and a pen. He looked up to see Mickey staring at him, fixedly. He stared back at him, because he didn't know what he was supposed to say.
Ian had heard so many things about the great Mickey Milkovich and his 'super hot' girlfriend and it was only his third day at school. The girls wanted him, the guys wanted to be him. Basically, Mickey Milkovich had it all.
He really was incredibly good looking, it was no wonder that he had the most sought after girl at school as his girlfriend. Ian hadn't really looked at him properly until that moment, because the first time they'd had an encounter, Ian had been cowering on the floor with his hands over his head. The second time, he'd avoided eye contact and when he had looked at him, he'd held his gaze for only a short time, due to the fact that despite his height, Mickey Milkovich was pretty intimidating.
But now, looking at him properly, Ian could definitely see the appeal. Mickey had eyes like warm honey, dark pupils in the centre, the edges of his irises lined in black. Dark, full lashes stood in a canopy over his eyes and fell down into the hollows beneath every time he blinked. His lashes were exceptionally long and thick for a guy. His sallow skin was unblemished, dark coils escaped his gelled hair and fell down over his forehead and across the tops of his ears. His lips were full and bow-shaped and a peach-orange colour, the inner areas closest to the inside of his mouth a shade darker, sort of a bitter sweet pinky-orange. There was no question about it; Mickey Milkovich was beautiful.
"Um," Ian said, prying his eyes off of Mickey. He looked down at his book and picked it up, nervously. "Do you—I mean, we should get started," he said, ignoring the slight hitch in his voice and the loud pitter-patter of his heart. "What—what did you think? Of the book?"
He cursed himself for behaving so utterly ridiculous, feeling the heat rising up the back of his neck and seeping up into his cheeks.
"I haven't finished it," Mickey shrugged, simply.
Ian stared at him again.
"You haven't finished it?" he said. "Then why are we here?"
Mickey looked uncomfortable and then shrugged. Ian sighed quietly and sat back in his seat.
"What's going on?" he asked and Mickey gave him a confused look, dark brows furrowing in the centre. "Is this some kind of set up? Am I going to walk out of here and get tied up and thrown in a river, or something?"
Mickey gaped at Ian, as if the thought hadn't even crossed his mind and Ian felt sort of dumb for saying what he'd been thinking out loud, but things like this were forever happening to him and for a moment, he had really believed this was what was going down.
"No," Mickey uttered. "No, not at all."
"Oh," was all Ian said.
They were silent for a few moments and Ian could almost taste the awkwardness in the air. Neither of them made eye contact and it was Mickey who spoke first.
"You know, if we're going to be working together for, like, the entire year," he said to the table in front of him. "We should probably get to know each other a little better."
Ian raised a thin brow, because the same guy who had drowned him in icy corn syrup and stood by and watched him get thrown head first into a dumpster was sitting here asking him to get to know him.
"Look, Mickey," Ian said, his name sounding strange on his lips. "We don't need to 'get to know each other', we just need to get these stupid assignments done, so that you can get on with your beautiful life and I can get on with my life as a moving target."
Ian wasn't the type of person who sat down and allowed people to belittle him. He had learned a long time ago that talking back and showing he wasn't afraid never really got you any where, but shoved inside a locker or in ER with a broken arm, which is why he had refrained from defending himself from the footballers. However, now, sitting here with the great Mickey Milkovich, who looked so awkward for what had to have been the first time in his life, he felt he could just say it, that he could tell him how things were going to go and that he didn't want to get to know him, that he didn't care about his perfect life or his perfect face or his perfect girlfriend, he just wanted to get this thing finished so that he wouldn't have to spend any more time around him than was absolutely necessary.
"You don't know a thing about me," Mickey told him.
"Yeah," Ian said, matter-of-factly. "I don't want to know anything about you. I just want to do this and go home."
He was sure Mickey was going to leap across the table and get him in a head lock and God, if he got blood on these jeans he was going to send Mickey Milkovich one hell of a dry cleaning bill. But Mickey didn't leap across the table, in fact, he barely moved. He blinked a few times, his dark lashes fluttering, then spoke, in a low voice.
"You said my life was beautiful," he said. "My life is far from beautiful, so don't go around making assumptions about me until you know what you're talking about."
Ian sighed in frustration. This guy was insufferable.
"Okay, cool, whatever," he said, gathering his things and shoving them down into his bag by his feet. "Look, I'm going to go home, because you are clearly unprepared. Go home, read the book and we'll try again."
"You're an asshole."
"Excuse me?" Ian said, in an incredulous tone. "You're the one who attacked me with a slushie and threw me in a garbage can and I'm an asshole?"
Mickey's bright eyes studied Ian, confusion passing through them. Ian watched as confusion turned to frustration and Mickey leaned back in his chair and folded his muscled arms.
"I didn't throw you in a garbage can," he said.
"Well, you were there when it happened, so you were an accessory."
"Look," Mickey said, with a sigh. "We have to work together for a whole year, we may as well stop snapping at one another."
Ian saw something, then, when Mickey's body seemed to go limp, his eyes closing, chest rising and then falling. He looked weary, like he hadn't slept for a long time. When he opened his eyes, they found Ian's and he saw that they were a little red-rimmed and watery. It turned out that when you looked closely enough at Mickey Milkovich, he actually wasn't that perfect. He was beautiful, that couldn't be disputed, but there was definitely more to him than met the eye.
"Alright," Ian said, quietly, because Mickey didn't look as if he had it in him to fight any more. "Okay, getting to know each other. You start."
Mickey looked up, eyes wide with surprise. He didn't say anything for a moment, then coughed a little.
"Um," he began. "I don't know what to say." Something seemed to change in him again, then, the defences suddenly back up. "I'm sure you've heard everything there is to know about me."
"Cut the crap, Mickey," Ian said and Mickey's eyes shot up. It didn't look as if he was used to people, especially people like Ian, talking down to him and giving him orders. "You either want to do this, or you don't, it's entirely your decision."
Mickey didn't say anything, just nodded, eyes on the table in front of him. Ian was about to suggest that he go first, but on further thought, he realised he had no idea what he was supposed to say.
"We could ask each other questions? Make it easier?"
Mickey raised his golden brown eyes to Ian's and nodded again.
"Okay," he shrugged, slightly. "Why did you move here?"
Ian's eyes flashed with amusement. He hadn't been expecting that to be the first question out of Mickey's mouth.
"Really? No 'how old are you?' or 'do you have any siblings?' or 'who's your favourite American Idol contestant of all time?'"
Mickey's sallow cheeks seemed to flush a light pink then and Ian decided he wouldn't tease him about it any more, because he knew how that felt.
"Bullies," he said.
"Bullies?"
"Yes, bullies, I'm sure you're well acquainted with the term," he rolled his eyes, not going too easy on his oppressor. "It got out of hand and I broke a lot of bones and sported a lot of black eyes and had to throw away a lot of blood-stained clothes, so here I am."
Mickey's eyes filled with pity for a split second, then he seemed to shake it away, not allowing himself to show emotion, but Ian had caught it.
"Your turn," Mickey muttered, not looking at Ian.
Ian thought for a minute, because apparently they weren't asking basic questions.
"Why do you do it?"
"Why do I do what?"
"Bully kids."
Mickey wavered here, like he didn't know, like he honestly had no idea why he did what he did. He looked uneasy and like he wanted to sleep for a long time, but Ian couldn't take the question back, wouldn't take it back, because this guy had covered him from head to toe in slushie on his first day at his new school and sometimes, payback was a bitch.
"Because they deserve it," Mickey said, but he didn't sound completely convinced.
"No," Ian responded, gravely. "They don't. None of us are any better than each other, regardless of what you've been lead to believe all your life. Making someone else feel bad doesn't make you better than them, it just makes you a bully and no one wants to be a bully. They do it because they're trying to look tough, because they're insecure, because they're hiding something, they do it for a multitude of reasons."
"Well, if you already know, why did you ask?"
"So, what's your reason?" Ian enquired, ignoring Mickey's question. He leaned forward to study Mickey, who was avoiding his gaze like the plague.
"This is stupid," Mickey groaned, quietly.
"Really?" Ian asked. "I don't think it is. I think there's more to you and that's why you do it. Most of the time, you don't even look like you want to do it. I saw you that first day, with the slushie. You almost didn't do it. Then earlier on at the garbage cans, you stayed away and I saw you with that boy in the wheelchair yesterday, too. You didn't push him as hard as the other guys."
Mickey didn't speak, just looked alarmed and as if he'd been called out for committing a serious crime. Ian didn't drop his gaze, hoping Mickey would look up, because eye contact would probably get him talking. Ian wasn't sure if he was right about Mickey, but that flicker in his eyes had meant something and Ian knew about pretences, about pretending like everything was absolutely fine, when your world was falling down around you. It didn't seem as if Mickey Milkovich's world was falling down around him, but there was definitely something there and Ian wanted to know what.
"You know, if you're such a god around McKinley, why do you look like you're on death row every time the other guys look at you to do something horrible to someone else?"
"You think you know everything, Gallagher, but you don't," Mickey told him. "Those guys? They're my friends. We are at the top of the food chain, while you're not even at the bottom, you're further down, where the carcasses of those who came before you lay. It's our job to keep things the way they're supposed to be. If we didn't have some order around here, math geeks and glee clubbers would be running around like they owned the place. That's why I'm there."
Ian almost laughed, but didn't when he realised Mickey wasn't really speaking the whole truth. Maybe part of him did believe it was what he was supposed to do, probably because he had been so used to telling himself that, but he was very much transparent, in that Ian could see the hesitance in his eyes, the fidgeting of his fingers, the chewing on his lip and he knew that Mickey was lying, maybe even to himself, to make himself look better.
"Sometimes, it's okay to let your guard down, you know," Ian told him, softly. "If you don't, you'll just be angry all the time."
"What is this?" Mickey asked, smirk back on his face. "'Convert your bully into a cowardly, little faggot like yourself day'?"
Ian reached down and grabbed his bag, then stood up and Mickey watched him from his chair.
"You know what?" he said. "You can call me all the names in the world, it's nothing I haven't heard before and I'll get over it, they're just words, but you?" he stood up straight, clutching his bag to his side. "You're just going to be mad at the world and you'll never be fully happy. So, calling me a faggot isn't going to help you find your way in life. Maybe you should concentrate on yourself before worrying about what other people are doing."
Mickey didn't say anything, but Ian saw him flinch a little. He sighed, then, because Mickey didn't look as if he was going to respond any time soon.
"Just—contact me when you're done with the book, so we can get this done and we don't have to communicate until our next assignment and you can go back to pretending to be the popular guy who has it all. In the end, I'm going to get away, make something of myself and if I fail, so be it, at least I'll have tried, but you'll always be here and you'll always be that same broken, miserable, angry guy you are now."
And he turned away and walked out, leaving Mickey alone with his thoughts.
If you're still reading, please let me know what you think! I'll post the next part tomorrow :)