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Lonely Boy

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There’s this thing, right, this thing in that Disney movie with the deer. You know, the one with the rabbit and the skunk and the mom that gets capped in the first twenty minutes--there’s this thing they talk about where birds get all dopey and shit, and the whole forest starts fucking each other because hey, Mother Nature’s a horny bitch sometimes.

He doesn’t remember the exact word for it. Mickey remembers thinking as a kid it was pretty dumb, though, the way you were supposed to believe animals fall in love. Even at age five, he knew it was all bullshit. If humans didn’t actually fall in love, why the fuck would chipmunks?

But Mickey watched that movie a lot, for some goddamn reason he doesn’t know. He watched it on a constant loop until the shitty VCR broke. Mandy’s never seen it, and sometimes...sometimes Mickey feels bad that she hasn’t, ‘cause she might’ve liked it. A baby deer loses his mom, and then falls for some pretty-eyed thing who’s sweet and good and looks at him like he’s a fucking super hero. That’s something little girls get into.

Whatever, it’s still a dumb movie. Mickey’s just getting fucking nostalgic in his old age.


He doesn’t think about what happens next when his time is up. Mickey’s never been too good at planning ahead, anyway, and besides, it’s the same shit out there, only with fewer rules. He doesn’t have to play nice with assholes who think he’s dirt, and he sure as fuck doesn’t have to count his cigarettes each day to make they’ll last him to the end of the week.

He turns seventeen in two months, but honestly, he’s fucking shocked it took him this long to get here.

Mickey doesn’t think about what happened before all this shit went down, either. Thinking about all that’s bad, makes him get all twitchy and his skin get all hot. He tells himself it’s ‘cause remembering being shot just fucking sucks.

The rest of it...well. He keeps that tucked away in a box, the kind with a big gold lock and key, like a pirate’s treasure chest. It’s heavy as shit and hard to open; Mickey only opens it when it’s the middle of the night and his leg is fucking burning and his stupid cellmate is snoring like a goddamn chainsaw.

He curls in toward the wall, presses his hand against the cold concrete blocks, and thinks about soft skin and a sweet smile and the words yeah and please. He thinks about the perfect blush, how sweat tastes, and the way his stomach makes a weird swoop just before he knows he’s about to get kissed.

Mickey thinks about all this, then locks that box back up good and tight.

He wishes he could just throw the damn thing away for good.


Mickey gets the word that he has a visitor--the first one since he got sentenced--and for a pathetic, worthless second, he hopes. That fucking box rattles in his stupid chest and he hopes. But hoping’s never got him anywhere, so he shakes his head, mutters, “You fucking shithead,” under his breath as he limps like a cripple to the visitor’s room.

He catches a glimpse of red hair the moment he gets through the door and almost falls flat on his ass.

The air leaves his lungs, and Mickey realizes he just can’t. Fuck, he can’t do this, not here, not now. Jesus, it feels wrong, seeing Gallagher behind that glass, barely shielded from all the other scumbag assholes in this shithole. He doesn’t belong here.

Mickey can’t look him in the eyes, or he’ll say some really, really dumb shit. He does his best, tries to pretend like Gallagher’s just some guy off the street stopping by. But Mickey can’t help looking him over, wondering if his skin still smells like Irish Spring, if he’s still got that bruise on his hip from when Mickey--

“I miss you,” Gallagher says, head bowed like he thinks someone’s gonna punch him for saying it out loud. Like Mickey’s gonna punch him, and yeah, he’d like to. He’d like to punch him and tell him never to come back here and make him want shit he can’t have, can never have.

He’d punch Gallagher, then get on his knees.

“Take your hand off the glass,” he barks when Gallagher lays his fingers there, ‘cause there’s only so much Mickey can take. Gallagher’s smiling, though--sweetly, secretively, like it’s just them in here. Like it’s only them in the world.

Mickey hates it when his heart races. It always means he’s scared. “I gotta go, y’know, they time this shit,” he says with a shrug. He starts to hang up the receiver, only Gallagher says, “I’ll wait. Okay?”

He says it in the same low voice, shoulders still hunched, but his smile gets softer. Mickey has a flash of Gallagher’s eyes fluttering closed as he leaned in to kiss him in the back storage room, desperate and fierce, like someone trying to stare down the sun. Fuck it all if Mickey could say no to that.

His hand starts to sweat around the receiver. This could be over now, not that--not that this is fucking anything, it’s not, but--he could say shit that would take those stupid fucking ideas out of Gallagher’s head and make him stop trying so damn hard. He could make Gallagher stop looking at him like Mickey’s worth it.

Instead, Mickey turns his head, stares hard at a stained spot on the carpet, and whispers, “Whatever,” and slams the receiver down.


Mickey never dreams, but that night he does. He dreams he’s in Gallagher’s room, even though he’s never seen it and never will. The walls are a soft blue, the carpet gray, the bed covered in a soft dark green blanket. He’s shirtless and so is Gallagher, but the air feels too hot. Mickey can’t breath as he tilts his head back to look Gallagher straight in the eyes.

“You want me?” Mickey asks, although his throat is tight; the words aren’t as easy as he’d like them to be.

Gallagher gives him that sweet little lopsided grin, the one that makes him look like a kid and sexy as fuck all at once. “D’you want me?” he whispers back, close enough that his breath is against Mickey’s mouth, their skin barely touching.

Mickey feels like he’s sinking, or maybe just melting, evaporating into the hot, hot air. He realizes that he’s panting, and hard as a rock in his jeans. He wants to touch, but his arm are too heavy. “I don’t have to answer that.”

“Yeah, you do. Just say it.”

“I’m fuckin’ ready to go, ain’t I?”

A hand comes up to his face, thumb and index finger framing his jaw. Gallagher tips Mickey’s head back, slow yet insistent; fuck, Mickey forgot how wide Gallagher’s hands are.

“Say it,” Gallagher breathes, and the sharp little bite at Mickey’s lower lip makes him moan, makes him shudder and go to pieces, because that’s what Ian Gallagher does to him, goddamn it.

“Fuck,” Mickey whines, grabbing on tight to Gallagher’s shoulders. “Fuck, I want it, I want you, just, just--”

“Yeah,” Gallagher growls, and Mickey whines again, this time in relief, when he gets shoved down onto the bed.

Their jeans disappear, and Mickey thinks dazedly that there better fucking be some lube and condoms around or he’ll go insane. He starts to roll onto his stomach and spread his legs, his cock already leaking everywhere, only Gallagher presses a hand between his shoulder blades and says, “No, you get on me. Wanna see you.”

Mickey swallows. They don’t do it like that. He doesn’t want it like that, because then--then he won’t be able to hide it.

“I can’t,” he whispers. Mickey bows his head, feeling like his heart is about to crawl out his throat, his skin too tight.

He feels a small kiss against his temple. “Yeah, you can,” Gallagher whispers back. “Just turn over. I got you.”

Mickey gasps, which sounds a lot like a stupid girl noise, like he’s fucking crying or something, Jesus, but he does what Gallagher says. He turns over, and then he’s being tugged into Gallagher’s lap, legs spread on either side of his hips. Gallagher’s not wearing a condom, and yet, it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

“Come on,” says Gallagher with that stupid little grin, and Mickey can’t say no.

He tries to hold back, grits his teeth as Gallagher’s fat cock sinks into him. He loves that first initial push, getting full and stretched, but he can love it with his back to Gallagher. Mickey can close his eyes and think yes without Gallagher knowing. Now, though--Gallagher’s staring up at him all flushed and wide-eyed and so fucking sweet, even as his hips move and he pushes up into Mickey, sliding all the way in. It feels so fucking good; Mickey’s mouth falls open before he can stop himself.

“Oh, fuck, I--” He bites the inside of his lip, holds his breath, but Gallagher slides his hands over Mickey’s hips and fucks into him, hard and fast. Mickey groans again, loud enough to make his throat vibrate, loud enough that the sound itself makes Gallagher laugh breathlessly and say, “Yeah, let me hear you. Tell me how it feels.”

“G-good. You feel--god, I just, I’m--” Mickey flails his hands out, lets them land on Gallagher’s stomach, fingers splayed. He rolls his hips a little, because he’s never done this before, not this way. He digs his thumbs into the muscles of Gallagher’s abs and holds on.

“You’re so tight, I love it, I love knowing no one’s fucked you but me,” Gallagher gasps, babbling like he can’t help it.

I love it, too, Mickey thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He’s not a stupid Disney animal.

“I think I could love you,” Gallagher keeps saying. “God, fuck, Mickey, I--I think I might--” He reaches down, wraps his wide hand around Mickey’s cock, and that’s all it takes.

It bursts through him like lightning, fast, hot, sharp. Everything happens so fast, Mickey’s barely aware that he’s calling out Gallagher’s name--his first name. He comes everywhere, covering the back of his hands.

“Shit, oh,” he gasps, and gravity would’ve taken over had Gallagher not flung his arms around Mickey and tugged him down hard against his chest as he fucked into him. Seconds later, Mickey feels him shudder and go still, his hands petting the back of Mickey’s head.

Mickey doesn’t think, he just pushes his nose against Gallagher’s and kisses him. He’s wrung out and seeing stars, but he has to kiss him. It makes everything complete.

Gallagher opens his mouth and kisses back like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. He touches Mickey’s cheek like they do in the movies, breathes into Mickey’s mouth soft and easy.

“You want me to wait?” he asks, cock still buried in Mickey’s ass.

Mickey sighs as he sinks his weight down onto Gallagher’s chest.

“Yeah,” he says.

He opens one eye just before he falls asleep. Gallagher’s smiling.


Mickey wakes up facing the cold concrete wall, his spent cock in his hand.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, and rolls onto his stomach, wiping his hand off on the rough prison sheets.

He tucks his face into the pillow, ignoring his wet eyelashes.