The first words out of Gallagher’s mouth are, “What the fuck is that, Mickey?”
His face is pinched, shoulders hunched, and he’s miles away from the boneless sprawl of mass on Mickey’s dirty sheets that he’d been mere seconds prior. Gallagher’s sitting up, staring at the object in front of him like it’s a problem to be solved.
It was stupid to give it to him right after sex. He knows the subconscious part of his mind was trying to… recreate a moment or some shit like that. It’s also the part of his mind he pretends doesn’t exist.
“It’s a fucking gun, genius.”
Gallagher levels him a stare. “Where did you fucking get it? Jesus Mickey, you’re still on parole.”
Mickey scoffs. “Whatever, man. Anyway, bought it off my bro. Can’t be traced to me. Go on, take it.” He shucks on a black t-shirt and does up his pants, cracking his back as hi eyes travel over Gallagher’s skill naked body. He feels a rush of want again, wonders if his little present will earn him another round.
Gallagher picks it up off the bed and holds it in his palm, testing the weight.
“And this is for me?” he asks, voice skeptical.
Mickey scratches at the back of his neck, his hand shaking slightly. Yeah, they’re definitely replaying something here.
“Yeah well, you should probably do some, what, practical bullshit in between all your numbers and theorems, right?”
Gallagher looks up at him, eyes shining, a small smile playing at his lips. Mickey hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for this moment; feels his own lips begin to twitch before he can control his muscles.
He coughs. “Anyway. I’ll fucking keep it here, you got too many rugrats in that fucking house.”
That just makes Gallagher smile even wider. He reaches out a hand and tugs Mickey in by the waist of his jeans, staring up at him with wet, red lips.
“You’re a crazy fuck,” he says, laughing a little. “But thank you,” he adds quietly.
Mickey’s stomach flips and he looks away, shrugging. Gallagher palms at his dick which is half-heard again already. Mickey’s neck drops back and he traces Gallagher’s jawline with his fingertips as hands quickly work at his pants and his cock is engulfed in tight heat. Definitely worth the payoff.
That night, Gallagher takes him to a spot under the L. Mickey’s eyes widen when he sees there’s a target already set up.
“What, you plan this or somethin’?”
Gallagher just laughs. “No, I know our neighborhood, though. And believe it or not, I have handled a gun before. The gun you stole, actually. Plus, ROTC, hello.”
Mickey feels his face heat, just thinking about that day, Gallagher’s body under his, the tension in the air that nearly swallowed him whole.
“Alright, tough guy. So show me what you got.”
Gallagher smirks, all lips and no teeth. He digs through Mickey’s backpack and loads the gun, then lines himself up with the target. Mickey watches as his face transforms into that of utter concentration. He releases the safety and fires three consecutive rounds, dead center.
Mickey shouldn’t be unbearably turned on by every single thing Gallagher does. It’s pathetic, really. But there he is, standing in the sweltering night air, firing a gun in his white wife-beater and Mickey simply can’t help himself. He wants that body all over him. He licks at suddenly dry lips and realizes Gallagher’s turned to face him and is back to grinning, smugly this time.
“You ever fire one of these things?”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Bitch, please, have you looked at where we live?” He’s shot one a few times, and his brother’s taught him a lot about different types of ammo and shit.
“There’s a difference between pointing and shooting and actually aiming, though.”
Gallagher’s in his superior smart mode again. Mickey’s sorta used to it by now.
“Yeah, yeah, Private Ryan.” His neck itches again.
Gallagher smiles, but it’s softer this time. Mickey really needs to stop loving that so much.
“Want me to show you?”
Mickey looks down at his feet. “Don’t need no fucking teacher, man.”
He doesn’t need to raise his eyes to know Gallagher’s rolling his. “Just shut the fuck up, Mickey, and get over here.”
He looks at him and goes, begrudgingly. Gallagher rolls his eyes, most likely for the second time and Mickey’s complete benefit.
Mickey shoves him lightly for good measure and Gallagher shoves right back.
“Alright,” he says, handing Mickey the gun. “Stand with your legs slightly apart, get your center of balance.”
Gallagher moves to stand behind him, mirroring his stance, their hips and thighs flush with one another. Gallagher’s fingers find Mickey’s hipbones and press in firmly.
Mickey’s cock stirs at the touch.
“Fucker,” he breathes out, all air.
Then Gallagher’s hands are tracing down his shoulder and forearms, causing Mickey’s hands to shake.
“Okay,” Gallagher says against his ear, his fingers covering Mickey’s, bracketing his entire body, breath too hot on Mickey’s neck.
Mickey starts to melt into it, forgets what they’re even doing.
“Alright, take off the safety.’ Mickey moves his hand and briefly mourns the loss of Gallagher’s touch.
He lifts off the safety and then finds his hand grabbed and maneuvered lower. “Okay, grip the trigger loosely,” He does and Gallagher’s hand fits over his again.
“Now raise the gun up to your line of vision. Where you can clearly see the top of it but also have the target in sight.
Mickey does it, but his brain is caught on Gallagher’s voice, warm and wet in his ear, raising goosebumps on his skin.
Gallagher’s thighs are pressed tightly against his own and he can feel Gallagher’s cock brushing up against the swell of his ass.
“This get you hot?” he manages, hoping he doesn’t sound as wrecked as he feels.
“Maybe,” Gallagher replies, voice low and dirty. Mickey feels the brief touch of tongue against his neck and then it’s gone in a flash.
Mickey huffs. “Who’s fucking fault is that?”
He can feels the curve of a grin form against the back of his shoulder.
“Yeah, let’s do this already.”
“Alright. Nice and easy. Get your aim again, your line of vision. Feel your body’s center of gravity. Bend forward slightly… keep your elbow locked. And very slowly, pull the trigger.”
Mickey pulls in a breath, focused on the weight of the gun in his hand, the target that’s almost mocking him, the press of Gallagher’s body. He lets go a round, and then another, another, another, more.
“Woah! Easy there, Alexis!” They drop the gun together, Gallagher’s hands practically pinned at Mickey’s sides. He takes in the target. He hit the neck and lower face.
“Who the fuck is Alexis?”
Gallagher’s laugh radiates against Mickey’s spine. “Alexis Arquette? Pulp Fiction?”
“Oh,” Mickey mumbles, a flush of embarrassment hitting him sharp. “Why you gotta know the actors names and shit?”
Gallagher bites down on Mickey’s shoulder briefly. “Just do.”
He finally moves to stand beside Mickey and jerks his chin in the direction of the target.
Mickey shrugs. “Could be better.”
“That’s what practice is for.”
Mickey sneaks a look at Gallagher. “Like you and your equations?” he says, voice skeptical.
He’s not doubting Gallagher, not like that asshole Frank. He’s just completely unmoved by his own ability to learn something.
He can draw and shit, but he never practiced it; just picked up a pencil in English class one day because he could give two fucks about The Great Gatsby.
Gallaghrer bumps shoulders with him. “Something like that.”
They shoot another few rounds and then suck one another off under the overpass.
Mickey’s feeling loose and relaxed without a care in the world as they walk back to their neighborhood, gun stored securely in his backpack.
It’s been a pretty awesome summer so far, all told. He’s making money, he’s getting fucked on the regular, and his dad is mostly leaving him alone. He’s slowly schooling himself to not think about the army every second of every day but it’s a little hard when Gallagher talks about it every time they see each other. Now he’s volunteering at the VA and Mickey can’t help but wonder what the fuck the next thing will be.
The walk to Gallagher’s house continues to be the weirdest part of their evenings out. They do the standard stop on his front lawn, even though each and every time Mickey is tempted to keep on walking.
“This was fun,” Gallagher says, voice low and slightly hesitant.
Mickey shifts his backpack to the opposite shoulder.
“Shooting shit up: always a good time.”
“Yeah,” Gallagher says, but his smile doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s looking at Mickey’s mouth and Mickey can’t help but run his tongue over his lower lip without thinking.
“I’m working the late shift tomorrow,” he says just to say something, anything.
“Yeah, okay,” Gallagher replies, eyes still fixed in the same spot.
“So, I’ll see ya,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse, his own gaze locked over Gallagher’s mouth.
He turns away and feels a hand reach out to grab his biceps.
Mickey turns back, anger immediately flaring, pissed at Gallagher for wanting to change the game plan, for constantly making Mickey want to.
“Fuck, what?” he snaps and watches the tension creep into Gallagher’s shoulders.
“Nothing,” he says, eyes shuttered. “So, thanks again. For the gun.”
Mickey smirks, uneasy, body thrumming with nervous energy. “Sure,” he says, voice low, and traces a finger down Gallagher’s chest, willing the smile to return. “I’ll uh, I’ll call you.”
That gets him. “Night,” Gallagher says. He sounds content and that’s all Mickey fucking wants even though his damn mouth is trying to suggest otherwise.
The next day, he heads over to the spot under the L and figures he’ll give this practice thing a go. It’s a start, anyway.