“You don’t have any fucking clue what you do to me, do you?” Mickey asked him, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye socket roughly. He blamed the weed for why the hell all of these words were suddenly rolling around his brain. Weed combined with having just fucked Gallagher three times in about two hours. The redhead was going to be his undoing, he’d already acknowledged that a long time ago; but it still shocked him whenever that thought was put into practice.
They were sitting in the bed of a truck Mickey had stolen, parked up just out of Chicago in the first really secluded spot they could find. They’d needed to get away. Ian was having issues with Frank as usual and he’d fallen out with Fiona over something and Mickey’s dad was on one of his bad days looking to beat the shit out of anything he could find, so it suited them both fine to just hightail it out of there. And there was a part of Mickey that wished it could all just be this simple. That it could all be as easy as stealing a truck and getting high and fucking without an overwhelming fear that someone was going to find them.
Or at least Mickey always had that fear, he didn’t know about Ian.
“You know, it makes me wish that maybe we could just keep driving,” he muttered, not looking at the redhead beside him, curled up underneath a ratty old blanket, completely exhausted like he always got after a while when he smoked weed, Mickey knew from experience. “Our life is fucked and it just makes me want to slam my foot down on the fucking accelerator and get out of there.” He snorted and spat over the side of the truck bed, unwilling to look at Ian for even a second. “But you’d only prattle on about how you have responsibilities and shit, so that ain’t gonna happen,” he sounded fucking bitter even to his own ears.
He dug around by his leg for his trousers and pulled a heavy, metal lighter out of the pocket. It flashed in the dim light and he could just about make out the engraving of Firecrotch on the back. It was simultaneously the gayest and the most meaningful thing he thought he’d ever done. The thing was, he didn’t know if he’d bought it with the intention to give to Ian or as a reminder to himself for what he was bound to fuck up somewhere along the way.
“I’ll make you hate me before you fuck off to the army, guaranteed,” Mickey muttered under his breath, lighting up using the lighter and then tucking it away again. He pulled on his jeans for good measure, for no reason other than the fact they were in his hands. “It’s fucking easier to make you hate me than expecting even slightly you’re gonna come back,” he carried on, wishing for a moment that he could rip his own tongue out just to stop the words. But maybe he needed to say this to Ian, just once. Even if he was asleep. “Because there ain’t no way you’re gonna come back for me, not to this shit-hole, wouldn’t expect you to,” he said, blowing smoke up into the air as he tipped his head back and squinted up at the barely visible stars, “I ain’t the sort of person anyone comes back for, I know that, so I’ll make you hate me.”
He tapped ash over the side of the truck bed and rubbed at his lip, “It’ll be easier for the both of us then, easier for me to try and move the fuck on or some shit like that.”
He laughed, low and humourlessly. His voice sounded dead, like he’d already given up. Maybe he had. “Not that that’s gonna fucking happen,” he admitted, sucking on his cigarette some more, “You know that, I know that, there ain’t no way I’m gonna get you out of my fucking head now that you’ve fucking burrowed yourself in there.” He spat again, wondering if the bitter taste in his mouth was from the cigarette or just from the taste of the truth on his tongue, “You’re like a goddamn leech or something, Gallagher, Jesus!”
“And you have no fucking idea how much I want to punch you in the head sometimes,” he muttered bitterly, “Because you’re the blindest person I know, you’re so fucking stupid.” He dragged a hand through his hair roughly and flicked away what remained of his cigarette. “I don’t know how you can’t fucking see that this is a car crash,” he said, looking at the redhead out of the corner of his eye and looking away again quickly, “This is all going to go up in fucking smoke because we’re a car crash, but you’re too fucking stubborn and I cut the brakes a long time ago, so the ending of this right here is inevitable, Gallagher.”
He drummed his knuckles on the metal side of the truck, letting his arm hang limply over the edge. “I don’t know how the fuck else to get you to see that this ain’t a fucking fairy tale, it’s gonna end badly,” he grimaced at the sky, “Love’s a con for people like me and I ain’t stupid enough to believe that everything I touch won’t eventually burn some way or another.”
He made a low noise of disgust in the back of his throat, at himself more than anything else. “I just have to get you to fucking realise that,” he said, “Cause I’m fucked for life, man, I really am, no point dragging you down with me.”
“If you love them let them go,” he said sarcastically in a stupid voice. It was something Mandy had said once, a repetition no doubt from one of her bullshit tv shows, but it stuck in his head whenever he looked at Gallagher. “I won’t break you,” he said adamantly, “I ain’t gonna do any good with anything ever, but I won’t break you.”
Because Ian Gallagher was the one good thing to rise out of shitty Southside Chicago and something fierce and possessive in Mickey’s chest screamed, “Mine,” when he looked at him; and Mickey didn’t ever let anything fuck up what was his. He’d make sure Ian got out of the Southside unscathed, even if he had to break both of their hearts into a million fucking pieces for it to happen.
Mickey groaned low, lying back with his arms jammed behind his head, pulling a face up at the sky. “Jesus I’m turning fucking gay,” he muttered to himself, despite the fact he still firmly blamed the weed for what had just spouted out of his fucking mouth.
He jumped when Ian rolled over, thinking for a moment that the redhead had woken up and maybe heard him, but all Ian did was throw an arm over Mickey’s waist and shift closer in his sleep. Ian burrowed his face into the side of Mickey’s chest, mouthing a wet patch into the fabric and Mickey sighed, not having the energy or really the inclination to push him away.
Of course, it would have been a different matter entirely if he’d noticed the fact that the wetness clinging to his t-shirt wasn’t from Ian’s mouth, but from the tears clinging to the lashes of his wide open eyes.