Chapter Text
Even when the music is slowing down and the song is almost over, no one ever stops dancing. Mandy had promised him a good time despite his injuries and she has delivered: Ian doesn’t remember a day in recent history when he couldn’t stop smiling like he’s doing tonight; doesn’t want to stop.
The perks of arriving late to a party or an event is the avoidance of that awkward stage where people are feeling each other out and everyone is just waiting for someone to break the ice and kick the night off. Ian’s sure a bunch of overworked and horny teens wouldn’t need a decoy to spike the punch and start grinding on anything with a pulse, but as he entered the gymnasium earlier that night he was more than happy not to find out.
Mandy is a party animal in disguise. As she sways her body and presses her back (and ass) on Ian’s, you’d think she was a regular on the dance floor. He already knew his best friend knows how to have a good time, but it usually doesn’t involve this kind of music and this many people, but he’s pleasantly surprised to see this socialite side of her. Not so much realizing that she knows all the words to a lot of Pitbull songs.
Bumping the air with his only functioning arm and laughing and singing all the cheesy lyrics out loud, Ian is glad to be tuning every thought and deeper meaning that’s been attached to this night out in order to have a good time. He saw Angie by one of the beer pong tables (officially La Croix pong), cheering a tall guy on who looked way too old to be attending senior prom and that Ian figured must be one of her brothers.
She waved a shy hand his way when they made eye contact and Ian was relieved upon realizing that not a single cell in his brain was mad at her. So he smirked and nodded her way instead of flipping her off like he had wanted to do for the longest time.
“This is my jam!” Mandy’s loud screech can be heard over the crowd screaming once an unidentified Kesha song comes on. Ian loves seeing her smile so big because she didn’t have many reasons to when they were younger.
“Every song has been your jam!” There’s no malice in the playful dig nor in the elbow that Mandy plants on his rib cage, causing him to laugh.
“Just feel it, you party pooper!” As Mandy sways to the beat she nonchalantly slips Ian’s solo cup from his hand, sipping on the red liquor and holding it up in the air once the chorus starts, one swing away from showering the people around them with it.
At some point during the night he pretends not to see the increased movements outside near the bleachers, where a line of eager teenagers is forming and disappearing once they reach said spot. Ian pretends not to notice the familiar clear baggies scattered around the bin in the bathroom and the faint smell of the best weed you can buy this side of Chicago filling the air.
Ian didn’t think it would be this hard to ignore, this painful to resist the pull he feels towards that spot flanking the football field—on the boy that’s probably making bank there right now—mostly because he wasn’t ready to deal with it.
He didn’t think Mickey would be here.
In retrospect he should’ve seen this coming given how suitable an opportunity this is to make a huge sum of money out of these people, and how unlikely it would be for a navigated businessman like Mickey to pass on the opportunity to pocket them all, and for what?
It almost reminds him of those first years at the Milkovich house, the ones after meeting him for the first time. Hearing Mickey’s music blasting so loud from his closed door, Ian’s heart was incapable of slowing down even when his pretty blue eyes and his perfect smile were nowhere to be seen. The trepidation of knowing that he was in Ian’s vicinity, in the same house, in the same neighborhood and city as him was just enough to leave Ian content.
Mickey was so mesmerizing even back then Ian swore he could see his outline through the walls, much like he swears he can see him moving under the bleachers even without ever spotting him.
He can still hear him even now whenever he caught him staring, the frown on his face and that brass watchu looking at, freckles?
Ian never had a good enough excuse, so he just hung his head low every time. To this day he still has a hard time coming up with a different explanation other than the truth—I love the way your face looks.
The butt of the smoke he just finished gets ground so hard on the sole of his stolen shoes it almost disintegrates in his fingers. With all these spiraling thoughts that are coming back after a pleasant and positive start to the night, he doesn't dare set foot anywhere near the football field where everyone else is gathering to smoke and drink. So though he hates the passive smoke, one of the dirty bathroom stalls will have to do it.
When someone knocks on the frail door, Ian grunts.
“Busy.”
“Ian, I know you’re in there. I could recognize those clown-sized shoes anywhere.”
He rolls his eyes, grunting louder this time around so that the person on the other side can hear him. With a swift motion he kicks the stall door open and smirking his smuggiest smile is none other than him.
“Shouldn’t you be getting drunk at MIT? I’m starting to think you’re one of those creeps.”
Lip snorts, leaning his shoulder on the splintered door frame. “Love me a senior prom. You know how they say: I get older, they stay the same— ouch!”
“Dude, fucking ew!” Even as he kicks his brother’s shin, Ian’s laughing. “What the fuck are you doing here?” The lack of a backpack on his shoulder doesn’t go unnoticed, so if he tries the old physics assignments excuse it won’t work.
“Can’t a guy have some fun?” His brother lights his own smoke, trying to look and sound nonchalant while crossing his legs at the ankles.
This douchebag is such an open book it’s not even funny.
“Let me guess: with all the fun, adult places you could get wasted in this side of Chicago, you chose the highschool gathering where—.”
“That’s not—.”
“—where you’ll casually, organically bump into Mandy Milkovich at some point.” Ian crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow.
Lip tilts his head, pulling his mouth into a tight line. After a moment of silence he sighs, holding his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Jeez.” He’s smirking now. “Speaking of Milkoviches,” Ian rolls his eyes. This asshole. “Is there a reason why you’re smoking all alone in the bathroom like an angsty tween? Heard there’s a guy selling some decent weed under the bleachers.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Ian sits back down on the lidded toilet, averting his eyes. Maybe being an open book is another side effect of the Gallagher gene.
“Cheer up, man.” Lip lightly kicks his scuffed shoes. “It’s prom.”
Ian shakes his head, looking up at his older brother with a tight expression. Subtle digs aside, he needs Lip to listen. “If you hurt her I’ll kick your ass.” He snatches the cigarette from Lip’s fingers, taking a long drag while standing up, lifting the toilet seat and discarding the smoke before flushing it. “I mean it.”
As Ian washes his hand, Lip chuckles. “Yes, sir.” Then he hears his footsteps, feels him squeeze his shoulder. “Try to have some fun tonight.”
That’s easier said than done.
***
Mandy does end up dumping him to go and make out with Lip somewhere inside the school. After putting up a meager fight, claiming to be done with him and how she just wanted to have a good time with her prom date, it takes Ian a trip to the drinks’ table to lose her in the crowd. Some guy tells him that she chose the other Gallagher brother, sorry bro.
Ian rolls his eyes, mostly to distract them from the alluring sight just outside the gymnasium’s windows.
Without Mandy he gets nervous. Jittery. Jealous of the only gay couple having fun on the dance floor. Of course that also means more and more smoking breaks which is a pain in the ass; he’s basically spending his senior prom in a stinky bathroom.
He lost count of how many times he’s flushed the toilet and has tried to get rid of the smell of nicotine with the cheap soap the school offers when he hears a muffled cry coming from the door.
Ian frowns. It sounds like a girl. He swears that if he finds Mandy crying he will hunt his own brother down.
Instead, he finds a different brunette sitting on the ground in the hallway, right outside the restrooms.
“Riley?“
Rodriguez is startled by Ian’s voice. She looks up, sniffing a couple of times and messily wiping her tears (and mascara) away. “Leave me alone, Gallagher.”
Ian would’ve even listened if she hadn’t started sobbing again right after. He steps closer, crouching down next to her. Although he thinks he knows the answer already, he asks, “What happened?”
“Darren happened! That dumb piece of shit!” She basically screams, her crying now hysterical. Yeah, he figured that much. “He cheated on me with Casey Oliver! Fucking Booger Face! Can you fucking believe that?!”
Ian can and will believe that mostly because Darren has a reputation that precedes him. He has no idea who this Booger Face even is and why it’s so tragic that it was her in particular he was cheating on Riley with. Regardless, he’s a douche. “That sucks.” Ian is sympathetic although not particularly invested, but he’ll welcome the distraction with open arms. Plus, he owes Riley a favor or two.
So he ends up sitting down on the ground next to her, the lockers cranking loudly when he leans over them. “And he gave me crabs! Who does that?!”
Welcome to crabs city, Riley. Population: you and the entire drama club. Not too keen on rubbing salt into the wound by telling her that Darren is basically known as crabs patient zero around these parts, he opts for running his hand up and down her back, the sound of Cake by the Ocean in the background clashing with the delicate moment. “What an asshole.”
“Yeah, say that.” She sniffles, rubbing her face before turning around to look at him. “Where’s your prom date?”
Ian shrugs. “Off somewhere, cheating on me.” Riley snorts, and Ian’s glad to see the small smile forming on her face. It makes him smirk too.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine.” The music in the gymnasium stops. Both him and Riley turn towards the now silent room, the strobing lights breaching through the darkness. After a beat of silence, the unmistakable sound of a saxophone fills the air, and Careless Whisper has all the teenagers inside howl and clap before probably populating the dance floor, all up close and personal.
Standing up, he offers his hand to Riley who, in turn, looks at it in question. “Hey, we still deserve our prom groping. Dance with me?”
Despite trying her best to look annoyed or unconvinced, she’s smiling and soon enough she’s letting Ian help her up and take her inside the busy room, where the couples have predictably crowded the dance floor and are currently slow dancing to George Michael’s voice, so entranced with the melody it looks rehearsed.
Once they get amongst them, Riley throws her hands around his neck, adjusting Ian’s own around her hips before placing her head on his chest, careful not to press on his injured wrist, swaying with him. Ian sighs, holding her close, happy to make up for the things he’s put Riley through lately. The biggest one just recently, still leaving him with a sense of regret and guilt.
“I’m sorry.”
Riley pokes her head up, frowning at him. “For what?”
“You know, about the kiss. I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.” Ian shrugs, feeling uncomfortable under her scrutiny and unable to maintain eye contact for long. “It was childish of me.”
When Riley doesn’t answer for a while Ian is convinced she must still be mad at him. But when he dares looking down she has a gente smile on her face.
“You don’t need to apologize, Ian.”
“I think I do.” He really does. He’s wanted to apologize to her about it even before her (ex)boyfriend decided to go nuts on his face.
“Well.” Riley shrugs. “Apology accepted then.”
It feels good, relieving. Although deep down he knows he would’ve done the same for her if she had asked him to.
As George is giving his all to the verse before the last chorus, Riley re-emerges from his chest once again. “That day at the field, before Darren.” She rolls her eyes when saying his name, shaking her head. Ian would smile at that if he didn’t know where this was going. “Was it Milkovich?”
All of a sudden his wounds ache, like on command. Ian can’t help but sigh, the spot by the bleachers glowing red in his peripheral. “Yeah.” It’s quiet. He hopes Riley won’t feel his heartbeat picking up.
She nods, keeping him at eye level with her like she’s not quite done yet. Ian likes Riley, but he’d rather not have this conversation right now. And he thinks Riley gets that, that’s why she’s tentative when she asks, “But you still like him, don’t you?”
The question hits him hard. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s ashamed it must be so obvious even to an outsider, or because he wants to tell her that he actually still fucking loves him. Averting his gaze to a random spot behind her, he nods.
Riley nods too. “Listen, that boy clearly has problems and they’re not your burden to carry.”
They sway in silence for a while, Ian taking her words in. He knows she’s right. It’s what his brain (and his brother) has been trying to tell him for a while now. Letting go is the right thing to do but not necessarily the easiest; especially when a lot of conflicting emotions and memories and glimpses crowd his mind whenever he thinks about Mickey. Which is a lot of the time.
“But we’re not saints. We’re young and we make crappy decisions. Especially romantic ones. Like, duh?” She points at herself with a goofy expression, one that Ian can’t help but laugh at. Riley is laughing with him, the people surrounding them probably thinking they’re drunk or high. That’s also true: the last two weeks have been one giant, shitty lapse of judgment on his part, but he still would do it all again in a heartbeat. “Do what makes you happy, Gallagher. But remember to take care of yourself.”
That’s what it ultimately all comes down to: balancing his heart and his brain out. Riley is smiling bright, like she knows what he’s thinking. Like she can feel the pull he has towards the guy under the bleachers, and she isn’t judging him for wanting to follow that path back to him. Because it’s okay to be dumb sometimes if it feels right—as long as you know when to stop.
Ian doesn’t know if he can stop. What he does know is that he can’t let everything that went on between them end on such a dire note, because Mickey was his friend before he was his crush. He knows he misses him; he knows he wants to see his face.
He’ll demand to be heard this time around. Ian won’t give up just yet, but he won’t trade his dignity for anything in the world. Not even the boy he loves.
Suddenly, a pang of hope and gratefulness fills his chest. Looking down at Riley he can’t help but smile, a genuine smile; a relieved one. It’s a validation he didn’t know he needed so badly. Mandy would have usually been the one giving it to him, but he can’t tell her about this. Not yet.
So he hugs Riley. And Riley hugs him back.
“Rodriguez! Where the fuck have you been girl!” Their little bubble is burst by a couple of girls approaching them. Riley puts some distance between them, looking between her two cheering mates. “What happened with shit for brains?”
“You said it yourself. He’s a shit for brains.” Riley joins her friends who immediately tug her away to hear the details of this latest gossip. Before she disappears into the crowd, she turns around towards Ian who’s still standing in the middle of the dance floor. She smiles, mouthing a thank you.
Ian smiles back.
He’s back to square one. Alone in the middle of a cheering crowd with his thoughts, except he’s smoked his way through his last pack and Riley’s words are echoing in his brain so loudly he can’t help but stare outside the windows, at the line of people in the field.
Ian sighs. What’s the point in delaying the inevitable? Plus, he could really do with a joint right now.
It takes him a second to cross the gymnasium to the entrance, shouldering past a sea of peers taking a break outside from the sweaty room.
There it is: the line, the bleachers. The smell of pot filling his nostrils and making his heart thump in his chest. Ian tries to stay in line and wait for his turn, but this couldn’t go any slower if it tried. He can’t take the anticipation bubbling up in his stomach, so he steps aside and starts making his way to the top of the line, ignoring people’s protests and heckling.
Ian doesn’t see him right away once he gets under the metal steps. He’s next in line (but not really) when the guy in front of him moves, pocketing his stuff, and he’s finally there.
Mickey doesn’t look that surprised to see him here. Actually, he looks weirdly calm and collected, probably saving his next freakout for when they’re alone and away from his clientele. Ian feels naked under his blue eyes as Mickey carefully looks him up and down.
Fishing in his pocket, he takes out a pre-rolled spliff that he offers Ian. “Eight bucks.” Mickey gives him one last once-over. “Six ‘cause you look like shit.”
Trying his best to hide the smile forming on his lips at the familiar tone, Ian snatches the joint from Mickey’s hand. “Asshole.”
***
As Ian smokes his joint pressed against the walls of the shack, he thinks that the DJ isn’t doing a really good job with the music. He has to remind himself that tonight’s theme is vintage (that’s why he’s dressed like the least intimidating mafioso in Little Italy) whenever an early 2000s techno tune echoes all the way from the packed gymnasium.
The weed helps. Of course it does, it’s what it is designed to do. Mickey, being a smart seller, knew to pack his chillest strain, perfect for a bunch of highschoolers having a good time.
It doesn’t even bother him that much, being back at the scene of the crime; the pot makes it easier to prioritize the good memories attached to this place over the shitty ones.
The nostalgia comes in waves, paired with regret. If Ian had kept his mouth shut he wouldn’t be spending his prom smoking smoke after spliff, all alone like he’s in a Simple Plan music video. He would be right by Mickey’s side, laughing and smoking and ogling.
The sound of footsteps doesn’t register on the grass until they’re a few feet away from him. When Ian looks up, he watches as Mickey makes his way towards him, hands in his pockets. He hates the brief panic that grips his throat at the thought of them being alone, but he’s ready this time. As ready as a sprained wrist can get him.
Mickey stops right where Ian is sitting. Ian doesn’t look up, doesn’t gauge Mickey’s demeanor or expression. Gulping, he tries to extinguish his emotions to sound as neutral as possible. “If you’re gonna punch me again, avoid my face this time.”
Silence. The people singing in the distance are so far away now. Mickey shifts on his feet. “I’m sorry.”
Ian whips his head up, looking at him. Of all the things he thought Mickey would say (or scream) to him, an apology didn’t even make the list. “What?”
Rolling his eyes, Mickey gestures towards him. “For fucking—.” He gestures towards Ian’s face, his wrist. Drops his hands back down.
To say that he’s taken aback by this would be an understatement. Ian doesn’t say anything, mostly because he doesn trust his voice or brain right now.
After a pointed silence dawns on them, Mickey takes a few steps towards him. When Ian looks up again, ready for a fight, Mickey simply plucks the half-smoked joint from Ian’s fingers, bringing it up to his own lips before making his way into the shack.
It’s a familiar gesture, one that Ian isn’t sure Mickey has any right over even after apologizing. Maybe he’s just being petty (he thinks he deserves it at this point) as he quickly stands up. “Hey! I paid for that!“
Joining him in the shack, he watches as Mickey brings a dusty box down from one of the high shelves, rummaging through once it’s on the table.
“No you didn’t.” Mickey mutters, producing a bunch of clear baggies before shoving the box away, replacing it with his backpack. There’s a bigger bag filled with buds of weed involved now. Mickey distributes it evenly in the smaller ones.
Ian watches him work, like he’s done countless times for countless days, mesmerized by his inked hands and their precision; fascinated with their craft. It’s like going back in time and they’re here again, with the jocks practicing and taunting each other right outside, the sun or rain or snow on the mangled roof; it’s just them, talking and laughing. It’s easier.
He doesn’t realize Mickey is offering the joint back until it’s being wiggled right in his face. Ian takes it, mindlessly puffing on it while Mickey brushes his hands on his pants. He leans on the wall opposite of where Ian is smoking, crossing his arms. Waiting.
Ian bites. “What are you doing?“
Mickey sniffs, scratching his nose like he does every time he’s angry. Or nervous. “You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”
This is the second thing Ian would’ve never imagined happening between them tonight; on any night for that matter. Suddenly his throat is dry and it has nothing to do with the smoke.
Ian’s nervous because he realizes that this is it: there’s no more hiding. He could go on an elaborated, entirely made up explanation about this having been one big misunderstanding, but it wouldn’t be fair to the both of them. There’s no point in hiding anymore, especially seeing where assuming has brought them in the past.
He could tell Mickey how much of an asshole he’s been to him lately, that would also be the truth; or how much pain he’s put Ian through these last two weeks. But he figures that Mickey knows all of this stuff already, otherwise he wouldn’t have apologized. He wouldn’t be here, waiting for Ian to say something.
It takes so long for Ian to speak that in the distance they’ve crowned both prom king and queen. “I like you.” He didn’t anticipate how liberating it would feel to get to say that out loud. Mickey doesn’t budge, his staring so insistent Ian has to look away. “As a matter of fact I’ve always liked you. Since I was, like, twelve.” Ian clears his throat. “Maybe even before that.”
When Ian dares a glance, Mickey is still looking at him, unmoving. Unfazed.
Ian feels so fucking dumb baring his heart like this only to be met with an awkward silence; with the indecipherable expression on Mickey’s face. It doesn’t help that he’s scared Mickey could lose his patience at any moment, lunging at him in the blink of an eye.
He never does.
It doesn’t help that Ian misses him so fucking much either. That he can’t help but interpret this silence like an invite to keep going. He hopes he’s reading the room right for once.
“I know how you feel about…this. About me.” But I promise I’ll be good. I won't make it weird. I won't hold your hand or stare at you or make weird jokes or watch you sleep. Please come back to me. “You’re my best friend. I still want you here with me.”
More silence, more staring. The realization that hits him leaves him angry and mortified: this is indifference, Ian figures, and before he does something stupid like punch him back or cry, he shakes his head. Makes a move for the entrance because he’s done. Ian just wants to delete this entire evening—year—from his mind.
But then Mickey speaks.
“When I was fourteen my dad asked me if I had set my eyes on a girl yet. Said my brothers would bring a new bitch over every day at my age. And I don’t know why, I don’t know fucking why, I told him that I did like someone.
“He’d never hurt any of his kids, just my mom. So I guess I trusted him for some fucking reason. I told him that I liked this boy. Been thinking about him for a while.”
Ian’s heart is seconds away from leaping out of his chest. He stares dumbfoundedly at Mickey, understanding slowly hitting him.
A boy.
“The asshole didn’t know whether to call me a fag or break my fucking nose first.” Mickey continues. “He did both. Told me that this wasn’t gonna leave the room. This lives and dies here, today.”
Ian is completely floored. A fleeting pang of jealousy hits him, but he pushes it aside as quickly as it came because this breaks his heart.
“Mickey.” He whispers.
Mickey sniffs again; scratches his nose again. “I might as well had put a fucking bullseye on my back. Never stopped beating the shit out of me since.” He nods to himself, eyes cast down. “But I’m glad I never told him his name.”
Ian wants to ask. He wants to hug him. He wants to keep him safe. He wants to kill Terry Milkovich. Mickey finally looks at him.
“He was this tiny motherfucker when we were kids. This annoying ball of energy banging on the walls and cackling. Never heard the sound of laughter in my house before he came around.” Mickey’s smirk is fond. “Couldn’t stop looking at him. He lost all of his front teeth in one go this one summer, and would butcher every fucking word he said for weeks. Milkovish, he called me. Milkovish.” Ian is on the verge of tears, his eyes wide open. Mickey nods his way. “You remember that?”
Of course Ian remembers. It was the summer of ‘13. Ian had landed on his face while sliding down the laundry chute. Got a dollar and a penny for each of the four teeth he’d lost.
He’s trembling, he’s levitating, he’s incredulous. He doesn't say anything. Couldn’t speak even if he tried.
“I protected you from my father,'' Mickey says, “but I was the one calling you a fag and punching you in the end.”
Ian shakes his head. He's still trying to digest what’s happening, the fact that not only does Mickey feel the same things he does, but since around the same time too. He crosses the room, coming face to face with him.
“Mick, you didn’t—.”
But Mickey shakes his head. “Don’t.” When he looks up into Ian’s eyes, his own are glassy; hurting. Like he doesn’t want to be excused, just wants Ian to know. Wants Ian to understand. “Shut up.”
And he does understand. Mickey likes him. Mickey was scared. Mickey had protected him all those years ago.
So Ian doesn’t say anything. He simply dips his head down, down to Mickey’s chapped lips. It’s a small peck, one of those kisses that last for a moment and end with a sweet parting sound.
Mickey doesn’t reciprocate. He’s wearing this stupefied expression that has Ian smiling. It’s okay, Ian tells him wordlessly, a small nod. It’s okay.
It’s Mickey who crashes their lips together next, grabbing Ian by the lapels of his cheap vest and clanking their teeth so hard it stings, but it doesn’t take long for them to find their rhythm. To fit perfectly with each other.
The eagerness is clear in their movements, in the way Mickey clings onto him and in the way Ian tries to do the same as best as he can.
They part to get a lungful of air each, breathing deeply in their shared space and looking at each other intently. One of their stare-off Ian’s so fond of. Ian grins while Mickey drinks him in from his eyes down to his lips. “I knew you had a thing for me, asshole.”
Mickey rolls his eyes but he’s smiling too. “Fuck off.”
He kisses Ian again and this time is slow and sweet and new. Mickey takes his time exploring, bringing both of his hands to his face, and Ian gladly lets him. He lets him kiss the bruises of his face, ignoring the sting behind his eyelids, and pecks his lips over and over when Mickey’s grip on Ian’s hair tightens, tense. It’s okay, he kisses into him. It’s okay.
Sixpence None The Richer are singing about green grass and moonlight and filling the shack as they keep kissing and kissing.
Ian’s heart sings happily and he can’t wait to flip Lip off with a smug told you so when he gets home.
***
Mandy to Ian:
“im sorry!!!”
Mandy to Ian:
“where are you?”
“Who is it?” Mickey asks without ever looking up from his doodling. They’ve only been sitting here for twenty minutes and he’s already managed to cover Ian’s cast in multiple (beautifully executed) dicks and other edgy drawings. Signing them with a Mick on the bottom in his messy handwriting.
Locking his phone, Ian presses his shoulder onto Mickey’s, sighing. “Mandy.” Mickey quietly hums, concentrating on his sharpie masterpiece. “She’s banging my brother.”
Mickey makes a disgusted face. “Again? That douchebag is number one on my shit list.”
“Wait, you knew already?” Ian is frowning. Mandy didn’t technically say anything to him about Lip, and he doubts either her or his brother went to Mickey of all people with this news. “How?”
Mickey stalls. His drawing gets a little agitated and he looks at Ian for a second before quickly looking back down. “I saw her at your place.” He sniffs. “New Year’s.”
Ian’s memories of that night are a conglomerate of good and bad ones. Good for how Mickey had held him, bad for the reasons why he was holding onto him in the first place. He remembers the panic attack, the confusion he felt because Mickey had been fine just minutes before. Now he understands.
“Stop.” Mickey mutters.
“What?”
“Looking at me like that.”
Ian didn’t even realize he was staring. He can’t help it: tonight has been one of the craziest nights ever. Possibly the best of his entire life. And all the pieces are shifting back in place, finally making a lot of what he’s been through make sense.
Now Mickey’s the one looking at him. He places the uncapped sharpie by their legs, closing the small distance between them with a small kiss. “You look so dumb when you think.” He kisses him. Again and again. Like that’ll shut his brain up. “Dork.”
Ian smiles into their kisses because, actually, it’s quite the opposite. Whenever he looks at Mickey now, much like when he did when they were younger and once they had started hanging out last year, his brain is void of anything except for Mickey, Mickey, Mickey.
The occasional, scary I love you. The newfound what are we? Are you my boyfriend? The unbelievable, chest-heaving happiness of being here with him and seeing no changes. No awkwardness. They still laugh and talk shit and gossip and complain about other people complaining.
The only difference are the kisses where silence once resided.