Chapter Text
Ian Gallagher has the biggest, most embarrassing, gut-wrenching, boner-inducing, longest-running crush on Mickey Milkovich.
There, he said it.
Mickey Fucking Milkovich.
Few problems with that. Only two, really, but they are big, huge ones—so they feel like the proverbial remaining ninety-nine (technically ninety-eight).
The first problem is that Mickey is Mandy Milkovich’s older brother. His best friend Mandy Milkovich. Certified badass Mandy Milkovich; the same Mandy Milkovich that had sent Carol Randez to the hospital with the aid of a knockoff Cubs baseball bat because Carol had dared cross her that one time. Of course Mandy’s not homophobic, but Ian doesn’t know how she would react to the news. In his heart of hearts Ian knows that Mandy would probably accept it, but it would be so colossally awkward Ian doesn’t even want to think about it. How would he even break it to her? Hey Mands, nice skirt. By the way I don’t think I can be your pretend-boyfriend anymore because your brother gives me the most life-altering boners. You wanna go get a smoothie?
The second problem is that Mickey Milkovich is the biggest asshole on the planet. He’s homophobic, and rude—not to mention he’s been Ian’s own personal bully ever since him, and Mandy had became friends all the way back in pre-school.
Mickey has the nicest ass Ian’s ever seen, and he owns quite the collection of vintage Manshots mags so you know it’s a majestic one. And that one time he’d called him Ian instead of Firecrotch, or Annie, or Carrot Top, Ian had to excuse himself to the bathroom so as to not faint from the blood that had shot down from his brain straight into his dick.
Mickey is the furthest thing from gay a teenager could be, so there’s no point in indulging the thought. In letting himself hope, and dream. Plus, Mickey has never seemed to enjoy Ian’s company to begin with.
Except for the summer before their senior year.
Ian had swung by the Milkovich house to drop some things for Mandy. The moment the door had opened, he’d almost lost his balance on the porch, because Mickey Milkovoch was looking at him with his usual judgmental scowl, except for a quirked eyebrow.
“Hey, huh, is Mandy here?” Ian had pointed with a movement of his head down at the box in his hands. “I have to, huh. You know. Some things for—,”
“She ain’t here, mumbles.” Mickey looked pornographically beautiful in his sleeveless grey hoodie, blocking the entrance with his stocky presence.
They had had quite the stare-off. Thank God for the box covering Ian’s predictably misbehaving dick. Ian had looked around, at a loss, before gesturing towards the box again. “May I…?”
Mickey had given him a once-over before clicking his tongue, and stomping back into the house without ever looking back. Ian could feel the heat radiating from his own face, his neck entering a Fiercest Shade of Red pageant against his hair. He’d stumbled his way into the Milkovich living room, rushing to get Mandy’s things into her room, with all the intentions of making a run for the front door.
However, Mickey had other plans for him.
“Ay, Annie.” Mickey had called out from the couch where he currently laid, his legs spread out, and his baggy jeans tightening in just the right places. Ian had swallowed hard, his Dumbo feather now gone, and his threateningly already half-hard dick one second away from getting him a one-way ticket to the beating of a lifetime. Mickey had turned around, watching him from the ratty couch. “You smoke?”
Ian had frowned, scratching the back of his neck. “What? Why?”
Mickey had produced a clear baggie from his pocket then, wiggling it around with an annoyed expression on his pretty face. “What’s it to you? Do you shove it up your ass down in North Wallace or something?” Please no more ass talk. Please no more ass talk. “It’s a new strain I’m selling. Haven’t tried it yet.” He’d wiggled it again. “You gonna smoke with me or what?”
Even if Ian didn’t really smoke he would be willing to pretend to be the ultimate stoner if it meant being around Mickey Milkovich. “Sure.”
That's how they had found themselves sprawled on the couch together, giggling at cringy Pantene commercials, and Wheel of Fortune reruns. Mickey was unexpectedly good at trivia. He’d made pizza rolls for the both of them, and at one point while he was getting his ass kicked on Mortal Kombat, all that Ian could think about was Mickey’s thigh pressing onto his, in a gesture that to Ian’s stoned mind had felt almost intentional.
“Are you banging my sister?” Mickey had asked just as Ian was making his way down the porch steps a couple of hours later. The weather was humid, and the night sky was bright. Ian had turned around, taken aback by the question. He knew he had to lie to Mickey—though, at the same time, he didn’t want to confirm anything for fear of retaliation.
Ian had shrugged. “Kind of?”
“The fuck does that even mean?” And then back to their weird staring contest. They had had a couple of instances of that same tension building up as they looked at each other while smoking earlier, though Ian had blamed it all on the strong weed making everything that much more intense. Mickey had spat out into the yard to his left, scratching the side of his nose. “Whatever. You wanna smoke again tomorrow?”
You had me at ‘whatever’. “Yeah.”
“Cool.” Staring staring staring. Ian’s heart was beating like fucking crazy in his chest. Thoomp-thoomp, thoomp-thoomp. Mickey had tongued at the inside of his cheek. “Aight, get lost now Firecrotch.” And with that, he had slammed the door closed.
Ian was swooning. Almost floating in the air on his walk back to his house. He never had a jerk-off session quite as mystical as the one he partook in later that night, with Lip looking at him all weird at breakfast the morning after.
That’s how it all began.