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It starts like how most fucked up things between the two of them start: with Ian thinking he’s got a great idea.
“Hey, lemme show you this new thing I learned yesterday.”
Their joint wasn’t all that impressive when they started out, and by now the paper has burned almost all the way down to their fingers. There’s only one or two puffs left on it, then they’re gonna have to find something else to do.
And Mickey is so fucking bored that he could jump this fence and start running the bases without batting an eye, so of course he agrees.
Anything to not run when he doesn’t have to.
He’s pretty sure Ian would’ve gone ahead with this shit anyway because he’s already on the move, taking the last hit of the joint and then shifting closer on the bench and-
Mickey startles, reflexes forcing his head backward when he feels Ian’s hands grabbing his face out of nowhere because, “The fuck, Gallagher-”
“Ahh.” Smoke puffs out between them on Ian’s displeased huff, the moment ruined. “Jesus, you’re jumpy today.”
Which is a crazy thing to say because hello? “You wanna give a guy a fuckin’ warning? Out here snatchin’ people up with your E.T. fingers!”
With another great huff, Ian sits back. Shoulders deflated. Head lolling to the side as he blinks at Mickey with the heaviest, most unamused eyes ever.
And…
Fine. Maybe that was an overreaction on Mickey’s part. But still. “Just a warning, is all,” Mickey repeats but calmer this time, straightening his shirt on his shoulders.
“Or you could just not be such a pussy.”
When Mickey flicks his eyes over to fix him with another glare, it doesn’t last long. Because there’s that trademark Ian Gallagher smirk waiting for him.
Ugh. “Fuck off,” Mickey insists for good measure. But like clockwork, he can feel those fingers nagging him to participate in the fun all the same. Metaphorically this time, of course. “Just go again before I change my mind.”
Next to him, Ian settles back in, holding the joint up to inspect the thin trail of smoke coming from the end. “Think I can get one last hit outta this.”
Mickey motions toward it with an impatient hand, encouraging him to get on with it already. Before he gets old and starts needing hearing aids.
Thankfully, Ian does just that, hearing aids not required in the slightest. Because when he pulls that last hit and then croaks out a quick, puffy, “Open your mouth,” Mickey hears that shit loud and clear.
Oh.
Damn, they’re doing this?
Desperate to save his reputation from the shitter, Mickey sits perfectly still and does as he’s told, his gaze dropping down and mouth dropping open as Ian leans toward him to blow in the smoke.
Mickey inhales it as it comes - clouds over his tongue - Ian’s really putting some force behind his blow so it’s not gonna last long, but…
The bench creaks as Ian sits back, watching the smoke huff from Mickey’s nostrils and then looking right at him. Waiting. With those eyes.
He’s eager for feedback.
Mickey clears his throat, dampening down the weird way he can feel his heart beating with a raincloud of his own. “You know that ain’t new, right?”
“What?”
“Been around for forever, man,” he breaks it to him. “S’called a shotgun.”
Beside him, Ian’s shoulders are deflating again. Just a little. Like he really thought he was onto something, bless his big stupid heart. “Oh.”
And damn, why’d he have to go and make Mickey feel guilty? Maybe he should’ve just played along. Pumped him up a bit.
Whatever.
What’s done is done, he decides, grabbing the Gatorade from between their feet.
And more importantly, now that he thinks about it, “Who’s showin’ you that shit anyway?”
“Some guy.”
Mickey frowns, turning to him. “Some guy?”
“Yeah, at the video store,” Ian says like it’s nothing. “Looked like Billy Loomis.”
It lands poorly, Mickey grimacing through his drink before twisting the cap back on. “Who the fuck is Billy Loomis?”
“From Scream,” he explains. “You know, one of the guys.” A quick clarification - “Not Shaggy.” - and then he’s swiping the Gatorade out of Mickey’s hand, twisting it back open for himself. “Saw him doin’ it with his girl out back.”
Mickey takes the following moment of silence to process, his mind trying to fit all that information together while he watches Ian take a long drink from the bottle.
Scream... Not Shaggy... Not some guy trying to mack on Ian out of the blue after all.
Apparently his visions of violently stabbing a motherfucker himself aren’t as needed as he thought.
He’s sure he could find an excuse if he really tried. “Alright, well Not Shaggy must not-a hit it after,” he finally says, “‘cause you sure as hell ain’t doin’ it right.”
The Gatorade taps against Mickey’s boot as Ian sets it on the ground, curiosity now clearly piqued. “I’m not?”
“Nah, man.”
“What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying you’re goin’ way too hard on it. I ain’t a fuckin’ kazoo.”
He’s running the risk of killing Ian’s buzz again - maybe even bringing out The Chin.
But instead of a pout, it’s a nod he gets, “Alright,” like now Ian’s the one who's simply playing along with his appeasing smile. “Care to show me how the master does it?”
It’s enough to get Mickey to roll his eyes, but the way he returns the grin is second nature. Because it’s always like this with them. The push and pull. The back and forth. If they were younger, Mickey bets they’d get into a shoving match over who gets the last sip of the Gatorade.
Actually, they’ve done that shit too. More than once, come to think of it.
But Mickey likes it this way. It’s fun. Hanging out with Ian is fun.
“Fuck off…” he grins, snatching the bottle from Ian’s clutches before he can finish it off.
Next time, he’ll show him how it’s done.
A few days pass.
Ian gets caught up in some family shit, and Mickey gets caught up in some family shit, and honestly there’s only one thing on the planet that’s gonna make it all normal again.
‘yo ghostface’ he texts. ‘come hit this with me’
It’s late, which has never stopped them before. But Ian is bitching about not wanting to haul his ass all the way to one of their hangout spots. Not with all the late-summer mosquitoes still hanging on.
Mickey can get ate up by them, though.
That’s apparently no problem for him.
When he climbs in and shuts them inside the back of the van in the backyard, Ian doesn’t wanna talk about his family shit, and Mickey doesn’t wanna talk about his family shit, so in place of all that, they hotbox themselves into oblivion.
Mickey’s high as hell and stretched out width-wise on the mess of ratty blankets, his back slouched and neck slumped and one foot braced on the wall of the van. Not a single part of his body is gonna be happy with him in the morning. But right now he’s finally found peace - in the moment - in the constant drone of Ian rambling about nothing in particular beside him.
“...-like…babies, or somethin’...ya know?”
Mickey offers a lazy grunt. Feels the shift of the blankets as Ian turns to look at him in the wispy dark.
“...I can tell when you’re not listenin' to me, Mick…”
But, “Yeah man, babies,” he insists, gathering the pieces he’s picked up over the past few minutes, “Partridge Family…”
Another pause. Dragged on by sluggish thinking. “Who the hell’s talkin’ about the Partridge Family…?”
“You…” Mickey says. Then on second thought, “No?”
“No.”
“Mm…”
Ian chuckles through his nose, his foot kicking out to nudge Mickey’s hip and send out snickers of his own. “Dick…”
Mickey decompresses back into his deceptively comfortable shape, that easy smile clinging as his eyes drift shut yet again. An effortless stillness settles between them once more, familiar and much needed. It’s always like this. Until it isn’t. Until Gallagher gets a bee in his bonnet about something.
Tonight is apparently no exception.
“So…” he begins when enough time has passed, “...when’re you gonna nut up ‘n put your money where your mouth is…?”
Mickey grunts. “‘Bout what?”
“That thing from before,” he says. “You know - said you’d do it better than me.”
This time, it’s Mickey’s turn to drag out the pause between him, his floating thoughts finally coming together and honing into a closed-eyed eyebrow lift. ‘The thing’. “What…shotgunning?”
“Yeah.”
Of course. “Not gonna let that go, huh…”
He can feel Ian shrugging over there. Because of course he can.“Just talked a big game, is all.”
Push and pull.
Back and forth.
It’s the way they do it, and Mickey can’t say he doesn’t fall for it every single time.
“Gimme that,” he grumbles, already feeling the effects of his slouch as he struggles himself into sitting up in front of Ian.
When he gets the joint in his hand, he motions him closer until their knees are knocking together, blankets bunched beneath them.
Ian settles in. And even in the dark, his eyes have locked onto Mickey in a way that rivals the moon - big, round, obvious.
“Like this,” Mickey says before he hurts himself over there, and then leans forward after pulling a hit, aiming the stream of smoke into Ian’s mouth as it drops open just in time.
He blows it precisely, but not too quick. Not too forceful. And the way Ian pays close attention is kinda endearing, his eyes still watching the purse of Mickey’s lips even a few seconds after he’s inhaled.
Until Mickey’s talking again of course. “See?” he gestures vaguely. “No kazoo.”
It pulls a huffy chuckle from him, smoke puffing from his nostrils as he licks his lips, watching Mickey sit back. “Yeah…got it.”
“Gotta admit mine was better, man.”
“Well…last time was my first try,” Ian protests, those heavy eyes blinking now as he defends himself with slow, deliberate word placement. Oh yeah, he’s definitely feelin’ it. “You gonna judge me on my first try…? Ever…?”
The high has finally reached perfection for him.
Mickey leans back on his hands. Lets him work through it on his own. Put all the words in the sentences exactly where he wants them.
To be fair, this dude did think shotgunning was some hot new trend only a few days ago.
Alright fine, he’ll go easy on him. “Here,” he offers. “Redemption round.”
Ian stares at the joint between Mickey’s fingers for a second, something going on up there in his brain.
But then in a moment that feels far too fast to process, he’s taking a hit and kneeing forward, closing all the way into where Mickey’s still relaxed back on his hands.
But Mickey recovers quickly… Drops his mouth open in a surprised breath and feels the warm exhale as Ian shares his lungful, hovering so close that their noses brush.
Mickey’s eyes drift close… Heart flutters under his rib cage because Ian is lingering… Working through the moment himself…whatever the hell is happening right now… And then…
It’s feather-light, but Mickey feels it all the same - Ian’s lips brushing against his open ones. Experimental. Testing out impulses.
And then Ian is kissing him.
And…
The atmosphere around them swirls with summer heat and the funk of pot as Ian leans away, pulling apart from him.
When Mickey opens his eyes, it’s slow. Like he needs to figure out where he is in space and time. Like that might not have just been real.
Except Ian is eyeing at him with this look - somehow dazed and completely locked in.
And…
Mickey reaches forward, grabbing at Ian’s t-shirt and pulling him back into him until their foreheads are pressed together.
It’s a little sweaty, but it’s nice. Mickey doesn’t know what’s happening, but he likes it, he thinks. The warm breath puffing against his mouth. The way he can feel Ian nudge closer and closer until their lips are brushing again and then-...
Ian kisses him again, and it’s more sure this time.
More committed.
Ian kisses him, and it’s lazy and drawn out and Mickey kisses him back.
He lets go of the front of his shirt, planting his hand behind him with the other to find balance. Because it feels surprisingly good but he’s starting to get dizzy. Like the air in the back of the van is beginning to circle around him.
And…
Ian slowly pulls away, the sound of their lips sealing one last time echoing in his ears.
Then it’s the rustle of the blankets, bunching and stretching as they fall back into their own spaces, looking but not looking. Not at the same time, at least.
Mickey rubs his thumb over the corner of his mouth, too high to process what just happened and pick it apart. There doesn’t really seem like there’s a push to. A need. Not right now.
So he’s not going to. Not if Ian isn’t.
He’s gonna slump back into a position that’s gonna fuck his neck up for days, his heavy eyes tracing over the weird stains on the roof of the van as his lips tingle.
It’s not a one time thing.
Mickey…kinda thought it was gonna be, for some reason. That it was just a blip on their radar. Just a thing he’d think about every once in a while when it’s late and he can’t go to sleep.
It’s not.
The next time they get high together, they’re dicking around looking at old comic books in Ian’s room and somehow they end up shotgunning again. Mickey’s not really sure how it happens, but they’re blowing the smoke into each other’s mouths like that’s just something they’re gonna do now.
It’s to save money, Ian says.
Makes the joint last longer, he explains.
Mickey’s not too sure that’s how that shit works, but he’s bored and he ain’t exactly known to turn down too much when it comes to him and then Ian is kissing him on his bed.
Like that’s just something they’re gonna do now.
Like it’s normal.
Because once Ian’s had his fill, they slip right back into what they were doing before - no talking about it - no questioning - no awkward silence either.
And to be perfectly honest, it’s kinda exactly Mickey’s speed. Feelings aren’t his forte and Gallagher seems pleased as punch anyway and if he’s gonna be even more honest…he kinda is too.
Because it’s fun.
Hanging with Ian is fun.
Making out with Ian is fun.
Mickey’s doesn’t have anyone to compare him to, but Gallagher’s a really fucking decent kisser. Not too fast. Not too needy. He kisses Mickey and it’s all relaxed and chill, their highs helping it all melt between them like slow, dripping honey.
It’s so good and so hypnotic that the thoughts never end up working their way from his mind down to his mouth. ‘What are we doing?’ ‘Why are we doing this?’ ‘Friends don’t usually do this shit, do they?’
He just goes with the flow, little bursts of satisfaction popping off along his spine as Ian slowly blows his hit into his mouth and then licks in after it.
If he’s not gonna say anything about it, then neither is Mickey.
Even though they probably should.
Because if it was just something they did - if it was actually no big deal - then they wouldn’t hide it. If it didn’t mean anything then they wouldn’t shoot apart on the bed with a startled, guilty jerk as Lip pushes through the bedroom door, making a pitstop to snatch the joint out of Ian’s fingers and take it up into the top bunk for himself.
But they do.
Which means it isn’t.
And they should probably talk about it.
But they never end up doing that.
The thing is, Mickey’s pretty sure Ian thinks he’s getting away with something.
On Halloween, Iggy brings a thousand people over to the house, and Mickey and Ian shut themselves away in his room.
The music is loud. People are yelling. Shit is breaking. It's a classic Milkovich party. But all of it is muffled into something manageable behind his door.
“Coulda been Billy Loomis,” Ian laments from the bed, costume-less and out of sight. “And Shaggy... You and me...”
From where he’s stretched out flat on the floor, feeling the pulses of the bass in his back, Mickey answers. “Like…actual Shaggy? …or the other Scream guy?”
“I dunno, what’s funnier?”
“I mean, fuckin’ Shaggy.” Obviously.
“Yeah… Too late now, anyway…”
It’s true. Halloween is upon them. They stopped going around the neighborhood being a couple pains in the ass a few years ago. Which means this year, they’ll just have to settle for a treat.
The bed creaks above him as Ian makes his way to the edge and slides off, punching the breath out of Mickey’s lungs as he hooks a leg over and plops down on top of him.
“Ugh…” he wheezes, draping an arm over his eyes.
Jesus, he swears Ian would rather drop dead than give a guy a warning about anything.
When he finally gets his shit together and pulls his arm away, it’s to the sight of Ian twisting the end of a joint and sticking it in his mouth, all of this from his apparently very comfortable place on top of Mickey’s lap.
Alright. He knows where this shit’s going.
“Nah, man - there’s too many people,” he says in perfect time with something crashing impressively loud in the living room.
Ian brings his lighter up, the joint bobbing between his lips with every word. “Locked the door, didn’t you?”
“You think that shit’ll stop ‘em?”
And yet the lighter is scraping to life all the same, striking Ian’s face in licks of sudden fire. The way his brows have furrowed in concentration. The strands of his bangs that have fallen over his forehead.
It’s got this way of making Mickey’s stomach flip, unable to draw his eyes away, even as Ian finally gets the end of the joint to light.
He knows where this shit’s going.
“I can take my own hit, ya know…” he mumbles, but it’s half-assed. Only part of him is convinced as he watches Ian take a pull for himself, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he blows it out above them and then swallows, ready for another.
“I know,” he says down to him, “Funner this way…”
And that, Mickey wasn’t even arguing in the first place.
He didn’t say it wasn’t fun. What he said is there’s too many people around. He didn’t say he didn’t want to, he just-...
Mickey’s train of thought evaporates like it was never there as he wets his lips instinctually, opening up for Ian when he drops down to hover inches away.
Ian blows out slowly… Shares his breath… Dips his tongue in a shallow little lick as Mickey’s darts out to meet his, but nothing more.
Testing.
Impulsive.
In the living room, the song changes to something with slower bass - more space between the hits.
And from where he’s lying on the floor, all he can see is Ian looking down at him, bangs in his eyes as he fixes him with an easy half-grin.
Damn.
Alright yeah. Maybe they can do this.
One more time, at least.
Mickey reaches blindly out to the side, only having to wait for a second before he feels the joint nudging between his fingers.
He brings it between them. Takes a hit, without looking away. Gets a grip on Ian’s jacket and pulls him back down, getting their mouths nice and close.
Closer than they need to be, if they’re being honest with themselves. But it feels good this way. It’s fun this way. Mickey barely even has to breathe out… Just lets the smoke float up, unhurried…rising from his parted lips and into Ian’s waiting mouth, natural and smooth.
Ian breathes it in even as he leans down, sealing it off with a sucking kiss to Mickey’s slick bottom lip.
It’s so smooth that Mickey doesn’t get a chance to remind him about the people outside. They’re nothing but white noise to him, the blood pumping in his ears much louder. The heat pouring through him is much more important, Ian shifting on top of him as they start to move together - get closer. Like they weren’t gonna do this time, but of course they are because it's them.
Mickey tilts his head to the perfect angle, capturing Ian’s lips with his own.
Another song change. Time going in and out.
Their breaths have started to sync up like they always do, but tonight they’re coming quicker than usual. A little heavier than they normally do. And whether they realize it or not, it’s driving their mouths to follow, moving against each other with each faster, greedier kiss.
Mickey can feel it in the way his chest is starting to rise and fall - how Ian’s hands are starting to move, one wrapping around the back of his neck and tugging him closer until their teeth are clashing together.
They both groan at the sudden, unexpected pain, but that’s it.
It doesn’t stop them.
If anything, it just makes them more impatient to move past it, grabbing quick gasps of air between them before diving in closer - deeper into each other - more.
The old wood floor creaks beneath them as Ian moves himself until he’s laying on top of him. Glides his tongue over Mickey’s and it’s hungry. Sways down until their laps are pressing together and Mickey drops the joint, his hands clambering for literally any part of Ian before he-
The fist pounding on the other side of Mickey’s door might as well be pounding on his chest too, with the way it has him jumping out of his skin.
And he’s not the only one - Ian’s suddenly scrambling off of him, practically falling on his ass in the process because-
“OPEN UP MICK - I’M ABOUT TO FUCKIN’ PUKE.”
With his heart hammering in his chest, Mickey gets to his feet, running a hand through his hair and tugging his shirt down on his body and-
“Fuck-” Iggy’s bursting through the door the literal second Mickey gets it unlocked and open, exposing their little bubble of safety to the chaos of the rest of the house.
Mickey winces, immediately closing the door to save as much as he can, but knowing it’s all pretty much fucked now that they’ve got his brother ambling through his room and shutting himself away in the bathroom.
Fuck…
He slumps against his closed door. Feels his breath still coming hot and heavy. Opens his eyes, and then drops them to where the joint has gone out on the floor… Where Ian is slumped up against his dresser, even worse at trying to catch his breath than Mickey…
Outside the door, the muffled music slips into something chaotic and bass-heavy and when Ian wets his reddened lips, flicking his eyes up to him, Mickey’s heart trips right along in time.
Because damn…
That was…uh-
Whatever his brain was going to provide for him next is all at once flushed away - aggressively - by the sound of Iggy violently puking his guts up in the bathroom.
Mickey grimaces, the sentiment reflected with double disgust as Ian starts getting to his feet.
“Jesus.”
“Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
They leave the joint on the floor.
Mickey doesn’t know if he should be panicking or not.
Doesn’t know how much he should be letting himself think about Halloween night.
Because there’s ‘finishing a joint and kissing your friend a little’, and then there’s ‘taking two hits and then making out on the floor until you start dry humping each other’ and those are two separate things, Mickey thinks. Two separate weights. Very different intentions.
And when it’s all said and done, he lets himself think about getting hot and bothered with Ian because he liked that shit, so should he be panicking?
Should he be digging deep and recognizing why he likes doing this shit with him so much?
Ian’s his best fucking friend, but he’s-...
It’s not like Mickey’s thoughts haven’t gone there… You know… In the weeks after Halloween. The weeks where they don’t talk about the fact that they were grinding all over each other on Mickey’s bedroom floor, because why would they, right? Why would they talk about it when they can laugh and dance around each other and string it along for however long this is gonna happen?
Because Ian still thinks he’s getting away with something.
Mickey knows that for a motherfucking fact. Because if he wasn’t using getting high as an excuse to kiss him, then he wouldn’t be acting like he doesn’t know what to do with himself when they meet up under the bleachers and he realizes that the joint he had in his pocket is gone.
It’s happened before.
Siblings have sticky fingers.
But when the expectation to meet up and make out is stolen from them - when he can’t use the excuse as an excuse anymore? Man, that disappointment is so obvious on his face that Mickey’s gotta feel bad for him. Gotta feel bad for himself.
Because Ian’s not the only one with expectations.
Mickey’s like a goddamn dog these days, barking at the opportunity - drooling at the ring of the bell and the spark of the lighter.
But the excuse falls through their fingers so they just sit. Kick their feet in the dirt. Talk about absolute fuckshit just to get their minds off it because that’s what they gotta do.
Mickey’s got a craving so bad his mouth is watering.
And it’s not for a hit of the joint.
Winter settles in and it’s fucking brutal.
A sane person would stay inside, but neither of them are sane and that’s why they work so well together.
That’s why Ian’s at some party and why Mickey’s at the 7/11 when he gets his call to come help navigate his drunk ass home.
Ian’s not drunk, Mickey realizes about half a second into their stumble back to the Gallagher house, Ian’s arm slung over his shoulder for support. Well, he is drunk, but that’s not all.
He’s crossfaded as a motherfucker.
It makes their journey a little difficult and a lot annoying because Ian’s convinced making a little snow angel or three on the way will do the trick. But Mickey’s committed. Mickey’s here. Mickey’s hauling his ginger ass up the Gallagher porch stairs, willing to do it because their positions have been flipped many times in the past.
It’s just something that they do for each other.
It’s normal.
“Take your fuckin’ boots off,” Mickey mutters as he crouches in front of where he’s slumped Ian’s happy ass against the closed front door, the movie that’s playing in the living room lighting his quick work of the laces. Then the zipper of his winter coat. Pulling the wool hat from his head.
Looks like the whole Gallagher clan’s in for a movie night tonight. Ian would be here instead of getting crossfaded at some guy’s house if he was sane. But then again, Mickey’s just as guilty. Who’s he to judge?
With another mumbled confirmation that Ian’s fine and he’s just gonna drop him into bed to sleep it off, they make their way up the dreaded stairs - an impossible task all on its own when he’s got a six-foot golden retriever melting all over him and slurring unhelpful suggestions.
But Mickey’s committed. Mickey’s here. Mickey’s lugging him into the boys’ bedroom, humoring Ian as he continues to let his thoughts pour out of his mouth unscripted. “Mick…”
“Yep.”
“Mick I-…thank you Mickey...” One of his big ol’ paws reaches out to blindly pat at the air, losing its way from the jump. “You’re my best friend…”
Mickey huffs a laugh, but keeps his voice low. “Uh huh.” And then he’s more or less dumping him onto his bed, watching him bounce on the mattress.
Once he’s settled, Ian reaches out again, his eyes so heavy they might as well be shut. “…m’I your best friend?”
God… “Yeah, Gallagher,” he admits with an eye roll. “You’re my best friend.”
But it’s got a smile beaming across Ian’s face, his hands finally nudging into Mickey’s chest and getting his bearings - enough, at least, to reel Mickey in by the sweater and then hook an arm around his neck, keeping him close.
And it’s nice and familiar, but Mickey’s a little too sober for this. He doesn’t have the buffer of a high to haze over the way his heart suddenly feels so big and heavy in his rib cage - like it’s trying to get out - beating, beating, beating against it.
But Ian is happy.
And Ian is smiling.
And Ian is pressing his lips to Mickey’s in a solid, deliberate kiss.
It doesn’t last long. Only a second or two and then he’s collapsing back onto the pillow, the smack of their kiss breaking off sounding deafening in the silent room.
But Mickey’s got the full weight of it on him still and it keeps him here, sober yet slow to process.
He forces himself to straighten.
To keep moving.
To tug the blankets up over Ian’s body, his lips tingling as he hears his last thought fall from his mouth.
“Mm…my best friend…” Dreamy… Genuine… “I love you, Mick…”
Mickey’s momentum stalls for a moment - another pulse of his heart as it tries to squeeze its way out between his ribs. Then, “Yeah…” he murmurs, laying the blanket under Ian’s chin. “Love you too…”
With one last look at him, Mickey pushes himself to stand. To turn, aiming to at least get home before he starts having to come to some really big conclusions about himself.
It’s his plan, but plans have a bad track record of turning out in the Gallagher house, and he should know that.
But when he steps away, it hits him with a wave of discomfort and dread all the same. Because when he glances up, it’s to the sight of Lip looking at him from the top bunk, a book in hand.
Fuck.
He missed a Gallagher.
Mickey fixes his posture. Feels the need to backtrack but doesn’t, instead choosing to slap a frown on his face as he heads for the door.
“Make sure he don’t choke on his puke.”
But he can feel Lip’s eyes on him every single step, calculating. “Yep…”
He should definitely be panicking about this, at least, right?
His brain is telling him yes, but to be perfectly fucking honest, Mickey kinda doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t wanna dread. Doesn’t wanna mope. Doesn’t wanna run through a horrific, ugly existential crisis when he already knows the answer to it. He’s known for a long time, he realizes.
So. The next day.
‘yo ghostface u alive?’
After a few minutes, Ian hits him back with the ‘rock on’ hand emoji. A good sign, all things considered.
And good news for Mickey, because he wants to get out ahead of this thing.
‘u talk to lip?’
Ian responds quickly, ‘like in general?’ which means that against all odds and the history of everything, Lip Gallagher has chosen to keep his big fuckin’ mouth shut. For now, at least.
Mickey’s still got time.
‘dugouts in 20’
They have to brush the snow off the benches.
Mickey’s here first, so he does it. But when Ian arrives, big-ass footprints trailing behind him in the snow, it’s with a little reward.
“They were outta coffee when I got there,” he says, handing over one of the takeout cups with a gloved hand. “Don’t give a shit about my hangover, apparently.”
Mickey huffs a laugh. “Fuck, man…” Takes a drink. Gas station hot chocolate. It’s perfect. “Shit put you on your ass, I’ll tellya that much.”
Ian’s in no shape to deny it. “Yeah. Blacked out pretty hard,” he admits, sheepish with it. “Hope I didn’t puke on ya…”
Mickey watches as he sits down next to him on the freshly-cleared bench. Entertains the memories of last night. The thump of his heart. “Nah man. You were just mushy as fuck.”
“Great.”
“Talkin’ ‘bout how we’re best friends ‘n shit.”
“Mm…” Ian smiles into his hot chocolate, his gaze cast in the snow piled against the chain link fence.
The lull that settles between them is long. And for a second, Mickey’s not sure he’s gonna have the balls to bring it up. They’re good at not talking about it.
But then…
“Kissed me,” he says, before he can back out. No more hiding. It’s time they fixed that about themselves.
A beat. Then Ian’s eyes flick over to him, cautious. “Yeah?”
“Yep.”
The way he tries to laugh it off doesn’t land. Not the excuse he’s trying to fall back on either. “Well, I was pretty fucked.”
Because, “Dunno man. Kissed me kinda like you just wanted to kiss me.”
It wasn’t like how they usually do it. At all. It wasn’t high, floaty making out just to pass the time.
Ian kissed him and it was deliberate and genuine and there was meaning packed behind that motherfucker. Mickey knows there was.
And yes, just like everything else that’s happened between them this year, he really fucking likes that shit.
After a few moments of silence, Ian speaks again. And the curiosity is enough to get Mickey smiling. “Was I good?”
Because of course he’d ask something like that. And if Ian’s gonna ask, Mickey’s gonna be honest. “Ain’t gonna lie to ya, man. Definitely better at it when you ain’t halfway to dyin’.”
“Mm. When I’m just high, you mean.”
Mickey shrugs. Takes a sip of hot chocolate in the quiet stillness that floats between them now, Ian no doubt finding his way through that next to him.
He makes quick work of it. Surprisingly quick. Mickey’s almost jealous.
“And what if I did it without any of that?” he asks. “What if I did it just ‘cause I wanted to do it?”
Mickey’s heart flutters in his chest, but it’s guarded. Nervous. “I mean…then we’d just be kissing,” he explains, “to kiss.”
They’d be doing what he’s pretty sure Ian’s been after all this time, hiding behind the excuse of having fun. And damn, Mickey realizes, his pulse beginning to pick up - months of avoiding the topic can feel real fucking oppressive when you suddenly pull the cord and let it drop on top of you like this.
Ian’s feeling it over there too. It’s clear in the way he continues to phrase everything in hypotheticals. How he’s testing the waters before jumping in.
“Friends can do that though, right?” he supposes. “Kiss? To kiss?”
“Best friends, maybe.”
“Sooo…us?”
Mickey huffs a laugh, but it’s starting to get antsy, energy working up from his fingertips and branching out in his body. “We’re best friends, ain’t we?”
“Yeah-”
“Kept goin’ on and on about last night, so I’d hope to fucking Christ we’re-”
Mickey’s frenzy gets cut off before it can spiral as Ian smashes their lips together, putting every single thing in the motherfucking world on pause for this moment because they’re-
Ian pulls away with a big breath that clouds in the cold.
Turns forward and blows it out through puffy cheeks, like he just had to summon every ounce of strength in him to do that. Right this second. No warning, no nothing.
And it’s-...
Holy shit, Mickey doesn’t know what to do with this rush of warm energy. Doesn’t know where to put it. Defaults, tragically, with a huffy laugh and a tease, “Goddamn Gallagher, you did it.” Push and pull. Back and forth. “You found a way to kiss even worse than your fuckin’ blackout.”
Because yeah, they just kissed, but what the fuck was that?
Beside him, Ian nods, red rising in his cheeks as he settles it, “Mmkay,” and then stands up with a crunch of snow under his boots.
But Mickey can’t help but drag him back down, “Ay…” the smile that dances across his face giddy and strange and fuck, this is good. This is good! No way he’s gonna let him walk away now. “Settle down, Gallagher. C’mere.”
Because he’s finally done it. He’s evoked The Chin.
But it’s drastically softened by the pink in Ian’s cheeks and the tip of his nose and the way he holds his mouth together in an almost-pout as he lets Mickey tug him back down onto the bench.
“Wouldn’t judge ya on your first try,” he grins. And suddenly they’re in the back of the van. They’re at the start of it all. He’s offering it to him, like he did however many months ago. “Redemption round.”
Ian looks at him, with his big, round, pretty eyes, and Mickey is all at once accepting it. Finally.
He’s flat out in love with this motherfucker.
And he’s gonna have to tell him soon, because Ian’s staring at him like if he looks hard enough, he’ll be able to hear his thoughts.
It’s okay. Mickey will help him. “C’mere,” he says again. “Want you to kiss me just to kiss me.”
It’s what he’s wanted all along, he figures. Just as bad.
Ian just had a jump on wrapping his brain around it before him.
And that’s why it feels like they’re in the heat of summer again when Ian leans in close, everything warming over inside him the second their lips brush together - experimental - testing - then finally fucking committing as they kiss each other, completely free of excuses.
They kiss because they want to.
Because they like each other.
Because they’re best friends and that’s a really good jumping off point to something bigger, right? They kinda got this shit in the bag, don’t they.
Their warm breath clouds in the chilly air between them as they part, but keep their foreheads pressed together, flirting with the danger of freezing this way.
But Mickey doesn’t wanna stop yet. And neither does Ian, judging off his quiet little, “...‘kay… Was that better…?”
It works its way right into Mickey heart, that bitch so full that he’s about to crack a fucking rib. “I dunno,” he hums. “Lemme get a lil’ more…”
And when their mouths slot together it’s all the answer he needs.
Especially when he can feel it against his lips, smitten and happy and in love.
Ian is smiling.
And Mickey is close behind.
Go check out some amazingly adorable art of this fic by @myhant on Tumblr!