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“You remember Milkovich?” Ian leaned back against his car, easily accepting the smoke Lip held out to him, throwing a half hearted glare. His brother knew Ian was trying to quit, but Ian knew that Lip’s new job, the threateningly looming building he was currently parked out front of, regularly did piss tests, which turned their usual baking session into a nicotine-itch scratching break whenever Lip could manage.
Lip wrung his hands out, scratching at his neck as he scrunched an eyebrow (Ian hated those nervous ticks, always giving away when Lip was thinking, but he hated more that he took some of them); “Which one?”
“You know more than one?” Ian sounded surprised - this talk might go a lot easier than planned. Ian remembers seeing Mickey’s sister once with Lip, didn’t know that Mickey himself or any other of the Milkoviches might’ve been around.
“Yeah, yeah. Mandy Milkovich, friend of Amanda’s. Went to the same sorority or some shit. And uh...knuckle tattoos,” Lip looked down, gesturing with his hands and getting close to snapping his fingers at the effort put into conjuring the name.
“Mick-”
“Mikhailo! He was in some of my classes. Fuck, what a weird name. Russian or some shit.”
“Ukranian.” Ian diverted his eyes to the asphalt, scratching at his nose nervously.
“Yeah. He got out a while ago,” of Southside, Ian supplies, still upset that they hadn’t run into each other as teens. “That Milkovich? What about him?”
“Goes to college further up, live in the same dorm, he's a few rooms over.”
“No shit? Thought his parents were loaded, what’s he doing in Malcolm X dorms?”
Ian shrugs. “Hates the high life, didn’t want to deal with pretentious frats, didn’t want Ivy League dorms, calls the people there pompous retards,” Ian sighed out the word, still managing to slip in some of Mickey’s inflection, because, whether Ian likes to admit it or not, it always amused him how loathsomely Mickey talked about the crowd he willingly thrust himself into. Only thing that annoyed Ian was when Mickey would turn right back around with a smile, blend right back into the people he belittled.
“He’s kind of...part of that problem though, isn’t he?”
“That’s what I said! And he fucking gets pissy at me. He hates those people with everything in his being, but you call him out on hanging out with them and suddenly you’re at the very top of his shit list. As if stating the obvious is the worst crime imaginable.” Ian emerges from his ramble to gage Lip’s reaction, receiving a filthy look from his brother, throwing a similar one back as a defense. “What?”
“When the fuck did you get so involved with fat-cats? Said you were done with Northside bullshit.” Lip slipped another cigarette out of his pack, Ian huffing as he threw the almost completely burned out one away, grinding it into the ground with his heel as he averted his eyes.
“I probably got so involved when I started fucking them.”
He risked a glance at Lip, not managing to fully comprehend the look on his brother’s face, something calculating and still clicking. Ian groaned, frustratedly rubbing a hand over his face; “What?”
“No, no, I’m mishearing something... You, closeted-pedo-queen fucker extraordinaire, going after someone your own age? Let alone someone competent your own age? Mikhailo scholarships-up-the-ass Milkovich... My brother’s turning over a new fucking leaf!” Lip’s look of confusion had turned into a sharp and teasing grin as he patted Ian roughly on the back, Ian hiding his own face to suppress a smile.
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re gonna make one hell of a housewife for your young new sugar daddy.” Ian pulled a face, shoving fingers in his mouth and fake gagging as he clutched his stomach.
“It’s disgusting that you even know what that is.”
“My little brother is off every month with some new rich asshole and I’m supposed to not look into shit like that?”
“Whatever. I’m not with him for money.”
“So far money seems to be the only thing he has in common with your usual type. From what I remember he’s a bit of a dick”
“Yeah, he is.” Ian gave a dopey smile. “You know what he also is?” Ian dropped the smile, tone low, “hot and smart as fuck.” This time Lip fake gagged, Ian laughing before he continued talking, staring off, “Even if I wanted to be a gold digger, he’s the rich hating being rich type, acts the same as any other community college kid living off of ramen. Dresses nice though...”
“You’re in over your head, Ian. Rich are a fucking workload.”
“You and Amanda are going decent.”
“That’s cause she’s crazy. Milkovich like that?”
“He’s more Southside brand of fucked up than either of us could wish of being, Lip.”
“Well then don’t get hung up on fixing that. Neither extreme is good for you, so take care of yourself.” Ian knew the translation for that: you’ll either get bored and cheat or get overwhelmed and run. That was the usual routine, at least when he was untreated. Lip’s just looking out for him since he’s been out of the game for quite a while - mainly due to Mickey, actually.
Ian felt his phone vibrate on his thigh, reaching in and grinning despite himself at the message on his screen.
MM
Finished exam. Be by the gates in 10
Speak of the devil.
Ian looked back up at Lip, feigning an apologetic look.
“Yeah, yeah. Coming by the house for Christmas?”
Ian nodded, “Yeah, I might still bum around the dorms for a bit though.”
“As long as you drop by.” Lip pushed off of Ian’s beat up car, pulling the other in for a brief hug before walking away. “Keep me posted,” he threw half heartedly over his shoulder.
Ian rapped his fingers over the steering wheel, clenching and unclenching his fists as his eyes fitted over the school again and again. Always got him sweating, being in places like this. It was different from what it was when he’d be brought as arm candy to charity events or to fancy hotels by rich geezers, here he wasn’t a trophy. Here it felt like he was more likely to get sneers than longing looks, to be judged. He shouldn’t care what prissy nobodies with cash had to say, but those looks got him squirming.
His skittish eyes finally caught on to gelled black hair, poised perfectly over a scowling face and suddenly nothing else mattered. He wasn’t paying attention to preppy assholes giggling at his beat-to-shit car, he was paying attention to the glare Mickey was aiming right at him, that look in his eye that told Ian he was a deadman. His heart was fucking racing and he couldn’t help smiling.
“You’re late,” Mickey huffed as soon as he opened the door, throwing his messenger bag in the back as he sat in the passenger seat, fussing with his scarf to pull it undone. His face was flushed pink from the cold and Ian’s hands twitched with the need to grab it and smother Mickey in a kiss, He wouldn’t, not here. Reputation, blah, blah, blah.
“You go by Mikhailo often?” Mickey snapped his eyes over, in the middle of buckling in. Ian kept smiling, leaning back nonchalantly as Mickey considered him with a skeptical look. Mickey buckled in and sat back, rolling his shoulders before he fully relaxed into the seat. Ian could see that he was tense today.
“Only to people I don’t like.”
“Jeez, there goes any chances of me bringing you round to the family,” Ian laughed, starting the car back up and feeling like he can breathe better as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“What’d I do?” Mickey furrowed his brows, Ian’s mouth was gonna be aching from smiling so. He softens like that, when Mickey comes off as even more upset at the world than he usually is, cause Mickey gets so undeniably cute and if Ian wants to keep his face intact he’ll usually keep those comments to himself. Why? He’s so in over his head that even Mickey beating him up would probably just get him crooning.
“Was talking to my brother and I might’ve mentioned a certain Milkovich.”
“Oh.” Mickey relaxed a bit, sighing and running a hand through his hair, effectively setting it free as a few locks fell out of place. Ian watched it on the come down, gnawing at the inside of his cheek.
“Lip, right? We smoked in school, I think. God, you gotta be more careful with how you fucking say shit, man,” Mickey now sounded exhausted instead of wary, pulling out a cigarette and pointing at Ian’s side window, prompting Ian to crank it down, trying not to shiver at the gust of cold air that hit him. The window on the passenger side has been busted for a week or so now, Mickey occasionally getting annoyed by it to the point of hitting the fucking thing and grumbling about fixing it himself if Ian didn’t get to it. “Thought someone was looking for me, but no, you were just gossiping with your limp wristed brother.”
“Hey!” Ian punched Mickey on the arm, Mickey raising his fist as if to retaliate but dropping it with a huff. With no little satisfaction Ian noted the tiny grin that now hugged the cigarette in Mickey’s mouth. “I’ll have you know he bulked up since school.”
“Yeah, whatever. What’d that fucker have to say about me?”
“Nothing, I did most of the talking,” Ian rolled his eyes at the look that got from Mick, ignoring it completely even when he knew that Mickey not knowing what was said would drive him up a wall. Good. Maybe getting used to it will build callus. “Remembered he was with your sister at some point, thought maybe he could tell me something.” It was better to not reveal the actual intentions of Ian and Lip’s conversation. Mickey was always going nuts over his reputation, Ian telling him that Lip knows would not go over well with how secretive Mickey prefered to keep their relations. That stung, but Ian would deal. He wasn’t about to risk losing Mickey just cause he was sad he couldn’t parade his... boyfriend? What is this? It moved past booty calls when Ian started picking Mickey up and Mickey tolerated the well lived in Ford, when they started hanging out for more than sex, when talking became enough.
“So...you’re looking for dirt on me from dudes that fucked my sister? That can of worms is gonna take a while, Gallagher,” Mickey grumbled bitterly, retracting in on himself a bit. He held out his cigarette for Ian to ash out the window, giving Ian a disappointed tilt of the eyebrows when Ian kept it for one inhale. That hit hard, probably better than any nicotine patch or gum Ian’s ever tried. He gave a bashful expression, flicking the ash off again before handing it back to Mickey. “I’d ask if you’re getting cold feet, but those shitheads probably don’t compare to the crap you’ve pulled out of me. If you want to know something just fuckin’ ask, Carrot Top.”
It’s been a couple years, but Ian is only now caught wondering how they got here. Mickey had a reputation to upkeep, a reputation of being smart and filthy rich, a socialite and a trophy son for his parents. He was neat, he was clean, he projected an acceptable personality for weak stomached rich fucks to not be clutching their pearls at. But Ian was close to gaping like a fish at this Mickey. The one that cursed, that ruffled his own hair, the one that smoked and let his mask slip all the way off, giving permission for Ian to just fucking ask if he wanted something, the Mickey that’s willing to give. Ian guesses this is Mickey, not Mikhailo.
“How was the exam?”
“Utter fucking shit. Pulling my hair out, man.”
“Getting an A?”
“I better! Stayed up all night yesterday studying for that shit.” Ian remembers that, since Mickey’s textbooks are still in his room.
“This the last of it though, right? Finally out on winter break?” Ian asked, trying to subdue the hopeful tone but ultimately failing, getting a tiny smile off of Mickey.
“Why? You looking forward to something?”
“Was just wondering if you had any plans.”
“For you I don’t.” Mickey gave another smile, this one shining and Ian was in-fucking-deed a deadman. He refrained from killing them in a car crash but his gut felt warm and mushy, hands tingly. He easily took the almost completely gone cigarette when it was handed over for the last time, managing to grow brighter at the look of approval he got for not smoking the very last of it, for holding back and managing to just flick it out the window as intended.
Once they got far enough from the uppity schools Ian’s will was rewarded and his efforts to not crash the car were tested when Mickey’d undone his pants, leaning over the console to keep Ian’s cock warm with the use of his mouth.
Ian sat on his dorm bed, eyes stuck on Mickey’s unmoving frame, breathing calm as he lay on his stomach, sleeping peacefully in the pile of Ian’s sheets. Ian’s knee was bouncing, his teeth trying to pull on peeling cuticle skin and chipping away at his nails. His other hand was occupied in holding a cigarette.
He couldn’t sleep. His eyes fitted back and forth between Mickey and the things littering his room, half of which weren’t his. When did that happen? He swears it was only a few weeks ago he was ecstatic to finally be able to afford a single bed room, to not have a roommate. Now here he is, living with someone of his own volition. Kinda, sorta. Once a month or so he’ll drop by Mickey’s room on the rare occasion that Mickey can actually be found there and it’ll still be a mess. Walls completely covered in posters, floor nowhere to be seen with all the clothes covering it. Ian’s found out that Mickey’s parents are very anal about shit like that, so it’s no surprise that Mickey’s dorm is Mickey’s cave. He once opened his closet to check if there was actually anything in there or if it was actually all on the floor. Hangers holding up the shit that could wrinkle, that’s it. In the very bottom were two lumps of bunched clothes. A black shirt from a band Ian doesn’t recognise, the graphic faded and the material soft from heavy, long-term wear. The other a blue flannel Ian almost doesn’t recognise as his own.
Comfort clothes.
That’s fuckin’ adorable.
Ian drowned his small smile in the cigarette, throat burning with the calming dose of smoke. He looked to the window perched above his bed, leaning over to draw the blinds at the brightness coming in from the lights scattered around outside the building. He heard stirring and barely could react before Mickey jabbed him with his elbow, causing Ian to collapse on him from where he was reaching over, Ian only falling cause he didn’t want to set the bed on fire by bracing himself using the hand holding his cigarette. They both groaned, Ian from the jab and Mickey from being squished. Mickey groaned even louder when Ian lightly punched his side in retaliation before pushing himself up with his free hand.
“The fuck was that for?” Ian sat up, trying to be subtle in dumping his cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand, failing as Mickey caught him with a glare, raising an eyebrow that clearly said fucking seriously? Ian huffed, reaching a hand up to rub at his eyes, falling right back into the rut he was in before Mickey interrupted. He turned his head to look at Mickey, the other now fully sitting up against the wall, a sheet draped over his shoulders as he took Ian in with a tired frown. Ian’s eyes played over the sight a few times, eventually catching on Mickey’s hands and frowning right back.
Ian pulled his legs onto the bed and sat in front of Mickey, criss-cross-applesauce, reaching out to take his hand. Mickey’s brows scrunched and his expression turned sour but Ian paid no mind, gently easing off the big rings that decked Mickey’s hands in the most gaudy of ways, slowly uncovering the tattoos that Mickey hid underneath. He didn’t hide them like this all the time, especially in the winter when he could just wear gloves, no, he only did this when his parents needed to show off their golden boy. Mickey came back at midnight from whatever pretentious gathering he’d agreed to go to just to get the rest of winter break off and away from his family.
Ian’s never met Mickey’s parents, but he remembers Frank warning about a Terry Milkovich, a nazi, fag-basher that died in prison way back. Story goes Mickey’s mom married rich after Terry’s passing, managing to secure some sort of entrepreneur whose daddy had cash, whose daddy had cash, whose daddy had cash, and so the chain presumably goes. Mickey was 15 when they uprooted and got out of Southside, so he still shares the same views as Ian regarding the rich and pampered. Ian thinks Mickey never really got used to the lifestyle, so actively avoiding it when his own comfort was top priority.
Mickey said he got the tattoos when he was 14, so even if Mickey were to do a better job of playing up the rich boy act, that fact alone would always remind Ian that they’re carved from the same stone, similar to an uncanny degree. The Mickey that’s 14, small for his age, overcompensating and making a pretty dumb descision just cause no one was around to tell him he shouldn’t. Ian’s never explicitly told Mickey where the eagle and rifle needled into his side comes from, though it’s not that he particularly regrets it. It’s fine, sometimes even makes him feel badass, but other times it makes him reel with the memories, remembering that at the time he felt completely fine. He felt right as rain during his first bout of mania, smiled through permanently (and kinda fucking painfully) marking his skin with a reminder of what he’ll never have thanks to the decisions he made further on. He tries not to look at the tattoo with loathing, not to think of opportunities lost and bridges brunt. Tries to be like LIp, actually, just happy he’s here today.
If he had gone and died in a ‘Stan, he wouldn’t have met Mickey.
Mickey knows that Ian’s bipolar, but Ian’s never told him about it. For the most part of their fling Ian didn’t even know that Mickey was aware. But then one night Ian was restless. He flipped the whole dorm room, cleaned every inch, folded all of Mickey’s scattered clothes and sectioned off a part of his dresser just for Mickey’s shit. Mickey took the hint, got that Ian was saying hey, you pretty much live with me anyways! He was fine with that, but it happening while Ian’s meds were unbalanced is what got him to speak out.
That’s when Ian pieced together that Mickey actually cared. Mickey didn’t use his vulnerability against him, didn’t take advantage. Instead he hounded Ian to the clinic and sat with him through the talk with his doctor. They bought the new drugs and Mickey stayed with Ian while he slept, skipped his classes the next day when Ian couldn’t muster enough to get out of bed.
That Friday turned into that Saturday turned into that Sunday. Mickey stayed with him the whole way through the mini depressive episode, only getting up to get them food or water which Ian would only take tiny bits of. Mickey would talk occasionally to fill the silence, it’s those few days where Ian found out most of the things he knows about Mickey. Ian wonders if Mickey even knew that he was listening.
It was like that until he started responding to the meds, perking up a bit on Sunday, enough to get out of bed and enough to let himself be dragged to the dorm’s showers by Mickey. Something about smelling like dead skunk. Funny, since Mickey wasn’t too better off.
When he was clean he soon became sweaty again. The door of his dorm room was barely closed before Mickey connected their lips. It was soft - almost relieved, Ian didn’t fail to notice - but it turned heated soon after, Ian quick to push Mickey to the bed. With three days of all the sleep you could get he was feeling live again, couldn’t help spinning the situation into one that would get this energy out of him.
Mickey pushed him away when Ian went for his towel, Ian only going far enough for Mickey to be able to talk. He was flushed and breathless, but in that moment managed to tell Ian to ask him if he’ll move in. Ian looked at him confused, brow furrowed, but complied.
“Will you move in?”
Mickey only grinned at him before his lips once again latched onto Ian’s, Ian not able to think on the sentiment too long before he was drowning in everything that Mickey had to offer.
Back to the present, Ian’s jingling around a pretty impressive mound of rings in his palm. Individually they all seem pretty nice, he guesses. Only precious metals, some with stones in them. They’re nice, but not when stacked on every finger to hide Mickey’s ink.
Mickey regards Ian for a moment, sees the upset little wrinkle between his brows, the gentle frown. He reaches out and takes the bundle of rings, sifting through it until he finds a bigger one, one he was wearing on his thumb earlier. He dumps the rest on the nightstand and holds out his hand. Ian frowns harder but hesitantly puts his hand out. Mickey bypasses the ring finger, instead slipping the ring on Ian’s pointer.
Ian observes the back of the band above his palm. Silver, maybe even fucking platinum. It’s nice, but then he turns his hand over.
“...what the fuck, Mick?” he sighs exhaustedly, while Mickey breaks out into a bright smile and a loud laugh.
The centrepiece of the ring is unmistakably a swastika.
Ian tries hard to keep his face schooled into an unimpressed expression, but Mickey’s laughter gets him to crack, fighting the grin but ultimately losing.
“Why the fuck do you even have this?”
Mickey calmed down soon enough, still smiling as he relaxed back into the bed.
“It was my dad’s. Clink sent it over with his other shit when he kicked the bucket.” Mickey shrugged, Ian looking back down at the ring and remembering what Frank said - nazi. Yeah, guess this makes sense then. He fiddled with it, twisting it around a bit.
“And why is it on my finger?”
“Have it.”
“As sweet as this is....” Ian trailed off, hiding his smile at his obvious ploy to rile Mickey up. Ian looked up from the ring, seeing that Mickey wasn’t smiling. “Oh…oh, you’re serious?”
“Mhm.”
Ian considered it for a moment, frowning again. He’s not sure if he should ask what he wants to ask. Mickey never talked about his actual dad and Ian thinks it might be a touchy subject.
“Don't you want to keep it?” He remembered Monica, how her death made parting with a pound of meth really hard.
Mickey only huffed.
“Seriously? Please. Giving that ring to my penis-having-partner probably has pops rolling in his grave right now. That couldn’t make me any happier.” Then Ian remembers the other thing Frank said: fag-basher. He smiles again, moving to cage Mickey in with his arms, leaning down to give him a kiss.
“I love it,” he whispered against Mickey’s lips, it obviously not being the word he was meaning to use. Mickey shook that off by retracting in on himself, giving Ian a nasty, questioning look. Ian pulled back a bit with frown but then Mickey put one finger above his own top lip and raised his other hand in a nazi salute, lifting a questioning eyebrow at Ian.
Ian rolled his eyes and quickly grabbed a pillow, shoving it down on Mickey’s face to smother the bastard.
“You know that’s not what I fucking mean!” but he was smiling and Mickey’s muffled laughter lit up the room as he wrestled in pushing Ian off.