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Despite his many attempts, Iggy Milkovich never managed to get close to the redhead.
Not even close enough to ask him his name.
When the carrot top was there in the Milkovich house, Mickey had kept the man locked up in his room like a princess in a tower, safely tucked away from the curious eyes of Iggy and his brothers. When he was gone, Mickey would go silent at any mention of him, clenching his jaw shut and stubbornly refusing every question his brothers asked.
Iggy’s intentions were innocent, but Mickey would never see that.
Sure, he once had a reputation as a notorious fag-basher. Sure, he had called Mickey a queer-bo and a sissy, and a fag, and a fairy. But if Iggy ever knew his brother was an actual, honest-to-god homo, he probably wouldn’t have done it.
He was a changed man, he really was. His interest in the redhead came from pure intentions. He just wanted to see who was boning his brother.
So, it felt like a hallucination when Iggy stumbled out of his room to see the ginger sitting in his kitchen, casually drinking a mug of coffee as if his presence there was the most normal thing in the world. Iggy froze at the sight, unable to do anything but stare slack-jawed at the guest.
He was young; probably younger than Mickey, but not much. He wore his hair in a crew cut, slightly grown out but still short enough to show off his strong jawline and glassy brown eyes. He was lean, but clearly strong, with toned arm muscles peeking out from his loose t-shirt.
“Oh, uh… Hey. Iggy, right?” The ginger said in a raspy morning voice, finally noticing Iggy’s presence. A nervous smile bloomed on his face, trying to compensate for the awkwardness in his tone.
“‘Sup,” Iggy grunted, snapping out of his trance. He poured himself a cup of coffee, trying his best to contain his excitement.
He slid as casually as possible into the seat across from the redhead.
“Didn’t catch your name?” Iggy asked nonchalantly.
“It’s Ian. Gallagher.” The guy– Ian– replied, eyes darting around the room nervously.
At this detail, Iggy couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“No fucking way. A Gallagher boning my fucking brother?” Iggy laughed, almost– but not quite– hysterically.
Ian didn’t laugh. He continued to shift anxiously in his seat, not-so-discreetly staring at the BEAT-DOWN lettering on Iggy’s knuckles. He seemed as if he was waiting for something, as if he expected Iggy to come flying at him fists first.
“Relax, man. I don’t beat on fags anymore,” Iggy wanted to say. But he didn’t, because something in him said it wouldn’t make it better.
“Fuck, I’m glad to meet you.” Iggy blurted out instead, tone light and genuine. “The way Mickey kept you locked up like fucking– uh, Rapunzel or some shit, I thought I never would.”
At this, Ian smiled, and the tension in his shoulders loosened a little bit.
“Really, huh? I never really noticed.”
“Yeah. He thought I was gonna beat you up or somethin’. But man, I just wanted to see who had my little brother acting like such a little bitch”
Ian snorted, and Iggy was pleased to see that almost all nervousness had eased out of his posture.
From there, conversation flowed easily, with Ian more than happy to answer Iggy’s rapid fire questions, and Iggy glad to respond to Ian’s inquiries about the Milkovich family.
Questions rolled off of his tongue faster than he could think them up.
When did you start fucking?
Are you two dating?
How could you be with a prick like Mickey?
It was refreshing to have someone actually answer his questions. Mickey had been so tight-lipped, shutting down at any mention of his love life, and Iggy had almost assumed that the redhead would be the same way. But Ian spoke so openly, so easily about his relationship with Mickey, it made him wonder what the fuck a guy like him was doing with his brother. Opposites attract, I guess.
Iggy then asked a question he had wanted answered right from the start:
“So which one of you is the man and who’s the woman? Like, who does the fucking and who gets fucked?” Iggy asked, leaning back in his chair to stretch out his sleep-tense muscles.
Ian choked on his coffee at this question, and Iggy thought he might just have gone too far this time. But the redhead didn’t say anything, didn’t call Iggy out. He only sat for a moment, running his hand through his orange hair seemingly in deep thought.
After a minute of weighted silence, Ian finally opened his mouth to speak. “Uh-”
“I take it.” another voice snarled from the door, cutting Ian off.
Iggy whipped his head around out of reflex. “Huh?”
“I said I fucking take it, man” a bleary-eyed Mickey hissed, seizing Iggy’s collar and backing him up against the wall. “I take it up the ass, and I fucking like it. You gonna fuck me up, huh? Fag-bash me?”
Mickey’s eyes burned with a mixture of intense fear and fiery rage. The look in his eyes sent pins and needles in the back of Iggy’s throat.
“Fuck no. I was just curious, is all.” Iggy sputtered out in honesty. Something dark flared in Mickey’s gaze at the answer, and his fist clenched tighter at the collar of Iggy’s shirt.
Out of the corner of his vision, he could see Mickey’s free hand balled up in a tight fist, almost shaking with fury.
“Mick, c’mon” Ian said from behind the brothers, voice cracking in nervousness.
Now.
Out of sheer reflex, Mickey’s eyes sprang to the redhead behind him, and Iggy seized his chance. He shoved Mickey off of him with as much force as he could muster.
A crash sounded a second later as the kitchen table caught the brunt of Mickey’s body weight.
“Fuck!” The younger Milkovich shouted as he tumbled. It took only a second for him to regain his footing, and he flung himself at his brother.
Iggy threw his arms up, preparing himself for an impact that never landed.
Mickey would have come crashing into Iggy if it weren’t for the grip the Gallagher now had on his chest. He struggled in Ian’s grasp, fists still flailing wildly– uselessly, now that Iggy was out of range.
Idiot, Iggy thought to himself between gasps. I always fucking go too far.
“Mick, stop. We were just talking” Ian pleaded, looking to Iggy for support. “Right?”
“Yeah, man. I swear.” Iggy huffed. “All that fag… uh, gay-bashing stuff, I ain’t doin’ it no more, man.”
Mickey had stopped struggling, now standing tensely with Ian’s hands still hooked under his arms. His gaze was cold and icy, but calmer than it was before.
“Not fucking gay” Mickey sniffed, reaching up to scratch his eyebrow.
“Yeah, I know. I know.“ Iggy said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “But still, I swear. I’m a changed man, see?”
Mickey rolled his eyes, clearly still skeptical. But he said nothing, which from Mickey, was the best agreement you could get.
“Great. Can we all be civil now?” Ian said, easing away from Mickey and back into his seat at the table.
Iggy sat down too, immediately seizing his almost empty coffee mug and draining it. The tension in the room had made his throat unbearably dry, and he was practically dying for a sip of anything. The coffee worked, flooding moisture into the desert that was his mouth as he gulped it down.
Mickey was still standing, and he and Ian seemed to be having some sort of silent argument with their eyes.
Sit, he could imagine Ian saying. No. Mickey would reply. Mickey had always been like that; reluctant to follow orders, doesn’t matter from who. But clearly the redhead had some sort of mystical power over the Milkovich, because he begrudgingly collapsed into the other chair just as Iggy rose to refill his mug.
“Want some coffee, Mick?” Iggy smirked as he poured.
“Call me that again and I’ll shove your dick down your throat.” Mickey responded in his usual way, but with the slightest grin on his face.