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Ian woke up in Mickey’s bed, laying on his side between Mickey and the wall. They were both completely naked, not feeling any need to put on clothes the previous night with the house to themselves.
Ian propped himself up on an elbow and watched Mickey sleep for a minute. He looked almost peaceful. Ian didn’t get to see Mickey like this often. Occasionally, he would catch glimpses of it post-orgasm, when Mickey was too tired and content to put up a wall, so he enjoyed sleepy, vulnerable Mickey while he could.
Ian only got up when the pressure in his bladder become too much to ignore. He climbed over Mickey, careful not to jostle him too much. Mickey grumbled quietly and rolled over into the warm patch of bed that Ian had just vacated.
Once Ian finished in the bathroom, he went to Mickey’s kitchen and searched the cabinets until he found a box of poptarts. He grabbed two and settled on the couch to wait for Mickey to wake up.
He didn’t have to wait long. Mickey came into the living room and handed Ian a bunch of balls connected by a string. He explained what they were for, and Ian was tempted, but he really did have to get to work soon, so he just made a joke and tossed them aside. Mickey seemed fine with settling for a quickie.
They had barely started when the front door suddenly burst open.
“What the fuck!” Terry shouted.
“Shit.” Mickey breathed as he and Ian scrambled away from each other, desperately trying to find the clothes they had scattered around the living room last night.
“Fucking faggots!” Terry roared, quickly closing the distance between him and Ian. “In my goddamn house!”
Ian had just managed to pull on a pair of boxers that Mickey was pretty sure were actually his, when Terry landed a hard punch to his jaw.
“Fucking faggots!” He repeated, furious.
Blood splattered Ian’s chest as he was knocked back onto the couch. Terry pinned him down and hit him again.
Mickey ran. He caught Ian’s eye as he tore out of the living room and the hurt he saw there nearly shattered him, but he didn’t have time to explain. He had to act.
Mickey went to his bedroom. He was shaking all over and he couldn’t seem to breath. But when his hand wrapped around one of the guns he kept stashed in his dresser, a sort of calmness settled over him. He stopped thinking. If he thought about what he was about to do, he wouldn’t be able to do it. He still might not be able to.
He heard someone land another hard punch from the living room. He let himself hope briefly that Ian had gotten a hit in, but the small whimper that followed was undeniably Ian. The sound broke something inside Mickey. He let his mind go blank and moved quickly back to the living room.
“Dad!” Mickey called to get his father’s attention. “Get off him!” He had the gun trained on his father from across the living room.
When Terry looked up, he laughed. It was a harsh, cruel sound, but he got off of Ian.
“You don’t have the balls.” Terry spat. “Never have. Fucking useless.”
Mickey’s hands shook slightly as his dad stepped closer. He stumbled backwards until his back hit the hard surface of the column in their living room. Terry was still coming at him.
“You know why you get hit more than your brothers?” He spoke lowly now. “Because you fucking deserve it. You could never do anything right. You’ve turned out so much worse that I could have ever fucking imagined.”
Mickey was starting to lower the gun. His hands were shaking too badly to hold it steady.
Terry took another step forward. There was a sickening thud, and then Terry dropped to the floor.
Ian stood behind him holding a heavy wooden lamp that was now smeared with blood along the edge of the square base.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Ian whispered, dropping the lamp on the couch and moving towards Mickey. It wasn’t until then that Mickey realized there were tears streaming down his face.
Ian caged Mickey in with his hands against the column on either side of his head, pressing forward, surrounding him until he was all Mickey could see, all he could feel, just Ian.
Mickey clutched at Ian’s shoulders tightly and tried desperately to calm his breathing.
“We should get dressed.” Ian said quietly against Mickey’s temple after a few minutes. “We should go.”
Mickey nodded as best he could with his face pressed into Ian’s neck before reluctantly untangling himself from Ian’s hold.
They found the rest of their clothes and got dressed in silence. Mickey paused at the front door, looking back at his father’s unmoving body.
He wondered if he was dead. He wondered if they would get in trouble if he was. He wondered if it would still be worth it even if they did. He wondered if they should move the body.
But he was too exhausted to do anything other than let Ian put a hand on his back and guide him out the door.
---
A week of staying at the Gallagher’s house later, Mickey got a phone call.
“Dad’s back in jail.” Iggy informed him.
Of course the fucker was still alive. Mickey wondered how much Iggy knew.
“For what?” He asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He sat down on Ian’s bed. Everyone else was downstairs.
“Violating probation. Started a bar fight. Had some coke on him when they picked him up.” Iggy said. “He’ll be in for a while.”
Mickey let out a breath that he felt like he had been holding since his dad got out in the first place.
“Fuck.” He realized he was smiling. It was so wide, it hurt his cheeks a little, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
“Yeah.” Iggy agreed, though probably not for the same reason Mickey said it.
Ian walked into the room then. He gave Mickey a questioning look, grinning a little as he did. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Mickey look this happy, if ever. Mickey just smiled wider.
“Hey, I gotta go man. You good?” Mickey said, keeping his eyes on Ian.
“Yeah, whatever man. Just thought I’d let you know.” Iggy replied.
“Thanks.” Mickey hung up.
“What was that ab-” Ian didn’t get to finish his question because Mickey was suddenly across the room and pressing their lips together. Ian let out a small, surprised yelp as Mickey knocked him back against the closed bedroom door.
It took Ian so long to get Mickey to kiss him the first time, and even then he practically had to dare him to do it. Ian could count on one hand the number of times Mickey had kissed him since that first time. He didn’t want this one to end. He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist trying to get a fraction closer, not wanting any space between them. Mickey let him.
When Mickey eventually pulled away just to fucking breath, Ian was fucking beaming at him.
Maybe not everything in his life had to be shit, Mickey thought. Maybe, for once in his whole goddamn life, things were looking up.