Chapter Text
Ian had been at a bar the first time he saw Mickey Milkovich. It was a shitty little bar called Shooters right outside of the college campus, smelled like stale beer and peanuts, the televisions blasting the football game. Not a lot of the college students hung out there, making it the perfect place to just chill.
At the time, Ian didn't know his name, just knew he was drawn to him, liked the way he moved and the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips every so often. It looked like there was something tattooed on his knuckles, but from where he sat, Ian couldn't see what it was. Mickey had been playing pool with a couple other guys, laughing and shit-talking, drinking pints of beer.
He was kind of beautiful, kind of hard to look away from.
Okay so he was really fucking beautiful. He had these eyes and this mouth and the line of his nose was perfect… but when he smiled and laughed, Ian didn't want Mickey to stop ever.
Ian went from I’d like to take that guy home right now to I want to know every single thing about that guy in a matter of a couple minutes of just staring. It was a really weird feeling. He’d never had that urge before, not this suddenly.
Ian was sitting at the bar with his brother Lip —he was getting ready to graduate soon and they made it a point to go out at least once a week to just chill, away from all the college bullshit. He must have been staring for longer than what most people would deem appropriate, because Lip elbowed him in the ribs to get his attention.
“You’re coming up to that line between appreciating what you see and looking like a fucking stalker, man.”
Ian turned his head to look at his brother, “Who’s that guy?”
“That’s uh… I wanna say his name is Mickey. I’ve never talked to the guy; I’ve seen him around at parties and shit. He’s probably an asshole like his dad though,” Lip answered.
Mickey. Ian turned the name over in his mind like a stone. “His dad?”
“Yeah,” Lip said. “Terry Milk..ovich?”
“Terry Milkovich…?”
Lip nodded, “Yeah, he’s a new football coach. Assistant coach or some shit, I dunno. All I know is my buddy says the guy’s a fucking psycho. I’m pretty sure Mickey’s straight, though.”
“Why do you think that?”
Lip shrugged, “I dunno, just look at him. Doesn't look gay to me.”
“Do I look gay to you? What does that mean?” Ian narrowed his eyes at his brother, “Is there like a gay code of conduct or something I don't know about?”
“I dunno, is there?” Lip shot back with a grin.
Ian rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his beer before looking back over at Mickey. Obviously they guy didn’t play football or care much to support his dad while he coached, since he was at a bar and not at the game.
He had nice arms. And legs, from what he could tell. And a nice ass; Ian tilted his head to the side, watching as Mickey leaned over the pool table to take his shot. Real nice ass. Fuck Ian hoped he was gay —at the very least bisexual.
“You’re doing it again,” Lip laughed.
“I’m gonna ask him out,” Ian decided, nodding his head.
Lip rolled his eyes, “Like I said, pretty sure he’s straight. And my buddy said dad is a fucking crazy homophobe. There’s probably easier ass to pull than his. Ian?” Lip knocked his arm against his, “Seriously man. What if he is straight —or worse, like his dad? Then what?”
“Then I back off,” Ian shrugged, unable to look away from Mickey. “Just hold on, lemme see something.”
Lip was probably right, but there was just something about the guy that had Ian drawn to him like he was a fucking moth and Mickey was the bug-lamp.
Mickey must have felt Ian staring at him. He turned, catching his eyesight, his brows perching up high on his forehead in that what the fuck do you want way. Ian smirked at Mickey, taking his chance. Mickey smirked back, his tongue darting to the corner of his mouth.
Ian turned back to face the bar and took a deep breath, ignoring his brother’s eyes. “You look pleased with yourself,” Lip said.
Ian just nodded, taking a drink of his beer.
The second time that Ian saw Mickey Milkovich, it had been at the same bar a week later. But this time, he wasn't playing pool and Lip wasn’t around. Ian would have been lying if he said that he didn't come to the shitty bar hoping there was an off-chance he’d see Mickey again.
Mickey was sitting at the bar alone, half-full pint of beer in front of him. Ian took a deep breath and sat on the stool next to the brunette, ordering a pint for himself. Mickey didn't say anything, just kept his eyes fixed on his beer, his elbows resting on the bar top, cigarette dangling from his lips.
Ian kept silent, glancing over at Mickey’s hands, seeing the FUCK U-UP inked into his skin; his fingertips looked like they were stained with paint —blues and reds and greens. He said, “I like your tattoos,” before he could stop himself.
That time Mickey looked over at him, his blue eyes narrowing slightly, probably trying to discern if Ian was fucking with him or not. He was even more beautiful up close. Ian bit the inside of his cheek before he did something stupid like keep talking.
“Uh, thanks,” Mickey said, but it sounded more like a question.
Ian liked the sound of his voice, wondered what it would sound like a little softer, a little breathier. He was getting too far ahead of himself.
“I think I saw you in here last week,” Ian said. “Playing pool?”
“Sounds about right,” Mickey nodded. He pulled on his cigarette before taking it out from between his lips. Ian never wanted to be a cigarette before.
Ian wasn’t normally this fucking bad —or awkward— when it came to small-talk. Believe it or not, his game was normally on point, much better than I think I saw you in here last week like some fucking stalker.
The problem was, as soon as Ian had sat down next to Mickey, all his previous knowledge of any kind of game he once had just flew out of the window. He felt himself revert to that awkward fourteen year old trying to navigate whether or not a boy in his class was gay.
“I’m Ian,” he held out his hand, feeling more and more like an idiot; he couldn't even try to stop though. “Ian Gallagher.”
“Mickey,” he glanced down at Ian’s hand before looking back up at him, with a little noncommittal shrug, adding on his last name like he didn't understand why the last names were important but he was doing it too because Ian had started it.
Ian nodded, taking his hand back, rethinking whatever happened last week. Maybe he was giving his hopes up, maybe the smirk last week was just a wow this guy is a creepy idiot smirk and not a you like what you see? I like what I see too smirk.
“So you’re Coach Milkovich’s son, huh?”
Mickey let out a long sigh, “Yeah. But if you’re looking for an in to talk to him for some fucking try-out or tickets for your family or something else, don’t fucking bother, man.”
Ian’s eyes widened at his rough response, “I don’t even like football.”
Mickey looked over at him and grinned slow, his eyes dragging over Ian’s face and shoulders. He took one last pull on his cigarette before stubbing it out in the plastic ashtray next to where he sat, “Me neither.”
Ian felt heat on the back of his neck, “You in here a lot?”
That time Mickey laughed, his face pulling out that smile that Ian had been craving to see since last week, nose crinkling a little. “Is that the best you got? You come here often? Damn. Thought I was special.”
Ian laughed, but it came out all nervous, “I could uh… I could make it up to you.”
Great. How vague and even creepier than I think I saw you in here last week.
Mickey’s eyes dragged over Ian’s face again, then up to his hair and back down to his mouth, lingering for a moment; Ian heated under his gaze, feeling tension creep up his spine. Knowingly or not, Mickey’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. Ian really hoped his mouth wasn’t hanging open, because it kind of felt like it was.
But then the brunette quirked his brows upwards and downed the last of his beer, “I’m sure you could. Thing is… I ain’t like that, man.”
Wait… what? Then tension fizzled out like a deflated balloon; Ian’s stomach completely bottomed out. Had he been imagining Mickey’s —what he thought was— obvious eye-fucking?
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Ian sighed, running a hand over his hair. Talk about being really off on his game, now he was tricking himself into thinking straight guys were checking him out. It had been too long since Ian had gotten laid… obviously.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey said, slapping down a wad of cash on the bar top before he slid off the stool. He clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder, squeezing lightly before letting go, “See you around, Red.”
And then he left. Just left.
Ian probably stared at where Mickey had been sitting for a good five minutes, replaying every detail of the entire exchange over and over, before he pulled a face, “What the fuck?”
In a stroke of absolute genius, Ian thought he could get away with scheduling two Wednesday classes back-to-back with a ten minute window between them… when it took at least fifteen minutes to walk from one to another.
This always ended in Ian having to sprint most of the way, stomach growling relentlessly because it was lunchtime and he wasn't exactly reliable with getting breakfast every morning.
Fortunately this time, he had thought ahead and shoved a power-bar in his backpack.
Unfortunately, there was literally no time to stop for two seconds and retrieve the power-bar from the front pocket of his backpack.
So while Ian was walking, trying to open his backpack, and still hold onto a bottle of water, of course he fucking ran into someone. And of course that someone had to be Mickey Milkovich.
“Whoa,” Mickey said, gripping onto Ian’s shoulders before either one of them fell over from the collision. “Where’s the fucking fire, Red?”
Ian felt his face fall and heat up at the same time. Truth be told, he normally wasn't a huge fan of that nickname. But when Mickey said it, it didn't sound like he was trying to make a joke, it had the same weight as dude or man.
“Sorry, I’m uh… I wasn’t looking.”
Mickey still had his hands on Ian’s shoulders. Ian was trying to ignore how his stomach flipped, how good Mickey looked in the black shirt he was wearing, how fucking late he was going to be to his class. And he was really trying to ignore how badly his body wanted to react to the shorter man.
“It’s cool,” Mickey shrugged, his hands slipping from Ian’s shoulders. Ian wished they had stayed.
The brunette was doing that not-eye-fucking eye-fucking thing again, this time letting his gaze drop all the way down to Ian’s shoes and back up, his tongue darting out, making Ian think really awful things.
“You good?”
Ian nodded, reaching into his backpack for his power-bar, distracting himself from Mickey’s wandering blue eyes. “Yeah, just gonna be late.”
“Can’t have that,” Mickey smirked, adjusting his bag’s shoulder-strap.
Ian needed to move, but he couldn’t, watching Mickey take a step back and turn around to walk the other way.
Then he was gone. And Ian was, of course, late to class.