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gallavich

territorial disputes and neon lights

the air inside the fairy tail was a thick, humid soup of glitter, cheap vodka, and the heavy bass of a pop remix that ian was already sick of hearing. he was behind the bar, his movements fluid and practiced as he slid a cosmopolitan across the sticky wood to a guy who had been staring at his biceps for the last ten minutes. ian was wearing a tight black tank top that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, his skin glowing under the neon pink and blue lights. he was popular here, and he knew it. the tips were good, the attention was better, and the power he felt behind the bar was a high he hadn't expected to enjoy this much.

but the real reason ian felt so untouchable tonight wasn't the flirting or the money. it was the short, dark-haired shadow lingering near the end of the bar, leaning against a support pillar with his arms crossed over a chest that looked like it was made of solid granite.

mickey was wearing a black windbreaker zipped halfway down, revealing a neck that was a literal disaster of purple and black. ian had been particularly thorough the night before, and the marks were so dark they looked like ink against mickey’s pale skin. mickey looked miserable, his face set in a permanent scowl that screamed "i will kill you and everyone you love," but he hadn't moved from his post in three hours. he was acting as ian’s unofficial, unpaid, and incredibly overqualified bouncer.

"you’re staring again," mickey yelled over the music, his voice a gravelly rasp that cut through the bass. "make the fucking drinks, gallagher. i’m bored out of my skull."

ian grinned, tossing a shaker tin into the air and catching it behind his back. "you could always go home, mick. nobody’s forcing you to stand there."

"yeah, right," mickey snorted, his eyes darting to a group of guys at the other end of the bar who were currently whispering and pointing at ian. "and leave you here with these vultures? one of these pricks touches you and i’m going to jail for a long time. just do your job."

ian loved it. he loved the way mickey’s jaw tightened every time a guy lingered too long while taking their change. he loved the way mickey would step forward, just an inch, his eyes turning cold and predatory until the guy got the hint and scurried away. it was territorial, it was toxic, and it was exactly what ian needed to feel secure.

but then the shift started to change.

the bar was getting more crowded, the midnight rush bringing in a different crowd—younger, bolder, and apparently, blind to social cues. a group of guys in expensive-looking button-downs crowded into the corner near mickey, trying to catch the attention of a server. one of them, a tall blonde with a perfect tan, turned around and nearly walked right into mickey.

"whoa, sorry," the guy said, but he didn't move away. he looked mickey up and down, his eyes lingering on the sharp line of mickey’s jaw and the messy, dark hair that gave him a dangerous, unkempt vibe. "you work here?"

mickey looked like he’d been insulted by a toddler. "the fuck did you just say to me?"

the guy didn't seem deterred by the hostility. if anything, he looked intrigued. "i mean, you’ve got the look. the whole 'tough guy' thing. it’s hot. are you security? or do you just stand there looking pretty?"

ian froze, his hand hovering over the soda gun. his stomach did a weird, unpleasant flip. he watched as the blonde guy reached out, his hand moving as if to touch the collar of mickey’s jacket.

"don't touch me," mickey hissed, swatting the hand away with a violence that made the guy jump. "i don't work here. i don't like you. get the fuck away from me before i bite your nose off."

the guy laughed, turning to his friends. "jesus, he’s feisty. i love the aggressive ones. hey, you want a drink? i’m buying."

ian felt a hot, searing wave of jealousy wash over him. it was irrational, it was stupid, but seeing someone look at mickey like that—like he was something to be bought, like he was just another guy in a bar—made ian want to leap over the counter and start swinging. mickey was his. mickey was the one who went home with him, the one who let ian mark him until he was blue and black. mickey was the bottom in their bed, the one who surrendered everything when the door was locked, and seeing these guys treat him like a prize was making ian’s blood boil.

"he said no," ian called out, his voice sharp and cold. he walked down to the end of the bar, slamming a rag onto the counter. "he isn't interested. find someone else to bother."

the blonde guy looked at ian, then back at mickey, a smirk playing on his lips. "relax, man. just being friendly. your friend here is just... really striking. you got a name, tough guy?"

mickey leaned in, his face inches from the guy’s. "yeah. it’s 'fuck you.' that work for you? or do i need to spell it out in blood on the floor?"

"okay, okay," the guy held up his hands, still grinning. "i get it. playing hard to get. i’ll be at the booth if you change your mind."

as the group walked away, mickey let out a frustrated growl and turned back to the pillar, rubbing his face with his hands. "i fucking hate this place. i hate everyone in it. why are they so goddamn touchy?"

ian wasn't mollified. he was leaning over the bar, staring at the back of mickey’s head. "you didn't have to let him talk to you that long."

mickey spun around, his eyes wide with disbelief. "the fuck? i told him to eat shit! what was i supposed to do, shoot him? i’m trying not to get kicked out so i can keep an eye on your dumb ass."

"you were letting him look at you," ian snapped, his voice low so the other patrons wouldn't hear. "you were just standing there letting him check you out. you liked it."

mickey’s jaw dropped. he stepped closer to the bar, his chest hitting the wood. "are you fucking kidding me? you spend all night shaking your ass for tips, letting every guy in a ten-mile radius stare at your tits, and you’re mad at me because some frat boy asked if i work here? you’re delusional, gallagher. certifiable."

"it’s different," ian hissed. "i’m at work. you’re... you’re supposed to be mine."

"i am yours!" mickey shouted, loud enough that a few people turned to look. he didn't care. he never did. "look at my fucking neck, ian! i look like i got caught in a woodchipper because of you! you think i’m looking for more of that from some random prick in a pink shirt?"

"then why don't you act like it?" ian challenged, his heart hammering against his ribs. "why don't you tell them you're taken? why do you just stand there looking like... like that?"

"like what?" mickey demanded.

"like you’re the hottest thing in this room," ian admitted, the words coming out more like a confession than an insult. "you’re standing there in that jacket with those bruises and that look on your face, and you don't even realize that every guy in here wants to see if they can break you."

mickey blinked, his anger flickering for a second as he processed what ian had said. a slow, dark smirk began to spread across his face, the kind of look that usually meant ian was about to be in trouble.

"oh," mickey said, his voice dropping an octave. "that’s what this is. you’re jealous."

"i’m not jealous," ian lied, though his knuckles were white where he was gripping the bar rail.

"you’re totally fucking jealous," mickey chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. he leaned over the bar, grabbing ian by the front of his tank top and pulling him forward until their noses were almost touching. "you’re pissed off because you think someone’s gonna try and take your toy away. you think because i’m the one who takes it, that makes me weak? that makes me easy?"

"no," ian whispered, his breath hitching.

"i’m the toughest motherfucker in this building," mickey muttered, his thumb brushing against ian’s jaw, right where a faint bruise was starting to form from their earlier scuffle. "and the only reason i let you do what you do is because i want you to. nobody else gets a turn. nobody else even gets a look. you got that?"

ian nodded, his eyes fixed on mickey’s mouth. the jealousy was still there, a dull ache in his gut, but it was being overtaken by the raw, magnetic pull of mickey’s presence.

"good," mickey said, shoving him back slightly. "now get me a beer. a real one, not that light shit. and if that blonde prick comes back, i’m breaking his jaw, and you’re gonna tell the cops he tripped."

ian exhaled a shaky breath, reaching for a bottle of budweiser. "fine. but keep your jacket zipped up. i don't want them seeing the marks."

mickey reached up, and for a second, ian thought he was going to comply. instead, mickey grabbed the zipper and pulled it down even further, exposing the full, violent bloom of a hickey right over his pulse point. he looked ian dead in the eye and took a long, slow sip of the beer ian had just handed him.

"make me," mickey challenged.

the rest of the night was a blur of high-octane tension. ian worked with a renewed, aggressive energy, slamming bottles and snapping at customers, his eyes constantly darting back to mickey. mickey, for his part, stayed exactly where he was, but he was no longer just a passive observer. he was a predator in his natural habitat.

whenever anyone got too close to him, mickey didn't just scowl; he barked. he told a guy who tried to buy him a shot to "shove it up his ass and light a match." he told a girl who admired his "tattoos" that she was "blind and stupid." he was a one-man wrecking crew of social etiquette, and yet, it only seemed to make people more interested.

there was something about the way mickey carried himself—the sheer, unadulterated "fuck you" energy—that acted like a magnet in a place like this. he was the antithesis of the polished, groomed men in the bar. he was dirty, he was bruised, and he looked like he’d just come from a street fight. he was the real deal, and in a room full of pretenders, he was a goddamn king.

around 1 a.m., a guy who looked like he spent more on his hair than ian made in a week tried his luck. he leaned against the pillar next to mickey, flashing a white-toothed smile.

"hey man. you look like you’re having a rough night. want to get out of here? my car’s right outside."

mickey didn't even look at him. he just pointed a thumb toward the bar where ian was currently crushing a lime with unnecessary force.

"see that ginger over there?" mickey asked, his voice ringing out during a lull in the music.

the guy glanced at ian. "the bartender? yeah, he’s hot, but i’m talking to you."

"that 'hot' bartender," mickey said, finally turning his head to look at the guy with a terrifying grin, "is the one who put these on my neck. he’s also the one who’s gonna jump this bar and beat your head in with a whiskey bottle if you don't move your feet in the next three seconds. he’s got a real bad temper. bipolar as fuck. you want to test him?"

the guy looked at ian, who was currently staring him down with a look of pure, unbridled rage. the guy gulped, nodded once, and vanished into the crowd.

mickey looked back at ian and winked. it was a quick, subtle movement, but it hit ian like a physical blow. the jealousy didn't vanish, but it transformed into something else—a fierce, burning pride. mickey was his. he was mean, he was violent, and he was the most beautiful thing ian had ever seen.

when the lights finally came up and the last of the drunks were shoved out the door, the bar was a wreck of spilled drinks and discarded napkins. ian was leaning against the back counter, his head hanging low, his muscles aching from the shift and the stress.

the sound of heavy boots echoed on the floorboards as mickey walked around the bar. he didn't say anything. he just reached out and grabbed ian by the back of the neck, pulling him into a hard, messy kiss. it tasted like beer and tobacco and home.

"you done being a bitch?" mickey asked against his lips, his voice softening just a fraction.

"i wasn't being a bitch," ian mumbled, though he was already leaning into the contact, his hands finding the hem of mickey’s windbreaker. "i just... i don't like people looking at you."

"well, get used to it," mickey said, pulling back to look at him. his blue eyes were dark, reflecting the dim emergency lights of the bar. "i’m a catch, gallagher. i’m a fucking delight. people are gonna look."

ian snorted, a small smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "you’re a nightmare, mick."

"yeah, but i’m your nightmare," mickey countered. he grabbed ian’s hand and started leading him toward the back exit. "now come on. i’m starving, and you’re paying for white castle. and then we’re going home, and you’re gonna remind me exactly who i belong to, because my neck is starting to itch and i think i need a few more marks to even it out."

ian followed him out into the cool night air, the neon sign of the fairy tail flickering behind them. he looked at the back of mickey’s head, at the way he walked with that cocky, rolling gait, and he knew it was true. it didn't matter who looked. it didn't matter who flirted or who offered him a ride.

at the end of the night, mickey was the one holding the door open for him. mickey was the one who would climb into their bed and let ian take every bit of him until there was nothing left.

they walked toward the van, their shoulders brushing, two jagged pieces of the south side that somehow fit perfectly together. and as ian watched mickey fumble for his keys, his neck still proudly displaying the violet map of ian’s possession, he realized he didn't need to be jealous.

there was no one else in the world who could handle mickey milkovich. and there was no one else mickey would ever let try.