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gallavich

the fast and the frantic

the air in the south side was thick with the kind of heat that made your clothes stick to your skin like a second layer of grime, but ian gallagher didn't seem to feel it. he was a blur of kinetic energy, his eyes too bright, his movements too sharp, like a wire hummed with a current that was five times higher than it was supposed to be. he’d been awake for thirty-six hours, and in that time, he’d cleaned the entire gallagher kitchen with a toothbrush, run ten miles, and had sex with mickey three times in three different rooms of the milkovich house.

mickey was currently slumped against the headboard of his bed, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. he looked like he’d been run over by a freight train. his neck was a goddamn crime scene—ian had been biting and sucking at the skin with a frantic, desperate hunger that felt different this time. it wasn't just possessive; it was manic. it was like ian was trying to eat him alive, trying to crawl inside mickey’s skin just to find a place to stop moving.

"jesus, gallagher," mickey wheezed, wiping a hand over his face. "give a guy a minute to catch his breath. you’re like a fucking jackrabbit on speed."

ian didn't answer. he was pacing the small square of carpet at the foot of the bed, his muscles twitching. he was naked, and the light from the streetlamp outside caught the red of his hair, making it look like he was literally on fire. "i’m fine. i feel great. i feel like i could jump over this house, mick. don't you feel that? the energy?"

"the only thing i feel is like my dick is gonna fall off," mickey muttered, though he was watching ian with a wary, narrowed gaze.

he’d seen ian like this before, but he didn't want to call it what it was. he didn't want to believe the shit lip and fiona whispered about—the "episodes," the "bipolar," the "gallagher curse." to mickey, ian was just ian. he was just high on life, or high on mickey, and mickey wasn't about to complain about a version of ian that wanted to fuck him until he couldn't walk.

the door to the room creaked open, and lip stuck his head in. he looked at ian’s frantic pacing, then at mickey’s wrecked state, and his face fell into that familiar, weary expression of concern that mickey hated.

"hey, mick," lip said, ignoring the fact that ian was currently doing push-ups on the floor. "can i talk to you for a second?"

"fuck off, lip," mickey snapped, though there was no real heat in it. he actually liked the smartass, even if he’d never admit it. lip was the only one who could go toe-to-toe with him in a verbal sparring match and actually make him laugh. "we’re busy."

"mickey, seriously," lip stepped into the room, his eyes fixed on ian. "he hasn't slept. fiona says he was up all night singing at the top of his lungs while he scrubbed the floors. you gotta get him to settle down."

"he’s just got energy," mickey defended, though he watched ian pull himself up from the floor with a speed that wasn't human. "leave him alone. he’s fine."

"he's not fine, he's peaking," lip hissed, stepping closer to mickey. "you can't just keep matching him, man. you're gonna burn him out. or he's gonna crash, and it's gonna be ugly."

"i said fuck off!" mickey barked, sitting up. the marks on his neck flared red with the movement. "i know him better than you do. he’s just... he’s just ian. now get out of my house before i tell mandy you were looking at my porn stash."

lip sighed, shaking his head. "don't say i didn't warn you. carl’s downstairs, by the way. he wants to know if you can teach him how to hotwire that buick in the alley. try not to let ian join in, he'll probably try to drive it to mexico."

lip left, and mickey looked back at ian. ian was now standing by the window, staring out at the street with an intensity that made mickey’s skin crawl.

"you hear that?" ian asked, his voice low and vibrating. "the city. it’s so loud, mick. everyone’s moving so slow. why is everyone so slow?"

"maybe 'cause they aren't vibrating like a goddamn vibrator," mickey said, reaching out and grabbing ian’s arm. he pulled him back toward the bed. "come here. sit down. you're making me dizzy."

ian sat, but his leg was bouncing a mile a minute. he leaned in close to mickey, his eyes dilated until the blue was almost gone. "you know, i’ve been busy, mick. not just here. i’ve been seeing people. people who move at my speed."

mickey’s heart did a weird, heavy thump in his chest, but he didn't let his face change. he just leaned back, reaching for a cigarette on the nightstand. "yeah? that right? who, the jogging club? the local crackheads?"

"no," ian said, a small, sharp smile playing on his lips. he was looking for a reaction. he was throwing out hooks, trying to see if he could snag mickey’s jealousy and pull it to the surface. "guys. guys at the club. guys who don't spend all day complaining about transmissions and kermit’s truck. it’s good, mick. it’s different."

mickey lit the cigarette, the smoke curling around his head like a halo of indifference. he felt a hot, sharp sting of possessiveness, a urge to wrap his hands around ian’s throat and remind him exactly who’d spent the last four hours marking him. but he was a milkovich. he didn't do "vulnerable." he didn't do "hurt."

"good for you," mickey shrugged, blowing a cloud of smoke into the space between them. "hope they're better at it than you are. maybe they can take some of the load off my back. i’m getting too old for this marathon shit."

ian’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. he leaned in even closer, his hand coming up to grip mickey’s jaw, his thumb pressing into the deep purple bruise right under mickey’s ear. "you don't care? you don't care that i'm out there with other guys? touching them? letting them touch me?"

"why would i care?" mickey asked, his voice bored and flat, even as his pulse hammered against ian’s thumb. "it’s just skin, ian. you want to go get your rocks off with some random prick in a leather vest, be my guest. less work for me."

"you're a liar," ian whispered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, manic register. "you're a fucking liar, mickey milkovich. i can see it in your eyes. you want to kill them. you want to kill me."

"don't flatter yourself, gallagher," mickey said, though he reached up and grabbed ian’s wrist, his grip tight enough to leave his own marks. "you want to be a whore? go for it. just don't bring back any diseases. i got enough problems with the baby and svetlana."

ian let out a sharp, jagged laugh. he shoved mickey back onto the bed, crawling over him like a predator. "you don't care? fine. let's see how much you don't care."

he leaned down, his teeth sinking into the skin of mickey’s shoulder, right next to a mark that was only a day old. mickey let out a low, guttural groan, his hands finding ian’s hair and pulling him closer. the cycle started again—the frantic, hypersexual energy of ian’s mania meeting the bottomless, silent devotion of mickey’s endurance.

they were in the kitchen an hour later, mickey trying to fry some eggs while ian literally bounced on the balls of his feet next to him, talking a mile a minute about joining the army, or starting a landscaping business, or moving to brazil.

"we could do it, mick," ian said, his hands gesturing wildly. "we could get a van. we could just drive. why are we staying here? this place is a dump. you're too good for this place."

"i like this place," mickey grumbled, flipping an egg with a violent jerk of the wrist. "it’s got all my stuff. and my family. and i don't speak brazilian."

"it’s portuguese, you idiot," ian laughed, and the sound was too loud, too bright for the dingy kitchen. "see? we’d learn. we’d be great."

carl walked in, looking like a miniature version of mickey in his oversized hoodie and buzz cut. he looked at ian, then at mickey’s neck, and let out a low whistle. "damn, mick. you look like you got into a fight with a lawnmower."

"fuck off, carl," mickey said, but he reached out and ruffled the kid’s hair as he passed. "you want eggs?"

"yeah," carl said, sitting at the table. he looked at ian. "hey, ian. lip says you're crazy again. are you?"

ian stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixing on carl. "i'm not crazy, carl. i'm just awake. i'm finally awake. don't you want to be awake?"

carl looked at mickey, who was currently plating the eggs with a grim expression. "he's kind of intense, isn't he?"

"he's fine," mickey said, sliding a plate in front of carl. "he's just a gallagher. they're all weird. eat your food."

as the day went on, the frantic pace didn't slow down. ian wanted to go to the park, then the pier, then back to the house to "reorganize the closet." mickey followed him, a silent, brooding shadow, matching ian’s pace even when his own body was screaming for a nap and a cigarette. he didn't believe the mania talk—or he didn't want to—but he could feel the wrongness of it. it was like walking next to a bomb that was ticking too fast.

every time ian mentioned "the other guys" or "the club," mickey just shrugged. he played the part of the indifferent thug to perfection, even as his heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. he knew ian was trying to get a rise out of him, trying to find an anchor in mickey’s anger, but mickey wasn't going to give it to him. he wasn't going to let ian see how much power he had.

they ended up back in mickey’s room as the sun started to set, the sky turning a bruised purple that matched the skin of mickey’s throat. ian was finally, mercifully, slowing down, but it wasn't a peaceful slowing. it was the beginning of the crash. his movements were getting heavy, his eyes losing that frantic spark and turning glassy and distant.

"mick," ian whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "i don't feel so good."

mickey was across the room, zipping up his jacket. he stopped, looking at ian. the vibrant, burning boy from this morning was gone, replaced by someone who looked fragile and exhausted.

"yeah, well," mickey said, his voice softening just a fraction. "you've been going at a hundred miles an hour for two days. your body’s finally figured out you're an idiot."

ian looked up at him, and for the first time all day, he looked like he was actually there. "i didn't really see those guys, mick. i mean, i went to the club. i danced. but i didn't... i didn't do anything."

mickey walked over, standing between ian’s knees. he reached out, his hand resting on the back of ian’s neck, his thumb tracing the hairline. "i know, you ginger prick. you think i don't know you? you're too obsessed with me to look at anyone else."

ian leaned his forehead against mickey’s stomach, a long, shaky breath escaping him. "i'm tired. i'm so tired, mick."

"so sleep," mickey said. he pushed ian back onto the bed and started pulling the covers over him. "just shut up and sleep. i'll be here."

"you promise?" ian asked, his voice small and slurred.

"i'm not going anywhere," mickey grumbled, though he sat down on the edge of the bed, his hand staying on ian’s shoulder. "i gotta stay here and make sure you don't try to fly to brazil in your sleep."

ian was out in minutes, his breathing deep and ragged. mickey stayed there for a long time, watching him. the room was quiet now, the only sound the distant siren of a police car somewhere on 22nd street.

mickey reached up, touching the marks on his own neck. they stung, a sharp, physical reminder of the day’s chaos. he thought about what lip had said—about the burn out, about the crash. he looked at ian’s pale face in the shadows and felt a surge of something so fierce and protective it made his eyes burn.

he didn't care if ian was manic. he didn't care if he was depressed. he didn't care if he was a goddamn lunatic. mickey would be the one to catch him. he would be the one to match his speed, to fight his demons, and to hold him down when the world started to spin too fast.

the door opened a crack, and svetlana looked in. she saw the two of them—the broken gallagher and the marked milkovich—and for once, she didn't say anything snarky. she just nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the work mickey was doing, and closed the door.

mickey leaned back, closing his eyes. his body was aching, his mind was a mess, and he was pretty sure he was going to have a permanent scar on his shoulder from ian’s teeth.

"fuck you, ian gallagher," mickey whispered into the darkness.

he reached out, his fingers tangling with ian’s under the covers. he held on tight, anchored by the weight of the boy next to him, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, he let himself drift off, knowing that when they woke up, the bruises would still be there.

and so would they.