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gallavich

the architecture of ruins and red hair

the air in the milkovich house was colder than usual, a damp, biting chill that seemed to seep out from the very cracks in the foundation. it had been three days since mickey had properly looked ian in the eye, and the silence between them was starting to feel less like a truce and more like a countdown. mickey was vibrating with a low-grade, abrasive energy, his movements jerky and sharp, his jaw perpetually locked in a position that looked like it was trying to grind his own teeth into powder. he wasn't just being a dick; he was being a ghost, a mean, territorial ghost that snapped at anyone who dared to breathe in his general direction.

ian had seen mickey in every state imaginable—bleeding, crying, high, manic, and murderous—но this was different. this was a cold, retreating kind of anger. every time ian entered a room, mickey exited it. if ian tried to sit on the porch, mickey would stand up and walk into the kitchen. if ian reached out to touch his shoulder, mickey would twitch away like ian’s skin was made of white phosphorus. it was a complete reversal of their usual roles, and ian was starting to lose his goddamn mind.

"mick, seriously, talk to me," ian said, his voice echoing in the empty hallway as he followed mickey toward the back door.

mickey didn't even slow down. he grabbed a dirty windbreaker off the hook, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. "fuck off, gallagher. i’m busy."

"busy doing what? you’ve been pacing the neighborhood for six hours. you haven't eaten, and you look like shit," ian countered, his frustration bubbling over. he reached out, snagging the back of mickey’s tattered white tank top.

mickey didn't flinch. he didn't jump or startle or even show a flicker of surprise. he just stopped dead, his body going unnervingly still. it was the kind of stillness that preceded a landslide. he didn't turn around, just stood there with ian’s fist bunched in his shirt.

"let go," mickey said, his voice a flat, dead monotone.

"no. not until you tell me why you're acting like a fucking lunatic," ian snapped, his grip tightening.

the force of ian’s pull caused the thin, cheap fabric of the tank top to ride up, bunching around mickey’s shoulder blades. as the hem lifted, the light from the dusty hallway bulb hit the expanse of mickey’s back and side, and ian’s breath hitched in his throat. mickey was built—lean, hard muscle carved out by years of street fights and manual labor, his abs defined and his chest broad for a guy his height—but the skin wasn't clear.

there were ugly, jagged gashes across his ribs, some scabbed over and others still a raw, weeping pink. deep, mottled purple bruises bloomed across his side like dark clouds, and there was a long, thin welt that looked suspiciously like it had been made by a belt or a wire. it was a map of violence that ian hadn't authored, and the sight of it made a cold, murderous rage flare up in ian’s chest.

"who did this to you?" ian’s voice dropped, becoming something dangerous and low. he let go of the shirt only to grab mickey’s arm, spinning him around so he could see the damage on his front. "mickey, look at me. who the fuck did this?"

mickey shoved him off, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp venom. he pulled his shirt back down, smoothing it over the ruins of his torso with trembling fingers. "i told you to fuck off. it’s none of your business."

"none of my business? you're covered in goddamn holes, mickey!" ian stepped back in, his larger frame looming over him, pinning him against the doorframe. he was rough now, his hands manhandling mickey’s shoulders, his touch insistent and demanding. "was it the mexicans? kermit’s brothers? who was it?"

mickey rolled his eyes, a tired, cynical expression crossing his face that made him look a decade older than he was. he looked at ian like ian was the stupidest person he’d ever met. "guess, you fuck. my dad."

the words hit the air like a lead weight. ian froze, his hands still gripping mickey’s biceps. the image of terry milkovich—that hulking, hateful shadow of a man—filled his mind, and for a second, the world went red. "terry? why? what happened?"

"he was in a mood. i was in the way. it’s a tuesday, gallagher, do the math," mickey spat, shoving ian’s chest with both hands. "now leave me the fuck alone. i don't need your pity, and i don't need you looking at me like i'm some wounded dog."

he pushed past ian, but ian wasn't having it. the protective instinct that had been simmering for days boiled over into a clingy, desperate need to be close. ian followed him into the small, cluttered room where mickey kept his tools and his stash. it was a cramped space, smelling of gun oil and old wood.

mickey ignored him, sitting down at the small workbench and pulling a handgun toward him. he began to disassemble it with mechanical precision, his fingers moving with a grace that belied the shaking in his hands. he was trying to disappear into the task, trying to build a wall out of steel and springs.

ian didn't stay back. he moved in close, stepping behind mickey and wrapping his arms around that tiny, bruised waist. he pressed his chest into mickey’s back, burying his face in the crook of mickey’s neck. he could smell the sweat, the copper of the blood, and the sharp scent of the oil.

"get off me," mickey muttered, though he didn't stop working. his elbows bumped into ian’s ribs as he moved, but he didn't fight the embrace.

"no," ian whispered, his hands sliding under the hem of the tank top to rest against the warm, damaged skin of mickey’s stomach. he was careful to avoid the worst of the bruises, his touch uncharacteristically soft. "i'm not going anywhere."

mickey let out a long, ragged sigh, his head dropping forward for a split second before he caught himself. "you're such a pain in the ass. you know that? a big, ginger, clingy pain in the ass."

"yeah, well, you're a grumpy, violent midget. we're even," ian murmured.

mickey snorted, but the tension in his shoulders began to bleed out, just a little bit. he continued to polish the slide of the gun, the rhythmic sound of the cloth against the metal the only thing filling the room. ian stayed rooted to the spot, his grip firm, his body acting as a shield against the rest of the house.

the proximity was doing things to ian’s head. despite the anger and the worry, the feel of mickey’s body against his—the heat of him, the way his muscles shifted under ian’s palms—was triggering a familiar, relentless hunger. ian could feel himself growing hard, the friction of his jeans against the back of mickey’s thighs becoming an agonizingly clear reminder of exactly where they were.

mickey felt it, too. he paused his polishing, his head tilting back just enough to look at ian out of the corner of his eye. a slow, dark smirk began to tug at his lips, the first real sign of life ian had seen in him all day.

"really, gallagher?" mickey asked, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "your boyfriend gets the shit kicked out of him by his old man, and your first thought is to get a woody? you're a sick fuck."

"i'm a sick fuck who's crazy about you," ian countered, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch. he was pressed tight against mickey’s ass, the heat of his desire radiating through their clothes.

mickey let out a dry chuckle, turning back to his gun. "whatever. just don't get any on the workbench. i just cleaned it."

he didn't push ian away. in fact, he leaned back into the contact, his weight settling against ian’s frame. he went back to his guns, the metallic clicks and scrapes providing a strange, violent domesticity to the moment. ian stayed there, his hands moving slowly over mickey’s skin, his breath hot against mickey’s ear.

"i'm gonna kill him, mick," ian whispered, the promise hanging heavy in the air. "one of these days, i'm gonna end him."

"get in line," mickey replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "but for now, just shut up and hold me. it’s the only thing you’re good for anyway."

ian squeezed him tighter, his fingers tracing the edges of the bruises. he knew this wasn't a fix. he knew the bruises would fade and new ones would take their place as long as terry was breathing. but right now, in this small, oil-scented room, he was the one holding mickey. he was the one who got to see the ruins and the beauty underneath.

mickey reached back, his hand finding the back of ian’s neck and pulling him down for a rough, desperate kiss. it tasted like salt and iron, but it was the most honest thing in the world.

"i'm yours," mickey muttered against his lips, the admission sounding like a curse. "don't ever forget it."

"not a chance," ian promised, his hands sliding lower, his body pressing even harder against the boy who was his entire world.

the gun sat forgotten on the table as the shadows in the room deepened, the two of them clinging to each other in the dark, a pair of broken things trying to find a way to stay whole. outside, the south side continued to roar, but inside, there was only the sound of two hearts beating in a jagged, synchronized rhythm. mickey let himself be held, and ian let himself be the anchor, the two of them locked in a dance of pain and pleasure that only they understood.

"you're still hard," mickey noted, a hint of a smile in his voice as he went back to his gun.

"it's a problem," ian admitted, his hands finding their way into mickey’s pockets.

"it's a gallagher problem," mickey corrected. "now stay still. i gotta finish this before my dad comes back and starts asking questions."

ian didn't move. he stayed right there, a silent sentinel in the dark, watching over the boy who had survived everything the world had thrown at him, and knowing that as long as they were together, they could survive anything else. the marks on mickey’s skin were a map of his past, but ian’s touch was a promise for the future, a future they would fight for, inch by bloody inch.