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gallavich

the architecture of ruins and red hair

the basement of the milkovich house was a damp, concrete-scented tomb that always felt ten degrees colder than the rest of the world. it was mickey’s sanctuary, a place where the air was thick with the smell of gun oil and stale cigarettes, and where the only light came from a flickering fluorescent bulb that hummed with a low, irritating buzz. mickey was hunched over his workbench, his fingers moving with practiced, surgical precision as he stripped down a glock. his neck was a mess—a violent, purple-and-blue map of ian’s teeth and fingers that he hadn't even bothered to hide with a collar. he looked like he’d been mauled by a mountain lion, but he just kept working, his jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line.

ian was leaning against a support pillar, watching him. he’d been back for a week since his latest stint of running away, and the air between them was still charged with a frantic, desperate kind of electricity. they’d made a deal—a stupid, half-baked deal born out of ian’s mania and mickey’s sheer terror of losing him again. ian had told him he’d stay, really stay, if mickey made it worth his while. specifically, if mickey gave him whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. and right now, what ian wanted was to be inside mickey until neither of them could remember their own names.

"mick," ian said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually made mickey’s pulse jump. "come on. leave the guns for five minutes."

mickey didn't even look up. he was currently cleaning the barrel with a white cloth that was quickly turning gray. "can't. kermit’s coming by at six for this. i’m behind."

"kermit can wait," ian countered, stepping into mickey’s personal space. he wrapped his arms around mickey’s waist from behind, his larger frame completely swallowing the shorter man. he pressed his face into the side of mickey’s neck, his lips brushing against a particularly dark bruise right over the pulse point. "i’ve been waiting all day. i’m losing my mind over here."

mickey let out a sharp, annoyed huff, though he didn't pull away. he liked the weight of ian. he liked the way ian’s hands felt on his hips, solid and possessive. but he was a milkovich, and he wasn't about to make it easy. "then go find a hobby, gallagher. join a gym. read a book. i got work to do."

ian’s hands slid lower, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of mickey’s dirty jeans. "i don't want a hobby. i want you. i want to get laid, mick. right now. on this workbench."

"no," mickey said, finally looking up and meeting ian’s gaze in the small, cracked mirror hanging above the bench. "it’s dirty, it’s cold, and i’m busy. fuck off."

ian sighed, a long, exaggerated sound of frustration. he knew the rules of their little game. he knew exactly how much leverage he had, and he wasn't afraid to use it. "fine. if you’re too busy to be a good boyfriend, then at least hold up your end of the bargain. blow me."

mickey’s hands stilled on the gun. he turned around in the circle of ian’s arms, his eyes narrowing. "you’re kidding me. you’re really gonna pull that shit now? i’m literally in the middle of a job."

"the deal was whenever i want, mick," ian reminded him, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. he leaned down, his forehead resting against mickey’s. "and i want it now. unless you want me to start thinking about going for another walk. it’s a nice day out. plenty of buses leaving the city."

it was a low blow, a cruel reminder of the weeks of silence and the frantic phone calls that had defined their last separation. mickey’s expression flickered—a flash of raw, naked fear that he quickly masked with a scowl. he hated how much power ian had over him. he hated that ian knew exactly which buttons to push to make him crumble.

"you’re a real piece of work, you know that?" mickey spat, though he was already moving.

he shoved ian back just enough to give himself room, then slowly, with a dramatic roll of his eyes that screamed 'i’m only doing this because i have to,' he sank to his knees on the cold, oil-stained concrete.

ian stayed standing, his legs braced, his hands coming up to rest on the back of mickey’s head. he looked down at him, and the sight nearly made his knees buckle. mickey milkovich, the toughest guy in the neighborhood, the guy who’d survived his father’s boots and the prison yard, was on his knees for him. he looked beautiful in the harsh, flickering light—his dark hair messy, his skin pale, and those blue eyes looking up at ian with a mixture of defiance and a deep, unspoken devotion.

"well?" ian prompted, his voice shaking just a fraction. "get to it."

mickey didn't say a word. he reached out and grabbed the hem of ian’s shirt, pulling it up so he could get to the button of his jeans. but he didn't stop working. with his left hand, he reached back up to the workbench, his fingers finding the slide of the glock. he began to reassemble it with one hand, the metallic clicks and snaps providing a rhythmic soundtrack to the scene.

it was the most mickey milkovich thing ian had ever seen. the sheer competence of it, the way he could multitask his submission and his violence, made ian’s head spin.

"you’re incredible," ian whispered, his fingers tangling in mickey’s hair as mickey finally freed him from his clothes.

mickey just grunted, his mouth busy as he took ian in. he was efficient, his movements practiced and thorough, his eyes never leaving ian’s face. he watched the way ian’s expression shifted from smug satisfaction to raw, unadulterated pleasure. he watched the way ian’s head fell back, his throat working as he tried to keep his breathing steady.

ian was gone. he was completely and utterly at mickey’s mercy, even as he stood there acting like the one in charge. he looked down and saw the way mickey’s jaw worked, the way his eyelashes brushed against his cheeks, and he felt a surge of love so intense it felt like a physical weight in his chest. he was so far gone for this man it was insane. he would do anything for him—he would stay, he would fight, he would burn the whole city down if mickey asked him to.

mickey finished the gun, the final click of the magazine seating home echoing in the small room. he set it down on the edge of the bench without looking and then used both hands to grip ian’s thighs, pulling him closer. he was thorough, his tongue tracing the lines of ian’s body with a focus that was almost reverent.

"mick," ian gasped, his hands tightening in mickey’s hair, his knuckles white. "fuck, mick. stop. i’m gonna..."

mickey didn't stop. he looked up, a flash of triumph in his eyes as he saw ian reaching his breaking point. he liked this part. he liked knowing that he could take the big, confident gallagher and turn him into a shivering, incoherent mess. he liked knowing that for all ian’s talk of deals and leverage, he was the one who held the real power in the dark.

when ian finally came, it was a long, shuddering release that left him leaning heavily against the workbench, his breath coming in jagged, desperate gulps. mickey stayed there for a moment, his head resting against ian’s thigh, his eyes closed. the silence of the basement returned, broken only by the hum of the light and the sound of their breathing.

mickey pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. he stood up, his knees cracking loudly in the quiet room. he didn't look at ian as he reached for a rag to clean up, his movements returning to their usual, brisk efficiency.

"there," mickey said, his voice flat. "deal’s done. now get the fuck out of here so i can finish this job."

ian didn't move. he was still trying to find his footing, his heart still hammering against his ribs. he looked at mickey—at the bruises on his neck, at the smudge of oil on his cheek, at the way he was already back to work like nothing had happened.

"i love you," ian said, the words coming out unbidden, raw and honest.

mickey froze for a second, his hand hovering over a box of ammunition. he didn't turn around. he didn't say it back. he just let out a small, huffing sound that might have been a laugh if he weren't so exhausted.

"yeah, yeah," mickey muttered, his voice softening just a fraction. "i know. now go upstairs and tell mandy to stop playing that shitty music. it’s giving me a headache."

ian grinned, a real, lopsided gallagher grin. he reached out and squeezed mickey’s shoulder one last time before heading for the stairs. he knew mickey heard him. he knew mickey felt the same way, even if he’d rather eat glass than admit it out loud.

as ian climbed the stairs, he felt a sense of peace he hadn't felt in months. the deal was stupid, and their relationship was a wreck of trauma and bad timing, but it was theirs. and as long as mickey kept getting on his knees, and as long as ian kept coming back, they’d find a way to make it work.

downstairs, mickey picked up the next gun. he looked at the workbench, then at his own hands, which were still shaking just a little bit. he reached up and touched the marks on his neck, his fingers tracing the shape of ian’s teeth.

"fucking gallaghers," mickey whispered to the empty room.

he went back to work, a small, secret smile playing on his lips that no one would ever see. he was a milkovich, and he was a thug, and he was currently the happiest man in the south side. and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that ian wasn't going anywhere.

he had work to do, and he had a ginger idiot to keep in line, and for now, that was enough. the architecture of their lives was built on ruins, but it was solid, and it was theirs. and as the fluorescent light flickered one last time, mickey milkovich felt like a king.

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