Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mickey heaved the last of his boxes past the threshold of the apartment and closed the door with the side of his foot. He dramatically threw the box on the ground and let out a monstrous sigh. He hated move-in day with a passion. He couldn’t understand for the life of him why the college made them move all their shit out every summer only to move it all back not four months later. He'd made eight trips up the stairs already and it was about seven trips too many in his humble opinion.

It absolutely did not help that the elevator had miraculously decided to stop working right before Mickey had arrived, leaving him with no other option but to take multiple trips up the stairs with no assistance whatsoever.

In reality, Mickey knew that he sounded dramatic as all fuck. His apartment was only one floor up, and he had caught poor fuckers along the way who were carrying their shit all the way up to the fourth floor. He had it good. But some other fuckers on the ground floor had it better.

Mickey gazed around at his apartment, taking in the familiar sights and sounds and smells. It was exactly how he'd left it -- the same four walls that he'd lived in for the last two years. The kitchen was right by the front door, which led out into the open floored living room. Mickey and his roommate's rooms were on opposing sides.

“Hey, you finally finished?” Ben asked, appearing from the doorway into his room and coming into the entryway where Mickey’s boxes cluttered their way to the kitchen.

Ben Owens was Mickey’s roommate and best friend. Okay, maybe his only friend.

He was a tall, hazel-eyed brunette with a chiseled jaw and hair that quiffed effortlessly without any gel. The pair had spent the past two years playing college hockey together as part of the Michigan Wolverines at the University of Michigan.

Mickey had met Ben at this very apartment on move-in day two years ago, and was immediately bristled by his model-like appearance and never-ending optimism. But it didn't take long for Mickey to realize that Ben was annoyingly lovable and a fierce friend. 

Most people were quick to judge Mickey when he first arrived in Michigan, what with his colourful use of language and the FUCK U-UP tattoos on his knuckles. But Ben saw past his hard exterior and opened him up in ways that still shocked him to this day.

He had fully intended on doing the lone wolf thing during college; to keep his head down and just play hockey. He had been all but friendless growing up on the South Side chasing his hockey dreams -- he never needed nor wanted them. But to Mickey’s surprise, the two had bonded quite quickly, and Ben soon become one of the few people that Mickey would trust with his life.

“Yeah. Thanks so much again for the help asshole,” Mickey quipped, rolling his eyes when he saw the smug look on Ben’s face.

“Mick -- why the fuck would I help you when I have my own boxes to carry and unpack?” he asked defensively, “how does that make any sense?”

“Well, you’re all about team spirit Owens, you could have considered it a cute little bonding exercise for us roommates to get chummy again,” Mickey said, leaning down to pick up his heaviest box to carry to his room.

“I don’t know how much more chummy we can get at this point, mate,” Ben snorted.

Mickey chuckled and opened the door to his bedroom and dropped the box on the floor, kicking it to the far end near his bed. This had been his room for the past two years -- this small, kind of narrow space that he filled with Blackhawk posters and not much else. It wasn't much, but it was definitely more than the one he'd grown up in.

The queen bed was sandwiched in the left corner below the window. Mickey nearly fainted when he saw it for the first time. It was so big, and the mattress as feathery soft as a cloud.

The closet was across from the bed, right next to a door that led off into Mickey’s bathroom which had caused Mickey to almost faint a second time.

“Wanna find out?” Mickey asked as he walked out of his room, stopping in front of Ben to raise his eyebrows suggestively.

Ben burst out laughing and shoved at Mickey, who chuckled and went for more of his boxes. He picked one up, made his way over to Ben, and handed it to him, nodding towards his bedroom. Ben rolled his eyes but decided not to fight the inevitable, walking it towards Mickey’s room.

“Sure, but don’t tell Aria,” he called out over his shoulder.

As if on cue, a loud knock rapped at the door, and before either one of them could make a move to open it, it burst open to reveal a short, dark-skinned girl with long brown hair and wide eyes.

Aria was Ben’s beloved girlfriend, and the only other person that Mickey could tolerate for long periods of time at UMich. She was an Australian exchange student -- definitely where Ben picked up the term “mate”, which drove Mickey insane every time he said it -- with a rich as fuck father who paid for her entire education and dorm accommodation. Accommodation that she very rarely used because of how often she was over at Mickey and Ben’s apartment.

She and Ben had been together since the first month of school in their first year. Ben described the whole experience of meeting her as “coming up for air after holding your breath at the bottom of the pool for a long time.” Mickey preferred to describe it as them “both being horny as fuck and serially monogamous.”

Although it took Mickey some time to get used to Aria’s presence all up in his space, electing to first be annoyed and prickly towards her, he inevitably succumbed to her charm. She was incredibly easygoing, witty as fuck, and knew how to handle herself, but she was also kind and charismatic in a way that made it nearly impossible not to like her.

“Are you boys almost done unpacking?” she asked, making her way towards Ben to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

“What’s it look like to you?” Mickey asked, nodding towards his still very packed boxes.

“Well hurry the fuck up. There's a Junior party up at the dorms tonight and I think we all should go,” said Aria excitably, looking over at Ben and shaking his arm with a hopeful smile. She glanced back over at Mickey, and she could immediately tell she had her work cut out for her. Convincing Mickey to socialize was no easy feat.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, Aria c’mon, I hate those stupid fucking welcome back parties. And all those people who are always wanting to talk to us and take selfies?” he pointed to himself and Ben. “No fucking thank you. Do I look like I’m in the mood for that shit right now?” He shook his head harder and looked to Ben for backup. The coward put his hands up in surrender as if declaring Switzerland. Mickey glared at him before turning around, heading back to his room.

Aria, apparently, remained unconvinced.

“C’mon Mick. Everyone is probably already hammered anyway. No one will even recognize you. And who knows, maybe we could try and find you a hot guy to go home with.”

Mickey spun around to face them again and gave her a look that would probably terrify ordinary people, but that Aria took as a sign to probe further.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want what Ben and I have one day,” she reached up and planted yet another kiss on her boyfriend’s cheek and they smiled at each other lovingly. Disgusting.

“Please, you two are repulsive,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes as he went to retrieve some more boxes.

Aria had to know she was pushing Mickey's buttons. And she wasn’t even right. Not technically.

Mickey was gay, but not out. But he also wasn’t not out.

He was fine with who he was, but he didn’t go around announcing it. Not only did he think it wasn't anybody's business, but why the fuck did it matter who he liked to have sex with? Nobody needed to know that shit.

So he kept it to himself, only ever telling a handful of people, Ben and Aria included.

He also wasn’t interested in any sort of relationship. Like ever, probably. Between his hectic hockey schedule and staying afloat in school, he had zero time for any of that lovey-dovey, "let's talk about our feelings", date night bullshit.

Not that he would want it, even if he did have the time. Aria knew that. But it never stopped her from getting on his ass about it. She clearly very much enjoyed tormenting him for sport.

He walked back into the living room to see them both glaring at him.

Mickey let out a heavy sigh.

“No. Thank you. You guys go ahead. I’m gonna stay here and unpack, get to bed early. I’ve got an early class tomorrow, plus practice and shit.”

“You sure, man?” Ben asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me. I’m tired as fuck anyway from getting no help with these boxes, so. I’ll probably fall asleep soon.”

Ben rolled his eyes and shook his head, common actions when Mickey was in one of his dramatic moods.

They said their goodbyes, Aria flinging her arms around Mickey’s neck and giving his cheek a smacking kiss.

“ARGH! Christ Aria. Gross!” Mickey had exclaimed, wiping his cheek off with both hands and giving her a look of pure disgust. Aria giggled and smacked Mickey in the arm, muttering something about him being, “the most dramatic fucker in the world.”

The couple finally disappeared out the door, leaving Mickey alone in the quiet apartment.

He headed into his room and began sifting through his boxes to find the one that had his sheets and duvet. Once located, he made short work of making his bed -- not really tucking the corners in or bothering to find his top sheet.

This was by far Mickey’s favourite part of move-in day; getting to sprawl on his bed for the first time.

He backed up a couple of paces and took a running start, leaping onto the bed and starfishing out on his stomach. The duvet was soft against his cheek, and Mickey immediately felt at ease now that he was back at school after a long summer back home in Chicago. The thought of home instantly made his muscles tense and his breath hitch. He hated that it still had that effect on him.

He shifted uncomfortably as he directed his thoughts back to the present -- remembering where he was now and that tomorrow was his first practice with the team. His heart nearly soared in the most embarrassing way when he thought about playing hockey with his team again after a long summer off.

He had, of course, attempted to practice while in Chicago, but the ice was absolute shit with the amount of heat the state had received.

He was just happy to be getting back into doing what he loved. And hockey was just about one of the only things he truly loved.

Mickey was about to start his third year on the team as a top-scoring centerman. He led the team last season in both goals and points, and the organization had rewarded him with MVP at the end of the season. He thought for sure that last year would be the year he’d get drafted to the NHL. That was the ultimate dream. The one thing that he wanted more than anything else, and the one thing that he had been working towards his entire life. Nothing had ever meant more to him than hockey.

He had done everything he could to prove himself to be the type of player that would be useful to any team last year, and that included putting his academics on the back burner so that he could get in extra training time. But his coach decided he wasn't ready. It just didn’t work out for him. Or for his team for that matter.

Despite their best efforts, Michigan was knocked out of the championships in the first round of the tournament; a tournament that the organization hadn’t won since 1998. Coach had yelled at them for nearly thirty minutes after they skated off the ice. Mickey remembered laughing at the fact that a little yelling was all it took to make a grown man cry. Technically, the guy in question was a seventeen year old rookie, but it was amusing nonetheless.

Mickey smiled at the memory as he felt his eyes begin to droop. He should be unpacking, but he was so boneless and exhausted that he couldn’t bring himself to pull himself out of bed to lug and sort through all his shit. He decided to take a short nap prior to getting to work, but before he could reach for his phone to set an alarm, he was out like a light.

________________________________

Mickey awoke after what felt like mere minutes to clattering and laughter coming from the living room. He groaned and squinted his eyes open halfway, his palms finding their way up to rub the sleep away. His heart was pounding, bizarrely, as if he'd just run a marathon in all his hockey gear.

Raucous laughter and the bashing together of pots and pans followed as Mickey blinked his eyes trying to remember where and who he was. He sighed when he finally placed himself, shaking his head at the ruckus coming from the kitchen. Ben and Aria were no doubt making dinner, and apparently attempting to make a new EP with their fucking kitchenware.

Between Ben’s clumsiness and Aria’s booming laugh, the two made it nearly impossible for Mickey to slip back into this blissful nap.

He sighed and rolled onto his side as his heart beat began to slow, tucking his elbow under his head and reaching for his phone on his nightstand. All it took was one look at the time for Mickey’s heart to begin to race all over again. He jumped out of bed so fast he was surprised that he didn’t roll an ankle.

“Shit, fuck” he muttered. It was 8:15am. Mickey had class in fifteen minutes.

Mickey scrambled around the room and threw on a pair of black joggers and the first shirt that he could find -- a white UMich hockey t-shirt from last year’s championship series. He lost at least a minute and a half hastily trying to find his missing left shoe, silently cursing last night’s version of himself for being so goddamn lazy. He hopped on one foot around the maze of unpacked boxes on his floor, trying to put on his shoes while simultaneously attempting to locate his backpack and books.

The whole charade took around five minutes before he was bursting through his bedroom door, and running past Ben and Aria who were now sitting at the kitchen island, a decadent breakfast laid out in front of them. He beelined it for the front door.

“Thanks for letting me sleep in assholes!” he yelled over his shoulder.

“What are we? Your fucking parents?” he heard Ben say from behind him. “Why is it our job to wake you up for school?!”

“Hey! I’m making dinner tonight after practice so don’t be late!” Aria shouted before Mickey could slam the door.

He glanced at his phone once he'd made it outside into the warm, end-of-summer breeze. 8:20am. He began to sprint to the Starbucks on campus, because God forbid he had to attend an 8:30am lecture without some sort of caffeine in his system.

Mickey was not a Starbucks person. In fact, the mere insinuation that Mickey was a Starbucks person was enough to make him double over and combust into laughter on a normal day.

Their coffee was average and overpriced at best, and he much preferred the kind that came out of the Keurig machine back at his apartment. He also didn’t have to sell his left kidney to pay for it. Not to mention he knew people from back home who would quite literally disown his ass if they heard he was anywhere near a Starbucks. Something about a beloved mom-and-pop convenience store being replaced with one. What the Starbucks Cooperation wanted with a location on the South Side of Chicago, Mickey would never understand. All he knew was that these were desperate times, and he was willing to forgive himself just this once if it meant getting through his first class of the semester without necking himself.

His and Ben’s apartment was about a seven minute walk to campus, and a ten minute walk to the rink. The university had all of the athletes living close enough to the school so they could easily get to games and practices without having to own cars. That shit wasn’t cheap. Not that Mickey would know. He was given a full-ride scholarship to come and play hockey at Michigan straight out of high school. It covered everything from his tuition to room and board. He was beyond grateful for it, because he sure as fuck wouldn’t be there without it. He probably had his coach to thank for that.

He made it to Starbucks in what he considered record time. He mentally patted himself on the back, entered the coffee shop, and audibly groaned upon seeing the scene in front of him. There were ten -- ten -- other people in line, no doubt looking for the same Monday morning caffeine fix that Mickey was chasing. In hindsight, he understood the struggle, but he had absolutely no time to be empathetic.

Mickey glanced at the time on his phone. 8:22am. Fuck. He looked back up at the line and observed its patrons. No one seemed to be in a rush. They all seemed relatively calm -- some on their phones, others chatting. There was no way any of them had a class in just eight minutes.

He darted towards the front of the line and tapped the shoulder of the girl who was currently ordering. She turned around, her eyes widening when she realized who Mickey was.

“Hey, you mind?” he asked the girl who was now blushing furiously, “kind of in a rush.”

The girl nodded and stammered out a “ye-yeah, yes, of course,” and moved a couple of steps back.

“Thanks.” He gave her a smile, landing another pat on her shoulder, at which point the girl giggled loudly and mumbled a reply that Mickey couldn’t quite make out.

He had long since gotten used to people, particularly women, acting that way around him. One of the ‘benefits' of being a well-known athlete on campus that he found annoying for the most part, but was clearly working in his favour this morning.

Mickey turned to face the counter so he could order and was stunned by the man that greeted him. The barista was a tall redhead, hair short and curled tightly at the top. His face was pale, a light dusting of freckles across his cheeks, and he had a jawline that had Mickey staring a beat too long. He looked up and was met with piercing green eyes, wide and staring at him in disbelief, brows furrowed, a look that immediately pulled Mickey out of his daze.

“Um, hi,” Mickey said, putting his wallet down on the counter and staring at the menu so he didn’t have to look at the man in front of him, “can I just get a plain black coffee?”

The redhead just continued to stare at him, blinking way more often than what was considered humanly acceptable. Mickey realized that this poor guy was probably starstruck, which could have been endearing if he wasn't seriously decaffeinated and seriously late. That idea was quickly put to bed once he began looking around the coffee shop as if looking for someone. He seemed to examine the customers, getting on his tippy toes, eyes quickly scanning the top corners of each wall before fixing his gaze back on Mickey.

“I’m sorry, am I being punked?” he asked, sarcasm clear in his voice, “or are you actually expecting me to let you cut in line like that?” The guy continued to appear baffled, looking at Mickey as if he had just kicked a small child.

“Uh,” Mickey mumbled, straightening his back, momentarily taken aback by the redhead’s forwardness, “I mean, considering that I’m standing here and have already ordered means I think it’s kind of obvious that was the expectation. I’m not just here for my good looks.”

The redhead snorted and gave Mickey a quick once over, making Mickey’s eyes widen for a brief moment before he caught himself. He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, electing to appear unfazed.

“Well, be that as it may, I can’t serve you unless you move to the back of the line and wait your turn,” the redhead said, with a challenging look on his face.

Mickey scratched the back of his head and checked his phone before peering back at the barista.

“C’mon man,” he said, trying not to sound impatient but not finding much success, “I have class in five minutes. Just pour the damn coffee and I’ll be out of your hair in like twenty seconds.”

The barista raised his eyebrows, a small hint of a smirk on his lips. He crossed his arms to his chest stubbornly.

“Sorry sir, I can’t help you. It’s coffee shop etiquette.”

Coffee shop what? Sir?

People like this were exactly why Mickey didn’t come to these types of places to begin with. Who had the mental capacity to take coffee, of all things, so seriously? They acted like it was some sort of religious cult and it maddened Mickey to his core.

He honestly should have left right then. He could have flipped the redhead off and found another source for his coffee. But something about the way the guy was looking at him infuriated Mickey so hard he could feel it in his toes.

He was being challenged, and Mickey wasn’t one to stand down from a challenge. So instead, Mickey stayed put and persevered.

“Look…” he said, quickly peering down at the guy's name tag. He immediately had to do a double-take when he saw the name. Curtis. He was pretty sure his brows found their vertical limit with how high they went at this tidbit of information because, Curtis? Surely, he was the one being punked because there was no way on God’s Green Earth that a guy who looked like this was named Curtis. Mickey looked back up at the redhead, shaking his head slightly.

“Look man,” he continued, trying to play off the snort that was threatening to escape his lips, “you must be new around here, if you don’t know who I am. But if you just went into the back and got your supervisor or something, I’m sure we could sort this right out.”

Curtis looked nonplussed by the request. His eyes narrowed in concern and for a split second, Mickey felt a little bad before he remembered the urgency of the situation. The barista just kept looking at him, seemingly unsure of what to say.

“Sure, sir,” he finally said, taking a deep, wavering breath, “I’ll just go get him.”

“Thanks so much,” Mickey replied with a faux sweetness to his voice. A feeling of relief washed over him as he mentally claimed victory. He looked at his phone again. 8:26am. He glanced back up at Curtis, who still hadn’t made a move to the back of the shop. “Uh, while I’m still young maybe?” Mickey quipped.

The redhead smiled sweetly, took a couple of steps back from the counter and, to Mickey’s horror, made a show of spinning around in a circle and taking his place back at the computer.

“Hello,” he said, clearly very amused by his own theatrics, “I’m the supervisor on shift right now. What seems to be the problem?”

Mickey wasn’t sure when his life had become a soap opera, but he sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to get renewed for another season. He could only stare at the man in front of him, mouth slightly agape and utterly bewildered. 

He could feel his throat drying up -- he swallowed so that he could actually speak whenever the words decided to come to him. Across from him, the barista’s once concerned look had morphed into an amused smirk and he was on the verge of looking like he had just won the lottery. Mickey scratched his nose with his thumb and took a deep breath in frustration.

“You’re joking,” is what came out.

“Unfortunately, I am not,” said Curtis in faux disappointment, putting his lips together in a thin line and shaking his head as if he were trying to sympathize with Mickey’s frustration. The nerve. “Now, I know this may come as a shock considering your clear disregard for other human beings besides yourself, but there’s about fifteen people in this line now and I really need to do my job, so you can either line up like everyone else, or you can get out of my store.” He tilted his head to the side slightly and raised one of his brows as if waiting for Mickey, who was now stunned beyond belief, to make a decision.

They continued to stare each other down -- Mickey outright glaring, and the redhead still smirking. Mickey was glaring so intensely that he could have sworn he saw Curtis' eyes flicker to his lips for a split second before focusing back on Mickey’s eyes. As far as Mickey was concerned, the flip in his stomach was not prompted by the redhead’s slip.

In fact, it didn't happen at all.

He needed to leave.

Mickey picked up his wallet from the counter, gave the redhead one final, scathingly dirty look, and turned to leave the coffee shop.

“Hey, have a great day!” he heard Curtis say loudly from behind him, the timbre of his voice smug and proud.

Mickey stomped his way to class. He had two minutes to get to the North building, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about being late after that bullshit confrontation first thing in the goddamn morning. And on a Monday of all days! No one had ever spoken to Mickey like that. Not while he'd been a top-scoring Michigan Wolverine, anyway. Back home was another story, but even then he sure as fuck didn’t go down without a fight.

It wasn’t like he expected to be treated like royalty -- especially not after how he grew up. The hockey team was just kind of a big deal at UMich. The team had a lot of supporters and essentially everyone on campus knew who they were, and after his success last season, they sure as shit knew who Mickey was.

That guy was dead wrong. Mickey didn’t consider himself above everyone else. But he did think that he deserved some respect for fucks sake. And if on the one occasion where he attempted to use his status to get special treatment, he at least expected some compliance.

He reached the entrance of the North building and began his short walk to the row of lecture halls at the end of the wing. His mind was still fixed on that tall, freckled alien. Honestly, fuck him and his weird-ass name. Curtis. Please. Was his family a part of the Mormon Church? It was a shame that his attractiveness was completely overridden by his cocky and intolerable personality. He shook his head at the complete waste and continued to trek his way to the classroom.

Mickey got to the lecture hall, pulled open the door and, unsurprisingly, saw that the class had already started. The hall had about thirty rows of seats ascending upwards. The professor bore no mind to the interruption and continued to drone on about some kind of psychology brain shit. Mickey climbed the stairs to the left of the door to the last available row. He slumped into his seat, dropping his backpack on the ground beside him.

As he began taking out his laptop, he could already tell his whole day was completely ruined. And all because he went to stupid, yuppie Starbucks.

It was at that moment that Mickey decided two things; that nothing good could ever come out of a trip to Starbucks, and that whether he made it into the NHL or not, he would consider his college career a success if he never ran into Curtis again.

Chapter Text

“So we all agree that the pope is like, really gay right?” Chris Nelson asked the few of his teammates left in the Wolverine locker room as he reached into his bag to fish out his shoulder pads. 

The rest of the men looked at their team captain and then at each other, raising their eyebrows in unison. Ben caught Mickey’s eye from across the room, tilted his head, and made a face as if this information was supposed to mean something to Mickey. Mickey subtly scratched his nose with his middle finger.

“The pope?” Jamal Jenkins, a left-winger, asked, “like, the real Catholic pope?”

“Yeah,” said Nelson. The right-winger looked around at them, seemingly waiting for them to finally understand what he was saying. When his teammates remained silent he said “you guys have never heard that theory before? It’s super popular on Twitter.”

“I mean I don’t like to get involved with any of that shit” Chad Adams, a right-winger said. He looked up from lacing up his skates and put a hand through his blonde hair, “I have a lot of beef with his dad so I stay away from any and all talk of Catholicism,” he said seriously.

Adams was exactly how he sounded; a typical bro. A bro that had pretty much everyone scratching their heads wondering how he hadn’t flunked out of school yet. He had a heart of gold but a brain full of dust. He was extremely fortunate that his stickhandling was as good as it was. 

Ben snorted from next to Adams, “his dad?” he asked, giving him a funny look and then looking over to Mickey who was admittedly just as confused but slightly intrigued for once. 

“Yeah” Adams answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “his dad is Jesus isn’t it? The guy let a lot of bad stuff go down without stepping in. I’m not a fan.” he said matter of factly and pulled his yellow practice jersey over his head. 

The rest of his teammates looked at each other again and back at Adams as if waiting for him to come to the conclusion on his own. When nothing happened Jenkins let out an “Uh. What?” which seemed to cause Adams to sit back and reflect on what he had just said. 

“Wait,” he said, scratching his head, “well how is the pope even chosen? If not by being a direct descendent of Jesus Christ?” he looked around at all of them, shocked, as thought he’d just had his entire childhood ripped out from under him. 

“Jesus is not the pope’s dad, Adams,” Chris said slowly. 

“Well then who birthed the pope?” he quizzed defensively. 

“His human father!” Jenkins said, looking around at the rest of his teammates as if to see whether he was hearing this correctly. He caught Mickey’s eyes and Mickey only shrugged his shoulders. Jenkins was a good egg, but even Mickey couldn’t help him here.

“Wait, his father birthed him?!” Adams appeared bewildered at such an insinuation. 

“Oh fuck off man, you know what I meant.” Jenkins said, rolling his eyes. 

They were silent for a moment, Mickey reaching for his gloves and helmet on the top shelf of his cubby. He would usually try to escape situations like this in lue of getting onto the ice as fast as possible, but this, unlike all of Adams’ other dumb locker room antics, was actually entertaining as hell. He sat back down on the bench and busied himself with taping his stick. 

“So who does the pope belong to then?” Adams asked, seemingly unable to drop it. 

Mickey groaned.

“Jesus fuck Adams, the pope is a real person, birthed and conceived by his real mom and his real dad.”

Adams looked around at Mickey and seemed taken aback that he’d even participated.

“So, is he at least related to the other popes or something?”

“Oh my god,” said Jenkins, shaking his head and flipping his brown hair back so he could put on his helmet. 

“They aren't even related to each other?!? How is the fucker chosen then?!?”

“It's basically like a pyramid scheme of men,” Nelson piped up. How he managed to say such things so confidently and straight-faced, Mickey would never understand. Probably a testament to why he was chosen as team captain. “He’s gotta be nominated by priests. It’s a long and strenuous process choosing a pope.”

“What the fuck?” Adams put both hands on his head and shook it wildly as though trying to process all the new information that was being thrown at him. 

More silence followed as the rest of the guys readied themselves for practice. Mickey finished taping his stick and reached for his helmet and gloves. 

“So you’re telling me,” Adams continued as the whole room groaned and muttered swears, “that the all-powerful pope is picked by the less powerful priests?”

“Pretty much” Chris confirmed, “Priest goes to bishop, who goes to archbishop, who goes to cardinal, who then gets voted into popeship like American Idol.”

Adams only blinked at him, his forehead scrunched like he was trying his best to listen and retain what was just said. To absolutely no ones’ surprise, he only inquired further, turning to Jenkins and saying, “so he’s not like a child of the previous pope or something?”

Ben, who had been on the verge of tears from holding in his laughter the past five minutes completely lost it and doubled over from where he sat on the bench, stomping his feet on the ground. 

“For fucks sake Chad, the pope can’t get married,” he said through his laughter, “or have children.”

“Yeah, they reproduce asexually like amoeba. Everybody knows that,” said Jenkins, not looking up from taping his own stick. 

“So they aren’t even like his nephew or something?” Adams asked. 

“Oh my God!” Derek ‘the Douche’ Watson let out frustratedly from the corner of the room where he had apparently been sitting the entire time, “You guys are fucked! Can’t you get dressed quietly like normal people do and just leave the room? No one wants to hear about your gay pope, family business bullshit fantasies! Fuck!” and with that, he got up and stomped towards the door of the locker room and off to the ice. 

“What’s up Watson’s ass today?” Jenkins asked. 

“Probably the same old shit considering that's how he normally acts” supplied Mickey helpfully, nodding at Ben so they could make their way to the rink together. 

“Did anyone actually see him sitting there?” asked Adams, “do you think he’s like a wizard time jumper or something? Because I listened to podcasts about time-traveling wizards this summer!”

That got everyone moving towards the door, desperate to get out of the room before Adams could unleash more of his bullshit before practice had even started. 

________________________________

It became clear to Mickey quite quickly that his coach was going to be showing absolutely no mercy on his team, despite them just having come back from a long offseason.

After a brief introduction and a couple of laps around the rink, head coach Igor Petrovich had them running different drills for an hour straight. He claimed that it was “to see what he was dealing with this year.”

Mickey knew as well as the rest of the guys that Petrovich ran a no-bullshit operation during practices. He usually ran them two days a week with the other trainers and coaching staff taking over for the rest of the days. He told the team that he’d be taking Mondays and Wednesdays this semester. It wasn’t a surprise that most of his teammates preferred the days that Petrovich wasn’t running the show. It was still hard work, but at least they were able to have a little bit of fun.

Petrovich’s immediate roughness with the team was no doubt due to how last year ended for them. He seemed more determined than ever to make sure they all knew he was still holding a grudge.

Most people would think that his coaching style was unconventional, Mickey was just used to it. You don’t grow up on the South Side of Chicago and not learn how to roll with the punches. 

“What the fuck are you doing Adams?” Petrovich yelled from the center, “Does this look like the Nutcracker Christmas to you? Either move your ass or you can skate Russians for me after practice, it's up to you!”

Mickey cringed. Russians were basically like running lines in gym class but on the ice instead. You had to skate from one end of the rink to the blue line and back, then to the opposite goal line and back. Everyone knew that if Petrovich was the one giving out Russians, he wouldn’t be giving out an exact number of times the punishment needed to be done. He would simply stand there and watch until he decided enough time had passed before he blew his whistle.

“The fuck is his problem?” Adams muttered behind Mickey and Ben while they were waiting for their turn to complete the drill they were doing. 

“Maybe he heard about your beef with the pope. Were you never made aware of his dedication to the holy life?” Ben asked, tapping Adam’s shin with his stick and laughing at his bewildered expression. 

Mickey smirked and shook his head at the thought of Petrovich in a church. Not even God himself would be able to pull off a miracle like that. 

“I’m serious. He’s even more tense than usual. Hasn’t cracked a smile or nothing in the past hour. Not even when I asked him how his wife was. He didn’t even answer. Just skated awa- what?” he asked upon seeing the looks on Mickey and Ben’s faces. 

“Pretty sure his wife left him like ten years ago man,” Mickey said, chuckling. 

Adams looked nonplussed and struggled to form words. 

“Yeah you’re fucked man,” Ben laughed as it came up to his turn in line. He bolted away to complete the drill. 

Adams stared at Mickey with wide eyes, his mouth still moving with no words coming out, “Mick” he managed to croak out. 

Mickey rolled his eyes at the winger and patted him on the shoulder, muttering “I’ll do what I can,” and with that, he skated away from the baffled blonde. 

His partner for the drill, a rookie named Thomas, passed him the puck and he drove to the net, successfully deking out the defenceman that had been planted in an attempt to intercept him, and beating the goalie glove side. Mickey grinned. It was good to be back. 

The last 30 minutes of practice was set aside for a scrimmage. Mickey wasn’t sure what his coach was expecting but clearly what was happening on the ice in front of him was not it. He yelled that there were too many turnovers in the neutral zone and not enough energy being given to rebounds and burying loose pucks. 

Petrovich was barely stopping the play like he normally would for teaching moments, which meant that there was less time to rest between shifts and that at least half the team was constantly moving for the thirty-minute period. It was exhausting and nowhere near as much fun as first practices back normally were. 

Finally, Petrovich blew his whistle and signified the end of practice. Mickey breathed heavily, huffing to try and catch his breath. He glided towards the bench, giving and receiving little stick taps to the shins of his teammates as he skirted around them. He pulled off his helmet as he heard Petrovich's voice boom across the ice.

“Milkovich! Come see me after you’ve showered,” he shouted towards the hoard of players, before turning back towards the assistant coach to resume his post-practice debrief.

Mickey made it to solid land, adjusting to the feeling after over 90 minutes of intensive practice. He headed straight for the locker room and exhaled heavily as he sat down to remove his skates.

“Good work out there Milkovich,” Jenkins said as he pulled his practice jersey over his head.

Mickey nodded. 

“You too, man. Your wrist shot is looking good.”

Mickey looked over in time to see Jamal smile as he grabbed his towel from his locker. 

“Cheers, Mick.” 

Mickey knew Jamal had been working on his offensive game, trying to improve his versatility as a player, and he really had improved a lot over the summer, even if their coach had failed to point it out during practice.

“‘Ey,” he called over to Ben, “You going back to the apartment now?” 

“Nah man, I got fucking statistics until 5 pm,” he said rolling his eyes. 

Mickey snorted at his best friend’s misfortune and Ben flipped him off. 

“What about Aria?” he asked. 

“Same for her.” Mickey nodded and took off his jersey, crumpling it up in a ball and throwing it in the hamper near the door. 

Once Mickey had stripped out of his gear, he wrapped himself in a towel from the waist down, following some of the other guys into the communal showers in the locker room down the hall. 

Mickey found an empty shower head, hung his towel on a hook on the wall, and let the near-boiling water stream down his back, enjoying the feeling on his tired muscles. He made quick work of his shower, soaping up his sore body in record time, as he wanted to get home as quickly as possible. He had a date with Netflix and an empty apartment before Ben and Aria could get back to start making dinner. 

He shut off the tap, before toweling off. He could hear Adams trying to make small talk with Nelson as he got dressed in his black joggers and a spare hoodie that he kept in his locker. Nelson was being mightily patient, but Mickey avoided the interaction like the plague. He’d had enough of Adams’ nonsense for one day.

With a sigh he made his way down to the other end of the hall to Petrovich’s office and knocked on the open door. 

“Mickey my boy, come in, come in,” Petrovich said, motioning for him to take a seat in the chair on the other side of his desk.

________________________________

Igor Petrovich had been in Mickey’s life a lot longer than his tenure as a UMich student. Petrovich was also originally from Chicago, and was once in cahoots with Mickey’s deadbeat father, Terry, long before Mickey was even born. 

Mickey suspected Petrovich was involved in Terry’s drug runs back when they were younger. He had put all of that aside when he started to take coaching hockey more seriously, hoping to move from coaching high school to college level.

Terry used to tell drunken stories to anyone who would listen about their “adventures together in the good old days,” and complained loudly about how his best friend had abandoned him to “coach ballerina’s on ice.”  

In Mickey’s formative years, while Terry was coked out, on a drug run or beating up one of his kids, Petrovich was teaching Mickey how to skate and play hockey. Mickey remembers one winter’s day in particular when he was five years old.

Terry had been passed out for at least a day, and Iggy had called Petrovich, who came over to make sure he was still alive. Once it was confirmed that Terry was indeed still with them, he told Mickey and his siblings to grab their coats and follow him. Once outside, he led them to a pond that had frozen over a couple of blocks from their house, where he announced they would be learning to skate.

Mickey remembers Petrovich lacing up his skates for him, telling him to wait by the edge of the pond, before turning to help Mandy with hers. Mickey, being the great listener that he was, wobbled his way towards the pond and immediately stepped onto the sheet of ice.

When Petrovich had turned around, he was watching Mickey glide on the ice as if he had been doing it for years. 

Mickey pretty much fell in love with hockey the moment he touched the blade of a stick to a puck. Petrovich was adamant that Terry get him on a team, convinced he was some sort of prodigy after watching how quickly he picked up the sport. When his father said he had better things to spend his money on, Petrovich took matters into his own hands. He got Mickey on a Mini Mite team and bought him all of his gear, even offering to meet him for one on one sessions a couple of times a week as he got older.  

He had the best incentive in the world to get better at the sport - not only was Petrovich financially supporting him, but this was the first time Mickey had experienced any kind of love or support from an adult. He was terrified that if he didn’t live up to Petrovich’s expectations, he would lose that relationship faster than he had obtained it.

More importantly though, as he grew up, he began to realize that the more time he played and practiced, the more time he got to spend away from Terry and the house of horrors he was forced to call home.

Petrovich clearly saw Mickey’s potential, but he also saw the bruises and emotional terror Terry was inflicting. His coach wasn’t a pillar of virtue, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he at least seemed to have some moral objection to physically abusing innocent kids, for which Mickey was thankful.

Although Petrovich had inadvertently offered him an escape, he never actively stopped Terry from doing it either.

When a new bruise appeared, Petrovich just increased Mickey’s one-on-one practices. When Mickey sported new broken blood vessels, he took him to professional hockey games to show him how the pros did it.

When he turned up to their practice with a broken arm when he was 11, well, he couldn’t do much then. 

His support was real, but also conditional. Mickey would accept conditional support over broken bones any day of the week. Petrovich wasn’t perfect, but he was something. He used to wonder if he would one day be able to trust Petrovich with all the parts of him, even the parts he was too scared to put into words, the way a young boy should be able to trust a father.

And then, when he was 13, he walked in on Terry and Petrovich sharing a beer, laughing over a photo of some bloodied-up pansy Terry bashed down at Boystown, the photo a memento of a night well spent.

Petrovich couldn’t join in, he had his reputation as a local high school hockey coach to protect, but he could still laugh at the outcome.

Terry beckoned Mickey over and made him laugh at it too. He didn’t feel like laughing, though.

He felt fucking sick.

The realization that he liked boys was a horrifying one when it hit, and Mickey spent most of his childhood and early teen years suppressing the fuck out of that part of himself.

He always knew deep down that Petrovich was old school - you couldn’t be best friends with Terry Milkovich without being so - but from that point on he desperately kept the fact that he was gay expertly hidden from both of them.

It became a necessary survival tactic at that point.

Mickey knew with one hundred percent certainty that if Terry ever found out he was gay, he was dead in the ground. 

He didn’t let himself even remotely entertain the idea of hooking up with men while under the eye of Terry and his gaggle of homophobic, white supremacist friends. So he settled for secret jerk offs under his covers and day-dreaming of the day he could be who he really was.

And so hockey became his singular focus; his ticket out of Chicago and to becoming the man he yearned to be.

Petrovich had been scouted for the Head Coach position at the University of Michigan when Mickey was 14. He agreed to keep paying his hockey fees, under the proviso he end up at UMich one day, playing under him. Before he left, he looked Mickey in the eyes, and told him he was proud of him.

At 14 years old, it was the first time anyone had told him that.

Mickey worked hard in his years at high school, his tunnel vision and desire to stay the fuck away from Terry proving to be useful inspiration in honing his skills. He dominated the league, playing AAA from the time he was 15 until he graduated high school.

The abuse he received at home was as easy to brush off as injuries from hockey. It got worse, and harder to handle without Petrovich there, but he stayed focused on his goals.

UMich. Hockey. Escape. Freedom.

When Terry died of a heroin overdose the summer after Mickey finished high school, it felt more like spring.

Like new beginnings.

He felt the painful pressure that had been sitting stagnant in his chest suddenly release. He felt like he could breathe for the first time in years.

Petrovich had been Head Coach of the University of Michigan team for nearly 4 years by then, and Mickey was thrilled to be selected for his team and to get to play under him.

Sure, he was homophobic, but he had a soft spot for Mickey, and if that meant ultimately improving his chances of eventually getting drafted into the NHL, getting one step closer to total freedom, he’d gladly play the part. 

In a matter of months he had gone from a lowly high school hockey player; hidden, beaten, tormented, abused by his dad, and terrified to be who he was, to a college athlete living in a new city with a new life full of hope.

Petrovich was a somber reminder of where he came from, whilst also being a large part of the reason for his current success. He felt unbearably indebted to him in a way he found hard to explain.

________________________________

“I’m gonna cut to the chase, kid,” Petrovich said seriously, as Mickey sat down on the chair on the other side of the desk. The burly, balding man in front of him crossed his left hand over his right on the desk. “Student Services have been up my ass since last January because your grades last year were in violation of the requirements for your athletic scholarship.”

Mickey groaned. Not this shit again. He rolled his eyes aggressively.

“Don’t give me any attitude, Milkovich,” Petrovich said, his eyes hardening before continuing. “I can’t fend them off again this year like I spent most of last year doing. They've just informed me that they’ve assigned you a tutor for the year.” 

Mickey raised his eyebrows and sat up, looking at Petrovich as if he had just told a joke. 

“A tutor,” he repeated dryly. 

“Yes Mickey. A tutor. Apparently, if you don't pull up your grades by the end of this semester, they'll be putting you on academic probation. And I know I don’t need to tell you that you can’t play hockey on academic probation.” 

Mickey’s breath immediately got stuck in his throat and he felt a tight pressure push down on his chest at Petrovich’s words. He knew his academic situation was bad but he never actually considered a reality where they wouldn’t let him play because of it.

There was literally no chance in hell that could happen. He couldn’t afford to not play this year.

He already missed his chance of getting drafted last year, and not playing this year was a surefire way to make sure that history repeated itself. This was fucked. Not to mention he was going to need some sort of miracle in order to pull his grades up to where they actually needed to be.

“Can’t they cut me some slack, Coach?” Mickey whined, “I mean I was at the top of the organization last year and I’m so close to getting drafted next year. Besides, it’s not like I completely failed all of my classes last year.”

Petrovich gave Mickey an amused look. It was the first smile he had seen out of the man all day.

“You were half a percent away from failing one of them and you nearly failed the other three.” 

“Yeah but…” Mickey started again.

“It’s done, Mickey,” he was starting to sound annoyed now. “Just pull your head out of your ass, show up to tutoring, get the work done and we won’t have a problem.”

Mickey groaned and slumped back into the seat. His head was exactly where it needed to be, thank you very much. 

“Plus,” Petrovich continued. “I specifically asked the athletics tutoring program to assign you the best of the best.”

Mickey tried to think of a way around this but, if he was honest, he knew that without some kind of help he wouldn't be able to pass his classes anyway. He had to take the most ridiculous sounding courses this year.

He had completely forgotten about his enrolment appointment this past summer and by the time he had remembered, most of the cool or easy sounding psychology electives were taken, so he was left with Educational Neuroscience, The Biopsychology of Sports (okay, he was semi-excited for that one), Biology, Brain & Behaviour Across Development and The Evolution of Psychology. 

Considering he nearly failed Intro to Psychology in his freshman year, he wasn’t too confident in his ability to fumble his way through these courses without some guidance.

Psychology was pretty much the only major that interested Mickey in the slightest when he first glanced through the list a couple of months before he started his first year. He figured, if he had to do something, psychology at the very least would give him a chance to do some analysis on himself and the way he grew up.

Maybe some insight into why he was the way he was, into why people like Terry existed. God knows he needed it. But looking back it was naive of him to think that’s what it would be. 

Instead, he had spent the better part of two years learning about theories and their theorists. Surface-level information and then just when you’re getting into the good stuff, you’re forced to change topics and are told that “you’ll tackle this topic in depth should you decide to go to graduate school.”

Mickey would sell his left nut to not have to go to graduate school. He would sell the right one to never have to learn about some fucker named B.F. Skinner and how he spent his time feeding rats as an occupation ever again.

“Fine,” Mickey sighed, resigned, “whatever. How does this shit work?”

“Well your tutor’s name is uh…” Petrovich fumbled around his desk, before locating the piece of paper he’d been hunting for and handing it to Mickey, “Ian Gallagher. You’ve gotta head over to meet him at 4:30 pm in study room 15 in the library, just for an introductory session. He’ll run you through the schedule and what marks you need in order to stay eligible for the scholarship.” He glanced at the clock on the wall above Mickey’s head. “Shit it’s already 4, so get to it if you don’t want to be late.”

Mickey huffed, plastered on a smile. 

“You got it, Coach,” his voice dripped with disdain. 

He pushed up from his seat to stalk out of the office but before he could he turned to face his coach again, who raised his eyebrow at him in question. 

“So, Adams is looking good this year huh?” he said, not so subtly. 

“Don’t even try it, Milkovich,” his coach said raising his hand to silence him, “get the fuck out.” 

Mickey snorted. Well at least he tried. Adams was on his own now. 

________________________________

Once he was outside of the rink he closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply, copping a lungful of crisp September air. He breathed out in a steady flow, trying to calm the sheer frustration that was tormenting his entire being.

He opened his eyes and took half a step, before coming to a halt. He looked around. He realized he had no fucking clue where the library was.

Well, that was embarrassing.

He pulled out his phone and brought up Google Maps, searching for ‘University of Michigan Library’ only to discover that, to his horror, there were about a dozen fucking libraries at his school.

He groaned. What college needed more than one fucking library? And how hadn’t Mickey come into contact with at least one in the last three years?

He checked the piece of paper that Petrovich had given him and discovered he was looking for the Shapiro Undergraduate Library. He put the name into his phone and it showed him the route. Luckily it was only a 14-minute walk away.

As he walked toward the library, he looked down at the piece of paper in his hand again, and couldn’t help the frustrated groan that escaped his lips.

He’d never even understood why college athletes needed to do actual schoolwork in order to play. They were all there to hone their skills, master their sport and eventually make it to the pros, so why did they have to waste time with stupid ass degrees in the first place?

He hated what he studied. He hated the deadlines. He hated anything that distracted him from playing. 

He’d considered changing his major when he realized psychology was not what he expected, but he figured he probably wouldn’t have liked anything else anyway. He wasn’t made for test writing and note-taking - he was a hockey player. That’s what he was meant to be doing for the rest of his life. 

Ever since he was a kid there had been this quiet, bubbling rage inside him. This general unease he always struggled to manage. But then he found hockey, and the noises in his head quieted down and the pit in his stomach slowly began to fill. It made sense to him. It helped keep his life in check when everything else around him crumbled.

He couldn’t lose hockey. He wouldn’t. 

When Mickey made it to the library, his eyes tried to focus on any signage that could point him towards the study rooms. He smiled to himself in pure and utter amusement when he thought about the fact that he was a Junior and this was the first time he’d actually entered a library.

“Can I help you?” a smiley, young brunette at the front desk asked, batting her eyelashes as Mickey came towards her.

“Uh yeah,” Mickey nodded, “I’m looking for study room 15?" 

“Oh it’s just up this flight of stairs, and then straight down the hallway to the right. You’ll see signs on the door,” she replied, twirling a strand of hair around her finger while looking Mickey up and down not so subtly. 

“Thanks,” Mickey huffed.

“Not a problem, any time,” she said with a coy smile. Mickey recognized the smile as one of a besotted groupie and he was about ninety-eight percent sure he had seen the same girl pulling Adams into a bedroom during a party at some point last year.

He paid her no attention as he turned away to head up the stairs, making his way to study room 15.

He checked his phone for the time. 4:16 pm. He was early. As he arrived at the room, he peeked through the windowpane on the door and saw the back of a redhead sitting hunched over the table.

It looked like they were on their phone. They probably just had the room booked for the 4-4:30 pm slot, but they were in there alone, so Mickey figured they wouldn’t mind if he sat in there while he waited for his tutor.

He let out a big exhale and opened the door.

And no. No no no no no no no no. No. 

The redhead turned their head when they heard the door creak open, and Mickey was greeted by none other than the Starbucks Ginger Giant from that morning.

Curtis.

As if his day couldn’t get any fucking worse.

“Well well well, what the fuck are you doing here Mr. High and Fucking Mighty?” Mickey asserted, his tone dripping in contempt for the fucker in front of him. 

“Oh twice in one day, what the fuck did I do in a past life to deserve this?” Curtis responded. Quick.

“Probably cured cancer or something,” Mickey quipped back. 

“Yeah. Sure.” Curtis scoffed sarcastically. “What the hell are you doing in the library anyway? Considering you struggle with tasks as simple as waiting in a line, I have a hard time believing you have the capability to sit in a library to study for hours on end,” he gave Mickey a quick once over, “or that you’d even know where one was.”

Mickey would not give Curtis the satisfaction of knowing that he had to use Google Maps in order to get here. Fuck that guy. He bit his tongue.

“Well, I’m meeting some dope here for a-” Mickey paused. Why was he embarrassed about needing tutoring? He didn’t have to impress Curtis. The guy was a pompous asshole with the weirdest fucking name of all time, and Mickey was an athlete.  He didn’t have shit to prove to him or anyone else. He steeled himself. “A tutoring session,” he finished confidently.

Mickey noticed Curtis’ eyes widened in horror as he glanced down at his phone, still unlocked on the table in front of him.

“Mikhailo? You’re Mikhailo Milkovich?” Curtis said, disbelieving, his eyes shooting back up to Mickey.

Mickey leveled at Curtis’ ridiculously green eyes and scoffed.

“No, I’m Mickey.”

“I’m Ian.”

“No, you’re Curtis,” Mickey spat coldly.

Why was this annoying motherfucker lying and playing mind games with him? And why were his eyes so fucking green?

“No, I’m Ian. And you’re Mikhailo?”

Had they really been that green this morning? 

“No, I’m Mickey.”

“So you’re not Mikhailo Milkovich?”

It was at this point that Mickey remembered his name was actually Mikhailo and not just Mickey. 

He blamed it on the redhead’s eyes that were totally not distracting him.

“Well, I mean yes, technically I’m Mikhailo Milkovich, but everyone calls me Mickey. And you’re Curtis.”

“No, I’m Ian. Ian Gallagher.”

“You’re-” Mickey cut himself off. They both seemed to come to the horrifying realization at the exact same time.

“I’m Ian. I’m your tutor.”

Chapter Text

Mickey was pretty fucking certain that the whole world had stopped rotating. The planets and all of their moons and stars were just floating in space. Completely stagnant. Mickey stared at Ian now, apparently, as if he was the fucker at the beginning of a movie that was there to tell him an asteroid was headed for earth. Mickey would honestly prefer that chain of events to having the words that had just come out of the redhead’s mouth be true. 

“Wait” Mickey said, utterly appalled, “you’re Ian Gallagher?” 

Ian nodded his head and closed his eyes as if this information was burdening him of all people. 

“What the fuck was with the Curtis nametag then?” Mickey demanded. 

“Inside joke,” Ian sighed, shrugging.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Mickey complained, “you’re my tutor? Really? Your obnoxious ass?”

“Me? Obnoxious?!” Ian sputtered, “You can’t be serious. I’m not the one that thought my time was more important than like ten random strangers. But now that I know you’re an athlete it sure as fuck makes sense.”

Mickey just gaped at him. He could not believe his fucking luck. Or lack of it. Of course the universe would be playing fucking Russian Roulette with his junior year.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Mickey scolded, “the fuck do you have against athletes?”

“Are you kidding?” Ian jeered, letting out a humorless laugh, “I’ve never met one of you that wasn’t a stuck up, conceited prick.”

Was this guy for real? 

“Oh,” said Mickey, loudly and admittedly, quite dramatically, “and just when I thought you couldn't possibly get more infuriating; he’s susceptible to stereotypes!”  

This was sick. Now he was gonna have to spend multiple times a week with this cocky, annoying ass, anti-athlete, Chatty Cathy, alien-looking motherfucker? Seriously what the fuck had he done to deserve this horseshit luck? 

“So, Mr. Too-Good-To-Wait-My-Turn needs help with school, huh? Who’d have thought,” Ian teased playfully, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey snapped, “I’m being forced to be here by dumbass student services. I just need to pass my classes this semester so they don’t take my scholarship away. It’s not like I plan on using a stupid degree in psychology anyway.”

Ian’s face fell, his eyebrows furrowing and mouth opening slightly. 

“Well. I’m glad to see you give a fuck about your education,” he said with heat. 

Mickey let out a frustrated sigh and scratched his nose with his index finger.

“I’m just here for hockey, man. I don’t give a shit about nothing else. No offence, I guess.”

Full offence. 

Gallagher looked at Mickey, nonplussed and almost a little offended. He shook his head in disbelief and averted his eyes away from Mickey and onto the floor. 

“You know” he said, eyes looking back up to meet Mickey’s after a beat, voice on the cusp of sounding angry, “kids that actually want degrees get rejected for scholarships every year because colleges are spending millions of dollars letting athlete’s fail their way through courses just so they can win some fucking trophies. That seem fair to you?” he raised his eyebrows in question. 

“And how the fuck is that my problem, Ginger Mother Theresa?” Mickey snapped back. 

“You don’t deserve to be here if you don’t give a fuck about the actual coursework!” Ian exclaimed, standing up from the table and walking around to stand in front of Mickey. “Why don’t you go play hockey somewhere else and let a kid who actually needs financial aid get some fucking support?!”

Mickey was taken aback. The fact that Gallagher was speaking to him as if they hadn’t just met that morning was maddening to be quite frank, and he was very close to snapping. 

“Isn’t this whole set up a part of some athletics tutoring program?” he exclaimed, “Why the fuck did you sign up for it if you hate athletes?”

“Because I need to pay my way through college and this job happens to pay really well!” Ian explained, “not all of us get a free ride because we can hit a ball with a stick. I actually have to work for shit if I want it. Not that you’d know anything about that.” 

That comment was pretty much the nail on the head of Mickey’s patience. 

“You know what man, fuck you!” he shouted at the redhead, taking a step closer to him as he continued, “you don’t even fucking know me! You don’t know where I come from or what I need! So you can get off your fucking high horse and fuck right off!” 

With that, he spun around and stormed his way towards the door, not giving Gallagher a second look. 

There was steam coming out of Mickey’s ears as he stomped out of the study room and down the hallway towards the stairs.  He didn’t know who the fuck this Gallagher kid was, but Mickey had worked his ass off to get where he was.

He would be damned if he let a pretentious, nerdy, asshole tell him that he didn’t deserve what he had.

________________________________

There was no fucking way he could put up with that fucker multiple times a week. If one five minute conversation was enough to put him in a bad mood for the rest of the semester, he couldn’t imagine what a longer interaction would do. 

He booked it out of the library positively fuming. He could feel the tips of his ears growing more and more hot as the seconds went by. Once out of Shapiro, he began walking in the direction he had come from. His mind was racing. There had to be some way out of this. 

Like muscle memory, he ended up back at the rink and was pulling the door open in no time. He decided that his only course of action was to talk to Petrovich again and to see if he could pull some strings to get him a new tutor. Though considering the trouble his coach had gone through to get him this so-called best of the best in the first place, he wasn’t all that optimistic.  

Nevertheless, he burst into Petrovich’s office to find the room empty. It was probably for the best - he’d probably have killed Mickey for barrelling in without knocking. 

He let out a frustrated grunt and turned on his heel, deciding the next best course of action was to head to his assistant coach’s office instead. 

Mickey poked his head into the doorway of Van Murphy’s office, and saw him watching what appeared to be an old game tape. He had a clipboard out in front of him and was studying the television hard.

Mickey took a deep breath and knocked, deciding that remaining calm and collected was his best approach here. Murphy’s eyes snapped over to the doorway. 

“Yo, coach. You got a minute? I kind of need a favour” Mickey said, trying to keep his voice level. 

Murphy looked tired. He paused the video and set the remote down, motioning for Mickey to come in.

“Milkovich, how can I help?” he asked as Mickey sat down on the chair across from him. 

“Look. I’m gonna be blunt so please excuse my language. I’m assuming Coach filled you in on this stupid ass tutoring program I gotta be a part of, which is fine, it’s whatever. But the tutor they assigned me is a fucking dickhead and I need you to talk to student services and get me a new one.” Mickey said, his left knee bouncing erratically from the pent up energy coursing through him.

Murphy exhaled.

“Would you care to explain what he did that was so dickheadish?” Murphy asked seriously. 

“I dunno. He just said some pretty fucked up shit and I really don’t want to be around him,” Mickey said stubbornly. 

“Look, Mickey,” Murphy sighed, adjusting his glasses so they sat higher on his nose, “We specifically asked them to give you the best tutor on the roster. I don’t want to speak out of turn here, but I’m sure whoever they assigned is fine. I think what actually needs to change here is your attitude. So for the sake of the team, I’m begging you to just make this work.”

“I want to, believe me, but this guy is actually nuts. Certifiable. I can’t work with him. If I have to, I’m gonna fail my classes. I can feel it. Please. Can you just get me a replacement?”

Mickey realized he was throwing shit at the wall, but he was desperate. He was faced with Murphy’s signature ‘quit the bullshit’ look followed by an uncomfortable silence. 

Mickey was wracking his brain in an attempt to find a new approach to the situation that may persuade him. Murphy was just staring at him calmly, with his eyebrows raised. And honestly screw him for always looking at everything so damn logically. 

“What if I told you he punched me in the face?” Mickey posited dramatically. 

That seemed to break Murphy’s vow of silence. 

“Did he?”

A beat.

“Maybe.”

“Milkovich…”

“He punched me in the face and threatened to kneecap the whole team.”

Van Murphy was pretty mild-mannered and well-tempered. On the ice he could be a hardass, but he’d always seemed like a genuinely nice guy outside of the rink. Mickey had never heard a single complaint in the locker room over the years about him.

That’s why his next words caught Mickey completely off guard.

“Mickey, cut the shit. Enough excuses. We heard it all last year. Just do the tutoring, and make it work, because I know if you lose this scholarship you don’t have many other options.”

Mickey stared into Murphy’s eyes desperately. He pleaded with his baby blues, trying to manipulate his way into getting what he wanted. 

Murphy's face softened for a moment, before his eyes hardened again. Mickey was good, but he wasn’t that good.

Murphy’s voice went soft as he continued. “Mickey, you have the talent to make it to the NHL, but the journey there includes plenty of ice time. Ice time that you won’t see if you get kicked out of school. You need to pull your weight like everybody else. We can’t be seen playing favourites. Petrovich and I already let you get away with slacking off last year. It can’t happen again. Student Services have the power to take this away from you. Don’t let them do it.”

Mickey knew it was a lost battle. It appeared he’d used up all the good will in his arsenal, and he released an exasperated sigh to show he’d admitted defeat.

“Yeah, fine. Whatever. I’ll do it. Thanks for nothing.” Mickey spat. 

Murphy didn’t deserve that, but Mickey was pissed. He felt bad immediately. 

“Sorry coach,” he said quietly, “it’s just been a shitty day. I’ll make it work.”

Murphy nodded at him and pressed play on the TV again and Mickey took that as his cue to leave. 

He left the rink for the second time that day and started on the short walk to his apartment. Mickey wasn’t typically a weeknight drinker, but he sure as fuck was going to need a beer after the day from hell he just had.

What he really needed was a fucking smoke but he couldn’t break the no smoking rule he had set for himself on day one of practices.  

When he walked through the door, Ben and Aria were making dinner, the smell of some sort of curry reaching him instantly. The sounds of Ball Park Music filled the kitchen and living space. 

He set his wallet and keys down in the basket by the door and walked in sluggishly. He had never been so grateful to be home in his life.

“Hey slayer,” Ben called as Mickey walked right past the kitchen without a word, “where’d you disappear to after practice? Thought you were coming back here for the night.”

Mickey dumped his bag in his room and immediately went for the fridge, where he grabbed an Old Style can before slumping into one of the stools near the kitchen counter.

He dragged both hands over his face before running his left into his long, damp hair. He needed a haircut.

“God I’ve had the worst fucking day,” he sighed, as he popped open the can of beer.

“Aw, what happened Mick?” Aria asked, turning to him, her eyes quickly flicking down to the can in his hand before looking up at him, brows furrowed, most likely concerned at his choice of drink on a Monday night. 

Mickey let out a long sigh before launching into an explanation. 

“Well. I got signed up to that stupid athlete tutoring program because apparently I’m one ball hair away from being put on academic probation, right? And I mean that sucks but it’s whatever. But I go to meet my tutor and it’s this fucking dick that I had a run in with this morning at Starbucks who was just a douche for no reason.” 

He paused and looked at both Ben and Aria to make sure they were understanding what he was saying before continuing.

“Anyway, I asked Murphy if I could get a replacement and he basically read me the fucking riot act so now I have to deal with this piece of shit who is literally operating under some anti-athlete agenda. How he got accepted as a tutor for an athlete tutoring program is fucking beyond me. I mean he was spewing all this ‘you don’t deserve your scholarship you ungrateful shit’ bullshit at me and I did fuck all? Like I said nothing and he attacked me? He’s fucking hostile as shit and I fucking hate him but now I have to see him three times a week for the rest of the year.”

Ben and Aria just stared at him, seemingly not knowing what to say. It was probably the most riled up they’d seen him in ages.

“Shit, Mick. I’m sorry man,” Ben empathised. He was silent for a moment before giving Mickey a small smirk and scrunching up his face in confusion, “I’m sorry did you say you went to Starbucks?” 

Mickey looked at him as if he was the three-headed dog from Harry Potter himself. 

“Yeah, asshole. I went to Starbucks. I was late this morning and I needed coffee,” he shook his head remembering the experience. “Not that I got any because of that stupid fucking redheaded shithead,” he muttered. 

Ben burst out laughing and Mickey wanted to deck him for not being nearly sympathetic enough for his liking. He looked over at Aria for some kind of support. 

“Who’s the guy? Is it a student?” Aria quizzed.

“Some bozo called Ian Gallagher, or some shit. I’m assuming he’s a student given how offended he got when I said I didn’t give a fuck about school,” Mickey responded, before guzzling a huge mouthful of ice cold beer.

Aria looked thoughtful before her eyes snapped wide.

“Wait, Ian Gallagher? Who works at Starbucks? The Starbucks on South Uni Street?”

“Uh. Yeah, why?” Mickey asked, eyeing her suspiciously. 

“Oh my god, Mickey. That’s the Starbucks I just started working at you knob. I know Ian! Well I don’t know him know him, but I’ve worked a couple of shifts with him. He’s my supervisor!”

Mickey raised his eyebrow and shook his head in confusion. 

“I’m sorry. Did you just say that you work at Starbucks?” he looked over at Ben as if his face would provide him with the answer he was looking for before turning back to Aria, “since when have you worked? Your dad’s loaded. Why would you need to get a job? And at fucking Starbucks of all places?” 

“Jesus Christ, Mickey” Aria said, rolling her eyes, “I just wanted work experience and Starbucks on campus seemed like a fun environment to get that. Not all of us are going to be Hockey Hall of Famers one day.”

Mickey shrugged. She had a point. 

“So you’ve met Gallagher then. Did you get the whole ‘pretentious, all-knowing, lord of the cunt’ vibe from him too?”

Aria gave him an incredulous look. She always looked at him like that right before she called him overdramatic. Unfortunately for him, the one time that he was not being overdramatic was in fact right now. He was being completely reasonable and he needed Ben and Aria to be on his side. 

“Oh come on, Mick, he seems so fucking lovely,” she said.

“Well he’s not so fucking lovely ,” Mickey said, attempting to imitate her accent “he’s a fucking dick.”

Apparently realizing that she was going to get nowhere with Mickey, she turned her head to Ben.

“I’ve chatted to him a couple of times, he’s a transfer student from….ah fuck. Somewhere, I can’t remember. But he’s new here and he seems so nice, and funny. And he’s a total smokeshow too. America’s next top model level shit. I really wanted to be friends with him but I also don’t want Mickey to set me on fire for consorting with the enemy,” she said sarcastically, glaring over at Mickey as if to telepathically berate him for being a dramatic little shit.

“Sounds like you should be dating Mickey’s tutor instead of me then,” Ben scoffed in faux jealousy.

“Believe me I would dump your ass in a heartbeat for him if he wasn’t super gay,” Aria responded, shrugging. “Guess I’m stuck with you,” she teased. 

Mickey’s ears prickled.

“Ugh, he’s gay?” he said with disgust.

“Why do you sound so scandalised? So are you!” Aria said in bewilderment.

“I know it’s the 21st century but isn’t it still uncool to out people?” Ben asked Aria seriously.

“Okay bless you babe, but you don’t need to mansplain queer ethics to your bi girlfriend. Plus he’s totally 100% out and proud, his public insta’s a cornucopia of gayness,” Aria added.

“Hey, maybe Mickey should date him, then!” Ben excitedly exclaimed.

Mickey turned to eye his traitorous roommate and his evil conspirator of a girlfriend. 

“Not in a million years would I ever date that fuck.” Seriously. He’d rather eat lead than ever date someone as pompous and judgemental as Ian Gallagher.

The day had caught up with him. Mickey got up from the table suddenly, deciding that he wasn’t hungry after all.

“I’m going to head to bed. Pray that I wake up in someone else’s body like Freaky Friday so that I don’t have to deal with the disaster that is currently my life.” 

“So dramatic…” Aria whispered to Ben as Mickey muttered his goodnights to the both of them and trudged into his bedroom, closing the door behind him and flinging himself onto his bed. 

He sighed deeply and kicked off his shoes, pushing them over the side of the bed. He made no movement to get ready for bed and instead laid on top of his covers, staring at the ceiling. 

The events of the day ran on repeat in his head, like bad daytime television reruns he used to watch when he stayed home from school.

It wasn’t until he had just about nodded off that he realized that Ian Gallagher was still his tutor and he had no idea when his next session was supposed to be with him. 

He rolled out of bed and skulked over to his bag, searching thoroughly to find that damned piece of paper he was sure had Gallagher’s phone number on it.

After two minutes and no luck, he deduced he must have left it in the study room, so he gave up his search. He flopped himself back onto his bed and groaned loudly. 

This meant he had to find a way to locate the guy tomorrow so he could find out his schedule. It really never was going to fucking end for him was it? 

If what Aria said was true and Gallagher actually was really fucking lovely, then he had failed to see that side of him today. Had Mickey really managed to unlock a new side to this guy with a ten minute total interaction? He would be flattered if it didn’t mean a couple of semesters of torture for himself.

He thought back to what Murphy had laid on him, that he couldn’t play hockey without this tutoring program. Admittedly that thought scared him more than anything. 

If he didn’t have hockey what else was he supposed to do? Surely no one actually expected him to carry on with school. He would probably drop out the next day and have to take up the family business. He shuddered at the thought. 

There was nothing in the world that he wanted less than to end up like his family. 

Mickey hadn’t just left Terry’s corpse behind when he left Chicago, he had also left behind his older brothers Iggy and Colin, his younger sister Mandy and a flock of deadbeat cousins. 

Iggy and Colin had taken over Terry’s drug and firearms business with great enthusiasm when he died, excited to finally have some autonomy in the trade instead of being stuck under Terry’s cruel thumb.

Mickey wasn’t really in contact with his brothers or cousins anymore, trying to distance himself from the unforgiving life he was forced to live as a teenager. He did still check in with Mandy every couple of weeks, who usually filled Mickey in on the latest shenanigans Igs and Col had gotten themselves into.

Mickey and Mandy always bore the worst of Terry’s tyranny growing up, and they had bonded as children because of it. They’d always stuck together, helping each other find new hiding places whenever Terry got drunk enough to search for one of them to take his anger out on. 

Mickey wished she’d leave the South Side behind, and all the harrowing memories associated with it. She said she wanted to, but Mickey knew it was easier said than done. 

He would be damned if he ended up back on the South Side working for his deadweight brothers of all people. 

No, he needed hockey. He needed to stay in school. And this Ian Gallagher seemed to be his only real chance in making that happen. If he was actually the best of the best then surely he could put his unprovoked and totally unreasonable hatred of Mickey aside for three hours a week to help him out. 

Mickey would just have to swallow his pride and do the same. 

He reluctantly pulled himself out of bed and made his way to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. He put on a pair of boxers and a white pyjama shirt before pulling aside the covers and nuzzling back into bed.

Mickey wasn’t an optimist. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t really want to find out either. All he knew was that he would be spending his morning before class trying to track down Ian Gallagher. 

________________________________

Mickey’s day started the way the previous one began; making his way to the Starbucks on campus. The only difference was that this time he wasn’t running late. He had awoken at the crack of dawn so that he could get a run in before heading over to the very same place he swore to never walk into again.

What had his life come to? 

He got dressed in his running gear and made his way out the door. The sun had just peeked over the horizon when he got outside, casting a beautiful orange glow on the buildings outside of his door. He jogged to the track on campus, setting a steady pace for himself. 

Running had become a part of his daily routine during the summer and it was something that he wanted to carry through the semester. 

He ran five miles around the track, his distracted brain mindlessly wandering to the concept of Gallagher being attacked by a Frankenstein-like monster and undergoing a total personality transplant overnight. 

Never say never, right? 

Once he hit his target, he decided to call it quits. He still had practice and a workout to do that day and he didn’t want to use up all of his energy. 

It was time to get the dreaded part of his day over with. He set off in the direction of the Starbucks. He didn’t realize until he was about halfway there that he actually had no idea if Gallagher would even be there.

It was worth a try. If this failed, he could always ask Aria to put them in contact.

He walked into the coffee shop and saw the red hair instantly upon entering. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to come back later he made his way towards the line, which had five other people in it. He sighed and joined the line, knowing full well now that cutting in was not tolerated at this establishment, even if he wasn’t planning on actually buying anything. 

He watched Gallagher talk to customers as he waited. He seemed rather joyful for this time of morning. He didn’t look tired and was smiling brightly at everyone, even making small talk whenever he could. 

Mickey didn’t know the guy could smile that wide, probably because he had spent nearly all their time together with either a frown or a bewildered look on his face. 

When Mickey was next in line, Gallagher looked over the head of the customer in front of him and met Mickey’s eyes. His jovial smile turned ever so slightly when he saw him and his shoulders slumped before he seemed to catch himself and turn his attention back to the customer. 

When it was finally Mickey’s turn, he walked up to the counter and looked up at Gallagher. He didn’t say anything. Mickey realized he hadn’t actually planned what he was going to say. 

“What can I get you?” Gallagher asked, breaking the silence. His voice was hard and definitely not the one that he had been using with the other customers. 

Mickey shifted slightly on his feet.

“I, uh, realized that I left yesterday without getting our schedule or whatever, so.” 

Gallagher seemed amused by this installment in the saga. He raised his left brow. 

“Oh. You want our schedule now do you?” 

Mickey huffed out a breath.

“Are you really going to make this difficult for me? I’m here, ain’t I?” he asked. 

That only seemed to amuse Ian more. The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly and Mickey swore he could have seen the tip of his tongue peak out of his mouth. 

“Considering how difficult you made my life yesterday, making this difficult for you does sound appealing actually,” he said, raising a brow suggestively.

Jesus Christ. 

“Really man?” he asked, already feeling himself getting annoyed with the redhead. 

Before Gallagher could reply the doors to the back room swung open and Aria came gliding out with a stack of to-go coffee cups in her arms. 

She seemed surprised when she saw Mickey standing there. She looked over at Ian who was still staring at Mickey. She looked back at him with eyebrows raised. 

“What the fuck” Mickey said, taking in her green apron and smirking, “you actually work here?”

“Shut up Mickey,” she muttered, “yes I actually work here. Why would I make that shit up?” She put on a silly joking voice as she continued, “‘ I work at Starbucks. PSYCH! I actually don’t’ What kind of a weird joke is that?” 

“How do you two know each other?” Gallagher interjected, looking at Mickey and then directing his attention towards Aria, his brow furrowed in confusion, “hope this isn’t the boyfriend I’ve heard so much about.”

“Fuck no,” Mickey and Aria said in union. They smirked at each other’s identical response.

“Mickey is actually my boyfriend’s roommate.” Aria explained. “We’ve known each since first year.”

Mickey widened his eyes.

“Thanks for the warm words bitch, I thought we were friends too.”

Aria let out a loud cackle. 

“Yes, Mick, we’re friends too,” Aria turned back to Ian, dropping her smile and putting on a mock serious voice before reaffirming “and we’re friends too”.

Ian’s face filled with genuine surprise. 

“Care to explain how a complete delight like you is friends with a tiny arrogant monster like him?” Ian playfully asked.

Aria smirked before her eyes fell to the line of three people behind Mickey, waiting impatiently for their Tuesday morning caffeine fix.

“As much as I wanna play boys, I’m going to serve these very patient customers while you sort out whatever weird testosterone filled animosity that's stopping you from just accepting your roles as the tutor and the tutee and moving on with your lives. But for the love of god, sort it out. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she finished, with a timely hair flip and megawatts smile to boot. She turned her attention toward the lady behind Mickey and beckoned her to step up to the counter.

Mickey’s brows were holding steady an inch above where they typically lived, still in shock from Gallagher’s low blow. Tiny? Arrogant? Monster? Oh this motherfucker had a death wish.

Ian’s face flashed with something that was maybe remorse’s second cousin when he saw the look on Mickey’s face, before he let out a large exhale. 

“I have study room 15 booked at 4:30pm tomorrow. Meet me there and we’ll go over the schedule.” he said neutrally, appearing to have accepted his fate.

“Really? No apology for tiny arrogant monster ?” Mickey asked.

“Look, I need to go and help Aria, I’m at work. Just meet me tomorrow and we can come up with a plan, okay?”

Mickey sighed with a resigned frustration. 

“Yeah. Fine.” he mumbled in response. Ian nodded curtly, and Mickey turned on his heel. He desperately needed some fresh air.

“Oh, and Mickey?” Ian called out across the shop, as Mickey turned to face him again. He steeled himself for another blow. “Thanks for waiting in line this time.”

Ian hit him with a dazzling, cheeky smile, his eyes glinting under the fluorescents. It was said playfully, and yet Mickey couldn’t help flipping him off as he crashed open the door and burst out of the shop.

That went about as well as Mickey had expected, although he was pissed he didn’t receive at least some fucking acknowledgement of the fact that he turned up to find Ian, showing that he was indeed taking this seriously, while Gallagher just stood there acting cocky. 

Mickey felt like he was taking crazy pills. Sure, he had been a tad combative yesterday, but Gallagher had given as much attitude as Mickey did. More even. The fact that the motherfucker had the audacity to act like he was completely in the right and Mickey was completely in the wrong was rubbing him the wrong way.

He shook his arms to try and alleviate some of the frustration building in his muscles. He checked his phone, to see he only had about 20 minutes before his lecture. He also realized he was coffee-less, and there wasn’t enough time to go back to his apartment to make one before he was due in class. 

He quickly turned around and pushed through the front door again. 

Ian’s eyes immediately snapped to Mickey from where he was stationed by the coffee machine. Mickey mimed drinking a coffee, and Ian shook his head and pointed to the line, which was now only two people deep.

Mickey put on a big pout, pointed at his watch and made his way closer to the redhead.

“But I already waited in line once, and I’m gonna be late for my lecture. As my tutor, don’t you have an ethical obligation to make sure I’m there on time? One black coffee please?”

Mickey saw Ian bite down on the insides of his cheeks, clearly suppressing a smile. 

Score. 

Ian’s eyes fell down to the coffee machine, as his hands expertly and quickly began making several coffees at once. There were two other people in the waiting area, one lady wearing her pyjamas and ugg boots and one guy wearing a lot of fluro spandex, looking like he maybe hadn’t made it home from last night’s shenanigans. 

Mickey searched Ian’s face for an acknowledgement of his order, but was met with nothing. 

He was just about to abort his mission, facing another coffee-less day - it was a miracle he was still alive - when he heard Ian’s voice.

“One black coffee for a tiny arrogant monster?”

Ian placed a large coffee on the ledge in the waiting area, a very proud smirk on his face. 

Mickey rolled his eyes aggressively. 

He was proud, but not proud enough to say no to coffee. 

He stalked forward and grabbed the cup, seeing “Tiny Arrogant Monster :)” written in small black ink on the lid. 

He looked up, giving Ian a faux smile only to see the exact same expression mirrored on the redhead’s face.

The dual smiles seemed to say one thing.

Game on.

Chapter Text

Mickey barrelled into the library the following day, whipping out his phone as he power walked toward the flight of stairs that would lead him to study room 15. It was 4:28pm and he’d be damned if he was a second late to this first session. He refused to give Gallagher any more ‘being a dick’ ammunition. 

He saw the flaming red hair before anything else, the bright colour seemingly announcing Gallagher’s whereabouts before people even had their wits about them. Just another thing about the guy that was obnoxiously annoying. 

He opened the door, and immediately made his way into the empty chair that was opposite Gallagher. He unceremoniously dumped his bag on the ground by his feet, and placed his hands on the table.

No greeting, no shenanigans.

Mickey had arrived and he meant business.

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up as if to say well?, as Ian was just blankly staring at him, not a hint of acknowledgement on his face. 

Eventually, after what felt like a million years, Ian cleared his throat and shuffled some files and folders that sat on the table in front of him. He’d come prepared.

“Look,” Ian began confidently, “I don’t like you -”

Great start. Mickey could tell Ian wasn’t done, but he interrupted anyway. 

“Likewise.”

“- but I’m getting paid to be your tutor, so I’m going to do my job. I don’t have to like you, you don’t have to like me. We just need to respect each other and get the work done. Do you think you can handle that?”

Mickey knew exactly how to respond, his mind immediately coming up with a line that he knew would piss Gallagher off. 

“Yeah, well. I’m an athlete, so I can pretty much handle anything.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed, and Mickey mirrored him. Eventually Ian looked away, and Mickey silently claimed his victory with a smirk. 

Ian went back to shuffling around the papers in front of him, before he pulled one out from the middle of the stack and handed it to Mickey. 

“We have to meet up three times a week as per the program’s requirements,” he said, pointing to the paper in Mickey’s hand. “I was already emailed your class and practice schedule so I came up with something that fits both of our schedules. So that's every Monday, Wednesday and Thursday, unless you have to leave for a road trip on the Thursday or whatever. Then we can just make it up another time.” 

He handed Mickey another piece of paper and continued.

“I’ve also taken the liberty of creating you a studying schedule to help you stay more organized and on top of shit,” he said, pulling out another piece of paper and sliding it Mickey’s way. “I’ve colour coded it based on class so that you know what you should be studying for on any given day. That’s what I do for myself anyway, so it should work for you,” he shrugged. “I’ve also created this list of due dates for all of your courses so that you know what has to be done and when.”

He must have looked completely overwhelmed, his eyes bulging out of his skull, because Ian smirked slightly before saying, “I’ll email all of this information to you so that you have a digital copy as well. I just thought having a hard copy might be helpful since I don’t know what type of learner you are yet.”

“Not really much of a learner at all,” Mickey muttered under his breath. 

Ian actually let out a laugh.

“Well, hopefully I can help with that,” he said, giving Mickey a reassuring look. 

Mickey stared at all of the papers in front of him. He was kind of confused as to why Gallagher would go through all of that trouble for him. It was only yesterday that he was calling him a tiny arrogant monster at fucking Starbucks. It didn't really make sense.

“You didn’t have to do all of this,” Mickey finally said, softer than he had intended. 

Gallagher gave him a puzzled look. “I mean, it’s kind of my job to do this, so…” he said sheepishly. 

Oh. Duh. Of course. 

Well that was slightly embarrassing on Mickey’s part. He mentally smacked himself in the head. 

“I know you think you’re entitled to special treatment because of your almighty athlete status but this is kind of required…” Gallagher continued, now amused. 

“That doesn’t really sound like you’re holding up your end of our mutual respect agreement, Gallagher,” Mickey said, shaking his head at the redhead, who in turn rolled his eyes. 

“I think I’m showing a lot of restraint in the respect department, all things considered, Milkovich,” Ian returned. 

“Considering what exactly? I haven’t said shit to you today,” Mickey argued. 

Gallagher looked contemplative for a beat, before he shrugged. 

“You’re just kind of cocky,” he said, opening up his laptop in front of him and beginning to type something, not meeting Mickey’s eyes. 

Mickey was totally perplexed. Why did this guy keep attacking him like this? Completely unprovoked? 

Mickey literally beared no weapon and Gallagher was coming at him with a fucking bazooka, right after he had made this stupid rule stating that they had to respect each other. Not even two full minutes later and he was already resorting to insults. Unbelievable. 

“I’m the cocky one?” Mickey demanded. “Me?”

Ian looked around the room and then back at Mickey.

“Well it seems like you’re the only other person here so I’d think that you’d be able to use the process of elimination to come to that conclusion on your own,” Gallagher said snobbishly as if he couldn't help himself. “Or did you need help with that too?”

Mickey raised his eyebrows at that because was this fucker for real? 

“Look asshole,” Mickey said, quite calmly considering the ball of rage that was forming inside of him. “I know that you have some kind of weird vendetta against me because I learn this shit for free and you somehow feel like that’s your business, but I’m really not in the mood for this back and forth shit. So just teach me whatever it is we need to get done today according to your rainbow schedule here,” he held up the stack of paper still in his hands, “so we can both get the fuck out of here and out of each other’s hair.” 

Gallagher stared at him for a moment, considering what Mickey had just said. Finally he nodded. 

“Yeah. Fine,” he responded, looking at his computer and then back to him. “So you have notes to take for your class tomorrow. I guess we can start there. You have your textbook I’m assuming?” 

Mickey nodded and pulled a book as well as his laptop out of his bag from the floor. 

“Great. How is your note taking? Do you have any methods that you typically like to use?  Outline? Cornell? Mind Mapping? Flow?” he listed. 

Gallagher might as well have been speaking another language because Mickey had no idea what the fuck he was saying. He blinked and the other man seemed to get the hint. 

“You’ve never taken notes before have you?” he sighed. 

“I think you already know the answer to that, Gallagher,” Mickey exhaled, rubbing the inner corners of his eyes with his thumb and index finger. 

“Right,” said Ian, pausing for a moment to consider. “Okay well we can see if the outline method works for you first, that's the most basic one. If you don’t find it helps, we can try a new way.” 

Mickey nodded and opened his laptop and flipped to chapter one of his textbook. 

Ian got up from the table, grabbing his chair and coming around to the other side where Mickey sat. He put his chair down next to him and sat down. Mickey gave him a funny look. They had never been this close before and Mickey didn’t know what to make of the redhead’s sudden advance. 

“Relax,” Ian said rolling his eyes, “I’ll move back when you get the hang of it but I need to show you how to set up the page and shit.” He knocked Mickey’s hand away from the mouse pad so that he could pull the laptop closer to him, causing Mickey to jolt unexpectedly.

His hand tingled ever so slightly where Gallagher had brushed his skin. He rubbed at the point of contact, as if trying to remove the stain of Gallagher’s touch.

Ian raised his eyebrow and smirked but didn’t look over at Mickey who was internally cringing. He didn’t understand what his problem was, but he one hundred percent blamed Aria for spilling that Gallagher was gay yesterday. Yes, his sudden awkwardness around Gallagher was entirely her fault. 

“So with this method, you’re essentially just creating an outline of the chapter so that when you go back to study the material, it's all nicely laid out for you,” he explained. “You have your main topics,” pointing to the bigger headings on each page, “and then each of those has subtopics and then supporting details or facts for each one,” he pointed to various aspects of the book. “So you’ll write down the main ideas for each section and then underneath it, you’ll write out the support that you find, any elaborations that you want to make, examples, pretty much any details that you find necessary in order to understand what the main idea is saying. Does that make sense?”

Mickey nodded. It actually kind of did. 

“Here I typed out a guide for you so that you can follow it or refer back to it if you need to,” Ian continued, pushing the laptop back towards Mickey. 

“Thanks,” Mickey muttered.

He pulled the laptop and book towards him and began to read it. He got as far as the title when he realized that Gallagher was still sitting next to him. 

“Uh? I know how to type on a computer,” he groused, “know where all the letters are and everything.”

“Okay?” Ian said, furrowing his brows in confusion. “Congrats?”

“Well, I’m just wondering if there's a reason why you’re still sitting so close to me?” Mickey asked irritably. 

“Oh,” Ian said, shooting out of his seat. “No, I guess not.” 

He grabbed his chair, made his way back to his side of the table, and sat down again. He peered over at Mickey for a brief moment before he pulled his own laptop towards him and began typing something.

“Uh,” Ian said, not five seconds later. 

“What, Gallagher?” Mickey grumbled. 

“Just, if you need help or anything. Let me know or whatever.”

“Sure,” Mickey said, drawing his attention back to the book. 

They were silent for the next forty-five minutes. Mickey actually got quite a bit done in that time. As annoying as Gallagher was, he sure seemed to know what he was talking about.

The whole outline method that he had suggested really had made a difference when it came to note taking. Mickey usually strayed away from reading the textbook, not because he didn’t like reading, but because he often grew frustrated when it came to figuring out what information was important, and what wasn’t. Gallagher’s system helped immensely with that, although Mickey would never give him the satisfaction of knowing. 

Despite Gallagher’s basic knowledge on effective note taking, Mickey couldn’t help that his frustration grew during the time they spent in silence. While Mickey was sitting there trying to play the part of the good tutee, his tutor seemed to be making it his life mission to look over at him every couple of minutes. It was extremely distracting, and Mickey had just about had it. 

“The fuck do you keep looking at?” he finally snapped, startling Ian.

“Jesus Christ,” he responded, clutching his chest, “what the fuck is your problem?” 

“You are! You’re my problem! With your fucking staring and your looking over at me every ten seconds! Like do I have something on my face? What exactly are you looking at?” Mickey demanded. 

Ian looked speechless for a second. He studied Mickey’s face, his eyes momentarily flickered down to his lips, causing Mickey to wiggle uncomfortably in his seat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ian finally said, shrugging. “I was just...making sure you were working.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever man,” Mickey said, shutting his laptop and closing the book. “Time’s up anyway so I’m gonna go.” 

Gallagher looked at his phone and began to pack his shit up too. He seemed to be avoiding looking in Mickey’s direction since his little outburst. 

Once Mickey’s stuff was all put in his bag he swung it over his shoulder and looked back up at Ian. 

“Uh, thanks,” he muttered. 

“Yeah. Sure,” Ian said, meeting Mickey’s eyes. 

“Okay, well, see ya next week I guess.” Mickey’s heart sang at the realization that he didn’t have to see Gallagher again until Monday now. He turned away without waiting for the other man's reply. 

“Oh hey Mickey?” Gallagher said from behind him. 

Mickey turned back to face him.

“What?” he sighed. 

“You’re taking Evolution of Psychology aren’t you?” Ian asked. 

“Unfortunately,” Mickey answered, rolling his eyes. It sounded like it was going to be a candidate for the most boring class that was taught at UMich.

“Your tutorial is at 12pm tomorrow isn’t it?” Ian went on. 

“Yeah?” Mickey huffed impatiently. 

Ian smirked, biting down on his lips like he was trying to stifle a laugh. 

“Hm. I guess I’ll see you there then,” and with that he swung his backpack over his shoulders and walked out of the room, not even giving Mickey a second look. 

Mickey didn’t know how long he stood there, silently praying to the Gods to take him out of his misery. To cast a bolt of lightning upon him so that he may leave the earth at least half a sane man. He begged them not to allow Ian Gallagher to be the death of him, because that's exactly what was going to happen the way things were going. 

________________________________

The following week found Mickey back in study room 15. He was honestly starting to forget what life was like before Gallagher had busted his way through it but he imagined that it was probably a lot less stressful than it was now.

They’d had three tutoring sessions together, each one more grating and frustrating than the last. Filled with biting words, awkward silences and stolen death glares.

They’d also had two tutorials together, but Ian had had the common sense and decency to sit away from Mickey and pretend he didn’t exist, which was more than fine by him. 

Mickey had no idea how Ian was the best of the best, considering he enjoyed tormenting Mickey whenever he found an opening. He was constantly slipping in some dig about athletes and ‘undeserved scholarships’ whenever he had the opportunity and it was driving Mickey insane.

Not like Mickey didn’t give it right back, because he did. Gladly. But unlike Gallagher, Mickey rarely started the little tifs that they had, and if he did, well, it was probably because the guy was being an insufferable cocky piece of shit and deserved it anyway.

“Okay, so what part of the brain is responsible for regulating our behavioural and emotional responses?” Gallagher asked, looking up from Mickey’s textbook and peering into his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Mickey sighed. It had been such a long day and he couldn’t have been less in the mood for studying right now if he tried. 

“You don’t know?” Gallagher repeated. 

“Are you fucking deaf?” Mickey asked.

Ian rolled his eyes and exhaled heavily. Mickey clearly didn’t know the answer and yet Gallagher kept silent, staring at him as if waiting for one. 

“So you have no idea at all?” Gallagher tried again. 

“Jesus Christ and his disciples are you ever fucking annoying,” Mickey groaned, before remembering their mutual respect rule. “Respectfully. No. I don’t know.”

“Did you even prepare for this session at all?” Ian asked, putting a pen in between the page he was on and closing the book. 

“I mean I tried to,” Mickey said irritably, “just didn’t end up happening. Some shit came up that I couldn't control,” he shrugged. 

Mickey, honest to God, wasn't trying to make excuses. Practices had been rough since the beginning of the semester, but the one they had the previous day had pretty much been a train wreck.

Petrovich had implemented a rule at the start of practice that if anyone fucked up any of the drills they did that day, he would add an extra two minutes to practice. Mickey thought it was a little harsh. He was all for going hard at practices but this seemed a little unconventional, especially considering a lot of the guys had afternoon class that they had to get to and would end up missing.

Needless to say, they all tried their best but still had to stay an extra thirty minutes. Forty if you counted the extra ten that Petrovich spent lecturing them about needing to tighten up their forecheck. 

“You don’t win championships by slacking in the defensive zone,” he had yelled, “you all looked like a bunch of pussies out there today. You’re all men! Use your bodies. This is hockey, not figure skating.”

Mickey guessed that he would only become more uptight and belligerent as the first game of the season came closer. 

The real kicker came after practice. Petrovich had called Mickey into his office after his shower. 

“Milkovich!” he said, “come on in my star!”

Mickey felt like he had stepped into another dimension, suffering severe whiplash from experiencing the coach from practice to now facing this one. He entered and sat down in the chair across from him. 

“Just wanted to touch base with you. I know that I’ve been a lot tougher on the team in practices so far this year. But I want you to know that nothing I’m saying is directed towards you.”

Mickey had tilted his head in confusion and sat up in his chair. 

“Between you and me, I don’t see potential in half of those fuckers in there,” he continued, nodding towards the direction of the locker room. “You’re the best we’ve got and I just needed you to know that none of that shit applies to you. You’re the exception and you’re gonna make it, my boy. Keep your head up.”

Petrovich was very big on the whole you win as a team, you lose as a team mindset, so the whole pep talk had taken Mickey aback. He appreciated the validation but the pressure he felt leaving Petrovich’s office had been crippling. 

________________________________

“And what shit would that be?” Ian asked, raising an eyebrow, even though Mickey knew Ian knew exactly what answer he was about to get. 

“Hockey shit, Gallagher,” he snapped, “athlete shit.”

“Of course,” Ian scoffed, shaking his head, “because that shit takes precedence over academics right?”

Mickey took a deep breath, scratching the bridge of his nose with his index finger. 

“Look, its not my fucking fault that my coach decided to make practice longer than usual yesterday and that I didn’t have the energy afterwards to read the chapter I was supposed to read. Shit happens sometimes. Plans change. What’s the big deal? Just help me catch up.”

“The big deal is that you had all week to complete the readings for today and you didn’t do it,” Ian argued, “you knew you had to do this shit and now you’ve made my job harder because you’re behind!”

“Look. It’s not exactly easy to balance hockey and school at the same time,” Mickey said, “I’m trying my best to do everything. I’m sorry that you don’t understand what it's like but-”

“Don’t understand?!” 

Gallagher looked pissed. More pissed than Mickey had seen him to date and, honestly, the sight kind of satisfied him. 

“You heard me Gallagher,” Mickey edged. He kind of liked getting a rise out of the redhead.

“You are so fucking insufferable I swear to God! You actually think the life that you have here is difficult? All you do is sit around with your dick in your hand while everyone rushes around and does shit for you. Literally everyone else around here has to work in order to pay for what you get for free and you don’t even appreciate it!”

Mickey shrugged smugly. 

“Sounds like someone isn’t regulating their emotions and behaviours effectively right now,” Mickey said, tilting his head to the side and looking at Ian through his lashes in faux pity. 

Gallagher could only stare at him, mouth agape. He definitely wasn’t expecting that. 

“You don’t deserve that fucking scholarship,” Gallagher said through his teeth, obviously unable to help himself. “There are needier kids than you who actually want to do the work. The system is fucked up and you don’t deserve to be here if this is how you’re going to act towards someone who is trying to help you not flunk out.”

Ian inhaled and Mickey thought he was done, before he saw a flash of red in Gallagher’s eyes and realized he was gearing up to spew more of his self-righteous, social-justice warrior bullshit that Mickey had heard recycled every tutoring session over the past week.

“And it’s even more concerning to me that you refuse to do this work knowing full well that flunking out means that you lose all that money. That’s more money just wasted on athletes who do shit all to help the world while getting paid an ungodly amount for doing so.” 

He finally stopped to take a breath from his rant. 

The whole speech had Mickey fucking fuming.

The fact that Gallagher kept insinuating that he had done nothing to deserve his scholarship or his life here was beyond insulting.

The fact of the matter was that Mickey had literally clawed his way out of the South Side to get here. He lived through years of thinking every breath might be his last. Going from home to home when Terry was on one of his benders or stints in prison. Running drugs at the age of ten so Terry wouldn’t beat the shit out of him. Balancing keeping his dad placated to avoid abuse and putting in the hours to hone his hockey skills.

He survived. And after Petrovich left, he had done it almost entirely on his own. 

Gallagher had no right to talk about his life as if he had been in it from the very start. He had no right to say he didn’t deserve to be here.

However, he couldn’t deny that the guy’s clear jealousy of Mickey’s scholarship was amusing, and it was definitely something he decided to use to his advantage.  

“You know, green isn’t a great colour on you Gallagher,” Mickey sneered. “Really clashes with that hair of yours.” 

With that, he reached across the table and snatched the book back. He opened it to the page where Gallagher had bookmarked it with his pen, which he took out and threw at Ian’s head like a toddler. 

Gallagher moved out of the way just in time to avoid it. He scoffed at Mickey, muttering “dickhead” under his breath.

They were silent for the rest of the session, neither one of them so much as glanced at the other. As soon as the clock on Mickey’s phone hit 5:00pm, he was up, packing his things and bolting out the door before Gallagher could say another word. 

________________________________

Every session with Gallagher was more painful than getting his teeth pulled and drinking bleach at the same time, but this one had put Mickey in a particularly foul mood. 

He huffed and shook as he left the library, checking his phone to make sure he wasn’t forgetting any class or workout he had scheduled and forgotten. He groaned loudly upon seeing that he had indeed forgotten something. He had dinner plans with a bunch of his teammates tonight.

Nelson, the senior right winger, was team captain. He had this philosophy that in order for a team to be its strongest on the ice, they also had to be strong off the ice. Therefore, he was always organising dinners and pre-practice study sessions and other stupid, wholesome bullshit.

Ben liked the concept and, as assistant captain, annoyingly conspired with Nelson to organise such events. They took their roles as captains very seriously, and as much as it annoyed Mickey, he was also secretly quite appreciative. They really were a cohesive unit, and their stats had improved since Nelson and Ben took over.

The pros of being friends with Ben greatly outweighed the cons, but one of the more glaringly annoying cons was that Ben would berate the shit out of him if he ever missed one of their social gatherings. Seriously, he’d be dealing with Ben’s nonsense for weeks. Why Mickey seemed to be exclusively surrounded by annoying, bubbly extroverts was beyond him.

He shot a text off to Ben to confirm he was still coming. Absolutely no way he’d be going if he didn’t have to.

Mickey (5:06pm): yo where’s dinner tonight?

Ben was obviously already on his phone, as the reply came instantly.

Ben (5:06pm): lan city noodle bar!! 5:30pm!! you wanna split an uber? where tf are you btw?

Ben (5:06pm): oh. tutoring 🤪

Mickey (5:07pm): stfu

Mickey knew he was only a short walk from the restaurant, and he could honestly do with a walk to relieve some of the tension in his body.

Mickey (5:07pm): nah i’m close by, i’ll just walk. see ya there

Mickey began the short walk, taking a bit of a detour so he didn’t arrive too early. He scrolled on his phone as he meandered through the college towards the noodle bar. He found himself looking through his instagram posts from last year, feeling nostalgic for his sophomore year.

His reputation had been steadily on the rise after a stellar rookie year. He and Ben had pretty much been inseparable, already knowing everything about each other after having lived together for a full year at that point.

It had been a foreign feeling to Mickey, having a person in his life he felt like he could totally and completely depend on. And being close with Ben meant being close with a whole new swarm of people by association. Sophomore year was all about learning to feel at ease with the safety and comfort of his new life, surrounded by good people who actually seemed to like him. 

Looking back on last year with rose-coloured glasses as he sat atop the heaping dumpster fire of his junior year was maybe a bad idea. How he had fallen from one of the best years of his life to one of the worst was beyond him. Just his luck.

He arrived at the noodle house a few minutes early, and fought his cigarette cravings while he waited outside for Ben. It was then that Nelson opened the door and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Milkovich, we’ve already got a table!” he exclaimed.

Mickey steeled himself and took a deep breath. 

“Great,” he mumbled through a fake smile. It wasn’t like he didn’t get along with his teammates, most of them were actually great, but he couldn’t help that he just wasn’t in the mood to socialise. Luckily for him, his social shield happened to pull up in a blue sedan right as he was about to head in. A very excitable Ben jumped out of the back seat.

“How was tutoring, Mr. Milkovich?” Ben laughed, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, fuck off,” Mickey grumbled. 

Teasing Mickey about his new tutoring schedule had become Ben and Aria’s new favourite pastime. He knew they were joking, but it didn't make it any less annoying.

He walked behind Nelson and in front of Ben until they reached their table, and he flicked his eyes over the group to ascertain who he’d be dealing with tonight.

Nelson, Jenkins, Adams, and Douche Derek so far, and there was room at the table for two more. Not too bad.

Mickey sank into the seat nearest to the exit and ran a hand across his tired face. He begged for them to start a conversation he didn’t have to be a part of, but there was no such luck.

“Milkovich, I heard they put your ass on academic probation,” Adams said smugly.

“Nah man, they signed me up for that stupid tutoring program so I can keep playing this year,” Mickey responded curtly.

“Oh I was a part of that program last year!” Nelson piped up. “Just wanted some extra support. My tutor was so fucking hot, too. I got the best marks I’d ever gotten just because I wanted to impress her so badly.” 

The group laughed heartily. 

“Ooo, d’you got a hot babe for a tutor, Milkovich?” Adams prodded annoyingly.

Mickey sighed. 

“No such luck. The guy’s a total fucking nightmare. Like - he’s a part of the athletic tutoring program, right? But the second that he met me he was up my ass about how athletes don’t deserve scholarships or some bullshit. He’s so fucking weird.”

Nelson nodded. “Damn, that really sucks man.” A beat. “Oh! Jenkins how is your mo-”

“And every time we meet up he’s just so fucking pompous and cocky, like he thinks he’s better than me because he knows how to fucking outline notes or some shit? Like I’m not busy busting my ass 24 hours a day for this team? Like sorry if I don’t know the Cornell method for outlining notes or whatever the fuck,” Mickey scoffed.

There were five pairs of eyes staring at him in silence. He took it as permission to continue his rant, because why the fuck not at this point.

“Like, oh okay. You know about the fucking evolution of psychology. Good for you. But I’d like to see you try and fucking scrimmage with us. Then let’s see who has a reason to be cocky. Fucker probably can’t even fucking skate anyway. You know he thinks that a puck is a ball? Like he actually called it that. To my face.” Mickey shook his head at the memory and looked over at Jenkins who was staring at him wide eyed. 

“Yeah Jenkins, I know! A fucking ball! Can you believe that shit? Fucking idiot.”  

More silence. Mickey noticed Adams open his mouth, about to speak, and he’d be damned if he had to hear whatever dribble he felt like he had to contribute.

“And like today, he was all over my ass because I didn’t do the readings before our session. But coach extended practice? So what did he expect me to do? Fucking tell coach I needed to leave early to read about fucking salivating dogs or some shit? No thank you. God, I can't fucking stand him.”

Mickey took a sharp inhale once he finished, realizing he had kind of lost his breath. He shook his head and allowed his eyes to refocus on the table. He realized he’d just gone on a bit of an unsolicited rant, and his cheeks started to flush. He glanced at Ben, who had a bemused look on his face.

It was Jenkins who broke the awkward silence. “So what’s good to eat here?”

________________________________

From there the evening flowed quite easily, as it always seemed to do.

Thompson, a goaltender, and Priyanka, a centre, arrived a few minutes late, taking the two empty seats near the window and falling into easy conversation with the group.

Both of them were rookies this year and Nelson had been doing everything in his power to get as many of the new guys out as possible.

Thompson had proved himself to be pretty tough in practice and Priyanka was good on the penalty kill. It would be interesting to see what they’d be able to do for the team when the season started.   

They mostly talked about the upcoming season; teams that were looking good, new recruits to look out for.

At one point, Adams suggested that the next bonding activity they do should be going to a strip club. Everyone just ignored him. It was often easiest to just ignore Adams. Mickey blocked him out in favour of listening in to Ben and Jenkins’ conversation about how their training went over the summer.

Nelson was loud in his right ear, shouting across the table about some show on Netflix he just finished in one sitting about a hot chick who plays chess.

And so the night went.

Mickey was detached. Distracted. But he did his best to join in on the conversation when he could. He found himself having to bite his tongue whenever another memory of Gallagher popped into his head, which was annoyingly happening quite a lot. He’d spare his teammates the pain of having to slug through their interactions secondhand. He wouldn’t wish that pain on his worst enemy

His Mie Goreng arrived, along with everyone else's orders, and they inhaled their meals, clearly starving after Petrovich had  worked them so hard in practice that afternoon. Once he neared the bottom of his bowl, he allowed himself to check his phone to discover it was already 7:15pm. He nudged Ben next to him.

“Yo, you ready to head out soon?”

“Yeah, I’m beat. Let’s get out of here,” Ben responded.

Ben turned his attention to the table and shouted, “yo, Mick and I are heading out,” before pulling out two $20 bills from his wallet. “This should cover us. See ya at practice tomorrow, chumps.”

The team nodded their goodbyes as they made their way out onto the street.

“You wanna walk or uber?” Ben asked.

It was a decently brisk night, but Mickey was stuffed to the brim and still felt his earlier frustration sitting heavy in his bones. He idly wondered how long it would take to shake this feeling.

“Let’s walk,” he replied.

Ben nodded and they began walking in comfortable silence for a few minutes, still digesting their food and enjoying the September breeze. Mickey was doing his best to think about anything other than Gallagher, but his mind kept racing with their confrontation from earlier that afternoon. Soon, Ben made it impossible to ignore.

“So Ian…” he started.

Mickey feigned ignorance. 

“Who?”

“C’mon man,” Ben laughed. “What about him?”

“I dunno Mick, you seem pretty passionate about him.”

Mickey turned to his best friend with wide eyes, brows high on his forehead. 

“Passionate?” he asked in bewilderment, “what part of I hate his fucking guts did you not seem to get, dickhead?”

Mickey expected some more banter, some teasing, as had become the norm over the past week or so. But instead there was silence.

He looked over to Ben to see him staring at him with a curious expression. Like he was the all-knowing, omnipotent master of the universe that knew all of Mickey’s secrets before Mickey knew them himself.

“What?” Mickey poked.

“You guys are totally gonna fuck.”

Mickey stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared daggers into the back of Ben’s skull.

That was approximately the last thing he was expecting to hear.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Mickey argued. “Just because we’re the only two gay guys you know of doesn’t mean we’re gonna bang. That’s not how it works fuckhead. We could not be more different if we tried. Also, how have you missed the memo - I can’t fucking stand him” Mickey shouted, failing to contain his annoyance at his best friend’s statement.

Ben didn’t back down. 

“I literally bet you $20 you’ll fuck before the end of the semester.”

“Fuck off, Ben,” Mickey scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

“I’m serious. You’re clearly obsessed with him. In fact I’m so confident that I’ll bet you $20 and I’ll do the dishes for the rest of the year. Every single dish.” Ben asserted confidently.

Mickey considered this. 

“This is stupid. I could just fuck him and not tell you about it.”

“You greatly underestimate your poker face, Mick. I can always tell when you’ve been laid. You get this glow about you,” Ben teased, stroking Mickey’s cheek. Mickey batted his hand away.

“$20 and year long dish duty for me not to fuck the person I hate most in this world?” Mickey asked. He didn’t plan on entertaining the concept, but he couldn’t deny that this would be an exceptionally easy win.

“Yuuup,” Ben replied, popping his consonant. 

Mickey considered his options.

He ignored the flash of green eyes he saw and the hotness creeping across his chest as he remembered the feeling of Ian’s hand when it had brushed his not even a week ago. He ignored the fact that he knew Gallagher was gay, and that he was exactly Mickey’s type. Physically, anyway. 

He instead focused on the stupid fucking mind games and his annoying ass note taking methods and the way he always insisted Mickey was the cocky one when in reality he was the one who had the stick up his ass.

Ian’s objective attractiveness was no cover for his shitty personality. And he really did hate doing the dishes.

“Easiest money I’ll ever make,” Mickey said confidently, as he shook Ben’s hand to seal their deal.

Chapter Text

Mickey was late. 

He had no idea how it happened, but one minute it was 11 am and he was watching an episode of The Office, and the next minute he was waking up from a nap that had apparently lasted a full hour, making him scramble off the couch, grab his school bag and sprint out the door to his 12 pm tutorial. The whole situation seemed eerily familiar except that this time he had already had his morning coffee. Thank God.

He ran with purpose to campus, almost colliding with a student at the entrance of the building who had decided that reading whilst walking was going to be the reason why Mickey almost broke his fucking collarbone. 

“Jesus fuck!” Mickey exclaimed, “you aren’t the main character here bitch, this movie ain’t about you!” he yelled over his shoulder as he strode past them and through the front door. He couldn’t believe how many people at college acted as though they were the only ones who existed. 

He speed-walked down the hall to the small classroom that his tutorial was held in and opened the door, a little more forcefully than he had intended, and walked inside. The teaching assistant who was writing out discussion questions on the board didn’t turn to see what had caused the interruption and continued doing what she was doing. 

The fact that the first thing Mickey noticed upon entering was fiery red hair and a set of wide green eyes staring at him from the front of the classroom was purely coincidental and not at all his fault. He tore his eyes away and began searching for an empty seat, realizing all too quickly that the only one available was next to said fiery red hair and wide green eyes.

Fucking seriously? 

Mickey sighed, his eyes meeting Gallagher’s, who seemed to have done the math faster than Mickey had.

He rolled his eyes, walked over to the front row, and plonked down next to the redhead who shoved over to the end of the table and looked over at Mickey. 

Mickey raised his eyebrow at him in question. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he whispered childishly.

Gallagher said nothing and instead directed his attention back to the board.

Between Mickey’s unpreparedness and Gallagher’s outburst last week, the two of them had resorted to acting like strangers around one another. Mickey prepared for their tutoring sessions as best as possible to avoid one of Gallagher’s unfounded and frankly fucking ridiculous rants and Gallagher seemed to be biting his tongue whenever Mickey was late, didn’t review a chapter properly, or didn’t finish the exercises that were set for him.

They made no moves to actually move past the animosity between them, which was thick and suffocating, as they were both way too proud to be the first to make amends for their mutually immature behaviour. 

They just didn’t like each other. Plain and simple. And whilst they were trying not to rile each other up so their hours together could be as uncomplicated as possible, they still couldn’t help but slide in snarky little remarks here and there to try and get under the other’s skin for sport.

It was like they were playing a game of chicken, with neither of them intent on yielding just yet.

Mickey would never admit it, but getting a reaction out of Gallagher was kind of fun as hell sometimes.

“Okay,” the TA announced, capping the whiteboard pen and turning around to face the room, “we’re going to start with a couple of discussion questions from this week’s readings. Please talk about them with the person next to you and then we’ll regroup in ten to talk about them as a class.”

Mickey couldn’t hide his annoyance if he tried. Why was the universe trying so hard to make his life so fucking painful? He’s pretty sure that if karma was in fact real that he had absolutely no bad shit left to pay for. Whoever was in charge up there owed him at this point.

Mickey glanced over at Gallagher who, of course, was already staring at him.

“What?” he demanded. 

“You were late,” Gallagher said simply, voice leveled.

“Wow. Really great observation Einstein, that one’s sure to get you a Nobel Prize,” Mickey snarked. 

They stared at each other for a moment before Mickey looked away, pulling out his phone so he didn’t have to interact with Gallagher. 

“Uh. The fuck are you doing?” Gallagher demanded. 

Mickey looked up at him and saw that he looked baffled as if it wasn't abundantly clear what he was doing.

“Texting,” Mickey shrugged, going back to his phone. 

“Well we’re kind of supposed to be doing something here, Milkovich,” Gallagher whisper-yelled at him. 

Mickey actually laughed at that. 

“Why are you whispering, Gallagher?” he asked, “are you afraid she might get upset if she sees we aren’t doing what she says?” he asked, nodding over to the TA who had settled at the desk in the corner, Airpods in and texting away. “Pretty sure she gets paid to be here whether we discuss the stupid questions or not.” 

Mickey knew he was being an asshole, but he’d actually done the readings this week, and he would rather eat lead than spend a millisecond more talking to this guy than what was already required by student services. He knew the material. He didn’t need this shit.

Gallagher looked away from Mickey. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes as if to ground himself. 

“You okay over there?” Mickey asked in faux concern, “you looking to cleanse your chakras or some shit?”

Gallagher’s eyes abruptly opened and his head whipped over to look at Mickey. He looked tired. 

“Mickey,” he started, his voice almost comically calm, “as your tutor I think it’s important for you to at least try in tutorials. They really help with understanding the material, and I think going over these questions would be beneficial for your learning.”

How was this guy real? 

“Wow,” Mickey mused, placing his phone on the table in front of him, and putting a hand on his chest. “You know, if psychology doesn’t work out for you, you should really consider a career as a motivational speaker because, oh, shit, hang on,” he fake choked up, wiping his eye with his knuckle before continuing, “because you could move mountains with speeches like that. You could change lives. Oceans would be free of pollution. The ice caps would be frozen once more. Think of all the people you could help if anyone actually gave a single flying fuck about what you had to say,” he gave Gallagher a sarcastic look and picked his phone up again. 

Gallagher glared at him and shook his head in disbelief. 

“Honestly, do whatever the fuck you want Milkovich.”

“I already was,” Mickey replied.  

They were silent for the rest of the discussion period.

This was why they usually sat apart in tutorials. 

Mickey used the time to text the team group chat (‘The Hockey Guyz’ as Chris stupidly coined it) a couple of hockey memes he had found on Instagram that morning. The TA told them to wrap up their conversations a couple of minutes later and came back to stand at the front of the class. 

“Okay,” she said, grabbing the whiteboard pen again and opening the cap, “who is willing to share what they discussed for question one?” 

The room was silent. Mickey chuckled internally, thinking about how he clearly wasn’t alone in thinking the discussion questions were bullshit, judging by how many people jumped up to answer the TA’s question.

Mickey saw Gallagher look around after what was bordering on an uncomfortable stretch of silence and Mickey was kind of proud of himself for taking the opportunity to show off away from him. 

That was until Gallagher raised his hand, smirking ever so slightly as if he had just told himself a joke. 

“Yes, Ian?” the TA pointed at him enthusiastically, obviously relieved that someone was willing to fill the awkward silence. “What did you come up with?” 

“Well Mickey and I were having a fascinating discussion over here and he had some really interesting ideas that I thought would be worthwhile for the rest of the class to hear,” Gallagher said matter of factly, looking over at Mickey who could only gape back. 

“Go on Mickey,” Ian continued with a smile that would have seemed honest and endearing to anyone else, but to Mickey was filled with the true forces of evil. “You can do it!” 

Mickey looked around. Everyone was staring at him. He looked back at Gallagher and he had honestly never wanted to knock someone’s teeth out more in his life. What the fuck was this guy’s problem? He had never met anyone so repulsive, so eager to make Mickey’s life so horrible that Satan himself wouldn’t want any part in it. He didn’t deserve this shit. 

“I, uh…” Mickey stammered, glancing at the board to read the question. He hadn’t taken his laptop out of his bag yet, which contained the notes from the lecture and his tutoring session on Monday. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind was the answer to the question, but he shifted his eyes quickly around the room again to see everyone gaping at him. His heart began to race, overwhelmed, causing his brain to get scrambled and muddled. He looked to the TA who was staring back at him, eyebrows raised as if questioning what was taking him so long. 

“I, uh...I don’t really have anything to say,” Mickey said quietly, looking down at the ground, unbearably embarrassed but too frazzled to be able to form a coherent thought. 

“You sure Mick?” Gallagher piped up from beside him. “You sounded like you were really passionate about the material and had a lot to say. It would just be such a shame if everyone missed out on this prime learning opportunity.”

Mickey looked over at Gallagher and glared. Hard. He tried to telepathically communicate that he wanted to rip his goddamn tongue out so he never had to hear him speak again.

“Yeah, I’m fucking sure Gallagher,” Mickey hissed.

“I-okay,” the TA said, clearly confused at the random tension between the two of them, “I guess we can just move on then. Anyone else want to take a stab?” 

“The fuck is your problem asshole?” Mickey whispered to Ian who sat there with the most obnoxiously smug look on his face.

Gallagher only shrugged, focusing his attention back to the front of the room, where the TA was writing down an answer that another student was in the middle of providing. 

________________________________

The tutorial ended forty minutes later and Gallagher had scrambled to grab his shit and head out the door before Mickey could so much as get out of his seat. 

Mickey did the same, determined to catch the redhead before he got too far. He practically ran out of the room, looking up and down the hallway before clocking him. 

“Ey!” Mickey called out. 

Gallagher turned around and rolled his eyes, but waited as Mickey jogged up to meet him. 

“What?” Gallagher asked nonchalantly. 

“The fuck do you mean ‘what’” demanded Mickey angrily, “what the fuck was that in there? What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Gallagher shrugged. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh don’t fucking start that shit with me,” Mickey barked, “you embarrassed the shit out of me for no fucking reason! Everyone probably thinks I’m a dumbass now!” 

“Well…” Gallagher started, a smirk dancing on his face. 

“I’m not fucking dumb Gallagher!” Mickey practically yelled, “You fucking set me up! There's a difference!”

“Well,” Gallagher began annoyingly, his voice slow and obnoxious, “if you took my advice we could have worked through the questions, and not only would you have a better understanding of the material, you also wouldn’t have looked like a jackass!” By the end of the sentence, Gallagher’s voice had raised several octaves. 

“I did the fucking readings, I know the fucking material,” Mickey spat back.

Gallagher laughed at that. “Maybe, Milkovich. But you didn’t participate in a discussion that was supposed to enhance your understanding of the material. It’s one thing to do the readings, it's another to be able to participate in an active discussion and answer questions about them. No offence, but this is most likely the reason you and I have to meet three times a week. So how about you take my advice next time and you can consider what just happened payback for not taking my job seriously and for consistently wasting my time,” he said, walking past Mickey, hitting him with his shoulder as he went. 

“Oh and by the way,” he continued on, turning around to face Mickey again. “Gotta cancel tutoring for today because some of us less reputable people have more than one job. But just so you know we’ll be doing a pop quiz in Monday’s session to see where we’re at. Midterms will come around faster than you think and you’re falling behind so I’d read up now while you can. Don’t be late!”

With that he carried on in the other direction leaving a very angered Mickey behind to sulk in his own misfortune. 

If Gallagher thought that Mickey was just going to let his little stunt occur without retaliation, he was even more of an idiot than Mickey had thought.

This was war.

________________________________

Mickey walked to the rink from his apartment a couple of hours later, still dumbfounded by Gallagher and his existence. As if what he had pulled in class wasn’t enough, he’d decided to be even more of a dick and add a fucking pop quiz into the mix. And Mickey just knew this test was going to be unreasonably difficult, and it was probably all a part of Gallagher’s Annoy-Mickey-To-Death Agenda. 

Mickey was also taking issue with Gallagher canceling today’s tutoring session. It wasn’t that Mickey minded in the slightest, of course, he didn’t. The less he had to see of the guy, the better. But for someone who was constantly up Mickey’s ass for being late and not doing the readings on time, or thoroughly enough, it seemed a little hypocritical. How was Mickey supposed to find the motivation to take the whole thing seriously if all-star tutor Ian Gallagher couldn’t even do it?

Now seemed like as good a time as any to ask for a replacement tutor. 

One could only dream. 

If Mickey wasn’t so wary of getting on Petrovich or Murphy’s bad side at this time in the pre-season, he wouldn’t hesitate. But he knew the stakes were high for the team right now and bothering them with outside inconveniences -- and ones that Mickey had already brought up -- would only piss them off, which wouldn't be good for Mickey or the team. The last thing any of them needed was Petrovich taking his frustrations out on the team in the form of extra-long practices. 

He continued to make his way to practice, the little stunt that Gallagher had pulled weighing heavily on his mind. There was no way that Mickey could let this incident slip by with no repercussions. He was reminded of a phrase repeated by his father, instilled in him and his siblings millions of times over the course of their childhood; No one fucks with a Milkovich. 

As much as he wanted to distance himself from his family, this mantra was seeming mighty appropriate right now. Usually it meant that Terry was going to grab a couple of his boys and do some serious damage to whoever had wronged them. Unfortunately, Mickey knew that he couldn’t take this approach with Gallagher. As much as the guy got on his last nerve, he wasn’t worth the expulsion. 

Mickey would have to come up with something better. Something that would get under Gallagher’s skin but wouldn’t get Mickey into any real trouble. 

He made it to the rink and pulled out his phone, leaning up against the wall of the building next to the entrance. He didn’t know a lot about Gallagher. He knew that the guy hated athletes for whatever reason, loved school, and worked two jobs.

Not a lot to go off. 

He stood there, deep in thought. For the first time, he sort of wished that they had done more than just argue about athletic scholarships and dumb part-time jobs in tutoring because it would make this revenge process a whole lot easier. It wasn’t like Mickey could magically make Gallagher fail a test or get him fired from his job. 

He looked at his phone and Googled how to piss someone off like a complete idiot. When nothing useful came up he locked his phone, deciding that the whole thing was probably stupid anyway.

________________________________

He entered the arena and made his way down to the player's locker room. There were a couple of guys in there already, chatting happily. They greeted him and Mickey went to his cubby and flopped down on the bench. Through no control of his own, his mind immediately went back to Gallagher and what he could do to get back at him. 

Mickey was starting to realize that the whole Gallagher situation was getting out of hand. He spent way too much of his free time thinking about the fucker and it needed to stop. 

And yet. 

He looked around the locker room. More of the guys had started to trickle in, some starting to dress for practice, some having passionate conversations with one another from across the room. Everyone seemed chipper today. Probably had to do with the fact that Petrovich wasn’t in charge today.

Someone scooted next to him and bumped him in the shoulder. Mickey broke out of his daze and jumped a little.

“Hey, easy tiger,” Ben said with a soft smile. 

“Jesus fuck Owens,” Mickey rubbed his eyes with his fingers and looked back at his best friend. He was still in his street clothes and was holding a Starbucks coffee cup. Mickey stared at it. 

“You doing okay Mick? You look distracted,” Ben inquired, narrowing his eyes in concern. “Are you feeling sick?” 

Mickey just continued to stare at the cup in Ben’s hands. He probably looked like a fucking loon. He whipped out his phone again, unlocking it and typing a different question into Google. He clicked on an article and scrolled down, skimming the text before he found what he was looking for. 

“Uh, Mick?” Ben said slowly, “I- are you there?” 

“Hey everyone!” Mickey said, ignoring Ben and standing up in front of his teammates. They all stopped what they were doing and looked over at him, the chattering dying down almost instantly. Probably due to the shock that came from seeing Mickey of all people get up to make an announcement. 

“What do you all think of a little impromptu team outing after practice tonight? Completely on me.” 

________________________________

“Are you sure about this Milkovich?” Nelson asked for the seventh time since they started the walk. 

“Yes Nelson, I am absolutely sure. Would you like me to draft up a contract and get it notarized?” Mickey said through clenched teeth. 

“To be fair, this kind of seems like uncharted territory for you Mick. Like the generosity and all,” Ben said from next to him. 

“Shut up and walk faster, will you? They close in twenty minutes,” Mickey snapped at him, quickening his pace. 

“I just don’t understand the sudden team spirit is all,” Ben continued, “I usually have to drag you by the hair kicking and screaming to team bonding events and now you’ve just decided to organize your own? Seems kind of fishy to me.” 

“Can you just let the man take us all out for fucks sake Owens?” said Adams. “Why are you trying to talk your way out of free shit?”

The pack of fifteen men that Mickey was currently leading all mumbled in agreement. Ben gave Mickey a suspicious side-eye, but didn’t press further. 

They reached their destination five minutes later. Mickey opened the doors and walked into the very empty Starbucks, a large gathering of the Michigan Wolverines hockey team following closely behind him. It was a good turnout. Mickey had managed to convince almost everyone to join him once he had laid out the conditions. 

Mickey’s blue eyes immediately met a set of green ones behind the counter. They were wide, staring at him as if Mickey had just pulled out a gun and declared that this was a robbery. They glanced around at the large group of large men behind Mickey and Mickey could see his eyes shift from shock to exhaustion mixed with anger, and maybe just a little bit of fear. 

Mickey smiled. Bingo. 

He led the charge to the counter and stood in front of Gallagher, who just gaped at him wordlessly. He was holding a wet cloth in his hand and looked to be starting the closing process.

Even better. 

“Thank you for welcoming us into your establishment sir,” Mickey said to him cheerily. 

He turned back to his team. 

“Remember, you can get any kind of frappuccino you want! No matter how complicated it is. And Ventras or whatever the fuck they’re called only! Go crazy! I’m sure this fine gentleman would be happy to comply.”  

His team began to discuss their orders behind him as he turned back to Gallagher who looked like he wanted to punch him in the face. Mickey smiled in triumph. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Gallagher hissed, seemingly finding his voice. 

“Is that any way to speak to a paying customer, Gallagher?” Mickey asked in faux outrage. 

Gallagher raised his eyebrows as if to say ‘you expect me to believe that?’

“You missed our tutoring session today and honest to God, I just missed you so much, Gallagher. So I thought I’d come to see you!” he explained, “And I even brought some friends!” Mickey continued, gesturing to the guys around him, “thought you’d like to finally meet some of my teammates considering how highly you speak of us.” 

“I close in fifteen minutes Mickey,” Gallagher said weakly. 

“Well then you better take everyone's orders and get to it then huh?” Mickey replied, voice dripping with arrogance. “Oh and don’t worry about charging any of them,” he pulled out his debit card and threw it down on the counter in front of him, “the University of Michigan’s got us covered.” 

Gallagher looked like he was about three seconds away from breathing fire. His face turned the colour of his hair and his fists clenched on the counter. The sight delighted Mickey. He backed up, motioning for his team to go ahead and order. 

The ordering process took fifteen minutes. The guys really took Mickey’s “go crazy” request to heart, adding on modification after modification to their sugary drinks. 

Mickey sat back and watched as Gallagher ran around the cafe, running three blenders at a time and reading the instructions on each cup carefully. 

Mickey had read online that baristas hate making frappuccinos, especially when people add a bunch of shit to the original drink and make it extra complicated. Considering Gallagher’s face when Mickey said the word frappuccino he’d say that the article he’d come across was correct.

Ben came to stand beside him, glancing over in Gallagher’s direction as Mickey had been. Mickey tore his eyes away and looked at the ground nonchalantly. 

“So that’s him huh?” Ben asked calmly. 

Mickey nodded, not meeting Ben’s eyes, “yup.”

“You bring us over here so we could torture the guy and make him work late?” Ben quizzed him. 

Mickey nodded again.

“Yup. Pretty much.”

“Why?” 

Mickey peered over to his best friend. There was no judgment on his face, just curiosity. Like he genuinely wanted to understand. 

“Pulled some shit in our tutorial today.” Mickey said as he shrugged. “Didn’t want him to get away with it.”

Ben smirked, “s’very mature of you Mick.”

“Whose side are you on Owens? You haven’t even met the guy. He’s unbearable,” Mickey said irritably, shaking his head. 

“Your side Milkovich. I’m always going to be on your side no matter what. And you’re right, he sounds like he’s been an asshole. I’m just saying that maybe you’re being a little hard on the guy. I mean, he’s alone right now making drinks for fifteen guys and he should have been off ten minutes ago. He’s probably going to be here a while cleaning up too,” Ben shrugged and looked back at Gallagher who was applying graham cracker toppings to three drinks. “Just feel kind of bad for him.”

Leave it to Ben to find the humanity in every fucking person he met. Mickey loved him but the guy was too positive for his own good. And for Mickey’s for that matter. Usually, when Ben gave speeches like this, Mickey listened intently, as the guy was known to make a good point or two from time to time. But there was no way in hell that Mickey was going to let Ben make him feel guilty. Not for this. 

“Well don’t,” Mickey argued, “the guy doesn’t deserve your pity. He deserves this.”

Ben hummed. He was silent for a moment before he smirked softly. 

“Still think you two are gonna fuck,” he provided. 

“Jesus Christopher Mercy, Ben,” Mickey muttered, massaging his temple with his thumb. He couldn't with this guy. “We are not gonna fuck!”

“Hm. Yeah okay,” Ben said, seemingly unconvinced, “you care way too much for this not to end in fucking. Sorry I don’t make the rules.”

“What fucking ru-, I literally have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mickey said in outrage. 

“Sure you don’t,” Ben replied, clapping Mickey on the shoulder a couple of times before turning to walk to the counter to collect his drink. Before he could, he looked back at Mickey, “Aria’s right by the way. He sure is pretty.” The fucker winked at him and walked away before Mickey had the chance to flip him off. 

What did Ben know? Mickey wouldn’t fuck Gallagher if Jesus himself descended from heaven in all of his white-robed glory and declared it. It didn’t really matter that the guy had a jawline that was cut from stone, or that he was probably sporting abs of steel under his….no. He wasn’t even going to entertain it. He was a dickhead. And Mickey wouldn’t be subjecting himself to that level of all-time low. 

Gallagher glanced over at him briefly, and Mickey realized that he’d probably been staring at the guy for a while. Gallagher glared at him before heading around to the front of the counter to wipe up a minor spill Adams had made as he had accepted his drink.

He knelt down, wiping at the floor with his washcloth, and Mickey couldn’t help his gaze drop to Ian’s ass. Who the fuck wore tight jeans to work? Mickey chastised himself for admiring yet another part of Gallagher’s frustratingly perfect physique, only for him to stand up and turn around way too quickly, potentially catching Mickey gawking at his ass.

Mickey felt the backs of his ears heat up as he quickly averted his gaze, turning to his left to grab a handful of napkins that he quickly realized he had no use for. He used his peripheral vision to stealthily sneak a look at what appeared to be a smirking Gallagher making his way back behind the counter.

He prayed that Gallagher was smirking about something Adams had said and that he had not indeed caught Mickey staring at his ass like a horny teenager.

There was still one more day left in the week and Mickey knew that he had his work cut out for him this weekend preparing for this pop quiz.

But there was something about watching Gallagher make his teammates overly complicated drinks on the school’s dollar that satisfied him to no end. It was a small ray of sunshine amongst the weeks of thunder and rain.

He counted this as a win, as he gulped down his frappuccino. 

It tasted like shit, but he didn’t let that ruin the moment.  

________________________________

Mickey opened the door to the apartment and closed it behind him. He was so fucking exhausted he could barely walk.

The infamous Starbucks Prank the previous day had put him in a fantastic mood, but between his workout this morning, back-to-back classes, and practice this afternoon he had never been more content with having nothing to do. Well. Except for reviewing those stupid readings for his stupid quiz. 

Ben was in class until late so he was pretty sure he had the place to himself until he heard some shuffling coming from Ben’s room. He assumed that it was Aria, and made his way over to his bedroom, having no strength to fight off a potential intruder. They could just take him away if they wanted to at this point. 

He threw his bag onto his bedroom floor. He ripped off his shirt and crashed onto the bed, closing his eyes and settling into the feeling of his soft duvet. He was about to get under the covers when he heard a knock at the front door. 

He groaned, silently praying that Aria heard the door and was on her way to go get it. It was probably Ben forgetting his keys again. Third time this week. Mickey was a hair away from getting him one of those ball chains for around his neck so he would stop leaving it on the fucking counter all the time. Knowing his roommate, he’d probably forget the necklace just the same. 

There was another knock. Mickey groaned even louder, realizing Aria probably had her fucking headphones in as she always did. He reluctantly got up from his cozy bed and made his way to the door. 

He opened it, getting ready to scold Ben for making him get up but it wasn’t Ben at the door. Not even close.

It was fucking Gallagher.

They stared at each other for a moment. Gallagher looked a little surprised to see Mickey. Was this really Mickey’s life now? 

“No,” Mickey said, slamming the door in his face and walking away. He just couldn’t deal with this shit today. This was one of his only Gallagher-less days of the week.

The door quickly opened behind him and Mickey raised his eyebrows and spun around to face it again, to see Gallagher entering his fucking house without permission. This was a B&E if Mickey had ever seen one.

“Excuse me,” Mickey exclaimed, almost at a loss for words at the audacity of this fucker. “Don’t come in! I shut the door! I said no! No means no, bitch!” 

Gallagher gave him a quick once over. Eyes honing in on Mickey’s midsection for a moment before looking back up to meet Mickey’s eyes. And it was at that moment that Mickey became very aware of the fact that he was still shirtless.

Fuck.

Was he actually standing in front of this fucker with no shirt on? He ignored the sudden jolt his stomach decided to make. 

“I’m not here for you dipshit,” Gallagher said, taking a step inside and closing the door behind him, “I’m picking up Aria for a work thing. She said you guys live here.” 

Mickey raised his eyebrows at that.

“Oh! Did she now? I guess she neglected to tell you that she does in fact not live here, she just,” he raised his voice and looked toward Ben’s room so Aria would hear him, “DOESN’T LIKE STAYING IN HER OWN FUCKING DORM ROOM, because apparently it’s too small.” he finished, looking back at Gallagher. 

Mickey noticed Gallagher’s eyes snap up as soon as he looked back as if the guy had been looking somewhere else while Mickey’s face was focused elsewhere. There was no fucking way. 

“What do you want with Aria anyway?” Mickey asked him, avoiding whatever he just saw, “can’t you make your own fucking friends?”

Gallagher snorted rudely at that. 

“I have plenty of friends, thank you, they just aren’t from here. Aria and I just work together. Plus she’s probably the nicest person I’ve met since moving here,” he gave Mickey a pointed look at that. 

Mickey rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah well, don’t remember asking for your life story, so.”

They stood there for a moment in awkward silence and Mickey was trying to look in literally any direction but Gallagher’s. 

“So uh…” Gallagher said, looking around, his eyes flickering around the apartment, seemingly thinking the same thing Mickey was. “This is a nice place. Good to know that while everyone else is slumming it in the shitty dorms, the athletes are living large over here.”

“Oh for fucks sake, not this again Gallagher,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “I don’t have the energy to school your ass with my wit and charm today.”

“Wit and charm?” Gallagher scoffed, “Please. That thing you call a sense of humour is just a defense mechanism to hide behind because you’re too insecure for your own good,” he shrugged. “So instead you try to make other people feel like shit to hide your own pain.”

Mickey looked at him like he had two heads. 

Gallagher just smirked. “Psychology major, remember?”

“Well thanks for the analysis, Freud, but I can guarantee that the only pain I have in my life right now is your ass, and having the misfortune of seeing that ass practically everywhere I go. And now even in my own home! So if I am at all unpleasant it’s entirely due to the fact that my life has abruptly become like a horror movie in the small number of weeks that I’ve known your cocky, annoying ass!” he ranted. 

Gallagher looked taken aback for a moment before grinning. The fucker was actually amused that he had caused Mickey so much havoc. 

“Hm.” Gallagher mused, and Mickey definitely didn’t miss the way his eyes trailed over his naked upper half. He wasn’t even being subtle about it anymore. He tilted his head to the side as his grin morphed into something heated and salacious. “You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, Mick? 

Mickey’s mouth dropped open. He felt like he’d been hit by a Mack truck.

A foreign weight settled heavily in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or if Gallagher had actually said that. What the fuck was he implying?

He studied Gallagher's face; that cocky, suddenly seductive face, and waited for the punch line. Waited for the other shoe to drop.

All he was met with was raised brows and a brazen smirk.

Mickey didn’t even want to dignify the question with an answer, and if he was honest, he wasn’t sure any words would come out if he tried. He turned around to escape to the safety of his room, feeling completely dismantled in this smug motherfucker’s presence. 

Before he could even take a step forward, Aria decided to finally make an appearance, coming out of Ben's room with her headphones still on. She looked genuinely surprised to see him there.

The two friends met each other’s eyes and Mickey felt like he was a kid getting his hand caught in the cookie jar. Aria gave him a once over. She looked over at Gallagher who was still standing by the door and then quickly went back to Mickey. Who was still shirtless. 

“Oh hey Mick,” she said, smirking at him, seemingly trying not to burst out laughing as she hooked her headphones around her neck. “I didn’t know you’d be home.” 

“What do you mean you didn’t -- where the fuck else would I be?” Mickey asked. Why was everyone so shocked that he was in his own fucking apartment? 

Aria cringed a little and shrugged. 

“The rink I thought?”

“Well here I am,” he snapped, stomping his way to his bedroom before turning around to face them both again. “Oh! And by all means, please do keep inviting perfect strangers back to the apartment whenever you please! This is a hostel after all! Maybe we’ll even start offering breakfast in the morning!” With that, he barrelled into his room and slammed the door behind him. 

He crashed onto his bed for the second time that evening, palming his eyes to relieve some frustration. 

Not ten seconds later, he heard a knock and Aria was slowly opening his door, looking at him in question. Mickey rolled his eyes. He would never know peace, it seemed. 

He nodded to tell her she could come in so she entered, closing the door behind her. She sat down on the end of the bed. She was wearing her go-to going out outfit; a pair of black ripped jeans, a black crop top, and an oversized jean jacket. She crossed her legs and glanced over at Mickey, seemingly unsure of what to say. 

“I’m sorry. I genuinely didn’t think you’d be here,” she sighed, “I thought you were practicing late.”

Mickey didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to respond to that. 

“He asked if we could walk to this work thing together,” she continued, voice low. “He’s my supervisor. And he's new here. I just felt weird saying no to him.” 

Mickey nodded and sat up a little. 

“Did the fucker threaten your job if you didn’t go with him because I can go beat his ass. It would be my pleasure,” Mickey replied jokingly. 

Aria cracked a small smile and smacked Mickey’s leg lightly. 

“He can’t fire me. He’s not a manager. Plus he wouldn’t do that. He’s not all bad Mick.”

Mickey scoffed loudly. 

“He’s entirely bad, Aria. I don’t know why you’d subject yourself to the torture of hanging out with him willingly.”

Aria snorted. 

“I don’t hang out with him. This is the first time I’ve seen him outside of work, I swear. I’m just trying to keep the peace,” she said, her hands up in mock surrender. 

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Nah. I get it,” he said. 

He did. He understood that Aria was in an awkward position being friends with Mickey yet working with Gallagher. 

“You do?” Aria asked, looking a little shocked, brows furrowed. 

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed, “I do. You’re not in the easiest position. There isn’t much you can do. Don’t want to make shit weird for you at work.”

“Thanks Mick,” she responded genuinely.

“Ben tell you what that fucker did to me in tutorial yesterday?” Mickey asked.

“Yes, Mick,” Aria sighed, “and all about your clever little prank. You’re an ass for that by the way.”

“He’s the ass,” Mickey muttered. 

Ass. 

You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, Mick? 

Fuck. 

“I can talk to him if you want. Tell him that if we’re going to be friends he needs to ease up on you a little?” 

Mickey scoffed. 

“Oh so now you wanna be friends with him, huh?”

“No, no. I know he’s been a dick to you, but he clearly doesn’t know anything about you if he’s firing on about how you don’t deserve to be here. Genuinely sounds like if you two just talked it out you’d realize the other isn’t so bad,” she said, shrugging. She paused. “But, I mean… I wouldn’t mind getting to know him a little better. I mean, I only ever hang out with you and Ben. It's kinda sad. It would maybe be nice to have someone else other than you two in my life. But I get your weird arch nemeses situation so I can just tell him to fuck off if you want.”

“Don’t need you fighting my battles for me,” he said. 

“I’m serious. If he wants to hang around me then he needs to not be an ass to you,” she said, pausing for a moment as if trying to contemplate whether she should say something. “Seriously though, have you considered just talking it out with him? I mean you have to see each other a lot every week. Why not try to bury the hatchet? Make your lives easier?”

“Yeah. Well, I won’t be doing that. But thanks so much for the advice,” Mickey said, stubbornly. He was already essentially giving his blessing to Aria and Gallagher’s friendship. He’d be damned if she ruined his hate train too. 

Aria rolled her eyes dramatically. 

“So, do I have your blessing to befriend the enemy?” Aria joked. 

“I mean I have no idea why you would want to, but you really do seem to have no friends other than me so--Ow! Aria!” Mickey groaned at Aria, who had just sucker-punched him in the thigh.

“You’re a dick,” Aria laughed. 

“Well I guess that’s what you look for in friends then because Gallagher is the King Dick,” he closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn’t believe he had just said that. 

Aria seemed to ignore the implication, though Mickey swore he saw a subtle smirk settle on her lips. 

Instead, she looked at her phone and then back at Mickey.

“I should probably get going.”

“Yeah. Oh! Hey!” Mickey whisper-yelled at her as she got up from the bed. “If the fucker starts annoying you, just text me. I’ll call you with a family emergency or something. No one should have to sit with that guy against their will. Just text me ‘SOS’ and I’ll be ready to fake a fire or something,” he said seriously.   

Aria glared at him and shook her head.

“You’re so melodramatic Mickey, I swear.” 

She walked towards the door, but stopped midway and turned to face him again. 

“By the way. We're definitely going to talk about why you were standing out there shirtless in front of Ian when I get back,” she eyed him with a knowing smirk and quickly exited the room before Mickey had the chance to defend himself. 

He groaned. 

He stared at the ceiling, mind working in overdrive. He felt a little calmer after having talked to Aria, but his mind was still racing. Her last comment reminded him of Gallagher’s words just minutes ago.  

You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, Mick? 

What the fuck had he meant by that? It didn’t make any fucking sense. Did he somehow find out Mickey liked guys? Mickey couldn’t think of a single reason why Gallagher would have come to that conclusion, but then why had he just openly flirted with him in his own fucking living room? 

Okay, yes, there was the whole ass staring thing yesterday, but he was 87% sure Gallagher didn’t even catch that.

Was he just trying to fuck with him? That seemed like the only viable explanation. Mickey wasn’t sure what kind of sociopathic person would say shit like that just to mess with someone, but he figured Gallagher fit the bill just fine. 

Besides, they couldn’t fucking stand each other. You don’t just go from hating someone to the degree that Gallagher seemed to hate him to flirting with him out of fucking nowhere. This wasn’t some kind of enemies to lovers Netflix Original. This was clearly some kind of game.

And yet.

There was something about the way he said it. And the way Mickey felt almost instantly afterward.

There was this inexorable pulling sensation that originated in his chest that made its way down into the depths of his toes. An unfamiliar feeling that he couldn’t begin to explain, one that he had never even remotely felt before. It started as a shock, kind of, but it morphed into something else. Something like adrenaline. It made him feel light-headed and airy. Almost like he was floating. 

It disgusted him.

Not because he was feeling this way, but because he was feeling this way towards something that Gallagher had said. The guy was doing an admirable job of getting into Mickey’s head even when he was nowhere to be seen. Even on the days when Mickey wasn’t supposed to see him at all. And it was truly fucking getting to him. 

Mickey wasn’t supposed to be having these weird conflicting, distracting feelings about his tutor. He was supposed to be focusing on the upcoming season and passing his classes. That’s what needed to be taking up his headspace. He needed to be ready to give his top performance for his first game in a few weeks and he wasn’t going to accomplish that with Ian Gallagher making a home for himself in his head. 

Something was gonna have to give.

Chapter Text

Mickey slowly awoke from his slumber, stretching out like a sleepy cat and smacking his lips together to jolt them awake. It was a wonderfully relaxing way to wake up, one which was a rarity with his hectic schedule. He settled sleepily in his covers, wrapping himself like a little baby burrito as a beam of hot sunlight hit his eyes. 

He squinted. Wait. That wasn’t right. Fuck.

His eyes shot open and he groaned at the sight of the midday sun bursting through his window. He knew before he even checked his phone that he had forgotten to set his alarm and had almost definitely overslept. Un-fucking-believable. Why did it feel like this was how every single one of his days started? This was becoming way too common of an occurrence.

It was 12:10 pm, which meant he was already 10 minutes late for his tutoring session. Gallagher was going to have his ass. 

Ass.

You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, Mick?

Fuck. 

He couldn’t believe his luck -- or lack thereof.

He bolted out of bed, grabbing his backpack and shoes from near his bedroom door and haphazardly yanking them on as he sprinted out the front door.

He ran, full-on Usain Bolt sprinted, towards the library, dodging people left, right, and center who were making it their mission to try and get in his way. He chuckled internally that his brain decided to take note of the unseasonable cool chill for a Michigan midday in September. Now was not the time, internal thermometer! 

He finally arrived at study room 15, his least favourite place in the entire world, muttering a hushed apology as he opened the door and shuffled into his seat. His forehead was damp with sweat as he panted heavily to catch his breath. He hurriedly yanked his laptop out to pull up his notes from yesterday’s lecture that he knew Gallagher wanted to discuss with him.

Once he had everything in order, he placed his palms on the table and finally raised his eyes to see Gallagher staring at him as if he was buck naked. 

“What’s your problem? I know I’m late but I’m here ain’t I?” Mickey said.

Ian flicked his eyes down to Mickey’s chest before returning them to his eyes. “Uh...I…um…” he fumbled.

Mickey drew his eyebrows up in confusion before glancing down to see what had Ian sputtering like a fool. It then came to Mickey’s attention that he was, indeed, buck naked. As naked as the day he was born from head to fucking toe -- the only exception being his runners.

And even then, he’d forgotten his socks.

His face went beet red as his eyes returned up to face Gallagher, only to find they had both miraculously teleported into their Thursday afternoon tutorial, his classmates and their TA all dressed as hockey players. They were all pointing at his dick that had shrunk at least three inches since he went to sleep yesterday, pointing and laughing and chanting “tiny arrogant monster” at the top of their lungs. Gallagher was at the front of the group, wearing sunglasses, the leader of their raucous taunting.

Ian’s mouth then opened impossibly wide, like something straight out of a horror movie, as an obnoxious screech came from his gaping mouth.

________________________________

Mickey jolted upright, a loud screech from outside his bedroom door bringing him into the land of the living. He breathed in harsh pants, his heart rate through the roof, as he leaned over to check his phone. 7 am. 

He couldn’t have gotten more than four hours of sleep. Yesterday’s interaction had played on a demonic loop as he tried fruitlessly to fall asleep, and the fact that Gallagher was now infiltrating his sacred dream space was a truly horrifying and unacceptable development. Mickey pulled his hands out from under the covers to palm his sleep-crusty eyes and exhaled audibly.

You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, Mick?

You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, Mick?

You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, Mick?

You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, Mick?

The comment had been driving Mickey absolutely certifiably insane for over 12 hours now. He’d been analysing it from every angle, desconstructing it, rolling it around on his tongue, trying to understand what the fuck Gallagher was playing at.

After stewing on it all night, Mickey had finally convinced himself that Gallagher was indeed fucking with him, playing some kind of fucked up game to try and seduce and subsequently out him or ruin him or just make his life a nightmare for sport. Payback for The Starbucks Prank, maybe, as if that and this were even remotely on the same level of deviancy.

Mickey knew he had a good body, he worked hard on it and he was toned and strong as fuck. He hadn’t missed Ian’s glances to his torso; he knew he didn’t make that shit up. Ian thinking he was hot is whatever. He clearly has eyes. 

And Mickey wasn’t blind either; he has reluctantly accepted the fact that Ian is objectively attractive too. 

Whatever, it is what it is.

But there was a difference between thinking someone was hot and ... coming onto them? Especially if you don’t know for sure that they’re gay. 

Gallagher was out and proud and would have no problem finding guys to fuck, so why the fuck would he hit on a guy he clearly fucking hated? And one who clearly hated him? Did Gallagher think he was fucking stupid? That he’d fall for this shit? Did he think he was that irresistible? Please.

He was confused about a lot of things, but one thing he was sure of was that a game was afoot and he was not gonna fucking play. Not with Gallagher, of all people. 

Hot or not, he hated his fucking guts and every self-righteous bone in his body. Hated that heated gaze, and his stupid green eyes, and his stupid red hair with the stupid freckles, and the stupid, hot ass and the annoyingly large biceps.

And if all this thinking about Gallagher’s stupid face and body caused Mickey to draw his hand down from his cringing face to palm at his morning wood -- well that was his business thank you very much. 

________________________________

After an embarrassingly quick jerk off, Mickey took solace in the knowledge that he had an entire weekend free of commitments, aside from a couple of workouts and maybe prepping for his tutorials next week. But no Gallagher, no classes, no practices.

The start of the season was still a few weeks away, so he sighed contently. He wasn’t going to let anything ruin his lazy weekend.

His soul actually left his body when he remembered Gallagher had said he was being quizzed at their tutoring session on Monday on the last two weeks of readings. He would be fucking damned if he spent his entire weekend going over two weeks' worth of readings if he was also meant to be preparing for the actual coursework he had to do the following week. Would that even be physically possible? 

Maybe he’d try headbutting his textbooks and hope he could absorb the topics via osmosis. Or maybe he’d just find a sinkhole and fall into it instead of dealing with the soap opera that was currently his life. 

He eventually decided that coffee and cereal would steer his morning in the right direction, and so he opened his door clad only in his boxers and made a beeline for the kitchen.

He saw Ben distracted on his phone on the couch as Aria cooked eggs on the stovetop, chatting loudly across the living space about some girl from her dorm.

“Mornin’,” Mickey croaked, his voice raspy from sleep.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Aria replied, much too cheerfully considering it was 7:30am on a Saturday.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Ben mocked, doing his best Aria impression from the couch.

Aria flipped Ben off, not taking her eyes away from the stovetop, as Ben chuckled.

Mickey made it to the coffee machine but felt Aria’s eyes digging into the side of his head. He turned to eye her, giving her a ‘what the fuck do you want’ look, as he inserted an extra strong coffee pod into the machine and set it to brew.

“So. Are we gonna talk about yesterday?” Aria asked playfully.

Mickey had no time for games. He was uncaffeinated. 

“What are you talking about?” he sighed, making his way over to the cabinet where they kept their cereal.

It was the weekend, and the weekend meant that Mickey got to treat himself to Froot Loops for breakfast. Starting up at UMich meant starting up on a very strict meal plan, and his favourite meal of the day quickly went from sugary cereals to protein shakes or egg white omelets. But he allowed himself his beloved Loops every weekend morning as a way to stay sane. 

It was his favourite food growing up, whenever he managed to steal a box from the grocery store because God knows Terry would never buy that shit for him.

He was overly protective of his cereal. No one was allowed to so much as breathe in the vicinity of it, and Ben and Aria knew well enough to steer very clear. It was his most cherished tradition that he reveled in every single weekend and without it, he was bound to go insane.

“Yeah, what are you talking about?” Ben chimed in, making his way into the kitchen to settle behind Aria, wrapping her in a bear hug. He was never one to miss out on drama, although by the look on his face, Mickey figured Aria had already filled him in.

“Mickey,” Aria started, giving him that special look that was reserved just for him, “just happened to be shirtless when Ian came over yesterday to pick me up for that work thing. And I walked in on what appeared to be a very charged moment.” Her smile grew on the word charged, clearly enjoying tormenting Mickey.

Ben gasped. 

“Mickey was shirtless when Ian came over?! And there was a charged moment, you say?! The scandal! Mikhailo Aleksander Milkovich you little slut!” His over-the-top fake dramatics made it very clear that he had indeed been filled in on yesterday’s episode and was determined to team up with his girlfriend to tease him to death.

Mickey groaned. He would have left them to their own annoying devices but his coffee was nearly done and he couldn’t face the day much less his friends without it. 

“What do you fucking mean?! He was the one in my house after I had a long ass day and I’m expected to just be wearing a shirt? Fuck off. I never wear shirts. Exhibit A” he shouted as he pointed at his nude torso. He turned around and pulled his cereal out of the cupboard and walked over to retrieve a bowl from where they lived. 

“I just think it’s interesting, Mick,” Aria started, turning towards him. “It looked like you and Ian had been standing there for quite some time before I walked in. Did you not think to grab a shirt while we had a guest over? Unless there was something you wanted him to see…”  she teased.

“Now come on, Aria, you know that if Mickey really did want to show off to Ian he would have gone pantless instead of shirtless. Everyone knows his ass is the real asset,” Ben added unhelpfully, reaching over and slapping Mickey’s ass to clarify his point. Mickey had been in the middle of pouring his cereal as Ben did it, causing him to jolt and send several colourful o-shaped pieces onto the counter. 

Mickey was being maliciously indicted for a crime he did not commit by a couple of clowns, and he would not roll over and take it, as was his usual M.O.

He squeezed his eyes shut, threw his head back, and shouted at the ceiling. 

“Oh my god! How did I end up with the worst friends in the entire fucking world?” Mickey implored with any higher power above him. “Why are you two so convinced that I want to fuck this guy? You know what -- don’t answer that. It’s too early for this shit.” He began to scoop the fallen pieces into his bowl -- because no Loop left behind! -- and stomped over to the fridge to pull out the milk. 

Ben and Aria snickered from their vantage point by the stove. How they knew exactly what to say to press all of Mickey’s buttons was beyond him. They really had the best, most supportive friends slash evil masterminds combo down pat.

The coffee machine finished whirring, signifying Mickey’s saving grace. As he grabbed the mug and bowl, ready to turn on his heels and disappear into the comfort of his room, a nagging thought gnawed at the back of his head. One that he didn’t want to entertain, but that was going to eat him alive if he didn’t address it.

He turned back to face the dynamic duo, his voice uncharacteristically timid.

“Ey, Aria. Did you uh...tell Gallagher I was gay?”

Aria’s head snapped up, turning swiftly and immediately to face Mickey, her eyes desperate and panicked.

“Mick, of course not. I might tease but I’m not actually a cunt. I wouldn’t ever do that to you. We didn’t even talk about you last night, we were in a group pretty much all night.”

“Nah, before last night, like at work or something this week,” he pressed.

Mickey chastised himself for even asking. He knew Aria. He trusted her and knew she’d never out him under any circumstances, especially considering she knew most of the reasons why he was keeping his sexuality on the down low.

But he was searching for a reason why Gallagher felt confident enough to make a comment like that last night.

Athletes were historically and anecdotally not the biggest gay allies, so to make a comment like that without being sure the other person batted for the same team seemed like a pretty big fucking risk. 

Aria unintentionally slipping up and telling Gallagher he was gay would have been a perfectly neat explanation.

Or at least an explanation that was less mortifying than Gallagher catching Mickey gawking at his ass and drawing the conclusion from that.

“No, Mick. Like I said, we’ve never really hung out before last night. It’s all been pretty standard small talk at work. Promise.”

Although he expected this answer, and was ultimately relieved to hear it, it did mean that Gallagher’s brazenness still made no fucking sense.

“Nah, of course. Sorry I asked, I know you’d never.”

Aria nodded and turned back to the stove, seemingly satisfied she’d convinced Mickey of her innocence, but not before Ben locked eyes with Mickey with the most ungodly smirk he had ever seen.

“Did he say something to you?” Ben asked cheekily.

“Huh? What? No. Was just wondering. Just in general. Curious, y’know,” Mickey closed his eyes tight shut, realizing too late he’d waffled on one beat too long and Ben was about to have a field day.

Ben bounced on the balls of his feet, doing little jumps as he got visibly excited. 

“Oh my god he said something to you, didn’t he? Let’s just circle back to that charged moment Aria walked in on because we have not dissected that yet. Did he come onto you? What did he say? Did he ask you if you were gay? OH MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED?! I KNEW SOMETHING WAS GONNA HAPPEN! I have $20 on the line here. I need a play-by-play immediately.” Ben’s voice got louder and louder as he went on.

“Why are you screaming at me, weirdo? Nothing happened!” Mickey cursed his face for always turning crimson red at the most inopportune moments. He tried to disappear back into his room, but Ben jumped in front of him to block his way.

“Ben…” Mickey warned.

Ben laughed at Mickey thinking he could scare him into dropping this. He was 2 feet tall and hadn’t had his coffee or cereal yet. Child’s play. 

“Tell us or I’ll throw the coffee machine out while you sleep tonight.”

Mickey scoffed but he knew he only had two choices here.

One was to try and dance around the point, only for Ben to wear him down eventually anyway. Two was to just fucking rip the bandaid off and tell Ben now, and avoid the whole song and dance so he could enjoy his Saturday morning in peace.

“Fine. Fuck,” Mickey began, rationalizing that maybe he’d blown the comment out of proportion after a night of overthinking. Hearing an outsider’s perspective could put him at ease. “I was sorta yelling at him about how my life had literally turned into a living hell because I kept seeing his ass everywhere -”

“God you’re so dramatic,” Aria interrupted from the kitchen, where she was happily eating her eggs with a side of drama for breakfast, chuckling all the while.

“Do you wanna hear the story or not?” Mickey irritably yelled back.

Ben put his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, calming him, as he steered him towards the couch to sit down. 

“Of course we do. Ignore her, she’s not even here.”

Mickey swore he heard Aria’s eye roll from the kitchen. He continued, his eyes dancing around the floor, too scared to look at Ben.

“So I said something about seeing his ass everywhere, and he kept looking at my chest and then he like...smirked at me all weird and flirty and said, 'You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, Mick?’” Mickey put his best Gallagher impression on for his line, trying to evoke the tone and timbre as best as possible.

Once he’d finished his explanation and didn’t hear any words of comfort, Mickey raised his eyes to look at Ben, then over to Aria, then back to Ben, still waiting for his response. Praying for a response. Praying they could provide some new insight into the comment to put Mickey out of his misery. They were both absolutely useless, just staring at him like he was speaking another language. 

He thought he’d broken them, only for Ben to eventually burst into a fit of laughter.

“Oh my fucking god, it is so fucking ON!” Ben exclaimed through laughter, “Babe, pick any restaurant you wanna go to, I’m taking us out on the town once these two idiots bang and we win this bet.” 

“I dunno what type of date you’re expecting to take me on for $20,” Aria added before her eyes turned dark with chaos, “but you’re so fucking right. We’re totally gonna win! Holy shit, Mickey, he was flirting with you! He came on to you! That was a come on!”

Micky didn’t let Aria’s words throw him. No. He had already decided it was not a come-on, and so it was not a come-on. 

“He didn’t come onto me. He’s playing some fucking mind game with me to try and get in my head. But it’s not gonna work. I hate his guts. And he isn’t even that attractive,'' Mickey lied.

He received the exact same cut the bullshit face from both Ben and Aria, and decided now was as good a time as any to escape this trainwreck of a conversation, coffee and cereal in hand, to avoid the third degree.

He stood up from the couch, and walked towards his room, as his friends made smooching sounds until he’d shut the door behind him.

________________________________

Monday rolled around much too quickly and, as expected, his ‘studying’ had sort of, maybe, not at all happened over the weekend. He skimmed what he could, and made decent headway on his work for the upcoming week, but in the end, he retired way too early to the couch to play ‘The Last of Us Part 2’ with Ben. 

He rationalized that this pop quiz was clearly a method through which Gallagher was going to torment him, and he had the weeks ahead to revise for his actual exams. He’d be damned if he let Gallagher ruin his weekend. 

Mickey showered and tried to psych himself up for his day ahead. He had a morning tutorial that he was only semi prepared for. He had practice with a coach who had them going so hard that he was too exhausted for much else afterward, followed by a tutoring session with Satan himself. 

How the fuck was it already Monday?

________________________________

Mickey managed to fudge his way through his tutorial, sitting next to some know-it-all who had been more than happy to let Mickey ride on the coattails of her knowledge as the TA asked them for contributions to the class discussion.

Practice was less successful, with him and the team adding nearly twenty minutes to their practice time due to their many fuck ups during the drills. It was apparent to Mickey that the overall environment on Mondays and Wednesdays was a lot grimmer than on any of the other days, making it almost impossible for a lot of his teammates to focus. He planned on talking to Ben that night about running some extra practices to get them working together more cohesively.

Mickey made his way into the library, practicing some deep breathing techniques Aria had taught him so he went in cool, calm and collected. He was determined not to let Gallagher get under his skin as he had a miraculous habit of doing so almost every time they met up.

But not today.

No. Today, he was going to be on his best behavior, wrap up without incident, go home, watch some trash on TV and fall asleep nice and early.

The second Mickey laid eyes on Gallagher’s face, he knew his plan was in vain.

He wore that smug look that Mickey had grown to recognize as one which immediately preceded chaos and destruction. 

The first time he’d seen it was during their initial confrontation at Starbucks. 

The second time was during their tutorial when Ian bulldozed him and made him look like a fucking idiot. 

Seeing it again now almost had Mickey turn around and hightail it the fuck out of there before anything could even occur.

Mickey eyed the table and saw an A4 booklet in front of his usual seat, clearly this makeshift quiz Gallagher had alluded to last week. He had very obviously spent far too long creating this thing just to fuck with Mickey. 

Gallagher was clearly obsessed with him, or something.

It was embarrassing when you thought about it.

He slumped in his chair as he pulled out his textbook and laptop, refusing to meet Gallagher’s smirk with his eyes.

Gallagher didn’t let that deter him.

“So, Mickey. I thought I’d get you to spend the first half-hour going through this quiz, just to give me an idea of what topics you’ve retained some knowledge of, and which ones will need to be our focus for our upcoming midterm prep. I’ve made the quiz nice and easy for you, so why don’t you get started.”

Ian’s voice was laced with the most obnoxious fake sincerity. He spoke slowly and articulately as if Mickey was stupid and wouldn’t be able to understand him otherwise.

Mickey glanced over the page in front of him, recognizing some of the words and phrases but feeling like the rest was in another language.

He focused on the first question, and he genuinely thought he was losing his mind. He read the question again, as if reading it a second time would miraculously stimulate some long lost knowledge center in his brain, bringing the right answer to the front of his mind. He read the same question seven times and he still didn’t understand what the fuck it was asking.

Gallagher wasn't helping, either. He only stared at Mickey when he huffed out a frustrated breath and urged him to read it again, slower. Smug bastard. But after the eighth read through, Mickey couldn’t help himself. 

“This is such bullshit. Cut the fucking peacocking, Gallagher. I dunno where you’ve pulled this question from but it’s not from the past two weeks, I know that much,” he spat with vitriol.

“Actually it is, Mickey. If you had read the whole chapters, including the footnotes, and participated in the class discussions like I told you to, this would be the easiest question in the world. I’m not fucking with you here. This is technically from the material.” Ian responded, his voice still obnoxious. 

Mickey was exhausted, overworked, and bordering on homicidal. 

He was doing more than he’d done in any past semester. He was following Gallagher’s stupid study plan for the most part, and he was staying up to date with the content.

Why was Gallagher pulling confusing questions out of the fucking footnotes just to prove a point? No, Mickey didn’t have the most sophisticated grasp on the topics, and no, he wasn’t going the extra mile, but he didn’t fucking have to. He just needed to pass, and he was on track to do just that.

Mickey felt his insides turn to lava, as something hot and heavy settled in his stomach. His frustration, he feared, had reached a boiling point. Frustration that so much of his time was getting sucked up by Gallagher, and extra studying, when he should be working on the ice. He couldn’t help it; he’d been holding this back for weeks, so he stood up in an exasperated huff, his chair falling back to the floor as he let himself boil over.

“It’s not like I’m ever gonna even use this shit," he yelled, "so why the fuck do I need to put up with your overbearing, mind-game playing ass just to get my grades up? I’m good at hockey and that’s all I need to be. This shit is such a waste of my fucking time. It’s fucking bullshit!”

Mickey knew being a college athlete meant actually going to college, but he couldn’t help his anger overwhelm him. He’d never been a good learner, and he hated feeling stupid. He wasn’t stupid. He just had a different kind of intelligence. It wasn’t his fault that his kind of intelligence automatically filtered out irrelevant and useless information.  

Mickey grabbed the quiz from the table and ripped it in half, then half again, and again, before throwing it directly in Gallagher’s direction to really hammer his point home. 

The pieces slowly danced to the floor, as Ian remained as still as stone in his seat, the contents of his quiz raining down on him like confetti, his eyes fixed directly on Mickey’s. 

Mickey expected Ian to raise his voice, to meet his anger on his level, as had been the case in the past. There had always been an equal give and take with them, an even flow.

When one was angry, so was the other. When one was snide, the other mirrored. 

But this time, Ian was quiet. Considered. Still. This was foreign to Mickey. It made him uneasy.

“It’s good to finally get confirmation that my read on you from our first session was right,” Gallagher finally sighed nonchalantly.

“Oh yeah? Please do humour me, Dr. Phil,” Mickey threw back. Gallagher remained seated.

“You say that I don’t know you or what you’ve done to get here. You keep saying you deserve to be here. But I know you. I’ve met a million guys like you. And you don’t deserve to be here.” Ian said, his voice level and calm but dripping with disdain. “You’re only here because you can glide across a sheet of ice with blades attached to your feet while chasing a ball -”

“It’s a PUCK.”

“- around with a stick. You’re basically a part of the circus,” he said matter of factly, not letting Mickey’s interruption faze him in the slightest.

Mickey rolled his eyes. It wasn’t anything that he hadn’t heard before. He was pacing now and found himself biting the raw skin around his thumb. He quickly removed his finger from his mouth. He hadn’t done that since he was a child.

“But,” Gallagher started up again, “that’s how the system is set up. It’s not your fault athletes are favoured over other worthy students after all. So who am I to put that on you?”

Gallagher leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees as he clamped his hands together in front of him. 

“But do you want to know what I find the most comfort in, Milkovich?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It’s that if this whole hockey thing doesn’t work out, then what are you gonna do? It’s not like you have any other skills. Taking simple instructions isn’t one of them. Neither is time management apparently. So what exactly do you expect to do if you can’t play hockey anymore? Ever think about that?” Gallagher provoked.

He had struck a nerve and they both knew it. Mickey tensed up at Gallagher’s barbarous words and he knew that he’d be unable to shake them when he was trying to fall asleep that night. 

Ian leveled his stare at Mickey - daring, almost begging Mickey to bite. He was looking for a confrontation, there was no doubt about it.

Gallagher’s words started infecting him, as they settled coolly in the pit of his stomach. Insecurities about himself and his self-worth outside of hockey had just been poked, prodded and awoken from hibernation. Insecurities he rarely let see the light of day, because they terrified him so much. Insecurities he kept squashed down under lock and key, because addressing them was too painful. 

Mickey started feeling weird. Overwhelmed. Threatened. His skin prickled with equal parts embarrassment and fury.

He needed Gallagher to stop looking at him like that.

He couldn’t let that smug asshole know that he’d unbalanced him, in fact, he downright refused to give the fucker that satisfaction. So he decided to play Gallagher's game. 

Mickey stalked over to where Ian was sitting, and placed a hand on each armrest, letting his face slowly enter Ian’s space. Ian leaned back on instinct, but Mickey followed until their faces were mere inches apart. A flash of surprise and -- something else? -- suddenly appeared in Gallagher’s eyes. Mickey steadied his voice and calmly began to speak.

“Well at least I don’t try to make people’s lives a living hell because I’m jealous that they don’t have to work two bottom-of-the-barrel jobs just to get an education that probably won’t get them that far anyway.” Mickey said, feeling the puffs of air from Gallagher’s nostrils hit his lips as he spoke. “Face it, Gallagher, you’re jealous that your life is gonna amount to horseshit while I’m in a mansion living a life you’ve convinced yourself you don’t want. You’re pathetic and I feel fucking sorry for you. Have fun making frappuccinos for people better than you for the rest of your miserable fucking life.”

Mickey knew he had him when his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed to slits. Ian’s cheeks began twitching, and Mickey allowed his lips to upturn ever-so-slightly into a winning smirk. 

Before he could properly enjoy his victory, however, Ian had fisted Mickey’s shirt in his hand and heaved himself up from the chair in one graceful, albeit rageful motion.

Mickey got his hands up on Ian’s biceps, eyes wide as he tried to regain control, but Ian used the weight of his larger body to push Mickey backwards until he’d been slammed up against the opposing wall. Ian put his deceptively muscular arms to good use and pinned Mickey’s arms alongside his torso against the wall. 

They breathed in sync, their skin sizzling with adrenaline as they took large gulps of air to try and steady themselves. Mickey squirmed under the intensity of Ian’s green gaze and snarling mouth. He felt the redhead’s torso harden against his and felt his thigh press against the side of his crotch, keeping him locked squarely against the wall, unable to escape.

It was at that moment that Mickey’s stupid eyes decided to betray him, and they momentarily flicked to Ian’s puffy, spit-wet lips before returning back to his eyes. 

He prayed to any god in the universe that was listening that Gallagher didn’t notice, and also asked them, for the love of God and all that was holy, to please deflate the semi slowly growing against Gallagher’s upper thigh.

Ian’s face remained the picture of contempt as Mickey caught his eyes drop to Mickey’s lips, then to his chest, then down to his hardening crotch that was betraying him so unbelievably right now, before his eyes returned to Mickey’s. He had never hated his Judas of a penis more than right now.

There was no way Ian couldn’t feel that. 

There was a beat of stillness, only the languished breath of the two men filling the air before Ian crashed his lips onto Mickey’s in a fevered whoosh.

Mickey was expecting a punch, or a headbutt. Maybe some verbal death threats or a letter of resignation from being his tutor. 

But not a fucking kiss.

It was instantly aggressive, heavy and hungry, Mickey wide-eyed, taking a few seconds to get the memo before he moved his mouth and met Ian’s intensity with equal, unbridled enthusiasm. He was on auto-pilot. He had absolutely zero fucking clue what was going on. 

All he knew was that he didn’t think he’d ever been this turned on in his entire life.

Before they knew it they were making out like their life depended on it. All concerns about Ian using sex to mess with him went out the window as he released Mickey’s arms from the wall and dropped his hands onto Mickey’s hips, using the position to grind their crotches together. Mickey got both hands into Ian’s red hair, pulling roughly at the strands between his fingers.

If this was all part of the newest plot for Gallagher to torment him, well, Mickey would just have to deal with the consequences later.

Right now, though, he just opened his mouth wider, silently begging Ian to deepen their kiss, until their tongues were tangled and breathy exhales filled the space between them.

Every few seconds, Mickey’s brain attempted to reboot, come back online and scream ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING’ at him; a feeble attempt to put a stop to this momentary nervous breakdown. But then Ian would bite Mickey’s bottom lip, or suck on his ear lobe, or pull at his hair, or lick at his neck, and he was back to being absolutely fucking useless.

How they went from arguing with each other to making out and desperately fumbling for each other’s zippers would remain one of life’s greatest mysteries for years to come. However Mickey was nothing if not amenable, and so he simply flowed where the tides seemed to steer him. He reached into Ian’s pants to wrap a hand around his dick -- holy shit no wonder this guy was cocky -- as Ian did the same.

They moaned and whispered breathy expletives into each other’s mouths as they hurriedly jerked each other off. At one point Ian steered his free hand into Mickey’s hair and yanked his head back roughly, allowing their kisses to get impossibly deeper. The pinch of pain only encouraged Mickey’s release to arrive quicker. It turned out their mutual disdain for each other had some benefits; Mickey had always been partial to a manhandle.

They climbed and climbed together, not ever separating long enough to look in each other’s eyes or say more than a whispered fuck to each other. Probably because it was clear they had been mutually possessed by some kind of ridiculously evil, horny spirit and the second they made eye contact the spell would be broken and they would be left standing in a public library study room at 5pm on a Monday with their least favourite person’s dick in their hand.

So they kissed and bit and sucked and licked at each other’s mouths and necks and brought each other closer and closer to orgasm, stifling their moans all the while.

And the last thought Mickey had before his vision blurred, his toes curled under and he came so hard he saw stars was, "this can’t be good."

Chapter Text

24 hours.

It had been exactly 24 hours, almost to the minute, since Mickey Milkovich allowed himself to be a part of the most perverse and degrading mutual jerk off of his whole life.

He laid atop the covers on his bed clad only in his boxers, staring at a damp spot on his ceiling. He shifted his gaze to the spinning ceiling fan, trying to focus his eyes on one of the single blades so he felt grounded by something solid.

He couldn’t stop replaying it over and over again. He’d never experienced anything like it before. The pure tension, the electricity, the passion , for lack of a better word. But most of all the pure fucking vitirol that permeated every bite, kiss, pull and tease.

It was the hottest fucking thing he’d ever experienced. How fucked up was that? Was something wrong with him? Maybe his psychology classes should be teaching him why he found jerking off someone who had insulted him to within an inch of his life the hottest experience of his life.

________________________________

After Mickey came in Ian’s fist in that infamous study room, followed closely by Ian’s finish in Mickey’s, they rested their heads on each other's respective shoulders for a few seconds, gulping air to try and catch their breath. No words were spoken between them, just their shaky inhales and exhales filling the dead air.

It took Mickey approximately one millisecond after he finished coming down to register the situation he was in. Hand full of come, public library, sworn Enemy Number One resting his head on his shoulder.

Oh, fuck no. 

Mickey extracted his sticky hand, heading straight for his bag to search for the hoodie he knew was in there. He thanked his lucky stars that it was just an old one and not his Championship hoodie. The irony of that would have been insane, but not too unbelievable at this point. He located it quickly, using it for a cursory wipe down of his hand and dick before shoving it into his backpack along with his laptop. He was moving at a frankly impressive speed.

He thought he heard Ian start to speak behind him, but he wouldn’t know in any case, because his eardrums were humming as he bolted out the door the second his pants were rebuttoned and his backpack was over his shoulder.

________________________________

Mickey had been so deep in the closet during his years growing up under Terry’s iron fist, that it took some months for him to feel safe and comfortable enough in Michigan to allow himself to live his life in his skin, on his terms.

Ben had been a decently huge part of that journey. He was the first person in his entire life to see Mickey’s pain and offer to help him carry it instead of telling him to man up.

He always offered to help, but never forced or pushed. Once Mickey had come out to him, and felt safe with him, he was super supportive of Mickey getting comfortable enough to experience the infamous college ‘slut’ years.

Mickey had his sex life routine locked up tight by the time he entered his junior year. It was a flawless and well-oiled machine, if he could say so himself.

He’d go to bars a few towns over, and find some discreet guys to fuck around with. A lot of the time it was back at their place. Occasionally it was in the bar bathroom or a secluded alleyway. It was mostly impersonal, but that was how it had to be.

Exploring his sexuality was a huge part of his first two years at college. He was finally in a place where he was happy and proud of who he was, who he liked to fuck, and how he liked to fuck. He knew what he liked, and when he desired it -- he went out and got it.

However, being happy with who he was and being out were two very separate things.

Being a college athlete meant lots of media attention and a certain high profile. Most teams and coaches these days had numerous protocols to protect gay players, but that didn’t help in Mickey’s case.

Mickey knew Petrovich and the values at his core. His coach could hide behind inclusivity training at the start of every season, but Mickey knew if he came out while on his team, there would be hell to pay. And while he wasn’t sure exactly what would happen to him and his future career, he sure as fuck wasn’t too keen to find out.  

His fears may very well be in vain, but maybe they weren’t. He had decided very early on that the risk wasn’t worth it. 

So for now, it was easier for him to explore his queerness on his terms and as discreetly as possible. And really, it was nobody’s business but his anyway. He didn’t like people nosing about in any part of his personal life, least of all his sexuality. Although a lot of his teammates did like to give him shit for his disinterest in dating.  

While they were all dating casually, flaunting their latest flings at team parties and in the locker room, Mickey had never experienced anything even remotely close to a relationship, nor did he have the desire to.

It was a foreign and confusing concept to him; why anyone would willingly tie themselves to one person for the rest of their lives was beyond him. Unless those people were Ben and Aria. Those two were the only exception to the rule. 

In any case, Mickey knew that even if he wanted a relationship, which he didn’t, he didn't have the time nor the capacity. Hockey needed to be his number one priority. He couldn’t fuck around with romance when he was already flirting with the chance of getting drafted and making it big.

And so, Mickey searched for sex, and only sex.

All of the guys that he’d met up until this point had all been interested in getting their rocks off as quickly as possible, and nothing more, and that worked just fine for Mickey. He’d never fucked anyone more than once, and no one that he’d known for more than an hour beforehand. It was just safer that way. Easier. Better for everyone.

And so it went.

Until Ian fucking Gallagher.

________________________________

And now. It had been 24 hours. 

He had just gotten home from practice to an empty apartment. He didn’t have tutoring today, thank God. And now he was just staring at the ceiling and shaming himself for this colossal fuck up. 

He was also very aware of the one sliver of his brain that was begging for it to happen again. Of course that was the voice in his head that just so happened to be the loudest.

It had been way too long since he’d hooked up with a guy and Mickey had needs for fucks sake.

Did he really need it to be with Gallagher though? Surely he could drag Ben and Aria down to one of their regular clubs and have his pick of any guy he wanted. He’d be in and out quickly and that would be it.

No need for awkward tutoring sessions full of mad sexual tension, and no accidental run-ins on campus. And definitely, no temptation for it to happen again. Just a casual hookup. That's what he needed. 

As luck would have it, whoever was in charge up there, as always, had other plans. 

His phone dinged from beside him. He felt for it next to him, grabbing it without looking, and held it high above his face. 

Unknown (5:08pm): Hey

Unknown (5:08pm): It's Ian by the way.

Unknown (5:08pm): Gallagher

The phone immediately fell onto his face. He groaned, rubbing at his forehead where the phone had made contact and Mickey scrambled to sit up. He retrieved it from where it had toppled onto the bed beside him and stared at the messages on his screen. 

Mickey almost laughed out loud at Gallagher texting his last name as well, as if Mickey wouldn’t be able to piece together who he may be by just his first. Granted, Mickey had never called him anything other than Gallagher before. He began typing out a reply. 

Mickey (5:10pm): how’d u get my number? u stalking me now? 

The reply came almost instantly. 

Unknown (5:11pm): Aria 

Of course.

Unknown (5:11pm): You left your textbook in the library yesterday.

Well, shit. Mickey hadn’t even noticed to be honest, and after a cursory look through his backpack, he realized that Gallagher was indeed telling the truth.

Unknown (5:12pm): Do you wanna come and pick it up?

Absolutely fucking not.

Mickey (5:12pm): just bring it to tutoring tomorrow, i’m busy

Unknown (5:13pm): You have exercises to do before tomorrow, so no.

Unknown (5:13pm): You need it now.

Unknown (5:13pm): I'm in the East Quadrangle. Second floor, room 211. 

So he was seriously asking Mickey to come to his fucking dorm room right now. Mickey could not think of a worse idea if he tried. 

Mickey (5:14pm): ok and? 

Unknown (5:14pm): Okay and you need to come and get it.

A beat.

Unknown (5:15pm): The textbook I mean.

Unknown (5:15pm): Because as your tutor, your learning is very important to me.

Another beat.

Unknown (5:16pm): So come and get it.

Mickey’s breath hitched at the innuendo. There was no way that was a mistake. Bullshit Mickey’s learning was important to him . This was a ploy to get Mickey hurrying out the door to Gallagher’s building where virtually anyone could see him.

Knowing Gallagher, he was probably going to try and fuck him, or blue ball him, or play some twisted game with him. He wasn’t going to go. He couldn’t. The whole situation screamed bad idea. He’d just come up with an excuse, and catch up on the exercises on the weekend.

A memory of yesterday flashed across the blacks of his eyes, and his chest tightened in anticipation at the thought of being alone with Gallagher again.

Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.

No, Mickey thought as he got up from his bed with zero hesitation, scrambling around his room trying to figure out what he needed. He absolutely wasn’t doing this. 

Mickey (5:19pm): be there in 20

Shit.

________________________________

Mickey couldn’t believe he was doing this. The demonic spirit that possessed him yesterday must have been back for round two, as that was the only explanation that could make any sense of his actions.

He needed to calm the fuck down. He was just going over to confidently rebuke whatever bullshit Gallagher was planning on throwing at him, and to collect his textbook. That was the plan. 

He pulled on some comfy loungewear that may or may not have accentuated the curve of his ass and his runners. He gave his face a once over in the bathroom mirror. He fluffed his hair, to make sure it was quaffed just right. He thanked his lucky stars he had the apartment to himself, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to fumble his way through explaining where he was going to Ben. 

He took some deep, centring breaths, and left his apartment.

________________________________

Mickey steeled himself for whatever the fuck laid on the other side of the door marked with a sinister ‘211’. He raised his hand, inhaled slowly, and knocked twice. Gallagher opened the door almost immediately, wearing light grey track pants and a black tank top that showed off his annoyingly toned arms. His hair was fluffy, like it had just been washed, and he was wearing a very annoying smirk. 

His right arm lingered at the top of the door, before it fell to his side, leaving a way too narrow gap for Mickey to walk through to enter his dorm.

“Milkovich,” Ian said coyly, with the most absurd bedroom eyes he’d ever seen.

“Gallagher,” Mickey returned, turning sideways to squeeze past Ian, the fronts of their bodies brushing together as he did, an electric pulse seemingly passing from one man to the other.

Once inside, he turned around to face Ian who had closed the door, made his way over to his desk and was leaning against it with his arms crossed, Mickey’s textbook sitting comfortably next to him. 

Mickey was undecided on how he felt about the confidence oozing out of Ian’s skin.

“So…,” Mickey started.

“So…,” Ian helpfully added, staring at the floor. A beat. Eyes up. “So you’re gay.”

Mickey nearly choked on air because, honestly, the nerve on this fucker would never fail to astound him. 

“Is that any of your fucking business?” Mickey snapped, straightening up, and instinctively taking a step towards where Gallagher stood leaning against the desk. 

“Well, my dick was in your hand yesterday,” Gallagher replied simply. 

Mickey scoffed as his thumb dragged over his bottom lip. 

“So, what? You didn’t know for sure before you attacked my face and dick yesterday?”

Ian shrugged, “I had an inkling.”

“And what gave you this inkling? Because from where I’ve been standing all I’ve been serving you is hostility and hate.”

“You’re really not as subtle as you think you are, Mick,” Ian returned. “But call it whatever. Gaydar. Intuition. You not being able to take your eyes off me.”

The audacity of this man to throw this shit at Mickey as if he wasn’t the one gawking at his naked torso just a few days ago. 

“Please, Gallagher. I’ve caught you staring at me so many times that you’re lucky I haven’t filed a restraining order,” Mickey threw back. 

Gallagher laughed at that. 

“Well as unbearable as you become when you start speaking, I’d be a liar to deny that you’re fucking hot. And I’m no liar. So excuse the staring, Milkovich. But it can’t be helped.” 

Mickey wasn’t expecting that answer. He cleared his throat and scratched his nose subtly to try and find his bearings. 

He was here for one reason and one reason only. It was time to set the record straight. 

“Look I have no idea what came over me yesterday, and I don’t know what game you’re playing here, but just to be clear, I still hate you and think you’re an asshole. Nothing has changed. Now give me my textbook so I can go.”

Ian nodded, his face one of faux concern, like he was painstakingly taking in every one of Mickey’s words like his life depended on it. 

He lifted himself off the desk, and began meandering over to Mickey, the textbook remaining steadfast on the desk.

Time stood still, the air buzzing around them. 

Mickey shifted his feet where he stood. He had no idea how Ian was the picture of cool, calm and collected whilst Mickey felt like his insides were on fire and he was one second away from a panic attack.

Ian was now well and truly in Mickey’s personal space, staring down at him, oozing a dangerously flirtatious energy. 

“Oh, you hate me?” Ian asked innocently.

Mickey rolled his eyes. 

“That shouldn’t be news, Gallagher.”

Ian leaned impossibly closer. His lips were mere inches away from Mickey’s, their hot breaths mixing in the air between them.

Mickey had no idea why he wasn’t running.

“Hm. Well I hate you too.”

“Good. Well. Glad we’re on the same page,” Mickey threw back. 

Okay, good job. Now leave. Grab the book. Walk out the door. Time to go.

Ian leaned back, his eyes sparkling as he moved his hands to sit on Mickey’s waist, digging his fingers into the flesh there. His eyes hadn’t moved from Mickey’s once. 

“Maybe I’ll show you just how much I hate you,” Ian offered, as he leant down slowly to land a teasing bite on Mickey’s neck, squeezing his waist tightly.

Okay. Well the subtext was now text. Ian wanted to fuck.

Mickey still hadn’t shaken the feeling that this was some kind of set up, some kind of sick game Gallagher was playing to make a fool out of him.

He’d been given no reason to trust him, and yet here he was, standing totally vulnerable in the middle of Ian’s dorm room, allowing his waist to be grabbed and his neck to be bitten.

It wasn’t too late. He could still escape now with his textbook and his dignity.

Ian’s lascivious face returned in front of him, and Mickey searched his eyes for the trick, for the tell. He waited for the laugh track, for someone to jump out with a phone, for something, anything, to get him out of this.

But nothing came. 

All that came from staring into Ian’s half-lidded eyes was the nearing crescendo of a steady build of tension that had been present since, let’s be honest, the first moment they saw each other. 

And sweet Jesus, he needed some release.

But he wasn’t going to let Gallagher have all the fun. He had his pride to maintain, after all. So if Mickey was going to walk headfirst into this, knowing deep down it was probably the stupidest idea he’d ever had, well fuck it.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

He grabbed the hands from his waist, and pinned them against Ian’s sides. He used his arms to push Ian back, not hard enough for him to fall over, but just hard enough for him to lose his bearings.

“Don’t think you’ve got it in you, Gallagher,” he sighed as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Mickey had no idea where this confidence was coming from, considering his stomach was doing a million backflips. He was truly just throwing shit at the wall and hoping something would stick.

Ian’s eyebrows shot up in surprise when he realized that Mickey had game. Mickey had always had game, actually, but it wasn’t his fault that he seemed to turn into a blithering idiot in the presence of Gallagher. 

“Oh I don’t, do I? Thems fighting words, Mick.”

“Eh, you probably fuck like a virgin,” Mickey taunted. “Probably shouldn’t waste my time with someone who wouldn’t even know how to give it as good as I can take it.”

Mickey wanted to make it crystal clear exactly what he wanted from the man in front of him. He also decided to ride the wave of this insane newfound confidence and turned around to make his way towards the door, as if he was going to leave.

He really hoped this fake out would work though, because as he got closer to the door without being stopped he realized that he’d shoot himself if Ian just...let him go. He was so damn horny now, a solo jerk off wasn’t going to cut it. 

He shouldn’t have worried. Gallagher was never going to let that one slide.

Before he knew it he felt large hands on his hips, and the heat of a body totally encasing his from behind. A mouth made its way to the juncture between his shoulder and neck, and bit down hard as his right hand snaked around to land on his crotch.

“Oh we’ll fucking see about that,” Ian said, before he roughly squeezed at Mickey’s dick through his pants.

Okay. Shit. It was on.

Mickey’s arms were just hanging next to his body, so he put them to good use by holding Ian’s hips in place to start up a rough grind of his ass on Ian’s crotch as Ian licked and bit at his neck.

It already felt like his nerve-endings were on fire. He was worried actual sex was going to make him explode.

He felt Ian move his hands to sit on his hips under his shirt, touching and grabbing at the warmth of his bare skin, before he dragged his hands upward, taking Mickey’s shirt with him.

When Mickey was shirtless, he spun around in Ian’s grip to grasp at the redhead’s tank top, and yanked it over his head desperately.  

Once they were both shirtless, the skin on skin contact felt like instant relief, like they had both been waiting for that feeling of release for years. Their hands clawed at whatever bare skin they could find, as their teeth sunk into necks and shoulders and tongues darted out to touch at the marks.

Their cocks were hardening against each other, and Ian moved his hands to cup Mickey’s face, going in for a kiss.

But before he could, Mickey sank to his knees.

“Oh shit,” Ian exhaled, as Mickey hooked his fingers into the waistband of his track pants and boxers and pulled them down in one fluid swoop until they hung around his knees, smirking all the while.

Mickey loved the element of surprise. It was one of the reasons he was so good at hockey; he always made moves his defenders could never anticipate. Turned out that skill was transferable to sex too.

Mickey took Ian in one hand, smirking up at the face of pure shock and delight that was staring down at him, before setting his sights on the challenge in front of him. He would never admit it, but he’d been dying to get his mouth around Ian’s dick since he felt its presence in the library yesterday.

Ian was half hard already, but plumped up quickly once Mickey slowly started tonguing and sucking at every inch of him. 

Mickey worked Ian deeper and deeper into his mouth, finding his limit, then pushing himself further. He flicked his gaze upwards to see Ian’s eyes clenched shut in pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Ian gasped, gripping Mickey’s hair tightly as his hips involuntarily pulsed forward.

Alright. This was hot.

The noises Mickey was pulling from the man above him shot tingles directly into his spine. He loved giving head, he loved this feeling; the surge of power and satisfaction that came from being in control, from being the sole reason why someone fell apart around you.

He licked and tongued and stroked until he felt the dick thrum against his tongue, and Gallagher began lightly tapping at the top of his head, telltale signs his orgasm was fast approaching.

Mickey pulled off and stood up wobbly, feeling mighty proud of the state of Ian’s face.

“You weren’t gonna come without fucking me first were you? Poor form, Gallagher” Mickey teased, pulling his pants and shoes off.

“What kind of man do you take me for, Milkovich?” Ian replied while smirking, grabbing Mickey’s face with both his hands and finally landing a searing kiss on his mouth. 

“Fuckin’ annoying one,” Mickey mumbled through hard kisses and hair tugs.

They exhaled shakily as they made their way to the bed, Ian kicking off his pants as they stumbled back, tongues entangled. 

They landed with a bounce, and Ian was on him instantly, like a predator with its prey. It quickly became desperate and depraved, embarrassing sounds coming from both men as they rutted against each other violently, and bit and licked and gasped into each other's mouths.

Ian detached himself from Mickey’s mouth, a wicked glint in his eyes, before he grabbed hold of Mickey’s hips and flipped him roughly onto his stomach, immediately plastering his long, lithe body against Mickey’s back. Gallagher’s body pinned him to the bed, and he revelled in the weight; the overwhelming feeling of being crushed by him.

Before he knew it, Mickey was squirming against the pillows, as Gallager worked in one, then two lubed fingers, while his mouth felt like it was everywhere on Mickey all at once. 

This was the hottest thing he had ever experienced, bar none. The way Ian knew exactly where to move, what to do. He began doing unspeakable things with his fingers and mouth that nearly made Mickey black out. 

By the time his third finger was in, Mickey was done fucking around.

“Come on man, just do it. Just fuck me,” he moaned, too far gone to care about how desperate he sounded.

Ian tutted. 

“Time management is something you really need to work on, Milkovich. As your tutor, I need to teach you the art of patience,” Ian said, clearly stifling a laugh as he curled and pressed his finger against Mickey’s prostate to purposefully torture him. This guy was playing dirty.

Mickey let out a guttural groan, unable to stifle it in the pillow in time. 

“I swear to god you fucking loser, if you don’t get in me in the next 10 seconds I will end you.”

Ian snickered, removed his fingers and gave Mickey’s ass a rough squeeze. He fumbled around with a condom and lube from this bedside drawer, before beckoning Mickey to get up on all fours.

From there, it was magic.

Ian pressed in slowly, inch by inch, Mickey’s knuckles turning white from his death grip on the headboard. He bit his lip to keep himself from completely falling apart before they’d even really begun. 

“Fuck,” Ian muttered from behind him, one hand on Mickey’s shoulder and the other guiding his dick into Mickey. It didn’t take long until he was fully seated, and Mickey pushed back on him, encouraging him to move.

And move he did.

It didn’t make any sense. They had nothing in common, came from completely different worlds and quite literally hated each other's guts. Just yesterday they were screaming the most horrendous things to each other, not an ounce of good will between them.

But when they moved together, skin on skin, sweat on sweat, it made more sense than anything Mickey had ever experienced. It felt like science; like chemistry. Everything fit, everything had an answer.

It didn’t take long before the pace was set, and Mickey huffed and stifled moans against his forearm on the headboard.

Ian kept one hand on Mickey’s hip, and trailed the other up his spine until it landed on the back of Mickey’s head. He twisted his fingers and roughly fisted Mickey’s hair, which caused an embarrassing pleasured squeak to exit Mickey’s mouth.

“Oh shit you like that Mickey?” Ian murmured through a haze of arousal.

“Shut up and fuck me like you mean it.”

Ian laughed at that challenge, and could not have taken the instruction more literally if he tried. Before he knew it, Ian was walking Mickey’s body on his knees closer to the headboard until his torso was being slammed and subsequently pinned to it. The redhead fisted Mickey’s hair again and pulled his head back roughly till it rested back on his shoulder, allowing Ian access to land searing licks and bites onto the side of his jaw while he started pounding into him again.

“Oh God. Fuck, fuck,” Mickey moaned loudly, finally snaking his hand down to his dick sandwiched against the headboard to bring on his release.

It wasn’t long before he heard Ian groan behind him. “‘M’close.”

“Yeah, yeah. Me too, fuck. Keep going,” Mickey whispered.

Ian beckoned Mickey to sit back and wrapped an arm around his torso, holding him tightly against him as he rested on his haunches. Ian batted Mickey’s hand off his dick and took up the strokes in time with his quickening thrusts, his open mouth wetly sucking the top of Mickey’s spine.

Mickey felt his orgasm build and build before it finally overtook him, hard and fast, his entire body tensing in the most delicious way as his head bowed forward and his arms reached out to the headboard in front of him, searching for balance. He felt a dozen or so more thrusts inside him before Ian’s release followed in a dizzying whirl.

Mickey heard Ian snort behind him whilst pulling out, before they both let gravity take them down to collapse on the bed in a fucked out mess.

Well. Jesus fucking Christ.

Mickey breathed hard and fast, slowly coming down, his forehead damp with sweat and his muscles tired from exertion. He tried to move his body, but he was convinced he might be paralysed. 

The two men lay there in comfortable silence for minutes, their heavy breaths filling the air. Mickey was very conscious of the points of contact between them. He felt Ian’s hard torso against his side, and his right calf draped over Mickey’s.

Mickey got a hand up to wipe over his face, trying to wrap his head around the fucking revelation that just was. 

How does someone as annoying as Gallagher fuck like that ?

Ian finally broke the silence. 

“How does someone as annoying as you fuck like that?” 

Mickey couldn’t help but laugh at that, Gallagher clearly having fucked him so good he could now read his mind.

But the afterglow had by now worn off; Mickey’s breath had been caught and his heart rate returned to semi-normal. He took stock of where he was, what he’d done and who he’d done it with and he couldn’t believe he’d done this.

Again.

He needed some fresh air.

He pushed Ian off him, and threw his wobbly not quite yet working legs off the bed, and stood up.

He pulled a couple of tissues from Ian’s bedside table and quickly glanced at Ian, silently asking for some privacy. When all he got were puppy dog eyes, he added, “you mind?”

“Oh,” Ian said, his cheeks flushing, before turning to face the wall while Mickey wiped himself down.

He began the hunt for his clothes, locating items one by one and throwing them on as quickly as humanly possible. He heard the sound of a lighter as he turned his head to see Ian lighting a cigarette.

“We should do that again sometime,” Ian said with such confidence and surety that caught Mickey completely off guard.

He was completely dressed apart from his shoes at this point, and studied Gallagher’s face to gauge whether he was serious or not.

Ian was completely naked, his skin glistening with sweat with a cigarette in hand. He wore a satisfied smirk on his stupidly pretty face. The sun was setting through the window and the sunbeam illuminated the hazel flecks in his absurdly green eyes. Mickey’s chest squeezed.

“Uh, I gotta go,” Mickey mumbled, as he exited the dorm room without so much as a second glance back at Ian.

He powerwalked down the hallway, down to the ground floor, until he was finally outside where he felt like he could finally breathe again. He gulped in the fresh air, and sat on the stairs to pull on his shoes before heading home.

God, there was so much about this situation that was annoying. Mickey could tell from Gallagher’s face as he left that he felt like he’d won something over him after that interaction. How had he let this happen twice ? It was like his brain completely detached from his body when it came to Ian Gallagher. He found he couldn’t explain half the decisions he made when in his presence.

He was going to be even more of a cocky bastard in tutoring, now. Not to mention Mickey had just handed him blackmail material on a silver fucking platter.

But most of all, it annoyed Mickey how unbelievably good that sex was. It felt like Ian’s body was made for him, carved by the Gods to slot perfectly against his. He knew exactly what Mickey craved, what he needed, what he’d die without.

He also couldn’t believe he’d suggested so casually that they fuck again, as if it was a totally normal thing to bang someone you hated more than once. Once could be considered a slip up; a lapse of judgement caused by the hate gland being close to the sex gland in the brain, or whatever. But twice? Or more? Absolutely not. This is what one night stands were for. And yet.

The more he thought about it, of course, the more he wanted it. Oh God. Should he fuck Gallagher again?

Fuck.

Mickey needed to do some thinking, some investigating, and maybe some threatening, before he allowed Gallagher to bulldoze his way into his life even more than he already had.

As he approached his apartment he stopped dead in his tracks when he realized that he didn’t just leave his dignity back at Gallagher’s dorm room, but the literal fucking reason that he went in the first place. 

His stupid textbook was still sitting on Ian’s desk and Mickey had just unwillingly become his booty call. 

Unknown (6.17pm): Textbook's still here ;)

No way in fuck was he going back to that room of sin. There was no way he was going to get duped into getting fucked again. 

He ignored the message.

________________________________

Mickey made his way around the boards and stopped abruptly at the blueline, creating snow in the process. He stood there, shifting back and forth on his skates and breathing hard in an attempt to settle his beating heart. 

He pushed the puck from left to right with his stick in small quick motions and stared out in front of him, mentally mapping out his destination. Not even ten seconds later he took off again, full speed to centre, where he had set up a little obstacle course for himself to practice his stickhandling. 

He successfully weaved the puck in and out of the line of orange cones before getting to the end. Instead of letting it go with his slapshot, he continued forward, weaving the puck in between his legs and backhanding it from there into the net as he passed by.  

He made his way back around to the start of his course and leaned over, bending in half, his stick placed in between his body on the ground in front of him. He looked down at the ice and sighed.

This whole thing with Gallagher had really thrown him for a loop. Mickey didn’t know what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, but whether or not that idea came from a logical place or his dick remained to be seen. 

So he was doing what he did best, distracting himself with hockey, trying to make himself so tired that he’d be too exhausted to think by the time he got back to the apartment. So far it wasn’t working, and Gallagher had managed to sneak his way into Mickey’s mind the moment that he arrived back at the start of the drill. Damn him and his stupid fucking persistence. 

He had been replaying his options over and over again for the past day. Gallagher was an amazing lay. There was no denying that. And he must have felt the same way about Mickey, judging by the fact that he was already asking him to bang again not thirty seconds after the fact. 

Mickey really wished he hadn’t. This meant that the puck was completely in his zone. He was responsible for making the decision of whether or not they were going to fuck again. 

Mickey was mentally kicking himself for even considering it. It was Gallagher for fucks sake. The guy who he was yelling at not 48 hours ago about just how unbearable he was; the guy who had yelled equally hurtful things right back. The guy that made him want to bang his head against a concrete wall -- and that was on a good day. How was this even a debate in Mickey’s mind? 

But it would be hot as hell if yesterday was any marker, and not to mention convenient, considering Gallagher lived only ten minutes from him. Aside from the intense, all-encompassing hatred -- it was kind of a perfect recipe. He’d be an idiot not to fuck Gallagher again, wouldn’t he? 

Mickey was about to take off again when he noticed someone approaching out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw Petrovich skating his way towards him. Mickey nodded at him in acknowledgement.

Practice actually hadn’t been a total shitshow today. Petrovich seemed to be in a better mood and had them focusing on battles in the corner which had them pushing and shoving each other by the end of the drill in an attempt to free the puck.

The other part of practice was their usual scrimmaging which was a lot more fun than it normally was, coming off the puck battle drill. Ben and Mickey were on opposite teams which was always the most entertaining for the two of them. They exchanged shoves into the boards whenever possible, and chirped each other when one of them made a mistake. The rest of the team had always found their banter humorous, and Mickey had even seen Petrovich give them a small smirk at one point. 

The real highlight of the practice was when Adams had accidentally, and very miraculously, gotten his stick lodged and trapped into both of Douche Derek’s skates which had the defencemen flailing on the ground, unable to get up. 

The team was in hysterics, doubling over in a chorus of laughter as Derek grumbled on the ice like a fish out of water awaiting some sort of assistance which Nelson -- the party pooper -- finally gave him after a good two minutes. The laughter and goofiness of it all was needed amongst the team and they had all left the ice in higher spirits than they had all year.

“What are you still doing here Milkovich?” Petrovich asked when he had reached where Mickey was standing. He was wearing his usual medium blue Wolverines track suit, whistle still around his neck from practice.

“Just thought I’d stay back a while, work on some stickhandling,” Mickey shrugged. 

His coach nodded and looked at Mickey’s set up briefly before glancing back at him. 

“How have you been doing Mickey?” he asked, searching his player’s face. “We haven’t been chatting as much as we normally do. I just wanted to check in and make sure everything was going okay.” 

Mickey shrugged again. He was technically right. Usually Petrovich made it his mission to contact Mickey every couple of days whether it was catching him after practice or via text. He had done that since the very start of Mickey’s time in Michigan, right around the time that Terry died. 

“Everything’s been good,” he lied skillfully, “it's just been a tough past month with school and practice and now this new tutoring thing, just haven’t had a lot of time for much else.”

Y’know, aside from the life-changing sex with my arch nemesis.

Petrovich nodded understandingly before looking at Mickey and smirking. 

“What, no special girl eating up your time?” he asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively in such a way that probably would have been weird as fuck if he did it to anyone else on the team. Mickey mentally patted himself on the back for his poker face when Petrovich asked the question. He was long used to having to pretend to be into women in front of his father and his friends. 

Mickey smirked back at his coach and shook his head, “Nah, don’t have time for any of that shit, coach. You know me,” he shrugged.

Mickey was well aware that when Petrovich’s wife left him ten years ago; he was out of commission for months getting over her. He remembered hearing Terry and him go on tirade after tirade about how ‘their women’ fucked up their lives. 

Petrovich in particular had never really recovered. To this day he always had regular check-ins to discourage his players from getting into serious relationships while on his team. Most of his teammates were so worried he would punish them on the ice that they kept their relationships casual or on the downlow. 

He was especially adamant that Mickey follow this rule -- most likely because of the potential his coach said he saw in him -- and had been since he was a teenager. It bordered on inappropriate at times, but considering Mickey’s non-existent dating life, it usually didn’t bother him that much. 

Ben was the only one that didn’t seem to give a fuck if coach punished him for being with Aria. He was a love-sick fool first, hockey player second.

Petrovich beamed at Mickey and clapped him on the back. 

“That's my Mickey. This is why you’re the best. You don’t let any bitch or anything get in your way, my boy. You may not be the brightest when it comes to your academics but you’re driven as fuck where it counts and you’re truly going places, kid, and I mean that,” he said smiling at Mickey, eyes gleaming. He reached forward and took Mickey’s head between his hands, and Mickey had no choice but to look him in the eyes as he said his next words intensely. “You know, I see a lot of myself in you when I was your age. But I know I’ve taught you better than how I was taught. Just don’t let anyone come in and take up all your time. You’re so close to the finish line,” he shook his head, “you’ll regret it if you do.” 

He held Mickey’s head a beat too long and with a grip that was a bit too tight for Mickey’s comfort. His heart began to beat fast and he prayed that Petrovich couldn’t feel his pulse through his temple. When he finally let go, Mickey nodded in understanding. He backed away nonchalantly, his stick finding a puck to fiddle with while trying to get the panic he felt in his chest to dissipate. 

“No girlfriends, no distractions, and there’s no way you won’t make it, kid,” Petrovich paused for a moment and shook his head, a small smile forming on his face. “You do what you did last year and you’re a first rounder for sure come draft day,” he winked at Mickey before starting to skate away towards the bench “Just keep up the hard work, Milkovich. Your father would be so proud.”

And with that he was gone. Mickey let out the breath that he had apparently been holding in.

He never knew what to make of these conversations with his coach. Mickey knew that because of their long history, he had a vested interest in making sure he succeeded. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he truly did just want the best for Mickey. But, whatever the motivation, Mickey always left feeling a little invaded and a little unsettled.

Mickey decided that it was time to call it a night. As he skated forward to collect the cones, his mind wandered to Gallagher again. He mentally rolled his eyes. Maybe it was Petrovich’s speech or the fact that Mickey had finally cleared his head with a session on the ice, but he suddenly found that he was more sure of his position where Gallagher was concerned.

Mickey loved hockey way too much to risk it for some momentary pleasure. The whole thing with Gallagher was not only a disaster waiting to happen, but worse, a distraction from hockey and from his future. 

Petrovich’s words from only moments ago entered his mind, “don’t let anyone come in and take up all your time… you’ll regret it if you do.” How his coach knew that those were the exact words he needed to hear to get him out of his own head, Mickey would never know. It did seem very Fairy Godmother of Petrovich to show up whenever he needed guidance. 

Mickey cringed and cursed Aria for making him watch Disney movies with her last night. He skated back to the bench and through the tunnel towards the locker room, casting away the image of his coach in a long blue robe and a magic wand. 

He was unclear about a lot of shit but he did know one thing for certain; he needed to make sure this thing with Gallagher never happened again.

________________________________

Mickey noticed his palms were clammy as he stood outside study room 15, begging his legs to take him across the threshold. His forehead was prickled with sweat as he tried to remind himself to be normal. 

This was Gallagher, after all. Normal, human man Gallagher. Annoying, pompous ass Gallagher. Gallagher with the stupid red hair and the long fingers and the rock hard co-

This was going to be a disaster.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket before opening the door, hoping that if he didn’t look directly into Gallagher’s eyes he could make it out of this tutoring session in one piece.

He kept his eyes firmly on his phone, opening and closing various apps as if he was dealing with the most important business in the world. 

“Milkovich,” he heard an amused voice greet him from across the room.

“Ey,” he returned meekly, still keeping his eyes glued to his screen as he sat down.

Eventually he put his phone down and chanced a glance up at Gallagher while pulling his laptop out of his bag. He was wearing an expertly designed poker face with just a hint of chaos around the eyes. He slowly extended the traitorous textbook across the table, clearly biting back an annoying smile, which Mickey grabbed immediately and shoved into his bag.

Mickey willed his beating heart to calm the fuck down. Gallagher wasn’t saying anything and the silence was killing him.

“So...” Mickey started, not knowing where he was going with the sentence. “Do I uh...gotta do that quiz from Monday that I didn’t end up doing?”

He caught Gallagher giving him a funny look for a split second, his head tilting slightly to the side. 

“That’s okay. I think pushing forward and staying up to date with the new topics is a better use of our time. We can circle back on weeks one and two when it comes time to study for midterms soon.” Ian’s voice was unbearably soft, no hint of teasing at all. 

Mickey’s eyes remained glued to his laptop screen while he waited for the instructions he wasn’t getting. He flicked his eyes upward. Gallagher had the most obnoxious smile plastered on his face.

“What?” Mickey asked, starting to get annoying.

“Nothing, Mickey. Nothing at all,” Ian said through smiling teeth. Cocky. Annoying. “Let’s have a look at the notes you made for Monday’s lecture,” Ian added as he made his way to Mickey’s side of the table, dropping into the seat next to him.

Mickey’s heart rate decided to burst through the ceiling at that point. It was impossible to focus with Gallagher sitting so close, the heat from his skin burning into Mickey’s side. Mickey cleared his throat to try and calm down, but ended up choking on his own spit.

“You okay there, Mick?” Ian laughed, amused as all shit.

“Fine,” he managed to cough out. 

Before he could even recognise the feeling, Gallagher’s knee was pressing against his under the table, as Ian read what was on Mickey’s laptop. Mickey moved his knee immediately, only for the redhead’s knee to find him again. Mickey’s face flushed at the game Gallagher was playing. 

Don’t let anyone come in and take up all your time… you’ll regret it if you do

Mickey jerked his knee away, clearing his throat while he altered the position of his laptop. 

“So? How are the notes?” 

Ian crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. Mickey heard him snort quietly. He turned to face him.

“What?” Mickey asked, irritated. 

“Nothing. I’ve just never seen you so determined to actively engage in our sessions before, Mickey,” Ian said, raising his left brow and poking his tongue into his cheek.

Mickey scoffed. 

“Yeah well you’re getting paid, right? Thought I should start getting my money’s worth.”

Ian nodded his head. He seemed to pick up that Mickey just wanted to focus on studying. He was serious, but still smiling. 

“Alright. Let’s get to work.”

And so went their session. They went over Mickey’s notes, and Ian asked him questions to make sure he understood the material. Mickey’s focus was pretty abysmal, but they got through a decent amount of work without tearing each other’s clothes off, which Mickey took as a win.

The sly smirks and “ accidental ” hand brushes were a dime a dozen, and they made Mickey feel ludicrously alive. They’d have to stop.

It hit 5pm -- thank god -- and Mickey went to pack up and run out before Gallagher could somehow play his Jedi mind trick war games and get him naked and ass up in the study room. He was just about to leave, thinking he’d survived, but Gallagher had other plans apparently. 

“So do you wanna come back to my room?” he asked.

Mickey closed his eyes, thanking his lucky stars that Gallagher was behind him and couldn’t see his face as he tried to centre himself.

Shit. No. The answer was no.

“Nah, I gotta um...study,” Mickey lied.

“Look at you, such a good student!” Ian exclaimed jestfully, his voice getting closer and closer.

Mickey spun around quickly to face him and bid him farewell quickly. 

“Well see ya tomorr-”

“Wait, Mickey,” Gallagher said, a small smile still settled on his lips, “I have a proposition for you.”

Oh no. Okay. Oh god. What?

“I think we should be fuck buddies.”

Mickey gawked at him. Gallagher was wearing the most open and neutral face ever, as if he hadn’t just said something so out of left field and earth shattering that it knocked Mickey for six. The smile slowly grew bigger across his face, as he took in Mickey’s shock.

“Look, I’ve been thinking since last night and I genuinely think this could be the perfect set up. Think about it. We clearly don’t get along, so there’s no risk of feelings getting involved. I’m working two jobs and have an intense school workload, so can’t really afford anything serious right now. And you’re probably too busy with your hockey stuff or whatever to have time for anything more.” Ian lowered his head, and took a calming breath out before he said, “And it’s obvious we’re like…ridiculously sexually compatible.”

Mickey felt his face flush at the compliment, before Ian continued. “And this way we both get off with little to no disturbance to our everyday life. I mean we’re already forced to see each other three times a week as is, so why not add some orgasms into the fold?”

Don’t let anyone come in and take up all your time… you’ll regret it if you do

This was exactly what he didn’t need -- Gallagher coming into his life like a bull in a china shop. He needed all his brainpower to pass his classes and win his hockey games, and he couldn’t be wasting precious brain cells on trying to navigate the complexity of whatever the fuck was going on inside him when it came to Ian Gallagher. Namely hatred, but also the most befuddling and disarming sexual energy he’d ever experienced.

He had to reject him.

“Damn. One fuck and you’re already proposing? Had you even been laid before yesterday?” Mickey asked. 

Gallagher rolled his eyes. 

“Come on, you gotta admit that fuck was incredible”.

“This is embarrassing, man. Two days ago we were screaming the most heinous shit at each other and now you just wanna start fucking? Like regularly? Did I miss something here or am I seriously just that good?” Mickey responded cheekily.

“Sure, you hate me, I hate you. Don’t see why that’s gotta get in the way.” Ian took a step toward him and probably didn’t miss Mickey’s adam's apple jump at his sudden closeness. “Kinda makes it hotter, don’t you think?”

Mickey felt Ian’s right palm land just above his left knee and slowly trail up his thigh -- feathersoft -- then his torso, then chest, until his hand landed and grasped softly around Mickey’s neck.

He once again had no idea why he wasn’t running or recoiling, his bodily functions failing again in the presence of his tutor.

“You seriously gonna look me in the eye and tell me it wasn’t amazing for you too? That you don’t wanna fuck me again?” Ian added confidently, staring directly into his eyes. Shit. One handjob exchange and one fuck and the motherfucker thought he was Christian Grey.

Mickey nodded, his palms becoming sweaty again as he darted his gaze to the ground and took a step backwards. 

“Look, it’s tempting Gallagher, I won’t lie. And sure, it was a good fuck. But you’re annoying as shit and hockey and school need to be my focus right now. So I can’t.” He was looking everywhere except at Gallagher’s eyes, playing with the strap of his backpack and shfiting on his feet. Eventually though, when the silence became unbearable, he had to look up.

For someone that just got rejected, Ian had the most coy smile on his face that felt completely out of place. Like he knew something that Mickey didn’t. Like he was three steps ahead of the curve, as he always seemed to be. Like he didn’t believe a thing coming out of Mickey’s mouth.

“Sure, Mick.” Ian finally said through his smile. “You got it.”

Ian said it with a note of finality, but somehow Mickey knew this wouldn’t be the end.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

Mickey woke up on the first of October, body jittering with nervous anticipation, a pang of anxiety settling in the center of his chest. It had been the longest September of Mickey’s life. It felt as if a full year had passed since the start of the semester and he was more than relieved for the month to finally be over. 

October was Mickey’s favourite month of the year. Not because of those disgusting ass Pumpkin Spiced Lattes or fucking Halloween -- Mickey’s life had been spooky enough growing up, thanks -- but because October indicated the official start of the hockey season. 

They had their season opener at home tomorrow night against the Michigan State Spartans, and Mickey couldn’t help his restlessness. The University of Michigan and Michigan State University had been long-standing rivals well before Mickey had joined the team.

When Mickey had played his first game against the Spartans, he was shocked by how many people turned up, and how raucous the crowd was. Apparently, inner state battles were what truly divided and subsequently ignited a nation.

At first, the sentiment had been lost a bit on Mickey, but the games were always intense and rough -- his favourite kind of game, he was South Side after all -- so who was he to deny tradition? But as time went on, and the two teams played each other more, Mickey began to see what all the fuss was about.

The Spartans’ team was filled with some of the dirtiest and most pretentious players in the entire league and it took Mickey almost no time to jump on the anti-Michigan State bandwagon. The saltiness between the two teams was only strengthened last season when the Spartans had beat them in the first round of the championships and then went on to win the whole tournament. Mickey shuddered at the memory. The other team was going to be unbearable this weekend; he could feel it.

Despite the opponent, the uneasiness tormenting Mickey was common before the first game of the season. It had been a while since the team had played together in a real game since their early and embarrassing exit last year. This was their chance to redeem themselves. 

Mickey, especially, was feeling the pressure, and even more so since his conversation with Petrovich last week. He had rid his mind of any distractions other than school and was focusing primarily on preparing for his first game. He’d been putting in his hours at the gym in the mornings and had convinced Ben and some of the other guys to stay back with him after practice for a couple of days this past week.

Mickey thought he was doing pretty well in terms of keeping himself busy. So much so that at the end of each day, he’d come home and pass out right away, his mind too tired to wander to where it shouldn’t. 

Mickey blindly reached for his phone on the nightstand to check the time. 6:45 am. He swore, sitting up in bed, pressing his shaky palms into his eyes. There was no way he was falling back to sleep. He got up and searched for his running gear, figuring it would be the only thing that could help get rid of the antsy feeling that had settled in his skin.

He got dressed in a pair of black joggers and a black t-shirt. He quickly looked out his window and saw that there were clouds coming in so he tossed on a gray hoodie overtop -- he had absolutely no time to get sick. He slipped on his running shoes and headed into the empty apartment, and out the door. 

Once outside he began his warm-up; a slow jog towards the track on campus. His mind began to wander as he went; from his upcoming midterms and his nerves surrounding those to the two games that he had to play this weekend.

He knew objectively that UMich had a strong team this year. They had made all the necessary changes they needed to, and had picked up quite a few new talented guys. But for whatever reason, that did little to nothing in calming his nerves. A quick glance at the Spartans’ lineup for tomorrow night told him that the team still held a number of the same players as last season, and although Mickey wasn’t intimidated by any of them, he knew that winning at least one of the games was imperative to set a precedent for the rest of the year. 

By the time his brain had finished walking around in circles about the games that weekend, it finally made its way over to the one topic that Mickey had forbidden it to think about. The one topic that was half the reason for all those extra workouts and practice regimens. 

Fucking Gallagher. 

Mickey should have known when he left Gallagher back in the library a week ago that he wasn’t going to accept rejection quietly. No. Because that would be too easy. Too humane.

The guy’s facial expression alone after Mickey had said no to becoming fuck buddies was enough to tell him that he wasn’t going to drop it.

He wasted no time at all, the shenanigans beginning the very next day at their tutoring session. It started off fine, granted it was a little awkward, but neither of them mentioned their sexcapade or the failed fuck buddy proposal. Silly Mickey for very naively thinking that Gallagher would actually take his words to heart and not go out of his way to make things as uncomfortable as possible.

It had started when Mickey began to feel his shoulders tense up, a result of not stretching properly after his workout that morning. He rolled them back slowly and stretched where he sat across from Gallagher, who immediately looked up at him with a look that was on the cusp of concern. 

He seemed to catch himself because he quickly smirked at Mickey before saying, “what’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Mickey had replied, going back to staring at his textbook. 

They were silent for a moment.

“Are you sure? You seem a little tense.”

“Just didn’t stretch this morning, it’s fine,” Mickey said curtly, doing whatever he could to end the conversation. 

“Hm,” Gallagher said, before adding casually, “You sound stressed. I know something that could help with that.”

Mickey’s eyes shot up to look at Gallagher who was wearing the look of an innocent man. But Mickey knew better. 

“Jesus Christ Gallagher, the fuck did I say?” he snapped. 

“Say about what?” Gallagher asked, narrowing his eyes in faux confusion. “You say a lot of things.”

This smug motherfucker. 

“You know,” Mickey started, not really knowing what he was going to say before he began sputtering, “about the whole -- you know. The thing. Between us? And how I said it wasn’t happening?” Mickey wanted to smack his head on the table in front of him. God. What was he even saying? And why did he keep getting as flustered as a fifteen-year-old virgin? 

“I just said I know something that could help you cope with your stress,” Gallagher shrugged. “I didn’t give specifics. Maybe I was gonna suggest a hot stone massage or Bikram yoga. S’not my fault that you regret rejecting me and now you’re bringing up ‘ the thing between us’ out of nowhere, and thus projecting your regret onto me and my innocent helpfulness.”

Gallagher looked completely serious as he spoke and Mickey for the life of him couldn’t understand how he managed to say that shit with a straight face. He also couldn’t understand what kind of self-respecting man used the word ‘thus’ in a real-life sentence.

“Gallagher, I swear to God…” Mickey had said, not being able to finish his sentence because of how unsettled he was regretfully becoming. 

“Yeah, you tended to do that a lot when we... y’know,” Gallagher said, his face morphing into chaos topped off with a flirty wink.

Mickey literally choked on air. He coughed continuously while Gallagher just stared at him with an amused expression on his face, eyebrows raised, his tongue darting out of his mouth for a split second to wet his lips. 

“You okay there Mickey?” he had asked, cocking his head to the left ever so slightly before asking, “you need a hand?”

That had pretty much been the nail on the head for Mickey. He began gathering up his things, refusing to make eye contact with the other man as he did. But he didn’t have to, to know that Gallagher was trying to stifle his laughter. Mickey had slung his backpack over his shoulder, flipped Gallagher off, and strode out of the study room even though there were technically still ten minutes left in their session. 

“Hey, you’re gonna need to make those ten minutes up with me! Don't worry, I have some ideas!” he heard Gallagher call out from behind him. 

Fuck him. Gallagher could kiss his ass. Not literally. Just metaphorically.

Fuck off. 

Mickey finally made it to the track and began his first lap around, cringing at the memory and hating himself for allowing it to slip back into his mind.

Apparently Mickey was his own worst enemy because he insisted upon getting his dick wet and making things way more complicated for himself. He should have just gone to tutoring, tried not to start arguments, dodged any come-ons, and then got out an hour later. 

But no. 

And in the process, he had somehow given Gallagher the upper hand. The flirting, the cockiness, how pleased he looked when he realized what he was doing was making Mickey speechless. It was driving Mickey up the wall. 

Mickey had always been smooth as fuck. He had game, for fucks sake. But ever since he let Gallagher touch his dick, it had been like Mickey was in some sort of trance and had been fighting to break out of it ever since. 

Mickey rounded the corner of the track on his fourth lap about 25 minutes later, still deep in thought. He tried to force his mind to think about something else, anything else. He settled on what he was going to make himself for breakfast when he got back to the apartment. He almost didn’t make it to the next second of his life though, because before he could consciously name a food item he might like, there was a person jogging next to him who Mickey was convinced appeared from thin air.

Not just any person, either. Fucking Gallagher .

“Hiya Mick!” he said with a voice so cheerful that it should be considered illegal at this time in the morning. 

“Jesus fucking Christ Gallagher!” Mickey half yelled, almost tripping over his feet as his right hand came up to cover his racing heart. That had scared the ever-living shit out of him. 

“What are you doing out here?” Gallagher asked nonchalantly as if they both weren’t currently jogging around a race track. 

Mickey looked up at him. The redhead was wearing a pair of black shorts and a gray tank top that were both doing a really irritating job at showing off his muscular limbs. 

“The fuck do you think?” Mickey asked, annoyed. He glanced over again to see Gallagher smiling brightly at him, before giving Mickey a once over and meeting his eyes with a naughty smirk. Did this man have any chill at all? 

Gallagher ignored his question.

“You look good,” he commented, the annoying smirk still very prominent on his face. 

Apparently not. 

“I’m all sweaty, you fucking weirdo,” Mickey huffed, rolling his eyes. 

Gallagher looked like he was going to fire back a cheeky reply for a moment, but seemingly decided against it. 

Mickey decided to pick up the pace, even though he was technically supposed to be starting his cool down, to try and lose Gallagher. He was an athlete, and Gallagher was just a tutor who had appeared here to annoy him to death. He widened his strides and felt Gallagher start to fall behind. Success.

Before he could enjoy his victory, he felt the looming presence of Gallagher return to his side. He flicked his eyes over to see the redhead striding along at his pace easily. It didn’t even look like the fucker was breaking a sweat. 

Mickey blamed Gallagher’s fucking giraffe legs for the embarrassing display and decided if he couldn’t lose him on the track then it was time to wrap up. He dropped back on his pace and slowed down to a speed walk, beginning his cool down.

“You finished with your run yet?” Gallagher asked, slowing down to match Mickey’s pace. 

“I dunno, Gallagher, considering I’m still fucking going I’m gonna take a wild stab and say no. Why?” Mickey answered, not really understanding why he continued to give Gallagher the time of day like this. 

The other man shrugged. 

“Was wondering if maybe you wanted to grab a coffee once you’re done? Before class? It’s on me. You can think of it as a good luck thing for your game tomorrow.”

Mickey stopped dead in his tracks. He had no idea where the fuck this was coming from. Ian had stopped too, and Mickey chanced a look at his eyes. He looked almost hopeful as he stared down at Mickey awaiting an answer. Mickey was absolutely not going to indulge in whatever game Gallagher was playing. 

“Sorry. Can’t,” Mickey replied simply. 

“You can’t?” Gallagher repeated, raising a brow. 

“You heard me,” Mickey shrugged. 

“You can’t let someone buy you coffee?” 

“No. I can’t let you buy me coffee Gallagher, because we aren’t friends. We aren’t fucking. We sure as hell aren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. And we hate each other, therefore it’s weird. So no. You cannot buy me coffee,” Mickey ranted. He didn’t understand why he was making such a big deal about a cup of coffee before he reminded himself that it would probably lead to Gallagher working his sex magic on him again.

Gallagher let out a laugh at Mickey’s words. 

“I didn’t say we were friends, Milkovich. I definitely didn't say we were dating. And trust me, I am well aware we aren’t fucking. Which is a tragedy, by the way.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and shook his head, unaware of what to do with himself in Ian’s presence. 

“Look, uh,” Mickey started, peeling away from Gallagher towards the exit. “I need to head home. Aria’s making breakfast and I’m already late,” he lied smoothly. 

He thought that was the end of it.

“Say hi to Aria for me, Mick!”

“I absolutely will not,” Mickey yelled back, not chancing another look at the redhead in his stupid running shorts. 

Mickey took off in the direction of his apartment, leaving a smirking Gallagher behind him.

________________________________

Mickey walked into the apartment to the scent of tomato relish and fresh bacon. He wiped the sweat from his brow, as he strode into the kitchen to see Aria over the stove.

“Morning honey! How was your run?” Aria asked.

“Shit,” Mickey responded, heading towards the fridge to get some water. “Fuckin’ Gallagher says hi by the way,” he admitted reluctantly.

Mickey didn’t miss the quick head snap Aria did from his side. 

“Did hell just freeze over? What did you just say to me?”

Mickey rolled his eyes as he leaned back against the sink, sipping on his bottle of water.

“You heard me. Ran into the fucker on my run. Almost positive he’s stalking me, so.” 

Aria was weirdly quiet at that. Mickey flicked his eyes over to see her gnawing at her bottom lip, like she was trying to find the words for something.

“What?” Mickey asked, his brows bunching in confusion.

“Hung out with him last night,” she said, shrugging. Mickey vaguely knew she was getting friendlier with Gallagher, but the admission still made his chest squeeze. “We talked about you a bit,” she added casually as if it was the most normal declaration in the world.

Alarm bells immediately started ringing in his ears. Aria was acting way too chill, so Mickey guessed Ian hadn’t spilled the beans about their literal fuck up , but he was concerned nonetheless. 

“Ex-fucking-cuse me? What the fuck did you talk about?”

“I dunno. He asked, and I quote, what your deal was , so I very casually went to bat for you. And once I told him about you, he kind of --”

“And what the fuck did you tell him about me?” Mickey interrupted in concern. The last thing he needed was Gallagher pitying him, or knowing shit he had no business knowing.

“No, nothing specific, Mick. Just that you’re not some privileged, entitled douchebag and that you worked your ass off to get here, and I told him he should get off your back. He likes me, you know. My opinion means something to him.” 

Mickey softened at Aria sticking it to Gallagher for him. He was lucky to have her. He used his eyes to encourage her to continue.

“Anyway, get this. He told me he had some really bad experiences with football players back at his old school and he admitted it’s made him a bit jaded about athletes in general. He said he felt like he let his own shit get in the way of starting things off on the right foot with you. I dunno it seemed like he felt bad,” she admitted.

“Yeah? Well good. He should.” Mickey responded, draining the last of his water. He was choosing to ignore the paralyzing confusion at the knowledge that Ian had asked Aria about him.

“Oh come on Mick you haven’t exactly been Mother Teresa. He told me he’s gonna try and make amends so can you just promise me you’ll try and meet him halfway?”

Mickey pondered on this for half a second before responding.

“Nah. But thanks for asking.”

Mickey flashed her a very forced smile as he put his empty bottle in the bin and made his way into the bathroom to get ready for his day. 

All jokes aside, hearing confirmation that Mickey had not been going crazy these past few weeks, and that Gallagher had indeed been too harsh on him to begin with, was incredibly validating.

Was he ready to admit to his own mistakes and faults on this wayward journey? No. Well, maybe. But if he was to be accused of any foul play it was only in retaliation to what Gallagher had been serving, so if anyone asked, he was still claiming innocence.

So Gallagher wanted to make amends. Mickey wondered how pure his intentions were, and whether this change of heart was really to do with sudden introspection and a desire for forgiveness or more to do with wanting to get Mickey in the sack again.

No matter the motivation, Mickey had no intentions of making it easy for him. He really had been a dick to him, and one cup of coffee wasn’t going to fix weeks of damage.

Three might. Mickey was a slut for coffee after all.

He guessed time would tell. He stripped off his clothes and jumped in the shower, keen to wash off the grime and sweat from both his run and his encounter with a certain redhead.

________________________________

The locker room was buzzing with its usual pre-game banter. Petrovich had just been by to announce tonight's lineup. Mickey was happy and not at all shocked to see that he’d be playing on the first line with Nelson and Ben. The three of them had been working together during practice and had managed to quickly develop undeniable chemistry. Mickey was itching to put it to work. 

“Alright boys gather ‘round,” Nelson yelled. Mickey looked up to see their fearless captain beckoning them toward the center of the room to form a huddle. 

Mickey looked across to Ben, who was already looking over at Mickey to gauge his reaction. Mickey rolled his eyes and Ben broke out into a smile. Nelson did this at the start of each game. He would make them circle up so he could give them a pump-up speech, before forcing them to scream out this dumbass cheer that Mickey refused to learn before they headed out onto the ice. Apparently, it had been a UMich Wolverine tradition since their founding days, a chant sent straight to their hockey ancestors for good luck. Mickey couldn’t stand this folklore, preferring to just go out and play, but whenever he brought his feelings up to Ben, his friend only laughed and called him a killjoy.

“Look I know that for a lot of us, this game feels like redemption,” Nelson started. He glanced around at some of the players who had been around last year before continuing. “But I want to suggest that we don’t look at it like that and we just go out there and play our game. Like if this was any other team and not our arch-rivals. Vendettas have no place in hockey. We need to accept what happened and move on, and not let it fester into a big ball of tension.” He held up his hands, tracing out a circle shape that apparently was meant to represent said tension.

“Well,” Adams started from across the room, “That is why I suggested group therapy last season actually, but no one seemed to want to take me up on that.” 

“I totally get where you’re coming from, Adams,” Nelson said seriously, “Believe me. But group therapy just seemed a little too drastic since we don’t really have issues as a group dynamic. But I love the suggestion. Feel free to put more in the suggestion box outside my locker,” he smiled reassuringly at Adams, who looked like he wanted to argue, but just nodded instead.

“Anyway, I was saying, we just need to go out there and have fun playing our ga-,” 

“Oh for fucks sake Nelson,” Douche Derek interrupted, “no one's buying your Submissive, Take the High Road approach to hockey. We’re gonna go out there and beat their asses because that's what they deserve and I’ll be damned if I let them win tonight in our own fucking building.”

Everyone went silent, glancing between the two men. Mickey hated to side with Douche Derek, but he was right. They couldn’t pretend nothing happened -- they needed to use their desire for redemption to their advantage. 

“Let's just go out there and do what we do,” Nelson finally said with defeat. 

They did their disgusting ass cheer, which actually seemed to sufficiently pump them up after Nelson’s uncharacteristically stilted speech, and headed toward the ice.

The organization was doing a welcome back procession where they announced everyone’s names while they were skating on. Mickey was behind Ben in the line, feeling a familiar adrenaline rush as it got closer to being his turn. 

“And joining us for his third year, your MVP last season, number fifteen, Mickey Milkovich.” 

The crowd exploded for him as he skated onto the ice and joined the rest of the team in doing laps. When the last name was called, Michigan State began filing in from their locker room, earning loud boos from the audience. 

Everyone made their way over to the benches except for each of the team’s starting lineups. Mickey, Ben, and Nelson took their places around the faceoff circle, Mickey skating to the dot in the middle. He looked up at who he was facing and almost groaned out loud when he saw who was approaching.

Brody Richards was a sophomore for the Spartans and was one of the biggest dipshits Mickey had ever encountered. He and his crew of Ovechkin wannabees were notorious for being insufferable opponents. Not because they were talented, but because they were annoying as shit and were constantly making dirty plays and miraculously getting away with it. 

“Milkovich,” Richards sneered. “You’re still around huh? Woulda thought someone like you would have been off your shitty team and off to the NHL by now. I’m sure not getting drafted deflated that big head of yours though, hey?” he laughed and looked around at his linemates who laughed as well. 

Mickey raised his eyebrows at him and smiled scornfully. 

“Well I could say the same of you, Dick. Remind me again, how much did your daddy pay Michigan State to get you on the team after you choked during tryouts?” he said easily. Richards’ face fell and Ben snickered from beside Mickey.  

Richards looked around and saw the referee was approaching them, he looked back at Mickey with a malicious grin. 

“At least my dad isn’t some lowlife, deadbeat, piece of shit druggie that’s been arrested more times than I can count, Milkovich,” Richards sneered. 

Mickey froze. Anger rose inside of him and threatened to bubble over. He could feel his face getting red, his nostrils flaring.

Before Mickey could retort, the referee was there, asking them if they were ready for the puck drop, seemingly ignoring the tension between the men. Mickey glanced over at Ben quickly, who shook his head once as if to telepathically tell Mickey to ignore Richards’ words. 

They readied themselves for the puck to drop and when it did, Mickey won it cleanly, hitting the puck in Nelson’s direction and beginning the first game of the season. 

Mickey felt his nerves fade, muscle memory taking over his body as he skated after the puck. They had a good first shift, clocking three shots and spending most of it in the Spartans’ zone before heading to the bench for a change. 

“Good shift boys,” Murphy commented from behind them, patting Mickey on the back. Mickey glanced over at Petrovich who nodded in agreement and looked on toward the action. 

The first half of the first period consisted of the two teams going back and forth between their two zones. There were a couple of good scoring chances but no one was able to cash in.

The second half was when things got interesting. At one point, there was a scrum at the front of the Wolverines net. Richards began poking for the puck after Thompson, the Wolverine goalie, had covered it up. Ben came at Richards with a hard shove in an attempt to stop his harassment of their goalie. Richards tried to come back at Ben before the referees blew the whistle and interfered with what probably would have been an interesting fight, considering Ben wasn’t usually a violent guy on the ice. 

“You’re a fucking pussy anyway, Owens,” Richards jeered as he skated past Mickey and Ben on his way to the bench.

“Back the fuck off, bitch,” Mickey replied, knowing Ben would just ignore him. “You don’t want my ass coming after you. You won’t play again.”

“You’re all talk Milkovich, everyone knows that,” Richards said calmly. “That’s why no one was willing to take a chance on you last year.” 

Mickey was about to charge him but Ben put his arm out to catch him, grabbing him by the jersey and leading him over to the Wolverine bench, leaving Richards snickering. 

“The fuck Owens?” Mickey hissed, “the guy’s asking for it. I’d be doing everyone a favour.” 

“You wouldn’t be doing our team a favour if you got suspended for four games,” Ben hissed back. “Just calm the fuck down.”

Mickey hated how much of a captain Ben was being right now. He needed someone to rile him up, not talk him down. 

Apparently Ben’s preaching seemed to manifest some luck for them, because the next shift the first line was on, Mickey broke away from the play in their zone with the puck in toe. It was a two on one with Nelson on his left and a Spartans defenceman in front of them as they got closer to the opposing team’s net. Mickey passed to Nelson, who passed back to Mickey, who faked a shot, tricking both the defenceman and the goalie. He slid the puck across to Nelson who had a wide-open net to work with, and he scored. 

The building erupted in cheers as the fans reacted to the goal and the players on the ice joined for a quick celebratory huddle before skating back to the bench. Their teammates congratulated them with helmet taps and Mickey looked up at the jumbotron to take a look at the goal. 

The first period came to an end a couple of minutes later and the two teams returned to their locker rooms for intermission. Petrovich briefly came in and told them they were playing the right way but they needed to be generating more chances and focusing on putting their shots on target. 

The second period had the Spartans score one early to tie the game. One look at Petrovich’s face was all anyone needed to see to get their asses in gear. The Wolverines scored two more in the second, Jenkins getting one and Priyanka scoring his first as a college athlete. Mickey skated by the referee to collect the puck that he scored with. He handed it to one of the trainers so that they could write on it and give it to Priyanka later. It was something that Nelson had done for him when he scored his first goal, and it was one of his most treasured possessions.

The second period passed with no physical altercations between the two teams. Richards hadn’t been as obnoxious since the Wolverines had answered back with their two goals. 

The third period started with Mickey taking the faceoff and winning. Ben got the puck from him and crossed into the Spartans zone with it. He skated forward only for Richards to come up from behind him and get his stick in between his legs, making Ben fall onto the ice. The whole arena erupted in shouts and the referee blew his whistle to signify a penalty. Richards argued all the way to the penalty box but left his team down a player for the next two minutes. 

Mickey stayed on the ice and took the faceoff in the Spartans zone. He won it and got the puck to Jenkins, who was a new addition to the powerplay unit. Jenkins passed to Derek and Mickey drove to the net to get into position for a pass. Derek passed back to Jenkins who looked ahead, saw where Mickey was positioned, and passed to him. Mickey received the pass and charged the rest of the way towards the net, using the blade of his stick to tip the puck up and over the goalie's pads.

4-1 for the Wolverines.

The building went wild and Mickey’s teammates congratulated him on his first goal of the season. He passed by Richards coming out of the penalty box and gave him a cocky look, raising his eyebrows at him and flashing him a smile before carrying on to the bench. Mickey wasn’t one to brag, but when it came to Richards, he definitely gave himself permission to be smug. 

The minutes ticked down in the third period and it looked like the Wolverines had won their first game. The fans were sure acting like it. At the fifteen-minute mark, the Spartans scored again making it 4-2. When there were two minutes left, the Spartans seemed to be coming harder at the Wolverines in a last-ditch attempt to change the outcome. 

The second line with Jenkins was currently on the ice against Richards’ line. Jenkins had the puck and passed it around the boards to one of his linemates. 

All of a sudden, Richards came out of nowhere, shouldering Jenkins, who had his back to him, into the boards before skating away. Jenkins fell to the ice. Everyone on the Wolverines bench stood up and when Jenkins didn’t, the whistle blew to stop the play. 

Mickey was up and over the boards before the referee had a chance to finish blowing his whistle. He charged over to Richards, getting to him before any of his teammates who were already on the ice could. He shoved him hard and waited for him to regain his balance. Hoping, praying, that he would retaliate with a harder attack so that he could deck the guy like he’d wanted to all night.

Richards took the bait and dropped his gloves, attempting to come at Mickey with a right hook which Mickey dodged. He got his left hand out of his glove and wound it up, connecting his knuckles with Richards’ jaw. Richards stumbled backward but before he could retaliate the referees came between them. 

“You son of a bitch,” Richards sputtered at him, trying to break out of the referee's grip. 

“S’what you get you piece of shit! The fuck are you hitting guys from behind for, you fucking coward,” Mickey yelled back as he was led to the penalty box by the referee. 

Mickey looked over his shoulder and saw a bunch of other tussles between the teams. Apparently, the hit had ignited a whole ass brawl. He looked over to where Jenkins had been hit and saw that he had gotten up and was being led to the locker room by Nelson and the team's medic. Jenkins looked over in Mickey’s direction and gave him a quick nod to let him know he was okay.

Mickey sat in the penalty box and saw that Richards was being led off the ice, seemingly kicked out for the remaining minute and a half.  The rush that Mickey felt at that moment was like no other. He missed this. He missed feeling this alive. He smirked to himself as he took off his helmet and ran his hands through his sweaty hair with his gloveless hand.

He waited to see who else would join him in the box. Douche Derek no doubt, considering his fight had been going on for well over a minute. The crowd was going crazy as the brawl continued, the referees and linesmen struggling to break everyone up. 

A couple of minutes later, and after Mickey had gained a couple of friends in the tiny penalty box, the game kept on and the remaining seconds ticked down. The final horn sounded and they all piled out of the box like it was a clown car. Ben skated over to Mickey to hand him his missing glove.

“Nice shot,” he said, tapping Mickey with his stick, “you’re lucky you didn't draw blood.” 

“He’s lucky,” Mickey corrected him, tapping Ben’s helmet, “bitch had it coming.” 

Ben laughed and shoved him as they joined the line of their teammates who were congratulating Thompson on his win. 

As Mickey skated off the ice with the rest of the team, a familiar warmth spread through his chest. He caught Petrovich’s eye as he passed him outside the locker room. His coach winked at him and gave him a small smile. Mickey smirked back and entered the dressing room to celebrate the win with his team. 

________________________________

“Explain the function of the amygdala,” Ian said, reading through a list of questions on Mickey’s laptop. 

They were in their Monday afternoon tutoring session after one of the most draining weekends of Mickey's life, and Ian was going through some of the concepts from their classes last week. Mickey’s head rested on the table in front of him, as he tried to will the answer to the front of his brain. 

He took a deep breath. He knew this.

“It’s the uh….the part of the brain that processes fear?” he answered, even though he posed it more as a question.

Ian suppressed a chuckle, and nodded.

“I mean, basically. Man, you really do have a miraculous way of turning very complex concepts into just the footnotes.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a man of many talents, Gallagher,” Mickey returned, lifting his head from the desk before cringing his eyes closed at the implication. Gallagher was going to have a field day.

Ian’s eyes glinted with mayhem, as expected. 

“Oh, I’m well aware.” His eyebrows bounced. Goddamn it.

This is exactly what he didn’t need. More of Gallagher’s incessant flirting scrambled his brain and made it impossible to focus. He was already in a bad mood after the rest of his weekend.

They had lost the second game of their opening weekend against the Spartans in a nail-biting shootout. Seven rounds of back-to-back scoring and Adams had missed the last one, handing the other team the win. It wasn’t even technically a loss. Shootouts were bullshit. The insinuation that the better team could be decided from a couple of breakaways was preposterous to nearly everyone who had to play in them -- unless you won of course.

Mickey found himself wondering if Gallagher had watched either game and seen him in action. He wasn’t going to ask, because he wasn’t a weird pussy bitch, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Ian was curious enough to check out his game. Maybe if he saw how good he actually was he’d concede the point that Mickey didn’t deserve to be here, confirming Aria’s true albeit semi-biased admission. He had no idea why he seemed to care so much what Gallagher thought of him, so he quickly pushed the thought away.

“So how’d the game go this weekend?” Gallagher asked as if he had just been hanging out in the depths of Mickey’s mind. 

“Games plural, Gallagher,” Mickey corrected. 

Ian rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Games plural. You win?”

Mickey put on a mock surprise face and clutched his chest.

“You mean you didn’t watch? I’m hurt, Gallagher.” 

Mickey caught his tongue. Was he -- actively flirting? With Gallagher? Was he actually indulging this idiot? More so than that, what surprised him most of all, was how natural it came; how fun and good it felt.

He clearly needed help.

“Had the closing shift. Would’ve loved to have come, though,” Ian’s eyes narrowed, and his voice took on a low timbre which resembled that of a bad 80s porn star, “to see you running around the ice, all sweaty.”

Ian leaned forward. Mickey’s cheeks prickled and flushed.

“Well, I'm not sure what you were planning on looking at, seeing as I was in full protective gear including a helmet,” he said, trying to cool Gallagher down.

“Mm, chasing that ball around,” Ian licked his lips.

Mickey actually laughed at that. 

“Have you ever seen a game of hockey in your life?”

“Me and sports as a concept don’t really get along, so no. But it’s the thought that counts right?”

Ian beamed at him and Mickey couldn’t help but smirk back in disbelief.

“Won the first game, but lost the second in a piece of shit shootout.”

Ian lowered the lid of the laptop sitting in front of him and leaned back in his chair crossing his arms. It seemed he’d completely deserted the idea of tutoring for the time being. 

“I saw that uh...that fight you got into. Where you punched that guy.” His voice was coy like he was holding back from saying something. Mickey for the life of him couldn’t figure out what.

“Why the official UMich Wolverines Instagram page is posting videos of their players getting into brawls is fucking beyond me, but….” Ian continued. 

Mickey’s eyebrows spiked in amusement. 

“And why were you on the UMich Wolverines Instagram page?”

Ian’s forehead softened immediately as his gaze flicked to the ground, clearly embarrassed but trying his best to hide the fact.

“Research.”

“Research, huh?” Mickey returned confidently, very pleased that he finally seemed to have one up on Gallagher. So he had lurked on the hockey Instagram page. For once it wasn’t him that was turning red and shifting his eyes around and being rendered speechless. Score.

Ian returned his gaze. 

“Yes. Research. Research to see if all this fucking fuss the school makes about their beloved Wolverines was warranted. And instead, I see them posting videos of actual fights? Like aren’t they supposed to be ashamed of that or something? Discouraging violence?”

Mickey shook his head. 

“Nah people eat that shit up. The fights are why a lot of people watch hockey. You know, drama and shit,” he shrugged. 

“So you did that on purpose?” Ian asked genuinely, looking scandalized at the concept.

“Fuck no,” Mickey scoffed. “One of those dickheads took a cheap shot on Jenkins. Had to defend him. He's my teammate.” Mickey paused. “Also one of the best motherfuckers I know.” 

Ian nodded and went quiet, his eyes darting down before focusing back up on Mickey. 

“Kinda hot, Mick.”

Mickey went full dear in the headlights at Gallagher, blushing slightly at the declaration. 

“Anti-sport, virtuous, nerd finds hockey brawls hot? The hypocrisy is astounding. I’m disappointed in you, Gallagher.”

“I mean if you want I can go on a rant about how violence in sports encourages the God Complex, reinforcing the idea that sportsmen can get away with whatever they want, thus encouraging and reinforcing high levels of domestic violence and sexual assault in the personal lives of athletes,” Ian said, matter of factly.

“There he is,” Mickey groaned. 

“I mean that can all be true at the same time as you defending your teammate in a brawl being fucking hot. So I’m a hypocrite,” Gallagher threw his hands up in fake surrender, “fucking sue me. And hey --” He leaned forward. Smirked. “-- you can brawl with me anytime. I can even insult Jenkins if it’ll hurry it along.”

Mickey’s cheeks, which had been a nice light pink up until this point, decided to declare war on his face and turn beet red at the offer. He bit his inner cheek, willing the smile that threatened to appear away. They shared a look, dripping with silent tension, as Mickey fought the urge to lunge over the desk and kiss his stupid fucking face.

Mickey cleared his throat and darted his eyes away from Ian’s green ones, checking the time on his phone and seeing the hour was nearly up. He felt his leg bouncing. Nervous. 

The flirting was truly getting to be too much. Mickey had rejected him, had told him he couldn’t do this, and yet Gallagher continued to push and prod and weasel his way into the nooks and crannies of Mickey’s defensive walls like it was what he was born to do.

Mickey was a young, red-blooded, gay, American man. He wanted to fuck Gallagher again. He’d had a taste of Nirvana and was now trying to tell himself he didn’t need it. It was like letting someone taste pasta for the first time and then telling them they couldn’t eat it again, but then everywhere they fucking went was a hot steaming bowl of pasta in front of them flirting with them with their stupid smirk and their stupid arms and their stupid face. He could theoretically only fool himself that he didn’t want the bowl of pasta for so long. 

This unbearable flirtiness was only complicating and threatening to further fuck up what was meant to be an uncomplicated, educational tutorship. And if this was Ian making amends, he was doing a shitty job of it, considering he was flat out ignoring Mickey’s rejection and instead being an annoying, unignorable flirt. Mickey needed some clarity. He’d heard it from Aria’s mouth but now he wanted to hear it from the horse’s.

“Y’know, I’m confused about something,” Mickey began, his voice unbearably soft. He internally scolded himself for breaking their banter with this.

Ian’s brows bunched up in confusion. 

“About what?”

“About you. I mean one second you’re yelling at me about how I don’t deserve to be here, and how I’m cocky and arrogant and the next you’re shoving your dick in my ass, and now you’re like…” Mickey trailed off. Flirting with him? Searching hockey on Instagram? Making his insides do flips? “I dunno. Being all nice and weird. Just wanna know what your deal is.”

Mickey’s skin tingled as Ian raised his brows and sat back in his chair. He seemed taken aback by the question, his eyes darting back and forth as he clearly tried to formulate an answer.

“I mean, it’s pretty simple to me. I just genuinely think we’d make great fuck buddies. And I get why you’d be wary, considering how assholey I was to you to begin with but,” Ian put a hand over his heart. “Scouts honour. I come bearing only peace and dick and maybe an apology if I get one back from you. ‘Cause I’ll happily admit I was a dick to you as long as you admit you were a massive douche to me.” The wicked smile that automatically raised Mickey’s heart rate decided to make another appearance.

Mickey searched Ian’s face for any hint of ridicule but was only faced with an honest albeit cheeky vulnerability that made his insides twist.

“I swear, one fuck and you’ve become like a sedated Gandhi. It’s embarrassing. You should be embarrassed,” Mickey retorted.

Ian rolled his eyes for the millionth time that day. “Yeah, yeah, whatever hockey man. All offers stand. For dick and peace. You just say the word, Milkovich.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Mickey knew he couldn’t give into Gallagher. Petrovich was right -- starting up something, even if it was just a casual fuck buddies scenario, would only serve to distract him from the only thing in his life that had ever truly mattered. He wasn’t up for taking that risk.

But if distraction was what he was trying to avoid, just being in Gallagher’s presence was already fucking with that plan. 

And sure, his guards were up, but he wasn’t sure how long they’d stay up. Because despite Petrovich’s warning, and despite Ian’s assurance, Mickey wasn’t even remotely confident in his abilities when it came to saying no to Ian Gallagher.

Chapter Text

“Hey! I’ll race you home!” Ben said, looking at Mickey over his shoulder, his eyes wide like a mischievous child on Christmas morning. 

They were leaving the rink after a seemingly endless practice. Despite their double wins against Arizona State the previous weekend, Petrovich still had them skating cardio drills up and down the ice to ‘work on their agility’. Apparently, their speed was not up to par. Ben theorized that Petrovich just needed to get laid.

After about two hours, he took mercy on them, telling them to hit the showers and informing them that the bus would be leaving for the airport at 9 am tomorrow for their games in Ohio that weekend. They all skated like zombies to the bench, and through the tunnel to the showers. 

Mickey looked at Ben, waiting for the punchline of the joke. It didn’t come.

“You’ll race me ho- what are you twelve years old?” Mickey asked in disbelief as he followed his friend to the staircase. He barely had the energy to walk up the stairs to the front door of the arena and this fool wanted to race?

Ben shrugged nonchalantly. 

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed,” he said, pushing open the door. 

A cool breeze greeted them as they exited the rink. Mickey shivered. He fucking hated this weather. He felt the icy cold air all the way down to the tips of his toes. It probably didn’t help that he had just taken a cold shower and was wearing a hoodie with no jacket in the middle of October. He could almost hear Aria scolding him.

“You ready for midterms?” Ben asked as they made their way towards the apartment. 

“I’m never going to be ready,” Mickey sighed, putting his hands in the pockets of his joggers in an attempt to warm them up. 

Despite the help he’d been getting from Gallagher, he wasn’t feeling optimistic. It was one thing to have Gallagher sitting there with him, working through the concepts carefully, but it was another to sit in a high-stress environment with a digital clock ticking down the minutes until his inevitable failure. He was a lost cause when it came to college and that much had been decided for him long before he started at UMich. He was fine with it. It was a personality trait at this point; something coursing through his veins or a part of his DNA. He just wasn’t built for this shit. Where he came from, kids either got scholarships and used it as a one-way ticket out of the South Side, or they were fucked for life. There was no in-between. It was just Mickey’s reality, and that was it. 

Gallagher wasn’t having it though. He insisted that Mickey needed to change his internal monologue to affirm his positive attributes. He was always saying fruity shit like that. He said that Mickey’s thinking pattern was the problem, rather than his lack of ability. He didn’t have the heart to tell Gallagher that it had fuck all to do with a thinking pattern, and all to do with the fact that learning biochemistry was the equivalent of licking lead paint. 

“How can that be?” Ben asked. “You’re either at the rink or you’re at the library studying with Ian.” Mickey could already see a small smile bubbling on his face out of the corner of his eye. 

He needed to play this cool. It had been almost a month since their first hook up and Mickey had still miraculously managed to keep it a secret from Ben. He was determined to keep it that way.

“Yeah, well. The shit’s boring, what can I say?” he said quickly, racking his brain for a subject he could pivot to.

“Hm,” Ben said thoughtfully, before asking what Mickey could only imagine was the question he’d been trying to get at originally, “fuck him yet?” 

Mickey groaned and looked over at his friend. He knew he didn’t have to lie about his and Gallagher’s situation. He just really didn’t want to hear all the relentlessly chipper ‘I told you so’s,’ -- especially considering they had only fucked once, weeks ago, and Mickey was doing pretty well at preventing it from happening again, despite Gallagher’s many attempts. Plus he really wanted to keep his $20. And he’d be damned if he spent the rest of the year doing Ben’s fucking dishes.

“No, Owens,” Mickey said as calmly and convincingly as he could. “I already told you that shit wasn’t going to happen. I don’t really take interest in fucking people I dislike.” 

Oh, if only that were true. 

“Hm,” Ben said again, before stopping dead in his tracks.

Mickey stopped too on instinct, thinking Ben had dropped something. But when he looked up at his best friend, all he saw was an annoying grin. 

“Look me in the eyes. I wanna see if you’re telling the truth,” Ben said, his eyes widening as if trying to improve his eyesight. 

“Oh for God's sake Ben,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes. “You’re insane.” 

“C’mon just look at me for a second. What’s the big deal? I just want to see if you’re lying.” 

“What the fuck is this? The Moment of Truth? You can’t even fucking tell like that!” Mickey protested. “I’m a good liar!” 

“Maybe. But you can’t lie to me. I can always tell. We have telepathy,” Ben said, matter of factly. 

“Okay, Adams,” Mickey responded dismissively. 

The truth was, Ben was right. Ben always seemed to know when he was being dishonest and it was annoying as shit. 

“If you haven’t fucked him, then what’s the big deal?” Ben asked cheekily, raising his eyebrows. 

Mickey let out a long sigh. He stepped forward until he was inches away from Ben’s face and mirrored his wide eyes, deploying his most steely game face to Ben’s offense. 

Ben looked at Mickey’s blue eyes with his brown ones. They flickered back and forth for what felt like hours before he backed up and stared at them from further away, and for a moment, Mickey thought Ben had actually seen some sort of tell. 

“Hm,” Ben said, squinting slightly and leaning in again quickly and then back as if trying to make sure that his initial read was accurate. “Are you under the influence? Dunno why I can’t get a read on this one. Have you hypnotized me?”

“No, dickhead,” Mickey said, silently sending good wishes to Petrovich, who was probably the reason that Ben’s well-proven telepathy was malfunctioning today. All that fucking cardio had clearly crossed his wires. Thank fuck. He really didn’t feel like explaining the whole Gallagher thing to him today. Or any day really. “Can we go now, please? It’s fucking freezing.”    

They began to walk again in silence for a couple of moments, and Mickey thought that was the end. 

“Honestly, I didn’t think that you’d last this long,” Ben admitted, scratching his head before shaking it in disbelief. “I mean, the sexual tension at that Starbucks last month alone was off the charts. I’ve never seen anything like it. I can’t imagine what it's like when you’re behind closed doors with no one else around.” 

“What sexual tension?” Mickey asked in bewilderment, “there was no sexual tension!” 

“No sexual tension?” Ben repeated through a laugh. “Mickey, Aria’s parents back in Australia could probably feel the tension between you two. You could scoop it out of the air and serve it as ice cream for fucks sake. No sexual tension. Pfft.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying right now,” Mickey said, trying to sound as assertive as he could, but failing miserably. 

This was the longest walk home Mickey had ever experienced. He should have said yes to the stupid race. 

“Okay man,” Ben replied, holding his hands up in surrender. “Whatever you say. I’m just communicating what I observed.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t need to tell you where you can shove your communication and your observations,” Mickey snapped back. 

Ben snorted and put his arm around Mickey’s neck. 

“I just want you to be happy Mick,” he said playfully, messing up Mickey’s damp, straight-out-of-the-shower hair. The cold was doing nothing to help it. 

Mickey scoffed at that. 

“I’d be much happier if we weren’t talking about fucking Gallagher right now, Benjamin. Did all my tutoring hours for the week already so I don’t have to see the guy for the next five days. It’s gonna be fucking bliss,” he said as they approached their apartment building and made their way inside towards the warmth. 

When Gallagher suggested this arrangement so that Mickey could focus on the upcoming road trip, he immediately jumped at the offer. Not having to worry about Gallagher’s cocky smirk, or his puppy dog eyes, or any of his cheesy pickup lines over his five-day Gallagher-less long weekend was music to his ears. He had made Mickey swear that he’d study on the plane ride to Ohio, which Mickey reluctantly agreed to, figuring it was the lesser of two evils. 

They climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor, talking about the road trip and how much packing they each had to do before tomorrow. Mickey knew he’d be doing it all tomorrow morning because nothing was stopping him from sitting in front of the TV all night to unwind after his big day. He searched for his key in his backpack, because, surprise, Ben had forgotten his, and opened the door for them. 

They walked through the door and Mickey immediately did a double-take at the scene in front of him. 

Sitting in front of his TV, in his apartment, on his couch, next to his friend Aria was none other than Ian fucking Gallagher. In a stupid green t-shirt that made his eyes pop and his biceps look huge. The gaul.

“Hiya Mick!” Gallagher said happily, turning to face him, and Mickey could see his eyes sparkling chaotically from all the way across the room. 

What the fuck. 

“Hiya Mick!” Aria parroted, getting up off the couch and making her way towards Ben to greet him properly. 

“What the fuck is this?” Mickey hissed at her as she passed by. 

She scrunched her forehead at Mickey, confused by his question, before continuing on her way to land a bear hug on Ben.

Mickey turned to Ben and quirked a brow at him as if to ask if he knew about this. 

“Hey don’t look at me,” he said defensively, “I didn’t know shit.” 

Mickey turned back to Ian who was still looking at him as if waiting for some kind of acknowledgment. Mickey watched as his eyes wandered their way down his body crudely. When Gallagher finished his very public mental undressing, he looked back up to meet Mickey’s gaze again, his mouth curling into a small smile. 

Mickey was suddenly very warm, the chill from outside was well and truly thawed away. His eyes darted away instinctively, before scanning the rest of the room for the first time since he walked in. He nearly had to take a seat. 

They were eating cereal. 

Mickey’s cereal. 

The cereal that he looked forward to and treated himself with every weekend morning after a long week of training and meal prep. The cereal that he, himself bought with his own damned money as per his three-year long-standing tradition. The cereal that was basically the reason he got out of bed each morning because he knew that with every passing day he was one step closer to getting to eat his beloved Froot Loops. The cereal that was unequivocally his. And here comes Gallagher with his fucking hair and his green shirt and his stupid, big hands just chowing down in his apartment with no decorum whatsoever.

Mickey’s eyes were fixed on the discarded bowls on the coffee table and the Froot Loops box that was tilted over next to them. He saw red as he stomped over to the living room, picked up the box, and shook it. 

Empty. 

Mickey nearly had an embolism. 

He closed his eyes and counted to five. There was no way this was happening. He turned to face Ben and Aria, who had both stopped their meet and greet by the door to stare at Mickey. Their eyes were curious, flicking from Mickey’s hard stare to the box in his hands before coming to the realization at the same time. 

“Oh you’ve really done it now,” Ben whispered to Aria, who looked like a kid who just got caught feeding the family dog table scraps. 

“Mick…” she started, taking a step closer to him, her hands up as if to calm him down. 

“Don’t you come any closer, traitor!” Mickey said harshly, sticking a hand out to stop her. 

Aria stopped in her tracks and looked back at Ben as if he would have the answers as to what she should do next. Ben was useless. He only shrugged. 

“First, you have him showing up unannounced to my apartment. I let it slide. I thought, it’s fine. Aria is my friend. She wouldn’t deliberately try to make my life a million times harder than it already is. Not my friend Aria,” Mickey started, trying to keep his voice level. He knew his ears were red, which was annoying, but he was powerless to stop the heat rising in his body.

“Then, you gave him my number. You just handed it over as if it meant nothing to you at all. As if our friendship was something you could just give away on a silver platter. But I didn’t even mention it to you did I? No. I didn’t. I let it go, because that's the type of guy I am,” he continued. 

“Oh for God’s sake Mick, I-”

“But this?” Mickey said, holding up the empty cereal box in his hand to silence Aria, “you’ve gone too far this time,” he tipped over the box to emphasize the fact that it was indeed empty, and when nothing came out he threw it on the floor in front of him for dramatic effect.

His weeks of pent-up both sexual and general frustration was bursting out over an empty box of cereal and he simply had to ride it out at this point.

“You ate my cereal,” he said, taking a step closer to Aria, who looked the most unimpressed he had ever seen her, despite the soap opera unfolding in front of her eyes. “And you ate it with him. You’ve literally committed treason against our friendship. Treason, Aria! Which is really fucking hard to do I’ll have you know. Especially considering how easygoing of a person I am!” Mickey stopped to take a breath and, for whatever reason, likely because he and Aria had watched Mulan last night and he was feeling a very distinct connection with the small but mighty Mushu, added on quite honestly the dumbest thing he’d ever uttered to date, “dishonour on you and your motherfucking cows.” 

Aria’s eyes narrowed, she looked at him for a couple of seconds before her lip started to quiver and she burst out laughing. 

“Not you quoting Mushu at me, I can not with you right now,” she yelped. “Oh my God Mickey, you’re so weird.” She continued to laugh, shaking her head and making her way over to Mickey to give him a small shove, before walking past him completely to sit on the couch next to Gallagher again. 

Mickey turned to look at her and process her audacity before his eyes landed on Gallagher, who looked like he was a light breeze away from bursting into laughter too. Mickey gave him the dirtiest look he could muster, and that seemed to neutralize him quickly. He settled on a smirk, covering his mouth with the back of his fist. 

“I'm not being fucking weird! This is a serious situation!” Mickey spat. “I’m being serious!” 

That only made Aria laugh harder. 

“Mickey,” she howled, “you’re 130 pounds and five foot nothing. You’ve just tried to tell me that I was committing treason but backed it up with a Disney quote and I’m supposed to be intimidated by you over some fucking cereal? Please!” 

Mickey was baffled into silence. He couldn’t believe the abuse he was receiving in his own home. 

“It’s my fucking cereal!” he managed to push out after a couple long moments of quiet.

“Jesus fuck Mickey,” Aria said, only half over her laugh attack. She turned to Mickey and matched his glare. Gallagher, who was in the middle of them, melted all the way back into the couch and just looked between both of them, clearly unsure of what to do with himself.

“I will go out and buy you more Froot Loops okay? In fact,” Aria finally said, getting up off the couch again and gesturing towards Gallagher to get up too. “Ian and I will go together right now and buy you another box. Right, Ian?”

“Uh, yeah sure,” Gallagher said, standing up. 

“See Mick?” Aria said as she passed him again. “Everything is fine! You will have a brand new box of cereal in less than fifteen minutes!”

“I think I deserve two!” Mickey remarked over his shoulder, “you know, for my trouble.” 

“Jesus fuck you need to get laid,” Aria muttered from somewhere behind him. “Let me just get changed Ian, I’ll be right out,” she added. 

Ben, who had been hiding in the kitchen until this point, reemerged and followed Aria into his bedroom, giving Mickey an amused look before shutting the door. 

One look at Gallagher’s face was all Mickey needed to see to know that he had only registered the first part of Aria’s sentence. His eyes dropped to Mickey’s lips, tongue poking out of his mouth for a moment before he looked back up again. 

“You know,” he started, voice smooth as silk, taking a step closer to Mickey so they were only a couple of feet apart. “You’re really hot when you’re mad.” 

“Gallagher, don’t fucking start with me,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “I’m not in the mood for any of your dumb comments or your overall dumbassery today.” 

“What are you in the mood for then, hm?” Gallagher asked, his eyes searching Mickey’s face. 

“Can you knock it off?” Mickey hissed at him. 

Gallagher’s brows bunched up, almost confused. 

“You want me to stop?” he asked, his voice immediately losing the sex appeal and returning to normal.

Mickey opened his mouth and closed it again, his mental to verbal coordination apparently failing him. The response he was looking for was clearly yes, yes please, and yet he was rendered mute, confused by the tonal shift.

“Because if you actually want me to stop,” Gallagher continued, taking a couple of slow steps forward and stopping when their bodies were inches apart, “I’ll stop.”

Mickey suddenly couldn’t breathe and he didn’t quite know why. Maybe it was the way that Gallagher was looking at him; soft and kind, something completely new. Maybe it was the fact that their faces were so close that he could smell Gallagher’s intoxicating, minty breath. Maybe it was the weight of the situation, the knowledge that if Mickey said ‘yes I want you to stop’, that Gallagher might actually comply and that would be the end of their thing. Or maybe it was the sudden, crushing realization -- he didn’t want Gallagher to stop. 

Fucking hell. He must truly hate himself.

Mickey looked up at Gallagher who was smiling down at him, but not in his usual, cocky manner. This time it felt warm, almost tender. Shy, like he was protecting something delicate. What was happening right now and why the fuck was it affecting Mickey to the degree that he felt goosebumps spreading like wildfire across his back? 

Gallagher raised his eyebrow slightly in question and Mickey realized he was still waiting for an answer. An answer that Mickey very much didn’t have.

Before he could attempt to open his mouth to say anything, Ben’s bedroom door burst open and Mickey almost gave himself whiplash from how fast he jumped back and away from Gallagher. He scratched the back of his head subtly as Aria bounced out of the bedroom. 

“Ready Ian?” she asked. She bid the scene in the living room no attention, instead electing to walk by them to the entryway to put on her shoes. 

Thank God. Mickey was pretty sure his face was beet red. He chanced a quick look at Gallagher, who still had a dopey look on his face.

Nope.

Mickey hightailed it to his bedroom without another word. 

Mickey closed his bedroom door and let out a sigh. He walked over to his bed and threw himself down stomach first so that his face landed on his pillows. It took everything in him not to scream into them like a teenage girl. 

He came up for air a couple of minutes later and flopped onto his back, running his sweaty palms over his face as he exhaled dramatically.

What the fuck had just happened? 

Gallagher lounging around his apartment meant he had now officially managed to slither his way into every aspect of Mickey’s life. His academics, his friends, his house, and now even his fucking cereal. Gallagher said he hated hockey, but who was to say that he wouldn’t become the team’s water boy in a couple of weeks? 

It was beyond frustrating. And confusing. 

And now, after a bit of space and perspective, he had the time to be totally embarrassed by the fact that he essentially threw a temper tantrum over a box of fucking cereal. Obviously seeing Gallagher in his apartment was a fucking trigger, and the dangerous mix of sexual tension and general frustration got the better of him, but why he had to snap over Froot Loops of all things was beyond him. He figured it was another ‘fuck you' from the universe. 

To make matters worse, he had the opportunity to end his suffering. To tell Gallagher he needed to cool it with his advances. Hell, apparently that power had been in his own hands the whole time. But he didn’t take it. Even though it was the easiest, quickest solution to literally all of his problems. His brain physically rejected the idea. One minute he had been ready to tell Gallagher that, yes, he needed him to cut the shit, but one soft and smiley look from Ian and he was rendered completely powerless. 

It was fucking embarrassing. And he was pretty sure Ian thought so too.  

Did Mickey want to fuck Gallagher again so badly that he was losing sight of logic and reason? 

His brain loop was rudely interrupted by faint knocking on his bedroom door.

“Mick?” Ben asked through the wood. “Can I come in?”

Mickey sighed. 

“Yeah.” He knew what was coming.

Ben opened the door and walked tentatively towards the bed before comically leaping on so he was sitting up against the wall by Mickey's feet. He put his hands in his laps and gave Mickey an incredulous look.

“So…” Ben started.

“They ate my cereal man, I dunno what you want from me,” Mickey interrupted. 

Ben erupted into laughter.

“Mickey. Dude. Talk to me. What the fuck was that? Because you and I know damn well it wasn’t about the cereal.”

Mickey repositioned himself, sitting so his back was leaning against the wall and he could hang his head between his shoulders and gather his thoughts. 

He obviously refused to admit that Ian and he had fucked and he was now being terrorized every waking minute by constant flirting and come-ons and googly eyes. He couldn’t admit he was using dramatic rants about cereal as a cover for the fact that the near-constant presence of Gallagher was wreaking havoc on his mental, sexual and spiritual stability. So he settled for feeding Ben a half-truth; it was all he could give him right now.

“Look man,” Mickey started. “It was just kind of weird to see him in my house. I know I told Aria to do what she wanted and that I didn’t care if they became friends or whatever. I just, I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting to see him here when I got home today. I just don’t fucking like him. It’s as simple as that. He’s annoying as shit.”

Ben nodded in understanding and was silent for a moment. 

“I don’t know, Mick. He seems like a pretty okay guy,” he said gently.

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up at Ben’s comment.  He didn’t know anything about this guy and was now defending him? 

Mickey was anything but done being dramatic for tonight. Sure, it was the immature option, but it was the one that gave him the most satisfaction.

“Well if he’s such a pretty okay guy why don’t you be best friends with him?” he mumbled spitefully.

Ben laughed at that.

“Because I’m best friends with you, drama queen.” 

Mickey rolled his eyes but stayed quiet.

“Look, I don’t know him yet, but from what Aria’s told me he seems like a decent guy. And if you put aside your weird vendetta for a second I bet you’d realize that he isn’t so bad.”

Ben leveled at him. He hated when Ben got like this. Mickey could feel a logical comment coming on just from the look on Ben’s face. 

“And Aria told me what he said to her about wanting to make amends,” he shrugged, before continuing. “She also just told me that she invited him here tonight to make that happen. Considering he said yes, it seems like he’s serious about making the effort to put it all in the past. So it looks like the balls' in your court here. Personally, I think you just need to stop being so goddamn stubborn.”

Mickey stared at Ben who was looking back at him reassuringly. He was right. He fucking knew he was right. But he also fucking hated that he was right.

Mickey had to admit that Gallagher had seemed like he’d been actively trying to be less of a dick recently; extending an olive branch to go and get coffee, not being as unbearable in their tutoring sessions when Mickey was unprepared or a bit slow on the uptake.

Mickey knew it was best to just go along with what Ben was saying. For his own sanity’s sake. 

He couldn’t have Ben and Aria know that he and Gallagher were a very special brand of complicated, especially now that they seemed so keen on befriending Gallagher. Mickey realized that probably meant that he’d be around more often. Fuck.

It was one thing avoiding temptation at tutoring a few days a week, but he just wouldn’t be able to handle Gallagher appearing at his apartment at undetermined times with his stupid face and hair and biceps. 

Ben seemed to take Mickey’s silence as a confirmation of what he’d said, probably knowing full well that Mickey would argue if he really had an issue with it. Thank God too, because frankly, Mickey was doing a horrible job of covering up what was really going on, and it was only a matter of time before Ben woke up from his coma and realized. 

“Now,” Ben slapped Mickey’s thigh. “Let’s go heat up some leftovers and then the four of us are gonna hang out and you’re going to try and not be a complete asshole and scream about cereal. Okay?”

Mickey grumbled some form of affirmation before he peeled himself off the bed and followed Ben into the kitchen.

Ben grabbed two Tupperware containers of leftover curry from the fridge and put one in the microwave while Mickey grabbed some bowls and cutlery.

“I can’t believe you quoted Mushu back there. You are so fucking embarrassing,” Ben said, laughing.

Mickey shoved him and Ben lost his balance and fell into the fridge which only made him laugh harder. 

At some point during their mindless conversation waiting for their food to heat up, Aria and Ian returned with three boxes of Fruit Loops in tow. Aria put them on the counter in front of Mickey.

“There you go, your highness. And an extra box for your troubles. Plus our sincerest apologies for finishing Sir’s cereal even though he only eats it on the weekend, and you are literally gone for fifty percent of weekends anyway,” Aria said in an annoyingly fake and stupid, posh British accent.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey said, hoping he was conveying with his demeanour that he had come down from the ledge and realized he may have ever so slightly overreacted.

“We were gonna have a smoke on the balcony but then do you guys wanna watch a movie?” Aria asked, looking at Mickey hopefully, although likely waiting for his refusal.

Mickey looked to Ben who gave him a pointed look, before looking to Gallagher who just looked soft and open.

He returned Aria’s gaze and replied, “yeah, whatever.”

Aria smiled widely, looking at Ben for confirmation this had been his doing. Mickey didn’t miss Gallagher’s mouth breaking into the tiniest smile at his agreement to watch a movie before Aria put two hands on his shoulders and led him out to the tiny balcony off their living room.

When Ben and Mickey’s dinner was ready, they headed to the couch to eat and chat about their games that weekend.

Mickey was sitting with a perfect view of the balcony, and he really wished he wasn’t. Goddamn if the image of Gallagher, backlit by the glowing moon, smoking a cigarette, wasn’t one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen.

Mickey tried not to smoke at all during the season. Although he did sneak one here and there at a party if one was offered, or if he was particularly stressed. Right now, he was craving one beyond belief.

Ian’s bicep flexed as his arm moved every time he went for an inhale. His lips settled around the filter. The smoke billowed from his thick, puckered lips. It genuinely annoyed him that Gallagher had the audacity to be that pretty on his own balcony. 

His daydreaming was interrupted by Ben. 

“Mick?” 

“Yeah? What?” Mickey returned, clearly having missed a question. He had actually forgotten Ben was there for a second.

Ben turned his head, facing the direction Mickey had been looking and the corner of his lips turned upwards slightly before he turned back to face him.

“Never mind,” he smiled. “You done?”

Fuck. Had he seen Mickey looking? If he did, he wasn’t saying anything, which Mickey was grateful for. He should probably be more careful. 

Mickey nodded and handed his empty bowl to Ben, who turned toward the kitchen. Before he could return to his straight-up perving, Aria stood up and came back inside. Ian looked to be finishing up the last drags of his smoke.

“So, what do you guys wanna watch?” Aria asked animatedly, heading straight to the kitchen to mosey up behind Ben. “Ian and I were thinking Jumanji.”

“Oh fuck yeah, I love Jumanji,” Ben asserted. Mickey turned to face the two lovebirds in the kitchen, deciding it was much too risky to keep watching Gallagher smoke.

“Mick? Whaddaya reckon?” Aria asked him.

“I’m easy. Whatever,” Mickey shrugged. 

“I’m easy, he says,” Aria whispered to Ben in the kitchen, despite knowing their apartment was relatively small and the sound traveled when there was nothing on the TV.

“I heard that, bitch,” Mickey said back, loudly. 

Ben and Aria snickered before making their way to the living room and sitting down on the second couch next to the small one Mickey was on.

Mickey then glanced over at the door leading to the balcony to see Ian re-entering the apartment, shutting the door behind him. 

Mickey realized the only seat left in the living room was next to him unless Gallagher wanted to cozy up to the annoying loved up couple on the other couch.

Gallagher seemed to realize the same thing, looking from Ben and Aria to the seat next to Mickey, before making his way across the room and sitting down next to Mickey, offering him a relaxed smile once he landed. He looked calm, and totally at ease. How was Mickey sitting here going around in debilitating mental circles about Gallagher, meanwhile he seemed like he didn’t have a care in the fucking world. 

Aria grabbed the remote and started hunting down where they could stream Jumanji.

“So, Ian,” Ben broke the silence, clearly about to try and break the ice. “Aria mentioned you were a transfer student. Where are you from?”

“Chicago,” Ian answered.

Mickey bit his tongue. No fucking way.

Ben continued pulling the conversational weight. 

“No shit? Mickey’s from Chicago too!”

“Really?” Gallagher returned, turning to face Mickey. “Which part?”

Mickey considered the clean-cut picture of nerdom in front of him, steeling himself for the judgment he was positive he was about to receive. 

“South Side.”

Gallagher let out a humourless, shocked laugh. 

“No shit, me too,” he returned, matter of factly.

Mickey’s eyes shot back over to him, quick as a bullet. Gallagher’s head jerked back, surprised at the reaction.

“What?” he asked.

“Bullshit you’re South Side,” Mickey spat, not believing him in the slightest. There was no fucking way this guy was South Side. 

“Born and raised. Down in Canaryville,” he shrugged.

Mickey couldn’t believe it.

“Holy shit,” he managed to spit out. “How the fuck are you so…” he waved his hands dramatically. Clean? Out and proud? Normal? When no words came out and he was left flailing his arms around like an idiot, Ben took mercy on him and interrupted before he could say something embarrassing or downright offensive.

“Ignore him,” he said, shaking his head and drawing Ian’s attention back to himself. “So you just transferred at the start of the semester?”

Gallagher nodded. 

“Yeah, I’d been saving up for a while. Was ready to get out, y’know? I’d been living at home helping my sister raise our three younger siblings but she got this fancy new job and was doing a lot better, so she told me to get the fuck out and not look back,” he paused, and for a moment he almost looked melancholy, his brows furrowing and mouth forming a frown ever so slightly. “She’s the best. I still send some money back when I can, hence the two jobs. But they’re doing pretty good,” he finished.

Mickey’s face flushed as he heard Gallagher talk about the life he left behind in Chicago. On the South Side. His South Side. He couldn’t believe they came from the same place, grew up on the same streets. And by the sounds of it, he didn’t exactly grow up in some privileged home with some gentrifying parents and a silver spoon up his ass. Raising younger siblings? Scraping money together?

Without even realizing, Mickey must have made some kind of audible noise, because Gallagher turned away from Ben to address Mickey. 

“What?” he asked, as he raised his eyebrows, obviously inquiring as to what the fuck that sound was. Defensive.

“Just kind of thought you grew up in some Ivory Tower or something. Didn’t know you had it in ya,” he admitted, somewhat nervously. Why was he nervous?

“Yeah, well, people can surprise you,” Gallagher replied. Mickey looked over and Ian gave him a small, genuine smile. There seemed to be no agenda hidden on his face. 

Mickey didn’t smile back, but a look passed between them. Maybe a silent acknowledgment that they had both been quick to judge each other. That they both had a lot to learn about one another, if only they allowed themselves to.

“Alright I’m loving this, but can this cute get-to-you-know exercise wait till after the movie, because I am so fucking hype to watch this shit,” Aria interrupted, pressing play on the remote.

Ian and Mickey were still staring at each other when the opening credits music started playing, jolting them quickly back to reality. They both flicked their eyes toward the TV.

About 30 minutes in, Ben announced he was too tired to finish, as he still needed to pack for tomorrow, and so he slumped off to bed. The man really did have the stamina of a 90 year old sometimes.

________________________________

Mickey had never actually seen Jumanji before that night and, in all honesty, he couldn’t say that he’d seen it after either. 

Despite sitting through the entire runtime, he couldn’t remember or recite a single plot point if his life depended on it. 

The whole time, Mickey was acutely aware of the redhead’s presence to his left. He kept feeling Gallagher’s eyes on him, but every time he looked over, Gallagher simply turned back to face the TV, a barely-there grin settled on his mouth. They kept sharing stolen glances, and every time one of them shifted in their seat the other seemed to too.

Once the movie was over, Aria yawned loudly, looking desperately tired.

“I’m fucking exhausted guys, I gotta hit the hay,” she said, getting up from the couch and stretching lazily. “Mickey, are you alright to show Ian out when he’s ready to go?”

Mickey’s heart leaped, a pang of panic settling in his chest as he realized he was about to be left alone with Gallagher. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, it’s fine. G’night grandma.”

Aria made her infamous mock laugh as she made her way over to Mickey and laid a sloppy kiss on his cheek, before landing one on Ian as well. She dragged her feet, yawning all the while, over to Ben’s room and shut the door.  

And then there were two. 

Just them. 

Ian and Mickey.

They were silent. It was awkward as fuck.

Aria had just asked Mickey to show Ian out, and yet he was not making any moves to get up nor was he showing any interest in leaving. Mickey rubbed his palms on his pants, willing away the prickly sweat that had begun to make its presence known.

Mickey felt paralyzed. He had no idea what to say or do. He chanced a glance over at Gallagher who looked similarly nervous. Mickey was used to confident, cocky, unbearable Gallagher. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this version. 

Mickey didn’t know if he was imagining it, but he thought he might suffocate on the air between them, something thick and unholy hanging over them. 

Gallagher cleared his throat and Mickey turned his head slightly to look at him in his peripheral vision. 

“Wanna watch an episode of something?” Ian asked. 

Mickey felt himself exhale. 

“Uh. Yeah, sure,” he murmured. 

He should have been saying “nah, I gotta pack for tomorrow, please leave my house,” but he seemed to be possessed by whatever spirit always seemed to make itself known whenever he was in Gallagher’s presence. The spirit that took his autonomy away and made decisions he could hardly understand. He reached over to the coffee table for the remote and tossed it over to Ian, who began scrolling for something to watch. 

Ian adjusted his position on the couch, and Mickey could have sworn he was now sitting a bit closer.

Mickey reminded himself to breathe.

“How about The Office?” Gallagher asked, the awkwardness seemingly having disappeared from his voice and demeanor. Of course, he recommended Mickey’s favourite show.

“Sounds good,” Mickey returned, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to cover what felt like an obnoxiously audible sound coming from his heart. 

Gallagher picked a random episode from season 2 and hit play. He leaned forward to put the remote back onto the coffee table, and as he leaned back, Mickey knew he wasn’t imagining it this time when he scooted closer. Their thighs were almost touching now.

Fucking fuck.

Mickey could feel the warmth of Ian’s skin, even through both layers of clothes. It was insane to him that simply sitting close to someone could trigger such a visceral reaction. He felt like his bones were on fire; like he was sweating buckets. His blood was pumping so hard he could actually hear it in his ears. The closeness of Gallagher at that moment, the sound of his exhales, the musky smell of his skin, the whispered scent of his cigarette; this tantalizing combination simply reminded Mickey of how desperately he wanted him. 

And it was these thoughts and sensations and sounds and smells that kept drilling into Mickey’s mind as he willed his arms to remain crossed over his chest. Willed them not to wander.

Mickey began to think about the situation as a whole, his mind jumping from one point to another, trying to find a way that he could possibly justify fucking Gallagher again because frankly, this was getting absurd.  

Hockey mattered the most to Mickey in the entire world, and he needed 100% of his focus to be on playing well and getting drafted. He rejected Gallagher so his focus could remain where it needed to be. No distractions. That had been his plan.

It had failed. Miserably. And Mickey realized that now. He couldn’t deny it anymore.

As Mickey sat on the couch, his favourite show of all time demoted to nothing but white noise in the background, all he could think about was Ian Gallagher and how badly he needed to touch him. 

Mickey had, in fact, never been more distracted in his whole fucking life.

If he made a new plan, if there was some way that he could start up a fuck buddy situation with Gallagher with strict rules and boundaries and all that shit, then maybe this could work. 

Yeah, that made sense. That way his annoyingly high Gallagher-fuelled sex drive would be satiated, and he could successfully compartmentalize his life.

Hockey would be hockey. Sex would be sex. School would be school. Clear, distinct boxes. 

As his mind was whirring at one hundred miles a minute, writing pros and cons lists in his head, rationalizing, coming up with excuses and arguments, Ian chose that moment to shuffle in his seat again so their thighs were now undeniably sitting against each other.

Mickey swore he felt an electric pulse pass between them. He heard Ian exhale shakily. He was clearly fighting his own internal battles. And losing. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gallagher staring holes into the side of his head. Mickey rubbed his eyes with his palms, trying to talk himself out of entertaining this idea. It was a terrible idea. Right? The absolute worst idea anyone had ever come up with. 

And yet.

He gathered up enough courage and slowly turned his head until his eyes landed on Gallagher. This time, however, Ian’s eyes didn’t dart back to the TV. 

Ian’s head was tilted back, resting against the couch. His gaze remained fixed on Mickey, his eyes flicking all over Mickey’s face before his mouth morphed into a soft, lazy smile.

God, he was fucking hot. 

Mickey was wringing his hands so tightly in his lap his knuckles were turning white. 

Ian was staring. Just staring, and smiling. Just smiling. Not making a move but possibly just waiting for one. He was respecting Mickey’s wishes to not fuck in the literal sense, but by merely existing he was making it impossible to not jump his bones. He had to know that. 

Mickey held Ian’s stare, as he unconsciously pulled the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth to gently bite at it. He noticed Ian’s gaze flicker down to his mouth and then return to his eyes.

And as Ian’s tongue darted out of his mouth to slowly wet his lips, Mickey felt the last bit of his resolve disintegrate.

Fuck it, he said to himself, as he twisted his body and landed a desperate kiss on Gallagher’s mouth.

He wished he could have taken a picture of the redhead’s face as he barrelled towards him because the pure surprise would have been hilarious if Mickey wasn’t completely blinded with unbridled lust.

The kiss was immediately hungry, their tongues invading the other's mouth as desperate hands sought clothes to seize and skin to grab and hair to entangle.

One of Mickey’s hands was on Ian’s chest, keeping him firmly pressed into the couch. He felt Ian’s hands grasp roughly at his hips, pulling him forward until his knees were against the back of the couch and on either side of Gallagher. He had somehow ended up in his lap.

In another universe this would have been far too intimate but, to his delight, Mickey felt a very hard cock pressed up against his rapidly hardening one. Mickey broke the kiss to look down at the redhead.

Ian’s eyes look panicked, hands still on his hips, as if he was worried Mickey was going to yell at him. Or punch him. Or both.

Instead, Mickey held eye contact as he ground down onto Gallagher once, hard, thriving at the look of pure lust in Ian’s eyes, as he swallowed his gasp with a kiss. The kiss returned to its previous passion quickly, as Mickey started grinding on Ian and his hands found their way to Mickey’s ass, squeezing roughly, willing him on.

When Ian’s hands slipped underneath Mickey’s underwear, Mickey regained some sense of control and remembered he was in a shared space. He pulled off quickly, glancing at Ben’s bedroom door. There was no way in hell he was losing this bet by being caught in their living room like a rookie.

Ian looked disappointed, obviously expecting Mickey to regain his composure and kick him out. Instead, Mickey nodded his head in the direction of his bedroom and took great pleasure in the giddy excitement on Ian’s face. He really was just one big, ginger puppy.

Once safely inside his bedroom, the door shut, Mickey turned around and immediately curled a hand into Ian’s shirt and stared at him gravely.

“If we’re gonna do this, we need ground rules,” he asserted quietly, trying to ignore Ian’s hands that had made their way back to sit and squeeze at his ass.

“If we’re gonna do what?” Ian asked, leaning down to land some open-mouthed kisses on Mickey’s neck.

Mickey would not let the hot wet suctioning on his neck distract him.

“Be fuck buddies,” he replied, his eyes falling shut under Gallagher’s mouth. 

Well.

Mickey had no idea he was proposing it until the words practically fell out of his mouth. He guessed the decision was made for him.

Ian detached himself from Mickey’s neck and looked at him, his eyes lighting up.

“Really? Are you sure? What about getting distracted from hockey?”

Mickey shook his head.

“No, actually. I’m not sure,” he said while taking his top off, and getting to work on Ian’s pants. “But I’m sure as shit that I need to fuck you again and if this means you’ll stop distracting me with your annoying come-ons and start distracting me with your dick then…” he trailed off before he could say something really embarrassing.

Ian smiled brightly at the confession.

“So you’re saying my come-ons were distracting huh? That they actually worked?” 

“Shut up. Don’t get in your own way.”

“So,” Ian said, smiling wickedly as he dropped to his knees and took Mickey’s joggers down with him. “What are these ground rules you seem adamant on establishing?” 

He looked up into Mickey’s eyes as he began kissing and sucking at the fronts of his thighs, waiting for a response.

Mickey’s breath hitched, as he guided his fingers to tangle in the silky strands of Ian’s hair.

“After. Let’s do rules after.”

Chapter Text

Mickey wasn’t one to be a stickler for rules. Growing up on the South Side taught him that rules were merely a suggestion; one person’s opinion about how things should be done.

Mickey was a Milkovich, and to say that rule-breaking was in his DNA would be the understatement of the century. He was Terry Milkovich’s son, after all.

He’d pretty much suppressed most of his memories from his formative years, trying desperately to unlearn all the fucked up shit he was told was the norm, was encouraged. 

Petrovich played a key role in Mickey’s rehabilitation, encouraging Mickey to walk the straight and narrow, especially when he saw that Mickey had a real shot at going far with hockey. So Mickey distanced himself from the drug runs and the illegal arms hustle that informed his early years, too busy playing hockey to be that useful anyway.

Terry didn’t take too kindly to Mickey “giving up the family business to figure skate,” but it was times like that that he was lucky he had Petrovich. His coach did what he could to get Terry off Mickey’s ass, and the rest of the time, his father was too coked out to pay attention to anyone. 

But just because Mickey wasn’t outright committing felonies anymore didn't mean he was some perfect angel.

Underage drinking was his forte. He sneaked out past curfew with Ben and a couple of other guys on road trips in his first year -- granted, they'd only really snuck up to the roof of the hotel they were staying at, far too afraid to get caught actually leaving. And then there were the times that he’d occasionally, maybe, use his status on campus to get people in his tutorials to give him answers when he hadn’t studied. 

So yeah, Mickey wouldn’t consider himself someone who was that uptight about rules. 

But he sure as hell was when it came to the ones he had set with Gallagher after they decided to be fuck buddies. 

________________________________

Mickey had laid out all the guidelines and expectations in their Monday tutoring session the following week.  

“From now on -- fucking and tutoring have to stay separate,” he told Gallagher. “We can’t have the whole handjob fiasco happen again. That shit’s too fucking risky. There will also be no sleepovers, no cuddling afterward, no kissing outside of sex, or any kind of physical affection outside of sex. And, most importantly,” he said, looking Gallagher straight in the eyes so he understood that he meant business, “no feelings. This isn’t a relationship. We get in, we fuck, we get out. That's it.” 

One of Gallagher’s eyebrows had been raised the whole time he was speaking and Mickey could tell that the wheels were turning in his head. When Mickey finished, Gallagher pulled his lower lip into his mouth as if he was trying to hide his smile. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, his biceps flexing as he did. Curse him for always having to look so goddamn good.

“Did you want to put this all on paper? We could get it framed? Carry it with us and swear on it like a bible in a courtroom before we fuck?” he finally said after a few moments of silence. 

Mickey rolled his eyes and started to pull his laptop out of his bag. 

“If you shut up and follow the rules there will be no need for that,” he muttered. 

“You do realize that you’re breaking your own rule by bringing this up during tutoring right? I believe it was rule number one?” Gallagher asked cheekily, clearly getting a kick out of Mickey’s rules and the seriousness with which he was treating them. Like they were talking about rocket science and not casual fucking. 

Mickey gave him a testing look. 

“Don’t start with me Gallagher,” he warned. 

“Or what?” Gallagher challenged, “you gonna revoke my privileges? Add even more rules to take the fun out of this?” He leaned forward, so that his face was on Mickey’s side of the table, his elbow supporting him. “You gonna ground me Mick?” he whispered. 

“Yeah. I’m already regretting this.” Mickey said, opening his laptop and turning it so that Gallagher could take a look at his notes for the week. 

Mickey was dead set on making sure they were consistently toeing the line. As the executor of said rules, he had been successful thus far in ensuring that no ‘ funny business ,’ as he coined it, was happening before or after their meetups. 

That, of course, never stopped Gallagher. That motherfucker was a pure chaos demon.

________________________________

They had been in their little arrangement for a couple of weeks.

For the first few days, Mickey had been extra cautious, checking and double checking Ben and Aria’s schedules so that they didn’t accidentally stumble across the two of them going at it. He found that it was both easiest and safest to keep their hookup sessions to the evening, either meeting at Mickey’s apartment on the nights that Ben had class late and Aria worked the closing shift, or at Ian’s when they were home. They would squeeze in a quick fuck, and part ways.

That lasted all of five days before Gallagher was texting him one day to open his bedroom window at 10am, mere minutes after Ben and Aria had left for their respective classes. 

“So desperate,” Mickey tutted after he had opened the window to let him in with no hesitation. 

Gallagher shoved Mickey up against the wall opposite his bed.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled in his ear. Mickey had chuckled into the kiss. 

Since then, they had found new and inventive pockets throughout the day to fuck during. Neither one of them seemed too keen on the idea of going longer than a day or so without some kind of action, and Mickey really wasn’t complaining.

Once they had started, it was like the floodgates to this incredible, insurmountable beast had been opened.

They had unbelievable chemistry, like nothing he had ever remotely experienced before. Plus, despite his tendency to be the most annoying fucker in the world, Gallagher was hot as fuck. He had an amazing dick and Jesus Christ, did he know how to use it. 

Their fucking was magnetic, the both of them using each experience to learn every little thing they could about the other’s bodies, needs, turn ons and desires. What drove them crazy. What made them tick.

Their fucking was never serious; they were always taunting each other, offering dirty smirks between stifled moans. At some point it almost always turned heavy. Dark and dirty. Fast and hard and aggressive. 

It was great. It was fucking miraculous, actually. Better than Mickey had expected it to be by miles.

They’d explored a lot of shit with each other, although Mickey was careful to steer clear of anything face to face or too soft. Far too intimate; too distracting. It had never been his thing. Getting fucked in the ass was a vulnerable enough act as it was without some dude staring into his fucking soul while it happened.

He told Gallagher as much in one of their first fucks, and although a flash of disappointment crossed his eyes, he hadn’t pushed it further, seemingly plenty satisfied with regular front to back fucking in all its wondrous forms and reverse cowboy when Mickey felt like being on top. 

His fucking with Gallagher was different from anything he’d had before -- more consistent, lengthier sessions, more satisfying -- but he still needed to keep it pleasurable yet impersonal. Uncomplicated. For his own sanity and well-being.

This new installment of their relationship did nothing but help their persistent arguing, although it was more so considered bickering than anything else. It was less harsh now; the venom had dried up.

Rather than trying to tear the other to shreds with their words out of unadulterated hatred, it was more like they were battling for dominance. They used the period after they banged -- when they were getting dressed and Mickey was getting ready to either dash out the door or kick Gallagher out -- to try and get one up on the other just for the hell of it. 

Mickey thought it was Gallagher’s way of getting Mickey to stay longer than 30 seconds after the fact, and if that was his plan, then it was definitely working -- because he’d be damned if he let Gallagher have the last word on absolutely anything.

________________________________

“I can’t believe you fucked me twice today, you’re so obsessed with me,” Ian threw out. 

“Were you not the one that texted me both times?”

“Are you gonna start going by Mickey Gallagher soon?” 

Mickey reached for a textbook that was on Ian’s desk and threw it at his head. He barely dodged it before bursting into an annoying fit of laughter.

“There is something seriously wrong with you,” Mickey said. “You need help.”

* * *

“Still kind of hate you. Just FYI,” Mickey said as he began pulling on his clothes. 

“Well you just had sex with me so how much could you truly hate me?” 

“A lot, actually, so shut the fuck up.”

“Are you really going to pick a fight with me after having the best sex of your life?”

Mickey scoffed. 

“Seriously, how big is your ego?”

“Okay Mr I-Cut-In-Line-At-My-Local-Starbucks as if yours isn’t bigger.”

“You’re joking. I’m like the king of humble meanwhile you literally never shut up about how big your dick is.”

“It’s not my fault my dick is huge.” 

“Oh my GOD,” Mickey yelled.

* * *

"Hey, has enough time elapsed since your Frootloop Freakout that I can make fun of you without seeming insensitive?"  

"No. But you can shut the fuck up about it, thanks so much."

"No, see I don't think I can," Ian said as he pulled on his socks. "In fact, I think I have shown enough restraint as it is."

"I just don't understand what kind of person comes into someone else’s house and eats all their cereal," Mickey said through his teeth, feeling himself getting re-heated over the whole situation. "Plus, I had a lot on my mind."

"Hm. Yeah, I could only imagine the hardships that could come with resisting my dick. Would probably make anyone grumpy and illogical."

Mickey raised his eyebrows in bewilderment.

"Excuse me?"

"You've just been so much more pleasant to be around lately. You're like a 'tiny occasional monster' now."

"That so?"

"It's like my dick has magic healing powers or something."

"The only thing your dick is going to have is your right hand pretty soon if you keep this up," Mickey said, as he regretted every single life decision that had brought him to this place.

"Yeah. Okay, tough guy," Ian said, sending a flirty wink over his shoulder as he left the room. "See you tomorrow. Hopefully, you're a little less flustered by then."

"Yeah? Well, hopefully, you're less of a loser by then!" Mickey yelled, mentally kicking himself for the worst comeback in recorded history.

________________________________

“Jesus, fuck,” Ian sighed as they both collapsed on Mickey’s bed. 

Mickey ran a hand through his hair and dropped it onto his chest which was heaving up and down.

They were in Mickey’s room, the window open so that a chilly mid-morning breeze could be felt whisking its way in, cooling them down as they fucked. They almost hadn’t made it to his room. Gallagher had been on him the second that he’d opened the door and it had taken a lot of effort to try and get them there once they got going. 

Mickey was still fighting to catch his breath when he felt a pair of eyes on him. He rolled his head to the side in Gallagher’s direction, chancing a glance at the redhead. He was met with half-lidded eyes and Gallagher’s signature soft smile. A look that had alarm bells going off in Mickey’s head, because nope. He was pretty sure there was a subsection in the rulebook for looks like that. 

He got up and started to pull on his pants. 

“Well. Thanks for the dick. Don’t let the windowpane hit you in the ass on the way out,” he said, grabbing his shirt off the floor. 

Ben and Aria would be home any minute and he couldn’t chance one of them seeing Gallagher in the hallway on his way down. 

“What, you’re kicking me out already?” Gallagher asked, swinging his feet off the bed so he was sitting on the edge, “we’re supposed to meet up for tutoring in like an hour.” 

“Yeah, so we can meet in the library,” Mickey said simply, bending down and throwing Ian’s pants at him. 

He caught them and threw Mickey an ‘ are you fucking serious’ look.

“We’re already together, can't we just do it here?” he whined. 

“We ain’t doing that shit here!” Mickey snapped as if it was the most absurd idea he’d ever heard. “This isn't some college rom-com type situation where we make love and then go out into the kitchen holding hands while singing fucking show tunes or whatever the fuck. This is a fuck. That’s all this will ever be.” 

Gallagher was silent for a moment and Mickey actually thought he’d gotten through to him. 

“You’ve been watching romcoms?” he laughed, getting off the bed, “did I set off that chain of events for you?”

Mickey rolled his eyes because fuck no was he doing this with Gallagher when someone could walk in the apartment at any second. He turned around and began searching for Gallagher’s shirt. He threw it at his head and began pushing him towards the window. 

“I think it’s cute you’re worried that one study session in your kitchen is gonna make you fall in love with me. I mean, I’d be worried if I was you, too. I’m very lovable,” Ian replied, yanking his shirt over his head as he dug his heels into Mickey’s floor, hell-bent on making this kick out as difficult as possible.

“Out,” Mickey demanded. 

“You wanna hold my hand, Mick?”

“Gallagher…”

“Hey, next time I wanna bang, should I just stand outside with a boombox over my head playing ‘In Your Eyes,’ or would throwing rocks at your window suffice?”

“Okay, goodbye,” Mickey grunted, pushing Gallagher to the window, who laughed as he swung a leg over the pane and onto the tree branch that was conveniently at the perfect distance from Mickey’s window. He balanced his other foot on the ledge underneath the window.

Before Mickey could shut it in his face, he felt a soft hand take his. He looked down at Gallagher who was staring into Mickey’s eyes like he’d never looked into them before. Mickey’s breath hitched, and it suddenly felt impossible to get air into his lungs. He was very aware of the fact that he and Gallagher were actively holding hands right now. Very aware that this was in violation of the rules. But for whatever reason, his body wasn’t keeping up with his mind and he stayed frozen in place, peering down at Gallagher where he balanced outside of his window, curious to gauge the redhead’s next move. 

“You do have really pretty eyes, Mick,” Ian said. 

He said it so genuinely, so kindly. 

Mickey felt a jolt in his stomach; his eyes widened and his mouth opened ever so slightly. He was fucking speechless. 

Gallagher burst out laughing and Mickey immediately snapped out of whatever the fuck kind of spell the other man had just cast on him. 

“Motherfucker,” he muttered, slamming the window in his face and pulling down the blinds so that he couldn’t see Gallagher cackling at him from outside. 

Mickey ran his hands over his face and sat down on the edge of his bed. Had that really just happened? That was fucking mortifying. Gallagher had clearly been fucking with him, making a joke out of his ‘In Your Eyes’ comment, and Mickey had taken him seriously? What the fuck was wrong with him? 

He was obviously used to Gallagher’s comments. They were teasing, for the most part, part of the dynamic that they had built over the last couple of weeks. They threw little quips back and forth before they parted ways and that was usually the end of it; Mickey never thought of them again. 

But that one fucking hit him; completely knocking the wind out of him until the only thing he could hear was his heartbeat drumming in his ears. 

Mickey groaned. No.

No, he needed to get a grip.

Gallagher clearly only said that to fuck with him. He probably thrived on flustered responses like the one Mickey had just handed him on a silver platter. It was obvious that Ian got some kind of sick pleasure in unbalancing Mickey, judging by the evil cackle he gave afterward. 

There was literally no need to get all weird whenever Gallagher gave him some sort of genuine sounding compliment, especially when it was clear that he just wanted to win some unspoken competition between the two of them. Maybe it was his inner athlete shining through, but he would be damned if he let Gallagher get the upper hand like this. He needed to fuck with him right back.

If this was how Gallagher was gonna play the game, then fuck it. It was on. 

________________________________

Mickey usually wore loungewear to his and Gallagher’s tutoring sessions, almost always coming straight from practice or from sleeping. His style was simple -- usually going for comfort over anything else. Lots of track pants, hoodies, and UMich merchandise. But today he decided he was going to dress to torment.

He picked out an obscenely tight white tee, one that fit well before he bulked up this past summer but that now looked two sizes too small. It perfectly showed off his biceps, but he layered a denim jacket over it to save the guns for a dramatic reveal. He put on his pair of signature black ripped jeans that just so happened to plump up the curve of his ass spectacularly, and finished the look off with his pair of black doc martens.

And if he spent fifteen minutes styling his hair out of the shower and stealing some of Ben’s cologne to spritz on his neck, well, shut up.

He looked good. He smelled good. 

This was his go-to going-out look, so was it embarrassing he was wearing it to a tutoring session? Perhaps. But he knew Gallagher was going to lose his mind and he was dying to get a reaction out of him. Call it payback for fucking with him earlier that day. Call it whatever. But Mickey was adamant on making him feel as unhinged as he constantly felt in his presence.

________________________________

Mickey walked towards study room 15, mentally preparing for the onslaught ahead of him. Gallagher and him were in full-blown midterms prep, working through practice tests and quizzing each other on the big concepts. He’d already had three of his midterms earlier in the week, which he felt he didn’t do terribly at. His last one was tomorrow and he was more than ready to be done with it.

Ian had suggested extending each of their sessions the past couple of weeks to be two hours long, giving them more time to prepare. As annoying as Gallagher was, he clearly wanted Mickey to succeed, albeit probably for selfish reasons, but Mickey wanted that too. Not just wanted, but needed.

He needed to pass these midterms. His semester was only going to get busier with more out-of-town games, and if he failed any of them he knew it would be borderline impossible to make the grades up later in the semester.

And so their weekly facetime doubled. Outside of their sexual escapades, which were sometimes bordering on twice a day at this point.

He was officially spending more time with Gallagher than anyone else in his life. Even Ben. His roommate. When the fuck did that happen?

Mickey felt more prepared than he ever had before, but he still felt like he was drowning. He wished the academic stuff came as easily to him as it seemed to come to Gallagher, and he found himself getting frustrated easily.

Gallagher, to his credit, was a great tutor. He talked Mickey down when he got frustrated and had amazing techniques for memory retention which had helped in the exams he’d already taken. The regular, mind-blowing sex wasn’t hurting either. He’d never let him know that though. 

________________________________

Their tutoring sessions had been going a lot more smoothly as of late. They were way less confrontational with each other; fewer arguments, less barbed words. They weren’t friends, and he was pretty sure that the shift in their dynamic had everything to do with the sex rather than Gallagher as a person, but he no longer wanted to eat glass when he was around him, so that was definitely a plus. 

Ian was already seated in the study room, pulling out his laptop, clearly only having arrived a few moments before Mickey.

“Ey,” Mickey grunted, as he slung his backpack into the chair, remaining standing.

Mickey tried to hold back his smugness when Ian looked up and his eyes nearly burst out of his head. Once he knew Gallagher was looking, he very slowly took his jacket off, revealing the white tee hugging the taut muscles of his upper body expertly. He made a point of casually flexing his biceps as he put the jacket on the back of his chair, sighing casually. 

To really add insult to injury, he stretched his arms above his head, allowing the bottom of his abs to show as his shirt rode up. He kept his eyes on Gallagher who was not so subtly falling apart in front of him.

He finished off the show by flopping down into the chair with a heavy exhale and slowly running his fingers through his hair. 

“Sup?” he asked, amused as all shit.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Ian stammered, his face still frozen in complete shock.

Score.

“Clothes, Gallagher. I know we’re mostly without them these days but thought I’d put some on for tutoring,” Mickey responded with a smirk, throwing in a wink to really bring it home.

Ian’s eyes went to his laptop as a blush spread quickly across his cheeks. A devilish smile spread across Mickey’s face.

“You okay there, Gallagher?” 

Ian sent a vitriolic look over to Mickey, seemingly picking up on the game he was playing. 

“You’re not allowed to wear tight shirts to tutoring sessions. In fact, I’m adding that to our list of rules,” Ian said matter-of-factly. 

Mickey barked out a laugh. Turned out Gallagher was actually relatively easy to fluster. All it took was a fucking t-shirt. 

“All my loose shirts were in the wash. Sorry if it’s...” Mickey said, as he leaned forward with his elbows and forearms on the table, his flexed biceps now in perfect view. “Distracting.”

Mickey could tell Ian was biting back a smile as he shook his head, his eyes glistening. 

“Alright, alright.” he slammed his hands on the table. “Let’s get started, menace. Before you make me break rule number one and I rip that shirt clean off you.”

Mickey smirked and averted his eyes down in front of him, tracing indentations in the desk to distract his face from breaking out in a full-on grin.

Mickey appreciated that Ian only ever indulged in their stupid flirting in little bursts during their tutoring session, usually remaining professional and keeping their sex life reserved for when they were actually fucking. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to get anything done if Gallagher was at full game while he was trying to remember what the medulla oblongata was.

Ian explained they were both going to do a quick practice test for their Educational Neuroscience midterm, before going over any concepts that Mickey felt he needed to. 

Ian handed Mickey his test and unlocked his phone to get the timer set to 60 minutes. And then, in a move that almost had Mickey’s jaw on the table, he pulled out a round pair of tortoise shell glasses and put them on. 

“Okay, you ready?” Ian asked, looking up at Mickey, his eyes perfectly framed by the spectacles.

Mickey took in the sight before him. Up until this point, he had no idea he had any kind of kink beyond occasionally enjoying a bit of roughhousing. But Ian Gallagher in glasses? What the fuck was this? Why was this turning him on? 

He swore Gallagher could just breathe at this point and he’d pop a boner. This was sick.

“Why the fuck are you wearing glasses?” he asked, his voice way too aggressive for simply asking a man why he was wearing glasses.

Ian’s brows bunched together in confusion.

“Uh, because my eyesight sucks ass?”

“We’ve been studying for weeks now and you’ve never worn them before.”

Ian adjusted them on his face, his eyes turned downwards. He looked -- self-conscious? 

Was he embarrassed?

“Well that’s because I usually wear contacts but my last pair dried out and I haven’t had a chance to replace them yet. Is that okay with you?” His voice was harsh and defensive like Mickey had struck a nerve. Almost as though the glasses had been a sore spot in the past. Mickey had no idea with who though, because he looked ridiculously, unbearably, so fucking good in them.

Mickey blushed at the fidgety, bristly man in front of him. Anyone that made him feel self-conscious about those glasses in the past was clearly blind. 

Gallagher seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to reading Mickey’s mind, so he felt it best to avert his eyes downwards toward his practice test to try and protect his embarrassing thoughts from the intuitive fucker in front of him.

“Uhh yeah. Was just wondering. You….” he trailed off, realizing he was about to compliment Gallagher and there was no way in hell that was happening. “Let’s just get started?” he asked instead, clearing his throat.

He looked up in time to see Gallagher lean back in his chair, his eyes narrowed in on Mickey as if trying to figure something out. Ian seemed to catch something on his face. The blush slowly creeping up his cheekbones, the way he wasn’t holding eye contact -- who was to say?

A wicked smile crept onto Ian's face. 

“Oh shit. Are these doing it for you, Mick?”

How Ian Gallagher seemed to have a one-way direct link into the inner workings of his sick mind was beyond him, but he was just about over it. Some thoughts were for his own private spiraling, thank you very much.

“Shut the fuck up Gallagher,” he sputtered, doing a decidedly terrible job at covering up his truth.

Ian had the audacity to laugh at that. 

“Oh my god!” He laughed even harder then. “They’re totally doing it for you! Do you have a boner?” he added crassly, making a fake grab toward Mickey’s crotch.

Mickey rolled his eyes, slapping Gallagher’s hand away from his dick under the table. 

There was no way in hell Gallagher was getting one up on him twice in one day. They were even as it was right now, his outfit choice balancing out his flustered reaction to the pretty eyes comment. But now this? Absolutely not. Mickey had his pride. He had to do something to regain control.

They were already fucking. They were already breaking their first rule and flirting outside of the bedroom. Mickey decided to steer into the skid.

He leaned forward and licked his lips. 

“You look good, Gallagher. It is what it is,” he admitted, smirking cheekily.

Ian’s brows shot up, clearly surprised Mickey was playing along, and it was impossible to ignore the way his cheeks flushed when Mickey flirted back.

“Noted,” Ian responded simply.

They must have looked absolutely ridiculous. Two grown men sitting in a study room, leaning impossibly close to each other, getting turned on by tight shirts and tortoise-shell glasses. 

They stared silently at each other, both playing chicken, waiting for the other to make some kind of move. Ian broke the stare off first, turning his attention to the neglected timer on his phone.

“I’m ready when you are, teach,” Mickey said, raising a brow, not being able to help the smirk spreading across his face, as Ian bit his cheek and shook his head. He re-confirmed Mickey was ready and pressed start.

________________________________

Thankfully, both men behaved during their practice test, remaining focused on the questions and not on the tension between them. This wasn’t a conscious choice, but more so a result of the test being really fucking hard.

Mickey made his way through, going a bit too slowly, to begin with, so he ended up needing to rush the last section to get it done in time. He felt semi-confident with the content of sections two and three but the first section on the biochemistry of the nervous system was confusing as shit and he had mostly waffled his way through. It was as if all of his studying on the topic had evaporated from his brain once confronted with questions about it.

Ian had a quick look over his answers and, as expected, suggested they go over the biochemistry section for the rest of their time together that afternoon.

Mickey had been struggling with this particular section for weeks now and when faced with revising it for what felt like the millionth time, he let out a groan.

“Ugh. I’m never gonna fucking get this,” he lamented, slamming his forehead onto the desk dramatically.

This was usually when Ian waxed lyrical about Mickey’s potential, and offered words of encouragement, and suggested they try a new method of studying to see if something else would help. However Ian was silent, and so Mickey rolled his head to the side to get eyes on him.

Ian was clearly considering something. Mickey sat up and raised his brows, looking for a response.

Finally, Gallagher seemed to regain his ability to speak.

“How about this, Mickey. If you get at least a C+ on this midterm, actually, on all your midterms,” he paused. “I’ll give you anything you want. We’ve tried almost all of my studying methods and nothing seems to work for biochem, so this is my hail mary.” He leaned forward then, his face morphing into that cheeky look he got when he was trying to rile Mickey up. “Anything you want, Milkovich. I’m serious. And you can use it as motivation to study your ass off tonight.”

Mickey’s face scrunched up. This seemed like a juvenile way to get Mickey to pass his exams.

“What could you possibly give me that I’m not already getting, Gallagher? You already fuck me at least five times a week,” Mickey responded.

“What, there’s nothing else you want? Nothing else you’re dying to try out?”

Mickey scoffed, not even entertaining the question -- mainly because he was scared of what his brain would be able to come up with given enough time and space. 

“Isn’t offering sexual favours to encourage better grades against the laws of tutoring or something?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Are you complaining?”

Mickey was silent. He stared at Ian, trying to gauge how serious he was about this. Because shit, he could think of a million things that would inspire him to become a biochemist expert in the next twelve hours.

A flash of pure chaos spread from Ian’s eyes throughout his entire face before his face turned dead serious. 

“I’ll give you a blow job wearing my glasses,” he said simply. 

Mickey burst out laughing at the seriousness of Ian’s voice, and the seriousness with which he pitched the ludicrous idea. 

“Fuck off, in what world is that a reward? I got a blow job from you like three hours ago.”

Ian smirked, his entire being having come to life because of this proposal.

“In a world where you clearly seem to have some kind of nerd fetish or glasses kink going on and I need you to pass your midterms in order to get a bonus from the tutoring program.”

Mickey’s face outright caught on fire at that.

Gallagher put on his frustratingly convincing porn star voice to rile him up further. “Are you sure you don’t want a blow job from the hot nerd who’s got a crush on the big, hunky athlete?” 

Mickey’s schooled his expression, unbelievably embarrassed at his stupid annoying brain for getting turned on by this. Had he dabbled in nerd/athlete porn? Perhaps. He didn’t realise it was an actual thing for him though. 

He could deny it. He could wrack his brain for some other sexual favour he’d like to avoid the embarrassment of admitting that the idea of getting a blow job from Gallagher in his perfect glasses sounded like an idea worthy of a Nobel Prize. But at this point, with Gallagher still wearing those glasses, speaking in that voice -- well, there was nothing he wanted more in the entire universe.

He considered it a mercy killing of his own dignity when he bit the bullet and responded to Gallagher.

 “...Deal.”

Ian burst out laughing at the inadvertent admission. Mickey was never going to live this down.

“I hate you,” Mickey said, a smile creeping onto his face as he tried to shake the blush away.

Ian simply smiled his megawatts smile, “Yeah. I hate you too.”

________________________________

They spent the remainder of their time going through some of the concepts most likely to turn up on tomorrow’s midterm. Ian assigned some chapters to reread and some extra exercises to do when Mickey got home.

Mickey was pretty confident Ian was playing with his glasses way more than necessary, constantly adjusting them and flashing Mickey ridiculous sex eyes, whilst keeping his voice the picture of innocence. He was a sneaky motherfucker. God, he was good.

They didn’t even need to verbally confirm it. On Thursdays, after tutoring, they fucked at Ian’s. And after the session they had today, Mickey was unapologetically ready and raring to go.

Once they were all wrapped up, they started gathering their notes and laptops and putting them in their bags, ready to head to Ian’s room. 

There was silence in the air. Not quite awkward, but not quite comfortable. Usually, Ian would be making some dumb joke, but he was oddly quiet, clearly thinking about something.

Before Mickey had a chance to read much more into it, Ian’s voice interrupted him.

“Why did you pick psychology as your major anyway? You clearly fucking hate it,” he asked genuinely, as he headed toward the door.

The question made Mickey pause. This wasn’t something they did. They joked and they bickered and they teased but they never really talked. Not about real things.

It was a normal enough question, but Mickey’s answer was fucking stupid and he’d be damned if he was gonna let Gallagher be privy to it. Just because they were semi-getting along now didn’t mean he was going to voluntarily give him ammunition to fuck with him.

“You saying I don’t have what it takes to become a psychologist, Gallagher? I’m hurt,” he responded jokingly.

Ian rolled his eyes.

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Deflection was his best course of action, although he wasn’t totally confident in Ian’s ability to leave it alone.

“I dunno,” he lied. “Why did you?"

Ian took a beat, appearing as though he was trying to find the words before he responded. 

“Well for us mere mortals, a psychology degree can open up a lot of doors. Psychologist, social worker. I don’t know exactly what I want to do or what I want to be, I just know I want to help people. Be there for people when they’re at their lowest. Want to help people get out of rough spots. Like how…” he trailed off, shaking his head, like he wanted to continue but ultimately decided against it.

They had made it outside now and were ambling towards the dorm. 

Mickey looked over to an uncharacteristically quiet Ian. He was clearly feeling uncomfortable, his eyes were pointed down and he looked kind of--ashamed? As though it suddenly dawned on him that he may have overshared or had decided that Mickey didn’t want to hear about his noble ambitions.

Mickey softened. As pushy and goofy as Ian was, he clearly also had hang-ups about opening up and being vulnerable about certain aspects of himself. Mickey couldn’t help but be surprised, yet again, at the similarities between them.

He couldn’t bear his silence, so he decided to give him something.

“Well,” he started awkwardly. “I mean obviously I’m here for hockey. The school stuff was always just a means to an end. But when it came to picking something...I dunno. I was sort of excited about psychology at first,” He took a deep breath, before committing to his admission. “I grew up in a pretty fucked up house with some pretty fucked up people and I kind of liked the idea of maybe…getting some fucking insight? Like into why people are the way they are or what makes people act like...a certain way?” He felt sweat prickle his forehead, realizing how dumb this all sounded. “I dunno, it sounds stupid,” he rushed to add, his face heating up at his rambling incoherence.

“No it doesn’t,” Ian responded quickly. 

He looked over to find Ian staring at him openly, offering a soft, comforting smile. Their eyes connected briefly before Mickey glanced back towards his shoes. Face on fire.

“Anyway. I wanted to learn real stuff and not all this weird-ass theoretical rat science shit. But hockey’s the only thing I really want to do at the end of the day, so I’m always gonna struggle with this.”

Ian nodded. 

“Well you’re doing really well, Mick. I can’t imagine balancing all your hockey shit with a full course load, especially when the school stuff isn’t your passion,” he responded.

Mickey’s eyes shot up as he turned to give Ian a funny look. 

“Don’t go getting all soft on me, Gallagher. What happened to ‘athletes are the scum of the earth’? Was it my ass or my sob story that broke that illusion for you?”

Ian laughed and bumped Mickey’s shoulder with his. 

“The ass. Definitely the ass. Alexa, play ‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love With Your Ass’,” Ian responded jokingly. 

“Loser.”

“Dick.”

________________________________

They made quick work of disrobing each other once they got back to Ian’s dorm. Turns out tight shirts and glasses were some of the most effective aphrodisiacs on the market.

Ian told Mickey to keep the shirt on, but Mickey refused. There was no way he was fucking with a tight-ass shirt on. 

The two hours of tutoring/foreplay had Mickey clawing at Ian’s back as he lay under him, squirming and scratching, egging him on with every hardened hip roll up against Ian’s crotch.

Their kissing was sloppy and erratic, all hot breath and wet tongues as their fingers explored the warm, naked flesh of the other.

“You know,” Ian panted, breaking their kiss to bite at his puffy, spit-wet lips. “I think I ought to punish you for that outfit.”

Mickey went beet red in the face as Ian looked down at him, his eyes glistening with pure mischief, pupils blown out from arousal.

“Why the fuck am I getting punished for wearing fucking clothes?” Mickey asked. “You’re insane.”

Even though Mickey’s point was incredibly valid and deserved a response, Ian rudely flipped Mickey in lieu of providing an answer, plastering himself to his back and biting his earlobe, just on the right side of too hard.

“Rule number one,” Ian began, his impossibly hard erection sliding into the cleft of Mickey’s ass. “Tutoring and sex remain separate. Now how can you expect me to honour that commitment if you’re wearing fuck me clothes to our sessions?”

“By fuck me clothes do you mean a fucking t-shirt?”

“Maybe. Yes. Hmmm,” he hummed hotly in Mickey’s ear. “I like this precedent. Any time you’re wearing clothes is a crime worthy of punishment I think.”

He sat up on the back of Mickey’s thighs, trailing his hands slowly down his back, feather-soft, sending goosebumps to the surface of his skin, before his hands landed on Mickey’s ass, cupping and massaging at his cheeks.

“You looked so fucking hot today, Mick,” Ian growled, his voice officially gone so far off the deep end, as his lithe fingers found their way to tease at his hole.

Mickey’s cheeks went even redder if that were even possible, and he was so fucking thankful his face was being smothered by pillows to help cover it up. The compliment hit him right in the gut.

Ian was usually vocal during sex, and Mickey was no stranger to dirty talk. The guys he had fucked in the past had usually been into it, and if it was done right it could really work for him too.

But it was never anything too complicated. Usually just telling each other to fuck harder, muttering swears, whispering “right there” and “fuck yes’” and “god damn”.

But sometimes Ian said things that just knocked him out. Things that other men had said to him, but hearing it from Ian was like hearing it for the first time. 

He couldn’t explain it and didn’t even want to try and understand it. 

As Ian’s finger pushed into him, his ability to respond well and truly left the building, and so he moaned into the pillow instead, giving Ian what he could in the moment. 

Ian kissed at the bottom of his spine as he worked in his first lubed-up finger, thrusting in and out in little pulses. He palmed at his ass to spread him open further, biting and licking at his cheeks all the while.

He added in a second finger, followed quickly by a third, and soon, Mickey was putty in his hands.

Once he was prepped, Ian ushered Mickey up onto all fours and worked himself inside.

They adjusted to the feeling, that beautiful, full feeling, and once Mickey felt ready he wiggled his hips, signifying it was okay for Ian to start moving. 

Ian moved hard, and deep, setting a moderate pace to begin with as his hands roamed curiously all over Mickey’s back and ass, clearly enjoying the feel of his slick skin and muscles beneath his fingertips.

Ian gradually picked up the pace, his hands settling on Mickey’s hips, pulling him back towards him with each thrust in a movement that felt so unbearably good, that Mickey couldn’t help the bitten back groans and loud exhales of breath escaping his lips. 

Eventually, Mickey decided to push his luck. To have a bit more fun.

“So is this what you call punishment, Gallagher? I’m bored,” he teased.

Mickey felt both hands that were previously on his hips disappear and then, like a goddamn porn star, Ian grabbed Mickey’s wrists from the bed and yanked them backward, his upper body falling onto the mattress, face first, as Ian pinned his arms against his back, not losing his rhythm at any point.

God. Shit. Yes.

The new angle seemed to angle Ian’s dick right on his prostate, and he was immediately flooded with almost unbearable pleasure.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he groaned at the new sensation.

He loved everything about this.

Ian pushed into him in steady, hard pulses for a few minutes, his unbelievable stamina truly worthy of some kind of award. His grip on Mickey’s wrists never once loosened.

Soon enough, Mickey’s dick was leaking and begging to be touched.

“Gallagher?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah?” 

“Fuckin’ touch me,” he whined, surprised at the desperation he heard from his mouth but too far gone to actually give a fuck. 

“No.”

What?

“What?”

“Said I was punishing you. Not gonna touch you till you ask nicely,” Ian responded, huffing all the while. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Mickey grunted.

“Well that wasn’t very nice.” 

Mickey could tell from his tone that he was smiling.

Of course Gallagher would play this game. Of course he’d make Mickey beg. He didn’t want to give in, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking nicely. He was finding this insanely hot and Ian clearly was too, but if someone didn’t touch his dick soon he’d likely explode.

He held out a while longer, testing his limit. Bearing down on Ian’s dick in the hopes that maybe he could get him to break first.

“Ahhhhhh fuck,” Mickey exclaimed when he felt his resolve crumbling, crumbling, his need for release howling and knocking shit over in his brain.

“How you doing down there, Mick?” Ian panted loudly, his voice light but strained, clearly fighting his own arousal.

“I fuckin’ hate you,” Mickey exhaled.

Ian took that as his cue to start pounding into him harder, which Mickey didn’t think was physically possible, before he added, “yeah, you keep saying that.”

“Jesus fuck,” was all Mickey had the brainpower to punch out at that moment.

And just as Mickey was about to fold, just as he was about to politely plead, beg and whine for Ian to please, please, please touch his dick, he heard an “ah fuck ” from behind him, and felt Ian release his wrists and place his hands back on Mickey’s hips.

He was confused by the sudden change, but his confusion was cleared up quickly when he felt Ian’s hips snap once, twice, and then still against Mickey’s ass as he shook and exhaled.

Mickey pushed up with his now freed hands and turned his head to see a pleasured but pained expression on Gallagher’s face, the face of a man who had clearly just come when he absolutely had not wanted to.

Mickey’s torso collapsed back on the bed in a stitch of laughter at the turn of events. His eyes crinkled at this colossal fuck up on Gallagher’s behalf, but he was also a man on the verge of exploding, so he quickly got his hand on his dick, finally, thank god, and he laughed as he came, still feeling Ian’s dick pulsing inside him, and feeling on top of the fucking world.

Once he finished wringing out the last of his orgasm, he felt Ian pull out. Mickey flipped over onto his back completely, leaning up on his elbows, to see the look of maybe the most disappointed man in the whole world, resting on his haunches.

Mickey couldn’t help the shit-eating grin on his face.

“This is the worst day of my life,” Ian said, flopping down on the bed so he was lying next to Mickey.

“Yeah, you sure showed me,” Mickey laughed, unable to control the pure elation bubbling in his chest that was manifesting in a steady stream of snickers.

“Shut the fuck up,” Ian grumbled, running a hand over his sweaty face. “That was hot. Too hot.”

Mickey tutted. “Woulda been hotter if you’d pulled through on your promise, Oh Mighty Punisher.”

Ian shook his head and slapped the back of his hand to Mickey’s chest, exclaiming, “I fucking hate you.”

But Mickey couldn’t even keep up the banter, because he started laughing uncontrollably, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Eventually it infected Ian too, and he also broke out into what could only be described as high-pitched, gaspy chuckles. 

And so the two of them lay there staring at the ceiling, stark naked, laughing so hard that their bellies bounced as they gulped in air, attempting to catch their breaths through their childlike fits of giggles.

________________________________

“Okay. Don’t forget. Reread chapters two to four and do exercises twelve to sixteen in chapter four before you go to bed tonight. I’m almost positive those are gonna be similar to the questions on the exam tomorrow. Don’t make me call Aria and get her to check on you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes at Ian’s annoying tutor voice as he pulled on his clothes on the edge of Ian’s bed.

“Yeah, yeah, okay bossy,” he responded. And then -- “I’ve got a glasses-clad blow job on the line, there’s no way I’m fucking this up.”

Ian barked out a laugh from behind him, and Mickey had to bite both of his cheeks to stop the smile threatening to bloom on his face. He stood up, and just when he thought he was done -- tutored, fucked, redressed -- and about to escape out the door, he heard, “New jeans, Mick?”

Mickey paused and smiled, deciding to lean down to tie up his already tied up shoe, sticking out his ass just for shits and giggles. He’d shed the jeans so quickly when they arrived he now realized that Ian hadn’t had a chance to properly appreciate them yet.

He wasn’t even fully back to standing before a completely naked Ian had pushed him into the door, pinning him there and palming at his ass through his jeans, growling into his ear.

“If you don’t let me leave to study I’m gonna fail my midterm tomorrow,” Mickey said half-heartedly. 

“Fuck the midterm.”

Mickey laughed.

“You’re the worst tutor of all time.”

Ian grabbed Mickey by the shoulders and pushed him until he landed back on his bed with a bounce and a chuckle.

“Lodge your complaint with student services. I currently don’t give a fuck.”

And as a smirking, sweaty, messy-haired, naked Ian Gallagher came barrelling towards him, Mickey couldn’t help but not give a single fuck either. 

Chapter Text

Gallagher (12:04pm): Well I don’t mean to brag, but I fucking nailed that exam.

Gallagher (12:04pm): How’d it go for you?

Mickey had just finished his Educational Neuroscience midterm and, to his shock, didn’t feel like he had completely fucked it up.

It was a satisfying feeling; a similar feeling to the one that came from practicing a move over and over again in practice and then performing it perfectly in a game. It turned out that working hard and committing to something really could produce favourable results.  

Who knew the same could apply to his coursework?

Ian and Mickey had been in the same exam, and Mickey was incredibly thankful that he was sitting in front of Gallagher so he couldn’t be distracted by him.

He had bolted out the door as soon as he finished, as he had lunch plans with Ben ahead of a very important nap before their game tonight.

Mickey (12:13pm): went ok i think. not a lot of biochem thank fuck

Gallagher (12:14pm): Fingers crossed for that C+ 😏

Mickey shook his head at the texts, not understanding when it became decided that they would just...text each other.

He felt his cheeks lift at what Gallagher was referencing. And so what if the promise of a glasses-clad blowjob had resulted in the most focused and effective studying cram session Mickey had ever experienced? That was neither here nor there. 

He decided to not grace it with a response. But then --

Gallagher (12:16pm): Good luck with your game tonight btw 😊

Mickey wondered if there would ever come a day when Gallagher could say something that didn’t take him by surprise and cause Mickey to question his entire existence.

How had things so quickly turned from absolute garbage to -- whatever this was? Regular earth-shattering sex from a guy who texted him things like “good luck with your game tonight 😊”?

Mickey (12:20pm): thanks

He paused. And then, with a smirk on his face and quickening breath --

Mickey (12:21pm): maybe i’ll get into a brawl for ya, i know you like that shit

Gallagher (12:22pm): 👅👅👅

What the fuck was going on? 

________________________________

“Damn, that’s a big fucking crowd out there,” Adams exclaimed loudly as the team made their way back into the locker room. They had just finished their pregame warmup, which meant they had about 20 minutes to regroup before they went back out for puck drop. 

There were a lot of people out there. It was the biggest crowd Mickey had seen so far this season, and that included their first game against Michigan State. The whole arena was a vast sea of blue, yellow, and white, and the sight had Mickey buzzing as he stepped off the ice after their skate. 

Mickey remembered being ridiculously nervous as a freshman after seeing the kinds of crowds that showed up to support the team every home game. Now, it filled him with the best kind of antsy adrenaline, and he was just itching to get back onto the ice.

Mickey made his way back to his cubby. He shook off his gloves and reached up to undo the strap of his helmet to remove that too, as he sat down on the bench. 

The room began to buzz with a familiar chatter; players talking and laughing amongst themselves while they waited for the game to start. Mickey preferred to keep to himself in situations like this, very much not enjoying making mindless small talk with his teammates. 

They were playing Notre Dame tonight, and although Mickey was confident in their abilities to beat them, he feared what would happen to them at practice come Monday afternoon if they didn’t. Petrovich had already been by, insinuating as much. Mickey knew that if his coach had been upset when they lost in a shootout to the previous year’s champions, he certainly wasn’t going to go easy on them if they lost against Notre Dame. 

A Bag Skate was probably the way he would go in terms of punishment. And Mickey did not have the stomach to see the rookies throwing up all over the ice.

Mickey especially was feeling the pressure tonight. Petrovich had pulled him aside when he first arrived at the rink that afternoon and reminded him what was at stake tonight. 

Mickey had scored at least once every game so far this season -- a six-game streak that he wasn’t too keen on losing. He was already leading his team in goals and was currently one goal behind leading in the division. His coach had made it abundantly clear that he needed those two goals in order to stay at the head of the draft talks.

“This is big Mickey,” he said, his voice rough and urgent, “a prospect having a seven-game scoring streak looks really good to teams. You could be a contender for a first-round draft pick if you don’t fuck this up tonight. Just do what you have to do to score. Don’t pass if you don’t need to -- just drive to the net. This is bigger than all of them in there, you hear me?”

The whole conversation had left a sour taste in Mickey’s mouth -- he felt uneasy and conflicted about the whole thing. He understood it would look good for him if he led the division, but at the same time, selfishness had never been a part of his game. He wanted to win. He wanted the team to win. He wasn’t really in the habit of throwing his team under the bus to get ahead. 

Mickey felt someone slide in next to him, pulling him from his daze. He looked over, expecting Ben, but to his horror, saw Adams. 

“You good Milkovich?” he asked, slinging an arm over Mickey’s shoulder and pulling him to his chest. 

“M’fine,” Mickey muttered. 

“You look kind of nervous,” Adams said, shaking him a little. 

Why was this kid touching him? 

Mickey grabbed Adams’ arm and pulled it off his shoulders. 

“I said I’m fine,” Mickey said, assertive and rough, hoping Adams would get the hint and leave him the fuck alone. 

He didn’t. Because of course he couldn’t expect Adams of all people to understand social cues. 

“Is there something I can assist you with?” Mickey asked, turning towards him with eyebrows high on his forehead. 

Adams only smirked as if they were just two buddies joking around. 

“You know, you don’t have to be worried about the game today.” He ran a hand through his damp hair and looked at Mickey seriously, “I already took care of it.” 

What?

Mickey just stared at him in silence. He already didn’t like where this was going. 

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Mickey asked him slowly. 

Adams shrugged. 

“Charged my Citrine last night,” he said nonchalantly as if that was supposed to mean anything.

When Mickey didn’t give him the excitable reaction he had clearly been looking for, he continued. 

“Under the moonlight? It was only a half last night, but that’s better than nothing. Am I right?” 

“Are you fucking high?” Mickey asked him bluntly, shaking his head. Was he dreaming? What the fuck was happening right now?

“High on luck maybe,” Adams laughed. He reached underneath his jersey and pulled out a thick chain with a decently sized, ridged, yellow rock attached to it. Mickey glared at it before glancing back up to Adams who had a very proud look on his face. 

“Look. I have no idea what in the literal fuck you’re saying right now, so could you just explain it to me before I lose my absolute shit?” Mickey said through his teeth. 

“Damn,” Adams laughed, hitting Mickey’s shoulder with his. “Calm down, crazy. This is just my lucky crystal! It’s supposed to bring good luck and heal the mind, body, and soul. All you gotta do is let it charge under the moonlight and it’s good to go! I got a bunch of them too! Got one for wealth, one for migraines, for love,” he elbowed Mickey in the arm and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, “got one for everything. So if you ever need one -- I gotcha. But just let me know in advance so I can pre-charge it for you.”

Mickey stared at his teammate and swore he had never been so concerned for someone’s well-being in his life. 

“Are you okay? Do I need to go get the medic?”

“Oh Mick,” Adams chuckled, “of course I am! Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the spiritual properties of crystals. I listened to podcasts about it all summer! It’s really fascinating and has really helped my sanity.” 

Mickey glanced around the room to see if he was the only one actually hearing this shit. He was pretty sure if he tried to relay this conversation back to anyone, they would look at him how he was currently looking at Adams. 

“Look, that sounds like a really great scam you’ve gotten yourself into there, Adams,” Mickey said, trying to keep his voice level, “but can you please get the fuck away from me now?”

Adams only peered over at him, eyes growing concerned. 

“Hm. We may have to get you some Amethyst there, Mick,” he said seriously. “It’ll really help improve your mood, and it’ll surround you with relaxing energy.”

Mickey decided the only solution was to strangle him. But before he had the chance to get his hands on him, a body was sliding next to him on his other side. He looked over and he had never been more grateful to see Ben in his entire fucking life.

Ben looked at him amusedly. Mickey looked back with desperate, pleading eyes. 

“Hey Adams, mind if I steal Grumpy for a second?” 

Mickey was up and across the room before Adams could even respond. 

“Figured you suffered enough,” Ben laughed as the two of them made their way over to Ben’s cubby and sat on its adjacent bench. “He told me all about his rocks while we were getting ready.” 

“Guy has rocks in his fucking skull,” Mickey muttered, chancing a glance over to Adams who was now in the process of showing Jenkins and Nelson his necklace. 

Ben snorted and pulled his phone out of his bag. 

“I’ve got something that may make you feel slightly better,” he said, unlocking his phone and pulling up his text message history with Aria, before handing it to Mickey, “Aria just sent these to me from the stands. Look who’s with her.”

Aria had sent Ben three photos. Mickey clicked on the first one and nearly dropped the phone on the ground. 

It was Gallagher. 

The first picture was a selfie of the two of them. Aria was wearing what looked to be one of Ben’s old UMich jerseys, the yellow having faded slightly from overwashing. Gallagher was wearing a UMich hoodie with a navy ball cap he was wearing backward. 

Mickey had to admit -- he looked hot as fuck. 

The second and third pictures were taken by Aria of Ian with the team mascot, Willy the Wolverine. One of them had Gallagher standing there smiling with his hands in his pockets. In the next one, the mascot was pretending to eat Gallagher’s head while he stood there smiling wide, with his thumbs up like a dork. 

Mickey had to do everything in his power to stifle the smile that was threatening to expose him. He couldn’t believe Gallagher was actually at the game. 

He shook his head and cleared his throat, remembering himself. He looked over at Ben who was staring at him, one eyebrow quirked. Mickey locked the phone and gave it back to him. 

“Why would that make me feel better?” Mickey asked even though, for whatever reason, it really had lifted his mood. 

Ben shrugged and turned to put the phone back into his bag. 

“I don’t know. I know you don’t love the guy so I thought you could use it as blackmail material the next time you don’t do your homework.” 

Mickey snorted. 

“Thanks for looking out for me, Owens,” he said, shaking his head. 

Mickey was suddenly hit with a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach; a light fluttering making its way up into his chest. Whatever it was, it was completely uncharted territory for Mickey, who hadn’t felt anything remotely like this since his first couple of games with the team. 

When he felt a shiver go down his spine he jolted up onto his feet and instinctively shook his shoulders out. 

Was he nervous ? 

Is this what it felt like to actually be nervous before a game? 

“You good?” Ben asked from beside him. 

Mickey looked down at him, but before he could say anything, Nelson was calling a huddle.

Mickey took a deep breath, figuring he just needed to get some air in his lungs. 

It was fine. He was just worried about his conversation with Petrovich that afternoon, the pressure finally catching up to him. 

That was what he was nervous about. 

It had absolutely nothing to do with a certain redhead that apparently was somewhere in the building, watching him play for the first time. 

It didn’t. 

This meant nothing. 

________________________________

The two teams skated onto the ice for puck drop a couple of minutes later.

Mickey had given himself a pep talk while Nelson had said whatever he was saying during the huddle. He decided that he wasn’t going to let any of the information that was given to him before the game distract him from doing what he needed to do -- not Petrovich’s plea, and definitely not Gallagher’s presence. 

If he managed to score twice, then great. But he wasn’t a selfish player. 

As for Gallagher, well, he didn’t understand why the fact that he was at the game threw him off guard the way it did. It was only Gallagher, for fucks sake. 

But for someone famously anti-sport, why the fuck was he all of a sudden wearing merch and taking pictures with the mascot? The guy was confusing as fuck. 

Mickey shook his head as if to physically shake Ian out of it. He had a game to play. None of this was significant right now. But if Mickey nonchalantly scanned the crowd as he skated to the faceoff circle, that was no one's business but his own. 

Mickey won the faceoff cleanly and the puck made it's way back to Scott, a rookie defenceman who was being given a trial run on the first line to start the game. 

By mid-period, Michigan was pretty much dominating Notre Dame as far as puck possession went, totaling eleven shots on net. 

With five minutes left to play in the first and Michigan on the powerplay, Mickey and the rest of the powerplay unit passed the puck back and forth, trying to generate a scoring chance. 

Mickey passed to Nelson, who passed back. Mickey faked a shot but quickly passed over to Jenkins, giving the leftwing a wide-open net to shoot at. The puck ended up making contact with his stick at an awkward angle, sending it up and out of play. 

The second unit came on for a change a play or so later and as Mickey skated to the bench, he offered Jenkins a small stick tap of support. He knew enough about the guy to know that he was hard on himself, and often got discouraged when he felt like he fucked up. Mickey could only imagine that missing a shot like that would make him spiral further. Jenkins looked up as he made contact, offering a small smile. 

A couple of seconds later, Adams ended up turning over the puck at the blue line, resulting in a breakaway and a goal for Notre Dame. 1-0. 

The crowd booed and jeered as the other team huddled and celebrated. Mickey couldn't help but lean over to Ben, who was sitting next to him. 

“Must not have charged his rocks for long enough last night,” he whispered. 

Ben snorted loudly and hit Mickey with his shoulder, doing his best to hide his laughter in his glove. 

The rest of the period went by quickly, and the team made their way through the tunnel for their twenty-minute break. Petrovich was standing at the end of the hall near the Wolverine locker room. Mickey made the mistake of making eye contact with him, and Petrovich beckoned him over. 

He waited for everyone to get into the locker room before he glared down at Mickey.

“What did I say?” he said, in a tone that anyone else would consider calm, but that Mickey recognized as one that was on the verge of being overtaken by agitation, warning. 

“About what?” Mickey asked, raising his brows in genuine confusion. 

“Scoring. Not passing. Especially on a powerplay,” he said through his teeth whilst looking around for eavesdroppers.

Surely Petrovich wasn’t insinuating that Mickey should have taken the shot that he passed to Jenkins. Jamal had been wide open. It wouldn’t have made any sense for Mickey to take it himself. 

“What, Jenkins? He was open,” Mickey said back, his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“And I told you what was on the line. Drive to the net next time and get it done yourself,” Petrovich hissed. “Now go.” 

Mickey turned to enter the locker room, feeling a little on edge. He didn’t understand his coach’s intensity when it came to him scoring tonight. Surely his own personal stats should matter more to Mickey than his coach, who should be focusing more on the team as a whole. 

He was looking down as he was about to enter the door before he practically had a head-on collision with Murphy, who was coming out of the locker room at the same time. 

“Shit, sorry Coach,” Mickey muttered, looking up and making eye contact with the assistant coach. 

Murphy stared at him for a moment with furrowed brows, a look that was between confusion and pity. With a sigh, he began to walk past Mickey but he stopped when he was next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Keep your head up, Mickey,” he said, and with a light squeeze and a smile that was more on the verge of being sad than genuine, he was out of sight.

That was weird.

________________________________

The second period had Mickey scoring a goal in the opening minute. A hard slapshot from center that the Notre Dame goalie had no chance on. 

The building erupted and his teammates surrounded him, giving each other helmet taps. 

And so Mickey’s scoring streak continued. 

The remaining two periods were more eventful than the first. Each team scored twice more, making it all tied up at 3-3 by the end of the third, forcing them into overtime. 

Petrovich had practically screamed his threatening pep talk at the bench while they waited for extra time to start. Mickey wouldn't be surprised if Aria and Gallagher could hear him yelling from wherever they were sitting in the arena. 

Why Mickey’s brain had decided that wondering where Gallagher was sitting was important when there was a pressing five minutes ahead of him, he had no idea. He pushed the thought aside as he skated over to take another faceoff. 

Overtime was a lot of back and forth, each team generating ample chances to end the game but none of them cashing in.

With twenty seconds left, and the threat of being forced into a dreaded shootout upon them, Mickey was getting ready for a faceoff in the Wolverine zone.

“Ey,” Ben called from next to him. 

Mickey looked over to see his best friend taking off his glove and scratching his nose with his index finger and then nodding his head toward centre ice. It was code for a play that they sometimes called for fun in practice. They had never actually called it in a real game because it was risky, and honestly, kind of dumb.

“Seriously?” Mickey said back. 

“If you can win it,” Ben said, shrugging and getting into position. 

The odds of them being able to pull it off were low, but three on three hockey meant there was a lot more room to move. That was the beauty of overtime. 

They really had nothing to lose. Fuck it.

Mickey nodded his head in agreement and Ben made eye contact with Scott to silently let him know the plan with the same gestures.

Mickey won the faceoff and hit the puck in Ben’s direction. He skated hard towards centre and looked back at Ben, who faked the pass to Scott behind the Wolverine net but instead hit it with the back of his stick towards Mickey, who was already at centre by the time he let it go. 

The puck sailed in between both the forward and the defenceman for Notre Dame, who figured out their play a little too late and attempted to intercept it. 

The puck made it to Mickey, who took it on his stick and started out towards the Notre Dame net, the opposing defenseman trailing somewhere behind him. He had a clean break towards the net. 

“Ten seconds!” he heard his teammates yelling from the bench as the crowd began to roar to life around him.

Mickey looked up and saw the goalie out to challenge. He approached the offensive zone blue line, continuously moving the puck. 

He slowed once he got closer to the net and winded up to take a shot. He let it go softly, quickly getting his stick back onto the ice and moving to the left as if he still had the puck in his possession, and planned on shooting backhand. The goalie took the bait and moved with him, the puck making its way between his legs and into the net. 

The sound of the goal horn and the cheers of the crowd flooded Mickey’s ears as he was immediately swarmed by his teammates coming off the bench to celebrate. Ben eventually found him and pulled him in for a giant bear hug. 

“Fucking knew you could pull that off, asshole,” Ben yelled over the other guys’ raucous celebrations.  

Mickey looked up at the Jumbotron where they were showing a replay of the goal. Mickey wasn’t sure what possessed him to pull a Kucherov and try a ‘no move’ for the first time, especially when he very well could have missed it and sent his team to a shootout. Regardless, he was over the moon that it turned out as fucking good as it did. 

“Fuck. That’s a highlight-reel goal for sure,” Ben said, as the team began skating back to the bench to head to the locker room. 

“Goal wouldn’t have happened without your assist,” Mickey said, shoving at Ben, who laughed. 

“Don’t get modest on us now, Mikhailo. It’s a weird look on you. Besides, you deserve to brag a little, you are the top scorer in the league now.” 

“Fuck off,” Mickey said, through joyful laughter. 

Ben’s words had Mickey looking over at the bench towards Petrovich. It was very possible that he wouldn’t be happy with the play that had led to the goal, given that it wasn’t anything close to the drills they ran in practice and Petrovich was a technical coach before anything else. 

He caught his coach’s eye who gave him a curt nod and a barely-there smile. And while it wasn’t the reaction he was expecting given the pressure that Petrovich put on him before the game, Mickey couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d deal with the fallout of their decision on Monday. 

For now, he walked through the tunnel as the division’s top scorer, a whole slew of emotions from relief to fulfillment filling his chest. 

________________________________

Mickey had barely made it five steps outside the arena before he heard Aria yelling his name. He looked to his left and saw her bright smile emerging from the post-game crowd that was still gathered. The jersey from Ben’s closet went down to her knees. Aria flung her arms around Mickey’s neck when she reached him, pulling him into a tight embrace. 

“You did so fucking well, Mick. I’m so proud of you,” Aria said into his ear, which made Mickey hug her instinctively tighter. 

She finally released him from her death grip and looked up at him with a warm smile. Aria made it a point to give Mickey a hug after every game, regardless if they won or lost. It was something she had done since their first year. 

At first, Mickey had grumbled, his awkward and grumpy exterior causing him to push back on the affection. But now he expected it; craved it, even. He was like one of those conditioned salivating dogs in that one psychology experiment he learned about in first year. God, why was he remembering first-year psychology shit right now? Gallagher would be proud. 

“Hiya Mick!” he heard from behind Aria, and, as if on cue, Gallagher emerged from the crowd and joined the two of them. Mickey felt heat in his cheeks immediately.

“Ey,” Mickey nodded at him, making brief eye contact before looking away. He still didn’t really know how to act around Gallagher in the presence of others. 

“Where did you leave Ben?” Aria asked, breaking the silence. 

“Coaches’ office. Captains meeting or some shit,” Mickey replied. “Although he may or may not be getting into shit for calling an unapproved play.”

Aria rolled her eyes dramatically. 

“I swear to God that coach of yours is the embodiment of a prick. Like if a physical prick had legs and a mouth and could walk around and shit, that would be him,” Aria ranted, shaking her head. “You literally won. You were ten seconds away from going to a shootout and that could have gone either way. It turned out to be a good call.”

Mickey couldn’t help but give her an amused look. He couldn’t exactly talk badly about Petrovich, but for whatever reason, it did make him feel slightly better when he heard other people doing it. 

“I better go find him. You know how he gets after talks with that shitbag,” Aria sighed. She turned to Ian, who was looking around nonchalantly like an idiot, as though not to be caught eavesdropping on their conversation. “Thanks for coming with me Ian! You really saved me from sitting with all the hockey wife wannabees. 

“Glad I could be of service,” Ian snorted. 

After giving him a quick hug, and Mickey’s arm a squeeze, Aria was gone.

Mickey looked over to see that Ian already had his eyes locked in on him. 

Despite Aria’s partial explanation, he was still kind of wondering what the fuck Gallagher was doing here. Given his strong feelings towards team sports, Mickey assumed that being in the vicinity of a sporting event would cause him to break out into a rash. 

Mickey’s eyes fixed in on the hat Ian was wearing, and he couldn't help the bemused look that settled on his face. 

“Nice hat. How much did Aria have to pay you to wear that thing?”

Ian snorted.

“Well she offered $50 but still had to drag me here kicking and screaming, so.”

“Well you can take it off, Ace. Wouldn't want to ruin your I Hate Athletes Manifesto,” Mickey joked. 

They shared a laugh before silence fell between them again. Mickey looked around, kind of hoping that Aria would save the day and return with Ben, because he didn’t really know what else to do or say to Gallagher.  

“You did really well,” Ian said suddenly.

Mickey turned back to him and searched his face, thinking he must have misheard. But Ian’s face was kind. Genuine. He looked like he meant it.

He shifted on the balls of his feet before deciding that making fun of Gallagher’s foray into the sports world simply had to be done.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey inquired. “And what is ‘ really well ’ to you? Have you ever even seen a hockey game?” 

“Well you put the round thing in the net. Twice. And based on everyone’s reaction when you did, I’m assuming that it was a good thing, so,” Ian fired back, with a chuckle.

Mickey rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he did so.

“It was kind of cool to see you out there though,” Ian continued. “You actually seem like you’re kinda good,” he shrugged, as he looked down at the ground. When his eyes returned to meet Mickey’s, green on blue, his expression looked soft. Almost shy. 

“Jesus Christ. You’re not falling in love with me now that you’ve seen my sweet moves, are you?” Mickey asked, jokingly. “Because I’m pretty sure that would be in violation of rule number five, Gallagher.” 

Ian’s eyes widened ever so slightly before his face transformed into a familiar suggestive look that he often got when he was gearing up to say something that was sure to make Mickey roll his eyes. 

“Well, we both know that you fell in love with me the minute you saw me in my glasses, so fair is fair, right?” he teased back.

Before Mickey could hit back, he was interrupted by someone tugging on the bottom of his hoodie. He turned to see a kid around the age of nine or ten standing there with a couple of other kids behind him. They all looked preciously nervous. 

“Uhm. Are you -- you’re Mickey Milkovich,” he croaked out. He turned to look at some adults behind him, who Mickey assumed were his parents. They looked at him reassuringly before he turned back to Mickey and continued, his voice wavering. “I was wondering if you could sign my jersey?” 

He held out a Sharpie, halfheartedly, as if he expected Mickey to not take it and send him away.

“Yeah, for sure,” Mickey said, taking the pen from him. “What’s your name?”

“Theo,” the boy said, his eyes lighting up.

“You play hockey, Theo?”

Theo nodded. 

“What position do you play?” Mickey asked, crouching down so that he could sign the front of the kid’s jersey. 

“Centre,” he replied. 

“The best position.” Mickey gave him a bright smile. He felt kind of bad that the kid was nervous around him. He was nothing special. 

Theo’s face broke into a beaming grin. 

“Yeah! That’s what I keep saying. I’ve scored the most goals this year but everyone on my team says I’m just lucky because they pass to me,” he shrugged. 

Mickey laughed. 

“Well I’ll bet they’re just jealous that you’re going places,” Mickey said, capping the pen and giving it back to him. 

“Yeah. That’s what my dad says. He says that about you, too,” Theo shrugged and looked at the ground shyly before adding, “and you’re the best hockey player on your team. So I know he’s telling the truth.”

He would never get used to people just...saying nice things to him outright. 

“Your dad sounds like a smart man, kid,” Mickey smiled. “Can’t wait to see you in the big leagues one day.” 

Theo’s eyes twinkled and he gave Mickey a bright smile. 

“You too,” he replied. He gave Mickey one last shy look and ran towards his parents, who gave Mickey appreciative nods as they walked away. 

Mickey spent the next ten minutes signing merchandise for the other kids who had gathered. They all chatted his ear off about goals they’d scored this season on their respective teams. He listened attentively and asked them follow-up questions. 

He caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. Gallagher had backed up to stand by the wall of the arena and was looking at him interacting with the kids. Mickey was surprised he hadn’t left yet, considering it was a Friday night and most college students would be out on the town after finishing midterm season. Maybe he was waiting for Aria. 

When the last kid walked away with their parents, Mickey stood up from where he had been crouching on the ground. His eyes immediately locked in with Gallagher’s, which was not his fault, who pushed off the wall and approached him again. 

“Guess you are a hot commodity, all those kids wanting your autograph,” he said, smiling warmly.

“What can I say? I told you, Gallagher,” Mickey said, shrugging. 

Ian took his bottom lip into his mouth, and looked thoughtful as if contemplating what he was going to say next.

“Guess I’ll have to share you, huh?” he finally said. 

Mickey gave him a funny look before scratching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and looking away. 

“Let’s go back to your place,” Ian whispered. 

Mickey’s eyes snapped back up to Gallagher’s. 

“Think it’ll be hard to explain to Ben and Aria why my arch-nemesis is in my room if there's moans coming out of it,” Mickey laughed. 

“Pfft. You really still keeping up the arch-nemesis cover, Mickey? You could just tell them the truth.” 

“And what's the truth?” 

“That you’re in love with me and my dick and that I’ll be over a lot more from now on,” Ian said, shrugging nonchalantly. 

Mickey snorted rudely, even as he felt heat creep up the back of his neck. 

“As much as I appreciate the modesty and the very obvious well-intended sentiments, I won’t be doing that,” he replied.

“Oh I am most definitely the most modest guy around, but when it comes to my dick I have to keep it real,” Ian said, putting his hands in his pocket. “You should know better than anyone. You’ve seen it.”

“And humble too,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes. 

Ian snickered and gave Mickey a quick once over before a playful grin spread across his face.

“Let’s go back to my place then,” Ian suggested, nodding his head towards the direction of his dorm room. 

Mickey looked around quickly and then back at Ian, who had already started walking. 

And yeah. Okay. 

________________________________

Ian closed the door behind Mickey and pushed him hard up against it. Bodies pressed. He was on him instantly, kissing his spit-wet lips with torrid passion.

Ian peeled him off the door, stumbling towards the bed, the both of them yanking their tops off and getting to work on their shoes.

It was clunky, and a bit awkward, but this part usually was.

Eventually though, when they were finally naked, Ian walked Mickey over to the edge of the bed and pushed him down, following him immediately until his heavyset body had completely surrounded him.

Their kisses resumed at their usual intensity, all tongues, and bites, their hands pinching and scratching at bare skin. Sweat.

When they were together like this -- alone, finally alone -- it was like a dormant addiction had been triggered and they were left desperately clawing for a hit. 

Ian ran his hands through Mickey’s hair, licking into his mouth, as Mickey’s hands found Gallagher’s ass, pressing him closer.

Ian moaned, but detached himself from Mickey’s mouth for long enough to say, “can’t believe I’ve got the guy who scored the game-winner in my bed.”

Mickey rolled his eyes at Ian’s dorky line. 

“Yeah well I can’t believe I’m in a nerd’s bed but here we are.”

Ian pulled back completely, putting enough distance between their faces so he could stare down into Mickey’s eyes. 

“Do you want me to put my glasses on?” he asked cheekily, his eyebrows dancing.

Mickey removed his hands from Ian’s ass to slap and pinch at his sides, his cheeks flaming at this being the topic of conversation again.

“Fuck you, man, I never should have told you that shit,” he muttered, trying to avoid looking embarrassed because he knew that it just riled Ian up more. He knew he was doing a terrible job.

Ian grabbed Mickey’s arms from where he was pinching and pinned them next to his head by the wrists. 

“You didn’t actually tell me anything,” he began. “But can I take this as an admission of you having a thing for nerds?”

Mickey, still pinned, kept his eyes on Ian’s as he moved his head off the pillow, leaning closer and closer, watching the redhead’s eyes become clouded with curiosity before moving his mouth over toward Ian’s ear and whispering, “I’ll never tell.”

And with that, Mickey used his considerable strength, plus the fact that Ian’s muscles were lax from the surprise of his playful whisper, to flip them until he was straddling Gallagher and lining up their crotches to begin a deliciously slow grind.

Mickey swooped down for a kiss, but Ian swerved his head to ask, “No seriously, is it just a glasses thing or is it a full-on nerd thing? I need to know. For science.”

Mickey groaned, increasing the pressure of his thrusts. 

“Please shut the fuck up, Gallagher. I’m tryna fuck you here.”

Ian chuckled, pushing his pelvis up to meet Mickey’s thrusts, exhaling audibly, his heels running up and down Mickey’s calves, seemingly giving up on his ‘being annoying’ tirade to focus on the sweet friction.

No such luck.

“Have you eve-”

Before Ian could finish whatever stupid ass question he was about to ask, Mickey slapped one hand over Ian’s mouth and used the other to reach down and thumb at Ian's head, smearing the beads of pre-come he felt to begin a smooth stroke of Ian’s cock, biting at his neck in warning. 

He begged and prayed that Gallagher would finally make the transition from being annoying to being -- okay, yes, still annoying -- but mostly horny.

Ian licked and bit at Mickey’s hand until he eventually couldn’t take the disgusting wetness, and he removed it with an exaggerated grimace. Ian, using the momentum of Mickey being distracted by his wet palm, flipped them again so he was back on top.

Ian smiled cheekily down at him before he started to pepper open-mouthed wet sucks down the column of Mickey’s throat. He licked down to his chest before lapping at his nipples, those hardened buds, whilst his large hands rubbed up and down his sides. Mickey was rock hard from just a few minutes of grinding, and the feeling of Ian’s tongue descending on his body was slowly driving him insane.

“You looked fuckin’ hot out there Mick,” Ian let out between kisses.

Mickey flicked his eyes down but Ian seemed focused on biting into the flesh of his hip before soothing it over with his soft tongue.

“I was in like 20 pounds of gear,” Mickey exhaled. His arousal had almost reached a tipping point so he had no idea why he was bringing up his hockey gear right now.

“Regardless.” Ian said, his voice dark and needy. “Hot.” Kiss. “Something about the way you glided on the ice.” Bite. “Damn.” Lick.

Mickey’s patience was already wearing thin, Ian kissing and sucking all over his stomach, hips, and thighs but leaving his achingly hard dick untouched.

“Gallagher, I’m begging you to put that mouth to better use.”

Ian chuckled as his mouth hovered above Mickey’s dick for an excruciating beat, before swooping down to get to work on his inner thighs, Ian’s teeth greeting sensitive, sweaty skin.

“Does this make me a groupie?” he asked.

“You’re not a groupie if you don’t actually suck the dick.”

Mickey felt the presence of the mouth that was on his thighs disappear, and he bucked up into the air, searching for contact. When he received nothing after a few moments, his arousal seeping out of his pores, his eyes shot open as he got up on his elbows to glare down at Gallagher, who was seemingly prepared for his death stare.

Ian smirked up at him -- had clearly been waiting for an audience -- as he opened his mouth and presented his glistening tongue. He then slowly, ever so slowly, lowered his head down and flicked his tongue on Mickey’s throbbing slit. The small bit of contact was enough to have Mickey shaking, and Ian, seemingly satisfied with his reaction, finally took mercy on him as he wrapped his wet lips around Mickey’s head, maintaining unbroken eye contact all the while.

The tight suction plus the heat of Gallagher’s gaze solicited a loud exhale from a blithering Mickey, who collapsed back onto the bed, palms to his temples and fingers grasping black hair. Relief.

“Fuck, Ian,” he panted loudly.

Gallagher paused briefly as if surprised, before he hummed around Mickey’s dick, the vibration making Mickey's toes curl under, as Ian slowly lowered his mouth down the rest of Mickey’s length.

________________________________

Mickey came embarrassingly quickly, after only three minutes of an expertly performed blow job, before he returned the favour and made it his mission to make Ian come quicker. He employed all his best tricks, and some heavy nipple pinching pushed Ian over the edge in only two minutes. Point one Milkovich.

Ian was being very annoying as he guzzled down water in his boxers at the end of the bed. He was doing his best impression of a hockey player, slapping Mickey’s thigh and putting on his best ‘bro voice’ while telling him “good game, bro” and “good hustle out there” and “really liked what you did with the stick, man” in reference to their sex.

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, asshole, so joke’s on you,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes and getting up to pull his phone out of his joggers. 

He opened his messages and saw there was one from Mandy congratulating him on his win. Mickey knew she made an effort to keep up with his game schedule even if she didn’t watch the games because she always texted him afterward. He appreciated the gesture regardless. 

Then there were three from Ben --

Ben (10:37PM): coach is pissed. 

Ben (10:37PM): gonna be a rough practice monday. 

Ben: (10:38PM): where’d you go? 

He was about to respond when Ian’s voice interrupted him. 

“Hey, would you wanna go get some pizza? I’m fuckin’ hungry,” he said, as he reached for his shoes and started to pull them on.

Mickey stared blankly at Ian’s calm, neutral face. He slowly got up to locate items of clothing and threw them on while his mind caught up with Gallagher’s request. They’d never really hung after their hook-ups, and while it wasn’t necessarily a rule, it also wasn’t not a rule. 

Usually Mickey would have all his clothes on and be out of the room by now, but Gallagher had thrown him a curveball. 

He couldn’t help but feel like it would be a little weird. Wouldn’t it? They weren’t exactly friends, they just had good sex. So what would they even talk about? Was he going to have to resort to asking Gallagher what his favourite colour was to break the ice? 

“It’s almost 11 o’clock,” Mickey said, stupidly, because honest to God he didn’t know what else to say. 

“Thank you Fathertime, although I’m not sure that's what I asked,” Ian said, amused. 

“Kind of late to eat, don’t you think?” 

“No?” Ian said slowly. “I’m hungry. That’s as good a time as any in my opinion.”

Mickey didn’t say anything, he just stared at Ian like an idiot. 

“You don’t have to get pizza. You could get pasta or wings or something?” Ian continued.

“I dunno, man,” Mickey said, sitting on the bed to pull on his socks and shoes. 

If they weren’t studying and they weren’t fucking, then Mickey didn’t know what else to do with him. A part of him was still confused as to how they all of a sudden just...got along. Sure, they’d been hooking up a lot over the past couple of weeks, but they definitely didn’t hang out as bro’s after the fact. They would just bicker until someone left.

This was different though. This was deliberately going to a public place together. No studying. No sex. 

“Okay. Well, I’m hungry. I'm going. So you can come if you want. Or you can go home. Whatever you want,” Ian said, as he shrugged on a wool-lined jean jacket. He grabbed his keys and wallet off his desk and headed toward the door. 

At that moment, Mickey’s stomach decided to betray him, letting out an aggressive grumble. 

And well. He supposed it had been decided for him. 

It was just pizza anyway. 

And he was starving.

It didn’t have to be a thing.

________________________________

“Are we on a date right now?”

Of course those would be the first words that came out of Gallagher’s mouth once their pizzas and drinks were safely in hand as they left Domino's Pizza. Mickey rolled his eyes to high heavens and nearly choked on his coke in the process.

“In your fucking dreams, Gallagher,” Mickey scoffed.

Ian chuckled cheekily.

They began the walk back to campus, existing in amicable silence for a while. Mickey occasionally glanced over to see Gallagher smiling at the ground, or looking back at him.

They continued to walk down the street and it was only then that Mickey realized he may not have thought this all the way through because where the fuck were they going to eat?  Were they gonna go back to Gallagher’s place? And what? Eat there? In his room? 

Mickey didn’t know why he was making such a big deal out of eating a pizza in Gallagher’s room but for one reason or another, his brain seemed to think it was the biggest deal in the whole universe at this current point in time. 

By the time they approached Ian’s dorm, Mickey had formulated a plan to excuse himself that included Ben and Aria getting into a horrible fight that he needed to mediate. But before he could pretend to try and calm an inconsolable, non-existent Ben over the phone, Gallagher stopped outside of the building and nodded toward a step.

“Wanna sit here and eat?” he asked, his voice light.

Before Mickey could answer, Gallagher was sitting on the single stair, opening his pizza box and placing it beside him. 

When he saw that Mickey was still standing in the same spot, making no move to sit down, he quirked a brow at him in question. 

“You gonna sit down, or?” 

Mickey sighed silently and accepted defeat, once again, sitting next to Gallagher on the step that was facing out onto a massive grassy patch, illuminated by the moonlight and the soft glow of the overhead lights.

“S’long as you don’t propose marriage to me on this fucking step,” he replied, opening his box and taking a slice of pizza out. 

“You’re so high maintenance,” Ian said, giving him a small nudge with his elbow. 

They were quiet as they worked away at their pizza; the sounds of them munching and slurping coke filling the dead air. It wasn’t an awkward or heavy silence like Mickey assumed it would be. It was kind of nice. It was cold out, but the air was bizarrely still, and the grass glistened with moisture as the view in front of them. It was peaceful. Comfortable. 

“So what position do you play?” Ian asked, after swallowing what sounded like a large gulp of pizza. 

“I think you know what position I play, tough guy.”

Mickey snorted. What a great joke. Ian snickered too, which was very generous of him. 

“Not in bed, idiot. On the ice, or whatever.”

Mickey pushed down the unease bubbling up in his stomach. Gallagher asked him things now. They talked. It was fine.

It didn’t have to be a thing.

“Centre. Well, top-scoring centre, actually,” he said, his voice laced with a joking cockiness.

“Hmm. Top scoring sounds about right. You can score with me any time.”

“God, you’re a loser,” Mickey responded playfully, Ian’s shoulder bumping him in retaliation.

Mickey threw his eyes over to see Gallagher looking back at him, wearing a closed-lip smile around a mouthful of pizza.

He shook his head and darted his eyes to the ground. Doofus.

“So,” Mickey said, “first hockey game ever, huh? How was it?”

“Hmm.” Ian seemed to consider this for a moment, before responding. “I wish you played the type of hockey where they’re not on the ice. Field hockey, I think? I’m pretty sure those guys wear singlets and shorts. It’s a crime I couldn’t see your legs under your uniform.”

Mickey barked out a laugh.

“Really?” Mickey said. “You were only there for my legs?”

“Well I sure as hell wasn’t there for the sport,” Ian responded, wearing a cheeky smile. 

And before Mickey had a chance to stop himself, he asked, “what were you there for?”

He immediately shut his eyes, quickening his chews out of pure awkwardness. What a weird question. Besides -- what kind of answer was he looking for?

“Aria got ditched and asked me last minute if I wanted to go. Plus I thought if I finally saw you play and you sucked, then my entire outlook on life would have been proved correct and I could have used it to bring down the system,” he said, sighing dramatically. “But jokes on me, right? Because damn. You’re alright.”

“Y’know if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you’re the only one of us that has a fetish here because you clearly have a thing for athletes. You secretly wanna be a hockey wife? That it?”

“Please. You basically creamed in your pants when you saw me in those glasses.”

“Yeah? And? You gave me a very impassioned blowjob after seeing me play.”

Ian shrugged, as if to say ‘ well what can you do’ . It could have been the cold of the air, or the heat from the pizza, but Mickey didn’t miss the dusting of red on Ian’s cheeks.

They both exhaled from their noses, pseudo-laughs while their mouths were full, as they allowed the quiet to surround them again.

Slurp of coke. Gulp of pizza. Buzz of overhead light. Quiet. Peace.

“Y’know,” Ian said, softly, after a few minutes of silence. “You said my name before.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mickey asked, giving him a funny look.

“Back in my room. You called me Ian. You’ve never done that before,” he said, shrugging and ducking his head ever so slightly. 

“Well? Is that not your name?” Mickey asked, completely befuddled. He wasn’t sure if that was meant to be some sort of milestone, but Gallagher’s standards sure were low if it was.

“I liked it,” Ian replied simply, as the breath from Mickey’s lungs escaped in a whoosh.

Mickey didn’t really know what to say to that. He wasn’t even sure what Gallagher meant. It wasn’t a generic snarky Gallagher response that he’d come to expect and knew how to handle.

He chanced a look over at Ian who scratched the back of his head and reached for his coke. The normally playful smirk that sat on his face was nowhere to be seen. 

“You like it when people call you your name?” Mickey finally said, after a long and admittedly awkward silence. 

Ian snorted. 

“Shut up.” 

“I’m just saying, that seems like an odd thing for someone to get excited about. But to each their own I guess.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck off,” Ian smiled, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he shook his head. 

Mickey got up from the step a few minutes later after they had both finished eating. 

“Alright Ian ,” he said, cheekily. “I’m gonna head off. Got another game tomorrow and shit, so.”

He went to grab his empty pizza box but Gallagher waved him away with his hand. 

“I got this, don’t worry,” he said, standing up and collecting both boxes and straightening up to look at Mickey.

“Right. Thanks,” Mickey said, putting his hands in his hoodie pockets and exhaling out of his mouth. He could see his foggy breath in the air in front of him, and the sight sent an involuntary shiver down his spine and through his body. When had it got so fucking cold? And why did he never bring a jacket? 

Ian seemed to notice Mickey shivering because the next thing he knew Ian was putting the boxes down on the step again and shrugging off his jean jacket. 

“Here. Take this, idiot.”

Mickey stared at the jacket like it was a 12-inch magenta dildo.

“Nah man, it’s cool. I’m fine. I’ll survive. What’ll you wear?” he stammered out, because what the fuck was happening? His teeth had started chattering from the cold even though he was doing everything in his power to appear unaffected. 

“It’s a bit of a walk back for you and I’m literally right here,” Ian said, nodding back towards his building. “It's cold. Just give it back to me on Monday,” he shrugged, holding the jacket out for Mickey to take like it was no big deal. 

Mickey hesitated, looking between Ian and the jacket a couple of times. It wasn't a big deal. It was just a fucking jacket. And he was really fucking cold. 

It didn’t have to be a thing. 

He finally reached out and took it. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled at the ground, as he shrugged it on. 

It was way too big for him, the sleeves going well past his hands and the shoulders definitely not being in the right spot. The warmth from Ian’s body heat hit him almost instantly.

He looked back at Ian, who gave him a quick once over, before turning to pick up the boxes from the steps. Mickey swore he saw a small smirk creep across his face as he did. 

“Right. Well, see ya,” Mickey said, backing up in the direction of his apartment. 

“Night, Mick,” Ian said, doing the same. 

They turned at the same time and Mickey -- and Gallagher’s jacket -- made their way home.

Warm all over.

Chapter Text

The week that followed Ian’s first hockey game and the shared pizza on his dorm’s stoop was much the same as the previous couple. It was filled with lots of sex, an acceptable amount of studying, and, to Mickey’s surprise, a seemingly never-ending daily stream of nonsensical texts.

They were hooking up more and more, often twice a day, and their time spent together before and after each session slowly increased as the days went on.

It had even gotten to the point where Mickey knew every moment of Gallagher’s schedule -- down to the minute. Of course, this was mostly for sex-having purposes, but regardless, the two men had well and truly engrained each other into the very fabric of the other’s life.

Mickey didn’t really know when it happened, exactly. It felt like it came out of nowhere, although looking back, it had been more of an insidious build, executed sneakily by the redhead. He was bending his way around their very important rules with that huge dorky smile and Mickey didn’t know why, but he was powerless to stop it.

He’d never admit it to Gallagher, but it hadn't been the worst few weeks of his life.

________________________________

Gallagher (8:21am): Are you taking care of my jacket, TAM?

Mickey (8:42am): who tf is tam

Gallagher (8:44am): You. Tiny Arrogant Monster.

Mickey (8:44am): i should beat your ass

Gallagher (8:45am): Would your little hands even make it out of the jacket?

Mickey (8:46am): eat me

Gallagher (8:47am): Yeah? You’d let me? 😏

Mickey (8:47am): okay goodbye

Gallagher (8:47am): 😉 

*

Gallagher (11:45pm): Am I the best sex you’ve ever had?

Mickey (11:47pm): can you go the fuck to sleep

Gallagher (11:47pm): I’m taking that as a yes.

Gallagher (11:48pm): Good night :)

*

Mickey (8:04pm): remind me how to give a shit about studying

Gallagher (8:10pm): If you don’t I’m withholding sex?

Mickey (8:11pm): hahahahaha

Mickey (8:11pm): sorry didn’t realise i was talking to a stand up comedian

Gallagher (8:13pm): Why are you so annoying?

Mickey (8:14pm): hanging out with you for too long clearly

Gallagher (8:15pm): 😎

Gallagher (8:15pm): Send a picture of your tutorial questions done and you can come over and collect your reward.

Mickey (8:16pm): nah i’ll just come over now

Gallagher (8:16pm): NO!

Gallagher (8:16pm): No sex until the questions are done!

Gallagher (8:20pm): Don’t you dare come over yet!

Gallagher (8:32pm): ...

Gallagher (8:32pm): Are you coming over? I'm hard now ☹️

Mickey (8:33pm): i’m outside

Mickey (8:33pm): let me in it’s fuckn cold

*

Gallagher (4:14pm): When are you gonna tell Ben you’re in love with me?

Mickey (4:20pm): when are you gonna eat shit

*

Gallagher (10:34pm): Hey ;)

Gallagher (10:34pm): Thought I’d send you something to get you going ;)

Gallagher (10:34pm): Make sure no one’s around...you might jizz on site.

Gallagher (10:35pm): *NSFW*

Mickey (10:55 pm): i literally hate you and if you don’t bring me a coffee to class tomorrow you can say goodbye to my ass forever

Gallagher (10:57pm): Should I bring cereal too?

Mickey (10:55pm): fuck off

Gallagher (11:04pm): quickie?

Mickey (11:05pm): come in through the window

________________________________

Mickey was lying on the couch in his apartment, a bowl of popcorn cradled in his arms, as he watched one of his favourite Buffy episodes in happy solitude.

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon; Aria was working the closing shift, Ben was in class until 6 pm and Ian was tutoring some other schmuck until 2 pm. Mickey had the place to himself, just the way he liked it, and it was pure bliss. He was watching the season 2 Halloween episode, mainly for Spike, but also to psych himself up for the Halloween party he was being forced to attend that night when he felt his phone buzz on the couch.

Gallagher (2:14pm): Midterms results have been posted.

Gallagher (2:14pm): Send me pics of your results.

Gallagher (2:14pm): A lot riding on this Milkovich...

Mickey felt his stomach jolt at the series of texts as he shook his head at this idiot. He was clearly taking this glasses-clad blowjob offer seriously, and not that Mickey would ever admit it, but it was pretty much all he’d been thinking about for the past week.

He nervously opened up the Canvas app on his phone -- which he had downloaded at Ian’s insistence -- to track down his exam results.

After navigating the confusing as fuck interface, inputting his password like four fucking times, he finally found the link to retrieve his midterm results.

Okay, okay. This was all going to be fine.

If he didn’t pass it just meant his number one sexual fantasy wouldn’t come true. Oh, and he’d be that much closer to being kicked off the hockey team. Mickey pushed away the realization that hockey had been demoted to second on his priority list, after glasses-clad blowjob, because Jesus Christ, he needed to be put in horny jail.

He opened the link, and to his absolute fucking shock and delight, he saw he got two B-’s, a B, and a B+ in his four subjects.

Holy fuck.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a B on one of his exams let alone on all four of them. This was insane.

His gut immediately flooded with relief. He couldn't believe he had actually managed to pull this off.

He texted a screenshot of his results to his tutor.

Gallagher (2:26pm): DAMN!! Congratulations!! 🥳

Gallagher (2:26pm): You must have a very smart and sexy tutor 😏

Mickey (2:27pm): yeah, yeah 🙄 how’d you do?

A few minutes later, Mickey received a screenshot of straight-A results, accompanied with a simple ‘😎’

Of course.

Mickey (2:31pm): nerd

Mickey (2:31pm): looks like we both deserve a reward for our hard work

Gallagher (2:32pm): You know, I was just thinking the same thing.

Mickey (2:32pm): i’ve got the apartment to myself

Mickey waited for what felt like an eternity for a response from Gallagher, before finally receiving --

Gallagher (2:36pm): Be there in 30.

Considering it only took about ten minutes to walk from Ian’s dorm to Mickey’s apartment, he had no idea why Gallagher had pre-empted taking a million years to get there.

Usually he was over almost immediately, easily under the ten minutes Google Maps suggested, due to his giraffe legs.

Mickey was impatient. The extra 20 minutes might as well be forever at this point, especially now that he knew what would be happening at the end of those excruciating minutes.

Why the fuck was he taking so long?

Mickey passed the time doing some push-ups in front of the Buffy episode and checking his phone every couple of minutes to see if it had been 30 minutes yet.

Eventually, and just as Mickey was considering walking to Ian’s house himself, there was a knock at the door.

He paused the TV and made his way over to the front door of his apartment, his mouth forming into a small smirk that he had not given permission to be there.

He found that was happening more and more these days. Involuntary smiling.

When he hung out with Gallagher when he thought about some stupid ass thing he had said when he received a suggestive text from him out of the blue.

He had no idea what the fuck was wrong with him lately.

But when he opened the door, his face fell immediately as he was confronted with the most -- confusing sight he’d ever seen.

It was Gallagher alright, wearing his infamous glasses. But he was also sporting a button-up dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, tucked into a pair of obscenely short grey shorts. He had royal blue suspenders, black boots, a fucking necktie, and the whole ensemble was topped off with the stupidest and dopiest smile.

Mickey looked him up and down once, twice, three times, trying to make sense of the scene in front of him.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he managed to stutter out, completely stone-faced, brows probably near his hairline.

“Hiya Mick! Do you need some help with your studying?” Ian asked in a clearly put-on voice, adjusting his tie and walking Mickey backward into his apartment.

Mickey’s jaw dropped to the floor.

Ian was dressed up like a stereotypical nerd.

At first, Mickey thought that maybe, for some reason, he was already in his Halloween costume, considering it was the weekend and there were a million parties tonight. But it was still early in the afternoon and nothing was starting for another couple of hours.

“Oh Mickey,” Gallagher said in this ridiculously high-pitched fake voice. “I know I’m just some lame nerd, but I’d do anything for you. You big, strong hockey player. Do you want me to give you the answers for the big test?” He pushed Mickey against the couch until his legs buckled and he was seated.

Slowly, eventually, Mickey began to pick up what Gallagher was putting down. He kept adjusting those stupid fucking glasses and his tie, seemingly acting out a terrible nerd/jock porno from the depths of Pornhub.

“Gallagher…” Mickey said, chuckling as he shook his head. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

Mickey couldn’t help but be equal parts horrified and mesmerized at this idiot’s complete lack of dignity.

Ian quickly stood to attention, looking around the apartment, concerned, and breaking character.

“Wait, where are Ben and Aria?”

“Class and work. Until 6pm.”

“Good.”

Ian smirked and slowly lowered himself down until he was on his knees in between Mickey’s legs, looking up into his eyes through those fucking glasses.

“You’re lucky it’s Halloween and I could get away with walking across campus wearing this shit.”

They shared the cheekiest glance as Ian hooked his fingers into the waistband of Mickey’s joggers, pulling them under his ass to reveal his dick which was already, embarrassingly, half-hard.

Ian got his hand on him and started up a teasing stroke as he let a hearty laugh escape his mouth.

“I’m sorry, but the fact that you’re already half hard just from this outfit proves that you definitely have a thing for nerds and I’m never gonna let you live that down.”

“Bitch you’re the one in a fucking nerd costume right now I’m not the one that should be embarrassed.” A beat. A bitten lip. And then — “Now do the voice again,” Mickey responded, completely paralyzed by the peaks and troughs he’d experienced in this very short window of time.

Ian couldn’t help but snigger as he continued running his fingers lightly over his dick, just teasing, cruelly teasing, as he licked his lips and looked up at him.

“Maybe the answer to the big test is...in your dick?” Ian said, his porn star voice completely undermined by his giggles.

Mickey couldn’t help but laugh too.

“Jesus Christ, please stop.” A beat. “The awful dirty talk. Not the blowjob.”

Mickey should have been embarrassed, and he probably would have been too, if Ian wasn’t on his knees in front of him wearing those glasses, looking like he’d been pulled straight from a porno and plonked right into his living room.

He had no time to dissect why this was a thing for him. It just was. Some things just were. Orange was orange, sand was annoying, and Ian Gallagher in glasses -- and maybe that outfit -- was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

Ian eventually moved his hand to the base of Mickey’s now achingly hard cock, and Mickey curled his toes against the shag carpet as the warm, wet, sensation of Gallagher’s mouth enveloped him from tip to base.

Ian started working Mickey in his mouth at a tortuously slow pace, looking up at Mickey the whole time. When his glasses started getting foggy from his hot breath, Mickey soon needed to close his eyes and lean his head on the back of the couch for fear of blowing too soon at the sight in front of him. He’d been looking forward to this all week and he couldn’t even enjoy it unless he wanted to come in four seconds.

His hand made its way to Ian’s head, his fingers scratching at the silky red strands, as he fought the urge to buck his hips forward and quicken Ian’s pace.

They didn’t often go slow like this, but it felt so fucking good. Mickey was completely lost in it, the sound of Gallagher’s wet mouth working on his dick intoxicating.

But before anything could really happen, before anything could get really good before either of them could even comprehend what was happening, they heard a loud “I FUCKING KNEW IT” from the direction of the front door.

Clearly they had both been so lost in the moment they hadn’t heard a key enter the door and a very excitable Ben enter the space.

They both comically snapped their heads towards the door at the same time to see Ben’s lit-up face and a finger pointing at them.

“I KNEW IT! I FUCKING KNEW IT! YES!”

Ben slapped his hand over his eyes as he closed the door, clearly giving Mickey a second to put his dick away.

“What the fuck are you doing home? You have class until 6!” Mickey yelled at him.

“The TA didn’t show up but why are we talking about that right now because OH MY GOD! I literally fucking knew it! You owe me $20 bitch!”

“Excuse me? You bet money on me?” Ian asked, looking toward Mickey.

“Ben, why are you still here, can you fuck off please?” Mickey demanded, his voice getting louder after every word.

“You’re the one getting a blowjob in the living room, why am I the one in trouble here?!” Ben replied.

“Oh my god.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and grabbed Ian by the shoulders, quickly ushering him into his bedroom and shut the door behind him to escape the absolute reckoning Ben was about to inflict.

He leaned against his door and closed his eyes.

“You okay?”

He opened his eyes to see a very concerned Ian looking at him, fidgeting. It looked as though he was worried that Mickey might freak out that their secret had been exposed.

They hadn’t really talked about Mickey, and how out he was, or how okay he was with other people knowing about him. It made sense that Ian was worried, though he really didn’t need to be. Whilst his teammates and the wider world didn't know he was gay, Ben and Aria most certainly did.

“Motherfucker was bound to find out eventually, but he’s just gonna be so fucking annoying about this now. You don’t know Ben. He can be even more annoying than you,” Mickey admitted with a resigned sigh.

“Did you actually bet $20 that you were gonna fuck me?” Ian asked, totally amused.

Mickey bought his thumb up to drag along his lower lip as he confessed, “actually I bet him $20 and dish duty that I wasn’t gonna fuck you. Back when I hated your guts and the thought of fucking you made me gag.”

A beat of silence passed, Ian processing the information before he let out an obnoxious cackle.

“Please, as if the thought of fucking me ever made you gag. You wanted this from the moment you laid eyes on me.” Ian wiggled his eyebrows at that, having way too much fun. “Also, hang on. Circling back. Did you just admit you don’t hate my guts anymore, Milkovich?”

Mickey’s breath quickened at his inadvertent admission.

It was no secret the two of them got along now. Their teasing dynamic was all bark and no bite, and the more Mickey got to know Gallagher, the more they seemed to have in common.

Their tutoring sessions continued to get more and more friendly, and their confrontations became a thing of the past. Their sex had gotten more playful, as their comfort levels grew and they felt at ease exploring new things together.

They had a similar sense of humour. They got along.

But were they -- friends? Mickey hadn’t really thought about it, although all signs were pointing to a resounding ‘yes’. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it though. Ian Gallagher. Friend? Surely not.

Ben was his friend. Aria was his friend. But Gallagher?

“Yeah, yeah, don’t go getting a big head. You’re alright, I guess,” Mickey said, his eyes kept firmly on the ground.

Eventually, once he looked up, he saw that Ian was smiling a smile that, for whatever reason, had a direct line to making his knees weak.

Mickey smiled back -- he couldn’t even help it.

Mickey then glanced down and was reminded that during all of this, Ian had been wearing a fucking nerd costume.

“I can’t believe you’re fucking wearing that,” he said through a laugh, reaching out to play with one of the suspenders.

Before anything could continue, they heard a knock on the door and an, “are you guys fucking?” coming from the other side.

Mickey sighed and made his way to the door, opened it wide enough so Ben could come in before he made his way over to his bed.

“The fuck do you want, cockblock?” he muttered.

Once on the bed, facing the door, he noticed that Ben was holding his phone out to the room. Mickey squinted at the screen and saw a very small Aria in her Starbucks uniform looking very confused, and Mickey realized the motherfucker had Facetimed his girlfriend.

“What you see here, my love, are the faces of two very guilty lovers who I just caught in a very compromising position on the living room couch, which we will need to burn by the way,” Ben said, his voice completely overtaken with the giddiness of a child.

“AHHHHHH!” Aria screamed, her face suddenly becoming very blurry. “No shut up. Nobody move. I’m freaking out.”

Mickey chucked a glance at Gallagher to see him looking shyly down at his shoes, quietly giggling to himself at the fucking insanity that Mickey’s best friends were inflicting on them.

“Can you two chill the fuck out and leave us alone please?” Mickey asked, wanting this hellish nightmare to be over.

Ben turned his phone back to face him, before exclaiming, “ok babe, I’m gonna get all the tea but I’ll fill you in the second you get home, ok? Try and find someone to cover the rest of your shift--

“Uh. No Aria. Please don’t do that,” Ian interrupted, making himself visible in the camera lens. “It’s going to be very hard to find someone last minute and it’s a waste of company time if you-”

“Don’t listen to him. Get back for this. This is history. Okay. Love you. Bye.”

They all heard Aria begin to protest, clearly wanting to stay on the line to hear whatever conversation was about to go down. But Ben hung up, put his phone away, and placed his hands in front of his face in a prayer motion.

“Okay. I obviously have questions,” he started. “First of all, how long has this been going on, and how the fuck did I not catch this sooner? Second of all, what’s Mickey like in the sack? Third of all, my dishes from both breakfast and lunch are in the sink whenever you’re ready, Mick.”

Mickey put his face in his hands.

“I’m literally going to kill myself.”

“Stop being so dramatic and answ…what the fuck are you wearing?”

The excitement and adrenaline had clearly worn off a bit, as Ben finally seemed to realize that Ian wasn’t exactly wearing normal clothes.

“Oh. Uhhh,” Ian started, throwing desperate eyes to Mickey, as if unsure how to answer without revealing the single most embarrassing reason to be wearing a nerd costume ever.

Luckily for them, Ben had the genuine inability to ever shut up, and so he asked, “are you already in costume for a party tonight? You’re going as a…sexy nerd?”

Ian’s eyes widened and were then flooded with relief, incredibly thankful that an excuse had just been handed to him on a silver platter. Thank God for Halloween.

“Yes! Yes. I just get ready for things very early. I’m going as a nerd tonight! Fun!” Ian responded, doing a remarkably terrible job at playing it cool.

“Yo, you should come to the hockey party after whatever other plans you’ve got tonight! It’s at our teammates’ Chris and Jamal’s place next door. It’s gonna be awesome,” Ben responded.

“Yeah, Aria already invited me to it, actually. Was thinking of swinging by later,” Ian said, before throwing his eyes over to Mickey. “You going, Mick?” he asked, almost sheepishly.

“Yeah, this one won’t let me stay home,” Mickey said, standing up from his bed and nodding his head in the direction of Ben.

“Oh shut up, Mick. This one acts all grumpy but he loves a good excuse to get his drink and boogie on,” Ben said, getting Mickey into a headlock and ruffling his hair, giggling all the while.

“Fuck off, Owens,” Mickey exhaled, pushing Ben off him and fixing his hair.

The three of them stood in the room for a few beats, Ben beaming as he looked between the two of them. Back and forth.

“Right,” Ian said, clapping his hands together. “It seems like you two clearly have some catching up to do so I might head out…”

“No!” Ben interjected, his eyes widening. “Please don’t let me interrupt what looked like a very good time. I’ll put my headphones in and do my homework in my room. You won’t even know I’m here,” Ben winked, his hands up in fake surrender.

“No, no, you’re fine. I actually should get home. Got some stuff to do, gotta get ready for tonight, y’know…” Ian said quickly, taking a couple of steps towards the bedroom door.

“Aren’t you already ready for tonight? Like 6 hours early, it looks like?” Ben asked, raising his eyebrow suspiciously.

Ian’s eyes popped like a cartoon character.

“Oh! Yeah. No. I’m ready for tonight but gotta like...get ready. Got a …um. You know. Got some pre-party things to attend to. Like, uhhh,” Ian mumbled and fumbled as he slowly made his way toward the door, gesturing at it as he continued, “Just lots to do. Drinks and. Gotta buy cigarettes. Lots to do! Getting ready is more than a costume. It’s a mindset. But yeah. Anyway, I'm gonna… Yeah. Okay! See you tonight, maybe!”

And with that, he quite literally ran out of the room, almost tripping over his own feet as he went.

Once they heard the front door close, Ben turned to face Mickey again, but Mickey was quick to shut it the fuck down.

“Benjamin, I am not doing this with you right now. You interrupted a stellar blow job and I have business to attend to.”

“Okay, if you had just made it into your room like a normal person, this whole situation could have been avoided, so you have no one to blame but yourself. But seriously, young man, we will be having a very in-depth conversation about this when Aria gets back. I need dates, I need timestamps, I need an entire play-by-play and there is no getting out of it. Oh, and you can just e-transfer me the $20 at your earliest convenience, thank you so much. Happy jerking!”

And with that, Ben closed the door.

Mickey flopped himself down on his bed and ran his hands over his face.

Well.

That was that.

________________________________

“Hey babe, remember a couple of weeks ago when our so-called best friend Mickey was in our living room screaming about me sharing cereal with his so-called arch nemesis and then accused me of committing treason against our so-called friendship, meanwhile he’d been getting it from said arch-nemesis the entire time and didn’t think to tell us about it?”

“Holy shit, take a fucking breath, Aria,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes from where he stood across from Ben and Aria in the elevator. “Can we just drop it already? I told you we weren’t even doing it at that point.”

They were on their way to Nelson and Jenkins’ place for the Halloween party. Even though their apartment building was the next one over from Mickey and Ben’s, it had been a long, uncharacteristically silent walk over. Aria had come home not twenty minutes after Gallagher left and burst into Mickey’s room. She squealed at him for ten minutes, about “his nerve” and “how dare he keep this from them.” Talked nonsense about “what this meant,” and whether or not “they were dating.” Mickey felt as though it was best to just stay silent while she got it out of her system.

When she was finished, she took a deep breath to collect herself, and left the room without another word.

In the hours that passed before the party, she made passive-aggressive comments to Ben that were obviously directed Mickey’s way.

“I still just can’t believe it,” Aria said. “You were cursing the guy up and down a couple of weeks ago and now you’re just fucking him in our living room? Where we sit?”

“I didn’t think anyone would be home,” Mickey said sheepishly.

“It’s a shared space which makes it a hundred times worse, fuck you very much,” Ben piped up from the corner.

“I don’t even know what else to say,” Aria said, dramatically shaking her head.

“Well how could you? I think you’ve used every word in the English language by now,” Mickey muttered under his breath.

“And to make matters worse, here you are on Halloween wearing that stupid thing and calling it a costume!” Aria ranted, nodding to Mickey’s outfit. “I tell you this every fucking year Mickey. Showing up to a Halloween party in a jersey with your own name on the back is not the serve you think it is! Especially when I bought you a costume to match with us. Now you just look stupid.”

“Me?!” Mickey all but yelled back. “I’m literally in an elevator with two idiots dressed like pancakes and a sunnyside-up egg! But I’m the stupid-looking one?”

“You don’t look like you’re dressed up!” Aria argued, giving Mickey’s Wolverines jersey, jeans, and Timberlands a quick once over and shaking her head. “This is how you always look!”

Mickey could not believe the assassination he was receiving. This was officially the longest elevator ride of his life.

“Well excuse me if I didn’t want to be a strip of motherfucking bacon, Aria! I do have some pride!”

“Like getting sucked off by a guy in a nerd costume in a public space, Milkovich?” Ben asked from his corner, where his head was sticking out of a foam stack of pancakes. “Is that the kind of pride you’re referring to?”

“You can shut up over there, Flapjack,” Mickey snapped at him as Ben snickered.

The doors finally opened to the fifth floor and Mickey couldn’t help his relief as he booked his way out and began charging towards his teammate’s apartment, leaving Ben and Aria to waddle their way out behind him.

“Y’know you still haven’t given us a straight answer. What’s the deal? Are we going on double dates or what?” Aria called.

Mickey stopped dead in his tracks. Somewhere along the way, Aria seemed to have gotten the impression that he and Gallagher were in some sort of secret relationship as opposed to just being secret fuckbuddies.

“No. No, there will be no double dates, Aria, because me and —” he stopped and looked around the very empty hallway and lowered his voice considerably before continuing, “me and him aren’t dating. We aren’t in a relationship. We’re just two people who occasionally engage in casual sex and sometimes eat food afterward. That’s all it is.”

Aria furrowed her brows and looked over at Ben then back at Mickey.

Before the third degree could continue, a door a couple of feet down the hall flew open and out stumbled a very enthusiastic and chipper looking Adams in an inflatable dinosaur costume.

“Owens! Milkovich! Ria!” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing standing out here? The party is inside!”

With that, their teammate turned around and reentered the apartment so quickly they weren’t sure if they imagined it or not.

“Did he just fucking call me ‘Ria’?” Aria asked.

Ben and Mickey burst out laughing in unison.

“We should probably go in before he comes out and screams at us again,” Mickey snorted, starting to walk towards the door.

“Come along Ria!” Ben taunted, and Mickey could hear Aria cackle from behind him.

________________________________

The music was blaring and the party was in full swing when they waltzed in. There were around 50 people spread throughout the open plan kitchen and living room, and flowing out onto the balcony. Other than his 24 teammates, Mickey didn’t recognize anyone else. He assumed they were all either friends of his teammates or people who followed the team that were well-known enough to score an invite.

Mickey made a b-line for the makeshift bar after nodding hi to Nelson and Jenkins who were both dressed up as very modern-looking cowboys. He poured himself a coke, adding a generous amount of rum, deciding he’d need to be relatively buzzed if he was going to get through this party.

He glanced over at the door and silently wondered whether Gallagher had decided not to come after all. He wouldn’t blame him -- he certainly wouldn’t want to face Ben after he’d caught him giving head. Ian was naturally confident though, so Mickey still found himself -- for whatever reason -- wondering if he still planned to come.

He was pulled out of his daze by Ben, who was already in the process of recruiting people for Beer Pong. Mickey reluctantly joined in, he and Jenkins forming a team against Ben and Nelson.

They were halfway through the first round when Mickey missed a throw and felt someone brush past him right as he was taking a shot.

“Nice shot, jock.”

Mickey coughed and sputtered, turning to glare at Gallagher -- who he couldn’t help but notice was still in his nerd costume -- as he nearly died on the scene.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Mickey gritted out, “and why the fuck are you still wearing that?”

“Well hello to you too,” Ian snorted, before lowering his voice. “Well I told Ben that I was already wearing my costume back at your place, and I didn’t really want him to know I was lying, so I just kept it on,” he shrugged. “Kind of sucks too, because I had a sick Deadpool costume I was gonna wear.”

Mickey didn’t know whether to laugh or be endeared that Ian didn’t want to get caught lying by Ben. He settled on just giving him a smirk.

“Mick! Are we still playing here? Or what’s going on?” Nelson yelled from the other side of the table.

“Yeah, yeah. Calm down,” he said, flipping him off and then turning back to Ian. “Uh, Aria is somewhere around here. She’s an egg, so I’m sure you’ll find her.”

Ian laughed and turned to search for her, but not before looking Mickey up and down and smirking.

“Nice costume. Real innovative,” he adjusted his glasses, winked, and walked away.

Fucking hell that fucker was going to be the death of him.

________________________________

They finished the game ten minutes later, and Mickey was starting to feel buzzed. A warm, cozy sensation swam through his body as he refilled his drink. Ben made his way over to him, having removed his pancake costume to play, and slung his arm over his shoulder.

“So. How’s it goin’?” he asked, and Mickey could translate the sing-a-song tone in which he said it in.

“S’good. You?”

“Ian’s here,” he said matter of factly.

“Yeah. I’m aware. Pretty sure I saw you staring at us talking, you creep,” Mickey snorted, pushing Ben off of him.

It was all in vain though, because not five seconds later, Adams was coming up behind both of them, and throwing both his arms over their shoulders, his drink sloshing around in his cup near Mickey’s face. What made it worse was that he was still a fully inflated dinosaur.

“Boys!” he hollered. “This is the greatest. Isn’t this just the greatest? All of us hanging out. What a beautiful moment. You know, there will never be a moment like this one ever again. It’s just so fascinating. Time.”

Mickey tried to look over at Ben but he couldn’t see him over Adam’s giant dino head.

“Well don’t you three look adorable!” Aria’s voice shrilled through the space. “Ian, hold my drink. I wanna take a picture!”

“I don’t think that’s necessary Aria,” Mickey said in warning.

“Don't be a cunt. Smile!”

The flash went off a couple of times before Mickey was disconnecting himself from Adams. He made a mental note to delete those pictures from Aria’s phone and then throw it into a pit fire.

Gallagher looked over and smirked at him.

“Aww! What a great idea!” Nelson said as he and Jenkins joined them. “We should take a team picture of all of us in our costumes!”

“Slow your roll there, Cap,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “I’m gonna need a couple more drinks before I get sentimental enough for group photos.”

Nelson chuckled and looked around at all of them before his eyes locked in on Ian.

“Hey man, don’t think we've met,” he said, extending a hand out for Ian to shake.

Mickey realized that the one time anyone from the team had met Gallagher was during the whole Starbucks Situation, and there was definitely no room for introductions then. Mickey saw Ian give him a quick glance before taking Nelson’s hand.

“Oh, this is my friend Ian,” Mickey blurted out suddenly, the words coming out before his brain caught up.

Gallagher’s head whipped around quickly to look at Mickey, a small grin forming on his face, before focusing back on Nelson.

“And his tutor,” Ben added rather unhelpfully from across the circle.

Aria elbowed him in the stomach but then hid her face in Ben’s arm, likely trying to stifle her laugh.

Assholes.

“Uh. Yeah. Ian,” Ian said, shaking Nelson’s hand.

“Chris.”

“This is your tutor?” Adams asked, turning to Mickey. “The one that you were going on and on about at dinner that one ti- Ow! What?”

Jenkins, the angel that he was, elbowed Adam’s in the stomach before he could go any further.

“Jamal,” he said, extending his hand out to Ian, who took it, looking over at Mickey with a quirked, amused brow.

“You look really familiar,” Adams started up again. “Where do I know you from?” Before Ian could respond, Adams snapped his fingers. “You work at Starbucks, don’t you? The one on campus? I come in there all the time!”

Ian laughed.

“Yeah, you’re the guy who comes in every morning at 6 am and orders a venti iced coffee with exactly three iced cubes.”

Everyone went silent for a moment.

“We call him Three Cube Guy,” Aria supplied. “Sends it back and gets it remade if there’s more than three in there. Catch him checking to make sure with a straw and a stir stick all the time.”

Everyone looked over to Adams in unison with bewildered looks on their faces.

“What?” he said defensively. “Three is my lucky number. I like to start my day off with a little bit of luck. Is that a crime?

“Yes,” Nelson replied. “You are quite literally stealing people’s time and sanity by asking them to count out exactly three for you each time. It is indeed a crime.”

The two of them bickered back and forth and Ian took the opportunity to slide in closer to Mickey.

They were silent for a breath before Mickey saw the cup in Ian’s hand.

“What’re you drinking?” he asked.

“Just coke,” Ian shrugged. “Don’t really drink much.”

“Lightweight?”

“Something like that,” he laughed. He smiled as he said it, but his eyes were distracted. Before Mickey could probe further, Nelson was suggesting that they do a round of shots.

He and Jenkins went to pour shots of gin and rum and handed them out to everyone in the group. Gallagher took the one that Nelson offered him with a polite smile. Mickey noticed how he stared at it for a moment before he looked up.

“You don’t have to,” Mickey said, not wanting Ian to feel like he had to drink to be included.

Ian smiled at him, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side.

“Nah, it’s fine. I think I’m due for a fun night.”

“Alright! A toast!” Nelson interrupted, as his four teammates groaned around him.

“Not everything needs a speech, Chris,” Jenkins said.

“Yeah. Can’t we just drink?” Ben asked.

“Shut the fuck up and let me speak,” Nelson said, before clearing his throat. “To Ian, for being Mickey’s tutor and dealing with his grumpy ass, and for making sure that we still get to have our top scorer in the line-up.”

The other boys whooped as they cheersed and all took the shot together.

He caught Gallagher’s eye and the two of them shared a heated look before Mickey looked away, accepting another shot from Jenkins. He saw Ian lick his lips slowly before downing his second shot, too.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that Ian was currently standing in front of him, taking shots in a slutty nerd costume, but he was ready to call it a night and get them both the fuck out of there.

Unfortunately, he knew he had to put in at least a few hours, or Ben was going to lose his shit and call him a buzzkill for weeks. So he averted his eyes from Gallagher, for the sake of his stamina, and grabbed another shot instead.

________________________________

“So does Nitro have actual nitrogen in it?” Adams asked later that evening. “Or is it just a cool name that Starbucks came up with?”

Mickey didn’t know how he ended up on the kitchen floor with Adams and Ian at just past midnight, huddled in a circle talking about fucking Nitro coffee, but he did.

The night had actually been a lot of fun thus far, although the more he drank the more he was having to avoid Ian, his desire to pull him away from the party and escape into the night with him becoming almost impossible to ignore.

He had watched Ian throughout the night, the fucking social butterfly he was, chatting happily and laughing loudly with strangers.

They shared a metric fucktonne of charged glances across the room, joining together for a few drinking games and a few conversations here and there.

“They actually brew it for 20 hours with cold water and then put it in a keg, and when it’s poured it’s infused with nitrogen!” Ian exclaimed passionately.

Mickey worried his drink had been laced with something because he honestly had no fucking clue what Adams or Ian were talking about.

“Why are you speaking fucking Russian right now?” Mickey asked.

“Have you never had Nitro, Mick?” Adams asked, with wide eyes.

He stared at Adams and Gallagher like they each had two heads.

“What the fuck is a Nitro?”

Ian audibly gasped like a dramatic bitch.

“Oh my god. Mickey, are you serious?”

Mickey said nothing as he continued staring daggers into these two bozos.

“Well that’s it. I’m taking you to get Nitro next week. You haven’t lived until you’ve had Nitro.”

“Jesus fucking fuck. What is this shit, liquid gold or something?”

“For a self-confessed coffee slut, you’re sounding like a fucking prude right now, Mick,” Ian said, taking a cheeky sip of his coke.

“Eat my dick, Gallagher,” Mickey said as an insult, but if the way Ian’s eyelids dropped was any indication, he had not taken it as such.

Mickey quickly threw his eyes over to Adams who was looking around the party, bouncing his head in time with the pumping music, not a single brain cell working in his head. Mickey turned back to a smirking Gallagher, his lips shiny from the moisture of his drink.

“You're not getting out of this. I’m introducing you to Nitro. You’re welcome in advance,” Ian said.

Mickey rolled his eyes.

“So about how much would buying a Starbucks store of my own run me back? I’ve been really considering it and I was listening to a podcast that said it was a wicked business move,” Adam said earnestly, and Mickey realized he was completely shitfaced and yet still way too sober to deal with this shit.

“I’ll be back,” he murmured, making his way over to the bar to fix himself another rum and coke.

There was a burly blonde guy pouring himself a whiskey when he got there. He clearly recognized Mickey, as he introduced himself as ‘Peter, a big fan,’ and started up an animated conversation with him about their games last weekend. Mickey was buzzed, and the guy was complimenting his game, so he chatted back happily for a few minutes, sipping at his rum.

Despite the great conversation, he found his eyes wanting to wander over to Gallagher who, by the time his eyes landed, was surprisingly already staring at him. Hard, and with a curious look on his face. Brows furrowed. Mouth tight.

He didn’t have time to dissect it, because the distance between them gave Mickey a full-bodied view of Ian again. That perfectly built body. His crotch was straining against his short shorts from where he crouched, and his skin was fucking glowing under the dimmed kitchen lights.

It was as sudden as being hit by a fucking train, but Mickey was decidedly and irrevocably done with the party. The steady build of arousal from a night of having Gallagher close, looking like that, and not being able to touch him, was finally catching up with him.

He wrapped up his conversation with Peter and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

He multitasked, walking towards the exit as he sent a series of increasingly risky texts to Ian, too drunk to care if anyone else read them.

Mickey (12:16am): meet me out front

Mickey (12:16am): we’re going to my place

And then, with a quickening breath, he added --

Mickey (12:17am): need your dick now

Mickey felt his heart rate steadily increase second by second as he waited for a response. He waited and waited and waited, and realized he maybe should have just told Ian he wanted to leave instead of being a dramatic sex fiend and just ghosting like an idiot.

His worries were in vain though, because soon enough --

Gallagher (12:20am): Me and my dick are on the way 😎

________________________________

By the time they got back to the apartment, Mickey felt fucking amazing. He was just on the right side of too tipsy, every touch of tongues and skin on skin brush feeling just a little bit more than usual. Extra. Incredible.

They stumbled through the apartment, making it to Mickey’s room quickly. The rum was making Mickey crazy; it was making Ian sexier, if that was possible, and it was making his desire to get fucked by him insatiable.

His breath was shaky and his hands were desperate, clawing at Ian’s stupid fucking costume, trying to peel the layers off and get him naked.

Ian tasted like cigarettes and sweat and gin -- which Mickey usually hated the taste of, but right now, on Ian’s tongue, tasted incredible. Mickey brought his hands up to either side of Ian’s head, kissing him hungrily, throat humming, wanting to crawl into his mouth and taste every inch of him.

His drunken enthusiasm didn’t go unnoticed by an equally drunk Ian.

“How much of this is me and how much is the costume?” he slurred. “Cause damn.”

Mickey ripped off his jersey and walked Ian backward towards the bed.

“Jury’s out.” Kiss. “Get naked.” Lick. “Keep the glasses on.”

Ian chuckled at Mickey’s brazenness, hopping shakily as they both finished removing the last bits of their clothes.

It wasn’t long before they were on the bed, buck naked, taking turns giving each other drunk, sloppy blow jobs. They knew they were alone, they knew they left early, and so they knew they could be loud.

And loud they were.

The alcohol had loosened Mickey’s inhibitions, and he didn’t hold back the groans that came when Ian got his mouth on him -- that beautiful, overwhelming heat that made his balls draw up far too soon.

Eventually they worked on getting Mickey prepped as he leaned against the headboard, Ian fingering him from behind, planting kisses on his back and neck as his other arm stayed wrapped around Mickey’s chest, holding him tight against him, rocking with his fingers thrusts.

Once Mickey was ready, and the condom was on, he spun around to face Ian with a cheeky glint in his eyes. Ian smiled his megawatts smile, the one that brightened his entire face and made him look as pretty as a painting, his eyes half-lidded from a dangerous concoction of lust & gin.

Mickey tangled his hands in Ian’s hair and planted a searing kiss on his lips before he dragged his hands down to the redhead’s chest and pushed him back with gusto.

Mickey caught Ian’s eyes widen as he fell back and bounced on the bed, before leaning up on his elbows to watch Mickey’s next move.

He walked on his knees closer to Ian’s midsection, giving Ian’s dick a few strokes, teasing, looking down at Ian biting his puffy lips.

He grappled with his next move, mesmerized with Ian’s shallow breaths and his scrunched-up face. He was flooded with the primal urge to get his mouth on Ian’s neck, to bite him, to suck into his mouth, to yank on his hair. To see his face as he fucked him.

They hadn’t done it that way before. Mickey had always faced away from Ian when he rode him. He had tried face to face only once before with some guy he met at a bar, and hated how suffocating it was; how forced and contrived it all felt.

He hadn’t tried it again since, preferring to enjoy feeling the bodily sensations instead of feeling backed into performing, or whatever. Ian had always respected that.

But he and Ian were friends now. And they were drunk and he felt courageous. He wanted to try this. And if it didn’t work, it didn’t work.

No harm, no foul.

It didn’t have to be a thing.

Mickey tried to avoid Ian’s face as he realized what was happening. But once Mickey was settled on Ian’s upper thighs, he flicked his eyes down and caught that sweet, excited smile he knew would be there. Ian’s chest was flushed, his chest hair damp with sweat, his face shiny and the tips of his glasses were foggy. Mickey couldn’t help but stare.

He placed his hand on Ian’s chest, his fingers scratching at his chest hair, as Mickey grabbed for Ian’s hard dick and led it to his entrance.

“Yeah?” Ian asked, as the tip of his dick teased at Mickey’s asshole.

In lieu of providing an answer, Mickey just smirked and nodded his head, as he reached out for Ian’s hand and placed it on his own condom-clad dick, to help push himself inside.

He slowly slid down the length of Ian, and wiggled, settled, until he felt completely adjusted.

“Holy shit,” Ian exhaled from beneath him, and he felt his large hands envelop Mickey’s ass, gripping roughly at the skin and spreading him apart.

“Fuck,” Mickey exclaimed loudly, too loudly, unable to keep it in. He was fucking drunk and it was making everything so good. Like his nerve endings had been set alight and the volume in his brain was turned to max.

Mickey began riding Ian in earnest, his hands settled on the man’s chest so he had as much access as possible to go for it as enthusiastically as he could. Ian playfully slapped Mickey’s ass and let out a groan, clearly enjoying the sight in front of him; Mickey working himself on his dick with his knees, his strong thighs helping set the pace.

Mickey’s eyes were clenched shut, mouth gasping, as he simply enjoyed the feeling as he worked himself up and down, the sensations not being all that different from reverse cowboy, but different enough to feel new and exciting.

He panted, and moaned, and lost himself in ecstasy.

“You’re fucking amazing,” he heard Ian exhale.

Mickey opened his eyes and looked down at Ian, who looked up at him, grinding and pulsing, his eyes sparkling like he was in complete awe. “Fuck, Mickey.”

Mickey didn’t know if it was Ian’s confident brevity or the excessive rum or the overwhelming pleasure that infected him enough to respond with a, “you feel so fucking good,” through a choked breath.

“Yeah?” Ian asked, breathless and panting, hands now gripping tightly at his hips.

“Fuck yeah,” he responded. Smiling. Sweating.

Ian’s glasses were now covered in spit droplets and sweat, and Mickey knocked them off his face so he could get down and kiss him. The glasses, once a most erotic accessory, were now merely a distraction from the main event -- Ian.

Ian gasped into the kiss and moved his hands from Mickey’s hips, guiding Mickey’s mouth to his neck. Mickey started licking and sucking and biting at him there, as Ian got his feet onto the mattress and started fucking up into him.

Mickey couldn’t help the surprised groan that escaped his mouth, the pistoning something he had never experienced before. It was hitting him impossibly in all the right places, feeling so unbearably good.

“Holy fucking shit, Ian” he exclaimed, all breath and spit and sweat.

Mickey bit down on the neck between his teeth hard, harder than usual, because he needed to because he can’t not. For a second, he worried he may have hurt Ian who yanked him off his neck by his hair abruptly. But then he just crashed their lips together, as he lowered his ass back to the bed and Mickey started up his grind once more.

They breathed hotly into each other’s mouths, making no moves to change positions, both of them clearly enjoying this one way too much.

“Who was that guy?” Ian asked breathily into Mickey’s mouth after another minute or so.

What?

“What guy?” Mickey responded, confused as fuck, his grinding pace never faltering.

“Blonde guy. At the bar -- oh, fuck.”

Mickey tried to pull together a couple of morsels of brainpower to answer Ian’s question. Blonde guy? Bar? It was hard to focus on something that could or could not have happened that night when your prostate was getting pummelled.

Eventually he remembered.

“I dunno. Just some guy,” he responded, exasperated, leaning down to kiss Ian again to get him back on track.

No such luck.

“He seemed nice.”

What the fuck was going on?

“Why the fuck are we talking about Peter right now. Just fuck me.”

“Oh, he has a -- ugh -- a name? How do you know Peter?”

Mickey groaned loudly, this time out of frustration. Why Ian was interrupting a stellar riding session with these inconsequential fucking questions was beyond him, but he certainly did not appreciate it.

“He’s just a hockey fan,” he groaned out, getting a hand in Ian’s hair to grip tightly and yank his head back. “Now shut the fuck up and make me come,” he panted.

Ian growled at the challenge and snaked his hand around to the back of Mickey’s neck to pull his head down towards him. He attached himself to the side of Mickey’s neck, the weight of his hot tongue pressing on Mickey’s vein as he began to suck tightly at the skin. He felt a pinch of teeth and the suctioning sensation increased to the point that Mickey swore he felt it reverberate in his asshole.

Eventually, after minutes, Ian finally detached his mouth, licking a path towards the column of Mickey's throat. He pulled his hand from the back of Mickey’s neck and placed it onto the front and pushed him up and away from his chest, as he brought his other hand down to wrap around Mickey’s dick.

"This okay?" Ian asked, polite and breathless.

"Shit yeah," Mickey choked out in response.

Mickey kept rocking, the light pressure around his neck, the spot where Ian had bitten and sucked tingling where Ian’s fingers pressed into it. Mickey’s eyes were clenched shut as he quickly became overwhelmed with the various concurrent sensations.

He felt Ian’s hips begin to buck upwards to meet Mickey’s grind on each thrust, as his long fingers played with the pre-come on his dick.

Mickey felt his dick thrum and his balls draw up.

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, like that. ‘M close,” Mickey exhaled.

And as it got closer, closer, so close, he opened his eyes to look down at Ian who was still looking up at him and working his dick feverishly. Ian bit his lip, and murmured, “come, Mickey,” stars dancing in his eyes and, well, Mickey didn’t mean to obey him, but he closed his eyes and did just that.

He shook apart, his legs turning to jelly instantly as his arms fell to the bed to keep himself upright as Ian strung out every last drop of his orgasm.

The breaths of both men filled the air for the minutes it took Mickey to come down.

After maybe one minute, maybe three, Mickey opened his eyes to see Ian grinning at him, his lips swollen and forehead shiny. His hands were running up and down Mickey’s thighs, and Mickey was too high from all the sex hormones to give a second thought to the extra affection.

Once Mickey had his functionality back, he smiled down at Ian and dismounted his dick, pulled off the condom, and began sucking him down.

“Jesus, fuck, Mickey,” Ian exclaimed in surprise. Ian’s hands made their way to his head, playing with his sweaty strands as Mickey sucked and sucked, flattening his tongue to taste as much of Ian as possible.

The taste was a little latexy, and a little sweaty, but it was also salty and hot and perfect.

Mickey really only got a dozen or so head bobs in before Ian came down his throat and he was swallowing every drop.

Mickey kept sucking and licking to the point that Ian had to yank his mouth off him, oversensitive, laughing.

Mickey made his way back up to face Ian, grinning wickedly, before the two of them were tangling tongues again, rolling on the mattress, Mickey giving Ian a taste of himself, both of them thriving in the mixture of rum and gin and cigarettes and come and sweat.

Nothing had ever tasted this good.

Eventually though, the exertion took its toll. They collapsed next to each other, a little dizzy, a little a lot.

“Shit,” Ian finally said, after a few minutes of quiet.

“Yeah,” Mickey responded. A beat. “Y’know riding dick drunk kinda feels like being on a rollercoaster.”

There was a second of silence before Ian burst into laughter, and Mickey’s cheeks flamed up at how fucking juvenile he sounded. His brain was clouded with rum and if he wasn’t careful he’d be saying something really stupid soon.

“What the fuck are you even saying right now?” Ian responded through hiccups of laughter.

“I don’t know man, I'm fuckin’ wasted, leave me alone.”

“I’m wasted too, dipshit, but I’m not out here comparing your ass to a spaceship,” Ian said. And then. “Maybe I should though because it’s out of this world.”

“Oh my god that was so bad.”

“If my glasses are broken you’re paying for them, by the way.”

“You’re the one that wore them during sex, Ace. Don’t blame me.”

“YOU ASKED ME TO!”

“Hmm. I don’t remember saying that. Stop making shit up.”

“You little shit…” Ian said, digging his fingers into Mickey’s ribs. Mickey slapped him off, chuckling all the while.

"Man I'm surprised I could get it up considering how much I drank tonight," Ian admitted.

"My ass is magic, that's not your dick's fault."

They turned their heads to face each other. They smiled and laughed, sweaty and high on that special kind of post-sex euphoria. They indulged in their usual stupid banter, discussing the party, ribbing on each other, pretending they still hated each other.

Eventually, they settled. Quiet.

Despite the alcohol, Ian’s eyes were bright and steady and shiny. He was gazing at Mickey in a way that he didn’t quite know how to interpret. A jolt hit Mickey’s chest that lit up his insides. But it wasn’t nerves or panic. He didn’t really know what it was.

But whatever it was, it made his heart beat faster and his palms started sweating and it made him want to reach out and press his hand to Ian’s cheek and stroke it with his thumb.

Mickey cleared his throat and sat up in bed, his head suddenly clouded and dizzy. He shook his head and pressed his thumb and pointer finger against the corner of his eyes. The alcohol was making him think irrational nonsense.

“You should head out,” he said curtly.

“Ugh, not this stupid ‘no sleepovers rule,’” Ian said playfully and dramatically, clearly not picking up on the shift in Mickey’s mood. “The day you discover the joys of morning sex will be a good day for us all, Mick. Well. Maybe not for your roommates.”

“Yeah, whatever, fuck buddy,” Mickey returned, hoping to get back on familiar solid land.

Rules. Clear distinct boxes. Sex was just sex.

“Oh come on! Didn’t I get promoted to 'friend' tonight?” Ian asked as he swung his legs off the bed. “‘This is my friend, Ian’. I heard it, fucker. You can’t take that back. We’re friends now. So deal with it.”

Mickey looked over to see Ian shimmying into his nerd shorts, his tongue poking out of his mouth from concentration. He looked like an absolute buffoon.

Friends. Friends.

Friends who fucked. Friends who fucked and shared meals and went to each other’s hockey games.

Friends who made each other roll their eyes and swear and come and laugh.

Friends.

And yeah. Okay.

Mickey could be okay with friends.

Chapter Text

Gallagher (6:32am): wanna grab coffee before your class today? 

Mickey (7:01am): miss me already, gallagher? barely been a day

Gallagher (7:02am): In your dreams. 

Gallagher (7:02am): I just can’t sleep at night knowing you’re a Nitro virgin. 

Gallagher (7:02am): I’m making it my life mission to change that. 

Mickey (7:03am): well thats about the only v card i have left 

Mickey (7:04am): i carry it with pride 

Gallagher (7:04am): Trust me, I am well aware 😏😉

Mickey bit at the inside of his lip, trying to stop the smirk that was threatening to reveal itself. This fucker was anything but subtle. 

He sat down on the bench of his cubby and peered around at the otherwise empty locker room.

He had just finished a workout with some of his teammates ahead of what was promised to be a long day.

He’d spent the entirety of yesterday in bed recovering from his Halloween hangover. He really shouldn’t have gone so hard when he hadn’t partied in months. He was turning into a fucking lightweight. 

Mickey (7:04am): whatever you say, ace

Gallagher (7:05am): So? 

Gallagher (7:05am): That a yes to coffee? 

Gallagher (7:05am): 😊

Him and his fucking emojis. 

“Whatchya smiling at over there, Milkovich?” Ben’s voice said from across the room. 

Mickey jumped a full two feet in the air, his phone falling to the ground as he clutched his chest to make sure he was still alive. 

He hadn’t even realised he’d started smiling.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Mickey muttered, bringing his thumb and middle finger up to massage his temples in an attempt to calm himself down. “Where the fuck did you come from?” 

Ben looked over at Mickey with raised brows, seemingly trying to make sense of his overreaction.

“The gym?” he finally said. “You just saw me there. You spotted me on the bench press.” 

“Yeah, well, make some fucking noise next time will you? Announce yourself for fucks sake,” Mickey snapped, reaching for his phone, face down on the ground.

It was miraculously uncracked and still unlocked on his conversation with Gallagher. 

“What’s with you? Why are you so jumpy?” Ben asked as he gathered up his clothes, eyeing Mickey suspiciously. 

Mickey (7:07am): sure. should be done in 30

“BOIZ!” Adams' voice boomed from the doorway, where he, Nelson and Jenkins were barrelling through. “What a great workout, am I right? There's nothing like working out with the homies. In fact --” 

“Jesus, not this shit again,” Jenkins muttered as he passed Mickey on the way to his cubby. 

“-- I was listening to a podcast this summer, and the guy was saying that working out in a group makes for a better quality of life. Really fascinating stuff,” he continued, tearing his shirt off in the middle of the room and flexing his biceps aggressively towards no one in particular. 

“A better quality of life than what? What are we comparing it to?” Nelson asked.

“Uh. I don’t know. It’s just better,” Adams shrugged, a confused look on his face. 

“Than what?”

“Than before I guess.”

“Before what?”

“I don’t know. The workout?” Adams said slowly.

“So you’re saying this podcast guy said that one workout in a group is enough to improve your whole life? And its quality?” Nelson asked, looking over at Jenkins who was shaking his head with a small smirk on his face. 

“I mean… I don’t know. I kinda zoned out after a couple of minutes,” Adams said, looking a little stumped. 

They were all silent for a moment. 

“Well, my quality of life still feels the exact same,” Mickey chimed in. “If not, a little worse after listening to that useless conversation.” 

Everyone looked over in his direction in unison.

“Not the grumpy act again, Mick,” Adams said, shaking his head. “Do I need to charge that Amethyst for -- HOLY SHIT! What the fuck is that?” he suddenly yelled. He was staring at Mickey, focusing on what seemed to be something behind him. 

“What? What the fuck is what?” he asked as he jumped out of his skin, following Adams’ eyeline to see absolutely nothing behind him. 

“No! Not -- that!” Adams emphasized, taking a couple steps toward Mickey and squinting at his general neck area as if to get a better look. “Is that what I think it is?” 

“Is what what you think it is? What the fuck is it?” Mickey said irritably, putting his hand up to touch at the side of his neck that Adams was now trying to get an even closer look at.

“Oh my God. It is!” Adams continued, his eyes widening and his mouth breaking out into a clown-like smile. “Jumping Jellyfish Mick, who did that?”

“Who did what?” Mickey practically yelled, as Ben, Nelson, and Jenkins all gathered around to see what the fuck the fuss was about.

“What’re you looking at -- Oh. Shit,” Ben said, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth, doing a terrible job at stifling a laugh. 

“Oh. Wow,” Nelson said. “Someone had fun, huh?” 

Mickey looked around at four sets of wide eyes, observing him like some sort of caged animal at the zoo. 

“Fucking Christ,” he said, pulling out his phone, opening the camera app and pointing it to his neck. 

And holy shit. 

There, on the side of his neck, was a dark purple spot.

A hickey. 

And not just any hickey. A monster hickey. A hickey that put all other hickeys to shame.

“Son of a bitch,” Mickey whispered. He rubbed at the spot with the palm of his hand like an idiot. “Fucking hell.” 

He hadn’t seen Gallagher since Halloween two nights ago and his hungover Sunday spent entirely in bed meant he hadn’t had the opportunity to notice it yet.  

God. He was going to fucking kill Ian. 

“I don’t think it comes off like that,” Ben advised, Mickey still rubbing comically at the spot. 

Mickey gave him a death glare and locked his phone. 

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone, Mick,” Adams said, suggestively. “Who is it? Do I know them?” 

“M’not” Mickey muttered, shrugging on his hoodie and putting up the hood.

“Well whoever it is seems to like you a whole lot,” Nelson added, clapping Mickey on the back and giving him a wink. “Because that thing is very passionate looking.” 

“You might want to put some ice on it,” Jenkins said, sounding like he was genuinely trying to help. “Trust me. It works.” Jenkins' gaze flickered over to Nelson and the two shared a quick look, before they looked away simultaneously, and walked towards their separate cubbies.   

Mickey didn’t have the mental capacity to muster up a reply nor a retort to any of them. His mind was racing at a million miles an hour, and he could feel his face slowly start to heat up at their words. 

“Okay, okay. Leave him alone you guys,” Ben said, grabbing Mickey by the shoulders and leading him towards the doorway. “I’m sure Mickey will share all about his mystery lover when he’s ready.” 

“I’m gonna fucking murder you,” Mickey muttered once they were out in the hallway and heading toward the showers. 

“Me? Why me? I didn’t give you that,” Ben said defensively, nodding towards Mickey’s covered neck. “Although it is very impressive, I must say.” 

Mickey shook his head and stayed silent. 

“Ian?” Ben asked after a couple moments. 

“Who the fuck else?” Mickey sighed.

Everything pointed to Gallagher these days. 

“What’s the big deal, Mick? It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Ben said as they turned into the showers. 

“What? Everyone finding out I’m hooking up with someone or fucking Gallagher sucking my neck like a motherfucking vampire bat?” Mickey whisper-yelled, making his way over to the sink area of the shower room, pulling his hood down off his head to inspect the bruise closer. 

It was on the bottom of his neck, almost where it met his shoulder. The mark itself was slightly larger than a quarter, and the skin was puffy and inflamed.

The colour around the edges seemed to be fading, but the centre was still a deep, rich purple. He had no idea if this was standard-hickey-healing-procedure, because he had never had to deal with one before. 

It was also becoming clear to him that Adams had a big mouth on him, and the information that Mickey was hooking up with someone could now fall into the hands of the one person that he was trying his hardest to keep it from. If he ended up on Petrovich’s shit list because of Adams of all idiots, Mickey would set himself on fire. 

“Both I guess,” Ben shrugged. “I mean they don’t know who it is or how often. For all they know it was just a one night stand and I most definitely didn’t find you receiving a blowjob on our couch not 48 hours ago --” 

“You gotta let that go, man," Mickey said, rolling his eyes. 

“-- so it’s not the end of the world. And after what I saw,” he continued, pointing at Mickey’s neck, “that was definitely bound to happen.” 

Mickey regarded Ben for a moment before turning to the mirror to analyse the mark again. 

He poked and prodded, feeling the welt of the bruise and acknowledging its sensitivity. He ran a fingertip over it, back and forth, which sent cool shivers down his spine. 

He had no idea how he was going to cover it up for practice later. He’d consider sneaking some of Aria’s makeup but he was certain that getting caught with makeup on his hickey would be far more embarrassing than them realizing it was there would be.

Aside from his frustration at the size and how unhideable it was, he found his belly getting warm at the sight and touch of it.

He’d never actually received a hickey before, but it gave him this sick kind of thrill. Proof of a good thing in his life that was just his. A symbol of a secret.

He couldn’t really articulate or rationalise why exactly he liked it -- he just did. 

Although he sure as fuck would never let Gallagher know that. To him, Mickey would be playing this up as the biggest inconvenience of all time. 

His phone buzzed next to him, pulling him out of his daze. 

Gallagher (7:20am): Great! See you then! 😉

Would he ever. 

________________________________

Mickey finished showering and changed, making sure to put his hood back on before he made his way out into the hallway. After saying a quick goodbye to Ben and looking both ways before he entered the hallway, he quickly made his way to the steps to leave the arena without another rogue hickey sighting. 

He made it to Starbucks in ten minutes flat, and immediately saw red hair amongst the swarm of students that were coming and going from the coffee shop. 

Ian was leaning against the wall of the building, eyes fixed on his phone as Mickey walked up to him.  He was wearing a gray hoodie and a faded green jacket overtop, with black jeans and white sneakers.

He looked good in an annoyingly effortless kind of way. Why Mickey had to notice as much was beyond him, but he couldn’t help that it was true. Anyone with two eyes and half a brain would be able to see it. Whatever. 

Christ . 

“Hey,” Ian said, beaming as he walked over. 

“Yeah. Hey.” Mickey answered, putting his hands in his pockets and looking around. 

It apparently wasn’t the greeting that Ian had been looking for nor expecting, because he furrowed his brows and gave Mickey a once over. 

“You good?” 

“Oh. I’m great. Never better, in fact,” Mickey replied sarcastically.

“Yeah? What's with the grumpy face then?” Ian asked, his eyes wandering to the hood that was still on Mickey’s head. “And the hood? Is this a new look or are you just cold again? Because I’ve yet to receive my jacket back so I won’t be giving you this one if you are.” 

Mickey gave him his signature look of death. 

“No Gallagher. I’m not fucking cold,” he gritted out, scanning the area for people quickly and then pulling his hood down and exposing his neck. “I’m fucking hiding this shit because somebody got possessed by a motherfucking vampire the other night.” 

Ian just blinked at the mark, looking from it to Mickey’s face. He opened his mouth and closed it again, seemingly not knowing what to say. 

“Who did that?” he finally asked, voice quiet and low.

Mickey was taken aback by the question and looked at Gallagher as if he’d just kicked a cat. 

“Who did -- the fuck do you mean who did it? Who the fuck do you think?” Mickey asked wildly, putting his hood back up and looking at Ian with wild eyes. 

He couldn’t tell if Ian was playing dumb or if he’d actually never seen a hickey before. 

“I -- I don’t know. I’m genuinely asking,” Ian stammered and Mickey had no idea why the guy looked so weird and upset about it. 

“You, shithead! You did it! At my place? After the Halloween party?” 

“I did that?” Ian repeated, giving Mickey a funny look as though he actually didn’t remember. 

This was honestly not how Mickey was expecting this to go. He had a whole dramatic speech planned to rebuke Ian’s cocky, teasing bullshit. Yet here Ian was -- staring blankly at Mickey, his eyes brimming with confusion. He was very selfishly taking all the pleasure out of Mickey pretending to be annoyed by the mark.

“Yes. You did. And I didn’t even notice it until this morning when Adams had the decency to announce it to pretty much the whole world after my workout,” Mickey told him with the dramatic flair he’d been looking forward to using. 

Ian was still and silent for a moment, before he suddenly yelped out a laugh.

“Oh my God.” He buckled over. “Fuck. I’m sorry Mick,” he said through a wild fit of laughter that made Mickey seriously doubt the sincerity of his apology. 

“I honestly had no idea I did that, I swear. Although,” he reached over and pulled down Mickey’s hood to observe the hickey again, thumbing over the mark and leaving his hand to linger, “you have to admit that’s pretty impressive. Like I’m really fucking good. Man, you’re lucky. Hey -- how’s it feel to be friends with benefits with me?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey muttered, slapping his hand away and putting his hood back on. He could still feel the warmth of Ian’s finger where it had touched his bruised neck. “Jesus Christ, the ego on you is appalling. I think the real question here is ‘how do I put up with you?’”

Ian snorted. 

“Sure it is,” he lowered his voice and leaned in a little. “Face it, you’d be lost without me.”

“Lost without you,” Mickey repeated with a breathy laugh laced with sarcasm. “I can’t hear much more of this Gallagher. Especially before I’ve had my coffee.” He walked past Gallagher and headed towards the door. “Which will be on you, by the way. I think you owe me for the rest of the month after what I had to endure from my nosy-ass teammates this morning.”

He heard Ian chuckle from behind him. And then, in a low voice so quiet it almost got swallowed by the wind, “I’ll give you anything you want, Mick.”

And if Mickey lost his ability to breathe and his whole body heated up at Ian’s words, that was nobody's business but his. 

________________________________

“I can’t believe you fuckers charge $4.50 for coffee. You’re literally robbing people,” Mickey ranted as they walked out of Starbucks, overpriced coffee in hand. 

Ian let out a soft, laughing breath. 

“Yeah I understand that Mick, but did you really have to say it as loud as you did in front of 20 customers and a bunch of my co-workers?” 

“Well it ain’t like they didn’t already know! They walk into this place willingly everyday knowing they'll be taken for a ride and yet,” he motioned the hand that was holding the coffee towards the shop, “they still go in. They practically throw their money at you green aproned fuckers. It’s like a cult. You work for a cult, Gallagher. How does that make you feel?” 

He turned back to Ian who he expected would be in the process of rolling his eyes, ready to fire back a smart-ass comment. Instead, he was met with a soft smile. 

“Listen to you speaking so passionately for the rights of coffee lovers everywhere,” he said, nudging Mickey softly in the arm. The Community for Coffee Sluts are so lucky to have you.” 

“Shut the fuck up, man,” Mickey snorted. They had made it to a street corner next to the campus bookstore, and Mickey stopped next to the adjacent brick wall to take his first sip of the so-called liquid gold. 

It was good. 

Not exactly anything to write home about, but still. Pretty good. 

“So?” Ian asked, his eyebrows dancing. “Good, huh?” 

“Regardless of the taste, there's no way anyone should pay more than $2 for a coffee,” Mickey said stubbornly. 

Ian just laughed. 

“You’re impossible.” 

They fell silent for a moment and Mickey watched as Ian flickered his gaze down to his lips, licking at his own in the most indiscreet way possible. 

“God, aren’t you subtle,” Mickey said, as the back of his neck under his hood began to heat up. 

“Do I really need to be at this point?” Ian asked. 

“If you had any self-respect,” Mickey mumbled, jokingly.

“So. You wanna?”

Mickey pulled out his phone and checked the time, because yes. Of course. He really fucking did wanna. 

“Got class in 35 minutes, man,” he said, though he figured he was definitely giving Ian mixed signals when his own eyes flickered down to Ian’s lips and back up quickly. 

“Pfft. That’s plenty of time. Only really need 10 with you, anyway,” he said, voice low. 

“Where?”

“Library’s down the street. There’s never anyone in the basement during this time, and I’ve kind of always wanted to get a blowjob between the bookstacks…” he trailed off, looking down shyly. 

The word “no” was on the tip of Mickey’s tongue, their first fuck buddy rule of keeping tutoring and sex separate being one they’d already danced with one too many times. Now more than ever, Mickey wanted to cling to those rules -- a failsafe, for protection. Something solid.

But technically this wasn’t during tutoring. 

And Mickey would be lying if he said the thought didn’t make his dick twitch. 

This technically wasn’t breaking any rules. 

“Oh yeah? That a fantasy of yours, Gallagher?” Mickey said, smoothly. 

“Maybe,” Ian replied, with a timid shrug. “And don’t tell me your nerd-loving ass wouldn’t go crazy getting sucked off at the library by their tutor. You know, if that’s something you’d be interested in.” 

And with that, Ian began to make his way across the street, towards the library, not looking back for a single second. 

Mickey blinked at him as he walked away. This was not a good idea. His brain was practically screaming at him that this was a bad idea. 

He was deaf to it though. 

Fucking hell. 

Gallagher was truly going to be the death of him. 

And without much more of a thought, Mickey ran across the street to catch up to him.

Who the fuck went looking for books in the library basement at 8am on a Monday morning anyway? 

________________________________

Ian slammed him up against a stack of books before Mickey even had a chance to put down his backpack. 

“Jesus Christ, Gallagher,” Mickey hissed at him. “Be a little louder, why don’t you?”

Gallagher had led him to a very secluded spot on the basement floor immediately, and Mickey was certain that he’d scoped it out beforehand. 

Ian smirked down at him and reached for the hem of Mickey’s hoodie, pulling it up and off him. He threw it somewhere on the ground and shrugged off his own jacket, before grabbing the back of Mickey's head and pulling him in for a hard kiss. 

It immediately turned into a hungry make out, the day they had taken to recover from their hangovers clearly catching up to them. Ian licked into Mickey’s mouth and began to kiss down his jawline. He tangled his hand into Mickey’s hair, pulling his head back roughly to expose his throat, slowly licking a stripe up its column before moving to gently kiss at the side of his neck. 

Mickey’s eyes closed shut, letting out a shaky breath as he involuntarily bucked his hips forward, trying to find friction. 

Ian laughed softly into his neck as he focused his attention on the sensitive bruise, leaving a trail of licks and kisses around the discolouration, the air from his nose prickling at the skin, sending a chill down Mickey’s spine. 

He moved to attach his mouth onto the spot behind Mickey’s ear that he knew drove him crazy, lightly sucking and licking at it, before nibbling at his earlobe. Mickey’s knees almost buckled at the feeling. 

“If you leave another mark on my neck I’ll fucking kill you,” Mickey said, his voice wavering halfway through, which undermined his threat. 

Ian let out another breathy laugh as he continued peppering soft kisses on Mickey’s throat and neck. His hand made its way under Mickey’s t-shirt to touch at his abs and slowly dip into the hem of his boxers before he pulled it back out quickly. 

“Fuck off, man. Don’t be a tease,” he groaned, his dick already embarrassingly hard from just the attention Gallagher was giving to his neck.

“Mmm, someone’s desperate,” Ian tutted, straightening up to face him, a cocky smirk on his lips. 

Mickey quickly reached out and groped Ian’s crotch roughly, which was already rock hard. He smirked. 

“Look who’s talking.” 

He leaned in to kiss him again, his hands finding Ian’s ass and pulling it forward so his crotch was grinding up against his own. They moved like that for a couple of beats, tongues tangling with each other until Mickey couldn’t take it anymore. 

He grabbed Ian by the back of the head and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“On your knees,” he said. 

Ian was down in front of him before he could blink. 

He started undoing the drawstring of Mickey’s joggers, slowly. Never breaking eye contact as he pulled his pants down to his knees. He held up Mickey’s shirt and began pressing soft, teasing licks to his v-line and trailed down to press open mouth kisses to his dick that was still covered by his underwear. Mickey made a grunting noise and instinctively bucked his hips towards Ian’s mouth. 

Ian only looked up at him and applied a slight rubbing pressure to the head of his dick with his thumb. 

“Seriously?” Mickey panted out. “You choose now when we have limited time and are in a public place to tease? I’m not gonna have time to blow you too if you don’t hurry up.” 

Ian just smiled, hooking his fingers into Mickey’s boxer briefs and slowly pulling them down so just the head of his dick was poking out. He brought his mouth to it and began to slowly lick at it. 

Mickey let out a soft moan and closed his eyes as his hands settled on Ian’s head and his fingers carded through the strands. 

Ian pulled away. 

“Don’t have to worry about me. I’m good. Let me take care of you.” 

The sentiment hit Mickey straight in the gut, before he remembered what had brought them here in the first place.

“Nah, I don’t think so, Gallagher. This is your fantasy. Now get the fuck up here,” Mickey said, hooking his hands under Ian’s armpits and yanking him up until he was standing. 

He spun them around so Ian was pinned against the stacks, a look of impure lust on his face. Mickey licked into his mouth as he got to work unbuttoning Ian’s jeans.

“I’ll show you a fucking tease,” he exhaled as he dropped to his knees.

________________________________

Mickey scrambled to class just as the professor was introducing their topic for the day. 

Mickey had edged him for nearly 10 minutes before Ian was coming desperately down his throat in hot spurts. Ian then pushed him against the opposite stack and pulled his pants down to eagerly return the favour.

They licked up all evidence of their indiscretion.

“Did that live up to your fantasy, red?” Mickey had asked, cocky and satisfied.

“You’re gonna be late for class,” Ian replied through a smirk.

“Gonna answer me?” 

Ian had strode over to where Mickey was standing, shoved him into the stack for the third time in less than 20 minutes, hand on his chest, and planted a soft kiss on his hickey. 

“I’ll see you at tutoring,” he said when he pulled away, swinging his backpack over his shoulder and walking upstairs. 

Mickey had to remind himself to breathe.

As he sat there, listening to the professor drone on about -- whatever the topic was -- he couldn’t help but smirk at the difference between his first day of this class and today. 

He’d gone from hating the redheaded idiot -- Curtis -- and cursing him for fucking up his whole day, to starting this day with an exchange of frankly remarkable blowjobs with said redheaded idiot in the library before class. It sounded fictional when he thought about it like that. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Gallagher (8:36am): It was better than my fantasy. 

Gallagher (8:36am): Just in case that wasn’t clear. 

Gallagher (8:36am): Now pay attention and take notes! 

Mickey grinned as he locked his phone and pulled out his laptop. 

He didn’t even try to fight it. 

________________________________

After a very uneventful and boring two and a half hours, Mickey was heading off towards the rink for what was shaping up to be a catastrophic practice. 

Petrovich knew damn well that the team had a Halloween party every year and that most of them would spend the night getting wasted. So every Monday after Halloween weekend, he made sure to give it to them hard during practice. 

He walked into the locker room and caught Ben’s eye immediately. He had a look of pure and utter dread on his face as he nodded toward the centre of the room. Mickey followed his eyeline and sighed deeply. 

Buckets. 

Which could only mean one thing. 

They were being punished with a Bag Skate. 

It was lines. But Petrovich always made it so much worse. 

He usually had them sprinting to every single line on the ice, back and forth. Hard. Exerting all their energy and then some. 

And just when they thought they were done, Petrovich would yell “reverse” and they would have to immediately do the whole thing again, but starting with the furthest line first.

The buckets were for “slackers” -- as Petrovich called them. Oftentimes, a couple of rookies would find themselves unprepared for Petrovich’s reign of terror, and they would throw up before the end of the drill. 

Petrovich would give the team 30 seconds to a minute -- if he was feeling "generous" -- to rest in between rounds before he’d have them going again. 

There were usually 3 or 4 people who utilized the buckets by the end of practice, and it had little to do with their endurance and everything to do with how hard they went almost two nights ago. It was a good thing too, because Petrovich had accidentally let slip to Mickey that he usually didn’t stop the drill until he saw at least one person throw up. He was extremely loose-lipped when he felt comfortable enough. 

“Fucking hell,” Mickey muttered as he walked over to his cubby and begun suiting up.

“I don’t even understand why we’re doing this,” he heard Adams whisper to Jenkins in the corner. “I was listening to a podcast and they were saying how sprinting for more than 10 to 15 seconds at a time could significantly reduce technique because it forces players to skate like shit over and over again and soon we just adopt it into our regular skating.” 

Hell was clearly freezing over because that was the first thing Mickey had ever heard Adams say that actually made sense. 

They all made their way out onto the ice 10 minutes later. 

“Milkovich!” he heard Petrovich call from centre ice, Murphy standing to his right. 

Mickey skated over to them, trying to subtly keep his distance and stay turned to the side so that his coach wouldn’t notice the mark on his neck. 

“How’s my star doing?” he asked, voice low, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear them. 

“Doing good. You?” 

“Fine, fine,” he said, waving his hand. “Listen, you’re free to go if you want. I know you didn’t go out partying with everything that's on the line for you. I taught you better than that,” he said, giving Mickey a light punch in the arm. 

Mickey was rendered speechless by the special treatment. His coach had just offered to let him walk free, without having to do the skate. His ‘everything on the line’ comment had also rubbed Mickey the wrong way, as if one night out every once in a while would truly hurt his chances of getting drafted. Mickey had always felt pressure from his mentor and coach to make it big one day, but it seemed as though the comments were becoming heavier and more targeted, especially this season.  

Mickey reminded himself that his coach was on his side, through thick and thin, even though something about the way he treated Mickey sometimes unsettled him. It didn’t really matter. He just wanted Mickey to succeed. And that's what Mickey wanted too. More than anything. 

He shook the thoughts out of his head and glanced over to where his teammates all stood at the end of the rink. They seemed to be in high spirits despite what was about to happen to them, pushing each other and laughing at each other’s jokes. 

“I think I’ll just stick it out,” Mickey said, looking back at his coach. “Gotta be a team player. Wouldn’t be right if I left.”

Petrovich looked taken aback by Mickey’s answer. His brows bunched up in the middle of his forehead in confusion.

He laughed suddenly. 

“You’re one determined fucker, you know that? The NHL isn’t going to know what hit 'em when we make it. Alright, go on then.” He motioned Mickey to join the rest of his team in the end zone. 

He skated over to them, and as Petrovich divided them into two teams, he felt someone thump him on his back. He turned to see Murphy passing by. 

“Good to see you here, Mickey,” he smiled. 

He skated off before Mickey could reply. 

________________________________

Mickey’s legs fucking burned and ached as he climbed up the stairs of the arena. He was one hundred percent going to be late for his session with Ian. His shower took extra long because everyone was moving like zombies around the locker room.

Mickey (2:54pm): gonna be a little late today. practice was a nightmare, but i’m omw 

He waddled to the library for the second time that day. 

He took the elevator to avoid limping up the stairs. When he arrived at study room 15, he was a little surprised to find it empty. 

Ian usually showed up at least ten minutes early to “get organized” and would lecture Mickey on the importance of punctuality, which according to him meant arriving unnecessarily early for things like an idiot. 

He checked his phone. 3:05pm. 

Ian was late. 

Mickey pulled up their text message thread to see if he’d missed anything. 

Nothing.

This was definitely abnormal. 

After opening the door to the study room to confirm that he was indeed in the right one, he made his way to the table in the middle of the room and sat down in his usual chair, typing out a message as he went. 

Mickey (3:07pm): i will be giving the lecture on punctuality today

He set his phone down and pulled out his laptop, setting up his notes from this morning so that Ian could look over them when he arrived. He began to format them so they would be easier to read and it would be less work for him trying to distinguish what Mickey’s shorthand meant. He was considerate like that now.

He checked his phone again 10 minutes later. 

Nothing. 

What the fuck? 

Ian forgetting about their session was very unlikely, considering he kept a physical planner as well as a digital one that Mickey teased him for all the time. And Mickey distinctly remembered hearing “I’ll see you at tutoring,” after a very soft neck kiss he felt in his toes.

He picked up his phone and typed out another message. 

Mickey (3:17pm): hey you good? did you forget about me or something? 

He decided he’d wait around until 3:30pm, and if Ian still wasn’t there, he’d just go home and take a nap. He needed it after that fucking Bag Skate. 

He sat there for another 10 minutes and, when Gallagher was nowhere to be seen, began packing up his stuff. As he did, his mind seemed to wander, trying to come up with solutions as to where Gallagher could be. Did he take a nap and forget to set an alarm? Did he forget he had a shift at Starbucks and his phone died so he couldn’t text Mickey? Was he dead?

Ian would never take a nap mid-day and he would have found a way to let Mickey know if he couldn’t make it to their session. He knew him well enough to know that. 

Something was definitely up. 

He pulled out his phone and typed another message. 

Mickey (3:30pm): ok, looks like you ditched me. im gonna head home and take a nap 

He thought for a moment before sending --

Mickey (3:31pm): hope ur okay 

He jumped in the elevator to head to the ground floor, and shuffled painstakingly slowly and out of the library. But before he could turn in the direction of his apartment, he stopped in his tracks. 

The more Mickey thought about it, the more the whole situation screamed that something was off. It was so uncharacteristically unlike Ian. Maybe there was something wrong. Maybe he should just check Gallagher's dorm.

He didn’t want to pry. Sure, they were friends, but Mickey didn’t know if Ian would want Mickey snooping around in his business, especially considering he hadn’t texted him back. 

And yet. 

He sighed and turned in the opposite direction of his apartment and towards Ian’s dorm instead. He figured it was better to check in than not say anything at all -- that's what all those college Instagram infographics taught him anyway. 

He made it to Gallagher’s building, setting a record for how slow a human could walk. He took the elevator up to the second floor, walked over to Ian’s door and hesitated briefly before knocking three times. 

He heard muffled sounds from inside. Ian was definitely there.

He waited. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty. He clearly didn’t want to be interrupted.

He was about to give up and walk away when the door flew open and there was Ian standing on the other side. 

He had his cell phone attached to his ear, and his eyes were red and puffy. They widened in surprise as he hesitated momentarily, before waving Mickey inside and walking into his dorm, sitting on his bed.

Mickey closed the door behind him and looked over to Ian, who was looking down at his shoes, phone still up to his ear, his head in his hand. Mickey just leaned against the wall and dropped his backpack on the floor next to him. Waited. 

“That’s bullshit,” Ian said suddenly, shaking his head, “you know there's no way I’d be able to --”

He listened for a moment. 

“S’pretty fucking selfish if you ask me,” he said. 

He listened some more. 

“But she -- what? Yeah. Whatever. Call me back.” 

He hung up and threw his phone on the bed next to him, his palms coming up to his eyes and wiping at them. 

Mickey’s chest ached at the sight. He was pretty sure Ian had been crying before he’d gotten there. 

“Ey, are you --” Mickey started to say.

“Fuck sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair and wiping at his eye with his palm again. “Think we could go for a walk or something? Kind of need to get out of here.” 

“Yeah. Course,” Mickey said, with absolutely no hesitation, and apparently no remorse for his poor, overused legs. “Let’s go.” 

________________________________

They walked to the park, and Mickey stayed quiet. He was trying to be subtle, checking on Ian in his peripheral vision every couple of steps, although he didn’t know if subtlety had ever been his strong suit. 

It looked like Ian was working his mouth, maybe trying to figure out what to say, maybe not wanting to say too much. His silence was freaking Mickey out. He’d never seen him like this before. Bamboozled. Frozen.

Eventually the silence bordered on unbearable, and Mickey couldn’t help but ask, “are you okay?”

He threw his eyes over to Ian, who took a shaky inhale and flicked a placating smile back to him.

“Sorry for missing tutoring. Been stuck on the phone with my family for the past hour,” Ian replied vaguely, not answering Mickey’s question. “Totally lost track of time.”

“‘S okay, man. Dunno why you’re apologising. No tutoring is a plus in my book,” he responded jokingly, as he bumped their shoulders together, hoping the small gesture would lift some of the weight off Ian’s shoulders.

Ian blew a puff of air out of his nose, and Mickey didn’t miss the small upturn of his lips. 

Okay.

“Dick,” he responded through his teeth, the word muttered with nothing but fondness. “Why are you waddling like a duck?”

“Practice kicked my ass,” Mickey laughed.

As silence engulfed them again, Mickey remembered that he caught Ian still on the phone, and he was clearly still processing whatever the fuck had happened. Mickey hated being poked and prodded to talk when he didn’t want to or wasn’t ready to, so he let the silence eat at his insides until Ian felt ready. He didn’t stop looking over at him though; checking, making sure he was still moving.

When the park came into view, Ian’s voice finally punctuated the cool November air.

“My mom died,” he said, simply.

All the breath left Mickey’s lungs, as he looked over to see Ian’s forehead scrunched up as he shook his head.

The only thing Mickey knew about Ian’s family was that he helped his sister raise their younger siblings -- he’d heard no mention of a mother or father. 

“Shit, Ian. I’m so sorry,” he responded. He wanted to ask if Ian was okay, or how she died, but it all felt too invasive or weird. He had no fucking clue what to say, so he settled for, “were you guys close?”

By the time he finished his question they were at the park, and Ian ignored him in lieu of walking around the back of a park bench to throw himself on it.

Mickey followed suit, and gingerly sat next to him. He mentally chastised himself for asking what was clearly the wrong question. Fuck, he’d never been good at this.

Ian rubbed his hands together in his lap, as if trying to warm them up. Eventually he just shook them, and let out a kind of frustrated groan, his head falling into his hands.

Mickey was fucking paralysed. He sat next to him, and just waited. If Ian wanted to talk, he’d talk. That had never been a problem before.

And so he waited.

Eventually, after what felt like hours when it was more likely minutes, Ian’s head came out of his hands, and he spoke.

“You don’t have to talk to me about this. You can go if you want. I know we don’t...” Ian said, almost nervously, his hands shaking maybe from the cold, or maybe from everything. He trailed off, and Mickey couldn’t help but fill in the rest.

I know we don’t talk about real things.

But as Mickey looked over at Ian, he saw his friend. A friend he had a ridiculous amount of fun with. One that was loud and funny and actually pretty okay to be around. One that he had come to understand, that was kind and sweet and generous too. A friend who meant something to him.

Mickey looked at the face of his friend in pain, and couldn’t help but reach out his hand to land on Ian’s thigh. This could technically be considered physical affection outside of sex, and so a clear violation of fuck buddy rule number four, but Mickey reasoned that dead moms warranted a momentary pause on their stupid fucking rules.

“I’m not going anywhere. We can talk or we can just sit. Whatever you need,” he responded, and with a gentle squeeze of Ian’s thigh, he put his hand back in his lap. He didn’t miss the sharp inhale Ian took when his thigh was squeezed.

Ian compulsively ran his hands over his thighs, taking deep breaths, as he gathered his thoughts.

“I’m just fucking pissed because my brother and sister don’t want to have a funeral for her, even though she’s our fucking mom. Monica was…” Ian said shakily, before pausing. “Complicated. Fiona and Lip fucking hated her because she ran out on us a lot growing up. She was never there. Fiona raised us and Monica just waltzed in when she pleased and usually stole from us or tried to take one of the younger kids or something worse.”

Ian paused again, but Mickey could tell he wasn’t done.

He waited. And waited.

“She was sick. And unmedicated. God, she was so fucked up, but she was still my mom. I always got along with her more than everyone else did. We had this…I dunno. Fuck.” Ian threw his eyes to Mickey, and he didn’t miss the glistening on the rim. “What’s your mom like?” Ian asked, clearly trying to distract himself or decrease how fucking vulnerable he felt.

Mickey widened his eyes and flicked them forward, facing the moss green trees and the darkening sky that framed them.

“My mom died when I was really young. Don’t really remember her,” he said, darting his eyes to his knees as he picked at the loose skin around his thumb. “Was raised by my dad.” 

If it could even be called ‘being raised’.

“Shit, I’m sorry Mick,” Ian said quietly.

There was a pause, and then --

“You close with him at least?”

Mickey let out a humourless laugh. How the fuck could he answer that quesion?

“Bastard’s dead. Died the summer after I finished high school.”

“Oh, Jesus. I’m so sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. Guy was a total homophobic asshole. Hope he’s burning in hell.”

Silence fell between them again. Ian’s right hand was clutching the park bench to the point his knuckles were turning white. Mickey kind of wanted to reach out and place his hand over Ian’s. He didn’t.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” Mickey said. “Even if she was fucked up, or whatever, it still fucking sucks.”

Ian nodded his head and looked down to the ground.

“The thing is, I don’t even know what I feel. I’m just... fucking… confused. Like of course I’m sad, and I’m fucking devastated I didn’t get to say goodbye, but I’m also…” Another frustrated groan left Ian’s parted lips as he threw his head back into his hands. “Fuck I don’t even know. Sorry, I know I’m not making sense.”

“This makes more sense than biochemistry, so you’re fine.”

Ian let a laugh escape, and Mickey relished in the sound.

“Like I love Monica but she made our life so fucking hard. She’s the reason I’ve been working at least two jobs since I was 9. And I’ll never fucking forget coming home one day and she’d rummaged the room I shared with my three brothers and sold all of our shit. And I had this super limited edition Batman comic that was my pride and joy. I had nothing that was just mine, except this. And she fucking stole it for drug money. For every great memory of her I have an equally shitty one.”

Ian shook his head. Silence.

“So yeah, I’m sad that she’s gone but a part of me is...relieved? I can’t protect my family when I’m here and knowing she can’t fuck up their lives any more makes me feel a bit better about not being there. How sick and twisted is that?”

A memory of the relief he felt when Terry died flooded Mickey’s stomach. The all encompassing concoction of relief and dread and sadness and bitterness and joy.

Ian was probably dancing on a knife’s edge. Navigating that shit was impossible, and he remembered viscerally the fucked up, intrusive thoughts that tormented him for months after Terry died, making him feel like the world’s shittiest human.

He could only imagine Ian’s head swimming with it, especially considering he caught him fresh from finding out.

He needed Ian to know that it wasn’t sick, nor twisted.

Mickey cleared his throat. He desperately wished he had a cigarette.

“I dunno, man. When my dad died I was pretty fucked up. Mainly because I just felt relieved, and I felt like a bad person for that, even though he fucking tormented me for years and was a literal fucking asshole, but. I dunno. He was still my dad. Family’s family. That shit’s tough. But you’re not a bad person for feeling weird, or whatever,” Mickey responded.

Ian nodded his head, his glassy eyes looking out at the greenland in front of him.

“Did you have a funeral for him?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, we did. Lasted all of ten minutes and I spat on his grave, but.”

Ian turned to face him for the first time since they sat down, and offered him a watery half-smile, before turning back to the sights in front of him.

Silence. And then --

“You should have a funeral for her,” Mickey said. “If you can. For closure, and shit. I know they’re expensive, but I’ve still got some connections on the South Side. I could see what I could do?”

The memory of one of Terry’s old friends running a funeral home popped into his head. It was mostly a cover for an arm of Terry’s drug ring, but he was pretty sure they were a legit business on the side. He could always call. It might be a dead end, but it also might not be.

“Okay, Mr. South Side,” Ian responded amusedly, bumping his shoulder against Mickey’s. He inhaled deeply. Exhaled. “I just gotta convince Fiona and Lip, first.”

Mickey nodded and couldn’t help but stare at Ian’s profile. He was shivering, and Mickey noticed that the sun was disappearing behind some clouds, and a pretty vicious icy wind was picking up.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Ian said through chattering teeth. 

Mickey paused, thinking. And then, without any hesitation, asked, “d’you wanna head back to my place?”

Ian smiled softly. “Yeah, sure.”

On the walk back, Ian played around on his phone and Mickey bit back a smile as he steered him away from trees and poles and people as they walked.

At one point, Mickey thought he was trying to walk into shit on purpose, just so that Mickey would save him. 

He was clearly texting his siblings, and it was only a couple of minutes before he heard a loud, relieved exhale from next to him.

“Fiona’s agreed to help me pay for the funeral. I have to organise it all but she said she’d chip in and come, and bring the kids.”

The relief on Ian’s face was immediate and glowing. Mickey couldn’t help the warmth that spread through his stomach at the sight.

“Hey, that’s awesome, man!”

The first genuine smile he’d seen since this morning spread across Ian’s face, although it was doused with something melancholy and panicked, as reality set in.

“Fuck, I need to get a bus ticket home for tomorrow. And I need to pack. Shit, and I need to get my shifts covered. And cancel tutoring and email my professors to let them know I won’t be around for at least a week...”

Without thinking about it, Mickey grabbed his upper arm and stilled him on their walk.

“Hey. We can get it done. Let’s just head to your place. Don’t worry,” he soothed, offering him a small, reassuring smile.

We.

Ian took a deep, shaky breath before nodding.

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Mick,” he said, with a thankful smile. 

________________________________

Once they got back to Ian’s dorm, they kicked off their shoes and split the tasks. 

Mickey got to work booking a bus ticket for Ian on his phone, departing tomorrow morning and getting back the following Wednesday.

Ian called Starbucks, explained the situation, and they of course agreed to cover his shifts over the week. Luckily he’d only been scheduled for a couple.

He also emailed the other students he tutored to reschedule their missed sessions, and his TA’s to let them know he wouldn’t be in tutorials.

Mickey was sitting horizontally on the bed, and Ian at his desk. Once Ian finished his calls and emails, he closed his laptop and flopped himself onto the bed, so he was sitting next to Mickey.

It was still relatively early, but he looked absolutely exhausted. 

“Okay so you leave at 8.30am tomorrow and get back at 2pm next Wednesday. I’ll email you the tickets,” Mickey said, tilting his phone so Ian could see the confirmation.

“A whole week. You gonna miss me?” Ian said, elbowing Mickey, trying to will his voice to be playful even though it was still laced with sorrow.

“Fuck off,” Mickey returned, playfully punching him in the thigh.

"No seriously. We’ve fucked pretty much every day for a month. Your horny ass isn’t gonna know what hit it,” Ian joked.

“My horny ass? What about your horny ass? You can’t keep your hands off me,” Mickey mumbled.

Ian chuckled under his breath. His eyes were red-rimmed and bleary and he was playing with his hands in his lap, zoned out and deep in thought.

Before Mickey could say anything or even comprehend what was happening, he was being kissed, Ian pushing him down and lying on top of him.

Mickey kissed back, but he could immediately tell something was off. Ian was distracted, and upset. He was breathing hard through his mouth, and none of it felt right.

When Ian snaked his hand down to grope at his dick, Mickey detached from his mouth and sat them up.

“Ian, stop,” he said gently, wiping at his mouth and pulling Ian until he was sitting upright again. “I don’t think we should....y’know. While you’re upset. Let’s just take a beat.”

Ian exhaled, tormented. Mickey caught him shaking his head and rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Like he thought he fucked up somehow, even though he absolutely didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, almost a whisper. 

“You don’t have to apologise, man,” Mickey exclaimed desperately, needing Ian to know he didn’t do anything wrong.

An awkward silence filled the air as Mickey glanced around the room. Should he leave? Maybe Ian would prefer to be alone. Maybe he needed some time to process everything without Mickey there crowding up his space. 

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” Ian asked cautiously, before Mickey could say anything. He was fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie, almost shy.

Ian didn’t want him to leave. Maybe he wasn’t ready to be alone just yet.

“Sounds good,” Mickey responded.

“How about Star Wars? It’s the ultimate comfort,” Ian asked, retrieving his laptop from the desk.

“Never seen it, but I could be down.”

Ian whipped his head around to stare Mickey down.

“You haven’t seen Star Wars? Like any of them? The fuck’s the matter with you?” Ian practically yelled.

“I’m not a nerd, Gallagher. I was busy playing sports and being cool while you were working your way through the Star Wars trilogy in high school,” he retorted cheekily.

“Okay first of all, you have never been cool a day in your life, calm down. Second of all there’s eleven Star Wars movies, plus the canon TV series’ and the Fallen Order video ga--. Oh. Should I stop talking? Is this nerd talk gonna make you pop a boner?” Ian joked.

Mickey’s body immediately relaxed at the sound of Ian’s joking tone.

“Trust me Gallagher, my dick has never been more flaccid.”

“Tell that to your dick when you were getting a blow job from me in a nerd costume.”

“I was getting a blow job! Your costume had nothing to do with it!”

“Sure.”

________________________________

They sat, side by side, Ian laying down with his head propped up on some pillows while Mickey was seated, the laptop between them.

Mickey hated the movie. It was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen. Ian picked the ‘best one’ but it was just stupid robots and oversized glow sticks and sand. Mickey hated that he had to sit through it, but he did. 

Ian provided commentary for the first hour; fun behind the scenes factoids and pointing out stupid tiny moments any normal person would have missed. At some point the commentary stopped, and Mickey glanced over to see him dozing peacefully.

About halfway through, he sent off a sneaky text to Iggy to see if he could get in contact with Terry’s old funeral director friend.

He felt something come into contact with his bicep, and quickly put his phone away, thinking that Ian had awoken and was about to scold him for not paying attention to the movie. 

Nothing happened. When he looked in Ian’s direction, he discovered that he was still very much asleep and was using Mickey as a human pillow. 

Mickey felt a fluttering in his chest as he looked down at him. Ian had managed to roll over onto his side in his sleep and now had his face nuzzled into Mickey’s hoodie, his head being half supported by Mickey, and half by a pillow. He was breathing slow, calm breaths. At this angle, Mickey was able to count the light dusting of freckles on his eyelids.

Jesus Christ. He needed to get a grip. 

He tried not to move throughout the rest of the movie, not wanting to wake Ian up. Mickey caught himself looking down at him every so often, but would quickly force his gaze back up to the movie. He wasn’t some creepy fucker who watched his friends sleep, and he sure as fuck wasn’t about to get caught in the act if Ian decided to wake up.  

By the time the credits were rolling, Mickey’s arm was aching from the added weight.  

Mickey closed Ian’s laptop and slowly tried to extract himself from the bed. He moved his arm and quickly replaced it with a pillow so that he didn’t wake Ian. He thought he'd been successful, pulling on his runners by the door, when he heard Ian stirring behind him.

“So virgin, what did you think?” Ian asked sleepily from the bed.

Mickey put on a fake cheery voice and lied through his teeth.

“New favourite movie!”

“Really?” Ian asked, his eyes lighting up.

“Nah, man,” Mickey chuckled. “It fucking sucked.”

The redhead’s face immediately dropped. 

“You have to say you like it. My mom just died,” he said, stone-faced like a psycho.

“Jesus Christ, Ian.”

Ian just laughed, and then started playing with the drawstring of his hoodie again. 

“You heading out?” he asked.

Mickey nodded.

“Yeah, thought I’d get out of your hair. Let you pack. I’ve got a few things to do as well,” Mickey said, rambling a bit too much about nothing and suddenly feeling awkward. Nervous.

“Mmm,” Ian mumbled.

Ian looked pensieve, his head still pointed down, biting at his lips as his fingers now traced patterns on his duvet cover.

For such a large man, he looked so small on his bed; sleepy and sad. Mickey fought back the urge to reach over and touch him, to let him know he was there without having to say it with words. He was never the best with words.

“You gonna be okay?” Mickey asked.

“Yeah,” Ian said, before glancing up at Mickey, his face impossibly soft. “Hey -- thanks for telling me about your dad. I’m sorry he was an asshole. And thanks for today, Mick. I felt like I was going insane, but you helped so fucking much.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mickey’s breath hitched as he offered a small smile. “'S what friends are for.”

Ian’s face fell ever so slightly at that, but it was so miniscule Mickey didn’t know if he imagined it.

“Yeah,” Ian responded, his eyes suddenly vacant, and Mickey worried he had said something wrong.

Ian was hurting, and Mickey’s heart broke for him.

Before he could second guess himself, he strode over to where Ian was now sitting on the edge of the bed, leaned down, and threw his arms around him to give him a hug. 

Ian stilled for a moment, surprised, before his arms came around to grasp at Mickey’s upper back. He let out a shaky breath, his fingers pressing hard into the skin of Mickey’s back. 

“Good luck in Chicago. I’ll text you,” Mickey said, his mouth resting against Ian’s neck.

They held each other for a beat, and another, and another, before Mickey broke away and was out the door, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest from how fast it was beating.

________________________________

Later that night, Mickey was on the couch, Googling funeral homes on the South Side to see if he could recognise Terry’s old friend. Iggy was probably passed out in a ditch somewhere, so he wasn’t expecting a reply anytime soon.

He was scrolling through when he felt a warm breath on the back of his neck. 

In an alternate universe, this would be creepy. In this universe, it just meant that Ben was being a snoop. 

“Something you wanna tell me, Mick?” he asked, voice dark.

“Yeah, gonna kill your ass. But I wanna give you a nice send off too.”

Ben snickered and made his way around to the front of the couch and sat down next to Mickey, putting his feet up on the coffee table, stretching out his probably very sore limbs.

“No seriously, why are you looking up funeral homes in Chicago?” 

Mickey took a large inhale, wringing his hands in front of his laptop. Ben had an uncanny way of reading Mickey like a book -- even one that didn’t want to be read. He’d hidden enough from him over the past month.

“Ian’s mom died,” he said on an exhale, still scrolling, on the third page of his google search.

“Shit,” Ben said, surprised. “How is he?”

“He was pretty torn up because his brother and sister didn’t want to have a funeral for her, but they ended up caving so I think he’s doing better now.”

“Oh, that’s good.” A beat. “And so you’re...helping them plan the funeral?”

Mickey let a breath out of his nose in amusement.

“No, asshole. Terry used to be friends with a funeral home director. Am hoping I can trade some hockey tickets for a cheap funeral or something.” Mickey closed his laptop in a frustrated huff, leaning forward to place it on the coffee table. “Fuckin’ useless though. Don’t even remember the guy’s name. Just going crazy waiting for Iggy to text me back.”

“Mmm,” Ben responded, staring out into the living room.

They sat in silence, Mickey pressing his palms into his tired eyes and Ben tapping the armrest of the couch.

And then --

“Just two people who occasionally engage in casual sex,” Ben said matter-of-factly.

Mickey’s brows furrowed comically, as he turned to face Ben, who’s face looked open and curious.

“Huh?” Mickey asked, confused at the out-of-context statement.

“Mick. Since we’re alone, and Aria’s not here being her adorable nosy self, and we’re not in public or on our way to a party, you can just be straight with me, man. As straight as you can be talking about the guy you’re fucking, I guess,” Ben added, cheekily. “You said you guys were just two people who occasionally engage in casual sex but that doesn’t really seem like what’s going on.”

Mickey blew out a breath, shaking his head. He should have known the third degree was coming eventually.

“I dunno, man.”

“Do you like him?”

“Fuck no,” Mickey responded quickly, too quickly, because Ben just threw him his cut the bullshit look. Mickey rolled his eyes and tried to put his thing with Gallagher into words. He sighed deeply. 

“He’s my friend, so of course I like him. He’s cool. And the sex is unbelievable. But I swear it’s just friendship and fucking. I’m letting off steam so I can focus on hockey, and he’s too busy for a regular thing elsewhere. That’s it. Anything more than that is just…” Mickey trailed off, unsure where he wanted to go with that statement.

“Is just what?” Ben probed.

Impossible. Not happening. Not in the cards. 

“I dunno. Nothing.”

Mickey could feel Ben’s eyes analyzing his every movement. He hated that he knew him better than he knew himself.

“Do you want more than that?” Ben asked.

“No!” Mickey scoffed immediately. “I mean.” A beat. A moment. A breath. “No,” he asserted with a tone of finality.

“It’s okay to want it, Mick,” Ben said, his voice unbearably soft.

Mickey’s chest tightened at the statement.

“Thank you Casanova, but I’m good. And tired. So I’m gonna go to bed. Night,” Mickey said, standing up and affectionately slapping Ben’s thigh as he escaped.

Ben let out a loud, “OW! Motherfucker!” from behind him and Mickey snorted, completely forgetting about the legs despite his slow trek to his bedroom. 

He didn’t want more than that; more than friendship and fucking. He couldn’t have it. He’d essentially forged an entire fucking personality and worldview on being the hardass hockey player, unaffected by all other distractions. Destined for the NHL.

He was still adamant and impossibly focused on his goal, and he refused to be sidetracked.

But he was having the best season of his career, and getting the best grades he’d ever gotten. And he was also, fucking... happy. Pretty much with every part of his life.

He wouldn’t deny it anymore -- Ian made him feel good. He also made him feel upside down and inside out and in completely uncharted emotional, sexual and spiritual territories, but he mostly just made him feel good. And he just wanted to make Ian feel good too. That was the simplest way he could describe it. 

As long as everything remained like this -- uncomplicated, easy and good -- then Mickey would be laughing all the way to the NHL. 

So he pushed down the niggling voice at the bottom of his skull that told him that uncomplicated, easy and good were already on borrowed time.

Chapter Text

Ian Gallagher was a fucking hurricane. Mickey kind of knew that already, but after not seeing him for seven days and eighteen hours, Mickey knew it for sure.

His absence was even louder and more obnoxious than his presence. It didn’t take long in their very temporary separation for Mickey to realize how empty his days were without Ian and their regular sexcapades. 

Mickey missed him. It annoyed him that he missed him, but he did. 

It was kind of sick. 

He wasn’t necessarily lonely. He had dinner with Ben and Aria a couple of nights, and even let Ben drag him out to a team brunch of all things. He immediately regretted his decision to come, and to order an omelet, when he had to listen to Adams’ theory on what came first -- the chicken or the egg -- until their food arrived.

It was almost embarrassing that he missed Ian at all, considering they were in constant contact over their week apart.

The first sign of life from Ian was a phone call at 11:30 pm on the second night, just as he was getting ready for bed. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Ian said, voice quiet. 

“Hey. You okay?” Mickey asked as he flopped onto his bed. 

“Yeah. Just chilling. Thinking about you.” He was breathless.

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up.

“Whatcha thinking?”

“Thinking about your ass.”

Mickey couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped his lips. 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yup,” Ian admitted, absolutely shamelessly. “Been thinking about it all day actually.”

It wasn’t until he let out a soft moan that Mickey caught on to what was happening. 

“Jesus Christ, Ian. Are you jerking off? Aren’t you at a funeral?” Mickey asked, outraged. 

“It’s 11:36 on a Wednesday night, Mickey, of course, I’m not at a fucking funeral. It’s on Saturday,” Ian whisper-yelled at him. “I obviously wasn’t calling you at this hour to talk about my mom, dumbass.”

“Who was saying my horny ass wouldn’t be able to last a week? You’re like 36 hours in, man.”

“Whatever. Shut up. Get your dick out.”

“Okay,” Mickey chuckled.

________________________________

Mickey was prepared to give Ian space to be with his family, but Ian apparently had other plans, electing to text him random snippets of his day for the rest of the week. It seemed like he was looking for a distraction in what was probably a very emotional and tense situation back home. Mickey was more than happy to oblige. 

*

Gallagher (9:45pm): Have you seen Grease?

Mickey (10:02pm): musicals are gay

Gallagher (10:03pm): Not even gonna touch that.

Gallagher (10:04pm): We’re watching it and Danny is so fucking hot.

Gallagher (10:04pm): He reminds me of you.

Gallagher (10:04pm): You should wear a leather jacket 😮💨

Mickey (10:05pm): if you like leather jackets you should watch buffy the vampire slayer 

Mickey (10:5pm): fuckin everyone wears leather 

Mickey (10:06pm): can guarantee spike in leather is hotter than whoever tf danny is

Gallagher (10:06pm): … You watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer? 

Mickey (10:08pm): yeah

Mickey (10:08pm): aria introduced me

Mickey (10:08pm): its fucking sick. you havent seen it?

Gallagher (10:09pm): No? It’s about a teenage girl...

Mickey (10:10pm): god i have so much to teach you

Mickey (10:10pm): we’re watching it when you get back

Mickey (10:10pm): buffy would beat danny’s ass

Gallagher (10:11pm): You don’t even know Danny

Mickey (10:11pm): buffy beats everyones ass

*

Gallagher (4:45am): How do you feel about brussel sprouts?

Mickey (6:51am): ur sick for thinking about brussel sprouts at 4.45am. or at all.

*

Mickey (3:40pm): watched grease

Mickey (3:40pm): don’t get the hype if im being honest

Mickey (3:40pm): all your movies suck. first star wars now this? 

Gallagher (5:05pm): You seem to have a lot of time on your hands for someone who I know for a fact has homework to do.  I don’t think your tutor would appreciate coming back and seeing you’ve fallen behind. 

Gallagher (5:05pm): So maybe go get some taste, and then go do your homework. 

Mickey (6:59pm): bossy...

*

Mickey (6:49am): good luck today. hope it goes ok 

Mickey (6:55am): lemme know if you need to talk or anything

Gallagher (9:13am): Thanks, Mick 😊

________________________________

When the weekend finally rolled around, Mickey was glad to have two games to focus on. They were playing Michigan State for the second time this season, which meant it would be a tough battle. 

Mickey was admittedly kind of excited to see Richards again. He hadn’t heard a peep from the other player since he’d punched him in the jaw for his hit on Jenkins and he was screaming swears at Mickey as they were yanked apart. 

When the teams skated on the ice for the opening faceoff, and Mickey saw that he would be facing Richards for it, he couldn’t help but make eye contact with him and subtly caress his own jaw. 

The look on Richard’s face was worth all the annoying trash talking he received for the rest of the game. 

They ended up winning the game 4-1, Mickey scoring a goal and Nelson, Ben, and Derek each picking one up as well. 

The next night, however, Michigan State got one early in the first period, leaving the Wolverines trailing 1-0 for almost the rest of the game. 

With less than a minute remaining in the third period, and the UMich goalie pulled for an extra attacker, Priyanka ended up receiving the puck off the faceoff and blasting it from center past the Michigan State goalie and forcing overtime. 

Overtime lasted all of 30 seconds when a pass that Richards attempted to make to one of his teammates was intercepted by Mickey, who found himself booking it to the other end of the ice with Richards hunting him down closely behind. He wristed a shot from the top of the circle and it beat the goalie blocker side, just skimming the top of the crossbar and in. 

“Fucking lucky shot,” Richards spat from somewhere to Mickey’s left as the crowd erupted. 

“Hey thanks for the assist!” Mickey called out to him as he was swallowed up by a sea of his teammates. 

The rush he felt at that moment was unmatched. 

________________________________

Sunday brought the announcement of mandatory, week-long, early morning practices that would accompany the team’s regular afternoon ones.

The team group chat went ballistic with complaints about having to go to the rink twice per day, with Adams complaining that this temporary change in their schedule was going to throw off his entire morning self-care routine. 

Mickey could understand Petrovich’s reasoning. UMich currently led the Big Ten division in points but the team that was behind them, Penn State, was only one point behind them. 

They had a road trip to Penn State coming up on the weekend and winning both games would mean a five-point buffer between Penn State and them. There was a lot riding on those two games as far as standings for championships were concerned, and they needed to look their sharpest. 

So, Monday morning at 5:30 am, Mickey and Ben made their way to the rink. Ben was gracious enough to make coffee and put some in a to-go mug for Mickey to chug while they walked. The sun wasn’t up yet, so the two walked side by side in the dark, the only light coming from the dim streetlights. 

“You hear from Ian at all while he’s been gone?” Ben asked as they walked. 

Mickey nodded through a sip of coffee. 

“How’s he holding up?” 

“Dunno,” Mickey shrugged. “I mean. I’m assuming he feels like shit but we don’t really talk about it a lot. And I don’t want to like, make him talk about it if he doesn’t want to.”

Ben hummed. 

“Makes sense,” he nodded. 

They were silent for a moment, but Mickey knew Ben was likely just gearing up to throw another loaded question at him before 6 am. 

“So what sort of stuff do you talk about then?” 

Jesus Christ. 

“I don’t know. Stuff,” Mickey shrugged as they stopped at a crosswalk. He reached over to press the button and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet as they waited, trying to warm himself up. 

“What kind of stuff?” Ben pressed. 

“Friend stuff, Ben,” Mickey sighed as the crosswalk man lit up, and they took off across the road. “Just normal, every day topics that two totally normal friends would normally engage in. When does this game of 20 questions stop?” 

Mickey was very aware of what Ben was trying to do, and he wasn’t going to let it happen. 

“When I’ve reached 20 questions,” Ben said stubbornly before asking another. “When’s he coming back?”

“Wednesday,” Mickey huffed.

“Thank God,” he heard Ben mutter under his breath. 

“The fuck do you mean thank God ?” he snapped, raising his brows high on his head.

“Well no offense Mick, you know I love you eternally, but you’re a lot less pleasant to be around when you aren’t getting it regularly,” Ben shrugged. 

Mickey turned his head toward Ben slowly, absolutely nonplussed by what he was hearing. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I just can’t help but notice how you’re a little more grouchy than you’ve been recently and I think it has everything to do with the fact that your friends with benefits is not around for the benefits if you know what I mean,” Ben said, sending a cheeky wink Mickey’s way. 

“You’re insane,” Mickey said, shaking his head as he stopped in front of the door of the rink. “I am perfectly lovely to be around Ben, so please keep your dumb-ass opinions and outrageous narrative about me to yourself because it is much too early for character assassination.” 

He pulled open the door and strutted inside. 

“Don’t even get me started on the uprise of melodramatics,” he heard Ben say from behind him.

Mickey scoffed loudly and went to down the rest of his coffee.

It was only Monday. 

________________________________

Tuesday morning’s practice came and went. They worked on special teams to tighten up their penalty kill and powerplay. Mickey was already starting to feel the extra practices in his body. He was about to escape back to his apartment to take a nap before his class when Petrovich called his name and waved him over to his office. 

Mickey sighed but smiled and followed Petrovich inside. 

“My boy!” he said loudly, as both men took a seat. “Powerplay is looking better. So is the forecheck on the penalty kill. How is it feeling?”

“Yeah, good. We’re a lot more cohesive and we’re getting a lot more pucks to the net.” Mickey responded. “Penn States’ kill is unreal so these extra practices were a good idea.” 

“That’s my boy. Penn State won’t know what hit ‘em. And if we lose, well -- ” he let out a loud bark of a laugh, “-- more fun for me come practice next week.” 

He continued to chuckle to himself, and although Mickey failed to see the joke, he let out a small, forced laugh too. 

“You’ll thank me one day, kid.” he said, shaking his head. “Anyway. I’ve got two tickets to see the Red Wings tomorrow night, but I have a dinner meeting so I can’t make it. Game’s at 7 pm. You got plans?" 

Mickey decidedly did have plans, and those plans were getting railed to within an inch of his life, because tomorrow was Wednesday and Ian was coming home.

“Who’re they playing?” Mickey asked. 

“Rangers. It’ll be a good game. Plus,” he put his elbows on his desk and leaned in. “I may have an in with one of the scouts for their team. I’ve been hearing whisperings they may be interested in you for next season.” 

Mickey sat up straighter in his chair. Because New York was interested in him? 

“Might be nothing. But they’ll probably get scouts out pretty soon if it’s a serious consideration. I’ll try to get more information on what games they’ll be at so I can give you a heads up. Not that you need it,” he scoffed. “Some nights I think you’re the only one out there on the ice.” 

Mickey ignored the obvious, and very untrue, stab at his team, still much too fixated on the fact that New fucking York might be coming to scout him. He had no idea how Petrovich managed to get an in with a Rangers scout, but he had never been more grateful for the man sitting in front of him in his life. 

“Can you imagine living it up in New York?” Petrovich continued. “All that hard work paid off,” he trailed off and Mickey noticed a shift in his demeanor as Petrovich stared off into space before seemingly snapping out of it and looking back to Mickey. 

“So? Tickets?” he asked. 

“Uh. Yeah. Thanks, Coach,” Mickey said, as he watched Petrovich reach inside his desk drawer and pull out two tickets. 

“Alright. Get out of here,” he said, handing over the tickets and nodding towards the door with a small smile on his face. 

Mickey thanked him again for the tickets and stood to leave. 

“Oh, and Milkovich?” Petrovich said, his tone completely different from the one he had five seconds ago. 

Mickey turned to face him again, brow raised in question. 

“I’m focusing on defense Thursday morning with Murphy, so I want you to run a special teams practice in the smaller rink with Nelson. I’ve asked him to do penalty kill but I need you to do powerplay. It’ll be your last chance before our game on Friday and I don’t need to tell you how much is riding on these games. A 5 point buffer between first and second is a lot in this league. I’m counting on you to whip everyone into shape,” he said, seriously. 

Mickey had led a few practices with Nelson here and there, but he could feel the pressure from their upcoming games sitting heavy in his chest. He couldn’t help but feel like this was an assistant captain job and not a Mickey job, but regardless, he nodded at his coach. 

“Don’t worry, Coach. I’ve got you.” 

“That’s my star,” Petrovich smiled. 

With one last nod, Mickey left the office. 

He looked down at the tickets as he began to walk towards the stairs to exit the building, contemplating who he was going to bring with him. 

It truly scared Mickey how fast his brain came up with the answer. 

________________________________

Mickey had a very casual and reasonable rationalization for thinking of Ian immediately, and it was because he would likely benefit from some distraction. Mickey, as his friend, would be an asshole if he didn’t try to do at least something to make the transition from a rough week dealing with a funeral back to normal life a little easier on him. 

Because that's what friends do. 

So Mickey was gonna ask Ian to go to the game with him. 

It was just casual. A way to make Ian feel better. That was all. 

Mickey spent Tuesday afternoon when he should have been studying, contemplating how he was going to ask his nosy ass roommate where he was going to be tomorrow night.

At dinner that night, he took the temperature, Ben and Aria sitting on the couch opposite him scarfing   down chicken and potatoes.

“You guys have plans tomorrow night?” he asked nonchalantly, pushing his food around with his fork. 

“Aria is making us go to this Harry Potter trivia thing at her dorm even though I don’t know a damn thing about Harry Potter,” Ben said, glaring over at Aria next to him. 

“Well it’s not my fault you’re uneducated Benjamin. I’ve been asking you to watch it with me for years now,” Aria scoffed. 

“Anyway. We’ll probably crash there afterward because it’s supposed to go pretty late,” Ben continued. 

Mickey nodded into his plate. 

“Cool.” Mickey tried to school his expression, even though his lips began upturning and his chest filled with glee at the notion of an empty apartment.

They were all silent for a moment. 

“Why do you ask?” Ben asked, his eyebrow quirking up. 

“Just wondering. Can’t I show a little interest in my friends’ lives without it being a thing?” 

“I mean yeah, but. Wait.” Ben’s eyes went wide in realization. “Oh my God. Tomorrow is Wednesday.”  

“Yes, and today is Tuesday and yesterday was Monday,” Mickey continued for him, sarcastically.

“Ian’s coming back tomorrow,” Ben placed his plate on the table and turned his body to face Mickey in a very confrontational manner as he continued. “And your mouth did that weird thing where it tries to smile but you try too hard to suppress it even though I’ve told you a million times it makes the fact that you’re trying to hide something a million times more obvious. It just did it when I told you we wouldn’t be here tomorrow night.”

“Is there a point you’re planning on getting to while we’re still young here, Sherlock Holmes?” Mickey asked, trying to keep his voice leveled. 

“Oh my fucking god!” Aria chimed in. “You think he’s planning on bringing Ian here so they can do whatever mysterious “ friend ” shit they do, without our prying eyes on them! Good one babe. That’s exactly what this is!”

They high-fived before turning back to Mickey, who admittedly was doing a horrible job of being subtle. He was now in the process of mashing his potatoes into little bits with his fork. 

“So do you have something planned?” Ben asked. 

“I have no idea what you two are talking about,” Mickey said, shaking his head. 

“Stop keeping shit from us Mikhailo!” Aria snapped. “Our lives are so boring I am literally begging you to give us something here!”

Mickey glared at her for a moment before eventually deciding there was no reason to not be honest with them because it wasn’t even a big deal. It was just a casual hang. No need to hide shit.

“Fucking fine. Petrovich gave me two tickets to the Red Wings and Rangers game tomorrow night and I thought I’d ask Ian to go with me because of all the shit he’s been dealing with lately.” Mickey shrugged and looked away from them. “I don’t know. Just thought he could use it. Hockey usually makes me feel better so…” he trailed off. 

Everything went silent for a beat and he could feel Ben and Aria staring at him. Ben eventually broke the silence. 

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you didn’t invite me to the game even though I’m from New York and the Rangers are literally my team because holy shit? You’re literally taking Ian out on a fucking date.”

“A DATE!!” Aria yelled several million decibels too high.

“I-- wha-- NO!” Mickey yelled back. “Jesus Christ Almighty, it’s not a fucking date! We’re just friends going to a fucking hockey game, it’s not a big deal.” 

“Say whatever you want Mick. But it’s a date,” Aria said. “And the motives behind it? Are you kidding? You hide behind this rough exterior but my god Mickey Milkovich you are such a fucking softie. I am baffled beyond belief right now.”

Ben then jumped off the couch and tackled Mickey into a bear hug while Aria started up a chorus of Ian and Mickey sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.  They spent the next fifteen minutes asking increasingly annoying questions about what he was going to wear on his “date” and where they were going to have dinner and whether or not Mickey was going to pay.

They also told him if his bare ass touched the couch again he’d be moving out by Thursday.

________________________________

Mickey waited a cool, calm, and collected fifteen minutes after Ian’s bus arrived back in Ann Arbor on the Wednesday afternoon before texting him.

Mickey (2:15pm): welcome back loser

Gallagher (2:18pm): Thank you for the warm welcome 😌

Gallagher (2:18pm): Was expecting you to be holding a poster with my name and little hearts on it when I got off the bus.

Gallagher (2:18pm): Disappointed. 

Mickey (2:19pm): shut up

Mickey (2:19pm): i was wondering if you’d be up to hang tonight? 

Mickey (2:19pm): but if ur too tired to thats chill too

Gallagher (2:20pm): Yeah sure! Want to go get food and watch a movie? 

Mickey (2:20pm): kind of already have something planned 

Gallagher (2:21pm): 👀

Gallagher (2:21pm): What kind of something? 

Mickey (2:22pm): surprise

Mickey (2:22pm): meeting at the blake transit center at 5. out till at least 11. 

Mickey (2:22pm): u down?

Gallagher (2:23pm): Damn.

Gallagher (2:23pm): Is this a sex thing? Because fucking at a bus station for 6 hours is not high on my list.

Gallagher (2:23pm): Though I could probably adapt if I really had to.

Mickey (2:24pm): fucking comes later if you don’t annoy me to death

Gallagher (2:25pm): Color me intrigued.

Gallagher (2:25pm): See you there 🕺

________________________________

Mickey felt like he’d been hit by the bus he was about to board when he saw Ian approaching him at the station. The motherfucker was wearing a backwards baseball cap, a denim jacket thrown over a dark  hoodie, black jeans and white high top converse..

The pièce de résistance came in the form of a week’s worth of stubble that made him look so hot Mickey thought he may genuinely pass out and never recover from the sight.

Why he hadn’t insisted on a quickie at Ian’s dorm before meeting up with him was beyond him. He was the stupidest man alive.

“Hiya Mick,” Ian said, smiling casually, as he made his way over to him, backpack slung over one shoulder.

Ian barrelled into him and threw his arms around his shoulders for a quick hug before leaning back and squeezing at his upper arms, smiling brightly all the while.

Well. Okay.

“Sup bro,” Mickey said, nodding his head, and then instantly wishing he was dead. 

Sup bro? 

Jesus fucking Christ .

Ian looked at him bemusedly.

“Not much, bro.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and scratched the back of his neck, before shoving a bus ticket that he’d purchased a few minutes ago into Ian’s hands.

“Come on. We’ve got a bus to catch,” Mickey said, as he saw their bus approaching. He turned to walk towards the lineup that was forming. 

Ian had clearly looked at his ticket because Mickey heard a yelp from behind him.

“Detroit?! We’re going to Detroit?! Oh my god! I’ve never been before!” Ian said, in a tone that made it sound like Mickey was taking him to Disneyland or the moon.

“Well there’s a first time for everything, Gallagher. ‘S pretty cool there,” Mickey smirked.

Mickey had been there quite a few times. The team did monthly outings to Detroit for a while, and he and Ben would try and get tickets to games whenever Chicago or New York were in town during their first two years. This semester, there never seemed to be enough time for it.  

The two walked in tandem, elbows brushing against each other as they made their way to the front of the line.

“Holy shit. This is so cool. What’s in Detroit?” Ian asked, excitingly.

“Why you wanna ruin the surprise, huh?” Mickey replied, handing his ticket over to be checked before climbing the stairs and making his way to the very back of the bus.

Ian followed behind soon after, sitting down next to Mickey, and throwing his backpack under the seat in front of him.

They were quiet, as their eyes met again. Ian smiled. Wide.

“Hey,” Ian said, bumping his shoulder. “‘S good to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey returned, facing towards the seat in front of him and running a finger over his bottom lip. A beat. And then -- “You too. I like the scruff.”

Mickey turned to face Ian again and was met with a smile that had only managed to get bigger.

________________________________

Ian asked a variation of “are we there yet?” and “what are we doing in Detroit?” approximately 37 times across the 80 minute bus ride.

Eventually, Mickey pulled up the Buffy pilot episode on his phone to shut him up. But of course, that just encouraged, “where is this Spike guy that you’re in love with?” and “is he hotter than me?” and “you’d look hot as a vampire” and “if I was a vampire and you were a slayer would you still fuck me?”

Mickey then announced that Ian wasn’t taking Buffy seriously enough and he would be gatekeeping her until Ian got his shit together. He put on an episode of The Office instead.

________________________________

They arrived at Little Caesars Arena 30 minutes before puck drop. 

Ian realized what was happening pretty quickly, as they joined the swarms of hockey fans dressed in red and white en route to the arena.

“We’re going to a hockey game?” Ian asked, an amused tone to his voice. “Did you think you needed to trap me into coming? That why it was a surprise?” 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Gallagher,” Mickey said nonchalantly. “Besides, you said yourself that you want to be a groupie. How can you achieve that if you’ve never been to a real game?

He heard Ian laugh softly and felt him nudge his shoulder lightly. 

“Pretty sure I meant your groupie, but thank you for the concern,” he said and when Mickey shot him a glance, Ian was already busy taking out his phone to take a picture of the lit up arena like a fucking tourist.

“Hey, take a picture of me in front of it,” Ian said, handing his phone to Mickey and running ahead to pose. 

Mickey shook his head and bit at his inner cheek to stop himself from smiling. 

When he handed the phone back to him, Ian surprised him yet again by throwing an arm around Mickey's shoulders and angling the camera up high so he could get them and the arena in for a selfie. He quickly snapped three shots -- all in which Mickey probably looked extremely confused -- and then removed his arm. He began to scroll through them and smirked as he did it.

“You finished?” Mickey asked, a little breathlessly. “Want to go ask those people over there if they want to form a human pyramid in front of it?” 

“Shut up,” Ian shoved him playfully before putting his phone in his pocket again. 

They stood in line for five minutes before they reached the front. Mickey pulled out the tickets for the host to scan as Ian shrugged off his bag and opened it for security to check. They then made their way through the metal detectors and into the arena. 

“Hey. You want something to eat?” Mickey asked as they began to wade their way through the crowd, passing food joints. 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Ian nodded. 

They settled on a booth with hotdogs and hamburgers and joined the line. 

"Hey,” Ian said, nudging Mickey in the arm with his elbow. “Like my jacket?” He stood out of the line for a second and spun around slowly like a model. 

“Uh. Yeah. I guess,” Mickey said, raising one of his brows in confusion. “It kinda looks like a regular jean jacket, Gallagher.”

“Oh. It is,” Ian said, stepping back into line and looking down at Mickey. “Except it isn’t mine. It’s my brothers.”

“I -- okay and?” Mickey said, still not understanding why Ian felt the need to share. 

“Well, you see. The jean jacket has become a staple piece for me in my wardrobe. However, I was kind enough to lend mine to someone ,” he paused and looked at Mickey for dramatic effect, “and I’ve yet to receive it back. So I had to steal my brother’s.”

“Man. I’m so sorry, that sounds like a real hardship,” Mickey said sarcastically. 

“Well it has been quite a while so I’m just kind of wondering if I’m ever getting it back or if you were wanting to keep it for the shrine I assume you have of me in your room, or --” Ian continued rather annoyingly. 

“Just take it with you tonight, weirdo, Jesus,” Mickey said, pulling out his wallet as they approached the front of the line. “Now tell me what you want so I can order.”

“Woah, wait,” Ian said, pulling out his wallet too. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on me,” Mickey said as they approached the register. 

“Like fuck it is,” Ian said through gritted teeth. 

They both ordered hotdogs and when it came time to actually pay, tried to push each other’s card out of the way in front of the reader. Mickey ended up winning and yelled a loud “HA,” as the guy on the other side of the counter smirked at them.

“Hey, you’re Mickey Milkovich aren’t you? From the Wolverines?” the teller asked suddenly. 

“Uh yeah,” Mickey said, embarrassment sitting high on his cheeks.

“Nice OT winner the other night, man!” he said with a smile as he handed Mickey their hotdogs.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it,” Mickey said.

“I’m probably going to get into trouble for this, but could you maybe sign a napkin for me or something? My girlfriend’s in love with you and she would literally chop my balls off if she hears I met you and didn’t ask,” the guy said, looking embarrassed. 

“I mean you wouldn’t want that on your hands, Mick,” Ian mumbled from beside him.

Mickey snorted. 

“Yeah man, no problem.” 

He signed the napkin with a sharpie the guy offered him and gave it back with a small smile. 

“Thank you so much! This’ll mean so much to her,” the guy said, tucking the napkin into the front of his apron. 

“Not a problem,” Mickey said, nodding. “Have a good one.” 

They left with their hot dogs and Mickey led them towards their section. 

“That was nice of you,” Ian said as they went through a tunnel and made their way down the steps to their seats. The arena was a third of the way full, and was already buzzing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey muttered. “The man’s balls were at stake. Couldn’t just leave him hanging." 

Ian chuckled as Mickey led him down to row 9 and they slid past a couple of people to get to their seats.  

They sat down and Mickey handed Ian his hotdog.

“So? Pretty good huh?”

Ian looked around and then at the rink in front of him, momentarily watching the Zamboni that was cleaning the ice. He looked back at Mickey in concern. 

“Uh. Is this okay?” he asked hesitantly. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I just, I don’t know. Aren’t hockey tickets like...expensive?” Ian shifted in his seat uncomfortably before making eye contact with Mickey. “Especially seats that are close like this.”

“Oh,” Mickey said, realizing what Ian was getting at. “Yeah man, but I got these for free from my coach, so don’t worry about it.”

The look of relief that broke out on Ian’s face was almost comical. 

“Thank fuck,” he breathed out through a laugh. “I was pre-planning ways to slip you 20’s every day for a month. I will be paying you back for this though,” he said, opening up the foil on his hot dog. “And the bus tickets.” 

“How about you eat your hotdog, enjoy the bus ride, and shut the fuck up,” Mickey replied, taking a bite of his own. 

Mickey looked over at Ian to find him already staring at him, a fond expression softening his face. Ian quickly lowered his gaze to the ground, a soft breath coming through his nose. The corner of his lips turned up into a shy grin. 

Mickey adjusted in his seat and bit the corner of his inner lip, a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

They ate in silence for a couple of moments, the buzz and chatter of the crowd around them growing louder as it got closer to puck drop. 

“So. Who’s playing?” Ian asked suddenly, leaning back in his seat as he crumpled up his hot dog wrapper. 

“Detroit and New York,” Mickey responded. 

“Those teams any good?” 

“Yeah. They’re both doing pretty decent this year. New York is looking really good compared to a couple of years ago actually,” Mickey explained, as the lights dimmed and the two teams skated onto the ice. 

Ian nodded. “And who are you cheering for? Just so I can play the part.” 

Mickey let out a laugh as the announcer asked everyone to stand for the national anthem.

“Not really cheering for anyone. None of them are Chicago. But Detroit I guess since we’re here.” 

The game started shortly after, and for the first couple of minutes, Ian was silent in his seat. He just watched the plays go back and forth and Mickey was kind of worried that he had totally miscalculated this and he was bored shitless.

The whistle blew to stop the play and Ian peered around in confusion for a second before leaning closer to Mickey. 

“Why’d they blow the whistle?” he asked. 

“Offside,” 

“And offside is…?”

“It’s when the play is offside.” 

“Offside of what?” 

Suddenly Mickey missed the silence.

“Jesus Christ, Gallagher,” Mickey said, looking around at Ian with a raised brow. 

“What? I’m trying to appear interested!”

Mickey snorted. 

“It’s when a player that doesn't have a puck in their possession crosses the blue line before the player with the puck does. Can’t do that. You have to wait for the puck to cross the line first,” Mickey explained. 

Before Ian could ask another question, the whistle blew for a penalty and the crowd began to stand up around them, booing loudly.

“What happened? Why are they booing?” Ian asked, craning his neck to look around the person who was standing in front of him.

“I wouldn’t know. You won’t shut the fuck up,” Mickey muttered, looking up at the jumbotron to watch the play. 

“Oh, what the fuck?” Mickey said loudly as he got to his feet with everyone else. “What kind of call was that?” he yelled at the referee, who was in the process of announcing the penalty. 

Ian stood up next to him and stared at the screen too as if trying to assess what was happening. Mickey smirked at him. 

“The ref made a shit call. One of Detroit's players got pushed into the Rangers’ goalie and he called goalie interference.” 

The crowd settled as people began sitting back down. 

“Well wasn’t the goalie technically interfered with?” Ian asked as they took their seats again. 

“I mean yeah, but not on purpose.”

“Yeah but does purpose really matter in this set of circumstances? I mean is there really time in every game for the ref to stop and weigh the situation in terms of what appears to have been accidental versus intentional? That would make the game way longer than eternity, which is a very long time,” Ian said seriously. 

Mickey just blinked at him.

“If you’ve finished preparing your keynote speech, could you shut the fuck up so I can focus please?”

Ian snorted and gazed back out onto the ice just as the Detroit player was skating to the penalty box.

“Wait, he's going in there?” Ian let out a loud cackle. “You’re telling me that the big fighty man has to go into that tiny box for his timeout?” 

He kept laughing and Mickey had never regretted his life decisions more than he did here at this moment. 

“How do they even fit in there with all their gear on?” he continued, now leaning across Mickey ever so slightly, seemingly trying to get a better look at the player in the box. “I mean I understand how you’d fit because you’re tiny, but some of these guys are just massive. I don’t understand this sport at all.”

Mickey just stared at him, utterly speechless, as he tried to hold in his grin. It was fucked, but he actually missed this over his Ian-less week. The long-ass tangents he would go on when he got passionate about something. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed at his own dumb jokes. The way he just knew when Mickey was holding back and would nudge him in the arm to try and make him laugh too. It was decidedly fucked, and it made Mickey light-headed. 

Ian leaned back in his seat again and flicked his gaze back to Mickey who had just been caught staring. He felt himself blush as he looked away. 

“What no response to me calling you tiny?” Ian asked, raising one of his brows. “You’d usually be threatening to kick my ass by now.” 

“I’ll kick your ass, don’t worry,” Mickey said, with no bite, his voice regular. 

He saw Ian’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

The rest of the period went by quickly, with neither one of the teams scoring. The horn sounded, and people began to get up for the twenty-minute intermission. 

“Hey. Think we can swing by the team store?” Ian asked. “Kind of want to look at the hats.”

Mickey smirked at him. 

“Yeah? You gonna make this snapback thing a regular occurrence?” 

“Why? You don’t like it?” Ian asked, his face dropping a bit. 

Mickey looked at the one he currently had on his head, then flickered his gaze down to his lips. 

“Didn’t say that,” Mickey said smoothly, as he got up and started making his way down the row. 

“Then I guess I can't have too many,” Ian whispered into Mickey’s ear as he brushed past him and took the steps two at a time. 

Mickey’s face warmed instantly.  

________________________________

Ian ended up purchasing a black hat with a red and white Wings logo on the front. 

They made their way back to their seats just as the second period was starting. 

The second was much more exciting than the first. Each team scored two goals and there was a fight near the end of the period that Ian, of course, asked a million and one questions about. 

“How do you even fight on skates? That seems so dangerous.”

“It’s easy when you’ve been skating your whole life,” Mickey explained. “Skating kind of becomes like walking. I kind of prefer it to be honest.”

“I’d fall on my ass if I tried it.”

“What, you’ve never skated before?” Mickey asked, a little taken aback. 

“Nah. Never really had the chance to,” Ian said with a shrug. 

Mickey couldn’t believe a kid from Chicago had never put on a pair of skates before. That was pretty much criminal.

“Maybe I’ll take you some time,” he found his mouth saying without the consent of his brain. 

He saw Ian’s head shoot over in his direction. He shrugged, trying to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal. Because it wasn’t . 

“Uh, yeah. That’d be cool,” Ian said quietly. 

Mickey decided to keep his eyes on the game. 

They stayed in their seats for the second intermission. A couple of people came up to them as they waited, asking for autographs and pictures with Mickey, including a kid with a broken arm who asked if Mickey could sign his cast. 

“How’d you do that?” Mickey asked him, nodding at the cast as he opened the pen up. 

“Road hockey. Third time,” the kid said. “You should see the other guy.” 

Mickey let out a laugh as he signed the cast. 

“Gotta be more careful. How can you play if you keep breaking it?” he asked, handing the pen back to him. 

“If it were up to me I’d be playing with the broken arm! But my mom won’t let me,” the kid said, rolling his eyes and glancing over to a woman, who Mickey assumed was the mother in question. 

“I like your attitude, man. I was the same way when I was your age.”

The kid’s face lit up at that as he heard Ian snort from beside him.

________________________________

The rest of the game was exciting, to say the least, but definitely not for Detroit. 

The Rangers managed to score three goals in the third period, pretty much sealing the win for themselves. 

The building got quiet after the Red Wings started to lose, and by the end of the third period, almost half the crowd was gone.  

Mickey refused to let them leave before the final horn sounded, knowing all too well how it felt as a player to see the crowd leaving before the game was over. 

When the game was officially over, they got up and made their way up the stairs and out of the arena. 

They didn’t say anything as they left the building, and started walking towards the bus stop. Although Ian did keep bumping him with his shoulder, and Mickey was pretty sure it wasn’t an accident. 

They made it to the stop and Mickey pulled out his phone. 

“We got ten minutes till it’ll be here,” he told Ian. 

Ian nodded and kicked Mickey’s shoe with his. 

“Thanks for taking me. I had a really good time. And I kind of needed that today, so. Thank you,” he said quietly. 

“Don’t mention it,” Mickey said, waving him off. 

They locked eyes, and Mickey watched as Ian’s eyes searched his face, his mouth quirking into a tiny grin. 

“Did you uh, want to come back to my place?” Mickey asked him, scratching the back of his neck and refusing to make eye contact. 

“Yeah,” Ian smiled. “I would.” 

Mickey nodded. 

“Cool.” 

“Cool,” Ian mocked, kicking at Mickey’s shoe again.

________________________________

They reached Mickey’s place a little after 11:30 pm, the place dark and quiet.

“Where’s Ben and Aria?” Ian asked as Mickey turned on the lights and chucked his keys in the basket by the door.

“Staying at Aria’s tonight,” he said. “Some trivia shit at her dorm.”

Ian nodded, and clapped his hands together, looking around the empty space.

“We uh...got the place to ourselves,” Mickey added helpfully as if it wasn’t already blatantly obvious.

He threw his eyes over to Ian who offered a sweet, timid smile.

“Cool.”

Before Mickey had a chance to completely drown in green irises, he pulled his gaze toward the kitchen and headed to the fridge.  

“D’ya want a beer or something? Coke?” he asked Ian.

“Coke would be great, thanks, Mick. Hey, do you mind if I have a quick cigarette on the balcony?”

“Yeah, course man,” Mickey responded as he grabbed two cokes from the fridge. 

He turned around to face Ian and the perfect location for a cigarette and coke came to mind.

“Wait. Keep your jacket on. We’re not smoking on the balcony,” he said as he ushered a befuddled Ian back out the front door and into the elevator. He pressed the ‘R’ and ignored Ian’s stare he could feel burning a hole into the side of his head.

He almost dropped the cans when he felt Ian reach over and slip his hand into the back pocket of Mickey’s jeans and gently squeeze his ass. His face was completely neutral and facing forward when Mickey threw him a death stare.

“Can I help you Gallagher?” he asked, his pitch uncharacteristically high.

“I’m good,” he replied simply.

Mickey rationalized that with both hands holding a can of coke, he couldn’t possibly pull Ian’s hand out. Sure, he could probably wiggle out of it, but that would require a lot of effort. He might fizz up the cokes, and that wouldn’t be good. 

They rode up the rest of the way like that. 

The elevator doors opened to a spectacular rooftop patio overlooking Ann Arbor. Mickey looked over at Ian whose eyes lit up. 

“Holy shit,” Ian exclaimed as he walked towards the ledge, his eyes sparkling at the twinkling night lights. 

Ian remained distracted by the view as Mickey turned on one of the heaters and threw himself into one of the banana loungers next to it. He cracked open his coke can and took a loud slurp.

The sound seemed to break Ian from his daze, and he turned around to smile at Mickey. He made his way towards a second lounge chair and lowered himself into it with a big exhale.

“This is fucking amazing,” he said.

Mickey hummed.

Ian pulled out a cigarette, lit up, and took a long drag. Mickey, after thinking for a moment, held out two fingers.

Ian’s eyebrows shot up as he reached out to hand over the cigarette.

“Okay, athlete!”

“Fuck off.”

A completely comfortable silence settled between them as they sipped on their cokes and shared a cigarette. They listened to the sounds of the city below them, looking out at the lights, their faces turning warm from the strength of the heater.

“So how was your week?” Ian asked, eventually. Casual.

“Boring as shit besides our games. I actually studied, man,” Mickey admitted through a chuckle.

“Look at you!”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up.”

Silence again. And then --

“You go out or anything?”

Mickey looked over at him with furrowed brows. Ian knew every second of Mickey’s schedule and partying, aside from Halloween and a few important birthdays, was not a regular part of it. 

“Why the fuck would I go out? Fuckin’ hate partying.”

“Dunno.” Ian tapped at his can. “A week is a long time.”

Mickey’s face contorted into one of pure confusion. He’d been hanging around Ian enough to know he sometimes got weirdly cryptic and vague, and the best way around it was to just ask point-blank what the fuck he was talking about.

“A long time for what, exactly?”

Ian paused.

“To go without sex,” he said, eyes forced forward, followed immediately by a shrug and three huge chugs of coke. His eyes crinkled from the acidity.

Was Ian really asking him if he’d gone out and got fucked while he was away? 

Sure, Ian disappearing had left some large chunks in his schedule, but he had used that time to get ahead with some studying, not to mention the weeks worth of extra practices that left him way too tired to do much of anything once he got home.

The thought of Ian fucking someone else never even crossed his mind. But now that Ian had planted the seed, Mickey guessed that this meant Ian had fucked someone while he was in Chicago. Which was fine, it was whatever.

His stomach dropped at the thought, for some reason, but he quickly shook that away. It wasn’t his place to feel weird about it. They weren’t exclusive. It was fine. 

Was Mickey supposed to have hooked up in Ian’s absence? He truly had no idea about etiquette when one’s friend with benefits goes back to their hometown for their mother’s funeral.

“Maybe a week is a long time for you, Horny, but it’s like seven days,” Mickey said, shrugging.

“I mean, that’s not an answer.”

“Was there a question?”

“Did you fuck anyone when I was gone?” Ian asked bluntly. 

Mickey quirked a brow. 

“Did you fuck anyone?”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“No, I didn’t fuck anyone.”

“Well, me neither.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

And if relief flooded his gut when Ian admitted he hadn’t fucked anyone, well, no it didn’t.

“You could have if you wanted to,” Mickey found himself adding.

“Yeah. You could have too,” Ian responded.

“You could have been pummelling ass ten ways till Sunday.”

“And you could have been riding dick left, right, and center.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Nor did you.” 

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

Their rapid-fire bullshit was over as quickly as it had started, and they shared stolen glances as they both settled back into silence, sipping at their cokes.

Mickey glanced over to see Ian smiling at him softly.

“Hey. Tell me about hockey,” Ian said, handing over the cigarette.

“What about it?”

Ian hummed. “What got you into it?”

Mickey took a deep breath as he cast his mind back to Chicago, to his childhood, to hockey. The good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

“My coach up here I’ve known since I was a kid,” Mickey admitted. “He and my dad were friends. He introduced me to hockey.”

“Oh that’s cool!”

“Yeah. Became my whole fuckin’ life. I uh… even collected hockey cards when I was a kid. It was a stupid hobby but I loved it so much,” Mickey said. He paused, took a drag of the cigarette, before handing it back over to Ian. “I always wanted to be on one, so collecting them was my way of promising myself that I’d do it one day. I was a weird kid,” he laughed.

“That’s actually really sweet. Do you still have them?” Ian asked. 

“Nah. Came home one day and Terry had sold all 100 or so of them for drug money. He just brushed it off as a waste of time, told me to stop being such a pussy. Beat my ass for crying about it,” he chuckled humourlessly. 

Ian stayed quiet, and Mickey was positive that he’d just overshared. But when Mickey looked over, Ian was staring at him intensely, completely engaged but just giving Mickey space to talk.

“But anyway. Hockey got me out of the house, away from Terry. I was fucking good at it. And Coach was like the dad I actually wanted. Always felt like he had my back. I think he saw how Terry treated me and he was never like that with me. Encouraged me to fucking go for it and has helped me every step of the way. I just wanted to make him proud, maybe.”

A beat passed. 

“Sounds like a good guy,” Ian finally said.

“I mean don’t get me wrong, he’s homophobic, and can be a total asshole sometimes, but he’s got my ba--” 

“Wait,” Ian interrupted, shaking his head. “He’s homophobic? Does he know you're gay?”

Mickey laughed.

“Fuck no. God knows what he’d do if he found out I was.”

“Shit, Mickey,” Ian said quietly. He was acting totally shocked and appalled, which weirdly caught Mickey off guard. “How do you know he’s homophobic?”

“Overheard him talking shit with Terry when I was a kid. And you can’t be friends with Terry and not be a homophobic nazi, really. Kept my pride flag well and truly buried after that,” Mickey said, shrugging.

“So that’s why you’re not...out. Or whatever.”

Mickey shrugged. “Pretty much. Need as good a chance as possible to get into the NHL and having Petrovich on my side is pretty fucking important.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Ian asked.

“What doesn’t bother me?”

“That your coach and father figure wouldn’t accept you for who you are if he knew?”

For some reason that question completely knocked Mickey out. Of course, he knew that. He grew up in that house and he grew up with those people, and he’s known who Petrovich was the whole time.

But hearing it phrased that way set Mickey’s blood cold. He blew out a long breath.

“Shit, man,” Mickey said, draining the last of his coke and running his hands on the armrests of the banana lounger.

“Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t--” Ian fell silent.

Mickey was silent for some minutes, gathering his thoughts from where they lay shattered on the ground.

“I mean,” he began. “I guess yeah, deep down, of course, it bothers me. But I don’t really spend too much time thinking about it.” He bit some skin around his thumb. “Would probably go crazy and quit if I did. And I can’t fucking do that. ’M not going back to Chicago to that piece of shit life. I just gotta keep my head down, and stay out of trouble. And then once I’m in the NHL I can...” he trailed off, waving his hand around randomly. 

Come out, maybe. Stop hiding, maybe. Be who I am, maybe.

“So you wanna come out publicly? Eventually?” Ian probed.

Mickey scoffed.

“Why the fuck are you so interested in me announcing I like to take it up the ass to the world, huh?” he asked, jokingly.

Ian smiled shyly. 

“I’m not, dickhead.” A beat. “Just wanna know you.”

Mickey stilled for a moment before his heart lit up in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time someone just wanted to know about him , with no elitist intentions. Most people just wanted a piece of him because they assumed he’d be rich and famous one day. But Ian was just Ian. And he was right there. Mickey didn’t doubt him for a second.

“Yeah. Well. I dunno. Ask me after I get drafted,” Mickey said.

“Mmmm.”

If Mickey was being honest, he hadn’t really looked at his future that far beyond getting drafted.

In his daydreams it had always been play hockey, get drafted, and make it big in the NHL. And then his dreams would come true and the fantasy ends. Cut to black.

He’d been too scared to dream any bigger than that.

He was never going to be the kind of guy who made his personal life public knowledge, ready for the vultures. But when he actually thought about it, he didn’t want to hide who he was forever, either.

But shit. That was enough vulnerability for one night.

“Alright then, tell me about your nerdom,” he asked Ian, shifting gears.

“Fuck off,” the redhead chuckled.

“I’m serious! I told you my sob story. The fuck’s yours?”

Ian chuckled and set down his empty coke can. He pulled out another cigarette and lit up, hollowing his cheeks to take a big inhale before letting it waft up into the chilled air.

He was looking out at the city, quiet and pensive.

“Not much of a sob story I guess. Was good at school. Got terrorized by the football zombies and some basketball dudess. I tutored a bunch of them but they just made me do their work or they’d beat me up. Would usually just beat me up anyway. Two, in particular, found out I was gay and…yeah,” Ian shrugged, taking another pull of his cigarette as he let that statement sit in the thick air between them.

“Shit,” Mickey said. “That's why you hate athletes, huh?”

Ian smiled.

“Nerd bullied by the jocks. I’m pretty much a walking cliche,” he admitted, his voice light.

“Don’t seem to have a problem with them now, considering how often you suck my dick,” Mickey joked.

“Shut the fuck up,” Ian said through a chuckle. A beat. A drag. A lip bite. “Anyway. Skipped a couple of grades. Worked my fucking ass off to get into college and to graduate early. Had a rough freshman year so I took some time off. Went back for second year but being in Chicago just wasn’t good for me. My sister saw that being around all those bad memories was taking a toll on me so the second she and my siblings were good she told me to get the fuck out. So I did. And here I am.”

The condensed history of Ian Gallagher. Mickey wondered if he’d ever hear the fleshed-out version. If he’d ever tell Ian his own fleshed-out story.

“You ever wanna go back? To Chicago? After school?” Mickey asked him.

“Fuck no. To visit -- sure. Love my family. I dunno where I’m gonna end up though. Not Chicago. And not here -- too fucking cold. Wanna be somewhere sunny.”

“Sun’s good,” Mickey said, nodding. “I like sunny.”

________________________________

Eventually, Mickey turned off the heater and they made their way back to the apartment.

They were silent most of the way, something thick and palpable between them.

Once inside the apartment, Ian excused himself to the bathroom and, bizarrely, took his backpack in with him. Mickey shrugged and let it happen, making his way into his bedroom to wait.

________________________________

Mickey was fidgeting on the bed, sitting on the edge so his legs dangled off, and he had no idea why he felt so nervous. He’d fucked Ian maybe a million times by now, but something about the weeklong break had butterflies setting up shop in his stomach that had not been invited.

Ian entered his room suddenly, dropping his backpack by the door and kicking off his shoes.

They watched each other intently. Ian smiled sweetly at Mickey, tilting his head as if checking him out, and Mickey knew his face turned red, and he hated that it did, but he was powerless to stop it. 

Ian, without any preamble, peeled off his shirt, followed by his pants, until he was standing by the now closed door across the room in just his boxer briefs. Mickey mirrored him, and rid himself of his own clothes. 

They were at a stalemate. He waited for Ian to do or say something, but he simply stood and stared and smiled and made Mickey’s whole body vibrate and harden just with his gaze, and Mickey thought that maybe he had superhuman powers. 

Mickey fought the urge to make a joke or to push ahead, his curiosity at how Ian was playing this and what his next move would be keeping him seated and pliant.

Eventually --

“C’mere,” Ian said quietly through his smile.

Mickey screwed up his face. Ian’s smile widened.

“You c’mere,” Mickey replied cheekily, eyes shining.

Ian let out a breath of a laugh as he made his way over, and Mickey prayed Ian couldn’t tell that his insides had become liquid.

Ian reached him, stood between Mickey’s legs, and, in a move that made buckets of blood rush to his cheeks, placed his thumb on Mickey’s bottom lip, tracing it over the dampness. Mickey felt his heartbeat in his toes. He then dragged his thumb down to tilt up Mickey’s chin and leaned down to land a wet, open-mouthed kiss on Mickey’s trembling lips. 

Ian leaned back to look at Mickey -- his cheeks flushed, his lips wet, stars in his eyes -- as he gently nudged him until he was lying on his back.

Ian went in, slow, until his forearms framed Mickey’s head and he was kissing him. 

They made out lazily, one of Mickey’s hands on the back of Ian’s neck and the other pressed against his cheek. Their tongues danced together, a slow waltz, as hot breaths filled each other’s mouths. It was unrushed, surprisingly -- considering how long it had been -- and all the more erotic because of it. 

Their kisses deepened, slowly, so slowly, and Mickey relished in the feeling of Ian’s hot, hard chest pressed against his. Mickey didn’t think his heart had ever beat this fast. Maybe ever. 

Ian lined up their underwear-clad crotches, starting up a deliciously slow, hard grind, and they both exhaled heavily at the sensation as their hands began to wander. Ian’s hands trailed down Mickey’s sides until they slipped underneath the back of his underwear, Mickey lifting up his pelvis to give him better access.

“Missed your ass,” Ian said, wiggling his eyebrows, as he lightly dragged his middle finger down between Mickey’s cheeks. Mickey was thankful for the distraction, worried he was about to respond with something embarrassing like, “I missed you too.”

Ian increased the pressure of his finger and pressed it dryly against Mickey, timing it perfectly with a hard hip roll and a lip bite.

“Get the lube,” Mickey exhaled against Ian’s open mouth.

Ian immediately broke away from him, yanking open the bedside table drawer to locate the lube and the box of condoms, while Mickey rid himself of his underwear.

Ian returned to him, the box of condoms thrown on the bed, fingers lubed up but looking, maybe, confused -- perhaps because Mickey had never let himself be prepped face to face before. But he was desperate to keep kissing him; to swim in the taste of the cigarette they shared on his tongue.

Mickey pulled him back down to land on him, guiding Ian’s hand between his legs, and the confusion evaporated quick enough. 

When Ian’s lubed finger finally pressed at the ring of muscle, he gasped into Mickey’s mouth, surprised somehow, and his entire body seemed to shake as he finally breached Mickey, his other hand cradling the back of Mickey’s neck, holding him tight.

Mickey was tight, but he relaxed into the feeling as Ian slowly added fingers while licking into his mouth. His hands remained fixed on either side of Ian’s head, rubbing the silk and dragging down to touch at his scratchy stubble, reveling in the juxtaposition, as they kissed and kissed and kissed.

“Shit, Mickey,” Ian exhaled into his mouth, as he pushed in his third finger.

Ian kept his lazy thrusting pace as he moved to lick behind Mickey’s ear, and purposefully located his prostate, hellbent on making Mickey squirm as he held him in place.

“Oh fuck,” Mickey moaned, pulling harshly on Ian’s hair.

Mickey desperately searched the bed for the box of condoms and, when he found it and one was in hand, he shoved it between Ian’s teeth.

Ian snickered and spat the condom out to the side.

“What’s the rush?” Ian whispered hotly into Mickey’s ear, before biting at his jaw. “We’ve got all night.”

Mickey groaned, from unbridled horniness and the fact that there were three fingers inside his asshole and Ian seemed determined to drag this out until Mickey was a useless pile of goo.

“Ian,” he whimpered desperately. “It’s been a week. Just fuck me.”

“Just relax. I’ve got you,” Ian replied, smiling down at him before he moved his mouth down, kissing wetly at his neck, then his throat, then his pecs, biting gently at his nipples, licking down his sternum.

Time as a concept seemed to melt away as he let himself go. Let the warm wetness of Ian’s mouth and the precision of his fingers completely overpower him. Handing himself over entirely.

He didn’t know if it was minutes or hours that passed under Ian’s ministrations. All Mickey knew in those moments was the sweat on his brow,  the tension of his scrunched up forehead, the puffs of air from Ian’s nose as he sucked marks onto his belly, the bites to his hips, the pinches to his hardened, pink nipples, and the scratches from his stubble.

Mickey exhaled at the sensations, as he dragged his fingers through Ian’s hair, his legs starting to shake.  He threw his eyes open and down to watch Ian work, which was a terrible idea, because he was sweaty and focused and breathing heavily out of his nose, and it took all of Mickey’s willpower not to come on the spot.

It was all so intense, and so intensely good , that Mickey kept throwing condoms he found on the bed at Ian’s head. Ian would just snicker and press against his prostate when one hit him; a warning not to rush a man who was working.

At one point, Ian moved his free hand to sit on Mickey’s stomach, applying light pressure as he made Mickey’s entire brain explode by pushing in his pinkie.

“Jesus fucking fuck,” Mickey exhaled, breathing hard as his fists clutched at the comforter and his body reacted to the new sensation.

“You okay?” Ian muttered against his skin, breathless.

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck,” Mickey moaned.

“You’re so fucking hot. Jesus,” Ian said, his voice mindless and deep and dark as he continued thrusting his fingers.

“Don’t stop,” Mickey said, overwhelmed, but then Ian took the head of his dick into his mouth, and he had to retract his statement. “Wait, no, fuck, stop. Or I’m gonna come.”

Ian chuckled and lifted his mouth off Mickey’s dick, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his hips and upper thighs, as he slowly pulled his fingers out one-by-one and finally, finally, reached for a condom and the lube on the bed.

Mickey watched, hot-faced and balanced on his elbows, as Ian removed his own underwear that were bursting due to his erection, and rolled on his condom, spit on his lips and his hair messy from where Mickey had been playing with it.

He was overwhelmed with affection, and arousal, and so many other things he wasn’t sure he could name and never thought he would get the chance to feel.

When Ian was ready, he glanced up through blown-out pupils and long lashes, taking in the sight of Mickey, and Mickey nearly burst into flames under his gaze.

Mickey raised himself up onto his knees and waddled over to Ian, landing a searing kiss on his mouth, wrapping his arms around his waist, and dragging him down until Mickey was being pressed into the bed by Ian’s entire body weight.

Their dicks connected between their bodies and they both gasped at the feeling. He stared up at Ian and wiggled his hips, pleading with his eyes how desperately he needed him. 

“Hey,” Ian whispered, staring at Mickey, soft and open, stilling the moment. “Like this?”

Mickey darted his eyes away from Ian’s, his face flaming up, embarrassed that Ian was making it a thing. But he bit his lip, took a breath, and nodded erratically, hooking his ankles together on Ian’s lower back. He got his arms up around Ian’s neck to encourage him to slide closer. 

The last thing Mickey saw before he surged up to kiss Ian again was the biggest, warmest smile he had ever seen. His lips landed on teeth before Ian closed his lips around Mickey’s. 

Ian kissed him, soft, and pushed into him, slowly, open mouth on open mouth as they both relaxed into the overwhelming feeling and breathed words unsaid into each other’s mouths. Mickey clawed at Ian’s back, and Ian held onto Mickey’s face, as they looked and looked and looked at each other, until Mickey couldn’t handle it and had to clench his eyes shut for fear of exploding.

Ian broke away and buried his face in Mickey’s neck, and worked his way in.

Mickey let out a gutteral moan that came from the bottom of his belly, feeling full and fucking incredible. His whole body set alight. Fuck, he’d missed this. 

Ian started moving in slow pulses, and Mickey could feel the vibrations from Ian’s groans against his neck. He shifted his legs higher on Ian’s back and Ian took that as his cue to thrust deeper, his pace slow and sensual.

Ian peppered kisses all over his neck and throat and cheeks and lips. Playful bites and hot breath felt like they were everywhere all at once.

Ian licked the sweat off Mickey’s neck, getting a hand in his hair, before pulling up and away. 

“Hey. Look at me,” he heard Ian mutter from above him.

Mickey opened his eyes. 

Ian chose that moment to lean down to press his forehead against Mickey’s. He picked up his pace, a smile spreading across his face again as he did. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said through punctuated exhales.

Beautiful. Fuck.

Mickey’s entire brain turned into a puddle and his mouth dropped open his breath stuttering. 

Words bubbled in his chest, trying to reach his throat, but he didn’t know what they would be, he was terrified of what they would be , so he tilted up to land a desperate kiss on Ian’s mouth, saying what he couldn’t with his tongue.

Their wet kisses quickly encouraged Ian’s pace to increase further until they were moaning each other’s names as the filthy slapping of skin on skin punctuated the air, and they grasped whatever flesh they could find.

It felt unbelievably good -- to feel wanted, and attractive. To feel like he was worth more than his scoring streak to someone. 

It was overwhelming, too, as Ian was still moving above and inside him, crushing and filling him in every possible way, his nerve endings sizzling with desire and affection.

It was a new feeling. One that made sex a million times sweeter. Sex with Ian was like honey and cayenne pepper and salt and steam. He had no idea it could be this good. 

Sex had been so many things to Mickey, but this brand of personal and intense was so foreign to him. He loved his rough shit and always would -- being manhandled and thrown around, bitten -- but Ian was treating his body like it was something sacred and Mickey feared he may drown in how good it made him feel. 

________________________________

The time spent prepping Mickey seemingly had the same effect on both of them, as they both came within moments of each other after only a minute or so of very vanilla, missionary sex. 

Ian collapsed, boneless, onto Mickey as they slowly came down, only the sound of their ragged breathing filling the dead air for a string of minutes.

“You came so quickly. That’s so embarrassing,” Ian eventually huffed against his shoulder. 

“Bitch we came at the same time,” Mickey said through a chuckle.

Ian lifted his head to smirk down at Mickey, before apparently deciding he had had enough rest and swooped down to latch himself to Mickey’s bottom lip.

Ian started up a circular grind of his softened yet somehow still half-hard cock, and before they knew it they were scrambling for a new condom and going for round two.

They moved around until Ian was leaning against the headboard, Mickey in his lap, their jaws sore and mouths tingling from how much they’d been kissing.

Ian came first, groaning and biting so hard on Mickey’s bottom lip that he drew a little blood. He panicked and apologized immediately, but Mickey just laughed and swallowed his “sorry” with a kiss, secretly relishing in the hit of metal.

Ian finished Mickey off with his hand, holding his face in front of him so he could watch him shake apart before he eventually slumped his head onto Ian’s shoulder.

Ian ran his fingertips up and down Mickey’s back, and Mickey allowed it for a second, then two, and then a minute, before he eventually unraveled himself from Ian’s web, settling onto the bed. 

They didn’t say anything. Mickey had no idea what would come out if he tried. 

That had all felt so different -- so very different from anything they’d done before. Mickey was too spent to interrogate it further, but he wasn’t confident he had the words to describe whatever the fuck he was feeling in any case.

They breathed together for a few minutes, their legs entangled on damp sheets. Mickey turned his head to look at Ian who was, of course, already smiling at him. His lips were puffy and red, his hair going in a million directions, his eyes sleepy and bleary and his forehead sweaty. He was the beautiful one.

“Man. That was good,” Ian said, eventually, his eyes swimming with fondness and his face relaxed.

“Was fuckin’ great,” Mickey said through a yawn, as he flipped over onto his stomach and nuzzled into his pillow. A beat. “You gonna head out soon?” Mickey mumbled, going through the motions of their usual script. 

“Yeah. In a minute. Kinda wanna fuck you again in a bit,” Ian responded as he sunk further into the mattress and poked at Mickey’s ribs.

“Third time’s the charm, hey?” Mickey said through an exhausted chuckle.

“Got a week’s worth to catch up on. Should probably get a head start.”

Mickey smiled and hummed in response. They’d just rest for a minute, and then Ian would go home. Or maybe they’d fuck again first. Whatever.

But then, Mickey’s heavy eyelids fluttered closed, and the weight of needed sleep pressed down on him until he slipped into a dream.

________________________________

The next thing Mickey knew, he was blinking away the crusty sleep in his eyes, his head foggy and still half asleep. He felt a foreign weight against his midsection, and he looked down to see a pale, freckled arm in front of him, wrapped tightly around his waist. 

For a moment his heart fluttered; he didn’t have his bearings, and he could only make sense of the warmth and coziness that was engulfing him. He nuzzled back into the heat behind him, closing his eyes, and the arm instinctively pulled him closer. 

He felt a warm breath on the back of his neck, and a weightless joy settled in his chest. 

He could get used to this. 

This was nice. 

Until -- 

His eyes shot back open as panic hit his chest like a truck. He immediately pulled for his phone, which he now distinctively remembered he did not set an alarm on, to check for the time. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach and rolled around like a dead weight when he saw his home screen.

7.42am. 2 missed calls. 8 messages. 1 voice message. From Ben, Nelson, and Petrovich. 

 Ben (5:37am): hey got u a coffee. Figured you’d be too tired to make yourself one 😏 where u at? 

Nelson (5:56am): hey you on your way?

Nelson (5:59am): starting practice now. see you soon 

 Coach (6:05am): Where are you? Nelson says you’re not there.

Coach (6:30am): You’re 30 minutes late

Ben (7:31am): yo where were u? petrovich is fucking pissed.

Ben (7:31am): u ok? 

Coach (7:38am): Call me when you drag yourself out of whatever hole you’ve fallen into

Mickey’s breathing became shallow as he shakily hit his voicemail button, dreading the message he knew was coming from his coach.

“Well it’s past 7.30am so you’ve officially missed practice. Our last chance to run the powerplay before this weekend. 

I mean I knew you were stupid, but are you that fucking stupid that you can’t follow simple directions? 

You knew how important this morning was Mickey, I fucking told you how important it was, so I swear to fucking christ you better be dead, because if you give me any other excuse I’ll fucking…

You know why I couldn’t go to the game last night? Because I was meeting with a scout who’s agreed to come to one of our upcoming games to see you. You think you’re gonna see the NHL if I put you on the 4th fucking line for the rest of the season and slash your minutes in half?

What’s the point of me going above and fucking beyond for you if you’re not even gonna fucking turn up? 

I’ve got a half a mind to call the Rangers and tell them you’re not fucking interested if this is how you’re gonna act.

I’m hanging up before I say something I’m gonna regret, but I’m so fucking disappointed. And fucking pissed. Call me.” 

Mickey didn’t know if his mind was playing tricks on him, but Petrovich sounded a lot like Terry over the phone. 

Blood pounded in his ears, and he felt tingles in his legs as he threw himself out of bed, dizzy, putting his head in his hands and his palms to his eyes. He paced. He felt sweat prickling his brow as he tried to breathe.

I mean I knew you were stupid...

God, he was so fucking stupid. How had he let this happen? Petrovich had reminded him just yesterday how important this practice was.

He shot his eyes over to Ian, who was still sleeping soundly. His mouth was swollen and his bedhead looked ridiculous. He snapped at his mouth, dry, in slumber, as his naked torso glistened in the sunlight.

He looked so peaceful.

Mickey’s heart raced, and the most overwhelming panic began sizzling under his skin. 

He immediately turned around and averted his eyes to the ground. He started gulping at air and rubbing at his naked chest, trying to will away the pressure that was threatening to crush him.

Aria’s breathing technique. In for four, hold for four, out for four. It was working. Okay. In for four, hold for four, out for four.

Okay.  

He breathed deeply for a minute or so until the pulsing in his ears subsided enough to reveal the sounds of Gallagher stirring behind him.

Mickey turned back to him.

He looked so content, as he rubbed at his eyes and came to. Like he didn’t have a care in the world. He looked completely at home, here, in Mickey’s bed. 

Ian Gallagher -- the social butterfly, the big-dicked, big-brained adonis who probably had guys falling at his feet but was fucking around with Mickey instead. Slumming around until something better came along.

Ian Gallagher who had stirred up undefinable shit in Mickey’s stomach, just by fucking existing.

Ian Gallagher, who had bulldozed his way into Mickey’s life without a second thought, with likely no intention of staying there.

Ian Gallagher who clearly didn’t realize what was at stake here for Mickey. 

This was supposed to be a convenient way to get fucked. End of story. This was never supposed to happen. They weren’t supposed to be like this . Mickey wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Whatever the fuck this even was.

They couldn’t be like this. He didn’t fucking get to have this.

Fuck this.

“Gallagher,” he started, his voice low and even. “You fucking slept over.”

Ian blinked, looking out the window to see the sun high in the sky. “Shit. Didn’t mean to, Mick.” A yawn. “Must have fallen asleep,” he responded light-heartedly.

Mickey’s heart skipped a beat, and then another.

“Yeah? Well I just missed a fucking practice, the last one before our game this weekend, and my coach is gonna have my ass,” he responded, his shaky voice morphing into something more heated.

“Mmm,” Ian hummed, sitting up in bed and gesturing towards Mickey. “Why don’t I have it instead?”

Mickey’s eyes widened in absolute disbelief, shaking, his breathing becoming dangerously shallow again, and Ian must have finally recognized the growing panic on his face, because his arm fell to the bed and fear flashed across his eyes.

“Woah, hey, what’s wrong?” Are you o--”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Mickey asked, his voice high and loud and shaky and bitter. “Is this a fucking joke to you? Do you not get this? This shit’s fucking important to me, Ian, and I can’t have you fucking this up for me.”

“I’m sorry, Mick, just calm do--”

“We set out rules. No sleepovers was there for a fucking reason. What, do you think we’re boyfriends here?” He let out a callous, hollow laugh between choked exhales. Something cruel and twisted and not at all Mickey boiled in his throat until it came pouring out against his will. “You’re nothing but a warm mouth to me. You’re just --” A beat. A wet inhale. “Convenient. That’s it. You’re nothing.”

Lies. Necessary lies.

Ian was stunned into silence. He remained still on the bed, his eyes wide and confused.

“You don’t mean that,” Ian said, voice low. Stung.

“Yeah, actually. I fuckin’ do.”

“But last night…” Ian shook his head as he trailed off, looking at the floor. He looked utterly devastated.  

Mickey didn't know what to say to that.

He knew he wasn’t being fair. This was his fuck up and his alone.

He fucking hated himself for fucking up like this.

For forgetting to set his fucking alarm. For letting a guy distract him. For letting someone get in between him and his ticket to a better life. For letting Ian into his bed and into his brain and into the fabric of his fucking soul. 

But most of all, he hated that waking up in Ian’s arms was the safest and happiest he’s ever felt, maybe in his whole life. 

That was scarier than any punishment his coach could inflict. And he needed to put as much distance between that feeling and himself as possible. He was hurtling towards a cliff and needed desperately to dig his heels into the dirt he was familiar with.

Gallagher had all the power and potential to completely fuck him up in a myriad of ways, and he couldn’t just sit back and let that happen.

He could feel his heart start to pound out of his chest as he thought about Petrovich’s message again. Panic washed over him at the thought of him calling off Mickey’s chance into the league. That his dream was one phone call away from being shattered. 

He didn’t have any other choice. 

“Just get the fuck out, Gallagher. Now. This is done.”

Ian stared at him like he’d just been winded before he pushed to the edge of the bed and started pulling on his clothes. His eyes were pointed down, as were Mickey’s. The silence between them was thick and suffocating. Mickey was worried he may choke on it. 

Ian made his way to the door, hand on the handle, when he turned around to face Mickey.

“What’s supposed to be done here? Is it just us fucking or is it our whole fucking friendship where you’ve apparently just been pretending to give a shit about me? Because I really fucking thought…” he trailed off, shaking his head and letting out a humorless laugh.

He stared at Mickey. Waiting.

Ian waited and waited, but Mickey could barely bring himself to breathe let alone speak. His eyes remained glued to the ground and eventually, having given up, Ian opened the door.  

“Fuck you, Milkovich,” he mumbled, eyes shiny and red-rimmed, face hard, as he slammed the door on his way out.

Mickey stared at the closed door, his ears ringing from it slamming shut. He stood there, feet glued to the floor. He felt paralyzed. Numb. Like he was feeling nothing and everything all at the same time. Like he was dreaming. Or like he was maybe in the middle of a nightmare.

He didn’t know how long he stood there before his feet were moving him towards his bed. He slowly crawled under the covers, clenching his eyes shut. Praying that when he opened them, he was someone else. 

He nuzzled down into the pillow and was immediately hit with a scent that was undeniably, overwhelmingly Ian. Cigarettes and musk and dove soap and vanilla. 

Mickey instinctively burrowed in deeper. Reveling in it. Savoring the calm that washed over him as he inhaled deeply. He wanted to stay there forever. 

But he couldn’t. He closed his eyes and took in one more breath before he forced himself out of bed. 

He had a road trip to pack for.

Chapter Text

Mickey was holding on by a thread.

And that thread was It’s My Life by Bon Jovi.

Better stand tall when they’re calling you out.

Don’t bend, don’t break, baby, don’t back down.

Any sounds around Mickey on the 2pm plane ride to the University Park Airport in Pennsylvania were drowned out by the deafening anthem filling his ears. His noise-cancelling headphones were on, his head was leaning back on the headrest and he was staring out the window at the dark, feathery clouds. 

He didn’t really remember how he got here. It felt like he’d been on auto-pilot for hours.

Every minute since that door slammed had been a weird, confracted, horrible blur.

________________________________

Ben came home ten minutes after Ian had left, bursting straight into Mickey’s room, where he found Mickey sitting on the floor quietly shoving clothes in his overnight bag, completely zoned out.

“Mick,” he said as he leaned down. “What the fuck happened, man? You okay?”

Mickey nodded. “Just forgot to set my alarm,” he replied, tilting his head up to face Ben, a resigned despair swimming in his eyes. “I have no idea what I’m gonna say to Petrovich. He threatened to call New York and tell them I’m not interested.”

Mickey’s mind raced back to the memory of telling Ben about the Ranger’s looking at him. He’d never seen Ben so ecstatic and the two of them had talked about it in depth for over an hour.  

To think he might have just lost that too was unbearable. 

Ben’s eyes widened and then darkened; disbelief and rage flooding his face.

“Are you fucking serious? Dude, fuck him,” Ben replied heatedly.

“He was right to be pissed. He told me on Tuesday how important this practice was and I was fucking stupid enough to fuck it up,” Mickey sighed as he threw his favourite green shirt into his bag. The soft one that smelled like mint.

“You’re not stupid,” Ben said hurriedly, not missing a beat. “And you turn up and give more than anyone on our team. It was one fucking practice. God, he’s so fucked up.”

Mickey shrugged. 

“That’s coaching. He's just coaching me,” Mickey said, before taking a deep inhale and getting to his feet. “Anyway. I need to pack and I know you do too, so…” he gestured towards the door, begging Ben to leave without having to say it.

“You good, man?” Ben asked, clearly picking up on the tension in Mickey’s body.

“Fine.”

“How was the game yesterday?” Ben asked.

“Fine,” Mickey replied.

A beat.

“Did Ian like it?”

Ian. The name triggered an electric jolt down Mickey’s spine. A bucket of ice. Car cables on his nipples. Gunshot to the thigh.

He shook it off and stayed quiet. 

“Did something happen?” Ben probed.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Mickey replied. Quick. He turned his back to Ben and started making his bed.

Ben was quiet behind him, and Mickey tried to push him out the door telepathically before he broke apart in front of him.

“Okay. Well I’m here when you do,” Ben responded before he walked out the door and shut it softly behind him.

Mickey liked that Ben knew when to push, and when to not.

________________________________

Petrovich texted him again at 8:30 am, telling him to not bother calling, as he was about to head into back-to-back meetings. He said they would talk at the hotel bar once they got to Pennsylvania.

Mickey was equal parts relieved he didn’t have to face him yet, and frustrated he had to prolong his inevitable beat down.

Waiting made it worse. Purgatory. Limbo. 

Mickey spent the rest of the day moving around like a zombie, packing for Pennsylvania and checking his phone every 5 minutes.

He didn’t know what he hoped would pop up, but that didn’t stop him from checking.

________________________________

They arrived at the hotel a little after 7pm. 

The team collected their key cards from the front desk, from a very sour man called Gary, and Ben and Mickey made their way up to their shared room, and began to settle in.

Mickey could feel Ben staring at him as they unpacked, Mickey only really pretending to do so as he pulled out his laptop and put it on the bedside table to charge. They danced around each other, words going unsaid in the heavy air between them. 

Mickey decided it was better to rip the bandaid off now. The sooner he told Ben, the sooner it would really be over. The sooner he could get the fuck over himself, and the whole situation with Ian, and focus on what needed to be focused on.

“I ended shit with Ian,” he said bluntly, as he checked his emails on his phone.

“Shit,” Ben said softly from somewhere behind him. “I’m sorry, man. What happened?”

“Nothing -- the whole thing was distracting me so, yeah. We’re not fucking anymore.”

Ben stayed quiet for a moment, and when Mickey quickly flicked his eyes over to check him, he saw he was working his mouth, trying to find words.

Before Ben could respond, Mickey’s phone buzzed in his hand.

Coach (7:24pm): at the bar

Great. Now Mickey could move from this awkward conversation to a different albeit equally awkward conversation. 

“S’all good. Anyway, I’ve gotta go down and talk to Petrovich,” he said, making moves towards the door.

“You gonna be okay?” Ben asked.

Mickey scoffed. “Dunno,” he admitted.

Ben nodded.

“Hey, some of the guys were gonna go to a Thai restaurant down the road for dinner. Want us to wait for you?” Ben said through a soft smile.

“Nah. I’ll just grab something here when I’m done,” Mickey replied.

“Okay. Text me if you need anything.”

“Yep,” he said as he walked out the door.

Mickey ran through his apology and speech in his head the whole walk to the bar. Over and over until it was burnt onto his tongue.

It was just one slip up. I forgot to set my alarm and it will never happen again. I’m so thankful to have you as my coach and I know I owe everything to you. I’m sorry and I’ll never let you down again. Please don’t call New York. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it up to you.

By the time he made it down to the lobby, his heart was in his throat and he wished desperately he was someone else. He darted his eyes around until he found Petrovich hunched over a stool at the southern end of the bar, a laptop resting in front of him.

Mickey took a deep, centring breath -- thank you Aria -- walked over, and sat on the stool next to him.

Petrovich turned his head and his face lit up when he saw Mickey.

“Mickey, my boy! Okay, I wanted to talk to you about the penalty kill for tomorrow’s game, you usually have a good eye for this sort of stuff. Now you know that guy Williams is one of the best defenders in the league, so I want to go through some of his tapes with you and see if we can pinpoint holes in his game.”

Mickey tried to play catch up. His brows bunched together as he waded through the complete and utter confusion that was coming at him in waves. 

He had readied his body and mind for an absolute reaming -- was prepared to be told he was a dumbass, that he’d let down his team, that he was going to be benched tomorrow night, or worse.

Petrovich raised his eyebrows, so as to question Mickey’s silence, which broke Mickey out of his daze.

“Uh, y-yeah,” he stuttered. “S-sounds good.”

As Petrovich got the game tapes loaded on his laptop, Mickey decided, against his better judgement, to poke the bear.

“Coach,” he started timidly, “did you not wanna talk about this morning? I need to apologise.”

Petrovich looked over at Mickey, confused for a moment, before he let out a knowing chuckle.

“Oh, practice? No, it's fine. Missing a practice isn’t the end of the world. Was just trying to scare you so you wouldn’t do it again,” he said, nudging Mickey with his elbow, eyebrows dancing as if he’d told a funny joke. “Okay so here’s the first one. Now see how he...”

The coach’s voice became staticky white noise as Mickey tried, for the millionth time that day, to get his bearings.

That voicemail was nothing. A scare tactic. Empty threats to put Mickey in his place.

Mickey threw Ian out like yesterday’s garbage over -- nothing?

Wait. No, no. It wasn’t nothing.

It didn’t matter if Petrovich’s threats were empty -- ending it with Ian was the right decision.

Shit was getting too complicated, too real , and he was on a non-stop track to getting completely fucked over. 

He needed to protect himself and his career. 

There was no point playing pretend until Ian decided he’d had his fill and found someone better.

There was no point missing practices and having half his mind elsewhere when it should be 100% focused on his game.

There was no point in kidding himself that he could ever have something nice, and good, and normal, with someone like Ian.

There was no point pretending he was worth anything more than his prospects to anyone.

He could feel his heart beating from outside his chest as he began to sweat, so he took some deep breaths and focused on the game tape in front of him, trying to tune in to Petrovich’s ramblings.

Petrovich’s phony voicemail aside, it had been the right call.

Ending it with Ian was the right call.

And maybe, if he repeated that to himself enough, soon he might actually believe it.

________________________________

He sat with Petrovich for over half an hour, while the rest of his team had the night off and shared dinner together down the road.

Eventually, he was released, and he ordered a burger from the bar to take back up to his room.

He ate his burger in bed, scrolling on Instagram and watching hockey videos so he didn’t have to think about anything at all.

By 9:30pm, Ben still wasn’t back, but Mickey was exhausted from his tumultuous day from hell. He was ready to fall into the deepest of sleeps so he was as well-rested as possible for tomorrow’s game.

He padded over to his still unpacked bag, digging around and pulling out some shirts and his toiletries, trying to locate his pyjamas.

His hand hit something that felt almost solid and a little scratchy at the bottom of the bag. Confused, he pulled at it until it came into the glow cast from the dingy hotel lamp.

His heart fell to the bottom of his stomach.

It was Ian’s denim jacket.

He stared at it for what felt like minutes. He didn’t even remember packing it. He had been in such a daze back at his apartment, throwing whatever clean shit he could find in there without a second thought.

The notion that he had unknowingly packed Ian’s jacket made him want to throw up.

Before he could stop himself, he lifted the jacket up to his nose and took a deep inhale.

The lingering scent hit him like a tonne of bricks, and made him feel light on his feet.

No.

He shoved it back into the bottom of his bag, covering it with his other clothes, as though if he could no longer see it, then it no longer existed. 

A solid strategy. Ian no longer existed. He was officially thinking about Ian no more.

________________________________

“I shouldn’t have had so much tofu last night. All that soy is fucking with my stomach,” Douche Derek complained by his cubby.

The boys were trickling into the locker room ahead of their game that afternoon, going through their various pre-game rituals and banter. Mickey sat in his cubby playing around on his phone.

“Actually, I listened to a podcast that said soy products are a great alternative for dairy and meat, and that all the science that says it’s bad for you is funded by the dairy industry,” Adams provided. 

“Tell that to my diarrhea this morning, Adams!” Derek shouted back.

“No shit talk in the locker room lads, come on, we made that a rule last year,” Nelson piped up.

“Yeah, save the shit talking for the ice,” Jenkins added cheekily, and everyone groaned at his stupid pun.

Nelson threw his eyes to the ground and shook away a smile.

The room now buzzed with enough activity that Mickey knew it was time to put his phone down and focus on getting ready.

He was moving at a snail’s pace, zoning out every few seconds into an empty headspace before trying to reel himself back in. He hadn’t slept at all last night and he was utterly exhausted. So exhausted that the smallest movement required maximum effort. It felt like he was moving through mud.

He stood up and shook out his arms, peeling off his shirt and shoving it into his gamebag as he pulled out his shoulder pads and black Under Armour shirt. 

“Holy shit!” Douche Derek yelled from across the room before he made his way over towards the other side of the locker room. “What the fuck’s going on with your stomach, dude?”

Mickey was staring at a lone sock on the ground -- Ian wore socks...wait, no, Ian didn’t exist -- only his arms in his shirt as he hadn’t managed to quite pull it over his head yet. 

Mickey had no idea Derek was talking to him until he was well and truly in his space, poking at his fucking midsection.

“Ay!” Mickey yelled, tensing, jumping back from his touch. “The fuck are you doing?”

Derek just laughed, eyes pointed down at Mickey’s belly, so Mickey followed his eye-line and didn’t miss the way his own stomach physically tensed when he saw what Derek, and now everyone in the locker room, was looking at.

There were three, dark hickeys on his lower belly -- two between his belly button and the top of his boxers and one to the left of his navel. 

He was immediately transported back to that sweet moment when Ian had sucked the marks onto his stomach. He had felt nothing but safety and warmth and completely taken care of, clearly too mindless with everything good he was feeling to care that Ian had been marking the fuck out of him. 

That hickey left on his neck had given him such a thrill, but now, the marks served only as a reminder of something good that he no longer had.

He quickly threw on his Under Armour and turned to face his cubby, praying his teammates didn’t catch his contorted face or how his breaths were now coming in short and stilted. He'd never been more thankful that Petrovich was nowhere to be seen in his life.

“That bitch must have been hungry, Mickey,” Derek leered, laughing, trying to turn Mickey around. “Don’t be shy, show us your love bites you kinky bastard.”

“Fuck off, dickhead,” Mickey said quietly, biting back the desperate sadness brewing in the pit of his belly as he shook off Derek’s hand from his upper arm.

“Aw. You embarrassed?” Derek said in a high-pitched, teasing voice. “Yo, boys, check out Milkovich’s hickeys! Someone’s been--”

But Derek didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, because Mickey spun around and shoved him so hard he nearly toppled over. 

A crazy fury burnt inside him as he walked towards Derek trying to balance himself, ready to give him the beat down of his life.

But, like a knight in shining armour, Ben ran quickly between the two men and intercepted Mickey’s forming fist before he could do any damage.

“Mick, Mick,” he said quietly, trying to calm Mickey down. “Take a breath, man. He’s not worth it.”

Mickey breathed in hard puffs out of his nose, looking at Derek who had the most annoyingly smug look on his stupid, ugly face. 

Ben pushed Mickey back towards his cubby and faced towards the locker room.

“Alright, fuck off all of you. Especially you Derek. Fucking moron. Get your gear on. Nelson’s running the huddle in 15.”

Mickey sat on the bench at the front of his cubby, his head in his hands as he tried to focus on Aria’s breathing technique. 

It wasn’t doing shit, though.

He raised his eyes up to see Nelson and Ben huddled in the corner, having an intense conversation, glancing in his direction every few seconds, before his eyes darted over to Murphy who was standing in the doorway, looking at him concernedly. Something that resembled pity painted his face. 

Fuck this. Enough was enough.

He had a game to focus on.

He might be fucking shit at dealing with anything on the spectrum of real human emotions, but he wasn’t fucking shit at hockey.

Ending it with Ian was about protecting his career. He couldn’t let his emotions get the better of him.

He’d be fucking damned if he let that happen when it mattered most.

________________________________

He let it happen when it mattered most. They lost their game. 2-0.

Penn State scored two quick goals in the first period and UMich couldn’t come back.

Mickey was all over the place -- missing sure shots and not reading plays. It didn’t help that Penn State had stuck a defender on him that had hair the exact same shade as a certain redhead’s.

Nothing felt right. He didn’t even feel like he was in his own body.

At one point, the Penn State goalie was down on his belly, giving Mickey a wide-open net to shoot at. He shot it so hard that it fanned upward and over the glass into the crowd. Mickey was so frustrated that he smashed his stick over his knee and skated toward the bench, his rage boiling over.

Petrovich glared at him as he sank down on the bench. His teammates awkwardly averted their gaze, clearly never having seen this side of him before. No one dared to speak to him. 

Petrovich had reamed the entire team back in the locker room, before leaning down in front of Mickey and singling him out for a particularly vitriolic rant toward the end of his tirade.

“Mickey, I don’t know where your head is or what’s crawled up your ass and turned you into a little bitch but it’s fucking unacceptable! You’ve let the team down and you’ve let me down!” he yelled, his face turning scarlet and spit droplets hitting Mickey’s cheeks.

Petrovich took a deep breath before standing up to face the room.

“Now all of you fucking regroup back at the hotel, because if we lose tomorrow’s game -- there’s no coming back from it.”

And okay. That was kind of dramatic. 

He stormed out of the room, aggressively knocking over a pile of sticks that were leaning up against the wall onto the floor as he went. 

Murphy decided to appear from the shadows, phone in hand, as he looked around at his dispirited team. He locked his phone and shoved it in his pocket. 

“Good hustle out there overall, guys. Wasn’t our best effort, but I’d suspect the extra practices this week might have caught up to us,” Murphy said, shrugging, as he looked around and locked eyes with Mickey. “This is no one’s fault. We win as a team and we lose as a team, and as far as I’m concerned, we haven’t been doing much losing so far this season.”

Adams knocked on the wooden wall of his cubby, causing everyone to peer around at him. 

“What? He jinxed it.” Adams whispered defensively. 

“Hit the showers and rest up so we can get them tomorrow,” Murphy said, checking his phone again before looking back up. “Nelson, Owens -- reporters want to see you guys in 20.”

With that, he exited the room, leaving the team absolutely bewildered. Murphy had always been the calmer of the two coaches, but he had never attempted to boost morale when Petrovich had torn it down like he just had. 

They all started moving towards the showers, more silent than standard. Mickey showered quickly and threw his clothes on, desperate to get the fuck out of there and away from everyone. 

By the time they got back to the locker room, Murphy had reappeared. 

“Milkovich,” he said, waving him over. 

It never fucking ended. 

Mickey raised his eyebrows as he approached Murphy, who gave him a quick smile. 

“Reporters want to see you too, I’m afraid,” he said. 

Mickey looked at him, confused. He never had to talk to reporters or do interviews. He fucking hated that shit. They were intrusive as fuck and made him incredibly uncomfortable considering talking to strangers wasn’t his forte. When he told Petrovich as much last year, he had agreed to put him on a ‘no interview’ list so he could just focus on his game. The only other person on that list was Adams, for obvious reasons. 

“What do you mean, I thought--” Mickey said. 

“Your name was put back on the list ten minutes ago,” he said, interrupting and giving Mickey a pointed look. “The press asked for you immediately. I’m sorry Mickey, there's nothing I can do.” 

Murphy gave Mickey’s shoulder a pat and walked away. 

Of course, this was Petrovich’s doing. His way of punishing Mickey for playing like shit was making him talk to nosy ass sports reporters.

He didn't really blame him though. Mickey had never played as horribly his entire time at UMich. He’d also never lashed out and taken it out on a poor defenseless stick before.

Mickey looked around for Ben and Nelson, who were both about to head out the door to the media room. Sighing, he grabbed his bag from his cubby -- there was no way he was coming back to the locker room after this premeditated mess -- and ran to catch up with them. 

________________________________

Mickey wanted to die. 

He walked over and took his seat in the middle of his two teammates, at a rectangular table stood in front of a Penn State backdrop, the whole thing surrounded by cameras and reporters. Ben nudged him on his right and when Mickey peered over at him, he had a concerned look on his face. 

“M’fine,” Mickey reassured him. 

He really fucking wasn’t, and he knew Ben knew that. 

He ignored Ben’s obvious staring in leiu of mentally preparing himself for what was about to happen, silently praying the vultures would focus their questions on the captains. 

Of course, that was just wishful thinking, because the moment the recording light went on, Mickey was bombarded. 

“Dave from ESPN. Mickey, it’s nice to see you here. It’s been a while,” the guy grinned at him genuinely. “Just want to know what went wrong for you guys today and specifically, with your game?”

“Jesus Christ, getting right to it huh?” Mickey muttered, very much forgetting he was being filmed. Ben snickered from beside him. “I mean, I don’t know. We weren’t as fast as we normally are on the forecheck. Thought the penalty kill was good. Guess it just wasn’t our game today.” 

“What about you specifically?” another reporter asked. “Do you feel like your game was off at all?” 

God. This was exactly why he hated this shit.

The lights above him were blinding. He couldn’t see much past five feet in front of him. He didn’t like feeling observed like he was a fucking science experiment.

“Uh. Yeah. I guess. I gotta be better. I wasn’t myself tonight and I’m just looking forward and getting myself ready for tomorrow’s game.” 

“Jan from College Sports Insider. Mickey, when your fifth shot of the game went wide and over the glass, what was going through your mind?” 

Mickey’s head was starting to hurt. 

“Obviously nothing good, Jan,” Mickey said sarcastically. 

“How are you feeling about your 12 game scoring streak ending tonight?” she asked him bluntly. 

He felt the blood drain from his face, because, fuck . He hadn’t even thought of that. He’d scored in every game that they'd played so far this season. 12 games. 12 games and now it was just...over. 

And he had to be reminded in this stupid, stuffy room with obtrusive cameras and heated lights and snoopy recorders pointed in his face by people who just wanted a juicy fucking story to bring back to their boss. 

He felt Ben tap his leg with his foot from under the table, pulling him from his daze. 

“Look I don’t think that’s relevant --” Ben started to say, before Mickey interrupted him. 

“Jenkins lost his 7-game point streak tonight. Why isn’t he here?” Mickey asked, shaking his head. “Derek lost his 1-game point streak which was probably a big deal for him considering he does shit all back there. Don’t see you guys busting his balls over it. ” 

He felt Nelson kick him from his other side, but Mickey couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“It sucks. But we were all shut out today. We’re all disappointed but there's nothing we can do about it now. All we can do is get ready for tomorrow and hope that it goes better for us,” Mickey finished, looking in the direction of where Jan’s voice came from.

The room went silent. He didn’t have to look at his two teammates to know they were both staring at him, but Mickey didn’t care. He just wanted it to be over. 

“Maybe you can direct some of your questions to these guys too?” Mickey added when the silence persevered. “I can feel Nelson itching to jump in from here.” 

There was some laughter around the room and, finally, the reporters left Mickey alone and continued on to ask Nelson what they needed to improve for tomorrow night. 

Mickey zoned it all out. He was beyond fucking drained and just wanted to get the fuck out of there. 

“-- also, I know you’re all gonna talk and write about it, but I’ll say it anyway,” Nelson was saying as Mickey zoned back in. “Mickey’s been our best player all season and we’d be screwed without him. He shows up for us every single game no matter what and gives it everything he has. If anything, we didn’t show up for him today.” 

Nelson looked over and gave Mickey a curt nod before turning back to the circus and addressing another question.

Mickey wished he had the energy to thank him and Ben after the reporters wrapped up their questioning. But he couldn’t physically stand being in that room any longer. As soon as he was told he could leave, Mickey grabbed his bag off the floor and darted out of the room. 

He felt like he could finally breathe once he entered the hallway and began his search for stairs that would take him up to ground level.

He felt like shit. He wanted to scream until his voice gave out and maybe break something over Jan from College Sport Insider’s head. 

There was only one person he knew could cheer him up. 

He pulled out his phone and opened a familiar text chain before he stopped himself. 

Oh. Right. 

Mickey felt his heart sink as the cold hit of reality washed over him. He quickly forced himself to snap out of it. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Ian anymore. The whole situation was probably what made him play so shit.

He finally made it to the main floor, but before he could make his way over to the exit, an overhead sign caught his attention. 

Level 300, with an arrow pointing to the left, leading to another stairway. 

He looked around him quickly and, when he saw that he was completely alone, he shuffled through the door and began climbing the stairs. 

________________________________

He found himself in the nosebleed section of the arena not five minutes later, sitting in one of the spectator's seats, looking down on the completely smooth ice. 

He wasn’t ready to go back to the hotel. He knew that once he did, Ben would once again ask if he was okay because he was the greatest friend of all time, the bastard, and then he would invite him for dinner with the team. The absolute last thing he needed right now was to be surrounded by the people he had let down. He didn’t want to see anyone for as long as possible.

“Mick?” someone asked from behind him, and holy fuck that didn’t last long. 

He turned towards the voice, expecting to see Ben, but instead found Nelson. 

Mickey honestly wasn’t sure how much more social interaction he could take today. 

Nelson made his way down to Mickey’s row, squeezing through the aisle to reach him. 

“Mind if I sit for a sec?” he asked, carefully.

Mickey nodded and gestured to the seat nonchalantly. 

“Just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Nelson said as he sat down, leaving a seat empty between them. “That was kind of intense back there.” 

The unsaid was clear as day. Not just back there as in the interview, but back there as in on the ice, and back there as in the locker room. 

“M’fine, man,” Mickey said quickly.

Silence and then --

“I’m sorry about what Derek did before the game. He’s such a fucking dick sometimes,” he shook his head. “I should have done more to stop it before it escalated like that.” 

“S’not your fault,” Mickey reassured him. “Besides, I wish Ben hadn’t interfered. We’d be down a defenseman, sure, but would anyone have actually been upset about it?”  

Nelson laughed. 

“You probably would have gotten thank you cards. Gift baskets even.” 

They chuckled before more silence greeted them.

Mickey wasn’t used to talking to any of his teammates one-on-one outside the locker room, apart from Ben. It was weird, but he knew Nelson was good people. 

“Look, I just wanted to make sure you knew that us losing today wasn’t your fault and that I meant what I said back there,” he moved his body to face Mickey. “We’re a team and we lost together. It’s all our fault. I’m not sure why Coach singled you out like that. I know you have a history or whatever, but I need you to know that no one blames you.”

Mickey didn’t know how to respond. He thumbed his lip uncomfortably before looking over at Nelson, who looked genuinely concerned that he still hadn’t convinced Mickey their loss wasn’t his fault. 

“You really take this whole captain thing really seriously huh?” Mickey asked, trying to diffuse a little of the weight he felt on their shoulders. “Is it like a personality trait at this point? Can you turn it on and off or is it like, always there?” 

Nelson snorted. 

“Fuck off,” he said, sitting back with a grin on his face. “Just wanted to tell you.” 

“Well thank you, O’Mighty Fearless Captain,” Mickey joked. “Maybe we’ll get that printed on a t-shirt for you or something.”  

Nelson just shook his head. 

“A couple of us are going for dinner if you want to come,” he said, after more beats of silence. 

“Nah, I’m okay. Think I’m gonna head back to my room soon. Sleep it off.”

Nelson nodded, and then he was gone.

Mickey didn’t know how long he sat there after Nelson left. 

It honestly didn’t matter how much he told Mickey it wasn’t his fault that they had lost -- it was Petrovich’s words that remained glued to his mind.

Little bitch.

You’ve let me down.

And then, even though he knew he couldn’t text the one person he knew could cheer him up with a dumbass joke, he pulled out his phone and pulled up that familiar text chain reflexively.

He scrolled for a couple of moments, in search for the texts they had exchanged the last time Mickey was away on a road trip. 

*

Gallagher (9:01am): Have you heard about this toe drag deke move? You should use it in your game tonight.

Gallagher (9:01am): It’s pretty advanced though.

Gallagher (9:03am): Here’s the wiki link to help you https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deke_(ice_hockey)  

Mickey (9:15am): gallagher 

Gallagher (9:17am): If you use it, make sure you credit me @iangallagherrr on insta 😉

Mickey (9:17am): 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

Gallagher (9:17am): The Datsyuk is a good alternative. Do you need the link for that one?

Mickey (9:19am): 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

Gallagher (9:20am): If you need any other tips I’m here all day. 

Mickey (9:21am): 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

Gallagher (9:23am): You could be using the time it takes to copy and paste a million middle fingers to learn the toe drag

Gallagher (9:23am): Just saying…

*

Gallagher (2:04pm): Hey

Mickey (2:23pm): are you about to be annoying

Gallagher (2:24pm): No

Gallagher (2:24pm): Got another hockey tip for you

Gallagher (2:24pm): Try and get the ball in the net.

Gallagher (2:24pm): Apparently that’s good 😎

*

Mickey (9:45pm): guess what

Gallagher (9:49pm): WHAT?

Mickey (9:50pm): we won because i put the ball in the net

Mickey (9:50pm): how ever will the mighty wolverines repay you for your excellent tips?

Gallagher (9:52pm): Can you ask the top scoring centre if he’ll suck my dick?

Gallagher (9:52pm): He looks like he’d be good at it.

Mickey (9:54pm): i guess that’s only fair

Gallagher (9:54pm): 😊

Gallagher (9:54pm): Congrats on the win, by the way.

Mickey (9:55pm): thanks

*

Mickey read, and re-read those kernels from a happier time before his eyes went blurry and a security guard came by and told him he had to leave the arena.

________________________________

Mickey was still awake when Ben got back from dinner. He caught Mickey’s eye, wordlessly asserting they didn’t need to talk yet if Mickey didn’t want to. 

He made his way over to where Mickey lay under the safety of the scratchy duvet and placed a box of takeout on the bedside table. 

Mickey half smiled and nodded as a thank you. 

He wasn’t hungry though. 

He didn’t want to eat. He just wanted to sleep.

And he couldn’t even do that. He wasn’t sure he got even an hour total.

Green eyes and red hair were everywhere.

________________________________

Their Saturday game brought the team better luck, and they ended up winning 4-1, which meant UMich was still leading their division. Though, it also meant that they were right back where they started before the road trip and were still only 1 point ahead of Penn State. 

Unfortunately for Mickey, he still played awfully.

He lost the puck whenever someone passed to him -- he fanned on shots, shot pucks wide, even tripped on his way to the bench. 

Petrovich practically refused to look at him the entire game, and he hadn’t so much as addressed Mickey at all since his outburst yesterday. 

But Mickey couldn’t bring himself to care.

His head just wasn’t in it, and he couldn’t understand why. He’d stopped the distraction -- he’d ended things with Ian for this exact purpose -- so that he could stay focused on hockey. And yet it seemed as though Ian had set up a permanent residency at the forefront of his brain. He was under his skin. Burrowing. Unshakable. 

Mickey was constantly zoning out on the bench, or at his cubby, thinking about how guilty he felt about how he had left things with him. Shivering, thinking about how he’d called Ian convenient and a warm mouth. How he did it for the sake of his game, yet he was pretty sure he’d never played this badly in his life. 

He’d been up for two nights straight, thinking about the night before everything went to shit. How joyous he felt. 

How cared for. 

How safe. 

No matter how much he tried to drown him and bottle him and push him down -- Ian was there.

He fucking missed him. 

He had fucked up, big time, and if the pit in his stomach wasn’t a good enough indication, then maybe the fact that his heart felt like it was going to physically fall out of his chest was.

The team was in high spirits as they piled into the locker room after the game. Mickey passed Petrovich and Murphy, having a serious discussion in the hallway. They stared at him as he passed; Petrovich looking pissed, and Murphy looking concerned. 

He made his way into the locker room and quite literally booked it for his bag, taking his skates and gear off at record speed, grabbing his stuff and hitting the showers before anyone could notice he was already gone. 

He wasn’t in the mood for another round of interviews, or another lecture from his coach, or another invite to a dinner he’d feel like shit having to turn down. He just needed to get the fuck out of there. 

He showered, changed, and made his way out of the arena. He caught a cab back to the hotel and, once back in his room, dropped his stuff by the door and dragged his feet to his bed. 

He flopped down and let out the breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. He looked at his phone instinctively for the time. 9:48pm. 

He was about to get under the covers and call it a night, when he heard the sound of a keycard being swiped and the door opening. 

Ben walked in, locking eyes with him immediately. They had barely talked since they’d been here, despite sitting together on the plane, sharing a room and sharing side-by-side cubbies.

He dropped his bag next to Mickey’s and made his way over, sitting on his own bed. 

“Why’re you back so early? Don’t you have interview shit?” Mickey asked, still staring up at the ceiling, his phone resting on his chest. 

“Asked Nelson to cover for me,” Ben said. “Gotta head back in a bit though. Captains meeting or some shit.” 

Mickey didn’t say anything, and just continued to stare into space. 

“Can you please talk to me, man?” Ben finally asked, his voice pleading. “I know something’s up and it kills me seeing you like this. Just -- maybe I can help.”

Mickey’s eyes fluttered closed. He seriously doubted anyone, even Ben, could help him. He was pretty sure that he had managed to fuck up everything beyond belief. His game. His reputation with his coach. His chances of making it. His thing with Ian. 

Mickey rolled his head to glance over at Ben, who looked back at him through concerned eyes. Sad. Worried. 

He took a deep breath and sat up, turning his body so that they were facing each other on opposite beds, placing his phone on the table beside his bed. 

“You look like shit,” Ben said, after a couple of moments. 

Mickey snorted. 

“Feel like shit. Played like shit too.”

“Wasn’t our best weekend,” Ben said, shaking his head. “Murphy was right, the extra practices are what did it. If anything, this is Petrovich’s fault for tiring us out.” He paused and looked at Mickey, trying to find a way to phrase his next words. “I know that's not why you played like shit though. You’re a menace out there whether you’re over tired or under practiced, which tells me that there's something else going on.” 

Mickey looked at the ground and nodded. He didn’t even hesitate. It felt good to admit to someone, even if it was wordlessly. 

“Look, Mick. What Petrovich did to you was fucked up. He should have never gotten pissed like that and threatened to take New York away from you.”

Mickey sighed deeply. That wasn’t really where he was expecting to start. 

“He gets like that sometimes,” he explained, shaking his head. “Besides, he said he was bluffing when I went to see him on Thursday. Said that he just wanted to teach me a lesson.” 

Ben stared at him, absolutely flummoxed. 

“And you don’t have a problem with that?” he asked slowly. This conversation sounded eerily familiar. 

“The fuck am I supposed to do about it, Ben?”

“Tell him he can’t use getting drafted against you when you don’t do what he wants, or when he’s pretending to be mad at you for missing one practice,” Ben said, his voice still leveled, though Mickey could tell he was only remaining calm for Mickey’s sake. 

“What? So he can demote me to the fourth line? Sure, he was just jokin’ around this time, but who’s to say I'll be so lucky next time?” Mickey asked. 

“You act like he has you by the balls,” Ben sighed, shaking his head. 

“Well maybe he fucking does!” Mickey snapped back. “He’s kind of the closest thing to family I've got right now, Ben.”

Ben snapped his mouth shut. Whatever he was about to say was gone as he processed what Mickey had just said. 

“Family is just blood, man. You can choose your family. You’ve got me and Aria. The guys. We’ll always have your back,’ Ben said simply. 

Mickey looked at the ground. He knew Ben was right. He and Aria were his family and they had been for years. He almost felt guilty for insinuating that Petrovich was the only one he had. 

“You and Aria, sure. But I don’t wanna be fucking family with Derek,” Mickey said stubbornly, trying to diffuse the thickness in the air. 

Ben laughed. 

“Not even Derek’s family wants to be family with Derek. He’s a dick.” 

They chuckled together before things settled into silence again.

“So,” Ben started tentatively, “can we talk about this Ian thing?” he asked carefully, as if worried that the mere mention of his name would shut Mickey down.

“What do you want me to say?” Mickey said quietly, not looking him in the eye. 

“You can start by telling me what the fuck happened and why you would just all of a sudden end shit with him when you were taking him on a date not 48 hours ago,” Ben replied. 

This was what he was afraid of. He was terrified that once he said it out loud, once he finally admitted what he’d done, and what he’d ruined, that it would be official. Ben would look at him with pity in his eyes, pretending that he hadn’t royally fucked up everything and he’d tell him that everything was going to be okay. Lies on lies on lies.

But he had to talk about it. It was killing him. It was eating him, every inch of him, from the inside out, and had been every minute since it had happened. He needed to release some of this pressure before his insides exploded on the white walls of his hotel room. 

Mickey took a deep breath and launched into an explanation. 

He told Ben everything. He spared no detail.

How the game went. How they talked on the roof over shared cigarettes and sodas. How Mickey felt like they’d opened up to each other more than they ever had. How he’d felt this different kind of happiness that night and how he’d never felt that way before. 

He told him about how Ian had accidentally slept over and how Mickey had woken up feeling light and airy, which made Ben ”awww” obnoxiously. 

Finally, he told him about realizing he’d missed practice and how everything went to shit. How Petrovich’s voicemail scared the shit out of him and gave him what Aria would describe as a panic attack -- that he hadn’t had one nor felt that out of control in years. 

“So then I told him to get out and that we were done,” Mickey explained. “I said that it meant nothing and it was just convenient,” he paused and winced before adding, “and I said he was just a warm mouth to me.”

Ben blinked at him. His face and demeanor were calm and non judgemental as he processed Mickey’s admission. 

“What’d he say?” Ben finally asked. 

Mickey closed his eyes and scratched the back of his neck. It physically pained him to repeat the words that had been playing on a loop in his mind for the past 48 hours. 

“He basically said I didn’t give a shit about our friendship and was just pretending the whole time. He looked sad,” Mickey said, hanging his head in his hands. “I don’t fucking know.” 

Ben nodded. 

“Shit.” 

“Yeah.” 

Ben looked to be deep in thought. 

“How’s he make you feel? When you’re around him?” He asked suddenly. 

Mickey was caught off guard, but sifted through the past few months with Ian to try and summarize it into mere words and sounds.

“I don’t know,” Mickey said, shrugging, even though he did know and also knew it would feel better to just admit it. 

Fuck it.

“He makes me feel insane,” he said, shaking his head. “I always have these weird fucking stomach flips when he does something stupid and I just want to kiss him all the fucking time. I dunno what the fuck is wrong with me because we’re just friends who bang. But I don’t know. I just...He just...makes me feel shit.”

There was silence for a beat before Ben snorted loudly, which was the absolute last thing Mickey expected after his downright heartfelt pussy-ass confession. 

“Are you actually laughing right now, asshole?”

“Not at you. It’s just, you said ‘ friends ’” Ben clarified. 

“Okay and?” Mickey asked defensively. 

“Well it’s very clearly so much more than that,” Ben shrugged. 

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you’re clearly really fucking into him, dumbass,” Ben said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. 

Mickey’s heart began to race, because, no. What? No. 

“God you’re an idiot. You like him so much,” Ben repeated, shaking his head and snorting again. 

“You’re insane! I don’t fucking like him!” Mickey argued. 

Ben chuckled and stared and let his eyes burn holes into Mickey’s face while he waited. And waited.

“No! Because...we’re just. But…I don’t even…” Mickey’s eyes widened. "Oh my God.” 

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. 

Jesus Christ. He was such a fucking idiot. Was that what this was? 

“Fuck,” Mickey whispered. “I like him.” 

He looked up at Ben, who looked incredibly satisfied with himself. 

“Fucking hell!” Mickey yelled, suddenly, causing Ben to jump a little. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?!” 

He fell back on the bed dramatically and covered his face with his hands. 

“So I take it you don't actually listen when Aria or I speak, huh?” Ben asked. 

Mickey sat back up and glared at him. 

“The fuck am I supposed to do now?” Mickey groaned. 

“I don’t know. Talk to him maybe? Tell him you were an idiot and that you’re sorry and that you fucking like him?” Ben said, shrugging. 

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? The last time we talked, Ian just wanted something easy because he was busy with school and work and shit,” Mickey explained. “Why would he want something different now? He’s still just as busy with that shit.”

“Well when did you have that conversation?” Ben asked, raising his eyebrows at him. 

“Right before we started up.”

“Jesus, Mick,” he shook his head as if Mickey was the biggest idiot in the world. “A lot’s changed since then. Just fucking ask him.”

Mickey laughed a humourless laugh. 

“Absolutely the fuck not.” 

Ben stared at him, shifting the mood from playful to serious in a matter of breaths.

“Look. All I know is that whatever you guys had made you happier than I’ve ever seen you the entire time I’ve known you. I know that you have that whole thing where you think that relationships are a waste of time because they’re going to interfere with hockey, but that’s fucking bullshit. You deserve love, Mickey. You deserve to be happy and to feel safe and light and airy and all that stuff you described feeling with Ian. You can have all of that and still play hockey and get drafted. They aren’t mutually exclusive.” 

Mickey stared at the ground. No one had ever told him point-blank that it was okay to want those things. That it was okay to want and go after both. That it didn’t make him less dedicated or committed to hockey. 

You deserve love, Mickey.

You deserve to be happy.

Ian made him happy.

“I think I fucked it up,” Mickey said, looking up at Ben. “And there’s probably no way he feels that way about me.” 

“Well why don’t you ask him?” Ben suggested. “Or at least call him and apologize and ask to talk when you get back.” 

Ben reached over to take Mickey’s phone off the bedside table and handed it to him.

“What, now?” Mickey stuttered. “You want me to call him now?” 

“Yeah! Why not?” Ben asked. “You don’t have to confess your undying love to the guy, just say you’re sorry and that you were a dick and you didn’t mean it.” 

And yeah. 

He could do that. 

He just needed to apologize and make things right. 

Baby steps. 

Ben looked at his own phone and sighed. 

“I gotta get back,” he said, standing up. “You gonna be okay?” 

“Yeah. I’ll be fine,” Mickey said, waving him off. 

Ben looked down at him for a moment before plopping down next to him and giving him an awkward side hug. 

“I’m proud of you, Milkovich,” he muttered into Mickey’s shoulder. 

Mickey normally would have shoved him off and told him to stop being so dramatic. But he let it happen instead. 

Ben let go a couple of seconds later. 

“Let me know what happens!” he said as he walked out of the room. 

Before Mickey could second guess himself, and with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he shakily unlocked his phone and found Ian’s name in his contact list.

Okay. He could do this. He could apologise for what he said, explain the headspace he was in when he said it, and maybe Ian would forgive him. 

Okay.

It was 10:20pm on a Saturday night. Ian was probably studying.

Ian usually spent his Saturday nights fucking Mickey after his hockey games or, if he was in another state, texting Mickey until both of their hands were cramped and they fell asleep beside their unlocked phones.

Mickey’s heart did a quadruple backflip as he hit ‘call’ and brought the phone up to his ear.

It rang four, five times, and Mickey was starting to think that he was already asleep.

He was about to hang up, but right as he went to take the phone away from his ear, a loud, pulsing sound came roaring through his phone.

He instinctively pulled the phone away from his ear, as the muffled sound came into focus and Mickey recognized it as some kind of pop song.

Ian still hadn’t said anything, so Mickey broke the almost silence.

“Hello?” Mickey said, his pitch raising at the end.

“What do you want?” Ian yelled, his voice slurring a little, barely audible over the intense volume of the music behind him.

What do you want?

Shit. What did he want?

“Uh. Just wanted to talk, I guess. Where are you?” Mickey asked.

“If this is about homework or something, I’m off the clock, Mickey. You can ask at tutoring on Monday,” Ian yelled, before the noise in his ear cut immediately, and Mickey realized that Ian had hung up.

So Ian wasn’t studying.

It sounded like he was at some kind of club. One of the awful ones that played terrible, popular dance tracks and was filled with drunk college students.

Mickey ran his thumb over his bottom lip, his brows furrowed, as he tried to calm himself down.

Okay, so Ian was out somewhere. That didn’t mean anything. Maybe he had gone out with some of his friends for a birthday party. Or maybe he just felt like dancing. Or maybe a band he liked was playing somewhere and he was at the after party wearing a lot of clothes and looking very ugly and he was surrounded by straight people.

Yeah, it was probably that.

As sweat began prickling at Mickey’s forehead, he sat down at the edge of his bed, opening up Instagram -- a tried and true method of distracting himself from the stressed rumblings of his anxious brain. 

But, because the universe and all that was holy had decided to rain havoc and chaos down on Mickey, Ian’s icon appeared at the front of the story section.

Shit. Ian had posted something to his story recently. At some point between when Mickey had last checked instagram -- which was right before their game this evening -- and now.

He didn’t think twice before he opened it which, in hindsight, was a terrible decision considering that his mental stability was one ball hair away from collapsing in on itself. 

The floor fell out from under him.

It was a video of Ian at some kind of night club. He had glitter on his cheekbones and was wearing a tight white tank top. He was filming himself singing and dancing in the middle of a dancefloor, his arm slung around some guy’s shoulder.

The guy was a good inch taller than Ian, and he had bright blonde hair and dark, thick eyebrows. He was tanned and topless and wearing some ridiculous red straps around his neck.

They were scream-singing at the camera.

Mickey didn’t recognise the song.

I’d rather be dry but at least I’m alive. Rain on me, rain, rain. Rain on me, rain, rain, they sang.

Toward the end of the video, the blonde guy let out a raucous laugh, and nuzzled his face into Ian’s neck as Ian threw his head back and swayed to the music.

And then it was over.

Mickey replayed the video three times. Then four. Then ten. He watched it over and over again, micro-analyzing every second, but especially the neck nuzzle at the end of the clip.

It wasn’t that it was necessarily sexual, but it was obvious Ian was at a gay club, and if it wasn’t abundantly clear already, he had tagged the video with Necto night club -- a well-known gay club in Ann Arbor.

They were slurring their lyrics and their pupils were dilated. They were clearly fucked up and clearly friendly, at the very least.

Mickey studied every inch of Ian’s face, searching, praying, hoping to see some kind of coded message embedded in the video for Mickey to find.

“Hey. I’m out because I’m mad at you. Please call me back and apologise so we can go back to normal. This guy is straight and we’re related so there’s nothing going on. I really like you and don’t think you’re too short.”

But all he could see in Ian’s face was happiness. Care-free, fucked up happiness.

“ Thank god I’m free of you. You really did me a favour. Yeah you were a good lay but you’re a bad person and now I can find someone on my level. Like this guy. He’s the love of my life.”

He looked totally at home, out at a club, being adored by random, swooning guys, singing and laughing and dancing and swaying. He deserved happiness like that. He deserved only good things. 

Mickey didn’t deserve him.

Before he could comprehend what was happening, he felt tears well up in the corners of his eyes, as panic settled heavily in the center of his chest. It pressed down to the point he thought he would collapse.

It felt alarmingly close to the panic that came when he had missed practice a few days ago.

This unshakable feeling that things were slipping out of his grasp; that he was losing control.

That he was losing everything that had ever mattered to him.

Everything had been so good, and of course he had to go and fuck it all up.

He fucked everything up. He was such a fuck up.

He couldn’t play hockey right. He couldn’t be a good friend. Everything he touched turned to shit.

Terry had been right. 

Petrovich was right.

Mickey recognized now, more than ever, that he was broken.

Mickey sat on the edge of the bed, trying to wade through the tsunami of thoughts racing through his head, competing for attention. Refusing to let the tears in his eyes do anything more than simply form. 

Even though it made his chest squeeze and his fingers go numb, Mickey set out to scroll through Ian’s Instagram page.

Ian didn’t post a lot -- 36 photos total with the first being posted over 4 years ago, and most of them were shots of his family, or nature, or posts about pride or other charitable causes. Considerate fucker. 

He had a total of 5 photos of himself, and by midnight Mickey had studied each of them to within an inch of their life.

Through some stealthy and not at all healthy, but totally reasonable stalking, Mickey had deduced that one was with his sister Debbie’s kid, Franny, one was with his brother Lip at a concert last year, one was a selfie taken at Pride two years ago and one was a photo of him holding his high school diploma on his graduation day.

The fifth one was a selfie he’d taken only a few weeks ago, sweaty and backlit by the sunrise, him having taken it after an early morning run, apparently.

It was this one that Mickey kept coming back to -- the orange glow set his hair on fire and his eyes sparkled at the camera. Mickey counted the freckles on his face and wanted desperately to reach through his screen and kiss his smiling lips.

God, Mickey liked him. Mickey liked him so much. He was an actual fucking idiot for not realizing it before now. Before he went and fucked everything up. 

Mickey alternated between the cursed story video and Ian’s instagram grid until the low battery mode notification popped up on his phone. A welcomed warning that he was acting insane.

He put his phone on charge and changed into his pyjamas, going through the motions as he kept his mind blank. 

He stood by the edge of the bed, wishing he had some whiskey or a sleeping pill to knock him out. He hadn’t slept well since…

Oh.

He turned around and slowly shuffled his way over to his open overnight bag.

He rummaged around, throwing shirts and pants and underwear onto the ground until he found what he was looking for.

He gingerly pulled the denim jacket out from the bottom of his bag, holding it delicately as if it may fall apart in his hands.

He stared, and stared, and stared, as though if he stared hard enough, and maybe clicked his heels three times, Ian would magically appear in it.

He carried it over to his bed, and nestled under the duvet.

He wrapped his arms around the fabric, and pulled it tight against his body, burying his face against the scratchy fabric, relishing in the instant hit of that intoxicating scent of Ian.

He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and deeply, letting the familiar scent from the jacket still clutched in his arms wash over him until he felt sedated and calm.

He curled in on the jacket even further.

He didn’t know why he was wasting his time. Ian didn’t like him like that. It took him all of one day to find a better, hotter replacement.

Mickey wasn’t an idiot, nor was he blind. Ian was a perfect ten, whilst Mickey was grumpy and selfish and broken. Ian was sunshine, whilst Mickey was poison. 

And this went beyond Ian. 

How could anyone ever love him like that? 

Aside from great hockey statistics, strong legs, and a hard-ass slapshot, what the fuck did he have to offer? Years of unprocessed trauma and an inability to accept affection without lashing out insults and ruining everything? What kind of guy would want to share their life with someone who didn’t even know how to love?

What kind of guy would be patient enough to let Mickey try and learn?

Then, without fanfare or warning, and against his will, the tear sitting at the corner of his eye that had been held back by sheer force of will, spilled onto his cheek.

So there, huddled under the covers of his Pennsylvania hotel bed, Mickey held onto Ian’s jacket for dear life, a streak of wetness on his cheek, as the presence of Ian’s scent led to his most restful sleep that weekend.

Chapter Text

The smell of fresh basil and parmesan cheese struck Mickey as he and Ben entered the apartment on Sunday afternoon.

Mickey glanced toward the kitchen and saw Aria poke her head around the corner and smile brightly at “her boys” returning from their trip.

“Hi loves!” she exclaimed, sauce-drenched wooden spoon in her hand as she ran up and tackled Ben into a bear hug before he could drop his bag on the floor. 

When she released Ben from her death grip, she turned to Mickey and gave him a small smile before throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him in too. 

He melted into the hug, letting out a breath into her shoulder, not realizing how much he needed it until it was happening. 

Mickey assumed that Ben had filled Aria in on their conversations, including Mickey’s sudden epiphany surrounding his feelings for Ian. He couldn’t be more relieved that the two of them were codependent gossips who quite literally told each other everything, because Mickey was certain he didn’t have it in him to repeat a weekend’s worth of shit to Aria. 

“You better not be getting that sauce shit all over my new hoodie,” Mickey finally said.

Aria released him and pulled back.

“Excuse me?” giving him a faux offended look. “I’ll have you know that the sauce shit currently blessing your senses is your favourite meal,” she said, giving him a sassy look. “Which I have been working on for two hours now, thank you very much.” 

Mickey let out a soft laugh, throwing her a grateful look before he and Ben made their way to their respective bedrooms to drop off their bags. 

They both stopped dead in front of the table. 

“Holy shit, Aria. You cooking for the whole team or something?” Ben asked, as they took in the spread that Aria had made. 

“No,” Aria said, shrugging. “It’s just a couple things I threw together.” 

“There’s literally three types of meat on this table,” Mickey observed with raised brows. 

“And there's a flatbread in the oven and I’m also putting pieces of steak in the pasta,” Aria said, stirring something in a saucepan on the stove before resting the spoon down on a cloth. 

Mickey and Ben exchanged amused looks before fixing their gazes back on Aria. 

She must have felt them because she turned to look at their gawking faces before sighing deeply. 

“Okay, so maybe I feel like a shit person for not being there for Mickey this weekend and so I’m making up for it by cooking all his favourite foods. Sue me,” she said, putting on an oven mitt and taking a full pepperoni pizza out of the oven. “Also Ben told me he hadn’t seen you eat much and that wasn’t happening on my watch,” she added. 

Mickey threw Ben an annoyed look before going back to watching Aria buzz around the kitchen. 

“M’fine Aria,” he told her. 

And that was partly true. When he had woken up that morning still clutching Ian’s jacket tight to his chest, it had taken him a few hours to pull himself out of his low state. 

He’d been miserable and wallowing, but he was also Mickey fucking Milkovich. So after a large coffee and another talk with Ben, he decided he was done sitting around moping.

He wasn’t going to let himself roll over and die. Yes, Mickey still couldn’t shake the feeling that Ian was destined for things and people far greater than him, and yes, he was pretty sure that he had fucked things up beyond belief, but he was committed to explaining and apologising until they were okay again.

And even if he would never get to have Ian in the way he wanted -- wholly and totally, without fear or abandon -- he would take him in whatever way he could. He would eat up the crumbs and say thank you for the rations. Any Ian was better than no Ian.

By the look in her eyes, he could tell Aria knew he wasn’t fine. She threw him her ‘ cut the bullshit’ look that he seemed to receive a ridiculous amount.

“I’m serious! I’m fine. Promise.”

Aria gave him a funny look as she finished setting the table, pulling a charcuterie platter from the fridge before beginning to plate the pasta. She turned to face him from her vantage point in the kitchen, her face impossibly soft.

“Look, I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but I’m here, and very wise I should add, if you want to at any point,” she said, before making her way over to place the piece de resistance, the pepperoni pizza, in the center of the table. “Now dinner is served!” 

“Thank you,” Mickey said quietly as he sank into one of the dining room chairs, followed closely by Aria and Ben in the ones opposite.

The company and spread were totally overwhelming, as Mickey tried to quiet the voice niggling at the back of his head that he didn’t deserve this --  selfless friends as good as Aria and Ben. He had no idea how he managed to attract the best people into his life, but he’d never been more thankful nor felt so lucky.

They dug into their feast, loading their plates with mounds of meat and pasta and pizza and sides. 

“Hey. Do you need me to uninvite him to the party on Wednesday?” Ben asked, his mouth wrapped around a fork laden with gravy-covered mashed potatoes.

Fuck. Ben’s birthday party on Wednesday. In the chaos of the past week, it had completely slipped his mind.

He had every intention of clearing everything up the following day at tutoring, so he was pinning all his hopes on Ian being in a very forgiving mood, which meant that Wednesday could go off without a hitch.

“Nah, man. He can come,” Mickey said, before taking a deep breath. “I’m gonna apologize tomorrow, and find a way to make it up to him. So fingers crossed by Wednesday it’ll all be good.”

Ben and Aria nodded, sharing a brief look across the table before turning their attention back to their food hoards.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Aria said, huffing down a pizza slice. 

The emotional depth of their conversation was severely undercut by the fact that they were inhaling decadent junk food at lightning speed, but it didn’t stop them.

“How was your weekend?” Mickey asked, angling for a distraction.

“Oh my god! I have an insane story from our dorm party on Saturday night! Like you’re both going to flip your lids,” Aria said enthusiastically “But one last thing before we turn our attention to me.” She turned to Mickey before shifting her tone and continuing. “I just want to make it super fucking clear that no matter what happens -- you’re wonderful, and an amazing friend. We are so fucking lucky to have you in our lives and you deserve happiness in every form it comes.”

Shit.

Mickey didn’t dare bring his eyes up to face Aria, electing to push a cheese ball around his plate with a fork instead. 

“Thanks, Aria,” he mumbled, trying to keep his voice from bubbling over with the swell in his chest.

Aria stood up and made her way over to Mickey and leant down to hug him in his chair. 

Mickey squeezed his hands onto Aria’s forearms and let himself be held, until Aria broke apart and slunk back in her chair.

“Okay, so it turns out that Stacey and Penelope have secretly been fucking this entire semester, and on Saturday, Stacey got wasted and told Devon in front of everyone. Now what you need to remember is...”

Mickey was glad to be home. 

________________________________

On Monday morning, Mickey nervously got ready for his day, which included seeing Ian at tutoring in the afternoon. He was anxious as hell, picking out the perfect outfit that screamed, “ Hey Ian. I’m a big dumb idiot and I like you a fuck tonne and I think you should kiss me.”

He decided that a black band tee and light washed jeans with his timberlands encompassed that perfectly.

But then, just as he was packing up and about to leave for class --

Gallagher (8:01am): Hey. Something came up. I can’t make it to tutoring today.

Gallagher (8:01am): We can make up the hour later this week if that works for you.

Mickey was flooded with disappointment, and even more concern.

Mickey (8:02am): yeah. course that’s fine

Mickey (8:02am): is everything ok?

Gallagher (8:04am): Yep. See you on Wednesday.

God, he seemed so angry. All the fucking periods and short ass sentences were really throwing Mickey off. He couldn’t wait until Wednesday to get this sorted.

Mickey (8:06am): do you wanna maybe hang out tonight?

Ian left him on read.

________________________________

Mickey tossed up going over to Ian’s dorm to ask him to talk, and to apologise, but ultimately decided against it. He figured forcing an apology on someone who wasn't interested in listening might do more harm than good.

Mickey, instead, spent all day Monday and Tuesday going to every single one of his classes and studying his ass off, so he was as prepared as possible for tutoring on Wednesday. He even did the extra credit questions like a fucking nerd.

He didn’t want to give Ian any more ammunition to hate him than he already had. 

________________________________

On Wednesday morning, Mickey and Aria woke up at the crack of dawn to fix Ben a big birthday breakfast. They split the responsibilities, Mickey making coffee and scrambled eggs while Aria made pancakes and bacon next to him. 

Aria set up balloons and decorations the previous night for the party, so the entire apartment was decked out in black, silver and white. She’d even set up a photo booth situation near the entrance and had told Mickey very bossily that the three of them would be taking “cute pics” together and that she didn’t want to hear a peep out of him about it. 

Ben awoke just as they were putting condiments on the table. 

“Happy Birthday, love!” Aria yelled as she ran and flung her arms around his neck. 

“Thanks babe,” Ben said, peering around the room, taking in the transformation. “Jesus Christ, you really went all out huh?” 

“There is no other way,” Aria told him seriously. “You go big or you go home.”

“Happy birthday, asshole,” Mickey said, throwing his arm around Ben’s shoulder and pulling his head into his chest, giving him a birthday noogie. 

It, of course, caused a pushing match between the two of them until Aria scolded them and told them to quit fucking around as it was time for breakfast. 

“So,” Ben said as he made his way into the chair at the head of the table. “It’s Wednesday. You’re seeing Ian today.” 

Mickey rolled his eyes despite the pang of anxiety he felt hit his chest at the mention of facing Ian today. 

“It’s your fucking birthday man,” Mickey said. “Why are we talking about Gallagher?” 

“Oh. Gallagher is back huh?” Aria laughed. “Thought your crush era would’ve permanently upgraded him to ‘Ian '"

“Maybe Gallagher is a term of endearment, Ria, don’t be rude,” Ben chimed in. 

“If it wasn’t your birthday, I’d throw you both off the balcony,” Mickey said, rolling his eyes. 

“Okay, tiny,” Ben and Aria said in unison, causing them both to burst out laughing. 

Mickey signed dramatically and threw a grape at each of them in a huff. 

When they finished eating, they cleared their plates and moved over to the living room, where Ben opened his presents from the two of them. 

Aria had gotten him an Apple Watch . 

Mickey had gotten him a new hockey bag , which Ben seemed very excited about. 

“Eyy!” he yelled. “This is sick! Thanks Mick.” 

“Yeah, well. Your old one makes the apartment smell like ass so this is more of a present for us than you,” Mickey replied. 

Ben flipped him off as Aria said “Amen!” 

“There’s something else in there actually,” Mickey continued, nodding toward the bag. 

Ben furrowed his brows as he opened the bag, before his face broke out into a huge grin. 

“Aww Mick! No fucking way!” he shook his head as he pulled out two slips of paper. 

“What is it?” Aria asked, craning her neck to see. 

“They’re just tickets to see the Rangers play in Chicago in April,” Mickey said, nonchalantly. 

“Just?” Ben asked. “We’ve been talking about doing this shit since freshman year! You talk mad shit about the Rangers saying that you guys would wipe the floor with us and look at you now.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey said quietly. “Maybe.” 

“This is amazing, man. Thank you.” he said, getting up to tackle Mickey into a big hug. 

Mickey caught Aria’s eye and she shook her head at them. 

“Guess you won best gift again this year,” she teased. She'd become accustomed to losing.

________________________________

The rest of Mickey’s Wednesday morning dragged at a glacial pace, once Ben and Aria left for their couples massage Ben had insisted on for his birthday. 

He went to his morning lecture, desperate for distraction, but was told when he arrived that the lecture had been canceled and the content would be online.

He had four hours before he needed to meet Ian, and he should have just studied, but he went to the gym instead, hoping the blood flow would make his biceps look extra bulgy.

He showered, doused himself in Ben’s expensive cologne that he’d swiped from his gym locker, then spent the other three hours searching Necto Night Club’s tagged photos for any sign of Ian’s friend. 

No such luck. He swore under his breath. This was all completely normal behaviour.

Eventually, when his thumbs were numb and his wrists were cramping, he’d wasted all the time he needed to and was setting off towards the library to face Ian.

He had a plan. He would ask about Ian’s weekend, hopefully getting some intel as to the identity and, ideally, last known address, of Mickey’s new enemy. He would scope out Ian’s temperature before finding the right time to launch into a full explanation and apology. 

Maybe that was in the wrong order, but he was petty first and a good person second.

He made his way up to study room 15, steeled himself, and entered the space to find Ian’s back hunched over the table.

“Hey,” Mickey said, far too jovially.

“Hey,” Ian replied, his voice calm and even, as Mickey walked over to his seat. Everything about Ian was screaming totally neutral in a kind-of forced way. “So we’ve got lots to catch up on. I thought we’d get started with the lecture notes from Bio of Sports, and those discussion questions, and then move onto your topic for the final paper that's coming up.”

Okay. Straight to business. That was fine. They had plenty of time. 

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey agreed immediately. He tapped at the desk, contemplating his next move. “So how was your weekend?” he asked after a full three seconds, as cool and casual as a cucumber.

“Fine,” Ian shot back, already bordering on exasperated. “Where are your notes?”

“Oh,” Mickey said, reaching down to clumsily pull his laptop and notebook from his bag. 

When his face returned above the desk, he noticed that Ian had put on his glasses.

Oh. Was this a sign? A sign that he wanted things to go back to how they were? Mickey felt a smile creep onto the corner of his lips, and Ian must have seen it out of his periphery.

“I couldn’t find my contacts,” he mumbled. “I’m not…”

“Damn, Gallagher,” Mickey interrupted, his voice low and sultry, feeding into their usual script.

But Ian closed his eyes and his lips straightened into a tight grimace.

“Don’t.”

The smile fell from Mickey’s face immediately, as he darted his eyes to his lap. Fuck. He had misread that.

Ian turned his attention to Mickey’s laptop, reading Mickey’s notes that he had spent hours yesterday organizing and proofreading. Minutes passed as Ian went over them in painstaking detail.

The deafening silence between them was making Mickey go certifiably, batshit insane. There was so much he needed to say. He wanted to apologize, but no words seemed enough. He wanted to explain, but his excuse sounded naive. He wanted to ask about the guy on the weekend, and whether he’d fucked him, but he knew that was beyond unfair, and honestly, none of his business.

He had no idea how to start this without angering Ian further.

And then, he remembered his saving grace. Maybe a party in a dimly-lit apartment with booze flowing was just what this situation needed.

“You coming to Ben’s party tonight?” he asked.

“Dunno,” Ian replied. “Was going to. But if you think it’d be weird I don--”

“Yes!” Mickey jumped in. “I mean no, it won’t be weird. You should come.” A beat. “I want you to come.”

“Maybe. I’m trying to read.”

“Sorry.”

The elephant in the room was getting so big that Mickey felt like he was choking on metaphorical elephant dick.

Ian was being so cold and distant, and rightly so. He seemed completely uninterested in engaging with anything unrelated to their coursework.

Mickey had no idea how to get him to let him speak for long enough for an apology to spill out.

And then.

An idea struck him. Something he saw in some dumb movie Aria made him watch a few weeks ago. Ian was a softie, so maybe this would work.

He ripped out a page from his notebook. Ian flickered his eyes over for a moment, before turning back to face Mickey’s laptop.

In muted blue ink, Mickey wrote I’m sorry on the ripped piece of paper and, after a few seconds of deliberation, slowly slid it over to Ian.

His face heated up and his vision went blurry as Ian looked over at the note and took a pause. He stared at it for one, two seconds, before he crumpled it up and threw it on the ground, before turning back to the laptop.

Cool cool cool. Okay. Good start.

Mickey sighed heavily. Alright. So now wasn’t the time.

He decided to focus back on his notebook, unbearably embarrassed, his face on fire. He doodled little hockey player stick figures shooting pucks at each other in the margins, as he waited for Ian to decide he was ready to talk. 

________________________________

When their very dry hour of tutoring was over, Ian packed up quicker than Mickey had ever seen him move before. Mickey got the sense he was trying to escape.

Mickey could feel his chance to apologise slipping through his fingers, so he mustered up every ounce of courage in his little body.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“Got nothing to say,” Ian said, as he pulled his backpack onto his shoulders and made his way to the door.

“C’mon man, I need to explain. Let me apol--”

“I’m busy, Mickey,” Ian cut him off. “See you around, maybe.”

Ian hadn’t looked him in the eyes a single time for the whole hour before he was out the door like an apparition. Mickey closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep, steadying breath. 

He wished he didn’t exist.

________________________________

The sentiment still held true a couple of hours later as Mickey stood in a dark corner gulping rum and coke out of a red solo cup. He watched a sea of people galavant through his apartment, his eyes flickering to the door every thirty seconds or so. 

Ben’s party had started an hour and a half ago and Ian still hadn’t made an appearance. 

After quite literally making a fool of himself in tutoring earlier, Mickey didn’t really blame Ian for bailing. Mickey felt like he was losing his mind. He was standing there driving himself crazy by thinking about all the other places that Ian may or may not be and the company that he may or may not have with him. Every time the door opened, his heart would do an annoying ass jolt, and then it would sink when it realized it wasn’t Ian. 

This ‘having feelings’ shit was worse than he ever dreamed possible. 

He glanced over to the birthday boy, who was in the process of taking a shot with a couple of his business school friends on the other side of the room. Aria was sitting on the couch looking rather annoyed as Adams appeared to be talking her ear off about something stupid probably.

Mickey was about to go and save her when he felt someone sling their arm around his shoulder. 

He nearly had a heart attack and was 0.2 seconds away from decking the person but, at the last second, he realized it was just Nelson. 

“Mick!” he half yelled and half slurred. “How the fuck are you doin’ brotha?”

Mickey glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and the other man was close enough that he could smell the strong scent of cheap vodka on his breath. 

Mickey was equal parts confused and concerned. Nelson was the type of guy that rarely drank during the season because of how seriously he took his role as captain. Mickey only ever saw him drink more than two on New Year's Eve. 

“You good?” Mickey asked cautiously, as Nelson began to sway. 

“Never fucking better, man,” Nelson said giving Mickey a comical thumbs up. “I’m just living large right now.”

Mickey furrowed his brows, sensing sadness in the way he’d mumbled it through his slurring. 

Before Mickey could ask him if he wanted to go lay down in Ben’s room, Nelson interrupted. 

“Oh! Mick! Been wanting to ask you,” he said, pulling his arm off of Mickey’s shoulders and facing him straight on. His eyes were glossy and Mickey pre-pitied future Nelson for what was sure to be one hell of a hangover. He leaned in and lowered his voice.

“How do you know if someone you’ve been hanging out with likes you?” he continued. 

What?

“Uh. What?” Mickey asked, looking around awkwardly. 

“Well, I’m just thinking you would know, because you seem to have someone who really likes you,” Nelson replied, nodding at Mickey’s midsection. 

Mickey blushed and bristled.  

He wasn’t sure what curse had been cast on him to put him in a corner being quizzed by Nelson about his fucking love life, but he sure as fuck wanted out.

“Uh. I don’t have anyone, so you’re asking the wrong guy. This kind of sounds like a Ben question. Or maybe ask Jenkins or someone?”

Nelson let out a loud bark of a laugh. 

“Jenkins,” he scoffed. “Yeah fuckin’ right. That idiot wouldn’t know how to take a hint if it grabbed him by the motherfucking balls. 

Mickey screwed up his face. He was under the impression that Nelson and Jenkins were good friends -– not that he really kept up to date with the team’s intergroup relations. It did seem odd that Nelson didn’t feel like he could talk to Jenkins about his relationship issues, especially because they were roommates and seemed to do everything else together. 

Mickey mentally slapped himself in the face for micro-analyzing his teammates' friendship dynamics. He blamed the whole situation with Ian for making him so fucking soft and susceptible to other people’s emotions.

“Hey,” Nelson said loudly, nudging Mickey in the arm with his elbow. “Isn’t that Ian?”

Mickey’s head flew up so fast he was surprised he didn’t get whiplash. 

It was Ian. 

He was here. 

He came. 

Ian walked through the door, a six pack of beer in his hand as he looked around the party as if looking for someone. He began to walk toward Ben, and it was then that Mickey noticed that there was a guy trailing behind him. He was slightly shorter than Ian, with black hair and a medium build. Mickey didn’t need binoculars to know that the guy was hot. 

No. 

There’s no way they came together. 

Because no way would Ian even consider bringing some random guy to a party at Mickey’s house. The mere suggestion was preposterous. 

And yet, he watched as Ian reached Ben, who greeted Ian with a handshake. Ian then handed Ben the beer and gestured over to the guy, who Ben extended his hand out to. 

Mickey wanted to fucking die. 

“You okay there Mick?” Nelson asked, waving his hand in front of Mickey’s face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Mickey wished he was seeing a ghost instead of the fuckery in front of him. 

He glared at Ian and the guy as they made their way to the drinks table, Ian putting his hand on the guy’s back to guide him. 

Mickey felt all of the blood slowly draining from his face as an emotion he could only describe as sizzling jealousy took over his entire being. 

“You kind of look like a ghost right now if I’m being honest,” Nelson said from beside him. 

“Nelson, your resemblance to Adams when you’re drunk is uncanny,” Mickey sighed. “And I’m not talking about when Adams is drunk. I’m talking normal, every day, sober Adams. So if that doesn’t tell you that you need to lay off the booze for the rest of your life, then I don’t know what will. Excuse me a second.” 

He downed the rest of his drink before handing his empty cup to Nelson and swiping his full one from him. 

He could hear Nelson protesting as he began to walk with purpose towards Ian and his little sidekick, weaving in and out of people as he went. Apparently, Mickey had just found his breaking point and everything he said he was going to do -– allowing Ian to talk when he was ready -– just flew right out the window along with Mickey’s last stitch of sanity. 

Before he could even get close to halfway, Aria appeared from what seemed like thin air, and grabbed him by the arm. 

“Mickey,” she gritted out through her teeth, peering over to Ian and the guy at the drink table and then back to Mickey. “What are you doing?” 

“Nothing,” Mickey said, glaring at the back of Ian’s head. “Just gonna be a good host and go greet some of our guests. That a problem?” he asked, shrugging her hand off his arm and continuing over to the drinks table. 

Had Mickey thought this plan all the way through? Not even in the slightest. Did he care? Not at all. 

He walked right up to them, looking over his shoulder nonchalantly as he brushed past Ian and accidentally bumped into the guy with his shoulder, the drink he’d taken from Nelson accidentally spilling all over his shirt. 

“Oh shit!” Mickey said, in the most convincing, apologetic tone he could muster. “I’m so sorry, man. I’m such a klutz sometimes.” 

He glanced over to Ian who looked nonplussed, his mouth hanging open for a beat before seemingly catching the glint of mischief in Mickey’s eye. 

“Really, Mickey? You can skate backward with your eyes closed but you’re a ‘klutz?’” Ian asked, clearly annoyed that Mickey had just crashed his date. 

Mickey shrugged and faced Ian, taking him in properly. He was wearing a long white shirt that was partly tucked into white sweatpants, and a black baseball cap. He still had the whole stubble thing going on. 

He looked so good that Mickey almost lost his train of pettiness.   

“Not sure what you’re insinuating there, Gallagher,” Mickey said, giving Ian a heated look. “It was an honest mistake.” 

Ian opened his mouth, clearly about to retort, but Fuckface interrupted. 

“It’s honestly not a problem. I can go grab a napkin,” the guy said, wiping at the large wet spot on his shirt and looking back up at Mickey. He tilted his head slightly as if trying to place him. 

“Oh shit. You’re Mickey Milkovich aren’t you?” he asked, a smile spreading across his face as he extended his hand for Mickey to shake. “I’m a huge fan, man!” 

Ian had clearly neglected to tell his little friend whose house they were going to for the party, and Mickey couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad sign. 

Mickey looked over at Ian who looked both annoyed and absolutely horrified. 

“Always nice to meet a fan,” Mickey told the guy smugly. He could practically feel Ian’s heated stare piercing the side of his head. 

“Ian, do you know who this is?” the guy muttered excitedly. 

And if this guy wasn’t public enemy number one right now, Mickey would have been endeared by his passion. 

Ian sighed. 

“Yeah. We used to hang out,” Ian said rather passive aggressively. 

Used to. 

Mickey’s heart sank as he looked to the ground and swallowed hard, before looking up and raising a brow at Ian. 

“You not gonna introduce me to your friend, Ace?” he asked, praying that Ian didn’t sense his disappointment. 

“I’m Nick!” he said, giving Mickey a little wave. 

“Nice to meet you, Dick,” Mickey said, because he was petty as fuck and couldn’t not take the oppurtunity. 

“Nick,” he repeated with a loud laugh. 

“Oh. Shit, sorry man,” Mickey said with the fakest laugh he’d ever laughed in his life. “It’s just so loud in here.” 

“It’s really not though,” Ian mumbled. 

“Not a problem,” Nick said, waving Mickey off before turning to Ian. “Just gonna go clean this up. I’ll be right back.” 

With that, he headed toward the kitchen leaving Mickey and Ian alone. 

They stared at each other for a moment, Ian looking nothing short of pissed. Mickey was right there with him, even though he knew he had no right to be. They’d never dated, and just because Mickey liked him, didn’t mean Ian owed him anything in return.

He hated how things were between them. He hated how this time last week they were at the game and Mickey was rolling his eyes at Ian’s annoying ass questions about absolutely everything. He hated that this time last week, they were good. Better than good. And then Mickey had to go and fuck it all up. 

He wanted so badly to just apologize so they could at least go back to at least being friends. 

They just needed to talk. 

Before Mickey could ask, again, Ian was brushing past him. 

“My jean jacket still in your room?” he asked. “I want it back.” 

He started to make his way toward the bedroom and Mickey’s heart sped up as he followed closely behind. 

“Uh. Yeah. I can bring it to tutoring tomorrow,” Mickey said, hurriedly, trying to get in front of him before he could get to his room. 

Ian stopped and stared down at him darkly, the brim of his hat in the dim lighting casting shadows on his face.

“Why? You afraid I’m going to jump your bones once I cross the threshold of your bedroom?” he asked. “You don’t have to fucking worry about it.” 

He continued toward the bedroom as Mickey struggled to weave in and out of party guests to catch up to him. Long-legged fucker. 

Ian burst through the door and had begun looking around by the time Mickey’s short legs brought him inside.

“Where is it?” he asked, clearly irritated. 

“Ian, c’mon man. Can we just fucking talk for a second?” Mickey asked desperately. 

“All I want from this interaction is my fucking jacket Mickey,” Ian said in a stern tone. “So please just give it to me so I can go.” 

Mickey took a deep breath and scratched the back of his head. 

“Fine. Go wait outside and I’ll bring it to you.”

“Mickey, I’m not leaving this room without my fucking jacket in my hand,” Ian responded, voice laced with acidity.

Fuck.

Mickey ran his thumb over his bottom lip as he tried to delay the inevitable.

Eventually, when he couldn’t put it off any longer, he dragged his feet over to his still very unpacked overnight bag and unzipped it. He knew his face was red as he reluctantly pulled out the jacket from where it sat at the top. He turned and walked back to Ian, handing it over, his eyes glued to the floor. He wouldn’t have been able to look at Ian even if he wanted to. 

He prayed that Ian would just take it and leave. He prayed that he wouldn’t put two and two together, and realized that Mickey had taken it with him on his road trip. 

Ian was still as a statue, making no move to leave. 

When Mickey managed to drag his eyes up to look at him, Ian was looking down at the bag on the floor. Just staring at it, his brows furrowed. 

If Mickey had to take a stab in the dark, he’d say that Ian had fucking figured it out. 

Mickey was fucking mortified.

When Ian’s eyes finally met his, they had softened immeasurably. His temper had completely relaxed as he reached out to grab it, his warm fingertips jolting Mickey where they brushed together. 

They stared at each other for what felt like hours. The tension in the room was thick and palpable, and Mickey would have been embarrassed if he wasn’t so busy doing everything in his power not to close the space between them. 

Ian’s eyes flickered around his face, and down to his lips, before looking back down at the jacket, a soft breathy exhale escaping his mouth before he began to back away. 

“I should go,” he said, turning and leaving the room. 

Mickey didn’t try to stop him. 

He could feel his heart leaping out of his chest. He pressed his palms into his eyes in anguish. 

“Fuck,” he whispered. 

Had that really fucking just happened? 

It took Mickey all of ten more seconds to realize that Ian had said he was leaving. Like four minutes after he'd arrived.

Mickey sped walk out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him and peering around the party. More people had arrived in his brief absence, which made locating Ian a trickier task. 

He eventually found that lanky head of red hair in the crowd just as Dick was leaning in close, whispering into Ian’s ear. 

Ian nodded at whatever was said and the two of them began to head toward the door. 

On the way, Ian caught Aria amongst the group of people she was laughing with, and gave her a quick farewell hug before he disappeared out the door, Nick trailing closely behind. 

Mickey saw red. 

A flash of Ian kissing Nick’s neck hit him across the eyes. Nick hearing his breathy moans. Fuckface getting to feel his tongue on his stomach. Dick getting to wake up with Ian’s weight pressed behind him.

He pulsed on the spot for some seconds, before his mind was made up.

Not on Mickey’s fucking watch.

He stormed back into his room, grabbed his leather jacket from the closet, and raced out the door. He did a quick scan to make sure Ben was preoccupied, and upon seeing that he was currently in an animated discussion by the balcony, flew out the door before anyone could notice the sudden disappearing act.

He didn’t really have a plan as he stomped his way over to Ian’s dorm like a petulant teenager.

He could see them not too far ahead, walking and talking slowly. As they took the route to Ian’s building, Mickey noted that this motherfucker better turn off to his own house soon if he wanted to wake up alive tomorrow.

Was he really following Ian and his date back to his dorm? Was he really going to cock block Ian’s hookup? Was he going to beat this guy up? Cut off Ian’s dick? Maybe he should buy some spray paint and find out where Dick lived and graffiti a big dick on his door to match his name. 

That last one actually wasn’t a bad idea. 

Man, he really hadn’t thought this through.

He kept power walking. They were approaching Ian’s building.

Mickey lost all sense of time and space when they walked together into Ian’s dorm building, Nick holding the door open for a smiling Ian.

His eyes stung and his heartbeat raced until he was positive he was physically vibrating due to a dangerous mix of fury and jealousy and a healthy pinch of his baseline pettiness.

He couldn’t fucking believe this. No way was this fucking happening.

He climbed the stairs to Ian’s floor two at a time, not letting his rage dissipate for even a moment before he was loudly rapping at Ian’s door.

Shit. He had really knocked without a shred of a plan.

Oh God. 

The door opened a sliver and before Mickey knew what the fuck he was doing, he barged in.

“Where’s Fuckface?” he said loudly, breath huffing as he darted his eyes to the bed, and then around to the empty dorm. Eventually, his eyes made their way over to Ian, who was standing by the door with ruffled hair, wearing only his boxers.

Ian scoffed, in a way that would have been amused if he wasn’t also clearly pissed off. “None of your fucking business, actually,” he said pointedly. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Mickey asked, heatedly, knowing he didn’t really have a leg to stand on, but standing on one nonetheless. 

“No,” Ian shrugged, as he shut the door with a slam. "Did you follow us here?"

“I don’t see you for almost a week and you turn up to, and then leave , a party at my house with some other guy?”

Ian raised his brows, amusement now definitely flooding his face.

“Well you said it yourself -- we’re just warm mouths to each other. So I’m not sure why you’d care if I left with someone else,” he said slowly, his arms crossing. Challenging.

“Asshole, I’ve been trying to apologize for that shit since Monday but you haven’t given me a fucking chance!” Mickey said loudly. 

“Pfft. Why? So you can just say ‘I’m sorry’ and I’m meant to fucking swoon at the heels of The Great Mickey Milkovich?” Ian replied, matching Mickey’s tone. 

Mickey knew he should take this opportunity to calm down the situation; to right his wrong, to explain and apologise. But Ian was here and he was close and he was angry and he smelled like his musky body spray that made Mickey dizzy. The room was stuffy and lit only by Ian’s dim, bedside lamp, and if anyone tried to prosecute -- he would argue he was not of sound mind or body.

“Fuck you!” Mickey spat, encroaching on Ian’s space.

“No, fuck you, Mickey! Why the fuck do you care, huh?” Ian responded, their faces now close enough that Mickey could feel Ian’s body heat radiating off him in waves.

Before he could stop himself, Mickey’s hands were on Ian’s bare chest as he slammed him against his door -- in a move very reminiscent of their first time, although the roles reversed -- the electric charge between them now bordering on agonizing. 

I care because the thought of someone else touching you makes me sick. I care because I want you. I care because I need you. I care because I want you to be mine.

Ian’s lips were telling -- the bastard looked smug. Like he was enjoying seeing Mickey clearly out of his mind and acting insane.

Then, Mickey was being pushed up against the adjacent wall, and before he could comprehend the sensations, there were lips on his and a tongue in his mouth and hands all over him in the flash of a moment.

He breathed hard out of his mouth -- maybe for the first time since Ian left a week ago -- as he relished in the feeling of Ian pressed up against every fucking inch of him.

Ian quickly rid Mickey of his jacket, the heat from his torso immediately setting Mickey alight. 

They bit and grabbed and yanked and licked as Mickey’s arms made their way up to wrap around Ian’s neck to pull him impossibly closer.

Ian dragged his hands down to the back of Mickey’s thighs and grasped and squeezed and fucking lifted. Lifted until Mickey’s feet were off the floor and wrapping around Ian’s waist and he was being pushed with even more force into the hard wall behind him.

They didn’t come up for air as they kissed and kissed and their tongues became reacquainted with each other. It was wet, and sloppy, and desperate, and Mickey needed more. Now.

Mickey pushed his pelvis into Ian’s, and Ian took his cue and peeled them off the wall, his hands on Mickey’s ass as he carried him over to the bed. He threw Mickey down and leered at him lasciviously from above.

Their eyes fell to one another’s bodies and faces as they worked to rid Mickey of his clothes and Ian of his boxers. They worked quickly, and hungrily, and soon enough they were completely naked and Mickey felt Ian’s eyes burning holes all over him.

“Turn around,” Ian said eventually, voice dark and heavy, piercing the silence.

Mickey couldn’t help the twinge of disappointment that he wouldn’t get to look at Ian’s face as they fucked, but it was whatever. Mickey would take him in whatever way Ian wanted right now.

Mickey would do anything for him.

He flipped around and settled on all fours. He waited, and waited until Ian crawled behind him and pulled Mickey back to sit against his lap -- his back to Ian’s front. He wrapped his arms around Mickey in a tight hug, as his hands wandered around the marble planes of Mickey’s torso, grabbing at flesh, pinching and rubbing at his hardened nipples, enjoying the heat and hardness.

He took his time, as Ian always did, even though every moment felt laced with a kind of torrid urgency Mickey hadn’t experienced before. A hit of temporality, so he needed to dig his claws in, because nothing after this was guaranteed.

Mickey felt Ian’s hard cock sliding into the cleft of his ass, drenched with lube -- when the fuck had he gotten lube? -- the wet, sliding sensation feeling so, so good, but it wasn’t enough. Mickey needed more.

“Fuck me,” he sighed, leaning his head back onto Ian’s shoulder and getting his arms up, over, and behind him to hold onto Ian’s head.

Ian kept moving, his hands now gripping tightly at Mickey’s hips, as he bit and sucked on the side of his neck, working his way up to his jaw, until Mickey twisted his head to meet Ian’s mouth with his.

They tangled tongues and breathed warm gasps into each other’s mouths, Mickey’s torso now completely twisted to give him the best angle. Mickey broke the kiss to lock eyes with Ian as he pushed his ass back with force, eliciting a throaty pant from the redhead.

Ian’s eyes were hungry and blown out, and they darkened even further under Mickey’s attention. He fisted his hand at the back of Mickey’s head, threading his fingers through his hair, and Mickey’s dick throbbed with that delicious sting. 

“You want my cock, Mickey?” he breathed into Mickey’s mouth before biting roughly at his lower lip, his cock still sliding, sliding, hot and wet, between Mickey’s cheeks.

“Yeah,” Mickey said on a tortured exhale. “Yes.” 

Ian moved his mouth to hover over Mickey’s ear. 

“Tell me how much you want it,” he whispered, his hot breath on his ear sending blistering shivers across every inch of Mickey's flesh.

“Fuck,” was all Mickey could say.

Ian covered Mickey’s arms with his own, and wrapped both sets tightly around Mickey’s midsection, pulling them so close they were almost fused together, as Ian picked up the pace of his thrusts.

“Come on, Mickey,” he whispered, Mickey feeling Ian’s breath tickle the sides of his eyelashes. “Tell me.”

Mickey wanted to tell him; tell him how much he wanted him, needed him, and how much he’d missed him. He tried to tell him. But instead of providing an answer, which Mickey was pretty sure would come out as garbled gibberish as opposed to actual words, he turned fully in Ian’s lap and pushed him down into the mattress, itching and unhinged.

Mickey licked along Ian’s lips, getting a hand on Ian’s hard dick to try and distract him from hard questions, until Ian put both hands on Mickey’s chest to push him up and away from him, until he was staring down at a panting, determined Ian.

“Tell me,” Ian said. A beat. “Then you can have me.”

How Ian had enough brainpower to say things as poetic and insane as that in the heat of their first fuck in a week, Mickey would never know. Mickey’s breath caught in his throat, as mountains and tsunamis waded down on him, as he tried to find the words that would give this justice.

And then, just as Ian’s eyes lost a bit of sparkle, just as it looked like he had given up, Mickey put his hands on either side of Ian’s face and said, “I need you.” He said it with all the confidence he could muster, even though it felt like he could break apart at any moment. He meant it in a sexual way, but he meant it in the other way too.

“Get a condom,” Ian said, breathlessly, his eyes glassy. 

Mickey moved back, reached Ian's bedside table, and pulled a condom out of the top drawer, turning around to see Ian leaning up on his elbows. His expression was unreadable, and Mickey wanted to crawl into his brain and find out exactly what he was thinking.

Mickey waddled over on his knees, unwrapping the condom on the way before he slowly slid it down Ian’s length. They had done numerous amounts of varying intimate acts but, for some reason, rolling a condom onto Ian with a pair of eyes focused on him was the most intimate thing Mickey thinks he’s ever done. 

Ian breathed in soft puffs out of his nose and his eyelids fluttered, while Mickey’s cheeks flamed up and his hands shook. They were both nervous.

They located the lube again and made quick work of prepping Mickey, him rocking on Ian’s fingers from above, before Mickey slowly worked Ian’s dick inside -- Ian’s hands gripping his warm waist.

“Oh fuck,” Mickey whispered once he was fully seated and adjusted.

Mickey began to move, his hands either side of Ian’s head, as he stared down at him. It almost became too much -- the image of Ian beneath him, staring up -- but he pushed through, and poured everything he was into what he was doing. He pushed and moved and moaned and stared.

“Mickey,” Ian breathed from under him, and Mickey thought he would for sure break into pieces at the sound of his name on Ian’s tongue.

But this wasn’t what Mickey needed right now. So he leant down, tucked his arms underneath Ian’s body and rolled, until Ian was on top of him. He hitched his legs around Ian’s waist and linked his ankles together, wanting, needing, to feel the weight of Ian’s body on his.

His breathing was hindered due to Ian’s weight, but he didn’t care -- how the fuck could he care -- as that sweet thickness began filling him again. Ian was studying every inch of his face, his brows creased from the goodness passing between them.

“Ian,” Mickey let escape.

Ian began thrusting, slowly, so slowly, and he buried his head against Mickey’s neck, his open mouth just breathing there, his tongue darting out to touch at his skin. Mickey got his hands on Ian’s back and scratched him roughly with blunt nails as he bit into his shoulder -- moves that he hoped would leave a mark -- so that Ian would remember that he was once Mickey’s, even if only in this bed.

Mickey yanked at Ian’s hair to bring his face back in front of him. He needed to look at him, needed Ian to look at him and know that he was there, and that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Mickey admitted, and he was embarrassed, and he hated himself, but this was the only time he could say it, and so he said it and hoped Ian was listening. Ian didn’t respond, but he thrusted harder, and deeper, and Mickey took that as a silent acknowledgment. 

Ian traced his hands from Mickey’s shoulders, down his arms until he was grabbing at his hands and pinning his arms above Mickey’s head against the mattress. He laced their fingers together, and they were chest to chest, arm to arm, open mouth to open mouth, the intensity mounting with every gasp into each other's mouth. Mickey’s entire body from fingertips to toes were on fire and pressed hard into the soft duvet.

Mickey couldn’t really breathe. He didn’t give a fuck. Ian thrusted harder and faster and their moans morphed into something loud and shaky and soon Ian was warning Mickey that he was close. 

“Wait, wait, stop,” Mickey said, wiggling his hands against Ian’s.

“Are you okay?” Ian said, stopping his thrusts immediately because of course, Ian would be considerate at a time like this.

“Want you to come in my mouth,” Mickey said through a panting breath, wanting to feel everything Ian could give.

“Jesus Christ.”

Ian pulled out and took his condom off, zigzagging his knees on either side of Mickey’s body until his hips were over his mouth. Mickey’s arms were still outstretched above his head, and Ian got his left hand back onto Mickey’s, their fingers intertwined once more, holding on for dear life.

Mickey waited, tongue unfurled, and Ian jerked himself off until he came all over Mickey’s tongue. Some of it got on Mickey’s cheek but Ian was quick to lean down and kiss it off.

Ian moved his body and hand down until he made Mickey come on his stomach as they kissed and bit and breathed on each other, and it was absolutely depraved and Mickey’s favourite thing that had ever happened.

Eventually, Ian rolled off, and Mickey immediately missed his warmth and weight.

They lay there side by side as they came down.

It was much too quiet for Mickey’s liking. 

There was still so much unsaid, yet Mickey had no idea what to say.

“Nick’s a friend that lives a few doors down,” Ian said, breaking the silence. “Just got dumped by his girlfriend. Told him he could tag along to the party to distract himself.”

Oh.

Mickey caught up to what Ian was admitting. He didn’t have to say that. Mickey didn’t deserve to hear that. He’d acted like a crazy ex and didn’t deserve that softball.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey said, still staring at the ceiling.

Silence. Ian was waiting for more, probably. He deserved more. Mickey should explain himself. But instead, he scratched at a scab he really should have just left alone.

“So, you went out on the weekend?”

“Yep,” Ian said. Short.

“You fuck anyone?”

Jesus, Mickey. Come the fuck on, man.

Ian scoffed.

“Don’t think you can ask me that, Mick.”

Correct, he absolutely couldn’t ask him that.

Mickey stayed quiet. His toes started tapping on the bed, causing it to shake. He was spiralling. Fuck. He guessed this meant Ian had fucked someone, and he had absolutely no reason to be mad about it. He felt Ian turn his head to face him, but Mickey was too focused on deepening his breath to avoid hyperventilation to face him back. 

He worked to calm himself down so he could give Ian his proper apology, but eventually, Ian broke the silence instead.

“No, I didn’t fuck anyone.”

Mickey took a sharp inhale as relief washed over him.

“Really?” he asked.

“Haven’t really fucked anyone else since we started fucking.”

Mickey let out a shaky exhale. Oh my God.

“Me neither,” he admitted.

He turned his head to see Ian’s jaw tensing, in time to watch as he shook his head and lifted himself up to sit at the edge of his bed, facing away from Mickey.

“You should head out,” he said, pulling on his boxers. “I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

Mickey sat up, reaching for his own boxers.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re done. I’m your tutor and that’s it from here on out.”

Ian’s voice bounced around the empty space, and even though he was only a foot or so away from him, Mickey had never felt such a chasm. 

“Fuck...” Mickey muttered, as his breathing returned to its previous shallowness. “Look, I get it. If you want this to be done, I get it.”

Ian half-turned his head until his profile was in view.

“I wasn’t the one that wanted it to be done, Mickey. That’s what you said -- when you called me nothing and threw me out.”

“I know there’s no excuse for that shit, but I need to explain. Please let me explain,” Mickey pleaded.

Ian’s head turned back to face away from him and hung between his broad shoulders. He was silent, which Mickey took as consent to continue.

“I was way out of line. You didn’t deserve that, and none of it was true, and I’m really fuckin’ sorry.”

“Look,” Ian said, pushing himself off the bed to lean against his bedside table, crossing his arms all the while. “I know we’re not boyfriends or anything Mickey. I know this isn’t anything to you, but I thought we were at least friends. And I thought being a friend would’ve earned me some better treatment.”

Mickey scooted over to the edge of the bed.

“I know, I know. It was fucked up,” he rushed to say, trying to keep his voice level. “ I just… I got this voicemail from my coach when I woke up that morning and he threatened to tell this team that’s looking at me that I wasn’t interested because I had missed practice, and something just snapped. All I could think about was the NHL being taken from me because I was so wrapped up with you, and I just panicked. I’m not good at like...talking about shit. I lash out because it’s... I thought pushing you away would be easier but…”

But I realised that I think I’d be miserable forever if you weren’t in my life in one way or another.

“Look. All that bullshit aside, it was my fuck up. And I’m so fucking sorry, Ian. You’re not nothing or just convenient. You’re…” 

Incredible. Amazing. Funny. Kind of my favourite person ever.

“I’m just really fucking sorry. I want us to be good.”

You scare the shit out of me. I’m pretty sure I’ve liked you since I met you, I just didn’t know what it was. Please don’t leave me.

Ian uncrossed his arms as his brows came together.

“Your coach threatened to call a hockey team and tell them you weren’t interested because you missed one practice?” Ian asked as if it was the most outlandish thing he had ever heard.

“Yeah. Freaked me out. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” A beat. “But that’s fucked up. What an asshole.”

“It’s whatever,” Mickey shrugged, tilting his head. “Just an extreme coaching tactic, I guess.” 

Ian looked over and appeared to want to say something, but he shook his head and scratched the back of his neck instead.

Silence filled the air for several more moments, the only sound audible that of Mickey scratching at the duvet.

“Are we good?” Mickey eventually asked.

“Thanks for apologising,” Ian said after several beats, not really answering the question.

“Don’t gotta thank me. You think we could...do you wanna…” Mickey mumbled and fumbled, trying to get out what he needed to. “Do you think things could go back to the way they were?”

“Like what?”

“Us being friends?”

Ian blew a hard exhale from his nose as his eyes darted to Mickey.

“That all you want?” Ian asked. Eyes back to the floor. “To be friends?”

Mickey obviously wanted more than that, but he had no idea what that even meant. And he had no idea how Ian felt, or what he wanted. He already felt like his chest had been ripped open and he didn’t want to risk playing this hand just to lose the game now.

He didn’t know exactly what he wanted. All he knew was that he wanted Ian.

“No,” Mickey said softly. “Wanna have what we had. With the fucking and...everything.”

He was being vague. He knew that. But it was all he knew and it was all he could give.

“Well, what about hockey?” Ian asked. “You can’t take it out on me if you forget to set an alarm again. That shit you said was so…” his voice shook as he trailed off, and Mickey had never hated himself more than right then.

“I won’t, man. I promise. I won’t let it happen again.”

Ian took a deep breath and came to sit next to Mickey on the bed. Their knees knocked as Mickey’s nerves instantly calmed by the presence of Ian beside him. He was the ultimate tonic for everything bad.

“Look,” Ian said. “I do believe you when you say you didn’t mean it. I know in my head that what your coach said probably fucked you up in that moment. And I do want us to be good again, Mick. It might just take me a minute.”

Okay. Okay. Mickey could work with that. He believed him, and he wanted them to be okay. Mickey would crawl over hot coals and take a bullet in the ass if it meant being okay with Ian again.

“That’s fine. That’s cool, um. Think about it maybe. Or I can suck your dick again to remind you how fucking great I am at it.”

Ian bit back a smile and shook his head. He glanced over at Mickey, looking annoyed with a hint of fondness sitting high on his cheeks.

Maybe they could be okay. Maybe they would be okay.

“Should probably head back to the party. Ben will kill me for leaving early and ditching him,” Mickey said as he stood up from the bed, searching for his clothes. “Do you wanna come back with me?”

“Think you wore me out,” Ian chuckled. “Might just crash.”

Mickey nodded. Ian stood up, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and leaned on his bedside table again as Mickey got dressed. It was quiet, but not uncomfortably so.

Once his clothes were back on, Mickey smiled awkwardly at Ian and turned to face the door, ready to leave.

No. That wasn’t a goodbye. Fuck. What should he do?

He was still facing the door, when he closed his eyes, and decided to be brave.

“You’re really important to me,” he said softly, so softly, his eyes clenched shut. He wasn’t sure if Ian heard him, but then he heard a shaky exhale from behind him, and he knew he had. He waited a beat and turned to face Ian, who looked totally bewildered. “See you tomorrow at tutoring?” he asked.

“Yeah, Mick. I’ll see you then,” Ian said through a small smile.

Mickey tried to leave again, but Ian’s words from earlier were screaming in his head.

I know this isn’t anything to you, he had said.

But it was something to him. It is something to him. He just didn’t know how to say it without putting his heart on a silver platter and handing it over to be smashed into a million pieces. He was not going to risk what they had until he knew for sure he wouldn’t lose Ian in that process.

So instead, Mickey walked up to Ian, slowly, and he saw Ian’s brows crease in confusion as he closed the distance between them. He tentatively put a hand on Ian’s cheek, his heartbeat in his toes, as he leaned in and planted a soft kiss to his lips.

He moved his mouth a little bit, and it was slow and warm and perfect. It was nothing but tenderness and affection, and he tried to pour everything he felt into this moment.

His other hand made its way to rest on Ian’s chest and he felt it quicken in real-time. It was even beating faster than Mickey’s, which made him worry Ian might be having a heart attack, considering that Mickey felt like he was having one.

Mickey had kissed Ian maybe a thousand times at this point, but this felt like something .

When he pulled back, Ian’s eyes were swimming and Mickey couldn’t decipher it -- oh, how he wished he could. 

Mickey cleared his throat and tried to come up with some kind of funny thing to say to break the tension, but the only thing running through his head was ‘ cowabunga dude ’ and he really didn’t want to say that.

Ian went quiet, and blushed, and moved his eyes to the floor as he looked like he was trying not to smile. Mickey practically mirrored him. 

“Anyway. I should go,” Mickey said.

“Yeah. Cool.”

Mickey walked out the door, closing it behind him, before taking off down the hallway, a smile dancing on his lips. He heard the door open again not ten seconds later. 

“Hey Mickey?”

He turned around, and raised his brows at Ian in question.

“I just -- you look cold,” Ian said. “So I think you should take this with you.” He held out his denim jacket for Mickey to take.    

Mickey stared at it, genuinely confused. 

“Uh. I’m literally wearing a jacket,” he said, slowly. 

“You look cold though. You look like you need it,” Ian said again, holding it out further. 

Mickey gave him an incredulous look, and Ian returned a shy smile. Mickey approached him slowly, his heart soaring, as he reached out and took the jacket from Ian’s hands. 

“Yeah. I’m fucking freezing,” Mickey said through a soft smile. 

Mickey willed the blush creeping back onto his cheeks away, but it was a fruitless task because his face turned scarlet as he gave Ian one last timid look before he left, his face breaking out into a grin as he walked away.  

Mickey was just exiting the building when his phone buzzed. 

Gallagher (11:55pm): I thought kissing outside of sex was against your rules.

And fuck it. Mickey might not be ready to hand his entire heart over to Ian on a platter, terrified he would just go all Hannibal Lector on it. But maybe he could cut off a corner and hand it to him secretly under the table just to see what happened. Baby steps.

Mickey (11:59pm): yeah

Mickey (11:59pm): well

Mickey (11:59pm): guess some rules were made to be broken

Mickey couldn't wipe the smile off his face for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Mickey rubbed the sleep out of his bleary eyes as he awoke the morning after Ben’s party, his mind immediately flooding with memories from the night before. 

He genuinely worried that he might have dreamed the whole thing, but his mind was quickly put at ease when he peered over to the coat rack beside his dresser to see Ian’s jacket hanging up. 

He smiled softly at the sight before looking up at the ceiling, as he fondly remembered how he’d re-obtained it.

He had replayed his and Ian’s conversation on an endless loop when he got back to the party. He’d smile softly like an idiot whenever he thought of their kiss before he’d left, so much so that Ben kept questioning it. 

“Why are you smiling? You hate when people are in our house,” Ben had slurred with a half-full mouth of rum and coke.

But Mickey couldn’t help it. 

Something about kissing Ian last night felt like the first time, or what the first time was supposed to feel like. 

And in a way, it was. 

Sure, they had kissed thousands of times, but there was something about this one that made Mickey’s cheeks lift and his insides squeeze.

Yesterday kind of felt like breaking free from those rules Mickey had set not two months ago. It felt like something new.  

He smiled sleepily as he grabbed his phone off the charger to check the time. 7:37 am. Fuck. He’d barely gotten five hours of sleep, yet he felt energized enough to run a marathon. 

He scrolled through his notifications -– there were a couple from Instagram, some Twitter ones, and a text message from Ian. 

Mickey’s heart fluttered at the sight as he rushed to unlock his phone. 

Gallagher (2:37am): Goodnight Mickey 💛

He shot up straight in bed, rubbing his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, because, was that a heart ? Had Ian actually added a heart to the end of his message? 

No. Surely it was a mistake. He probably tapped the wrong emoji and didn’t notice. That was the only explanation because anything else would be absurd. Especially considering Ian had told him that he needed some time before they’d be fully okay again. 

Nothing about a heart emoji said “I need some time." It said quite literally the opposite of that. It was a god damn heart emoji. He wasn’t an expert on little animated icons, but he was pretty sure a heart was a heart.

Whether it meant “I forgive you for being a dick” or “I want to marry you and ride off into the sunset,” remained to be seen. 

He stared at the text message, analyzing those two words and the heart carefully for minutes, like a complete lunatic. 

But the more he looked at it, the more the text message just seemed off. 

Ian never called him “Mickey” over text, nor did he ever say the full word “goodnight.” Mickey was starting to think that the message was sent as an accident. But then he kept coming back to the “Mickey” part and realized he was being an idiot. 

Why had Ian texted him at 2:30 in the morning? And why did he use the yellow heart as opposed to any of the other colours? Did the yellow one mean something in particular? Did they all mean something different?

He couldn't believe he was sitting there trying to figure out the intention behind the colour of a heart emoji when he hadn’t even had coffee yet. 

He heard shuffling outside his bedroom door and figured Aria was getting ready for her shift at Starbucks. 

Mickey rolled out of bed and threw on a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He made his way out of the bedroom, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. 

Ben was awake despite his wild night that ended in him passing out and slobbering on the couch, hammered out of his mind. Mickey and Aria had spent an hour cleaning up the mess after the last guests filed out, and neither of them got to bed until close to 3 am. 

“Morning,” Ben said, grimacing at the effort, tilting his cup of coffee toward Mickey. His hair was beyond ruffled and there was a large, red spot on his cheek from where the leather of the couch had stuck to his sweaty skin. He was wrapped in a blanket and looked worse than he ever had, yet still managed to look like an Abercrombie & Fitch model.

Aria was standing in the corner near the microwave with a hood on her head, warming up leftovers from yesterday for breakfast. 

“You look good,” Mickey said through a chuckle, unable to keep a straight face.

“Feel like shit,” Ben admitted. “Might text in sick for practice today unless I want to be cleaning up my puke off the ice.”

“The fuck are you awake for then?” Mickey asked, sitting down at the table across from him. 

“Got finals prep in my tutorial today, so I gotta go,” Ben explained, taking a small sip of coffee. “Unless I die before then.” 

Mickey shook his head in pity. 

“Why are you up so early?” Aria asked from the kitchen. “Aren’t your Thursdays free till practice?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey replied, shrugging. “Dunno. Didn’t drink much last night and I’m not that tired. Might hit the gym.” 

Ben and Aria both visibly cringed at the thought. 

Mickey made his way over to Aria who looked at him with fond, sleepy eyes. He jerked his head toward the table, wordlessly telling her to go sit down and that he’d bring their food to them when it was ready. 

She gave him a grateful look and took a seat next to Ben, taking the mug from his hands and snuggling into his shoulder. 

They bickered quietly, Ben begging her to keep her voice down even though she was whispering until Mickey made his way over with their heated up leftover pizza. 

He sat down across from them, and unlocked his phone, his text message chain with Ian still open. 

He stared at the yellow heart again and looked up at Ben and Aria. They both looked exhausted. Definitely not their usual, chipper and nosy selves. He might be able to get away with asking them what it meant without them realizing what he was actually talking about. 

“Ey, what does the yellow heart emoji mean?” Mickey asked, nonchalantly, pretending to scroll through his Instagram feed. 

He felt Ben and Aria look up at him in unison and then at each other. 

“The what?” Ben asked, furrowing his brows at him. 

“Just –- the yellow heart emoji,” Mickey stammered. “You know. The yellow one? The heart? The emoji on your phone? The one that's heart-shaped, and yellow?” 

Wow. He was truly the king of subtle. 

“Why the yellow one?” Aria asked tentatively. 

“I don’t know,” Mickey said, not meeting either of their eyes. “Just wanna know.” 

“I hadn’t even considered that the different colours meant something,” Ben said, turning to Aria, “do they all have a different meaning?” 

“How am I supposed to know?” Aria asked, taking a sip from their mug. “A heart is a heart as far as I’m concerned.” 

Mickey flattened his lips into a straight line to hold in his smile at Aria’s words. 

A heart is a heart.  

Shit.

Ian had sent him a heart. Maybe yellow was just his favourite colour. Mickey made a mental note to ask him next time they hung out. 

“Why do you ask?” Aria quizzed, eyeing him suspiciously. 

Mickey bit his inner cheek and shrugged. He was regretting bringing it up and thinking he could without them dissecting him about it.

Silence filled the air for an uncomfortable few moments, until Ben sighed and shook his head. 

“There’s that look again,” he said. “This is about Ian isn’t it?” 

Fucking wizard. 

“Oh shit,” Aria said, looking at Mickey with a frown. “Is he with that guy? Did he post a picture of them together and use a yellow heart? Because that could honestly be a platonic heart. It’s probably nothing,” she rambled, looking over at Ben for support. 

“Yeah,” Ben coughed. “Plus, I met that guy. Sure he seemed nice or whatever, but -– Ow, Aria!” he rubbed his side where Aria had just not so subtly elbowed him. “But, he didn’t really seem like Ian’s type. Kind of a weirdo honestly, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Hearts don’t mean shit.” He shoved food into his mouth as if to shut himself up. 

“Especially the yellow one!” Aria piped up, cheersing her mug toward Mickey and taking a big gulp.

Mickey stared at the two idiots in front of him who just might be the worst actors of all time, although he appreciated them clearly trying to make him feel better. 

He also remembered that he hadn’t told them about what happened with Ian last night. 

“Wow. Too bad the Academy wasn’t here to see those performances,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “Because that was just breathtaking. So seamless. Riveting even. I don’t even have the words.”

When they didn’t say anything and just stared at him, he decided to continue. 

“Did you rehearse that? Please tell me your secrets.”

Ben and Aria side-eyed each other, their intro to improv class that they took in first year apparently only getting them so far. 

“So,” Mickey said, unlocking his phone and sliding it over to them. “If I told you he sent it to me, what would it mean then?”

Ben and Aria’s eyes went comically wide simultaneously as they looked at his phone, before snapping their heads up to look at him. 

“Wait. You?” Ben asked. “He sent this to you?”

Mickey rolled his eyes and nodded, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. 

“But I thought -– when did you -–?” Aria asked, her forehead bunched up in confusion. 

“We made up last night. Talked and shit,” Mickey shrugged. 

“Holy shit?!” Aria yelled, spilling coffee on Ben who grabbed at his probably pounding head and scalding skin. “You mean you made up and then he sent you this?! Are you kidding me right now?!” she said excitedly, grabbing Ben’s arm and pulling at it as if Harry Styles had texted him. 

“Jesus Christ,” Ben muttered, massaging his temples and looking up at Mickey. “Good job, man. Knew you could do it. How’d it go? What’d he say?” 

“Well obviously it went pretty fucking well!” Aria responded, jumping up and down in her seat. “He sent a heart, Ben! A whole ass heart! Wait!” She turned to Mickey with wide eyes. “Does that mean you guys are together?!”

“I –- no! We aren’t together ,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “We just talked and I apologized and he said he forgave me.”

And I kissed him and he gave me his jacket and I almost died. 

“So you didn’t profess your undying affection for him?” Aria asked, looking confused. “Why would he send you a heart then?” 

“I’ve literally been asking myself that question for the past 10 minutes,” Mickey muttered, tormented. 

Ben and Aria both stared intently at the text message again, as if trying to decode its hidden message. 

“Do they really all mean something different?” Ben asked, turning to Aria. “Because you send me the blue one all the time, so what the fuck does that mean?” 

“I don’t fucking know! I just like blue and the red one is so generic,” Aria replied. “They’re just colours – the meaning should still be the same.” 

“And the meaning would be…?” Mickey asked, looking between the two of them, almost to the point of begging for an answer. 

The longer this conversation went on, the more confused he was getting. 

“I mean, I don’t know, Mick. I guess it would depend on who the sender and the sendee were to each other,” Aria said carefully. 

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Mickey groaned. 

“I’m gonna look this shit up,” Ben said, pulling out his phone, and Mickey wished he would have thought of that before he got these two buffoons involved. 

“Okay I found it,” Ben said, clearing his throat dramatically. “‘ The yellow heart emoji can convey love, just like any other heart symbol or emoji -–” 

Aria squealed and put her hands over her mouth. 

“-- but its yellow c olour often gets used to show liking and friendship, as opposed to romantic love. Its colour also works with expressions of happiness—and with all things yellow, from sports team colors to dresses,’” he read out. 

The room went quiet, and Mickey would be lying if he said that his heart didn’t sink at the words ‘as opposed to romantic love.’

“Emojis are such silly concepts,” Aria said, shaking her head as if she was trying to backtrack and convince Mickey that it didn’t mean anything. “Who actually thinks before they use them anyways? Not me! A heart is a heart. I’ll die on this hill.” She nudged Ben again. 

“Yeah!” Ben agreed. “And besides, it says sports teams! Maybe he was just expressing his affection for you through our school colours!” 

“You guys don’t have to do this,” Mickey said, waving his hand at them. “He told me he needed some time with the whole thing anyway and I’m going to do what he wants.”

“Time with what?” Aria asked. 

“With us being like we were before, I guess,” Mickey shrugged. 

“And you’re okay with that?” Ben asked. “Just being friends with benefits?”

“I mean, I don’t know,” Mickey said, slowly, because no . He wasn’t okay with that. “I just don’t think he wants anything else, so I’m not going to push it. Everything was fine before anyway, so if I can have that again, it’s better than nothing.” 

Ben and Aria looked at him pitifully, and he was about to reassure them that he was fine when there was a soft knock at the door. 

They all turned their heads to the door before glancing around at each other. 

“The fuck is that?” Aria asked. “It's 8 in the bloody morning.”

“Probably just Amazon or something,” Ben said, yawning. 

Mickey took it as his one-way ticket out of the conversation and jumped up, making his way toward the door. 

He swung it open to reveal a nervous-looking Ian with two Starbucks coffees clutched in his hands. He gave Mickey a small, sheepish smile when they locked eyes. 

“Hey,” Mickey said, breathlessly, his eyes wide and bright. This was honestly the last person he expected to see on his doorstep. 

“Hey,” Ian replied, biting at the inside of his lip. “Uh. Sorry to bother you so early, but I was in the area, and you probably had a late night, so.” He held out one of the coffees to Mickey, who honestly was so taken aback, he just stared at it instead of grabbing it like a normal person. 

He heard a cough from behind him, which finally jolted him into action, as he accepted the coffee.

“Thanks,” Mickey said, trying to hold back a grin. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s nothing,” Ian said, shaking his head. “Besides, can’t have you fizzling out on me so close to the end of the semester.”

“Ah,” Mickey nodded. “Right. Thanks for looking out for me Gallagher. So considerate.”

Ian chuckled. 

They stared, drinking each other in as if they hadn’t been together just the night before. Mickey spotted a dark purple mark on a part of Ian’s neck that wasn’t covered by his hoodie. He smirked at it before meeting Ian’s eyes. They flickered all over Mickey’s face before he looked to the ground, smiling softly. 

“I’m gonna go,” Ian said suddenly. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

“Oh,” Mickey said, trying to hide his disappointment. “Yeah. Sure.”

Ian nodded and began to back away. 

The sight of Ian walking away made Mickey concerningly disheartened. They’d really only seen each other twice in the past two weeks, and Mickey needed something for his Ian withdrawal. 

“Ian?” Mickey called. 

Ian turned to face him again, his brows raised in question. 

“Did you want to come in for a bit?” Mickey asked. “I just, I’ve been having trouble with that psychology of evolution essay, so…”

God, he was smooth. 

“You need help with your essay?” Ian repeated. 

Mickey nodded, brain scrambling to continue his ruse. 

“Yeah. I just don’t understand the topic, to be honest,” Mickey shrugged. “And as my tutor, I think it would be pretty irresponsible for you to leave me to suffer through it alone.”

Ian snorted, his smile widening. 

“That so?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well I guess I have no choice then, huh?” Ian said, walking toward Mickey and sliding past him to get through the door. 

Mickey smiled and followed him in, just in time to catch Ben and Aria flying back into their seats at the table, making it very obvious that they had been spying. 

“Ian!” Aria said, happily. “What a lovely surprise! Mickey didn’t tell us you were coming!”

“I just came to drop off coffee,” Ian said, looking at Mickey who was in the process of shooting daggers at Aria. 

“Where’s ours?” Ben asked, causing Mickey to switch his glare over to him. 

Ian let out a small laugh. 

“Sorry, man. Didn’t think you guys would be home,” he said. “I’ll text next time.”

Next time. 

Mickey stifled his smile and bit down on his lip, a move that didn’t make it past Ben or Aria, who gave him knowing looks. 

“We’re going to do homework,” Mickey told them suddenly, grabbing Ian by the arm and pulling him towards his room. 

“Homework?” Aria asked. 

“So early?” Ben added. 

“Always good to get a head start, Benjamin,” Mickey replied in a warning tone as he pushed Ian into the room. 

“You still talking about homework there, Mick?” he heard Ben say as he slammed the door behind them. 

Mickey groaned internally and looked over to see Ian smirking at him. 

“Sorry about them,” Mickey muttered to him. “Think Ben’s still a little fucked after last night.”

“Don’t have to apologize,” Ian said, shrugging off his backpack and placing it on the floor next to Mickey’s bed. “I’m literally friends with Aria and Ben’s great.” 

Mickey nodded. 

“So. What did you need help with?” Ian asked, sitting down on the bed and pulling his laptop out of his bag. 

“Uh,” Mickey started. 

In all honesty, he had already finished his paper, so he had no real excuse to ask Ian for help other than he hadn’t wanted him to leave so quickly. 

“The conclusion,” Mickey said, turning his back to Ian, hiding his cringing face, and retrieving his laptop from his own bag. 

When he turned back, Ian was looking at him, an amused smirk playing on his lips. 

“Thought it was the topic you didn’t understand,” Ian said. 

Fuck. 

“I meant the topic of the conclusion,” Mickey said quickly. “I’ve probably never written one properly before, so…”

Good save.

Ian stared at him for a moment before he snorted and shuffled back on the bed so his back was against the wall. 

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Ian replied, nodding Mickey over to sit next to him. 

Mickey smiled and shuffled to the right of him, leaving some space between them. 

Ian began to explain what the point of a conclusion was -– how he needed to summarize his main points again and make his stance on the issue clear. 

Mickey knew all this, having heard it a hundred times in his tutorials and lectures, but nodded along as if he was receiving this information for the first time. 

After about 5 minutes, Ian looked over at him.

“Does that make sense?” he asked, searching Mickey’s face. 

“Yeah. Thanks,” Mickey nodded. 

“Do you wanna show me your essay? I can help you work on the conclusion?” Ian asked, making grabby hands towards Mickey’s laptop.

Mickey’s eyes widened as he shut his laptop quickly and, for some reason, threw it off his bed and onto the fucking ground where it crash-landed with a loud thud.

“What the fuck, Mickey!?” Ian said, looking concernedly down at the floor.

Shit. Mickey really hoped it wasn’t broken, because he couldn’t afford a new laptop right now.

“It’s fine! I’m always throwing it around. It’s got one of those life proof cases on it. It could survive an earthquake,” Mickey said hurriedly.

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ian said, knocking Mickey’s knee with his own.

Mickey snickered, before letting the moment settle, his heart in his throat, as he chanced a glance up at a very amused Ian.

“What?” Mickey said, screwing up his face.

“You’ve finished your essay, haven’t you?” he said.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, Gallagher.”

“Y’know I’m starting to think you lured me to your room under false pretenses,” Ian said, playfully.

“Oh is that so?”

“Yeah.” A beat. A smile. “That is so.”

In lieu of answering him, Mickey licked his lips as he got a hand on Ian’s thigh, Ian’s mouth stuttering open as twin smirks slowly formed.

Even though they had left things on good terms last night, Mickey still felt an inexorable compulsion to show Ian that he was here and that he was good. That he could be good. 

“Pants off,” he whispered as he slunk sideways off the bed to land on his knees, his torso resting against the edge of the bed, facing Ian.

Ian was paralysed, unflinching, so Mickey raised his brows at him which seemed to have the desired effect.

Ian hurriedly yanked his shoes and pants off, muttering, “can’t believe I was promised studying and all I’m getting is sex.”

Mickey rolled his eyes.  

“Shut the fuck up and get over here,” –- and Ian did just that.

Ian scooted to the edge of the bed, legs falling open either side of Mickey’s body, as his feet landed on the floor and he rested back on his hands.

Ian breathed hard out of his mouth as Mickey reached his hand underneath Ian’s shirt to trace patterns on his abs, finding and flicking at his nipples and watching as his mouth dropped open even more.

Mickey wanted to tease, to torture Ian like he usually tortured him, but his patience was non-existent whereas Ian’s was superhuman.

Instead, he immediately and hungrily took Ian’s still half-soft cock in his mouth, using his hand to help bring him to full hardness.

Ian practically yelped from above him, and Mickey moved his free hand to slap over his mouth, very conscious of the fact that his roommates were likely still just on the other side of the wall. 

Ian made breathy noises against his hand, and Mickey flicked his eyes up to see Ian’s blown-out eyes piercing his skin.

The sight of those intoxicating eyes made Mickey feel so fucking desperate; desperate to make Ian feel good, desperate to make promises - promises to do better, promises to be enough for him. Mickey pleaded with his eyes, trying to make Ian understand just how much he meant to him.

Ian was fully hard now, and he placed his hands on the sides of Mickey’s head, his thumbs moving back and forth over the flesh of his cheeks as his fingers played in the long bits of hair behind his ears.

Mickey worked Ian in deeper, flattening his tongue along the underside of his dick, his hand twisting and pressing as he picked up his pace.

And then Ian’s hips bucked, causing Mickey to audibly gag, and pull off to gasp for air.

“Fuck, sorry,” Ian said, breathless and apologetic, his hand now fisted in the back of Mickey’s hair.

What?

Mickey had no idea why he was apologising. That was hot as fuck.

Mickey moved his hands to rest on the sides of Ian’s ass, pushing there to encourage him to thrust again.

“Shit,” Ian moaned, thrusting slowly this time and Mickey, relaxing his throat, was better able to handle it.

Ian began slowly fucking Mickey’s face, albeit a bit awkwardly from his seated position, and even though Mickey’s eyes started watering and he found it hard to breath, he could do nothing but hum and lick around Ian’s dick, unbearably turned on by the feeling of Ian everywhere.

Mickey reached down to get a hand on himself as he worked, and sucked, and licked at Ian, giving every ounce of himself over to him.

He looked up again to see dilated pupils and flushed cheeks, and the face of a man who looked like he was in complete awe.

They had gotten to know each other’s sexual tells so well, and Mickey saw in Ian’s trembling eyes and stuttering breath that he was close, so he quickened the pace of the hand on his own cock, as they both chased their release.

Ian’s thrusts picked up pace, and the last three before he came down Mickey’s throat produced sounds that felt like something straight out of a dirty movie. 

Mickey loved sucking dick. The sounds and the sensations, the wetness and the heat – it was all so intoxicating and borderline empowering. Here, he was always in control. He called the shots. 

It took him years to get over the shame of it, but making Ian fall apart with only his mouth as he whispered, “Oh, Mickey,” and pulled at his hair was just about the best way to start a day in his opinion. 

________________________________

After they had both come and cleaned up, Mickey refused to allow Ian’s clearly post-sex hair and face to leave the room until he had heard Aria and Ben leave.

Mickey did a quick diagnostic of his laptop to see it was indeed still working while Ian checked his phone. 

“Oh, shit,” Ian said, grabbing his bag off the floor. “Tutoring someone in 20, so I gotta go.” 

Mickey nodded and watched as Ian shrugged on his jacket. 

“Hopefully it won’t be as successful as this session was,” Mickey said, winking at him.

Ian snorted and shook his head. 

“Yeah, don’t think you need to worry about that,” Ian replied softly, looking Mickey directly in the eye.

Mickey’s insides warmed as he looked down at the ground shyly. 

They walked out of the bedroom and silently made their way to the door. 

“See you soon?” Ian asked, as he put on his shoes. 

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, a little more eagerly than he’d intended. “Yeah, whenever you want.”

Ian straightened, giving Mickey a small smile. 

“Cool.”

They gazed at each other, Ian making no attempt to leave. 

Mickey had no idea how long they stood like that, but when Ian finally did move, it wasn’t toward the door. Instead, he took two steps toward Mickey so that they were inches apart, close enough that he was inhaling a familiar musky-vanilla scent. 

Mickey raised his brow at him in question, doing everything he could to try and keep his cool, even though his heart was threatening to beat clean out of his chest. 

“Could I maybe kiss you?” Ian asked quietly, his eyes flickering down to Mickey’s lips and then back up to meet his eyes. 

Mickey’s breath caught in his throat and fire spread through his insides as he took in the tentative question. Ian looked nervous, as if the answer would be anything other than “God. Yes. Please. Kiss me every day.”

Christ. He liked him so much. 

“Yeah,” Mickey said, trying to hide his nerves and not burst with exhilaration. “You could maybe do that.”

Ian smiled down at him before taking the extra half step, grabbing the back of Mickey’s head and pulling him in. 

The kiss was soft. Sweet. Not as desperate as it normally was, but slow and unique and somehow so different from the one they shared the previous night. 

It was domestic. It felt romantic. It felt like…something else.

Mickey placed his hand on Ian’s neck, his fingertips dimpling the skin as their lips continued to dance together. 

Ian pulled away, pressing their foreheads together for a moment before completely backing away, his megawatts smile spreading quickly in real time. 

Mickey’s head was spinning. He probably looked insane but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He let out a soft breathy noise and took his lips into his mouth instinctively -– a nervous tick. He looked up at Ian whose eyes were swimming, as he stared back with a look that Mickey could only describe as affectionate. 

“See ya,” Ian said through his warm smile, as he opened the door and left. 

Mickey scratched the back of his head as he stood there in his empty apartment. A bizarre grunt-laugh hybrid noise made itself known by exploding out of Mickey. No word in the English language could describe whatever was wrestling around in his stomach right now. He was overwhelmed with it.

Ian had said he needed time to be okay again, but then what the fuck was that? Mickey fought the urge to do a cartwheel as he made his way back to his bedroom, wondering if this meant things were going back to how they were.

Maybe Ben and Aria had a point, though.  

Because, honest to God, Mickey wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend that he only wanted friends with benefits with Ian. 

________________________________

Mickey’s mind was still racing as he approached the entrance to the rink a half an hour later. He was in desperate need of a distraction from the “he likes me, he likes me not” ping pong match going on in his head. 

He made his way down the steps, knowing that it would be empty at this time of day. Practice wasn’t for another two hours and he was set on getting some extra drills in beforehand. 

As he approached the locker room he heard what sounded like two people arguing in hushed tones. 

“Look, this needs to stop. I can’t do this shit anymore,” he heard Jenkins’ voice say. 

The tone of his voice made Mickey stop dead in his tracks just outside the door. He had never heard Jenkins talk to anyone that way. He was always so polite and friendly, and had beef with no one.

“Can’t we just talk about this?” And was that… Nelson? It was. He sounded truly distraught. “I mean come the fuck on, I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t think you felt it too.”

“Well I don’t,” Jenkins snapped back. “I don’t fucking feel anything, so this needs to stop. We can’t fuck around anymore.”

Mickey was baffled. Had he just heard that right? Did that mean…

“You’re scared,” Nelson stated.

“Not fucking scared of anything,” Jenkins said. “Just don’t fucking feel that way about you. Never should have started shit anyway. Especially when I’m not-–”

He surely wasn’t insinuating what Mickey thought he was insinuating.

“The fact that my dick has been in your mouth tells me otherwise,” Nelson interrupted him. 

Jesus Christ. 

Mickey’s eyebrows flew up, his mouth falling open. 

Nelson and Jenkins? 

What the fuck? 

Mickey mentally kicked himself for stopping at the door rather than just continuing in so he had plausible deniability.

“Fuck you, man,” Jenkins said, loudly. His voice seemed to be getting closer to where Mickey was standing. “Knew this was a fucking mistake.”

Fuck. 

Mickey began to back away from the door slowly, hoping he could make it far enough away to run back up the stairs undetected. Instead, Jenkins came barrelling out not 3 seconds later, bumping into Mickey at full force. 

Jenkins' eyes flew wide when they made eye contact, Mickey apparently wearing the shock of what he’d heard all over his face. 

Mickey opened his mouth to say something, but he felt so awkward that literally nothing came out. 

Jenkins had a look of complete and utter horror on his face, and Mickey immediately took pity on him. 

He had no idea what was going on between him and Nelson, but he recognized the fear in Jenkins’ eyes. He had felt that fear before, and Mickey felt like it was his responsibility to put his teammate’s mind at ease. 

“Sorry, man,” Mickey finally said, all calm and casual, offering Jenkins a reassuring smile. “Didn’t see you there.”

Jenkins stared at him like a deer in headlights. 

“S’my fault,” he murmured, with a shaky breath, giving Mickey a curt nod before brushing past him. 

Mickey didn’t know whether he’d managed to convince Jenkins that he hadn’t heard anything, but he prayed that Nelson hadn’t heard their interaction so he didn’t have to pretend twice. 

Mickey reluctantly continued his way into the locker room, trying to look as innocent as possible.

He spotted Nelson immediately, hunched over near his cubby with his face in his hands. 

Mickey truly had no idea how to play this. Did he play it off like he hadn’t heard anything? Did he console what was clearly an upset Nelson? 

Before he had a chance to finalize his decision, Nelson looked up at him standing like a dumbass statue at the entrance. His eyes were glistening and Mickey’s heart dropped for him. 

“Hey, man! Didn’t know you’d be here!” Mickey said, cheerfully.

“Know you heard that, Mick. Written all over your face,” Nelson said, shaking his head. 

Mickey sighed and made his way over to where Nelson sat. He had no idea when he’d become such a softy. 

Yes he did. 

“You okay?” Mickey asked, sitting down next to him. 

“Nah,” Nelson laughed humourlessly. “I really fucked that up.” 

Mickey nodded in understanding. He knew the feeling and it was shit. 

“What, uh…what happened? You know with…” he trailed off, not really knowing whether Nelson was even comfortable sharing. 

He was silent for a moment. 

“Told him I had feelings for him,” Nelson sighed. “He, uh… obviously doesn’t feel that way though…and I really fucking thought…”

Nelson’s words felt all too familiar to Mickey, so much so that it made him want to throw up. 

“That why you asked me for advice yesterday?” Mickey asked, his head still reeling from the fact that someone else on his team liked guys. That notion was unfathomable to him not ten minutes ago. Nelson was like him. Jenkins was like him. He wasn't alone.

“I’m an idiot,” Nelson said, standing up. “Shouldn’t have said anything to him. Things were good and I shouldn’t have fucking risked it.”

Mickey’s ears warmed as he watched Nelson start to get into his gear for practice. 

“Sorry you had to hear that,” Nelson said, his face reddening in embarrassment. “S’probably really uncomfortable for you. And like, weird and shit.”

“Don’t fucking apologize to me, man,” Mickey said immediately, his eyes meeting Nelson’s so that he could see how serious Mickey was. “ I’m sorry. That seemed rough.”

Nelson gave him a grateful smile and nodded. 

Mickey got up and gave him a shoulder pat. 

“Wanna go 1v1? Maybe losing to me will make you feel better.”

Nelson laughed. 

“In your dreams, Milkovich.” 

They got ready and made their way out onto the ice. After a couple of laps, they met in the middle so they could decide the rules of their scrimmage. 

“I’m bi, by the way,” Nelson said suddenly, his eyes fixating on his stick on the ice in front of him. “It’s not really a secret to anyone who knows me, just here, I guess.” He nodded toward the bench and Mickey understood. “Maybe just, keep that and what happened today between us? If not for me then for Jamal at least.”

He kept his eyes down, seemingly afraid of what Mickey would say, which was ridiculous in Mickey’s mind. 

“I, uh. I appreciate you telling me,” Mickey told him. “I mean, you weren’t really given much of a choice I guess, but…I think you’re brave. For that and for putting yourself out there like that.” 

Maybe I'll be brave enough one day.

Nelson nodded, and when he looked up, Mickey swore he could see tears forming in his eyes. 

It was all getting a bit too mushy for Mickey. He was gay, but he wasn’t that gay.

“Ready to lose, Nelson?” Mickey said, cross checking him in the shoulder with his stick, causing the other man to laugh. 

“You wish, Milkobitch.”

________________________________

Their other teammates trickled in as practice got closer and they slowly gained enough players to play 11 on 11 with both goalies. 

Mickey’s team won, because of course they did, and soon Murphy was skating out with some of the other coaching staff to start practice. 

Petrovich had been nowhere to be seen at practices all week — either locked up in his office or “taking meetings” elsewhere. 

Mickey really didn’t mind. He hadn’t spoken to Petrovich since their pre-weekend from hell meeting in the hotel lobby in Pennsylvania. He assumed that his coach was just busy looking at applicants for next year, or that he was waiting for Mickey to go see him. He wasn’t too worried about Petrovich being actually angry with him about how he played, considering he’d bluffed the last time he was supposedly mad.

An hour and a half later, they all stumbled off the ice in high spirits after a relatively chill and productive last practice before the holiday break. 

Mickey was getting ready to leave the arena with Ben, who had miraculously made it to practice despite his wicked hangover. 

“Milkovich!” someone called from behind him. 

Petrovich was standing at the door of his office, arms crossed, a scowl on his face. 

“A word,” he said as he retreated into his office hastily.

It wasn’t a question.

“You gonna be okay?” Ben asked, staring at Petrovich’s menacing, open door. 

Mickey snorted. 

“I’ll be fine. Meet you back at the apartment.” 

When Mickey entered the office, Petrovich was standing on the other side of his desk. His eyes were laser-focused, and intense, and he did not look pleased. 

Mickey’s heart began to race. 

“Take a seat,” his coach said, sternly. 

He glared down at Mickey as he took his seat, apparently determined on making the experience as uncomfortable as possible. 

“Got a call from a friend down in Nashville. Said they were interested in you,” Petrovich said, the good news undercut by his harsh voice. 

“Oh,” Mickey said, nodding. “That’s good isn’t it?”

Petrovich laughed. 

“No, I said they were interested, Milkovich,” he said, coldly, his lips straightening as if he was holding back his anger. “Apparently, they made an impromptu visit down to Pennsylvania last weekend. Watched both our games. Needless to say, they’re no longer interested in pursuing you.”

Mickey’s chest immediately tightened, the blood draining from his face. 

Nashville was there last weekend. They saw him play like shit. 

Mickey opened his mouth to say something but Petrovich held his hand up to silence him. 

“You know, I would’ve thought someone in your position would be a little more careful, Mickey. I mean, considering where you come from and whatnot.” 

Mickey raised a brow at him, because what the fuck was that supposed to mean? 

“What does coming from Chicago have to do with anything?” Mickey asked, feeling brave. 

“Well, I just assumed you would know exactly the kind of life you would have to go back to if you fucked up this opportunity for yourself,” Petrovich leered. “Didn’t think you were dumb enough to start slacking off in the middle of the most important season of your life. But there you go, proving me wrong yet again, after everything I’ve fucking done for you.” 

Mickey was stunned into silence, his skin sizzling with anxious prickles. Petrovich kept going. 

“You’ve already lost Nashville. New York is probably fucking next. S’just funny to me that you’d embarrass me like this after I’ve gone to bat for you time and time again. Whether it was to teams, or to your own father because God knows he saw nothing good in you.” 

Petrovich spoke so casually. Executed these hits to Mickey’s psyche like it was just another day. Mickey felt his breath quickening, shallowing, his ears starting to ring. 

“Said you were a lazy piece of trash and that you’d find a way to fuck up hockey for yourself somehow,” Petrovich continued. He put both of his fists on his desk and leaned closer. “But I fucking vouched for you. Paid for all of your equipment. Your fees. Hell, I even got you into this school on a full ride and you didn’t even have to lift a finger.” 

Mickey could feel his pulse reverberating in his temples. He tried desperately to open his mouth, to tell Petrovich he was wrong and that Mickey had done it all himself. 

But he couldn’t. Because everything Petrovich was saying was true.

“But I saw something in you, Mikhailo. I fucking knew what you could be one day,” he shook his head. “But for you to go and disrespect me like this, to embarrass me and your team the way you did in those games? To play so horribly that a team had to call me and tell me that they’re no longer interested? It’s fucking disgraceful. And humiliating.” 

His voice was leveled, and Mickey almost wished he’d scream instead. The calmness in his voice was unsettling like he had expected this to happen one day. Like Petrovich never actually believed in him and was just waiting for Mickey to fuck up. 

Petrovich made his way around the desk, leaning on it in front of where Mickey sat. Mickey did everything in his power not to flinch as he did. 

“In case you haven’t realized it yet, you’d be nothing without me, Mickey. You’d be nowhere if I hadn’t saved your ass from the Southside. If you fuck this up, that’s exactly where you’re going to end up, because you’re fucking nothing without hockey and you’re nothing without me. You’re a fucking failure in school and can’t even keep up with basic introductory courses,” he let out a loud bark of a laugh, and his voice darkened. “You’re useless. You don’t have a chance in hell of being successful in anything else unless it's a drug dealer who does his business on the side of the road. So fucking smarten up, or I swear to God that’s exactly where you’re going to end up.”

Mickey’s eyes glazed over as he focused on a spot on the wall above Petrovich’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything -– what could he say? 

He nodded, trying not to show how unhinged he felt. 

“M’sorry, coach,” he mumbled. “It was a mistake. I’ll be better.”

“Bit too little, too late for that, isn’t it Milkovich?” Petrovich snapped back. “You lost an opportunity with a team that probably would have had you in a heartbeat. You should be ashamed.” 

Mickey nodded. He felt like throwing up. 

“Get the fuck out of here. I can’t even look at you,” Petrovich said, shaking his head and turning his back to Mickey. 

Mickey didn’t have to be told twice. He got up and left the office without another word. 

He spotted Murphy on the way out, and it almost looked like he was going to stop Mickey. Mickey didn’t make eye contact though, beelining it for the stairs instead, and he didn’t stop until he was out of the building. 

Mickey took a sharp breath, taking the cold air deep through his nose and trying to let it out steadily to calm himself.

He closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe that he’d fucked up so badly that fucking Nashville didn’t want him anymore. Just like that. After everything that he’d done this season. And his past two. It all seemed like a waste. 

Mickey was spiraling out of control, waves crashing over him that were just getting louder, stronger and more dangerously violent.

He needed a shitload of alcohol and he needed it now. He needed to drink until he forgot. 

He wandered quickly down five, then six blocks, moving as far away from campus as he could before the craving to forget became impossible to ignore. He faced a dingy bar called ‘The Blind Pig’, and the facade looked as shit as he felt. Perfect.

He burst into the bar, making his way over to a terrifying biker moonlighting as a disgruntled bartender, and immediately ordered a rum and coke. 

He tapped at the bar impatiently, earning a stink-eye from his server, before the drink was placed in front of him. The rum burnt a path down his throat as he skulled it, opening the avenue for the many to come.

He followed it immediately with two shots of whiskey.

The bar was dark and busy, but not obscenely so, and Mickey’s shoes stuck to the floor as he made his way to an unoccupied booth in the corner, another rum and coke in hand.

He slunk down into the seat, the air hot and stuffy, and his stomach in impenetrable knots.

He waited. He waited, and waited for the alcohol to kick in – for the lines to blur and the edges to get fuzzy. He was patient, but not a saint, so he ordered another shot of whiskey to his table.

Purgatory was worse than hell.

He just wanted to get there.

You’re fucking nothing without hockey and you’re nothing without me. 

You’re useless. 

Mickey hated himself. So fucking much.

His phone buzzed on the table in front of him, a welcome distraction for the second it took him to read the message.

Ben (2:49pm): yo how’d it go with coach?

Mickey let the screen go black.

The alcohol finally started making itself known, creeping in the sides and drowning out the past half hour. He was thankful the rumblings in his head started quieting down, and whenever their volume picked up again, it was another shot of whiskey down the hatch.

He lost track of how many he had. He lost track of the time he spent hunched over the dirty bar booth table.

He lost track of the amount of times Petrovich’s poison hit him out of nowhere, forcing another drink down his throat.

He was gulping his rum when his phone buzzed again, scaring him and causing the drink to slosh out the side of his glass. He focused his eyes to see “Gallagher” on the screen.

Shit. Ian was calling him. 

He wanted to ignore it -- should probably ignore it -- because bluffing his way through a conversation with Ian sounded harder than biochemistry, as he was feeling drunker and drunker by the second.

But he also didn’t want Ian to think that he was avoiding him. One more misstep with Ian, and he could lose him for good. And if he lost Ian now, on top of everything, he wasn’t sure he could cope.

He took a centring breath, cleared his throat, and clicked the green button.

He forgot to say hello.

Thankfully, only one of them was brain dead.

“Hello?” Ian said.

“Hey,” Mickey said, voice as leveled as possible. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Was just thinking about you.”

Mickey’s heart skipped a beat. Ian had his flirty voice on, and the sound of him being carefree jolted him. It felt so unnatural at this moment; Mickey bent over in a disgusting dive on the corner of town. To have someone flirt with him. To have someone want to do that with him. 

He had never felt more unappealing in his life.

He tried to not fuck everything up again, whilst not alerting Ian to something being wrong. He obviously took too long to respond, because Ian carried on.

“Was just calling to check on your laptop. It took quite a tumble this morning.”

“Haha. Yeah, it’s fine,” he slurred.

“Hey where are you? Sounds loud.”

“Nowhere. Just at a bar.”

“Oh,” Ian said, his voice dropping. “Is Ben there?”

“Naaaaah. Here by myself.” 

He really should hang up, because there was no way he was covering this well.

“You okay? You never drink on weekdays.”

“Who said I was drinkin’?” Mickey returned. Touche. 

Ian laughed. “You sound fucked.”

Mickey chuckled and let out a loud breath into the phone, hearing the staticky crackle resound in his ear. He was so drunk, that his head came to rest on the table in front of him.

Eventually, Ian broke the silence.

“Are you okay?” Ian asked, concerned.

No.

“I’m okay,” he lied, doing a terrible job because his voice was thick and wet from where the emotion had started bubbling at the bottom of his throat.

“What bar are you at?” Ian asked.

“Think it’s called Blind Pig or something,” Mickey mumbled.

“Do you want some company?”

Yes. I think you might be the only person that could make me feel okay right now.

A distraction in the form of a tall, lanky redhead with deep emerald eyes and the ability to make everything brighter was the only thing he needed.

But.

But Mickey had felt like a burden his whole fucking life. A burden to Terry, for being a shit son. A burden to Mandy, for not protecting her enough. A burden to Ben, for him having to deal with all his bullshit. A burden to Petrovich, who dedicated his life to him to just keep fucking it up when it mattered.

He was sick of feeling like a burden. He wasn’t dragging Ian into that too.

“Nah. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow?” he slurred again.

Ian was quiet for a few beats and Mickey prayed he would end the conversation before Mickey fell apart and had to move to Australia.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. See you tomorrow. I–” 

Ian was saying something when Mickey hung up, but he realized too late. His eyes widened in panic, hoping to God he hadn’t upset Ian again. He had barely survived it the first time.

He decided against calling him back, and ordered another drink, even though he had officially started losing feeling in his fingers. The bartender eyed him, but accepted the cash and generous tip gratefully, leaving the whiskey on a UMich coaster. Of course.

He was already blasted out of his mind, but his head was still loud, which meant he wasn’t nearly drunk enough.

He nursed his whiskey, his mind ping ponging around from Petrovich, to Terry, to Ben, to Ian.

No, no, no, no. The point of this was so his mind wouldn’t wander. He downed his drink in the hopes the rumblings would stop.

To no avail.

It was hopeless.

He couldn’t shake those infecting thoughts.

If he failed again, if he faltered when it mattered again, it would be back to the South Side to clean toilets and run drugs, his life amounting to nothing.

It was all too much. There was too much fucking pressure; to be great, to do great. To be better than Terry, to make something of himself. To score, and to succeed. To repay Petrovich for all his hard work and financial investment. To make him proud.

To make it in hockey because that was all he was good for — because that was all anyone wanted him for. And if he couldn’t even make that stick…

He had felt for a while that he was constantly chasing something -- some goal, some net worth, some marker of success. Some feeling that once he arrived at, it would feel like coming home. Ah. Oh yes. This is what I’ve been searching for. Now my life can begin.

But he didn’t even know what the fuck he was chasing. Nothing felt right anymore. 

He was pretty sure, when it all came down to it, it was pretty simple. He just wanted to be happy. All the rest was white noise. He was tired of feeling like shit all the time. He just wanted to be happy.

But that was easier said than done.

How could he be happy when he kept making the people in his life so unhappy?

How could he be happy when he kept fucking up?

He was mid-sip when someone sunk into the booth across from him, and his eyes took a few seconds too long to focus on the figure.

Shit. It was Ian.

He was wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie, looking casual but concerned. He placed two glasses of water onto the table and said, “hi.”

Mickey tried to keep his emotions in check as he comprehended the turn of events.

“I know you said you didn’t want any company, but something didn’t sound right on the phone. Just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Ian said gently.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He was too drunk for this. 

“If you want to be alone, I can leave. As long as you knock back some water before I go,” Ian said, voice light.

Mickey’s heart swelled as he was rendered utterly speechless.

How, after everything, was Ian still here? How was he this kind, this considerate, this selfless? After all, Mickey had said and done to him, he still did this? Tracked him down at this dingy bar off campus just to make sure he was okay? Solely based on the tone of his voice?

Mickey found it difficult to look Ian straight in the eye, let alone speak, so he focused his attention on the glass of water in front of him.

He didn’t tell Ian to stay, but he also didn’t tell him to leave, and so Ian ordered a coke and sat with Mickey. The hustle-bustle of the bar surrounded their silence.

By this point, the whiskey and rum were dancing in Mickey’s belly; his mood swinging on a pendulum. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to spill some horrendously embarrassing shit he could never take back.

They sat across from each other, Ian seemingly perfectly happy to simply drink his coke as he watched a basketball game on the bar TV.

“Do you know anything about basketball?” he said, pulling Mickey from his daze. “This sport looks even more stupid than hockey.”

The tension in Mickey’s body instantly released, as a lightness bubbled in his chest. Ian always knew what to say.

“Nah. Basketball’s for pussies,” he said.

He threw his eyes up to see Ian smiling at him. Casual and chill. Like it was totally normal for Mickey to be plastered and for Ian to be consensually watching sports on a Thursday afternoon in a dirty, dive bar.

Shit. Thursday afternoon. Mickey was supposed to be wrapping up his Biopsychology of Sports tutorial right about now, and instead, his tutor was currently sitting across from him watching as he tried to stay vertical, sloshing back his millionth drink.

“Sorry I skipped class,” he slurred. “Probably makes your job so much harder. Teachin’ a dumbass who doesn’t even go to class.”

“Hey,” Ian said, reaching his hand out to rest on Mickey’s sweat-damp forearm. “You’re not a dumbass. And don’t worry about it, we’ll make it up.”

We.

Mickey took a deep, shaky breath before raising his head and nodding.

Their eyes caught each other. God, Ian was so pretty. And something about the lighting was making Ian’s freckles dance as his cheeks twitched. They dotted his face like a painting and Mickey was totally mesmerized – his drunk brain trying to connect them.

“You have stupid freckles,” he mumbled. It was out before he could stop himself.

Ian’s eyebrows raised an inch on his forehead.

“I have stupid freckles huh?” he asked, jokingly.

“There’s so many of them. Bet you burn like a motherfucker,” Mickey said.

“I wear sunscreen every day, so I rarely burn.”

“Nerd.”

“Yeah,” said Ian. “You love it though.”

Ian was wearing that playful smirk that made Mickey dizzy, and it honestly had nothing to do with his inebriation and all to do with Ian.

By making him feel better, Ian was also making him feel worse. When they spoke and joked, Mickey felt so fucking light he feared he may float away. But when they stopped, and his mind went quiet, he moved inward; reflective and self-destructive.

For every joke Ian made, Mickey couldn’t help but feel he didn’t deserve to laugh.

For every sly comment he made, Mickey couldn’t help but feel he didn’t deserve to be desired.

For everything he said, Mickey couldn’t help but feel he didn’t deserve Ian.

Ian seemed to notice that Mickey’s mind was wandering somewhere dangerous, and he tried to make small talk, but Mickey was hopeless at keeping up -- the connection between his brain and his tongue weathered down by the whiskey.

The thoughts and voices in his head were getting louder, as his breathing became labored and heavy. He clenched his eyes shut and willed the pressure in his chest away, trying to quiet the voice of Terry, and Petrovich until he could think straight.

His eyes were starting to sting, and just as he felt himself hurtling dangerously close to the cliff, he felt a warm hand on his knee under the table, bringing him back to solid land.

“Hey,” Ian lulled. “What’s wrong?”

Ian soothed and squeezed, but every bad feeling Mickey had ever had about himself crashed over him in an instant, like a fucking tsunami.

He’d never get used to this. People as wonderful as Ian being with him with no agenda. People wanting to know him, or spend time with him or like him. 

Every time he looked at Ian he wanted to cry. 

He rested his elbows on the table and hung his head in his hands, so he didn't have to see the face of pure sunshine.

Didn’t think you were dumb enough to start slacking off…But there you go, proving me wrong yet again, after everything I’ve fucking done for you.

“I’m just so fucking dumb,” Mickey mumbled into his hands.

“No you’re not,” Ian said immediately, like a shot – not an ounce of hesitation. 

He didn’t get it. He only thought he knew Mickey.

“Yeaaaah, I am. Y’know, without hockey I’m fucked,” Mickey said. “Fucked for life.”

“That’s not true.”

Mickey let out a humorless chuckle and raised his head to meet Ian’s eyes dead on.

“That’s what my coach said. That’s what you fuckin’ said too, ‘member? Turns out you were right.”

Mickey cheersed to himself and a solemn Ian, before downing the remaining lick of his whiskey. Ian went quiet, his eyes darting around as if trying to remember.

“...if this whole hockey thing doesn’t work out, then what are you gonna do? It’s not like you have any other skills… So what exactly do you expect to do if you can’t play hockey anymore? Ever think about that?”

“That was before I knew you,” Ian said adamantly. 

“I’m the same guy, Gallagher. Fuckin’ deadbeat,” Mickey admitted, resignation flooding his system. A deadbeat. Whatever. It was what it was.

Mickey looked up and Ian’s face was tense and concerned, his mouth trembling slightly as he took in small breaths.

He’d shaved since he got back from Chicago, but the stubble was still there, and God he was so beautiful in this shitty, dim lighting. He would be beautiful in every lighting – even overhead fluorescents.

His drunken brain latched onto the stubble, his perfect jawline, and his pinched, rosy cheeks. Mickey was unsettled and uncomfortable, and Ian was here, so he angled for the conversation to be steered somewhere lighter.

“Have I ever told you your stubble’s hot?” Mickey slurred.

“You’re not a deadbeat,” Ian said seriously.

Mickey’s breath hitched as he marched headfirst into his avoidance tactic.

“Nah, seriously. You should rub it all over me later.”

Ian smiled and rolled his eyes, catching on to how Mickey’s face had relaxed.

“Alright, stud,” Ian said, cheeks bulging with a gulp of coke. Calm down, his eyes said, teasingly.

“You look like a movie star,” Mickey blurted.

Ian laughed, and his brows bunched up, but Mickey was too drunk to stop, so he kept going.

“You’re beautiful.”

Ian’s face kind of fell after that, his eyes turning serious, even though Mickey had meant it as a compliment.

Ian’s tentative face was enough to make Mickey’s stomach hurt, so he closed his eyes and laid his forehead on the sticky table in front of him. Everything he said was wrong.

“You’re a really good person,” Mickey muttered against the wood.

There was a beat of silence, and then another. Mickey came to terms with the fact that Ian had left, found a boyfriend and was running off to elope in Hawaii, but then Ian spoke.

“How about we get you home?”

“I don’t know where the outside is,” Mickey muttered against the sticky wood.

“I can get you there, drunky.”

Mickey raised his head, wanting instantly to cover his red face, before nodding at Ian.

Ian ordered them an uber, and made Mickey down two glasses of water while they waited.

Mickey couldn’t stop looking at Ian, albeit a blurry, swaying version of him, and thank God he wasn’t drunk enough to accidentally spill that he liked him so much that sometimes he could hardly stand it.

They were quiet in the uber, Mickey rolling the window down even though it was bordering on freezing, relishing in the cold sting of the air. The driver grumbled and Ian apologized but made no move to roll it back up. Ian just sat quietly and watched Mickey.

They got dropped off right out the front of Mickey’s building, and Ian dragged him up the stairs and through the front door.

He was very drunk, but not unbearably so, so he could see Ben and Aria’s faces from the couch whip around to face him.

“Mick? Jesus where the fuck have you been?” Ben said, standing up and taking in the scene in front of him.

“I’m just gonna get him to bed,” Ian said, leading Mickey towards his room.

“Ben! Have you ever thought of  quitting hockey and becoming a model? Think there’s potential there.”

Once safe in his room, Mickey flopped face first onto the bed and groaned into the duvet.

Ian helped him roll over and began taking his shoes off, as Mickey kept his eyes closed to combat the spinning room. He rambled incoherent nonsense.

“I’m pissed out of my mind and all I can think about is your stubble. The fuck have you done to me, man?” Mickey said as he pulled his layers off.

“I was thinking of shaving it off tomorrow,” Ian said casually.

“I’ll kill you first.”

Ian let out a soft laugh. Mickey was just in his boxers as he scooted back to curl into bed. He snuggled under the covers, feeling instantly calmed by the pillowy softness surrounding him.

Ian left the room briefly, and Mickey heard a muffled conversation between the three most important people in his life beyond his bedroom door. He tried to make out what they were saying for one second, before giving up, the effort hurting his head.

After who knew how long, Ian reappeared with a glass of water and what appeared to be two Advil. He left them on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“You feeling okay?” Ian asked.

Mickey fluttered his eyes open, to see a shy Ian looking down at him with worry in his eyes. Mickey just nodded.

He should have been embarrassed, and part of him was because Ian had seen him in such a state and had taken care of him like an insubordinate child. But mostly he was just thankful.

He wanted to say thank you -- for being there, and for being there at all. He wanted to say so much, but now wasn’t the time.

“Alright,” Ian looked around awkwardly and slowly stood up. “I’ll let you sleep.”

And in the flash of a moment, Mickey’s chest tightened, and the thought of Ian not being there terrified him. That surely wasn’t healthy, but right now, he didn’t care, because Ian was his anchor, and he needed him. Ian’s presence was an antidote and a tonic. He was bottled magic. 

“Wait,” Mickey said, voice wavering.

If he wasn’t still drunk, he wouldn’t have said it. But he was drunk. His guards were down. And he was glad they were.

“Can you stay?”

He looked up through his lashes as Ian blinked down at him. His mouth fell open as he inhaled sharply.

“Are you gonna yell at me in the morning?” Ian asked, voice light, and he was half-joking, but Mickey could also tell he was half-not.

“No,” Mickey said with all the conviction in the world.

Ian remained quiet, searching Mickey’s glassy eyes.

And then, after a few moments of stillness, Ian took off his shoes, and crawled in next to Mickey.

They laid facing each other, on their sides, and Mickey’s eyes were drooping, but he was still so focused. 

He brought his hand up to rest on Ian’s cheek, scratching at his stubble, which caused them both to let out a chuckle.

Their laughs petered out as the moment quieted, Mickey’s hand still resting delicately on Ian’s cheek, feather soft.

“‘M sorry,” Mickey whispered.

And he was sorry. Sorry for hurting him. Sorry that he had to be there, taking care of him like a drunk baby. Sorry he wasn’t anything close to the man he deserved.

Sorry for everything.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Ian whispered back, and Mickey’s breath evaporated.

Even though Mickey knew he had one hell of a hangover waiting for him, he didn’t really care. He couldn’t help but be thankful for the liquid courage coursing through his veins. Because it was helping him be brave. It was helping him go after what he so desperately desired.

Without it, he might have ignored Ian’s phone call. Without it, he might have let Ian leave. Without it, he might not have let his hand linger on Ian’s face, his thumb tracing sweetly across his cheekbone.

Without it, he might have let that little voice that ruled and killed the good things in his life tell him that Ian didn’t want to be here and to push him away. That’s exactly what Mickey from a week ago would have done.

Without it, he might not have felt brave enough to chase that lightness and goodness that had become synonymous with Ian Gallagher.

And in that fuzzy, perfect moment, Mickey surrendered to the chase.

He scooted in closer, desperate for Ian’s warmth, more powerful than the sun’s.

Ian didn’t move, his eyes wide and lips trembling, as if he was terrified to move.

His drunken brain gave Mickey no time to second guess, so he simply shuffled in, and grabbed Ian’s arm to wrap around his waist. He snuggled in closer, his head nuzzling into Ian’s Dove soap-scented neck.

Mickey could feel Ian’s heart beating through his chest.

And then -–

Calm.

Their heartbeats slowed down over a few dreamy minutes. They gravitated even closer. They settled into each other.

And this.

This was the feeling he’d been chasing.

This.

Safety. Comfort. Acceptance. 

Unconditional, and absolute.

Mickey had fucked up a game, ruined his chances with a team, and been reamed by his coach, and yet Ian was still here.

Ian had no reason to be here, but here he was.

Shit.

The last thing Mickey felt before sleep whisked him away, was a press of lips to the top of his head -– right where his forehead met his hairline.

He was flooded with every good feeling he had ever known, and fell into a most blissful sleep, wrapped in the arms of a boy he hoped would never let go.