Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"ID?"

Ian Gallagher patted the front and back pockets of his jeans and supplied an apologetic smile to the man behind the counter. He assumed by the roll of the other man's eyes that this was a scenario he witnessed more frequently than Ian had hoped.

"No ID, no booze." The overweight man flicked his wrist towards the exit, fanning his fingers to shoo Ian out of his line of sight while dragging the bottle of Jack Daniel's from the counter with his other hand. He then promptly returned his gaze to the magazine in front of him as if Ian had never existed in the first place.

Ian's mouth opened to protest but it quickly closed, unable to muster the energy to form a credible argument. This was just the shit that he needed to pile on top of his already shitty day. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to saunter out of the building, the sound of the bell mocking him as he exited empty handed.

His fingers twitched at his sides as he began his journey back to the North Side. If he was being honest with himself, he had half-expected the outcome. After all, the only luck he seemed to be having was bad.

It was dark and humid during the nighttime in Chicago but the darkness of the South Side was much different than what Ian was accustomed to from the North Side. It was eerie. He found himself glancing over his shoulder more often than he’d like to admit. And though he should have found some comfort in being completely alone, it made his body tremble ever so slightly.

A hand on his shoulder paired with a sharp "aye!" was enough to pull him out of his head.

Startled, he turned around only to be greeted by a pair of tattooed knuckles shoving a bottle of Jack into his chest. His fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle hesitantly, loosening it from the grasp of the stranger. He peered at him curiously. "Th-thanks." He followed the inked letters which found a home just above battered knuckles, up to the face of his new acquaintance.

The other boy nudged the tip of his nose with the pad of his thumb. "Yeah." The brown -almost black- haired boy turned away, lighting a cigarette, and his feet began to take him further down the empty sidewalk, leaving a flabbergasted Ian in his wake.

Ian watched in awe as the mysterious figure shrank into the distance. He shook his head to gather himself then jogged after the stranger down the unfamiliar stretch of road. "Hey!" He called after him, the sudden courage in his voice sounded foreign to his own ears. When the brunette didn't turn around, he tried again, only louder. "Hey!" Ian's fingers latched onto the hem of his shirt, causing the other boy to swat him away.

"The fuck?" The soft face that had initially greeted him was now hardened, almost appearing disgusted. Pale blue eyes glaring into earthy green ones for only a second before the brunette huffed his annoyance and turned on his heels to swagger away again.

Ian's brows furrowed. Had he imagined the guy that purchased the bottle for him only moments before? The guy walking away from him didn't appear to give two shits about him now. He was tempted to simply leave with the bottle but being stubborn was an inherent part of his personality. His shoes started to carry him across the pavement before his brain fully processed what was happening. "Hey!" He tried a third time. "Would you just stop for a second?"

The shorter man curled the fingers of his free hand into a tight fist while lowering the cigarette from his lips with the other, attempting to steel himself. Ian swallowed the tightness in his throat at the apparent anger in the other boy but the fact that he stopped in his tracks made him feel a little lighter.

"You obviously ain't from around here, kid. So I'm gonna give you a chance to walk the fuck away before I take the bottle back out of your hand and smash it on that carrot top." The threat escaped his mouth with a plume of smoke. He didn't need to turn around to know that Ian looked terrified.

"I just..." why was he still talking? "I just wanted to say, y’know, thanks."

The brunette’s shoulders stiffened at the words and he raised the cigarette back to his lips to take another pull. "You fuckin' said that already."

Ian knew he should run away while the other boy's back was still facing him. He was already given more chances than he deserved. He took a brief moment to assess the situation; there was an obvious height advantage on his part but he knew it would take a lot more than a few inches to be able to win against the thug threatening him. Yet, his lips kept moving. "Yeah well I-" his eyes widened when the other boy shifted to bring his body closer to Ian so he could grab the collar of his shirt and press his weight against the brick wall of the abandoned building beside them, dropping his cigarette to the ground in the process.

"Are you fuckin' deaf?" He was nearly cross-eyed peering up at Ian in such close proximity but the confidence and power emanating off of him made up for what he lacked in height.

Ian shook his head frantically. His fearful eyes danced around the face of the other boy, admiring the features he could see more vividly through the stream of light pouring down on them from the streetlamp above. Sure, he knew this wasn’t the time to be giving someone the once over, seeing as how he was being assaulted and all, but damn if he couldn’t help himself.

The thug released the fabric of Ian’s shirt after he felt his point had been made. "Then get out of here. I ain't sayin' it again." His foot fell heavily against the burning cigarette on the ground, extinguishing it.

"Will you just tell me why?" Ian could've smashed the bottle over his own head.

The boy’s eyebrows flew up so far they nearly touched his hairline. "You fuckin' serious?"

Ian walked back a few steps. "Fine. Fine. I'm going." He shook the bottle in the other boy’s direction, continuing to walk backwards.

Mickey inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils before sputtering out the words, taking pity on the kid and somewhat admiring his perseverance. "You looked desperate, alright?"

Ian paused mid-step, eyebrows scrunching together. "What? Desperate?" He couldn’t decide if he was more stunned by the choice of words or the fact that something other than a threat came out of the other boy’s mouth.

His thumb found the side of his nose once again. "Yeah. Desperate. Like you needed some of that." He waved his hand towards the bottle in Ian's.

Ian felt as though he should be offended but he knew what the other boy said was true. He was desperate. Desperate to experience something he hadn't before. Desperate to wash away his pain. Desperate to feel numb. To feel nothing at all. "Yeah." A quiet chuckle managed to escape. "You're right about that." He could tell the other boy was uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he fumbled for another cigarette.

The summer air was still aside from a few crickets singing nearby. The silence stretched between them for longer than either of them were comfortable with.

"Yeah well then. You're welcome, or whatever." The words would've been missed by Ian's ears had the atmosphere not been so quiet.

The corners of Ian's lips tugged into a small smile. "What's your name?"

Blue eyes raised from the uneven concrete to meet Ian's. "You don't give up, do you?" He let out a soft laugh despite himself. When Ian continued to stare at him, he rolled his eyes. "Mickey."

Ian took a few steps forward to meet Mickey again. "Ian." He outstretched his hand then awkwardly pulled it back to rub the nervous sweat from his palm against the thigh of his jeans when all Mickey did was stare at the gesture.

"Where did you even come from?" Mickey tilted his head heavenward, silently admonishing himself for not leaving this awkward redhead where he stood when he had the chance.

Ian's eyes blinked a few times in rapid succession. "Monica." Was all he could manage to spit out. He knew it was stupid as soon as he said it but the small laugh from Mickey made it worth it.

"Okay, wise guy. Where did Monica squeeze you out?" Mickey raised his eyebrows, smiling around his cigarette.

Ian paused for a moment before answering, dumbfounded by the turn of the conversation. "North Side."

Mickey nodded his head slowly. "The fuck you doin' here then?"

Ian shrugged innocently. "Not old enough." He shook the whiskey bottle at Mickey again.

Mickey laughed, tossing his cigarette to the side. "No fake?" When Ian shook his head, he pieced the story together. "So what you thought you'd come to the shit side of town and get away with it?" His eyebrows hitched once again and Ian couldn’t help but observe that perhaps they had more personality than any person he had ever met.

Another innocent shrug.

"Watchu so desperate for, anyway? Your nanny not cut the crust off your sandwich?" The corners of Mickey’s lips threated to curl into a smile at the sound of his own humor.

Ian nibbled on the inside of his cheek for a few beats. He chose to ignore the dig and let the truth of his visit to the dingy liquor store steal the spotlight. "Cancer."

Mickey audibly sucked in the breath he was releasing.

Ian kicked at some of the loose pieces of concrete that had broken away from the main slab. They were both quiet, his eyes never leaving the ground until a freshly lit cigarette was lingering in his direction. "You're gonna offer a cancer stick to someone who just said they have cancer?"

"Y'already got it. Can't get it again."

Ian found himself staring at Mickey. Not in anger. But in relief. When his family found out only hours ago, they cried. Sobbed. They suffocated him with tight limbs and showered his face with chapped lips. The doctors even choked back their words before they spilled through their reluctant mouths. Ian understood why they did it. Bad things didn’t happen to them often. There was never much suffering in the Gallagher household so when it made an appearance, no one knew how to properly handle it. Yet here Mickey stood, a man he had known for less than an hour, making jokes about his illness.

He found himself accepting the offer, pulling the cigarette from Mickey's marked fingers. He raised it to his lips and took a short drawl from it before choking when the smoke filled his lungs.

Mickey laughed in amusement but refused to take the stick back when Ian held it out to him. "You need it more than I do."
After his coughing fit subsided, he attempted it again. This time the coughing sounds were a little less violent.

Mickey nodded approvingly. "So, how long you got then, North Side?"

"Couple months."

Mickey chewed on the skin of his bottom lip. He wasn't exactly the comforting type so, he supposed they were both experiencing some firsts in the same moment. "When'd you find out?"

"Today." Ian attempted the cigarette again.

Today. His entire world changed today. The entire day had seemed like a blur of colors and noise. He racked his brain to remember anything after “stage four lung cancer” had been introduced to his ears. He remembered practically hearing his older sister’s heart shatter in her chest. The tears flowing down her cheeks as if the dam keeping them at bay had shattered too. Fiona was more of a mother to him than either of his mom’s had ever been. Monica could barely pass as a functioning member of society, let alone a maternal figure. And Lucy, his step-mother, resented him most days for sharing Monica’s DNA. But Fiona took care of him when the other women fell through. She was always there for him when he needed advice, encouraged his dreams, held his hand after his heart was broken by the boy down the street. She was his rock. The one solid figure in his life. And in that moment, as he sat with his long legs draped over the edge of the table in the doctor’s office, he was witnessing his strong sister crumbling into ashes on the floor.

Mickey's tongue ran against the now freshly torn skin. "Damn." It wasn't much, he knew that. But what do you say to someone who is dying? He'd seen death. He'd caused death. He'd been up close and personal with death. But never in someone who appeared to be his own age. And never caused by something that didn't involve drugs or weapons or bare hands.

"Can we walk?" Ian knew he was pushing his luck. The guy had already bought his alcohol, spared his life, and listened to him talk about his problems. But standing in one place for so long was making him anxious and he wasn't ready to end their conversation.

Mickey hesitated for a moment then nudged his head in the direction behind him, signaling his compliance.

Ian took the few steps it took to reach Mickey's side so they could begin walking together.

It was a silent walk for awhile which Ian expected after dropping his nuclear disease bomb. There weren't really many conversations that could fill the space after that. But he was grateful just for Mickey's presence. Although he didn't give off the most warm and welcoming aura, that's what Ian needed right now. He was tired of the pity; from others and even himself. No amount of wallowing was going to cure him. Love wouldn't save his life. Praying wouldn't remove the illness from his body. That's why he left the North Side. To get away from the pity and the sadness.

The next time Ian took in his surroundings, it was because of the sound of the L racing on the tracks overhead. Mickey stretched his arm out to make Ian come to a halt then he plopped down into the grass. Ian followed suit, leaning his back against the graffitied pillar supporting the tracks above.

Mickey sat back as well, propping his elbow against his bent knee. "You wanna crack that open?"

Ian looked at him curiously then peered at the bottle he had forgotten he had in tow. "Oh. Yeah, sure."

Mickey smirked and held his hand out for Ian to pass it to him. Once it was in his hand, he unscrewed the top and took the first swig before holding it back out to Ian. His eyebrows waggled at Ian's hesitation. "C'mon, Firecrotch. Don't pussy out on me."

Ian reluctantly took the bottle. Sure he had planned on taking his first drink tonight. But not in the company of someone else. He raised the lip of the bottle to his mouth and tossed the liquor down his throat with an audible gulp. His nose crinkled and a disgusted frown formed on his face as he coughed out the alcoholic heat.

All Mickey could do was laugh. "You get used to it."

They passed the bottle back and forth in companionable silence for a while until Ian spoke.

"This sucks."

Mickey scoffed. "This was your idea."

"Not this." Ian motioned between the two of them. "The cancer, man." He leaned his heavy head against the cold of the pillar.

Mickey hummed his acknowledgement.

"Didn't even make it to eighteen."

Mickey looked like someone punched him in his gut at that information. The kid was barely two years younger than himself. Not even an adult yet. Sure he hadn't lived nineteen years of bliss but he wasn't fucking dying.

"I've lived seventeen years in a... a box." The redhead’s words came out in a long slur and his head fell heavily to the side so his hooded eyes met Mickey's. "Clayton is a rich asshole."

Mickey raised his eyebrows and tipped the bottle towards Ian in mock cheers then sloshed what was left of the bottle into his mouth. He didn't know who Clayton was, but the name alone sounded like that of an asshole, so he’d drink to that.

"I don't wanna go home." Ian mumbled.

"So don't." Mickey finally spoke. He pointed up to the now-empty L track above their heads. "You have a way out right there."

Ian was silent.

"Just jump on and don't get off until you feel like it. Go fuckin’ live, or whatever." Mickey tapped the empty bottle against the dirt beside his leg. He offered the idea with a hilt of confidence because he had thought about taking his own advice several times before when things got too rough for him at home. "The fuck does this shitty place have anyway? Ain't nothin' to leave behind."

Ian attempted to sit his head back up straight on his shoulders. "You're right." His leaded eyelids drooped low, shielding his pupils almost entirely.

Mickey looked at him with growing eyes, having not known if Ian was actually still awake or coherent enough to understand that suggestion. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ian started to push his body out of the grass but fell miserably to the side. "Let's go."

"Woah, woah, woah." Mickey shook his head. "Let's?"

"Let's, Mickey." Ian successfully pushed himself off of the ground this time and stood up on shaky legs, throwing his arms out to his sides. "You said it. Ain't nothin' to leave behind." Looking at Mickey, Ian felt a pang of jealousy. He was everything Ian wanted to be. Tough, fearless, self-assured. He could tell Mickey didn’t give a shit what anyone thought in the way he carried himself. That was the life Ian wanted so desperately but never had the chance to experience.

Mickey quickly stood up to catch Ian by the arm before he fell flat on his face. "You're drunk as fuck man, we need to get you home." He pulled Ian’s body closer to his own, supporting the weight of the taller man by wrapping his gangly arm around his shoulders.

"No!" Ian winced at the volume of his own voice. "I don't want to go home." He leaned into Mickey, causing them both to nearly topple over.

"You don't have shit with you man. What are you plannin' to do when you wake up on the L with nothin'?" Mickey started to drag Ian forward, into the direction of his own house. He was pretty sure the last time he heard the L was the final time it would be running that night and with Ian’s current disposition, he’d be dead before he managed to pull him all the way to his home on the North Side.

"We'll figure it out then."

"We can figure out fuck all. This is all you, man." Ian was essentially no help in carrying his own body down the street, causing Mickey to huff out air with each of his own off-kilter steps.

Ian gripped onto Mickey's forearms with force. Partially to sturdy himself and partially to get the other man's full attention. "I'm dying, Mickey." It was the first time he allowed himself to actually say the words rather than think them and damn did they taste bitter. His life was actually ending.

The sadness that encompassed Ian's puppy face in that moment was enough to make his stony Milkovich heart flip in his chest. His eyes shifted between Ian’s for a moment. What was he doing? He met this kid a couple of hours ago. His first mistake was making the alcohol purchase, his second was joining the kid to drink said alcohol. But the biggest mistake was dragging him all the way to the front stoop of his rundown house and depositing him in his bed. After Mickey ignored Ian’s comment about dying, Ian had kept his mouth shut for which Mickey was truly grateful, however, he had also fallen asleep leaving his heavy body fully as the shorter man’s responsibility. He pulled the pristine shoes off of the kid’s feet once his drunken body was settled into the mattress and dropped them on the ground with a thud before leaving the room and pulling his door shut behind him.

Mickey threw himself down onto the deteriorating couch in his living room and flicked the abandoned lighter he plucked from the coffee table, bringing the flame to the cigarette perched between his lips. He sat alone for a few heartbeats, taking in the rare silence of his home. Normally there were bodies bustling in and out; whether it be his siblings, his Terry (referring to him as his father would be giving him too much credit), whoever his sister was shacking up with, or the drug fiends they called their friends, so the silence was a welcomed friend. Even with all of the people that usually surrounded him on a daily basis, Mickey still couldn’t help but feel alone most days. He was different than his siblings deep down, though the guard he always had up made him seem more like the other Milkoviches. Terry instilled fear and heartlessness into his children at a young age. Mickey learned early on that defying Terry was a move that he did not want to make because it usually ended with him curling into his own broken, bloody body and the sound of Terry’s drunken yelling filling his ringing ears. Maybe a change of scenery wouldn’t be the worst thing for him, either.

“Ain’t nothin’ to leave behind.”