blue ; gallavich

24

MICKEY

I hear a familiar voice shout my name and when I whip my head around I'm met with an unpleasant surprise. Ian's fist connects with my jaw and he kicks me as my knees buckle under me and I collapse onto the floor, one hand securely gripping my jaw and the other holding my leg.

I let out a string of cuss words as I glare up at Ian. His fiery hair glows in the sunlight and I see sweat bead his forehead in the summer heat. His eyes glow wildly as he stares down at me, lending me a simple hand to help me up. Though I'm pissed at him for fucking punching me and make it my goal to be as stubborn as fucking possible, since I know how much that infuriates him, I take the gesture graciously and steady myself.

We stand face to face, the sunlight glinting in both of our blue eyes. I bite my tongue anxiously and he runs a shaky hand through his hair. We're both nervous as shit. I continue to gaze into his manipulative eyes and I see him focus on my lips more than once.

"Where have you been?" He finally asks, venom in his voice. I knew that was coming. I've prepared myself for the sea of worried questions that Ian's going to ask me. He's a such a persuasive little fucker.

"Out." I say bluntly as he gives me the dirtiest look I've ever seen. There's no point in lying about it, he's just going to budge more. I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose in exhaustion. "I've been drinking. Hiding and shit."

"Yeah. Kev told me about the fucking fit you threw at the Alibi Room. The fuck, Mickey?! You-"

"I could've died! I can't drink that much! It's bad for me, blah blah fucking blah." I yell back in frustration. Jesus, I didn't know I was going to get a fucking lecture on how alcohol is bad for my body. What's next, Ian makes me go see a fucking counselor? Bite me.

"You could've fucking called!" He growls as I roll my eyes. I throw my hands up in defeat as I look up at the blue sky.

"And say what, Ian? Hey, sorry I almost got you killed. Yeah, great fucking conversation starter." I spit back viciously. I know that I took it to the extreme, but I'm obviously way more effected by Ian's near-death experience than he is.

"Well that would be better than letting me sit here and fucking worry about you for months, no one knowing where the fuck you are. The only way I knew you were still fucking alive was when I'd hear about some rampage you went on or how drunk you got or when you paid my fucking medical bill." He hisses as I groan in response.

"Well it's not your fault you got shot. Not Fiona's or Lip's, so why should you guys have to pay it?" I glare at Ian, who gives me a dramatic over-the-shoulder head turn followed by an annoyed glance. Yeah, bitch. I'm annoying the fuck out of you. That's what you get for fucking hitting me you prick.

"It's not your fault either so you shouldn't pay people's expenses, Mickey. It's not your fault." He says as he places as sassy hand on his hip.

"Oh, right, I forgot. It's fucking Yeezus's fault. Thanks for reminding me." I say sarcastically as Ian rolls his eyes.

"Mickey don't give me this bullshit. Stop being a stubborn ass and tell me why no one's seen you in four months. Why you've been drinking your life away. I just-" He lets out a deep exhale and runs his hands through his hair, giving me an exhausted look. "I thought you died, Mickey!" He yells and he sounds so sad and frustrated. I want to wrap him up in my arms and beg him to forgive me for leaving, but I'm too much of a dick to do that.

"I thought it'd be better if I let you live your life. I tried getting mine back on track, but that was kinda hard when every second I thought of the way your bleeding body looked on the floor or how if I would've just answered the goddamn phone then it wouldn't have happened." I growl in frustration at my own words, each one painstakingly harder to say then the next.

"Mickey. I'm fine now. Look at me." He places both hands on my shoulders and turns me so I'm looking at him, and I nod off to the side so he can't see me on the verge of tears, but he already knows that I'm an emotional wreck. "It's not your fault at all. It's fucking Terry's. I'll never stop caring about you, now matter how far you run or... Fucking how long you pretend to be dead for."

"Then why'd you sleep with a girl?" I ask, and my voice is so small and emotionless that it takes both of us by surprise. Shit, where'd that even come from?

"I-" Ian let's out a heavy breath and looks at me seriously. "I went off my meds after you left. I didn't leave the house. I was fucking nuts again. I honestly don't remember half the shit I did in the past few months, other than what people told me. It's like I'm watching movie, or hearing about someone else's life." He says, and I immediately regret asking him that question. That was so fucking stupid and selfish of me. What the fuck?!

"Shit." I whisper in response. What do I say to that? It's my fault that this all happened. It's my fault that he felt crazy, my fault that he-

"Stop it, Mick. Stop blaming yourself. I swear to God if you do it one more time I'll kick your ass so hard that you'll never be a bottom again."

"Oh no." I say mockingly. "How scawy." I roll my eyes at him as he chuckles.

"Aye, you won't be saying that next time I make you my bitch." He grins contently at me, smirking with an annoying but strangely sexy arrogance that makes me want to slap him and tear his clothes off at the same time.

"Fuck off, man." I say as I shove him playfully and he socks my arm in response. "Stop fucking hitting me, dude." I growl as he quickly pulls his arm away and I rub the sore spot.

"Shit. Sorry, Mick." He says remorsefully as I look up into his apologetic eyes and I feel bad for lashing out.

"It's alright." I say as I sit down on the grass, Ian next to me. The sprinklers turn on with a familiar hiss, and I grin as I feel the cool spirt of water cross over my body, and I look over at Ian who is as content as I. He looks fucking hot, in both senses of the word, as water drips down his temple and his ginger lashes lie atop his high-rising, freckled cheeks. If you look close enough you can still see the little boy he once was, you can see the bright freckles and round puppy-dog eyes. His lips still pull up the same way as they sued to when he smiles; not enough to reveal all of his teeth, but just enough to be satisfying.

"Damn Gallagher." I hear myself mutter as he looks over and smiles at me, that cute nine year old grin. He playfully punches my arm and I scowl at him, "the fuck did I say about the punching, Ian."

He smirks and I let him off with a cocky, "sorry."