by; takesguts
Its just, Ian loves Mickey so damn much. Too damn much.
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Outside the front door, a guy sitting off to Ian's left takes a long drag of a blunt.
"You lookin for your boy?"
He eyes Ian, eyes his baseball bat, looking amused.
"Was upstairs last time I saw him," the guy mentions, exhaling smoke, "with Damien."
There's a good chance the guy is just trying to get him riled - probably even one of Damien's runners. Probably knows that when it comes to Mickey Milkovich, if you wanna watch a good fight you just have to pick at the lock on Ian's caged beast. Most everyone on the south side knows this.
Ten years is a long time, for this kinda place.
The comment makes Ian's skin crawl, regardless, and he has half a fucking mind to take a swing at this guy just to shut him the fuck up. Something black is oozing in his gut; something ugly and toxic and thick like tar. It's coating his insides, the back of his throat.
Instead, he jerks the door open and he's trying to focus on the connection of his hand wrapped about the handle of the bat, the way the wilted tape is sticky against his palm. In his head, the heady sensation of rage is directing his every move - narrowing in on finding Mickey, and it takes all of him not let himself black out.
It doesn't take him long; Mickey is a creature of habit. Quietest corners, away from the press of bodies. Usually with only one or two people. Always near where the drugs are.
This time wouldn't be any different; and he's already got a confirmed clue. Damien's the dealer tonight, one Ian expressly forbids Mickey from seeing when they're together. The low life has a habit of sticking his hands in places they don't belong, must have caught wind of their break from a customer. It's only been two weeks though, and this one isn't a real break; Mickeys been texting him everyday, was begging for Ian's dick on the phone last night. Damien is a dead man.
They're no longer upstairs, if they ever even were, but it's still only takes the red head a few minutes to find them. They're in the furthest back room, it's relatively crowded but Damien is seated on the big recliner that's tucked into the corner. Mickeys next to him, sitting on the arm.
It's clear what Damien is doing, trying to show off his claim, have Mickey near him like some goddamn prize piece. That he's got Ian Gallaghers boy practically in his lap.
Stupid fuck, Ian is going to destroy him. He's across the room in seconds, and it takes all of his willpower to just not start swinging.
"Mick," he says, all he has to say, it's a command.
"Shit," Damien swears, scrambling over the back of the chair. Ian snags the back of his shirt, shoving him toward the wall.
