One-Shots

you can be a sweet dream

(or a beautiful nightmare)
Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich one-shot; rated r: drugs, sex

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       Mickey's having a bad dream, eyelids twitching, mouth pulled into a frown. If Ian were there, maybe he’d roll over and touch the tips of his fingers to Mickey's face: pinky against the curve of his jaw, index and middle fingers barely tracing the side of his cheek, and his thumb grazing just under Mickey’s right eye.

       But—Ian’s not there so Mickey continues to struggle with his dream until it eventually changes completely (where it was just angry words and hard punches, it’s now soft whispers and lustful looks).

       In his dream, they’re sitting side by side on the steps of Ian’s house and it’s quiet, which is an unusually rare sound at the Gallagher home, Mickey’s well aware of that from all the stories Gallagher tells him.

       It's late and the air is heavy and thick, while the night sky is a midnight blue above their heads. So, it’s the perfect setting for them to just rest quietly against one another, elbows touching and legs knocking gently back and forth. It’s the closest thing to peaceful either of their lives seems to get these days.

       Ian sighs contentedly and gestures for the joint Mickey's been hogging for the past five minutes. Before he hands it over, Mickey takes another drag, long and slow, lethargic with half-closed eyes and a content noise.

       “Here shithead,” he says as he passes it.

       Ian takes it gleefully, holding the joint pinched between his thumb and forefinger, eying the damp spot of saliva soaked at the tip of the end. Mickey figures he’s probably thinking about how Mickey never fucking bothers to tuck his lips in to keep the joint dry—because he doesn’t and he ain’t gonna start just for Gallagher’s sake, but he’s smiling fondly at him so Mickey figures it’s probably alright anyway.

       “So, you really don’t think you’ll head back to school anytime soon?”

       "Hell no,” Mickey replies, and his voice is the hardest it’s been all night. It’s not that he’s pissed or anything, he just fucking wishes Ian would stop trying to get him to further his education or whatever stupid shit this is.

       And yeah, on some level buried so deep that it’d be too hard to even find it, he knows he wouldn’t mind making something of himself, could probably even get away from this side of the town if he had it in him to try. But on the ground level of it all—he realizes wishing for something better is hopeless so he just doesn’t.

       This right here, sharing a joint on the steps of Ian’s damn house in the quiet peace of the night, this is the closest he will ever get to a white picket fence life and he’s okay with that.

       “Look,” he says, turning to face Gallagher directly, “I get that you want all of that and that’s cool as hell, but that shit just ain’t for me, alright?”

       Ian nods and takes another hit before saying, “I get it, it was just a thought, there wasn’t any hidden ulterior motives behind it, chill.”

       “Well thinkin' so damn hard isn’t a good idea, Firecrotch," Mickey says as he grabs the joint out of the redhead’s hands. "Screws with the mood."

       "There's a mood?"

       "Of course, it’s called fuckin’ mellow, man." Mickey tilts his head, looks at Ian out of the corner of his eye, sees his stupid little lopsided grin and knows that yeah, they’re okay.