blue ; gallavich

33

About six pulls and a thousand cuss words later, I manage to get a large, bloody shard of the liquor bottle out of my leg.

Okay, now apply some pressure to the wound.

Using Mick's tank top, I slowly place it over my deep gash, my shaky hands causing me to hit my leg as I let out a loud "FUCK".

I jump, startled, as car tires screech loudly and ear-piercingly; a rusty Station Wagon turning the corner. It comes to a fast and sudden halt as the one and only Mickey fucking Milkovich exits the vehicle.

I knew he'd come.

"What the fuck?" He asks, his words pronounced in his rich Chicago accent. I look up at him and smile guiltily. Shaking his head, he leans down and stares at me, my eyes lost in his blue oceans, as bright as his smile- which glows like the sun.

For a moment, I forget about the gash in my leg, simply losing myself in Mickey. He leans down and kisses me. It's raw. Sloppy. Desperate. Something we need; we crave. He bites my lip furiously as I grip his warm neck, our hands caressing everywhere on each other's bodies. I kiss his neck and tease him by running my tongue along his shoulder. "Fuck." He mutters and grips my jaw tighter as he interlaces his tongue with mine, tracing every outline of my mouth.

Moaning into his rapid, frantic touch, I grip his back and keep a tight hold on his shirt. We hold onto each other for dear life, afraid of once again losing this reckless, needy love that we share. The connection we hold is stronger than any love could ever be and Mickey knows this as he teems my body with his dangerous touch, electricity exploding with every jolt and movement. Our tongues clash and collide, scandalously fighting the ongoing war that is our relationship.

Finally pulling away after what seems like endless hours of love making, Mickey stares at me rawly, his eyes expressing what words cannot create. He grabs my upper body, wrapping it up in his warm, welcoming embrace as we squeeze each other, gripping our bodies desperately tight. Suddenly, a shooting pain erupts through my leg and I cry dryly as Mickey looks down at my bleeding, poorly-attended-to wound.

"I forgot about that." I mutter as Mickey chuckles weakly.

"Fuck!" I call out, my eyes rolling into the back of my head and my head lashing backwards. "Jesus fuck, Mick!"

Mickey frantically panics, desperately tearing off his jacket and reaching for the sleeve of his shirt. "Mickey-" I stop him and point to the tank top on the floor next to me.

"No." He whines as he looks between me and the shirt.

"Mickey, you can wash the shirt!" I protest, annoyed with his stubborn behavior.

"But this is my favorite shirt." He gripes, sounding like a five year old being refused a toy monster truck.

"Mick!" I cry, snapping him back to reality. He takes a deep breathe, even his exhale sounding more like a disappointed whimper.

"Fuck. Fine." He rolls his eyes in annoyance and hastily grabs the shirt, looking around to get some intel on what to do as if a sign is going to appear above my head with glowing and flashing instructions.

"Jesus, Mick. Give me the shirt." I groan, gesturing towards the cloth in his weirdly clean hands. He looks cleaned up, something that took me years to get used to. When I came back from the army he was cleaned and smelled like coconuts and, I can easily say, that was one of the most shocking moments of my whole life.

Mickey tries to help, desperately doing little things that don't really need any fixing, but I don't complain. At least he cares enough to try. I gently lift my leg, wrapping the shirt around it slowly in order not to fuck anything up more than I already have. I pull tightly, circulation-cuttingly tight, and squeeze my eyes shut as I take in a deep breath.

Mickey lifts me up, carefully picking me up off the ground, and carries my limp body over to the car. Colin sits in the front and his eyes widen in confusion as he looks at the blood soaking through my white jeans.

"Unless Jesus just fuckin' resurrected, I don't know what the fuck you're lookin' at." Mickey hisses and Colin simply rolls his eyes and hits the gas. I look up at Mick, who is staring out the window with a look of angst in his baby blue eyes. He turns his head and sees me anxiously watching him with a burning passion in my eyes that can only be relieved by one thing- sex. He leans down but, instead of kissing me, looks me straight in the eyes and stares into mine, soaking up my soul in the few split seconds we connect.

I feel completely drained as I wrap my hand around his neck, initiating a kiss. He refuses, and not in an uninterested manner, but in a restricted way. Colin watches, a sad frown on his face as complete silence fills the car. The lack of words enables me to hear every sad breath Mickey takes; every shuttered inhale and every jagged exhale. I'm not sure what any of this is about, but I'm not sure I want to know.