Kind of sequel to There Are Ghosts In The Walls, in the same timeline which is one I made up where none of the shit past Ian and Mickey getting all jealous happens but they had some sort of awkward talk about giving a shit about each other and Ian doesn't see Lloyd/Ned anymore.

Titles are lyrics from La Dispute songs. A band you should all listen to.

When he was seven years old, Mickey found out how it feels to have two solid gold rings get slammed into his cheek. His dad told him to make him dinner, his mom and brothers not home to do it. Mickey didn't know how to work the cooker. Why the fuck would he?

He burnt the fries he'd attempted to cook and that apparently warranted a punch to the face. "Don't you fuckin' cry!", his dad had shouted when his bottom lip had begun to tremble, "Don't you be a damn pussy!". The pain - Mickey had felt pain before, he was only seven but he was also a Milkovich. Only the kids his own age didn't have the strength his dad had. And they weren't his dad.

But he bit his lip, kept his mouth shut and held back tears.

When she saw him, Mandy almost burst into tears herself. His mom had just hugged him close, murmured what she must have thought were comforting words into his ear. It didn't help. Made him feel weaker. Barely even a boy and Mickey's dad had made him feel like he wasn't a man. Sort of a common theme in his life now.

The tears don't come anymore. Not even slightly. Not even when his dad fucking pistol-whips him for no other reason than it being a Friday and he's an aggressive drunk.

No. Mickey doesn't cry, doesn't want to. He takes it with pained grunts and half-hearted attempts at stopping it. Resist too much and it'll only get worse; Mickey learnt that aged eleven.

Mickey lets his dad shove him up against the wall; lets him swear and shout and do whatever the fuck he has to do to make himself feel good. Like a man. And maybe somebody else would call Mickey a pussy, tell him to fight back. But Mickey's no pussy and he probably won't ever fight back.

Mandy and Lip come in when Mickey's inspecting a particularly deep gash on his forehead. He'll probably need fucking stitches.

With a look in his direction and a roll of her eyes, Mandy walks into the kitchen, Lip following behind her. Mickey feels like it should be sort of incestuous. Two sets of siblings fucking.

"Well, shit," Lip says around the cigarette in his mouth, "what happened to you?"

Mickey eyes him from his seat on the couch, places the mirror onto the coffee table. "Fuck off." There's no real heat behind his words just like there was no sympathy in Lip's. Just blatant curiosity.

Like the bastard he really is, Lip just smirks, blowing smoke out through his nostrils as Mandy shouts, "Aren't you gonna be late for work?", from the kitchen.

Clearly she was expecting an empty house so she and Lip could fuck in peace. Great. Mickey sighs and stands up, groaning briefly at the pain in his ribs. He puts on his black t-shirt and when he brushes past him, he steals Lip's cigarette right from his fingers and leaves the house, smirking at Lip's protests.

Ian will probably be pissed. Like it's Mickey's fault his dad's a damn nutjob. Mickey isn't the only one his dad beats on; his brothers get it just as bad. Lucky cunts have girlfriends and shit, though, places they can stay for weeks at a time.

So it's not as though Mickey's the only one, just that he's the only one around most of the time. But he's never had his arm twisted behind his back and broken like Iggy has. That's never happened to him.

There's a doughnut in one of Ian's hands, a pen in the other. Mickey walks right past him, rolls his eyes when Ian absent-mindedly says, "Late", like he always does when Mickey is.

"Blow me," Mickey mumbles, putting on his security vest. Though he doesn't see it - purposely, he's facing away from Ian - he just knows Ian's smirking in that dirty way he does sometimes.

They settle into a comfortable silence, Ian probably (thankfully) realising Mickey's not in the best of moods. Mickey ends up restocking bottles and cans of drink, just to be doing something.

He doesn't know that Ian's stood right behind him until he turns around to get another six-pack. He resists hitting him because Ian's look of smug amusement is quickly changing to one of concern.

"Shit, Mickey," he says, worried. His eyes roam over Mickey's face, lingering on his forehead. "You should get Vee to look at that, probably needs stitches."

"Fuck off, man," Mickey grumbles, not half as annoyed as he should be. "Anyway, it's not the worst of it." He lifts his t-shirt before Ian gets a chance to, shows him the freshly blooming bruises scattered across his ribs.

At the sound of a sharp intake of breath, Mickey's eyes snap up from where they were staring at Ian's feet. Nobody has ever really given a shit about Mickey. Mandy - it's not that Mandy doesn't care, they have a pretty good thing going, but she's like, desensitized or some shit. So Mickey's bruised again? Like that's not been happening for years. His mom probably did. Care, that is. Too doped up to properly, explicitly show it, but still.

And Mickey is a dick, mouth getting him into trouble more often than not. He doesn't expect sympathy and he's gone a long time without it. Doesn't need it.

But then Ian's eyes are raking over his torso and his hand is coming up to gently rest on his side and Mickey stops breathing for a moment. Ian cares. Mickey knew that, but, fuck, this is the first time it's felt so good. So nice.

The bell above the front door dings and Mickey lightly pushes Ian away.

...

At Linda's request, they close a few hours early. The shop's been busy, people stocking up on booze, snacks and smokes. Likely preparing for their weekend benders. It's been too busy for Ian and Mickey to talk - other than just shooting the shit - and Mickey can tell that Ian has questions to ask.

Lighting a cigarette, Mickey waits as Ian locks up.

"You busy tonight?" Ian asks, checking the locks are done right. Linda's gone a little overboard on the security recently.

Mickey spits near some sleeping hobo's feet, says, "Nah. Why?"

"Wanna come over?"

Now, Mickey's started to hang out with Ian a little more, like actually hanging out. Watching shitty tv, pretending to help him with his homework. The Gallaghers probably question why the fuck Mickey is at their house so much and why Ian's friends with him. Because he supposes that's what they are. At least more than anything else. But still, it makes him feel weird. Like maybe some of them - Lip and Fiona - can tell that when the house gets empty, or empty enough, they fuck.

He could just be paranoid but Mickey was brought up believing it's better to be paranoid than unsuspecting.

At Mickey's hesitance, Ian carries on. "Only Carl and Lip are home. Not even Liam's there."

Mickey nods, chews on his bottom lip. "Whatever," he says, beginning to walk in the direction of Ian's house, "so long as you don't argue with me about fuckin' grammar again."

Quietly, Ian chuckles, now walking beside him. "Not my fault I thought you were illiterate," he teases.

Mickey fake laughs then kicks just behind Ian's knee, so that his leg buckles and he nearly falls. "Yeah, fucker," Mickey smirks, cigarette in mouth.

...

Neither Lip nor Carl even notice the two of them, too busy splashing about in the pool.

They make it up to Ian's room, Mickey carrying two beers and Ian with a bong and a bag of Cheetos.

Awkwardly, Mickey stands by the desk as Ian shoves clothes and schoolwork off of his bed and onto the floor. When he straightens, he gives Mickey one hell of a bitch face then says, orders, actually, "Take your shirt off".

Mickey snorts, raises his eyebrows. "Not even gonna sweet talk me, huh?" He knows why Ian wants him to do it, though. And after a few seconds of staring at each other, Mickey gives up because Ian is a fucking stubborn asshole. He pulls his t-shirt off and the stretch of his arms has him biting his lip so that he doesn't groan aloud in pain.

He knows how bad it must look; the bruises have had hours to deepen in colour. They always look worse than they are on Mickey, though. Purple and green and blue a stark contrast against his pale skin.

And Ian looks like he's fucking assessing the damage. It reminds Mickey of the way plastic surgeons would find all the ways a persons' body needed to be changed on that show Mandy used to watch.

Fuck. Maybe that's what Ian is doing. Maybe that's what everyone does when they look at him: see all his faults, imperfections, and how they could be made better.

Jesus, this day is shitty.

Ian takes a few steps closer and splays his hands softly across Mickey's ribs. Mickey can't look at him right now, keeps his eyes focussed on the weird ass graphic on Ian's blue t-shirt.

"Who did it?" Ian asks, his left hand now curled around Mickey's hip.

"My dad."

Ian seems surprised by that and Mickey has to stop himself from making a sarcastic comment. Everyone who knows his dad knows how much of a hard-ass he is. It's fucking common knowledge. The same way everyone knows that Frank Gallagher is a bullshitter and a drunk.

There's no reason for Ian to be shocked at all. He shouldn't need to say, "Your dad did this to you?", like it's implausible.

Mickey's never felt like he's being judged by Ian. At least not since they started up this thing between them. It's like Ian doesn't really give a shit that Mickey's a thug, a Milkovich. But right now - right now Mickey gets the feeling that Ian is judging him. For letting his dad kick the shit out of him, for being too fucking scared to do anything about it. It angers him.

With an annoyed scoff, Mickey pushes Ian's hands off of him, levels him a hard look. "You don't get to fuckin' do that, alright?!" he snaps. "You don't get to judge me."

Eyes widening, Ian says, "What? You- why would I be judging you? Your dad's the one who did this, fucking beaten you. Have you," he gestures at Mickey's body, "have you seen what's he done to you?"

"Yes, I fucking have. So what? Ain't nothin' new and it ain't none of your business."

Sardonically, Ian smiles. "Right. None of my business " He sits down on his bed, faces the door and runs his hands down his face. Mickey crosses his arms across his chest, already defensive. "I actually give a shit, y'know. I thought that was clear." He looks over at Mickey, face softened. "I don't expect dates or hand holding or whatever. I don't even want that. But can you - at least just accept the fact that I care. Don't be such a dick about it."

Mickey's eyes flick from the carpet, to Ian, then back down again. Not that he does it a lot, but whenever Ian mentions that he cares it makes Mickey want to run. It's not so bad when Ian simply shows, takes his time fucking him, smiles that goofy-ass smile. But when he actually says it? Mickey doesn't know what to do. Feels so fucking dumb and small.

Ian reaches out and takes hold of Mickey's wrist, tugs it until Mickey starts to move forward, closer to the bed.

Once Mickey's close enough, Ian stands up, moves the bong and the Cheetos off of the bed and Mickey sits in his place before lying back, head surrounded by pillows. He automatically opens his legs for Ian, something he's not about to analyse.

Ian kneels between them, takes off his own shirt. Mickey can't help the way his eyes sweep down his body - Gallagher looks too fucking good like this - before they land back on Ian's face. He wonders if Ian's going to fuck him or maybe try to make out with him again. The last time he did, Mickey actually almost fell for it. Ian had started at his neck, sucking up a hickey onto his skin, then he moved to his jaw and Mickey was still slightly sex stupid so Ian nearly got his mouth. When he caught on to what Ian was doing Mickey scoffed and covered Ian's face with his hand, pushing him away.

So maybe Mickey actually is a pussy.

But Ian doesn't do either one of those things. His hands work open Mickey's jeans - a quick, practiced move. He tugs them down and off, leaving Mickey's boxers on, then he's crowding down against him and planting kisses against his chest. It doesn't even fucking feel sexual. And Mickey figures this is Ian trying to say what he knows Mickey doesn't want to hear.

It has Mickey's breath stuttering quietly, his eyes screwing shut so that he can't look at Ian moving slowly down his body, sucking a nipple into his mouth.

He's painfully hard when Ian finally gets his boxers off and he's about two seconds away from thrusting his dick into Ian's face when Ian gets a hand around him. He doesn't move it, though, instead he shifts so that his mouth is hovering over his dick, so close that Mickey can feel every breath he exhales.

Slowly, Ian flicks his tongue against the tip of him, swirling it in little circles that have Mickey biting down on his bottom lip. He feels so desperate for it, like if Ian doesn't swallow him down soon he may actually fucking explode.

Putting a soothing hand over the worst of Mickey's bruises, Ian smirks up at him as he bites down on Mickey's thigh.

Mickey groans at him, half in arousal and half in annoyance. "Fuckin' cocktease, man," Mickey says through gritted teeth and Ian raises his eyebrows before sucking Mickey right down to the base.

Ian's gotten better at this and Mickey doesn't like to think about why. All the guys he must've blown, practiced on. Fucking Kash and that damn pensioner. But he can't even get jealous because Ian's working at Mickey's dick like - fuck, Mickey doesn't even know.

He puts a hand on the back of Ian's head, grabs onto his hair. He feels the way Ian moans around him, the way he takes him deeper and deeper with everyone move until Mickey can feel Ian's throat fluttering around the head of his dick.

"Fuck," he drawls, his eyes not focussed on the sight of Ian's mouth stretched around him but his thumb that's drawing circles around the purple blotch of skin near to his hip.

Hollowing his cheeks even more, Ian slowly pulls his mouth off of Mickey with a wet, obscene noise. There's a rush of movement as they both hurry to get Ian's pants off; frenzied hands and ragged breaths.

Eventually, Ian falls back between Mickey's legs and takes them both into his hand, slick with spit. They're both too far gone to set up a decent rhythm, but they lazily grind their hips together as Ian jerks them off with tight, hard pulls.

Mickey loves the way he can see Ian's arm straining with the effort of holding himself up; he loves that he's the reason Ian's leaking precome over them both and moaning Mickey's name into the heated air between them.

He bats Ian's hand away so that he can get a hold of him because he just fucking wants to. Wants to feel Ian in his grip and flick his wrist so that Ian draws in a sharp breath and his hand momentarily pauses where it's driving Mickey crazy.

They lock eyes then. And Mickey thinks Ian looks best like this: cheeks flushed and pupils blown. And maybe Ian sees that because then he's speeding up his hand and biting at Mickey's neck and Mickey's hips starts jerking helplessly. He speeds his own hand up; needing to make Ian come just as much as he needs to himself. And when the fuck did that happen?

When Ian does come he groans long and loud and the sound of it is what has Mickey spurting white between them, nails digging into Ian's side.

Mickey doesn't even complain when Ian collapses on him, face resting on the pillow right beside Mickey's head. His hand is still gently rubbing against Mickey's bruises. Does he think that that'll make them disappear or some shit? Not that Mickey minds. Fuck, he likes it. That Ian cares enough to not hurt him. At least not on purpose.

And when he turns to look at him he sees that Ian has his eyes closed. It'd be easy to lean a little closer and kiss him. A simple press of lips, nothing special.

Except it'd change things. It'd be Mickey admitting something he isn't ready to admit yet. So Mickey doesn't kiss him and Ian won't know that he nearly did. And in maybe an hour or two Mickey will go back home and his dad won't look at him for a couple of days and Ian still won't know.

This can also be found on my ao3 account, same username.

Reviews, as always, would be appreciated :)