It was really weird. But then again Ian Gallagher was really fuckin' weird to begin with.

Ian wasn't quite sure how he got to this point. Maybe it was the booze coursing through him. Or maybe it was the weed making his mind foggy. But either way, he didn't really know why he was doing this. Just staring at Mickey like it was fuckin' normal or something.

And he knew he was fucking staring but for some reason he couldn't look away. Why the fuck was he staring? In his mind he was screaming at himself, "look away, look the fuck away before he notices," but of course he doesn't.

And he's sure Mickey notices. He's sure Mickey can feel his eyes boring into his skin like fire. Ian knows that if roles were reversed he would notice and say something about it.

But maybe Mickey's letting him. In some fucked way Ian hopes that Mickey is letting him. Because that's kind of romantic.

And for another fucked reason—Ian can't even count how many times he's had fucked reason for things—he thinks Mickey is strangely beautiful. It's not just in this lighting either. Mickey's pretty good looking in any lighting. But the way the bright lights of the baseball field reflect in his blue eyes, how it makes his skin paler than usual, and how his black hair stuck to his forehead—it made him so much to look at.

Okay, no, maybe this lighting is just enhancing Mickey's beauty. But fuck, Ian's not sure and he can't say this shit out loud because he knows Mickey will call him and fag and he'll regret even thinking it.

The bites on his shoulder and the bruises on his hips make him beautiful too. He was still shirtless from the earlier round, the sweat had long since cooled and Ian wanted to make him sweat some more. There were scratches down his side that Ian didn't remember making but Ian didn't comment on them. Ian just wants to make more marks on Mickey's pale body because that somehow makes him more beautiful.

(And he was kind of a possessive little shit like that.)

Ian thinks the habits Mickey has are beautiful. How he licks his lips, sticks his tongue out the corner of his mouth, rubs his thumb along his bottom lip. When he fidgets—he's awkward like that. And it drives Ian crazy when it shouldn't.

Mickey shouldn't do this to him. It shouldn't have gotten this serious. But then again Ian wasn't resisting it in any way.

"The fuck you lookin' at, Gallagher?" Mickey mumbled out around a cigarette. He was looking at Ian for a split second before looking at the grass beside him like it personally offended him.

Ian blink owlishly at the older teen and he was at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say? He couldn't say some gay shit even though he just wanted to say, "I was staring at how beautiful you look even when you're covered in dirt," because he was really gay like that. And he didn't want Mickey to freak out.

"Nothing," and he looked away because he didn't know what else to do.

"Whatever, man." Mickey took a drag of the cigarette before passing it to Ian. "I know you were staring. Been doin' it for ten minutes."

Ian inhaled deeply, trying to come up with something to say. It wasn't always easy to say the things he wants to say around Mickey.

"You noticed?" Because it's the first thing that came up that probably wouldn't get him punched. But then again Mickey doesn't punch him that hard anymore.

Mickey snorted in an unsexy way. "No shit I noticed. Your green eyes are just staring at me like I'm fuckin' God or some shit."

"You don't believe in God."

"Yeah, and you're still starin'," Mickey was smirking so he wasn't pissed or anything.

Ian smiled because it was really cute—not that he would ever called Mickey cute—how Ian mentioned his green eyes and that he didn't mind that Ian was staring.

"I like lookin' at you, Mick." Ian confessed and his passed the cigarette with a shit eating grin because he already knew the words forming in his mouth.

"The fuck for?" Mickey's blue eyes shifted away from his green eyes and Ian could swear Mickey might have blushed. Or it was just a trick of the light.

Ian lay back on the short grass and he could feel rocks digging in his flesh but he didn't mind that because in the fog in his mind he couldn't register the pain.

The redhead wasn't sure why he even admitted it. He was high and a little drunk and he couldn't feel physical pain so why the fuck not. And if Mickey freaked out over a compliment—which he probably would—Ian could just fuck him until he forgot. It was simple really.

"You're kind of beautiful, Mick."

The response was automatic as if Mickey fucking expected it. "Shut the fuck up, Gallagher. I don't want to hear that gay shit."

But Ian could hear the smirk in Mickey's voice so it wasn't all that bad.