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unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

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kings of the southside: CHAPTER 2

The storefronts on the block were different now— fragile minimalist displays and organic coffee shops uprooting the aged wooden bar signs with peeling paint and bullet holes— but against all odds, and with everyone else moving on, he and Mickey had decided to stay.

(a canon divergent fic in which ian and mickey stay on the southside and take over the alibi)

read chapter 2 here on ao3, or below the cut! (see notes on ao3 for various credits)

The end of the first weekend of them running the Alibi came quickly, and with it came Mickey’s focus being pulled in a million goddamn directions; they still had to unpack all of their shit upstairs, still had to figure out inventory and restock the bar and balance the books. Between all of the swirling and circling tasks Mickey felt like his head was going to explode, a sharp shift after the smooth waters of doing fuck-all for the past few months before the weed security business took off and he’d been forced to snap back into business mode.

Ian had bounced back from that first Saturday night of running the bar, the slump relaxing and fading out of his shoulders, and he was chipper as ever all Sunday afternoon, constantly grabbing at Mickey’s waist and singing fucking songs in his ear as they brushed elbows while pouring beers beside each other at the bar. As always, Ian fucking sunshine Gallagher’s mood seemed to have some sort of trickle-down effect on Mickey on Sunday, despite Mickey’s best efforts to not be a love-crazed loon. So even though they had a million things to do for Ian’s 80s night bullshit and Mickey had every reason to be stressed, he found himself fucking whistling when he rinsed the dishes behind the bar on Sunday night, and Tommy started giving him shit— and Mickey realized that he didn’t think there was a time he’d remembered whistling, ever, in his goddamn life.

He couldn’t really help it; Ian was radiating this new, breezy energy that Mickey still hadn’t had the time to feel the past few months, with all the bullshit going on with Terry and his family next door that set his teeth on edge— but now Ian was melting into their new life, acting settled, acting like he didn’t have a goddamn care in the world and everything was all figured out. And Mickey started to realize, in the fuzzy back corners of his brain, that maybe, just maybe— he could start to feel that way about their new gig at the Alibi and their new place, too.

They didn’t have to run from anything anymore.

Mickey practically couldn’t believe his ears the other week when Ian had willingly accepted custody of the Alibi with a too-relaxed air of nonchalance, with a well, maybe Mick and I could take it off your hands, on one of their final days scarfing down sugary cereal in the late hours of the morning in the Gallagher house kitchen. There was no way Gallagher was being serious about this— Ian was always talking about going somewhere, about being something bigger than he was, so there was no way he was offering to Kev that they would take over his dump of a bar. Except he definitely was— and for a sharp and splintering instant Mickey was worried Ian was saying this for him; that once again, he was holding Ian Gallagher back.

But Mickey had felt Ian’s warm palm resting on his leg under the kitchen table— and he’d seen the warmth, that fucking warmth that always heated Mickey’s insides, as Ian turned to him with his eyebrows raised in a question, in a wordless proposition— and once again it struck Mickey like a goddamn lightning bolt just how much Ian Gallagher loved him, if he looked this blissed out about the prospect of living in a shitty Southside apartment and running an even shittier bar with Mickey Milkovich for the rest of his days.

Mickey knew part of Ian doing this was for him, after all the Westside bullshit that Mickey had resisted at every turn. Mickey knew he’d lost his shit when he made that yuppie poodle lady rip their lease to shreds, but could anyone blame him? The few hours they’d spent at the apartment complex made Mickey feel like he was going to crawl out of his fucking skin, like the glares of everyone he passed by in the too-clean, air-freshened hallways made him itch from the inside out. There was no fucking way he could stay in a place like that. But he was going to try, if Ian wanted.

But with a simple sentence, with a simple maybe Mick and I could take it off your hands spoken into the dusty kitchen of the Gallagher house, Mickey was saved. This Alibi plan pulled them both above water, gave them both a shore to rest on— and now they were finally, finally on the same fucking page, after figuratively (and literally) butting heads about the future for so long.

So now they were here, and they were doing it, and it was scary as fuck. Mickey had never lived in a place so quiet, a small space so devoid of the press of other people screeching and fighting and leaving trails of clutter, and he knew that Ian hadn’t either; both of their childhood homes were always crawling with various drunks or Russian prostitutes or batshit crazy relatives, and the silence of their too-small studio, in the morning hours before the bar was opened downstairs, was deafening.

Mickey could feel his jaw start to clench as he laid twisted in the sheets on Monday morning, when Ian had gone for a run and Mickey was left in the apartment alone for an hour and it was quiet, too quiet— but instantly the boisterous noise of the Southside streets had started to flow just outside the open window, a cacophony of honking horns and shouted slurs and gunshots, and the trickling in of the sounds tickled Mickey’s scalp, and reminded him that he was still rooted— he was still home.

And then Ian came clomping up the stairs like a sweaty monster after his run and tackled Mickey into the mattress, flopping onto him like a fucking Saint Bernard—and Mickey remembered why they did this, why this was good for both of them.

Against every single one of Mickey’s instincts, against everything he’d always known— he was going to let himself have this.

Ian’s brows were furrowed, a pressed series of creases narrowed in focus, as he stared at the paint swatches with a too-sharp glare.

“Mick, I really don’t see the fucking difference between Charcoal Gray and Burnt Ember.”

Mickey huffed, snatching the series of paint swatches out of his hand. “Nevermind then. You’ve got no eye for this shit, Gallagher. Charcoal Gray has cool undertones, Burnt Ember has a warmer vibe. We’ve definitely gotta go with Burnt Ember, the lighting in this place is shit and I wanna make sure the kitchen has a good ambiance.”

Ian’s lips curved into a smile of disbelief, rolling his eyes. Annoying motherfucker. “They both look like gray to me.”

Mickey flashed a grin in reply, then swatted Ian’s chest with the remaining paint swatches he was holding. “It’s a good thing you’re good at manual labor. If we wanna have this place painted by Wednesday, we’ve gotta get moving.”

“On it. Lip’s coming by with the paint for the main room and the wallpaper stuff, too.”

And just then, there was a gentle tap at the door. “Ey, it’s me and Liam.”

Ian bounded across the room to pull the paint-chipped door open. “Speak of the devil.”

Lip strode into their shithole apartment carrying cans of paint and a wrench clenched between his fingers, Liam trailing behind him.

“Damn. It’s only been two days and I already forgot what a dump this place is.”

Ian shoved Lip’s shoulder. “Fuck you. If you can renovate our shitty house, fixing this place up should be a piece of cake.”

Mickey noticed Liam scanning the room— in a fit of annoyance the other morning, with the bright fucking sun streaming in because they hadn’t gotten curtains yet with the bar pulling focus downstairs, Mickey had sliced a black trashbag and pinned it to the window as a makeshift curtain. Liam’s eyes lingered on the hanging trashbag, and he raised a judgmental eyebrow at Mickey.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Ian chuckled. “Yeah, Mick’s a real interior designer.”

Liam just sighed. “You guys need all the help you can get.”

Mickey’s brows furrowed. “Fuck you both. That was a temporary solution.” He walked over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of beer, just so he had something to do.

Ian grinned again, then reached out to ruffle Liam’s hair. “How’s the new place, superstar?”

Liam shrugged nonchalantly. “I like it. I just hung up all of my posters. Added a bit of vibrancy to the color palette that Tami chose to paint my room.”

Ian smirked, and nodded a head towards Mickey, who was standing by the fridge and fumbling with his beer bottle. “You should talk to Mickey about color palettes—we’ve been arguing for the last half hour about what shade of gray to paint the kitchen. Something about cool and warm undertones?”

Liam turned to examine the kitchenette in the back of the studio, hand on his hips. “Definitely warm undertones in a small space like this, unless you get some updated light fixtures.

Ian grinned. “Damn. Guess I really do have two interior designers in my family.”

Liam smiled back, his eyes lighting up. “You need any other advice? Mickey, I’d love to hear what unified aesthetic you’re aiming for with the décor.”

The rest of the afternoon was filled with the rhythm of smooth paint rollers sliding against the wall, the old radio in the corner of the room (that had probably been there for decades) turned to a low hum— Liam and Lip helped them shuffle through their belongings in the trash bags, moving the mattress to the center of the room and not even bothering to cover the already-stained hardwood floors with a drop cloth before they coated the studio’s walls in thick layers of paint.

Mickey and Liam were tackling the kitchen, priming the walls in a comfortable silence. Frank’s death had hit Liam pretty hard, and Mickey could only imagine how fucked up it was, to have all the heaviness and all those complicated clumps of emotion that came with Terry dying inside you when you were only a kid— losing a shitty father was almost harder than losing a good one.

But Liam seemed enthusiastic about helping with the renovation efforts— he covered the walls dutifully in multiple coats of primer, ran to the corner store to pick up canned pints of “Burnt Ember,” and even offered Mickey advice on various wallpaper swatches for a feature wall in the studio (which Mickey actually appreciated, because he was still learning all this shit and fuck if he knew what a “feature wall” was or how to make it look good). Liam also gave his review of the various pieces of furniture Mickey had circled in an Ikea catalogue with a black Sharpie. Mickey was flipping through the catalogue, Liam methodically painting a final coat of paint in the kitchen beside him in a comfortable silence, when Mickey tuned in to Lip and Ian’s conversation from where they were painting in the main room.

“So, you guys are really doing this shit, huh? Running the Alibi?”

Ian paused, presumably taking a sip of his beer. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Don’t know, man. The neighborhood’s changing. My bet is the crowds’ll get thinner and thinner.” Lip paused, ripping a paper towel to wipe his hands. “You sure that you and Mick have thought this through?”

Mickey tried to hold back an audible scoff from the kitchen. There were a number of things he could’ve yelled from the other room— for starters, when in the last 12 months had fucking Phillip Gallagher thought anything through— but he decided to hold his tongue, listening for Ian’s reply.

“Jesus, Lip. Yes. We’re already living in the place, not gonna give it up now.”

A pause.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole.”

Mickey could hear Lip twisting open the soda can he’d been drinking from.

“I don’t know, man. It’s my job to care about this shit, isn’t it? I thought Fiona taking over the laundromat was a bad idea, and she still did it anyways.”

Ian gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah.”

The soft tempo of the paint rollers on the wall continued.

“You sure this is what you wanna do with your life?”

Mickey felt that twist in his stomach again— the ice cold one, the feeling of fear that always sunk into his bones in moments like this, when he knew other people saw what he saw: that Ian Gallagher was far, far too good for him, and that all Mickey doing was ensnaring him in the dirty streets of the Southside and holding him back, when everyone else was moving on with their lives into gentrified apartment complexes.

But he’d heard the smile in Ian’s voice as he replied.

“Absolutely.”

Finally, after a long fucking day, Lip and Liam had left the creaky apartment— the place was looking pretty good, the kitchen and the main room both painted, and Lip had even been able to do a bit of work on the plumbing and fixed the leaky sputter of the upstairs bathroom faucet (he had also tried to convince Ian to install some sort of fucking backsplash thing in the kitchen, a multi-day project that they’d both resisted). Now, with Lip and Liam out the door, he and Ian were ready to crash. Mickey strode across the room and opened all the windows as wide as they could possibly go, trying to dispel all the paint fumes and let in gusts of humid summer air so they could collapse on the mattress. They probably could’ve crashed at one of the other Gallaghers’ places for the night if they felt suffocated by the fumes— but for now the light evening breeze was quickly drying the paint, circulating the almost-too-small room.

Across the room Ian flopped onto the mattress, a ridiculous streak of gray paint smeared across his forehead. Mickey smirked, and crawled into bed next to him, sitting so his legs were pressed against Ian’s upper torso.

“I can’t wait to get a fucking bedframe,” Ian breathed out—his face buried in the pillow, his eyelids drooping. “And a new mattress. Not this shitty one with stains all over it.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey smirked, reaching a hand over to card through Ian’s hair.

“Mm.” Ian hummed happily in reply as he kept his eyes closed, probably starting to drift off to sleep.

While was probably a horrible idea— at the very least, Ian should change out of his paint-streaked clothes and wash his fucking face. There were flecks of paint all over his face and in his hair, mingling and dried in his copper curls, from when he and Mickey had gotten into a moderate paint-splattering war like a couple of teenage boys when they were trying to paint the living room walls later in the day. He prodded Ian in his side, who was now laying curled beside him with a dreamy fucking smile on his face.

“Hey. Mumbles. Get the fuck up. You’re gonna fall asleep with that toxic shit all over your face.”

Ian yawned, his nose crinkling. “Don’t care,” he said into the pillow.

“C’mon, Ian.”

And all at once Ian’s eyes were open, and he was crawling his way on top of Mickey, boxing him in with his arms on both sides of Mickey’s head. Mickey felt a gust of air whoosh out of his lungs in surprise—and in an instant he was reminded of when they used to live at the Milkovich house, in his shitty bedroom with far too many bad memories for Ian’s presence to completely tip the scale and outweigh them with the good ones, when Ian would be laying sleepy beside him and they’d get into little wrestling matches and tussles like this, with grips of hair and breathed out “C’mere, army!”s. There was the same energy buzzing between them in this moment—but god, they were so fucking different than they’d been then. They were fuller, more solid; Ian was measured in a way that still made Mickey’s toes curl when he looked at him and compared him to the scrawny and glassy-eyed teenager that he’d been, to the hollow frame he’d been on the worst days when Mickey placed a hand on a too-cold ribcage curled under thin blankets and run a hand through his hair and whispered “please,” trying to will the light back into Ian’s eyes.

But that light was there all the goddamn time now— and it was there right now as Ian dipped down and kissed at Mickey’s neck, Mickey breathing out as a no-longer-sleepy Ian made his way downward.

He guessed Ian could probably just shower all the dried paint out of his hair tomorrow morning.

Tuesday was a blur of getting ready for Ian’s idea to host fucking 80s night, and getting ready for Franny to stay— Mickey had thought the extent of Ian’s plan for this party thing was going to just be playing some tunes and charging a little extra for beers, but apparently Ian wanted to go all out. He’d had Debbie make some sort of poster with a colorful font and stapled them all over random bulletin boards and telephone poles on the Southside, and posted a bunch of shit on her Instagram (which had a weirdly large following because of her whole “hot handywoman” thing, which was still a complete fucking mystery to Mickey). Mickey wasn’t sure that Ian’s plan of throwing a party at their random Southside bar on a Friday night was going to fix all of their financial problems— but hey, if they needed cash then they needed cash. And while Mickey’s preferred way of procuring cash was heading down to the local corner store with a gun stowed at his waistband, for once in his life he was trying to do this shit right. So maybe his goody-two-shoes husband was making him soft (he definitely, definitely fucking was)— but when his jackass ginger giant of a husband looked at him with fucking puppy dog eyes and asked him to go along with this plan, instead of Mickey’s not-quite-joking suggestions that they just rob the bodega two doors over instead to fix all of the Alibi’s money problems, there really wasn’t much that Mickey could do about it.

He and Ian were wiping the bar, Mickey mentally running through the list of shit they had to order to prep for Friday’s crowd, when their phone screens both illuminated with text messages on the bartop.

Debbie (2:34 PM): everyone make sure to post the 80s night flyer on ur socials!!!!

Lip (2:34 PM): What the fuck are socials

Debbie (2:35 PM): 🙄

Debbie (2:35 PM): u aren’t an old man, phillip. instagram, twitter, even facebook for dinosaurs like u🦖

Liam (2:35 PM): 👍👍 Already posted.

Liam (2:36 PM): But I don’t know how useful advertising to a bunch of 11 year olds will be…

Carl (2:36 PM): me and a bunch of the boys r gonna roll through- get ready to rage motherfuckers!!!

Ian (2:37 PM): ❤️❤️

Ian (2:37 PM): Thanks for all your help Debs

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Sappy motherfucker.”

He decided to reply to the groupchat in the way that he knew best:

Mickey (2:37 PM): 🖕

Mickey remembered the first day that he’d been initiated into the Gallagher family group chat, nearly a week after returning from their “honeymoon” in the dingy motel that smelled like mildew and cigarette smoke— he and Ian had been back at the Gallagher house for about a week, sleeping in most long lazy mornings and getting up to… various activities. It was one of those lazy mornings in bed when Ian had gotten decidedly distracted from said activities by the series of notifications that were lighting up Mickey’s phone on the nightstand from the groupchat Gallagher Fam:

Debbie (11:34 AM): the jonas brothers are playing upstairs. everybody take cover

Lip (11:34 AM): Thank god I don’t live there anymore

Debbie (11:35 AM): also welcome to the group chat mickey xoxo

Liam (11:35 AM): Noise-cancelling headphones are on. An excellent investment

Carl (11:35 AM): i’m just seeking shelter & keeping it real in the basement 😎

Mickey had never been part of a fucking family group chat before—he’d barely been involved in any group chats, since the extent of his smartphone use before prison was nonexistent, and he’d relied on burner phones to do all of Terry’s shady bidding after he got out of jail up until the wedding. He’d used some of their wedding cash to get himself an iPhone—even though he barely fucking knew how to use it half the time, except for shitty multiplayer games he and Ian liked to mess around with— but he’d barely had an excuse to text anyone except Sandy about various wedding logistics, and obviously Ian.

But now he was crashing with Ian’s family, and he and Ian were fucking married, and he was a part of this shit for real— it was group chat official. Which strangely felt all the more real, even though Mickey already had a fucking ring on his finger. And he’d never tell a fucking soul, not even Ian, but it made something warm pool in his stomach— to have siblings to fucking banter with about who ate the last of the potato chips, or who could pick Franny up from school, or whining about whoever was making too much noise, in the same ways he and Mandy and his brother used to get on each other’s fucking nerves.

Ian smiled down at his phone at Mickey’s reply to Debbie’s nudge about the posters. “Excellent contribution. Thanks for showing Debs how grateful you are.”

Mickey brought his emoji to life and flipped Ian off. “You’re welcome.”

Ian bit at his thumbnail, looking down at his phone. “Debbie says she can get us a karaoke machine for Friday. That might be kind of fun, right?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Whatever you think, man. It’s your idea.”

Ian started tapping away at his phone, and Mickey turned back to tidying the bar, the rows and columns of those fucking black binders from the Alibi’s storeroom still lingering in the murky corners of his mind. He didn’t want to blow too much money on this shit— he had no idea how much a karaoke machine costed, but it probably wasn’t cheap. Why the fuck couldn’t they just steal one? Mickey gritted his teeth. He could crunch numbers any day, could make enough bank to stay afloat— but something about this, about running a fully legit business, was making him start to feel like he was being pulled underwater.

Mickey stayed tense the rest of the day, feeling like a bundle of fucking nerves without really knowing why— there was just so much going on, between moving and painting and Ian’s nervous excitement at planning this event bullshit. They’d both stumbled through the slow day at the bar, and now were collapsed in bed for the evening; Mickey was scrolling through various furniture store websites, weighing their options, while Ian was curled next to him, talking about something in a low voice that Mickey wasn’t really paying attention to.

“Sorry, what?”

Ian breathed out and smirked. “Nevermind. You weren’t listening.”

Mickey scrubbed a hand down his face. “Sorry, man. Just distracted.”

“Why’re you distracted?”

“Just thinking about all this shit. Furniture shopping, unpacking, whatever.”

Ian smiled. “Yeah? We can probably just pick stuff out when we go in person, we don’t have to overthink it.”

Mickey blew out a breath. “Yeah. Guess so.” He stretched his arms over his head— when the fuck did his shoulders get so tight?

“You ready for bed?”

“Yeah. I’ll grab the light.”

Mickey stood to pull the string for the bare lightbulb hanging directly above them, then thudded onto his stomach on the mattress. Immediately he heard Ian rustling under the sheets, moving closer to him, and eventually lifting on his arms to hover over Mickey’s back.

“The fuck’re you doing?”

“Relax, Mick. Just take a deep breath. Lemme take care of you.”

Mickey blew a breath out of his mouth into the pillow. “Not in the mood right now, Ian. I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Not like that— just lemme make your shoulders hurt less, at least.”

Mickey could feel Ian’s hot breath on the back of his neck as Ian settled, sitting back on Mickey’s upper thighs and leaning over him. He ran his hands along Mickey’s upper shoulders, delicately rubbing his thumbs up and down near his spine and trying to work at the permanent knots there.

“R’you giving me a fucking massage?” Mickey mumbled the words into the pillow, letting his eyelids droop. It did feel pretty fucking good, if he was being honest—the tension was draining from where he’d been holding it in his shoulders all week long, absorbing the impact of all the changes swirling around them and trying to keep them both afloat.

“Mm.” Ian hummed in reply, working his hands down to Mickey’s lower back and digging his thumbs in right where there were bundles of dull pain. Mickey almost flinched—not because it hurt, really, but because Ian’s fingertips gliding across his skin felt so fucking good.

He remembered the first 17 years of his life, the years when he’d been touch-starved without even realizing it, when the only touches his nerve-endings knew were high-impact beat downs and fists connecting with his jawbone. Milkoviches didn’t fucking hug, aside from a casual slap on the shoulder or side-hug when one of them was released from juvie—and even after he and Ian got together it took fucking forever to know what being held, what being gently touched, felt like. Those first few times when Ian had dragged his fingers over Mickey’s hipbones when they were fucking made Mickey nearly shudder, his nerve endings sparking like goddamn fireworks; and he couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. It was like his body was going on alert, like there was an invader breaching and he was always used to bracing for impact; but despite himself, all Mickey wanted was more— all he wanted was to press his cheek to Gallagher’s fucking jawbone and just keep it there and breathe in the scent of him, absorbing the warmth of his skin.

He still wasn’t totally used to this shit, the luxury of a warm body next to his after those years in a narrow prison cot, and on the run— but as he drifted off to sleep, his shoulders now unclenched and Ian’s warm, sturdy limbs circled around him, he thanked god, if god even did fucking exist anyways, that living in the shitty apartment over the Alibi was where he ended up in his life right now, with Ian by his side.

The next evening, just as the sun was setting pink outside the windows and Mickey was finishing up organizing everything behind the bar, Debbie towed Franny into the main room of the Alibi, wearing some sort of pink frilly shirt and carrying a kid-sized backpack with her pajamas and toothbrush inside.

“Thanks for watching Franny tonight, you guys are the best!” Debbie had barely set foot in the door before she was out it again and letting it swing shut behind her. Seconds later, Mickey could hear the distinct roaring of a too-expensive car engine coming from the street outside the bar.

Ian peered out the front window to inspected Heidi’s ride. “Jesus. It’s some sort of Ferrari convertible.” He scooped up Franny’s backpack from the floor, slinging the comically small bag onto his broad shoulders as he crouched to give Franny a hug. “Hey Fran, it’s so good to see you!”

“I missed you, Uncle Ian!” Franny enthusiastically squeezed Ian back.

Ian pressed a peck to the top of her head. “Missed you too. We’ve gotta have a talk with your mommy when she gets back about child road safety. That Ferrari was noticeably lacking a car seat.”

“Uncle Mickey!!!” Franny nearly squealed as she spotted Mickey behind the bar, running up and trying to jump up onto a stool so she could reach him. Ian laughed and lifted Franny so she was perched on a stool, her legs dangling as she reached forward. Mickey reached out an arm to fist-bump Franny, the best he could do with the bartop between them.

“Hey there, Little Red. Missed ya.”

Franny immediately looked Mickey up and down, like she was assessing if he’d changed at all since she last saw him. Her brows furrowed—then finally she spoke.

“Uncle Mickey, I have a question.”

Mickey reached across the bar to ruffle her hair. “What’s up, kid?”

She paused. “Can I rip the sleeves off my shirt too, like you?”

Mickey chuckled in surprise. He was wearing one of his flannel tank-tops with the arms ripped off—a white trash summer look in every way. “Let’s see what we can do. I think Uncle Ian’s got some old shirts packed upstairs that we can mess around with.”

Luckily, the bar was totally empty for the evening, aside from their three or four regulars— so Ian and Franny got to go upstairs and play dress-up while Mickey dealt with shit at the bar for an hour or so, deciding they’d close early so they could pay attention to Franny.

“Hey, Mick! We’ve got a surprise for you.” Ian’s voice wafted down from the back stairway that led up to the apartment.

“What’s up?”

“One sec. Stay downstairs.” Mickey could hear two sets of pattering footsteps coming down the staircase—and Franny dashed into the room, wearing a very baggy white tank top that reached her knees and an oversized flannel with the sleeves ripped off, an exact replica of Mickey’s outfit.

“Look, Uncle Mickey! I have an outfit like you! Now we can play liquor store robbery.” She looked at him seriously—then her face contorted, her brows furrowed and her lip sticking out in a face that Ian had taken to calling the “Milkovich scowl,” a trait that Franny had adopted in her many hours of playing “robbers” in the backyard with Mickey with her fake guns he’d gotten her for her birthday.

“Gimme all of your money!”

Mickey chuckled, and threw his hands up in surrender. “You got me, Wonder Woman.”

Ian walked towards the bar, lifting Franny up so she was perched on the countertop. “You like Franny’s new look? She was pretty insistent about wearing the tank top too.”

But Franny was still peering over at Mickey, like something had caught her eye.

“Uncle Mickey, can I have drawings on my fingers too? Like you? All the real robbers on TV have those.”

This time it was Ian who was laughing. “Oh my god. Debbie’s gonna kill us. If Franny gets knuckle tattoos by the time she’s seventeen, I’m blaming you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Ain’t nothing wrong with family tradition. Fuck you.”

Ian tapped his fingers on the counter. “Wait, I have an idea. Franny, wait here.” Ian rushed upstairs, and came back down holding the black Sharpie that had Mickey had been using to circle pictures in the Ikea catalogue.

“Here, hold out your hand Fran.”

Franny held out her hand for Ian to hold—and he started to draw blocky letters between each of her knuckles. When he finished, he held Franny’s hand up for Mickey to see the doodled serifs, smiling sheepishly.

“L T T L R E D ♡”

Mickey grinned. “Now you’re a real robber, Rockstar.” Franny looked at her hands and smiled contentedly, running her thumb over the letters.

“L. T. T. L. I know all these letters. They’re different from Uncle Mickey’s. Mommy said his say ‘fuck.’”

Ian snorted. “Yeah, you get your own special letters Franny. They say ‘little red.’”

Franny beamed. “That’s what Uncle Mickey calls me!”

“You got it, kiddo.”

The rest of the afternoon involved many rounds of playing “liquor store robbery,” and Ian lifting up Franny to “help” behind the bar by pulling the lever of the beer tap— and by the early evening, when even fucking Kermit and Tommy had gone, Ian had the idea to make a fort out of the leftover empty inventory boxes, and Franny had repeatedly busted through the tower of boxes and shouted “Put your hands in the air!” as she pretended to blow up fictional liquor store walls.

Now it was late and they were all upstairs—Franny had crashed after dinnertime, after bouncing on the bed with a sugar high from the Poptarts Mickey had snuck her after dinner (to supplement some bullshit pasta thing that Ian had forced Mickey to feed her, even though he never remembered wanting to eat that shit when he was five— he practically lived on Honey Buns and pork rinds from the nearby gas station).

They still didn’t have furniture, and at one point they’d perched on the mattress so Mickey could show Franny videos of monster trucks on his phone— and now Franny was totally passed out against Mickey’s chest, breathing those raspy, loud breaths kids make when they’re deeply asleep.

Ian came in the room from the semi-divided wall of the kitchen, wiping his hands after finishing rinsing the dishes (two plates, and a bowl that Franny ate from because they’d only swiped two of everything from the Gallagher house last week); and Mickey saw Ian’s lips curve upward in a knowing smile as he noticed Franny curled in the bedsheets, half-leaning on Mickey’s chest. Franny and Mickey were smack in the middle of the mattress, taking up most of the room; but Ian crouched to sit on the edge of the mattress beside Mickey, hooking his chin on Mickey’s shoulder casually as he peered over at Franny, still wearing her oversized flannel and smudged knuckle tattoos.

“Guess our babysitting duties are over.” He breathed out, trying not to unsettle Franny’s steady breathing. “Hope we didn’t corrupt her too much.”

Mickey scoffed. “Debbie’s dating someone who’s more of a fuck-up than we’ll ever be. Don’t think the ball’s really in our court on that one.”

“Fair.”

Franny scrunched her nose in her sleep, sighing out heavily before nestling deeper into the bedsheets.

“I kinda missed her, man.”

Mickey was surprised by the words as he heard them coming out of his mouth— they were true, but he hadn’t even voiced them to himself until now. As shitty as he’d always been with kids, he had to admit that goofing around with Franny was pretty fucking fun.

Ian smiled from where his mouth was pressed against Mickey’s shoulder. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a silence, the room filled with the soft sound of Franny’s steady breathing. And then:

“Maybe… we’ll have a kid of our own sometime.”

Immediately, Mickey felt his gut lurch. It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about this shit—they definitely had, in the abstract moments before the wedding; before everything blew up in their face and the pandemic took hold and any thought of kids was pushed way, way to the sidelines. And it wasn’t like Mickey was avoiding the topic— but he wasn’t exactly bringing it up, either, and neither was Ian.

Mickey thought back to that moment before the wedding, back to the hushed “you want kids?” Ian had placed between them— and how in that moment Mickey had known how much Ian wanted kids, how much Ian constantly cared for other people, how his voice got all soft and mushy around the edges in the vicinity of a baby. He knew how much Ian wanted this— but even broaching the topic made Mickey’s muscles start to clench.

Mickey tried to keep his cool—even though he felt the tides starting to roll inside of him, threatening to pull him under.

“I’d be a shitty dad, man.”

Ian’s head pulled away from where it had been nestled against the crook of Mickey’s neck—and Mickey turned his head to meet Ian’s piercing gaze.

“No you wouldn’t.” Ian’s voice was soft, surprised.

Mickey swallowed. “What if I like. Beat it. Or—” he cut himself off, knowing his voice was starting to waver.

Ian’s voice was firm when he replied. “You won’t. You’re great with Franny.” Ian paused.” “You were great with Yev.”

And there it was—the other fucking elephant in the room, beside all of Mickey’s other daddy issues; the fact that Mickey already was a father, was forced to be a father against his own will, giving him some sort of complex that he didn’t even have the energy to dig into about the potential of scooping up some kid to raise with Ian…. when there was already one out there with his gene pool that he didn’t want, that he couldn’t want, whose existence was forced onto him at gunpoint and who he didn’t have the strength to take care of.

Mickey felt Ian’s hand, feather light, tracing down his side— pulling him out of the current of his internal monologue. Ian’s hand hooked around his hip; a touch to root him, giving Mickey solid ground to hold on to.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“You’re gonna be a great dad.”

Mickey swallowed down the lump in his throat—and with it he tried to swallow down whatever bullshit was holding him back from letting himself have this. He thought about Ian—despite all his own reservations, he knew Ian must be having the same type of feelings about all of this shit; Ian was the one who had stolen Yev, who had worked so hard to get himself to the person he was today—a stable place where he was allowed to dream about being a parent, allowed to dream about shit like this.

“I hate this.”

Mickey didn’t really know what he was referring to in particular as he said the words—he hated all of this, he hated the churning emotions inside him. He felt so fucking uncomfortable—but that was always the first thing he felt, wasn’t it, when there was something deeper inside? It was the first thing he’d felt when he started to fall for Ian, when he started to realize he much preferred scrawny redheads to the busty figures with long hair; the pushing and heaving of no no no from somewhere in his ribcage, because he knew how much letting himself have this was going to hurt, how much shit he was going to have to wade through.

But he’d fucking done it—and look where he was now: Ian curled against his back, their fucking niece sound asleep beside him.

“Hey.” Ian’s voice was soft, nearly tickling Mickey’s ears. “There’s no rush for any of this shit. I’m just talking about… big picture. Eventually. When we’ve got all our shit settled.”

There it was again—that word, the one Ian had been saying all the time lately, the one that had been radiating out of his pores. Settled.

Mickey clearing his throat, trying to dispel the huskiness he knew would be there when he spoke. “Yeah. Maybe someday.”

He looked down at his hands. He knew that saying that wasn’t enough— Ian had to know how much he meant it.

“I— I wanna give you that shit. Someday.”

Mickey knew that was still an inadequate expression of everything he was feeling, of how much he wished he could just race carefreely into making fucking forts and playing dress-up with a kid of their own; but he also knew that for tonight, Ian understood. He knew in the way Ian pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw, and said into the silence of the room:

“You’re so fucking good at taking care of people, Mick.”

Mickey let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. They were going to do this—someday.

“You know… now that we’ve got our own place.” Ian’s voice trailed off.

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Well— we could be good millennials and start with a dog. Y’know, as a practice run. Get your fucking Milkovich pit bulls or whatever.”

Mickey instantly felt whatever remaining tense energy that had been clinging to him dissipate. He felt a grin creep onto his face. “Hell yeah. I’m in.”

Ian pecked his shoulder. “Cool. We can check out shelters sometime next week.”

Mickey shook his head, still smiling in relief. “A pit bull, I can handle. We’re gonna treat her like a fucking princess. Who needs kids anyways?”

Ian smiled back. “The first step in starting our own Southside family.”

Mickey’s insides instantly got warm and gushy at the words— and again, it was that mix of no no no and you don’t deserve this alongside something deeper, something more solid. He tried to do what Ian always told him to do, in the moments that he felt like this: he forced a breath in, forced himself to expand his ribcage. He forced himself to think:

You deserve this.

The next day had been uneventful, other than Franny’s tearful goodbye— and now it was the early afternoon on Friday, far too early for any sort of rush. Once again only Tommy and fucking Kermit were seated at the bar, but today he and Ian were barely paying attention to them, despite Tommy’s halfhearted attempts to drag Mickey into some sort of bullshit banter (as much as Tommy said he preferred silence at the bar, everyone knew that was a lie. Why the fuck else would be have been coming here every day for the last eleven years?).

Today, Ian had dragged a chalkboard out from the clutter of the dingy back closet of the Alibi, a sandwich board meant to be placed on the curb to promote the bar that looked like it had hardly been used. Ian continued to shuffle through the various boxes in the back room, making a shit ton of noise, until he finally found whatever else he’d been looking for.

“Aha!”

He held up a bent cardboard box of multicolor sidewalk chalk— half empty, and half broken, but it would get the job done.

He strode over to the bar, laying the chalkboard on it— then turned to Mickey, folding his arms in front of him.

“Alright, bartender extraordinaire. What drinks should we make for 80s night?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, puffing out a breath. “I don’t fucking know. Most of the guys who come in on Fridays just drink beer. We don’t gotta overcomplicate shit.”

Ian pressed his lips together, contemplative and looking down at the blank canvas of the chalkboard. “I’m not saying we should force out the regulars, because that’s definitely not what we’re going for with the event— but it’d be nice to have a couple of new things, in case the new people in the neighborhood do some by. Nothing too fancy or frilly or whatever.”

Ian dug in the cardboard box, plucking out a piece of chalk.

“And we should make our own signature drinks anyways, since we’re taking over the place. Make our mark on the Alibi.” He grinned. “Got any fun drink name ideas?”

Mickey rolled his eyes again, and felt the corners of his lips turn upwards in an amused smile against his will, thawing. “I don’t fuckin’ know.”

Ian continued smiling. “How about… the Milkovich Mojito.”

Mickey puffed out a breath of air, shoving Ian in the chest and furrowing his brows. “No fucking way.”

Ian just waggled his eyebrows. “C’mon, we own the place. It’ll just be a mojito with a shit ton of rum, only enough for someone with Milkovich-level tolerance. People will think it’s funny.”

Mickey felt his eyebrows lift upwards a bit, and he could see from the expression on Ian’s face that he’d lost this one. “Fine.”

Ian smirked, penciling in “Milkovich Mojito” on the chalkboard and drawing a little design around it. Mickey forgot how good Ian was at this— at the little details like this, at making shit look nice.

Ian rose from where he was hunched over the chalkboard when his masterpiece was completed, hands on his hips. “Alright. What else?”

Mickey shrugged. “I don’t know. How about ‘just fucking beer’?”

Ian laughed, and a warm feeling pooled in Mickey’s stomach despite himself. “Yeah. We should spell that out on the menu, so people know that’s our standard.” He leaned to write “JUST FUCKING BEER” on the chalkboard, drawing a little cartoon beer stein with foam on the top next to it. Mickey reached out, smudging a bit of the chalk of the drawing to annoy Ian, just because he could.

Ian swatted his arm away. “Hey! No touching the masterpiece.” He drew over the part Mickey smudged as best he could, biting his lip in concentration. Fuckin’ dork.

Ian stood tall again, admiring the finished product. “There. One more?”

Mickey shrugged again, feeling utterly out of ideas. He could balance a budget, sure, but he was useless with all the creative shit like this.

Ian bit his lip again, thinking. “What’re even mixed drinks people like? Sex on the beach?”

Mickey smirked. “There ain’t a lot of beaches in Chicago, man.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess it’s more like ‘sex behind a dumpster.’ Or ‘sex on your twin bed at your family’s house.’”

Mickey grinned, catching Ian’s drift. “Sex in the dugouts.”

Ian laughed, then made a little gesture with his hands like inspiration had struck. “Mick, I think we have our final drink name.” He turned to write it on the chalkboard.

“What the fuck are we gonna put in it? Just a fuckin’ lukewarm beer?”

Ian smirked, looking off dreamily. “Ah, memories.”

Mickey prodded him in the sternum. “You’re a fucking sap.” He shoved Ian over. “Here, let me write this one.” He took the chalk from Ian’s hand. “No peeking.”

He scratched on the chalkboard for a moment, then stood back to reveal his work. “Ta-da.”

In scratchy handwriting, not unlike the “STAY THE FUCK OUT” sign that used to be taped to his door, read “SEX IN THE DUGOUTS”—and next to it was two drawings, of a cartoon dick and two stick figures fucking doggy-style.

Ian grinned wide. “It’s perfect. Definitely captures the vibe of the new owners.”

Mickey just smiled back.

It was 6 p.m. now, and the bar was just about ready—Ian had compulsively swept the floor during the lull in the afternoon, even though it would be dirtied and scuffed within seconds of the usual Friday blue-collar crowd streaming in through the doors, and Mickey was perched on a stool at the end of the bar, laboring over his playlist. He usually didn’t overthink this shit— he’d included all the classics, from Bon Jovi to Queen to fucking Cyndi Lauper, but there was something so public about he and Ian running this thing now, and about throwing a loud event to proclaim it, that make Mickey’s stomach start to do somersaults for some reason as the first huddled crowd of Southsiders shuffled their way in through the door.

The bar did look good— Ian had got some sort of lighting gels to put over the lamps in the Alibi, and the room’s lighting was tinted a suave blue color, making the small space feel a little hipper, a little cooler, while still retaining its comforting dingy feel. It almost reminded Mickey of the soft, colorful lighting in that random Westside bar they’d gotten engaged in, with the shitty overpriced beer and the sparkly fucking lights when they’d watched that god-awful harp band with Barry or whatever the fuck his name was— but the lighting here looked cooler, more deliberate, and cast a calculated glow across the room that added to the vibe. The bass was thrumming low through the speakers Ian had rented from somewhere— right now it was just playing some mellow Joy Division song as people continued streaming into the bar.

Ian had crept upstairs at some point, probably to change out of whatever sweaty t-shirt he’d been wearing all day; and Mickey saw a flash of red hair emerging from the stairway now, turning the corner to stride into the dark room.

“Hey! Oh my god, it’s great to see you guys!”

Immediately Ian was swept away by some group of people in their mid-twenties near the swinging door that led to the back of the bar, who were chattering away about how they’d seen the poster on Debbie’s Instagram or some shit. Mickey assumed they were some people Ian had known when he’d been locked up, one of the unfamiliar faces from their wedding that got involved with Ian’s “Gay Jesus” bullshit—and as much as Mickey knew Ian’s relationship with those figures from a very different time in his life was complicated to say the least, it was nice to see Ian leaning comfortably against the bar, chatting away with someone that wasn’t him or Lip— chatting with friends. Looking settled.

Mickey smirked, knowing his gaze was lingering for too long when Ian locked eyes with him from across the bar, tilting his head towards the stairway. Giving Mickey a chance to go upstairs, to freshen up, to take a deep breath if he wanted to.

Fuck it. Mickey strode across the bar, heading upstairs to the quiet sanctuary of the studio and its fresh-painted walls. He shuffled through the various shirts and baggy jeans that were now in their designated-clothes-pile in the corner of the room, at least until they got a dresser and hangers and all that shit. He decided to peel off his sweaty tank top and change into a blue Hawaiian-print shirt, the one he’d swiped from the laundry room at the yuppie fucking Westside apartment complex before he’d burned that bridge, to amp himself up and fit the vibe downstairs. The shirt was only a little bit creased from being shoved in a pile in the corner of the room, which felt like a bonus— and Mickey smoothed a hand through his hair and fixed the collar of the shirt as he caught his own eye in the cracked bathroom mirror. There weren’t lots of times Mickey really gave a shit about what he wore—he and Ian pretty much lived in tank tops and boxers at home, and tank tops and denim at the bar especially on hot fucking days like these ones— but he had to admit that it did feel pretty nice to put on a shirt with a collar, a shirt with bright colors and patterns on it that, fuck it, he knew made his eyes pop—just because he wanted to have fun, just because he could.

He ruffled his hair one last time, then clomped back down the back staircase towards the light chatter swirling in the room below. Immediately he noticed the line at the bar starting to grow, and walked with intention over to behind the bar to start taking orders from a mixed sea of regulars and younger, new faces.

“Looking pretty festive there, Mick.”

Mickey held up a middle finger to where Tommy was seated on his usual stool. “Fuck you. I look hot and you know it.”

“You definitely do.” Ian slid behind him, speaking low into Mickey’s ear and his hands gliding to bracket Mickey’s waist for a moment as he shuffled by to pass a beer to a customer, then walked to the end of the bar and start to take more orders without a glance back. Mickey felt his neck flush red, just for a second— Ian was always just saying shit like that, about how good Mickey was, whenever he looked nice. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.

After a few hours the party was fully humming, and both he and Ian could barely glance up from the bar because of how many people were streaming through and placing their orders. Courtesy of Debbie, a karaoke machine was up and running in the corner of the room, the speakers blasting a series of poppy instrumentals across the small space—and as much as Mickey hated to admit it, he had to say that this event bullshit was actually a pretty fucking good idea. There were a handful of new faces in the crowd, a bunch of fucking millennials with man-buns and Ray-Bans and brimmed hats; but most of the crowd was the typical neighborhood crew, blue-collar workers with beer guts who were dropping slightly more money than their usual tab on an extra beer, and walking sloshed to the corner of the room to serenade their buddies with “Livin’ on a Prayer” (which made Ian stare across the bar at Mickey with a knowing smile between pouring drink orders).

At some point in the evening Debbie rolled in with a group of people from some gay bar she’d been pregaming her evening at, and Carl came by with some of his cop buddies; and all in all, the place had all the makings of a good fucking party. Which meant they were making good cash—beyond the wads of bills left on the bartop as tips, all the millennial jokers filtering through the space were surprisingly biting on the overpriced cocktails Ian had concocted, and they were racking up a good profit as the night went on.

Maybe they could fucking run this place after all.

Right now, a very sloshed Debbie was singing on the karaoke machine in the corner, belting out the final verse of “I Will Always Love You” and practically eye-fucking her new Grand Theft Auto girlfriend— an image that Mickey was trying not to pay attention to at all costs as he scanned the room, trying to mentally calculate just how well they’d done for the night. There’d been a good crowd streaming in for hours— and now the numbers were finally dwindling, and at last he and Ian could finally slow their pace for a bit, instead of being pulled in a million goddamn directions to wipe up beer spills or clear tables or refill the ice cubes in the freezer.

“Heeeyyyyy everyone! Listen up!” Debbie’s muffled voice took over the fade of the final chords of the song, her mouth a little too close to the microphone and making it screech as she spoke out to the crowd in the bar. “I just wanna say a shoutout to Ian and Mickey for taking over the Alibi! And for being the heroes that kept this place alive!” She teetered slightly. “Southside forever!”

Mickey scowled, and locked eyes with an amused Ian across the bar. “Control your fucking sister, man.”

Ian shrugged. “Eh. She’s the one that helped plan half this shit. Let Debs have some fun.”

Debbie pointed a finger over to where Ian and Mickey were standing behind the bar. “Everyone give them a round of applause! C’mon, they deserve it! C’mon!”

There were a couple of chuckles from the crowd, at Debbie’s deeply inebriated state as she tried to put the microphone back in its stand and drag herself away from the small TV showing song lyrics— but then, one by one, people at the bar started to clap— regulars, random newcomers, and even Tommy gave a little whoop as the cheers grew louder and louder and started to erupt.

Mickey just rolled his eyes, but Ian straightened his spine and smiled as he addressed the crowd. “Couldn’t have done it without all of you guys!” He wiped his hands with a towel, and went back to wiping down the bar as the applause settled.

Just then, Debbie turned and fumbled to grab the microphone once more. “Wait! Ian, Mickey! Come up here and sing a song.”

If Mickey thought he was scowling the first time Debbie had stumbled her way into the mic, now he was on a whole different level. He flashed a glance to Ian, and saw the sappy grin starting to grow on his face, like it always did when Ian had some dumbass idea. Jesus Christ.

Mickey needed to pump the brakes on this one fast. “No fucking way, Gallagher.”

Ian stepped closer to Mickey, reaching a placating hand onto his elbow. “C’mon, Mick. It’ll be fun.” Ian raised his eyebrows— and his stupid fucking eyes were shining again, doing that fucking thing where Mickey could feel in his bones that Ian was so ridiculously happy that they got to do sappy, mundane shit like this together…

Mickey blew out a breath. “I gotta do a shot or some shit before we do this.”

Ian’s grin grew ten sizes as he dropped the towel hanging from his shoulder onto the bar and swiftly turned to pour Mickey a shot of Jameson. Mickey’s frown deepened as he lifted his head back to pour the liquid fire down the back of his throat, bracing himself for battle; of course his stupid fucking American-Idol-wannabe husband couldn’t resist a call to do goddamn karaoke. Mickey blamed himself—he should’ve known Ian anywhere in the 1-mile radius of a karaoke machine would inevitably be a recipe for disaster.

Ian strode past the length of the bar and toward the corner of the Alibi where the illuminated screen of the karaoke machine was sitting there waiting— Mickey trudged behind him, shooting a glance at where Tommy and Kermit were seated on their regular stools.

“You two are in charge of the bar for 2 fucking minutes. Don’t fuck this up.” Kermit raised his hands in surrender, and Tommy just raised an eyebrow.

Ian was already punching at the little arrows on the machine. “What song d’you wanna do?”

“I could give less than a fuck, man. This is your fucking idea.”

Ian just flashed him a grin as he scrolled through the preselected song options. “Here, let’s do this one.”

He handed Mickey a microphone, and reached over to grab the second mic from Debbie’s hand (who was now successfully being corralled back to a booth by Heidi).

Instantly, the techno intro rhythms to the song began—and Ian started bobbing his head, causing the onlookers at the bar to laugh and one person to whistle. Mickey just shoved his upper arm.

“I fucking hate you so much.”

Ian just raised his eyebrows, and in a very off-key voice, started to sing:

“You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar

When I met you

I picked you out, I shook up and turned you around

Turned you into someone new”

Mickey felt his heart thudding in his chest—and fuck that. He owned the fucking bar, he could fucking sing with his goddamn husband if he wanted to. Fuck whatever everyone else was thinking.

So when the first verse ended, and quickly streamed into the second, Mickey clutched the microphone and half-spoke, half-sang the illuminated words on the screen:

“Now five years later on you’ve got the world at your feet

Success has been so easy for you

But don’t forget it’s me who put you where you are now

And I can put you back down too”

Ian’s grin was splitting across his face— and once again Mickey had to reach out and prod him in the chest.

“Stop looking so fucking sappy!”

Ian just held the microphone in both of his hands, and playfully started to sing the chorus:

“Don't

Don't you want me?

You know I can't believe it

When I hear that you won't see me”

He looked over at Mickey, raising his eyebrows. “C’mon, Mick!”

Fuck it.

Mickey swallowed down whatever lingering… feelings were happening about all of this shit, and let the people watching them melt away, fading into the hazy blue lighting— because fuck all those assholes, anyways. He and Ian had been through way too much shit in the main room of the Alibi for Mickey to be afraid of doing fucking karaoke right now; he’d literally come out to his dad in these four walls. He’d had his face bashed in the moment he decided right here, rooted in this same spot on the scuffed hardwood floors, that he would do fucking anything to always be by Ian Gallagher’s side. So he squeezed his eyes shut, just for a second— and pretended it was just him and Ian, singing fucking Lady Gaga in their bathroom as they brushed their teeth (which, yes, they had been prone to do since Chromatica came out, fucking sue him)— and let himself actually sing, deep from his gut in the same goofy, lighthearted way that Ian was doing along with him:

“Don’t you want me baby?

Don’t you want me? Oh!

Don’t you want me baby?

Don’t you want me? Oh!”

Ian’s face was slightly flushed, still grinning from ear to ear, his eyes shining as he bobbed his head along with the music— and as they both finished singing the chorus, everyone in the bar started to lose their shit. Everyone was clapping and whistling; even some of the old regulars Mickey had pegged as homophobes a long time ago were cracking smiles through their scraggly beards and clapping their hands together.

When the song finally ended, Ian took a dramatic bow— then he took Mickey’s hand, clasping it and raising it over their heads. The applause and cheers erupted from the crowd, and someone yelled out:

“Let’s hear it for the new owners!”

After that, for the rest of the night Mickey loosened the fuck up— and maybe it was the couple of shots in his system, or maybe it was the fact that there weren’t that many people in the bar now at all except for a thin crowd of familiar faces— but he was feeling happy and warm as he milled through the crowd picking up empty glasses. At some point Debbie switched up the playlist to more dance-y stuff, causing her and Heidi to start spinning in the middle of the room, and a couple others to push the bar tables to the side and follow suit.

And now, people were dancing—and some random middle-aged neighborhood lady grabbed Mickey by the wrist, a smile on her face, to come dance with them—and usually Mickey would scowl and say “Fuck no” to dancing with some random fucking stranger in a situation like this, but he was feeling the blood rushing through his veins, feeling fucking settled—so for just this once, he decided to dance like a fucking goof in his Hawaiian shirt with the random lady for a while, til he locked eyes with where Ian was standing across the bar.

And maybe they were supposed to be paying attention, because they were still the ones running the fucking bar— but all Mickey wanted to do in that moment was walk across the room and press himself closer, closer, and reach his hand up to the side of Ian’s neck, and drag him to lean down to just the right height to press their lips together, to feel the warmth between them.

So that’s what he did, in the midst of the whirring of their neighbors and strangers in the Alibi around them.

We don’t have to run anymore.

#finally finished!!!#not rly proofread lol #yes it is almost 10k oops #i am actually rly proud of completing this chap i hope u enjoy #i love u all so so much i cannot get over how many amazing hcs i feel lucky to have included in this!#gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #gallavich fanfiction #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #lip gallagher #liam gallagher #ian and mickey #ian x mickey #ixm

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