gallavich

the light in the milkovich kitchen was always shitty, a flickering yellow bulb that made everything look greasier than it actually was, but today it was doing ian a favor. it highlighted the jagged, dark purple bloom right under mickey’s jawline, a mark so deep it looked like a literal thumbprint pressed into soft fruit. ian sat at the rickety table, nursing a lukewarm beer, and watched as mickey moved around the kitchen.

mickey was wearing a threadbare white tank top that had seen better decades. it didn't hide a single thing. his neck was a roadmap of ian’s teeth and lips—mottled shades of violet, angry red, and that sickly greenish-yellow that meant the bruise was deep. there was a particularly nasty one right on his collarbone, peeking out from the strap of his shirt, and another behind his ear where ian had bitten him until mickey had made that specific, choked-off sound that ian lived for.

mickey was currently trying to find a clean glass, completely oblivious—or at least, acting like it. he looked like he’d been dragged behind a truck, but he was just grumbling about mandy not doing the dishes.

"you're staring, gallagher," mickey muttered, finally settling for a plastic cup and filling it with tap water. "the fuck is your problem? you look like you're trying to do math in your head. stop it, it's weird."

"nothing," ian said, his eyes tracking the way mickey’s throat moved when he swallowed. the hickey there shifted with the muscle. "just thinking."

"well, don't. you'll sprain something," mickey retorted, leaning against the counter.

he didn't even try to pull his collar up. he didn't check the mirror. he just stood there, looking like a marked man, and didn't give a single flying fuck. it should have been satisfying, but for some reason, the lack of acknowledgment was starting to grate on ian’s nerves. ian wanted him to feel it. he wanted mickey to look in the mirror and see ian’s property line drawn in bruises.

the back door kicked open and mandy walked in, followed by lip. they both stopped dead the second they looked at mickey. lip let out a low, impressed whistle, while mandy just wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"jesus, mick," lip said, pointing a finger at his own neck. "you let a stray dog into your bed or did you actually get into a fight with a vacuum cleaner?"

mickey didn't even blink. he just took another sip of his water. "fuck off, lip."

"no, seriously," mandy added, tossing her bag on the table. "it looks disgusting. it looks like you have the plague. put a hoodie on or something, you're embarrassing the family."

"i said fuck off," mickey repeated, his voice flat and bored. "i'm not putting on a hoodie in ninety-degree weather because you're a prude. go worry about your own neck."

"i'm just saying," lip grinned, glancing at ian who was suddenly very interested in the label on his beer bottle. "whoever did that was trying to claim territory. i haven't seen that much purple since the last time frank fell down the stairs."

mickey shrugged, a casual, jerky movement of his shoulders that made the marks on his collarbone dance. "whoever did it can suck my dick. it's just skin. get over it."

ian felt a sharp prick of irritation in his chest. *it’s just skin.*

they left it at that for a while, but the tension followed them as the day bled into evening. they ended up in mickey’s room, the air thick and stagnant, the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap laundry detergent clinging to the walls. mickey was sitting on the edge of the bed, fiddling with a butterfly knife, flipping it open and shut with practiced ease.

ian was standing by the window, watching him. "you didn't care what they said."

mickey didn't look up. "why would i? they’re idiots."

"lip was right, though," ian said, his voice dropping an octave. "about the territory."

mickey finally looked up, his blue eyes cold and mocking. he snapped the knife shut. "the fuck are you talking about? territory? i'm not a fucking dog park, gallagher."

"you know what i mean," ian stepped closer, his shadow falling over mickey. "i put those there. i marked you. and you act like they aren't even there. you act like it doesn't mean anything."

mickey let out a harsh, dry laugh. he stood up, getting right into ian’s space, his chest nearly touching ian’s. "it don't mean anything. it’s a bruise. i get 'em at the warehouse, i get 'em in fights, i get 'em when you decide to get all bitey. it’s just color on skin, ian. don't go making it some romantic bullshit."

"it's not romantic," ian snapped, grabbing mickey by the front of his tank top. "it's about you being mine. it’s about everyone seeing that you belong to me."

mickey’s face hardened. his defense mechanisms, usually a wall of iron, spiked. he hated feeling owned. he hated the vulnerability that came with the idea of belonging to anyone, especially a gallagher, especially when his father was probably in the next room over or passed out in the yard.

"i don't belong to nobody," mickey spat, his voice a low hiss. "you think because you suck my dick and leave a couple marks that you own me? you're delusional. i'm my own man. it’s not like i’m yours."

the words hit ian like a physical blow. *it’s not like i’m yours.*

it was the ultimate lie, the one mickey used to protect himself from the terrifying reality that he would actually die for the ginger kid standing in front of him. but ian wasn't in the mood for subtext. he was tired of the hiding, the shrugging, the "fuck offs" that covered up the truth. he wanted the truth. he wanted submission.

ian’s grip on mickey’s shirt tightened, and he shoved him back slightly. his eyes were dark, his jaw set in a way that usually meant trouble.

"knees," ian said.

mickey blinked, his bravado faltering for a split second before he masked it with a sneer. "the fuck? what did you just say to me?"

"i said knees," ian repeated, his voice dead calm and dangerously low. "get on your knees, mickey."

"fuck you," mickey barked, though he didn't move to push ian away. "i'm not doing shit. you think you can just order me around because you're pissed off? you're lucky i don't knock your teeth out."

ian didn't move. he just glared, his gaze heavy and unwavering, boring into mickey’s soul. he knew mickey. he knew that behind the shouting and the threats, mickey was a creature of habit and hidden desires. he knew that mickey liked it when ian took control, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

"knees," ian said for the third time, a command, not a request.

mickey stared at him, his chest heaving. he looked like he wanted to swing. he looked like he wanted to scream. but then, his eyes flickered down to the floor and back up to ian’s face. he saw the determination there, the raw, unfiltered need for acknowledgment.

mickey rolled his eyes, a dramatic, jerky motion to save face. "you're a fucking psycho, you know that? a literal ginger nutcase."

but he did it.

he slowly lowered himself, his joints popping in the quiet room, until he was kneeling on the dirty carpet at ian’s feet. he kept his chin up, trying to maintain some semblance of defiance, but the position itself said everything his words wouldn't.

ian looked down at him, his heart hammering against his ribs. mickey looked small like this, but still dangerous, like a caged animal. the bruises on his neck were even more visible from this angle, a violent crown around his throat.

"if you aren't mine," ian whispered, reaching down to cup mickey’s jaw, his thumb brushing over one of the deep purple marks, "then why the fuck are you down there?"

mickey glared at him, his lips pulling back in a snarl that lacked any real bite. "because i'm tired of arguing with you. just get it over with."

"liar," ian said.

he reached for the waistband of his jeans, his eyes never leaving mickey’s. the power shift in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on. mickey reached out, his hands trembling just a fraction as he gripped ian’s thighs, his fingers digging into the denim.

"you think this proves something?" mickey muttered, even as he leaned forward, his forehead resting against ian’s stomach for a brief, vulnerable second before he pulled back. "you think this makes me yours?"

"it's a start," ian said.

he guided mickey’s head forward, and for the next twenty minutes, the only sounds in the room were the wet, messy noises of mickey’s compliance and the heavy, ragged breathing of two boys who didn't know how to say *i love you* without bruising the skin first.

ian watched him the whole time. he watched the way mickey’s eyes stayed fixed on his, the way he took every inch of him as a punishment and a prayer. he watched the marks he’d left on mickey’s neck flush a deeper red with the effort.

when it was over, mickey stayed there for a moment, his breath hitching, his face flushed and damp. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at ian, his eyes glassy and dark.

"you done?" mickey rasped, his voice wrecked.

ian reached down, grabbing mickey’s hair and pulling his head back so their eyes met. he leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to the largest bruise on mickey’s throat. he felt mickey shudder beneath him.

"yeah," ian whispered against his skin. "for now."

mickey stood up, his legs a little shaky, and immediately went back to his "tough guy" routine. he grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and lit it, his hands finally steady.

"whatever," mickey said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "you're still a prick."

but he didn't move away when ian wrapped his arms around him from behind. he didn't protest when ian rested his chin on the shoulder that was covered in bite marks. he just leaned back into the hold, the cigarette dangling from his fingers, and let the silence of the room settle over them.

the marks would fade in a week, replaced by new ones, a never-ending cycle of violet and red. everyone in the south side would see them. lip would make jokes, mandy would roll her eyes, and terry would probably loom in the background like a shadow of violence.

but as ian held him, feeling the steady beat of mickey’s heart against his forearms, he knew. mickey could tell the world to fuck off all he wanted. he could pretend the bruises were just accidents or meaningless skin deep irritations.

but when the door was locked and the lights were low, mickey was on his knees. and he was ian’s.