orange juice fic

By The Way, Know You've Always Been The One - Gallavich oneshot.

A/N: This is just a little something I had to get off my chest. Based on s6 spoilers. Warning: the ending is not happy. Title is taken from the song Hideaway by Karen O.

“Been a long time, Gallagher.”

“Yeah, three months.” The redhead responds, after putting the phone on his ear.

They stare at each other through the stained glass of the prison. Ian looks down. It takes a while after he decides to speak again.

“Sorry, I just…had a lot on my plate right now. Some stuff I had to figure out.”

Mickey is silent again, those blue eyes locked to Ian’s face like it would bore holes in it from the intensity.

“Don’t worry about it.” The brunet gets silent again, before asking: “you okay?”

It takes a few seconds for Ian to reply, but when he does, his voice is confident.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am, Mick.” He smiles a little.

“Listen-”

“Ian-”

They both laugh.

“You go first” Mickey says.

“It’s just I-I’ve been thinking since the last time I visited you here… about you. About us” He sighs. “You ever think of me, Mick?” The redhead looks at the other boy with a determined face, his eyes hopeful, but if you looked close enough, you could see the fear in them.

It takes a beat for Mickey to answer. Then he laughs. He laughs, but it’s humorless and doesn’t reach his eyes.

“If I think about you? Of cour-Fuck.” He sighs and looks so very tired and small. Ian wishes he could make Mickey smile like he had before. That kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle.

“I-I did something while you were gone. I thought you weren’t coming back, so I didn’t think I would ever have to show you this.” He pulls his shirt down to reveal the words written on the left side of his chest. Right over his heart.

Ian Galager

Mickey doesn’t say he did it because, since he thought he would never see Ian again, that the redhead had given up on them forever, he needed something to prove to him that it was all real. That it wasn’t all in his head, that he had had Ian once and they made each other happy, even if they were miserable half of the time.

“W-what?” Ian is speechless.

Mickey just looks down, his face falling and the shame beginning to creep on his chest.

“I just-I don’t, I’m sorry. But here’s your fucking answer.”

Ian just looks at him. After a while, he looks amused and even smiles a little.

“Who’s Ian Galager?” He asks.

Mickey looks annoyed.

“What the fuck, man? Are you doing this to embarrass me? You’re an asshole.”

Ian laughs. “Mick..”

“What?” The brunet asks, not looking the other boy in the face.

“Gallagher is spelled with two l’s” He says.

Mickey looks down at his chest. “No, it’s fucking not." 

Ian laughs again. Mickey can’t help but join because the redhead’s laugh is contagious and he looks so fucking beautiful when he laughs. 

No, Mickey can’t think like that. He has to do the right thing. Like he had planned. Before he can open his mouth, though, Ian is already speaking.

"I miss you.”

Fuck.

“Ian…Jesus. You can’t just-I don’t, Fuck.” Mickey runs a hand across his face. Then he looks at Ian and says what he has to. “I don’t want you to visit me anymore.”

Ian’s whole face falls.

“What do you mean?” He asks, his voice breaking.

And in that moment, Mickey almost changes his mind, almost allows himself to be selfish and tell Ian that he needs him, that he can’t go away. But he doesn’t.

“I mean…I’m gonna be here for years, Ian. I’m gonna be here and you’re gonna be there. You’ve so much ahead of you. You gotta…” Mickey struggles to say the rest. “You gotta move on and be happy. With somebody else.”

“No!” Ian says almost immediately. “I can’t do this. I want you, Mickey. I love you”.

Mickey’s heart sinks. Holy fuck. He can’t do this.

“I-I love you, too. But I have to do this. You can’t be trapped to me, Ian. You need to be happy.”

Ian stays silent for a while. Then, “is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?”

Mickey almost smiles at the irony of this situation. All Ian had to do was smile and he had almost begged him to wait for him. 

“No.” He lies.

“Okay." 

Mickey swallow his tears.

"Hey, just do me a favor this time? Don’t date some fucking geriatric viagroid again, it’s gotta be bad for your health or something.” He says, but Ian doesn’t even smile.

With a sudden movement, Ian puts his hands on the glass. And suddenly, they are two young boys again, feeling such strong things, but unable to say it out of fear. 

This time, though, Mickey puts his hands over Ian’s.

“I’ve been taking my meds, Mick. I’ve been doing that for you” The redhead says desperately, full on crying now.

The sight is too painful.

“I-”

“Time’s up, Milkovich.” A guard says.

Mickey takes one last look at the love of his life, trying so badly to memorize every single detail, before he stands up and walks away, ignoring Ian’s protest on the way back to his cell.

Only when he arrives there, does he allow himself to break down. 

He brings a hand over his chest, right where his tattoo is. He’s not sure if he’s trying to get some comfort from it or to take away the pain in his heart. Maybe both.

This was the right thing to do. But then, why does it feel like his world is ending?

It was the heat of a thousand moments culminating in one great flash of starburst and sunlight and it was John.

John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, retired Royal Army Medical Corps trauma surgeon turned part-time general practitioner, part-time personal physician, part-time blogger, medical expert, bodyguard, tea-and-toast-pusher, 1.69 meters tall, blond hair, blue eyes, forty-two years of age, once divorced, stop: now, standing in the kitchen of 221B, holding Sherlock’s bicep in his hand, keeping him tethered to the earth.

It was John, who had carefully pried the mug from Sherlock’s fingers–frozen in anticipation, in want, in that daring hope he was never able to fully crush–it was John, who had said, “That’s quite enough of that, don’t you think?”

And brushed his mouth against Sherlock’s, gently, softly, slowly, a whisper of nerve-endings and it takes between thirty-four and one hundred and forty-six muscles to kiss someone.

That’s what John was doing: kissing Sherlock.

—  darcylindbergh, the lingering taste of orange juice

It all started, in a way, with Jon Walker. Jon joined the band, and with him came the pot. And the pot led to acid, which led to Brendon spending a lot of time getting Ryan to take it with him.

So one day after they took acid and after Brendon burst into tears after watching a really sad movie on the bathroom wall and the refrigerator had disappeared when Ryan went to get a snack, they ended up making out on Ryan’s bed.

Brendon started to push Ryan down onto the bed when suddenly Ryan stopped kissing him and shoved him off of him. Ryan shook his head, but was giggling. “No, Brendon, you can’t do that,” he said.

“I…can’t…do that?” Brendon asked, raising his eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll spill and die, duh,” Ryan said.

“What?” Brendon asked, the swirling of the wall making it harder to pay attention to what Ryan was saying.

“I’ll spill and die!” Ryan said.

“Uh. Why?” Brendon asked.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, stupid, because I’m a glass of orange juice!”

Brendon stared at him incredulously, feeling considerably more sober. “Ryan, you’re not a glass of orange juice…”

“Yeah, I am!” Ryan said.

Brendon rolled his eyes and decided not to argue it. “Okay, can I just fuck you into the wall or something?”

Ryan thought about it. “You can’t have sex with a glass of orange juice,” he decided.

Brendon shook his head. “No, look, we have to,” he said, and then tried to kiss Ryan.

Ryan pushed him away, making a face. “Dude, you’re so weird! Why are you trying to make out with a glass of orange juice?”

“You’re not a glass of orange juice! If you were, how could you talk?” Brendon demanded.

“What?” Ryan asked, staring at him. “I’m not talking.”

“Jesus motherfucking Christ!” Brendon yelled and dragged Ryan to the mirror. “Look! You’re not goddamn orange juice!”

Ryan stared at his reflection that burst into giggles. “Wow, that’s so much orange juice!” Ryan said.

Brendon glared at him. Then he got distracted by the ceiling talking to him about fish and turkey sandwiches and manga. Then he remembered Ryan and tried to kiss him again.

“Stop! I’m orange juice!” Ryan insisted. “I’m going to tip over if you keep touching me!”

Brendon got mad. He knocked Ryan over. “Look, you’re not fucking orange juice! You’re not fucking spilling!”

Ryan laid on the ground, flailing around, screaming, “Oh my god! I’m dying! I’m spilling! I’m dying!” Finally, though, he stopped flailing and looked thoughtful. “Oh,” he said quietly. “I’m not orange juice.”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Yep. Can we have sex now?”

Ryan giggled. “Okay!”

Brendon started to push Ryan down onto the bed when suddenly Ryan stopped kissing him and shoved him off of him. Ryan shook his head, but was giggling. “No, Brendon, you can’t do that,” he said.

“I…can’t…do that?” Brendon asked, raising his eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll spill and die, duh,” Ryan said.

“What?” Brendon asked, the swirling of the wall making it harder to pay attention to what Ryan was saying.

“I’ll spill and die!” Ryan said.

“Uh. Why?” Brendon asked.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, stupid, because I’m a glass of orange juice!”