Alone Together (Gallavich)

five

ian

His fist met my jaw so fast that I didn't have time to try and stop it, not like yesterday with the bat. I stumbled a little before pushing Mickey back into the bench behind him, causing him to get tripped up and fall onto the floor towards the opening of the dugout. No part of me really wanted to be fighting Mickey but it felt good to get whatever emotions I had in me out in some way. Before I could move out of the way, Mickey was half way up again, grabbing the bottom of my coat and pulling me onto the ground, half in the dugout and my head now on the grass of the field. The force of his push caused him to come back down to the floor again, almost on top of me but still on his feet slightly. He swung again at my face, but this time I was able to move my head away from the swing, pushing him over fully as I did so. His leg must have swung out on his way down and hit the metal post to the fence because the next thing I knew, he was crawled up in pain while I stumbled to get back up.

"Fuck Gallagher!" he cried out in pain and anger.

"Shit Mickey I'm so -"

"Just shut the fuck up, ok?" He kept groaning and cursing in pain so I moved back over towards him, crouching down next to the man in an almost fetal position on the ground. Of course part of me didn't want to get knocked again so I moved with caution, but my main concern was him.

"Are you ok?"

It was a stupid question, one because I knew he didn't want to hear my voice right now but also because I could see the cut in his jeans and in his leg where it must have scraped against the fencing. It wasn't bleeding super bad or anything but the impact must have hurt real bad. Plus, the below freezing weather combined with a fresh cut from metal has got to sting like crazy. The first thing I thought to do was help him up, so I grabbed his arm away from his leg, wrapped it around my shoulder and tried to lift him off the ground. Luckily he didn't resist much because he may be short but he is not a light man. He used his other arm to grab onto the fence and pull himself up with my added support. We walked (well I walked while he hobbled) back over to the infamous dugout bench where I helped him sit down. He just kept watching me, cursing quietly under his breath in pain every once in a while, as I knelt down, unwrapped my scarf from my neck, ripped it in half, pulled up his pants leg and wrapped the scarf around his cut, doing my best to be gentle and not cause him any more pain. When I was finished, I pulled back down his jeans and sat down on the bench to his left, not next to him, but close enough to still be near. We both just sat in silence for a few seconds, catching our breath and regrouping. Finally I looked over to him, trying to read his expression to see if he was still angry or if it was ok for me to speak. To my surprise, his eyes were already pointed at me. His mouth was opened like he wanted to speak when he saw me look over too, but nothing came out.

I decided to break the silence, "So?"

"I don't think killing you would solve my problems." He said it quietly, as if he didn't really want me to hear but hoped I would by some chance anyway. Closing his eyes, he turned his head back forward and leaned it against the wall behind him.

"This is the second time in 24 hours that you've tried. You sure about that?" I added, trying and hoping to lighten the mood, my eyes still looking at Mickey. He shifted in his seat a little, clearly a nerve being touched again at the mention of yesterday, but he let out a small laugh with a sigh.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Opening his eyes and reaching for his pockets, he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. Once he took the first inhale, he gestured the cigarette over to me for me to do the same so I slid closer on the bench, grabbing the cigarette from him and taking a drag for myself.

"You really a fag or were you just not into my sister?" he asked while grabbing the cigarette back from me, still looking out into the baseball field.

The wording of the question set me off a little but I was talking to Mickey Milkovich. There was no sugar coating when it came to him, so I nodded slowly anyway. "Yeah Mick, I am."

"Nice," he finally looked back over at me, passing me the cigarette. You could tell he was a little thrown off when he found me still looking at him.

"Not that I care or anything," he quickly defended, "just nice for Mandy, ya know, one less rejection in the black book for her. Girl gets around. But yeah," he paused, taking a long breath in to slow himself, "means nothing to me."

"Right," I responded simply while exhaling cigarette smoke, finally looking away from him. 

I don't really know what I expected to happen when I saw Mickey sleeping in the dugout; I had no idea why he was there or for how long. What I did know was that I wasn't finished yet.

"How's your leg feel?"

"Fucking stings like a bitch. Could be worse, I guess. Thanks for the, ya know," he motioned towards the cut, where I wrapped his leg to keep it warm and to stop the bleeding."

"Least I could do after you tried to break my jaw. Thank for that by the way," I laughed and nudged him a little with my right arm, the one closest to him.

"I will gladly take credit for that shiner Gallagher," he laughed back.

Our eyes met once more, not in anger or even amusement, just contentment. Without thinking, I made the same mistake I had made yesterday in my bedroom. My eyes drifted down to the shorter boy's lips. God, he was beautiful. I couldn't break my gaze even when I tried to. I just kept looking at his mouth, then his jawline, the tip of his nose. My heart was racing, uncertain if Mickey would try to hurt me again or if he was just going to let this happen. Eventually, my eyes drifted to his hands, more specifically his knuckles. They were tattooed in the most perfect way for Mickey. Some had blood on them, others were just dirty from the filth of the baseball field. He no longer had the cigarette in his hands causing me to quickly look down to the floor to see where he had discarded it. Before I could accomplish the mission, I watched his hand carefully move slowly towards my face, no indication of its intentions. I followed it with my eyes until it found its place on my cheek, my gaze quickly moving back to his eyes, which were watching his own hand with more caution than I had been. Instinctively, I moved my hand up to meet his, but before I could close the space fully, I felt his hand twitch against my cheek and watched his eyes close, almost in fear, so I decided against my initial action, placing my hand back onto my own lap.

"Ian," he breathed out quietly, his eyes slowly opening back up.

With the hand that wasn't about to touch his, I pulled his wrist softly from my cheek and put his own hand on his lap, leaving my hand on his for now.

"Yeah Mick?" I asked just as quietly, feeling a little defeated. I couldn't tell what was going through Mickey's head and I didn't want to cross any kind of line or push anything that needed to be left alone. Waiting for his response, I just watched our hands on his lap, feeling his gaze being placed on the same thing.

Then, out of nowhere, he jerked his hand out from underneath mine and stood up, my eyes still lingering where our hands were.

"Look at me," he scolded, louder than I expected, causing me to jump a little and causing my eyes to dart up at him. He looked tired; worn down even, like he could cry but refused to under any circumstances. Then, just as it went yesterday, his stare hardened.

"Don't even fucking think to come near me again."

And with that, Mickey turned and left the field, leaving me with a single tear to stream down my face as I watched him leave.