Chapter Text
“It’s number four, dumbass! That’s the fuckin’ cake!” Mickey shouts at the TV as he ashes his cigarette into an empty cup on the coffee table and takes a pull from his beer bottle.
He leans back against the couch cushions, props his feet up on the table and laughs smugly as the host attempts to cut into the contestants’ choice, which ends up being an actual suitcase—not cake.
It’s been a long fucking day, and Mickey’s a couple of hours, a few beers, and two cigarettes into his mini-marathon watch of Is it Cake? Work takes it out of him, and most nights, he just wants to crawl into bed and completely crash.
But it’s been a while since he just allowed himself to lounge about, have a few beers, and binge watch a show. He figures he’s earned it after the day he’s had.
It’s not easy killing people for a living. To most people, it would probably seem that way. Find the asshole, pull the trigger, get rid of the body. Simple, right? Wrong.
Mickey’s a professional. A trained professional, in fact. Spent time in the CIA as an assassin before realizing that going freelance was a hell of a lot more lucrative. And killing takes strategy. He can’t be messy about it. One mistake, one tiny misstep, and he’s fucked. He has to stage every killing to look like an accident. And that’s not as easy as it sounds. He likes to think that it takes a serious level of skill, in fact.
It’s not as if he kills good people. He kills the biggest pieces of garbage imagineable. His primary client is a group of Stepford-type wives from deep in the suburbs called GROSO (“Get Rid Of Sex Offenders”—admittedly not the most original or catchy name). They keep a keen eye on the sex offender registry and hire Mickey to quickly exterminate the ones who happen to move into any neighborhood in the greater San Fernando Valley—or anywhere in Los Angeles, frankly.
There’s always the odd case of having to take out a corrupt politician here and there (many of whom are also sex offenders—two birds with one stone and all that), but for the most part, the perverts keep him plenty busy and completely booked. Mickey had been somewhat surprised with the amount of them in LA alone, but he supposes he shouldn’t’ve been. Things from his past have made him all too aware of how many of them are out there. It’s one of the reasons he feels absolutely no remorse for taking them out. In fact, he’d be tempted to do it even without the enticing paycheck.
He rarely thinks about it, though. Back home. What he left. If he lets himself think about it, he might spiral, and he needs to stay focused to do what he does. So he always pushes it back. But it never really leaves; it’s deep down in the recesses of his memory, but it’s there nevertheless.
Heaving himself up off of the couch, he ambles over to the fridge for another beer. It’s not a far walk; he lives in a studio apartment after all. It’s pretty fuckin’ ridiculous when he thinks about it. With the amount of rent he pays for a tiny studio apartment in Calabasas, he could easily get a two, maybe three bedroom apartment back home. But whatever. He’s here, not there. And he makes decent money doing what he does. So he can’t complain.
Just as he’s settling in for another episode of his show, he hears his phone buzzing with an incoming call. He strongly considers ignoring it and letting it ring, but the sound it’s making against the hard surface of the coffee table is getting on his fucking nerves. So he reaches over and picks it up with every intention of declining the call—unless it happens to be his cousin-slash-assistant, Sandy, calling him with another job.
When he glances at the screen, however, he sees that it’s not a telemarketer, nor is it Sandy. It’s his sister, Mandy. Fuck, he hasn’t talked to Mandy in awhile. He figures he should probably answer.
He accepts the call and puts it on speaker. “Hey.”
“Hey, asswipe. Damn, was wondering if you were still alive,” he hears the familiar voice snark across the line. It never fails to both annoy the shit out of him and make him smile—reluctantly—at the same time.
“Yeah, nice to hear from you too, skank,” Mickey retorts with a teasing lilt.
“Hey, I’m not the one who’s been out of touch, you know.”
And sure, Mickey knows it. He knows that he was the one to leave, that he was the one who distanced himself in the first place; even though he’d had his reasons. But ultimately, Mandy had also left. She hadn’t gone nearly as far, having made it only a couple of hours away to Milwaukee, but he’s pretty sure she hasn’t been back home either.
Mickey knows she’s kept a few ties to home, though. One or two friends she still keeps in touch with. He’d rather not think about that part.
But she texts, and she calls. Mickey’s well aware that he’s the dickhead brother who sometimes just can’t find the time—or is simply too exhausted—to call his sister back, to send her more than a one-word text response. So he supposes she has every right to give him a little bit of shit for it.
“Yeah, I know. Just fuckin’ busy,” he replies, a weak defense at best.
“That’s what you say all the time, I know the spiel,” Mandy sighs. “Anyway, I’m not calling to give you shit. Not this time at least.”
Mickey rolls his eyes, regardless of the fact that no one can see him. But part of him can’t help but be put on heightened alert at the tone of her voice. Why is she calling then?
“Yeah? Somethin’ happen? You in trouble or somethin’?” Mickey asks, his mind suddenly racing through every possible scenario.
“No, Mick. It’s nothing bad. It’s good, actually. I think it’ll be really fun.”
“What’ll be really fun? Spit it the hell out, Mands.”
“Uh, well, Lincoln Grove High is having some big alumni event for their homecoming game next weekend. It’s called ‘Teen Beat’ or something. It’s for anyone who graduated in the teens, so between 2010 and 2019.”
A pause follows, during which Mickey considers his words. Because he truly doesn’t know what the hell to say.
“The fuck you tellin’ me about this for?”
“‘Cause I thought it’d be fun if we went, dumbass.”
Mickey scoffs. “Yeah, fun for you, maybe. How the fuck would that shit be fun for me? Like I had a grand old fuckin’ time in high school? Barely even graduated.”
“So what?” Mandy says, and it’s followed by a weighted silence. Mickey holds his breath, bracing himself. It’s as if he knows what she’s going to say before the words even leave her mouth. “Ian’s gonna be there.”
The sound of his name still makes Mickey's heart rate pick up ever so slightly, even after all the time that’s passed.
He lets out a heavy sigh. “And? It’s been like… nine and a half fuckin’ years, Mandy.” As if Mickey doesn’t know how long it’s been, right down to the day. To the hour, even. “The fuck does that shit matter?”
“You know you wanna see him, don’t bullshit me.”
“Doesn’t matter. He sure as shit doesn’t wanna see me. Not after… everything.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Mick.” Her voice is quiet, sincere, and Mickey has no idea what to do with that. So he picks up his beer bottle from the coffee table and gulps half of it down.
Clearly sensing that she’s not going to get an immediate answer from Mickey, Mandy states, “Just think about it, okay? It’d be nice to see you.” It’s so soft and earnest that Mickey almost gives in. But it’s a lot to take in all at once.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, alright, I’ll think about it.”
“Okay. Talk soon?”
“Talk soon. Bye.”
As soon as Mickey ends the call, he tosses the phone back onto the table and throws his head back against the couch cushions. Because it’s crazy, right? The fact that he’s even thinking about this, that he didn’t immediately shut down the idea, is insane. There’s no way he can go to this homecoming thing. Is there?
Could it possibly be true that Ian would actually want to see him? No way. Not after everything that had gone down. After what Mickey had done—regardless of the fact that he’d had no choice. He knows he hurt Ian, and even after nine years and change, that shit doesn’t go away.
But it doesn’t stop the tiniest flutter of hope from blooming in his chest.
*Ten years ago*
Ian’s lips are soft, and the air is warm. It’s early fall, but the weather hasn’t quite gotten the memo yet. Mickey places his hand against the side of Ian’s face and feels the sweat dripping down his temple, surely mirroring his own. Whether it’s from the warm weather, their recent exertions, or a combination of both—Mickey doesn’t really care.
Because he’s lost in Ian. He hears the sound of the sprinklers on the field, set to an automatic timer. Same time every night. They both know the drill, have it all timed to perfection. That spot underneath the high school bleachers is their safe space; always has been. They meet here almost every night, always wondering if they’ll eventually get caught but needing each other too desperately to care.
Mickey feels Ian’s hands running up and down his back, his tongue teasing his lips open and gently brushing against his own, and he melts into it. When Ian pulls away, his smile is soft.
“You going to the homecoming game?” the redhead asks earnestly, an unmistakable hint of hope in his voice.
It takes a while for Mickey’s brain, in its post-orgasm haze, to catch up with what Ian’s said. But when it does, he gapes at Ian with raised eyebrows. “Seriously? Do I seem like I’d wanna go to a stupid high school football game?”
Ian shrugs a shoulder. “Nah. Guess not. Just thought it might be fun.”
And sure, it might be fun for someone like Ian. Model student, ROTC star, class treasurer, Mr. Popularity. But for Mickey? Going to a homecoming game isn’t something that’s ever even been on his radar. Because he doesn’t have the luxury of being that guy. The guy who can be openly gay and still be one of the most popular kids at school.
Mickey’s still the neighborhood thug, Ian’s hidden secret—by Mickey’s choice, not Ian’s. He knows that if Ian could, he’d shout from the rooftops that Mickey is his boyfriend. But for Mickey’s sake, he doesn’t.
“Yeah, fun for you maybe,” Mickey huffs as he pulls out his pack of cigarettes and lights one up.
“Guess that means you won’t go to the homecoming dance with me, right?” Ian asks as he snatches the cigarette from Mickey’s fingers and takes a drag. Mickey can tell he’s trying to sound teasing, but he knows Ian well enough to hear the genuine hurt and disappointment behind it.
“You know I would if I could,” Mickey replies, lowering his voice to almost a whisper.
“I know,” Ian says as he hands the cigarette back to Mickey. Mickey doesn’t miss the way his eyes glisten in the moonlight, the telltale sign of unshed tears, but he has to actively ignore it or else he’ll give in. He’s pretty sure he’d give into anything that this fucking redhead wanted if he let his guard down. It’s the reason Mickey still has to keep the walls up to a certain degree—even if Ian’s managed to break them down to little more than rubble already.
“Hey.” Mickey’s quiet plea manages to get Ian’s attention, and the redhead turns to look at him. “We’ll do our own thing for homecoming, okay? I mean you can still go to the dance, obviously. But… maybe afterwards we can have our own party. Just you and me.”
Ian smiles, and the dam in Mickey’s heart breaks wide open. “Okay. Probably just gonna end up going with Mandy. We can meet back here afterwards.”
“It’s a date,” Mickey says, so casually that it catches him by complete surprise.
“Yeah. It’s a date.”
**
Mickey doesn’t remember falling asleep. Somewhere in between haunting memories and several more beers, he’d passed out on the couch, only to wake up hours later to change his clothes, quickly brush his teeth, and flop onto his bed.
Now, as he hears his alarm blaring, the regret he feels from drinking so much runs deep. His head is pounding, and it’s way too fucking bright. And the damn alarm sound is too goddamn loud.
He blindly reaches for the phone on his nightstand, resisting the urge to throw the thing across the room. After turning off the incessant noise, his eyes catch on his burner phone, the one he strictly uses for work, to see that he has a text message notification from Sandy’s burner number waiting for him on his home screen.
He swipes it open to read her message.
Call me. Got a big job for you
Jesus, it’s way too early for this shit. He blinks his eyes a few times before managing to stand up and drag himself to the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth and splashes some water onto his face to wake himself up.
He makes his way over to the kitchen and starts to brew a pot of coffee. Sandy can wait until he has some goddamn caffeine in him. He has a feeling he’ll need it.
Once he’s settled onto the couch, steaming mug in hand, he decides to call his cousin.
After the third ring, he hears Sandy’s voice on the other end of the line. “Hey.”
“Yeah. The fuck is it that you needed me to call you this early in the morning?”
“A big job came through. Margie, the head of GROSO, is commissioning this one personally. Some perv who fucked with her in high school is out of prison and just got a job at Lincoln Grove of all places.”
Mickey lets a pause hang heavy in the air. Because Lincoln Grove? Seriously?
“Mick? You there?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. The fuck Sandy? Way back in Chicago? Ain’t got time for that shit.”
“She’s paying triple your usual fee for it. And apparently this guy’s a real piece of shit, trying to get back in and work with kids again.”
Mickey scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus fuck, don’t these places do goddamn background checks?”
“Who the hell knows, Mick. Maybe the guy knows some other asshole high up on the ladder. These pervs manage to get away with shit like that all the time. I’m not even sure if he’s on the registry or what he was in prison for. Like I said, this one’s personal.”
Mickey thinks about that teacher who’d rubbed his hard-on against Mandy’s desk in history class. He thinks of Ian and the older men who’d tried to take advantage of him. He thinks of his own father and what that prick had done—but he tries not to think about it too much.
“Fuck it,” he says simply. “Tell her I’ll do it.”
And, well, shit. Looks like he’s going back home after all.
“South Side, here I come,” he sighs after he’s ended the call with Sandy. And he figures if he’s going to be in the area, maybe he’ll go to that homecoming thing. What the hell does he have to lose?