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“Why haven’t you stocked the Pringles?”
Ian averts his gaze to over where Mickey sits on the stool next to the door. His foot tapping avidly, cheek cradled softly in his palm. His oversized coat bunched up around his middle.
“I’m not in charge of the stock.” Ian replies curtly, avoiding eye contact.
It’s not that Ian’s afraid of him per se, there just seemed to be this aura around Mickey. A sort of, ‘look for too long and I’ll knock your teeth out’ kind of vibe.
He’s not stupid, the Milkoviches are too well known in the south side, everyone knows them, and everybody fears them for one reason or another.
Mickey had been hanging around for way longer than usual tonight, however.
“Well fuckin’ talk to Kash then.” He grumbled, standing up and starting to browse the general foods isle. His hands stuffed tightly into his pockets, feet shuffling close to the ground.
Ian could tell something was up, again, he was not stupid.
“He’s away for a couple days,” Ian states, standing up straight to address the other man properly. “We don’t restock for a little while now.”
Mickey sighs, “Whatever.”
“There’s plenty of other stores around here if you want some Barbecue Pringles.” Ian exclaims, not raising his voice, but speaking a little clearer, crisper.
At this, Mickey seems to straighten up, the muscles in his back tensing ever so slightly. “Yeah I fucking know.”
He doesn’t elaborate. But Ian sees it.
The explanation sitting right at the tip of his tongue.
The excuse hanging in plain sight.
This store is the furthest from my family.
Nobody knows me around this end.
I am allowed to exist here.
“I can burn off anything I gain from eating all the Pringles I buy.” He smirks. It’s a poor excuse for a joke, really. His smile barely reaches his cheeks, nevermind his eyes. His posture is rigid and reserved.
A light chuckle escapes out of Ian’s mouth, finally diverting his full attention to the man stood an aisle apart from him. He takes another moment to truly take him in. The messy hair, his dirty hands, the oversized, hand me down clothing.
He allows himself to admire the peace they seemed to have aquatinted in this moment.
The understanding that here, now, they are both safe.
“Weird question.”
Mickeys voice startles him out of his train of thought, returning his attention to the conversation they may or may not have been having.
“Yeah?” He retorts.
Mickey hesitates, seemingly mindlessly browsing the chocolate isle, but to the trained eye clearly trying to distract from whatever he’s about to say.
“Can I hang for a minute?” He breathes, tone uncharacteristically high, breathing a little shallow.
Ian considers this for but a second, taking into account the sheer vulnerability of this situation. Knowing the state of Mickey’s home life, being just close enough to provide a safe space, but not quite enough to be friends.
“Of course,” he says, softly, “Store is open 24/7 anyway.” He adds on, trying to lighten the mood just a little.
To his delight, he makes out the slightest hint of a smirk on Mickey’s face, watches as he rifles around the chocolates for a couple seconds. “Yeah, whatever.” He says quickly, continuing his pretend search across the other isles.
Ian smiles to himself, watches in slight awe as the golden hour’s sun shines through the store windows. He admires the way the rays hit Mickey’s face, highlighting his prominent features.
He thinks about inevitably returning home, and feels a little pang of disappointment in his chest.
He thinks about the small smile on Mickey Milkovich’s face, and the evening sun beams a little brighter.