happy birthday, gigantic!
Happy 24th, miss! I hope it's a great day. In the spirit of that, have some fic! It's not much, but I hope you dig it anyway.
with nothing ready to start or to see
Lip Gallagher, Ian Gallagher (Shameless US)
2336 words, R
Title is from the Voxtrot song, 'Warmest Part of the Winter', betaed by the gorgeous 1001cranes.
Lip opens his eyes and closes them almost as soon. There’s a jackhammer going off in his brain, black lights flashing in the corners of his eyes. It’s like the worst sort of hangover, but he doesn’t even have the luxury of still having a buzz.
Fiona bangs on the door, shouting the customary, “Fifteen minutes. My fifteen minutes, monkeys, not yours!”
Carl groans, but rolls out of his bed, and Ian just tugs the covers up, pulling them high over his head. Lip can’t really spare the energy; it feels like he’s crossing the fucking Sahara just to roll over and say, “aren’t you used to taking orders?”
Ian’s always had good aim, and he doesn’t even look when he whips his pillow across the room. It doesn’t make it anywhere near Lip’s bunk, but it’s close enough to make him laugh. It hurts, feels like razor blades on his throat.
“First shower,” Ian says, when he does push himself to his feet. Lip doesn’t fight him for it. Lip might actually never get up again.
Carl comes back in when Ian goes out, tugging on another shirt, probably a mandate from Fi, but Lip doesn’t talk to him, can’t even muster a “‘morning.” It wouldn’t take much effort, but he doesn’t have any to spare.
Lip stares up at his ceiling, tries to think about anything, about math problems or physics or Karen Jackson sucking him off last week, but none of it works. He can’t focus. He can’t even see.
“Lip?” Ian asks, toweling off as he comes back in. He’s in jeans, but shirtless, hair still dripping. Lip flicks his gaze over to him, sees pale skin in the winter morning sunlight and notices a pack of bruises on Ian’s hips.
Lip thinks of about a hundred different things to say, anything from, “my head is exploding and I didn’t even get trashed last night,” to, “did Kash give you those? Did they hurt?” What he says is, “headache.”
Ian cracks a smile and says, “you used that excuse last week, remember?”
Lip frowns, but it hurts, takes too many muscles to make the corners of his lips turn down. “Feels like I’m seeing lights,” he says. “Not the good kind.”
Ian peers closer at him. “There are bad kinds of lights?”
“Guys!” Fiona says from the hall. “Lip, are you still in bed?” She flicks the overhead light on as she comes into the room, and it makes his head hurt so much that his stomach knots up in commiseration. Lip tugs the covers up, hiding his face again.
“He’s been making noises like that all morning,” Ian says, leaning back on his heels. “He might be dying.” In the time it’s taken Lip to open his eyes, Ian’s tugged a shirt on, hiding his skin and covering those bruises.
“Lip?” Fi says, voice softer as she comes closer to look at him. Lip can’t really focus on her, but she sounds concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“‘m’fine,” he mumbles, even though his throat is parched like he’s trapped in the desert again.
“You don’t sound fine.” He drops his eyes closed again, and from far away, it sounds like Fiona’s apologizing, getting closer to him than she usually does and pressing a kiss to his forehead, squeezing his shoulder.
“You want me to stay home with him?” Ian asks.
“Fat chance,” Fiona says. “Go to school.”
- -
He doesn’t know how long he’s out for. Time apparently passes weirder when you’re on the cusp of death, and Lip doesn’t feel any more rested when he opens his eyes at 11 than he does when he opens them again at 3. The only difference is that the sun is higher in the sky, looks different coming in through the window.
He has to take a leak, and almost kills himself getting out of bed, miscalculating the distance from his mattress to the floor. He still feels dizzy, unsteady, but the natural light in the hallway doesn’t bug him as much. The migraine is starting to recede, even though it’s taking its damn time.
He’s supposed to be alone in the house, considering Ian has to work; Debs and Carl have after school stuff and Liam’s with Fiona at the food truck. They let him sit with her because he’s mostly quiet and sticks with rummaging through her bag for entertainment as opposed to looking through anybody else’s.
He’s supposed to be alone, but Lip hears a sound downstairs that doesn’t make sense. It’s unfamiliar but reminiscent of something, too, and Lip starts getting dizzy again as he presses himself against the wall, easing his way down the stairs slowly, trying not to make a sound.
Ian’s hair is unmistakable and red against the throw cover on their ratty old couch, and Lip doesn’t even have a second to wonder what he’s even doing home before he hears that sound again, guttural and low.
Lip feels the floor moving up, coming closer and closer, like it’s going to swallow him, and he only realizes that he’s stumbled down onto the step when Ian’s face is swimming in front of him, mouth swollen and red like he’s been chewing on it.
“Lip?” he asks. “Lip, what are you doing up?”
- -
His head is pounding the next day, but it’s not as bad, and he drags himself out of his bunk without breaking his neck. Ian’s gone by the time he gets out of the shower, too, and he tries not to think about abortive gasps and cut off moans. Closes his eyes against the thought of red hair against bland upholstery.
They usually get to school together, but it’s probably better than Ian went ahead. They don’t have any classes together anyway, don’t have lunch together either, but Lip sees him in the hall between periods, head ducked down and headphones tucked in his ears.
Lip thinks about trying to get his attention, and then thinks about how red his mouth had been and changes his mind. He skips out on his last class, but it’s English, and he can live without another discussion of Slaughterhouse-5, thanks. Vonnegut’s a genius and all, but Lip read the book in eighth grade. He doesn’t really need to live through it again.
- -
Fiona’s home when he walks in, glaring at Steve like she doesn’t know whether to fuck him or kill him or both. Lip raises a hand in greeting, says, “Hey,” and then kicks his boots off in the hall and climbs up the stairs in his socking feet.
“Lip!” Fi calls from the kitchen, and he stops, but can’t actually make himself turn back around.
“Yeah,” he shouts back.
“There’s mac’n cheese on the stove,” she says, coming to stand at the foot of the stairs. There are dark circles under her eyes, and Lip squints, trying to remember if today was a three-job day or a two. He can’t always keep them straight.
“I think I’m just gonna crash,” he says. “Long day.”
She narrows her eyes at him, like somehow she knows he skipped English or whatever it’s called-Modern American Literature or whatever. He wants to tell her he’s done the essays already, has flashcards and formulas written out for the upcoming tests, but his head is too full, he’s too tired to do much more than keep his body upright.
Fiona’s face changes almost immediately, and he figures he must’ve groaned or something, done something to give himself away, because she climbs two steps up and touches her palm to his forehead, her skin surprisingly cool to the touch.
“You’re not burning up,” she says, and then in the next breath, “You want me to get some soup from Kev and V? I’m pretty sure I saw tomato there the last time I was over. I think it was Campbell’s too, not the market brand.”
Just the thought of food, even if it is soup, is enough to get Lip’s stomach tensing up, and he shakes his head, dissuading her. “I think I just need to sleep,” he says, trying to meet her eyes even though he’s seeing her in double.
“You need to eat,” she says, but she’s not too firm about it, lets him get upstairs without commenting again. He figures it’s probably better. He doesn’t need to see his sister making cow eyes at that rich dick anyway.
The door to their room is shut, and he groans when he gets to it, leaning his head against the wood. “Carl,” he mumbles. “I swear to god, stop fucking killing squirrels.” There’s a fumble, a groan, and Lip gets an eyeful of Ian tugging his pants back up when he pushes open the door.
He doesn’t see anything he hasn’t seen before-he’s as familiar with Ian’s body as he is his own, but he’s still not expecting the sight of the long curve of Ian’s pasty white thigh, freckles covering his skin even there.
“Shit,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. Ian’s probably blushing, but Lip ignores him in favor of dropping his own pants on a heap in front of his desk and climbing up to his bunk in just his boxers. Ian makes like he’s going to speak, but Lip cuts him off and says, “It’s okay, man. Everybody needs to rub one out sometimes.”
“I-” Ian stutters, and Lip wonders at all the different ways that sentence could go.
He falls asleep before he can find out.
- -
On Saturday, he wakes up to Frank and Fiona shouting at each other something fierce. Fiona’s screaming something about bills-the cash is missing from the grocery tin and Lip rolls over, looking out at Carl and Ian, both pretending to sleep.
Lip winces as he shimmies out of bed, padding across the small space to Ian’s bed and shoving at his shoulder. “Move over,” he mumbles, and Ian’s eyes pop open too quick for his snores to have been real.
Lip smirks at him, and Ian smiles back like it’s a reflex.
“What,” he says. “You don’t have your own bed?”
“It’s too close to the door,” Lip says, even though it’s all about the same. Cramming two beds in this room was a stretch; three’s pushing the boundaries of physics and space. “Shut up and go back to sleep.”
Ian hums, teeth curling over his bottom lip the way they always do when he’s about to argue. Lip considers his options, weighs them, and then punches Ian in the side, shoving him closer to the wall.
“Shut up now, okay?”
Ian doesn’t. Ian punches him back, getting a solid hit into Lip’s kidney, setting them off. They don’t fight like this a lot, there’s no point to it, but Lip likes the way it sounds to hear Ian’s breaths hitch, likes how it feels to feel their stomachs trembling against one another.
Ian’s knees bracket his hips, hands on either side of Lip’s head, and he says, “why the hell’d you wake me for?”
Lip rolls his eyes, tries to buck him off. “Like you were sleeping,” he says.
“I was trying.” Ian bucks down at the same time Lip bucks up. It’s not a pretty thing, not with their hands and nails scrabbling against every spare inch of skin visible, not when they’re aiming to hurt instead of play. “Why the fuck are you being such an asshole?” Ian asks through gritted teeth. His mouth is red from where Lip punched him, from where he’s been biting it.
His breaths come in tighter, closer together, but it feels like he’s gasping, like he can’t get enough air. “I have to get out of here,” he says, shoving Ian off his legs and getting to his feet.
Ian stares. “It’s not even eight in the morning.”
“We need breakfast,” he says, tugging on the first pair of jeans he sees and yesterday’s shirt. “Fi’s gonna need some coffee. Get dressed.”
- -
When they get back, Fiona takes one look at the iced coffee Lip’s holding, the bakery bag in Ian’s hands, and just says, “What did you do?” There’s no real heat in it, though, and when she takes the food, she looks grateful.
Frank’s nowhere to be seen, but Carl and Debs are curled up on the couch with V, watching something on the Discovery Channel about the ocean.
“Hey Lip?” Debs asks, tugging at his sleeve as he passes by. He ducks down, kissing the top of her forehead as their eyes meet upside down.
“Hey Debs?”
“You think if I wait a really long time, I can go to school to be an ichthyologist?”
Lip squints down at her, ruffling her hair again without straightening up. “That’s the, uh. That’s the study of fish, right?” He leans closer, presses his lips to her ear when she nods and says, “I don’t even think you have to wait a really, really long time, Debs. I think you can do it whenever you want.”
- -
“You always know what to say to her,” Ian says from his bed, later. He’s sitting with his back against the headboard, schoolbooks spread out across his knees.
Lip tugs his shirt over his head, throwing it in the laundry pile and replacing it with something that has a few less syrup stains. Fucking Carl.
“Who?” Lip asks, when it becomes obvious Ian’s not going to clarify his statement.
“Debs,” he says quietly. “Fi. V. Karen Jackson.”
Lip shrugs. “I don’t,” he says, but Ian keeps going.
“Me,” he adds, and when he turns his head, their eyes meet. “You say the wrongest, stupidest, dumbest shit to me and you still make me laugh,” Ian says. He doesn’t sound amused.
So Lip tries to crack a smile, says, in his driest voice, “I’m a regular fucking comedian, man,” but it doesn’t work. Ian doesn’t laugh at him again. He doesn’t even smile.
with nothing ready to start or to see
Lip Gallagher, Ian Gallagher (Shameless US)
2336 words, R
Title is from the Voxtrot song, 'Warmest Part of the Winter', betaed by the gorgeous 1001cranes.
Lip opens his eyes and closes them almost as soon. There’s a jackhammer going off in his brain, black lights flashing in the corners of his eyes. It’s like the worst sort of hangover, but he doesn’t even have the luxury of still having a buzz.
Fiona bangs on the door, shouting the customary, “Fifteen minutes. My fifteen minutes, monkeys, not yours!”
Carl groans, but rolls out of his bed, and Ian just tugs the covers up, pulling them high over his head. Lip can’t really spare the energy; it feels like he’s crossing the fucking Sahara just to roll over and say, “aren’t you used to taking orders?”
Ian’s always had good aim, and he doesn’t even look when he whips his pillow across the room. It doesn’t make it anywhere near Lip’s bunk, but it’s close enough to make him laugh. It hurts, feels like razor blades on his throat.
“First shower,” Ian says, when he does push himself to his feet. Lip doesn’t fight him for it. Lip might actually never get up again.
Carl comes back in when Ian goes out, tugging on another shirt, probably a mandate from Fi, but Lip doesn’t talk to him, can’t even muster a “‘morning.” It wouldn’t take much effort, but he doesn’t have any to spare.
Lip stares up at his ceiling, tries to think about anything, about math problems or physics or Karen Jackson sucking him off last week, but none of it works. He can’t focus. He can’t even see.
“Lip?” Ian asks, toweling off as he comes back in. He’s in jeans, but shirtless, hair still dripping. Lip flicks his gaze over to him, sees pale skin in the winter morning sunlight and notices a pack of bruises on Ian’s hips.
Lip thinks of about a hundred different things to say, anything from, “my head is exploding and I didn’t even get trashed last night,” to, “did Kash give you those? Did they hurt?” What he says is, “headache.”
Ian cracks a smile and says, “you used that excuse last week, remember?”
Lip frowns, but it hurts, takes too many muscles to make the corners of his lips turn down. “Feels like I’m seeing lights,” he says. “Not the good kind.”
Ian peers closer at him. “There are bad kinds of lights?”
“Guys!” Fiona says from the hall. “Lip, are you still in bed?” She flicks the overhead light on as she comes into the room, and it makes his head hurt so much that his stomach knots up in commiseration. Lip tugs the covers up, hiding his face again.
“He’s been making noises like that all morning,” Ian says, leaning back on his heels. “He might be dying.” In the time it’s taken Lip to open his eyes, Ian’s tugged a shirt on, hiding his skin and covering those bruises.
“Lip?” Fi says, voice softer as she comes closer to look at him. Lip can’t really focus on her, but she sounds concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“‘m’fine,” he mumbles, even though his throat is parched like he’s trapped in the desert again.
“You don’t sound fine.” He drops his eyes closed again, and from far away, it sounds like Fiona’s apologizing, getting closer to him than she usually does and pressing a kiss to his forehead, squeezing his shoulder.
“You want me to stay home with him?” Ian asks.
“Fat chance,” Fiona says. “Go to school.”
- -
He doesn’t know how long he’s out for. Time apparently passes weirder when you’re on the cusp of death, and Lip doesn’t feel any more rested when he opens his eyes at 11 than he does when he opens them again at 3. The only difference is that the sun is higher in the sky, looks different coming in through the window.
He has to take a leak, and almost kills himself getting out of bed, miscalculating the distance from his mattress to the floor. He still feels dizzy, unsteady, but the natural light in the hallway doesn’t bug him as much. The migraine is starting to recede, even though it’s taking its damn time.
He’s supposed to be alone in the house, considering Ian has to work; Debs and Carl have after school stuff and Liam’s with Fiona at the food truck. They let him sit with her because he’s mostly quiet and sticks with rummaging through her bag for entertainment as opposed to looking through anybody else’s.
He’s supposed to be alone, but Lip hears a sound downstairs that doesn’t make sense. It’s unfamiliar but reminiscent of something, too, and Lip starts getting dizzy again as he presses himself against the wall, easing his way down the stairs slowly, trying not to make a sound.
Ian’s hair is unmistakable and red against the throw cover on their ratty old couch, and Lip doesn’t even have a second to wonder what he’s even doing home before he hears that sound again, guttural and low.
Lip feels the floor moving up, coming closer and closer, like it’s going to swallow him, and he only realizes that he’s stumbled down onto the step when Ian’s face is swimming in front of him, mouth swollen and red like he’s been chewing on it.
“Lip?” he asks. “Lip, what are you doing up?”
- -
His head is pounding the next day, but it’s not as bad, and he drags himself out of his bunk without breaking his neck. Ian’s gone by the time he gets out of the shower, too, and he tries not to think about abortive gasps and cut off moans. Closes his eyes against the thought of red hair against bland upholstery.
They usually get to school together, but it’s probably better than Ian went ahead. They don’t have any classes together anyway, don’t have lunch together either, but Lip sees him in the hall between periods, head ducked down and headphones tucked in his ears.
Lip thinks about trying to get his attention, and then thinks about how red his mouth had been and changes his mind. He skips out on his last class, but it’s English, and he can live without another discussion of Slaughterhouse-5, thanks. Vonnegut’s a genius and all, but Lip read the book in eighth grade. He doesn’t really need to live through it again.
- -
Fiona’s home when he walks in, glaring at Steve like she doesn’t know whether to fuck him or kill him or both. Lip raises a hand in greeting, says, “Hey,” and then kicks his boots off in the hall and climbs up the stairs in his socking feet.
“Lip!” Fi calls from the kitchen, and he stops, but can’t actually make himself turn back around.
“Yeah,” he shouts back.
“There’s mac’n cheese on the stove,” she says, coming to stand at the foot of the stairs. There are dark circles under her eyes, and Lip squints, trying to remember if today was a three-job day or a two. He can’t always keep them straight.
“I think I’m just gonna crash,” he says. “Long day.”
She narrows her eyes at him, like somehow she knows he skipped English or whatever it’s called-Modern American Literature or whatever. He wants to tell her he’s done the essays already, has flashcards and formulas written out for the upcoming tests, but his head is too full, he’s too tired to do much more than keep his body upright.
Fiona’s face changes almost immediately, and he figures he must’ve groaned or something, done something to give himself away, because she climbs two steps up and touches her palm to his forehead, her skin surprisingly cool to the touch.
“You’re not burning up,” she says, and then in the next breath, “You want me to get some soup from Kev and V? I’m pretty sure I saw tomato there the last time I was over. I think it was Campbell’s too, not the market brand.”
Just the thought of food, even if it is soup, is enough to get Lip’s stomach tensing up, and he shakes his head, dissuading her. “I think I just need to sleep,” he says, trying to meet her eyes even though he’s seeing her in double.
“You need to eat,” she says, but she’s not too firm about it, lets him get upstairs without commenting again. He figures it’s probably better. He doesn’t need to see his sister making cow eyes at that rich dick anyway.
The door to their room is shut, and he groans when he gets to it, leaning his head against the wood. “Carl,” he mumbles. “I swear to god, stop fucking killing squirrels.” There’s a fumble, a groan, and Lip gets an eyeful of Ian tugging his pants back up when he pushes open the door.
He doesn’t see anything he hasn’t seen before-he’s as familiar with Ian’s body as he is his own, but he’s still not expecting the sight of the long curve of Ian’s pasty white thigh, freckles covering his skin even there.
“Shit,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. Ian’s probably blushing, but Lip ignores him in favor of dropping his own pants on a heap in front of his desk and climbing up to his bunk in just his boxers. Ian makes like he’s going to speak, but Lip cuts him off and says, “It’s okay, man. Everybody needs to rub one out sometimes.”
“I-” Ian stutters, and Lip wonders at all the different ways that sentence could go.
He falls asleep before he can find out.
- -
On Saturday, he wakes up to Frank and Fiona shouting at each other something fierce. Fiona’s screaming something about bills-the cash is missing from the grocery tin and Lip rolls over, looking out at Carl and Ian, both pretending to sleep.
Lip winces as he shimmies out of bed, padding across the small space to Ian’s bed and shoving at his shoulder. “Move over,” he mumbles, and Ian’s eyes pop open too quick for his snores to have been real.
Lip smirks at him, and Ian smiles back like it’s a reflex.
“What,” he says. “You don’t have your own bed?”
“It’s too close to the door,” Lip says, even though it’s all about the same. Cramming two beds in this room was a stretch; three’s pushing the boundaries of physics and space. “Shut up and go back to sleep.”
Ian hums, teeth curling over his bottom lip the way they always do when he’s about to argue. Lip considers his options, weighs them, and then punches Ian in the side, shoving him closer to the wall.
“Shut up now, okay?”
Ian doesn’t. Ian punches him back, getting a solid hit into Lip’s kidney, setting them off. They don’t fight like this a lot, there’s no point to it, but Lip likes the way it sounds to hear Ian’s breaths hitch, likes how it feels to feel their stomachs trembling against one another.
Ian’s knees bracket his hips, hands on either side of Lip’s head, and he says, “why the hell’d you wake me for?”
Lip rolls his eyes, tries to buck him off. “Like you were sleeping,” he says.
“I was trying.” Ian bucks down at the same time Lip bucks up. It’s not a pretty thing, not with their hands and nails scrabbling against every spare inch of skin visible, not when they’re aiming to hurt instead of play. “Why the fuck are you being such an asshole?” Ian asks through gritted teeth. His mouth is red from where Lip punched him, from where he’s been biting it.
His breaths come in tighter, closer together, but it feels like he’s gasping, like he can’t get enough air. “I have to get out of here,” he says, shoving Ian off his legs and getting to his feet.
Ian stares. “It’s not even eight in the morning.”
“We need breakfast,” he says, tugging on the first pair of jeans he sees and yesterday’s shirt. “Fi’s gonna need some coffee. Get dressed.”
- -
When they get back, Fiona takes one look at the iced coffee Lip’s holding, the bakery bag in Ian’s hands, and just says, “What did you do?” There’s no real heat in it, though, and when she takes the food, she looks grateful.
Frank’s nowhere to be seen, but Carl and Debs are curled up on the couch with V, watching something on the Discovery Channel about the ocean.
“Hey Lip?” Debs asks, tugging at his sleeve as he passes by. He ducks down, kissing the top of her forehead as their eyes meet upside down.
“Hey Debs?”
“You think if I wait a really long time, I can go to school to be an ichthyologist?”
Lip squints down at her, ruffling her hair again without straightening up. “That’s the, uh. That’s the study of fish, right?” He leans closer, presses his lips to her ear when she nods and says, “I don’t even think you have to wait a really, really long time, Debs. I think you can do it whenever you want.”
- -
“You always know what to say to her,” Ian says from his bed, later. He’s sitting with his back against the headboard, schoolbooks spread out across his knees.
Lip tugs his shirt over his head, throwing it in the laundry pile and replacing it with something that has a few less syrup stains. Fucking Carl.
“Who?” Lip asks, when it becomes obvious Ian’s not going to clarify his statement.
“Debs,” he says quietly. “Fi. V. Karen Jackson.”
Lip shrugs. “I don’t,” he says, but Ian keeps going.
“Me,” he adds, and when he turns his head, their eyes meet. “You say the wrongest, stupidest, dumbest shit to me and you still make me laugh,” Ian says. He doesn’t sound amused.
So Lip tries to crack a smile, says, in his driest voice, “I’m a regular fucking comedian, man,” but it doesn’t work. Ian doesn’t laugh at him again. He doesn’t even smile.