#this is so dumb djsosns

[mishervellous]

so hi, I read this amazing ficlet written by my beloved @gallavich-x, and inspiration about bearded Ian struck. this is a dumb AU about it 🥰🥰 Ian is at his maximum himbo here so be careful

“So they’re not coming?”

“Nope.”

Ian groans. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Maxine just looks at him for a bit, a poorly concealed smirk on her face. Ian just shakes his head.

“So you’re telling me I practiced my bro voice and all that straight small talk for nothing? That I watched a whole Tom Brady football compilation not to jerk off but to learn about touchdowns for nothing?”

“See, you did all that to yourself.” Maxine shrugs, letting her eyes roam around the crowded bar. She doesn’t seem as pissed off as Ian is about this—which, you guessed it: is pissing him off even more. “Nobody asked you to take a crash course on How To Train Your Homo. You were just supposed to smile and touch my ass every once in a while to look convincing.”

“But now it doesn’t fucking matter.” Ian sighs, sagging on his chair. “Are you sure they’re not coming?”

Max rolls her eyes so hard Ian is tempted to scare her, and see if she gets stuck like that. “Can you please tell me again why you want the Dead Douchebags Society to think you’re straight?”

“Because,” And if he looks like an angry chihuahua when speaking through gritted teeth, so be it. “I’ve heard things about them. Didn’t you read that article I sent you about what they did to that freshman that one time?”

“If I wanted to read about fag-bashing, I’d just leaf through my middle school diaries.” Maxine’s face lights up then as she’s looking at something over Ian’s shoulder. “C’mon, you can still try and fool someone, Casanova. Let’s see if the Cast Away ginger beard helps.”

The next moment a waitress appears by their table, notepad in hand. She has a bright smile on, and she looks beautiful—and badass. Her name-tag reads Mandy.

“Welcome to The Commissary. What can I get ya?”

Maxine is head over heels for this Mandy chick already, Ian can tell. He kicks Maxine’s ankle under the table when she just keeps on staring. Ian then turns to face Mandy. “Just a medium beer for me.”

“The drinks you gotta order at the counter yourself.” She points her thumb behind her, clicking her pen after. “Something to eat?”

Ian shakes his head. Maxine orders loaded fries of some kind—not that she likes fries, she just wants an excuse to have Mandy come back, Ian bets.

Just as Mandy’s making her way towards the kitchen door, she winks in Ian’s direction. And then she’s gone.

It’s Maxine who’s groaning now. “Dude! You’re supposed to be my wingman, not steal all of my potential wives!”

Ian snorts. “It’s not my fault your gaydar sucks ass.”

“You wish it sucked ass.” She grumbles, averting her eyes. Maxine’s attention seems caught by yet another thing behind Ian; she’s pointing at it. “Okay, since your gaydar works so well, that dude: gay or nay?”

Ian turns around, looking at the guy Maxine’s pointing at. He faces her again with a deadpan expression. “The dude with the ‘Welcome to Chromatica’ shirt? Are you kidding?”

“No, dumbass—the bartender.”

Ian shakes his head, turning around once again and—oh wow. With the way the guy in question looks—black hair, buff arms on display, and a cute-looking face—Ian sure fucking hopes he is.

Maxine has a pointed look when Ian turns towards her. “Well?”

“You know what? I think my gaydar works better up close.” Ian stands up, nodding his head towards the bar. “I’m gonna go order that beer. You want anything?”

“Yeah, yeah—order that beer. Sure.” Maxine waves a dismissing hand around. “Just get me something strong, and don’t drool too much in it.”

Ian flips her off before making his way over to the counter. The Lady Gaga aficionado has left, so Ian takes his spot on the same stool.

Up close the bartender is…holy shit, he’s fucking hot. Ian looks at his name-tag when the guy turns to serve a customer—Mickey.

Mickey has these piercing blue eyes, and a soft-looking fair complexion. He’s buff, and hot, and from what Ian can see—and oh my God can he see it alright when he’s bending down to retrieve something—the guy has a Louvre-worthy ass. The gaydar is stuck between a rock and a hardening dick, so Ian kinda forgets to try, and figure out if Mickey is batting for the same team as he is.

“What’s up?” And his voice is sexy. If the guy isn’t actually gay Ian is gonna leave a complaint on Yelp about it. “What can I get ya?”

Mickey’s looking at him with this calm, borderline annoyed look. His eyebrows high up, waiting. His crossed arms looking even more buff than before—Ian’s dick is two seconds away from gaining a conscience of its own, and order the beer for him. It’s all that Tom Brady pent-up sexual tension too, Ian’s sure.

“Uh, just a beer.” Ian scans the bottles behind Mickey, making eye contact again a second later. “And a double whiskey neat.”

Mickey nods, letting his gaze linger a little longer on Ian’s face before getting to work. Good, that’s good—the fact that Ian can pick up some queer signals means that his brain is functioning again. He watches Mickey work with ease behind the counter, filling a tall pint with beer, and effortlessly pouring the whiskey in the glass he placed in front of Ian. When he’s done, he taps his knuckles on the wooden surface—and even that looks fucking hot, for fuck’s sake.

“Thanks.” Ian murmurs, taking a sip of his beer, and wiping his way-too-long-for-comfort mustache with the back of his hand. When he looks up, Mickey’s still looking at him. “Do I need to pay now?”

Mickey shrugs. “Whatever. You can pay later.” His eyes drop to Ian’s—lips? “Nice beard, by the way.”

Ian feels a little dizzy. Either this is the strongest beer ever made or Mickey is having this fucking short-circuiting effect on him, so strong that it’s making him stupid. He nods in Mickey’s direction. “Thanks. Her name’s Maxine.”

And holy fucking shit he just said that out loud. Oh, fuck. Ian feels like one of those cartoons where someone drops a piano on the protagonist’s head, and they start seeing stars. Except he isn’t seeing stars—just Mickey’s surprised expression.

Oh, and the fucker’s smirking too. “No shit?”

Okay, Ian needs to take control of the situation again. “Yeah, uh.” He doesn’t know why staying closeted is so pressing right now—Mickey doesn’t look on the verge of closing up the bar to declare a twenty four hour fag Purge; if anything, he looks amused. Still, Ian just goes with it. “That’s what I call my beard, uh. Maxine.” And he strokes his beard to bring the point across. Because pretending to have given a name to his beard instead of admitting that he’s gay is way better.

(Listen, he has this imagery stuck in his head of Frank, back in Chicago, talking to him before Ian moved out to Detroit for college—telling him gruesome tales about gay people getting the shit beaten out of them here, and stuff like that. And he knows that Frank was probably five hundred sheets to the typhoon at the time, and probably thought he was talking to a poster of Rick Astley instead of his own son, but still—it stuck with him.)

“Your beard’s name is Maxine.” It’s not really a question, more like a statement. Ian nods. “That’s fucking weird, man.” And Ian thinks that Mickey will drop the subject, and leave Ian to sink down into Mother Earth out of embarrassment. But that’s not the case. “And what’s your girl’s name?”

Mickey nods in Maxine’s direction—who’s animatedly talking with Mandy at the moment. Ian is up to his chin in shit already, so might as well give some more shape to this bizarro universe he has created for himself. “Uh. Amanda.”

“Amanda.” Mickey looks on the verge of laughing. “Like ‘Mandy’ Amanda?”

If Ian just shouted ‘look over there!’ and ran for his life, would that work?

“We don’t call her Mandy. She had a weird encounter with Mandy Moore when she was little and has been scarred ever since.” Great. Now Mandy Moore diddles kids in the Ian Gallagher Is A Dumb Motherfucker Cinematic Universe. He abruptly stands up, taking a drink in each hand. “I’m gonna—you know. Uh.” He nods at him, and then he’s gone.

Saying that he speed walks back towards the table would be an understatement. Maxine is looking at him with a confused face—and a mouthful of fries.

“What happened?” She snatches the whiskey from Ian’s hand. “Did you make arrangements to fuck for the next two weeks? What took you so long?”

“Max, we need to go. Now.”

“Woah, wait. Wait, did it go that bad?” Maxine looks alarmed now—and ready to fight. “Did he say something? Do I need to beat his ass?”

“No! Jeez, no. I thinks he’s gay.” Ian sits down, dropping his head in his hands. “But I—”

“I have a platter of nachos for you guys.” Mandy interrupts them then, placing said platter of nachos in the middle of their table. When they both look at her with matching confused expressions, she shrugs. “On the house.” She nods her head towards the counter. Ian sneaks the quickest glance ever towards Mickey, and the fucker’s leaning on said counter, looking all smug. Mandy turns to Maxine then. “So your name’s Amanda too?”

Ian closes his eyes. This is worse than any dorm room spray-painted with ‘fag’ could be. Maxine’s tone is so confused. “What?”

“Mandy can you, uh—,” Ian stutters. Mandy raises a pointed brow his way. “Can you bring us the check? And thank your boyfriend for the nachos.”

“My boyfriend? The fuck are you on about?” Mandy looks positively disgusted. “That’s my brother.”

Awesome. Great. The Shitshow Bingo is complete now. Ian doesn’t get another word in though, because Mandy’s talking again—a mischievous smile on her face.

“Nice beard, by the way.” She nods at Ian’s face then. “The ginger peach fuzz is cute too.”

Ian swears he can hear Mickey silently snickering all the way here.

That motherfucker.