Chapter Text
The Chicago summer really fucks with you, everyone in Chicago knows that from experience. The weather is always reaching the extremes, in the winter it’s sometimes so cold it can’t even snow and in the summer, it’s sometimes so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Right now, it’s the summer and Ian’s sweating through his white tank top – the sweat stains visible and making it stick to his chest and abs – and there’s sweat building up on his face. Turning the corner and pulling open the door to the first shop, Ian walks into an ice cream shop – Ian vaguely sees the sign calling it Mickey’s Ice – that Debbie and Carl are always talking about and he decided to try it out for himself.
Ian stood by the door for a moment to take in the blasting air conditioner to cool himself down from the heat lingering outside the door. Walking into the store, he looks around and see the inside is a light shade of blue with three glass tables lining the sides of the wall surrounded by three chairs. At the far back is counter which Ian is pretty sure holds the ice cream and behind the counter is a little blond boy who look engrossed with the book in his hand, the pencil tapping a beat out against the counter. Ian walks up to the counter and just stands there, at first he’s looking over the huge menu board that hanging from the ceiling, listing all the different flavors, but now he’s just confused on where the owner is because he seriously doubts this little boy is Mickey.
“You gonna stand there all day or order some ice cream?” A voice from nowhere says and Ian jumps, breaking away from his train of thought.
“Shit, sorry.” Ian remembers the boy in front of the register, “Fuck. Shit. Know what? Fuck it.” After shrugging he orders a pint of peanut butter fudge ice cream, it’s his favorite and ever since Debbie told him that this place made their ice cream homemade he’s been dying to try it here. Once he gets his ice cream, pays, and gets the receipt from the black-haired guy – who he assumed was Mickey – he starts to turn around before pulling a pen from his back pocket – who knew being a writer would make something in his life easier? – and scribbled on the back of the receipt before handing it back to Mickey.
Turning around, he walked out the door with his head held high and swaggered out of the place as if he owned it; leaving Mickey stunned at the counter with the receipt holding the words “Hey Mickey, here’s my number. Text me sometime -Ian.” Ian walked back home with a new inspiration and need to continue writing his second book and waiting for Mickey to text him sometime.