Work Text:
When Ian had run off, seemingly for good this time, Mickey had waited. He had waited minutes, hours, days on their bed, numb, waiting for their front door to open up again. He waited, and waited, piece of paper in hand; a diagnosis that he was still reeling from. Mickey had known being unmedicated would lead nowhere good, but he had thought... that Ian would... that he wouldn’t be alone in the journey he had ahead.
A couple of weeks of headaches had led to Ian eventually forcing Mickey to go to the clinic. He had offered to come with, but Mickey had shoved him off and said he didn't need Ian to hold his fucking hand like a kid. Ian had looked slightly relieved he didn't have to go, probably because the clinic was one step closer to the medication he so fervently hated.
Flash forward to a week later, and Mickey had gone to collect his test results. He hadn’t expected anything much; maybe some painkillers. He definitely hadn’t expected what the bored looking optician had told him.
Compression of optic nerve or optic pathway. Extremely rare. Leads to eventual, progressive loss of vision. No cure.
It had taken Mickey a couple of minutes to even register what he was being told. His mind stumbled over the large words and complex explanations to focus of two things: loss of vision and no cure. He grabbed the piece of paper, made it out of the clinic and chainsmoked two, three, four cigarettes before he could bring himself to move.
When he began to move, it was slow and lazy, as if reaching home would solidify the situation. He imagined Ian’s reaction. Worried? Or too high strung to really care? Mickey never knew what to expect anymore. Things like this could either set Ian into depression, or he could be so cheerful he would barely internalise the information.
But Ian didn’t react at all. Ian was gone.
///
Mandy moved back in with him two months after Ian was gone. She had come to visit him (well, them, but Ian wasn’t exactly available) for a little while after she had left Kenyatta and Indiana behind. Her first question had been: where’s Ian? And her second one was: the fuck’s up with you?
She had always known him a little too well for comfort.
When he had told her about what was happening, she had raved and ranted about Ian. It was the first time he had heard her take his side over Ian’s. She yelled about what a dick Ian was, for leaving him when he was going through something like this. She calmed down slightly when he told her that he hadn’t know; that Ian had left before Mickey had a chance to tell him.
Two months later, and Ian was still the first and last thing he thought of every day. He worried for him, worried for the choices he was making because of his disease. Was Ian lying in a ditch somewhere, caught in the clutches of depression?
It killed Mickey that he couldn’t help Ian if he was drowning. Then again, he couldn’t even save himself anymore. His vision was fading fast; there were few moments of clarity anymore. He tried to drink in the world around him, knowing every time he looked at something might be the last. He looked at the fucking scenery, at Mandy’s grumpy face. He looked at Ian’s picture every night.
He didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to forget how the things he loved looked.
///
When Mickey lost his vision entirely, it wasn’t some dramatic moment when the world around him suddenly faded into black. He knew it was coming; the periphery of his vision had faded until there was little left. There were moments of lucidity, bursts of light and color. But nothing much of the world was still available to him. When everything had faded, it had almost been a relief to be free of the pulsing flashes of lights.
No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t convince Mandy to leave. She talked about safety, and convenience. Even though he told her she could leave, he was glad she never listened. They moved to a crappy little apartment on the fringes of the North side. The world became an infinitely more dangerous place when someone could pull a knife on you, and you would never be able to see it.
He lived with his situation as best he could. He bought a fucking stick, and glasses, like the blind people he had seen in movies. He even got a fucking dog. His name was Ginger (completely unrelated to Gallagher, he swore), and Mandy told him he was brown. It scared Mickey that he could no longer clearly visualise what brown was.
///
When he met Ian Gallagher again, it wasn't a dramatic moment the way the movies made you expect. It was outside the grocery store, while Mandy was inside paying, while he was taking a smoke. The air was heavy with moisture, and his cigarette felt a little soggy.
“Hey, do you have a- shit, Mickey?!” he heard beside him. Mickey closed his eyes, though Ian couldn’t see it behind his glasses. He tried to continue smoking nonchalantly. “Hey, Gallagher,” he kept his gaze fixed in front of him. Maybe that way Ian would guess his condition. He didn't have Ginger with him, or his stick out. Ian didn’t have to know. That knowledge was privilege, and Ian wasn’t one of the people he considered ‘privileged’ anymore.
Mickey noted with some interest that Ian’s voice sounded quieter, more solemn. No longer the happy boy he had once known, but not tinged with hysteria the way it had been when he was manic. Mickey hoped that meant he was on his meds. No matter how much Ian had hurt him, he wanted the best for him. He always would.
“Holy fuck... you’re here. I thought you left. After I... cleaned up, I came home. You weren’t there,” Ian continue, tone a mixture of wonder and light accusation. “Yeah, well,” Mickey snorted, “You ain’t the only one who gets to leave, Gallagher.”
They fell silent for a few moments after that. Ian sniffed wetly, and Mickey could hear the emotion in his voice when he said, “I’m doing better, Mick. I tried to fix it... for me, and f-for you. I take my meds. I work. I take care of myself.”
There was hope in Ian’s voice; anticipation that Mickey would forgive him and they could pick up again. Mickey wasn't so sure that could happen this time. “I’m happy for you, Ian,” there was no sarcasm in his voice now, he was genuinely happy Ian was doing well. That was all he’d ever wanted too.
More of that godforsaken silence, before Ian erupted like he couldn’t stop himself. “Mick, look at me!” he ordered, grabbing his shoulder. Mickey pulled back roughly, “I’m sorry I left you. I love you, please, please, let me fix this.” Mickey couldn’t see Ian’s face, but he could guess there were tears running down his cheeks by now. There was moisture on Mickey’s face now too. He tried to remind himself of the pain; the hurt Ian’s abandonment had made him feel. He had wanted to rip his own eyes out, not that would’ve changed much, his mind added.
His blindness was, of course, another factor to consider. He couldn’t help Ian, not the way he had before anyway. On the other hand, he needed help. He wouldn’t trap Ian that way; bound to him by ties of love that were running on fumes. He felt Ian cup his cheek, stroke its warmth with his thumb. Mickey wanted to cry at the familiarity, the understanding of that touch. “Mickey,” Ian breathed again.
At that exact moment, the queen of timing, Mandy Milkovich’s voice sounded behind them. “So I got the... Ian?” Ian’s hand left Mickey’s face suddenly, leaving him bereft. “Mands!” he exclaimed, and Mickey could sense the area Ian had been in was now empty. “Uh... hey, Ian.” Her voice was considerably less excited. Mandy hadn’t had the best opinion of Ian since he had left.
There were some shuffling noises. Mickey had no idea what was happening, but judging by Ian’s outburst, it was likely a rejected hug or something. “Are you mad at me too?” he asked, loudly, “I’m sorry. I was manic, I didn’t want to... I would’ve never left if I knew what I was doing. Jesus, you hate me, and Mickey won’t even look at me and-“
“He can’t look at you, you fucking idiot!” Mandy exclaimed.
The whole scene seemed to freeze. Mickey felt sick.
“What... what do you mean?” Ian’s voice was smaller now; weaker.
Mickey squared his shoulders, determined not to let the pain in his chest crush him, “I can’t see. I’m blind.” He heard Ian’s sharp intake of breath. “Blind? Since when? What happened?” Mickey tried to imagine his face; green eyes blown wide, glistening lightly, lips parted. “Something to do with my optic nerve. Those headaches I used to get?” Ian gave an affirming noise, “Well, turns out that was something. I found out the day you left.”
There was a pulse of silence. Then there was a sudden chorus of loud sounds that made Mickey cringe. Something glass hit the floor, with force that made it seem like it was thrown. “Motherfucker!” he heard Ian yell, rage undiluted in his voice. “Ian, stop!” he heard Mandy cry out. More sounds followed, things being thrown, violent curses emitted from Ian. The whole thing left Mickey feeling unsettled and jumpy.
The last sound he heard was sobs, loud and painful. Now Mickey couldn’t help himself. He reached out, stumbling, wanting to get to Ian, but having no idea how to. He felt a smaller hand, one he now recognised as Mandy’s, help him forward. She knew what he was trying to do. She steered him towards Ian, and a moment later, Mickey could feel Ian’s shuddering shoulders beneath his palms. Ian cupped his face again, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, the corner of his mouth. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he muttered in between the affectionate movements.
Mickey reached up to place his hand over the one that holding his face, and even though everything wasn’t better, his mind flashed with bright colors; red and green, and he had a feeling things would turn out okay.