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Mickey’s tired. He’s been tired for a long time now, but for some reason the weight of his tiredness is almost too heavy to bear on the morning of December 26th. It’s not the usual kind of hungover, headache-from-hell type of tired either. No, it feels more like the ache in his chest has spread throughout his entire body overnight, until it settled into something denser, like lead. Maybe he’s just a skeleton of lead now, unable to move and stuck in a teenage boy’s body.
The thought makes Mickey snort at himself and he rolls his eyes. In back of his mind, he wonders why it’s so cold in his stupid room. He hears Svetlana snoring softly beside him and frowns because maybe she’d turned the space heater off again. Jesus, the biting winter air is probably making her feel more at home or some shit.
Mickey shifts a little so he can squint at her, and the sleeping bag that he doesn’t remember buying makes a loud crinkling noise under the movement.
Svetlana is sleeping on her side, with her head pillowed under one hand. Her face is all pasty and cloggy from the heavy make-up she’d worn yesterday. Not that she’d needed to dress up much for the occasion anyway; Christmas is, and has been for nine consecutive years, a dull affair at the Milkovich house. Maybe Mickey would’ve gotten drunk with Mandy under the El after they’d eaten a usual half-hearted Christmas lunch at their Aunt’s place. But Mickey didn’t go to Christmas lunch and neither could he picture himself getting drunk with Mandy anytime soon.
Mickey was fine with getting shit-faced all on his own on Christmas day, and he had planned to do just that until he’d made the mistake of walking past Gallagher’s house on his way to the Alibi Room.
In his mind, Mickey’d expected the house to be decorated seasonally like it is every year, the Christmas lights would’ve looked all cheerful and shit alongside this year’s snow. But the house looked the same as always – that is, save for a picture of Ian Gallagher stuck carefully on the silver wired fence, and the tally of post-it notes next to his face.
Mickey remembers being frozen on the spot for a long time after that, probably long enough for any neighbours watching from the windows to wonder what the fuck he’s doing, and start locking their doors.
But Mickey hadn’t had time to think of Gallagher’s neighbours, or that his family might be watching him. Because Ian’s face in that photo had been smiling. It wasn’t an Ian-smile though – it looked too forced and school photo-like, obviously put-on for the camera. But it was still Gallagher, Ian Gallagher, the kid who had visited Mickey for weeks after the first time he was put in Juvie. The kid who would start doing push-ups in the middle of a conversation, who would fuck Mickey like the world was on fire one minute and in the next, he would smile sweetly at Mickey when he was silently offered a cigarette.
Mickey’s heart had fucking stopped and started again while he stared at the photo, like someone was slamming the breaks and then switching to accelerate, and then the breaks just as quick.
Then, before he knew it, Mickey’s eyes were – they were wet and he doesn’t even remember much after that. Only that his feet had taken him to a spot he’d been avoiding. Mickey had stayed up there all night without even a drop of alcohol in his system, and he’d almost fell asleep there, until the cold was too much to bear and he’d come home to see Svetlana already asleep on his bed.
Mickey sighs, fucking sighs. And then gets out of bed despite the supposed skeleton of lead beneath his skin.
*
After that, Mickey starts taking a few deliberate walks past Gallagher’s house. He takes a fleeting glimpse at the number written next to the photo and wonders whether he’ll do it for the next four years.