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It was another one of Monica’s fancies that led to Ian and Mickey meeting for the first time. Ian had been nearly immobilised with a high fever for the last few days, and although seven year old Fiona wanted to take her baby brother to a clinic, Monica refused to do so. Her old fear of clinics and doctors and the pills they offered crept in, and she decided to get Ian healed in a more... atypical way. Ian was still a five year old kid who retained some of the faith in Monica his older siblings had lost, and had trotted alongside her eagerly to the Milkovich house.
The Milkovich’s were an elusive bunch. Ian knew that they had children, but he hadn’t ever seen them, didn't even know their names. Still, despite the secrecy that shrouded them, they were infamous throughout the neighbourhood for two main reasons. First, Terry Milkovich, who terrorised all members of the Southside and was responsible for half the crime in the locality (which, admittedly was a lot.) Second, was his (truly) better half, Maia Milkovich, or more notably, her medicinal drinks.
The people of the Southside were more than well versed with most drinks known to mankind, especially the homebrewed variety. But Maia’s alternative healing methods were a mystery to them all. She offered simpler stuff like hangover cures and sleeping drafts, but there were also stories of her curing fevers and stomach aches and migraines. It was these stories that Monica placed her faith in, taking her son to be cured by this modern day Witch-like creature who had formed her lair amongst them.
That was the first day Ian saw Mickey. They didn't talk, not even to be introduced to each other. The fierce looking blue eyed boy just slunk in front of his mother like a protective puppy, as if the barely there woman and her feverish son were any threat. Upon being ordered to do so, Mickey took Ian up to his room, where he lay down in the bed and pressed a cool cloth to his head with a practiced hand, while weird smells wafted up from downstairs that reminded him of when Monica tried to cook.
That was the first time Mickey Milkovich made Ian feel safe, but it was by no means the last.
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After Ian’s miraculous recovery, all the Gallaghers placed their faith on the fierce, yet always somewhat tired, Maia Milkovich. She, too, took a shine to these struggling, half starved kids and would squirrel away cures for them for free, refusing any money Fiona offered. Mrs. Milkovich became a guardian angel of sorts for them, while Mickey became Ian’s best friend. Pretty soon, Mickey became a constant fixture in the Gallagher house, as unobtrusive a kid as they come. He just wanted to keep his head down and avoid his father. Ian knew that Terry didn't like that Mickey was learning how to be a healer like his mom, but the boy himself loved it so much. Ian wanted to protect the skinny boy whose eyes only seemed to light up around his mother, and Ian himself. If the only way he could do that was to offer up his home to Mickey, he would do it.
When they were ten, Maia died suddenly. It broke Mickey down in a way Ian had never seen before, had never wanted to see. That cherished light disappeared from his eyes, to somewhere Ian couldn’t draw it out for a long time. It also broke the boy’s faith in his mom’s healing abilities. If they worked so well, he would ask, why the fuck couldn’t she heal herself?
It took three weeks of space-giving and carefully curated jokes to get Mickey to laugh again. He broke down immediately after, and Ian curled up next to him in his tiny bed, silently offering his support. If Terry saw them in that moment, he would go ballistic, calling them fags. But there was nothing romantic or sexual about that moment. It was just Ian, being there for a person who had crept under his skin.
That being said, the romantic and sexual part followed soon after. When they were twelve, they kissed for the first time; Mickey shoving forward to press his lips against Ian’s when he had made a particularly bad joke. Ian was stunned, but soon abandoned himself to this kiss, and the rightness of it. The movies were right; being in love with your best friend did have something to be said for it. There was no slow, awkward discovery of each other; no annoying habits that would be surprising when revealed. They already knew each other, inside and out, and they loved each other anyway.
They had a few years of sneaking around. It wasn’t that bad, seeing as the only person they had to hide from was Terry, aside from the homophobic population of the Southside, of course. They were fifteen when they got caught with their pants down by the devil himself, or his less friendly counterpart, Terry Milkovich. He didn't hesitate, not for a moment, to pull a gun. In a horrifying series of events, Terry shot his own son without even blinking. Ian might have lost his mind a little, in that moment of seeing Mickey lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. So much so that he picked up the now fallen gun and calmly shot Terry, not to kill, but just enough to hurt him very, very much.
With shaking hands, he cleaned up Mickey’s wound and applied the healing gel they usually reserved for Carl. Though Terry was right there, and there was enough to help him too, Ian just ignored him and helped Mickey out of the house. No one hurt his Mickey. No one hurt his Mickey and got away with it.
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When they were seventeen, Ian was looking at forty years of aggressive medication, while Mickey sat right beside him, holding his hand. The moment they left, Ian turned to him eagerly. “I don’t need this shit, right?” he asked, “You can fix me, right? With your healing shit?” Mickey flinched. “I don’t think so, Ian. You know my mom’s stuff isn’t magic, it’s crude science. It can’t help this.”
Ian felt his hope shatter, and his chest twisted in anger. “You useless piece of shit!” he yelled, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he shouldn’t be saying this, but too far gone to care, “Fucking useless! Fix me, do it now!” Mickey just stared up at him with wide, watery eyes, “I can’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
The fight went out of Ian and he slumped onto Mickey’s body. Mickey, strong as ever, held him up. They made it home, where Ian just headed to bed and after some hesitation, Mickey did too. Mickey was silent, hauntingly so. Ian didn't like it. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean that. You’re not useless at all.” Mickey, still lying down, managed to stare at his hands like they held the answers they were looking for.
“No, you’re right. What’s the point of all of this if I can’t help the most important person to me?” Mickey wondered aloud. “You do Mick, you help me every day,” Ian said, feeling horrible that he had made Mickey feel that way, “You help me just by being around. You make me happy even when you’re not trying. I can do this, okay? I don’t need you to heal me; I just need you to love me.”
There came some insecurity with the disease, with having to be taken care of. But when Mickey said, “You know I always will,” Ian decided to believe him.
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A few years later, and Ian and Mickey were living in a different neighbourhood, where their daughter could play outside without fear of drug dealers and predators hunting her down. Here, Mickey and Ian were the anomaly, but accepted easily enough. Now it was Mickey that people came to when someone needed a little ‘magic’ in their lives. No child in that neighbourhood had scraped knees or colds for long. And Ian and Mickey? Well, they never did discover a tonic to help Ian’s bipolar, or Mickey’s occasional nightmares, but they had each other, and maybe that was healing enough.