Archive of Our Own

Mickey doesn’t even know when his birthday is until he’s in the second grade, when his teacher writes everyone’s name on a little paper birthday cake and sticks it on a big calendar on the wall. He looks up and sees Mickey, August 10, and thinks, I have a birthday?

He’s never thought about it. On other kids’ birthdays at school, their moms bring cupcakes and everyone sings to them. That’s never happened to Mickey, so he just thought he didn’t have one. Now he knows it’s because his birthday’s in the summer. So what’s supposed to happen on his birthday? No one in his family has a birthday. But now he realizes maybe they do. He’s not in school with anyone in his family, so he doesn’t know if people sing to them. But Mickey’s main concern is that he doesn’t know what people are supposed to do for birthdays during the summer. Maybe birthdays are just a school thing, and maybe Mickey’s brothers have their birthdays during the summer, too.

That doesn’t seem very fair. Mickey’s not sure he wants to stand up in front of everyone and hear them all sing at him, but he does want cupcakes. Cupcakes are always good. He’d like to ask someone if he’s supposed to get cupcakes even in the summer, but he doesn’t know who to ask. He can’t ask his teacher. She doesn’t like him and she always calls him Colin even though Mickey and Colin don’t even look the same. He doesn’t think he can ask any of his big brothers. They smoke too much and Dad says it makes them stupid.

He definitely can’t ask Dad. He tries not to ask Dad anything. If Dad’s home, Mickey does his best not to make any noise. If he stays quiet and goes under his bed, Dad forgets he’s there and doesn’t get mad at him.

Mandy won’t know. She’s younger than Mickey, so she doesn’t know anything. She cries all the time and Dad doesn’t even smack her for it unless she’s being really loud. She’s a girl, so she doesn’t have to worry that boys aren’t supposed to cry. Dad still smacks her for other stuff, of course, but he doesn’t get extra mad at her for crying when she gets a smack.

Maybe he can ask Mom. But Mom doesn’t answer him a lot of times. She looks at him and she doesn’t blink and her eyes are scary. That’s while she’s scratching her arms a lot. Mickey only hides from her when she’s scratching her arms. He hides from Dad all the time.

Mickey looks over at Lip Gallagher. Lip knows all the answers to everything. He already knew how to read when they got to kindergarten. Mickey overheard their teacher saying Mickey still can’t read this year. Which isn’t actually true. Mickey knows how to read. But she said it and she laughed and so did the other teacher and that’s why Mickey broke her favorite mug. He obviously can read because he saw that it said World’s Greatest Teacher and he broke it because she isn’t.

Lip knows everything, but he’s not like that girl Cindy who sits in the front row and tattles about everything. Lip might know and won’t tell the teacher Mickey asked. He might make fun of Mickey for asking, but he makes fun of everyone for asking anything, so that doesn’t matter. Mickey waits until recess. Usually he follows Colin and Iggy around and they push girls off the swings and pull wings off of little bugs. Mickey doesn’t really like doing that, but he’s supposed to be tough like them, so he does. Colin said Joey did that kind of stuff all the time and Joey’s the toughest guy they know, except Dad.

But today Mickey goes over to the basketball court, where Lip and his little brother with the red hair are bouncing a ball back and forth. Mickey has no idea how they got the ball. Usually the older kids steal them all. Maybe Lip tricked them. Or their big sister gave a blowjob for it. Mickey doesn’t actually know what that means, but he hears his dad and brothers say that kind of stuff all the time and they always roar with laughter when he says it. He doesn’t like the way they laugh, but it’s better than when they’re mad at him.

“Hi,” the kid with red hair says. His whole face has freckles all over. Mickey only gets freckles in the summer, and only on his nose and his shoulders. This kid looks like he just is a freckle. He’s in Mandy’s class. Mickey can’t remember his name.

“Lip,” Mickey says, ignoring the freckle kid. “What happens on birthdays not at school?”

Lip bounces the ball a few times without passing to the freckle kid. “What do you mean?”

“Ms. Tracy made you stand up and we all sang to you,” Mickey points out, even though Mickey didn’t actually sing. Lip’s mom didn’t bring cupcakes. But he had cookies that his sister made. “And sometimes we get cupcakes for birthdays.”

“Yeah, so?” Lip asks, finally bouncing the ball to his little brother.

“So what about summer?”

“You have a party,” the freckle kid cuts in. “Our big sister’s birthday is in summer and her friends come over with presents.”

“Oh.” Mickey thinks that over. “She got cupcakes at home?”

“She had a whole birthday cake,” freckle kid tells him. “But she had to make it herself. I helped her, though.”

That makes more sense to Mickey than someone’s mom making cupcakes. He’s never seen his mom make cupcakes. He’s never seen his mom make anything. He’s kind of jealous he doesn’t have a big sister. Maybe a big sister would make him cookies for his birthday. His big brothers definitely won’t.

“Okay,” he says. He walks off to find his brothers.

“Don’t you want to play?” the freckle kid yells after him. Mickey turns around. He doesn’t really know how to play basketball, but he doesn’t want them to know that. He doesn’t like when people know he doesn’t know something, and they already know he didn’t know about birthdays.

“No,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else before he turns around again.

“He’s a Milkovich,” he hears Lip explain. Mickey doesn’t listen to whatever else he’s going to say.

It stays on his mind for the rest of the school year. Every time a kid gets up and they all sing to him, Mickey remembers it. Summer seems to last forever. A lot of kids love summer, but Mickey isn’t sure he does. He doesn’t like school, but at least at school he doesn’t have to hide from Dad. Sometimes in the summer Dad’s in jail, and that’s the best, but this summer he’s at home. Mickey gets kicked off the baseball team, and Dad’s mad because he actually paid for it this year. Mickey has to hide from him every day for a whole week before Dad forgets. Mickey can’t wait for school to start again.

But then it’s August. He doesn’t always know what day it is, but when he sees the bank sign telling him it’s August he starts checking every day. Finally it’s August 10. Mickey runs all the way home. He’s not sure who he wants to tell first.

Iggy and Colin are stealing sips of Jamie’s beer at the table. Joey’s drinking beer, too, but he won’t let them have any because he never shares anything. Mickey comes over to the table and stands at the edge. He’s the shortest one in his class, but finally his whole head is above the table.

“It’s my birthday,” he announces.

Joey burps at him. “No one gives a fuck.”

Mickey blinks. “No, but it’s my birthday,” he repeats. “You’re s’posed to sing to me.”

Jamie laughs. “Birthdays don’t matter,” he says. He looks mad.

“But…” Mickey’s confused. “At school on someone’s birthday we get cupcakes with a candle and everyone sings happy birthday.”

“You think anyone’s gonna make you some fucking cupcakes?” Joey snaps. “Get the fuck outta here before Dad gets home and hears you talking about that gay birthday shit.”

Mickey just stands there for a second. He doesn’t get why they’re not singing to him. It’s his birthday. Lip’s freckle brother said this was what happened for summer birthdays.

“Get the fuck out,” Joey barks. He smacks Mickey to get him moving. Mickey holds his breath so he won’t cry. Joey doesn’t hit as hard as Dad, but it still hurts. Mickey runs to his and Mandy’s bedroom and crawls under the bed. He doesn’t know how long he stays there. He probably falls asleep. He usually does when he’s under the bed.

He wakes up to Mandy crawling under the bed with him. “Is Dad home?” Mickey whispers.

“No,” Mandy says. “Look!” She’s holding something out to him. She stole one of Dad’s Oreos and twisted it open. There’s a lit cigarette stuck in it. “Make a wish,” she says.

It looks really gross. It’s probably Joey’s cigarette, and that makes Mickey mad because he doesn’t like Joey. But Mandy brought him a cookie. Plus she’s still just a little kid. She doesn’t know birthdays don’t matter yet, not like Mickey knows. Her birthday must be during school, because she knows the whole birthday song. She starts singing to him, really quiet so no one will hear.

Mickey waits until she finishes and then blows on the cigarette. It doesn’t really do anything, so he pinches it like Joey does to put it out. It hurts his fingers. Mickey gives her half the cookie, since it’s probably the only one they’ll get for a while. The door slams shut hard enough that they both know it’s Dad. Mandy jumps. Mickey puts his arm around her and hides her face in his shoulder like the good guys on TV do.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

“Happy birthday,” she whispers back. Later, Dad’s mad that someone ate his cookie, and Iggy tells him it was Mandy. Mickey’s heart is pounding really hard when he hears Dad hit her. He feels bad because Mandy got a smack for him. Just because of his stupid birthday.

The next year, he says nothing when it’s his birthday.

Mickey doesn’t know what day it is until lunch. All the days are the same in this place. It doesn’t even matter if he knows what day it is. He’s sitting down and glaring at the fucking idiot who’s taking up too much space on the bench when some new kid across the table opens a letter.

The stamp for it passing inspection says it’s August 10. Mickey’s stomach drops. It’s his birthday? He scoffs at himself. It’s not like it matters. Birthdays don’t matter. Especially not in here. If Mickey’s really unlucky, one of the touchy-feely “coordinators” will send him to the counselor to see if he’ll talk about his feelings.

Probably not, though. This is his fourth time in juvie now, so it’s not like he’s new here. They know he’s not going to talk. Not the kind of talk they want, anyway. This might’ve been the year he’d have a visitor on his birthday. Maybe. Except not anymore. Not with how everything went down with Gallagher.

Gallagher. Mickey hates that he can’t stop fucking thinking about him.

It was bad enough when he couldn’t make himself stop following Gallagher into the freezer or the back room. At least then it was fucking. But fucking turned into talking at some point. Talking turned into laughing at each other’s jokes. Telling jokes. All of a sudden, Mickey wasn’t just seeing Gallagher’s face when he was looking at him. He’d close his eyes at night and see freckles and red hair.

And then it all went to shit because of fucking Frank. Mickey wasn’t wrong when he said killing Frank would be doing a lot of people a favor. All that other shit he said…well. It’s about time Gallagher realized what this is. He thinks Mickey doesn’t see all those little looks, but Mickey sees them.

Mickey’s not letting himself think about the fact that he thinks about those little looks all the fucking time. Thinks about Gallagher’s freckles, wonders if he could sit there and count them or if there are too many. Thinks about the way the sun bounces off Gallagher’s red hair. Thinks about the muscles in Gallagher’s arms when he’s cutting boxes open. Thinks about the way Gallagher’s lips move when he says Mickey’s name.

Nah, Mickey’s not thinking about any of that shit.

He sighs and yanks the letter kid’s juice carton off his tray.

“Hey!” the kid protests. Mickey pauses. He could just break a few of the kid’s fingers. Hell, this one’s brand-new; he could just glare really hard and crack his knuckles and that would probably do the trick. But for some reason, Mickey doesn’t do any of that.

“It’s my birthday,” he says instead.

The kid swallows hard, looking at Mickey’s knuckle tats wrapped around the juice. He nods furiously. “Okay,” he says. “You can have it.” He goes back to his letter, then looks up quickly to add, “Um, happy birthday.”

Mickey doesn’t say thank you. He stabs his fork into the foil top of the juice and slurps noisily.

Mickey hardly knows if it’s day or night anymore. When he wakes up, his fat fucking wife beside him—fat, pregnant, it’s all the same and he doesn’t give a shit either way—he rolls out of bed and reaches blindly for the first bottle of whisky he can find. He’s got them stashed all over the room. She smells like the same perfume she wore when she climbed on top of him that day Terry walked in on Mickey with Ian and it makes Mickey want to puke.

He goes to the kitchen to see if there’s anything to eat. He finds a bag of chips, mostly down to dust at this point, and he tips his head back to dump the crumbs into his mouth. It’s so hot and humid the kitchen air feels like fucking soup. Mickey hates the goddamn summer.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since Ian took off. He can’t keep track of the days. What the fuck was Ian thinking, coming around wanting Mickey to ask him to stay? He should fucking know better. There was no fucking way it was happening. Mickey’s never going to be the guy who goes chasing after someone, especially not a dude.

Mickey doesn’t get why Ian was so fucking mad about the wedding. Mickey didn’t have a choice. Ian thinks he’s a coward for letting Terry run his life, but Ian doesn’t get it. He thinks because his parents take off all the time and his dad shoves him into a wall once in a while, they’re the same. They’re not the same. Frank looks like fucking father of the year compared to Terry. And Terry gives Ian one afternoon beatdown and Ian thinks he knows how bad Terry is, but he doesn’t. That shit was mild compared to what Mickey was expecting. And if Mickey tried to say no and run after Ian after that? They wouldn’t have to worry about being apart anymore, that’s for fucking sure. Terry would’ve shoved them both in the same gutter after he killed them. And Mickey can’t imagine—it’s one thing to think about Terry killing him. That’s bad. That makes Mickey’s hands shake and his breath stutter out of his chest.

But God. The blood on Ian’s face. The tears in Ian’s eyes. Mickey couldn’t take it. Mickey can’t take it again.

So no. He’s not going to go against his dad. Terry says fuck the whore, Mickey fucks the whore. Terry says marry the pregnant chick, Mickey gets married. He doesn’t get why Ian can’t see that. It’s just the way the fucking world works. Ian’s all naïve and shit, thinking he can be gay and proud and all that fucking parade stuff. That’s not the way the world works, even if all the Gallaghers want to sit around holding hands and crying together or whatever the fuck else goes on at that house to make Ian think it does.

The problem is that now Mickey is here, and Ian’s who the fuck knows where. And it’s worse than Mickey thought it would be. It’s worse than being in juvie after Ian was pissed at him, when Ian didn’t come visit him but at least Mickey could predict where he was. Mickey could picture him sitting on the front steps of the Gallagher house, smoking a cigarette and holding that baby they all say is their brother even though everyone knows he can’t be Frank’s. He could picture him running fucking sandwiches up to Linda all day and reading his math books with that stupid wrinkle in his forehead because he’s shit at math.

Now, Mickey doesn’t have a clue. Ian could be off in the desert somewhere getting his legs blown off, for all Mickey knows. He’s probably fucked half the US Army by now. Mickey washes down his chip-dust with a pull of vodka from the bottle he found on the counter and breathes out. He’s got this fucking hole in his chest that he has to hide and it’s really fucking hard. He hates everything. He just wants it all to go away.

“Husband,” the Russian whore says. Mickey shudders a little at the sound of her voice. Not like she said anything when she was fucking herself on his dick, but still. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night with her breath on the back of his neck and it makes him jackknife off the bed before he can get himself under control.

“What,” Mickey grunts.

She smiles at him. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t return it. “Happy birthday.” She’s holding out a fucking Twinkie. Mickey blinks at it.

“What?” he repeats, stupidly.

“Tenth August,” she says, eyebrows coming together now like she’s unsure. “Your birthday?”

“It’s August?” Mickey asks.

She’s not smiling anymore. Mickey doesn’t give a fuck. Who asked her to smile? “Tenth August,” she says again, like maybe he’ll catch on if she just keeps repeating it. She puts the Twinkie down on the counter.

“I don’t like Twinkies,” Mickey says. He leaves her standing in the kitchen and goes to find some cigarettes.

Everything was so fucking good this summer. Ian got over the bipolar thing. He didn’t stay in bed all day anymore. He was getting up with the sun and running a million miles and making breakfast and waking Mickey up with blowjobs. It was perfect.

Mickey doesn’t know where it all fell apart. No, Mickey knows exactly where it all fell apart. He should’ve listened when Fiona tried to tell him. He should’ve let Lip talk to him. He shouldn’t have pretended it was all fine when Ian was disappearing for hours and coming back all sweaty, eyes too bright.

He thought it was drugs. They could handle drugs. He could follow Ian to the club again and make sure no one dropped him anything while he was working. He could get Ian to switch to something else, something that didn’t make him crazy. He could fix drugs.

He can’t fix this.

Ian’s gone. He’s gone. He took the fucking baby and he’s gone. And he just came home and told Mickey he fucked another dude like it was nothing. Like Mickey would be happy. Like fucking some random dude without a condom on fucking camera to score a few bucks would make Mickey proud.

Mickey hasn’t taken a full breath since Ian didn’t come home that night. Mickey’s hands haven’t stopped shaking since he saw the car disappearing around the corner, Ian and the baby inside. Mickey hasn’t been able to see straight since Svetlana came home and slapped him across the face. He deserved that. He’s deserved it for a while, really.

“Ian, pick up the phone,” Mickey begs. He’s lost track of how many voicemails he’s left. “Please,” he adds, and he can hear the tears in his own voice. “I’m not mad about the porn anymore. Okay? Just come home. Bring the baby and come home.”

He ends the call and rubs his hands down his face. He doesn’t know if he’s eaten today. He doesn’t even know if Ian left today or if that was yesterday or five years ago. He checks his phone to see if he somehow missed a call in the last ten seconds. Nothing. But there’s the date.

August 10.

Mickey barks out a shaky, bitter laugh. His birthday. Of course this is happening on his birthday. What else could he expect?

“Happy fucking birthday to me,” he says. And then he breaks down and cries.

The showers aren’t safe. The laundry room’s not safe, and someone’s been watching Shawshank Redemption too many times on that one. The cafeteria’s not safe, but it’s a little safer. There’s more than one guard there, so fucking Jenkins can’t join in when those guys are kicking the shit out of Mickey. He’s supposed to break up fights, but maybe no one told him that.

Mickey’s cellmate is a fat old guy who doesn’t give a shit about prison politics. He doesn’t care if Mickey’s a fag with a dude’s name tattooed on his chest. But he also doesn’t care if other guys want to jump him for it. He minds his own business and looks the other way when he’s told to.

It fucking sucks. Mickey thought prison was going to be like juvie. He knew how to handle himself in juvie just fine. He got meaner than ever and he knocked the shit out of anyone who looked at him funny.

Prison’s not the same as juvie. Maybe it’s because Mickey’s only twenty years old and about six inches shorter than the average inmate in here. Maybe it’s because Mickey got fucking soft because of—well. Because of that fucking dude’s name tattooed on his chest.

Mickey doesn’t feel mean anymore. He doesn’t feel big and confident and scary. He doesn’t feel like someone who can hold his own and end a fight. He feels, for the first time in a long time, like a kid getting the shit kicked out of him by someone a fuckton older and bigger than he is.

Mickey’s alone. He’s been alone before, and it never used to bother him. His brothers were usually around, and that was fine. He didn’t get lonely. He doesn’t think you can get lonely if you don’t know there’s any other way to feel. If he needed to fuck, he could go find Angie Zago and close his eyes hard and think of her with a different kind of body.

But there was a stretch there where he thought he wasn’t alone, thought he wasn't going to be alone ever again. He had Mandy. He had Ian. He even had Svetlana and the kid. Sometimes, it almost felt like he had Ian’s family, too. He got out of practice being alone. But it turns out he doesn’t have any of them. Mandy hasn’t come one time; Mickey doesn’t know where the hell she is. She could be dead, for all he knows. He doesn’t let the thought linger. He tells himself Mandy knows how to defend herself, thinks of all the fights where she clawed his face up and left him bleeding. He doesn’t let himself think about his mom’s head cracked open against the top stair of the front porch after Terry punched her and he doesn’t let himself think of Mandy covering bruises on her face the exact size of her fucking boyfriend’s fist.

Svetlana does still bring the kid, once in a while. It’s nice, Mickey guesses. He doesn’t really see the point, though. The kid’s going to grow up knowing Mickey’s a fuckup, know he’s a convict just like Terry. Mickey shivers a little when he thinks about being his dad. At least the kid’s safe from him while he’s in here.

And Ian. Well. Yeah, Ian’s long gone.

Mickey used to think about Ian every fucking day. He used to worry about him, wonder if he’d really gone off his meds, hope he wasn’t running around with fucking Monica again. He used to wait for him to show up during visiting hours. The whole first year, he felt like his fucking heart was being cut out of his chest. He’d finally had what he wanted, Ian right there with him, safe in bed every night, and here he was locked up. He knew he couldn’t cry, not if he wanted to live, so he hadn’t, but he’d wanted to. But it’s been over a year since Ian’s even picked up when Mickey tried calling. He hasn’t shown up, hasn’t written any letters, hasn’t even sent any messages through Svetlana. Mickey can tell she’s lying when she says Ian told her to say hi.

Now he’s getting used to being alone again. Mickey doesn’t have anyone on his side. When Svetlana was having him jump guys, that was one thing. He’d go one-on-one and use the element of surprise. That was fine. But it’s made Mickey even more enemies, and everyone else has a group to back them up. His cellmate doesn’t care about him, and none of the gangs will take him because he’s a fag. The ones who knew his dad won’t take him because no one wants to cross Terry. No one else will take him because the skinheads have pretty much declared war on him. Even the little horde of gay dudes he sees sticking together won’t touch him with a ten-foot pole because of all the heat he gets from everyone else, and probably because Mickey's yelled at a few of them for acting too gay more than once. Mickey’s got no one watching his back. No one cares that he’s getting jumped by four guys at a time twice a week. No one cares if he’s eating or sleeping or dead or alive.

He shoves it all out of his head and heads to the cafeteria. He doesn’t make it there, of course. Jenkins is waiting for him, that fucking nightstick dangling casually from his hand. He grins when he sees Mickey. Mickey could try running, maybe, except he doesn’t do that. He should, probably, but he won’t. He’s got to keep some semblance of street cred in here. Running would only make it worse. They’d all talk about the queer boy who can’t even take a beating right. Luckily, Mickey’s got a lot of practice in taking beatings.

“For a guy who hates fags, you sure spend a hell of a lot of time thinking about me,” Mickey remarks. It’s a stupid thing to say to a guy who’s already going to beat the shit out of him, but Mickey’s tired. He just wants to get this over with fast enough that he can still get some of that shitty lasagna they hand out on Wednesdays.

Jenkins gets mad as a fucking bull, of course. Mickey stays on his feet as long as he can, because letting them get you on the ground is a sure way to die when you don’t have any backup. He doesn’t fight back, though. He knows Jenkins does this to try to get Mickey to fight back. He wants to get Mickey on an assault charge. Give him extra time. Give him solitary. Mickey’s not a genius or anything, but he knows how prison works. He’s been learning those rules as long as he could listen to his dad’s stories.

He ends up on the ground eventually. By then, Jenkins is mostly tired of him, so he whistles and the skinheads waiting around the corner come rolling up. Mickey doesn’t even care anymore. He just closes his eyes and lets them kick him. He should be fighting back. Maybe in a minute he will. But right now, he’s just too tired.

He doesn’t have to fight back. One of the new guards, the kind who think they’re doing some noble job or whatever bullshit they tell themselves to keep from drinking themselves to death, comes around the corner and sees it. She assumes Jenkins is there because he’s trying to break up the fight—his fucking job—instead of joining in, but whatever. She calls for backup, and it all wraps up pretty fast after that. The skinheads get pulled away, probably to solitary for a few days. Jenkins pretends he walked in on it happening. Mickey gets hauled off to the infirmary.

“Milkovich,” the prison doctor says. He’s actually not the worst guy. Mickey doesn’t hate him too bad. “Back again, huh?”

Mickey would give him a stupid answer to his stupid question, but his mouth’s too full of blood and his lungs are too sore to say anything. Whatever. The dude wasn’t really looking for an answer. He gets the IV going, and Mickey’s always appreciated his haste in that task. There’s only one other guy in here right now, a tweaker coming off whatever home brew he made in his fucking toilet. He’s being quiet, though, and that’s all Mickey cares about.

Mickey gets his stitches and his ice packs and his drugs and he goes the fuck to sleep. Sometimes he thinks he should thank the skinheads for constantly landing him here. It’s not the worst thing, getting drugged up in the infirmary. His cellmate snores, so this is a nice change.

“Oh, hey,” the doctor says. He’s looking at Mickey’s chart. “It’s your birthday.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. Or he would, except his face is all numb from whatever he’s on. Which is great, because otherwise he’d feel like absolute shit. He lost a tooth or two this time. He and the doctor just kind of stare at each other for a second, because Mickey wants to ask the dude why the fuck he thought now was the time to bring that up.

“Well, happy birthday, anyway,” the doctor says, like Mickey should see this as some kind of bright side to the day. Mickey cracks up laughing. The doctor rolls his eyes and mutters about adjusting the drugs, but Mickey doesn’t care. He keeps laughing hysterically, and he’s glad he’s alone when his laughter turns to tears.

“What do you want to do on Tuesday?” Ian asks in bed one night. Mickey’s pretty sure today’s Thursday, and he doesn’t get why Ian’s asking what he wants to do that far in advance. They never make actual plans unless there’s a reason to.

“Huh?” Mickey asks. They’re both sitting up against the wall. Mickey’s flipping pages on the manual to Fiona’s ancient car and Ian’s reading one of those fucking self-help books he loves so much.

“Tuesday,” Ian repeats.

Mickey shrugs. “Fuck, I guess.” He doesn’t really care what day it is; that’s his preferred activity, if he gets a choice.

Ian snorts. “Well, yeah, duh. But what else?” he asks.

“I don’t fucking know. Why?” Mickey asks. He doesn’t think half these parts are even available anymore. The car’s too fucking old. He might not be able to fix it this time.

Ian looks over at him, and when he realizes Mickey isn’t joking, he puts his book down. “Mickey, Tuesday’s your birthday,” he says slowly.

Mickey swallows hard and puts his book down, too. “Oh.”

“You didn’t realize it was your birthday?” Ian asks incredulously.

Mickey bites at his lips. If he tells the truth right now, it’s going to make Ian feel shitty. A lot of things Mickey says make Ian feel shitty, and Mickey hates it.

“I guess I didn’t realize it was August already,” Mickey lies.

But Ian knows him too well. For one thing, they’ve got a big-ass calendar on the wall and they cross off the days to keep track. For another, they’ve been talking about taking Yevgeny back-to-school shopping soon, so Mickey definitely knows what month it is.

“Mickey,” he says.

Mickey blows out a breath. He’s supposed to talk about shit. But since he let Ian talk him into therapy, Mickey feels like all he does is talk about shit. It’s exhausting. He almost misses those days when he just ignored anything bad happening and went to shoot guns whenever he had a feeling.

On the other hand, the average number of times he gets punched in the face per week has dropped to zero, and that’s kind of a nice change of pace. This is the longest Mickey’s gone without getting punched in the face in his entire life. Maybe. It’s not like he knows about when he was a baby or whatever, but he’s pretty sure even Terry didn’t punch a baby in the face. Not with an actual closed fist, surely.

So he sighs and says, “I don’t really care about my birthday.”

Ian blinks. “Why not?”

It makes Mickey kind of mad. He swallows again, keeping himself under control. “I didn’t grow up with Fiona, Ian,” he points out quietly. “No one’s ever given a shit about my birthday. And I’m not a kid, anyway. What are we gonna do, have a party?”

Ian looks at him like he’s being stupid. “Yes, Mickey. We should have a party.”

“Why the fuck does it matter?” Mickey asks, and now he really is mad. He’s supposed to evaluate his real feelings when he gets mad, because he’s usually not actually mad. He’s usually just really fucking sad or scared and it makes him mad. But he can’t do that right now. He doesn’t have time to think about his sad life and how it’s fucked him up in the middle of a conversation. He has to get up and pace. “Why have a party now?”

“Wait a second,” Ian says. “What does that mean? Have you—Mickey, have you never had a birthday party?”

“When the fuck would I have had a birthday party, Ian?” Mickey spits, insecurity unspooling out of him faster than he can stop it. It’s not like it’s news to Ian that no one’s ever given a shit about Mickey, but it still sucks ass to drag that fact into light. “When my mom was a fucking meth addict? When my dad was out of jail and using me as a punching bag? Or maybe when I was in fucking prison, huh? Yeah, they throw great parties in the joint.”

Ian doesn’t rise to Mickey’s bait. He’s gotten so good at staying calm when Mickey’s freaking out. It makes Mickey kind of ashamed. He shouldn’t freak out in the first place, and he shouldn’t take it out on Ian. Ian can keep his cool, but Mickey can’t. Mickey was starting to get better at that, kind of, but then he went to prison and that all went to hell.

“Would you come here, please?” Ian asks softly.

Mickey’s shoulders slump. But he goes back to the bed. Of course he does. He can’t say no to Ian. He doesn’t slide in next to him, though. He just sits on the edge. Ian’s undeterred. He crawls over and wraps his arms around Mickey from behind.

“I want to throw you a birthday party,” Ian murmurs in his ear. “You want to know why?”

“Why?” Mickey asks after a beat, because he knows Ian wants him to.

“Because I am so glad you were born. And you’re special. And you deserve a party where everyone knows how important you are.”

Mickey’s fucking crying. All he does these days is cry, like he’s that goddamn leaky faucet at the Gallagher house that he can’t fix no matter how many times he tightens everything and replaces shit. He hates it. Both the leaky faucet and the constant crying. “I don’t know if I can take it,” he says. He doesn’t handle being the center of attention very well. Unless it’s just Ian. Then he thoroughly enjoys being the center of attention.

“It’ll just be family,” Ian wheedles. “Come on. You know those selfish assholes won’t let it be all about you for a whole day.”

It makes Mickey laugh a little. “Mandy’s gotta come,” he suddenly says. His voice is quiet but he’s sure. He’s not having a birthday party without Mandy. The first time he ever knew it was his birthday, she tried to give him as close to a party as she could. He’s not going to have a real one without her.

He can feel Ian’s smile against his neck. “Yeah,” Ian says. “I know, Mick. I wouldn’t plan any kind of family party without her, especially not one for you.”

Mickey nods. Ian would never leave Mandy out. “I don’t want a big thing,” Mickey says. “I’d be…”

“Overwhelmed,” Ian supplies.

“Embarrassed,” Mickey counters. “I don’t like—you know. I don’t want to go to some restaurant and have them sing to me.”

“I would never do that to you,” Ian promises, even though that’s a fucking lie. Ian absolutely would tell the waiter it was Mickey’s birthday so they’d get free dessert and everyone would embarrass him. But maybe not now. That was Ian when they were dumb kids, back when Mickey would’ve scowled through it but been mostly okay and maybe kind of liked that Ian was teasing him and looking at him. He’s different now. He handles people looking at him even worse than he used to, which is really saying something. But Ian’s different now, too. They’re both more tuned into each other’s needs now. Ian knows Mickey wouldn’t be able to handle that.

“But I don’t get it,” Ian goes on, sounding confused. “How could this be your first birthday party? I never threw you one?”

Mickey’s heart stops. He doesn’t want to talk about this. There’s no way to get out of this conversation without making Ian feel like total shit. And it’s not his fault. Mickey used to think it was, when he was at his bitterest at Ian, but he knows better now. They were so young—still are pretty young, really, since they probably have actual futures now—and Ian had so much shit he was dealing with. None of what happened was his fault. Not solely, anyway.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mickey tries to brush it off. Ian’s arms get heavier around Mickey as he realizes Mickey’s dodging the question.

“Mick,” Ian says. “Why didn’t I ever throw you a party? I can’t remember.” The meds he’s on make a lot of memories kind of hazy, and he can’t always remember stuff from when he was super manic or super low. Mickey almost wishes he could get on that train. He has a lot of memories he wishes would go away.

“Ian, it doesn’t matter,” Mickey tries again.

“Mickey.”

Mickey shakes his head a little, but Ian’s not going to drop this. “First summer we were…” He shrugs, because he wouldn’t classify them as together at that point. “I was in juvie for my birthday.”

“Oh,” Ian says. “The second time.”

“Well, the fourth time, but yeah. The second time since you cared.”

“Okay,” Ian says. He’s thinking so hard back there Mickey can practically hear the gears in his brain moving. “Oh, and then the next summer I was gone.”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes. He doesn’t like to think about that summer.

“But the next summer!” Ian says. “You were out, Terry was locked up, we were happy. What happened?”

“Ian,” Mickey says desperately.

“Oh, God.” There’s horror in Ian’s voice. “Was I in the hospital for your birthday?”

Mickey should just say yes. He should just let the timeline bleed a little. But he can’t lie to Ian, especially not about his own life. Ian’s own brain lies to him sometimes; Mickey’s not going to be another unreliable source. “You went into the hospital the day after my birthday,” Mickey says evenly.

Ian doesn’t say anything for a long time. He pulls back from Mickey. “Oh.”

“Hey,” Mickey says. He scrambles to turn around and grab Ian. “Hey, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I…” Ian sighs. He has tears in his eyes. “God, Mick. I should’ve been making your birthdays better, not worse.”

“Well, hey, no matter what, this year’s already gonna be the best birthday I’ve ever had,” Mickey tells him confidently. “Takes the pressure off, huh? There’s literally no way you could make this birthday suck compared to the rest of them.”

Ian laughs a little, clutching onto Mickey. “God, see? This is why I love you. We’re sitting here talking about how my psychotic break ruined your birthday and you’re cracking jokes to make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t really a joke,” Mickey points out. “That’s the truth, Ian. Just…having you here is going to make this the best birthday. Waking up here and fucking and seeing you take your meds so I know you’re okay. And the kid’ll probably make me those smiley face pancakes, right? He’ll be all fucking excited for my birthday. You guys are going to make it the best. Svet might even be nice to me.”

Ian buries his face in Mickey’s shoulder. “Everyone’s nice to you on your birthday.” Mickey snorts, because that’s not even close to the fucking truth in his experience, and Ian shakes his head, taking Mickey’s whole body with it. “I’m not talking about the past,” Ian declares. He raises his head like he’s passing a fucking law or something. King Ian Gallagher putting out a decree. “For the rest of your life, I am going to make your birthday the best day of the year.”

Now it’s Mickey’s turn to hide his face in Ian’s shoulder. He likes when Ian talks about that rest of your life shit, but it overwhelms him. He has a hard time thinking about the future. His favorite therapist—she’s the ugliest one, but he likes her the best because she cut through the touchy feely bullshit right away when she could tell he hated it and sometimes she even almost makes fun of him, but in a funny way that he likes—told him that’s normal for an abuse survivor. That’s what she called him. Mickey’s never thought of himself that way, but after he got mad and stormed out and then calmed down and thought about it, he has to admit it’s true. He even told her she was right and she kind of laughed at him and told him she knew she was right but thanked him for the validation.

Ian kisses the side of Mickey’s head. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll plan it all, okay? Real low-key. We’ll just go to Fiona’s and she’ll make you a cake.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Mickey protests.

“Oh, don’t try to fight it,” Ian warns. “Birthdays are Fiona’s jam.”

Mickey huffs. He doubts that’s actually true, but it seems like the kind of thing she’d lie about so no one would feel guilty on their birthday. “Alright, fine,” Mickey says. “And it’s close my one-year mark, too,” he realizes. “Huh.”

“Wait, what?” Ian asks, pushing Mickey back to look at him.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “I got out right after my birthday.”

“Mickey, we have to celebrate that, too! You’ve been out of prison for a whole year! You’ve been free for a year! That’s amazing!”

Mickey laughs a little at the way Ian’s voice is getting all high and excited. He thinks of standing in front of Ian in a bar, trembling, and telling him what they had made him free. It’s still true now, though Mickey’s lucky enough to have other good things in his life now, too.

“Well, make it one party, if you’re doing a party,” Mickey commands. “I ain’t having two fucking parties.”

“Oh, you’ll have two fucking parties,” Ian says slyly. “But we’ll combine the public one.”

Mickey snorts. “God, you’re so lame,” he says, but he’s laughing.

“You love me,” Ian says smugly.

“Eh.”

Ian licks him in retaliation, and the conversation devolves from there.

They don’t end up having the party on Mickey’s actual birthday, because who the fuck throws a party on a Tuesday and expects people to show up? Mandy couldn’t come until the weekend, and then it’s closer in the middle of Mickey’s birthday and the day he got out of prison. He even invites his PO, Hawkins, and his wife, feeling stupid and embarrassed the whole time, but the guy really does show. His wife even brought a present, which makes Mickey feel even stupider.

The party’s fine. It’s good. No one makes a big fuss about it being the first time Mickey’s ever had a birthday party. No one else knows, Mickey’s pretty sure. Ian didn’t tell them, because he knows Mickey doesn’t want anyone to know. They eat hamburgers and hotdogs in Fiona’s backyard and Mickey does his best to relax. This is good. He’s allowed to have this, to gather with his family and feel good about himself.

“Here comes the cake,” Fiona singsongs out, and there’s all these fucking candles on it. It’s a big cake, and it says Happy birthday and one year out, Mickey! in these big red letters. The lettering is pretty shitty because Fiona has no future in bakeries or art, but it’s choking Mickey up a bit.

“Whoa, Dad, you’re old!” the kid says, and everybody laughs because that’s a cute kid thing to say. Fiona’s got the lighter out to light up the candles, and everyone’s getting ready to sing, and Mickey suddenly can’t breathe. It’s too much. He doesn’t know why, but it is.

“I gotta—” he starts, but he can’t finish the thought. Everyone’s looking at him expectantly, Ian and Svetlana and Mandy and the kid and all seven million Gallaghers and Kev and V and their twins and Hawkins and his wife, and Mickey’s going to explode if he doesn’t get out of there. He bolts. He doesn’t say another word, just takes off and runs right out of the backyard and into the house. He runs into the upstairs bathroom and sits down on the toilet. He puts his head between his knees, clenches his hands in his hair, and tries to breathe without screaming. He doesn’t know what the big deal is. It’s a fucking cake. But for some reason he can’t do it.

It doesn’t take long for the door to open. He knew it wouldn’t. He looks up, but it’s not Ian. It’s Mandy. She sits on the edge of the tub and stretches out her legs. It’s weird to think she used to shower in this bathroom sometimes, a million years ago when she was fucking Lip. She knows the layout of this house as well as Mickey does. He thinks about how hard it must be for her to show up to a party here, at this house, with this family, and he has to put his head back down so he can try to breathe again.

“It goes away, you know,” Mandy finally says. Her voice is soft.

“What?” Mickey asks, voice shaking.

“Feeling like you shouldn’t have it. Like everyone’s going to realize what a piece of shit you are and stop caring about you.”

Mickey’s whole body is trembling. He’s going to break apart and shatter all over the bathroom, like the mirror that time he punched it. Of course Mandy knows how it feels. For whatever reason, the two of them got it the worst from Terry. He knocked Joey and Jamie and Colin and Iggy around, sure, but it was nothing to how he treated Mickey and Mandy. Mickey was the one who got his unbridled hate; Mickey was always sure Terry knew he was gay, and that’s why he hated him so much. He was always trying to beat the fag out of Mickey before it could take root, and he was furious when it didn’t work. And Mandy—well. Hate wasn’t the problem with Mandy.

“You’ll get used to it,” Mandy assures him. She has a smile in her voice when she adds, “Ian’s not gonna let you not get used to it.”

Mickey huffs. Yeah, that sounds about right. They sit there in silence for a minute. Mandy doesn’t touch him. She knows better than to try when he’s like this. But he’s getting better about taking people’s touches. Ian could touch him right now and it would be fine. Good, even. Now that he’s thinking about it, Mickey actually wishes Ian was touching him right now. It’s nice, though, that Mandy’s here. Ian doesn’t really have the same hang-ups about deserving good things Mickey and Mandy do. Not as bad, anyway.

“Thanks,” Mickey says roughly.

“Whatever,” Mandy answers nonchalantly.

“No,” Mickey pushes, because this is important and he wants to make sure Mandy knows he’s grateful. “Thanks for coming. Even though…” He shrugs and Mandy nods. She gets what he means. “And thanks for…” He sighs. “You remember when we were kids and you brought me a fucking Oreo with a cigarette in it?”

Mandy wrinkles up her face while she thinks. “What? No.”

Mickey laughs a little. “It was the first time I figured out when my own fucking birthday was. And I came busting in all ready for everyone to give a shit.”

“Guessing that didn’t happen,” Mandy says dryly.

Mickey snorts. “Joey smacked me.”

“Of course he did.” Her voice is bitter. Mickey mostly just hates their father and doesn’t spare much for their brothers, since he figures they were all stuck in that shithole house and everyone was just trying to survive, but Mandy’s able to spread her hate and resentment around. They probably deserve it. Mickey’s sure he gets a portion of it, too.

“I went and hid under the bed, you know, like we used to. And then you came in. And you stole one of Terry’s fucking Oreos and shoved a cigarette in there for a candle. And you sang me happy birthday and made me blow it out and eat that nasty fucking ash cookie.”

They’re both laughing, but they’re both crying a bit, too. “I don’t remember,” Mandy says.

“Yeah, you were little.” Mickey sniffs. “Anyway. You gave me my first birthday.” He doesn’t tell her about Terry getting mad later. That didn’t really have anything to do with Mickey’s birthday. If Mandy hadn’t taken the cookie, it would’ve been something else, and Mickey’s not inviting Terry into this bathroom with them.

Mandy reaches over and hugs him. He doesn’t even go rigid at first. That seems like a good sign. “I’m glad,” she whispers, like they’re back under the bed, seven and eight again and hoping no one finds them. “Happy birthday, Mickey.”

“Thanks,” he whispers back. “Um. I, uh.” He takes a deep breath and forces it out. “I love you.” He knows she knows. He used to go around showing it by beating down anyone she told him needed a beat down. He used to think that should be enough. But he’s learned a few things since he was sixteen. He’s learned it’s nice to hear, even when it’s overwhelming. And he knows there’s no way Mandy hears it enough.

Mandy sniffles, sucking up all the snot she’s spewing from crying. It’s disgusting, but Mickey doesn’t even pull away. “I love you, too,” she says, and now Mickey’s the one dripping snot. He knew it was true, knew it from Mandy always pushing him to be happy with Ian, but still. Hearing it’s something else. They pull apart at almost the exact same moment, and then they laugh at each other a little. It’s still hard to believe, sometimes, that they made it here. Alive. Relatively okay, and getting better every day.

“Okay,” Mandy says, standing up so she can try to salvage her eyeliner. “We gotta go back down there. Everyone’s waiting for cake, and your husband’s all freaked out he ruined your birthday.”

Mickey just rolls his eyes at the husband crack. Whatever. He swipes his hand under his nose and hawks a loogie into the sink.

“Oh my God, you’re disgusting,” she says, and they’re back on solid ground again. He puts his arm around her shoulders as they walk down the stairs together and she slips her arm around his waist. Yevgeny’s sitting on the bottom stair and he jumps up when he sees them.

“Dad?” he asks, bottom lip trembling a little. “Are you having a bad birthday?”

Mickey’s fucking crying again. God. He bends down and picks Yevgeny up. “No,” he promises. “I’m having the best birthday of my life.”

“Really?” Yevgeny checks.

“Really.”

“But why did you run away?”

Mickey sighs a little. “Sometimes, when I’m really happy, I get scared,” he says. “Because my life used to be really fucking bad. And I didn’t feel happy very much, so I’m not used to it and I don’t always like it.” It’s the best he can think of right now.

Yevgeny scrunches up his face the same way Mandy did five minutes ago. “But I want you to like being happy.”

“Yeah, I’m working on it, kid,” Mickey says. “But guess what?”

“What?” Yevgeny asks seriously.

“You’re helping.”

“I am?” Yevgeny asks, grin splitting his face. His bottom tooth’s starting to grow back in, but now one’s gone on top.

“Yep.”

He puts the kid on his hip and puts his free arm back around Mandy as they go back to the backyard. Everyone looks up when they come out, which is embarrassing as shit, but Mickey focuses on Mandy at his side and the kid’s arm around his neck. Not strangling, but secure. It’s a good pressure.

Ian, of course, practically trips over himself to run over. “Mick?”

“Hey,” Mickey murmurs. “I’m okay. Sorry I lost my shit.” Ian searches Mickey’s face. Mickey nods at him. “I’m good,” he promises. He sets the kid down and lets go of Mandy so he can put his hands on Ian’s face. “I’m better than good. I’m happy.”

“You sure?” Ian asks softly. “I’ll tell everyone to get the fuck out right now if you want. Or they can stay here and we’ll leave. We’ll just go home and fuck all day.”

Mickey laughs. He kisses Ian, not taking the time to glance over his shoulder and see who’s watching. Everyone here is safe, anyway. “I’m happy,” he repeats.

Ian smiles and kisses him again. “Good,” he says, giving Mickey’s waist a little squeeze.

“I’m helping Dad like being happy,” Yevgeny reports, interrupting like he always fucking does.

“Yeah, Yev, of course you are,” Ian says. “You want to ditch the happy birthday song and the candles?” Ian asks Mickey. “We can just cut the cake and eat it.”

It’s tempting to say yes. Mickey’s embarrassed about his meltdown and he wants to just move past it. But he meets Mandy’s eyes behind Ian’s head, and she smiles at him. She wants him to let them all care about him. Fiona spent all that time on the cake, squeezing out all those shitty letters. Carl, Debbie, and Kev all took time off work just to be here, and Carl and Debbie both probably have homework they should be doing. Liam could be off running around with his friends. V could be getting a break from her kids for once. Svetlana would be here, regardless, but he knows she remembers the birthday she tried to give him and he rejected. Lip…well, Mickey doesn’t have any idea what a PhD guy does on a Saturday, but it was nice of Lip to show up, even if he and Mickey want to strangle each other by the end of every conversation they have. Shit, even Hawkins and his wife came. All these people are sitting outside in the fucking August swamp-heat because of the day Mickey came kicking and screaming into the world. Twice, kind of, if he wants to count his release as some kind of metaphor for birth. Hawkins probably does. He’s always saying weird metaphor shit like that.

“Nah,” Mickey says. “I can do this.” He turns to Fiona. “Light the fucking candles.”

Fiona cheers, because of course she does, and Mickey can feel himself turning red as everybody else cheers, too. He meets Svetlana’s eyes and he hopes she can read his apology and his gratitude. She smiles softly, so maybe she does. Fiona lights the candles with this big fucking grin on her face and she keeps jabbing him with her sharp little elbow, and Mickey stands there feeling kind of awkward while everyone sings happy birthday. He can’t meet anyone’s eyes, not even Ian’s, and he has to swallow down the urge to run again. But Ian’s holding his hand, and Yevgeny’s leaning back against his legs, and everyone’s smiling because they care that he’s alive.

There are worse ways to spend a birthday. Mickey knows that all too well.

“Make a wish and blow out the candle!” one of Kev and V’s twins says once they all finish singing. Mickey looks around at everyone standing there, his chest full. His eyes stop on Ian, right next to him, who’s smiling so wide it must hurt. Ian squeezes his hand and gives him a little nudge with his hip.

“Go on, Mick,” he says, so happy Mickey can feel it himself. Mickey looks at the cake and shakes his head a little, smiling. He blows out the candles. Everyone cheers for him like it’s exciting he can breathe hard and the chatter breaks out as Fiona cuts up slices of cake for everyone. Mickey just stands there, taking it all in. He didn’t make a wish because he didn’t need one. He knows that’s corny as shit, but it’s true.

“Happy birthday to me,” he murmurs to himself. And then he gives himself a little shake, and he takes the piece of cake Fiona’s handing him. He smiles as he takes a bite, and he enjoys being alive.