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"You're angry at me," Ian says, and it's not a question. It's a simple statement and to Mickey's ears it mostly sounds sad.
"I'm not angry at you. For gods sake, Ian," Mickey murmured tiredly. They've had this same argument so often by now it wasn't even an argument anymore. They were just repeating the same old answers at each other and getting nowhere.
"Then explain it to me." Mickey could tell that Ian was getting just as frustrated as him.
"God, why does everything have to be black and white with you. That's just not how the world works. Nothing is just good or just bad." Yeah, good job, Mickey. So much for staying calm and talking things though, he berated himself as soon as the words left his mouth.
"I didn't say it was!" Ian is definitely yelling now. And Mickey thinks that maybe mad!Ian is slightly better than dejected!Ian. At least it's something he feels he knows how to handle better. Also arguments usually end with make up sex, which discussions almost never do, and that's a definite shortcoming as far as Mickey's concerned.
"Fuck, Mickey. I'm not asking you to marry me and dance at a pride parade in full drag. All I'm saying is that I need to do this to get my life back under control and that I'd like for that life to be with you in it too." the last part is softer, almost as if Ian isn't sure admitting as much might make Mickey run again. And fuck, it hurts that that's what Ian thinks of him. But if he's honest with himself he hasn't really given Ian all that much to think otherwise in the past.
"I know things have been difficult for you, but it hasn't exactly been a walk in the park for me either, man." Yep, Mickey Milkovich is now a guy who talks about his feelings and when the fuck did that happen? But it makes Ian get that soft look in his eyes every single time and Mickey's sort of fond of that look.
Ian sighs and slowly let's his fingers slide over the space between their crossed legs to Mickey's, not really holding his hand just resting his hand over Mickey's. "I know." and it's soft and quiet and not at all going where Mickey had intended.
"Oh no, you don't." he threads his fingers through Ian's and squeezes his hand. "That's not why things have been difficult for me. Well, okay. Dealing with you being sick hasn't been easy, but... fuck..." he tails off.
Taking a deep breath Mickey starts again: "Remember when after your, like, second appointment with Dr Bryson you came back home and just sat there for a while and I got really worried that it had gotten really bad for you again and then you just, after like two hours of just sitting there, said 'I never stood a chance'?"
"Yeah," Ian replies softly. "We talked about how while manic depression was genetic, it also takes something that would trigger it.
Like, all of us, Fiona, Lip, Debbie, Carl and even Liam probably have the genetic possibility to get it, but right now it happened to me, because apart from a shitty childhood that we definitely all had, there had just been everything going wrong in my life and I felt so out of control. So that's what triggered it.
And that day at therapy we talked all about how what happened between you and me was what had spun my life out of control. But the entire way home I couldn't help thinking that it wasn't just that. It was every single little thing that had happened in my life that has just been adding up and adding up and yeah, maybe at that point it was what had triggered it but it would have happened eventually. There is just no way I could have walked out of this shit that is... was my life and been okay."
Mickey just quietly sits there for a moment, before he speaks: "It's like that for me too. Not... not bipolar. Not... fuck, I don't even know. Just... it's like I never stood a chance either. At being okay. Like, you know, normal or whatever. Except I don't think they can give you drugs for 'years of verbal and physical abuse coupled with emotional neglect and whatever else growing up in the Southside does to you' right?"
It's Ian's turn to squeeze their still joined hands. "No, but that's not what I'm taking those pills for either. They're just for the manic depression, the rest of my issues are a completely separate problem. Well, not really, but you know... I still have to work though my issues like anybody else, no magic drug in the world can fix them for me. Though god, I wish there was one to do that, because it takes time and hurts like hell."
Mickey just sits there silently for a long moment, half afraid that if he speaks he'll fuck things up again, half afraid he'll just start crying. And he doesn't think he'll be able to stop.
"So what now?" he asks finally, still not looking Ian in the eyes unseeingly staring at their hands between them on the white sheets of Ian's bed.
"We fight," Ian declared. "just the way the Southside taught us: Fists swinging until we're either dead or we won."
Mickey snorts in laughter, and if it sounds slightly wet with unshed tears he is sure Ian isn't going to mention it.
"Yeah, okay," he agrees. "Can we start with something a bit smaller and easier than throwing out our entire lives to move halfway across the country where we don't know anyone and are too far away from your family to just go seem them for the weekend though? That gay pride thing didn't sound half as bad in comparison," he offers lightly.
It has the intended effect when Ian laughs, "I'll hold you to that, you know."
"Fuck you," but he's laughing too.
Ian raises an suggestive eyebrow at him, "All you had to do was ask," and then he's pushing him back into the mattress. And yeah, maybe discussions aren't all that bad either.