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Ian has seen Mickey Milkovich bleed too many times.
The first time, he’s holding Mickey’s leg and they’re in the Kash and Grab. He didn’t stay long enough for the ambulance to come.
*
It’s a summer night, he’s sixteen and he gets a text. Bleachers, 7.
Ian’s there at 6:40 and so is Mickey. They fuck, and Mickey’s lip is cut, bleeding a little. Ian thinks that if they kissed, he would’ve gone easy on Mickey and kissed the side of his lips instead – the left corner, the one that slides up whenever he half-smiles or smirks or laughs.
Mickey’s hands are bruised and his fingernails are covered in dark red dirt. Ian doesn’t ask, but promises himself that next time.
*
Mickey’s favouring his right leg the day after Terry comes back to town. He’d fucked off for a while doing God knows what – and Ian hardly cares because the Milkovich house became their go-to place whenever they wanted to fuck in a bed.
Mickey’s favouring his right leg and they don’t fuck in a bed, but it’s great anyway – amazing. Mickey grunts at Ian to fuck him, fuck him harder, you can do better than that Gallagher give me all you got. So Ian gives him everything.
Ian slides a hand up his shirt and Mickey flinches, pulls away. When Ian sees all the colours – black, blue, purple and a splotchy, ugly green stain on a pale stretch of skin, right under his chest –
Ian sees red. He’s still thrusting inside Mickey when he mutters under his breath, “I’ll fucking kill him.”
Mickey doesn’t hear.
*
There’s blood fucking everywhere. The DFS lady is still standing there, Fiona’s still there, Ned’s still there– Ian doesn’t know what to do.
He didn’t even get to see Mickey go. He’d been too busy trying to figure out if they’ll even have a home anymore; if his family was gonna split up yet again.
He cleans Mickey’s blood with a washcloth and does it mechanically. Does it somehow.
*
“Get the fuck off him!”
Mickey gets pistol-whipped and Ian watches. Is forced to watch. Sees it under his eyelids even when he isn’t looking.
Mickey’s face is bruised and battered. He doesn’t speak.
Since when does anyone need a reason to pistol-whip Mickey?
*
They stumble into the bathroom. Mickey’s hair is dried with sweat and blood, but so is Ian’s.
The night is a fucking blur – Ian can’t stop breaking out into laughs, asking, “Did that really just fucking happen?”
And Mickey would grin every time. “It sure fucking did.”
The bathroom light is white and too bright. Ian figures that they better inspect the more delicate areas before washing it all off in the shower. He runs a towel under warm water and drenches it until it’s only damp.
He turns around. Mickey’s leaning against a wall, feeling around his jaw.
“C’mere,” Ian smiles at him. Mickey looks at the towel in his hand and raises his eyebrows, but still he walks the short distance over.
Ian puts a hand on Mickey’s waist and gently prods at his face with the towel. He wipes gently at the cuts near Mickey's forehead and has to rinse the towel again before reaching his jaw.
“Ouch, fuck,” Mickey winces. He reaches for the towel and frowns when Ian doesn’t let him take it. “Ay, you know I can do this shit right? I’ve been patching myself up all my fuckin’ life, ain’t like this is a big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” Ian says simply, and leaves it at that.