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Ian has dug himself into a pit. With his bare hands. Scraping at the dirt for years. Lies, betrayal, selfishness. Each one of those is a foot deeper into the pit. The grave. The first movement he made with his hand—holding it in front of his face, examining the lines, the tiny, almost invisible scars, turning it over to the back of his hand. Many more scars there—from so many fistfights that broke open his skin—cracked the skin until blood dripped out of it. Slowly, thickly, but steadily. It stung. Whenever he touched the raw knuckles, it stung.
He remembers some of his fights. Mickey, Lip, some other people he doesn't remember anymore.
He lowers his hand to the ground, shaky. It's shaking. Why the hell is he shaking? He sets his fingertips on the dirt. Dry, cracked, rough dirt. Jesus, it hasn't rained in awhile. He presses them in, no progress is made. But he lies. He lies and he cheats and he doesn't care. Doesn't consider. Doesn't pay attention or listen. He doesn't want to.
All of the sudden, he has made progress. He's digging the dirt. Actually, he can't fucking stop. He can't stop his hands. They're pulling the dirt out of the ground—it's getting stuck under his fingernails. Stuck in the lines and curves and bands and pores. The dirt is all over. All over his hands. He keeps going. Digging and digging. It hurts. His fingernails feel like they're being peeled off. But he keeps digging. He looks to the sky: "Help? Can anyone help me? For fuck's sake, I can't stop digging!"
He's several feet down. Where has all of the dirt gone? He lifts himself just high enough by standing on the tips of his toes. Just high enough to see very the edge of the pit. Hardly enough, though. Seriously, where the hell is all of the dirt going? He can't see it. He kneels back down and realizes that he's stopped digging. He sighs, sighs deep. So, so deep that he gets lightheaded for a moment. He has stopped digging. No more lies. No more betrayal. No more cheating, hurting, no more selfishness. Care love, and attention. That's what he's finally feeling. He cares. He loves. He's attentive; he listens—really listens—and he considers and responds with love. He cares. He takes another deep breath. So deep he feels it in the bottom of his lungs. God, that feels incredible. Refreshing. Renewing. He feels alive. He feels...wonderful. New. Like he was given a second chance. And he can see the top of the pit, actually. He can see it even as he's kneeling. He can see over the edge. He can't see any dirt above it, but he can see the edge. God damn, he never thought he'd be so thankful to see something so simple. He's feet above where he was. He's been given his life back.
He stands up, breathing in again. Deep. The heaviest, yet lightest breath he's ever taken. It feels electrifying, going from the bottom of his lungs, down to his toes through his shoes and into the hated dirt, right back up into his body. Through every one of his veins. His heart, his soul, it touches every part of him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees movement. Movement he resents. He doesn't want interact. He wants to lay down and let the breath continue to surge through his mind and his life. Refresh everything. Renew everything. Rebuild his relationships and his trust and his life. He turns some more, just enough to see who it is.
What it is that's interrupting his spectacular trance. He takes another breath. Not as intense as the last few, but enough to ground him. Make him realize that he's real. That he exists.
He turned around, as the sound of footsteps through grass were coming from behind him. As soon as his eyes landed on the man approaching him, his breath hitched in his throat in the best way possible. He could feel his shoulders relax, his feet sink into the ground, his eyelashes nearly flutter closed.
"Mick."
He just kept walking towards Ian.
"Mick, I—"
"Don't."
"Don't what?
"You fucking asshole," Mickey tried to yell, his trembling voice keeping from the effect. The words he needed to get out. To speak and feel. "I loved you—"
"Mickey, what do you mean?"
Mickey shuddered and stepped closer to Ian. "Ian, I loved you," he said, lightly pushing Ian, who just caught himself by throwing his hand out to grab the air and his foot back to anchor himself in the dirt. "I loved you before you loved me." His voice was shaking even more now, becoming louder with each word, more bitter and sharp. God, Ian's surprised his heart still feels to be in one piece. Mickey's eyes flushed pink, glinting from the sun. "I loved you and you ruined me. You took my heart out of my fucking chest with your bare hands, stomped on it, and tried to put it back through what? Nothing. I have fucking nothing left. You—" he cut himself off by jabbing a finger into Ian's sternum. "You ruined me. You absolutely fucking ruined me." His voice began to break more frequently as Ian stared into his glossy eyes, taken aback and hurt, feeling the same thing that Mickey was describing, and doing—his finger was still on Ian's chest. "And to believe that I used to love you. After everything that you did to me. After everything you said, the ultimatums you gave me, the names you called me," he scoffed, shrugged his shoulders. Jerked his head a little to the side. He let out a shaky, defeated breath. "But that's just it, isn't it? I still do." A single tear fell from Mickey's eye. "I still love you."