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Ian wanders the neighborhood aimlessly after he leaves Mickey at the dugouts, and he doesn't know how long it is before he finds himself at the abandoned building he'd found Mickey at after...after. His mind shies away from it; he still has the horrific images from that day burned into his eyelids, still sees them each time he blinks, still hears Mickey's labored breathing before his father pistol-whipped him.
He'd never been so terrified in his life. Not when he'd accidentally been forgotten at a park when he was five, not when he'd tried to run away at eight and gotten lost, not when his mother tried to kill herself in the kitchen. None of it compared to watching Mickey lay there limply, bruised and bloody, chest rising and falling infinitesimally. And any relief he'd felt after being found or making his way back home or hearing that Monica would be alright was nothing compared to what he'd felt when Mickey opened his eyes.
And as badly as he'd wanted Mickey to be okay, as happy as he was that Mickey was still breathing, he hadn't done anything. All his ROTC training and the experience he had fighting with Lip and Mickey and other neighborhood kids meant nothing. It didn't matter that he knew which spots on the human body were most vulnerable in hand-to-hand combat, or that he was the most far advanced in that section of training, because Terry had a gun. And Terry wouldn't have hesitated to kill him.
Or Mickey.
It suddenly occurs to him that Mickey is living with the same man who would have killed him with absolutely no remorse less than a month ago, and he shoots up, full of restless energy and a need to see Mickey and maybe hold him close and smell him and hopefully kiss him.
He's running before he realizes it.
His muscles are screaming in protest by the time he turns the corner onto Mickey's block, but he pumps them harder. He can't tell if his chest is constricting because his lungs are straining or because he's panicking. He's seen Mickey with bruises before, has always known his father beat him, beat all of them, but everything is different now. Now Terry knows that Mickey is the embodiment of everything he hates, everything he thinks is wrong with the world.
Mickey is smoking on his porch when the house comes into view, and seeing him makes Ian push to get to him faster.
Mickey must hear his feet pounding against the pavement, because his head suddenly snaps up, eyes finding Ian's. His shoulders are tense when he rushes down the steps to meet Ian at the fence, and Ian is unable to stop himself before barreling into it, the chains rattling with the force of his impact.
"What's wrong?" Mickey asks, reaching out to steady him and quickly looking him over. "You hurt?"
"No, no," he pants. "Mickey--"
"You gotta leave."
The words stop him short, freezing his insides. "What?"
Mickey glances at the house behind him and bites his lip before swiftly hopping over the fence and motioning for Ian to follow him. He leads them to the alley adjacent to the Kash and Grab and leans against the wall huffing out a weary sigh and dragging his hand over his face. "You can't just show up outta the blue like that, man. The fuck's wrong with you?"
Ian doesn't know what to say. "I--I was worried about you."
Mickey's eyes soften. "Ian...you can't say shit like that."
Ian furrows his brows. "But last night--"
"Last night was different. You can't just come runnin' up to my house whenever you feel like it, dumbass. Did you forget that my dad caught you balls deep in me?"
He flinches at the unneeded reminder. "But that's why I had to see you. You can't stay there, Mickey."
Mickey snorts. "Where the fuck else am I gonna live, a fucking battered woman's shelter?"
"You could come to my house?" Ian suggests hopefully.
Mickey freezes. "You wanna play house? Yeah, that'll go over well."
"This is serious, Mickey! Your dad almost killed you, you can't keep living there!"
"So your solution is for me to move in with the guy he caught me with?! Do you have any idea what he would do when he got over there? All you have at that house is a fucking bat, Ian, and that won't do shit."
"Mickey, please. I just--I need you to--"
I need you to be safe.
Mickey must hear what he's trying to say, because the sides of his mouth quirk up in an almost-smile that's gone as soon as it appears. "I'll be fine, Ian," he says quietly. "I'll find you if I'm not, alright?"
Ian edges closer to him, putting one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his shoulder, leaning down to press their foreheads together. "Promise? You have to promise me, Mickey," he says softly.
Mickey gives him a half smile. "Yeah, alright. I promise." His face quickly turns serious, and he grabs the back of Ian's neck as well. "You can't come to my house. Not to see Mandy, not at all, alright? I'll come find you."
Ian nods, but Mickey shakes him, eyes hard. "Promise me, Ian. You won't come to my house."
"I won't," he vows. "I promise, Mick.
Mickey takes a deep breath and steps away from him. "I gotta get back. Don't want anyone askin' questions."
Ian nods, suddenly unable to speak.
Mickey hesitates, torn between his need to get home and his concern for Ian. "You alright gettin' home?"
He nods again, numbness spreading through him like cool, slick ooze. Mickey bites his lip before walking up to him again and kissing him. The contact surprises him, and he starts to feel warm again, hands moving up to cradle Mickey's head. Just as he approaches scorching, Mickey pulls away, smiling lasciviously. "'Til next time," he says.
Ian laughs, and Mickey turns to jog home.
"Where the hell were you?"
Fiona's on him as soon as he walks through the door, incensed. "I had half a mind to call Tony, you little shit. You can't just disappear like that."
Her admonishments buzz in his ears, and he's suddenly exhausted. "Lip knew where I was," he says tiredly.
"That was hours ago! Do you have any idea what time it is?"
She thrusts her watch into his face, and he blinks until it comes into focus. 1:17 pm.
"Shit," he says quietly. "I didn't think I'd be that long."
She purses her lips. "You still haven't answered my question: Where were you?"
He sighs. "I can't tell you."
"Ian, if this is about some guy--"
"He's not some guy, alright? He's important."
"Oh, important enough to get you all twisted up like this? Drinking and staying out all hours of the night and not bothering to check in?"
Ian is quiet for a moment. "It was important, Fiona. Something...something bad happened, and he needed me."
Her aggravated expression shifts into one of concern at the haunted look in his eyes. "Bad like what? Are you okay?"
He looks into her wide brown eyes and decides that he can't lie to her. Not when she looks so earnest. "No. Not really."
A crinkle forms between her eyebrows. "Wanna talk about it?" she asks softly, rubbing his arm.
He gulps. "It's not my place," he answers vaguely. "It didn't happen to me."
"Well something sure as hell did. You can tell me, Ian. You don't have to keep things from me."
He wants to tell her. Fiona empathizes better than Lip; she'll understand the gravity of the situation, will be properly horrified, will comfort him the way he needs to be. She won't tell him to find someone else to fuck.
But he can't tell her. Not everything.
"His, um, his dad caught us together. It--it was pretty bad."
"You got bashed?"
She says it carefully, like she expects him to be skittish and shy away from her. "I don't know," he admits. "Maybe? He got it worse than I did. His dad had a gun, and I--I couldn't help him."
"He pulled a gun on you?! Jesus, Ian, who the hell are you fucking?"
The concerned look on her face almost makes him feel guilty. "I can't tell you, Fi," he says quietly. "I want to, but I just can't."
She clenches her jaw, deliberating. "Does Lip know?"
He nods, eyes blank.
She sighs. "As long as you're talking to somebody, I guess it's okay. Just--be careful, alright?"
His mouth is dry. "Yeah," he rasps.
"And at least tell me when you're gonna be going out to see him?"
"Yeah. I can do that."
She gives him a small half-smile and squeezes his shoulder. "Go take a shower, you smell like Carl."
He can't laugh, but he does manage to smile back at her. "Thanks, Fi," he says softly, placing his hand on top of hers.
She pulls him into a hug, lightly dragging her nails through the hairs on the nape of his neck. "Please be safe, Ian," she whispers.
A lump rises in his throat, and he remembers his conversation with Mickey. "I'll be fine."
As long as Mickey's okay, I'll be fine.
He doesn't sleep that night, and lays awake the next night, too, waiting. Mickey never said he would plan for them to meet up soon, but he still waits for his phone to light up with Mickey's name. He can't sleep anyway; the jagged edges inside him are starting to cut him into ribbons, and he can't put himself back together. Memories from that day keep swirling through his mind, haunting him.
They'd been having so much fun. Mickey was smiling and laughing, and he'd just looked so--
His phone vibrates. He lunges to grab it, excitement bubbling under his skin.
[From: Mickey]
dugouts
He doesn't reply, just pulls on the first pair of jeans his hands touch and throws a hoodie over his head.
Lip's voice cuts through the darkness, startling him into stopping in the doorway. "Where are you going?"
"The dugouts."
He hops down from his bunk. "So is this how it works now? He calls, you come, like a fucking dog?"
Ian bristles at the implications. "He needs me," he says, voice hard. I need to see him.
Lip stares at him unblinkingly. "I'll never understand why you let him jerk you around."
Ian levels him with a searching look, wondering where their sudden disconnect had come from. Lip, his brother, his best friend, who knows him in ways Mandy will never be able to. Neither of them can remember a time when they existed independently of the other, yet they've been like strangers for the past few weeks. "You're right," Ian admits. "You'll never understand."
He leaves Lip behind.
Mickey is sitting on the ground surrounded by cigarette butts when Ian gets there. "How long have you been here?" he asks, sitting next to him and plucking his latest smoke out of his hand.
"A while," Mickey replies, watching Ian take a drag. "Needed to think."
Ian blows smoke out of his nostrils, eyes fixed on Mickey's. "What about?"
"The fact that I'm married to a Russian whore who may or may not be knocked up with my kid," he deadpans.
Ian nods. "Right."
"She made me take all my Nazi shit down," he says suddenly. "Hates Nazis, apparently."
"Think I'd be more worried if she liked them," Ian says, chuckling.
Mickey shrugs, indifferent. "And she can drink me under the table."
"You guys drink together?"
Mickey shrugs and stays silent.
Ian doesn't know what to say. "She shouldn't be drinking, if she's pregnant. Or smoke. Could hurt the baby."
Mickey snorts. "The fuck do I care?"
They sit in silence for the better part of an hour, passing cigarettes back and forth, each lost in his own thoughts. When they've smoked through their pack and the first rays of sunlight start to burn through the sky, Mickey stands, brushing dust off his jeans. "Shit," he says, shoulders sagging.
Ian furrows his brows. "What?"
"This is the second night in a week we've stayed up watching the fucking stars," he answers, disgusted. "And we didn't even bang."
The unexpectedness of the observation makes Ian chuckle, gradually building until he's in hysterics, rolling around on their discarded cigarette butts. "Yeah yeah, laugh it up," Mickey scowls.
And he does. He knows it's ridiculous, and that he's completely overreacting, because it wasn't that funny, but he can't stop. Mickey eyes him uncertainly, but he laughs his way through it, lightheaded and free. "Will you shut the fuck up? It wasn't that funny, Jesus."
He wants to stop, but it feels so good to finally let something go. Laughter is liberating, and there are chains inside him that are becoming looser by the second.
But there's something else, niggling in the back of his mind, something he imagines he can feel being expelled with each breath. Something he's too weak to grasp at when he's in stitches on the ground, clutching his sides.
Mickey stares down at him, eyebrows creased in worry, and his concerned expression only makes Ian laugh harder.