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Ian remembered what came before in snatches.
He was sixteen and high as a kite and he didn’t understand the words the psychiatrist was saying, things like bipolar and medication but the rest of his family understood and Mickey understood, Ian could read it in the furrow of Mickey’s brow and the tight grip on his hand. He was sixteen and his life was crashing down around his ears because he’d always been a little too much like Monica and it had come back to bite him in the ass.
He was seventeen and Mickey was grinning at him, absolutely fucking carefree because Ian was having a good day, several good days in a row but he didn’t look at it like that anymore. It wasn’t a race or a competition, it was just a good day…and then his wrist was on fire and the name on there wasn’t the right one, it wasn’t the right one because it wasn’t Mickey’s and Ian did the only thing he knew how to…he ran.
He was eighteen and he was so fucking alone despite the fact that he was surrounded by his family because none of them were Mickey. They’d never be Mickey but Ian couldn’t be with Mickey because of the stupid fucking name on his wrist and it was killing him because Mickey was the only thing he’d ever wanted for himself, no adornments, no additions, just Mickey.
He was twenty and he hadn’t seen Mickey for two years. He had a job and friends, he was in a good place but it was never good enough because it wasn’t home, it wasn’t where he needed to be.
Ian was twenty two and his world was splintering all with one phone call and the mark on his wrist was fading but Ian couldn’t focus on that not when the ground was shifting beneath his feet.
“What?” he choked out and Mandy made a sound like a cat that had been stepped on.
“He got shot, he got fucking shot, okay?!” she snarled and she was crying Ian could hear it in her voice but he couldn’t react to it because it wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real because Mickey was supposed to be happy, Mickey was supposed to get the name of the person, who he was going to be with forever, and be fucking happy because Ian couldn’t...he couldn’t…
“I don’t know why the fuck I even called you after what you did but if you ever gave a fuck about him, Ian…” her voice broke and it sounded like the shattering of Ian’s heart. “If you ever fucking cared about him, just…please,” she whispered…begged and Mandy never begged, not for herself.
“I’m…I’ll be there, I’ll…” Ian glanced around the room, inhaling sharply as it spun for a second before righting itself. “I’ll be there, okay? Just…I never stopped loving him, Mandy, you fucking know that.”
“Last time I checked you didn’t run from the people you loved,” Mandy shot back and Ian clutched the phone as the line went dead.
*O*
Ian skated into the room at the hospital. His skin was buzzing like there were hornets living beneath it and he didn’t remember anything about the drive over other than the fading letters on his wrist.
Somewhere out there, something was happening to his soulmate and Ian didn’t give a single fuck because the man he loved was lying in some hospital bed and he hadn’t been there…he hadn’t been there for four fucking years because of a name on his wrist and Ian wanted to just burn the fucking thing off.
“Mickey…I mean Michael Milkovich,” he greeted the receptionist and the woman cocked a brow. “His sister said he came in here, he was shot.”
The woman pursed her lips as she typed something in. “There’s no Michael Milkovich here,” she responded blandly.
“He means Mykhailo Milkovich.”
Mandy’s familiar voice made Ian start and he flinched as she appeared by his side but the woman was typing again and this time she nodded.
“Room 6, they moved him since you were here, seeing as he’s stable,” she told them and Mandy tipped her head in understanding before moving away but Ian couldn’t move, his legs weren’t on-board with the idea of moving and he clutched at the desk.
“You alright?” the receptionist asked and her voice caught Mandy’s attention because she scowled at Ian.
“The fuck’s wrong with you?” she demanded.
“Spell it,” Ian whispered and Mandy’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“Spell his name, please?” Ian repeated.
“M-Y-K-H-A-I-L-O, it means Michael. You wanna tell me that you two were fucking banging but you didn’t know his name?” she snarled and Ian wanted to respond but the ground was coming up to greet him and the room was spinning and he couldn’t stop fucking laughing as he sank to his knees.
Mandy was suddenly there in his line of sight, her face creased with worry. “What the fuck, Ian?” she demanded but he couldn’t talk because his face was wet and the laughter was still bubbling up from his chest but he could show her and Mandy sucked in a surprised breath as she stared at the name on his wrist, the letters growing more solid with every second.
Mykhailo
“Shit,” she whispered and Ian nodded because he’d fucked up, he’d fucked up so badly.
Ian remembered his life in two sections, before and after.
Before, when his heart felt like it had been carved out of his chest.
Before, when there was no place that felt like home because he wasn’t home if he wasn’t with Mickey.
Before, when the name on his wrist seemed like a death sentence because he could never love anyone like he loved Mickey.
And after.
After, when he finally found his feet and staggered into the hospital room.
After, when Mickey had stared at him like he didn’t know him because Ian had left all of this behind…had left Mickey behind.
After, when Mickey’s fingers curled around the word on Ian’s wrist and Ian’s eyes found the curve of his own name flowing across Mickey’s skin.
It wasn’t forgiveness and it wasn’t perfect but for the first time, in almost five years, Ian felt like he was home and maybe he wouldn’t have to live his life in memories anymore, maybe he could make some new memories of his own.