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Fuck!
Ok, there’s more to say than fuck. Fuckin’ fuck!
But that shit’s not enough, either. What Mickey really needs is a good, stiff drink. And cock. One in particular, but Ian is so far outta reach at this moment it’s not even funny. Not funny in the Ha, Ha! sense, and sure as fuck not funny in the universe-fuckin’-with-you sense.
What kinda sick fuck finds cosmic humor funny anyway? Not Mickey. ‘Least, not when it’s directed at him.
He goes back to pacing. Back-and-forth. Forward and back. Tries to run his fingers through his hair in frustration, but realizes that all of the crappy gel and bullshit hair product Mandy had glopped in when she tried to style it left it feelin' all greasy and gross. He’d manage to swat her away and wash most of that junk out without Terry noticing, but there was still enough of that goop in there to make him not wanna touch his hair.
All he can do now is pace the back room of this reception hall. Pace and wait for this nightmare to end, completely aware that it’s just the beginning of his nightmare. After this sham of a wedding ceremony is over, Mickey’ll have to endure the after party. And then… he feels his stomach sour, do somersaults.
With nothing left but his own imagination, Mickey lets himself daydream. He dreams of taking the back exit of this joint, swingin' by the Gallagher house to pick up Ian, and taking off to parts unknown.
He dreams of a life where it’s him and Ian, living an uncomplicated life. Then Mickey laughs out loud ‘cause he has no idea what the hell an uncomplicated life would look like for them. Maybe uncomplicated is the wrong thing to wish for, maybe Mickey should just be looking for a life with Ian. Period.
That realization forces Mickey to a standstill. A life with Ian by his side is still too much to ask for. Ian’s not here. Mickey made sure to push him away. Far away, away from the mushroom cloud that is the life of Mickey Milkovich.
“Dramatic much, dickbreath?” Mickey chides himself, then shakes his head ruefully.
He makes his way to lean against a wall, pushing the back of his head hard against the plaster until he can feel the pressure building there like an oncoming migraine. And the way his chaotic brain works, pieces of old commercials promising sandy-beached vacations, or of family homes with neat front yards materialize before his eyes. He sees himself and Ian in each one of those commercials.
Somewhere, pieces of old songs he’d heard growing up wafting out of living room windows or car stereos popped into his head.
♪ Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older?
Then we wouldn’t have to wait so long
And wouldn’t it be nice to live together
In the kind of world where we belong? ♪♪
He doesn’t even know who the fuck sings that song, just that it was some squeaky-voiced dude singing it. But those stupid-ass words stuck with Mickey. They’re fuckin’ with him right now.
Wouldn’t it be nice?
Wouldn’t it be nice?
Wouldn’t it be… fuck that shit!
He pulls his head forward and smashes it hard against the wall. Then he launches himself into another round of pacing the back room of this stupid fucking reception hall.
Ian. Fuckin’ Ian.
In his heart. In his head. In his ass. In his soul.
Mickey calls to mind their times together. Heated times in the dugouts. Shooting live rounds as that cocky redheaded asshole made his way through the obstacle course they built together on that sweltering summer day. Ian, doin’ his Army thing, challenging Mickey to kiss him.
Fuck. If Mickey knew then what he knows now. He’d… what?
“Shut up, stupid,” Mickey tells himself.
The dust mites respond by making him sneeze.
Absently, another song invades his brain. A slower one. One of those girl group doowop type o’ things.
♪♪ Soldier boy
Oh my little soldier boy
I’ll be true to you, you were my first love
And you'll be my last love
I will never make you blue
I’ll be true to you ♪♪
Mickey don’t know who sings this shit, either. Wouldn’t be able to pick out who the fuck sings it out of a police line up if you gave him the winning lotto numbers and told him he’d won two weeks later.
But for some motherfuckin’ reason, here he is, about to marry the whore he’d supposedly knocked up after he’d beat the fuck outta the guy that claims he’s gay and scared. And while all this is going down, Mickey’s brain is taking a stroll through pop culture memory lane.
Has anybody bothered to ask Mickey how he feels about this shit? Like maybe he might have an opinion about the matter at hand?
Oh, wait. No. Sorry. Mickey forgot. Homophobic, racist father.
Mickey pulls at the collar of the ill-fitting monkey suit he was forced into this morning. Way too big, nonetheless so fuckin’ oppressive.
His pacing slows. A door opens. Mickey looks across the room. There’s Gallagher. And they’re talking. No, fighting. No, spilling. Spilling syllables that make no sense at all ‘cause nothing about their current circumstances make any sense.
Are they even listening to each other, or just emoting blindly?
Just emoting. All action. No thoughts of the future. What future is there to think about?
Better to lunge at Ian, lips first. Better to capture this moment, in case there are no more to have. Better to collect memories that Mickey can escape into when the inevitable happens and reality bitch slaps him for having the gall to have dreamed of a normal life –however fleeting that goddamn dream was.
Ian’s on him. In him. Mickey’s there. Right there. Fully and completely there in that tiny room with Ian. But there’s that tiny piece of his psyche that continues to detach itself from reality. That keeps fucking with Mickey’s ability to form a whole, perfect memory of this moment –this final moment –with his favorite redhead.
That’s the part that keeps fuckin’ dreaming. Wishin’. Hoping.
The goddamned delusional sick part of his brain that mashes up splashes of TV commercials and song lyrics:
‘Cause wouldn’t it be nice
my little soldier boy
if we were older so we could live together
and I could be true to you?
I promise
I will never make you blue