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Ian is losing his fucking mind. He has to be. There’s no other explanation for what he’s seeing.
He’s looking at Mickey Milkovich. Except, well, this Mickey Milkovich is sixteen years old, wearing a leather jacket that’s two sizes too big for him, has chains hanging from his neck and diamond studs in his ears, and is ginger. His hair isn’t as violently orange as Ian and Franny’s, more of a coppery shade of red. But he has freckles across his cheeks like Ian did at that age, like he still does during the summer when the sun seems to never go down.
He’s looking at a miniature, ginger Mickey Milkovich.
He’s got to be hallucinating.
But he took his meds this morning, has been taking them every single day for the past fourteen fucking years. His mind isn’t playing tricks on him.
So what the hell is going on?
“Ian,” his partner's voice knocks him out of his thoughts, the tunnel vision that has him gnawing on his bottom lip and staring apprehensively at the group of teeangers standing outside the ambulance. He and Sue have been working together since Ian first started thirteen years ago. She’s retiring soon, and Ian is going to miss the way they work together, moving in sync and hardly ever needing to talk to know what the other is doing. “You ready? These kids can get brutal.”
Ian nods, pushing away all of the memories trying to claw their way out of the mental vault he’s spent over a decade creating. He doesn’t have time for a stroll down memory lane right now. “Yeah,” he says, voice a lot steadier than he feels. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
*
Most of the kids do not give a single shit about what Ian is saying. They’re halfway listening, if that, their hands shoved in the pockets and eyes glazed over. Miniature Mickey is one of the only ones listening. His blue eyes, the exact same shade as Mickey’s, are wide, and he nods along as Ian explains the duties, skills, and abilities of EMTS and paramedics. He looks like he’s trying to hide it, though, trying not to let the kids around him see the way his fingers tap against his thigh excitedly.
It’s so fucking weird.
Up close, Ian can pinpoint every single similarity between this kid and Mickey. The teeth, the way his lips curl around them as he grins broadly. The eyebrows, shooting up to his hairline, expressing every thought. The eyes, of course, bright blue and shining with an easy happiness Ian hardly ever got to see in Mickey. The kid’s still a hardass, though.
Ian sees the wide berth all the other students give him, sees the way he glares past his nose at anyone who looks at him twice. He stands like Mickey, too, arms crossed over his chest, feet planted, always ready to strike. Even though his eyes are interested and childish, Ian knows this kid isn’t one to be messed with. The underclassmen are probably terrified of him and his giant boots and bruised knuckles. It’s such a stark difference from those fucking eyes.
Ian starts putting together the puzzle in his head while Sue talks. It’s been nearly fifteen years since the last time Ian saw, since Ian stole Mickey’s kid, since you used to love me, now you don’t even know me, since I don’t need to be fixed, since Mickey went to jail for trying to kill Sammi. Fifteen years since Ian has seen Mickey. Seen the teenage boy standing in front of him, with red hair and blue eyes and Mickey’s face. The kid has to be Yevgeny. Has to be.
Ian knows he fucked up, back then. He was off his meds and couldn’t see what he had right there in front of him. Someone who had done everything for him, who had done his fucking best to protect him, even when he had no clue what he was dealing with. He just let Mickey go. Stopped visiting, stopped answering calls from the number he knew belonged to the prison. When he finally got his shit together, it was too late.
He found Svetlana. She told him to fuck off. Wouldn’t tell him anything about Mickey, about Yev. Told him that if she ever saw his orange head again she’d bash it in with her hammer. So Ian stopped. Never heard a fucking word from Mickey again, only knew he got out of prison because of Kev’s big mouth. Sitting at the Alibi, laughing with Lip, Ian heard Kev say to Vee, “Mickey says Yev wants to see the twins this weekend, that okay?” Ian got up and left and vowed to never think about the name Mickey again.
But here he is.
Yevgeny is the only kid to ask a question. “Why?” he asks, voice holding that same Southside accent of Mickey’s even though the school is most definitely Westside. “Why’d you become an EMT?”
Ian smiles brightly. “I like helping people,” he says, looking right at Yevgeny’s blue eyes. “I saw an accident when I was younger, helped a lady out of a car before it caught fire.” He shrugs. “It felt good, saving someone.”
Yevgeny’s face splits into a grin. “Fucking cool, man.”
The teacher snaps her fingers in Yevgeny’s direction, like she’s used to this, to reprimanding the young ginger. “Language, Mr. Milkovich.”
Yevgeny - Ian knows he’s Yev now - rolls his eyes, and, in a mocking, high pitched tone, says, “Language, Mr. Milkovich.” He flips the teacher off, both of his middle fingers in the air, as soon as her back is turned.
Ian can’t help but shoot the kid a small, amused smile. Yevgeny smirks. He’s definitely Mickey’s kid. Ian doesn’t know what to do about this situation.
Eventually, all of the students wander off to the next station, learning about other careers, figuring out what they want to do with their lives. Yevgeny stays behind. Sue went back into the rig, so Ian walks up to him, asks, “You need something, kid?” Nice, the kind of nice he is to patients. Strangers in the store. Acts like he’s never carried Yevgeny around on his hip, like he didn’t kiss his forehead every morning and change his diapers, like he didn’t used to manically dream that Yevgeny could be his and Mickey’s. Right now, the kid looks like he could be, all ginger and Mickey-like.
Yevgeny tilts his head, studies Ian.
Ian swallows.
“You alright?” he asks.
Yevgeny rubs at his nose, just like Mickey always did when he was nervous about something. “Nothing,” he mutters. Shakes head. His gelled up hair doesn’t move an inch. “You just look kinda familiar - I guess?”
Ian beams. He can’t help it. He clears his throat, forces his smile down to something polite. Don’t be fucking weird, Ian. “You’re Southside, right?”
Yevgeny nods.
“Me too, kid. Probably seen me walking around.” Ian points to his hair. “Hard to miss.”
Yevgeny laughs - god, it sounds like Mickey’s - tugs at his own strands of spiked copper hair. “Yeah, hard to miss.”
“You ever thought about being an EMT?” Ian asks, making conversation, trying to figure out how to bring up Mickey.
Yevgeny shakes his head. “Nah, man,” he says. “Think it sounds kinda cool, though.”
“It is.”
Yevgeny’s eyes shift, staring at the space just behind Ian’s head. He chews on his lip. All Ian can think is Mickey Mickey Mickey. Fuck. “I’m Yevgeny,” the kid says, holding out a hand. Ian notices blank ink on his wrist when his jacket sleeve moves up. Ian resists the urge to crack a smile. Of course Mickey would let his sixteen year old get a tattoo.
Ian takes the kid’s hand, shakes it. “Ian.”
*
That night at dinner, Yev is practically bouncing in his seat, tapping his boots against the floor. Mickey raises his eyebrow, doesn’t comment. Yev’s like him, has to work up to whatever he wants to say, when it’s something big, something important to him. So Mickey waits, shoves a forkful of chicken into his mouth.
“I wanna be an EMT,” Yev blurts out. He’s smiling. Big, overlapping bunny teeth, like Mickey’s were when he was a kid. Sometimes it freaks Mickey out, how much Yevgeny looks like him. It’s like staring into a ginger, freckle faced mirror. “They were at that career day thing today, I think I’d like it. Fast-paced, you know? Get to save lives. The people were cool, too. Not assholes like everyone else there.”
Mickey grins, matching Yev’s. “Yeah?” he asks. “You think it’s a good fit for you?” Mickey feels something prideful swell up in his chest. His kid has his shit together, thinking about jobs at sixteen years old. The only things Mickey was thinking about sixteen were drugs, money, and sex. Yev might look just like him, but, god, this kid was nothing like him. He still held the Milkovich edge, that air of “Don’t Fuck With Me” that Mickey taught him as soon as he was old enough to throw a punch, but Yev is so much lighter than Mickey could ever dream of being.
Yev nods excitedly. “I’d have to take some classes, get certified. I could start working on it, like, right after graduation. One of the guys said that eventually I could be a paramedic or take a few more classes and be a nurse.”
“That’s fucking awesome, kid,” Mickey says, meaning it. He’s glad, glad that Yev is excited about this, about his future. He could change his mind in a month, decide he wants to be a fucking astronout instead. Mickey would still be proud of him.
*
Yev decides not to tell his dad about the EMT with the same name as the one that is tattooed across his chest, the same face as the man in the picture, a picture of a redheaded man and a baby Yev, that his dad has in his wallet.
His dad talks about Ian Gallagher, sometimes. When Yev came out as bisexual. When Yev asked if he’s ever been in love. When Yev’s first boyfriend broke his heart. When Yev was little and ran his fingers over all of his dad’s tattoos, sitting in his lap and asking about them.
Yev knows his dad still loves this Ian guy. Knows when he watches his dad rub a hand over his heart, when he sees his dad take that small picture out of his wallet and stare at it. Yev knows his dad still loves this guy, so he wants them to get back together. He wants his dad to be happy.
He hasn’t really figured out the logistics yet.
*
Two weeks later, Ian is still thinking about Mickey. He paces his room, the space between his bed and his dresser, so much that Liam complains about the noise. He can’t stop. He doesn’t know what to do. He chews his fingernails down to bloody nubs. Gets an adjustment on his meds, just in case.
Work is the only time he manages to forget. The constant action, the adrenaline, distractions him enough to forget for a little while. The blaring sirens shut off his mind.
“Got another call,” Sue says, as they're pulling out of a nursing home. Old lady fell, needed help getting up. Too late at night and there were no orderlies on duty to help. Simple shit. “Only a couple of streets over.”
“Details?” Ian asks, fastening his seatbelt, tapping his fingers against his knees.
Sue turns on the sirens. Adrenaline. Fuck yeah.
“Kid called in sounding like he was having a panic attack, according to Kathy.” Kathy, their favorite night shift dispatch lady. “His dad had a seizure and hit his head on the counter. Kid said he won’t wake up.”
“Fuck.”
The apartment complex is small, a few three story buildings packed together on the edge of the Westside. Basically Southside. Just with better schools.
Sue parks the rig, Ian grabs his bags, and they race up the stairs to the third floor of the second building, apartment seventeen. Adrenaline, exactly what Ian needs to forget, to let his mind go blissfully blank.
They knock on the door. There’s a mat in front of it that says STAY THE FUCK OUT. It brings a small smile to Ian’s face. Nostalgia.
Then there’s the sound of feet thumping against the floor, stumbling. The door rips open and Ian is met with copper hair and wide, blue eyes.
“Yevgeny.”
The kid looks like he’s been crying, cheeks red and tear streaked. Eyes panicked. He’s not wearing his leather jacket or boots, just a pair of plaid pajama pants, a black muscle tank, and neon pink socks. He looks ridiculously like Mickey. There’s another tattoo on his bicep. A skull. Words in another language printed under it. Russian, maybe. Ian wonders how many other tattoos Mickey has let him get, how many new tattoos are on Mickey himself.
Mickey. Shit. Yevgeny’s dad. Mickey. Ian’s here for Mickey. He can’t do this.
But he lets Yevgeny grip his wrist and pull him inside, towards the kitchen. “He- he was making dinner and just fell out,” he says Yanks on Ian’s arm hard enough to pull his arm out of its socket. Ian looks back at Sue helplessly. “Hit his head and won’t open his eyes.”
“Okay,” Ian says. Yevgeny pulls him around a corner and there he is. Mickey. Turned on his side, but not seizing anymore. Eyes shut. Breathing ragged. Blood on his temple. Shit.
Gonna be sick. Gonna cry. Gonna lose it.
Mickey.
Mickey’s sick.
He has to help Mickey.
Yevgeny drops Ian’s wrist. Ian falls to his knees in front of Mickey, going into work mode. “Is this his first seizure?” he asks. Digs into his bag. Looks up at Yevgeny.
The boy shakes his head. “He has epilepsy.” Mickey has epilepsy? Since when? Why didn’t he ever say anything? Ian shakes his head. It’s been fifteen years. A lot changes in fifteen years. “He takes meds for it, but they still- fuck- they still happen sometimes. Mostly absent, just staring off for a little while. Hasn’t had one this bad since I was little.”
Mickey’s coming to. He groans, painful, face contorting into a familiar scowl.
Fuck, Ian can’t do this.
Mickey’s eyes blink open, shift around the room, focus on him. Shit.
*
Yev tackles him as soon as he sits up. “Dad!” he cries, burying his face into Mickey’s neck. Mickey turns his complete focus to his kid, wraps his arms around him, presses the side of his face against his copper hair. Ignores the other ginger in the room. Ignores the screaming in his head, headache blooming and heart rate going through the fucking roof.
“I’m okay,” he mutters into Yev’s hair. There are tears soaking into his t-shirt. “I’m okay, Yevvy. Just hit my head.”
“You could have a concussion,” the woman standing beside his fridge says.
Mickey glares at her, tightens his arms around Yev’s shaking frame. “I’m fucking fine, lady.”
“Mickey,” Ian mutters, reaching towards him. Mickey can’t help it, he flinches away. “She’s right, we gotta check.”
“Fuck off.” He doesn’t want Ian anywhere near him. He wants Ian right beside him. It’s been fifteen fucking years and he still feels conflicted every time he thinks about Ian. Fucking hell, he can’t do this. Never wanted to do this. Wanted to stay far away, never have to see the asshole again.
At least he seems to have his life together.
“Dad,” Yev mutters against his shoulder. “Let them check, please.”
Mickey sighs. He nods at Ian, gives him permission to take a step closer, just so Yevgeny won’t worry.
Ian’s hands are shaking as digs through his bag. Good, Mickey thinks. Be fucking nervous. Dickhead.
Yev climbs off his lap, but sits right next to him on the floor, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He always gets like this when Mickey has a seizure, paranoid that it’ll happen again for the next few days.
“Look straight forward for me,” Ian says, voice clinical. Impersonal. Mickey figures it’s better that way. Maybe they can make it through this without having to have an actual conversation. Doubtful, though. Ian’s a fucking talker.
Mickey stares at the wall behind Ian, Yev’s hand in his own. Ian shines a light at his eyes, leans close to look at his pupil. Repeats the action on the other side. “Can you state your full name for me?”
“Suck my cock.”
Yev elbows him.
Mickey sighs. “Mikhailo Milkovich.”
Ian nods, moving the light back to the eye he started with. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Or maybe trying not to vomit. Mickey’s never been very good at reading facial expressions. “Good. What’s today’s date?”
Mickey parrots the date he marked off on the parlor calendar when he left that afternoon.
Ian clicks off his light, leans back. “I think you’re good, Mick.”
“Don’t call me that,” Mickey says, quickly, venomously.
Yev doesn’t elbow him this time.
“Sorry,” Ian mutters, looking down and pulling at a string on his pants. “Sorry.”
“Get out,” Mickey orders, still not really looking at Ian. He refuses to, focuses on the wall instead. He needs Ian to leave. Needs him away from Yev, from their home, from him. He can’t do this. He’s been avoiding this, this ache in the middle of his chest, for fifteen years. “You did your job. Leave.”
The lady by the fridge finally speaks again. Mickey forgot she was there. “You need stitches-”
“I’ve dealt with a lot worse,” Mickey says, glaring at her. “I’ll be okay.”
Ian stands. “Let’s go,” he mutters, looking at the floor.
Mickey watches his back until the door closes behind it.
*
“Do you know that guy?” Sue asks as Ian climbs into his seat.
“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he answers. His head is spinning. Mickey is running around up there. Kicking down walls. Punching people in the face. Mickey is holding his heart in his hands, delicately, reverently. He throws it against a wall. Ian deserves it.
“Ian-”
“I really don’t want to talk about,” Ian says. “Just- let’s just get back to the station. Please.”
Thankfully, Sue lets it go.
*
Yev sleeps in Mickey’s bed for the next week. He kicks in his sleep, but Mickey doesn’t mind. He knows his kid is worried about him. Worried he’ll have another seizure. Worried about how he ran to the bathroom and vomited as soon as Ian left. Worried about how he saw his dad cry for the first time since Svetlana died and left him alone with a six year old. Mickey wonders how he raises such a caring kid.
*
Ian sees him again two months later. Sees both of them. Mickey and his Mini-Me. They’re arguing over cereal.
“That shit sucks, Yevgeny,” Mickey says. His back to Ian. “Tastes like fucking chalk.”
“Yeah, but look how much protein it has!” Yevgeny argues, waving his hands. Bracelets on his wrist clink against the spikes on his jacket. “For the gains, Dad!”
“Fuck your gains, I ain’t eating this shit.”
“Daaaaaaaaad.”
“Yevgeny.”
“Mikhailo.”
Mickey thumps the back of Yevgeny’s head. Soft. Doesn’t even make a sound. Ian likes it when Mickey is soft. Means he’s comfortable. Happy.
Yevgeny gasps. Wails dramatically. Threatens to call DCFS. Mickey laughs. Jabs Yevgeny in the side.
Ian walks away before either of them notice him.
He doesn’t see the pair of blue eyes following him.
*
They get called to Yevgeny’s school two days later. Ian is totally not freaking out about it.
A kid beat the shit out of another kid. One of them has a broken nose. The other is fine. Ian has his suspicions.
The principal meets them outside. Leads them through the massive doors. Ian has not been inside a high school since he was sixteen. Everything is too bright. Ian squints. They end up in a nurses office.
One kid with blood dripping from his nose. Eye starting to bruise. That’s gonna be purple for a week.
Another kid sitting across the room. Knees brought up to his chest. Ripped jeans. Boots. Chains. Bruised knuckles. Blood on his hands. Scowling. Ginger Mickey.
Yevgeny.
Ian walks towards him without even realizing it. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he says. Smiles. Joking. Easy.
Yevgeny snorts.
Ian sits next to him on the cot. Reaches in his bag for supplies. Disinfect. Suture, probably. Yevgeny’s knuckles are bleeding. “What happened?” Ian asks. Reaches for one of Yevgeny’s hands. Sees the tattoo on his wrist more clearly this time. It’s in an unfamiliar language. Not the same one that’s on his arm. Slightly different. Ukrainian? Mickey is Ukrainian.
“Mothefucker said I was only queer cause Dad is.” He glares in the direction of the other boy in the room. Ian sees the kid cower while Sue is examining his nose. “That being raised by a fag messed me up in the head. I couldn’t let him say that shit.” Yevgeny shrugs. His shoulders scraping against the black skulls hanging from his ears. “Dad’s gonna kill me, though.”
Ian pours some disinfectant on a cotton pad. Cleans Yevgeny’s knuckles. There’s a massive split between his middle finger and ring finger. Looks like it hurts. Ian talks without meaning too. “Your dad won’t be mad.”
“You think?”
Ian shrugs. Too late to back out now. “I’ve seen him start fights for less.”
Yevgeny tilts his head at him. Raises one of those eyebrows. Mickey Mickey Mickey. “You guys were close?”
We slept in the same bed. Shared clothes. Shared every spare moment together. Watched cartoons with you so you’d fall asleep. I taught him how to change your diaper. “Yeah.”
“You’re the guy he got the tattoo for.” It’s not a question.
Ian doesn’t lie. Drops Yevgeny’s right hand. Picks up his left. Not as much blood on this one. “Yeah.”
“What happened?”
Ian swallows. Memories flash behind his eyes. All of them hurt. Sting. Leave him feeling like he just pressed his palms to a hot griddle. He knows how much that hurts. “I fucked up,” he says. Honest.
“Do you want to fix it?”
*
This is a really, really bad idea. Dad is going to strangle him and get Uncle Iggy to help hide his body.
He’s nervous, and, of course, his dad notices. He tosses an arm around Yev’s shoulders. They’re the same height, but Yev’s boots make him taller, so Dad has to stand on his toes a little bit. “What’s up, shithead?” Yev shrugs, gnaws on the new lip ring Dad did for him a couple of days before. It’s still healing, so Dad jabs him on the shoulder. “Quit that.”
Dad stares at him. “What’s wrong?”
Yev shakes his head. “Nothing, come on.”
Dad is going to kill him.
*
The kid is acting weird. He always acts weird, probably a product of being raised by a Russian, her gay “piece of shit ex-husband”, and a gaggle of convict uncles, but he’s acting weirder than fucking normal, has been ever since he got into that fight at school. He won’t talk to Mickey. Which is fucking weird, because Yevgeny loves to talk. Colin says he likes the sound of his own voice.
Since Yev was acting so weird, Mickey didn’t even question it when the kid asked to go to get pancakes at ten pm on a school night. Mickey’s parenting style isn’t the most conventional. He knows that. And he knows that when his kid is upset about something, he’s going to do whatever the little fucker wants until he starts smiling again. He’s fucking whipped, has been since Yev grabbed one of his fingers in his tiny baby ones and smiled, and he’s not even mad about it.
The dinner is shitty, Southside, and Mickey is pretty sure Fiona used to work there. He’s tried to block those years of his life out, though, so he’s not positive. He and Yev sit in a booth, argue about ordering coffee this late at night, toss balled up napkins at each other. Mickey figures they look less like father and son and more like two guys who look freakishly similar hanging out.
A waitress sits a stack of chocolate chip pancakes in front of them. Yev grins, tells her thank you, and pokes Mickey with his fork when Mickey tries to dig in first. Mickey pokes him back, and Yevgeny laughs. It makes Mickey smile.
Yev checks his phone, tapping his fingers against the case. His fingernails are still painted pink from when Amy and Gemma came over.
He shoves his phone back into the pocket of that stupid leather jacket he stole from Iggy’s closet last year. It doesn’t go with the sweatpants and muscle tank he’s wearing, that they’re both wearing, but he wears it anytime he leaves the house. A security blanket. Like Mickey’s tattoos have always been. Fuck. U. Up.
“Gotta take a piss,” Yev mutters, sliding out of the booth. His Jordans squeak against the tile flooring. “Be right back.”
Mickey’s staring down at his phone, watching the million TikToks Iggy sent him, when Yev finally comes back. A body slides into his seat, knees knock against Mickey’s under the table, legs too long to be Yevgeny’s. Mickey looks up.
*
“This was a bad idea,” Ian says.
Mickey stares. Phone playing some trending TikTok sound. Fork halfway to his mouth. This was a really bad idea.
“No shit,” Mickey says. Drops his fork. Turns off his phone. “You dragging my kid into your bullshit again, Gallagher?”
That stings. “It was his idea,” he defends. He sounds childish. Feels childish. Like he’s fifteen and chasing after Mickey Milkovich again.
Mickey snorts. Bitter. He doesn’t look up. Doesn't look at Ian. “You listen to the bullshit ideas of sixteen year olds often?”
Ian shrugs. “It seemed like a good one.”
“What are you trying to accomplish here?” Mickey asks.
“I miss you.”
“Good for you.”
“Mickey,” Ian says. Begs. “I miss you.”
*
Mickey’s hands are shaking. Fucking Yevgeny. Mickey should be pissed. Instead, he’s terrified. There are dozens of emotions pulling him every which way, images of being a teenaeger in love flashing behind his eyes. Staying up all night watching shitty television. Tossing popcorn in each other's mouths at the movies. Cooking breakfast while Svetlana, Mandy, Iggy, and Colin dance around the house. Arguing over shit that doesn’t matter, like the thermostat temperature or what to eat for dinner. What color onesie Ian should put on Yevgeny that day, if the yellow or the blue looked better with his eyes.
“It’s been fifteen years, Gallagher,” he says, struggling to get the words out in a manner that isn’t shaky. “Fucking get over it.”
“Are you over it?” Ian asks, leaning over the table, closer to Mickey, who dares to glance up at him. Green eyes, freckles, orange hair. God, he’s so fucking beautiful. “Are you, Mick? Cause if you are, I’ll go. I’ll block Yev and you’ll never have to see me again. But, come on, Mickey. This has to be fate!”
“Fate?” Mickey echos, ignoring everything else Ian said. He doesn’t want to think about that. Doesn’t want to think about what his answer would be.
“I keep running into you two. Too many times to be a coincidence.” Ian is rambling now, hands waving. Is he manic? “It’s fate, Mickey! The universe, pushing us together.”
“You’re off your fucking rocker, Ian.”
Ian flinches. Mickey knows the words hurt. They were supposed to.
“Mickey.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Dad.”
Mickey turns in his seat, glares at his son. “I’m mad at you right now.”
Yev holds up his hands in surrender, slides into the booth next to Mickey, grabs Mickey’s fork and stabs at the pancakes. “Ignore me,” he says, waving in between Ian and Mickey. “Work your shit out. I’m hungry.”
“Mickey,” Ian says, places his hand on the table, reaching towards Mickey, who leans away. “Let me try again.”
“You made your fucking choice.”
“I was wrong, Mickey. I wasn’t right in the head and-“ He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mickey. About everything that happened. For taking fifteen years to apologize. I’m sorry.”
Mickey swallows, but his mouth is dry. Yev is chewing, eyes dancing back and forth between Ian and his father. There’s something almost gleeful in his eyes. God, Mickey has such a weird, meddling kid.
“Well, I mean, it wasn’t fully your fault- the fifteen years thing,” Yev sounds around his mouthful of pancakes. Mickey’s sending him to live with one of Svetlana’s sisters in Russia as soon as this shitshow is over. “Dad’s the one who ran off to Mexico with Uncle Iggy.”
“You went to Mexico?” Ian asks, eyes wide.
Mickey rolls his eyes. “For a couple of years. Really stupid idea.”
Yev snorts. “Stupid. Yeah.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Ian is watching them, eyes misty and suddenly he looks just like he did when they were kids, crying over some shit that neither of them could remember the next day.
“Fucking hell, Gallagher. Don’t get all sappy on me.”
Ian cracks a small smile. Mickey’s is matching. He doesn’t know what it means, but that ache in his chest loosens, a little bit.
“Sorry, Mick,” Ian mutters, rubbing his sleeve over his eyes. “I really, really missed you.”
Mickey lets himself smile, fully. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Missed you, too, man.”
Yev looks absolutely thrilled, the fucking weirdo.
*
On the walk home, Yev is bouncing up and down, grinning like a madman. Mickey can’t even be mad at him.
*
Ian can’t stop smiling. Hands on his cheeks. They ache. Burn. Mickey’s phone number written on Ian’s palm. A promise. Silently, Ian thanks the universe.