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Even before Ian came into his life (barged in with a fucking tire iron, to be precise) Mickey had a lot of beliefs. He thought taking a shower every day was useless and irrational, because for starters, water bills were expensive and he didn’t want to waste time anyway. He was convinced that tidying up his bedroom was pointless since it always ended up looking like a dump. Neither did he see any reason for staying in school, because what was the point of struggling with keeping up with the class if he wasn’t ever going to get out of the South Side?
Ian kind of rolled with all these opinions of Mickey, without asking too many questions. It was also no secret to Ian that Mickey’s always thought feelings were overrated. He made that crystal clear since their first ever meeting. But that just didn’t sit right with the redhead. That was the thing Ian was so desperate to prove him wrong.
And when Mickey found him in the club, and made him go back home, and he fucking came out for him, it finally seemed like Ian was getting there. He felt on top of the world that night and he knew Mickey felt it too. The way Mickey’s eyes glowed in the street lights outside of the Alibi, the way he smiled at Ian like there was no other person in the fucking world. Ian knew what he was feeling. He named it dozens of times. He didn’t need to deny his love.
He was ready to give it to Mickey a long time ago. The thing was that Mickey didn’t agree to accept it. But at that very moment, with blood smeared on their faces, ache in their bodies, Ian felt like Mickey might be ready to let Ian love him.
It was so important to Ian because he was used to operating on emotions. He didn’t want to bottle up anything inside, not with Mickey. Especially when Mickey made him feel so many different things. He just wanted to scream to everyone about his affection, his excitement. His skin was constantly buzzing with it, speeding up his heartbeat and messing with his breath.
That was before the psych ward. Now Ian can hardly remember what feeling felt like. Pun intended. Swallowing pill after pill every day reduced everything gradually until Ian’s feelings and emotions were destroyed completely. The only thing that was left was Ian’s understanding that he doesn’t want such a life for himself. It didn’t seem like a life at all. It was solely existence at best. Nothing more.
That’s how Ian ended up flushing the pills down the drain. That’s how he and Mickey ended up in the hospital, refilling those damned bottles. And that’s how Ian, hoping against hope, asked the doctor about the duration of his treatment, praying to hear something that wouldn’t make him want to crawl under his blanket and wait until the earth swallowed him whole.
The miracle didn’t happen though.
“Mickey, we gotta talk,” Ian’s voice is quiet, something closer to whisper, but Mickey still catches that.
As soon as they leave the hospital doors behind, Mickey turns around to face the ginger boy. “Shoot.”
“You heard her, right? What she said about the meds…” Ian mumbles, running a hand through his disheveled hair just to keep himself occupied with something.
“Yeah, gotta pick the right ones, so that they could work, got it,” Mickey recited her suggestion.
“No, that’s not what I mean…” He averts his eyes, hands sliding into the pockets of his hoodie, the movement that’s getting painfully familiar.
Mickey raises his eyebrows, expecting Ian to go on and get to his point.
“This is not going away, Mick… 30 or 40 years? Really? Sounds like a dead-end to me.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey snaps, but the phrase lacks the bite. “I don’t wanna hear you doubting yourself and giving me the talk,” he’s about to move forward again, but Ian grabs his shoulder and makes Mickey face him one more time.
“No, you shut the fuck up and listen to me,” he tries to sound stern, but his tired gaze and shaking voice give away his actual state and the truth is that he's freaking out. But Ian Gallagher is nothing if not stubborn. “40 years, Mick. I'm fucked up for life and there's no fixing it. No cure, no way out, just a lifetime of misery and I don't wanna drag you down with me.”
“Will you stop with this fuckin' bullshit, Gallagher?” He pushes Ian’s hand away, but regrets it immediately when the younger boy takes a step back and hides his eyes.
“All I'm saying is that it's over for me, but it doesn't mean it has to be over for you,” he deflates, still not daring to look Mickey in the eyes.
“One more word and I swear, I'm gonna punch your stupid freckled face,” Mickey shakes his head in disbelief and scoffs, anger threatening to get out of his cage.
“Mickey, what the hell?” Ian mumbles under his breath. “You never wanted any of this: feelings, relationship, commitment. What changed now? Now that I'm asking you to walk away, you're all about sticking with me, this doesn't make any sense,” with each word his voice is ebbing away, leaving Mickey struggling to catch everything.
“Oh, it fucking doesn't, you think so?” His eyebrows shoot up one more time, the way the conversation is going makes his blood boil. “Maybe you haven't noticed, but your sorry ass has been important to me for quite a while. You think when you were gone to fuck knows where I was scouting through every gay club in the area for fucking shits and giggles? And then I slept over at your place for weeks just because I was bored at my fucking place? And need I remind you that then I fucking came out to everyone in that goddamn bar, including my piece of shit of a father, because you wanted me to stop living a lie? And then do you think I wanted you to move in just because I had a huge bed that I didn't have a person to share with?”
This emotional rant makes Ian’s gaze meet Mickey’s and the older boy is glad that at least now he’s got his complete attention. So he goes on.
“Yeah, I never fucking wanted a relationship, that’s true. I never fucking wanted to come out, but here we are,” he spreads his arms wide to emphasise his point. “Because I do not control shit anymore wherever your ass is concerned, Ian. And I thought it was obvious that I’m not gonna walk away now. But you know what, if that’s not enough of a proof for you, I’ll give you another example. Remember when I told you to leave me the fuck alone? After that night,” Mickey smiles a little to hide the pain in his eyes, but Ian sees right through it and it makes him wince, “I told you you deserved better than living in fear of my father. But what did you do? Did you fucking listen to me?” He stares at Ian, waiting for him to object, but silence is the only thing that follows. “I had to beat the shit out of you and you still came back, still told me,” his breath catches in his throat for a second, “still told me you fucking loved me and we could make it work.”
“Because I knew I could help you…” He breathes out, swallowing loudly.
“Well, I kinda believe that I can help you too. You were fucking relentless when it came to sorting my shit out.”
“And then I still left…” Ian whispers bitterly.
“And yeah, ‘bout that. I asked you to leave, you did. But, man, when I’m telling you these were the worst months of my life, I’m not even exaggerating. I was fucking miserable. Wouldn’t recommend that shit.”
“Listen, this is so different, Mickey…” His weak attempt at reasoning with Mickey gets cut off once more.
“Would you stop, Ian? Please? Do you get what I’m tryna tell you here, no? We’ve been through a ton of shit together. Things were so fucked up and we still managed to get up and get going. Who the fuck cares if you have to take some pills along the way?”
“I don’t want you burdened by this fucking disease that I have!” Ian raises his voice for the first time and Mickey’s kind of glad that he’s seeing a wider range of emotions on the face of his boyfriend. Anger is good. Anger boosts the energy to fight and that’s exactly what they need right now.
“Oh, I can make my own decisions, fuck you very much!” He takes a few steps towards Ian, shortening the distance between them. “Afraid, you stuck with me, Firecrotch. So suck it up.” Mickey punches him in the chest lightly and then presses a quick kiss to the corner of Ian’s mouth and the taller boy chuckles softly.
“You know, for a person who hates talking about their feelings, you spilled a bit too much…” he mutters, eyeing Mickey with the tiniest of smiles.
“Fuck off, bitch,” he scoffs and throws a hand around Ian’s shoulders, leading him further away from the hospital. “See? I’m just as fucked up as you are. Talking about all that emotional crap – that’s your bad influence.”
“Yeah,” he responds quietly, “but I’m not sorry about that.”
Mickey glances at the redhead and can’t help but smile. His Ian is still there, that’s for sure. And he’ll deal with everything to keep him safe and to make him feel again.
Ian made a lot of changes in Mickey’s life. First and foremost, he made Mickey want to shower on a daily basis just so that Ian could tell him how good he smelled.
He also made Mickey admit that he cared. A lot. And now that Ian’s poisoned him with all this touchy-feely shit, Mickey knows for sure that it’s contagious. Which means he’ll be able to pass it back onto Ian and make him his cheerful, talkative, emotional self again. Whatever it takes.