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“How hard is it to just follow a fucking trail of blood?”
Mickey could hear Luis spouting some nonsense on the other end of the phone. He was only half-listening to what the other boy was saying, mostly just trying to focus on not bleeding out all over the floor.
“I hope you know this is your fault, you piece of shit!” He knew he was lashing out at Luis, probably unnecessarily given the other boy was the one coming to patch him up, but Mickey was in so much pain he really didn’t care.
Luis said something to him in Spanish, making Mickey bite back a groan. He’d picked up a few phrases here and there but was nowhere near fluent enough to understand what the fuck the other boy was saying.
“Speak fucking English!” he barked through the phone.
“Sorry,” said Luis. “Where exactly are you, Mickey?”
“I don’t know. One of the safe houses. Deal with the Martinezes went south. Garcia’s dead.” He sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed down firmly on the bullet wound in his thigh. “Motherfucker!”
“Are you okay?” Mickey could practically feel the worry radiating off of Luis from here. He wasn’t sure what the other boy could possibly have to be worried about, seeing as he was the one who got shot and Garcia was the one who was dead.
“I’m right as a fucking daisy,” said Mickey, sarcasm dripping from his voice. Truthfully his leg felt like it was on fire and he was pretty sure his body was going into shock. He knew he needed to get the bullet out, but had no idea how he was going to do it on his own. As reluctant as he was to admit it, he did actually need Luis.
“Alright, Mickey I think I’ve narrowed down which safe house you’re at.” Luis’s voice sounded fainter than before. Having been shot before, Mickey knew that the phone connection wasn’t the most likely cause.
“Hurry,” he said, his eyes slipping closed. He knew he sounded vulnerable. More vulnerable than he should. His job with the cartel was already in jeopardy after losing the Martinezes, not to mention he was going to have to do some quick thinking to ensure he wasn’t blamed for Garcia’s death. But he could deal with that later, after he was no longer bleeding over filthy floorboards.
He hoped he would get a chance to deal with it later.
“Fuck,” he whispered. He pressed harder to the bullet wound in his thigh, trying to remember if anyone had ever told him what to do if he’d been shot. He vaguely remembered something about cutting off the blood supply, and struggled to remove his belt with shaky fingers. It took a few goes but he finally managed to get it loose, and wrapped it firmly around his upper thigh, pulling it as tight as he could before doing it up.
“Motherfuck-” he bit down hard on his knuckle, trying to stifle his cries. His mind began to slip, the pain making him reach for a memory, any memory to get his mind off the possibility that he might be about to die.
His thoughts landed as they so often did, on the freckled red-headed boy who’d stayed on the wrong side of the border. He was taken back to the first time he’d been shot, ironically in a very similar place to where this bullet was currently embedded in his flesh. The official story was he’d been shot by a shop owner defending his property from shoplifting, but Mickey had known the truth. Had seen it in the way Kash looked at Ian when the red-head had raced to Mickey’s side and cupped his head in a gesture that was far too familiar. Mickey would’ve thrown him off if he hadn’t been in so much pain. Ian had never told him directly that he’d used to fuck his boss, but it wasn’t hard for Mickey to figure out.
Thinking about Ian was somehow more painful than the bullet wound. His chest tightened and a heavy pit settled low in his stomach, the way it always did when he allowed his feelings for the younger boy to overwhelm him. He had been so angry at Ian for not crossing the border, even though he understood exactly why the red-head had stayed behind. Lying here now with a bullet in his thigh, he was suddenly grateful that Ian had been brave enough to walk away. Mickey missed Ian more than he’d ever missed anyone in his life, but he wouldn’t have wanted him anywhere near here. He deserved much better than a life of running drugs for a cartel, bleeding out in a nasty safehouse and not knowing if he’d be allowed to live, even if the bullet wound didn’t kill him first.
The shooting with Kash hadn’t even been the only time Mickey had been shot because of Ian. The second time had somehow been even worse since he’d been shot in the ass with a shotgun, and the geriatric Ian had been fucking had to dig out the shrapnel while Mickey was laying on the Gallagher’s kitchen counter of all places. That had been a particularly memorable afternoon, not least of which he had to watch as Ian and his siblings were taken away and put into the system, but that was also the first time the two of them had shared a kiss. It was a simple thing, nothing more than a quick peck on the lips which he’d done more to prove to himself that he could do it, but his heart had been thumping hard as he jumped back into the van and pressed his lips to Ian’s.
Mickey couldn’t believe how much time he’d wasted not kissing Ian. Pressing their lips together for the first time unlocked something within him. Something that had him brave enough to offer Ian a place to stay that wasn’t an awful group home. He tried not to notice how excited Ian was at the prospect of their spending the night together. Tried to pretend he wasn’t excited for it too.
Neither of them could have predicted how that night would go. Mickey hadn’t realised that having Ian fuck him in an actual bed, sleeping wrapped up in the younger boy’s arms and waking up together was something that he wanted so desperately, but it was the truth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been actually happy, but that night had come pretty close.
They just hadn’t expected the events of the following morning.
Although looking back on it now, Mickey supposed he couldn’t be too surprised. He had been fucked for life the second he’d been born to the world’s worst most homophobic father. Why wouldn’t he be forced to lose the best thing he’d ever had?
He hadn’t realized it at the time of course, but part of him wondered if he was destined to always lose Ian. Had done so time and time again. Everytime they found their way back to each other, something would happen to tear them apart. Whether that be his bullshit marriage to Svetlana, Ian’s bipolar diagnosis or the other boy not following him to Mexico. The ginger had wormed his way under Mickey’s skin, was now permanently marking it with a misspelled tattoo, and still they couldn’t be together.
Mickey’s head was lighter than it should have been. His limbs were heavy, and it was becoming harder to keep his eyes open. He looked down, blanching at the overwhelming amount of blood that had pooled beneath his leg. It was bad enough he’d been shot in the thigh, but he’d then had to hike who knew how many miles back to the safe house where he could call for backup.
“Mickey?”
Mickey turned his head towards the voice, squinting against the harsh sunlight coming in from the open door.
“Ian?”
The figure knelt down in front of him, hands hovering over the makeshift tourniquet Mickey had applied.
“Holy fuck, Mickey.”
Ian was an EMT, his mind supplied helpfully. Had told him as much under the bleachers when Mickey had finally laid eyes on him again after over a year. That was good. Ian would know what to do. He always knew what to do.
“You gonna fix me up, Gallagher?” he mumbled, his chin resting against his chest.
“Definitely going to try,” replied Ian. “Just keep talking to me, yeah? Try and stay awake.”
Ian poured something onto his leg, then, and Mickey cried out in pain as the liquid drizzled into the bullet wound and burned his flesh.
“Motherfucker!” he cried, trying to jolt away from Ian’s hand as he pressed a cloth firmly over the wound.
“Stop moving, Mickey!”
He forced himself to remain still, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek until the familiar taste of blood filled his mouth.
“I need to get this bullet out before I can stitch you back up, okay?”
“Just get on with it!” Mickey growled at him through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than for this to be over. For Ian to clean him up and take him to bed, curling around him the way he used to and making him feel as safe as possible.
“This is going to hurt,” said Ian, and that was all the warning Mickey received before there was something metal digging through his thigh looking for the bullet. He screamed, reaching out with a hand to clasp Ian’s shoulder.
The pain was exhausting.
It was everlasting.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped, leaving Mickey with a hollow feeling in his leg. It felt almost as though someone had dug right down to the bone, scooped it out and left his thigh empty. He had only a moment of relief before Ian apologized and something hot was placed over the bullet wound causing Mickey to scream out again as the smell of burning flesh filled the cabin.
“I’m sorry,” said Ian quickly, ignoring Mickey’s cries of protest. “You’re losing too much blood and I needed to cauterize the wound. It should hopefully help with infection too.”
His thigh was on fire.
He could feel the strength leaving his body as he slumped down further against the wall, his chin again flopping down to his chest. Mickey’s eyes slipped shut and he felt himself falling away into the darkness.
“Hey, Mickey, hey!”
Mickey felt a gentle slap on his cheek, a hand running through his hair and pulling backwards slightly so he could be face to face with Ian.
“You need to stay awake, Mickey!” The hand that had slapped him cupped his chin, thumb rubbing across his cheek.
Mickey opened his eyes, expecting to be met with Ian’s green ones and frowned when he was met with a chocolate brown instead.
“Ian?” he slurred, finding it hard to speak.
“I don’t know who that is,” said the person in front of him. “It’s Luis, Mickey.”
Mickey blinked, his brain working hard to catch up.
Luis was kneeling in front of him, Mickey’s blood coating his hands.
“Where’s Ian?” asked Mickey, not understanding. The ginger had been with him only a few moments ago. Luis had to have seen him.
“It’s just you and me here,” said Luis, panic dripping from his voice. “No one else knows about the safehouse, okay? You’re safe. The Martinezes can’t get you here.”
Luis wasn’t making any sense. Where was Ian? He wanted Ian.
He needed Ian.
“Can you drink some water for me?”
A bottle was held up to Mickey’s lips and he took a sip obediently. He was so very tired. His body was heavy and he needed sleep, but didn’t think he had the strength to make it to a bed.
“Luis?”
The other boy smiled, running a hand gently through Mickey’s damp locks and wiping away the sweat.
“Hey,” said Luis, softly. “Think you can make it to the bed?” The cabin was only one room, and there was a double bed tucked into the corner. Mickey looked at it through tired eyes. He nodded, then looked down at himself and grimaced when he saw how he was covered in blood.
“I can help you clean up, if you like?” Luis was tentative, and Mickey could sense his hesitation. He knew why the other boy was unsure, but truthfully he was too tired to care. He knew he couldn’t do this on his own, and he needed sleep.
He nodded, and Luis slipped his arms under Mickey’s shoulders and helped him up. Mickey groaned, trying to keep the weight off his injured leg. Each step was painful and it was slow going, but the two of them managed to make it to the bed. Luis sat him down on the edge, and knelt down in front of him, hands reaching out towards the button of his shorts. He paused, looking up at Mickey for permission.
Mickey nodded again, and Luis helped him remove them. They’d seen each naked before, having fucked fairly regularly since first meeting, but this felt different. He wasn’t sure if it was his confusion over thinking he’d seen Ian, or if it was just gratitude over Luis saving his life, but a fondness washed over Mickey before he could stop it.
Luis was gentle with him, taking care not to jostle the wound too much while cleaning away the blood. When Mickey was as clean as he could be, Luis helped him move up the bed and get under the covers. It was too warm for the quilt, so they settled on just a sheet.
“Get some rest, Mickey,” said Luis. “I’m going to clean up the blood and get in contact with the bosses. They need to know what happened.”
“Wait–” Mickey reached out and grabbed Luis around the wrist. Suddenly, the thought of being alone was too much for him, even when he knew the other boy was only going to be on the other side of the room.
Luis froze, waiting for Mickey to explain.
“Will you stay?” His voice broke. He hadn’t admitted to himself just how lonely he truly was, but all he wanted after such an ordeal was to have someone beside him. Someone who might maybe care.
“Yeah, Mickey,” said Luis after a moment. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”