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The first time Mickey can remember being sick was the weekend he’d been left in charge of Mandy.
Terry had taken Mickey’s brothers out on a run, and at the time he was still too young to fully understand what that meant. Mandy had only just started school and Mickey wasn’t much older, but there had been no one around to look after them and Terry wasn’t about to bring them along, so it was decided they would stay home. It was only meant to be an overnight job anyway, and Mickey figured he could be grown-up enough to look after his kid sister for just one night.
The day the others were meant to leave, Mickey had woken up with a sore throat and a cough. He hid it the best he could, his need to prove himself to his father overriding his want for someone to look after him while he was sick.
Mandy had started crying almost immediately after Terry had left. Mickey tried everything he could think of to calm her down. Put cartoons on the tv and plopped her down in front of it with some graham crackers. He warmed up some milk and handed it to her, blinking away his own tears of frustration when she knocked the cup out of his hand and it spilled over her, making her cry more.
By the time Mandy finally cried herself to sleep, Mickey was exhausted himself. His throat was on fire and his chest ached every time he coughed. He’d searched the cabinets in the bathroom for some tylenol, and hadn’t been all that surprised when he hadn’t found any. He settled for alternating between sucking on some ice chips and nibbling the corner of a graham cracker Mandy hadn’t eaten. His stomach was somersaulting uncomfortably and he had no appetite. The longer he sat watching cartoons, the worse he felt. He had barely a moment’s notice before his stomach lurched, and he was running to the bathroom to throw up.
Tears slipped down his cheeks as he rested his forehead against the cool porcelain. He’d never felt this sick before and it was starting to scare him. Another wave of nausea crashed over him and he vomited again, crying as he did so.
“Mickey?”
Mickey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to find Mandy standing in the doorway, a stuffed bear in one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Mickey opened his mouth to reply, but clapped a hand over it instead when he felt bile racing up his throat. He felt a hand rubbing his back and knew Mandy was standing behind him. He hated that he was scaring his little sister, but mostly he hated how much he was scaring himself.
“Leave me alone,” he croaked, grabbing a glass of water from the sink and washing the horrible taste out of his mouth.
“But you’re sick,” Mandy protested. Mickey pushed her away and made a beeline for his room. He slammed the door behind him and bundled himself up in as many jackets as he could before burying himself in bed. He was shivering, his throat rough and his head pounding. He wanted to sleep but knew there was no way it would come. Not when he was feeling this ill. Not for the first time he wished his mom was there, that there was someone who would take care of him. Instead he shivered under the covers, ignoring Mandy’s persistent banging on the door until he finally fell into a fitful sleep.
Terry returned early the next day, and Mickey did everything he could to avoid his dad finding out that he was sick. He couldn’t stop himself from coughing though, and it wasn’t long before his dad was yelling at him to “shut up and die quietly!” Mickey took that as a hint, and hid in his bedroom for a few days until he finally started feeling better.
Only a few weeks after crossing the border, Mickey could feel himself getting sick. He wasn’t entirely surprised, given he’d spent the past few weeks sleeping in his car. He’d finally had to sell the vehicle, and had therefore lost his dry place to sleep. Sleeping behind the dumpster hadn’t been the smartest idea, but the scraps he was able to scavenge from the restaurant garbage were enough to keep him coming back.
If only it hadn’t been raining.
By the time the rain finally cleared up after a few days, Mickey could no longer pretend he wasn’t sick. He was shivering and freezing cold, his throat on fire and his nose completely blocked. Knowing it was unlikely to get any better without help, he finally bit the bullet and stole some over the counter medicine from a local store.
At least, that’s what he thought he’d stolen. It was hard to figure out when everything was labeled in Spanish. He’d taken the box that looked the most like the tylenol he was used to, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. Figuring taking mystery pills couldn’t be worse than how he was currently feeling, he dry-swallowed a couple on an empty stomach and found himself the driest spot to sleep.
It was impossible for him to get comfortable, and he spent most of the night tossing and turning, arms folded across his chest in an attempt to stave off how cold he was. The temperature in Mexico was more humid than he was used to, and he was sweating profusely. It didn’t take a genius to know he most likely had a fever.
He was nearly sick all over himself, but managed to roll over and vomit onto the ground beside him instead. Mickey hadn’t eaten much since crossing the border, and he was mildly surprised there was anything in his stomach to expel. His throat burned and his head pounded, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to take more medicine so soon after already popping a few. The last thing he needed was to OD in some dank alley in Mexico.
Although he tried hard not to, his thoughts strayed to the boy who left him on the other side of the border. The boy who still held his heart and always would. The pounding in his head and the churning in his gut was nothing compared to the ache in his chest knowing there was a chance he was never going to see Ian again. His fever-addled mind somehow knew that Ian did the right thing for himself by not crossing the border, but that didn’t stop him from being so unbelievably angry about the entire situation.
Mickey had gone to prison for Ian. Had taken matters into his own hands when he plotted to kill Sammi. Needed to do something to get back at her for what she’d done. Turning Ian over to the MPs just when he was starting to feel like himself again was something Mickey would never be able to forgive. Protecting Debbie from getting into trouble was a no-brainer, and part of him wished he’d at least told Ian why he didn’t fight the charges. She was only a kid, and she didn’t deserve to go to juvie just for wanting to protect her older brother.
It was nowhere near as cold in Mexico as it was in Chicago, but Mickey shivered as a cool breeze washed over him. He tightened his arms across his chest, folding in on himself and trying to make himself as comfortable as he could while feeling miserable. His thoughts focused on Ian, feeling a phantom pair of lips ghost a kiss to his forehead. Tears slipped down his cheeks, as he imagined Ian’s fingers running through his hair, wishing he wasn’t so alone.
Mickey’s head was pounding when he dragged himself into consciousness. He stifled a groan, not wanting to wake the red-head lying sound asleep beside him. Trying to swallow, he became aware of not only how dry his mouth was, but also how badly his throat was hurting. It wasn’t hard to figure out that he was sick.
Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he curled in on himself, wrapping an arm around his stomach as it lurched uncomfortably. Maybe if he ignored it long enough, he’d be able to go back to sleep, and would wake up feeling much better than he currently did. The universe wasn’t on his side however, and before long Mickey was climbing out of his husband’s hold and making a beeline for the bathroom.
He made it just in time to throw up what felt like everything he’d eaten in days. He was vaguely aware of a hand rubbing circles into his back, but didn’t have the energy to worry about what Ian must be thinking. He’d never been sick in front of him, and even now after they’d been married a year and were living in their own apartment, Mickey still hated looking weak. He couldn’t even think about how he must look at this moment.
When he was done, he rested his forehead against the porcelain, relishing in the cool temperature on his skin. He heard, rather than saw, Ian reach around him to flush the toilet and barely registered that the red-head was in front of him again until he felt a washcloth being pressed gently to his mouth.
“Feel better?” Ian was quiet, almost as if he knew the slightest sound was threatening to split Mickey’s head in two.
“Fuck off,” muttered Mickey, squeezing his eyes shut.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Ian stood up again and Mickey was struck with a sudden loss, which was ridiculous because there was absolutely no reason he should be so affected by his husband simply walking out of a room. The fog clouding over his brain was making it hard not to feel needier than usual, and he fought back his tears, angrily swiping them away.
Before long he felt fingers running through his hair gently and a bottle of water was pressed into his hand.
“Here,” said Ian, and Mickey was forced to pry his eyes open to see what his husband was handing him. In Ian’s outstretched palm were two pills Mickey recognised as tylenol.
“No point,” replied Mickey, closing his eyes again and pushing Ian’s hand away. “I’ll just throw them up.”
He could practically hear Ian’s frown. He knew his husband had been an EMT and this was most definitely not the first time he’d seen someone with a fever before, not to mention the fact Ian had grown up with a ridiculous number of siblings, meaning he’d probably experienced every illness known to man. But that didn’t mean Mickey didn’t know himself. The last time he’d felt this sick he’d been in Mexico, and he distinctly remembered being unable to keep any pills down. Frankly it was a miracle he hadn’t died, although he neglected mentioning that to Ian at that particular moment.
“Please?” asked Ian. “For me?”
Mickey shook his head, regretting it when his brain rattled in his skull and a wave of nausea washed over him, making him bend over the toilet once again.
Ian said nothing further, just rubbed circles into his back and provided a comforting presence, which Mickey didn’t want to admit was helping more than any pills ever would. He didn’t often get sick, and every time he had before now he’d always had to look after himself. Only he never actually did, and would usually just grit his teeth and ride it out until his body finally fought off whatever bug he’d picked up. Not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it had certainly worked for him in the past.
He should have known his husband would have other plans.
Ian pressed the bottle of water into his hand once again and instructed him to at least wash his mouth out. Mickey did, too exhausted to argue. He also took a few sips, relishing in the feel of the cool liquid sliding down his burning throat.
“Come on,” said Ian, wrapping his arm around Mickey’s waist and hauling him to his feet. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
Mickey patted Ian’s arm clumsily where it was wrapped around him, allowing his husband to guide them back to the bedroom. Ian got him tucked up under the covers before sliding in behind him. Before he could fall back asleep though, Ian held out the tylenol again with a pleading look on his face.
“Please, Mick. For me.”
Mickey rolled his eyes but knew Ian had him. He never had been able to say no to the red-head. And he knew it wasn’t fair to refuse to take two little pills that would ultimately make him feel better, when his husband was having to take multiple pills twice a day for what was likely to be the rest of his life.
“Give them here,” he said, holding out a hand for Ian to drop the pills into. He tried to ignore the absolute beam of pride his husband shone his way, but couldn’t help the warmth that spread across his chest. He downed the pills quickly, chasing them with a sip of water. Ian put the bottle back on the bedside table and indicated Mickey should get comfortable before throwing an arm across his waist and pulling him close.
“You’re shivering, Mick,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to Mickey’s shoulder.
“I’m sick, dipshit,” replied Mickey, his exhaustion already threatening to overwhelm him.
Ian laughed, sending a different sort of shiver down Mickey’s spine.
“Get some rest,” said Ian. “Hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Doubt it. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Well, even if you aren’t better tomorrow, I’ll be here for you.”
Mickey rolled over in Ian’s arms to raise an eyebrow at his husband.
“Oh yeah?” he asked. “You gonna make me chicken soup and grilled cheese and dote on my every whim just because I have a sore throat?” His tone was joking, but his heart was swelling with the idea that there was someone out there who would care enough to do that for him. He’d never had that before.
Ian smiled, placing a kiss on Mickey’s forehead before gently pulling him forwards so his head was tucked into the crook of Ian’s neck.
“I’ll do whatever I need to make you feel better.”
Mickey couldn’t help but smile against Ian’s skin. He may feel like shit, and he knew from experience that this wasn’t going to go away by the morning, even with the pills he’d taken, but he didn’t have to be sick alone anymore.
And that in itself was the only medicine Mickey had never had before.