Chapter Text
Mickey knew he needed help. He had a fucked up childhood. He knew that fucked him up. But all that trauma also fucked up his thought process. His father's insane ideals had been drilled into him, mainly by physical force, at a young age. No matter how much he or anyone else tried to convince him, there was always a little voice in the back of Mickey's head, a voice telling him what is right and what is wrong, what he should and shouldn't do, an angry scathing voice belonging to the devil himself, who goes by the earthly name of Terry Milkovich.
This led to many issues for Mickey. Relationship issues in particular. Mickey hated himself for this, because his issues affected Ian. Mickey loved Ian more than anything in the world. It's just that stupid fucking Terry messed up his relationship with Ian at times. It started practically from the second they met. Terry was a raging homophobe, Mickey was anything less than straight. He knew plain as day that Terry could never find out about his true nature. Mickey kept this part of him packed down as hard as he could, that is until Ian came into his life. The ginger had an effect on Mickey that no one else had. It was almost enough to shut up that goddamn pestering voice, almost.
Mickey had his moments with Ian. He could be mean to him without trying to. He really did love Ian it was just the years of hate that he was shown that tricked his brain into spitting hate back out at anyone and everyone he came across.
It destroyed Mickey to hurt Ian. Like on the day he married Svetlana for example. Ian had tried to stop Mickey, but Mickey just shut him down. It fucking broke Mickey saying that shit but Ian couldn't know the truth. Mickey didn't want to marry that bitch anymore than Ian wanted him to, but Mickey was.. afraid, yes afraid. That big macho thug attitude was nothing but a coverup to hide all the fear Mickey harbored deep inside. Fear towards his shithead father. See this is what Mickey was afraid of, he knew if he didn't marry that damn Russian hand-whore then his dad would sure as hell kill his ass. He had already gotten a pistol whipping and another helping of trauma from that entire "incident", he really couldn't afford to refuse the marriage, even for Ian. And all Mickey could muster up in terms of an explanation was,
"Not everyone gets to just blurt out how they fucking feel every minute."
Which was part of the truth, I guess.
---
Now to the night that finally pushed Mickey over the edge, the night that got him to agree to therapy.
(Mickey POV)
(dreaming) Mickey lays on the couch on top of Ian. Their couch. In the apartment they share. Mickey felt Ian's strong, comforting hand stroking through his hair. He glances up to see those beautiful green eyes looking back at him lovingly. The afternoon light shone through the window and covered them in a blanket of soft golden light. A long shadow can be seen following a glass of water on the coffee table in front of them.
Damn my life is fucking good, Mickey thought to himself as he smiled softly.
Fuck, i'm letting myself get soft. I feel like a fucking pussy, Mickey thinks as his face draws up into a small frown, his eyebrows pull together in concern.
Wait, Ian would never think i'm a pussy, we've had this conversation so many times before. He pauses. How can you be so sure..? He questions himself. "Ian. Ian am I a pussy for this?" he questions nervously, just to be sure, altho he knows Ian always reassures him.
Mickey lifts his head a bit off Ian's chest and looks up at him. Just as Mickey expects Ian to calmly respond, reassuring him that everything is fine, he realizes something. Those loving green eyes he has become so accustomed to have been replaced by dark, empty ones. Eyes filled with hatred, and fury, covered by a sheen of, of drunkenness?
"T-the fuck?" Mickey says, sitting up all the way, terror painting his face as his eyes widen in fear.
"'What the fuck?'", he hears Ian's voice mimic.
"What the fuck? I should be saying 'what the fuck'??" "Seeing you fucking pussy like this" Ian yells at him.
"Ian? Ian what's wrong?" "What did I do wrong?" Mickey says, sobbing profusely.
Mickey is in shock. He gazes into those dark, familiar eyes. They remind him of someone, wait, his father.. Terry?
"I never really loved you, you pussy little faggot. It was all a joke. A fucking joke and you fell for it. You know why? Because of what a pathetic, weak, little BITCH you are." Ian(?) screams, walking towards Mickey, his voice now contouring into the scathing tone of Terry's.
"Wha- Why? Why Ian?" Mickey cries. His worst fucking nightmare coming true. He always questioned if Ian really loved him. I mean, why would he? What does someone like Mickey have to offer? He feels helpless. He is frozen as a hand comes down on him, holding a whiskey bottle. Where the hell did Ian get that beer bottle from? It crashes onto Mickey's exposed back as adrenaline courses through his veins, he can't even feel the pain of the glass breaking against his skin.
(Ian POV)
Ian feels his lover thrashing against him in their bed. He sits up a bit and rubs his eyes, half awake.
"Mick? Mickey?" He says softly.
Mickey is covered in a cold sweat, tears run down his face. Ian's eyes adjust to the light, he's completely awake now. The sight of Mickey so distressed fills Ian with the most worry he's ever felt for the man he cares about so deeply.
"Oh shit. Fuck" Ian says as he starts to panic.
"Mick?" He says, gently shaking his shoulder, in hopes of waking him up to snap him out of whatever this was. "Mickey baby wake up please?" He says, even more worried now.
(back to Mickey POV)
The dark haired boy startles awake, obviously still shaken by the dream. Adrenaline continues coursing through his veins. He feels as if he may burst a blood vessel. He can feel the blood flowing throughout his body. His heart beats so hard it chokes him a little as he feels the rapid rhythm in his throat.
"Mickey! Thank God you're awake, are you okay? What happen-" Ian starts before he is cut off by a frantic voice.
"NO. It's not you! I know it's not you! Don't think you can trick me again!" Mickey yells as he rips the blanket off of himself and runs out of the room. He is running completely on autopilot at this point. Not a thought can be formed. Fight or flight takes over him. His brain chooses both. Mickey feels his feet running into the kitchen. He feels as if he's watching himself from third person, only processing his own actions seconds after they occur. Mickey's shakey hand throws open a drawer. The hand pulls out a knife. Have to protect myself, Mickey thinks, starting to come back to his own mind. He swings his head to the right, then to the left, knife following his gaze. Ian.
(Ian POV)
The ginger finally caught up to Mickey. How the fuck does he run this fast?, Ian thinks to himself as he runs after his husband.
Ian skids to a halt as he enters the kitchen. He sees his lover, eyes wide with panic, hair covered in sweat and sticking to his head, holding, Wait. Is that a fucking knife?
Mickey grips the knife with two trembling hands. He grips this knife in the same way that he did all those years ago, so tight his knuckles are turning white. Fighting the same enemy too, or is he?
"Mickey baby. It's me. It's Ian. Put down the knife. Please Mick." Ian pleads as he takes a step towards Mickey, reaching his hand out.
"NO! You're not Ian! Get the fuck away from me Terry. I'll fucking stab you this time. I swear to fucking God I will goddammit!" Mickey screams as his voice cracks, tears still running down his face.
Ian steps back again, shocked. He had never seen his husband like this. His frantic demeanor reminded Ian of his own manic episodes. A sense of protectiveness fills the tall redhead.
"Mickey. It's really me. I swear. It's not Terry. Terry's dead Mick." Ian speaks softly now.
"Wh-wha..?" Mickey stutters. Coming down slowly from his adrenaline high. Only minutes ago he had regained the ability to control his own body, his thoughts were a whole other issue.
(Mickey POV)
Mickey looks around, his heart rate slowing at last. His eyes adjust to the light. Those are Ian's eyes. Ian's eyes. Not Terry's. Mickey looks into the comfortingly, not sickeningly familiar green eyes. It is really him.
The shorter boy lets out a relieved yet still shakey exhale. He lowers his hands slowly, loosening his grip on the knife.
"Mickey. Can you let go of the knife please?" Ian says, still talking slowly and low, as to not threaten his lover.
The knife clatters to the floor. Relief floods Mickey's body.
"Careful Mick" Ian says, but Mickey doesn't hear it. The dark-haired man absentmindedly steps over the knife, his foot just barely missing it. He falls into Ian's arms as the ginger catches him. Strong, muscular arms wrap around the quivering boy, sobs shaking his body.
"I'm so sorry Ian" he sobs, "So so sorry" "I didn't mean to scare you"
"Mick, Mick, it's okay. It's all okay." Ian says reassuringly. "Everything's okay. I promise"
Ian lifts Mickey up into his arms and walks back into their room, the knife on the floor was an afterthought, his husband was the priority. He sits them semi-up in bed. Ian is sitting with his back on the headboard of their bed, Mickey is curled up on top of him, head buried in his neck. Ian pulls the blanket over them both and begins to rub gentle but firm circles into Mickey's back, in an effort to comfort his still trembling husband. They sit there like that for a long time until Mickey finally falls asleep, and Ian follows after him once he's aware his lover is completely asleep. He wants to be awake in case he begins to panic again.