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He doesn’t know how they ended up here, but here they are. The soft, wet whirr of tires over asphalt, the damp thud, squeak, thud of the wiper blades, fucking oldies playing low on the radio. Ian’s sleeping, if the slumped form in the corner of his eyes is anything to go by. Breathing slow and barely there, his chest rising and falling a comfort through the rear view mirror.
It’s stopped raining when he pulls the car over, the sun catching the top of Ian’s head, hair on fire and skin glowing and pale. Mickey doesn’t know how long he just sits there, looking at him, before he pulls down the sun visor on the passenger side and gets out of the car. The sun is low, painting yellow on the ripples of the biting wind dancing across the lake, and the hood of the car is still wet and soon cold, engine ticking softly as it’s cooling down. He doesn’t care, he sits there for a few minutes, ignoring the torrent of thoughts fighting for his attention and trying his best to enjoy the moment. Endlessness in front, anchor at his back.
It might have been ten minutes, maybe half an hour, before he hears the door open behind him and he feels the car dip and rock with Ian stepping out. He tries to rub some feeling back into his hands before he digs out his almost empty pack of smokes and puts one to his lips, anything to avoid looking at the man leaning against the car next to him, now, shrugging and hugging himself against the cold. Stupid fucking asshole walking around in that shirt, Mickey thinks he should offer him his coat but it’s not likely to go down well, so he doesn’t. He flicks his lighter a couple of times, it sparks and stutters until a small flame shoots up and licks the end of the cigarette, paper browning and glowing.
Ian sighs, but he doesn’t say anything, or do anything. Mickey observes him quietly from the corner of his eye, takes in the side of his face and his empty expression looking out over the lake. God, he’s missed him. Unhappy and broken, just having him close makes it fucking bearable, it makes no sense.
”Where are we?” Ian asks and the sound of his voice is unexpected and startling.
”Don’t know,” Mickey admits and turns away, looks down at his hands, cigarette loosely gripped between two fingers, thumb grazing over the filter, ”well into Michigan by now, ’suppose.”
Ian just hums and that’s it, conversation over. Mickey doesn’t know what they’re doing, where they’re going, what he wants Ian to say, but something would be nice. If he wants them to talk though, he probably will have to take the lead. He doesn’t, he stays silent, question after question pushing its way to the tip of his tongue only to be replaced by a drag off his cigarette, by a slow, deep exhale.
He’s on his second, last, smoke when Ian finally breaks the silence. Mickey thinks for a second that he’s laughing, shaking like a fucking bobblehead in his peripheral vision, shoulders hunched and arms tight. He’s not laughing, one sideways glance and Mickey can see the big wet tears streaking his face, snot shining on his upper lip, lips bent and open. He’s eerily quiet at first, just shaking, breath held for so long Mickey’s getting worried.
”Breathe,” he says, so quietly he thinks Ian couldn’t possibly hear him, but he does. He breathes, air coming out torn and ragged and heaving. It’s disturbing, Mickey’s never seen Ian like this, never even imagined him able to be this vulnerable in front of anyone, even him. Especially him. It makes him feel entirely uncomfortable, because he knows Ian’s bound to hate it, regret it, because he wants to comfort but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. If he even knows how.
So he keeps his itching hands to himself, lips and arms and legs. There’s a couple of inches between them and Mickey just has to hope Ian doesn’t think it’s because he doesn’t care.
”Jesus,” Ian sobs, ”fucked up.”
Mickey doesn’t know if it’s a confession or a comment, but he doesn’t press. He slides off the hood and walks around to the driver’s seat, the door hitting against the back of his thigh as he leans across the stick and opens the glove compartment. When he sits back down next to Ian, he’s calmed down. Face wet and brows furrowed, he’s hugging himself like it’s all he can do to not fall apart, eyes far out across the water.
”Triple-ply,” Mickey comments and unceremoniously drops the half-used pack of tissues in his lap.
Ian gingerly holds the pack in a hands for a moment, staring at it. ”Extra soft, too.”
”Never say I didn’t treat ya well,” Mickey mutters and puts what’s left of his cigarette back to his lips, letting it hang there. Ian huffs and sniffles and slowly starts to dry his face, wiping under his eyes and down his cheeks, left, right, down under his chin and neck. Another tissue, he blows his nose and Mickey thinks it’s the saddest most amazing noise he’s heard and he doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why all this stupid shit does is pushing him further out at sea.
”Got another one of those?” Ian asks, crumpling up the soaked tissue in his hands and flicking his eyes to Mickey’s lips. Keep your fucking cool, Milkovich, the guy just wants his nicotine fix.
”Nah,” he says and swallows before he takes a deep drag from the cigarette and hands over the butt to Ian.
”Dick,” Ian almost smiles and it’s enough to bring a flutter to Mickey’s gut, licking his cracked lips as Ian takes what’s left of the cigarette and carefully sucks every last bit of life out of it.
”You’re welcome,” Mickey mumbles and turns his eyes back out at the water. He’s never been a huge fan of nature, but he’s gotta admit it’s not half bad. It’s calm, and vast. Puts shit in perspective, somehow. Makes it a little easier to find his voice when at last there’s something he feels he can’t avoid putting out there. ”Fucked someone else.”
Ian stays quiet, he flicks the cigarette butt away and he exhales a slow smokey breath, but he stays quiet.
”I know you don’t give a shit,” Mickey continues, because he feels like he wants to explain himself, like he wants to apologize, ”but, I still kinda- you know, whatever.”
”What?” Ian asks, his voice is low and tired. Mickey can’t look at him.
”Guess I give a shit,” he shrugs, ”don’t know why I even fucking bother anymore, but- yeah.”
Ian nods, Mickey hears it more than sees it, and he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to. It doesn’t feel like he’s making a lotta sense right now, but maybe, somehow, Ian gets it.
”When?” he asks, and now Mickey can’t resist throwing him a look, glaring at him for a second to see if he’ll meet his eyes. He doesn’t.
What the fuck ever. Best case scenario, Ian gets to feel a little of the hurt Mickey’s been living with for months, hearing this. Worst case, well, can’t really get much worse. ”The other night, found some guy in a park. Real fucking gay.”
Ian turns his head and meets his eyes for a split second before they bounce back, like he got burnt. He nods again and sighs. ”Guy.”
”Yeah,” Mickey forces out a laugh, tip of his tongue worrying at his bottom lip, ”tried pussy first but I guess the paperwork finally got through on my dick-sucking membership, expecting one of those rainbow flag pins in the mail any day now.”
”Why?”
Mickey frowns. He no longer has any delusions of insight to Ian’s emotional life, but his monotone, one-word line of questioning is starting to sound a hell of a lot like he might care.
”The fuck do you think, Ian?” He spits, gripping the edge of the car in an attempt to calm himself down some. ”You fucked off with your fucking mom, man, let me call you like some bitch over and over and fucking over again, never gettin’ back to me even once. Fuck- you got no right to judge me.”
Ian heaves himself off the hood of the car and takes a couple of steps, arms back in that steady grip around his chest.
”What are we doing here?” Ian’s not turning around, bending his head and shuffling his feet.
Mickey shrugs and has to will his voice to work when he realizes that Ian can’t see him, swallowing convulsively. ”You broke up with me.”
”Yeah,” Ian nods, his body swaying slightly from side to side, ”guess I did.”
”Yeah, and guess what else,” Mickey tucks in his hands under his coat, folds his arms over his chest and sandwiches his fingers in his armpits, the warmth stinging at his cold skin like a thousand needles, ”I ain’t buyin’ it.”
Ian’s shoulders fall in a heavy sigh, head tipping back.
”You don’t love me, fine,” Mickey swallows over the slight break in his voice, hates that he can’t even say the words right, ”can’t change that, if that’s the case. But if this is some martyr bullshit you’re trying to pull, I’m not just gonna let you hurt me for no fucking reason, man. Just not gonna happen.”
”You don’t know-,” Ian starts, that pitchy annoyance back to his voice that Mickey’s starting to know really well.
”Don’t know what, Ian?” Mickey asks. ”What is it you think I don’t know about you, huh?”
The silence is busy with things not said, with Ian’s thickheaded stubbornness. Sometimes the easiest way to get through it is to attack, corner him enough and provoke him enough to cause a break. Mickey doesn’t want that, he just wants Ian to talk to him for once.
”I love you,” he says and frowns when Ian sighs, ”and I can say that a million times but it’s useless if you don’t understand what I mean when I say it.”
”I understand,” Ian mutters.
”You really don’t,” Mickey shakes his head and takes Ian’s silence as a cue to continue, ”means you’re my fucking family, man, means that none of this shit matters.”
”No?” Finally he turns around, eyes icy and mean. ”Doesn’t matter that I fucked around on you? That I keep leaving? That I don’t know- I don’t know-”
”What, Ian,” Mickey pleads, ”what don’t you know?”
Ian shakes his head and looks down on the ground, but not before Mickey catches the deeply pained expression flashing across his face.
”Please, talk to me,” Mickey whispers, ”say whatever the fuck you want, just talk to me.”
Ian sniffles and doesn’t look up. ”Don’t know if I love you anymore.”
Mickey pulls in a sharp breath and doesn’t know what to do about it, forgets how to exhale. It comes back on instinct, hot breath flowing past his lips with a soft ’fuck’ and what feels like his eternal soul. Part of him wants to get in the car and drive away, finally let himself give up. Another part, a much bigger part, wants to go over to Ian and hold him until he stops hurting. So that’s what he does.
Ian is stiff in his arms at first, but then he feels him uncurl and melt into the embrace. Hands pressing and clenching against his back and up between his shoulder blades, nose sniffling and wet, face hidden deep in his shoulder. Mickey lets his fingers roam wild, touch and caress, cling and comb. He thinks this might be his last chance.
”It’s okay,” he lies, ”it’s okay, it’s okay.”
”No,” Ian mumbles against his shoulder and pulls back enough to press his forehead against Mickey’s temple, sighing out a shaky breath over his cheek, goosebumps standing to attention all the way down his neck. ”’m lost.”
”Hey,” Mickey says and traps Ian’s face between his hands, thumbs caressing the dark circles under his eyes, ”hey.”
He can’t help himself, it’s selfish, but he can’t help himself. He rocks forward and presses his mouth against Ian’s, lips searching and desperate. Ian doesn’t try to get away, but he isn’t exactly enthusiastic in his response, so Mickey grins to keep from fucking crying and rests his forehead against Ian’s cheekbone, the hands on his back still holding on tight a small comfort.
”We’ll figure it out, I promise,” Mickey whispers, ”you gotta cut yourself some slack, who the fuck knows who they are at eighteen, huh? No one, that’s who.”
Ian huffs and squeezes himself closer still. ”You know.”
”No clue,” Mickey insists, ”except when I’m with you.”
Ian groans and takes a step back, slipping out of Mickey's arms.
”Why are you doing this?” he takes another step back and wipes his nose on his sleeve, angling himself away some.
”Because I’ve loved your stubborn ass since you were sixteen and I don’t care who you are,” Mickey takes a step to the side to try and catch his eyes, but it doesn’t work, ”be whoever the fuck you want man, just be it with me. With our kid.”
That gets his attention, Ian’s head snaps up and by the look on his face you’d think he’d been slapped.
”That’s not-,” Ian looks like he’s about to lose it again, but doesn’t, ”he’s not- Yev’s better off without me.”
”Like me?” Mickey nearly shouts, desperately losing his cool. ”Fuck you, Ian. Fuck you.”
”He is,” Ian quickly takes the few steps separating them, shoves his face real close to Mickey in that way he does when he doesn’t want to leave any room for argument, ”fuck, he doesn’t know me, Mick, couple of months and he won’t miss me at all, same as you.”
Mickey wants to punch and shove, but he fucking counts to ten and tries to remember why he fights.
”Kinda can’t stand your ass right now, Gallagher,” he hisses and grabs Ian by the shirt when he rolls his eyes and tries to back away again, ”that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. We have a life together, Ian, like it or not. Your decision right now will have consequences, not just for you an’ me. Like I said, you don’t love me; fucking leave, I’ll get over it, I’ll be fine. But if you’re just confused, if you’re not feelin’ it right now, if you’re sad or depressed or outta your fucking mind, all that shit’s temporary. You need to be more patient with yourself, with the meds, with everything. Life isn’t just good all the time, it’s shit, it’s hard, it’s fighting for what you want. When did you forget that, huh? When did you stop fighting for me? For yourself, for what you want?”
Ian tears himself away and walks down to the very edge of the lake, chest heaving with his labored breath, coming out in angry puffs of smoke around his head. Mickey stays still, staring down at his trembling hands.
”Really thought we had something,” he says, more to himself than to Ian, not sure if he’s even close enough to hear him.
”You don’t need this,” Ian eventually says, like a sigh, before he turns and spreads out his arms in a wide shrug, ”you don’t need all this.”
”Are you fucking deaf?” Mickey exclaims and does a full 360 turn before barreling over to Ian and pushing him up to the edge of the water. ”I want it! I want you.”
”Yeah?” Ian challenges in a tightlipped mumble, stare fixed somewhere over Mickey’s shoulder, one hand to his chest, keeping them apart, ”not sure I want me right now.”
”Well,” Mickey laughs wetly and takes Ian by the neck to walk him a couple of steps away from the water’s edge, ”you’ve always been smarter than me.”
Ian quirks a small smile and huffs out a soft ’yeah’, wincing when Mickey punches him on the shoulder.
”Want you, smartass,” Mickey tells him again, ”can do without you cheating on me, or running away without me, but I want you. Don’t wanna do this with anyone else.”
The tears are spilling over again, Ian tipping his head to hide it. While before it seemed so aimless and endless, Mickey thinks this looks a lot like remorse, like heartbreak. Before he knows it he’s back in Ian’s arms, in a crushing embrace, stifled sobs and whispers of ’so sorry, Mick, ’m so fucking sorry’ against his neck.
”Don’t give up,” he whispers back, feeling his own tears stinging at his eyes, ”give it time, you’ll be alright. We’ll be fine.”
He kisses him, presses his wet lips against his cold skin right below his ear. ”We’ll be fine.”
”Don’t know that,” Ian sighs into the folds of Mickey’s coat, ”you don’t know that.”
”Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna try,” Mickey leans back and wipes the palm of his hand down Ian’s cheek, left then right, pushes his tears into his hair when he cards his hands through it, scratching at the back of his neck, ”we can do whatever you want, Ian, we’ve got a car, we can leave now and never look back. Ditch the car in a couple of days, find another one, faster one. If you wanna run, just tell me, I’ll run with you.”
”No,” Ian frowns, eyes cast down between them.
”No,” Mickey repeats, a tremor to his voice he doesn’t like at all.
”No,” Ian says, the tendons in his neck straining under Mickey’s careful thumb when he swallows, ”I wanna go home.”
And when Ian looks up, locks their eyes, he still seems so tired and detached. Something lost deep inside, something slightly broken. But he takes the half a step that’s left between them, and he’s pressing his lips against Mickey’s in a kind of kiss Mickey can’t remember they’ve ever had. Short and sweet, and full of quiet promises. Mickey longs to have him laid out, over him, under him, inside him, all around him, kisses long and passionate like breathing. He knows he can’t have that, not yet. He’ll wait.
He nods, eyes closed he can feel Ian’s breath on his face, his nose bumping against his own. ”Home.”
”Our home,” Ian clarifies and blinks uncertainly when Mickey opens his eyes, ”if that’s okay.”
”Okay,” Mickey breathes, ”yeah, okay.”
”Don’t wanna hurt you,” Ian winces and holds Mickey closer, long fingers digging into the coarse fabric covering his back, like he needs to keep him there to be able to say what he wants to say, ”but I don’t know-”
”We’ll figure it out,” Mickey feels like he doesn’t know what he’s promising anymore, ”whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”
Ian falls asleep on the way home, this time curled up on his seat and facing Mickey, sunset reflecting in the rear view mirror and flicking across his relaxed face. Mickey stops again after they’ve crossed the state line, finds a gas station to fill up the car and buys a new pack of smokes. He stands in the dark outside the car and smokes three in a row, staring at the darkness in the car where he knows Ian’s face is, the yellow streetlights only reaching halfway up his chest.
He wakes Ian up when they’re a few blocks away from home. He parks the car a couple of streets down from where he took it, wipes it down thoroughly while Ian watches, arms hugged closely around himself and Mickey’s coat hung over his hunched shoulders. The house is cold and dark when they get there, Svetlana gone and the crib empty. Ian sits on their bed and stares at Mickey as he gets undressed. Mickey’s never felt so exposed before, not even a couple of hours earlier, words falling from his lips he never imagined himself saying. He takes it all off, needs Ian to really see him.
They settle in with an abyss of space between them, Mickey turning his back and fighting to fall asleep for what may be hours, before he finally feels Ian shift closer behind him, breathing against the nape of his neck, hand trailing down his thigh and up again, over his waist, stomach, chest.
They’ll go see Yevgeny tomorrow. Fiona after that, the other Gallaghers. They’ll take a day, just take it easy, take it slow for once. Coffee in the morning, beers in the afternoon. Talk about normal shit, think about nothing. Watch a movie, get high, laugh a little. Nice long fuck after the sun goes down.
Day after, early in the morning when the sun finds them through the broken blinds, they’ll talk about 40 years, about medication and commitment. They might get sidetracked, might find ways to avoid and postpone, but they’ll get there. Eventually.
Right now, they’ve won another fight. It’s enough.
.