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It's been a while since he tried to kill himself.
Five months.
Eight days.
He's not counting. But Mickey is, his family is.
A lot has happened.
And a fucking lot hasn't happened.
Long, harsh winter months spent surviving.
Trying to get through the cold, the poison in his brain and the wounds in his skin as best they can.
Listening to the shrink, listening to the clock on the bedside, in the waiting rooms. Pills, and pills and pills and pills.
Making points not to look too hard at the new grout in the bathroom tiles.
Making points to lick his wounds, not run from them.
Communication.
And lack thereof.
In therapy, every week, they talk about how Ian cannot wallow in the actions he took, the pain he caused, the pain he's feeling.
That's been hard to accept.
Harder than waking up in a hospital bed still breathing.
Wallowing breeds misery and the thick black grime that builds in his chest and spreads to every nerve and every cell in his body, poisoning him.
Today he isn't wallowing. He makes a point of such.
He's been doing good at not wallowing lately, real fucking good.
Today is the second Gallagher bash of the year, the first he's come too.
Sitting in a plastic chair Ian observes it all in front of him.
His brothers belly laughing over the barbeque, the squealing giggles of the little ones playing by the fence line, fading in and out of the conversation happening by the stairs, the birds chirping at the ground by his feet, the music playing on the speaker by the back door.
The heat of the afternoon sun sinks through every single pore in his body and warms his chest from the outside in - spreading to the deepest of bones and the very tips of his fingers with every heartbeat radiating within his ribcage, grounding him.
Hanging his head low, he closes his eyes, breathes in deep and feels it.
Allows the heat to sink into his flesh and his pulse tether him into the shitty plastic chair and lets the rough concrete against his feet remind him that he is here.
That he loves this.
That there is more to him than grime.
There's movement to his left, a chair scooting closer, a swift clasp on the back of his neck and a peck to his sweating forehead.
Another breath in leaves him the courage to open his eyes and be in this moment with his husband, unable to help the wet lining his lashes.
Mickey's studying him, gently, lovingly, worriedly; like Ian's the reason the whole world spins and he's trying to find out why.
Ian's fluent in the silent language of his husband's eyebrows - watches the slight lift in the left one that means you okay?
He exhales, a small smile that's genuine, a small nod and he really fucking means it.
Another tilt, you sure?
A beat passes.
"I just..."
Pauses, attempts to swallow the frog in his throat, observes Mickey's awaiting expression.
"I don't want to die." he mutters.
A realization.
An epiphany.
Mickey's expression morphs into something Ian can't quite place; knows it's a whirlwind mix of things that he's not voicing. Ian can't blame him. He'd be fretting too.
"I'm feeling. Really feeling... And I... I don't want to die." Ian reveals to him, reveals to himself; links their hands together and squeezes tight, a small smile slipping onto his lips as bid for understanding.
The utter heaviness, uncertainty and pain of what's happened in the last five months still ring very true and will for a while, for a long while. The weighted limbs, pill counting, routine routine routine, first aid courses, crisis action plans, the anger and agony and confusion and long and hard conversations between them and between the family and between Ian's workplace and between the shrink.
For a moment Ian's unsure if Mickey believes him, that toxin thread spinning behind his eyes and for a moment he's almost quick to latch onto it and send his progress backwards.
But at last, a small smile to match his own, a squeeze of the hand - I understand.
Ian breathes out.
It comes bursting through from between his teeth and clawing its way from his throat, catching then releasing as his vision blurs and teardrops stream down his sun-pink cheeks.
Ian allows himself to feel it, to release it.
He hasn't cried in weeks. He hasn't wanted to be alive for a long time.
This is relief.
Pure relief.
Everything becomes drowned out as it overtakes him, escaping him in a surge as if he's been boiling for too long and the pressure of steam is finally liberated and he can breathe.
A pair of knees knock against the inside of his, urging them to spread, just enough for Mickey to stand between them. Tattooed fingers run through freshly cut curls as another hand wraps around his shoulders, begging Ian to come closer; to give him a soft place to land, wants Ian to lean on him.
That's all Mickey ever wants.
And Ian does. Goes pliant with arms tightly wrapping around Mickey's middle, shuddering wet breaths into the soft cotton of Mickey's shirt and he feels it.
And it hurts.
And it feels good.
Feels fucking fantastic.
Ian believes himself.
Believes his body as it breathes in and out and reminds him of the luck of it all.
Ian believes himself.
And Mickey believes him.