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Twenty minutes after Mickey had announced last call, he pushed the drunks out the Alibi’s door, the heels of their dusty shoes skidding on the hardwood floors. Of course, Frank had been the last of them. He stumbled off the bar stool, his eyelids fluttering slowly, and tipped forward, on the verge of passing out. “They released you?” he slurred as if he just now recognized Mickey who had been serving him whiskey all evening.
Five years in the can, so much had changed, including Mickey. And yet, he was grateful Frank was still the same conniving asshole he’d always been. He was also the preferred Gallagher to see now.
But no fucking way was Frank passing out here.
Mickey jutted his chin at Tommy, a signal to hold open the door while Mickey unceremoniously gripped Frank’s shoulders and shoved him into the cool evening air. Frank cried out as Mickey locked the door.
Mickey grabbed a broom and swept the floor. He still had glasses to clean, the register to tally, the bartop to wipe down, and liquor to inventory. He also had to be up early to bring Yevgeny to school. But a tired Mickey was a good thing. Exhaustion had a way of numbing his thoughts, steeling them against intrusion.
The Alibi was a legitimate job that appeased the parole officer, but underutilized Mickey’s talents. Svetlana might’ve teased he had a low IQ, but Mickey was decent with figures. He couldn’t have run numbers all those years and not have been skilled at math. He might not know geometry theorems but he could spot an accounting discrepancy with just a quick scan of the figures. That’s how he got the job doing the books for Kev and Vee. Also, it hadn’t hurt that Mickey learned Excel in prison.
Mickey slid his cell phone out of his back pocket and checked the time. It was a little after two. He put the cash from the register in the safe, and prepared the deposit slip for the morning (Vee would handle that). He’d return in the afternoon to assist Kev with the liquor delivery. Mickey found they got a better deal when he signed for the cases, Terry’s mob connections working in their favor for once.
He could go home. Iggy would be passed out by now. Maybe Mickey would sleep. Or worse, he’d dream. Mickey could hide from old acquaintances, but he could not hide from his own thoughts which betrayed him constantly. He absently ran his hand over his chest where Ian’s name was tattooed. The skin no longer hurt, but the organ underneath ached with such ferocity, Mickey often felt like he couldn’t breathe. He wondered if this was what it felt like to have a heart attack.
He tapped out a cigarette from the pack and pressed it between his lips. He clicked the lighter, once, twice, pressing the flame to the end of the cigarette, and inhaled the sweet nicotine. Without considering it too much, Mickey hopped up on the freshly scrubbed bar and laid down, his legs bent at an angle. He took a drag from the cigarette, before letting it dangle from his outstretched hand.
He’d been out of prison a little over ten days. He’d gotten a job. He was being a decent parent. He even cleaned the house and bought groceries. But he was already restless. Mandy had suggested Mickey start dating. Mickey didn’t even know how.
“They have apps now,” Mandy had explained. “It’s easier than ever to get laid.”
Mickey snorted. He didn’t want to get laid, well he did, but he had learned long ago that empty sex did little to alleviate his needs or desires. It just made him feel worse, if that was even possible.
“You haven’t told anyone I’m home, have you?” Mickey asked his sister.
She cocked a brow at him, that signature Milkovich gesture, and said, “If you mean, Ian, no. I haven’t.”
“Good. Don’t.” Mickey knew Ian had become an EMT. He was living his own life, dating lots of guys, a detail Mandy left out but Mickey had inferred. It was best their paths never crossed. Mickey could handle returning to South Side. He could handle making minimum wage under the table in a shitty dive bar. He could handle the stigma of being an ex-con. But he could not handle bumping into Ian fucking Gallagher on the street, or in the bar, and pretending he was okay.
Mickey took another drag off the cigarette before easing himself up and dropping his feet to the floor. He stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray and flicked the butt into the trash can. He grabbed his jacket from behind the bar and slid his arms through. Time to go home. Home. That word had new meaning now that he was a free man. Home used to be the Milkovich house before it became the Gallagher’s place on North Wallace. Home used to be a person, before it became a prison. Now home felt like the wrong word to describe the empty space he shared with his deadbeat brother.
Mickey emerged into the alley behind the bar and locked up. He grabbed another cigarette and put it between his lips. The crisp, October chill felt soothing against his skin. Somewhere, someone was burning leaves. Kids were planning Halloween costumes and scamming eggs and shaving cream for Mischief Night. Mickey used to love this time of year.
He lit the cigarette and slid the lighter into his pocket. He didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until a voice said, “Hey.”
Mickey jumped. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Ian emerged from the shadow of the dumpster. The backlight cast a yellow glow, giving Ian a wan appearance like he wasn’t healthy. Mickey bit back the question, “Are you okay?” It didn’t make a difference to Mickey whether Ian took his meds and was on top of his care -- not anymore. He wasn’t his fucking nurse.
“Hey Mick,” Ian said. He wore his EMT uniform, a blue dress shirt with various patches sewn on the pockets and sleeves, and pressed black pants. He was still lean, less muscular than he’d been in high school, but thicker than he was when Mickey had him committed. Ian’s hair was shorter too, and fairer than he remembered. Ian was still handsome, still beautiful and it sucked.
Mickey blew out a plume of smoke and strode past Ian. “Gotta get home.”
Ian tried to grab Mickey’s arm but Mickey yanked it out of reach.
“Would you just look at me?” Ian said, his voice pitching. Mickey winced. Ian said similar words to him that day in the abandoned building after Terry had -- it didn’t matter. Mickey wasn’t a punk kid anymore and Ian wasn’t his boyfriend. Mickey hurried down the street.
Ian followed on his heels firing off questions. “How long have you been out? Are you working at the Alibi? Where are you staying? Why didn’t you call?”
On that last question Mickey whirled around. Ian hadn’t expected that and the two of them almost collided. Mickey jumped back. He sucked in his lip and put his hands out. “Don’t fucking come near me. I’m serious. I can’t do this with you.”
Ian stopped stalking Mickey and stood there in front of an electronics store boarded up with a metal gate. A homeless man lay in front, passed out with a bottle of something wrapped in a brown paper bag. “I just want to know how you’re doing.”
“I was fucking fine before you showed up,” Mickey said before flicking his cigarette into the gutter. He arched his brows. “Seriously? The fuck you want? You want to be friends?”
“No,” Ian said softly.
“Fuck you too,” Mickey said before charging across the street, not even checking for traffic, because only an idiot would be stupid enough to drive through their neighborhood at this time of night.
Ian muttered, “Fuck,” and followed Mickey.
Mickey turned his head. “Christ, Ian. I said stop it.”
“No.” Ian caught up to him near the dry cleaners where Mickey had given Patel a beat down for hitting one of the girls. That seemed like a lifetime ago.
Mickey didn’t want to touch Ian, but the guy wouldn’t back off. Mickey put two hands on Ian’s shoulders and shoved him back. “Cut the shit.”
The stubborn fuck wouldn’t listen. Ian crowded Mickey’s space now. “I know I fucked up, okay? I know was a dick to you.”
“A dick?” Mickey’s voice bordered on hysterics. “You think I can’t stomach seeing you because you were a dick? You fucking broke my heart!”
Ian retreated a step.
Mickey charged him like a bull, thrusting his finger into Ian’s chest. “You made me feel like a worthless piece of shit. I loved you. I gave you everything and you destroyed me.” Mickey’s eyes burned with the inevitable start of tears. He pressed his palms into his sockets to stop the emotions. His voice softened. “I could deal with prison. I wasn’t always a decent guy. I knew the score. But I didn’t deserve what you did to me.”
“I was sick,” Ian said. “I didn’t mean to cheat--”
“Not that. After everything we had been through, you erased me from your life. No visits. No emails. No contact. That’s what nearly killed me.” Mickey watched moths bounce off the streetlamp. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Mickey felt a familiar sense of unease course through him. He truly needed to get out of here. “Don’t fucking follow me.” He crossed the street and slipped down the alley. When he glanced back, Ian was not there. For once, he had listened, but it only made Mickey feel cold as if he’d been robbed of heat on a snowy day.
Mickey arrived home only to collapse on the front stoop. He dropped his head into his hands. So much for sleep. He wondered how many beers were left in the fridge, if Iggy had finished them all. He could drink until he passed out but then he’d pay dearly for it in a few hours. The hangover might not be worth the torture.
Mickey heard someone clear his throat and his head shot up. Ian stood outside the Milkovich gate with his hands thrust into the pockets of his jacket.
“Fuck,” muttered Mickey.
“Hear me out, will you?” Ian worked his jaw, like he was trying out the words in his head first. “Shit hasn’t been easy for me either. I was in a bad place when you got locked up. I said shit I didn’t mean. I did shit I’m not proud of. But I’ve tried to take my life back. Do you know how hard it was for me? I went from working toward West Point to stripping in a gay bar to becoming a fucking bus boy at a diner. I’ve been committed, not once, but three times since you’ve been in prison.” He held up three fingers. “I’ve have boyfriends swear my bipolar wouldn’t come between us. One guy even proposed to me before dumping my ass during a manic period. Another boyfriend moved out after I couldn’t get off the couch for four days.” He ran his hands through his hair and laughed. Nothing about this seemed funny to Mickey.
Ian continued, “Despite everything, though, I needed these five years. I needed to find out how to live a life with this fucking disease. On my own.”
Mickey rose to his feet. His voice shook. “All those boyfriends. You hardly sound alone.”
“Fuck you,” Ian said. “I’m alone all the time. Even surrounded by people. Because no one knows what it’s like to live inside my head.”
This quelled Mickey. He understood the horrific, hollow feeling of loneliness. If it wasn’t for Yevgeny, Mickey wasn’t sure he could hang on much longer. Mickey descended the stairs. “You go to therapy?” he asked.
“Twice a week,” Ian replied.
“Do I ever come up?” He meant to ask as a joke, but he was curious, almost desperate to know, because Mickey had to see a shrink as part of his release. Every third word Mickey uttered to the psychologist was Ian's name.
“Often,” Ian said. "You come up often."
Mickey stood on one side of the fence. Ian, on the other.
“Do you say anything nice about me?” Mickey asked, biting his lip.
Ian’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I tell her ‘I love you.’”
Mickey sniffled. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Why couldn’t you have told me that all those years ago?”
Even in the dark, Mickey saw a tear trace a wet line on Ian’s dry, fair skin. “Like I said, it took me five years to figure myself out.”
Mickey wrapped his hand around the back of Ian’s neck and brought their foreheads together. They both sighed, their breaths shaky, uneven. But a peacefulness descended upon them. For the first time, Mickey wondered if the pain was a worthwhile means to an end. Maybe not so much an end, but a new beginning for them both. Mickey was willing to entertain that notion. It was far less exhausting than being bitter and angry. Especially when his love for Ian had never waned. They pulled apart, only slightly.
“You want to come inside?” Mickey asked, his eyes darting to Ian’s. “I have to be up early. Yevgeny.”
Ian smiled. “Only if you’re sure.”
“I’m not fucking sure of anything,” Mickey said. “Not even you. But, I’m willing to fucking see.”
“Me too, Mick. Me too.”
Mickey opened the gate and ushered Ian through.