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“Hey.”
Such a simple word but it felt like an anchor in a world that was steadily drifting away beneath his feet. Ian's breath came to him in a rush and his body instinctively turned towards the sound, hardly hoping that he was not, in fact, falling into a dream again. No, he was awake and grounded by kind blue eyes and a face full of apology and a scent that settled his heart.
Mickey felt his words sit in his chest, wanting to go no further as he got his first good look at Ian since being in the ward; he was in his home, no longer medicated into a thick fog of obliviousness, but in his bed, in his clothes, awake and vibrating with hope. It hurt to look at him, but it hurt more to think of ever hiding away again. “I'm sorry I'm late,” Mickey said gently, his eyes trying to glass over with how guilty he felt for having tried to ignore what he'd seen, what he had done. Ian shifted slightly and breathed out slowly, like he was seeing Mickey for the first time all over again. It wasn't hard to follow gut instinct; Ian moving to let Mickey settle beside him on the small bed, allowing himself to fall into himself now that he knew Mickey was here, his safety, stroking his thumb across Ian's wrist and looking at him like he was everything.
I'm here now, I got you, Mickey's thumb said. It's OK, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, the kiss pressed to Ian's temple soothed. Ian closed his eyes and felt the reassurances dance through him, softly pushing down the fear that nobody truly knew him anymore because Mickey was right here, and he knew Ian. He wasn't running.
“I'm sorry,” Mickey whispered into the soft quiet of Ian's room, against his ear, the sincerity weaving into Ian's hair and mind like the smoke so often pushed from Mickey's lips, heavy and intended and calming.
“You didn't do anythin',” Ian mumbled in reply, the fingers of his hand curled around Mickey's forearm tapping lightly, mapping, memorizing the smooth skin under his pads. “You've never done anythin' to me that I didn't push you to do. That I hadn't done to you. I'm sorry, I ran off with your son and I don't know...”
Mickey's thumb started up with it's stroking again as Ian's voice faltered. “I scared you.”
“You didn't,” Ian argued gently, opening his eyes to look up at the blotched ceiling, knowing Mickey was giving him a put-out stare. He made sure to keep his tone as gentle as Mickey's caress was, “You didn't scare me. I scared me. For you to... for you to say I needed help scared me, and that's because of me, not you. You... Mick. You were tyin' so hard to work out what to do and I had no idea just how bad it was, how bad I was getting and I'm sorry. You're so strong and you looked so defeated and I just wanted to run from it, stop you looking like that. I was scared of me, of what I could end up doin' and yeah, stupid, but I ran from it. Like I was tryin' to run from myself but you can't run from yourself. But I tried. Shouldn't have took the baby with me but once I got on the road, I'd forgotten what I was runnin' from and I just wanted to make Yev smile. I'm so sorry, Mick, I didn't want to, or mean to, scare you, too.”
Mickey stayed quiet but his low hum was enough to show he disagreed with that.
“You aren't-” Mickey started quietly, swallowed and tried again with a firmer tone, like he was trying to be authoritative while not having a go. “You aren't her, Ian.”
He'd told himself the same thing, over and over and over again. His family had too, but they had also looked at him the same way they had all looked at Monica. Like a burden, like a fire sitting in it's hearth, wary that it might spark and take the whole house with it. Much as they looked at him with love and reassured him he was different, they made it so hard to believe when their behind-his-back comments wafted on stale air, how their faces betrayed them fleetingly. Ian turned his head and chanced a look at Mickey, to see the same look, the fear and pity his family couldn't mask. It wasn't there; Ian couldn't see anything but firm belief and honesty and it was as if the crushing weight of this disorder had been lightened by a few pounds.
“You're not her,” Mickey repeated softly, his eyes clear and as steady as the pulse of his wrist under Ian's palm, “You're you. I look at you, I see you, nobody else, nothin' else.”
Ian's eyes filled and his throat caught. Mickey wasn't trying to pander to him, he could see that. Mickey never patronised him though, it was all harsh truths and stilted words but Ian knew him, knew that he said more with his looks than Ian could ever say with words. He was hit with such a surge of guilt from his behaviour and believing Mickey had run from him that his head emptied and it felt like his body was swinging where he lay, though he was as still as Mickey.
“I'm so fucking sorry for...for-” Ian closed his eyes and thinned his mouth, clenched his jaw to keep himself steady, to keep the sob in. “Everything. I'm sick but it's no excuse for what I've done, it's not. It feels like someone else has done it, but I know it wasn't anyone else but me. I can't control myself, my thoughts, my impulses, how I feel but... but I want to. What kind of hell is it where you're so out of control that you hurt people you love and it could get... so much worse,” he finished with a whisper and opened his eyes to see Mickey's, strong and sure but desperate. Ian knew how that felt; he'd felt that look before, like all he wanted to do was take Mickey by the hand and run, take him away from everything that upset or hurt him, protect him, be there for and with him. It wasn't pity. It wasn't heartbreak.
“What kinda people put you in a fuckin' hospital, take you away from everythin' you love and know, can't help you by themselves, let doctors drug you up 'til all the fuckin' light's gone outta you. Kinda people tell you that's OK?” Mickey said, his voice a rumble against Ian's side, his tone hurt and self-destructive. “People you love shouldn't do-”
“Strong people,” Ian cut in, realising that Mickey was sore from his own guilt, of worrying and thinking he'd failed Ian in some way, that he had done something wrong in getting help, for handing over to people who had the know-how and means to pull Ian back from where he'd been spinning off to. “A strong person can admit when they need help and they square up and get it done. They don't run away. You haven't run away. You're here. You did nothing wrong, Mick, you did what I couldn't even though it's hurt you to do it. You protected me, again.”
“Never not gonna protect you, or try to, at least,” Mickey said, nudging his nose against Ian's cheek as he nuzzled closer, his thumb stroking with the fingers close to it pushed into Ian's hair. “I told you it was OK. You weren't gonna sign shit until I gave you that fuckin' nod. Felt like a judge passin' sentence. They took you away and then some. Seein' you like that, in there... I did that to you and I felt so fuckin' evil for it. I thought it was for the best, man, I swear I didn't know...”
Mickey's voice dried up and Ian could see how horrid he thought of himself, how guilty he was just by the look on his face. “Know what? That I would get a diagnosis, know that there really was somethin' up with me? That I would get some kinda control back, some help? That I would feel some kind of security in there, knowin' I couldn't do anythin' stupid or crazy again for a while? Get medication to stop the spirals-”
“You flushed your fuckin' pills, Ian,” Mickey muttered. Those eyes were hurt.
Ian took a deep breath and nodded, barely, “I did.”
“Why? If they help, why'd you chuck 'em?” Mickey wasn't being belittling like his family had been or angry, but curious and his thumb turned slightly, the scrape of his nail causing goosebumps and a flood of calmness to rush Ian's system.
“They stop the bursts of impulse. They stop the need to bury my head in the sand for days. They stop my desires, my thoughts from racing, my wants... they stop me, Mick. They make me feel like I'm not even here and I can't feel anything passed basic levels of anything. I can't even feel pain for the first few seconds. I can't feel much beyond numb. I hate it. They take as much control as they give me.”
Mickey sighed heavily and pressed another kiss to Ian's head, speaking against his skin, “I get it. But you know as well as I do that if you don't give 'em time to settle in, you ain't gonna reap no rewards. You could end up doin' somethin' far worse than a fuckin' porno or stealin' a kid, Ian. You gotta know, I'm gonna stick around so you got somewhere to go when shit gets bad, somewhere to be yourself without nobody judgin' you 'cause I ain't about that. You aren't her and you ain't on your own, man, I got you.”
“I don't wanna hurt you anymore, or me or Yev or anyone...” Ian was quiet for a while, his thoughts whirling with broken voices and sad faces, hurt and worry. Fear. He knew he couldn't give up, but he wasn't himself on the medication.
Mickey was nuzzling Ian's neck now, “You know, whatever you've done to me, whatever I've done to you... means nothin' compared to how much it fuckin' burns and cuts and hurts to think of you runnin' from me again, from yourself. I understand that it's gotta be fuckin' horrid takin' meds and all that, but it's only been days. Give them time to work, please? Don't care about you hurtin' me, Ian, I can handle that. I don't want you hurtin' you, more. That, I couldn't handle.”
He wasn't himself at all, not anymore; he was out of control and maybe Mickey was right, he needed to wait these pills out and get used to them before he could swim to shore and dry off. Maybe he could just keep swimming until he turned into a fish and he could forget everything. Monica.
“I'll...I'll try again, Mick.”
Mickey turned Ian's face and kissed him sweetly. “If it don't gel, we'll figure somethin' out. You ain't alone in this. We'll work it out.” Together.
“I'm so fuckin' sorry I've hurt you.”
Mickey kissed him again. “I know. I know.”
–
“We gotta get you to a fuckin' clinic, get you some meds. Today.”
Over the wilting panic and his rampant mind, Ian felt the weight of those words hit him. Mickey was defeated. No, he wasn't, he wasn't. Unlike his family, he hadn't tried gentle reassurance and calm words that nothing was trying to hurt him or take him away from his home – Mickey had marched in and had forced him to face this head on, see that it wasn't real, but that he was and he was here. Hey, look at me. He hadn't run. He was in this nightmare too, and he had Ian's back like he'd said.
I ain't lying to you.
Ian gave a nod and felt so utterly guilty again, embarrassed and upset at losing himself again so quickly. Mickey was quick to show him that it was OK to realise it, it was good that he understood that it wasn't real and could accept what he'd let himself do. He needed the clinic. That awareness in itself cemented what Mickey had said, what he knew to be true – you aren't her – because he could accept he needed help. He wanted it, for himself over everyone else.
Mickey's hand landed on Ian's neck and squeezed, his warmth and voice the anchor to the earth Ian felt he didn't know any more. “Hey, it's OK. S'alright. Let's go get dressed, yeah?” If Mickey could keep on trying, would keep on trying despite Ian's behaviour already, then so would Ian. He just had to give himself time and stop his natural need to push, push, push. It was about time he took the pull and restored some order. He was sick, but it wasn't who he was, and if Mickey could still see him under all of the layers of disorder cloaking him, offering to help him shed them and hook them up correctly then he would try his best.
Mickey collared Ian in his room and pulled him close, his hand in Ian's hair, his other around his waist, his skin warm under Ian's nose, his smell and warmth and presence giving Ian more grounding.
“I'm scared.”
“I know,” Mickey said against his neck, pressing a kiss there, “You ain't facin' it alone.” I love you.