Work Text:
There’s a place I go
When I’m alone
Do anything I want
Be anyone I wanna be
But it is us I see
And I cannot believe I’m fallin
That’s where I’m goin
Where are you goin
Hold it close won’t let this go
Dream, catch me
There was something deeply calming about autumn when it came in to stay, a pull that Mickey felt grab him around the middle and yank his feet out from under him. Often morning would find him sitting on the roof of the abandoned building, watching the world in the early hours before the sun rose, finding his own peace in the serenity of the heavy silence that came cloaked in the mist of autumn.
Like now, it wasn’t quite dawn and here he was, back against the wall of the door to the roof, or what was left of it. His coat was thick and warm around his body, warding off most of the chill in the air, his scarf pulled high enough that he could tuck his face down until it reached the cold tip of his nose. His backside was ice cold and going numb from the concrete and beside him lay a few discarded dead cigarette ends, a tiny squash he’d picked up hours before, his switch-blade.
Up here, alone and in comfortable silence, Mickey allowed himself to believe he was the only person in the world. Most would find that notion hit them like a bullet to the chest, spiralling down into a chasm of loneliness and despair and terror. Mickey didn’t; it was a soothing idea, calmness running through his system as he encased himself in his little bubble. He was his own person up here, nobody to fear for a few precious hours, nobody to answer to, nobody to run from, no need to hide. He could be, up here.
He liked the fog that was never present when he’d get up there at first, leaning on the edge of the building to look out over the city and watch the lights blink and twinkle, every noise dulled down by the blanket autumn covered it with. It wasn’t the same as the blanket winter delivered as it wasn’t complete calmness, but more like a quiet observation, like something was both waiting to leap out and announce itself as well as happy to sit back and watch. Like Mickey. The fog would creep in just as the sky would begin to bleed in lighter shades of blue and orange, bringing a dampness with it that felt like yet another cloak. Mickey liked to watch the heavy mist roll over the ground and seep up into the air and block out everything but the next building. Then he would sit on the floor and listen and let go of all of his fears and harboured worries; if he couldn’t see the world around him, they couldn’t see him. He was hiding and yet not.
His mind wandered, as it usually would, to all the things that this season brought with it and how much he secretly loved every novelty bestowed upon life from it. He preferred the chill of autumn to winter, being able to wrap up but not so much that he felt like he couldn’t move anything more than his legs, not needing to wear a hat but he could tug up his hood if he needed to. The gentle puffs of his breath rather than clouds that rivalled his smoke expulsion; autumn took his smoke and sent it up and away with its windy blasts while winter held it around him, reminding him of how antisocial smoke could be to anyone around him. He didn’t care about other people, not really, but disgruntled looks still stung. He liked being able to wear fingerless gloves rather than ski-styled blocks, not having to pull them off to indulge his habit. He loved wearing his scarf loosely, there but easily removed if needed or pulled tighter if the wind threatened to dance down his shirt. He liked having his coat on, another layer to keep himself safe and hidden from judgemental eyes, but he could unzip it, take it off or encase himself so that only his eyes were visible. Sometimes he could add his sweater and tuck into himself upon this roof, let his hands rest while his arms found a spot on his bent up knees.
He loved the smell of the morning, wet grass and leaves and the heaviness of exhaust fumes all laced in with the smell of damp concrete. The sound, too, quiet but not really. It was better just before the sun broke, golden light and gentle warmth that wasn’t daring to bake him nor lying like it did in winter. He often found himself gazing up at the trees, picking out the dull tones of red and copper in between the glaring shades and his first thought would be of Ian; his hair was like autumn, dull and vibrant and the sight of it was endlessly settling until it would go from sight and then, then it would open up a hole that would not fill until it came back. Maybe Ian was autumn.
Mickey smiled as he lit up another cigarette, watching his first puff waft up and away, remembering walking through the park with the embodiment of autumn as his side. He’d been listening to Ian bickering to himself about how the damp messed with his hair and chapped his lips and Mickey had turned to him then, to see for himself; Ian’s nose had been pinked and his skin creamy and his eyes bright, his lips red and bowed in a smile and chapped a little. His hair had been tucked under his hat but strands had escaped at the front and back and were curled in all directions and the colour of it, his eyebrows and eyelashes, was so incredibly striking so early in the morning that Mickey had lost his voice and heart. Ian had winked and took up his stride again and shortly after, Mickey had shoved him into a pile of raked leaves and fled, laughter and longs legs catching up to him in a heavily wooded part and the fog had hidden them from the world so they’d kissed and kissed until they were breathless and giddy, sharing secretive nudges and smirks until Ian had to part from him.
Mickey rolled his neck and looked down at the little squash on the floor and reached to pick it up; every time he was up here he would carve on of these miniature pumpkins and leave it somewhere in the vicinity; whether on the floor below, on this roof, or in the place they’d set up for Ian’s ROTC days. It would burn him, the happiness, whenever Ian would spot one and pick it up, look it over and comment on the face or words or picture and smile to himself, thumbs running over it like the vegetable was some kind of treasure. He never told Ian it was his handiwork, or that he’d place them so that Ian would find them, or that he would hide them just-so, so that Ian would become curious if he hadn’t seen a new one and search it out, or that he was always irrevocably happy in those little moments while he leaned against a wall and smoked, watching Ian’s wonder and letting his smiles wash away the harshness of their lives.
He started carving with his switch-blade and thought on how many fun-sized chocolate bars and candy bags he could get away with buying before someone realised he wasn’t stealing them this time, or that he ever had, that he bought them and placed them so those he cared about could have a few to take with them wherever they were, doing whatever it was they did, little bars of sugar and treats to bring them a smile. Mickey knew his family and Ian had no idea it was him who got them, they thought it was Mandy and didn’t say anything out of fear that Terry would smack her around for being so childish. If he found out it was Mickey, he’d likely break his jaw. They didn’t that it was him who carved the odd pumpkin that appeared in the yard, either, blaming kids for the scary faces to match the house it sat by. He simply liked autumn and halloween too much to let it pass by without infecting everyone else with it’s serenity and welcoming silence like it did with Mickey.
Mickey lost himself in carving and thinking of Ian wrapped in his long coat, smiling to himself or chattering slowly, telling Mickey about the pumpkin festival Illinois held. We should go, Ian had said. Mickey had shrugged but didn’t decline. Maybe Ian did know he carved the squashes but maybe he didn’t know that Mickey didn’t do it for himself, but for Ian, to brighten his day a little because that brightened Mickey’s. He smirked at the goofy face he’d done this time, a cock-eyed, tongue sticker-outer of a vampire. He’d put that up here, above the door.
The smell of wet earth was getting stronger and Mickey glanced up at the sky, now lighter than before, and dragged himself to his feet. He placed his squash and ran his finger down the side of it like Ian would do later, because he’d bring him back here and they could be in Mickey’s bubble because Mickey wanted him there. The idea of Ian being anywhere but with him made his chest ache far worse than any punch ever could and, as he lit another cigarette and leaned on the side of the building and cast his tired eyes out into the fog , Mickey didn’t fight the voice that told him he loved the boy. He knew he did, but being in his own bubble in the tranquility of the lone-world autumn gave him, he felt no need to hide from it because the silence brought no judgement, no hatred that could hurt him or take Ian from his sight.
Mickey turned as the sun warmed his face and took a deep breath, heading down and out of the building, passed miniature pumpkins tucked into nooks and sat on ledges behind bricks and shattered glass. He walked over the ground he’d punched Ian down to and felt the wave of self-loathing he did every time he passed it. Rather than go home to his raging father and unwanted wife, Mickey quelled the fear in him while still hidden in the fog and turned for the Gallagher house. The fog was so thick that it would last for another few hours at least and for those precious moments he could love freely and without hiding. Ian knew why he was like he was, why he hid, why he did what he did and acted out, and Mickey knew why Ian did too. Autumn gave them a respite, they could hide without actively doing so, and Ian would know today that Mickey would be coming for him.
The world waited with baited breath as Mickey stopped by the nearest sidewalk and deemed himself ready for today; his first footstep on the concrete and a car went passed slowly, the sound low and only audible as it went through where Mickey could see it. So, he moved at the time most woke up for work or school or just because, but Mickey liked to think that his season would stop them all for his sake, until he felt ready, until he said so. He walked through the heavy quiet, stooping before the Gallagher back door to pick up a bright, coppered leaf streaked with red veins.
“Hey,” Ian was sitting on the top step on the back porch with a smoking cigarette between his fingers, his face soft and mildly puffy from sleep, eyes hooded and lips cherry red. His hair was bright and unkempt and Mickey’s feet took him up the wooden steps quietly, fingers delving into the strands. Ian was wearing an oversized sweater that nobody knew didn’t actually belong to him; it was Mickey’s but not one he’d worn in a long while. He’d left it at Ian’s on purpose. Ian smiled up at him before Mickey sat one step down from him, turning to look up at the face of autumn. Ian smiled and bent half way, moving to kiss Mickey’s head but humming with surprise when Mickey caught his mouth with his own. The fog hid them. If Mickey couldn’t thank the season physically, he’d kiss his gratefulness into its child. He didn’t say anything when he took the cigarette and Ian took the leaf, inspecting it with a smile of wonder, nor did Mickey say anything about the sweater like he’d never said anything about it before, and Ian didn’t mention anything about the smell of squash lingering around Mickey.
“Fall is beautiful,” Ian mumbled, taking the cigarette back as he gazed at the leaf like he did the squashes. Mickey ducked his head and nodded, squinting out at the edge of his - their- bubble, leaning back against Ian’s bent legs. He chanced a glance a moment later, Ian catching him with a gentle look on his face and a smile that told Mickey how much he was wanted and loved. Christ, Ian was beautiful in the golden sun, in Mickey’s sweater, in Mickey’s season, accepting and comforting and not judging Mickey for being, not asking any questions. He just was. Autumn was beautiful when it smiled at him and found his love of it warming, twirling the coppered and red leaf between his fingers in back-and-forth bursts like the winds that ran the streets.