Chapter Text
Through the foggy haze of drugs, Ian could just barely make out a time when he’d hated washing dishes.
During a time when he could still count his age on two hands, but had finally grown tall enough that he could reach the sink. Fiona and Lip had traded doing dishes for as long as he could remember - not like Frank or Monica would ever even think to do them - but it seemed Ian had been finally old enough to join in the dish rotation. And very quickly, he realized he despised it.
The water turned to its hottest was a lukewarm nearly the same temperature as his hands, but every so often would flash so hot that Ian would flinch back and instinctively drop whatever he was holding back into the sink - worst case scenario crashing loudly into the other unwashed wares and causing Ian to wince from the sharp clattering sounds. They had one sponge, the yellow soft part broken down the middle and only held together by the green felt backing, and one bit of steel wool that was starting to come apart. There was dish soap, but it was best conserved and so Ian barely ever used any, if he did at all.
But the act of washing dishes in those conditions wasn’t what Ian hated the most, it was adding food into the equation. He hated the thought of touching wet food, hated the thought of touching the sponge and steel wool that had scrubbed and come into contact with wet food and were sure to have some sort of residue or bits stuck to them. He hated that his hands even came within the vicinity of such things. He hated the sight of wet food, his brain screaming at him that it wasn’t right and that he needed to get away. He hated the smell of wet food, pastas with sauces and anything with a strong or distinct smell were the worst offenders. Sometimes they made him have to turn away, or made him hold his breath, or made him gag. He hated how the water made the pads of his fingers turn pruny and he hated the feeling of dirtiness that seeped through his skin and he hated washing dishes.
And of course the day that Monica decides to cook a decidedly passable lasagna, it’s the day Ian’s on dish night. After standing in front of the sink for what felt like ages, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet and psyching himself up, he turned the water on. He grabbed the sponge, cleaning every dish apart from the one he was avoiding and setting them off to the side. And yet inevitably came the one he least wanted to tackle - the lasagna dish itself. He took a slow breath, even if only to stall for a few extra seconds, and set the sponge aside in favour of the steel wool. He tried his best not to think about all the bits of food that were probably stuck between the metal fibers and that he was now touching, and instead grabbed the rectangular dish and began scrubbing. It was difficult to get the hardened food off, and it was the smell of lasagna but it was wrong because it was wet and he hated it.
He scrubbed harder. A chip here, a flake there. Slow progress, so slow. Too slow. He couldn’t quite get into the corners and had to try and use his pointer finger to scrub at them, when the steel wool slipped slightly and he touched the stuck food and dipped into the small puddle of water that had formed at the base with bits of food floating in it, and he pulled back so fast he knocked his wrist into the edge of the sink. He shook his hand fervently, biting his lip to keep himself from making a sound, running his fingers under the suddenly scalding water before rubbing them as hard as he could against the dish towel until his hands were raw. And then he took a breath, picking back up the steel wool with a shaking hand that felt nothing but dirty, scrubbing at the stubborn bit of food as he felt tears fall down his cheeks. He had to be quick, or Frank would yell at him again for taking too long and wasting water that he didn’t even pay for and-
“Hey, hey slow down, it’s okay.” And then Lip was behind him, grabbing his wrists gently and slowing his movements. “What’s wrong, what happened?”
Ian wanted to answer, but he was scared that if he even tried to open his mouth to say a word he’d burst into tears right then and there. He didn’t even know what he’d say. So instead he lowered his head, squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he was able. Lip eased the steel wool from his grip, turning off the tap and nudging Ian gently in an obvious attempt in getting his attention. Ian tried to take a breath, but all he inhaled was the residual smell of wet lasagna and his eyes flew open as he gagged. His sleeves were rolled up so he pressed the crook of his elbow into his nose, trying to breathe in any other smell as he backed away from the sink and into one of the counters.
“Hey, hey Ian, calm down, you’re okay…” And then Lip was taking up nearly his entire field of vision, with an annoyingly worried look on his face. Ian tried to breathe a little easier, lowering his sleeve from his face with utmost caution. He always felt so young when Lip looked at him like that, even if they were only a year apart. “What happened, buddy? You can talk to me, it’s okay.”
Ian sniffed, grabbing a rag from the counter and scrubbing at his hands so hard that they hurt. It didn’t feel like they would ever be clean.
“I don’t like the smell…”
He whispered, even if that wasn’t the full truth, and watched as Lip’s brow furrowed in concern. His older brother looked from Ian’s hands, to the sink, and then back to Ian.
“Okay. Well, don’t you worry about the rest of the dishes, alright? I’ve got it from here.”
Even if it was everything Ian had wanted to hear, he still shook his head. He could do the dishes, he just hated it, but that was ok because he could still do them. He could still help Lip and Fiona, he wasn’t useless.
“I can still do it…”
Lip gave him a look that Ian couldn’t quite decipher.
“I know you can. I never said you couldn’t, you’re doing a great job. But Fiona covered for me a few days ago, and I figured I may as well pay it forward.” It was a lie if Ian had ever heard one, but he figured he’d give his brother this one. He didn’t really want to argue too much when Lip was offering to take over anyway. “I think the trash still needs to be taken out, if you could do that instead?”
Ian nodded without another word, giving his fingers one last scrub before setting the cloth down and leaving the kitchen as he heard the sink start up again. Trash was okay, he didn’t particularly like the smell of that either, but it was far better than dishes and at least he felt like he was helping.
He was never assigned to dish duty again after that night, and neither Lip nor Fiona (who Ian was sure Lip must have told) brought it up again either. Instead Ian did extra of other chores like cleaning and trash duty, and not even Debbie or Carl had asked about it when they’d gotten old enough to do their own fair share. At least they’d never asked Ian directly.
And then he’d gone and gotten himself a job as a dishwasher. It wasn’t like he had much choice in the matter, what place was going to hire a crazy guy fresh out of the psyche ward? It wasn’t like he had any energy anyway, to do a different job let alone try to find one. He would deal and it paid and it would be fine, he told himself in the rare moments a spark of consciousness made it through the haze the meds left him in. Then he was dragged back underwater, and the world around him once again faded into a moving painting. A pretty piece of art that he wasn’t a part of, just observing for only as long as he felt like sticking around to watch.
He hated it, he hated what the meds did to him. Except he didn’t, really, because he couldn’t feel hate anymore. Or love, or excitement, or hope, or heartbreak, or guilt. It didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel like him. He was afraid, if he could remember how to feel it. Every so often he got sparks of anger, or frustration, or admiration, or loneliness, but they fizzled out before ever turning into proper emotions. That was all he had to live for anymore, he regretted flushing his pills instead of taking them all when he’d had the chance. He’d still be feeling nothing, but he imagined it was considerably more blissful than whatever he was doing now. He thought about that a lot, it seeming to constantly worm its way into his head. The memory of holding the pills, how much better things would be if he’d just-
He set the dirty dishes in the sink, resigning himself to another round of mindless work. He couldn’t even feel any particular revulsion to the wet food anymore, the most extreme he felt was perhaps a very mild sense of disgust and nausea - though the latter may very well have been from the meds. He turned his head slightly, and was about to turn back to the sink when his eyes landed on the griddle behind him. And then he couldn’t look away.
The meat was cooking away, but there was a large section devoid of any food. It looked hot, it was probably really hot, right? It had to be hot, it would probably burn him if he touched it but he’d never know for sure unless he did. Could he even feel pain anymore?
He wasn’t sure when he’d gotten right in front of it, nor did he realize he’d put his hand down until searing pain shot up his arm, and a complex swell of emotion finally burst through the nothing.