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It had become a sort of code between them: the really good weed came out when Ian wanted them to talk. It was partially an incentive—Mickey got a good high in exchange for opening up—and partly borne from past experience. Mickey’s privacy filter got weaker when he was high, and while he would normally rather hit someone than express his feelings, Ian could usually get a secret or two out of him when he was feeling that loose and easy. They approached the whole thing with a what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas mindset; anything Mickey disclosed while under the influence, Ian wouldn’t rib him for when they were sober.
So when they’d had a couple beers already, and Ian reached into his pocket and pulled out a telltale baggie, Mickey knew exactly what was going on. He rolled the joint and lit up, taking a substantial drag before passing it to Ian so he too could inhale the potent smoke. They traded it back and forth for several minutes, letting the relaxing sensation seep in gradually.
“First time I ever got high,” Ian said absently, “I was, like, twelve. I woke up from a nightmare, and first thing I noticed was that Lip wasn’t there. Found him outside lighting up. He let me take a hit.” He laughed, the sound drifting out of him languidly. “Lip still makes fun of how silly I acted. But hey, at least I fell asleep again, no trouble. He practically had to carry me upstairs.”
Mickey pulled some more smoke into his lungs, breathing shakily out again and watching it disperse around him. “When I was a kid, I used to get those, like, night terrors or some shit?” he said after a while. Ian hummed quietly to show he understood. Somewhere in his mind, Mickey knew he could just stop there—but as always, his brain-to-mouth filter was patchy at times like these, and he kept going. “Couldn’t remember it happening most’a the time, but I’d wake up just screaming bloody murder. Mandy was fucking terrified.”
“So, what? Did you grow out of it or something?”
Mickey went quiet for a bit. “Dad got mad,” he finally said, playing with the frayed edge of the cushion covering, a nervous gesture. “Guess it was one too many times getting woken up to your kid shouting in the next room. He told me if I woke him again like that, he’d kick my ass and make me sleep out in the street until I could behave myself.”
“Shit,” Ian breathed, joint dangling loosely between his fingers. “What’d you do?”
Mickey snorted. “What d’you think I did? I was just a kid, and I was fucking scared of my old man. If I fell asleep, I was gonna wake up in a fit. So I didn’t sleep.”
Ian was gaping now. “For how long?”
“Few days,” Mickey said, sighing. “I couldn’t keep it up for long. Came into school like a zombie, kept passing out at my desk. The teacher called home and told my dad.” Silence fell, a tense, heavy gap in the conversation. Despite the kick they were getting off the joint, Mickey’s body was clenched tighter now, his fingers now fisted in the stained and threadbare fabric on the sofa. Ian longed to reach out and ease it away, but knew this was a moment when Mickey wouldn’t relish being touched. “I got home from school and my dad was pissed. He’d smacked me around before, but this time…He kept wailin’ on me, saying he didn’t want the school calling him unless I’d done something worth calling home about. Told me I was getting beat for wasting his time.”
Ian could do nothing except mutely offer him the joint, and wait while Mickey puffed on it. “Had to sleep that night,” Mickey continued once the buzz had hit him again. “Even if Dad hadn’t made that pretty damn clear, I couldn’t stay awake any more. So I went to bed. And it happened again. Another one of those fucking night terror things.”
“Did your dad…” Ian choked out, unable to finish that thought—not sure which fate to guess at.
Mickey shook his head slowly, eyes unfocused. “After I went to bed, Mandy came in my room; guess she wanted to make sure my dad didn’t get to me again. When I started tossing around in bed, she knew what was gonna happen.” Ian knew he wasn’t imagining the shakiness in Mickey’s voice, and that his eyes were watery not from the joint, but something else entirely. “I woke up and I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Turns out she was holding her pillow over my head so my dad wouldn’t hear me screaming.” He wiped his eyes hastily. “It’s the best thing she’s ever done for me.”
Ian was dumbfounded. “She smothered you half to death, and you think it’s the best thing she’s ever done?”
Mickey shrugged. “If she hadn’t, Dad probably would’ve killed me anyway. At least she was looking out for me.”
Ian stared at Mickey, unable to tear his eyes away. “Mick…” he said gently.
Mickey was looking away uncomfortably, still swiping at his eyes; Ian thought he heard a muffled sniffle. “Relax, Gallagher, she was fucking tiny back then, she didn’t hurt me. And hey, it worked, right? Didn’t have another one, as far as I know. Mandy still slept in my room for like a month to be sure, though.”
“How old was she?” Ian wondered aloud.
“I don’t know, like, nine? I was ten, I think.”
Ian leaned back next to Mickey. “Shit,” he said again, and Mickey grunted next to him, a tacit form of agreement. The joint died out in the ashtray on the coffee table, but neither of them noticed.
As usual, once they’d sobered up, the confessions made while they were high became unspoken things once again, a rare and valuable form of knowledge that could only be accessed under very specific circumstances. But Ian always remembered it. And one night, when they were sleeping next to each other and Mickey accidentally kicked him awake, sitting up bolt upright and not screaming, but rather choking, as though he were being strangled—well, Ian didn’t have to ask him why. He simply held him close, and calmed him down, and said nothing. It was enough that he knew.