Chapter Text
Ian Gallagher; never the one to say ‘Good morning’ or ‘How are you?’, never the one to care that little, that superficially. Or at least that's what he thought, what everybody from the Gallagher family knew of. He only showed his deep love and concern to the ones he lived with and it was never through words, never through simplicities like the shallow phrases that everybody knew by heart, but nobody gave two thoughts about. Outsiders often found it rude and impolite, would ask if he even had any manners, but it was understandable.
After all, as charming as his giant smile, sparkling green eyes and messy red hair were, no other person greeted the morning with a whistle, followed by a loud ‘Who are we serving for breakfast today?’ and nobody else laughed with joy at the sight of a fresh wound, patting the wounded on the back with a simple ‘You go, brother’. Nobody but Ian.
Fiona and Phillip were the guardians of that family of six and, without that much of an impact on their part, Ian grew up to be very different from them, very different from the other three children as well.
He didn't like the chirping birds, or– rather, he did. At least that's what his grins and laughter showed everytime he threw one of his old knives at a morning bird, hitting it right in the chest. He liked them. As targets.
He didn't enjoy the summer sun the way other children his age did – going to the beach, or the city pool; any kind of activity that involved staying outside, under the rays. No, Ian preferred the basement of his decades old house, the big space with the moldy walls and the moist air, anything that would make a twelve year old run away screaming. Not to mention the headless dolls hanging from the metal string he put up himself; the dolls that once upon a time belonged to his little sister, Debbie.
But Debbie knew better than to question their absence after her first and very last visit to the basement.
Ian was different, that much was obvious. But he was also very close to his family. He knew that he would do anything for each and every one of them in a heartbeat and he never let anyone use that against him. His unconditional love for all of his siblings was what got him through the days, what gave him a goal – to protect them with all he had, since their parents weren't there to do the job.
So he grew. He got stronger, he got faster and he got smarter. He learned how to get inside a person's head and mess it up enough to get them to do whatever he wanted. He could shoot a target right in the middle from over a hundred meters away, he could outrun the fastest kid in Westfield. He even studied hard to become a lawyer which increased his chances of being able to do more, to be more for his family than just another empty throat.
Everything crashed down, though, when just before his twenty-third birthday a deadly disease knocked down the whole family one by one, leaving Ian all alone. He had no clue as to why he wasn't affected by the disease, but his grieving got the best of him, not letting him wonder too much. All his efforts, all his sleepless nights trying to figure out what more to add, how to grow up in a different, more proficient way; it was all for nothing. He couldn't protect them, not anymore. Not ever.
There was no funeral, no guests, nobody but Ian. The five wooden coffins were buried deep into the Gallagher garden by the redhead himself. He built individual statues for every single one of them, took his time on every curve and sharp end, every little hole and bump. He placed the statues on their respectful places – right above each grave – and spent every single night outside, sitting in the middle of them all, talking and laughing and pretending. He never stopped pretending that they were still there, that they could still hear him, answer him. And if he was just a freak in people's eyes before, he sure was a crazy one now, too.
He rarely cried anymore, only on the darkest of days, when the sun was up in the sky and the kids from town were close to the fields outside, filling the lukewarm air with laughter and happiness; only then did he ever let himself sit on the side of the big, empty house, just under it's shadow, and let the tears stream down his face.
Weeks, months, years passed. Season after season met Ian with nothing new to his lonely existence and the more time went by, the lonelier he felt.
On his twenty-sixth birthday, Ian blew the candles on his nightstand at little to seven in the afternoon and went to sleep.
On his twenty-seventh birthday, he didn't blow any candles at all, since he didn't have any left.
On his twenty-eight birthday, Ian pocketed his wallet and his pack of cigars and locked the gate of the Gallagher home for the first time ever.
He was going to town.