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It had been two weeks. Two weeks since he went from having everything, to having nothing. Two weeks since he walked away from the only man he has ever loved. Could he even say that - walked away? More like he stood there like a coward as he watched the car cross the border. As he watched the last chance he could ever have of being happy, of being with Mickey. Stand there as he watched Mickey drive off into the sun like some cheesy Hollywood movie.
If his heart wasn’t already breaking, coming home to find out Monica had died was the chip that shattered it to pieces. Monica. Mum. Whatever it was that he called her, she was gone. The only other person besides Mickey who could ever truly understand him. Understand what he was going through, is going through. What he had been through.
Her funeral was a haze. The whole time Trevor was sitting beside him all he wanted was for him to be Mickey. He’d know what to do, what to say. Mickey could read a room better than anyone Ian knew, and he could read Ian like he wrote the fucking book. He wanted Mickey there to hold his hand, squeeze it to help give Ian the strength he needed because that’s all Mickey ever did, give him the strength to keep going, even if it made Mickey weaker.
Two weeks. That’s fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. All of that the time spent regretting his decision to stay behind, to walk away from a life in Mexico - a life with Mickey. His Mickey. Everyone just assumes he’s mourning Monica. And sure, a part of him is, but nothing compares to the constant ache that runs deep into his bones and into his heart. He doesn’t even recognise himself anymore, this ghost of a shell he’s walking around in, pretending.
Ian thinks that the worst part about it is he has no idea if Mickey is okay. He has no idea if he made it. If he’s safe. Did the money run out? Did he find a job? A place to live? Has he been caught? The unanswered questions are what keep him up at night. That’s what he tells himself when his family asks if he is taking his meds, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. He just says he has a lot on his mind, and he does. It’s just in the form of a black-haired beauty with crystal blue eyes as deep as the ocean and skin as white as the snow.
Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes.
He checks his phone when he hears the ding.
Unknown: I’m safe
It’s all it said. But Ian knew. He knew only one person who’d be messaging him with those words. The tension around his heart settles. Oxygen seeps back into his lungs. The fog was clearing and he felt like himself for the first time in two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes. He saves the number under ‘A’ for Aleksandr. He didn’t want to risk anyone seeing the message. If the FBI came back, M would be too obvious. He needs to keep Mickey safe.
He doesn’t reply. He wants to. God, does he want to. But every time he types out a message, he deletes it. Nothing he could say seems right.
I’m glad you’re okay.
I miss you.
Thanks for letting me know.
If only I could see your face while saying that.
What’s it like there?
I wish I went with you.
Make sure to wear sunscreen, you vampire.
I regret that day.
Two nights later he cries in the arms of a stranger. He went to Trevor hoping he could help him get out of his read, lost in a sea of limbs and pleasure. He said it was about Monica, that he was sad about her, but honestly, he was mourning Mickey just as much, if not more. Ian just wanted to forget, wanting to numb the pain. He considered going off his meds, letting the mania takeover, giving him that high that would make the world around him brighter than it currently was. Make the colours so vibrant that he could reach out and touch them. Sounds bounce around him as though he can see the sound waves they create. But instead, he decides to reach out, go to someone who dedicates their life to helping those that are troubled. But he didn’t help Ian. Instead, Trevor mentions how he loved Ian, how he hurt him when Ian deserted him for three days, running away with Mickey. Funny how he had more fun in those three days than he has ever since returning. Trevor helped by sending him off into the arms of a man he wouldn’t have blinked twice at had they met on the street. No way was he going to fuck a chub, but he figured a mouth is a mouth and maybe the release is all he needs since the last one he had was with Mickey. His Mickey.
When it was over though, he knew. No amount of casual sex could fill the black hole in his chest. The one that ached each time he thought of Mickey. The one that was growing a little bit bigger each day, killing him slowly from the inside out, each organ in his body slowly shutting down until his heart is the last thing beating, and even then, that would be consumed too and he could officially claim to be dead inside. So he breaks down and cries. Cries for Mickey. Cries for the love he has taken for granted and has lost more times than he wishes to admit. He cries for himself, with how damaged he is, how damaged he feels and how the broken feeling inside of him will forever be there now that the only person that knows how to heal him is lost in the winds of Mexico.
*
He goes to visit Trevor before work. It’s not so much that he wants to, but he finds himself trying to seek out some form of normality. He mentions how shaken up he still feels over being chased by a drug dealer which is a surprise in itself. He has been chased by dealers, campus security, cops, the army, homophobic fathers, and big brothers that were protecting their sister. None of them ever left him feeling on edge, uneasy. Either way, Trevor doesn’t help ease that feeling inside him, he just blames it on grief. Ian knows that the body can grieve someone who isn’t dead, so the mere mention of it takes his mind to Mickey. He watches Trevor leave and he figures he should head out too, head back home. Try and keep himself busy.
As he walks the streets, his phone goes off. He panics for a second as he thinks it could be Carl about the dealer.
A: Who knew they’d make good beer?
The message is typical Mickey. What isn’t typical, is the picture that’s attached of fingers loosely gripping the neck of a beer bottle. His knuckles are not in the shot, hiding any identification that could say that the hand belongs to Mickey Milkovich. But Ian knew. He could never forget those fingers. Remembering ever vain, callus and scar. Remembering how hands that looked so damaged from years of being rough were always so soft and gentle when they touched him. Those hands made him feel like he was made of fine China, delicate to the touch and easy to break. I guess that part was right, delicate, and easily breakable. None the less, the photo makes him smile. Reading the message again, he can hear those words as clear as day in his head. Knowing exactly how Mickey would have said them. The smile falls from his face. If only he could hear Mickey’s voice one more time.
He’s walking past a bottle shop. He decides to step in, finds his way to the international beer section, and takes a photo of a brand he recalls drinking one night at one of the many after-parties he attended while working at the Fairy Tale. If he recalls, it had a nice taste. But beer is beer. Its sole purpose is to make him feel good, maybe forget, and at the end of the day, the taste doesn’t matter when they all gave him the same end result.
He takes a photo. He goes into the text thread to reply, not giving himself a second to change his mind.
Ian: This one’s not bad.
He’s opened up a line of communication. He wants more messages. He wants to hear from Mickey. He wants Mickey.
He doesn’t get a response. Considering Mickey must be sitting next to his phone, he thought he’d get one instantly. Ian worries that Mickey didn’t want him to reply. Maybe he wanted it to stay one-sided. He could understand why. He hurt Mickey, more than he ever has before, and unfortunately, there were a few times on that list. He starts to spiral as he walks home. Did something happen to Mickey? Did replying alert someone where he is? Shit, is his phone tapped?
Please don’t stop talking to me. Hearing from you is making me feel again. It’s the most I’ve felt since you’ve left.
As if he wasn’t already on high alert, coming home to find drug dealers trying to drown his little brother sends him over the edge.
He catches his breath, checks on Carl, and helps walk him inside. Even in death Monica still leaves behind a chaotic mess for them to fix. Running his hand through his hair, he goes upstairs to change, clothes wet from the hot tub. He feels the vibration before his ears register the sound of the bing. Everything he was doing is forgotten about as he pulls out his phone and lays on his bed.
A: Fancy taste you suddenly have there Gallagher.
His heart leaps at the reply. It hurts his chest as he feels his heart pushing against his rib cage, trying to break free and escape his body. The feeling suddenly vanishes as his heart falls back into the darkened hole which has slowly been eating away at him since he returned home. He reads the name; Gallagher. That’s how he knows Mickey is hurting. He is no longer Ian to him. It took so long to hear his name escape Mickey’s lips and he craved it every time it did. And just like that, it’s gone again. The familiarity. That trust.
He bites his lip, the pain helps fight the tears away that are threatening to fall from his face. He can taste metal in his mouth. He’s drawn blood. A normal person would stop biting but Ian isn’t normal. He never has been. The taste just makes him miss Mickey even more, reminding him of the number of times they kissed, blood mixing in their mouths, tasting one another. Fuck I miss you.
Ian: Never said I brought it.
He tries for a joke, keeping things light. Anything to keep the conversation going. This time the reply is instant. Maybe he had bad reception and loading a photo took a while for him to receive it. He lets his lip go and basks in the aching throb.
A: Starting a life of crime are ya?
Ian: Someone has to fill your shoes around here.
He doesn’t even think. He clicks send and instantly his body goes cold. What the fuck were you thinking? But that’s the thing, he wasn’t thinking. He was picturing the bullshit bander he and Mickey could easily give back to one another. A conversation filled with “Fuck you’s” and “Dickhead’s.” Spitting bullshit till one of them got tired and gave the finger to say “whatever, asshole.”
Dots dance across the screen and then disappear. He holds his breath. The dots come back and then vanish. His lungs are burning from the lack of oxygen. He’s getting lightheaded. He can see stars across the screen and doesn’t matter how many times he blinks, they’re still in front of him.
A photo comes through.
It’s Mickey giving Ian the finger. His palm facing the screen so once again, no tattoos are visible. He can see some posters on the wall behind his hand advertising beers but besides that, nothing in the photo gives away his location or the person the hand belongs to. Ian smiles. It’s something. He saves the photo. He doesn’t know why, he just knows he has to.
Laying there, he realises that he needs to talk about what’s going on with his family, his life. This dealer is messing with his dead. He tried earlier today with Trevor and it didn’t help. Mickey is who he always talked to when he had fears, concerns. Even before they were dating.
Ian: I just fought a drug dealer off Carl.
A: He still dealing?
Ian: No. Military. But he’s been helping us sell off the meth Monica left us when she died.
A: Wait, Monica’s dead? Fuck.
Shit. Mickey doesn’t know. It makes sense, why would he know. It’s not like her death would make the news and no one else Mickey would have contact with - if he has contact with anyone else - would actually know either. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. He wants to tell Mickey, he would understand where Ian’s head is at right now because he understood what Monica meant to him. But bringing it up, meant bringing up that day.
Ian: Happened when I was gone. Found out she died of a cerebral hemorrhage.
A: Gone? Wait, do you mean…
Ian: Yeah.
Silence. At least there should have been, but the noise in his head was loud enough that he was sure Carl could hear it downstairs. He wanted to make it stop, just make everything stop. His phone goes off.
A: Sorry I wasn’t there.
Tears fall from Ian’s eyes. Four simple words and yet they say so much. They say not only how Mickey feels, but what Mickey knows Ian needs. He can’t hold them in anymore. Tears for Monica, for the mum he lost, for the mum he never had. Tears for Mickey, the love he let go and took for granted. Ian just wants to call, hear his voice and tell Mickey that he’s sorry he isn’t there too. That it's the only place he wants to be. In Mexico with Mickey. He's sorry that they are both apart right now when it's obvious they only want to be together, in the presence of each other, in each other's arms. He curls onto his side, his back to the door, and closes his eyes, wishing for his mind to take him away from here and send him anywhere, as long as it’s with Mickey.
*
He’s getting ready for work, the events from the night before playing on his mind like an old VHS. The video is playing but it's being fast forward, jumping to certain sections of the night. It’s making that screeching sound as the tape is then rewound, playing a moment on repeat, burning the image into his mind from it being played over and over again on a constant loop of regret. He takes out his phone and without even thinking he messages Mickey.
Ian: I slept with a woman.
He regrets it instantly. He didn’t even consider what a message like that would feel like when received. Mickey was his ex, the love of his life. The last thing he’d want to hear about is other people he had slept with. Oh God, is Mickey sleeping with other people? He pushes the thought out of his mind, the VHS now playing a HD video of Mickey with some random guy, no doubt tanned from the Mexican sun and moaning with some accent. He hates himself even more than he already does.
He puts his phone back into his pocket and continues buttoning his shirt for work. He has no idea what Mickey does with his time, if he constantly has his phone on him or not, but he didn’t expect to get a reply so fast, He pulls his phone back out and can’t help but smile when he sees the ‘A’ appear on his phone.
A: You trying to tell me you switched teams?
He takes a seat on the bench. He has some time before his shift starts.
Ian: Fuck no. I have PTSD from it.
A: Okay. So why’d you do it?
Ian: Which time?
A: What the fuck, Gallagher? How many times we talking here?
Ian: The first time was because my ex cheated on me with a woman and claimed it doesn’t count. He thinks because I’ve never been with a woman, I can't actually claim to be gay.
A: Where’s he live? I’ll send someone to give him a visit.
Ian smiles. After everything, Mickey still wants to protect him. Hurt those that hurt Ian. But Ian can’t help but wonder who is protecting Mickey. Who is going to come after Ian after hurting Mickey the way he did. Maybe this is his punishment. This is how he can hurt. By never being able to find someone to replace Mickey. This is God’s way of telling him that he had a good thing and he threw it away like a piece of garbage. That he was given his soulmate so early in life and he took him for granted, acted like something better was out there waiting for him, someone better. If he could turn back time, fuck he’d do things differently.
Ian: Second time was last night. Some woman and her husband I recognised from the club. The LGBTQ Community Centre needed funds. It was kinda an exchange.
A: Was this your idea?
Ian: At first
A: ???
Ian: I thought it’d just be the husband, turns out his wife controls his money.
A: Jesus Christ.
Ian takes a moment, he has a few more minutes left and Mickey is right here, in his hands. A phone may be between them, along with the distance, but they are talking as if they are in person, the instant back and forth replies. He decides to ask the question he’s been asking himself since last night, or maybe even long before that. Maybe last night just brought it back up to the surface. Ian figured no matter the response, he can use work to distract himself if need be.
Ian: I wonder sometimes if all I’m good for is my body.
He waits. He can hear the clock in the locker room ticking away, reminding him that he is literally against the clock as he waits, hopes, prays for a reply. His mind takes him back to being fourteen, Kash wanting him, praying on him. The first sign of being wanted for his body more than for who he was. Ned was more or less the same, but at least Ian can take some comfort in the fact that he was using Ned to fill the Mickey shape hole in his heart. And then there are the clubs. How he wishes being manic means he could forget. All of those men, wanting him, begging for him. None of them knew a single thing about who he was. No one ever wanted Ian for who he was besides Mickey. Caleb used him to get at his parents, Trevor used him for the centre. Before his mind can slip fully into a spiraling hole, his phone vibrates in his hand.
A: You’re the most valuable person in this world. And if people can’t see that, can’t look past what’s on the outside, then fuck them. They don’t deserve you.
Sue call’s out to him, letting him know of a callout that just came through on the radio. He doesn’t want to leave Mickey hanging, not after receiving a message that has more honesty than anything else they have spoken about since Mickey messaged him that he was safe.
Ian: Shame I couldn’t see the most valuable thing in my world until I had let it go.
He locks his phone in his locker. He knows he stepped a line, bringing up the past, his regrets. But he was honest, just like Mickey was with him. He takes pride in knowing that if Mickey doesn’t reply - ever, at least the last thing Ian said to him was his own version of I’m sorry and I regret everything.
*
It’s over between him and Trevor. The minute Mickey became a reality, messages that had more depth than anything he has shared with Trevor in the last month, he knew he couldn’t keep lying to himself by pretending what he had was making him happy. Faking it. Trying to make it seem like everything between them was okay. If Ian was about to walk away and fuck his ex, pack a bag and leave without a single thought of what that would do to Trevor, then nothing between them was ever real. He was the distraction in his mundane life. He was the normal Ian was trying to fit into his fucked up world. Of course, Trevor trying to be the boy scout that he desperately wants to be, he still thought friends was something they could aspire towards. Yeah, friends. That’s what Ian wanted from the start, but no. It was either more or nothing. Funny how things can change so quickly when the control is no longer in someone's hands. Trevor tried to act like he cared, but even when he brought up Ian’s meds. It was on behalf of Fiona using Trevor to check up on him, proof once again that he doesn’t care about Ian, probably never did. Leaving Trevor was a decision in Ian's life that he doesn’t regret.
*
Ian looks down at his hands. There is so much blood. He looks at himself, trying to find the bleeding so he can stop it, but he's fine. Everything is fine. But then why is there so much blood? Then he sees him. He’s gasping for air, the blood is pooling in his chest. Blue eyes lock onto Ian’s and he doesn’t see the pain in them, just relief. Ian kneels down and applies pressure to the wound. Exactly like he has been trained to do. He tries to call out but no one is around them. Ian doesn’t even know how Mickey got hurt.
“Hey, stay with me, Mick. Stay with me.”
“It-it's, okay.” Mickey’s eyes almost look like they are smiling.
Tears fall down Ian’s cheek.
“No. No, you can’t leave me. Not again. I can’t lose you, Mickey. Please.”
“Look-” Mickey coughs, blood falling from his lips.
“Look at me.”
Ian takes his eyes off his hands. Doesn’t matter how much pressure he puts on Mickey’s chest, he can’t stop the blood that is flowing out of him. His sight is blurry. Tears clouding his vision.
“There's no one else I’d rather have by my side before I go.”
“Mickey.”
Mickey struggles as he takes in a breath. Ian never hears Mickey exhale.
“Mickey!”
“MICKEY!”
Ian shoots up in bed. Mickey’s name on his lips, sweat dripping down his body. He looks at his hands, clean. His throat is raw from screaming in his sleep. His cheeks are wet, a sign that he was crying real tears from the nightmare that plagued his mind. Running a hand through his hair, he slows down his breathing and tries to calm himself. He checks the time on his phone and see’s a message from Mickey waiting for him.
A: You okay?
Ian looks around the room. He wonders if he is having one of those dreams within a dream moments because why would Mickey message him that, especially after having a nightmare about Mickey dying. He pinches his arm, it hurts. With shaking fingers he writes back to him.
Ian: Yeah. Just woke from a bad dream, but I’m okay.
Mickey replied instantly as if he was staring at his phone, waiting for Ian to reply before he did anything else.
A: Me too. Shook me up pretty bad. Just had to check.
Had to check. In no way is Mickey responsible for Ian anymore, he didn’t have to do anything. But he wanted to, he needed to. Even apart they’re connected. He wonders if Mickey dreamt of Ian dying. If that’s what made him send the text. Is this the universe telling them that even though they are apart, with miles between them, they are still linked. Sharing dreams. Fears. He hopes so. Ian lays back down, his phone in his hand as he replies a simple “thanks” to Mickey.
A: Yeah well, try and get some sleep.
Ian: Same to you.
A: Easier said than done. Roommate snores like fucking Fred Flintstone.
Ian freezes. It’s the first bit of information Mickey has shared about his life in Mexico. And even though he says roommate, dread still seeps into his mind. He decides that if his dreams are filled with nightmares, he may as well keep the theme going in his reality.
Ian: Must have warned him out if he’s out like a light.
Ian feels sick.
A: He’s straight and the girls I see him with are enough to know he’s a walking STD.
For the second time that night, Ian feels like he can breathe again.
Ian: Still, first time for everyone, right?
A: Not my type. No one here is.
Well fuck. If that’s not clarification then Ian doesn’t know what is. He settles into his blankets knowing that no one is keeping Mickey warm at night. That the last person who touched Mickey was him. A part of Ian wishes he could say the same for himself, suddenly feeling dirty knowing that others have washed away Mickey's touch. He opens up his photo album and scrolls to the very top. Hidden away by everything he has photographed since, he clicks the photo of him and Mickey laying on the blanket under the bridge. The morning sun was rising and Mickey was still asleep on Ian’s chest. He took the photo to commemorate their last moment before they crossed, not realising it was actually their last moment together. He traces Mickey’s face with his finger, imagining the feel of his skin beneath his fingertip rather than the smooth glass of his phone. Mickey looks so peaceful, so at ease. He spent years having to learn to sleep with one eye open, but when Ian was around, Mickey just let go. He stares at the photo until it replaces every last image in his mind, allowing him to close his eyes and take him back to Mickey’s warmth on his chest, his breath against his neck, and his smell seeping into his nostrils.
*
Ian: Have you ever read the bible?
A: Fuck no.
Ian: It not all filled with hate like they make it out to be.
A: Seriously, Gallagher?
Ian: People have been interpreting it into their own beliefs of what they think God is saying.
A: You Okay?
Funny. No one has asked him that in awhile.
Ian: Yeah. Just, studying.
A: The fucking bible?
Ian: It’s for these kids I’m helping. They’re getting sent off to conversion Church but half these priests don’t even know the true message God is saying.
A: Conversion Church? Those places still exist?
Ian: There are more around than you’d think
A: Be careful Gallagher
*
Ian: Was it hard…running away?
Ian watches the dancing dots across his screen. He’s in trouble, and he honestly has no idea what to do or where to go, and all he knows is every time he felt this way, Mickey is who he ran towards.
A: No. It was just hard leaving some things behind.
He knows Mickey meant someone. Meant him. Mickey never had anything worth keeping in the South Side besides Ian. He wants to run. He wants to find Mickey and stay with him, build a life with him. Away from this mess. His mess. Start fresh. Be someone else, anyone else. He doesn’t care anymore what he has to do or who he has to become. He just wants to be with Mickey.
Ian: I’ve fucked up. I don’t know what to do.
A: What’s happened? You safe?
Ian: I wish I could find you…
A: What the fuck is going on. You’re scaring me, Gallagher
Yeah. He’s scaring himself too. This isn’t the person he ever wanted to be. Not again.
*
He got his sentence. He’s packing things away, putting them in bags and in the attic for when he returns in two years time. He just wants his last night to be simple, easy. A low key family affair. He’s laying on his bed, waiting for the food to arrive. There has been no contact for a while, probably better that way, but Ian knows he can’t go to prison while Mickey is left in the dark.
Ian: I’m not going to be able to talk to you for a while. But I want you to know I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry for what I did, what I said. Most of all I’m sorry that I thought it was you that was going to mess up this life I had made for myself. Turns out I messed it all up on my own, because, without you, I’m a mess. I can’t function. I’m broken, but for some reason, you’re the only one that knows how to put me back together and make me feel shiny and new again. I hate that I pushed you away, but most of all I hate that I hurt you.
He reads what he wrote three times and still hasn’t heard anything back from him. The foods ready. Before he heads downstairs to eat with his family, he writes out one more message.
Ian: Do you think we’ll ever get to see each other again?
Silence. He heads downstairs and grabs something to eat.
*
It’s late. He crawls into bed after having a talk with Lip on the porch, sharing the last cigarette he’ll have with his brother for longer than he’d like to think about right now. His eyes are heavy, his mind is exhausted and he wants to savor the last decent sleep he’ll have in a bed that isn't made from a rubber mattress. Laying on his back, the moonlight shining in through the shutter blinds, he closes his eyes and thinks of waves lapping at his ankles. He imagines the heat from the sun warming him to his core and laughter beside him that makes him smile throughout his whole body. He looks to his side and sees his face, Mickey’s face, staring right back at him. It’s a thing of beauty. He has small wrinkles around his eyes from the smile shining back at Ian. His smile lighting up Mickey’s face more than the sun ever could. His crystal blue eyes match the ocean before them. Mickey’s hand warm in his, not letting him go. I will never let you go again, Mickey.
His phone vibrates on his nightstand. The screen lighting up the room, drawing him back to reality. He picks up his phone and opens the message.
A: Yeah, we’ll see each other again Ian. Like I said, you’re under my skin. Nothing can ever keep us apart for long.
A single tear rolls down his cheek. He called him Ian. His chest hurts from the way his heart pounds at seeing his name in the text. Something has changed between them, bringing them back to that familiar place they feel so comfortable being in. And now Ian has to leave him again. Walk away for two years, wondering if Mickey is still alive, if he’s okay, if he still loves him.
He doesn’t respond. He wants to remember how reading this message made him feel, knowing it will be his last bit of interaction with the man he loves - the only man he’s loved, and bottle this feeling up so he can sample it whenever he feels himself slipping and needing to be reminded of what he is he fighting for. Who he is fighting for.
One day he’ll see Mickey again. And when that day comes, he’ll make sure to never let him slip from his hands again.