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His heart pounded in his chest. The thumping of boisterous music almost covered the sound, though not quite. The alcohol pumping through his veins at the expense of his liver was all that was keeping him alive. He hadn’t eaten in days, only leaving his bed to drink. He had finally gotten up today, but not without the need to vomit pushing him. I’ll have a little fun, he thought, as he turned the music up higher. Although the sound of the music was almost enough to drown out his thoughts, it still wasn’t high enough. All he could think about was one thing. One thing he could not stand to think about right now. To finally drown out everything in his brain and his chest, he climbed out of bed for the second time that day, the first time of his own will, and rustled around in search of his guitar. He just needed the room to be a little bit louder. He began to strum, first gently, and then aggressively so he could just. Drown. The noise. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He felt fucking pathetic strumming this fucking guitar wearing nothing but his bare ass. His black eye was not getting better but that could be because of the booze and its blood thinning effect. Suddenly a flash of red filled his doorway, and it took a moment for him to catch up with it. The person standing before him was nobody other than Debbie Gallagher.
“Ian fucking sent you?” he shouted over the bass of the music. The last person he wanted to see was another fuckin’ Gallagher.
“No, Ian didn't send me. Ian flushed all his meds down the freakin' toilet. What happened to your face?” her voice was raspy but still loud enough for him to hear. Ian flushed his meds. Mickey decided he didn’t care.
“Nothing. What the fuck do you want?” he had a feeling that he knew what she was here for.
“Can you help me get these drugs?” she tossed a bag of empty pill bottles at him. He didn’t care to read the packages.
“Iggy! Can you get that shit?” Iggy stumbled into the room, and Mickey tossed him the bag. After inspection, Iggy could only ask one stupid question, “Who the fuck gets high on lithium?” Mick knew the answer to that was that nobody gets high on lithium. But Debs didn’t know what the relevance of that was. “So?” she asked, somewhat naively. “So I can't get 'em. I can get you crack, crystal, horse, E. But this shit, no. There's no market for it.” Iggy, who was being helpful for once, explained.
“I'll take some fucking crack.” Mickey wasn’t even sure that he meant it, but hey, crack is crack.
“You got money?” Iggy countered, almost as if he had the response ready and loaded.
“Fine.”
“When are you gonna come by to see Ian? He's been home all day. Maybe if you were there- Did you guys break up or something? Because I'm pretty sure he didn't mean to kidnap your baby.” Debbie sounded desperate, more desperate than she was when she arrived. Mickey was trying so hard not to think about that ginger fuck and his fucking issues. But here, the one other ginger Gallagher just had to show up to remind him of the pain he was trying to cover up with his music, and his guitar.
“I'm fucking busy, Peppermint Patty. Go whine at someone who gives a shit.” He didn’t want to admit to himself that he still gave a shit. He didn’t want to have to cope with the fact that he still cared about Ian even though he stole his goddamn baby. Even though he cheated. Even though that was the only time he could confirm that he cheated. How many others were there, he wondered? The thought put a lump in his throat. His mouth began to salivate the way it does when he is about to puke.
“Frank used to drink like this. When Monica was around and they would fight, he would angry drink. It never worked. He always came back to her. You can't drink him away, Mickey. It won't work.” Debbie continued. This sentence pulled him from his thoughts, only to send him over the deep end back into them. She turned and left, leaving him alone in silence. It was only now that he realized the music was off. He had stopped strumming. He could hear his heart pounding in full again.
Mickey found himself perched on the foot of his bed. The bed he once shared with his lengthy ginger. He clutched his black locks with one hand, tugging until the pain forced him to stop. He had always done that when he got stressed, ever since he was a child. He didn’t know why, but when his emotions just got to be too much for an angry outburst to help, tugging his hair always reminded him to breathe. Ian always reminded him to breathe. Ian reminded him to do a lot of things, like be a good father, and wash his back (a spot he missed frequently) and take out the trash. Ian may have his issues, but he was a damn good man. Mickey held his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees. Seeing his sweet ginger in the psych-ward almost killed Mickey. There were things about Ian that he loved that didn’t serve him personally. Call him old fashioned, but Mick believed that love is about more than what the other person does for you. Ian was quirky, and funny, and sweet. Mickey loved how his emotions were worn on his sleeve in a direct contrast to himself. Even at his lows, Mick loved every part of him. Even when Ian was screaming for him to leave him alone, Mickey loved him. And he accepted him. He just curled into bed next to him, snuggled up to his shoulder, and slept next to him. He had lifted his lover from the bed with no help, which was not an easy feat for the smaller man, just so he could bathe him. He washed his back and his hair when it was all Ian could do to sit up. He carried that man back to bed and tucked him in lovingly. So why, Mickey asked himself, couldn’t he do that now? Why couldn’t he just crawl into bed with his love and hold him close? Ian had been calling all day, and Mickey knew he was. Ian missed him. And Mickey knew he did.
Mickey knew exactly why he couldn’t bring himself to just give in and go to the redhead. It was because of what he had done. The cheating, the lying, and the stealing of the goddamn baby. The porno. The overboard of airport luggage could always be solved by just throwing it away. But to have his redhead defiled by someone else killed Mickey. He came out for him in front of the whole Alibi. He got beat to a pulp by his father for Ian. And this is the thanks he got. He thought that what they had was special. Mickey knew that Ian would never do anything to hurt Yevgeny. He knew Ian loved his stepson. So why did he take him? Why did he just grab the baby and take off? Was it the same reason he cheated? Because his brain can’t tell him not to?
Mickey pondered this. By now he had moved from the edge of the bed into the fetal position amongst his pillows. His Red’s scent still covered his bed, but Mick was too distracted to notice. His mind wandered to when things weren’t this complicated. To when they were younger, and they had just had sex for the first time. Laying in bed next to Ian was one of the warmest things he had ever felt in his entire life. But that first time, it was so much more incredible than the rest. Mickey compared it to chasing the high from the first time you use coke. No high is ever like the first. Of course, back then, Mickey had no real feelings, and neither did Ian. They were fuckbuddies, and that was it. But that warmth was something that Mick could not give up. That warmth gave him life. It was an addiction at first, just to Ian’s body. Chasing that warmth like the first coke high. He wanted nothing to do with Ian as a person, and only cared about the inches he was packing. It went on like that for what seemed to be a long time. Until that night, at the baseball diamond, when Mickey saw Ian leaning for a kiss. His heart almost fell out of his ass. He rejected the kiss in the same gruff way he always did. But for some reason, this time was different for Mick. He felt flushed, and nervous. He felt his heart pumping his blood like one of his hand-whores pumping a dick. He could hear the blood in his ears, and after he went home that night, he decided that maybe, just maybe, that kiss wouldn’t have been so bad.
When Ian ran off to join the army, Mickey was lost. At the time, he didn’t know if it was because he needed Ian’s dick or if he needed Ian. Of course, he pushed the latter thought from his head and stuck with just being horny. He fought the loneliness, which he called horniness, for as long as he could, until he got word that Ian was working at the club. Mickey should have known that running off to enlist and then trying to steal a helicopter, and then coming back to be a lap dancer was all apart of Ian’s disorder. But nobody knew at that time. When he saw his ginger all dolled up, expecting to be paid just for a conversation, the dark-haired man felt a similar lump grow in his throat, and once again he began to salivate in preparation for vomit. He couldn’t stand it anymore, so he just said his piece and left the club. But he couldn’t really leave. Instead, he just waited outside for Ian to come out. What he wasn’t expecting was for an old fuck to be there groping the redhead like a piece of meat. Mickey just could not handle it. So, he kicked the shit out of the guy. By the time he was done, Ian was collapsed on the ground as a result of what ever drugs he had taken. Mickey swore he felt his heart implode at that moment. “oh Ian” was all he could bring himself to say as he carried his worn lover back to Milkovich Manor.
Recalling all of this was making his heart ache. He loved Ian; he really did. And when his brain wasn’t so fucked, Ian wasn’t so fucked. Ian needed help. But Mickey knew that he didn’t fully understand what his lover needed help with, so he did the only thing poor fuckers can do when there’s something they don’t understand: Google. As he read the list of signs and symptoms, everything fell into place for Mickey. As much as he hated to feel like he wasn’t enough, Ian’s impulsiveness combined with his hypersexuality created the perfect storm. It made Mickey feel like shit. Maybe if they had fucked more, or maybe if he had helped Ian control his impulses, this wouldn’t have happened. The man clutched at his hair again, as tears welled up in his eyes. Rationally, he knew this wasn’t his fault and he knew he could have boundaries. But that irrational side of every human brain cycled the thought that he just wasn’t enough for Ian’s urges.
Mickey had already wasted the day drinking and drowning his thoughts in sounds. It was getting late and he couldn’t just lay in bed clutching his hair for the rest of the evening. He needed to decide if he was going to help Ian cope properly, get him the help he needed, and support him in every way he could, knowing that he probably cheated multiple times and was probably cheating when he left Yev alone; or if he was going to cut ties right there and let the Gallagher’s deal with their own bullshit. Slowly, he crept out of bed and gathered his clothes for a shower. He needed to really think about this, or he might end up regretting the decision. As the water cascaded down his body, only one thing was on his mind. His sweet Red. The words that Debbie had spoken to him rang true in his heart. He could not drink Ian away. He did not want to be like Frank in any way, shape, or form. He dressed hesitantly, still unsure of his choice.
But then he thought about all the bullshit he had put Ian through over the years. The shame and the hiding. Making Ian overly aware of his sexual prowess with the neighborhood fat chick. The marriage to the hooker that raped him. Mick would have placed a bet that Ian felt like dying when he got married to someone else. He made up his mind.
The walk seemed like it took forever, but that’s because Ian had his car impounded. As he climbed the steps to the house, Mickey suddenly felt embarrassed by his behavior. He felt like Ian’s family would think less of him for not coming sooner. But right now, Mick decided, that didn’t matter. He needed to see his Red. He opened the door without knocking. Everyone made eye contact with him as he went straight for the stairs. They knew what he was here for. As he got closer to Ian’s room, Mickey felt his confidence waning. What if Ian didn’t even want him anymore? What if he was right about not being enough? Mickey picked up his pace towards the end of the hall because he knew that if he didn’t, he would turn around and leave. Carl was already headed to bed when Mickey entered the room. He gazed at the lump of blankets that lead up to a beautiful head of red hair. Red hair he knew all too well. That lump came back to his throat. But there was no nausea, only anxiety and pure love for the man wrapped in blankets in front of him.
“Sorry I’m late” was all he could think to say as he stepped out of his boots and unzipped his sweater. The red hair disappeared, and a pale face looked over at him from above a shoulder. Ian rolled to make room for Mickey, who was thankful for the opportunity to once again climb in bed with his lover. He did just that, but more gently than he was used to. Ian’s eyes seemed tired and empty. Mickey chalked that up to the sedation. His hair was greasy but still the fire red he loved it to be. There was no place in the world that Mickey would have rather been at that moment. He needed Ian to know that. He leaned up and kissed his Red’s ginger locks and laid back down as Ian closed his eyes peacefully. To be honest, Mickey thought, as he wrapped his arms around his lover, he didn’t smell too great. But that was okay because he would help Ian to shower tomorrow. And he would make damn sure that Ian didn’t miss his back.