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"Something's wrong with me, you know?" Ian tells him, in a shirt that Lip knows used to be his, with a voice that sounds too rough. Lip feels heavy. Ian was always supposed to be Lip’s responsibility.
It was unspoken. A lot of things in their house were. Fiona barked orders in the kitchen, the morning creaking in their bones, the whirlwind of jokes and breakfast and fear and almost clean laundry forcing everybody up. She told them how much money they still needed to pay the bills, to button up their jackets, to have good days. But it was what she said in-between those things that mattered the most. She didn’t need to tell Lip and Ian to take care of each other: it was understood. Fiona was young, too young to be a mother, to run a house, to be everything. She said it with an elbow to Lip’s side, “help Ian with his math homework.” She said it with a hand on Ian’s shoulder, “go ask Lip what’s wrong.” Fiona took care of everybody, but Lip and Ian took care of each other. When Frank hit Ian, Fiona cleaned him up and kissed his forehead, but it was Lip who sat with him until he could breathe again.
That’s how their house worked. Mothers can only do so much. She needed them on the same page, fists raised at the world, mending each other’s wounds in ways she couldn’t. Ian, her mirror. A little quieter, but just as sturdy, just as caring. Ian, with the steady paycheck. Ian, who took care of everybody in the small ways that kept them from falling apart. Lip, who challenged Fiona (for right or for wrong). Lip, who, at his best, would say exactly what Fiona needed to hear. Lip, who, at his worst, forced Fiona to prove him wrong. Lip, who took care of Ian.
(Not that Ian always wanted him to. Not that Ian always let him. "I can do it myself," he growled, when he started keeping to himself, when he didn't think his problems were important, when Lip was overbearing, when Lip was trying to fix him, when Lip could have anything he wanted and was too stupid to do anything about it. Still, he tried. Maybe not enough, he thought to himself now. Maybe he had gotten too comfortable with an Ian who stubbornly told him he didn't really need any help. Maybe it had been nice to be let off the hook.)
Fiona and Ian had always been the most steady, the most solid, the most alike. Ian and Fiona cared about their family more than anybody Lip knew, but they rarely asked for anything in return. Ian and Fiona were stubborn, prideful, bad at admitting they were wrong. Fiona and Ian were the pillars of the house and then they were falling apart, crumbling, the very structure of the Gallagher household disappearing. Mornings were suddenly much quieter; there was no laughter, no energy, no pulse. Suddenly, too many people needed Lip. Debbie, Carl, Liam: innocent in all of this, scared, confused. Lip put his focus there.
But then, Fiona needed him too. Fiona, who was so easy to be angry at. Fiona, who had taken this on when she wasn’t ready. Fiona, who couldn’t handle this without him or Ian, her two rocks. Fiona, who he had finally helped.
And then there was Ian, who had needed him, maybe more than anyone. Ian, who he ignored. Ian, who had always been his first priority, suddenly wasn’t a priority at all. Ian, who he let down in ways he never fathomed possible.
He'd come back and Lip had waited: waited for Ian's presence to be the comfort it always had been, for Ian to guide him in the quiet, unimposing way he was so good at. Instead, he made Lip more nervous, more angry, more scared.
The thing is, everybody knew Lip could be cruel, rude, selfish. Lip was bad at loving people. Lip took from people and only gave back a little. Lip was shitty at relationships. Lip couldn’t keep friends to save his life. Lip never met a teacher he didn’t despise. Lip practically spat at strangers. But his family was supposed to be the exception: Ian, more than anyone, was supposed to be the exception.
“Name a single time I’ve let you down,” he had said in the van, the weight in his stomach heavy, clawing at him, trying to remind him he was lying to Ian, to himself. Less than 24 hours ago he’d sat back and forced his little brother to get a blow job from a girl. Less than 24 hours ago he’d thought there was something wrong with him. Less than 24 hours ago he’d put conditions on his love. Less than 24 hours ago he’d said, “You’re not good enough” with a push through the Jackson’s front door.
“Name a single time I’ve let you down,” he smiled at his brother, after the first time he’d truly let him down. I’d never let him down, I’d never let him down, I’d never let him down he tried to make his heart beat say: but a small part of him was waiting for Ian to blow up, to throw the words back in his face, to remind him he had.
But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Ian and Lip took care of each other. Ian smiled at him, and let him off the hook. His silence was enough: he gave him a clean slate. Lip made himself believe he was still keeping his promise.
“Name a single time I’ve let you down,” but there was no way Ian’s silence would feel like a clean slate now. No way Ian’s silence wouldn’t remind Lip of everything he didn’t do, didn’t do well enough, did horribly wrong. No way Ian’s silence wouldn’t speak right to Lip’s gut, “Didn’t call the cops on Kash, didn’t notice when his heart was broken, didn’t listen to him, didn’t help him enough with school, didn’t stop him from enlisting, didn’t drag him out of that club, didn’t ask for help when he started reminding him of Monica, didn’t explain things better to Mickey, didn’t do enough, didn’t love him enough, didn’t protect him enough, didn’t care enough."
It's now, outside the courthouse, with Ian in his shirt and a rough voice and bags under his eyes, that it really hits him: the guilt. He thought it had, at the hospital, when he had wrapped his arms around his little brother. He realizes now that that wasn’t guilt at all. It was fear, radiating through him, making everything in him crack. He's not sure what it is about this moment, that makes the guilt settle in him, dense and demanding. Maybe it's because it's not what he's supposed to be thinking of. He’s always had a knack for feeling the wrong things at the wrong time. He should be worried about Carl, but instead he feels a weight in his stomach with Ian's name on it, even heavier than the one he felt in the van.
He hands the cigarette to his brother, and tries to convince himself it's not that bad, he's not that bad, they're not completely broken. The air smells like garbage and smoke and he thinks about the time Ian threw a full bag of trash at him in the heat of a stupid argument. How the bag had opened and every shitty thing they had eaten and coughed up and spat out that week had fallen all around him on the kitchen floor. He remembers how mad he had been, then how hard he laughed, how Fiona had scrunched up her face to keep serious, how they had cleaned it up and loved every second of it.
Ian's quiet now, his tall frame bent in half. “The family giraffe,” Fiona would call him sometimes, and Ian would roll his eyes and hide a smile. Lip remembers the first time Ian had realized he was taller. He remembers how he'd ruffled Lip's hair and laughed and laughed and laughed. Remembers how Fiona had rolled her eyes, how Debbie had wondered how tall she'd be, how Carl said he'd be happy as long as he passed Lip. "Don't sell yourself so short," Ian had winked at Carl, and Lip had pushed him and everything had been okay.
But here, right now, Ian looks smaller than he has in years, and nothing feels okay at all. His hair messes itself up every time he so much as budges, his eyes are glazed over like everything he's seeing is in black and white, his face looks hollow.
This whole time Lip has selfishly wanted his brother back, has acted like Ian disappeared on him because he wasn't exactly what Lip needed.
But it had been Lip who had disappeared on Ian, when he had needed him the most. It had been Lip who had been selfish, had made Ian's pain about himself, had made everything about himself.
“Yeah, man,” he finally answers him, looking straight at his brother. He seems so far away. “But, I mean. Something’s wrong with all of us.”
Ian glares at him now, taking a puff from the cigarette before handing it back to his brother. He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Fuck off.”
Lip nods at that, letting the cigarette dangle loosely in his fingers. It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid. He’s trying to find the balance here, of letting Ian know he’s not alone, and not making it about him.
“Do you remember the time Joe Rotti jumped us in the alley?” he tries, voice steady.
Ian says nothing.
“You were only like, what? 10 maybe. I got a black eye at the worst but they fucked you up pretty bad. Even after we fought them. We got home and you insisted on doing everything yourself. Cleaning yourself up and all that shit. And I looked you over and made sure you were okay and Fiona yelled at us when she found out…. but you promised her you were fine. But that night, you woke me up at like… God knows what time. You woke me up and you asked me if I’d watch a movie with you, something funny. We woke Fiona up too and watched that one movie with John Candy and Steve Martin…I can’t remember the name but.. you remember?”
Ian’s looking at him now. Lips hands the cigarette back over to him without taking a puff himself. Ian brings it to his lips slowly, hands a little shaky, unsure.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I remember.”
This time, Lip doesn’t lie. Not to himself, not to Ian. He’s let him brother down, more times than his heart can carry.
No, this time he makes a promise.
“I’m gonna be better, Ian.”
And he looks at him for a second, like he used to when they were kids. Before he realized Lip was flawed. Eyes wide, hopeful, at peace. It’s a second, a second Lip knows he doesn’t deserve, before his face goes blank again.
“Yeah, alright,” he snorts.
Lip wants to tell Ian he’s sorry. It’s there, somewhere, maybe not in his heart, but in his stomach, his gut. Tell him you’re sorry, asshole, it pokes at him. But he can’t. Lip is no saint. Lip is too scared of what those words will mean.
“We got this, Ian,” he says instead.
Ian blinks. Once, twice. He doesn't look at Lip.
"We," he repeats carefully, like his mouth is full of cotton.
And Lip doesn't know if it's the right thing to say. Ian doesn't either. It's Ian's battle, after all.
Lip swallows and tries again.
"You got this. But... I'm gonna be there. We're gonna be there. Me and Fiona. All of us. To check up on you, to… I don’t know, fuck. To support you. And we’ll be there if you, ya know, need to watch a movie.”
Ian nods at that, handing the cigarette back to him. Lip waits for the backlash, the, "I can do it myself," but it never comes. He was sure it would, sure he'd fight him, sure he would fold in on himself.
But Ian seems so much smaller than Lip. Ian needs help. Lip knows there will be days (maybe most days) where Ian will want to do it himself, where he’ll push them away. Lip has never been a perfect brother. He pushes too hard, or doesn’t push at all. But he’s going to be better.
(That night, when Ian wakes up feeling numb, he doesn’t want to wake up Mickey, who has done so much already. Instead, he decides to give Lip a chance to keep his promise.
“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks.
Lip smiles at him.
“Let me get Fiona.”)