Chapter Text
“Come on, man, move! I have a shitton of work to do today”.
Mickey holds the car door open while Yevgeny keeps fiddling with the seatbelt.
“Damn it, let me do it”, he growls, helping his son to unclench it. “Fuck, where you got being such a fucking handyman from, huh? Definitely not from your mom. She used to do amazing work with her hands”.
“Obviously not only with her hands”, Yev chuckles. “Since I was somehow born of a prostitute mother and a gay father”.
“That’s so, huh?” Mickey tries to suppress the grin and steps aside, letting his son grab his backpack from the seat. He tilts his head and bites his lower lip, watching Yev doing it intendedly slowly. “You’re trying to be a smart one, then. Look, asshole, I can still shove your little ass back in the car and send you to your fucking aunt for a couple of days. She’s just had a day off”.
Finally Yev stops messing around with his backpack, which, as Mickey knows, contains nothing but an iPod, a battered SLR camera, a toothbrush and pajamas. The boy turns around and looks at his father, squinting. He has blond hair, obviously related to his mother's side of the family, and bright blue eyes, like Mickey himself. And the little brat is really smart, and is not at all afraid of the threats of his father.
“We’re done with fucking hypnosis here, okay?” Mickey puffs down, grabbing the backpack from his son’s hands. “If I don’t manage to deal with all the shit I’ve planned for today, you’ll be out of your pocket money for a week, you got it, little fucker?”
“Dad”, Yev sighs, closing the car door. “You’re working at home like, all the time. You need to get outta there and relax”.
Yevgeny's face, with a scattering of barely noticeable freckles, spreads into a sly grin. The boy stands on tiptoe and gives Mickey a ringing peck on the cheek, covered with a hint of morning stubble.
Damn. He doesn't understand how the bastard manages to pull off this trick every time, but any attempts by Mickey to portray himself as a strict dad invariably fail completely and unconditionally, once his son shows a little tenderness and care. And such crap, by the way, happens in their small family with enviable regularity, because young Milkovich from early childhood has always been affectionate and loving, like a cunning house cat. The exact opposite of the prickly and uncouth Mickey.
“Fucking little manipulator”, Mickey mutters and wraps his hands around Yev’s shoulders, a little bony but strong, just like his own. “Let’s go, Mr Ripley. Your buddy must wait for us”.
Yev walks quickly, tries to keep up with Mickey.
“Wow, did you really read Patricia Highsmith?”
“The fuck is she?”
“I got it, you just saw the movie”.
The boy giggles mockingly, and Mickey slaps him lightly on the back of the head.
“Ouch. What was that for?”
“So that you don't laugh at your father, asshole. By the way, Matt Damon is very good in that movie”.
“Oh, yeah”, Yevgeny rolls his eyes. “Who would doubt it”, he grins, for which he gets a gentle slap again.
Mickey squints down at the tousled blond top of his son's head. Yevgeny is ten and he is smart beyond his years. At school, his score has always been above average since the very first grade. He reads a lot, actively participates in all class activities and joined the boxing team a couple of years ago. Mickey is predictably the most proud of the latter. Because, fuck, a Milkovich has to be able to use his fists. Even if, as in the case of Yev, he can easily, with one word, mix the offender with shit and lower him below the level of the city sewer. Actually, even more so in this case.
One way or another, Mickey thinks that his son has grown up quite cool, other parents can be jealous. Especially considering the fucked up circumstances of his conception. Mickey had just turned eighteen, and Terry caught him with the guy he was fucking (for some reason they thought it was good idea) on his nazi and homophobic father’s old couch. Terry punched Mickey’s boyfriend in the face and almost cracked Mickey’s skull with a heavy wooden stool. Mickey had such a terrible ringing under his skull at the time that he couldn't hear a damn thing except his own pulse and ragged breathing, which whistled out between his split, bleeding lips.
After a few minutes, which seemed like fucking eternity, Svetlana arrived. She was a young Russian prostitute with quite an impressionable experience. While she was fucking Mickey on that blood-covered couch, Terry held Mickey’s boyfriend at gunpoint and forced him to watch. And that was especially fucking terrible.
Mickey even can’t remember how he managed to come at that moment. Most likely it was just pure muscle reflex. Though nine months later this very boy was born. The boy Mickey now loves more than anything in the world, and for sure he loves him more than his own miserable life.
It’s not like he suddenly had fatherly feelings from the first minute he saw him. Now Mickey isn’t ashamed to admit it. In fact, at that time he was still almost a child himself. Angry and ill-mannered, broken and aggressive, with a broken heart, and certainly never planning to become a damn dad and fucking husband.
Mickey can’t properly remember the wedding with Svetlana either. Mostly because right in the morning he managed to get shitfaced drunk and high after a terrible fight with that boyfriend of his.
But he never had a doubt during all Svet’s pregnancy that the kid isn’t someone’s but his own. Just because it all was Terry’s fucking plan. And even if there were some suspicions deep in his soul, they all vanished the moment he saw the kid for the first time. He was all Milkovich, except his blond hair.
Still, Mickey’s first thought when he saw the kid was just wondering about how a newborn could have such a lot of hair, that’s all. He felt nothing more at that moment.
It has been several long months since Yevgeny was born. Mickey also didn't remember them well, because he spent every day high with weed and sometimes with a couple of tracks of coke. His boyfriend – now ex-boyfriend obviously – was so disappointed in how Mickey Milkovich turned out to be a fabulous and cowardly coward that he just ran away. He joined the army, leaving Mickey alone, like an abandoned puppy. Mickey couldn’t blame him for that. At least, that’s what he thought for a while. In any case, he hoped that guy would find what he was always looking for.
A short time later, Terry Milkovich went back to prison and never came out of it again. As far as Mickey understood from the stories of his brothers, their nazi father was killed by some young Mexican. Mickey never really liked all these chicanos who invaded his fucking homeland like a horde of red-assed ants, but the moment he heard the story that happened to Terry, he decided that as soon as this dude got out of prison, Mickey would personally rent a fucking limo for him, packed to capacity with booze, drugs and whores. That guy had never got out, but Mickey wasn't too upset about it.
The marriage with Svetlana lasted almost two years. Sometimes Mickey fucked her on dark nights without turning on the lights. Sometimes Svetlana fucked Mickey with a strap-on, which almost felt like it was coming out of Mickey's mouth. Mickey squeezed his eyes shut and imagined a long and sturdy body, pale skin covered with a scattering of freckles, and short-cropped red hair.
Once on a bright and sunny summer day, Svet came home accompanied by some rich lady of very advanced years and told Mickey that she had filed for divorce and wanted to arrange her life with Tamara. Tamara never wanted to have children.
That was how Mickey and Yevgeny happened together, alone in the cruel and miserable world. The only person who was alongside him was his little sister Mandy. Mickey had to accept it. Not because he was such a fucking loving and conscientious father, but because, more than anything, he was afraid of being like Terry.
With great fucking effort he got his GED, even though he dropped out of school when he turned sixteen. It was fucking tough time. Mickey was working like a workhorse in an attempt to get enough money to feed himself, Yev and Mandy, who had to look out for the kid because it was cheaper than a damn daycare.
It took another year or so before Mickey finally realized that his life was shit without any perspective and without hope to change anything. Not that he hadn’t thought about it before, but now Mickey wasn’t alone. And even though he was always a complete egoist, Milkovich didn't want the boy, who was so innocent and smart completely beyond his age, to eventually follow in the footsteps of his narrow-minded father or, for Christ sake, his grandfather.
So Mickey forced himself to make the only right decision, which later changed the lives of both him and Yev, and even partly Mandy’s. He spent a long time thinking about how to make money without leaving home, without stealing from anyone or crushing other people's skulls. To be able to raise a child decently, without attracting the attention of the child services and without going to jail at the same time.
Mickey took out all his money for a rainy day and spent it on three months of courses for QA engineers. It quite unexpectedly turned out to be the exact kind of crap that was easy for him. At least it was enough to finally get away from the damn Southside and rent a decent, albeit small by local standards, apartment in Westside. Mandy decided to stay in their shitty house to keep an eye on it.
They still were in close touch and of course Mickey couldn’t forget what he owes to his sister even if he wanted to. Today he makes enough money to provide everything he and Yevgeny need, help Mandy and even save some for Yev’s college. Fuck, his son would be the first Milkovich to go to and undoubtedly graduate from the damn college.
By the way, Yevgeny knows about his father being gay. His aunty Mandy was pleased to enlighten him when he turned six and started wondering why his classmates have mom and dad while he has only dad and aunt. Mickey barely suppressed his impulse to strangle the damn sister with a lace from his sweatpants at that moment. From that time on Yev keeps asking from time to time why Mickey doesn't do any dating. Not like Mickey ever had a proper answer, though.
“So, your new buddy lives here?”
Mickey raises his head to observe the house. It’s not that large, but it’s brand new, just like the other houses in this neighborhood. It has a low white fence with hedgerow by both sides, perfectly trimmed lawn and wrought-iron lanterns along the path from the gate to the porch. Fucking classical american dream.
There's a car parked in the driveway at the garage gate. And it's not an old, battered Impala. Although Mickey is proud of his baby, even despite the fact that she is a good dozen years older than himself. But this… It's a fucking Ford Mustang Shelby GT350. Mickey remembers how, as a teenager, he drooled on this car. One of the gun dealers with whom his father did dirty business had one. Terry then went once again in the county jail and Mickey and Mandy then went into foster care for a few months, until it turned out that their new “dad” was a crazy bastard exploiting child labor.
Mickey shakes his head in an attempt to get rid of the sudden memories. What the hell does this guy's father do for a living? Well, he shouldn't be so surprised. Yevgeny has been attending a private school since the first grade. It’s difficult, but Mickey manages to pay for this luxury. He wants the best for his son. The boy deserves everything that his father could not have in his own shitty childhood and youth.
Most of Yev’s classmates’ parents are loaded, and Mickey shouldn't be surprised that the newly arrived boy – he thinks his name is Fred – belongs to the same class as most of the children attending their school. However, for some unknown reason, Mickey suddenly realizes that starting this friendship isn’t a good idea. In fact, it’s just a strange, perhaps groundless, premonition, but at some point Mickey feels like everything is getting cold somewhere deep inside. He has to suppress the developing nervous tic. Mickey wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans and rubs the bridge of his nose with the thumb of his free hand.
“Dad, is everything okay?” Yev carefully asks.
“Yeah. Yes, everything all right, man” Mickey lies. He even manages to put on a smile which hurts for some reason.
“You look pale”.
“I’m okay, Yev”, Mickey repeats in a pushy voice.
The boy frowns. Mickey rarely calls his son by his first name. Basically, it's ‘man’ or ‘kid’ or ‘asshole’ every time Mickey and Yev are in a particularly playful mood. It’s never ‘Yevgeny’ because Mickey knows his son hates his own weird name. This is ‘Yev’ in those rare cases when the boy is guilty of something, or when Mickey is too busy and tense, or… Apparently, either like now, when Mickey has no idea what the fuck is suddenly so hard on him.
“Don’t look okay”, Yev mutters, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Are you pissed because I told you again to have a break?”
“Jesus Christ, man”, Mickey rolls his eyes, takes Yev’s backpack off and gives it to him, squatting down in front of him. They both hear the front door opening, but pay no attention at the moment. “Look, kid, ‘m not pissed at you. I’ll never be, okay? I just had a thought. That’s it. Sorry if I upset you”.
“You didn’t upset me”, Yevgeny swears. Mickey can see the treacherous moisture in the boy’s blue eyes. Apparently, Yev understands this, because a second later he wraps his arms tightly around Mickey’s neck, nuzzling his temple. “I love you, Dad”.
“I know, asshole, I love you too”, Mickey smiles and tickles his son along the ribs, trying to defuse the tension a little. He succeeds – Yev throws his neck, wriggles and laughs loudly.
“Hi, you must be Yev-bro?” a voice comes from behind Mickey and…
Damn it. Damn. Fuck!
“Good morning, Mr. Gallagher”, Yev says.
Mickey watches the bright smile lighten his son’s face. He can’t force himself to stand up and turn around.
“Huh, dude, I’m just as much a mister as my sister is a ballet dancer. Call me Ian”.
“Deal then”.
“Yev-bro!” joyful boy’s voice coming from the direction of the house.
“Fred, hey, man”, greets Yev equally enthusiastically. “Bye, Dad, see ya tomorrow”.
He presses a quick kiss on Mickey’s cheek, grabs his backpack from the ground and heads into the house, leaving Mickey alone with… Fuck. Mickey can barely comprehend a thing because blood rushes in his ears.
Fuck. Just fuck. Ian… All Mickey’s insides turning upside down. His heart is pounding somewhere next to his left foot. His palms are sweating again. He never wondered what last name Yev’s new friend had. Fucking idiot.
“Mickey”, he hears a quiet, a bit hoarse voice.
He forced himself to stand up on his suddenly weak legs. He tries his best to keep his back straight, when he turns around to finally face this ghost from the past.
“Ian”.
Christ. He realizes only now that it’s the first time he lets this name out loud in the past ten years.
***
Mickey stands in front of his door, trying to find keys but fucking failing. He smoked three cigarettes in the underground parking lot despite smoking being forbidden there. Now his head is slightly dizzy. His whole body is shaking, as well as his fingers when he finally fishes the key out of the back pocket of his jeans and tries to get it into the keyhole. Fucking shit! What the fuck is going on with him?
Mickey enters the apartment, toeing sneakers off by walking, throws keys on the coffee table and crashes onto the couch, leaning his head back on a soft cushion. He shuts his eyes and covers his face with wet palms.
Fuck. Fucking shit.
He can assume, judging by that bright grin on Gallagher’s face, that motherfucker wasn’t surprised when he ran into Mickey this morning. That means he knew whose son his offspring’s new friend was.
Damn, Ian Gallagher has a fucking son, almost Yev’s age. What the fuck should it mean? He’s one hundred percent gay to the core of his dumb bones. That’s not like Mickey wasn’t totally gay as well, and he has a son after all. But, Jesus, Gallagher’s son is the same age as Yev. Maybe a year younger or something like that.
He can assume Fred is adopted. About that Mickey has no doubt, because he saw the kid at school and he’s not red, at least. He looks nothing like Ian. Nothing at all. But…
Mickey tries to imagine Ian fucking Gallagher being single parent and he can’t. That’s totally not his Red. Fuck , when did he start to call Ian his even in his thoughts? Whatever. Ian must be married to some asshole or something like that.
Mickey feels sick. For fuck’s sake, why does he even care? It was damn ten years. And Mickey didn’t jerk off for the memories of that face and freckles and green fucking eyes in last two of them. Almost. And still, he never ever let anyone fuck him. There was couple of guys he fucked, and several not impressive blowjobs he never reciprocate. And it was so long ago, before they moved to Westside. A lifetime ago.
Fucking Gallagher. What did he think…
Mickey can’t keep thinking about ginger assholes, because his phone starts buzzing on the table. He forgot to turn the sound on in the morning. Mickey hesitates for several long seconds. He doesn’t want to talk to Mandy or anyone else right now, but whoever is calling him is persistent as fuck.
“Bloody hell”, he swears, when he grabs the phone and sees an unknown number on the screen. “Who is this?” he snaps in exasperation, but he doesn’t care about being polite at the moment.
“Hey, Mick”, he hears a voice he couldn’t ever mistake with another. Even through the phone call. Even after a whole eternity.
“Where did you get my number?”
“Em”, Ian sounds a bit confused. “I asked Yev. Said I didn't have time to arrange with you what time to bring him home tomorrow”.
“I’m fucking capable of picking my own son”, Mickey responds harshly.
Why does he sound defensive? Though, he might be. It still hurts to think about Ian, as well as hear his fucking voice.
“I have no doubt”, Ian says so calmly, it makes Mickey feel like wanting to crush the phone.
Fuck, why is he angry? Especially with the fact it was mostly Mickey's fault they broke up with such a mess. He could… He could have fucking sent stinking Terry to hell. Could have just shot him like a rabid dog. Could serve a short time for this, because there would have been at least a dozen people willing to confirm in court that it was self-defense. He didn't do that. Because he was a pathetic coward. He allowed an old asshole to take away from him the only thing that ever made any sense to him in his worthless life.
Mickey has no regrets that things went the way they did. He can’t regret it. He has Yev. He doesn’t live in a ghetto. He has a good job. He fucking turned his life around. Could he imagine for a moment his life would be even close to the one he has now?
No, he definitely has no regrets. But why does it fucking hurt so hard he could climb the walls? It was ten fucking years ago. He keeps repeating that to himself.
“Mickey, are you there? You alright?”
Damn. He seems to have gone so deep into himself that he even forgot about the redhead, who is still waiting for some shitty reasons on the other end of the line.
“What do you want?” Mickey asks hoarsely and wearily. He just hopes that his voice doesn't tremble treacherously.
“Uh... I don't know, to be honest”, Ian admits. “You ran away so fast today that I didn't even get a good look at you”.
“What the fuck are you looking at me for, Gallagher?” Mickey snorts and suddenly realizes he’s smiling.
“We haven't seen each other for a long time”, Ian cautiously assumes, as if he is walking on a fragile shell. “I thought we could meet for coffee or a beer”.
Fuck! Ian wants to meet him. Why does the thought of being close to this guy, of being able to sneak a touch to him, suddenly make Mickey’s hands feel so stupidly weak?
“Don't you have to keep an eye on the little ones or something?” Mickey asks.
Damn. He doesn't tell Ian that he doesn't want to meet him, although he should refuse him. Just drop the call and forget this stupid conversation, which definitely won’t lead them both to anything good. Ian has his own family, just like Mickey. But Mickey realizes that he can’t just say no. No matter how much he would like it.
“Lip is going to take the kids to play pinball”, says Ian, and…
Lip. Fuck, Philip fucking Gallagher. Those blue, close-set Fred’s eyes. Mickey immediately thinks that the kid reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t even imagine…
“Lip? Your brother?” he asks stupidly, just because he doesn't know what else to say.
“Uh, yes. I’ve been living in his house for a while. Since Lip bought it about four months ago. Before that, he had an apartment, and it wasn't very big, so…”
“So..” Mickey picks up after realizing that Ian is not going to finish the sentence. “Fred. I mean… fuck…”
God. What does Fred have to do with it? What the hell is he talking about?
“Fred is my nephew. The son of Lip and Tami. Tami Tamietti. I mean, she's a Gallagher now, of course”.
Jesus Christ. Tami. Well, of course. How could he have forgotten? He’d heard that Philip Gallagher had fathered a baby with some chick from the Westside. Then they kind of got married. Mickey hadn’t seen Lip Gallagher in a hundred years or something.
“Wait”, Ian suddenly says. “You didn't think about it, did you? Oh, my God, Mickey, really?”
“What the fuck?” Mickey snaps. “What are you talking about?”
“Did you really think Fred was my son?” Mickey recognizes the familiar mocking notes in the redhead’s voice. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine a grinning, freckled face. Mickey succeeds on the first try. “Mickey, fuck! Man, what were you even thinking about?”
“Fuck, why wouldn’t I?” Mickey barks. “I thought maybe you got married, adopted a child. It's been a fucking ten years. Why not?”
Before he can finish the sentence, Mickey hears a strangled laugh in the speaker of his phone. Now the damn redhead asshole is making fun of him. Fine. He had never felt like such a complete dumbass before, but for some reason, the thought that Ian is not married and he does not have any children makes it easier for Mickey to breathe. God, he’s such a stupid mess.
“You're still the same impulsive jerk I remember, Milkovich”.
“And you're still the same fucking bastard, Gallagher”.
“So can we meet today?” Ian asks, and, thank God, he stopped laughing.
Mickey squints at his laptop, which is sitting on a computer table in the corner of the living room. He rubs the bridge of his nose with his knuckle, biting his lower lip.
“I need to finish something. It's for work. I think I’ll be done by six o'clock”.
“Do you work on Saturdays?” Ian asks. “What do you do for a living, Mickey?” Mickey knows from the redhead’s tone that this is not a simple question out of politeness. Ian is actually curious about where and who Mickey works for.
“I have an irregular schedule”, Mickey explains simply because he wants to. “I work as a website tester”.
“Wow. Damn, that is really cool!” Ian exclaims with genuine delight.
Mickey rolls his eyes.
“It’s fucking boring, man”, he admits. “But the paychecks are stable and not bad. Yev and I can afford to rent this Westside apartment. He goes to a private school. So…” Mickey pauses a little to clear his throat. “I try to make sure that he has everything that Mandy and I didn't have”.
“But you have a little time for yourself”, Ian suggests. What the fuck is this whole conversation leading to? “I mean, man, I understand that you're a parent now and all that, but…”
“I've been a fucking parent for ten years”, Mickey bristles unexpectedly, even to himself. “I didn’t ask for this for myself. But Yev didn’t, too. And I don't fucking want to be the shitty dad Terry was”.
A deep sigh is heard behind the receiver. Mickey is almost afraid that he has ruined everything with his unexpected outburst of emotions, but when Ian answers, his voice sounds even more affectionate.
“You'll never be like your father was, Mick. You've always been better than him. I don’t think anything can change that”.
You, fuck! You almost managed to change that, you fucking bastard! The love of his whole fucking life.
“Whatever you say, Gallagher”, Mickey mutters.
“Seven o'clock sounds great”, Ian says, and it's clear from his voice that he's smiling again. “So is it coffee or beer?”.
“Beer”, Mickey chooses without second thought.
“Then there's a bar on the corner of West Chicago and Ashland”.
“I'll be there”.
Mickey drops the call before the redhead can say anything else. He returns the phone to the coffee table and takes the frame photo from there. Yev is seven in it. He and Mickey are together, laughing and hugging. A horde of small soap bubbles flies in front of the camera lens. Mandy took the photo with an unpretentious DSLR from a second-hand shop, which she herself was proud to give Yev for his seventh birthday. The boy still treats it like it’s extremely valuable.
It was one of the best days of Mickey’s life. After…
“What the fuck am I doing, man?” Mickey asks, looking at the photo.
His gaze begins to wander thoughtfully around the room until it stops again at the open laptop. Mickey sighs and puts the photo back in its place. He’s not sure he’ll be able to work productively now, but damn, he’ll have to.