Fanfic: Sober l PG-13 l Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich l Shameless
Title: Sober
Author: Roz
Fandom: Shameless US
Characters: Mickey, Ian, Debbie, Carl, mentions of Sheila, Jody, Fiona, Lip, Frank and Monica.
Warnings: Swearing, violence. Spoilers for season two, including episode eleven.
Summary: On those nights when Ian couldn’t breathe, when he was hyperventilating from shame and disappointment, he met Mickey down on the ball field.
Fiona left in May. It wasn’t unexpected, but it still hit the entire family like a blow that continued to ache well into the summer. The house felt stuffed full with Frank and Monica still there, but it felt hollow, translucent and cold. Sometimes it felt like they could see right through the walls because Fiona wasn’t there, holding the walls up. It felt empty, and so full. Ian sometimes felt like he was suffocating. The house was heavy, and it was a moving thing above him and sometimes he just had to get out, before the entire building crushed him beneath it.
He didn’t tell Mickey any of this, all those times he visited Mickey. He didn’t tell Mickey that Fiona fucked off somewhere else with Steve. Left town. Moved on. Good for her, but still fuck her. He didn’t open his mouth at all, about how she was gone and it felt like lots of pieces of the entire family had gone off with her, because those were the pieces that she owned and probably had owned for a very long time; nobody else had ever noticed it until they were forcibly torn out of them. They hurt too, gaping wounds that didn’t really heal because everybody wanted to pretend like they didn’t really exist. They were all bleeding out, screaming out in agony, and they were just too damn stubborn to stop the bleeding because stopping it meant admitting it was there.
He didn’t tell Mickey that this winter had been the worst winter of his life. He didn’t tell Mickey that his mother had spent all of their money; that she had attempted to kill herself at Thanksgiving dinner; that she had been locked up in a psychiatric ward and probably belonged there. He didn’t tell Mickey that he had lost faith in his west point dream, that he was just too damn stupid to make the cut, that nothing was working and he didn’t know what to do now and it hurt so much that sometimes he felt like crying in sheer frustration. He didn’t tell Mickey that he was going to live and die in Chicago and it was a fate he had already resigned himself to, but it was a fate that made him feel like he was drowning, nonetheless.
On those nights when Ian couldn’t breathe, when he was hyperventilating from shame and disappointment, he met Mickey down on the ball field. They sat there for a good while, in silence. Sometimes Mickey wondered if Ian would cry, but he never did.
Ian was too stubborn. Mickey never apologized for breaking things off with Ian and Ian never held him to his word; even when Mickey cornered him in the alley behind the Kash and Grab and shoved him back hard into the brick and kissed him a week after his release. They never talked about their feelings. Nothing changed. Except everything had, because every night Ian would show up with his cheeks red from running and hair disheveled from sleepless nights, matted to his forehead with sweat. Every night he would have that wide open torn apart look on his stupid face, and his eyes would be full of so many words he could publish a book with them alone, but he wouldn’t say a damn thing. They’d fuck, and they’d get so drunk and high that they couldn’t do anything but sit there in total silent honesty.
Sometimes Mickey wanted to tell Ian exactly what was on his mind. Sometimes he wanted to tell Ian that he looked fucking gorgeous when his cheeks were red and his lips were cock swollen. He looked fucking gorgeous when he smiled at Mickey’s insult, like Mickey had just given him a compliment, and sometimes Mickey had. Sometimes he wanted to tell Ian that he did miss him. That he wasted a year and a half locked up, missing him. He wanted to tell Ian that sometimes he got so scared he couldn’t breathe.
He wanted to apologize. He wanted to tell Ian that he didn’t mean any of it, that he just needed something to prop himself up with, and that had always been cruelty. Shove people away hard enough and they can never hurt you, and that’s all Mickey had meant by it. He wanted to apologize because when his father found out, Ian was as good as dead, and that was Mickey’s fault too. He wanted to apologize for Fiona and he wanted to apologize for Frank and for Monica and for crappy parents everywhere, and he wanted to apologize in advance because he knew he was going to marry some bitch and pop out a few underachieving criminals of his own and be just as crappy to them as his dad was to him. He was just so damn sorry sometimes.
Ian took Mickey home with him one night, rattling off the whereabouts of the rest of the Gallagher clan. Monica and Frank had found a party yesterday and probably wouldn’t be back for days, he told Mickey as he led the reluctant Milkovich into the house through the backdoor. Carl was spending the night at Little Hank’s and Debbie was at a slumber party. Ian had taken Liam to Sheila’s that morning before work. Sometimes he dropped Liam off at Sheila’s when Frank and Monica were gone for days. Sheila was probably Ian’s strongest support system this summer. She and Jody both were probably one of the strongest foundations holding the Gallaghers together as they figured out what to do now.
Ian didn’t know where Lip was, and that gave Mickey pause.
Ian stopped in the threshold to the living room and looked back at him. “Look, he usually texts me if he’s gonna be home at night. Tells me to save him dinner or something. He didn’t text me today, he’s not coming home. He’s got some summer thing going on. I don’t know. Are you coming or not?”
Mickey went. He’d never been in Ian’s room before, and it was as cluttered as the rest of the house. The entire house seemed full of years of pure crap, and a family too poor to afford to throw away this shit. The shit was recycled, from Gallagher to Gallagher. There was an empty crib pushed back against the wall, and Mickey kicked a toy out from under his foot. “Uh, there was four of us in here, before Fiona, uh left. That’s why there’s no room.” Lip had taken Fiona’s room, but sometimes he didn’t come home. Sometimes it felt like he really had never returned after Fiona kicked him out.
“Great.” Sometimes Ian just talked because he had nothing to say. Mickey didn’t understand it. Talking like that, just spewing out stupid shit, would’ve gotten him hit in his family. Mickey crowded into Ian’s space, backed him up against the desk. Ian reached behind him to shove the textbook out from under his ass and pulled Mickey in closer by the back of his neck. Mickey bit Ian’s neck and Ian tightened his fingers in Mickey’s hair, laughing breathily in Mickey’s ear. Then he saw Carl standing in the open doorway.
“Shit.” Ian sat up quickly and Mickey twisted around to catch the Gallagher runt frozen to his spot. Carl stood there, staring at the two of them for a full ten seconds before he bolted, stampeding down the hallway. Ian heard him on the stairs before Mickey took off after him. Mickey was already in the living room, by the time Ian caught up with them. Carl was under Mickey, and Mickey had a hand wrapped around Carl’s neck, and another pinned his wrist to the ground. Carl had a white knuckled grip on the killing bat. It wasn’t until Ian was closer that he saw the blood on Mickey’s face. Carl must’ve got a hit in first.
“Shit,” he repeated. “Shit, get off him.” Ian touched Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey’s eyes were wide and wild and pinning Carl to the ground more effectively than his hands could have. Carl had checked out, Ian could tell. He got that face that he sometimes got when Frank was being particularly mean. His entire face was blank, like he expected shit to go south and he just didn’t want to be there when it did, but he couldn't escape it, not physically.
“If you tell anyone what you saw,” Mickey told Carl in a very quiet, very serious tone, throat thick with swallowed blood, “I will cut your throat in your sleep.”
When Ian touched Mickey’s shoulder, it was firmer this time. And when Mickey didn’t move, Ian took the bat from Carl’s hand. Carl’s fingers spasmed around his only weapon, but he didn’t fight Ian for it. “Get the fuck off him, Mick, or I’m going to knock you on your ass.”
Mickey didn’t move. There was a still, loaded moment, where Mickey called Ian’s bluff. He didn’t move, and Carl laid still beneath him. Ian could see Mickey’s fingers digging half crescent moons into Carl’s throat. Ian could see that if he hadn’t said anything, Mickey probably would’ve gotten up on his own. Ian swung the bat. He clipped Mickey hard enough in the shoulder that the blow knocked him off of Carl and onto his back with a loud, audible ‘oomph.’
After that, everything was a blur of movement. Mickey got up, smearing blood across his face with the back of his hand. Carl scampered up off of the ground and disappeared over the back of the couch right before Mickey tackled Ian. Ian’s head smacked against the ground. He brought up the bat, and Mickey grabbed his wrist. Mickey smashed his hand down against the ground over and over again until Ian dropped the bat.
They fought like they fucked. It was all bony fists, and grappling for the upper hand. Knees grinding into the soft tissue of the stomach, fingers clutched tight around arms and necks, fisted into hair, elbows hitting mouths so hard, they go numb for a heartbeat. They fought until they could taste each other’s blood; until they were sweating, until they were too exhausted and too angry and too full of misplaced pain to move.
After Mickey got in a few good punches, and ended up on top again, Carl climbed onto his back and locked an arm around his neck. Carl jerked his arm tight until Mickey couldn’t breathe. He dug his knees into Mickey’s ribs and clung on, even after the weight of Carl tugged Mickey all the way off of Ian and onto his back; even after Mickey scratched Carl's arm red and raw as he tried to loosen the arm. Carl’s vise-like hold on Mickey didn’t falter.
Ian scrambled to his knees and wrestled with Carl’s hold on Mickey’s neck. His knuckles had gone white, and Mickey’s fingers on Carl’s arm had gone white while his face went red.
“Damnit Carl, let go.” Carl listened about as good as Mickey had. He wrapped his legs around Mickey’s stomach and dug his heels into the vulnerable skin there. The older boy was going slack in his hold and it was the most powerful thing Carl had ever felt and he never wanted to let go. He never wanted to let that sense of power slip away from him, even if the weight of Mickey on top of him was making it hard to breathe.
Ian reached around Mickey and dug his fingers into Carl’s ribs in the roughest form of tickling he had ever done. Carl jerked beneath his fingers, trying to wiggle out of his reach, but he had effectively pinned himself to the ground with Mickey. He broke down and shrieked in laughter, releasing Mickey and prying himself out from beneath the older boy.
Ian abandoned his game of tickling and pressed his fingers to Mickey’s neck, just to make sure the pulse was there. He was sweating and shaking and it took him a stuttering minute to find that pulse.
“Holy shit, Carl, you could’ve killed him. What’s the matter with you?” Ian dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood and spit across his cheek.
Carl shrugged, now on his feet, looking down at Ian kneeling over the boy who had just bloodied his face. He looked down at Ian, whose eyes had gone scary wide. Who looked very close to losing his shit. “He was hurting you. What else was I supposed to do?”
--
“Why is Mickey Milkovich sleeping on the couch?” Ian half expected to hear it coming out of Fiona’s mouth, but when he looked up, he saw Debbie standing in the doorway instead. It gave him pause.
“Carl knocked him out,” Ian answered numbly. He was at the kitchen counter, poured over a text book. He’d bombed his last Trig midterm, and it had left him listless, but he wasn’t going to stop. He was going to beat himself raw and bloody the entire way through high school and only then, once his dream was torn violently from his bruised fingers would he let it go. He signed up for late arrival for his senior year, just in case Fiona really didn't come back, but that required taking a few summer classes to make sure the late arrival didn't fuck with his GPA.
“And he hasn’t woken up yet?” Debbie asked, glancing back over her shoulder. “Does he need a doctor? His face looks broken.”
Ian watched Debbie cross the kitchen and fill up a coffee mug. “No, he woke up. And his face isn‘t broken; I checked.” Mickey had woken up last night and then spent the entire day at Ian’s. Debbie had just gotten back from her slumber party, and the only one in the house had been Carl. It was a little weird at first, but it stopped being so awkward after Carl told Mickey that he wouldn't make it within six inches of his bed, so good luck trying to kill him. After that, Carl started asking Mickey about knives and blow torches and what gun did what damage when pressed up against human skin, and Mickey didn't tell him to fuck off. But then Frank and Monica had come stumbling in, half drunk, pupils blown, smelling like liquor and body odor, and Mickey had tensed up again, even after Ian told him his parents wouldn't remember anything. They never did.
“He just wanted to crash here tonight. It’s seven o’clock, Debs. Coffee?”
“I’m thirsty,” Debbie said. She took a sip of her coffee and made a face. The coffee was a couple hours old, but Ian doubted that was the reason for the face.
“Nobody drinks coffee because they’re thirsty. You take it black now too?”
Debbie shrugged. “I’m trying new things. I’m a growing woman. I need to explore what that means - to me.”
Ian nodded. “Right. Okay. You wanna go get washed up for dinner.”
“Okay.” Debbie dumped her mug out in the sink. Clearly black was not the way to take her coffee; lesson learned. “Please tell me you’re making it again tonight. Monica always burns it. She burned macaroni and cheese last time. She microwaved it.”
“Fishsticks and French fries,” Ian said by way of answer. They came in a box. He could do that. Lip always had some summer thing to do lately. He usually didn’t get in until late, if at all, and unless Ian wanted to let he parental duties fall to Frank and Monica, he found himself stepping up more often than not.
Sometimes Lip would apologize, in the dark silence of their bed room, each word punctuated by Carl’s muted snores. And Ian would tell him it didn't matter, because Lip was putting money in the squirrel fund just like everybody else, and they all counted on that money, even if Fiona mailed them money every month. Even away from them, she was still looking out for them. Ian told him that it didn’t matter, this was a burden he could handle just fine. Fiona had been doing it since forever. Ian could do it too, except sometimes it drove him nuts, and he wondered if it had driven Fiona nuts too. She never showed it.
“Are you gonna wake up Mickey Milkovich?” Debbie asked, but she was already walking out of the kitchen, cutting through the living room. “He’s getting blood on the couch.”
Ian did wake him up, after he put the food in. Feeding times at the Gallaghers was a lot like watching animals in the wild. They all crowded in around the table, even Lip dropped in shortly after the food was on the table, and snatched what food they could get before the food was all gone. Even after they had their food, they hovered around the table, even Frank and Monica, and stayed there to eat. At the Milkoviches, they ate in front of the TV and they didn’t have designated eating times. They made their own food, and ate on their own time.
But at the Gallaghers, they ate together. It was loud; full of laughter and sharp jabs and insults were thrown like fucking pillows for all the damage they did. In this one glimpse, Ian seemed weightless. He smiled and laughed and those around him smiled and laughed too and for a minute, it was like Fiona was still there.
It made Mickey uncomfortable.
There was love here. These broken, fragile people were bleeding out so profusely, Mickey could feel it gelling under his foot, but there was so much love radiating out from them. And that love was so bright, all he could do was blink and look away; maybe shield his eyes, because it hurt, and he wasn’t even a part of it.
Afterwards, the family broke apart and scattered. Everybody disappeared upstairs and Ian caught himself clearing away the table before he even realized it. He ran a hand back over his hair and smiled at how absurd he was and Mickey felt like maybe he should say something here but everything always sounded like an insult inside of his own head. “I’m going to sleep on your couch.” It still came out like an insult.
“Okay,” Ian said, setting the dishes in the sink. He turned back to Mickey, leaning back against the counter. “Why?”
“Because I don’t think sharing your bed would be inconspicuous,” Mickey said.
Ian nodded seriously, and Mickey wondered if he knew how annoying he found that, Ian nodding at his sarcasm. It was downright disrespectful. “Why don’t you want to go home?” Ian asked.
“You know why,” Mickey countered, and he was sure Ian did know, at least partially. His brother had told him all about Terry roughing Ian up for knocking up Mandy. Mickey knew that Ian had seen Terry first hand, and it wasn’t that Terry hit Mickey or anything, even though he did, sometimes. It was that the air inside of his house was thick. It was cancerous. It was like breathing in toxic fumes and in the Gallagher house, it was like sucking down fresh air. He just wanted to stay the night, because at home, sometimes he couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry I hit you with a bat,” Ian said, and Mickey stared at him because that would be some dumbass thing Ian Gallagher would say.
“It’s cool; you hit like a girl,” Mickey countered and resisted the urge to rub his shoulder because that was a lie and Ian didn’t hit like a girl.
“Carl won’t tell anyone,” Ian continued on spewing out dumb shit that Mickey didn’t want to hear.
Mickey shrugged. “I’d kill him if he did.”
“No, you won’t,” Ian said with alarming conviction.
“Is that a fucking challenge, Gallagher?” Mickey snapped, because he didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of anyone knowing him as much as Ian did. “I will fucking cut his throat open in his sleep.”
Ian was still for a second, before the grin transformed his entire face. Mickey scowled at him, but that was only to cover up his own grin. He wouldn’t touch Carl and they both knew it. He was a little kid, a little psychopath, and even if he did talk, Mickey wouldn’t kill him; not a kid. Not a kid who had Ian’s back; even after he knew about what Ian was. Gay and shit.
Author: Roz
Fandom: Shameless US
Characters: Mickey, Ian, Debbie, Carl, mentions of Sheila, Jody, Fiona, Lip, Frank and Monica.
Warnings: Swearing, violence. Spoilers for season two, including episode eleven.
Summary: On those nights when Ian couldn’t breathe, when he was hyperventilating from shame and disappointment, he met Mickey down on the ball field.
Fiona left in May. It wasn’t unexpected, but it still hit the entire family like a blow that continued to ache well into the summer. The house felt stuffed full with Frank and Monica still there, but it felt hollow, translucent and cold. Sometimes it felt like they could see right through the walls because Fiona wasn’t there, holding the walls up. It felt empty, and so full. Ian sometimes felt like he was suffocating. The house was heavy, and it was a moving thing above him and sometimes he just had to get out, before the entire building crushed him beneath it.
He didn’t tell Mickey any of this, all those times he visited Mickey. He didn’t tell Mickey that Fiona fucked off somewhere else with Steve. Left town. Moved on. Good for her, but still fuck her. He didn’t open his mouth at all, about how she was gone and it felt like lots of pieces of the entire family had gone off with her, because those were the pieces that she owned and probably had owned for a very long time; nobody else had ever noticed it until they were forcibly torn out of them. They hurt too, gaping wounds that didn’t really heal because everybody wanted to pretend like they didn’t really exist. They were all bleeding out, screaming out in agony, and they were just too damn stubborn to stop the bleeding because stopping it meant admitting it was there.
He didn’t tell Mickey that this winter had been the worst winter of his life. He didn’t tell Mickey that his mother had spent all of their money; that she had attempted to kill herself at Thanksgiving dinner; that she had been locked up in a psychiatric ward and probably belonged there. He didn’t tell Mickey that he had lost faith in his west point dream, that he was just too damn stupid to make the cut, that nothing was working and he didn’t know what to do now and it hurt so much that sometimes he felt like crying in sheer frustration. He didn’t tell Mickey that he was going to live and die in Chicago and it was a fate he had already resigned himself to, but it was a fate that made him feel like he was drowning, nonetheless.
On those nights when Ian couldn’t breathe, when he was hyperventilating from shame and disappointment, he met Mickey down on the ball field. They sat there for a good while, in silence. Sometimes Mickey wondered if Ian would cry, but he never did.
Ian was too stubborn. Mickey never apologized for breaking things off with Ian and Ian never held him to his word; even when Mickey cornered him in the alley behind the Kash and Grab and shoved him back hard into the brick and kissed him a week after his release. They never talked about their feelings. Nothing changed. Except everything had, because every night Ian would show up with his cheeks red from running and hair disheveled from sleepless nights, matted to his forehead with sweat. Every night he would have that wide open torn apart look on his stupid face, and his eyes would be full of so many words he could publish a book with them alone, but he wouldn’t say a damn thing. They’d fuck, and they’d get so drunk and high that they couldn’t do anything but sit there in total silent honesty.
Sometimes Mickey wanted to tell Ian exactly what was on his mind. Sometimes he wanted to tell Ian that he looked fucking gorgeous when his cheeks were red and his lips were cock swollen. He looked fucking gorgeous when he smiled at Mickey’s insult, like Mickey had just given him a compliment, and sometimes Mickey had. Sometimes he wanted to tell Ian that he did miss him. That he wasted a year and a half locked up, missing him. He wanted to tell Ian that sometimes he got so scared he couldn’t breathe.
He wanted to apologize. He wanted to tell Ian that he didn’t mean any of it, that he just needed something to prop himself up with, and that had always been cruelty. Shove people away hard enough and they can never hurt you, and that’s all Mickey had meant by it. He wanted to apologize because when his father found out, Ian was as good as dead, and that was Mickey’s fault too. He wanted to apologize for Fiona and he wanted to apologize for Frank and for Monica and for crappy parents everywhere, and he wanted to apologize in advance because he knew he was going to marry some bitch and pop out a few underachieving criminals of his own and be just as crappy to them as his dad was to him. He was just so damn sorry sometimes.
Ian took Mickey home with him one night, rattling off the whereabouts of the rest of the Gallagher clan. Monica and Frank had found a party yesterday and probably wouldn’t be back for days, he told Mickey as he led the reluctant Milkovich into the house through the backdoor. Carl was spending the night at Little Hank’s and Debbie was at a slumber party. Ian had taken Liam to Sheila’s that morning before work. Sometimes he dropped Liam off at Sheila’s when Frank and Monica were gone for days. Sheila was probably Ian’s strongest support system this summer. She and Jody both were probably one of the strongest foundations holding the Gallaghers together as they figured out what to do now.
Ian didn’t know where Lip was, and that gave Mickey pause.
Ian stopped in the threshold to the living room and looked back at him. “Look, he usually texts me if he’s gonna be home at night. Tells me to save him dinner or something. He didn’t text me today, he’s not coming home. He’s got some summer thing going on. I don’t know. Are you coming or not?”
Mickey went. He’d never been in Ian’s room before, and it was as cluttered as the rest of the house. The entire house seemed full of years of pure crap, and a family too poor to afford to throw away this shit. The shit was recycled, from Gallagher to Gallagher. There was an empty crib pushed back against the wall, and Mickey kicked a toy out from under his foot. “Uh, there was four of us in here, before Fiona, uh left. That’s why there’s no room.” Lip had taken Fiona’s room, but sometimes he didn’t come home. Sometimes it felt like he really had never returned after Fiona kicked him out.
“Great.” Sometimes Ian just talked because he had nothing to say. Mickey didn’t understand it. Talking like that, just spewing out stupid shit, would’ve gotten him hit in his family. Mickey crowded into Ian’s space, backed him up against the desk. Ian reached behind him to shove the textbook out from under his ass and pulled Mickey in closer by the back of his neck. Mickey bit Ian’s neck and Ian tightened his fingers in Mickey’s hair, laughing breathily in Mickey’s ear. Then he saw Carl standing in the open doorway.
“Shit.” Ian sat up quickly and Mickey twisted around to catch the Gallagher runt frozen to his spot. Carl stood there, staring at the two of them for a full ten seconds before he bolted, stampeding down the hallway. Ian heard him on the stairs before Mickey took off after him. Mickey was already in the living room, by the time Ian caught up with them. Carl was under Mickey, and Mickey had a hand wrapped around Carl’s neck, and another pinned his wrist to the ground. Carl had a white knuckled grip on the killing bat. It wasn’t until Ian was closer that he saw the blood on Mickey’s face. Carl must’ve got a hit in first.
“Shit,” he repeated. “Shit, get off him.” Ian touched Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey’s eyes were wide and wild and pinning Carl to the ground more effectively than his hands could have. Carl had checked out, Ian could tell. He got that face that he sometimes got when Frank was being particularly mean. His entire face was blank, like he expected shit to go south and he just didn’t want to be there when it did, but he couldn't escape it, not physically.
“If you tell anyone what you saw,” Mickey told Carl in a very quiet, very serious tone, throat thick with swallowed blood, “I will cut your throat in your sleep.”
When Ian touched Mickey’s shoulder, it was firmer this time. And when Mickey didn’t move, Ian took the bat from Carl’s hand. Carl’s fingers spasmed around his only weapon, but he didn’t fight Ian for it. “Get the fuck off him, Mick, or I’m going to knock you on your ass.”
Mickey didn’t move. There was a still, loaded moment, where Mickey called Ian’s bluff. He didn’t move, and Carl laid still beneath him. Ian could see Mickey’s fingers digging half crescent moons into Carl’s throat. Ian could see that if he hadn’t said anything, Mickey probably would’ve gotten up on his own. Ian swung the bat. He clipped Mickey hard enough in the shoulder that the blow knocked him off of Carl and onto his back with a loud, audible ‘oomph.’
After that, everything was a blur of movement. Mickey got up, smearing blood across his face with the back of his hand. Carl scampered up off of the ground and disappeared over the back of the couch right before Mickey tackled Ian. Ian’s head smacked against the ground. He brought up the bat, and Mickey grabbed his wrist. Mickey smashed his hand down against the ground over and over again until Ian dropped the bat.
They fought like they fucked. It was all bony fists, and grappling for the upper hand. Knees grinding into the soft tissue of the stomach, fingers clutched tight around arms and necks, fisted into hair, elbows hitting mouths so hard, they go numb for a heartbeat. They fought until they could taste each other’s blood; until they were sweating, until they were too exhausted and too angry and too full of misplaced pain to move.
After Mickey got in a few good punches, and ended up on top again, Carl climbed onto his back and locked an arm around his neck. Carl jerked his arm tight until Mickey couldn’t breathe. He dug his knees into Mickey’s ribs and clung on, even after the weight of Carl tugged Mickey all the way off of Ian and onto his back; even after Mickey scratched Carl's arm red and raw as he tried to loosen the arm. Carl’s vise-like hold on Mickey didn’t falter.
Ian scrambled to his knees and wrestled with Carl’s hold on Mickey’s neck. His knuckles had gone white, and Mickey’s fingers on Carl’s arm had gone white while his face went red.
“Damnit Carl, let go.” Carl listened about as good as Mickey had. He wrapped his legs around Mickey’s stomach and dug his heels into the vulnerable skin there. The older boy was going slack in his hold and it was the most powerful thing Carl had ever felt and he never wanted to let go. He never wanted to let that sense of power slip away from him, even if the weight of Mickey on top of him was making it hard to breathe.
Ian reached around Mickey and dug his fingers into Carl’s ribs in the roughest form of tickling he had ever done. Carl jerked beneath his fingers, trying to wiggle out of his reach, but he had effectively pinned himself to the ground with Mickey. He broke down and shrieked in laughter, releasing Mickey and prying himself out from beneath the older boy.
Ian abandoned his game of tickling and pressed his fingers to Mickey’s neck, just to make sure the pulse was there. He was sweating and shaking and it took him a stuttering minute to find that pulse.
“Holy shit, Carl, you could’ve killed him. What’s the matter with you?” Ian dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood and spit across his cheek.
Carl shrugged, now on his feet, looking down at Ian kneeling over the boy who had just bloodied his face. He looked down at Ian, whose eyes had gone scary wide. Who looked very close to losing his shit. “He was hurting you. What else was I supposed to do?”
--
“Why is Mickey Milkovich sleeping on the couch?” Ian half expected to hear it coming out of Fiona’s mouth, but when he looked up, he saw Debbie standing in the doorway instead. It gave him pause.
“Carl knocked him out,” Ian answered numbly. He was at the kitchen counter, poured over a text book. He’d bombed his last Trig midterm, and it had left him listless, but he wasn’t going to stop. He was going to beat himself raw and bloody the entire way through high school and only then, once his dream was torn violently from his bruised fingers would he let it go. He signed up for late arrival for his senior year, just in case Fiona really didn't come back, but that required taking a few summer classes to make sure the late arrival didn't fuck with his GPA.
“And he hasn’t woken up yet?” Debbie asked, glancing back over her shoulder. “Does he need a doctor? His face looks broken.”
Ian watched Debbie cross the kitchen and fill up a coffee mug. “No, he woke up. And his face isn‘t broken; I checked.” Mickey had woken up last night and then spent the entire day at Ian’s. Debbie had just gotten back from her slumber party, and the only one in the house had been Carl. It was a little weird at first, but it stopped being so awkward after Carl told Mickey that he wouldn't make it within six inches of his bed, so good luck trying to kill him. After that, Carl started asking Mickey about knives and blow torches and what gun did what damage when pressed up against human skin, and Mickey didn't tell him to fuck off. But then Frank and Monica had come stumbling in, half drunk, pupils blown, smelling like liquor and body odor, and Mickey had tensed up again, even after Ian told him his parents wouldn't remember anything. They never did.
“He just wanted to crash here tonight. It’s seven o’clock, Debs. Coffee?”
“I’m thirsty,” Debbie said. She took a sip of her coffee and made a face. The coffee was a couple hours old, but Ian doubted that was the reason for the face.
“Nobody drinks coffee because they’re thirsty. You take it black now too?”
Debbie shrugged. “I’m trying new things. I’m a growing woman. I need to explore what that means - to me.”
Ian nodded. “Right. Okay. You wanna go get washed up for dinner.”
“Okay.” Debbie dumped her mug out in the sink. Clearly black was not the way to take her coffee; lesson learned. “Please tell me you’re making it again tonight. Monica always burns it. She burned macaroni and cheese last time. She microwaved it.”
“Fishsticks and French fries,” Ian said by way of answer. They came in a box. He could do that. Lip always had some summer thing to do lately. He usually didn’t get in until late, if at all, and unless Ian wanted to let he parental duties fall to Frank and Monica, he found himself stepping up more often than not.
Sometimes Lip would apologize, in the dark silence of their bed room, each word punctuated by Carl’s muted snores. And Ian would tell him it didn't matter, because Lip was putting money in the squirrel fund just like everybody else, and they all counted on that money, even if Fiona mailed them money every month. Even away from them, she was still looking out for them. Ian told him that it didn’t matter, this was a burden he could handle just fine. Fiona had been doing it since forever. Ian could do it too, except sometimes it drove him nuts, and he wondered if it had driven Fiona nuts too. She never showed it.
“Are you gonna wake up Mickey Milkovich?” Debbie asked, but she was already walking out of the kitchen, cutting through the living room. “He’s getting blood on the couch.”
Ian did wake him up, after he put the food in. Feeding times at the Gallaghers was a lot like watching animals in the wild. They all crowded in around the table, even Lip dropped in shortly after the food was on the table, and snatched what food they could get before the food was all gone. Even after they had their food, they hovered around the table, even Frank and Monica, and stayed there to eat. At the Milkoviches, they ate in front of the TV and they didn’t have designated eating times. They made their own food, and ate on their own time.
But at the Gallaghers, they ate together. It was loud; full of laughter and sharp jabs and insults were thrown like fucking pillows for all the damage they did. In this one glimpse, Ian seemed weightless. He smiled and laughed and those around him smiled and laughed too and for a minute, it was like Fiona was still there.
It made Mickey uncomfortable.
There was love here. These broken, fragile people were bleeding out so profusely, Mickey could feel it gelling under his foot, but there was so much love radiating out from them. And that love was so bright, all he could do was blink and look away; maybe shield his eyes, because it hurt, and he wasn’t even a part of it.
Afterwards, the family broke apart and scattered. Everybody disappeared upstairs and Ian caught himself clearing away the table before he even realized it. He ran a hand back over his hair and smiled at how absurd he was and Mickey felt like maybe he should say something here but everything always sounded like an insult inside of his own head. “I’m going to sleep on your couch.” It still came out like an insult.
“Okay,” Ian said, setting the dishes in the sink. He turned back to Mickey, leaning back against the counter. “Why?”
“Because I don’t think sharing your bed would be inconspicuous,” Mickey said.
Ian nodded seriously, and Mickey wondered if he knew how annoying he found that, Ian nodding at his sarcasm. It was downright disrespectful. “Why don’t you want to go home?” Ian asked.
“You know why,” Mickey countered, and he was sure Ian did know, at least partially. His brother had told him all about Terry roughing Ian up for knocking up Mandy. Mickey knew that Ian had seen Terry first hand, and it wasn’t that Terry hit Mickey or anything, even though he did, sometimes. It was that the air inside of his house was thick. It was cancerous. It was like breathing in toxic fumes and in the Gallagher house, it was like sucking down fresh air. He just wanted to stay the night, because at home, sometimes he couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry I hit you with a bat,” Ian said, and Mickey stared at him because that would be some dumbass thing Ian Gallagher would say.
“It’s cool; you hit like a girl,” Mickey countered and resisted the urge to rub his shoulder because that was a lie and Ian didn’t hit like a girl.
“Carl won’t tell anyone,” Ian continued on spewing out dumb shit that Mickey didn’t want to hear.
Mickey shrugged. “I’d kill him if he did.”
“No, you won’t,” Ian said with alarming conviction.
“Is that a fucking challenge, Gallagher?” Mickey snapped, because he didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of anyone knowing him as much as Ian did. “I will fucking cut his throat open in his sleep.”
Ian was still for a second, before the grin transformed his entire face. Mickey scowled at him, but that was only to cover up his own grin. He wouldn’t touch Carl and they both knew it. He was a little kid, a little psychopath, and even if he did talk, Mickey wouldn’t kill him; not a kid. Not a kid who had Ian’s back; even after he knew about what Ian was. Gay and shit.