The Odi Et Amo Gallavich fanzine is a non-profit project by @mere-mortifer and @mishervellous benefitting Brave Space Alliance

Thanks to all the angst’ side participants: Writers NotHereNJ (efficaceous) Depressedstressedlemonzest lipgallagherstan Captain_Jowl Arrowflier ms-moonlight-inn Chat_Noir12 mishervellous

Artists psychicskulldamage darthvaders-wife Sheto Steorie Filorux mere-mortifer Cover by darthvaders-wife Cover graphics by mere-mortifer With graphics by @imikhailo and @luminoustrace And playlists by @gingit-cake Featuring linearts by @wolfestw and @grumpymickmilk

CON TEN T WA R N IN G S • canon typical violence, language, themes; • mentions of abuse; • mentions of sexual assault; • minor character death; • blood; • graphic depictions of violence; • hospital settings; • bipolar depression and mania; • PTSD; • suicidal thoughts; • self-harm; • drug and alcohol abuse; • homophobia; • no happy ending.

CHECK OUT THE SPECIFIC TAGS AND SUMMARIES OF EACH WORK BY SCANNING ITS QR CODE.

ANGST SIDE “And thence we came forth to see again the stars” .................................................... 4 artwork by psychicskulldamage................................................................................... 9 “Blackbird” ...................................................................................................................... 10 artwork by darthvaders-wife...................................................................................... 13 “Didn’t want to be” ........................................................................................................ 14 artwork by sheto........................................................................................................... 17 “low”................................................................................................................................. 18 artwork by steorie......................................................................................................... 21 “we’re still dancing”...................................................................................................... 22 missed connections – let me help................................................................................ 24 “One Hundred Hours (without you here)”................................................................. 26 “A man with a vengeful plan”........................................................................................ 32 artwork by filorux........................................................................................................ 36 angst playlist.................................................................................................................. 37 artwork by mere-mortifer............................................................................................ 38

And Thence We Came Forth to See Again the Stars By @mishervellous

I There are no blunt knives in Mickey’s house. Actually, there are no regular knives in his kitchen at all.  Mickey barely remembers a time—maybe his mom was still around, maybe not—when the knives in his house were normal, and purposeful. Like the knives you’d find in the kitchen drawers of any other household. He was six when Terry handed him his first switchblade. It was covered in blood. One of his business partners—a lowlife from Pontiac— had been running some deals behind Terry’s back. Mickey knew it was the scumbag’s blood smeared on the blade because he’d watched his father stab that same switchblade through the motherfucker’s hand, and into their kitchen table just minutes before. Terry wanted to prove a point by teaching a lesson to the scumbag-from-Pontiac right in front of Mickey: nobody fucks with a Milkovich.  And the point was easily driven home. There’s an array of blades splayed across the table in front of him. It’s one am, and the summer heat is fucking unbearable. Mickey’s been cleaning the same bowie knife for a while now, obsessively tonguing at the tooth Terry’s fist had loosened with a jab to the back of his jaw earlier. His cheek is swollen too. Terry is drunk. Or high, or fucking both—it’s not like Mickey gives a fuck. He’d dragged Mickey out of his bedroom by a fistful of hair about an hour ago, and had beaten the living shit out of him for no fucking reason right after. Terry probably thinks he does have a reason, but his rambling is confusing, and nonsensical. Mickey has no idea what the fuck he did wrong this time.  Not that it fucking matters.  He gazes at the combat knives, and the field knives, and the buck knives, and the Gerbers, and the kukris, and the fucking trench knives with the wrap-around brass knuckles from the fucking war. Briefly, he eyes his father’s frantic figure as he sways back and forth from the kitchen to the couch, again and again, casting his eyes downwards back on the blades when he makes eye contact with him. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, his hands as he’s holding the bowie knife, and the cleaning rag are shaking. Mickey’s ready for the next hit—any minute now. What gets to him the most is that right before Terry had come stumbling into his room, shaking him awake, Mickey had been dreaming about Ian. For a moment there—those first few seconds after you wake up, where dreams and reality feel the fucking same—Mickey thought he’d been caught. When Terry was screaming in his ear, spittle raining on his cheek, Mickey was convinced that his father had just caught him sucking Ian’s cock. On his bed, Ian relaxed against Mickey’s pillows, elated adoration on his dumb, pretty face. When he’d started pounding Mickey’s head, punch after punch after punch, he’d thought that was it: he was gonna die. Terry knew he was a faggot now, and he was gonna die. Terry was gonna kill him. Kill Ian. That’s why—at least he fucking thinks that’s why—he’s feeling on edge right now. Like something’s different somehow. Maybe he just has a concussion or some shit. And of course, Terry’s here again. “You fucking piece of shit! I can’t fucking believe I raised such a dumb bitch like you!”  When his father lifts him by the hem of his shirt, tugging him away from the chair, and the table, Mickey does the dumbest fucking thing he could possibly do: he talks back. Maybe Terry did raise a dumb bitch afterall.  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” He screams in his father’s face, getting all up in his space for good measure. He knows—he knows he should just take it. The easiest way out of these situations is to just take it, and shut the fuck up. Stop fucking talking, shut the fuck up. But something’s different somehow. Terry is seething. He pushes Mickey against the wall, knocking the chair down along with several knives that go loudly clattering on the linoleum. “What the fuck did you just say?! You little bitch, keep being a pussy and don’t fucking talk back to me ever fucking again!” His knuckles are on Mickey’s face again, a punch, and then another. Maybe the tooth comes loose, maybe he swallows it—Mickey doesn’t fucking know. His mind is fucking blank. When he was twelve Terry stabbed him in the side after a deal gone wrong. It was the first time something so important had been deemed Mickey’s fault. It was the first time he’d fucked up on a responsibility so badly that his father had called him dumb as fuck, and a pussy, and a waste of fucking space. Mickey had believed him, because up until then he had been dumb, and a waste of fucking space for no fucking reason. It wasn’t the first time Terry had screamed those insults at him, but it was the first time Mickey had known why his father was angry with him in the first place. Now there was a reason. He had deserved it. It was the first time Terry stabbed him.  He’d felt like a pussy when Terry had woken him up earlier because he was fucking terrified of dying. Ian was in the bed with him, and he was gonna die too.  Nobody’s home. Mandy is at a friend’s house; his brothers are fuck knows where. Terry’s face is mere inches away from his, and he’s looking at Mickey wide eyed. Something’s different somehow. “You—fucking,” His father’s words are stuttered, his brows furrowed low on his frantic eyes. Something has to give, something gives. Mickey looks down, and freezes. Bowie knives have always been his favorites. They’re big, bulky motherfuckers. Unforgiving motherfuckers that can put the fear of God in a lowlife’s eye in a matter of seconds. He’s never used one on someone before. Mickey’s never killed anyone before. The half of the blade in his father’s stomach looks back at him, somehow. Something gives.  “Motherfucker!” Terry roars but—but here it is: the fear of God. The fear of God in a lowlife’s eye. Mickey breathes loudly through his nose, his own eyes matching Terry’s in width. His father’s hands are covered in his own blood when they find Mickey’s wrists, and the weakness of his grip reminds him of fighting back against someone knowing full well you are bound to lose. He looks Terry in the eyes, and pushes. Pushes, pushes, pushes. Something gives, gives until it doesn’t. Until Terry’s stumbling backwards, bringing a trail of blood along with him. Maybe there’s a loud thud when he falls to the ground, the hilt of the knife grazing the fabric of his blood-soaked tank top, but if there is, Mickey doesn’t hear it. He can’t hear anything; he can’t even think. He just stands there, paralized,

4

looming over his father’s body. Mickey’s never killed anyone before, but he’s seen people getting killed. The death rattle, the glossy irises. A human being turning into a corpse before his very eyes.  His father is looking at him, and for the first time Mickey’s not afraid of looking back. “You—you motherfucker.” It’s just a whisper, but one that Mickey hears loud and clear. There’s blood pooling in his father’s mouth. He doesn’t know, he can’t be fucking sure, but he thinks Terry dies while looking him in the eyes—still hostile. Still judging. You did this. Dumb fucking pussy, you did this. II It’s still dark outside when he’s thumping his fist on the door. Mickey has no idea how much time has passed since—since that. He still hopes this is all a fucking dream. That anytime now his father will come barging through the door of his room to yell at him about something Mickey did wrong. He would know how to handle that, he’s great at handling that. This—this on the other hand, whatever the fuck this is, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing with this. But then again, he isn’t great at handling the yelling either, is he?  The possibility that literally anyone else could open the door doesn’t even come to mind—he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there. His head is pounding.  Luckily, the person answering the door is exactly who he was hoping to see. “Dude, what the fuck? It’s two in the morning.” Ian’s hair is as disheveled as a buzzcut can get, his groggy voice, and scrunched up face the only other indication that he was sleeping. He’s shirtless, but Mickey can’t concentrate on anything but the fleeting moment of relief he feels when he sees him. When Ian recognizes him, his eyes widen. “Mickey? What are you doing here?”  Mickey’s voice dies in his throat. He feels the back of his eyes burn. Now’s not the time to be a fucking pussy. Man up. Man the fuck up. “Mick?” Ian’s tone is full of unconcealed worry, and when Mickey’s eyes land on his face he looks confused, and alarmed. Fuck. “What happened?”  He swallows once, twice before he can manage to finally speak. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. “I killed him.” Something’s brewing in his chest. Ian can probably tell he’s shaking—because he’s an attentive motherfucker, and Mickey fucking hates him for it. “I fucking killed him.” There’s a bit of silence, and Mickey is one second away from turning around, and booking it. This was a fucking mistake. Getting Ian involved in this shitshow of a night was a mistake. He shouldn’t be here. Ian can’t see this; can’t see Mickey becoming his father’s equal. The outcome of his inherited fucked up nature. The inevitable disgust on his face is something Mickey can’t possibly fucking handle right now.  “What are you talking about?” But of course, it’s never that easy with him. If anything, Ian looks even more worried—for Mickey. “Mickey, what are you talking about?” Ian looks around the front yard then, up and down the road next, before opening the door wider. “Come in. We can’t talk about this here.” “I’m not fucking going anywhere. I don’t need to talk, I just need your fucking help.” Please is on the tip of his tongue. Ian looks bewildered for a split second, before schooling his expression into a steadier one.  “Okay.” He nods, moving away from the door, and into the house. Mickey should be weirded out at how easily Ian’s willing to go with whatever the fuck Mickey’s throwing his way. Right now, though, he’s just fucking grateful not to be alone in this. “Okay, gimme a second.”  III He’s been pacing the same path Terry had been walking not a couple of hours before. Back and forth, from the kitchen to the couch. Ian’s been silent for a while now, probably just taking the whole thing in. The entire house reeks of blood. “Mickey, what happened?” “Would you stop asking stupid fucking questions?” Mickey sputters, looking at him, and noticing his strangely collected expression. He almost looks curious; non-judgmental. “Does it fucking matter? He’s dead. We need to get rid of him.” Ian comes closer to him then, eyeing his swollen cheek, and busted lip. He snaps his eyes to Mickey’s. “Was it self-defense?” Mickey swallows. “And why would that fucking matter, Gallagher?” He doesn’t like how croaky his own voice sounds. “If you’re not gonna help me, then get the fuck out.” “You were just defending yourself, weren’t you?” Ian has this understanding look on his face—and he tenses up ever so slightly too, like Mickey potentially being in danger is a big deal to him—and Mickey hates it so fucking much. It’s unbearable, to be looked at like he’s still a fucking human being despite the gruesome scene at their feet. Despite him being the culprit. “You were scared and—” “Ay,” Mickey snaps, getting in his personal space, and grabbing a handful of his green tank top. “Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit. I wasn’t fucking scared.” He can see Ian’s Adam’s apple bobbing as it’s his turn to swallow now. “I ain’t fucking scared.”  Because he’s not. He wasn’t scared. When Terry was on him, he wasn’t scared. As a matter of fact, he’s more terrified of that: of the lack of reasoning behind what he’s done. It wasn’t self-defense, or whatever bullshit Ian’s spewing. He doesn’t know what the fuck happened, and he’s scared shitless of that. Regardless, Ian needs to shut up. He needs to shut the fuck up. “I’m not a bitch. I’m not a fucking bitch.” Ian wraps his fingers around Mickey’s wrist, looking down at the bunched up tank top in his grasp then back up into his eyes. “Alright.”  “I’m not fucking scared. Don’t ever say shit like that again.” “I won’t.” Ian’s thumb is tracing a pattern on the inside of Mickey’s wrist. Mickey’s eyes are burning again as he releases the fabric in his hand. He keeps his arm where it is, soothed by Ian’s touch, and presence despite himself. “I won’t.”  He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but after a while Mickey doesn’t feel like he’s going fucking crazy anymore.  When he comes back to it, and realizes Ian is still touching him—comforting him—Mickey pulls away from him like he’s been burned. He sniffs a couple of times, looking around the kitchen, and rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “Fuck.”  Mickey finds a dusty tarp in Terry’s room, and together they manage to wrap the body up with ease. He dislodges the bowie knife from his father’s stomach, swallowing back the bile before mindlessly throwing the blade on the ground.  He finds the forged keys to the battered Honda Civic his brothers had managed to steal two weeks ago, opening the trunk and, with Ian’s help, he carefully brings the wrapped up body near the car. It doesn’t take long before they can get it into the trunk, closing it forcefully. Mickey’s shaking like a maniac, and the exertion has little to do with it. “I’ll clean up. Get in the car.”  Ian doesn’t wait for an answer—Mickey’s brain is too slowed down to formulate one in time anyway—and he’s left there near the Civic

5

with his dad’s fucking corpse inside.  Mickey doesn’t follow Ian’s instructions; he doesn’t get in the car. He somehow manages to light up a smoke through his shaking hands, letting it dangle from his lips while he opens the trunk of the car again. After looking around the block to make sure no one’s lurking, he just stares at Terry’s covered up body, and lets his mind wander.  He wasn’t scared. He doesn’t remember being scared. So, why—why would he do that? It was an accident. Just a fucking accident. Mickey wouldn’t kill his own fucking father just for drunkenly screaming some nonsense into his face. What the fuck happened? Mickey is not Terry. He’s a fuck up, and a lowlife—but he wouldn’t do this. He doesn’t do this. But he did.  How could he not be his father’s equal? He’s exactly like him—probably even worse than him. Mickey just killed his own blood. He just killed one of his own. Terry would’ve killed him too—Terry tried to kill him too before, sure. But he had reasons to. Fucked up, stupid, shitty reasons, but he had reasons to. Mickey being a dumb kid, a worthless roach in his father’s walls—Mickey being a faggot would’ve been reason enough for Terry to kill him. A questionable reason, but a reason nonetheless. Mickey didn’t even have that. He didn’t have a reason to. He didn’t have a fucking reason to. “Mick.” Ian’s voice snaps him out of his reverie, and Mickey looks up at him, at his worried expression. Ian places a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, gently pulling him away from the car while closing the trunk back up. He lets his palm linger on Mickey’s arm for a second, before going to grab the car keys from Mickey’s hand. “The fuck are you doing?” Mickey clutches the keys harder then, staring daggers at Ian who simply shakes his head. “I’m not letting you drive. You’re in shock, Mickey.” “Fuck out of here with that bullshit.” He says, backing away. “I’m not a fucking pussy. I’m driving.” He nods to the passenger side. “Get in the fucking car.” As he rounds up to the driver’s side, he realizes he could technically take it from here. He doesn’t need Ian’s help anymore. But as he gets into the rundown car, as he starts the engine while Ian buckles up beside him, he doesn’t remind Ian of that. IV They’ve been parked near a small lake on the outskirts of Chicago for about ten minutes now. Ian is silent while Mickey’s mind is spinning, running wild with a new epiphany. Ian is his accomplice. He’s an accessory to murder. If someone finds out, if the police finds out, he’s fucking done. All his dumb army fantasies will be taken away from him. If anyone finds out, he won’t get to go to West Point. He’ll spend years, and years in jail.  Ian deserves to get out of this shithole, and he won’t be able to now.  And it’s all Mickey’s fault.  “Look, I’ll get rid of this car tomorrow. It’ll be gone, okay?” Ian doesn’t say anything—he didn’t ask Mickey anything to prompt that kind of answer from him anyway—but Mickey needs to say this, needs him to listen. He needs Ian to know this. “You won’t get involved.” “Mick, listen—” “No, you fucking listen to me.” His vice-like grip on the steering wheel is turning his knuckles ashen. “If they come looking for him and notice something, or if they find fuck knows what in my house that links back to you, I won’t snitch.” He brings one of his hands up to his face, rubbing his mouth. “I won’t fucking snitch.” Not snitching won’t always work. They could still catch him. If Mickey’s caught, so be it—he was destined to rot in jail from the beginning. But not Ian. Not Ian. “Fuck!” Mickey doesn’t fucking care if he fucks up the car as he’s punching the dashboard, repeatedly. If he could tear this piece of shit up with his bare hands he’d do it. He’d do it right fucking now. His breathing is laboured when he can properly hear again. Ian is holding onto his wrist, his other hand on Mickey’s cheek where he’s turning Mickey’s head to face him. Ian is closer when he can properly see again. “Nothing’s gonna happen, Mick. Alright? We’re not going to jail. I promise.” But Ian doesn’t know that, does he? Ian can’t possibly fucking know that. Mickey would usually make a snarky remark about his stupid, naïve optimism, but right now he would love nothing more than to be a stupid, naïve optimist himself. V Mickey’s never seen so many stars in his life. The sky above Chicago is completely dressed in them, and it’s such a breathtaking sight that Mickey almost envies those maudlin couples that get to gaze at a sky like this, and just be. It’s not his first time smelling the stench of a burning body mingled with the smell of burning plastic. But it’s the first time he has to do everything in his power not to retch because of it. Mickey didn’t want to kill Terry. Whether it was self-defense or whatever the fuck, he didn’t mean to kill him. He doesn’t know if this understanding makes this fucked up ordeal better or worse. But either way—it doesn’t fully explain it. There’s something there, something different. Something’s different somehow, and a misstep doesn’t fully explain it.  He’s been trying to light this fucking smoke for a minute now, and he’s almost tempted to just get up, and take advantage of the fire currently enveloping his father’s remains to get it done. He’s shaking so bad again that he might just do it—it’d be easier. Ian is there in front of him the next second though, taking the lighter from his hand, and producing a flame in a heartbeat. When Mickey looks up at him while the tip of his cigarette is beginning to ignite, Ian gives him a small smile.  Mickey hates it so much. He hates this soft, understanding, empathic motherfucker so much; Ian, who keeps looking at him like Mickey’s something redeemable even after everything that’s just happened.  Ian, who’s always looking at him like he’s worth more than the grime under someone’s sole. Something’s different when Ian sits down next to Mickey on the log near the lake, under the stars, smelling like gasoline, and smoke. While Mickey smokes, and his eyes burn like a motherfucker, and the burning has nothing to do with the pyre right in front of them, Ian just presses closer to him, and Mickey hates it. He hates that he doesn’t mind Ian’s closeness; he hates craving Ian’s comforting touch.  But he doesn’t move. He’s so close to Ian, right in front of Terry, when he realizes that nothing’s gonna happen. No one’s gonna call him a faggot; no one’s gonna try to kill him for indulging this. And maybe it was just an accident, maybe he didn’t mean to kill his father, but something’s different, and he has a feeling Ian might be the reason why. “It was an accident.” The only person who’d call him a pussy for sounding so broken, and weak is turning into ashes right in front of him. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t wanna fucking kill him.” The light projecting onto them is the only shimmering remains of the last link forcing him

6

into a life of hiding, and lying. When Ian presses against him even closer, Mickey actually leans into him, just a little. Just a little. “I believe you.” And though that’s all Mickey needs to hear right now, like Ian’s understanding is somehow even better than Ian’s forgiveness, Ian keeps talking. “But honestly? I wouldn’t care anyway.”  Mickey could’ve done it on purpose, could’ve killed his father on purpose, and Ian wouldn’t have cared still. He would have taken Mickey’s side regardless.  Mickey sniffles, and the first few tears slide scorching down his cheeks. As Ian presses a tentative kiss on his shoulder that Mickey knows he should recoil from, he knows what’s different at last: he was tired. He was so fucking tired. It was an accident, and Mickey didn’t mean to kill his father, but he was just so fucking tired. “It’s over, okay?” Why should he cower from Ian’s touch anymore, from his arm wrapping around Mickey’s shoulders? It’s over. The last connection between Mickey, and most of his crippling fears is over. It will never be completely over, Mickey knows that. But Ian knew. Ian knew, somehow, that something was different this time—so he almost blindly believes him as he keeps Mickey there, grounded. “It’s over.” VI “Where the fuck are we going?” “To my house.”  “Fuck no, Gallagher.” Mickey looks at him with an irritated expression. Ian just pointedly keeps his eyes on the road, driving down the familiar Southside streets. It’s still dark out. “I’m not going to your fucking house.” “And I’m not leaving you alone.” Ian’s tone is stubborn, final. This motherfucker. “Fuck you, I’m fine.” Mickey looks outside the window as they drive past his block. “Aight, you know what?” He gets as far as unlocking the car door while the Civic is still running before Ian hits the brakes, leaning onto the passenger side to block Mickey’s arm. “What’s your fucking problem?!” “I told you, I’m not leaving you alone. So, if you want me to take you back to your house, I will.” Ian slams the car door shut once again, looking into Mickey’s eyes with his patented stubborn determination. He’s so close that Mickey could kiss him. He pushes away the thought. “But I’m coming with you.”  Mickey swallows, looking away from him before sighing. This motherfucker. “Fucking fine, Jesus fuck.” He pushes Ian away from him, and back into his seat. “Just drive, fucking drama queen.”  Ian has this dumb victorious smirk on his lips when he resumes his driving, and Mickey wants nothing more than to punch it off his stupid face. He doesn’t know what the point of this is, how Ian staying on his ass would make anything better—but then again, he does actually know. And he fucking hates it.  When they make it to North Wallace, and into Ian’s house, the place is dark, and silent. Every Gallagher is seemingly fast asleep still, and Mickey’s fucking grateful for that. He goes to sit on the couch, kicking his shoes off before Ian speaks quietly. “Woah, hey, what are you doing?” When Mickey just raises his eyebrows in a what the fuck is it to you? manner, Ian shakes his head. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.” “Where else would I fucking sleep?” “In my bed.” Ian rolls his eyes, and immediately cuts Mickey’s protests off by adding, “Lip’s not home, I’ll sleep in his bed. You need to rest properly, and that’s final.” He scrunches up his nose then, smirking. “And you need a shower too.” Ian silently snickers when Mickey flips him off. He gets up from the couch, and begrudgingly follows him up the stairs. Mickey looks around Ian’s room when the latter is rummaging through his drawers for some clothes, looking at Carl and how messily he's splayed on his bed, and over at Liam’s crib. He relaxes ever so slightly. No one’s gonna give a shit here. They won’t give a shit.  “Here.” Ian dumps some clothing items into Mickey’s arms, pushing him towards the hallway. “You go first.” Mickey looks down at Ian’s spare shirt, and boxers, then back up into his expecting face. No one’s gonna give a shit here. He rolls his eyes, shouldering past Ian, and out of the bedroom.  While he’s getting undressed in the cramped bathroom, Mickey tries to avoid the cabinet mirror like the plague. He only steals a brief glance at his own reflection before getting in the shower, looking at his busted face, and at the last of Terry’s bruises, and cuts. The last marks Terry will ever leave on his skin. And Mickey doesn’t care if he ends up using all the hot water, he doesn’t care if his skin is turning pink, then a splotchy, angry red—because while the smell of Ian’s shampoo, and body wash fills his nostrils, and senses, helping, he needs these last reminders of his father to go the fuck away.  The water is gruesomely tinted as it pools at his feet, but Mickey doesn’t give a fuck. It’s over, and he’s tired.  Ian’s clothes smell so much like him they almost make Mickey dizzy. He looks down at the faded Nirvana logo on the old t-shirt, smoothing his busted hand over the fabric. He takes a few deep breaths. Ian’s waiting for him on the bed when he gets back, getting up as soon as he notices that Mickey’s done. He looks worried. “You okay?”  It’s not a great sign that, apparently, Mickey looks as shitty as he feels. His head is pounding again, and so is his injured hand. “I’m fucking fine, Florence Nightingale. Stop worrying about me.”  Mickey sits down on the bed, only allowing himself to deflate a little when the door to the bathroom closes, and the shower starts running. He glances out the window above Ian’s bed, and the stars are still looking back at him brighter than anything Mickey’s ever seen. So much so that Mickey has to look away, shielding his face with his hands, and scrubbing his eyes hard. His head is pounding, and spinning. This night has been so fucking bizarre. It started with Mickey thinking he was gonna die at the hands of his father, and ended with Terry’s burnt remains getting dumped in a lake. With Ian insisting that Mickey not be alone for the night, like the bleeding heart that he fucking is. Mickey’s fine, he’s told him he’s fucking fine—but he’s glad Ian never fucking listens. He’s glad Ian didn’t believe him this time. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, hunched down on himself, but not before long Ian’s towering in front of him, handing him a couple of pills. “So they won’t hurt like a bitch tomorrow.” He nods his chin at Mickey’s swollen hand, and face. Mickey accepts the Percocet, swallowing it dry while flipping the glass of water in Ian’s hand off. Ian just rolls his eyes, smiling. Then. Then he just stands there, looking at Mickey. It’s that look again; that understanding, fucking soft gaze of his. Like Mickey’s it for him.  “The fuck you looking at?” Mickey sniffs, looking away. When Ian’s being like this, it’s like staring directly into the fucking sun. He can’t handle it. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to. It’s over, and Terry’s dead, but Mickey doesn’t know if he’ll ever not be afraid of Ian’s blatant yearning, and love. “Mick?” Please don’t say it. Please don’t fucking say it. Ian bumps Mickey’s knee with his leg, whispering, “I’m so fucking proud of you.” 

7

Mickey doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than what he was expecting. And then Ian just goes out of the bedroom, still-full glass of water in hand, leaving Mickey to unpack that.  Ian’s proud of him. Mickey killed Terry, and Ian’s proud of him. It’s more than that, way fucking more than that, and Mickey knows it— but it doesn’t matter. Right now, it doesn’t matter. When Ian comes back into the room, he stalls by the entrance for a bit. Mickey looks at him just as Ian is throwing Lip’s pillow on the ground next to his bed, laying Lip’s sheets there next. Before Mickey can say anything, Ian is sitting on the ground next to Mickey’s legs. He lays down on the floor, adjusting the pillow against the drawers, and turning to face Mickey—who is at a loss for words. Ian pats his ankle. “Go to sleep.” “What the fuck are you doing?” “What does it look like I’m doing?” Mickey’s too tired to point out that he doesn’t need a fucking babysitter. That he doesn’t need Ian laying next to him on the ground, like Mickey’s some kind of fucking toddler ready to fall at any moment. So he just curses under his breath, laying down on Ian’s bed. Ian’s pillow smells so much like him too, it’s intoxicating. Ian is looking at him from his makeshift bed on the floor, that relaxed, grounding expression of his that Mickey—Mickey doesn’t know if he hates it anymore. He doesn’t know anything at this point.  And Mickey looks back. For a while, Mickey just looks back. “Sleep.” Ian eventually whispers, adjusting his face against the pillow.  “It ain’t that fucking easy.” Because Mickey might be incredibly tired, but he also feels like he could stay awake for days on end. He feels so dead, and so alive at the same fucking time.  Ian shrugs. “It can be if you try. Just close your eyes.” And then it’s like Mickey is looking at him for the first time in that entire night right now, and Ian looks so fucking tired too. He has bags under his reddened eyes, and he’s paler than usual. He looks so fucking tired, and yet—yet so relaxed. Content, almost.  “How do you fucking do it?” That question takes them both by surprise. Ian shoots a curious expression his way. “Do what?” “That. This.” Mickey gestures towards him, between them, before scrubbing a hand down his own face. “Being hopeful and shit. Seeing the good in everyone, and every fucking thing all the time, or whatever the fuck. It looks fucking exhausting.” Ian just smiles then, sheepishly. This small, almost embarrassed smile. Like what he does, and what he is for others—for Mickey—it’s no big deal. Like it’s whatever. Like Ian believing in, and loving a fucked for life scumbag like him has not been life-fucking-changing for Mickey.  He scans his green eyes across Mickey’s face before shrugging again. “It’s worth it,” and when he adds, “It’s worth it every time.” Mickey knows what Ian means.  And for the first time, Mickey doesn’t hate it. Doesn’t hate it one fucking bit. VII Mickey was ten when Terry told him that love makes a man weak. And that when you’re weak, you’re nothing but a bitch. And a Milkovich is no bitch.  He was five when Terry told him to grit his teeth, and punch back.  He was eight when Terry told him to always sleep with one eye open. He was eleven when Terry knocked him unconscious for the first time.  He was ten when Terry told him what a faggot was.  He was eleven when Terry told him that Milkoviches hated, and killed faggots.  He was twelve when Terry told him he better not be a faggot or he wouldn’t hesitate killing him too.  He was seventeen when Mickey met Ian Gallagher, and was told for the first time that he was worth the time of day; when Ian Gallagher started proving Terry’s lies wrong, one after the other, Mickey was seventeen. He’s nineteen, and he killed Terry because he was tired of hearing him talk; because he was—is—ready to give Ian a chance to speak now. The floor is his; Mickey’s ready to finally hear him out.  Mickey does sleep that night, although it almost seems impossible at first.  But he listens to Ian’s advice: he just closes his eyes—and really this has been more of a fucking singularity than a real day because sheathed in Ian’s smell, with the Chicago sky awash with stars for the first time in its life, and Terry Milkovich dead, Mickey swears he can breathe a little easier now.  He’s nineteen when Ian Gallagher tells him that it’s over.  And Mickey believes him, and can finally sleep.

8

9

Blackbird

by @Depressedstressedlemonzest

Ian’s eyes blinked open, groggily, he had been in a deep numb sleep, something had woken him up. He sat up and looked around the room, his brothers still snoring away. His ears perked as a noise reverberated on the small bedside table, a blue light emitting from the tiny screen. Confused he reached for the small cracked phone glancing at the time, it was after midnight, and Mandy was calling him. Fear and worry gripped him for his friend, she didn’t usually call him, and especially not around this time. He was wide awake now and he tapped the green button and held the phone up to his ear as he yanked the covers off himself and padded to the hall to keep from waking his brothers. “Mandy?" He whispered into the receiver walking down the stairs. He heard a muffled sound in the background of someone moaning. “Ian, can you come over? Something’s wrong with Mickey.” Mandy’s voice was thick with tears. Ian hesitated for a moment, he wanted to teleport to the Milkovich house, but if Terry were to see him it would only make things even worse for Mickey than they already were. “Is your dad there?” He asked, his voice small, the question making him feel like a coward. “No, he left, went drinking with his friends, shouldn’t be back tonight.” Mandy answered. Ian felt a wave of relief, “What’s wrong with Mickey?” He asked Mandy, his brow furrowing as he began to look for his shoes. “He’s asleep, but he keeps screaming, crying, thrashing around in the bed, the only thing he’s said that makes sense is your name. I’ve tried waking him up, but he won’t open his eyes.” Mandy’s voice was full of worry. Ian shoved his feet into his beat-up tennis shoes, “I’m on my way, I’ll be there soon. Just, just stay with him.”  He shoved the phone in his pocket and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Ian broke out in a run towards the Milkovich house, towards Mickey. The silent dark streets echoing the sounds of his shoes pounding against the pavement. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he tried to get there faster, to Mickey, he had to get to Mickey. The ground blurred beneath him as he pushed his legs harder, faster, his lungs began to strain, and his side began to cramp, but he didn’t care. There was only one thing he cared about right now: Mickey. He reached the Milkovich house, panting for breath as he wearily climbed the stairs of the porch. Raising his hand, he knocked. As he waited for Mandy to open it, he tried to catch his breath. The door flung open, Mandy stood there surprised. She hadn’t seen him since Terry had gotten ahold of him. “What the hell happened to you?” She asked pulling the door open wide enough to let him inside.  “Nothing, where’s Mickey?” He asked, his question answered a moment later by the pained cry piercing the air. “Iiiiiaaaaaan!” a wail from Mickey’s room made Ian’s blood run cold. If he didn’t know better, he would think that Mickey was in a mortally wounded pain. Ian’s body jerked nearly tripping over himself as he raced to Mickey’s room, he needed to get to him, needed to help him, needed to do anything to stop the pain he was in. Ian yanked Mickey’s door open and reeled to a stop as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, the only source of light coming from a streetlight peeking In the window. The light illuminated Mickey, and Ian felt his insides twist as he appraised the bruises and cuts still so fresh looking on his porcelain skin, the marks from Terry’s pistol and fists marking Mickey in hues of blue and dark purple. Gashes slashed against his temple reaching to the corner of his eye where the barrel and lever had dug into his skin and dragged blunt cuts across the face Ian had only moments beforehand decorated with kisses. Anxiety and exhaustion were raked across Mickey’s face, puffiness under his eyes, lines reaching from his nose to the corners of his mouth so deeply etched there that Ian was surprised Mickey was able to fall asleep in the first place. The bottom corner of Mickey’s jaw was marred with a such a discolored purple tone that Ian was sure Terry had bruised his jaw with how hard he had hit him. Ian felt a stab of anger and anguish as he looked at the one he loved, curled in on himself, his back against the wall, his hands knotted against the threadbare blanket tangled around him. His brows furrowed, the little lines in between his eyebrows deeply carved into his skin. His dark hair, ruffled from sleep, was sticking up in different directions, part of it was on his face casting a shadow over his nose. Ian exhaled sharply and crossed the room, crouching next to Mickey’s bed. He reached a shaky hand across the sheets and lightly touched the side of Mickey’s face. His hand wavering there, the pads of his fingers lightly grazing his cheek. “Mickey?” Ian murmured gently. Mickey’s brow furrowed deeper, and a low whimper escaped him, “Don’t hurt Ian.” Ian let his touch be more solid against Mickey’s face, his warm hands against his cool skin, “Mick, it’s okay.” Ian crooned “Not Ian.” Mickey moaned; his voice pained as he curled tighter in on himself. Ian leaned in closer to Mickey, his face hovering over his, his lips close to his ear, “Mick, I’m here, it’s me Ian.” Ian murmured earnestly, his fingertips caressing the side of his face carefully. Mickey’s eyes opened wide and wild with fear. He jerked up and pushed himself up and threw his back against the wall looking madly around the room, disoriented and frantic, his breathing deep and fast, panting. “Hey, hey, Mickey it’s okay.” Ian’s voice was soft, trying to deescalate Mickey’s anxiety. Mickey’s eyes stopping on Ian at his gentle tone, realization flashing over his face. “Ian?” Mickey breathed in ragged breaths, Ian’s name tumbling from his lips like a prayer. “Yeah, Mick it’s me, I’m here.” Ian murmured his hands falling to the top of the bed. Mickey closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side, trying to erase the things he had been seeing in his dreams. His heart rate was

10

so fast he could hear the blood beating in his ears like a drum, pounding. “Mickey?” Ian murmured. Mickey’s eyes flashed open to look at Ian, his face was pinched with worry and his skin was paler than normal making his freckles stand out, bruises decorating his face where Terry had hurt him. Mickey took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, “I’m okay.” He muttered, his chin dropping to his chest, ashamed of himself, ashamed that he was unable to keep his stupid cries to himself, ashamed that Ian had to see what happened, ashamed that he couldn’t protect Ian. Wordlessly Ian climbed onto the bed and crawled next to Mickey, his back against the wall. Ian slipped an arm over Mickey’s shoulders. Mickey jerked away from Ian’s touch, as if it pained him. “Don’t.” He protested, his voice pained and wavering with the single syllable, and covering his face with his hands, starting to feel his eyes well with tears. Ian waited patiently, letting Mickey relax a moment before trying again, aching to comfort him. “I said don’t.” Mickey snapped, slapping Ian’s hand away from him and scooting to the side. Ian felt his heart clench at the rejection, tears in his own eyes, “Mick, I just, I just want you to know I’m here. For you.” He stuttered out biting his bottom lip to keep from stuttering further. They sat in silence for a moment, the air thick and crackling between them, their emotions too big for their bodies. Mickey drew his knees to his chest, resting his wrists on them and letting his hands dangle. He sighed deeply, his shoulders falling with the exhale. He turned to Ian, his discolored face looking up at him, his eyes watery, “Ian,” He breathed. Ian didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Mickey and pull him close, Mickey buried his face into Ian’s chest, gently rocking him side to side. “I can’t get it out of my head man, I can’t escape it. Every time I close my eyes, I see my dad hurting you, seeing you in pain. I see the look of pure hate and disgust and disappointment in his eyes when he looked at me. I see, her on top of me, I feel her on top of me, the weight of her, on my chest. I see the way you looked at me when it was happening.” Mickey choked out his tears making his voice thick, his shoulders shuddering. Ian held him closer to him, holding him tighter in his arms, “Mickey, I’m so sorry, I tried to get to the gun safe to get one to use, but before I could he had his pistol pointed at me. I tried; I didn’t want him to hurt you.” Ian gasped as tears began trickling down his face, down his cheeks and into Mickey’s hair. “Hey, I know, I know you tried.” Mickey sniffed his hand reaching up and cupping Ian’s face, the pads of his thumbs wiping away Ian’s tears, then gingerly tracing the bruises his father had left. “I don’t blame you for any of it.” Mickey murmured firmly. “Doesn’t mean I don’t blame myself.” Ian muttered, his arms tightening around Mickey’s shoulders. A roaring noise thundered through the house, Ian and Mickey could hear Terry’s voice booming through the thin walls, “WHERE IS THAT FUCKING FAGGOT?!” His voice screamed. “Dad he’s sleeping.” Mandy’s voice was loud, a warning tone for Mickey and Ian. “Fuck.” Mickey whimpered looking up at Ian, sliding out from his embrace. “Hide.” He hissed at him. Ian scrambled off the bed as he heard Terry grunt and heard a loud slap, he could hear Mandy’s whimpers as he dove into the closet with the rickety slatted doors pulling them closed. Ian could see through the slats, Terry thundering in the room, the door slamming open, Mickey flinching on the bed at his dad’s shouts of incomprehensible rage. “Dad,” Mickey started his tone low, his hands up to protect his already injured face. Terry’s feet stamped across Mickey’s floor, as he crossed it his voice booming full of rage, “Pregnant! You got that fucking whore pregnant!” As he screamed, he gripped Mickey’s shirt in his fist and yanked him up to his face, spittle flying onto Mickey’s cheek. Ian eyed the gun on Terry’s hip hoping, praying to a God he didn’t know if he believed in, that Terry wouldn’t hurt Mickey more than he already had. “Dad, I can’t be the father of her kid.” Mickey’s voice was small. His dad had to know that he couldn’t be the father, it hadn’t even been long enough to know if she was pregnant or not. “Why because you’re a fucking faggot?” Terry snapped reaching a fist up and striking Mickey on the nose, blood spurting from his nostrils and trailing down his face. Ian felt his stomach churn as well as his heart pounding, he reached up to open the closet door–he could take Terry by surprise, give Mickey a chance to run. “No.” Mickey gasped, his gaze flitting to the closet, as if he knew what Ian was thinking. “No?!” Terry roared. “No, because, it hasn’t been enough time for her to even know she was pregnant.” Mickey panted. “It’s been long enough.” Terry spat out flinging Mickey back onto the bed. Mickey sputtered as he righted himself, “Dad,” he protested. Terry slammed a fist into Mickey’s side, Mickey groaned in pain, Terry jabbed his fist higher into Mickey’s side. Ian whimpered into the hand he had covering his mouth, tears streaming down his face. Terry glared down at Mickey and spat on the floor, “Have to fucking abort it, or marry her.” Terry muttered to himself. He looked up to Mickey, “You aren’t worth the price of an abortion.” Mickey winced as he looked up at Terry, blood still streaming down his face. “You weren’t worth the price of it when you were in Laura’s gut, and you aren’t worth it now. Have to figure this shit out.” Terry pointed a finger at Mickey and then spun around slamming the door behind him. Ian waited a beat, Mickey lied still on the bed, looking at the door until they heard the front door slam shut and the car engine roar to life. Mickey scrambled up and looked out the window, wincing as he moved, cupping his side. “He’s gone.” Mickey muttered, walking slowly back to the bed and lying on it. Ian burst from the closet and ran into the connecting bathroom wetting a washcloth he rushed to Mickey and gently dabbed at the blood covering his lips and trailing down his chin. Mickey flinched as Ian wiped the blood away. “I’ll be right back, I’ll get some ice for your side.” Ian murmured rising to head out of the room. “No, don’t, don’t bother.” Mickey said grabbing Ian’s hand, “Just, c’mere.” Mickey gave Ian’s hand a tug, moving toward the head of the

11

bed. Mickey moved towards the wall as Ian slid into the bed next to him. Mickey rolled over to face the wall, his shoulders drawn in. Ian reached up and gently wrapped his arms around him, his hands intertwining over Mickey’s chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath his fingertips. Ian scooted closer, Mickey stiffened for a moment, his defenses still up on the edge, fear rolling through him with every breath. As Mickey lied there in Ian’s arms he felt the fear in the pit of his stomach, fear for his future, fear for Ian, fear for their relationship the feeling of hopelessness crashing over him as his mind wreaked havoc. “It’ll be okay Mick.” Ian murmured, his lips pressing a kiss against Mickey’s neck. Feeling the tension radiating off him. Mickey grunted in response, knowing that if he spoke, he would choke up and tears would fall, he didn’t want Ian to see him cry any more than he already had. Ian buried his lips in the soft short hairs at the nape of Mickey’s neck and began to hum to him an old Beatles song that Monica used to sing when she was sad, the sad tone, the haunting words always stuck with him. But the small shreds of hope in the lyrics is what made Ian think of it now. “You were only waiting for this moment to be free.” Ian sang in a murmur, his voice low and gentle, soothing Mickey as his breathing slowed, his heartbeat calmed, and as his eyes began to flicker closed. Ian kept humming, singing the stray line every so often, until his own eyes began to close, and his breathing slowed, his arms still tightly wrapped around Mickey, keeping him close, keeping him safe.

12

13

Didn’t Want to Be By @lipgallagherstan

Ian doesn’t mind the monotony of being reminded to take his pills every single day. The very act of taking them into his hands and swallowing them gives him something to focus on, rather than reflecting too deeply on the other issues weighing deeply on his mind. Since the time he has left the hospital, he still struggles to discern the next course of action to take.  His mind wanders during the mornings after he has taken his pills, wondering what life would be like if this had never happened. He dares to wonder how much “better” he would be if Monica wasn’t his mother. If all of this fucking trauma did damage him the way it did. The irrevocable damage done by being forced to be the son of Frank Gallagher. All of it just bounces around his mind, a welcome distraction from what is really going on. Mickey Milkovich. The love of his life. The bane of his existence. The duality is painful, but he doesn’t know how to handle the situation anymore. He has broken down so many times, thinking about what the loss means. He hates how he can still close his eyes and think about the way he remembers when their limbs first entangled, the first kiss, all of the messes. Everything Ian anticipated was going to last forever, and he can barely handle how he is forced to decide his next course of action so soon.  “Are you alright?” Debbie’s voice shakes him away from his thoughts, coercing him back to the present. She is standing there with a glass of water, her head tilted in concern. Ian lets out a breath, nods slowly. “Yeah, I am fine. I was just thinking,” he says, brushing off the darker thoughts swirling around. He isn’t ready to open that Pandora’s box quite yet.  Debbie pushes some hair behind her ear, takes a sip of water. “What are you thinking about so hard?” Ian hates how Debbie knows him so well, the way she has been able to read him like a book. He isn’t quite ready to share all his inner thoughts, but he knows she isn’t going to relent until he contributes something more to the conversation.  “I was thinking about what I am going to do next,” Ian admits, venturing close to the truth. “You know, just trying to figure some shit out.” Debbie narrows her eyes, wondering what Ian is hiding. Yet, she knows not to push too much. “Ya need anything?” she offers, unsure of what she could provide. She doesn’t want Ian to have to deal with more than he has, but she is still reluctant to help and hurt him in the process. “It would be great to have a way to forget the last few years,” he says with a sigh, running a hand over his hair. “I hate how I feel when I take my meds. I hate how I feel when I don’t. I am not fucking broken. It is all so fucking stupid.” Debbie remains quiet, takes another sip of her water. She watches her brother, waiting to see if he is going to continue speaking.  Ian feels his thoughts wondering. He is thinking about the time with his mom, how being with Monica just made sense. Ian thought he was going to be better when he was with her, but his life was worse. Being just like the person his family seems to despise the most grates at him and makes him sometimes feel like he is the problem. This is why he thought leaving would solve everything, but his life is still in messy shambles.  “I have never been broken. I have been myself the whole time, but no one wants to listen to me. I just want to be able to live my life without feeling like a burden…” he trails off, taking a breath.  Debbie walks over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You are never a burden. You are a Gallagher. We all love you no matter what happens,” she leans her head against his and hugs him sideways. “Thanks, Debs,” he says as he hugs her back. When she goes off to the living room to watch television, Ian goes back up to his room.  The four walls have not changed. It is all still the same. The room he has spent so much time in, but he doesn’t feel the same. All he has been thinking about since life flipped on its head is Mickey.  Mickey Milkovich, the most beautiful person Ian has ever known. Despite all of the mess, Ian would never want any moments between them to be different. Now, it is so different. Mickey is going to be in jail for eight years, and Ian doesn’t know how this all fits into what his life was supposed to be.  He thinks about the last conversation they had, the way Mickey said it was sickness and health. All of that shit. Ian wanted it to be true, but there is too much fractured right now for him to be ready to pick up the fractals of his life and put them together the same way they had once been.  It means we take care of each other. I don’t want you sitting around, worrying, watching me. Waiting for me to do my next crazy shit. It means thick and thin. Good times, bad, sickness, health, all that shit. You gonna marry me? We gonna go down to the courthouse in some tuxes like a couple old queens? Mickey is no stranger to being locked up. There was juvie a few times. None of this is new to him. What he hates is how quiet it is now. He was so used to the noise of the Gallaghers. The way Ian felt when he was lying next to him, the steady breathing and the rhythmic heartbeat.  Being stuck in a cell that is four feet by six feet fucking sucks, but this is what happens when you put your ass on the line for someone you love. He is willing to deal with the aftermath, but the hollow hole in his chest needs to cease to be.  He is going to have a lot of time to think within these walls. 2921 days. Every fucking day the same. He can live the same day again and again. He can think about Ian, the way Ian looked him in the fucking face and decided he was done.  From the time he was fifteen, Ian Gallagher has been the only person he ever thought he could love. Even if it wasn’t meant to start out that way, he just knew that Ian was going to be a part of his life no matter what. All of the puppy dog eyes, the hand on the glass, the stupid first kiss.  This is why he doesn’t understand why he is using his phone time to call Ian. Perhaps he just wants to punish himself some more. Just a fucking glutton for punishment, getting it from all the times Terry would fuck him up. He doesn’t know how to function without some semblance of pain. 

14

Swallowing the knot in his throat, he dials the number. Waiting for the prison spiel to go through. The sound of the ringing echoes in his ears, drowning the sounds behind him of other inmates on calls and the officers bitching at them all to hurry the fuck up.  When he hears the, “Hello?” he almost wants to cry, but he isn’t a fucking soft bitch. He is not going to do that. He just shakes off the emotions coursing through his veins before he speaks.  “Gallagher,” he says, trying to sound normal. Acting like the last time they spoke wasn’t when Ian broke up with him.  There is a silence before he hears, “Hey, Mick.” He wants to scream and cry at the same time, question Ian about what the fuck is wrong with him. Mickey gets 15 minutes for a phone call, and he doesn’t want to be the only time he is able to hear Ian’s voice to be overshadowed by his own hurt.  “How ya doing?” Mickey asks, sounding like the most fake fucker around. He hates this small talk shit, all of it. He needs to hold onto any semblance of normalcy he is able to in order to get through eight fucking years of this bullshit.  “...fine? Why are you calling?” Ian’s tone is terse, distant. He is not accustomed to the sound of Ian no longer sounding like his Ian. The same fucking redhead he used to want to beat the shit out of, but now he loves him more than anyone else in the fucking world.  “I miss you,” Mickey admits, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips nervously. He is trying to drown out the noises of the men around him, just focusing on this small sliver of good in his shitty day.  “What do you want me to say, Mick? This is not what we should be doing right now. I told you why I needed to break up with you. I don’t need to be fixed, and I don’t think you understand what all of this means now,” Ian begins, searching for the words. “I told you I did not want to spend the rest of my life feeling like I was a burden. I don’t want that to be my life. No one needs to take care of me or fix me. That is what you kept trying to do–” “Stop,” Mickey says, bowing his head against the payphone and wishing he was there with Ian. He closes his eyes, not ready for more shitty news or words. “Just fucking stop.” “You are the one who called me. What did you expect to get from this conversation, Mick?” In a perfect world, Ian would be saying he still loved him. He would say he would wait for him. He would not have to worry about Ian Gallagher deciding to live life without him by his side, but this is not reality. There are no good things that happen to either of them. Both of them are just Southside trash, meant to be stuck in the fucked up life they were born into and will die in. There is never going to be anything better.  Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose, searching for the right words. He just wants anything to get him away from this place, even just a simple conversation from what he thought was the love of his fucking life.  “Tell me what you want me to say,” Ian coaxes, an edge to his voice. “Nothing,” Mickey replies, ready to throw the phone across the fucking room. “You don’t fucking care, so why should I?” Ian inhales, sounding like he was punched right in the face. “You think I don’t care?” Mickey is silent, unsure of how to reply. He does not know what else he is supposed to think when he is standing in a fucking prison, and Ian is just so far away emotionally. The only person he could rely on, just gone.  “I do care about you,” Ian reassures him. “I still love you, but we both just needed different things in life.” Mickey snorts, flexing his free hand to avoid punching the wall and getting his privileges revoked. “What did you need that I wasn’t fucking giving you?” he hisses out in a low tone. “You were my fucking life, Ian.” “But what if I didn’t want to be?” This question throws him off, makes him pause. Mickey never expected he was going to fall in love with Ian Gallagher. He thought his life was going to be dealing with his shitty dad for the rest of his life, all of his siblings varying degrees of fucked up. Prison makes sense for him. This is where he was going to end up, but there was also still a piece of him which dared to hope being with Ian would result in a better life.  “I fucking loved you,” Mickey retorts, using the past tense even though he still loves Ian.  “Time’s up!” The guard calls, looking Mickey right in the eye.  Mickey flips him off, not ready to be done yet. “Ian, I–” “Mick, I love you too–” He hangs up the phone, closing his eyes to blink away the burn of the tears threatening to spill. Eight fucking years.  Fuck you. No, thanks. I’ve already done that. What the hell is wrong with you? Too much! Too much is wrong with me. Ian tries to steady the erratic beating of his heart, suffocating all the feelings threatening to come to the surface. He is not ready to face all of this quite yet. He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, watching the blades of the ceiling fan whir around and around. His phone is just out of reach, reminding him of last night.  He hasn’t told anyone Mickey called. They will just worry and say he is setting himself up for more hurt. But no one really understands how Ian feels. The way it still feels hollow and raw inside. The struggle to wake up every morning because he is alone. He is the only one who lives with this daily, and he hates it. Now if he has the chance to rectify it, Ian will do anything to get back some semblance of normalcy.  He notices the house is quiet, everyone is at work or school. He is alone again, and he could have stayed in bed. He could just leave and go back to being with Monica, living in that place. But he wants more, even though he is not sure what yet.  He sits down at the table after pouring himself cereal. And he just sits.

15

He keeps reflecting back on the call, wondering why Mickey would call. But he knows the answer. It is just like asking himself why he breathes, just makes sense and what he does. But now, he doesn’t know how he is going to handle what comes next.  Ian thought he knew how life was going to turn out. There were a few things he was sure of. He would be a Gallagher no matter what, he was fucking gay, and he loved Mickey Milkovich. Beautiful Mickey. Which most people would think was strange, but it made sense to Ian. He would think about the way his black hair stuck up when he first woke up, how his eyes would change from the blue of a calm lake to a raging storm in just moments, and just the way it made sense to him. If Ian was dumb enough to believe in the concept of soulmates, he would say Mickey was his. If there was a higher power, he would pray and get down on his knees to thank them someone like that existed. He would thank the heavens for sending him such a fucked up Southside piece of trash who loved with his whole heart. So many fucking ifs, and none of them matter any longer.  The reality is Mickey is in prison for eight years, and Ian needs to decide what the fuck he is life is going to be now. He knows he is going to try and take the meds. He doesn’t want to lose himself anymore. He wants a life. Even if he has to consider the fact that the one he built in his head no longer exists.   The back door swings open, and Debbie is standing there with a surprised look on her face.  “What are you doing here?” they both ask at the same time.  Ian pushes away the cereal bowl, Debbie stands in the doorway with her arms wrapped herself for protection. They both just stare at each other, back in the same place they were just the day before.  He looks at Debbie, and she is smiling at him like she knows all of his secrets.  Ian offers a tentative smile. He isn’t sure why they are smiling.  Bipolar is who he is now. This is never going to be a switch to make it go away. He has never felt like he was broken, just always like he was himself. Yet, he knows sometimes they still look at him like he is glass that will just shatter. This time, Ian is ready to try to work through the mess of his life. Even if it means Mickey isn’t going to be a part of it in the manner he planned.  Debbie goes upstairs. “I will be right back. We aren’t done talking,” she says, footsteps fading.   “Tell me what’s bothering you,” Debbie says when she returns downstairs, a smile on her face. She looks happy, and he feels happy too. Just to be around someone who is happy, this is what he has needed.  “Life,” Ian admits, not sure he wants to get into the darker thought that had been plaguing him before he came home. Just those moments when he thought he would be better off if he ended it all, then he could never be a problem again for anyone.  “Which means?” She is rummaging through cabinets, eating random food while waiting for him to answer.  “Just Mickey, I guess.” Debbie turns around, shoving a marshmallow in her mouth. “Isn’t it always Mickey?” she teases, seeming much wiser than her years with the simple question.  Ian chuckles. “Yeah… but now what the fuck do I do with my life when he is in prison?” “You live,” she points at him. “Because that is what you are supposed to do.” “But where does he fit in?”  Debbie shrugs. “Maybe he is the love of your life, or maybe you need to find someone new.” Ian wrinkles his brow. “You seem pretty wise for someone younger than me.” She grins. “Just that Gallagher wisdom, I guess.” He thinks back to the first time he knew he was in love with Mickey. When it was more than just some stupid crush. “I will fucking kill him if I ever see him again.” “Why? There is no point anymore.” “Fucking kill him, that is what he deserves.” Mickey looked him in the eyes, eyes widening for emphasis. “I got you, Gallagher. No matter what.” Ian looked down at his hands for a long time, not sure of what he was supposed to say.  The only time they ever really talked again about Kash, but Ian knew it was Mickey’s way of saying he would take care of Ian no matter what. And Ian knows this. If Mickey said he would have his back no matter what, this means Ian can hold onto this piece of them even when life continues to change and shift, because if he has to love Mickey in a new way, he can retain the memories forever. If they are never together again, this he can hold onto and know it was the one thing he will never lose. 

16

17

Low

By @Captain_Jowl

It’s been three weeks. Three weeks since their fight. Three weeks since “I’m sick of your whiny pussy crap.” Since “Fuck me for giving a shit, you prick.” Since their fight and their making up. Since their date. Since they ate their food, flirted, got drunk again. Ian remembers that Mickey felt like his Mickey the whole evening, bickering with the waiter, drinking beer, and mooing over the steak. Ian felt alive. The swelling bruises on his face, the still hurting burn on his hand, and the excitement of actually being on a date with Mickey, dressed up and sitting together in public. On the way back, Mickey cracked a joke that made them both bend in half with laughter. Ian remembers how instead of going straight home, they fell in maybe the last patch of the still-green grass on the Southside in someone’s garden and looked at the stars, like a romantic movie cliché. Mickey held his uninjured hand, and Ian felt careless and light and in love. They talked. Not a lot, but they did, and Mickey convinced him to try again. Give the pills another chance. Ian listened. The stars and the moon and the lightness in his heart deluded him. He took the pills before going to sleep. He didn’t want to, but Mickey’s pleading eyes were too convincing. The next morning he’d woken up with an awful headache and dryness in his throat. He hadn’t been sure what was to blame; the alcohol or the meds. Probably both. He’d still taken the morning pills because he fucking promised. Everything around him has been grey since then. It’s been three weeks now, and every morning still feels the same. Ian wakes up to bone-deep exhaustion. He’s groggy, even though the meds knock him out at nine. His back muscles are aching like they do when you lay in bed for too long. Mickey’s arm wrapped tightly around his chest feels suffocating; Debbie’s singing in her room immediately sets his teeth on edge and the smell of pancakes coming from the kitchen makes him sick. The need to get away and сram himself into some hole and sleep there for a million years is overwhelming. He slips out of the bed carefully, puts on sweats, a t-shirt and a hoodie, takes Mickey’s cigarettes from the bed stand and goes out through the back door, successfully avoiding Fiona. Then he is sitting on the porch, smoking. He thinks of his mornings during his ROTC years. Of doing a hundred push-ups before even brushing his teeth, of running for miles and miles and feeling his feet hitting the pavement, feeling the beat of his heart, feeling alive. Of hot summer nights and pool parties and bonfires and laughter. He tries to remember what he and Mickey were laughing about. After their date. They were laughing so fucking hard. All the memories are there but they are grey, lifeless. Ian can’t feel them, no matter how hard he tries to fixate on them. He is numb. Must be those fucking mood stabilizers he took before bed. Closing his eyes for a moment, Ian imagines the chemicals from the pills running through his blood in this very moment, through his system, altering his bodily functions against his will. Alien, foreign. He didn’t ask for it, didn’t ask for anyone to sedate him. He wants to rip the veins right out of his body, purify them and stick them back in, just to feel something again. He wants to have breakfast with his family without the looks and the careful questions. He wants to enjoy the food, instead of feeling like he’s chewing on cardboard. He wants to be genuinely happy about Liam’s progress in speaking, not just faking interest. He wants his morning wood back. He wants to want to run again. It’s only been three weeks but it feels like an eternity. Turns out the days drag on forever when you’re on lithium. Maybe the pills stole his perception of time, just like they stole so many other things from him. And it is going to be like that for the next what…thirty or forty years? Forty years of existing, trapped by the greyness in his mind, stagnated.  He would cry, but his body won’t let him, too numb for even that.   The door behind him creaks open and closes again after a second, as if someone peeked outside and went back in. Ian hears Mickey’s muffled voice behind the door. He can’t make out the words. “No, I haven’t seen him taking them,” Fiona answers Mickey, her voice too loud and concerned. “Doesn’t he have to take them in the morning too?” Ian takes a long drag of his cigarette, the wind carrying the smoke away. The door creaks open again and Mickey sits down next to him. Silently, he hands Ian a glass of water. Ian accepts it and takes several small sips while Mickey’s eyes search his no doubt pale face. It is clear that Mickey wants to ask but hesitates. Ian knows it’s entirely his fault. Mickey is afraid to show how much he cares because of him. The irony. Ian sighs. “Just ask.” “Did you–” Mickey shifts uncomfortably, teeth digging into his chapped bottom lip. “Did you take your meds this morning?” “No, I didn’t,” Ian answers evenly. Mickey shivers and pulls the zipper of his brown sweater higher. His hair is messy and he is squinting at the rising sun, eyes still puffy from sleep. Ian hasn’t even noticed how chilly this morning is. It’s getting colder already. “Right,” Mickey says, taking the cigarette from Ian and stealing the last couple of drags. He stubs it out on the stair rails. “You gotta eat something first. Fiona made some badass pancakes back there.” He points at the door with his thumb. “Or you want eggs? Let’s get some protein in you, huh, big guy?” Mickey raises his hand, aiming to ruffle Ian’s hair, but Ian pulls away from the touch. It is all too much. He doesn’t want the touch, any touch. How can he explain? Does he have to explain? Mickey lowers the hand awkwardly, puts it in the pocket of his sweats instead. Ian hears the rattling of his pill container in his pocket. Mickey sniffs. Looks away. Shivers again. Looks back. The tension between them is still there. It’s been there for much longer than three weeks. Ian takes a deep breath, letting the cold air fill up his lungs. “Those pills I took before going to bed…” Exhale. “They make me feel awful, Mick. Like life is not worth living. I’m not going to take them anymore.” He casts a glance at Mickey. He looks concerned and helpless. It seems to be his default setting lately, and it is almost worse than the numbness in Ian’s head. “Ian, you know you have to– they said you should–” Mickey cuts himself short and rubs his hands over his face. “Fuckin’ killing me see-

18

ing you like this, man,” he mumbles. “The nurse said it will get better, right? With time.” “She did.” “They said they need to figure out the right cocktail or some shit,” Mickey continues. “It’s not supposed to make you feel worse, right? Do you feel worse? You think they fucked up?” “I don’t know.” Ian once again revives the memory of his boyfriend’s wide smile from three weeks ago. So carefree. “Maybe.” Mickey‘s eyebrows fly up high on his forehead. “Maybe? If they fucked up we gotta tell ‘em, get you on another cocktail!” Ian stays quiet. He’s sick of it. Sick of everyone looking for ways to fix him, like he’s a broken clock. Useless as soon as he stops doing the thing everyone expects him to do.  “Do you want me to go there?” Mickey carries on talking. “Do you want us to make them fuckin’–  make them check everything again? I can take Iggs. We’ll get the bats and wait for that doctor in the parking lot, ’m sure he’ll be more thoughtful when–” His voice is practically dripping with frustration, eyes trying to catch Ian’s gaze.  Ian sighs and tunes him out. He puts the half empty water glass on the step next to him and looks at his injured palm. The bandage is off but he can still see the burn. V said it’s going to stay that way now. Forever.  “I’m not going to take any more meds,” he says, cutting off Mickey’s rant. There’s a pause during which Mickey opens his mouth and closes it again like a fish.  “Ian, you have to,” he tries then. “I know it’s hard but you have to–” “You don’t know shit,” Ian interrupts him again. He turns fully towards Mickey. “You all say that you fucking know. You have no idea how it feels. It’s been weeks, Mickey. I’ve been taking this shit for weeks, every fucking day, every fucking night, with you watching me like I’m a psycho. Weeks, and everything is still fucked.” He takes a breath, tired simply from speaking. “I’m sick of people telling me what to do, when to eat and when to shit. I make my own decisions now. I’m not gonna take them because I don’t want to.” He watches Mickey’s scowl. Worried, frustrated, helpless. Scared. All the same fucking emotions, as if he has turned into Fiona. Ian can’t bear to see it anymore. He wants to shake him, punch him, do something, just to see a change.  “What are you gonna do now? Tie me to the bed like a real mental case and force the meds down my throat?” he asks, looking Mickey straight in the eyes. Mickey’s eyebrows are raised, eyes wide, expression almost terrified. “The fuck are you talking about, Ian? The fuck?” Ian is looking for anger, looking for some kind of outrage. Maybe Mickey will hit him, give him another split lip. It doesn’t come.  Mickey just stares at him, his facial expression torn between fear and pity. That fucking pity. Ian turns away, eyes lowering to the yellowing grass and grey-ish ground littered with cigarette butts.  “You were happy,” he says quietly.  “What?” Mickey asks, confused by the sudden change of subject.  “When we went out,” Ian clarifies. “When I was drunk. You liked how I was back then. You were smiling.” He lifts his head up and meets his boyfriend’s gaze again, and it seems like even Mickey’s blue eyes lack their usual brightness. Ian hates the world where everything is colorless like that.  “I wasn’t– You were just–” Mickey looks down, the slightest tint of pink on his cheeks. “It was a nice night, okay?” Ian knows that Mickey doesn’t just mean the dinner at Sizzler’s, the steak, the wine, the long walk back to the house. Mickey means all that time they spent in the dugouts, reconnecting in their always preferred way. Yeah. It’s been a while. But he is missing the point, automatically protecting things that don’t need protection anymore. “Well, I liked it too. Loved it even. Made me feel something again.” Ian reaches out for the almost empty pack and lights another cigarette. “The problem is, Mick,” he says and inhales the smoke. Holds it. Exhales. “I can’t feel shit right now. Nothing. And I know I’m so fucking angry about it. But I can’t feel it either. Like some kind of mind prison, y’know?” “And you,” he continues, pointing at Mickey with the burning cigarette between his fingers. “You’re not happy anymore, are you? I get it. It’s not fun to be my boyfriend when I’m like this, right?”  “What do you want me to fuckin’ say here?” Mickey asks, raising his voice. “That I’m over the moon about this? Because I’m fuckin’ not! I hate it, and that’s just not fucking fair, and I...fuck…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, pushing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets instead.   “Three weeks ago,” Ian says. “Three weeks ago you were fine. Was it because we fucked? Or was it because I was easy to handle? Seemed normal? Well now I’m all weird again, go hide the children!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air and almost knocking over the glass standing next to him on the porch. Ian didn’t lie when he said he isn’t feeling shit. He doesn’t feel the anger that’s slipping into his voice, but he just knows that he is mad. He is so goddamn mad. At everything. And Mickey isn’t making it better at all. If anything, he is making it worse with all the concerned glances, caring words and that fucking water. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he? “I’m not–” Mickey stutters out, balling his fists then relaxing them several times, nervous. “It’s not what I–“  Mickey was getting better at sharing his feelings, just before shit hit the fan with Yev. All the pillow talks that Ian initiated and Mickey pretended to hate helped in making his boyfriend realize that his words matter, that he is being listened to. All the progress they’ve made got fucked, and Mickey can’t utter a single sentence again. Fucking typical. “It’s okay, I understand,” Ian says bitterly. He brings the cigarette to his lips, talking around it. “No one wants a crazy boyfriend. You better turn into a fucking nurse and fix me up quickly so I can be normal again.” He knows that the words rolling off his tongue are spiteful but he can’t bring himself to care. “Isn’t it what Fiona and Lip wanted to do? Lock me down, fucking fix me? And now you…” Mickey’s next words are not much louder than a whisper. He addresses them to the points of his shoes, hands fiddling with the zipper of the sweater. “ ’m not trying to fix you. You’re… I’m fucking sorry, Ian, but you’re sick. When someone’s sick you take care of them. Get ‘em hot soup or whatever. It’s not about fixing. It’s about helping them heal. You know I– you know I care about you. I want to help.” Mickey sniffs and reaches out again, trying to put his hand onto Ian’s arm, but Ian jerks it away. He knows that he is pushing Mickey away, punishing him for doing something he’d just recently started being comfortable with. He knows that if he turns his head he’ll see the hurt in Mickey’s eyes and so, so much worry. That’s why he focuses on stubbing out the half-burned cigarette on the porch rather than looking at him.  The sun is climbing to the zenith but it is only getting colder. Rough wind throws a strand of hair into Ian’s face, a sudden splash of bright red.  Ian closes his eyes. His mind is swimming and he isn’t sure. He isn’t sure if he wants Mickey to leave him the fuck alone, or if he’s scared that he actually will. His whole life he has been driven by intense feelings. Passion, anger, hate, desire, fear. Love. Feelings have been his

19

Ariadne’s thread, giving him a sense of purpose. Now that his emotions are all muffled, he isn’t sure. The only thing he is sure about is that he doesn’t need any fucking help. He isn’t sick. He isn’t a burden on his family, unable to take care of himself. He doesn’t want people to look at him and see his mom. “I’m not like my mom,” he says, eyes still closed. “You’re not,” Mickey reacts immediately. “You’re not like her. That’s why you won’t do this to yourself, to your family, to…”  Me. Mickey stops before the word can escape his mouth but Ian gets it.  If he were feeling things normally, he would feel guilty that Mickey’s afraid to tell him he needs him. He doesn’t feel it. “I hate the meds,” he says. He opens his eyes and turns to look at Mickey again. “It’ll get better, Ian. You can do it,” Mickey tells him. “After all, you’re the most stubborn fucker I know.” His smile is faint but it’s there. “Gotta get your routines straight, like you did in ROTC, ‘member? It felt good, right?” Ian wishes it were that easy.  “I don’t feel alive,” he tells him. Swallows. “The last time I felt alive was right after I punched you in your face.” “Wanna punch me again?” Mickey chuckles sadly. “Gonna make you feel better?”    Maybe it will. But that is not what Ian is trying to find out. “Will you still wanna be with me if I don’t take ‘em? The pills?” he asks. He looks away before Mickey can answer. He can hear him breathing and shifting, but the words don’t come.  Just as he thought.  Mickey used to love him. But has he ever loved him for real, or did he just get used to Ian being there? Tolerated him until Ian got too inconvenient? Finally, Mickey sighs and speaks again: “Tell you what. We can talk about the meds later. Let’s hit up the gym.” Ian’s thought process comes to a sudden screech. “What?” he asks, turning back to Mickey. “That gym your sister goes to beat the shit out of a bag? You can go punch it instead of my face,” Mickey explains, eyes bouncing all over Ian’s face. “I got money, we can rent you some boxing gloves. Maybe you’ll get away with punching the instructor guy, huh?” “Do I look like I’m in any shape to box?” “Don’t gotta be the second Muhammed Ali. It may help cheer you up though. Remind you that you still have some fight in you.” Mickey touches the side of his nose with his knuckles. “We can talk about the meds after. Maybe you need a smaller dosage? More vitamins? We’ll figure it out.” Ian thinks back to the dugouts, to the metal bar there. How he could barely do one pull up.  It still felt good. It felt good doing something physical again. Like he’s not a walking breathing corpse. Ian knows what Mickey’s doing. He sees right through him, the way he’s scrambling to do something to bring Ian back to normal. A temporary solution. A momentary distraction.  “Fine,” he says. He doesn’t look at Mickey, but he knows there’s relief written on his face, like he thinks he managed to do something important. He jumps up and holds the door for Ian. He doesn’t try to touch him again when Ian drags his feet back inside. This is what will happen. Ian will go with him. There will be fighting – real or pretend, doesn’t matter. Maybe he will muster enough energy for them to fuck later. He knows that it’s not going to change anything, just like their date didn’t.  It won’t stop Mickey from trying to fix him. From trying to medicate him until he’s numb and easy to deal with again.  And maybe, just maybe, what he needs is to find people who will accept him for who he is. People whose hearts won’t break every time they look at him. Someone who gets it. Because Ian’s not broken, and he doesn’t need to be fixed.

20

21

We’re Still Dancing By @Chat_Noir12

After the accidental bonfire brought everyone spilling into the street. After the Polish band and dancers were paid and on their way. After Franny had fallen asleep in Uncle Mickey’s arms and he had reluctantly handed her to Debbie. After all the guests had gone, the tables were cleaned, and Kev and V gave each other knowing smiles and locked the front door. After all that, they stand in the middle of the bar, staring at each other, Mickey’s left hand resting in Ian’s palm, Ian winding a long arm around Mickey’s waist to pull him in tight, tighter, as tight as he can. Music is still playing in the background, and Mickey’s left hand travels from Ian’s elbow up to his husband’s broad shoulders. Mickey squeezes the nape of Ian’s neck while Ian’s lips lightly dance across his forehead. It feels gentle and warm and like home. “You really thought I forgot our anniversary?” Mickey’s words are soft. No teasing. No accusation. “I—” Ian tries to speak, but he’s embarrassed that he’d been so emotional when he thought Mickey forgot, and also feels ashamed. He trails kisses down Mickey’s face and Ian’s lips land on the shell of his ear. “I’m sorry.” “Hey.” Mickey leans back a little, whispering against Ian’s cheek, “You don’t have to be sorry. Just means my plan worked.” Ian loosens his grip on his husband so he can look him in the eye. He searches for something. Maybe to detect a lie or see if he’s placating him. But he gets lost in the blue pools instead, his bottom lip quivering. Mickey only smiles at the beautiful man before him and he can’t help but give two love taps on Ian’s cheek then tilts his head up and captures Ian’s lips. “It was kind of a rough day,” Ian says, foreheads now pressed together. Mickey has to admit that’s true, and he wonders if what Ian’s referring to is what Mickey needs to acknowledge. It’s about the crib, having kids, and his own fears. And Ian wants—maybe needs—something Mickey is afraid he can’t give him. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but what if he never does? What if it lingers there between them and grows stronger and stronger over the years, separating them until they can no longer reach each other. His protest and Ian’s unflinching reassurance hadn’t resolved anything. “‘Cos of what we talked about at Kev and V’s?” Mickey finally breaks the momentary silence. Ian inhales sharply, pulling Mickey flush against him once again. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m talking about. Mickey only nods. Ian can be patient. He wants to be patient. He understands what Mickey’s afraid of, but he doesn’t understand the intensity of it. Ian believes with his whole heart that Mickey will be an amazing father. Mickey looks up at him, eyes wet, but not quite crying. “What if I don’t ever want to have kids, Ian?” Mickey’s voice cracks. Ian stops breathing altogether and he feels a cramp in his stomach. He realizes that they’re still dancing slowly and it’d be funny if the moment wasn’t so heavy. “Mickey—” “I know, Ian.” Mickey looks up again, feeling like he needs to be brave at this moment. “You think I’ll be a great dad.” “You say that like it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said. You act like I don’t know you. I’ve always known you. You’re all I know now.” The tears start to flow freely from Mickey’s eyes. Stupid fucking tears. And he feels chaotic inside. He doesn’t know how to put all of that together, but he knows that Ian can see right inside of him. He’s always been able to; he knew who Mickey was before Mickey did. “How can you say you won’t be a good dad? Look at how you are with Franny.” “What? Teaching her the finer points of armed robbery?” Ian chuckles, unable to help himself, giving Mickey’s hand a squeeze. “Holding her when she cries, rocking her when she’s tired, cleaning skinned knees… She loves you. Why would you treat our own kids any differently?” Mickey has no answer. It’s weird that Ian remembers all of those moments when Mickey never thought twice about them. Those things were natural; they just happened. And maybe that’s what Ian’s talking about. He’s still not sure. “Like tonight,” Ian says. “What?” “Franny. With everything going on you saw when she was fussy and walked through everyone to pick her up and let her fall asleep on you.” Mickey looks up at Ian and then looks sideways. Maybe Ian’s right, but it’s hard for him to see that. His mind drifts over to part of their conversation from earlier that makes him think of Yev and darker times, ushering in more fear. “What are you thinking about?” Ian finally asks. “Yev,” Mickey says abruptly. Ian feels like he’s been punched in the face. He leans back, searching for what his husband could be thinking. “What—” “I—ugh, that didn’t end so great, Ian.” Silence. Ian has nothing for him. Because Mickey is right. “It was shitty from the beginning and you know that.” Mickey’s voice is rough. “That was different.” Ian’s voice goes up an octave. “Maybe, but even after we figured it out, we still fucked up. And you know I never shed a tear for him when we separated. It’s fucked up. I haven’t even thought about him for years until today. The crib, and you said…” Ian is trying to figure out where Mickey is going, but then he knows. “It’s okay. You can say it.” There’s no turning back now. “You joked about stealing a baby.” Ian exhales raggedly. “And I just…” Mickey shakes his head. “What if it happens again? What if your meds stop working and you get manic? Or you can’t get out of bed for days? How do we handle that with a kid?” Ian reaches up and cradles Mickey’s head in his hand, never letting go of his right hand, never stopping the dance. “We’re older now. We’re smarter. We aren’t fucked up and confused about what we’re doing or who we are. We’ll handle it better ‘cos we’ll handle it together.” Ian’s words sound right and he tries to believe them.

22

“I don’t know what that looks like,” Mickey says. “What?” “Two people. Doing that together. Raising kids.” Ian smiles gently. “I don’t either.” “My mom—” Mickey’s voice falters as soon as the words come out of his mouth. His mom. Ma. Laura. He’d prevented himself from thinking about her for years, but it feels like he needs to now. Mickey takes a deep breath. “My mom just took off. Never said goodbye. My dad was a prick, but when shit got rough, she just bailed. She didn’t even try—” Tears start coming down again, and he shakes his head. “She could have taken us with her, but she didn’t. She just left.” “You worried I’m gonna leave?” Mickey’s eyes shoot up. “What? No.” “Are you worried you’re gonna take off?” “No. Fuck no. What?” Mickey sounds indignant and Ian laughs gently. “Don’t laugh at me, asshole.” “I’m sorry.” Ian is sorry and he runs his fingers up through the back of Mickey’s hair. “What are you afraid of then?” “I don’t know.” It’s honest, because that’s all he can be right now. “Maybe it’s that neither of us know what it looks like for two people, who love each other to stick around and raise kids,” Ian offers, and Mickey thinks that sounds right, so he nods his head hesitantly. “But what if I’m never ready?” The words stab Ian’s heart. “I—I want kids. It’s true. I want a family of my own, to right the wrongs of our parents and all the other fucked up parents on the Southside that couldn’t keep it together enough to raise their fucking kids.” Ian swallows thickly. “I want my own little Milkovich with blue eyes and a filthy mouth. A little boy or girl we can spoil and be there for and make feel special. Like we should’ve been. Like you should’ve been.” Mickey smiles bitterly, listening to his husband, wanting those things too, but having fear still living in him. “But, Mick, if you’re never ready, then that’ll be okay ‘cos I have you, and as long as that’s true, I don’t need anything else.” The words grab Mickey like a wave, causing him to surge forward, pushing their lips together. Their tongues tangle and their kiss deepens. Ian pulls back, nipping at Mickey’s bottom lip and he smiles. “We’re still dancing,” Ian points out. Mickey looks at where their hands are joined and gives a genuine laugh. “Yeah, we are.” Ian wraps his arms around Mickey, who in turn encircles Ian’s neck and rubs his chin on his shoulder until he can comfortably nuzzle against him. “Maybe we’re just not ready now,” Mickey whispers. Ian’s heart swells. The sadness that had enveloped them starts to dissipate. “Maybe in a few years,” Ian offers cautiously. “Yeah.” Mickey turns his head to rest his cheek against Ian. He knows that Ian is right about a lot of this. He believes he can get over his fears; he can do this with Ian. Their tears and worry and fear melt away, their bodies wanting more than just this dance. Ian trails his mouth, teeth and tongue down Mickey’s cheek, chin, neck. Mickey lolls his head back and holds Ian tighter. They’ve done this dance before. Ridding each other of their clothes, they kiss, nip and lick their way down each other’s bodies, swaying and gliding toward the pool table. Ian pushes Mickey back and takes him in his mouth only to have Mickey pull Ian up toward him. Mickey wraps his legs around Ian’s waist, gripping him with thick thighs, strong and insistent. When Mickey’s ready, Ian pushes inside of him slowly and with purpose. The dance is now moving to their rhythm, one that is much less rough and punishing than they normally create, but no less intense. Mickey tangles his fingers in Ian’s hair as he pulls him down for a needy kiss and Mickey whimpers because he just doesn’t feel like he can get enough of Ian inside of him. Mickey moves underneath him, lifting up to meet Ian’s thrusts, becoming more demanding. Eventually, they switch places, Ian crawling up on the table and Mickey pinning Ian’s shoulders down so he can straddle him, squeezing the tip of Ian’s cock with his entrance. “Fuck, Mick,” Ian groans as he grabs Mickey’s hips, digging his fingers into the soft flesh as Mickey reaches down and flattens his palms on Ian’s chest, sinking down on Ian’s cock. Mickey is hot inside and out, and Ian feels like he’s entering another world. Mickey leads the rhythm of their bodies, gyrating his hips and leaning forward to lick and suck on Ian’s nipples. Ian moans loudly, planting his feet flat on the pool table and pushing his cock up into Mickey, hitting his prostate, getting Mickey close, closer, closest he can get without coming. Their bodies meet in the middle with loud slapping sounds that mix with heavy breathing to fill up the space around them. They’re flush together, sweat glittering their skin, and Mickey comes between them, Ian following, filling Mickey up. They lay there panting, planting kisses on each other and smiling while also feeling like they could cry. The dance is over, but it won’t be the last. It’s a promise of what is to come. And as they drift off to sleep on a ruined pool table in a bar they basically grew up in, Ian hears Mickey let out a pretty sigh. “I’ll be ready, Ian,” Mickey says softly. “Soon.” Ian kisses the top of Mickey’s head and hums in agreement, always wanting the man that rests on top of him to be by his side—his friend, his lover, his partner in crime. Ian knows, from deep in his soul, that he will. And Mickey knows it too.

23

One Hundred Hours (without you here) by @Arrowflier

Ian had been gone for less than one hour. And to Mickey, it felt like a lifetime. They’d just said goodbye that morning, before the lights came on. Huddled in Mickey’s bunk, where the impression of their bodies and the scent of Ian’s skin still lingered. Where Ian had kissed him, one last time in the darkness, where no one else could see. There was barely enough space for them on the thin, single mattress, but Mickey had held him so close that it didn’t matter, their legs entwined under the rough, prison-issued sheet. Close enough to feel Ian’s heartbeat, thudding against Mickey’s chest, a slow staccato rhythm in perfect tandem with the humming of his own pulse. Close enough to feel the hitch in Ian’s breath when they heard the heavy footsteps of the guard approaching outside their haven, bringing an end to their prolonged farewell. Ian had tried to whisper promises against Mickey’s lips, in those last short moments of almost-privacy. It won’t be long, he’d murmured, voice soft, hands softer as they cupped Mickey’s face. As they brushed wetness neither spoke of from stubble-roughened cheeks. You’ll get out soon, you will, he’d encouraged, pressing their foreheads together so tightly that Mickey could feel the bump in Ian’s brow, the faint scar where a bottle had shattered like sugar-glass against his head as Mickey’s father tried to kill them both. Soon, he’d said, again, strong fingers carding through the hair at Mickey’s temple, where his own scar lay, older but somehow less healed. Like he needed to reassure them both. Like a day apart wasn’t too long already, after a lifetime of working toward each other. I’ll wait for you, he’d promised next, voice certain, eyes focused, and Mickey had sealed their mouths together rather than answer the words that had the power to break him. Had broken him, once. A long time ago, now. He wasn’t ready to live that pain again. But live it he must. The guard had come, and their time together was over. Too soon, as it always was, and beyond their control once again. Ian was ushered out with no fanfare, no cheers or taunts or jeers as he passed the other cells on his way down that stark hall, their fellow inmates not yet even risen. Just silence, in the wake of everything, as the best thing in Mickey’s life walked away. They gave him no time to mourn, to come to terms with his sudden aloneness. No time to linger, to roll in the sheets they had shared or let his eyes leak into the pillow where Ian’s head had rested all night. Not even if he wanted to. Less than an hour since Ian had left, the cell door slid open again. The lights of the hallway were suddenly bright, the guard different from the one that had taken Ian away from him. And at their behest, a request made stronger by hands holding the holster of a charged taser, Mickey joined the line of boots and yellow jumpsuits marching down to breakfast. It was just another day in prison. One of many. And Mickey had damned well better get used to it. Ian had been gone for less than six hours. And Mickey still felt every minute. It was lunchtime, early afternoon. And after a morning spent in the laundry, washing other people’s bedclothes—glad his own weren’t due for cleaning, lest he lose his last physical reminder of Ian’s presence—Mickey was ready for a break. He collected his tray, filled with a cold, congealed mess of beans and something like meat, and prepared to settle in for bad food and worse conversation. The highlight of his boring days. But of course, when he turned toward the tables, it was to find there was no one there worth speaking to. No shock of red hair waited at his usual table, no sappy smile for him to complain would give them away. Just a hoard of other inmates, swarming like flies on rotten fruit, and he shifted on tired feet as he considered new options. He could take a chance, right now. Make a change. Make friends, like Ian always wanted him to do, even here where friends were dangerous to find. Make a statement, instead, if he wanted, that he was still Mickey Milkovich. That even without his red shadow, he wasn’t to be trifled with. He considered, and then did none of it. He trudged instead toward the table he’d shared with Ian for almost a year, and sat there alone, picking at his food. There was no one to foist his lukewarm vegetables off on, no one to slip an extra spoonful of meat onto his tray when the guards weren’t looking. No one seemed to notice his solitude, his melancholy, as he sat there on his own. Even his crew, the people he counted on to help him keep himself and Ian safe, just let him be; they had learned a long time ago he didn’t want their company. Mealtimes, rec time, all of it was Ian’s. And without Ian, all of it was Mickey alone. Ian had been gone for less than twelve hours. Half a day. And Mickey fucking missed him. At the tail end of the evening meal, when the phones were pronounced open for use, he was already so desperate for some part of Ian that he banged his knee against the underside of the table in his haste to seek it out. He stumbled, and righted himself, not stopping. At a glare from the nearest guard, he grabbed his tray, and dumped it on his way out. His untouched hamburger patty hit the side of the trash can with a faint thunk. He ignored the laughter at his back, the calls of “late for something, Milkovich?” and how incredibly right they were, and rushed the doors so quickly he almost got a baton in the gut from the guard on duty there. Mickey didn’t care. He didn’t care if everyone saw him hightail it out of the cafeteria, nearly slipping on a slick patch of tiled floor. He didn’t care if they all knew why he was first in line for the phones, eager and restless, frantically dialing a number he had long ago memorized with shaking fingers. He didn’t care, because the ringing on the other end of the line brought him one moment closer to hearing Ian’s voice again. It rang. Mickey waited. And then the line went dead, unanswered. Mickey replaced the receiver. Stared at it. Someone coughed from the growing line behind him, impatient, and he absently gave them the finger

26

before picking the phone up again. He tried another number. The house, instead of Ian’s cell, even though he had painstakingly walked Ian through how to set it up for collect calls just yesterday. Maybe the battery had died, or something—Ian had never been the best with things like that, and after so long without access to technology, Mickey wouldn’t be surprised if he had forgotten the need to charge it. The call rang through to the landline. It rang again. And again. And Mickey exhaled as the ringing gave way to the staticky signal that meant the call had connected. It still took a moment for a voice to come through, as the person on the other end dealt with the automated recording telling them that an inmate was trying to reach them. He closed his eyes against the harshness of the rec room lights, and imagined Ian yelling his agreement into the phone, as eager to hear Mickey’s voice as Mickey was to hear his. It made him smile, and he was glad he was facing the wall so that none of the fuckers behind him could see it. “Hello?” Mickey’s smile slid off his face. That wasn’t Ian’s voice. It was higher, distinctly feminine, and decidedly annoyed. He cleared his throat. Not because it was tight with disappointment and apprehension, but because he had barely spoken since that morning. That was all. “Uh, hey,” he managed to get out. “Who the fuck is this?” “Could ask you the same thing,” came the voice on the other end. A woman, definitely, but not one he recognized. Fiona had left; Ian told him as much, and she had sent them both letters since then. Ian’s to wish him well, Mickey’s to say thank you for being there for Ian when she couldn’t. For coming back for him, even as she left. And after months of rare but anticipated visits from Debbie—she and Ian had always had a special bond, red-heads united against the world— Mickey could say with certainty that it wasn’t her, either. Whatever. It didn’t matter who it was, as long as they were capable of passing the phone to the only person he wanted to talk to. “It’s Mickey,” he answered, and breathed in for the length of the pause. “Who?” the voice asked, and the air left his lungs again. “What do you mean, who?” he asked, hand tightening on the phone. “I’m calling for Ian.” A crackle on the other end. Faint conversation, in the background. And over it, just barely discernible, Ian’s barking laughter. Mickey’s eyes suddenly started to water. “That him?” he asked hoarsely, raising his free hand to his face. He rubbed under his nose, discreetly thumbed wetness from beneath his eyes. “Give him the phone.” Silence, but for the noise of other people. A cheer, and clapping, and then silence again. “Sorry,” that voice said finally. “Ian’s with his family right now.” Then a click, followed by the dial tone. And endless buzz that mimicked Mickey’s flat-lining heart. Right. Ian was with his family. His real family, and not some guy that liked to play pretend. Not Mickey. And not just his family, either—Ian was with other people, people that didn’t even know who Mickey was. Didn’t know, because Ian hadn’t told them. “Hey asshole, gonna give someone else a turn?” someone taunted from Mickey’s back, shoving him forward so that his chest hit the platform that held the phone. “Or you gonna use all your minutes up listenin’ to dead space?” Mickey blinked, his vision wavering. His fingers slipped on the slick receiver, before he tightened his grip again. Then he spun, and used it to hit the other inmate right at his temple, over an infected tattoo that oozed against cracked black plastic like Mickey’s heart against the cracked walls of his chest that Ian has so painstakingly worn down. A guard stepped forward from the wall, hands on his belt, and Mickey dropped the phone. He left it hanging there, swinging on its cord, the endless buzzing still ringing in his ears as he backed up. The guard fell back. And Mickey turned, and walked away from his broken lifeline. Ian had been gone for eighteen hours. And that night, Mickey dreamt. Alone in his bed, his back cold and covered only by a thin, ratty blanket, he dreamt of Ian. Of their first night in that very cell, laying face to face for the first time in far too long. He had been nervous, when he entered the small, cold room. He’d given up everything to be there—a life in the sun, his freedom, the friends he had made while they were apart. And he hadn’t known what Ian would think, how Ian would feel, when they saw each other again. If he would be entering the room of his friend and lover, the room of an unmedicated stranger, or something in between. He didn’t even know if Ian had moved on. That first kiss, right there in the bottom bunk, had been the greatest relief he had ever felt, Ian’s lips the same shape he had memorized when they were just kids. His nose was just as sharp, his hands just as warm, and while his eyeteeth had shifted slightly since the last time Mickey traced them with his tongue, the space behind them still tasted faintly of chocolate and smoke. “Sorry,” he had whispered against the hollow of Ian’s throat, hours later. Ian had hummed, holding him closer, broad hands brushing his back over his thin white prison tank. “For what?” he’d murmured back, voice heavy with sleep and contentment. Contentment, in prison. With Mickey. Imagine that. Mickey would have pulled back to look him in the eyes, but that would mean separating his nose from the softness of Ian’s neck. The spot between his collarbones smelled the same as the teenage boy that had first made Mickey break all of his rules, release every safety net he had spent his adolescence carefully crafting. Mickey had inhaled that scent like it was oxygen, Ian twitching when he breathed out again, warm air cooling quickly on clammy skin. “Sorry you gotta be in here,” Mickey had answered, eyes falling closed to the rhythmic movement of Ian’s hands along his spine. “You should be with your family, man,” he’d continued quietly, “not cooped up here with me.” Ian had been quiet. Nosed at Mickey’s hair, freshly cut before he turned himself in as a snitch, wanting to look his best for a man who had seen him at his worst.

27

“Spent a lot of time with my family, while you were gone,” Ian said finally. His voice was low, quiet. Calm. “Not all it’s cracked up to be.” Mickey had swallowed, nuzzling closer. Let his thumb dance over Ian’s hip, bare where his cheap cotton boxers had sagged. “You love ‘em, though,” he’d said, and Ian had smiled. He could feel it in the way that pointy chin pressed into the top of his head, in the tiny huff of breath that tickled his scalp right where his hair parted. “I do,” Ian had admitted. He’d tangled their feet together, slid his knee between Mickey’s legs. Fit himself more thoroughly onto the bed than a six foot man had any right to, no matter how tightly they held each other. Mickey had kissed him again, then, just because he could; he kissed this crazy man with his huge heart and lanky limbs all folded together and wrapped up in his arms. Ian let him. “But what I was trying to say,” Ian said on an exhale as they finally parted, staying close enough to breath each other’s air, “was that I don’t just love my siblings, Mickey.” His eyes had been so bright, in the relative darkness of their room, catching every little flash of light that made it through the window of their cell door. Mickey had wondered if his own looked as soft, as overcome, as content. “They’re the family I was born with,” Ian whispered, “but you’re the family I chose.” “And I love you, Mickey,” Ian said next, and didn’t comment on the warm wetness that hit his shoulder as those words settled between them. “I think I always have.” Mickey voice was husky when he forced out, “I know.” Ian had laughed, chest shaking, the mattress shifting underneath them with the movement. “You Han Solo now?’ Ian asked lightly. “’Cause I’m not sure the rescue counts if we’re both still locked up.” “Shows what you know,” Mickey murmured. The quake of Ian’s laughter moved him down the bed just enough that his lips brushed Ian’s chest as he spoke, above the stretched neck of his shirt. “Pretty sure he says that before he gets flash frozen and sold as wall art,” Mickey said, “so I think it’s probably pretty fucking fitting.” Ian had pulled him up, Mickey’s nose leaving a mussed trail through the faint wisps of hair on his chest. “Don’t worry, Mick,” he had breathed, catching his lips, releasing again. “I’ll always rescue you back.” Ian had been gone for twenty-two hours. And Mickey woke alone. There was no one in his bed. No body wrapped around his. No lips on his neck, no hands on his waist, no words whispered lovingly in his ear. Just his sweat-damp sheet, wrapped around him like a vise, and cooling quickly in the inadequate heat of a prison cell in winter. He let himself shiver, body barely moving with it, frozen and alone. He was Han Solo trapped in carbonite, and Ian wasn’t there to save him. Ian had been gone for thirty-two hours. And Mickey hated that he knew that. Hated that his eyes had been on the clock for over a day, now, that his mind was on a constant loop of where is he now. Besides, he knew the answer already: not here. No one around him seemed to share his sour mood, and that made it somehow worse. Sitting in the laundry on work detail, again, the others were bantering, and laughing, and Mickey wanted to sew their mouths shut with the needle he had found tucked into the hem of a worn white undershirt. “You hear that crazy fucker got out the other day?” somebody asked, and Mickey’s hands tightened around the hidden contraband so tightly he left a pinprick of a bloodstain on the fabric. “You mean the farmboy with the pony fetish?” the guy next to him asked back, and Mickey relaxed just a fraction, enough to frown down at the mess he had made and try to brush it out with a dirty, shaking finger. Then the original speaker clarified, “Nah man, the red-head, giraffe-lookin’ motherfucker. Tried to stab Carlos a couple weeks ago,” and the shirt fell from Mickey’s suddenly numb hands. It earned him a few looks, most confused, one understanding. “Oh yeah,” one guy breathed out from across the narrow room. “That guy was your cellmate, right Milkovich?” Mickey didn’t answer, just bent to pick up the sweat-stained fabric from the floor. “Wait, really?” someone else questioned. “Damn, that must’ve been a wild ride. Fucker was unstable, man.” Mickey never raised his eyes, but he could hear the swish of air, the resulting grunt, as the back of a hand found a soft stomach. “Shut up, Nicky,” came the hissed whisper. “You can’t say shit like that in front of Milkovich.” Mickey ignored it. He’d stopped punching people for calling Ian crazy months ago, when Ian had been on duty in the infirmary when he was brought in. His concerned frown over Mickey’s bloodied knuckles had been all the incentive he needed to start practicing selective deafness. “Bet he’s out there drowning in ass now, though,” Nicky mused once he caught his breath, apparently not one to learn his lessons quickly. “The crazy ones always pull crazy pussy.” Snorts of laughter filled the room. “That’s the first thing I’m gonna do,” someone else agreed. “Find myself a woman and forget about all of you assholes.” “Even your little boyfriend? Saw you with slutty Johnny the other day,” came a teasing challenge, met with a thrown blanket that unfolded and fell before reaching its target. “Especially him,” was the answer. “Think I’m gonna settle for that shit when I get out?” And that was a lot harder to ignore. “Nah, I don’t know about all the pussy,” someone brought the conversation back around. “Wasn’t that guy like, a fuckin’ gay icon or some shit?” A chuckle. “Bet he runs if a woman looks at him wrong.” “Bet he misses this place already,” came the immediate reply. “All the free dick you could want, just gotta drop the soap.” Mickey’s stool fell with a clatter as he stood. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” he ordered, breathing heavy, fists clenched, alone in a room full of men who stared at him in shock. The shirt he was still holding tore between his hands.

28

“You assholes don’t know a damn thing about him,” he went on, voice only getting louder. “He’s with his fuckin’ family, alright? He ain’t out there slingin’ dick.” Silence. Then: “You sure about that?” Mickey wasn’t sure he even hit the right person, vision clouded with red anger and black doubt. But he felt his fist connect, hard knuckles on soft tissue, felt the give of someone’s gut under his hand. Lifted that fist, released it again, and again, each time finding a new mark he couldn’t see. Every blow fell like a hammer, hitting nails into his own coffin. A nail for Ian leaving. A nail for the people he chose over Mickey, after promising he wouldn’t. A nail for the sound of a woman’s voice over the phone, telling him that Ian couldn’t talk. That he’d rather celebrate with other people while Mickey was left alone to rot. A nail for that woman not even knowing Mickey’s name. Rough hands found his shoulders, tugging him back. An arm wrapped around his waist, not the one he wanted, not the one he knew. He fought against it, but it was strong, and held him tight. Held him there until a loud voice cut through the commotion, sending them all back to their seats. “Who am I taking to solitary this time?” it asked, annoyed, the grey guard uniform just visible from where Mickey still stood. He was the only one standing, panting as he came down from his adrenaline high. He waited for the pointing fingers, the accusations, the inevitable month added to his time to serve for causing a violent disturbance. A month he had no hope of surviving if he was this far gone after less than two fucking days. The pointing never came. The guard sighed, a tired sound. “Just keep it down in here,” they commanded. “And I won’t bother to check the tapes.” Nods all around. “Too much damn paperwork anyway,” the guard muttered as they returned to their post just outside the door. “Not worth the headache.” Yeah, well. Mickey never was. He remained standing as life started again around him. The sound of fabric rustling, of chairs squeaking as people shifted. Conversations starting again, quieter, more private. Like nothing had happened. Like his outburst was all in his head. “Ignore them, man,” the guy next to him said. “They’re all assholes anyway.” Mickey didn’t argue. “First thing I’m gonna do,” he continued, “is go see my family, just like your boy. That’s the good stuff, right there; everything else is just icing.” Everything else. Life, jobs, sex. Partners. Promises. “What about you, Milkovich?” he asked, turning in his seat. An olive branch extended, waiting to be taken. But Mickey was already gone. Ian had been gone for fifty-seven hours. And Mickey needed to hear his voice. He needed it more than he had ever imagined he could, but he was almost afraid to seek it out. Still, he found himself near the front of the line for the phones, shifting nervously. He fiddled with a tear in his jumpsuit, the one Ian used to stick his finger in teasingly to poke at his sensitive side. Waited his turn, then stared at the phone until the man behind him grumbled pointedly. He picked up the receiver. Dialed. Waited. Felt his heart rate increase as it rang. Tensed when it connected. “Mickey?” Ian answered, breathless, and Mickey sagged against the counter. “Hey,” he greeted, voice thick. He swallowed, hard, to clear it. “It’s good to hear your voice.” Ian sighed over the line. “Yeah, Mick,” he said softly. “You too.” Mickey let the words wash over him. Through him. Encase him in that unique warmth that Ian always seemed to bring him. “Been a while,” he managed next, and Ian’s quiet laugh was the best thing he had ever heard. “Only a couple of days,” Ian pointed out. Right. That was true. “Feel like more, though,” Mickey admitted. Someone moved in the corner of his vision, and he curled over the phone. Protective of this moment, this little world where Ian was close enough to hear, where he could imagine that his tinny voice was feet away instead of miles. “Kind of does,” Ian agreed, and then, “I miss you.” And Mickey closed his eyes, and breathed.

29

“Miss you too,” he murmured, and imagined Ian’s smile. “You know,” Ian said next, Mickey hanging on his every word, “I was thinking about what to—“ “Uncle Ian!” a girl’s voice cut him off on the other end. “I need you!” Mickey’s eyes opened, staring blindly at the wall. “Shit,” Ian muttered, away from the phone, the word coming through like a whisper. “Be there in a second!” he called back to whoever had interrupted. “Sorry, Mick,” he said, mouth back at the receiver. “That was Franny, I gotta go—“ “No, Ian, wait—” Mickey tried to stop him. The dial tone cut him off. “Fuck,” he muttered uselessly, the relief he had felt at hearing Ian’s voice dissipating as it was taken away from him again. As someone else so easily captured the attention Mickey craved. A hand tapped at his shoulder, and he startled, dropping the phone. “Trouble in paradise?” the man behind him asked. “I know how that feels, man.” Mickey doubted that very, very much. Ian had been gone for sixty-two hours. And Mickey was going to kill someone soon. All signs of Ian were gone from their once-shared cell when he got there that night, like he had never even been there at all. The last book he had read, tucked away under Mickey’s mattress like contraband, had been found and surrendered to the library. The sketches Mickey made of him had fallen from the walls, crushed under the boots of the guards during a routine search. Even the sheets had been taken and cleaned, Ian’s scent washed away, his hair gone from the rough fibers of the pillowcase. There was nothing left of him for Mickey to hoard, nothing left to help him pretend that Ian was with him. And to add insult to injury, Mickey had a new cell mate. “Hi, I’m Jerry,” the guy said when he walked in, offering a sweaty, tanned hand, and Mickey took one look at his pale grey eyes and boring brown hair and rolled over in his lonely bunk, intent on ignoring his presence. But Jerry was a talker. “Not gonna say hi?” he asked, feigning hurt. “I’m wounded, really.” “Fuck off,” Mickey muttered to the wall, and Jerry just laughed. “I heard the last guy in here got out early,” he joked, “but maybe he just needed to get away from you.” Mickey didn’t bothered to answer. But when Jerry climbed into the top bunk, shuffling and kicking and eventually snoring loudly enough to keep the whole cell block away, Mickey wondered if he was right. Maybe Ian needed to be gone. Maybe it was better for him. Maybe loving him wasn’t enough; it never had been before. Ian had been gone for eighty-four hours. And Mickey needed to get the hell out of prison. He couldn’t take it anymore. The knowing looks of people that pitied him. The raucous laughter in the common room of people that didn’t care. His persistent motherfucker of a new cell mate, always following him around, always taunting him to get a rise. The horrifying absence of the one thing, the one person, that had previously made it all bearable. He hatched a plan. Much different than the first time, when weeks of subtle seduction and cringing vulnerability had finally swayed a single woman to help him. This time he just needed one other inmate, a biohazard container, and the vague hope once he got out, he would have somewhere to go. That somewhere wouldn’t have Ian—he wouldn’t try that part again. It was better for them both if he didn’t. But maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to live with that. If he had to. Ian had been gone for ninety-six hours. And Mickey was ready to let him go. He hadn’t heard from him since their last aborted phone call, hadn’t tried to reach him again. Had no sign that Ian had tried to reach him, either. He had risked everything to find him again, everything to be with him here. And he had, and it had been worth it. But that chapter of his life was now closed, and as was always the case, it was time for him to move on from Ian fucking Gallagher. It was a simple plan, in the end. And in the end, it didn’t even matter. He thought it was over, when he was caught. Thought for sure that he was done for good, this time, when they shackled him and led him to the warden. But sitting there in a bolted-down chair, heavy chains dragging him down from hands to feet to floor, he was given a new beginning instead. “A free man.” The words echoed in his head. Free. He had never been free, before. They undid his cuffs, his shackles. He stood, and stretched his hands. “You can go now, Mr. Milkovich,” the warden said. “Johnson here will get you processed, and see you out.” Mickey let himself be led from the room in a daze. Walked the halls without restraints for the first time. Heard the hoots and hollers as he passed the rec room, didn’t even bother to look inside. He collected his things without comment when they were given to him. Changed into old clothes, and old self he had forgotten. Put his hand in his pocket—he had pockets again, now—and felt something there he didn’t remember. He waited until he was outside to pull it out. A faded newspaper clipping, soft from going through the wash, somehow missed when he was

30

searched upon entry. Ian stared at him from the grey paper. Mickey stared back. Then he folded it carefully, and tucked it in his pocket again. You can go home, the warden had said, and Mickey only knew one place that could be. That is, if home would have him. Ian had been gone for one hundred hours. And Mickey was on his way to see him. Was almost there, actually. Standing at the end of the street, watching the house where the man he loved waited. He thought about going up to the front door. Knocking, and waiting for it to open. Would Ian answer it? Would he be waiting? Did he even know that Mickey was out? Did he still care? Mickey rubbed a hand over burning eyes. The front door was out. There were too many people around anyway, people he didn’t know, and he didn’t want to deal with the attention. Didn’t want to risk some stranger answering the door in Ian’s stead, not knowing who he was, and asking him to leave before he could even see Ian’s face. He really needed to see Ian’s face. So he went to the side of the house, instead. Climbed the drain pipe up to the window he knew belonged to Ian’s bedroom, the bedroom he shared with his brothers. The bedroom Mickey had been in so many times before. Where he had begged Ian to come back to him, on his knees, his mouth wide. Where he had slept on the floor, one hand on Ian’s mattress, to make sure that he was still there. Where he had slept in the bed, once, finally, and woken to hear Ian avoid the question of what they were to each other. Where he had confirmed what they were for himself, later, when they were alone. Where he hoped to do so again. The window was barely open, but it was just wide enough to Mickey to squeeze through. He cursed when his leg caught in the blinds, turning to kick free, and when he looked up, Ian was there. He looked happy. He looked good. Like he had been sleeping, and eating, and taking his meds, and not pining over the man he’d left behind. “What are you doing here?” were the first words Ian said to him on the outside, as he stared at him with wide, shocked eyes, and Mickey didn’t know what that meant. “Long story,” he answered, hedging. Licked his lips, and swallowed. “Ends in compassionate release.” Compassionate, or heartless. That depended on what came next. “Why’d you climb in through the window?” Didn’t want to knock, Mickey didn’t say. Didn’t want to be turned away. “Bunch of fucking Mexicans out front,” Mickey said instead. “What’s that about anyway?” Casual. Like it mattered. Like anything mattered except Ian in front of him, lips slowly turning up in a way that Mickey hoped to God meant something good. “Long story,” Ian answered, almost teasingly. “Ends in all you can eat tamales.” The words were meaningless. Mickey waited, unsure. Of his welcome, of his place there, of everything. Then Ian smiled, and it was like he could feel the sun again after ages of darkness, warmth rushing through him as he bathed in its glow. “C’mere,” Ian said. And smiling back, lips stretched so wide his cheeks hurt with it, Mickey went home.

31

A Man with a Vengeful Plan By @NotHereNJ (efficaceous)

“You’ve never been loved, I can tell.” The words were dropped so casually from Ian’s lips, Mickey remembered how hearing that had made him feel, from Ian, of all people. Like he couldn’t breathe. The bite of the cold air sank into his skin. He felt stripped bare to the weather, on the sidewalk in front of the Gallagher house. Ian paced the porch. Not frantic. Frantic would have been easier. The cruel words fell from his lips as if he’d been thinking and planning them for a very long time. Did Ian even know what he was saying? Who could tell, these days? He was like someone else, another person half the time. More than half, if Mickey really admitted it. Most of the time. Unless Mickey was doing everything just right, following rules he didn’t even know existed, rules that fuckin’ changed every day, Ian would be at his throat. Not the way Terry had, not with his fists. With words. Tearing whatever shreds of identity and self-esteem Mickey had built away until all that was left was his soft belly bleeding, gray ropes of intestines spilling through his fingers. And Mickey would just… suck it up. Resolve to be better the next time, the next day. Try to make it up to Ian with his body, letting the younger man use him until he was crying out and biting his fist, not from passion but from pain. His body became accustomed to the burning and the bleeding, giving him glimmers of heat and pleasure even through it. Sometimes he came, mostly he didn’t. If Ian noticed, he never said anything. Mickey’s pleasure had become insignificant to him, below his notice. This was the only model Mickey had ever seen of love. Laura’s dynamic, and Mickey was ever his mother’s son. She used to tell him that Terry hadn’t always been like that. Ian hadn’t always been like that. In the beginning, he’d been so awed, still afraid of Mickey, probably. But something in him broke, at Mickey’s wedding. Watching Mickey’s tattooed hand engulfed in Svetlana’s, hearing him stutter out the words, “til death do us part.” Probably wishing it was them, or that Mickey had run away with him, or anything else. But he hadn’t had any choice. Or no good ones. She was knocked up, Terry was ready to murder him. His father needed to believe the living room scene had worked. Had changed Mickey. It very much had. Now, every night Mickey had nightmares. Horrible dreams where he lay, pistol-whipped and dazed on the couch and Svetlana suddenly had a cock, impossibly huge, splitting his ass wide open in front of Ian and his father. Or where her cunt had teeth, and as soon as Mickey entered her, his dick was bitten off, leaving a bloody, spurting stump. Worse dreams yet, where Ian fucked him as Mickey fucked the whore. Back and forth between them. His treacherous body supplied all the good feelings along with the horror, the heat and wet around his cock, the full slide of Ian past his hole, filling up his hole with hot cum. Sometimes, he woke up from those dreams having ejaculated in his sleep, hating himself so, so much. He’d slip through the next day in a painful daze. Wondering what the fuck was wrong with him. That was when he’d realized: Mickey wasn’t the one who terrorized people. He was the one who was terrorized. Mickey wasn’t the predator, he was prey. He couldn’t deny it any more. So it only made sense that Ian saw him like that. As weak. Broken. Unloved. Ian’s words just proved it. The inescapable chorus in his mind of worthless, of helpless, of garbage, echoed as Ian paced the porch impatiently, waiting for Mickey to pick up the clue. To finally put the pieces together. They were done; Ian was done with him. This was just… disposing of the corpse. Taking out the trash, setting it by the curb so Ian could forget it had ever existed. Mickey had no doubt Ian would forget him. Or if not, only mention him with mean-spirited laughter. Remember when…? ...when the dirty thug thought he could build a life? ...when Mickey believed someone, anyone, could care for him? ...when the Great and Mighty Mickey Milkovich got on his knees anytime Ian wanted, sucking his cock with an enthusiasm bordering on desperation? (Never mind that Mickey was desperate, would have gone to any lengths to retain Ian’s love.) Useless. It was a love he now suspected had never been his to have or to hold. If Ian loved anyone at all, it was Ian. Self-obsessed to the extreme, always trying to prove himself as more than just a middle child. Stronger than his brothers, smarter than his sisters. Mickey had no illusions that he’d been the only fucked up one in the relationship. He tugged his scarf more tightly where it wound around his neck, pulling against the ten dark bruises that surrounded his throat. He had nowhere to go. Terry’s was out of the question, he’d die first. Or be killed if he did. Svetlana rightly had no use for him. Couldn’t even blame her. No car. And it was winter, no time to try curling up under an overpass and waiting for… anything. The shelters were full. Wordlessly, he turned from Ian and began to walk away, no destination, just away. Then he stopped. Spun on his heel. Came back, standing at the base of the porch stairs. “You used to love me. So fuck you, for saying I’ve never been loved. If you say that, just means you don’t know who the fuck you are. Maybe you don’t anymore–” “–I really don’t.” Mickey ignored the interruption. “– but you did. I know what you felt with me, you can’t fake that.” He shook his head, trying to get the clouds of memories to dissipate. “But you don’t owe me anything anymore, Gallagher.” Ian frowned down at him. “What the hell does that mean? I never owed you anything, dumbass.” “Right. Exactly.” He sighed. “But that doesn’t erase the past. You can’t erase me.” “Can’t I?” Ian gave a wild little laugh that Mickey recognized. It always heralded a particularly brutal round of excoriation and shaming. Fuck that. No reason to stand here and take it. He needed to find somewhere to stay tonight, come up with a plan. Because Mickey might be trash and he might be worthless, but he wasn’t gonna lie down in the gutter and freeze to death because Ian

32

Fuckin’ Gallagher didn’t want him anymore. He’d find a way. And then, when he was ready, he’d come back. For revenge. It took longer than he’d expected, much longer, to be honest. A few years. But Mickey managed. He got his life in order: a GED, then an associates’ degree. Starting from the ground up, he worked at an auto repair shop, sweeping the floors before moving up to manual labor– changing oil and tires, day in and day out, until finally the owner recognized his hard work and let him really touch a customer’s car. Then he started hoarding all the money he earned, existing far below his means. All in service of his single-minded focus. By then, he’d found an apartment of his own, though it was barely above a shoebox. For month upon month, he lived like that, scrimping and saving, rarely going out. When his body demanded more than his own hand and a dildo, he’d find a secluded alley in Boy’s Town and hook up with a stranger. It barely scratched the itch, but that was fine. He had his plan. His plan kept him warm, kept him company, kept him going. That, and the idea of green eyes, widening in shock. And pain. He wasn’t going to attack Gallagher outright. In a battle of muscle, Mickey could win (he’d always fought dirtier, been able to fight meaner) but that wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, the particular frisson of accomplishment he was looking for. Bringing guns and knives in would not suffice either. No, what he wanted to do involved stealth. Cunning. He was going to take Ian Gallagher’s life apart, piece by piece, until he knew what it was like to stand alone in the street with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Just like Mickey had. The funny thing about the plan he’d formulated was that, if Ian thought past his own ego at all, even for a minute, it would all fall apart. But then, he never could. Never had, never would. Hell, he’d done some of the work for Mickey, alienating himself from his siblings over the intervening years. Fiona first, of course, when she moved away. Mickey kept up with the neighborhood gossip, never asking too many questions, but always listening. Then Lip sank into alcoholism, following his patriarchal footsteps. Even once his kid came along, Lip continued to dip in and out of the family. Mickey knew how much Ian hated Lip’s preachy hypocrisy, having listened to more than one bitter rant on the subject. Like Ian was one to talk. He’d expected the younger Gallaghers to present more of a challenge, but once more, Ian took the initiative and pushed them away all on his own. In a wry twist of fate, Debbie’s relationship with another dirty Milkovich was all it took for Ian to abandon her. He railed at Carl’s career choice, citing the numerous civil and human rights violations of the Chicago PD. And Liam? Poor kid. Mickey genuinely felt bad for him. Ian left Liam behind because it was all just too inconvenient to maintain the familial relationship when the rest of his siblings hated him, and he despised them in turn. Each looking down on the other, feeling like the wounded party. One by one, the pillars of support in Ian’s life were weakened, whittled away until one swift kick of a booted foot could bring the whole fuckin’ thing crashing down. His job? Mickey observed from afar, studying his movements. He’d learned a lot since the afternoon he’d watched Ian on the street with his geriatric boyfriend. Maybe that should have been his first clue as to what a faithless, self-centered cunt his lover was. But he’d been blinded by the fake fleece of feelings. He’d been right, when he said Mickey had never been loved. But Ian had dangled the promise of love in front of Mickey, the offer of devotion. All wrapped in a pretty ginger package with hot muscles and a big dick. How could Mickey say no? How could Mickey Milkovich, the dirtiest white boy in America, say no to all that? One of Ian’s recent boyfriends out of the endless parade had gotten him into first responder bullshit. Of course Gallagher loved it: he got to play the hero, the savior, and didn’t have to deal with ever seeing the people he saved again. Didn’t have to maintain the facade of the white knight. Just accept the tearful thanks and ride off in his shiny ambulance to the next accident. The next horror. But Mickey knew something all Ian’s little uniformed coworkers didn’t. Ian had lied on his application. Had to’ve. Because you couldn’t be an EMT if you had a mental defect or disorder. How Mickey loved to turn that phrase over his mind and his mouth. Mental defect or disorder. That described Ian to a tee. Defective. Disordered. Diseased. He thought of the row of orange pill bottles on the bathroom sink. All the printed white labels. Ian Gallagher 5/11/1996. Bottle after bottle, prescription after prescription. He’d never been sure which was worse, when Ian took the meds or when he didn’t. But now the little pill bottles told a different story. If Ian was taking them, he wasn’t allowed to be an EMT. If he wasn’t taking them… well, that was bad too. Real bad. It hadn’t taken much effort on Mickey’s part. Finding Ian’s boss had been a doddle, then following her after a shift. Took some time, which Mickey had plenty of, but he found out her hobbies and habits. Where she spent her off hours. (Drinking, and bowling.) Then it was just a matter of waiting for Pins and Pints Night. Send over a few drinks, doubles, until Mickey was confident she wouldn’t remember him the next day. Make friendly conversation. He could do it, he’d learned from Ian how to put on that happy, social mask. Then drip the poison in her ear. How he had a friend. More of an acquaintance, really. Who’d told Mickey about his friend, in turn. An EMT, like you! Surprise, surprise. But the EMT had a secret, a mental illness, a history of being unbalanced. Of acting out. Of hurting people. Innocent people. What a shame, what a damn Mickey slipped out of the first time in years. If she didn’t was she a shitty EMT, he’d had didn’t fall for shit like that Though it took longer had been out on his small cardboard box items and a look of fuckin’ face, like he happened to him. Believe it, bitch.

shame. bowling alley, optimistic for the check out her employees, not only her pinned all wrong. And Mickey anymore. Not anymore. than he’d expected, in the end, Ian ass, walking out the door with a overflowing with his personal vague confusion on his stupid couldn’t believe what had just

33

Ian’s losing his job had consequences, as Mickey had expected, chaos sown that he hadn’t even needed to nudge over the edge. Not many men were able to tolerate Ian’s screaming tirades and vicious words like Mickey had. (He’d had so much practice, his whole life spent preparing him to take Ian Gallagher’s bullshit.) The current twink boyfriend, clearly tired of gagging on Ian’s cock every five minutes now that he had little else to occupy his time, skipped out, leaving Ian to pay the rent on his fancy-ass apartment solo. That would burn through any savings Gallagher had managed to accumulate, and quickly. That was fine, nothing good ever happened overnight. But bad things certainly did happen at night, Mickey knew very well. Now, he just had to wait a little longer. Mickey hadn’t counted on having any good luck. He’d planned to take Ian’s life from him piece by precious piece with his own two hands. But then. Debbie got arrested as a sex offender. With a minor. And just like that, a gift fell into Mickey’s lap. A treasure. It only took a little time on his shitty laptop and a quick trip to Staples to make copies. Paying some kid to post the flyers all over Ian’s neighborhood. Well, his current neighborhood. He’d need somewhere else to live pretty soon, as his cash reserves had to be running low. Lying in his narrow bed, Mickey wondered if Ian would turn to dancing again, stripping and charming the geezers out of their watches and wallets every night, bored as they showered him in affection and adulation. Any semblance of neighborly goodwill would evaporate like piss on a hot sidewalk when they put the pieces together, tying Ian to the Neighborhood Watch flyers Mickey had so faithfully created. ‘Be On the LOOKOUT!’ They screamed in 45-pt font. ‘There is a SEX OFFENDER in OUR neighborhood. Last name is GALL–––––, hair is RED. CONVICTED of RAPE of a MINOR. DON’T LET YOUR CHILD BE NEXT!!’ So much for social support. And Mickey knew precisely where Ian would look for company next. The White Swallow was as seedy as it had been during Mickey’s late teens, the floor sticky and the door security easy to bypass. He didn’t feel like showing ID tonight. The ID in his jacket pocket was convincing enough: though the name and birthdate weren’t his, the photo was. But Mickey was on another of his little errands. He couldn’t be certain Ian would come here, but he had a hunch. The same way Gallagher had wanted dinner to be served at 6 on the dot, every night, the way he’d wanted his shirts folded, just so. Yeah, he’d come here eventually. Maybe not his first stop, but at some point, Ian Gallagher would walk through these doors and stop at the bar for a drink. He’d gaze around, scope out the dancers with scorn, and look for tonight’s prize, his prey. Someone new for him to use and abuse and discard. Mickey had a whole sob story ready for the head bartender. His boyfriend, who sometimes forgot to take his meds. Or, if the booze-slinger had a different cast to him, it would be a sexy game Mickey played with his boyfriend. Neither cover was necessary. The bartender just held out his hand for cash, shutting Mickey’s story down before it even left his lips. Cash was king, and Mickey’d been saving up. He needed to judge this right: too much, and the guy would pocket it and not follow through. Too little, and the bartender could try and hit Ian up for more in a fucked-up bidding war. He’d settled on $75. Three digits felt too desperate, and was too memorable. But $75, yeah. The employee accepted the cash and the little pill bottle. It had taken Mickey days of sifting through Gallagher’s trash, tossing aside used condoms and balled-up wads of tissue until he found an empty pill bottle. The pills inside didn’t actually match the label, but that wasn’t important. The bartender wouldn’t know that. He’d just pop open the capsule and sprinkle the contents into whatever Ian ordered. Empty pill capsules were easy to come by these days, ordered off the internet. Thank you Jeffrey Bezos. The contents, however, were somewhat more interesting. He’d thought about straight up poison. Just letting Ian shit himself to death in a seedy club bathroom. But that would be too easy to trace back. As much as Mickey wanted, no, he needed vengeance, he had to be smart about it. Dead Ian was done suffering. Live Ian, well, he could suffer much, much more. Mickey had met some truly terrible people, in the time between his flight from Ian and getting his bearings. Including a few actual scaryass motherfuckers who were on court ordered chemical castration meds. He hadn’t inquired why, not wanting to know details he wouldn’t be able to later scrub from his mind. And boosting the pills, just a few, had been easy. Every Milkovich child learned to lift shit early. Less a rite of passage and more of a necessity for survival. If you wanted to eat, you had to steal. So the little powder the bartender would sprinkle in Ian’s drink would take away his biggest unearned source of pride: his dick. Well, his ability to get hard, which was nearly one and the same. Whatever quirk of genetics had gifted Ian with a monster between his legs was still subject to the same laws of biology as every other penis-haver. Biological rules Mickey planned to exploit. He only wished he could see Ian’s face when he couldn’t get it up for whatever twink or otter he’d chosen for the night. There would be blustering. Blaming. Probably some poor fucker getting smacked around, in hopes the violence would excite what lust had not. But those pills, they were funny. They stayed in the bloodstream for a while. Weeks. Working their little insidious wiles. Did Mickey hope Ian would kill himself? He’d asked that question over and over. Turned to the thought every night before bed, considering. He’d decided no. Death wasn’t part of the plan. Of course, if it happened, he’d have some feelings. Sadness, for the boy who had once made Mickey believe he could be loved. Sadness for himself, for the damage he’d undergone in the name of the all-holy and reviled love. But not sadness for this adult Ian. Only sadness that Ian wouldn’t get the full measure of what he was owed. Then Mickey would fall asleep easily. Falling asleep wasn’t the issue anymore, not after the long days he worked, and all his little errands. It was what came while he was asleep. The nightmares he couldn’t escape. He knew it wasn’t smart to stay in the club, waiting. Mickey knew being seen there, not even by Ian, but by anyone, would dramatically increase his chances of being caught. But he couldn’t stay away. Every afternoon, he’d shower after work, inhale some frozen shit, and then smoke while he walked to the White Swallow. Then he’d find a corner, and wait. Watching and waiting. A part of him needed to be there, needed to see the aftermath of Ian’s anger, written on someone else’s skin, for a change. Because if not– If not, then the problem had never been with Ian, but with him. So he waited. Pretended his heart didn’t leap everytime a tall redhead walked in. Stayed under the radar. It took some time. Ten days, maybe. He didn’t know where Ian had been in the interim, was trying not to actively stalk him, was two whiskeys in when it happened.

34

He must’ve missed Ian coming in, which said shit for his situational awareness, but whatever. First, the kid came wailing out of the men’s room, bleeding profusely from his nose, holding one arm across his body at a funny angle. Mickey couldn’t yet be sure what had gone down. Not until the bouncers and security went in. They pulled Ian out screaming and fighting, throwing some good hits, but the team was too many. Gallagher was only one man, after all. A man weakened by Mickey. He couldn’t deny it– watching Ian get tossed out of the club on his ass felt damn good. A club Gallagher used to act like he owned, like he could do anything there, with no repercussions. And wasn’t that the story of Ian? So convinced of his own exceptionalism that the rules didn’t apply? Not anymore. Not now that Mickey was involved. When Ian finally broke, Mickey wasn’t there to see it. But he could imagine. When he had nowhere to go and no one to turn to, he did as Mickey had predicted, tried to slink back to the family home, tail between his legs. After the incident at the club, Mickey had vacated the premises permanently, instead taking up position across from the Gallager house. Watching. Waiting. Until a certain redhead stumbled down the steps to the mailbox, likely looking for the Amazon package Mickey had tucked under one arm. He looked terrible. Unshaven and thin. Weak, even. Sallow skin and greasy hair that only exacerbated the look of complete consternation of his face when he saw who addressed him from the sidewalk. “Mickey? Wha– what are you doing here?” It was like music, like a fuckin’ chorus of angels, not just to hear Ian’s voice, but to hear him confused and wrong-footed. He looked around, clearly at a loss for why Mickey, of all people, was here. Slowly setting the box down, Mickey basked in it for a moment, Ian Gallagher, laid low by a dirty fuckin’ Milkovich. For years, he’d been trying to formulate what he’d say, when he got here. He’d always known how it would end, but the question was how it would start. The thousand questions he still had condensed down to just one: “Was any of it ever real?” Ian frowned, puzzled. “The fuck? Was what real?” Then he laughed, the old cruel one that Mickey hated. “Oh, shit! You mean you and me? Was that real? Jesus, Mick, grow up.” Mickey watched him, face impassive. Waiting for Ian to continue. “I mean, you were there. I was there. We were both gay. And the sex was fine.” Fine. Fine, when he’d broken into Mickey’s room and wrestled him for the gun, until he’d been pressed between Mickey’s thighs, eyes squeezed shut. That fear, Mickey was certain, that had been real. But a change had come over him, when he’d seen Mickey’s hard length in his pants. As if Ian the kid was gone and some other, more malevolent creature had taken his place. Pushing and shoving at him, both of them yanking their clothes off, desperate to get inside– Stop. Don’t get distracted now. Focus. Mickey bit one side of his lip, considering. He had the upper hand here, but if he got lost in his own mind, he could easily give away the advantage. Not stalling, but to convey his sense of unhurry, he pulled out and lit a cigarette, taking a long pull and releasing a cloud of smoke. He repeated himself. “Said, was any of it ever real.” It wasn’t a question this time. Ian shrugged, and that gave Mickey his answer. No. Or not anything Ian would ever admit to. “So how’s it feel?” This question was lobbed at Ian casually, like an unopened pop can that no one wanted to spray everywhere. Not knowing what was going on, clearly hating that he didn’t know, Ian didn’t answer, but his frown became more pronounced. Once, a long time ago, Mickey would have done anything in his power to wipe that frown off of Ian’s face. But that wasn’t his job today. Had never really been his job. Grownups, he now knew, handled their own feelings, didn’t farm them out and expect other people to fix ‘em. He rubbed just once at his eyebrow, cigarette positioned between his fingers, before he spoke. “Oh, oh, so you don’t get it yet,” Mickey managed a mocking laugh of his own. “Your whole life just imploded, and you think– what? That it’s just bad fuckin’ luck? That it has nothing to do with the shitty way you lived your whole life, the way you treat people?” Understanding began to dawn across Ian’s face, but Mickey wasn’t done. “Listen, maybe no one ever fuckin’ loved me, that might be true, ok? I ain’t the most loveable kinda guy. But you– you never loved anyone but yourself, an’ I think that’s much, much worse.” He could see Ian sizing him up, trying to decide whether to rush him. Mickey had come prepared, had a .33 pushed into the back of his belt. But he had a deathblow yet to deal. “Now that I’m done loving you, I can see the scars. They’re beautiful, and I’m glad I put them there.” Ian’s mouth dropped open. Mickey walked away, flicking the still burning end of his cigarette into the dead grass in front of the Gallagher house. He turned back, just once. Ian was busily stomping out the little caught embers and imminent brushfire. “Now everyone can see who you really are.” If Ian said anything, Mickey didn’t hear it. He got into the beat-up car he’d stolen in preparation for this moment, turned the key in the ignition, heard the engine roar to life. Without a glance back in the rearview mirror, he whipped it out onto the street and drove away. Away from Ian Gallagher, away from the South Side, away from Chicago. There was a whole world out there, and maybe he could find a place for himself in it, now that he’d finally excised the last shards of Ian from his heart and from his life. He knew he wouldn’t have nightmares anymore, and he looked forward to his first truly restful night of sleep. But he had some driving to do before then, get some miles between him and everything he’d ever known first. He was ready to get on the highway, roll his window down, turn the music up, and find out who he was, without the dark shadow of Ian always looming over him.

35

37

The Odi Et Amo Gallavich fanzine is a non-profit project by @mere-mortifer and @mishervellous benefitting Brave Space Alliance

Thanks to all the fluff’ side participants: Writers xgoldendays Southside-forever Unbridgeabledistances ms-moonlight-inn Gallavictorious Energievie LadyEkaterina Twinklylights LivingInSunnyHell suzy-queued

Artists DaniHelvetti spoonfulstar Doodlevich sentimentalspiders Cover by darthvaders-wife Cover graphics by mere-mortifer With graphics by @imikhailo and @luminoustrace And playlists by @gingit-cake Featuring linearts by @wolfestw and @grumpymickmilk

FLUFF SIDE

“My evermore” ................................................................................................................... 4 artwork by danihelvetti............................................................................................... 10 “I wanna feel what love is” ............................................................................................ 11 “I know you can show me”............................................................................................. 12 “The dead butterfly” ...................................................................................................... 13 Space to Grow: “Can’t We Just Be Ian and Mickey?”.............................................. 16 “Sunday best”................................................................................................................... 17 artwork by spoonfulstar.............................................................................................. 18 “His little brother”........................................................................................................ 19 “All we know”................................................................................................................. 21 “The things we hold near”............................................................................................ 27 “pivot”............................................................................................................................... 30 artwork by doodlevich................................................................................................. 36 fluff playlist................................................................................................................... 37 artwork by sentimentalspiders.................................................................................... 38

My Evermore By @xgoldendays

Even as a kid, Ian always wished for better.  Ian remembers his childhood in bouts of the same repeating actions — Frank making their lives difficult and Fiona saving their asses, Lip and him arguing at night over school or friends or who was the better fighter, his mind becoming cloudy at the strangest moments, and of him tethering himself to anyone who might love him.  Anyone who might show him what true love was.  It wasn’t picture perfect and Ian made mistakes, hid behind fantasies in the form of promises and illusions, all the while troubled just like everyone else on the Southside. An unheard middle child that often got drowned out by the voices of his siblings but he was happy. For the most part.  And then there was Mickey.  Mickey who everyone knew was the baddest kid on the block. He was the kid no one befriended and purposely avoided like the plague as if he was contagious. The Milkoviches were at the bottom of the barrel — a barrel that was already filled to the brim with scum. They wore intimidation and anger like masks that not a single person dared to peel back out of fear of what might be underneath.  But Ian was always a curious kid.  They knew each other from around the block, grew up on the same four mile radius along with most of their classmates. Mickey elbowed Ian on his way out of class, tripped him during little league practice, kicked dirt onto his jeans when Lip wasn’t around to defend him. Ian knew who Mickey was for years but it wasn’t until the gun incident — until he looked into those blue eyes and found a softness, a gentle flicker of someone else behind that thick mask of spite — that the direction of Ian’s life changed forever.  Suddenly his thoughts were all Mickey. About the soft skin of his hips, the muscles on his shoulder blades, the scars on his biceps, and that smile that crinkled weary eyes into something so stunningly beautiful that time seemed to stop around them. And as much as Mickey pushed him, tried to force him away — Ian was Mickey’s, wholeheartedly and entirely.  Sure, Ian got lost along the way. He lost sight of Mickey when his own path became blurred and skewed but when a heart is tethered, it never truly forgets its way back home. Pain and hurt, blood and bruises, hospitals and border lines were not enough to stop what was set in motion years prior.  Fifteen years prior.  Because after all the time apart, all the distance and emotional turmoil — now they had been married for five years. A whole third of the rollercoaster of their story was spent as partners, lovers, husbands. Looking back, it’s almost hard to believe. A fairytale sort of ending for two kids from the Southside who never thought they’d end up here.  Here being their Westside apartment with Mickey’s arm thrown around Ian’s bare middle and his head buried into the crook of his husband’s neck. The watch that Ian almost chronically wears to bed reads just past 7AM on March 21st, 2025.  Their fifth wedding anniversary.  It must have been at least three hours since Ian woke up, unable to sleep once his brain clued in to exactly what day it was. He’d been planning for the day for months, constantly going over details in his mind until he drove himself crazy but that was nothing compared to the rapid dash of his heart once the time to act was finally upon him.  The sun outside has just barely broken over the horizon and the rays already threaten to creep through their blinds. It’s only a matter of time before morning shakes Mickey out of his slumber so Ian bites down on his lip, braces himself for the most romantic plan ever devised by a man.  Now one of the unsung beauties of being married to Mickey Milkovich is the man sleeps like a fucking log. So when Ian slowly moves Mickey’s hand away and slides his body out from under him, Mickey only snorts once before flipping his body around to burrow into his own pillow.  A strangled chuckle leaves Ian’s throat and he reaches a hand to slide across Mickey’s disheveled black hair, smoothing it back with his palm. It garners another light mumble out of Mickey but he’s none the wiser, his hands gripping the edge of the comforter and his nose buried in the pillowcase. He’s so at peace that Ian is convinced he could stand there all day just watching him but in a second, his phone flashes on the nightstand with a text from Lip and he kicks into action, his heart rate laughably fast.  Lip: wake up call.  Ian: thanks, bro. been awake for hours.  Lip: nervous? Ian: nauseous.  Lip: on the upside, if he hates it the worst thing he can do is divorce you.  Ian: not funny. did you get what I asked for?  Lip: boat’s at the dock.  Ian: thanks, i owe you :) Lip: good luck Ian smiles at his brother’s well wishes and sighs, changing into his clothes for the day and sliding his phone into his back pocket for safe keeping. It’s nearing 7:15AM and Ian knows he’s pushing it when Mickey’s shuffling goes from occasional to consistent. He quickly scrambles for a bag just under their dresser and fishes out a single red envelope.  It’s plain valentine red and addressed to Mickey with a cheesy and lopsided heart next to his name — the first envelope of

4

many that Ian has stashed away for the day.  For the longest time, Ian didn’t know what could measure up to their wedding and first anniversary but after Franny told him about a scavenger hunt her fifth grade class held just a couple months prior, well it all sort of clicked into place.  Ian was going to relive it all — the good, the bad, and the ugly so Mickey never forgot where his heart laid.  And that place was right in his hands.  — It’s the blinding yellow light that streams through their bedroom window that finally wakes Mickey up. He groans loudly and squints against the unbearable brightness, fruitlessly trying to cover it with one palm. That’s one thing about the Westside he just can’t come to terms with — how fucking bright everything is.  He lets out another noise of frustration and flings an arm over the spot where Ian is usually sleeping, only to be met with a fistful of blankets that are still warm. Mickey blinks and in his half sleepy daze, sits up and searches for Ian in their small bedroom, expecting to see him doing push ups or something equally as stupid.  When Mickey sees exactly no one, hears no noise in the kitchen, or the sound of the shower running — he calls out. “Ian?” Nothing.  Mickey kicks his blankets off and gets up then, his foot colliding with the night table and knocking the envelope off of it to land right on top of his foot. Once Mickey stops swearing from the pain, he looks down with a furrowed brow.  He knows what day it is. Of course he does but he thought maybe Ian would make breakfast in bed, do something silly like bring him flowers or a giant teddy bear because he knows Mickey would make fun of him — but there’s nothing. Not a single thing but this envelope.  “Ian, you better not be hiding your giant ass somewhere,” Mickey calls out, a hint of a waver in his voice.  There’s hesitation in him for a second, like maybe Mickey is about to get pranked on his own wedding anniversary but he can smell the remnants of Ian’s cologne in the room, can feel the warmth of his fingertips when he picks up the letter. It feels like love. He can’t really explain it, has never been able to explain his feelings for Ian with words alone.  Mickey flips the letter over in his hand, rolls his eyes at the silly heart, and slides it open. Inside, there’s a single letter, neatly folded and scribbled with Ian’s handwriting until halfway down the page.  Good morning, handsome.  First things first, happy anniversary. Big number five. I don’t know about you but I was thinking about this one more than any of the others. Five is a milestone, halfway to ten, fifth of the way to twenty. Hell, it’s a third of our whole relationship. It’s a big deal, you know?  And I want to make it special, even more special than the rest.  I know you’re making that cute scrunched up face because you’re confused and sleepy but indulge me a little. Get dressed, go downstairs, take Lip’s car, and go to the old Milkovich house. For me?  Love you,                   Ian.  If Mickey didn’t think Ian was a clown before, he certainly did now but still, the edges of his lips turn up in affection, a warmth creeping up his chest in reddening blotches. Fuck Ian for always knowing how to make him crumble. Mickey runs a hand over his face and slips the note back into the envelope for safe keeping.  He does exactly what Ian asks of him — gets dressed (nicely), slicks back his hair, and goes out to the apartment parking lot to find Lip’s car waiting for him, keys already in the ignition.  They definitely couldn’t get away with this shit in the back of the yards.  It’s a short drive, not more than ten minutes this early in the morning but the transition from West to South will never be anything less than jarring. He’s learned to get used to the clean streets, the silence, the fancy beers and the snooty neighbors but something in him exhales, relaxes once he sees the streets he grew up on.  He and Ian make the trip across the way every other day to do their rounds on the job but after taking more middle class cuts, it’s been less and less frequent. He doesn’t know the streets like he once did and the new kids on the block don’t recognize the Milkovich name much at all.  It’s more of a blessing than a curse.  Mickey cuts across town and heads down Ashland until it connects with Homan and the same square block comes into view. Different people live there now, people with last names he’s never heard of, who live in the same houses with different slabs of paint splashed over weathered slates. It’s like an alternate universe, a mirror image of the place he grew up. Close but not quite the same.  The L rumbles overhead and Mickey parks the car in a nearby patch of grass, the tires sinking into some mud on the edge of the road. It’s only a few feet away from the vacant lot that used to be the house, the house that still haunts his nightmares to this day. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever really get past it. All Mickey knows is that he isn’t scared, not anymore.  It must have been a couple of years since Mickey stood in this front lawn. His boots dig into the dirt as he steps closer, leaving footprints in his wake. There’s no more garbage piled high, no tires or stolen guns, none of Terry’s old rag magazines or used clothes. The city cleaned it all out and burned it after they tore the house down, taking every bit of Mickey’s childhood and disintegrating it into nothing.  The house that once kept him alive —even if it was barely so half the time — was torn down like nothing. No one wanted the place, too much crime and abuse soiling the appeal. Not that it was ever anything more than a shithole, the bare minimum that could sustain human life. So they got rid of it, put up this weird community garden in its place.  Mickey doesn’t miss it. Never did. Those walls were decorated in his blood and tears, in his pain, his loss, his misfortune and he doesn’t miss that. If anything, it’s kind of funny to see the empty land become something so lively, full of color and life. It’s everything Mickey never had and everything he has now.  At this hour, there’s no one there to interrupt him as he wades through the sprouting plants — flowers, herbs, different varieties of shrubs. From what he can tell, every square inch is covered with fully grown plants except one single area in the back. His eyes follow the path to the spot where his room used to be and there’s a small sprout just starting to form in the soil. 

5

It’s not much more than a weed, an inch or two tall and certainly not much to look at but placed right in front of it, is a letter. It’s an envelope just like the one Ian left him back at the house but it’s dirt smattered and moist when Mickey picks it up. The writing is clearly Ian’s and Mickey finally catches on to the game set in front of him.  There aren’t many good memories here, I’ll admit that. It dished out more bad than it ever did good but we wouldn’t be us without this place. The house isn’t here anymore and your room is long gone but the memories are still alive. The good ones, the happy ones. Those are the ones I choose to remember. I planted this tomato seed here a couple of weeks ago and hopefully it’ll grow to produce something beautiful out of the remains of the Milkovich house. Just like we did. Plus I just really wanted a tomato plant.  Next stop is our first house. The place we lived in together.  Mickey reads over the letter a few times, following the loopy nature of Ian’s handwriting and his hand reaches out to touch a single leaf on that growing little plant.  Fucking Gallaghers.  —  “Is he here yet?” Ian bursts into the Gallagher house shortly after depositing the first letter, making sure to move lightning fast considering the distance between the two spots was practically nonexistent. He comes in without so much as knocking, only to be met with his sister sitting at the counter reading over the classifieds section of the newspaper.  Debbie’s brow lifts and she’s clearly unamused, though not surprised in the slightest. As quiet as the house is these days, Gallaghers never forget the bustle of people coming in and out of the house unexpectedly.  She drops her paper and grimaces at Ian, her face showing more signs of exhaustion than any twenty five year old should have. “It’s been an hour. Half the block isn’t even awake yet.” The only person left in the house these days is Debbie, hopelessly tethered to the memories of yesteryear and by association, Franny — who at ten years old is making the best of a not-so-great situation, much like Liam did at her age. It was sad to say that Frank sort of had a point when it came to his youngest daughter. Debbie didn’t change, she didn’t move forward.  “You could just say no,” Ian gripes, a box tucked under his arm that he stashed away in the trunk of the car days earlier.  It’s about three feet by three feet tall, shiny purple and blue paper decorating the outside and tied up with a metallic red bow at the top. It’s flashy, grotesquely cutesy, and exactly what Ian is going for.  Debbie’s eyes find the box and she raises a brow, using an amused smirk. “No, Ian. Mickey isn’t here yet.” “Perfect.” Ian brushes past his sister and stalks up the stairs, past Franny’s room where it looks like the little girl is still sleeping and walks straight to his old room at the far corner of the house.  The beds are gone, their posters torn down, their clothes donated or thrown out, and the walls painted over. It’s become more of a study now that Lip found a place of his own and none of the boys cared to keep their childhood room intact. At first, it bothered Ian a little that so much was changing, that the house would never look exactly the way it did when Fiona was there but it was for the best.  It all was.  Ian steps into the room and right in front of the door where his bed used to be, is a dresser filled with Franny and Debbie’s extra clothes. He plops the box right on top and steps back, trying to imagine Mickey walking up the stairs to find it.  It feels like yesterday that a nineteen year old Mickey was escaping his family and living part time at the Gallagher house, eating their food and curling himself into Ian’s bed that used to be in this spot. Ian doesn’t bring it up anymore, doesn’t think he needs to, but he replays those moments more often than any of the others.  When Mickey would be too asleep to notice, Ian’s arms curled around him, shielding him from his brother’s prying eyes. He’d memorize the scent of his hair and the distinct cigarette smoke that stuck to his clothes. He’d map out the contours of Mickey’s chest with his fingertips and wonder to himself when it would all be over. There was no chance in hell he could have someone so perfect forever, not Ian Gallagher — not the screw up, the forgotten, the leftover.  So he tried to remember it all, take those little pieces that Mickey gave him and hold onto them like they were enough to sustain him for the rest of his life. And when they weren’t, Ian pushed and prodded, begged Mickey to want him as much as Ian wanted him.  But that’s the curse of time, isn’t it? Thinking you know better and coming out wrong, wasting precious moments on jealousy and bitterness. He didn’t know. He couldn’t have known.  “Uncle Ian?” A small voice calls out and Ian turns to see Franny standing at the other side of the hall, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with a book tucked under her arm.  All of Ian’s thoughts leave his mind and he abandons the box, moving to his niece and lifting her into his arms. She’s getting taller, nearly five foot already and she’s missing a few teeth in the front that show when she smiles.  “Hey princess, you’re getting heavy.” Ian says as he carries her downstairs, back into the kitchen where Debbie is nose deep in the newspaper again.  Franny doesn’t acknowledge her mom when Ian sets her down at the kitchen table and just tugs at his sleeve with a mischievous grin. “Is the plan working?” Of course their niece was fully aware of what was going on. It was her genius that sparked the whole idea, after all.  “So far.” Franny claps happily and she scoots back to sit at the dining table, opening her book to a few work pages filled with her child scribbles. “I’m going to put on my best acting face, Uncle Ian. He’s going to love it.” “That’s my girl.” Ian ruffles her hair and kisses the top of her head, opening his mouth to ask her about her homework when the front door opens.  It could be anyone. A neighbor, a relative, Lip, Tami, anyone but when Ian hears Mickey’s distinct grumble and the heavy thud

6

of his gate, he jumps up — his blood running cold.  “Oh shit.” “Hide, Uncle Ian.” Franny squeaks and she kicks at his shins dramatically.  It wouldn’t be the end of the world if Mickey saw him — they’re not that stupid — but what’s the point in the hunt if you get caught midway? Ian fumbles for a place to hide and he’s looking toward the back door at the same time that Debbie’s chair skirts across the linoleum.  His sister pushes her hand into his face and throttles him toward the bathroom at the bottom of the stairs, boot kicking the door closed in his face. The edge of it nearly catches his nose and Ian swears under his breath. He presses his ear up to the wood frame and scrunches up his face as if it’ll help him hear better.  Even through the thin paneling of the bathroom door, Ian can’t hear a single thing besides the obvious fact that the three of them are speaking. He makes a go for the handle but it doesn’t budge, clearly blocked by something on the other side. He groans to himself and settles for listening to their mumbling, entranced by his husband’s voice so close but so far away at the same time.  After what feels like ages, Mickey’s footsteps ascend the staircase and Ian pushes his nose against the wood until it’s squashed flat, waiting until he can’t hear a single peep to come out of hiding.  Debbie is already back at her monotonous reading of the newspaper, looking as uninterested as humanly possible. “You better get out of here before he comes back down.” Franny, on the other hand, is at the base of the stairs, looking up at where Mickey went and bouncing back and forth on her heels.  “Sneak up there and let me know if he likes it?” Ian asks her with a hand on her shoulder, his eyes also glancing up the stairs.  Franny nods giddily and bolts after her second favorite uncle without a second thought. Ian watches her go and smiles fondly, checking that the coast is clear before making his exit.  Two stops down, two to go.  —  Mickey is back in the car after leaving the Gallagher house and he’s pretty sure he might have to strangle Ian.  From inside the box that sat on top of a dresser where Ian’s old bed used to be, came a dozen roses, another letter, and a giant heart shaped balloon that was currently bonking him in the temple from the back seat. Just when Mickey thought this whole day couldn’t get cheesier, Ian lays it on thick — extremely so.  I remember that year after I came back in bits and pieces. It was the first time we shared a space, slept in the same room, had breakfast together. It was also the first time I lost myself and almost you too. I know we don’t talk about it anymore because it’s been so long and we’ve moved on but it’s still important. It’ll always all be important. I asked you once if we were a couple or not and I guess you were right because of course we are. We always have been.  And couples have spots, don’t they? So the next stop is one of ours. You know which one. One of their spots. Mickey knows which one. What kind of cryptic shit?  He rolls his eyes as he rereads the note, thinking to himself that it could be a hundred places. The bleachers, the park, the warehouse, the Polish Doll, anywhere. But Ian is convinced Mickey will know which one.  Mickey sighs and squeezes the steering wheel with sweaty palms, thinking and thinking until it hits him.  Oh.  A laugh bubbles out and Mickey heads down to the right exit, taking a left out past the park and toward the baseball field that lays abandoned until the season picks up again. Patches of the grass are brown and pulling up and the lines are fading where kids have trampled over them trying to get runs in.  Once Mickey parks the car and climbs over the chain link fence just like the old days, he walks through the grass, taking his time and breathing in the crisp air of the morning. There’s something sharp about it and the memories coming flooding back. The taste of the beer rests on his tongue mixing with the coppery tinge of blood.  It’s not all good, none of it ever is but maybe that’s why Ian is leading him through this. To show Mickey it doesn’t have to be.  As Mickey approaches the dugouts, he notes the rust forming at the connections between the chain links and he thinks time is the weirdest thing in the world. How time can change everything someone knows into something they can’t even recognize.  Mickey can’t recognize himself or Ian when he compares them to their teenage selves. Sixteen year old Mickey acting too good for affection, too proud for friendship and fifteen year old Ian trying to worm it out of him for an entire summer. He knows why he did it, why he kept Ian so far away from his heart but at thirty, he wishes it didn’t have to be that way.  Dipping behind the box, Mickey gets into the pit where the benches are and just as he suspected — there’s a red envelope sitting there waiting for him. It flashes him back to those kids yet again, if Mickey back then could have ever imagined getting love notes from Ian. If he would have wanted to. Mickey sits down and pries the envelope open, reading the next on the list.  I knew you’d get it.  Or at least I’m hoping you came here immediately and didn’t go running around the city. lt’ll really ruin the rest of the adventure if you’re late.  Anyway, the dugouts. One of our spots. That summer after you got out of juvie is probably the best one of my life. Maybe because I think that’s when I realized I wanted you to be mine forever. And okay maybe it’s a little silly, a fifteen year old me being in love with you but I was. I am. I still think about your smile on the fourth of July, the way we’d share stories and get high by third base in the grass. I cherish all those memories and every single one since then.  Next stop, go to the place where we came back together.  Hint: it’s by water :) Mickey outwardly chuckles this time and he looks around with bleary eyes, maybe hoping that Ian would pop out of the shadows because the urge to kiss him is growing exponentially by the second. Tears build up in his eyes and he blinks them away,

7

wiping the stray wetness with the back of his sleeve.  It’s a rare occasion that Mickey cries but when he does, he wears his emotions in every crevice of his face, in every wrinkle of age that shows on his skin. He can’t hide the wave of adrenaline that consumes his entire body and leaves him gasping for air.  Five years, ten years, a hundred years and Ian Gallagher would still take his breath away in every possible way, at all times.  It takes Mickey a while to get his wits about him and it’s just as the sun starts setting overhead, leaving a purple and orange glow over the buildings in the distance. If Ian is leading him to the right place then he’ll be there right by sunset.  Corny bastard.  —  The nausea that Ian feels brewing in his stomach only rivals the nerves that he felt the last time he was here. The docks by the old warehouses are exactly the same with maybe a few less boats cluttering the space but Ian can recall every single inch from memory. The lights of the bridge glaring against the water, the gasoline reeking off of the old tugboat types that churn by, his cigarette ash as it burns down in clumps by his boot.  Ian leans back on a familiar boat and lights up a cigarette, the glow illuminating the area in front of his face. He’s years older, a little wiser, but his heart flips in this concourse of somersaults just the same the as last time he was here when he sees the lights of a car pulling onto the dirt road.  On instinct, Ian flicks the cigarette into the gravel, ignoring that it was only a quarter of the way burned down and focuses instead on the car stopping by his feet. His pulse shouldn’t shoot up the way it does and he feels like a teenager all over again, desperate for Mickey’s attention.  The car engine turns off and the driver’s side door opens, revealing Mickey and that silly red balloon threatening to escape. He punches it back into the car and slams the door shut, smoothing out his shirt with one hand through the locks.  Maybe it’s crazy, desperate sounding even, but when the two make eye contact, the giddy sensation in the pit of Ian’s stomach only gets worse — his cheeks reddening embarrassingly.  Mickey walks toward him in what feels like slow motion and there’s a glint to his gaze that Ian only sees when he’s undeniably happy. “The docks, huh?” “Pretty memorable if you ask me.” Ian shrugs, biting his lower lip and he closes the space between them even more, his fingers already itching to touch Mickey.  “Uh huh, I bet you think so.” They’re playing with each other, cat and mouse like always, and that’s something no amount of years will change. Flirting and being dickheads is their love language, their own brand of it in fact.  “Come here.” Ian beckons when Mickey doesn’t step closer, hooking his fingers into his belt loops and tugging him in. “Did you like it?” Mickey allows Ian to manhandle him and from this angle, the light blush over his nose is undeniable. “Yeah. Fucking lame but— perfect,” he mutters weakly, his hands sliding up Ian’s chest toward his neck. “This our last stop?” Ian nods and he lightly caresses Mickey’s side, his stomach bubbling and churning with nerves. “You see, I tried to think of where I fell in love with you but I’ve loved you everywhere, for every single second. It didn’t feel right to put a specific place on it.”  And he means it. Ian can’t even think of a time when Mickey didn’t consume his thoughts or take up the majority of the space in his heart. It’s always been and always would be.  Before Ian can speak again or register the flash of emotions running across Mickey’s features, the gap between them closes and Mickey’s lips press firmly to his. It sends the air rushing out of his lungs and Ian rushes to wrap his arms around his husband, pulling his body up against his own. He cups his cheek lovingly, pours every ounce of his affection into the touches of their mouths.  They breathe each other in until they suffocate, panting into each other’s lungs. Ian presses his forehead against Mickey’s and he traces the gentle lines near his nose, the distinct signs of a man who has spent a good amount of his life smiling.  “As much as I want to continue that, I’m not done romancing you, Mr. Gallagher,” Ian teases, resting his hands on Mickey’s waist.  “Is that right? What else you got in mind?”  What Ian has in mind floats in the water just at the end of the dock, tied to one of the planks with algae ridden rope. It’s tiny, just big enough for two people, and the wood looks weakened by the water — soft and pliable. The pair of them stare down at the boat but Mickey is the first one to grimace, fixing Ian with an annoyed glare.  “It’ll be fine,” Ian assures and he bends down to hold the boat steady, urging Mickey to get in with a light kick to the foot.  Mickey sneers unconvinced but he moves into the boat, swaying ungracefully as it rocks back and forth in an attempt to adjust to his weight. It eventually levels out and Ian takes the chance to slide in, his giant limbs looking a little ridiculous in the small surface area.  After some adjusting, Ian steers the boat out toward the middle of the makeshift lake until the moon is perfectly overhead and he’s sure there has never been higher romance than in this moment. It’s just him, Mickey, the moonlight, and the perfect mood music.  From his back pocket, Ian pulls out his phone and he dexterously scrolls through to find his ‘Mickey’ playlist, clicking on the very first song. It’s only a matter of seconds before the silence is broken by the strumming of a guitar and the smooth vocals of one Mr. Joe Jonas.  Mickey, who was staring off at the sights, jerks back immediately and his eyes are full blown, bright blue and comically wide. “Ian, don’t fucking do it,” he warns above the music, his nostrils flaring slightly.  To Ian, he might as well have said ‘sing your heart out.’ “I’m not trying to be your part time lover, sign me up for that full time,” Ian sings into the void and he lifts his hands up, announcing to the whole world exactly how he feels.  The wood of the boat creaks the more Ian shimmies and Mickey grips the sides to keep it steady, already barking over the obnoxious twang of Ian’s serenade. “Ian! Jesus, Ian — shut the fuck up!” Ian just laughs and he waves his phone back and forth, the music warbling as he continues. “What a man gotta do to be totally

8

locked up by you.” “You mother—“ Mickey launches himself toward Ian and the boat tips heavily to one side, the murky Chicago water lapping over the edge.  Ian tries to steady it as best he can with one hand while holding his phone above his head but dangerously perched over the water at the same time. He’s laughing so hard between the lyrics that he can barely breathe, his face turning a cherry red color around his cheeks.  Mickey’s face is much the same and Ian can’t resist reaching out to pinch the skin of his cheek. “Mickey, I’m romancing you and you’re going to drown us!” Ian cackles into the open night air.  “Your singing sucks ass. It’s not romantic,” Mickey snaps at him but the smile already taking over says otherwise.  “You’re really going to insult your husband like that?” “When he’s a sappy dick, yeah.” “Your sappy dick.” Mickey rolls his eyes so hard that he doesn’t notice a small crack in the boat’s bottom that formed in all their horseplay. Water starts seeping in at a steady pace, coming up to the bottom of both of their boots and climbing.  It’s only when some of the water splashes onto his pant leg that Mickey finally looks down and he sputters, his eyes now blazing for real. “You’re an idiot.” Ian, none the wiser, chuckles and turns off the song. “Your idiot.” “No, you’re an ACTUAL idiot.” It’s the last thing out of Mickey’s mouth before the hole caves in on itself and the water flushing in outweighs them in the boat.  The bottom flips on its head and launches both of the men into the muck of the lake, their bodies shooting water up a few feet into the air. It’s a speedy demise and the water grows still in seconds until Ian reemerges, coughing out water and his clothes soaked through to the bone.  He rubs at his eyes to clear them and in the darkness, there’s no sign of Mickey. No loud gurgling, no swearing, no tiny man floating off into the distance.  “Mickey?” Ian calls out and there’s an edge of panic in his voice, at least until a pair of hands comes jutting out of the water.  Mickey grabs Ian’s collar and growls, his black hair plastered onto his forehead. Ian steels himself for the backlash of a lifetime but instead, Mickey presses a wet kiss to his mouth. “Never romance me again.” “Never ever?” In response, Ian gets a mouthful of sewage and he raises his hands in defeat.  “Okay, okay,” he agrees, swimming a few feet back toward Mickey and wrapping his arms around him. “You have to admit it was pretty good until the last part.” Mickey splashes him again but more affectionately this time, sealing it with a kiss. “That’s what you get for singing.” Ian snorts and he slides his hands down to Mickey’s ass, lifting him slightly in the water until he’s carrying him. He presses his lips to the pulse point under Mickey’s ear, sucking at the skin until he feels Mickey start to squirm.  It would be the right moment to seal the deal with another romantic sentiment but all that leaves Ian’s lips is, “I think I need a new phone.” A huff comes out of Mickey and he tugs on Ian’s hair so their eyes meet again, playfulness in every biting word. “Shut up, I love you.” Ian lifts Mickey higher in his arms and he watches him in the moonlight, files this moment to his memory along with all the others. “I love you too.” And damn, would Ian Gallagher love him forever. Just like this, sink or swim, for the rest of his life. 

9

10

I Wanna Feel What Love Is By @southside-forever

Crossing his arms, he stands in front of their bedroom window and glares at the crisp white curtains held up by a cheap tension rod. There are creases in the fabric and no pattern to speak of, nothing remarkable or notable, and yet his eyes narrow. A normal person would admire their handiwork, take pride in the successful installation, but he doesn’t do normal. “Back in an hour,” Ian had told him, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Try unpacking some shit? Settle in a little,” he suggested with a sweet grin before making his way to the workout room.  Mickey had given Ian an absent nod accompanied by the ghost of a smile, just enough of a response for the redhead to think that he’d consider it. They both knew that Mickey was still adjusting to the west side. Their conversation in the near-empty room at the Gallagher House paved the way for more exchanges that shed light on Mickey’s insecurities, his concerns and reservations. He was worried about losing a piece of himself, losing a piece of them, and it scared him. It scares him.  Mickey notices a stack of boxes in the corner that’s slowly starting to lean over, the bottom-most box beginning to collapse under the weight of the others. He lifts the top two, grunting at their weight, and tosses them aside. Grabbing the edges, he slides the crushed box over to his side of the bed and sits down.  It takes him a second, but he realizes that it’s one of the boxes that he took from McCurdy’s house after Terry died. Ian had encouraged him to take it, suggested he might want something from his childhood home someday, the sentimental bitch.  It’s pathetic, really, his life ending up in one dilapidated box. He opens it and begins shifting the few vaguely familiar items around–a bunch of old magazines, a couple of torn shirts, an empty sheath–before he reaches the bottom where he uncovers a worn tin box, a relic of the Milkovich family home. Mickey’s heart races. There’s no way, no fucking way.  Pulling out the container, Mickey gives it a once-over, taking in all of the scrapes and dents caused by years of use, and he can just faintly make out the word “tobacco” on the top. He gently lifts the lid, remembering that one of the hinges is broken, and when it’s fully open, he stops breathing.  It’s all still there.  “What’re you lookin’ at?”  “Jesus Christ,” Mickey barks out, body tensing at the sudden sound of Ian’s voice. He quickly covers the tin, his fingers getting caught in the process as the lid sits lopsided, and curls his body forward in a half-assed attempt to conceal it. “You’re like a fuckin’ cat,” he adds, watching Ian kick off his running shoes and pinch at his shirt, pulling the sweat-damp fabric away from his body to air out.  Ian laughs, leaning down to take off his socks.  God, Mickey wishes they had some fucking furniture, a bedside table he could shove this in, or a bed frame so he could toss it underneath.  “S’that a picture of me?”  Mickey’s eyes shift downward, groaning when he sees the corner of the picture he was looking at is exposed. Underneath a lighter and a couple of bullet casings is a photograph of Ian wearing a beanie and flipping off the camera. The edges are frayed and there are creases all over, little raised lines dissecting the image.  Mickey moves to shut the tin, but Ian’s too quick, snatching the photo with his long fingers. “How the fuck did you get this?” he asks, amused.  Mickey remembers opening Mandy’s stolen laptop and realizing that she left her Facebook account logged in. He remembers the glaring red chat notification in the bottom corner alerting her of a message from Ian Gallagher. He remembers his stomach doing a flip and clicking on his profile, holding back a smile as he took in as much information as he could before Mandy returned. He gazed over Ian’s favorite music and movies, noting most of his friends were other Gallaghers, but his eyes kept returning to his profile picture. Mickey remembers getting it printed for 10 cents at the public library and folding it as many times as he could before shoving it into the depths of his jean pocket. “Mandy,” he shrugs, leaving out the finer details that he knows would make his husband melt.  “Mmhmm,” Ian hums knowingly, scooting closer to him.  Mickey can feel his face warm, a blush blooming across his cheeks. “Whatever, man, fuck you,” he replies with little heat behind his words.  It’s not lost on him that Ian has been making him blush for over a decade, making him realize that maybe living a life that he’s excited and proud of is possible. And maybe it’s okay that his husband knows just how gone he was on him. Maybe it’s safe.  “What else you got in there?” Ian prods, leaning toward him.  Mickey sighs and tilts the container toward him, the miscellaneous items rolling around and crashing against the cheap metal sides. He examines Ian’s face and the whirlwind of emotions that pass by as Ian takes in the contents; amusement at a broken Casio watch swiped from his nightstand in the Gallagher boys’ room, fondness at the butterfly knife they shotgunned beers with that one summer, shame at the Gallagher name tag from his cadet uniform. “Is that…” Ian’s voice is soft and low, trailing off at the end, and reaching out to graze his fingers over the smooth, cold metal. He knows what Ian’s thinking about because he’s thinking about the exact same thing: passing that flask back-and-forth over bruised ribs and broken teeth, caked in blood and nerves raw as they sat in the aftermath of the night. Mickey slowly nods, biting at the side of his lip. They sit in silence, fingertips occasionally bumping into each other until Ian huffs out a laugh and turns toward him. “Can’t believe you kept all this stuff.”  Mickey shrugs as their eyes meet, feeling exposed and vulnerable. He sniffs and brings a hand up to his nose, thumbing at the side, and looks down. He feels Ian shift next to him and a large hand on the back of his neck, rubbing slow and encouraging circles into the sensitive skin.  Sighing, he feels his body begin to relax against Ian’s touch, relishing in the security and warmth of the man he’s loved and treasured for years with the promise of many more.

11

I Know You Can Show Me By @unbridgeabledistances

He sees Mickey’s face looking down at the tin box— the averted gaze, the hunch in his shoulders, like he himself couldn’t really believe that he’d been gathering all these crystallizing shards of memory for so long. Ian felt the warmth pooling in his stomach— sweet and malleable like taffy, that tether radiating outward to wherever Mickey was. And he reached out, grabbing his husband’s slack wrist that was still propping up his box of collected treasures, a contradiction of a scuffed box that had weathered the years foregrounded against the eggshell-white of the bedroom. Ian felt a smirk growing across his face. “Hey. I think I might have you beat.” He walked across the empty room to one of the many black trash bags lining the wall under the windowsill— bursting at the seams with their collective wardrobe, scattered among random crates and boxes of dusty Gallagher House artifacts. Ian dug elbow-deep in the bag he’d packed earlier that week— random socks and underwear, a few crumpled threadbare towels and washcloths— and at the bottom a blue shoebox, a ratty thing that he’d kept hidden under his rickety twin bed for years alongside teen magazines with chiseled shirtless men on the cover that he’d swiped from Mandy, and Lip’s not-so-discreetly camouflaged weed stash. A shoebox that had collected dust the entirety of his months away in prison and the endless weeks of quarantine, the soft cardboard buckling and creased from being piled under the weight of shoes and discarded clothes that found their way under the bed. Mickey’s eyes were glinting, curious. “The fuck’s that?” Ian gingerly unfolded the lid— feeling the weight of the sagging bottom of the shoebox, soft fibers of cardboard about to give way. There wasn’t much inside; a layer of scraps of folded paper, various small items rattling against each other as Ian tilted the box for Mickey to peer inside. “Maybe I also kept some sappy shit.” Mickey raised his eyebrow. “It wasn’t really intentional at first, same as you, but I’ve got some gems in here from forever ago.” Ian felt his voice lower as he continued to speak. “Kinda helped when you were gone or whatever.” Mickey lifted a tentative hand, plucking a crumpled paper from the top of the box and unfolding it, still sporting a confused and slightly entertained expression. “FUCK U GALAGER” was scrawled in scratchy ink letters bleeding through the thin notebook paper, written in Mickey’s trademark handwriting style that covered his walls as a kid. Mickey let out a gust of air. “When’s that from?” “Math class, ninth grade. I think I asked if I could borrow a pencil or something. You wrote this and threw it at my head.” Ian bit back a smile, rising up from somewhere in his chest. Not your worst reaction.” Mickey smirked in remembrance. “I never woulda fucked with you, Mandy would’ve had my ass.” “Hey, at least you were consistent with your shitty spelling of my last name. Mickey rolled his eyes. “Alright, softie, what other shit’s in here anyways?” He unfurled the item tucked in the corner of the box— a coiled scarf, in a brownish off-green color, wrapped in a ball and matted with age (and from being shoved in a crushed and cramped shoebox under Ian’s bed for God knows how long, if Ian was being totally honest). “Is this my fucking scarf?” Ian grinned sheepishly. “Mandy gave it to me one time when I was heading home from your house during a fucking blizzard, and I just kind of kept it.” He saw Mickey’s brow furrow imperceptibly— either in confusion again, or pure disbelief. Ian raised his shoulders in a shrug. “Smelled like you.” Mickey scoffed. “And I thought I was bein’ soft.” He continued to rummage through the box, Ian holding it out. Mickey’s eyes landed on a silver ring on a necklace chain, which he swiftly ignored— and then his hand landed on a box-like item, a black burner phone that had been out of charge for years at this point. “You kept this fucking phone? This is cold hard evidence or some shit, man.” Ian didn’t really know why he threw it in the box in the first place, after meeting with Mickey under the misty cloak of moonlight at the docks. “I pretty much exclusively stared at that thing for a week straight, Mick. Felt meaningful.” “Meaningful.” Mickey rolled his eyes— and he was right, it was stupid. But Ian couldn’t help the fact that for months after Mickey had crossed the Mexican border without a word, disappearing into a cloud of dust, Ian had flipped open the phone and stared at the blank screen for months. “Why do you have so many fuckin’ papers in here? All this shit looks like garbage.” “Look at some of ‘em.” He’d kept almost everything: the crumpled to-do list from the wedding, scraps of notes and grocery lists from when they were both living at the Milkovich House, back before Mickey was locked up and shit hit the fan— and most recently, the torn half of an envelope, the word “monogamy” scrawled on the back with a broken pencil. For so long they’d been holding all of this in themselves— silently collecting scraps of paper, scraps of each other. Mickey let his hand fall limp from the box—his eyes full of something foreign, something on the brink of an emotion that was too deep and murky to name. Ian dropped the box on the ledge beside him, reaching out to intertwine his arms around Mickey’s waist, at the dip of his torso, right where they belonged— breathing in the flesh and blood and everything that he’d gone without for so long. They had forever— and they didn’t need to hide it anymore.

12

The fluttery bastard had come to Mickey without an agenda. Without pretext. The first time Mickey saw it was one butt-crack-o’-daylight summer morning when his headphones fell off and the lack of inner-city serenade woke him up. Fuckin’ great. Fighting wakefulness, he twisted his lips into a grimace, repositioned his headphones, and willed himself back to a dreamland filled with gunshots, sirens, and pleas for mercy. Normal stuff. Didn’t happen. Fuck. He looked over at his husband, who was not-so daintily sawin’ logs. Mickey ran through his checklist of possibilities. Early morning sexy time? Naw, his ass was still sore from last night. Blowies? Not as good as a dick in his ass. Really oughta quit with the whole tryin’-to-break-the-five-times-record bullshit ‘cause power bottom clearly didn’t equal invincible bottom. So, no booty time and no oral presentation left him with little choice but polluting his lungs on the balcony. Five gunshotless, sirensless, eerie West Side-silent minutes later, there he was, puffin’ away while he watched an army of douchebags head out for their daily runs and coffee IVs when he noticed the huge yellow and black butterfly chillin’ the fuck out on his balcony railing. Fucker’d just been imperiously flapping its wings like it owned the place. Mickey snapped a picture to show Ian when he finally dragged his ass outta bed. Then he decided to take the extra step of putting the pic in an image search, find out what kind of butterfly this bold little shit was. “Huh,” Mickey chuffed through a cloud of smoke, “Eastern Tiger Swallowtail is what this says you are. There’s a picture of you here on some frilly-ass flowers called,” he squinted at the screen, “zinnias.” He tisked at himself for being the type of asshole who talked to insects. But, since he’s already here talkin’ to the thing, might as well go all in. He shrugged, and started flappin’ his gums. “So, the fuck ya get way up here? Don’cha know all the flowers are down there? Look just like the shits on the screen here.” He pointed toward the big display of zinnias the management company had planted for the greater beautification of the renting community. Load of crap’s what Mickey thought that was. Just another excuse to gouge money out of their wallets when he could’ve just dumped a couple seed packets onto the soil and let ‘em sprout on their own. Five bucks. Done. But no, these greedy West Side fucks wanted an extra $200 per season for “community improvement.” Yet another reason why living here annoyed him. ‘Least it was clean and nobody fucked with them. That was something in this place’s favor. He half mumbled this aloud through puckered lips that held a bouncy cigarette. “Down to half a pack a day. That’s ten sticks, man,” he said, cigarette seesawing. “Can’t imagine you bein’ around while I smoke’s any good for ya. Take your fluttery ass down to them zinnias.” The butterfly didn’t seem to be listening to him. Perhaps he needed a visual. Mickey tilted the phone toward the butterfly’s face, or, what he assumed was his face ‘cause that’s where the antennas were.  “Here, man, these are zinnias. That big-ass box’s filled with ‘em. M’sure you’ll find yourself plenty eats down there. Fuck ya doing all the way up here on my balcony?” Damn butterfly still didn’t respond. Just sat there and flapped its stripey wings. Mickey found that endearing. Like when Franny’d pretend-pout whenever she didn’t get her way only to melt into a pile of giggles when he made mouth farts in her direction. Toughness and frontin’ all for show --Mickey’s Achilles heel. Or was that Ian’s? Who the fuck knew anymore? “Strong silent type, eh? Think I’ma call you Rocky. That ok with you?” Mickey pulled his cigarette out of his mouth long enough to introduce himself properly “Nice t’meet you, Rocky. Name’s Mickey.” He put his cancer stick back in his mouth, waved his right hand in a pantomimed shaking of hands. Then he took his cigarette back out, flicking ash in the direction of the asshole joggers below. “I’ma just chill in this here chair for a bit. Ya can stay or whatever.” The sudden noise at the balcony’s entrance almost startled Mickey onto the ground. “You talkin’ to yourself out here?” Ian asked, scratching at his naked armpit. “Naw, Gallagher, talkin’ to my new buddy Rocky the tiger butterfly,” Mickey motioned to the now-empty space where the butterfly used to be, his face dropped. “Fucker left without saying goodbye.” Mickey watched as Ian rolled his eyes and gave him that scrunched up face he always did whenever it was clear he didn’t believe a single word coming out of Mickey’s mouth. Mickey felt the only appropriate reaction to his husband’s incredulity was to stick his cigarette back into his mouth and give him a double barrel middle finger. The rest of the morning proceeded with their usual routine of breakfast, shower BJs, and a quick glance at their shared calendar to see what the fuck kinda bullshit they had scheduled. It still fucked them in the head to know they now kept a shared calendar that they checked every morning. A couple days after his first meeting Rocky, Mickey and Ian had gone to one of those big box hardware stores in search of replacement bathroom fixtures. Turned out, Mickey wasn’t seventeen and feather light anymore. Couldn’t just get jungle gym fucked and expect that the towel rack and shower curtain rod’d be able to take the same pounding he could. Never had that problem back in South Side with those old, asbestos-filled plaster walls in the Gallagher house. This West Side drywall’s not as sturdy. And, he’s gained a couple pounds of muscle since the first time Gallagher had him swinging from shower curtain rods in strange bathrooms. They decided to replace the broken fixtures themselves instead of reporting it to management for fear of losing the security deposit or having their rent jacked up. Heading to the register with a cartful of domestic crap they’d no clue they needed ‘til they saw it, Ian “Tomato King” Gallagher decided on a quick walkthrough of the garden section. That’s when Mickey saw them: a pot of yellow zinnias with red spotting making

13

them look like they’d been at a murder scene. “Ian, look, blood splatter zinnias.” “Is this for your imaginary friend?” Ian snarked. “Fuck you, Rocky’s real and he’s gettin’ these murder zinnias.” “Ya gonna start singing him ‘Eye of the Tiger’ to him as a lullaby, too?” Mickey responded to Ian’s question with a blank stare. “Ya know, Rocky Balboa?” More blank stares from Mickey. “The intro to Rocky 3? Your imaginary butterfly is a tiger swallowtail?” Blink. Blink. Blank stare. “Oh, c’mon, Mick. You got to know what I’m talking about, right?” Mickey finally beamed a shit-eating grin, bringing his trigger finger up to his bottom lip. “Oh, I know whatcha talkin’ bout. Just like watchin’ ya sweat it out.” Mickey let Ian put him in a loose headlock in the middle of the garden center. He had nothing to hide anymore. Fuck these West Side snobs if they had a problem with a pair of happy hubbies roughhousing next to a pot of murder flowers. Rocky was part of their daily routine now. For most of the summer Mickey would get up first, take a mug of coffee to the balcony, light up his first smoke, and wait for Rocky to grace him with his kingly presence. He’d talked to Rocky about all kinds of bullshit. It started out slowly, as most things did when it involved Mickey and words. He started with a five minute retelling of his wedding day, which led a ten minute explanation of the drama right before the wedding ceremony, which led him a fifteen minute synopsis of why all that fuckery happened, which snowballed into a twenty minute litany of babbled mumblings that he was certain the swallowtail had stopped listening to halfway through. The next day Mickey kept things light, chatting about his favorite movies. The following day, he mused about the meaning of life. After that, he trusted Rocky with his fears about fatherhood, wondering aloud if paternity was one of those things butterflies grappled with. Eventually, Ian would join him and Rocky on the balcony with a coffee mug of his own. Sometimes, Rocky would stick around until well past noon. Others, he’d fuck off right away. On one particularly flawless late summer morning, when the dew was becoming thicker and the temperatures more tolerable. And, both Mickey and Ian had freshly brewed mugs of coffee with shots of amaretto liqueur in them ‘cause sometimes they liked fancy shit. And, Rocky had a freshly poured dish of sugar water ‘cause he should have fancy shit, too. Mickey leaned his head on his husband’s shoulder and sighed blissfully. “Think this’s been my favorite summer.” “Better than the one we spent in the dugouts?” Ian asked wistfully. “Ok. Top two.” Ian rolled out of bed an hour after Mickey did, as their summer routine dictated. He scratched his balls and armpit simultaneously on his way to the bathroom to make his bladder gladder. “Hands. Meds. Teeth. Coffee. Mickey,” he grunted meditatively. Ian knew something was wrong as soon as he hit the balcony doorway. Mickey was wearing his worried look; his fingers were stuck in his mouth. If he pulled his hand out of his mouth, Ian knew he’d find nails chewed down to the nub along with bloody cuticles. “Mick?” “Prob’ly nothin’. Just being dramatic. Haven’t seen Rocky today.” “Well, maybe he’s migrating or some shit. Do tiger swallowtails migrate? Or, maybe he’s off making butterfly babies.” He watched Mickey pull his fingers out of his mouth long enough to grab his phone and start typing furiously. He stepped over, dropped a kiss on the crown of Mickey’s head. “Ok, you g’head and research what Rocky’s probably doing right now. I’ma go to the corner store for some of that fancy creamer you like. Anything else?” “Naw,” Mickey waved him away, clearly too engrossed in his research to look away from his phone. Once down on their building’s bottom floor, Ian realized that Rocky wasn’t perched on his murder zinnias because he was lying lifeless on the concrete ground with his wings folded up. He looked up to make sure Mickey couldn’t see him from his vantage point up on their balcony. Carefully, Ian scooped Rocky into his hands, cradling him gently until he got to the rig and found a small box to put him in. This had to have been Rocky. Couldn’t have been a coincidence that Mickey’s tiger swallowtail didn’t show up for breakfast and suddenly Ian found an entirely different swallowtail directly below their balcony. Impossible and improbable. Especially considering Rocky’d been the only tiger swallowtail they’d seen all summer long. Not like there was an entire flight of these little shitheads flying around. Sighing deeply, Ian lit up his phone screen, typed “what to do with a dead butterfly.” He was met with page upon page

14

of instructions detailing how to DIY mount and frame a butterfly. He looked at Rocky, then back at the screen.  “That’s the perfect idea,” he said to no one, but himself. And, ok, maybe outsiders would say it’s morose or bleak for Ian to present his lover with Rocky’s lifeless, mounted body. Thing was, Mickey was occasionally a morose kinda guy. And, what’s bleaker than growing up South Side? Plus, having Rocky to look at whenever he walked by his shadow box would remind Mickey of his top two favorite summers. How romantic and shit. For a brief, shining moment Ian imagined himself heroically presenting Mickey with this gift, proclaiming that it was he, his loving husband, who painstakingly mounted Rocky for him. Then, Ian remembered how long it took him to replace the bathroom fixtures. No way was he going to be responsible for a rotting swallowtail corpse when he inevitably fucked this up, too. Any delusions of being Captain DIY fizzled away. He looked for other options. Etsy had inexpensive services, but he’d have to mail Rocky out; it’d take too long for the work to be done. Besides, the thought of putting Rocky in the hands of the postal service threatened to give him diarrhea real bad. He decided to use a local taxidermist. More expensive, but he could drive his precious package over right away, and pick it up just as quickly. He texted Mickey a bullshit excuse for his extended absence and punched the taxidermist’s address in the GPS. The next week was torture. Ian watched Mickey get progressively sadder as the realization that Rocky was gone for good settled in. He tracked Mickey’s mood in the wilting of the murder zinnias. At first, his husband made certain the flowers were properly watered; weren’t receiving so much light that they’d become sunscorched. By the end of the week, Mickey had allowed them to dry out, burn to a crisp. Even Rocky’s sugar water dish had gone neglected. It wasn’t easy, but Ian managed to comfort Mickey and keep Rocky’s whereabouts secret. For the first time ever, Ian didn’t spill the beans to anybody, not even Lip. He just soothed Mickey as best he could with soft touches and empathetic words. Early on the eighth day, the confirmation text from the taxidermist finally came. Ian cracked his front door quietly and peeked inside. No Mickey in the living room --he was either in the bathroom or on the balcony. Ian set down the gift bag he’d put Rocky in on the coffee table. “Hey, Mick! C’mere. Got something for you.” Noting the distinct lack of toilet flushing, Ian turned to watch Mickey come in from the balcony; he stopped short when he saw the glittery gift bag. “That shit better be filled with tubes o’ the new Pringles flavors,” Mickey grumbled skeptically. “Open it and find out.” Mickey stuck his hand in the bag, pulling out a shadow box with an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail expertly mounted at its center. The wings were poised as if it were about to take flight. A small brass nameplate that read ‘ROCKY” on one line and “papilio glaucus” below it. “This is…” Mickey started, verklempt, but couldn’t finish. Ian caressed Mickey’s cheek, “Think you’re trying to say ‘This is the sweetest thing ever.’ Right?” Mickey laughed, “Yeah, ok. This is the sweetest thing ever. Absolutely love it. A little proud o’ yourself there ain’t ya?” “Damn right. Ya know how hard it was to keep this secret for a week?” “Ian Gallagher shutting his fuckin’ mouth? Without duct tape? Just that shit there deserves a reward. But, this,” Mickey drew his eyes down to where he held Rocky in his right hand, “this is the type of behavior I wanna encourage.” Ian watched with ardent fascination as Mickey lifted his gaze back up to meet his own. Mickey then slid off the couch, went to work unbuttoning Ian’s jeans one-handed; he stopped midway through the action to slip Rocky back into the gift bag with his other hand. “He doesn’t need t’watch me blowin’ ya,” Mickey said, somehow making his voice drip with gratitude and seduction. Ian could do nothing with his husband’s wanton display but lift him off the floor and into his arms. He koala-carried Mickey off to their bedroom where they’d have no audience, and wouldn’t have to worry about knocking Rocky off the coffee table. ‘Cause they still enjoyed breaking furniture and fixtures during fits of passion, but never important shit. Not anymore.

15

Space to Grow: “Can’t We Just Be Ian and Mickey?” By @gallavictorious

Ian and Mickey have been together on and off for the better part of a decade, and during that time–whether together or apart, and with the potential exception of Mickey’s stint in Mexico – they have always shared their homes with others, often many others. Unavoidably, this has shaped their interactions and their relationship, and begs the question about how, if at all, things might change now that they’ve moved to their own place on the West Side. Real privacy has largely been a rare and often unattainable commodity in Ian and Mickey’s lives. In crowded homes where family members, their spouses, friends and assorted others come and go at will, true solitude and privacy are never guaranteed, not even in the bathroom; such moments must be carefully arranged, stolen, in abandoned buildings and under high school bleachers. We might roll our eyes at the stupidity of Ian and Mickey continuing to hook up in the Kash and Grab fridge after Kash walks in on them, but in truth: what choice did they have? Living in such constant proximity to others has several consequences. By necessity it often leaves you comfortable doing and being open about things that others might considered highly private, such as having loud sex well within earshot of your family. At the same time and somewhat paradoxically it affords you little to no space in which to fully relax and drop your shields and just be yourself. This is particularly true of Mickey, who has historically needed to hide vital parts of himself for his own safety. Furthermore, sharing such close quarters even with loved ones can lead to a tendency to carefully guard what few things are only yours, be it actual things or people or feelings. This tendency is arguably especially strong in Ian, the often-overlooked middle child who tends to keep his own counsel and very much wants to be his own man. So, whether it’s hiding from Terry or maintaining a preferred role in the shifting matrix of familial bonds, Ian and Mickey’s relationship has always been articulated and defined against the backdrop of their crowded surroundings and expectations both external and internal. Granted, this is true of all relationships, but the impact of it is reasonably greater for Ian and Mickey and their siblings, since their day-to-day lives are so very closely intertwined, with their limited space and means fostering a high degree of interdependence. After getting married, Ian and Mickey’s situation is obviously far different and much better than it has ever been before, but living together with the others at the Gallagher house, Ian is never just Mickey’s husband but at any given moment also Ian-as-a-brother and Ian-as-an-uncle and Ian-the-involuntary-andrecovering-self-perceived-fuck-up. Mickey’s never just Ian’s husband, but the in-law, the (to some degree) outsider, the tough as fuck South Side Milkovich. These are mostly roles that both of them embrace, and this text is by no means an argument for the supremacy of romantic relationship over familial ones, but sometimes the differing roles clash, and co-habiting in such close quarters rarely affords our newlyweds the opportunity to focus exclusively on Ian-and-Mickey-as-husbands. More often than not, their relationship plays out in front of an audience, and there’s some evidence to suggest that this fact occasionally affects their dynamic in significant and potentially detrimental ways. For one, it sometimes serves to escalate conflict. From Ian loudly announcing to the room at large that he won’t have sex with Mickey if Mickey doesn’t get a job to Mickey ragging on Ian for always doing what Lip does in front of all of Ian’s siblings, the presence of an audience heightens the stakes as neither man wishes to lose face in front of the other Gallaghers. That isn’t to say that Ian and Mickey don’t fight when they’re alone, but with the added pressure of onlookers, things get just a little sharper, a little rougher; a little harder to back down from. Additionally, things rarely get particularly soft. With the exception of their wedding and their anniversary party, where emotional intimacy is very much expected, Ian and Mickey mostly save their tender moments for when they’re alone. Though both of them are perfectly happy to disregard the opinions of others when it suits them, neither of them is immune to the internalized notions of masculinity particular to the US in general and the South Side in particular. Mickey might be the one more affected by this, whereas middle-child Ian is more concerned with simply keeping his feelings away from the prying eyes of the world, but the net result is the same: marital tenderness is kept private. This is by no means unique to them, of course; the wish to keep private things private is common enough. However, up until now Ian and Mickey haven’t had a whole lot of space to be private in, meaning that the instances of marital tenderness mentioned above might have been fewer than desired. That isn’t to say things will change drastically between them now that they’ve found their own place. Their relationship is a solid one that has withstood all challenges for almost a decade; at the end of the day it isn’t primarily defined by external circumstances. Furthermore, Ian and Mickey are tough boys, never likely to have lovey-dovey as their baseline – but with the opportunity to finally explore just who they are when it’s just the two of them for extended periods of time and they needn’t pay constant attention or actively ignore their various family members, there might be just a little fewer instances of bickering blowing up into fights and a little (a lot) more casual kisses, smiles, and touching just to touch. They may be tough boys, but they’re soft for each other. ”Can’t we just be Ian and Mickey?” Ian asks in 10x11. Now, for the first time, they have the space to be.

16

Sunday Best By @energievie

“Well this was a fuckin’ waste of time!” Mickey mutters, pressing pause as soon as the end credits start rolling. “Hold on, maybe there’s a mid-credit scene.” “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Next to him Ian just shrugs and smiles crookedly, eyes wide and almost unblinking. He then cocks his head to the left a little, sticking his lower lip out for good measure. “Please?” It’s a patented move and it works without fail. Mickey sighs and rolls his eyes but he’s a whipped motherfucker and he knows it, so he resumes play and waits impatiently for the credits to finish rolling. No extra scene, what a fucking suprise! “Thank you!” Ian chirps, leaning for a quick peck. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” “Hungry? I was thinking I’d get started on dinner.” “Yeah, I could eat. Need help?” he asks and then smirks a little at Ian’s dazzling smile. His sap of a husband always gets giddy when Mickey offers, as if he’s doing him a fucking favour. As if they don’t both know Mickey’s been drawn to him like a fucking moth to the flame ever since they were kids and any second spent with him is one he wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. Yeap, completely whipped! “Not really, no. But I could use the company,” Ian winks and gets up. “Kay, be right there. Gotta take a leak first.” He makes a detour to grab his phone from the bedroom and then heads towards the kitchen and for the millionth time since they moved out of the Gallagher house he feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience. Yes, this is his life now, in a fancy-ass apartment on the fucking West Side, keeping Ian, his husband, company while he’s making dinner for the two of them on a Sunday afternoon. 16-year-old Mickey would lose his shit if presented with this picture. And most likely jerk off to it in the dead of the night. 26-year-old Mickey hops on one of the barstools and smiles softly at the scene unfolding in front of him. Ian’s already turned on the speaker they have in the kitchen, humming and dancing to the song that’s currently playing, all the while gathering ingredients and unceremoniously dumping them on the counter. He grins widely when he notices Mickey, waltzing towards him to steal another kiss, just because he can. “Again with this fuckin’ song?” Mickey chuckles. Fiona sent him the link a couple of days ago and since then Ian’s been slightly obsessed with it. It’s not something either of them usually listens to but he has to admit it’s not a bad song, especially since it gets Ian to sway his hips like that. His dancing days may be long gone but he definitely hasn’t forgotten the moves. “Sorry. I just can’t get it outta my head,” Ian smiles sheepishly. “Hey, man, as long as you keep movin’ like that, you ain’t gonna hear me complainin’,” he wags both eyebrows and then grins naughtily when Ian flushes just a little. “What’re you makin’?” “Shakshouka.” “Huh? The fuck is that?” “You’re gonna like it, trust me.” He does, with pretty much anything. Especially with food. Ian seems to have a knack for combining flavours and textures and although Mickey still grumbles occasionally, it’s mostly because he’s a bit of an asshole who loves to taunt his husband. In reality, whatever Ian cooks is bound to be delicious. He’s never heard of this shak...whatever-the-fuck and the ingredients on the counter aren’t much help either–onions, garlic, tomatoes, roasted peppers… eggs?!–so he places his left elbow on the island, rests his cheek in his palm and settles for deciphering the mystery via direct observation. Except in less than a minute his plan completely backfires and it’s all Ian’s fault because as soon as he pulls out the sharpening rod and starts expertly sliding the knife against it, Mickey knows he’s totally fucked. There’s just something about the combination between the tight grip, the delicious way his muscles flex and the fluid motion of the knife that sends a jolt of lust from the tip of his head right down to his toes. And this, apparently, is just the preamble. As Ian deftly peels the onions and starts finely chopping them, knife effortlessly gliding across his knuckles at a dizzying speed, Mickey realises this is probably the first time ever he’s just watching Ian cook instead of helping. And it’s like a fucking magic show! One minute there are two onions, the next, identical tiny cubes sizzling in a pan. When the fuck did that happen? And when did his husband turn into a pro chef? Mickey swallows hard, shifting a little on the barstool because suddenly, his sweatpants aren’t so comfortable anymore. When Ian crushes three cloves of garlic with the flat of the blade and then proceeds to quickly mince them, Mickey barely stifles a longing sigh. And when Ian opens his infamous spice drawer, pulls out a couple of small jars holding only god knows what and starts sprinkling stuff in the pan, Mickey realises he stopped blinking a long time ago. “–spicy do you want it?” “Huh?” Has Ian been talking all along? Fuck! “Guess I’ll decide,” the bastard smirks and Mickey somehow feels like he’s been caught red-handed–who can blame him for zoning out, though, when Ian clearly displays impressive skills that would make even Gordon fucking Ramsay jealous? He thinks back to Lip’s smart-ass comment a couple of months ago, when they had all spent an afternoon at the shooting range and Mickey had had to really struggle not to come in his pants while Ian was handling his gun as if he’d been born with it in his hand. Who knew you had a competence kink, Mick? his asshole brother-in-law had sneered, clapping him on the back. Now, as Ian artfully breaks the eggs one-handed into the small divots he’s created in the sauce, Mickey feels the air in his lungs start burning and all the blood in his head rush south. And when Ian places the pan in the oven and turns towards him with a sly smile, Mickey wastes no second in asking for what he wants. “So how long till that thing’s done?” “Uhm, about fifteen minutes. Why?” “Cause if you don’t get on me in the next thirty seconds I’m gonna fuckin’ explode!” Ian grins widely, eyes lighting up with the promise of a mind-shattering orgasm.

“Race you to the bedroom!”

17

18

His Little Brother By @LadyEkaterina

Lip scraped his cigarette on the back porch wall for the last time. The house had been sold and tomorrow he would hand over the keys and they could all start a new chapter in their lives. He was quite looking forward to living near his brother, who had used the money for a four bedroom house close to but not next door to Lip and Tami’s own home. It was no secret that the Westside Cooperative had thrown a (not very) small celebration when Ian and Mickey had handed their keys back. That was two years ago. Over that time, Gallavich Security got pretty successful, enough for them to swap the ambulance for a sleek black van. Lip was proud of his brother and what the pair had achieved. In the quiet nights, when his family were asleep, he could privately admit to being a little jealous. But when his kids beamed at him first thing in the morning , Lip knew himself to be the luckiest man alive. Today, Lip was on parental duty. After an active morning, he’d finally got them both down for a nap and was just settling himself down with a coffee when there was a hard rap at the door. He was weighing up ignoring the caller when he heard, “Hey Phillip! Open the fuckin’ door!” Lip gritted his teeth. Mickey knows he hates his full name. Bastard. “Mikhailo! What the fuck are you doing here?” Mickey rubbed his eyes and, when he didn’t have a snippy comeback, Lip was immediately on edge. “Is Ian ok?” Lip asked. “Yeah, yeah. Look, can I come in?” Lip let him in and went to get Mickey a cup of coffee from the kitchen. He returned to see Mickey sat at the table, one of his legs twitching nervously. “Fucking hell Mickey, you’re starting to worry me. What’s going on?” “You and me,” he began. “We ain’t never been friends and I don’t think that’s gonna change.” Lip nodded. “But Ian,” continued Mickey. “He loves ya. Your opinion means a lot to him. And, well, I love Ian.” Lip smiled ruefully. “He threatened to kill me if I ever hit you again.” Mickey’s eyes lit up at that. “Yeah?” Lip nodded. Mickey took a mouthful of coffee. “Anyway, Ian don’t know I’m here and I want it to stay that way. OK?” “Depends on what you’re gonna tell me.” “All right. We’ve got the go ahead to apply for adoption.” Lip smiled, “That’s fantastic!” “Ian is worried about his health. It might not be plain sailing and he’s scared the family won’t have his back.” Lip raised an eyebrow. “Gallaghers aren’t known for keeping their opinions to themselves.” Mickey drained his cup. “We want to tell everyone at the next family dinner.” “I got you. Both of you,” promised Lip. “And your visit will stay secret.” Then he grinned. “So, what changed your mind about kids?” A blush flooded Mickey’s face. “Ian was born to be a dad. Me, I’m not so sure, but he believes in me.” Mickey shrugged. “We decided to look in the system. Find a kid who had a shit upbringing, like us. Ya know?” “Yeah, I know.” Family dinner time. Lip sipped his nonalcoholic beer and watched his brother and husband clear the table. He smiled at the couple, remembering his conversation with Mickey. Fiona was on Skype, catching up with Carl and Liam. They were at the sink together, Mickey washing and Ian drying. Occasionally, they murmured together, but mostly just staring and smiling. Once the dishes were done, they shared a look, and Mickey nodded once. Lip watched as Ian took his hand and kissed it before turning to face the table. “So,” began Ian. “We’ve been working with an adoption agency for a while now.” Mickey squeezed his husband’s hand as everyone started talking at once. His eyes were on Fiona’s face, which was turning purple. “Oh wow! That’s brilliant,” Debbie approved. “What’s adotin’,” asked Franny. Tami was beaming at them. Then Fiona’s voice shouted over the top. “Are you insane? You can’t be a dad with your illness, Ian!” Ian looked at Mickey uncertainly. Mickey stepped slightly forward. “Well, it seems the powers that be don’t agree with you, Fiona. Because we’ve been approved. And we’re going ahead.” This led to a new outpouring of vitriol from Fiona when suddenly Lip leant forward and grabbed the tablet. He spoke quietly and seriously. “Fiona, you haven’t been here for years. You haven’t seen them. They are ready to be parents. And I think if you can’t be happy for them, maybe you need to go.” Fiona’s reply was barely heard but she ended the call. Ian stared at his brother in warm amazement. Mickey was the first to break the tension in the room. “Hey Red,” he said. “Why don’t you and your brother go out to the van and get dessert?” Ian smiled at Mickey gratefully, dropped a kiss on his husbands lips and the two men walked out into the cool air. “Thank you for what you said.” “You’re welcome.” Ian smiled ruefully. “Two ex criminals from the Southside, one bipolar, the other with PTSD. Not anyone’s ideal parents.”

19

Lip grabbed his arm. “Don’t think that. You and Mickey had shit beginnings but look at you. This kid is gonna be lucky as hell to have two dads like you guys.” Lip put his arm around his brother, stretching up to get over Ian’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve got Mickey by your side.” “I didn’t think you liked Mickey.” “If you tell him I’ll deny it. He loves you, man. Anyone can see that. He’s good for you. And I’ve never seen you so happy.” “Thanks bro.” “I just wish he wouldn’t call me Phillip.” Ian laughed. “You know he only does it to annoy you.” Mickey was by Ian’s side in a flash nudging him to make sure he was ok. Lip watched them have a whole conversation without speaking. Not for the first time he wondered if he and Tami would ever be so attuned to each other. Maybe it was their reward for all the shit they’d been through. They deserved this. He caught Mickey’s eye and the man raised his bottle in acknowledgement. “So, y’know. We’re all waiting,” Debbie spoke with her mouth full. “Tell us about the new Gallagher-Milkovich” And whilst they were all wolfing down the cakes, Ian talked about young Dax. Five years old and had been removed from his birth mother at three when a neighbour called social services after hearing Dax sobbing for several days. It turned out the boy had a broken leg after a boyfriend, annoyed by the child asking for something to eat, had smashed him against the wall. Dax now walked with a noticeable limp, and was terrified by shouting or angry voices. But he was smart. So smart. Lip watched Ian’s face change as he talked about this little boy who had in such a short time, had such a hard little life and had won their hearts. And three months later, when Ian and Mickey brought Dax around to meet the family, he was introduced to “Uncle Lip” by Mickey.

20

All We Know By @Twinklylights

When Mickey and Ian look back on their relationship, there are more than enough stand out moments. They’ve got years’ worth of memories and feelings between them. Things that only the two them will ever know and understand. There’s a love for each other there that neither of them could ever begin to describe. Feelings that have only seemed to multiply since the wedding. Since they’ve became husbands. And sure, sometimes it goes unspoken. It’s in the way Ian will bring Mickey breakfast in bed on a rainy day or the way Mickey will sit through hours and hours of World War 2 documentaries with Ian even though he absolutely despises them. But other times it’s loud and it’s intentional. It’s the three simple words spoken out loud that are somehow able to encompass a plethora of feelings that are anything but simple. Or, 3 “I love yous” exchanged between Ian and Mickey + 1 “I love him” 1. “Can you believe we’ve got our own apartment?” Ian’s voice is low as he speaks against Mickey’s chest. It’s a Sunday morning and with no pickups or deliveries scheduled, they’ve found themselves still in bed as the morning sunlight casts a warm glow of the two of them. “Still feels like a dream, man.” Mickey says, his voice sounding groggy even though they’ve both been lying awake in a complete sate of bliss for some time now. It’s been about a month in the apartment, but these quiet morning together always seem to come with a flood of disbelief that this is real. Ian looks up to see Mickey’s face and smiles to himself when he sees that Mickey’s eyes are closed but he’s grinning. “I knew you would love it here. Prissy neighbors and all.” Mickey shakes his head at that, thinking of Ava upstairs who never misses the opportunity to shoot him a disgusted look whenever she sees him in the lobby. “Correction, I love it wherever you are. Think we could live in a fucking igloo together and I’d be happy just to be waking up next to your ginger ass every day.” Mickey’s laughing as he speaks, but in the early morning hours, he’s unguarded and honest and Ian knows his words are genuine. Because they’ve been apart before. They both know the feeling of missing their other half, the feeling of going through the motions of life without each other. And they both are thankful that those feelings are so distant now, that they’ve almost completely faded away. Ian presses a kiss to Mickey’s jaw and takes a moment to inhale the scent of his husband, breathing out a sigh of contentment against Mickey’s skin. “Don’t think we’ll be in an igloo any time soon, but I’m pretty excited that the law says we get to be together wherever we end up.” Mickey’s cheeks go red at that, and he presses a kiss to the crown of Ian’s head. “Think you get sappier by the day man.” Ian shrugs, it’s awkward cause he’s still laying against Mickey’s chest, but he doesn’t try to fight Mickey on what’s clearly true. They lay in silence a while after that, savoring the fact that they don’t have work or any unavoidable task waiting for them. It’s not until Ian’s stomach growls, that either of them give thought to leaving the warmth of the bed. “Hungry?” Mickey asks, moving to check the time on his phone that’s on the bedside table. “Yeah,” Ian answers quickly. He doesn’t make a move to head to the kitchen and Mickey laughs. “Want me to pick up something?” He already knows Ian’s answer and is sliding out of the bed toward the closet as Ian nods his head eagerly. “Donuts?” He suggests, as Mickey changes into a pair of black jeans, already thinking of the dozen he’s going to bring back for them to share. “Of course, I’m getting donuts” he says before pressing a kiss to Ian’s forehead and heading out the room, towards the front door. Left only with his thoughts and hunger, Ian tries to fall back asleep while he waits for Mickey, but he only ends up closing his eyes for five minutes at a time, anxiously listening out for the sound of the front door unlocking. Not finding any point in staying in bed any longer when his body clearly isn’t cooperating, he decides that maybe it’s finally time to unpack that one last box that has been sitting in the back of the closet. He figures whatever is in the box, they haven’t been missing, so he looks half mindedly just to pass the time. It’s mostly old magazines and DVDs that they’ve both gathered over the years. He finds some old CDs that he knows Mickey will be glad to see and makes sure to keep those to the side along with some other small knick knacks to put around the apartment. The box is boring for the most part and he regrets waiting so long to look through it because it’s turning out to be nothing spectacular. It’s not until he gets to the bottom that his curiosity is peaked. There’s a black jacket that’s been shoved into the box. Sticking out amongst everything else that’s really just been junk so far. Him and Mickey packed a majority of their clothes together and he doesn’t think him, or Mickey would purposely put a jacket in a box that’s just random stuff. Ian pulls the jacket out of the box, even more confused as he feels the thickness of the black fabric. He fumbles with it a bit, trying to straighten out the bulky material in his hands and figure out when either of them have ever had a black winter coat. SECURITY is written across the back and Ian lets out a surprised gasp at the realization of what the jacket is. Because it’s not a winter coat. It’s Mickey’s Kash & Grab jacket. He instinctively puts the jacket to his nose and sniffs. It’s faint, but the smell of Mickey is still there, and Ian smiles, suddenly flooded with memories of his 15-year-old self, who had a crush that felt like it couldn’t get any bigger.

21

But somehow did. Because he doesn’t just like Mickey, he loves Mickey. He’s 24 and married to Mickey and he loves him. It’s a well-known fact at this point and never up for debate, but with a physical reminder in his hands of just how much Mickey has grown over the years and all the versions of Mickey he’s been privileged enough to experience, in the moment he feels that love in the fullest capacity. Ian hears the front door unlock sooner than he was expecting and for a second he’s conflicted on what to do with the jacket that’s still in his hold. Mickey’s evidently held on to the piece of memorabilia for years even as he’s moved from the Milkovich house to the Gallagher house and all the way to the Westside. But somehow Ian’s hasn’t run into it before now. He wonders what Mickey thinks when he sees the jacket. Does it send him right back to being in the Kash & Grab? Are those good memories for him? Are those memories full of stolen glances and inside jokes? Or are they tainted by Kash and Ned and the Southside-ness of it all? Mickey comes into their bedroom with a smile on his face. He has an orange box in one hand a cup holder with two iced coffees in the other. He sets the donuts box on the nightstand next to Ian and flops onto the bed, scooting Ian over in the process. “Got a dozen for 6$ man, Westside might not be all bad.” He says, opening the box and taking out a jelly donut. He shoves the box in Ian direction and points a finger at the jacket in Ian’s hands. “What’s that?” Ian shakes his head with a laugh and turns to face Mickey, lifting the jacket so that the letters are facing him “You tell me.” He says with a huff. He feels weird to be holding onto something that represents a past Mickey, while he talks to a present-day, grown-up Mickey. His mind still has trouble processing all the good that is Mickey on a good day, and with so many emotions swirling inside him as he holds onto the jacket, he feels himself getting overwhelmed. But he doesn’t want to put the jacket down. He doesn’t want to lose sight of it. Mickey smiles, taking a bite out of his donut and reaching over for the coffee next to him. “Oh yeah. It’s my jacket, what about it?” His tone is casual, and Ian shakes his head, a smile coming across his face. “You kept it all this time? All these years and you’ve held onto it? Mickey shrugs. “Made good memories in that jacket, why wouldn’t I hold on to it? And hey, come drink this shit before it gets watery, and you start bitching at me like it’s my fault.” He grabs a coffee to pass to Ian, but Ian doesn’t look like he’s going to put down the jacket, so he awkwardly sets it back down and raises an eyebrow at Ian, wondering why his face looks so emotional. His eyes are stuck on Mickey and they’re so full of love that Mickey feels himself getting nervous. Even after all these years. He scoots himself down the bed, closer to Ian and Ian automatically moves to put the jacket to side and bring a hand to rest against the back of Mickey’s neck. His thumb is gentle as it moves against the hairs that rest at the nape of Mickey’s neck. He’s smile is shy, and Mickey feels a familiar giddiness inside of himself as their eyes meet. “I love you. So much. Always have.” Ian says softly. Mickey swallows. It’s been a long time since he’s questioned Ian’s love for him, but hearing it spoken so earnestly still shakes him a bit. “Love you too. Always going to.” Ian presses his lips to Mickey’s at that. The kiss is soft, and he smiles, pulling away to speak. “Wasn’t expecting to see that today. I had the biggest crush on you back then, seeing this just brought me right back. Thought the crush was big, but now I’m like undeniably head over heels in love with you. Do you know how wild that feels?” Mickey’s cheeks go red at that, and he thumbs at the jacket nervously, averting his eyes from Ian and focusing them on the fabric. “Yeah man I get it. I still can’t believe I got to marry you. Never thought I would get to be this happy. There’s a flash of surprise that goes across Ian’s face at Mickey words. Mickey’s exclamations of love have always been profound and heartfelt, but they still manage to always hit Ian in all the right places. He still wonders what he’s done to deserve them. He still wonders what he’s done to deserve Mickey. 2. Some days aren’t as easy going. On days where they’ll have pickups and drop offs and therapy appointments all in the span of the few hours, things tend to get hectic. Still only having the ambulance hasn’t been ideal but the thought of buying car feels like a feat they aren’t ready to take on. But they’re making it work. Ian’s therapy appointment ends at 2:30. Mickey knows that. Ian’s been meeting with Dr. Kendal on Thursdays at 1:30 ever since he got out of prison. He always gets out at 2:30. Mickey knows this. But as he watches the time on his phone change from 2:07 to 2:08, he sends Ian a text. It’s not a long text and he’s not even sure it counts as a text because it’s only an orange heart emoji, but he sends it and sighs. He misses Ian. He thinks it’s silly that he misses Ian already when they’ve spent the morning together and only been apart long enough for Ian to drop him back off at the apartment and go his appointment. But he’s gotten used to being around Ian. He gotten used to being together, uninterrupted, and unbothered in their own space. Hearing Ian laugh along to old sitcoms and having lunch together in the apartment.

22

He’s gotten used to being married to Ian. It’s all he’s ever wanted. He hits send on the message and waits for a response, knowing that it won’t come until Ian’s out of the office and on his way home. Because Ian’s coming home. That’s a fact. It’s not a hope or a desire deep in his heart that he wishes to see come to fruition. It’s a certainty. No matter what goes on throughout Ian’s day, good or bad, he’s coming home to Mickey. The waiting isn’t fun, and Mickey almost wishes that Ian’s appointment would end early so he could see him, but he deals with it and makes himself busy catching up on episodes of Criminals Minds. The show is really just background noise as he scrolls his phone aimlessly waiting for 2:30, but he thinks it counts as watching since he’s purposely looking up to catch a glimpse at Hotch every few minutes. The screen goes black ending an episode and Mickey gets up and heads to the kitchen in search of something to have for lunch. He expects to hear the next episode staring, but a commercial comes on as he pulls out a container of leftover fried rice. Mickey can hear as the narrator introduces the life of Etta James and tells viewers of the documentary coming soon. His voice is serious and has a way of drawing you in, even if you have no clue who Etta James is, but Mickey is more focused on the instrumental playing in the background. He recognizes the song instantly Because he walked down the aisle to it. If he wasn’t thinking about Ian before he definetly is now. He pulls out his phone and doesn’t even check the time before dialing Ian’s number. “Hey Mick. Everything okay?” Ian answers, as he makes a right turn. Mickey knows he’s being serious, but the question feels useless at this point in his life. Because things are more than okay. Things are perfect. He’s married, he’s happier than ever, and he’s waiting for Ian to come home. It’s his own personal fairytale that he never thought he could even dream of living. But he gets to live it for the rest of his life. Mickey let’s out a laugh, smiling as he turns to silence to the microwave that’s beeping. “Yeah everything’s good. Just wanted to hear your voice.” He can picture the smile on Ian’s face, and he feels his cheeks flushing as Ian speaks. “Miss me, huh?” He doesn’t even think to try and play it off. “Yeah I do. It’s too fucking quiet in here.” And then after then after a beat, “Ian?” “Yeah?” “I love you. Just wanted to tell you.” “I love you too, Mick. I’m almost home.” Having said it so many times over the years, he thinks he would have gotten used to the butterflies that seem to pool in his belly every time him or Ian speak the three words. But they still catch him off guard and he still finds himself in awe of everything. Everything that’s been bent and broken and then perfectly sculpted back into place to lead him here. To lead him to this life that’s full of happiness. Full of a love so strong, he thought it could only ever exist in movies. 3. It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Ian finds himself in aisle 8 of the local Walgreens. The basket in his hand almost full to brim with various brands of medicine and bottles of Gatorade. He remembers helping to take care of a sick Debbie and Carl as a teenager. A few doses of Pepto-Bismol, Gatorade and saltines always seemed to do the trick, but taking care of a sick Mickey at home is new and nothing feels like enough. He sighs, looking one more time between the basket in his hand and the 49$ humidifier he’s contemplating. Maybe he is being dramatic. He gets home and closes the door as quietly as he can. Having been up all night, he hopes Mickey has finally got a bit of shut eye while he’s been gone. He empties the bag onto the counter and can practically hear Mickey’s voice in his head telling him he didn’t need to buy out the entire pharmacy. And maybe he did go overboard. Ian knows Mickey likely doesn’t care if his saltines are square or round, but he’s given him options just in case. He heads into their bedroom with a bottle of water from the fridge and a box of round saltines. Met with the sight of Mickey sprawled across the bed snoring softly, he lets out sigh of relief and does his best to join Mickey in bed without waking him. The attempt of being quiet is in vain because as soon as the bed dips, Mickey’s eyes flutter open and he blinks slowly as Ian comes into focus. “Hey,” he says, his voice still sounding scratchy as he moves to lay on top of Ian. “Hey yourself. You feeling any better?” Ian presses a kiss to his forehead and frowns when his lips are met with a cold sweat. “Feel like I got hit by a truck.” He answers flatly. He closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep but before he can get too comfortable, Ian shifts, jostling them both as he reaches for the bottle of water he bought in with him. “I won’t make you eat anything right now, but at least take a sip of this. For me, please.” Not feeling nowhere near himself, Mickey doesn’t even try to argue and takes a few tentative sips of the water before passing it back to Ian and laying back down against him. Ian’s hand is steady as it rubs at the small of his back. It’s a comfortable counter to the pain that he feels in his stomach, and he lets out a small noise into the side of Ian’s neck.

23

“My poor baby.” Ian breathes out, kissing Mickey’s forehead again and continuing the soft motion of his thumb. At that, Mickey squints an eye open, looking up at Ian and doing his best to muster a scowl. “I’m not a baby.” He says with an annoyed huff. Ian simply shakes his head. “No, you are. My baby.” He lets out a sigh, suddenly feeling overwhelmed thinking of a younger Mickey who didn’t have someone to look after him. Who didn’t have someone that worried. “I hate seeing you like this.” He whispers. Because he does. He’s used to having his own low days and times where getting out of bed seems to be too much of a task to bare. But seeing Mickey sick is different. Mickey’s not supposed to be the sick one. “I’ll be okay man. You don’t have to worry about me.” Ian frowns, speaks softly even though Mickey’s words have hit a nerve. “I do have to worry about you. You’re my husband. I love you. I get to worry about you for the rest of our lives.” That thought comforts Ian and scares him all the same. He can’t predict the future. He doesn’t know if one day when they’re old and gray, Mickey will wake up with arthritis. He doesn’t know if this stomach bug is going to turn out to be an incurable form of stomach cancer. But he does know he’s going to always be there with Mickey. He’s going to be there through whatever life throws at them. And he’s always going to worry about Mickey because he loves him. He wants the best for him. After all Mickey’s been through, all Ian wants is for him to be okay. “I love you too. Lucky to have someone like you.” Mickey mumbles quietly. And maybe Ian’s just feeling extra sentimental, with a sick Mickey in his arms, but he looks down at Mickey’s face and smiles softly before speaking. “I’m the lucky one Mick. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you.” He thinks maybe that’s part of the reason he went so haywire in the pharmacy. There’s a fear that sits deep in him. He thought he tucked it away forever once he was face to face with Mickey in the prison cell, but it still manages to make itself known every once in a while. He can’t lose Mickey. “Maybe we’re just lucky to have each other.” Mickey says finally. Ian smiles at that. It feels like a truth they can both agree on. “Yeah, Mick, maybe we are.” 4. Once Mickey’s back on his feet, Ian’s eager to get out of the house with him. Fall is approaching quickly, and Ian knows soon enough it won’t be fun to do anything outside, let alone put to use the picnic basket and bottle of rosé he picked up a month ago. A Sunday afternoon picnic in the park sounds perfect. “Hey. Get dressed.” He says to Mickey who’s watching tv, still in sweatpants. “What? Why? It’s Sunday.” Ian rolls his eyes; he walks toward the couch and pulls Mickey up by the arm, turning the tv off as he steers him toward the shower. “Wanna take you out. Shower and get dressed, don’t take forever.” He kisses Mickey’s cheek for good measure and watches and his husband heads to the bathroom with a laugh. “Always so demanding!” He shouts as he turns the faucet on. “You know you love me!” Ian replies, turning into the kitchen with a smile. He packs them sandwiches and finds a container of unopened hummus in the fridge. Mickey’s been vocal about how gross it looks in the container from Kendra next door, but Ian insist they at least try it since she took the time to make it homemade just for them. He throws the hummus in the basket and takes the bottle of wine out of the fridge. He can hear the shower still running once he’s packed and ready to leave and he rolls his eyes wondering if Mickey’s purposely taking longer than usual to get ready. He likely is and while Ian wants to be annoyed by it, he knows he will forever find it endearing. Finding a shady spot under a tree is easy and Ian does his best to make their DIY picnic set up somewhat cozy. With a blanket spread out, he pulls out two candles and lights them before motioning for Mickey to sit down next to him. Mickey scoffs but he feels himself already getting excited. “You know you already got me, don’t have to try so hard.” He sits on the blanket, kicking his shoes off and taking in the beauty of the park around him. Ian shrugs, “Like to romance you every once in the while. You haven’t stopped smiling since we got out the truck.” “Who says it’s about you?” Ian laughs at that, leans over, and presses a kiss to Mickey’s nose.

24

“It’s always about me.” He says, his tone matter of fact. Mickey shoves his shoulder with a laugh. “Shut up and pass me whatever you’ve got in the fucking basket, man.” Mickey ends up liking the contents of the basket more than he was expecting and after a sandwich and 2 glasses of wine, he feels like he’s floating. They’re laying nose to nose and Ian grins as Mickey leans in to press a kiss to his lips. “See, I told you we should get out of the house.” He laughs as Mickey pulls him in closer, kissing him again. “Could kiss you at home too you know.” He says with a smile. He brings his palm up to rest against Ian’s cheek and Ian nuzzles into it. “Yeah you could, but you wanna kiss me here too. You want people to walk by and see how much you love me.” The knowing smile he gives Ian tells him that’s true. “Can you blame me? Wanna kiss you everywhere.” Mickey says, proving his point and leaning in for another kiss. They lay in silence for a while, enjoy the seclusion of the park and the presence of each other. Mickey doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of looking in Ian’s eyes. He’s been mesmerized by them for some years now, but they still take his breath away on occasion. He didn’t ever think he could fall in love with someone eyes. But falling in love with Ian has shown him just how many little things there are to love about him. He loves Ian’s eyes. He loves the Ian’s freckles. He loves the soft smile Ian gives him whenever they’re laying this close, and he starts to feel self-conscious. He loves everything about Ian. He wants him to know that. To feel it has strong as he does in quiet moments like this. “Hey.” He whispers, tilting Ian’s chin up so that they’re facing each other. “Hey.” “I love you.” He says, leaning in and kissing Ian for what feels like the 100th time all day. This time, when he pulls away, he doesn’t stop kissing, he just moves his lips up to press against Ian’s nose. His cheeks. His eye lashes. His lips are soft as they travel across Ian’s face and Ian closes his eyes, soaking in the feeling. “I know you do.” He says, so soft in the space between them. He’s almost scared that if he speaks too loudly it’ll ruin the moment and Mickey will stop. But Mickey doesn’t. He kisses and kisses until his lips almost hurt from overuse, and he’s almost pained to keep smiling. And maybe kissing Ian will always feel like this. Like it’s what he was put on earth to be doing. He was hesitant at first, all those years ago, but he knows now that his lips were made to kiss Ian. He knows he was made to love Ian. + Liam’s birthday falls right before Halloween. It always seems to get overshadowed by the holiday, so Mickey and Ian decide to do something for him at their place before the joint surprise Halloween-birthday celebration everyone’s been planning for him at Lip’s house. It’s a video game movie night marathon with enough snacks to last them until the end of the world. With the credits rolling on the first film, Mickey gets up and refills their bowls of popcorn before coming back to sit himself in between the two brothers. They let Liam choose the movies for the night and this one looks to be a comedy that Mickey hasn’t heard of. It starts off slow. A random 7th grader in New York City whose family tells him that they’re moving to Texas. The kid throws a dramatic temper tantrum, stomping up the stairs before slamming his door and shouting to his parents that moving will somehow destroy his life. Mickey rolls his eyes. The rest of the movie is full of the 7th grade whiner finding his way through Texas. He doesn’t fit in and the kids in Texas don’t exactly take well to his know-it-all attitude. Mickey’s not sure what’s so funny about the movie but Liam and Ian seem to find it hilarious. Their laughs fill the living room and while Mickey wants to be annoyed because he can’t figure the reasoning behind their laughter, he’s not. He’s entertained by just Ian alone more than anything. Ian keeps letting out these full belly laughs, gasping for air as he watches middle schoolers on screen. Mickey will admit the once scene of the history class was funny, but if you were to ask Ian he would probably say he’s never seen something that funny in his life. Liam’s laughing too. A lighthearted laugh that Mickey’s only ever seen from him a handful of times. And while Mickey can’t exactly say he’s enjoying the movie ,he can say he’s enjoying the atmosphere they’ve created.. The sound of his husband and brother-in-law laughing, having a carefree night for once. He knows Liam and Ian didn’t have the best childhood. Even now Liam’s still trying to find his footing in the chaos that is the Gallagher family. But he knows that him and Ian will always be there to help Liam figure it out. There’s a quieter scene that comes on, the main character in his room doing his homework as his parents argue downstairs. Liam and Ian’s laughters dies down and they both are looking at the scene, fully engaged. Ian shifts for a second and Mickey wonders if he’s going to get up, but he just snuggles in closer to Mickey, pressing a kiss to his ear as he watches the film. His lips are gentle as they press against Mickey’s skin. He doesn’t even take his attention away from the screen; he just kisses Mickey as he watches, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Mickey never thought things would end up being this easy. He drops a kiss onto Ian’s forehead and lets them linger there for moment. A rush of contentment flowing through him. “Love you.” He says, his lips still pressed against Ian’s forehead. Ian looks up at him, his eyes wide and cheeks lifted into a smile. “Forever?” He feels his heart skip a beat at the mention of forever. The mention of a lifetime of feeling like this. “And even after that.” It’s a promise that he knows will never be broken

25

He can’t wait. +1 Liam’s surprise birthday party is a success and after a full day of fun everyone, everyone end ups passed out in the living room. With Liam up in his room asleep, everyone thought they would stay up and enjoy some beers together but they’re all just as tired as him and find themselves sitting in the living, too lazy to clean anything. Mickey’s got his head in Ian’s lap, content as Ian runs his fingers through his hair. He’s trying his best to not fall asleep, but Ian’s hands are steady and slow, coaxing him little by little into a state of unconsciousness. Ian’s almost asleep too, the movement of his fingers becoming slower as tiredness settles into his bones. The sound of the heater turning on is the only noise for a long while, until Lip speaks, startling Ian. “You really love him, huh?” It takes a second for Ian to realize that Lip’s even talking to him. He looks up, confusion evident across his face until Lip gestures toward Mickey and the words register in his head. He looks down at Mickey, whose fallen asleep right in his lap. He’s safe and sound, sleeping as comfortably on Ian as he does in their bed every night. It’s a dumb question on Lip’s part the seriousness in his tone shocks Ian. He lets out a disbelieving laugh, looking up to meet Lip’s eyes. “You ever feel like your hearts outside of your body? Like it’s not even in your chest, it’s just here,” he looks down toward his lap. “Just outside your body walking around?” Lip’s face shifts a couple times, but he doesn’t say anything and just nods, picks his soda can up off the table. He looks to be thinking about something, but no words come and avoids Ian’s eyes. “In short, yes I do love him. More than anything.” Ian laughs, his eyelids becoming heavy. “Can’t imagine anything like that.” Lips says looking between Tami and Ian and blowing out a shaky breath. Ian wishes he could understand. But he doesn’t have to imagine it. He gets to live it every day. It’s all he knows.

26

The Things We Hold Near By @LivingInSunnyHell

There’s a specific type of cigarette that Mickey liked to smoke ever since Ian knew him. Well, ever since they started smoking as pre-teens. Ian never liked the brand.  More accurately, he didn’t start off liking the brand. It grew on him during that first summer they could actually be together. After Mickey got out of juvie and they were basically running the Kash N Grab. They’d spent so much time together that summer. It was when Ian knew he’d never meet anyone like Mickey Milkovich, but more importantly, he didn’t want to. Ian always bummed a cigarette off Mickey and then eventually, they began to take turns buying a pack. Except Mickey never liked the kind that Ian bought. He began bitching about how much he hated Ian’s brand of cigarettes–they were too sweet.  It ended up with them smoking one brand–Mickey’s, of course. They were harsh and bitter and Ian could feel his lungs slowly disintegrating, but he liked smoking them. Loved smoking them with Mickey. When they shared a cigarette, Ian could still feel the moisture from Mickey’s lips on the filter and for a second, he could pretend they had kissed. It was stupid and juevenile and Ian felt like an idiot for even pretending that it was a thing, but he couldn’t help himself. He just really–he wanted all of Mickey and he had yet to get all of him.  A first kiss between the two of them still eluded their relationship. But Ian was patient, he could wait. If it meant that he’d eventually get all of Mickey, Ian would wait forever. For a really long time, Ian had associated cigarettes with kissing Mickey. Sharing a cigarette was the only time when their lips touched. And while Ian could be patient, he also was rapidly becoming obsessed with Mickey’s mouth. He wanted to know what he tasted like. He wanted to know how his tongue would feel against his own. He wanted to know what kind of kisser he was. He thought about it the rest of the day after they shared a cigarette. He’d replay how Mickey’s fingers brushed against his own. How Mickey’s eyes would find his when he wrapped his lips around the filter. How Mickey would breath the smoke out and just look really really attractive doing it. He could sit there for a long time and watch him. Ian found himself mentally capturing moments between them to replay later on. As he played with an empty pack of cigarettes, he dissected their every interaction. He stared up at his ceiling unseeingly and smiled to himself as he got lost in those tiny moments–insignificant moments to anyone else, but to Ian, they were gold. Naturally, an empty pack found its way into Ian’s bag one day. And then it happened again and again.  They were usually empty–although, sometimes there’d be one left. Generally, Ian was the last one to finish off the pack and stuffed it into his bag or Mickey (being an asshole) gave him the garbage ‘to deal with.’  The first cigarette pack he found he held on to for some stupid reason.  (That was a lie, he knew the reason, he just felt like a fucking idiot.) They had only been doing this whatever thing for a couple of weeks. And besides for the memories locked in Ian’s head, there was no proof of what was anything going on–that this wasn’t some fever dream Ian made up because he was horny and in the sixth grade he may have had a slight–irrational–crush on Mickey from afar. He was attracted to the bad boy image, he wasn’t going to lie.  So he started to keep the empty cigarette packs, he wanted something to prove that it was actually real.  He couldn’t tell anyone, but if he had something–anything out of the norm, that had to be like a sign that Ian wasn’t crazy and he actually was fucking the most homophobic thug on the Southside. That was an overstatement, but sometimes Ian would chance a look at Mickey as he pulled his pants up and fixed himself and he’d wonder how the fuck he ended up in this situation. Years later when Ian was cleaning his room when Fiona had lost the house and they were kicked to the curb, he found an empty pack of Mickey’s cigarettes. For a long time he stared at them, his mind on his last memory of Mickey–when he’d seen him in prison. He almost kept the pack before he ultimately decided to throw them away.  At the beginning of the summer after he got out of juvie the first time, Mickey stole a lighter from Ian. He took it the night they were at the dugouts. Not on purpose, at least not at the time. (An older version of Mickey could say he had on purpose taken Ian’s lighter because maybe he just wanted a piece of him.) He always knew his love for Ian had never been complicated. Loving Ian had always been easy. It was the act of figuring out how to love Ian that Mickey struggled with for a long time. But the love for him, that was always there.  At the time, Mickey had been trying to shove all of those feelings and shit down.  It was easier that way. He wasn’t sure what to do with this ache in his stomach. This desire to be with Ian all the time. It was almost compulsive.  In a roundabout way, it made sense that Mickey would take something that belonged to Ian. He wasn’t sure how to vocalize his feelings or even show them, but having some tiny reminder of Ian made him feel like his entire life wasn’t plotted out one armed robbery and drug deal at a time. It also reminded him of how much he liked being around Ian. When he used the lighter, he remembered Ian had once wrapped his hand around it. He’d press his thumb to the trigger, just like where Mickey’s was now. For the briefest of seconds, Mickey could pretend that in a strange way, he was touching Ian. His hand went where Ian’s had and he could imagine that it was his fingers. The lighter was green. Dark forest green, like Ian’s eyes.  It sat in Mickey’s pocket for weeks as if he meant to give it back to him. (He never really intended to give it back.) Instead he found himself mindlessly looking or playing with it, a tiny keepsake he could hold and pretend for the briefest of moments that this could be something. This thing between them.

27

When the lighter ran out of fluid, he kept the shell of it anyway. And when he was in the store, he bought green lighters, if they sold them. Every single one reminded him of Ian. Until he left for the army and Mickey tossed any green lighter he found in the trash. It was just better that way. But he couldn’t throw his memories away. For years, even when they were apart, Mickey found himself hesitating for a fraction of a minute whenever he came into contact with a green lighter. His first impulse was always to buy it.  To reach for it. To cherish it. Mickey stole a picture from Mandy of Ian. It was a picture he decided she had no business having. Not when–not when he missed him so much. It was a picture of Ian looking smug and playful in a beanie, giving the camera the middle finger.  Nothing spectacular. For years, Mickey held on to it, but it was lost–or maybe he drunkenly burned it–when he was living in Mexico. It wasn’t until after prison and right before they got married did Mickey realize he didn’t have any picture of Ian–or them–at all. “What? Yeah we do!” Ian declared. He tone edged the line between confusion and vehemence.  “No, Ian, we don’t.” “How did you come to this conclusion?” he asked curiously. They were sitting on the couch, Debbie in one of the armchairs watching with a smirk and Carl sat right next to her with an equally amused face. Liam was beside Ian, his wide eyes looking back and forth between them in interest. He always got curious when the past was brought up.  They had been talking about past shit when Liam had asked how long they’d been together.  Mickey launched into the tale of his perception of their relationship. Ian always enjoyed telling it, but he watched Mickey rattle off the information with a fond smile. When he was finished, with a few chime-ins from Ian and an indignant ‘it’s really been 10 years,’ Liam asked if they had any pictures from that time. “No,” Mickey answered. “I had a picture of Ian a long time ago but–” “Wait what?” “Don’t worry about it.” “We definitely have pictures of us.” “We have no pictures of us.” Ian’s face twisted in confusion and then his declaration that they did have pictures of them was followed up by Debbie snapping a photo of them without their knowledge. There was a vibration on the coffee table from Ian’s phone and then a second on from Mickey’s. “Now you do have pictures of you together.” she said happily. Mickey picked up his phone to see the two of them sitting on the couch, Liam looking amused beside them while they were mid argument. Ian’s hands were thrown up in annoyance and Mickey was glaring with his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. He laughed, “guess this is our first picture of the two of us.” Ian rolled his eyes, but Mickey could spot the smile. From then on, Ian made sure to get pictures of them anywhere they went. Mickey didn’t notice much at first, especially with the wedding since all the photographer was supposed to do was take pictures of them. It wasn’t until about a month later when they were having a BBQ with everyone that he realized this was their sixth selfie Ian had taken. And none of them were that good. In one, Mickey had BBQ sauce on his chin and in another Ian was blurred.  “Why do you keep taking pictures of us?” “Cause you’re my husband.” Mickey couldn’t help the blush come over his face at the words. Those were the magic words that got them out of doing pretty much anything. It worked either way. ‘I did the laundry last week. Why don’t you do it?” ‘Cause you’re my husband.’ ‘Why do I need to go to the store? Can’t you just make it with the ingredients we have?’ ‘No. Since you’re my husband, it’s your responsibility to make sure that I eat healthy. It’s in the vows.’ So it was a thing that began slowly over the years, their living space was taken over with pictures of the two of them. Pictures of the first house they brought, of vacations neither of them could ever have even dreamed of taking together, of the puppy Carl got them, of their first and second kid, of visiting Fiona in Florida.  But Mickey’s favorite one sat in a black frame in their bedroom. Ian hated it, but Mickey had gotten sentimental in his old age. It was that very first one that Debbie took. And right beside it was Ian’s favorite picture. It was one they’d taken on their long awaited honeymoon to Hawaii. Ian’s face was a little burnt and Mickey was laughing at something beside him. The blue water and sandy beach in the background, a sign that they had finally made it.  Two nights before Ian was due to get out of prison he asked Mickey if he could have a picture he drew. “Why?” Ian gave him a look and slowly said with raised eyebrows, “Mick.” Mickey slouched against the wall behind him and looked down at his hands for a long time. Ian watched him. He’d grown used to the long silences as Mickey stared off into space to gather his thoughts in the days leading up to Ian’s release.  Initially, Ian wanted to savor every moment. He initiated sex every chance he got, he became touchy feely the moment they were alone, he may have once or twice bemoaned things he was going to miss. And not just sex things, but the quiet evenings when they hung out together or coming home from a rough day to be greeted by Mickey. But then Ian realized he was acting as if he’d never see Mickey again and that wasn’t–that wasn’t how he wanted this to go. That wasn’t his intention. He had every intention of this time apart–however few months Ian was hoping it would be–being just a bump in their very long road of a

28

relationship. It wasn’t going to be like last time. So he made an effort to show Mickey that they weren’t in a rush. They might be separated for a bit, but Ian was all in. He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d come back to him. Which was why he made sure to be patient as Mickey’s moodiness slowly fell more and more surely in the days that ticked by. For the last few days, he’d grown quiet, much more quiet than Ian had ever seen him, so he fell back on an old habit of how he could deal with Mickey. He waited. Patiently. Eventually, he’d broach whatever topic was on his mind and Mickey would always reward him with a bashful look that made Ian’s breath catch.  Finally, he said, “Why? Why do you want one?” Ian hesitated not understanding why he was asking again until Mickey looked up to meet his eyes. They were red-rimmed and his lips were in a grim line. No tears had fallen, but Ian knew they would come eventually. He wanted to reach for him, he ached to do so. Taking in his downtrodden expression, he realized he needed to hear him say the words.  Ian smiled a little and glanced at the window in the door of their cell before taking Mickey’s hand. “Because I love you.” Mickey’s lips cracked into a smile and he nodded once. Accepting the answer.  Finally.  “Which one?” “You know the one,” Ian said, smiling sweetly. Mickey smirked and they both looked toward the picture he’d drawn of Ian in his Fairytale days with those tiny gold shorts.  It was tucked away in Ian’s pocket when he left a few days later. When Lip came to get him and dropped him off at the empty Gallagher house, he took out the little drawing and smiled when he thought of Mickey. After they got married and covid hit, Mickey got back into drawing for awhile and many more drawings were added to the collection, but Ian’s favorite was always going to be that first one Mickey had given him. And now it lived tucked away in a book of drawings Ian had collected from Mickey over the years. Ian had never been much for jewelry. Whether it was for him or for someone else, it just wasn’t his thing. Until he got married. For several weeks–a few months–after they got married, Ian couldn’t keep his hands off of Mickey and he truly blamed seeing that wedding ring on his husband’s finger. It was just–it was fucking sexy knowing that he had slide a wedding ring onto Mickey’s finger as a fucking signal that they were each other’s forevers. It was just–Ian liked it a lot. Ian had seen a lot of wedding rings on men’s fingers–mostly when he was stripping–but the one on Mickey’s was the most beautiful.  He knew he was biased, but it really was. The shininess against Mickey’s pale skin made his stomach flip-flop. It was always nice to see it shining in the sunlight, a bright telltale that they were married.  He loved feeling it pressing against him when they fucked or held hands. He especially loved playing with it after they were basking in the afterglow.  But there were other times too, when Ian least expected it that his chest would tighten at the sight of it and he just–he had to take a minute to remind himself that this was real. That all of those moments that had hung over their relationship, threatening to upend it, were in the past. He vividly remembered Mickey’s wedding to Svetlana. And while he didn’t much remember the following few months after and the beyond, he distinctively could recall how his chest felt like it was being ripped apart, like he was going to be sick to his stomach, like he’d never feel anything again. For a long time, he couldn’t shake that feeling that life wasn’t much worth it anymore. Ian hated seeing that ring the one and only time he saw it on Mickey’s finger.  It was funny how much changed in the ensuing years. Now Ian searched it out to ground him, to remind him that they had made it. A constant keepsake that showed how resilient they were. Of course, he loved his own wedding ring, but he loved Mickey’s more. He loved knowing he placed it there. That no one could tear them away from each other. That they belonged to one another.  It said ‘get away, he’s taken.’ And Ian loved projecting that to the world. He knew he wasn’t as outwardly jealous as Mickey, but he had his moments. And seeing how people reacted to seeing that ring on Mickey’s hand brought him a lot of fucking joy.  And then there was the other thing. The bigger thing that made his inside feel hot and his heart pick up in speed; every time Ian saw Mickey’s wedding ring on his finger, he remembered when he slipped it on there. He remembered the vows he’d made Mickey, the seriousness on his face as he said his full name and made promises that Ian knew he’d do everything in his power to keep. It was the nicest thing that Ian owned, that both of them owned.  And for the rest of their lives, if they weren’t around the other one, all they had to do was look down at their finger to feel grounded by the other. A constant reminder that for the rest of their lives they had someone they could rely on. Who loved them regardless of whatever shit they’d gone through. He remembered how impossibly happy he felt. How Mickey’s face was like a shining star in the darkest of nights.  It was just one of the many keepsakes in their house.  Things they owned that the both of them held near.

29

Pivot

by @suzy-queued

One more idiotic word out of his fiancé’s mouth, and Mickey would kill him. The question hanging in the air was simple. Where the fuck was Ian’s engagement ring? Mickey sat at the Gallagher dining room table, pen balanced in his hand, waiting for an answer. Sandy fidgeted beside him with her planning notebook open. Ian froze. He didn’t take another swig of beer. He didn’t take a bite of the half-eaten dinner before him. He shifted in his seat. “I, uh, must have left it next to the sink.” Mickey threw his pen onto the wedding binder. Frustration shot straight to the top of his head. “I can’t even.” Sandy opened her hand, palm up, in disbelief. “I can see why you called.” The last two weeks had been a fucking nightmare. Ian had dragged his feet on finding a best man. He couldn’t cobble together enough white candles. He acted like the entire ceremony was a farce only to make Terry mad. Ian didn’t care enough to pay attention to the details. Mickey pressed his fingertips to his forehead, hoping to stop the pounding in his brain. Planning a wedding in a month shouldn’t be this hard. He’d pulled off carjackings at the spur of the moment. He’d coordinated a two-city weapons heist in a matter of days. But wedding vendors needed appointments. They only worked during the day. They wanted you to meet on their terms, and they couldn’t be bribed, threatened, or coerced. Fuckin’ gangsters withholding everything you need. “Maybe I left the ring in our room. I’ll find it.” Ian’s leg brace clanged against the steps as he went upstairs. He had a look of shame on his face, full awareness at his own incompetence. Small consolation for him spectacularly screwing everything up. Sandy ran her fingers through her hair, flipping her bangs from one side to the other. “Un-fuckin’-believable.” She tossed a folded piece of paper onto the table. “Hey, am I a good best man or what?” Mickey scowled and opened the paper. “What the hell is this?” He couldn’t decipher the words printed there. A range of dates and times. A website address. Parking directions for South Shore Cultural Center. Sandy pointed at the bottom, right before the word PAID. Mickey frowned as he read. “Survival Ballroom Dancing?” “It’s a class, dumbass.” “You signed me up for this shit?” “It was Mandy’s idea. She pitched in.” Sandy could obviously tell that he was pissed. She shook her head stubbornly, indicating there was no way she’d let him back out. “I’ve seen you at The Alibi when Spoon comes on. You are not doing the white man’s overbite at your own wedding.” Like Mickey wanted one more thing on his plate. Sandy had the invitations under control, but he still needed to find a florist who wasn’t a damn homophobe. He needed a plan to keep Terry away from the wedding venue. And apparently, he needed to superglue the fucking ring to his fiancé’s finger. “It’s only three days.” Sandy picked up the print-out and waved it in his face. “Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. You’ll knock it out in one week.” Mickey sighed and looked at the dates. The class was scheduled for the next week. He had to use every spare minute from now until the twenty-first to finalize details, to dot every “I” and cross every motherfucking “T.” There’s no way the wedding would happen without his full attention. He looked at Sandy, at his cousin who’d always been a presence in his life even if years went by between visits. His cousin who’d swooped in and taken over event planning as soon as he asked. She gave blunt advice. She told him when his ideas were stupid. She thought of ways to save money that he couldn’t envision because of his anxious fog. Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll do one class. As payback to you.” He folded the paper and tucked it into the “Two Weeks Before” tab of his planning binder. “But I’m dancing any way I goddamn feel like it. The groom likes my moves just fine.” Sandy glanced toward the stairs, where Ian would surely be reappearing any moment. “Sure he does, stud.” Tuesday evening What kind of shoes do you even wear to a ballroom dancing class? Mickey stood in front of the small closet in the bedroom he shared with Ian. He debated between tough-soled work boots and steel-tipped ass-kicking boots. Mickey put on the ass-kickers, because fuck them. If he stepped on some moron’s toes, they’d deserve the pain. Ian came into the bedroom, looking delicious in a plain white t-shirt. He’d just taken a shower, and the droplets of water on his chest made the shirt cling to him tightly. How the fuck was Mickey supposed to stay mad at him when he looked like that? Ian inched closer but stayed an arm’s length away. “Are we cool?” He leaned against the dresser, working to stay balanced on his awkward cast. Mickey glanced in his direction, not lingering too long. “Sure.” Or, we would be if you wore your fucking ring. If you secured a soloist. If you bothered to fill out the paperwork Reverend Sally needs. “I thought we could watch a movie or something. Take a break from all this.” Ian pointed at the issues of Borrowed Blue magazine splayed across the bed, at the scribbled notes and business cards of caterers and vendors. Mickey shook his head. “Can’t. I got a thing.” It would be so easy to say where he was going, wouldn’t it? To tell Ian he was learning to dance for their wedding. They should laugh about it. They could practice the moves when Mickey came home. They should slip their hands under each other’s clothes and take the dance to the bedroom. But Mickey didn’t feel like sharing. Why would he, when he’d probably only last ten minutes of one class before he bailed? He didn’t want to get Ian’s hopes up that they’d actually have a nice dance together, one with any semblance of coordination and timing.

30

There was too much else to be done. This class was an afterthought, a footnote that he’d give one shot and then toss away. Mickey could smell Ian’s soap and shampoo. His body always reacted to that man, no matter where his head was at. He wanted them to be in a good place. He wanted to slide a hand up Ian’s neck and kiss him. Mickey settled for being mysterious, being stubbornly vague out of spite. He needed to get out into the freezing night air to calm his head. Between the walk to the bus stop and the ride to the venue, it’d take over a half an hour to get there. Even if this class was a disaster, even if he stormed home after the first pirouette, Mickey could use that time to walk and smoke and calm his nerves. Mickey stood in the back corner of the New Horizons Room in the South Shore Cultural Center. The place wasn’t huge, but it was bright and open. No tables or chairs, no clutter anywhere. Not even a potted plant to hide behind. Just a long whiteboard along one wall. A carpeted area off to the side. A row of windows behind him showing the dark night outside. He sighed, trying his best to look unapproachable. Doing his best to tune out the chattering hipsters and couples filing in near him. Two weeks until the wedding, and they still had so much to do. Mickey needed to drop off a payment at the Bamboo Lotus. He had to pick a mid-tier scotch that wasn’t going to break their budget. He needed to find candelabras that didn’t look like they came from an abandoned haunted house. And why the fuck did he have to do it all, anyway? Mickey was tired of fighting. He was tired of pushing, of making decisions alone. He needed the wedding to be real, not a thrown-together shit show like his first one. He wanted to tick off his dad, sure, but that was only a small part of the equation. He wanted this day to be a milestone that people in both their families would remember. That their families would take seriously. He wanted to have nice pictures of the two of them dressed up for once. He wanted the wedding to be as amazing as Ian deserved, even if the bastard didn’t know how to pitch in properly. “Hey, man.” A teenage girl with sharp elbows coughed to get Mickey’s attention. “We’re all lined up if you wanna join us.” “What the hell?” Mickey had been so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the room had completely filled with people. He didn’t notice the three-piece band in the corner, tuning their instruments. He was the only idiot not lined up in two neat rows, women on the left, men on the right. “Do you have a partner?” The girl settled into her spot at the end of the line of women. Across from her stood a guy with the same curly brown hair as her. Mickey froze. This had been a fuckin’ mistake. Twenty pairs of beady eyes looked at him, all of ’em coupled with a matching partner. Was he the only single asshole there? A commanding voice cut across the room. “He’ll dance with me.” Everyone turned toward the man who’d spoken. He stood over six feet tall and was in his forties at least. His skin had an olive tone, some brand of Mediterranean. His feet barely touched the ground, like he’d greased up the bottom of this shoes and skated along the floor. He moved around the students and stopped near the middle of the lines. “Make room.” The man held his hand straight in the air and snapped, indicating that Mickey should hop to and get in line. “I am Evander Kosta. I’ll be your instructor for the next few nights.” He wore crisp slacks with a billowy dress shirt. His bony nose punctuated the harsh lines of his face. Mickey moved down the two rows of people like it was a walk of shame. Like he’d done something wrong and this was his punishment. He shuffled his heavy boots across the dark hardwood floor, which was so polished he could see his reflection. His laces whipped across the ground, making a small tick each time they touched. He avoided eye contact and only looked at people’s legs and shoes. Evander addressed the room, easily drawing everyone’s attention. “We’ve only got six hours together this week, so let’s make every minute count.” He clapped his hands and began the lesson. Mickey wanted to shrink into a hole and disappear. He would have if he weren’t in the absolute middle of the crowd. If he hadn’t sworn to Sandy he’d give this a shot. If a tiny part of him didn’t ache to show off for Ian on their wedding day. Mickey knew he had to survive at least one dance. He gritted his teeth. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He ignored the people around him and did his best to listen. Evander’s cool hand rested on Mickey’s right forearm. Mickey kept his own arms in a stiff box, creating a pocket between their chests. He never realized there were so many fuckin’ things to focus on when you dance. You had to put your feet out in a certain order. You had to keep your head level and upright. You had to direct your partner with small taps and pushes to indicate which way you’d be turning. Mickey’s brain was so engaged, he hardly had time to be freaked out by the man standing in front of him. The dance was a detailed puzzle of constant motion, a melding of his mind and his body that required full concentration. “They key to the waltz is the rhythm.” Evander pronounced the “Z” with a rolling “S” so it sounded more like “walls.” He had a strong but hypnotic voice. “Get lost in the timing. One-two-three. One-two-three. Stick with tiny movements. We’re not running a race here. Steady, small steps are best to start.” Mickey tried to lead correctly. He listened to the music, a blend of piano, violin, and recorder. It sounded like the soundtrack to a historical war movie, like the musicians stepped straight out of a medieval pub. He actually didn’t hate it, and he admired that they could stop and start on a dime at the instructor’s command. “Why are you taking the class?” The instructor drifted along, staying focused on Mickey while other couples practiced around them. “Huh?” Mickey looked up from their feet. He knew he should be watching his partner’s eyes. He should be rotating their bodies instead of treading the same ground continuously. There were too many fuckin’ things to think about. “Are you preparing for an event?” Mickey guessed that Evander had taught all types of people. You wouldn’t last long in the dance world if you were homophobic. Even so, he couldn’t meet his instructor’s gaze. “My wedding. My fiancé doesn’t know I’m here. He’d flip out with happiness, want to come and fuckin’ watch.” Evander never varied from the small steps Mickey repeated. “Which one of you leads and which one follows?” “What, like who’s on top?” Mickey wasn’t about to get into his sex life with a total stranger. Twirling around a dance floor in this fucker’s arms was about as close as he was willing to get tonight. Evander yelled a quick instruction to the band before turning back to Mickey, never missing a beat. “If your fiancé is more controlling, it might be best for us to switch places so you can learn to follow. In same-sex couples, you can take either role. It’s quite freeing, actually.” Huh. This guy really didn’t bat an eye that Mickey was marrying a dude. He didn’t push or criticize Mickey’s rough attempts to dance.

31

He merely floated along, responding nimbly to every movement. He’d seemed abrasive and arrogant at first, but one-on-one, he was attentive and really fuckin’ mature. And he raised a good point about who would lead and follow when he danced with Ian. Ian who … God, Ian had danced in clubs for all those months when he was seventeen. How stupid was Mickey, thinking he could keep up with Ian on the dance floor? Ian’s dancing was more booty-short and less ballroom, but Christ, he had moves. Evander slowed as the song wound down to its end. He clasped Mickey’s shoulder firmly. “It’s okay. You’ll get better. I’ll make sure of it.” The instructor raised his chin and addressed the room. “You are all naturals. Look at you, giving each other space on the dance floor. I bet not a one of you has bruised toes yet.” He hopped from couple to couple, pollinating each pair with a quick tip to improve their box step. Mickey stood alone, knowing a fire had been lit inside him. Of course he’d get fucking better. He was Mickey fucking Milkovich, and he rocked everything he put his mind to. He dug in his heels and decided then that he wouldn’t back down. He wouldn’t abandon this class. He’d slay it like the awesome groom he was born to be. The first night of Survival Ballroom Dancing ended promptly at ten. For two hours, Mickey hadn’t made any mental to-do lists. He hadn’t practiced angry conversations with the caterers. He hadn’t worried about whether his cousins would show up drunk at the wedding and try to hit on the reverend. He blinked and looked around the room, at everyone filtering out for the night. At the curly-haired couple and the token pair of old ladies, smiling over what they’d learned and red in the face from so many progressions and promenades. Mickey had kept his arms raised all night even though he wasn’t fighting. He’d kept his feet moving all night even though he wasn’t running. His adrenaline was up more than he realized, working to learn every step and master the moves without embarrassing himself. The whole bus ride home, he ran through the details he needed to remember. Keep your chin high. Slide rather than taking definite steps, putting pressure on your heel before your toe. The first beat is the most intense, and the other two follow more gently. Mickey had to master this. He had to show Evander that he was more capable than his outward appearance would imply. He had to show himself that he wouldn’t be defeated by a bunch of giggling brides-to-be. When Mickey arrived home at nearly eleven o’clock, he took off his tight boots and set them beside the bed. He peeled down his socks which had pressed so tightly into his swollen calves that they left indentions. He removed his sweater and jeans and wedged himself between the wall and his sleeping fiancé. He exhaled heavily. He watched shadows move across the ceiling and heard repetitive recorder music behind his swirling thoughts. As Mickey drifted off to sleep, he tapped his finger against Ian’s shoulder in three-quarter time. Wednesday evening Mickey made dinner in the Gallagher kitchen. He browned ground beef for Hamburger Helper on the left-hand burner of the stove, the only one that worked these days. He made a mental note to have Debbie look at the connections to see if she could get the other burners working. He’d tried and couldn’t find the fuckin’ problem. Maybe if his mind weren’t consumed by cross movements and whisk positions, he could think clearly. Mickey had chewed over the dance class all day. It bothered him that he wasn’t nimble, that he wasn’t coordinated, that he hadn’t picked up the moves immediately. The steps nagged at him. He worked to push his frustration deep down. Mickey streamed Metallica on his phone, letting the sound wash over him while he cooked. The music filled the kitchen with blazing guitar solos and rapid drumming that soothed his soul. When the music turned quiet, the hairs on Mickey’s neck stood up. The opening bars of “Nothing Else Matters” started, and it was like he was hearing the song for the first time. No fuckin’ way. Mickey’s feet betrayed him by shifting forward then across, doing a tiny box step in front of the stove. How the hell had he never noticed that this song was a goddamn waltz? The drums came in, and the rhythm only reinforced what his feet were telling him. Mickey set down the spatula. He stepped backward, giving himself room. He pictured Evander in front of him with his controlled smile and sharp nose. Mickey could do this. He could apply what he’d learned to any song with the right time signature. He shook his arms and then raised them into the proper frame. He focused on the music above the increasingly loud sizzling of the beef. He latched onto the beat, a faster pace than the one the medieval trio had played in class. He let himself move to the music. He slid his feet across the linoleum floor. One two three. One two three. One two — “God, it’s starting to freeze rain out there.” Ian’s voice came from the living room, followed by the slam of the front door. Mickey abruptly stopped. He grabbed the spatula, gulping as he gained his composure. “Mickey?” Ian limped his way into the kitchen. “Smells good.” He passed Mickey and set the family’s mail on the countertop. “What are you doing? You look like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar.” “Nothin’. Wasn’t doing nothin’.” Mickey stirred the meat and turned down the burner. Ian stepped close, pressing his chest into Mickey’s back. He slid a hand around his waist and nuzzled against his ear. “Asked Lip to be my best man today.” Mickey leaned back, accepting Ian’s touch. Savoring the happiness Ian felt over conquering an important wedding task. He loved his fiancé’s arms and body. They fit against him perfectly, so much better than Evander’s. The two of them had been tense for too long. Mickey welcomed this hint that they could be comfortable with each other. Ian traced small kisses down Mickey’s neck. “Come upstairs with me after we eat. Want to try on my bowtie for you.” Jesus, Mickey wanted to join him. He considered telling Ian about the dance lessons, about the real reason he’d have to skip out on him again tonight. He couldn’t speak. The words wouldn’t even form in his mind, they felt so stupid. Fuck Sandy for putting him in this position, of giving him something fruity to do that he actually wanted to master. He couldn’t talk about the class while it was so fragile, before he even understood the progress he was making. You don’t talk about something so new. You don’t ruin any chance you have at success by telling people that you’re doing it. Mickey found his voice, but timid words came out. “I can’t. Still got a thing.”

32

Ian’s eyes grew stern. He pulled back. “Is it something with your dad? You can tell that asshole no. We’re about to be married. He can’t run your life forever.” “Not my dad. Just something I gotta take care of.” Ian crossed his arms. “And you’ll be out all night again?” “Yeah.” “And you won’t tell me what it is?” “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to not ask stupid fuckin’ questions in the month before your wedding?” Mickey tried to be cute. He tried to deflect Ian’s doubts. Ian smelled different when he grew irritated. Like the layer of frustration simmering below the surface overtook him and pushed all his coziness and comfort away. He smelled cold. Fuck, Mickey had pissed him off. What was he supposed to do, admit that he was going to the pansy-ass cultural center and dancing every night? No fuckin’ way. Let Ian think he was sawing off guns or hitting up liquor stores. Mickey would show Evander he could handle anything. He’d make Sandy proud by going to all three lessons. Then when he mastered the American Slow Waltz, he’d take Ian in his arms and demonstrate what he’d learned. All night long. Mickey waited for the second night of class to begin. He stood in the multi-purpose room, on the left-hand side near the hallway that went to the bathrooms. He was alert, ready. He wouldn’t be caught off-guard or made a fool of this time. He’d line up on time and find a real partner that wasn’t the teacher. He had run the steps of the waltz in his head so many times. He was ready to show Evander that he could improve. The room filled up with people as eight o’clock approached. Mickey had barely paid attention to the other students the night before. He’d been so focused on trying not to step on them, he hadn’t noticed the bodies attached to the feet. The class had a wide range of ethnicities and body types, but most everyone was fairly young, around their twenties or thirties. He saw a couple who each wore ripped stockings and heavy makeup. The dude had dark bangs dyed red at the tips. The chick had long fingernails and a nose ring. Behind them, he saw a larger couple wearing jeans and sweaters. They laughed a lot and used their hands too much when they talked. Were all these people getting ready for weddings? Did people who’d been in relationships for a long time suddenly start to look alike? When people looked at Ian and him, did they think the two of them matched? None of the students made a move to talk to Mickey. How was he supposed to find a new partner when everyone kept their distance? He’d mastered his “don’t fuck with me” face for so long, he barely knew how to turn it off. A hand clap cut through the milling crowd. “It’s time. Find your same partner and line up.” Evander Kosta slid into the room on his flamingo legs. The seam on his slacks made his legs look thinner than they were. His shirt hugged his chest a little tighter than the billowy one from yesterday. Mickey’s stomach clenched. Same partners. Great. He’d wanted to get away from the instructor, but at least now he could show off what he’d been practicing. Mickey held his head high and made his way to the middle of the rows. He stood between a man with glasses and one wearing a blazer. Evander glided into his spot across from Mickey, not making eye contact. “Tonight, we foxtrot.” He spread his arms wide, soaking in the oohs of excitement from the dance students. “The foxtrot is a natural progression because you already know the moves. We take the steps of the waltz –” He stepped forward and did a three-point box step. “And we add a beat to make it four-four.” He turned ninety degrees and did a more complicated movement that only vaguely resembled what they’d done the night before. Mickey felt the confidence draining from his body. His fingers began to twitch. Did everyone else know they’d be learning a different fuckin’ dance every night? He’d spent all his energy on the waltz, and now they were introducing a whole new level of complication. Evander reached out to Mickey but continued to address the entire group. “You’ll want to keep this in your arsenal because these few steps can be used in many combinations. The foxtrot is the easiest way to look like an expert on the dance floor.” Mickey stepped forward hesitantly. Evander pulled him into a close grip, taking the lead for demonstration purposes. He set his right arm on Mickey’s side and held his left up high, accepting Mickey’s hand. This was not the combination Mickey knew. This was not the position he’d practiced. His body tightened. Evander whispered in his ear. “Relax and follow where I lead.” Mickey pictured Ian smiling in his tux. He thought of his husband-to-be in his arms beaming with pride that Mickey had surprised him with a thing or two on the dance floor. He allowed his stubborn stiffness to take a back seat, to watch from the sidelines so he could be the pliable partner his instructor needed. Evander stepped forward, so Mickey stepped back. Evander swung his leg to the side, so Mickey mirrored him. Evander cupped his palm against Mickey’s side and pushed toward his back, twisting his torso subtly. Mickey knew from yesterday this was a cue to turn his body in that direction. “The moves are wide and smooth. The moves are slow. No one is rushing you in this dance. We’ll learn a combination of long and short steps. We’ll learn a couple of bold moves so you can show off.” He ended by releasing Mickey with a flourish, sending him off to the side, a little breathless. Evander posed dramatically with one arm in the air. “Who’s ready to twinkle and chassé?” The music was more easygoing on this second night. The woman in the band traded her recorder for a saxophone, so the atmosphere felt more like a swanky club. Mickey paid attention to different things now that he had experience, now that he’d had a night of practice under his belt. He heard the scuff of shoes that he knew drove Evander nuts. Each high-pitched ping of a rubber sole against the hardwood meant a dancer wasn’t gliding, a dancer wasn’t floating between positions. He noticed the way the recessed bulbs in the ceiling lit everyone softly, like this room had been designed to flatter everyone’s appearance. He especially noticed how much more focused Evander was on correcting Mickey’s mistakes. The instructor refused to move when Mickey pushed too hard against him. “Less force. No one but me needs to see what you’re doing.” He talked in that soothing voice, like he was hypnotizing Mickey with his speech. “Our motions belong to us only. They are a secret we share, an illusion. If you push me too dramatically, everyone sees. It breaks the spell.” Who the hell even was Mickey without big, bold moves? Without bulldozing people to get his way? He had never considered subtlety as

33

one of his strengths. Evander stayed firm. “You don’t want a magician showing the hole in his hat before he pulls the rabbit through. Make movements that no one can detect. The dance is about you. It is about me. No one else needs to know how we communicate.” Mickey licked his lips and focused on Evander’s advice. He shifted his feet to starting position. He caught the rhythm of the music and stepped forward, tapping Evander on the side to tell him to move left. “Too hard. Try again.” Mickey closed his eyes and shook his head. His mind wandered to Ian again. He pictured Ian struggling to decide on a playlist for the wedding reception. Mickey’s inclination was to bludgeon him with instructions. To scream and smack his binder against the table. What would Evander say to that? Leading a dance was apparently all about small telegraphed movements. The elegance resonated when both partners knew the meaning of each tiny tic and how to respond. Maybe Mickey didn’t need to scream to get his point across. Maybe he could have more success with compromise and gentle leading. Mickey pictured himself whispering to Ian. Encouraging him with small smiles and feather-light touches. “Good.” Evander drifted across the floor smoothly. “You’re leading me with the smallest breaths and nudges. Your grace is what elevates us from stomping toddlers to true dancers.” Mickey didn’t realize he’d been using lighter pressure. He looked down at his own body and didn’t recognize himself. His thoughts of Ian had melted his insides, and his insides had told his outsides what to do. Mickey’s gentleness really did exist. He’d only needed the right key to unlock it. When Mickey arrived at home that night, Ian sat awake on their bed flipping through flyers from the baker. Mickey’s swollen feet sent a message to his entire body. Be subtle. Be lighter. Show elegance and grace. Mickey pointed at one of the cake photographs. “Hey, uh, that’s a good style you have circled. It looks classy and doesn’t look like icing vomited on it. The topper would look nice on it.” Ian beamed at him. Mickey had given a tiny touch to lead him in a positive direction. A small nudge that no one else would see or hear. A move that belonged to them and them alone. A moment of peace that connected them to each other. Something to tell Ian he was on his side and appreciated everything he was doing. When Mickey took that print-out from Sandy signing him up for this stupid class, communication was the last thing he expected to learn. Thursday evening The front bedroom of the Gallagher house felt empty without Ian there to pester him. Without Carl playing a noisy game on his phone. Without Liam pacing and rolling his eyes at everyone. Mickey sat on the bed and laced up his boots slowly. Where the fuck was Ian, and why wasn’t he home? He wasn’t working anymore, not since he’d broken his leg. Mickey felt a pang of regret. He understood the irony of being frustrated not knowing where Ian was. He’d been driving that fucker crazy all week, leaving for a few hours then slipping back home as if no time had passed. And now that Mickey wanted to spill his guts, now that Mickey wanted to reveal where he’d been going, Ian was nowhere to be found. Mickey checked his phone for the hundredth time. No texts. No attempted calls. He sighed and headed to his final class. Mickey arrived at South Shore twenty minutes early. He was the first student to arrive. He caught a hint of movement in a doorway to the right, one which had stayed closed both nights before. Inside a small connected kitchen, Evander arranged cookies and fruit onto serving trays. He organized paper cups and plates. Lemonade and a pitcher of tea. He perked up when Mickey walked in. “Do you sort napkins as well as you lead?” Mickey thumbed his nose. “Since no one else is here, I was wondering if you could, uh…” He suddenly felt underdressed in his faded jeans and his flannel shirt. “I can’t get my fuckin’ foot in the right position on that fourth turn on the foxtrot.” “The feather finish.” Evander set his container of cookies down on the counter. “Come on. I’ll show you.” They walked into the middle of the multi-purpose room, which felt enormous without all the other couples filling the hardwood. Evander snapped his finger in rhythm. He stepped close to Mickey. “Slow, slow, quick, quick, remember? Walking step, forward, sideways, close.” Mickey held Evander loosely but with enough tension to guide him. He ran through the basic moves twice. “It’s that change from left to right between sets that gets me.” Evander nodded. He demonstrated by pulling his own body away, by making a void that Mickey needed to fill. After a handful of tries, Mickey felt more confident. He felt more in control, better suited to lead. Evander noticed the change, too. He smiled and winked. “Now dip me down.” Mickey lowered his arm, allowing his partner to bend backward dramatically

34

toward the ground. He felt like he’d drop the guy if he fell another inch. Even though Evander was taller than Ian, he was so light on his feet, it felt like dancing with a string bean. Mickey laughed through his nervousness. “That was fucking amazing.” The outside door of the rec room slammed open. The door hit the wall with a bang. Ian stormed into the space. “Mickey? What is this?” Mickey let Evander go and straightened. “Shit, Ian, what are you doing here?” “I did that ‘find a phone’ thing to see where you went. You’ve been disappearing every night. I didn’t know if you were killing people or going on runs. And now I find you here with some guy doing … what are you doing?” Mickey wanted to be angry that Ian didn’t trust him. He wanted to bristle about Ian stalking him. But Ian looked wide-eyed and hurt. He looked pitiful standing there with his leg in his cast. He looked ready to fight. Mickey cleared his throat. “This is Evander. He’s the dance instructor.” “Instructor?” Ian looked like he couldn’t connect the concepts of Mickey and dance together in his mind. His forehead furrowed suspiciously. He looked around the room like he tried to find evidence that Mickey was telling the truth. “You’re taking dance lessons?” “And getting better every night.” Evander floated to Ian. “Come, this will work better with you in my place.” He pressed his hands against Ian’s back, raising his arm into following position. Mickey slid against Ian, feeling surprised and unprepared and fuckin’ embarrassed. He wanted to show off his dancing for Ian, but not like this. He wanted to tell Ian everything, not have him bust in on him like he was having a fucking affair. Ian’s body shivered a little as realization washed over him. “You’ve been coming here all week?” Other students began to filter into the rec room: the thin teenager and her boyfriend, the fishnet-wearing couple, the violinist. Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Wanted to surprise you.” “Oh, you accomplished that.” Evander pressed the two of them closer together. “We have an odd number in our little group. You stay. Be Mickey’s partner tonight.” Mickey turned in surprise. “But he isn’t registered.” Evander raised his arm. He waved his wrist dismissively as he walked away. Tonight, they danced the swing. The swing was the messiest, most unpredictable of all the dances, and Mickey fuckin’ loved it. He could twirl Ian around and catch him in his arms. He could raise their arms overhead. He could let go. He could snap back so close their chests touched. It took a ton of energy, and he could make a ton of mistakes. Evander seemed to enjoy the freedom of not being Mickey’s partner. He traveled from couple to couple, stepping in and demonstrating Charlestons and chicken walks everywhere he went. The instructor came toward Ian and Mickey. They took up too much space on the dance floor, and every move Ian made was clunky because of the cast, but Evander looked thrilled to see it. He talked quietly to Mickey. “I see now why you’ve been struggling. You needed your inamorato.” He didn’t offer advice. He didn’t step in to take either of their places. He simply smiled toward Ian and then walked to the next couple, nodding. Ian had taken off his coat now. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He watched Mickey sidelong, the way he used to do at The Fairy Tale, challenging him to let loose and embrace this side of himself he’d never been allowed to explore. “Didn’t know you had this in you, Milkovich.” Mickey warmed knowing that even after a decade, he could still surprise the man he loved. “You’re gonna lose your mind when I show you the waltz.” Mickey rolled the “Z,” turning the world into “walls” just like Evander. Ian finished a triple-step using only his right leg. He stopped moving. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “This, right here. This super-fucking-big grin on your face. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d act like this.” Mickey shoved him playfully, enjoying the way the rec room lighting softened his face. Ian slid his hand up Mickey’s neck. His expression grew somber. His touch felt tentative, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to approach Mickey this way. “I’m doing the best I can.” By that intense look, Mickey knew Ian wasn’t talking about dancing the swing. He was talking about everything. Shopping for vendors, being engaged, planning and supporting Mickey as he worked to make their wedding the best it could be. “I know.” Ian stared at him. “Of course I want a nice ceremony, but it’s just a party. I’m more excited about waking up next to you every day for the rest of my life.” He smirked. “I get to call you names I’ve never used before.” “Like what?” “Husband.” Ian kissed him. “Mr. Gallagher.” Mickey knew Ian was right. Of course he was right. The wedding was only a small thing, a couple of hours in one day that would pale in comparison to the life they’d build together. He rolled his arm out to fling Ian into a wide turn. Then he pulled him back. Because sometimes he might feel like pushing Ian away, but at the end of the day, he’d always want him back in his arms where he belonged. Mickey raised their hands up high. Because no matter what, he’d always be reaching higher, striving to be the best partner he could be. He threaded his fingers through Ian’s and ground against his hips, out of time with the music. Because they could be sloppy and dirty. They didn’t have to follow anyone else’s rules, as long as they did it together. Sometimes Mickey might lead and sometimes he might follow. But he vowed to do both with as much kindness as he could muster. He stopped worrying about being a good groom. He focused on becoming a good husband.

35

36

37