Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Ian.”

Ian was crying. For the first time in six years, Ian Gallagher was really crying.
He tried to wipe away the lone tear trickling down his cheek, only for it to be replaced just as quickly. He turned away; he didn’t want anyone, least of all Mickey, to see this. Mickey who held his heart in a chokehold, Mickey who’s marrying a woman, Mickey who’s breaking Ian’s heart all over again.

“Fuck, Ian, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” Mickey sighed, buttoning his cufflinks and smoothing down his hair. Ian kept his back turned, hoping that if he stared at the gray cinderblock of the wall long enough it would turn into an aisle with them at the end.

Mickey strode forward, yanking Ian around roughly by the shoulder. “Look, Ian, this isn’t fair. You don’t get to give me the silent treatment, fuckin’-fucking cut me out for something I don’t want any more than you do!”

Finally, Ian broke, words spilling from his mouth quicker than he could even think them. “You know what? You’re right. This isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that you expect me not to care, isn’t fair for you to make me be the fucking best man at this shit show! I love-“ Here he stopped, choking back a sob. “I loved you. I used to love you, at least, and now..now I don’t know.” He muttered, shrugging off his black suit jacket and tossing it roughly towards Mickey. There was nothing Mickey could do but watch Ian leave, leave his life and his wedding and his world.

He gripped the jacket to his body so tightly his knuckles went white. A lump rivaling the fake rock on Svetlana’s stolen engagement ring rose in his throat as he wrapped the arms of the jacket around his shoulders and inhaled deeply. He didn’t care if anybody saw him, let them fucking see. None of it was worth it without Ian.

Chapter Text

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to dredge up all my fears.”

—————————————————————-

Ian’s cursed Frank’s name more times than he can count in his life, but he’s never hated his father more than he does right now.

It’s been ten minutes since Frank found them, and Mickey hasn’t said a thing. Somehow, that’s worse than his anger. That he can take. He’s been taking hits and screams and other people’s anger his whole goddamn life, but this is worse. No bruises to show for it. At least he knew how to deal with physical pain, but this? This clawed open his chest like a bulldozer, that horrible pit in his stomach turning to cement as Mickey finally spoke.

“We gotta kill him.” Suddenly Ian’s springing up from the ground to follow Mickey’s frantic pacing.

“We can’t, Mick.” Ian sighs, reaching out for the other boy’s arm but quickly pulling back like he’s been burned.

“No. We gotta. We shoot him, dump him in the river, boo-fucking-hoo, the whole neighborhood has a party.” Mickey rants, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes.

“We-we have nothing to be ashamed of, Mickey.” Ian finally speaks, voice c racking but growing as he straightens up, trying to look strong while he falls apart in front of the cigarettes and cash register.

“What kinda fuckin’ dreamland are you living in, Gallagher?!” Mickey snapped, whirling around and shoving Ian back by the shoulders.

“I just-I thought..” Ian stuttered, letting himself be pushed backwards til his ass hits the counter.

“What, you thought we’re fuckin’- fuckin’ boyfriend and girlfriend now? You’re nothing to me, Gallagher. Just another warm mouth.”

Chapter Text

“I look in people’s windows, transfixed by rose golden glows.”

—————————————————————-
As soon as Ian opens his eyes, he knows there’s been a mistake.

There must be, because why else would he be on a thin psych ward cot, blanket sewn onto the mattress and pillow paper thin? He’s supposed to be with Mickey, warm and safe and happy. And he may be safe here, they’ve made sure of that with everything being heavier than the load on his chest and rounder than Monica’s track he’s been sprinting down, but it’s cold.

He’s cold, so cold, and he can’t do anything about it. His teeth chatter as a nurse comes to lead him into the day room, a cheery banner stretched across the back wall. “Here’s your breakfast, love.” She says softly, everything about her kind and gentle but Ian still bursts into tears and tries to run through those double doors, the only thing separating him from the only person who could say they loved him.

He’s dimly aware of a nurse and a guard holding him down and pressing down hard on his back. “Gallagher, you try that again and you’re in solitary. Got it?” The head nurse, a lumpy, plain woman named Rosemarie, hissed into his ear. “Gotta get back.” He mumbled. It was all he could say the rest of the day, as he lay in his thin bed in his freezing room and the warm tears streaming down his cheekbones the only warmth.

“Gotta get back to Mickey.”

Chapter Text

“Take me to the roof, I want to see the world before I die.”

(disclaimer: this is an excerpt from my ongoing fic and an alternate prompt that i picked the lyric for!)
—————————————————————

Ian Gallagher was crashing. And somehow while he was falling, there was only one person he wanted to talk to.

“Mick?”

“Oh my god, Ian, where are you? I’m gonna come get you, we can talk or do whatever you want, just tell me where you are.”

That’s when the crying really hit. Ian’s fingers dug painfully into the phone as he clung to it and sobbed. It hurt. Something was tearing him apart from the inside, and he just wanted it to go away, to get rid of the voices constantly screaming in his ears. He wanted to stop hurting Mickey, stop hurting all those people who looked at him like he was crazy. Ian was collapsing like a house of cards and there was nothing he could do about it.

“I’m so sorry.” Ian whispered, letting his head fall and bang against the wall. Somehow, a razor and a little orange bottle made their way into his hands.

“Sorry about what? Ian what did you do?”

“They wouldn’t stop looking at me, and the demons wouldn’t stop talking to me. I just want them to stop, Mickey.” His watery voice came through, crackly over the line.

“I know. I know, man. Just keep talking, I’m gonna come find you. Are you at home?”

“You weren’t here. The demons were too-they were too-“

“Ian, please just stay with me!” Mickey pleaded as Ian’s voice got weaker over the line.

“I’m so tired..”

And then the line dropped.

Chapter Text

“My panic’s at the ceiling, but I’m face down on the carpet.”
———————————————————-

For once, everything inside the house is still. Everybody’s sleeping, and if they aren’t they’re doing their damndest to pretend. And suddenly it’s not, because Ian is bolting upright in bed and gasping, the sweat rimming his hairline and soaking his pillow turning to ice as he throws the blanket off of him.

It’s just a dream. Just a dream.

The dark hair and light eyes, the face he’s seen in a million classrooms and stores and houses, the long legs running as fast as they can away from him.

Just a dream.

The rain pouring down around them, lashing at the windows in Ian’s blurry vision, drenching him to the bone as thoroughly as his sweat has his undershirt. He runs, yelling to the boy ahead, but his words tumble from his mouth and dissolve till they’re hitting the pavement below him.

Just a dream.

Mickey cries, and Ian runs. He can’t catch him, can’t say anything to make it stop without spilling his guts over the pavement, the same way he felt walking home that first time, flipped inside out, his heart on display.

He tries to hide it, tries to shield himself as he curls back into his covers.

Just a dream.

I was so close this time.

Chapter Text

“No grave can hold my body down.”
————————————————————

Phillip Gallagher.

He reads it again. Can’t even make out the words through the tears blurring his eyes, black ink on the envelope swirling into Rorschach blots in front of him.

Phillip Gallagher.

Ian rubs his eyes furiously, willing the words to rearrange into Ian Gallagher.

They don’t.

Then Lip’s there, and he’s lighting up a joint and it lights up an anger Ian tried to bury the second the Colonel handed him that envelope. “Letter came for you.” He manages through gritted teeth, turning away so Lip doesn’t see the tear beading up in his eyes. “Jeez, you want a hit?” Lip laughs, like any of this is fucking funny. “Seems like you need it more than I do.” He inhales and blows out a perfect O of smoke, stretching a hand out to offer the blunt. The sharp tang of weed, usually a comforting cloud surrounding the two, turns sour as Ian throws the letter into Lip’s lap. Seeing the address- West Point Military Academt- he lets out a long, low whistle. “Goddamn!” He says, tossing it carelessly to the side and picking the joint back up. Ian feels the anger pressing against his ribs, can feel it flushing through his skin, onto his shoulders and neck the way it does when he’s mad. And he’s mad, angrier than he’s ever been. It should’ve been him.

“How many sit-ups can you do?” He blurts, crossing his arms like a child but not caring as he feels a vindictive stab of pleasure, seeing the confused look spreading over Lip’s face. The bastard laughs again, like anything’s funny. “What, right now? Stoned? Shit, I don’t know.. 20?25?”

“I have a 5:50 mile. I can deadlift 230 pounds and squat 180. I can do over a hundred sit ups at a time.” Ian snaps.

Lip rolls his eyes, and the fucker has the audacity to even speak. “Look, it’s not my fault I’m the genius here. I’m sorry about McNally, but, I mean..” Lip doesn’t finish his sentence, Ian’s arm across his throat cutting him off. Lip shoves him back just as quickly, eyes flashing annoyance as his brow furrows. “Jesus, th’fucks your problem?” Lip scoffs, reaching for his jacket. “Whatever, man. I’m gonna go-“

And Ian snaps.

“Go see your whore. Go see all of them, see if I care! That’s all you care about, anyways. Your rich little whore and her baby that isn’t even yours.”

Lip moves faster than Ian can even register, whirling around and slamming his brother against the wall. Ian reacts instantly, driving a knee up to catch the shorter boy in the thigh, hard. Lip curses but doesn’t release his grip on Ian’s throat.

“Don’t you ever say shit about Karen, you little fag.”

Ian’s fist smacks deliciously against Lip’s temple, and then they’re tumbling down the hallway. They spill into the bathroom, and the tornado of Lip’s anger presses Ian into the shower, pushing him down and taking the curtain with him as he goes. The metal rod catches Ian on the base of his skull and again on his temple, hitting him hard enough to send reverberations through his skull.

There’s the faint sound of footsteps as Lip leaves. Slamming doors. Voices. Ian sinks down, down, down.

Chapter Text

“Tell me that you’re okay, and I’m fine.”

(except i really wanted the song to be sleeptalking by indigo de souza!)
————————————————————
It’s silent inside the elevator.

Ian knows what’s coming already, knows silence between them can never be good.

“Mick. C’mon, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” Ian finally rasps, reaching a hand out to touch Mickey’s shoulder.

Mickey jerks himself away from the taller man, leaning into the corner of the elevator. “How the hell did you mean it, then?” He snaps, thumbing at his nose.

“Look, I didn’t mean that I don’t want to get married. I just..don’t want to do it like this.” The redhead sighs, tipping his head back til it hits the wall with a thunk.

“Wow, what a nice, sappy ass little way to say you don’t love me enough now.” Mickey sighs, marching ahead as the elevator doors slide open.

“Mick! You know that’s not what I fucking meant.” Ian calls after him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Mickey whirls around, eyes brimming with what almost seemed like tears before he shoved Ian away from him, sending him tumbling down the stairs.

“Fuck!” Ian shouts, trying to stand up on his leg, but it’s bent at a horrible angle and pain shoots up through his kneecap. He lets his knee buckle, and sits back down.

His stomach turns as he sees a tear roll down Mickey’s cheek. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it faintly registers that Mickey said he loves him, is crying for him when he hasn’t cried in years. He can’t bring himself to care, though, as he shifts into a seated position, hanging his head between his knees as he waits for the pain to subside.

Watches Mickey light up, and eventually leave.

Ian hobbles the whole way home, and only once he’s sitting on the Gallagher kitchen table, letting V set his leg, does he let himself cry.

Chapter Text

“Oh horror, oh horror, what did you see?”
————————————————————-

Mickey’s happy.

He laughs a little as he settles onto the couch, watching Ian take a sip of his beer, tipping his head back and laughing with those beautiful eyes and that crooked smile that could ruin him.

“I’m telling you, man, there’s no fucking way Star-Lord could beat peak Ryan Reynolds!” Ian snorts, pointing towards the television. “See? Fucking powerful right there. And hot.” He grins, knowing he’s won this one.

“Whatever, dude.” Mickey laughs, taking a long swig of his beer.

~

Mickey’s tired.

He and Ian went at it three times at least last night, and he has plans for more this morning.

So he’s putting everything in position, lounging on the couch holding the string as casually as he would a joint, waiting.

Finally Ian strode in, rubbing sleep from his eyes, wearing nothing but a pair of what Mickey was pretty sure were his boxers.

“Jeeeez.” Ian exhaled, seeing Mickey holding the string of beads, already hastily fumbling at the buttons of the older man’s shirt.

They’re both naked and making out when the door opens.

Terry says nothing, face set in a horrible, grin expression as he quickly stalks over to the two and slams a fist into Ian’s nose, yanking him up by his cropped hair. Mickey tries to say something, but it’s too late and Ian’s getting his face beat black and blue, nose dripping blood when he finally wakes up enough to try and swing at Terry.

Terry pulls out a Sig from his waistband, training the weapon on Ian but spitting his words over his shoulder to his son.

“You little fucking faggots. I should’ve known, you and your pansy ass, always hanging around this fuckin’ twink.” Terry snarls, scrabbling at his pocket for his phone, transferring the gun to his left hand as he shakily dials a number.

“Bring over the Russian.” He spits, hanging up before the person on the other end of the line even has a chance to say anything.

Then she’s here, and taking off her coat, and Ian’s laying on the floor across from him, and he’s bleeding and he knows he should feel something but he can’t.

Mickey doesn’t want to talk about what happens next.

Chapter Text

“We’ll make it alright to come undone.”
———————————————————-

There are too many people.

Ian’s drowning in all the people, the six girls squeezed into a four person booth, the loud drunks on the stoop, the waitresses whizzing behind him.

The world seems to pause for a second as the silverware bin falls out of his hands.

Every eye turns to him as the forks and knives clatter across the floor.

The stares are burning, they can see through him, they can see the whispers swirling around his ears like a thunderstorm, the ice pooling in his core, more layers growing every day. He can’t handle it. Can’t handle this anymore.

Hopping over a mess of spilled forks and the shards of a mug, Ian makes his way to the break room, shaky hands fumbling with the ties on his apron. Bo calls out something to him from his spot at the grill, then brushes by, leaving fresh burger patties sizzling on the stove.

Ian inches towards the steel counter, feeling the heat of the grill from a yard away.

A horrible thought whispers through his mind. He tries to shake it off, tries his hardest. But just like always, it isn’t enough. Wasn’t enough to stop him holding that knife to Kenatta’s throat, or slamming the bat into the bathroom door inches from Debbie’s head. And it isn’t enough to stop him from slamming a hand down onto the searing metal.

He feels it, for the first time in weeks. Still feels it now, and even more now as the seconds tick by. The sear of the top layer of skin, electrifying his nerves and exploding out into the world. The horrible smell of his own flesh sizzling on the grill, and the even worse sting of air when he finally lifts his raw palm off of the grill.

“Woah! Fuck, Ian, what the fuck happened?!” Bo exclaims, rushing back to the grill, snapping his fingers desperately for a rag. Once one is shoved into his hand, he blasts it with frigid water and wraps it tight around Ian’s palm, leaving his thumb out like a twisted kind of cast.

“Hurt my hand.” Ian mumbles, gently pulling his hand away from Bo. He walks towards the break room, on the pretense of grabbing the first aid kit. Really, he just sits on the low wooden bench and presses a finger into the raw, angry surface of his right hand. It hurts so much it brings tears to his eyes, but the tears he cries have never made him happier.

As he rocks back and forth on that bench, clutching his hand, he can feel again.

Chapter Text

“There’s nothing you can ever say, nothing you can ever do.”
——————————————————————
Mickey’s seventeen when the whore walks in. Mickey’s seventeen when she fucks him in front of his dad’s gun and his bloody boyfriend. He’s seventeen when they’re beaten black and blue, when he tastes his own blood in his mouth. He’s seventeen, but he’s never felt so old in his life.

He’s tired, and nauseous, and he wants to go home. He’s sick of fighting for something he isn’t even sure exists, something the whole world seems determined to screw him over for. He’s seventeen, and she’s on top of him, a grim look on her face as he chokes back tears.

He’s watching Ian. It feels like he’s drowning, and he wants it to stop. He wants the whore to stop, he wants to run as far away from her as he can. So he does what he knows will end things.

He flips her over, hips snapping forward mechanically as he wills himself to get through this. He can’t think about Ian, can’t think about how this is sure to be only the beginning.

He stands in the shower long after the water goes cold that night. He scrubs and scrubs until he’s used up the whole bar of soap, till he realizes he’ll never really be clean again. He could see it, feel the burning layer of skin that would never peel away.

So he has to let it stay, let it settle into him till it’s seeped into his heart, his brain, his bones. His watch beeps, and he realizes it’s midnight.

Mickey’s been eighteen for 60 seconds when he realizes he’ll never be clean again.

Chapter Text

“Can you get through all the pain inside you?”
—————————————————————

Just make it home. Just make it home.

Ian trips over his shoelace as he stumbles down the sidewalk, his path looping across the pothole-laden street. Somehow, between the black specks peppering the edges of his vision and the horrible pain in his head, he staggers down the wrong street.

Dragging his head up from where it’s currently fixed to his right palm, he almost laughs when he sees the street sign in front of him.

South Trumbull.

Of course he’s here, he thinks dully. He always ends up here, doesn’t he? Like a magnet pulling him towards the edge of a cliff. He’s in every brick of the alleyways, in every corner of the sidewalk. He tries to think about formulas, degrees of rationality, subway maps, but they all lead back to him, back to this house.

So what can he do, but hobble his way up the splintering wooden stairs?

What can he do, but sloppily bang a fist into the peeling white front door?

What can he do, but smile when he answers the door?

And what can he do but sit down and watch a movie with him, try and pretend everything’s normal?

But it isn’t, because when Mickey goes to clumsily crush his mouth to Ian’s, burying hands in his too-long hair, he pulls away sharply, staring down in confusion at his now-wet hands. Ian feels like laughing as he sees all the pieces click in his mind, putting together the blood on his hands and the way Ian can’t quite seem to focus his eyes.

“Not..not very good at hiding it, am I?” Ian laughs weakly, letting his head sink into the couch cushion, feeling the sting of the cut against the fabric. Mickey says something, but Ian isn’t sure what, because he’s used everything he had to get here, and now he just wants to sleep.

Chapter Text

“I don’t want to die too soon, I think there’s good in you somewhere.”
——————————————————————

Something clicks into place in his head when he watches Mickey shiver against the freezing January air.

He realizes he’s fucked, really and truly, because he’s in love. He loves the asshole, more than he can even explain, and it’s threatening to tear him apart. He needs to say it. He wants to say it.

The words threaten to spill from his lips, but even as he opens his mouth to finally say it, Mickey turns and stubs his cigarette out on the pole next to them.

“Gotta go. M’brothers are waiting for me.” He grunts, rubbing his hands together and blowing onto them, the breath shooting from his mouth crystallizing in the frozen air.

He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna do it. He’s doing it.

“Hold my hand?”

Out of all the things he could’ve said, this has to be the worst one.

He can see the moment the blood in Mickeys veins turns to ice, can see the exact moment it hits him what he’s said.

“The fuck did you just say?” He asks, whirling back around.

“Nothing.” Ian mutters, making to turn around as he feels his cheeks burn.

“Nah, I heard that shit.” Mickey snarls, shoving Ian back by his shoulders. “You think I’m some sort of bitch?”

Ian doesn’t say anything. He certainly can’t say what he desperately wants to, so he just won’t. He’s dimly aware that he’s sinking to the ground, feels the snow seeping into the bottom of his jeans.

Tips his head back.

Looks at the stars.

Chapter Text

“How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished.”
—————————————————————-

“Mick?”

The sound of those long legs crunching through the piles of leaves in the lot warns him of Ian before he hears his own name.

His hands curl into fists, forcing the aching skin across his knuckles to go taut, and the burning sensation hurts, it hurts.

He doesn’t bother looking up from his half-empty bottle of Jack as the other boy gingerly steps over the rubble on the floor.

“Mandy’s worried about you.” He finally says, staring at his feet.

“She doesn’t need to. Right fucking here.” Mickey mutters, taking another swig from his half-empty bottle, relishing the burn in his throat as he swallows. This way, he can pretend his tears are just side effects of the whiskey. He can rub them on his neck, behind his ears, on his back. See? It’s sweat now.

Ian takes slow, small steps towards him, eventually leaning his back against the same pillar Mickey’s sat in front of.

“She asked if I was with you. Thought you might be here, so..” Ian lets the sentence trail off into nothing, seeing the grimace flit across Mickeys face as he wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle. His eyes shift to the reddened black ink spilling across Mickey’s knuckles.

“Clever, isn’t it?” Mickey snorts, once he can tell Ian’s done reading the words. “Was waitin’ for the bus when my uncle pulled up, shoved me in the van and had Terry point a gun in my face. Iggy drove us to some sketchy ass motherfuckers house. Gave me these.” He flattens his other hand from where it’s been curled around the neck of the whiskey bottle, completing the set.

“Fuck you up?” Ian questions, tilting his head to see them. Mickey nods slowly, letting out a sigh.

“Huh.” Ian whispers, letting his back slide down the wall till he’s sitting next to Mickey.

Mickey doesn’t say anything after that, just tries to replace the sting on his hands with the burn of more whiskey.

Chapter Text

“In the end, it’s worthwhile.”
*disclaimer: more excerpts from my main fic!!
—————————————————————-
Days passed. Ian still didn’t sleep. Mickey cried when he was alone, wished he could do anything. He knew, knew something was terribly wrong. He felt it the same way he felt the love that he held steady for Mandy and Ian.

And the worst part was Ian didn’t even realize anything was wrong.

They walked to the 41st and Wallace station side by side in silence. Mickey wasn’t speaking and Ian was confused as hell.

But he was also confused by the way the lamppost seemed to blur in his vision, and the way he could swear every noise he heard was someone calling his name. And why did it feel like he could jump up and fly at that very second? He wished he could fly. Wonders why Mickey’s even mad at him.

“Hey.” He hummed quietly, kicking at Mickeys ankle. They were sat side by side on the Red Line, the rest of the car vacant except for stray commuters heading back to Lincoln Park.

“What?”

“Are..are you mad at me?”

There wasn’t a more annoying question in the face of the earth than “are you mad at me?”. It doesn’t matter who’s asking, it makes everything turn on its axis and someone would always get hurt or confused.

Mickey shivered from the question alone, staring into Ian’s eyes. And on the surface he wanted to believe they were gonna make it. They were gonna get out, and live in some shitty apartment. They were gonna be cute and romantic and fuckin’ happy. But when he looked into those eyes, he knew deep down something was wrong. He remembered a time when all there was in those eyes was adrenaline and pure joy, when he had loved Mickey so hard it had almost made up for the way he couldn’t quite love himself. And now he seemed terrified, moving way too fast for him to possible keep up. And that was ruining the dream.

Chapter Text

“I know you said before you can’t cope with any more.”
————————————————————

Ian knew why his father hated him so much.

He reminded him of Monica, the way they needed things so deeply.

He needed a mother. Needed love, needed help, needed rest. He needed someone to care.

As he kicked his way through the February slush of Halsted, Ian wondered if anybody could see him. Wondered if he was so invisible, nobody would notice if he was stretched thinner and thinner, pulling himself apart until there was no more left.

What a shame it was, that nobody really loved him. What a shame that nobody cared.

He couldn’t say this, of course. Nobody knew what to do with him, he knew they didn’t, with the way he was sure they prayed he would change.

They all wanted him to be fucking perfect, beautiful, smart. Fiona wanted him to be the one who got out. Lip wanted him to be his punching bag. Carl didn’t need him. Debbie didn’t need him. Liam certainly didn’t.

And he doesn’t want to think about Mickey.

Chapter Text

“I’ve had the rug pulled beneath my feet.”
—————————————————————

It’s been a long time since Ian’s had a bad day. Two months, thirteen days, to be exact. But no number in the world can stop what’s hurtling towards him on that December afternoon.

He’s picking halfheartedly at the mound of eggs on his plate, trying to muster the energy to move fork to hand to plate to mouth.

Mickeys staring from across the table. Mandy’s humming in the kitchen. Everything’s louder than it should be, so when his phone rings in his pocket, he’s bolting up from the table and into the hallway quicker than he can even process the caller ID on the screen.

“Hello?” He asks, tucking the phone into the crook of his neck while he closes the door behind him.

“Ian? That you?” Lip’s voice cuts across the line, crackly from what sounded like the old family phone.

“Uh, yeah? What’s going-“ Ian asked quickly, brow furrowing. A call from his brother at all was unusual. But a call from his brother in the middle of the day, on a Thursday, on the landline? Even weirder.

But his train of thought is quickly interrupted by Lip’s bitter laugh. “Monica’s dead.”

Ian can feel himself collapsing to the wooden floor, can feel the phone slipping out of his hands. Lip’s voice sounds like he’s sitting at the bottom of the ocean as he explains her tumor, the overdose, the notes for him.

“A-a letter?” Ian stutters, biting his fist to push back tears.

“Yup. Here for you whenever.” Lip says, sounding disinterested as he hangs up.

When Ian finally gets up the nerve to go open the letter, it’s not what he expected.

There’s no torn up paper, no blood on the floor, no illegible address scrawled on a diaper box. Just a small, pale blue envelope sitting on the countertop.

His favorite color. She remembered.

Another sob threatens to escape Ian’s mouth, but he pushes it down, stuffs it back deep inside where everything else lives alongside it, all his secrets clattering around together like a horrible treasure chest.

He slips a finger under the flap.

Begins to read.

“My sweet Ian.”

And he wants to laugh as he scans the rest of the letter, all of it so exactly like his mother but so terrible at the same time.

Other than those three words, the paper is blank.

Chapter Text

“Tell me there’s a hope for me.”
—————————————————————-

“Excuse me, young man, you cannot just-“

Against the protestations of his teacher, Mickey barged out of the classroom.

He knew he should’ve skipped Lit. Nobody cares about the fucking Crucible, and certainly not him. No, what he cares about is how he’s almost certainly getting his ass beat once he gets home.

Fucking Gomez stiffed him on the coke he’d fronted, so now he was short the 150 that bastard owed him, and something told him Terry wouldn’t take kindly to the situation.

Where to go, though? Mandy was skipping today and Gallagher was in AP Calc like the robot-ass he was. Ian was in gym, but there was no chance he was risking that. Didn’t need Terry calling him a sissy again, didn’t need him raising his gun the same way he had at-

It hit him out of nowhere. It’s so fucking funny how grief works, how one moment you can be lighting up in the bathroom and the next you’re crouched on the floor of the largest stall, body heaving as you double over the toilet. Remembering hurt. It stung like the sour acid of his vomit over his still-raw throat. It hurt to remember how it had happened a year ago today, how he would never get the sight of his mother’s skull blown open out of his head.

Mickey was a stupid-ass fucking crybaby, and he knew it. Sitting on the nasty-ass Juarez Public bathroom, sobbing his eyes out over someone he was supposed to not care about wasn’t exactly a great look for someone who was supposed to be violent and just as dangerous as his father.

He felt like shit. He wanted to curl up on the floor and scream until his lungs were completely collapsed. He wanted to die. The thought scared him.

He let out an ugly sob, the sound bouncing off the tile walls and slamming back into him, overlapping the wave of shame that hit him square in the chest as he heard the door swing open.

He tries to hold back the ragged hitch of his voice as he hears the person stop outside his stall.

It doesn’t work.

“Anyone in there?” The voice calls, untied and beat up Converse coming into view in the gap under the door.

No, nobody is here! Mickey wants to scream, wants to bang into the floor till they can hear the Morse code in hell.

Don’t you see? She was my best thing. Now she’s gone.