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I & II
Monica’s back and Ian has nowhere else to go. Mickey meets him at the store in twenty. Then there’s the sound, the sound of a heavy door, and Kash walking in. Then days and days and Kash fuming silently. Then a Snickers bar, a gunshot and then juvie.
Mickey’s wearing blue, JTDC, and he’s still walking with crutches. He yells about Jell-O.
Ian says he misses him. He says it, and he gets the response he knew he’d get, and he puts his hand on the glass because he knows Mickey is bluffing.
He takes his hand off the glass but smiles, smiles because okay, fine, he’ll take his hand off the glass. Here. Here where even he knows it’s stupid to have his hand on the glass. But out there, out where there aren’t guards and gangbangers, he won’t take his hand off the glass. When it’s just Mickey, and Mickey is bluffing, his hand will stay on the glass until the glass is shattered or his hand is broken.
Mickey glances around and half-smiles back. He knows it too. He might be the one to break Ian’s hand, but he won’t shatter the glass. It’s precious and shiny and prison-grade bulletproof.
--
He doesn’t break Ian’s hand, but he does shake it off his shoulder. In the summer heat, walking away from the juvie he’s just spent a year in.
Ian didn’t expect him not to, when he dropped it there. He just wanted to test his luck and feel his skin for a second, a taste before they get to be alone. He lets his arm swing between them, keeps the other around Mandy. Occasionally his arm bumps against Mickey’s and that’s just as well. Mickey could move further if he really wanted to.
--
Mickey doesn’t want to chit-chat, but he looks at Ian like he’s shaking out of his skin. He looks at the places he won’t touch. At Ian’s face and lips and stomach. He looks like he thinks Ian can’t see him looking. But Ian can, and Ian knows, and Ian lets him look.
Lets him turn around and grab the chain-link fence, and bite his lip to stay quiet. In turn, Mickey lets Ian touch his back. His hips and for a fleeting second, his stomach.
“Always wanted to do that here!”
Before, Ian didn’t know it was possible to miss someone this much. Didn’t really know it when Mickey was away, either. But now that he’s back, and he’s telling a story about an asshole little league commissioner, Ian knows it is possible.
He realizes he’s missed Mickey more than he knew, and thinks he’ll keep missing him for a long time.
Mickey doesn’t share his cigarette, but he agrees to work at the store.
That summer, the tether forms. A thread between them. Mickey starts working at the store and all of a sudden they’re seeing each other every day, fucking every day, talking every day. Ian’s hand presses hard, hard on the glass and Mickey doesn’t tell him to take it off.
And Ian starts missing him more and more. That new, unfamiliar kind where he can see Mickey and can touch Mickey but he can’t acknowledge either of those things.
He starts hoping, and he starts thinking. He hopes and thinks so much that the weight of it all crushes him when Mickey slams him with it, bangs the glass with something heavy, yells it, says they’re done , done , done. Says nothing but a warm mouth.
Then it’s back to the regular kind of missing. It’s worse this time around. It’s worse because Ian doesn’t visit, and it’s worse because Monica is back, and when Monica tells him she’s sorry he’s hurting, baby, he thinks she gets it.
He thinks she knows what it’s like to miss.
So he goes to the club because she says it’ll help. He goes to the club because in there, he doesn’t even want to be more than a warm mouth.
Wanna dance?
Yeah, okay, okay.
He dances with Monica. She holds his hand and he twirls her around. She’s wearing something black that doesn’t really fit. It’s a cheerleading uniform. He remembers the sewing machine in the kitchen.
”We’re gonna have so much fun, you and me. We should do this all the time,” she whispers, excited. The bass thumps and thumps. ”It could be our thing! Wouldn’t that be amazing, baby? Me and you, having our own thing.”
He feels Lip in his head resisting, resisting. She always does this. But she’s his mom, she’s his mom and they’re dancing and you’re the bread and butter of this place.
”Yeah. That’d be cool.” He smiles and her face glows green and pink and everything under the lights.
They dance and Ian doesn’t get carded and Monica giggles when businessmen in suits touch Ian’s shoulder and comment on his hair, the drapes.
Ian thinks, this is their thing.
And on Thanksgiving, when Monica falls to the kitchen floor with a clang of metal and a drip of blood, Ian doesn’t think of anything. Fiona clings to him and he stares blankly forward. When the ambulance comes he thinks Monica is batshit insane and he’s stupid for getting sucked in again. He misses her.
When he sees Fiona cradle Carl and Debbie’s heads, he thinks about the last time Monica came back. He thinks about pounding on Mickey’s door and having nowhere else to go. About Mickey not turning him away. Then he thinks about done, done, done. About what fucking world do you live in.
So he goes to the club.
He goes to the club and he meets Ned.
III & IV
Mickey is kicking the shit out of the guy he was in the middle of fucking, but all Ian can think is he came to find me. And Ian lets him turn around. Grab the railing. Mickey lets him glide a hand down his side. Ian lets him bite his lip.
Afterwards, Mickey says he missed him. He says it so quick and so casual that Ian almost doesn’t process it. But he does. And he pushes his luck, and Mickey backtracks.
So Ian asks about school, and Mickey gives him the same load of fucked for life bullshit he always does, says something about fronting a bunch of coke, that’s why he came back, so Ian drops it. He steals the cigarette from Mickey fully and Mickey rolls his eyes but lights another.
Ian looks at Mickey’s arms. It looks like he’s stuck to the whole working out thing. He asks anyway.
“So, you do any reading this time around?”
Mickey makes a face. “Fuck you, reading. No.”
“What’d you do then?”
Mickey blows smoke out in a long stream. “Fuck all, mostly. The gym.”
Ian gives him a full once-over now that he has an excuse. He nods. Mickey squirms just a little. His eyes travel over Ian and linger on his arms.
“Still doin’ those jarhead workouts, it looks like.”
Ian makes an exaggerated impressed face. Says, “Oh, it does, does it?” and flexes his arms like a douche.
“Alright, fuck off.” Mickey pushes at Ian’s knee. His eyes stay on him, though. Unabashed staring.
Ian stares back. He can feel the heat coming from Mickey in a way that doesn’t make any sense. It’s a woozy feeling.
Mickey bites his lip. Flicks his cigarette out onto the concrete even though he’s only smoked half.
He gets up and pushes Ian’s shoulders until he stands up. They walk back, deeper under the bleachers. Mickey touches Ian’s arms before he turns around. The pretense of shoving at him, but the squeeze lasts for a second too long. It makes something burn inside Ian.
--
I don’t know what you see in that geriatric viagroid.
He isn’t afraid to kiss me.
--
It’s a kiss, it’s a press of lips, it’s the best thing that’s ever been. The van is full of smoke.
It’s Mickey bleeding all over the kitchen counter and Ned smacking his ass and Ian wanting to strangle Ned for it.
It’s Britney Sturges from child protective services, and the group home. It’s Mickey looking away when he asks Ian to crash at his place.
--
It’s blood and it’s held-back tears and it’s the faraway look in Mickey’s eyes. It’s the metal of a gun and Ian’s elbows on his naked knees.
--
The missing is the worst this time, the worst because Mickey is in pain and he’s marrying some whore he knocked up.
Mickey won’t speak to him.
Ian pushes and pushes and gets knocked to the ground. ”Just admit it. Just this once. Fucking admit it!” Kick to the ribs. Two. ”You feel better?”
A boot to his jaw.
”Feel better now.”
--
There’s raucous laughter downstairs while Ian’s pressing frozen peas to his wet face.
He thinks about Monica. He thinks about your dad told me about the kid from the store. It must be sad, having someone you care about in jail. He thinks about he’s in there because of me. He thinks about Monica’s arms on his shoulders, her eyes on his for a long time. He thinks about I’m sorry you’re hurting, baby.
He thinks about how she’s not here.
He goes to the club and he goes to the club. He glows green and blue and purple and he misses Mickey and Monica isn’t there.
It’s the worst and it’s.
It’s hot blood in his veins and a hum in his head. He needs needs needs. It’s a snap decision to go to the wedding.
Not everybody gets to just blurt out how they fuckin’ feel every minute.
It’s a kiss and it’s a bite and it’s clothes being torn off. It’s you’re not still going through with this are you?
It’s rings on fingers.
It’s straight vodka and the person you love . It’s hum hum hum in his brain and it’s Monica six months ago, it’s join up!
It’s a fake ID and his ROTC fatigues.
--
Mandy goes to get nitrous, and Mickey’s acting like everything’s normal again. Like in the church basement. Doesn’t mean we can’t still bang. Figured she’s gonna be out fuckin’ dudes, why can’t I?
It would make Ian want to scream if he didn’t have everything figured out. The old him would scream. This him knows. Knows it all.
”That’s a dumbass fucking move, how long?”
”Four years. Minimum.”
Panic in Mickey’s eyes. A wet glint. The old Ian holds his breath. Hopes and thinks.
”Don’t—”
This Ian cocks his head. ”Don’t what.”
The old Ian still isn’t breathing.
”Just…” And nothing.
The old Ian is dead.
This Ian walks out and hears the wet breaths and keeps walking.
----
This Ian was wrong. Not wrong , he just needs to reassess. Maybe the army isn’t for him. They’re too uptight anyway. He wasn’t trying to steal it, he just started the rotors. This Ian is running away in the middle of the night and calling Ned. The old Ian’s ghost tells him up to five years in state prison for going AWOL. This Ian doesn’t believe in ghosts.
He goes to the club and gets a job at the club. The club makes him think of Monica. He calls Monica.
Monica is here, and she introduces him to so many people. He barely remembers life before this. This this this. This is lights and this is a burn in his nose and this is life. This is freedom.
Ned kicks him out for smashing his coffee table with a bottle of Jäger. Ian tells him to go fuck himself with his geriatric dick and he doesn’t need his charity anyway.
There are men. There are men who don’t hide, and they make him think of someone who did. Does. A burn in his nose and he doesn’t think of it anymore. This is freedom. This is forever. This is Monica saying you should never feel ashamed.
This is Lip and Debbie and appletini, two appletinis. He loves this song. He wasn’t trying to steal it, he just started the rotors. That’s hilarious.
Then Lip and Debbie are gone and Ian doesn’t think of them anymore. He thinks of this this this.
Monica leaves at some point. He’s not sure when. She always does this. It’s okay, though. It’s okay because there are so many people and this is lights and glow, and Tom teaching him how to apply eyeliner in the bathroom.
The coke and the pills make it hard to sleep. He doesn’t want to sleep, so he takes more. He goes to work at the other club. Better pay, someone, maybe Tom, tells him. But you have to dance, among other things. Ian doesn’t think too hard about the other things.
--
”Time’s up, lovebirds.”
No. Ian doesn’t believe in ghosts. Why is he here and why is the old Ian here.
”That means get the fuck up, it’s my turn.” He sounds the same. Of course he does. Does he smell the same?
”Twenty-five bucks gets you a dance.”
”Excuse me?”
”Don’t wanna dance, gotta move on.” He tries to turn around. Escape. AWOL. Up to five years in state prison.
Mickey pays and Ian pushes him onto the leather seat. He smells the same. Except there’s something else. Something like cologne, but Mickey doesn’t wear cologne.
Mickey wants to talk. Oh, so now he wants to talk.
”Song’s over. Find me if you want another one.”
Hum hum hum and hot blood. His leg shakes. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need Mickey here, now, talking. This is this and this is freedom.
”Fiona almost killed Liam.”
That breaks through. Tight curls and soft baby skin. Small hands and Een! Een! Has he grown? Liam. Wait, Fiona—? How. No.
No no. He doesn’t need this. This is. This is. His jaw is tight.
”Everything okay here?”
”Everything’s great, Roger.”
”Great, ’cause that guy over there looks like he may want a dance.”
”I’m on it.”
A pill down his throat and he doesn’t think anymore.
--
He wakes up. He wakes up and it smells the same, cigarettes and studying with Mandy in 10th grade. Except maybe cleaner. A pregnant woman stares down at him from Mickey’s bed. Oh. Rings on fingers. Elbows on knees. Heavy eyeliner and ‘til he likes it, suka.
He needs a shower.
The shower curtain rips open and there’s a hammer under his wet chin.
”I have baby soon. I cannot work. He needs to take care of me and baby. You sleep in this house tonight, I kill you. I bash your orange head. Tyi ponimaesh?”
--
Fiona hugs him. You bastard, I missed you so much! She makes him a sandwich, says he seems energetic. He quit smoking. She asks about school, but he barely remembers life before this. Before lights and ideas.
He goes into his room and he writes.
”See you left. Took all your shit.”
”Your bride threatened me with a claw hammer.”
Mickey is in his room. He hasn’t been there before. Ian tries not to think about that. He needs to write his ideas down before he forgets.
Then the door opens and ”Ian!” and ”Did you shoot anyone?” and ”I missed you guys.”
Lip takes the kids downstairs and Mickey stays. Ian can hear him think. Can feel him shift. Why can’t he just fucking talk. He wanted to talk at the club. Should have known he still can’t.
”You coming back?”
”That depends. Will you suck my dick whenever I want?” He needs him to talk.
”Fuck off.”
Ian writes.
”I’ll do it.”
Oh. Interesting.
”Do what.”
”Don’t make me say it, asswipe.”
”Suck my dick. Whenever I want.”
Then he’s on his knees and it’s been so fucking long. This is freedom.
Ian lets him not say it, and Mickey lets him have his hands in his hair. A hand under his chin, after, when they’re breathing fast and Mickey’s still on his knees. A hand under his chin, and a thumb on his lip.
Mickey sleeps on the floor.
--
The baby is born but Mickey stays. He stays but they hide. They hide and they hide. You should never feel ashamed. Ian goes to the club. Mickey tries to hide there, too.
What’s wrong with fun?
And it’s a kiss, and it’s a statement, and it’s everything. It’s breath and it’s tongue, and it’s Mickey surrounded by people and kissing and kissing.
He loves Mickey so much. He missed him so much.
That night it’s fast.
It’s him over, over Mickey. A twin bed not made for two people.
He’s breathing hard and Mickey’s back is sweaty, sweaty where Ian presses his lips to it. Where Ian moans, loud enough that Mickey shushes him as an afterthought. He’s louder but Ian doesn’t tell him that because it would make him bite his lip.
Ian’s hand goes to Mickey’s hair again and he grabs tight and jesus, does Mickey not know how loud he is? He’s beautiful and Ian tells him that. They shake together, and they fall down side by side. Ian draws patterns on Mickey’s back and Mickey doesn’t squirm.
--
Twelve. Thirteen.
”Mickey your boyfriend?”
Fourteen. ”We hang out.”
Twenty. ”You love Mickey?”
”I like how he smells.”
Mickey comes out of the room then, sleepy and rough and not at all like he is when it’s the two of them. Ian thinks about how Mickey only moved to the floor last night when Carl came into the room. He wonders if he could get Carl to move to another room permanently.
“What you askin’ stupid fuckin’ questions for?”
Carl walks away, and Ian shoves Mickey up against a wall. Mickey shoves him back. They’re a couple. Officially. Together. ‘Course we are. But Ian needs more.
--
The bar is filled with people. Mickey doesn’t understand.
”I’m not lying to you.” He doesn’t understand. This isn’t life, this isn’t freedom. ”Ian, what you and I have makes me free. Not what these assholes know.”
Ian’s fist is tight.
”Look who the state of Illinois just released back into society!”
”Fuck.”
--
Ian has a foot out the door. He has a foot out the door when Mickey stops lying. It’s a shout, it’s freedom, it’s the best thing that’s ever been.
It’s fuck you, don’t worry about it.
Mickey lets Ian kiss his hair outside The Alibi. Ian lets Mickey be quiet. Loud comes after. Ian laughs and his ribs hurt. Mickey thinks he broke half a fucking tooth.
They get home, Mickey’s house because Terry’s in jail and Mickey’s out, and they take a shower. Ian feels high and so content. It’s different. It’s not like the coke high, the fast high of the past however long. This is like a really good weed high. Slow in the bones and happy. Fulfilled.
They sleep together in Mickey’s bed. Who the fuck knows where Svetlana sleeps. Ian doesn’t care because they’re free and not ashamed. You should never feel ashamed. This is them and together and this is actual, actual freedom. Forever.
Ian puts his arm around Mickey’s waist and holds his hand in his. He missed him so much.
--
”Yo, sleepyface. Get your ass up, man.”
”You want me to bring you back something to eat?”
”What’s that, mumbles?”
”You know what this is?”
”Yeah. We know what this is.” Debbie. No. Fuck. He’s not. He’s not.
”Hey, sweetface.” Fiona. Fuck. He’s not.
”How long’s he been like this?”
”Since yesterday morning.”
”It could be…bipolar disease. Like our mom.”
”Bi-what?”
--
It’s three weeks before he’s normal again.
Three weeks of Mickey pacing. Mickey drinking and smoking. Mickey sitting on the edge of the bed. Mickey lying next to him putting a hand on his shoulder. Taking it off if Ian tells him to. Running it down his arm and his side and his back and his fingers if Ian doesn’t.
Three weeks of Mickey crying. Not openly. But it’s in his voice and Ian’s not deaf even though everyone seems to act like he is.
V & VI
Fiona keeps asking him about a doctor. It was a one time thing. I don’t have what Monica has. Too much coke down at the club. I’ve cut way back.
--
The suitcases are out of order. Someone messed with the sneakers pile.
Mickey is talking with Svetlana but Ian doesn’t give a shit because we need to keep this shit organized, people.
Ian talks the guy up to six hundred. The other guy says he’s clean. They need the money.
Mickey steps back and says, ”Don’t touch me.” It’s the way he looks at him like he’s. Like he’s. He’s not. He doesn’t have. There’s tears in Mickey’s eyes but they don’t fall. It’s in his voice. ”You need to pack your shit.”
Ian laughs. That’s hilarious. He didn’t steal it he just started the rotors five years minimum in state prison for going AWOL you need to pack your shit.
”What?”
”You’re sick. You need help. I gotta take you to a hospital, Ian.”
Why. Why why why. Not Mickey. He said. He said no fucking hospital, he said he’s staying with me we’ll take care of him you me us.
”Fuck you.”
”Hey. Hey.” The wall breaks under his back. Mickey’s hand on his chest. F-U-C-K. ”You are going to the psych ward or a fucking ER, it’s up to you. Either way you’re going to a hospital.”
”I didn’t realize how important this was to you. Let me take a shower. Grab a few things.”
He starts the shower and grabs the baby and takes the beater. Florida. No problems. This is freedom.
--
The holding cell is hot, smells like piss and vomit. There’s no fucking ventilation. Or maybe it’s cold. Either way it smells like piss and vomit. They gave him enough sedatives to last Frank a month.
They’re all hugging him, now. Fiona is crying.
Mickey. He can’t look at Mickey. His arms stay slack when Mickey hugs him tight. Holds his head. Tears in his eyes but they don’t fall.
He falls asleep on Mickey’s shoulder in the car.
Mickey wants him to admit himself. He signs the paper. Mickey hugs him again so tight. He’s crying. Openly. Ian thinks he is too. One of them apologizes. Maybe both.
Then it’s yellow and white and where am I? It’s Mickey’s waiting for me.
--
They let him out after 72 hours or 72 days. Mickey isn’t waiting for him.
He just needs to lie down. Carl asks what it’s like to be crazy. Ian has an answer. There’s no use denying it.
--
”Sorry I’m late.”
Mickey climbs into the bed with him. He came to find me. He kisses Ian’s forehead like Ian kissed his hair that night, that night when it was freedom and forever.
One of them says I love you. Maybe both.
--
The pills make him feel awful. He looks at them and looks at them and thinks about taking them all.
He thinks about Thanksgiving. He’s not Monica. He won’t try to. He won’t.
It’s all the same in the end. He’s Monica in their heads even though he doesn’t try to.
”You flushed your pills? You get that that’s a full-on Monica move, right?”
”I’m not Monica.”
--
The baseball bat hits the wall. Debbie is standing so still. It could have hit her. They’re all so still.
Mickey. Mickey runs down the stairs. He takes the bat from Ian just like he took the knife when it was Kenyatta. Ian’s heart is racing and he’s staring at Debbie’s red hair.
”We need to get you to a clinic and get some meds. Today.”
Ian nods. It could have hit her.
Mickey’s hand touches his cheek. ”Hey. It’s okay. It’s alright.”
--
They’re going on a date. To a place with utensils and people. Out. Out. Their faces are bleeding but Ian feels so fucking alive. They’re going on a date.
Only, they’re not.
The holding cell is definitely cold this time. Men in military uniforms patrol outside of it. Up to five years in state prison for going AWOL. Ian’s really starting to learn that nothing lasts.
They release him on account of being a nutcase.
Our mother was bipolar. He’s not Monica. She put us through hell. Fiona’s eyes on him. I’m not saying you put us through hell. Fiona’s eyes on the man in uniform. When they’re manic, they can be destructive.
--
Monica gets it. She gets it. She knows what it’s like to miss. Ian misses Mickey. Mickey when he didn’t think there was something wrong with Ian. Monica gets it. Monica presses her hand on the glass and Ian does too. Precious and shiny and military-prison-grade bulletproof
They get on the truck.
Monica pays for food with money she shouldn’t have. She says you’re a beautiful, beautiful man. I did fucking good makin’ you.
Mickey tries to call him so many times. Monica declines the calls for him.
”Fuck ’em.”
--
Monica’s boyfriend is cooking meth but she’s saying he makes her happy. She’s holding Ian’s arms and she’s saying people like us, we can be happy.
Ian wants to go home. He’s not Monica.
--
Mickey is saying he loves him and it means we take care of each other, sickness, health, all that shit. Where the fuck was all this talk when Ian needed him to talk.
He needed Mickey to talk when he was standing in his bedroom in fatigues and the old Ian was dying. He needed Mickey to talk when he kicked him in the face and said feel better now.
Monica. You need to be around people who accept you for who you are.
”This is it, huh. This is you breaking up with me.”
”Yeah.”
”Fuck. Really?”
And then it’s Sammi and a gun and attempted murder and fifteen years, eight with overcrowding.
--
Mickey’s asking him to wait. Why. Ian can’t fathom life eight hours ahead, much less eight years. He has cotton mouth and he smells like the diner.
Mickey is asking so openly. So honestly. He has Ian on his chest forever. When did he learn to talk?
Where was Ian when Mickey was learning to split his heart open for everyone to see like that?
--
Ian thinks he truly, truly understands what missing someone means when he dates someone who isn’t Mickey. Caleb is nice but he’s normal. He makes art and he has old friends who comment on Ian’s hair, the drapes.
Seeing Mandy again makes it worse. He says it to her. Says, “I miss Mickey.” He hasn’t said it out loud before then. But it’s all that exists and it, it is the thing that’s forever.
He thinks he’s going to be missing Mickey for a long time.
--
Being an EMT is everything. He likes having a purpose. He likes the uniform, he likes to fit in.
Time to impart wisdom on the rookie.
Old people, drunk people, crazy people.
Some bipolar kid off his meds. Thought the FBI was coming after him.
Laughter.
The uniform doesn’t make him fit in.
VII
Caleb fucks Denise and says Ian needs to be more open-minded. Ian fucks some girl, and it’s so different from everything but it feels a lot like abrahams and benjamins in gold shorts.
Trevor is nice and funny, and new. He’s quick-tempered, and he cares about the kids at the center.
Monica is back and Trevor wants to meet her.
Monica’s hair is a mess, and she’s standing between them, and Ian just gets a little wound up, just like his mom.
Ian needs to get away. Away. He’s not.
This is what she does. I could have used a mom when I broke my collarbone at twelve. Or when I got my heart smashed for the first time. Frozen peas and raucous laughter and the memory of green and pink and everything.
Trevor is standing next to Monica, screwing up his face and saying she apologized, move on.
He needs to get the fuck away.
--
The cop pronounces Mickey’s name wrong, but Mickey’s out. Last night.
It’s a blur and it’s miss me? and it’s you should come.
It’s the docks in the middle of the night, and it’s Ian shoving Mickey off. It’s fuck, and it’s Mickey coming close, and it’s his breath whispering stop in Ian’s mouth and it’s surrender. It’s Ian spewing some bullshit about having a boyfriend even though they were done the second move on left Trevor’s mouth, even if Ian didn’t know it then.
It’s what you doin’ here then? and brows picking up, and it’s Mickey. It’s Mickey, and it’s Mickey, and it’s so fucking easy with Mickey. Mickey doesn’t tell him to move on. In the van. In the van when Ian’s holding him and telling him that Monica’s back. The memory of I have nowhere else to go. Of I’ll meet you there in 20.
Mickey doesn’t tell him to move on. He breathes and he listens and he squeezes Ian’s hand tight and he says fuckin’ Monica, and Ian loves him.
--
”This goodbye?”
”Let’s ride.”
--
You ever think back in the day, this is where we’d be?
There’s a thick silence in the air. Not an oppressive one. Thick like a blanket, like the clouds overhead gliding past the moon. It’s a nostalgic feeling even though the situation is brand new. Jesus christ, you wanna spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars next?
Mickey just told him he missed him. They’re lying side by side on a ratty blanket in the middle of nowhere and thirty seconds ago, Mickey took a breath, exhaled it rough, and said fuck, he missed him.
Ian thinks the same thing is probably going through both of their heads. A film reel.
It’s the kind of memory-rush you sometimes get. I miss you. Say that again and I’ll rip your tongue outta your head. Being with someone after time apart. This really where you wanna spend your day off? You’re here. The feeling of being woven together again. Ian’s left side and Mickey’s right side opening up, ribs cracking open, and the thread that connects them solidifying.
”You remember the night you came out?” It leaves his mouth and floats into the dark air. He doesn’t think he meant to ask it. It’s all just rushing through him, rushing like an ocean and a train and Mickey’s breath in his mouth years ago and a few hours ago.
Mickey scoffs and glances at him, head turning and lifting off the ground. Thunking back down. ”Yeah, asshole. Rings a bell.”
Ian grins at the sky but it turns dim quick. He breathes for a minute. Watches the moon appear and disappear.
He swallows and says in a quiet voice, a light voice like he finds himself ridiculous,”That was the best night of my life, back then. Felt fucking unstoppable.” It’s raw. A memory that’s hazy and fast.
Mickey turns his head fully and looks at him. Ian doesn’t look back. He thinks maybe Mickey’s making that face. That serious face, that confused face like he doesn’t know what he should be doing.
Ian’s mouth keeps moving, spilling his guts to the stars. ”I know I was manic and fucked up.” A chuckle. “I was outta my fucking mind. But I just remember thinking, nothing’s gonna be able to come between us again. Ever.” He swallows thick around nothing. “Remember bein’ so fuckin’ sure that we’d made it.” Freedom and forever.
The silence is heavy. Heavy like the stars hanging over them, dangling in front of their faces. Mickey’s eyes are on him. Ian’s eyes shift to the side, glide over Mickey’s face. Then back to where they were.
”I was really fucking happy that night.” Ian says it. Quiet. A whisper of a voice barely held together.
Mickey turns his head too. To the moon. Away from Ian. He breathes out.
”Yeah.”
It’s so simple and so quiet and so sure. Ian feels it dig into him. Yeah. He’s saying he was too. Even despite the blood and cop cars and Terry. He was happy too. Yeah.
There’s silence again. A long, long silence.
A chuckle from Ian. ”Guess me an’ my brain really screwed the pooch on that one, huh.” It’s what he thinks. All the time. About everything. He’s not, he’s not, but he is.
Mickey turns to look at him, quick. ”You shut the fuck up with that shit.” Ian thinks that’s it but Mickey goes on. “Ain’t neither of us had a choice in any’a that.” It’s heavy. In any’a that. Any. All. “No way I chased your ass down and dragged you out here just for you to whine about feelin’ guilty.” His words are hard and sharp but his voice is that voice. That shut the fuck up and take your pills, bitch voice.
Ian quiets. Lets himself process. He missed Mickey so much. Loves him so fucking much. It’s so easy with Mickey.
A plane flies overhead. Ian wishes they were on it, going going going.
Mickey continues, quieter again. ”Ain’t your fault. Any of it.” Repeating himself, digging his heels. Ian rubs his lips together and breathes out, short, through his nose. ”Not kidding, Gallagher.”
“I got it,” Ian says and realizes he’s laughing a little. “Wanna say it a thousandth time?” He looks at Mickey with his eyebrows raised.
“Fuck you.” Mickey smiles back. His teeth shine under the moon and he’s beautiful. He’s beautiful, and Ian can’t go to Mexico but he’ll give them tonight.