Chapter Text
It’s too early to be awake, but he is.
He was dreaming about life before. Not before before. He stopped dreaming about that a while ago. And it's not about his life now.
No. It was about the life that came between. He was dreaming about that time, that time of madness, skin buzzing, eyes spinning, alive. And then immediately after, skin sore, eyes closed, weighed down so hard.
That time was worst. Being weighed down. Over and over, the worst. That life was a place that hurt, where he couldn’t find the ground, couldn’t look anyone in the eyes. A time that puts scars on his arms. The hospital. Doctors. More pills. Different pills. Falling asleep mid-sentence from heavy meds every night. Being told it would help him, it would get easier, just need to get used to it. Just a med adjustment. Just a side effect. Angry. Angry. Tossing pills down the toilet, lies chattering from his teeth if anybody asked if he took them. The meds failing again. Trying again. Just have to keep trying, they said.
Just have to keep trying, no matter how easily the book of matches opens, painful thin tongues marking a long line on his thigh. No matter how hard he has to cry his way through it. No matter how hard it is to crawl back to the doctor’s office, head in his hands. Finally broken. Fiona holding his hand in the office, squeezing it. “You’re not a mistake, Ian. Holy shit. You’re not.”
It’s been a year now, over a year, really, since he’s learned what to do. Do what the doctor says. Do what he can do. Every Saturday, filling up the pill box for the next week. Taking a rest every day. Going to sleep early. Drinking a lot of water.
Life. Or something.
He woke up sweating, eyes wide. It took him a minute to catch his breath, to hold himself together, heart pounding. A minute to turn his head, look around the room. Please, please. I don’t want to see another ghost. But he doesn’t. He sees Carl’s leg hanging off he bed. He sees Liams face wet with drool on his pillow. He sighs. He hasn’t seen a hallucination in a long time, but he still worries. He probably always will.
Ian takes a quick glance at the clock as he shakes the meds out. One mood stabilizer, one antipsychotic, a low dose anti-depressant. His hand cups under the faucet, slugs them back. His antipsychotic still brings tremors sometimes. The shakes.
The shakes are part of why he wants to run some mornings. Sometimes he trembles even as he runs, some little part of his brain chanting I’m still here. I’m still in here. You won’t unrun me.
Running. It's part of what the doctor calls self-care. He didn't care about himself in so long. Didn’t do anything for so long.
And look how far that got him. It got him scars and med cocktails that didn’t work because he didn’t give them time to work. Didn’t swallow them. He wound up right back where he started, over and over. This shit is a long snake with no tail. It’s one long snake that winds, and there are things he has to do to keep the venom out of his head.
Ian stretches a little, pulls his running shoes on, finds a hat. It’s spring now, finally, but still chilly in the mornings, mornings like this when the blue slowly pulls away from the dark, just hanging there, low and secret. By the time Ian is at the end of the block, he knows today is a day he really wants to run. Really really wants to run. His mind perks up. His legs start to move faster.
This is the part that scares him. He’s never quite sure if that feeling is real. Maybe he is excited to run and move fast. Or maybe it's that he's getting hypomanic. He’s not so scared of which is which anymore. And nows all the self-care bullshit he does actually makes a difference. Can make a manic epsiode easier to bear. Can wake him up when the depression gets too dark.
So in the meantime, he tries not to panic. He’s going to run a while and see where he is at the end.
Eight miles later, he’s breathing hard, heart pounding, bent over in front of his house. He straightens. He starts to walk it off, eyes squinting in the cold. Yeah, definately not hypomanic. Just had to get some shit out. Up the steps, into the house, shoes off, hat off, bending over again, staring at the dirty doormat.
“Ian?” It’s Fiona, voice bright. Ian can smell coffee. Pancakes. Home.
“Yeah, what?”
“Do you still have your shoes on? I need you to go get a paper from down the block.” She rushes over with some change. “Get the Sunday.”
Ian breathes harder, shakes his head, “Fi, it’s not even Sunday.”
“No no no, I know. But they’ll have the old one. Need the classifieds. Go!”
Ian’s feet complain as he slips his shoes back on. “Yeah, ok. Probably should walk more anyway.”
Out of the house. Down the steps. Down the block. The sky is lighter and lighter, gold painting the houses on the street. Some houses with neatly swept porches, smoothly painted front doors, an old scraggly rosebush, the tiniest gasp of buds forming. But they still are what they are. Strip it away and it’s damaged floors and bars on the back door and too many people in one room, just like his house.
***
The Kash and Grab is just like it’s always been, but there’s no Kash.
Ian’s only been here a handful of times since he quit those years ago. He’d be glad to never go back at all.
Kash was a bad idea, Ian knows that now, now that’s older, now that life is different. He’s glad Kash split.
Still, being there brings so much of that time back. After that winter, after Linda caught them, Ian drew back and back from Kash, like he was crawling into the linoleum. By summer, he was showing up, putting in his hours, and letting the door shut behind him without looking back.
So by the time Kash walked out of the cooler that day, asking Ian to stall Linda, one hour, two, Ian had to bite back a scream. Instead he jutted out his chin, shook his head, and returned to the register. Kash paused, but Ian’s eyes stayed down on the magazine in front of him. He heard the front door open, and the words “Fucking pussy” were out of Ian’s mouth before he could bite them back. It didn’t matter. It was true. The bell on the door clanged, and that was the end of that.
For a minute, Ian’s surprised that there isn’t some high school kid working the register, but it’s early, and there’s school, but still. There’s no one there.
Ian looks around, eyes catching the pile of produce, eyes finding the large bags of rice on the shelf. He feels his vision blur, a lump in his throat. “Bullshit,” he whispers to himself. He breathes it out. He clears his throat. “Hello?”
There’s nothing.
“Hey, Linda?”
Nothing.
Ian’s eyes catch the rows of cigarettes. They catch the Gatorade in the cooler. Fuck this.
He finds the old Sunday Tribunes right where they were before. He feels the weight, then feels the weight of the one below. Nothing’s missing. He thinks twice about keeping the change, but slaps it on the counter. His hand freezes on the door. He turns.
“Linda?”
Nothing.
Not even a ghost.
***
There’s pancakes, and coffee, and Fiona at the table. It looks like there is going to be A Conversation. Ian slowly takes his hat off, shoes off again. “Fi?”
“Hey, have a seat.”
Ian slowly sits, pill box in hand. He lets his cold hand reach for the warm coffee mug. “Something's up?”
“I--” Fiona begins, stops, starts again. “I was wonderin’ if you’ve thought about gettin' a job.”
Ian’s stomach drops, but he doesn’t really get why. He swallows the coffee. He knows they just scraped by this winter. He tries not to think how much of that has to do with him. He shrugs. “I guess so.” He takes a few quick bites of pancakes. He clicks open the long container, opening MON, shakes the meds out. Swallows them down.
“Ian," she begins, and her tone is too bright. "It’s not something you really gotta worry about right now, exactly. But that other doctor said that adding that to your routine might really help you!”
Ian fights a scowl. “I know. I was there.”
Fiona leans in, just slightly. Ian doesn’t look at her, but he knows exactly what her face looks like. Her eyes so wide and soft. But between the lines, she saying you’re gonna fucking listen to me right fucking now. “I mean, things at home have been tight, but we always manage to--”
Ian waves her off. The coffee isn’t very hot, but it will do. “I know, I get it.”
Fiona leans back, reaching for the paper. “I know we can look online, but thought this might work too.” Forces a little smile “Be a little old school? We could get started at least.”
Ian breathes deeply. He takes a few more bites of pancakes as he stands. “Fi, I can’t do this right now. I’ve gotta shower.”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll circle some for ya.”
“Jesus, Fiona. I’m not some kid looking for a paper route!"
This is exactly the thing he hates. Her sudden rush to control things in his life in the name of trying to alleviate things or control triggers. This is exactly what he hates. What Fiona doesn’t know, what he doesn’t think she’ll understand right now, is that he’s already been thinking about it. A job. Thinking about it when he’s doing the steps of learning how to do all the self care shit. God, he hates that term. Self care. It sounds like masturbation to him no matter how many times he hears it.
“I’ll figure it out," he says quietly. "Promise.”
He heads upstairs, strips, lets the water in the shower run. Sighs. Washes his hair. Feels squirrely. He sighs. Should he? Sure.
Sure he should. So he starts up, hand falling against his cock and gripping the way he likes. It feels like a waste of time in some ways. It’s been...well, he doesn’t really want to think about the last time he had sex. The last few times, really.
Sometimes when he’s in the shower, breath beginning to stutter and slip, he starts to feel that feeling again. Water. Sex was like water. It felt like he’d die without it, without his mouth on it, tipping it to his lips. He flowed out of himself. First rain, then a creek with rocks in it where he should have fallen, but didn’t. Then out into Lake Michigan. Even there, the water wasn’t close to enough.
It’s called hypersexuality. It almost makes him laugh, but the kind of laugh where you can’t catch your breath and think you’re going to die for a second. The word sounds fun. The word sounds exciting. The word doesn’t begin to touch the way he felt some days, even in the middle of it, even when the water flew too fast, when he found himself too close to drowning. This guy. That guy. How did he get here? This guy that guy. These guys. Where is he? What he is he even doing right now? Water to his lips, to that guy’s lips. Too many.
It was a mania thing, he knows. He pretends that the water over his head, over his face, each drop sliding off him is one of those guys, or some stupid thing he did, he said, he was. It’s been so long, but there it all is again. They’re all sliding off him and into the drain. His brain tries to flip the stopper into the tub, make him wade around in all the shit so he’ll have to stand in it forever. He closes his eyes.
Fuck. He can’t. Again. This keeps happening. He can’t stay hard thinking about all that, but it’s the only place his mind goes, no matter what he tries. For a while, he blamed the meds. It had to be the problem. Had to be. He’s never had a problem getting hard in his life. But whenever he starts to touch himself, slow, rough, soft, hard, he can’t feel anything. So much water, there was so much water, and then nothing.
Dry.
***
Ian lets out a low, tired sound at the pages of classifieds Fiona has spread out over the table. She’s circled some in red sharpie. He wishes she were here so he could point and say, “Hey the red ones are these the ones you think I shouldn’t look at, right?” She’d laugh because it would sound like Before and for a minute they’d forget all of That Other Stuff ever happened at all.
“Sup,” Carl says, voice scratchy, pancake in hand, smearing it on the plateful of syrup. “You took a long shower.”
Ian ignores him. “School?”
“Skipping,” Carl says.
Ian shrugs. “Can you get Liam? I have to find a job.”
Carl shoves the rest of the pancake in his mouth. “What kind of jobs can crazy people get?”
Ian would slam his way out of the room if anyone else said it, but Carl is different. “I don’t know. Like, calm things.”
Carl’s gaze is steady. “What about Fiona’s work? You seemed to like that okay before, like,” Carl’s eyes drop, chin gesturing at Ian’s arms.
“Nah,” Ian says, “Don’t think I can go back there. Even if they let me, I wouldn’t want to.”
Carl nods, takes a deep breath. “Gotta go, Gonna take Liam over to look in some dumpsters. Easier to lower him in.”
Ian chuckles as they leave. He starts straightening the papers. He needs something boring. He needs something with order, but doesn’t demand much. He wants nothing to do with gay bars. That’s the end of that. Can’t go back to Patsy’s Pies. Could probably be a dishwasher again somewhere. Fiona circled a few. There’s a mailroom job, which makes Ian perk up a bit. At least he has more options since he managed to scrape the G.E.D. together a couple of months ago. He calls. It’s taken.
Order. Something with order. Something simple. Calm.
Ian grabs the next page and looks for Fiona’s circles. As obnoxious as it is, she probably knows what he’s looking for.
And there it is.
Immediate : Temp to PT. Must drive. Must be respectful. Apply in person.
No phone number. No name. Just an address. South Ashland - that’s pretty close. Ian catches the mirror in the little bathroom downstairs. Checks his face, his hair. Good. As his hand comes down, his eyes catch his arms. Fuck. Okay. Up the steps, reaching for one of his three nice shirts. The green one - always a green one, he’s told.
***
This is the type of thing that would have been incredibly exciting while he was manic. Hypomanic especially, just enough to be excited but not freaked out. But as he walks, he gets more and more nervous. What is it? Why are those the only qualifications? Is it a mob thing? No, it couldn’t be. Some sort of sex worker thing? He’s been there, done that. No thanks. Is he going to be killed? His scars itch. There would have been a time he wouldn’t have cared, but now, thankfully, he does.
He’s not sure when he started walking so fast, but by the time he finds the giant house on the corner, he’s breathing hard. He's really confused what he’s looking at. He can tell he’s on the side of the house. God, it’s not even a house - it’s like a big sprawling mansion. There are three black town cars parked in a gentle curve by two large wooden doors. Are those the cars? The cars he’s supposed to drive?
It doesn’t look like he’s even supposed to be at this door. The main entrance must be around the other way. The grass is much too green for this time of year, and he knows he shouldn’t step on it. He backs up one more time, looks up at the windows. He’s about to walk back around the corner when he hears a voice.
“Hey.”
Ian turns.
Jesus Christ. He’s beautiful.
The thought comes so quickly Ian thinks he said it out loud. He hasn’t felt anything like this, even a little bit, since...well, everything.
“Hey,” he says back.
The guy pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one. Ian quickly catches the flash of tattoos on his knuckles. He breathes deeply, then blows the smoke out. His lips part and he bites at his bottom lip. Ian has to glance away. Has to look away like he’s 14 and about to blush at a magazine.
His hair is deep, deep black, and even from the sidewalk, Ian can tell his eyes are bright blue.
“You here 'cause of the newspaper?”
Ian nods. “Yeah,” he says, throat dry. “Yeah, the...driving?”
The guy stares at Ian for a minute. Another minute. Ian isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do.
The guy drops his cigarette and crushes it under his shoe. He carefully picks the butt up and scratches his shoe where he had dropped it. For a moment Ian’s confused. Every cigarette butt he’s ever seen has been in an overflowing ashtray or in the gutter.
Ian’s about to say something, but then the door opens again and a woman - maybe just a little older than Fiona - sticks her head out.
“Hey Mickey, I was looking for--"
"Look who's here," This...Mickey says.
The woman smiles a wide smile. "A redhead! What are the chances? We’re like unicorns, man. Are you here about the job?”
Ian nods, sneaking a glance at Mickey. He chances a few steps up the sidewalk.
The woman waves him up and up. “C’mere c’mere. We’re going to have an incoming soon.”
Ian’s eyes flit from the door to the woman’s eyes. “I don’t, I’m not sure…”
The woman rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. Mickey? Mickey! What the hell?”
“What? We didn't get a chance to talk about it yet."
Ava narrows her eyes. “Not the job. You’ve been smoking! Come on , Mickey. So unprofessional, you know that. How many times, man? How many times have we --”
“All right, all right!”
“Thank you,” Ava says, reaching her hand out for his pack of cigarettes.
“It’s just that-” Mickey’s not done, and Ian loves that he’s not done. “Half the people that come here are just like,” he gestures to the cigarettes. “It’s not a big deal. Not like they can smell it.”
Ava rolls her eyes. “It depends where you are. If you’re downstairs, yeah, no one cares. If you’re up in the rooms though --”
Mickey’s turn to roll his eyes, hands slapping against his thighs. “I’m not even going to be in the rooms today!” He gets in Ava’s face, but it’s more like siblings than a real argument. “I’m just gonna be downstairs today.”
Ava lowers her eyebrows and shhh-es him loudly. "So what's the plan?"
Mickey turns toward Ian quickly. "I’m going to take him out in the car so he can get used to it. Then I'll show him where all the chairs and shit are.
Ian looks back and forth. Ava to Mickey and back to Ava. “I’m confused. Am I, like, hired or something?”
Ava beams, but her face turns businesslike as her phone buzzes. “Incoming,” she says before looking up again. "I better scoot. Fill him in, Mickey.” She pauses again, this time turning to Ian again. “So look. Um, uh...”
“Ian. Ian Gallagher.”
Ava smiles. “Okay. Look, Ian Gallagher. This job isn’t for everyone. It can be really tough in pretty much every way. But it’s really important work, too. We usually get lots of apprentices, but we haven't connected with one in a while. So here we are.” She gave a little wink. “Happy to meet you, Ian.”
Ian watches the door shut. He must be looking at it for a while, because he hears Mickey clear his throat.
“Okay,” Mickey says, “Let’s just go out front and get a car.”
Mickey walks quickly over the perfect grass, so Ian does the same, trying to fit his feet in the same places Mickey did.
“This job isn’t that hard, Gallagher. Just takes some getting used to.”
Ian’s feet find the brick again, so he looks up. There it is. The name of the business. The kind of job this is.
“Oh my god." Ian isn't sure if he's breathing for a second. "What is this?
Mickey pushes out a laugh. "What. You didn’t know were the job was? What we do here?"
Ian shakes his head, but he can’t move his eyes. “No idea.”
Mickey takes a step closer, which Ian can feel but can’t see. But god, that step closer makes every hair on his arm stand on end.
“Listen,” Mickey says softly. "It’s a good job. Steady. Starts like this. Driving cars, doing errands, setting up and breaking down. Helping Jay in the office. Not the big stuff. The downstairs stuff."
Downstairs stuff. That sounds ominous.
Ian turns to face Mickey, face Mickey’s blue eyes, face Mickey’s perfect lips.
Mickey cracks a smile. "What do you say? You in, Red?"
Ian nods. “I’m in.”
Mickey gestures with his chin to the first hearse in line. “Let’s take that one. Ava doesn’t like when cars block the sign. ‘Blake and Sons Funeral Home’ my ass. She does all the work. Jay and Matt don’t do shit.”