It happens when he least expects it- the echoing bangclang his heart makes when it is suddenly thrust back into his chest.
It happens on a clear day, a good day because that's what his life is made up of now – measured in cups of good, ok, notsogood.
He's sitting in the back of the diner, with a cup of water and his textbook, trying to understand how Fiona was able to pass the GED with barely any studying. The lines of text in front of him are blurry and indistinct when he hears the door chime open.
There's a shuffle of the feet, a muffle of the words, and a shift in the way the air moves around him, and he already knows without looking up.
He keeps his head trained down, because it's not like they've run into each other in such a public place – one where there is no buffer to distract them from the obvious tension. Buffers like Fiona buzzing around when Mickey came by to drop off the things he left behind – his journal, his favorite sweater.
Particles of a soft laugh hover and suspend within the loud clatter of the diner around him. It's breathy and happy and a sound that Ian has nearly forgotten because the last sound he remembers the most is sad and aching and asking.
Really? Fuck.
It's been almost two years, since that day, and it's been time filled with trying to find balanced footing again.
He's looking – still – for a quiet acceptance of the shift and the slide that happened somewhere between blinking and falling asleep one night, He's looking- still- for a comfort in which he can sit and look at all of his mistakes hanging like portraits on the wall, and still feel capable of receiving love.
It was – still is - a lonely, lonely journey. It's one of those journeys that he's only ever read about in books – where the ending isn't in sight, where the yellow bricks seemingly continue forever.
But it's not the act of putting one foot in front the other that is the hardest – it's the regret and the tightening acid in his gut that makes every step so hard. It's nearly impossible not to look backwards, and see the beginning –the end of them - so clearly, so closely.
He looks up instead.
Whether it's a blessing or a curse, Ian doesn't really know, but Mickey's looking right at him, his face free of any expression, the particles of soft laughter falling quickly onto the floor. There is a man next to him, who's tall and handsome and not a redhead.
He's saying something into Mickey's ear, and is smiling too, and Ian feels dirty with the sudden desire to be the one whispering into Mickey's ear.
The things I could – did – do to you.
Ian already knows it's one of those moments that will hang and stretch. Even Einstein knew then, that time had the ability to slow for the right moments, under the right conditions.
This was – had to be – one of those moments. And yet it still happens too quickly. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, or his head, or his eyes.
Smile? Wave? Run away? Run towards?
He opts for what's supposed to be a casual wave. But his arm is leaden, and the motion is so jerky and erratic, that he ends up settling his hand onto the back of his neck to scratch an itch that's not there.
It's awkward and horrible but Ian can't seem to look away.
Mickey's face is still unreadable, and the man next to him is still whispering into his left ear, unaware of the unspoken conversation happening across the diner. Mickey's eyes are still on Ian, but it's his response to Ian's awkward wave that causes his heart to bangclang the loudest.
It's a curt nod, a tight-lipped acknowledgement and it's more than Ian ever expected.
It's selfish and he doesn't deserve it, but in the few seconds they have, Ian can feel himself searching Mickey's eyes for that look.
Does he get that look in his eye when he's with you?
The look that used to belong just to him, the one that could speak volumes in the silences, the one that could calm his beatbeatbeating heart.
But, it's not there - at least not anywhere Ian can see in the few seconds he has. Instead, the eyes that used to be warm and full of love are now cool, and behind films of lenses that Ian has never seen before.
And even still, from where he's sitting, the sight of Mickey standing there is one Ian's quickly taking inventory of.
He looks good. The same, really, but lighter almost. Happier, maybe. But still the same.
It's like staring at the product of his decisions and his words, and regretting every single one, because fuck him for looking happy without Ian. Because fuck him for not fighting harder. Because fuck him for showing Ian that yes, Mickey could in fact exist without him.
They're irrational thoughts. Senseless, selfish, twisted thoughts. But they're there causing his heart to bangclang against his tin chest.
But it's not like he can really complain, it's not like he really has the right to. Because this was what he had wanted, this was what he had envisioned for Mickey then, when he spat out daggers – no thanks, I've already done that -onto the pavement.
And yet, it's different now. It's a little less angry, and a little less confused. It's a little more sure in who he is – that he's still Ian, that there was never really a then and a now of who he was, just an is.
He is Ian.
Some things though have remained. Things like, not being broken, because he isn't, never was.
Confused? Maybe.
Rearranged? Maybe.
But still not something that needed fixing.
Because fuck him for proposing when Ian wasn't really listening. Because fuck him for staying for as long as he did.
Because fuck him. It hurts more now than it did then. Because had he known it then, had he listened then, the Ian at the beginning of this stupid yellow road would have seen that Mickey simply wanted to walk down it with him.
Ian doesn't realize how long he's been staring, because suddenly, Mickey and his slightly-too-big jacket and his slightly-too-tall boyfriend are walking past his booth as they make their way to the door with their take out bags.
He can see it, before it even happens, the way Mickey's feet slow slightly, the way his stride shortens even more than it normally is.
And then, it's suddenly, "Hey."
And because, why the fuck not, Ian's responding, "Uhh- oh. Hey."
"You good?"
Mickey's fully stopped now, whispering-man clinging to his side, eyes curious and observing, stocking questions for later.
"I'm good." Because today is good, measured using cups of good, ok, notsogood. Because, even after the daggers he spat – like old queens- onto the pavement, Mickey is still asking him if he's good.
Because, there was a time when the question would be laced with undertones of worry and unasked questions.
Because, this is a time when the question isn't.
Because, this is a time when the question just is.
Just like Ian. Just is.
Mickey's nodding again, face still an unreadable puzzle, "Guess, I'll see you around then, Gallagher."
"Goodbye Mick."
And then the door chimes again, and Mickey's leaving with that man who had been whispering in his ear.
Ian smells something sweet and something sweaty and something entirely Mickey, and it's not like it was then. It's the clarity of understanding what Mickey had been trying to say that day – it means we take care of each other.
It's the distinct comprehension of realizing that what Mickey was wanting from Ian all along, was just him.
Just Ian.
Just is.
It's too soon maybe or maybe not soon enough. Or maybe, it's just Ian's turn to wait again.
Maybe, back then it had been too soon, Maybe their time is coming, somewhere after a few more turns of this yellow road.
Ian knows that he certainly doesn't need to have some wizard tape a fabric heart to his chest. He knows where his heart is, where it's always been, where he's sure it will remain.
Because there is no one left on this brick road with him, not the lion, not the scarecrow. Even goddamn Toto is gone.
It's just him and his empty tin, cavernous chest heading towards some Emerald City, where something beating, something breathing, something named Mickey is bound to be waiting.