A/N: Fuck Sammi and the prison storyline. This story continues after the break-up based on the assumption that Mickey went home and dealt instead. It's gonna have flashbacks as well... some from childhood and some from his relationship with Ian. It's gonna be fragmented, dark, and angsty. Probably TW: Abuse, Rape, and Incest eventually.
"You gonna marry me? We gonna go down to the courthouse in some tuxes like a couple old queens?" Ian snapped, his breath steaming hot against the cold air.
The words smacked Mickey across the face. He hadn't considered the implications of his clumsy vows; he'd been so focused on holding back the tears he felt welling up in his eyes. He doesn't mean it, he'll take it back, he assured himself as Ian narrowed his eyes sharply. The cold chafed Mickey's lungs and he let out a half-sob to ease the itch. "This is it. This is you breaking up with me." He said hoarsely hanging desperately on the hope that Ian was just having a moment, some more of his crazy shit. I would marry you.
"Yeah," Ian responded half-heartedly, unable to look Mickey in the eye.
Later that night, Mickey drank a fifth of whiskey in the upstairs nook at the Alibi. He couldn't bear to go home and cry. He couldn't bear the emptiness of his house and the pieces of Ian scattered across the floor; an unsurprising mess left in his wake. "Get the fuck out," Mickey snapped at the milk maids camped out in the shit hole of an apartment. He sat in one of the ratty chairs and the smell of stale milk filled the air around him. He let himself sink into the chair and slugged back a gulp of the cheap shit. He clenched his eyes shut in the hopes that he could hold back the glutting tears filling his throat with bile. He squeezed them so tight that he barely noticed the hot sting of the first tear as it trickled down his cheek.
Mickey couldn't remember the last time he had cried so hard. Every other time Ian went running off like the unpredictable bastard that he was Mickey would fuck out the pain but this was different. He curled his legs up underneath him and swiped angrily at his hot, red cheeks with a sniffle. I would marry you. The thought came back to him and he reconsidered the afternoon with a choked sob.
He had been half-awake when the call came, his eyes glued eagerly to the impossibly dark screen. He had dozed on and off all night and day for weeks watching the fucking thing. He would remember the dead look in Ian's eyes as he lay like a slug in his own bed and Mickey would shake himself awake wondering if this bipolar thing was contagious.
He could still feel it all, tingling in his chest beneath his cracking ribs; the way his heart leaped into his chest at the tiny sound, so small he thought for a second he'd imagined it, echoing through his apartment. He could feel the rush of the cold so refreshing and uplifting as he flew down the street looking for Ian's bright flash of red hair bobbing to meet him like some gay ass chick flick. He remembered how quickly his stomach dropped, like coming down, as Ian's eyes looked away quickly. Fuck.
Speaking of coming down… Mickey guzzled some more whiskey until his throat stung viciously. He coughed roughly and didn't notice the door opening. When he looked up again, he noticed Svetlana and rolled his eyes in irritation. He couldn't let her see him like this; it was hard enough to get that bitch off his back. "Where V?" She asked thickly.
"Downstairs, fuck off," Mickey snapped back without a second thought. He could smell the heady alcohol rolling from his mouth, dark and pungent like his dad's breath. He licked his lips self-consciously and turned down his eyes in shame and disgust with himself, Svetlana, Ian, life.
Mickey let his eyes slide closed and waited for the door to click but the sound didn't come. "I hear about orange boy." Svetlana spoke again with a twinge of curiosity and concern.
Mickey's eyes snapped up and pinned her harshly. "The fuck about Ian?" He growled in response. Ian, use his name, he thought angrily. Svetlana had gone back to the disparaging nickname ever since things went wrong with Yevgeny. He sighed deeply, a hard pit filling his stomach as he realized grudgingly that Svetlana was all he had now; Mandy had left with that abusive fuck-off, he couldn't rely on the Gallaghers now and even Kev would tire of his liquor skimping soon. Sure, he had his fucktard cousins but they could barely follow orders let alone comprehend his heavy emotions. His eyes softened as he looked over Svetlana again. "Look, I don't wanna talk about it just…" He trailed off waving a hand.
Svetlana nodded and walked towards him, sitting on the arm of the chair. She reached for the whiskey and he let her share the bottle. He bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could, until he tasted metal instead of heavy alcohol. He glared down at the chair and noticed the fraying edges of the upholstery. He plucked at it nervously. Svetlana put the bottle back down on his lap and he clutched it against himself like an alcoholic and not a heartbroken fag. He nodded slightly in thanks but even that small gesture made his head swim. "You want I perform wifely duties?" Svetlana asked sincerely.
Mickey looked up at her in confusion. Her head was tilted to the side expectantly and her soft brown eyes pleaded with him silently. "Wh-no huh?" Mickey shook his head. He thought back again to all those times that Ian hadn't been around. Just a week ago he would've taken anything he could get including his whore wife; anything to distract him. Now though, his limbs felt so heavy and his breathing so slow from the alcohol that he doubted he could get hard anyway.
Svetlana frowned and ran a hand down his arm gently. He flinched at the touch and smacked her hand away. "I try to help!" She insisted loudly.
Mickey's ears blurred like he was under water. "There's nothing you can do," He mumbled miserably. He shifted impatiently and straightened his back when he heard the patheticness of his own whiny voice. Svetlana turned around to go mumbling something in Russian. Mickey sniffled once and cleared his throat. "Wait!" He protested. He tried to hold himself up but he sunk back deeply into the cheap chair. "Yeah, give it a shot," he agreed casually, as if the decision didn't make his stomach turn in disgust.
Svetlana stood for a moment with her back to him. When she finally turned around, her eyes were somber and dark. He closed his eyes to keep her darkness from poisoning him, he was already dark enough. He felt her unhook his pants and fish his soft cock from between his legs. He tried not to focus on the ache of his head and his chest as he felt her hot breath close to him. He licked his lips and did what he always did; he imagined a sharp flash of red hair rushing across his hip and coy brown eyes smiling up at him to gauge his every reaction. Nothing was happening; nothing happened, he fretted. He bit the already ragged inside of his cheek and imagined the stinging bruises that Ian would leave on the soft flesh of his thigh. After a long moment of Svetlana's mouth and fingers working him with admitted skill, Mickey let out a groan. It wasn't a groan of pleasure but frustration. He flung out his arms and pushed Svetlana violently away by the shoulder.
She slid back onto the floor, rubbing her neck from the rough lash. She glared at him and sighed. "Call if you want see your son," she hissed, another jab at one of their continuous arguments. Even Yevgeny made Mickey think of Ian, the bright smiles that lit up his freckled face as he threw the baby in the air and kissed him lightly.
Mickey clenched his eyes and teeth closed. "Whiskey dick," he grumbled, tears welling up in his eyes again as the cold stung his exposed dick. He hissed and shoved it back into his pants. A few tears gathered on his cheeks. "Fuck OFF!" He shouted angrily and he finally heard the satisfying slam of the door.
Mickey took another long tug off the open whiskey and let his eyes lilt closed. He felt himself drifting off into the ache that vibrated through every inch of him. It pulled him inevitably back to that afternoon, to the moment when his chest cracked open like a cloudless sky.
He could see it all so clearly, the bright Chicago sky warming his skin as the cold filled his gasping lungs and Ian, Ian was going off so quickly. Mickey could barely keep up as he snapped and quibbled and insulted himself. He felt his mouth hang open in surprise.
"I hate the meds. You gonna make me take 'em?" an accusation. Of course not, the words he should've said.
"You gonna wanna be with me even if I don't?" Don't push me away. I will always stay, he shouted in his head. I have no one else. I don't NEED anyone else! I visited you in the hospital and you barely looked at me. I visited you in jail and didn't blink, why the Fuck would I leave now? His thoughts raced but his mouth simply hung there and a black cloud of nothing spewed out to cover the blue sky. He hadn't even caught his breath and this blackness was choking him.
"You can't fix me." I love you. "Because I'm not broken. I don't need to be fixed" You're perfect! I can handle it. I can handle it, he reassured himself but now even Ian was lost in the haze of the black.
Will you marry me? He whispered in his mind before he started awake suddenly. "Fuck," he muttered with a gasp. The light was diffuse in the shitty little room but it burned straight through him. He felt his stomach turn violently as the stench of the sour room and the thick smell of whiskey assaulted his lips. He tried to swallow the bile but it ended up in a pile on the floor. Kev's gonna kill me, was all he could think as he wiped at his mouth with his hoodie sleeve. He rubbed his eyes roughly with the balls of his palm and let out a groan.
The dream pounded through his brain right along with the blinding sunlight. He hadn't spoken up; he hadn't kept up. Ian's thoughts were so fast and he had barely even caught his breath. It was a metaphor for the last few months of their relationship but Mickey was certain he had proven himself. "I should've fucking said something," he grumbled out loud.
He reached for a nearby towel covered in breast milk and spit up and fell to his knees to mop up the vomit. Instead, his knees landed in the gunk and he felt an irrational spike of anger in his chest. "Fuck!" he cursed as his hand slid into the pile. He looked over to the chair, no glared at the chair, and gave it a quick punch. The pain that shot through his hand made him smile and he pounded it again, harder. His knuckles scraped open against the fabric and he let out a gleeful giggle. He began to pound against the back of the armchair wildly, his strong flailing limbs vibrating with the strain. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth losing himself in the rhythm.
Mickey stopped to catch his breath and the sharp, cold air brought him back to reality, to the image of black spewing from his mouth and the stench of vomit on the floor. His eyes fluttered open and his eyes widened in surprise. He began to shake lightly as he eyed the blood-smeared chair, he had busted open the meager stuffing and it jutted out unevenly. "Me too," he said meekly before sinking against the chair and sobbing into his bloodied hands.