A Long December Part 1

It had been two weeks since Mickey had been unable to tell Ian not to leave. Christmas had come and passed. As always it had been a grand affair at the Milkovich household. Svetlana, tired of Terry's drunk advances had gone to spend the night at some other whore's house, and Mandy for some reason had left to go their Aunts. Mickey and his brothers got high and had watched A Christmas Story, as their father lay passed out on the couch. The only thing that had gotten Mickey through the "family time" was knowing that Ian had gotten off the bus.

He had tortured himself for three days over his inability to tell the boy the one thing he had wanted to hear. He was constantly switching between anger at the fuckheads failure to comprehend that to admit to his feelings would be dangerous and self-hatred for pushing away the one person who brought him the littlest bit of happiness in his fucked up life.

Then Mandy had cornered him in the kitchen and told him that Ian had changed his mind and gotten off the bus. "Now stop being such a fucking pussy and go to him," she had said before he shoved past her, six pack in his hand to go get drunk in his room. He hadn't gone though, and Ian had not tried to contact him either.

Now, as the clock on the cable box flipped to 11:24 pm, Mickey got off the couch and grabbed his coat. "Where are you going?" Svetlana asked him. Mickey flinched; her thick Russian accent always sounded like nails on a chalkboard, nothing like the sweet sound of the redhead's voice.

"None of your goddamn business," he growled. He put on his boots and looked at his wife on the couch. He had a hard time remembering that none of this was really her fault. He softened his tone and said, "I have something I need to do."

"Will you be back by midnight? I don't want to be alone for the New Year."

"I don't know," He said, tying his boots and walking to the door. "See ya."

Mickey stepped out into the cold. There had been a huge snowstorm just after Christmas, and it was snowing again. The streets of the Southside were deserted, most people anxiously awaiting for the ball to drop in their warm homes. He thought about going to the Gallagher household, but once again, decided against it. Instead he walked in the opposite direction. There were only two places he wanted to go, and both contained the ghosts of his past. He decided to go to the baseball field, which at least held happy memories of a warm summer night.

Mickey squeezed himself through the hole in the fence. The city had stopped repairing it earlier that summer after someone (Mickey) kept reopening it. He checked his phone: 11:37. He only had twenty minutes left of what had been the best and shittiest year of his life. He had almost reached the dugouts when he heard the sound of a beer being cracked open. His eyes scanned the darkness, finally landing on an outline of lying on the bench. Whoever was there hadn't noticed him yet. Mickey figured it was just some bum and was about to turn around and head back home when something stopped him. He walked over to the steps, his heart beating in his throat.

"Hey."

Ian shot up, spilling his beer all over his coat. Mickey couldn't help but grin as the redhead squinted into the darkness at him. "Mickey?"

"Who the fuck else would it be?" Mickey asked, regretting his tone already. He walked down the steps so that he could see the boy more clearly. For a moment Mickey saw the face that had been so happy to see him that day under the bleachers. As his eyes adjusted, however, he saw Ian's face change from surprise to anger, the same stone cold face that had left him speechless two weeks earlier. "Did I scare you?"

"No. A little. What do you want? Why are you here?" Ian asked, taking a sip of what was left of his beer. Mickey rubbed his chin and put his hand in his coat pockets. He stared at the younger boy for a few seconds before answering.

"I don't know, just had to get out of the house for a bit. What about you? Thought you were getting your ass blown to shit in some fucking-stan."

"Nope," Ian said, downing his beer. He didn't go on, so Mickey shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"Shouldn't you be home then? With your family; it's a holiday," Mickey said, sitting down on the bench, a few feet between the two of them. As soon as he sat down, Ian got up, and walked over to grab another beer which was cooling in the snow.

"House was too crowded. I just needed some air," Ian said, turning around two beers in his hands. Mickey was a bit surprised by this, and just stared at Ian as he took the beer from his outstretched hand.

"Thanks man," Mickey said, cracking it open. Ian sat back down, a little closer than he had been before.

"Plus, New Years is hardly a holiday. I hate it."

"Why?"

"Well, first, you always have these huge expectations for how much fun it will be, and then you end up just getting shitfaced in your living room or someone's basement. And, if you even end up making it to midnight, it's so anticlimactic," Ian said, sullenly. "And, just the fucking idea that a new year could change everything is such bullshit. Nothing changes here. Plus, I hate that song."

"Such a positive outlook," Mickey said jokingly.

"Yeah well, there is nothing to be positive about," Ian said, glaring at Mickey. Mickey didn't say anything, and Ian pulled a joint out of his coat pocket. "Want some?"

"I never turn down free weed," Mickey said with a smile.

They smoked the joint in silence. They had been sitting there for what felt like an eternity when Mickey found the balls to ask the question he had wanted to know for two weeks, "Why did you get off the bus?"

"It had nothing to do with you."

"I didn't think it did," Mickey lied. He had been hoping since the day he found out that Ian had decided to get off the bus that it meant that Ian was working on coming to terms with the new arrangement—his marriage.

"I just realized I was making a huge mistake. I mean, I only have a semester left of high school, I might as well do it legally. No use fucking up my life just to avoid six months of waiting."

"So you're still going to go?" Mickey asked, swallowing a huge gulp of beer to avoid the growing pit in his stomach.

"You still married?"

"Fuck off. I didn't choose to get married. You're fucking choosing to put your life at risk."

"I'm choosing to fight for my fucking country, something I believe in," Ian said, getting angry.

"Calm down man. I don't want to argue, I just think it's stupid," Mickey said.

"Yeah, well you're stupid."

"Good one."

"So, when is your wife due?"

"What?"

"Your commie wife, when is she having the baby?"

"Oh, yeah she ain't knocked up. I just told Mandy that so she would stop asking questions, which is pointless now that you couldn't keep your fucking mouth shut. You are so lucky my brothers didn't hear you," Mickey said.

"Sorry about that," Ian said.

"No you're not."

"Yeah, Mick, I am. I didn't mean to out you to Mandy, I was just so angry that you married her," Ian said. "I still am."

"Did you really expect me to fucking back out of it? Do you know what my dad would have done to me if I walked in there and told everyone it was off?"

"I've learned not to expect anything from you anymore," Ian said, getting up to get another beer. Instead of sitting back down on the bench he sat on the steps. They held eye contact and were silent, each trying to read the other's face.

"Fuck Gallagher," Mickey said, breaking both the silence and the redhead's gaze. "It's not like you ain't fucked married dudes before. You didn't seem to have a problem when it was Towelhead or Grandpa. Is it because I didn't fucking buy you pretty things?"

"Fuck off Mickey, you know I never cared about that shit. It's different," Ian said. "You were different."

In that moment, Mickey wanted to tell him everything. How for the past two years he had been the only good part of his life, how he felt he was a better person just by knowing him, and how empty he had felt since he hadn't been able to ask him to stay. But these feelings were quickly squashed and replaced by anger. Once again Ian was laying all the blame on him. How could he still not see that Mickey had had no choice? Anger was pulsing through him, but managed to calm himself down before responding.

"You know what? You're right. It is different. Both of them married their wives without the threat of death hanging over them. If you think I wanted to marry her then you're a fucking idiot. It's not like it was my idea. There is nothing I can do about it. It's not like I did it to-" Mickey stopped. "It's not like I did it to hurt you."

"Your dad is a fucking psyc-" Ian started, but Mickey interrupted him.

"You think I don't know that? Jesus, man. Don't you get it? This isn't some fucking fairytale. We can't just skip off into the sunset." Mickey could feel the tears behind his eyes, but he wouldn't let himself cry. He had done enough of that.

"It didn't have to end like this."

"It didn't have to fucking end at all. I told you we could still bang,"

"Was that all I was? After everything I'm still just a warm mouth?"

"Fucking Christ!" Now Mickey was mad. He threw his empty beer can on the ground and walked to the other side of the dugout. He tried to put as much space between the two of them before he snapped. "That's not what I fucking mean."

"Then what do you fucking mean? Just for once tell me how you fucking mean!"

"What the fuck do you want from me? You're right. I'm married. There's nothing I can do about that for now."

"Nothing," Ian said quietly, after a few minutes. "I don't want anything from you. Not anymore. I get it. You're not a bitch, or a fag, you can't blurt out how you feel. I'm not your boyfriend, never was."

Mickey paced back and forth a few times before walking to the steps and sitting next to Ian. "What I meant," he started, but stopped himself. You can do this, he thought. He took a deep breath, put his hand on Ian's knee and continued. "What I meant was that we could still be together. It might not be to you, but to me it is just a piece of paper. I'm not fucking her, I can't even sleep under the same blankets as her. I was willing to risk my fucking dad finding out again."

Ian put his hand on top of his and Mickey could feel all the blood in his body rush to meet Ian's cold hand, and it felt good. They sat there silently for a few minutes before Ian spoke, "You could have at least told me not to go."

"Would you have stayed?"

"I got off the bus didn't I?"

They sat next to each other in silence, their hands still touching. Mickey looked Ian and they held each other's gaze as if they were trying to tell each other everything they couldn't say. Then suddenly, Ian looked away and moved his hand. Mickey knew in that moment that not all was forgiven. They wouldn't just pick up where they left off. He checked his phone; it was 12:21. They had talked through the New Year. He pointed this out and added "Happy New Year man."

"Fuck off," Ian said with a smile.

"Hey, that's my line," Mickey said and Ian laughed.

"It's been a pretty shitty year," Ian said, taking another joint out of his pocket.

"Not all of it," Mickey said, glancing at the redhead, who nodded in agreement. "And hey, maybe this year will be better than the last."

"Did you just quote the Counting Crows?" Ian asked incredulously. "That was pretty gay if you ask me."

"Shut up. My mom used to sing it every New Years," Mickey said, looking at Ian out of the corner of his eye. He smiled, opened another beer and leaned back onto the dugout wall. As Ian lit the joint, Mickey closed his eyes, breathing in the cold air. Even if Ian hadn't forgiven him, Mickey was happy. He knew he would be happy as long as he could be in Ian's presence. As they passed the joint back and forth, Mickey swore he could feel Ian's eyes on him, yet every time he checked, Ian was staring straight at the dugout walls.

Ian's phone rang on the bench, bringing them back to reality. "It's Fiona," he said before answering. All Mickey could hear was music blasting in the background. "Hey, Fi."

"Ian Clayton Gallagher where are you?" Mickey heard Fiona yell over the music, sounding intoxicated. He stifled a laugh at his middle name. In the two years they had been whatever they were Mickey had never thought to ask Ian's middle name. "You missed the ball drop!"

"Yeah, sorry," Ian said. "I'll be home soon."

"See if you can find an open store, Frank showed up so we are almost out of beer," Fiona said. Ian complied, said goodbye and hung up.

"Clayton?" Mickey said teasingly.

"It's not that bad," Ian said with a smile. "Your middle name so much better?"

"Don't have one. Pretty amazing we have names at all given my parents were probably so fucked up at the time," Mickey said. When he had been in kindergarten he had asked his mom why he didn't have a middle name. She had lit a cigarette, shrugged and told him it had been hard enough to think name the fifth boy, let alone come up with a useless middle name.

"I should probably go," Ian said. As Ian stood up, Mickey looked at his phone: 12:41. Although they had only been there for an hour, it had seemed like an entire year had passed by. Mickey stood, crushed the beer can in his hand and dropped it on the ground.

"Yeah, it's fucking freezing," Mickey said. The truth was, however, sitting next toIan, Mickey hadn't felt warmer in weeks. "I think my left foot is numb."

They walked together in silence until they got to the corner of Ian's street. As they stopped under the flickering street light, Ian turned to face Mickey. "So, I guess I'll see you around."

"Yeah," Mickey said looking down at his shoes. As they stood there, Mickey wondered what they would look like to anyone looking out their windows. Two guys, one almost a foot taller, standing awkwardly on a street corner. It could easily be mistaken as a drug deal; no one else had to know the truth. Then, as Ian turned and began to walk to his house, Mickey suddenly felt jealous. There Ian was, going home to a warm house full of people who loved him, and all Mickey had was a family held together by the bonds of being raised by a psycho and a cold marriage bed. In that moment something clicked.

"Ian!" The boy stopped dead at the sound of his name coming out of Mickey's mouth. He turned around. Neither moved towards each other; instead they stood, half a block apart, waiting. Finally, Mickey found what he had been trying to say all night, "I'm glad you got off the bus."

"Yeah, me too," Ian said. Mickey could see a slight smile on his face as he raised his hand to say goodbye before continuing down the street.

Mickey came home to a dark house. He maneuvered his way from the entryway, through the messy living room and to his bedroom with ease. As he climbed into bed, all of a sudden too tired to even take off his wet jeans, he felt Svetlana stir.

"Mickey?" she asked sleepily.

"Yup," He said, laying his head on his pillow.

"Happy New Year," she said before rolling back over.

"Yeah, Happy New Year." He faced the wall, closed his eyes, and told himself, as he did every night, that it was Ian lying next to him. He couldn't help but think that something important had just occurred between the two of them. He had no idea what was in store for them; if Ian would come be able to come to terms with how things were now. He still might not be able to tell Ian everything he wanted to hear—what he wanted to be able to tell him more than anything—but he knew that he had taken the first step. It had been a long December for the two of them, a long year, and Mickey knew that there was still a long way to go to fix whatever they had, if it could even be fixed, but now, more than ever before, he believed in those lyrics and the idea that this year would be better than the last.