He's Staying With Me
Summary: Mickey is not gonna let some bi-something disorder take away the man he loves. Written in response to the ending of 4x12 and for the anon on tumblr requesting a fic about Mickey dealing with Ian's bipolar disorder. This turned out to be way sadder than I intended and I am so sorry.
Disclaimer: I don't own Shameless.
An anon on tumblr requested that I write about Mickey dealing with Ian's bipolar disorder, but I probably would have written this anyway! I am also planning two more fanfics in particular, one of them about Ian's road to recovery, so stay tuned!
The bedroom was dark and silent.
It was almost five in the morning, but Mickey couldn't sleep. He sat next to Ian on the bed, his head hanging low and his eyes bloodshot. He looked at his sleeping boyfriend, brow furrowed with worry. The words that Fiona Gallagher had told him that afternoon swirled in his head.
Ian was sick.
Somehow Mickey couldn't believe it. Ian had seemed fine only a few days ago. There was no way that something this big had been happening to Ian without him knowing about it. There was no fucking way.
His nostrils flared and he sighed angrily, not wanting to acknowledge all of the signs that had been staring him right in the face.
The Milkovich was never much of a crier. Even when he was by himself, he didn't really see the point. The world was shitty, and sniveling about it wasn't gonna fucking solve anything. But Mickey cried for Ian. He drank a beer and kept vigil by Ian's side, tears falling slowly throughout the night.
Hours had passed and gradually Ian began to move. He regained consciousness, blinking his eyes open, but he still looked tired despite his entire day of rest. His eyes drooped sadly, and his body felt heavy as he lay there, cocooned in a bundle of blankets.
The Milkovich tried to compose himself before Ian saw him, but it was too late. They made eye contact.
When Ian saw the look in Mickey's eyes, guilt hit him so hard that he could barely breathe. All he ever seemed to do was cause Mickey pain, and it broke his heart. "Mickey," he cried, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."
"You ain't got nothing to be sorry for," Mickey replied firmly. He sighed, glad for a small second that Ian finally felt like talking to him.
"But it's all my fault," Ian whimpered. "Your dad walking in on us, me forcing you to come out to everyone… you even got shot twice because of me."
"That's not true, and you know it," Mickey scoffed, unable to believe what he was hearing. "My dad was a fuckhead long before you came along. I never would've stood up to him if it wasn't for you."
Ian kept sobbing, almost like he hadn't even heard Mickey.
"I'm so stupid," he continued, his breathing getting more labored and desperate. "I fucking destroy everything I touch. You know, I wanted to be an officer so fucking bad. That was my one dream, the one thing I could do. I'm not smart like Lip or the one everyone depends on like Fiona. I'm nothing. I don't know what I'm gonna do now…" He started to panic, seeming to grow even more upset by those words. "Oh, fuck. I don't know what I'm gonna do now…"
"Hey," Mickey said softly, wiping a tear away from Ian's face and stroking his cheek. "Hey, it's gonna be okay. It's all gonna work out."
Ian laughed humorlessly, another tear streaking its way down his cheek to replace the one that Mickey wiped away. "Not if I'm like Monica," he said in a hoarse voice.
The redhead had overheard them all talking about him earlier that day outside the door. After that, everything made sense. He knew what Bipolar Disorder did to people. He knew what it meant, and he knew what he would become.
There's no way he could go through that.
"You're going to leave me because of this, I just know it," he continued in a trembling voice. "I finally got you, all of you, and you're just going to leave me."
"The hell are you even talkin' about?" Mickey growled in frustration. "There's no fuckin' way I'm doing that, man. You seriously think, after all the shit we've been though, that anything is ever gonna get me to leave you?"
"You won't want me," Ian sighed in defeat. "Not like this." His eyes began to droop. He felt so hopeless and tired.
"I'm not gonna give up on you," Mickey vowed. "I don't care what the fuck I have to do. I will steal all the fuckin' meds in the world. I will stay by your side and tell as many of those fuckin' lame ass jokes you like until you smile again. I don't care! I'll do whatever the fuck it takes!"
Tears of anger and frustration began to form in Mickey's eyes again. He was pissed at the world for doing this to Ian and pissed at Ian's mother for passing on her shitty genetics.
But most of all he was pissed at himself for not being able to fix it.
Ian just lay there, looking dead. He pulled his blankets closer, wanting to collapse in on himself.
Mickey laid his arm on top of Ian's and stroked it softly. "I'll make you better, I promise."
Ian clung to Mickey's arm and cried until he fell back to sleep.
Mickey grabbed his beer again and swallowed it down, looking out the window to see the sun beginning to rise.
That "bi-something" disorder, or whatever the fuck it was called, wasn't about to take Ian away from him. Mickey wouldn't let it.