Mickey had read once that the Kübler-Ross Model states a person experiences a series of emotional stages upon the death of someone they love. He learnt the stages are commonly referred to as the five stages of grief.
He thought it was all bullshit.
Until.
This is it.
This is you breaking up with me.
Fuck.
So far, it had only been a week.
Stage 1. Denial
Mickey knew it was stupid. He knew no one had died. Not physically anyway. But he was grieving none the less.
Every morning, the moment he woke up, he reached his arm across the mattress, searching. The sheets were crisp and cold on the left side of the bed. Ian's side. He'd roll over, stretch, and bury his face in Ian's pillow. A smile would tug at the corner of his lips as he breathed in the smell of him. Smoke. Lavender. Soap. Sweat.
There was always a moment of blissful confusion where he'd wonder where Ian was, why he'd got up so early, whether he was making breakfast or playing with Yevgeny.
But then, then it would come crashing back. Mickey would breach the surface, spitting and spluttering, splayed out on his back breathless.
Ian was fine. He'd tell himself.
He'll be back soon.
It's just temporary.
Ian'll go back on his meds and they'll be back together in no time.
"You should go out tonight." Mandy would suggest. "Meet someone or something."
"I'm not cheating on Ian." Mickey would snarl back.
"Mick," She'd hesitate. "You and Ian broke up. He ended it. Remember?"
"He wasn't well. He didn't mean it. He'll come back. You'll see."
Over and over and over.
Stage 2. Anger
Mickey had always been angry. It wasn't something he saw as a problem. It was just who he was. Who he'd always been.
Now, it was worse. Much worse. Though, he would never dare to admit, not even to himself, why exactly that was.
"What was that, faggot?" Mickey spat as he swung his foot sharply to collide with the prick's ribs. "You say something?"
"No! No! Mickey, I swear!" The guy sobbed in reply. Fucking pussy.
"Fuck you!" Mickey shouted, his fist pounding against the now broken jaw. Again. Again. Again. "Fuck you, Ian! Fuck you for leaving me! Fuck you! Fuck you for every fucking thing!"
"Yo, Mickey!" Iggy called hesitantly from the opening of the alley. "You better chill out man. You're gonna kill him."
Mickey took a step back, his breath heavy, and wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead.
He wouldn't notice until he got home that his knuckles were split, a rib broken, the other guy's blood smeared on his face.
Mickey took his final swig of the unlabelled bottle of vodka and then threw it against the warehouse wall. He was drunk. Wasted enough that he still hurt, was still angry, but finally numbed enough to let himself feel it.
Why was this shit always happening to him?
Why did he have to be such a fuck up?
He didn't know how to handle it. Mickey had never dealt with shit well.
"Fucking Gallagher." He muttered, his face crumpling and his hands raising to scrub at the tears he wanted to pretend he didn't shed.
Stage 3. Bargaining
"I'll change. I'll be better. I'll make Ian better." Mickey muttered as he paced up and down in the bedroom.
"You never change." Svetlana replied unhelpfully from the doorway, her hip jutted out casually. "Fire boy is gone now."
"Shut the fuck up." Mickey spat.
"Yevgeny need bottle. I going to the Rub 'n Tug so you must do it. Your job." She replied sternly, a finger jabbing forward. "You father. You help."
"Yeah, yeah. Go. Get the fuck out of here and earn some fucking money for once." Mickey grumbled as he sat down heavily on the mattress.
If he changed, maybe Ian would change his mind and they could find a way to make this work. Maybe, once Ian had been on the meds for a little while, he'd be better and everything could go back to the way it was. Maybe Mickey was too different to before. Maybe Mickey needed to change back. No more whiny, pussy crap, as Ian had put it.
Mickey would get him back. He had to.
He would find a way.
Stage 4. Depression
Mickey was a mess.
He was drunk and high all hours of the day.
He'd do and take just about anything if it would numb that gaping hole in his chest for just a little while.
Mickey was dying. He was sure he must be dying.
He couldn't sleep. He couldn't eat. He couldn't even look at the fucking sun without wanting to clamber back into bed and hide.
He knew, somewhere deep inside, that this was how Ian felt. Those times when he couldn't get up and face it all, this must have been what it was like. Mickey thought he finally understood. He wasn't sure he could bear it. He knew that maybe Ian couldn't either.
He wanted Ian. Just for a second. He wanted to have it all back, just for a second.
Cigarette butts were overflowing from the ashtray beside his bed. He was smoking like a fucking chimney. He hadn't thought he could smoke anymore, but apparently he could. He'd stub one out with one hand and light a fresh one with the other.
He'd take a swig of the vodka, but he wouldn't even feel the burn anymore. He was numb. Dead.
He would become so exhausted that every day or so, he'd just pass out. Sometimes it was in his room, sometimes in the living room, sometimes in the kitchen, once even in the shower. His body was speckled in bruises just from how many times he'd fallen. It was pathetic. Really. He was fucking pathetic.
But worse, he cried. He seemed to wake with tears already falling down his face, his cheeks hot and burning with the humiliation of it.
Ian was gone. He was never coming back.
Mickey cried.
Stage 5. Acceptance
It was over. It was all over.
There was no more Mickey and Ian. No more Ian and Mickey. There was just Mickey now. Just Mickey.
"Hey, man." Mickey said softly, his voice just a little bit broken, as he sat beside Ian at the dugouts. It was just like it used to be. Before everything. Before the end.
"What you doin' hanging round here?" Ian muttered.
He didn't look up from where he was staring out at the field, but he was quick to offer Mickey a drag of the cigarette held limply between his fingers.
Mickey huffed, but he took the smoke eagerly. "Since when have I ever not hung round here? What're you doing here?"
"Needed to escape." Ian's voice fell to a barely-there whisper. "They won't stop watching me. It's like they're just waiting for me to crack. It's making me paranoid. I get all antsy and my skin starts crawling."
Mickey's eyes softened, his chest tightened. He wanted so badly to reach out, to touch Ian, to give him whatever comfort he could. Ian had always be very responsive to touch. It was something he just needed. But Mickey didn't have the right to give it to him. Not anymore.
"You can always crash at mine." Mickey said carefully, his gaze turning to stare away into the distance as well. He couldn't look at Ian. "Y'know, if it gets too much or whatever."
"You don't have to say that Mick. It's okay." Ian replied.
"I know. But I meant what I said." Mickey paused, the silence falling between them heavy. "You're family. None of, whatever this is here, is going to change that." Mickey waved emphatically at the space between the two of them.
"Thanks Mick."
"We're okay, Ian. We're still okay." Mickey said softly, finally turning to look at the redheaded boy beside him. The boy who had broken his heart. "You and me, as far as I'm concerned, we'll always be okay. I'm not going anywhere. I'll always be here. It doesn't matter what I'm here as, but I'll be here."
Ian nodded in reply, his eyes brimming with tears.
Yeah, it was over.
It would be okay.
They would always be okay.
Mickey nodded.