Picking locks was the first crime Mickey was ever taught to commit; the slide of the pin against cool metal, tiny pillars pushing, springs releasing against the click of steel, the rush of air when the door finally opened. It was becoming habitual, breaking and entering; on some nights, standing only at the threshold after stale air had rushed his lungs, as if happy to be anywhere but held captive in the room with bars on the windows, locks on the doors. On those nights, Mickey needed to only breathe in the same air, feel his own inhale match the exhale of a certain boy laying less than four feet away; a single hit and his frayed nerves would ground themselves and find their connections again.
On some nights, he found himself breaking past the barrier of the doorway to the bed where he would simply sit; motionless and tense as if simply blinking would throw off the balance of the axis that held the universe together. Those were the nights where he could feel the hesitance rolling off of him, mirroring the beads of sweat rolling off his skin and Mickey wanted nothing more than to wipe them away; dry the skin; break the stillness. But instead his words, protesting prisoners, fought against bars of teeth, grew sticky on the tongue until the muscle swallowed them back down drowned them in acid, kept the order.
On other nights, when the exhaustion and loneliness ate through his pride and willpower; he would slide his tattooed fingers against paler ones, just to make sure that they still fit. And every morning, before the sun painted the horizon, Mickey would reluctantly leave; ignoring the pang of protest that beat against the inside of his chest.
But on this night, as he stood in the doorway, the moonlight and shadows playing a game of chess along ivory skin; Mickey could count freckles littering shoulders. And if he looked hard enough, constellations could be drawn, rough pen on skin sketches of Greek gods in the sky; and he found himself wishing he had just spread out that damn blanket when he had had the chance. Stardust scattered against planes of shoulder blades; shoulders that used to bump against his own, used to house his head, used to shake when accompanied with a throaty laugh.
He stood there, watching him sleep, his chest soundlessly beating to the only song that could lull Mickey to sleep; and he was jealous. Jealous because it had been three full nights since he had been able to truly sleep, jealous because he had found himself on his fourth night of restlessness, shrugging on a sweatshirt and heading towards the El, the 2am stillness interrupted with staccato notes of glass hitting pavement. He was jealous, because he had to pick locks just to get some sleep. He was jealous because the boy in front of him, a green-eyed sleeping giant, seemed to be able to sleep silently, peacefully, without him.
And all at once, with the feeling of desperation and sleep overwhelming his senses, he clambered into the small space between the boy and the wall and shifted, like landmasses do, colliding and locking to form a new continent. And just as he was about to rest his ear against the pulse that would croon him to sleep, he glanced up and saw eyelashes flutter at the movement, barely there paintbrushes painting on perfect canvas and a pair of green eyes beneath furrowed brows watched him.
"Fuck." Green eyes probing blue, Mickey felt instantaneous panic and relief; the tightness in his chest unwinding, the tension no longer coiled tight. And almost immediately following the sweet taste of air, panic sunk in.
"What the fuck, Ian?" Mickey hissed, the edge returning to his voice. "You're supposed to be sleeping."
The air remained silent, green eyes still inquisitive, searching, staring at Mickey, whose body still remained curled around lankly limbs and heated skin.
Silence
"Did they change your meds?" Mickey was finding it hard to exist in this indecipherable silence.
Silence.
"Why did you wake up?"
Silence.
"Goddammit, Ian, say something-"His voice growing, the silence now effectively full of frustration and anger and nervousness; vocal cords pleading, breaking in vibration.
Silence
"Ian, seriously say something. Please, say something." Mickey didn't beg. Never; it was in their blood not to. As a child, he was taught to take, never apologize, and never beg. And here he was, wrapped around another boy, begging.
Silence
"Ian-"
"You promised." A sound, that sounded more like sandpaper grating against metal sheets than a voice, came from the boy with green eyes, a sound so quiet, Mickey had to strain to hear.
"The fuck did I promise?" He asked knowing exactly what promise was being referenced. He remembered. It had been near the end of summer, August; during a manic phase. Mickey was having trouble keeping up with the late nights and escapades around town in the dead of the night. It was their sixth night of barely sleeping; silence now a non-existent commodity between them. It was their sixth night of constant fucking; gentle gripping hands replaced with a bite and a sting that resembled the days when they had to rush through the motions. Mickey had gotten used to long fingertips playing Mozart up vertebrae, hot gasps dusting up his neck; it was their seventh day, when the crystal broke, the wire snapped, the dam burst.
Glass parted them; it was uncanny to be on the other side of the glass. Green eyes avoided his as he picked up the phone.
"Fiona told me they're transferring you to a hospital."
"Yea" Eyes still cast down, Mickey was sure that the boy on the other side of the glass wasn't even aware who he was talking to.
"It'll be ok. I'll be there every day. Fiona said that we're all going to come visit you." He really hated this side of the glass, wished so desperately to be on the other side.
"Don't."
"Gallagher- what do you mean don't? Everything's going to be fine, just focus on getting better. Ok?"
"Promise me you won't come"
"The fuck you talking about Ian?" A black pit had taken over his gut; words curdling as they entered his ears.
"Just promise."
"Ian. Stop fucking around"
"MICK" Eyelids flew open, green eyes desperate and pleading through the glass; and Mickey wished he could put his hand on the glass.
"No."
"Mick, if you come see me, I won't come back to you when I get out."
"Ian, if you don't stop fucking around, I'm going to punch a hole in this glass, and get arrested along with you."
"Mick, our time's running out. Please. Just promise me. Do this for me."
"Fuck." He couldn't understand where this was coming from, but the green that was normally clear, bright, full of something Mickey was certain he didn't deserve, was hazy and out of focus; and full of a fog that Mickey hadn't seen in a long time. And from what Mickey had experienced the first time around, the fog wiped memory, crept into the vault and left nothing but dust.
"Mickey. Promise me." Chairs were being pushed back, green eyes further away, time running down.
"Fine, Fuck you." Regretting the sounds the moment they left his tongue, Mickey looked up again to see if the light had come back to the green. Instead, dull eyes smiled.
"Ok."
"Ok."
That was four months ago. He hadn't realized Ian had remembered anything that was said, had assumed that that conversation, that that summer had all been a blur.
"Look man, I couldn't sleep- you've never woken up before."
Green eyes narrowed. "You've been here before?"
"Yea man, I can't fucking sleep; bed's too big or some shit"
"How many times Mick" The voice above him was dangerously low, eyes dangerously small; Mickey imagined it couldn't be healthy.
"Fuck you, like I keep count- you think I notch that shit on my bedpost? I told you, I just needed to sleep!" He was could feel frustration start to boil beneath his skin. Day long exhaustion gnawing at the base of his spine; following the broken tracks up his back, crackling to the nerve endings behind his eyes.
"How many times Mick?"
"Like once a week, fuck off Gallagher, I'm trying to sleep"
"Mick-", the voice growled, now even lower than before; the sound going straight to Mickey's gut that he could feel the frustration spark with desire and sleep deprivation; kindling for the fire that had been burning since that day behind the glass.
"Look," his voice was no longer below a whisper; no longer gentle, no longer pleading; it was hard and full of edge and anger, "I realize that you don't want me here, and you can do this on your own-"
"Mick-"
"Shut up Ian. Let me finish." Now he was upright, and upset at the loss of heat; glowering over the red head, who was still in the same position as he was when Mickey had first walked in. "I'm aware you don't need me and that this isn't something you want me involved with- and all of that other bullshit I was supposed to figure out four months ago, but I CAN'T FUCKING SLEEP. It's been three whole fuckin' days since I've been here last, and you didn't fuckin' wake up then. You weren't supposed to wake up now. Can we please, just for tonight, pretend you didn't wake up? Can we please pretend I haven't been coming here? Can we please just let me sleep? Just an hour, Ian – that's all I need. I'll leave right after. I just need an hour."
"Mick…"the voice, now absent of anger, and full of quiet, "I didn't mean-I wasn't…I didn't…"
"Gallagher spit it the fuck out." Mickey could feel the sleep scratch lead into his eyelids, just being this close to that beating organ was hypnotic; his body sliding back down to where it craved to be.
"I-I didn't mean- I'm-"
"Jesus Ian just let me stay ok?" I miss you. Mickey couldn't even be sure at this point what was coming out of his mouth; vowels and consonants moving at the speed of light, perfect collisions, assembling declarations that he couldn't be sure were said. His eyelids now closed, head against a beating pulse, the night tunneling away from him and the boy next to him anchoring him down.
And two beats of silence later, a whisper, "Ok."