This was the second time he'd come here this week. He'd been thinking about what had happened relentlessly, and now, to add to his problems, he also had his regret at lashing out at Mickey to worry about, too, for not giving him the comfort of a glance. For not giving him the comfort of a look. For Mickey to let him know that he wasn't alone, that he could see the pain he was in. It was meant to be the other way round. He'd forgotten that. How could he ask for a look, a word, anything, when he'd not even been able to meet Mickey's gaze while that dead-eyed Russian woman had been forced on top of him? While Ian had sat there and done nothing while his lover - boyfriend - fuckbuddy - whatever, even though the older boy had been pistol-whipped and beaten to a pulp to get his monster of a father off of him? It didn't matter if Mickey's cunt of a father had a gun. He should've done something, like Mickey had.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Ian finally pushed off from the wall of the stairwell and climbed the last flight of stairs to where the gunshots had been firing loudly above him. He frowned as he realised Mickey had not changed his clothes. Fuck, had he even showered? Eaten? It looked as though the only thing he'd been tending to were the rounds in his handgun.
Ian walked over to the wall he'd leant against yesterday and picked at a flake of dead skin on his lip thoughtfully. He'd been going over what to say in his head since last time, but it still felt as though every thought frayed outward, useless. What could he say? Would anything he said make a difference?
"Mickey," the redhead began between piercing shots, "Mickey... I'm sorry about the other day."
Another shot.
Ian wished he was better with words. That had just sounded weak. "I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that. I shouldn't have asked you to look at me, especially after... after what happened."
Two shots.
"I just..." He rubbed his face in frustration. "Look, I'm not going to sit here and pretend to know what's going on in your head. I don't. I don't even know what's going on in mine!" He said.
Another shot.
"I'm sorry I didn't do more. I feel like such a fucking pussy." Another four shots. "I..."
Silence.
"I just need to know you're okay. I don't expect you to pour your heart out to me Mick, I- I don't expect anything, really."
Another shot. The target looked like there was nothing left of it. Ian didn't know what was going through the Milkovich boy's mind, as he'd said, but he could empathise a little. He knew what it felt like to feel powerless. Like you can't control anything in your life. He'd felt like that when Mickey had been raped before him, though he suspected that the feeling of powerlessness probably ran deeper than that with Mickey. Of course it did.
But maybe... maybe this wasn't just about the events that had transpired a few days earlier. Ian remembered how hard it was to deal with the fact that he was gay. He'd accepted it long ago himself, but he could remember the feeling of helplessness he'd had in those early years of self-discovery as strongly as he could feel the sting of the gash above his eyebrow. How freakish he'd felt. How useless and defective he'd felt when he'd caught Lip with the girl he was tutoring for English that time and felt nothing but repulsion at her body. He'd wished time and again to be straight. To not have to deal with people's dumbass prejudice of something so entirely natural. To be in control of it when it had a mind of its own.
The rape, the beating, the self-loathing... it didn't take much to guess that it was exacerbating all the shit that was there already. Ian would probably go his whole life and only ever understand a fraction of what Mickey must feel like with a father like Terry. He'd been there, he'd watched it, he'd even been attacked himself... but he'd never fully understand, as much as he wished he could. But he would be there, and that had to count for something.
"Your dad is a fucking asshole, that's for sure."
Another shot.
"I bet you wish that target was him."
Another one.
"You're not alone," Ian suddenly said, quietly, shockingly emphatic and tender and a sharp contrast to the chaotic backdrop of the ruined building and the awkward silence. The words hung in the air, seemingly louder than the gunshots Mickey had been firing.
He didn't shoot.
"You're never alone, Mickey."
Silence.
Ian began talking again, but it began as a barely coherent mumble. "Everyone always looks down on you. And... maybe, sometimes, they're right to. But for Christ's sake, look at the shithole we live in! I mean, Jesus, if people think you're going to grow up here in this fucking social septic tank of a neighbourhood and end up a model citizen then... then they're living in a fuckin' dream world. But you're not a monster, alright, you're not a scumbag. All your life you've been treated like one, but that doesn't mean you have to be one. You're not your dad, and you never will be."
Nothing. Ian knew he was getting through though, because he could see the hand that was holding the gun go white at the knuckles and tremble.
"You're not... you're not him. You're Mickey fucking Milkovich and you're fucking incredible. You're a fighter. You're strong, and you're smarter than you think you are. You're like the fuckin' braveheart of this place. You can be whoever you fuckin' want. You can fuck whoever you want. And it'll be your fuckin' business and yours only, you hear?" Ian said. "Like me. I'm living my life the way I want to. I'm doing what I want. I don't know if I'll get everything I want in the end, but it doesn't mean I ain't gonna try. Because it's my fucking life, mine, and I can do whatever the fuck I want with it."
It was quiet for a moment as Ian calmed down a little from his rant and sighed.
"And right now... all I want is for you to be okay." He added quietly, barely audible.
There was a heavy silence, and Mickey's trembling hand moved toward the trigger again, though the movement seemed stiff and forced. Ian looked at his face, though he could barely make out Mickey's profile from this angle.
Finally, Mickey pulled the trigger, but the gun just clicked weakly. The clip was empty. Mickey turned it around in his hand for a minute before he dropped it to the floor, and then moved to squat, running his hands through his hair and then clasping them together behind his head, his face buried against his thighs.
Ian was stunned when Mickey's shoulders began to rise and fall sharply, and it didn't take him long to work out that he was sobbing, albeit silently. Had he done that before? Ian didn't even hear so much as a snivel; it was almost masterfully quiet. He was dying to go over to him, put a hand on his shoulder, tell him everything was fine, or would be, but he figured it was best to just let him get it out as he was. He'd probably be more grateful later on if Ian just pretended it never happened. It was another of their unspoken agreements, and with that, Ian felt the beginnings of normalcy returning.
Once Mickey seemed to go still, Ian walked over to him slowly and touched the back of his head where his hands were clasped together, brushing their fingers together slightly to get his attention. It was their first contact since Mickey had been bent over his couch about to take those fucking Ben Wa beads up his ass. It was a strange comfort, but Ian was careful not to let his hand linger too long, as good as the contact felt, so as not to freak him out.
Mickey rubbed his eyes against the fabric of his jeans aggressively and then turned to look at where Ian had offered his hand. He grabbed hold of it and Ian pulled him up, but the older boy didn't meet his eyes.
Ian gave a small smile and reached into his back pocket for the joint he'd shoved in there earlier. It was the stronger stuff he saved for when he was feeling especially shitty. Like he had been the last few days. He'd gone through two already, but he figured that Mickey needed it more right now. He held it up in front of him with a raised eyebrow and Mickey smirked as he saw it, glanced up at him with what looked like an inkling of his usual mischievous glint, and took it, placing it between his lips and waited as Ian fished out his lighter and lit it for him.
Mickey took a drag and coughed, puffing out a little of the smoke and blinking a few times in surprise, laughing breathlessly. "Fuck, Firecrotch, where the fuck d'you get this shit?" He croaked out tiredly, walking over to the wall and sitting down, leaning his back against it.
Ian smiled. Yeah. Everything would find its way back. Eventually.
Hopefully.