Ian has seen Mickey sleep only twice. The first was right before their first time. Mickey, sprawled out on top of his blankets, still fully-clothed. Ian didn't think about how peaceful he might have looked, wasn't close enough to see whether the worry lines on his face had flattened out or what he might look like without that smirk or that frown he wears like armour. Ian didn't question prodding him with that tire-iron and waking him up. It didn't matter.
...
The second time was kind of like a first time, too. It was the first time Mickey had asked him round his house, the first time they'd had the place to themselves to fuck as loud and as carefree as they wanted, to walk around naked, to watch shitty action movies on the couch sharing beers and unsubtle glances.
The bed was small, Ian could remember that from the last time he was in it. Cramped and not exactly comfortable. Except when he and Mickey climbed in, it felt sort of right; to be so close just because.
Mickey had turned to face the wall, said, "If I wake up in the middle of the night and you're fuckin' spoonin' me, I'll kick you outta bed", and Ian smiled up at the ceiling. Mickey fell asleep fast, much to Ian's surprise. He thought he'd be a light sleeper; tossing and turning before finally stilling.
But Mickey was out in a matter of seconds, and Ian watched his face even out and relax. It was a face he'd never seen before, so different to the ones he was used to seeing Mickey wear. There was no angry, tense turning of his lips, no sarcastic raise of an eyebrow. Ian wondered if this was what Mickey looked like before he grew up, before he had to become the kind of person who scares people.
Ian could see the sprinkling of freckles over his nose and cheeks. He'd never noticed them before; they'd never been that close before, when they fucked they never got this close.
And he woke up to Mickey sucking a hickey into the skin over his ribs and let himself think that maybe this was perfect. That waking up with Mickey in bed was exactly what he needed. He, naïvely, let himself believe that they could have more of this. Of them.
But of course things turned to shit. Of course Terry walked in on them and turned Mickey into an unconcious mess of blood and bruises. Like he'd fallen into the worst kind of slumber.
And Ian couldn't look, couldn't watch Mickey sit there like he was already dead and he couldn't watch him fuck her just so he wouldn't die.
...
Sometimes, when Ian didn't have dreams involving blood and punches and guns, he dreamt of Mickey. They weren't sex dreams, not like how they used to be; he didn't wake up painfully hard.
He dreamt of simple things, like watching tv together and going to games. Mickey would say, "This shit is so fuckin' gay", but he'd still do it and he'd smile when he didn't think Ian could see. And they'd kiss sometimes. Deep and messy and perfect.
The night before the wedding, Ian dreamt of Mickey sleeping. They were in Ian's bedroom and Mickey just fit. He looked like he belonged, like he was home.
When Ian woke up, he was hit with the realisation that Mickey had never even been in his room before. He'd never had the chance to see Carl's shrine to Jessica Alba or the weird posters and artwork on the walls. He'd never tripped over any of Liam's stray toys or Carl's headless Barbies.
...
He's sober now and it's funny because the alcohol didn't numb anything.
Lip sits on the top bunk, smoking. He'd told Carl to take his room. Ian said he didn't need a babysitter but Lip is looking down at him, staring, so clearly he didn't agree.
"You still feeling like shit?" he asks.
Ian pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales. "No," he says, because Lip is asking if he still feels like he going to throw up - which he doesn't - not if he still feels awful about Mickey marrying some random hooker - which he does - because Lip obviously already knows the answer to that.
He closes his eyes and all he can see is Mickey in that tux, saying vows to the same woman who fucked him whilst he was pale-faced and bloody. And maybe it's wrong to blame her when it Terry's fault, when he's the one who told her to "ride him 'til he likes it"; she was only doing her job.
But Ian does hate her. He hates her so fucking much because she's going to get to wake up beside him and watch him sleep and she will never know how lucky she is.
Ian has seen Mickey sleep only twice. And he probably won't ever get to again.