AN: Anything in bold in this fic is something Mickey has put a line through when writing. It won't let me do that on here, so bold will have to do :)
Mickey almost died. And when Mickey almost died, he decided that he was done not really living at all. He had spent all of his time only almost living. He'd been too scared of dying to admit that he wanted anything out of his life, but Mickey had been there now, he'd almost died – he felt like the almosts were important here – and he didn't think it was so fucking bad. At least the next time it happened, or almost happened, he'd actually like to be able to think that he'd done some of the things he'd wanted to do.
There was only really one thing he could think of doing though, one thing that he'd almost done so many times, but always backed out of.
Mickey didn't care how gay or how stupid it was, he wanted to do that whole in love thing, he wanted to be someone's everything, because he almost had been once. And that had felt pretty good, it had almost been more than he'd thought he was capable of handling. Especially since he actually felt shit back.
Typically, Mickey had felt his heart start to beat for someone other than himself and he'd bolted, hoping that it wouldn't do that again. It still did. Still for the same person, who hopefully still have that shit eating grin and those freckles and that red hair. Hopefully, he also wasn't fucking dead since he was in a warzone and all that.
And since Mickey was in the mood to be fucking gay, he copied down the address he knew was scribbled down in the back of his sister's diary, which was hidden in her underwear drawer, because she thought Mickey was too scared of girl's underwear to go in there. They grossed him out, but he wasn't scared of them.
He'd like to say that the lots of lovely, fucking gay words sprung to mind and that he found a lovely nice, crisp piece of paper to write said words on. He'd like to have thought his handwriting was beautiful and that it was the best piece of work he'd ever done.
Except he scribbled it down on a page torn from a book that only had words printed on one side of the last page. He didn't know what the page was, he didn't particularly care. And his handwriting was horrible, because Mickey didn't write often, he didn't like to. His writing was messy and barely even fucking legible to anybody but him no doubt, but it wasn't like he could change that. He had to change pens half way through when the first one ran out, so the colour switched from black to blue. And as for the words, well they weren't exactly sweet or lovely either; but it was still the best piece of work that Mickey had ever done.
One, you better not be fucking dead, cause I don't like writing shit for no reason. And two, if you even think for a fucking second that this makes me all camp and gay and shit, it don't doesn't. I kind of maybe miss you and I don't think it's just cause you're a good fuck or something, cause I kinda miss the fact you fucking talk more than is good for you. Um, so I can't get you out of my fucking head and I think that probably means I love you or something, right? But yeah, you better come the fuck back to Chicago, cause if you die I'll fucking kill myselfyou myself.
Mickey.
He figured that said it all really, even if he had crossed some bits out and accidentally written some things he didn't mean to write, but he'd corrected those so that was alright. He stuffed it inside an envelope, wrote the address as clear as he could and ran to post it before he could lose his fucking nerve.
And then he couldn't change it, could he?
He didn't know why telling the truth seemed more scary than almost dying, but it did. He didn't know how that made sense. He didn't particularly want to, actually.