Mickey now spent way too much time with old toothbrushes, combs and screwdrivers.

If he wasn't using the manually sharpened weapons to stick in some mick's eye, then he usually just twirled it around in his hands and watched the wall like it was playing a fuckin' feature film

He thought about Ian a lot. Too much, probably. But what other choice did he have?

Ian hadn't been back to visit him since that time with Svetlana and the kid. He remembered the way Ian had said, "Svetlana paid me to come," and tried not to remember the way he almost wished Ian had been holding one of these screwdrivers, because that stabbing would probably have hurt less.

He worried, mostly. Of course, he had a lot to worry about in the joint, including protecting himself from the friends of all the people he'd already been paid to take care of. The upside was the Terry, Mickey's useless fuckhead of a father, was transferred to a different, higher-security prison before Mickey had arrived at this one. Also, because of his, um, job, he'd made a few allies, people he'd helped.

He had friends in the kitchen who made sure he got the good stuff, the top of the pile, not the bottom. He ate alone mostly, and worked on cars for part of the day in the auto shop—one of the other guys who worked there gave pen-ink tattoos, and Mickey had gotten a couple, including Ian's (misspelled) name. His roommate, whose name was apparently Sal, if Mickey'd interpreted the grunts right, was mostly silent and didn't bug him. He had guards on the payroll of someone other than the state, who'd look away when Mickey carried out his business.

All things considered, it could be worse.

He'd be out in fifteen years, eight with overcrowding.

And Ian said he'd wait. It was a fuckin lie and they both knew it, but he said he'd wait. And, despite everything, despite looking like a cracking clay statue, despite breaking up with him and refusing to come see him, Mickey knew how Ian felt. They loved each other, in a complete full-body way, in a way that Mickey didn't even believe could exist until some gangly red-head with a pension for fucking up stumbled his way into his life.

So, even if he wouldn't wait, he wouldn't move on. They'd end up together, there was no doubt in Mickey's mind. They belong together, they just do.

Today, Mickey lays on his bunk. Svet hasn't visited in a couple weeks, and he'd carried out his last job. It sometimes takes her a while to get him a new one.

So you can imagine the surprise when his cell door creaked open, and the gruff voice of one of the guards cut through the silence. "Milkovich," the guy barked, and Mickey thought he sounded a lot like a fucking rottweiler. "You've got a visitor."

Eyebrows raising, he climbed off of his bunk and began exiting. There was only two guards, one behind him and one in front. Mickey was always on lookout for exits and weaknesses in the prison, just in case he had to escape one day—he'd be the world's worst liar if he ever tried to tell you he hadn't considered doing it.

They weren't leading him to the phones, this time. Svetlana didn't usually like to come to visiting center, where the prisoner could actually (briefly) touch their guest, because she wanted to keep all the creeps away from Yvgenny. So either she'd left the rugrat at home, or it was someone else.

The first guard, the one who'd called his name, opened the door, and Mickey's heart dropped into his guts, a bowling ball on strings.

He saw the hair first, the flaming red that he'd spent hours running his fingers through. He was sitting quite still, all of his jaw muscles visible through his pale skin. He really did look like a statue, like on of those old paintings of angels in the history books Mickey had never bothered to read. Fuckin alien looking, Mickey remembered calling Ian once. The boy was too beautiful to be of this world.

How could anyone notice other people with Ian around?

Bastard.

Mickey noticed he hadn't moved yet, and began slowly walking over. Finally, Ian looked up, and, for a second, Mickey saw light flicker behind his eyes but, like a lighter in a windstorm, it was out before he could blink.

Mickey tried not to remember how Ian's face used to light up like a streetlight, the slanted smile cracking his face in two whenever Mickey walked in a room.

Ian stands up, and Mickey takes this as all the permission he needs, and quickly wraps his arms around Ian's neck, pulling him close. Immediately, Mickey knew it was a mistake; not only does Ian freeze, his familiar muscles becoming hard and still under Mickey's touch, but Mick can't help but think that he smells the same. He smells like Ian, like home. It's almost too easy to forget where they are, to forget that Ian doesn't hug him back.

The inmates are permitted up to a ten-second hug at the beginning of the visit. Mickey pulls back after five.

They're also permitted a kiss.

Mickey doesn't try it.

They sit down at opposite sides of the table, and Ian keeps his hands clasped in front of him. It's painfully like the last visit; Ian avoids making eye contact.

"You look . . ." Mickey begins, but decides to let Ian fill in the blanks. It's the first thing he said to him last time, too: You look good. "Decide to take your meds after all?"

Ian's nostrils flare, the veins in his arms sticking out just a little more. "You sound like fucking Fiona," he grumbled.

"Sorry," Mickey responded, knowing it wasn't a compliment. "Svetlana pay you to come see me again?"

He didn't answer for a moment. "Nah," he said finally, sitting back in the chair, finally looking at Mickey. "I'm here on my own, this time."

Mickey couldn't keep the dopey smile off his face. His adoration for Ian was borderline humiliating, but he couldn't shake it or bring himself to hide it, not anymore.

"So you're alright?" Mickey asked. "With . . . everything?"

Ian's nostrils didn't flare this time, but the anger was still there.

"Sorry," Mickey said again, although this time he almost didn't know why. "I know you don't like me checking up on you."

"It's not your job to take care of me, Mickey," he growls, leaning forward a bit. There's anger, yes, but it's wet; behind the clenched teeth and white knuckles, he's holding back tears, and it rips at Mickey's chest. "It never was." His tone cools off.

"I know it's not my job," Mickey hissed back, leaning forward further, hands now splayed on the table. "It doesn't mean I don't stop worrying about you. Just because I'm in here. Just because we're. . ." he didn't know what to call it. He couldn't say "broken up". He couldn't. "It doesn't mean I don't think about you."

"I know," Ian said quietly, "and I really wish you would stop." And it was a lie. Because it had to be.

He said it like Mickey had some kind of fucking choice. Like he could wake up tomorrow and get over Ian, like it wouldn't be easier to gnaw off his own arm, like it wouldn't be simpler to reach inside his own fucking ribcage and hold up his dead heart. Like he could erase Ian from his mind, like he wasn't the only fucking thing on it.

"You think if I could figure out how to stop thinking about you, I wouldn't have already done that by now?" Again, Ian looks away, this time at the floor. "This wasn't the plan you know, Ian, loving you this fucking much wasn't the plan. I didn't ask for a bat-shit crazy redhead to speed through my life like a fucking tornado." Ian remains silent.

Sighing, Mickey continues, "Look, man, I'm sorry." He reaches his hand out to wrap it around Ian's clenched fist but doesn't quite get there before a guard barks out "No touching!" He pulls back. "I love you, okay, you dumb fucker? That's not changing. And when I get out—"

"I'm with someone."

Ice ran through his veins like it was shot into him with a syringe. A bitterness like sour milk filled his mouth, threatened to spill through his teeth.

He hadn't expected Ian to be celibate, that wasn't him. He'd expected this. He was ready for it.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly. "It's not . . ." his voice was so close to cracking. He took a deep breath. "It's not serious?"

"It is." Ian's hands were off the table, and he seemed to be scooting further and further back. "He loves me. He asked me to move in with him."

Mickey suddenly wishes he had his screwdriver now, so that he could hand it to Ian. Let him finish the job.

"And do you . . ." Mickey clears his throat. "Do you love him?"

He's not sure why he asks it. Like somehow Ian will deny loving the other man, tell him Mickey's the only one for him.

He doesn't.

"Yes."

Mickey closes his eyes, points his head to side to hide his expression from Ian. It doesn't do much, though; a blind man would be able to see how Ian's completely annihilating him.

"What's his name?" Mickey asks, and has to repeat himself, because he didn't actually ask the first time. His mouth wouldn't form the words.

Ian looks suspicious, like maybe he shouldn't give away that information (smart man), but eventually says, "Caleb." Then, after a beat, "I'm training to become a firefighter. He's one, too."

Mickey was trying to picture Ian in uniform, but kept getting distracted by the words Caleb the firefighter.

Then, embarrassingly, pathetically, Mickey whispered, "You said you'd wait." His voice broke halfway through and it was all his strength to not start fucking crying in a room full of prisoners.

Ian doesn't point out that it was a lie, that he only said it after Mickey told him to lie, that he had broken up with him before Mickey had even got arrested. He just says, "I know." He takes a deep breath. "I just didn't want you to hear it from someone else."

Like anyone else would risk giving him that news.

Ian stayed for a few more minutes. Maybe five, maybe twenty. Mickey honestly couldn't tell you when he left, if they hugged before he left (though he was almost sure they didn't), or if they had even said goodbye.

On the way back to the cell, all he could think was "Caleb the firefighter."

Lying down in his bed, fiddling with his shank: Caleb the firefighter.

The next meal, staring blankly at his tray of mush: Caleb the firefighter.

Caleb the fucking firefighter.

It was time to call Iggy.