Feelings
Mickey didn't talk about his feelings. That was not something a Milkovich did. He didn't talk about them, but that didn't mean he didn't have any feelings.
It was almost morning, and Ian was late getting home from the club. Mickey had woken up some time around 4am, feeling like something was missing, and upon turning around in their bed, realized it was the redhead.
He spent the next hour pretending it didn't bother him—telling himself that he was overreacting, worrying for no reason—but that was a fucking lie.
He finally got up and went to the bathroom. He swung the medicine cabinet open and reached for the bottle of pills in the bottom left corner. He pushed down on the cap and twisted it open, then poured out the contents into his palm. He returned the white, oval pills into the bottle one by one as he counted them: twenty-seven.
He closed the cap and returned the bottle to it's spot, turning it so that the label was facing the wall, just like it always did. He guilty closed the medicine cabinet and returned to bed.
Half an hour later, he felt the mattress shift as Ian got into bed and shimmied closer behind Mickey. He felt the warmth of Ian's bare stomach on his back, followed by a wet kiss on his shoulder as the younger boy slid his arm around Mickey's waist and snuggled close, tangling their legs together. He was flooded with waves of relief, anger and sadness, in that order.
Neither of them said a thing. Mickey fell asleep not too long afterwards, knowing Ian would never explain why he'd been late or where he'd been because Mickey would never ask.
They didn't talk about feelings.