Trigger Warnings (sort of spoilery): spiralling negative thoughts, sort of wishing for death, being drugged, sort of low-key held hostage. Story will still pretty much make sense if this chapter is skipped.

Ian fidgeted. He looked around the room as if there was something in there that would help him make Branford believe he was serious. The front room of the apartment held two leather sofas facing each other, and a heavy cherry coffee table between them littered with drug paraphernalia, and a big screen TV on mute. There was a bathroom just off the front room, and a bedroom in the back. Ian was hoping he wouldn't have to see the bedroom this time. The door guy had been told to wait in the hallway, and so far Ian wasn't sure if that was because Branford wanted to beg him to stay, rough him up, or fuck him.

He felt pretty stupid for coming at all. Branford owed him money, and he'd wanted to get every bit of money he could before he made a fresh start, but he saw now that he should have just called the money a loss. Branford had been nice so far, but having just been living with someone who loved him, it was all too obvious to Ian that Branford didn't give a shit about him beyond what he could be used for.

He missed Mickey already.

Mickey's better off without you, he reminded himself. All Ian ever did was cause other people pain. Mickey had been this upstanding citizen, and Ian hadn't even had to be conscious to make Mickey turn into a criminal again. He never should have let Mickey lie to his employer about their relationship. He never should have fallen back in love with Yevgeny. Or with Mickey, for that matter. And he never should have sold his—

"Shit," he said.

"What?" Branford asked. He was rolling a joint. Probably thought he was being sexy. Ian didn't want any of the joint, especially since Branford usually laced joints coke. If Ian had coke he'd end up in bed with Branford, and that wasn't why he was there.

"I can't come back and work for you anyway. I sold all my suits. It would be a big investment to get me more clothes, Bran. I probably should just cash in the scholarship and go," Ian said. For some reason he wasn't ready to go back to the Gallagher's house. He knew Mickey had told them that he'd been accepted into this new experimental treatment program, and they'd be so disappointed that he quit. He would go back, once he got himself right. He'd go to the free clinic and get himself sorted out, and then he'd go back home in a few weeks.

"I told you you were always welcome here, whether you were working for me or not. Just relax. Have a drink," Branford said.

Ian pretended to take a sip, for some reason convinced that Branford had drugged his drink. Well, it wouldn't be the first time. Branford considered his 'boys' to be his property, and considered most drugs to be social lubrication. He felt like it was his right to use social lubrication on his property to get whatever effect he wanted. The first thing he'd said to Ian was that he needed to relax. Hell, the first time they'd met he'd roofied Ian. Ian shook his head. "I came here for one reason, Branford. The scholarship fund. You said that every fifth client you took the money and put it away for me. There should be a lot of dough in that account. I mean, a lot. I just want the money."

"It's too early to cash it in, Ian," Branford said. "Come on. You made a commitment to me to work for me until you were twenty-five. You can still start school at twenty-five. Lots of people do."

"It's not like we had a contract, Bran. If you're not going to give me the money, that's fine. Just fucking tell me and I'll get out of here. I've never heard of anyone actually getting the money in the end, so it's not like it's a big surprise. You can be honest."

Branford's expression hardened. "Drink your cocktail, Ian. For god's sake. You want to talk to me about being cheated? You think I cheated you out of that money? I did so much for you, Ian. I introduced you to the most fabulous clients, and you couldn't even be bothered to call them back or treat them right."

Ian looked at his feet. He'd never told Branford that he had a mental illness, but he was pretty sure all the boys had something about them that made them vulnerable; they'd been abused, or lived on the streets, or had a mental illness like Ian. There were a very few men like Julian, who saw the job as an opportunity to go to school and graduate without debt. Most guys who were stable and whole would get a loan or something.

"I'm sorry, Branford. It's hard for me to be…I'm not reliable," he said.

"That's why this time I'm going to keep a much closer eye on you. I have an apartment vacant that you can use. You'll go where I tell you and do what I tell you, and you'll make us both a mint."

"Branford, I'm not interested in that kind of job," Ian said. "I don't want to do this anymore." There was something inside of Ian that realized that if he went from Mickey's lovely apartment to some fuck palace of Branford's, he'd break. Mickey wouldn't ever trust him again so he couldn't even pretend that one day he'd be able to win him back, the way he'd been secretly dreaming about for years. He'd already burned all his bridges with his family. Maybe it was better if he broke. Maybe Branford was all he deserved. Breaking probably wouldn't hurt as much as hoping Mickey would take him back and being wrong. After all, Mickey had never said he wanted Ian. Not the Ian he knew now; the one who fucked guys for money and hadn't talked to his family in years; the Ian who didn't even stay loyal to his friends.

Absently, he took a drink, sinking so low into his funk that he no longer cared if it was drugged.

"That's it, baby, just drink the whiskey and relax," Branford said.

Ian giggled. Either it was drugged or the whiskey was eighty-proof, because his head swam after a small swig. Branford finally finished the perfect roll and he lit the joint. Branford moved closer to Ian on the sofa; so close the pot smoke made his eyes water.

"Take a hit, babe," Branford said.

"Nah," Ian said. "I don't wanna."

He successfully pushed Branford's hand away, Branford laughing and telling him he didn't know what he was missing.

But he did know what he was missing. Mickey. Yevgeny. The bipolar program. His family. Getting a good job. Was he such a tragic case he was going to turn out just like his mother? He didn't want to live from one hit to the next. From one mistake to the next.

"Alright, well, you know my good boys smoke for free," Branford said, nuzzling Ian's neck. Despite himself Ian felt his body respond to Branford. He was handsome, familiar, and Ian hadn't been laid since he'd moved in with Mickey. Even as he felt a slow bloom of arousal, the thought of Mickey tamped it down and made Ian push Branford away.

"I'm not one of your boys anymore. If you don't want to give me the money just say it," Ian said.

"You're my boy, babe. You'll always be my boy. I'm the one who tells you when I don't want you anymore, and I think I'll want you for some time, babe."

"Just fucking tell me! There's no money, is there?" Ian asked.

"You get the money when you're used up you stupid prick. You're still an earner, and if I supervise you closer this time, you'll be an even bigger earner. So just shut the fuck up about leaving. It's not happening."

Ian absorbed this news, wondering what Branford had drugged his drink with. He felt relaxed and sleepy; if he didn't know Branford was trying to control his life, and possibly even confine him against his will, he'd find the feeling pretty pleasant. He could probably put his finger down his throat and negate the effect somewhat—no, if drugs are absorbed in alcohol they go right into your blood stream, right? Ian tried to think through the mind fog. He didn't know. Inducing vomiting worked on household cleaning products, according to their labels. It should work for drugs.

Ian struggled into a standing position and wobbled slightly. "I'll be leaving, Bran. Let me fucking go. You don't want to keep me here against my will. I have people who care about me."

Branford pushed him back on the sofa. "Come on, Ian. Let's fuck, for old time's sake."

"I don't want to," Ian said.

"You're sleeping in my bed tonight. You might be lucky, and I'll be too fucked out from going out to the club tonight to bother with you. But if I'm horny and I lie down in this bed, you're going to suck me or fuck me or take my dick like the champion bottom I know you can be, babe. You're my boy, Ian. Don't you fucking forget it," Branford said.

He let himself be led into the bedroom and laid down. Branford moved around the room getting ready to go out, and Ian heard him mumbling into his phone.

As Ian drifted towards unconsciousness, he thought about how he'd gotten here. He wanted to stop being a burden to Mickey. Mickey wasn't getting anything out of Ian camping out at his apartment and feeding off of him like a parasite. Ian wasn't his boyfriend and Mickey wasn't enough of a creep to take sex in return for taking care of Ian (Ian had even offered). He was too needy to even really be Mickey's friend. He was too useless and fragile to even do the dishes.

For the first time since he'd left Mickey's place, Ian allowed himself to imagine what Mickey would think when he walked in the door to his apartment and saw Ian gone. He would think Ian had just stepped out until he saw the key on the table, and then he'd know. Ian was certain, no matter how embarrassing it would be to tell his coworkers the wedding was off, the emotion Mickey would have chiefly felt was relief. Mickey did great without him and always had. How many times had Mickey been shot or gotten in trouble because of Ian? He'd always been better off without him. The next time Ian saw Mickey, he'd probably have a house and a husband and every good thing he wanted.

But if Ian was really honest with himself, he knew that Mickey wouldn't be entirely relieved. Not yet. That would come with time. Mickey would feel like Ian had betrayed him. He would feel guilty and sad and like the biggest fool in the world for even trying with him. Mickey would be hurt and he knew what Mickey hurt looked like. He remembered the look in his eyes when he'd told Mickey they were over. Sometimes he's not sure how he had the strength to say the words, seeing the pain in his eyes.

But then causing people pain was something that Ian was good at.

That's what Ian wished for Mickey, anyway. The house and the great kid and someone to love him as much as Ian did, but better, because this better man Mickey would find would have something to give. He wouldn't just take all the time like Ian. Shit, like any of the Gallaghers. And maybe Ian would be really lucky and would never have to see Mickey again that way; maybe he would never have to see him look at someone else the way he used to look at Ian.

Hell, the last time Branford had drugged him, he'd nearly died. Maybe he'd be lucky enough not to survive the night.