Ian finds Mickey outside, a little while later. It's cold out, and Mickey's wearing a hat and gloves and he's got his coat collar turned up against the wind. He's smoking, looking up at the sky and deep in thought.
"Hey," Ian greets him, pulling on his own gloves, and Mickey looks down and across at Ian almost at once. "Wondered where you were hiding."
"Could say the same about you," Mickey says pointedly, raising his eyebrows as he takes a final drag on his cigarette and stubs it out, flicking the end into a pot that's perched on the corner of the half wall beside him.
"Yeah, sorry," Ian says, with a sheepish grin. "Mandy got to me first."
"Thought as much," Mickey says. "She rope you into kitchen duty?"
"Nah," Ian shrugs. "Something about avoiding talk about politics and shares."
"Figures," Mickey snorts, and then he meets Ian's eyes. "So, you manage to find your way round the city alone today?" There's a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Yes," Ian says with a roll of his eyes. "I'm pretty sure I can navigate a few stores without someone to hold my hand." OK, so he had gotten lost, but only that one time. And he'd got all the gifts he'd been looking for, so he's pretty sure he can chalk it up as a win.
"Never said you couldn't," Mickey says with a smirk. "Although, I think I'd take the boring-as-shit board meeting I was stuck in over 5th Avenue two weeks before Christmas. It's fucking scary."
"Yeah, it was pretty busy," Ian agrees. "Nothing too bad though." He pauses, and there's silence between them for a moment before he changes the subject. "So, this is like your family home or something then?"
"Yeah, I guess," Mickey says noncommittally. "It's where me and Mandy grew up."
"But you don't live here any more?"
"Not really. Mandy does, but I prefer having my own place. Easier that way." He's casual in the way he shrugs it off, but Ian senses that there's more to it than Mickey's willing to give away. He thinks about what Mandy had told him about their dad; it makes sense that Mickey wouldn't want to stay here.
"Hey," he says, shifting direction a little. "How come Mandy doesn't work for the family company and you do?"
Mickey frowns at him. "Because she didn't want to, that's why."
"And you did?"
The frown deepens, Mickey squinting at him like he's trying to figure out what's going on. "I guess," he says, with a shrug.
"How come?" Ian presses. He's not sure why he's so pushy tonight, but he's suddenly desperate for Mickey to open up, to tell him the same stuff Mandy did, maybe to tell him more than that.
"I don't fucking know," Mickey says, clearly exasperated. "I've got my job and she's got hers, what the fuck does it matter?"
"It matters if you're not doing what you really want to do," Ian says.
Mickey stiffens, and shoots a narrow-eyed glare at him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounded like," Ian says, sticking to his guns.
Mickey's silent for a moment, chewing his lip as he thinks something over. "Mandy put you up to this?" he asks. He's suspicious now, peering in at Ian with his shoulders coiled up like he's ready for a fight.
"No," Ian says. "She'd probably kill me if she knew I was asking, to be honest." He's not joking. He hadn't missed Mandy's protective attitude earlier on, and he's pretty sure that she'd stop at nothing to protect Mickey, the same way Mickey would for her. The same way Ian would for his own siblings.
"Well then," Mickey says, pulling back a little. "What the fuck is all this about?"
"The art gallery," Ian says, improvising a little. It's not a lie, not really. He's had his suspicions since then, it's just that Mandy's already given him the confirmation that now he's asking Mickey for. "When I asked about whether you used to do that kind of thing. Just seemed like maybe it was something you'd given up."
Mickey takes two steps back, and then he swallows hard. "It's not that simple," he says, his voice quiet.
"It can be," Ian says, insistently. "I mean, c'mon. If that's where your heart lies Mickey then you gotta—"
"It's. Not. That. Simple," Mickey says again, enunciating as if he thinks Ian didn't understand him the first time.
"You don't get it—"
"No, you don't get it. Not everyone gets to do that you know. Just be whoever they want." There's something defeated in his tone, like it's an argument he's had with himself so many times already. Ian wants to shake him.
"But you could." Ian realises too late that his voice is raised, that it sounds more like he's mad at Mickey than trying to make the point that he really doesn't have to stick it out in a job he hates if he really doesn't want to. He's suddenly unsure though; thinks that maybe he is mad at Mickey after all. He could have anything he wanted; it's not as if he's short on resources or opportunity. It just seems like such a fucking waste, all round.
Mickey's looking at him like he's lost his mind. Ian wonders if maybe he has. For the life of him he has no idea why this is suddenly so important.
"You could," he says again, calmer this time. "Mickey, you can do whatever you want to. Get someone else to run the company, or delegate stuff more, or sell it even. You don't have to just stick it out because that's what your dad wanted—"
Anger flashes in Mickey's eyes as he advances back towards Ian. "You don't know a fucking thing about my dad," he says, and his voice is almost a growl, but there's hurt there too, and Ian knows he's gone too far. He takes a step towards Mickey, the apology already on his lips, and then Mickey's right in his space and they're both breathing heavily, and Mickey's still glaring at Ian like he might tear him apart.
Ian kisses him.
He's not sure what comes over him, why he does it, but by the time his brain catches up he's got Mickey pressed up against the wall, tongue sliding into his mouth, and there's heat coursing through him despite the cold. He's got one hand on Mickey's hip, pushing him back against the coarse brick work, and the other's on his neck, gloved fingers against Mickey's face, and then Mickey grabs a fistful of Ian's coat and they're rutting against each other until Ian can feel Mickey's erection pressing up against his own through both layers of jeans.
They break apart, and Ian takes a step back as they gasp for breath. Mickey's lips are swollen, an indent in the bottom one where Ian bit down on it, and his cheeks are flushed, his eyes wide and pupils blown. Ian rubs a hand over his face, through his hair, and then takes another step back.
"Shit," he says. "Sorry. I— I shouldn't have done that."
"Oh," Mickey says, and his voice is rough, as if he's just remembered that it works. His breathing is still heavy, and it catches in his chest as he falls quiet.
"No, that's not what I meant," Ian says quickly. "I mean I wanted to. Obviously," he adds wryly, gesturing down at his crotch and then over at Mickey's. "I just— I don't do shit like this any more."
"Oh," Mickey says again, and his tone's different this time, like he's trying to understand even though Ian's pretty sure that he's making no sense.
Ian sits on the little half-wall, and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes as he tries to quell the panic that's bubbling in his gut. He feels like he's about to spill the mother of all secrets, and maybe that's fair given how many of Mickey's he's been given this week, but the thought still has his stomach churning.
He senses, rather than sees, the step Mickey takes towards him and he makes a decision, takes a breath and then looks up.
"I have bipolar disorder," he says, before he changes his mind. Mickey's only reaction is a quick pull together of his eyebrows, and then he just waits for Ian to continue. "It's under control now," Ian says. "Mostly, anyway. But before, when I didn't know what was wrong, I did a lot of stuff I shouldn't have. I was reckless, impulsive. I have to be careful not to let that happen again."
Mickey nods slowly, thinking, and then sits next to Ian on the wall. "Ok," he says. "And this, what just happened. That was—?"
"Definitely impulsive," Ian says with a laugh, and he's relieved when Mickey laughs too.
There's silence for a minute, and then Mickey looks across at him, rubbing his thumb over his lip. "So, um. How long?" he asks. "I mean, how long have you had it, or known about it, or whatever." He stops, dropping his eyes for a minute. "You don't have to say, if you don't want to talk about it or—"
"No, it's fine," Ian says, cutting him off, and he's surprised to find that he means it, that it does feel fine. "It's hard to say though, I guess. I mean, it's genetic, so maybe it's always been there?" Mickey nods, and Ian takes a moment to think over what he wants to say next. "But I think maybe it started after my mom died. She— She killed herself a few years ago. At Thanksgiving."
"Shit," Mickey says. "That's rough, man. Sorry, I didn't mean to drag stuff up."
"You didn't," Ian says with a shrug. "It was a long time ago. Feels even longer than it is. She had bipolar too, and she didn't always take her meds like she was supposed to. Frank didn't really help there. She used to leave, sometimes for years, and then she'd come back like nothing had happened. And it'd be fine, until it wasn't. Until she stole our money or wrecked the house." He pauses, swallows away the lump in his throat that always seems to show up when he thinks about Monica, about the way she'd been, about how for the longest time he'd thought that he was going to turn out just the same.
"The last time she came back it was just the same as always. She played super-Mom, and then she was manic and stole all our money, got high with Frank, crashed the car with Carl in it and tried to palm him off as the driver. And then she was low, and she wouldn't get out of bed, until Frank made her. And then she slit her wrists in the kitchen, and she was gone."
Mickey reaches over and pats him awkwardly on the shoulder, and Ian has to stifle the nervous laugh threatening to bubble out. He sniffs, and then takes a deep breath to continue.
"After she died, it was hard for all of us for a while. It shouldn't have made a difference really, she'd been gone so long that we worked better without her, but I guess her being dead was just different. Fiona was trying to keep on top of everything, and Frank was causing trouble. Lip was refusing to go to school, Carl and Debbie were acting out, it was a mess. I don't think she even noticed that I wasn't getting out of bed until I started staying up all night instead, and I guess she just figured that maybe I was getting over it."
"But you weren't?" Mickey's voice is soft, unthreatening. It's like he's just talking to remind Ian that he's there, rather than because the question needs answering.
"No," Ian says simply. "I wasn't. I was…really messed up. I did a lot of really stupid shit. But things levelled out again, and I thought I was ok. Then I stole Lip's identity and joined the army." Mickey blinks at him, as though he thinks he's misheard somehow, and Ian laughs. "Honestly, I did. I think I was tired of waiting around to live my life how I wanted. That was the logic I told myself, anyway."
"I'm guessing that didn't work out," Mickey says dryly.
"Yeah, turns out a manic 17-year-old isn't really the ideal solider," Ian says. "I went AWOL, and went back to Chicago. Slept rough for a while, and then eventually Lip found me and took me home. Fiona pawned a bunch of stuff and took me to a doctor, and that's how we found out, although I think she'd already figured it out by then. I had to go to therapy for a while, and they put me on meds. Gave me all this lifestyle advice to keep me balanced. Took a while, but I'm mostly ok these days."
"Except for making out with guys you hate in their backyard?" Mickey asks lightly.
"I don't hate you," Ian says, smiling. "And it doesn't mean I'm not ok. It just— I don't like it when I'm reckless. When I'm not in control. It takes me back there, you know?"
"Yeah, I can get that," Mickey says with a nod. "Makes sense."
"And I'm sorry, for all that shit I said before. You were right. I don't even know you really, it's none of my business where you work, or what you do, or—"
"Look," Mickey says, cutting him off. "You were right, ok? Yeah I used to draw and stuff, and I thought maybe I could do something with it. And maybe I could've. But that's not how shit worked out. And maybe the business isn't my dream or anything, but my dad, and my granddad, they worked their whole lives to build it up. I can't just walk away from it. I can't."
"I get that," Ian says. "Kinda admire it, actually."
"Yeah?" Mickey asks, looking sceptical.
"Yeah," Ian says. "Takes a lot to work hard at something when it's not the thing you love."
"I guess," Mickey says reluctantly, and then looks across at Ian. "Takes more to lose your dream and not give up."
Ian smiles. "Look at us," he says. "Six months ago, who'd have thought we could actually have a civil conversation?"
Mickey opens his mouth to reply, but before he can say anything Mandy appears behind him. She looks between them for a moment, like she knows something's shifted but can't quite figure it out.
"Dinner's ready," she says eventually. "You two should get inside, it's fucking freezing out here."
Ian's awoken the next morning by the sound of his phone ringing. He's disoriented for a moment, blinking blearily at the screen until he makes out Lip's name. He answers it just before the voicemail kicks in, and before he's mumbled out a greeting Lip's talking over him.
"About fucking time. I've been calling you for hours man."
Ian makes a sound that's half-conciliatory and half-confused. "I was sleeping," he says, and then quickly pulls the phone from his ear to check the time. It's eight-thirty, which is later than normal for him but not that bad.
"Yeah, well it's fucking important," Lip says.
Ian sits up, the urgency in his brother's voice leaving a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. "What's happened?"
"Carl's in jail."
As Lip talks, the sick feeling in Ian's stomach grows until he's full-on nauseous. He's not sure if it's anger or fear or guilt or all three, but he's not sure it even matters. He hangs up, promising Lip that he and Clayton will be on the next flight home, and he's pulling his duffle onto the bed when there's a knock at the door.
It's Mickey, hair damp and dressed smarter than his usual smart-casual. He smiles when Ian opens the door, and Ian recognises the blue shirt he's wearing from the disastrous dinner at Jimmy's last summer.
"Hey," Mickey says, sounding a little like he might have practised a few times. "I thought maybe we could get breakfast or…" He tails off as he takes in the look on Ian's face, the half-packed duffle bag on the bed behind him. "What's going on?"
Somehow, the sick feeling grows even more, and Ian stands in shell-shocked silence until Mickey takes it upon himself to step inside the room and close the door behind him. Ian sinks down onto the bed, staring at his hands, and Mickey clears his throat.
"Hey," he says softly. "You doing ok there?" Ian swallows and nods, but somehow the nod turns into a shake. "Didn't think so," Mickey says. He heads to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water and opens it, handing it to Ian. Ian takes a drink, on auto-pilot more than anything. Mickey shifts awkwardly. "Is this your bipolar thing?" he asks. "Do you need a pill or something?"
Ian laughs despite himself; a weird, choking sound that on second thoughts might be more of a sob. "That'd be too easy," he says, his voice tight. The look of concern on Mickey's face deepens. "I've just had some…some bad news, that's all," Ian continues. "About my brother, Carl. He's 17. He was arrested last night, possession with intent."
"Fuck," Mickey says, and Ian nods.
"Yeah. Lip—" He has to stop, choking on the words that are coming next. "Lip says it was something to do with Robbie, I'm not sure how." A shadow passes Mickey's face at the mention of Robbie's name, an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, a darkening of his eyes, and Ian can't help but think about how this will only serve to cement his views about Ian's family, about Ian. About how all the progress they'd made this week will be for nothing now; how whatever Ian had been thinking, been feeling, won't matter any more.
"OK, did your brother say anything else?" Mickey seems almost brusque now, collected and business-like as he quizzes Ian.
"Um, that the DA wants to charge him as an adult. He's almost 18, and he's already got a record. They want to make an example of him." Ian sniffs, squeezes his eyes closed for a minute. He thinks about how hard Carl's worked this year, how close he'd been to having his record wiped. "This is my fault," he says softly. "I should've told them about Robbie. I should've warned them. I just— I had no idea he'd do something like this. Carl— Shit, Carl could go to jail for years, Mickey."
Mickey crouches down in front of him, grips Ian's shoulders hard. "You couldn't have known," he says firmly. "Fuck knows why that guy pulls half the shit he does, but there's no way you could've known, Ian."
Ian nods, and then stands up. "I need to, um. I need to go home," he says. "Clayton's a lawyer, and all Carl's got just now is the shitty public defender they assigned to him last night. Lip says that maybe with a good lawyer we could get the sentence reduced."
"Of course," Mickey says. "You need me to get you fresh tickets? I can call now and—"
"No," Ian says quickly. Whatever else happens, he's not going to leave New York somehow indebted to Mickey. "I'm pretty sure Clayton can sort it all out, I just— I need to call him and then pack my stuff. We need to be going as quickly as we can."
"OK," Mickey says. "Well, in that case. I'll just get out of your way then."
"Thank you," Ian says softly, and Mickey nods, and then he turns and leaves without another word.
Ian watches after him for a moment. He's pretty sure that he's never going to see him again, and the thought bothers him far more than it should.
He shakes it off, because right now he can't do that, can't think about Mickey and missed chances. Instead, he calls Clayton, and then he finishes packing, and he thinks about Carl and he wonders how the hell they're going to get out of this one.