I'm standing in front of my filthy bathroom mirror. One more pep talk before I head for the Gallagher house. "I don't care if Ian is still zombie'd the fuck out, or he gets pissed and throws shit at your head, Okay?" I tell myself. "I don't care if he's drooling on his shoes and talking to the fuckin' wall, your ass stays put no matter what!" I point at my reflection and stare hard. "No matter what." Okay. I'm on this shit. Ready, set, dive. Deep end, motherfucker.
I fist-bump my reflection and leave.
The whole way to the Gallagher house I'm bracing myself for anything, from letting him hit me a buncha times, to being cussed out, to being totally ignored. Who knows. The only scenarios I don't consider are ones that end with me going back to my place. Every pig in America will take flight before that fuckin' happens.
He's in bed facing away from me when I step in the room. I don't say anything until I'm close enough to see that his eyes are open. And when I do speak up, I keep it simple. "Hey." I'm ready to be ignored. I'll either curl up next to him without another word, big-spoon style, or hell, sleep on the floor if he shoves me away. I don't care. When he rolls over to look at me, it's better than I hoped for. He's there. Kinda. There enough, anyhow. He's looking at me, not through me. Whatever, I'll fuckin' take it.
"Sorry I'm late."
He doesn't say anything back, so I gotta read body language to work out how he feels about me being here. Relieved, I think as he settles back into his pillow, still looking at me. At me. Not through me. It's a really fucking important difference. All things considered, this is going a lot better than the scenarios I braced myself for on the walk over.
I'm facing this shit, I think as I climb into his tiny-ass twin bed. I made it through the front door, up the stairs, into his room, and now I'm finally next to him again. Yeah, he's still pretty fuckin' obviously got problems, but at least he's aware. At least he wants me here. I know he does, I can feel it. I touch his face, and prop myself up enough to kiss his forehead. I love you. I'll take care of you. We'll be fine. That's what I keep thinking it as his eyes flutter closed. We'll be fine, we'll be fine, we'll be fine . . .
It's several hours before I fall asleep, but I'm not trying to. I'm busy watching my boyfriend sleep. I snuggle close and stroke his hair when he squirms, and think about how hard I'm gonna kick ass dealing with this whole bipolar thing. I'm gonna be a rock star partner, Ian. I think, proud of myself. I'm not gonna let you down, or break, or run away, or let you give up, or . . .
. . . I dream about cartoon squirrels taking over the government.
"MPs!"
Huh? "Huh?" It's morning, and Ian is looking out the window through the blinds.
"They're coming! Wake up!"
"What are you talkin' about? Come back to bed."
"No, I can't let them get in the house!"
He runs outta the room in a panic, and I know I've just clocked in for work. Stay calm, I tell myself as my feet hit the floor. Don't get in his face unless you have to. Obviously he's having a delusion, but getting mad or calling him crazy doesn't feel like the way to go. Even if it did snap him out of the delusion part, he'd feel attacked, and that's not what I want. This is straight up guess work right now. I'm trial-and-error-ing my way through how to handle a manic episode, and hoping for the best. What the fuck else can I do?
By the time I get downstairs, he's at the back door clutching a baseball bat, telling Fiona they're gonna take him away.
"No one is comin' for you!" Facts, I think. Just state facts. Before I can say anything else the bathroom door opens, and Ian takes a big swing. Lucky for Deb, the bat hits the door instead of her head. I'm relieved when Ian freezes, obviously fuckin' shocked. It means he's aware thatit's Deb standing in front of him, and not some menacing army dude. Who knows how deep a delusion can get, right?
As long as he's kinda back to reality, I figure now's the time to step in.
"Hey," I get between him and Deb, and take the bat out of his hand. "Hey, there is nobody out there, fucking look!" He jumps away when I unlatch the door and swing it open. Then I take his arm and head for the front door. He's still scared, breathing hard and all that, but he is letting me lead him without a fight. "Look." I open the door and step aside. He stands in the doorway, looking out at the normal, non-threatening street, and I watch him absorb what's just happened.
He steps back and I shut the door. "We gotta get you to a fuckin' clinic, get some meds. Today."
Frank chimes in with "Don't do it," but Fiona tells him to shut up, which is way more polite than the 'zip your fucking mouth, y'dumb drunktard,' I was gonna go with.
Ian stands there all quiet, and his eyes slide from Deb, to Fiona, to me. The look on his face is like . . . it's beyond just guilt about attacking Deb. He feels foolish, I can see it. 'Delusion' in his mind equals 'I'm a moron.' I'm sure that's what he's thinking. I step close, tell him it's gonna be okay, and we head upstairs to get dressed.
"I'm sorry, Mickey." he says as soon as the bedroom door closes behind us. "I don't know why I thought-"
"Not your fault." I cut him off.
"But I feel so stupid." His voice shakes and his eyes are welling up.
I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him close. "It's the disease, Ian. Not your fuckin' fault. No one thinks you're stupid. And guess what?" I nuzzle him and dust little kisses on his mouth.
"Hm?" He asks, somewhat responding to each kiss. Not by a whole lot, but hey. We're out of the zombie zone, at least.
"Meds," I say with a little smile. "Meds are what's up, Gallagher. We go get you hooked up with some treatment, and we're all set. I'll even buy us breakfast after."
"Yeah," he sighs as his face gets all red, "or you could just date a regular, healthy guy."
"Don't fuckin' talk like that!" I say, kinda snapping at him, which I didn't mean to do. Too late.
"Why not, Mick? It'd be so much easier . . . " his voice trails off, and I freeze up. He's about to full-on cry, and I don't know how to handle it. "You don't need this bullshit . . .
. . . and here come the tears. Fuck!
Normally I'd just tell him to stop crying 'cause there's no reason, we're fine, but right now I'm pretty sure it would make him feel even worse. Like I think all of his feelings are stupid or something. So what do I say then? I'm floundering here, and I know it. Get your shit together, Mickey!
I put a hand on his chest, over his heart, and slide my other arm around his neck. "Ian listen to me. Please. Really fuckin' listen. . . .if I gave a shit about easy, you and I woulda never lasted five days. Got it?"
"But-"
"I pick you every day," I cut him off again, gently this time. No snapping. "Every fuckin' day. And you don't gotta apologize to me for being sick." I don't know if it's exactly what he needs to hear, but I can't think of anything else to add, so I run my hands through his hair and kiss him over and over while the crying stops. The deeper I kiss him the tighter he holds me, until I'm afraid I might crack a rib. "Clinic," I remind him, squirming out of his arms. "I like where you were going with that, but clinic time now, frisky time later."
"Fine," he sighs , and heads for the sock drawer.
Shoulda fucked, I think a few days later as an unfortunate reality becomes clear. Our sex life is gonna take a biiiiiiiiiiiiig downturn while Ian's body adjusts to the meds. Or while the docs tinker around with meds and dosage until we find something that works. I'm not a big fan of this 'tinkering' bullshit, but whatever. As long as the end result is a stable, functioning boyfriend, I don't care if his dick stays soft for a year.
I actually kinda deserve this, it occurs to me mid-way through an attempted blow job that isn't going so well. Half the reason I ignored all the fuckin' obvious red flags the first time he started to go all manic was that the sex was amazing. And frequent. Really frequent. Good one, God, I think when Ian finally tells me it isn't working, and we give up. I get it. I get the joke. Asshole.
Not all of Ian's treatment revolves around prescription meds. The clinic sent us home with a whole packet of information. General stuff, a list of do's and don'ts, suggestions, things to try. I've read through it like a dozen times, underlining the most practical stuff, and crossing out the shit we can't afford, like acupuncture and massage therapy. But apparently regular old vitamin supplements can make a difference, too. Especially B Vitamin. So I make that my Ian-care task for the day. Gonna go pick up some B.
It's one fuckin' letter! I think as I stand in the aisle staring at five thousand options. Do the pharma people not understand how the alphabet works? Shit! Okay, how much money do I have right now? I have enough to cover one of every B variation, so I go all in.
I'm in the kitchen setting out the new vitamins when Ian walks in with a backpack and a huge bandage around his hand. He won't tell me what happened, isn't worried about it, and does not seem to care at all about my fuckin' concern. He's going somewhere, and I'm invited. That's all he'll tell me. Man, I hope he levels off soon, I think as I follow him out the door. This 'emotionally flat' phase is just another part of the adjustment process, I know that, but it's rough. It actually upsets me more than our lack-of-boner issue. Sex life or no sex life, I need us on the same page ASAP.
We walk for about twenty minutes, and when I realize where he's taking us I perk up. The baseball field.
"Jesus, I haven't been here since that time we banged." I smile. He's trying to recreate a specific moment of ours, and that's a really, really good sign. It tells me he does still give a shit about some things.
"Let's do some pull-ups."
"Your hand, man." Was there any point to mentioning that? Really?
Ian grabs on to the bar, and drops after one pull-up. "I'm outta shape."
I open my mouth ready to tease him about being a fat old man, but then I see what he's getting out of the backpack. Beer. Christ, Ian.
"Shotgun."
"Nah, no look, you're not supposed to drink on lithium," I remind him. "It makes your blood fuckin' toxic and gets you hammered in like two seconds flat, you can't-" and then I get punched in the face. "The FUCK, Ian?!"
He says he's sick of my 'whiny pussy crap.'
"I don't need a fuckin' caretaker, all right? I need the shit-talking, bitch-slappin' piece of southside trash I fell for. Where is he?" He shoves me into the fence. "Where the fuck is he, Mickey?"
"Fuck you!" I shove him back. "And fuck me for givin' a shit, you prick!" It's a long time since I've been this pissed off at him. This is what I get for taking care of you?
"Give all the shits you want, but the next time dick is limp from all the meds, don't go all 'aw, it's okay, wah wah, just suck it harder you faggot!"
Oooooooooooh, you're fuckin' DONE, buddy! Sorry, but I ain't gonna let having a disease give him a blank check to shit all over me. I'm not a doormat. You wanna do this? Fine!
It's on. I punch him twice in the face, he grabs onto me, and we go stumbling out into the field, punching and pulling at each other. He pins me to the ground first, and gets in a few good hits before I manage to break free and get on top. I hit him a few times, and grab him by the throat. He's got his hands around my throat, too. I fall to the ground, hold on to him for a few seconds . . . and then we both let go. The fight just ends. No discussion, no apologies, nothing. It's fucking bizarre.
Ian gets up first. I follow him back to the where we were before, and decide to give up on acting like a responsible adult for the time being. I mean I just beat up my boyfriend, responsible adulthood is kinda off the table as an option. We both shotgun a beer like he wanted to in the first place. The doctors would be so annoyed right now . . .
I look at Ian and chuckle. His beer sprayed out when he knifed it, so now his hair is all damp on the one side.
"That's the first time I've felt anything since uh. . ."
Yeah. I kinda figured that's what the fight was about. Him needing an extreme to dig under the layers of medication and find an actual feeling. Sure pain is a sensation, not a feeling, but when a guy's been basically numb for too long, it's close enough. It counts. That I know from experience. It's all kinds of unhealthy, but I wonder if semi-consensual violence is gonna end up being a regular thing with us, because that could be a whole other issue. Whatever, I think. we'll worry about that shit later, man.
Meanwhile Ian does seem to be feeling things at the moment, so I decide to take a little gamble. See if it pays off. I tell him he looks like a wet rat, and move in for a kiss. Smart gamble, I think as he responds. We take off our jackets and keep fooling around.
A few minutes later we're in the dugout, pants unzipped, grinding against each other. I know it's broad daylight out and we're one strolling pedestrian away from a public indecency charge, but I don't care. I can't hear anyone close by, and Ian feels too fucking good. Rocking his hips, clutching my ass. For the first time since going back on the meds, he's eager, participating. And hard. He could ask for anything right now and I'd say yes.
"Wanna fuck?" He breathes against my mouth.
How is that even a question? I turn around without a word, nudging my pants down and pushing my ass against his cock. Before this happened, I was prepared to make due with occasional sex toys for months if necessary, but now with Ian all worked up and ready to go, I'm greedy. Who knows how long it'll be before he's able again, right? "Do it," I whisper. "Fuckin' do it! Now!"
"Okay."
I groan and claw the wall as he eases a few fingers inside me slow, slow, slow. We're working with only pre-cum for lube, so he's being extra cautious. It's sweet. For a few minutes. Then I get impatient and start rocking my hips to let him know it's okay to speed up.
"Got it." his teeth graze my ear when he talks. "How about . . ." he bumps my legs with his knees, nudging them further apart. I close my eyes and shudder as his hands run up my back, to my shoulders, then down again, to my waist, where they pause.
"Fuck!" I yell way too loud when he grabs my hips and starts thrusting. I gotta bite my lip to keep quiet. Or quiet-ish. "Aw fuck, Ian," I'm panting, "Christ, you feel good!"
"You too," I barely hear his voice say the words. When did he get so good at being quiet?
I've got my fist against the wall, mouth pressed to the back of my hand as hard as goddamn possible to muffle the pretty unmistakable fuck-noises comin' outta me. Shit. My only hope is that if someone does get within earshot of us, they choose not to investigate. Just keep their distance and move along. Y'know, manners.
We slump against the wall together when it's over, all his weight against me, breathing hard. Eventually we slide to the ground and I sit between his legs, leaning against his chest.
"Do I make a comfy chair?" He asks as I rest my arms on his knees and light up a cigarette.
"You're cozy," I smile, with the cigarette clenched between my teeth.
"Have we ever had a public quickie in broad daylight like this?"
I laugh. "Dude, we've fucked in public like a thousand times."
"Yeah, in the middle of the night when there are no joggers out, or fuckin' soccer moms taking the dog for a walk!"
I think about it for a second . . . "high school bleachers," I say finally, kinda surprised I almost forgot about one of our former 'spots'.
"Oh, right," Ian takes the cigarette from me. "Wow, that feels like forever ago doesn't it?"
"Mmhm." Ian holds the cigarette up beside me and I tilt my head back so I can take a drag. "I can't fuckin' believe we never got caught."
"Seriously." Ian chuckles. "I always thought it was weird you were willing to risk it, with being so deep in the closet and shit." I lean into it when he nuzzles my temple. "Guess I was just that good, huh?"
I elbow him in the gut. "I was probably half in love already." I shrug. "Or all the way in love, fuck if I know. Honestly? I spent so much time sitting around wanting you it's goddamn amazing I ever got anything else done." I take another drag and stare at the horizon. It's sunset any minute.
"Teenage love, man," Ian sighs. "It's tough."
"Battlefield," I correct him. "Love is a Battlefield."
"Nice reference!"
I shrug. "Gotta love that old school Pat Benatar shit. Anyhow, that song always reminded me of us, y'know?"
Ian giggles. It's his drunk giggle. One beer? Wow.
"Aw, Mick! Please, please tell me you'd blast it on repeat, angst-ing out about us!"
I take the cigarette from him and fiddle with it, trying to bite back a grin. "It mighta happened."
"HA!" Ian whoops, and I'm so fucking happy to have him in such a good mood. It's been a long time. "What a girl!"
"Fuck off!" I laugh.
"Did you have all the lyrics memorized?"
It's dark by the time we start stumbling back to his place, belting out Pat Benatar at the top of our lungs. I'm sure the neighbors fucking hate us, but I'm still so happy, I don't care. Ian's happy. Everyone else can fuck off.
We're almost home when he points out that we've never actually been on a real date. Finally, I think. An easy-to-solve problem! First date, comin' right up! We go on yelling the lyrics to Love is a Battlefield as we climb the stairs, and I'm already looking forward to a nice rare steak.