Ian desperately needed to get a job.
Not only did he have to get a job to help contribute to the swiftly dwindling winter squirrel fund, but he needed to physically work. He actually fucking needed something else to preoccupy his mind, or else he was going to go crazy. School and ROTC training wasn't nearly enough to keep his mind off things… more specifically, off someone.
He was going insane out of his mind thinking about Mickey, and he knew sitting around in his room staring at the walls and dissecting every last agonizing detail of the past two months would only drag him deeper into his depression.
For one split second, he had actually considered just crawling back to Kash and asking for his old job back. He could easily settle back into that comfortable, safe, simple relationship, and have the stability of the job on top of it. He could just go back to the way things were before; back when things were easy and not so fucked up. But he knew he couldn't do that. Despite how heartbroken and pissed off Ian was, he didn't want anybody else, especially not Kash. He would find another job. Even if he had to flip burgers while wearing a stupid little hat and apron, he'd rather do that than fuck Kash ever again.
Ian had just gotten out of the shower and was in his room, towel-drying his hair when Lip walked in.
"Hey, you wanna go out to the van and fire one up like old times?" Lip asked as he settled on his bed. "I just got some good, primo shit from Kev."
Ian didn't say anything to Lip, still giving him the same silent treatment he had been giving him for the past four days.
"Still not talking to me, huh?"
"Fuck you."
"I guess that's a start."
Ian tugged on a pair of jeans that he wasn't sure were clean or not, and then he picked a wrinkled t-shirt from the pile of dirty laundry and pulled it on, eager to leave the house and get away.
"Look, Ian, I know you're hurting right now," Lip began. "You're pissed off, I get it. But this isn't my fault."
Ian gave Lip a dark look that spoke volumes.
"It's not my fault," Lip reiterated. "You can be as pissed at me as you want, but I was just the middleman in all this. I was only telling you what Milkovich wanted me to tell you."
"Oh, fuck off, Lip," Ian snapped. "Don't act like you're not happy about this. You wrote me and Mickey off the second you found out about us."
"You're damn fucking right I did," Lip bellowed, "and yeah, I am happy he ended things, because he's not good for you, Ian. He's trash. One-hundred percent, no good, South Side fucking trash."
Before Ian could think about what he was doing, he punched Lip square in the jaw with a right hook, probably hurting his hand more than he hurt Lip's face, but it still felt good.
"Fuck, Ian!" Lip recovered quickly, and then he decked Ian around the waist, slamming his younger brother hard against the dresser, knocking deodorant and other random shit to the floor in the process. "What the fuck is wrong with you!"
Ian wrapped his arms around Lip's waist, trying to plant his feet and gain leverage. Both boys struggled to get control, panting and swearing and throwing punches into each other's ribs whenever they could.
"Hey, hey, Jesus! What the hell's going on in here?" Fiona exclaimed, rushing into the room, hobbling in the process with only one heel on.
Lip and Ian pulled apart, their faces flushed and their chests heaving as they glared at each other.
Ian didn't say anything, just stormed roughly past his brother and sister and left the room.
Fiona looked at Lip with wide, questioning eyes. "The hell just happened?"
Lip ran a shaky hand down his face, still trying to catch his breath. "He's been fucking Mickey Milkovich," he told Fiona, his arms flailing. He knew Ian hadn't shared that bit of information with Fiona yet, but he still said the words, mostly out of spite since he was majorly pissed off.
"Mickey?" Fiona exclaimed. "Mickey Milkovich is the boy Ian's been stressing out over?"
"Yeah," Lip confirmed, sitting down on Ian's bed. As he reached for his cigarettes, he added, "He's fucking bent, Fi, he's losing it."
Fiona sat down next to Lip, and they remained silent for a long time, both of them trying to process everything. Finally, Fiona exclaimed again, "Mickey Milkovich? Really?"
Mickey emerged from his bedroom and found Iggy in the kitchen, struggling with a can opener and a can of Dinty Moore stew. "Hey, douchebag."
"Fuck's with this thing?" Iggy exclaimed, finally giving up and throwing the can opener unceremoniously at the wall.
Mickey cocked an eyebrow at his brother's bad temper and walked to the fridge, surveying their dwindling beer supply. "Shit, gotta make a beer run."
"Yo, you in for tomorrow?" Iggy called out as Mickey made his way to the door to grab his coat.
"The fuck's going on tomorrow?"
"Another run out in Berwyn. Pops needs extra backup," Iggy called out, resorting to clumsily trying to open his can with his Swiss army knife. "Heading out early, so be ready."
Mickey thought about it, knowing he had no good excuse not to go. He didn't work, didn't go to school, didn't have friends. He knew his father would have the final say, regardless. Besides, he was going to have to go back to his old life sooner or later. It was just the way it had to be. It was his life; always had been, always would be.
"I'll be there," he found himself saying reluctantly, even though it still didn't feel right. Just as thoughts of Ian started creeping into his head, Mickey pushed those thoughts back into the deepest recesses of his mind, something he was starting to get good at. Alcohol helped a lot with that, though, to be honest.
He put his coat on and headed out the door, intent on getting his beer and returning home so he could disappear into his room again for the rest of the night. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and cursed into the bitter, cold wind, thinking to himself that the beer better be fucking worth it for all the effort he was putting in.
When he looked up a block later to see Ian heading right towards him, he stopped dead in his tracks, knowing that he was probably going to have to get something a little stronger than beer to trump his misery that night.
Ian hadn't spotted him yet and, just as Mickey was contemplating diving and hiding behind a parked car like a bitch, Ian decided to finally look up, stopping dead in his own tracks.
They stood facing each other with only a few yards between them.
Ian was the first to break eye contact. He hung his head, nodded a little, and continued on towards Mickey, brushing past him to continue on his way.
Without thinking about it, Mickey turned around, calling out to stop him. "Ian."
Ian froze, hesitated, and then slowly turned to face Mickey. When Mickey didn't say anything more, Ian shrugged his shoulders lazily and waited, his face expressionless.
Mickey shuffled a little, suddenly finding it hard to look Ian in the eyes. He dropped his head and rubbed at the back of his neck, not knowing what to say.
"Two weeks go by, I don't hear a fuckin' word from you, and you have nothing to say to me?" Ian spoke first.
Mickey rubbed at his lower lip, still looking at the ground.
"This was what you wanted, wasn't it?" Ian asked finally, his voice unsteady, his eyes wet and blinking against the blistering wind. "To be strangers?"
"Come on, man," Mickey heard himself say, even though he knew he shouldn't say anything at all.
"Look, I'm not even mad," Ian said, even though his quivering tone said otherwise. "You tried telling me it was over. I was just too fucking stupid, too stubborn to get it. Who else do I really got to blame here, huh?"
Mickey just stared back at him, not trusting his own words.
Ian scoffed and shook his head. "I gotta go. I gotta go look for a job, so I can help my family pay the electric bill and help put food on the table. You go home and go back on another drug run with your Pops. I'll see you around, maybe."
"Christ, Ian, would you quit being so fuckin' dramatic?" Mickey exclaimed, finally finding his voice. "I didn't wanna go with him, alright? He fucking made me go. I didn't have a choice. I never have a fucking choice!" Mickey clamped his mouth shut, his words hanging in the air. He looked around the deserted street, his damp eyes blinking rapidly against the brutal wind.
"You don't have to explain anything to me," Ian muttered after a pause. "We're nothing to each other. You made sure of that."
Mickey only stood there and watched as Ian walked away from him again.
On his quest for employment, Ian had been intent on hitting up a grocery store or two, maybe the movie theater over on Halsted. He was still bristling with irritation and frustration from his unexpected confrontation with Mickey, though, and decided to skip all that for the time being.
He had spent the past four days wallowing in self-pity, crying himself to sleep, and agonizing over everything to the point of physical and emotional exhaustion. He really needed to relieve some tension. He knew exactly how to go about doing that.
Instead of making his way to his original destination points, he headed for the nearest L stop, intent on heading straight for Boystown.
Mickey sauntered out of his bedroom, stumbling slightly and bracing himself against the wall, already halfway to being plastered. As soon as Ian had walked away from him earlier, he had hightailed it to the nearest liquor store, bought a half gallon of their cheapest whiskey, and was halfway finished with it an hour later. He was well on his way to being numb.
On his way to the kitchen, he stopped when he saw Mandy sitting at the table playing solitaire with one hand as she puffed on a marijuana bowl with the other. "Hey, slutbag."
Mandy glanced up at him and sneered. "You look like absolute shit."
"Feel like shit, too," Mickey grumbled as he staggered to the fridge.
"You can talk to me, you know," Mandy continued apprehensively. "If something's going on."
"Don't got shit to talk about," Mickey groused as he cracked open his beer.
"Oh, so you just hole yourself up in your room twenty-four-seven, getting piss-drunk out of your mind for nothing?" Mandy asked with a scowl. "Come on, Mickey. I know you. Something's up."
"Even if something was up, the fuck makes you think I'd wanna talk about it with you?" Mickey shot back.
"Fuck you, asshole," Mandy spat. "Sorry I give a shit."
Mickey eyed his sister, his resolve softening in spite of himself at the worried look on her face. He was closer to her than any of his other siblings, but that didn't mean he liked sharing shit with her. Still, he felt inclined to do or say something. He made his way over to her and sat down reluctantly.
Mickey knew she could never know about any of it. She could never know how he'd foolishly run away with and fallen for the kid that his father had forced him to kidnap. Fuck, the whole thing sounded like some fucking lame-ass plot on one of those lame-ass cable movie channels, like Lifetime or some shit.
"So, what do you wanna talk about?" Mickey asked sharply, his eyebrows shooting up.
"Tell me what's going on with you."
"Nothing's going on."
"Something's going on," Mandy pointed out. "You're meaner than usual. You're holed up in your room every day, drinking more than I've ever seen you drink."
"Maybe I'm just a raging alcoholic, ever think of that?"
"It's more than that, asshole, I can tell."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Mickey added with a crude burp.
Mandy was quiet for a bit, obviously reluctant to ask her next question. "Does your mood have something to do with Ian?"
Mickey's head shot up when her words registered. "What the fuck are you getting at?"
"Come on, Mick. You disappear for three fucking weeks. Then you come home, suddenly Ian Gallagher is always around asking about you, wanting to hang out, coming out of your room crying after you lock your door, being all sneaky and shit. I'm not a complete moron."
"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Mickey spat, standing up abruptly and heading back towards his room. He should never have left his goddamn room.
"Mickey," Mandy called out.
"Fuck off!" Mickey exclaimed right before he slammed his door.
Ian stood outside of the Fairy Tail, huddled inside the warmth of his coat, and contemplated whether or not he wanted to actually go inside. The whole train ride over it had seemed like the best idea ever. The idea of going inside, dancing and getting lost in the music, maybe even finding some nameless, faceless guy and fucking him, sounded like exactly what he needed right then to get his mind off everything. Still, something stopped him from taking that first step towards the entrance.
Just as he was about to give up and turn to head off, a deep voice stopped him. "You're hot."
Ian turned around and eyed the man up. The guy was in his thirties; tall, dark, not exactly unpleasant to look at. "Thanks," he replied sheepishly.
"You heading inside?"
"Uh, no," Ian answered simply. "I was thinking about it, but no."
"Ah, that's too bad. I was hoping you were one of the dancers," the man said with a suggestive smirk as he eyed Ian up slowly. "You definitely would've gotten my paycheck."
Ian watched as the man turned and headed inside after tossing him a crude wink.
Suddenly, an idea popped into Ian's head. It wasn't one of his best ideas ever, was probably actually one of his worst ideas honestly, but, at the moment, it could solve all his fucking problems.
He contemplated the idea for only a few moments longer before straightening up and heading up to the bouncer.
Later that night, Ian was on the back porch of the Gallagher home, smoking his last cigarette for the night before heading to bed. He heard the screen door squeak open behind him and seconds later Debbie plopped down on the step beside him.
"What're you doing out here with no coat on, it's cold out."
"I'm fine," Debbie said with a roll of her eyes, pulling the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands. She turned her head and eyed Ian as he stared blankly out across the yard, still puffing on his smoke.
"You seem really sad lately."
Ian looked back at her, surprised by her declaration. "I'm okay, Debs."
"I heard Fiona say something the other night about a boy," Debbie pressed on. "Is there a boy?"
Ian smiled sadly as he flicked his cigarette a few times, contemplating the entire conversation. But his little sister was looking up at him with big, curious eyes, eager to have a chat with her big brother about a boy. He couldn't deny her that.
"Yeah," Ian breathed. "Yeah, there was a boy. Not anymore, though."
"There was a boy?" Deb asked, pulling her knees to her chest. "What happened?"
"Long story," Ian replied, knowing that wasn't even the half of it. "It's complicated."
"Why is it complicated?" Debbie frowned. "You like him, don't you?"
"Yeah," Ian muttered, his eyes focused on the ground. "Yeah… I do. I like him a lot, actually."
"Does he like you?"
Ian rubbed at the back of his neck. "I thought maybe he did, but I'm not so sure anymore."
"He'd be dumb not to." Debbie smiled softly and leaned in eagerly to ask her next question. "Is he cute?"
Ian smiled back, knowing he was going to treasure the conversation with his baby sister long after that night. "Yeah," he answered. "He's really fuckin' cute."
"Tell me more about him," Debbie asked with a grin, acting as if she was chatting with a girlfriend instead of her big brother.
Ian laughed a little and scratched a hand through his hair. "Uh, well, like I said, he's cute as hell. He has these really amazing blue eyes and nice lips. And he's a bit of a hardass, but he can be soft, too, when he wants to be. He doesn't really laugh all that much, but when he does… it's like the best sound ever, and his smile lights up his whole face, gets eye crinkles and everything. You gotta work hard to get a smile, but when it happens, it's so fuckin' worth it."
"Is he a good kisser?" Debbie pressed on.
"Hell yeah, he is," Ian said with a grin. He wrapped an arm around Debbie's shoulders and pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "The best kisser."
"I hope you get back together," Debbie said thoughtfully. "I'd like to meet him someday. It'd be nice to see you happy for once."
Ian didn't say anything at first, the small smile slipping from his face. "Me too, Debs."