Ian had been more than willing to give Mickey a few days to calm down, sort his shit out, get things into perspective, whatever he felt he needed to do to move forward. Hell, Ian knew it was probably a good idea for himself to take a couple steps back for a few days, away from the intensity of it all.

He kept himself busy with schoolwork and helping Fiona with his siblings as much as he could. He did anything and everything he could to at least try to keep his mind off Mickey (though he failed miserably most days).

When a full week and two days passed by with no sign or word from Mickey, he couldn't help but start worrying.

In school, anytime he spotted Mandy between classes, he used all his willpower to not go up to her, knowing that asking about Mickey would only make things about a million times worse and cast more suspicion they didn't need. He knew he couldn't go to the Milkovich house, that was even more dangerous, and he'd learned his lesson the last time. He had no way of getting a hold of him. He had to wait for Mickey to reach out to him. It was driving him crazy, and he was getting desperate.

He was pacing back and forth in his bedroom, feeling Lip's eyes on him the entire time.

"Dude, what the hell's your problem?" Lip asked from his spot on his bed, the book he'd been reading lying facedown on his chest.

"I don't have a problem," Ian snapped as he continued pacing. "What's your problem?"

"You've been wearin' a hole in the damn carpet for the past ten minutes," Lip pointed out. "Chill the hell out."

Ian sighed and pulled a hand through his hair as he continued to pace. "Can't."

"Ian," Lip said, his tone stern. "The hell's goin' on with you? You know you can talk to me."

Ian stopped pacing and turned to look at his brother, knowing that what he was about to do was potentially the dumbest thing he'd ever done, which was saying a lot because he'd done some pretty stupid shit in his life, but he had to tell someone. He couldn't keep it to himself any longer. What better person to tell his secret to than his reliable big brother?

After a few long beats, he blurted, "I've been fuckin' Mickey Milkovich."

Lip sat up straight, the book crashing to the floor. "You're… Ian, what the fuck? Please tell me those words didn't just come out of your mouth."

Ian sat down on the edge of his bed and grasped his knees, feeling the color drain from his cheeks under his brother's baffled scrutiny.

"Well, fuck." Lip ran a hand down his face and over the nape of his neck as he tried to process the bizarre information. After a few beats, he asked, "Can you please just explain to me how you ended up screwin' the guy who kidnapped you? Seriously? How do you get yourself into these situations?"

"He didn't kidnap me, not really," Ian defended. "He was only doin' what his dad told him to do. He had no other choice."

"Ian," Lip sighed, trying to reason with his brother. "Holding you at gunpoint, shoving you into a car against your will, tying you to a chair in an abandoned building. That's kidnapping, no matter how you sugarcoat it."

"No." Ian shook his head adamantly. "No, you don't know him, Lip."

"Neither the fuck do you!" Lip bellowed.

"Like hell, I don't!" Ian exclaimed, startling his brother with the outburst. "I know him, alright, and he knows me." He then scoffed and pulled a face at his brother's perplexed expression. "I knew you wouldn't understand."

"You're right, I don't understand," Lip concurred. "So explain it to me. First your married boss, and now you're screwing your kidnapper? Christ, Ian, this is some fuckin' Stockholm syndrome shit!"

Ian slapped his knees in exasperation and struggled to find the right words to make his brother understand. "No, I… He saved me, alright? His dad woulda killed me, and Mickey coulda sat back and did nothing, but he saved me. He ran with me and put his life in danger for me. We spent almost two straight weeks alone in a motel room, and we talked, like actually fucking talked, Lip, and we fucked. A lot."

Lip groaned and buried his head in his hands. "I don't fuckin' need to know that. Jesus, Ian!"

"Look, I care about him," Ian continued, his tone unsteady, "and I needed to talk to someone about this."

Lip eyed him oddly and eventually softened around the edges, seeing that his little brother was obviously in distress. "And you know you can come to me about anything, even… shit… even this. I may not understand it or like it, but you can come to me."

Ian let out a sigh of relief, a weight lifting off his shoulders. "I haven't heard from him in a week and a half. I have no way of gettin' a hold of him. He's s'posed to be takin' some time to clear his head, but I'm worried about him. I'm worried because who the fuck knows what his dad will do to him."

"I'm sure he's fine," Lip retorted. "Something tells me Mickey Milkovich can take care of himself."

"I need you to find him for me," Ian interrupted. "I need you to find him, and I need you to give him a message for me. I need to see him. I have to know that he's okay."

"You want me to go out and find your kidnapper, who you happen to be screwin' now, and convince him to see you?" Lip asked. "You're kidding me, right?"

"I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important to me, alright?" Ian said, the desperation clear in his voice. "Will you quit bein' a judgmental prick for once and do this for me, please?"

Lip contemplated for longer than Ian would have wanted him to before sighing. "Alright, I'll go find your psycho fuck-buddy, but I'm only doin' it because you're my brother, and I fucking care about you."

Ian smiled softly, his shoulders relaxing. "I know you do."

Lip scoffed. "I still think you're a fucking idiot."

Mickey was sitting in bed, reclined back against the headboard, a half-full bottle of whiskey locked firmly in his grip. He was staring ahead blankly at nothing in particular as he allowed the alcohol to do its job at numbing his insides, numbing the pain, numbing everything. He brought the bottle to his lips and took another swig, coughing slightly at the bitter taste at the back of his throat, and relishing the burn when the liquor made its way to his empty stomach.

There was a knock on his bedroom door, and he didn't bother looking up when Mandy stuck her head in. "You have company, dillhole."

"Tell 'em to fuck off, I'm busy," he spat before taking another swig, figuring it was some random druggie looking for something to score, even though he hadn't sold in weeks.

"It's Lip Gallagher," she said with a sneer. "Says he has something to settle with you?"

Mickey finally looked at her, his head swimming slightly at the sudden movement. He reluctantly brought the bottle back to his lips and sipped. "The fuck ever, let 'im in," he slurred.

"The fuck's up with you and all these Gallaghers lately?" she quipped before turning to retrieve Mickey's unwanted guest.

Moments later, Mandy and Lip stood in his doorway.

Mickey eyed Lip with hooded eyes, wondering what the fuck he was doing there. He vaguely recognized the lemur-looking douchebag from high school; he thought maybe he'd paid him to write a paper for him a time or two.

"Well, this isn't fuckin' awkward," Mandy snorted when the silence dragged on.

"Give us a minute," Mickey snapped.

Mandy smirked before walking away, missing the fact that Lip stared at her ass as she went.

Lip looked back to find that Mickey, however, had not missed the blatant eye-fucking.

"You seriously checkin' out my fuckin' sister right now?"

"You seriously screwin' my brother?" Lip shot back, and that shut Mickey up real quick.

Mickey looked away from Lip with a scoff and took another long swig, not having the frame of mind or energy to deny anything. In the back of his fuzzy, whiskey-addled mind, he knew it should piss him off that Ian spewed his business to his brother, but he was too drunk to think much about it. He didn't want to think about Ian at all, actually; that was the whole point of the drinking-himself-into-oblivion thing.

"Look, I'm gonna cut right to the chase," Lip spat, not bothering to hide his disdain. "The last thing I wanna do right now is to convince you to go see my little brother, but for some reason, he wants to see you."

"Can't," Mickey said, his tone blunt. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and swished the whiskey bottle a little, watching as the amber liquid swirled around.

"Why not?" Lip asked. "After all you've done to him, I think you owe him at least that much, don't you?"

"The fuck's that s'posed to mean?" Mickey slurred, giving Lip his meanest look.

"Do I really need to spell it out for you?" Lip retorted. When Mickey kept glaring, he continued, "You kidnapped him, held him at gunpoint, took him away from his family for weeks, took him away from school, away from his training, traumatized him. No need for me to go on, is there?"

Mickey took another swig, his bleary eyes focused on the wall. If he wasn't so inebriated, he'd deck the asshole.

"Now you're gonna ignore him, right?" Lip snapped. "You screwed him a few times, you got what you wanted outta him, so now you don't need anything from him anymore, is that it?"

"You don't know fuck all about anything," Mickey cut him off roughly. "I lov—" He immediately clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to finish that sentence. He knew that finishing that sentence was potentially lethal.

"So, enlighten me," Lip said, crossing his arms. "Tell me about this inexplicable bond you and my brother suddenly seem to have."

"Fuck off."

"Eloquently put."

Mickey gave Lip the finger in response.

Lip eyed him disdainfully and chuckled mirthlessly with a shake of his head. "Right, okay, I'm gonna go. Just stay sittin' there drinkin' your whiskey and being fucking useless. I tried tellin' Ian you aren't worth it, but he doesn't wanna listen. I'm sure he'll figure it out on his own soon enough."

Mickey took in Lip's words with arched brows, trying to appear unaffected by them, even though he could feel prickling at the corners of his eyes. He shut those emotions up with another gulp of Jack.

"So, you got nothin' to say?" Lip intoned, his expression smug. "No message you want me to relay?"

"Yeah, tell your brother to move the fuck on," Mickey slurred after a beat. "I have."

Lip scoffed, eyeing him for another few beats before shaking his head as he turned to go.

Mickey barely acknowledged Lip's departure as he continued drowning himself in his bottle, the unwanted tears still in his eyes.

Ian was sitting at the kitchen table and immediately shot to his feet when Lip entered the kitchen through the back door. "What happened? Did you see him?"

"Yeah," Lip scoffed as he shrugged his coat off. "I saw him."

"Is he okay?" Ian pressed. "How'd he look?"

"Like shit, but that's nothing new."

Ian sighed and bit back a snide remark, wanting to get right to it. "Cut the shit, Lip. Did you talk to him or not?"

"Yeah, I talked to him," Lip snapped as he brushed past his eager brother and headed to the fridge.

"What did he say?"

Lip eventually looked at him, his expression saying it all. "I tried talkin' to him. I went to his house and everything."

"And?" Ian pressed eagerly.

"He told me to tell you to move on," Lip said, his tone sympathetic. "It's over, man. He wants fuck all to do with you."

"No, I don't believe it," Ian said after a beat, shaking his head adamantly. "He didn't mean that."

"Fuck, Ian! Get over it!" Lip exclaimed. "Look, I know you think you feel something for this guy, but he's useless, alright? He's nothing but trouble. He's scum. He's a goddamn Milkovich, for fuck's sake! It's clear as shit that he doesn't give a fuck about you!" he paused, sighing heavily before continuing, "I don't want you to get hurt. As your older brother, someone who cares about you, I'm beggin' you to stay the fuck away from this guy."

"I can't do that," Ian muttered, undeterred. "I don't believe it. I know what he felt with me. He can't fake that."

Lip eyed him for a long time before sighing and shaking his head. "Alright, I can't stop you, but I'm tellin' you, nothing good is gonna come from this. You're only gonna get hurt. He doesn't give a shit about you. Trust me, I wouldn't lie to you about that."

Ian flinched as Lip brushed past him to head up the stairs. He stared at the floor, trying not to let Lip's words get to him but failing.

After another three days passed by with still no word from Mickey, Ian decided desperate times called for desperate measures. He stared up at the rundown Milkovich house, his heart pounding in his throat, and his palms sweating. He knew he was taking an enormous risk by showing up there, but he didn't care; he was desperate. He climbed the rickety steps to the cluttered porch and knocked on the door, taking a giant step back and getting prepared to run like hell in case Terry opened the door.

Mandy opened the door a few beats later, looking surprised to see him standing there. "Hey, what're you doin' here?"

After sighing in relief to see Mandy answer the door and not her monster of a father, Ian gathered his wits. He knew he couldn't ask for Mickey outright, it would appear too suspicious. "I wanted to see if you wanted to hang out, maybe?"

It didn't surprise him when Mandy frowned. He'd expected her confusion since they hadn't spoken to each other since the last time he'd been there, and they were far from friends, but he would do anything to see Mickey, even if it meant him looking like an idiot.

"You wanna hang out?" she asked, arching a brow. "Now?"

Ian shrugged and shoved his hands into his coat pockets, offering her a small smile. He felt bad for using her, but he was out of options. "Yeah, why not?"

Mandy thought about it for a few beats before shrugging. "Sure, don't have shit else to do." She stepped aside and held the door open for him to enter. "I have the place to myself. Mickey and my dad went out on a run earlier. They'll prob'ly be gone all day."

He froze as she shut the door behind them. "A run?"

"Yeah, something about drugs and collecting money," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I don't know too much about it and don't care to. And you don't know anything about it either, got it?" she quickly added as a precaution with a finger poke to his chest.

"Yeah," Ian mumbled, distracted. "Got it."

"You better."

"So, your brother went on a drug run with your dad?" Ian intoned, his heart laying somewhere down by his feet. The very thought of Mickey being alone with his dad was unsettling enough, but the fact that he was doing something illegal and dangerous was devastating to him. It seemed as if Mickey was reverting right back to his old life, with no qualms about it.

"Yeah, I think they went to bond or something," she explained. "Things have been pretty shitty around here lately, like more than usual. Tense, you know?"

As he followed her into the living room, he tried to keep a straight face, tried to keep himself composed, even though he felt as if he could vomit at any moment.

"I have some nitrous," she said, breaking him from his gloomy thoughts. "You want some?"

"Yeah, sure," Ian muttered, having not heard a word she'd said after the word bond.

"I'll go get it."

Ian stood in the middle of the Milkovich living room, suddenly feeling utterly out of place.

That was when it hit him like a punch to the gut. They were over. Almost two weeks had passed, and Mickey hadn't even bothered to get in touch with him, even though Mickey knew all the places where to find him.

Mickey was out on a drug run with his father, probably fixing their fucked-up relationship.

Lip's words from the other night resonated in his head, and he blinked back the threatening onslaught of tears. Maybe Mickey hadn't cared as much as Ian thought he did. Maybe he never cared. Maybe he had only been a warm mouth to Mickey.

"You wanna sit on the porch?" Mandy asked as she came back into the room, nitrous in hand. "We can enjoy the… hey, you okay?"

"Yeah," Ian intoned. "Yeah, I forgot I had to help my sister out with something today. Can I take a rain check?"

"Yeah, sure," she said with a confused smile.

He forced a small smile in return, even though he felt like crying.

Just then, Mandy's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. "Can you see yourself out? I'm gonna go get that."

Ian nodded numbly and watched as she turned her back to go answer her phone.

He glanced towards Mickey's closed bedroom door and thought about his next move for a few beats before heading over to it. He reached around his neck and pulled the chain over his head. He hung the dog tags around the doorknob and hesitated for a few agonizing moments before walking away.

Later that night, Mickey sluggishly followed his father up the steps to the porch. He was glad the day was over. He hadn't even wanted to go on the drug run, to begin with, but his father had appeared looming in his bedroom doorway that morning and grunted, 'grab a gun, let's go.' Mickey did as he was told, knowing better than to argue with the man.

He'd gone along for the ride, standing in the background as his dad did all the dirty work to get his money. They didn't say more than a handful of words to each other the entire way there and back; it had been pure hell.

Once inside the house, his Pops grunted a good night and headed for the kitchen, undoubtedly straight for his beer. Mickey headed for the safety of his bedroom, eager to get behind closed doors, and to the bottle of whiskey he had stashed and waiting for him under his bed.

He reached his bedroom door and hesitated when he spotted something shiny hanging from the doorknob. It took a few seconds for him to process exactly what the object was. His heart ached dully in his chest. He pulled the dog tags from around the doorknob and swallowed thickly.

It had been two weeks since he'd last seen Ian. Two weeks of hell and torture that took everything in him to stay away. He knew, deep down, that what he was doing was for the best. Ian was better off without him. He was safer without him. He knew Ian would realize that, eventually. Still, seeing the telltale sign that Ian had finally taken the hint and given up hurt like a bitch.

He slipped inside his room and shut the door behind him before pulling his shirt over his head. He sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling as if he'd gotten punched in the chest. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger before reaching down under the bed to grab his trusty bottle, intending to drown his sorrows for the rest of the night, and to try with everything in him not to think about a certain redhead who was a few blocks down the street but a world away.