Ian desperately needed to get a job. Not only did he have to get a job to help contribute to the dwindling squirrel fund, but he needed to work. He needed something more to preoccupy his mind, or else he would go crazy. School and ROTC training wasn't nearly enough to keep his mind off things.
He was going out of his mind thinking about Mickey, and he knew sitting around his room staring at the walls and dissecting every detail of the past two months would only drag him deeper into his depression.
For a split second, he considered crawling back to Kash and asking for his old job back. He could easily settle back into that simple relationship and have the stability of the job on top of it. He could 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 he was, he didn't want anybody else, especially 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.
He had just gotten out of the shower and was in his room, towel-drying his hair, when Lip walked in, giving him a sideways glance.
"Hey, wanna go out to the van and fire one up like old times?" Lip asked as he settled on his bed before holding up a small baggie of joints. "I got some good primo shit from Kev."
Ian said nothing to Lip, still giving him the same silent treatment he'd been giving him for the past four days.
Lip sighed. "You're still not talkin' to me, huh?"
"Fuck you."
"I guess that's a start."
Ian tugged on a pair of jeans he wasn't sure were clean or not before plucking a wrinkled shirt from the pile of dirty laundry and pulling it on, eager to leave the house and get away from his shithead brother.
"Look, I know you're hurting right now," Lip began. "You're pissed off, I get it, but this isn't my fault."
Ian shot him 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 tellin' 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 right I did," Lip bellowed. "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 fuckin' 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.
"The fuck, Ian?" Lip recovered quickly and decked Ian, slamming his younger brother hard against the dresser, knocking deodorant and other random shit to the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"South Side trash, huh? The hell's that make you?" Ian spat before wrapping his arms around Lip's waist, trying to plant his feet and gain leverage. Both boys struggled for control, panting and swearing and throwing punches into each other's ribs whenever they could.
"Hey! Jesus! What the hell's goin' 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 said nothing before brushing roughly past his siblings and leaving the room.
Fiona stared at Lip with wide eyes. "What the hell just happened?"
Lip ran a shaky hand down his face, still trying to catch his breath. "He's been screwin' Mickey Milkovich," he told her. 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 pissed off.
"You're kiddin' me?" she exclaimed. "Mickey Milkovich is the boy Ian's been stressin' out over?"
"Yeah," Lip confirmed, sitting down on Ian's bed. As he reached for the baggie of joints, he added, "He's fuckin' bent, Fi. He's losin' it!"
Fiona sat down next to Lip and watched as he lit the weed and took a deep drag. They remained silent for a few beats, both of them trying to process everything. Eventually, she exclaimed again, "Really?! Mickey Milkovich?"
Lip snorted before passing her the joint, which she readily accepted.
Mickey emerged from his bedroom to find Iggy in the kitchen struggling with a can opener and a tin of Dinty Moore stew. "Sup, douchebag?"
"Fuck's up with this thing?" Iggy exclaimed before giving up and throwing the can opener at the wall.
Mickey cocked a brow at his brother's bad temper and walked to the fridge to survey 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 rack by the front door to grab his coat.
"The fuck's goin' on tomorrow?"
"Another run out in Berwyn. Pops needs extra backup," Iggy called out, resorting to clumsily trying to open the can with a Swiss army knife. "We're headin' out early, around 7, 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 would have to go back to his old life, eventually. It was the way it had to be. It was his life, always had been, always would be.
"I'll be there," he said, even though it still didn't feel right. Just as thoughts of Ian started creeping into his head, he pushed those thoughts back into the deepest recesses of his mind, something he was getting good at. Alcohol helped a lot with that, though.
He put his coat on and headed out the door, intent on getting the beer and returning home so he could disappear into his room again for the rest of the night. He shoved his hands inside his coat pockets and cursed into the bitterly 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 towards him, he halted in his tracks, knowing he would have to get something a lot stronger than beer to trump his misery that night.
Ian hadn't spotted him yet. Just as Mickey was contemplating diving and hiding behind a parked car like a bitch, Ian glanced up and stopped 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 and nodded a bit before continuing towards Mickey. He brushed past him to continue on his way.
Without thinking about it, Mickey turned, calling out to stop him. "Ian."
Ian froze and hesitated before turning to face him. When Mickey remained silent, he shrugged his shoulders lazily and waited, his face expressionless.
Mickey shuffled a bit, suddenly finding it hard to look Ian in the eyes. He dropped his head and rubbed the nape of his neck, not knowing what to say.
"Almost three weeks go by, I don't hear a word from you, and you got nothin' to say to me?" Ian spoke first, his tone flat.
Mickey rubbed his lower lip with his thumb, still staring at the ground.
"This was what you wanted, isn't it?" Ian asked, his voice unsteady, his eyes wet and blinking against the blistering wind. "For us to be strangers?"
"Come on, man," Mickey muttered, even though he knew he shouldn't say anything at all.
"Look, I'm not even mad," Ian said, his quivering tone saying otherwise. "You tried tellin' me it was over multiple times. I was just too fuckin' stubborn to get it. Who else do I have to blame here, huh?"
Mickey stared back at him, not trusting his own words.
Ian scoffed and shook his head. "I gotta go. I gotta look for a job, so I can help my family pay the light bill and help put food on the table. You go home and go back on another drug run with your dad. I'll see you around, maybe."
"Christ, Ian! Will you quit bein' so fuckin' dramatic?" Mickey exclaimed, finally finding his voice. "I didn't wanna go with him, alright? He made me go. I didn't have a choice. I never have a fuckin' choice!" He clamped his mouth shut, his words hanging in the air. He glanced around the deserted street, his damp eyes blinking against the brutal wind.
After a beat, Ian muttered, "There's always a choice."
"No, there really fuckin' isn't."
"You don't have to explain anything to me, Mickey," Ian said, shrugging. "We're nothin' to each other. You made sure of that."
Mickey stood there, his jaw shifting, and watched as Ian walked away from him.
On his quest for employment, Ian had been intent on hitting up a grocery store or two, maybe the shitty 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'd 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 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 to 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 that day, he'd hightailed it to the nearest liquor store, bought a half-gallon of their cheapest whiskey, and he was halfway finished with it an hour later. He was well on his way to being numb.
On his way to the kitchen, he halted 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. "Wow, you look like absolute shit."
"Feel like shit too," he grumbled as he staggered to the fridge.
"You can talk to me, you know," she continued apprehensively. "If something's goin' on with you."
"Don't got shit to talk about," Mickey groused as he cracked open the beer and shut the fridge door with his hip.
"Oh, so you hole yourself up in your room twenty-four-seven, getting piss-drunk outta your mind for nothing?" she asked with a scowl. "Come on, Mickey. I know you. I know you like to think I don't, but I do. Something's up."
"Even if something was up, the fuck makes you think I'd wanna talk about it with you?" he shot back.
"Fuck you, asshole," she spat. "Sorry I give a shit."
Mickey eyed his sister, his resolve softening despite 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 enjoyed sharing shit with her. Still, he felt inclined to do or say something. He made his way over to her and sat down reluctantly.
He 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 shitty cable movie channels, like Lifetime or some shit.
"So, what do you wanna talk about?" he snapped, his brows shooting up.
"Tell me what's goin' on with you."
"Nothing's goin' on."
"Something's going on," she pointed out. "You're meaner than usual. You're holed up in your room every day, drinkin' more than I've ever seen you drink."
"Maybe I'm a ragin' alcoholic, ever think of that?"
"It's more than that, asshole. I can tell."
"Sorry to disappoint you," he 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. He swallowed hard. "The fuck're you gettin' at?"
"Come on, Mickey. You disappear for weeks. Then you come home, suddenly Ian Gallagher is always around askin' about you, wantin' to hang out, comin' 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," he spat, standing up abruptly and heading towards his room.
"Mickey," she called out.
"Fuck off!" he exclaimed right before he slammed the door.
Ian stood outside the Fairy Tail, huddled inside the warmth of his coat, and contemplated whether he wanted to go inside. The entire train ride over it had seemed like the best idea ever. The thought of going inside, dancing and getting lost in the music, maybe even finding some guy and fucking him sounded like exactly what he needed 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 voice stopped him. "You're hot."
Ian turned around and eyed the man. The guy was in his 40s. He was tall, dark, and not unpleasant to look at. "Thanks," he replied sheepishly.
"You heading inside, gingersnap?"
"Uh, no," Ian intoned. "I was thinkin' about it, but no."
"Ah, that's too bad. I was hoping you were a dancer," the man said with a suggestive smirk as he eyed Ian up. "You definitely would've gotten my paycheck."
Ian watched as the man turned and headed inside after tossing him a flirty wink.
Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. It wasn't one of his best ideas ever -it was probably one of his worst- but at the moment, it could solve all his problems. He contemplated the idea for only a few beats 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 of the night before heading to bed. He heard the screen door creak open behind him, and seconds later Debbie plopped down on the step beside him.
"What're you doin' out here with no coat on?" Ian admonished. "It's cold out."
"I'm fine," she said with a roll of her eyes, pulling the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands. She turned her head and eyed him as he stared blankly out across the yard, still dragging on his smoke. "You seem sad lately."
Ian looked at her, surprised by her declaration. "I'm fine, Debs."
"I heard Fiona say something the other night about a boy," she pressed on. "Is there a boy?"
Ian smiled sadly as he flicked the cigarette a few times, contemplating the entire conversation. His little sister was looking up at him with big, curious eyes, eager to have a chat with her big brother about a boy, and he couldn't deny her that. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, there was a boy. Not anymore, though."
"There was a boy?" she asked, pulling her knees to her chest. "What happened?"
"It's complicated," he replied, knowing that wasn't even the half of it. "Long story."
"Why is it complicated?" she frowned. "You like him, don't you?"
"Yeah," he muttered, his eyes focused on the ground. "Yeah, I do. I like him a lot, actually."
"Does he like you?"
Ian rubbed 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 would treasure the conversation with his little sister long after that night. "Yeah," he answered. "He's really fuckin' cute."
"Tell me more about him," she 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 amazing blue eyes and nice full lips. He's a bit of a hardass, but he can be soft, too, when he wants to be. He doesn't laugh all that much, but when he does, it's like the best sound ever, and his smile lights up his whole face. He 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?"
"Hell yeah, he is," he 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," she said. "I'd like to meet him someday. It'd be nice to see you happy for once."
He said nothing at first, the small smile slipping off his face. After a beat, he mumbled, "Yeah, me too, Debs."