Chapter Nine: Relate
It was hot and bright. Yet Mickey had chills. They were staring at him. Mandy was too. She was there, all cut up, and standing in the middle of the line, just looking at him. They all said nothing, just stared at Mickey, covered in sweat and shivering. Blinded by the beating sunlight. Everything was white save for the line of people, formed together as if playing a game of Red Rover. And that fucking song was in his head.
This is the song that never ends. Yes it goes on and on, my friends. . .
Over an over he heard this. Pulled at his hair. Curled into himself and screamed for the faces to leave him. For the noise to just please stop.
Mickey woke up in his new hotel room, covered in a cold sweat and crying. Breathing hard, he looked around, assuring himself that it had been a dream. Wiped at his tear streaked face, angry at himself for no apparent reason. Terrified at the same time. And then the alarm beside of him rang. He'd forgotten that he had set it. Mickey was trying lately to fix the sleeping schedule he had so easily fucked up by staying just one night at that cafe. And that had been over a week ago. For a week Mickey had been sleeping in until four or five in the afternoon and staying awake until nine in the morning. It was starting to wear him down. Mentally even. Because Mickey hadn't had a nightmare so bad in at least three months. Since before moving to Chicago. He had hoped the ghosts would stop chasing him. He had been wrong.
Sitting up, the cover dropping down his torso and resting around his hips, Mickey rubbed the back of his sweaty neck and waited for the alarm to go into snooze mode. It did so quickly. He reached over and unplugged the whole thing. Sat there until his morning wood somewhat subsided. The room was even temperature. Cleaner than the other one, also. He was glad to finally have switched. The only probably he had was that the bathroom in this one was cramped worse than the other one. He stood up eventually, the covers falling from the bed after him, and walked through the archway to his bathroom. Pissing away the remainder of his stiffy, Mickey scratched his stomach and leaned forward against the wall, aiming as best he could. One reason he hated mornings. Peeing was always difficult. As a preteen, he had been really confused. And hadn't had a father he was willing to ask about the changes in his body. So instances like now had confused the hell out of a very young Mickey for a long time.
He straightened out his boxers and walked back to the bed, falling flat on his stomach, feet dangling, head resting in the middle of his messy sheets. Mickey groaned. The dream had really put a damper on his entire day. Mickey could feel himself slipping into that pit of darkness that was always waiting for him.
Punching his bed once, Mickey thought about going back to bed. But the dream might come back, and fuck that. So he sat up again and listened to his stomach grumble. Before he had pulled the alarm from the wall, Mickey noted the time being noon. Better than four o'clock definitely. And this time he had remained up. So far. Exhaling then suddenly yawning, Mickey picked up the close by his feet. He shoved on his olive-green t-shirt, then stood up to put on his jeans and belt. He scratched at his cheek, feeling his scruff, and walked toward the bathroom again. Stopped halfway across the room, though, because he remembered that his razor was shot to hell. Shaving wasn't an option. Not today, anyhow, and honestly Mickey disliked having facial hair. It was itchy. So, finding his coat amongst the pile of filthy laundry, Mickey slipped it on and figured he needed to go buy a few things anyway. It was strange knowing that he would actually pay for the things he needed. five years ago, Mickey had not only been a hired murdered, but a thief and petty heistman as well. But turning twenty had come with some strange maturity Mickey hadn't expected to see in himself, since his father never seemed to have gained it. Maybe that was why. Maybe Mickey tried not to be his father in most way. He wasn't sure. And he was too damned upset to think about it. So he stepped into his boots, didn't bother tying them, and left the hotel.
Mickey's new room was on the first floor, so he thankfully didn't have to take the elevator lately. Or the stairs, which was usually where he tripped over the homeless people of this neighborhood.
He stepped outside and was shocked at how not cold it was for once. This winter had been a strange one. Freezing one day, almost hot the next. Mickey pulled off his coat and slung it over his shoulder. By the time he passed the cafeteria and walked into the marketplace, Mickey's phone began chiming off. He answered it, greeting Rex in the most unfriendly way possible. He was fucking angry with this guy on so many levels.
"Have time to meet a woman about an order?" Rex asked, cheerful. Code for having another hit ready.
Mickey felt it was almost too soon. He'd handled one just yesterday. Plus he was in a bad mood and this didn't bode well on his current state.
"Cancel it," Mickey said bluntly, then hung up. As he made his way toward the shave needs isle, Mickey's phone went off again. "What?" he answered gruffly, catching the weird look he got from a female employee stocking shelves.
"What's your problem?" Rex huffed, offended.
"Not in the mood, asshole," Mickey seethed. "Just cancel it and don't come to me for at least the rest of March with any more fucking orders. I'm done for a while. Done."
"All right. But we're missing out on a hell of a pay off to split."
"I said fucking cancel it. I don't appreciate having to repeat myself twice," Mickey said, face twisted as he grabbed a random razor angrily. "Besides, I have almost eight grand on me. I can afford a brake," he snapped, then hung up, shutting his phone completely off. Christ Rex was dense sometimes. Or maybe Mickey was just testy. Probably both.
The employee looked up at Mickey like he was on fire or something. He scowled down at her, saying, "What? Fucking bitch," and shoved past, purposefully kicking around the bottles of shaving cream she had been stocking. He left after purchasing the razor, some coffee creamer, and a tube of ranch flavored Pringles. Because the place was out of barbeque flavor and cheddar. He left the place in a worse mood than he had been earlier. Stalking back toward his hotel, Mickey stopped in front of the cafe. He wouldn't have today, except that Ian was standing outside, leaning against the wall beside of the front door, ankles crossed, smoking a cigarette. And spoke, greet him, thus causing Mickey to freeze a few feet back from Ian.
"Did something happen?" Ian asked, a knowing look on his face as he met Mickey's scowl with doe eyes. "You seem upset," Ian said, putting his cigarette out on the standing ashtray.
Cause he fucking was. And the fuck was this guy to call Mickey on it? "Just another day, Kid," Mickey bit. "Leave it alone." He walked forward some, but only made it barely past Ian before the redhead opened his nosy mouth again.
"Does it have to do with that gift?" Ian asked innocently. Obviously having an impeccable memory for things Mickey, almost a stranger to Ian, did.
Mickey spun around, dropped the creamer. The bottle rolled into the street and Mickey didn't bother looking at it, much less going after it. Ian watched it for a second, then stepped over and picked it up from the gutter. He reached it out to Mickey. Mickey grabbed it violently. His rage bubbled inside. And he knew it wasn't Ian's fault. None of it. But Ian was about to be the scapegoat before Mickey could even stop himself. "You don't know fuck all about my life," Mickey quipped, narrowing his eyes. "So don't start spouting off about shit you're not a part of. Bringing up shit you won't understand. Can it before you get ahead of yourself, Ian," he hissed. He looked the teen up and down, still sneering. Ian looked taken aback but only momentarily. Mickey didn't miss the hurt in the guy's eyes. Wondered at it long enough for it to actually soften the fury on his face. The heat behind his words. "I could be dangerous for all you know," Mickey said after the brief pause. Calmer that time.
Ian held up his hands in surrender. It was then Mickey saw the look of stress on Ian's young-looking face. Stress that was clearly older than these last few minutes. "Okay," Ian said, trying to sound casual yet Mickey heard the disappointment in the kid's tone,"it's dropped."
Mickey shifted in place. They stared for a few moments more. Mickey really wanted a cigarette. Smelled the smoke on Ian and his craving was worse for it. He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a second and collecting his thoughts. Still in a foul mood regardless of his efforts, Mickey cocked a snide brow at Ian. "You're an observant little prick," Mickey began, "aren't you?"
Ian merely shrugged. "Sometimes," he replied, crossing his arms. Mickey was shocked, even if only inwardly, when Ian openly looked him over. And it was a lingering stare, too, unlike Mickey's quick once overs. Unashamed. "It just depends," Ian said, eyes finally coming back to rest on Mickey's.
On what, Mickey wanted to ask, but didn't. He wasn't sure how to react now that he had a feeling that this kid just checked him out. Honestly, Mickey hadn't intended to come across like apparently he had. And yet Mickey couldn't figure out even for himself what the point in sparking up this strange acquaintanceship had been to start with. Mickey had just been bored that day he first spoke with Ian, and that was the god damned truth. Beyond that, Mickey had no idea why he'd let it go on. Yet his mouth got away from him again, obviously not on track with his thought process.
"What are you, on fucking break or something?" Mickey asked grumpily, half interested.
Ian cocked a brow. "I'm being sent home for the day. I pissed Kash off and he threw me out," he explained, sounding exasperated.
Mickey shifted the items in his arms, watched Ian closely.
"So," Ian scrunched his face, looking down at the crack in the pavement, worrying his upper lip, suddenly serious, "besides sitting in there," he pointed at the cafe, eyes moving up, but not meeting Mickey, "accepting suspicious gifts, and drinking too much coffee," Ian trailed for a second, then finished his drawn out question, "what do you do all day?"
Mickey frowned, watching Ian rub his freckled forearm awkwardly, unsure. "Sleep," Mickey said, honest. "Smoke too much, do drugs, and torment innocent bystanders," he went on, smirking suddenly because even that was the truth. What a life he lived.
Meeting Mickey's eyes finally, Ian knitted his brow, then grinned slowly. He looked like a cat for sure, Mickey decided. Had a joker's smile. Ian rubbed his eyes, still grinning, and pulled another loose cigarette from his pocket. He stuck it between his lips, then reached behind him on the windowsill, picking up a pack of matches. He struck one, cupped his hand around his cigarette, and took a few fast puff. Shaking out the match, Ian balanced the cigarette between hip lips and asked, "You know how to reassemble guns or anything like that?" He then pulled the cigarette away and blew smoke up.
Mickey figured that was a strange question. Yet certainly not the weirdest thing he had been asked. "Why?" he asked, his anger fading into faint curiosity. He rubbed his bottom lip, holding up the items with only one arm now.
Ian looked uncertain for a minute, then glanced at the cafe door. Eye back on Mickey after, Ian took a few steps forward and began walking. He looked back over his shoulder to Mickey, expectant. And Mickey didn't know why the hell he actually started after the ginger punk. But he did. Ian stopped walking when they reached the other side of the street, away from anyone in earshot. "My dad's gun is in pieces and I kind of need it to not be," Ian said, eyes darting around, paranoid. He stopped looking around and sighed, knitting his brow, chewing his lip. "I used to know how," he began, explaining as if Mickey had asked to begin with, "but I dropped ROTC and school when my parents went all to hell over my sister. I've forgotten too much to try it on my own."
Looking at him, Mickey knew that he didn't care why Ian needed the gun. Also didn't care why Ian couldn't fix the thing himself. And Mickey knew that he sure as fuck wasn't the right person for Ian to ask help from. For one, Mickey didn't do help. For two, Mickey hardly knew the kid outside of the cafe. Really he didn't know Ian at all. Except that Ian had a crack whore mother, was friends with a prostitute, got bullied, was previously in ROTC, had a sister, and was starting to give off gay vibes that made Mickey a little uncomfortable; not uncomfortable with homosexuality in general, but with the few fleeting thoughts running through Mickey's own mind. Yet still he didn't walk away, tell the guy to dick off elsewhere. And in fact, yes, Mickey knew how to disassemble, reassemble, and practically remake guns from scratch. It was kind of his skill aside from being a hitman. Came from watching his father do it every day up until the sicko died.
"What kinda gun is it?" Mickey asked easily.
"Compact revolver," Ian said, looking to brighten up. Hopeful. He took a drag from his cigarette, then reached into his pocket. And for a second, Mickey thought the kid was pulling out the gun, looked startled at Ian. But then Ian offered over a slightly bent cigarette and the packet of matches. Mickey took them, and Ian said, "It's a Magnum. Kind of complicated to fit the pieces together."
Mickey lit up and took a few drags, mulling over what he ought to do as opposed to what he was about to do. "Got it on you?" he asked, holding Ian's gaze.
Ian shook his head and said it was at his house.
And it was strange to Mickey, standing here talking with Ian like this. It felt more personal for reasons Mickey didn't care to figure out. Didn't want to think too hard on. Stranger still was how, by the time they had both finished their cigarettes, Mickey suddenly realized they had walked while talking. That he had absently walked in the direction of his hotel. He only realized this when Ian let out a laugh. Glancing up at his hotel for a second, Mickey felt a rush of panic. His chest beat quickly. Yet he didn't want to give away the fact that he lived at this hotel. Mainly because Mickey didn't want people knowing where he lived. Ever. It was too fucking risky. So he tried to hide his stir and make out as though he'd simply stopped walking for no apparent reason.
Ian rolled his eyes and looked around. "Shit," he said to Mickey, giving off an apologetic smirk, "I'm sorry. I walked us all the way to my house almost."
Mickey knitted his brow, confused yet grateful for the out. He followed Ian's hand as Ian motioned over to the street just off behind an El entrance. "I live right over there, if you want to see the gun," Ian said. "You don't have to," he quickly added, then trailed, "but since we're here."
Mickey licked the corner of his mouth and shrugged and said, "Ain't got shit else to do."
A short walk later and Mickey was standing at Ian's front door step, still holding his items. He figured Ian was slightly too trusting, bringing Mickey here. But then, after looking around the neighborhood and knowing the place the kid worked, Mickey realized it wasn't so much Ian being too trusting as it was Ian just not giving a fuck. Which was endearing because Mickey could relate to it.
