"Is there something that you want to tell me?"

Ian spit out the toothpaste gathering in pools at the bottom of his mouth. Todd was standing behind him eyes maiming in the bathroom mirror. His arms were crossed – clearly this was a serious conversation.

"No?" One more spit and he could see a tint of red in the sink. He'd brushed too hard, was bleeding now. "Why?"

Todd made no move but Ian could see the way staying tense made him tremble, and not in a good way. Not the endearing twitch of someone's skin that made you want to hover over and see if you could feel it too. It was the twitch of nonuse – of discomfort, the inability to hold your ground.

There has to be something said for someone who can be tense and not twitch – but he's not sure if it's a good or bad thing.

"Who is he?" The accusation in his voice was almost laughable.

Ian scratched at a scar on his shoulder that looked exactly like the silver outlining of a bite mark, but only if you really looked close enough. "Who?" Two could play this game of wits.

"Don't give me that—" Todd slammed his hand against the wall and it made something twist inside of Ian. A hatred toward himself for the jump, a question of intent. Everyone has a breaking point, even Todd.

"Mickey." He let the name roll around on his tongue and spit one more time just to check that there was still blood mixing with it. "Mickey is Mandy's brother."

"Who is that?" Ian chewed on his sweatshirt sleeve while practically molded into his brother's side. It was a cold winter, one of the coldest in years. Their heat had turned off and Fiona was out working 2 separate jobs that day to try and get enough money for them to turn it back on. Lip had said that it was just as cold outside as in so they might as well go out and have some fun.

The sweatshirt hung too big on him – it was Lip's, stolen from the lost and found at school. But Fiona said it's not like that, said that it was found now and that was all that mattered. His brother had draped it around Ian's shivering frame 20 minutes ago and he was now only donning a thin long sleeve under a tshirt.

Lip sucked hard on his cigarette and pulled back when Ian reached for it. He was adamant about him not starting to smoke until he'd reached double digits. Only 3 months away. "Who?"

His hand lifted with the cuff of the sleeve falling over his fingers. "Him."

Ian had been transfixed on the boy a few yards away from them. His hair was a dark mess of sticking tufts alternating between looking like someone had just hit him and that he'd meant for it to look that way. He assumed someone had still hit him though – no matter what – based off of the bruise taking up a quarter of his face near his right eye.

"Mm that's Mickey Milkovich." Lip bit out, an air of smoke curling around his words that wasn't just from the cigarette but more so from the cold. "Mandy's brother."

Something wet and hard hit Ian square in the back. He turned around to see Mandy Milkovich stick out her tongue with a scowl fit for only a queen to wear. The remnants of a snowball fell down his spine.

"Oh." Ian's breath ate the word, it was too cold to let linger into the day.

Lip turned back and winked, Mandy's cheeks colored an ugly red, too close to her skin – too cold. Everything was freezing and dying.

"Don't worry." His brother's shoulder prodded deep into his skin as it banged against him. "That just means she likes you."

Ian gave Mandy one last look before turning back to the boy in the snow. His bruise stood out obnoxiously against his pale skin and there was something about the way he painted the snow red. Blood on his hands, blood on the boy before him – a victim ever so willing to be hit. Ian wondered why, what could possibly be so longed for by the touch of Mickey Milkovich.

"I got that." Todd screwed his eyes into a scowl before turning half way to leave. "I just feel like I'm missing something and that wont end well."

Ian reached into his mouth to feel around for the source of the stinging wound. It was a small cut, but deep, the kind that get's infected easily.

"Okay." He wasn't sure if he was responding to Todd or trying to reason with him. Tell him that it was okay, his insanity was unjustified. But is that okay in and of itself?

The brown eyes met his once more with a newfound anger. "You're still coming tomorrow night right?" His lip pulled up into his teeth and it looked –wrong. "To the bar? There's that show."

Ian wondered when he said or did anything that had made it seem like he'd forgotten about their plans. And was it just a human flaw? Everyone always assuming that someone had forgotten about them? That disgusting stench of fear that trails behind every insecurity that you have shackled to your heart like it might be cute, mysterious?

Because it's not. It never is. It's just, another tote of baggage in your already full cart.

He had forgotten about the bar, naturally, but still he'd never let that on. So can he be pissed? He didn't even care, he was.

"I remember."

"You good?" Ray's voice boomed close to Mickey and he pulled at the hangnail even more slowly with his teeth. The sting of pain a comfort against the attempt at camaraderie and the cries of another girl done wrong coming from the back room – it was a ridiculous world.

Blood filled the linings around his cuticle. "Hmm?"

Ray eyed him, one brow arched high in a growing inquiring concern. "I said are you good man?"

Mickey didn't answer him and had to turn his head away from the bruise that seemed to glow in the dark around the red headed girls neck. It looked evil – it reminded him of his father, for some reason.

Ray walked on egg shells around him for the rest of the night, which was hard, considering that he was so big. The entire notion made for some bit of comic relief in his life.

His feet ached on the walk home and he could've taken the subway or flagged down a cab, but the night was cool. A welcome relief to the fever burning inside and he liked to pass other people in the throws of despair. It provided a sense of perspective.

The red hair was immediate the moment he turned on his street – their street – the street – fuck.

"What do you want?" He tried to cut him, used every ounce of venom inside but it turned sad and dulled the moment the words hit air.

Ian pulled on the cigarette and bunched his sweatshirt around his fists. Mickey wondered if he knew that this was a habit. "How long have you lived here?"

He pulled a scowl and tucked his arms tightly around his body to keep the lies together. "Does it matter?"

Another puff of smoke. "No."

Ian was a problem smoker, a cheap imitation of despair and addiction. Or maybe the purest kind – it was hard to tell when everyone was a fake.

"Well then." Mickey moved to walk past him and toed at one step wrong so that his ankle twisted in a half trip.

Gallagher's shoulders jumped in a cough before he could hear the splat of spit on the concrete. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

He wondered where Lip was, if he'd skipped town already leaving Ian longing for family and familiarity that he wasn't capable nor ready to fill.

"Nothing."

He looked toward him, years of questions in his eyes. "You wanna come to a show?"

Mickey imagined the plans spoken over and familiar in Ian's mind. Of Todd having it planned into his calendar and Mandy falling asleep to the idea of another obligation she needed to show up to. The normalcy that is so easily lost to alternate intentions.

Did he want to go to a show? No. But that wasn't the question. The question was lost to another one – a string of them.

Do you love me? Are you miserable, was it worth it?

He wrapped his fingers around the door and felt a jolt of nerves crawl up into his brain as he turned his head. He'd turned too fast – pinched something.

"Yea."

Yea to fucking all of it.