The bathroom door rattled as his back hit square against it sending a gasp of pain into Ian's mouth. The man's tongue swallowed up the sound like it alone had been the soul purpose of all of this.

Give and take, a little pain a little pleasure. He could taste blood and he's pretty sure it wasn't his own.

Mickey fisted his hands into Ian's shirt pushing him off and taking a ragged breath that was closer to a growl. The word 'merciless' rang loud in his head as Ian's eyes shone with alcohol and lust and hate.

He was going to destroy him.

A bruise hit him on his hips when hands gripped tight and pushed him now against the wall. His head whacked the concrete with a smack initiating stars that helped him see a little bit better in the dim light.

Mickey reached around lacing his fingers from jaw to ear and digging into the short hairs of Ian's scalp. It was brutal – a brutal way to love someone. People throw the words blood sweat and tears around like they have substance but to live it is different. It's to read for the first time, to be able to open your eyes in the dark and realize that you can still see if you just push a little further.

This love was like falling – you've pushed yourself a little further off the mountain and the rush will make you sick while you're slashing your arms on the way down. But down down you go because Alice didn't turn around and Mandy had made him read that book so many fucking times to her.

Down the rabbit hole Ian, I'll meet you there.

A hand dragged roughly against his jeans and Mickey pressed desperately into the touch. Anything he could get, any bit of friction needed to be faster and harder and there was something to be said for still having their clothes on.

Quick gropes in the bathroom and fucks that aren't fucks because of all the fabric between you – it's desperate. And desperation is a dirty dirty thing.

"Was it hell for you?" Ian's words came out a hot sting. "Seeing me all that time just a few floors away."

Mickey bit his lip and leaned in closer flicking out his tongue to lick at Ian's mouth. He thought about Todd kissing him and it made him wild pushing himself deeper wanting to be swallowed by him or to choke him. It was unclear.

He figures he must have answered because Ian bit back now before running words across his skin and up his neck. "Did it hurt to think about me fucking him?" The name wasn't necessary.

He groaned as Ian replaced his hands with his hips. "What would you say if I said yes?" It felt like a fever. When you're floating above ground and the breeze of the wind is enough to hurt because you're burning up from the inside out.

Ian's mouth cracked into a smile but it felt like a sneer with the twitches of muscles acting in rage.

"I hope it hurt."

The house was so thick with different odors Mickey actually found it difficult to breathe. And it's funny because he was there last night, slept in his bed counting sheep and he didn't notice that smell.

But maybe it's because his mind had shifted. Finally every bit of his being was set on one idea and he could open his eyes to his life. The veil had been lifted to show him that there was still a veil over everything and it reeked of meth and pot.

And sweat – disgusting sour putrid sweat.

A clicking sound echoed off the walls bouncing from the rotted wooden chair to the guns and then back to him. It sounded mechanical, broken. One more hazard he's sure would kill them in time.

No one was home. He knew that before he'd come in. That was the point. Because he was really tired and the energy needed to fend off Terry or love Mandy was equivalent. Ian had taught him that – love and hate being two sides of the same coin. Either way it took too much out of him, stabbed its hands inside his gut and twisted and pulled with a smile and a quick word of 'you should get some sleep'.

Mickey reached down dipping his finger into the pile of coke on the table and jammed it up his nose sniffing deep and quick. He wished he could see inside his head and watch the particles travel through out his brain stem. Wished he could put a face to what was killing him and not have it look like his father or the red head with a smile that was the worst type of weapon.

A smile tricks you because you don't wan to look deeper. Your mind telling you 'good, they're good' but are you looking at the way the corners pull? At how nothing reaches their eyes and this may be a grimace –

No one bothers to look.

There was a picture over the mantle and it showed the ghost of him 10 years prior. A smile hanging on his lips that stirred a rage deep down. His lip was cracked, dried and split not doubt from his father's fist. Eyes angry and scared looking half out of frame in preparation for a fight.

'No one questions a smile' Mickey thought as the arsenic spilled out into the rest of the cocaine.

Ian's forehead felt hot. A sheen of sweat made his skin glisten and the bass of a band starting to play thrummed between them making each bone vibrate. His hearing was half gone like when you run too fast and you're dehydrated and you know you're about to pass out.

Both their chests were heaving too greatly that their proximity made them crash into each other with every breath.

Ian pulled back leaving Mickey's vision swirling and just as fast as they had each other pinned and gasping, the room was empty. He stayed sucking in air pressed against the wall. The bass picking up rhythm and a drum set crashed with force being propelled on by the applause of the bar full of drunken assholes.

He was drunk – he felt sick. His fingers trembled as he pushed himself forward stumbling to the mirror hanging over a sink stained with blood.

The faucet screeched against rust and he pooled a bit of water in his hands before splashing his face.

"Get yourself together." He whispered before feeling each string inside begin to fray. His palms flat against the wall slamming and smashing into the concrete over and over screaming at only his own reflection. "Get yourself together!"

The door creaked open and he turned violent ready for the attack. Hoping that Ian had come back for more to put one last bullet in his brain and that Mickey could beat him to it. He would do anything to make him feel this.

But Mandy stood arms crossed, makeup running and sloppy from the sweat on her face.

"Really?" She started and he brought his hands over his ears in fear, in cowardly pain and deja'vu. "You're a fucking pussy."

Her eyes were measured and she turned heels clicking like the devils laugh.

Mickey could feel the whiskey come back up and he turned back to the sink spilling up a mess of all his body had to offer. His nostrils burned and the alcohol stayed stuck in bits of choking vomit.

The last stall opened and a guy not much older than him walked out tentatively buttoning up his pants. He avoided eye contact and went to wash his hands clearly having been waiting for his moment to escape.

Mickey stared at his own sink and had never felt so typical in his whole life. The man grabbed a paper towel before looking over as well.

"Nice."

Mickey stayed quiet because it was pointless. He could do nothing but nod and watch the man head back out cleaner and more put together than he ever would be.