When Mickey returned to the hospital, the Gallagher's had already gone. It was late, though that never fucking bothered him, and he slipped into the hospital room the Army was gracious enough to pay for and closed the door quietly as if being too loud this time would wake someone up.
Ian was the only one in the room, but Mickey closed the curtains anyway to give him and Firecrotch privacy. The ex-con took a seat in the chair Fiona or Lip had already placed next to the bed, he could still feel the warmth of someone sitting in it previously.
Looking at Gallagher, Mickey didn't know how to feel. Shit, a part of him still really didn't want to feel anything.
Ian was covered by the hospital blanket, a bunch of machines and shit hooked up into his arms and face. His flaming red hair was covered by a bandage, small cuts all over his face as if they were joining the army of freckles. Mickey noticed Ian's eyes moving behind his closed lids, giving the Milkovich slight relief knowing his Gallagher was at least dreaming.
And his mouth, still full and beautiful, yet chapped from all the exposure of desert sun. Mickey let it all sink in, his catching at the sight in front of him.
"Fuck, Gallagher…" Mickey felt relief again. This huge weight that he'd carried since finding out Firecrotch had been hurt had dropped.
But there was a rise of bile with his disgust and anger. The doctor had said there was a chance Gallagher would wake up, but he'd been careful enough to warn that he had a chance of being a fucking vegetable too. If the red head didn't fucking ever wake up, Mickey didn't know what he'd do.
Most likely swallow it all down with a bottle of vodka or whiskey and beat the shit out of anyone who came in his path.
At least, that's what the old Mickey Milkovich would have done.
No, now Mickey had become part of the big ass Gallagher family. Mandy was one thing, someone who'd barge in and force Mickey off his ass and shower every once in a while. But the Gallaghers had been ten times worse. Fiona would use Carl if he didn't get up fast enough, made him wear clean clothes, and shower ever fucking morning.
They had changed him. The old Mickey would have punched him in the face and laughed while calling him a faggot. And frankly, it'd be so easy to become that Mickey again. The one who didn't give a shit and refused to admit he actually loved this freckled red head.
But it was too late, and he was sure as fuck not giving up the chance to stay close to Ian Gallagher. Not this time.
"Jesus, Firecrotch. You made good on your word. Still alive and fuckin breathin." He muttered, pulling out a cigarette-because let's face it, Mickey Milkovich will never give a shit if there's a rule against it- and sparked up, taking a long drag before letting out a shaky breath of smoke. "You're not fuckin leavin me again. Just…Just open those big ass eyes of yours and give me that shit eating grin so I know you're doin okay."
Mickey stared at the unmoving boy lying in the bed. Nothing changed, no magical wake up or moving fingers like in those stupid fucking faggy romance movies Debbie watched.
He rubbed his bottom lip and took another drag, letting the smoke out through his nostrils as he grew impatient and nervous.
"Come on, Firecrotch, wake up."
When there was still no response, Mickey chewed his lip and scratched his knuckles against his head, then leaned forward.
"I bought an apartment. It's not too shitty, I promise, but I didn't buy no fucking huge expensive one either. It's for you and me, faggy as it is. And I actually went to school because Lip was an arrogant asshole about it."
The ex-con continued to stare at Ian's face, as if it would will him to wake the fuck up. He grew anxious, and frustrated.
"If you tell anyone this, I'll rip your fucking tongue out of our head and feed it to some stray dog. And I'll burn the letter so no one knows I told you already. But I fuckin missed you, all right? I couldn't get you out of my fucking head. You made me actually worry! And—And I actually found it in myself to accept the fucking fact that I'm in love with you an nothing can change it, you fucking asshole. So just wake the fuck up already!"
Mickey was starting to lose it. He couldn't take the quiet, or the sounds these damned machines made. Everything wanted out. He felt close to breaking down, being exactly what Mickey Milkovich wasn't.
"Gallagher, wake up. Please just…Wake the fuck up…"
He waited a minute.
"Gallagher."
And another, until finally he just whispered, "Ian, please wake up."
When even that got no response, Mickey leaned back in the seat with defeat. He rubbed his face and put out the cigarette, eyes trying to water. Mickey wouldn't let it happen.
Part of him wanted to leave, give up. That was the old part of him. Instead, Mickey stayed in the chair, watching Ian. And after a while, he rested his arms on the bed, then his head on top of them and fell asleep.
That night, Mickey dreamed that Ian woke up, that he hadn't been hurt. But then he also dreamed that Ian died from his body failing and never having woken up. Every dream that Mickey had that night was overdramatic and unrealistic, but what dreams weren't? That fear was bubbling over, the fear Mickey always tried to hide behind a mask.
One and a half years of being apart only to get Firecrotch back with a bump on the head and a coma as a result.
Mickey muttered his fears while he slept, and the nurse coming in to check on Ian overhearing. She was going to wake him up and send the Milkovich on his way, but stopped when she noticed Ian's hand holding onto his. With a smile, the nurse did her check, then left, closing the door behind her.
Even unconscious, Ian had heard it all. The apartment, the "I miss you", the shouting, and the "I love you" most of all.
He'd heard Mickey call him Ian for once. And damned if he hadn't tried to wake his own ass up after that. But it was like a heavy blanket over him, one that prevented him from speaking or moving. But it lifted just enough for him to find Mickey's hand and hold on tight.
This was the best part of being home.