She made him go to a party because she said he didn't get out enough. She said it didn't matter since he didn't know any of the people there anyway, but she did a line of coke in their bathroom before they went because coke made Mickey act a lot more like the Mickey everyone knew.
He didn't really know what to do with himself when he got to the party, so he just leant against a wall smoking, a drink in his other hand as he watched everything going on around him. He could feel the coke running through his bloodstream and it made him practically itch to move, but he was too scared to, too scared of doing something that Mandy wouldn't approve of.
He chewed up his bottom lip and pushed away from the wall and went outside when some girl came to chat him up. He definitely knew that no matter who he was, no matter who people thought he was, he wouldn't want to have her flirt with him.
No, he didn't like her, he didn't like girls. He liked. . . what did he like?
He liked the feel of teeth in his shoulder, hands on his hips as a dick filled up his ass. He liked the smell of lime bodywash and a choked out moan when the person fucking him came. He liked pale skin under his hands. He liked freckles and soppy looks that he pretended not to notice. He liked breathless panting and fucks in random places. He liked it hard and fast and brutal and he didn't want to like it slow and meaningful, but he did anyway.
He didn't know how he knew that, he just did.
He knew that, but he hadn't even remembered his own name.
Mickey swore softly under his breath at the hand that the world had dealt him and tipped his head back against the outside wall of the house, listening to the shitty music and wishing that they were playing something else. He just didn't know what exactly.
"After all the things you put me through, tell me why I'm still in love with you, why am I, why am I still waiting for your call. . ."
"Please stop singing!"
No please don't stop, I don't mean it, please don't ever stop.
"Fuck off, Mick, I like to sing."
He rolled his eyes, "You like to, doesn't mean you fucking can."
"Like you could do any better."
Yes I could actually, he thought to himself, but instead those words came out of his mouth as, "And why the fuck would I want to sing some shitty song or whatever the fuck you were murdering just then."
He didn't know what to make to the scenes that ran through his head, like lines of a play that he'd once learnt and was only now remembering. Except he couldn't put faces to the voices, or rather a face to the voice. It was always the same voice. It was always the same person, but Mickey didn't have anything other than meaningless words to go off.
"Get the fuck off me," he heard Mandy snarl and he was pushing away from the wall before he even really knew he was moving. It was like he was working on automatic, his teeth bared and his fists flying, connecting with flesh and bone. He heard something crunch when he slammed his forehead into some unfortunate guy's face – he thought unfortunate, but he didn't really care.
He didn't know why it felt good to have blood smeared across his knuckles. The idea of hurting someone, of wanting to hurt them more than anything else was a foreign feeling. It felt alien, but at the same time it felt so familiar that it hurt. It was like his mind couldn't remember anything, but his body knew exactly what it was supposed to be doing. He could have blamed it on the drugs in his system, but he didn't think he could have stopped even if he had tried.
A fist glanced off his jaw and he just laughed and spat blood out onto the floor, surprised actually that that hadn't really hurt at all. There had been enough power behind that punch for it to hurt. He thought maybe his head was used to taking hits like that.
"Mickey, just fucking leave it!"
Someone pulled on his arm, stopping him from throwing another punch and something inside of him seemed to recognise that voice even though he couldn't place it for a second. Mandy tugged at his arm again, trying to drag him away and he let her. He could have resisted, but Mandy was the one he trusted, he was the one he wanted to look after, so why the hell would he resist? It was like the need to fight was slowly ebbing out of him again.
"This party's bullshit anyway," Mandy said, flipping off a couple of people who were staring.
She linked her arm through Mickey's as she dragged him away, making sure he couldn't turn back around. Or maybe it was to help her stand up, because she was swaying a little bit. He wondered how much she'd had to drink.
"Why the hell can you remember how to hit shit, but you can't remember who I am?" she asked him when they'd gotten a safe distance from the party and there was nobody around.
He shrugged, "Instincts?"
"Probably," she muttered, snorting like she thought that was just typical. "Good to know you can still back me up in a fight though," she commented, bumping him with her hip and swaying slightly.
"Well I wouldn't be much of a brother if I didn't want to kill for you, would I?" he replied, scrubbing a hand through his hair and thumbing the letters on his knuckles. He had a habit of doing that now, like pressing his fingers against those permanent marks would bring back some memory of who he used to be.
He still wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to be that person anymore, but he thought he should try for Mandy's sake. He knew Mandy wanted him back sometimes. He knew this must be hard on her even if she pretended it wasn't. Mandy was good at pretending, he supposed he was too.
"Sit down there," she said, pointing to the couch when they walked into the house.
She kicked off her shoes, one of them flying out of sight and Mickey knew she was going to be screaming at him to find it next time she wanted to wear them. "What are you doing?" he asked, watching her stagger slightly into the kitchen, "And how much have you had to drink?"
"Not enough," she replied and he could hear the fridge opening and closing. She came back with a bag of frozen peas they both knew they were never going to eat. "You're cheek's starting to swell up a bit, unless you want to look like the Elephant Man in the morning, put this on your face."
He winced when the cold surface touched his face and she laughed at him. "Little bit late to become a pussy now," she muttered and he pulled a face at her, except actually, that sort of hurt. He let his features smooth out again.
"Did I used to fight a lot?" he asked her, not really knowing why.
Mandy just shrugged, "We all did, it's sort of in our blood."
He didn't know how he felt about that. He didn't know how he was supposed to feel about the fact that his body could remember how to be a thug but his brain hadn't quite remembered that part yet. He wondered if he was ever going to remember, or if he was going to be stuck with the random words flitting through his brain from the past and the memories he was building now.
He didn't know if that would be so bad. He thought sometimes maybe not. Then he felt guilty, because he knew he should be trying harder to get himself back. Except, he didn't know how to do that.
