He knew the day Ian came back, because Mandy tripped out of her room looking twice as made up as usual. She was obviously making an extra special effort, like doing that would make this guy stay or something. Mickey still hadn't remember anything more than a name, but the colour red kept flitting through his mind like it was burned into the back of his eyelids, he didn't know what that was supposed to mean.
"You planning on flashing the entire neighbourhood?" he asked her as she danced forwards and did a twirl in what he knew was a new mini skirt, "Please go put some trousers on."
"Fuck off, no, I look cute," she said playing with the hem of her skirt.
He rolled his eyes, "Whatever."
"Come pick me up at like two yeah?" she asked, putting more mascara on which he thought was stupid. She scribbled something down on a piece of paper. "There's not enough room to stay over and I don't really wanna get fucking raped walking home or something shit."
"Wouldn't happen if you put some trousers on," he retorted, but took the paper that held and address and promised to be there at two to pick her up. He knew she was probably going to be passed out by then anyway.
It was only seven, so he had seven hours to kill, which he wasn't really looking forwards to. He found that he wasn't good at killing time when he was waiting for something. And why did he feel like he was waiting for the biggest thing of all? He didn't know. . . it was only picking Mandy up from a party. So why was he sort of nervous and sort of excited all at the same time?
He showered, ate, picked up the random clothes dotted around the house that were dirty and put them in the wash. He watched some pointless TV, played videogames, tried and failed to sleep for a few hours. He played with Bert for a little while until the mouse seemed to get bored of him. He read a book, but couldn't concentrate and in the end he just lay staring up at the ceiling with a cigarette trapped between his fingers, burning out and dropping ash onto the floor. He wasn't even smoking it, he just needed something to hold.
The sound of a gunshot screamed through his mind and he jumped involuntarily, even though he knew it was all in his head, he still jumped. His fingers automatically sought out the scar on his thigh, he knew where it was even through his jeans.
"Hey, hey look at me!"
The hands on his thigh seemed to burn more than the wound did, because he could feel that touch somewhere deep inside of himself, like his soul was memorising it.
"You fucking suck!" he screamed at the person who'd shot him, because otherwise he was going to scream the words in his head. His insides were freaking out and not about being shot, but about having a gun still pointed at the only person he gave a shit about who wasn't blood.
He slotted his fingers over those on his thigh, gripped tight, held on like if he didn't, the world was going to drop out from underneath him.
He rubbed his eyes, not knowing how he was supposed to make sense of everything in his head. Sometimes he wasn't sure he wanted to. This wasn't one of these moments. He wanted to remember the guy that his thoughts clung to, he wanted to remember the guy his heart kept trying to provide the knowledge about. He could feel the ache of his feelings deep inside of his chest and that was weird, because he didn't know anything about the guy other than what his fleeting memories provided him with.
Sometimes they seemed too surreal to be memories. But they had to be, didn't they.
"I- I miss you."
No, he couldn't hear that. He couldn't hear that because he didn't know how to deal with that. People didn't miss him, people didn't care about him. He couldn't say it back, his tongue didn't know how to shape those words. He knew they'd taste weird on his tongue, it was like a foreign language. He didn't know how to say stuff like that, he didn't know how to do any of this.
"Say that again and I'll rip your tongue out your head."
He knew how to do that. He knew how to ruin things. He knew how to be a dick. He knew how to pretend.
Sometimes he wanted to go back in time and slap the old him around the back of the head. Sometimes the things he remembered made him feel sick, because he knew the feelings in his chest now had been there then. And with those feelings, he didn't know how anybody could possibly deny anything. Hadn't it been written all over his face? Did the guy know how he felt? How much he cared? Did this guy know that Mickey had only been hiding behind those harsh words?
Did he? Did he? Did he?
He thought probably not.
"Done is done! What do you think we're boyfriend and girlfriend here? You're nothing but a warm mouth to me?"
No, no, no, no, NO!
I don't mean it, you have to know I don't mean it. Make me take it back! Please make me take it back! I swear I don't mean it! Don't look at me like that! Don't cry, please don't cry. Fuck, please don't cry! I didn't mean it, you have to know I didn't mean it.
He didn't know how to take it back, his mouth wouldn't let him. Mickey didn't know how to tell the truth, he didn't know how to put himself out there. He only knew how to lie and how to pretend and how to ruin the only good things that he had ever had.
Mickey punched the wall, wincing at the pain that slithered through his hand. He felt like maybe he deserved that though. The old him was an idiot, a liar, a pretender. Just like him now. He wanted to remember, he wanted to know who that guy was so that he could find him, so he could go and apologise for those words, for that person who had said those things that he didn't mean.
He could feel it like an illness, bubbling up inside of him. It burned, it fucking hurt to think about what he'd said. He couldn't remember why he'd said them, who he'd said them to, but it still hurt. It hurt like nothing else he could imagine. Because this sort of pain couldn't be stitched up, it couldn't be pushed aside, it wouldn't heal.
It definitely wouldn't heal because he couldn't even remember!
Fuck, he'd never wanted to remember so badly in his entire life.
He rolled off the bed and walked into the kitchen, pressing that bag of peas from the freezer against his injured hand, cradling it against his chest. He just sat there, feeling the cold start to set into his hand, make it seize up slightly, but he didn't care in the slightest. He just sat there and hated the old him that he couldn't remember and he hated the new him a little bit as well for no reason at all.
He hated everything.
He hated that he couldn't remember.
He'd never really wanted to remember before. But he wanted to remember now. He felt like it was the least this mystery guy who made his heart clench inside of his chest deserved. Why can I remember Mandy's friend's name, but I can't remember his?
He threw the bag of peas back into the freezer when he saw the clock ticking closer to two a.m. He could be a little bit early, Mandy would probably be too pissed to even really notice the time anyway. He found a kind of grubby looking bandage in the bathroom and wound it around his hand to try and see if that helped the pain a little. He thought maybe it was broken, he didn't know, he didn't care. He couldn't see past the pain in his chest.
Nobody was around as he walked to the address Mandy had given him, the one he'd memorised earlier because he'd been bored and couldn't think of anything else to do. It was weird, his feet seemed to move of their own accord, he didn't even have to think about it. He supposed he'd probably been to this house before. It wasn't far away. It was only a couple of blocks over.
He could hear music coming from inside, could see people moving about through the windows. But he just stood there on the other side of the road, watching like some sort of creepy stalker. He felt like an idiot, but he had a few minutes until he'd told Mandy he'd pick her up and he didn't want to move yet. He didn't know why, but he didn't want to move.
He kept his injured hand cradled against his chest, stamped his feet occasionally to try and ward off the chill that was creeping into his bones. The cold helped the pain in his hand a little though, maybe that was why he was standing there. He knew he was just lying to himself thinking that, but hey, he was good at lying. He was even better at pretending.
When two people came crashing out of the front door, it took him a minute to realise that one of them was his sister. He was sort of proud that she seemed to have the upper hand, punching the blonde girl she landed on top of in the face before the girl probably knew what the hell had hit her. More people came out of the house, watching the fight that was too brutal to really be a cat fight. He didn't know why it amused him, he knew he should be going forwards to help Mandy out or something, but he still didn't move.
"You fucking whore!" Mandy spat – or rather screamed – as the blonde girl slapped her across the face. Mickey didn't know why that amused him, that this girl would slap when his sister punched. But it did.
People were trying to go in and break it up, were trying to drag them apart, but Mandy wasn't having any of it. She hung on to the blonde girl's hair, twisting her head back and making her cry out. Mickey knew his sister was smiling at that sound.
He didn't know when he'd moved, when he'd crossed the road, but nobody noticed him until he stood next to them with the hosepipe in his hands. He saw Lip out of the corner of his eye, saw him smirk and then he twisted the end and aimed the freezing cold jet of water at his sister.
She swore loudly and let go of the other girl instantly, who also squealed in a really girlish way.
"Mickey, what the fuck!" Mandy screamed at him, climbing to her feet and slamming her hands into his chest. He turned off the water and dropped the house pipe, dancing back and laughing because he didn't know what else to do and Mandy did look sort of funny standing there like a drowned rat.
He shrugged, "First thing I thought of."
"You could have just said, stop, you dickhead!" she crossed her arms over her chest and shivered and automatically he shrugged out of his coat and handed it to her. The chill felt pretty good on his throbbing hand anyway.
She didn't say anything as she pulled it on and wrapped it around her tightly.
"At least it sobered you up," he said, smirking a little when she flipped him off.
"Is it two already?" she asked, looking down at her wrist even though she knew full well she never wore a watch.
He nodded, "Yepp."
"Well damn," she muttered and then shivered again and rubbed her arms, "I can't believe you fucking used the hose pipe on me, if I have the flu I'll fucking cut you while you sleep?"
He rolled his eyes, "No, you'll just drive me mad making me look after you."
Which of course he'd do anyway, but that went without saying.
"What the hell happened to your hand?" she asked him suddenly, noticing the way he was keeping it tucked into his side and no doubt spotting the bandage as well, "It was fine when I left!"
He shrugged, "Punched a wall."
"Why?"
He didn't know why he didn't want to tell her the full story, the real answer. Maybe because he didn't even really know the full story himself, he didn't know how to explain it so that it would make sense. So he just said, "Remembered something I didn't want to."
Her face softened instantly and she looked like she wanted to hug him, but she didn't.
"Just let me go get my shoes," she said, "Then we'll go get high."
He snorted, "That's your answer for everything." It wasn't really a bad solution to the problem though. It would at least make him relax for a while and it'd definitely dull the pain in his hand.
She touched his arm briefly as she jogged past him into the house.
He noticed the blonde girl she'd been fighting with had disappeared, he thought that was probably for the best. He fidgeted a little, unnerved about the fact that he was no surrounded by people he didn't know. He only knew Lip and even then, that was barely. He wondered if the old him had known these people.
He tried not to look at them as he stood there, but that made it sort of difficult when Lip started talking to him. He was a little drunk and more than a little high, Mickey could tell. He was sort of jealous actually. "Best way to break up a cat fight, ever, seriously!" he said, grinning at Mickey like an idiot.
Mickey supposed that was probably because of the weed.
"Yeah, whatever," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck with his good hand and wondering how long it was taking Mandy to get some fucking shoes. A tall redhead met his eyes, but he looked away quickly. He didn't want to encourage anyone to talk to him and the guy was pretty fucking hot and Mickey also didn't want to do anything that would give away the fact he wasn't straight.
"Mick!" Mandy shouted from the steps in front of the front door of the house, she had one shoe dangling from her hand, "I lost a shoe!"
He groaned and gave her an exasperated look.
"And what am I supposed to do about that?" he asked, scratching a random itch that appeared on his thigh, right over his scar.
"Carry me."
He glared at her, "Mandy, I think I broke my hand, I can't carry you!"
She rolled her eyes, "Stop being such a pussy."
Knowing better than to argue with her too much, because they both knew that he was going to end up carrying her anyway, he walked over to her and hooked his good arm under her knees, putting his bad one under her back and lifting her up. And fuck it hurt, but he gritted his teeth and she wrapped an arm around the back of his neck to take some of the weight off of him, even though that made it sort of worse because she was strangling him a little bit.
"Love you Mickey," she said, seeming a little drunk again.
He felt her shiver and felt slightly guilty about using the hose on her, but then she was making him carry her home so he thought that evened it out. She was cold and he was in pain, they were even.
"Yeah," he muttered, because he didn't know what else to say and he was having to keep his teeth mashed together because otherwise he thought he might moan in pain.
"Bye Ian," Mandy shouted, waving at someone over his shoulder and Mickey half turned to look at the redhead who was feebly waving back. There was a strange expression on his face that Mickey didn't have the time to decipher.
He didn't know why he felt guilty for the guy's face not really meaning anything to him. Maybe it was because he thought it should have since this guy, Ian was the only thing he'd really remembered.
