Mickey POV
Mickey still wasn't sure whether this was a good plan. If he'd just answered the phone at Lip's place, maybe he wouldn't be here now, but he hadn't managed to get to it in time, and when the machine had kicked in, Mickey felt a tug.
Maybe If they'd actually spoken, and Ian had told him to go fuck himself, then things would have been different, but they hadn't and something about Ian's inebriated slurring coming through the speaker made Mickey want – no need – to go out and find him.
It was only really a lucky break that Lip had caller ID and even then, at first Mickey thought maybe he'd gotten the wrong place because he couldn't see Ian anywhere.
He stood still for a moment and, letting his eyes adjust to the dank, dark atmosphere, he scanned the room. Still no sign. He was just wondering if perhaps Ian was in the bathroom and that he was not going to search for him in there, when two people moved away from the bar and Mickey spotted him. Slumped on a stool, arms folded on the bar, head resting face-down on them.
Mickey pushed past a couple of tables, and made his way into the space that the people had left.
"Can I get a beer here please?" he gestured to the bartender, who nodded in response. He noticed Ian's head shift ever so slightly, but nothing more.
"Hey Gallagher." He attempted to get Ian's attention, but no response was forthcoming, so he tried again, mock-punching Ian's shoulder as he spoke, "Gallagher, I'm fuckin' talkin' to you."
Without actually lifting it, Ian turned his head to the left and opened one bloodshot and unfocussed eye. Then he started to laugh. Mirthless laughing.
"Jesus fucking Christ. I passed out in the bar. New low, Ian. New low."
Passed out? Did he think he was dreaming? Mickey made a mental note to find out what that was all about later.
He gave him another gentle shove, and tried to get Ian to move, "Get up Gallagher."
Ian lifted his head then, and looked at Mickey. He stopped laughing. "How did you find me?"
Mickey shrugged. He figured Ian was probably too far gone for the intricacies of caller ID right now. "You're wasted."
"So? You used to like me wasted."
Even after all these years, even in his drunken state, Ian still blushed when he said something so forward. Mickey had missed it. And also wondered why he was being like this now.
"What's going on Gallagher?"
Ian sat up then, swaying slightly on the stool, "STOP. Just. Stop calling me fucking Gallagher okay? We're not in high school. Why can't you just call me by my name?"
Mickey took a swig from his bottle, swallowed hard. "Fine. What the fuck ever. Ian. What's. Going. On?" He spoke slowly to emphasise his point. He wasn't quite sure why he was being such an asshole. Maybe because he thought Ian expected it even after all this time. Same old same old, right?
Ian spun around on the chair to face him. "Did you ever care about me?"
Mickey spluttered his beer. "What!?"
"You knew I loved you right? That's why you kept leaving me. That's why you emotionally fucking knifed me and fucked off to juvie. Because you knew I loved you and… what? You didn't like it? You did like it? You didn't want to admit that you liked it? That you felt the same? What was it Mickey? Because I tried for a long time" he drunkenly stretched the word 'long', "to figure it out. And it can't have just been about your dad."
There was a brief pause when Mickey could feel himself gaping open-mouthed at his former lover. It hadn't even occurred to him what a very public place they were in, only the words that Ian was spouting.
"You know, you never actually denied it." Ian pointed at him before turning sadly back towards the bar and picking up the full shot of tequila that was sitting in front of him.
"Don't you think maybe you've had enough?" Mickey moved in to stop him, their skin brushing for the smallest of moments, making Mickey remember how Ian used to touch him, run his hands over his arms, push him down by the back of the neck, grab his ass cheeks…
Ian flicked his hand away now though, unfortunately whilst still holding the shot, Tequila spilling down the front of Mickey's shirt. Mickey wiped at it ineffectively.
"No. I don't. And you know what?" Ian spat bitterly, "This time you don't get to tell me when I'm done, Mickey." And he gestured for another shot.
The words hit Mickey like a punch. One he wished Ian had given him all those years ago, when he'd actually said them himself. He had never forgotten the look on Ian's face when he'd said "done is done." He hadn't even meant it, but then the words were out and he was a Milkovich for fuck's sake, he couldn't take them back.
But shit was going down and it was all getting too intense and Ian would not believe him about his dad. Terry Milkovich was a sick SOB and he would kill him if he found out. He tried to tell Ian and he didn't want to listen.
And it wasn't any different now. Sure, his brothers had done all the usual laughing, name-calling and all that shit when he finally admitted he "wasn't really all that into pussy", but at the end of the day, they were all in the same boat. They had all suffered from the alcohol-fuelled rages of their father for some reason or another, and they knew what he'd done to Mandy too. They'd all said the same. "You're our brother, Mick. We got your back."
But his dad was a different story. Even almost ten years later his dad had tried to kill him. Tried to burn the fucking store down with him in it. Because he found a guy's underpants and a used condom in the trash. His brothers had unfortunately not had his back that day, through no fault of their own and Terry hadn't even stopped to ask questions.
Mickey remembered the fury in his dad's face, "You a fuckin' faggot, son?" and him unthinkingly shouting back, "Took you long enough to figure it out!" But then it was in the back of his mind that his dad must have known, because that underwear could have been anyone's in a house with four guys living in it. And a used condom? Same difference. But his dad just went straight to "faggot" and kicked him out of the house. That was that.
Mickey had actually been amazed he hadn't been beaten to death there and then. That he'd gotten away somehow. But the day the Kash n Grab burned down, with him still sleeping inside, he knew why. Terry Milkovich's son was gay, and his solution was to get rid. All that time ago, Ian had said they had nothing to be ashamed of - and the irony was, all Mickey had felt for the last nine years was shame.
Ian's eyes. He'd do anything for a do-over so he never had to see that expression in his eyes again.
Mickey started to open his mouth, to say something, anything to try and make it right, when someone pushed past him, suddenly flanking Ian's other side. A woman.
"Ian? Oh my god. Look at the state of you. Okay. We need to get you home."
Mickey immediately knew this must be Ian's wife. They'd never met, but it was obvious from the way she put her arms around him, protectively. He watched as she tried to heave Ian upright, not sure whether he should offer to help.
She looked around, obviously in need of an extra pair of hands, but as their eyes met over Ian's slumped form, she narrowed hers at him suspiciously and his widened in shock. As the bartender made his way around the bar to help her, Mickey began to back away, needing, yet unable, to break eye contact. Luckily she looked away first as the bartender began to talk to her and Mickey turned and moved as fast as he could, out of the bar and down the street.
Tears stinging his eyes, all he could think was, "This was a bad fuckin' idea."