Chapter 13:

"Hey, kid," Frank said with a smile, when Ian walked through the front door after school that day. "Happy Birthday."

Ian smiled back. He hadn't had the best day, what with the incident with Mickey and all, but he still smiled, because his dad was sitting there at the kitchen table, a box wrapped in spotted, brightly coloured paper set down in front of him. Next to the box, was a store bought cake with candles shaped in the numbers '1' and '8' on top. He had gone to such effort, the least Ian could do was show some gratitude.

"Thanks, dad," Ian said, grinning and going to sit down at the table, too.

"Open it," Frank smiled, pushing the box towards his son.

Ian ripped at the paper, until it was gone entirely and a brown, cardboard box was revealed. He pulled it open at the top and looked inside.

"Dad," Ian gasped as he reached inside to lift out the black, shining ankle boots. They were Vivienne Westwood and had three round, golden buttons on the sides, which showed the Vivienne Westwood logo. They smelled like rubber and play dough. "Dad, these are.. this is amazing! Thank you so much!" Ian flung his arms around his father, who hugged him back, chuckling a little.

"You're welcome," Frank said, as they drew away from one another. "I remembered you liked them that time we went shopping, but the assistant said they only had one pair left in a small size."

Ian remembered that day, too. She had gone on to inform him that they were ladies' shoes anyway, her nose raised in the air.

"They.. they cost a lot, dad," Ian said, studying the shoes. "You didn't have to."

"Hey," Frank said. "It's not every day your son becomes a man."

Ian returned his father's smile and he felt grateful. His dad was always there for him, always accepting and willing to learn. A lot of kids didn't have that. Mickey didn't have that. Ian was lucky.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here this morning, Ian," Frank said. "I had to get to the garage early."

"It's okay, dad."

"But, hey," Frank smiled, looking right at Ian. "At least you weren't alone."

Ian stopped still.

"Wh-what?"

"I know, Ian."

Ian's heart sank. He was going to get a lecture now. A very awkward lecture.

"Look, Ian, is this kid taking advantage of you?"

"What? Dad, no, we both—"

"Listen, kid," Frank went on and Ian was sure he was the colour of a tomato now. He could feel the heat pressing against his cheeks and up the back of his neck. "I know you've got a good heart, that you can't help it, that you like helping people," he continued. "But you can't just let him think he can keep going out and getting drunk because you're going to let him stay over."

Oh.

Frank didn't know.

Ian felt relief running through his veins. He let his shoulders slump a little.

"Oh, I know, dad," he said, hoping he looked composed enough. "It's not like that, though. He's not so bad, just—going through a lot. I figured he could use some kindness."

"Well, if you're sure he's not using you.. Hey, where'd you get that?" Frank enquired, pointing at the silver bracelet still around Ian's wrist.

"Oh! Um, Mercedes," he said, quickly. "It's got a song lyric on it, from the song Rachel and I sang at glee. See?" He held it up for Frank to see. Frank squinted.

"Oh, nice," he said, then shrugged. He pushed the cake towards Ian, then. The candles were lit, the flames flickering gently. "Well. Blow your candles out and make a wish."

Ian moved forward, a small smile on his lips and he thought for a minute. He pursed his lips and blew, the flames flickering away until they were nothing.

Please let Mickey be okay.

He opened his eyes and smiled at his father, hoping his wish would come true.

Mickey felt different.

He looked different, too.

He stood in front of his bathroom mirror, a pale glow cast over him from the insipid light hanging overhead. There were shadows beneath his eyes, his skin was pale and drawn-looking, his mouth was twisted into a frown. He knew he wasn't really, but he thought he looked shorter, too, which he most definitely did not need.

It was a strange thing, but after being with Ian, in that way, he didn't feel like the same person any more. It hadn't been like this when he'd lost his virginity the first time round, with Quinn. He kept referring to the night with Ian as that in his head, as the second time, but he knew it was ridiculous. You couldn't lose your virginity twice. That was sort of the point.

However, it hadn't been like this with Quinn. He remembered looking in the mirror, afterwards, searching his face for any inclination of change. There hadn't been anything.

It was different now. He felt as if something inside him had snapped open and as if he'd had some kind of revelation, like he had discovered something about himself that he hadn't known before.

He turned away from the mirror, his reflection making him feel sick and walked back into his bedroom. He felt like crap. Every part of his body still hurt and he had a large bruise on his upper back from where he'd been shoved into the locker, but mostly, his heart hurt. He felt drained, too tired for anything, as if he could feel a physical ache in his chest.

BEEP BEEP.

Mickey groaned and collapsed on his bed, grabbing his vibrating phone from the side table.

1 NEW MESSAGE FROM: Ian.

Mickey stared at his phone for a few seconds, eyes wide, unsure of what to think, then he pressed the button in the centre and the screen showed the message.

Hi. I'm sorry that I said all that yesterday, even if it was all true. I sort of know what you're going through and I know it's not easy. I didn't mean to make it worse, I just got caught up in the heat of the moment and it all just came out. I'm not taking it back, I'm just saying I'm sorry that it made you feel worse about everything. You'll get through it, eventually. See you at school, I guess. -K.

Mickey read it once, then twice and then again and again and again and soon, he could recite it without having to look.

It's okay. Thanks. See you. -B.

He couldn't say what he wanted to say, that he was sorry, too, that he had made a mistake, that he was going to keep making mistakes for the rest of his life, because things were quickly plummeting downhill and he was afraid and he needed Ian there to help him, to hold him, even. He couldn't say that, because he needed to break away from Ian, needed to let him go.

He was afraid that if he went back to being on good terms with Ian that he would say something he would regret later.

He lay back on his bed and shut his eyes, his head throbbing. The game was on in less than a week and so was sectionals and he couldn't think about one without being reminded of the other and it was tearing away at his soul.

Now he felt really sick.

"Maybe one of the band guys could fill in?" Sam suggested from his seat in the back row. Everyone looked over at the band guys, who looked alarmed. "Or not," Sam said, slowly.

"We could pay someone?" Finn suggested, causing the others to sigh.

"Let's not get too upset," Mr Schue said, but he was frowning, too. "Maybe we can talk to Mickey. Is anyone friends with him?"

Ian stayed silent. Mickey wasn't his friend.

"Ian, aren't you guys partners for English class?" Rachel asked, swinging around to face Ian. She flicked her long, straight brown hair over her shoulder and looked at him questioningly.

"Yeah," Ian said. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Maybe you should talk to him," Mercedes said, chewing gently on her bottom lip.

"I don't talk to Mickey Milkovich," Ian shook his head, adamantly. Every time he had to deny that he and Mickey had even spoken, images of a naked Mickey in his bed filled his mind.

"You could talk to him just this once," Artie said. "Maybe he'll listen to you."

"Please," Santana snorted in the front row. "Milkovich thinks he's better than everyone else. He listens to nobody. Except maybe his daddy, I heard he gives him a few smacks every now and then."

"Stop it, Santana," Ian said, eyes straight ahead. Yes, Mickey was hard to get through to sometimes and he probably wouldn't listen to anyone, but Ian knew his home life was a mess and his father was abusive and no matter the situation between them, he wasn't about to allow anyone to make a mockery of that part of Mickey's life. "That's slander."

"Okay!" Mr Schuester said, voice high. "Enough. This isn't solving anything!"

"Maybe he'll come to his senses," Rory said, in his thick Northern Irish accent.

Ian could feel the negativity in the room. Everyone knew that there was no chance of that.

"As if Mickey Milkovich would abandon a football game to sing on stage," Tina said, sadly.

"Ian, you don't think you could talk to Mickey?" Mr Schue asked.

Ian sighed. He could try, he guessed, but in a way, Mickey had sort of dumped him. They weren't ever official or anything, but the way he had ended it made Ian feel as if he had been dumped. He couldn't talk to Mickey. He had principles, morals, self-respect.

"No," Ian said, adamantly. "I don't think I could."

"Big game tomorrow, eh, son?"

Mickey looked up at his dad, studying him carefully. It was strange. He could go from being a raving lunatic, to an interested father in the blink of an eye. That's dangerous, Mickey thought.

"Uh, yeah."

"I heard scouts from all the major colleges will be there," he continued. "This is your chance to shine."

"Um, right," Mickey said, the urge to vomit suddenly very strong.

"I can't make it, unfortunately, but I know you'll do well, Mickey," his dad said, stressing the word 'know'.

Mickey couldn't help thinking it sounded a lot like a threat.

"40 minutes 'til the bus gets here, guys," Mr Schue said waving his hands to quieten the glee club. "Make sure you've got everything!"

The choir room was buzzing with excitement and fear and anxiety. In about an hour, they would be at sectionals in the green room, waiting to go on stage and perform, albeit a member down, but still, the cellist didn't look that bad. At least not any more. He hadn't thrown up in at least ten minutes, so that was progress.

Ian sat on a chair, toying with the bracelet on his wrist. He knew Mickey wasn't coming, yet still, part of him hoped..

"You okay, Ian?" Mercedes asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah," Ian said, smiling for effect. "Yeah, fine. A little nervous."

"You'll be fine once you're on stage," Mercedes assured him. "Hey, what's that?"

She was looking down at the silver bracelet, his fingers twisting around it.

"Birthday gift," Ian said, hoping she wouldn't ask any more. But she did.

"From who?"

"Um," Ian said, feeling flustered. Why hadn't he planned this already? "My dad."

"It's nice," Mercedes smiled and stood up straight. "Well, I gotta go make sure I've got everything. See you in a few."

He waved her off and she fell into the hubbub occurring all around the room. Ian sat there, in silence, his fingers still caressing the cool metal around his wrist, tracing the etched words.

"I want to take you far from the cynics in this town and kiss you on the mouth."

He thought about the guy who had given him this bracelet, the guy who had whispered those words softly against his lips, the guy who had placed small kisses all along his neck and held him in his sleep and smiled at him bewitchingly.

Maybe he would come around.

Ian frowned as he remembered the guy with the cup full of slushie, the one who shoved kids inside lockers, the one that was far too afraid to let anyone see that he had another side, the one who would rather die than let anyone see the real him.

The cold, hard facts hit him then like a slushie in the face.

Mickey wasn't coming.

"Surprised to see you here, Milkovich."

"Close your mouth and walk away, Karofsky. I am not in the mood."

"Why? Gallagher blow you off?" Karofsky grinned, wildly. "Or maybe you blew him off, if you know what I mean."

Mickey slammed his hand against the lockers in the boy's changing rooms and then instantly regretted it, because it hurt like hell.

"I said walk away, Karofsky," Mickey said, with a sort of contrived patience. He did not need a fight today. He already felt drained and yes, he sort of wanted to punch someone, but really, he didn't have the strength or the motivation. He just wanted to get this game over with, so that he could go home and sleep.

Karofsky laughed manically as he walked away and Mickey continued to get changed.

The room smelled like soap and dust and dirty socks. The loud hum of the football team talking and laughing filled the air and Mickey felt sick to his stomach. He should have been with the glee club, should have been getting on a bus and going to sectionals to sing with them. He should have been with Ian.

Mickey shoved his bag inside his locker and sat down on the small wooden bench. he buried his head in his hands and sighed, his ribs aching inexplicably. This was horrible. He felt as if a cold sweat was running down the back of his neck, his stomach filled once again with that awful hollow feeling and his head felt as if it was spinning like a merry go round. But there was nothing merry about how he was feeling today,

He wondered what it would be like if the world allowed everyone to make their own choices. It didn't matter, he guessed. He would always choose football.

Always.

This is your chance to shine.

The words rang like a shrill alarm in his ears, his mind clouded and unsure. He looked around at his team mates stretching at the side of the playing field next to him, at coach Beiste on the bench studying her tactics sheet, at the people in the stands cheering. He looked across at Quinn in her Cheerios uniform, smiling brightly and waving her pom-pons. He looked to his side and saw Karofsky warming up, running on the spot, his face twisted angrily. He saw Iggy laughing with Azimio, as they shook their ankles, loosening up. He looked down at his own hands, shaking. His knees felt week and his stomach was turning and he wasn't fit to lead a team to victory. He wasn't fit for anything.

He looked to the crowd again and he could easily pick out the college scouts. They tried to lay low, look inconspicuous, but how many spectators went to a game with a notepad and pen? He saw numerous familiar faces and some not so familiar ones. He saw teachers and local neighbours and the janitor and the cleaning ladies. He saw families, moms and dads and sons and daughters and babies and toddlers and old men and women. He saw smiling faces, frowning ones, people laughing, talking, shouting, cheering, waving flags and foam fingers and signs.

But behind all those different exteriors, behind the smiles and the frowns and the laughter and the cheering, he saw what was really there.

He saw a town full of cynics.

The clock was ticking. Ian could hear it over the sounds of the laughter and the excitement. It was twenty minutes until the bus arrived. He felt that in choosing football over sectionals, Mickey was choosing everything else over him.

It was ridiculous and Ian knew the reality of how things were going to go, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

"Milkovich!"

"Milkovich, get back here!"

"What are you doing?"

"Someone do something!"

"Mickey! It's five minutes until kick-off!"

"Is he out of his mind?"

Mickey ignored everyone calling after him as he dropped his helmet to the ground and ran towards the school, leaving everyone gaping after him. He wasn't sure what had made him do it. Maybe the fact that he felt like something was screaming inside his mind, maybe the stern faces of the shouts in the stands, maybe the way Quinn was smiling at him from behind the ruffles of her pom-pons. Regardless, he had made his mind up and there was no turning back now. He wasn't sure what this would mean for him and his position on the team and for him and his status at school, but he had done it now and he couldn't change that. Frankly, he didn't even want to.

He pushed the choir room door open and was met by several surprised stares. He was panting and coughing a little from all the running. He looked around the room, searching out those crystal blue, shining eyes, but he couldn't find them. He took a few breaths and endeavoured to compose himself before speaking.

"Am I too late?" he asked, still a little breathless.

"Y-you're coming?" Rachel asked, stepping forward, looking stunned.

"Yeah," he shrugged and one of the band guys fell down into his seat sighing in relief. He must have been his replacement. He fought the urge to ask where Ian was, because he was still uncomfortable about people thinking they were close. Maybe he had messed up his life, but there was still a chance he could redeem himself with the footballers. Maybe—

"Well," Rachel said, folding her arms. "Your hair is a mess."

She was right. His hair was stuck to his face, sweating and gelled and matted from the football helmet.

"Where's Gallagher?" he asked, finally.

"Why..?" Mercedes asked, sceptically.

"Well, you said my hair's a mess," Mickey provided. "Who else do you know that can fix it?"

"He has a point, Mercedes," Rachel said, still staring at Mickey with a daggered glare.

"He went to his locker to get something," Mercedes told him, with a shrug.

He gave her a small nod, before disappearing into the hallway again.

"Be quick, bus leaves in 15 minutes!" someone shouted after him.

He walked quickly around the corner and rushed through the halls, heart beating manically in his chest. He wasn't sure what the plan was, just that he needed to see him alone before they left in the crowded bus.

He saw him, then, rooting in his locker, moving with that regal grace that Mickey liked to watch so much. He stood there, looking at him for a few moments, head tilted sideways and just.. staring. He realised then that he was smiling. Ian always looked so angelic and innocent. Of course, Mickey knew otherwise, but Ian was still the brightest, most unflawed thing in this entire school, this entire town, maybe in the entire world. Looking at Ian made him feel calm, somehow. He wished he could just look at him all the time.

Time.

He was running out of time. He did the only thing then that he could think to do.

He ran forward, twisted Ian around and kissed him like it was his dying day. And in a way, in some crazy, messed up way inside Mickey's head, it was.

Ian was taken aback at the sudden contact and the unexpected set of lips coming down over his own. He didn't stop and think for a long time, because Mickey's mouth was on his and he was murmuring against his lips and his fingers were gently cupping the side of his face.

Finally, he pulled away and Mickey looked hurt and lost and scared and all of these things that Ian wanted to make go away.

"Wh—you—Mickey," Ian said, shaking his head. "You're supposed to be at the game, you—"

"I know," Mickey said, softly. "I know and I don't know what's going to happen, or if my life is over, or anything, but I'm here and I can't go back, not now."

Ian smiled a bit and chuckled.

"Your life is not over, Mickey," he told him.

Mickey smiled back, too, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. He looked sad, vulnerable and very unlike himself.

"We're going to miss sectionals," Ian told him.

"They said you would fix my hair," was his reply.

Ian looked up at Mickey's matted, greasy-looking hair and grimaced.

"Good God," he breathed. "Did you roll around in puddles?"

"No," Mickey informed him. "I had a helmet on, but I took it off. I feel free."

Ian laughed then and elbowed Mickey. "You sound drunk."

"I feel drunk," Mickey said, smile growing. "I bet everyone thought I was drunk when I ran off the field with no explanation."

"I would have given my right arm to see that."

"I like your right arm," Mickey teased. "And your left one, too."

Ian studied him, closely, looked right into those golden brown eyes, but he saw no signs of alcohol.

"Um," he said, shaking his head again. "Wow. I can see the gel whitening and forming clumps."

Ian reached up to push the gel away and Mickey caught his hand and looked down at it, then back up into Ian's eyes.

"You didn't take it off," Mickey exhaled, his hazel eyes locked on Ian's ocean blues.

Ian realised he meant the bracelet. Mickey's fingers were still entwined around his wrist, his thumb rubbing back and forth across the underside of his wrist, his touch sending shivers all through Ian as his thumb traced over his veins.

"Nope," Ian said, simply.

"How come?" Mickey asked. "I figured you hated me."

"I don't hate you, Mickey."

It was quite the opposite, actually. Ian liked Mickey. He was better than he had been when they had first met. He wasn't completely out of the woods, but he was still improving. And Ian thought that even if he hadn't improved he still wouldn't hate him, because Mickey had this whole other side and sometimes, that outshone the other Mickey, the one that treated others like garbage, the one who did all these awful things.

Ian knew that wasn't the real Mickey Milkovich.

"You should hate me," Mickey muttered, under his breath.

"And I didn't take it off, because I wanted a reminder of this guy," Ian told him. "The one that does the right thing. And I kind of wanted you to see it and remember him, too. I wanted you to see it on my wrist during class and I wanted you to remember that you were capable of doing good things, that you can do things just because you feel like it. Like when you gave me this," Ian said, raising his wrist a little. "And I wanted you to see it and know that I still had faith in you, that I still believed you could do the right thing, that you could be yourself and do what you wanted to do.

"Because, Mickey, I think this is the right thing for you," Ian went on. "I think that singing is your thing. I've never seen you play football, but I know you're happy when you sing. I've seen you happy, for real, Mickey and when you're with them, the footballers? You're not happy. Maybe part of this was about me and you, and me wanting you to choose me, whatever that would mean, but it was about you, too. It was about you being truthful and honest with yourself. I wanted you to do this for you, because it made you happy. I wanted you to choose what made you happy, choose to do this just because it felt good."

"I did," Mickey said. "But you come into it, too."

"Do I?"

"Don't make me say it, Ian. You know you do," Mickey looked pained. "I can't—I can't say what that means, because I don't really know, but..."

Mickey trailed off, unable to find the right words. They were silent for a minute, then Ian cleared his throat.

"We're going to be late," Ian apprised him. "We can fix your hair on the bus."

Ian closed his locker and began walking back in the direction of the choir room, but Mickey tugged him back, his fingers still locked on Ian's wrist.

"Wait," Mickey said, once Ian had turned to look at him.

"Wha—"

Mickey's mouth came down slowly over Ian's and he kissed him very, very slowly, but still ardently. Ian kissed him back, because he couldn't not kiss him back. Mickey had done this and had admitted to Ian that he had affected his decision, in some way.

They pulled away, reluctantly, small, shy smiles on their lips and then walked down the hall towards the choir room.

Neither of them saw Karofsky, who had come looking for the star quarter back, standing at the corner watching them.

Mickey stood on the stage as the heavy velvet curtains raised upwards. The crowd was like a never-ending sea of people and his heart was hammering in his chest. He had never done anything like this before. The music started to play and Mickey took a deep breath as Rachel sang leading vocals. He opened his mouth, then, to sing background with the others.

This was his time to shine.