Chapter 15

7.05 P.M.

How'd it go?

8.32 P.M.

Should I take your silence as 'really bad'?

8.57 P.M.

You know you can tell me, right?

9.43 P.M.

Mickey, answer me right now, you're freaking me out.

10.14 P.M.

Mickey, I'm serious, now. Just one word to let me know you're okay.

11.01 P.M.

You're making me seem like the biggest stalker alive, Mickey. Now I'm getting worried. I'm calling you.

11.03 P.M.

No reply.

11.05 P.M.

No reply.

12.02 A.M.

Okay, last chance. It's after midnight. Text me back within the next ten minutes, or I'm coming over.

Voicemail left at 12.16 A.M.

Mickey. Jesus, Mickey, pick up, you asshole. I'm going to crash my car now and it'll be all your fault. Fuck. You had better not be just ignoring me because you're having one of your moods. Shit.. Oh my God, CAN YOU STAY ON YOUR OWN SIDE OF THE ROAD, WHAT THE FUCK? Damn. Mickey, I can't believe you're doing this. Ugh. Okay, I'm almost there. I'm hanging up. Oh, God. Please just be having one of your moods...

He felt as if he was rocking back and forth, his movements speeding up until he couldn't stop. But he wasn't moving. He was lying still. He felt the hard, cold ground beneath him and he tried to open his eyes, but it felt as if pressure was being pressed down on his skull every time he did.

The room was swaying with him in it and his body felt as if it was prickling all over and he was confused and lost and didn't know where he was, or what had happened, or what was going to happen.

He tried to open his eyes again, as he pushed himself up by the palms of his hands. Everything spun and a buzzing sound began to scream loudly in his ears. There was a sharp pain at the back of his head and the back of his neck ached. He fell back down to the ground, too weak to try to get up again. Just five more minutes sleep and he would be just fine.

Ian cursed under his breath as he stopped his car outside Mickey's house. He knew something was wrong. He could feel it. He walked up the drive way, legs wobbling a little, his heart hammering in is chest. He felt as if cold water was running down his back. Mickey's car was there, which meant he was home. This was bad.

He tapped lightly on the door, hoping, praying to a God he didn't even believe in, that someone would come to it and tell him Mickey was fine, just sleeping, or something. Or better still, that Mickey himself would come to the door and tell him he was just mad. Mad was better than in trouble. Ian would take mad.

Ian waited for 3 minutes, his anxiety levels were through the roof. He remembered feeling exactly like this when he had been told his dad had had a heart attack. He remembered feeling like this all the way to the hospital.

He wondered if he should go home, let someone else worry, maybe one of his friends. Then Ian remembered that Mickey's friends sucked. He shook his head and went around the side of the house, hoping the neighbours wouldn't think he was a burglar. That was when he saw the open window.

His heart was racing. He had never done anything like this before. He cursed Mickey under his breath for making him care, then raised himself up on to the window ledge. He could slide through there with no problem. He took a deep breath, then pushed himself through, catching the hem of his shirt on something sharp in the corner.

"Bitch," Ian muttered, as he jumped down into a room. He looked around. He appeared to be in a dining room.

The room was as intricately decorated as the rest of the house. There was a small, round table in the centre of the room, with four chairs surrounding it. Beneath the legs of the table and chairs was a large, rectangular, wine coloured rug. It had twirling gold designs all over it and it lay across a varnished, wooden floor. It looked like a perfect room where a perfect family ate a perfect dinner together. Ian would have laughed if it weren't for the man-eating butterflies that seemed to be circling inside his stomach.

Ian headed for the stairs, figuring if Mickey was home, he would most likely be in his room. He kept thinking someone would bump into him and demand he tell them what he was doing walking around their house. He wouldn't have an answer.

He reached the staircase and took a cautious step onto the first stair. It creaked and he cursed under his breath again. He waited a moment. The sound of his heart thumping made it hard to listen for anyone that might be coming his way. He sighed and continued up the stairs. When he reached the top, he looked around. There wasn't a sound. He headed to Mickey's room.

Ian knocked lightly on Mickey's bedroom door, then he thought about the fact that he shouldn't really knock. There was little that Mickey could have been doing that Ian hadn't already seen. He took the handle in his sweating hands and twisted it anti-clockwise. He pushed the door open and walked inside.

Mickey wasn't there. Everything was neat and tidy, everything in its place. The bed hadn't been slept in. Ian couldn't help thinking the worst. He opened Mickey's bathroom door and looked inside. Nothing. Now he was really worried.

He rushed out of Mickey's room, unsure of what to do. The notion of calling the police crossed his mind but he wasn't sure if he should or not. He didn't even know for definite that Mickey was in trouble.

Yes, you do, his mind said and he tried to ignore it as he walked swiftly down the hall, opening random doors as he went. Mickey's mom was in one of the rooms, under the covers of a bed. He closed that door quickly and continued on. He reached the end of the hall, after having no success and saw a final closed door. This was the only room he hadn't checked. He wasn't prepared for what might be behind it, but now was no time for being afraid. He inhaled deeply then reached out and pushed the door open.

This room appeared to be some kind of office or study. It was a mess. Pens and pencils and staplers and loose sheets of paper were scattered every where. It looked as if someone had ransacked the room and then left. It reminded Ian of the time his old house had been broken into. It had looked as if someone had picked up his house, turned it upside down and shook it. He also had the same feeling then that he did now. His insides were quivering and his heart was racing and his blood felt as if it was running cold through his veins. Something had happened and he had no idea what.

Ian turned around to leave the room. He was going to call the police. It seemed like the right thing to do. He guessed he could wake Mickey's mom and ask her, but that would have been extremely awkward. Just as he began to walk outside the room, he heard a sound behind him. His heart stilled. Ian turned around and listened carefully. He heard it again.

A groan.

If Ian knew anything, he knew the sound of Mickey's groans. He rolled his eyes at his own inappropriate thoughts and moved forward. Mickey was flat on his back behind the desk. He was semi-conscious and Ian let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"Mickey," Ian exhaled, dropping to his knees next to the other boy. "God, Mickey, what happened?"

"Mickey," the voice sounded like a distant echo. "Mickey, open your eyes. God, Mickey, just please open your eyes."

Maybe he was dead. Maybe that distant voice was some kind of angel. Or maybe a demon, depending on where he had ended up. It didn't sound like a demon, though. The voice was gentle and Mickey would have said calm, but the voice didn't really sound calm. It sounded alarmed, laced with fear and concern.

"Mickey, can you hear me?"

He tried to speak, tried to say yes, but nothing came. He just wanted to sleep some more.

"Don't—Mickey, don't go to sleep, wake up."

Mickey felt the tight grip on his shoulders. He was being gently shaken.

"Mickey, come on. Please, Mickey," the distant voice said. It was getting closer and closer.

"A-am I dead?" he managed, his voice shaky and uneven. His throat felt like sand paper.

"No," the voice said. "No, no. You're alive. Open your eyes. Come on, Mickey, just open your eyes."

Mickey tried to pry his eyes open. They felt stuck, but he pushed anyway, because this voice, this tranquil voice wanted him to open his eyes. He managed to get them open a little, the light shocking and a little too much. His head was throbbing, especially at the back. He pulled his eyes apart and allowed them to adapt to this new light.

He saw them, then, these bright blue, glistening orbs. They were watching him, the icy gaze locked on him. They reminded him of the ocean during the summer. Everything was a little blurred and he had a chronic headache, but that blue was so familiar to him..

He opened his eyes all the way and felt himself smiling up at the owner of the stunning blue eyes and the beautiful voice. He opened his mouth and breathed his name.

"Ian."

"I'm calling the cops—"

"Don't!"

Ian turned back to look at Mickey. He had helped him to his room and gotten him down on the bed. Mickey had told him, rather groggily, what had happened and Ian was mad. He wanted to punch something.

"Ian, just—please d-don't, okay?"

Ian looked at Mickey. He looked terrible. His eyes were half-lidded and his hair was a mess and he looked so worn out. His eyes were filled with fear. They were pleading with him, begging him not to do anything. Ian sighed.

"Fine," he said, sitting back down. "But I'm not happy about it. Let me see your head."

Ian climbed across the bed until he was kneeling next to Mickey.

"I'm fine," Mickey said, as Ian tilted his head forward to get a look at the back.

Ian pushed his hair our of the way and felt the large bump protruding from his head.

"Damn," Ian breathed and Mickey winced at his touch. "Sorry."

Ian let his hair fall back down and sat down next to Mickey, with a sigh.

"I'm concussed," Mickey slurred out.

"Hmm?"

"I've had enough concussions to know the sym-symptoms by now," Mickey said, then yawned.

Ian frowned and wondered how badly Mickey had been hurt in the past. He wanted to get him out of there more than anything in the world. He gave in and reached down to place a hand over Mickey's. Mickey didn't pull away.

"I left you so many messages," Ian told him. "Just a heads up for when you finally check your phone. I wasn't being creepy, I just had a feeling something was up."

Mickey tilted his head to look at him and Ian saw him flinch at the pain it induced. His eyes were half-closed. He looked tired and miserable and Ian just didn't know what to do.

"I'm okay, Ian," Mickey said and Ian tried to object, tell him he was actually not okay. "Seriously, I've been through this a million times. I'll always be okay. Don't worry about me."

"Yeah, okay, Mickey. Let me just leave my feelings at the door on the way in," Ian said, rolling his eyes. As if not caring about Mickey was that easy. Mickey looked a little uncomfortable at the mention of feelings.

"You're the f-first person who's ever come looking for me, you know," Mickey said, sounding a bit dazed. "No one else has ever given a damn."

Ian gave his hand a soft squeeze. They were silent for a little while, then Ian remembered that you were supposed to keep talking to a person who had a concussion.

"So, um, do you think he'll come home? Your dad?"

"Probably not."

"I'll stay with you, if you want," Ian offered.

Mickey looked at him, his eyes were still half-lidded, but Ian could see those golden orbs peeking out at him.

"You don't h-have to," Mickey told him.

"I'll leave if you want me t—"

"That wasn't what I m-meant," Mickey corrected. "I just meant, won't y-your dad wonder where you are?"

"Well," Ian said, looking up at the small, plastic clock on Mickey's wall. "It's almost 2 A.M. Maybe I could get back before he wakes up."

"I don't want to get you in trouble."

"And I sort of want you to live," Ian retorted. "So, yeah, I'll stay."

Mickey gave him a small, grateful smile.

"Can you do me a favour?" Mickey asked, quietly, then. "Because it hurts to move."

"Anything," Ian said, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Kiss me?"

Ian stared at him, trying to work out if he was being serious or not. Mickey nodded as much as he could and Ian blinked a couple of times.

"You don't have to if you don't want to, though," Mickey said, looking away.

Ian sighed. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't wanted to kiss Mickey. He chuckled a bit as he leaned closer. Mickey looked up at him, curiously.

"I always want to kiss you," Ian told him, then he pressed a gentle kiss to Mickey's lips.

"I appreciate you being gentle with me right now, but I'm not going to break," Mickey told him, smiling slightly. Ian felt Mickey's fingers gripping the front of his shirt and tugging him towards him. "Come on, pretty boy. Kiss me like you mean it."

"Pretty boy?" Ian breathed against Mickey's lips, one eyebrow raised.

"I am horribly concussed, I can't be held a-accountable for the things I say," Mickey whispered back, his breath warm on Ian's skin.

"We're not having sex," Ian said, when he felt Mickey's fingers brushing their way up his thigh. "No way."

Mickey chuckled and kept moving his hand up anyway. Ian reached back and pried his hand off of his ass. Mickey pouted a bit, then winced in pain.

"Spoil sport."

"Why are you always so horny?"

"It disappoints me that you're not," Mickey giggled a little and Ian smiled.

"Are you really okay?" Ian asked, in a hushed tone.

"I'm fine," Mickey apprised him. "I don't break that easily, you know."

Ian just studied him, still smiling a bit. Mickey looked so tired. His skin was pale and his lips were dry and his movements were lethargic. The almost-yellow light coming from the light over head made him look even more sickly. Ian reached up and pushed his curls away from his forehead, then outstretched his hand to flick the light switch, leaving them in darkness.

"You should probably get some rest," Ian told him.

"You should kiss me first," Mickey smiled in what little moon light slipped through the open blind on the window. "And a real one this time."

Ian rolled his eyes, but bent his head to kiss Mickey anyway. Mickey kissed him back, lazily. Their teeth kept clacking and Mickey kept trying to go faster, but he wasn't fit for that. Ian pulled away, gently and smiled down at him.

"Now lie down and stop being so difficult," Ian demanded, jokingly.

Mickey lay back, slowly and smiled at Ian, then pulled him by the hand until he landed down next to him. Mickey didn't let his hand go.

"Hey, Ian?" Mickey whispered, in the dark.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks, okay?"

"Don't thank me, I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did," Mickey told him. "You were here for me."

"I'll always be here for you," Ian told him.

He meant it, too. There was nowhere else he would rather be.

"Where were you last night?"

Ian stopped peeling his orange and looked up at his dad, eyes wide. Frank was watching him, expectantly, waiting for an answer. Ian figured honesty was the best policy. He sighed.

"I was at Mickey's."

Frank looked alarmed, then, his forehead tightening.

"I thought you said he had a girlfriend," Frank said, accusingly. "And that he was an ass."

"He does have a girlfriend, dad," Ian groaned a little. "And he's still an ass, just maybe not as much of an ass as I initially believed."

Ian was pretty sure now that Mickey wasn't really an ass. He was just sort of letting things pilot his life, instead of doing it himself. He wasn't a bad person, not really.

"So, you just spent the night at this guy's house—this guy who has a girlfriend?"

"Dad, it's not like that," Ian said, even though that's exactly how it was.

"Tell me how it is, then, Ian."

Ian wavered here. He wasn't sure he should tell anyone about Mickey's personal problems, but maybe Frank would know what to do, because Ian was at a loss.

"We've been sort of hanging out," Ian shrugged. It was difficult to explain how they were at ease with one another without adding the fact that their relationship was more than just platonic. "He's been telling me about his family and stuff. His dad is extremely abusive and the other day, Mickey went to sectionals instead of his football game, so his dad got really mad and sort of, um..."

"Sort of what?"

"He sort of beat him up," Ian said, mildly. "Actually, he smashed his head repeatedly off of a wooden desk."

Frank looked appalled. "He did that to his own son?"

Ian nodded. "Yes and I texted Mickey a few times, then called him and got no reply, so I went over there."

"Ian—"

"His dad wasn't home," Ian explained. "But I found Mickey and he was in a bad state. He had a concussion, so I stayed with him to make sure he was okay."

Frank looked sort of proud. He reached out and gave Ian a pat on the shoulder.

"That was good of you, Ian," he said. "So, he was okay?"

"I think so," Ian shrugged. Mickey had been fairly normal when he had left him alone that morning. He'd tried to open his jeans again, so he couldn't have been too sick.

"I know there's something you're not telling me, Ian."

Ian looked up at his dad, who was wearing an expression that said I know. He couldn't know, though, how could he? Ian tried to think of ways he might have let it slip, but beyond looking like a lovesick puppy, he couldn't come up with anything.

"I told you everything, dad," Ian said, quickly.

"We don't lie to each other, remember?"

They had made that pact after Ian's mom had died, when he was eight. They promised they would always be honest with each other, because being honest always meant that if one had a problem, the other might be able to help.

"Fine," Ian sighed, feeling defeated. "I might be in love with him." He had never admitted that out loud, he hadn't even really admitted it to himself, but it was true. He was falling harder and harder every day and he didn't know what to do about it.

"Does his girlfriend know he's gay?"

Ian's head shot up to look at his dad.

"Mickey's not gay, dad."

"Are you kidding me?" Frank chuckled, taking a sip of coffee from his cup. "I knew that kid was gay the second I set eyes on him."

Ian let his jaw drop. Apparently, his dad had super, awesome gaydar. And apparently, everyone knew Mickey was gay, except for Mickey himself.

"No," Ian said, giving in. "His girlfriend doesn't know. At least, not really."

"What do you mean 'not really'?"

Ian told him the story about Karofsky spreading rumours and how everyone has made assumptions, simply because Mickey had chosen glee over football. Frank nodded at the end of it and looked right at Ian, their eyes level.

"And these rumours," he said. "Are they true?"

We'll always be honest with each other, Ian. Always.

"Yes."

Frank closed his eyes and exhaled hard.

"But he has a girlfriend, Ian."

"I know that, dad," Ian said. "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't stay awake at night thinking about that?"

Ian didn't hate Quinn Fabray. He didn't exactly like her, but he didn't hate her, either. He just wished she would go away sometimes. And not in a creepy 'I-would-go-to-great-lengths-to-get-rid-of-her' way, either. He just didn't like that she was only with Mickey for stature and that she didn't even listen to him, or worry about him.

"Ian, the boy's having his cake and eating it, too," Frank said and Ian raised an eyebrow. "You can't accept him using you—"

"He's not using me, dad."

"Of course, you think that," Frank said. "But Ian, he's goin' around with that girl in public and hiding you from the world."

Ian almost laughed, because he was suddenly finding parallels in his own life to 'Jane Eyre'. He didn't laugh, though, because the entire situation seemed so grave.

"I raised you better than that, Ian," Frank said. "If he's not willin' to tell everyone that you're with him, then he's not worthy of you."

Ian smiled up at his dad, his eyes suddenly teary. He loved his dad. He always told him the truth, even if it was something he didn't want to hear.

"I know, dad," Ian nodded. "But he's not a bad guy, he's just a little lost."

"Lost or not," Frank said, sitting back. "If he's not treatin' you right, then you can't sit back and take that. Stand up for yourself. No one pushes the Gallaghers around, right?"

Ian smiled, then and his dad smiled back a little. He wasn't the overly affectionate type, but Ian was so grateful to him for everything.

"Right," Ian affirmed.

"Good," Frank said. "Now, get yourself ready. The traffic will be hectic with people doing last minute Christmas shopping."

"Oh my God," Ian gasped when Mickey walked into English later that day. "Your eyes."

When Mickey had woken up that morning, he had looked in the mirror to find that he had two black eyes from the knocking around his dad had given him. Never had he cursed anyone so hard in all his life.

He guessed Quinn was right, that black eyes sort of did make him look tough and badass, so he didn't mind coming to school looking like this too much. Now, however, he wished he hadn't because the horror on Ian's face made him want to do something crazy, like cry and Mickey hadn't cried in four years.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Mickey said sliding into his seat, his arm brushing off Ian's. He heard Ian sighing beside him. He sounded fed up, tired and like he was about to give up. "What?" Mickey asked.

"Nothing," Ian said, shaking his head. "Just—my dad figured it all out this morning."

Mickey went alert all over, like a cat. "He—what part?"

"All of it," Ian said. "He asked where I was last night, so I told him and then he said he knew there was something else." Ian's voice dropped a notch lower. "Then he asked me if your girlfriend knew you were gay."

"What the hell?"

"Right?" Ian said, opening his book. "It's like you're the only one who doesn't know."

"I'm not—"

"Save it for someone who didn't make out with you on your bed at 2 A.M. this morning, Mickey."

"Dude, it's the only way to show everyone the truth!"

"I have a headache," Mickey said, gesturing to his black eyes. He had told Iggy and the others that he'd gotten in a fight with some random guys when he went to buy milk for his mom. They bought it, just as he had expected they would.

Iggy rolled his own eyes. "You don't need your head to be in perfect condition for this," Iggy informed him. "He's small, skinny. You could take him with your eyes closed."

And I have, Mickey thought, but he didn't think pointing that out would do him any good, especially since Iggy was talking about taking Ian in a different way entirely, a way that Mickey definitely did not want to take him.

"Come on, Mickey," Azimio said. "Squash these stupid rumours for good."

Mickey sighed. He didn't want to hurt Ian, he wouldn't hurt Ian, but he was threading a thin line. People were laughing at him behind his back and he just wasn't used to that. He didn't know how to handle that. Things were already bad with his dad and if he didn't fix he didn't even want to think about what might happen. Maybe military school was in his future.

"All you gotta do is give the kid a light beating," Iggy said, patting Mickey hard on the back. He jumped a little. "Do it for the team, Mickey. You already let us down with the game. You owe us."

Mickey hated owing people, which was why he never took anything from anyone for free. Owing people meant they had something over you. He couldn't owe anyone.

"When?"

"Why not now?" Iggy grinned, his eyes flashing.

"Where?" Mickey asked. He felt sick. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. He didn't ever want to hurt Ian.

"We'll figure it out," Iggy said. "Come on."

Mickey watched Iggyerman and Azimio walk away. He stayed still for a second, his head spinning. He pushed away the urge to vomit as best as he could and followed the other guys.

Regardless of what Ian thought, Mickey knew the cold, hard truth: Mickey Mickey was not a good person.

The crash of his back against the side of the metal locker sent a stabbing pain all down his spine. It had all happened so fast and now he was being held up against the locker by two strong hands.

"What the f—"

"Don't talk, Gallagher," Iggy said, pushing Ian roughly back. "I don't like these rumours being spread about my bro, Mickey."

"Well, maybe you should ask your bro, Karofsky why he's spreading them," Ian retorted.

Iggy went on as if Ian hadn't even spoken. "So, we're going to teach you a lesson for being so gay," Iggy snarled. "Mickey here is going to make sure there's no cause for these stinkin' rumours around here any more."

Ian mentally questioned his word order, because it was confusing, but he stayed quiet anyway, his eyes going to Mickey, who stood a few steps behind Iggy, next to Azimio. Azimio was laughing, but Mickey just looked like he wanted to sit down and close his bruised eyes.

Ian just wanted to shake him until he realised he was going about things all wrong. Choosing glee over football was a step in the right direction, but now he plummeting back downhill.

"Mickey," Iggy grinned, expecting Mickey to take over.

Mickey wavered, then stepped forward as Iggy stepped back. Mickey stopped and looked down the hall.

"I hear Figgins," he said and he looked sincere, even though Ian knew Figgins was not any where nearby.

Iggy and Azimio looked down the hall.

"I don't hear nothin'," Azimio said.

"Dude, I'm telling you Figgins is coming," Mickey said, looking at his friend.

"Fine, whatever, we can do this some place else," Iggy said and Ian saw Mickey sighing silently.

"Like where?"

"Uh," Iggy looked confused. He tended to look confused very frequently anyway, so this wasn't really anything new. "I know!"

Ian, Mickey and Azimio watched as Iggy walked across the hall, a smug smile on his face, clearly happy that he had actually come up with an idea. Ian wondered if he should applaud him, but he decided that probably wouldn't help him if they were going to beat him up. At least he could probably count on Mickey going light on him.

Iggy reached out and pulled the janitor's closet open, the infamous janitor's closet. Ian rolled his eyes. This was his big idea. All four of them wouldn't even fit in there, there was no way.

Azimio reached out with his big hand and tugged Ian across to where Iggy stood. Iggy reached out then and pushed Ian inside the closet. He collided with an equipment trolley then stumbled and hit the hard, cement ground. That was going to leave a bruise.

Ian looked up at the exact time that Iggy pushed Mickey in after him.

"Have fun, Mickey," Iggy laughed loudly. "We'll be out here keeping watch."

The door closed with a loud bang and Mickey's body went loose. He sighed and looked down at Ian in the dim light of the over head bulb, that hung from the ceiling. Mickey extended a hand to Ian, which he took and allowed him to pull him to his feet.

"Are you okay?" Mickey asked, quietly.

"How are you going to get out of this one?" Ian said, ignoring Mickey's question.

Mickey sighed again and shook his head.

"Just.. act like your hurt, or something, I don't know."

"They'll be listening, you know," Ian whispered. "They'll know."

Panic swept over Mickey's face and he stood up straight. Ian watched as he walked across the room, then raised his arm and started punching the old, broken lockers in the corner.

"Mickey!" Ian hissed and reached out to grab his arm back. "What the fuck, Mickey? Stop that!"

"They're listening," Mickey whispered. "I have to make some sort of noise. It might help if you did some groaning, too."

Mickey lifted his arm again, fist clenched, bur Ian pushed him backwards until he was against the wall.

"What are you—"

"Do you have some kind of masochistic streak?"

"What? I—"

"Mickey, stop punching things, okay?" Ian said, his blue eyes level with Mickey's.

"But they—"

"I don't care," Ian said, then sighed. "Look, maybe you should just hit me."

Mickey's hazel eyes went round as saucers and his mouth dropped open.

"Are you kidding me?" he demanded. "I am not—"

"I don't mind," Ian said. "If it'll make them lay off you, I'm okay with it."

Mickey's face twisted and he looked distraught. "You think I'd hit you just so that they'd leave me alone?"

Ian hadn't really thought that far ahead. He had suggested it without really considering Mickey's stance on it. He simply shrugged.

"I wouldn't ever," Mickey shook his head. "Now, move back, I need to.."

Mickey moved forward and continued to punch the lockers fiercely, groaning every time his fist crashed down against the hard metal. Ian continued to try to stop him, but it was no use. He took a step back and sighed. That was when he got his idea. He waited, watched Mickey's pace, as he retracted his arm and plunged it forward again and again. When he thought he knew the rhythm well enough, Ian waited until Mickey moved his arm backwards, then he moved forward and landed right in front of Mickey as his fist came crashing forward. It struck Ian's left cheek painfully and Ian cried out, but so did Mickey.

Ian watched as Mickey stepped back, his face a mask of sheer horror. Ian lifted his own hand to rub his injured face and then Mickey was shouting at him.

"What are you—Oh my God. Why would you—Ian. Fuck. I cannot believe you—Are you an idiot?"

Ian rolled his eyes and it hurt, because Mickey packed a mean punch. Mickey stopped yelling then and moved towards Ian.

"Let me see," he said, softly. He pushed Ian's hand out of the way and studied his throbbing cheek. "Fuck, Ian. Why would you do this?"

Mickey sounded as if he might cry. Ian hadn't ever seen Mickey cry, but this was the closest he had come to it since he had met him. His hands were cradling his face, his fingers gentle. Mickey looked distraught, his eyes were sad and his bottom lip was caught between his teeth.

"I'm fine," Ian told him. "Honestly, it doesn't hurt that badly."

"Ian, I can't believe you would..." Mickey trailed off and he closed his eyes. He took a deep inhale, Ian could see his chest rising slowly in the bleak light. When he exhaled, he opened his eyes and looked right at Ian, his head shaking ever so slightly. "This is officially the worst week of my life."

Ian's cheek was pulsating now. It hurt every time he blinked, every time he opened his mouth. He forced himself to speak anyway.

"I figure they would have made it much worse if I had left this closet without a mark on me," he whispered.

Mickey sighed silently. "Ian, stop protecting me, okay? I don't want you to protect me from them."

"Why?"

"Because you end up getting hurt," Mickey told him. "I don't know any more. I wish I'd never dragged you into this." He sighed again, tiredly. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

Ian studied him for a minute. He looked like he was about to fall apart. He wanted to go to him, wrap him up in his arms and tell him he would always protect him, because even though Mickey was still giving in to Iggy and those guys, that didn't change the fact that Ian really, really cared about him. He didn't take him in his arms, however, because he and Mickey had a less touchy-feely relationship, when it came to affection that wasn't sexual.

"I don't regret it, you know," Ian apprised him, firmly, his cheek still throbbing painfully. He wondered what it must look like now. "I don't regret one second of our time together, even if you do."

Mickey's golden eyes flashed briefly as he gave Ian a surprised look.

"No," Mickey uttered. "No, I don't regret this, us. I don't. I just wish—I just wish things were easier."

"Me, too."

They stayed silent for a little while, then Mickey's hand was tilting Ian's head sideways as he squinted to examine his cheek.

"How bad do I look?" Ian asked, smiling a bit. It hurt when he smiled. His face felt stiff and sore.

"You never look bad," Mickey told him, his voice low and gentle. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Ian asked. "I'm the one that did it."

"It's my fault we're even in this mess in the first place," Mickey said, his fingers lingering on Ian's face. "You're right. I'm a coward."

Ian shrugged one shoulder. Mickey's cowardice was something he couldn't really deny. He was afraid of confrontation, afraid of showing who he really was.

He raised his glimmering, honey-coloured eyes to Ian's and said, "I'll make this up to you, I promise."

"Mickey, blow jobs don't count."

Mickey spluttered, just as Ian hoped he would. He wished he would just smile and get over it. On the other hand, Ian was a little pleased that Mickey had been so beat up about hurting him. It meant he gave a damn.

"Seriously, though, I will," he smiled, sadly, his thumb brushing lightly over the line of Ian's jaw. "I never, ever want to hurt you, Ian. God. Why would you do something so dumb?"

Ian sighed. His stomach did a little somersault when Mickey said he never wanted to hurt him, but he needed to set him straight regarding the entire situation. "Mickey, look," he began. "Hitting me isn't really the point here and while I'm not exactly mad at you,—I know you're going through a lot, so it's not really anger—I just can't help but point out that the point is that you agreed to coming inside this closet to beat me up. I mean, I know you wouldn't do it, I know that, I do, but the thought does count, Mickey. Coming in here with me and pretending to hurt me doesn't make it okay, you know?"

Mickey nodded. He looked like a puppy who had just been kicked. "I know that," Mickey told him. "Like I said, I'm a coward."

"You're getting better, though," Ian smiled, because nobody wanted to see a kicked puppy. "Did you break your hand?" Ian asked, changing the subject. He took Mickey's hand in his own. It was shaking a little and red raw from punching the lockers. Ian was shocked that the skin hadn't broken.

"It's fine," Mickey stated.

"I think you've had enough of a beating without doing this to yourself," Ian frowned.

"It felt good to take my anger out on something, even if my hand looks like it does," Mickey said, studying his red hand. "I just wasn't counting on you jumping in there like that."

"That was sort of the point," Ian told him. "Maybe we should get out of here. They'll be wondering.."

Mickey suddenly looked really angry, his dark browns furrowed and his eyes went a shade darker. He clenched his fists and sighed hard. Ian almost expected to see smoke coming from his ears.

"Relax," Ian whispered, his face still aching. He was going to need an ice pack.

"No," Mickey said. "I want to kill both of them."

"I think you should avoid fights for the next while," Ian told him.

Mickey looked at him, his head tilted a little. He sighed for what had to be the hundredth time that day. He reached across then and took Ian's hand in his own, the one that he hadn't punched the lockers with. He entwined his fingers with Ian's and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"You know I'm sorry, right?" Mickey emitted. "For everything?"

Ian looked down at him. He looked sincerely sorry and Ian knew that he was sorry. He just wished there was something they could do about it.

"I know," he nodded. "Now go out there and act like your arm hurts from punching."

"It sort of does," Mickey chuckled.

They let go of each other's hands and Mickey pushed the door open and stepped out. His expression went dark again when he laid eyes on Iggy and Azimio. Ian limped out after him, breathing heavily. He let out little whining sounds as he began walking down the hall, away from them. He heard Iggy and Azimio laughing and shouting names after him. Then he heard Iggy asking Mickey something.

"Don't talk to me," Mickey said, gruffly and Ian turned to see him storming off in the other direction.

Maybe he wasn't such a hopeless case, after all.