Chapter 19:

Ian had tried to avoid Mercedes at school on Monday, but it turned out that this was not an easy fete. She found him by his locker at lunch and told him he owed her an explanation, which he guessed he did.

"Basically, it started off as a drunken mistake that just didn't know how to end, okay?" he informed her. "I don't know what that means regarding his sexuality or whatever and I don't care, either. It's over."

Except Ian did care and he knew Mickey was gay. He had no qualms or doubts, he just knew.

"But you like him?"

"He's attractive and the only guy to take any interest in me," Ian said, with a shrug. That didn't give away much. He hadn't denied it, nor had he admitted to it.

"Not exactly true," Mercedes muttered and Ian was about to ask what she meant by that, but she was looking behind him.

Ian turned and saw a now-familiar face looking back at him, clad in the same leather jacket, with his golden hair falling over his eyes. Ian sighed. It hadn't occurred to him that Kenny living with Iggy meant he would be attending school here.

"I'll see you later, Ian," Mercedes said, quickly. "I have to go meet Rachel and Tina."

Ian tried to protest, to beg her not to leave him alone with Kenny, but she was gone and now, Kenny was there next to him.

"Hey, pretty boy," Kenny smiled, all-teeth.

"Don't call me that," Ian muttered, remembering the last time he had been called that. His heart contracted and he turned away from Kenny.

"Why not?"

Ian ignored him and began to dig around in his locker for nothing in particular.

"So, you, me, tonight, Breadstix?" Kenny smiled. "Whaddya say?"

"I say in your dreams," Ian rolled his eyes.

"Oh, we don't go to Breadstix in my dreams, Gallagher," Kenny informed him, one eyebrow tilting upwards. "We stay right at home in the comfort of my bedroom. Or yours, depending on which dream you're referring to."

Ian felt his face flushing at the idea of Kenny thinking about him in that way. He closed his locker with a loud bang, then pulled his bag up on to his shoulder and began walking down the halls. Kenny followed him, walking a few paces behind. Ian could feel his eyes on him and he felt uncomfortable.

"The things I would do to that ass," Kenny said, behind him, whistling low and loud.

Ian slowed down and turned to wait for Kenny to catch up with him.

"Look," he said, firmly. "This isn't going to happen, okay?"

"Oh, really?" Kenny asked, just grinning.

"Really," Ian affirmed. "You're not my type."

"Oh, we have a type now, do we?"

Ian hated when people did that, when people referred to him as 'we'. "Yes and you're not it," Ian clarified. "So, no, I will not go out with you."

"I wasn't asking you to go out with me, Ian," Kenny smirked, taking a step closer. "I'm asking you to come home with me."

"Even worse," Ian shook his head, trying to ignore the intense heat sweeping up the back of his neck. "I'm not going to sleep with you. I'm not into the whole 'look-at-me-I'm-a-badass-but-it's-hard-to-convince-people-of-this-because-my-name-is-Kenneth' thing. So, give up."

"Virgins," Kenny said, with an exasperated sigh.

"I," Ian informed him. "Am not a virgin."

He probably should have shut up and allowed him to think that he was, maybe then he would leave him alone, but Ian's verbal diarrhoea seemed to strike at the most inconvenient times.

"Oh, yeah?" Kenny grinned. "I have this gay-guy intuition and I bet you're a bottom. No guy in his right mind would pass up the chance to be inside that a—"

"Okay!" Ian said, quickly. He had bottomed more than he had topped, that was true, but only because Mickey seemed to enjoy finge— He stopped, shook his head, trying to rid his mind of Mickey and Mickey's fingers and where he liked to have them, because he was trying to forget Mickey, trying to get over him. Which was obviously working out so well.

"Oh, come on, Gallagher," Kenny said, following him. "One night, that's all I'm asking."

"You realise you're begging me for sex, Kenneth," Ian said, staring straight ahead.

"Well, it doesn't look like I'm going to get it anywhere else around here," he replied, sounding disappointed.

"You are obviously looking in all the wrong places, then."

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who else is gay?"

"I'm not going to tell you," Ian smirked looking back at him. "Use your 'gay-guy intuition'."

"Hey, you're late," Iggy said, when Kenny sat down at the tale at lunch. Mickey wished he could wipe the smirk that seemed to be permanently on his face off. He scowled down into his pasta.

"I was doing a little wooing," Kenny informed Iggy.

"Wooing?" Iggy asked, mouth full. "Wooing who?"

"One Ian Gallagher."

Mickey looked up quickly, suddenly interested.

"Please," Iggy said, spitting chips every where. "Gallagher isn't your type. He won't put out."

"Because you'd know," Kenny smirked. "But, nope, apparently he is not a virgin, so all is not lost."

Mickey did not add that this was true, nor did he point out that he was the reason that this was true, because that would probe a lot of questions that he did not feel like answering right now.

"Pretty sure he's lying to you," Iggy told him, taking a swig from a can of coke. "I mean, he's Gallagher."

"He happens to be a hot piece of ass," Kenny declared and Mickey felt his stomach twisting. He had no right to feel jealous because of this, but he couldn't help it. He wanted to shove Kenny against a wall and tell him to back off, that Ian was his. But Ian wasn't his, not now. In fact, he never really had been.

"Heard you're pretty pally with him, Milkovich," Kenny said, looking across the table at Mickey, with those dark-as-night eyes.

"What?" Mickey said, looking up, trying to look oblivious. "Oh, we're in glee together and we have to work as partners for English, but that's it." Which was technically true, if you didn't count the part where they'd slept together (way more than once), or when Ian had helped him with his concussion, or when Mickey had told him he loved him..

"So, maybe you could put in a good word for me," Kenny grinned. "You know, when you're slaving over Shakespeare, or whatever you could maybe slip in what a stud I am."

No, Mickey thought. I cannot.

"I'm not a big fan of lying, Kenny," Mickey told him and he laughed silently, in spite of himself. Saying that he didn't lie was a lie in itself. Mickey was the master of lies and pretences. So, in lying about not lying, he was lying again. It seemed that things just kept on piling up and pretty soon, it would all tip over and smother him to death.

"Ha-ha, funny, Milkovich," Kenny said, pulling that awful leather jacket up on his shoulders. Mickey had know Kenny since they were about five and Mickey couldn't remember a day past the age of fourteen when Kenny had not been wearing it. Kenny reached into the inside pocket of said jacket and pulled out a battered schedule. "I have—ah, math next. Who wants to walk me to class?"

"Ian!"

Ian stood up from his desk and ran upstairs to see what his dad needed. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of nervousness every time his dad shouted down for him, always fearful that he was sick again. However, when he reached the hallway, his dad was standing there with the phone pressed to his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" Ian asked, instinctively.

"There's a Kenneth Iggyerman on the phone for you," Frank told him, a disapproving look on his face. "Says it's important."

Ian rolled his eyes. 'Important' probably meant Kenny had a hard-on and wanted phone sex, or something. He took the phone with a sigh and held it up to his ear, aware of his dad lingering by the living room door.

"What?" Ian said, flatly.

"Aww, baby," Kenny said on the other end. "It's nice to hear your voice, too."

"What do you want, Kenny?" Ian sighed, leaning back against the wall. He was not in the mood to have to deal with Kenny right now.

"You."

"Well, you're out of luck," Ian told him, tiredly.

"Aw, come on," Kenny urged. "I'll even take you to dinner beforehand."

Beforehand. Meaning before sex. How romantic.

"I'll have to pass."

"I won't give up, Gallagher," Kenny informed him, sounding happy. "They can never resist me in the end."

"I have standards, Kenneth," Ian apprised him, firmly. "I don't just sleep with any Tom, Dick, or Harry." He said that last part very quietly, because his dad was only a few feet away and the walls were thin.

"Hey, Ian," Kenny said and Ian could hear the lopsided smirk in his voice. "Say the word 'dick' again, that was hot."

Ian slammed the phone down and brushed his dad's questions off with a wave. He went back down to his room to do his homework and mope some more about Mickey Milkovich, because that was all he seemed to do any more.

"Hey, pretty boy."

Ian rolled his eyes and turned around, prepared for Kenny's smirking face. He had called him every day that week and Ian was really getting sick of his incessant bad pick-up lines and having to tell his dad it was nothing, that he didn't need to worry.

"I told you not to call me tha..."

He stopped still, because next to Kenny, was Mickey Milkovich, looking as gorgeous as always. Ian found that the Mickey he pictured when he wasn't around did not do the real Mickey Milkovich any justice in the least. He was far more beautiful in person, than the one in Ian's head, despite the fact that Ian had spent hours memorising his every feature.

Mickey was looking back at him, cautiously, his golden-brown eyes wide and bright. Ian straightened himself up and closed his locker.

"Playing hard to get?" Kenny quipped beside Mickey.

"No," Ian told him. "Just ignoring you."

He saw Mickey smiling slightly, just the corners of his mouth twitching an inch upwards, but it was still a smile.

"That's okay," Kenny said, brightly. "Keep that voice rested for the epic phone sex later. Usual time?"

Ian saw Mickey frowning and then Ian frowned, too. He groaned, then turned on his heel and headed in the other direction.

"Is he bothering you?" Mickey asked later on when they were in the library. It was sort of nice to be back where, Ian thought, back where it had all begun. "Because I can tell him to lay off, you know, if you want me to."

"Forget about him," Ian said, scribbling something about Jane's strong persona down in his notebook.

They were silent for a long time and Ian kept writing, but Mickey sat there, looking as if he was deep in thought, his eyebrows furrowed and jaw set tightly. Ian pretended not to notice, as he flicked through his copy of 'Jane Eyre' and jotted down quotes.

"You know what, I can't," Mickey said, finally, his voice raised a little. The librarian shushed them from the main desk and Mickey looked aggravated.

"You can't what?" Ian asked, in a hushed tone.

"I can't forget him," Mickey shook his head.

"Kenny?" Ian asked, slowly. "You.. You're not.. You're not crushing on him, are you?" Ian was mortified, because 1) if it was true, Mickey had gotten over Ian in record time and 2) Kenny was an asshole. Also, Mickey's girlfriend was pregnant with his baby, so the entire situation was very much shock-worthy.

"What?" Mickey said, voice raising a little again. "No! No, of course not! What the hell, Ian?"

Ian shook his head, relief soaring through his body. "Sorry," he said. "Why can't you forget about him, then?"

"I don't know," Mickey said. "But it's not like that. I can't stand the guy, trust me."

Ian said nothing, just watched Mickey as he sat there looking mad and frustrated. It was amusing and annoying and cute and ridiculous and Ian didn't know if he wanted to hit him or kiss him.

"He'll hurt you, you know," Mickey told him, finally, his golden eyes filled with intensity. "He just wants you for sex."

"Mickey," Ian said, with a sigh. "Am I an idiot? Do I look like an idiot to you?"

"No, of course no—"

"I know what he wants, okay?" Ian informed him. "I'm not interested."

Mickey nodded and they were silent again, so Ian went back to writing in his notebook. He couldn't help smiling a little at the idea of Mickey being so interested in some other guy's interest in him, which was stupid, because while it was nice to know Mickey still liked him, it would do him no good. He would never have Mickey.

"I don't want you to get hurt."

Ian looked up when he heard the whisper coming from across the table. Mickey was looking right at him with those bright eyes. Ian looked back at him, scowling slightly.

"I'm not stupid, Mickey."

"I know," Mickey told him. "I know and I don't think you are, honestly. I just.. Ian, I know him, okay? I know what he's like. He came to stay with Iggy most summers. He goes through guys like you go through cans of hairspray." Ian raised an eyebrow at that, but Mickey just shook his head. "He pretends like he likes them, he sleeps with them, then he just leaves them there, wondering what they did wrong, leaves them heart broken. I don't want that to happen to you."

Ian was angry, because Mickey was acting as if he was too dumb to come to this conclusion all by himself. He groaned and tightened his hands on the arms of his chair.

"Gosh, Mickey," Ian said, voice cutting. "Heart broken, you say? Well, we wouldn't want that, now would we? Oh, wait—too fucking late."

Ian watched as Mickey opened his mouth into a small 'o' shape, his eyes crinkling a little at the sides. "Ian," Mickey said, shaking his head again. "Ian, no. No, I—You know I—Ian.." Mickey trailed off, searching for words, but none came.

He would feel bad about it later, but for now he was just mad. Mickey had no right to talk to him about being heart broken when he had been the one to break his heart in the first place.

"I never meant to hurt you," Mickey told him, quietly.

"Regardless," Ian said, stiffly. "You don't get to tell me to be careful of having my heart broken when you're the one that.." He trailed off, because he couldn't admit to Mickey that he had broken him. "Can we not talk about this?"

"Look, I just meant be careful, that's all."

"Oh my God," Ian exhaled. "Do you even know me? Do you think I would go near him? Do you think I'm—I'm drawn to assholes, or something? God, Mickey."

"Maybe," Mickey said, quietly, eyes on his books. He was twirling his pen between his fingers.

"What?" Ian asked. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe you are drawn to assholes."

"Mickey—"

"Look, it doesn't matter, okay?" Mickey sighed and looked up to meet Ian's curious eyes. "I just—just want you to be okay."

"I am okay," Ian told him, with a nod.

"Really?" Mickey asked, flatly.

"Really, Mickey," Ian said with an inclination of his head. "I'm really just okay."

"Hey, baby."

"I'm hanging up," Ian sighed and began to hang up, but he heard the voice shouting on the other end. "What?" he asked, lifting it back to his ear.

"Meet me tonight?"

Ian sighed, because this was getting beyond ridiculous.

"Do I need a restraining order, Kenny?"

"Not at all," Kenny told him. "Don't resist."

"Okay, I'm hanging up—"

"Wait!"

Ian waited, against his own better judgment.

"I figured something out."

"What's that?" Ian asked, with no interest whatsoever.

"I figured out that the best way into a glee guy's pants," he began. "Is through music."

"Oh, God," Ian gasped. "You're not going to sing, are you? I'm hanging up, oh my God—"

"No," Kenny said and Ian listened. "I sent you a song on your cell."

"Good bye, Kenny," Ian said, rolling his eyes and this time he did hang up. He pushed his hand into his pocket and grabbed his cell, just out of interest. He pressed 'play mp3' and the music started. Ian almost dropped his phone.

"I can make your bed rock,

I can make your bed rock, girl,

I can make your—"

Ian shut it off, quickly, his cheeks burning. This was unbelievable. How were real people even like this?

"What in the name of all that is holy.." Frank asked, walking out into the hall.

"I might possibly need a restraining order," Ian told him, eyes still wide.

"That Mickey kid?"

"Wha—Mickey? No," Ian shook his head. "No, not Mickey."

Frank raised one eyebrow and screwed his face up in confusion. "What happened to Mickey?"

"Long story?" Ian offered.

"I've got time."

"So, this kid just decided he wanted to go back to being straight with his girlfriend," Frank repeated for the fourth time.

"Yes, dad."

"Okay," Frank said, slowly. "Why do we need a restraining order?"

"Because Kenny."

"God, I wish your mom was here, all this guy talk is.. Well, it doesn't matter. Who's Kenny?"

Ian sighed, because his dad wanted to talk to him about things, he was just finding it hard to adjust, but, hey, at least he was trying.

"Um," Ian said. "Kenny is the guy who keeps calling and won't leave me alone."

"Why won't he leave you alone?"

"He wants to—um, he wants me to go out with him," Ian settled finally, because telling your dad that a guy was pestering you because he wanted to get your pants off probably wasn't a wise move.

"So, why don't you?"

"Why don't I what?"

"Why don't you go out with him?"

"With Kenny?" Ian exclaimed. He had to be kidding.

"Well, yeah," Frank shrugged a broad shoulder. "It might get your mind off the other guy—Mickey."

Ian gaped at his dad. He could never get his mind off Mickey, not for a moment. He was pretty sure a quickie in the back of Kenny's car was not going to take his mind off Mickey, either. Besides, he didn't want a quickie in the back of Kenny's car. He wanted to put an axe through the back of Kenny's car and maybe through the front, too. Maybe if he removed the tires, then Kenny could bring a whole new meaning to bedrock. Maybe he could run with his feet out the bottom of the car, like in the Flintstones. Ian shook his head. He was always imagining things that would never happen.

"No, dad," Ian said, adamantly.

"Well, you're clearly beat up about it. Don't think I don't notice."

Because apparently his dad had super gaydar and could read minds.

"Dad, Kenneth Iggyerman is an asshole," Ian provided.

"Doesn't mean a thing," Frank told him and Ian had been about to protest, but Frank went on. "The last guy you told me was an asshole ended up in your bed several times."

Ian's jaw dropped and his dad laughed a little.

"You know, Ian, I meant you let him stay in your room when he was drunk, but that expression tells me there's more to it."

Ian stared after his dad, who had gotten up, given him an affectionate pat on the shoulder and then continued out the door.

Mickey had said much of the same thing, with regards to the whole 'asshole' issue. Mickey was all he thought about, really, but that didn't mean he wasn't mad at him. He was mad at everything. He was mad that Mickey would choose to take the fake path to the rest of his life, when he could have been honest. Sure, he had a lot of issues, what with his dad and the football team, but he would have gotten through them. Hell, Ian would have been glad to help him. He didn't have to be with Quinn if he didn't want to, baby or not. Mickey had taken the cowards way out and Ian did feel pity for him, in some respects, but now he was just mad.

He remembered how he had tried to warn him against having his heart broken, when it was impossible, because his heart was already in pieces. Mickey had told him he loved him, then left him. Mickey had kissed him, had said that he thought Ian didn't want him, had acted as if he still wanted to be with him, but Mickey took the coward's way out and went with his head instead of his heart.

Ian sighed and told himself he would regret it, but he did it anyway, because everything hurt. He pulled his phone out and hit the calls list, then pressed the green button and waited. A few moments later, a voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Kenny," Ian said. "About meeting up tonight. Where did you have in mind?"

"Why aren't you eating?" Mickey's dad demanded sternly from the end of the dinner table.

"Yes, Mickey," his mom said, looking concerned. "You haven't touched your potatoes." His mom was having a good day, she was sort of bright and like she used to be before the depression had kicked in. Now, she only had good days once in a blue moon.

"Just tired," Mickey muttered. He wasn't lying, either. His stomach felt sick and he had a headache, from too much tension. At this rate, he was going to give himself a heart attack.

"Are you still doing that glee club nonsense?"

Mickey sighed and nodded, because trying to explain that it was not nonsense to his dad would only end in another violent brawl, which he did not need right now.

"That's why you're tired," he informed him, as if he was the possessor of all knowledge in the world. Mickey stayed silent.

"Are you still hanging around that faggot boy?"

Mickey's fist tightened around his cutlery and he pushed away the flaming ball that had suddenly swam into his stomach and was ready to erupt. "Yes," he said, because Mickey was hot-headed and wanted to irritate his father, even if that was probably the worst idea ever.

His dad slammed his knife and fork down, his mother flinching a little. He looked at Mickey, his expression filled with anger and disappointment and Mickey thought he might hit him again, but he didn't, he simply stood up and stormed out of the room, whispering something about him being a disgrace to the family.

Mickey frowned and looked across at his mom. She gave him a comforting smile and he smiled back weakly. Sometimes, he wished he would beat him so hard that he wouldn't wake up, but he had to live, because there was someone out there who wanted him to, who needed him to and that someone was not his unborn child. That someone had eyes the colour of the sky on a bright summer's day, like the glistening sea in the light of the sun, like a thousand stars exploding in orbit.

Mickey Milkovich had to live if just to see those eyes look at him the way they used to.

"Wh-what?" Ian asked. The room was spinning and his vision was blurred and he just wanted to sleep. He had no idea where he was, or why he was there or who he had just been talking to. His head felt like a bicycle pump; like air was being compressed down into it and then slowly let out again.

He needed to close his eyes, if he closed his eyes, surely it would go away. He closed his eyes tight and then felt himself falling.

Falling

falling

falling.

In his dream, he was falling. He was plummeting down into oblivion and when he reached the bottom—assuming there was a bottom—he would be surrounded by nothingness.

He didn't want to fall, even though it was a fun drop down, like flying, drifting through the air, the wind on his face, but he knew it would end badly, knew he would hit the ground, knew that when he reached the bottom, there would be no going back up again.

He didn't want to fall, so he opened his eyes.

"Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."

"I have been likened to a God in the bedroom, it's true." He stared down at the dark eyes looking up at him, the dark pits of cold, nothingness that didn't send any kind of electricity through his body, didn't cause his heart to leap, didn't make him feel alive. They were not the golden eyes he wanted.

Ian felt dizzy, dizzy and afraid. And full of regret. He didn't remember a thing from the night before. He shut his eyes tight and then opened them again, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He took in the unfamiliar surroundings and felt the cool air on his bare skin. His pale skin blushed a bright crimson and he stood up too quickly, panicked and lost. He got his balance, then grabbed his clothes from the pile on the ground and ran as fast as he could into the bathroom.

His head was spinning wildly and his heart seemed to be running a race with it, to see which could go quickest. He dressed with lightning speed, not even caring that his shirt was inside out. He ran swiftly from the strange house and only stopped when he reached his car.

Ian had won the race of who could run fastest, but that was all he had won.

His mind was a whirl of thoughts, few of them made sense and the ones that did gave him a ripping headache. He tried to keep his shaking hands steady on the wheel. His insides seemed to be shaking along with them and he felt a dripping cold slipping down his spine and ending in a blood-curdling shudder and he just needed to shut his eyes and make it go away.

He pressed his foot down on the pedal and he sped up, because this would bring him home sooner and once at home he could sleep it off and then when he woke up later on, he could try to make sense of it all, because at that moment, nothing made sense, nothing at all.

He deviated away from a corner and cursed under his breath, because this was easily the worst he had felt since his father's heart attack. He remembered feeling as if he could not drive fast enough, afraid that if he didn't hurry, his father wouldn't still be there when he arrived. He had felt like that only recently when he had driven in the late hours of the night to check on him.

"Oh, God," he uttered, quietly and to himself. "Mickey."

And his heart contracted and he forgot to stop and the last thing he remembered was moving far too quickly, the scenery outside the window a blur of colour and light and he whispered one little word, before the darkness consumed him.

"Mickey."