Chapter Four

Mickey awoke to find himself still on Ian's bed at six thirty five, the pair of them with limbs hanging over one another or the edge of the bed. He quickly shuffled himself out of the bed, pulled on his boxers, and climbed back up on to his own bunk, having once last glance at Ian's sleeping form before he nestled himself under his sheets.

Cold.

These sheets didn't have Ian's warmth.

The next day Ian found himself feeling a little more positive. Not a lot, but some. Maybe it was the pills starting to kick in. Don't delude yourself, a small voice in his head hissed. Ian rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms up high, hearing a crack come from his back before he heard one above him. This one wasn't as satisfying as the first. "Fuck! Fucking son of a bitch!" He swore when his hands punched the bars above his head, forgetting that he was in a bunk bed. Looking at his hands, Ian saw that had opened some of the cuts on his knuckles. And then his mind went back to the conversations he and Mickey had had last the night before.

"What'd you hit?" Someone grumbled out. Ian looked around for the voice. It was the top bunk on the other set of bunk beds. He looked over to see Jared from yesterday.

"Bruised fists," Ian sighed. "Shitty bunk beds."

"I know, it sucks. It's why I swapped with Jamesy underneath here. Fucker never wakes up, has to be pulled out of bed, so it makes sense," Jared shrugged, laying back down and sighing. "So, uh, what happened last night, then? Saw you had a little bed bug join you last night."

"None of your God damned fuckin' business!" Mickey piped up.

Jared sighed, "You know I fucking hate when you do that."

"Never fuckin' do nothin'," Mickey replied, a smirk in his voice.

Jared sighed, "Playing fucking fly on the wall, you bastard."

"From what you were askin' Sleepin' Beauty down there, seems like maybe you were doin' it too."

"You don't know the meaning of a whisper, Mick, that's why I had to play fly on the wall," Jared laughed, jumping down from his bed to head to the bathroom. Ian decided that it was late enough that there was no point going back to sleep, and so he got up, collected his things for a shower, cleaning himself and his hands off before heading to the bathroom. A quick pee, brush of his teeth and an attempt at styling his hair, and then Ian was ready for the day. He quickly got some toilet paper on his way out for his still-bleeding knuckles.

He wandered back in to his room to get dressed before heading down to the clinic, asking the nurse to patch his knuckles up. She made him stay for a five minutes with ice on his hands, hoping that he would be in less pain. She logged his visit while he waited. She, like Mickey, had felt about on his knuckles for breaks, and had said the same as the dark-haired boy had. When Ian went to leave, the nurse told him "You're going to do some serious damage to your hands, maybe try and find another way of outlet with your therapist," and sent him off with a sad smile.

Ian made his way to the dining room, collecting his breakfast and some orange juice and going to an empty table. He had seen the table that Mickey, Jared, and Henry were sitting at, but he didn't want to invite himself over, so he just kept to himself that meal. He found it safer after Mickey's minor outbursts at dinner the night before. He remembered Mickey saying B.P.D., but he didn't have a clue what that stood for, let alone what it was. And he didn't think it was clever to ask. And so he didn't chance finding out what it was with first-hand experience. In that moment, he felt himself feel a little sadder, a little lonelier.

"Hey… you're, umm, in my seat," a meek voice came from a tall, mousy girl.

"What?" Ian asked, wondering if the girl was serious. He was on an empty table. There were five other places at the table he was on. He told her this.

"No, it's my seat. You can't sit in my seat," she said quickly, her voice almost panicky. When he just looked at her emotionlessly, she suddenly screamed and threw the plate with her food on to the table, smashing it, sending food flying across the table and Ian. He didn't have any time to respond before she was throwing herself on to him. She had taken him by surprise, and had a shocking amount of strength in her, causing him to fall out of his seat and on to the floor. And then she began to scratch at him, her small hands armed with sharp nails.

In that moment, Ian didn't know what to do, so he just reached up and tried to grab her rapidly moving hands. "What the fuck is your problem? Get off of me and take your stupid fucking seat, I was done anyway," he shouted, pushing her away from him and standing up. By then a monitor had come and was restraining the mousy girl, holding her back and carrying her out of the dining room. Ian stood up, brushed himself off, ignoring the looks he was getting, and swiped some of the shattered plate off of the table before gripping it tightly in his palm and heading for the bathroom. He slammed the lid of the toilet down angrily and sat himself on the seat, pulling his pants down and sliding his boxers up. He only stopped for a moment of thought before he hesitantly put the shard to his leg, taking a deep breath as he pushed down hard and dragged it across the upper part of his thigh. He needed out of this shitty place. Ian was sure that his mental health was better when he was home. Never in a million years would he have done something like this back home. But he had his family around him there, here he only had himself and his thoughts, and both of those were slowly becoming more scrambled, and slowly more contradictory of themselves. Ian clenched his left hand hard as he moved the shard down slightly, dragging it across his skin haphazardly, exhaling deeply as he felt a slight sense of release. He did this a few more times before he suddenly noticed the blood about to land on his pants. "Ah, shit," he quickly shoved a ball of tissue on the pooling blood that was beginning to trickle down his leg

"Ian Gallagher. Can Ian Gallagher please report to the pill station on Elm immediately."

"Oh, for fuck… shit!" Ian wrapped a bunch of tissue round the ball of tissue that was piled on the cuts and then put his hand in his pocket to hold the tissue there, standing up and leaving the bathroom, the shard of plate wrapped up in tissue and in his other pocket. When he went to the pill station he felt like a fugitive, and he quickly handed his I.D. card over to the dispensary nurse, taking his pills and leaving as quickly as possible. He could feel the material of his pants where his hand was holding the tissue through his pocket becoming wet. Back in the bathroom he was replacing the tissue. Luckily the blood had only gotten to the pocket but had not become visible on the front of his pants.

"Gallagher," Ian heard a familiar voice call as he was sat in the cubicle, "open up."

"Fuck off, I'm taking a dump," Ian called back.

Mickey laughed, "No, you fuckin' ain't, you haven't eaten anything. You ain't got nothin' in you to shit out. Now, fuckin' open up." His voice became louder, he was outside the cubicle.

"Mickey, fuck off!"

"I ain't fuckin' goin' nowhere, I wanna' talk to you, so open the fuckin' door."

Ian sighed and pulled his pants up, opening the door. "What do you want?"

"Talk to you. What the fuck was that in the mess hall with Daisy?" Mickey asked as he stepped in to the cubicle, locking it behind him and sitting against it, looking at Ian as he sat back on the toilet.

"Bitch said I was in her seat. There were loads of others. Fuck that if I was moving." Ian said, his voice hollow.

"I didn't mean that bit." Mickey explained, "I meant was it intentional? I saw you swipe part of the broken plate, did you intend for that to happen?"

Ian shook his head, sighing, "Nope, just a happy accident." He shrugged.

Mickey took a hold of his hands and pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up. "Good man," he said, his voice sounding strange. Ian avoided Mickey's gaze, snatching his hands back and stuffing them in to his pockets as he continued to avert his eyes.

"Well, if we're done here, I'm going to bed." Ian said, standing up and waiting for Mickey to move. "Move," he sighed, his voice sounding exasperated. "Please," he finally pleaded when Mickey still didn't move, his voice sounding sad as he looked down to Mickey for the first time.

"No can do. You gotta' go to therapy. If you don't, they're gonna' put you in solitary, and I can't be havin' my little redhead leavin' me," he paused and looked Ian in the eyes when he stood up, "I can't." He had pulled Ian's hands from his pockets and was gripping them tightly as he'd spoken.

Ian snatched his hands back and looked down again, not speaking, just trying to get past Mickey.

"No. Come on, we got group first. Where's your timetable say you gotta' be?"

Ian shrugged. He didn't have his timetable on him, it was in one of his drawers. And he didn't particularly want to go to group. He wanted to sleep, to hide himself away, and not come out for a while.

"Don't have it," the red-haired boy mumbled.

"Well, let's go and get it then, princess," Mickey chuckled to himself. He liked the nickname 'princess,' playing on the whole Sleeping Beauty joke. He opened the door and the pair walked back towards their room. Ian instantly flopped on to his bunk, laying on his side and staring at the wall. "Yo, Ian, come on, where's your timetable?"

"Drawer," Ian grumbled, his eyes not moving from the small piece of flaking paint beneath the window.

Mickey went through one drawer and didn't find it, so he looked in the next one, finding Ian's timetable scrunched up in a ball near his boxers. Mickey grabbed the sheet, opened it up, and found that Ian was in room four. Mood disorder, Mickey thought, knowing what each of the group therapy rooms were for. Being here for long enough helped with that.

"Okay, come on, let's go." Mickey said, turning to Ian, "Get up, Sleepin' Beauty, we gotta' go, sessions started five minutes ago."

Ian shook his head, "No, I don't wanna' go," he whispered.

"You need to, man, come on,"

"I don't. I don't need to be here, I don't need pills, and I don't need therapy, I just need to go home," Ian said quietly, his voice hollow again.

Mickey shook his head in response, saying "Don't be fuckin' stupid. If you're in here, it's for a reason, now get up and come one," Mickey bent down and began to pull Ian up, "I don't wanna' do this, but you need to go." He got Ian in to a sitting position and then pulled him up off of the bed. He maintained Ian's weight, holding him upright, "I'm gonna' let go now, okay? And if you don't hold yourself up, I'm gonna' set Daisy on you, so don't fuck around," Mickey commanded, taking his hands away from Ian, still being ready to grab a hold. He'd seen people just drop to the floor when forced to get up. He was lucky that Ian didn't do this, but instead just slouched and slowly - painfully reluctantly – followed Mickey.

"You're in here," Mickey said, gesturing to room four. Ian looked at him blankly before walking in to the room, not looking back.

Mickey waited for a moment, making sure Ian went in to the session. When he saw Ian sitting down, he made his way to his own session, taking a seat and not paying attention to anything that was said. When it came to his turn to speak, he just shrugged his shoulders and said "Yeah, it's been an all right week," and left it at that.