Chapter 7

When Ian woke the next morning, Mickey had already put away his blankets and his pillow and was gone – gone where, Ian could only guess. He was probably with Nayla, taking her out for her morning walk. In just a couple of days, Ian had learned a lot of little details like that about Mickey's life.

He knew Mickey liked to be outside as much as he could. He knew Mickey was compassionate, selfless and sweet. He knew Mickey loved kids – he talked about the kids in his class with the same love a father would have for his son or daughter. He knew that what mattered the most to Mickey was his family, and that when they were all together, he was the happiest. He knew Mickey dreamed of finding a man and getting married, of raising children of his own. He knew how Mickey liked his coffee and his favorite food. He knew that Mickey usually dressed very nicely, but he also loved curling up on the couch to watch a movie or read, wearing his favorite old hoodie he'd had since college.

It was Tuesday morning, and he already knew all of those things about Mickey, after a little over three days.

He was such a fool.

Maybe, at some point, while Mickey was cuddling him on the couch or while he was holding his hand, or while he had an arm wrapped around him to help him get back home after he fell, Ian had forgotten that, wonderful as all those things were, their relationship was all a lie, a lie that would end in less than a week.

What good would it do to Ian to allow himself to enjoy these things, when he would only end up feeling even more dejected and alone when it was over? How was he supposed to go back to his miserable life after getting a taste of what a normal loving relationship felt like?

He knew now that accepting Mickey's offer had been the biggest mistake of his life, and yet, at the same time, he was grateful for it, because it allowed him to take a break from the hell he lived every single day.

He was disconcerted with all the gentle touches, shoulder squeezes, hugs and words of appreciation he'd received since he first stepped into the Milkovich's house. People didn't hug him – people pushed him to his knees to suck them off. People never praised the things he did or who he was – unless they were telling him what a great slut he was, taking it so well, and you love that, don't you, filthy little whore?

Ian closed his eyes. In Mickey's world, those things didn't exist. In Mickey's world there were no dirty alleys or furtive strangers in the dark. There were no sweat-dampened rolls of cash pushed into his hands, paying him for things that weren't even supposed to be on offer. In Mickey's world there was no soul-numbing loneliness, even if Mickey couldn't really see it yet (impatient, so impatient to find someone to love – as if a guy like Mickey wouldn't soon find a great man who'd love him unconditionally and make all his dreams come true).

All these thoughts only made Ian's bitterness expand through him like a fire through a forest, burning everything up, leaving nothing but sad, vague ashes in its wake. Unable to bear his thoughts for one more second, Ian got up and went into the bathroom, turned the water on the shower, and avoided looking at himself in the mirror as he got undressed.

Under the spray, he lathered up over and over again, as he always did – not clean enough, never clean enough–, dense layers of foam on his pale skin washed away by the warm water. He felt worn thin, too tired to face another day. He wished he could hide under a pile of blankets for a few years, avoiding everything and everyone, hoping that would be enough to make all the bad things fade away.

He turned off the shower and as he reached for a towel, he made the mistake of glancing towards the mirror. His reflection was pale, so pale, with dark marks under hollow eyes that had once been bright and happy. His skin stretched too thin over his ribs and his hipbones jutted out. He looked sick – he felt sick, and couldn't regret that he would never survive long enough to get old. After all these years, it still tore him apart when he thought about how his life had turned out, when his father had such wonderful hopes and dreams for him.

Today was not a good day.

Mickey had once again woken up too early, had breakfast with his father before he left for work, and then his mother had him try on the suit he planned to wear to the party to see if it needed to be adjusted by the tailor. After she confirmed the hems were right and the buttons on his shirt were secured, she had allowed him to change back into his casual clothes. He went upstairs to his room to put the suit in his closet, but when he opened the door he froze in his tracks.

Ian was standing by the bed, rummaging in his bag, looking for his clothes for the day.

Completely naked.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," Mickey exclaimed, lifting his hand to cover his eyes. "I should've knocked. I didn't know you were…"

"It's fine. I forgot to take my clothes in there with me when I showered," Ian said in a flat tone.

"I was just, uhm, going to put my suit in the closet, but I'll… I'll come back in a minute," Mickey, his eyes still hidden behind his hand, managed to open the door and slip back out to the hallway, where he leaned against the wall and let out a shaky breath.

It wasn't the first time that Mickey was struck by the way Ian looked, but now it felt like Ian's sensuality was flashing before his eyes in neon lights. He'd never seen a skin as creamy as Ian's, and his legs were so long…

No. He wasn't supposed to… no. It was completely inappropriate.

Mickey shook his head to rid his memory of the enticing images replaying in his head.

He counted to fifty and then knocked on the door softly. Ian told him to enter, and Mickey reopened the door and entered the room again, feeling a stupid blush growing on his face.

Ian was now folding the rest of his clothes and carefully putting them back into the duffel bag, dressed in a pair of jeans and the sweater he'd been wearing on Friday.

Mickey couldn't help but start babbling again. "Ian, I'm so sorry. I'll make sure to knock next time, but I just assumed you were still sleeping and I…"

"Can you relax, Mickey? I'm a whore. You're not the first man to see me naked, and you won't be the last, I can assure you of that," Ian interrupted sharply.

Mickey frowned as he looked at the other man, his embarrassment suddenly forgotten. He held the words for a few seconds, but simply let them go when he realized he couldn't stop them completely. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Ian asked, blue eyes fixing on him defensively.

"Talk about yourself like that," Mickey answered. "You're so… self-demeaning. Why do you do that to yourself?" He took a few steps closer to Ian. "What good does it do?"

"Just… shut up, Mickey," Ian mumbled, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache Mickey was making worse.

"I just… I don't get it. You don't have to be anything you don't want to be and it's never late to change. If you want to…"

"Shut up!" Ian exclaimed, this time a little louder. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Mickey? What the hell do you want from me? Do you think you can just change my whole damn life with all these oh so wise words? Well, think again! Nothing works that way; life doesn't work that way! Maybe in your perfect little world it does. Maybe in your perfect little world, if you wake up one day and you don't like what you are or where you are, you just go ahead and change it! But real life is different, my reality is different, and I don't need you to tell me that I can change anything!" Ian was completely out of control, his cheeks reddened with rage and tears clinging to his eyelashes.

Mickey back-tracked, putting his hands up as if wanting to placate a wild beast. "Hey. It's okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"What, Mickey? What was it that you didn't mean to do? Walk in and see me naked? Ask me stupid questions?What?" Ian continued ranting, and now it looked like he was having trouble breathing. "I can answer all of them, if that's what you want. I can answer all your goddamn questions, so you realize that nothing is as simple as it is in your fucking fantasy world. So, what do you want to know first? Do you want to know why I call myself a whore? Well, because that's what I am. And you want to know why I'm a whore? I'm a whore because that's all I'm good for. All I can do with my pathetic little life is get on my knees and suck cock. Don't you think that's a good enough reason to call myself a whore?"

Mickey wasn't sure exactly what had made Ian explode like this, but watching that explosion was a horrible, terrifying experience. Mickey could see all the cracks that Ian had been trying to hide, pushing them under the surface. He felt helpless, now that he could see just how broken he was.

"Ian. Please, just… I'm sorry," Mickey murmured sadly.

"I don't need you to be sorry," Ian said, wrapping his arms around himself as if in a last attempt to hold himself together. "I don't need anything."

With those words, Ian pushed past Mickey towards the door. Mickey scrambled after him, surprised and desperately wishing he could do something that would fix this, at least a little bit.

"Wait! Where are you going?" He asked, following him down the stairs.

"Out," Ian replied in a cold voice.

Mickey stopped on the last stair and watched him walk into the kitchen. He heard Ian's voice sounding nearly normal and heard his mother responding. Less than a minute after that, Ian strode back out of the kitchen and marched out the front door.

" Ian!" Mickey exclaimed, standing in the doorway, correcting himself at the last possible second. Ian was heading towards his mother's car. "What are you doing?"

"Your mom let me borrow her car," Ian said, as he opened the door and climbed on the driver's seat. "I'll be back later."

"Please don't go. Come on, just… let's talk. Or not. Whatever you want," Mickey wasn't sure exactly what to do or say. He didn't want to make this worse.

Ian completely ignored him. He closed the car door, turned the engine on, and drove away.

In seconds, Mickey ran towards his own car, telling himself he was going after Ian to make sure he wasn't running away with his mother's car. He told himself he wanted to make sure he returned. He told himself he didn't care and he told himself he wasn't worried, but he wasn't very convincing.

The further Ian drove, the more concerned Mickey became. He had no idea where he could be going, and after over an hour of being in the car, he was starting to really believe that Ian was running away.

But… he didn't take his stuff. He wouldn't leave without his bag, right? And what about the money? Considering how eagerly he took the cash I gave him… he must really need it. He wouldn't just leave without it.

He wouldn't leave without telling me, right?

Mickey squeezed the steering wheel nervously, eyes fixed on his mother's red hybrid Toyota. Why had he opened his big mouth and ruined everything? Why had he asked questions that weren't any of his business and upset Ian? Everyone was entitled to have a bad day, but this was obviously more than that. Mickey realized he had trespassed into things he knew nothing about, even if his intentions had been good.

What if Ian disappeared with his mother's car? God, he really didn't want to call the cops on him. He didn't want to go back to his parents' house and have to explain what had happened either.

Stupid. You're so stupid, Mickey.

He should've just apologized for walking in without knocking and left it at that. He shouldn't have made such a big deal out of it. He shouldn't have pushed so hard. It didn't matter that his brain had seemed to have shut down at the sight of Ian's body. He should've forced his brain to function properly.

Just when he was starting to think that Ian would never stop and that he would have to chase him for the rest of the day, he saw the red car slow to exit on the right. He followed discretely, as Ian turned a corner, then drove straight for two blocks and turned again. It looked like he was actually going somewhere instead of merely driving aimlessly. But where was he going?

The answer to that question was answered when Ian drove through a cemetery gate.

Frowning in confusion, Mickey hesitated outside the gate for a moment. A cemetery? Why would Ian go to a cemetery? Common sense told him he shouldn't follow him inside, that it was better to wait there until Ian came out, or even better, go back home and wait for Ian there. But it seemed that Mickey wasn't done making mistakes today, so he cautiously drove after Ian, careful to put enough distance between them so he wouldn't notice he was being followed.

After a couple of minutes, Ian parked and exited the car, as if he was escaping from something. He looked desperate. He looked desperate. Mickey's fingers clenched around the steering wheel.

Strongly suspecting it was probably a really bad idea, Mickey parked his car, too, behind some concealing trees. He slowly crept closer to stand behind a large gravestone that was close enough for him to keep an eye on Ian, who was now hunched in front of a grave, fingers scrunched in the grass and body shaking as he sobbed.

Seeing Ian so absolutely broken was a brutal shock to Mickey. Ian always seemed impervious, coolly indifferent to everything around him, remotely untouchable. But now he didn't look untouchable at all. He looked as if all of the world's miseries fallen on his shoulders and dragging him down.

As Mickey stood completely still, the breeze brought to his ears the strangled sounds of Ian's crying. He was saying something, but Mickey couldn't understand a single word. Who was buried there? Why did Ian feel the need to come to this place?

Daring to step a little closer, Mickey moved, careful not to step on any branches that would announce his presence. He hid behind a tree as Ian's sobs grew more and more painful. His heart broke for him – Ian looked paler, weaker, defeated. He'd never imagined that the man he'd met that night at the alleyway could look like this. But, Mickey thought to himself, they were two very different men. The one at the alleyway was the mask and here, crumbling before his eyes, was the real Ian.

Ian rested his forehead against the granite gravestone and a few words carried to where Mickey was hiding. The words were broken, filled with exhaustion.

"I can't anymore. I can't, I can't…" Ian was saying as he cried harder. "Please, take me with you. I don't want to do this anymore. Please. Please."

Mickey felt like crying himself as he watched the force of Ian's sobs shake his entire, frail body. Mickey slid down to the grass, sitting with his back against the tree, unable to intrude into Ian's grief anymore. He felt like he was betraying him for being here when it was so obvious this was something so incredibly private for Ian. But at the same time… he didn't want to be anywhere else. He wanted to crawl to Ian, gather him in his arms and do anything he could to stop his pain.

But maybe Ian's pain was too deep to be stopped. Maybe Ian was too broken for anyone to comfort him.

Mickey wasn't sure how long he sat there, listening to Ian's muffled pleas, until everything grew quiet. He peered around the tree at the gravestone, and found that Ian was curled up on the grass, with his eyes closed and his breathing settling back to normal. But as Mickey watched, Ian sighed shakily and wiped his eyes – reddened and tired – and stood up. He looked at the grave one last time with sad resignation, and then he walked slowly back to the car.

He drove away slowly, as if he was too spent to move any faster, and Mickey couldn't help but worry that something awful would happen to him, that he would get on crash…

That he would intentionally crash the car.

His heart clenching painfully, Mickey got to his feet, ready to follow and make sure Ian didn't hurt himself. However, he couldn't walk away without solving at least one mystery.

He walked to the gravestone feeling as if the world was closing down on him. Because right now, everything that mattered to Mickey was whatever piece of information that gravestone would give him about Ian.

To soothe Ian's pain, first he needed to understand.

He stopped at the gravestone, took a deep breath, his hazel eyes reading the words engraved there.

Monica Gallagher - Frank Gallagher

(1970-2002) - (1969 – 2012)

Wonderful, loving parents who left too soon

Mickey felt all the air in his lungs choking him. Those… those could only be Ian's parents. And they had died years ago… Ian must have only been a kid back then. Had he been all alone in the world since then? Was there anyone he could lean on? Was there anyone he trusted? Did he have anyone who he could call his family?

Somehow, thinking about Ian's earlier words (please, take me with you, please), Mickey knew exactly what the answers to those questions were.