Chapter 8
There was no trace of Ian's breakdown visible on his face when he returned to the Milkovich's, other than seeming a little tired. Mickey arrived home before Ian, which meant he must have stopped somewhere on the way home to recover for a while. No one would have guessed from his collected appearance where he'd been and what he'd been doing.
Ian avoided any opportunity for Mickey to discuss what had happened earlier between them by staying near Mickey's family, though he didn't say much. Mickey was fine with that. He needed more time to put his thoughts in order, because his emotions were completely jumbled, bouncing everywhere.
He stared at the ceiling for hours in the silence of the night and listened to Ian's breathing, haunted by the image of Ian kneeling in front of his parents' grave, sobbing as he begged for help that would never come. He should've known that Ian was a lot more complex than the bitchy front he put up. Mickey usually was very good at reading people – he was attentive and through working with children he had learned to see beyond the obvious. How had he missed this? How had he let Ian's abrasive manner fool him? How had Ian managed to hide such deep wounds? How had Mickey missed the pain hidden in those blue eyes?
It was obvious to Mickey that Ian had a lot of practice at hiding his feelings. How long had it been since Ian had put up those defensive walls? Hadn't he had anyone to take care of him after his parents were gone? It hurt to think that Ian must have been just a kid when his life fell apart on him. He'd had to grow up so suddenly, left entirely on his own. Mickey swallowed the lump of emotion choking him, fingers tightening on the blankets. He didn't even want to imagine what it must have been like – losing everything, and everyone you cared about. Having nothing left to remind you that there's still good out there in the world, if you know where to look.
Mickey remembered Ian tensing when his mother affectionately hugged him, or whenever anyone touched him. He remembered the stiffness of his body, the tightness of his smile, the vague discomfort in his eyes. It wasn't difficult to understand why he acted that way. Mickey didn't even want to know how long it had been since anyone had offered him a gentle touch, out of pure affection and kindness. It made his heart ache to know Ian was far more familiar with people touching him in more callous ways, but that he couldn't find the warmth comfort of a hug even remotely soothing.
How had Ian's life led him to what he did now, to that alley where Mickey had found him? Mickey could guess, but the idea was still so foreign to him. How could the world turn its back on Ian until he was forced to allow strangers to touch him, to do things to him that Mickey could only consider doing with someone he trusted, someone he loved? Mickey closed his eyes tightly, willing those painful thoughts away.
Ian whined in his sleep, turning so Mickey could see his troubled face. There was nothing peaceful about Ian's sleep with no escape even in his dreams. Mickey watched Ian cling to a pillow, wishing he could just wake him so he could avoid whatever his subconscious was showing him. But was Ian's reality much better when he was awake?
Pale sunlight was starting to bathe the room by the time Mickey fell asleep. Just before his exhausted eyes closed, the morning light softly illuminated Ian's face, his lips forming two silent words that Mickey clearly understood.
Help me.
Mickey woke early, in spite of only falling asleep at dawn, leaving Ian to his restless dreams. He walked into the kitchen just as his father was putting his empty cup of coffee into the sink.
"Good morning, son." His dad's welcoming smile vanished as he took a closer look at Mickey. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah, I just didn't sleep very well last night," Mickey answered pensively, moving to the fridge to find something for breakfast.
"Any particular reason?" Terry asked, eyes fixed intently on him.
Mickey forced a smile, hoping it would look convincing. "No, don't worry about it. I just had a lot on my mind."
"If you want to talk about anything, I have some time," Terry glanced at the clock on the wall behind them. "I can go to work a little later..."
"Dad, really, I'm fine," Mickey assured him. "Just work stuff. There's always so much to do with the kids after Spring Break and I couldn't stop thinking about new activities..."
Terry clasped a hand on Mickey's shoulder. "Well, then. For a moment I thought you might be concerned about you and Ian. Are you considering what I told you about the other day? About the engagement ring?"
Mickey almost dropped the pan he'd grabbed to make scrambled eggs. "I-I'm just not sure we're ready for that step yet..."
"No pressure. I'm just putting it out there, Mickey." Terry raised his hands and winked at him. "Okay, I'm going to work now, but I'll see you later. Maybe we can all go out for dinner when I come back..."
"Sure, I'd love that..." Mickey said distractedly, as he watched his father leave.
He didn't need to think about engagement rings, on top of everything.
Were his parents hoping he'd propose to his boyfriend during their anniversary party? Mickey didn't even want to imagine what Ian would do if he got down on one knee and presented a ring to him in front of everyone else. And how was he going to explain Ian walking out of his life soon after? What excuse was he going to come up with for their sudden break? What was going to be Mickey's next lie?
He focused his attention on breakfast – stirring the eggs, making sure he didn't burn the bacon, brewing coffee, putting bread in the toaster – because it was easier than allowing his mind to carry on with the endless string of what ifs that threatened to give him a terrible headache. But then he abruptly saw he'd prepared a tray with two cups, two plates, two forks, two knives, and realized what he was doing. He sighed and gave in. This was at least in character, something he would often do for Ian.
Mickey carried the tray upstairs, careful not to spill the coffee. He balanced it on his left arm as he used his right hand to open his bedroom door. Once inside, he gently pushed the door closed again with his foot. Ian was still sleeping, curled around the pillow under the blankets – there were dark marks under his eyes and the same frown he'd seen on his face last night was still in place. He looked as if he'd done anything but rest, though Mickey knew he'd been sleeping for almost ten hours now.
He set the ray on the nightstand and took a deep breath. He didn't know why he was doing this or even if Ian would react well to being woken up, but for some reason, he needed to do it.
Mickey sat on the edge of the bed, making sure he wasn't anywhere near Ian. He decided shaking him awake could potentially be a terrible idea, so he murmured, softly. "Ian? Ian, wake up."
It was easier than he had expected. Ian stirred instantly, turning to face Mickey, slightly startled at first, then he looked confused. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I made breakfast," Mickey said, feeling foolish. He offered a cup of coffee to Ian, a peace offering.
Ian blinked briefly, then struggled to sit up against the pillows and sighed heavily, as if he was too tired to move. He accepted the coffee, taking a small sip. He didn't say anything, but eyed him warily, waiting for Mickey to say something more.
"I couldn't help noticing you didn't eat much last night," Mickey commented, mostly to fill the silence. "So I made you bacon and scrambled eggs. There's some toast, too, if you want."
Ian squinted at him for a moment, as if deliberating if he could trust him. He apparently didn't find anything negative in Mickey's face, because he murmured, softly, "thank you."
Mickey settled the tray on the bed next to Ian so they both could eat. Mickey was sitting at an uncomfortable angle to reach his plate, but he ignored it, more focused on working up the courage to say what he really wanted to say. He took a deep breath. "I'm really sorry."
Ian seemed startled again. His blue eyes flew to him, the fork halfway to his mouth and his cup of coffee forgotten in his other hand. "What for?"
"You know what for," Mickey said, uncomfortably. "I had no right to ask any of those questions. I should never have talked to you the way I did yesterday. You don't owe me anything, and I appreciate that you're still here when you clearly don't want to be. It was never my intention to make you feel bad."
Ian remained silent. He set his fork down and clutched his coffee cup, staring into the dark liquid swirling inside of it.
"I'm sorry," Mickey repeated. "I just wanted you to know that. You don't have to forgive me, but I needed to say it."
Ian nodded and sipped his coffee. Mickey wasn't sure what that nod meant.
Ian's eyelashes were painting shadows on his cheekbones. Though his eyes looked hollow and empty, they were still the most stunning eyes Mickey had ever seen. His knuckles were squeezed white around the mug, his fingers long and delicate, a lot stronger than they seemed. The old t-shirt he was wearing was a little big on him, hanging crooked on his shoulders. Mickey remembered his slender frame, with ribs and hipbones too sharp to be healthy. Mickey looked at him then, sitting just inches away from him, yet distant, beautiful and unreachable, and saw exactly how tragically broken he was.
He did it because it was his first instinct. He did it because somehow it made sense. He did it because he wanted to make Ian feel cared for and adored. He did it because he looked at the man in front of him and saw someone who had been abandoned, hurt and defeated, but he didn't want to fix him, because any man who had survived Ian's life was strong enough to do it for himself, even if he didn't know it yet. He did it because the silently growing attraction towards Ian suddenly exploded, searing through his veins, making his heart race.
He did it because a voice inside his head was screaming at him that kissing Ian was what he desperately wanted to do.
Mickey moved forward quickly enough that Ian didn't have time to react. One second they were sitting there drinking coffee and the next, Mickey's mouth was pressing against his. Mickey slid his lips against Ian's eagerly when they parted slightly in surprise, tasting coffee, toast and something else, something that tasted sweet, uniquely Ian.
It didn't last long. As soon as Mickey realized Ian wasn't kissing him back, he pulled away to see Ian's eyes were wide with shock. Mickey looked away and swallowed nervously, because that was enough to make him regret what he'd done. He'd clearly made a terrible mistake, considering Ian was frozen, and unmoving.
What the hell had he been thinking?
"I…" Mickey stood up, avoiding Ian's eyes. He realized he was still clutching his coffee cup, so he put it down on the nightstand. "I should… I have to go. I… I haven't fed Nayla yet, so…"
He didn't wait for a reply. He was too overwhelmed to stay there for another second and he couldn't deal with Ian looking at him like that. He walked out of the room and down the stairs, his heart pounding wildly and his lips tingling.
Somehow, he ended up in the backyard. He looked around him, though not really seeing the blue sky and the green grass, and then buried his fingers in his hair. He had no idea what he was doing anymore.
Ian sat there for so long he lost all track of time. A breath escaped shakily through his lips.
He closed his eyes and forced the constant horror that lived inside of him to stop choking him, his coffee cup gripped so tightly that it almost shattered.
Of course, he thought, bitter, desperate, hopeless. Of course.
It wasn't very hard to avoid Ian for the rest of the day. Mickey felt ashamed, but he couldn't face the other man right then. Would Ian forgive him for breaking their agreement? Should he apologize for kissing him? He hadn't had bad intentions – he'd kissed him because he really wanted to. But the way Ian had reacted (or the way he hadn't reacted at all, actually) meant he'd been wrong in following his instinct.
It didn't matter how beautiful Ian was or how attracted to him Mickey was. When someone was as broken as Ian, kissing him out of the blue like that didn't fix anything. It just made it all worse.
Luckily, Iggywas around to distract him. His brother was the perfect person to have around when you didn't want to focus too much on yourself, since Iggywas constantly looking for excuses to talk about himself. All Mickey had to do if the conversation moved towards him or his boyfriend, was ask Iggya quick question about his own life, and that was it.
Iggywas in the kitchen when Mickey walked back into the house after his sudden freak out. His older brother was leaning against the counter drinking orange juice and reading the entertainment section of the newspaper. Mickey guessed he was trying to find a reference to himself in it, even though it was too soon. His new show wouldn't start for another month or so. However, Iggywasn't exactly patient when it came to his career.
"Hey, little brother," he said distractedly, flipping the pages.
"Hi, Coop," Mickey muttered. "Anything interesting going on in Hollywood?"
Iggysighed dramatically. "Not yet. They're still refusing to acknowledge my talent."
"The show hasn't aired yet," Mickey pointed out.
"So what? They should have paparazzi following me around all day asking me about shooting the pilot," Iggysaid with a slight pout. "Have you not seen my latest commercial? It was a hit."
"Of course it was," Mickey nodded, not really paying attention. He'd discovered when he was about four years old that his life was much easier when he just agreed to everything Iggysaid.
"I was thinking about going out for a run," Iggyput the newspaper down. "I might have a shirtless scene for the second episode, so I need to maintain my fantastic physique. Do you want to come with me?"
Mickey weighed his options. Ian was still upstairs but he could come down any minute now.
"Yeah, sure."
He tried convincing himself that he was not a coward. He just needed time to put his thoughts in order, but he wasn't fooling anybody.
By the time Mickey and Iggyreturned to the house, panting with sweat dripping down their faces, backs and chests, Mickey had managed to avoid his worries and confusion for a little while.
He wished he could keep running forever.
Iggylanded a heavy pat on his back, grinning. "That was fun. Next time I'll try to run a little slower, though. Must be hard to keep up with those short legs of yours..."
Mickey frowned and punched his brother's arm. "Shut up. I'm not that much shorter..."
"It's okay. I's endearing, having a pocket-sized brother," Iggytook a step back to avoid getting a smack on the head. He grinned, all of his perfectly white teeth on display, as he fished two water bottles out of the fridge. Mickey caught the one he threw at him easily.
They were both gulping down the water when their mother entered the kitchen. Her smile faded as she scrunched her face.
"Guys, go take a shower. You both smell horrible," she said, scowling at Iggyseverely when he tried to hug her. She turned to Mickey, frowning slightly. "You should probably check on Ian while you're up there too, sweetie. He came down to leave the breakfast dishes and he looked terrible. He said he had a headache, so I gave him some Advil and told him to go back to bed."
Mickey suddenly felt as if his chest was suddenly hollow. He swallowed some more water to gain some time and then nodded. "Sure. I'll check on him in a minute."
"Let him rest for a while longer if he needs to," Grace murmured gently. "He was even paler than normal. I hope it's just a headache and not the beginning of a cold or flu..."
Mickey nodded again, absently. He knew Ian's problem had nothing to do with that.
"Okay, let me know if he needs anything," Grace left the kitchen, followed by Iggywho announced he was jumping into the shower.
Mickey leaned against the counter and closed his eyes. He knew he had to go back upstairs and talk to Ian at some point, but... he didn't know what to say. He didn't want to make things worse. They still had a few more days left and he didn't want to complicate things even more.
Though maybe he had already ruined everything. Maybe he had already pushed Ian too far.
With a deep breath, Mickey put his empty bottle down on the counter and went to take a shower too. But he never went to check on Ian.
One of the many benefits of having such a large house was being able to always find privacy… particularly when he wanted to avoid someone.
Mickey managed to evade Ian all day. He avoided his mother, too, knowing she would immediately ask about his boyfriend. He would have to face them eventually, but right now his head was a mess and he had no idea how to deal with any of this. He should probably start by apologizing for what he'd done, even if a kiss hadn't taken Mickey's breath away like that in a very long time.
It had been wrong to startle him, even if it had felt so incredibly right.
Once Mr. Milkovich returned home at the end of the day, all the distractions and evasions ended.
"Come on, family, let's go out for dinner!" He announced enthusiastically with a clap of his hands.
Mickey was perched on the arm of the couch, channel-surfing as he waited for everyone else to be ready, when Ian walked into the living room. Mickey couldn't help studying him. He really did look pale and exhausted, as if he had been sick for a very long time. Mickey gulped and wished Ian would meet his eyes just for one second, so he could at least make sure he was okay with joining his family for dinner.
Mickey had never felt worse than when Ian looked everywhere but at him.
Grace stepped to him, cupped Ian's face in her hand and examined him, concerned. "Are you sure you're alright, Ian, sweetheart? You look a little sick. We can stay home, if you're not up for going out..."
"I'm fine," Ian mumbled, smiling tightly at her before he took a step back, out of her reach. Her hand slid down his cheek and fell to her side. "I just... uhm, I can't seem to get rid of this headache."
"Maybe you should take him to the hospital, Mickey, and get him checked out," she suggested, obviously worried. "Just in case."
"Do you want me to take a look at you, Ian?" Terry said as he stared at Ian pensively, his doctor side kicking in. "Is there anything else bothering you, beside the headache?"
"I'll be fine," Ian repeated, his voice strained. Mickey suspected he would snap soon if they kept at him like that, asking question after question.
Mickey decided to intervene. "I'll get him some more Advil when we come back from dinner. I'm sure with a good night's sleep he'll be fine tomorrow. Right?" He looked at Ian, hoping he would help him.
Ian's eyes were a sudden flash of grey on his, gone before Mickey could really look into them. "Right."
It was going to be a very long, uncomfortable night.
The restaurant was one of the places Iggyand Mickey had always loved. Mickey would have enjoyed the excellent meal more if he wasn't feeling so guilty.
Ian looked bad. Really, really bad. He was silent, eating slowly, and he seemed to be in a faraway world where the sounds of conversation around him didn't reach him. Luckily, Iggytalked enough for all of them, making it easier to avoid thinking about how Ian was feeling. They left him alone.
Mickey was desperate to go back to the house, to talk to Ian alone in his bedroom. He knew apologizing again wouldn't be enough to fix this, but maybe talking about it would help Mickey understand why Ian seemed so entirely broken in the first place. Had the kiss really affected him that much, or was there something else eating him?
Mickey didn't allow his heart to flutter with hope. Or he tried not to, at least.
As soon as they arrived back at the house, Ian immediately excused himself, murmuring that he intended to go to bed. Grace squeezed his arm gently, asking him to let her know if he needed anything. Ian managed another tight smile before slipping past her and disappearing up the stairs.
Mickey watched him go; feeling defeated and lost, and then turned on his heels and went into the kitchen. His mother followed him.
"I'll make you some tea to take up to Ian with the Advil," she said as she filled the kettle with water. "Poor thing. He looks miserable…"
Mickey busied himself looking for a tea bag and a mug. When he didn't say respond, Grace leaned against the counter and studied him.
"Is everything alright between you two? You both seemed… a little distant during dinner," she muttered, hesitantly.
"We're okay," Mickey replied quickly. She opened her mouth to retort, so Mickey fixed her with a stern look. "Mom. We're okay."
"If… you say so," Grace sighed. "But if there's anything you need to talk about…"
"I know," Mickey ran a hand through his hair and forced a brittle smile on his lips. "Thanks, Mom. I'll finish Ian's tea and take it up. You can go to bed, if you want."
She nodded and stopped to kiss his cheek before exiting the kitchen. As soon as she was gone, Mickey felt as if the silence of the house was enveloping him. He wondered what would be waiting for him upstairs. Maybe Ian would pretend to be asleep so he wouldn't have to deal with Mickey. A part of Mickey hoped he would, so he could delay the conversation a little longer.
But another part, one that was, oddly, stronger, really wanted Ian to be awake and willing to talk.
He walked up the stairs slowly, careful not to spill the tea. As if not spilling a hot liquid meant he could control anything he wanted to. As if not tipping the mug would help him to not tip his own dreams, hopes and fears all over the floor.
Mickey paused before his bedroom door. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He couldn't hear a sound coming from inside, which meant Ian was most likely sleeping.
He pushed the door open gently and was surprised to see Ian sitting on the middle of the bed, eyes downcast and fixed on his hands twisting on his lap. He didn't look up when Mickey walked in.
"I…" Mickey cleared his throat anxiously. "I brought you some tea and more Advil. My mom is really worried about you." He put the cup of tea and the pills on the nightstand.
"Thanks. She's very kind," Ian answered in a soft voice, still not looking up at him.
Mickey fidgeted uneasily for a few more seconds, unsure how to say exactly what he wanted to say. "Ian, I…"
"It's okay," Ian interrupted, quickly cutting him off. "You don't have to say anything, Mickey."
"I think I do," Mickey frowned. "I want you to know what's going on here…"
Ian shook his head, and finally looked up. Mickey couldn't read him – Ian was a closed book. Or even more accurately, he was a journal – a journal with a thick leather cover and a lock. He would never be able to see what was inside, unless Ian gave him the key. "I know what's going on. I'm surprised it took this long, to be honest."
Mickey was completely confused. He tilted his head to the side. "What do you mean?"
"Come on, Mickey," Ian laughed cynically, a bitter, sad sound that echoed against the walls. "I knew it'd come to this. It was only a matter of time until you figured it out…"
"A matter of time?" Mickey repeated. What the hell was Ian talking about?
"Yes. It was a matter of time until you realized you're paying for a lot more than what you're actually getting," Ian murmured acidly.
And then, before Mickey had time to react or process what Ian had just said, he quickly took his shirt off and his pajama pants off. In only a handful of seconds, he was kneeling naked on Mickey's bed.
Mickey's eyes widened in shock and bafflement. "Ian! What are you…"
"Stop pretending," Ian practically spat at him, his eyes glaring at Mickey. "I'm not stupid and neither are you, so we both know what you meant with that kiss. You changed your mind about that non-sexual crap you said when we met."
He fished under a pillow, and then threw a bottle of lube and a condom onto the bed beside him.
"I haven't had time to prep myself, so unless you want to watch me, you're gonna have to do it yourself," Ian muttered, his voice flat and his face emotionless. He turned until he was on his hands and knees, presenting himself for Mickey.
Mickey sucked in a breath. What the hell was even going on? How could Ian think that…? Mickey felt like he was going to be sick. He didn't want this. Even if Ian was incredibly beautiful and he was attracted to him… he didn't want this. Especially not like this.
"Ian, I don't…" he murmured, stunned. He swallowed – his throat and mouth were suddenly terribly dry.
"Fine. You can watch, if you're into it, I guess…" Ian leaned to get the lube and Mickey's eyes widened again in shock, gasping in dismay when he saw the thin white lines marking the otherwise flawless skin.
Scars. Those were scars. Someone had hurt Ian; someone had damaged him – fucked him, oh god – hard enough to tear his skin.
"Ian, stop," Mickey pleaded, his voice jagged and broken and heart thumping painfully in his chest. "Please, please, just stop."
Ian froze immediately. Mickey had to wonder if Ian was used to following orders when he was like this – if he ever had to just lay there and do whatever the man paying him wanted him to.
Mickey wanted to throw up just thinking about it.
His hazel eyes travelled, inevitably, over Ian's body, feeling a heart-wrenching pain scorching over him as the pale, cruel marks seemed to glow on Ian's skin, between the globes of his ass. His protruding ribs and hipbones were sharp angles and undulating hills without enough flesh to cover them, the saddest image Mickey had ever seen. Mickey was aware he had lived a protected coddled life, raised in the warmth of a loving family, and that there were millions of cold heartless people out there, but he still couldn't understand how men would want to just use Ian for pleasure. Did no one care? Did no one stop to try to help him? How could they use Ian and break him even more than he already was?
His hands shaking, Mickey tugged one of the blankets from the bed and took a hesitant step towards Ian, who was still balanced up in the same position. He gently wrapped the blanket around him, covering his frail body. He reminded Mickey of a house of cards next to an open window: the softest breeze would've brought him down.
Ian turned his head, staring at him with a frown. "What are you doing?"
"I meant what I said," Mickey murmured, taking a step back again, giving Ian the space he needed. "Yes, I'm paying for you to be here, but I would never use you like that, Ian. Not like that. No matter how much money I give you, you'll never have to do that with me."
Very slowly, Ian shifted to sit on the center of the bed, his eyes greyer than before and his frown deepened. His fingers closed tightly on the blanket, shielding his naked body. "I… but you kissed me."
Mickey swallowed nervously. "Yes. Yes, I did."
"Why?" Ian asked, tilting his head to the side in bewilderment.
Mickey knew he had two alternatives. He could tell Ian he'd done it without even thinking about it, or he could tell him the truth. He could tell Ian that he was attracted to him and that he'd kissed him because kissing Ian had felt more important than breathing.
"Because I like you," he said, with a little shrug. It sounded simple enough to him. That was a good, logical reason to kiss someone.
Not to Ian, apparently. He stared at Mickey, looking absolutely lost. "I… I don't understand."
It hit Mickey that someone liking him was a completely foreign idea for Ian. Men didn't like him – they used him, abused him, fucked him until they were done and then walked away. Ian was like a doll – they played with him until they got bored and found something new to entertain themselves with. They didn't play nice, either. They were rough and careless and by the time they were done with him, Ian wasn't the same. Abused dolls lost plastic arms, eyes or hair, but Ian lost something real. He lost a part of his heart every time he accepted a wad of cash that gave strangers the right to do whatever they wanted to him.
Mickey felt horror running through his veins like a cold, freezing deluge that left him trembling. His legs threatened to fail him. He was very close to breaking down and sobbing uncontrollably. The desolation and absolute hopelessness he could see in Ian's eyes right now… it broke his heart, it drained him, it left him wondering how it was possible that life had turned its back like this on someone. He knew there were people whose lives weren't easy. But he'd never imagined Ian was drowning in all the bad, cruel, nasty experiences the world had to offer. Someone who was so despondent, he couldn't even reach for a helping hand anymore.
"Ian…" Mickey murmured, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded. His throat felt tight and he could feel the tears building in his eyes.
Ian swallowed with difficulty, and Mickey was sure he was choking back tears as well. His head snapped to the side, avoiding him once again. "It's okay. Don't… just don't say anything."
Mickey took a step towards the bed, desperate. He needed to make Ian see; he needed to open his eyes andsee. "Ian, no, I…"
"Mickey, please," Ian whispered, broken, and he looked smaller, huddled and closing in on himself in the blanket.
Mickey's gaze fell to the floor and he tightened his lips, forcing himself to do what Ian asked for a change, even though leaving him suffering was the last thing he wanted. He nodded slowly.
Neither said another word. Mickey silently gathered his pajamas, then headed into the bathroom to change. Once there, behind the closed door, he splashed water on his face and stared into the mirror as he told himself to hold it together.
After all, it wasn't him who was broken into a million pieces.
When he went back to his bedroom, the lamp on the nightstand was off, Ian had put his pajamas on again and was buried under the covers. Mickey knew he wasn't sleeping, but he allowed him to pretend.
At this point, he didn't know what else to do.