Chapter 9

On Thursday morning, Mickey woke up cold. He opened his eyes as he clutched the blankets tighter around him, and it only took a few seconds for him to realize that they had forgotten to close the window the previous night.

It was no big surprise they had forgotten something as mundane as that – the window had been the last thing on Mickey's mind when he went to sleep last night.

After shutting it carefully, he chanced a glance towards the bed. Ian was completely hidden under the blankets, just a few strands of hair sticking out. Mickey stared at the little he could see of him for a moment, feeling as lost and desperate as he had felt the night before.

Guilt was weighing heavily on Mickey's heart. Maybe if he hadn't been such a coward and talked to Ian right after the kiss; maybe if he hadn't kissed Ian at all… maybe then Ian wouldn't have spent the entire day worried that Mickey's intentions had changed.

Mickey ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. Gosh, he couldn't even begin to imagine how used Ian probably felt. Was he constantly expecting people to take advantage of him? Did he walk down the street wondering if the next man who walked by would force him to do things he hated?

Mickey had barely seen the surface cracks, but he had seen enough to know that Ian's wounds went much deeper than that. He had seen enough to be scared to find out what kind of demons Ian hid under his façade.

Was it normal to want to wrap Ian in his arms and never let him go? To want to shield him from a world that did nothing but hurt him? Was it normal to desperately wish he could figure out a way to help Ian heal?

Mickey closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. He was doing the same thing with Ian that he'd done with his ex-boyfriends: he wanted to take care of him and make sure he'd always have a reason to smile. Perhaps it was a bit more understandable to want to spoil Ian, Richard or Logan, but with Ian… Ian was walking away forever in just a few days, with an envelope full of cash, the only reason he'd followed Mickey to Westerville in the first place. It wasn't Mickey's responsibility to save him.

But if Mickey didn't help him, and Ian didn't help himself, then what was going to happen to him?

Mickey didn't want to think of the possibilities, but he truly hoped the image of Ian kneeling in front of his parents' grave wasn't a premonition.

Ian was relieved, though not surprised to wake up in an empty room. He hadn't slept well again, even though he was used to feeling exhausted now. Nightmares usually haunted his sleep. They made him restless, chasing away pleasant childhood fantasies he'd had when his dreams were just one more adventure he got to enjoy after his mom tucked him into bed. He was used to being tormented in his dreams by those who touched him and discarded him – he was used to Kash's evil smirk haunting him every night, reminding him of that tragic afternoon when he pushed him down a road that would change his life forever.

Sometimes Ian wasn't sure what he hated more, that he had allowed Kash to turn him into what he was now, or the fact that he'd never been brave or strong enough to put his life back on track.

Was there even a track to get back to now?

Ian swallowed bitterly, clinging to the pillow. The faint scent on it was becoming familiar – a strange combination of detergent, raspberry and Mickey's aftershave. He couldn't decide if he found it comforting or not. In a way, it made him think of all the things he could've had if things had been different. But there was no point thinking about what could have been. This was his life, this was the path he'd been forced to walk and this was all he was ever going to be.

Just a prostitute. Just a pathetic, broken whore whose only purpose in life was to get on his knees and make others' fantasies come true just as every single one of his own dreams and fantasies were thrown away, stomped on, forgotten; shattered.

Sometimes he found himself struggling to remember what he'd once dreamed of, what he'd aspired to become, but it was getting harder and harder to remember every day.

That's not entirely true, a quiet voice in the back of his head said. You've been remembering again since you got here.

Ian scoffed at himself. Just because he was staying in a nice house, being treated well by some kind people didn't mean anything. This reprieve was ending in just a few more days.

He tried to ignore the pang in his chest. There was no point in wishing things could take a turn for the better. There was no point in nursing silly little hopes that would get crushed just as everything else had.

Mickey wasn't his knight in shining armor. It didn't matter that he provided a feeling of warmth and safety Ian hadn't felt since his father died. It was all fictitious. It was part of the price he was paying. It was what he had to do to play his role in front of his family. It was all meant for Ian. Ian was just a tawdry substitute.

The words Mickey had spoken the previous night came back to him in a hushed whisper that grew louder inside of him until they echoed in his head, against his chest, in his very soul.

Because I like you.

Was there anything for Mickey to like about him? Was it the way he would so willingly bend over and let men do whatever they wanted? Was it his skin pulled tight against his ribs and hipbones?

Was it about the few moments when Ian had let his guard down enough to melt into his arms as they sat in the living room with his family? Did it have to do with the few words spoken in a gentle tone instead of the usual biting remarks?

Ian couldn't understand what Mickey liked about him. Men only liked his body and the things he would let them do with it. They liked that Ian took whatever they gave him, because he just couldn't put up a fight anymore.

But he knew, he simply knew with absolute certainty, that none of those things had anything to do with why Mickey liked him.

Ian thought about the hand-holding, the kisses on the cheek, the gentle arm around his waist. He thought about all the sweet, caring ways in which Mickey had touched him. He knew most of it was an act… but what about the kiss? That kiss had happened behind closed doors with no one there to see it but them. Why would Mickey pretend about that? And why didn't he take advantage of what Ian had easily offered him the previous night, when no one else had ever said no?

God, it had been so long since anyone had given him a simple gesture of affection, and after getting a taste of it this week, he was craving for Mickey's to be genuine. At least one of them – the smallest caress, the quickest, most innocent kiss on the cheek, the slightest touch of his fingertips over his knuckles.

Was it so wrong to wish he could just give in and enjoy it while he could? He knew the risks. He knew them very well. Ian wasn't that stupid – as soon as he walked back into his apartment on Sunday, everything would be gone and the tender little fantasy would snap and vanish like a balloon coming in contact with the sharp point of a needle. Was the heartache worth it for just a handful of loving gestures that, in the end, meant nothing?

But did they, in fact, mean nothing? At the end of Ian's life, would he look back and regret not allowing himself to have this, as little and meaningless as it would probably be for Mickey? Would he ever find someone else willing to show him a bit of kindness, a bit of sweetness?

Ian seriously doubted it.

A part of him was desperate with the need to give in and just allow himself to have this while he could; to let himself feel what it was like to be with someone without feeling used for a change. Mickey was gentle, considerate and sweet (he was a kindergarten teacher, for crying out loud). Would it be so wrong to let himself have this? It would hurt even more in the end, yes, like everything else did. But allowing someone to hold him, to take care of him… wouldn't that make the ache when it ended worthwhile? Even if going back to his lonely, messed-up life hurt worse than ever… wasn't it just cruel to have the chance and not take it?

Ian buried his face on the pillow, the comforting scent of it filling his senses again, and wished, not for the first time, that things could be easier, at least once.

Standing by the kitchen window with his hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, Mickey watched as his car pulled away from the driveway. Iggyhad asked him if he could take his car for a very important reason. Mickey was pretty sure he was going out to find a girl to be his date to their parents' party. Iggyfinding a beautiful girl who would say yes to him in a matter of seconds was typical. At the restaurant just the previous night the waitress had given them all free deserts after Iggymerely smiled at her brightly.

It was damned annoying and oddly endearing all at the same time. Mickey sighed and walked away from the window. The grey sky looked like it was going to rain soon.

His mother was at the boutique and his father was working. It was just him and Ian in the big, silent house – just them and the rain ready to come crashing down.

It was poetic in a very confusing, tragic way.

He went into the living room. The television was on and the volume was low enough to provide Mickey some company without distracting him. He had no idea what was on –some mindless sitcom, or something. He didn't care what was on, as long as it drowned out his guilty conscience.

There was a large box on the coffee table. He'd kept it on his car until this morning and had only grabbed it because he needed something to do, something to keep his mind occupied and apart from the man still sleeping (or simply avoiding him) upstairs.

Every year after Spring break, Mickey prepared something to surprise his kids. He loved walking back into his classroom and giving them something to make them smile, to get them excited about going back to school. This time, he'd come up with the idea of making them sock puppets – he'd gathered eleven pairs of colorful socks and things to decorate them with. Maybe the kids would even want to have a puppet show, a nice project they could all work on together.

Mickey tried distracting himself while he organized the contents of the box on the coffee table, thinking of his kids, of their bright smiles and positive energy. One of the many reasons why he loved being a kindergarten teacher was that he loved that whatever else was happening in his life stopped being important for at least a few hours. As soon as he stepped into his classroom, Mickey didn't care about boyfriends dumping him or bills to pay. All he cared about was making the children in front of him smile, to help them grow and learn and turn into amazing little people.

Honestly, there wasn't anything else Mickey would have wanted to do with his life.

Unfortunately, his kids weren't there with him now, and distractions weren't easy to find. He sat on the floor, back against the couch and legs stretched under the coffee table, and cut some red yarn to make some hair for the first puppet.

There were three finished puppets lying in a row on the couch behind him when he heard soft steps coming down the stairs. His back tensed, but other than that, he showed no sign of acknowledging Ian's presence. He wanted to let Ian choose whether to join him or not.

The steps grew closer until finally he could feel him standing right behind him, the couch standing between them giving him enough distance to still feel safe. Mickey remained quiet. He glued a big black button to the sock he was working on and then reached for another to do the same.

Ian cleared his throat quietly and when he spoke, his voice was wary. "What are you doing?"

"I'm making sock puppets for my kids," Mickey replied, forcing himself to sound calm and collected. The last thing Mickey wanted right now was to give Ian any reason to be anxious.

"Oh," Ian murmured, a bit uncertainly. "Uhm. How many do you need to make?"

"Twenty one," Mickey replied, holding the one he was working on a bit farther away to see if the button eyes were even. "If I don't mess any of them up, that is."

There was a short stretch of silence, only filled by the sound of Nayla's paws as she walked from her place near the window to the kitchen for some water. Mickey waited, not exactly sure what he was waiting for.

"Would you like some help?" Ian asked, voice even softer than before and more hesitant than Mickey had ever heard him until now.

Mickey looked over his shoulder and sent a gentle smile his way. "Yeah, that'd be great, actually."

For a while, they worked side by side in silence. Ian sat next to him on the floor, but not close enough to brush against each other as they moved. Mickey finished another puppet and laid it down carefully to let it dry. Ian was still working on his first one, using black yarn for the hair and big green buttons for the eyes. Mickey couldn't help smiling as he watched him work out of the corner of his eye, carefully making a little bow for the hair with a bit of red yarn. He was so focused, silent, delicate as if he had the most precious thing in his hand instead of a silly sock for one of Mickey's students.

The air seemed charged with something Mickey couldn't exactly name. Was it tension? Was it fear? Or was it something else? Maybe Ian was gathering his courage to tell Mickey he was leaving, that he was done playing a role for Mickey's family. Mickey was suddenly painfully aware of how empty the house was, how the silence enveloped them like a blanket; a thin blanket that provided no comfort for the winter; that just allowed the cold to seep under his clothes, his skin, and into his bones.

And then Ian shifted. It was such a minute motion that Mickey thought he'd imagined it. It wasn't possible that Ian had just moved imperceptibly closer, was it? Once again, he glanced at Ian out of the corner of his eyes, and realized he was sitting a little straighter, alert, as if waiting for Mickey to do something. He was pale and so obviously weary that Mickey had to fight the urge to wrap his arms around him with all his strength. The last thing he wanted to do was to scare Ian even more than he already had.

Ian put his finished puppet down on the coffee table and let his hand linger there, long white fingers resting lightly at the wooden edge. Mickey's hand was close, sorting through the pile of colorful buttons to find the ones he'd use next. Ian's hand twitched, just an imperceptible little movement that made it slide an inch closer, and Mickey realized then that Ian was fighting an impulse to reach for him.

Mickey waited with bated breath. It was Ian who had to do this, on his own. Mickey couldn't take this step for him.

But he had to make sure Ian knew he wouldn't reject him. He dropped the buttons and turned his hand, palm facing up and fingers slightly curved upwards, waiting. He didn't say anything; didn't even look at Ian again. Mickey needed to give him a chance to back out without making a big deal out of it.

A shiver went down Mickey's spine as Ian shyly traced the side of his hand with a fingertip, soft and slow as if he was afraid he'd break something if he allowed himself to touch Mickey more than that. Mickey's body responded to him of its own accord immediately, and his hand pressed up against Ian's, lacing their fingers together and holding tightly.

"Ian..." he murmured, careful, scared, hopeful.

Before he could say anything else, Ian closed the distance between them, using his free hand to fist Mickey's shirt. He let out a strangled breath, a half-choked sound that made it seem as if having to inhale and exhale was too hard for him. Suddenly his head dropped onto Mickey's shoulder, eyes closing firmly and lips parting enough to allow a tiny whimper to escape. It was then that Mickey realized he was witnessing the very moment when Ian admitted defeat.

Ian exhaled shakily, a warm, stuttering breath echoing against the skin of Mickey's neck. Mickey turned slightly, enough to be able to wrap an arm around Ian and tug him closer. With his other hand, he took hold of both of Ian's hands and pressed them against his chest, cradling them close to the beat of his heart.

"It's okay," Mickey reassured him, murmuring into his thick chestnut hair. He pressed a kiss to it, and then to his temple. It's okay to touch me; it's okay to hold me, to let me hold you. It's okay to be scared but please, please don't be afraid of me...

After a few more minutes of stiff tension, Ian's body finally gave in, relaxing against him, melting in Mickey's arms as if too tired to keep resisting. He burrowed even deeper into the embrace and Mickey didn't say anything else, knowing how fragile this moment was and how quickly it could turn into disaster. His head was buzzing, thoughts tangling messily, but now was not the time to think. He was going to follow his instincts. If the way Ian was clinging to him meant he needed this, then Mickey would give it to him. He would hold him for as long and as tightly as he could.

Neither of them was sure how long they stayed like that. Time didn't seem to matter. Minutes could've bled into hours, or even days, and they still wouldn't have cared. But finally Ian lifted his head, enough to be eye to eye with Mickey, and Mickey felt a pang going through him as he saw how tired and how completely broken Ian looked.

There were no tears in his eyes. They were dry and empty; the usual intense blue in them had vanished into a pearly grey, sad and worn. Mickey gently caressed the dark marks under them with his thumb, wishing he could make them disappear.

Ian swallowed nervously. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay," Mickey said again with a soft, reassuring smile.

"I'm just..." Ian's gaze wandered around the room, lost and unfocused, before returning to Mickey's, defeated. "I feel so trapped."

"If you let me, I could help you break free..." Mickey muttered as he carefully brushed back a few strands of hair that had fallen across Ian's forehead.

"I'm not sure there is a way for me to break free anymore," Ian admitted in a low voice, looking down at their hands still joined against Mickey's chest. "It's been so long…"

"Of course there is, Ian." Mickey caressed Ian's knuckles with his thumb. "Every lock has a key. You just need to find the one that fits."

"I'm afraid I may have thrown the key away a long time ago," Ian shook his head, once again looking defeated. "I don't have any hopes or dreams left."

"Then you can borrow mine," Mickey's hazel eyes bore into his, so sincere and intense that Ian couldn't look away. "I have enough for the both of us."

Ian didn't seem to know how to reply to that, so he simply sighed and dropped his head back onto Mickey's shoulder, allowing himself to be held once again.

They had to move, eventually, when their limbs started falling asleep from sitting in the same position for so long. Ian stood first, his arms going around himself defensively, staring at the floor, not sure what to do. Mickey glanced at the line of finished puppets as he tried to decide what to do next.

"We could go out for a walk," he proposed, at a loss for anything else. "I think we both need some fresh air."

Ian looked at him for a second or two and then nodded.

They left the house quickly, as if staying inside was suffocating them, the walls closing around them until they couldn't breathe. Only when they had walked silently down a few streets did they realize neither had remembered to grab a coat. The wind seemed colder than it had been lately and the sky was still grey and gloomy. Mickey took a deep breath and the smell of imminent rain filled his nostrils.

Ian's face was serious as he walked next to him. His arms were still wrapped around himself, but more to protect him from the cold than to protect them from Mickey. He was tragically beautiful, Mickey thought. He'd never imagined sadness and heartbreak could ever look so beautiful, but Ian was surprising him in many ways. It made him wish he could see Ian happy. If he looked so stunning when he was sad, then seeing him jubilant would be such an amazing sight to behold.

They made their way to the playground where Mickey had spent many afternoons as a child. Iggyused to take him there on Saturday mornings, and they would catch or challenge each other to see who could hang upside down on the monkey bars the longest. Mickey smiled as he remembered how Iggyhad always let him win.

The playground was completely deserted now. Ian walked towards the swings and sat on one, pushing himself back and forward slightly with his feet. Mickey watched him for a moment and was able to see the ghost of a boy who'd had to grow up too soon, forced to face a world that had been nothing but dark and painful for him. So much grief, so much hurt... Mickey wasn't sure if he'd ever hear Ian's story from the man himself, but he could read so much between the lines already. All those scars, all those bruises that would never heal, all the tears that Ian had cried... How could one person go through so much pain and not give up? Mickey couldn't blame him. He would've given up, too.

He joined Ian at the swings, taking the one next to his. The sky grew even darken, but neither noticed, lost in their own heads.

"It was a really nice kiss," Ian said abruptly, eyes fixed on his feet. Mickey turned to him, a little surprised. "Even if I was... and I couldn't... it was still the nicest kiss."

The nicest kiss among so many others, unwanted, forced, paid for. Mickey's stomach churned.

"I'm sorry it scared you," Mickey said regretfully.

"Everything scares me," Ian shrugged as if it didn't matter, but the exhausted tone of his voice told a different story.

"Do I scare you?" Mickey asked, tightening his grip around the swing's chain, feeling it dig into his palm.

Ian looked at him then, eyes roaming over his face for a long moment in which Mickey held his breath, afraid he wouldn't pass whatever test Ian was putting him through.

"A little," Ian answered at last, and Mickey deflated. "But for good reasons."

Good reasons? Mickey's eyes widened. Yes, even the good things in life were scary sometimes, especially when we don't want them to end or when we don't want to lose them. Love was scary in the best possible way, Mickey thought, shivering as he connected the idea of falling in love and Ian.

It was too soon. It was too complicated.

But it could be so worth it...

There was a clap of thunder that made the ground vibrate under their feet. They both looked up at the sky to see the first drops of rain down on them, starting slowly, but soon gaining strength and turning into a proper storm.

"Come on, let's go!" Mickey said, jumping off his swing. He put his hand out as a silent offer for Ian, who only hesitated for a second before accepting it.

They pulled each other down the street, rushing back to Mickey's parents' house, splashing through puddles, completely soaked in minutes. It took a while for Mickey to hear, since it got lost in the loud storm enveloping them, but then he did: it was Ian and he was laughing. He stared at him, shocked and amazed, skipping along his side. For a moment, he looked so free and so carefree that Mickey wanted to stop and kiss him right there. But he refrained; afraid that would break whatever spell Ian was under.

There were still no cars in the driveway when they ran up to the front door, which meant no one had returned yet. Mickey quickly ushered Ian inside the door, closing it behind them as Ian's laughter died down into a chuckle. Mickey turned to look at him then, soaking wet and feeling his clothes hanging heavily on him, and found Ian standing there just as wet and disheveled. He was surprised to hear his teeth were chattering, trembling with cold. But, of course, Ian was skinnier and his clothes weren't as warm and thick as Mickey's.

Mickey intertwined their fingers together again. "Come with me," he said with a warm smile.

Ian followed him up the stairs without a word. Neither cared about the trail of water they were leaving in their wake. The most important thing was the cold grip of Ian's hand in his.

"What are you doing?" Ian asked as Mickey guided him into the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Once there, Mickey let go of his hand and turned to the bathtub, opening the faucets to fill it. "Mickey?"

"I'm taking care of you, silly," Mickey replied simply, smiling at him over his shoulder. "You're half frozen and I don't want you to catch a chill."

Ian's breath hitched and his heart stuttered in his chest, but Mickey didn't seem to notice, busy pouring caramel-scented bubble bath into the water.

Ian marveled at how easy this was. No one had done this for him before and he found that allowing Mickey to do it wasn't hard at all. It felt good, having someone who cared if he was cold, hungry or tired, or simply having someone who offered to hold him without expecting anything in return.

Ian couldn't remember the last time he had felt as alive as he did while running in the rain, hand in hand with Mickey.

"Here are some towels," Mickey said, snapping Ian out of his daze. "Take as much time as you need. I'll go take a shower in Iggy's bathroom."

"Okay. Thank you," Ian murmured, his voice thick with emotion. It had been such a long time, he'd forgotten what it was like to feel safe and cared for...

Mickey smiled at him once more, then left the bathroom. Ian peeled his cold wet clothes off, the warm tub water immediately soothing his frozen limbs. And as he lay there, surrounded by the sweet scent of caramel, he realized he didn't want to run anymore. He never wanted to go back to being passed from stranger to stranger for a bit of cash.

For the first time in forever, Ian realized he might finally have a reason to stay.