Chapter 15
For the first time in his life, Mickey wasn't excited about going back to work after their break and seeing his kids. His head and his heart were elsewhere. His eyes constantly scanned the streets as he drove to school, looking for Ian, though he knew the chances of spotting him at that time of day were slim.
He spent the few minutes before the kids arrived hanging a welcome-back sign and preparing the classroom for their arrival, going through the motions. His head was buzzing and he felt trapped – he wanted to run through the streets, and scream Ian's name until he found him, hold him in his arms and apologize a million times…
"Mr. M!" A squeal brought him back to reality and he soon found himself surrounded by his kids, hugging his legs and talking all at the same time. He managed to smile for them and got down on his knees to be at their level, giving each of them a hug before starting the class for the day.
"I have a surprise for you!" He announced and the children's faces lit up in excitement. "Everyone go to your seats while I get it ready, okay?"
The kids scrambled to obey, fueled by the promise of a surprise, and Mickey chuckled as he retrieved the box he had hidden behind his desk. Any traces of laughter or happiness vanished as soon as he opened it. When he looked down at the sock puppets that Ian had helped him decorate, he was instantly reminded of how hesitantly Ian had shifted towards him, fearful of rejection. Mickey's heart ached as he thought of how difficult it must have been for Ian to trust him enough to get close to him – only to have his faith betrayed.
"What's the surprise, Mr. M?!" Little Hannah exclaimed impatiently from her seat.
Mickey swallowed the lump in his throat and forced a smile on his face as he displayed the first puppet. The cheers and excited squeals of his little students managed to distract him.
Almost.
Mickey sat at his kitchen table, staring down at his bowl of pasta numbly. The food had probably gone cold by now, but he didn't care. He wasn't hungry. He couldn't eat. Ian had never been to his apartment, but the empty chair across from his haunted and mocked him anyway, because Ian belonged on that chair. If things hadn't gone so terribly wrong at the last possible minute, he would be there, safe and happy in Mickey's apartment.
Nayla was sitting next to him, her head resting on his knee. Mickey sighed and lowered the bowl to the kitchen floor, to keep his dinner from going to waste.
"How are you doing?"
Iggy Milkovich could be a self-centered douche most of the time, but when something was wrong with his little brother, he was the most caring, most supportive man Mickey had ever met.
Mickey ran a hand down his face, too tired to think straight. He hadn't slept well since coming back from his parents' house and the kids were draining all his energy at work. "I'm doing okay," he answered tonelessly, because wasn't that what he was supposed to say?
"No, you're not," Iggy muttered sadly from the other end. Mickey could hear people talking in the background and knew Iggy had hidden away from his coworkers, directors and producers to speak to him on the phone. "But you will be. Everything will be alright."
"How do you know that, though?" Mickey asked, staring up at his living room ceiling. "There's no way to fix this."
"If it's meant to be, you'll find a way. You'll find him," Iggy tried to sound encouraging. "If not…"
"If not, I'll just live the rest of my life wondering where he is, if he's safe, if he's okay? I'll spend the rest of my life hating myself for hurting him instead of giving him the chance he so desperately needed?" Mickey blurted furiously. He wasn't mad at Iggy – it wasn't his brother's fault. But he was infuriated with himself, with the universe, with that fucking Paul for showing up at the worst possible moment and destroying the fragile hope Ian had nurtured to life.
"You'll find him," Iggy repeated, but it sounded as if he just didn't know what else to say to help.
Mickey didn't need empty reassurances. He needed a second chance, and this time he wouldn't screw it up.
Every night, Mickey went out with Nayla for a walk and his heart pounded in his chest, anxiously, as he scanned the streets before him and the alleyways he walked by. There were no signs of Ian.
Mickey felt a tiny flicker of hope, when he wondered if maybe Ian had given up his life in the streets and managed to find something better. Maybe Mickey couldn't find him because Ian didn't need to be found – maybe he had gathered the strength he needed to save himself, and he didn't need Mickey's help.
It was a comforting thought, even if never seeing Ian's face again threatened to break Mickey into a million pieces.
He could love him from a distance, as long as he was safe.
During recess, Mickey usually stood and watched the kids play, making sure they didn't get hurt or into trouble. Sometimes he talked to the other teachers, but lately he wasn't in the mood to be sociable, so he stood on his own.
A little tug on his sleeve made Mickey look down to find Derek staring back at him, his two front teeth missing and his glasses sliding down his adorable nose. Mickey got down on one knee to be at his level.
"What's up, Der?" He asked with a smile, ruffling the boy's hair.
"Mr. M, my brother isth getting married," the kid said with a big grin. "And he told me I can carry the ringth at the wedding!"
"Wow, Derek! That's fantastic! I'm sure you'll be an amazing ring-bearer," Mickey exclaimed as the boy swayed on his feet happily.
"Thank you!" Derek grinned even wider and Mickey chuckled. He really was an adorable little boy. "Are you married, Mr. M?"
Mickey stopped chuckling then and tried his best to hide his bitterness at the boy's question. He thought of the empty apartment he went home to every night, and the heartbroken expression on Ian's face the last time he'd seen him. "No, Derek. I'm not married."
"Why not?" Derek asked, confused. "You're older than my brother. Aren't you supposed to have babieth and all of that already?"
"It doesn't really work that way, Der," Mickey replied as diplomatically as possible.
"Don't you want to get married and have babieth?" Derek tilted his head as he looked at Mickey, as if trying to figure out what was wrong with him.
A lump formed on Mickey's throat. He had always wanted that, but he wasn't sure he would ever get to have it anymore. "Of course I do, buddy. Why don't you… why don't you go play with Wendy? She looks bored all by herself on the swings…"
"Okay!" Derek smiled and ran off to join the girl.
Mickey had to remind himself that this was not the time or place to break down in tears.
That weekend, Mickey drove all the way back to Lima to visit the cemetery. He bought a bouquet of daisies and placed it gently against the gravestone.
"I haven't found him yet, but I'm still trying," Mickey murmured apologetically.
He sat with his back against the nearest tree and spent the day there, reading a book in the shade, hoping Ian would show up to visit his parents, Mickey's only link to their son.
The cemetery remained silent as the afternoon progressed and Mickey felt more and more discouraged. He truly had no idea of where to look for Ian to make this right. He couldn't accept that he would ever give up. How could he live with the knowledge of how badly he had hurt the man he loved, and move on without him?
How do you realize when the time to let go has arrived?
Walking Nayla was one of those little daily rituals that gave Mickey a sense of normality. Every evening, they went out together for some fresh air and Mickey felt a little less numb. During the day, he had to find the strength to be around his kids but at times like these, it was like he was allowed to stop for a moment and breathe. Everything still hurt, but at least his head was clearer.
During one of these evenings, he was distracted trying to figure out what his kids would be doing for Spring Festival this year. He had a few kids who were good singers, others were good dancers and then a few that were too shy to be put on the spotlight but would feel neglected and sad if Mickey didn't give them the chance to do participate. Maybe they could have a short puppet play, since they had been a big hit amongst the children…
It was Nayla who alerted him first. She stopped walking and stood very straight, her head held high in alarm and her eyes fixed on the alleyway they were walking by.
"What's wrong, girl?" He asked, trying to scratch behind her ears, but she was pulling on the leash, trying to get him to move into the alley. "Come on, Nayla, don't…"
And then he heard it too, the quietest of moans followed by a choked sob. Mickey stopped in his tracks doubtfully, but then fished his phone out of his pocket and used its light to trace the source of the sound, dreading what he might find; perhaps an injured animal, a homeless drug addict or…
He could barely discern the shadowy outline of a man on the dirty ground, curled in on himself. At first, Mickey supposed that it was someone who had had too many drinks at the bar around the corner and was too drunk to notice he was sleeping in the street. But then the light of a passing car revealed that the figure was actually a man who was naked from the waist down, with a leather corset on his torso. With a gasp, Mickey took a step closer, recognizing the man he had searched for everywhere.
It was Ian. His arm was half-covering his face, but Mickey would've recognized him anywhere. He was even skinnier than he had been when he last saw him a little over a week ago. Mickey carefully lifted his arm away, horrified to discover a trail of blood from a cut near his temple. His beautiful face was swollen and bruised, and his cheek was sticky with the red thick liquid.
It only took a second for Mickey to register all of that, and then he was falling on his knees next to Ian. His heart squeezed painfully sheer horror, unsure of what to do. Should he move him to take him to a hospital or would it be better to call an ambulance and wait? Ian looked bad, really bad, and Mickey couldn't just sit there for a moment longer.
"Ian?" He called softly. He touched his hands gently, hoping he could hear him. "Ian, sweetheart, please…"
Ian whined as Mickey held his hand. There was a darkening bruise around his left eye and more blood trickling out of his nose. His eyes were closed and he was making soft pained noises, only semi-conscious.
"Oh my god, Ian," Mickey had to bite back a sob. Who had done this to him? How long had he been lying there unconscious in the cold, dirty alleyway? "Sweetheart, can you hear me? Oh god, please Ian…"
Ian's lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he only whimpered. Mickey couldn't even imagine how much pain he had to be feeling…
"It'll be okay," Mickey smoothed the hair on the top of his head, carefully. "It's going to be okay, sweetheart. I'll take you to the hospital. You'll be…"
"No," Ian murmured, barely audible. It was just a little choked out whisper that Mickey thought he had imagined, but then Ian was struggling to open his eyes, his tears diluting the blood on his cheeks. "No."
"Shh, it's me," Mickey said sweetly, doing his best to comfort him. "I'm here, Ian. I'm going to help you. The hospital will check…"
"No," Ian said again, sounding panicked, as his eyes went a little wider. "No hospital. N-no hospital, no…"
Mickey looked at him in shock. "What do you mean? Sweetheart, you need a doctor…"
"No!" Ian practically screamed, trying to crawl away from him in panic. "No!"
"Okay! Okay!" Mickey raised his hands in the air, giving up. He would try to talk him into going there later, but right now he had to get him someplace warm and safe. "I won't take you to the hospital…" Agreeing to this was crazy, Mickey knew, but he couldn't bear to see Ian fighting to get away from him with the last strength in his body. "I just want to help you, Ian. I-I'll take you to my apartment. I'll get you in a cab and we can…"
"Mine," Ian said weakly. "Mine. M-my… p-place."
"You wanna go home?" Mickey asked perplexed, and Ian nodded slightly. "I don't know where you live, sweetie." How could Ian be so stubborn even after he had been beaten up?
Ian mumbled what sounded like an address, and Mickey thought he'd recognized the street Ian mentioned. It was only a few blocks from there, in a run-down neighborhood of Columbus…
Mickey considered what to do, as he looked down at Ian's half-naked form. His tiny shorts were crumpled on the ground not too far away from them, but Mickey wasn't sure if he could manhandle Ian enough to put them on him without hurting him. Instead, he carefully wrapped his burgundy cardigan around him, the best he could do, for now.
He realized that he would need to find a cab, which meant leaving Ian alone here in the dark alleyway. Mickey closed his eyes for a moment, trying to make a reasoned decision. Ian was feather-light, even gaunter than he had been before. Maybe he could carry him that far himself, because there was no way he was risking something else happening to him. This was the second chance to save him he had been praying for, and he was never disappointing Ian again.
"Sweetie, you can't walk anywhere like this. I know you're in pain, but if I'm going to take you to your apartment, I'm going to have to carry you, okay?" Mickey brushed his chestnut hair back soothingly, but they both winced when his fingers grazed the cut on his head. "If it gets too bad, you need to tell me. I don't want to hurt you any worse…" He wasn't sure if Ian was listening or if he was even capable of understanding, but Mickey still needed to talk to him, to keep him from thinking about the negative side-effects of moving a badly injured man. "Okay. Here we go."
Mickey took a deep breath to steady himself, in preparation to hoist him into his arms. He lifted him slowly, paying attention to every hitch of breath coming out of Ian, looking for signs of worsening pain. His eyes were closed again and his face was scrunched slightly in discomfort, but he seemed to be semi-conscious now.
Mickey panicked a bit – what if he had a concussion and was slipping into a coma? Wasn't he supposed to keep Ian awake if he had hit his head? What would happen to him if he lost consciousness completely? Mickey knew that he had hit his head – the cut just above his temple still oozing blood proved it. He tried to remember his first aid training, but it seemed all a blur now. All he could really focus on was the feeling of Ian in his arms – nearly weightless, fragile, and terribly thin, so much thinner than before… – and the weak throb of his heart against his chest, where Mickey was cradling him like a baby.
"Stay with me, sweetheart," he whispered, as he stood and ensured the cardigan was covering him. "Stay with me, Ian. Don't fall asleep."
But Ian didn't reply, or even move. His breathing was just as weak as his heartbeat and Mickey was terrified. What if he couldn't save him? What if he had finally found him, and then Ian died in his arms?
"You're gonna be okay," Mickey whispered, pressing his lips against his forehead, to reassure himself more than anything. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. I promise, Ian. I promise, but you gotta stay with me."
He walked quickly down the darkened empty streets, making sure Nayla was following him closely, straight to the address Ian had given. He knew he was being five kinds of an idiot – Ian needed a hospital, not hiding away in his den again. But he was at a lost for what else to do. Ian got so upset when he mentioned a hospital, and Mickey couldn't betray his trust again. No, he needed to take this step by step. First, he needed to get Ian somewhere safe, out of the street, and get a better look at him, and then, if he thought his life was in danger, he would do what he had to and hope he would forgive him.
In the past few days, Mickey had dreamed non-stop of finding Ian, but he never imagined it would happen like this. Now that he had found him, he wasn't sure what was going to happen next.
The distance from the alleyway to the building where Ian presumably lived felt eternal to Mickey, though it really wasn't that long. Every step was eternity while he worried that someone seeing them would misinterpret what was happening. Fortunately, they didn't come across many people, and the very few passers-by didn't seem to notice anything out of the normal under the sheltering blanket of dusk. Or maybe they just didn't care – it seemed to be a recurrent theme in Ian's life. Why didn't anyone care? How many people had walked past the alleyway and heard him moan in pain, without stopping to see if someone or something needed help?
Mickey pushed those disturbing thoughts away as he located the right building, among the other run-down six-plexes. It was an ugly neighborhood – the walls of every building around was covered in graffiti and there was a loafing gang of teenage boys gathered on the corner, smoking and laughing obnoxiously, whistling at girls. When they saw Ian in Mickey's arms, they burst out in cat-call laughter and mocked them.
"That Gallagher whore brought his work home with him tonight!" They taunted them, but Mickey completely ignored them, unwilling to waste any time. He wanted to rip them apart with his own hands, they weren't worth the effort.
The building's door wasn't locked, which seemed terribly dangerous in a neighborhood like this, but Mickey sighed in grateful relief, because he didn't know if Ian had a key with him. But, once inside and facing the stairs, he realized he didn't know which apartment was Ian's.
"Shit," he muttered, becoming more and more desperate every second, his arms trembling after carrying his precious burden for blocks. "Ian? Ian, please, wake up. I need to know your apartment number. Come on, sweetheart, wake up."
After a few minutes of insistent prompting, Ian's eyes barely blinked open, just see a hint of blue under his eyelashes.
"That's it, beautiful. Come on, wake up. We're almost there, but I just need to know which apartment…"
"T-third f-floor," Ian's voice was hardly a whisper, but Mickey smiled down at him nonetheless, immensely relieved that he had understood him and responded.
"Thank you," he kissed his forehead softly. "Stay with me, okay? Don't fall asleep again."
Ian lapsed back into silence, but Mickey focused on climbing up the stairs without dropping him, his legs barely obeying him, at the end of his strength. Nayla followed guardedly behind him, stopping every now and then to sniff at a step or a door, until Mickey called her. Clearly she didn't like this place either. When they arrived at the third floor, Mickey remembered Ian hadn't given him an apartment number, and was about to ask him about it when he sadly realized that it was obvious where Ian lived.
There were four apartments in the hallway. Three of the doors looked ordinary, painted in cheap white paint, but the forth… it was covered in multi-colored spray painted graffiti, nasty words entirely filling the white surface – whore; Gallagher's a slut; cocksucker, cumslut, fag, and other horrible insults were scrawled across on the door, new slurs obliterating the older ones underneath. What kind of refuge was it, if he couldn't even escape their loathing there? Where did Ian go to feel safe?
Mickey's heart ached, because he knew the answer to that question.
Mickey couldn't help but shudder, when Ian whispered that his key was hidden inside a potted plant next to the filthy window at the end of the hall. It was the most obvious place to hide his key, but maybe Ian believed it was safer there than on him, in case he was mugged. Who else knew it was there, waiting for a chance to get into Ian's apartment unnoticed?
He had to lean Ian against the wall, until he unlocked the door, and then gently laid him on the couch. It must also be his bed – there was a pillow and a few old blankets on it, and the only other door Mickey could see was partly open and led to the bathroom. Now he understood why Ian wasn't worried about being robbed. There was nothing of value there to tempt a burglar.
Mickey relocked the apartment door on his way to the bathroom to get a wash cloth. He gave up waiting for warm water, after a few minutes, and returned to Ian's side and kneeled on the floor next to him to carefully wipe the blood off his face. He found he was whispering to him while he worked, hoping Ian would react to his voice again, but he didn't move or make another sound.
Mickey had never been this scared in his entire life, terrified that Ian's injuries were bad enough that he wouldn't make it through the night. He seemed to be in a lot of pain and Mickey had no way to know how long it had been since he had been attacked.
"I'm such an idiot, for bringing you here," he mumbled to himself, turning a lamp on and moving it closer so he could inspect the cut on Ian's head. It was still bleeding slightly, but it didn't seem as bad as he had imagined it would be. Still, he wasn't sure if he needed stitches or not. "You should be in a hospital. What if you have internal bleeding or broken bones? What the hell could I possibly do for you? You need a doctor, Ian."
Ian whimpered as if in protest. Why was he so stubborn? He could barely breathe and he still didn't want to go into a hospital …
"Don't you dare die on me, Ian Gallagher," he said furiously. "Don't you dare."
He needed to get Ian out of the stupid corset, which was restricting his breathing, making him more uncomfortable. He looked for looser clothes and found old sweatpants and a ragged blue t-shirt with a white inscription on it, in a pile on the floor. He wrapped his arm around him and lifted Ian's shoulders slightly, enough to untie the damn thing. Once he got it off, he held back a sob when he discovered more purpling bruises on his ribs that took his breath away. Who could do this to another person? Who could be so heartless and cruel?
Soon he had Ian tucked under the blankets, hoping to warm his icy cold body. Mickey wondered how long he had been sleeping there, on a couch too small for him. He glanced around without leaving his side, noting how ugly and uncomfortable Ian's apartment was, not homey at all.
It looked as if it Ian hadn't had a real home in a very, very long time.
Mickey turned back to Ian when he let out another low whine, and tugged back the blanket. He looked so tiny and fragile in that huge blue t-shirt that had obviously belonged to someone else. Mickey tried to read the inscription, until he managed to make out the words Gallagher's Tire and Lube on it. His heart squeezed painfully.
Ian's lips parted and he tried to say something, but his voice failed him.
"What do you need? What is it, honey?" Mickey leaned closer, almost until their noses were touching.
Ian's face scrunched up in pain once more, his eyes unseeing. "D-dad… dad… p-please."
Mickey knew exactly what Ian was begging his father for. He had heard Ian begging for release from his torment before. Mickey felt the tears building in his eyes and running down his cheeks as he shook his head, obstinately. "No. No, Ian. You're going to be okay. This is going to be over soon…"
Ian called softly for his dad again, his voice childlike, before falling completely silent once again. Mickey watched his suffering and wondered if it wouldn't be better if Ian just let go. Maybe it was selfish of him, to want Ian to hold onto a life that had been nothing but misery. But when Mickey thought of the millions of ways he wanted to show Ian that life could be beautiful as well, and for that, he needed more time. He needed him to stay with him.
He loved him too much to let him go.
And then Mickey realized that, even though he couldn't get Ian's father to come and soothe his son's pain, he could get his own father.
He impulsively fished his phone out of his pocket, moving so suddenly that he startled Nayla, who was lying on the floor watching everything from a safe distance. He dialed his father's number and waited with bated breath.
Relief washed through him when Terry Milkovich picked up on the second ring. "Hi, Mickey…"
"Dad," Mickey said with a choked voice. "Dad, please, I need your help."
Terry became immediately concerned when he noticed the distress emanating from his son. "What's wrong? What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," Mickey replied as his sad hazel eyes fell on Ian again. "It's not me. It's Ian. He's hurt."
"What do you mean he's hurt? How badly? Did you take him to a hospital?" His father asked and Mickey could hear his mother's panicked questions in the background, worried by his reaction.
"No. He doesn't want to go. He freaks out when I mention it…" Mickey ran a hand down his face. He really didn't know what else to do. "Dad, please, could you come and take a look at him? I know it's really late for such a long drive, but I…"
"Mickey, don't worry about anything, as long as he keeps breathing. I'm on my way right now. Could you text me the address?"
Mickey was suddenly flooded with relief and he sighed, grateful for his wonderful family. "Sure. Thank you, Dad."
"Everything will be okay. I'll be there soon."
Mickey let his phone fall to the floor beside him right after texting his father, and held onto Ian's hand, willing him to get better. The only thing he could do, for now, was to wait until it happened.