Chapter 16
Mickey lost all track of time, hunched on the hard floor next to the couch, holding Ian's limp hand in his. His eyes never left the other man's face, waiting for any sign of a change, but Ian remained inert, in a deep, tomblike sleep.
Mickey didn't speak to him again, doubtful Ian could hear him. Not knowing if he would ever wake up again was nearly driving him crazy. What if this was it? What if he had to say goodbye forever? What if Ian had already spoken his last words?
A silent tear escaped down Mickey's cheek without him even noticing. He was only aware of the weak fall and rise of Ian's chest and the fragile breath emitted from his parted lips. As long as his vital signs remained steady, Mickey doggedly held on to his hope that Ian would be okay.
The sudden knock on the door startled him, confusing him for a second, until he realized it had to be his dad. Mickey hurried to his feet and opened the door, when Nayla confirmed his guess, wagging her tail after she sniffed under the door. His father's eyes widened for a moment, abruptly changing from a somber, worried expression to dismay when he saw how desperate his son seemed.
"Oh, thank god you're here…" Mickey breathed in relief, fighting the temptation to launch himself at his dad, like a little boy looking for comfort.
"Where is he?" Terry asked, forcing himself to stay calm, because Mickey was already freaking out enough for the both of them.
"He's here on the couch," Mickey indicated the worn sofa behind him, quickly leading his father into the apartment. "He's been unconscious since we talked on the phone."
Terry set his case down next to the couch, taking a quick scan of Ian's injuries. Mickey had washed his face of any traces of blood, but he still looked pretty bad. His bottom lip was split and swollen and the dark abrasions and contusions where he had been beaten contrasted sharply with his pale skin.
Mickey really wanted to find the bastard who had done this to him and give him back worse than what Ian had gotten.
"I found him lying in an alley, fading in and out of consciousness. He has a cut on his temple, right here, and his face was covered in blood. Let me show you…" Mickey moved closer, but his father quickly put a hand on his chest to stop him.
"Mickey, son, I think it would be best if you left me alone with Ian now, while I examine him," he said gently.
"What? No! I just found him. I'm not going anywhere…" Mickey protested, frowning.
"You're not in the right frame of mind to be of any help," Terry muttered, looking at his son with kind but firm eyes. "I know what I'm doing, so just let me do my job. I can't focus on Ian if I have to worry about you as well."
Mickey deflated, his sad hazel eyes once more falling to Ian. "But I want to help…"
"Then help by allowing me to do what I'm here to do," Terry squeezed his son's shoulder comfortingly before turning back to kneel next to his patient to examine him closer. Mickey was instantly forgotten as Terry got to work.
He felt completely useless. There had to be something he could do for Ian. He sent one last glance Ian's way, and went into the bathroom, to look in the cabinets for medicines, bandages, antibiotic cream, anything his dad might possibly need.
There were a few Advils in the bottom of a bottle, but nothing else useful, not even Band-Aids. He found a nearly empty bottle of moisturizer, an empty bottle of women's perfume, and a lonely looking toothbrush in a cup, that for some reason made Mickey even sadder.
"Mickey?" His father's voice carried into the small bathroom. "Can you get me some ice, please?"
Mickey practically sprinted towards the kitchen, grateful for something helpful to do. "Should I wrap it in a cloth?" Mickey's heart almost broke when he saw the freezer held nothing but a tray of chalky ice cubes.
"Yes, please," Terry had removed his patient's t-shirt and was leaning over Ian, his capable hands carefully checking his chest. "He has a couple of badly bruised ribs." He muttered quietly, more to himself than to Mickey.
"Oh my god," Mickey murmured anxiously. "How bad is it? Does he need to go to the hospital? Should I…?"
"You should calm down," Terry said patiently. "It looks bad but it could have been a lot worse. We'll ice the worst of his bruises tonight, but he'll have to avoid putting pressure on his ribcage for a few weeks. He can take ibuprofen, or I can give him something a little stronger, if they don't do the job."
Mickey handed him the ice wrapped in a kitchen cloth and Terry pressed it against Ian's ribs gently. Ian whimpered in his sleep, but didn't wake up.
"How bad is the cut on his head?" Mickey asked, crossing his arms over his chest tightly. That was the injury that scared him the most.
"It was a minor scalpe wound, so you don't need to worry about that."
"But he was bleeding everywhere…" Mickey replied uncertainly.
Terry looked up at his son, and clarified further, hoping to stop his son worrying so much. "Minor cuts on the head often bleed heavily because the face and scalp have many blood vessels close to the surface of the skin. You did well at cleaning up the wound, though. I have to admit that it worries me that he lost consciousness, but his reflexes are good and his pupils react evenly to light. He's also very weak, likely from lack of nourishment, and combined with the stress of being attacked, I think it was more likely the combination of things that proved too much for him, rather than a serious concussion."
Mickey could feel his eyes filling with tears again, though he held them back stubbornly. "But you're sure he's going to be okay, right?"
His father reached up and squeezed his arm, smiling comfortingly. "As long as he takes better care of himself, he should recover just fine, Mickey."
Mickey nodded, unable to respond because of the immovable lump in his throat, equal parts relieved and scared shitless, regardless of what his father said. Ian seemed so pale and lifeless on that couch, it was hard believe that he would be okay again anytime soon.
Terry finished bandaging the cut on Ian's head and checking for any other possible injuries he had missed, then wrote out careful instructions to leave with Mickey, in addition to Ibuprofen and Naproxen samples from his briefcase. He knew his son was too worried to pay attention and he didn't want any panicked phone calls, if he couldn't remember what to do later on.
"Now, listen carefully to me, Mickey," he said as he stood up. Mickey's gaze snapped from Ian to him and he tried to focus on what his father was about to say. "This boy needs to eat better. I bet he hasn't had a decent meal since he left our house. He's also a little dehydrated, so make sure he drinks lots of fluids and eats plenty of fruits and vegetables, as well. He needs to gain some weight – he's going to take much longer to recover if his diet is inadequate."
"I'll make sure he eats," Mickey muttered quietly. "What else?"
"Just follow those instructions. I wrote them down for you, in case you forget what to do. If there aren't any improvements in his condition in the next twenty four hours, particularly if he hasn't regained consciousness by morning, he'll need to go to a hospital, no matter how much he protests, you hear me?"
"Yes, Dad. I… I'll do whatever it takes to make sure he's okay."
"Good boy," Terry put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Do you want me to stay with you tonight? I can call my secretary and ask her to rebook my appointments for tomorrow."
"No, no," Mickey shook his head immediately. "I can do this. I just had to make sure he was going to be okay."
"Okay. But you can call me again whenever you need to, okay?" Terry smiled reassuringly. "Ian will be okay. He's a determined boy – he won't give up that easily."
Mickey swallowed thickly. His father had no idea how much Ian actually wanted to give up. But Mickey forced himself to ignore the voice in the back of his head that told him that Ian had earned the right to give up. "Thank you so much, Dad, for coming out here tonight. I don't know what I would have done without you."
"I should get back to your mother. She was extremely worried when I left," Terry pulled Mickey into a hug. "Give us a call in the morning, if you can, and let us know how he's doing."
"I will," Mickey promised. He walked his father to the door, thanking him again and again.
When he was alone with Ian again, however, he felt the fear crawling up his spine, raising goose bumps on his skin.
Ian was totally dependent on him now, to nurse him back to health. He couldn't screw this up.
It was a long restless night. Mickey had known already he wouldn't be able to sleep, so he didn't even try. He read his father's instructions a million times until he had them memorized. Every half hour he checked that Ian's breathing was regular – his father had listed 'shortness of breath' as a sign that he needed to get him to the hospital as soon as possible. Ian was evidently exhausted and slept on, right through the night. Mickey was grateful, because as long as he slept, Ian wouldn't feel the pain as much.
Mickey found it impossible to relax, terrified until Ian proved his father right and regained consciousness. He knew he needed to stay calm if he was going to help Ian, but the voice in the back of his head was becoming more and more insistent, filling him with dread and more fear.
He looked around. The tiny apartment looked even smaller because of the mess everywhere. There were clothes lying on piles on the floor; dirty glasses, cups and plates in the sink, and the duffel bag Ian had used last week was next to the couch, still packed. Mickey had the feeling he was sitting in a pile of rubbish, instead of someone's home, which seemed completely out of character for the man he had known. But Ian probably didn't think of this place as his home. A home was a lot more than the place where you lived. A home had a heart, and there was no heart in this place; no warmth or refuge or comfort.
He washed the dishes and dried them, putting them in the cupboard afterwards. He hung the clothes that looked clean enough to wear again, placing them in the closet opposite the couch. Most of Ian's clothes looked old and worn, as if he hadn't bought anything new in a long time. Some of the pieces had to have been fabulous at some point – there were a few designer labels here and there – but it was obvious their owner hadn't taken proper care of them in a while. He put the dirty laundry in a pillowcase, and made a mental note to take them to his apartment and wash them, so Ian wouldn't have to worry about it while he recovered.
He opened a drawer, looking for where Ian kept his socks, and found it stuffed with papers, though they weren't ordinary papers.
Mickey had already noticed there were no pictures or personal mementos in the apartment. There was nothing even remotely personal about the place where Ian lived – it could have belonged to anyone, or just as well been a seedy hotel room.
But in the drawer, there was an envelope, yellowed with time, a birthday card peeking from it. Mickey couldn't resist the temptation and took the card out to see a picture of a kitten with a birthday cake. When he opened it, he found curvy handwriting: Happy 7th birthday, Ian! You're our special boy, and we hope all your dreams will come true. You're the best thing that has ever happened to us. With all our love, Mom & Dad.
Mickey smiled sadly as he looked down at it and wondered what Ian had been like when he was just a little boy, living with his doting parents, before life showed him just how cruel it could be. He put the card back in the envelope and found a few pictures in the drawer. They were all of the same three people: Ian and his parents. His father had been a stocky guy, with crystal clear eyes holding a hint of softness that seemed a bit out of character. His mother was a beautiful young woman with red wavy hair and pale luminous skin, and the warmest smile Mickey had ever seen. He sorted through the pictures quickly, and found one that made him laugh wetly, half crying as a few tears rolled down his cheeks. In it, little Ian was sitting at a very small table, with a pink tea set, having a tea party, surrounded by his teddy bears, Ian and each of the bears wearing glittery princess tiaras. In the tiny chair opposite his, Frank Gallagher was sitting holding an equally tiny tea cup, holding his pinkie up just as his son was doing, both smiling happily.
Mickey thought of how ashamed Ian was of his life, how glad he was that his parents couldn't see what he had become. Everything had gone so terribly wrong for him, when he lost both the people who loved him most. There were no traces of that happy little boy in the man Ian was now, but Mickey desperately wanted to bring him to the surface. He had to be hiding somewhere underneath, deep inside him, somewhere. He just needed to learn how to laugh, love, live again.
He put the pictures back under the envelope, but something fell from them out onto the floor. Mickey picked it up, curiously, and discovered it was a business card. When he turned it to see who it belonged to, he was absolutely astonished to discover it was his. It was the card he had given Ian the night they had met, when he had the crazy idea of hiring him to pretend he was his boyfriend. He usually gave those cards to the parents of his students at the beginning of the year, so they could call him whenever they wanted to inquire about their children or set up a meeting if they had any questions. It had the school number and his personal cell number, for emergencies. It wasn't commonly done, but Mickey did it every year – he was the man they trusted with their kids, so they should be able to contact him whenever they needed.
Finding the card here, however, was a little disconcerting. What was it doing in this particular drawer, where Ian obviously kept the things he cherished the most? It had surely slipped in there without Ian noticing. There was no way Ian had put it there on purpose to keep it safe… to just keep it, among his other precious memories.
Regardless of the reason the card was there, Mickey realized that Ian's life – his real life, not the one that was all pretend and masks and lies – was stored in this drawer. Everything important to him was hidden away right there, out of sight, where he wasn't endlessly reminded of what he'd lost. Just a drawer full of memories in an apartment painted in misery and loneliness.
Mickey felt his heart breaking for Ian all over again.
Morning came slowly, melting away the long hours of his solitary vigil with its soft sunlight. Mickey had long given up tiding up the place – exhaustion had caught up with him around three in the morning, and since then he had sat on the floor, facing the couch, keeping a tired eye on Ian and absently scratching Nayla's ears, but there had been no changes.
Clearly, there was no way Mickey was going to work that day. He rarely missed work, but he couldn't leave Ian, not now. He checked the time on his cell phone, waiting until he was sure someone would be at school, then stepped outside to the hallway for a moment to make the call, to avoid disturbing Ian. He told the secretary that he had a family emergency and needed to take a day or two off, and would call back if he needed more time.
Ian was still asleep when he went back to the apartment. Mickey's stomach growled and he realized he would have to leave him after all, at least for a little while. Ian's fridge and cupboard were devoid of any kind of food, and one of his father's key instructions was to ensure Ian ate nutritiously. He was much too thin for his own good, and he would need all the energy he could get to recover. He frowned unhappily, reluctant to leave him alone, in case he woke and thought he had been abandoned again…
Nayla wagged her tail and nuzzled against his leg, as he grabbed his keys and jacket. Mickey was about to grab her leash to take her with him, when he changed his mind.
"Stay here, girl. Keep Ian company," he muttered, kneeling next to her and scratching her soft fur. "I'll get some groceries and be right back, so take good care of him for me, okay?"
Nayla simply wagged her tail some more, but didn't try to follow him as he left the apartment with one last wistful look towards the couch.
Mickey had never grocery shopped so efficiently before, moving fast but choosing carefully, because his father had said Ian needed to stay hydrated and eat well. He selected an assortment of fruits and vegetables, bought a couple boxes of fortified cereal, milk, eggs and bread. He added chicken breasts and a big bag of pasta. He flew down the aisles and grabbed whatever looked good, healthy or slightly fattening. He added a bag of dog food as well, not sure how long it would be until he could take Nayla back to their apartment.
He stopped at the pharmacy to pick up some more Ibuprofen and Naproxen in case the samples his father left weren't enough, then quickly lugged the loaded bags of grocery back to Ian's place. Even though the whole trip didn't take longer than thirty minutes, Mickey felt as if he had been gone from the apartment for hours – he was afraid he would get back and find that Ian's condition had changed for the worse. What had he been thinking, leaving Ian alone with Nayla? She was a dog; she couldn't call 911!
Mickey practically raced up the stairs once he entered back into the building, a little breathless as he fumbled the door with the key he'd grabbed the previous night, his arms loaded down with bags. He felt relieved just being there but when he turned to walk into the kitchen to put the groceries away, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Ian was sitting on the couch, tangled in his blanket, looking pale and vulnerable and completely confused. He didn't look up when Mickey entered the apartment, idly scratching behind Nayla's ears, though the slight tensing of his shoulders told Mickey he knew he was there.
"Ian? Oh my god, you're awake," Mickey quickly put the groceries down, before he walked towards the couch, thrilled to see him vertical. "How are you feeling? Are you in pain?"
Ian's eyes stayed down, fixed on Nayla, who wagged her tail slowly, contented with Ian's attention. "I'm fine." His voice was weak and shaky, and he was wobbling slightly, but he refused to confess how awful he felt.
It was obvious that Ian was anything but fine, but Mickey decided not to push it. "I have some pills you can take if you're in pain. You have a couple of badly bruised ribs, so you'll be uncomfortable for a while and you need to be careful until you…"
"I thought it was a dream," Ian muttered, effectively silencing Mickey, who tilted his head to the side, confused. "I thought you were a dream and that I was still out there in that horrible alleyway, but then I woke up and Nayla was here…" He tightened the blanket around himself a little. "So I guess you really did find me."
"Of course I did. I've been looking for you everywhere," Mickey smiled at him. He was so relieved… even if Ian still looked pretty bad, at least he was awake and talking, reasonably coherently. That had to be a good sign, right? "I'm so glad I found you when I did, too… I was really scared, Ian."
Ian didn't respond. Mickey was dying to hold him, and never let him go, to make sure nothing bad would ever happen to him again. But Ian seemed remote and unwilling to converse. He was probably quite uncomfortable, between his ribs and a monster headache so Mickey refrained from embracing him, considering the state of Ian's ribs at the moment.
"You'll need to put some ice on your ribs, three or four times a day. You should do that now while I cook you some breakfast," Mickey wrapped some ice up in a kitchen cloth, and gave it to Ian. "Hold it to your side for fifteen to twenty minutes. It should help with the pain…"
Ian pressed the ice against his side with a wince, but he didn't say anything. He closed his eyes, ignoring Mickey, as if he was trying to make him disappear, or to make himself invisible.
Mickey was too happy that he was awake to let Ian's silent bring him down. He had known that Ian might still be upset, that he might not have forgiven him, but he was fine, as long as Ian was safe. Of course it ached, deep down inside, but as long as Ian was okay, he could deal with anything.
He busied himself in the kitchen, making toast, turkey bacon and scrambled eggs. He poured a big glass of orange juice for Ian and then plated the food, taking everything to the coffee table in the living room, along with a couple of the pills. He took a little for himself, but left most of it for Ian.
Mickey could hear Ian's stomach, but the man made no move to eat his food. His eyes were closed, noticeably tensing when Mickey sat beside him on the couch. Mickey sighed. "Ian, come on, you need to eat."
Ian opened his eyes, but they were fixed at the wall, still avoiding Mickey's gaze. "Why are you doing this?"
Mickey frowned, unable to understand. "Because you need to eat and…"
"No," Ian cut off abruptly, and winced, still too weak for sudden movements. "All of this. Why are you here?"
"Ian," Mickey murmured, perplexed. "I couldn't leave you there. You were pretty much unconscious, and badly hurt… are you seriously asking me this?"
Once again, Ian remained silent, his eyes dark and wounded.
Mickey set his food on the coffee table. "Ian, I know I seriously screwed up, but everything I said, everything I did when we were at my parents' house… was nothing but the truth. I've looked for you everywhere. I wish I hadn't found you like this, but I'm really glad you're going to be okay. I'm sorry that Paul showed up and ruined everything…"
"You don't need to explain yourself to me," Ian replied in a low voice, sounding incredibly weary. "You don't owe me anything…"
"No. That's where you're wrong," Mickey shook his head emphatically. "I owe you everything. You made me open my eyes, Ian…"
"My head really hurts," Ian cut him off again. "I don't want to talk anymore."
Mickey stopped mid-sentence, disappointed that Ian wouldn't accept his apology. "Oh. Sure. Here's some ibuprofen. It'll help with the pain…" He handed him the orange juice and one of the white pills his father had left. When Ian had gulped it down, he handed him the plate.
Why did it have to be so hard for Ian to see that Mickey was there because he wanted to be near him? There were no ulterior motives, no tricks. He was there because he cared about Ian, and knowing Ian couldn't understand that someone cared about him, hurt like nothing else had ever hurt in his life.
They finished eating in silence.
Ian would be the first to admit that he didn't feel remotely comfortable, safe or peaceful at his apartment. He was just glad to have a roof over his head and get out of the cold, most of the time, even if his younger self would've had a heart attack knowing this was where he would end up. Well, his younger self would've been incredibly disappointed about every aspect of his current life.
In spite of it being dingy and decrepit, Ian knew that once the door was closed behind him in this apartment, the outside world couldn't touch him. He could lock himself up and hide from disgusted looks and malicious name-calling. But today, Ian felt like he was suffocating, like the walls were closing around him, as he watched Mickey move around his kitchen, washing the dishes and putting them back where he had found them.
He had somehow managed to survive, and to many people, that would've been enough reason to be proud. It wasn't nearly enough for Ian. He was abjectly ashamed that Mickey not only knew what he did for a living, but now knew the kind of hovel he lived in too. He had spent a week at the Milkovichs' elegant and beautiful house, knew what Mickey was used to, all the little the luxuries and comforts he probably took for granted. He thought of how Mickey had found him, naked, beaten and bleeding in that damn alleyway and cringed in mortification.
How had he ever thought that someone noble and gracious like Mickey could want to be with a cheap whore likehim?
Ian shifted awkwardly on the couch unsuccessfully trying to get comfortable. His side hurt terribly and his headache felt like his skull would explode. Every time he closed his eyes to block out his view of Mickey moving around his place like he'd always been there, he'd see the man who beat him up instead. It wasn't the first time a client had taken his anger out on Ian, but it had never gone this far…
"Ian?" Mickey's voice startled him and he snapped his eyes open. When he realized he was right there in front of him, he recoiled against the couch, causing his ribs to shoot burning pain through him. The whimper he emitted sounded pitiful. Mickey raised his hands, frowning in concern, as if ready to catch him. "Easy…"
Somewhere down deep, a part of Ian was eager for Mickey to touch him, as if with just one gentle brush of his fingertips he could take all of Ian's pain away. But the other part – the part that had been scared and hurt too many times, the part that had learnt that nothing good ever happened to him – made him recoil even further away from him. He swallowed thickly and looked down to adjust the ice on his side, missing the flash of hurt and disappointment in Mickey's hazel eyes.
"Are you alright?" Mickey asked, clearing his throat. "You looked like you were lost in thought there for a moment…"
"Please, just leave," Ian murmured softly, vaguely surprised because he hadn't expected his voice to sound so pleading. His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket wrapped around him, needing something to hold onto. "Please, just go away."
"Ian…" Mickey sighed, tiredly.
"Please," Ian repeated, though there was a tiny voice inside of him, screaming: no, no, don't send him away. I don't want to be alone anymore. It's been so long… Ian silenced it quickly, with practiced ease. "You found me, brought me here, took care of me and I do appreciate it, but please, I need you to leave now."
"I'm sorry," Mickey answered, softly but firmly. "I'm not leaving you, Ian. Not until you're a hundred percent better. If you want me to disappear afterwards, I will, but for now…"
Ian felt his chest tighten with conflicting emotions that hurt more than the sharp pain of his bruised ribs. He struggled for breath and tightly closed his eyes again to shut out Mickey's concerned gaze. "You don't understand…"
"What I don't understand is why it's so hard for you to believe that I care about you and that I won't be okay until I know you are okay," Mickey replied passionately. Ian looked up at him, his eyes going wide in mild surprise at Mickey's intensity. "I know life has kicked you over and over again, both literally and figuratively, and I know I made a serious mistake, and hurt you again. I'm so sorry for that, but I'm not here to make things more difficult for you, Ian. I just want to help…"
You're not helping at all, Ian wanted to say, but he felt like the words would choke him. You're making everything worse. You're just going to hurt me again before you walk away and then there will be no turning back… I just can't take anymore…
"So I'm sorry if you hate my guts," Mickey continued quietly. "Hate me all you want. But I would hate myself even more if I walked away now and then something awful happened to you. So I'm staying with you until you're healed. And then… then I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want."
Mickey gave him a sad little smile before walking back towards the kitchen to feed Nayla. Ian followed him with his eyes, without saying a word. His heart was thumping in his chest. He couldn't decide what he dreaded the most – Mickey staying and seeing just how much of a mess his life really was, or the idea that sometime soon he would walk away and leave him behind anyway.