#like come on here say ur little bit about terry and go to bed and then go to breakfast w ur dad the next day or ur mom or whoever like

[svetlanagf]

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[punkhammer]

Chapter 2 of my ongoing story hoping to post a chapter a week from now. Thanks for reading

Tiny Chapter 2

Suddenly, she is falling a great distance in her dream from the top of a tree canopy within a shopping mall. But in reality not so far at all, the distance from her bed to the floor. But as the two experiences merge, as they do when one falls even the smallest of distances while sleeping, she awakes making sense of it all while regaining her senses. This sentient burrito of blankets is acutely aware that it had fallen asleep without loading out the batteries, and the fact she is on the floor is confirmation that there is a powerful stom going on out there. One that she is going to have to venture into if she wants to fill up the batteries in time for her next scheduled trip to shore.

So she does the one thing she really doesn’t want to do, that is she un-ravels the burrito, steps out in the the cold air, pulls on a skin-tight dry suit and a pair of old patch covered dungaries. Pulling her unruly brown hair back with the strap of her head torch, Togel leaves the cabin, steps to the edge of the rocking boat and walks as though on a tight rope, upon the bamboo structures which connect to the turbine on the other side. Then she feels around for a latch before finding it and pulling on it to open a trap door, leading to a small cellar-like room built within the turbine’s base. She ties the trap door open and makes her way back to the boat, where she loosens the straps that bind a stack of batteries that take up more than half the space of the cabin. Then begins the laborious job of taking 2 of the batteries, 1 in each hand, back from the cabin to the basment on the turbine, before doing the exact thing again and again in the wind and the rain.

Her body on auto pilot, almost floating, between the boat and turbine. The cabin opens up to reveal small solar stained glass windows and walls draped with ropes, tools, wires, vines, and drying herbs swaying with every movment. In contrast, the turbine’s basement is closing in on its self, as no small patches of wall or cealing can be seen — instead a catacomb of batteries, all decorated with their own red and black wires, all dissappearing into the stem of the turbine to feed off the movment gifted by the storm. But on her last trip across, her concentration is broken by an unfamiliar light beaming from the ocean and into the sky. It’s moving, almost shaking, with a wildness to it. She hurriedly throws the batteries in the basment and runs around to the other side of the turbine’s platform to get a better view. She can hear a faint shout, though she cannot understand the words, or if they even are words. It is clear that whoever those sounds belong to, they are in danger. So without hesitation she grabs the electric surfboard attached to the stem, launches herself up into the sky, places the metallic board under her bare feet before stamping down and crashing into the water. With a blast of air from the back of the board, Togel is almost flying across the surface of the water, in the direction of the beam of light. The calls get louder as she approaches, running a small semi-circle around what seems like just a kid, who has one arm pointing into the sky shining a beam of light while the other grips onto a piece of driftwood. When their head isn’t submerged under the water, they are yelling a series of 0’s and 1’s. Without thinking, Togel grabs on to the kid’s jacket and slings them onto the board in front of her. She holds them close to her chest with one arm, keeping the other free for balance and navigation as the two off them shoot straight back for the boat waiting for them with its warm, welcoming cabin full of Togels treasured possessions. They crash through the waves without a moment to spare. After slinging the kid onto the deck she pulled herself up onto the boat. She cramms the electric surfboard into a sack hanging off the side and shouts “Get in! Quick!” and the kid soon obeys, pulling open the door and running inside, shortly followd by Togel. The kid is standing in the centre of the boat, still shouting in 0’s and 1’s in a youthful and terrified voice, clothes dripping wet, clinging to the poor soul’s frail body and dragging it down with the weight of an ocean. Big brown eyes stare into Togel’s. She has no idea what the 0’s and 1’s mean, but the look in those eyes say everything.

She gives a sad smile and says, “It’s fine buddy, look at the bag on your left. It’s full of clothes, grab what you like and go change. I’ll get ur bed set up and set the 3D printer to make you some clothes that fit you a bit better tommorow. Youre sleeping here tonight, but we got a lot to talk about in the morning, okay?”

The kid stops yelling in a moment where they seem to realise they are now safe, and also how alien everything around him is. Mouth and eyes wide open, he scans the room in amazment

“Hey come on kid, grab some clothes and go get changed before you frezee to death.”

The kid looks startled, grabs a handful of clothes, utters a queit ‘sorry,’ from under their breath, and runs into the bathroom, slaming the sliding door behind him. Togel wipes her face with exhaustion and begins making herself busy, unferling a hammock from the roof and placing inside it one hemp blanket, one electric blanket, and a pilow made out of a few items of clothing stuffed into an old sack. She then sets the 3D printer to print a onesie for roughly the kid’s size before getting in to bed herself. Moments later, the sliding door opens. On hearing this, Togel says in a loud voise

“The hammock is all yours, chuck any of the blankes on the floor if you get too hot. And sorry about the pillow.”

The kid climbs up in the the hammock.

“Thank you.”

“No problem kid. Lights on or off to sleep?”

“On please,” replies the kid

“Cool, what about somthing to listen to, to help us get to sleep then?”

The kid excitabley says “Yes!”

“Alright then, you ever heard of a man from the world-that-was called Terry Prachet?”

“No,” says the kid with a sense of wonder in their response

“Okay, then Terry Pratchet it is.”

Then in a clear voice she says “Boat, dim the lights a little and play The Carpet People by Terry Prachet. Thanks boat.”

And they where both asleep before the end of the narrator had the chance to explain why there is a world on the back of 4 elephants on the back of a giant turtle…

[bcntnotbrokcn]

THREAD 1

Estimated ages: Mickey, 22. Ian, 20. Brief synopsis: Ian has issues dealing with Monica’s death. Even though he hasn’t spoken to Mickey in nearly two years -- he’s still at the top of his emergency contact list. Mickey wastes no time in running to Ian’s aide. Triggers: Suicidal thoughts, depression, guns.

IAN GALLAGHER

Truth be told, his heart hurt. He felt like it was being shattered into a million different pieces and he couldn’t seem to put it back together again. His lungs were unable to grasp for the air they so desperately needed, his head unable to silence itself as he sat there, a gun in his hand and horrid thoughts going through his head of what to do with his weapon of choice. Tears stung his eyes before they flowed down his cheeks, his face red and blotchy from crying. His shoulders shook with silent sobs of angst and misery, unable to calm himself down. Or, rather, pick himself up from his low low.

Ian Gallagher had lows in the past. Heck, he had spent days upon days in bed, refusing to get up and refusing to care for himself as the chemicals in his brain refused to work right. Even after he was stabilized on his medication, things still had a way of getting to him sometimes, and he still got depressed and manic. He couldn’t help it, it’s just the way things were. It’s just how his life was. Fucked up. No good.

Monica’s death hadn’t really affected the other Gallagher children like it did him. But Ian? For some reason, he had started to become close to her. She was never there growing up, never around when any of the kids needed her. She came in and out like a hurricane, leaving only pure destruction and heartache in her path. But since his diagnosis, Ian had felt a special bond towards his mother. Maybe she didn’t want to be on medication -- and for that, he understood, because sometimes it caused him to lose who he was, too -- but she was the only one who understood him. The only one who knew what he was going through. And not having her there anymore -- it left a hole in his heart that he was finding impossible to fill again.

Ian stared down at his phone, gripping it tightly as his other hand gripped the gun like it was the only thing keeping him sane at the moment. Like if he set it down, it would vanish, and he would lose the only source of faux comfort that he could find in his time of need. He wanted to use it so badly, to just end the pain that his heart, body, mind, and his soul were in. Monica’s death had triggered an episode, and he couldn’t seem to find the light in the darkness that was currently enveloping him.

But Fiona, Lip... Debbie and Carl and Liam... even Frank, maybe... how would they all react if Ian took the step he most certainly wanted to take? How would it all affect them? How could he do that to his family? But they just didn’t understand. No one understood, not now that Monica was gone. No one knew what was going on in his head. No one could fix him.

But maybe... Maybe there was someone who could maybe bring a little light. Sure, it was a selfish move. An asshole move. Ian had treated him like trash, had broken his heart and caused him so much pain and stress over the years. He didn’t owe Ian anything. But maybe, just maybe, he could be the one thing that made it all hurt a little less.

Ian stared at his emergency list, the list of people he should contact if he ever felt too low. It hadn’t been really updated in years, never needing to be changed -- so when he initially opened the file on his phone, and Mickey was the first name on that list -- it broke Ian even more. Mickey deserved better than him. But what other time could Ian be selfish and call his ex, if not now? When he was on the brink of ending his own life?

Finally, Ian found Mickey’s contact, quickly pushing the button to text him. He wanted to call, but he had an inkling that Mickey wouldn’t answer. Not after how Ian treated him. And honestly, Ian wouldn’t have blamed him. So he quickly wrote out a text, his phone shaking as he let out another sob.

i kno you dont owe me shit but ur the first name on my emergency list & i fukn need u Mick

plz. im under the train tracks near my house & i fukn need u

Before he could change his mind, Ian quickly pressed ‘send,’ before setting his phone down next to him. He gripped the gun tighter, holding it close to his chest as he closed his eyes against the onslaught of tears that threatened to envelope his whole being.

MICKEY MILKOVICH

I  FUCKING  NEED  YOU,   MICK.   re - reads  to  be  sure  it’s  from  ian ,   heart  picking  up  it’s  pace  despite  best  judgement ,   while  the  tv  continues  blabbering  to  the  walls ,   long  forgotten .   the  word   ‘ emergency ’   sticks ,   and  mickey  doesn’t  even  consider  pretending  to  not  have  seen  it ,   body  responding  to  the  text  before  brain  can  catch  up ,   pulling  on  battered  sneakers .   it’s  been  forever  since  they've  last  spoken ,   though  the  memory  of  it  still  stings .   wonders  if  it  will  ever  stop  hurting ,   if  he’ll  be  able  to  leave  the  past  in  the  past  at  some  point .    (    he  won’t .   )    has  long  given  up  understanding  why  ian  affects  him  so  deeply ,   why  his  stupid  heart  can’t  just  let  it  go .   maybe  having  ian’s  name  etched  in  dark  ink  onto  alabaster  skin  doesn’t  help  but  certain  decisions  you  can  only  regret .

half - way  out  of  the  door  into  the  cold  weather ,   shrugging  on  a  jacket  that’s  too  big  to  be  his   (   probably  colin’s   )  ,   thinks  that  he  shouldn’t  go  running ,   not  after  everything .   one  text ,  he  should  be  better  than  that ,   humiliate  himself  less ;   but  can’t  help  it ,   not  when  worry  fills  his  head  and  puts  a  weight  in  his  stomach  that  can’t  just  shake  off .   this  is  important ,   he  knows  it  is ,  or  ian  wouldn’t  have  texted ,   not  like  that .   I  FUCKING  NEED  YOU .   words  are  carved  in  mind’s  eye  though  phone  is  safely  tucked  in  jeans’  pocket .   remembers  when  ian  knocked  on  his  door ,  distraught  and  desperate ,   I  NEEDED  TO  SEE  YOU ,   and  how  his  stomach  twisted  and  fell ,   and  immediately  found  himself  making  up  some  bullshit  excuse  to  terry  just  to  meet  the  freckled  idiot  at  the  kash  &  grab .   remembers  the  way  his  heart  stopped  when  they  were  caught ,   the  sharp  pain  of  being  shot  in  the  leg ,   and  that  he’d  do  it  all  over  again .   so ,   he  runs .

knows  the  way  by  heart,   chilly  air  burning  blackened  lungs ,   but  only  stops  at  the  spot  of  orange  in  his  line  of  sight ,   still  far  away  enough  to  turn  around  and  leave ,   unnoticed .   mickey  feels  like  a  fucking  idiot .   he  shouldn’t  even  have  ian’s  phone  number  still  saved  on  old  cellphone ,   let  alone  drop  everything  at  the  blink  of  an  eye  just  because ,  suddenly ,   ian  needs  him .   where  was  he  when  mickey  needed  him ?   the  two  times  in  his  life  that  mickey  could  have  used  some  support ,   ian  hadn’t  been  there .   yet ,   here  he  is ,   aching  to  close  that  distance ,   and  set  things  right .

only  notices  that  his  feet  are  inching  towards  the  boy  when  eyes  can  make  sense  of  what  he’s  holding .   once  again ,   any  doubt  if  he  should  have  come  or  not  is  pushed  to  the  background ,   and  speed  picks  up  again .   heart  slams  on  his  throat  when  he  finally  speaks .        ❛   hey ,   ❜        it’s  meant  to  be  louder ,   clearer ,   but  chokes  at  the  last  second ,   at  last  coming  to  a  definite  stop ,   much  closer  to  the  screeching  train  roaring  above  them .   waits  for  it  to  go  away  before  trying  again .        ❛   got  your  message ,   ❜        no  shit ,   sherlock ,        ❛   ——   what’s  wrong ?   ❜

IAN GALLAGHER

He’s not coming. He’s not fucking coming and there’s no one else on my list I want to talk to about this. He’s not coming. He’s not fucking coming. The words were replaying in Ian’s mind, his heart hammering in his chest as he choked out another sob. He didn’t blame Mickey, not one bit. Ian had treated him like garbage over the years, had abandoned him more times than Ian cared to admit. Why would he care about what happened to him, anyway? He shouldn’t. Ian wasn’t anything special.

But Ian would be damned if there wasn’t a day that went by that Mickey didn’t cross his mind. He felt terrible for not replying to that one text long ago, or never visiting him in jail. That he just cut Mickey out of his life. But once he was stabilized on his meds, he couldn’t ignore the obvious: he was toxic for Mickey. In the same way that Monica was always toxic for Frank. Once he had discovered that realization, he knew Mickey was too good for him, and that he loved him too much to continue hurting him. Like Monica hurt Frank all the fucking time. Mickey just deserved so much more.

Ian clutched the handle of the gun impossibly tighter, his mind made up. He was about to inch it up higher, when he suddenly heard a voice, footsteps approaching. Ian peeled his eyes open, landing on the sight of his ex. Got your message. What’s wrong? He came. He actually fucking came.

And that thought just caused Ian to start crying even harder. Mickey came for him. This was a perfect example of just why Mickey was too good for Ian. All the shit Ian had put him through, and Mickey had actually came for him.

“Sh-She’s dead,” he finally managed to choke out. “And now I have -- no one, Mick. She was the only one who understood me and now she’s fucking gone. And I can’t -- I can’t fucking think anymore. It all --” He shut his eyes tightly again, holding the gun in one hand as he brought up both to rest against his head. “I don’t -- I can’t -- I don’t want to be here anymore. It all hurts.”

MICKEY MILKOVICH

the  lead  up  is  not  the  best,   eyeing  the  gun  with  wariness .  it  takes  him  a  moment  to  follow ;   as  the  speech  continues ,  however ,  he  understands .   in  frequent  visits  to  neighborhood’s  bars ,   he  hears  things ,   though  the  name  gallagher  on  someone  else’s  tongue  seems  to  stick  out  more  than  random  gossip .   the  memory  is  fuzzy ,   with  too  much  alcohol  tainting  blood  when  somebody  mentions  monica  gallagher  being  back .   it  fits ,   remembers  ian  saying  that  he  had  been  with  his  mother  right  before  outright  denying  to  accept  his  meds ,   right  before  mickey  was  arrested . 

in  a  weird  way,   she  was  the  support  mickey  couldn’t  be  when  ian  had  needed  it  most .   he  thinks  that  she  understands  because  she  has  the  same  diagnosis ,   and  no  one  can  argue  with  that  because  no  one  else  understands .   wishes  that  he  could ,   if  only  to  ease  ian’s  pain ,   make  him  see  monica  is  not  worth  the  hurt  and  misery  left  behind ,   that  monica  brought  him  nothing  but  a  shadow  to  hide  under .   can’t  say  it ,   though ,   but  thinks .

❛   you——   you  mean  monica,   right?   ❜         asks ,   unsure  what  else  he  can  say .   what  a  shitty  emergency  contact  he  is .        ❛   you  don’t  need  her ,   ian .  you just—–   just  fuckin’  don’t .   your  family  is  tryin’  to  understand ,  right ?   they  wanna  help  you ,   they’re  here  for  you .   ❜         i’m  here  for  you .   sniffs ,   earnest  blues  that  had  been  focusing  on  a  spot  on  the  redhead’s  shoulder  courageously  moving  to  meet  greens .   hesitation  brims  from  each  word ,   unspoken  fear  creeping  up  his  spine  despite  attempting  to  hide  it .          ❛   it’s  not  like  you  don’t  have  anybody .  ‘course  it’s  not  the  same  or  anythin’ ,  but  we’re  tryin’ .   they’re  tryin’ .   not  like  your  mom  was  doin’  fuck  all  to  really  help  you  anyway .   ❜         takes  a  step  closer ,   trying  to  gulp  around  the  knot  in  his  throat.

wants  nothing  more  than  to  reach  out.    and  wipe  his  tears ,   hold  him  until  that  stupid  idea  is  out  of  his  mind ,   until  the  pain  becomes  more  bearable .   but  can’t  move ,   frozen  in  place ,   never  in  his  life  so  aware  of  a  gun  and  how  close  to  someone’s  head  it  rests .   doesn’t  want  to  startle  ian ,  or  say  the  wrong  thing .   it  kills  him  to  see  the  shell  of  the  boy  he  loves breaking ,   thinks  he  can  feel  ian’s  hurt  as  his  own .   wants  to  comfort ,   to  make  it  better ,   but  where  to  start ?   mickey  isn’t  good  at  that ,   own  chest  heavy  with  settling  panic .        ❛   c’mon ,  man ,  be  careful  with  that .   you  don’t  need  the  fuckin’  gun ,   ❜         he’s  never  been  scared  of  guns ,   or  of  seeing  people  die .   growing  up  around  both ,   knew  how  to  shoot  before  he  even  knew  how  to  tie  his  own  shoes .   but  now  it  terrifies  him ,   doesn’t  know  what  he’d  do  if  ian  decided  to  use  it ;   the  mere  thought  has  bitter  bile  rising .

IAN GALLAGHER

Of course his family was trying to understand, trying to help him. But saying that Monica didn’t... Ian didn’t accept that. Monica helped him more than anyone else had, he was sure of it. Maybe she didn’t think he needed his meds, maybe she thought he was perfectly okay just the way he was. And yes, he disagreed with that. It took a while, and lots of talks with his family members -- but he finally understood that what Monica had been originally saying was false. He wasn’t better off without his medication. Not by a long shot.

But that didn’t erase the fact that whenever he was feeling low, or having a rough go of it, she was just a phone call away. She listened to his fears, helped him calm down when it seemed that no one else could. Because no one else understood like she did. No one else knew what he was really going through. So no, Monica wasn’t always helpful. But she knew what it was like. She was living with it, too.

Ian looked away from Mickey after those words about his mother, what Mickey thought of her sending a sting through Ian’s heart. She was dead, didn’t she deserve more respect than that? Fiona didn’t think so, he was pretty sure no one else did, either. But Ian -- he loved his mother. More than she deserved, but he did.

When Mickey mentioned the gun, Ian furrowed his brow in slight confusion, before finally bringing his hand in front of him, staring at the weapon. He had forgotten that he was holding that, honestly. And now that he remembered -- he didn’t want it. He wanted nothing to do with it. He didn’t want to deal with the pain he was in, but he couldn’t be selfish like that -- he had already been selfish far too much in his life.

But if I give it up, the threat is gone. He’ll leave. I can’t - I can’t be alone. Ian closed his eyes tightly, his heart squeezing in his chest. “I’m on my meds, Mick. I swear I’m on my meds. So I don’t -- I don’t know why my head is this way. Why -- why everything just seems so fucking hopeless.” He continued to stare down at the gun, before finally taking a careful, hesitant step forward. His knees felt like they were going to give out from under him, like he was just going to fall to the ground and never, ever be able to figure out how to get himself back up.

A few more hesitant, slow steps. His movements took the better part of a couple minutes. Part of him wanted to run, get away, deal with his pain himself. But another part of him -- a stronger part, maybe -- wanted to feel whole again. And really, he couldn’t feel whole if he wasn’t there to feel it.

Finally, Ian stood in front of Mickey, inches away from him. His eyes never left the gun during his trek, and he slowly held it out, surrendering the weapon to his ex-boyfriend. “Please -- please don’t leave,” he whispered, his voice cracking, his emotions s l o w l y breaking him one piece at a time. His eyes finally looked away from the object, and at Mickey once again. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

MICKEY MILKOVICH

this,   for  a  long  time,   had  been  mickey’s  worse  nightmare .   when  ian  first  started  showing  signs  of  the  disease’s  low  lows ,   and  all  that  mental  health  talk ,  that  he  never  had  to  pay  attention  to  before  ian ,   started ,   no  matter  who  was  talking  about  it ,   suicide’s  imminent  threat  always  found  it’s  way  into  the  speech .   when  the  woman  at  the  clinic  told  ian  about  having  a  suicide  list ,   mickey’s  stomach  fell  and  he  feared  the  day  ian  might  need  it .   and  now ,   even  after  he  falsely  convinced  himself  that  ian  is  past  and  nothing  else ,   that  day  has  come  and  it  still  fucking  hurts ,   way  more  than  he  could  ever  have  imagined .

❛   hey,   it’s  okay,   ❜         rushes  to  say ,   head  spinning  with  the  speed  of  his  heart .  sounds  too  much  like  the  worried  boyfriend  he  once  was ,   and  that  didn’t  turn  out  very  well  in  the  end ,   hardly  thinks  it  would  help  now .   teeth  sink  onto  bottom  lip ,  licking  the  sting  away  as  he  carefully  watches  ian  move .        ❛   it’s  okay  to  feel  hopeless  sometimes ,   ❜         it’s  less  patronizing  this  time ,   and  it  feels  better  to  say  it .        ❛   everybody  does .   you  lost  someone  you  care  about ,   ian ,   you’re  allowed  to  feel  fuckin’  sad .   just  don’t  want  you  t’  do  anything  stupid .   ❜           though  he  can’t  relate   (   when  his  own  mother  died ,   nobody  really  saw  it  coming  but  nobody  was  surprised  either ,   life  went  on  like  nothing  happened  and  nobody  shed  a  tear,   ) ,    knows  that  grief  affects  even  the  strongest  of  men ,  not  even  psych  meds  can  fight  it  off .

though  ian  doesn’t  look  away  from  the  gun,   mickey’s  eyes  are  glued  to  the  redhead ,   fear  and  anticipation  making  fingertips  turn  cold .   only  realizes  that  he’s  been  holding  his  breath  when  they’re  inches  apart ,   and  the  gun  is  safely  in  his  hands .   glares  at  it ,   relief  washing  over  his  body  in  a  wave  so  powerful  that  he  almost  sways ,   gripping  metal  with  unnecessary  strength  while  checking  the  safety ,   before  tucking  it  in  the  back  of  his  jeans .  

looks  up,   however,   at  ian’s  broken  whisper.   and  can’t  help  it ,   not  without  the  threat  of  the  gun  between  them ,   cups  his  face  with   ‘ fuck ’   adorned  hand ,   wiping  some  of  the  moisture  away  with  his  thumb .   it  becomes  too  intimate  too  fast ,   and  he  feels  a  little  like  a  twelve  year  old  girl ,   with  his  heart  pounding ,  and  how  he  himself  feels  like  crying  now ,   so  it  falls  from  where  it  rests  on  pale  skin  to  a  clothed  shoulder .   not  fully  breaking  contact  for  purely  selfish  reasons ,   like  he  needs  to  make  sure  ian  is  still  there .

❛   i’m  not  goin’  anywhere,   ❜         promises ,   no  hesitation  in  his  stance .   can’t  even  recall  the  last  thing  ian  asked  of  him  that  he  didn’t  promptly  deliver .   and  it’s  not  something  that  he  is  proud  of ,   mind  you .   when  he’s  alone  and  the  memories  start  their  haunting ,   he  hates  that  ian  brings  that  trait  off  him ,   hates  that  ian  could  ask  him  the  stars  that  he’d  find  a  way  to  reach  them .   it’s  stupid ,   childish  even ,   but  it  doesn’t  even  cross  his  mind  right  then .   it’s  easy  to  forget  these  silly  things  amidst  crisis ,   or  at  an  unlikely  reunion .        ❛   ‘m  not  leavin’ ,   i’m  here .   okay ?   don’t  worry ,   i’m  not  leavin’  you  alone  like  this .   c’mon .   ❜

IAN GALLAGHER

Ian’s heart couldn’t help but skip a beat when Mickey put his hand on his face, running his thumb across his freckled skin. After two years, he still couldn’t make his heart forget the love that he felt for the older male. It had always been Mickey, honestly. Back in high school, and more recently. Whenever Ian tried to have a relationship with other guys in the past two years, it never worked out. Simply because they just weren’t Mickey.

When Mickey said that he wasn’t leaving, Ian felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was sure that once the threat was gone, once Mickey had the gun in hand, that he would leave. He’d feel like Ian’s life was no longer in danger and would take that to mean his duty was over. But he was staying. 

“Thank you,” Ian said softly, and attempted to manage a smile, but it fell flat. His heart still hurt, his head still unable to process anything. He couldn’t find the joy in his soul to be able to be really happy. Even though, somewhere deep inside, he was. He was happy that Mickey was staying. That he was there. That he had come at Ian’s text. Because that meant, even though Ian had been a major ass towards Mickey in the past, Mickey still cared.

“No one’s home,” Ian said, his voice still soft. He ran a hand through his short hair, before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t --” He couldn’t think. His mind was a fog that was refusing to clear so he could make sense of what was currently going on with him. “I need --” When he was feeling manic, or depressed, he was supposed to sleep it off. He was able to extract that much from his mind. “Downers. Sedatives. Uh --” He rubbed a hand roughly across his face. “Appointment. For -- to readjust meds. Gotta call --” 

He suddenly felt so exhausted, the only thing he wanted to do was lay down and just stare at the ceiling. He didn’t want to sleep -- even though he knew he needed to. He just didn’t have the energy to do anything. Ian leaned down, wrapping his arms around Mickey and resting his forehead on the shorter male’s shoulder. “Maybe Lip can call. I don’t -- I can’t --” More tears welled up in his eyes; he felt like a burden -- so helpless, so dependent. “I can’t think, Mickey. It’s all -- it’s like a fog in my brain. Everything feels like jelly. I just -- I want to lay down.”

MICKEY MILKOVICH

bites  his  tongue  before  saying  something  that  would  sound  uncharacteristically  polite  on  his  tongue ,   you  don’t  have  to  thank  me ,   though  it’s  true .   ian  has  a  list  of  ex - boyfriends  to  pick  from ,   he  has  fiona ,  and  lip ,  and  debbie ,   and  so  many  more  people  that  would  rush  to  his  side  had  he  asked  for  their  help .   yet ,   he  texted  mickey .   even  after  so  long ,   it’s  mickey  that  he  called ,   that  he  needed .   and  it’s  incredibly  reckless  to  go  down  that  road ,   he  knows ,   but  heart  proves  time  and  time  again  that  it’s  not  the  smartest  .   he  should  be  angry  that  ian  kept  him  in  his  emergency  list ,   annoyed  at  least .   but  he  isn’t .   half  wishes  that  he  were .

listens  carefully  to  splatter  of  words,   making  sense  of  them  not  much  of  a  challenge .   what  catches  him  by  surprise  is  when  slender  arms  wrap  around  him  as  if  they  belong  there ,   freckled  face  warm  against  his  shoulder ,   even  through  jacket’s  fabric .   it’s  hard  to  breathe  for  a  second  or  two ,   with  too  much  going  on  in  his  head .       ❛   i ——   uh ,  okay .   ❜        the  arm  that  resists  the  shock  moves  of  it’s  own  accord ,   wrapping  around  him  for  support .

it’s  hard  to  focus  when  brain  keeps  supplying  both  hopeful ,   and  terrifying  scenarios  of  how  this  will  end .   and  mickey  doesn’t  want  to  think  about  that ;   not  now ,   not  ever .   just  wants  to  make  sure  ian  is  okay ,   nothing  else .  hand  reassuringly  rubs  up  and  down  ian’s  back ,   though  he’s  not  sure  which  of  the  two  of  them  he  is  reassuring .        ❛   alright ,   let’s  get  you  home  first ,  then .   we’ll  get  you  all  of  that  an’  i’ll  figure  out  the  rest  as  we  go .  no  need  t’  give  yourself  a  headache ,   ‘kay ?   ❜        sighs ,   and  hopes  it’s  subtle  enough  that  he  nearly  nuzzles  ian’s  hair  when  blue  eyes  dare  slip  shut  for  a  moment .  

all  but  shakes  himself  off  it,   taking  a  deep  breath  when  glancing  at  the  gray  sight  that  surrounds  them  everywhere .   get  your  shit  together ,  milkovich .          ❛   am  i  gonna  have  to  carry  you ?   c’mon ,  gallagher ,   ❜         half  pokes ,   half  means  it .   it  wouldn’t  be  the  first  time ,   and  they  are  close  enough  to  the  house .   pushes  him  a  little ,   hoping  for  a  glance  of  his  face ,   needing  some  distance ,   any  distance  between  them  so  he  can  think .   it’s  hard ,   a  knot  on  his  throat  that  he  just  can’t  swallow ,   the  whole  ordeal  still  too  familiar .

IAN GALLAGHER

When Mickey mentioned carrying him, Ian shook his head gently against the older male’s shoulder. It took him a moment, but he finally pulled his head up, standing up straight and pulling one of his arms back, but still using the other to use Mickey for support. Ian didn’t feel that, at the current moment, he could fully support his own weight on his own. And, as they started walking to the Gallagher abode, Ian was happy that Mickey was there to lean on -- it kept him walking, kept him moving, kept him from completely giving up.

They finally made it inside the house, and Ian looked at the stairs with defeat, his shoulders sagging slightly. He didn’t think he could make it up those unless he wanted to crawl the whole way. Instead, he let go of Mickey, walking the few steps to the couch and practically collapsing on top of the cushions. He curled up into himself almost immediately, bringing his knees up to his chest.

Ian was happy that no one else was home -- that meant they weren’t seeing him in his current state. That meant that they didn’t start falling all over themselves with worry, making sure that their brother was okay. And it also meant that Ian didn’t have to deal with the onslaught of questions of why Mickey was there.

Ian closed his eyes, speaking as he wrapped his arms around himself. “My -- my downers are upstairs. Bedside table. Just need to sleep it off, Mick.”

MICKEY MILKOVICH

doesn’t  speak  on  their  walk  towards  the  house,   arm  firm  around  ian ,   supporting  what  of  his  weight  that  his  legs  couldn’t .  face  feels  warm  and  blames  it  on  the  effort  though  it’s  minimal ,  short  build  far  stronger  than  it  looks .   eyes  remain  focused  on  the  way  ahead ,   displaying  unwavering  patience  despite  obvious  preference  for  the  fast - paced ;   things  only  go  slow  in  his  hectic  life  when  there’s  something  wrong ,   and  he  hates  it .   if  it  were  someone  else  in  his  arm ,   it  might  have  been  different .   he  might  have  rushed ,  or  left .   but  not  ian .

once  inside,   he  waits.   glances  up  at  the  redhead’s  profile  as  he  glares  at  the  stairs .   knows  what  he  will  pick  before  he  does ,   and  finds  no  surprise  in  watching  ian  drop  onto  the  couch ,  in  the  living  room  that  looks  almost  the  same  as  he  remembers .        ❛   yeah ,   okay ,   ❜        nods ,  a  beat  before  he’s  moving  again ,   taking  the  steps  two  at  a  time .   almost  expects  to  bump  into  one  of  the  gallaghers  though  he  knows  better ,   bursting  into  ian’s  empty  room  like  no  time  has  passed  at  all .  

finds  the  pill  bottles,   without  thinking  much  grabs  a  pillow ,  and  down  he  goes  again ,   stopping  by  the  kitchen .   there ,   sniffs  a  seemingly  clean  mug  on  the  counter ,  and  it  doesn’t  smell  like  anything  so  he  fills  it  with  water .  that’s  good  enough .   unsurprisingly ,   ian  still  is  on  the  couch ,   not  an  inch  different  than  when  mickey  left .   fuck .   places  the  mug  and  the  pillow  on  the  coffee  table .

 ❛   here ,   ❜         shakes  the  bottle ,   pills  rattling  against  plastic  and  warning  their  presence .  opens  the  cap ,   pops  two  on  the  center  his  palm ,  then  exchanges  drugs  for  ceramic .   hesitates ,   teeth  catching  bottom  lip  when  holding  out  one  hand  with  the  pills  for  ian  to  grab ,  while  the  other  waits  to  pass  him  the  mug .            ❛   sit  up  a  little  to  take  ‘em ,   man .   ❜ 

IAN GALLAGHER

When Mickey came back downstairs with the medication, Ian let out a small groan, nodding. He’d choke if he tried to take the pills while laying down, but he just really didn’t have the energy to do much. Ian slowly pushed himself up from the couch, taking the pills and the cup from Mickey. He eyed the pillow for a moment, before looking at Mickey with raised eyebrows, a smile threatening the corners of his lips. “You brought me a pillow?”

Shaking his head slightly in disbelief and possibly amusement, Ian threw back the pills, sipping on the water before setting it down on the coffee table. He reached over, grabbing the pillow and throwing it down on the couch. “Thanks,” he said softly, looking at Mickey. He didn’t mean just for the pillow. He meant for coming when Ian texted him, for being there, for not leaving -- for being Mickey. 

Ian laid back down on the couch, curling around the pillow. His eyes were soft, even though haunted as well, as he looked at Mickey through half-lids. “I love you,” he spoke softly. He knew he shouldn’t say it. Didn’t have the right. But he couldn’t help himself. In that moment, Mickey was the only thing keeping him afloat.

It didn’t typically take long for his downers to kick in, which was a good thing for Ian -- he usually needed them as soon as possible whenever he was taking them. Unfortunately, they weren’t working fast enough that day to kick in before one of his siblings returned home. Ian didn’t even bother to look up to see who it was -- he knew their voice would give them away soon enough.

“The fuck is Mickey doin' here? You guys back together or somethin'?” Lip. Of course it had to be Lip. Debbie or Carl, they’d drop it quick enough -- but Lip and Fiona were ever the big siblings. Lip’s voice seemed to soften the next moment as he spoke, presumably having seen the state his brother was in. “Hey, man, you okay?” He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. “That why Mickey’s here? Ian, what happened?”

Ian closed his eyes tightly, curling into himself even further. He buried his face into the pillow, shaking his head. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to think about it. “Need you to call for an appointment,” came his muffled reply. His brother’s overly concerned voice reached his ears. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sure, bud. I’ll call. Just get some sleep, alright?” With his face buried, Ian missed the confused and worried look Lip shot Mickey, before glancing at his broken brother once more and walking off to make the call.

MICKEY MILKOVICH

he  didn’t  really  think  through  before  picking  a  pillow  from  ian’s  bed ,   it  just ——  happened .   being  put  under  the  spotlight  for  it ,   mickey  looks  away ,   embarrassment  in  the  way  he  shrugs  it  off .        ❛   your  couch  is  fuckin’  shit ,   ❜          defends  himself ,   as  if  that’s  all  the  explanation  needed .   and  it  is .   the  gesture  speaks  for  itself .   watches  in  silence  as  ian  takes  his  pills ,   heart  feeling  small .   he’s  safe  now ,   that’s  all  that  matters .   so  what  if  he  doesn’t  need  mickey  anymore ?

❛   yeah ,   whatever ,   ❜        dismisses  the  gratitude  in  the  redhead’s  voice ,   staring  at  his  own  shoes .   he  doesn’t  have  to  be  thanked ,   mickey  hasn’t  done  anything  that  anyone  else  in  his  place  wouldn’t  have .   with  a  sigh ,   lowers  himself  onto  the  armchair ,   sitting  at  the  very  edge .   

they  share  a  look  once  he’s  laying  down  again ,   blue  eyes  lingering  on  green  as  if  he’s  never  seen  them  before .   then ,   the  words  that  ian  cruelly  whispers  rip  through  his  chest ,   and  the  reply  gets  stuck  on  tight  throat .    I  LOVE  YOU .   heart  misses  a  beat ,   gaze  falling  and  focusing  on  an  inanimate  object  instead  for  what  feels  like  the  hundredth  time  in  the  last  five  minutes .   he  can’t  say  it  back ,   though  feels  it  as  strongly  as  he  did  all  that  time  ago .   this  is  wrong .   this  whole  ordeal  is  wrong ,   the  mixed  feelings  it  brings  to  surface  are  too  much  for  a  man  who’s  denied  having  them  for  almost  seventeen  years .   remembers  of  a  time  that  he  wouldn’t  have  felt  too  bad  for  bolting .   misses  that .

fingers  are  rubbing  eyes  into  their  sockets  as  if  they’re  about  to  fall  off  when  the  door  opens ,   and  he’ll  deny  any  moisture  left  on  fingertips .   glances  at  lip ,   shoulders  tense ,   and  his  question  is  to  be  expected ,   of  course .   it’s  been  years  since  mickey  last  set  foot  in  the  gallagher  house .        ❛   not  together ,   i’m  just  helpin’  out ,   ❜        answers ,   though  the  question  isn’t  directed  at  him .   wonders  if  now  that  lip  is  here  he  is  allowed  to  go  home ,   but  reminds  himself  that  he  promised  ian  that  he’d  stay ,   so  decides  to  wait  until  he’s  asleep .   no  matter  how  awkward  this  gets .

pretends  not  to  hear  their  conversation  by  looking  the  other  way ,   thinks  it’s  the  polite  thing  to  do ,   though  they  aren’t  saying  anything  that  he  doesn’t  already  know .   maybe  he’s  just  hoping  to  avoid  lip’s  further  questioning  by  pretending  that  he  has  no  idea  of  the  gravity  of  this .   he  doesn’t  want  to  tell  lip  that  ian  texted  him  and  he  came  running ,   doesn’t  want  to  tell  him  that  his  little  brother  had  been  thinking  about  suicide .   but  he  has  to ,   doesn’t  he ?   eventually ,   he  will  have  to .

at  the  look  thrown  his  way,   he  holds  for  a  second ,   gesturing  with  his  hand  for  lip  to  drop  it  for  now .   they  can  talk  later ,   once  ian  is  blissfully  asleep  and  unaware  of  their  deep - set  worry .   just  because  he’s  aware  that  he  won’t  be  able  to  avoid  this  conversation  forever ,  it  doesn’t  mean  that  he  can’t  hinder  it  for  as  long  as  it’s  possible .

IAN GALLAGHER

The next few days were a blur for Ian. He remembered falling asleep on the couch, listening to the sound of Lip on the phone, making an appointment for him. And then the next thing he knew, it was the following day and Lip was trying to get him out of bed for said appointment. He wasn’t sure how he had even gotten in bed. Everything was a haze, Ian didn’t remember much from it all. It was like the world was turning in slow motion, and gravity had increased. Everything around him seemed to move at half speed, including himself, and each step forward took a great amount of energy.

After that, everything just seemed to kind of blur together. He knew he got an increase in his dosage, to help him get through his grief -- the increase wouldn’t last forever, the doctor had said, and that they’d revisit it in six weeks to see how he was doing. She warned that he’d sleep a lot -- which wasn’t news to anyone, honestly -- but it wouldn’t be as bad as when he first started taking his medication.

Ian had been sleeping off and on, more on than anything. He remembered people trying to bring him food, Fiona trying to be encouraging, Debbie sitting with him at one point, he even remembered Mickey’s face a couple times. Besides that, it was dream land, taking pills, and then dream land again. 

Ian blinked his eyes open, letting out a yawn. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, before glancing at the clock -- it was about half past noon. Slowly sitting up in bed, he ran a hand through his hair. His mind felt groggy, but more lucid than it had before. A quick glance at his phone told him it had been a few days since he had called Mickey, since he had his emotional breakdown. His limbs felt weak, and his body was protesting moving -- but his mind wanted to surge through the fog, his heart feeling lighter than it had previously.

Slowly standing up, Ian walked to the door, making sure to take his time and not rush himself -- his limbs would probably give out if he tried to move too fast. The stairs were an obstacle that he didn’t know how he managed. He took it one step at a time, holding onto the railing for support. Finally, he made it into the kitchen, closing his eyes and letting out another yawn. “I feel like I just woke from the dead,” he quipped easily, walking over to the counter and grabbing a mug, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Mmm, caffeine, my sweet, dear friend.”