8Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
The night before leaving, Lip and Carl have a screaming match in the kitchen. It wakes everyone up, but Ian meets Debbie's sleepy body in the hall tells her to go back to bed. Fiona slips past him, still putting her shirt on, and down the stairs like the place might be on fire, like she's a fireman and it's her job to extinguish it.
"Keep your goddamn voices down," he hears her hiss. And Lip mutters something back, but Carl yells,
"Tell him he can't tell me what to do, he doesn't even live here!"
"What the hell is this about?" Fiona says. Ian thinks he knows. It ebbs away at the barrier he put up in his stomach, a floodgate that keeps in all the sick things he doesn't want to feel. Like Carl's indifference and MIckey's voice that sounded the same after five years.
"I'm going to Becca's," Carl says slowly.
"No you're not, you're staying here and saying goodbye Ian in the fucking morning." Lip's voice is uneven and mad. He yells the last bit.
"You're...not...my dad." Carl says it through his teeth, and Ian silently climbs down the stairs because he doesn't want them to see him.
"Carl-" Fiona tries, but Lip interrupts her.
"No, I'm your bother. Ian is your fucking brother."
He makes it down the rest of the stairs to see them in kitchen.
And Carl doesn't notice that Ian's there when he spits,
"Half-brother."
Fiona makes a noise, but Lip hits Carl in the jaw as soon as he says it. He stumbles back and knocks something over, and Fiona shouts,
"Hey!"
But Carl shoves Lip into the refrigerator, sending magnets to the floor, and Debbie appears behind Ian. Carl doesn't hit Lip back, which is surprising, because Carl will hit anyone at any given time. They've all had their fist fights with him in the past, usually ending with blood and apologies, and a cigarette peace offering. But Carl just turns to flee out the back door before Lip can grab him again, and that's when he catches Ian's eye. It's too dark in the kitchen to tell what's there. But before Ian can say anything, he's slammed the back door, and the room is met with an absurd silence.
Debbie puts her hand on his shoulder and tells him that Carl didn't mean it.
Ian can pull apart a pistol and clean its insides, check every mechanism for its faults. He can take apart a rifle to find a malfunction, and get it back in shape before the Officer's whistle blows. He doesn't know what the malfunction is here, in Chicago. Something feels terribly wrong.
Fiona tries to clear the corners of her eyes, but she just sniffles loudly and gives herself away. Lip looks sorry because he's always been too impulsive and he's always been the one to throw punches. Ian has been the one who runs away when he can. He's a bit like Carl that way.
"You shouldn't have hit him," Ian says after a minute. Lip runs his hand over his entire face with that look of exhaustion that no one so young should have.
They dissipate back into their beds. Ian can smell the joint that Lip lights to calm his nerves, and he can hear Debbie giggling with Liam upstairs, and he can see Fiona chew on her lip as she worries about where Carl is and if he'll come back. It's just Fiona and him in the kitchen. It's late, late, late and he has an early day tomorrow, but he won't be going back to sleep because his nerves are all alight as he thinks about the loose ends that he hasn't tied up yet. It's like he's seven years old again and struggling to tie his shoes while Lip and Fiona race ahead of him.
"Carl will come around," Fiona says. "You know how he is...he's just...worried about you."
"Are you worried about me?"
Her face melts for a moment, her eyes all shiny in the dim streetlight through the window.
"Yeah."
And he wants to say, "I'll be fine," but this is not what fine feels like. She loses her calm and starts to cry first against the counter, and then on Ian's shoulder. She hugs him so tightly. Ian can't remember Monica ever holding him as tightly as this; her limbs were always so light and loose on his shoulders. He can't remember Frank holding him ever. Fiona tells him that she'll miss him.
He squeezes her back because he misses her already.
It starts with the notion of finding Carl, but he never finds Carl, just the footpath through the allies and streets that lead to the Milkovich house. It's still there next to the El with a decoration of beer cans and trash in the front. Except now there's Fisher Price toys and a kiddie pool in the yard.
He could say he's just here to pick up some weed, but he doesn't even know if Mickey's still dealing, or if he's even inside, or why he would come knocking at midnight on a Tuesday. The lights are still on.
He hasn't stepped foot on this property in six years. Part of him thinks that as soon as he does, Terry Milkovich's ghost will find some way to finally kill him. Terry died and left Mandy the house sometime around Ian's second year in the academy. He remembers hearing Lip say the words, "Terry Milkoviich got shot," and he remembers feeling a terrible, absolute nothingness when he expected vindication or at least a little joy. He wonders if it's how Mickey felt.
It's been six years, and he can still taste the tang in mouth that Mickey's body always left. Sometimes, the memory gets muddled with the taste of blood, but only because fucking him and fighting him were so close.
he goes up the rickety steps and knocks, all in one breath and one fluid movement. He can't afford to be slow. He's waited six years for this courage.
The kid who comes to the door, who swings it open slowly with short arms, is not Mandy's daughter, who Ian remembers from photos on Facebook, but an unfamiliar boy. A light is on in the room behind him and Ian's glad he hasn't woken anybody, but then again- growing up in this neighborhood, bedtime was always just a suggestion.
"Um," he starts. He wonders if he should ask for Mandy. The kid says,
"You don't got a soul."
Ian stares blankly and the kid says,
"Darek said gingers got no souls."
"I don't-" Ian tries to speak, but a louder voice from inside cuts him off.
"What the fuck you doing answering the door?"
He comes out of nowhere.
He isn't any taller, maybe a bit broader, maybe has a new tattoo on his neck. His eyebrows are arched up the same, his hand still says "FUCK" as he puts it on the kid's shoulder and pushes him out of the threshold. He's still Mickey Milkovich, and his voice has the same lazy Chicago accent when he tells the kid to go find his cousin.
Ian's chest might burst and spew bad memories everywhere. He wants his rifle and a target dummy to blow away.
"I thought you moved to fucking California," Mickey says when the kid is gone.
Ian didn't think this far ahead, so he's stuck on the porch without a thing to say. Finally he looks around at the houses down the street and says,
"I thought you moved out of Canaryville."
Mickey's face has more lines in it than there used to be. He has a nearly healed black eye. He wipes the corner of his mouth nervously.
"You lookin for Mandy?"
Ian could say yes, and he could have a cigarette and catch up with her like he should, but instead he shakes his head. He says,
"You wanna get a drink?"
And for some reason, Mickey chuckles with that laugh that's still so full of malice, and he says,
"Fuck it."
They get a mickey of cheap whiskey at the 24 convenient store two blocks away, where the Kash-and-Grab used to be. Ian listens to the bell ring at the top of the door and he spots the walk in freezer. He nods to Mickey who kind of rolls his eyes. Ian decides that if he could, he would drag Mickey into that freezer and lock the door for old times sake. He sort of expects Mickey to punch him in the face for even insinuating, but they go back out onto the street and sidestep the homeless guy when he asks for a smoke, and Mickey is pleasant enough. He can't shake the memory of that beatdown, when Mickey's elbows and fists were relentless and loveless and he doesn't know if six years is enough time to heal those fucking wounds.
Outside, they say nothing at all, and the air is as tense as it is hot. He's not surprised when they make it to the dugout, and cross the dying, empty field together with conviction in their steps.
Ian asks about the kid who answered the door, even though he pretty much knows exactly who the kid is.
"Yeah," Mickey says. "Joey."
"Where's your wife?"
Mickey spits on the ground, takes a swig, swallows it without a grimace.
"I ain't seen that bitch in four fucking years, man."
As they get steadily drunker, Ian learns all sorts of things that shatter the mental image he's held of him all these years. He works at the Chrysler plant now- deals a bit of speed on the side, but nothing harder. He's staying with Mandy for a while to help her catch up on the bills because she's shit at being on her own. The kid lives with him, always has, and that's the last thing that Mickey says about it. Ian can't figure out how Mickey is so different now, so much less crazy and hectic and angry, but he does get angry when Ian says,
"So you're like, what? A single dad now?"
"I'm not having the DFS fuckers on my back," he snaps.
Ian shrugs. He smiles a little because it's so odd, even though it's been six years and people change in six years. He might have changed in these six years, too. He hasn't looked in the mirror long enough to tell. After a while, he tells him,
"I'm shipping out in a few days."
Mickey looks at the ground.
"Yeah, Mandy said."
Ian takes a drink to build the uncomfortable fire in his stomach. Mickey asks him,
"So what the fuck you want, anyway?"
He's always been to open with Mickey and he's spent too many hours of his life thinking about him. He wants this to not feel like a dying wish, because he doesn't want to die, but soon he'll be in the desert with real enemies instead of target dummies, and he's kind of drunk, and he can't help but put his hand on Mickey's hip.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me," Mickey says under his breath. Ian shakes his head, snakes his hand to the top of Mickey's fly and tries to unbutton him. He thinks suddenly of Eric in San Diego, but it's another world away.
Mickey's jaw sets and he looks Ian dead in the eyes when he reaches under his shorts and grabs him. His cock is the same as he remembers.
"I wanna fuck you," he whispers.
Mickey's eyes are closed and his head is tipped back, and for a moment he looks as young as he used to, so Ian tries to get his own belt undone.
But Mickey stops and pushes Ian away.
"Not gonna happen, firecrotch."
He's missed that nickname so much, he could cry.
"Why not?"
"Cause I fucking said so, that's why."
Ian finishes the rest of the bottle, throws it to the dusty ground.
"Might be your last chance," he says. "What if I'm killed in action, huh? How are you gonna feel then?"
"What makes you think I give two shits about you?" Mickey asks, and Ian shakes his head.
"You would have slammed the door in my face if you didn't."
He's pushing and pushing, which is probably the worse thing you can do to someone, but it's what Ian's always done to Mickey. He doesn't care that he's got a boyfriend in San Diego, and that Mickey isn't really Mickey anymore. He doesn't care if Mickey fucks him or kills him, he just needs the goddamn release.
"Gallagher." He sounds real tired, worn out.
Ian grabs his face, presses his lips down on Mickey's lips that are slack. He feels them open after a second of harsh breathing, and tires to make it last, but Mickey rips his head away, and their foreheads stick together with sweat, and they smell like whiskey and spit.
"Just one more time," Ian says. "Before I go."
Mickey's chest shakes with laughter that doesn't escape his mouth, and after a second, he's kissing him back, grabbing his crotch, and Ian takes his ass in his hands. Mickey has been half-hard this whole time, something that Ian secretly is proud of, because he could never get over how much Mickey liked having Ian's hands all over him.
It's as easy as it used to be, turning him over and tugging down his pants, and pushing inside him without any protest. The warmth makes him groan, and he presses his whole body against Mickey's back, fucking him and fucking him and fucking him like they're sixteen, like they have no children at home and no status in the Marine Corps.
Mickey hisses his name when he reaches around and grabs his dick. He makes Mickey Milkovich whimper like this. He makes him come quickly, and gets off almost purely on the sounds. They only last a few minutes.
And after, they sit back against the fence, trying to catch their breath, adjusting their belts. Now he waits for Mickey to make some kind of scared, homophobic slur because some old habits die hard, but others die harder. Only Mickey doesn't say anything when it's all quiet in the dugout.
After a while he does say,
"Fucking little league, man." He wipes his nose with his hand. "Joey wants to go out for them this year. Can't fucking lift the bat above his head yet."
"Maybe you should enroll him in ROTC."
Mickey laughs and shakes his head. He looks at Ian and Ian wants to kiss him, but he doesn't.
"Don't get your ass shot off over there," Mickey says. And Ian smiles because he knows that Mickey has always cared enough. Maybe not as much as he should have ("I don't fucking love you"), but he cares enough. Ian says,
"You should go home to your kid."
Mickey puts his dirty fingers on the back of Ian's neck and it feels like he's going to kiss him goodbye, but he only squeezes. It makes Ian shiver all the way down his spine, stopping in his stomach with everything else. Then Mickey just goes.
Stupid of him for thinking he could draw out a little closure.
Ian just decides to add Mickey to the list of people he has to stay alive for, but then he thinks, Mickey was never really off the list.
Under the El, he finds Carl sitting against one of the big, graffiti covered pillars. He is even drunker than Ian. He has broken his skateboard in two, probably did it himself out of rage. Empty bottles around him are drained and smashed into pieces. Carl puts his head in his hands, crying, crying, crying because his skateboard is fucked. Ian promises to get him a new one, and Carl hangs his head off Ian's shoulder.
"Don't worry about it," Ian says. He wraps his arm around his brother's waist to pull him up. Carl only get emotional when he drinks. There's something shaking about seeing him cry.
"Okay," Carl says.
He leans on Ian all the way home.