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There were signs, Mickey’s sure, he just tried really hard not to see them.
He’s lived with Ian long enough that, vampire or not, he knows what the guy is like. He knows Ian’s habits and his schedule the way any roommate would, so any change is kind of noticeable. But in Mickey’s defense, the changes started small. Things like Ian suddenly cleaning the entire apartment, Mickey’s room included, which is clearly a violation of Mickey’s do not touch my shit rule (unspoken as it is). He even did Mickey’s laundry, which, convenient as it is, is also really fucking weird, and he let’s Ian know it.
Loudly, and colorfully.
And Ian takes it in stride with a laugh and a smile and goes back to cleaning the inside of their oven.
(Mickey didn’t even know that was a thing people did.)
Then it gets a bit stranger. Ian starts cooking, which is weird in itself because the only human food he ever eats is the junk food Mickey tells him not to, but is weirder still because he makes so fucking much of it. Ian comes home from work sometimes to find a fucking four course meal haphazardly placed on his tiny ass table, with Ian still making more. And then he stops, abruptly, mid-fucking-cake batter at times, and just leaves his hot mess in the kitchen.
Apparently, the cooking crazy and the cleaning crazy can’t both happen at the same time.
It’s annoying shit, and Mickey is sure that Ian is just trying to piss him off until the point of death, and this is what he gets, isn’t it, living with an eccentric vampire?
Until the eccentricities go from frustrating to… Concerning. And like fuck does Mickey feel concerned about people outside his family all that often.
It’s not apparent at first, but it occurs to Mickey at some point that Ian is no longer going to work. When Mickey corners him and asks about rent, Ian just assures him not to worry about. Like fuck is that going to happen.
One night, Mickey wakes up, and Ian is in his room, just standing there, gripping his elbows and staring at Mickey, and when Mickey fumbles to turn on the light, he leaves quickly and without a word. Like. What the fuck?
And there’s a lot of blood. Not like, on the walls and shit, but just bags of it. Bottles of it. A fucking gallon of the shit. In the fridge, the freezer, the pantry, the medicine cabinet. There’s so much of it that there’s hardly room for, you know, Mickey’s human food, and even if there was, there’s something unsettling eerie about reaching past a gatorade bottle filled with blood for stuff to make a sandwich.
It’s all leading up to something. Mickey’s not sure what. Either way, he knows he needs to say something, because he’s never had an issue with Ian being a vampire (as much as someone could not have an issue with that sort of shit), but if this shit keeps up, he’s about to start having a lot.
And it does all come to a head, just like he’d been thinking it would. Well, actually, he thought he’d either pop his top and kick his vampire roommate to the curb or that Ian would turn into a bat or some shit. He hadn’t been thinking it would all come to this.
And yet as Mickey stares at the dead body on his kitchen floor, a part of him knows that he’s been waiting for this moment for a long time. It’s the kind of latent expectation that comes when you live with a vampire.
*
The dude’s not even bleeding. That might be the creepiest part about it. Not that he isn’t obviously dead—his body is sprawled unnaturally, eyes open and fogged over, skin white as a bone—but it reminds Mickey of those riddles about the guy who hung himself and the puddle of water.
Except Mickey knows exactly how this guy died. Knows without taking a step closer. Knows without looking for the puncture marks he can’t see but that he’s sure are there.
Ian finds him still standing that way, staring at the body like he’s never seen a dead one before. He has. More than the normal person. He’s a Milkovich, and the name itself comes smeared with blood, but it was never on Mickey’s hands. He could deliver a beat down, could talk the talk and walk the walk, but he’d never fucking murdered someone.
Neither of them says anything. Ian stares at the body with him in complete silence, like he has no idea how it got there. Like he’s not the one who fucking put it there.
Suddenly, Mickey feels afraid—more afraid than he has in a long time. That feral sort of fear, the kind that pumps through you when you know with extreme certainty that you’re about to die.
He swallows it.
“Thought you didn’t kill people.” Mickey’s voice is strained—it sounds weak and brittle and terrified in his own ears, and he hates it. Ian shifts his weight and it’s enough to make Mickey almost bolt.
Ian says nothing, and Mickey remembers Ian coming home covered in someone else’s blood, face torn apart with grief and self-hatred and fear. When he glances at the Ian beside him now, he sees none of that.
And it’s fucked up that that’s the most terrifying thing right then.
“I don’t.” Ian twitches again, and every movement makes Mickey’s heart spike in panic. “Not… I don’t, not usually, I don’t.” Ian’s face folds with confusion. “I did, though.”
“No shit,” Mickey mutters on a knee jerk, and then tenses as Ian goes still beside him.
“Eleven,” Ian says, and then he’s suddenly kneeling, movement so fast that Mickey’s eyes can’t even track it. It’s one of those vampire things that Mickey doesn’t see—that Ian doesn’t show. He told Mickey once that he likes to stay in the habit, to move at “human speed,” so that the chance of a slip up when it really counts is slimmer. “I killed eleven people this week.”
Mickey’s heart hammers in his chest.
Run, his body is telling him.
He doesn’t.
Ian touches the body, brushing at a limb like it’s a stray piece of trash, and Mickey can see the marks now. Two in each wrist. Ian’s favorite spot.
“Don’t,” Mickey says without thinking, and Ian looks up at him, face carefully controlled. Mickey’s tongue feels like it swells in his mouth, making his words feel clumsy and loose as he speaks. “You don’t want to, uh, fingerprints. On the body. DNA and shit.” Mickey crosses his arms and glances away for the first time.
What the fuck is he even saying?
“Know a thing or two about disposing of dead bodies?” Ian probes, and Mickey stays silent. “I don’t,” he continues plainly. “Tossed all the other ones in the lake.”
“In the—all of them?” Mickey asks incredulously. “Shit, Ian, when they find them, they’re going to think they have a fucking serial killer on their hands.”
Then again, don’t they?
“Sorry for bringing him here,” Ian says, ignoring Mickey’s comment. “I was trying to keep you out of it.”
“Keep me out of it,” Mickey mutters, and for some reason, it strikes a cord. A very fucking angry cord. “Well good fucking job, Dracula. Bringing a dead body into our fucking kitchen. I’m not even going to ask how you got him in here, because if you’re stupid enough to dump ten bodies into Lake Michigan, who knows how many fucking people saw you drag this guy up here.” Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose, and then sends a withering look down at Ian, who is staring at him in surprise.
Turns out, it’s a lot easier to be angry than it is to be scared.
“The fuck is up with you, man?” Mickey continues. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. And if I knew you were gonna start drinking people dry, fucking literally, I would have said something a long fucking time ago.”
“I’m fine.” There’s an edge to Ian’s voice—defensive, and maybe even a little dangerous.
“Ian.” Mickey’s voice turns more serious. “There’s a dead body in our kitchen. You’re not fucking fine.” Ian’s suddenly standing, and Mickey has the presence of mind to at least take a step back before he places a hand firmly on Ian’s chest. It’s not enough to stop the vamp, not even close, but it works either way. “Look. The dude is starting to reek. We need to get rid of him. Then you’re going to clean the fuck out of the kitchen. Then…”
Mickey falters. Then what? They’ll talk about it?
“Then we’ll figure this shit out, all right?”
There’s a tense moment, and then it’s like something visibly expels itself from Ian’s body with the way his defensive stance suddenly turns off.
“I’m sorry,” Ian says, glancing at Mickey.
“Yeah, well, next time you’re sorry, buy me chocolate or something, okay? Because you need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen.”
“It’s not like I’ve done it before,” Ian grumbles, kneeling down again to pick up the body.
“Yeah, well, once is enough,” Mickey snarks, and then reaches forward to put his hand on Ian’s shoulder before he has a firm grip on the meat sack. “Seriously though. You okay?”
“I—“ Ian stares down at the cracked linoleum of the kitchen floor. “This has happened before. A few times. The… Reckless eating thing.” Mickey can just see the tip of Ian’s mouth pull up wryly. “Eating, murdering. All the same thing.” Ian wilts underneath Mickey’s touch. “I should have mentioned it.”
“Yeah, you should’ve.” Mickey gives Ian’s shoulder a small shove. “You can fill me in while we pull out his teeth.”
“Pull out his teeth?” Ian looks over his shoulder and wrinkles his nose. “That’s disgusting.”
“Says the guy who drinks blood.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
Mickey watches Ian hoist the dead weight of the body up effortlessly, and wonders how it’s not him. Wonders how he’s standing here, bantering with a vampire who just went on a mindless killing spree and somehow spared him, the easiest target of them all. Ian has more chances in a day to kill Mickey than some random joe, and he didn’t take one of them.
And maybe Mickey should just accept that for the good luck that it is, let it go and carry on. Thank his lucky stars he’s alive and shit. Who cares the reason why as long as he’s still alive and kicking, right?
As if life is ever that fucking simple.