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Ian's become pretty well-acquainted with the bathroom floor of the Milkovich house. There's grime between the tiles and questionable stains and a coat of dust covering it at all times, but Ian leans his head against it anyway and closes his eyes.
He hears the door open slowly and listens as quiet footsteps pad towards him. He doesn't open his eyes because he thinks he might puke again, but he smiles when he feels a hand smooth back his hair. There's a soft swipe of fingers against his temple and then the hand moves down to stroke his cheek.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, Mick, I'm perfect."
Above him, Mickey laughs. It's a weak laugh, though, tinged with fear and worry. "Fuck you, man, you know what I meant. You think you can go to bed or are you spending the night here?"
Ian considers his options. Then a wave of nausea hits him so hard he's up and hugging the toilet while vomit burns a trail up his throat.
Mickey places his hand between Ian's shoulder blades and rubs small, soothing circles into his back. It makes Ian's stomach clench in a whole different way. He sits up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, wishes he could get rid of the taste that at this point may as well be permanently stuck to his tongue. Wishes he could get rid of the pills, but then remembers Monica, himself, the alternative.
"I'm just gonna lie down here," he mutters, lowering himself back to the floor.
"Come on," Mickey says. He places his hands under Ian's head and guides it to rest on his thighs. Ian sags into the warmth, pushes his head further into it. Mickey's cool hand rests on his forehead.
"Jesus, that feels good," Ian breathes out, placing his hand over Mickey's.
Mickey runs his other hand through Ian's hair and hums in response.
--
He doesn't talk about the "after," the in-between, the months where his thoughts raced past him and he did things he'll probably regret for the rest of his life. He doesn't talk about it because he can't, not really. The words get stuck in his throat and his head starts filling with memories that feel so surreal, and he's repulsed by a version of himself that's still entirely him.
So he doesn't talk about it, but no one asks.
--
He stares up at the cracks in the ceiling, blinks hard a few times, tries to forget. He knows his brain won't shut off for good until orange sunlight starts streaming in through the window. It's common enough that he can't fool himself anymore.
Sometimes he makes Mickey stay up with him just so he doesn't have to be alone, but he always frames the suggestions under the pretense of fucking. They do that, too, but he knows Mickey knows better.
They pop bootlegged movies into the DVD player, Ian complaining about how they're all shitty cam-quality and Mickey kicking his thigh and telling him to shut the fuck up and stop being so picky. Ian laughs and settles back into the couch, arm pressed against Mickey's, sipping a beer. Halfway through Mickey will roll a joint and they'll pass it back and forth, and Ian will feel the weight roll off his shoulders one bad memory at a time, until all he can think about is Mickey right next to him and how it's a fucking crime they're not kissing yet.
It's such a cliche, fooling around while watching a movie, but Ian loves every moment of it. Loves the way Mickey wraps his legs around Ian's hips, loves the way his hands clutch at the back of Ian's neck, loves the rough friction between their dicks contrasting the feathery softness of their lips moving together. God, fucking Mickey always feels shockingly real, but kissing him is like a dream.
He always makes sure he's sober enough for moments like these. He needs to commit it all to memory, every kiss Mickey presses against his neck and the underside of his jaw, the sensation of Mickey's hand slipping into Ian's boxers and jerking him off slowly, the way Mickey's eyes will stay focused on him the entire time. He always has this expression sitting on his face that Ian can't even begin to describe, just knows it makes him feel like he's floating. The best high there is.
--
"It's fine," Mickey whispers into his neck, his fingers running gently up and down Ian's spine. "You're fine. You're okay."
Ian doesn't know how to admit how far from the truth that is--doesn't even know how to open his mouth and form words. Instead, he stifles another sob with his fist and squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that he'll stop crying soon and just go to sleep. Maybe he'll wake up feeling different, better, some sort of unattainable, faraway emotion that will make him forget how he feels right now.
There was a time when he relied on Mickey for that, but nothing's the same anymore.
"Ian," Mickey says, and it's not a question, and it's not a statement. It just is. His name, suspended between them in the darkness, meaning nothing and everything and making Ian bite down on his thumb. He thinks he tastes blood.
When his head was swimming with thoughts he could barely grasp, thoughts that muddled his brain and then flew out of reach, there was always one constant, always Mickey. His mind replayed every moment--the dirty smiles and "fuck you"s and moans, fingers brushing when they passed a joint back and forth, idle conversations about nothing. And then the weeks of silence and anger, where Mickey didn't know what to say and Ian just wanted someone to tell him that it wasn't all falling apart.
If his time away taught him anything, it was this: Ian loves him so much even when he's breaking.
--
There are always more important matters at hand. Getting Liam back, trying not to lose the house, Fiona winning custody so they could come home. Ian throws himself into these tasks because he knows how to prioritize. Sometimes, when he's lucky, he gets so lost in the chaos that he manages to forget the bruises on his face and peppering his ribs and the ones buried deep within him.
But during a break in conversation, when the room grows silent for a rare moment, Ian feels the words forming on his tongue. For a second he can't pretend that he's okay anymore. No one's fucking okay, but that doesn't exclude him. That should matter to the people who claim to care.
So he opens his mouth, but then so does everyone else, and he finds himself getting drowned out by the noise. He closes his lips slowly and sits back and listens. Shrugs it off because it's fine. Ian's never been one to talk over the crowd.
--
"Is this a forever thing?" Ian asks into the space between them.
Mickey tightens his grip on Ian's hand. It's answer enough.