Chapter Text
Terry had always been a bastard, and Mickey had always hated him. But in the same breath, he loved his father, too. Mickey loved Terry in a way that he couldn’t describe—mostly because if he tried to explain it to someone, the vulnerability of it would eat him alive. He wanted his father to be proud of him, to tussle his hair and to tell him he’d done well. He wanted to feel like he mattered to his father, instead of just another shit stain Terry had to care for—if you could call what he did caring .
The Milkovich household was never a safe place for anyone—not any of the children and certainly not for Mickey’s mother. Some days, he couldn’t remember her at all and others her sad eyes were burned into the back of his eyelids. It was Terry’s fault, of course. All of this was. Mickey’s mom didn’t want to be having babies at thirteen. Even though it sucked that she was gone, he didn’t blame her for leaving; if he had anywhere to go, he’d leave, too.
The most dangerous time to be a Milkovich was at night. That’s when Terry was at his worst, usually either high or drunk. There was a reason Mickey was never allowed to have a lock on his bedroom door, and it wasn’t just because the bathroom was right off it, either. Sure, that’s the reason he was given, but it wasn’t the full truth.
It wasn’t just Mandy that Terri visited, but Mickey never told anyone about his encounters. What good would it do? Even if Terry was in jail (the best time for the siblings, in many ways), he would still come back, mad at whoever put him there. Mickey couldn’t imagine what would happen if that person had been him .
Mickey couldn’t remember how he had gotten here, but when he opened his eyes, he was in his bed. He was smaller than he remembered, or maybe everything was bigger somehow. His walls didn’t have his familiar posters, just a few stray crayon drawings that he’d been particularly proud of from school. The blanket wasn’t his quilt but a Lion King 2 blanket that he’d remembered from his childhood.
Fuck.
He was dreaming. He knew that, because his room hadn’t looked like this for years— maybe a decade. That blanket had been ruined and thrown on a bonfire maybe six years ago—he could remember the way that the lion’s faces shriveled and curled up, revealing the white batting inside.
Mickey needed to wake up right now . He’d had this dream before. In fact, he had it about once every two weeks. It was in an unfortunate rotation with his other nightmares, memories too horrible for him to recall any time other than when he was sleeping. And when he was sleeping, he was trapped in it all over again.
There was a scraping noise at his door. Someone was fumbling with the knob. A moment later, Terry burst into the door. He was saying something to someone behind him. Mickey squeezed his eyes shut tight.
It was worse if Terry ever caught him awake. The act became a punishment—more than it already was. It became expressly about making Mickey sorry that he wasn’t sleeping right now. He’d learned after the first couple of times that when Terry came in like this, he should never open his eyes. His father didn’t like to be looked at, not during. Maybe it made him feel guilty. No amount of intoxication could make what he was doing okay.
“Mickey, are you awake?” Terry asked as he crept across the room, avoiding piles of laundry. He misstepped, and the crunch of an action figure under his foot was deafening. Sometimes, Mickey would hear that sound completely out of the blue during the day and he would feel nauseated for at least an hour.
Mickey squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to keep his breathing from coming in and out rapidly. It needed to be convincing and real, otherwise Terry would know something was wrong. He wished his father would understand that all of this was wrong.
“Mikhailo,” Terry said his name again, a laugh in his voice. The fucker was enjoying this. He could probably tell his son was awake and terrified. Mickey could feel himself shaking as his father leaned over him. His hands were big and rough and Mickey felt a whimper of fear escape his lips. He bit back the word no .
Terry’s hands were all over Mickey’s body, and he tensed. He didn’t want this. Fuck , he just wanted it to stop. His eyes flew open involuntarily and he cried out. “Stop!”
Terry’s eyes narrowed, but he smirked. So he did know that Mickey was awake! His father’s hand went around his throat for a moment before he shoved his fingers into Mickey’s mouth.
The rest of the nightmare played out as it always did: Terry had his fill of whatever depraved desires he had and when he was done, he left. The silence when he was finally alone was deafening, and Mickey couldn’t breathe. Sobs clawed their way out of his sore throat, and he only stopped when Terry opened his door again.
“Shut up!” He roared, coming towards his son.
Mickey woke up screaming, clinging to a papery pillow. A thin blanket was over him, and it did nothing to slow the trembling that racked his body.
A hospital. He was in a hospital.
How the fuck had that happened?