Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nothing in Ian’s life had ever been easier than falling in love with Mickey Milkovich. Nothing. After 15 years of constant struggle just to maintain things most kids had by default, he wasn’t used to things being simple. He wasn’t used to having anything without having to fight for it. And ok. The first week had been rough. But after that, after Mickey came and found him again, everything else had felt inevitable. Every conversation, every minute he spent with Mickey, listening to their bond, feeling every flare of insecurity, every moment of attraction, every bit of his soulmate’s fear, anger, worry and affection… Ian had been falling for Mickey from the first moment when Mickey, shaken and newly bonded, had dared to meet his eyes. How the hell could he not? Knowing someone like that. Understanding them better than they even understand themselves, sometimes. For two years, he’d been drunk on making Mickey happy. On the way his chest burned when Mickey smiled and laughed, or grabbed him when they had a second alone. And the way Mickey loved him back so fiercely.

And then it was gone.

It wasn’t. Not really. Ian didn’t fall out of love. But the easy part was over. And for the past few months, Ian has started to forget it had ever felt that way. He’d struggled without Mickey. He’d failed, over and over again, to anticipate what his soulmate would say or do or feel about anything Ian might say. He’d listened to Mickey be angry without understanding exactly why. He’d responded to impatience with his own frustration and he’d felt them drift farther and farther apart while having no idea what to do to stop it. He’d held in tears instead of just saying “stop it” or asking simple fucking questions like “do you still love me?” He had walked around with a dull ache inside him ever since their first conversation after Wisconsin. Just thinking, all the time, that he’d broken something he couldn’t repair. That the one thing that had always been effortless was now consistently painful.

But then, suddenly, there was Mickey. Just standing in front of him like nothing was wrong. Smiling and looking nervous and happy, even while confused and frustrated. And Ian had tried to talk to him on the club floor like he wasn’t half-naked and in Chicago. Like everything was cool while his brain was screaming at him -- because he couldn’t feel anything.

And he still can’t. Sitting in the back of an Uber, watching Mickey clench and unclench his hands as he stares at the back of Ryan’s head. He can tell Mickey is anxious, because Mickey is as subtle as a Mack truck. But he can’t feel that whirring sensation in his stomach. It’s all just gone.

So this might not be happening.

Ian is prepared for that possibility. A couple of times--all drug-fueled, he’s pretty sure--he’s kinda thought something happened and then later he wasn’t entirely sure about it. Nothing quite like this. More like thinking he sees people who then vanish when he goes to talk to them. Or he thinks someone called and then they aren’t in his call log when he checks later. Real little things. People hallucinate when they’re fucked up on chemicals. And he is clearly fucked up on chemicals.

Not enough for him to fully imagine Mickey. But enough for him to wonder if he COULD fully imagine Mickey. Even while they sit next to each other in the back of an Uber. And ok.
Ryan has already told him why he can’t feel the bond. But it was just more stuff about being fucked up on chemicals and why was one thing more likely than another? Sure, Ryan could see Mickey, so that seems like a whole lot for his brain to just be making up, to bring a whole other person into the hallucination. A person who had a working app to call a car, no less. But this felt so surreal, with none of the relief that Ian imagined. No undeniable sign that any of this was real.

Mickey is restless as fuck next to him, but Ian can’t quite engage with it. Instead, he reaches out and brushes his fingers across the back of Mickey’s hand. His soulmate starts, looks over at him, then down at their hands like this is some kind of alien experience. Ian persists, though, nudging Mickey’s hand, and then slowly threading their fingers together. He can remember the rush that used to fill him when he touched Mickey for the first time after they’d been apart a few days. That isn’t there right now. But it’s still nice. Their palms press together and Ian feels a twinge in his stomach. He drags his thumb along Mickey’s index finger. Catches the outline of the “P” in the dark.

“You sure you trust this guy?”

Ian glances up to see Mickey’s gaze has focused once again on the back of Ryan’s head. Ryan, who is talking warmly with the Uber driver about an illuminated lagoon in Jamaica.

“Yeah.” Ian trusts Ryan more than most people. It’s not saying much, but in the two months or so that he’s known him, Ryan hasn’t gotten weird with him once. Ian stretches his fingers out one more time, then closed his hand again. He’s just... tired. It hits him like a freight train. That right now, more than anything, he just wants to be unconscious.

He lets his head drop onto Mickey’s shoulder, and closes his eyes. Mickey’s grip on his hand tightens in a reassuring squeeze. And that, at least, feels easy.

***

Mickey had tried hard not to fantasize about seeing Ian again, and he had failed. Across almost half a year, he’d imagined a million variations of this moment. Alone--ok, alone-ish--with Ian. In all those fantasies Ian had been a little more sober and a little more talkative. He’s almost entirely silent as they move across the city towards this so-called “neutral territory.” But Ian puts his head on Mickeys’ shoulder, and then absently threads their fingers together in a way that makes Mickey’s chest hurt. He remembers that when he imagined this, he’d always thought I’m going to cry.

He wasn’t crying.

But he fucking wanted to.

Instead, he lets himself turn his head ever so slightly, closes his eyes and he breathes Ian in. Alcohol and cigarettes and mint and sweat… he loves it. It makes this feel so fucking real. Every part of him that isn’t consumed with worrying about Ian and this Ryan guy is absolutely vibrating with joy. That had felt fucking impossible just a few hours ago.

By the time they pull up to their destination, Ian’s lost his forward momentum and it takes some fucking doing, pulling him out of the Uber. Mickey’s got Ian’s heavy arm around his shoulder, and his own arm firmly around Ian’s waist as they walk through a swank-as-fuck Chicago condo lobby. The accountant-looking guy is typing on his phone as they walk past a concierge and towards an elevator bank. The lights are bright, and everything is reflective--mirrors and chrome and shiny black tile. Ian flinches, and the urge in Mickey to soothe is overwhelming. But he doesn’t want a fucking audience. Shit like that is for Ian and Ian only. Their host doesn’t even look up though, hitting the button on instinct. Mickey starts to wonder about who the fuck is at the other end of this guy’s phone at 2 AM on a Tuesday.

“Everything cool?”

The interloper glances up and smiles. “Oh, sure. Just sending an email.”

Mickey’s concern is interrupted by a hard throb of worry coming from Ian. It’s such a fucking relief and so completely surprising at the same time. He turns his head to murmur against Ian’s ear.

“You ok?”

Ian exhales and extricates himself a little to shift his weight to the mirrored wall. “Yeah.”

He’s bleary and Mickey wonders how he could look so much worse so quickly. Those feelings are still stewing inside him and Mickey can’t help--fucking strange ten feet away aside--but ask. “What’re you scared about?”

Ian’s eyes flicker and the stew of anxiety flares again. “Just weird,” he manages.

“Me? I’m weird?”

“Out of nowhere.”

Yeah,” Mickey admits. And the fact is, there is shit for Ian to worry about. But now doesn’t exactly seem like the moment. “Yeah, I didn’t know I was coming, either.”

“Why did you?”

Good fucking question and he has no idea what to lead with--it seems fucking cruel to tell Ian about Liam right now--but he’s saved by the arrival of the elevator. He helps Ian maneuver into the car and that’s apparently distracting enough that no more questions are forthcoming.

Ryan lives in a loft, which is a way to describe a fucking ridiculous condo with no walls. It’s a two-story apartment, which is something he used to think only existed on 80s sitcoms. Mickey has to help Ian get out of his parka and remind him about his boots in a way that makes Mickey think of taking toddler Liam to the park last fall. Ryan wanders down his own hallway telling them not to worry about their shoes, phone back in his hand. He’s putting on a show of having many post-midnight things to attend to, but when Mickey follows, dragging Ian along with him, Ryan subtly indicates an armchair that Ian nearly falls into.

And he’s fucking out. Just like that. Mickey just stares with a sense of creeping dread that’s interrupted when fingers lightly tap his shoulder. He very nearly elbows their host in the nose and he doesn’t feel that fucking bad about it, because for real: Who is this guy?

“Sofa folds out,” Ryan says, cheerfully, as if he wasn’t just inches away from writhing on the floor covered in blood. “Can I bother you to help me move the coffee table?”

Well. What the fuck else is he supposed to do?

They move a heavy wood table and then unfold an already made bed that has a comforter that Mickey can already tell is better than anything he’s ever slept on. Is he sleeping here? Is that the plan?

“Would you like a drink?”

“Uh,” Mickey shifts his weight, hands sliding into his back pockets. “I guess.”

“Wine? Beer? Soda?”

Beer seems miles away from what he really needs, but he nods. “Sure.”

“I have a couple of craft brews if you don’t mind something hoppy.”

His face must register his confusion as disgust because Ryan pivots and strides off towards the kitchen.

“Nevermind! I’ll see what I can turn up.”

Ten minutes later Mickey is sitting on a stool next to a granite countertop, drinking an “amber ale” and watching Ryan arrange pillows on a couch that no one seems likely to crash on any time soon. He has no real reason to dislike this guy, other than a natural aversion to cheerfulness and an awareness that no one--NO ONE--is this nice.

Sure enough, once he’s satisfied with the arrangements, Ryan is coming towards him and inquiring about the beer like Mickey gives a fuck, before asking if he can join him. In his own kitchen.

“Do I have a fucking choice?”

“Hmmm. I’d say yes, but I suppose I see how a refusal would seem impolitic.” He pulls open the door to his giant fridge and pulls out a bottle at random. “But I would like to talk to you a little. If only to convince you that I don’t plan on cooking either of you for dinner.” He makes a face. “Oh, that was dark. I was going for German fairy tale, but I think I landed on Hannibal Lecter. Anyway.” He leans across the counter towards Mickey. “I’m Ryan. I’ve known Ian for about six weeks. I think he’s a good kid. And you’re his soulmate.”

Mickey shrugs. This is awkward as fuck. “Yeah.”

“It probably feels like I have you at a disadvantage, but Ian is very protective of you. I really don’t know anything about you apart from your name. The only reason I guessed at who you might be was…” He sighs. “Well. I saw you two talking and it’s hard to imagine Ian having a moment quite like that with anyone else.”

Mickey doesn’t really want to admit it, but some small part of him might have liked hearing that. Because yeah. He sure as fuck hopes not. He glances back to Ian, still fully passed out in the chair.

“How the fuck does he not know what he took?”

“Well,” Ryan sighs. “It’s Ian. He’s not exactly risk-averse. I imagine someone offered it to him without explanation.”

Mickey’s attention snaps back to Ryan. “Ian’s never been into anything hardcore.”

“You guys haven’t seen each other since September?”

“How the fuck--” Mickey sighs. “He told you that.”

Ryan nods, taking a sip of his beer. “I know he’s been away from his soulmate for about five months. I know a bit about bonds so we’ve talked a little. He’s found it hard. I imagine you relate.”

Mickey’s face heats, feeling exposed in a way he wasn’t even close to prepared for. “Why don’t you tell me something, Ryan. Like what the fuck a ‘regular’ is. Regular what?”

Keebler doesn’t look even a little abashed.

“Ah. Yes. Well. I suppose it’s an easy word for what Ian thinks I am. I got to the club. Sometimes he’s behind the bar. Sometimes he’s dancing. I tip him.” Ryan shrugs. “I guess that does make me a ‘regular’.”

“You're not paying him to grind on your lap or any of that kinda shit, then.”

“No.” Ryan purses his lips. “I can tell you’re not an idiot, Mickey. Ian is classically handsome. He has an exceptional face: the shape, the symmetry… the youth. How old is he? I’ve been hoping, for his sake, he’s at least 18. But that’s not a bet I’d take.”

“17.”

“Well. That’s something, then.” Ryan clinks the neck of his bottle against Mickey’s in a show of camaraderie or some fucking thing. “When I look at Ian, and when I recognize that youth, what I want to do is preserve it. Not fuck it.”

“Hope you’re not looking for a fucking medal for that.”

Ryan seems amused. “Those clubs, there’s always an Ian. Some young kid who is running away from something. Who can’t go home and this is as good an option as any. And there’s a lot of men,” he throws out an arm, “Like me. And some of them are very willing to take advantage.” Ryan’s mouth twists a little and he looks down at his expensive-as-fuck countertop. “I have a pull-out couch and a soft spot for the Ians. I always slip them a few bucks. Try and talk to them. See if I can help.”

“Out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I like to be useful.”

That’s all this guy is offering up. And Mickey really isn’t sure if he’s being a dick or not, but he kinda wants to punch him in the throat.

“Ian sleep here a lot?”

Ryan shakes his head off another swig of his drink. “Only when the weather’s bad. Maybe… four, five times?”

The weather? Mickey barely has a chance to take that in before Ryan continues.

“I’ve been wondering what Ian’s story is, honestly. He’s always too happy, too excited. If you try to talk to him for a minute, you can see how sad he is. And how hard he’s running from it.” Ryan looks over at Mickey’s sleeping soulmate. “I think he’s mostly been honest with me, and not everyone in his situation is. So I took a chance on extending my help a little. And he hasn’t given me a reason to regret it.” He smiles at Mickey, ruefully. “I know Ian grew up in a rough situation. No details, but. I’m guessing it might be the same for you. So I understand the suspicion. It would be bizarre, frankly, if you didn’t think I was some sort of predator trying to sink my teeth into your soulmate. God. Another cannibal reference. I’m sorry--that’s unforgivable.”

Mickey’s head is spinning just a little bit. It’s been a fucking day and it would be super convenient if Ryan turned out just to be one of Ian’s random do-gooders. Because if Ian attracts that shit, and he guesses he can see why. Ian’s always been liked by children, old ladies and dogs. Why not this guy?

“So. Not to put myself in great personal peril,” Ryan shifts his weight. “But what about you? How do you and Ian know each other? I mean, soulmates, obviously. But 17 is young for a bond. I can only assume it wasn’t planned.”

“I’m 19,” Mickey clarifies, without fully considering it. Fuck. He realizes he’s just been letting his beer sit there, so he picks it up and takes a long chug because, on top of every other thing, he’s fucking thirsty. “Why does it fucking matter if it was planned? Who the fuck plans bonds?”

“Oh, lots of people,” Ryan says, lightly. Which is totally the kind of thing a person who lives in a place like this would say. “Teenagers are often very eager to find their mates. But you don’t strike me as the type to let himself be swept away by a romantic ideal.”

“No. I’m more the type to hit someone in the face for saying ‘romantic ideal’.”

Ryan, of course, finds this funny. “So my assumptions aren’t wrong, then.”

“No,” Mickey shifts uncomfortably on the stool. Ryan just nods. Takes another sip from the bottle. He’s leaning across the kitchen island like the world’s most helpful and interested bartender. But fuck it. When is Mickey ever gonna see this guy again?

“It wasn’t planned. Just fucking happened.”

“Families know?”

“No.”

Ryan sighs. “Yeah. I get that one.”

And he says it like he really fucking does. Which is the first time it occurs to Mickey that maybe this does make sense. Because if he won the lottery, and 20 years from now some fucking kid showed up who’d gone through half the shit Mickey had gone through since the bond activated, maybe he would give the guy a beer and a couch to crash on. If it was no fucking thing to him. If he didn’t think he’d get robbed or murdered.

That’s the really fucked up thing. Ryan should be scared of being robbed or murdered. Except… it’s Ian. So yeah. He gets it.

“It’s my fault,” he says, like he’s fucking confessing in church. Like that one fucking sentence has been waiting to spill out of him for five whole god damn months. “His family. Whatever. They’re fucked up, but they don’t care that he’s gay. He kept us quiet because of me.”

“Your parents, then?”

Mickey shrugs.

“It’s not uncommon,” Ryan says, lightly. “Lots of people in the community who don’t have the support of their parents.”

Support. Mickey snorts. “It wasn’t fucking safe for him.”

“But it was for you?”

Mickey turns his gaze on Ryan like the guy just asked him to perform cold fusion. “I don’t fucking know you, man.”

“No. You don’t.”

“This is Ian’s deal. He says he trusts you and he’s fucked up right now. So.”

Ryan nods. “It’s probably Ketamine, by the way. Or GHB. Something like that. You’re reading him fine?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm. They can both cause problems, but GHB is more likely if you aren’t having problems. He probably can read you, but he’s in no state to understand it, and once he got that idea in his head…” Ryan sighs. “It’ll be fine. I wouldn’t say Ian is careful, but he isn’t excessive, so he probably didn’t take much and he probably thought it was something else. I doubt he was looking to be brought down.” Ryan’s gaze is steady. He’s not challenging Mickey, but the message is clear. Ryan’s got information Mickey wants. So Mickey should chill.

“Never fucking tried that shit before,” Mickey mutters.

Ryan looks pensive, cupping his chin in one hand as he turns his beer bottle on the counter. “Have you talked to Ian about what kind of bond you have?”

Mickey’s shoulders hunch immediately. “Yeah. Romantic, or whatever the fuck. A normal bond.”

“Hmm. It’s hard for a same-sex bond to be completely normal. It’s stigmatized. And that stigma increases the external threat. And there is a lot of evidence that a threatened bond is a tight bond.”

“What, are you some kind of scientist or something? The fuck you mean, evidence?”

Ryan shrugs. “I’m a kind of scientist. I’ve studied the properties of bonds. From what Ian’s told me, you have a very classic case for a threatened bond. It makes long-term separation particularly challenging. I think Ian uses substances he might not otherwise mess with because it helps him stay functional. He can tell you that for certain. But,” Ryan presses his palms flat on the counter and pushes himself up. “Since you are here, and you are indulging this conversation--very generously, I might add--I’m going to push my luck and give you some unsolicited advice. People like you and Ian? From my observations, this isn’t a bond with a lot of elasticity. Pulling apart and coming back together, then pulling apart again--it’s going to wear on you both. I think it would be a very bad idea for you guys to try this again. Some bonds aren’t built for distance.”

Mickey should probably be pissed. It’s none of this fucking guy’s business, just for starters. But he can feel the truth of it in his gut and, deep down, he feels fucking relieved. If some guy--a fucking professional-- wants to tell him he should never be without Ian again? Fucking fine. That’s better than the little bottle of pills. He wants to be with Ian. He can feel a tugging in his stomach already at the idea of going back to what his life was even 12 hours ago. This whole fucking thing was a mistake. He should have gone with Ian. They should have run together.

“You hoping you can take him home?” Ryan asks, studiously looking into his bottle. Mickey gets the distinct impression that the averted eyes are a choice. Because Mickey’s distress and worry and desperation are probably written all over his face. He downs the rest of his beer in one go, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah. I want to take him home.”

***

Ian wakes up shivering.

He knows where he is which is always a good start. Ryan’s living room. On the pull-out. He’s still dressed and he’s on top of the covers but he’s cold, his head hurts and he really, really wants to hide. Because something is wrong. There is something to be upset about. There’s something to be scared of.

He sits up, already gasping for breath, feeling panicky in a way he can’t account for. Panicky like with Monica at Thanksgiving. Like when Mickey was shot. Just filled with the conviction that something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong.

“Hey.”

He starts and twists around, vaguely noticing a throw that must have been tossed on him is snaking onto the floor. Mickey is frowning and rubbing his eyes as he struggles up onto his elbow. “You ok?”

Nope! Definitely not. Definitely not ok.

“Hey. Ian.”

His stomach cramps and lurches and Ian turns away from Mickey, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and dropping his head between his knees. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong. Mickey’s here, but something’s wrong.

“Ian,” Mickey sounds freaked out and fair enough, but Ian doesn’t feel equipped to respond to it. The bed jostles and then Mickey’s in front of him. Murmuring. “Hey. Hey, come on.”

He doesn’t trust himself to move or to speak because he’s reasonably sure that he’s about to be sick. He has no idea what time it is--full dark, but in February that could be 6 AM--and he tries to slip back through his memory to see if any of this makes sense.

He catches a thread. Mickey at the club. Seeing Ryan outside. An Uber. Fuck.

The sensation is overwhelming, now that Ian is awake to it. Pins and needles running up his spine and spreading out across his shoulders. His fingers ache -- literally hurt with the need to clench and grab. He wants to cry and scream and laugh, but he settles for reaching for Mickey and pressing his face into his soulmate’s abdomen.

It feels so good. Mickey, solid and warm and wearing some spicy scent… he’s worrying. Of course he’s fucking worrying. The realization that Ian can read him washes over him slowly and fills him with the relief he’s been missing. And then he can feel Mickey’s worry ebb a little because he can feel Ian and he knows he’s comforted…

This is the fucking best. Truly. Ian has no idea why the world is filled with so many miserable soulmates. He could never be fully unhappy when Mickey is right there.

But.

“I’m gonna puke.”

“Fuck,” Mickey jumps back. “Well, don’t do it on my fucking feet.”

A quick thrill of hysteria zips through Ian and then his stomach clenches. “Ok,” he agrees, and struggles to his feet.

He weaves down the hallway to the full bath that’s both by the front door and behind the kitchen. A wave of nausea hits him and he’s tempted to lean over the sink, because the toilet’s always so fucking gross, even in Ryan’s immaculate apartment. And he’s on the edge. He might not get sick. It might pass. But kneeling in front of the porcelain god never helped someone hold on to their stomach contents.

But he does it, out of some twisted sense of politeness, because it’s better not to throw up into a guest sink. And true to his expectations he wretches right as Mickey comes into his peripheral vision. He then tips over the edge where his body has more control over what is happening than he does, and he heaves and heaves and just… brings up nothing but bile. It still leaves him shaky and spent, as he reaches for the roll of toilet paper and pulls off a few sheets to wipe his mouth.

He turns and slumps onto the floor, back pressed to the wall just beneath the towel rack. He doesn’t look up, but senses Mickey move from the doorway to the sink. Not that he had a plan, but this really isn’t how he wanted to swan back into Mickey’s life. He can’t believe how completely he never thought about Mickey just turning the fuck up one night. He thought there’d be a phone call. A chance to shower. Collect his thoughts.

“Here.”

Ian glances up to see Mickey thrusting one of Ryan’s pristine white washcloths, run under the tap, at him. Ian takes it and presses his face into it. It’s cool and soothing. He lets out a long breath before risking another glance at his soulmate.

“Thanks.”

“It’s fine.”

Even in the dim light of the bathroom, Ian can see that his eyeliner is bleeding onto the cloth. Fuck.

“Did I have my backpack?”

“Uh… yeah. Hang on.”

He doesn’t like how he feels with Mickey out of the room. Empty and something else he can’t even identify before Mickey is back, looking relieved to see Ian hasn’t evaporated. Ian struggles to his feet and takes the pack, finding his ziplock of toiletries and making quick work of wiping off his make-up with a disposable wipe, cleaning the wash cloth and then, resigned, brushing his teeth.

The act of cleaning himself up is grounding, somehow, even as Mickey hovers in a way he might have found annoying at some other time. In a way that he only finds annoying now because it’s tentative. And that hurts.

But he brushes his teeth, manages not to start choking and trigger the urge to be sick again. Drinks some water. Drinks some more. He digs around in his pack and pulls out a little package of Listerine strips and puts one on his tongue. It’s weird, how good the strong blast of medicinal mint feels. He glances over at Mickey.

“Want one?”

“The fuck is it?”

“Freshens your breath.”

Mickey frowns and takes it. “The fuck you need fresh breath for?”

Ian shrugs. “Good for business.”

He regrets it the second he says it, but Mickey doesn't look disturbed. He shrugs, pops the strip onto his tongue then makes a face. “Jesus. Just chew gum like a normal person.”

Gum is not good for business. Gum is not allowed on the floor. He considers saying that, but he’s tired in that way where even his wrists hurt and he hasn’t seen Mickey in almost six months. He doesn’t want to talk about gum.

“Hey.” Mickey’s got a hand on his back and that feels incredible. Ian takes pride in the fact that he doesn’t swoon. Just smiles weakly as he meets Mickey’s gaze in the mirror. “You ok?”

“Dunno.”

“Come on,” Mickey slides his hand to grip Ian’s shoulder and jostle it. “Sit down. I’ll get you something.”

Ian lets himself be guided back onto the floor, back to that spot on the wall with the towels and then Mickey’s fucking gone again. Ian shivers involuntarily and drags his backpack between his knees so he can dig through it. By the time Mickey is back, with a Fiji water and a couple of pills, Ian is pulling his hoodie on, over unsteady arms.

He can feel Mickey’s worry as he crouches down in front of him to observe. Ian sips at the water, and swallows the Advil and Tylenol that Ryan almost always leaves out for him, even though Ian carries the same pills with him. They are the solution to all his solvable problems. He closes his eyes, pulls in a few breaths and leans his head back against the wall.

“How’d you find me?”

Mickey snorts. “You left a lot of fucking breadcrumbs, Hansel.”

Had he? No. No, he fucking hadn’t. On the other hand, Mickey is here. So.

“Come all this way to tell me that?”

“No. I came because it’s time to come home.”

Ian opens one eye. Mickey is chewing on his lip and cycling through about a dozen emotions--mostly negative--like the question of whether or not Ian wants to come home is fucking mysterious.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Why the fuck would I be fucking with you?” Mickey scowls. “You think I’ve been having fucking fun with all this bullshit? No. Cops came and picked up Dad tonight. Got him on a parole violation. He’s fucking gone.”

Holy shit. Holy shit. Ian can barely process what he’s being told. “Gone how? Gone for good?”

“For a while at least. Yeah.”

“How long is a while?”

Mickey drops onto the floor next to Ian. “Don’t fucking know,” he breathes out his exhaustion. “It just happened. Probably would have come looking for you anyway. Fuck you for being in Chicago, by the way. For future reference, running away from home usually involves at least two L-lines.”

“Fuck you, too,” Ian closes his eyes again, but he’s starting to grin. “I might as well have been in fucking Peru. It’s not like I fucking saw anyone from the neighborhood up here.”

“Just my sister.”

Oh. Yeah. Ok. That was definitely a breadcrumb. “Once. ONE time. And I told her I was leaving.”

“It took me less than an hour to find you, asshole.”

Ian lolls his head over and observes Mickey, who has just a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “And you look real cut up about it.”

The smile spreads. “Just because you managed not to get your ass killed doesn’t mean it was a good idea.”

“Duly noted.”

“This Monica’s idea? Your mom couldn’t figure somewhere else to hide you?”

Ian looks away, like there’s any covering from Mickey. Like he ever has anything resembling a choice about whether or not his soulmate knows the depth of his mommy issues. He picks at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans, trying to distract himself until he can speak. Did he tell Mandy about Monica? He doesn’t remember.

“She took off a while ago.”

It’s kinda nice to feel the flare of anger off Mickey.

“Took off?”

Ian shrugs. His head starts to feel a little cloudy, like just the idea of talking about his mother is pulling him back into unconsciousness. “Long fucking story. Short version--I was still sick and she wanted to come here for some fucking reason and I was fucked up and freaked out and I didn’t feel like I could be alone. So I came with her. But she didn’t stick around and I just...” he lets out a long breath, considering again just why the fuck he stayed. “I had a job and I’d met a few people and I guess I still didn’t want to be alone. So I stayed.”

Still a lot of anger stewing around in Mickey, but his eyes move over Ian’s face like he’s looking for something. Whatever he can’t figure out from Ian’s words and all the feelings churning around in his gut.

“Club her idea?”

“Why you think that?”

“She took you that one time.”

Ian sighs. “Yeah. She suggested the club. That was a good idea. I’ve made enough to take care of myself and shit.”

“We’re sitting on the floor of some random dude’s bathroom at 5 AM while you try not to throw up because of some fucking club drug you don’t know the name of, but sure. You’re doing great.”

“Never said I was doing great,” Ian shoots back. “Kinda doing pretty fucking terrible.” He frowns down at his hands. “I miss you.”

There’s a moment of silence, but Ian can feel Mickey’s insides swelling with that news. His soulmate sighs.

“Yeah. Fucking miss you, too.” He shifts on the floor of the bathroom. “I know I sound like an asshole. Just been worrying about you 24-fucking-7 for five months straight. Kept telling myself ’hey, at least he’s with his mother’.”

Ian frowns. “How fucking long ago did Mandy tell you I was in Chicago?”

“Not ‘til tonight,” Mickey glances over at him. “I knew about your mom because of fucking Wisconsin.”

“How the fuck did you know about WISCONSIN?”

“You lost your phone, jackass. I called that fucking thing--” The surge of emotion coming from Mickey is almost overpowering and Ian’s whole body heats at it. “Fucking day and night. Just… Don’t even know why. Couldn’t do anything else. And then one day, this chick answers--”

“What? Who?”

“Don’t even fucking remember, but she said you’d left the phone in her husband’s car. The people who owned that dog.”

Mickey had never asked about the dog and Ian had never wanted to bring it up. He’d always figured Mickey didn’t care that much and that seemed fair to him. But now he realizes -- Mickey KNEW. Mickey had gone looking for him.

“You talked to Bo’s owners?”

“I talked to one fucking lady who told me where her husband dropped you.” Mickey bends his knee and lets his arm rest on his knee. “So I went up there because I had no fucking idea where you were. And I found some guy in a baseball hat who knew fuck all about you, but was SUPER happy to tell me all about his shitty nephew and Monica.”

“Tim. The shitty nephew was Tim.”

“Well, Tim’s uncle fucking hates him.”

“Good call.”

Mickey gets quiet. “Fucking garage had burned down. Was that where all the cockroaches were?”

The garage… he hasn’t thought about Tim or the cockroaches for months. It almost seems like a strange question to even ask him. He burned down that garage. Now that Mickey’s mentioned it, he can remember it. But vaguely. Like it wasn’t important. Like something that happened when he was drunk, maybe. Something his mind had made up.

“We went to Iowa,” he says instead. Unsettled and unwilling to talk about the garage. “That’s where I got sick. I never even knew where the phone went.”

“Dog lady. Dodge County.”

It makes sense, though Ian had never cared that much. Not once he’d been able to call Mickey again. “Fuck.”

They fall into silence, almost due to the sheer number of things there are to say. Ian can’t pick a direction. He wishes he was less of a wreck. He wants Mickey to know that he’d be better, but this shit has been hard. And he wishes he had been stronger and he wishes he’d been able to save Mickey from seeing this, but. He’s fucked up without Mickey. If the past few months have proved anything, it’s that. And as much as he hopes that Mickey would understand that as something good--as an indication that Ian is so much better when they’re together--he figures he’d just read a lot of guilt. Because it’s there, just under the worry, cooking along. That’s how Ian knows he must look like shit. Mickey is scared. Mickey is guilty.

“I’m ok,” he says, finally.

“Yeah, you fucking look it.”

“I am. Like. I will be. I’m not permanently damaged or anything.”

Even as he says that he starts to worry it’s not true. He’s remembering now how scared he was to get off the stage and go to talk to Mickey. Scared, but compelled, and it was fucking awful to feel that way. But it didn’t make sense that Mickey was there. And he’d expected actual anger about the Chicago thing, not Mickey’s off-hand gesture towards it being a dumb fucking idea.

He knew it was a dumb fucking idea.

But the other thing… the other thing is that he is damaged. That he isn’t what he was when he left. The most fucked up thing about this whole period of time is how sometimes he thought things were viable and made sense--but now he now finds those same things awful and shameful. And he doesn’t understand that. Doesn’t get why he suddenly gained clarity about that stuff. Those things that felt so bad and unforgivable that he couldn’t get out of bed, crushed under the weight of them.

“What’s going on?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re freaking out.”

“Just tired.”

“Bullshit. You were freaked out at the club. You’re freaking out now. Just fucking tell me.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Ian. Hey.” Mickey leans over and tries to catch Ian’s gaze. Ian hesitates, knowing it’ll be worse if they look at each other. But Mickey persists, gently pressing his hand to Ian’s cheek. And he gives in. Ultimately, he always does. Always will, with Mickey. “There’s no fucking way I care about whatever you’re upset about. Even if it pisses me off, it won’t fucking matter. I promise you.”

Ian can feel the determination that’s fighting with Mickey’s persistent concern. But the sad fact is that, right now, not telling Mickey would probably fuck things up even more. So he breathes. Feels tears sting his eyes.

“Even if I fucked someone else?”

And it does hurt him. He can feel it. But Mickey doesn’t recoil. He doesn’t even blink. He just presses his lips together. Frowns. Ian raises his hand to wrap around his soulmate’s wrist.

“Mickey.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mickey talks like he’s trying to convince both of them. “We said we would. I fucked other people. What the fuck are you getting so wound up about?”

“You know him.”

And that hits harder. Ian starts to berate himself. He’s carried this around for months now, always in the back of his mind, that he was fucking tainted. That, of all the things he did while he was gone, fucking Ned because it was easier than sleeping in the cold was the worst. Because that’s all it was. Fucking temperature. He hates himself for it. It’s a sincere, dark fucking hate. Hates that he wasn’t better than that. Hates that it ever felt reasonable, no matter what Mickey had said.

“Thought you didn’t see anyone up here.”

Mickey’s voice is unsteady but Ian knows he can’t stop this now. And maybe this is the kind thing to do. Because he can’t hide anything from Mickey and he should fucking know.

“It was Ned.”

“Who the fuck is Ned?”

Ian almost wants to laugh at the look of confusion, this whole thing feeling so awful it’s almost comic. “Jimmy’s dad. You know.”

That time Mickey does recoil. Only he doesn’t. He just moves his hand to Ian’s chest and leans back. He doesn’t shake Ian off.

“THAT guy?”

“What?”

“He’s fucking 70!”

“He’s…” Well. Ok. “60, I guess.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Fucking asshole.” The hurt is gone. Has completely evaporated to make room for some truly impressive anger as Mickey drops back against the wall. “THAT guy knew where you were?”

“Came to the club,” Ian reports, miserably.

“Uh huh.”

“Mickey.”

“So he came to the club. Family friend, his son is dating your SISTER and he’s like… what? I’m just gonna hit on this teenage runaway?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what, exactly?” Mickey glances at Ian and shakes his head. “I’m not fucking mad at you.”

“You’re pretty fucking mad.”

“Let me fucking guess, ok? Let me guess and you tell me how close I am. He pretended to be your friend. And he helped you out. And was all nice and shit, just like he always was at the fucking Kash & Grab. And then, at some point, he’s like ‘Hey. How ‘bout a blowjob?’”

Ian’s face heats at how fucking close that is. He manages a shrug.

“Yeah. FUCK that guy. Jesus.” Mickey rubs a hand over his face. “We see him again, I’m gonna kick his teeth in.”

“Not exactly his fault.”

Mickey snorts. “It’s ENTIRELY his fault! He’s a fucking scumbag, Ian. So ok, yeah. I’m pissed.” Mickey glances back at him. “But stop feeling all fucking tortured about it, ok? Because this isn’t shit between us. Right? Nothing even close.”

Ian’s stomach clenches again but in the best way this time. He searches Mickey’s face, but his gaze is steady. There is none of the disgust Ian had spent months worrying about. None of the stuff that would have hurt so fucking much to read off Mickey. Relief floods him. It's the best thing he’s felt in months and months.

“Hey,” Mickey’s voice drops, almost unbearably tender. Like Ian has never, ever heard it before. “You really thought I was going to give a fuck about that?”

“I just. It felt shitty. I didn’t even like it. It just--”

“No,” Mickey shakes his head, firmly. “I said whatever we had to do to survive this shit. I fucking meant that. None of this changes anything.” Mickey hesitates, and then reaches out, his fingers clumsily brushing at Ian’s hair. “Still my soulmate. Still missed you every single fucking second.”

“Me too,” Ian manages. “I fucking hated this, Mickey.”

Mickey laughs, almost disbelieving. “Yeah. Yeah, it sucked.”

“Why the fuck did we do it?”

“My dad was going to murder you.” Mickey smiles, but it’s unsteady. Ian can feel the tightness in his chest. “I would have fucking hated that, too. I don’t have a real good fucking solution to this. But he can’t do shit when he’s inside and I just… I can’t do this anymore, Ian.”

Thank Christ.

“Yeah. I’m,” Ian swallows. “I’m done.”

Mickey has to be able to read Ian, so he must know that Ian is exhausted and relieved beyond fucking anything. He must know he feels happy and his whole body is quiet in a way it hasn’t in months. He’s got to sense some of that. So whatever it is that makes Mickey nervous right now, it can’t be anything that’s right in front of him. But still. Mickey’s eyes dart away and he looks towards the door while he mumbles, “You gonna come home?”

Ian sags further into the wall. The idea makes him tired in the best way. Tired like it’s the end of a marathon and he can stop and breathe. He grins and leans into Mickey, sliding his hand around the back of his neck and pressing his check to Mickey’s temple.

“Of fucking course I am.”

The very best thing about this night--even better than seeing Mickey, better than Mickey absolving him of his crimes--is feeling everything that goes off inside of Mickey when he says that. So many times they talked and Ian felt a million miles away, interpreting anger and impatience into all his silences. Disinterest in the long gaps between text messages. And something was going on. They can talk about it later. But sitting here, he just knows he was wrong. Because Mickey absolutely still loves him. Never stopped. Never wanted to. Ian laughs and it catches him by surprise. He’s felt so far away from any kind of happiness. But this makes him happy. Mickey reeling with all the feelings of reunion? That is the fucking healing. He didn’t even know he could still feel this good.

He’s grinning like an idiot when he lifts his head up to look at his soulmate. Mickey is smiling right back at him. Ian reaches out, all of his own feelings of hesitancy gone, and puts a hand on Mickey’s abdomen.

“What are you doing?”

“Right here.” Ian presses his hand against his stomach. “You feel us right here.”

“I feel us everywhere.”

Ian flattens his hand across Mickey’s stomach splaying his fingers. “You feel it most here.”

Mickey smirks. “Sometimes.”

Fuck. There’s some heat in Mickey’s voice and it feels so good to feel that want again. And even though Ian is so tired he half expects he’s going to have to crawl back to bed, he leans forward and presses his mouth against his soulmate’s for the first time in months.

It’s a powerful fucking thing. Sweet for a moment. A brief one. Just warm and familiar and he can feel the burst of delight in Mickey’s chest. But then Ian slides his arms around Mickey and Mickey is arching into him in a way he never has before, his hands coming upt to hold Ian’s face close to his. They both open their mouths to each other, and it’s all hot and wet and Ian’s head is buzzing so much he can hardly hear. He half drags Mickey towards him and half moves into his lap. Chaotic and uncontained, but he can’t make himself pull back and try to make sense of it. He just wants to touch and feel and kiss. Kiss Mickey, finally, finally, finally.

They end up on the floor with Ian’s hands moving under Mickey’s shirt, sliding up his back and feeling all his warm, smooth skin. His ribs and the notches on his spine. The shoulder blades that move while Mickey keeps pushing his body into Ian, while grabbing at him. Both of them pressing against each other as much as two full clothed teenagers making out in some strange bathroom can manage.

Mickey is dizzy with need. Ian can feel that, too. And if his body was capable of a single fucking thing he would be falling to fucking pieces right now. He wouldn’t care about where they were or what might be on fucking hand. But as hot as he feels, as much as he never wants to stop kissing and touching and making MIckey feel good, he knows he emphatically does not have this in him.

When he pulls back, Mickey actually whimpers, which fucking kills him. He bends down and brushes a few soft kisses against his mouth. Soothing, as best he can.

“I think I’m writing checks my body can’t fucking cash here.”

“It’s fine,” Mickey is panting, and shaking his head. “It’s fine. Just. Fuck.”

He pulls Ian into him again, but just presses his face into Ian’s neck, breathing harshly. And as much as Ian can tell he’s trying to calm himself down, he can’t help but presses down, grinding their bodies together and causing Mickey to let out another soft cry. He’s frustrated with how little interest his own body seems to be able to muster, because the rest of him is going out of his mind. As much as he wishes he could fuck Mickey right now, he is more than wiling to get him off. He pushes back just enough to allow daylight between them and pushes up Mickey’s shirt again. Hand warm across Mickeys’ abdomen he whispers “Let me?” against his ear.

Mickey fucking writhes under him. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Fuck. Please.”

Ian flicks over the top button of Mickey’s jeans. There really is something fun about this. He doesn’t even feel frustrated or embarrassed. Just no fucking concern right now, but making Mickey feel good. And everything he does is making Mickey feel good. He’s panting through gritted teeth as Ian pulls down his fly.

“So fucking hot, Mick,” he murmurs. “Always gonna remember how good you look right now.”

Mickey arches again, groaning and then…

Then.

Ian barely touches him. Honest to fucking God--he almost wonders if he got his hand on him at all, it happens so fucking fast. It’s really hard to tell which one of them is more shocked, though Mickey is distracted by the strength of the orgasm that has grabbed him by the throat.

“Holy fuck,” he gasps, dropping back onto the floor, both hands coming up to cover his face. Ian fights an urge to giggle. He pulls some more toilet paper from the roll and does his best to clean up while the suppressed laughter punches at his insides.

“That was fucking incredible,” he observes, tossing the paper into the wastebasket.

“Shut up.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I wasn’t exactly trying to fucking last, asshole.”

Ian surrenders to giggles, burying his face in Mickey’s shoulder. He could not be happier right now. He could not feel closer to Mickey. He could not be more in love. There is nothing about this moment he doesn’t feel fucking euphoric about.

“Hey, at least you could get it up.”

He feels Mickeys’ belly shake against him and turns his face to muffle the laughter with a kiss.

“You know,” Mickey drawls as he pulls back. “Laughing at your soulmate’s sexual performance isn’t the best way to get laid.”

“Yeah. I’m not too concerned about that.”

“You should be.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Ian breathes in Mickey’s neck. That spicy scent. That little bit of Listerine on his breath. “I think I can help you get past it.” He kisses a spot just under Mickey’s jaw and smiles when it elicits a shiver.

“You’re such a dick.”

“Maybe. But you’re stuck with me.”

***

Mickey doesn’t sleep great, but it’s a vast fucking improvement.

He’d managed to half drag a nearly deliriously exhausted Ian to bed after their… whatever the fuck that had been in the bathroom. Ian had let Mickey help him out of his jeans, and had slipped under the covers where he’d insisted Mickey join him.

Mickey was helpless to resist. Ian had always been able to get any fucking thing he wanted out of Mickey, and Mickey was feeling lightheaded and warm, so despite them being in a strange apartment with a guy Mickey still wasn’t sure he could trust, he’d shucked his own jeans and button-up, and had slid into the bed next to him. Ian had snuggled into him and murmured something about how they were fucking done with this, and then promptly had passed out again.

And Mickey, feeling warm with Ian pressed into his side, and comforted by his soft breathing, and let himself drift. He’s maybe even slept--at least a few hours--because the next time he opened his eyes it was light out. The sun peeking out over the top of the skyline, and the sky still red and orange.

Sunrises were impressive and all, but Mickey couldn’t find it in him to care. Ian had shifted a little, now lying on his back with one arm flung out. Mickey had rolled over, pillowed his head down on Ian’s chest, and had let himself close his eyes again.

The next time he opens his eyes, it’s to the clatter of the staircase. Their host, in sweatpants and a t-shirt emerging from his room. He smiles at Mickey, who has lifted his head off Ian and is blearily taking in the bright loft. Ryan mouths “morning!” and heads to the kitchen where he gets coffee started. It’s a testament to how addicted he is to the feeling of lying against his soulmate that Mickey lets his head drop onto Ian’s shoulder again, and arm moving possessively around his waist. His brain is waking up, though. And while Mickey keeps his eyes closed as the coffee brews and as he hears the shower turn on in another part of the loft, his brain is starting to do the math.

He’s still got to tell Ian about Liam and Fiona.

He’s still got to get them back to Southside.

He’s still got to deal with a fuck ton of Milkoviches who aren’t heading back to prison.

He cannot just stay in bed with Ian forever. Though. He really fucking wants to.

He should probably find a lot of shit from last night troubling. All the changes in Ian. The drugs. Ian’s panicky wake-up and then his near terror at confessing that he’d done something they’d fucking AGREED to. Mickey felt kinda unsettled about that still. Something about Ned, this guy with money and shit, seeing everything Mickey was seeing and doing fuck all about it. It was nagging at him and it wasn’t jealousy. He was remarkably free of jealousy. He’d done the same fucking thing, after all. He knew how meaningless it was. But Ian was fucked up about this. And that was what bothered him.

Mickey lightly pets at Ian’s chest, like he’s trying to offer comfort even while Ian is dead to the world. It’s ok. I’ll take care of you. We’ll take care of each other. It’s so much better this way.

When he hears the shower stop, Mickey forces himself to pull away from Ian and put his pants on. He tosses his shirt on, for good measure, but only bothers to do up a few buttons before settling himself on the pull-out with his phone. It’s after nine, which surprises him. He has three text messages. One from Svetlana, telling him their client cancelled for today, and thank fuck for that. One from Jamie, asking about Terry. And one from Mandy: “Where the fuck are you?”

Good fucking question.

When their host re-emerges, he’s dressed in a navy v-neck sweater over a button-down and grey dress pants, fastidiously adjusting his cuffs as he walks back into the kitchen. Mickey keeps his eyes down, feeling awkward as Ryan moves around, opening and closing the fridge, pulling down mugs. He’s finally forced to acknowledge his presence when Ryan comes to the edge of the counter and asks, “black or cream and sugar?”

Mickey squirms with the discomfort that comes with some fucking stranger making him something.

“Black, I guess.”

Ryan’s back moments later carrying two mugs. He puts one down on the coffee table and then hands the other to Mickey. “Bacon and eggs ok for breakfast?”

Jesus fuck.

“Don’t you gotta get to a fucking job or something?”

“That’s what I was emailing about last night. The lab knows I’m going to be a little late.”

Lab. Great. They’re crashing with a mad scientist. Mickey eyes the coffee warily.

“How’s he doing?” Ryan nods at Ian who shows no signs of stirring, even while there’s conversation directly over his body.

“Ok. Woke up in the night.” Which this asshole probably heard. He doesn’t really care about the sex, but the idea of this guy having overheard them talking is extremely undesirable. “He was--” Mickey flutters his hand in the air a bit. “I dunno.”

“Didn’t hear a thing last night,” Ryan chirps. “I have a white noise machine and the good sense to give reunited soulmates their privacy.”

Mickey really wishes he hasn’t said that. But whatever. He did get the world’s briefest handjob in the guy’s bathroom last night. Mickey decides to actually try the coffee because he’s actually pretty hungry and he IS going to eat this guy’s food. So.

It’s the smell of bacon that gets Gallagher to rouse. Lifting his head in confusion, then glancing over and Mickey. His hair is mussed and there are pillow creases on his face, which show up starkly against his pale skin.

“Your friend’s making us breakfast. You want coffee?”

Ian responds with an incoherent grumble and rearranges himself on the bed so that his head is resting on Mickey’s thigh. Mickey decides to take that as a no, and strokes Ian’s hair while they wait.

Mickey had assumed they’d be summoned to the breakfast bar at some point, so he’s a bit surprised when Ryan flits back to them and starts laying out napkins and utensils strategically around the seating area. Three, since he’s clearly planning on them all eating together. He doesn’t seem at all troubled by Ian’s dazed fatigue when he comes back with their plates, laid out with scrambled eggs with little flecks of green in them, crisp bacon and one long slice of sourdough toast. Mickey’s stomach openly growls, and he nudges Ian awake to accept the plate that Ryan hands him.

The food is good, if not a bit ridiculous for a Wednesday morning when Mickey would normally be subsisting on bad coffee and a bowl of fruit loops. But whatever. He’s done with questioning Ryan’s motives because he can feel life coming back into him with every bite.

Not so much with Ian, though. He’s awake, but listless, picking small bits of scrambled eggs up with his fork and then spending more time looking at them than eating. Mickey nudges him with his foot.

“Hey. Eat something. There’s nothing in your fucking stomach.”

“Maybe, Mickey,” Ryan interjects, “You could let him lean back against you while he eats. He might find it a bit easier.”

Mickey frowns, but Ryan’s not wrong that Ian’s lack of energy is fucking weird. So he takes his soulmate’s plate from him, putting it down on a side table while he rearranges them both so that Ian is between Mickey’s legs, lying back against his chest. He glances at Ryan who seems to approve of this arrangement as Mickey hands Ian his plate back. And there is this satisfying little hum that comes through the bond. Just a little sign that Ian is feeling better, even if this is a more awkward way to eat.

“I thought,” Ryan says, conversationally, once they’re settled, “after I went to bed last night, that I really should have said a thing or two about reunification. You can google it, but most writing out there about bonds is focused on the average--romantic bonds, older couples, more established in their lives. For you two, it’s going to be a little more difficult.”

Oh, good. Why the fuck not?

Ian doesn’t respond to this at all, just scraping his fork across the plate, but then actually eating the eggs it’s collected. Mickey sighs and rubs a hand on Ian’s chest.

“Difficult fucking how?”

“You’ll probably need a lot of contact,” Ryan says between bites. “For a few days. It’ll take a bit for it to feel normal again. You’ve had a traumatic separation. The bond is going to assert itself.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Ryan nods a few times, chewing thoughtfully. “It might be different for both of you. Ian, you said you feel drained when you aren’t with Mickey, so that’ll probably happen more than you’re used to. Mickey, I don’t know how the separation impacts you, but those feelings will probably stick around. It’ll be uncomfortable to be apart. But give it a week or so. It’ll get better.”

Mickey thinks of Svetlana and her fingernails talk. He takes a bite of toast. “We’re not splitting up again.”

“Well, I applaud that. I think you will both find that to be a much better way to live.”

Thank you, Mr. Einstein.

Ian does start to move through his plate, though, so Ryan probably knows what he’s talking about. And Mickey doesn’t mind having his soulmate, who he has missed so desperately, lying all over him. And when Ian gets about halfway through his food, he starts to talk to Ryan. Thanking him for his help. Asking a few questions about work that indicate he has a lot more context for the guy’s job. All sure signs of life, instead of the zombie state he was in a few minutes earlier. Mickey finishes up first and sets his plate aside so that he can touch Ian a little more. Rub his arms. At one point, Ian cranes his neck so that he can look up at Mickey. He smiles, and then reaches up and presses a soft kiss to Mickey’s mouth. In front of Ryan. Like it’s just anything. Mickey’s heart pounds, his skin flushes and he smiles back at him. Not feeling any of the shit he might have before. Not worried or scared. Just… grateful.

“Finish your food,” he tells him. And Ian follows the direction.

Ryan’s bizarre investment in their health and happiness extends to ordering them an Uber. Mickey gives his own address as the destination because he has no fucking clue what would be waiting for Ian at the Gallagher house. When Ian untangles himself from Mickey long enough to use the bathroom, Ryan turns and spits out some rapid-fire instructions.

“So here’s the thing. Whatever shit you guys are doing to manage missing each other, stop it. You feel bad, you just stick close to him. You gotta interrupt that behaviour and get used to feeling each other again. And make sure he drinks lots of water and gets a lot of rest, because he’s already coming down and his body isn't going to like it. Don’t worry about being clingy or needy--just do what you want. As long as it’s being together and not trying to self-medicate. I know you guys probably have to work and stuff. But do your best. It’ll go by faster.”

Mickey is not accustomed to taking anyone’s fucking advice, but he eagerly takes this in because it feels important. It also feels like this guy knows what he’s talking about.

“There’s some shit going on with his family. Haven’t gotten to tell him yet.”

Ryan cringes. “Can it wait? Let him sleep this off a little more?”

“Yeah,” Mickey decides. “Yeah, it can fucking wait.”

When Ian emerges, he’s a little unsteady on his feet but charming enough to Ryan as they pull on coats and boots. Mickey waits until they’re safely in the back of the car before he pulls his phone out. He opens the text thread with Mandy.

“Heading home. Who’s at the house?”

The three dots appear immediately.

“Fuck you. Iggy wasn’t home last night either. Kenyatta’s working at 10.”

And then, when Mickey doesn’t answer right away, she texts again.

“Motherfucker. Did you find Ian?”

“Yeah. I got him.”

He feels warmth bloom in his chest. He’s got Ian back. He is never letting him go again.

***

The Milkovich house looks cold and dark, even on a bright sunny morning. Ian’s eyes are already burning by the time they pull up. He doesn’t know why he’s so tired--though he also can’t remember the last time he was awake at 10 in the morning. He had slept so deeply, once he and Mickey had talked. Waking up had felt like swimming through leagues and leagues of water to only barely break the surface. He wanted to sink down again. Desperately.

He lets Mickey shepherd him into the house. He’s a little more capable than the night before, though, so he ditches his own boots by the door before shuffling down the hall to Mickey’s room. He doesn’t even discuss the fact that he wants to go back to bed. Just starts to pull off his clothes as soon as he’s through the door. Backpack and parka dropped in the corner one minute, stepping out of his jeans the next. He glances back to see Mickey hovering in the doorway.

“You changed it.”

“Yeah,” Mickey nods towards the double bed that now sits in the middle of the room. “Better set up.”

Sure. But he would sleep with Mickey anywhere right now. He shrugs off the hoodie and crawls under the covers. Then he glances back and frowns.

“You coming?”

The tension Mickey was holding--though Mickey is always holding some fucking tension--releases and he smiles. Nods. He pushes the door to the bedroom closed behind him and then throws a large barrel bolt into its lock position. Ian’s too exhausted to think too much about what that means. He’s just glad to see it. Being locked away with Mickey has a lot of appeal.

Mickey also sheds his clothes as he crosses the room, but then he opens the top drawer of his dresser and pulls out a handgun. Ian watches as Mickey tosses it down onto the nightstand, then pulls off his shirt and scrambles into the bed with Ian. He settles into Ian’s open arms. Ian squeezes Mickey and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“We good?” he asks, with his last bit of strength.

“Yeah,” Mickey assures him. “We’re good. We’re safe.”