Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The realtor’s skin is tight, frozen a little around the eyes and mouth. Botox, probably. Ian has seen it in a few of them. They always use words like “your” when they walk around the Emerald house.

She gestures around the room. “So here is your great room, and as we pass through to your kitchen, make sure to take note of the original woodwork.”

Ian motions for Jamal to get away from the doorway. The appliances were put in place, and Ian just has to check Jamal’s outlets on the countertop and then he’s almost finished.

“This is your great room fireplace,” she says as Ian walks by quietly. He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. A checklist. He sees Mickey by the plans and decides it’s a good excuse.

“Hi,” he says quietly. He chances smoothing the paper out next to Mickey’s hand, and although Mickey shifts away a little, Ian can see him smiling.

“Hey,” Mickey says, just as quietly. Ian grins as he turns back to watch the realtor give her speech. She’s more determined than the other two who have come by today. She’s eager to make a sale. Confident.

“Are the fireplaces functional?” The woman asks. Mid-twenties, if Ian had to guess. She has square-shaped black glasses, hair dyed that purple-y red.

Her hair reminds him of when he dyed his hair darker, that year, that year on the box at the Fairy Tale. That haircut, too. Why did he do that? He doesn’t remember why. He remembers swiping a box at a drugstore. That’s all he remembers about that. After the hospital, that first hospital, he remembers himself looking into the mirror at home. He looked down and saw the toothpaste splatters in sink. Debbie’s hairbrush by the faucet, which he accidentally knocked down as he reached for the scissors. He remembers looking down at the blades for a minute. Probably a solid minute. But he didn’t want them for that. His head was still fuzzy, hands shaky, tired. So tired. He began to cut his hair, big clumps falling into the sink. His arms got tired, so he stopped. He stumbled back and into his room. He was about to lay down when Carl walked in.

“What did you do to your hair?” he asked.

“Huh,” Ian said. He didn’t have the words. He was so tired. Always so tired. But Carl walked over and sat on the bed.

“It looks bad,” Carl said.

“Don’t care,” Ian said into the pillow. “M’ tired.”

Carl got up and left the room. Ian was drifting off before he heard the buzzing, the buzzing next to his ear. He meant to say something, to pull away, but then he felt it. The electric razor sliding against his head. It felt good, like someone running a hand over his head. He felt Carl’s hand pushing him gently toward the wall, dragging the razor against his head again. He felt a pulling at his neck. “Sit up,” Carl said.

Ian felt the weight on him, the medicine holding him down. It would get better, the doctor said. You’ll get used to it, she said. You just have to get through this adjustment period, she said.

“I can’t,” Ian said.

He heard the buzz continue, held out, into the air. It shut off.

“Here,” Carl said. Ian could feel his hand slide under his neck, pull him up slowly. “C’mon, you can do it.”

Ian could. He felt himself being lifted, Carl’s arm on his back, tipping him forward against his shoulder. Ian rested there, breathing out. His breath shook. He was startled that he felt he was going to cry. He didn’t remember being able to cry. He didn’t think it was possible anymore.

When did Carl get this strong? When did he get old like this, letting Ian’s body fall forward, holding him up? Ian felt the razor on the back of his head, felt Carl’s other arm rise up, holding his ear back so he could cut the hair around it. The buzz stopped again, and Carl’s hand rubbed around on his head, checking for uneven places. Ian could feel his fingers, the lightness on this head. It felt good. Clean. He didn’t know what it looked like. He never had it that short, not even playing Army. There was almost nothing left. It was all gone, and there was something very good about that. Freeing. A little death, a lightness.

Carl let go of him. Ian began to fall back, but Carl caught him again. “Should take your shirt off. It’s all over it. And your bed.”

Ian did as he was told. He leaned back and pulled the shirt off. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Carl nodded. “You shouldn’t sleep here,” he said. “There’s hair all over. You can sleep in my bed if you want.”

Ian stared at him again. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” Carl said, shrugging. Ian wanted to say something else, but Carl left the room like nothing had happened. Ian managed to climb up into his bed and dragged his hand over his buzzed hair until he fell asleep. Soft. It was soft, just like the sleep that was pressing down on him. Safe.

He shakes the memory off. He drags a hand over his head. His hair is longer now. Not at all that long again. His hair is the color it’s supposed to be.

“The fireplaces are not functional as of yet,” the realtor says. The man is young, too. Beard and a flannel shirt. Hipsters. Money. “But they could easily be converted to gas. You will see you have four fireplaces in this home. Two with the original mantles, but you could easily add them on to the others if you wish.

“That one looks good like it is, babe,” The man says to the purple-red haired woman, pointing out the large one in the room. “That brick.”

The woman drops her voice a little. She shifts from foot to foot. “And the, you know, neighborhood is okay?”

Ian hears Mickey stifle a little laugh, one that Ian has to fight sharing.

The realtor doesn’t hesitate. Not like that other one today, with the fake pearls and soft voice. “It’s an up and coming neighborhood,” she says.

“Coming up from where?” Mickey says under his breath, and Ian grins, shifting his eyes sideways to find him, eyebrows raised.

“Revitalizing,” The realtor says. "This is a very good time to buy in this area."

“Gentrifying,” Ian says quietly. “Why don’t they just say it?”

“Cause we’re here,” Mickey says. “Don’t wanna rile up the local thugs.”

Ian can see the woman watching them nervously.

“Let’s go see the upstairs. We have your master bed and bath, your three other bedrooms and half bath.”

“I hate that fucking bathroom,” Mickey mumbles.

“Same here,” Ian says.

The realtor points out the couple’s newel post, the couple’s stairs, their window on the landing with replacement vinyl. “Energy efficient, obviously,” she says proudly.

At this point, they can tell when a potential buyer is interested at all. Some slide through quickly. Some don’t like brick. Some are obviously afraid of the neighborhood and aren’t even going to consider it. Some say - no joke - that the house is too small. That’s the one that gets them both every time. Should I tell them about sharing a room with three brothers yet or no, Ian joked once.

“Okay, look,” Ian says. “I’m mostly done. I just checked in with Jamal, so I’m gonna get out of here. Kowalski said he wants me to come back Thursday and do the final walk-through. I might have to grab my stuff Friday though, if you can drive me home. I won’t have the van on Thursday. But Kowalski says I’m out.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, he told me. We’re all gonna be out next week. Sanders are comin’ Monday.”

“No shit?” Ian looks at the plans again. “Man. Can’t believe it’s over already.”

“Already?” Mickey jokes. “It’s September.”

Ian shrugs. “Just barely,” he says. “What, you’re complaining about the cooler days?”

“Heh,” Mickey says. “Thought you were leavin.”

“What, you wanna watch my ass when I walk away?”

Mickey’s eyes dart around before he does that thing. That thing where he drags his eyes up and down, like he’s just barely holding back from grabbing him. “Basically,” he says.

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Enjoy,” he says. He makes a show of clenching his arm as he reaches across Mickey’s table for a pencil. He drags it over Mickey’s knuckles before dropping it and backing up, turning around, walking away. He hears the realtor talking as she walks down the stairs. He looks over his shoulder at the doorway, catches Mickey grinning. He sighs into the air, digging out his keys for Bowman’s van. He turns back to the house. He can’t believe how good it looks. Some landscape company came in, even. New sod. Mulch. Rock. Rose bush. Rhododendrons. Lilac lining the side of the house. Some sort of tree in the front yard that Ian can’t remember the name of, small and staked down. The large oak tree in the adjacent lot has paleing leaves, soon to glow yellow or orange. Soon there will be that smell in the air. Ian loves that smell almost as much as he loves the smell of Mickey. He huffs a laugh at the thought.

The stairs where Ian and Mickey sat that first day were fixed. He wasn’t there the day it was all smashed out, but they look good now. He can’t believe that this all happened. That it looked that bad. That it looks this good now. He can’t believe it. Can’t believe that on that first day, that day he met Mickey, was the start of this. All of this.

The door is still open, and he sees the realtor come out with the couple. The man is smiling as Mickey follows them out. They are talking, saying something Ian can’t hear. He feels a sudden pang of jealousy, which makes no sense at all, but it’s there all the same. He’s a handsome man. Ian watches Mickey shake the man’s hand, watches it linger for a split second before Mickey laughs. Ian’s teeth clench. The woman gives a wave and they head for the realtor’s car. Mickey watches them go, and as his eyes draw back, he sees Ian.

“Don’t give me the chin, stupid,” Mickey says, walking closer. “Relax. They’re into it. They’re comin’ back tomorrow. I think we got the buyers.”

Ian smiles. It’s done. It’s almost done. “I’m gonna go. Got cards, but you wanna come by after?”

“I gotta help Iggy with some stuff,” he says. Ian is about to start talking, interrupt, but Mickey beats him to it. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’ll be quick. It’s not–it’s not gonna be a big deal.”

Ian breathes out. “Will you, you know, call at least?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah I can do that. Told ya I’d start doing that shit. I can stay on a leash for ya.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. “A leash, huh?”

Mickey turns red, just a little. “Not like that. Didn’t mean it like that, Jesus.”

“Okay,” Ian says, grinning. “If you say so.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Thought you were leavin.”

Ian jangles his keys. “Call me later,” he says again.

“I will. Relax.”

Ian slams his van door shut and starts the engine. When he looks over, McGinley and Danny are coming out of the house. He pulls away from the curb quickly. He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he accelerates so much as he rounds the corner. He has nothing to be afraid of. He has nothing to hide.

But he does. He forgets he does. He has to hide the most beautiful thing. Mickey says to give him time. He will give him time. But it’s hard to hide. It’s getting harder and harder to hide. He wants to be patient. He does. He will. He will. For Mickey. It’s for Mickey, he tells himself, over and over. But Mickey is getting more and more relaxed the longer this goes on. At the site? He’s getting careless, almost. Too careless. Maybe he – Ian thinks, but he shakes the thought off. It’s not forever, Mickey says. He’ll get there. They’ll get there. Someday.

That will be a great day. He slows down as the traffic light turns yellow. He’d accelerate through it, push past it on another day. But he’ll slow down. He’ll wait.

He’ll wait.

*
“There’s nacho cheese Dorito slime on my cards,” Ian says. “This is not my problem.”

Sully barks out a laugh. “They’re your cards.”

“Your Doritos.”

“What, you want to quit already?” Sully says, tipping his beer bottle to his lips. “You’re losing, so you’ll make up any excuse.”

Ian shakes his head. “I could make a comeback any minute. You never know.” He stands up, heads to the kitchen for a wet paper towel. “Here,” he says. “Wipe your fingers at least.”

Sully takes it with an eyeroll. “I already wiped them on my pants.”

“You sound like a child,” Ian says, smiling.

“A child who is kicking your narrow ass at cards.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, “So you’ve–”

“Shut it,” Sully says, laughing. “Besides, I like my asses big. You know that.”

“How is she, by the way?” Ian asks. “I still don’t think she exists.”

“She exists,” Sully says. “She’s just been working nights.”

“I still wanna meet her,” Ian says. “She sounds nice.” He draws a card, shakes his head at the orange grease, wipes it on his pants. “Did she figure out what’s wrong with you yet?”

Sully kicks him. “She’s a neonatal nurse, dumbass. Like, for newborn babies.”

“That works,” Ian says. “You’re basically a baby.” He holds the orange card up. “Babies do this.”

Sully rolls his eyes before squinting at his cards. “Who’da thunk that we can get lucky just by workin’ these stupid construction jobs? I mean, you got Mickey cause of it, and I got Sarah. If I knew showin’ up at some hottie’s house, takin’ out a wall and building a new room was all it took to get a girlfriend, I woulda skipped high school.”

“She liked watching you swing a hammer.” Ian says. “None of those doctors get covered with sweat and construction dust.”

“It’s cause of pheromones,” Sully says. “She could smell me. My man stuff. That’s a turn on. I don’t smell like a hospital. Hospital smell isn’t sexy.”

Ian shifts in his seat. He doesn’t know why the mention of hospital bothers him sometimes. But it’s something about the word “smell” attached to it. His nose remembers it. Sometimes he smells it in the doctor’s office. He wonders if the smell is just the smell of crazy people. Mentally ill, Ian. We don’t use words like crazy here. He remembers the smell of the bedding, starchy and bleached. He remembers how we was finally allowed a top sheet after 24 hours. He remembers trying so hard to smell his smell on his pillow, on his skin. He sweat smelled different.

“Hey,” Sully says, and he’s quieter, his smile dropping. “Sorry, did I mess up with that, man?” Sully is so good. He is so lucky to have him. “I didn’t mean ta bring it up.”

“It’s okay,” Ian waves off. “It’s not even the same hospital. It’s fine. She works in a hospital. That’s her job, I know that. That’s totally okay. Cool, even.”

“Still,” Sully says. He looks down at his cards and grins. “Get ready to hate me.”

“Fuck. Already?”

Sully knocks on the table and lays down his run of cards. “Gin, bitch.”

Ian groans. “Fine. Give me your cards. Let me split a beer with you.”

“Ooh, gettin’ wild, Gallagher.”

Ian stands up, holds the cards, follows Sully into the kitchen. He wets another towel and goes through the cards on the counter. Sully leans against it as he opens the beer, takes a swing, and offers it to Ian.

“So it’s okay?” Sully says. “That I said hospital? 'Cause you been mostly good for a while now. I didn’t think it would sound bad.”

Ian separates the stained cards from the clean ones. “Um,” he says. He feels like he always feels with Sully. Relaxed. Lucky he can tell the truth. “It’s okay, Sul. It is.” He opens and closes his mouth. “But,” he begins, and he watches Sully take a drink. “What do you mean by mostly? Do I seem, like have I seemed off?”

Sully shrugs. “We still got our deal, right? I tell you if I see stuff?”

Ian nods and takes the beer offered. “Have you seen stuff? I mean, I know we’ve been busy over the summer, but anything? Cause you know you can tell me, right? I mean, I might get embarrassed or something, but it’s important, you know?”

“Yeah,” Sully says. “I know. Other than you being really torn up about Mickey bein’ out, you’ve been good. But you do seem like you’ve had some temper issues, honestly. But you’ve been workin’ two jobs. It’s hot out and Danny sucks, and you’ve been frustrated about shit. But overall, yeah. I think okay. Maybe just try and chill a little more?”

Ian breathes out. “I’m trying.” It is embarrassing, even like this, this small amount. “It’s been hard to figure out what’s real. Not like, you know, psychosis real, but like what emotions, you know?”

Sully nods. “It’s been a hard summer,” he says. “But also really fucking good, right?”

“So good,” Ian says, smiling against the beer bottle before he takes a sip. “You’re right, though. I’ll just have to chill about Mickey coming out. He just needs some time. It’ll happen.”

Sully nods. “And that’s good,” he says. “Good you can get like that. You’re not manic like that. With that you usually text me a lot or tell me I’m not playing my cards fast enough.”

“Well,” Ian says, wiping the cards off again. “You are pretty slow. That’s a fact.”

“It is also a fact that you’re better,” Sully says, and Ian is startled by it, but in a nice way. A way that feels soothing. “And he knows about it and it’s not a deal-breaker. You’re not a deal-breaker. You just gotta be honest, man. Be honest about everything.”

Ian nods. “I am,” he says, almost stuttering, almost like he did when he started meds. “I’m mostly honest,” he says. “I’m trying, you know, to just be honest.” The blade in the bathroom, he thinks. That razor in the bathroom.

“Good,” Sully says. He hands the beer bottle to Ian and pulls out a new bottle, clinking the necks together. “Now whaddya want to play? Something you can win? Old Maid? Go Fish?”

Ian gives him a shove toward the table. “You’re not half as funny as you think you are.”

“Nah, you love me,” Sully says, laughing. “I’m your best friend in the whole fucking world.”

“You are,” Ian says. “You are though.”

“You too, dude. No doubt.” Sully says. He takes a long drink of beer and grabs the cards from Ian’s hands. “We’re fuckin’ awesome.”

*

The sun is just barely up, but Mickey is panting hard into Ian’s neck, lips wet. “Fuck,” he pants “Oh fuck, like that. Like,” a wet gasp against Ian’s skin. “Oh, fuck, just like that.” His body begins to strain. “There,” he says. “Oh fuck, Ian, right there. There. Ah.”

Ian’s arms shake as he holds them in place, and he hears himself talking, voice strong, just like Mickey likes when he’s like this, soft and chatty. “Yeah?” Ian says, voice low. “You like it right there? You gonna fuckin’ come?”

“Yeah,” Mickey whines. He huffs as he tries to talk. “Wanna come on your fuckin’ dick. So fuckin’ big.”

Ian wants to fall apart. “Yeah? Want me to fill you up?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He cries out. “M’ gonna come. Right there. Gimme that big fuckin’ cock. Come in my fuckin' ass.”

Ian speeds up, and Mickey pants so hard, grits his teeth with a groan, Every limb contracting. He touches himself but he’s already coming. Ian lets go, releasing hard.

They breathe together. Ian lets out a breath that is almost a whistle. “I love when you talk dirty. Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He rubs at his forehead. “Yeah, you too. ‘S hot. Sometimes ya just gotta let it all that shit out.”

Ian chuckles. He turns on his side and kisses Mickey’s cheek, neck, shoulder. Three quick kisses right before he sits up. “We gotta get goin’,” he says. “I gotta hit up the doctor before Bowman.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, still trying to catch his breath. “Don’t talk about work right now. Gimme like two minutes at least. Just two.”

“No can do,” Ian says, climbing over Mickey, letting his sore and wobbling legs hit to floor. He reaches for the pillbox and tosses the white and the orange ones in his mouth, washing it down with the glass of water from last night. “I gotta get outta here.”

Mickey rubs his face with the heels of his hands. “Can I just stay at least? Just for a little while?”

Ian shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I got another key. Just hang on a sec. I think it’s…” he stops. “I’m giving you a key to my apartment. A key. We’re doing the key thing.”

Mickey sits up. He sighs. “It’s not like I’ll keep it. I’ll give it back tonight or somethin.’ Just gonna take a shower or whatever.”

Ian leans back down, kissing Mickey quickly, then slower, just a little, before pulling back with another short kiss. “You can keep it,” he says. “I want you to keep it.”

Mickey tosses it up and down with his hand. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. He heads for the bathroom, brushes his teeth, all of that. “I’m going to talk to my doctor about you,” he calls from the bathroom. “I mean, I did. But I think she wants to talk about you some more.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Probably about how, like, we’re getting serious. You know.” He heads back into the room, and Mickey is sitting up, sheet over his lap, hair mussed up. Beautiful. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Mickey says. “I mean, whatever you think’s gonna help, I guess.”

“Okay,” Ian says. He looks around for his shoes.

“Over there,” Mickey says, pointing to the kitchen with a grin. “You never put them back.”

“Didn’t get a chance,” he says. “You’re the one who pulled my pants off.”

Mickey stretches, smiles. “How 'bout if I come too?”

“Come where?”

“The doctor.”

Ian opens and closes his mouth. “Why?”

Mickey shrugs. “Just wanna know what it’s like in there. You know. ‘S not like I have to go in to see the doctor with ya, but maybe I could wait for ya.”

Ian smiles slowly. “You just want to see crazy people,” he says. “Admit it.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Look, I’m, you know, tryin’ to learn more about this stuff. You said I should.”

There’s a twirl in Ian’s gut. Something between nausea and fear, an urge to explain it away, pretend he doesn’t have to go, after all. He could say he got the day wrong. He could call and cancel. Reschedule. Whatever. But even though his stomach says no, says don’t do it, says hide, he opens his mouth.

“Okay,” he says. “You can. I’m not sure if you can, you know, come back there with me, but you can come.”

Mickey nods. “Good.” He puts a cigarette in his mouth, one he won’t light until they’re out on the sidewalk, but he wears it as an accessory as he pulls on his clothes. He doesn’t say anything else.

*

Ian hopes it isn’t a day like when that lady slapped herself in the face. He hopes it isn’t like when he showed up manic with Amanda. But he can't control it. He knows it doesn’t matter what he wants. It will be what it will be. Because all of this, all of the sickness, the illness, these brains, are what they are. Not broken, the doctor says. Just need a little help, she says. You’re doing great, she says. He is starting to believe her.

He leads Mickey down the hallway. “Okay,” he says. “Remember, if someone is talking to themselves or acting weird, just relax, okay? Don’t stare. They won’t hurt you. They’re just in psychosis, okay? And they’re gonna get help. But sometimes if we’re like that, we might feel kinda jumpy. So just read a magazine or something, okay?”

Mickey nods. Ian opens the door. Nothing happens. No alarm. No one shouting at a wall. No confetti falls from the ceiling or anything. It’s like any other time. People playing on their phones. Reading old People magazines. A door opening, calling for someone. He checks in and sits down.

Ian rubs his hands on his pants. “I don’t know why I feel so nervous,” he says. “I’m not like this anymore. I know what to expect.”

Mickey looks like he’s going to take his hand, but he doesn’t. “Cause I’m here. Right?”

Ian shrugs. “What do you think so far?”

Mickey looks around. “Just looks like a doctor’s office to me.”

Ian is quiet. His leg bounces. He wants the nerves to leave. He rubs his hands up and down his pants. Suddenly, slowly, Mickey’s hand reaches over, takes his. Ian almost jumps with surprise, and when he turns toward him, Mickey’s eyes say everything he could think of. “Thanks,” he breathes.

When the nurse calls his name, Mickey lets his arm go. He’s picking up a magazine when Ian turns back. “Can my boyfriend come back?” he asks.

Mickey’s head jerks up, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the word boyfriend or if he’s just been invited behind the curtain.

“Of course,” she says, and steps aside.

Mickey’s eyes dart around the hall, and when they are directed into a room, Mickey doesn’t know where to sit. Ian gestures to the chair near the pastel painting of a nature scene. Mickey looks grateful, and sits down. Ian sits next to him. “They just ask questions now,” he says under his breath.

The questions begin. Any hallucinations? Delusions? How’s your memory? Concentration? Sleep? Medication compliant? Any homicidal thoughts? He sneaks a look at Mickey. His mouth is open, just slightly, eyes still pinballing around the room. The nurse types. What about suicidal thoughts?

Here it comes he thinks. “No,” he says.

What about self-harm? Cutting, burning?

“I-” Ian begins. He swallows. “Yes. I mean no,” he panics. “I mean no, I didn’t. But I wanted to. Almost did.” He feels more than sees Mickey sit up in his chair. “I mean, but I didn’t. I just got, you know, close.”

Got close to which? The nurse asks. Her typing pauses. Cutting or burning?

“Um,” Ian says. His throat is tight. “Cut-cutting. Not burning.”

Was there something that precipitated that urge?

“Um,” Ian says. He looks at Mickey. Mickey’s face begins to fall. His tongue sweeps into his cheek. “Um, I don’t know.”

Do you just not know or you’d like to talk about this in private?

Ian sighs. “I just–” he says. “I only want to talk about that with Dr. Turi, if that’s okay.”

That’s fine, she says. Okay, Ian. I’ll go see if she’s ready.

The door closes softly. He can hear the nurse talking in the hall.

“Ian, what the fuck,” Mickey says. It’s not angry. It’s hurt. Sad, even.

Ian blinks hard. “I wanted to tell you,” he said. “I tried to tell you. I just didn’t want to freak you out. I wanted to–”

The door swings open. “Hello Ian,” Dr Turi says with a smile. She smiles wider when she sees Mickey. “And who is our guest today?”

Mickey stands up, only a little awkward, and extends his hand. Ian tries to catch up. “This is my boyfriend,” he says. “This is Mickey.”

Dr. Turi shakes his hand and gestures to the hallway. “Let’s all go to my office, shall we?”

Ian shouldn’t be so comforted by her messy office, but he is every time. She moves the big bottle of coconut water out of the way and leans back. She folds her arms. “So what’s this I hear about a self-injury slip?”

Her directness is also comforting, in its way. “I didn’t,” he says. “I didn’t though.”

“But you wanted to.”

“Yeah,” Ian says, sneaking a glance at Mickey again. He is looking at the floor. “But - but I didn’t. It was over pretty fast. I didn’t. I haven’t wanted to after that.” He turns to look at Mickey. “I haven’t Mick, I swear.”

“Ian,” Dr Turi says soothingly. “It’s all right. Take a breath. Let’s just go slow.”

Ian clenches his teeth. Flight. Flight. “Okay,” he says.

“What was your trigger?” Dr. Turi’s arms drop and she leans forward again. “Walk me through it.”

Why did he invite Mickey back here? Why did he do this? His brain must have told him. Convinced him. So stupid. “It was nothing,” he says. “I just thought about it. That’s all.”

“What did you think of, exactly.”

Ian twists in his seat. “You know what. A cut, or whatever.”

“Cutting yourself?”

“But I didn’t, Ian says again. His leg bounces.

“What did you want to use?” Her eyes are kind, but firm.

“I didn’t want,” he says. Ian can feel his words, himself, flail. “I mean, I did what you said. I didn't choose something I could keep for, you know, just that. Like a special thing just for that. I had my leatherman knife in the glovebox. I didn’t use it.”

“So what did you use, Ian?”

“I didn’t,” he says, desperate. “I didn’t use anything.”

Her voice is soft. “Where were you when you were thinking of this, Ian?”

He looks at Mickey. Mickey gives the smallest nod. He crosses his arms. “I was driving,” he begins. “I was working, and I was thinking about it when I was driving, and then all of a sudden I end up in a gas station bathroom.”

“Okay,” Dr. Turi says. “What was in your hand?”

“A razor.”

Mickey’s breath is shaky. He can hear it.

“And then what?”

“I took my shirt off,” he says quietly.

“What was in your hand?”

Ian looks over at Mickey, who is clenching his arms, looking at the floor. He swallows. “A razor, I said.”

“A blade?”

Ian’s arm remembers it all. Every time. His arm doesn’t lie. It can’t. “A–a thing. Like the head of a razor? One of those plastic ones. I cracked the handle off.”

“Then what?”

He swallows hard. “I put it by my arm,” he says. “But then I looked at myself in the mirror. Then I threw it in the garbage. And I threw up.” He looks at Mickey again. “I didn’t do it,” he says, as much to him as to her. “I swear.”

“Is this true?” Dr. Turi is talking to Mickey, now. “Have you seen any marks on him?”

Mickey shakes his head slowly. No. “No,” he says. “I didn’t see any. Any new ones, I guess.”

“So what is this, then,” Dr. Turi says. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Ian leans forward, lets his fingertips slide against his eyebrows. “I was worried about something,” he said. “Something I shouldn’t have been worried about. It was stupid. I was stupid. I over-reacted.”

There is a silence.

“Ian,” Mickey says, suddenly. “This about that day with the phone? And me leavin’? This that day?”

Ian shakes his head, but doesn’t rise up.

“Ian,” Mickey says.

Ian sniffs hard. “It was,” he says into his hands. “It was that day. I’m sorry.”

Mickey stands up. “Fuck,” he says under his breath. He doesn’t apologize for his language. Ian can see him begin to pace.

“Let’s talk about this,” Dr. Turi says. “Sit down, please.”

Mickey does. Ian is about to stand up himself, burst out the door. Alone. Because Mickey doesn’t want this. Mickey doesn’t want him. Mickey doesn’t–

But then Mickey's hand finds Ian’s hand. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, just talk about it. We at the doctor, right? So teach me about it. Cause I can’t have us not talk about this shit and then learn that you almost sliced yourself up in a nasty fuckin’ gas station bathroom.” His jaw shifts. “Cause of me. What I did.”

“It wasn’t because of you,” Ian says, holding his hand tighter. “Not really. It’s cause I’m, you, know, because I have this.”

Dr. Turi nods. “And we need to take that weight off him, Ian. Because as you just implied, it isn’t really about Mickey, right?” Ian nods. “His behavior or expressing feelings about your relationship can’t hold that much weight, because it isn’t the whole truth.” Ian tries to interrupt, say I know, I know, but what about but Dr. Turi keeps going. “Relationship issues can be a dangerous trigger. It can be hard to feel stress in a realationship that is built on mutual trust, respect, and vulnerability. Do you see what I’m saying?” She looks from Ian to Mickey to back again. They nod.

“But you need to communicate, Dr. Turi says. “This is your first relationship after diagnosis, I believe?”

Ian nods. “Yeah, the first,” he mumbles. “Kind of first real one, too, yeah.”

“Okay,” Dr. Turi says. “What about you, Mickey?”

“I never got like this with anybody else,” he says. Simple. Succinct.

Dr. Turi nods. “Okay,” she says, determined. “Okay, here’s what we need to do. Ian? I want you to remember that thing we talked about when you made your suicide and self-harm contract. We–”

Mickey sits up straighter. “Wait, what the–? What’s a suicide and self..whaddya..harm contract?”

“It’s for prevention,” Ian says quietly. “It’s like a deal that I won’t do it, and what I’ll do instead. A plan.”

Dr. Turi nods. “Okay,” she says. “Do you remember when we talked about your brain lying?” Ian nods. “This is a perfect example. Instead of jumping to conclusions about what Mickey might be feeling or thinking, try and talk about it instead. Give your brain something else to do. Does that sound like something that could work?”

Ian hesitates. “As long as he can do it, too. Tell me where he’s going and stuff if I’m worried.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says fast. “Yeah, I know. Said I will. I will, okay?”

They meet each other’s eyes, but don’t back away.

“This isn’t something that will happen after every disagreement, either. That urge, that trigger. With practice you can gain perspective, as long as that communication is there. When you feel triggered in an argument or afterward, you can get through it as long as you communicate, and remember that the illness, the brain, is lying. I know it can be hard to keep that in mind, but it’s important you get through these moments with clarity so you don’t need to feel the strong urge to self-injure afterward.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says quietly. “Yeah, I don’t want you to do that.” He takes a breath. “Please.”

Dr. Turi nods. “Mickey wants to support you,” she says. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be here. Is that a correct assumption, Mickey?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yes.”

“This is new to him, Ian. Let’s see if you can break this into pieces. He wants to learn about this. He’s not going anywhere right now. Just be honest. And you,” she gestures to Mickey. “You can ask questions, okay?” Mickey nods.

Ian holds onto Mickey’s hand tighter. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be honest. Let me start over.” He swallows hard, and turns toward Mickey. He opens his mouth.

*

The toy squeaks when he sits down. He digs it out and squeaks it again, this time in front of its intended audience. Ruby kicks her legs and smiles big. Ian can see it then, right at her gums.

“She’s getting a tooth already?”

“Yeah,” Amanda calls from the kitchen. “My mom said I cut teeth early, too. I already had one when they bought me.”

Ian chuckles. “Well I like your tooth,” he says to Ruby. “Yes I do! I think it looks very nice with all that drool. You look great.”

“So what happened then? Did it go okay?” Amanda is digging in the fridge for something. “Or did he freak?”

“He actually,” Ian begins, mopping up Ruby’s drool with a bib. “It actually made things better kinda? I mean, he didn’t seem very surprised after the shock about that razor wore off. He–”

“Still mad about that, by the way,” Amanda says. She comes over with a bag of carrots and some hummus. “You went against our plan.”

Ian reaches for a carrot. “I know,” he says. “I know I did. But it’s over now. I’m moving on.”

Amanda’s hand finds his arm. “We just love you, Ian. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he says softly. ‘I know.”

“Good,” she says. She bites a carrot and reaches for Ruby’s fist. She still holds fast to her fingers.

He watches her eat that carrot, look down at her baby - at Lip’s baby - and laugh. Amanda is beautiful, and strong, and so kind. “I love you,” he says. “I really do.”

She grins, reaches out to tousle his hair. “I love you too. I’m glad you’re around. Still around, I mean.”

Ruby kicks her feet and squeals, and Ian reaches for her fist. She fights to bring it to her mouth, bite it. He’s so lucky to be sitting here. So happy to be sitting here. “She’s so strong,” he says. “Look at her.” He laughs when she bites on his knuckle. “She sure knows what she wants.”

Amanda laughs. “I’m gonna keep her I guess.”

*

They’re buying it. The couple with the lady with the purple-red hair and the guy with the beard. There’s a “Under Contract” sign attached to the For Sale sign in the yard. It’s the first thing he sees when he walks up to the house to collect all his stuff.

McGinley’s standing at the front when he comes up. He claps Ian on the back. “Sold, huh?”

“Wow,” Ian says. “What else are you doing? When are we out? I already did my walk-through so I’m just grabbing my shit.”

“Going over the floors,” he says. Sanded em down already. We didn’t even wait until Monday. So I’m just looking for fuck-ups. Nail pops. That kind of thing.”

Ian nods. “Mickey around?”

He gestures toward the kitchen. “With Danny.” He gives Ian a pointed look. “Don’t go lookin’ to kick the hornet’s nest.”

Ian laughs under his breath. “I’ll try.”

The dining room has a chandelier. It doesn’t fit in. Not exactly. But, as Mickey said, People love a fuckin’ chandelier. And sure enough, it was one of the first things that woman liked. It is pretty though, Ian has to admit. Delicate in the right places, strong in the right places. Bright, but with a dimmer.

He sees Danny first. “Your boyfriend’s here,” he cracks to Mickey.

Mickey spins around. “Hey,” he says quickly.

“Um,” Ian says, eyes on Danny. “I need my flashlight and my square. I’m packin’ up.”

“Well, I don’t have your flashlight,” Mickey says quickly. “But your square’s probably on the table.”

He waits, eyes moving from Danny to Mickey to Danny again. “Okay,” he says. “I guess I’ll just go?”

He leaves the kitchen, and Jamal is there. Jamal has his flashlight, and Sully showed up to touch up grout, and the other guys are there, and the whole house smells like fresh wood, and the light comes in. Ian turns in a circle. It’s the last time he’s going to see it like this. He holds it with his eyes.

“Looks good, huh?” Sully says.

Ian nods. “Really good.”

Danny comes out of the kitchen with Mickey trailing behind him. “Nice workin’ with ya,” Danny says. He winks, gives a little kiss in the air.

Ian puts his hands on his hips and turns. He breathes hard. “We’re not doin’ this,” he says.

Danny puts his hands up in a defensive pose. “Doin’ what?” He laughs and drops his hands. “I’m jokin’ man. Sorry.”

“Ian,” McGinley says, voice low.

Ian shakes his head. He’s tired. His arms are tired. His brain is tired. “We already settled this,” he says to McGinley. “I don’t have anything else to say to him.”

“At least accept his apology, man.”

Ian shakes his head again. “He offered it already. The first time. The very first time. I accepted it.” He bends, throws his sawzall into his bucket and slips his flashlight into his pocket. “And ever since then, every time I see him–”

He pauses. Stops himself. He turns toward Danny. “Every time I see you, you have something else to say. Some other bullshit to say.” He turns, just slightly, toward Mickey. Mickey is looking right at him, lips parted. “The same stupid shit, over and over. You know how boring that is? It’s boring.”

Danny shrugs. “Don’t seem so boring to you when you’re threatening me over and over.”

Ian feels the flash of anger hit him, but he lets it pass through him. He clenches his teeth, counts to 5. It’s fight or flight, she told him. The doctor. It’s a natural response, she said. Animal brain. Survival. But he knows about stop signs. He knows that he’s on medication. He knows who he is. He’s fought hard to be here. Alive. Standing. Still staring at Danny, but quiet. Still. Not fighting. Not running.

“I don’t have anything to say,” he says. “I’m done.” He glances at Mickey, nods. He bends, picking up his work bucket. “It was good workin’ with you guys. Place looks great.”

He doesn’t look back, just carries the bucket to the front door. It’s gonna be hard to carry it on the train, but not impossible. He sighs. And that’s when he hears it. Mickey.

It’s so quiet Ian almost misses it altogether, but when he turns, eyes wide open, he knows he heard Mickey right. Heard his voice. Heard him say it.

"What did you just say?" McGinley says, eyes wide.

Mickey says it again. Louder, but still pretty quiet. His voice wavers. "I said I'm fucking gay. Big old 'mo."

Ian is holding his breath, staring right at him. Oh god. This is really happening.

"I just thought everyone should know that," he says, just a little louder.

Ian shakes his head slowly. He lets out a breath.

Mickey’s eyes are tight on his as his voice wavers. He claps his hands to his sides. “You happy now?”

Ian feels his head slipping back slowly, slipping forward. He realizes it’s a nod, a soft nod. Yes.

“An’ I’m with him,” Mickey says, gesturing to Ian. “With Ian.”

Jamal’s mouth is open. “You mean, like, Ian’s your…” he lets it trail off.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, he is.”

“Holy shit,” Danny says quietly.

Mickey spins around to find him. “Yeah, holy shit is right,” he bites out. “So you can shut the fuck up at any time.”

Danny closes his mouth. Sully’s eyes are bright and he grins wide before breathing out a satisfied sigh. Ian’s mouth is open, but he doesn’t know what to say.

“Let’s go,” Mickey says, and he crosses the room, across the newly sanded floors, the fresh varnish. He takes Ian’s tool bucket out of his hand. Mickey turns to the rest of them. “McGinley, I’m gonna call Kowalski." He tosses the keys in McGinley’s direction, and he catches them. He turns to Ian. “I said let's go. Let's fucking go.”

The van isn’t locked. Mickey slams the door as he settles in the driver’s seat. Ian’s hands shake against the seat belt. Mickey is staring straight ahead, mouth open just slightly. He puts his hands on the wheel, and for a moment, it looks like he’s driving. It looks like he’s driving in some old Hollywood movie with the background screen sliding by. But he sits there, keys in his lap.

“Mick,” Ian whispers. “Do you want me to drive?”

Mickey clears his throat, once, fast. “No,” he says, hands dropping, fumbling in his lap for the keys. “No, I got it.”

Ian looks out the window as Mickey eases away from the curb. Everyone has come out into the yard. McGinley is standing there, and Sully, and Jamal and Danny and the rest of them. He feels a flush of adrenaline through his body, and then a flush of relief. He can’t believe it. It happened. It really did.

Mickey is quiet, so Ian stays quiet, too. He’s learning how to be quiet. He’s trying to learn. He stares out the window as Mickey drives, looking at all the houses, the apartments, all the new places and old places. By the time they pull up to Mickey’s house, Ian’s adrenaline has calmed. He turns, finally, to face Mickey.

Mickey is looking right at him, but when Ian opens his mouth, Mickey turns his head away and opens his door, slamming it behind him. Ian closes his mouth and reaches for the handle with a sigh.

But the moment he closes the van door, Mickey’s hands are on him. He slams Ian against the van, and his mouth presses heavy against his. Oh god. Oh wow. He can hear the train overhead, someone on the street talking, hear someone’s engine turning over. They’re outside. They’re outside, and Mickey is kissing him, pressing him harder against the van. Outside.

“Mickey,” he murmurs in his mouth. “Mick, we’re-”

“I know,” he says. He yanks at Ian’s arm. “I know we are. Fuck it. C’mon. Let’s go.”

Mickey shoves the door open. He doesn’t bother to shut it, just pushes Ian against the wall. Ian gasps as Mickey’s lips pull against his neck. He sighs “Mick,” and Mickey’s hands pull him harder, pulling him away from the wall, slamming the door shut with his foot, pushing him down the hall, both stumbling.

Mickey pushes Ian against his bedroom door, gasping. Mickey tears off Ian's shirt, dropping it to the floor, but twists away when Ian tries to do the same.

“Not yet,” Mickey says. “Just let me touch you. C’mon.”

He pushes Ian toward the bed, but they miss and Ian’s body hits the headboard on the way down. A bunch of crap from the shelves falls on the floor, something that breaks with a shatter behind the bed. When Ian goes “Ow,” Mickey pulls him over and drops to kiss at his side. “You okay?” he says. Ian nods and pulls him close.

Mickey's hands yank at his pants, and Ian says "wait," and Mickey's face meets his, but he doesn't move his hands. He swallows.

"Are you-" Ian begins, "Are you okay?"

Mickey nods. He slows his breath. "I'm okay," he says, and it's like a surprise. "I'm..." He pauses, amused. "I'm gay."

Ian laughs lightly. He kisses him, softly, and the contrast from just before is beautiful. "I thought so," Ian says. "I was pretty sure you were."

Mickey nods and nods. "You were right." He pauses. "No, but you were right. It feels...better. Thought I'd feel worse, but."

Ian nods. "I'm so proud of you." His hand slides against his hair.

Mickey doesn't say anything, but his cheeks flush, just a little. "We done with this? I got other ideas right now."

"Mmm," Ian hums, and he raises his hips slightly where Mickey still fists his pants. "I love your ideas."

They kiss hard. Ian tries to slow it down, but Mickey isn’t having it. Ian manages to break away, mouth swollen and already tired, but the minute he does, he immediately goes back in for more. He is taken over by Mickey’s mouth, his thick lips, his tongue. Mickey pulls away and presses his head against Ian’s cheek, shoving Ian’s head to the side and sucking and biting against his throat.

“Oh god,” Ian groans. His eyes shut tight and he fights his own body for breath. Mickey is marking him, over and over, more than he ever has, and Ian can’t get enough of it. He wants it. Wants to be claimed and sore and red and purple and all Mickey’s. Wants people to see, to know, to wonder. Wants to say “Mickey,” so he does. “Mickey, fuck.”

Mickey keeps pulling at his pants. "Gonna take it so good for you," he growls. "Take you better than I ever have. Wudja like that?”

Ian’s breath is fast. “Yes,” he manages to push out, somehow. Mickey keeps going, saying so many words, each one punctuated with the pull of Mickey's fingers. First the belt buckle, the little teeth slipping free of the metal, then the worn leather. Then the sounds of it jingling around and falling apart. He pants as the zipper is pulled next, as he lightly lifts his hips when Mickey's fingers slide beneath the waistband and pull. Mickey's fingernails scratch against his hip bones and he pulls his boxers off in one smooth motion. Mickey spits in his palm and reaches for Ian’s cock, pulling him slowly. The contrast to his hard words, the tight control, is overwhelming.

Mickey sucks at his chest, scrapes his teeth. Ian doesn’t know his eyes are closed until Mickey presses his forehead against his, Mickey licks his lips and kisses him. He pulls back, murmuring against Ian’s mouth. "Wanna feel you. Have you fuck me hard. Deep. Hold me down."

He’s about to sit up, fight to sit up, grab Mickey, flip him over on his back and do exactly what he said, give him what he wants, but Mickey chuckles under his breath and gently squeezes his dick to calm him. “Patience,” Mickey says, smiling.

Ian stills, lets Mickey kiss him, pull him. He closes his eyes and breathes. All he can hear in his mind are Mickey’s words at the site. All he can see are Mickey’s eyes on his, his quiet voice. You happy now?

He is. God, he really fucking is. He’s happy now. Not just with Mickey right here, like this. Not just with Mickey like that, like before, saying those words. He’s happy. He knows he can be happy. Not afraid. Not broken. He feels Mickey’s lips, Mickey’s tongue in his mouth. Mickey’s hand against him. You happy now?

Ian pulls his head away as best he can with Mickey on top of him, pushes up against Mickey’s shoulders. Mickey’s eyebrows knit together as he stills, letting his hand slow to a stop, lifting. Their eyes lock. Ian slowly brings his hand to his neck, watching Mickey’s hooded eyes, his lips parted, breathing. He doesn’t know how he manages it, but he manages to sit up in the bed without much effort. Mickey’s jeans are rough against him, but he doesn’t care. With this new position, Mickey is straddling his lap, and that’s all that matters.

He squeezes the back of his neck once, lightly. His other hand slides up and down his back. “Mickey,” he says softly.

He looks shy, all of a sudden, like he sometimes is when he’s spread out on the bed, naked, staring up at him. Mickey lets Ian’s hands slide beneath his shirt, closing his eyes, soft groan as his fingertips slide against his nipples. Ian eases the shirt off, and Mickey’s breath hitches when Ian’s fingernails softly slide up his bare back before Ian’s fingertips return.

“Mick,” Ian says again, just as soft. Mickey looks right into his eyes.

“What,” he breathes, eyes searching.

“Thank you,” Ian says. He can feel a slight burn in his eyes that he blinks back.

Mickey nods quickly. He clears his throat, just enough. Just enough for Ian to see his eyes getting glassy. He looks down, looks away. He’s swallowing fast and wipes at his nose.

Ian’s fingers slide beneath Mickey’s chin. He lets his eyes burn, lets them blink and blink. He expects Mickey to fight it, but he doesn’t. He pulls Mickey’s head up, fingers sliding away from his chin as his palm finds his cheek. His eyes still blink and then close.

“Hey,” Ian says softly. “Hey, it’s okay.” He can feel a tear on his cheek. His voice is tight, and it’s okay. “We’re okay.”

Mickey nods, and when the tears drop, Ian brushes them away. He nods. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat again, sniffing hard. “Yeah, okay.”

Ian holds his face with both hands, kissing him softly. He drops a hand and finds Mickey’s waist, curling his arm around him. Mickey breaks apart to let out a shaky breath.

“I’m ready,” he whispers. “Please.”

Ian’s arm circles him tighter and he eases Mickey onto his back. He pulls Mickey’s body to the edge of the bed and drops to his knees. He quickly pops the button and zips him open with one hand, pulling them off fast, pulling harder when one leg catches on Mickey’s foot. He doesn’t take his boxers off yet. He just grabs onto his hips and presses his mouth against him through the fabric, mouthing at him, groaning, hungry.

“You smell so good,” Ian says, mouth moving against him, feeling the growing hardness against his lips. “Always smell so fucking good.” He squeezes at his hips harder.

Mickey groans, his hand coming down, holding Ian’s head close to him, restricting his movement. Ian doesn’t need any encouragement. He could stay here forever, just breathing him in, his taste just out of reach. He moans as his fingers reach for his waistband, pulls down. He feels more than sees Mickey’s cock catch in the waistband before it bounces out against his face, and he feels like he’s going to break into a million peices. He shoves the boxers down, not lifting his face, not able to because Mickey’s hand is still against his head, but he’d never dream of moving anyway. His tongue reaches out for him, sliding up the underside of him, breathing hot and fast against Mickey. His foreskin is smooth and his dick is hard and god, he could live here.

Something happens. Mickey starts to shake. At first Ian takes it as pleasure, and he presses into him even more, tongue sliding up. He takes the head of Mickey’s dick in his mouth and hums, just before he feels Mickey’s stomach shaking against his forehead. No. Wait. What?

Ian pulls away with a deep breath and raised eyebrows. He was right. Mickey’s chuckling, his chuckle giving way to almost a full laugh.

It irritates Ian more than it should, and makes him embarrassed. "Why is this funny?”

Mickey shakes his head, trying to bite the grin from his lips. “It’s not,” he says. “It’s really fuckin' good. It’s just–”

“Just what?” Ian sits back on his heels. He licks his lips, but his hands don’t move from Mickey’s hips.

“I was just thinking about when I came over that time,” Mickey says, smiling. “Back when I didn’t know how to blow you.”

“Don’t make fun of that!” Ian lets go of his hips, but he fights a smile as he settles higher on his knees, hands against Mickey’s thighs. “That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me!”

Mickey blushes fast. Ian loves when he blushes. “I’m not makin' fun,” he says. "Got no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about that."

“Oh really?” Ian grins. Mickey gets redder. “Then what’s so funny?”

Mickey smiles wide. “Was just thinking about how I thought I'd never be able to do that as good as you do.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you caught on pretty quick,” Ian says. “You’re really good at it.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course you are. You know you are. Fucking amazing, honestly."

Mickey blushes again. “I was so fuckin’ scared.”

"I know."

"No," Mickey says, smile dropping just a little. "I mean about all of it. Not just the sex stuff."

Ian nods. "I know," he says softly.

Mickey pulls him closer again. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m done goofin’ around, we can get back ta-”

Ian laughs under his breath. “It’s okay,” he says. “Sex can be fun like this. It’s okay for it to be fun. Means we’re, you know, relaxed.”

Mickey nods slowly. “Never thought I could be.” He swallows. “You know. Relaxed with this.”

Ian slides his hands over Mickey’s body, down to his hips and up again. He slides his hands over his shoulders. “I know,” he says. “And you’re safe.”

Mickey’s parts his lips. Licks them. “Yeah,” he says softly. "I am."

Ian kisses him softly, starts to pull away before Mickey’s hand finds the back of his head, pulls him closer. Ian’s knees are still on the floor, but he leans over the bed, pressing against him. Mickey begins to squirm, starts to grab at Ian's arms, breaks away from his lips to move up on the bed, pulling Ian with him.

"Touch me," Mickey grunts. "Touch me everywhere."

Ian smiles against his mouth. "You really want me, don'tcha?" He moves to Mickey's neck. He bites softly. He waits for one of Mickey's smartass remarks, but it never comes. Mickey only groans, sliding a leg over Ian's, back bowing out, just slightly. "Okay," Ian says against his neck. "Okay, Mick."

He knows what Mickey wants. It's not exactly about being dominated. It's not about Ian being called master, called sir. That's not what Mickey wants, not exactly. But it's a little like that, Ian knows that much. Mickey wants him in charge, taking care of him, wants to not think. Sometimes he's like this - waiting to be weighted down by him. He's said something -just once- about how sometimes Mickey didn't really know where his edges were. Where his body was in space, like the world was just hovering around him. S’why I liked gettin’ in fights,” he said once. Felt it. You know. Where I was. Ian didn't understand, could feel the confusion on his face, squinting as he tried to ask more. But Mickey shut it down, turned away, said "Nevermind, just drop it." over and over.

But he learned. Mickey told him. Taught him. When Ian held onto him, Mickey knew where the edges were, could feel himself rooted in space. When Ian took care of him, like that, like this, Mickey could relax, feel every inch of nerves and skin relax into the air, knowing where he is. Weighted. Safe. Able to let himself go. There's something new that opens when they reach that place, when they find each other there, shuddering, Mickey’s fingers pressing hard into Ian’s back as Ian holds him heavy around his legs, hips. Or Mickey flat on his stomach, wrists held, or Mickey’s ass in the air, top half pressed against the mattress, Ian fucking into him hard, Mickey panting yes, yes, yes when Ian presses his head onto the pillow. He’ll do whatever Mickey wants, whatever Mickey asks for. Want to know where I am,Mickey will say. Help me feel where I am. And afterward they lie quietly, Ian softly touching him, Mickey floating back to earth. Both floating back to earth, drinking from the same glass of water, staring into each other’s eyes, breathing.

But that’s not all the time, and not that often, really. Mostly it’s after a hard day. A day where Mickey is jumpy, overwhelmed.

Like this.

Mickey looks into his eyes. His voice is soft. “Help me, do that thing for me.”

“You okay?” Ian murmurs back.

There's a little sound in Mickey's mouth, just barely brushing Ian's breath. Ian doesn’t need to know what it is, what the words are, what they mean. He can almost taste them. He slides off Mickey, just a little, just enough. Their chests are bare. Legs too. Ian slides his hands down Mickey’s arms, slowly, so slowly, listening to his shaking breath, and when his long fingers wrap their way around his wrists, Mickey shudders. Ian hums against his neck, hips pushing against Mickey’s, weighing him down.

He squeezes against his wrists, first, just a little, just a hello before he moves his hands into Mickey's, slotting their fingers together.

Because this is what Mickey is like. He is soft, and he is hard. He is everything Ian has ever wanted, dreamed of, everything he never thought he’d be able to have. Be worthy of having. You happy now? He is.

“Fuck me,” Mickey gasps in his ear. “Please, Ian. Want you to fuck me hard.”

“You already said that,” Ian says, laughing lightly against Mickey’s lips. “You really think I forgot?”

Mickey squirms. “I–”

Ian has to bend to the right to catch Mickey’s gaze again. He had pushed his eyes aside, self-conscious.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Mickey says quietly.

Ian’s chest tightens. Everything tightens. “Oh, Mick,” he says quietly, quickly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t. I swear. Oh god. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t do that. ‘Specially when we’re like this. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Mickey’s hands squeeze against Ian’s, and suddenly there they are. Green on blue. “It’s okay,” he says. “I was just–”

“No,” Ian says quickly. “It’s my fault. I–”

“Listen,” Mickey says, squeezing Ian’s hands. “Don’t freak out, it’s fine. We’re good, okay?”

Ian nods slowly.

“It’s not about how we were, you know, goin’ about it. I just–” He swallows. “I just never know how to say it. I just want you to. You know. Do it. Fuck, I guess. Fuck me, have sex, whatever. I don’t know how to say it. You know?"

It’s on Ian’s lips, and it’s so embarrassing, what he calls it in his head. It’s like a movie, some movie Debs would watch, some movie Amanda would make fun of but secretly like. It’s how he felt, a long time ago, what he thought life would be like if he wished hard enough. He opens and closes his mouth.

“What.”

Ian shifts, just slightly, on top of him. “Love you.”

Mickey presses his head back into the pillow, squints up at him. “Yeah, me too. What.”

“This. What we’re doing. You know. You’re letting me love you. Letting me, you know, make lo-"

Mickey laughs. Ian can feel his stomach shaking against his. Ian can feel his cheeks flush, embarrassed. “What?” Ian says. “What’s funny?”

“Just calling it that,” Mickey says. “Sound like a fuckin’ romance book.”

Ian smiles. “We’re not in a romance book?”

“Look the fuck around,” Mickey says quietly. He gestures with trapped fingers around his room. “This scream romantic to you?”

Ian lets his smile fade. He starts to back off Mickey, looking around, letting go of his hands. He looks around the room, slowly, then looks back at Mickey.

“You’re here,” he says.

They breathe slowly. He can see it in Mickey’s eyes, a sudden small creeping, like an injured cat he once found on the job, peering out from under one of the broken houses. A little cat with a badly healed break, fleas in the ears, but tired of living down there in the crawl space, nestled there under the foundation in the dark. There have been others. Sometimes they hiss, truly feral, running as fast as they can, never coming back. Sometimes they hide again, and Ian can’t stop thinking about them once the house starts being pulled apart. He doesn’t see them, not alive or dead, and he doesn’t know what became of them. Maybe they found somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. More hidden.

But it’s that one, the one with the break, that he remembers most. A little grey tabby, skittish and sweet, that shot out from under the house when the sledgehammers started in. When the job wrapped for the day, Ian stayed. He sat and sat and sat next to the open space where he had seen her. He had been on meds for a little while. He was adjusting to a new change. He didn’t want the guys to see his shaky hands. He didn’t talk much - he didn’t want the guys to hear how he stumbled over his words. Words just wouldn’t come. He knew it was a side effect. They were both side effects. He had so many of them - enough that he thought his entire life had become tainted with them. Stuttering over simple words, trying to will his fingers to still as he trembled over wire, over metal. He no longer ran off to the club. No longer ran off to the bar, or ran back to his weed. No longer ran to a stranger’s bed.

He sat there, cigarette in hand, looking at the little space where he last saw her. It was almost dusk. Late May. Pink painted thick in the sky. The smell of lilac everywhere, and here she was. Standing there. Staring. He made a tiny noise. He stayed still. He stayed very, very, very still. She limped, just a little. Still. Very, very still. He lowered his cigarette slowly, stubbing it against the ground. She jerked, almost turned, but he made the tiniest noise. A kiss. His fingertips, reaching, just a little.

She was dirty, and she was skinny, despite all the mice and rats around. Young, probably. She walked closer, closer, stopped. They stared at each other. And then she ran. Ran fast, and Ian didn’t see her for days. He waited every day. He didn’t have anything else to do. He poured water in a makeshift bowl, a handful of the food he started carrying in his backpack. They watched each other, they waited. And one day, a day as normal as any other day, his shaky hands and his shaking words, his loneliness, his quiet heart, she walked toward him. She stayed.

“What is it.”

“Nothing,” he whispers. He hasn’t thought of her like that in a long time, Lip and Amanda’s cat. Thought of her tiny like that, shy. Now she stretches out on their couch, out on their bed, like she’s lived there forever. Sometimes she gives Ian’s leg a rub on the way to her water dish. He doesn’t know how much cats remember. Does she remember life before? Does she miss it? Does she remember him, pink sky and lilac and a plastic bottle cut into the shape of a dish? Remember his shaking hands?

“You can say that,” Mickey says, eyes darting around Ian’s face. Nervous. “If you wanna call it, you know, that."

Ian nods, a soft smile.

“C'mere,” Mickey whispers. He kisses Ian, both hard and soft.

“You okay if we slow it down?” Ian whispers. “Or do you need me to–”

“No,” Mickey says quietly. “I mean yeah. Yeah, we can slow it down. Just want it hard, you know, when we get there.”

Ian nods. “Okay,” he says, and gently brushes his lips against Mickey’s.

Mickey tastes so good. His lips, his tongue, his face, his neck. Skin is so smooth, down and down, every part of him. Everywhere Ian softly travels, feeling Mickey’s fingers in his hair, against his face as he moves lower. He can feel Mickey’s eyes on him, and when they meet, Ian feels like he is falling. I love you he thinks, holds onto it in his head. It glides it way through his brain, every wrinkle, every bruised place, into all the synapses he thought were too damaged, too broken, too ugly to feel anything but pain. I love you. I love you. Because Mickey's dick is deep inside his mouth, and Ian’s hands glide up his body, softly. He feels Mickey lift one hand, his fingers, taking Ian’s thumb into his mouth.

I love you. I love you. If Ian could move his lips, he would tell him. But right now his tongue is busy, swiping and tasting Mickey, and he squeezes his eyes shut while Mickey sucks his thumb harder. Fuck.

Mickey turns his head, letting Ian’s thumb fall. “Come up here,” he says, breathless. “Don’t want to come yet. ‘M too close, you gotta stop.”

Ian’s mouth slides up and off him. He likes the stretched feeling at the back of his throat. He slides his fingers against Mickey’s forehead, letting his fingers find the thick scar from the gun. Mickey flinches, just for a second, and Ian drops his hand. “I’m sorry,” Ian says. “I shouldn’t have–”

Mickey shakes his head, reaches for Ian’s hand, moves it back. Ian glides his thumb over it.

He can feel Mickey’s fingers softly sliding down, sliding against Ian’s neck, sliding over his collarbone, sliding against his shoulder. And he pauses there, smoothing his thumb against the scars on Ian’s arm. They breathe in and out, eyes locked. There is a deep swell that rises up, a nakedness. He glides his thumb again, feeling the indentation, the spot that didn’t heal right behind the glue or tape - whatever he used to force it shut. He feels Mickey’s hand slide to hold his bicep, and he feels Mickey’s fingertip slide along every scar, tracing over the thicker ones he opened over and over, tracing over the lighter ones. And then Mickey does it. He slides his fingers beneath Ian’s arm, enough that Ian twitches like he’s going to be tickled. But he knows, then, what Mickey knows, what he probably has already seen over and over. It’s the one Ian forgets about sometimes. It’s easier. He can’t see it in the mirror, and his brain blocks it out. There’s an odd mark there.

“What’d you use?” Mickey whispers.

Ian’s eyes blur. He swallows. He remembers the orange van in the yard. Remembers his cigarette. Remembers holding it near his skin before he put it in his mouth. Before he changed his mind. Before he pushed in the– “Car lighter,” he says. He swallows again. “Not a lot. Quick.” He blinks his eyes and looks at Mickey. “Does it–what does it look like?”

Mickey slides his finger against it once before pulling his fingers back and sliding them up his arm, touching his hand, holding it against his scar again. “It looks like part of you,” he says.

“Fuck,” Ian says quietly, eyes going damp again. He closes them. “It’s so ugly. It’s so–”

“It’s part of you,” Mickey says again. “It’s not all you are. Like this,” he says, and squeezes his fingers against Ian’s, against the scar on his head. “It’s shit that happened already. No use wishing it was different. Just how it is.”

Ian nods. He wishes it was enough. “But Mick,” he says. He opens and closes his mouth. “Mick, what if I do it again? What if–”

Mickey shakes his head. “You won’t. You–”

“No,” Ian says. “No, Mick, listen. I might. I can have it under control. But even if–” he breathes out. “Even though you love me, I'll probably get sick. Maybe not bad, but I will. This is, this is a forever thing. What I have. I’m trying not to be better. I swear I am. But I don’t want you sitting around, worrying, watching me, waiting for me to do my next crazy shit.”

Mickey shakes his head slowly, and Ian’s hand slips off his forehead. He’s about to turn over, but Mickey grabs him, pulls him close, kisses him hard, his arm reaching around him, pulling him tight.

Mickey pulls back. “Don’t say that,” he says against Ian’s lips. “Ian, I love you.”

“Loving me doesn’t change this,” Ian says. He can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “It doesn’t go away. It won’t. Not ever. And what if I, you know, slip? Or what if I get crazy and you have to take me to the doctor? What if I have to go in the hospital? You don’t want want that. You don’t want–”

Mickey pulls back so he’s looking right at him. “Already told you,” he says firmly. “You don’t get to tell me what I want.” His hand slides around his neck. “I want you.” Mickey swallows hard, blinks his eyes. "I've wanted you this whole fucking time."

Ian has to take a deep breath. He watches Mickey's eyes open and close.

“I’m sorry all that happened to you,” Ian whispers. “With your dad.”

Mickey closes his eyes, wrinkles his forehead. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“You didn’t deserve that. No one does.”

Mickey nods slowly. “I know.”

“Mickey, open your eyes.”

He does, opens them slowly. So blue. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You know that, right? He hurt you. He was a monster.”

“He was my dad,” Mickey says, at once defensive and detached. “S’ not like your dad was so great.”

Ian breathes out. “I know,” he says softly. “But he beat you. All of you. All the time. He almost killed you. More than once. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

Mickey isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s rolling onto his back. Ian hovers above him, trying to get him to turn back, to look back. But he doesn’t. He is staring at the wall, that spot on the wall. The spot with the plaster broken, just wood underneath. Mickey’s height. Ian follows his gaze, then turns back.

“Mickey,” he says softly, carefully. He’s known this, expected this, but has never asked. “Mickey, how’d it get like that? What did he do to you?”

Mickey swallows. “After that day,” he says. “That day with that guy? Bout a week later I’m just in my room, and he comes at me, calling me a faggot, a fucking faggot. He throws me into the wall. I’m still all bruised to shit and my head’s not healed up. I can’t get away. He just takes my shirt and throws me back over and over, an’ I can’t even breathe, and I can feel it crackin’ on my back. He just punches me and punches me. Pass out. Wake up with more blood on my face. Dryin’ even. I don’t know how long I was out.”

Ian doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t have to say anything, because Mickey turns back, turns back and holds onto his face, almost desperate, eyes shifting over and over Ian’s eyes as MIckey's voice fills with panic. “‘S over, right? Safe, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian breathes. He lets Mickey pull him close, kiss him, lets Mickey’s tongue swipe into his mouth as his hands grip tighter.

There isn’t anything else to say. There are hands and mouths. It doesn’t take long to get back to it, or to get Mickey ready, but they take their time anyway. Mickey’s back arches as he groans, so many words that Ian gulps down like air. He touches him just like Mickey wants, whispering “like this?” And yes, Mickey says. Says yes, exactly like that.

They draw it out, every brush of skin pulling them closer. Mickey grabs Ian’s face, whining, saying “Now, come on.” saying “Ian, please.” And it’s the word please that makes Ian’s brain buzz.

Ian holds onto one of Mickey’s hips tight, the other pulling up his thigh, and presses hard into him with one stroke, and Mickey cries out, eyes shut. Ian stays still, stays deep, waiting. Waiting until Mickey is gasping over and over. Go. God, move. Move. Ian slides back the tiniest amount, and Mickey gasps, eyes shut, head back. He shakes. He’s waiting, and Ian lets him wait. Waits until Mickey’s eyes open. They do. Mickey opens his eyes, and they begin. Ian catches the edge, catches onto the breathless edge where Mickey waits, and he brings it all back, crashing the buildup of pleasure down with one full snap of his hips.

He was right. Mickey was. He takes Ian better than he ever has, over and over, groaning every word that he knows will drive Ian deeper, harder. It’s only a moment before he feels Mickey’s nails on his back, feels Mickey's thighs clenching hard around his hips. Mickey’s breath catches, and before he can start to groan, start to insist Ian touches him, touches him, fuck, c’mon, Ian grabs at his thighs, yanking, roughly pushing them wider. Mickey moans. “You like this?” Ian pants. “Want me to fuck you like this?”

“Yes,” Mickey breathes. “Yeah, like this.” Ian sits on his knees, spreading Mickey in front of him, holding his thighs tighter and tighter, wider, yanking him back and back and back on his cock, harder, faster, and Mickey’s eyes roll back, and he yells out. Actually yells. Yells God and Fuck and Ian can feel his fingers digging into his thighs, sees his fingertips clenched white against Mickey’s skin.

Mickey’s fingers grab at the sheet, the sheet that has pulled completely free of the mattress. The bed rocks beneath them, springs fighting to hold them up.

“Gimme your hands,” Ian pants, and Mickey lets go of the sheet immediately. His hands are sweaty and shaking when Ian takes them, holding them in his, holding them against Mickey’s thighs which tremble and tighten.

“Fuuuuuck,” Mickey groans out, loud, head back. “Oh fuck, Ian.”

Suddenly they hear loud music begin to play, beat thick and driving, through the wall. Mandy. Ian starts to slow down, distracted, but Mickey clenches around him. “You fucking look at me,” he growls. “Forget about that. Come on.”

Ian shakes the distraction from his head with another hard thrust of his hips. “You close?”

Mickey nods fast. “Gimme more,” he pants. “I can take it.”

Ian does. He can feel the sweat on his back, the sweat in their hands, smell the smell of them that is rising faster, thicker. He moans. “Oh god, you gotta come now.”

Mickey nods fast. “I will. I–I–” he licks his lips. His eyes roll and he tenses again.

“You’re okay,” Ian says. “I got you, come on.”

Ian doesn't have to reach for his dick. He doesn't even have a hand free, because Mickey’s hands clench under his and he moans so loud, louder than he has in a long time, maybe ever, and there they are, gasping. Ian’s head spins, and there he is, letting go, letting go inside Mickey, then collapsing, breathless. Mickey grabs at his back, holding him tight, even though he’s already come. Ian can feel it against his stomach, sticky. Ian mouths against his neck, but stops when Mickey winces slightly, too sensitive for it now.

“I love you,” Mickey says against his ear. “Jesus, fuck.”

Ian nods. “I think you broke me.” He backs up, staring down at Mickey’s body. “Holy shit, look what we did to you.” He swallows hard. Mickey’s thighs are scraped up, and Ian can almost see the start of bruising.

Mickey chuckles. “Good,” he says, barely catching his breath. “‘S’what I wanted. Thanks.”

Ian nods again. He kisses him, quickly, then just a little more. He flops on his back. “Holy shit. You weren’t kidding before. About taking it. Fuck.”

Mickey chuckles, reaching for his hand, lifting it, kissing his palm. “I keep my promises.”

They lie there, breathing, looking at the ceiling. Mandy’s music plays. It’s something familiar, something he might remember from the club or something, but he can’t make out any words. It doesn’t matter.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ian says softly, turning on his side. Mickey turns on his, too, and Ian’s eyes and fingers glide over his thigh, around his ass, up his side, up his body, up his shoulder, cupping his face. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” Mickey says. “No, I’m okay.”

Ian looks at his lips. “Do you want anything? Water?”

Mickey nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll get it.” He starts to sit up.

“No, don’t,” Ian says. “Lay back down. I’ll get it. Let me get it. ” He kisses Mickey once, quickly. “You want anything else? Towel?”

Mickey shakes his head, breathing hard, smiling. Ian smiles back, crawling off the bed, sliding boxers on. His. Mickey’s. Who cares.

He’s giving his body the once-over when he turns the corner, and jumps back in surprise when Mandy is leaning against the counter, drinking a soda and raising an eyebrow.

“Finally got tired?”

“Shit,” Ian says. “I thought you were in your room. Sorry.”

“My wall was almost breaking, so I had to come out here,” she says. “I would have put on headphones if I could find em.”

“Not me,” a voice sounds from the couch. Iggy turns away from the TV, shaggy hair in his eyes, holding a bong. “I don’t give a shit. Bang away.”

“Gross!” Mandy crosses the room and pulls the bong from Iggy’s hand. He struggles to hold onto it before letting it go suddenly, so Mandy’s arm swings away. “That’s your brother in there,” she says.

Iggy motions around the room with the bong. “So? Like this house has thick walls and no one has ever heard anyone boning?”

Mandy grins as she sets the soda can down on the counter. She looks at Ian. “Will you at least tell me if he’s still alive?”

Ian laughs. “Yeah.” He can feel a blush, but also a bit of, what is it, pride? It’s happiness, it’s relief. It’s all of it, mixed together. He walks closer. “I’m gonna,” he says, gesturing to a cupboard. “I need to get some water.”

Mandy steps aside, the softest laugh as Ian turns on the faucet and begins to wash his hands. Ian catches her eye, her grin, He raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

She shakes her head. She grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it as Ian dries his hands. “So what’s it like?”

Ian drinks from the glass. “Um,” he says. “That’s kind of...personal?”

“Ew, no,” Mandy says. “No. I mean, like, what’s my brother like? To you, I mean.”

He is like a thunderstorm, the weight in the air before things release, that smell, that wonder. He is the barest scratch of stubble, the softest skin. He is strong and soft and it makes Ian want to cry when he thinks how lucky he is to love him, and be loved by him.

“He’s,” Ian says. “He’s the best person I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah?” She doesn’t sound surprised, or like she’s joking. There is a relief that glides through her features.

“Yeah,” Ian says softly. He returns her smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I–I need to get this to him,” Ian says, gesturing to the glass. “Are you stickin’ around? Maybe we can all go eat or something.”

“Worked up an appetite,” Iggy says.

“Shut up,” Mandy says, pushing off the counter, giving Ian a playful shove. “I’ll be back in my room trying to cleanse my ears.”

Ian is still chuckling when he comes back to Mickey’s bedroom. He leans down on the bed, kissing Mickey’s lips, holding onto his hand to pull him to a sit. Mickey grumbles like he’s embarrassed, but when Ian sits beside him, he brushes his fingers against Ian’s knee as he drinks.

Mickey pauses, pulling the glass down from his face. “Was Just thinking.”

“Bout what?”

“That wall,” Mickey says, gesturing with his chin.

Ian looks at it, looks back. Something has changed in Mickey’s eyes. “You okay?”

Mickey eyes don’t move from where he looks at the wall. “I gotta piss,” he says.

“Mick–” Ian begins, but Mickey swings a leg over him and heads for the bathroom.

“Eh, open the window,” Mickey calls out from the bathroom. “Get dressed.”

“Where are we going?”

Mickey doesn’t answer. Ian can hear the faucet running. He comes back with his hair wet. “Nowhere,” he says. “Just do it.” Mickey pulls his clothes on fast and grabs a cigarette from the nightstand, lighting it.

Ian’s brows knit together. “Did I do something?”

“No,” Mickey says, tossing Ian’s shirt to him. “‘S not like that. I just got an idea. Hang on.”

Ian shrugs as Mickey leaves the room. He pulls the shirt over his head, followed by boxers and jeans. He finds his shoes, one in the room, one in the hall. He pulls out one of Mickey’s cigarettes and lights it. Mandy’s music is still going, and the TV is still blaring. Ian pulls open the window, shaking the old painted frame, the old pulley system broken, holding the thin window up with a splintery piece of wood. The air is getting cooler in the evenings, sunset coming faster. He takes a deep breath against the fresh air.

Suddenly the music stops. The sounds of the house stop. The light on the nightstand shuts off.

“What the fuck?” Iggy yells. “What you do that for?”

“Do what?” Mandy shouts from her room.

Ian rushes in the hall. He doesn’t see Mickey at first, but when he steps closer to the dining room, he sees the metal panel open, and Mickey stands next to it. His eyes are strange, almost scared.

“He shut the power off!” Iggy yells.

“Why?”

“Maybe you should come out here, Mandy,” Ian says.

Mandy does. She’s holding a cigarette too. “Mick? You okay?”

Mickey just stands there, looking from each person to each person. He crosses the room and opens the front door, leaving it open behind him.

“You–” Iggy says, gesturing to Ian. He’s already moving, heading for the doorway.

“Mick?” He sees him throw open the back of his van, but he can’t see him. “What–”

Mickey slams the door. He has a rubber mallet in one hand and hammers in the other. He walks right by Ian, right by Iggy, right by Mandy’s hand that reaches out, past all of them saying some sort of version of his name.

Ian doesn’t know why they don’t follow him. It’s like they are rooted in place, looking at each other with complete confusion, even though things are slowly becoming clear.

The first bang is tentative. The second bang is stronger. By the third bang they are all in the room, and Mickey drops the mallet, letting it fall to the floor, beside the hammer. The plaster around the hole in the wall - that place where Mickey was shoved against - is cracked, and there is plaster on the floor already. He doesn’t turn around.

He doesn’t turn, and when he does, Ian hears a deep gasp, and he doesn’t know who it was. Mickey. Mandy. Iggy. Him. But Mickey wipes his sleeve against his eyes, and Ian doesn’t know at first if it’s his tears or the dust, but the way Mickey’s jaw shakes makes him want to run to him. He’s about to, but Mandy is there, holding him, and they cry into each other’s shoulders, and it’s a wailing sound that is so deep and dark and sudden it almost scares him. Almost like an animal, and Ian supposes it makes sense, because people are animals, after all. Wounded. Caught in traps. Maybe lucky, one day, to be set free. That cat, coming closer, bit by bit, limping away from what was.

Ian turns to Iggy. His eyes are wide, and he’s standing so still. So still he almost looks like a picture, a silhouette.

Mickey doesn’t say a word. His head rises from Mandy’s shoulder, and Ian can see the tear marks all over Mickey’s shirt. There’s a burning feeling from Ian’s hand, the cigarette burned to the filter. He hisses, instinctively dropping it on the floor before stomping it out.

Mickey wipes at his face again, turning to Ian. “You think you can get the wiring moved okay?”

Ian nods fast. He remembers that night, so long ago now it seems. His own voice. I’d help you. If you wanted. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Mickey swings the mallet hard into the wall, knocking more plaster to the side.

“Is it-” Ian hates to interrupt. “It’s not a load-bearing wall, is it?”

“No,” Mickey says with a grunt. More plaster. “It’s not.”

"Wait!" Mandy cries out. They stop. They turn. She has her face in her hands, sobbing.

Mickey drops the mallet onto the floor again. Iggy steps into the room, still wide eyed.

Mandy crumples to the floor, so slow that Ian is able to hold onto her arm. “What are we gonna do?”

It hangs there in the room. What are we gonna do. Mickey pants hard. He looks back at the wall. Looks over at Iggy.

Mandy rubs at her nose. “How are we supposed to live?”

No one says anything. It’s quiet. So quiet.

“We’ve lived through worse.” Iggy’s voice is so quiet when he says it. It sounds so different with all the sarcasm and joking removed. Smaller. Younger. He pushes himself away from the doorway. He follows Mandy’s lead and sits on the floor. “Mandy,” he says. “We’ve lived through worse.”

“So what, we just-” she says, and there’s a quick panic, a quiver in her voice . “No heat, no power? Keep just knocking the house down? Where are we supposed to put our food and beds and stuff? We can’t live like that. We–”

“That aint what I mean,” Iggy says.

“But we–”

“He means Dad , Mandy,” Mickey says.

Mandy shakes under Ian’s hand. She shakes her head back and forth, too. “No,” she says. “No.”

Mickey bends down on the floor, takes her hands in his, and Ian knows that this moment isn’t his. He carefully drops his hand from Mandy’s arm, carefully leaning back, backing up. That cat again, moving slowly. Scared.

Ian moves onto the bed again, watching the three siblings sit there, holding onto each other, each of them swallowing fast, sniffling.

“He did this,” Iggy says, quietly, gesturing around at nothing in particular. God, he sounds so young. “He did all of this. You know he did.”

Mandy’s hand comes out, a shaking finger pointing at the wall, right where Mickey stood. “He almost killed you,” she says. “Worse than the other time even. When he caught you.” Mickey’s hand comes up to wipe his eyes. “With him,” “she says. “With–”

“Don’t say his name,” Mickey chokes out. “I can’t–I can’t–” He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“You were so fucking bloody,” Iggy says. “And you wouldn’t wake up. You wouldn’t wake up. We couldn’t–”

“Dad kept telling us to get away from you,” Mandy says. “And Iggy mouthed off, wasn’t gonna move, and Dad punched him. Broke a tooth.”

Iggy nods. “That’s why we weren’t there,” he says, voice tight. “When you woke up, Mick. That’s why we weren’t there.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Not your fault.” He looks at Mandy. Hesitates. “Not your fault either. When Dad was doin’ all that to you. I know he’s why you got preg-–”

“Mickey, come on,” she says, quickly, something sharper than embarrassed. “Don’t need to talk about it with him here.”

“We stole that stuff for you,” Iggy says. “All that money. So you could go take care of it.”

“I know,” she says, burying her head into Iggy’s shoulder. “I know you did.”

“But we shoulda been there before that,” Iggy says. “We could have stopped him.”

Mandy shakes her head. “No you couldn’t. No one could.”

“I should have killed him,” Mickey says. “I was too much of a pussy. I should have,” he pauses, breath shaking out. “Killed him. We shoulda killed him.”

“He was a monster,” Ian blurts out. They look up, look at him, three sets of teary eyes. The same eyes. The color a little different, the look in them exactly the same.

“He was a monster,” Ian says again, louder. “Like the kind in old stories. Mythology. The kind that have a hundred heads, and when you cut one off they just grow it back.”

They keep staring at him. He feels guilty. He should have kept his mouth shut. “Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have–”

“No,” Mandy nods. “He was,” she says. “He was exactly like that.”

They sit in silence.

“We could get an apartment,” Mickey says. He turns to Ian. “You have two bedrooms in your building?”

Ian feels guilty at the little thrill it gives him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, there’s two bedrooms. The landlord has other buildings, too. Nearby.”

Mandy looks at Iggy. “We’d need to get a house,” she says. “To fit all of us.”

Iggy nods. “We can do that. Or I can go live with Colin. He’ll know what to do. Been gone long enough.”

They’re quiet again.

“Okay,” Mandy says suddenly. “Okay.”

Iggy looks up from the floor. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mandy says.

Mickey gestures to the hammers. “Let’s go.”

Mandy holds onto a hammer as she stands. Ian can see her feel the weight in her hands.

Iggy picks up a hammer too. “Remember havin’ this in my room,” he says, examining the handle.. “Just in case he came in. Not like I could ever fuckin’ grab it in time.”

Mickey looks like he’s going to say something, but Iggy turns, and in two strides he’s attacking the wall, and shortly after, Ian can hear Mandy screaming while thud after thud lands. Ian takes it in, the crumbling, the wood splitting. He sees it all, things revealed underneath, slowly coming into view.

Mickey drops the mallet, but Iggy keeps swinging, and so does Mandy. He walks toward Ian, all sweat and plaster dust.

“Ian,” he says. “Ian, what’s going to happen?”

Ian’s hand comes up to his face. He wipes against the sweat. “Whatever you want,” he says. “Whatever you want to happen.”

Mickey nods, grabbing at Ian’s hands. “But how, though. What the fuck am I doing? What if I can’t? What if it’s winter and we still don’t got it done?”

“We can get it done,” Ian says firmly. “Mickey, I’ll help you. I meant what I said. I’ll help you.”

“You don’t gotta,” Mickey says, shaking his head, eyes darting around his room.

Ian’s hands come to his face, holding Mickey, finding his eyes. "I want to.”

“Yeah? Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Ian says. “Think of how it’s gonna be. It’s gonna be beautiful.”

“I can’t see how,” Mickey says, shaking his head, eyes still darting, “I can’t see it.” He finds Ian’s eyes again. “It’s so much. It’s too much. It’s so–”

“Life doesn’t have to be like this, you know? I mean, it doesn't have to stay like this. Broken." Ian is surprised how he can focus on Mickey’s face so clearly, past the noise of Iggy’s grunts and Mandy’s screamed words. Focus on Mickey’s eyes. Mickey knows what he means. Safe. “It’ll be better, okay? You’ll know what to do. It’s like you always say, right? How you can see how the plan should work once the building is down to frame? We’re gonna get it to frame. Then you can see it. You’ll see it. I know you will.”

“And then what?”

Ian bends down, hand finding the handle. “Whatever you want,” he says. “You can do anything you want.”

“And you’ll help? You’ll, you know, stick around? Finish?” You happy now?

“Of course I will.”

“But what if I can’t do it. What if I freak out or somethin’.”

“What if I do?”

Mickey shakes his head. “You won’t.”

“You won’t either.” He passes Mickey the mallet. “Go.”

Ian sits on the bed. He hears the noise, the cracking, the crying, the anger through teeth. He sees Mickey, pulling away again, lowering the mallet to his side. Mickey crosses the room and lays the mallet on the bed. He’s panting, looking into Ian’s eyes before he grabs at his face, kissing him hard.

Ian remembers Mickey that first day, that second day, every day, remembers the door in the bathroom, the ducks in the chimney, the way he looks in a mask, the way he looked that night at his house. It's more like I don't know what to even fuckin' do.Ian sees him leaning over the plans laying out on the plywood between the sawhorses, pointing, nodding. He sees him then like he sees him now, just as real, feeling his lips against his. Mickey is real, really alive, really kissing him. Loving him. Ian can feel the sweat on his back as he reaches for him.

“It’s gonna be beautiful,” Ian says as he pulls away. “You’re gonna see it any second now.” The wood frames, the mold behind the walls in the bathrooms, the sink that doesn’t really work, the rats in the walls.

“I’m gonna see it,” Mickey says, as if he is trying to convince himself.

Behind them, Iggy and Mandy keep swinging. Ian can hear Mandy chanting “You mother,” slam “fucker “slam “fucking” slam “kill you” slam.

“And then what?”

“And then you’ll know,” Ian says quietly, and for a moment he doesn’t know if Mickey hears him. “You’ll know, just like I knew you. Like I know you.”

Mickey nods fast. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, yeah. I can do that.”

He kisses Ian once again, fast. Ian watches them swing away, one after another, pulling everything down. The posters, the water damage. It’s the past. It’s over now. They can rebuild it. Ian, too. He will help him. He will help all of them, just like he said he would. He rubs his hands on his jeans and stands.

“What can I do to help?” he says.

Mickey turns. His eyes are so blue. They are always so blue. “Here,” Mickey says. “Come here. I’ll show you.”