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Once the hooker leaves and Terry seems satisfied, Ian bolts. He's not even sure where he's going. He just needs to get out. Needs to get away from that fucking house and Terry Milkovich's rage and the look on Mickey's face, the blankness in his eyes. Usually, Ian loves looking into Mickey's eyes. It sounds stupid and cliche but it doesn't change the fact that it's true. Usually, they're the same blue as the sky on one of those rare clear winter days. Usually, Ian can think about Mickey's eyes without wanting to puke. He hates the way his skin crawls because he can't even blink without seeing it happening behind his eyes. He knows, in a bone deep way he knew when Monica slit her wrists, that this is something he's going to have nightmares about.
Christ, Mickey's eyes.
He stumbles over to the gutter and throws up. It's still light out, and somehow he can't comprehend that. It feels like it should be a different day. It feels like everything should be different. That the sky should be red or some apocalyptic shit like that. There shouldn't be a warm sliver of sun on his face. He retches into the gutter, hands numb where they clutch his knees. He gags and heaves until there's nothing left in his stomach. Bile burns his throat and the tastes sits heavy on his tongue and he suddenly wants to go home, wants Fiona to hug him and tell him it's all going to be okay, like she did when he was seven and cut his foot open because Frank left a broken beer bottle on the living room floor. His head is spinning, and he feels drunk. Not nearly drunk enough, though. So he stumbles along the street with no real destination in mind. He ends up standing outside his house, eyes and throat still stinging. He needs something to make him forget, forget the blank look in Mickey's eyes and the blood drying tacky on his upper lip and chest and taste of bile in his throat. He needs to get rid of it, get rid of the itching under his skin and the taste in the back of his throat and the tears in his eyes. Why the fuck is he even crying? Nothing happened to him. He just sat there and watched. He just fucking watched.
He's on Kev and V's porch now, and he doesn't remember walking away from his house but it makes sense. The house would be empty, and Fiona would ask too many questions. Questions he's too fucked up to answer, or at least give convincing lies. He squeezes his eyes shut, blinking back the tears that keep burning. Just as soon as he thinks he's fine, he'll blink and see Mickey's face behind his eyes and that sticky feeling will rise up from his chest and choke him. He can't breathe right. Seems like every time he tries something catches, like a car that just won't start.
The front door opens and Kev is staring at him. Ian doesn't remember knocking. "Jesus, what happened to you?" he asks, a little bit of nervous laughter in his voice.
"Can I-" Ian's voice wavers. "Can I crash on your couch?" He doesn't want to go back to the group home until he stops feeling like this. Like he's wading through cement.
Kev studies him, lips tugging down into a frown. "Yeah, yeah. Come in." He ushers Ian inside, hustling him over to the couch. "Y'need V to patch you up?"
Ian shrugs. He's fine, physically at least. His head hurts, but he can't tell if that's from getting hit or from how hard he's trying not to cry. "Dunno." He wipes his nose, suddenly furious at himself. "I need a drink," he bites out.
He can feel Kev studying him for a second before he nods and goes to the kitchen. He tosses Ian a beer, the cold glass cutting through some of the fog in his head. He hunches over, gripping the beer bottle so tight the edges of the cap cuts into his palm. He feels the couch dip beside him as Kev sits down, and then there's a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey," Kev says softly, "You okay?"
Ian shrugs again.
"Did something happen at the group home?"
He shakes his head. Then, still not looking up, he asks, "Have you ever seen something that you can't get outta your head?"
Kev laughs. "Well-"
"Not, like, tits or whatever," Ian cuts him off, because he knows where that joke goes. "I mean something bad."
"Yeah," Kev says after a minute, "Yeah, I have." He hesitates. "Did you see somethin' bad?"
Ian opens his beer and downs half of it, the taste washing down his throat and cutting through the feeling in his chest. "Nothing happened to me," he tells Kev. "I'm fine, okay? Just..." He shakes his head. "I keep seeing it when I close my eyes." He drums his fingers on his knee, suddenly restless.
Kev pats his shoulder. "I get it, kid. You want me to call Fiona?"
Ian shakes his head. "No," he chokes, that feeling rising in his chest again, "No, m'okay."
"Alright," Kev says, sounding skeptical. "I'll get you a blanket."
"Thanks," Ian manages, taking another sip of his beer.
He has three more beers before Kev cuts him off and then he wraps himself in the blanket and buries his face in the couch cushions and tries not to cry. He doesn't have anything to cry about, and he knows Mickey would be pissed at him for it. Mickey didn't cry, no matter how blank his eyes got. But Mickey's always been tougher than him. He's a Milkovich, after all.
He's a Milkovich and what did that get him? Terry beat the shit out of both of them and pulled a gun and-
And-
Fuck.
Ian takes a shaky breath, a sob trapped behind his clenched teeth. He's not going to cry about this. He's not. Nothing happened to him. If Mickey didn't cry then he doesn't get to either. He keeps repeating that thought to himself until he almost believes it, until it doesn't feel like a desperate scramble for any sort of stability and he can breathe right for the most part. He stares at the TV, a random gameshow that came on after Kev went back upstairs with V. He watches the players with a numb sort of detachment, fog settling over him. He realizes that he's fucking exhausted, but the idea of sleeping makes him sick. He's going to dream about it, he knows it, so he tries his best to stay awake.
He fails, and the dreams come anyway.