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Despite his best efforts -- and his worst ones too, sometimes he can't even tell the difference between his best and his worst -- Mickey can't seem to stop fucking feeling.
He feels stupid as shit, for starters. Stupid for thinking he could take care of Ian -- they warned him, Fiona, fuckin' Lip, months ago they told him he couldn't do it himself -- and stupid for thinking that two days in the psych ward would've turned Ian back into, well, back into Ian. His Ian, sweet but still hard enough to break a tooth on, more jawbreaker than ginger snap really -- sharp edges like a Jolly Rancher against his tongue, but such a sweet taste in his mouth.
And fuck, maybe Mickey feels hungry, too, he can't remember the last time he ate anything other than some stale, soggy chips that he found in the kitchen. Food makes him feel queasy though, mixing up nasty in his gut with the cheap whiskey and cheaper beer he's been swallowing down since he left the place. The place where Ian is. Was, now, because Ian's back home. His old home, not his real home, because his real home is with Mickey, fuck everyone who says it isn't.
And fuck himself, for that matter. Stupid, hungry, sick to his stomach, and so goddamn pissed off, because he's being a pussy again and he knows it, had known it even before another redheaded, talking-too-much Gallagher burst in to call him out on his shit. He wishes it had been Ian instead, slamming in to tell him to wake the fuck up, where the fuck was he, if you love someone -- and he does, Mickey does, he feels that too, aching and heavy in his chest -- when they fall, if you can't catch 'em you gotta at least help 'em up, even when it's hard.
Especially when it's hard, probably.
And it is fucking hard, because on top of everything else Mickey feels -- or maybe it's below it, maybe it's all the way down at the foundation -- he feels tired. Tired of being afraid, tired of not knowing what the fuck to do, tired of this dark bedroom and pretending not to care about pretty much the only thing in his shitty life that he does care about.
So he takes a shower, colder than he wants, drinks some coffee that's not much warmer, and heads out. If he has to keep feeling, may as well feel something good, right?
Ian’s in bed, covers pulled up high, and Mickey tries not to think of the winter, four days of Ian like a goddamn corpse under the ratty old blanket on the bed in Mickey’s room.
In their room. Theirs. Home.
Whatever, if he’s here and Ian’s here, it’s home. It’ll do.
When Mickey speaks, Ian rolls over and he looks afraid, like Mickey is going to, what, hit him? Leave him? Mickey almost loses it then, because there, there's Ian, blurred around the edges but recognizable. He's still in there, and Mickey’s eyes burn a little, relief to see a sign of life or guilt for making him look like that, afraid — it feels so wrong, Ian’s never been the one who’s afraid — but either way he chokes it back, mutters an apology for being late, and slips into bed beside him. Feels the warmth of Ian's stupidly long body, the tiny scratch of stubble against his palm, the way Ian's forehead creases and then goes smooth under Mickey's kiss. Feels the soft, shaky breath Ian lets out as Mickey cuddles closer.
Feels, maybe, like he's done fucking up, at least for today.