Chapter Text
It’s warmer than usual for late November. Lip Gallagher can feel a layer of sweat forming around his hairline and across his upper lip. He rolls the windows of his shitty car down while his brother continues to flip through radio stations from the passenger seat, mouth tight and eyebrows knotted like someone has tasked him to save the world or something.
“Jesus Christ, Ian, just pick something. You’re giving me a headache.”
“Why the fuck are they already playing Christmas music?” Ian complains, as Santa Baby comes through the speakers. “It’s fucking Thanksgiving. Why does Christmas always have to get all up in Thanksgiving’s business?”
“Probably because there isn’t any Thanksgiving music,” Lip sighs, desperately wishing he had a cigarette between his fingers. He keeps bringing his hand up to his mouth, expecting one will be there. His entire body feels tight like an elastic band stretched nearly to snapping. He hates this day. He’ll probably always hate this day. But the sweet pull of a cigarette would go a long way toward calming him down. They’ll have to stop at the Kash and Grab on their way to Fiona’s. “And because Christmas is a commercial giant, man. Capitalism and all that.”
“Yeah, well, fuck capitalism and fuck Christmas,” Ian huffs, as he starts assaulting the seek button again. Eventually, his brother settles on some news station with two guys droning on about some new healthcare legislation.
“Trying to bore me to death?”
“You’re the one who moved me out to North Side with you,” Ian grumbles, leaning his head back against his seat and stretching out his arms, nearly knocking one of his stupidly large hands into Lip’s face. “People actually care about this shit out there, you know. You wouldn’t believe how many people at the café try to strike up casual conversations about current events with me while I’m making their ridiculous drinks. And God forbid I say I don’t really give two shits which country we’re invading now. Why didn’t you tell me college students were the worst?”
Lip smirks and punches Ian lightly on the shoulder. “You’re not the one trying to educate their dumb asses every day. Kids are the future, my ass.”
“At least you can actually hold a conversation with them,” Ian sighs. “They all just make me feel like a moron. A moron who doesn’t know what he should be caring about.”
Lip feels his hands tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles paling white. There’s a flicker of anger sparking in his gut. His first thought is how much he wants to punch anyone who would make Ian feel that way in their stupid, pretentious fucking face. He’s supposed to be working on these kinds of feelings though—controlling his anger, not drinking himself into a stupor or lashing out every time something doesn’t go his way. But it’s hardest when it comes to Ian.
Ian Gallagher is his best friend. Lip remembers claiming he wasn’t once, when Ian was off on one of his Karen-Jackson-is-the-Devil rants. No, you’re my brother, he had shouted back. It wasn’t true then, and it isn’t true now. Brother doesn’t quite do them justice. Brother is something people are born into. Best friends are chosen, and Lip has been choosing Ian his entire life.
“You like the job though, right? I thought you did?”
A smile tugs at the corners of Ian’s lips. He doesn’t let it fully bloom, but it’s a comfort to Lip all the same. “Yeah, I like it. I’m just being pissy.”
Ian has been working as the Assistant Manager at a popular coffee shop just outside of campus for a couple of years now, moving his way up from barista at impressive speed. It hadn’t taken long for Ian to develop a bit of a reputation on campus. More than once, Lip has overheard the female students giggling about the cute redheaded barista at Rosa’s and how they just had to go after class and try to talk to him. He half suspects that’s why the owner agreed to hire Ian in the first place despite his decidedly spotty work history.
But Ian is so much more than just his looks or his disease. His brother has busted his ass to get his life together—to work out his meds, to earn his GED, to get a job he likes, to get the hell out of South Side. No one is taking that away from him now. Lip is pretty sure he would rather die than see that happen.
“Helps that the commute is a five minute walk and no one tries to rob me on the way,” Ian adds, letting his arm hang lazily out the window.
The apartment they share is small but right next to campus. It’s technically a one bedroom with a study, shoved underneath much nicer apartments seemingly as an afterthought. Even with the living stipend Lip receives as a PhD student and Ian’s relatively decent salary, an apartment on the North Side is still a stretch for them. But Lip doesn’t mind living off stolen food from the cafeteria and whatever the café sends Ian home with at night if it means his brother is with him, somewhere with the safety and stability he needs.
That has been Lip’s primary goal since the incident—getting Ian back on track, making sure nothing like that ever happens again.
I fucked up, Lip. I fucked up so bad. I’m so sorry. The desperate, cracking words from the worst phone call of his life still echo against his skull sometimes, vibrating in his bones. It doesn’t matter where he is. He could be trying to fall asleep after a long day, in the middle of a lecture, or laughing with Ian on the couch, those words can still push their way inside his ears, drowning out everything else. I’m not sure where I am. No, I don’t know. I took them all, Lip. I don’t think I meant to, but I did. I think I’m dying. I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.
It’s Lip’s fault it happened. Hold him tight, don’t let him go, he remembers Fiona instructing him one particularly cold night in the van. This kind of cold isn’t good for babies. Make sure you don’t let go. Lip did hold Ian tight that night, pressing his brother’s chubby face into his chest and stroking the soft red hair on top his head when he whimpered. Looking after Ian became his job that night, his most important responsibility. But Lip had gotten distracted by college and girls and sexy, secretly batshit crazy professors. Lip had let go, and Ian had fallen.
“Christ, is this really that boring to you?” Ian suddenly asks, snapping Lip out of his thoughts. “You look like you’re on another planet. Thought you were supposed to be smart.”
“Doesn’t matter how smart people like us are, bro,” Lip says, clearing his throat. “We’ve had too much shit to worry about, still have too much shit to worry about, to have time to get worked up by whatever these blowhards are talking about.”
“Maybe that’s why people like us keep getting shit on, you know,” Ian reasons. “Too distracted by our daily shit to worry about the shit still yet to come.”
“Whatever, man,” Lip says, waving his woefully cigarette-free hand between him and Ian. “Can we talk about literally anything else?” Usually, he’s more than happy to talk about this kind of thing with Ian. It’s not often a member of his family tries to engage him in an intellectual discussion, unless Frank’s anti-government rants count, but it’s not what he needs right now. He needs to hear Ian laugh. He needs to hear Ian talk animatedly about what happened to him at work that week. He needs to remember that Ian’s okay, that they’ve both come a long way since the night of that phone call.
“How are you feeling?”
Ian rolls his eyes. Ian always rolls his eyes at that question. Lip’s pretty sure Ian could be on fire or hunched over, turning green and vomiting up sea cucumbers, and would still roll his eyes if Lip asked how he was feeling.
“This about Abe again?”
Abram Bell, the newest name added to Ian’s long list of exes. Usually Lip’s ecstatic to see whoever Ian’s banging that month go, but he had almost sort of started to like this one. Abe is an undergraduate art student, perhaps a little too young for Ian, but smart and caring and normal. Stable. Good. Normal. Those are Lip’s favorite words when it comes to Ian’s life.
“We haven’t really talked about it, that’s all,” Lip offers weakly, not wanting to set Ian off. “Don’t have to if you don’t want to. I thought you liked him—”
“I thought I did too, but he did something messed up,” Ian interrupts, his chin jutting out the way it always does when Ian’s pissed. “And now he won’t stop calling. Have to turn my phone off at night to get any sleep. Never dating someone younger again.”
Lip snorts. “Going back to men old enough to be your dad then?”
“Fuck off.”
“Hey, man, not judging,” Lip chuckles. “We all gotta work out our daddy issues in our own ways, right? I drink angrily, complain about how fucked up the world is, and pretend that doesn’t make me anything like Frank, and you bang guys who—”
“I am begging you not to finish that fucking sentence,” Ian groans. When Lip goes quiet and just smirks, Ian lets out a laugh that makes Lip feel like he’s won some sort of prize. “You’re such an asshole. At least the old guys buy me shit before they turn into annoying stalkers.”
“I know you liked Abe though,” Ian adds softly, after a pause. “I swear I’m not the one who fucked it up this time, as hard as that is to believe.”
“Didn’t think you were,” Lip assures him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder quickly. “The little fucker was too loud anyways. Unless you got some kind of magic dick, I think he just got out off on annoying the neighbors.”
Ian laughs again, long and loud. Lip finds himself thinking about the incident again, about how afterwards making Ian laugh or smile or react at all was like pulling teeth. Relief suddenly floods him. For the first time since his alarm had gone off that morning, he feels his muscles start to relax, his hands start to still, his itch for a cigarette start to calm. Sure, it’s Thanksgiving, but Ian is not Monica. Ian is well. Ian is here. Ian is Stable. Good. Normal.
“I don’t even like when people are loud in bed,” Ian sighs, shaking his head, a smile still playing on his lips. “Annoys the shit out of me, honestly. Just shut up and actually enjoy it, you know? I don’t need your validation every second.”
“Don’t know, man, I kind of like screamers.”
“Yeah, I fucking know you do.”
Lip scoffs despite Ian having a pretty valid reason to complain. There’s been a long parade of women going in and out of Lip’s life since his relationship or whatever the hell it was with Helene had ended years ago. He knows all the random, nameless girls annoy Ian, but Lip doesn’t want to ever get that lost in someone again, let someone sink her teeth into his heart like Helene and Karen had. Fuck, sometimes he thinks he’s still trying to recover from Karen Jackson.
It’s what they all do anyways, the Gallaghers, so who’s Ian to judge? The compulsion to push, push, push for what they want and then run when it gets too close, too real, too hard is rooted deep in all of them. It’s a character flaw he thought Ian and Deb had somehow been spared, but in the end they had run too. Sometimes he wonders if it’s more Monica’s fault or Frank’s that none of them seem to be capable of a healthy relationship. It hardly matters though, he’ll blame them both the same when the next one goes up in flames. Gallaghers don’t simply leave relationships, after all. No, they douse them with gasoline and make sure every fucking bridge has been burned to ashes before they walk away.
“Whatever you’re worrying about, can you stop?” Ian asks, an amused lilt to his voice. “I doubt Frank will be there, and Monica sure as hell isn’t coming.”
“Oh, Frank will be there. I’d bet you a million bucks on that,” Lip says, as he pulls the car over in front of the Kash and Grab. The store somehow looks even shittier and more rundown than the last time he was here. “Gave up drinking completely after that last scare, for now anyways. Trying out his father of the year act.”
“Shit, is he telling everyone he loves them again?”
“That’s what our dearest Debbie reports,” Lip confirms. “Caught him watching her sleep the other day, like he used to do to Fiona.”
“Fucking fantastic,” Ian mutters.
They walk into the store together, hands stuffed into their pockets, heads down but eyes alert. The neighborhood isn’t as bad as it used to be, the invading hipsters made sure of that, but old habits die hard.
He catches Ian look around briefly when they enter the store, taking it all in with a faraway look in his eyes. The look vanishes so quickly that Lip almost thinks he imagined it though, and then Ian’s asking the cashier for his brand of cigarettes and Lip’s. Lip tries to protest when Ian goes to pay for them both, but Ian smacks his hand away. “I owe you, man.”
“It’s been like seven years, Ian, you’re gonna have to cut that shit out eventually,” Lip says, when they head back outside and Ian tosses him the carton. “We’re equal partners here. We split the rent, the utilities, the groceries—”
“What groceries?” Ian laughs. “And I wouldn’t even be—” Ian begins to argue, but Lip doesn’t want to go anywhere near where he knows Ian’s about to go. Not today.
“Should we visit Carl soon?” Lip interjects quickly, not waiting to hear Ian’s response before hopping into the car. “Feels like we haven’t been in a while,” he continues, when Ian’s closed his door behind him. “Not like it bothers him all that much.”
Ian tenses up, and Lip realizes he’s just replaced one sore subject with another. Visiting Carl in prison makes Ian nervous. Ian would never admit to it, but Lip can tell by the way Ian has to change his outfit at least seven times before they leave, by the way his eyes dart around when they’re waiting for Carl to arrive, never staying in one place long. Lip isn’t sure if Ian fears catching even the briefest glimpse of Mickey Milkovich or if he hates that they haven't seen the tiny, dark haired thug Ian used to love yet. Lip knows which reason he prefers, which probably means it’s the opposite.
“Yeah, sure,” Ian says. “And I think he likes seeing us.” Lip can tell Ian’s forcing his voice to sound casual, and it makes him cringe. He's reminded of all the times Ian had insisted he was fine before the incident, plastering a smile on his face and laughing weakly at their jokes. “We should bring Debs this time. She was pissed we left her out last time.”
“Why can’t she just go with Fiona, Sasha, and Liam?”
“I don’t know the logic behind it, man. I just know she was pissed.”
“Yeah, fine, whatever keeps Debs from throwing a fit, I guess.”
“I think she just misses Carl.”
Lip pulls the car over again, this time in front of the Gallagher house. It looks the same as it always has—shabby and crumbling and home. As much as he loves this house, he feels a twinge of guilt as he walks up the creaky steps. It’s his fault they’re still here. After graduating, he was supposed to get himself a fancy, high-paying job and pull his family out of the ghetto. That was the plan. That was always the plan. Instead, he had been talked into going to school for even longer so he could make a decent but hardly earth-shattering salary as a professor someday.
The door swings open before he has time to dwell too much on his failings. Fiona emerges, a wide grin splitting her face and a messy apron wrapped around her waist. “Boys! I thought I heard someone pull up!” she exclaims, throwing her arms out. She grabs Ian first, snaking her arms around his broad shoulders and pressing her face into his neck.
“Missed you, Fi,” Ian says softly, one arm around her waist and the other in her hair. “Sorry we’re a little late.”
“My fault,” Lip says, stubbing out his cigarette under his heel.
“Oh, stop, you’re fine,” Fiona insists, pulling Lip in for a hug as well. “The turkey isn’t even close to done yet anyways. The baby didn’t sleep at all last night. Got a bit of a late start.”
Ian smiles and walks past them into the house, calling out Debbie’s name. Fiona pulls away from Lip and puts her hands on her hips. She stares at him for a moment before speaking again. “How’s he doing?” she asks, nodding her head toward the door.
She’s trying not to sound worried, but Fiona’s never been as good of a liar as she thinks she is. Or maybe Lip just knows her too well. “He’s fine,” Lip says, meaning it. “I’m not totally sure what Abe did, but Ian’s the one who called it quits. Seems a little pissed but okay with it.”
“Well, alright then,” she says, smile returning to her face. “Then let’s stop gossiping about him and get in there, yeah?”
“What about you?” Lip asks, before she can retreat back into the house.
“What about me?”
“How are you doing? Can’t be easy, Debbie working at the diner for Sean now.”
Fiona shrugs and goes right on smiling. “It’s a good job for her, and it was good of him to give it to her. It’s hardly the first relationship I’ve fucked up, and I've got the new job now. I’m fine.”
Lies. More Lies. But he doesn’t challenge her on it.
The house is loud and a little too warm and Lip can’t stop smiling. Debbie is regaling him with a dramatic tale of how she cursed out a rude customer at the diner, Liam is giggling as Chuckie draws something obscene on the newspaper, and Fiona is bustling frenetically around the kitchen, putting final touches on all the food.
It’s all so nice and vaguely comforting that it takes him a moment to realize he isn’t sure where Ian is. He hops up in the middle of Deb’s story, earning him an annoyed huff, and looks around. “Hey, where’s Ian?”
“Upstairs, I asked him to check on Sasha for me,” Fiona answers, as she sprinkles something on top of the mashed potatoes. “Would you go get him? Almost time to eat, monkeys!”
Lip nods and takes the stairs two at a time. Sure enough, he finds Ian in Debbie’s room, balancing baby Sasha on his lap and making funny faces. He blows a raspberry that makes Sasha burst out into giggles, and Lip can’t help but laugh along with her.
Ian looks up and gives him a small wave. “How the hell did Carl have a kid this cute?” Ian asks, rubbing his nose against Sasha’s. “Huh, how did you turn out so precious, little Princess Sasha?”
“You’re good with her.”
Ian rests her against his chest and shrugs. “I’ve had practice, I guess.”
Shit. Somehow Lip has managed to stumble upon yet another touchy subject for his brother. Before Svetlana took off a few years ago, she had let Ian help out with Yevgeny. Lip never really understood Ian’s desire to take care of his ex-boyfriend’s child, but it made Ian happy, so he didn’t ask questions. The two of them leaving had left Ian close to devastated for a while, and Lip knows he still sends Svetlana money every month.
“We all have, I mean, growing up the way we did,” Ian adds, as if reading Lip’s mind. “Think her mom’ll ever show up? Wanting her back?” Ian stands, bouncing Sasha up and down gently in his arms.
“From what Carl’s told us about Bonnie, I doubt it. If she comes back, it probably won’t be for long,” Lip says, resting a gentle hand on the back of Sasha’s head. “Poor kid. One wayward parent, and one who’s probably going to make a career out of being incarcerated.”
“I’d still take that at over fucking Frank and Monica. Besides, she’s got all of us looking after her. That’s gotta count for something, right?” Ian says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head that makes her giggle again. “Time to eat?”
The table is set and food waiting when he and Ian walk downstairs. Frank has appeared like Lip knew he would and has seated himself at the head of the table. Fiona is sitting across from him, occasionally shooting dirty looks his way. Lip settles in next to Debbie again, and Ian by Liam once he gets Sasha set up in her highchair.
Frank is mercifully quiet while he picks at his turkey, barely eating. Liam quickly launches into a story about school that Lip mostly tunes out in favor of looking around at his family. Their eyes are focused on Liam, and they all look genuinely happy for once, but Lip still can’t shake the uneasy feeling building in his gut. It’s been too calm lately, too peaceful, which for the Gallaghers, can only mean disaster is imminent.
It strikes him then how much of their parents he and his siblings all have in them. It seems the harder they fought against Frank and Monica’s influence, the more their poisoned genes decided to double down on them. There’s Debbie and Ian—the two Gallagher siblings who have run off without even leaving a goodbye letter behind, both fleeing from and throwing themselves into conflict with equal abandon. They would probably hate him if he ever voiced how much of Monica he sees in them, in how they want so desperately to love and be loved but, when it comes down to it, don’t want to compromise for that love.
Then there’s him, Fiona, and Carl—all with criminal records, all never quite being able to resist the sweet allure of self-destruction and obviously bad decisions. Frank’s addiction lives in them. Lip loves his anger as much as loathes it, and he worries it’s much the same with Fiona and sex, with Carl and the high-risk, high-reward of crime. It doesn’t matter how far he distances himself from South Side and Frank, it still feels like he’s walking a tightrope, one misstep away from gleefully destroying everything he’s worked so hard for. He’s come so close in the past to throwing it all away.
“My sweet Debbie.” The sound of Frank’s voice makes Lip’s skin crawl. “Growing into such a fine young woman. Have I told you how much I love you?”
“Only a hundred times in the past week, Frank,” Debbie sneers, stabbing into a slice of turkey more aggressively than necessary. “Can we not do this?”
Frank either ignores her or doesn’t hear her, because he starts going down the line, telling each of them how much he loves them. He skips Ian, though. He always skips Ian. Even Chuckie gets a pat on the head, but Ian barely gets eye contact. It causes that earlier spark of anger to flare again, to heat low in his gut until it’s boiling in and pulsing through his veins. His fists clench on top of the table, and he’s just about to tell Frank to fuck off when he notices Ian staring at him.
Don’t, Ian mouths, shaking his head.
It takes everything he has to obey the request, to swallow down the bitter words building up in his throat. He hates how content Ian is to just sit there while Frank ignores his existence. He hates it almost as much as he used to hate how Ian would just take Frank’s abuse, never fighting back the way Lip knew he would if Frank had ever laid a finger on him.
Dinner winds down quickly. Lip is thankful for that because he’s not sure he could stand being in Frank’s presence for another second. He can see his miserable excuse for a father is actually trying this time, and it’s no small feat that Frank hasn’t had a sip of alcohol in a month, but it’s not enough. Lip is sure it’s never going to be enough, not when he can still hear Fiona telling Lip to hold Ian tight through her own tears, not when he can still feel Ian shivering his arms, doing his best not to cry.
Frank takes off as soon as the food is cleared, and Lip feels like he can finally breathe. Fiona puts on some music, and they start drinking cheap beer and boxed wine and munching on the pies Debbie had brought home from work. Kev and V eventually show up with their kids, and the fun really starts then, all of them laughing and giving each other shit like old times.
The alcohol makes him feel pleasantly warm and helps him ignore the feeling of dread he’s been struggling with all day. When he falls back on the couch and lets his head roll on to Ian’s shoulder, he thinks about how perfect this moment is. It’s just him, his siblings, and Kev and V. They’re at their best when they’re alone like this, free from the weight of outsiders. They’re at their best when they’re just the Gallaghers, laughing through hard times and looking out for each other first.
“You good, man?”
An obnoxiously sober Ian is smirking at him when he looks up. “Nah, you got fucking bony shoulders.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a sweaty mess, but you don’t see me complaining.”
Lip lays his head back against the couch instead and plops his feet on the coffee table next to Ian’s. “I just don’t want anything to fuck this up.”
“What do you mean?”
Lip extends his arms, motioning erratically at all the people gathered in front of them. “Other people, they always fuck us up.”
“Unfortunately, I think some of that fucking up is on us,” Ian chuckles quietly. “You really don’t want a girlfriend or a wife someday? The real thing? Someone to bring around here, so we can all scare the shit out of her?”
“Ian, I probably would’ve married Karen Jackson and raised her Asian baby if she hadn’t suddenly been possessed by the devil,” Lip answers, running a hand down his face. “Don’t got the best instincts when it comes to that kind of thing.”
The same faraway look from the Kash and Grab reappears on Ian’s face. There’s a long stretch of silence before Ian replies. “Do any of us? Don’t be too hard on yourself. You’ll figure it out eventually,” Ian says, patting him on the shoulder. “Cool if we stay here tonight? I’m too exhausted to drive your drunk ass home.”
Lip nods, closing his eyes, as he lets himself sink deeper into the couch cushions. It’s not long before sleep takes him, the comforting noise of his family calming the storm building inside his head.
There’s a knock at the door. Lip tries to ignore it at first, but it only gets more insistent with each passing second. He jerks an arm out toward the coffee table, nearly throwing himself off the couch in the process, and picks up his phone.
5:43AM.
“What the fuck?” he mutters, stumbling on to his feet. As he shuffles toward the door, he catches himself worrying it’s the cops coming for Carl again, but unless the kid has managed to dig his way out, that’s unlikely. There’s still music playing in the living room though. Maybe it’s bothering one of their new uppity neighbors.
“What?” he all but growls when he throws the door open.
“Lip?”
The voice sounds familiar. Lip has to blink his eyes a couple of times, but the face eventually comes into focus. His first thought is that he should’ve grabbed the bat. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, stepping back slightly.
Iggy Milkovich holds up his empty hands. “Just looking for your brother, man,” he says. “Ian,” he adds, as if Lip has any doubt which brother he means.
“And what do you want with him?” Lip squares his shoulders and narrows his eyes, hoping it makes him look intimidating rather than completely ridiculous. “He got away from your fucked up family. I’m not letting you drag him back into whatever bullshit you’re dealing with now.”
Iggy glares at him. “Like you Gallaghers ain’t just as fucked up?” he spits. “You assholes, always looking down on us like you’re something special.”
“Yeah, let’s compare stats on how many members of our families are currently MIA or incarcerated,” Lip snarks. “Pretty sure we got you guys beat. And if we want to bring full-time jobs not involving meth into it then—”
“What fucking ever,” Iggy grunts. “I’m not here for you, man. Where’s your brother? He home?”
“He lives in North Side now.”
Iggy whistles, looking caught off guard by the news. “No shit?” he says, raising his eyebrows in a way that is eerily reminiscent of a certain other Milkovich brother. “He find a fancier fairy club to strip at then?” Lip moves to the slam the door in Iggy’s face at that, but Iggy catches it just in time and manages to overpower Lip to push it back. “Alright, bad joke, I get it,” he says, holding up his hands again. “Can you just give me his number? We don’t got a current one. The old one keeps saying it’s shut off or some shit.”
“What’s this about?”
Iggy hesitates and shuffles his weight between his feet. “Look, this is something your brother’s gonna wanna know about, alright?”
“And I’m just supposed to trust you on that, huh?” Lip snaps. “Tell me what it’s about, and I’ll decide whether or not I want to send you lot crashing back into his life.”
Lip doesn’t miss the way Iggy’s hands ball up into fists. He prepares himself for one of his arms to swing out, for the crushing weight of a fist against his face. Lip almost want him to do it, wants an excuse to lose his fucking mind. It’s been so long since he last got in a proper fight.
Iggy doesn’t hit him though. Instead, he takes a few deep breaths, relaxes his hands, and says the words Lip knew were coming. “It’s Mickey.”
“Of course it’s fucking Mickey.”
“Can you quit being an asshole for like two seconds?” Iggy sneers. “Mickey’s in bad shape, okay? He was doing real good in prison at first, but then our father got transferred back in to the same joint with him. Overcrowding or whatever. Everyone turned on him when Terry got there and—”
“He dying or something?” Lip means to sound glib, but he finds himself legitimately worried about the answer. If he could have his way, Mickey Milkovich would never enter their lives again, but that doesn’t mean he wants the guy dead.
“Nah, don’t think so,” Iggy says. “It looked bad for a while, but he's doing alright now. He’s still kind of out of it, on shit tons of drugs and shit, you know? But he’s asked for Ian a couple times.”
“That right?” Lip drones, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “You want Ian to go see him?”
“Don’t think he can. Just uh—what’s the phrase they use? Just—um, just real family?”
“Immediate family,” Lip supplies.
“Yeah! That’s it!” Iggy exclaims. “But I thought he should know anyways. Mickey might be getting released early ‘cos of this. Not a sure thing and he only had like six months left to go anyways, but it’s something, right? Lawyer thinks we might even able to sue—”
“How the hell do you guys have a lawyer?”
“Think he smells money. Just showed up at the hospital one day, talking about all this stuff,” Iggy explains. “Don't think Mickey really wants to sue though, just wants to get the fuck out of there.”
“Well, shit,” Lip sighs, leaning against the door. He can feel his earlier contentment draining rapidly from him, leaving him deflated and defeated. This is the disaster he felt coming. Just as Ian is left vulnerable from a breakup, his old thug lover reappears to screw everything up. The last thing Ian needs is a convicted felon boyfriend to drag him down. Stable. Good. Normal. Three words no one would ever use to describe Mickey fucking Milkovich.
This all began because of Mickey Milkovich. Ian running off, joining the army, and falling apart while their lives went on. This all got worse because of Mickey Milkovich, who kept Ian tucked away inside his house as Ian’s mind unraveled a little bit more every day, refusing to let Lip and Fiona drag him to the doctor like they wanted.
“He’s got a boyfriend, you know.” The words spill out of his mouth before he even realizes he’s talking. “I mean, I just, I don’t know what Mickey—”
“It’s been over seven years, dude. Mickey ain’t a moron just ‘cos you think he is,” Iggy cuts in, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Don’t think that’ll change Mickey wanting to see him. Your brother’s gone to visit him a few times in prison, you know? They mighta talked about it already. The last time was only a couple months ago.”
“Wait, what?” Lip half shouts. “Ian’s gone to see Mickey?”
“Couple times, I think, not a lot. Last time he brought the kid with him though.”
“Fuck,” Lip mutters to himself. Svetlana had come to visit with Yevgeny about two months ago, right around when things with Abe and Ian started to go sour. Ian had spent the day with them, but he never mentioned having seen Mickey. Lip had been so sure they had gotten past this keeping secrets from each other bullshit.
“Look, they didn’t write poems or confess their love or nothing far as I know, so chill. Can you just give me Ian’s number?”
No, no, no, no, just fucking leave! That’s what Lip wants to scream in Iggy’s dumb fucking face, but he holds himself back. Iggy will just track down Ian on his own if Lip turns him away now. “Don’t know Ian’s number off the top of my head, and I have no clue where my phone is. Why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll have Ian call you?”
Iggy looks relieved at the proposed solution and nods his head enthusiastically. “Yeah, man, here’s my number.” The other man pulls an old cigarette carton out of his pocket and scrawls his number on the back. “Get it to him soon, ok? I’ll let him know what’s going on.”
“Sure, fine,” Lip mumbles, slamming the door in Iggy’s face before he can say another word. He saunters toward the kitchen, clenching the cigarette carton in his fist. He’s considering lighting up one of the burners and setting it on fire when Ian comes down the stairs.
“Jesus, you look like hell.” Ian grins at him, and Lip forces himself to offer a weak smile of his own. “Was someone at the door just now?”
“Just one of the neighbors,” Lip lies easily. “Complaining about the music being too loud last night. Told ‘em to fuck off."
“What, seriously? These assholes wouldn’t know fun if it farted in their faces,” Ian grouses, as he swings open the refrigerator door. “Neighborhood’s gone to shit.” To Lip’s surprise, Ian pulls out one of the pies from yesterday, grabs a fork, and starts chowing down.
“You hungry or something?” Lip teases.
“I don’t even know, but I was dreaming about this fucking pie all night,” Ian laughs, mouth full. “Swear it didn't taste this good when I worked there. I’m gonna have to start visiting Deb more often."
Lip pulls out his own fork and joins in, letting out a low groan at how good the apple filling tastes. Ian smirks at him but doesn’t say anything. The two eat in silence for a while, occasionally catching each other’s eye across the counter and laughing. It feels good to see Ian like this. There had been a few long months where even getting Ian to eat plain toast was struggle, but now here he is, finishing off almost half of an apple pie by himself.
After he finishes, Ian burps and declares he’s going back to bed for a bit. Lip waits until he disappears around the corner of the stairs to look down at the number in his hand. Before he can overthink it, he finds himself standing and walking over to the trash can. It’s an easy thing, letting the cigarette carton fall from his hand and tumble into the waste. It’s an even easier thing to shove the empty pie tin over it, assuring no one ever sees it.
Stable. Good. Normal.
Make sure you don’t let go.
Lip isn’t letting go of Ian. Not this time. Not ever again.