Chapter Text
No matter how hard he tried, at the end of the day, Ian always found himself rushing out the door of his hectic office—often mid-sentence with a member of his IT staff—to hit the road dead in the middle of rush hour traffic in a race to pick up his girls. Always running late, always fighting off exhaustion. Always wishing he was not so alone in keeping his shit together.
He sent off texts to Laurel, his oldest, as soon as he pulled up to the crumbling curb, alongside a row of older homes.
Ian [5:23 p.m.]: I’m here
Ian [5:23 p.m.]: Gotta get going
Ian [5:23 p.m.]: Move it kiddo 😀
And now he waited.
As he sat impatiently in the cushy family SUV, absent-mindedly tapping on his knee, he studied the slightly rundown house where he had picked Laurel up for the last three weeks.
It reminded him a lot of the house he grew up in. Though unlike that house, this one had a small yard with a tiny flower bed. The kind that said someone was trying to make their yard look nice but had zero interest in actually gardening.
This house had seen better days. A narrow walkway of cracked uneven pavers—trip hazards as Ian saw them—led to porch steps that were more than a bit cock-eyed. Paint peeling around the ancient looking windows framed a small front porch upon which sat a couple of worn rockers with a tiny table wedged in between. On the door was a faded fall-themed wreath that read “Welcome Home”.
The owners, presumably the parents of Laurel’s new friend, Alex, clearly followed the advice of buying the worst house on the best street they could afford. The neighborhood itself seemed to be transitioning so he imagined it was a smart investment.
Usually, Laurel was sitting on the porch steps when he arrived, her friend Alex, a lanky pimpled boy seated next to her—the two of them always animatedly chatting away. The first time Ian had picked Laurel up, he had attempted, awkwardly, to ask if she and Alex were “a thing.”
“You and Alex seem to be… close, Laur. You guys more than friends? We need to set some ground rules?” He’d aimed for cooly casual, but had missed the mark entirely. In his defense, it had been the first time he’d ever broached something like this—he was entering uncharted territory. Bobby had always handled conversations like this before.
So even though Ian had known the day was coming, he’d hoped he could avoid it at least a bit longer. Laurel was a smart kid and very focused on school. She’d never seemed interested in boys, at least not as far as he’d been able to tell.
Like her dad had been, Laurel was on the taller side and what one might—not very nicely—refer to as “sturdy”. Warm brown eyes rarely hid her thoughts and she almost always had an open smile on her face.
But Ian certainly remembered high school and being secretive about his crushes—though that had been for other reasons. Reasons he tried to block from his mind more often than not.
Laurel had just shaken her head at his questions, her laugh light and her tone dismissive. “Nah, we’re just friends.”
Ian had looked her right in the eye, quirking an eyebrow in question.
“Totally just friends. Nothing more… like ever.”
“You know it’s okay—”
“He’s, well, he’s just not my type at all. But don’t get me wrong, he’s a good guy. I mean he’s super smart and fun. Kindy nerdy though, which I like, but not like that, like ever. And I am kinda nerdy too,” she’d said, only a bit self-deprecatingly, “definitely nothin’ you need to worry about. Trust me, ‘kay?”
And that was that. Ian had left well enough alone. Because at seventeen—going on forty—Laurel had never given Ian any reason to doubt her. She had always been an easy kid, for which he was grateful. He was more likely to cry on her shoulder than the other way around.
The first day Ian picked Laurel up from Alex’s house, Alex had loped over to Ian’s SUV and introduced himself, giving Ian a bit of an odd look before sticking out his hand to shake it. Ian assumed the look was just the standard reaction that he got when he was introduced as Laurel’s father because he was fairly young to be a parent of a teen, and looked nothing like her.
But today the porch steps were empty and Laurel wasn’t answering her phone—which wasn’t normal for her. He reminded himself that he shouldn’t get worried. That there was no reason to believe that she was anything other than fine.
He decided he would give it another couple of minutes and then he’d knock on the door. He was just so damn tired—he always felt tired. And the last thing he wanted to do right now was escape the safety of the SUV. But he was cutting it close to pick up Grace from her daycare center.
At least this morning he had remembered to tell Laurel that he wouldn’t be able to get to Alex’s house until 5:30. Too often he forgot to let her know. Most days he was just happy he remembered to get dressed in the morning and take his meds.
He’d been watching the clock on his dash nonstop and when another minute passed, Ian accepted the fact that he was going to drag his ass out of the car and knock on the front door to get Laurel moving. He just hoped she’d be the one to answer, because he really didn’t feel like meeting Alex’s parents today. Dealing with people had been… difficult lately. Energy had been hard to come by and most of the time he just couldn’t be bothered with anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
He had to ring the doorbell and knock hard a couple of times before the door finally swung open. He breathed a sigh of relief that it was just Laurel on the other side, an impish smile spread wide across her face.
“We gotta get movin’ kid,” he said, trying his best to sound calm and casual, to keep any aggravation out of his voice. Unfortunately, he was fairly sure his impatience radiated off him. “We’re gonna be late again.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Totally lost track of time,” she said and proceeded to start rambling. “We just finished up our chem project really early, and then I started helping out…,” her hands moving just as fast as her mouth. “’Cause I didn’t think, like you’d mind, and it’s been a lot of fun...and now I’ve made us late...sorry.”
She finally paused and took a breath—Laurel knew full well that she could really do no wrong as far as Ian was concerned.
Ian gazed down at her—even though she was almost his height these days—with what he figured was more than your average amount of parental fondness. Since the moment Laurel had entered his life, he’d adored her. She was his kid in every sense of the word.
And his kid looked like a bit of a mess at the moment. Long brown curls were pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head, a light film of white powder covering her hair and shoulders.
What the heck had she been doing? Whatever it was, it seemed like she’d been having a good time and he wanted that kind of happiness for her, so much. It had been a really hard year for them both.
“Yeah, well we definitely gotta get goin’ Laur. Why didn’t you answer my text and come out?” As much as he was trying to keep it at bay, he could feel his anxiety slowly building. He realized he’d been fiddling with his keys nonstop while he waited on the porch to help corral his nervous energy.
“I woulda let you know I was helpin’ out if I’d seen the text. Not sure where I put my phone though.” She shoved a hand into the backpocket of her jeans. When her hand came up empty, her eyes flitted around the congested entry space. A shoe rack overflowed with all manner of footwear, a variety of bags made their own leaning tower of detritus on a nearby bench, and two shelves were covered with bills, flyers, magazines. Nearby hooks held a variety of jackets, sweatshirts, and ball caps. As messy as it was, the place radiated “home” from the minute he’d stepped through the door.
“I must have left it in my backpack… which is…. over there.” She pointed to the bag that had been shoved under the bench. “But we’ve all been working in the dining room.”
Grabbing him by the arm, she started to drag him toward the back of the house. “Promise we can go in a sec, ‘kay? Just need to help Alex and his uncle finish—”
“Laur, we gotta—”
“Won’t be more than a coupla minutes—”
“Get movin—”
“I’ll be fast, okay?”
“We’re runnin’ really late—”
“All you need to say is ‘Hi’ like a proper parent.”
“Can do that another day—” he started to whine.
“Stop putting it off, Ian. It's just Alex’s uncle and he doesn’t bite, at least I don’t think he does. So stop your dilly dallying!”
“Okay, grandma. Where’d you even hear that expression?”
Laurel ignored his response, grabbed him by the arm, and started dragging. Weaving through sunlight filled hallways covered with old-fashioned peeling wallpaper and framed photos that he only saw out of the corner of his eye, Ian couldn’t help but feel like he knew this place even though he’d never crossed its threshold.
Ian was quickly shepherded into what was, apparently, the dining room. A dining room that currently had zero walls, just beams and wiring where walls should be.
Alex had been waiting for Laurel, a large piece of sheetrock in his hands and a foot tapping impatiently. His shaggy mop of dark hair—the alpaca style so typical of teenage boys his age—was also covered with a film of white and what looked like dirt smeared across one cheek. He quickly waved to Ian as they entered the room, signaling with his head for Laurel to join him. With a quick pat to Ian’s arm, and a “Give me like five, ‘kay?” she darted off to give Alex another set of hands, leaving Ian to let his eyes explore his surroundings.
Apparently renovations were well underway but they looked haphazard at best. Drop cloths were strewn over well-worn wooden floors, what looked like the original trimwork sat piled in one corner, and several large black garbage bags overflowed with what he assumed were remains of the walls that used to be.
The room itself was both large and bright, with three oversized and very warped-by-time windows taking up most of the exterior wall. The room would have probably had a calm and airy feeling if it weren’t for the jarring notes of Metallica blaring from an old boombox in the corner.
It was hard to miss the ladder dead in the center of the room, or the short, compact man with his back to him. Ian could see he was doing something or other with an assortment of wires hanging down from the drooping ceiling, and he assumed a light fixture must go there. He just really hoped the guy actually knew his way around wiring, because Ian at least knew better than to mess with shit like that.
He found himself absent-mindedly watching the guy’s hands while he waited. He’d always liked hands—strong hands. Hands that made him feel grounded and safe. These hands were moving quickly, assuredly.
And then Ian blinked. And blinked again. His eyes knew exactly what he was seeing but his brain seemed to be lagging behind. Was he imagining things? Had his perpetually exhausted brain gone on hiatus and was just making shit up?
Because what he was seeing had him freaked. And excited. And terrified.
Tats–old, faded, finger tats. And even though Ian couldn’t actually make out the letters, he knew what they said—the story they told, the narrative they had created. A narrative the hands’ owner had never chosen. Letters that were armor as much as a threat.
Ian couldn’t stop his eyes from following those hands—couldn’t tear his eyes away.
But then he was brought back to reality as Laurel grabbed on his sleeve and shouted over the music, “Just helpin’ put up this last piece. ‘Kay?”
He didn’t answer. He was stuck. Like a deer in headlights.
“Earth to Ian,...did you hear me?” Laurel poked him in his side in a more determined attempt to get his attention when he didn’t respond.
He forced himself to pull his eyes away from the ladder and look at Laurel. His eyes must have reflected his shock because she looked at him with confusion.
“Hey, are you okay?” Laurel asked, her voice laced with concern.
He nodded, trying his darndest to focus on her. To look normal for her. Even though nothing, absolutely nothing, was normal.
In less than five minutes Laurel and Alex had finished up and Laurel had returned to his side, wiping her hands clean on the front of her jeans.
“Gonna let Alex’s uncle know we’re done. Then you're gonna say ‘Hi’ real quick like a grown-up, and then we’re gonna get right out of here so we’re not, like, too late again, and that should be fine, I think that’s fine. ’Kay?”
She didn’t wait for any kind of response from him—she wouldn’t have gotten one anyway. He was fairly certain his brain had stopped working.
He watched as Laurel headed over to the ladder, tapping the man’s foot to get his attention before yelling up at him. Ian watched as the man signaled that he couldn’t hear her and pointed to the boombox as the culprit. Laurel, like any other teen, simply proceeded to yell even louder, “Puttin’ the last piece up. Then I gotta go.”
The man nodded his head and then bent down from the ladder to respond to Laurel. Ian couldn’t hear him over the music. Couldn’t make out the words. But he didn’t have to—he could still hear the voice in his head. A voice that had never left his memory in more than a decade.
He watched as Mickey—his Mickey— quickly headed down the ladder, shoving tools into an old leather tool belt as he moved. There was something a bit off in his gait, and he was wearing thick framed glasses that somehow redefined his face.
Mickey hadn’t seen him yet so he’d never know that Ian couldn’t have stopped himself from staring even if he’d tried because Mickey looked like his Mickey—the Mickey of his memories. The Mickey that had never stopped showing up, especially on his loneliest nights, in his dreams.
The Mickey in front of him looked really strong—but he’d always been strong for his size. A compact ball of energy who could throw a punch harder than a guy twice his size. There was only fight—no flight—to his Mickey.
Rolled up shirt sleeves showed off corded forearms, covered in an assortment of tats. He couldn’t make out what any of them were from this far away, just that there was a lot more ink than the last time he’d seen him. His jeans were worn and baggy, with more than a few holes and smears of dried paint. They hung loosely from his hips, the bottoms frayed and ratty.
The light from the dining room’s large windows hit Mickey’s hair just right and Ian could see it was threaded with gray. He wondered if the stress, from a stolen youth in prison, was the cause.
Even though Ian was staring, unabashedly staring, he was still surprised when all of a sudden, Mickey turned toward him. In an instant their eyes met. They were still half a room away from each other but it was almost as if Ian could feel him. Could feel his presence in the clash of their eyes.
Later, Ian would wonder how long they would have stood like statues if Laurel hadn’t interceded, excited to finally make the introduction. “Ian, come over here and meet Alex’s uncle,” Laurel said encouragingly as she signaled for him to come over to where she stood next to Mickey at the base of the ladder. But Ian’s feet were suddenly rooted to the floor.
It was Mickey that finally made a move forward—towards him. Even though he was less than a couple of yards away, it felt like a lifetime before Mickey was in front of him.
“Gallagher,” he said, voice gruff with the slightest hint of his signature cockiness. Exactly the way Ian had heard it in his head for all these years.The beginnings of a half smile gracing his time-worn, but still gorgeous face. Ian watched as Mickey unconsciously pulled his lower lip between his teeth as he studied Ian.
“Hey Mick,” the slight crack in his voice gave him away even though he was doing his best to pretend he was composed—he was anything but. God, was he a fuckin’ teen again? He told himself to act normal, to keep it together. But his heart was pounding, his hands were sweating. He wanted to run just as much as he wanted to stay.
He started to open his mouth to say something, anything to get Mickey talking, to hear his voice, but Mickey was turning away from him, yelling over his shoulder to Alex. “Can you turn the fuckin’ radio down?”
And then, suddenly, the room was quiet. Weirdly, awkwardly, quiet. Mickey looked at him and smiled. But it wasn’t the kind of smile Ian was hoping for, or, if he was honest with himself, had expected to see. This smile felt a bit impersonal—friendly, but distant.
“Been a long ass time man,” Mickey finally said.
“Yeah…yeah it has,” Ian responded, his voice quiet as he tried to hold back his disappointment that Mickey, apparently, wasn’t feeling a quarter of what he’d been feeling. Had he imagined that look they’d shared? Was he the only one whose heart had raced?
Suddenly he was aware of how he looked—fucking exhausted. He knew his eyes were bloodshot, his hair overgrown, and a mess of an untrimmed beard covered most of his face. He looked like what he was–-a single parent to two wonderful, but very demanding, daughters. One of which was still in diapers.
Ian realized he should say something like ‘How’ve you been?’ or ‘When’d you move back?’. The silence between them was getting awkward-–but before he opened his mouth again, Mickey seemed to remember they weren’t alone.
His eyebrows shooting straight up in surprise, he asked, “You here for Laurel? How’d you even know her?” Then, to Ian’s astonishment, he leaned in close to Ian so he would not be overheard. With a look of profound concern he uttered, “Please tell me she’s not another one of Frank’s fuckin’ spawn,” his voice so low that Ian had to lean in close to hear him.
But even though Ian was practically on top of him, he barely heard the words come out of Mickey’s mouth anyway—he was too transfixed by his smell. Soap, smokes, and sweat—and so fuckin’ familiar. He just wanted to stand still and breathe Mickey in.
Instead, he was abruptly pulled back into the present when Laurel, who had grabbed her backpack and was pulling on a light-weight jacket, piped up before Ian could get it together and actually say anything. “He knows me ‘cause he’s my dad,” she said grinning.
Confusion crossed Mickey’s face. Laurel looked back and forth between the two of them. “You guys, like, know each other?” she asked, cocking her head to the side and eyeing them both curiously. “Wait, how do you guys know each other?”
Mickey’s eyes darted to Ian’s as he responded, “Go a long fuckin’ ways back, don’t we Gallagher?”
Ian was stunned to hear what he thought might be a hint of longing in Mickey’s voice—but maybe he was just imagining it since that’s what he wanted to hear. Because after less than five minutes in a room with Mickey Milkovich, Ian was longing—desperately longing—for him.
“Umm…yeah…yeah we do.” His head had started to move up and down in agreement—he was operating on autopilot. He was far too busy staring at Mickey’s everything, realizing just how much he'd missed him. Knowing just how much they both had missed out on. “A really long ways back,” he eventually murmured.
Ian felt like they were the only two people in the room, maybe on the planet. It had been a long time since he’d wanted anyone—had the energy to even think of wanting someone. But he had never wanted someone quite the way he’d wanted Mickey. No one who had ever made him fall, quite so hard. So hard that he almost couldn’t get back up. He knew he didn’t know Mickey anymore. But Christ he wanted to.
He was yanked from his thoughts as Alex casually inserted himself into the conversation. “Were you guys friends or somethin’?” He’d come over to stand next to Mickey, dropping a huge hand on Mickey’s shoulder. Ian couldn’t help but notice absently how similar looking they were, side by side. Same eyes, same smile.
“You could say that.” Ian’s eyes locked on Mickey’s for a moment before saying words he didn’t want to have to say. “We gotta get goin’. See you around?” He tried his best to sound casual but he was pretty sure he’d failed to hit the mark. At least he didn’t think he sounded desperate, and that had to be good, right?
“Yeah man. Hope so,” Mickey replied quietly, his voice not quite as distant as before. Ian couldn’t help but notice that his bottom lip once again caught between his teeth.
As Ian headed out of the house, Laurel at his side, he didn’t look back—because all he could think about was his future, which suddenly seemed just a bit brighter.
———————-
Ian was surprised, three hours later, that he hadn’t been grilled by his older daughter yet. They’d both been quiet on the drive to pick-up Gracie at her daycare center. He’d been lost in his thoughts and Laurel had left him alone. She was used to him being quiet this time of the day anyway.
Since he was the last parent at pick-up, they were in and out of the daycare center fast. He knew he would be paying a late fee yet again since it was a regular occurrence. He tried his best to ignore the annoyed looks of the solitary child care center staff member who had drawn the short straw and had been stuck waiting around for him.
It wasn’t an easy drive home from the daycare center. Gracie was going through a phase where she screamed the minute she was put into her car seat and stayed that way right up until she was unbuckled from it when they pulled into the garage. It made the drives home miserable, even when Laurel sat in the back with her sister in an attempt to calm her down.
As soon as they walked through the door, Ian got to work feeding Gracie her dinner and then taking her up for her bath. A half an hour later he was fighting to get her down for the night.
At fifteen months old, caring for her—mostly on his own—was harder than he would have ever imagined. There was a short window of time between when she had been fed and when he put her down for the night, that he just loved. Where he felt like they were both in a safe little bubble of happiness and hope.
But getting her to go to sleep was always a battle and, by the end of the day, his patience was thin. It was right about then that he felt desperately overwhelmed by his life.
Tonight, as he laid her down in a one-of-a-kind hand painted crib, in her professionally decorated nursery, he remembered the tiny baby who’d slept in a drawer for weeks before he’d found a used crib left out on the street and dragged it home.
Forty-five minutes later, Laurel had found him half asleep, draped over Grace’s crib, his finger holding the loop of her pacifier. Her gentle hand on his back had roused him and she whispered, “Ian, you gotta come eat dinner.” Laurel always made sure he ate—something he often forgot, if not reminded and he had gotten pretty skinny in the last year.
When Ian was younger, he had enough muscle that skinny looked good—sexy. He knew he’d been considered hot back then with his six pack and tight ass. It was those looks that had scored him plenty of money and attention. These days he just looked borderline unhealthy. He doubted that anyone would look twice at him and most of the time, he didn’t care.
Lately, Laurel had been using YouTube videos to teach herself some new recipes. She was much better in the kitchen than Ian at this point. He’d even gotten her a credit card so she could buy whatever she needed at the grocery store.
Tonight was some sort of complicated pasta thing with all manner of vegetables, what he assumed was chicken, and had a light, flavorful sauce. Everything Laurel cooked was healthy and balanced. If he had an actual appetite, Ian would definitely have polished the whole thing off. As it was, he picked at it, eating less than half of the serving Laurel had given him.
“You don’t like it?” Laurel asked, disappointed.
“No, no. It’s not that,” he rushed to say. “You should make this one again, kid. I really like it.”
Laurel looked at him pointedly. “If it's so good, you should be doing a better job of eating it. Like, did you even remember to eat lunch today? You didn’t, did you? I know you didn’t. You know you really need to, right?”
A part of him hated that she felt like she had to take care of him—it should be the other way around. It reminded him of all the other times in his life that he’d relied on others to help him keep his shit together. He wasn’t quite sure why he let Laurel take care of him when he was so quick to push others away.
Ian paused, scratching his head absently. “I honestly have no idea. I’m just not that hungry these days.” He could see Laurel wasn’t crazy about that answer. But it was true, he rarely was hungry and he knew that wasn’t a great sign of where his head was at.
“Really, you don’t need to worry about me,” he argued, without much energy.
“Pot calling the kettle aren't we?” she returned.
Rather than allow Laurel to continue to push him, he changed the subject. “How was school?”
“Fine. Nothing worth mentioning.” She started to clear the plates off the table, dumping them into the sink as she continued speaking. “So you gonna tell me how you know Alex’s uncle, hmm? You know I’ve been waiting, right?”
Yeah, he knew. He’d been expecting a barrage of questions as soon as she got into the car.
He was having a hard time even believing this afternoon was even real. A part of him had truly believed he would never see Mickey again—and he’d mostly accepted that. Because Mickey had closed the door on him and shut it tight. Had just cut him out—never giving Ian a chance to fight for them, and it had almost broken him. But, eventually, he’d moved on.
That's where Ian had thought their road had ended. Until a couple of hours ago.
And now he had to suddenly answer his daughter’s questions. He had started thinking about what he would say to Laurel as he put Gracie down for the night, memories running through his mind of another baby he’d put down to sleep such a long time ago, Mickey right beside him. It had been a very long time since Mickey had taken a hold of Ian’s thoughts like this and he wasn’t prepared. He felt blindsided.
Talking about Mickey meant talking about himself, and his past. Ian was always honest with Laurel but he had never told her much about his life before he met Laurel’s father. It was something he had hoped he could avoid, at least a little longer.
Taking in a deep breath, he began, ”So, ahhh…” he let out a big sigh, “Alex’s uncle Mickey and I are from the same neighborhood—we went to the same school but he was a couple of years ahead of me—well until he dropped out.”
“So you were friends?” From the look on Laurel’s face she was surprised by that possibility.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” He could immediately tell that Laurel wasn’t going to let him stop there.
“What does that mean? Were you or were you not?” Impatience was written across her face.
“Well, friends isn’t really quite the right word. He was my boyfriend. My first real boyfriend.” He wondered if his voice was giving away the longing he would probably always feel when it came to Mickey.
“He’s gay?” Laurel looked more than a little surprised.
“Laur, I think you know the answer to that. I just told you he was my boyfriend, right?”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t seem gay.” Now she just looked kind of quizzical.
“What does that mean? Do I seem gay?” He wasn’t sure how he would feel about that answer.
“I don’t know, Ian. You’re just Ian. And I know you're gay.”
“Well did your dad seem gay?”
Laurel tilted her head to the side, looking up to the ceiling as she thought about it. “I’m not really sure. I mean… well, he was always Dad. But I think people probably guessed he was. I mean it's sorta hard for me to know what other people think. But you guys were like… well, always together. And you used to hold hands and he’d have his arm around you sometimes. It used to embarrass me when I was younger. You guys were pretty obvious.”
“Well anyway, Mickey’s gay.”
“I guess with all the tats…and ya know he’s like sorta gruff… I just never figured he would be.” She paused as if trying to decide what to ask him next. “So umm, did you love him? Like, were you in love with him?”
“Yeah… yeah I loved him. Loved him a lot.”
“Did you love him, like, more than my dad?” There was a hesitancy to her voice he wasn’t used to. Laurel rarely beat around the bush about much of anything.
“’Course I didn’t,” he responded quickly, defensively, knowing the words had never been true. And Bobby had known that, right from the start. But Laurel didn’t need to know that.
“Oh, okay. So was he your boyfriend for a long time? How old were you when you met him? Why did you break up? Did you break up with him?” The barrage of questions he had expected from the start had finally spilled free.
Ian looked her right in the eye, “Anything else you want to ask?”
“No, that’s good for now.”
“Mickey and I started hanging out when I was fifteen but he wasn’t really my boyfriend until I was seventeen. And we only dated for about a year. But he was there when I had my first breakdown. And he was really good to me. But I didn’t think I was good for him. So I broke it off.”
“And you haven’t seen him since then?”
“No, I’ve seen him since then. Just been a long time. Haven’t seen him since before I met your dad.”
“Oh…” She seemed to be thinking what to ask him next. “You know he went to prison, right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Alex says it was for something he didn’t do. That he had a crappy lawyer because he was poor. That true?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much true. You know my family is a mess—and that my sister Fi pretty much raised me. Well Mickey’s family was a lot worse. He didn’t have anyone there for him. Not really.”
Laurel was looking at him like he had grown two heads. “And he was your boyfriend?” She looked appalled.
“Laur, you don’t know what it was like where we grew up. I mean my childhood was really screwed up—and I know you’ve asked me a little about it before. One day, maybe, I’ll take you to my old neighborhood so you understand. If you asked me when I was 15 if I would’ve had a life like this, I don’t think I would’ve believed it.”
Ian avoided digging up those memories. While there were plenty of good times, there was also a lot of grief.
Grief over having Mickey only to lose him. Grief over his dream of joining the army and leaving the Southside. Grief over his brain go haywire and it taking years to sort out. Grief over all the could-have-beens.
Laurel knew he’d been lonely over the last year. That losing her dad had hit Ian hard. When the words came from her mouth, a bit awkward and uncomfortable, Ian wasn’t surprised, “Are you going to try to get to know him again?”
Ian acted like he was thinking about it but knew the answer immediately. “Yeah, I think so.”
As he laid in his cold empty bed that night, for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t imagine his husband sleeping next to him. Instead, he imagined Mickey wrapped in his arms.