Chapter Text
It had been three years. Three years, four months and twelve days, if you were technical. That was what Mickey was told at least, because he had no reason to concern himself with the statistics. Ian was due back in Chicago in shortly less than a year and Mickey had tried to convince himself that he didn't care. No matter how many guys he fucked or how much stupid shit he did to get thrown in jail for a couple months, his attempts to erase the redhead from his memory failed to prove effective. Mickey spent so much time in a jail cell, that he didn't know why he bothered to get out; more often than not, he ended up right back in - like father like son. He knew that a part of him hoped that Ian would be there one of those times he strolled out of the double doors of that brick building - he never was. And he knew that thought was stupid to begin with, and it was gone from his mind after the first year Ian had left; it was clear he wasn't coming back.
The one good thing about jail according to Mickey, was that he could without a doubt, always get laid. He didn't bottom for any of the guys in there, because then he would seem weak. He would also be reminded of the memory of Ian that constantly burned in his mind. His cellmate though, was a small kid, and he reminded him of Ian when they'd first met - skinny and pale, except the guy had brown hair instead of red, and not nearly as hot. Mickey had the kid scared - well, at first - and he became property of Mickey in the joint, and the only bruises left on his fragile skin were inflicted by the Milkovich. His name was Sean, and on occasion, he let the kid fuck him, because he trusted him didn't have to worry about him blabbing; Sean knew he'd kill him. He told Sean about Ian. And finally, he had a friend. As soon as Mickey's ten months were up, he dropped all contact with him. And then he was right back to being alone. Not for long.
Mickey was sentenced to six months when he'd ended up in jail at the two years and six months mark, but he'd ended up there for ten instead for bad behavior. One more for fighting, two for punching a cop and an additional for stealing a knife from the kitchen - Sean called him an idiot, but his opinion didn't matter much, Mickey was still counting the days until Ian would be back. When he was finally released, it was the end of April and Mandy wasn't there to pick him up, as per usual. She'd given up on him after the first couple of times; she still called,but it wasn't the same - the sibling bond between them had broken. It reminded Mickey of how no one bothered to throw Terry a party when he got out - more likely than not he'd end up locked up again before the night was over. Like father like son.
Mickey took a three hour bus drive back to Chicago, and ended up downtown, which resulted in him being forced to walk the remaining ten miles. He knew that he'd walk right past the Gallagher house, he'd gotten used to the route home from the same bus stop. He did it with purpose each time, attempting to scope out the house for any sign that Ian was home early - Mandy would tell him if her favorite redhead was dead. When he approached the Gallagher house from the opposite side of the street, there seemed to be quite the crowd. There were a variety of people there - Kev and V, random people from the neighborhood, some rich looking people and men in uniform - it didn't click in Mickey's mind. So he stood with his arms crossed and entered defense mod as he waited to see what the fuss was concerning. Ian wasn't due back for eight months yet - eight month and nineteen days - so he shouldn't have cared. He couldn't seem to convince himself to look away though.
A Honda pulled up outside of their house, and the bustle seemed to intensify - the car was a mess, probably one of the few vehicles they could afford. Lip, Fiona and Mandy filed out quickly and Mickey could not wrap his head around why they were all there, especially his fucking sister. His nerves shot sky high. Mandy...the party...Ian. It was too soon, something was wrong, he fucking knew something was wrong. He knew Gallagher was an idiot for enlisting. They all gathered around the passenger door and Mickey tapped his foot impatiently while he waited to see if it really was Ian that everyone was there for. When the rusty brown door was pulled open though, it didn't look like the same Ian that had left; he was too thin, the Ian he knew always packed muscle, and his hair lacked all shine to it - he looked exhausted.
Ian made no move to get out of the car, and he stared emotionlessly at the people that surrounded him; they all still wore smiles, as if something wasn't obviously wrong with the man in the car. Lip dipped down and hefted his brother out of his seat; he secured his arms around him and held him bridal style, with an arm beneath his knees and the other upholding his torso. The redhead - was it even red anymore, or was it grey? - wrapped his arms limply around Lip, and his arms tightened when Lip attempted to set him in the wheelchair Mickey had yet to notice; he'd been too worried about Ian. So the blonde kept a hold of his brother - Ian looked scared - and turned to walk up the path.
Mickey ran then, as fast as he could. He didn't stop until he'd made it the few blocks home and collapsed against the wall as soon as he was locked in his room. His hands dug desperately at his chest, as if that could make the aching in his heart go away and keep the tears from burning. Gallagher was supposed to come back healthy - he was lucky to come home alive.