The second Mickey woke up he felt like his head was split in half by an axe. He opened one eye and glanced at the clock sitting on the nightstand. It was almost 5am but pitch dark outside since they were in the middle of winter. His mouth felt like he had drunk disinfectant and his whole body was sore. He tried to remember what he had done to feel this shitty.
His plan to go downtown. The bar. There was a blurry picture of Ian giving some bills to the bar tender and the dull memory of them coming home to a scared looking Fiona.
Before he could recapture the rest of the night he felt bile burning in his throat. Fuck.
He looked around searching for his wheelchair but couldn't find it. But he wouldn't be fast enough to get in it anyway. Swallowing the upcoming mess that was about to come out of him any second he slipped off the bed as quietly as possible. A bomb of pain exploded in his head at the movement. God, he didn't want Ian to see him like this. He hadn't been able to avoid it earlier that night but right now he was in even worse shape. Weak. Even weaker than he was already since he became a fucking cripple.
Pulling himself forward with his arms he made his way outside of the room, thank god the door was only half-closed and into the bathroom which was open as well.
He almost made it but before he could lean over the toilet he started gagging and emptied his stomach on the floor and his shirt. Tears flooded his eyes because of the acid burning his throat.
Not because of what had happened today. Or the fact he was laying on the floor puking his guts out because he couldn't even make it to the goddamn toilet. No, just the stupid acid.
He started heaving again but his arms were too weak to lift him up to the toilet. Weak. Weak weak weak. It was his father's voice screaming at him in his head, the same word over and over again: "Weak". Ian didn't deserve this. He deserved so much better. Always had. But he had stayed anyway. Well he had come back. He had come back even though Mickey had been nothing but a bunch of crushed bones and blood. And why? Because he loved him. That's what Ian said and showed him every day. And Mickey said it back and showed it because he loved Ian. But this? Ian didn't need to put up with this shit. God he shouldn't put up with this.
Shaken by new waves of throwing up and pain he just wanted to disappear.
He didn't know how long he laid there shivering in his own puke.
But suddenly he noticed something red in the corner of his eye.
Ian.
If Mickey had had a gun to blow up his head in that moment he would have done it.
When Ian opened his eyes he found Mickey's side of the bed empty. A look to the clock told him that it was 6:42 in the morning. Usually the whole house would be up by now but today was Saturday so everyone would sleep in. Especially Mickey. Especially with the hangover he would definitely have. Ian remembered that he had forgotten to take the wheelchair upstairs which made Mickey's absence even weirder. Everything was quiet as he stepped out of the room and into the hallway but he frowned at the sight of what was in front of him. At who was in front of him. Their room was directly across the bathroom the door of which was open.
Mickey was laying on the floor on his side just in a shirt and his boxers. The small carpet beneath him and his shirt were covered in vomit and the acrid smell hit Ian's nose.
He could feel his heart crack.
Mickey's eyes were open but blank and for the terrible split of a second Ian though he was dead when he noticed his chest going slightly up and down.
