IAN
I lay in bed, starting at the ceiling in nothing but my tear stained shirt and a pair of Mickey's boxers. The fucker ran away again, and who knows how long it's going to take me to find him this time. Then again, I haven't really tried. Mandy- the only Milkovich still communicating with me- told me to leave him. She said that if he really loves me, he'll come back.
That's what's wrong with this whole dilemma. Mickey does love me, and I know that he does. But now, because of my little fucking outburst, he's gone and he might not come back. And if he doesn't it's not because he doesn't love me, it's because he thinks that I don't love him.
Terry may be in prison, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't watch out for Iggy and Colin. Everything is just so gloomy without Mick by my side, it all seems more grey and grim.
"Ian." I hear a voice practically whimper from the other side of my door. It's Fiona. She peeps the door open, looking at me through the small crack. I pathetically put on a (failed) attempt of a smile- which is painstakingly fake. Fi looks at me, cocking her head to the side sympathetically. She sits next to me on my bed, running her hands through my hair as I lean into her shoulder, sighing a sad wheeze that forces her to look at me in concern.
"How long's it been?" She asks as I stare up at her, eyes wide and puffy.
"Almost two months." I harshly whisper, the fact that I'm able to admit it without a sudden stroke is incredible.
"Jesus fuck." She pauses. "You gonna go find him? Better then moping around in bed for a month." She suggests, and the idea wouldn't sound so bad if I didn't have the fear of rejection. The fear of Mickey simply hating me, refusing to even say a word to my slum face.
I push the covers off of myself and the hair on my arms raise immediately. Regretting my decision to face the cold, I drag myself to a drawer- a specific drawer. I rummage through it until I find a gray muscle tank top. Bringing the fabric to my face, I breath in the scent. It smells like an ashtray and some booze with a hint of musky, winter morning air. His scent. It's enough to motivate me to move my lazy ass and go find the piece of shit who's currently taking over my life, not only possessing my brain but invading my heart.
Not bothering to groom myself or shave, I simply apply a stick of deodorant and toss on Mickey's shirt and some skinny jeans, grabbing my wallet and leaving the house. I hop down the steps to see Lip stumbling drunkenly up the porch. He trips over air, nearly falling and busting his head open as I catch his limp body in my arms.
"Jesus fuck, Lip!" I yell. I shove his body so it's facing mine, my eyes widened with disappointment and disgust. I can smell the alcohol and practically feel the fumes wafting off of his unstable body. "You're barely holding yourself together!" I scoff, shaking my head disapprovingly. "You're worse than fucking Frank! Jesus. You need to go get help."
Suddenly, without warning, a fist collides with my face and I hear my name being called from behind me. Another fist. Footsteps. "Fuck you!" I scream at my extremely drunk brother, slamming our bodies onto the concrete. I fall on top of him, my fist colliding with his jaw as he groans painfully.
"Ian!" A girl screams. It's Mandy. I can tell by the raspiness in her voice and Lip- miraculously- finds a way to stand up and stare at her, sadness in his alcohol-ridden, bloodshot eyes.
"You." He slurs out. "You fucking did this to me. Breaking up with me-" Lip coughs and spits on the ground next to him, "you made me this way!" Lip chucks the bottle obliviously, and without warning it crashes right into my thigh.
"Fuck!" I scream out, collapsing as I grab it. As Lip starts to drunkenly yell at Mandy, my phone begins ringing, the familiar marimba playing. I answer it, and my heart races when I hear the voice on the other line.
"Be there in five." He says.
"Wha-How do you-"
"I ain't fuckin' deaf."
The phone clicks and I stare at it, that is until the aching in my thigh returns. It burns like a flame, and frankly, too much is happening for my liking: Lip and Mandy. Weird calls. Glass in leg. My brother drinking himself to death.
"-I already have enough problems! I don't need another one to deal with, Lip! Get some fucking help but don't blame me for this! You can't just hit me and-"
"You hit her?!" I croak out, gripping my bloody leg. The coppery liquid is staining my favorite pair of white jeans, but fortunately my leg is numb at this point.
"F-" Lip stutters, caught on his fucking tongue. I can't even begin to describe the rage I am feeling towards him. He hit Mands. He's drinking his damn heart out- literally- and he's the new Frank. Great. Just fucking dandy. "Fuck you, Karen."
I pause, looking at Mandy. Her mouth is open and the expression on her face is a mix of fuming anger and aching pain. Even Lip knows what he's said, as the fucker covers his mouth, a tear slipping down his cheek.
"Karen? Really?" Mandy exclaims, throwing her hands up into the air frustratedly. "Karen? My name is Mandy, fuck face!" She screams ferociously, spit flying as it lands on my drunken brother's shocked face.
"I-" Lip hesitates, looking around desperately. I can't even be mad at him; the look on his face is sad and his eyes are swollen and red, snot running from his nose as he sniffles repeatedly. "Fuck!" Lip cries, his head in his hands as his shoulders shake vigorously. I stare at the pathetic man in front of me- my best friend completely infected with the alcoholic jean, and now it's gotten the best of him.
"Mandy." I whine out as she looks over at my resting body, and thank God there's not too much blood on the concrete.
"Fuck. Are you okay, Ian?" She asks as she runs over to support me.
"Fine. But, do me a favor?"
"Call 9-1-1?" She asks and I shake my head aggressively.
"Fuck no. Take Lip inside, get him some water and make him throw up. Just- just stay with him and then, when he wakes up, twist his scrotum so hard that his balls pop out like a fucking Pez dispenser." I hiss as she laughs, nodding and throwing my brothers arm over her shoulder. Painstakingly, she finds a way to haul him up the stairs, not without a series of grunts and gasps.
"You sure you're okay?" She asks, and I dismiss her with a nod and a slight wave of my hand. She shakes her head in annoyance from my stubbornness, then yells, "Fiona! Lip's totally fucking wasted!". Fiona opens up the door, gasping when she sees her nearly-dead brother.
"You fucking-" Fi slams the door as I take a deep breath, trying to calm my breathing as I begin to hyperventilate.
Should I call 9-1-1? I think to myself.
That's a ridiculous question, of course not. You're an EMT. Just rip off some fabric and put some pressure on the wounds.
I take off Mickey's shirt, almost pressing it on my leg when I come to a halt. Take the glass out, dumbass!
Right.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on my bottom lip and feel for the large piece of glass lodged in my thigh. Fortunately, there's only one, but it's as big as my fucking palm.
Even touching it, putting the slightest bit of pressure on the glass hurts like a bitch. I immediately regret my decision not to call an ambulance after the first slight tug, a strained cry escaping my throat. I pull again, this time using every swear word in the book as the glass tears my flesh a little bit more. With each tug, my muscles get tenser and my leg feels weaker.
About six pulls and a thousand cuss words later, I manage to get a large, bloody shard of the liquor bottle out of my leg.
Okay, now apply some pressure to the wound.
Using Mick's tank top, I slowly place it over my deep gash, my shaky hands causing me to hit my leg as I let out a loud "FUCK".
I jump, startled, as car tires screech loudly and ear-piercingly; a rusty Station Wagon turning the corner. It comes to a fast and sudden halt as the one and only Mickey fucking Milkovich exits the vehicle.
I knew he'd come.
"What the fuck?" He asks, his words pronounced in his rich Chicago accent. I look up at him and smile guiltily. Shaking his head, he leans down and stares at me, my eyes lost in his blue oceans, as bright as his smile- which glows like the sun.
For a moment, I forget about the gash in my leg, simply losing myself in Mickey. He leans down and kisses me. It's raw. Sloppy. Desperate. Something we need; we crave. He bites my lip furiously as I grip his warm neck, our hands caressing everywhere on each other's bodies. I kiss his neck and tease him by running my tongue along his shoulder. "Fuck." He mutters and grips my jaw tighter as he interlaces his tongue with mine, tracing every outline of my mouth.
Moaning into his rapid, frantic touch, I grip his back and keep a tight hold on his shirt. We hold onto each other for dear life, afraid of once again losing this reckless, needy love that we share. The connection we hold is stronger than any love could ever be and Mickey knows this as he teems my body with his dangerous touch, electricity exploding with every jolt and movement. Our tongues clash and collide, scandalously fighting the ongoing war that is our relationship.
Finally pulling away after what seems like endless hours of love making, Mickey stares at me rawly, his eyes expressing what words cannot create. He grabs my upper body, wrapping it up in his warm, welcoming embrace as we squeeze each other, gripping our bodies desperately tight. Suddenly, a shooting pain erupts through my leg and I cry dryly as Mickey looks down at my bleeding, poorly-attended-to wound.
"I forgot about that." I mutter as Mickey chuckles weakly.
"Fuck!" I call out, my eyes rolling into the back of my head and my head lashing backwards. "Jesus fuck, Mick!"
Mickey frantically panics, desperately tearing off his jacket and reaching for the sleeve of his shirt. "Mickey-" I stop him and point to the tank top on the floor next to me.
"No." He whines as he looks between me and the shirt.
"Mickey, you can wash the shirt!" I protest, annoyed with his stubborn behavior.
"But this is my favorite shirt." He gripes, sounding like a five year old being refused a toy monster truck.
"Mick!" I cry, snapping him back to reality. He takes a deep breathe, even his exhale sounding more like a disappointed whimper.
"Fuck. Fine." He rolls his eyes in annoyance and hastily grabs the shirt, looking around to get some intel on what to do as if a sign is going to appear above my head with glowing and flashing instructions.
"Jesus, Mick. Give me the shirt." I groan, gesturing towards the cloth in his weirdly clean hands. He looks cleaned up, something that took me years to get used to. When I came back from the army he was cleaned and smelled like coconuts and, I can easily say, that was one of the most shocking moments of my whole life.
Mickey tries to help, desperately doing little things that don't really need any fixing, but I don't complain. At least he cares enough to try. I gently lift my leg, wrapping the shirt around it slowly in order not to fuck anything up more than I already have. I pull tightly, circulation-cuttingly tight, and squeeze my eyes shut as I take in a deep breath.
Mickey lifts me up, carefully picking me up off the ground, and carries my limp body over to the car. Colin sits in the front and his eyes widen in confusion as he looks at the blood soaking through my white jeans.
"Unless Jesus just fuckin' resurrected, I don't know what the fuck you're lookin' at." Mickey hisses and Colin simply rolls his eyes and hits the gas. I look up at Mick, who is staring out the window with a look of angst in his baby blue eyes. He turns his head and sees me anxiously watching him with a burning passion in my eyes that can only be relieved by one thing- sex. He leans down but, instead of kissing me, looks me straight in the eyes and stares into mine, soaking up my soul in the few split seconds we connect.
I feel completely drained as I wrap my hand around his neck, initiating a kiss. He refuses, and not in an uninterested manner, but in a restricted way. Colin watches, a sad frown on his face as complete silence fills the car. The lack of words enables me to hear every sad breath Mickey takes; every shuttered inhale and every jagged exhale. I'm not sure what any of this is about, but I'm not sure I want to know.