Still, our hearts beat.

Cascading Worries

Friday 11th / 1399 words

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It's been a long five days since Ian came home from work slumped and exhausted from a call that made him weep tears on the shower floor and sent shivers down his spine. Five days since he spiralled into a downswing, because of course, leave it to his brain to make it happen.

He's been spending his hours in bed; sleeping, staring, occasionally crying - only getting out of it to piss, really.

Mickey was able to get him up two days ago for a shower. Where he sat Ian down in the tub and washed him over while he gazed blankly at the wall. Then washed his hair, raking and massaging cucumber and apple shampoo into the oily strands. After that, figuring it's easier to get it over and done while he's already up - he got Ian to sit on the close-lidded toilet and took a shaving razor to his face; ridding the orange stubble that had grown. Because he knows Ian - and it was at that uncomfortable and scratchy length that Ian can't handle unless he's particularly aiming to grow it out.

Ian didn't say a word, hardly opened his eyes, didn't even flinch when he copped a tiny nick on the jaw. Just let Mickey move him around, all energy drained to object. Though, the hair washing was nice, it always is, he could admit that to himself at least.

Mickey left him food - whether it be jelly, sandwhiches, a banana - on the bedside table before he went to work yesterday, only to come home to it still sitting there. And when he has been home throughout the other days, he'd help him sit against the wall and get something down, with Ian's head heavy and leaning against his shoulder.

Mickey lay there with him while he's awake, in the dim lighting of their bedroom. Running soft, soothing fingers through his orange hair, letting him cry into his chest if he could manage to get any tears out. And sometimes Ian doesn't want to be touched - so he'll keep his painful distance on the mattress. Once or twice Ian had already whispered to him, please leave me alone, and so Mickey would sit on the balcony and smoke an unhealthy amount of cigarettes in one go because the shakiness in his legs feels way too overwhelming to confront.

Today, though, Mickey wakes to his eight o'clock alarm. Unfortunately.

The sound is quiet but loud enough for him to hear and stir in his sleep, soft enough to hopefully not wake Ian. In a wake up daze, he shuts off the ringing with one hand, the other stretched across Ian's lower back under the covers. He manages to lift himself sleepily to one elbow, running tiny circles on Ian's skin. Watching him simply breathe for a moment, the small rise and fall of his body on the mattress and against his palm; before trying to bring as little attention to himself as he slips from their bed.

When he stands, he peers down at Ian as the heaviness settles into his core once again, as if sand is being poured straight down his throat and piling up from his stomach to his heart. It happens, they know it was bound to happen again. The last was after their wedding, two months after their honeymoon Ian became like a wandering ghost in his own life. That was only a minor swing, like this one should be. They've handled it before - maybe not handled the best way possible (on both sides), but they got out in the end.

And they'll make it out of this one too.

Once Mickey had collected his clothes from the cupboard and essentials from the bedsides for his day at work, he begins leaving through the bedroom door to continue his routine. That's when Ian whispers his name.

Although it was gravelly and quiet - barely there, Mickey turned to the sudden sound of his husband's voice, seeing Ian unmoved from his position he lay in seconds ago, had been laying in all night.

"Yeah, what's up, Red?"

He questions softly, coming to stand on his own side of the bed. His eyes meet with green ones, and he can't help but think they look as if Ian's staring straight through him. Which feels like an utter stab in the ribs and a kick in the gut, but Mickey sports his best grin for him anyway.

Ian draws in a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again,

"When will you be home?" He mumbles.

He closes his eyes again for a moment and draws a few shallow breaths as he feels Mickey's weight dip the edge of the mattress, hearing the ruffles of the coat he's got haphazardly folded over his forearm as he squats down next to the bed.

"Real soon, I'll be back a little after four, okay?"

Mickey responds, gazing into Ian's eyes, placing his hand on top of Ian's that rest beside his head on the pillow,

"I'm only a phone call away, a message away. You can ring me any time, I'll pick up."

It's his second day at work this week, since his boss only granted him three off when he asked for the five. And this was the first time Ian's spoke for over a day, almost two; voice cracked and shallow from misuse. And god, was Mickey glad he spoke up, instead of leaving him walking out the door not knowing he was even awake.

He shifts a hand to brush Ian's fallen hair from his forehead, gently raking fingers through the messy locks. Ian closes his eyes to the touch, just having Mickey touch him so gently, he thinks is at least a little comforting in this fucking void that has engulfed him completely.

Mickey leans over and holds a kiss to Ian's head for a few seconds, before mumbling against the skin, "Real soon. I love you."

Pulling back, he spies Ian scrunch his eyes the slightest at the end of his touch, before seeing him nod a little in reluctant response.

He gets the rest way ready for work wearing a frown. Making Ian a jam and butter sandwhich and leaving it on the bedside for possible later consumption as Ian had drifted back to sleep within the five minutes he had been gone.

He quietly closes the front door of their apartment behind him, then turns around and locks it with his set of keys. With fingers pressed firmly against the white painted wood, he stands there and let's his forehead roll forward until it's leaning against it also, furrowing his brows and wishing the heat behind his eyes away. Wishing the craving for a cigarette to ease the anxiety coursing through his limbs away, too. He hates leaving Ian, he hates doing that to him. Why the fuck does he have to work on a goddamn Friday anyway?

His boss granted him three days off, deeming his excuse not 'immediate' enough for him to be an another man down on his already low staff - which is his own fucking problem in the first place, which Mickey thinks is a total load of bullshit.

He hates seeing Ian in this state, obviously. It feels as if the sun doesn't work it's magic anymore and everything around them speeds up while they slow to a standstill. Overall, he's worried to leave him. It's not so bad when he's home, Mickey can handle the quiet broken stares, the crying and the not eating; it hurts but he can deal with that. It's different when he isn't there with him - having no idea if Ian's okay. And the longer this seemed to stretch out without a sign of it lifting, the more helplessly anxious Mickey becomes.

For six and a half hours, yesterday and today, he has to leave Ian alone. Not knowing what he could do, not knowing if he had eaten. If he had gotten a sudden spark of energy and had gone for a walk or some shit. If he was in the building's pool, although heated, it's the middle of fucking Autumn. Or done something drastic that Mickey can't help but fret over and isn't there to help him. He could call Lip, theoretically, but he's caught up in a full time job, with two kids and a partner, Mickey doesn't want to draw him away from that any more than Lip already is.

Mickey eventually pulls in a deep breath and removes himself when he hears a neighbour round the corner at the end of the hall. Shaking his head, he forces himself to walk off towards the elevator; a dark pit opening in his stomach.

Fucking work.