Still, our hearts beat.

How I found you

Friday 11th / 2731 words

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Mickey walks at a somewhat reasonable pace from the L to their apartment - a little anxiously, so, okay, maybe he jogged. ('little anxious' might be an understatement)

Not expecting anything too out of the blue, silently yelling at himself to chill the fuck out on his overthoughts; he tries to remind himself that Ian is surely in bed, like he had found him yesterday, like he has been spending all his hours the past five days.

He only missed one call, and it was only thirty minutes ago. One call. That he missed after he had promised Ian he would pick up. And now Ian isn't answering his texts. He wishes the static in his fingers and the horrific visions in his mind would leave him alone, but it seems no use.

Fuck. Fuck!

He unlocks the door, mildly huffing his breaths and as quietly as he can manage, enters their apartment. He listens out as he stands by the now closed door but can't hear anything. So, after dropping his keys quietly to the bowl by the door he walks down the short hall. Catching his breath as he slows down to peak into their bedroom, he expects to see his husband curled under the sheets

His brows furrow at the sight of an empty bed, and a quick surge of panic streaks through his bloodstream. He backtracks, turns around and lightly knocks on the bathroom door,

"Ian, you in there?"

He questions quietly without response before opening it and again, finding no Ian. He wonders if he passed him on the couch.

His heartbeat quickens in his chest, mind wired into alert as he quickly struts into the open space, darting his eyes to their dark blue second hand couch against the wall, and still no Ian.

He instantly grows more panicked, he was trying to reel it down the entire way home, but now he doesn't give a shit. Ian isn't home. There was no telling when Ian could get a burst of energy, no telling where he could go. The fucking gym? Gallagher house? Did someone pick him up? Carl? Debbie? Was he somewhere else Mickey wouldn't think to fucking look?

He scrambles to pull out his phone from the back pocket of his pants and observes the time, 4:17 pm - roughly half an hour since Ian called.

He takes vague notice of his hands beginning to visibly shake as he unlocks his phone with the pin number being their wedding anniversary, and flicks straight to messages. Reading that his three texts to Ian from earlier continue to read as delivered, so he presses the dial button.

Bringing the phone to his ear, he peers towards their blinded windows in the lounge room from where he's standing, rubbing the top of his nose with his free hand, sweat making his skin hot and itchy.

The line rings in the bedroom, startling him and causing him to draw a panicked breath.

Shit.

He mentally flicks through the options for a few seconds; could call Lip? Carl? Could run downstairs see if he's around?

Whatever way, he needs to find Ian or he's gonna lose his fucking shit.

With a shake of his head, he wants to quickly splash his face with water before running out the door, his hairline and the back of his neck feeling hot and flushed, where he's built up a sweat from his hard work all day mixed with his jog home.

He stomps over to the kitchen entrance, a mere three metres away, his body feeling prickly and sickly. And is horrifically greeted with Ian curled on his stomach on the floor, in nothing but boxers. A knife sitting by his side, a soaked towel to his wrist and a pool of blood underneath it.