Still, our hearts beat.

When all comes tumbling down

Friday 11th / 2070 words

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Mickey is made to wait while Ian is rolled through the hospital corridors, hooked up to small monitors and whatever that EMT told him that bag was. Mickey's informed that Ian needs to be treated before he can see him - and honestly, Mickey's starting to feel a little fucking homicidal.

He hangs his head between his knees on some random bench outside the emergency intake, and tries to both calm himself down by taking deep breaths, counting to ten and taking drags from a cigarette all at the same time. And when that cigarette dies out, he lights another, and another.

And then he calls Lip with still trembling hands, the sun beginning to set over the city.

"Mickey, hey."

"Hey" he mumbles back in response.

"What's up?"

Mickey's throat feels like it's closing over, staring absently at a weed growing through the cracks of the pavement in front of him.

"...Mick?"

"Ye-yeah.. Yeah.. Uhm.."

"Fucking spit it out Jesus, is it Ian?"

"... He's in the hospital. We're, here, at the hospital."

Mickey hears movement still on Lip's end of the line, tension radiating through the mobile as Lip's breath stutters into his ear. "Is he okay!?!?"

"He will be. He will be." Mickey gets out, tugging fingers at the hair on his scalp, half to convince Lip, half to convince himself.

"What the fuck happened? Why isn't he okay now?"

Mickey breathes in sharply, "Uh. He ah- I came home to him barely breathin' with a fucking,, slit wrist."

His voice shakes, and he's met with painful silence for a few moments. When Lip does speak, or yell to be more accurate, it's distant, like he's holding the phone out of reach.

"Fuck.... Fuck. Fuck!... Why isn't he okay now? He didn't like.. did he?"

"No. No. He fuckin' might've if I didn't find him when I did I dunno.. The EMT told me his breathin' and his heart were too slow. Needs loads of stitches."

".. Holy shit.."

"They won't let me see him. Says he's gotta be fixed up and run tests for fucking responsiveness and bloodloss or some shit before I can."

He breaks, not expecting the sudden brittle voice and the few tears spilling over his cheeks. There's people around, only a few, and for once in his life, he doesn't give a shit about what they might think of him crying in public - because oh god his Ian is sitting in the hospital behind him, unconscious with a broken wrist.

"... What hospital are you at?"

"Uh, St Andrew's. Stroll street, Westside." Mickey mutters after turning his body to look up at a sign on the wall.

"Okay, I'll be there in like, two hours alright? Visitation usually ends at 8 at hospitals right?" Lip sighs heavily.

"Maybe, I dunno.."

"You call anyone else?"

"Nuh."

"Okay. Okay. Well, don't. Let me handle it. Just, uhm, settle yourself. He's alright. Yeah? He's in there being treated okay? He'll be alright." Lip tries to assure, raking his brain into a plan to get to the hospital in the fastest route from Milwaukee, preferably most legal way possible.