Still, our hearts beat.

Let it hurt tonight

Friday 11th - 697 words

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He slams the front door, despite it now being near nine o'clock on a Friday night. And the second the empty apartment hits him, he unravels. He leans against the door and involuntarily slides down it as he heaves for air and the tears flood from his eye sockets, soaking his palms that are pressed over his face.

He doesn't know how long he spends on the floor as breath rattles out from his chest and the cuffs of his sleeves collect the wet from his cheeks. But he doesn't care, nethertheless.

He manages to collect himself enough to just sit there instead of fighting for his life against the door, forcing himself to control his breathing, counting to ten - over and over and over and over. And although the ache pulsing deep in his bones and filling from the bottom of his lungs up to his heart never fades, after a while, he stands, locks the door, and heads to the kitchen.

The sticky red blood greeting him with shine from the overhead light makes his stomach queezy and his head spin. And somehow, as if on auto-pilot, he cleans it all up. Using half a roll of paper towel and discarding it all into the bin under the sink. Upon picking up the knife from the floorboards, he stares at his warped reflection in the blade for a little minute, Ian's blood dried brown on the sharp edge, and then he discards it with the rest of the soaked rubbish.

And then he showers.

It's a long one. Doing the same as what he had been doing for god knows how long on the floor, only now standing under a stream of water. Eventually when the flow starts running cold, he wraps it up. Stumbling into the bedroom, his eyes immediately catch on the uneaten jam sandwhich on Ian's bedside. The ruffled and messy sheets, Ian's phone sitting there too. He Forces himself to look away, telling himself he's only in here for fresh clothes. He pulls a longsleeve, hoodie, socks and some sweatpants from his drawers and throws them on.

He ends up on the couch, wrapped in his clothes with the couch blanket bundled over his figure. And because he couldn't resist, Ian's pillow is curled tightly against his chest. How could things go so wrong so quick?

The apartment is hauntingly silent and empty without Ian here with him. The space feels too big, too dark, too dull. Mickey nuzzles his head against his own pillow, nose buried into the top of Ian's, breathing in his scent - his sweat, from sleeping against it non-stop for almost a week straight. He makes a split mental note to wash the bedsheets before Ian comes home.

Ian's in the psych ward, all alone, and he doesn't want to be. And that makes Mickey's heart throb heavily in his chest, makes his throat so undeniably tight and it makes it harder to even breathe. Ian's all alone, dosed on lithium and laying in a tiny bed wearing a mustard yellow shirt exactly like he had done eight years ago, almost to the month.

And Mickey's here, in their home, on their couch. It shouldn't be like this. It almost seems inevitable, this whole situation. As much as everyone would deny it, something was bound to happen again. Something miniscule or something drastic and heartbreaking and preventable if only someone were watching him. That makes it worse. So, so much worse.

So Mickey's going to let it hurt tonight.

Let it hurt tonight, so he can be strong for Ian tomorrow when he visits him, be strong for Ian when he comes home, be strong for Ian while he recovers and the meds adjust in his body.

He's going to lay here on his side facing the dark and empty apartment and cry. Shakily breathe in Ian's smell and clutch onto his pillow like it's a lifeline until he wears himself out and eventually falls asleep, hoping that Ian's asleep too. Because after all, someone needs to fill the void of silence and light in this home without Ian, and it might as well be him.

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