GALLAVICH EVERYTHING

All That Shit

Source: Archive of our Own

Blog: OnlyHerForGallavich

Word Count: 1267

This is Part 1 of the Gallavich Reunions series.

-

"This is it, isn't it? This is you breaking up with me."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. Twelve words that had Mickey's world crashing down. Well, thirteen if you didn't count the conjuncture, but who gave a fuck about that? That was something only Gallagher would point out and the painful thought that Gallagher wouldn't be pointing ANYTHING out to him anymore struck him with force that surprised him.

"Yeah."

It wasn't up for dispute. It was one word, one syllable, that Ian hoped would free Mickey. He wasn't trying to be some kind of noble person, straight out of the fairytales Ian's life had never been similar to till Mickey. It was laughable; that the dirty, patchwork thug named Mickey Milkovich would be his prince charming, that he would be the one to knock him off his bloody feet. And goddamn, he really did. But this was the real world; there was no evil queen... only a disease that crippled his mind and unravelled him until he was an unlovable, pathetic excuse for a person.

"Really?"

It was happening. Mickey had never been deluded enough to think he deserved Ian. He was too pure, too GOOD, to ever belong to someone like him. That self loathing that had stayed at bay when he was with Gallagher crept in again. He could practically hear Terry yelling at ten year old him, why you cryin' you fuckin' piece of shit? What are you, a fuckin' pansy or some shit? Tears pricked at his eyes, and he rubbed an unconscious hand over his face. Yet he couldn't help but ask, really? Maybe he was still hoping Ian would still want him.

"Fuck."

Ian's silence had been clear enough to Mickey, who sounded like he had given up. Ian hadn't been able to choke out a response past the lump in his throat, and Mick had figured it out for himself. It was over, Ian should have been happy that Mick was now free to do better things, be with better people. Why did happiness feel like being stabbed in the stomach with a blunt knife, over and over? "I love you," Mickey had said. "We take care of each other." Wasn't that true? Ian would have probably died alone in an alley somewhere without him. And now Ian was trying to take care of him.

//

A gunshot echoed in the distance, and the intense contact of their eyes broke. They both turned their heads to the left, where an all too familiar figure was appearing on the horizon. "No fuckin' way," Mickey breathed, his eyes tracing the figure of the Father of The Year, Terry Milkovich. "Shit. Mickey, you have to get outta here; he has a fuckin' gun!" Ian shoved him slightly back. Mickey shoved back. "No, you leave. Now. He won't kill me," he retorted, 'I think', his wayward mind added silently. "He'll force you back into the closet, Mick. He'll make dozens of sluts fuck you. That isn't life, Mick. I won't let you-" Mickey held up a hand to shut him, sparing a glance at the desperate boy, looking away from the approaching figure for only a second. "The fuck do you care?" He yelled at Ian, anger fuelled by his heartbreak, "You don't need to worry about me anymore, do you?" Ian recoiled from the rage and pain in Mickey's words. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped as another bullet whizzed uselessly into the air, making them jump.

Neither would go; neither would leave the other behind. Meanwhile, Terry came closer, the coarse features becoming clearer as he drew nearer. Anger twisted his face to make it even uglier than it already was. "Come here you fuckin' assdiggers! Fuckin' faggots!"

Their hearts beat a hundred miles a minutes, in tandem.

"They let your sorry ass out?" Mickey called, spurred out by some new courage. "That little blonde bitch came over, paid my fuckin' bail. Said as long as I hurt you, she didn't really give a shit what I did." Terry answered pompously. "Sammi," Ian breathed harshly. BITCH, Mickey thought angrily. She was still mad about that creepy kid of hers. But she had no right to play with Ian's life. HE stood protectively in front of Gallagher, though he towered over him. "Do what you want to me, bitch. But if you touch him, I will END you." He made sure his voice made him sound true to his promise, because he meant it. "No, Mick," Ian struggled to push Mickey aside, "You're not going to- fucking MOVE dammit." Mickey stayed where he was.

"You would die for this fag, boy?" Terry asked, training his gun onto Mickey's chest. "Yes," He answered defiantly. Terry wanted an answer, just not this one. Everything slowed down around him. He heard Ian catch a breath, and whisper, "No," with desperation was impenetrable.

"Then maybe you deserve to."

And he pulled the trigger.

//

"No!" Ian shouted, everything in him clenching as he watched Mickey crumple to the ground, a red flower blooming on his chest. God, please, he begged, and trained his eyes on Terry. Hate, pure and unrelenting, filled him.

It took one punch to knock Terry to the ground. He grabbed the gun, and just... pulled the trigger.

A fatal shot to the head and the nightmare was over. Except it wasn't. Except Mickey was dying before his eyes. Ian fell onto his knees, "Mickey, Mick, please, no. I need you, Mick, please don't leave me." Those beautiful eyes fluttered open for a second, unseeing, and closed again. "Jesus," Ian muttered, flipping his phone open and calling 911. "Mick, just stay with me, just hold on," Life without Mickey was a terrifying prospect. He shoved it from his mind.

The ambulance arrived in minutes. It felt like lifetimes. Ian was a blubbering mess, trying to explain away Terry's body while still holding on to Mickey like he would never let him go. He would never let him go.

//

The bright lights in the hospital faded before Ian's eyes.

"It means good times, bad times,"

Memories flashed before his eyes. Mickey's rape, Ian's diagnosis, those were the bad times. Good times, there were so many; the first kiss, the first time they kissed in public, every moment they had been together. Even the bad times didn't hurt as much when they were standing together.

"Sickness, health,"

Sickness. The disease that stole Ian's control from himself, the gunshot wound that Mickey was fighting off now. Health. The way Ian felt when he was with Mickey. Theirs was the healthiest relationship in Ian's life, stable in the face of ups and downs.

"All that shit."

Shit was right. Everything Ian had worried about faded into insignificance now. If Mickey pulled through, Ian would never leave him again. He would hold him till he no longer could, would fight for him with everything in him.

//

It took days. Three agonizing days of staring at a motionless Mickey. Terry's murder was ruled self defence. Ian barely noticed. His eyes were focused on the boy on the bed next to him.

When Ian saw Mickey open his eyes for the first time, he just wrapped his arms around Mickey's legs and cried silently.

Mickey had questions. Ian had apologies. But none of the above were spoken.

"Don't do that again, Gallagher."

"Never."

"I fuckin' love you."

"I fuckin' love you to. More than the moon and stars and all that shit. Maybe even more than fucking."

Mickey grinned up at him, and that was that.