Alone Together (Gallavich)

twenty

mickey

We were laying in bed, Ian asleep and me just watching him, when I heard the front door shut downstairs. It wasn't okay to keep going like this, to hope that every day Ian's mood would be manageable for however long it would last and that the next mood would just work out too. I could tell he didn't want it to be anything serious, that the last thing he needed was some person trying to cure him of some crazy fucking disease that made him feel out of place. But it broke my heart to watch him in the kind of pain he was in this morning. Yes, I was able to calm him down enough to eventually get him to lay back in bed and stop crying, but what if I couldn't help next time? What if I found him freaking out and it was too late or he's so hyped up that he hurts himself or some shit? The problem was I didn't know. I didn't know what I would do if it got that bad or what I would do if I could have helped sooner but didn't. And I meant it, what I told Ian in the hall. I did love him. When I saw him cry the way he did, the way he looked at me like I wasn't even there, like nothing around him was there, when I could feel the pain he experienced realizing he was alive and this was how his life was now - I understood how much I would give up for him. Nothing else mattered to me in that moment except making that kid feel like he wasn't drowning alone. He didn't fucking deserve to feel that low. He deserved to feel loved and wanted.

I slowly moved my arm out from under Ian's head and lifted the blankets off my body. Making as little motion as I could, I stood next to Ian's bed, taking one last long look at him before walking out of his room, remembering every inch of his face in its peaceful sleep. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, Fiona was sitting at the dining table going through some papers. I walked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer for the both of us before sitting down next to her. She looked up from what she was doing and grabbed the bottle from me, a look of what seemed to be a mix of pity and exhaustion in her eyes.

"Thanks," she said, clearly stressed but managing a small smile with her words.

I gave her a little nod and looked down at the bottle in my hands. It was silent for a second before I spoke up again.

"Listen, about Ian," I paused, not knowing how to say what I needed to.

Fiona's face dropped as she picked up on where this conversation was heading.

"I-I don't fucking know what to do. He needs help, Fiona, and not the kind that you or I can give him, as much as that fucking kills me to admit. He needs to go to a hospital or a doctor or a fucking clinic, I don't really fuckin know, but he needs something." I stopped myself, taking a short but deep breath to try and push down any kind of external display of emotions that I felt building up inside of me.

"He can't just keep feeling like shit every single day and I sure as hell can't watch him go through that anymore. Shit's fucking painful to watch."'

Fiona just looked at me, half waiting to see if I was finished or not and half with an expression I couldn't quite get.

"Jesus, fuckin say something." I gasped out.

Her face softened a little but not enough to put me at ease. Finally, she spoke up.

"I just, I can't help but wonder where the fuck we'd be right now, this family, if someone tried this hard to fix Monica, to help her out of her shit." Her voice was barely above a whisper, a drastic change from my pushy and stubborn tone not even a minute earlier.

"So you'll help him?"

"Of course," she answered softly with a smile, taking a sip of her beer before continuing. "Where's he now?"

"Sleeping. For about an hour or so now. Jesus, I don't even know the last fucking time he ate something." I ran a hand through my hair, trying to calm down and let my nerves out. I couldn't help but feel freaked out though. I raised my beer to my lips and took a sip for myself.