eighty-four ,, gallavich

i

I.

Ian wakes up and freezes. There's an arm around his waist-more importantly, there's a body pressed against his back, and Ian is acutely aware of the fact that they're both naked. His head is pounding, too. When he opens his eyes, he doesn't recognize the room he's in. It's definitely not his dorm room, so that begs the question: where the fuck is he?

Ian slips out of the bed, trying not to disturb the person behind him. When he gets out, he pulls on some boxers closest to him-there are clothes scattered everywhere-and then when he turns around and sees the person behind him, he can only stare. What the fuck? Why is he in bed with him?

Then it's a frantic search to find his phone. He recognizes his jeans, but the phone he pulls out is different. Ian shakes his head and calls Lip, moving into the other room.

"Ian?" Lip asks. His voice is slurred by sleep and drink, which is what Ian guesses is making his head pound right now.

"Lip, I'm in deep shit," Ian whispers. He looks in through the doorway, but the figure is still sleeping.

"What's wrong?" Lip asks, sounding slightly more alert. There's a voice in the background, and Ian guesses there's a person in bed with him.

"I slept with Mickey Milkovich last night," Ian whispers.

"So?"

"So-" Ian stares at his phone for a second. "I slept with Mandy's fucking brother."

"Ian, what do you want me to say? Congratulations? You've been dating Mickey for almost a year," Lip says, sounding confused as fuck. Ian blinks. That can't be right. Ian's only seen Mickey in pictures with Mandy. He's never even met the fucking guy. How can he be dating him?

"A year?" Ian repeats. "Dating?"

"Dude, are you okay?" Lip asks. "You did drink a lot last night. You always drink a lot on New Years." Is that the date then? Ian wonders. And it explains his pounding head. Ian moves his phone away from his ear for a moment and then stares at it in shock. The date says January 1st. Of 20-fucking-17. Shit. Shit. Ian looks around him. How can it be fucking 2017? Yesterday was fucking 2015. October of fucking 2015.

"Lip, I don't remember anything," Ian confesses. He doesn't remember last night, he doesn't remember Mickey Milkovich, he doesn't remember last fucking year.

"Well, that's vodka for you," Lip says, giving a small laugh. "Look, I'm about as hungover as you, so I'm going back to sleep. Hope you feel . . . better." Lip hangs up before Ian can talk, and Ian groans in frustration. He can feel panic start to take over. It's somehow 2017 and he's dating Mickey Milkovich and he doesn't remember shit. Ian needs to fucking breathe.

When he walks back into the bedroom, Mickey is sitting up in bed. Ian freezes all over again when Mickey's eyes find him. "Hey," Mickey says, rubbing his eyes with one hand. He has tattoos on them, and Ian would find them funny if he wasn't freaked the fuck out. Mickey's voice is even groggier than Lip's was.

"Um," Ian says. And then, "Hey," because he has no idea how to respond.

"Fuck," Mickey says, blinking his eyes at the light a little. "I'm so fucking hungover." He stretches his back. "I think this calls for coffee. And fucking pills." Ian continues to stare at him. "You up for that?"

"Pills?" Ian repeats.

Mickey gives him an exasperated look, rising to his feet. Mickey is definitely attractive, Ian can say, but-this is not the point. "You drank more than me, so I'm assuming you may even have a worse headache than I do." He pulls on some clothes too and walks over to Ian. Ian can actually feel his heart seize when Mickey comes closer. When they're almost chest to chest, Mickey frowns at him. "Hey, you okay?" he says softly. Ian forces himself to smile and nod, and Mickey takes Ian's chin and tilts his head down for a rather sweet kiss. "You're acting funny," Mickey says when they pull apart.

"You're right," Ian says, "I have a really bad headache."

Mickey rolls his eyes, fingertips still holding Ian's chin. "Kitchen. I'll get coffee."

As Mickey starts making some breakfast, Ian looks around the apartment. It's pretty obvious that it's at the university, one of the off-campus buildings, and Ian remembers that Mickey's supposed to be a year older than Mandy and Ian. It looks pretty used, furniture looking second hand but still nice (what does Ian really expect since they're college students?) and Ian can even see pictures of himself with Mickey and Mandy on a side table. Christ.

"Happy New Year," Mickey says when he puts the coffee and aspirin down on the table by Ian's hand.

Ian gives him a grateful smile and swallows the pill back. Mickey continues to putter around the kitchen until he hears his phone ring in the other room and goes to answer it. Ian pinches himself really hard on the arm, and when that doesn't work, the inside of his thigh. It doesn't work, because Ian's still here. But this can't be real. Right? Ian needs to wake the fuck up.

When Mickey comes back in the room, he's completely dressed. "I have to go meet with my econ group right now," Mickey says, running a hand through his hair. "Who in their right fucking mind thought meeting the day after New Years was a good idea, I don't fucking know." He grabs some of the toast and eats it as he gathers his bag and materials. Ian watches him with a strange fascination of someone who doesn't have anything else to do.

Before Mickey leaves, he gives Ian another kiss. When he pulls back, he runs a hand through Ian's hair, fond. "Get some more sleep, yeah?" Mickey says. "You're out of it this morning." Ian nods and then Mickey's leaving.

Ian stares around the apartment. Fuck.

He goes back into the bedroom and looks into the bathroom. Two toothbrushes, and when he looks through the drawers, there are differences in the sizes of clothes. Ian can see his schoolwork at the desk and in the living room. That means Ian definitely lives here. Fuck. Now where does he go from that?

Ian walks into the kitchen and finishes off the toast and coffee Mickey made before taking his advice. Maybe if he went to sleep, he'd wake up in fucking reality. The warmth in the bed is almost gone completely, and it smells faintly of sex, but it's familiar, almost comforting. Which is should not be, Ian thinks. Fuck.

He closes his eyes and hopes that he wakes up in the real world.