Archive of Our Own

It’s quiet this time around.

It doesn’t end in flames, or in an Indiana convenience store. No righteous grandeur, no demons of Gabriel. The destruction is inward; no one’s in danger but himself.

It simply happens, and they have to take care of it.

It was nothing and then it was everything. Everything all at once.

He knows when it changes. He just realizes it too late.

And it’s a quiet devastation.

Quitting the meds this time isn’t even some monumental choice, either. It just happens. Last time, when his mind was overflowing with the gospel and grand plans of glory, Ian decided that the meds were holding him back. He couldn’t hear the message clearly, its divinity stunted by the cocktail of drugs taking up space in his veins.

So he quit them and his whole life went to shit.

But he doesn’t even do it on purpose this time. Not at first.

Ian’s rushing to get Mickey and himself fed, dressed, and out the door for work that morning. They’d overslept after an impromptu night at the Alibi, and now they’re both thrown off their rhythm. His shirt is hanging open, only partially buttoned, and Mickey is shouting from the bedroom about a missing boot.

Ian’s phone rings and he answers it with a poptart hanging out of his mouth, stifling a curse as he trips over Mickey’s wayward boot. It’s Debbie, calling from whatever detritus she stayed in last night. Ian can hear the muffled sounds of lo-fi beats beneath his sister’s voice: despite the sun’s steady climb across the sky, Debbie is clearly just arriving to her afterparty. She informs him that everyone fucked off that morning without giving Franny a ride to school again, and could Ian please pick her up on their way to work?

Fuck.

Unable to fathom leaving his niece home alone for another moment, Ian agrees and shouts for Mickey to hurry up. Filing Debbie’s inevitable intervention away for another time, he rushes out the door with his husband, pills untouched in the bathroom cabinet.

He doesn’t realize he’d skipped them until that evening when he pulls his organizer out for his bedtime dose. Frowning down at it, he traces a finger over the AM compartment for the day, counting the three little pills that sit unmoved from the day he put them in there. Antidepressant. Antipsychotic. Mood stabilizer.

Ian swallows down the urge to panic. One dose is okay. One dose won’t derail him. It’s not coming for him tonight. He swallows the evening pills down, eyes burning when they catch in his throat. They haven’t done that in a while.

Then he takes the pills meant for this morning and puts them back in their respective bottles. His hands shake as he unscrews the tops. He feels like he’s being deceptive and dishonest, which he swore he’d never be, especially about this. Mickey doesn’t watch Ian as closely when it comes to the meds anymore. He doesn’t watch Ian take them; he doesn’t even ask after them much. Besides keeping a close eye on his symptoms or picking up a refill now and then, Mickey seems to trust him to his own care. And the thought of letting him down, even slightly, makes Ian’s skin crawl.

Mickey wouldn’t worry over one missed dose. And it’s not like he’d check the organizer and find out. But Ian doesn’t want to risk it. He wants to hide this mistake and start over tomorrow.

He pops a sedative from his emergency stash, feeling its soothing warmth flood his veins as he brushes his teeth and washes his face. He watches his own face relax in the mirror. It’s okay. Today is over and tomorrow he’ll be back on track.

It’s okay.

Ian creeps out of the bathroom and pads across the hall to their bedroom. Mickey’s still in the living room, relaxing with an episode of The Sopranos and a beer. Ian shuts the door against the sound of gunshots and a gasped holy fuck from Mickey. He wants to be asleep before his husband comes to bed, before he can see Ian under the influence of the sedative.

Ian sleeps like the dead and he’s more than a little groggy in the morning, but he feels in control as he shuts off his alarm. It’s Saturday: Ian takes his meds with a cup of coffee and waters his plants. He’s still waiting on his plot in the tenants’ garden, but the houseplants fill the need for now.

Ian bought them before they’d even finished furnishing the place, and he found that they quickly made it feel more like home. Ian’s always been a caretaker, and though he vowed not to push the kids talk until Mickey feels more comfortable, he needs somewhere to put that energy.

So he spends his Saturday mornings caring for his plants. He waters, prunes or repots when he might need to, freshens up the soil. He’ll hum whatever tune has been stuck in his head that week or chat mindlessly about something funny Mickey said. Sometimes he’ll whisper secrets into the leaves.

This week, though, he’s quiet as he works. Today’s secret is just for him. He makes sure everyone is healthy, giving each plant a bracing nod after it passes inspection.

He does a little reading next, powering up their shitty laptop and drifting from search to search. Ian wants to be ready when they get their plot. He reads about growing habits, plant families, harvesting practices.

This morning he’s deep in an internet rabbit hole on agrarian mythologies. Ian likes the idea of a mother nature. He wonders, as he shuts the computer down, if she’s more like Fiona or Monica. Is she constant and relentless in her care? Or is her love painful and fleeting?

Ian’s working on breakfast when Mickey ambles into the kitchen. He accepts a kiss to the cheek and a slap to the ass as his husband moves towards the coffee, already rambling about the last half of the Sopranos episode Ian had missed.

And so the weekend goes. They eat, they lounge, they fuck. Ian takes his meds.

But once the habit is broken—and once nothing dire comes of it—it gets easier and easier to break it again. To let it stay broken.

At first, Ian doesn’t miss much. But if things are busy, he doesn’t push it. He doesn’t rush home from a night with Lip or interrupt morning sex to take them right on time. And if he doesn’t make it in time, or eventually, if he doesn’t really feel like it, Ian doesn’t sweat it.

One dose, he tells himself. It’s just one dose. He’s doing great lately, steady and stable. One dose now and then can’t topple that.

It’s not long, though, until Ian’s going through his morning routine without even reaching for the medicine cabinet. Some nights he crawls into bed beside Mickey, pressing kisses to the back of his neck and silently promising to get back on track tomorrow.

For a little while, nothing happens. Maybe the meds are lingering. Maybe he’s just stable right now. Ian knows it won’t last; it can’t last. But he’s morbidly curious about how long it will take. How long can he sustain this, here in the most secure stage of his life? Can he extend it by virtue of being married, steadily employed, and happy?

It’s a gradual rise.

And it’s nothing serious. Not right away.

He sleeps a little less, runs a little longer. Mickey has to ask Ian to slow down and repeat himself a few times as he’s rapidly firing off his thoughts. Ian feels fucking great, like there’s light in his very veins, and he knows why.

This happens sometimes as the winter fades, as the days grow longer and the air gets cheerier. Springtime mania. They’re used to it, so Mickey doesn’t fret much when Ian bounds through the apartment with the sun under his skin. He coaxes Ian to bed at a reasonably decent hour and switches out their fancy coffee for decaf.

He kisses Ian hard on their way out the door for work one morning. Rubs at his arms bracingly. Tells him they’ve got this handled. Tells Ian to hang in there. Maybe they’ll call the clinic for a little increase if things don’t ease up soon. This won’t be forever, man. Don’t worry.

Mickey’s gaze is soft and searching as they stand in the doorway. It occurs to Ian that he’s looking for that familiar shame in Ian’s eyes.

Something hot coils in his gut, but it’s not shame. Heat spills from his belly and spreads through his blood. Ian is sick of shame. He is sick of hating himself. And today, he’s not ashamed. Ian is fucking beautiful today. He’s aware and present and the very idea that he should feel anything but awe about his own dazzling mind sends a spear of rage through his chest.

It’s not fucking fair. The way they’ve all come to expect Ian to despise himself. Like they think maybe he should. Maybe if he hates himself enough, he’ll work harder to control it.

But this, right now. He feels like maybe he could control this. Use it to propel them forward, lift them up a bit, enrich their very lives by experiencing every inch of these sensations. He feels like he could do that.

Ian’s not sure what Mickey finds in his eyes, but he must mistake it for the shame he sought. He gives Ian a tightlipped smile, his face creased in that blend of fondness and concern that Ian had only just learned to appreciate.

But not today.

He won’t accept pity. Not this time. Not when it’s so good.

Ian doesn’t correct him on any of it. He just nods and bites at his bottom lip, grabbing Mickey’s hand and pulling him to the stairs.

Days turn into weeks, and Ian continues feeling good. He lets himself indulge in excuse after excuse, perfecting the mental gymnastics needed to explain this away. Their world is golden, and they are thriving. And he is all-powerful.

It’s too good to stop.

He decides to let this go on as long as he can. He’s productive, he’s sharp, he’s on top of the fucking world. He’ll know when it starts to turn. He’ll know when it’s time for the meds again.

Mickey lets it go on for a while, thinking it would settle as they adjusted to spring. It doesn’t scare him, this shining version of Ian. Still, he’s not willing to take any chances. We gotta take care of this, Ian. So he doesn’t let Ian forget about the clinic.

Ian goes through the motions. He checks in with his doctor, leg bouncing as he gives her the same lines that he went over with Mickey the night before: he’s feeling elevated, he’s feeling strong, he’s feeling wide-awake. Undeniable. Everything is bright. Everything is significant. But no, he says when she asks, he’s not feeling volatile. No major agitation. No risky behavior. No, he hasn’t had any suicidal thoughts or hallucinations.

He just feels alive.

Ian’s honest about how he’s doing. He just leaves out one crucial detail.

Hypomanic, his doctor decides. She bumps up the dosage on his antipsychotic and asks him to call next week. Let’s get ahead of this Ian, she says sternly, call me sooner if it escalates. Ian fills his scripts and carries them home, hearing the pills rattle as the bag jostles against his leg.

As he walks, Ian thinks about those early days of his return to the Gallagher house. When he was brand new: a fresh burn scar, a sleek haircut, and charcoal-lined eyes. When every possibility, every life unlived, every future imaginable lived beneath his skin. It took his breath away, how wide the world felt, how boundless his potential was.

It didn’t last long, that feeling.

It shifted, transforming into something hot-blooded and uncontrollable. Too fast, too loud. Ian couldn’t keep up with himself, couldn’t keep up with all his wanting. The wide world suddenly wasn’t so inviting. It was taunting, and Ian burned with the knowledge that he couldn’t be everywhere and do everything.

The rage and the paranoia simmered under every thought. Ian could never move fast enough. It always caught up to him. It spread through his mind until everything felt rotten and dangerous.

He’s used to mania that scares him. It scares everyone around him.

In those in-between periods, when he felt like he was simply existing, like his mind would never be special again, Ian reminded himself of that insidious rotten feeling. Of the burning, like every nerve was exposed. He didn’t let himself think of the luxurious rise that got him there.

But it’s there, preserved in the amber of his memory. And he thinks about it now.

This feels like those early delicious days, now endless and safe. Ian feels himself sink into it as he makes his way home, every sense alert and delighted. It can’t last. It won’t last.

Maybe it could last, though, with the way things are. This world, right now, is so bright. But he’ll know. He’ll know when it’s time.

He counts himself lucky that it didn’t swing the other way. That his moods tend to elevate rather than plummet. Ian can mask this energy, spin it as his own natural excitement. His life is good and it’s okay that he feels good. There’s no hiding it when he crashes. When his bones are made of lead and his blood moves like sludge.

He can’t distract Mickey from that with a laugh or a fuck. The attention stays on him, sticking to his skin and suffocating him.

But this could work. He’s never freed himself in a life like this. In a life where he’s fulfilled, safe, and whole. If he can walk this line, what can he bring to their world? Joy, energy. Sex and connection and fulfillment. He can give them that for a while.

The very air around him crackles as he moves through it, now just steps from his front door. Ian puts his key in the lock, pushing the door open and stepping into the glow of their apartment. He calls out to Mickey, who shouts back from the kitchen.

Ian crosses the apartment and lingers in the kitchen entryway, watching as Mickey pulls a beer from the fridge. He straightens up when he spots Ian standing there, eyes widening slightly, taking him in.

“Hey,” he greets him, popping the top from his bottle, “how did everything go?”

“All good,” Ian answers. Feels like he’s telling the truth. It is all so good. “Just a small increase.”

Mickey nods, swallowing down a pull from his beer. Ian watches his throat move. He knows how that skin feels beneath his hands, beneath his tongue. He’s nipped at that skin and soothed the sting. He knows how it smells after a shower, after a sleep, after a day in the sun.

“You okay?”

He’s okay. Fuck, he’s okay. It’s like he never lived before this moment.

And Mickey. Mickey is technicolor.

Ian sees him so clearly, sees the colors and the textures that make him. The contrast of those tattooed hands: harsh ink on porcelain skin, a threat on his gentle fingers. Hands that were hardened and made soft again. Eyes that know him and stir him and bring him in, sharpening his world and coloring it blue. Dark hair that shone iridescent under a Texan moon.

Pink lips that are made red with kisses, neck made red with nips and bites and the pressure of his hands, cheeks made red with breathless pleasure.

Purple and blue veins stretched under that skin, carrying blood to and from his good heart. Mickey’s heart that carries Ian through this life. That could have gone cold again and again, but instead stayed warm, open, and his.

Ian can’t speak, throat clogged with need. He nods at Mickey, who regards him for a moment before stepping forward and kissing him soundly.

“Good,” he teases against his lips.

Mickey steps around him then, retreating to the couch in the living room. “I ordered a pizza for dinner,” he calls, turning on the television. “Couldn’t be fucked to cook tonight. That cool?”

Ian’s not sure how he could even think of dinner. Not when he is made of such air and light. He’s hungry, but food could not sate him tonight. Grease and salt and cheese, all these things slowing and heavy: they’re nothing to him now. He wants to stop time, halt the earth for just a moment, and pull his name from Mickey’s lips. Hear it spill over like honey.

He feels like he could. He could will the earth to stop spinning and take Mickey apart. Stake his claim on the landscape of his body.

He wants to follow down the path of his spine, marking its trails with his tongue. He wants to see Mickey beneath him, hovering over him, all around him. He wants to give him everything, all of him, light him up like flint on steel.

Ian wants, and he can’t stand it.

“Ian,” Mickey barks, “you in there?”

He’s everywhere.

“Yeah,” he tells him. “What’s up?”

“I asked if you were cool with pizza tonight.”

Mickey’s looking at him with cautious eyes and it’s as though he’s suddenly doused with ice water. The desire recedes under his skin to sit dormant in his blood. Agitation takes its place.

And he’s tethered to this plane again, to this kitchen where he still stands.

“Pizza sounds great,” he says, stretching his lips into that easygoing smile. It feels wrong on his face. “I’m just gonna put these away and change.”

Ian grabs the bag of pills from the counter. Seemingly placated, Mickey flops onto the couch, smiling as Ian passes him.

“Proud of ya,” he says.

“Me too,” Ian calls over his shoulder as he moves down the hallway.

He is proud. He’s keeping everyone happy while giving himself this luxurious indulgence. Giving in to this pure, magnificent version of himself. Doing it right, doing it carefully, like he never has before. He’ll know when it starts to change.

Ian steps into the bathroom, grabbing the older pill bottles and shoving them in his jacket pocket. Next, he pulls the new bottles from the bag and puts them in the medicine cabinet. He peeks around the doorframe, and on seeing the glow from the television, quickly crosses the hall to their bedroom.

No hesitation. It just feels like what he’s supposed to do.

In the bedroom, Ian yanks open the bottom drawer on his nightstand, where he tucks the pill bottles among the array of papers, chargers, and chapstick inside. He shoves a pair of gloves in there to keep the bottles from rattling too loudly as he shuts the drawer.

He’ll clear it out eventually. When it starts to shift, when he’s ready for them again, he’ll pull them out and put them back in their rightful place. He’ll know when it’s time.

Mickey is grabbing plates when Ian comes back from the bedroom, the box of pizza waiting for them on the table. The smell makes his stomach churn. Mickey turns and grins when he hears Ian’s footsteps.

“Did you see your email?”

“What?”

“Check your email, right now. I wanna see the look on your face when you read it.”

“Fine, but if this is about work, I’m - holy shit.”

“Right? You ready for this, Farmer Brown?”

Their plot in the tenants’ garden is ready. He can go in tomorrow and sign the agreement. Then he’s free to start planting. Tomorrow, it begins.

He sits down to eat, suddenly ravenous.

Ian wakes early the next morning, kissing a sleep-warm Mickey on the cheek before heading down to the management office. He gets there right as they’re opening up, quaking with excitement.

The timing is perfect, really. Here he is, for and of this earth, ready to tend and nurture and sustain. Life. Give care to the earth, receive care from the earth. He can’t wait to sink his hands into the soil; he can’t wait to sit in the dirt and give it purpose.

He wants to pluck strawberries from their stems, ripe and red, and gently wash them clean. Douse them in cream or eat them raw. He wants to watch them pass Mickey’s lips and burst on his tongue. He wants to kiss the sweetness on his mouth.

He wants to bake a cake, spicy with ginger and cloves, with the carrots he grew himself. He wants to bring his own squash to Thanksgiving and watch Franny ask for seconds. Wants to scoop mounds of apple pie on his siblings’ plates at their July Fourth cookout.

Ian wants to give them taste and smell and joy. He wants to grow that with his own hands.

But it’s tomatoes he wants first. When Ian first started picturing this garden, the tomatoes came first. With their stages and cycles—seed to sprout, flower to fruit— Ian feels attached to them in a way he can’t really explain. But he wants to make them grow.

He thinks of Monica as he roams the aisles at the nursery, studying the potting soils, the fertilizers, the tools. He remembers the time she took him with her to the grocery store on a summer afternoon. She’d stolen—borrowed, she said that day— the money from Fiona’s piggy bank, and blew it all in the produce section.

They ate peaches and plums on a picnic table outside the store, laughing as the juice dripped down their chins. Ian felt that special kind of warmth that came from being the sole focus of his mother’s attention. He remembers the fuzzy skin of the peaches as he squished them between his fingers.

He remembers Fiona washing the sticky sweetness from his mouth and hands, lips pursed and eyes watering. Monica disappeared for the first time soon after.

What if she’d had something like this? Something to keep her focused, steady, and inspired. Something that lit her senses and gave her purpose. What could she have been? She did have that, Ian reminds himself. She had us. And he’s not like her. He’s doing this right.

And he’s not doing this for her. It’s for himself, for Mickey. For his family. The garden, this freedom: it’s about providing. It’s about building the life he’s always wanted - and sharing it. Giving his loved ones the parts of him that Monica never could.

Monica would uproot her world, their world, because she delighted in the chaos. She was comfortable stepping over the pieces of a broken life, on to the next indulgence. Ian understands that urge now.

And yet.

He’ll do what she couldn’t. Lay down roots where she would rip them up. Cultivate where she would destroy. Commune with the sun where she would set everything ablaze. He remembers Fiona’s words after he refused medication the first time - a full on Monica move.

He blinks hard. This isn’t like that. He’ll know when it starts to change.

He’d read about Gaia the other day, primordial mother of all creation. Goddess of the earth, made of and inseparable from it. Rebellious and turbulent, like Monica, perhaps. But lasting, sturdy in a way she could never be. The giver of dreams and the nourisher of plants, he’d read.

Ian tosses stakes, trowels, and gloves in his cart; he selects his tomato transplants and moves to the front of the store to pay. It’s a lot, definitely more than they’d budgeted for, but he’s determined to get this right.

Success means something different to him now. It used to be all about getting out. Setting himself apart. Now he just wants to stretch out his aching muscles, rinse the dirt from his hands, and make a meal to share with his husband.

He’s always wanted to be in service of something greater - the army, saving lives, those lost kids, God and all their glory. And now, something solid, something less abstract. His garden, his husband, his family. Things that are real, like Mickey once said.

The thread that’s always run through it all, though: purpose. Purpose still matters to him. He wants to live this life deliberately.

He stands at the plot for a while before he begins working. This is it. After weeks of internet searches and sketches in his notepad, it’s time to put it all into action. Ian closes his eyes against the afternoon sun, breathes in the smell of dirt and greenery. Thinks about that giver of dreams. Opens them, squeezes the trowel in his hand.

He works. He works well.

And then: there it is. A goal accomplished. A beginning.

He hears Mickey tread across the grass—that familiar gait sending goosebumps across his skin—and Ian feels his breath catch in his throat. Understanding flows like honey over his mind and down his body. The sticky warmth of it pools in his gut.

This is something powerful; the air is thick with it.

Ian feels the very earth hold its breath as Mickey comes to stand next to him. The breeze stills; the birds above them quiet their song. Ian feels the hum of the atmosphere under his skin. The world, electrified in the waiting.

“Wow,” Mickey says, and the universe exhales.

Ian smiles, twisting the cap on his water. “Yeah,” he chuckles. “So, this is it.”

Mickey steps closer, tilting his head as he studies the plot. He looks back at Ian over his shoulder.

“Tell me about what you did today?”

“Oh,” Ian breathes, “yeah, okay.”

He moves to stand next to Mickey, who slips an arm around his waist as he speaks. “I had to weed a little first,” he explains. “Didn’t want to use chemicals so I pulled them up. Wasn’t too hard, they were little and there weren’t that many. They just came right out. Whoever had this plot last was careful.”

Ian shakes Mickey’s arm off as he talks, too excited and animated for the extra weight. The urgency to explain his work, how he spent his day - it crackles in the air around his hands as he mimes how the weeds lifted from the earth.

Mickey follows the movement with his eyes.

“Next I put some fertilizer down. Just a little layer. I bought these little strips, right? And they measure the pH of the soil so you know what to add. Turns out it was already pretty okay. So I just added the fertilizer in, and then you have to turn it. Like, mix it all up. I didn’t know you had to do that, but it’s a good thing I did, because there were some little rocks in there I had to dig out. Fuckin’ rocks, man. Not sure who put rocks in there.”

Ian pauses, laughter petering out. Rocks in his garden. Mickey hums, nodding slowly as he inhales and speaks again.

“Then I just planted them. Dug the holes, plopped ‘em in. They look alright, don’t they? One day I’ll grow them from seeds, I think, but for my first try I thought this would be better. And I’m thinkin’ about putting some marigolds in there or maybe petunias, I read they keep bugs away. And eventually we’ll have, like, cucumbers and carrots in there. Fruits, too. I don’t know how we’re gonna go out, Mick, but I think we can rule out scurvy.”

Mickey stares up at him, eyes bright and sharp. Ian is lost for a moment, adrift in vivid blue. There’s such life here. It blooms all around them, within them, between them. He’s brought back when Mickey clears his throat, blinking hard and turning back to look at Ian’s garden.

And Ian is touched by Mickey’s emotion. Touched that his husband feels the weight of this moment just like he does. Brought to tears by the work of his hands.

“Sounds good, man,” Mickey says, holding out a hand for him to take. “Sounds real good.”

He starts spending his mornings out in the garden, watching the sun rise in the company of his plants. Waters them at the root, feeling replenished himself as they soak it in.

Thrusts his hands beneath the soil, swearing he can feel life at work with his fingertips.

Ian sits this morning, grounded by the presence around him. She’s here, Gaia, and she’s grateful for him. He smiles in response, easy and wide. This earth blue and green and sparkling.

“Yo, Old MacDonald!” Mickey calls from a distance. “Pick up the pace man, we’re gonna be late!”

Ian sighs at the intrusion. This time is hallowed; it’s his. The warmth on his skin turns prickling and barbed. He rubs harshly at his arms to relieve the discomfort. Something feels rotten.

But Mickey’s waiting and waving a granola bar at him, undoubtedly annoyed that he’d skipped breakfast. “You’re out here later and later, man,” he chides as Ian approaches. “Bit of a time crunch, y’know?”

Sure, he knows.

But this need to categorize time— to demand his time, their time, to cordon off his precious daylight hours for work day in and day out— sparks an electrical fire of rage in his chest. This isn’t how we should live. The flames spread and lick at his throat; Ian swallows them down and forces himself to nod. This isn’t Mickey’s fault.

Ian has always worked when he had to. He dutifully contributed to the squirrel fund every week, stuffing his earnings from the Kash and Grab, the club, or the station into the old Crisco can in the cabinet. Work and purpose were inextricably intertwined to him for a long time.

Once he lost his EMT job, that didn’t feel quite true anymore. What he does no longer feels like who he is, and he’s made his peace with that. Ian likes working with Mickey, likes that they’re building something together. But it doesn’t define him.

Work is work. This is different. He’s meant to be here right now, he knows it. But he also knows that Mickey’s counting on him, so he pushes down his irritation and hops in the ambulance.

They work a full day, carting cash and shaking hands with clients. Ian’s distracted. The ambulance is stuffy and hot, his camo gear grates at his skin. He shuffles through his thoughts, landing on each one briefly before moving on to the next.

Mickey’s birthday is in a few months - should he throw a party? He remembers the cake at Lip’s graduation party, how it had his picture on it. Lip had smeared icing over the image of his own smiling face. And Ian had smiled, clapped his brother on the back, but still left the next day. He wonders when Lip will come see his garden.

Mickey holds his hand on the drive home and kisses him as they unbuckle their seatbelts.

And the evening unfolds as their evenings usually do. They cook their dinner, moving in sync about the kitchen as they chop veggies and boil pasta. Soon Ian will slice up vegetables he grew himself. He thinks he’d be pretty good at stir fry. Mickey would like that.

They sit down together. Mickey tears off a hunk of bread and tosses it on Ian’s plate. Pushes a glass of water across the table in his direction. Raises an expectant eyebrow, not lowering it until Ian picks up his fork.

Ian thinks about his plants outside in the dark. Will they be any different tomorrow? Or will they grow like Debbie and Carl and Liam - will he watch them creep up slowly, then wake one morning to find them fully grown and self-sufficient? When did they stop needing him? Who needs him now?

Mickey clears his throat. Pushes his pasta around his plate a bit. Looks up at Ian, thumbs at his lip. He’s nervous. Ian taps his foot against Mickey’s ankle.

“What’s up?”

A beat. Mickey gathers his courage, squares his shoulders. Looks at Ian, eyes wide and serious.

“How d’you think the new dose is going? Check in with your doctor at all?”

Ian blinks, surprised.

“What?”

“You just - you still seem elevated, Ian. I know it takes time and stuff, but do you feel any better? Do you need to go in sooner?”

He chokes on a laugh. Better. What is better, really, when it comes to this? Ian always told himself that he needed to do better, that he needed to be better. But what’s better than who he really is? What’s better than his own mind, sharp and bright and dazzling?

How could anyone expect him to choose anything else?

When he answers, it’s the truth.

“Yeah, definitely better, Mick. And it’ll keep getting better, don’t worry.”

Ian stands, kissing Mickey on the cheek and grabbing their plates. Mickey watches him go, but doesn’t say anything more. In the kitchen, he places their dishes in the sink and braces himself against the counter.

This is a turning point. He has to be more careful; he has to guard this so carefully. Help Mickey see the benefits without him understanding the cause. Mickey won’t like it. But Mickey doesn’t know what it feels like.

And just like that. Just like that, it shifts.

Tendrils of despair writhe within him, curling around his gut and gripping tight. His blood, just this morning alight with magnificence, freezes over. Stills in its terror.

They’re going to take this away from you.

They are, he knows. The web that Mickey’s concern will weave - the calls to his doctor, to Lip, maybe even Fiona. They’ll all weave it together, and he’ll get caught in it. He’ll suffocate in it.

And the sunlight, the current rippling under his skin, the very force of life in his hands: he’ll lose it. What would it all have been for?

Ian’s in the garden before dawn again the next morning. He hadn’t slept at all the night before, alert and watchful over his own energy. Mickey was restless, too. Several times during the night, Ian was jolted from thought by Mickey reaching for him in the dark.

The soil is cool and damp beneath his skin. His plants are humming with vitality, green and vibrant and everything he’d wanted. She’s here again, infusing him with light - and a warning.

They’re going to take this away from you.

She’s right.

So he doesn’t go back in. Ian sits in the dirt, rigid and vigilant, until Mickey comes down to drag him inside for lunch.

“Jesus, Ian,” he groans. “You’re red as a - fuck. You’re red as a goddamn tomato. You gotta come in now.”

“Not yet,” Ian answers. Calm. Firm. Steady. He won’t give them any reason to take him in.

Mickey sighs. Tosses a bottle of sunscreen in his lap. “At least lather up, then. You’re gonna turn into a leathery old queen.”

“Sure,” Ian tells him, making no move for the lotion.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mickey hesitate. He takes an aborted step forward, then stills.

“Ian—“

No.

“D’you mind doing a load of laundry today, Mick? All my pants have dirt on them.”

Mickey swallows, shoulders falling.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

He trudges back across the grass towards their building. Ian breathes a harsh sigh of relief. He takes a moment to feel bad about it, the way his body settles when Mickey retreats back to their apartment.

But Ian can’t be seen right now. It’s too risky to have Mickey cataloguing his every move. He’ll sit out here, gather himself, and go in when he feels safe.

They’re going to take this away from you.

He looks over his shoulder, feeling those eyes on him. He’s not there anymore, but Ian can’t shake the feeling that Mickey sees him anyway.

He’s not alone with her anymore, like he was this morning. There’s another presence here, some insidious and lurking thing. And something’s broken now. Ian stands, running his hands over his stinging, sunburned face. It’s all wrong.

The eyes are stripping him raw.

Even out here, the walls are closing in. The sun is too harsh, the colors too bright. They see him, too. This air is too open and there’s nowhere to hide.

They’re going to take this away from you.

He knows.

They’re going to take this away from you.

He knows.

But what can he do?

They’re going to take this away from you.

I know. Please, I know.

But what can I do?

What do I do?

He’s blinded, his senses overwhelmed. Ian crouches close to the dirt; it tells him to be patient. The answer is here, it’s coming, and he fights through the noise to hear it. It’s stunning in its simplicity.

You could take it first.

Ian sits in the garden for the rest of the afternoon, joints frozen in fear. With every passing moment, her insistence presses tighter on his skin, filling every space in his mind. Take it first. It’s too late, it’s too late. He’s too late. He thought he would know.

He was supposed to know.

You take it. Take it first.

The earth is screaming at him to act. If he moves, though, if he stands - Ian’s afraid of what happens then. It’s too fast, he’s too fast. He can’t stop it, can’t stop seeing what she wants.

Take it. Take it from them first.

Keep your control.

You take it.

If he moves now, it’s over. Ian feels the pull to go, to give in, to let go. Let the eyes take him. The soil is hot now, heated through by the sun, and it burns his skin.

And he doesn’t want to do this anymore.

With shaking hands, Ian pulls his phone from his pocket. Waits, chest heaving, for the voice on the other end. Don’t do this, don’t do this, just take it, don’t tell them—

“You okay?”

“Mickey,” he croaks, “you have to help me.”

He blinks and Mickey’s there. Hands roaming over his arms, his shoulders, his neck and face. Ian lets Mickey’s hands cover him; lets himself be shielded from view. His eyes dart across Ian’s face and it burns, but Ian leans into the hurt, holds fast to it.

Mickey tries to pull him up, to usher him back inside. No, he can’t go in there. He’ll die in there. “You won’t,” Mickey tells him. “I’ve got you. Come on.”

He was supposed to make something of this. Use it. Build something for himself and for Mickey. And instead he’s brought nothing but decay on their heads. Mickey tugs gently at his hands, eyes pleading. No, he cries. He can’t go in there. He doesn’t want to die.

“Ian, we can fix this,” Mickey soothes, but Ian’s not sure how it can be overcome this time. “But we need to go in first. Just for a second, okay?”

Mickey won’t let it happen. This man of his, who leapt on the back of a monster, who stood against his greatest fears for him. Mickey will keep him safe. Ian nods. Blinks again and he’s sitting on his bed.

An unzipped duffel bag sits next to him.

Mickey’s speaking lowly into his phone. “Yeah, yeah. Got it.” He shoves a stack of t-shirts into the bag. “See you in twenty.” Then he tosses his phone on the bed and runs a hand through Ian’s hair.

“Lip’s on his way,” he murmurs quietly.

A rage that isn’t his tears through his body. They’re going to take this away from you. Ian shudders in response, a fresh wave of terror rolling through him. He’s in danger; they’re all in such danger.

A sweatshirt, a couple pairs of sweatpants, a fistful of socks. Mickey grabs Ian’s book from their dresser and tucks it in the side pocket. Kisses Ian on the forehead. “I’m just going to grab your toothbrush and stuff. Do you want to come with?”

No. He can’t go in there.

“Okay. One sec. We’re okay, Ian.”

He steps out of the room, leaving the door open behind him, and Ian feels the world fall away. It’s over, it’s all over, and he did this. He fucked up, he let her in, and now he’s going to die.

Mickey’s back in an instant, carrying Ian’s toothbrush and toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, and his med bottles. The toiletries he stashes away in the bag, the meds he shoves into his own jacket pocket. Ian speaks before he knows what he’s about to say.

“Bedside table,” he says dully, and the rage cuts through him again. Don’t do it, don’t you do this. Don’t tell them. Control it. But he has to. He has to come clean.

“Hmm?” Mickey hums, grabbing another sweater from the closet and shoving it in the duffel. Zips it up.

“More meds in the table,” Ian says to his shoes, unable to look up at Mickey. “I’m not - I haven’t been taking them.”

“What?”

Ian blinks again and he’s in the back of Tami’s car, Mickey holding his hand. He looks up to see Lip watching him in the rearview mirror, blue eyes sharp and worried. It doesn’t feel like the eyes before. Scraping him raw and leaving him exposed and burning.

There’s something grounding in them. In the touch of the man beside him.

“We’re gonna be alright, man,” Lip vows as he pulls into a parking spot, and Mickey squeezes his hand in agreement.

Another blink and they’re in a busy room. Bright. There are eyes on him. Ian sits up, seized with fear. Lip eases him back into his seat. “You’re safe,” he whispers. “We’re all safe.”

Mickey’s on the other side of him, filling out some paperwork. He looks up at Ian then, very serious when he asks, “You alright with this?”

They have real insurance now. Mickey and Lip had found a unit comfortable enough, free of harsh yellow shirts and barred windows. He’ll get attention here, care designed for him. Fuckin’ arts and crafts. He won’t leave here with bruises.

But Ian won’t realize any of this until later.

For now, he just nods. Leans his head against Mickey’s shoulder. Tells him, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re alright, Ian,” Mickey says, copying his insurance information on the form. “Let’s get you settled now.”

“I didn’t want - I didn’t mean to let you down,” he chokes out, fighting against the cacophony of castigation in his mind. You meant it. You meant it and now you’ve lost it. You’ve ruined yourself.

Mickey stops writing, taps his pen against the clipboard.

“I just don’t understand how—” he stops, pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a breath, takes Ian’s hand. “I wish you’d said something. Fuckin’ sorry if you felt like you couldn’t. But we’re, uh, we’re here now. I’m here, gonna be here. Fuck, Ian, I hope you’ll do this.”

Don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this —

There’s no choice. If he stays here now, he lives. Goes home to Mickey, to his family. He doesn’t want to fight it this time, and he could almost sob with relief.

“I’ll do it,” Ian promises him, although he’s not sure what his promises are worth anymore. “I just - what if it happens again?”

“Then we start again,” Mickey says simply. “We handle it, Ian.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Ian whispers. “I fucked everything up.”

“Stop talkin’ like it’s all over,'' Mickey chides gently. “Something happened, and we’ll figure out why. I’m sorry you’re hurting.” He traces a finger over Ian’s jaw. “But this isn’t unfixable, man. It’s not bigger than us. And it’s not - fuck, it’s not hard to do this for you.”

Ian knows that’s not true. It’s the hardest thing in the world. Leaving Ian here tonight, letting Lip shuffle him out the building, sleeping alone for however many nights: what’s harder than that?

Well. He knows the answer to that. And Ian chokes on the fear that he could have given Mickey something harder than that.

But he nods, offering Mickey a thin smile. His husband nods back, focusing his attention back on the paperwork. Lip puts an arm around his shoulder, pulls him close. Ian breathes in the comfort, the safety his big brother has always provided.

Then he blinks, and he’s sitting on an exam table. Lip is gone, probably still in the waiting room. Mickey sits on a chair close to him. A woman in a white coat pulls the curtain back, drags a chair next to Mickey. She shakes their hands, clicks her pen, and it begins.

The long unfurling of the truth.

The doctor asks a litany of questions, and Ian wars against every impulse to lie. He looks at Mickey as he answers, those wide, unblinking eyes pulling the truth from him. Ian forces himself to watch the fear flit across Mickey’s face as he speaks.

When did you stop taking your medications, Ian?

“A few weeks ago.”

Why did you decide to do that?

“It didn’t - it didn’t seem like anything was gonna happen. I thought it would help.”

Help what?

“Help me be better. Sharper, I guess. Stronger.”

And how have you been feeling?

“Good at first. Um. Really good. Scared now, though.”

Seeing anything, hearing anything?

“There’s a voice. It’s not mine. I don’t - I don’t wanna do what it says.”

Do you want to hurt yourself or anyone else?

“I don’t want to. But - I’m scared I’m going to. Just me, though. Just me.”

Mickey covers his mouth with a hand, breathing hard. His eyes dart around the room before landing on the doctor. “I just thought - I didn’t know he wasn’t taking them. I knew he was like, up, but I didn’t know - it happened so fast.”

The doctor asks Mickey to step outside with her. A nurse comes to sit with Ian while they talk. She smells like that fruity body spray Fiona used to wear on nights out. Ian wonders if Lip’s already called her. It’s weird, doing this without her.

He blinks and Mickey’s kissing his face, wiping tears from Ian’s cheeks. He’s not sure when he started crying, or if he ever even stopped. “I’ll be back soon,” Mickey’s saying. Oh. It’s happening now. The nurse pulls the brake off the wheelchair they’d settled him in.

“I love you,” Mickey tells him.

“Love you,” Ian tries to say, but his voice fails him. He gives Mickey a feeble little wave; Mickey puts a hand over his heart as they wheel Ian away.

People come in and out during the night. More questions, more papers to sign, a pill slipped under his tongue. Another man sleeps peacefully in the little bed across the room, probably used to the comings and goings of this place.

Ian wakes with the sun the next morning. Sits up, looks around. It’s a stark little room. Two beds, two desks, two chairs, two little nightstands. A sink in the corner. Simple, typical.

What takes him by surprise are the tall glass windows at the other end of the room.

Chicago looks back at him this morning. Across the way is another wing of the hospital. A little line of birds sit at an open window on another floor. A hand pokes out; the birds push forward for their breakfast.

A nurse pokes his head in. “Almost breakfast time, guys.” Ian nods, brings his feet over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. He’s here. Might as well get into the swing of it.

By the sink is a curtain, behind which is a toilet and a simple shower stall. Ian takes a moment to clean himself up. When he pulls the curtain back, his roommate is brushing his teeth at the little sink.

They observe each other for a moment, both clearly gauging how this is going to go. He’s a simple looking guy - a little haggard, but no more so than Ian. He lifts his chin, grunting in greeting, and Ian nods in return.

He slips on a pair of blue socks, tugs a sweatshirt over his head. It’s a relief of sorts to settle into this place. He can’t go home until the fear of it subsides. He’s safe here, Ian reminds himself. Mickey wouldn’t leave him anywhere that isn’t safe.

And so begins day one.

Ian eats his lumpy oatmeal and doesn’t try to walk out once. He checks in with his care team, goes over what happened and agrees to participate in treatment. They’ll start titrating his meds back up tonight.

Don’t do this, it’s not too late, don’t do this, you’re going to lose it, don’t do this.

Ian promised Mickey he’d do this. He’s never done it before, not really. Not like this. He spent the first time looking for a way out and left without one single beaded bracelet or macaroni picture frame. He bypassed the psych unit altogether the second time, hurdling straight to prison. To Mickey.

How lucky he has been, to weather the fallout and find Mickey there every time. But Ian just doesn’t want there to be a next time. He can’t promise that, he knows. Whether he quits the meds again or they weaken, if something slips through, if something triggers an episode - one way or another, they will confront his disordered mind time and again.

But he can do this now. Learn something, maybe, so it doesn’t feel so inevitable. Or so devastating when it happens again.

So he takes a nap, drinks a juicebox in the dayroom, goes to fuckin’ music therapy. Listens to some sap strum a guitar and while he asks them all how they’re feeling. The sedative they gave him last night is wearing off; he taps his foot in time with the music.

Mickey comes after lunch. He brings him another book, some soap, and love from his family. Ian’s jotting down notes for his doctor at his little desk by the window when there’s a light knock at the door. He looks up to see his husband in the doorway, beautiful in his terror and in his hope.

They meet in the middle of the room, a tangle of limbs. Mickey surges up to kiss him and Ian laughs. Mickey closes his eyes at the sound.

“Fuck,” he breathes as Ian pulls him to sit down on his little bed. “You look better than the last time I saw you in a place like this. You okay?”

“I am,” Ian tells him. It’s important that he knows this. “It’s not so intense here. I’m not - I mean, I’m not happy about it or anything, but I’m okay.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t know me,” Mickey admits, eyes searching Ian’s. “But you look mostly like you right now.”

Ian takes his hand, kisses it. “I’m not hopped up on as much stuff this time. I know you. And I love you. I don’t feel totally like me yet, but I know that. Fuck, I’m so sorry, Mick.”

“I know you are. I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner.” Ian starts to argue but Mickey squeezes his hand, wordlessly asking him to wait. “We can’t wallow in it though, man. We can apologize and cry and all that shit when you’re home. You just be here. Relax and talk and shit. Your doctor called me earlier, said you’ve already been to one of those groups?”

“Music group, yeah. Didn’t say much. But I’ll probably go back.”

Mickey smiles, and Ian decides he’ll go to every group they offer if it’ll give him peace like that.

“There ya go. Just chill a little. Play with some clay or somethin’. The doc says they can teach you a lot here.”

Ian nods, leaning into Mickey a little. They chat idly, fiddling with each other’s fingers and going over the little details of their first sixteen hours apart. Ian tells Mickey about the drawer of snacks in the dayroom, Mickey fills Ian in on his plan to get Lip and Sandy to help him with work while he’s away.

Mickey kisses him again when it’s time to go. “Call me when you can, okay? Just wanna hear your voice.”

Ian nods. It never gets easier, saying goodbye to Mickey. He wants to go with him, back to their home with their own bed and - “Hey, Mick! Wait.” Mickey pokes his head back into the room, eyebrow raised. “Don’t forget about the plants, please.”

Mickey chuckles and gives him a two-fingered salute. “You got it, Red.”

The next eight days roll on much the same. Ian wakes, nods politely at his roommate, slips on another pair of socks. He learns what foods to avoid at meals, hoards packs of crackers from the dayroom. He watches shitty reality TV with the others, joins in the odd game of checkers or Spades.

Mickey comes when he can. Lip comes a couple of times with Liam, who watches him with wide eyes. Lip tells him the things Mickey won’t - if his husband is eating or sleeping at all. More importantly, he promises to look out for him. Carl and Debbie visit once: their faces seem younger than Ian has seen them look in years. He kisses both of their heads, ruffling their hair as they say goodbye. He calls Fiona a couple of times to soothe her tearful worries.

Ian restarts his meds, fighting through the fog to stay present with his team. At the end of each session, he feels a little steadier. His arsenal of tools is growing. Ian tells Mickey about it on the phone before bed every night, and blushes at the pride in his husband’s voice.

“I hate that you had to go,” Mickey sighs. “But I’m so fuckin’ glad you’re there.”

And through it all, he goes to the groups. It’s easier to talk, Ian finds, when part of his brain is focusing on something else.

He talks about Monica while he makes matching friendship bracelets for Franny and Debbie. He recalls the decision to stop his meds as he fashions a tomato out of felt and glue. He speaks on his deepest fear of letting Mickey down as he hits random notes on a goddamn xylophone. He even fills out the worksheets about his goals, files them away to bring home to Mickey.

The others nod along, sharing their own stories. Ian never really learns any of their names. But they’re familiar to him, by the end of it. He was in and out of Cook County in such a blur, quickly stabilized and shuffled along. Ian feels more present in this place, less like he’s trapped in a nightmare.

“It’s not a cure-all,” his doctor had reminded him early on. “We’re here to keep you safe and set you up for success once you’re out of here. You’ve still got a lot of healing to do, Ian.”

He knows. Life will be dimmed a little when he leaves here. He’ll have to rebuild Mickey’s damaged trust, work to be less of a gamble. Stand up for his siblings, be the brother they’ve always relied on. He’ll have to recommit himself to their work and make up for lost time.

Time, irrevocably lost.

And, fuck, he’ll have to forgive himself, eventually.

He had been right, Ian thinks, when the energy was ramping up. He doesn’t have to hate himself for this - he can’t help it. But the difference is, now, that he hates himself for giving into it. Will he ever stop trying to bring it back, to make this into something it’s not?

“Why now?” - everyone has asked him. The doctors, the social worker, the groups, his family. Mickey. It was a golden time for them. So why now?

The truth: he thought he could make it shine brighter.

“You’ll need to work on this when you get home,” his doctor tells him the day before he’s discharged. “Why do you think you have make your disorder useful, Ian? Why do you think you have to be useful to be worthy? I hope you’ll keep seeing the counselor we’ve set you up with.” He stands, holding out a hand for Ian to shake. “You’ve done well. Good luck.”

Mickey picks him up the next morning, having bullied Lip and Tami into borrowing her car without either of them coming along. “Not like I could roll up here in our stolen ambulance,” he tells Ian on the ride home.

Ian’s glad it’s just Mickey right now. He’s not quite ready to start the big show of recovery. He wants some time, just a little, to reconnect. Reacquaint himself with their home, their life.

He’s pleased when Mickey pushes open their apartment door and ushers him inside. The space is clean, likely Liam or Tami’s doing, and it looks like Mickey kept his word about the plants. They’re just as green and lush as the day he went in.

Ian takes a moment to greet them while Mickey tosses his bag back in their bedroom. He gently touches the leaves, presses a finger into the soil. Just damp, all as it should be. “You guys look great,” he whispers, chuckling a bit as he pictures Mickey watering them with measured concentration, tongue poking out as he judges the needs of each plant.

He flops down on the couch then, where Mickey joins him a moment later. They spend the rest of the day there, lounging as they share caresses and light stories from their week apart. Lip comes by that evening with a White Castle dinner, a welcome break from Ian’s recent suppers of bland turkey, chunky gravy, and mushy vegetables. He sips at his Coke, looking between Lip and Mickey sitting at their little dining table.

“Thank you,” he says. He has to say it now, he feels, before the rest of the Gallaghers descend. “I know it doesn’t get any easier. But - you guys, y’know, you did so good. I’m sorry I let this happen. But I - I love you both.”

Lip stands and pulls Ian to him by the shoulders, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Love you, little brother,” he says, voice thick. “I’m glad you’re home. Glad you’re alright.” He blinks hard. “So fuckin’ glad.”

He clears his throat loudly as he sits again, suddenly very interested in the slider on his plate. Ian glances up at Mickey, who winks. His words will come later.

After the trash has been cleared, after the dishes are rinsed, after a long goodbye to Lip and a phone call to Fiona, after a hot shower, and after slipping into pajama pants with a blessed drawstring in the waistband, Ian settles into bed beside Mickey. His husband pulls him close, burrowing his face in his neck.

“Hated sleeping here without you,” Mickey murmurs into his skin.

Ian hums. That was hard for him, too. He was so used to sharing his sleep with another, so used to their nighttime push and pull. Ian caught up on sleep in the hospital; now he needs to catch up on rest. Rest that only sleeping next to Mickey can give him.

Mickey presses a kiss to his jaw, just below his ear. Leans up, litters more across his cheeks. One to his nose. “Missed you,” he whispers against his lips. Ian opens his mouth in response, returning the sentiment with a thorough kiss. Mickey presses against him, stretching out down the length of Ian’s body.

It’s not about sex tonight. Ian can’t get hard anyway. And they’re both so tired, not yet ready to be naked or vulnerable. It’s about being close, about feeling the other’s heartbeat beneath their hands. Tasting and touching, just breathing the other in. Safe, warm, present.

They settle after a little while, Ian on his back with Mickey curled around him, almost on top of him. Ian is comforted by the solid weight of his husband; just days ago it would have had him shaking.

“Love you,” Mickey whispers every few minutes until he finally falls asleep. Ian says it back every time. Making up for those lost moments.

Ian lies awake for another hour or so, just holding Mickey. Listening to his breaths, so slow and even. Watching the moonlight drift through the gap in their curtains and illuminate his skin. He lies awake for a little while longer, cherishing the moonlit man in his arms.

And he wakes up afraid.

He sits up, heart hammering. Swallows down gulps of air, looks wildly around the room. His room. That he shares with his husband. At home. Ian falls back against the pillows, glances around again. Those are his shoes by the door; that’s his robe hanging on its hook in the closet.

He belongs here. He’s safe here.

Mickey ducks in just a moment later. “Hey. You okay?” Ian nods, and Mickey smiles after visually confirming it for himself. “Good. Come on out here, made ya some breakfast.”

He’s reminded of the time Monica came back, when their grandmother had died, and she’d tried to win them over with breakfast. Every available surface in the Gallagher kitchen was covered in stacks of pancakes and toast, plates of eggs and bacon, a tin of blueberry muffins.

Ian has half a mind to ask Mickey if he’s manic, but he eyes the box of donuts at the center of the table all the same.

Mickey just shrugs, a little half smile playing at his lips. “Thought you were probably sick of oatmeal by now. Got you some good fruit, too,” he says, pointing to the little bowl of strawberries at his place.

They eat their first meal alone together as Mickey tells him about his plan for the next few days. Mickey will stay home with Ian for another day, then head back to work. Ian will take the next few weeks to adjust to his meds again and see his care team regularly. When Mickey’s out, his siblings will hang around.

Ian wants to grumble at this, but his chin can’t quite jut forward before Mickey’s placing three pills by his glass of juice, looking at him pointedly. Sure, fine. They don’t trust him anymore.

“I’m not sayin’ you have to sit together and braid each other’s hair all day, man. Maybe you can go over to their place - or maybe you sit in our room while they hang out on the couch. I just think we’ll all feel better if someone’s nearby for a while.”

Mickey will feel better. That’s reason enough. If it will help Mickey get through his day, he’ll do it. Ian would bend over backwards to make Mickey happy. But he doesn’t have to. He just has to try.

As it turns out, it makes Ian feel better, too. He’s so relieved that his siblings still want to be near him after crashing so spectacularly, he would sit and braid their hair if it’s what they wanted.

The days move forward like this: Ian wakes up with Mickey, and if there’s time, Ian will disappear beneath the covers and rouse his husband from sleep in his favorite way. They eat together and Ian dutifully takes his meds. They keep them in the kitchen cupboard now, and he tries not to feel ashamed when Mickey doles them out.

Some combination of Gallaghers will drift in and out of the house over the course of the day. Sometimes they lounge and watch TV, sometimes they round Ian up and take him to the park with Franny and Fred.

One day Lip brings over a ridiculous jigsaw puzzle that they end up shouting at each other over. Liam finishes most of it himself when he comes by the next morning.

They get him to all his appointments, waiting patiently in the lobby while Ian checks in with his doctors. Yes, he tells them. Yes, he’s taking his meds. Yes, he’s sleeping and eating. Yes, the intrusive thoughts and the ringing voice have faded. But - when they ask how he’s feeling -

He’s bored.

Ian knew, upon leaving the hospital, that recovery would be long. That’d he’d have to work diligently to untangle the mess of neuroses and complexes which resulted in this inexplicable lapse in judgment.

But fuck, he didn’t know it’d be so fucking boring.

In an instant, it seems, Ian went from dangerously overstimulated to unbearably understimulated. And the humming in his blood is noticeably absent. He’s stewing in his boredom, simmering in resentment against his own actions.

So on Mickey’s next day off, he brings it up over breakfast.

“I was thinking about spending some time outside today, if you wanna come.”

Mickey smiles into his cereal, pleased. “Oh yeah? Whatcha wanna do, go for a dip?”

“Maybe later. No, I wanted to go check out the garden, see how the tomatoes are coming.”

Mickey’s spoon clatters as it hits the table. Ian looks up, surprised, as the color drains from his face.

“Oh fuck, Ian, your tomatoes.”

It wasn’t Mickey’s fault. It was Ian’s, all of it. He took on the garden plot, he planted the tomatoes, he quit taking his pills, he lost his fucking mind again. Not Mickey.

“At first - I just didn’t want to go back down there,” Mickey explains as they dress in a hurry. “Finding you there like that, Ian, I just didn’t wanna go back there.”

Ian pauses, bent over as he pulls on a pair of socks. “It’s okay, Mick. You don’t have to go down there now if you don’t want to.”

“Obviously I’m going with you,” he corrects, tugging a t-shirt over his head. “I meant to ask Carl or Debbie to come by, but shit got so busy with work and I was so fuckin’ worried about you I just - I forgot, Ian, fuck. I’m sorry.”

Ian moves to stand in front of Mickey, taking his face in his hands. Rubs his thumbs beneath tired, guilty eyes.

“Mickey, come on. It’s alright. It’s not your fault.”

Mickey’s hands come up to hold Ian’s wrists. “You talked about nothing but those goddamned tomatoes for weeks and I just up and forgot about ‘em.”

He shakes his head, takes a ragged breath.

“When you reminded me about the plants, I thought I was hot shit for remembering to water the potted ones. Thought it’d give you something nice to come home to. And I - I let you down, man.”

Ian chuckles. This is so typical. He leans down and kisses Mickey’s crinkled brow. Brings his hands to rest on Mickey’s shoulders.

“You were nice to come home to,” he promises. “The plants are on me, Mick. When are we gonna stop assuming we’ve failed each other?”

Mickey’s face softens. He shrugs lightly: never, probably.

Ian swallows an anxiety pill before they head down. Mickey grips his hand on the way, worried about Ian confronting his garden again. “It’s okay,” he promises again and again. “Mick, it’s — ”

Fuck.

Fuck.

They’re fucked. Yellowed and wilting, brown at the edges. A couple of them lay weakly against the soil, buckled under their own dying weight. Fuck. They hadn’t even flowered yet.

Ian crouches down, touching the soil. It’s been so warm lately; the dirt is dry and pale.

He turns back to look at Mickey, eyes burning. When Ian was last here, he’d been blinded with fear. Now, he sees this place clearly for what it is. A site of failure. A site of death. In that way, he’d been right last time. He brought death here.

Mickey pulls him up, guides him back inside with an arm around his waist. “I’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “I’m sorry this happened.”

Ian’s sorry, too.

So sorry, in fact, that he climbs back into bed and sleeps the afternoon away.

The shame is all-encompassing. It clogs his throat, sitting heavy on his chest. They had it down to an art. Get up, eat breakfast, swallow the pills. Go about the day, live a balanced fucking life. Come home, relax with some dinner, swallow the pills. That’s it. That’s all it had to be.

Take the pills, grow some fruit.

But Ian’s always had to push harder. He’s never fucking satisfied, even when his world is as shimmering as it’s ever been. He just had to challenge his own mind, when he’s never won before.

He really thought he could. Their life together was progressing, unfolding in such surprising little ways. Ian thought he could just - what? Give them a boost? Give Mickey some brilliant version of himself, just for a little while?

He never fucking learns, though, and instead he gave Mickey that same pernicious, destructive Ian.

The mattress dips as Mickey comes to sit beside him. Runs a hand through Ian’s hair. It’s been a couple of days now. This was probably bound to happen, even without the plants. But the ache of one more failure makes his head feel that much heavier.

“Hey,” Mickey says quietly, and Ian turns to face him. Blinks up at him. “I’ve been doin’ a little reading. Think we might be able to save those little guys.”

Ian quirks an eyebrow.

“Whaddya say, Gallagher? Up for a little gardening tomorrow?” Mickey chuckles and tosses a stack of printed articles in Ian’s lap. “Check this out,” he says, “then come have some dinner.”

Mickey had already gone to the nursery by the time Ian gets up late the next morning. He beams as he brings Ian back down to the garden, showing him the mulch, the materials for a shelter, the compost he stole from Jill and Alan.

Something pulls at the back of Ian’s mind. Some worry finally names itself. Will this place, too, be tainted by his mania? He thinks of the old Milkovich house, now a heap of rubble. The church he’ll never walk by again, the sour taste in his mouth at the mere mention of Boystown.

But - no.

Those places may be haunted, but they didn’t trap him within their walls. Ian still loves to dance. He still loves to help people; he still loves Mickey.

So maybe he can keep loving this, too. Maybe he can keep trying this.

Mickey takes a step back, reading aloud from the instructions he’d printed and making idle chatter as Ian works. Every now and then, he moves forward to hold a stake in place or kiss Ian on the cheek.

Take the pills, grow some fruit.

Go to the hospital, build a shelter.

Restart the pills, prune and spray.

Stabilize, add some mulch and compost.

Participate in care, rehydrate.

Start again.

Start again.

As they walk back, Ian wonders if starting over will always be part of his world. If he’ll always be going back to fix his mistakes. He was doing that even before he ever got sick.

Maybe so.

“You did good today,” Mickey observes, shouldering him lightly once they reach their front door. Ian kisses him swiftly and soundly.

He’ll fix this. He’ll fix all of this, everything, to make Mickey feel steady. The shame still lives in Ian’s bones but it won’t sink him. It’ll propel him forward until it feels more like pride. Whatever he finds in Mickey’s eyes right now.

Ian takes his pills with dinner that night. Double-checks his calendar of appointments for the upcoming week, texts Carl to be sure he can give him a ride. Now, next to Mickey in bed, he jots down some notes on his phone.

“What’s that?” Mickey asks, clearly resisting the urge to lean over and look.

“Just trying to be careful. I’m glad to be out there again, but I just gotta be sure I don’t get, like, weird about it.”

Garden today, he types. Trying to fix the dried out plants. Nervous? Afraid of losing them.

And that’s it, really, isn’t it? He’s afraid of losing, all the time.

“Weird how?” Mickey asks, suspicious of Ian’s tapping thumbs.

“Y’know. Suitcases weird. Obsessive and shit. You tell me if you spot anything, okay?”

Mickey exhales sharply, relieved at being invited in. “Yeah, okay. I will.” He leans over, kisses Ian’s forehead, his nose, his lips. “Let’s get some sleep.”

It doesn’t work.

Ian checks on the plants every morning after breakfast. Sets a timer so he won’t spend more than twenty minutes out there. Mickey comes down when he has time. But Lip’s with him when Ian realizes the whole exercise has been futile.

“Fuck,” he hisses, knees in the dirt. “God damn it.”

“Shit, sorry man,” Lip says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Know how hard you worked on this.”

He nods. It was supposed to be about the work. Hours of time and hundreds of dollars spent on what’s now just a pile of mulch and kindling. Fuck. Ian could just fucking kick himself. Was it worth it, then?

Was any of this worth it?

They spend the afternoon flipping through channels, bickering heatlessly over what movies to watch. Lip meets Mickey at the door when he arrives home that evening. Mumbles something Ian can’t make out. A warning, probably.

Mickey nods, punching Lip lightly on the arm as he leaves. He moves into the apartment, setting bags of takeout on the kitchen counter.

Ian swallows down his rage and chokes on his grief as Mickey throws himself down on the couch and pulls him close. He can’t lose his head over this. Not over plants. Not again. He can’t show Mickey this. It feels too much like before, and he doesn’t want to get sent back.

“Sorry about your plants,” Mickey murmurs into his hair.

“Yeah,” Ian sighs. “Me, too. S’okay though.”

But his voice betrays him, that wobbly bastard.

“It’s okay, Ian.”

“I know it is. They’re just plants.”

“No,” Mickey insists, “I mean it’s okay that you feel something about this. You’re not sick just because you’re feeling, Ian. You can feel this.”

Ian lets that settle for a moment. Lets himself examine the vortex of emotion that swirls in his chest.

“I guess I’m just feeling a little lost,” he admits. It scares him, this aimless feeling. The days ahead are blank, faceless things. It’s terrifying.

Mickey holds him tighter, hums in understanding.

“There’s no timeline on this, you know,” he says, and Ian cocks his head in question. “You don’t have to, like, schedule getting better. The plants weren’t a test or anything, man. You haven’t failed.”

“I have failed, though,” Ian argues. “I failed at the most basic thing I’d promised you.”

Mickey pushes Ian up, maneuvers him so they’re facing each other. “Sometimes we’re gonna make the wrong choices, I guess.”

Ian snorts. He can’t imagine Mickey making this kind of catastrophic blunder on purpose.

“Hey,” Mickey warns. “I’m gonna make mistakes, too. Wedding money, right? But we’re in it together. This happened, and we’re doing what we need to do.”

They are in it together, that’s true. Ian had long pitied Mickey for that, for being shackled to Ian’s disordered chaos. But here’s the truth: Mickey is tied to more than just his illness. They’re linked at the heart, they’re linked in body and soul. And what’s more - Mickey willingly tossed away the key.

“What I wanna know,” Mickey continues, “is what you wanna do now. How are you gonna make this better while still giving yourself some fuckin’ peace? You deserve that, Ian.”

It’s dark outside. Ian can’t go back out there right now. He doesn’t even have the supplies he needs to begin again. He pictures them now, a row of seedlings sprouting from the ruins of his first try. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow, he’ll need to wait until the soil’s not so saturated.

He’ll need to wait until it’s time.

But the clouds will exhaust themselves before too long, and the sun will warm the earth through. Ian can’t know how they’ll turn out. Fuck, maybe it won’t even be tomatoes this time. Maybe he’ll plant a plot of daisies and sit in a little field of flowers. Maybe he has to let that be okay.

The days ahead are blank, faceless things.

Ian had told himself over and over that he’d know when it started to change. But he can’t see what happens next. Maybe he should stop trying to name the future. Let himself rest in the knowledge that something will happen next. And that he won’t be alone when it does.

He looks at Mickey, smiles a little. “Is it okay if I say I don’t know?”

Maybe they’ll go back to the nursery soon; maybe they’ll be slicing fresh tomatoes for their summer meals. Maybe his recovery doesn’t hang on the life or death of a little red fruit. Maybe they’ll finally go to Whole Foods and he can look at them instead, dream a little longer. Squish the fuzzy skin of a peach through his fingers. Laugh as the juice drips down his chin.

One day, he’ll have them. They’ll have grown brilliantly, plump and red and vibrant. Maybe he’ll make a soup, warming it through when Mickey has a cold. Mickey will smack his lips and kiss his face, grateful for the care.

He can’t force it. But he’ll tend as it comes.

Today, his hands can just be hands. They don’t have to give anything right now. They can just touch and be held. He can just touch and be held.

“It’s okay,” Mickey says, and Ian hears the truth in his voice. “You don’t have to know right now.”