Chapter Text
A rage room experience seemed like a great idea. God knows that they needed to let go of things that had simmered in the recesses of their minds for years. Guilt, shame, hurt, anger, the urge to be destructive. This provided an outlet without hurting anyone or breaking the law as they often did. Unintentional or not. No one earned it more than the Gallaghers.
Ian, Mickey, Debbie, Lip, and Carl all could benefit from time spent smashing and breaking things. Liam was probably the only level-headed one of the bunch that didn't inherit his sibling's desire to do so. It was his gift to them. Always so much more perceptive to who they are than they probably wanted. Someone who loved them despite all the fucked up shit they did to themselves and each other.
With the money he had saved for months doing the odd job here and there, he had given them all vouchers for Christmas. It wasn't going to be a family outing, god knew that would end in a bigger disaster. He left it up to them to decide when they wanted to go. At first, they were all confused when they opened their neatly labelled envelopes.
Mickey was ecstatic, knowing he now had a perfectly legal excuse to cause chaos that wouldn't make his husband have a coronary. Said husband, Ian, was intrigued by the premise. Ian knew deep down that there were all these emotions he hadn't processed ready to be purged. Carl had a similar reaction like Mickey's. Carl always had slightly more psychopathic tendencies than the rest of the brood, but now this was something he just knew that he would go back to when rich assholes got on every last of his nerves and the shooting range didn't quite hit the spot. Debbie was shocked. At first she wanted to deny needing it, shouting her opinion loudly but one look from Liam only proved his point. Lip quietly accepted the gift. He had the self-awareness to know what this really meant. He was the second oldest, pseudo-father to his siblings. He was also a bit envious that he hadn't thought of it sooner. Probably would've curbed his reactions during college.
Gallaghers didn't do traditional therapy (except for Ian's psychiatry appointments), but this was as close to therapy as they would get. It was unconventional, and that suited them almost perfectly.
Apprehension zipped along Ian's spine when he stepped foot into the building. The room was painted wall-to-wall black with matching furniture. The walls behind the desk had posters of rules and price lists. It looked ominous as he walked up to the man who was typing away on a computer.
After handing over the gift voucher, changing into protective gear, and having a small safety talk, Ian was left alone in a room with random objects surrounding him and a scuffed aluminum baseball bat.
Standing in a business and being given the go-ahead to smash anything he wanted felt weird. Nervousness tingled his hands as he picked up a chipped glass from one of the bins. Part of Ian knew that there was a possibility that once he started, it would be near impossible to stop. The emotions would just keep coming. He knew this about himself. He knew that he was more emotional than his brothers. More than Mickey; though after seeing Mickey plan their wedding, an argument could be made that he was the more emotional one in their marriage.
Gripping the glass as well as he could through the thick gloves, Ian reached back and put his entire weight into making the glass sail through the air. As soon as the fragile material made contact with the concrete wall, it erupted into a million sparking pieces, the light bouncing off each fracture. The sound of the glass breaking seemed to shift something in Ian's brain, and soon he was picking up another item from the bin and launching it at the wall.
With every throw and wail of the bat, Ian let himself go. Completely.
He poured his anger and frustration and grief into every item that was destroyed. Every item held a soured memory from his life. Frank and Monica for being the shittiest parents. Frank, again, for dying on his wedding anniversary of all days. Monica, again, for passing down her bipolar. Bipolar, itself, for nearly destroying his life. The mania, for tricking him into doing dangerous things and landing him in jail. The depression, for sabotaging whatever good he had. Kash, for grooming him. Terry, for literally everything. Caleb, for making him feel cheap. Trevor, for not being willing to understand or listen. Fiona, for missing his wedding. Ned, for getting Mickey shot.
It didn't surprise him that his vision blurred and his breathing turned erratic. Sweat dripped from his brow and down his back. The bat was no longer in his hands, now lying next to his feet as he ripped the gloves and safety glasses off to wipe away the tears. His head felt weird but his body felt lighter than it ever had. There was a relief of tension that made his muscles feel like jello.
With his sight now clear, Ian surveyed the chaos. Glass, ceramic, and wood lay splintered everywhere. There wasn't a single item provided that wasn't touched by his hands or the bat.
Ian was startled when a loud buzzing noise sounded in the room, signalling the end of his session. On the other side of the door, he dropped the glasses and gloves into separate bins and hung up the jumpsuit he had to wear over his regular clothes. Stepping into the restroom after grabbing his jacket, he splashed cold water onto his face. He knew that it was going to be obvious that he had gone through some shit in that room. Shit that he didn't necessarily want other people to read too plainly on his face.
For the first time in probably years, his mind felt empty. That was the weird feeling. And not in the scary and numb sense. But in a calm way, where he could hear himself think and feel without other parts of his mind latching on and sending him into a rabbit hole of other thoughts and feelings. Almost like he was reborn as he left the dark rooms and into the bright spring day. Without the religious connotation. God knows (pun not intended) he's had enough religion to last a lifetime.
Ian was quiet the entire commute home. He didn't bother checking his phone. Content to watch the world around him hustle and bustle. He would have driven but Mickey had left earlier in the day to do some last-minute runs without him. Which didn't bother Ian as much as he thought it would. Usually, he would be nervous about Mickey handling things without him being there to buffer his husband's attitude, but Mickey knew what Ian was doing this today and promised to be on his best behaviour; whatever that looked like.
Entering the apartment, Ian could hear Mickey cursing at something, which brought a small smile to Ian's face. Turning the corner into their living room he was met with Mickey sitting on their couch drinking a beer as he watched Survivor on the television. Ian found it hilarious when he caught Mickey watching it a couple of months ago. Ian teased him for it but now sometimes watched with Mickey just to see him get so animated about it. Loudly critiquing people as they fucked up challenges, claiming how easy it was, cheering or objecting when someone was voted off.
Falling into the seat next to a groaning Mickey, Ian swiped the beer from him, startling the man in the process. "Jesus fucking Christ, Ian."
Ian ignored Mickey's glare as he drank the barely cold beer. But now that Ian was home, all of Mickey's attention was focused on him.
Milkovich's didn't get nervous. Plain and simple. Not when the law was coming down on them. Not when there were drugs or guns to run. Whores to pimp. Nerves meant you were scared, and Milkovich's don't get scared. But apparently, they do, if said Milkovich was named Mickey and was in a long-term relationship with Ian Gallagher. And no matter how much Mickey played it cool on the outside, on the inside were jumbled knots and jumping heartbeats.
While Ian and Mickey worked and lived together, this was one thing they knew they had to be separated for. Mickey was a bit scared for when Ian would decide to go, unsure how his husband would handle the excursion. Ian was doing good on his current cocktail of medications, but Mickey also knew that intense emotions could be a trigger. He knew all too well from experience.
All week, since Ian mentioned using the rage room voucher, Mickey was more nervous than he was standing next to Ian getting married. But those were good nerves, excitement. These nerves felt foreboding. Mickey wanted to believe that Ian would have a fun time smashing shit. He knows he did. He barely let the voucher sit in his wallet for long until he was marching into the business, itching for destruction. But knowing Ian, he had a lot of things in his head that needed emptying.
So instead of sitting around the apartment all by himself, Mickey put in a couple of extra hours at work. He even promised to be on his best behaviour. Which only meant a tiny bit less cursing and not threatening to beat the shit out of someone. So when he came home and Ian still wasn't home or any texts from him, Mickey put on Survivor and planted himself on the couch with a few beers to distract him until then. And it worked a little too well, not evening hearing Ian come home until the beer was being swiped from his grasp.
Tearing his attention away from the TV, Mickey watched Ian. He could see the slight red rim around his eyes. But he could also see just how at peace his husband was.
Mickey didn't use to be so in touch with emotions, nothing outside anger and disregard, but ever since Ian came looking for him that one day, suddenly emotions were all Mickey could see, feel, and notice. At first, it frustrated him to no end that Ian had done that to him, but now he couldn't help but be grateful for it. He felt pride in reading Ian's emotions without being verbally told.
Mickey was nervous to ask, but he had to know. "So, how did it go?"
Ian sat there, peeling the label on the bottle of beer as he gathered his thoughts. "It was... really good. A little draining, but I feel good."
"Yeah?" Mickey asked, taking his beer back, and finishing it off to hide the relief.
Figuring he wasn't going to get an answer, Mickey turned his attention back to the TV, relaxing into the couch cushions. He wasn't going to start pushing for more like Ian's siblings were known to do. If Ian wanted to talk, he would do so without any prodding on Mickey's part.
"Yeah." Ian parroted, moving around until his head was resting on Mickey's upper thigh.
And like it was an automatic response, Mickey's hands busied themselves with one rubbing Ian's shoulder while the other played with the ginger hair. Mickey knew Ian would fall asleep, meaning he couldn't be too loud, but as long as Ian was good at the end of the day, he didn't mind one bit.