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He’s up all night after the phone call. He’d been rushing out the door when his phone rang and, thinking it was work, he answered it without even looking. Rather than being on time, he’d been fifteen minutes late because it took him that long after agreeing to meet Mickey for coffee to catch his breath.
Not that he’s really breathed since then.
He stands outside the restaurant until it’s almost past the time he said he’d show up. He doesn’t know what he’s walking into and he’s not sure he wants to take the steps to lead him to the door, to his past. He hadn’t known Mickey was out. Hadn’t known anything. It had been easier to just walk away and pretend it had never happened. Easier. Or impossible. He’s not sure which is true anymore.
He sees Mickey when he walks in and his brain catalogs every change, every similarity. Mickey’s dressed in a gray button-down shirt and Ian can see his black jeans and black boots where one of his legs is stretched out alongside the table. He looks good. Comfortable. Relaxed. Ian feels like his skin has been flayed off and everything inside him is exposed.
Ian sits down and rubs his hands on his thighs. “Hey.”
Mickey’s quiet for a minute and Ian can’t quite look at him. Inside his head he’s got a constant loop of all the things he said to Mickey when he was off his meds, when he was on them, when he was hurting so much all he could do was lash out.
“Thanks for meeting me. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Free coffee.” Mickey laughs softly and Ian presses his lips together to keep from smiling. He can tell that Mickey knows that’s not the real answer from the way he looks at Ian for a moment before signaling the waitress. Ian rubs his thighs a couple more times and then puts his hands on the table.
His eyes are caught on the tattoo on the inside of Mickey’s wrist. He’s so caught up in studying it, in wondering that he doesn’t even listen to their conversation. It’s all bullshit anyway. “Is that so they can scan you in the supermarket?”
“It’s the number of guys I killed in the joint.” Ian’s eyes jerk up to meet Mickey’s, and Mickey’s smirking. It’s not a smile. It’s not even friendly. It’s like Ian’s just proven something to Mickey somehow. “I’m kidding. I actually escaped prison murder-free. Don’t tell Svetlana though. I think she’d be ashamed of me.”
“Do you keep in touch?”
“No. My parole officer thought it’d be best if I didn’t hang around an ex-hooker, because hookers make attempted murderers look bad, you know?” He laughs a little, softly. A private joke, maybe. Ian’s not sure. He’s not sure how to read Mickey. None of the defensiveness he associates with Mickey is there. None of the walls. Different walls. He knows that much. Mickey will always have a host of defenses no one can get through. No one but family. No one but Ian. “Besides, I don’t really live somewhere I’d want to have a kid.”
“What’s wrong? New girlfriend isn’t into being a mommy?”
Mickey’s eyebrows go up, and Ian can feel heat stain his cheeks. He’s not sure where the words came from, not sure what the bitterness is for. “Wow. I knew you didn’t give a shit about me anymore, but I thought you’d at least remember that you used to fuck me repeatedly. And I liked it. Girls really aren’t my thing.”
“Bad-ass Mickey Milkovich isn’t playing it straight? I figured that’s how you’d get through prison unscathed.” Ian thinks the look Mickey gives him is supposed to be a smile, but it’s nothing like one. His voice is flat when he speaks, hollow.
“No one gets out of prison unscathed.”
Ian feels a flash of regret and shame and has to look away. He doesn’t know Mickey anymore. At least not this Mickey. It’s like walking through a minefield, and he keeps making missteps. “So what made you look me up?”
“I saw the thing in the paper. You saved a bunch of people. I thought maybe I’d see...”
“I’m seeing someone.” Ian clamps his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to say that. Doesn’t know why he did. He’s dating, but it’s nothing series. Won’t be. Ian’s had far too much serious in his life for a while. But hope – for him, for Mickey, for anything – seems far too dangerous to even think of.
“-how you were doing.” Mickey just ignores him, and Ian wants to smile. The severe normality of all of this is verging on the edge of surreal. “You looked good. I wanted to see for myself, I guess.”
“I’m seeing someone.” He has a feeling he’s a record with the needle stuck in a groove, caught on a phrase and he’s not completely sure what it means.
“That’s great. He’s a good guy?”
Mickey’s answer is enough to bump Ian enough for his brain to find a different track. “He’s good to me.” They are. He only dates people who are good to him. Nice to him. He doesn’t date a lot. He’s bad at finding people who are good, nice. At least on a regular or consistent basis. He’s not sure if it’s his taste in men or if it’s just that those are the kinds of guys that are attracted to him.
“I’m glad.” He sounds glad, and Ian frowns slightly. None of this is what he expected. He expected a fight. A brawl. At least some yelling. “You hungry? My treat.”
“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow and has to bite back another smile at the look on Mickey’s face.
“Yeah. I’ve got a steady job and shit. I pay taxes.”
Ian laughs and it feels good. He’s not sure when he laughed last and meant it. Not sure when something struck him as funny. The thought of Mickey filling out a W2 form is enough to do it though. Ian can picture him asking how the fuck he should know how many he should claim.
“It’s true!” Mickey laughs too, and Ian doesn’t stop smiling. “I pay fucking FICA. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but I pay it. Next think you know, I’m gonna have a 401(k). Fucking retirement plan.”
That sparks another laugh and it feels like the tension is draining out of him. There’s still wariness. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, but for now, it feels like it used to. Shooting the shit, making stupid jokes, making each other laugh. That was always Ian’s downfall. He liked Mickey. He’d never expected that. He doubts Mickey had either.
“I can just see you.” It’s hard to get out the words with the wide grin that seems to have taken over his face. “Storming into HR demanding to know what they’re doing taking shit out of your check.”
“It’s like you were there!” Mickey’s laugh fades out to a smile and he just looks at Ian for a minute before shoving his menu and bumping Ian’s. “Come on. Food. You’re a bottomless pit, and it’s my treat.” Ian hesitates and Mickey sighs. “It’s just lunch, Ian. I don’t want anything from you.”
He frowns. He knew Mickey would have changed. He didn’t expect it to be by this much. “Not payback?”
“It’s Frank’s fucking fault you’re related to the bitch, right? You didn’t do anything.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. When it was happening. When the cops showed up.”
“She could have shot me dead and they would have thrown my ass in prison.” There’s such a matter-of-fact tone to Mickey’s voice that Ian can feel his shoulders hunch. He’s replayed that day in his head hundreds of times, figuring out different ways he could have said things, done things. Hindsight is easy though. It’s the living through it that gets him every time. “My reputation got me in there. You don’t get to take credit or blame for it.”
“Yeah, but...”
“And now I’m out. It’s behind me. I keep moving forward. One day at a time. Like in AA.”
“You’re in AA?” He doesn’t mean to sound like he doesn’t believe Mickey but...well, he doesn’t.
“No. Fuck no. But a lot of the guys in the joint get religion, get clean. One day at a time gets you through a lot of days.” He signals the waitress over and orders. Ian is frowning to himself, processing. He feels like he’s missing half of their conversation, like he’s missing what all the undercurrents mean. He just doubles whatever Mickey orders, calling her back at the last minute to make sure he said no onions.
Mickey’s grinning, making some sort of face. Ian smirks, waiting for whatever it is. “What?”
“No onions. Need your sweet smelling breath for the new man?”
“I don’t like onions on burgers.” He takes a sip of his water for something to do with his mouth and his hand. “You really saw me in the paper?” He and his partner had shown up at a fully engulfed house fire. Some woman was screaming about people inside, and Ian and Scott had rushed in and gotten them out while the rest of the crew had hooked up the lines and got the water going. It felt like he was breathing an inferno for a week and his eyes watered for even longer, but everyone lived. And in a desperate need for good news, someone decided they needed a medal. If he hadn’t been required by work to go, he wouldn’t have.
“Yeah. I didn’t contact you when I got out for a reason. Didn’t figure it’d do either of us any good. But then I saw the picture, and you looked different. Better than when I last saw you.” The words hang in the air and Ian can picture sitting on the opposite side of the glass from Mickey, too ashamed of himself and what he’d done to help put Mickey in there to look at him. He’d wanted to hide, wanted Mickey to hate him, wanted Mickey to want to kill him. Wanted Mickey not to love him so that he didn’t have to feel responsible, didn’t have to wonder if he’d done the right thing in those moments when the fog in his brain lifted. He didn’t want to see Mickey. He said he was done with that part of his life. It wasn’t exactly the truth. Wasn’t really a lie. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to reach out.”
“I was surprised.”
“I was supposed to be locked up.”
“Not just that.” He frowns at the waitress as she sets down their sodas and leaves. He looks at Mickey, trying to find something. “I didn’t really give you much reason to want to talk to me again. Ever.”
“You had shit going on. I wasn’t what you wanted or needed. It sucked. Fucking sucked. But I’ve had a long time to think about it. Deal with it. You didn’t want what I had to offer. Case closed.”
“How come you’re so fucking calm?” He finally asks. There’s an edge of anger in his voice. He doesn’t know this Mickey. He doesn’t understand him. “I’d want to smash my fucking face in. I was an asshole. I treated you like shit.”
“You felt like shit, so you treated me like shit, because shit is what you thought you deserved. I couldn’t treat you like shit. I loved you.” Mickey stares at his fingers as he rolls up the paper wrapper from his straw. “Two years is a long time. Three.”
“I fucked up. Fucked around. Fucked myself over. I pushed everyone away because it was easier and none of them wanted the responsibility. My family grew up and grew apart. Guess we were lucky we stayed as close as we were for as long as we did.”
Mickey shrugs and Ian wonders if he talks to his siblings. Ian’s kept in touch with Mandy a little, but she doesn’t mention Mickey. Sure as fuck never mentioned he was out. But Ian also knows that he’d made it clear – loudly, vehemently – that he didn’t want to hear about, talk about, or know anything about Mickey anymore. He’d moved on. Apparently some people had believed him.
“How’s Mandy?” Mickey starts and looks up at him. Ian wonders if Mickey knows that they talk. “You were thinking about her.”
“Yeah. She’s in New York. Got away from Kenyatta. Sounds good, you know? Not like she’s plotting her own death.” Mickey starts eating and Ian does the same. They work their way through their burgers and Ian finishes his fries, licking salt from his fingers.
“I’ve been taking my meds. I volunteered at the fire station, got my GED. Got an associates degree in fire science and managed to get hired. It’s hard work, but I like it.”
“It suits you. Even better than the Army. You’ve got a talent for saving people.” The sentence is loaded, and Ian swallows hard. He can’t quite meet Mickey’s eyes. Doesn’t think he can handle the weight of all that blue. “Plus you already had the skills. Honed ‘em at a young age keeping Carl from setting shit on fire.”
“Arson as public service. Carl would be thoroughly offended.” Ian laughs, nodding all the while. “It does suit me. I never even considered it. Thought about it. But I pulled a lady out of a burning care and it felt...there was a purpose. I was there at that moment because I was supposed to be.” His voice gets rough, thick. “I was tired of not having anything. Something to work for. A goal. A dream. I’d always had one, and I was lost. Maybe having one would help with everything else, you know?”
“Did it?”
Ian nods and reaches across the table to steal one of Mickey’s fries. “It did.”
“Good. I’m glad.” He sounds it, and something settles in Ian’s stomach. He thinks it might be the pride in Mickey’s voice. Ian’s not used to having someone believe in him. “Plus, you know, hot firefighters.”
“Definitely no down side to that.”
“Have you posed for a calendar yet?”
“Fuck off.” Ian laughs again and leans back in his chair. “No.”
“Come on. Pants and suspenders, bare-chested. Holding...like a fucking bunny or something. Black and white and arty. Probably wet from the hose. You. Not the bunny.”
“Are you confessing something here, Mickey?” His name slips out, and Ian can’t remember the last time he said Mickey’s name out loud. “You’ve got a firefighter fantasy, huh? Or is it a bunny fetish?” He widens his eyes and gasps dramatically. “Is that why you wanted me to get you that pair of bunny slippers?”
Mickey throws a fry at him. “You’re such a dick.”
Ian grins and picks up the fry and takes a bit. He watches Mickey as he chews. He can see lines around his mouth and eyes. See something different in Mickey’s eyes. Ian wonders what Mickey’s seeing. “I didn’t ask what your job is.”
“Nothing big. Can’t get much with these.” Mickey looks at his knuckles. “Janitor at a hospital. Pay sucks, but I manage the rent every month.”
“Wow. Taxes and rent?”
“Yes, asshole.” Mickey kicks Ian’s shin lightly. Ian wonders if they could do this. If they could pretend the past hadn’t happened and just be friends. Friends like Ian and Lip used to be. Friends like he and Mickey were when they weren’t fucking. “I have a room at some rundown POS that’s fucking prime insurance money fraud. Owners could make some bank with all the gentrification going on.”
“Yeah. We lost our house.”
“Ours got condemned and torn down. Good thing we’re a family of thieves. Iggy and Colin managed to actually get some shit out.” Mickey leans back and takes another drink from his Coke. “Nobody’s mourning losing it. Probably should have burnt it down and salted the earth.
“Is Terry still in prison?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. I did my time once, and it was enough. Decided I wasn’t going to be him. I wasn’t going to be the person I was when I went in. The person that got me in there in the first place. That’s not who I want to be.”
“Is that what this is about?” Ian tries to keep his voice neutral. He never thought about being some sort of litmus test for Mickey, something to get over and get past to find a better life. “Seeing if you’re still that person? Making sure you’re not? See if the South Side still has its grip on you?”
“I wanted to see how you were, Ian. Make sure the camera didn’t lie. I wanted to see that you’re okay. Happy.”
“I am.” He says it in a rush and swallows back the burn that comes with the threat of pity.
“I’m glad.” Mickey finishes his soda and signals for the check. Ian didn’t want to be here, but now that it’s coming to an end, he’s not sure that he wants to leave. “I guess I did want to say one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re clear.”
“Clear?”
“Yeah. Slate wiped clean. Even. You and me. I don’t blame you for anything, and I hope you’re happy.” He pays the bill and smiles. It hits Ian how good Mickey looks when the weight of his past and his reputation aren’t hanging on his shoulders. “You deserve that.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Mickey nods. “That I am sure of.”
The waitress brings back Mickey’s change and he leaves a tip on the table. Ian’s frowning, trying to process everything they’ve said, everything he’s seen. He’s not sure why he feels so lost all of a sudden. Maybe Mickey’s always been someone he measured himself against, and now he’s not sure how he stands up. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t think he deserves the reprieve Mickey’s giving him. He nods at the tattoo on Mickey’s wrist, a series of black lines. “What does it mean?”
Mickey rubs his thumb over the lines. “A reminder. Twenty-five months I lost. That I can’t get back. I stole them from myself, and now I’m making up for lost time.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Mickey laughs, and it’s dry and rough. Ian gets the impression Mickey has no idea how he sounds. “No. Maybe I’ll find someone I like enough to put up with someday. Take another chance.”
“Since the first time turned out so great.”
Mickey looks at him, hard and intense. Mickey always did see too much. He stands up and walks toward the door. He stops next to Ian and touches his shoulder, leaning down slightly. “You got me to a place where I could let prison change me. You helped me be better, be me. I don’t regret it, Ian. I wouldn’t change it.”
“Really?” Ian turns his head and he can feel Mickey’s breath. “Nothing?”
“Well. It would have been nice if you’d loved me.” Ian doesn’t flinch, but it takes all of his control. “Harder too.”Mickey taps his chest. “Tough lesson to learn.”
The words hurt. Ian didn’t give Mickey a reason to think he loved him, not in the end. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t. Doesn’t. “You have to regret that though.”
Mickey follows Ian’s gaze down to his chest. Ian gets a flash of infected red skin, more pain he managed to inflict. “That’s the moment I realized how you felt. Didn’t feel.” Mickey glances down then shrugs. “I wouldn’t take it back. But I did get rid of it.”
It’s pure selfishness that pushes the words out, a need to hurt because he’s hurting. Mickey always made him feel, and Ian’s tried hard not to do that for a long time now. Feeling is hard. Feeling hurts. Words like weapons work on the South Side too. “Like I got rid of you.”
“No.” Mickey sighs and he looks tired. He meets Ian’s eyes for a second, and Ian watches a cascade of emotions. Mickey’s eyes always gave so much away. “No. It hurt when I got rid of the tattoo.”
Mickey walks out and Ian sits there, the blood in his ears drowning out the sounds of the cafe. He’s not sure how long he sits there, but when he gets up and runs out to the sidewalk, Mickey’s at the end of the block. “Hey! Mickey!”
Mickey turns and looks back at Ian. Ian’s not sure what to say now that he’s got his attention. His brain didn’t have a plan, and his instincts don’t respond the same to emotional fires like they do to physical ones. Mickey walks back and stands in front of Ian. “Yeah?”
Ian nods and shrugs all at once. “I hope you’re happy too.”
“You think that’s allowed? Both of us being happy at the same time?”
“We were once.” It’s a chance, saying it. A chance that Mickey will understand everything Ian means, even if he can’t say it. Everyone was always wrong about the two of them. Mickey was the one who could be open with his emotions, was the one who would actually say the words. Ian never could quite manage it. “Stranger things have happened.”