āI didnāt say that.ā His voice broke and he could no longer hide it. Not even with the forced cough that was supposed to clear his throat - his voice was breaking and tears were stinging against his eyes. But Mickey Milkovich was not about to cry, not over anything and especially not over Ian.Ā āWe would stay until the laws stop trying to find me - until they give up.ā His voice is barely a whisper. He knows its a far stretch, that the cops may never stop looking for him but FUCK, it was worth a shot at believing they would. Heās growing angry, how could Ian put the blame on him for shit he couldnāt help?Ā āYou really think I wanted to knock her up? You REALLY fuckinā think i wanted a kid with her? Jesus, Ian. I never wanted a kid but if I had to choose -it sure as hell wouldnāt have been with some Russian skank.ā He didnāt even know what he was saying anymore, everything was hurting - everything was pissing him off. Why did Ian have to try and fuck things up? He could run away on his own but not with the one heās supposedly loved? His chest began to tighten, his fights balling at his sides - he wasnāt going to take a swing on Ian, but fuck he needed the anger to be let out. Tear away from him, anything.Ā āShut the fuck up.ā His eyes are growing, trailing off and on away from Ian. He wants to look at him but it hurts too much. EVERYTHING hurts too much and for once, FOR ONCE, Mickey is on the other end of this shitty fucking stick. Mickey took a step in, bravery flowing through his veins - he reached for Ianās hands and his eyes never once left the others face.Ā āThen the fuck are we waitinā on, Gallagher? The border is right over there. We can run and never look back and -ā He stopped, taking a deep breath, trying to put pride into his voice before he continued.Ā āAnd if you donāt like it, then you leave. You leave me and you forget where I am. You forget what we had. YOU FORGET WHO I AM.āĀ
Ā Ā Ā How difficult would it be to stop feeling so torn? Would it be more or less difficult if he let Mickey go? Would he miss his bothers and sisters, his job, his life more than heād miss Mickey by his side? Could love really conquer all and bring him to cross the borders and never look back? Was Micky worth Ianās freedom?
Ā Ā Ā Ā How he wished to know the answers to that.
Ā Ā Ā Ā ā They wonāt give up, Mickey,Ā ā his tone was defeated, more a sigh than a sentence.Ā ā You know that,Ā ā
Ā Ā Ā He knew he was blaming Mickey for things he shouldnāt blame him for. Coming out wasnāt easy for him, not with the father he had, not in the community Mickey grew up in. Yet, the anger was clouding his judgment, turning his tongue into a sharp sword, ready to prod, slice and cut. He stayed silent at the accusation because Mickey was right.
Ā Ā Ā Ā ā Or what? Youāll hit me?Ā ā Ian dared, taking a step closer to the other after witnessing his clenched fists. Oh, how he wanted Mickey to break his face and then fuck, forget what was weighing them down for at least a little while. Blood, sweat and violence. Mickeyās blood. Mickeyās sweat. Mickeyās violence.
Ā Ā Ā Hit me. Hit me. Hit me. Fix us. Hit me.
Ā Ā Ā Instead of a fist in his face, he felt Mickeyās warm, nervous hands wrapping his own in a calming nature. Fuck.Ā ā You know I canāt do that, Mickey. Donāt fucking blackmail me like this,Ā ā he growled but didnāt let go of Mickeyās hands as he spoke. When he did slip them out of his grasp, they moved to cup Mickeyās face, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.Ā ā Itās not possible to forget you. I tried. Trust me, I tried,Ā ā