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It’s a sunny Tuesday morning and Ian’s in the attic of the Gallagher house—his mission of organizing for Fiona forgotten when he finds the old shoe box he’d stashed up here nearly a year and a half ago.
Opening the top he sucked in a breath of the dusty air surrounding him. Pictures, letters he’d written but never gave and an old cell phone with its charger.
He bit his lip and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Contemplating. Did he really want to dig into this right now?
He sighed, twisting around, plugging the charger into an outlet and laid the phone down to charge.
Turning back to the box he rifled through some of the papers, he didn’t want to open them. Not yet. And grabbed the stack of Polaroids at the bottom. But one caught his eye the most.
The picture featured two figures. Himself, who looked so young, tired, fucking strung out. He was smiling at someone off camera. And the other figure…Mickey, who was looking at Ian looking, blue eyes shining and his teeth showing in a smile.
He looked…he looked in love. Like Ian hung the fucking moon. Like Ian wasn’t all over the goddamn place with a thousand different versions of himself pulling him in every direction.
“Shit,” he hissed, dropping the picture back in the box when he heard the sound of the phone coming back to life.
The glass of the screen was cracked, there was no passcode and Ian realized he hasn’t touched this phone since that day when he opened it and saw all of the notifications for unread messages and voicemails. More than half of them are from Mickey. He never listened to them. He couldn’t, not then.
Sitting here in the attic now he does. He reads all the texts. Listens to all the voicemails—frantic and desperate to figure out where Ian was. A tear drips onto the screen and Ian takes a deep shaking breath.
But then it's tear after tear after tear, streaming down and dripping from his chin.
How does he fix a fuck up this bad?
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