Send my muse lies about people they care for.

          “Riot? What— what fuckin’ RIOT, the fuck’re you talkin’ about?” Panic clearly spread through the Milkovich like an instantaneous disease; snaking through his veins and filling him with a confusion that overshadowed everything else he could be feeling. Anger, sadness, all upstaged by the mass confusion consuming him and sending him into panic mode; a train without a conductor, threatening to run off the tracks.

     It wasn’t much, but he’d grown to be tolerant of the kid, maybe even a little bit fond. Which was saying something. He’d more or less unwillingly become the worst possible influence on Mutt, having been forced to withstand him until he got used to it and suddenly he wasn’t all that bad anymore. Still annoying, but not so bad. 

     This news had left him dumbstruck. A riot? Why the HELL was Mutt in the middle of a riot and why hadn’t the Milkoviches been even somewhat aware that something of this nature had taken place? It practically had their family’s involvement written all over it. 

     Mickey raised his hand to his mouth, wiping away some nonexistent grime from the corners of his lips and heaving a burdened breath as he eyes wandered, the blue portals to the gears turning frantically inside of his head. He should have been there. Should have protected the kid. He can’t help but feel some sort of responsibility. Some sort of fear for his well being. And undeniably, a duty to get revenge on the shithead responsible. After all, he’d made the mistake of feeding the lost puppy that showed up at his doorstep. Well, more like the lost puppy broke into his house and helped himself. But regardless, he’d become somewhat responsible. Especially in a shitty neighborhood like this. A kid like that on his own wasn’t gonna make it without someone watching over him. And he as good as adopted Mickey into that position, whether he liked it or not.

                       Send my muse lies about people they care for.

     Mickey’s stare flicked upwards, unimpressed and temporarily unfazed at such a bold statement, though it was clear they had struck a nerve; he felt challenged. Defensive, almost. As if he needed to prove somehow that that wasn’t the truth while at the same time pretending as though it didn’t bother him.

     “Yeah? And how the fuck would you know that, huh?” Though there was no doubting the slightest trace of concern, worry of the validity of the remark in the back of his head. Ian wasn’t well — he knew that now, though his denial still lingered. That was always something Mickey Milkovich was very good at: denial. And once he’d beat it in regards to one issue, it found a way to spring up and control him once more in another. Like something you’d read about in a Greek myth. Cut off one head and two more would sprout. But denying what was happening with him now was a stretch, even for someone as skilled in the trade of denying as Mickey. Their house was currently stacked to the roof full of stolen luggage. Organized chaos. And a scatterbrained redhead who was coming off the rails completely. It scared the hell out of him, though he tried not to show it right now.

     There was one thing he couldn’t deny, however. And that was the itch in the back of his mind. The toxic itch that was a dormant seed waiting to be watered. To sprout into something that would give him reason to worry. To suspect. The mere possibility alone that was growing the more and more he thought about it: could Ian really be cheating on him? And if he was, how the hell was he supposed to feel about that? 

     [ text;Ian  @ 12:14PM ] beats the shit out of me 

     [ text;Ian  @ 12:15PM ] i think that was the last piece of cheese too

     [ Wayne's World Sentence Starters ]

   “I mean, it probably would — not to collapse in on your     theory or anything — but if the frog was still hopping, the      presence of wings would be pretty pointless unless it     actually wanted to fly somewhere. Evolution is a bitch.      Keepin’ our frogs on the ground, how dare it. If man can      walk on the moon, surely frogs can — grow a pair of wings     and not use them.”

          “Putty, eh?”

     Mikey takes a moment to deliberate     internally in which his face screws up     in the process, concentration filling his      inner eye.

          “What kind of putty are we talkin’           about here, the blue kind, pink, purple…          be specific. It’s veeerry important that          you be specific.”