Chapter Text
Ian woke up to a gray, freezing morning—the kind that crawls under your skin during a Chicago winter. The sky looked like it had given up before the day even started.
Slowly, Ian untangled himself from a fortress of blankets and pillows and dragged himself upright. It was seven in the morning, but it was still pitch dark outside, which he hated. Chicago winters always did that—made the world feel like the sun had decided not to show up at all.
He yawned, stretched, and shuffled out of bed.
Brush teeth. Shower. Get dressed. Same routine.
Before leaving, he made himself a cup of coffee and stepped out onto his covered balcony. The roof kept the snow off, which made winter mornings slightly less miserable. He lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing, watching the city breathe.
The North Side of Chicago was nice.
Not the kind of nice he grew up with. Even after living here a few years, it still felt a little unreal sometimes. But he had to admit it was good. Stable. Quiet.
At least nobody was shooting at night.
What Ian liked most about the North Side was the nightlife. The bars, the parties, the drugs, the alcohol. All the things his therapist said he should probably stay the hell away from.
But Ian liked the danger. It made him feel alive.
He also liked that this part of Chicago never really slept. There was always noise—car horns stuck in traffic, music drifting from someone’s apartment down the block, people shouting somewhere on the street.
Ian hated silence.
Silence meant thinking.
And here there was always enough noise to keep his brain from wandering into places it shouldn’t.
He took a sip of his coffee. Black. Bitter.
He’d forgotten to buy milk again, but honestly he preferred it this way. His psychiatrist told him he needed to drink or eat something before taking his meds.
Right.
The meds.
“Shit,” Ian muttered.
He almost forgot.
He grabbed the yellow prescription bottle from the counter. The pharmacy label practically screamed lithium in bold letters.
He hated that stuff.
Sure, it kept him from losing his mind. But it was a full-time responsibility—drink tons of water, constant blood tests, watching your salt levels like you were some kind of science experiment. According to his doctor he’d probably end up forty years old, overweight, with thyroid problems and a bunch of other bullshit.
And half the time it made him feel like a walking corpse. Still better than the alternative.
He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and checked his phone.
7:40 AM.
Shit. He had to go.
Ian left the half-finished coffee on the table, pulled on a beanie and scarf, and stepped outside.
The cold hit him like knives.
He walked through frozen Chicago streets while the sun struggled to crawl up behind rows of buildings. Halfway down the block, it hit him what day it was.
“Oh fuck.”
He pulled out his phone and quickly called Mandy.
It rang a few times before she answered, probably half asleep.
“Alright,” Ian said immediately, “remind me—whose birthday is today?”
He could already hear the smile in his own voice.
On the other end Mandy laughed.
“Mine, dumbass.”
“Yeah, yours! What’s it feel like being twenty-two?”
“Same as always,” she yawned. “Just older.”
Ian heard noise in the background—voices, airport announcements echoing through a big space.
“Where the hell are you this early?” he asked, laughing.
“The airport. You forget? I’m flying to Chicago to spend my birthday with my idiot brothers and some friends.”
Ian felt something twist inside his chest.
“Ah, shit. I forgot you were coming today. I’m fucking excited. I miss you.”
“Miss you too. You’re coming tonight, right?”
Ian scoffed.
“You kidding? Of course I am.”
There was a pause.
“Yeah… it’ll be fun,” Mandy said. “My friends are coming, some girls… my brothers…”
She let the last word hang there.
“Right,” Ian replied carefully.
“My brothers, Ian,” Mandy added bluntly. “Including Mickey. That cool with you?”
Ian suddenly felt like someone had wrapped a wire around his lungs.
He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal.
“Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn’t it be? We broke up like five years ago.”
“Okay, but promise me you two won’t start fighting or throwing knives in the middle of my birthday like when I turned seventeen.”
Ian forced a laugh.
“Relax. None of that’s happening. If he’s cool with me being there, I’m cool with him.”
Mandy sighed.
“Yeah, he said it’s fine. Just don’t expect him to be mature. Mickey’ll probably act like an asshole all night.”
“Well,” Ian said, “I grew up. Don’t worry. Today’s about you.”
He could practically hear Mandy smiling.
“Alright, I gotta go. My flight’s boarding.”
“Safe trip. Love you.”
“Love you more.”
The call ended.
Ian stood in the middle of the sidewalk while his thoughts slammed into each other like a train with no brakes.
Why the hell was he so nervous?
They broke up years ago. They were teenagers. What they had was messy and dangerous and intense and probably doomed from the beginning.
Right?
The last time he saw Mickey was before he ran off to Mexico.
After that, nothing. For a whole year.
Weirdly, that year had been the most stable one in Ian’s life. Also the most boring.
He was dating Trevor. Nice guy. Sweet. Normal. Ian took his meds, went to therapy, worked as an EMT, had a normal boyfriend and a normal job and a normal life.
Thrilling.
Then one night at The Alibi Room, the TV over the bar announced that one of Chicago’s most wanted criminals had finally turned himself in after a year on the run.
Of course it was Mickey Milkovich.
Ian remembered the feeling like someone had punched him straight in the stomach. Kev gave him a sympathetic look, slapped him on the back, and poured him three vodka shots without asking.
Ian drank them.
Then he went to Trevor’s apartment and broke up with him that same night.
Just like that.
Time passed. Mickey served his sentence and got out.
Neither of them called.
Like the invisible thread that had always dragged them back together had finally snapped.
Ian knew that was probably for the best.
Even if he still thought about him all the time.
Even if part of him still wanted nothing more than to see him again. They destroyed each other. That’s what they did.
So yeah. Best thing.
Ian hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since. Sure, he hooked up with guys from apps or bars. Sometimes he dated someone for a few months. But eventually he got bored, ended things, and the cycle repeated.
He told himself it wasn’t because of Mickey.
Maybe he’d just used up all his brain’s supply of love chemicals on one chaotic South Side psychopath.
Still, it was kind of pathetic that he’d never really mourned a love that died years ago.
And now Mandy had decided to celebrate her birthday back on the South Side with family and old friends.
Meaning tonight Ian Gallagher was going to see Mickey Milkovich again.
The anxiety was eating him alive.
Later that evening, after work, Ian drove south.
The trip from the North Side down to the South Side took almost an hour, and the further he went the more familiar everything started to look. The shiny condos and quiet tree-lined streets slowly turned into old brick buildings, corner liquor stores with metal bars on the windows, and graffiti-covered walls that looked exactly the same as they had ten years ago.
He passed under the rumbling tracks of the Chicago ‘L’, the train screeching overhead as it rolled along the Red Line toward the South Side. The sound echoed between the buildings the way it always had when he was a kid.
The streets looked straight out of muscle memory—79th, Halsted, Ashland—old liquor stores, half-broken streetlights, the same cracked sidewalks where he and Lip used to run around like idiots.
But most of the people who mattered were gone.
Lip, Carl, Debbie, Liam, Fiona.
Kev and V had moved away too.
The Gallagher house had been sold. The Alibi was gone.
There was nothing left for Ian here anymore.
Nothing except ghosts.
And if there was one place on the South Side that was definitely haunted, it was the Milkovich house.
By the time Ian arrived, the place was glowing with lights. Music blasted through open windows, and people filled the street, the porch, and the yard. Half the neighborhood seemed to have crashed the party. People were smoking weed, dancing, yelling over the music like it was the middle of summer instead of a freezing Chicago night.
Mandy had told him it would be a small gathering.
Ian should’ve remembered what “small” meant for a Milkovich.
He parked the car, stepped out into the cold, and lit a cigarette while walking toward the house. The bass from the speakers vibrated through the walls, and laughter spilled out into the street.
Inside, the house looked different—cleaner, renovated. Apparently Mandy and her brothers had made some changes after Terry Milkovich died.
But the atmosphere was the same.
Loud music, a table overflowing with cheap alcohol, food, and enough drugs to knock out half the South Side.
Ian started scanning the crowd for Mandy.
And somewhere in that crowded, chaotic house, he knew eventually he was going to see him.
Ian finally spotted Mandy across the crowded living room. She was jumping up and down, waving both arms like she was trying to flag down a plane. The second she saw him looking, she pushed through the crowd and ran straight toward him.
“You actually came!” she shouted over the music, throwing her arms around him.
Ian laughed, hugging her back. “Of course I came. I missed you.”
“Yeah, yeah, shut up,” Mandy said, grinning. She smelled like vodka and cheap perfume. Definitely already drunk.
“Oh—here.” She shoved a plastic cup into his hand. The liquid inside was clear, which meant it was either water or something significantly more dangerous.
Ian looked at it suspiciously. “There’s not a roofie in this, right?”
“Relax,” Mandy said, rolling her eyes. “It’s just vodka. If you want a roofie, I know a guy.”
Ian laughed.
He glanced away from her for a second—
And froze.
Across the room, standing near the kitchen doorway, was Mickey Milkovich.
Ian recognized him instantly.
Mickey wasn’t looking at him yet. He was talking to Iggy, leaning against the counter with that same lazy posture Ian remembered too well. His hair was longer now, brushing the tops of his ears, slightly messy like he’d cut it himself with kitchen scissors.
Ian felt something inside his chest tighten.
Then Iggy looked up.
Of course he did.
His eyes landed on Ian immediately, and a wide grin spread across his face. He elbowed Mickey and pointed across the room.
Mickey turned.
For one second, his face went completely blank.
His mouth opened slightly like he’d been caught off guard, then he shut it just as quickly. Without saying anything, he grabbed his plastic cup, downed whatever was in it, and headed straight for the back door, disappearing toward the backyard.
Ian blinked.
Mandy nudged him with her elbow.
“Yo. You alive?”
“Yeah,” Ian said slowly. “I think I’m gonna go talk to him.”
“Not yet,” Mandy said quickly, grabbing his arm. “Come meet some friends first.”
Ian sighed quietly.
It’s her day. Not yours.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Mandy smiled, kissed his cheek, and dragged him through the crowd.
The night stretched out in a strangely cruel way. Every time Ian thought he had a chance to slip outside and talk to Mickey, someone stopped him. Another drink. Another conversation. Another friend Mandy insisted he had to meet.
Talking to people wasn’t hard for Ian. He was good at parties—easy to talk to, easy to laugh, good at blending in.
But this was probably the only party he’d ever been to where he secretly wanted it to end as soon as possible.
Still, he drank. Smoked. Talked. At some point he realized he was actually having a decent time.
The Milkoviches knew how to throw a party.
Around two in the morning, Mandy suddenly decided it was the perfect moment to blow out her birthday candles. Someone dragged a cake onto the table while people gathered around singing a sloppy, drunken version of “Happy Birthday.”
Almost magically, Mickey appeared beside Mandy just in time to stand next to her while she blew out the candles.
Ian watched from the other side of the room.
Mickey didn’t look at him.
As soon as the singing ended and people started cheering again, Mandy hugged a few people and then disappeared upstairs with a group of friends who had apparently decided to go find another party on the North Side.
The birthday girl vanished and the party somehow kept going anyway.
But Mickey was gone.
Ian checked the backyard, figuring he’d gone out there to smoke.
Nobody.
“Fuck,” Ian muttered.
He’d left.
Ian walked out of the Milkovich house without really thinking about where he was going. He was disappointed. Annoyed. Maybe even a little hurt.
He hadn’t expected some kind of dramatic closure with Mickey. But he also hadn’t expected the asshole to run away the second he saw him.
Ian lit another cigarette and started walking.
No destination.
After a few blocks, he realized where his feet had taken him.
The old high school field.
The bleachers were exactly the same. Pale stadium lights glowing over empty grass while the sprinklers ticked quietly in the distance. The smell of wet grass and cold night air filled the empty field.
Ian sat down on the grass and took a long breath.
Then a voice came from the darkness.
“You followin’ me now, Gallagher?”
Ian’s stomach dropped.
He turned.
Mickey was sitting a few yards away beneath the bleachers, leaning back against the concrete wall. A lit joint glowed between his fingers as smoke drifted lazily out of his mouth.
They stared at each other for a few seconds.
Ian felt strangely nervous, which was ridiculous considering how many times they’d sat in this exact spot years ago.
Finally he spoke.
“Hey, Mick.”
“Gallagher,” Mickey replied flatly.
Ian stood and walked closer.
“Mind if I sit here?”
Mickey didn’t answer.
Ian took that as permission and sat down next to him anyway.
Mickey took another drag from the joint and coughed a little.
“Shit,” he muttered, laughing under his breath. He held the joint out toward Ian. “Here.”
Ian took it, inhaling slowly.
“Tonight was weird,” Mickey said after a moment.
“Yeah,” Ian replied quietly.
They sat there in silence for a few seconds. The fact that they had both somehow ended up in the exact same place felt almost stupid.
Like muscle memory.
Ian cleared his throat.
“So… uh. What’s new?”
Mickey took a moment before answering, clearly thinking about what he wanted to say. He looked different up close. Older, obviously. His hair was longer, falling around his ears in a messy way that somehow suited him.
His face looked paler in the dim light. His blue eyes were slightly dilated from the weed.
He was wearing a big hoodie that was definitely too large for him, probably something he stole from one of his brothers.
Ian’s gaze drifted down—from Mickey’s worn sneakers to his hands, the familiar tattoo still there, then back up to his face.
For a moment his eyes lingered on Mickey’s lips as he inhaled another drag.
When Mickey finally started talking, Ian quickly looked away.
“Eh. Nothin’ huge,” Mickey said with a shrug. “Got outta prison. Been living a few blocks from here.”
“You’re not living in the old house?”
“Fuck no,” Mickey snorted. “Only ones still there are my brothers. They got outta prison and decided they’re too lazy to get jobs, so they just keep cashin’ Terry’s checks.”
He paused.
“When I got out, the state gave me some bullshit job program thing. Met a guy who knew a guy who owed my family money. Dude got so scared when he realized who I was he offered me a better job waitin’ tables at some fancy place. So now I serve drinks to rich assholes all day.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “Rich assholes?”
“Yeah,” Mickey said. “Fucking North Siders and all that bullshit.”
Ian laughed.
“You wanna hear something funny?”
Mickey glanced at him.
“I’m a North Sider now.”
Mickey frowned. “What?”
“I live there.”
“How the hell did you pull that off?”
“I’ve got a steady job as an EMT. Pays decent.”
Mickey scoffed.
“‘EMT’ and ‘decent pay’ don’t belong in the same sentence. Pretty sure those are opposites.”
Ian laughed.
“I’m surprised you know that word.”
Mickey smirked.
“Yeah well. Weed makes me smarter.”
They both laughed for a moment.
Ian took another drag from the joint—definitely unnecessary considering how much he’d already smoked.
Mickey reached over, took it back, and stubbed it out.
“Relax, man.”
“Hard to relax.”
“Oh yeah?” Mickey said, not looking at him. “Why’s that?”
Ian answered without thinking.
“Well, you’re here.”
Mickey tilted his head slightly.
“And?”
Ian shrugged.
“Hell if I know. It’s just weird.”
Mickey let out a short laugh but didn’t say anything else. His foot started tapping against the ground, restless, before he pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
His face looked calm.
But his hands were shaking slightly.
Ian pretended not to notice.
“What about you?” Mickey asked after a moment, staring out at the empty field instead of at Ian.
Ian thought about it for a second. The truth was that his life had been pretty simple lately—work, occasional family visits, going out, sleeping with random guys.
He decided to skip the last part.
“I don’t know,” Ian said carefully. “Just focusing on myself, I guess.”
Mickey frowned.
“Working. Therapy. Eating healthy. Having friends. All that shit.”
Mickey nodded slowly.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “glad you found your bliss, Gallagher.”
Something about the way he said it made Ian’s chest tighten.
Mickey used to ask questions. Push for answers. Dig until he understood what Ian was really feeling. Now he just let it go.
Maybe he didn’t care anymore.
Ian suddenly felt the stupid urge to cry.
So much had changed.
Yet sitting here together felt exactly the same.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Ian said quietly.
Mickey let out a short, irritated laugh.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some stranger.”
Mickey scoffed.
“How the hell do you want me to talk to you?”
“I don’t know,” Ian said, trying not to sound desperate. “Say something real. Like you used to.”
“‘Something real’?” Mickey repeated with a mocking laugh. “Jesus, you’re high.”
“I’m serious.”
Mickey looked at him then, irritation flashing across his face.
“Alright. Here’s something real: go fuck yourself. You don’t get to tell me how to talk to you after not sayin’ a word to me for five fucking years.”
Ian laughed.
Which only made Mickey look more annoyed.
“What’s so fucking funny?”
“Thanks,” Ian said, still laughing. “You insulting me sounds way more real than whatever that polite bullshit was earlier.”
For a moment Mickey just stared at him.
Then suddenly he stood up.
“Sun’s gonna be up soon,” he muttered. “I should head home.”
Ian sighed but nodded, standing as well.
“Yeah. Me too.”
They stood there awkwardly for a few seconds.
Then Mickey rubbed the back of his neck.
“Hey… if you ever need anything—”
“Sure, Mick,” Ian interrupted.
Mickey paused, studying him for a moment. There was something almost sad in his expression.
“Well… see you around.”
He turned and started walking away, lighting another cigarette as he went.
Ian watched him go.
And let him.
Because that was the smart thing to do.
“Mick?” Ian called suddenly.
Or maybe not.
Mickey turned back.
Ian walked quickly toward him until they were standing only a few inches apart.
Mickey didn’t step back.
For a moment Ian opened his mouth like he was about to say something.
Then he hesitated.
“You want me to walk you home?”
Mickey stared at him for a few seconds, clearly debating something.
He shrugged.
“Sure, man.”
They walked the few blocks to Mickey’s place mostly in silence. The apartment building was surprisingly decent—clean brick, decent lights, not the kind of place Ian expected Mickey Milkovich to live.
“Well,” Mickey said, stopping at the entrance, “this is it.”
“It’s nice,” Ian said.
Mickey shrugged. “It’s something.”
They stood there in the freezing early morning air, tension thick enough to feel physical.
Ian exhaled slowly, figuring the smart thing was probably to just leave.
This might be the last time they saw each other for years. Maybe until Mandy’s next birthday. Maybe until Ian randomly got an invitation to Mickey’s wedding someday.
Though honestly, Mickey getting married sounded like the least likely thing in the universe.
Ian opened his mouth to say goodbye—
Then Mickey spoke first.
“You comin’ in or what?”