Reckless Harmony

Beeps and Bottles

Beep after beep...

Each unanswered call adds to Ian's unease, the incessant sound of his phone's notifications blending with the background noise of the Gallagher household.

Lip saunters into the room, spotting Ian's furrowed brow. "Sup?"

Ian shrugs, not tearing his eyes from his phone. "It's nothing, just... Can't reach Mickey."

Sliding onto the bed beside Ian, Lip shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, you have been kinda inseparable for the last few days, maybe he just needs some space."

Ian shoots him a skeptical look. "Since when does he need space?"

Lip shrugs again, unfazed. He stands up from the bed and changes the subject. "Alright, let's go help out in the kitchen."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be down in a sec."

Lip heads for the door but turns around with a shit-eating smirk on his face. "Don't jerk off in here, alright?"

Ian grins and throws a pillow at his brother, just missing him as he slinks out of the room. Ian looks down at his phone again to type.

You there?

Downstairs, the Gallagher kitchen is as lively as it ever is. Fiona and V are deep in conversation near the stove, while Carl and Debbie bicker back and forth as they move about the house. Frank sits at the table, rambling about stuff to Kev, who nods along with half-interest.

The evening passes with its usual KFC dinner, beer bottles scattered around the place, joints, and singing, and dancing in the living room to the blaring music. And it ends with Ian, very sleepy, no worries nagging at him as he drifts off.

***

Bottle after bottle, this isn't good.

Fucking fuck.

Mickey runs a hand through his hair as he takes another swig of his beer. He'd been trying to drown everything out the past hours. He's lost track of time as he looks around the empty, cold warehouse. Anger and worry lie in the pit of his belly like a fireball, only growing, fueling the fire with the alcohol he's pouring down his throat.

Fuck, his Dad's going to fucking kill him. He won't go fucking easy.

The fireball blazes a little, going out to his limbs. They move on their own as he throws the bottle hard to the metal wall, resulting in a loud splattering sound. The pieces land on the gravel and the beer that's left runs out on the ground, pooling in the curved glass bits. With a frustrated growl, Mickey rakes his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands as if trying to physically pull himself out of this mess. But there's no escaping it, no easy way out. Terry's wrath hangs over him like a dark cloud, suffocating him with its intensity.

As he reaches for another bottle, his hand hesitates mid-air. He knows he should stop, knows he's only making things worse for himself. But the alcohol offers a temporary respite from the turmoil raging inside him, a fleeting moment of numbness amidst the chaos.

With a defeated sigh, Mickey collapses onto the couch, fucking exhausted. Tiredness tugs at his eyelids. And with one last sigh, he lets unconsciousness take over.