without you | gallavich

Ch. 2

'It's been four days, Gallagher. When the fuck are you waking up? I can't handle them constantly on my back. Your annoying family thinks that just because I was in the car with you, I am acceptable company until you're awake. Fucking Lip hasn't left my room unless it's to go to bed, go check on you, or get food. Odd, right? Lip keeps interrogating me what happened but I don't fucking know. Once second, you're laughing and the next you're reaching out for me with bloody fingers. I don't remember much but you were hurt. I saw that. Goddamn, Gallagher, just wake up.
Please, Ian.'
- Mick

Mikey threw his pen on the ground, his chest tightening at the thought of Ian never waking up. His body was still drugged from the consistent painkillers they kept pumping into his system but none of them cured the feeling of vacancy he felt in his chest. It has been four days since he woke up and found out Ian was in critical condition; hopes were higher now but the redhead was still in a coma.

"I got you coffee," Lip gruffed, his hands wrapped around two large coffee cups - one with an M on the side and another with a hand protectively over the lid. Mickey gave a curt nod of approval and thanks, reaching out with a shaking hand to grab the cup out of Lip's hands before taking a small sip. He has never liked the taste of coffee, but it was something that could help him focus on something else. After all, the hospital didn't allow cosumable alcohol to be on the premises.

'Did u seriously spike ur coffee with whiskey?'

Mickey's angry scribbles caught a smirking Lip's eye and the dark haired boy knew the answer just by the shrug that Lip gave him. He rolled his eyes before leaning backwards into his mound of pillows, reaching his hand out to rest on the table in front of him. On the television screen above him, a crappy discovery channel show was talking about red wolves but Mickey couldn't find himself to focus on it. The red made him think of all the times he's run his hands through Ian's thick hair, fingers caught in the tangles or fingers ruffling it into tangles.

"He'll be okay," Lip spoke, his voice gentler than Mickey has ever recalled it being. He turned to look at the boy, his eyes half closed as he scribbles on the piece of paper.

'Have you seen him?'

Lip had seen his brother from the outside of his dreary hospital room. The redhead was barely recognizable and it made Lip's stomach drop. Snapping out of his slowly sinking dream state, Lip looked up to meet expectingly impatient blue eyes before slowly nodding. His stomach twisted at the sound of Mickey scribbling furiously onto his scrap paper and before he could even formulate a protest, a piece of paper was shoved into his face.

'Take me to see him.'

___________________

Ian Gallagher was not dead, obviously, but he looked as if he could blend in with the zombies of a zombie apocalypse by his current state. His skin was grey and littered with endless galaxies of black and blue, leaving rare patches for his true skin colour to peek through. From what was visible from the outside, Ian's arms mirrored Mickey's arms and back; thick with bandages that seemed to have small pools of red form in bits and pieces. His left arm, on top of the bandagimg, also had a thick cast on it. His entire body was still and Mickey couldn't find any source of his Ian this shell.

"Doctors said he took a lot of damage," Lip explained as he tightened his grip on Mickey's wheelchair. "When he covered you, he kind of took the blunt hit of the speeding truck, shattering his arm and shoulder. Glass caused for a lot of stitches, kind of like your arms." Mickey looked down at his arm, bandaged down to his palms and felt a pang of panic at the overwhelming memory of the car accident.

The blood. All the blood, smeared from one end to the next with Ian's entire body drenched. He couldn't concentrate on himself but his boyfriend's marble white skin was red and brown from blood and dirt. The only white was the flicker of light from car headlights off the pierced glass in his skin. The surroundings felt tight and suffocating but Mickey couldn't move. All he could see, hear or feel was Ian who was hurting and he couldn't move to help.

"Mickey?" Lip interjected, his voice cutting through Mickey's thoughts violently. The black haired boy snapped back into reality, tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes but he attempted to blink them away. He raised a hand, spinning it slightly as a signal for Lip to continue on with his explanation and the younger boy couldn't help but to sigh quietly. He wasn't a big fan of this 'Southside thug' but if it'd make his brother happy, he was willing to hang out with him and make sure he's okay.

"They said something was wrong with his chest and head but I couldn't stand being in there.. I'll get Fi to tell me exactly what happened and I'll inform you, kay?" Mickey nodded, the burning tears finally beginning to slip down his face. He brought shaky palms to his eyes, rubbing them away as if they'd stop just spilling but he just couldn't contain it. Leaning to rest his arms on his knees and with his hands pressed against his eyes, Mickey felt his heart break. Knowing that Ian was hurt and then seeing it caused two different emotional waves. Seeing it made it real. He could very easily just wake up the next day and find out that Ian was gone; the car crash had done too much damage on his body and he wasn't able to handle the strain. He could lose the boy who could him smile at any moment, the boy who could bend him at his will, the boy who actually taught him loving someone is okay. He isn't ready to lose Ian.

"I'll take you back to your room, man." Lip's voice sounded gentle, as if the slightest noise would startle Mickey into a violent outbreak or a full mental breakdown. It was clear as day to anyone that witnessed the small situation; Mikhailo Milkovich was completely and utterly in love with Ian Gallagher.

___________________

'Fuck, man, you know I'm not good at this shit. The emotional bullshit. The hospital is making me see a therapist because apparently I'm some pussy that needs 'guidance during this difficult time'. What-the-fuck-ever. This rich bitch told me to write you letters because it'd help me cope with not being able to speak to you and it could let out some fucking.. I don't fucking know. It's supposed to be filled with faggot-y shit.
So here goes:

Ian..
Seeing you today fucking hurt. It really fucking hurt - I couldn't feel my body until a painful feeling hit my throat and my face and my chest and it just made everything hurt. I felt like I couldn't breathe and I couldn't see because all I saw was you. You, in the bed with your mask and your still body but it fucking wasn't you. You're probably dancing around in your fucking dreamworld, listening to shitty music and smoking high quality weed. I don't fucking know. Just wake up. Wake the fuck up.
I can't deal with you being gone for so long, especially knowing it's my fault.
- Mickey