Warning: Major Character Death.
POV Mickey.
——
He's been home for six months now. It's the longest he's been home without getting a call but all good things come to an end or whatever the fuck.
He says this is his last tour and you believe him because he's never said those words to you before. Hearing them sends a relief through your body but at the same time you realize that he needs to leave once again in order to come to back.
And leaving hurts.
It hurts to watch him go.
It hurts to not be able to touch him for months, sometimes a year.
It hurts to fucking breathe.
But you tell yourself it's okay, this is the last time it'll hurt. You can deal with a little hurt if it means he'll be home forever.
So you chalk it up. You cry into his shoulder the night before and cling onto him with everything in you. He doesn't tease you and neither do you put a front up, he needs you, too. You watch him sleep because you don't know the next time you will. Maybe it's also because you just can't sleep, you think he might leave without waking you because he's got a soft spot for letting you sleep in.
The sun rises again, maybe it's just Ian.
You make his favorite breakfast; blueberry pancakes, crispy bacon and burning hot coffee. You even cut fruit the way he likes and pour a glass of OJ just in case he wants it instead. You want to take care of him for as long as you can.
You hope the broken look on your face is hidden but figure that's a long shot. He's trying to hold himself together just as much and even then you can see through him.
But no one brings it up.
You laugh at his stupid jokes. He kisses you every ten seconds and you always have a hand touching him. You let the tears sting behind your eyes all the same.
He's packed and ready to go, standing by the open door and the cab out front.
This is the hardest part. Letting him leave.
You don't hesitate or act tough, you stopped doing that long ago. Instead you hold him and hold him. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and hide yourself in his body, hoping you'll melt into him or he'll swallow you whole.
That doesn't happen.
"Eight months, Milkovich." He wraps his hands around your face and for the second time you want to hide inside him. You want to be in him, never away from him and just holding, holding, holding on.
You bite the inside of your cheek, you can feel the tears ready to spill over any moment.
Your foreheads fall together in time and then you're kissing. You feel every inch of him intertwine around you, wrapping around you like a weave and tightening. You want to suffocate in his touch and never have to live without it. You think he's read your mind, he feels the same because he's kissing you as if it's what's keeping him from falling apart and if that isn't the fucking truth, then what is?
"I love you. I fucking love you," he says. His voice so honest and eyes earnest, it makes your bones ache.
Minutes pass but you can only smile at him.
"Say it back, Mickey," he pleads but you can't. "Please."
You swallow down the dryness in your throat. "Eight months, right? I'll say whatever the fuck you want then." You don't know if you said the right thing or wrong because the look on his face is twisted and hurt but you just can't. You need this, to promise yourself he'll be back. To have something to hold onto.
The cab honks and it sounds more like a siren to you. Telling you time is up. So you lean in again.
He murmurs I love you over your lips and walks down the steps, bag in hand as he turns. "Mick. Goodbye, baby." His mouth spreads into that contagious, all fuckin consuming, perfect smile.
You drop your head momentarily and rub at your lip before looking back up. Leaning against the door frame to keep yourself from falling and breaking. All you can do is nod because this isn't goodbye.
This is only the beginning.
You're grateful for skype, phone calls, and letters. Sometimes you barely talk, just look at each other and be. You check for new bruises or scars, you see less freckles too but don't say anything.
Not now at least.
A relived breath escapes your mouth each time he calls or you get a letter with his name.
With each passing day you put an x on the calendar when realization bestows that he'll be home in less than one month.
One month until forever.
Waking up alone hurts less and doing laundry doesn't feel so hard now. The picture under your pillow with his face no longer mocks you, instead it excites you.
Because he'll be home in eighteen days.
Until he isn't.
You get a call you never cared to imagine because this was not supposed to happen. This wasn't the fucking plan.
The next thing you know they're bringing the love of your fucking life home in a body bag.
You force yourself to wake up from this dream— this nightmare. Nothing changes.
It's sweltering hot but somehow you manage to put a suit on, for him. You fight so fuckin hard that morning to keep yourself together instead of drowning yourself in liquor to follow him.
Speeches are given. Guns are fired. Not a single dry eye and all you can picture is his fucking smile.
You stand looking at his resting body in the casket.
All you can think of is how you didn't say goodbye.
You didn't fucking say I love you, too.
I love you so fucking much.
Ian was the light to your darkness. Ian is gone. The sun does not rise again.
——
End.
I'm sorry.
Leave a comment. ❤️
Song/Title: The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore - The Walker Brothers.
I feel that the lyrics of this song describe Mickey perfectly in this fic + I love my classics.
