Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November 25 at 12:17 a.m.

IAN G.

One Thousand Steps

Actually, there are not many steps left until I finally fall down — into the endless, cruel, feared nothingness. Because it is true, “death is nothing at all”, but nevertheless we fear it.

Yet the closer I get to it, the more numb my body gets. But I feel nothing anyway, nothing except the desire not to have to feel this nothing anymore. Kind of cynical, isn't it? Well, you're not used to anything else from me.

But who cares, after all, you are here today because you want to know how this (fucking) Thanksgiving dinner with my family went.

What can I say? I, at least, didn’t cry. Well, of course I didn’t.

But, fuck, I suffered a whole darn system failure. It’s scary ‘cause I usually experience them merely when I’m tryna sleep - or as soon as I’m in a new environment. But today, today I took a huge step towards the edge of the cliff, maybe even several at the same time. And my family, they didn’t stop me; ‘cause they couldn’t have anyways.

The crappy part is, my brother even asked me, but I was too much of a fucking coward to open my mouth to say shit. I didn’t wanna upset him. And even more so, I didn’t wanna tear him out of his “ideal” world. Fuck you. Fuck you for managing to drown your own monster. You left me here, fuck, I really hate you. And yet the fuck I’m glad you made it at the end, bro.

Now I’m lying on my couch — and while I was looking forward to this morning because it meant I could avoid an attack from the monster, now I’m sitting here again, alone, and I’ve no one to talk to but the monster who robs me of the strength to talk to the people who love me. So I sit here, crying, shaking, and knowing that nothing and no one can distract me.

There’s this “monster” — it causes system failures. But still I talk to it, because at the end of the day, it’s the only thing I have left. But if even it were no longer with me, then everything would be over. Then I wouldn’t even have a reason to fight anymore.

There’s this “cliff” — it’s my hope. The hope of escaping the monster for good. But what good would that do me? Then everything would be over all the more.

And when I open my eyes, everything’s gone. ‘Cause there’s no monster that speaks to me. ‘Cause there’s no cliff that promises me hope. But there’s me — and only me.

As I said, thousand steps. Or less.

With a broad grin on his lips, Ian greeted his family at the entrance to the ‘Parallel 37’ diner he works his ass off nearly every day. Sadly enough, that's where they wanted to meet up.

“Hey! It's been half an eternity since we last saw each other, hasn't it?” Ian wrapped Fiona deep in his arms. “I've really missed you, Fi.”

Fiona’s golden wedding ring glinted through the early evening’s reddish sunlight. “I missed you even more, Ian. Every time I see you, you get taller, don’t you?”

Ians pursed his lips. “Where's Liam?”

“I'm in Chicago right now for business, because my company owns some real estate here that I'm supposed to be selling soon,”Fiona braced her hands on her hips. “So Liam stayed with Sean in Atlanta.”

Ian nodded with raised eyebrows and clapped a hand over his mouth before sputtering out when he saw Lip. “No fucking way!” he exclaimed, “you actually shaved your hair off?” Ian stroked Lip’s rasp-short hair. “I thought you were joking when you texted me!”

Lip cringed, frowning afterwards. “Didn't I send you a picture?” He shrugged as Ian shook his head. “Well, Mandy didn’t like it.” He laughed it off, although Ian knew the shit Mandy was capable of once she got furious. But not when it’s about a darn haircut, right? Ian shrugged. He wouldn’t be here then.

“Shit, are you guys planning on getting married or somethin’?” Ian always deeply loved their relationship. It was kind of weird at first, but once Ian noticed the loyalty and sentimentality that a Milkovich is capable of, he realized that the sparkles between them must be love.

“Fuck no, but she might be pregnant.” Lip gave a crooked smile. Suddenly, the world seemed to stop.

Ian's mouth, and that of Fiona who never thought much of Mandy ‘Stinkyvich’, dropped open, before it formed to a well-intentioned smile. “Holy fucking shit! Congratulations!”

Ian clapped his hands together as Lip smirked, but pursed his lips afterward. “It wasn't really planned. It just happened, but we're not complaining either. And we’re definitely not calling it after Frank or even worse, Terry,” Lip said, grinning, while Debbie appeared behind Ian.

The orange-haired girl held three-year-old Franny by her hand, who wore her red hair in two braids. Her smile as wide as that of her grandmother, Monica, kind of creeped the shit out of Ian. He always got goosebumps thinking about their mother.

“Hello, Franny!” Ian pinched her cheek and the girl giggled. “Your mother’s not causing any trouble, does she?” At these words, Ian’s and Debbie’s eyes met.

“Fuck off, Ian Gallagher.” Debbie threw her arms around Ian’s waist first, her voice as squeaky as ever. “Fucking missed you guys.” She wiped away a tear. “Lip it’s your fault I live in a fucked up flat!” Debbie laughed as she wrapped her arms around him next. “And Fiona, you just disappeared!”

“The fuck you guys crying about?” Another familiar voice. “Let me at least cry with you, it will be less embarrassing then!” Carl Gallagher, in his fucking goodman uniform.

“Yo! You just dropped by after arresting our people or what?” Ian hugged him, grimacing. Who the fuck would have expected that Carl would be a cop someday? Frank was darn right about that one.

Ian grinned, watching his whole family enter the diner, laughing, talking, as if they didn’t part a second. But still, every single Gallagher went their own way. One perhaps more than the other. But in the end, they managed to build their own lives outside of this shithole called South Side of Chicago. All except Ian.

Fiona Gallagher, married to Sean Pierce, adoptive mother to his son Will, was a successful real estate agent in Atlanta. Lip Gallagher, a graduate of Chicago Polytechnic Institute, lived in Miami with pregnant Mandy Milkovich. Debbie Gallagher, single mother and a successful welder in St. Louis. Carl Gallagher, a well-to-do police officer from Chicago’s West Side, living there with Kelly Keefe.

And then — there was Ian Gallagher, a lonely waiter at a Southside fast-food restaurant who dropped out of high school, and who couldn’t get his shit together.

They talked a lot, laughed a lot, but Ian felt so alien as if he was no longer a part of this once broken family that nowadays consisted of successful people. It was as if Ian was sitting at a table full of foreigners who spoke a different language - but the same different language. They understood each other easily, but Ian could only decipher key words like ‘my job’, ‘my partner’ or ‘my beautiful life’. He tried to make connections, to understand the context, but in the end he threw his hands in the air and engaged with the language they all once spoke, made up of words like ‘poor’, ‘desperate’ and ‘hopeless’. Something that once every Gallagher understood, but nowadays only one.

Compared to them, Ian was much more like Frank Gallagher, a fucked up alcoholic and junkie, who couldn’t get help. He was much more like Monica Gallagher, a bipolar junkie, who didn’t want to get help. He was much more like his fucked up parents than his successful siblings.

Ian wished he didn’t understand their fucking language.

He couldn't even blame the Gallagher diagnosis, after all, everyone else managed to work their way out of trouble too: Fiona, ended up in jail after her three-year-old brother Liam overdosed on cocaine. Lip, a former alcoholic who found himself on the verge of throwing his bright future overboard once and for all. Debbie, a teen mother left alone, who once raped her drunk friend and lied to her boyfriend so she could get pregnant. Not to mention Carl, the “black” drug and arms dealer, a bully who ended up in juvie at the age of thirteen with the maximum sentence of one year after he plastered his twelve-years-old nephew with pounds of heroin.

And Ian, the underaged stripper. At least these days he had a job that paid enough to survive. Even if he didn't exactly lined his pockets nicely as a waiter in a fast food restaurant - because this job meant working overtime all day, underpayment and fucking annoying costumers - it couldn't be compared to the dirty work as a stripper, which consisted of swinging his ass for hours for horny old farts who pumped him full of ecstasy and coke as a thank-you, so that at the end of the day he was lying passed out on the side of a street.

The night of February 12, when Ian finally handed in his notice, was still a mystery to him. Ian could not talk about that night, because he lacked any memory of it. But something happened. Something that would never let him return to the house of hell.

After that night, he never stripped again.

“Hey!” Carl tore Ian from his thoughts, “aren’t you serving us, Ian?” he laughed as Ian's chest tightened. Like a punch in the pit of the stomach, except it formed a fat knot that knotted his bodily innards and caused pain that was impossible to define.

“Fuck off, traitor.” Ian gave him the finger.

But he couldn’t blame Carl at all, because it was hilarious. Something to laugh about. Something to cry about. Maybe even Something to die about. It was tragic. Tragically funny.

The corners of Ian’s mouth merely twitched as the Gallaghers laughed. He knew Carl didn't mean it the way Ian was taking it, but still, it brought him back to the ground of facts: Everyone was living their lives with either partners or balanced jobs (or maybe even both), but Ian was still living in South Side, not evolving, stuck in his fucked up past.

Still, he liked meeting his family. Excluded from the fact that Ian was ashamed of his job, of this disgusting place, and of his personal way of life, he felt safe with them. They wouldn't judge him, they wouldn't intentionally laugh at him or make him uncomfortable.

It was solely up to Ian that this family reunion turned out to be hurtful and belittling.

(…) Ian played around with the tip of his finger, brushing sweaty strands off his forehead in between bobbing his leg up and down. His heart raced like a thief on the run behind his rib cage. He checked to see if the windows were open — they were. Still, the oxygen did not reach his lungs, nor his brain, which worked as if it were a muddy puddle. While he loosened the tight collar of his polo shirt, he was gasping for air as if he had just crossed the finish line after a marathon.

“Everythin’ all right?” a familiar voice rang out. Ian waved it off, smiling, but when a sudden deafening bang irritated his eardrums, Ian jolted up. His legs trembled as if he were thousand miles above the stable ground, looking down into the dark depths. The room spun as if in a merry-go-round, turning Ian's stomach upside down. Water pooled in his mouth, and the chewed turkey he had just swallowed a few minutes ago crawled up his esophagus. Ian picked up movements as if in slow motion, his vision limited to his hands, whose palms throbbed as he continued to hear the clink of broken china in his ear.

“Ian?” A hand touched Ian‘s arm, triggering goose bumps, but he merely focused on his shallow breathing. “Ian, you all right?” Biting tears formed in his eyes, causing its sight to blur. The artificial light drew lines. The voice so cruelly slow, Ian heard it over and over, with such a dangerously high frequency.

Ian squinted his puffy eyes, and when he opened them again, the tunnel vision was gone, his airway freed, and the tinkle in his ear extinguished. He ran his hand over his forehead, which felt like a hammer was hitting it over and over again.

“I’ll, um, be right back,” Ian signed off without looking at his family, disappearing into the guest bathroom in a flash.

(…) Ice-cold water dripped from his glowing face, wrists and individual strands of hair. Ian remained calm; after all, he had been going through such moments, which he himself called system failures, more often lately. During work hours, in trains, before bed. Far from every day, but at least once a week.

Fuck, Ian felt ashamed to have to deal with this system failure right in front of his family. He would have preferred to crawl into one of the cabinets and never crawl out of that hole again. Ian could have lonely rotted there. He wouldn’t mind at all.

Ian took a step toward the door, but backed up two as soon as he grasped the handle. His teeth ached from the clenching of his jaw. If he put any more pressure on them, they would shatter like his heart as he thought of the suffering he was causing his family. By now, at the latest, they would know that Ian’s life was destined to be thrown away. They would know that Ian’s life was ridiculous. No money, no partner, nothing at all — but filthy apartments, loneliness and system failures.

Minutes passed with Ian making up excuses. Normally he was always prepared for an emergency. He had a whole emergency box in his head, where he stored “if-the-talk-gets-too-awkward” topics. But he couldn't find anything because “weather”  wasn't an option. At least not in the event of a system failure, which, by the way, also invades the emergency box.

The clock was ticking. Tick. tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The longer Ian self-pitied, the more the Gallaghers would worry. So he took a deep breath, glanced in the mirror one last time before heading into battle. But contrary to what he thought, the Gallaghers were still laughing. Ian felt the pressure immediately ease from his chest. As if a stone would literally fall from his heart.

He nodded to them. With that, this system failure was a thing of the past — at least for the rest of the family. But in a way, for Ian as well, because this moment was just one of many.

(...) Two hours later, the Gallaghers gathered in the stabbing cold, ready to dive back into their own lives. Carl (“Don’t arrest the wrong guys!”) and Debbie (“Watch out Franny!”) were the first to say goodbye, Fiona the third (“Don’t forget to tell Liam I miss him!”) — leaving only Lip and Ian at the end.

“You sure everything’s okay?” Lip asked, while his breath can be seen in the biting air.

Ian and Lip leaned back against the mustard-yellow wall of the diner, whose windows were framed in ketchup red. The smell of a hot dog crept up Ian’s nose. Mustard and ketchup.

Ian sighed as he rummaged in his jacket pocket for the pack of cigarettes. “It has to.”

“If you wanna talk about something the distance between us isn’t stopping you, got it?”

Ian held out the lit cigarette but Lip shook his head, grinning. There was no way anyone could have known that Lip was suddenly turning into a superhuman in Miami.

“Gotcha!” Ian smiled. “Really, thanks. But I got everything I need.”

Was Ian really the only one of them who still destroyed his lungs? Nor did he see Fiona or Carl take a smoke break. Never before has a cigarette landed on the ground so quickly.

“You don’t smoke fuckin’ weed anymore either?” Ian stared across the street, where people waited in a long line for an overpriced coffee at Starbucks. He grimaced.

“Fuck no,” Lip, who was also looking off into the distance, was now smiling. “Mandy’s afraid I’ll develop some kind of psychosis from smoking weed. She wants to raise the kid as a clean mom. So I agreed on raising the kid as a clean dad.”

“You gonna be a good father, man.” Ian patted him on the back. “And Mandy a great mom.”

Lip nodded, smiling. “You and Mandy still in touch?”

“Rarely,” Ian sighed. “We last spoke on the phone two months ago, I think.”

“You should definitely check in with us,” Lip said, “once you get out of this shithole.”

The corners of Ian’s mouth dropped. “This is still our home, man.”

“I’ve made a new home for myself.” Lip pulled his iPhone out of his Kapten & Son backpack. “With Mandy, our unborn child, and our Samoyed, Benny.”

Ian took Lip's phone and glanced at the picture, which he also had as his wallpaper. Mandy, with natural blonde hair, and a grin Ian last saw on her lips when they announced they were starting a new life in Miami. She was cuddling a snow-white dog that was almost bigger than her, like a giant teddy bear. Lip's face was only half visible in the photo, but it was enough to tell how happy he was.

It drove a knife into Ian’s heart, the hole as big as a crater, left by words that hit like meteors. But he had to close the hole, fill it before it ripped open and swallowed him alive like a black hole in space. It would leave nothing of him. Not even the memory. It would erase him as if he had never existed.

“I fought with Mandy a lot because I didn't want to move to Miami at first. I thought I need the South Side to feel safe because it was my home.” Lip sharply drew in the air. “But then all of a sudden when everybody left, I realized that home is where my family is. Now it’s with Mandy, Benny, and our kid.”

Ian could no longer hide behind the excuse that he lived on the South Side because it was his home. God, how he loathed that place and just wanted to disappear forever. He would never go back. Frank, Monica, the stripper job, everything that made him the wreck he was today. Everything he hated stayed in Chicago forever. And everything he loved left Chicago forever.

“How’s love working out for you, bud?”

Ian tore his gaze from his phone. “Uh, love, me?” He scratched his neck. “I’ve got my ass full of work. Can’t fit anything else in.” He grimaced.

“You’re—”

Ian waved it off, eyes widening. “No! I’m not.”

Lip laughed until melancholy crushed the genuine laughter. “Fuck, I didn’t think I’d say this, but I miss living here.”

“You—what?” Ian crossed his arms, arching one brow.

“I don’t wanna live here, for sure, but, you know, sometimes reality hits me and screams straight in my face that I’ve started a whole new life and nothing will ever be the same. I don’t miss South Side, but I miss The Gallaghers, man.”

Ian lost his train of thought. “You mean,” he blinked, “woah, was boutta start to think I was the only one who felt that way.”

“Pretty sure we all feel that way. But still, the bottom line is we’re glad we made it out of this hole.”

Ian swallowed the words he wanted to confront Lip with. It left a bitter aftertaste, but it would probably be better to let Lip believe that each of the Gallaghers managed to grab the ladder in the dark. Perhaps they did, with the exception of Ian, who continued to grope into the endless darkness looking for the ladder. Every time he thought he felt the rusty metal between his fingers, he slipped and sank further into the mire that paralyzed his body. Maybe the train had already left and the ladder had collapsed. Maybe it was the final stop. But Ian couldn’t just give up, because it was pitch black in that hole and the swamp was gripping his legs and pulling him down, so his instinct for self-preservation screamed, “Reach for the goddamn ladder!”

So he did. Ian grabbed the fucking ladder.

“Actually, I’m not that good, I’m—”

“Fuck!” Lip glanced at his Apple smartwatch, eyes widened. “I gotta go now if I’m gonna make it to my plane on time. Shit, I’m sorry, Ian. I’ll call you! This time for sure.”

And again, he slipped.

Ian briefly thought he was going to puke as this moment burned itself into his long-term memory. His heart itself was now the knife that cut deep gashes in his chest. He lost blood, a lot of it, until he was just an empty, drained shell.

The ladder was gone. Once and for all.

Lip wrapped Ian in a brotherly hug, patted him on the back, and when they detached, Lip grinned. “Don’t fuck it up, Gallagher!”

Ian shrugged. “If I did that, it wouldn’t have any more serious effect than if you do. With that, your advice goes back to you.” He laughed wryly, his breast cramping, hoping Lip would finally fuck off before he would punch him in the face for first giving Ian the hope of finally opening up, but then just running away from the responsibility. Ian just hoped Lip didn’t fuck up with Mandy and the unborn.

Lip waved, and as he disappeared like an insignificant dot in the distance, Ian noticed the brand new Prada kicks. Damn. Lip must have really made a lot of dough down south if he could afford shoes in that price range. The price of those name-brand shoes maybe covered Ian’s rent.

“Fuck you.”

(...) Ian spent the night on his sagging couch, amidst plastic garbage and bills, staring lost in thought at the dusty ceiling with decades-old cobwebs hanging down.

The pounding rain pelted against the dirty window as it thundered softly. The moonlight flooded the tiny room, which doubled as a kitchen, bedroom and storage room. Only the bathroom was isolated from the rest of the action.

For hours Ian had to think about what had happened at dinner — was he spoiling the festive mood? Hopefully, he wasn’t causing his family any unnecessary worry. That was the last thing Ian needed right now. He’d rather suffer alone, at least he wouldn’t feel guilty.

Sensing his rapid heartbeat again, Ian grabbed his dusty rattle rack in the form of a century-old laptop. Ian marveled that this device still worked properly at all (aside from the fact that it took five fucking minutes just to open a page).

When Ian couldn’t fall asleep, he would open WORDs free typing program and write down his thoughts instead of being fed to his inner monster. He then published this afterwards on his internet blog, which he had been running for just a year.

Some people actually read his blog. At that time, Ian would not have expected that complete strangers would be interested in him — well, they probably weren’t but were just browsing the Internet out of boredom and perhaps happened to come across his digitized diary. But some anonymous readers even wrote comments regularly.

(…) Ian slammed the laptop shut after writing the entry, freed himself from his comforter and tore open the only window that wouldn't fall apart the next time he opened it.

He gasped for fresh air.

Because Ian was right: there was nothing to look forward to at the end of the day.

(…) The clock read 3:44 a.m. as Ian scrolled through the comments under his blog entry

undercover_e

12:34 you should get help man

Ian sighed. It was easy to say you should get help, but to actually take care of it, that was only the real step. Ian would have to make a phone call. There was nothing he hated more than making phone calls. Actually, he didn't hate it, but he dreaded it. Thoughts like, “What if I say something wrong?” or “What if the connection drops in the middle and they can’t understand me?” scared him off.

IAN G.

3:45 Yeah, thanks, but no.

God, he hated comments like that. Well, thanks, mister I-know-better. Fuck you. Ian was aware that he needed fucking help, but that was easier said than done. Ian couldn't worry about his mental health as well, after all, he'd wasted all the time he'd normally be allowed with the stress of being a waiter.

fuck off

3:31 fucking poet, huh?

Ian smirked. Fuck, he wasn't usually a person who wrapped problems in words no one could decipher. But sometimes Ian thought it was better to illustrate his problems with the help of creative paraphrases. As if he were a ... poet. A poet who cried out for help in every  possible way he could cry out for help — but who would listen to another unknown, insignificant dot in this universe? There were too many people for God to take care of. Ian was probably at the very bottom of the waiting list.

IAN G.

3:47 Is that word meant as a compliment?

Even if Ian was just texting with someone he didn't know, his heart was pounding like he was about to take an exam that would decide his future. Fuck. Why couldn't he just keep his cool for once?

fuck off

3:54 i guess it depends on your answer. what do you say if its a yes?

Ian narrowed his eyes. It probably had to be an internet troll — or someone who also couldn't sleep at this hour, and therefore hung out on depressing blogs.

IAN G.

3:56 “poet” would make me happy, I think, what author wouldn't be happy to be called an author?

Author. Poet. It was probably more Ian's wishful thinking to be titled author or poet. Because the more Ian read through the words he wrote, the more he hated them. After all, it wasn't that he just shook those words off the cuff and wrote nonstop because he found it so easy to express himself via words. On the contrary. It took him around five minutes for each fucking sentence, typing in bald words, deleting, despairing, and still ending up with the first attempt to express himself. He tried so hard to find words for what he was feeling ... but sometimes they just stuck in his throat. No one would ever be able to relate to how he felt, because there were simply no words for it — yet he tried his best.

Because Ian didn't want to die without trying first.

fuck off

4:06 well then, feast your eyes on this compliment ian g.

Ian smiled.

IAN G.

4:08 I will, Mr. or Mrs. Fuck Off, I will.

Ian's eyes kept falling closed until he finally gave up the fight and fell asleep from exhaustion.

Ian's heart leapt as the cell phone slipped from his hand. He tried to catch it, but in vain: it landed with the glass of the display on the floor of the metro, causing a powerful thud and drawing the attention of the passengers.

Fuck. As Ian leaned down, he cast a cursory glance around. They were contorting their expressions, looking down at him, and some of them must have been secretly laughing, too.

Ian felt his heart race as he swallowed down the fat lump in his throat. He even wanted to apologize for this intrusion, but the idea that his voice might fail at that moment, or he might misspeak or speak too softly, inhibited him.

That thud. Ian kept hearing it. It was loud as hell. To distract himself, Ian opened the news app on his phone. New Corona cases, Russian-Ukrainian war, threat of using the nukes. But the words blurred before his eyes, while Ian's thoughts drifted nonstop to the outraged expressions on the faces of passersby.

Shit, he had only dropped his cell phone. But it got people's attention. They felt disturbed - and it was Ian's fault. If only he had paid attention, he would have been spared the critical looks.

His fingers drummed on the iron bar. Ian felt the piercing stares burning his skin. He heard his own heartbeat. Ian felt ashamed because, fuck, why was everyone staring at him like he was an alien? He dug his fingernails into his sweat-covered palm. Ian noticed the reflection in the window glass - he looked ridiculous in his cheap polyester clothes. His leg bobbed up and down uncontrollably. He opened the camera app to assure that everything was okay with his face - it was. This time he held the phone extra tight.

When the hell was the final stop finally going to be reached? By the second, Ian looked at his wristwatch. Up and down. Until he noticed a man's gaze. Shit. Why was he staring at him? Again Ian opened the camera function: everything was perfect. His jacket was in place, his fly closed, his shoes the same. Not a hair was sticking out - nothing. Accordingly, it had to be because he dropped the phone, right?

Ian's muscles twitched, he bit the inside of his lower lip and clenched his jaw. Do I look poor? His chest constricted. Do I have something on my face after all? Ian counted the passengers, but started from zero every time he miscounted. His brain didn't work when a system failure was imminent, but still Ian had to delay it until the last minute.

Suddenly, Ian began to sweat as if he were exercising. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if someone were ramming a knife into that spot. Suddenly the air no longer reached his lungs, as if he had a respiratory disease.

It meant red alert when Ian felt everything at once.

Ian clutched at the iron bar, breathing in and out deeply. He squinted his eyes. But despite the sirens ringing in his head, his mind was buzzing with how fucking pathetic he must look at that moment.

Ian could feel them: the disturbed, condescending, or maybe concerned, looks of the passersby. The thoughts that crossed their minds, “Doesn't this man have himself under control?” — “He's poor.” — “Why does he look so funny?”

He felt like he was dying: Ian's heartbeat out of control, thoughts a knotted mess, muscles rock hard, limbs trembling. But still, only one thing mattered: what the hell do people think of him?

Ian desperately needed to get off this train. Right now.

As the train came to a stop, Ian stumbled off it. Biting wind immediately flooded his clothes and Ian could finally breathe a sigh of relief. He clutched at a seat.

It took five minutes for Ian to think clearly again, for his heart to pump hot blood at normal intervals, for his legs to finally hold him up.

Holy shit.

Unlike before, Ian couldn't stop the tears that burned like alcohol on a gaping wound in his eyes. Fuck. It was just ten a.m. in the morning and Ian felt defeated — defeated by people, by the world, but especially by himself, by his own body, which was opposing him with all its strength.

Ian was nowhere. He had never gotten off at this stop before. His tears could have easily frozen in the cold that attacked him with small pinpricks. As if his limbs had fallen asleep, numb but still connected to the nerves, causing stabbing pain.

Ian was supposed to be at work in about twenty minutes. So he glanced at the schedule for the train: every twenty minutes? Fuck. Ian had to call in sick today.

But he'd have to call to do that. Being late was out of the question for Ian, because that got the most attention - Ian didn't need an explanation for simply calling in sick, for which he would be criticized anyway. But still, he had to call for it.

Shit, Ian was in a quandary that would end unpleasantly. Either way, he never wanted to appear at his workplace again: surely his colleagues would talk about it, right? Ian might as well have never shown up there again, at least then he wouldn't have to actively deal with people's reactions. But Ian really needed this job if he didn't want to jump back into his old job as a stripper.

What would happen if Ian didn't get back to him - could he have delayed the interview? Surely, but that would certainly cost him his job, and there was no way he could risk that.

That meant Ian had to get through the phone call.

That meant heart palpitations, paranoid imaginings, panicked fear of getting under this team's eyes again.

That meant: Ian's end.

And all of this because Ian was unable to hold onto his phone properly. All because Ian couldn't manage to ignore other people's opinions of him. All this because Ian was panic-stricken about being criticized.

All because Ian's illness had him completely in its grip, burying him alive. He struggles for fresh air, but there is nothing here but darkness. Maggots eat into his skin, which is pale like a dead man’s. A smell, an acrid mixture of blood, metal and decaying flesh, rises to his nose, masking the scent of fresh earth. He hears voices, distant and muffled, but they seem eerily familiar — Fiona! Lip! He can hear them laughing, but as soon as he starts screaming for help, the yet beautiful earth fills his lungs, burning like fire as he coughs. Why can't his family hear him? He's right there! Among them…or beneath them?

Either way, he stops screaming, because his family is far too far above him. They are blinded by the shining gold of their throne. Ian has, however, failed at his own throne, so he cannot blame them. Well, he owns a throne, something he built himself — as his family did. It is not made of gold, but of pure blackness. The sound of resistance as the steel of the chains clashes, echoes through the throne hall. It numbs his body. But this throne? He built it himself, and now, now he lives with the consequence of ruling on this throne all alone. But he doesn't rule because there is nothing left to rule.

Where he ends up suffocating, whether in the throne hall or buried underground, didn't matter. Whether he had a throne of gold or shit didn't matter. Because once fear has a grip on you, it holds you tight, even if you are swimming in money and are surrounded by love. Fear does not seek out the weak, but the strong, whom it then makes weak by robbing them of what makes them strong.

Chapter Text

December 25 at 9:16 a.m.

IAN G.

Nine Hundred Steps Left

A beautiful day: we celebrated Christmas! Not many gifts because we have no money for them, but that has never been a problem.

My little sister cooked together with my big sister. They laughed, threw flour at each other, but no matter who won the food fight, they laughed and kept going.

My two brothers, the little one and the big one, made sure the booth was decorated appropriately for Christmas. They, too, laughed. God, they had to lock the door, though, so our alcoholic father wouldn’t ruin our celebration. But like a cockroach, he kept coming back - he can’t be flattened.

My youngest brother tried to let our father into the apartment. He’s the last of the bunch to go through the same time we did. But even he will realize sooner or later that our producer is a narcissist who was never interested in us.

What did I do? I got the Christmas tree. It was a heck of a job to steal that fucking tree from the fir yard. Fuck. But hey, I didn’t get caught! Well, at least I hope not.

They applauded and laughed when I dragged this fir through the backyard and into the house. I don’t know how it hasn’t lost all the firs on the way home yet...at least it wasn’t more than 200 yards. And the tree wasn’t big either. Not at all.

“Hey, you could have asked me. We would have done it together, man,” my older brother said.

“Oh, it’s all right-”

I was interrupted by a knock on the door. If it hadn’t been Mandy, I would have been fucked up because it interrupted the conversation with my brother.

But I’m glad that my oldest sister and his girlfriend are finally getting along, so we could invite her over.

The day was perfect.

There was a knock. Ian hated the knock on the door.

“Oh, hi.” He felt an icy chill run down his spine as he looked into the dreaded face of the landlord. “What's up?”

“The rent, Gallagher.” The old man with the ugly wrinkles that made his skin hang down like wet rags reached out his hand, which shook. “You’re a week overdue.”

Ian scratched the back of his neck, dug his fingernails into the thin layer of skin. “Yeah, uh, I’m working on it.” Blood and skin stuck under his fingernails.

The man stared at him, raising an eyebrow as he didn't move his hand an inch. “I'm waiting.”

Ian pressed his lips together. “Gee, yeah, I'll be right back.”

As soon as he turned around, he inhaled deeply but didn't exhale because that air with the smell of musty wood stuck in his throat like words. Shit. He spent it all on that fir tree.

The fir tree he bought.

Ian turned around, exhaled, and grinned like a real estate agent trying to sell this junk house. “Sir, how about I offer you some tea or a coffee, and I'll explain something to you?” It was worth a try, wasn't it? Ian's heart threatened to burst as it pumped the hot-soaked blood several times a second.

“How about I kick you out of here for not paying your rent?” The man wasn't kidding.

Ian bit his lower lip, forcing a smile. “Five days?” 

“Three.”

“Four?”

“Two.”

Ian exhaled. “OK, three days, I promise.”

“This is your last chance, Gallagher.” The door slammed into the lock.

Ian turned, his eyes fixed on the Christmas tree standing lonely in the corner. No fairy lights, no baubles, no presents under the branches.

“Merry Christmas, Ian.”

(...) The light from his laptop screen illuminated the room, which was darkened by curtains. Ian threw himself on a board, his sofa, but he had his feet tucked in because vomit was probably still etched into the fabric of the sofa at the other end when he got drunk one night and didn't stop until he threw up. Apparently he had spun a sheet over that stain that night to avoid facing the fact that he had no money for a new sofa. For weeks, Ian didn't even notice that stain because the alcohol that night burned a hole in his memory, too.

It wasn't until this morning, when Ian wanted to change the sheets to at least look a little more hospitable to his family, that he remembered that miserable night. It was a pitiful attempt to drink away his problems, but he (unlike Lip) found no pleasure in waking up every morning in his vomit, not knowing what the fuck he was getting into. Ian didn't want to wake up with either an overdose of pain pills or even slashed wrists - no, he wanted to do that fully conscious. He wasn't there yet.

(...) Ian clutched the handle of the basket. He checked to make sure the headphones were plugged in properly before pressing play. He reflected in the glass of the freezer. He had his mask on right side up, not a hair was on strike, his jacket was clean.

But still, he opened the camera function on his phone. Everything was fine. Right? Yes. Wait a minute...what's that? Ink, ink on his skin, right on his forehead. A teeny tiny dot, growing larger by the second, almost swallowed him. It must have happened when he was writing the grocery list this morning. Why the hell hadn't he noticed that spot when he looked in the mirror at home? After all, he didn't look in the mirror just once. That's why passersby were burning holes in his clothes with their stares! That was it, wasn't it? That had to be it.

How bloody, embarrassing. With his fingers, he rubbed over that ink stain. Fuck, Ian would have loved to turn to the staring people and yell into their faces that he was just a normal person after all (like them). He was, at least partially, because he turned around. But there was no one standing there. Cowards. Now that Ian was ready to defend himself, there they disappeared like rats sensing someone was setting a trap. But they would be back. As always. You can't get rid of them, never again, those cursed rats. Not for nothing they were called a plague.

He packed into his basket what he needed: milk, meat, but not the expensive brand, and while he could count out the money with just one hand, the shelf of seasonal items grinned at him behind it. His hand blurred before his eyes, his gaze fixed on the Christmas decorations. A string of lights — for three dollars.

Ian's gaze darted back and forth between milk and fairy lights. Between food and decoration. Between useful and pointless. But what would a Christmas tree be without a string of lights? A dark green tree that the light of the laptop didn't even reach. It was fragrant, yes, but Ian paid money for that tree. Money that was earmarked for rent. It would have been wasted to let the tree smell to itself in the dark without exhausting its meaning. That's when the milk suddenly seemed more pointless to him than the string of lights.

He had to hurry. Before people noticed how long Ian was thinking, before they thought he was hatching a plan on how he could have best stolen the goods. So he did: he exchanged the milk for the string of lights and paid, but before he did, he returned to the meat counter one more time and made sure the price tag on the meat was the right one. Seven dollars. Seven dollars plus three dollars. Ian counted the bills in his hand. Ten crumpled one-dollar bills. Perfect.

He handed the same crumpled bills to the cashier, who raised her painted-on eyebrows as thin as a sheet of fine paper.

“There’s one missing,” she cawed like a crow scenting food. “Without it, I can only sell you one of the products.”

Wide-eyed, Ian stared at the woman. “It can't be. I, uh,” in his pants pocket, nothing but emptiness, he checked his jacket pockets. “Sorry, I, uh, well, I'm pretty sure that—”

Hastily, Ian wheeled around when he felt a pressure on his shoulder. “Here.” A man pointed to his hand. An one-dollar bill.

Before Ian shook his head, he noticed the line that was forming as he rummaged in his pockets for money. The impatient, unsatisfied looks. Ian grabbed the dollar and packed the string of lights and the meat into the paper bag, which had another store's brand name on it.

Ian stormed out of the store. The biting wind of the subzero temperatures crept through every opening his clothes had, and the whistling drowned out the pounding of his heart in his ear. It drove the heat from his face, from his earlobes, and froze the boiling blood in seconds.

“You had dropped the dollar bill.”

Again, Ian turned, his hand planted on his chest. He forced a smile to his lips. “Yeah, uh, thanks.”

“Geez, do you always look like you’ve seen a ghost?” The man laughed.

And again, Ian's heart tripped. But this time not because he was ashamed — this time because he knew that laugh. Not just that laugh. Those ice-blue eyes that resembled a dog's, those expressive eyebrows, and, as said, the laughter.

“Cat got your tongue, huh?”

Ian broke eye contact. “No, sorry, I'm just still a little, uh, confused.”

“I figured.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I'm sure the cashier has, too.”

Ian nodded slowly, lips curled into a gentle smile as he processed this information. His eyes darted around, like a startled chicken, and he didn't stop nodding.

“You celebrating Christmas?”

Ian blinked.

“Uh, the lights.” The man pointed to the bag. “The ones you bought.”

Ian smiled. “Yeah, I do.”

Now it was the man who nodded slowly. “Not so talkative, huh?”

“Not really.” Ian shrugged.

The man laughed again. “You don't say.”

Ian frowned, because that laugh triggered something in him. Something indefinable. Not as indefinable as the pain the knot in his stomach caused, but as indefinable as the feelings he felt as soon as he thought back to the night of February 12.

They were standing there. In the parking lot, shopping bags in hand. Silent — and somehow also speechless. Was Ian supposed to say something? How did it work to talk to strangers without looking like a sucker? Ian kind of forgot. He just waited for a reaction from the man. Because for a change, it felt good not to communicate with strangers via his blog's comment function.

“Do you need help?”

Ian's gaze was now still, not a chicken but a sloth as well as his brain that stopped working. “Help?”

“Yeah, help, setting up, decorating, whatnot.”

Ian frowned. What the hell? Was this supposed to be a joke? Ian laughed. But the man was silent. The silence stifled Ian's laughter.

“Holy shit, is that so unusual for you?”

By now, Ian just wanted to get home, rip up the string of lights, and light the Christmas tree. He was merely asking for a Christmas celebration, but everything he did to make it happen turned out to be a mistake in the end. Throwing out the money for the fir tree, deciding on the string of lights, what else? Fuck.

“Nah, I don't need any help, thanks.”

The man shrugged. “I could use some help, though.”

“With what? Sorry, but I have to—” Ian pointed behind him.

“Real quick, got it?”

“If you tell me what it’s about?”

“I did quite a bit of shopping.” The man scratched his right temple. Or his left? Ian couldn't tell right from left. “Would be cool if you could, y’know, help me carry it.”

“Er — I, well,” Ian wanted to decline. “It's fine, I'll help you.”

The man handed Ian a bag. “Thanks, man, I definitely owe you one.”

Ian waved it off. “Oh, no worries ‘bout that.”

(...) If Ian had known they were going to walk seven blocks, he would have thought twice. They didn't speak, walking silently side by side, and Ian had plenty of time to rummage in the box of his memories. But to no avail. He knew this man, definitely, but he forgot how. It had to be one-sided, because the man didn't seem like he knew Ian.

“Thanks, man, you've been a real big help.”

Ian set the bag down at the man's front door. They were still on the South Side, in Englewood, Ian could tell by the run-down houses, the sirens, and the people who lived in this neighborhood.

Ian wondered why this man was shopping at a grocery store seven blocks from his home. Funny enough, he insisted on talking to Ian, but then didn't say a word. This man was mysterious, and Ian was far enough along to say that their meeting was no coincidence.

“Can I return the favor?”

“Nah, you don’t have to.” Ian smiled.

“You sure?” The man pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “I should buy you a coffee.”

Ian frowned. “No, that's really—”

“Can I have your number?” The man thrust the cell phone into his hand, not letting Ian speak. “Then I can text you as soon as I get a day off.”

Damn it, Ian just wanted to go shopping. This man was ignoring Ian's clear signals, overplaying them, and Ian was too overwhelmed to think clearly. His thoughts meshed, but the fat wall prevented him from accessing them.

“Here.” Ian handed his phone back to him. “I'll answer it as soon as I have time.”

The man made no effort to hide his wide grin. “Thank you, man.” He slapped Ian's shoulder before holding his hand out to him. “I'm Mickey Milkovich.”

Damn. Mickey. Mickey Milkovich. That name, where the hell had he heard that name before? Mandy? Mandy fucking Milkovich. Of course! He was the notorious south side thug.

“Ian Gallagher.”

As their hands met, skin on skin, so did their eyes. That eye contact, like a lightning strike, electrified him, sent impulses through every nerve, from head to toe, into the tips of his fingers.

“Yeah, well, uh, have a good one.” Ian scratched the back of his head, an uncertain smile on his lips.

“Yeah, likewise. See ya.”

Ian waved, and as he turned, he pinched his palm. He couldn't tell for sure if it had been a nightmare or a normal dream. Well, it was scary, he was out of breath, his heart was racing. But not because he had encountered a serial killer. Nor because he was ashamed. Especially not because his brain was initiating a system failure. But the alarm system lit up red, every second, red, black, red, black - it didn't stop.

It didn't fucking stop.

(...) Ian crossed his arms as he pressed the button. The crystal stars glowed in different colors: blue, green, red, gold. Each of these stars represented an emotion. Blue for prudence, green for hope, red for love, gold for success — All of which Ian did not reflect. Rather: blue for distance, green for poison, red for danger, and gold for envy.

Ian took a picture of the fir tree.

Fiona tried to reach Ian. He must have missed it through the stress of shopping. He called back.

“Ian!” That wasn’t Fiona’s voice.

Ian’s mouth dropped open. “Liam? Oh my god!”

“Hi! Thank you for the gift!”

Ian sat down, frowning. “Uh, yeah? What was it again?”

“I love the figure!" There was a rustle. “Black Panther is my favorite hero.”

“Yeah, I figured, kiddo.” Ian stroked his forehead with his index finger, sighing. “I'm glad you like it.”

Silence. 

“Fiona’s been trying to call me. Is she free right now?”

“She's talking to Lip, but I'll let you know when they're done.”

Ian clutched the device. “Lip? Is he with you guys? In Atlanta?”

“Yeah, with Mandy and their dog. Debbie and Carl are here, too. It's time you dropping by too!”

“I'll, uh, next year, man." Ian took a breath. “It's too late for today.”

Ian heard Liam sigh into the receiver. “Too bad, man, Fiona said you weren't coming. But she didn’t explained why. So, why? Everyone's here!”

Ian wondered the same thing. Why? A question he could rack his brain over for days, if not weeks, but still not come up with a plausible answer other than “I screwed up.” Because it was true, he had screwed up. There was no explanation you could understand, like Lip, who couldn't find a comprehensible explanation for dropping out of college. There was only one difference: Lip learned from his mistake and put in the effort, well, Ian didn't.

“I screwed up.”

“Screwed up? What?”

He hadn't taken the chance. “I missed the flight, kid, just a little mistake that cost me Christmas.” His heart burst like a balloon that needed only a teeny pinprick to fly to shreds. The needle was his family, the prick the opportunity that had evaporated. But he couldn't just take a new balloon, blow it up and place it in place of the old one — it was impossible.

“Oh, that sucks. You have to be there next year, Ian, absolutely! We miss you here!”

“I will, promised, bud.”

Ian didn't want Liam to hang up. Holy shit, he didn't want to spend this fucking day alone. Fuck, no, why? Why the fuck hadn't he taken the chance to break out of this shit?

“See you around, Buddy.” Ian hung up.

He yanked open the window. The unbroken window. But also the broken one. Because he didn't care if it would flip apart, if the heavy frame would smite him, if the glass would shatter and slash his face. It didn't matter, the freezing cold didn't matter, the rent didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. He could have jumped down, because his body wouldn't be found until the snow thawed in the spring. For no one cared. He was alone — no, lonely, lonely and broken.

But what good did it do him to cry? Nothing, but nothing made him laugh either, so what else could he do but cry? Ian had the right to complain, yes he did. But it didn't get him anywhere. But where would the steps take him anyway? To a better life? Across the finish line? Shit, no, he wasn't even fighting for a better life, he was fighting to survive. How could he have hope for better ways when the only way that was revealed to him meant certain death? He could have turned back, but what was there but darkness shrouded in mist? Nothing. Far and wide nothing.

Ian flipped open the computer. He deleted everything his blog entry for today was supposed to contain - an unforgettable family celebration? Wishful thinking.

 

December 25 at 6:21 p.m.

IAN G.

900 Steps left: an unforgettable family day — without Ian 

Edit: the day, how imperfect it is.

My family? Celebrating.

Me? Well, I’m celebrating too.

Today, what was today, a memorable day? My family doesn’t forget me, but neither does the saleswoman in the store. What happened? I don’t know. It all happened so fast, until suddenly a complete stranger is on my heels, whose shopping bags I also drag seven blocks.

I know this person, from somewhere, somewhere in my thoughts he has appeared before. Somewhere. It's funny.

He wants to see me. To return the favor. If I could, I would. Would I? I don’t know. Who wants to see me? Who? Him? Who is he?

But I wanted to see my family. But I couldn’t. I imagined it. In my mind, they were all there, happy, laughing. I stole the Christmas tree. Oh— I did!

But actually I bought it. I bought, wasted, because why? It was the rent. I get kicked out. Out of this house. Out of this dirty, moldy house. Is that supposed to scare me? Nothing runs here, no heating, the windows are broken, it's cold.

It's cold. So cold. It hurts. It hurts so incredibly, because it's so cold. But what is cold? The room, or me? The room, because it is my home without being my home. Me, because I am me without being me.

Nine hundred steps. Nine hundred? It feels like three. Three steps. But is there a difference whether nine hundred or three? It doesn't matter how far away I am. Because this abyss, this hold, there is no such thing. There is nothingness, yes, but which would you rather have? Pain, or nothing?

So many questions. And yet there is no answer.

His stomach growled. The small wound on his cheek burned under the salty tears as well as his eyes, swollen and bloodshot, from the biting wind. His jaw ached from the constant clenching. So did his teeth when they rubbed against each other. His arms and legs shook like aspen leaves.

Ian cried. And then he laughed. Because it made no difference whether he laughed or cried. Because neither was getting him what he needed - his family. In that moment. Just for half a minute. For a whole one, maybe.

Was Ian crazy? Crazy for getting hysterical? Crazy for not closing the windows even though the cold was knocking him out? These questions, he hated them, but the monster expected answers. There weren't.

(...) Ian scrolled through the comments, as usual.

jfbfnn

09:12 be a man and stop crying, get your act together and be fine

Ian's heart slipped into his pants, wanting to delete the post, not fighting back. Because would explaining himself change the situation? Maybe the person was right, Ian should have picked himself up, but what did they know about him? The right to judge, no, they didn't have that.

IAN G.

10:23 If I don't do it, I'm less of a man? What difference would it make?

Ian tried to explain what he was going through based on these posts. He didn't want pity, no he didn't need it from anonymous people, he didn't want to complain, or cry, hell, he didn't want people telling him what to do. Fuck, what did he care about the opinions of complete strangers? No, he didn't want to hear them. He didn't want to hear anything, nothing.

What did he want then? An open ear. No “you're so strong,” fuck, he wanted to get a silent audience that understood what he was going through. But no one understood. And no one was mute. Because when they were, it wasn't right either, but when they spoke, they spoke critically.

alexa

7:48 You're speaking in riddles, more and more, and it sounds like your life is going downhill. What about the job at the restaurant?

 

IAN G.

10:25 The job at the restaurant? Oh, you mean the diner! How should I put it? I got a warning letter.

The job at the diner. Ian laughed. The warning letter, no, it wasn't funny. He didn't call in sick, just missed work, returned the next day - “never again!” they said. Ian nodded. The system failure followed at home.

alexa

10:33 No difference, right? You sound so desperate, I wish I could keep you company. :(

Alexa was one of the regular comment writers under Ian's blog. Their contact never exceeded the comments section, but Ian counted on Alexa's comments as if they were the encouraging messages of a real friend. It didn't matter if Alexa was actually Horst (53). Although — he did prefer Alexa (24).

IAN G.

10:35 You're doing it right now, aren't you? :D

Ian glanced at the open window. He had to close it, or the hearse would indeed show up the next morning — or, no, probably not until the nasty smell worked its way through the walls and reached the neighbors.

Ian shouldn't think too much about death.

alexa

10:41 Kind of, yeah. But not like it would help you, right? I mean, does it help you?

Did it help him? Ian automatically thought of Artificial Intelligences as soon as he imagined one of his readers — robots designed to read his shit. These machines that tried to look human and were therefore extremely creepy, because the more human they were supposed to be, the more inhuman they ended up being. He thought of a mechanical smile that scared off any living thing.

So no, it didn't help him.

IAN G.

10:45 think so, otherwise i would have stopped writing this diary long ago

Lies, oh, those glorious lies you could spread on the internet. No one would notice what garbage you babble, because no one knows you — you, the anonymous.

alexa

10:49 And that person you met today? Sounded mysterious, and it's on your mind.

Oh, that man. What was his name? Mickey, Mickey Mouse? Mickey Milkovich. Ian's fingers tingled as soon as he thought of their meeting. Was Mickey actually going to meet with him, even though Ian was silent for ninety percent of the conversation? Maybe Mickey was pursuing a plan, or maybe he was luring Ian into a trap to expose him. “Oh, poor you, you thought you had a chance with a man like me?” A man like him. Handsome. Humorous. Confident. He knew what he wanted, and what he wanted, he took. Ian dreamed of being like that.

IAN G.

10:52 It's bothering me. Funny, he wouldn't take his eyes off me, like he was trying to tell me something. That he knows me. Or anything else. That he... I don't know, but he wants to see me again. So I'm still going to find out. I guess. Unless he never contacts me again, ha ha.

Ian hadn't even asked for Mickey's number. So it was written in the stars whether he would ever hear from this man again. He could imagine that Mickey had just shrugged it off — or had already changed his mind. Equally, it was possible that he would eventually get in touch, and Ian wouldn't know who Mickey Milkovich was at all.

alexa

10:55 So its a date? :D cool!

The blood pumped in his cheeks. Fuck, a date? Ian hadn't given that phrase a single thought. Maybe Mickey was flirting with him, and Ian didn't notice because he was too busy thinking about the event at the store. Jesus. A date! Or just a sign of gratitude?

IAN G.

11:01 Oh, good question, if it was one. I'm not gonna go anyway. There's no way I'm going to meet a stranger when I can't even visit my family on Christmas :/

Ian was actually planning to visit Fiona in Atlanta at first. But the flights were clearly too expensive and he couldn't take the money from Fiona either without having to pay it back at some point. The option was open, they would travel to Chicago, but Ian's apartment was too small for so many people, because no one wanted to celebrate Christmas without their partner (or child, or dog). It was a family holiday, but as Lip explained, life partners were just as much a part of it.

Thus, it was clear that Ian would not be able to attend Christmas this year. Last year they celebrated in Chicago, but at Carl and Kelly's, whose house had enough space for all the Gallaghers + partners and kids. Why they didn't do it that way again this year? Carl was eager to get out of Chicago, and Ian's pride was too great to argue. So he told Fiona, “I'll fund the ticket somehow.” But he couldn't.

But Ian loved Christmas. Above everything. So he bought a Christmas tree, decorated it, even though he desperately needed the money. But his love for this holiday was greater than his love for this apartment, because it wasn't there. How could anyone love this shithole either? Still, time was pressing; Ian desperately needed to recoup the money for the rent. Otherwise, Ian could love Christmas on the street, bagging for money.

alexa

11:05 Sorry about that. :( But you have to try, right? The man seems, as you said, really interested! It doesn't matter how little you talk, or how weird you seem! The man seemed weird too, right? And do you care? Yes, because it even aroused your interest first!

Ian wondered about that, too. He didn't say anything, and yet Mickey wanted his cell phone number. Maybe he thought Ian was hiding his “exciting” side behind a wall of his self-protection mechanism, and maybe it was a game for Mickey to tear down that wall as if it were a thin sheet of paper. Fuck, no, it was a bombproof concrete wall encased in burning hot barbed wires. Sooner or later Mickey would hurt himself on it, rip his skin, burn his fingers — he would fail no matter what he did.

IAN G.

11:07 I don't know. I will see how I feel that day and then decide. Either way is possible. :D Either lucky or unlucky, but I don't know which decision will be lucky and which unlucky. It's kind of like a gamble with me

But in the end you would lose your invested money. The patience one invested as well. It was a human trap that sooner or later served to exploit and rob people of those they needed to keep going. Eventually they would find themselves in a dark hole, having lost everything and seeing no way out — this is the downward spiral of addiction. At some point, there is simply no way out.

alexa

11:10 A gamble? You speak from experience, don't you?

Ian did, yes, it was true. Ian's ex-boyfriend referred to him as a gamble. Ian seduced people with his innocent but enchanting looks, wrapping them around his fingers until they lost control and played like puppets on a string. Then, when the strings were at their sturdiest, the gambling addiction gripping the subjects with his firm grip, he would cut them and let the characters perish.

IAN G.

11:13 I do.

These words brought back memories. “This pain you feel now - this is the pain I felt when you cut the cord and let me down. Yet I did everything for you. Like a puppet.”

But Ian hadn't asked for that. He didn't ask for people to play like puppets on a theater stage that Ian controlled. He wanted his partner to be a person in his own right, with dignity in him, not selling himself as if Ian were the Messiah — or God.

(...)

fuck off

1:07 gloomy, man. if you're cold, why don't you just grab a blanket? or a sweater? or anything else that will keep you warm?

In the meantime Ian had closed the window, put a band-aid on the wound and eaten a sandwich.

IAN G.

1:30 I'm not cold anymore. :)

The Christmas tree was still lit up, the string of lights was battery operated. No one was bothered by that.

fuck off

1:33 would be unhealthy too, man

 

IAN G.

1:35 Pssht, I was emasculated earlier.

 

fuck off

1:39 what?

 

IAN G.

1:41 Didn't you read the other comments?

 

fuck off

1:44 no, do i look like i dont have fucking other things to do? better things dude

 

IAN G.

1:49 Sure. But then why do you keep hanging out on my blog like you just don't have anything better to do?

 

fuck off

1:52 No idea man its too late for head effort

 

IAN G.

1:54 Got it. Eight times thirteen? No calculator! Trust you. ;)

 

fuck off

1:58 103?

Oh, Ian entered it into the calculator himself. One hundred and four.

IAN G.

2:01 Almost. 104. But there's a reason to trust!

 

fuck off

2:03 well then, thanks? youre weird, man

Ian wasn't freaking out, no, he was actually grinning. It wasn't bad to be called weird or otherwise. After all, you stuck in someone's mind instead of melting into the crowd and becoming unidentifiable among thirty faces and personalities.

IAN G.

2:05 Thanks.

Ian folded the computer shut.

It wasn't bad to be different. It wasn't. And Ian, for the first time, was glad to be different.