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when the party's over

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OFFICIAL WITNESS STATEMENT OF MIKHAILO ALEKSANDER MILKOVICH

10TH DISTRICT CHICAGO POLICE

POLICE: Can you state your full name and address for the record?
MM: Mikhalio Aleksander Milkovich. 1955 Zemansky Road, Chicago, Illinois.
POLICE: Can you briefly describe the events that occurred at North Wallace?
MM: I was visiting friends. I was outside on the sidewalk. Sammi came up to me yelling and screaming and pointing a fucking gun at me so I started to run. She shot the gun at me a few times, didn’t hit me.
POLICE: Sammi is Samantha Slott?
MM: Yeah.
POLICE: Who were you visiting?
MM: Her half-sibling’s house. She used to live there.
POLICE: Is there any reason Ms. Slott would want to chase after you with a gun?
MM: Not that I know of. Maybe she didn’t like that I’m gay.
POLICE: You believe Ms. Slott’s attack on you was a hate crime towards your sexuality?
MM: Maybe.
POLICE: Who were you visiting? Can you state names?
MM: The Gallaghers. Frank Gallagher’s kids. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.
POLICE: Ms. Slott claims that you attempted to have her killed.
MM: That’s not true.
POLICE: She claims that you drugged her and put her in a moving crate a few nights ago at the home of Frank Gallagher and his children.
MM: I was at the Gallagher’s a few nights ago, helping watch some of the youngest kids that night. Sammi was there, but I did not touch her.
POLICE: Who was with you that night at the Gallagher’s?
MM: Debbie Gallagher.
POLICE: What is your relation to the Gallaghers?
MM: Family friend.
POLICE: What were you doing on the sidewalk?
MM: Talking to one of the Gallaghers.
POLICE: Can you provide names?
MM: Why does this even fucking matter?
POLICE: Names, Milkovich, we need full context of the events.
MM: I was talking to Ian Gallagher outside the house. He had just shown up from disappearing with his mother, Monica Gallagher for a few days. He’s bipolar and unmedicated, and I was seeing if he was okay. We were talking, arguing, and Sammi showed up out of nowhere and starting shooting a fucking gun at me. That’s all.
POLICE: What were you and Ian Gallagher arguing about?
MM: He was breaking up with me, okay? Do you have all the fucking information you need now?
POLICE: That will be all.

END OF STATEMENT


The douchebags at the jail hold Mickey for over twelve hours before they realize there’s nothing they can charge him with. They only have Sammi’s word that Mickey tried to kill her, but she was charging after him like a goddamn lunatic with an unregistered gun, so they have a hard time holding him for anything other than disturbing of the peace or resisting arrest. They’re too lazy to even charge him with that so they let him go with a bullshit warning.

Mickey leaves with a solemn and enthusiastic middle finger to them all, and begins his walk away. He thinks he might just go back to his place, but he’s worried about what they could find out about the night he shoved her in the box from Sammi. Mickey runs through that night and makes a list of everyone he talked to that night. Thankfully, it’s short. Debbie, Liam, and Frank. Frank was probably too drunk to care, there’s no knowing what Liam Gallagher commits to memory. Debbie could be an issue. Mickey has no fucking clue what she would say if police showed up at her door. The truth, probably, which would be Mickey’s one way ticket to fucking prison. Not just juvie, prison .

He heads home anyway. It’s late, and he’s exhausted, dealing with the Gallaghers can wait until the morning. When he gets to his house, it’s quiet. Iggy is out doing who knows what, who knows where, with who knows who. Svetlana is still playing housewife to fucking Kevin Ball, and Mandy fucked off with Kenyatta months ago. (The bitch still won’t return Mickey’s phone calls.) Mickey heads straight to his room and throws himself down face first on the bed.

It’s kind of then when everything actually hits him. He was almost arrested for fucking attempted murder, he was almost shot again , and Ian fucking Gallagher dumped him.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

Mickey flips over onto his back and pulls his phone roughly from his pocket. He has no texts. Fucking absolutely nothing from Ian, not even an hope you’re not getting arrested or a let’s work this out text. Mickey has zip. And, god, it fucking kills him.

At least when Ian fucked off to the army Mickey understood where he was coming from, even if it hurt. This - fuck - this makes no fucking sense. Mickey isn’t sure if that makes the situation worse, all he knows is that he feels like his heart has been shot to pieces, spat on, and curb-stomped into the ground. And he’s actually had all of that shit happen to him.

He loves Ian. He’s loved Ian for so fucking long, loved him so fucking much he doesn’t even know when it happened. It’s like he woke up one day willing to do fucking anything for the idiot. And this is what he gets in return. Sounds about fucking right.

Mickey goes to the kitchen, grabs a beer, and waits to pass out.


The next day he walks straight to the Gallagher’s house, not thinking about the last time he was standing there, nope he’s not fucking thinking about that right now. He needs to talk to Debbie about the whole Sammi thing. He doesn’t think the cops will push this thing any further, but he needs to cover every base, even if it means he has to willingly return to the Gallagher house.

Mickey takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. The world seems to be on his side for a moment, because Debbie is the one who answers the door.

“Hey,” Mickey says quickly.

“Hi,” Debbie responds, “Are you here for Ian? He’s just upstai-”

That’s the last fucking thing Mickey wants, “No - no, I’m actually here to talk to you.”

“Me? Why?” Debbie asks, a bewildered look on her face. It tells Mickey everything he needs to know. Ian hasn’t said shit about him to his family, but he still asks.

“Ian hasn’t told you what happened? With Sammi?” Mickey asks. Debbie’s face immediately goes white. Fuck. Mickey really shouldn’t have dragged her into this. “Guess fucking not - listen, Sammi’s alive, okay? She came after me with a fucking gun, and we both got arrested-”

“Oh my god , are you okay? Did you get hurt?” Debbie immediately starts spewing off questions.

Listen , I’m fine - I just - I gotta know that if the police come that you won’t say anything, okay?”

Debbie’s jaw snaps shut, “Gallaghers don’t snitch.”

Mickey shrugs offhandedly. Wouldn’t be the last time a Gallagher fucked him over. (Maybe not the best phrasing.)

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Debbie says, making Mickey look up at her with a what the fuck? Look, “You never touched Sammi that night. You were here with me and Liam, you made pancakes for dinner because it’s the only thing you know how to make, and we put on some stupid movie before you went back to your place.”

Ah. Mickey thinks. The girl is smart.

Mickey nods, “Yeah. Thanks, Debbie.”

“Debs?” Mickey hears from inside the house. Ian. Mickey spins around on his heels and fuck-nopes the hell off that porch as fast as he can. He can hear Debbie calling out for him, but he can’t deal with Ian right now. Hell fucking no. He’s only made it a few steps out of the Gallagher’s yard when he feels a hand on his arm spinning him around, and he’s staring Ian right in his stupid face. Who, of course, doesn’t say a fucking word but just stares at Mickey, and he still has a goddamn crazy look in his eye.

“They let me go,” Mickey says, throwing his hands in the air, “Sorry I wasn’t arrested and thrown in jail, I’m sure that’s what you would have wanted.”

Ian’s face squints in confusion, “That’s not what I want,” he says.

“Then what the fuck do you want, Ian?” Mickey yells, too mad to even care that he could be drawing attention to the two of them, to the Gallagher’s who are probably watching this from their front porch. “What do you want from me? Huh? You made your point pretty clear, figured you’d want me gone.”

Ian shakes his head, “Mickey,” he steps forward, reaching for him.

Mickey pulls away fast, “Fuck no, fuck no , Ian. Fuck off,” he’s breathing fast, “You wanted me gone? I’m gone, okay?”

And Ian just stands there. Just like he did in front of of his house yesterday when Sammi took after Mickey with a fucking gun. Mickey can only laugh, running a hand through his hair. Looking at Ian now, Mickey realizes how fucked he looks. Ian’s wearing the same clothes Mickey saw him in last, and he really doesn’t look like he’s showered. Ian’s eyes are dark and red like he hasn’t been sleeping, making Mickey’s heart tug because the last time he saw Ian anything like this it was hot and humid outside, and he was laying in Mickey’s bed and wouldn’t look him in the eye.

But Ian doesn’t want Mickey around. So instead, Mickey just points a finger at him and says, “Take your fucking meds, Ian,” turns around, and walks away.


Mickey drinks for the next forty-eight hours. Not completely straight, he assumes he had to have passed out for some of it. But when he’s awake, he’s drinking. Call it what you will, but Mickey doesn’t have “healthy coping mechanisms” or whatever the fuck those are. He’s a Milkovich. 

Instead, here he is, hating himself. Hating himself for not getting Ian to a doctor sooner, hating himself for running after Ian every single time, hating himself for telling Ian that he fucking loves him and getting it thrown back in his face.

Ian probably doesn’t even love him anyway. Fuck.

So forty-eight hours later, Mickey finds himself sitting on his bed, a pile of darts next to his right side, a beer by his left. He’s moved Ian’s photo above the dresser at one point, so he can throw them right at Gallagher’s stupid fucking face.

There’s a knock on his door.

“Fuck off!” Mickey yells in return.

The door opens anyway. Jesus, does no one in his fucking family care about privacy ? When he looks out of the corner of his eye, he knows who it is - it’s fucking Lip. Of course, because the only people who don’t care about privacy more than his family are fucking Gallaghers.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, taking a swig of his beer.

Lip scoffs, “Seriously? You’re just going to avoid Ian again? Thought you were done with this shit.”

What the fuck is he talking about?

“Ian’s been sitting on the couch for the last three days, we can barely convince him to change his clothes,” Lip spits, “We don’t think he’s consistently taking his meds. Can you come talk some sense into him?

Mickey rolls his eyes, ignoring Lip. Fuck this guy, man, honestly. Mickey’s never liked him.

Mickey ,” Lip yells, “Ian needs you, what the hell are you doing?”

“Ian doesn’t need shit from me,” Mickey yells back, “He made that pretty damn clear.”

“What?”

“He hasn’t told you? Dumped my ass right on your front lawn, made it pretty fucking clear he doesn’t want me around anymore. I’m sure you are all thrilled.”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“Are you actually that fucking stupid?” Mickey spits back, “It’s done. Ian can do whatever the fuck he wants now, I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s on his meds or not.” It’s a total fucking lie, but it seems to finally sink into Lip what Mickey is saying.

“Ian really ended it?” Lip asks, like he didn’t believe it or some shit. Like Ian throwing Mickey to the curb isn’t exactly what the asshole has wanted for years.

“Yep,” Mickey confirms, taking a dart and throwing it. Hard . This one actually hits the picture right between Ian’s eyes. Nice.

Lip shifts uncomfortably where he’s standing, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He glances between Mickey, and the picture-Ian a few times, looking like he wants to say more, but he’s just standing there like a goddamn idiot. Serves him right.

“Now that we’ve cleared this shit up, can you fuck right off?” Mickey says, throwing him a shit-eating grin and downing the rest of his beer, throwing the can on the floor beside him.

Miracuously, Lip leaves. And Mickey is alone.


Ian’s sat on the floor in the bathroom with his empty pill bottles on the floor in front of him. This is the right thing to do, flushing the pills again, he knows it is. He can just ride the waves, he watched his mother do it for years. If Monica can ride the waves of his fucking disease, he should be able to do it easily.

The pills will make him feel like shit. So what’s the point of taking them?

Ian gets up from the floor, leaving the empty bottles behind, and goes back to the living room. He’s created a spot for him there, that feels good. It feels safe, and secure, no one can get him there, no one can bother him here. Other than his family, who will probably lose their shit once they see the empty pill bottles in the bathroom. But he can deal with that later.

Ian’s thoughts drift to Mickey. It makes him wonder if Mickey would be trying to call him, but his phone died a while ago, and he hasn’t bothered plugging it in. Doesn’t feel like it. There isn’t anyone he really wants to talk to, anyway.

Letting Mickey go was the right thing to do. Ian was sick, forever, and he couldn’t let Mickey stick around for that. Ian didn’t mind ruining himself with this disease, but he wasn’t going to let it ruin Mickey. He knew Mickey was destined for more than what he was getting with Ian. 

A long time ago Mickey had told Ian that he was fucked for life, but little did they fucking know.

Mickey said he loved Ian. But what does that even mean? Frank loved Monica. Fiona loved Jimmy-Steve. Lip loved Karen. Where were they all now with that love? Frank is a drunk with six (five? seven?) kids he doesn’t love, Fiona finds a way to fuck up every relationship she’s had, and Lip - Lip doesn’t even seem interested in a serious commitment to anyone.

And Ian? Ian is a bipolar homosexual living in the South Side of Chicago.

The front door opens. “Hey,” Lip greets him, walking into the living room, “When were you gonna tell us you broke up with Mickey?”

Ian shrugs, “When it came up, I guess.”

Lip gives him a look Ian can’t place, “Dude - why? I mean, not that I’m complaining, but you’ve been obsessed with Mickey for years . Just a few weeks ago you were going crazy thinking that it was done between you two. What happened?”

Ian can only shrug again. What did happen?

“It’s just done, Lip. Better this way.”

“Better for who? Because Mickey seems to be pretty upset.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, “You went to see him?”

“Yes,” Lip says, his voice raising, “Ian, you’ve barely left the house in days, you just got back from running off with Monica , and Mickey hasn’t been around. We’ve been worried,” Ian rolls his eyes. Everyone’s always fucking worried about him, he wishes they would give him a goddamn break.

“So I went to see Mickey, thinking he was just being an asshole and avoiding you.”

“And?”

“Said that you dumped his ass. He’s throwing darts at a photo of your face.”

That shit makes Ian laugh, probably more than it should. He laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs, until Lip is staring at him speechless, looking at him like he’s crazy. That’s when Ian remembers. Oh yeah, he is crazy. That just makes him laugh even more.