His head was spinning and he felt like he was going to hurl any moment now. It was raining, and he guessed it was only appropriate really, as he walked behind the party (calling it a party was wrong but honestly, what else would he call it?) carrying a casket as black as night. Even the sky was mourning.
They wouldn't let him carry the casket, no matter how much he swore or screamed or threatened, and only told him to accept it.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't. Fair.
He'd been rudely woken up one morning, maybe fourteen days ago? He didn't keep track, from someone banging on his door. When he finally dragged his ass to said door there was a man with the most stoic face he'd even seen. His uniform had been crisp and pristine and the man didn't even have to say anything. Mickey understood anyway.
He was dead. Gone. Brutally ripped from this world.
The Man In Uniform said it had been an ambush, that they hadn't seen the bombs coming. The entire camp was obliterated. 16 MIAs, 1 confirmed casualty. Of cource, it was the one person Mickey could not lose. (They never even let him see his body. They said it was better not to. He didn't care. They didn't him.)
Not now, not ever. And yet it had happened. Fate had a harsh way of fucking with you.
The days had passed in a daze. The Gallaghers coming over, apologizing (they didn't do anything wrong, they also lost someone so so important to them), Debbie asking if she could have a shirt that belonged to him. Or maybe a book. Something that reminded her of her brother. (Mickey let her have a book, one of his Military ones. He didn't really care for it, but he remembered later that he'd heard him read it out loud once when she couldn't sleep and was staying over after a fight with Fiona. The girl was asleep within minutes.)
Carl asked for a knife. Fiona and Lip didn't want anything. Liam cried himself to sleep.
They stayed for while, maybe a few nights? He really didn't care for keeping track of time.
Svetlana came over and forced him to eat. She didn't bring their son, said he shouldn't see Mickey like that. She didn't say she was sorry for his loss. He didn't care. He just didn't.
Svetlana made sure the funeral was arranged. Or rather, that they found out his burial date.
So there he was. Walking behind men in uniforms, all lined up. So stoic. So cold. Uncaring that his sun and stars was in a casket, about to be buried in cold soil on an unforgiving graveyard.
The minutes ticked by.
People spoke about him, nodded to Mickey, people crying in the background. A few soldiers fighting to hold back their tears, raising their guns, firing in salute.
The flag was folded up, and the casket was buried. The casket was covered in soil.
The casket was gone from his sight.
The white, bland soldier's cross hadn't been raised yet. It took another four days. They had to make so many, because more and more bodies were found.
Four days after the funeral, Mickey was standing in front of the white cross.
"Ian Milkovich" was engraved on a silver rectangle, so small you had to squint to read it while standing up. (Or maybe his eyesight was just bad)
Mickey's sun and stars. His galaxy. Officially put to rest.
And Mickey soon followed.