"When his head was swimming with thoughts he could barely grasp, thoughts that muddled his brain and then flew out of reach, there was always one constant, always Mickey. His mind replayed every moment--the dirty smiles and "fuck you"s and moans, fingers brushing when they passed a joint back and forth, idle conversations about nothing. And then the weeks of silence and anger, where Mickey didn't know what to say and Ian just wanted someone to tell him that it wasn't all falling apart.

If his time away taught him anything, it was this: Ian loves him so much even when he's breaking.

--

There are always more important matters at hand. Ian throws himself into these tasks because he knows how to prioritize. Sometimes, when he's lucky, he gets so lost in the chaos that he manages to forget the bruises on his face and peppering his ribs and the ones buried deep within him.

But during a break in conversation, when the room grows silent for a rare moment, Ian feels the words forming on his tongue. For a second he can't pretend that he's okay anymore. No one's fucking okay, but that doesn't exclude him. That should matter to the people who claim to care.

So he opens his mouth, but then so does everyone else, and he finds himself getting drowned out by the noise. He closes his lips slowly and sits back and listens. Shrugs it off because it's fine. Ian's never been one to talk over the crowd.

--

"Is this a forever thing?" Ian asks into the space between them.

Mickey tightens his grip on Ian's hand. It's answer enough."