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“‘S not fair,” Ian croaked weakly.
He reached a shaking hand out to take the ice cold glass of water Mickey had brought him. After a week of practically hacking up a lung in regular intervals and keeping both himself and Mickey awake most of the night, Ian had caved and they’d seen a doctor.
It was mild pneumonia, and luckily hospitalization hadn’t been necessary. The doctor had prescribed antibiotics and prohibited him from smoking. He was now sitting in their bed, with practically every pillow they owned propping him up. The coughing had persisted and seemed to be worse each and every time he tried to lay down flat. In short, he was miserable.
“You smoke way more than me,” Ian complained as he washed some painkillers down with a mouthful of water. His voice sounded like he’d swallowed razor blades.
“You got a bacterial infection, dumbass.” Mickey rolled his eyes. “The doc just said that smoking was making it worse.”
He knew Ian well enough to not bring up the fact the doctor said people with bipolar often were more prone to infections in general. Ian already knew – he was there – he was just a bad sick person. He didn’t like being bedridden, and was feeling a little catty about it. Ian himself had once been a medical professional, doubtless he knew all about immune systems, and the role bipolar could play.
“I’ve never known you to get sick,” Ian pointed out a little petulantly.
That was true. But Mickey had likely developed some kind of tolerance against a lot of things, and growing up dirty and malnourished was probably a contributing factor. His entire childhood had been like one of those fucked up chicken pox parties for toddlers. He wasn’t allowed to be sick as a child, and if he ever felt ill then nobody would care for him. He’d learnt very quickly to simply ‘grin and bear it’. Apart from the GERD he struggled with, he was as healthy as an ox, and didn’t seem to catch whatever illnesses were going around, no matter how exposed he was.
“What can I say?” Mickey snarked, not interested in re-hashing his less than stellar upbringing. “Iron immune system, man.”
“‘S not fair,” Ian repeated, but he slumped a little further into the pillows and closed his eyes to try to sleep.
After ensuring that the apartment was locked up for the night, Mickey slid into bed beside his husband. He tucked the blankets tight around Ian before he snuggled down under the covers himself. He laid on his side so he could watch Ian’s laboured breathing. There was a slight wheeze and hitch as his chest rose and fell. Mickey knew he wasn’t yet sleeping. He reached a hand out to soothe the feverish skin of Ian’s bare sternum.
“You probably shouldn’t be this close to me,” Ian mumbled, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Might catch it.”
“Nah,” Mickey dismissed easily. “I don’t get sick, remember?”
Ian furrowed his brow and Mickey knew that if he had the energy, he’d be rolling his eyes. With a smile, Mickey pressed a kiss to Ian’s clammy forehead, then settled down to sleep.
The next few days passed in much the same fashion.
It was day three into Ian’s recovery, and the first night since this whole thing started that Mickey hadn’t been awoken to Ian’s coughing. And perhaps his body had somehow become accustomed to the disruptions, because he still found himself waking in the early hours of the morning. It was 03:21 according to the digital clock on his bedside table. The dim lamp light was still on, and when Mickey turned to look, Ian was reading silently beside him.
He meant to ask if Ian was okay, if he needed some more painkillers or water, but the fitful sleep of the prior nights must have taken its toll on him. He fell back asleep quickly, as though he hadn’t woken at all.
The next night was similar. Mickey fell asleep beside his husband, whose coughing had all but dissipated – reduced down to one or two occasional coughs, rather than the fits that had overtaken him previously. But once again he awoke in the middle of the night, as though he knew something was wrong, to find that Ian was no longer beside him.
The low hum of the living room TV filtered into his senses. With a furrowed brow Mickey slipped out of their bed and ventured into the larger living space. It had been years since he’d slept without Ian, and perhaps it was that alone that had prompted him awake. Maybe his subconscious had felt Ian’s absence enough to rouse him. He rubbed at his tired eyes as he took in the sight of Ian sitting up in the middle of their lumpy, second-hand couch.
He was absently flicking through late night channels, mostly just re-runs of old game shows and infomercials. He never settled on one channel longer than a few seconds, clearly not paying attention to any of them, and not looking for anything in particular.
“What the fuck are you doin’, Red?” Mickey grumbled.
“Nothin’,” Ian replied. His voice was getting steadily better, nowhere near as scratchy as he’d been before they’d visited the clinic. “Go back to sleep.”
“Come with me,” Mickey implored. “Sounds gay as shit, but I don’t like sleepin’ without you.”
The restlessness of the prior week must have surely taken its toll on Ian too. The coughing couldn’t have been helped, and it was no one’s fault, but Mickey was exhausted. He didn’t understand why Ian wasn’t relishing in the reprieve now that the coughing seemed to have been quelled. But his husband didn’t even turn to look at him, remained staring at the ever-changing screen, the remote control grasped tightly in one hand.
“I don’t wanna keep you up,” Ian replied quietly. “I’m not tired. All I’ve done is rest. I’ll stay here.”
Mickey’s brow furrowed. Ian was supposed to rest, his body was using all of its energy to recover. But he knew that Ian knew that, just the same way that Ian knew that a disruption to his sleeping habits could be detrimental to him with or without the infection. But he stayed quiet. Because Ian wasn’t a child, he didn’t need to be treated like one. Mickey was too tired for an argument, and didn’t want his concern to be taken the wrong way.
“Alright, if you’re up, I’m up.” Mickey shrugged as he walked around to the front of the couch, to be seen in Ian’s peripheral. “Skootch over,” he gestured as he wedged himself between Ian’s body and the seat's arm.
“You can go back to bed, Mick,” Ian said softly. “I’m fine. I’d probably just wake up coughing if I tried to sleep anyway.”
“If you’re up, I’m up,” Mickey repeated. “In sickness and health.”
“I don’t think that’s what it means,” Ian said, but there was the barest twitch to the corner of his mouth.
With a sigh, Ian wordlessly moved over to make room. He slung his arm over Mickey’s shoulders. His one hand began to rub soothing circles into Mickey’s bicep, and the other continued to flick through channels absently. Despite his best intentions of staying awake, Mickey succumbed.
When he woke up again it was to the early morning sun beaming through the balcony door, with a crick in his neck, and no husband. Mickey peered over the back of the couch to find Ian humming softly to himself as he buttered toast. Though Ian had always been an early riser, the prior days of him lying listless and feverish in bed made the sight almost jarring.
It was Monday morning though, so perhaps Ian finally felt well enough to return to work. It had already been decided that Mickey would be returning to their usual runs anyway. Running their own business had been convenient when it came to Mickey taking time off because Ian had needed him, but Ian had seemingly been getting steadily better, and Mickey didn’t need to be home anymore.
“You don’t have to bother with the uniform or whatever,” Mickey said as he stood from the couch and stretched. His aging body felt it as his joints popped and cracked. “Just stay in the rig, I’ll deal with the clients.”
“Mornin’,” Ian said brightly as Mickey made his way over. He didn’t acknowledge what Mickey had said, simply placed a slice of toast and a mug of coffee in front of Mickey and leaned over to kiss his cheek.
“Did you even get any sleep last night?” Mickey asked around a yawn as the aroma of coffee helped to rouse him.
“Little bit,” Ian shrugged like it was no big deal. “Think I might stay home today though, get some more rest.”
Mickey’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed as he watched Ian closely. And Ian, oblivious to the scrutiny, took his pills – both his every day prescription and antibiotic – before draining his own coffee. There was something not quite right, but not significant enough for Mickey to put his finger on. There was nothing necessarily wrong with what Ian was saying, or how he was behaving. But there was something very not typical about it, almost not Ian.
Ian had more drive, more get-up-and-go, than anyone Mickey had ever met. Ian had more of a work ethic than anybody on the South Side. Ian pushed himself at every hurdle, and Mickey had been prepared to bicker with Ian about taking it easy. Just last night Ian had said he didn’t need more rest. Yet now he didn’t want to go to work? Even when Mickey wasn’t fighting him on it?
But Mickey didn’t want to fight. And Ian really should stay home and rest. Perhaps it was simply a good thing that Ian was focusing on his recovery. So Mickey put his doubts down to his own exhaustion, and ate his toast.
That evening, while waiting for the pizza delivery Ian had ordered, Mickey went out onto the balcony to smoke. Despite warming to the apartment complex considerably, Mickey still resented the ‘no smoking inside’ rule, especially in the colder months.
However, he found he didn’t mind so much when he was doing it for Ian’s sake. He’d been making sure he didn’t ever light a cigarette around Ian, since the very first coughing fit had sent Ian doubling over. Mickey might not be interested in appeasing some yuppy building manager, but he was very much interested in taking care of his husband.
He was about half-way through his smoke when the balcony door slid open quite abruptly. Ian stood in the entrance, his brow was furrowed and he regarded Mickey incredulously.
“What?” He asked, apropos of nothing.
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Mickey said as he quickly crushed his cigarette in the ash tray and exhaled away from his husband. “What the fuck, Ian?”
“You called me,” Ian said confusedly. “I just wanted to see what you wanted.”
“I didn’t call you.” Mickey shrugged. “Must be hearin’ things, man.”
“I swear I heard you,” Ian mumbled and his brows drew together.
They stared at each other for a quiet moment. Finally, Ian shrugged, and took a seat beside Mickey at their tiny little stainless steel table. The balcony was just big enough for the table and two matching chairs. There was a flower box over the edge that Ian enjoyed tending to. It was peaceful, and they’d spent many evenings in these exact seats, sharing a joint and looking out over the city.
“Pizza here, yet?” Mickey asked.
“Not yet.” Ian smiled, and reached a hand out to lay it over Mickey’s on the tabletop. “Lip called today. I told him I'm feeling a lot better, so we’re gonna do family dinner tomorrow night.”
“If we have to,” Mickey huffed, but his eyes sparkled.
They both knew by now that it was a performative, token protest. The Gallaghers were Mickey’s family just as much - maybe even more so - than any Milkovich had ever been.
The silence that fell between them was tranquil, and Ian’s thumb kept up a slow, circular caress to the back of Mickey’s hand. Mickey couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed that his smoke break had been interrupted. Despite not getting an adequate nicotine fix, there was no way he was breaking the moment. And there was definitely no way he was sparking up again around Ian.
Suddenly, Ian’s hand withdrew, and his head snapped up as he stared out over the horizon. His eyes appeared wide and searching, and a frown marred his lips.
“Did you hear that?” He asked.
Mickey’s brow furrowed as he studied Ian’s profile. He hadn’t heard anything. He’d actually been thinking the world seemed so much quieter than usual, so peaceful as they sat together. He strained his ears, as though to try and pick up on whatever it was Ian had heard. But Ian’s reaction implied the sound should have been obvious.
“Wha-”
But before Mickey could ask what it was he was supposed to be hearing, a knock sounded on the apartment door. The pizza had arrived. And Mickey forgot the strange moment, dismissed it easily. Perhaps the delivery driver had knocked before, soft enough that Mickey hadn’t heard it, even if Ian had.
Dinner at the Gallagher house was never a quiet affair, but this particular evening was quieter than most. Liam was tutoring some kid on the North Side, and had told the family to go ahead and eat without him. He said the family always got Chinese take-out on Fridays, and hadn’t failed to feed him yet. Carl was helping cover a shift for Tipping at The Alibi Room, and even though it was mostly a cop bar now, it was still much the same as ever. Same name, same aged decor, same funky smell.
That meant family dinner was just Ian and Mickey, Lip, Tami and Fred, and Debbie and Franny. Tami had bought a large pre-prepped salad to accompany the tray of homemade lasagne Debbie had made, she was drizzling it with a vinaigrette sachet when Ian and Mickey walked through the back door. Fred and Franny were watching classic Looney Tunes, but came running to clutch at their uncles when they heard them.
Franny was getting tall now, even though she’d been quite small for her age when she was still a toddler. Now, at ten years old, she looked more and more like Ian every day. It was something that had Mickey melt a little inside. Despite Mickey’s apprehensive aversion to having children of his own, he loved being an uncle. And the easy love and acceptance Franny had shown him when he’d first shown up post-prison had been one of the things that had really made him feel part of the family. Fred was a shy little boy, his hair had gotten curly as it had grown out, the way Lip and Ian’s was, but it was a shocking blond, like Tami’s.
“Hey guys!” Ian enthused, and it made Mickey smile to see him so happy.
It had been a hard few weeks. And perhaps some home comforts and quality time would do Ian a world of good. Mickey had only ever needed Ian to feel content, but Ian was a social creature, and a family man.
Freddie tugged at Ian’s hand until he followed the kids into the lounge. No doubt they’d start explaining the trials and tribulations of Wile. E. Coyote, and Ian would listen with rapt fascination, as if he hadn’t already seen it countless times himself. Ian had a kind of patience that Mickey could never understand.
Lip came in from the porch, and the scent of tobacco clung to his clothes. Mickey was kinda glad he’d given up on that vape shit. The smell of cotton candy had been both gay as fuck, and misleading in how hungry it sometimes made Mickey. Lip Gallagher should never be allowed to smell sweet. As Lip stopped to talk to Ian, Mickey turned his attention to the food.
He watched as Debbie cut wedges of lasagne and placed them one by one on the plates she’d laid out. Tami added a helping of side salad to each in turn, each one exactly the same as the last. They both acknowledged Mickey absently as he approached the counter and claimed a plate for himself and one for Ian. He took the two plates to the dining table, and picked the cherry tomatoes off of his plate to slide them onto Ian’s. He probably wouldn’t touch the salad at all anyway, but he knew Ian would at least eat the tomatoes.
“Dinner!” Debbie called into the other room.
“Go wash up,” Tami said to Fred and Franny as they clambered towards the table. She gestured to the stairs with a fond but exasperated smile.
“Goin’ for a smoke,” Mickey said to nobody in particular as he headed to the back porch. He pointed to the table settings and plates he’d commandeered for himself and Ian, and inclined his head to his husband. “Got you a plate.”
Ian smiled at him gratefully. He touched Mickey’s back briefly as he took his seat, Mickey continued to make his way outside.
In the few minutes that Mickey had been gone, everything changed. He returned to the house with the scent of tobacco smoke still clinging to him, and was looking forward to his dinner. What had once been a warm and inviting evening with their family, had quickly devolved.
The tension was palpable. Mickey could practically taste it like bitter acid on the back of his tongue. He stood beside the dining table and tried to take in what had happened, to survey the damage. The kids were nowhere to be seen, but Fred’s muted wailing could be heard from upstairs. Tami was also missing, and presumably had taken the children away from the carnage.
Mickey could see Ian in the living room. He was pacing the small space in front of the couch, clearly agitated. His head was bowed and he seemed to be muttering to himself quietly. It very much gave the impression of a caged animal, in the throes of fight or flight. Instinctively, Mickey stepped forward, and wanted badly to close the gap between them. But Lip intercepted deftly, placed a hand on Mickey’s shoulder to stall him.
Mickey couldn’t take his eyes away from Ian. Debbie was standing in the entrance way of the kitchen, her hands were held out to Ian in a placating gesture, but her eyes were wide, almost frightened. Lip’s grip tightened imperceptibly.
“He’s freaking out,” Lip explained in a low voice. “He wouldn’t eat the food. Said it wasn’t safe. Lashed out when we tried to calm him down.”
Mickey had heard enough. He shrugged away from Lip’s hold more aggressively than necessary, but Lip had no right to try and stop him from getting to his husband. Ian had seemed okay, good even. Whatever this was, they would tackle it. He walked past Debbie without acknowledgement, and placed himself between Ian and the other Gallaghers.
“Ian,” he called out, and the sound of his name gave Ian pause. “What happened?”
It didn’t matter what Lip had already told him. What mattered was what Ian felt, what he had experienced. What mattered was finding out what Ian was dealing with so that Mickey could better understand how to talk him down.
“It’s poisoned,” Ian said. He’d stopped his pacing, and was regarding Mickey with steely eyes. There was something wild about his expression, like he was ready for a fight. “I know it. I could smell it. I tried to warn them but they tried to make me eat it. They called me a liar!” His voice grew louder, more laced with distress.
He was working himself up badly. Mickey could see the way Ian’s hands shook, the way his eyes darted from Mickey’s face to look over his shoulder. Mickey took measured steps to further bridge the gap between them. He kept his face neutral, his voice level.
“Okay,” He placated. “It’s okay. You don’t have to eat it. Okay?”
“Mickey!” Debbie hissed incredulously. “There’s nothing wrong with the food!” Whether it was in defense of her own cooking or in a misguided belief that he was enabling Ian’s delusion, it didn’t matter.
But it seemed to matter to Ian. His eyes snapped back over to her, then darted to a spot beyond them both, out into the kitchen, but his gaze seemed entirely unfocused. He was slipping. His mouth pressed into a grim line, his breaths hitched in his chest, and his posture straightened. He pulled himself up to his full height as though ready to go on the defense.
Mickey didn’t think. He just moved, closed the remaining few feet between them at once.
“Hey!” He said urgently, but still soft. “Hey, hey, hey.” He cupped Ian's face between his hands and his thumb stroked over the cut of Ian’s jaw. “Babyface, look at me.” He begged gently.
He watched as Ian struggled. His eyes slowly came back into focus, and flickered around the room. His jaw clenched in stubborn indignation, and Mickey just prayed he could still reach him.
“Hey, listen to me, okay?” Mickey’s voice was still so impossibly soft, low enough that only Ian could hear him. “It’s just you and me, right? You and me. And I’d never let anything happen to you, would I? You know that.”
Ian slumped forward then. Some of the tension left him, and instead of potentially volatile, he just looked beaten down and defeated. He rested his forehead against Mickey’s own and a tiny sob built in his throat.
“It’s poisoned, Mick,” he croaked.
“Okay, okay,” Mickey soothed. He kept his breaths slow and even, he kept his thumb moving in gentle circles on Ian’s skin. “I believe you. It’s okay.”
He nudged Ian towards the front door, intended to get him out of the house without any interference from the Gallaghers, and without Ian having to lay eyes on the food again. Debbie was silent and shaken against the doorframe when Mickey turned back.
Lip took an aborted step towards them but Mickey growled “shut the fuck up” before he could even open his mouth.
That night, after Ian had taken his downer and fallen into an exhausted sleep, Mickey went out onto the balcony. His fingers shook as he struggled to light his cigarette. Now that everything was more or less under control again, he was crashing. The adrenaline seeped out of him slowly. He blinked his heavy eyes to dispel the sting of tears. He had a dozen missed calls from Lip, he knew that Debbie had been worried too. God, the kids were probably terrified. But Ian would always be Mickey’s priority. He’d done what he had to do.
When he was almost finished with his smoke, and when his hands had finally stopped quaking, he bit the bullet. He dialled Lip.
“What the fuck, Mickey?” Lip demanded immediately.
“He’s okay,” Mickey promised first, because that was the most important thing. “We handled it.”
“You told him we tried to fucking poison him!” Lip accused, livid.
“Think about it, Einstein. You’re supposed to be the brains, aren’t ya?” Mickey countered. “You really think challenging him woulda helped? You can’t reason with him when he gets like that. That shit he thinks, what he feels, that’s fuckin’ real to him, man. I needed him to trust me. I needed to deescalate.”
There was a tense silence for a moment. Nothing but harsh breathing could be heard from both sides of the phone. Mickey knew he was right. Lip knew it too. And when it came down to it, the only time they ever really agreed on anything was when it was to do with Ian.
“Okay,” Lip finally conceded. “So, now what?”
“I’m taking him to the doctor tomorrow. I got him to take a downer, and he’s out for the night.” Mickey explained with a sigh. He scrubbed his hand roughly down his face, squeezed his eyes shut to keep from crying. “I played him that video he made for himself, y’know? The one we’re supposed to play if he’s manic. If Mickey tells you to take the downer, you take it. If Mickey tells you to go to the doctor, you go.”
Lip huffed a little, but didn’t comment. A part of Mickey could understand that maybe Lip felt displaced by him, but a larger part of him just wanted Lip to get the fuck over it. Ian was his husband. Mickey was the emergency contact. Mickey was the power of attorney. Mickey was the one who had been eating, sleeping, fucking breathing Ian since he was sixteen years old. Ian was his whole fucking life.
“Okay, just let me know if he needs anything, lemme know what the doctor says,” Lip’s voice sounded cautious, sad. He was full of angry frustration that didn’t have an outlet. “Night, Mickey.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
The next morning Ian was still rather groggy. He went through the motions of washing and dressing under Mickey’s direction, but didn’t offer much of an opinion or initiate conversation. It was probably still the effects of the downer and the lingering exhaustion from his illness. It had been a few days since he’d woken up coughing, and last night had been the first night that he hadn’t even coughed once in his sleep at all. It felt like a cruel cosmic joke that Ian would seemingly overcome one ailment only to be hit with another.
Though his mildly sedated state did make it easier to get him to a clinic, it still left Mickey feeling uneasy. He didn’t like when Ian was without his spark. Ian’s tenacity, his stubborn nature, and his willingness to confront adversity head-on had been some of the first things that had attracted Mickey to him.
Ian was a fighter, in every sense of the word. He was a physical threat when he had to be, but he was a warrior, a champion. He didn’t back down, and he had a strong sense of his own personal moral compass. To see someone like Ian with no fight left in him was devastating. Knowing that it was for Ian’s own good didn’t make it much easier to stomach.
The nurse directed most of her questioning to Mickey, as Ian sat beside him and stared unseeingly at the linoleum. It was rather routine stuff. Yes, Ian was taking his meds. Yes, Ian was eating regularly. No, nothing particularly traumatic had happened. No, nothing significant had changed in his life.
“The only thing I can think of is that his sleeping schedule is fucked,” Mickey told the doctor finally. “He was ill. Got fuckin’ pneumonia. He wasn’t sleeping well, was coughing all the time.”
“Did a doctor diagnose pneumonia?”
“What kinda stupid fuckin’ question-” Mickey muttered to himself before taking a steadying breath. “Yeah. Doc gave him antibiotics and let him go home. He was on a seven day course. Just took the last dose this mornin’.”
“Hmmm,” The doctor made some notes, but otherwise didn’t comment.
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Mickey asked, perhaps a little too harshly.
“It could mean nothing,” the doctor said serenely. “Just something I have to consider. You’re probably right in saying his sleep pattern may have caused manic symptoms. But considering his history and potential slip into psychosis, I think it’s best that he’s kept under observation.”
“How long?” Mickey asked, and his voice sounded meek even to his own ears. He rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb in a nervous gesture.
Ian shifted beside him. He looked up from the ground to meet Mickey’s eyes, and it looked like it took all of his strength to manage it. Ian gave him the tiniest, barest hint of a smile, and rested a hand on Mickey’s knee.
“‘S okay,” he managed. His eyes were lifeless, but Mickey knew they wouldn’t stay that way. It was up to him to make sure Ian came back to himself.
He hated being apart from Ian. He hated feeling like he was abandoning Ian in some way by having him essentially locked up. He hated that as Ian’s partner it was his responsibility to make the difficult choices when Ian wasn’t able to. But, a part of him was also just so grateful that he was around this time. He was the one who could give Ian the support he needed where others had failed. He was the one Ian would come home to in the end.
“I propose forty eight hours, and then we’ll review from there.”
The time without Ian moved slowly. It was an agonizing pace, and every second felt like hours. The bed was too big, too cold. The apartment was too barren, too hollow. There was no point in watching TV if Ian wasn’t there to bicker with him, wasn’t there to wrestle him for the remote. What was the point in getting out of bed if he didn’t get a kiss with his breakfast?
And God, Mickey never thought he’d be one to mope.
He’d been without Ian before, for far longer periods of time, with no guarantee he’d ever even see him again. But they were married this time. Perhaps somewhere along the line Mickey had grown accustomed to the easy domesticity, the comfort that came with starting and ending every day with the only person in the entire world he’d ever really given a shit about.
Ian was his home.
He found himself stroking his thumb over the shiny surface of his wedding ring absently as he waited in traffic, as he spoke with clients, as he waited for his microwave meal. He sought out the reminder that even if Ian had gone away for a little while, it wasn’t like the times before. Ian was still his.
And finally, when those excruciating hours were finally over, Mickey felt like he could breathe again.
“Hey,” Mickey murmured against the skin of Ian’s neck as he pulled him close.
He didn’t care about the doctor waiting to speak to them. He didn’t care if the whole world was watching. Ian was a warm, solid weight in his embrace, and Ian was clutching back at him just as tightly.
When they pulled back Ian’s smile was infectious, his eyes were sparkling and lucid. He looked more like himself than he had in weeks, and it just served to amplify how badly Mickey had missed him.
“Hey,” Ian said back easily, and pressed a kiss to Mickey’s temple.
They turned to face the doctor, who was smiling indulgently at them. Mickey rubbed at the back of his neck a little anxiously as they took their seats in front of the large mahogany desk. The bronze plaque on the tabletop read ‘Dr B. Shepherd’ in a clear, serif font. The woman behind the desk was small and greying, but seemed warm in her demeanour. Ian’s hand found Mickey’s thigh easily, and gripped it in silent reassurance.
Only two days without him, and Mickey felt like he’d been barely treading water. He just wanted to bask in Ian’s presence, in the healthy flush of his skin, the sparkle in his eyes. But there would be time for that later. There would be time for that when Mickey could finally take Ian home. So, resolving to be on his best behaviour, Mickey turned to the doctor.
“Ian, as you know, you’ve been doing very well,” Dr Shepherd began. “You displayed no escalation of manic symptoms while under observation. You did not indicate you were suffering from any delusions, nor did you appear to experience any hallucinations while under our care.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” Mickey asked.
It sounded positive. Almost too positive. What was the catch? Ian had been delusional. He’d been hearing things. He’d been refusing to sleep. He had been manic.
“It’s entirely possible that his exhaustion from his prior illness was causing the symptoms he exhibited. If that was the case then perhaps the sedative and the sleep he’s gotten over the last few days was enough to rectify it. It’s hard to say exactly. Psychosis is not an exact science. No two people experience it the same, and no two episodes are alike.”
“But you feel good?” Mickey asked as he turned to Ian.
“Yeah, Mick.” Ian promised softly. “Really.”
“There is one more thing we should consider,” Dr Shephard advised. “Have you heard of a phenomenon called antibiomania?”
“No,” Ian replied.
“Fuck’s that?” Mickey asked at the same time.
“It’s something that requires a lot more research. We’re still not yet aware of all of the details. But, it seems there’s a pattern of certain antibiotics causing psychosis in some patients. Most of which are already predisposed to manic symptoms, but not all of them.”
“The pneumonia meds triggered him?” Mickey asked incredulously.
“Like I said, it’s hard to know for sure. Especially because there were other contributing factors. But based on the fact Ian took his last dose of the antibiotic the morning he came to us, the particular medication he was prescribed has a half-life of up to seven hours, and he showed absolutely no signs of mania whilst in our care, it’s very possible it was the antibiotic that caused it.”
“Is there a way to find out?” Ian asked breathlessly. “For sure?”
It was a jarring experience. It hadn’t just been his bipolar that had reared its head, but rather a completely separate issue that had exasperated things. Mickey didn’t know if that really made much of a difference at all when it came down to it. But perhaps Ian thought it did.
“Unfortunately not,” Dr Shepherd refuted, but her voice was kind. “I’m going to make a note on your file not to prescribe that particular antibiotic again, should you ever need one in the future. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Home sweet home,” Mickey declared as the apartment door clicked behind them.
Ian chuckled warmly, and the sound made Mickey’s heart sing. Ian unceremoniously threw himself down onto the couch with a huff and stared at the ceiling in quiet contemplation. Mickey kicked off his boots and retrieved them each a beer from the fridge.
He noticed Ian’s preoccupation as he handed him an opened bottle of Old Style.
“What’s up?” Mickey asked him. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Ian said softly. He smiled at Mickey with so much open affection. “I guess that, even though what happened sucks, I’m kinda glad that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong. I did exactly what I was supposed to. Maybe, kinda makes me feel a little, tiny bit better knowing it wasn’t ‘cause of something I did or didn’t do right.”
“Ian,” Mickey implored gently. “None of it is ever your fault. You know that, right? You get sick sometimes. You get better. That’s all. That’s okay.”
“Thank you,” Ian whispered, and his eyes looked misty.
“You don’t gotta thank me, dumbass.” Mickey rolled his eyes. “I just love you.”
“Yeah, I love you, too.”