“Fuck off back inside, Ian.”
He says it as soon as he hears the back door shut but it doesn’t faze me. Not after all this time. I cross my arms and pause for a minute, watching him shiver. It’s freezing outside, more snow has fallen overnight adding what looks like at least another half a foot to what was already there from the last storm. All he’s wearing is a black wife beater with flannel pajama pants and socks, which are all now wet because nobody has bothered to cleared a path yet and he’s sitting in the snow on the back stairs.
He’s surrounded by a cloud of smoke that circles around his head in wind-whipped curls. I hear him grunt as he tilts his head one way, then the other to crack his neck. His right thumb flicks ash off the end of his cigarette, then he returns it to his mouth so he can take another drag. I feel a bit guilty being wrapped up in my thick winter coat and wearing one of my new shearling slippers on my unbroken foot but shit - if he’s going to storm out of the house without taking the weather into account, that’s not my fault. His exposed neck and arms are turning pink but he’s too stubborn to admit he’s cold.
I exhale heavily, knowing that if I don’t start the conversation, we’ll both literally die and turn to dust before he’ll do it. I'd hastily wrapped a plastic trash bag around the boot supporting my broken leg before I came outside and I shuffle towards him, trying to only step in Mickey's footprints so I don't fall or get my feet wet. The old two by fours creak under my weight and he knows I’m coming without looking back. He doesn't acknowledge me other than to move over and make room for me to sit by him. Before I sit, I drape a hoodie over his shoulders and he grunts his thanks.
“So,” he repeats in his snarky bullshit way. After a few seconds, he holds his nearly empty pack of Marlboros out to me and I accept one. I stay quiet until I’ve exhaled my first drag.
“Wanna tell me what that was all about?”
I thought everything was great. We woke up to the sound of Franny running past our room and down the stairs screeching ‘It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas!’. I kissed the skin behind his ear and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He hummed and pressed his body back into me. He seemed to be in a good mood especially after I gave him the first part of his gift before we even got out of bed.
“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he grumbles without taking the filter out of his mouth. It bobs from its’ place between his lips, then he exhales smoke out of his nose. We both stare out at the neighborhood, smoking silently. It almost looks pretty with a blanket of fresh snow all over it, sparkling in the sun.
“Well, can we at least go back inside? S’fuckin’ freezing out here.” I bump his shoulder with mine after flicking my cigarette into the backyard. It lands, melting its impression in the fluffy top snow as it sinks down beneath the surface. “C’mon Mickey. You’re going to be hypothermic if you stay out here much longer.”
He nods and holds up his cigarette indicating that he’ll come in when he’s done smoking it. I squeeze his knee as I stand and am halfway to the back door when I hear the sniffle. I look over my shoulder just in time to see him wiping his eye on the heel of his hand. Now I’m frozen in place – not because of the cold, but because that’s what happens when I see Mickey cry. I feel like a part of me is wounded and dying. I’d go into battle for this man, no questions asked – just point me in the direction of whatever caused him pain and turn me loose.
I ask him what’s wrong and he doesn’t reply. I’m not trying to nag him; there’s just only so much of this shit I can take. His cigarette goes flying into the air, landing in the snow not very far from mine. He straightens his back and finally pushes his arms into the sleeves of the hoodie I’d brought to him. He rises to his feet and faces me, wiping his red face on his sleeve.
“Will you please talk to me?” I throw up my hands. “Maybe I can’t fix it, Mick but fuck – at least tell me what I did.” I know I’ve said something wrong as soon as he cocks his head to the side with his facial expression all twisted up, confused.
“You didn’t do anything,” he says it sounding like I’m the one acting weird.
“Then…can you fill me in on the last twenty minutes cuz I’m confused. Did – did Lip say something to you?” I unzip my coat and move towards the door, seeing red. I think that maybe if I knock him on his ass my brother will remember my relationship is none of his goddamned –
“Stop. It wasn’t Lip.” He’s reaching out for me and reflexively, I take his hand and pull him into my chest. He sinks into me and his icy hands snake around my waist. I don’t realize until just then exactly how fucking cold he is; he’s shuddering. I press my lips to his temple and speak quietly in his ear.
The Mickey Milkovich I first fell in love with would have knocked my lights out if I dared to call him that. To be fair, he probably would still do it if anyone heard me call him baby. I only say it when we’re alone, and even then, not often. I hear a hitch in his breathing, and he squeezes me harder.
“The stocking Franny gave me,” he says. I noticed he flinched when we were all sitting on the living room floor drinking coffee and passing around each other’s stockings. He sat next to me just watching us all until Franny grabbed a blue and white striped one out from behind the armchair and brought it to him.
“You got one too, Uncle Mickey!” She giggled, dropped it in his lap and then returned to Debbie’s side to finish opening her own. He held it in his hands, running his fingers back and forth over the soft furry fabric, traced his thumb over the outline of the capital M Debbie added to it with gold puffy paint.
I was mostly done opening mine when I noticed he hadn't taken anything out of his yet. There’s never anything all that awesome in them: candy mostly, fuzzy socks from the Dollar Tree. Debbie took over doing it when Fiona left town and if I'm being honest, it's a lame tradition for us to keep up now that except for Liam, we're all adults (and it's not like any of us grew up believing in Santa Claus). I figure we do it because of Franny, and now Freddy. If Santa doesn't bring grown ups toys and shit, he can at least bring us all a stocking full of candy.
We passed out presents and were digging into them but Mickey left his pile untouched; still holding onto that blue and white stocking. Out of nowhere, he got up and stomped to the kitchen, went out the back door and well, here we are.
I kiss his cheek. “That’s what’s upset you? A Christmas stocking?” He exhales heavily and it’s clear I’m misunderstanding him.
“I ain’t upset, Ian. Jesus.” He backs away looking frustrated. If he had his boots on, he’d leave to take one of his long walks. “I never – I never had a fuckin’ Christmas stocking, ok? You know I didn’t have shit growing up. And – and now, I’m here with you and your fuckin’ crazy family, coming downstairs on Christmas morning and there’s presents under the tree with my name on ‘em.”
I feel stupid. Of course I already knew what holidays were like for him when we were kids. He doesn’t tell me much, doesn’t like to talk about it – but Mandy's told me plenty. Suffice to say, the meager gifts and modest meals we shared in my house were preferable to what they marked the day with after their mom died.
What pisses me off to a level I can’t verbalize is that even as he’s on the verge of fuckin’ tears, when we’re done opening presents, he’s going to get dressed and go down to his dad’s house for a few hours. When he gets back, he’ll be moodier and angrier than he was when he left. It'll take him at least another hour or two to snap out of it. I don't know if my family will, but I'll wait for him to get back before I eat; Mickey’s eaten enough sad holiday meals by himself. I’ve offered to go with him to his dad’s even though I think I’d rather rip my dick off and put it in a meat grinder than deal with Terry Milkovich’s drunken homophobic fucking insults. He said he’d go alone, not wanting to ruin my day along with his. It might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard him say. I tilt his chin up with my finger and look into his eyes. There’s more untold truth swirling around in them, but I don’t want to push him – I’m surprised I got this much out of him already without a fight.
He sniffles, his eyes flick down. When he looks back up at me, I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at him. I cup his face and rub a thumb behind his ear. I know there’s more to this but I don’t want to push.
“She calls me ‘Uncle Mickey’. It’s…it’s a lot" I smirk at him, trying not to roll my eyes, even playfully.
"Well, what the hell's she supposed to call you?" I tease him and glance the tip of my nose against his. We might not be married yet but he's as much Franny’s uncle as any of us Gallagher guys. I have to work to get a laugh out of her, all Mickey has to do is make a funny face and the kid's in stitches. She took to him almost immediately; like he'd always been around, always slept across the hall, always drew with her at the kitchen table and crawled around the living room floor on all fours carrying her on his back.
"Iggy’s got a kid or two around the neighborhood and if the court shit's to be believed, Col's trying to single-handedly repopulate the Midwest with Milkovich blood. But like, I don't know any of them, they don't know me.”
“Nobody told her to call you that, you know. She's just a very smart little kid. You’re family, Mick. Always have been. Couple'a months, it'll be official. Til then, it's just semantics.”
He makes a soft little sighing noise and I feel his whole upper body shake in a violent chill. I'm about to drag him inside to get warm if I have to when the back door flies open.
I laugh, turning her way. "Yeah, it's too cold to bang out here."
She laughs and pulls her hair over one shoulder. "I'm making breakfast, you guys in? French toast and bacon?"
"Definitely in," I reply. She looks from me to Mickey waiting for his answer. He nods.
She flashes a smile at us. "Before you freeze to death, you might want to come inside."
"Just a minute." I wave to her with a smile and she closes the door. Turning back to to Mickey, I run my palms up and down his arms to warm him up. "Gotta get you out of these wet pajamas."
His eyebrow pops up. "That an offer, hot stuff?" He holds me a little closer, his hands locked at the small of my back.
"Might be. You coming inside?"
Mickey nods and lifts himself up on the balls of his feet. His lips are surprisingly warm when he kisses my neck, then under my jaw.
"I'm not goin' to Terry's today." The words hit me in the chest.
"Fuck him. I'm stayin' here. With you. With your...with the family. Might meet up for a drink with my brothers later, if you want to come. Joey's out of the joint, probably end up at some sad ass titty bar to celebrate."
I smirk and kiss him. "Sounds fun."
He closes his eyes and rubs his cheek against mine. "Hope you like what I gotcha."
"You mean what you stole for me?" I tease.
"I paid for it. Most of it."
Thinking that's the end of it, I thread our fingers together and move to pull him inside behind me but he tugs my arm back. I ask him what’s going on with my eyes.
"Love you, too, Gallagher."
The idea that this is our last unmarried Christmas is a little overwhelming. We're making it legal with an actual wedding-wedding in March and I can't fucking wait, even if marriage still scares me to death. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve fucked this up; how many times I thought I’d lost him for good. For whatever reason, I get one last chance to get it right. Mickey is the only one I’ve ever loved, it’s always been him and always will be. That much I know; that much is undeniable truth.
