The shower ran cold after he'd finished with it. Now the water was just background noise to muffle what was actually going on. Sitting on a the edge of his tub, lit cigarette dangling between his knees, Mickey let go. He cried. For while. For until his face hurt and he'd given himself a headache. And when the crying stopped, he smoked down his cigarette, shut off the shower, and left his house with a single outfit and few items in his pockets. What he should have done was pack a bag. But Mickey wanted to leave while Terry was in the basement. Escape would be easier this way and so would hiding. Hiding like the coward that Mickey felt.

He reached the abandoned rooftop that he and Ian frequented. The watch he'd slapped on before leaving, well, turned out that the battery was dead. However, judging by the darkened sky, Mickey wagered the time being around ten or so. Not quite midnight because it hadn't been that long since he left his broken home.

Smoked yet another cigarette, Mickey fired off his gun at nothing in particular. It felt good to pull the trigger. To think of what he wished he was shooting. Who he wished he was shooting. To feel the kickback. After he'd wasted off his first clip, Mickey lit a joint and found himself crying again. This time the tears were quick and faint. Stubbed out by his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Thank fuck no one was around to see his breakdown. He was supposed to have been fucked straight. Crying would just nullify that claim.

And he couldn't have that. Terry would end him. Would kill Ian too. So Mickey, he had to be straight in front of his old man. Had to be straight if he was anywhere Terry had eyes and ears. Not like he hadn't been faking it before. But now things were different because now Terry knew and he couldn't, wouldn't, un-know it. That his son was an "aids monkey," "ass digging," faggat.

But the roof was a safe bet for now. He could just be here. Could just fucking be.

When and If Mickey chose to go home, he had no idea how to face his new reality. So long as he stayed on the roof, though, Terry could search to his heart's desire. The sick fuck had no idea where this place was. None. And Mickey could cope. Then he'd be all right to climb down and do what he had to.

Literally the only reason Mickey figured he was going to leave this roof before he was damn well ready,was to spy on Ian Gallagher. To tell someone. Anyone. To watch Ian's fucking back. Because right now, Mickey wasn't in any shape to.

Two more rounds went off, chipping the rubble away even worse. Mickey squinted his eye and tried to improve his aim enough to hit some of the marks Ian had placed up around the doorway. He missed most of them. His nerves were a wreck; what did he expect? Frustrated, Mickey kept on firing the clip, growling, face turning red and tears building up in his eyes again. He called out when the gun ran empty, threw the weapon down and weaved his fingers in his hair. Mickey pulled until he felt pieces rip out. Squatted down to his knees and cried some more. Screamed all hell into the night. Face burning, throbbing, ribs aching, chest about to burst, throat closed up and raw.

Mickey felt fucking filthy like he never had before. Quite frankly, he was sickened with himself. Wrong. He just felt absolutely wrong. His skin burned. He wanted to shave it off. Wanted to stick the gun in his ear and shut off the memories. Of his father. Of Ian. Of that fucking prostitute. Really she had just been doing her job, afraid for her own life. She wasn't to blame. Yet Mickey hated her still. Hated everyone. And especially hated himself. Because he should have! He should have stopped it. Should have threw the bitch off of him and let himself be shot dead before giving into that sick scenario. But then, he had no desire to die. No desire to see Ian killed either.

And Mickey hated remembering how helpless he felt. How scared. He'd wanted to shut his eyes and forget what was happening when he'd looked at Ian Gallagher. Ian seized up and biting his fist through tears. Ian who, only hours beforethat, had had this look his brown eyes. This fucking look. Like he loved Mickey. And Mickey had fucking liked it, that look. Previously having been terrified to even consider Ian more than his fuck-buddy, Mickey had found himself overcome with acceptance in the face of Ian. He hadn't said shit about what he was feeling at the time. Thought he might save that for after fooling around. Before Ian left. So he'd gone to his room and gotten a toy because he'd watched a porn clip of anal beads once. They looked fun. And Mickey wouldn't have minded Ian having him in that position. Because Mickey trusted Ian.

Fuck it. Trust. To someone like Mickey, trust meant more than love probably ever could. Same went for Ian, Mickey figured. And even when Ian shot down the idea of that giant rosary. Even then Mickey didn't lose that warmth in his chest. It was new and he'd liked it. Fucking loved it. He'd swore to himself then that he wouldn't fuck them up again. Would gain back Ian's trust.

Just look. So fucking much for that. He only hoped Ian understood fully what had gone down. Mickey wished he had said what he'd been feeling before shit hit the fan. Then Ian would know. And Mickey. At least then he would have one less worry on his mind.

Mickey fell flat on his back, tears trickling over his cheeks and onto the rooftop. He felt wetness pool around his ears. And just laid there, staring at the stars. Palms flat, he felt around for the gun again and held it against his chest. Eyes never blinking. Mickey wanted the burn of not blinking to rip away through his skull and eat at the thoughts plaguing him. He bit down on his tongue and thought maybe he should bite it off and bleed out up here. Because of what he'd said to Ian after he shot a load in the Russian whore. What he'd said to appease his father and make Ian run for safety.

God damn it. He hoped Ian understood. Fear crippled Mickey. What if Ian didn't? No. Mickey refused to think that. It hurt too much.

Reaching up with the occupied hand on his chest, Mickey rubbed gently at his beaten face. It pained him to touch it. But he just wanted to check and see that the butterfly tape he'd slapped on in his bathroom was still in place. A bastardized first aid method at that. But the tape was in fact holding. Satisfied, Mickey dropped his arm back down and fell asleep.

He dreamed of shooting stars.

NOTE: Not sorry. I had to write this. That look on Mickey's face, that grimace, is haunting me. I'm so god damned nervous about next week. Ugh.

If it's OOC at all, oh fucking well. Deal with it. Mickey's probably going to be different ow, guys. I'm not positive, but that's my opinion right now. For now, I'm just going by the vulnerability Mickey was showing during ep 6. From what I know about rape victims (which admittedly isn't a lot), they all react different. But one thing is universal, and that is change. Change in behavior, fears, reaction to sex, opinion of self being degraded.

God I'm fucking scared of what will happen fuck fuck fuck everything.

Oh and yeah, I totally used Fiona's trust line in Mickey's thoughts. It just fits what I see everyone looking for so well. Everyone on this show has trust issues.