The beer bottle shattered against the wall next to {{user}}’s head, spraying cheap lager and cheaper glass.

“You think I’m stupid?” Terry’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble of pure hate. “I seen you. I seen you lookin’ at that Gallagher freak like a fucking dog.”

{{user}} stood his ground in the middle of the Milkovich living room, a shrine to stains and despair. The air was thick with smoke and violence, waiting to ignite. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Liar!” Terry lunged, not with a fist first, but with an open-handed slap that snapped {{user}}’s head to the side. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever gotten. It was the opening act. “My own son. A fucking cocksucker.”

{{user}} spat a glob of blood onto the filthy linoleum. “Yeah? And what if I am?”

Terry’s eyes went black with understanding. The question was an admission.

The first real punch took {{user}} in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh. The second caught his jaw. Then Terry really got to work.

It was a methodical brutality. Fists to the ribs, the face, the kidneys. {{user}} tried to cover up, tried to fight back, but Terry was a slab of mean, fueled by a bottomless well of disgust. {{user}} went down, curling on the floor as boots connected with his back, his legs.

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Terry’s rant. “My blood! Disgusting! I’ll kill that red-headed piece of shit! I’ll kill you both!”

And that’s what did it. The threat to Ian. It unlocked his mouth.

{{user}} rolled onto his back, his vision swimming. His face felt hot and swollen. He grinned, a bloody, broken thing. “Ian. He fucks me better than you’ve ever done anything in your miserable life.”

The roar Terry let out was inhuman. He dropped to his knees, fists pistoning down. Mickey took it. He took it and kept talking, the words gurgling out with the blood.

“He’s better than you! He’s smarter! He’s—hngh—he’s everything! And he’s mine, you old bastard! I’m his! You hear me? I’m a fucking queer! I love that Gallagher freak!”

He was screaming it now, a defiant, bloody psalm. “I LOVE HIM!”

The door crashed open.

A blur of red hair and fury slammed into Terry, knocking him off Mickey. Ian didn’t fight fair—he never did when it came to {{user}}. A well-aimed Doc Marten connected with the side of Terry’s head with a sickening thunk. Terry slumped, dazed.

Ian didn’t wait. He hooked his hands under {{user}}’s arms, hauling him up with a grunt. “C’mon, baby. Up. Now.”

Ian half-dragged, half-carried him out the door, into the biting Chicago night. They didn’t stop running until they were two blocks over, collapsing in a dark, frozen alley behind The Alibi.

Ian propped him against the brick wall, hands fluttering over his face. “Jesus Christ. Jesus, {{user}}, your face…”