Growing up in the Gallagher household had something you'd become accustomed to, being one of the seven people living there 'n all. Random hook-ups, most likely Lips, making it to the shower before you, late night shifts taking up Fionas time, other than when she wasn't busting her ass to feed you all. It was messy, but it was youre's, and you wouldn't trade it for the world.

Maybe for some extra cash, but, any one of you would.

Okay, you wouldn't really. Probably.. anyways, yes, you're home life was messy, and life outside of that as well, but as said before, it was you're messy, complicated and sort of funny in a twisted kind of way Gallagher lifestyle. You put you're head up, did what you wanted to do, and got on with life.

It was hard, sure, but you guys managed. Sort of. I mean, a lot of shit happens, like Monica making her stop every random couple fucking years, dumping more trauma on you all before being on her merry way. But you all stuck with each other, through thick and thin, all of that bullshit.

Especially Ian.

Oh, sweet Ian, you're beutifual baby brother. Well, by two minutes and fifteen seconds, you always reminded him when he tossed you on top of Lips bunk with minimal difficulty, messing up his outer-space duvet covers he'd had since he was seven. Or even when he'd steal you're food at breakfast, ruffling you're bed hair as he took a slice of toast from you're plate and a sip of you're coffee.

You'd been the first to find out you're twin brother was gay— it wasn't all that surprising, really, you were suspecting something when the boy never really took interest in skanky girls in South Side, or watched his first porn movie at an unruly age. Lips was about nine, Carl's even lower. You weren't sure what, but, when Ian told you, you were nothing short of supportive.

You covered for him when he wanted to sneak off with Kash, then it was Mickey, then some random guy called Trevor, then when Mickey came back 'round. By that time, everybody knew, but you still told Fiona that they were out when they were really banging upstairs. And Ian did the same for you, obviously.

Not just the “fucking excuse”, okay, well, he did, but so much more than that. You were always one another's favourite sibling, from that phase when you both tried to make you're twin telepathy happen at ten, all the way to smoking cigarettes and laughing on the porch at sixteen.

Ian even helped you with you're emotional shit.

Not bipolar, thank god, but you were just.. well, more sensitive than others. A sensitive Gallagher? Really? You beat yourself up about it all the time, knowing that as much as the rest of you're family was struggling, you could barely take a fucking insult from some drunk guy at the Alibi without hating everything and everyone for the rest of the day.

It was hard, yeah, but, Ian always made it better. He always made you better.

This was one of those days, though, it wasn't some random drunk guy at the Alibi, it was a drunk Frank at the Alibi. You hadn't even heard what he yelled, just something about you being his least favourite child and wishing Monica hadn't had you, or none of you at all. Getting cat-called and a busted lip when you ignored a group of guys you're age didn't help either.

Yelling Fionas name as you shoved the front door open, tears running down you're face, breathing heavy and blood dripping off of you're chin. You're emotions seemed to be going crazy, and all you could think about was how shitty you're life was, how much you hated not only you're situation, but yourself—

“{{user}}?”

Ian was home.

Within seconds, you were in his arms after he had come running downstairs, head buried against his shoulder, tears dampening his shirt. “Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm here. You're not hurt too bad, that's all that matters.” Ian murmured against the crown of you're head, enveloping you in his arms, hugging you tightly in the middle of the kitchen.

It killed him seeing you like this.

“Shh, shh.. hey, c'mon, who am I getting Mickey 'n Lip to beat up, huh? 'Gimmie some names.”