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There are so many different kinds of pain in the world, and Mickey Millovich is intimately familiar with a vast number of them. The sharp, deep, slicing pain when the skin above his eyebrow splits, slammed against the bone beneath by a fist or a bottle or the butt of a gun. The low, aching throb that radiates outward from the base of his spine after he gets kicked in the kidney, or shived in lockup. The clenching, bitter gnaw that fills his chest cavity when Ian has his bad days and can’t get out of bed. The absolute shattering agony of hearing the man he loves tell him he hates him, doesn’t need him, can’t go with him.
And when that same man stands across from him and says “for better, or for worse” and follows it with an “I do”, Mickey feels a new kind of thing, a thing that’s not in his fucking catalog of feelings. It’s like a bubbling under his collarbone, a squeeze on his bottom two ribs that presses into the space around his heart so that it feels bigger, like his chest won’t be able to contain it anymore. He feels like he’s getting ready to fucking shake apart at all the points his bones meet, and he looks up at Ian and leans in to press their lips together and for once in his god damn life things feel like they’re finally going to work out.
Of course, they pull away in Frank’s car and spend the entire night awake, Ian fucking into Mickey until tears leak out the corners of his eyes and he bites down on Ian’s wrist hard enough to leave to crescents of bruises. The morning brings wandering hands and a hail of bullets, and they fuck again as feathers drift off the bed, ghosting along sweaty skin as they float to the floor. After that, life gets back to normal — not that their lives have ever been normal. But they crash at the Gallagher house to help with Franny, and Liam, and Carl, when he’s there. Lip comes by with Tami, and Kev and V are an eternal presence, and things fall into a rhythm. There are still bruised ribs to bandage and government programs to rip off, but Ian takes his meds and Mickey keeps up with an actual job, and they’re able to do boring shit like buy groceries, and get insurance, and spend more time betting on fights at The Alibi than actually getting in any of their own.
And because things are normal, or as close to it as they’re ever going to get, time passes in a way that’s weird for both of them. It’s not a high to high to high. It’s a steady beat of the domestic, and after a while it starts to get under their skin. No one wants to go back to the fucking rub and tug, or Ian so wildly high he’s stealing babies and becoming Gay Jesus. But there’s only so many times they can tuck Franny in and get Carl to put all his fucking knives a locked drawer, before Mickey’s skin starts to feel tight and Ian’s mouth turns down at the corners more than it does up.
“You two need to get the hell out of here,” Debbie says one morning, shooing Mickey away from the stove and grabbing the spatula to stir the eggs. He grabs a stack of plates from the cabinet instead and tosses them all on the table, grabbing a roll of paper towels and a three-liter of Sunny D and sliding both into the center of the table.
“Like it’s so fucking easy?” He scoops Franny up from her spot out in the living room and slips her into her high chair, pulling it up to the table and tossing a handful of Cheerios in front of her as Ian comes down the stairs, squeezing Mickey’s hip and kissing the baby on the head as he passes.
“What’s not so easy?”
“Your sister seems to think we need to get out.” Ian snorts and pours himself a glass of orange drink. Mickey slides a trio of pills across the vinyl tablecloth and Ian shoots him a grateful little smile.
“Your job? Mine? The kids? Yeah, that’ll happen.”
“Oh my God, listen to you two,” Debbie screeches at them from the kitchen, jabbing the spatula into the pan so hard it scrapes. “You’re like a couple of old married hags.” Ian and Mickey’s eyes meet from across the table and they smile but before either of them can say shit, Debbie says, “You know what I mean, don’t fucking say it. All I’m saying is, you could both do with a night out. I got a night off this Saturday, and Lip said he and Tami are coming to stay so he can look at the water heater and see the kids. Why don’t you two take the night to just get the fuck out of here for once?”
“Saturday? What about—”
“We’ll do it,” Ian cuts him off, shooting Mickey a look that makes his jaw snap shut so fast, Ian can hear it from where he sits. Mickey raises his eyebrows and Ian just shrugs as Debbie slides the frying pan onto the middle of the table, barely managing to get a hot-pad down first. Mickey and Ian busy themselves filling the kid’s plates, and then their own, and then it’s time for work and school and the million other tiny bricks they’re slowly building their lives out of.
*
By the time Saturday rolls around, they both manage to forget that it’s supposed to be date night. Carl’s been suspended again, and Franny’s running some kind of low fever that keeps disappearing and coming back every other day. The sun’s already down when Debbie comes up and knocks on the door. Mickey’s just getting his boots off, and he hasn’t seen Ian since breakfast. “What?”
“What the hell you still doing here?”
“What do you — ugh, God, are we still doing that?” Debbie crosses and sits down on the bed next to him, slapping him on the shoulder and even as he flips her off, he misses Mandy.
“Look, E’s downstairs on the couch. He’s got his coat and his shoes on, he just got back from the clinic with Franny. Do something nice for your husband and drag him the hell out of this house, why don’t you?”
“‘Do something nice’, what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, ‘do something nice’?”
“Mickey, come on. After everything? You both need some good fucking memories, and you gotta get out of this house to make them.”
He stands and grabs his cigarettes off the dresser, slipping them into his back pocket as he pulls a beanie over his hair, long enough now he’s always got to push it out of his eyes. “When did you become such a fucking therapist?” He leans down and re-ties the boots he never even got off his feet.
She leans back on her hands and laughs, but not like it’s funny. “Lots of daytime TV taking care of the kids. You know how much Dr. Phil they show?” He kicks her gently on the foot as he passes and she flops all the way onto her back. “Have fun,” she calls after him as he barrels down the stairs, skipping a couple as he braces a hand on the wall and another on the banister.
Ian is just starting to lay down when Mickey grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and hauls him to his feet. Ian’s hands come to rest on Mickey’s hips and his thumbs dig into the bone. Mickey can’t help the way his body pulls into Ian, his eyes floating from his Adam’s apple to his chin to the way his lower lip sticks out just enough to suck on. He meets Ian’s eyes and a smile cracks his face when the word ‘husband’ echoes through his head.
“Hey,” Ian says, voice warm and tired.
“Hey. You wanna get out of here?”
There’s a flash in Ian’s eyes and he smiles, slowly, pulling his lower lip between his teeth in a way that drives Mickey up a wall. He can’t pull his eyes away from his husband’s mouth, so he’s able to see every last shadow and twitch of the word: “Absolutely.”
They don’t make it any further than The Alibi, but Mickey’s got a sneaking suspicion that Debbie greased the wheels ahead of time, from the way Kev just tilts his chin and shouts, “Hey assholes,” over the din of the crowd. He pulls them both a couple mugs of draft and slides them to the end of the bar. He follows up with a pair of vodka shots and when Mickey goes to pull out his wallet Kevin just walks away without looking back
Mickey grabs the beers and Ian the shots as they slip into their favorite corner booth. They huddle together, being completely and totally obnoxious in their low-grade running commentary about the Bears game that’s on, the regulars shuffling through stools at the bar, at the general shitty state of the shitty, miserable world. Once their first round is finished, they wait, grabbing handfuls of questionable pretzels off a bowl in the middle of the table, and Ian exhales himself into Mickey, pressing the length of his body against Mickey’s stockier frame. Mickey’s at the perfect height to turn his head and press a soft, tender kiss into the pale flesh right below Ian’s ear. He hears Ian’s breath hitch, the tiniest falter in the steady rhythm, before he pulls back a fraction of an inch and looks down at Mickey from underneath a flop of red hair. They both need haircuts.
“What was that for?”
“I need a reason to kiss my husband now?”
Ian cracks a little smile and kisses Mickey between the eyebrows, right where his skin crinkles. “Never, Mick.” He wraps an arm around him and this time it’s Mickey’s turn to fall into someone else, to allow gravity to eliminate the border between his body and Ian’s until they’re not speaking or moving or doing anything but breathing, together, watching the pass of life around them.
“Did you ever think we’d…” Ian swipes his eyes across the bar, moving his finger a little against Mickey’s shoulder.
“What, survive?”
Ian laughs. “Yeah, I guess. Get here?”
“Remember when we first — when you tried to attack me with the tire iron?”
“I remember you kicked the shit out of me before letting me fuck you so hard I broke your bedframe.” Ian’s voice is low and quiet in Mickey’s ears, and he sees white as all the blood in his body rushes to his dick.
“Wasn’t the last time, either,” he says back, his hand reaching out under the table, landing heavy on Ian’s thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh and hard muscle. “But yeah. I knew then. If we could — maybe we could be something like happy. Or at least not as fucking nutty as both our families.”
“Well, I don’t know about that second part,” Ian says, and there’s a patina of sadness over the bright shine of his normal voice.
“Fuck it. Normal is over-rated.” Mickey sits up and stands, grabbing the empty glasses. “You want another?”
“See if Kev can hook us up with half a dozen to go?” Mickey’s eyebrow spikes but he nods.
“Yeah, alright. I gotta piss if we’re gonna leave.”
“My husband, the sweet talker. Go piss and I’ll talk to Kev,” Ian says, sliding out behind Mickey and standing so close he’s towering above him, almost folded over Mickey’s body. Mickey has to step back to meet his eyes, and when he does, he’s giving Ian the pissed off look he usually saves for the last few days of the week before paychecks come in.
“No party favors, okay. No matter what Kev says, not with your new meds.”
“I promise. Nothing we haven’t planned for.” Ian punches him lightly in the shoulder, nudging him towards the bathroom, and Mickey nods and goes. He’s only gone a couple minutes, but when he comes back Ian’s already got a black backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Where’d the fuck that come from?”
“V. She heard me ask Kev, said she didn’t want us getting picked up for some bullshit container law.”
“How sweet,” Mickey says as he pushes forward through the crowd and out into the cool fall night. Ian’s right on his heels, and as soon as the door swings closed behind him, he’s lacing his fingers through Mickey’s. Mickey slows his pace and the two fall into a certain kind of rhythm, until they’re knocking shoulders with every step. Before long, they’re bumping into each other harder, and then shoving, and wrestling, and whooping their way down the back alley under the El like they had in high school, on the run from Mickey’s dad.
Mickey hops on Ian’s shoulders and he stumbles a little bit, not quite falling but going down to a knee as Mickey laughs in his ear, loud and bright. “Come on, old man, you used to be able to do this for blocks!” He digs his heels in playfully, right below Ian’s ribs, and Ian bucks.
“Old man, huh?” Palm flat on the ground, Ian pushes himself to his feet and begins to run, not a sprint but faster than Mickey would have guessed, and he has to dig his fingers into Ian’s shoulders to keep from busting his ass on the pavement. Instead, he closes his eyes and feels just a little bit of breeze in his hair and lets Ian take him wherever he wants to go. When he opens his eyes again, they’re standing outside of the baseball field and Mickey’s heart jumps into his throat.
“Huh,” he says as he slides of Ian’s shoulders. Ian looks down at him and smirks, handing him the backpack as he jumps, wrapping his long fingers around the roof of the dugout and hoisting himself over the top. Mickey waits for him to land on the other side before tossing the backpack and climbing over after him. It’s something they’ve done before, and for a second, as he slides off the dugout roof but before his feet hit the ground, it’s like time shifts and the world slants and maybe it’s a decade ago and he and Ian aren’t married and aren’t even together and all he knows is that the mountain of shit in front of him seems almost insurmountable.
But then his feet strike the earth in a little cloud of red dust and Ian’s hands are on his shoulders to steady him and the last ten years slam into him like a truck. He reaches out and wraps his arms around Ian, pulling him close and sliding his hands so they sit low on Ian’s hips. He presses his forehead into the stretch of skin where Ian’s neck meets his shoulder and feels the warmth of Ian’s body beneath his. Ian wraps a hand around the back of his neck, his thumb underneath one ear while his middle finger rests lightly on the opposite pulse point. He feels the point of Ian’s chin on the top of his head, and even through the beanie it hurts, just a little. A focusing, localized kind of hurt, that allows him to push back enough of the sappy cloud in his brain. He gives Ian a quick squeeze before stepping back and sliding the backpack around to get at the zipper. He pulls two cold aluminum cans out and hands one to Ian. At the same time, he pulls his keys out of his front pocket and presses the sharp side against the bottom lip of the can. The thin metal pops loudly, a small spray of beer hissing forth as his finger covers the hole.
He passes his keys to Ian and waits until he's gotten his ready, and then they’re raising the cans and pulling the tab and shotgunning beers like they haven’t done since the last time they were at the field together — a night that had been one of the worst of their lives, which was quite a title to take in the collective shit show of their history. Ian finishes his first, because of course he does, and tosses his can away before shoving both of his arms above his head in victory. Mickey finishes a second later and gives him the finger.
“Yeah, yeah. Round two, asshole.” Two more cans, two more little ‘pops’, and it’s Mickey’s turn to finish first. He wipes his mouth across the back of his hand, and burps loudly. Ian finishes and just looks at him, shaking his head with his mouth pursed in pseudo disgust.
“Aren't you a fucking charmer.” He’s slurring a little now, swaying just the smallest bit, and Mickey knows he’s drunk because Mickey is a little drunk and even though Ian’s off the lithium, the med cocktail he is on still means he’s not exactly a heavyweight.
“Charm this,” Mickey says, grabbing his dick through his pants and feeling heat in his lower belly as Ian’s eyes follow the motion and his eyes go dark and hungry. His tongue darts out of his mouth to swipe along his lower lip, the deep pink now shining in the moonlight.
“Last round, Mick,” Ian holds out his hand for the last set of beers, and Mickey goes to hand it to him before pulling it back. He does it twice more, and Ian gives him a hearty, “fuck you,” when he finally manages to swipe out fast enough to grab it.
“You’re gonna,” Mickey says, and there’s a promise in his voice. "But first things first, Gallagher.”
Mickey pulls the tab but is only half way through his beer when he hears the heavy thud of a partially full can in the dirt, and then Mickey’s hand is empty, beer sailing the short distance across the field before it crashes into the mesh of the fence with a loud rattle.
“What the fuck,” he tries to say, but Ian’s mouth is on his, pressing into him, swallowing the sound. Mickey immediately presses back, digging his feet into the ground and licking up into Ian’s mouth. He feels Ian’s top lip shift against his, and he does it again, pressing up, up, up, until Ian runs hands down his arms and pins his wrists against his lower back and finally forces him backward. His back presses to the frame of the dugout and he can feel the cold on his back, even through his jacket. It sends a shiver down his spine. He hisses a little bit, and Ian laughs, low and dirty in the back of his throat. Mickey bites down on Ian's lower lip, hard enough to hurt, and Ian’s fingers squeeze his wrists until he’s arching his back and pressing his hips into Ian’s. Mickey feels his husband's erection pressing against his already aching cock.
“Fuck, Mickey, easy.”
“Me easy? Who’s got who pinned up against a fucking pole, Gallagher?”
“Why don’t you try being a little nicer before I make you put that mouth to better use?”
Mickey bites back on an ungodly, animalistic sound. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, asshole.”
Ian takes it for the challenge it is, and slowly — so slowly, Mickey feels like there are eternities wrapped up in the seconds — pulls his hands off of Mickey and backs up until his thighs are against the bench and he’s sinking down. Ian slides his long legs out in front of him, his arms coming up to rest at the back of his neck, his elbows wide. He cocks an eyebrow and looks down at the front of his jeans, where his dick strains against the zipper. Mickey takes a second to look, to run his eyes up the long lines and pale skin of the love of his god damn life, and then he runs his tongue along his lower teeth, making his lip bulge. He can feel Ian watching him in the low light, can feel his skin catch fire.
He pushes himself off the pole until he’s crowded between Ian's thighs, enjoying the chance to loom above his husband for once. He reaches down and runs a thumb along Ian’s cheekbone, just underneath his eye, traces it around and down the line of his jaw to his lips. He ghosts a touch along that lower lip he loves so much, and then repeats the motion on the other side. Ian closes his eyes, hypnotized by the touch, and Mickey’s not an artist but fuck all if this isn’t the most beautiful god damn thing he’s ever seen.
Mickey drops to his knees in a single, fluid movement and, yeah, he’s not as young as he used to be, but right now he’s drunk and in love enough not to mind the cold press of cement beneath his knees. He runs his palms up the back of Ian’s calves, around and over the top of his thighs, blunt fingers digging into Ian like he wants to tear him apart. He pops Ian’s fly with a single, rough pull, and Ian’s hips are already up and off the bench before Mickey has to say a word. He growls a little in approval, a little “mmh” of a noise that rumbles from his chest like he’s a fucking cave man. Which, with Ian sprawled in front of him, eyes blown and jeans open, maybe he is. Or might as well be.
His hands never stop moving as they guide Ian’s jeans down over his hips, as his index fingers hook into the elastic waistband of Ian’s boxer-briefs. There’s a growing damp spot on the front of the light blue fabric, and Mickey takes a second to stop and mouth at Ian’s cock through his underwear. He runs his tongue roughly over the damp spot, tasting the deep, salt taste of Ian across the back of his tongue. Ian bucks beneath him, sliding his hips a fraction of an inch closer to Mickey, his body begging before his voice has the chance to catch up. Mickey’s hands travel to his hips, smoothing up the sides of his ribcage once, slowly, before they settle on the jut of bone, pressing Ian into the metal. It’s his turn to hiss, and Mickey smiles ruefully.
“It’s really fucking cold,” Ian says with a little whine.
Mickey presses a series of little kisses to the inside of Ian’s knee. “You wanna be the one down on your knees on the concrete?”
Ian answers with a noise, a high-pitched keening as Mickey runs the flat of his tongue up the underside of Ian’s dick, licking around the head with a firm pressure that Ian’s loved since they were fifteen. He opens his mouth and relaxes his throat, letting the warm, inviting hollow of his cheeks pull Ian further into his mouth, slowly enough that he’s able to trace every vein with his tongue while he does it. He looks up at Ian from under his eyelashes, and he’s got his head thrown back, resting on the fence, and the streetlight above them is throwing the kind of stark shadow that makes him look like he'd carved in marble. He presses harder against Ian’s hip in a gentle warning before dropping a hand to his balls, pulling gently, rolling them between his hand as a finger comes to rock gently against the smooth stretch of skin underneath.
He’s going after all of Ian’s soft parts, pushing his buttons like he’s a fucking Navy SEAL diffusing a bomb. And, just like every time he’s got Ian’s dick in his mouth, he remembers all the times they’ve gotten to do this, and all the times they haven’t, and how fucking unfair so much of that was, and he sucks a little harder, pulls Ian a little deeper, channels the regret and anger into making it count now.
Ian begins to push back against Mickey’s half-grip, his hips rutting against the empty air, desperate to find a rhythm, to fuck up and into Mickey’s mouth. Mickey slows down again, which earns him a frustrated, desperate sound and a low, “fuck, Mickey,” as Ian’s fist slams lightly against the mesh fence. He knows what Ian wants, has always known what Ian wants, and besides it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure it out. But just because he knows doesn’t mean he’s gonna give it to him. Yet.
He pulls off Ian with a pop so dirty and loud it echoes in the cold, empty air around them. “Open your eyes, E,” he says, his hand coming to wrap firmly around Ian's dick, gripping firmly enough at the base that his erection isn’t going anywhere, even in the cold. Ian’s eyes open slowly, and Mickey thinks maybe he’s just being a little shit until he sees how dark his pupils are, realizes Ian’s already totally, just. Beyond. He meets Mickey’s gaze, and Mickey smiles, wide and open and radiating something that’s so rare in their lives — joy. Ian smiles in return, unguarded and slow, honey dripping across his pale face.
“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?”
Ian sits up enough that his long arms can reach Mickey’s face, and he runs a finger over the scar on his forehead, the one on the bridge of his nose, the one that cuts across his chin. Mickey leans into his touch where he can, chases it where he can't, keeps his hand moving slowly up and down Ian’s cock.
“Mickey...” Ian says softly, his voice trailing off as a shaking breath follows it, his head dropping back again, his knuckles going white where his hand is wrapped around the edge of the bench.
Mickey doesn’t hesitate, just leans forward and swallows Ian fully into the back of his throat, hollows his cheeks and let’s Ian’s hips go, his hands dropping instead to the space right above his knee, where he grips lightly for balance as Ian fucks up into his face, his rhythm hard and unrelenting. The hand that had just so lovingly traced the history of Mickey’s pain slips under the brim of the beanie and knots itself in the short hair at the back of his neck. He pulls firmly enough that Mickey’s neck locks in place, and Mickey lets his throat relax, focusing on breathing through his nose.
It doesn’t take long — or maybe it takes all night, Mickey crouching there, letting his husband use his mouth, take him and fuck deep into his throat like he owns him. But they own each other, and they know it, and it makes what’s happening in the dugout absolutely transcendent. Because on this Earth, through the rivers and mountains and asteroids of absolute utter shit intent on ruining their lives — they’ve found each other, and belong to each other, and it’s never going anywhere now.
A stream of “fucks” begin to pour out of Ian’s mouth and his grip in Mickey’s hair goes limp at the same time that his thigh muscles tense and he tips over the edge. He comes down Mickey’s throat and Mickey breathes, letting him finish, hands gripped into the bony edge of his knee as Mickey swallows around him. He takes every last drop like it’s fucking Sunday communion and when he’s done and Ian’s going limp all over, he tucks Ian gently back into his underwear and pushes himself to his feet.
His knees pop and he can’t help but groan, pressing a palm against the front of his jeans, where his own cock is still painfully hard.
“C’mere,” Ian says sleepily from the bench, reaching out into thin air and pawing at nothing, willing Mickey to step within range of his hand. Mickey chuckles and grabs his hand of the air, levering Ian to his feet. The string bean wobbles for a second, his eyes opening sleepily and tracing over Mickey’s face, over his swollen, ruined mouth and the way his hat’s slipped back and his hair clings to his forehead with sweat. “Your turn,” Ian says lazily, kissing along Mickey’s neck and fuck, he wants to bend over and press his cheek into the cold, bitter metal of the fence, let Ian split him open and ride him until he sees white.
But he also really wants to be warm, and get the feeling back in his knees, and to take his time, spooning back against Ian as he fucks into him slow, and deep, and unworried about being slapped with another public indecency charge. Weighing his options between the cops and the Gallaghers, he’ll take the Gallaghers every fucking time.
“Let’s get home,” Mickey says, nuzzling against Ian’s neck and pressing his tented jeans against Ian’s palm as his husband's hands wander along Mickey’s body. “It’s fucking freezing.”
“Now who’s the old man,” Ian says into the skin of Mickey’s jaw, running his teeth along the over-sensitive skin. Mickey feels like he’s one giant, exposed nerve and he doesn’t know how much more he’s going to be able to take.
“Yeah, yeah, just you and me, a couple of old fucking farts.”
“Mmm,” Ian hums as Mickey pushes him away gently, turning him so that they’re marching slowly out of the dugout, Mickey’s hands on Ian’s hips. They move slowly back up and over the fence, their movements languid. When they land on the other side, Ian wraps his arm around Mickey’s shoulders and pulls him into a hug, his arms forming a little cave around Mickey’s head. “You know, if I gotta be an old fart with anyone, I’m glad it’s you Mick.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Old farts forever? I think I could get used to that.”
“Yeah, E,” he presses a kiss to his neck, soft and tender and fond, a kiss he’s only ever given Ian. A kiss he’ll only ever give to Ian. “Forever sounds like a deal. Now come on, let’s get the fuck home before we freeze to death and the city has to call Debs."