Work Text:
i.
“Ian!” Mickey calls as he comes bursting through the door. He’s out of breath and panting.
“What?” Ian asks, almost alarmed. Mickey doesn’t run unless it’s an absolute necessity. Oh, shit, maybe he got caught with his gun. Ian sighs internally. Prison widow or go on the run together? These are the decisions he signed up to contemplate when he married Mickey.
“There’s gay guys outside,” Mickey says. He jerks his thumb back toward the door.
“What?” Ian repeats, baffled now.
“Gay dudes!” Mickey insists. “Down by the pool. Come on, you still want gay friends?”
Ian’s surprised Mickey remembered that. It’s been months since their first not-so-great attempts, and Ian kind of thought they’d given up on that. He especially thought Mickey would be happy to give up on that, since he was never really on board in the first place.
But Ian gets up and finds his shoes. “How do you know they’re gay?” he checks. With Mickey, it could range anywhere from they’re blowing each other in the pool to that guy’s shirt looks gay, so this could very well be a false alarm.
“Oh, they’re gay,” Mickey says. “Believe me.”
When they get downstairs, Ian has to admit Mickey’s most likely right, judging by the giant rainbow flag draped over the fence. “Okay,” Ian says. “I believe you.”
Mickey shoots him a grin. “See? I got that gaydar thing now.” That makes Ian laugh, though it turns into a groan when Mickey points at the flag and yells, “Hey, what the fuck is this?”
A few guys’ eyes go wide. Ian can only imagine what they’re thinking, looking at Mickey with his tats and his cut-off sweats yelling at them and pointing at their rainbow flag. “Mick,” Ian says under his breath.
“Oh,” Mickey says, realizing it, too. He’s sort of trying to come off less aggressive now. Sometimes. Ian’s not sure he’s trying hard, but sometimes he is making sort of an effort. Case in point: he juts his finger at Ian and clarifies, “I mean, me and my gay husband want to know what this is.”
Ian snorts, but at least it calms the guys down. One guy laughs and says, “Oh! We were a little scared you…um, well, about once a month we like to have a little party. Queer joy, you know?”
“Queer joy,” Mickey echoes, sounding as if he’s never heard either of those words before.
“Yeah, you know, a lot of us didn’t have the best experiences with our families,” the guy says. Ian glances at Mickey. Mickey resolutely doesn’t look back.
“We can understand that,” Ian says delicately.
“Yeah,” the guy says. “You’re welcome to join us! I’m Luke. Come on over and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
“I’m Ian,” he says. “This is Mickey.”
Mickey looks at Ian. “Yes or no?” He’s really asking if Ian wants to fuck any of them, since they decided that meant they couldn’t be friends. He’s almost being tactful. At least he didn’t ask out loud. Yet.
“Maybe,” Ian says. He cares less about having sex with any of these guys and more means maybe they can be friends with some of them. “Let’s stay for a little and see how it goes.”
“We’ve got sangria and a charcuterie board and we’re going to start grilling,” Luke says.
“Ooh, they’ve got charcuterie and they’re going to start grilling,” Mickey says. He’s becoming a real fan of charcuterie. He keeps saying it’s just a rich person Lunchable. “Here we go.”
Honestly, it’s easier to lead Mickey around by his stomach even than his dick. It’s kind of tragic, actually, if Ian stops to think about how often Mickey went hungry as a kid. But he doesn’t have to stop and think about that right now. They’re at a party.
Mickey starts shoving salami in his mouth at a pace that alarms a few onlookers. Ian’s used to it and leaves him to it so he can grab them drinks. Sangria’s not his favorite, but Mickey never cares what the alcohol tastes like.
When Ian comes back to Mickey with two cups of sangria, he can hear the guys next to Mickey having a discussion about some TV show. “I had no idea who was going to get that last rose,” one guy gushes.
“I know,” Luke agrees. “I was so stressed. I wanted it to be Meghan so bad.”
“The fuck they talking about?” Ian asks Mickey quietly behind his cup.
“You think I know?” Mickey asks. “I can’t even hear them. These crackers are crunchy as fuck. They’re good though, try one.” He holds one out and Ian leans forward to just eat it right from his hand.
“Mm,” Ian says. He makes extra sure to nip at the ends of Mickey’s fingers, just to make Mickey laugh. Mickey huffs and elbows him.
“Hey, watch it, Hannibal Lector,” he says, grinning at Ian. Sometimes Ian looks at Mickey and his heart kind of seizes. Not literally, of course, but like a metaphor.
Because he’s looking at Mickey, sitting here by the pool outside their apartment on the West Side with a rainbow flag behind him, eating charcuterie and wearing his wedding ring. Mickey’s loose and relaxed and smiling at him, resting a hand on Ian’s thigh. Sometimes Ian wishes he could visit those scared teenagers hiding in the freezer at work and tell them what they had to look forward to.
Of course, the Mickey from back then would’ve probably shot Ian for saying it, but still.
“That is good,” Ian agrees. There aren’t any crackers left on the table, because Mickey ate them all already. “I’m going to go get some more. You want more sangria?”
“Is that what this is?” Mickey asks. He downs the rest of his and burps. “It’s nasty. Yeah, get me some more.”
Ian laughs at him. He drops a kiss to the top of Mickey’s head before he walks off. “Anything for you, baby.”
“Aw, shut the fuck up,” Mickey says happily.
As Ian walks off, he hears somebody ask Mickey tentatively, “So…you like salami?”
It makes Ian snort again. He’s pouring drinks when Luke comes over to the drink table, too. “Hey,” Luke says. “You and your husband having a good time?”
“Yeah, it’s great,” Ian says. They’ve only been here for about ten minutes, so he thinks it’s a little early to tell if it’s good or not, but it’s not like he’s going to say that.
“We do ask that you try to mingle,” Luke says. “Don’t just stick to each other the whole time.”
Ian pauses from his quest for the crackers, flashing back to the last time they had charcuterie with potential new friends. “Um, is this some kind of orgy thing?” he asks. “I mean, it’s not necessarily a dealbreaker if it is, I’d just have to check with Mickey and make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Orgy?” Luke echoes faintly. “No, of course not.”
“Oh, sorry,” Ian says, embarrassed now. Shit. “That—we, um, once we ended up at an orgy but we didn’t know it until…you know.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Luke says, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I know the gay community can be so sexual.”
“Uh…” Ian doesn’t know what to say. Luke looks disapproving, so Ian’s getting the sense he shouldn’t mention that they stayed for the orgy.
“We are a group of Christian queers,” Luke explains. “So we believe in waiting until marriage.”
“For what?” Ian asks blankly.
“For sex.” Luke’s giving him a look like he’s stupid. “Aren’t you born again?”
“Um…I was only born once?” Ian says. He feels like they’re speaking different languages at this point.
“Oh,” Luke says. “Oh!” He claps his hands together. “You can get baptized!”
“No,” Ian says. He didn’t mean to be so blunt, but it slipped out. “Uh, I mean, no thanks. I’m not really religious.”
“I mean, aren’t you?” Luke asks, raising an eyebrow. “Gay Jesus?”
Oh, fuck. Ian didn’t realize people still remembered that. “Wasn’t exactly my proudest moment,” he mumbles. He’s not going to tell this guy he was off his meds. It was a hell of a lot less about religion and more about attention and the absolute burning rage he felt at those parents.
Besides, he gets a churning feeling in his gut every time someone says God does everything on purpose and he thinks of everything he’s been through. And especially Mickey and Mandy having to grow up with Terry. If that’s true, if some god out there did all that on purpose, Ian thinks he’d like to have some words with the guy.
“But I can tell you’re searching for your place in this world,” Luke says. “Maybe Gay Jesus wasn’t right. But that doesn’t mean Christ isn’t.”
He’s getting kind of close to Ian now, all earnest and serious. Ian leans away, supremely weirded out now. He doesn’t at all feel like he’s searching for his place in the world. He has felt that way, in the past, but he doesn’t anymore.
“I’m okay,” Ian says.
“If you’re worried that your husband won’t be okay with it, we have resources,” Luke says.
“Resources?” Ian checks. He’s thinking back to Trevor talking about conversion therapy. Gay guys wouldn’t go for that, would they? All of this is creeping Ian out.
“To help you get away from him,” Luke explains. “He doesn’t strike me as someone who’d fit into a Christian lifestyle.”
Alright. Ian’s had enough. “Hey, Mick,” he calls. He has no idea what his face is doing, but it must be enough, because Mickey’s at his side in an instant.
“The fuck’s going on here?” Mickey demands, already cracking his knuckles.
“They’re Christians,” Ian tells him.
“What does that mean?” Mickey knows what Christian means, but he’s asking Ian what that has to do with them. Ian doesn’t really want to say they want to convert us—or, more accurately apparently, just Ian—and he’s not going to bring up the Gay Jesus stuff, because Mickey might throw somebody in the pool, so he goes for the part he knows will freak Mickey out the most.
“They don’t believe in sex before marriage.”
Mickey’s jaw drops. “You guys don’t fuck until you’re married?” He looks horrified. “You must jerk off so much.”
“Oh, no, masturbation is a sin,” another guy says.
“What?” Mickey asks. “Oh, my God.”
“Please watch your language,” Luke says, pained. “We don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. We simply believe lovemaking should be between a married couple only.”
“Oh,” Mickey says. He looks at Ian. “This isn’t like last time.”
“No,” Ian says.
“So we’re not fucking ‘em and we’re not being friends.”
“Please,” Luke begs. “Your language!”
“I didn’t even say anything,” Mickey says, shrugging.
“You said fuck,” Ian points out.
“What, that’s bad?”
“Obviously,” Luke says snottily. He has his lips all pursed up and his nose is wrinkled like he thinks Mickey smells bad.
“We should probably go,” Ian says. If they don’t, it won’t be Mickey throwing somebody in the pool. Ian’s at his limit with this guy and how he’s acting about Mickey. His track record for handling people talking shit about Mickey is not good.
“Ian,” Luke says. “If you’re ever ready to find what you’re looking for, you can come back. God has the answers.”
“No thanks,” Ian says, pulling at Mickey’s arm. “I already found everything I’m looking for.”
Mickey grabs a whole sleeve of the crackers off the table. “Well, at least we got these.”
They practically run away from the pool. They get back upstairs to the apartment and just look at each other for a second. “We are not good at making friends,” Ian despairs. Mickey can’t answer him. His mouth is full of crackers again.
ii.
“Fucking gay Pride?” Mickey asks, dismayed. “Ian, come on.”
“I’m not asking you to march in the parade,” Ian says, a little annoyed already. “It’s just a bar.”
“A gay bar,” Mickey says, nose wrinkling with disgust. “During gay Pride. It’s gonna be full of fucking gay guys.”
“We’re gay,” Ian reminds him, as always. “We’re married, Mickey.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Mickey says. “I’m gay enough. So why do I gotta do all that shit?”
“I just thought it might be nice,” Ian says.
He set himself up for as much success as possible to have this conversation; they went to the abandoned building they use for a shooting range after the cash pickups, he’s blown Mickey twice today, and he waited until Mickey had a beer and a half to bring it up. If Mickey doesn’t say yes in these conditions, he never will.
“Why would it be nice?” Mickey asks.
“Nice to go to a bar where everyone else is like us,” Ian says.
“None of those North Side gays are gonna be like us,” Mickey points out. “They probably won’t even let me in that bar.”
“Yes, they will,” Ian says, though Mickey does have a point about how the guys there will probably be rich. Ian thinks about what Mickey said when he didn’t want to move in, about how it’s too much pressure to be in these nice places.
But Ian’s not asking Mickey to move to Boystown. He’s just asking to go to a bar for one night. He sighs. Mickey sighs, too.
“Why you so obsessed with the gay thing?”
“Because we’re gay!” Ian says, exasperated.
“No, I mean, being around other gay people,” Mickey says. “Like wanting gay friends and everything.”
Ian sighs again. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess just because…there were a lot of people in the neighborhood who thought we shouldn’t be gay. Like your dad. Tami’s aunt who was always around. And remember the florist lady?”
“Bitch,” Mickey mutters. “I still owe her shitty ass store a Molotov.”
“Lip can sympathize with me about it, but he doesn’t get it,” Ian says. Honestly, sometimes it feels like Mickey doesn’t even get it, or at least like he doesn’t want to get it. But Ian’s not going to say that. “It’s just nice to be able to say, you know, some bitch wouldn’t give us flowers for our wedding and have somebody else know how that feels.”
“But I know how you feel,” Mickey says, a little unsure now.
“Yeah, of course,” Ian says, feeling bad for even thinking it before. A guy who stands in front of the whole bar and yells I’m fucking gay before getting in a fight with his homophobic dad definitely gets it. “But I meant it’d be nice for both of us.”
Mickey tips his head back to look at the ceiling. “I guess this makes up for me making you hide before, huh?”
“Mickey, you’ve made up for that,” Ian promises softly. “And you don’t even need to make up for it, anyway. You had a good fucking reason.” He shakes his head against the memory of Terry’s pistol cracking across Mickey’s head.
“But this’ll be, you know, the other side of it,” Mickey says. “I used to hide, now we’re going to a gay bar.” Technically, Mickey did used to come hang out at the club while Ian was dancing, but he certainly wasn’t enjoying himself.
Ian starts to smile. “So you’ll go?”
“One beer, Gallagher,” Mickey warns. “And if they don’t have normal beer, I get to throw a bitch fit.”
Ian laughs out loud, giddy. He surges forward and kisses Mickey. “You can throw a chair. You’re good at that.”
“Fuck yeah,” Mickey says.
Ian half-expects Mickey to change his mind before the weekend, but he doesn’t. Friday night rolls around and he hasn’t backed out. Ian smiles as he watches Mickey get dressed. Mickey’s style has really come a long way from the communal Milkovich clothes pile.
Well, some of the communal Milkovich pile clothes are still in his sitting-around-the-house rotation, which Ian hates. He prefers when Mickey wears his clothes. He just thinks if more than one person has been stabbed in the same shirt, it’s reasonable to throw the shirt away. He doesn’t think that makes him snobby and high-maintenance like Mickey always says it does.
But tonight, Mickey’s getting dressed to go out, and he looks really fucking good. Mickey notices Ian checking him out and shoots him a smug look over his shoulder. He gives his hips a little shimmy that has Ian cracking up.
“Like what you see?” Mickey asks, all cocky swagger.
Ian comes up and grabs a handful of Mickey’s ass. “Yeah, I really fucking do,” he says.
Mickey laughs. “Hey, say the word and we skip your bar. We can just stay here and fuck.”
“Oh, you’re not getting out of it, Milkovich,” Ian says. “You’re taking me on a date first.”
Mickey’s smile dips into something sweeter, almost shy. He puts his hands on Ian’s face, and just as Ian’s heart is filling up with fondness and love, he says, “Alright, you homo.”
Ian can’t help but laugh. “You have no manners.”
“No, I do not,” Mickey agrees happily.
“I kinda do want to skip the bar,” Ian admits. “Except you’re so hot I want to show you off.”
“We could fuck on the balcony so everybody can watch,” Mickey offers.
Ian buries his face in Mickey’s neck, laughing helplessly. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Mickey says. After a second, he says, “So that’s a no on the balcony?”
“Let’s go, Mick.” Ian says, dropping a kiss on his lips before pushing back. “We have a beer to drink.”
“Alright, alright,” Mickey grumbles, following Ian out. But Ian’s pretty sure Mickey’s kind of excited. Hyping him up like that kind of got him into the idea of going out. Ian’s going to have to remember that. And it’s not like he’ll ever be lying just to get Mickey to do something—Mickey always looks hot.
It’s possible Ian’s a little biased. He did still think Mickey was hot back when he hardly showered and wore the same clothes for days at a time. But he knows Mickey’s objectively a good-looking guy.
They get to the bar and Mickey looks like he’s actually making an effort not to grimace. There are a few guys in leather chaps that earn a baffled stare from Mickey, but he doesn’t say anything, at least.
“Hey,” Mickey says, nudging Ian and nodding toward a sign behind the bar. Apparently, they can get half-price drinks if they’ve been together for 10 years or longer.
“I don’t know if we count,” Ian says.
“Yes, we fucking do,” Mickey says.
“Mickey, we weren’t even in the same country for some of that time,” Ian reminds him.
“And did you love anybody more than me?” Mickey asks. “No. So we count.”
Ian huffs. “Very sure of yourself.”
“Am I wrong?” Mickey asks. Ian loves when Mickey gets like this, so confident and sure of them. A lot of people think Mickey comes off way too forceful about everything, but Ian’s always loved it. Especially when they’re talking about such a bad time for their relationship, when they were apart and Ian wasn’t even visiting Mickey while he was locked up.
“No, you’re definitely right,” Ian admits. He is; Ian couldn’t deny it if he wanted to.
Even when he tried to pretend he was over Mickey, when he told himself he was moving on and he didn’t miss Mickey, he could never stop himself from dreaming about Mickey. He slips his hand into Mickey’s back pocket, feeling almost like he misses Mickey now. Retroactively or something. It’s weird.
“Damn, Gallagher, right here in public? Guess it is a gay bar.”
“I’m just resting my hand here!” Ian protests. “Can’t a man hold onto his husband’s ass?”
That makes Mickey laugh just as they get to the front of the line in front of the bar. “Hey,” Mickey says. He nods at the sign again. “We been together 10 years.”
The bartender looks them over skeptically. “How are you even old enough for that?”
“We got together when we were kids,” Mickey says.
“Teenagers,” Ian amends. “Look.” He uses his free hand to pull out his phone and thumb through his pictures until he finds what he wants, a picture he’s held onto through changing phones multiple times because he can’t bear to lose it. It’s a picture of Ian and Mickey and Mandy, way back even before Mickey went to juvie; Ian could only get Mickey to take the picture because Mandy was there, and Mickey’s scowling so hard in the picture Mandy had laughed and said his face was going to break the camera.
“Might not look like it, but we were already together,” Mickey says. “That’s just my sister in between us. She was his beard.”
“No, I can tell you were,” the bartender says. Mickey looks so shocked it makes Ian laugh again. “Okay, then. Half off your drinks.”
“You got regular beer?” Mickey asks.
“Oh, you’re one of those, huh?” the bartender says, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, we got regular beer, butch.”
Ian’s trying his hardest not to laugh, but he is desperately failing. They take their beers over to a free table and Mickey openly gawks at people who come in all dressed up for Pride. It doesn’t take long for Ian to notice the guy a table away who keeps making eyes at them.
Ian nudges Mickey’s foot under the table and flicks his eyes over to the guy. Mickey turns and stares him down for a second, then turns back to Ian. “Think he’s casing us?”
“Mickey, he’s not trying to rob us,” Ian says. “He wants to fuck us.”
“Oh,” Mickey says. “Huh.” He looks at the guy again and tips his head. He shrugs. “You down? I don’t think he’s that great, but okay.”
“Nah,” Ian says. Honestly, tonight he just wants Mickey all to himself. “You look too good to share.”
Mickey hoots a little. “Damn. You are really pulling out the lines tonight.”
“They’re not lines!” Ian insists. “You’re just that gorgeous, I want to keep saying it.”
Mickey cracks up. “That was so fucking gay.”
“Mickey,” Ian says.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re gay,” Mickey says, flipping Ian off. “Not like I need the reminder.”
They don’t stay long; Ian promised Mickey he only had to stay for one beer, and Mickey’s good and doesn’t even chug it just to be done. When they leave, they have to stop in the back alley so Mickey can piss on the wall. It’s sort of a thing he has. He does it anywhere he drinks. Like a dog marking his territory.
“Hey,” a voice behind them says. Mickey’s got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and Ian’s pants are still open, because he was pissing right alongside Mickey. It’s the guy from inside. He gives Mickey a lascivious look. “Waiting for me?”
“No,” Mickey says.
“I’m Landon,” he says.
“Good for you,” Mickey says. Ian snorts and zips up his pants just as Mickey says, “Me and my husband are going home.” Hearing Mickey say my husband is very high on Ian’s favorite sounds.
“Okay…” Landon says slowly. “I mean, I guess he could watch. But he’s not really hot enough for me.” He laughs a little. “Sorry, honey.”
“Uh…” Ian has no idea how to respond to that. He glances at Mickey, unsure how Mickey’s going to respond, either.
Mickey looks confused. “What?”
“What?” Landon asks.
“What are you talking about?” Mickey asks. “Who’s not hot enough?”
“Your husband,” Landon says. “No offense,” he says to Ian. “I’m not into redheads.”
“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, no,” Ian says quickly, reaching out to grab Mickey’s arm, because Mickey’s eyebrows are saying exactly how he’s going to react and it is not going to go well for Landon.
“Not hot enough,” Mickey echoes. “He’s not hot enough? Fuck you even talking about? He’s a fucking statue, you fucking idiot. Come here, I’ll show you hot enough.”
“Mickey,” Ian says with a little laugh. “Come on.” He gets a lot of guys complimenting him, but Mickey’s going overboard.
“He could use a little more time at the gym,” Landon says, giving Ian a bitchy little up-and-down scan. Well. Ian was trying to diffuse the situation, but if Landon wants to be like that, maybe Ian won’t try so hard.
Ian’s gained some weight since they got married. And for the first time he can remember, it doesn’t bother him. He’s actually been excited about it. He’s a happily married man. He earned those extra pounds by skipping workouts to lie in bed with Mickey. Not even to have sex, just to talk about stupid shit to make each other laugh. Ian’s extra weight is a good thing. But he doesn’t love some bitchy queen throwing it in his face. This guy has no idea what it means to Ian.
Mickey glances at Ian, eyebrows raised and mouth set. He’s asking permission, Ian realizes. Ian laughs a little, because he knows exactly what Mickey wants to do. “Go ahead,” he says.
“Go ahead wha—” Landon starts to ask, but Mickey’s already headbutted him before he can finish the question. He drops instantly, so all his precious gym time obviously isn’t helping him much.
“Don’t you ever try to insult my husband again,” Mickey says, bending low to growl in Landon’s ear. He has his arm across Landon’s windpipe. “Apologize to him.”
“Sorry,” Landon wheezes.
“Tell him he’s hot,” Mickey says.
“Mickey.” Ian shakes his head, but he can’t help but feel charmed. He might be the only person in the world charmed by Mickey’s violence, but that’s okay. He’s the only one who needs to be.
He realizes Mickey was asking permission not because he ever needs permission to fight anybody—he was checking to see if Ian wanted to handle it himself. And yeah, Ian could if he wanted to. But sometimes he just enjoys watching Mickey do it for him. Not like he wants to be a fucking fairytale princess or anything, but maybe their version of it.
Landon doesn’t say anything and Mickey presses down a little harder. “Fucking say it,” Mickey demands.
“You’re hot!” Landon says.
“You got no idea what you’re missing out on,” Mickey says. “He’s a hundred fucking times better than the best guy you’ve ever blown in some shitty back alley. And you’re going to think about this night for the rest of your miserable goddamn life and wish you coulda had Ian Gallagher.”
“Okay, Mick, that’s good,” Ian says, heart warm. Dick warm, too. He can’t help it—Mickey beating the shit out of people gets him hot. And defending Ian’s honor? Come on.
Mickey presses down on Landon’s throat one last time before he lets up. “Now we’re going home to fuck all night long,” he tells Landon. “Because yeah, he can get it up as many times as I want it.”
That’s not always true; Ian’s meds can still cause problems sometimes, but most of the time it’s fine. He doesn’t foresee tonight being a problem, for sure. Mickey stands up and presses Ian against the dirty brick wall, kissing him hard and deep and filthy right there.
Ian kisses him right back and grabs Mickey’s ass. “Best fucking husband anybody could have,” Ian tells him.
“Let’s fuck right here on top of him,” Mickey says. “Can’t wait, you’re so fucking hot.”
But they’re cut off by sirens. They’re both still on parole, and there are at least three parole violations right here in this alley. “Shit,” Ian says. He grabs Mickey’s hand. “Come on!”
They run off, laughing and ducking into alleys to bite at each other’s lips. By the time they make it home, Ian’s so hard it hurts. He backs Mickey up against the door when they get inside and they make out sloppily for a while. Mickey pushes him toward the bedroom and down onto the bed.
But then he slows down. He climbs on top of Ian and his kisses get softer and gentler. Ian’s a little confused. Violence gets Mickey really worked up. This is not how they fuck after beating somebody’s ass.
Mickey pulls Ian’s shirt off and kisses his chest, grabs Ian’s hand and rests it on his own chest, right where his tattoo of Ian’s name is. “Hey,” he whispers. “I meant all that.”
“I know,” Ian says. “Thanks, Mick.”
Mickey comes back up to kiss Ian’s lips. He’s still being so soft. “Think you should be in a fucking art gallery,” he says. He rests his elbows on either side of Ian’s head and just looks down at him, smiling. “But you’re not just hot, you know? You’re good, Ian. You’re smart.” He leans in to kiss Ian’s neck. “You care about all kinds of shit. You’re nice to everybody.”
“Well, not everybody,” Ian says, thinking of Landon in the alley.
“People who deserve it,” Mickey amends.
Ian almost wants to cry. Mickey loves him so much. It scared him a little, during the whole marriage debacle when he backed out. How could Mickey possibly love him that much, and how could he promise to keep loving Ian that much? How could Ian be worth that much love, after everything he’d already done to Mickey? After how much he’d changed since Mickey first fell in love with him?
But he hasn’t had to doubt Mickey’s feelings in a long, long time. Mickey makes sure Ian knows, even if it’s just by coming back after they’ve annoyed the shit out of each other and both stormed off. Mickey actually can promise to love every new iteration of Ian, because that’s just who Mickey is. And now here he is, hard and wanting but waiting to get off because he wants to make sure Ian knows how important he is.
Mickey makes him feel like he deserves all that love. Mickey makes him want to be worth that much love. “I love you,” Ian whispers into Mickey’s shoulder. “I love you so much, Mickey.”
“I love you, too,” Mickey says. They kiss for a while longer, until Mickey finally pulls back and bursts out, “Okay, we good here? Can we fuck now?”
Ian laughs, happy and excited and so full of love. He grabs onto Mickey and tangles his legs around Mickey’s so he can flip them and cover Mickey with his body. Mickey probably wouldn’t ever admit it, but he loves when Ian manhandles him. Ian grinds down, making Mickey’s breath hitch.
“Yeah,” Ian says. “We can fuck now, Mick.”
Mickey deserves a reward, after all that tonight. Not only did he defend Ian against Landon, but he went to the gay bar during Pride. That’s a big night. So Ian rips Mickey’s clothes off and makes sure Mickey gets everything he wants.
iii.
“We have to do a pickup at this farmers’ market,” Ian says, reading their list. “People sell weed at farmers’ markets now?”
“Wait, is this the one you like?” Mickey asks. “With the jam?”
There’s a certain vendor at the farmers’ market Ian goes to who sells a strawberry jalapeño jam that Mickey claims he doesn’t care about but mysteriously vanishes when Ian hasn’t eaten any. Ian hasn’t called him out on it because he figures it counts as a serving of fruit and vegetables and Mickey sure as hell needs it.
“No, that one’s two blocks from us,” Ian says. “But I’ll go on Sunday.”
“Thank God,” Mickey says, which is the closest he’s gotten to admitting he likes the jam.
“Thank Ian,” Ian corrects, since he’s the one who has to go get the jam.
“Yeah, same fucking thing to me,” Mickey says with a shrug. That makes Ian laugh.
“Wow, I’m God?” Ian asks. “Cool.”
“Felt like a god last night,” Mickey says, wiggling his eyebrows. He looks so unbelievably stupid. Ian loves him so much.
“Can you not crash the ambulance just because you can’t look away from me?” Ian asks.
“Can you make me not crash if you’re God? Or is that not something Gay Jesus can do?”
They devolve into a little hand-slap fight, Mickey flapping his right hand without even looking at Ian as he navigates through the street blockades. Ian’s actually pretty excited to get out and wander through the market. He’s gotten Mickey to come to the farmers’ market with him exactly one time, and he complained about the hippie lady selling breastmilk soap so loudly Ian hasn’t taken him back.
And yes, Ian thinks it’s gross, too. But he doesn’t yell it to the whole street. He waits until he gets home and tells Mickey how gross it is.
But now Mickey doesn’t have a choice. They’re doing it for work. They wind their way through the tables and vendors, idly window-shopping as they head to the right table for their cash. They’re almost to the end of the tent thing when Ian spots Byron standing at one of the tables, talking to a vendor.
“Oh, my God, it’s your ex,” Ian hisses. “We have to go past him.”
“Ex what?” Mickey asks, completely baffled. “I don’t have an ex.”
Sometimes Ian gets a little worried about how many times Mickey’s been hit in the head. Times like this when he can’t seem to remember someone he slept with barely a year and a half ago. Or the fact that he apparently doesn’t even remember he does, in fact, have an entire ex-wife. Ian’s pretty sure there’s a heartbroken Illinois corrections cafeteria worker out there who’d beg to differ, too.
“Byron,” Ian says.
“Who’s that?”
“Oh, my God, Mick,” Ian groans. “The guy you slept with to make me jealous?”
“Ohhh,” Mickey says. “His name is Byron? That’s a dumb fucking name.”
“He had a scooter, Mickey,” Ian reminds him, unable—or unwilling, at least—to keep the scorn out of his voice. “His name was the least of his problems.”
Mickey snorts. “You are such a bitch when you’re jealous.” He says it like a good thing. He throws an arm around Ian’s neck and shakes him a little. “Don’t worry, Gallagher, he didn’t stand a chance.”
Ian rolls his eyes, but he does laugh. “I wasn’t worried.”
“You were so jealous you knocked him out,” Mickey says, grinning smugly. “You couldn’t handle thinking about anybody else with my ass.”
“You didn’t even give him your ass,” Ian says. But Mickey’s not actually wrong. Ian had known full well what Mickey was doing by going after Byron, but he’d still been so jealous he could hardly breathe.
“Sure didn’t,” Mickey agrees. “Just for you.”
“Don’t ever forget it,” Ian says, grabbing Mickey’s chin and kissing him.
Just then, Byron sees them coming and kind of gulps. Ian figures he can’t really blame the guy. The last time they saw him, Ian did knock him out, and Ian and Mickey are in their work clothes so they look extra intimidating.
“Is he really still freaking out just because you beat his ass?” Mickey asks disdainfully. “Jesus Christ, get over it.”
“Well, some people take that personally,” Ian says with a shrug.
“Why?” Mickey asks. Ian’s saved from answering, because they’re drawing even with the table Byron’s standing in front of.
“Um, hi,” Byron says.
“Hey,” Mickey says. “So, um…” He runs his finger along his bottom lip. “I guess I was, uh, sorta shitty to you.”
Ian can’t believe this is happening. Is Mickey…apologizing? Ian’s not sure he’s ever heard Mickey apologize to anyone except him.
“Sorta?” Byron snips.
“Watch it,” Ian warns. Mickey’s being vulnerable here, and Ian’s not going to let anyone shit on that. Especially not someone who already shit on Mickey before. Byron lets out a sort of eep and shrinks down a little.
Mickey scoffs, but then he schools his face. “I…well, me and Ian had our own shit going on, and I used you to get back at him. And that wasn’t—” He waves his hand around, searching for a word.
“Kind?” Byron suggests. Mickey makes a face.
“Fair,” Ian supplies, because Mickey’s a lot more concerned with fairness than kindness.
“Fair,” Mickey agrees, putting a hand on Ian’s back. “And I am…I’m…” He blows out a breath and looks at Ian. Ian just raises his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, okay? Jesus.” Mickey sounds all annoyed, as if anyone forced him to do this instead of him taking his own initiative.
Byron looks taken aback. “Oh,” he says. “Wow. Um.” He glances at Ian. Ian nods at him pointedly. He will accept Mickey’s apology or he’ll suffer the consequences. “Thank you,” Byron says. “I…” He looks at Ian again. Accept, Ian mouths, narrowing his eyes. “I accept your apology,” Byron says quickly. Ian nods at him.
“Okay,” Mickey says. Without another word, he turns to leave. Ian huffs. Mickey just used up all of his manners for probably a week.
“Hey,” Byron calls. “So you guys worked it out?”
Mickey turns back to look at him. “Yeah,” he says, and now a grin’s spreading across his face that’s contagious so Ian’s grinning, too. “We got married. You, uh, missed the proposal part that night ‘cause you were out cold.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Ian, lusty now at the reminder.
“Right,” Byron says. He kind of glances at Ian, but he’s not getting two apologies today. Ian’s never going to apologize for standing up for Mickey. “Well, congrats.”
“Thanks,” Ian says, because he figures he should be at least somewhat polite.
“Nice to see someone make it,” Byron says, and he sounds like he actually means it.
“Hey, there’s probably a guy out there who rides scooters, too,” Mickey says. Ian can’t help but burst out with a laugh at Mickey’s attempt to be encouraging. The scooter might be the only thing he remembers about Byron.
“Yeah, maybe,” Byron says. He’s a lot less sincere this time. They leave him to his organic eggs and grab the cash. When they get back to the ambulance, Mickey presses Ian up against the side of it and kisses him.
“I don’t have an ex,” he says lowly, “because no one else counts but you.”
“Oh, shit,” Ian breathes as Mickey moves his mouth to Ian’s neck. Mickey’s always been able to take him from 0 to 60 with a single look. “Fuck, Mick, we have to move the ambulance if we’re going to have a quickie.”
“Why?” Mickey asks, already leaving Ian to open the back doors.
“Because there are too many people here!” Ian insists, but he’s following Mickey inside and closing the doors, so his protests aren’t exactly substantial.
“So fucking be quiet,” Mickey says, pushing Ian down and going straight for his belt.
Ian doesn’t know if he can do that. They’ve gotten really used to having their own apartment and being as loud as they want. Not that they ever tried very hard even when they lived with Ian’s siblings, but Ian really doesn’t want a public indecency conviction. And they’re still on parole for another two months.
The thing is, though, it gets very hard to remember any of that stuff when Mickey’s putting in his best work. So Ian bites his lip, tries to hold still so they don’t move the ambulance too much, and forgets anything else in the world except Mickey.
iv.
“You really want to go to Florida?” Mickey asks out of the blue one night while they’re flipping through channels. Ian thought Mickey was asleep; he’s been sprawled out across Ian’s lap for over an hour, letting Ian run his fingers through his hair and rub his back.
“Huh?” Ian asks, completely thrown for a loop. Where the hell did Florida come from? He thinks maybe he missed a commercial about it or something.
“You, um. You know,” Mickey says. “Florida.”
“I…don’t know,” Ian says slowly. He has no idea what Mickey’s talking about.
Mickey sighs and pulls himself upright. “Never mind.”
“What?” Ian’s completely confused by this entire conversation. “Florida—” Then he stops. The realization hits him with a whoosh. “Oh.”
He was going to take Yevgeny to Florida when he had his psychotic break. First psychotic break, his brain corrects.
“Never mind!” Mickey insists. “Just fucking forget I said it.”
“I did want to go to Florida,” Ian admits quietly. “I mean, I kind of wanted to go anywhere, you know? See the ocean. See anything that wasn’t the same dirty streets. Somewhere warm.”
“We could go,” Mickey says.
“What?”
Mickey shrugs, overly focused on the TV and not looking at Ian. “Parole’s up. We could go. We got money now. We could go wherever you want.”
They do have money now. They’re making a lot doing the armored cash deposits. They actually have the most money either of them have ever had, and they’re doing it legally, too. Well, aside from the stolen ambulance and the guns. Legal enough.
Ian stares at the side of Mickey’s face, but Mickey won’t look over at him. “What made you think of Florida?”
“Just—we could go somewhere. And that’s somewhere you wanted to go,” Mickey says. “I didn’t know if it…” He blows out a breath and shrugs again. His voice drops a little when he says, “I don’t know how to ask nice.”
Ian feels a smile spread across his face. “Mickey, are you trying to ask me to go on a trip with you?”
“Well, you never got a real honeymoon like you wanted,” Mickey says defensively.
Ian snorts. He never mentioned a honeymoon one time. What this means is that Mickey’s been thinking about how they didn’t get a real honeymoon. Ian grabs Mickey and pulls him back in close, kissing his forehead. Mickey grumbles like he doesn’t want Ian to do it, but he’s resting all his weight on Ian.
“Yeah, Mick, I’d love to go on a trip.”
“Florida?” Mickey asks.
“Nah,” Ian says. He doesn’t want the reminder of all that hanging over them while they’re taking a honeymoon. “Let’s pick somewhere together.”
“Somewhere warm?” Mickey asks. It’s snowing again, dirty gray slush filling up the sidewalks, and Ian nods fervently. “Gonna have to go kinda far to get somewhere warm,” Mickey points out.
“We could fly,” Ian says.
“Fucking—” Mickey looks at him like he’s crazy. “On an airplane?”
“No, Mickey, with our wings,” Ian says, rolling his eyes.
“I’ve never done that,” Mickey says.
“Me neither.” Ian pats Mickey’s thigh. “A first time together.”
Mickey huffs. “You really want to fly? You know you can’t take knives. I don’t even know if you can take brass knuckles. The fuck are we going to do without any weapons?”
“Uh, go on vacation?” Ian suggests.
“What if there’s one of those, you know, hijackers, and there’s us with nothing to defend ourselves.”
“Mickey, if anyone’s going to hijack a plane you’re on, it’d probably be you,” Ian points out.
Mickey laughs a little, though he’s trying to scowl. “Fuck off. Like you wouldn’t help.”
“I’ll always help,” Ian promises, because committing crimes together wasn’t part of their official marriage vows but it’s pretty much a given with them. “Even if you land us both in Guantanamo Bay.”
“I could bust us out of there, easy,” Mickey says carelessly. “Bunch of blind spots in their guards.”
“That sounds like you’ve thought about it,” Ian says.
“Yeah, obviously,” Mickey says. “You think I broke out of one prison and didn’t think of ways I’d break out of others?”
“This conversation’s getting off track,” Ian says. “We’re supposed to be planning a trip.”
“We are planning a trip.”
“If we fly, we could join the mile high club,” Ian says.
Mickey raises his eyebrows interestedly. “I’m listening.”
“But you have to get through airport security,” Ian says.
Mickey scoffs. “Obviously I can get through airport fucking security.”
“I don’t mean get through them like get away from them,” Ian says. “I mean do what they say so we can get on the plane.”
“Oh.”
They end up deciding on Vegas, which has both of them pretty excited. Mickey’s not even trying to pretend he isn’t, which means he’s really excited. They’re both nervous about flying, though. Ian has to talk Mickey down from trying to hide a shiv in his bag and they compromise by deciding they can make a shiv when they get to the hotel.
The mile high club ends up being pretty underwhelming. The bathroom’s too small and the counter’s all wet. “That fucking sucked,” Mickey complains when they head back to their seat, ignoring the dirty look from the woman sitting by the bathroom who noticed them go in together. “I mean, we should do it again on the way home, but still.”
Ian’s surprised when they don’t go to a hotel after they land. Instead, Mickey insists on driving the car they rented and takes them to a house. “What’s this?” Ian asks.
“We’re staying here.”
“How?” Ian asks. They don’t have this much money.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Mickey,” Ian warns. He does not like when Mickey tells him not to worry about something. That almost always means he should worry about it.
“Alright, relax, guy I was inside with has a rich uncle,” Mickey says. “He owed me a favor.”
“Who?” Ian asks. “Velasquez? I know he owed you a favor.” Mickey had an entire system in prison to win favor with people. He said they could never know when they’d need something, so it was good to have people in debt to them.
“No, inside the first time,” Mickey says. Before Ian can feel bad about that, Mickey punches his shoulder and says, “Got our own pool. You like that, right?”
Ian does like that, though part of why he was so excited about the pool at their apartment was just because it felt so upscale and fancy. This definitely fits the bill, though. They drop their stuff and go straight for the pool, not bothering with swimsuits.
“Can you not piss in this one since it’s just us?” Ian requests. “I’ll blow you in there if you keep it clean.”
“Deal,” Mickey says. That’s pretty much the only way to get him into a body of water. He never learned to swim and he doesn’t seem to ever plan to.
Ian actually swims for a little while, enjoying the stretch of his muscles and the clean burn in his lungs, and when he resurfaces he snorts. Mickey’s just standing there, naked as the day he was born, arms crossed over his chest and water only up to his ankles. But then Ian’s not laughing, because Mickey’s looking at him like he wants to eat him for lunch.
“Should get a camera on you when you work out,” Mickey says, voice husky. “So fucking hot.”
Ian swims over and stands up, watching the way Mickey’s eyes trace the water droplets sliding down his skin. Ian pushes him down, gently, so he’s sitting on the steps of the pool, and he makes good on his promise. He has to come up for air a bit more than usual with the water, but Mickey doesn’t seem to have any complaints.
“Want me to do you?” Mickey asks when he’s done, still a little breathless. That’s a declaration of love, honestly. Mickey hates having his head underwater. Partially because his sinuses are all fucked up from breaking his nose so many times, so holding his breath is hard.
As if Ian needed more declarations of love. The fact that Mickey not only wanted to have a real honeymoon but apparently took steps to actually plan some surprises for Ian has Ian feeling halfway between wanting to cry and wanting to stay here at this house for the whole three days and fuck Mickey every minute.
Well, it is supposed to be a honeymoon.
But they do venture out. There’s no way they’d come to Vegas and not gamble. Mickey says, really seriously, “We’re going to win some money tonight. Because this is our honeymoon. So we’re lucky.”
It cracks Ian up. Mickey’s saying this like it’s some fact that everybody knows. They do win some money, though it’s not so much luck as it is Mickey counting cards. But that’s fine by Ian. After about two hours of slot machines, blackjack, and a lot of booze, they end up at a buffet in line behind two guys.
Ian raises his eyebrows at Mickey. He’s pretty sure these guys are gay, too. Maybe they’ll have vacation friends.
“Hey,” Mickey says. The guys both turn around. “You gay?”
“Mickey,” Ian coughs.
“It’s fine if you are,” Mickey promises. “We’re married. This is our honeymoon.”
Ian can’t help but grin dopily at him for that. Mickey’s been telling everyone. Sometimes it’s almost impossible to reconcile Mickey now with the Mickey who chose going to juvie over revealing their relationship.
“What if we say it’s not fine with us that you’re gay?” one guy asks.
“Then we’ll beat your ass and steal your wallet,” Mickey says with a shrug, like this is obvious.
“Well, it is fine with us, and we are,” the other guy says. “I’m Brett.”
“Hey, I’m Ian, this is Mickey,” Ian says.
“And I’m Randy.” Both the guys put their hands out to shake. Ian shakes hands. Mickey just looks at Ian and shakes his head. Maybe Brett and Randy will just assume Mickey doesn’t want to put down his plate.
“Is this your first time in Vegas?” Brett asks.
“Yeah, we’re from Chicago,” Ian says.
“Hey, let us buy you some drinks,” Randy says. “Since it’s your honeymoon!”
That’s never a problem. Ian’s feeling very optimistic about this. The night’s kind of blurry; he and Mickey end up making out in the booth at the buffet at one point, but they would’ve done that without being drunk, and somehow the next day they’ve apparently invited Brett and Randy over to hang out at the house they’re staying in.
“Is this—” Mickey starts while they’re getting ready.
“We’re not fucking them!” Ian cuts him off.
“I was just checking,” Mickey says.
The afternoon goes well. Randy and Brett brought stuff to make drinks, and they’re not even put off by Mickey accidentally mentioning he’s been to prison. Ian and Mickey exchange a glance while Randy and Brett are getting more drinks.
“We’re doing it!” Ian says excitedly.
“Like doing it doing it?” Mickey asks, pointing at his dick.
“I meant we’re making friends,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. “Why, you think they’re hot? You want to bang them?”
“I don’t think they’re that hot,” Mickey says with a shrug. “But I can close my eyes.”
That makes Ian laugh. “Well, no. We’re just going to be friends.”
They go back out to the casinos with Randy and Brett later that night. Ian realizes that Randy and Brett are still buying them drinks, and for a second he wonders if that’s weird. But then Brett comes back with another drink, and he forgets to be worried about it.
“We should play poker,” Randy says. “I mean, I don’t really know how, but I hear it’s fun.”
“You don’t know how?” Mickey asks. “What are you, five years old?”
Randy laughs and shrugs. “I know, it’s weird.”
“I know how, but I’m not very good,” Brett admits. Ian looks at Mickey. Sure, these are their vacation friends. But they’re leaving tomorrow. And if they’re right here admitting they’re not good at poker…
“Sure, we can play,” Ian says. “We’ll go easy on you.”
Mickey doesn’t go easy on them, of course, because he knew Ian didn’t actually want him to. Randy and Brett are really bad at poker. Mickey wins another hand, but he’s not crowing about it. He’s starting to frown.
“So what do you think?” Brett asks. “Should we make a big bet like they do in the movies? You know what they say—make it interesting?”
“Ian, do you want another drink?” Randy asks right at the same time.
“Oh, shit,” Mickey says. His jaw drops. “You are faking it!”
“Oh, my God,” Ian says, realizing immediately what Mickey means. Randy and Brett have been trying to keep them wasted the whole time. They’re too bad at poker. On purpose.
“No, what are you talking about?” Randy says, but he’s not a good actor now that he’s caught.
“There’s no way you didn’t have a queen last hand,” Mickey says. “And I know that because I cheated!”
“You cheated?” Brett demands.
“I had to, because you were obviously throwing it!”
“You were pretending to be bad,” Ian chimes in.
“You are not trying to fucking scam me!” Mickey says, offended. “I thought we were being gay friends!”
“You just said you were trying to scam us,” Brett points out.
“I was just going to take your fucking watch,” Mickey says. “Let me guess, you were going to bet $200, lose, then go double or nothing and think you could piss me off into going higher.” Randy opens his mouth, then closes it, eyes darting over to Brett. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Mickey says.
“You broke the gay friends rule,” Ian says. “Our first vacation. We thought we had couple friends.”
“We’re not even a couple,” Brett says, rolling his eyes.
Ian doesn’t mean to, but he gasps. He’s had way more to drink than he should’ve. “How could you lie to us on our honeymoon?” he asks accusingly.
“Didn’t you say you got married two years ago?” Randy asks. “Does it really count as a honeymoon?”
“We didn’t have any money until now,” Mickey says angrily. “We’re fucking poor! Learn to pick better marks, you fucking idiots!”
“You’re telling me you’re poor in that giant house?” Brett says.
“We’re not paying for that,” Ian says. “Mickey knew a guy. From prison. Where he went for attempted murder.”
“And busted out,” Mickey finishes, cracking his knuckles.
Randy looks at Brett. At the same time, they bolt away from the table. “I don’t fucking think so,” Ian growls. If these guys thought Ian and Mickey would be too drunk to follow them, they don’t know the South Side.
They catch Randy and Brett outside the casino. From there, it’s short work to drag them behind the building and beat the shit out of them for a minute. For scammers, they’re not very good at protecting themselves. It’s almost not even worth the fight.
Mickey spits on Brett. “Let’s go,” he says to Ian. “Can’t believe how soft we’re getting.”
“This is soft?” Randy asks weakly.
“Yeah, shut the fuck up before we change our minds,” Ian says. He gives Randy a last kick and he and Mickey leave.
“I’ve never been so close to being scammed in my life,” Mickey says. He’s really taking this personally. “We dropped our guard, Gallagher.”
“We’re on our honeymoon,” Ian points out. “I think we’re allowed to.” He puts his arm around Mickey and pulls him in to kiss the side of his head. “Good thing you caught ‘em.”
“Nobody loses four hands in a row like that by accident in a fair game,” Mickey says disgustedly. “Ugh.”
They get back to the place they’re staying, mad and drunk and a little dejected. Ian actually kind of liked Brett. Though now obviously he realizes Brett was just saying whatever Ian wanted to hear. Ian and Mickey leave in the morning, hungover and with bruised knuckles.
“Did that ruin it?” Mickey asks when they get home, voice a little small.
Ian stops dumping their dirty laundry on the floor and turns around to look at him. “The trip?” he asks. Mickey nods.
“Wasn’t as good as it was supposed to be,” Mickey mutters. Ian thinks of Mickey cashing in a favor to get that house, thinks of flying for the first time and watching Mickey make a face at the lady who took her shoes off at the gate. He thinks of Mickey excitedly telling the guy checking ID at the casino this is our honeymoon and splashing around in the pool together.
He grabs Mickey and pulls him in close. “Course not,” he promises. “Best honeymoon ever.”
“You sure?” Mickey checks.
“We got a lot of free drinks out of those guys,” Ian points out. “And we got to fight them and we didn’t lose our money. We won money before we met them.”
Mickey makes a considering sound. “Good point.”
Ian tips Mickey’s head back to kiss him. “Watching you beat the shit out of people is always hot.”
That makes Mickey grin. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ian says.
They’re both a little sunburnt and hungover, still a little disappointed that they were so close to getting caught in a scam. But Ian knows for a fact he’s never had a better weekend in his life.
v.
“I cannot fucking believe this,” Mickey mutters. Ian shushes him. They’re not supposed to be talking right now.
They’re at yoga.
Getting Mickey to go to Pilates was hard enough. Getting Mickey to agree to yoga took every trick Ian has. His dick is almost sore from fucking Mickey so many times as incentive. He’s learned the whole carrot over the stick thing. Give Mickey a good reason to do something instead of using threats. Then Ian doesn’t have to suffer through whatever threat he made, too.
“Now close your eyes and feel all of your breath moving through the soles of your feet,” the instructor says.
“Breath doesn’t go through your fucking feet,” Mickey says.
“Mickey,” Ian warns, eyes still closed.
“I said I’d come. I didn’t say I wouldn’t complain!”
Ian never would’ve asked Mickey not to complain. That’s like asking him not to breathe. Ian cracks an eye and relinquishes one of his feet from the breathing thing to kick Mickey. He’s given up on the pose and is sitting cross-legged and cross-armed on his mat.
“Now we’re going to move into lotus position,” the woman says. “Take deep breaths. Spend some time in your own mind. Hear your thoughts.”
This is one of the main reasons Ian wanted Mickey to try yoga. He thinks meditation could be good for Mickey. Mickey’s confusion and crying over Terry made Ian realize Mickey is really not in touch with himself.
Ian can hear Mickey’s smart aleck response to that—I touch myself just fine—and it makes him laugh a little even though they didn’t actually have the conversation. The point is, maybe if Mickey spent some time meditating, he’d understand his own emotions more.
“Breathe in through your nose,” the instructor says. Mickey’ nose whistles when he breathes in. Ian’s not doing a very good job of his own meditating. He’s too focused on whether or not Mickey is. And surprisingly, it looks like Mickey is doing a good job. He’s almost smiling, eyes closed.
Ian relaxes. Okay. Though he should probably get himself ready. If Mickey’s actually getting in touch with himself and tapping into his emotions, he’ll probably have a breakdown when they get home. Ian hates when he cries, but he loves that he’s the one who gets to see it and hold him through it.
But when the class finishes up, Mickey pops up from his mat and says, “Let’s go get those smoothie things.”
Ian’s checking his face while they walk across the yoga studio to the juice bar. “All good?”
“Uh, yeah, now that fucking yoga’s over,” Mickey says. He does a double take when he notices Ian watching him. “What?”
Ian remembers doing this in the school hallway, trying to figure out if Mickey had feelings for him. That ship has long since sailed, but he’s still trying to read Mickey’s face. “You’re feeling fine?”
“I’m feeling annoyed,” Mickey says, which basically just means he’s alive.
“How was meditating?” Ian tries.
“Fine,” Mickey says. “Great, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I thought through all my drop bags to make sure I could remember where they are.” Mickey grins proudly. “I can.”
Ian sighs. “Seriously?”
“What?” Mickey asks.
“You were supposed to be thinking about your emotions,” Ian says. “You know, focusing on your inner self.”
“How ‘bout we go home and you focus on my inner self?” Mickey asks. Ian laughs despite himself, because he so knew Mickey would say something like that.
“You didn’t want to think through, you know…your emotions?” Ian asks. “Maybe think through some of the things that have happened to you and how that made you feel?”
“Why the fuck would I want to think about that?” Mickey asks. “You know what’s happened to me? Shitty things. So thinking about them would be shitty.”
“But then—”
“Wait a fucking second,” Mickey interrupts, narrowing his eyes at Ian. “You wanted me to do this yoga shit because you thought I’d, what, go all therapy mode or something?”
“I just think with how you felt after Terry—”
“Wow, shut the fuck up,” Mickey says. “Not talking about that.”
Ian sighs again. He holds up his hands in defeat. “Fine.”
“And I’m not coming back here,” Mickey says.
“Yeah, fine,” Ian says.
There’s only one other guy in the juice bar place. He was in yoga with them, too, and he looks a lot more at ease in the juice bar than they are. Mickey basically gets a milkshake and the one time the lady asked if he wanted a wheatgrass shot Mickey asked what proof it was, so they’re not exactly juice bar regulars.
There aren’t any chairs around the tall tables; they’re apparently just for standing at. The other guy looks over at them and gives Ian a nod. “Yoga, right?”
“Never fucking again,” Mickey says.
“Oh, God, I know,” the guy says. “Took some bribes to get me here.”
“Yeah, I had to bribe him, too,” Ian says, nudging Mickey. “I’m Ian.”
“I’m Ryan.” Ryan looks expectantly at Mickey.
“Mickey,” he says before going back to slurping his smoothie.
“Supposedly yoga’s good for my back,” Ryan says. “I got hurt at this weekend warrior obstacle course thing. Kind of embarrassing.”
“Oh, what kind of obstacle course?” Ian asks. “Like a Spartan race?”
“No, it was obstacles and targets to shoot,” Ryan says.
Mickey, who’d been completely tuned out and focused on making as much noise drinking his smoothie as possible, looks up. “Shooting guns?”
“Yeah, I know a lot of people think it’s scary, but I love it,” Ryan says.
“What do you shoot?” Mickey asks.
“For that I had a Beretta 1301,” Ryan says.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Mickey says. He elbows Ian. “That’s what I wanted to get you but you pussied out.”
“I didn’t pussy out,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. “I said we’d have to save up first.”
“We don’t have to save up, because we have to st—” Mickey cuts himself off before he points out they have to steal it anyway since they’re felons. “Yeah, okay.”
“I know, it’s expensive,” Ryan says. “If you guys want, you can come with me to the range and shoot mine.”
Ian and Mickey glance at each other. They can’t go to a real gun range. “Yeah, maybe,” Ian says.
“Hey, he could be our gay friend, right?” Mickey asks.
“Uh, what?” Ryan asks. “I’m not gay.” Mickey looks at Ian and makes a what the fuck? face. Ian has to agree. Ryan is absolutely coming off as gay to him. He’s proud Mickey noticed.
“He hates yoga and he doesn’t yap a ton,” Mickey goes on like Ryan didn’t say anything. “He likes guns, we like guns.”
“You like guns,” Ian corrects.
“You like guns,” Mickey insists.
“I don’t mind guns, but I don’t like guns like you like guns.”
“I’m straight,” Ryan says again. “I mean, I don’t have a problem with gay people. I’m just…not one.”
“So you don’t want to be friends with him?” Mickey asks. “I want to shoot his gun.”
“You can be friends with him,” Ian says.
“But you said we can’t have separate gay friends,” Mickey reminds him.
“I’m not…” Ryan sighs.
“I think it’s okay if you have a straight friend I don’t have,” Ian says. “It won’t kill us to spend some time apart.”
Mickey chews at his lip. “You want to get away from me?” he says. “Like with Chester.”
“Mickey,” Ian says. He should’ve chosen his words more carefully. He knows Mickey’s insecure about this. He knows he’s given Mickey reason to be insecure. He puts his hands on Mickey’s face and makes Mickey meet his eyes. “Can I explain, please?”
Mickey blows out a breath, but he says, “Fine.” They’re (very) slowly starting to get better at communicating.
“It’s okay if we have different friends,” Ian says. “We’re allowed to like different things. And I’m not saying I want to get away from you. I’m just saying I’ll survive for, like, an afternoon. So yeah, you can have a straight friend without me.” Then he tips his head. “I mean, I don’t think he can be your straight friend, because he’s obviously just in the closet.”
“Okay, thank you!” Mickey says. “I fucking knew it.”
“What?” Ryan asks. Ian and Mickey both jump a little. They forgot he was there. Mickey rolls his eyes and turns to look at Ryan.
“Look, life gets about a billion times better once you just admit you want cock,” he says. “Take it from me. Well, not the cock. I mean, unless my husband wants in.”
Ian tips his head. “Meh. I guess so.” It might make Ryan more likely to let them shoot his gun at their abandoned building instead of a real shooting range and not ask too many questions. Ian’s slept with worse guys for less.
But honestly, Ian’s uneasiness about never sleeping with anyone new again fades a little more every day with Mickey. Mickey was all Ian wanted for so long. Now they’re finally here, on the same page, committed to each other at the same time. That’s so exciting Ian doesn’t see how Mickey could ever get boring. Ian won’t mind if there’s someone Mickey really wants to bring in some time, but more and more these days, Ian’s definitely more than content to keep sex just between the two of them.
“I am not gay,” Ryan insists. “You can’t just go around deciding if people are gay and then randomly propositioning them for sex, you know. Were you raised in the wild or something? What the fuck.” He grabs his smoothie and storms off. Mickey huffs and turns back to look at Ian, shocked.
“What a freak,” Ian says.
“Jesus, what’s his fucking problem?” Mickey agrees. “Should be flattered we even considered his weird-shaped ass.”
“I knew you were looking around during downward dog,” Ian says.
“Yeah, well, couldn’t check out your ass because you were next to me instead of in front of me.”
“Hey,” Ian says, getting serious. “I mean it. I’m not trying to get away from you.” He leans in and kisses Mickey. “We’re not stuck in a cell together, so you’re way more tolerable now.” They both laugh a little. “If you want to hang out with some straight guys without me, I’m not worried.”
“Look, Ian…” Mickey sighs. “Gay, straight, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to fuck around on you. I promise. You—” He shrugs, and he’s giving Ian that soft look that nobody else but Ian gets to see. That’s the look he was looking for, the look Mandy told him to watch for. He hadn’t known what the look was, back then, but now he sees it on Mickey’s face every day. “You’re all I want,” Mickey says softly. “Always have been.”
“Mick,” Ian says kind of helplessly.
“You, uh, not you, though?” Mickey asks, not meeting Ian’s eyes anymore. It takes Ian a second to figure out what Mickey means. He grabs onto Mickey’s face again.
“Hey,” he says firmly. “Mickey, I’m not going to cheat on you. I was just saying that before about the gay friends because I knew it’d make you come with me.” He swallows hard, gut churning. “I’ve already done that to you.”
He can never forget the look on Mickey’s face when Ian came home after being out all night, the choked way he said don’t touch me. Sometimes Ian still has nightmares about it.
Mickey’s face clouds for a second, but he shakes his head. “You didn’t have meds,” he says. “And you were a kid.”
“I knew it was wrong,” Ian says. He left the grocery store that one time and hated himself, but he hated himself so much at that point it all blended together. “Well, I kinda thought the porno was a gray area, honestly.” He was getting them money. He thought that was okay.
“I don’t care about that,” Mickey promises. “I trust you.”
It’s overwhelming. Sometimes Ian can’t sleep at night because he’s thinking of all the reasons he’s given Mickey not to trust him. But for some reason, here Mickey is. Every day.
“I think…” Ian takes a deep breath. “I think maybe we should try to find separate friends.” Before Mickey can say anything, Ian kisses him again and goes on quickly. “I think we’ve been trying so hard to find friends together because we’re scared to be apart. Every time we’ve been apart so far, it’s because we’re apart. You know, like, bad apart. We weren’t together, or…or like when I had the Amazon job, and we were fighting all the time. I think we gotta learn that we can go more than an hour without seeing each other and it’s not bad. We’re still coming home to each other.”
Mickey rests his forehead against Ian’s shoulder. “But I don’t like anybody but you.”
That makes Ian laugh. He turns his head and kisses Mickey’s ear. “You barely know anybody but me. But the rest of our lives is a long time, Mick. We gotta figure this out. I don’t ever want to be one of those couples who just stay together because it’s easier but they fucking hate each other, you know?”
“We can never be that,” Mickey says. “There’s never been a day I’ve hated you since we started fucking, Ian. Even when I pretended I did.”
“I know, Mick,” Ian murmurs. “Me, neither. Even when we were locked up.”
They kiss again, and then Mickey sighs. “So now I gotta be straight friends, too?”
“Well, your friend will be straight,” Ian says. “You’ll still be gay. You’re always gay, even when you’re around straight people. Wait, are you pretending to be straight when I’m not around?”
“I’m not pretending anything,” Mickey says. “I’m just not telling anyone anything.”
“Okay, but see, with your friends, you can tell them stuff,” Ian explains.
The concept of friendship is still a bit foreign to Mickey. Pretty much his only knowledge of friendship comes from Ian, Ian’s siblings, and Kev and V. Maybe some other guys from prison. Ian’s not sure any of those count as normal.
“You said straight guys don’t want to hear about our sex!” Mickey squawks.
“You don’t have to tell them about our sex life,” Ian says. “But you can say, you know, my husband and I have plans this weekend. That stuff.”
“Ugh,” Mickey says. “Fuck, this sounds like a lot of work.”
Ian laughs and kisses him, then kisses him again. “Yeah, well, we’ll both do it, okay?”
“Separately,” Mickey says.
“Sure, but together,” Ian says. “Then we’ll have stuff to talk about. Right now we do everything together. We’re not going to have anything to say in 50 years.”
“We’ll always find something,” Mickey says confidently. That makes Ian smile at him.
“Hi, this is beautiful and all, but I’m going to lunch now, so can you leave?” the juice bar lady butts in.
“We’re having a fucking important conversation over here,” Mickey complains.
“Yeah, I heard the whole thing,” she says. “And I think it’s smart to make separate friends. But don’t you, like, live here? Go to your apartment to have your important conversation.”
Mickey’s eyebrows are promising threats, so Ian grabs his hand and says, “She’s right. Let’s go home.”
“Fine,” Mickey says. He still glares at her when they walk out. As they head up the stairs to their apartment, he says, “I don’t think anyone’s going to want to be my friend, though.”
It’s so honest, so vulnerable, and he says it so matter-of-factly, that Ian almost stops walking. But Mickey doesn’t, so Ian doesn’t, either. When they get inside, Ian pulls Mickey in close.
“You are my favorite person in the whole world,” he murmurs into Mickey’s neck. “You’re funny and smart and when you love, you love hard. If you try and other people don’t see it and don’t want to be your friend, then fuck ‘em. We’ll be attached at the hip for the rest of our lives. If we run out of shit to talk about, I’ll just start making stuff up to make you think I’m interesting.”
Mickey laughs a little. “Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Ian says.
“Okay.” They’re stay like that for a little while, just holding onto each other, and then Mickey says, “Do you want to be attached at the hips right now?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Ian says, already shoving Mickey’s sweats down. “Yoga got me so hot.”
“Oh, maybe we will go back,” Mickey says. “Well, you can,” he amends.
“Whatever,” Ian says. He can’t focus on this anymore. “Let’s test out what we learned.”
Mickey laughs. He didn’t actually learn that much at their yoga class. But this is one area he doesn’t need any improvement in.
+1
“Hey, tough guy, you miss me?” Mickey asks, walking up behind Ian and goosing him in the ass. Ian jumps, but he turns around and kisses Mickey immediately. Because the truth is he did miss Mickey. It’s a little ridiculous; they’re kissing like they haven’t seen each other in weeks, when in reality it’s been two hours.
They’re taking baby steps in branching out with separate friends. They went to two different bars tonight to test out the waters. Ian’s surprised to see Mickey here, because they were supposed to meet up at a diner closer to home in half an hour, but instead he came to find Ian. Ian went to the gay bar they went to during Pride. Mickey chose a biker bar for his solo outing.
Because of course he did.
“What are you doing here?” Ian asks.
“Ah, had to leave the bar in a hurry,” Mickey admits.
“God, Mickey, what’d you do?” Ian asks, a little exasperated even though he hasn’t let go of Mickey.
“I didn’t do anything!” Mickey insists. “The other guys were bitching about their wives not putting out and you said I was supposed to talk about you so all I said was my husband sucks my dick every day, so maybe you should try dudes.” He shrugs. “They didn’t like that.”
“Really? But it’s so charming,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. “You get stabbed?”
“Course not,” Mickey scoffs. “Took a dude’s wallet and ran. Got 40 bucks.”
“Oh, my man the provider,” Ian says, kissing him again through Mickey’s laughter. “You want to stay here a little longer? There’s a dart board back there.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mickey asks. “You want to lose to me at darts?”
Ian snorts. Mickey’s never beaten him at darts. Mickey can beat him in guns, knives, and shivs, and they’re about 50/50 in hand-to-hand fights. But when it comes to throwing things, Ian wins. His hand-eye coordination’s better.
They horse around more than they actually play darts, and Mickey even tries the cocktail of the day—something the bartender called a Cock Rocket that Mickey immediately said needed to go in his mouth.
They’re getting ready to head home when a guy comes stumbling inside, bleeding from the head. Ian doesn’t really think twice about rushing over to help him. His forehead’s cut open, and it’s pretty obvious his nose is broken.
“Whoa, Will, what the fuck?” the bartender asks.
“Guy out there bashing anyone who walks in or out,” Will says. He’s young, young enough that he probably has a fake ID to get into places like this. Or the bartenders just don’t care. None of them did when Ian was underage. Ian presses napkins to his forehead. It’s not a deep cut, but head wounds always bleed a lot.
“You want me to set your nose?” he asks. “It’ll hurt. If you go to an actual doctor they’ll give you stuff for the pain.”
Will sighs. “I can’t afford that.”
The bartender hands him a bottle of vodka. “Drink it fast.”
Ian looks over his shoulder at Mickey. “Mick, can you come hold him?”
“He doesn’t need to hold me,” Will protests.
“You’re gonna move when he does it,” Mickey says. “You never had a broken nose before?”
“No,” Will says.
Ian sets his nose while he’s distracted and he does, in fact, jerk in surprise and pain, but Mickey holds his arms down so he doesn’t accidentally hit Ian. “Told ya,” Mickey says.
“Fuck!” Will screams.
“Are you gonna call the cops?” someone else asks the bartender. The bartender hesitates. Ian gets it. Cops aren’t all that popular in any gay bar Ian’s been to.
“You don’t need to,” Ian says. “We’ll handle it.”
“We will?” Mickey asks.
Ian pulls him to the side. “Mickey, come on. We’re not just going to let some homophobe terrorize our own community, are we?”
“Why not?” Mickey asks. “He’s not gonna do fuck all to us.”
“Mickey,” Ian says, crossing his arms. He knows Mickey mostly only cares about his own circle, but even Mickey has to understand Ian’s point here. “Look around. These guys can’t handle themselves. It’s twink night.”
“Oh, that explains it,” Mickey mutters.
“Wouldn’t it have been nice to have a little help when your dad was getting us?” Ian adds softly. He thinks about that night at the Alibi a lot. Nobody jumped in to help, not even Kev. It was just Ian and Mickey against Terry and his brothers.
Mickey sighs. “Christ. Fine. I avoid one fight and your do-gooder ass gets me right into another one.”
Ian kisses him. “Like you didn’t wish you stayed to fight those bikers.”
Mickey laughs a little. “There were seven of them and only me!”
“Okay, well, now you got backup.”
“Can you really handle it?” someone asks as they head for the door.
Ian kind of just looks over at Mickey. People don’t usually doubt his fight skills. “Uh, yeah, we’ve got some experience.”
Mickey jabs Ian with his elbow at the door so Mickey gets through first. Which means it’s Mickey who takes the first punch. Self-sacrificing idiot. Mickey grabs the guy’s arm and throws him to the ground. The guy obviously wasn’t expecting anyone to fight back.
Mickey pauses with his foot on the guy’s chest. “Bobby?”
The guy on the ground—Bobby, apparently—stops fighting for a second. He squints up at Mickey. “You a Milkovich?”
Because of course Mickey knows the guy waiting around outside the gay bar to beat people up.
“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Mickey.”
“Oh.” Bobby’s eyes go wider. That’s a pretty typical response.
“Cousin?” Ian asks. Sometimes Mickey’s cousins or uncles don’t recognize him because they’ve been locked up since he was a kid.
“Nah. Guy who used to run guns with my dad.” Mickey looks down at Bobby. “What you doing out here bashing people just trying to have a drink?”
“Sorry, were you already bashing them?” Bobby asks. It’s a fair question, Ian has to admit.
“Nope,” Mickey says. “Playing darts with my husband.”
Bobby’s eyes go even wider. “Husband?”
“Yeah, and we don’t like hearing some lowlife’s out here beating on people,” Ian says. If this is one of Terry’s guys, they’re going to be in for a fight, but the two of them together are more than enough for one guy.
“What’s wrong, Bobby, too pussy to come inside and find some ass?” Mickey asks. Ian huffs. He’s not sure that’s the way to go about it. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t like ‘em old enough to drink. You don’t even like ‘em old enough to drive, do you?” Ian grimaces. That’s a loaded statement outside of a gay bar with everything going on in the world.
“You calling me some kind of kid fucker?” Bobby asks, face going tight.
“Well, you tried it on me when I was 12, didn’t you?” Mickey asks.
“What?” Ian’s stomach drops. Sometimes he thinks he’ll never get to the end of the horrible shit Mickey’s been through. Just when he thinks he knows it all, Mickey casually drops another story that takes his breath away.
“He was staying at our house night after a big run and I woke up to a surprise.” Mickey spits on Bobby. “A little surprise.” He holds his fingers up, close together.
“What the fuck,” Ian says. He kicks Bobby in the stomach while Mickey’s holding him down.
“And then what happened, Bobby? You remember?” Mickey asks, jostling Bobby with his foot. Bobby doesn’t say anything. “Yeah, my dad came out. Held him down and I cut off his finger.”
“Cut off his finger?” Ian echoes, dismayed. Not because he gives a shit about Bobby or his finger, but because he doesn’t like the idea of 12-year-old Mickey having to cut off some grown man’s finger.
Though in fairness, he’d probably already done that before by then.
“Yeah, well, I heard your daddy’s dead,” Bobby sneers. “Not here to protect you anymore.”
He grabs at Mickey’s ankle like he thinks he’s going to pull Mickey down. Mickey rolls his eyes and kicks Bobby in the face at the same time Ian stomps on Bobby’s leg. Terry may have sort of protected Mickey that one time, but it was definitely less about Mickey and more about Terry hating anything that seemed gay.
It’s bad enough to bring up Terry at all, but to throw Terry’s death in Mickey’s face after it left Mickey so confused and hurt makes Ian’s blood boil. He understands a little better now since Frank died. He understood a bit, because of Monica, but everything with Monica was compounded by sharing his bipolar disorder with her. That doesn’t really apply with Terry and Mickey, but Frank is closer.
Frank was always a shitty dad—and technically he wasn’t actually even Ian’s dad—but he was all they had. And Frank was always disappearing and popping back up; it seems impossible to think he really is just gone forever this time.
Mickey hates how much he cried over Terry. He always thinks he should be able to just turn his feelings off like a goddamn faucet. So Ian’s not going to sit here and let anyone bring that back up for him.
Ian kicks Bobby in the side, just under his ribs to knock the wind out of him. “He doesn’t fucking need Terry.”
Mickey drags Bobby to a sitting position and gets in his face. “Now, listen. Boystown is off-limits. Tell your friends, too. I see any of you assholes out here trying to bash, we’re gonna have a problem.”
“Oh, what are you, patron saint of the fairies?” Bobby’s spitting blood while he talks.
“Guess so,” Mickey says. “Now get out of here before I cut off the thing even smaller than your finger.”
He kicks Bobby in the ass to get him moving and Ian gives him a last punch to the kidney for good measure. Bobby stumbles off. Ian realizes he’s shaking a little and his chest is all tight. Mickey doesn’t seem affected at all.
“Mickey,” Ian says, unsure what he even wants to say.
Mickey glances over at him and then sighs. “Ian, it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!” He hates the way Mickey always acts like this shit is no big deal. Not only is it definitely a big deal, but Mickey pretending not to be affected isn’t good for him.
“Why’s it any worse than any of your old geriatrics?” Mickey asks, eyebrows raised.
“I wasn’t 12!” Ian says. Sure, on this side of 25 he seemed a lot younger than he felt at the time, and he definitely wouldn’t go after any 15-year-olds. Maybe it’s not a terrible point. Maybe it’s something Ian will think about some more later. But 12 is a whole different ballgame. That’s Liam’s age.
“Yeah, well, nothing actually happened,” Mickey says. “I saw a dude’s cock and then my dad bashed his face into the coffee table. That was like every Saturday anyway.”
Ian pulls him in and holds onto him. “At least your dad was good for something one time.” Mickey snorts. Ian kisses his neck and then says, “Did you cut his finger off with the Nazi dagger?”
“Yep.”
Ian shakes his head, but he’s saved from responding to that by someone inside the bar yelling out, “Patron saints of the fairies!”
Everybody else cheers. Ian laughs, face still hidden in Mickey’s neck. “Now there’s something you never would’ve guessed people would say about you, huh?” he asks before he pushes back. He puts his arm around Mickey’s neck and leads him back into the bar.
“Free drinks!” the bartender says.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Mickey says.
They stay for a long time after that. Mickey seems a little baffled by the fact that everyone in the bar wants to come up and talk to him, but he doesn’t say anything as long as they come bearing drinks. One guy tries to sit on Mickey’s lap and Ian has to intervene, mostly for the other guy’s safety.
“Maybe you could teach me to fight,” Will says.
“Ooh, maybe you could teach all of us!” someone else agrees.
Mickey scoffs. “Doubt any of your limp wrists could handle a punch.”
They all laugh, because they don’t know Mickey well enough to know that he’s not joking around and is, in fact, genuinely insulting them. Ian kicks him under the table and Mickey just shrugs.
“That could be fun, Mick,” Ian says. “Teach some self-defense.”
“Honestly, you should teach self-defense,” Mickey points out. “Because my way’s going to be to tell ‘em to get a gun or a bat and aim for the kneecaps.”
“Oh, I think I could do that,” some little guy in the back murmurs to himself. Mickey points to him and nods and he flushes with pride.
Ian wants to laugh. Mickey’s got himself a fan club now. A fan club of the exact kind of gay guys Mickey says he hates, though honestly, he’s obviously kind of enjoying himself. And he was pretty amused by Ian’s date that one time.
“Would you really teach us?” a guy at Ian’s elbow asks kind of breathlessly. Ian blinks. Oh. Maybe they both have a fan club.
“Yeah,” Ian decides. “You know what? We should. Make some good use out of our skills, huh?” He nudges Mickey. “We work in security.”
“Oh, you’re both so tough,” a guy next to Will simpers.
“Alright, settle down,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes.
“I work on campus,” Will says. “I could get us space there.”
Before Ian knows it, he and Mickey have four new phone numbers—including the bartender’s, so he can call them whenever someone’s giving people trouble—and possibly a new after-work activity. They head home just before last call, well-wishes and goodbyes yelled after them.
“Well, that ended up going pretty great,” Ian says when they get home.
“I guess,” Mickey says. “You just roped me into teaching a bunch of pussies how to fight. I don’t know how to teach that. I just learned the old fashioned way, from my dad chasing me around the house when I was four.”
Ian sighs but decides to blow past that. For now. He pulls Mickey in by the hem of his shirt and holds him close. “Yeah, but it’ll be fun,” Ian says. “You get to show off how tough you are.”
Mickey laughs a little. “Oh, you think I care about that?”
“Yes,” Ian says.
Mickey pushes Ian, but keeps holding onto him so he can’t actually go anywhere. “Thought you said we were supposed to be doing things apart.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t do anything together,” Ian says. “And this won’t be every day. And…depending how many people come, we can break into different groups and then we can talk about what happened when we get home.”
Mickey laughs at him again. “You’re such a fucking Mother Teresa.”
“You’ll look really hot while you do it,” Ian points out. “I love watching you beat the shit out of people. I can’t imagine how hot it’ll be to watch you teach other people to do it.”
Mickey’s actually a pretty good teacher, as long as you understand his little insults as markers of affection and don’t get your feelings hurt. He used to help Ian out with math equations, and somehow he made them easier to understand than Lip ever did. Though he did have better rewards than Lip, too, so that could’ve played a part.
Mickey kisses him. “You’re really buttering me up.”
“I’d like to,” Ian says, pushing Mickey’s jacket off his shoulders. “If you need more convincing.” He knows Mickey’s already on board. He wouldn’t turn down any kind of violence, but especially violence that earns him praise after Ian said they should do it. But this is a lot more fun for both of them.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mickey says, pretending to be unsure. “I’m not so sure about all this. Think I need to hear your sales pitch.”
“I thought so,” Ian breathes, working Mickey’s belt open while he mouths at his neck. “Might be kinda long.”
“Yeah, I know exactly how long it is,” Mickey says, cupping Ian through his pants. Ian laughs breathlessly.
“Then I guess I don’t need to show you.”
“Oh, no, I just got amnesia,” Mickey says quickly. They’re both laughing, pulling each other’s clothes off, and Ian takes a second to marvel that this is his life. Mickey’s his husband.
Ian was so worried, looking at the statistics and thinking of the married couples he knew, that he and Mickey could never do this. Communication hasn’t exactly been a mainstay in their relationship, and they’ve both got issues under their issues.
But he should’ve known better. He’s not sure there’s anything he can’t do with Mickey.
No matter what issues come up, they’re going to work on them. If they start driving each other crazy, they’re going to spend time apart and know that it isn’t the end. Things are good. Things are great. Ian’s never been happier.
“Love you,” Mickey says. It comes out of his mouth so easily, like a fact of the universe. It is, really. No matter what else is going on, Mickey always loves Ian. Ian knows that more than he knows anything else in this world.
“I love you,” Ian whispers. He knows sometimes Mickey isn’t sure, because Ian puts his foot in his mouth or does the wrong thing because he’s caught up in his own head. But that’s a fact of the universe, too. Loving Mickey is as much a part of Ian as his DNA.
It doesn’t matter what other people say or who else comes and goes in their lives. This is it for them. They have each other forever. Mickey kisses him and Ian hears himself let out a little sigh of relief, like coming home after a long day.
Home always meant the old house to Ian, bursting with his siblings and noise and fights and laughter. But he always had a tendency to get a bit lost in all of that. He’d slip away into the background sometimes and it would take a bit for anyone to come find him. He never blamed his siblings for that. They were all doing everything they could to survive.
With Mickey, though, he doesn’t ever feel like he’s getting lost in the shuffle. Mickey will always zero in on Ian, no matter how big any crowd is. Mickey will always find him, no matter how lost Ian feels. Mickey finds him and brings him home, because that's what Mickey is for Ian. Mickey's home.
And for the rest of his life, Ian’s going to make sure Mickey knows it. He’s going to make sure everyone around them knows it. He’s going to make everyone sick of them. He’s a lot less worried about them having other friends now. It’s like the song says—they’ve got each other and that’s a lot.
So Ian takes Mickey to bed, and he focuses all his attention on the most important friend he could ever have.