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Ian feels like he took a trip through a cement mixer.
His body aches, from the pulse he can feel thrumming on the side of his head, to the hot soreness in his shin, where Mickey had kicked out at him at the bar. He’s sure if he looked in the mirror right now, he’d find a purpling bruise forming across his left ass cheek. The ride home had been in silence, neither of them speaking until they crossed the threshold of the Gallagher house, where Liam had pointed out their roughed up states. Their drama had been put on the back burner, though, when Debbie started in on them supposedly dropping the ball on getting Franny to school. He had only half remembered Debbie’s texts; he had a lot on his mind. They all had shit going on, like Lip had said.
After the scene in the kitchen between Lip and Debbie, Ian had tossed the bag of veggies icing his head back into the freezer and headed upstairs alone. He knows it was petty, when he didn’t even spare Mickey a glance as he left. He could feel his husband’s eyes on his back the entire way to the stairwell; but between the stupid argument him and Mickey had that morning, him walking off the job, the physical fight at the Alibi, and V chewing their asses out like a couple of teenagers, Ian was exhausted and ready to be left alone for once.
He groans, falling onto the bed with his palms pressed into his eyes and rubbing hard enough until he could see stars.
He’s not sure how long he’s been in their bedroom before the snap of their accordion door cuts through the quiet, but it’s been long enough that he doesn’t instantly bristle at the intrusion. He listens to the sound of the heavy and slightly uneven footfalls of his husband entering, Ian’s eyes only opening when he feels something soft hit him in the ribs. The blinks a couple of times to let his eyes adjust, Mickey having flipped the light on when he entered. Beside him is one of the brownies V had given them at the bar.
“You left these on the counter,” Mickey explains, walking a little closer, and stopping a few feet short of the bed. “Carl tried to steal one, but I told him I’d tip the pigs off that one of their finest was indulging.”
“You think they’d really care?” Asks Ian, his voice sounding as frayed as he feels. He watches Mickey shrug, looking at him, and then looking away, picking at the other plastic wrapped brownie in his hand.
“Can’t really chance it if they did, I guess. No one around here has clean enough piss for him to fake a drug test.” He shrugs again. The legalities of weed’s not something either of them really give a shit about.
Ian doesn’t respond to that, and instead he turns his gaze from Mickey to stare at the stained popcorn ceiling above him. Ian is happy for his little brother, he guesses, in that he’s happy that Carl’s doing something he’s clearly enjoying, though if anyone had asked him years ago, he would’ve guessed his brother would’ve been on the other side of a jail cell by now. And, something about seeing his brother wearing a uniform stirs something deep and sick inside Ian now and then, catching him off guard sometimes, making him a little more restless.
“I threw cereal at my boss today. Think they’ll still send my last check in the mail?” Ian asks, wanting to cringe at his own careless, flat tone. God, he’s so fucking tired. He feels strung out.
“Does it matter? We’re gonna make some actual cash soon.” Mickey replies coolly, and Ian can hear him fiddling with the wrapper in his hands again. It’s a grating sound, and Ian’s caught between wanting Mickey to leave, and wanting him closer. Christ, fuck this day. Ian can’t even decide if he’s more annoyed with Mickey, or himself at this point.
“We?” Ian humors, his scrutinizing gaze still locked on the ceiling.
“Yeah, we. You know, since we’re married and all. Or, were you talking out your ass the other day when you crashed my bath?”
Ian presses his palms back into his eyes, sighing out. He can feel the throbbing in his head turning sharper, starting to manifest into a full blown headache. “Whatever scheme you have planned…”
“Stop,” Mickey snips. Ian can hear the floor creak under his feet when Mickey comes closer, the bed dipping at his side, causing Ian’s body to tilt slightly toward him. He pulls his hands away and looks up, Mickey’s own hands are up, palms out in a placating gesture. “Can we fucking agree that your job wasn’t paying shit, that you were miserable, and it wasn’t fucking worth it?”
Ian’s lips thin, teeth digging into the inner flesh of his bottom lip. That’s not the point, he thinks. Instead, he sighs. Scratches through his ginger hair. “I suppose…”
“So what’s the problem?” Mickey sounds exasperated, which ticks Ian off a little bit. You don’t get it.
“The problem, Mick, is that I’m trying to hold down a fucking legitimate job, and I threw cereal in my boss’ face today.” Ian snaps. It sounds ridiculous, even to his own ears, when he says it out loud. But in that moment, he had felt so furious, face coloring with it. His boss’--ex boss’--words had found a spot still tender from that morning, prodding at something ugly that sat like a stone in his chest. It felt a lot like shame. His stomach had twisted like it does when he sees Carl in a uniform, when he hears an ambulance speed by.
“The fuck? You didn’t tell me that part. That’s fucking hilarious,” Mickey snorts, and in any other instance Ian would agree.
“It’s not fucking hilarious because I don’t have a job--”
Mickey waves him off, and he takes in a breath, and Ian’s sure he’s about to give his whole spiel on what his new scam with the Ball’s is, but Ian doesn’t let him. “I can’t--Mickey I can’t even hold down a minimum wage packing job, I… You know how stressed I’ve been with everything going on and then my boss called me a bitch--”
“You didn’t tell me that either, what the fuck. You didn’t knock his ass out?”
“I’ve been stressed and I fucking lost it. I didn’t love that job Mickey, but it was a step in the right direction. For us!” Ian can feel himself getting worked up, and he pulls himself up into a sitting position, now face to face with his husband. “For our future.” He emphasizes, looking Mickey in the eye, his blue eyes dark in the yellow light of the room.
Mickey doesn’t say anything right away; he’s never been great at eye contact, but lately he seems even worse than usual, especially whenever Ian talks about future plans. Staring at a point just above Ian’s shoulder, Mickey releases a breath through his nose, scratching his thumbnail across the arch of his eyebrow.
“So you’re stressed. We’re all fucking stressed Ian. We’re dirt poor in the south side. Stress is ingrained.”
Would you just fucking listen to me. Ian wants to yell. He wants to yell over and over until he can finally see some sign that his words are sinking in.
“I don’t want--”
“Here, just,” Mickey plucks at the edible that had slid a little closer to Ian when he sat up. He tosses it into Ian’s lap. “It’s been a shit day, man. We can hash this out all night, but maybe fucking V is right. We need to calm the fuck down.” Mickey huffs, glancing at Ian. His gaze twitches like he wants to look away again, but he doesn’t.
Instead he asks, “So, can we? Calm the fuck down? Maybe salvage the rest of this fucked up day?”
Ian glances down at the edible in his lap, then back to Mickey. His lips purse, finding himself caught between giving in and not giving Mickey the satisfaction. Mickey raises his eyebrows, a silent go on then.
Mickey holds up his own, half unwrapped already from when he was fiddling with it earlier, and takes an obscenely large bite. “C’mon, let’s get fucking high.” His words are barely distinguishable around the food in his mouth, and Ian feels his shoulders starting to sag.
“Do we even know how potent these are?” Ian relents, picking up the edible in his lap, looking the packaging over.
“Who the fuck cares, look. There’s nuts in this one.”
--
Twenty minutes finds them still in bed, brownies gone, the wrappers haphazardly tossed toward the waste basket by the door. Ian’s laying back again, propped against the pillows, his hands on his stomach. He feels a restless itch, like he does when he’s sitting in a hospital waiting room. The chocolate of the brownie is still lingering on his tongue.
Mickey’s leaned against the wall by the window, his legs draped haphazardly over Ian’s. He’s fiddling with his phone, music playing just loud enough for Ian to make out some dad rock type song he’s heard on the radio at work.
“Feel anything yet?”
“Not really,” Ian shrugs. He’s not really familiar with edibles, or pot in general. Only having smoked it a few times in his life. He vaguely remembers the tingly feeling that usually comes with getting high, but he still feels like he has two hands settled on his shoulders, squeezing tight.
“Fuck, me either,” Mickey grunts.
“Maybe they’re just CBD or whatever.”
“What a fucking waste. Fuck it, hang on.”
Mickey drops to his side and stretches himself across the bed, cursing under his breath when he isn’t quite long enough to reach the shelf he’s aiming for. He shimmies over a bit, and then again, until finally he reaches a small painted box, the edges weathered in his hands.
He moves back into place, narrowly kicking Ian in the stomach when he crosses his legs in front of him. The action earns Mickey a shove against his thigh, but he ignores it, keeping his attention on the box in his lap. He opens it.
“I got my own stash,” he says, wiggling his brows at Ian. Ian knows he smokes, though he isn’t sure if he gets his supply from Kev or Sandy, or someone else. He’s never really asked, and the little box mostly just sits camouflaged with all the other bits and pieces of their room.
Ian’s silent as he watches Mickey pop off the top, getting all his stuff out. The papers, the bud. Ian isn’t going to say it out loud, but watching his husband expertly roll a joint is pretty fucking hot. He remembers the first time they had gotten high together, his younger self so completely enamoured with Mickey. Clearly, it still did something for him nearly a decade later. Mickey had cleaned up a little by then, but there was dirt still under his fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles. Ian hadn’t minded though. Those fingers moved across that thin paper like he had done it a thousand times. Mickey had told him then, that he had learned to roll joints and blunts with his siblings before he could read. His dad putting the kids to work and making the profit. Ian remembers the tiny tremors in Mickey’s hands when he talked about Terry, then. But right now, his movements were smooth and precise as he went through the motions.
“Maybe we should just go to bed,” Ian says, eyes still on Mickey’s hands. He may have broken the no sex rule this morning, but it was the principle of the thing.
“Fuck no, we’re gettin’ high.” Mickey’s tongue flicks out in a flourished last lick to the paper. He glances at Ian, the tip of his tongue sticking to the paper a little.
“Okay,” Ian swallows.
Mickey holds up the joint between two fingers, grinning proudly, showing it off. “I’ll even let you take the first hit, frazzle face.”
Ian rolls his eyes but lets Mickey hand it to him anyway, his husband rooting around in the box a bit before pulling out the ugliest fucking lighter Ian has ever seen. It’s tie dye, blue and green and pink. A half naked woman is posed on both sides. Ian raises a brow at Mickey, who just shrugs. “Iggy’s probably. Had it forever.”
Ian holds the carefully rolled joint to his lips, watching Mickey as he leans close, thumb flicking the igniter a few times until a flame shoots from the top. As Ian inhales, he can hear a younger Mickey scoffing at his younger self, "It’s not a fucking cigarette, Gallagher, you gotta hold it in longer."
Ian almost coughs out a laugh, but plays it off. Though, apparently not well as Mickey grins back, making a grabby hand toward him. “Okay, Mister Happy, pass it over.”
Ian shuffles back against the pillows lined across the wall when Mickey takes the joint from him. Ian’s almost mesmerized, watching Mickey hold the joint between his thumb and forefinger, the tendons in his neck becoming more prominent when he inhales. And maybe, as Ian settles in and his shoulders begin to loosen, as his head begins to swim, he starts to finally relax.
--
“Mickey, we’re really fucking high,” Ian croaks, his voice sounding shot. Mickey laughs--no, straight up giggles--as he drops the remaining roach carefully in the half full ashtray placed on the windowsill. Mickey’s phone is switched to a Led Zeppelin song that’s oddly appropriate.
“My shit’s good, but it isn’t this good. Guess those brownies weren’t nothin’ after all.” Mickey relents, eyelids heavy, feeling the effects too. His body drops against the wall like it’s the only thing holding him up.
“We’re really fucking high, Mickey,” Ian repeats, knuckles rubbing at his slightly bloodshot eyes. They feel so heavy, and Ian’s not sure how he’s keeping them open. “I feel like every inch of me is made of lead. What if I can never move again,” he grouses dramatically. He’s not completely sure, but he thinks weed hangovers are a thing and a very real thing in his near future.
How the fuck am I going to get through work tomorrow? If I get another heavy load, I’m done for, he thinks.
“Been trying to keep you in bed since the day after we got married, anyway. Sounds like a win to me.” Mickey shrugs. “Not like you got somewhere to be.”
And isn’t that the fucking truth. Ian’s fingers are still rubbing at his eyes when he pauses at that. Right. He doesn’t have to worry about working tomorrow, because he doesn’t work tomorrow. He doesn’t have a fucking job anymore.
“Fuck.” Ian’s throat clicks. How the fuck could he forget? “God, what the fuck.” Suddenly, the pleasant, bone deep buzz he was feeling turns into something sharp, thick in his stomach. He feels sick.
“Wassup?” He hears Mickey ask, the word lazy on his tongue, but there’s an edge to it, clearly catching on to the shift in his mood.
“I’m an unemployed felon on probation. What the fuck,” Ian wheezes, pulling his hands away from his eyes. He holds them above his face, blinking up at his palms like his hands hold all the answers. “How the fuck did that happen?”
“Something about blowing up a van and calling yourself gay Jesus. I wasn’t there, but I caught the highlights.”
“Fuck off, Mickey,” Ian gasps. His lungs feel like they’re filling with water, like he can’t catch his breath. He knows what anxiousness feels like to him, and he feels it tenfold; the waves are crashing, unrelenting, icy cold.
“You’re really ruining the point of this exercise Ian. Relax.” Mickey huffs, kicking Ian lightly in the ribs, trying to turn his attention away from staring holes into his palms.
Ian pushes at Mickey’s leg and sits up, hands scrubbing at his face, which feels hot to the touch.
“How the fuck can you do it Mick? So fucking unbothered by everything?” He snaps. And he’s not gonna cry, he’s not, but his hands are shaking as he drops them down in his lap, and they ball into fists. He’s hoping Mickey won’t notice. But he does, because of course he does, tattooed fingers curling around his wrist, a quiet “Hey”, and Ian doesn’t even have the strength to pull away. He doesn’t want to pull away, but god, he feels so…
“You think I’m unbothered?” Mickey asks, and for once, it doesn’t sound accusatory to Ian. “Ian, I stress too, but you take it to the next fucking level. One minute you’re freaking out about money, then talking about getting our own place, jobs, I can’t fucking keep up. It’s a new topic every minute with you, man.”
“It’s everything!” Ian yells, throwing up his hands, knocking Mickey’s grip. He’s not even sure he’s making sense because the words are just coming before he can think. Straight from the brain, by-passing any filter.
“This is the shit I think about, every day, every night. We’re married, we want a future. You wanna stay in this house forever? Cause I fucking don’t!” The rest of his family can probably hear him across the house now, but fuck it, they’ve heard worse. His gaze zeros in on Mickey’s, who’s watching him, mouth open and working, but no sound coming through, eyebrows raised to his hairline.
“I want things, Mickey. I fucking want them, and I keep losing them.” He trails then, breath hitching. “I want things with you. I want something to be proud of.” He finishes softly. His tongue feels like it’s working against his will, like it belongs to someone else, nerves misfiring just enough to get the words out.
“You don’t think we have something to be proud of?” Mickey asks after a beat.
That’s not what I mean. I don’t mean you, I don’t mean us.
The crease between Mickey’s eyebrows deepens as he stares at Ian.
“I don’t want it to be like this forever.”
Mickey gestures wildly to the room around them. “Who the fuck says this is forever? We’ve been married 6 months Ian. They don’t just hand out a house with a white picket fence and two-point-five kids when you sign the marriage certificate.”
“I know that!”
“So why the fuck are you acting like we’re on a timer here?” Mickey asks, and it’s razor sharp. The sluggish tone is gone and he’s over pronouncing his words like he does when he’s pissed.
“I…” That stops Ian, who takes a sharp breath. The thoughts come stilted, at first, then all at once.
Because I don’t know how else to be with you, if it’s not like this.
Because every time I thought I had you, I lost you.
I just want it to work this time. I want it to be now.
I’m trying to make up for everything we could’ve had.
Please, can you just see that? You never got to see the person I was when I actually liked myself, liked my life, and I wanted you to see that.
I wanted you to see that so bad, and I don’t think I’ll ever be that way again.
Mickey stares and stares, and Ian stares right back, his breath coming out in quick pants. He’s not sure why he feels so breathless, when all they’re doing is watching each other in silence.
Mickey’s phone is playing some whiny Radiohead-esque band. Ian wants to throw it out the window.
After a beat, Ian finds his words again.
“I used to save lives, Mickey. I felt like I meant something. I just want that again,” Ian says quietly.
“Now I have a record, and it doesn’t matter how much I work, or--or--how many times I get employee of the fucking month, or how many good karma points I add up. I just…” Mickey’s watching him again, lips parted, like he wants to speak but the words just won’t come. Don’t I fucking know that feeling, Ian thinks bitterly, while his gaze takes in Mickey’s expression. He wants to tell Mickey everything. Every thought he’s had about him, about himself. He’s not sure he can handle Mickey side-stepping those feelings like every time they come up.
It comes to him, like an intrusive thought as he looks at Mickey. Really looks. What if nothing gives me that same thrill...
And Mickey looks older, they both do, since before Mickey surprised him at the prison, since Ian left him at the Mexican border. Since the first time Ian had that thought. What if nothing gives me that same thrill again…
And that’s part of the pull of Mickey, isn’t it? Even now, even in the middle of stupid marital fights, Mickey gives Ian that kick start that he’s never felt with anyone else. And maybe--Ian had thought once--when Mickey was back in his life, once everything was settled down, that feeling would dull a little.
But it hasn’t. It isn’t going to. His heart still jack rabbits around Mickey. Like they are only being allotted this chunk of time. Stealing until there’s nothing left to steal. And Ian doesn’t know how to tell his heart, to tell his brain that Mickey isn’t going anywhere. That he doesn’t need to put his life in fast forward, showing Mickey everything he’s done to get better. Like he owes him that.
Mickey makes him feel alive. He also makes him feel like he wants to run.
And it’s not just for Mickey, who he wanted to be, who he was going to be one day. It’s for himself. He wants that life back, he wants Mickey in it. He always feels like he has to give something up, to get something else. He’s tired of it.
“Yeah, you’re never gonna have that again, man,” Mickey’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a hot knife, and his words shoot a sharp ache through his stomach. Mickey’s scratching at his jaw, not looking at him.
“What the fuc--”
“Can you just hear me out?” Mickey snaps, his nose bumping against Ian’s. Ian doesn’t know when they got so close, who moved, but they’re sitting so close he can feel Mickey’s breath. Mickey pushes him back a little, and takes a breath. “You’re never gonna have that again. You said it yourself, right? You’re a felon, and you’re married to another fucking felon. We’re gay fucking felons in the south side, pepper in a mental illness and whatever the fuck it is that’s wrong with me, and what do we got? A lost fucking cause.”
Ian stares, wide eyed, almost furious. “What--”
“We got shit cards, Ian, but you’re the only one acting like we’re in a locked room, treading water and it’s filling up fast.”
“And what about you huh?” Ian pushes at Mickey’s chest with his fingertips. “Won’t get a legit job, blowing all our money, acting like bills don’t exist? I’m stressed Mick but at least I don’t act like I don’t fucking care.” Ian realizes that that is what hurt the most. Mickey’s nonchalance. Ian’s trying to swim against the current, and Mickey’s just letting it push him down stream.
“I fucking care,” Mickey says quickly. It’s the waver in his voice that gives Ian pause, catching his next words in this throat.
“I fucking care, Ian. I just can’t do this your way, or at least, completely your way. It’s not in my fucking blood, man.” And Ian thinks he sees Mickey’s face crumble, like a flinch, so quick before it’s gone that Ian isn’t sure he saw it at all. “Thing is, we tried your way and it ain’t working out. I wanna try my way now.”
Mickey pulls back a bit, slumping against the wall. He turns away from Ian’s gaze, finally. It feels like they’ve been in a staring match for fuck knows how long. He pulls a pack of cigarettes resting on the window sill toward him, takes one out roughly, shuts the pack. He lights up with that fuck ugly lighter, then tosses both in Ian’s direction. Quietly, Ian mirrors Mickey.
“If you really want the things you want, I’m gonna fucking give them to you, or I don’t know… die tryin’,” Mickey mutters, cigarette bouncing on his lip as he speaks. “But we gotta do it my way. And I’d say these last couple of weeks have made our differences pretty fucking obvious, fuck. But,” he shrugs. “One thing we got here is that we’re both too fucking stubborn to let this place just eat us alive so…”
Are we gonna fucking do this? It’s unsaid, but Ian hears it loud and clear.
Ian’s fingers flex at his sides. He feels like he needs to grab something, anything, dig his fingers into it and never let go. The thought of letting Mickey take the lead is a terrifying one. Not because it’s Mickey, but because Mickey is a wild card. Ian hates that sometimes, he can’t predict him. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it lands him in jail. But the way his husband is looking at him now--to anyone else, he’d look stone faced, uncaring, but Ian can see it in his eyes. That pleading. He’s seen it before, and it hurts his stomach.
Don’t do this… He hears.
Are you breaking up with me?
“Okay.” He feels himself saying, more than he hears it. Quick, to drown it out.
“Just fucking trust me.” And Ian does. How could he not? Mickey has given him everything. He’s trusted Ian so much, so easily. How the fuck can you trust me like that so easily?
Mickey lets out a loud snort, stabbing his burnt out cigarette into the ashtray beside him. He plucks Ian’s own untouched one, the ash having long since fallen in a pile against his jeaned thigh. Mickey reaches out, palm skimming across the side of Ian’s face. His fingers smell like cigarettes, like chocolate and walnuts. “Because I fucking love you, Ian.”
Ian hadn’t realized he had said it out loud. Fuck. And everything else he’d thought? Had he said that out loud? Or had Mickey just heard that too, without Ian needing to say it at all? The idea is a terrifying one.
Fuck it. Ian cracks a small smile against the pad of Mickey’s thumb stroking across his bottom lip.
“Okay.” He whispers, leans forward, pressing his lips to Mickey’s. “Okay.”
--
“I’ll give you the details on what we got going on with Kev and V. Later, though, I finally got my buzz back, and I don’t need you getting worked up into a damn fuckin’ near panic attack,” Mickey grunts, dropping beside Ian. After their talk, after Mickey had kissed him until he was breathless to a Fleetwood Mac song, Mickey had relit the blunt, finishing it up, giving them just enough to get their pleasant, bubbly buzz back.
“Seriously. I was expecting Jay and Silent Bob levels of shit, and I feel like I got Trainspotting instead.”
“Ugh, that baby scene,” Ian groans, face scrunching in disgust. They had banned Mickey from picking out the movie for their movie nights for a while after that one. Liam had had nightmares.
“Fuckin’ right?”
“So, which one of us is supposed to be Jay, and which one is Silent Bob?” Ian questions. He already knows the answer, but the rumble of Mickey’s voice against him is a pleasant sensation, so he keeps him talking.
“I’m Jay,” Mickey replies quickly, duh.
“Right,” Ian snorts. Then his lips turn up in a smirk, peering over at his husband, whose nearly buried in his armpit. “Just like you’re Nick?”
He can just make out the edge of the grin that forms across Mickey’s lips. “Just like I’m Nick.”
--
“What if I wanted to fuck you?” Mickey asks, and Ian’s not sure what they had been talking about to make him ask. He’s been mostly zoned out, letting his mouth do all the work.
“Then I’d let you fuck me,” Ian shrugs.
“You won’t freak out again?” Mickey asks, tentatively, side eyeing Ian. He still hasn’t moved much from Ian’s side, shoved up against him so close, if he tried to move any closer he’d be under him.
Ian rolls his eyes. “I didn’t freak out cause you wanted to top me. It just fucking came out of nowhere and I had no idea where it was coming from,” Ian explains. His arm shifts beneath Mickey’s head, fingers picking at a loose thread on his hoodie. “Even when I offered before you didn’t want to. And then suddenly you wanna fuck me? Calling me a slut and shit? It was too fast. I felt gross.”
He can see Mickey’s eyebrows furrow at that, and Ian’s quick to explain. “Not cause it’s you, Mickey. C’mon. I always feel good when it’s you,” he admits. “I… don’t know why I felt like that.”
“Or I guess I do,” Ian adds after a pause. Fuck it, his jabber mouth has gotten him his far. “You remember when we brought that guy up to that hotel room once, trying to scam money out of him? What he called me?”
Mickey pauses, thinking, then nods. “Kneed his balls up into his throat.” He mutters.
Ian smiles. God, they really had gone through the most fucked up shit together. That had been a good time, though, despite the context.
“Yeah. It’s like that. The things… guys would call me,” he sighs, feeling his face heat. He hates talking to Mickey about this, about back when he was unmedicated and neither of them knew of the ticking time bomb in Ian’s brain. He knows that Mickey doesn’t really fucking care about what Ian had gotten up to, at least, he doesn’t seem like he cares, the only time he’d lost his shit on Ian was when he was at his lowest, fucking guys unprotected, only to come home to marathon fuck Mickey.
How unsafe he’d been, and he didn’t even care about himself. Didn’t even give it a second thought. Just focused on the money, like that was their biggest problem. Shit.
“I just didn’t like it.”
“So, you don’t want me callin’ you a slut and shit?” Mickey asks. Ian shakes his head.
“It’s not like that. Just give a guy a little warning or something next time.”
He feels Mickey shift beside him, pulling his face out from under Ian’s arm. He rests his chin against Ian’s chest, arching a brow his way. His chin digs into his pec, but Ian doesn’t mind. His long fingers card through Mickey’s rumpled hair, making it more of a mess.
“Besides,” Ian starts casually, an impish curl to his lips. “I’m not like you. You can’t just spit on my asshole and stick in me Mickey. Jesus.”
That earns a laugh from his husband, so deep in his belly Ian can feel it against his side. “Fuck off.”
“It’s kind of hot,” Ian admits, tilting his head to get a better look at his husband, who snorts and pushes himself up with a bit of effort. Ian misses the heat against him as soon as it’s gone, but seconds later he has a lap full of Mickey, and suddenly he doesn’t even remember what he was thinking anymore.
“Okay, I won’t just start calling you a slut, if you quit comparing me to a teenage girl,” he says, leaning over Ian with his palms splayed against Ian’s chest. It occurs to Ian then, that he’s not the only one feeling a little insecure about the words quipped between them in the heat of the moment.
It’s very fucking obvious, even to the blind, that Mickey is all man. From the way he carries himself, to the angles of his body. He’s soft in the right places, hard in all the others. There’s really no mistaking it.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it,” Ian whispers, his hand slipping beneath the white tank top, his fingertips brushing along the soft, trimmed hair along his belly and chest. Though his body hair isn’t as thick as Ian’s, he’s still covered in it. It’s kind of hot. It kind of does things to Ian. And if the way Mickey sometimes grabs onto his chest hair in the middle of their frenzied fucking is anything to go by, Ian’s own body hair does something for Mickey too.
“Can I still call you a filthy slut when you’re taking it though? You still like that right?” Ian can feel his face heat. Mickey does like it, he’s told him so before.
Mickey smirks, watching the color fill Ian’s cheeks and the sides of his throat. “‘Course you fuckin’ can. Don’t stop all that dirty talk on my account, Ian. Took a while to even get you to choke me when we fuck. We don’t need to go backwards.”
Ian rolls his eyes, feeling himself flush a bit more under that glint in Mickey’s eye. Mickey has always been the kinkier one in their relationship, dragging Ian along for the ride. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it at first, didn’t really understand it, but now, especially these days, Ian’s really enjoying himself.
“If I’d never gotten my hands on you, you’d be really fucking vanilla, man,” Mickey teases, tracing the pad of his thumb across Ian’s cheekbone. Ian squints back up at him, the hand in Mickey’s shirt pinching at the nipple directly under his Ian Galager tattoo. Mickey hisses at him, hips jerking forward on their own accord.
“Don’t act like you don’t love the slow shit too, Mickey. I’ve seen you shake for it.”
Mickey scoffs at that, his teeth pressing into his bottom lip when Ian’s fingers spread out across his pec, dragging back down over the soft slight swell of his belly. “Fucking gross, man,” Mickey mutters, pulling a laugh out of Ian.
“You really kink shaming me, Gallagher? The slow stuff too much for you? Making love?” Ian asks, wiggling his brows up at his husband, who scoffs again. Mickey’s hips are rocking slowly, grinding his ass against Ian, he can hear his breath picking up.
“We all got our limits, Milkovich,” Mickey mutters, taking Ian’s hand in his own, guiding him down to the bulge pitching in his gray sweatpants. Ian takes the hint, pressing his palm against his husband hard enough to make him hiss, his free hand reaching up to grip the back of Mickey’s neck, pulling forward until their noses brush.
“How are we feeling now?” Ian sighs against Mickey’s lips between kisses, while they’re still chaste, just teasing. He feels Mickey smile against his lips rather than sees it, flicking his tongue across Ian’s bottom lip, not unlike how he’d done with the joint earlier.
Mickey makes a low noise in his throat, like he’s thinking.
“Green,” Mickey gasps out, then, Ian’s hand having snuck into the waistband of his sweats while they kissed, long fingers tracing along the crack of his ass. Ian grabs just hard enough to push him down against him a little harder.
--
Ian’s sure that they’re both still riding their high--thankfully not completely ruined--when, the next time he blinks, he’s naked and on his back, and Mickey between his legs with his cock in his mouth, two fingers deep in Ian. It’s not like Mickey’s never been back there, he’s slipped a finger in a few times while he’s blown him, giving him a little extra something. But, for the most part, Ian’s too tight and wound up for Mickey to add more than that usually.
Ian grunts when he hears the snap of the lube cap opening again, Mickey adding more of the cool gel to his fingers. The way Mickey’s cheeks hollow around him is distracting, though, and Ian barely gives it another thought until he feels Mickey prodding a third finger in him. It doesn’t hurt, but the stretch is a little uncomfortable. He isn’t sure what the end game here is, either, Mickey never explicitly saying he was going to top Ian when he had started blowing him, had pressed his finger inside and curled, finding that spot inside him that makes Ian punch out a breath.
“Gonna fuck me?” He has to ask, feeling a little fidgety at the idea. It’s not that he doesn’t want it, it’s just something new. Something different. It’s a feeling that anyone gets in the face of change. Mickey just gives a noncommittal shrug, never pausing the lazy scrub of his fingers. His eyes catch Ian’s, lips popping off Ian’s dick with an obscene smack.
“Just wanna make you feel good,” Mickey replies. Ian feels a shudder down his spine at the wrecked edges of Mickey’s voice. Mickey must see it, because his lips pull back in a pretty self satisfied grin, his jaw dropping and tongue sliding out between his teeth. His tongue presses to the hilt of Ian’s cock, dragging slow and savoring, tracing flatly along the underside of him. It’s so slow, and Mickey’s eyelids droop slightly while Ian watches, eyes on his.
“Fuck, Mick,” Ian grits out. He sits up, long fingers gripping the mop of black hair on top of Mickey’s head. The tight hold has Mickey’s eyelids fluttering, breaking the eye contact for a moment; his dark eyelashes contrast against the pale skin of his cheeks.
“You fucking love this, don’t you? Love having a cock in your mouth.” Ian hums, breathless. He knows Mickey loves the fuck out of sucking his dick, but watching the way the color creeps across his neck when Ian talks to him like that, makes him want to do it over and over, get filthier and filthier until Mickey’s red in the face.
“You a slut for it, Mick? You a slut for this cock?” And maybe Ian feels himself flush a bit with it too.
Mickey moans, a little loud with his mouth wide open for Ian, still dragging his tongue along his shaft, making it shine obscenely with spit.
“Know I am,” Mickey mutters against Ian, who lets out a breath at the way Mickey’s own cools against his cock when he speaks.
He takes Ian into his mouth again, full lips closing around him tight. His fingers work themselves deeper into Ian. Ian’s head falls back into the pillows, the touch of blunt fingertips to his prostate pushing a deep grunt from the center of his chest. “Oh god,” he breathes, rolling his hips up to meet Mickey’s pace.
After a minute, Ian feels a sharp smack to the side of his thigh, and his eyes pop open to look down at his husband, whose gaze is already on him, heated in askance. Ian makes a questioning sound in his throat, earning him an eye roll from Mickey.
“Keep talking, bitch,” Mickey grunts when he pulls off again. Sometime while Ian had his eyes closed, Mickey snuck a hand between his own legs, stroking himself lazily to the feel of Ian in his mouth.
Ian bites back a chuckle at his husband, that quickly quipped bitch just so Mickey, it sounds almost affectionate.
His grip in Mickey’s hair tightens. Instead of giving him more filthy praises while he pushes Mickey back down on his cock, Ian pulls him off completely, flipping him onto his back. Ian pushes Mickey’s legs apart so he can fit between those muscular thighs. His ass is a little sore, the movement pulling Mickey’s fingers out of him quicker than he should have. But the way Mickey’s staring up at Ian, pupils blown, mouth wide open as he pants up at him, lips a little slick at the corners--catching Mickey off guard like this makes it worth it.
“Yeah, you love cock so much, you love it in your mouth, you love it deep in your ass. Fuckin’ look at you, Mickey,” Ian moans, hiking Mickey’s legs up further at his sides. He pushes his knees out, laying him out wide open below him. Ian’s got a tight grip on one of Mickey’s ankles, hitching it higher until he can feel the muscles in Mickey’s legs start to quiver. “Look at you on your back, just ready to fucking take it.”
“Yeah, fuck yeah, Ian,” Mickey grunts, bucking his hips as best he can in his spread out position. A groan grits through his teeth when he feels Ian’s cock slid up against the crack of his ass, just barely grazing his hole.
“Shit, Mick, you gonna take this cock? Gonna open up for me like a good boy?”
“Fuck, fuck, yeah,” Mickey pants, voice on the edge of desperate. “C’mon, get in me.”
Ian’s feeling a little desperate too, and he searches blindly along the bed with his free hand for the lube Mickey had thrown earlier.
A wet sound catches his attention and he turns back to Mickey, just in time to see his husband spit into his own hand, coating his fingers in saliva. Ian’s gaze follows Mickey’s hand as he reaches between his open legs, pressing tattooed fingers against his own ass, pushing in.
“Oh, fuck.” Ian barely recognizes his own voice. He feels absolutely wrecked as Mickey pushes two fingers into himself, his husband’s breath hitching when he squeezes in a third.
They’re both well versed in how well spit works for penetration, which is, not very well at all. Ian’s not sure how they hadn’t fucked Mickey’s ass up completely those first few years of fast and dry fucks. And, while they don’t do that shit dry anymore, nearly always having lube on hand when they fuck, there’s something so fucking hot and dirty about it all.
Ian’s not sure what he wants to watch more, Mickey’s fingers disappearing in and out of his ass as he fucks himself, or how blissed out his husband looks, eyes unfocused, then squeezing tight when he finds his prostate.
“Ah.” It’s barely a breath of a sound that leaves Mickey, but it’s higher pitched than his usual grunts and moans and it drives Ian wild, his cock twitching against Mickey’s thigh, leaving a smudge of precome against his skin.
And suddenly, Ian can’t wait anymore.
He swipes at the sheets until his fingers brush past the lube bottle. He releases his grip on Mickey’s ankle, letting his leg fall open on the bed, and makes quick work of coating his cock, squeezing a drop onto Mickey’s fingers still in his ass. They push deeper with a slick, wet sound.
Ian tosses the bottle beside them, and wipes his hands on the sheets uncaringly, focusing back on Mickey. Ian grabs Mickey’s wrists, pulling his fingers out of himself, and pins them above his head, giving a tight squeeze to them in silent command for Mickey to keep them there. He does, gasping up at Ian until his thighs spread further apart, his heels tapping at Ian’s lower back. And Ian can’t help but stare at his husband, skin flushed and sweat slicked, his dark hair wild at his temples and forehead, and just so beautiful. And all his. Fuck.
He must be staring a little too long, because Mickey begins to squirm beneath him, biting his lip as he lets out an impatient sound in his throat, legs tightening around Ian’s waist. “The fuck you lookin’ at?” Mickey huffs. His hands clench above his head, grabbing at the edge of the bed, but keeping exactly where Ian had put them.
“Fuck me,” Mickey’s words are caught in his throat when the blunt head of Ian’s cock pushes into him, a sharp “Hah,” punching past his lips.
“Fuck,” he says a little more quietly, thighs squeezing Ian’s ribs tight.
They’re nearly in the exact position they were this morning, Ian thinks, as he slides a hand up the trimmed fuzz of Mickey’s chest, curling his hand around Mickey’s throat, just holding it there. He watches the way Mickey’s shoulders tighten in anticipation, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and fuck he’s gorgeous. Ian’s not sure if anyone’s ever been turned on by just the slope of someone’s shoulders, but Ian’s sure he could wax poetic about Mickey’s if he could find the words. He would tattoo words of praise across his collar bone with his lips if he could.
“Ian,” Mickey whines, bucking his hips impatiently. He’s not looking at Ian, he’s glaring up at the ceiling. Ian is suddenly reminded of how long it took for them to fuck with their clothes off, save for that very first time they’d hooked up. Mickey never let Ian comment much about his body, showing off once or twice after a stint in juvie, when he had nothing to do but work out, losing his baby fat in the process. And fuck, Ian feels like an asshole.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Mick,” Ian comments, finally giving Mickey an inch when he rolls his hips. Mickey’s gaze snaps back to Ian at his words for a moment, then rolls back flippantly above him again.
“I mean it, man,” Ian breathes, his breath quickening with his pace, finally tightening his grip on Mickey’s throat. Mickey’s starting to work up to a pant too, clenching around Ian each time he slides back into him. “You’re all fucking man, Mickey. It’s so fucking hot.”
“If this is your idea of dirty talk,” Mickey strains against his hand, the words stuttering in his chest when Ian snaps his hips. His fingers dig harder into the edge of their mattress.
“Just sayin’,” Ian shrugs, his fingers releasing Mickey’s throat. He holds himself above Mickey, gripping the sheets on the sides of Mickey’s head when he leans down, catching Mickey’s eye. “No one would know just looking at you that you love taking it up the ass so much.”
That earns Ian a breathless chuckle, Mickey’s lips falling open wider when he starts moving his hips in tandem with Ian’s, the sound of flesh on flesh sharp between them.
“You think I’m manly?” Mickey asks, and the little shit, grins up at him. “A real macho hunk?”
It’s hard to keep a straight face, especially with Mickey grinning up at Ian, like he knows what Ian’s doing, thinking, "you ain’t slick."
“Mhm,” Ian hums. He meets Mickey’s lips in a quick, open mouthed kiss. “So fucking…” Ian thinks, “virile.” It’s a word he’s heard before, and he thinks he’s using it right. It’s clearly lost on Mickey though, who snorts up at him.
“The fuck is that?”
They both laugh when Ian just shrugs.
“Something to, ah, do with, uh… being manly, I guess,” Ian struggles slightly, the quick and hard pace catching up to him, making it harder to form proper sentences, panting like he’s finished his five mile morning run.
“Know all ‘bout being manly, huh?” Mickey bites into his bottom lip, smothering a groan when Ian grinds up against his prostate. “A big dominant top like you?”
He knows Mickey’s teasing, but his husband glances over Ian’s body between them, openly taking in Ian hungrily. It makes Ian sit up, putting himself all on display for Mickey, who clearly is appreciative as he moans out, watching the muscles of Ian’s stomach clench. “Shit, shit, come on, Ian,” he pants out.
“Tell me what you want,” says Ian, sliding his hands up under Mickey’s knees, pulling his bottom half up off the bed slightly to meet Ian’s thrusts, his arms flexing with the movement. Mickey’s jaw drops, gasping out as Ian manhandles him how he wants.
“Give it to me dom top daddy,” Mickey exclaims, and Ian almost loses it, body shaking like he isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or moan out. If Mickey had ever called him daddy, it was usually in jest; though, not every time. He somehow catches his breath and holds Mickey’s gaze, both of them wearing twin grins.
“Take it all, you uber masculine slut,” Ian quips back, emphasizing each word with a sharp snap of his hips.
“Jesus,” Mickey nearly chokes below him, his face red. His hands break from their position above himself finally, wiping across his face while he laughs through his moans. Ian thinks it’s the best sound in the world.
Suddenly, Mickey grips his shoulders and yanks Ian down to him, catching his lips with his own. The kiss is open and dirty. Mickey’s curling his tongue into his mouth, and Ian’s meeting him every time. Their lips slide wetly together, saliva collecting at the corners of their mouths.
The music playing from Mickey’s phone switches. Mickey yanks his head back when the song begins to play. Ian’s not sure what’s happening at first, but when he gets it, he lets out a disbelieving groan. His head drops to Mickey’s shoulder as his thrusts slow, his husband at least finding it hilarious as the Jonas Brothers play on. Why the fuck does Mickey even have them on his music playlist?
“Why the fuck--”
“Tell you later,” Mickey grins, then arches an eyebrow up at Ian. “Flip fuck?”
Ian exhales sharply through his nose. He lifts his head, eyeing Mickey, testing if he’s serious. His face is calm, expression smooth, but he looks a little hopeful. Ian can’t deny him now. He’d told Mickey he would, and despite the gut reaction, he’s actually a little thrilled.
“Sure,” he decides, rolling his shoulders before carefully pulling out of Mickey. Mickey’s on him before he knows it, pushing Ian to his stomach, but not forcefully, giving Ian an out if he wants it. He doesn’t take it, instead, he lets Mickey guide his hips up while he folds his arms under his head, letting Mickey reapply the lube to his ass and his own dick. It’s still a little odd, feeling a touch against his hole.
Surprising himself, Ian feels a little impatient. He turns his head, looking at Mickey over his shoulder, who’s staring at the most intimate place on his body. Ian feels his body react, clenching before he can think, and the lewd look that crosses Mickey’s face makes Ian flush. His throat catches on a whine.
Mickey’s gaze snaps to his, and Ian realizes too late that he’d heard it. Ian wants to hide his face in his arms, but instead he raises a brow, looking between Mickey and himself. The fuck you waiting for?
Mickey’s grin widens, and then tattooed fingers are grasping Ian’s hips, pulling him back while Mickey’s cock pushes into him. His dick is shorter than Ian’s by a few inches, but he’s thick, and Ian thinks maybe Mickey has a point about certain dimensions. Ian’s breath punches out of him, and Mickey pauses, but Ian’s not having any of it. He pushes back, until Mickey’s completely seated inside him.
“Fuck,” they both gasp, and Ian does drop his head into his arms. He feels Mickey leaning over his back, a little awkwardly with their height difference. An arm wraps around Ian’s middle, holding them both steady. He can hear Mickey’s breath, lips brushing against Ian’s nape. He rolls his hips a few times, but the pace picks up quickly, and soon Ian’s moaning into the sheets every time Mickey pistons into him.
“Hey,” Mickey whispers, voice sounding like he’s run a marathon. “What’s my name?”
Ian’s brows furrow at that, wondering if he had heard him right. “Huh? Mickey?”
He meets Mickey’s eyes over his shoulder, and he has that same shitty little look from earlier.
“What’s my name?” He calls a little louder, and Ian comes to realize two terrible things. First, that fucking Jonas Brothers song is still playing, and second, Mickey’s totally serious about making Ian call him a Jonas Brother.
“You’re not fucking serious,” Ian nearly sobs, feeling fucking insane.
“What’s my name?” Mickey asks again, and Ian’s back feels exposed when Mickey leans back, digging his knees into the mattress besides Ian's own. With that, he starts to pound into Ian, who laughs out, melting into a moan. He’s insane, Mickey’s insane. They’ve finally fucking lost it.
“Nick,” Ian mutters out, completely scandalized. Apparently Mickey won’t let him just peacefully fall into madness easily, because a second later his hands are digging into Ian’s shoulders and hip, pulling him back against Mickey’s cock.
“I said, what’s my name?” Mickey grunts, voice strained.
Ian’s gripping the sheets hard, and he’s sure if he could see himself, his face would be fucking glowing red.
“Nick. Jonas.” Ian grits out. Ian’s expecting the universe to pull a Donnie Darko, just waiting for the plan to crash into their side of the house.
The situation is so off the wall, absolutely fucking absurd, and he hopes by some fucking miracle his family can’t hear them. Even so, even if this whole thing should’ve been one big turn off from start to finish, Ian can feel the clench in his stomach, he knows he’s gonna come soon. Apparently, his libido is iron clad, just like Mickey’s. Mickey, who’s still fucking Ian like he owns his ass, even as he cracks up above Ian.
“What the fuck Mick. I fucking hate you,” Ian wheezes, reaching behind to to smack his husband upside the head, just a gentle swat.
“Sure ya do, tough guy.” Mickey’s still grinning like he’s won a grand prize, and kisses Ian's back. He wraps both arms around Ian, continuing to kiss his freckled skin. Ian can tell by the way his breaths catch in his throat, that Mickey’s pretty close.
“Gonna come?” Ian asks, winded.
“Ugh, yeah,” Mickey groans, thrusts picking up speed again.
“C’mon, you fucking maniac. Come in me,” Ian grunts, the last bit feeling foreign on his tongue. It does it for Mickey though, who lets out a pained groan against Ian, his movement becoming erratic. “Yeah? That do it for you, Mick? Gonna come in me? I fucking want it.” And Ian’s so beyond being embarrassed about it now. This is fun. He wants this, he wants to get Mickey there too.
“Yeah, fuck Ian,” Mickey groans, his hands slipping slightly against Ian’s sweat slicked skin. “Fucking love this, know you’re gonna love it too.”
Ian had no doubts there.
Mickey’s breath stutters sharply, releasing a chant of “oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” while Ian encourages him to let go. He feels Mickey's orgasm hit him, his husband’s grip tightening hard enough to almost hurt. He was right though, Ian does love it. Loves the feeling of his husband filling him up, knowing Ian got him there. Mickey’s unmoving against his back for a moment, just breathing, gaining his bearings. Finally, he pushes up, and pulls himself out. And to Ian’s credit, he barely winces.
Mickey slaps Ian’s ass. Pulling away, Ian hears him flop onto his back, the springs in the bed creaking under his weight.
“Shit, fuck…”
Ian hasn’t moved yet, but the moment he feels Mickey’s release starting to slip out of his ass he sits up on his knees. He knows Mickey can see it all, how open and wet Ian is.
“Hey, c’mere,” Mickey calls behind him. Ian turns on his knees. Mickey’s splayed out across the bed, arms and legs everywhere, his body shiny with sweat, his cock softening and come soaked. Ian’s never felt more turned on in his life.
“Wanna get on me?” Mickey offers, widening his legs a little more. But Ian knows he’s gonna come the moment he gets inside Mickey, he’s so keyed up. Ian’s got other plans, anyway, as he watches the way Mickey’s neck arches when he lets his head fall back, looking at Ian through his eyelashes.
Ian crawls over Mickey, who arches a brow up at him, glancing between Ian’s gaze and his dick, rock hard and twitching against his stomach as he moves. Ian’s legs bracket Mickey’s arms, just below his shoulders.
Wordlessly, he tips Mickey’s head back with his thumb and forefinger on his chin. Mickey’s smirking up at him, clearly having caught up, relaxing under Ian’s touch, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Ian gets a hand on himself, and it only takes a dozen or so strokes before he’s coming too. His breath leaves his lungs completely, his come painting across Mickey’s shoulders, clavicle, and neck. "Fuck, Mickey."
Mickey hums happily, biting his lip as he watches the last weak pulse splash into the hollow of his throat. They’re quiet for a moment, both still catching their breaths. When Ian finally feels like he can move again, he passes a gentle pet through Mickey’s wild hair, then twists, flopping bodily into the bed beside Mickey.
After a moment, Mickey swats at Ian, gesturing to his cigarettes and lighter on the window sill.
“You can’t reach?” Ian grumbles under his breath, but loud enough for Mickey to hear, as his husband gestures to the fluids drying on his skin. Ian huffs, turning quickly, but not before Mickey could see the telltale flush on his skin. Tossing the cigarettes and lighter to Mickey, Ian settles back down next to his husband, both quiet as they share the cigarette. The music is still playing in the background, something vaguely familiar and melodic.
“That was really dirty, Ian.” Mickey hums, glancing over at Ian, tongue peaking out between his teeth.
“Shut up,” Ian croaks, exhaling toward the ceiling.
“Seriously, man. If only I had a pearl necklace to clutch.”
“Shut up,” Ian cracks, shaking his head and looking away. “Clean yourself up, will you?”
“Bettin’ you’re the one making a real mess of the sheets right now, stud.”
“Oh my god,” Ian grouses, giving in and stubbing the spent butt out. He reaches across Mickey to their nightstand, pulling a few tissues, handing them off.
Once they're wiped down and settled back in, Ian’s got his arm across Mickey’s back. His husband is pressed into his chest, head shoved under Ian’s chin. Ian had turned off Mickey’s phone when he had gotten up. The fact that he had no rhyme or reason to his music, just chaotically playing his whole collection on shuffle had Ian, for the second time today, question his husband’s sanity.
In the silence, it was just their breathing, the sound of shuffling sheets when one of them shifted.
Mickey sniffs suddenly. Ian can feel his nose twitch against his throat.
“So, we good now?” Mickey asks quietly.
“Yeah, Mick, we’re good.”
“Good.”
He can hear Mickey’s breath starting to even out, and he doesn’t want to keep Mickey from sleeping but.
“No more fights, right?”
Mickey snorts, voice thick with exhaustion. “We’re always gonna fight, Ian. Argue, bicker. Whatever,” he sighs, pausing. “You gonna keep your hands to yourself?”
Ian flinches at that, but he knows he deserves it.
“Yeah. Yeah, I promise.” Ian tightens his hold on Mickey, and Mickey lets him for a moment, before squirming against Ian. He doesn’t move out of Ian’s hold, just wants the breathing room.
“Good.” Mickey says, slipping a hand between them to rub along Ian’s side. “Anyway, I’d piss you off every day if every argument ends with that kind of fuckin’.”
Ian laughs, tilting his head down to kiss at Mickey’s dark hair. “Okay, Mick.”
He knows, they both know, that one drug induced conversation isn’t the end all to their problems. They’re still going to fight, but hopefully just verbally now. Which, okay, it’s a small step. But it’s a step. Ian’s learning every day, about Mickey, about their marriage, about himself. Mickey’s stepping up, in his own way, and Ian’s gotta chill. They got their goals. He can do this.
Ian looks down at his husband. His eyes are closed, lips parted slightly as his breath puffs against Ian, tickling his chest. Yeah, they can do this.
“I love you,” Ian mumbles into Mickey’s hair.
And there’s a beat between them, when Ian’s eyes slip closed, ready to slip off into sleep, when he hears Mickey sleepily sniff against him.
“You too, lover.” And Mickey pulls Ian closer.