Sarah

This all started as a stupid joke.

A memory from the night before:

Mickey was sitting there with a beer in his hand, thinking. Or, well, trying to. It was like every single sip came with its own separate thought forming in his head. Which, honestly, was pretty standard whenever he was drinking.

Ian sat across from him, doing pretty much the same thing. Well… except the thinking part. His head was blissfully empty, and he had no intention of filling it with anything. That was kind of the whole point of drinking for him, to loosen up, to forget. Simple as that.

Mickey, however, had other plans.

“I got an idea,” Mick slurred.

Ian groaned immediately.

“Oh no. Here we go.”

“Hey, just fuckin’ listen to me for a second, Jesus, Ian.” Mickey paused, dragging in a breath like he was about to deliver something life-changing.

Which only meant one thing. Mickey had come up with one of his genius ideas.

Last time he’d had one of his drunk “epiphanies,” he’d tried to convince Ian to shove a tiny Christmas tree figurine up his ass. Claimed it looked “like it’d feel good,” since it was shaped like a butt plug. Then, when Ian said no, Mickey had straight-up burst into tears, sobbing about how he was “never gonna see Ian get fucked.”

So yeah. Ian had reasons to be concerned. Still, despite every instinct telling him not to, he sighed and decided to hear his boyfriend out.

“Just so we’re clear,” Ian said, already bracing himself, “nothing’s going anywhere near my ass, Mick. Don’t get your hopes up. No Christmas miracles.”

“Yeah, yeah, speaking of Christmas, and not sticking shit up our asses…” Mickey started, waving his beer a little for emphasis. “What d’you say we show up to Christmas dinner in those inflatable gingerbread costumes?”

Silence.

Mickey took a slow sip of his beer, a smug, proud-as-hell grin spreading across his face like he’d just come up with the greatest idea in human history.

Ian stared at him.

“Are you serious? We’re having dinner at my place.”

“I know,” Mickey shot back instantly, eyes lighting up. “That’s why it’s gonna be so fuckin’ good.”

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose, even setting his beer down like this situation required his full, undivided disappointment.

This was too stupid.

And what happened next? Ian and Mickey ended up in the Christmas aisle at Walmart, hunting for costumes.

Ian didn’t even know how it got to this point. They just woke up that morning, and somehow, yesterday’s ridiculous idea had already been set in stone, no arguments allowed.

“What d’you think of this?” Mickey held up the package with the inflatable gingerbread costume printed on it.

“Let’s just get this over with, Mickey,” Ian muttered, grabbing the second costume from the shelf and tossing it in the cart.

“There. We got it,” Mickey grinned like a total idiot.

Christmas Eve came way too fast. Like, way too fast.

Ian stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at himself in that… thing. Inflated, brown, with white squiggles that were supposed to be icing. His face showed through the tiny circular hole, and his expression was pure, unimpressed grimace. He looked like a walking joke. The absolute worst kind of joke.

“I am not leaving the house like this,” he muttered.

From the living room came the rustle of plastic and a muffled curse.

“Too late, Gallagher!” Mickey shouted. “I’m already in it, and I swear, if I have to show up alone, I’m dumping your ass!”

Ian sighed heavily and stepped out of the bathroom. He headed toward the living room where Mick was… and froze. There he was, standing in the middle of the room. His costume was slightly crooked, one “icing button” suspiciously low, and the tiny fan on the back buzzed like an old vacuum. He was staring at Ian with absolute seriousness.

“What’re you looking at?” he barked. “I look fuckin’ awesome.”

Ian couldn’t take it. He snorted, which quickly escalated into full-blown, uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh my God…” he clutched his stomach. “You look like a fucked-up gingerbread man.”

“You look like his retarded little brother,” Mickey shot back, the corners of his mouth twitching.

For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other, laughing like complete idiots. Then Mickey clapped his hands together.

“Alright, enough fuckin’ around. Let’s go.”

And so it happened, they went.

And when they reached the Gallagher house? Ian completely lost it. He wanted to turn around, run back, just ditch this absolutely fucking stupid idea. But it was too late. The door swung open. First, they were hit by warmth and the smell of food. Loud talking, laughter, someone yelling from the kitchen, someone else arguing in the living room. Classic Gallagher chaos.

And then they stepped inside. And everything went silent. Literally. Like someone had pulled the plug on the entire house.

Kev froze mid-sip. V stopped talking mid-sentence. Debbie looked up from the table with a face that basically said, what the fuck am I seeing? Carl slowly raised his head, squinting as if trying to sharpen the image. Lip was the first to turn. He looked. He froze.

“…no,” he muttered after a moment, shaking his head. “No, no, no. Tell me this isn’t real.”

Ian wanted to die. Just like that. Sink into the floor, disappear, evaporate, anything.

Mickey, on the other hand…

Mickey looked around at everyone, puffed up, proud as hell, that permanently pissed-off face contrasting with the stupid grin of a gingerbread man.

Then he yelled across the whole house:

“MERRY FUCKIN’ CHRISTMAS, ASSHOLES!”

A second of silence.

Carl was the first to crack.

“WHAT IS THIS?!” He doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair. “YOU LOOK LIKE COOKIES STRAIGHT FROM HELL!”

And then chaos took over. Kev started choking on laughter. V leaned against the counter, gasping for air. Debbie covered her face with her hand, but you could still hear her laughing. Lip watched them for a beat, silent, then snorted and shook his head.

“Jesus… I knew you guys were fucked up, but this? This is a whole new level.”

Only Fiona wasn’t laughing. She stood a little away, arms crossed, looking at Mickey in silence. Half embarrassment, half disbelief. Mickey noticed immediately and narrowed his eyes.

“And what the fuck are you staring at? Never seen a gingerbread man before? It’s fuckin’ Christmas!” Mick shot back.

Someone in the back snorted even louder. Fiona closed her eyes for a second, like she was gathering the last bits of her patience.

“I wanna know how this happened. Who made him do it? Blink twice if you need help,” she said.

Ian shot Mickey a deadpan look.

“I’m not blinking, can barely see through this costume anyway.”

Carl stepped closer, circling them like they were exhibits in a museum.

“It moves,” he said with fascination, poking Ian’s side.

“Don’t touch me!” Ian growled, hopping awkwardly, which only made the costume buzz even louder.

Eventually, everything settled back into… normal-ish. Well, almost. The laughter didn’t stop completely, it just changed form. No longer the initial explosion, the shock. Now it was a constant background giggle. Someone would glance their way and snicker. Another would shake their head in disbelief.

And they stayed. In those fucking costumes.

Trying to sit at the table was a disaster. Ian got stuck halfway because the plastic belly wouldn’t fit between the table and chair. Mickey tried to “just squeeze in,” which ended with him almost toppling a chair and yelling at everyone like it was their fault.

Finally, they were sitting more next to the table than at it. Sideways, crooked, completely pointless.

Eating was a battle. Ian tried to spear something with his fork, but the sleeve of the costume was too wide, the plastic kept scraping against the plate, and the tiny fan in the back buzzed louder every few seconds, like it was mocking him. At some point, Mickey just gave up on utensils.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, trying to eat with his hands, which only sparked another round of laughter from everyone.

Later, when the food was gone and the bottles were multiplying faster than the conversations made sense, everything started to blur even more. The lights were dimmed, someone had put on music, someone was dancing in the background, someone else had passed out on the couch.

And Ian just sat there, slumped in his chair, exhausted, sweating under the layers of plastic, his cheeks pink from the booze. He looked over at Mickey. Mick was leaned against the wall, also a little faded, still in his costume, still stubborn but calmer.

Their eyes met.

And suddenly, they both burst out laughing. Just like that.

“We’re idiots,” Ian muttered.

“Yeah.”Mickey shrugged.

“But worth it,” Ian added.

BONUS:

Ian is usually the one waking up first. Not because he wants to be productive or anything. He just does. And the first thing he notices is Mickey still asleep next to him, completely knocked out. And yeah… he gets distracted pretty fast.

Ian’s also the one who gets morning wood more often, and instead of ignoring it like a normal person, he just… doesn’t. Because why would he, when Mickey’s right there?

So he starts slow. Pressing closer, half-draped over him, like he’s still asleep. Testing the waters.

Then come the kisses. Lazy at first, against Mickey’s shoulder, his neck… lingering a little too long to be accidental.

When that doesn’t wake him up fast enough, Ian gets worse about it. He’ll drag his lips up to Mickey’s ear, breathing warm against his skin, maybe even biting lightly just enough to get a reaction.

Mickey does wake up. He just refuses to acknowledge it.

He’ll shift a little, grumble something under his breath, trying to pretend he’s still asleep but his hand instinctively tightens on Ian’s arm anyway.

“Morning,” Ian mumbles like he’s innocent, like he hasn’t been actively trying to wake him up for the past five minutes.

Mickey just groans into the pillow. “The fuck do you want…” But he doesn’t push him away. Not even a little. 

Ian takes that as permission. He keeps nudging, pressing closer, practically clinging at this point. Half teasing, half genuinely needy, like he needs Mickey’s attention right now or he might combust.

Mickey tries to ignore him. He really does. Pulls the blanket over his head at one point, like that’s gonna stop Ian Gallagher of all people. It doesn’t.

Ian just follows, slipping under the blanket with him, still kissing along his jaw, his neck, completely relentless.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Mickey mutters, voice rough with sleep, but there’s no real bite to it. And then — yeah, he snaps.

One second he’s pretending to be asleep, the next he’s grabbing Ian by the back of his neck, pulling him down, clearly done pretending he’s not affected. “Could’ve just said something,” he grumbles, even though they both know Ian did, just not with words.

That’s how it usually turns into morning sex. Basically their routine at this point. (Thank God Ian once bought, like, a month’s supply of lube and keeps it in the drawer)

Mickey fully wakes up the second Ian slides in, no matter how half-asleep he was a moment ago.

Mickey’s moans? Yeah… they’re heaven to Ian, especially first thing in the morning.

And when they’re done, Ian always makes sure to clean Mickey up, like it’s just part of taking care of him.

And when Mickey yawns later in the day, he acts like it was completely Ian’s fault. Like he was just peacefully sleeping until Ian came along and ruined everything. (Not that he regretted the morning sex, of course)

Meanwhile Ian is smug as hell for the rest of the day. Like, stupidly smug. Walking around with that little grin Mickey pretends not to notice.

And if Mickey calls him out on it? “What?” Ian shrugs. “You love me.” Mickey just rolls his eyes… but doesn’t deny it.

It had been a long day. Especially since it ended with a fight.

Some guy looked at Mickey the wrong way and got punched for it. 

Unlucky for Mickey, the guy knew how to fight. He was good at it. Really good. Mickey got knocked out. Took a few hits to the stomach, the face and a kick straight to the groin. Because apparently just getting the shit beaten out of him wasn’t enough. His balls had to suffer too.

Yeah, yeah, I get it. Shouldn’t have started it, — he thought as the guy spat on him before leaving. — Still don’t regret it.

Now Mickey was home. He’d just walked in. The first thing he did was strip off his blood-stained clothes and toss them somewhere into a corner. As soon as the shirt was gone, a chill ran down his back. Sweat cooling against his skin. He ignored it, walked over to the fridge, and pulled out two beers. Both cold in his hands. The bottles knocked against each other with that sharp glass clink.

He headed to the bathroom. The moment he stepped inside, sunlight reflecting off the mirror hit him straight in the eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered, blinking against the temporary blindness as he took a step forward.

He stopped in the middle of the room and looked at himself in the small mirror.

Black eye. Split lip. And yeah, probably a broken nose. Blood was still running from it. Hard to tell if it was fresh or just mixed with sweat on his face. The bruise already looked like it was gonna stick around for a while.

Mickey exhaled and set the beers down on a small shelf. His hand felt stiff from the cold. Ignoring the slight numbness in his fingers, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He glanced at it for a split second, reading the name, then tossed it onto the sink.

Finally, he stripped off his pants and underwear. Now he was completely naked. Goosebumps spread across his skin. The small window in the corner of the bathroom was slightly open, letting in a faint draft.

He stepped up to the bathtub and turned the tap. Water immediately started running. He slid his hand under the stream to check the temperature and jerked back when it burned him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed.

Like getting his ass kicked wasn’t enough.

He turned the tap toward cold. The water shifted, cooling down. He held his fingers under it again, closing his eyes as he exhaled. The lukewarm temperature felt… good. Almost soothing.

Mickey straightened up, grabbed the beers and the cigarettes again. He set the cigarettes on the edge of the tub and held both bottles in his hands, positioning them in that familiar way, one cap pressed against the other, then a sharp push. The cap popped off instantly. The second bottle he set down on the floor, right next to the tub.

That was when he stepped in.

His legs sank into the warm water. Slowly, he lowered himself down, sitting, letting his body adjust before sliding deeper. His head came to rest against the edge of the tub, his body loose, almost weightless in the water. Finally, he reached over and turned off the tap. The water already up to his waist.

Eyes closed, head tilted back, he brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it. The bitter taste of beer filled his mouth. A few swallows, then his arm dropped back, elbow resting on the edge of the tub. The bottle dipped slightly into the water.

His thoughts started drifting. He was slipping, sinking into it, because it felt too good.

“Mickey.”

A familiar voice echoed from another room.

It was Ian.

But Mickey didn’t hear him.

“Mick,” the voice called again.

“Mikhailo.” 

That was Ian’s last attempt.

After that, he stepped into the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, so he slipped in without a problem. He had a feeling that’s exactly where he’d find him.

And the first thing Ian saw when he crossed the threshold was Mickey. Beer in hand, half-submerged in the water, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.

He immediately noticed the state he was in. Blood still running from his nose. A black eye. Scratches along his cheek. He looked like he always did after a fight, so Ian wasn’t even surprised. He knew Mickey. With him, this was normal.

“Who’d you fight this time?” Ian asked.

Mickey flinched, like he’d been yanked out of a trance, nearly dropping the bottle. Turns out he’d felt so good he’d almost fallen asleep in the tub. His thoughts had drifted off completely.

“Jesus, man! Ever heard of hello?” Mickey snapped, pushing himself up slightly in the water.

He adjusted his position, not even realizing when he’d slid deeper in. Took a quick, irritated sip of his beer.

“I called you three times, Mick,” Ian replied. “So? Who was it?”

Ian leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.

“Some guy outside the store. Kept staring at me like he was asking to get his ass kicked.” Mickey took another sip.

Their eyes met. Silence settled between them for a moment. Ian didn’t bother commenting. He knew how Mickey was. Impulsive. Reckless as hell.

Suddenly, Mickey leaned forward, reaching out of the tub with his free hand to grab the second beer from the floor. He held it out toward Ian, tilting the bottle in his direction.

“Here. Take it.”

Ian pushed himself off the doorframe and walked over to the tub. He grabbed the bottle, instantly feeling the cold against his palm. Twisted the cap off without trouble, brought it to his lips, and took a drink.

Without hesitation, he sat down on the edge of the tub.

His gaze settled on Mickey’s body. At first, just the upper half. His collarbones, his chest, the tattoo. Ian swallowed hard, the bitter taste of beer lingering on his tongue. He’d barely taken a sip, and already he felt off. Like he was drunk.

And it was all because of Mickey.

Slowly, shamelessly, his eyes drifted lower. Pausing for a split second on Mickey’s abs, on the sharp lines of muscle. The V-line beneath the water’s surface looked way too tempting.

And then Ian’s gaze dropped further.

“Are you seriously staring at my dick?” Mickey asked suddenly.

“I’m training my imagination,” Ian shot back instantly, not missing a beat.

Mickey snorted, a quiet laugh slipping out. He reached for the pack of cigarettes, pulling one free along with a lighter. Without breaking eye contact, he slid it between his lips, flicked the lighter, and lit it.

He exhaled immediately, a thick cloud of smoke drifting between them.

The smell of tobacco hit Ian a second later.

“Imagination, huh? And what exactly are you imagining?” Mickey continued, staring straight into Ian’s sharp gaze.

“I’m imagining…” Ian tilted his head slightly, that smug look already there “…how fucking good your body is. How goddamn tempting your dick is, Mickey.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey let out a low laugh, taking a drag from his cigarette. “And what would you do with it? In your imagination, of course.”

“Hm… let’s think…” Ian hummed. “You know, I’ve kinda got a craving for something salty.”

The tension between them snapped tighter.

Ian kept staring at Mickey with that cocky little smirk, and Mickey? Mickey looked almost stunned.

“Gallagher, don’t say shit you can’t back up.”

Mickey was already getting hard. His cock twitched, lifting slightly. Even under the water, Ian could see exactly what was happening. His gaze kept drifting down, then back up to his eyes, over and over again.

“Who said I wouldn’t?”

Ian leaned forward, setting the beer bottle down on the floor. Then, slowly, he slipped his other hand into the water.

His fingers found Mickey’s leg almost immediately.

At first, it was light, just brushing over his knee. Teasing. Testing him. Maybe trying to get under his skin.

It didn’t take long before he pushed further.

His fingers slid between Mickey’s legs.

Mickey inhaled sharply through his cigarette, filling his lungs with smoke. His fingers trembled slightly as Ian’s touch turned more intimate. Long fingers moving higher, slipping between his thighs until they brushed against the tip of his cock.

Mickey let out a quiet breath at the contact.

He was trying to hold back, trying to get a grip on himself, on everything building inside him. But he never could. Let’s be honest, Mickey sucked at controlling his emotions.

Especially when it came to Ian.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Gallagher,” he said, voice low, almost like a threat.

Suddenly, he set the nearly empty bottle down on the edge of the tub and shifted his position. He wasn’t leaning back anymore. He sat upright now, back straight, head tilted slightly to the side, closer to Ian’s face.

“I like it,” Ian replied.

“Fuck…” Mickey licked his lips, restless.

Without thinking, he stubbed the cigarette out, just dropping it into the bathwater and stood up.

Ian laughed under his breath.

Of course. Mickey had no control left. Not even a little. Not when Ian was pushing him like this. Not when he was this hard.

Mickey stepped out of the tub and stood right in front of him. Completely naked. Water dripping from his body, pooling beneath his feet. His cock fully hard now.

“You wanna suck me off? Go ahead. Do it,” Mickey said.

For a moment, nothing. Ian didn’t answer. Just kept smiling, eyes moving between Mickey’s face and his cock.

Then, slowly he stood up. Face to face. He lifted his hand, placing it against Mickey’s cheek, and then kissed him.

Hard.

Deep.

Almost aggressive.

His lips pressed into Mickey’s, pulling him in, swallowing the kiss. He sucked on his lower lip, bit down just enough to make it sting, like he was trying to feel as much of him as possible. 

His other hand slid down, gripping Mickey’s ass, fingers tightening hard. Enough that it might leave a bruise.

“Holy shit,” Mickey breathed out.

His hard cock pressed against Ian’s stomach. Mickey shifted slightly, grinding against him, seeking friction. Muffled sounds started slipping from his lips, still busy with Ian’s mouth. 

Ian’s hand suddenly tightened on his ass, holding him firmly in place. Keeping him from moving, from grinding against him any further. Because he had a feeling if Mickey didn’t stop, he’d come right there and Ian had something way better planned than that.

Then, with sudden force, Ian pulled back, hands moving to Mickey’s hips. He shoved him backward until Mickey hit the edge of the tub.

Ian didn’t waste a second. He dropped to his knees in front of him. Holding onto Mickey’s thighs, he adjusted himself, settling in. His hand slid off Mickey’s still-wet body for a moment, only to return. This time wrapping around his length.

“Jesus… you look unreal,” Mickey whispered, looking down at him.

Because this, this was rare. Usually it was Mickey on his knees, not Ian. Usually he was the one sucking him off.

Now the roles were reversed. And Mickey wasn’t complaining.

Ian’s hand tightened at the base, slowly starting to move. Small, steady motions that made Mickey throw his head back. His hands gripped the edge of the tub behind him.

It hit him all at once. That sharp, electric feeling shooting up from his cock, straight up his spine. His legs trembled slightly. His eyes squeezed shut, brows drawn tight, lips parted like he was already on the edge of breaking.

Mickey was loud. And Ian loved that.

“You’re hard,” Ian muttered, picking up the pace just a little.

Mickey mumbled something under his breath, already too far gone to form anything coherent.

Then Ian leaned in.

His lips brushed softly against the head of Mickey’s cock. Just resting there at first, barely moving. Testing him. Feeling the reaction.

He didn’t last long like that. Slowly, he pressed a kiss to it. It was so sensitive, so hot, that it felt like Mickey might lose it right there. 

Without thinking, Mickey’s fingers tangled into Ian’s red hair, gripping tight, just to stay upright. Just to ground himself. Because Ian’s mouth on him like that, it was too much.

A slick bead of precum slipped out, landing right against Ian’s parted lips.

Ian let out a quiet laugh, his warm breath sending a shiver through Mickey’s whole body. Without hesitation, he slid his tongue out, slow and deliberate, licking it up. Tracing the head carefully, pressing the tip of his tongue right where more kept leaking out.

“Mm… told you I was craving something salty,” Ian said with a grin.

Mickey trembled again.

Ian glanced up for a split second and the sight almost wrecked him. Mickey’s cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, head tilted slightly to the side. His lips parted, uneven breaths slipping out, chest rising and falling.

Yeah. That did something to him.

Without warning, Ian took him into his mouth, sucking hard, cheeks hollowing.

All of it, the want, the hunger went into it. His tongue wrapped around him immediately, moving, licking, sucking, even grazing him lightly with his teeth.

Then, slowly, he took him deeper. Until the head hit the back of his throat.

He pulled back just as quickly, almost all the way off, like he was considering stopping but instead, he pushed back down again.

Because Mickey was addictive.

And those sounds he made? They only made it worse. Softer than you’d expect. Almost sweet. For a moment, it was like the dangerous, sharp-edged Mickey Milkovich disappeared completely.

“Oh fuck, Ian…” Mickey gasped as Ian took him all the way down.

All of him.

His entire length buried in Ian’s mouth, his throat tightening around him. Hot, wet, overwhelming.

Ian held there for a second. Testing him.

“Ian—”

Ian laughed, and the vibration sent straight through Mickey, pulling another broken moan of his name from him, this time completely incoherent.

Finally, Ian pulled off to take a deep breath. But it only lasted a couple of seconds before he went right back to it.

This time, slower, more controlled.

He moved with a kind of lazy precision, taking him halfway, over and over. His hand slid down, cupping Mickey’s balls, playing with them lightly as he kept going.

Mickey was already close.

His eyes were squeezed shut, lost in it. His cheeks still flushed, maybe even more than before.

Ian picked up the pace. His head started moving faster now, shifting slightly side to side, sucking him with sharp, deliberate focus. His cheeks pressed in along his length, his tongue working around him, circling the most sensitive spots.

Mickey’s whole body tensed.

A tremor ran through him. His legs barely holding him up, his cock twitching hard. He was right there. Right on the edge, everything blurring together.

And then…

Without warning, he came.

A loud, broken moan ripped out of him as he doubled forward, fingers tightening hard in Ian’s hair, pulling.

Ian let out a low sound around him, not pulling away, just swallowing, taking everything Mickey gave him.

All of it.

When he finally pulled back, he made sure to clean him up too. Tongue dragging slowly, deliberately, not wasting anything.

Then he leaned back slightly, breathing heavier now, looking up at Mickey.“See?” Ian said, voice a little rough, a smirk tugging at his lips. “With you, I don’t even need imagination.”

Ian loves reading. He’s secretly a bookworm, and only Mickey knows it.

He reads for ten minutes before bed, sometimes right in bed as he drifts off.

Ian’s favorite genres are definitely psychological books and poetry… maybe some classic romance, like Jane Austen or Emily Brontë (Mickey never lets him live that down).

It’s hard to believe, but Mickey reads too — occasionally.

He’s all about horrors, thrillers, or anything drastic and scary.

When you catch Mickey with a book in his hands, he’s quick to deny it. Like he always says: “Readin’? That’s for folks tryin’ to be smarter than they are.”

But for real, he loves that Ian is a bookworm. Not just books in general, but him — his ginger boy who knows his literature.

Sometimes Ian quotes lines to Mickey, romantic stuff that he doesn’t even get. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love… I love… I love you.”

Sometimes Ian asks Mickey to roleplay some scenes from the books he’s reading. Mickey always bursts out laughing but then goes along, acting like a damn puppy, repeating the romantic lines after Ian.

The first book Mickey ever read was The Shining by Stephen King. That’s when he discovered his favorite writer and genre.

He’d walk around the house talking about random scenes, making Ian listen to him.

 When Mickey got a new King book for his birthday, he literally jumped around the house like a kid who just got a jar full of candy.

Ian is completely in love with special editions. He admires the covers and treats his books like sacred objects.

And of course, Mickey laughs at that… (though secretly, he does the same with his horror books)