coming up for air

We've devoured each other in corners, swallowed the blood.

This took so lonngg

You can read it here or start from the beginning here !

"I always carry a knife with me" Mickey continued, bringing his attention back to the tall one. "And burnin' shit feels good" "So arsonist and a danger to public safety" Ian responded, without taking his eyes off the ink on the boy's hands. “Just my type” When Mickey just let out a snort and turned his head toward the ground, the other seemed to soften his voice when he spoke again. It felt almost like the rays of light pulling on his back and leaving thick drops of sweat on him. "I think you're fuckin' real, Mick. But you don't know how to be"

OR - Mickey's a slut for Ian in uniform - even the thought of it, even if it's just the combat boots, especially if it's the boots.

Here on Ao3

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"You know what happened to your fucking combat boots? And cargos?" Mickey asks casually, shoving the clothes Ian's throwing his way into a fresh garbage bag.

Ian snorts, "Yeah. I grew out of them." 

There's a sound clicking in Mickey's throat, a little tsk, little disappointed but should've seen that coming - Ian's a whole ass man now, it's been years, course he grew out of 'em.

Ian's done throwing clothes his way, headed down the ladder as Mickey passes the bag to him - reappearing moments later with an empty box.

They've been in the apartment for four weeks now.

It's good. They're getting used to it. Mickey's finally sleeping well, they got the bed out of the accordion room and some makeshift curtains that are better than a plastic bag. 

Lip announced he's really selling the house, told everyone as they rolled into the place after Frank's funeral. The heavy reality already sitting thick and he just had to top it up. It's fine, Ian knew about it anyway. They all knew. Just different to confirm it. The Gallagher sibling's lives officially morphing into something different, maybe something better - no more father, no more house.

The night ended up being a rager, Ian's pretty sure half the fuckers from back of the yards were in their yard. Frank would have loved it.

Ian and Mickey took the opportunity to get ahead of everyone else and start packing their shit up. And Ian's got a lot of shit, apparently, more than he thought he did, a lot of shit no one else wants to take. 

Mickey's surrounded by clutter, not that clutter is unfamiliar, just this clutter is different. Shit he doesn't know, hasn't seen, Ian hasn't seen. Fiona swept through the attic while she was in town, but only managed to make it messier than when she started. There's cobwebs in the corners, shelves and boxes overflowing, barely room to stand and move. Ian keeps examining things quizzically, keeps saying he remembers most things, at least the things that were theirs - the bulk of it haunting the space from distant Gallagher's past.

He swipes a finger across the old stack of Men of War comics he noticed earlier - thinks of freckle-faced, fringe cut Ian reading them  - brushes off thick dust between his pointer and thumb, "'You gonna get another pair? Of boots?"

Ian's too tall for this space, hunched over awkwardly as he moves things around and Mickey's not going to hear the end of complaints of his back by the time they're in bed tonight. "Don't need 'em anymore. Had them for ROTC, then the army."

Mickey stares. Can't help it.

Remembering exactly how Ian looked in his G.I. Joe getup. Thick black boots laced high, stomping all over the place, camouflage pants with a tight belt, grey shirt fitted tight over his muscles, gun in hand. Gun in hand. Fuck. 

Mickey's always loved a uniform.

Ian looks at him after the silence; watches the grin slowly spread on his husband's face, a tilt back of the head, a tongue in his cheek.

"You fucking serious?" Ian scoffs, a matching grin on his lips, pulls the rag from his shoulder and throws it directly at his husband's chest. "You're ridiculous."

There's a beat of laughter as Ian returns to his sifting, "Don't tell me you wouldn't be all over it, hot-shot. You'd be fucking leaking just lacing them up!" 

"I'd make you lace them up." Ian challenges, certain, doesn't even look at him when he says it.

The air silently rushes out of Mickey's lungs. 

Time to unleash all your creativity and imagine what would happen if Ian and Mickey's story was a little bit different... or maybe A LOT different: it's A.U.gust!

For this event, all kinds of fanworks are accepted as long as they're original (and as always, no AI). They can be full on A.U.s, canon-divergent, crossovers, you name it!

Themes are below and all you have to do is post in the assigned day (any time, screw time zones) and @ this blog so that we can see it and reblog it. If your fanwork fits more than one day, please post on the day for the last theme that applies. Missed the day? No problem! Just post it on the last day. Last day is also for anything that doesn't fit any of the themes, so if you have an idea that's not mentioned, fret not, you can still post it!

There will also be an AO3 community (link coming soon) for those who want to post there.

See you soon!

THEMES

Solution:

He pushes them away; pushes away from them.

Sitting up, blinking against the darkness, Mickey takes a breath; another. Next to him, Ian is still asleep, on his side, lips slightly parted.

Mickey’s heart is still beating much too fast, but is slowing. The room is fully dark, the night outside their window quiet, as quiet as the South Side ever gets. Nothing there to disturb them. Nothing there to threaten them.

Nothing but what they carry with them.

Mickey hesitates. Knows what he wants, what he needs, but isn’t sure – maybe he’d better – maybe he shouldn’t –

He pushes that thought away, too. Sets his jaw against the universe: they are married. He can have this. He can ask for this.

So, slowly, he lays himself back down again, scooting back until his back is pressed against Ian’s chest. Grabs for Ian’s arm, pulls it over him, a shield against the dreams, against the darkness, warm.

Feels Ian stir, there in the quiet room. First just a grunt, then a murmur, then: “Mickey?”

He doesn’t answer. Feels Ian’s arm tighten around his chest, his hand sneaking up to brush over Mickey’s cheek, briefly. Again: “Mickey?”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

A pause. “Bad dream?”

And he hesitates. Still, he does that. But: “Yeah.”

“Mm.”

And Ian doesn’t ask. Doesn’t try to make him talk about his nightmares; not now, not here in the quiet of the night, in the darkness of their room. Instead he shifts, slightly, pressing ever closer, pressing a kiss to Mickey’s shoulder. “I love you,” he says, and his voice is heavy with sleep, but the words are clear. “I’ve got you.”

And it’s just words, and it’s just a body pressed against his, and it seems that it shouldn’t be enough, not against the night and not against the city and against all that lurks in the shadows behind them.

Mickey The Thug Goose