coming up for air

Mickey drops his stuff too as Ian pulls him into the closest alley, completely unconcerned with losing his goods. He's much more preoccupied with the way Ian shoves him against the wall, hands firm on his hips, mouth already latched onto his neck.

"What prompted this?" Micket asks on a gasp as Ian bites the top of his ear. He'd complain about the man-handling but...he didn't mind that at all. Never had, honestly--there was something about Ian using his height and weight against him that really got Mickey going.

"Thought I'd remind you who you married," Ian growls into Mickey's ear, and fuck yeah he's here for that. Here for the kid that let him get away with shit back when they started, here for the man that went to prison trying to fix the world, and here for his husband, the guy that kept them both safe but still knew how to indulge Mickey's criminal streak with guns and weed and acts of minor lawlessness.

"Fuck yeah," Mickey practically whimpers into Ian's mouth, and he feels Ian's lips smile against his.

"You think this is something," Ian mutters, "did I ever tell you about the time I led some cops on a rooftop chase with a stolen laser?"

Mickey didn’t seem to get the clue. “Nah, This is what happens when you listen to your dumbass brother”.

Ian had honestly not been in a good mood all day. He woke up with a crank in his neck. His entire day felt like he was going through the motions in jello. Everything painfully slow to the point of irritation.

He had hoped that his shitty day would be slightly better by the time the Gallagher weekly dinner rolled around.

He loved his family, missed them despite the fact that he texted most of them every day. He grew to appreciate seeing them every Friday night but that afternoon had been just too much.

Debbie and Lip had gone at it the entire afternoon. From when the Gallagher-Milkovich’s walked through the front door till dessert was served the two were at one another throats yelling. Tami had also burst into tears multiple times during the night which was its own type of exhausting. She was nearing eight months pregnant, her hormones seemed to be getting the best of her emotions.

Ian couldn’t even get any sanctuary in trying to tune his family out and just talking to his husband the whole night, either. Franny had plopped herself in the seat between the two. He loved his niece, he really did. But the high pitched screech of her excitedly recalling every painstaking detail of her week was making him want to bash his head in.

Even though he couldn’t make out much of what Franny was saying he understood her repeating “snow”.

Franny wanted to go play outside when she realised it started to snow right before they sat down for dinner. It was still Autumn, technically, but winter seemed to start earlier and earlier every year. Franny eventually got her wish, dragging him out by his hand.

“Uncle Ian, can we play snowball fights?”

Ian had bit his lip, unsure how to say no, he really wasn’t in the mood. Carl chirped in before Ian had time to formulate a response.

“Sure, Fran! Come on Ian, it’ll be fun”

‘Fine’. He thought, maybe it would get his mind off of things.

He got a good few hits in before misstepping. He came toppling down onto his side. Long story short, he was sent home with a bag of frozen peas.

Now in the living room, Mickey huffed out of his nose in amusement as he looked at his husband. The half thawed bag of peas now abandoned on the side of the couch.

Ian’s arm already started to bruise. Mickey imagined so did his hip which he fell directly upon. The left side of his face was a little swollen, his cheeks flushed, purple starting to form.

“You look like you got your ass handed to you” Mickey’s voice was still playful. He figured that Ian wasn’t in a ton of pain. He would usually vocalise it if he was but there he stood stoically silent.

Mickey’s hand extended forward to cup Ian’s cheek. Everything about Ian’s switch in demeanour suddenly clicked into place when Ian pushed Mickey’s hand off of him.

“Hey” Mickey’s voice instantly went soft. A tone that he pretty much exclusively saved for his husband.

Mickey wasn’t going to ask the question each of the other Gallagher’s would ask in a heartbeat: Are you taking your meds? There was no point, Mickey knew the answer was yes. He watched as Ian took his pills every morning and night. Watched as Ian did whatever he could to keep this disease under control. Mickey also knew he hated when people asked him that. As if it was something that he was doing to make that situation worse and not just his fucked up brain.

So he settled on a quiet. “Are you feeling ok?” as he sat down next to Ian, pushing their thighs together.

Ian just gave a little shrug.

‘Ok,’ Mickey thought. He could work with that. “C’mere”

Ian eyed his husband warily for a second before he fell into his arms. The two shuffled to get comfortable, bodies morphing and trying to fit together. Ian settled with a huff, his head resting against Mickey’s chest. His eyes fluttered shut, the rhythm of Mickey’s heart beating the only sound he could bear that day. They stayed like that for a few minutes, Mickey’s head found a place atop Ian’s.

“I’m gonna go get you some Advil” Mickey patted Ian’s good arm to signal he was able to stand but Ian’s meek voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Please stay”

So he did. He didn’t say anything back, instead grabbed Ian’s injured arm, wincing as Ian flinched. Mickey raised his partner’s limb to his lips. His mouth ghosted over the injuries before peppering Ian’s arm up and down with soft kisses. He even kissed the thin scar on his forearm he got when he was a kid for good measure.

Sunlight floods in through slated blinds, and an arm lifts. Beckons. Reaches. Fingers tangle into soft cotton, searching for skin, and there’s a noise. A sleep-heavy grumble, and then there’s movement. Skin finds skin finds sunlight, and they’re together. Warm, and safe, and found. They sigh, and their breath melts into the morning, all the sweeter.

They don’t say hello, but a hand nudges. Pokes. Prods.

“Mickey. Mickey. Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

And then the hand reaches, fingers wiggling. Tattoos find their freckles with a sigh and it’s pale skin against pale skin, right where it should be. He’s heaved off the couch, and Ian laughs — there’s little else in the world, that Mickey could ever need. That touch, that laugh. He can survive on that alone, he’s almost certain.

They don’t say hello, but one hand slides a mug of coffee across the counter, and fingers brush at the exchange of ceramic. That same dutiful hand lifts, reaches, scratches through unwashed and pillow-flattened red curls, and it’s enough. Ian gifts him a small, tired smile, and it’s enough.

They don’t say hello, but teasing nails trace along spines and shoulders and tattooed chests before snaking down lower, fingers tangling together. They fit together, lock-and-key, finding home base in those empty spaces. Ian will never tire, of holding his whole heart between his fingers.

They don’t say hello, but Mickey smiles, when long arms loop around his waist at the kitchen counter. It starts with the fingertips, always the fingertips, dancing under the hem of his shirt, the band of his jeans. Fingers, curling firmly around his hips, drifting until they meet across his stomach. A warm and solid weight at his back as Ian melts onto his shoulder, head ducked low, face pressed to his neck.

They don’t say hello, but it’s their wedding day, and an arm lifts.

Ian reaches, as he steps closer. Hand outstretched, palm up. A beckon, a call. He reaches and smiles and Mickey does, too, before their fingers even meet. Their hands curl together, and it’s all the greeting they need.

There’s purpose, there, in these small actions — I love you on purpose — and nothing else compares. There are sparks, brilliant and dangerous where their skin presses, and they hold on. Firmly, gently, all of it on purpose.

There’s a tug, a pull. A hand to the waist, snaked under a tuxedo jacket.

A nose presses to warm skin and they dance, as two, as one, all their goodbyes left to memory. Only greetings remain, a lifetime of hellos to discover, and fuck —

— they’ll never grow tired of reaching for them. Of reaching for each other.

Ian laughs. "I was making a scene?" He rolls onto his feet easily and steps closer. Mickey refuses to back away, putting them nearly chest to chest.

"You're the one just strolled up and picked a fight, Milkovich," Ian points out with raised brows.

Mickey scoffs. "Please, bitch, every fuck in here knows you won't touch me."

"Is that right?" Ian breathes against his lips.

"Yeah, man," Mickey responds without hesitating. "Cause I'm the tough one, you're the pretty one." He finally takes a step back, though he does let his hand run briefly down Ian's sweaty, muscled arm.

"That why I'm supposed to stop?" Ian questions. He lifts the hem of his prison-issue tank top to wipe his face, revealing his abs, and Mickey swallows hard.

"Can't let people be gettin ideas," he answers gruffly. "If they think you can throw me around, messes with the deal they think we got goin."

"Oh, the deal," Ian repeats. "You mean the one where I let you fuck me for protection?" A shit eating grin is slowly overtaking his face. "The one where nobody knows how I hold you up against the wall and give it to you instead?" The last bit is said almost under his breath, but Mickey scans the yard anyway to make sure no one was close enough to overhear.

Before he can say anything, Ian speaks again.

"Guess you better start giving your own show then, tough guy," he says with a wink, heading over to the pull-up bars. "Think you can keep up?"