Fuckinâ Paradise: Ian & Mickey on Their Honeymoon
I like to think that once theyâre finally off parole, Ian and Mickey donât romanticize the idea of a honeymoon. They just decide to go because they can. No big speech, no planning spiral, just booking something last minute and getting the hell out.
Not Mexico, obviously, but somewhere warm, somewhere with a beach. Florida, maybe Cuba. Somewhere that feels far enough without actually being complicated.
Mickeyâs been waiting for this shit. Heâs already packed those loud-ass colorful shirts he likes way too much, strutting around like he owns the place the second they land. Ian just watches him sometimes with that look, half fond, half âyouâre ridiculous,â and says nothing because, yeah, he likes it.
Itâs their first time on a plane, which goes about as expected.
âDonât tell me youâre scared, Red. Itâs just a fuckinâ plane.â Mickey grips the armrest, trying not to freak out, but teases anyway. Ian doesnât point it out. He just takes Mickeyâs hand when the plane starts moving, and Mickey lets him.
Then the turbulence kicks in.
âTHE FUCKâS HAPPENING?? They donât even know how to fly this fuckinâ thing or what??â Ianâs laughing, people are staring, Mickeyâs ready to fight the pilot, and theyâre still holding hands like neither of them noticed.
When they get to the hotel, they donât waste time doing things the ânormalâ way. They barely make it inside before theyâre all over each other. Not because itâs new or urgent, but because itâs familiar, because itâs easy, because itâs theirs. They spend hours lounging in the heat, AC blasting, half-watching whateverâs on, half-not paying attention at all, limbs tangled without thinking about it.
Ian buries his face in Mickeyâs chest, half-buried, half-smiling, completely at ease. Mickey nudges him, grin tugging at his lips. âYou gettinâ comfy there, huh?â he says softly, tracing slow circles in Ianâs neck, eyes on him as he drifts off. âMmmhâŠâ Ian murmurs, already dozing, and Mickey canât help the small, fond smile spreading across his face. He watches him sleep for a moment, hand still threading through his hair, just taking him in.
Ian wakes up early most mornings, going for runs along the water while everythingâs still quiet, before the heat hits, before the beach fills up. When he gets back, Mickeyâs still in bed, buried in the sheets, half-asleep, completely unbothered by anything that isnât immediate survival.
The days settle into something simple. The beach, mostly, even after Ian burns like a motherfucker on day one and Mickey refuses to let it go.
âYou look like a goddamn lobster, Gallagher.â
Restaurants too, because Ian made a list before they even left.
âJesus Christ, you made a schedule for our honeymoon?â
âItâs not a schedule, itâs options.â
âItâs a fuckinâ schedule.â
Mickey complains the whole time and still shows up anyway.
Ian wants to explore, see stuff, actually do things. Mickey wants the pool.
âThe fuck we gotta go look at old buildings for? Theyâre just⊠buildings.â
âItâs not just buildings, Mickey.â
âItâs literally just buildings.â
It drags on like it always does, until it doesnât. A couple things for Ian, a lot of nothing for Mickey. Neither of them says it out loud, but theyâre both fine with that.
And somehow, every night, they end up on the beach. Same place, more or less. Beer in hand, shoulders touching, staring at the stars like thereâs finally space to breathe. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they donât. Itâs enough either way.
Mickey smirks, whispers, âFuckinâ paradise, Gallagher.â
Ian just chuckles, shoulder pressed to his, warm, alive.
Second-to-last day, they get tattoos. Mickey gets a gun wrapped around their wedding date, both tangled together on his ass.
âFigured youâd see it every time we fuck, so⊠youâre welcome.â
Ian just shakes his head, smiling, and gets his own lower, at his groin, deliberate and teasing, perfectly in sync with Mickeyâs.
Nothing about them suddenly turns soft or easy just because theyâre somewhere nice. Theyâre still them, still loud, still stubborn, still getting on each otherâs nerves. They just stay right there in it, sunburnt and stubborn, completely in sync. This is exactly where they're supposed to be. Together.
