I am not a successful adult

Liam and Carl are watching Frank from the edge of the dancefloor, rolling their eyes and laughing as they shimmy slightly to the music. Debbie is swaying in Sandy’s arms as Franny twirls around them. Lip sits with Kev and V, smiling despite the faraway look in his eyes.

His family, bathed in color on a day built at the altar of his love. 

Mickey slowly comes back to earth as well, looking up at him with shining eyes. Ian’s heart aches in his chest, twisting and pulsing and threatening to give out under the weight of all he feels. 

He feels - fuck, he feels so - 

Overwhelmed with love and pride and devotion and gratitude - for his family, for the man in his arms. For his whole fucking life, for every moment that brought him here.

And still, an unspeakable grief for those absent; the empty seats around the room. For Fiona’s hands on his face, for Mandy’s arm slung around his waist. For his mother’s lips, pressed against his blushing cheek. 

Mickey’s hands ghost along his arms, coming to rest at his chest. He fiddles with Ian’s lapels, traces lightly at the floral pattern.

“What’s goin’ on in there, Gallagher,” he asks, all at once teasing and genuine and open - the colors of this man. His husband. “Second thoughts already?” 

A wet laugh.

“”Course not,” Ian breathes. His eyes sting. “It’s just - I just feel…”

I feel so happy. 

I feel so free. 

I feel so much.

“Yeah,” Mickey murmurs, “I know. Me too.”

For a moment, he feels wild with it. Insatiable. He needs something solid; he needs to anchor himself before he drifts away, delirious and delicious and desperate. 

Mickey sees it. He always does. 

“C’mon,” he says. Grins as he tugs Ian off the dancefloor. “Come with me.”

Mickey leads him through the light, through the color and sound, through the tinkling of glasses, through the gazes of knowing eyes that sparkle as they pass. 

Right to the tiny bathroom shoved behind the bar. A return to their roots, of sorts. 

Mickey pushes Ian gently against the dingy tiled wall, gripping him lightly by the hips. He smiles, searching Ian’s face with warm eyes. 

“Long day, huh?”

“The best day,” Ian corrects. 

“That, too,” Mickey agrees. “Just feels like we haven’t had a fuckin’ minute to ourselves since this morning.”

“Mmm. A nice morning.”

“Goddamn great morning,” Mickey says, holding Ian’s hips a little tighter. “Seemed like you needed a second, though.”

Ian melts, bringing his forehead to rest against Mickey’s. “Yeah,” he says, “just a lot, you know?”

“I do,” Mickey purrs. He leans up, pressing a hot kiss to Ian’s neck. Another. “It’s always a lot.”

“Always? You get married to me often?”

“Not that,” he chuckles. Then - serious. “This. Being yours. Sometimes I look at you, and it’s - after all of it… it’s - yeah. It’s a lot.”

Ian is stunned. They’ve carried the weight of their pasts around their necks through these years, flung together and torn apart, only for Ian to feel it dissolve in the bathroom at the fucking Polish Doll. 

He reaches out. Touches Mickey’s face. Lets his fingertips lead themselves over his temple, his cheek, down to his chin. Tilts it upwards, basking in the glow of Mickey’s flushed skin, watching his lips part.

The kiss is sweet, all hope and light and promise. Something designed for a moment like this; something just on the edge of more. 

“I love you,” Ian whispers against his husband’s lips, champagne and want on his breath. He feels Mickey smile, feels him press harder against his own body - feels the air sucked out of his lungs as Mickey kisses him fiercely, dizzyingly, so maddeningly. 

His hands search and feel, grasping for purchase on Mickey’s body. His anchor. He worries, for a moment, if the white fabric of Mickey’s tux might singe beneath his fingertips. 

Mickey doesn’t seem to have the same worry. He drops to his knees in front of Ian, white tux on the chipped tile beneath him. 

He runs his hands up Ian’s thighs, gliding up to his ass where he squeezes kneads pulls touches and touches. Ian’s head drops forward, mouth hanging open. Was it only this morning that Mickey touched him like this?

His pants are around his knees before he understands what’s happening, skin suddenly exposed as Mickey works his briefs down. His hands are everywhere then; scratching and teasing. Deliberately, reverently. 

Ian’s own hands are in Mickey’s hair, tugging just so. Just so Mickey has something to fight against, to growl low in his throat and push his way back to Ian’s body. 

Mickey’s mouth is wet, hot, biting as he moves over Ian’s skin, sensations sharp and exhilarating on his thighs, his hips, his belly. His blood is singing as it moves through the heat, crackling in his veins. 

If it wouldn’t mean losing this heat, Ian would pull Mickey to his feet and drag him back to the altar, ready to marry him all over again.

He sighs; the sound spreads through the air like honey. Mickey smirks up at him - lips glistening as he licks them, pulling the bottom one between his teeth and raising a brow in question. 

Ready for more?

“Please,” Ian whispers, voice wet and clogged with need. “Yes, god, please, Mick.”

He brings a hand back down to Mickey’s face, rubs his thumb over that pink bottom lip. Feels the way it stretches when Mickey smiles at him. 

His arms fall limply by his side when Mickey takes him in, agonizingly sweet and slow. Mickey reaches up and holds Ian’s hands against his thighs, lacing their fingers together as he swirls his tongue. 

And it’s - 

It’s the press of their wedding rings against his skin - 

It’s the safe, wet warmth of Mickey’s mouth - 

The flick of his tongue - 

The delighted hum in his throat - 

The bright hunger in his eyes when Ian bucks his hips - 

He’s so fucking in love. He’s so fucking in love.

Ian gasps as it overtakes him. 

“Mickey,” he sobs. “Mick - ” 

Mickey knows. He always knows. 

He keeps his pace, bringing a hand down to Ian’s ass, touching lightly, teasing just enough. Ian cries out with it, shaking through it, loved through it. 

His head falls back against the tile, breath heavy and burning as Mickey stands to clean them up. He laughs a little as Mickey toys with his bowtie in the mirror, frowning when it still sits limp and crooked. 

Ian zips up, tucks his shirt in, walks on wobbly legs over to his husband. He straightens Mickey’s tie, thinking again back to this morning - to before Mickey became his husband. It feels strange; wrong to think that Mickey ever wasn’t his husband. 

“Thank you,” Ian murmurs. “You always know what I need.”

“Yeah,” Mickey snorts, “I know when you need your dick sucked, alright.” He softens then, takes Ian’s hand, fiddles with the ring on his finger. “I’ll always give you what you need.” 

“I know,” Ian says. “But what about what you need? Think I could open you up if I bent you over this sink?”

Mickey’s brows meet his hairline, clearly interested. He shakes his head though, pointing over to the bathroom door. 

“Hear that?” he asks, and Ian suddenly becomes aware of the cheers ringing through the dancehall. “Think they’re waitin’ on us to get outta here.”

“Oh,” Ian says dimly, genuinely disappointed that he won’t get to fuck Mickey in this shabby bathroom on their wedding day. “We can’t keep them waiting just a bit longer?”

“C’mon, man,” Mickey laughs, tugging Ian towards the door. “You seen that car Liam picked up for us? I’m gonna insist we pull over and fuck in there as soon as we get outta the parking lot.” 

He holds the door for Ian, ushering him back into the color, the sound.