#*lolwrites

"I just got out of the shower, Mick, I don't have have another round left in me—"

"Fuck, Ian, I just wanted to cuddle. My asshole is still on fuckin' fire, anyway,” Mickey scolds, smacking his lips together for dramatic effect. “It's gonna burn like hell tryin’ to take a shit in the morning.”

“Well, in that case,” Mickey pulls back the covers allowing Ian enough room to slip through, grinning wide. Once Ian is situated, Mickey grabs the hem of their quilt and tucks himself as well as Ian in, tangling their legs together beneath the sheets.

Ian props himself up on his side using an elbow to face Mickey head-on. Instinctively, Mickey reaches out a hand to brush the few loose strands of hair out of Ian's eyes. "You're not my mom," Ian chuckles.

"Damn right, I ain't your mom," Mickey rests his palm on Ian's cheek, lightly cradling his husband's face. "You are my husband, though, and we vowed to take care of each other," Leaning down, Mickey softly presses his lips against Ian's forehead letting his mouth ghost the pale skin briefly before pulling away fully.

In his previous relationships, and even with his own family members, Ian has been scared by physical affection. With Mickey, however, it comes so naturally, it's hard to be upset. This is all Ian has ever wanted, to feel loved and appreciated, like all the shit he's been through with Monica, Frank, and the rest of his fucking family doesn't make him broken. Sure, Ian still feels broken with his bipolar disorder (though, he's gotten better at controlling these thoughts after years of taking his medications), but, to Mickey, Ian is... Ian. That's it, he's Ian Gallagher, and Mickey has never expected anything more from him, nor does he now.

"Hey," Mickey's voice is smooth, like a freshly cleaned silk sheet, "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

"Nothing, I'm okay, just thinking," Ian shakes his head.

"Bullshit."

"It's not bullshit—"

Mickey rolls his eyes, "Yes, it is. Now, tell me what's wrong."

Ian takes a deep breath in, steadying himself by shifting his weight onto his back again. He laces his fingers together and places his hands on his stomach before answering Mickey's question, or more so demand. "I love you," he declares to the ceiling.

"How's that a bad thing, Mr. Milkovich?" Mickey asks, tone teasing.

"And you love me," Ian adds.

Mickey half-heartedly laughs. "That's why we got married, idiot." He can sense the tension practically radiating off Ian's skin, and the thought of his husband being uncomfortable is Mickey's least favourite thought the bare. Consequently, he slugs an arm across Ian's torso where his hands lay, and Ian latches onto Mickey's wrist like its life or death with Mickey as his lifeline.

Ian sighs. "Nobody's ever done this for me before; tucked me in, kissed me goodnight. It's nice."

"What, you think I'm just gonna sleep next to you and not do all of that shit?" Ian scoffs; Mickey always does this during sincere conversations, or at least during conversations that are supposed to be sincere and would be sincere if he wasn't dodging every fucking sentence of raw, honest emotion pouring out of Ian's mouth.

Mickey's eyes flicker over Ian's, and a wave of guilt washes over him, like this isn't the time for his attempted tough guy shit even though Ian believes there's never a time for a Milkovich's mock macho.

"Hey, hey, hey," Mickey tightens his hold on Ian, "I don't do all of this shit because I have to, I do it because I want to; you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Gallagher." Ian grins, the corners of each mouth practically touching their respective ears. "But, if—"

"—I tell anyone you said that, you'll cut my fucking throat, I know, Mick, we've been over this plenty of times," Ian finishes. "For what it's worth, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me, too."

"I fucking love you," Mickey leans in, connecting their lips in a soft, yet passionate, kiss.

underneath the covers, ian shivers. it’s a crisp 12°F in chicago, and ian is still dressed in nothing more than a pair of boxers from the night prior. without giving it a second thought, mickey shrugs off his zip-up hoodie, and drapes it over ian’s shoulders who immediately cuddles into the tattered fabric. what was once navy blue now reads as grey with years of dirt, grime, and general wear and tear. mickey’s sure there’s a stain or blood or two somewhere, but he hasn’t bothered to make sure it’s free of bodily fluids.

mickey sighs, sniffing and flicking the base of his nose with the back of his pointer finger to repress his looming tears, at least as long as he’s in ian’s presence.

“put the sweater on, please,” mickey’s voice breaks, and he watches ian’s back rise sharply with a quick breath.

“help,” ian whispers. it’s so quiet mickey swears he’s hearings things, but ian’s deep exhale proves mickey incorrect.

a confused, “what?” is all ian says, the edges of his voice rough due to the growing pit in his stomach. he doesn’t mean to come off as harsh, but all mickey does is sigh at him.

“i told ya already,” mickey begins fiddling with his phone, picking at the edge of its case and examining it like he’s holding a thousand year old fossil.

this time, ian is the one sighing. he reaches out a hand and lightly grasps one of mickey’s ankles, the gesture second nature, at this point. sometimes, mickey lets ian’s fingers hold on and other times he’ll kick him away before he has a chance to graze the other man’s sock covered skin; however, mickey doesn’t so much as flinch today.

ian tries to keep his tone level and calm when he says, “that wasn’t even a sentence, mick.”

“jesus christ,” mickey scoffs, sniffling over an attempt to stifle a laugh, “i wanna go back on my fuckin’ meds, okay? asshole.” he adds, allowing his back to relax into the cushion of the couch. he keeps his eyes focused on his hands in his lap, desperately trying to avoid looking ian in the eyes.

“okay,” ian shrugs, prompting mickey to lift his neck up and meet his husband’s face. mickey is expecting to see ian’s signature scowl, maybe paired with a raised eyebrow and, if he’s lucky,’a watering eye or two. instead, he’s fucking smiling, grinning at mickey like he’s the most precious thing in the universe. which, to ian, he is.

“that’s it?” mickey asks, his eyes widening and prompting one of his eyebrows to shoot upward in response.

ian move his hand up and begins rubbing his thumb across the exposed patch of skin between mickey’s socks and the hem of his jeans. “i know your dad dying put a wrench in your plans, and i’m not going to stop you from getting help.”

one.

slowly, but surely, mickey makes his way up to ian's ear, counting each freckle as his fingernail passes over.

two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

once mickey reaches ian's earlobe, he continues upwards along his hairline, still keeping track of what number he's on by mumbling as silently as he can underneath his breath.

ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

ian yawns and turns onto his left side. mickey's eyes go wide in panic; you weren't supposed to wake up, he thinks as he watches ian's eyelids flutter open.

"mick?" ian groans, lazily slugging an arm over mickey's hip. he slides his palm back and forth over the exposed skin, a sly grin flashing across his face. "whatcha doin'?"

"nothing—" mickey quickly stutters, but he's quickly cut off by ian.

"really? because it sounded like you were counting my freckles again, mumbling number and grabbing my face." mickey's jaw drops as his eyes are already open to full capacity. "don't worry, i think it's cute."

mickey's expression softens. "you do?"

"yeah," ian tightens his grip on mickey's waist, "i find it flattering that you think i'm pretty enough to wanna stare at all night."

"shut the fuck up, i couldn't sleep, alright. i thought it'd be, like, counting sheep or whatever." mickey readjusts so he's sitting upward, his back against the wall. he starts fiddling with the hem of his boxers, a nervous habit he picked up as a child waiting for mandy to return home from whatever guy she was out fucking on any particular night.

instinctively, ian mirrors mickey's position. "something up?" he asks. for now, at least, he decides keeping his distance is his smartest choice, so he does just that.

"wedding shit," mickey replies simply.

ian sighs sympathetically." i thought you had it all under control."

"thought so, too," mickey steadies his hand and clasps them together in his lap instead, his head dropping.

"hey, mick," ian ghosts mickey's chin with his fingers, lifting up his head once more. "you—we—have it all under control. i promise it'll work itself out."

"you promise?" mickey's eyes shimmer with hope like maybe ian is right, it will all work itself out.

“let me buy you a drink,” he blurts out. mickey can tell tami is suspicious and rightfully so, he thinks. “ian and i made a half-decent profit this week, i can splurge a little.”

tami sighs, “i’d love to, but i’m taking fred to his grandparents’”

mickey doesn’t want to admit that he’s disappointed, but a part of him, a part buried so deep down it’s nearly invisible, can’t help being upset. truth is, he’s wanted to get closer to tami for months after constantly hearing ian chat about how good of friends they are, how much she loves him. they a lot in common, too, and normally that’d scare mickey away; however, he’s been around tami enough to know it’d bring them closer together, if anything.

“tomorrow then?” mickey proposes, gripping onto the edge of the gallagher’s kitchen counter feet away from tami.

“sure,” tami scrambles for something in her purse sitting next to mickey’s hand. eventually, she pulls out her phone with a new file pulled up in her contacts app, and hands her phone to mickey. “give me your number, and i’ll see when i’m free.” she smiles, and mickey can’t help smiling back.

mickey types in his phone number, giving himself the contact name “mick 🥂” which he assumes tami will change, but he doesn’t mind—it’s not like they’re doing anything more than grabbing a couple of beers to take the edge of being a mother for a few hours. he shrugs, and tosses tami’s phone back to her. she looks at his contact name and laughs, rolling her eyes once more, but this time in a playful manner.

+ a bonus exchange between them: