#callivich

Of course Ian would say Mickey would be perfect no matter what he looked like, but he can still admit the wonders passing has done for Mickey’s health and happiness.

There was a time when the world saw him as a girl. When no matter how loud he screamed or how hard he punched, the word tomboy was still spat out with venom on their tongue. When he felt there was no way to fix what God or the universe or what-the-fuck-ever got wrong when they made him.

Then he saw Colin selling ‘roids to the football jocks. And one session on the library computers later, he learned he was his own goddamn universe and could turn himself into whatever the fuck he wanted to be. He’s leveled up from buying from some college meathead when he was barely fifteen to seeing a real doctor and getting a real prescription filled by a real god-damned pharmacist.

And Ian has been the lucky witness to much of the process, all starry-eyed and cum-filled.

He didn't see the beginning, not really, only from a distance. And some of the middle parts he missed for reasons they still avoided discussing. But what he did witness of Mickey’s transition was sublime.

His shoulders broadened. His arms could carry more and more weight, until eventually he could pick up Ian with little effort. His hands grew rough and calloused, enforcing the threat branded on his fingers.

(He grew his own motherfucking cock. Small as it was compared to other men’s, Mickey was proud of the little guy nonetheless. And Ian was infatuated; called it the “perfect mouthful.”)

Years of do-it-yourself hormones, fistfighting, and hard labor melted fat into muscle. And suddenly, the man he dreamt of being became the man he saw in the mirror. He no longer feared looking down at his own naked body.

And he’s very lucky, he knows it, to never have had a large chest. Understanding he’d never have the money for top surgery without private insurance, Mickey honestly doesn’t know what he’d do if the universe didn’t grant him that one tiny blessing. Binding was for tight-fitting tops peace of mind more than it was for passing.

Besides, everyone knew not to misgender Mickey. He’s sent enough people home with broken bones to be a warning for any transphobe in the South Side.

It's difficult to think he used to share bras with Mandy. Not just because of the repressed, painful memories of going through puberty as a girl in the Milkovich house. Because he hasn't been that person for so long, physically or psychologically. He's forgotten what it was like. Trying to remember his early teen years before discovering testosterone is the same as flipping through the television channels. Like staring in a two-way mirror; it's a different life on the other side.

So Mickey can confidently say he feels and sees himself as a man, and has for quite a few years. Especially with Ian’s help - an unconditional love for every version of Mickey’s body that borders on obsession. 

Still, he knew he could bulk up even more. Especially now that Ian's gained his post-wedding “happy weight,” as they call it, their size difference has almost become a nuisance, more comical than sexy. And Ian is always on his ass about making more conscious health decisions.

He may still refuse to eat whatever the fuck kale is, but there are other sacrifices Mickey is willing to make.

Once Mickey realized the torture of exercising was outweighed by the results, it was over for Ian. He knew he'd never finish a full routine for the rest of his married life.

Such is the privilege of a 24-hour gym included in apartment rent, they choose to go only when it's empty. For reasons exactly like right now.

Ian is desperately trying to complete his reps on the rowing machine, Mickey stationed as usual by the dumbbells, bench pressing with his legs spread as if he's purposefully trying to get Ian hard.

And then he goes and does this.

Ian witnesses Mickey pull his tank top off, watches sweat drip and muscles ripple without any fabric blocking the view, sees his nipples harden and light dusting of chest hair stand on end when exposed to the air, sees that tiniest bit of a jiggle as he does his reps.

Ian is fucking gone.

He stops his workout entirely to focus solely on ogling his husband, hoping to get caught so they can lock eyes and silently agree to fuck in the showers again. 

Last time was absolutely unforgettable: Mickey sticking out his toned ass, balancing on his toes, groans and begs to be cum into just loud enough to hear over the cascade of water encapsulating them.

Fuuuuck… how did he get so lucky? 

“The fuck you looking at, bitch?"

The pissed off sounding voice knocks him to reality but when his eyes refocus, Ian sees the smirk painting his husband's bitten-red lips.

He has to move now. 

Has to reach Mickey before Mickey reaches him because God knows how Ian’s brat of a husband acts when he thinks he has the upper hand.

They meet on top the weight lifting mat, Ian's hands on Mickey's chest before any other part of them touches.

He has to squeeze, getting the perfect handful, feeling fat and muscle mold perfectly to the shape of his palms.

“Fuckin’ checking you out, bitch. What, you gotta problem with gay guys?” 

They look each other up and down, two predators hunting for their next meal. Mickey hums.

“Yeah I do, when they can't put their money where their mouth is. You got the dick to back up that attitude?”

Ian tugs Mickey's nipples, pulling him a half step closer, whispers his next words directly into his husband's mouth. 

“Think you already know the answer to that, based on what we did all morning.”

Mickey doesn't shy away from his touches. Doesn't push Ian away. Doesn't tell him to stop. 

Only puffs his chest out like the proud man he is and smiles brilliantly. 

“Think you might need to remind me, lover.”