#supportive husbands

Ian pauses behind him, and Mickey can feel him breathing. In and out, in and out, but just a touch too fast. He knows despite his efforts, the words came out cautious, came out concerned. And Ian had definitely noticed.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ian tries casually, bringing sharp teeth to nibble at Mickey’s ear. “Can’t I just be turned on by my husband?”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, “sure you can.” He pulls away though, just enough to get Ian looking in the mirror, and meets his eyes through their reflections in the glass.

“But you’re not, though,” Mickey says, and Ian shoves away from him with a heavy sigh.

“Never mind,” he mutters, looking at the floor. He starts to leave, but Mickey’s having none of that, and sets his unused toothbrush down with a clatter to make a grab for Ian’s arm.

“Hey, wait,” he gets out before Ian is spinning on him again, pushing his hand away.

“I just wanted to do something for you,” Ian growls, leaving Mickey stunned with the sudden shift in attitude. “I know that wasn’t enough, earlier, I know I haven’t been enough. Not since they upped my fucking meds.”

“The fuck are you on about?” Mickey asks, completely mystified. “When did I say any of that?”

“Just now!” Ian bellows, and Mickey’s not having that, either.

“Yo,” he states firmly. “Knock that the fuck off.”

And Ian does. His eyes go wide at the iron in Mickey’s voice, and then he’s deflating. Like a balloon animal from the fair that you leave in your room for too long, he goes from overfilled and pressurized to a limp, wrinkled mess in no time flat.

“Sorry,” Ian manages softly. “I’ll just…” And then he’s leaving the room, leaving Mickey staring at the space where he had been, wishing he was better at all of this shit.

Mickey rubs his face with tired hands, then follows.

He finds Ian in their room, huddled on his side of the bed. The blankets are still kicked to the bottom of the mattress where they had left them, Ian’s toes tucked underneath as he sits with his knees to his chest.

Mickey sits on the edge next to him, facing him. Pokes at his leg until Ian looks up.

“Hey,” he says simply. “What’s goin’ on?”

Ian bites his lip, so Mickey reaches out and pokes that, too.

“You gotta talk to me, man,” he presses. “We’re married now, you can’t just run off on me.”

Mentioning their recent commitment is always a surefire way to get Ian smiling, and Mickey counts it as a victory when his husband’s lips can’t help but twitch upward. Ian doesn’t seem any closer to speaking, but Mickey can be patient. They have the time, now.

He doesn’t have to wait very long before Ian relaxes, letting his legs straighten on the bed and folding his hands loosely in his lap. Ian twists his wedding ring on his finger, stares at it, then reaches over and takes Mickey’s hand where it lies against the sheets.

“Been feeling off again,” he starts quietly, stroking the back of Mickey’s hand with his thumb.

Mickey raises an eyebrow, even though Ian can’t see it with his gaze fixed on the clasped hands.

“You think?” he offers dryly, and there’s that hint of a smile again.

“Yeah,” Ian admits. “I know. It’s just…” he hesitates, then pushes on. “I’m happy, you know? I am.”

Mickey nods.

“I am,” Ian repeats with emphasis, and Mickey just snorts.

“Didn’t say you weren’t, Ian, what the fuck?” He pulls his hand away and places it on Ian’s cheek, turning his face so he can look him in the eye.

“Just tell me what’s happenin’ here,” he asks. “You were fine earlier, so what got into that brain of yours to make you think somethin’ was wrong? That you had to make somethin’ up to me?”

Ian shrugs. “Don’t know,” he answers. “I never fucking know, that’s the problem." He laughs humorlessly. "And I can't even keep you from noticing."

Mickey can work with that.

“Alright,” he says casually. “Just the usual shit, then, huh?” He can see Ian’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t let him say anything, or turn away.

“Thought you might be on an upswing,” Mickey continues, “comin’ at me less than an hour after the last time and all. But that’s not it, obviously.”

Ian shakes his head, to the extent that he can with his chin in Mickey’s grasp.

“Downswing, then,” Mickey decides, and nods to himself. “You feel like shit, and that asshole brain of yours is tellin’ you you’re shit, too. Tellin’ you you’re not enough again, or that you’re too much?”

Ian doesn’t try to argue. “Not enough,” he admits, then, “maybe both,” a second later.

“Alright,” Mickey says again. Then he drops his hand from Ian’s face, straightens his back, and stares him in the eye.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Mickey orders. “You’re gonna go take your meds—” he holds up a hand to stop Ian’s protest, “I know you didn’t do it yet, you moron, I was in the bathroom the whole time. So you’re gonna go take ‘em,” he repeats, “and I’m gonna call your doctor. I know they said to give it a couple weeks, but you shouldn’t be havin’ to deal with this.”

“Okay,” Ian agrees softly.

“Then,” Mickey continues, “you’re gonna get a shower and put on something clean, because I can’t make you feel better, but I can damn well make you comfortable.”

Ian sighs. “Mickey…” he starts, and Mickey think he knows what’s coming: the usual diatribe of you shouldn’t have to, this is my problem, just leave me alone.

But it never comes. Instead, Ian leans over, kisses him lightly on frowning lips.

“Thanks,” he whispers, and Mickey cracks a smile.

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” he mutters, but he knows Ian can tell that he’s pleased. “Go take your pills, bitch.”

He moves to let Ian off the bed. Before the other man can get through the door, though, he calls out to him again.

“Ian,” he says, and waits for him to turn around with questioning eyes. “Come downstairs when you’re done, yeah? We’ll lay on the sofa, watch some shitty movies or somethin’.”

Ian smiles. “Yeah? Gonna cuddle me better, Mick?”

Mickey bites his lip, but he knows he’s grinning back. “Maybe. You got a problem with that, tough guy?”

“No,” Ian says over his shoulder as he turns and heads back to the bathroom. “Not at all.”

"And Ian?" Mickey calls out one more time before Ian can close the bathroom door.

"No more hidin' this shit, yeah?" he says. "No more puttin' on a mask for me, no more tryin' to compensate for somethin' that ain't even there."

He moves toward the bedroom door, rests a hand on the jamb.

"I'm in this, okay?" he confirms. "So let me be fuckin' in it."

Ian's back tenses, then relaxes again.

"Okay, Mick," he agrees. "Okay."

And it might not be okay right then, but it will be.