Ian Gallagher Enthusiast

He’s not mad at Mickey, and Debbie for leaving him alone in front of this endless wall of chips and snacks and cookies, because although it feels too big and too small to be there, alone, it’s still just an aisle in a West Side supermarket.

Ed Sheeran is playing in the background from the speakers above his head, and Ian really wants to feel sad, or melancholic about it—it’s their song, their song—but he’s not mad at Mickey, and Debbie for the same reason why he can’t feel sad, or melancholic, or moved when the chorus fills the air, sneaks between the corridors—they were just kids when they fell in love too, in a supermarket at that—it’s because Ian can’t feel anything at all, really.

He promised he would get out of bed because his other option was being admitted into the hospital. Perhaps, there’s so many sheets Mickey can change before getting tired of him. Ian doesn’t blame him; how could he?

Eyes on the prize, he’d told him. Eyes on the prize, Gallagher. The prize being the chips he’s currently using as an emotional support, sightlessly reading their labels to will himself not to lay on the travertine and resume his sleeping, on, and on.

Mickey, and Debbie are gone for a minute, or two—or a year, he’s not sure. Everything feels too full, and too empty, and if he is to drift away in an empty supermarket while Ed Sheeran is singing about them, he’s glad the hoodie he’s shielding himself with smells like Mickey at least.

“Ian?”

The irony—the irony is oh so strong. Ian would laugh if he was still able to.

Hearing this voice reverberate through the shelves of a supermarket is so familiar he wants to throw up.

He doesn’t even turn around; just moves his eyes sideways until Kash’ figure comes into frame. Eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize—Mickey reminding him to breathe in, breathe out.

Kash looks good, as good as an unpleasant ghost from the past can look. He smells the same, but Mickey always smelled better. The man comes closer, he has this smile on, this smile, and Ian wants to cry.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

They really did fall in love in a supermarket, didn’t they? Two pieces of the same broken glass on aisle five, finding each other.

Ian sags against Mickey’s hand that’s so warm on his back, closing his eyes, and willing himself to just disappear. To be back home, I can’t do it. I can’t do it, just take me to the hospital. I give up. I can’t do it.

Franny clings to his jeans, Ian is seven with her; they should throw a tantrum together. Franny who can cry, and cry whenever she feels like it, for no reason, no reason at all, and nobody would ever dream of closing her in a room, and throwing away the key for three days because of it.

He realizes Franny is afraid; that, and Debbie’s arms taking her away from Ian’s legs snap him back to the present.

“There are no children for you to fucking diddle with in this supermarket, I know that’s your usual MO. Get out of here.”

“I was just shopping, I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t give a shit. Get the fuck out. Why are you back here anyway, huh?”

“You have no right to tell me what to do!”

“Fucking believe me, I’d have the right to break your neck right here, right now, you fucking piece of shit.”

“What happened to him? Why is he—”

They do this thing with crazy people, where they talk like they’re not there to listen. Fair point, though, because Ian does tune them out—willingly or not, he’s glad nonetheless. Debbie’s hand is the one on his back now, soothing. She’s talking too.

Kash says, “So you’re the well adjusted one of the two now?” and Ian laughs. Or maybe he’s crying? He’s been crying for a couple of minutes now; months, even.

The commotion in his brain translates to the brawl happening right in front of him, in front of Ian’s unseeing eyes. Things scattering on the floor, Franny’s voice, Mickey screaming. Leave him the fuck alone. You should’ve left him alone a long time ago. Should’ve fucking killed you when I had the chance.

Imagine! Imagine wanting to save Mickey Milkovich, beautiful Mickey Milkovich. Imagine wanting to show him a life of peace, filled with love; imagine tricking him with the promise of normalcy, only for him to end up licking your wounds instead of his own.

“He’s always wanted to do that, huh?”

The chilly January air hits his damp cheeks. They’re outside, Franny is standing between his crouched legs. He doesn’t remember sitting down on the sidewalk.

He looks up at Debbie, and she’s smiling down at him. She looks concerned.

Ian nods. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing with.

Bipolar is this thing, this sempiternal diagnosis; comes with sides like a plentiful dinner that never satiates. Panic, anxiety, dissociation. This time, it’s crying. Ian’s never been a crier, Ian before and Ian after, but now he’s always fucking crying.

Franny goes away. Why is uncle Ian sad? Why is uncle Ian crying?

“I got him, don’t worry. Piece of shit ran away.”

“Fuck. You think he’s gonna call the police?”

“Fucking let him. He’s the one that should be running from them.” Mickey’s here now. Caressing his cheek. “Hey. You okay?”

Debbie and Franny go back into the supermarket. The sound of their footsteps match on the concrete.

“Hey, hey.” Ian clings, claws at Mickey’s clothed arms. The sobs are his, unrecognizable. “Hey. It’s okay, I got you. It’s okay.”

That’s another thing they do so much of these days: hug. Mickey holding him, to be precise. And Ian stays there, always stays there. Clawing at the back of his sweater now, burying his face into his husband’s neck. Crying his eyes out like he’s the kid with the green apron again.

“I’m sorry.” It’s a litany, a prayer; that’s what you do in the presence of a higher power, right? You ask for forgiveness. “I’m sorry.”

“Ian.” Mickey’s voice is closer, he can now see his beautiful blue eyes through the fog. And to think it’s such a clear day today. “Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

He sniffles once, twice. Mickey uses the sleeve of his own sweater to wipe Ian’s tears off.

“He’s right, Mick. You’re wasting away.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“With me.” Can one cry too much? Can one cry oneself to evaporation? “Why would you—why?”

“I should’ve fucking strangled that piece of fucking—,” Mickey cups his face, and he’s kneeling in front of him like he’s the one praying. “Because I love you, dumbass. I love you so fucking much, okay?”

Ian nods.

“Okay? Stop with the stupid fucking questions, Gallagher. I love you. ‘M not fucking going anywhere, yeah?”

Ian nods again. Mickey kisses him, a small peck; gives him a beautiful, beautiful smile. Beautiful Mickey Milkovich.

“I’m proud of you, Ee. So fucking proud of you.”

That’s his power. Gets him out of bed, punches the demons, and unwanted ghosts away like it’s nothing, like it’s no big deal.

One time Ian told him he was born for better things other than bathing his husband’s depression away, waiting for it to get better; Mickey retorted that, actually, he was pretty sure he was born to love him, and nothing else.

“You wanna go back in? Franny’s gonna buy that shitty unicorn ice cream if we just stay here.”

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.

He’s not mad at Mickey, and Debbie for leaving him alone in front of this endless wall of chips and snacks and cookies, because although it feels too big and too small to be there, alone, it’s still just an aisle in a West Side supermarket.

Ed Sheeran is playing in the background from the speakers above his head, and Ian really wants to feel sad, or melancholic about it—it’s their song, their song—but he’s not mad at Mickey, and Debbie for the same reason why he can’t feel sad, or melancholic, or moved when the chorus fills the air, sneaks between the corridors—they were just kids when they fell in love too, in a supermarket at that—it’s because Ian can’t feel anything at all, really.

He promised he would get out of bed because his other option was being admitted into the hospital. Perhaps, there’s so many sheets Mickey can change before getting tired of him. Ian doesn’t blame him; how could he?

Eyes on the prize, he’d told him. Eyes on the prize, Gallagher. The prize being the chips he’s currently using as an emotional support, sightlessly reading their labels to will himself not to lay on the travertine and resume his sleeping, on, and on.

Mickey, and Debbie are gone for a minute, or two—or a year, he’s not sure. Everything feels too full, and too empty, and if he is to drift away in an empty supermarket while Ed Sheeran is singing about them, he’s glad the hoodie he’s shielding himself with smells like Mickey at least.

“Ian?”

The irony—the irony is oh so strong. Ian would laugh if he was still able to.

Hearing this voice reverberate through the shelves of a supermarket is so familiar he wants to throw up.

He doesn’t even turn around; just moves his eyes sideways until Kash’ figure comes into frame. Eyes on the prize, eyes on the prize—Mickey reminding him to breathe in, breathe out.

Kash looks good, as good as an unpleasant ghost from the past can look. He smells the same, but Mickey always smelled better. The man comes closer, he has this smile on, this smile, and Ian wants to cry.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

They really did fall in love in a supermarket, didn’t they? Two pieces of the same broken glass on aisle five, finding each other.

Ian sags against Mickey’s hand that’s so warm on his back, closing his eyes, and willing himself to just disappear. To be back home, I can’t do it. I can’t do it, just take me to the hospital. I give up. I can’t do it.

Franny clings to his jeans, Ian is seven with her; they should throw a tantrum together. Franny who can cry, and cry whenever she feels like it, for no reason, no reason at all, and nobody would ever dream of closing her in a room, and throwing away the key for three days because of it.

He realizes Franny is afraid; that, and Debbie’s arms taking her away from Ian’s legs snap him back to the present.

“There are no children for you to fucking diddle with in this supermarket, I know that’s your usual MO. Get out of here.”

“I was just shopping, I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t give a shit. Get the fuck out. Why are you back here anyway, huh?”

“You have no right to tell me what to do!”

“Fucking believe me, I’d have the right to break your neck right here, right now, you fucking piece of shit.”

“What happened to him? Why is he—”

They do this thing with crazy people, where they talk like they’re not there to listen. Fair point, though, because Ian does tune them out—willingly or not, he’s glad nonetheless. Debbie’s hand is the one on his back now, soothing. She’s talking too.

Kash says, “So you’re the well adjusted one of the two now?” and Ian laughs. Or maybe he’s crying? He’s been crying for a couple of minutes now; months, even.

The commotion in his brain translates to the brawl happening right in front of him, in front of Ian’s unseeing eyes. Things scattering on the floor, Franny’s voice, Mickey screaming. Leave him the fuck alone. You should’ve left him alone a long time ago. Should’ve fucking killed you when I had the chance.

Imagine! Imagine wanting to save Mickey Milkovich, beautiful Mickey Milkovich. Imagine wanting to show him a life of peace, filled with love; imagine tricking him with the promise of normalcy, only for him to end up licking your wounds instead of his own.

“He’s always wanted to do that, huh?”

The chilly January air hits his damp cheeks. They’re outside, Franny is standing between his crouched legs. He doesn’t remember sitting down on the sidewalk.

He looks up at Debbie, and she’s smiling down at him. She looks concerned.

Ian nods. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing with.

Bipolar is this thing, this sempiternal diagnosis; comes with sides like a plentiful dinner that never satiates. Panic, anxiety, dissociation. This time, it’s crying. Ian’s never been a crier, Ian before and Ian after, but now he’s always fucking crying.

Franny goes away. Why is uncle Ian sad? Why is uncle Ian crying?

“I got him, don’t worry. Piece of shit ran away.”

“Fuck. You think he’s gonna call the police?”

“Fucking let him. He’s the one that should be running from them.” Mickey’s here now. Caressing his cheek. “Hey. You okay?”

Debbie and Franny go back into the supermarket. The sound of their footsteps match on the concrete.

“Hey, hey.” Ian clings, claws at Mickey’s clothed arms. The sobs are his, unrecognizable. “Hey. It’s okay, I got you. It’s okay.”

That’s another thing they do so much of these days: hug. Mickey holding him, to be precise. And Ian stays there, always stays there. Clawing at the back of his sweater now, burying his face into his husband’s neck. Crying his eyes out like he’s the kid with the green apron again.

“I’m sorry.” It’s a litany, a prayer; that’s what you do in the presence of a higher power, right? You ask for forgiveness. “I’m sorry.”

“Ian.” Mickey’s voice is closer, he can now see his beautiful blue eyes through the fog. And to think it’s such a clear day today. “Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

He sniffles once, twice. Mickey uses the sleeve of his own sweater to wipe Ian’s tears off.

“He’s right, Mick. You’re wasting away.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“With me.” Can one cry too much? Can one cry oneself to evaporation? “Why would you—why?”

“I should’ve fucking strangled that piece of fucking—,” Mickey cups his face, and he’s kneeling in front of him like he’s the one praying. “Because I love you, dumbass. I love you so fucking much, okay?”

Ian nods.

“Okay? Stop with the stupid fucking questions, Gallagher. I love you. ‘M not fucking going anywhere, yeah?”

Ian nods again. Mickey kisses him, a small peck; gives him a beautiful, beautiful smile. Beautiful Mickey Milkovich.

“I’m proud of you, Ee. So fucking proud of you.”

That’s his power. Gets him out of bed, punches the demons, and unwanted ghosts away like it’s nothing, like it’s no big deal.

One time Ian told him he was born for better things other than bathing his husband’s depression away, waiting for it to get better; Mickey retorted that, actually, he was pretty sure he was born to love him, and nothing else.

“You wanna go back in? Franny’s gonna buy that shitty unicorn ice cream if we just stay here.”

Logically he knew Terry dying was best for everyone. He was a menace. He was an evil bastard with no soul and he didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. He abused his wife, his kids and everyone around him.

He didn’t deserve to be mourned and yet Mickey struggled for months over his death.

Ian was there, his ever present rock, his shoulder to cry on—even if his husband didn’t understand why Mickey was upset he was still there.

He was there for everything. Holding him when he cried, telling him it would be okay, even when the anxiety attacks started he was there to calm him.

Ian convince him to see someone, a therapist from the same office Ian visited and eventually it started helping when he learned to recognize and work through his feelings.

It was no secret that Mickey hated asking for help but he let Ian help him any way. Let him take care of him, taking their meds together and perfecting their daily routine together and it helped.

But then it happend.

Ian slipped into a low out of nowhere.

Mickey naturally blamed himself, swore to himself the stress of having to care for Mickey so heavily through the last couple of months finally took a toll on him. Dr. Jakobs tells him not to place blame because it doesn’t help anyone, that he needs to focus on positive things.

So that’s what he does. He focuses on the positives and takes care of Ian the way Ian took care of him.

It’s not the worst low he’s ever had but it does take him a long time to recover from it. They’re going into week three of this low and he’s finally up and about in the apartment, eating little meals through the day but he still doesn’t have much energy and he hasn’t been very smiley.

So when he comes in the living room, curls up in Mickey’s lap, asks to watch their favorite show and laughs for the first time in weeks Mickey feels lighter. He doesn’t make it a big deal though, just smiles as he presses a kiss to curly red hair before carding his fingers through those same locks.

Eventually Ian turns his head towards Mickey, chin resting on the back of his hand on Mickey’s sternum, finger tracing the bumpy scar of the ‘Ian Galager’ tattoo on Mickey’s chest.

“Love you,” He mumbles, green eyes soft, sparkling with a liveliness that hadn’t been there in weeks. It makes Mickey lean in and press several soft kisses to his lips.

“Love you, too,” Mickey breathes against his lips, pulling away to smooth back his hair, thumb stopping to caress his temple.

A look passes over Ian’s face before he’s scooting up Mickey’s body and kissing him harder, heated and passionate and desperate and it’s takes Mickey’s breath away. His hands are on Ian’s face tugging him, pulling him closer kissing him like he needs it to live—in a way he does.

“I want you,” Mickey breathes against Ian’s lips, kissing him softly over and over because really he can never get enough of kissing his husband.

He pulls away, looks hesitant, then sheepish then embarrassed. “Want you too, but uh, don’t think I’m gonna be able to get it up.”

And them Mickey’s pulling him in again kissing him, taking over his mouth with his tongue, claiming whats always been his before pulling away.

“That’s okay. Let me take care of you. Okay?” Mickey asked, letting Ian have the option to say no, but he doesn’t.

His face softens and he nods, the two moving together off the couch and then they’re stumbling to the bedroom together. Mickey slows them down. There’s no reason to rush. They strip each other slow, between kisses, touching with gentle fingers, caressing, close enough to breath the same air, close enough for their heated skin to touch.

The AC kicks on and Ian shivers, goosebumps dancing across his skin and Mickey grins, grabbing him around the waist, backing him towards the bed and wrapping them up in their big fluffy duvet, a giggling mess of tangled limbs as they try to get situated.

Once Mickey is settled where he needs to be he takes a quick detour to grab lube before snuggling back into the covers with his husband. Then fingers are touching, caressing, blue and green gazing lovingly at one another. It’s soft. It’s so fucking soft. But so are they. So Mickey kisses him slow to make the moment just a little sweeter and Ian hums contently.

“You still okay?” Mickey asks, positioned between Ian’s legs.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Ian nods, hands roaming Mickey’s chest, sighing when slick fingers slipped between his cheeks.

They don’t switch roles often. More these days than ever before but Mickey still likes having a dick up his ass and Ian loves to top but once in a while they like to switch it up. Now though, this was something more, it meant more than just switching things up. He’s was taking care of Ian in all of the ways Ian always took care of him.

Mickey took his time prepping Ian, soft touches, gentle caresses of thighs and knees, fingers moving on the inside and outside of his lovers body. And Ian, the beautiful man that he is, laid there letting Mickey take over, letting him take care of him. He was letting out the sweetest moans and little breathy sighs that had Mickey’s heart speeding in his chest, cock rock hard and ready.

Ian was indeed not hard but the tip of his cock was dribbling precome onto the thick happy trail of red hair. Mickey couldn’t help himself, leaning forward to lick up the tiny droplets—taking the pink tip into his mouth and suckling on it.

“Shit, Mick,” Ian hissed, fingers of one hand tangling in black locks.

Mickey continued sucking his cocking, taking it in his mouth and down his throat—fingers still working him open. He didn’t care care it was flaccid. All he cared about were the whiny breathy moans that his husband was trying and failing to control. And he honestly just loves having Ian’s dick in his mouth.

“God, Mickey, baby, please fuck me. I need it,” Ian whined, hands pawing at Mickey. His husband pulled off of his cock with a wet pop, letting his dick plop wetly against his belly.

“You sure? I can do another real quick,” Mickey offered, twisting his fingers and curling them, groaning when Ian moaned and tightened around him.

“I’m sure. I’m so sure,” Ian moaned. “I wanna feel it, want you so bad. Please,” Ian begged only to have Mickey shush him.

“It’s okay. Told ya ’m gonna take care of you,” Mickey promised, leaning in to kiss Ian, slicking himself up and wrapping long legs around his waist.

Mickey lined himself up with Ian’s entrance pushing in slow and watching Ian’s face for any signs of discomfort. Dropping down over his husband with a hand beside his head and catching his eyes.

“Relax baby,” Mickey whispered comfortingly, when he was met with resistance, smiling softly when Ian’s hold body relaxed at once. “That’s it, let me in, Ian.”

“Mick,” Ian gasped hotly, fingers digging into Mickey’s ribs when he finally pushed in.

“That’s it, baby, just like that,” Mickey moaned bringing his now free hand up to caress Ian’s face, kissing him as he thrusted into his husband. “Just like that, baby, taking me so fucking good,” He praised against Ian’s lips.

Ian couldn’t hold back his own moans, whimpering little sounds falling from his open lips. He brought a hand up to land on the one caressing his face, thumb finding the metal band on his finger and keeping it there.

“So fucking beautiful like this,” Mickey breathed, moaning when Ian’s eyes fluttered open.

“Feels, so good, baby,” Ian sighed, turning his head to kiss the palm of Mickey’s hand before lifting his head to kiss Mickey.

A deep heated kiss that was all tongue and saliva, Mickey knew that was his cue to pump his hips harder, faster, grasping the back of his head still kissing him as they moaned into each other mouths.

“Fuck,” Mickey moaned, laying Ian’s head back against the pillow.

“Mick—holy fuck,” Ian cried out when the tip of Mickey’s cock pressed against his prostate over and over.

“That is, baby. Lay there and take it. Always take it so good for me,” Mickey spoke, thrusting against that same spot, watching the beautiful pleasure filled faces Ian was making.

Ian’s hand snaked between their bodies, grabbing hold of his cock and stroking himself, letting out a distressed sound when he realized he still wasn’t hard but then Mickey’s hand was covering his, stopping the stroking and pulling his hand away.

“It’s okay baby, don’t force it. It doesn’t need to happen right now. I’m taking care of you, I’ll get you exactly where you need to be,” Mickey promised, watched Ian’s eyes fill with so much love, shining with tears bringing his hands up to grasp at the pillow behind his head.

Mickey knew what he wanted, smiling to himself he reached up grabbing both of Ian’s wrists and holding them above his head with one hand. It didn’t do much in the way of restraining him but that’s not what Ian needed, he just needed the feeling and judging by the whimper he let out it was exactly what he wanted.

Mickey continued holding him like that, fucking into him over and over, watching green eyes roll shut and that perfect cock dribbling out more precome.

“Gonna come, Mick,” Ian slurred, voice absolutely wrecked with pleasure.

“Yeah? You like that?” Mickey asked and Ian nodded. Mickey purposely pulled back, angling away from Ian prostate not ready for him to cum yet.

“Ian,” Mickey moaned, leaning in close to Ian’s ear, kissing the lobe before continuing. “Fuck, you make me feel so good. So tight and warm. You always feel so good when you take my dick. Take it so good.” Ian moaned, he’d always loved praise but fuck when it came from Mickey’s mouth it was even better.

“Please, please. Mick, I want it. Been so good. Give it to me. Make me cum, please,” Ian begged, using his legs to pull Mickey in deeper, making them both moan.

“Shit,” Mickey groaned, shifting his hips and starting up a quick rhythm.

“Mick!” Ian cried out when Mickey hit his prostate.

“There?” Mickey asked and Ian nodded fast, “Right fucking there?” Mickey asked again pounding into him so hard Ian couldn’t answer. He was completely done for just seconds away from cumming and Mickey knew it.

His free hand traveled down, thumb pressing firmly against the pretty pink skin that was stretched tight around his cock. Ian moaned with Mickey spit down feeling it on his heated skin and then he was crying out when Mickey pressed his thumb in.

“Oh, god, Mickey, yes!”

“You wanna cum?” Mickey asked, and Ian whimpered nodding. “Good, fucking come on, baby, cum for me,” Mickey growled, leaning in to pressed his mouth to Ian’s. Stroking his prostate three—four more times before he was coming, crying out his release into Mickey mouth while his soft cock pulsed spurts of cum onto his stomach.

“Oh, yeah, baby. Look at that. So fucking pretty,” Mickey praised, slowing his strokes to work Ian down from his high. Leaning down to whisper in his ear. “Where do you want it, huh? Where do you want my cum?” Mickey asked, sucking on his ear love.

“In me, w-want it in me,” Ian answered, encouraging Mickey to thrust harder by pressing his heels into Mickey’s lower back.

Mickey let go of Ian’s hand, thrusting into him faster, careful to avoid his husbands sensitive prostate. He moaned when a hand snuck around his hip, ghosting over his ass cheeks and slipped between his crack.

“I want it, Mick,” Ian kissed his chest, rubbing a dry finger over his hole. Mickey cursed under his breath feeling his body start to shake. The tip of that finger pressing into him and Ian’s voice was a enough to send him over the edge four-five more thrust and he was cumming, filling his husband with his cum.

Mickey collapsed over Ian, supporting most of his weight but keeping their bodies close, lazily pressing kisses to each other skin. Eventually Mickey did roll off of Ian, pressing a kiss to his sweaty chest and pushing himself out of bed.

He could see how exhausted Ian was now, the energy he had before was slowly draining and he would probably be asleep soon. Mickey grabbed a pair of boxers of the floor, not checking if they were his or Ian’s, it didn’t really matter.

He headed to the kitchen first grabbing a banana and eating it while he grabbed a yellow Gatorade from the fridge and one of those disgusting nature bars Ian loved so much before heading to the bathroom to get their meds and a warm wet rag. He sat all of the stuff on the night stand, sitting next to Ian and smoothing his hair back.

Ian stirred, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when sleepy green eyes opened to look at him.

“Got your meds,” Mickey spoke softly, thumb stroking over a flushed freckled cheek bone.

“Mm,” Ian hummed sitting up just enough to be able to comfortably take the pills that Mickey had ready in hand, popping his own pills into his mouth after Ian washed his down with the water. Ian took the offered nature bar, eating it slowly.

“You eat?” He asked as Mickey cleaned off his belly.

Mickey smiled to himself, of course Ian’s worried about if he ate even when he’s supposed to be letting Mickey care for him. “Yeah, I ate,” He nodded, tossing the rag in the dirty cloths bin across the room.

“Ready for bed?” Ian asked, already pulling Mickey towards him.

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded, reaching around to flip their table lamp off, turning Ian in his arms and letting him snuggle against his chest.

“Thanks Mick,” Ian whispered after a few minutes, his voice tired and sleep heavy.

“Mm. For what?” Mickey asked, hand carding through Ian’s hair.

“For taking care of me,” Ian shrugged, lips ghosting over Mickey chest.