Chapter Text
Mickey wakes up to the telltale sound of his alarm letting him know it’s time to get up and get ready to go to the gym. He smacks the damn phone just like he always does, almost forgetting, in his sleep haze, that Ian had been there last night. He’d spent the night—or so Mickey thought.
Because right now, the only thing next to him—in that space that’s become Ian’s, even in such a short span of time—is emptiness.
He figures that maybe Ian just needed to leave early and didn’t want to wake him. Yeah, that must be it. Even though he knows Ian never wakes up before him. The time at which Mickey’s alarm goes off is ungodly, not even close to normal for most humans. So it really doesn’t make sense, but what other explanation could there be?
Dragging himself out of bed, the ache in his ass yet another reminder of last night, he thinks about Ian. Something had been different. He knows that the redhead was upset, concerned, clearly bothered by the hoards of basement-dwellers spewing their nonsense while safely hiding behind their keyboards and phone screens. It had gotten to him. Sure, it pissed Mickey off to no end, but he’s had to toughen up his skin to be able to take the nonsense. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t make him angry as fuck, though. And yeah, yesterday... well it had gotten to him, too.
But Ian… he seemed truly downtrodden. And when they fucked, well, it felt different. It was incredible—it always is. But there was something emotional about it. And he’s not sure he can pinpoint exactly what it was.
After splashing some water on his face in the bathroom and brushing his teeth, he picks up his phone to see if there’s a text from Ian, something to let him know why he left, even just a “talk to you later”—but there’s nothing. Just as he pulls up their text thread, intending to send a message to see if everything’s okay, a text from Sandy comes through.
Sandy [5:01 a.m.]: Hey, call me asap. Got some big news.
The fuck? Since when is Sandy even awake at this hour, much less wanting to discuss business? At least, he assumes it’s business based on the weird hints she’s been dropping over the last week or so.
He scrubs a hand over his face, and as he sits down on the edge of his bed, he hits the “call” button on Sandy’s contact and holds the phone to his ear as it rings.
After only a ring and a half, Sandy answers, breathless, sounding as if she’s just run a fucking marathon.
“Hey,” she says, breathing heavily.
“The fuck’s goin’ on with you? Why the hell do you sound like you just got done runnin’ from the cops or somethin’? Oh fuck, don’t tell me Gallagher’s sister is with you right now, cause I don’t need that mental picture—”
“Shut the fuck up, Mickey, and listen for a second.”
And if there’s anything that’ll shut him right the hell up, it’s when Sandy goes into boss bitch mode. So he silently waits.
“I sound like this because… shit. Because I’m excited. Holy shit, Mick. My plan, the one I was talking about? It worked.”
“Well what the fuck is it??” Mickey asks, growing more and more impatient by the second.
“It’s… holy shit. I got you a deal with PiranhaFit.”
“PiranhaFit? Wh-why? What is it?”
He knows the company. They’re Boss Armor’s biggest competitor, one that up until now, has been considered the enemy. But Mickey has zero loyalty to Boss Armor at this point, so he’s all ears.
“It’s big, Mick. They want you. I’ve always said Boss Armor needs you more than you need them, but this… it’s huge. They want to pay you double what you’re making with Boss Armor to rep them, to be part of their team.”
“Shit,” Mickey breathes. Because Boss Armor shells out the big bucks—a ridiculous amount, really, just to wear their brand and post workout videos. But in actuality, that’s not all it is, is it? He’s learned this the hard way. They’re paying him not only to rep their brand, but to portray some sort of bullshit image that Mickey wants nothing to do with. And that’s what he cares about at this point—way more than the money.
“And… the other stuff? The image shit?” he asks tentatively, knowing that Sandy understands exactly what he’s getting at.
“Don’t worry, I asked them about this. It’s all in the contract. They don’t care who you film with and who your other sponsors are unless it’s in direct contradiction to their brand, which is fitness. Not some antiquated version of masculinity. Those were actually their words, not mine. They wouldn’t even care if you came out publicly.”
Mickey doesn’t know what to say to that. Because sure, they can say that shit, but until one of their guys actually does come out, who knows how they’ll react? Maybe he’ll do it, do an IG live telling the world that he’s fuckin’ gay, really put that shit to the test. Now there’s a thought.
“Yeah? I’ll believe that shit when I see it,” Mickey says skeptically.
“It’s in the contract, Mick. Read it for yourself, it’s all there in writing. Do you trust me?”
“Guess so,” he replies with a sigh.
“Now we can do one of two things. I can take this to Boss Armor, really put the pressure on them, see what they come back with. Maybe they’ll beat the offer and come with something better. Though I highly doubt it. Or you can go with PiranhaFit. My gut tells me they’re legit, Mick.”
“Fuck Boss Armor. Ain’t got any loyalty to those assholes anymore. Send me the contract.”
“Okay. Gonna email it to you right now. Bye.”
“Bye.”
He ends the call and takes several deep breaths. Because… this is huge. Right? It feels like it’s fucking huge. Holy shit.
The weird thing is that there’s only one person he wants to tell. Sure, he’ll share the news with Mandy eventually, but the very first person who pops into his head is Ian.
Ian. He never did get around to texting him. He goes back to their conversation and reads the last message in the thread. It was from yesterday evening—“On my way 😉.” He’s not sure what happened, but he really hopes it’s nothing.
Mickey [5:36 a.m.]: Hey. You were gone when I woke up, so just makin sure everything’s okay
The morning passes, and then the afternoon. Mickey goes to the gym, films some content, takes a few mirror selfies to show off his gains, comes home and showers, makes some toast with the weird gluten free bread Ian had left at his place and tries to recreate the omelette Ian had made for him—apparently it only tastes like magic when the damn redhead makes it—has his morning cigarette, does some editing, looks over the contract from PiranhaFit, and watches Jeopardy reruns. And he doesn’t get a response from Ian. He doesn’t get a response when he texts him once—and then twice—more, either.
Well, fuck that. Mickey’s never been one to sit around and wait for shit to happen. He’s not sure what the hell Ian’s pulling, or what exactly is going on in his head, but he’s gonna find out. Even if he has to go to the asshole’s place and hunt him down himself.
Actually, that’s exactly what he’s gonna do.
Ian runs. He runs and runs and runs. He’s fine; he’s been taking his meds right on schedule, hasn’t deviated in the slightest. And he knows his body and his mind. He knows he’s not hypomanic. But he’s spiraling, and it all comes down to one thing, one person—Mickey.
What he did was fucked up. He knows it. And the guilt is clawing, digging, wrapping its tendrils around every single part of his being. Sure, he did it for Mickey. It was for the best. Being with him has only made everything more difficult for the other man, so he was being selfless. Why, then, does he feel so fucking horrible?
He’d gotten Mickey’s texts, and he’d wanted so, so badly to respond. But he stopped himself. Because it’s for the best. Right? He’s starting to believe that less and less.
Pound. Pound. Pound. He concentrates on the steady rhythm as his feet hit the ground with every stride, lets it fill his mind and drown out everything else. He can’t let himself think of anything else.
He stops at the coffee shop on the way home and gets his iced almond milk matcha latte, just like usual. And he remembers when he met Mandy at this very coffee shop, only a couple of weeks—but what feels like a lifetime—ago. Mandy. She’s also texted him, just to say hi. It’s become routine for them now, as they’ve settled into a sort of friendship he never knew he needed. Can he still be friends with Mandy now, though?
And then he thinks of Mickey again. The man who had flipped his whole world upside down in a matter of weeks—a whirlwind, really. That’s what it had been. A storm that blew right into his life bringing a beautifully chaotic energy, an electricity that lit him on fire, that woke him up from the inside out, gave him feelings that he didn’t even know he was missing. He’s pretty sure—no, he’s positive—that he was falling in love with Mickey. And he already misses him. How ridiculous is that?
Shit. He should text him back. He shouldn’t have left like that. Ian’s always hated people deciding that they know what’s best for him, even back when he was first diagnosed and his family wouldn’t leave him alone. He hated it. It wasn’t their diagnosis, so why did they think they had any right to say what he should and shouldn’t do? It was his life, not theirs.
And fuck, he’d done the exact same thing to Mickey.
He walks into his apartment building, sipping on his cold drink, and steps into the elevator. He’s gonna text Mickey as soon as he gets home. He needs to make this right.
But as soon as he exits the elevator and approaches his apartment door, he sees a sight that takes his breath away. It’s Mickey, wearing a black tank top and grey sweatpants, his hair unstyled and just a little bit unkempt, but still perfect, standing there knocking on his door. Actually, pounding on his door might be a more accurate way to describe it.
“Mickey?” Ian asks hesitantly as he stands frozen, feet away from Mickey, condensation from his drink dripping down his hand and threatening his tenuous grip on the cup.
Mickey whips his head around to face Ian, a scowl replacing the smile that usually appears as soon as their eyes meet.
“Yeah, obviously, the fuck’s it look like?” he scoffs, gesturing up and down his body as if to bring the idiocy of Ian’s question home.
They stand there in silence for several seconds before Mickey finally breaks it. “We gonna stand here in the hallway starin’ at each other with our dicks in our hands or you gonna let me inside?” His eyebrows are raised high on his forehead, speaking a language all their own.
“Oh. Uh. Yeah,” Ian stammers as he walks up to the door and unlocks it, opening it to let both himself and Mickey inside.
Mickey stands awkwardly and watches as Ian sets down his drink and unloads his pockets, taking out his phone, wallet, AirPods, and energy gels—he’s pretty sure they’re the same ones that Mickey reps—and removes his running belt, complete with a clip-on water bottle.
“You done with that shit?” Mickey huffs impatiently.
“Yeah. Sorry,” Ian responds, finally giving the other man his full attention. “Do you wanna sit?” he asks, gesturing towards the couch.
“No, I don’t wanna fuckin’ sit,” Mickey snaps, and Ian can feel his own eyes widen in shock. So he waits.
He can see Mickey breathing hard, nostrils flaring with each exhale. “What the fuck is goin’ on with you? Why’d you act all weird last night and then leave? And then not respond to my fuckin’ texts?”
“I’m sorry,” Ian says weakly.
“Wasn’t lookin’ for an apology. I asked you why,” Mickey responds, his breathing starting to even out.
Ian pauses. Because how can he possibly explain it?
“I thought… I just thought all the shit with Boss Armor, and the assholes in the comments… was ‘cause of me. So, I dunno. Thought you’d be better off without me.” His voice trails off to a whisper, and he knows how weak it sounds.
“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Mickey asks, voice raised to almost a shout, “You think this shit hasn’t been goin’ on already? I’ve been dealin’ with their shit way before you. Newsflash, Ian, I’m still a fuckin’ gay guy in the fitness industry, that fact stays the same whether you’re around or not. Just…” he takes a deep breath, “it wasn’t until now that I actually wanted to fight for shit, to stop hidin’.”
“I’m sorry. I thought it was best for you, I really did.” Ian can hear the shakiness in his barely audible voice.
“You don’t get to do that, Ian,” Mickey states firmly as he steps closer, “You don’t get to make me fall for you and then decide that cuttin’ and runnin’ is best for me. You don’t get to fuckin’ decide that. You hear me?”
He’s so close now that Ian can feel warm breath, coming out in quick, erratic puffs, against his face.
“I’m sorry, Mickey. I’m so fucking sorry,” he says hurriedly before crashing his lips against Mickey’s in a desperate kiss.
Their hands find each other immediately and clothes are gripped tightly, fingers clutching, tongues dancing. When their lips part, they gasp for air, foreheads touching, holding onto each other so tightly, as if an outside force might come at any moment and break them apart.
“I can’t believe you ghosted me, asshole,” Mickey finally says with a breathy laugh, his hands now wrapped firmly around Ian’s waist.
“I didn’t want to,” Ian replies as he buries his face in Mickey’s neck. “Was actually gonna text you as soon as I got back to the apartment. Came to my senses pretty quick. Then you were here.”
“You’re lucky you look hot in your running clothes. Was ready to chop off your balls, dickhead.”
“Mmm. You would never,” Ian teases.
“Yeah, guess not. Kinda like ‘em. Kinda like all of you.”
Ian pulls his face away from the comfort of that spot in between Mickey’s jaw and shoulder, the spot where he loves to just breathe Mickey in, so that he can look him in the eyes. So beautiful, so fucking blue.
“Hey. I’m kinda crazy about you. And I’m sorry for being a dumbass.”
“Yeah. Me too. And you better be.”
Their lips meet again in a tender kiss, one that Ian won’t ever take for granted.
Suddenly, Mickey pulls away, eyes wide. “Oh, shit. Got somethin’ to tell you. Almost forgot. We’d better sit down for this.” Mickey smirks, and Ian already knows that whatever this news is, he’s gonna like it. And everything’s gonna be okay.
The camera sits on the tripod, ready and waiting. No ring light, just the natural glow coming from the downtown Chicago sky beaming through the floor-to-ceiling window of Mickey’s apartment.
Mickey signed the contract with PiranhaFit last week, and he’s yet to make the announcement to his followers. During the time in between he’s been quiet on social media. His DM’s and mentions have been going crazy. Speculation is at an all time high. But Mickey knew that when it was time to make the announcement, he wanted to do it right. And he wanted to do it with Ian by his side. Because he’s not just announcing his split with Boss Armor and the fact that he’s joined the PiranhaFit team. It’s so much more than that.
When he’d told Mandy, she’d cried, ruining her layers of makeup. (He thought she did tutorials about how to keep your makeup smudge-proof and shit, but whatever.) It felt good to have her support and her blessing.
And of course the lesbian power couple, Sandy and Debbie, were 100% behind it, having apparently masterminded the entire thing between him and Ian from the get-go, as it turns out. Bitches.
So here they are, sitting side by side on Mickey’s couch. A half-empty smoothie glass sits on the table in front of each of them. Mickey’s wearing an oversized hoodie with the PiranhaFit logo front and center. Ian’s wearing a tank top that says, “Oh, Kale No.” Seriously, how many tank tops with kale puns does this guy own? God, he’s a dork. And Mickey’s pretty sure he’s in love with him.
The recording starts, and Ian gives the intro. Mickey lets him. He needs a few seconds to breathe anyway. “Hey guys. We, uh… we wanted to film something a little different today. Less blending, more honesty.”
“So if you’re only here for smoothies and those flaxseed muffins he made me try once that tasted like cardboard and sadness,” Mickey adds, pointing his thumb at Ian and not missing the redhead’s serious side eye, “you might wanna fuck off.”
“You liked that muffin,” Ian mumbles.
Mickey huffs a laugh and gently nudges the other man with his elbow. “Yeah, fine, I actually did. Don’t tell anyone though,” he says, looking at the camera with a smirk.
Then, something in the air shifts. A heavy pause settles in. Mickey steels himself.
Voice steady, he continues. “So first, I wanted to let you guys know why I’ve been MIA for the past few days. Been workin’ on somethin’ pretty big. The thing is, I appreciate all that Boss Armor’s done for my career, but to be honest, they can get fucked. I’m part of the PiranhaFit team now. And I’m gonna tell you one of the big reasons why.”
He takes a deep breath and feels Ian squeeze his hand reassuringly. It grounds him.
“Alright. Cards on the table. We’re together,” he says, gesturing between himself and Ian with his free hand. “And I know that’s not a surprise to a lot of you, since we were obvious as fuck, but since some people like hidin’ behind their keyboards and droppin’ homophobic bullshit in the comments, I wanted to spell it out, loud and fuckin’ clear.”
He sharpens his tone.
“In case there’s any confusion, I wanna make it real easy for those assholes to understand. Yeah, this gym bro is gay as fuck. Ian’s my boyfriend. And if that makes you uncomfortable—you know where the unfollow button is. Use it.”
Ian places a hand on his knee, calming him.
“I happen to like this guy right here a hell of a lot, and if you follow me, you’re gonna be seein’ him. That’s just the way it is, so get used to it.”
Ian then takes over, “Anyway, all this to say, we’re of course gonna keep posting workout and health food content, but—”
“But it’s about to get real fuckin’ gay up in here,” Mickey interrupts. “Gonna also be postin’ some lovey dovey shit, so you got a problem with it, you can bounce. I got no problem blockin’ assholes, either. Anyway, everyone who supports us, you guys are fuckin’ awesome, and if you don’t, you can fuck off right along with Boss Armor.”
They both pick up their smoothie glasses and clink them together.
“To gay gains,” Ian says.
“To gay…superfood bowls. As if they could get any gayer,” Mickey adds.
They turn off the recording, and Ian shifts to face him. “Goddamnit, I’m fuckin’ proud of you,” he says, leaning in for a kiss.
“Thanks. Kinda proud of myself, actually,” Mickey replies.
“You ready to post it?”
“Fuck it. Let’s do it.”
And the post is live.
********
180,678 likes
everydaymandy Proud sister moment! Love you guys both so much!
mickeymilkfitness @everydaymandy Thanks Mands. Love you too
burnwithbrit So excited to also be part of the PiranhaFit team with you!!
mickeymilkfitness @burnwithbrit Thanks, Brit. I’m excited too. I appreciate all your support
sandymilko Say it louder for the ones in the back. 🏳️🌈
mickeymilkfitness @sandymilko Fuck yeah
debs.gallagher ❤️❤️❤️❤️
ianscleaneats @debs.gallagher Thanks for the support Debs
lipgallagher0329 Good job guys 💪
ianscleaneats @lipgallagher0329 Thanks, brother.
carlgallagherpd Does this mean I get free PiranhaFit shit? Cool
ianscleaneats @carlgallagherpd We’ll see
spoonielifter79 OH MY GOD IT’S OFFICIAL I’M LITERALLY SCREAMING
kale.bitch.420 This is the most romantic protein-fueled relationship ever and I want them to adopt me.
deadliftdaisy96 Wait but I actually can’t breathe
teacherhoneyhive98 I knew it!!!! Omg I’m dying
bluedabadee5768 I feel like I manifested this. Can I get a workout plan and an invite to the wedding??
melliefarelly91 This is the best thing I’ve seen in my entire life. Crying into my protein shake rn
liftingheroes8976 As a fellow gay gym bro, this right here gives me hope.
oatmealnrage87 My parasocial ship just became canon. Bless you. #MianForever
mickeysfavorite What about @jasonbossfitness?
mickeymilkfitness @mickeysfavorite Sorry to break it to you, but I wouldn’t touch that d-bag with a 10 foot pole
coolgymbrodave9876 Still think it’s gross. Just sayin’.
mickeymilkfitness Cool. I’d still outlift you any day of the week. Just sayin. 🌈🖕🏻 And maybe you missed the memo about unfollowing if you got a problem. Peace out ✌🏻
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