Chapter Text
It’s not the reunion Mickey imagined. It’s not smiles and tears and questions of forever.
It’s better. It’s searing and angry and different. Like they’ve both grown up, a little bit, in the past few months. Become their own people. Become real.
There’s nowhere to hide, here, in this city. There’s no horizon. No end to the tunnel. No shore in the distance. They’re swimming in something endless, now.
And back, before, Mickey was too deeply afraid of tomorrow to leave a bruise on today. But he’s suffered through tomorrow, already, and here he is, at the dawn of the next day, in the middle of the resurrection, gasping for air he hasn’t tasted since August, and fuck if he’s not going to make this moment fully his.
They don’t take their time, don’t break apart except to discard clothes, stumbling back through Mickey’s apartment blindly. He thinks he hears something knock over, but he can’t find it in himself to find out what it is when he’s got Ian’s hand running through his hair and frantically pulling at his belt and shoving him onto his bed.
There’s no words between them, as Ian pins Mickey’s wrists to the mattress, only teeth and heat and thick disbelief.
Mickey’s in love with him.
It’s the only thing on his mind when Ian finally pushes inside him, and Mickey gasps against the stretch, suddenly remembering how fucking much he’s missed this, God he’s missed this, how the fuck did he live without this?
Ian grips his hips, hard enough that Mickey can already picture the red marks it will leave, and he doesn’t go gently, doesn’t give much time to breath, doesn’t take much time to breathe, and Mickey pushes back against him desperately, any moans lost to each other’s lips.
And it’s more than a relapse. More than a fix. More than a bender. It’s a death wish. An overdose. A fatality. No one’s supposed to feel this good, this ethereal and relieved and blatantly alive, Mickey thinks, and live to tell about it.
Ian bites down on Mickey’s lip, a reminder that this isn’t a dream, because dreams don’t ache, dreams aren’t so crudely bittersweet, so hyperfocused.
And Mickey has no idea what this all means to Ian, but to Mickey, it’s the declaration that he’ll chase this high until it kills him.
“ Fuck, ” he gasps into Ian’s mouth when Ian slams against his prostate.
It’s unrelenting, then, burst after burst of intensity and Mickey reaches up to card his fingers through Ian’s hair when the other pulls back slightly, too lost in the moment to keep up the rhythm of their lips.
And Ian’s gorgeous. Even approaching the edge, even through the fog of sex, he’s gorgeous.
Ian’s his, he thinks. From here on out, Ian’s his.
That possessive thought, the bliss of erased trepidation, sends him tumbling into orgasm, and he tosses his head back, grinding back against Ian’s thrusts shamelessly, to try to keep this feeling in place for as long as he can before it’s slipping through his fingertips again. And then Ian’s kissing him again, bruisingly but reverently, a sign that he’s fallen off the edge, too.
They fall away from each other, just slightly, still silent, and Mickey lies on his back, staring at the faded ceiling, trying to find some solid ground.
“I’m still mad at you,” Ian mumbles into the quiet, after a minute, and Mickey laughs, almost giddy.
He turns onto his side and hooks his thumb under Ian’s chin, turning his head to kiss him softly, sweetly, in an apology. “Missed you,” he breathes, when he pulls back a hair, foreheads still resting together. “So fuckin’ much.”
The ghost of a smile on Ian’s lips makes Mickey’s heart skip a beat. He rests his hand on Ian’s cheek, stroking it lightly with his thumb, in slight wonder.
Ian kisses him again, shortly, turning on his side to wrap one arm around Mickey’s waist, pulling him closer. Ian seems to have something to say, on their next breath, his mouth remaining obstinately shut while his eyes simmer with thought.
“What?” Mickey prompts softly. He thinks of Ian’s journal, his frustration with his own inability to speak, and he thinks maybe it’s not that Ian can’t speak, but that nobody’s ever cared enough to listen.
His theory is supported when Ian inhales sharply, eyebrows pulling together in caution. “You made me feel somethin’ again,” Ian whispers.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t quite know what it means, for Ian, but he knows he shares the sentiment.
“I went on meds,” Ian continues, just as quietly, so quietly, almost silent. Mickey keeps his mouth shut, for a second. “For the bipolar. They make me feel, like...dead, inside.”
Mickey nods, hand ghosting to rest in Ian’s hair. It’s a bit longer now, Mickey notices, on the sides, on the top.
“I crashed real bad when I got back, Mick,” Ian confesses shakily. “It was...it was fuckin’ terrifying. I thought I was gonna--” Ian’s breath hitches, eyes shining, and Mickey kisses him again, once he knows Ian’s given up on the sentence. A reassurance.
“You’re tough as hell, though,” Mickey says, bumping his nose against Ian’s.
Ian smiles at that. Really smiles. “You think?”
“Like fuckin’...superman.”
Ian’s smile shrinks a bit, but remains. He rolls back onto his back, and stares up at the ceiling. “‘Cept my kryptonite’s my own fuckin’ brain.”
Mickey places an absent kiss to the side of his head. “Tough as hell,” he repeats in a mumble against Ian’s hair.
It must be late, now, judging by the hush outside his window. His eyes flutter shut in his glowing contentment.
“I’m sorry,” Ian expires out, shifting his hand to rest on Mickey’s forearm, slung across Ian’s chest, hand still tangled in Ian’s hair.
“Hm?”
“For lyin’, I guess. All the time.”
Mickey presses a kiss to his ear. “Past’s the past.”
The corner of Ian’s mouth twitches into a tiny smile, and he sighs. “Shit. It’s still Christmas Eve.”
Mickey breathes out a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”
Ian sits up, ignoring Mickey’s wordless noise of protest. “‘M supposed to be the elf to Fiona’s Santa tonight.”
Mickey watches, truly appreciating the definition of the word smitten , as Ian stands and collects his clothes, pulling on his jeans first and tugging his shirt over his head.
“That reminds me,” Ian says, turning back to look at Mickey. “Not even a fuckin’ wreath on your door? I expected better.”
Mickey can’t help but grin. “It was the bed or a tree, man. The hell would you have picked?”
“The tree,” Ian says, like it’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard.
Mickey chuckles, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “Not all of us have the dedication that you have.”
Ian hesitates, looking down at the floor and swallowing. “So, uh, no plans tomorrow?”
Mickey shrugs, running a hand through his hair, which he’s certain is a fucking mess. “Nah. Figured I’d just...do whatever.”
“Well, we’re havin’ a big dinner tomorrow,” Ian says, retrieving his coat from where he discarded it on the couch. “My family, and our neighbors. I’d, uh…” he clears his throat. “You can come, if you want.”
“I don’t know, man,” Mickey says, after a suspended moment of thought, pushing up out of the bed to pull on his boxers. “I don’t wanna fuckin’ impose.”
Ian smiles, and steps closer to Mickey, grabbing his waist and leaning down to press a light kiss to his lips. “It’s for family,” Ian counters softly. “You’re family.”
Mickey leans up to meet Ian in a responding kiss. Their eyes linger, and Mickey can feel himself caving before he’s even really argued. “Alright, man, what time should I be there?” he sighs, and Ian grins, kissing him again.
Mickey has to stop himself from pulling Ian back into bed and detaining him until he agrees to stay through the night.
“Any time after two,” Ian replies, accompanied with another, smiling kiss. “Bring food. I know you can cook.”
Mickey can’t help but laugh into it when Ian kisses him one more time, pure happiness bubbling in his chest. “Alright, alright , Red, go, before your sister has a fuckin’ heart attack.”
“Alright,” Ian says, stepping away and zipping up his coat. They walk to his door, Mickey trailing behind, already missing him. Ian opens the door, turning in the doorway to smile at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Mickey assures him, probably mirroring his self-satisfied grin.
“Night.” Ian lifts a hand in a half-wave, and Mickey nods.
“Night.”
Ian spares him one last glance over his shoulder before he’s heading back down the hall, towards the stairs. Mickey watches, entranced with partial disbelief, until Ian disappears down the stairwell.
“You seem weirdly happy, Mick,” Mandy observes, at exactly nine o’clock in the morning, on Christmas day.
They’re in a Christmas group call, his siblings and him and Chris (because, as far as Mickey can tell, every fucking phone call Iggy has also involves Chris), and Mickey has them on speaker phone as he tries to remember the ingredients to his mother’s pampushky.
“It sounds like he finally got laid again,” Iggy’s voice crackles through.
“Are you humming White Christmas? ” Colin asks.
Mickey tries his absolute hardest to ignore his siblings and hold on to the first good mood he’s been in for four months.
A monstrous noise startles him, and it takes him a fair moment to figure out that it was, in fact, the sound of Mandy gasping obnoxiously.
“ You got back together with Ian!” she practically yells into the phone.
He pauses his scribbling, halfway through writing ‘honey’ and braces himself for the coming onslaught.
“So you did get laid again,” Iggy repeats.
“Is she right?” Chris asks. “Did you finally tell him you love him?”
“He really forgave you that fast for being a pussy and not talking to him?” Colin wonders.
“Of course he did, they’re in love,” Chris says.
“We’re not back together,” Mickey cuts in firmly, after they’ve each said their own intrusive piece.
“Bullshit,” Mandy says.
Mickey hesitates, reluctant to humor his siblings in any way. His cautiously excited side, however, quickly wins out.
“We mighta...talked again,” he says, internally reasoning that it isn’t really a lie, and resuming his attempts to construct a grocery list. “Last night.”
“Are you going to see him again?” Chris asks over the cacophony of whistles and mocking swoons his siblings erupt into.
“I don’t fuckin’ know…” He glances down at his cluttered recipe. “His family’s havin’ this dinner today, and I said I’d come.”
“So you’re meeting his family,” Colin proclaims.
“If I go.”
If I go.
He’s going. He knows he’s going. However, he is, unmistakably, the king of utter bullshit, and must fulfill his title.
“Why the hell wouldn’t you go?” Iggy asks.
Colin jumps on it. “Because--”
“Because I’m a pussy, I know, Colin, fuckin’ thank you,” Mickey interrupts.
“He’s become self-aware,” Mandy stage whispers.
“Shut the fuck up.”
There’s some sort of shuffling on Iggy’s line. “So how sore is your ass--”
“Can we please talk about somethin’ else?” Mickey interrupts Iggy.
“Yeah. How sore is Chris’s ass, Ig?” Colin chides.
“Why do you assume I’m the bottom?” Chris protests. The question is greeted by a moment of silence, before the siblings erupt into laughter.
“If you’re a top,” Mandy says through her chuckling, “I’m the Queen of fuckin’ England.”
“That is a harmful perpetuation of stereotypes and I’m surprised that you find it funny, Mickey, as a fellow gay man,” Chris says.
“As a fellow gay man, I’m the one person here allowed to find it funny,” Mickey argues, setting down his pencil. “Hey, Mandy, d’ya remember what all went into Ma’s pampushky?”
“I have the recipe,” Colin answers, before Mandy can say anything. “The hell are you makin’ pampushky for?”
“Christmas,” Mickey answers simply.
“You don’t have a festive fuckin’ bone in your body,” Iggy says. “Last year I tried to get you to bake cookies with me and you broke our wooden spoon over my head.”
“Hey, I was very drunk,” Mickey reasons. "That's my idea of festive."
“He’s going to that dinner,” Mandy explains. “He just doesn’t want to admit it to us.”
He rolls his eyes at his family’s resulting, collective ‘ah’ of comprehension, but says nothing.
“And you’re making your mother’s recipe for Ian, because he’s your family,” Chris deduces with a sigh. “Why can’t I find someone that romantic?”
“Wrong, Juliet,” Mickey answers. “He told me to bring food. Pampushky’s the only shit I know how to make.”
“So are you gonna have the wedding in Chicago or are you gonna come back to Jersey?” Mandy asks suddenly. He can almost hear her shit eating grin. He wonders if she can hear his responding glare of death.
“You could get married on the beach, in the town you met!” Chris exclaims.
“Jesus fuck, we’re not getting married. Can you all get off it?” Mickey snaps.
“Testy,” Colin mutters.
“Did you hear Gabe was suspended?” Mandy asks, only slightly changing the subject.
“Yeah?” Mickey picks the pencil back up, completes the word ‘honey’, and starts on the word ‘lemons’.
“Yeah. Not totally fired, yet, but shit’s gonna follow him.”
“How’s your boyfriend feelin’ about it?” Mickey asks.
Mandy’s quiet for a second, a stretch in which she might have shrugged. “He thinks it’s shitty, but he’s not really that involved with his family. He says he only spends time with them over the summer, in Azurra. No one knows it was you he beat the shit out of, though.”
“How is your boyfriend, Mands?” Colin interjects.
“He’s fine. We’re not really together, right now, though.”
“You broke up?” Chris inquires.
“Not really. I don’t know, it’s just not serious. I’m still open to dating other guys, y’know?”
Mickey doesn’t know. In fact, he has experienced distinctly the opposite perspective in exactly the same situation.
He glances at the time. 9:20. He figures, if he wants to get there at a decent time, he should leave for the grocery store soon.
“Hey, guys, I gotta go,” he announces. “Send me that recipe, Colin.”
“Will do, kid.”
“Make us proud tonight, Mick,” Iggy requests.
“Merry Christmas, asshole,” Mandy says in farewell.
“Yeah, alright. Merry Christmas, bitch.”
He realizes he doesn’t have any sort of present for Ian during his walk to the grocery store, which throws him into a slight panic, a feeling that he has never experienced regarding Christmas shopping. He passes a stationary shop (an establishment that he never expected to enter) and inspiration hits him.
He gets dressed while the pampushky is in the oven, not really sure what the fuck the correct style for Christmas dinner with the ex’s family would be. It’s times like this when he really misses his sister.
He settles on a dark button down tucked into his least shitty pair of jeans, and he spends the remaining amount of the baking time showering and agonizing over his hair. By the time the timer beeps, he’s dressed and ready.
When he sets out for South Homan, container of pampushky under one arm and Ian’s present under the other, the snow is a milky gray, thick with the prospect of more snow (as if they fucking need more snow).
He finally reaches the address, a worn, blue two-story house in a neighborhood uncannily resembling his own back home in Jersey, at around 4:00. He hesitates at the gate, his heart thudding very suddenly in his chest, heavy enough to weigh down his steps.
Take a breath, Milkovich.
He thinks about how unreal this is, that he’s here, worrying over a fucking dinner with the family, like a normal person in a normal relationship.
Normal person. You can do that. Normal person.
He considers jumping ship with every step towards the door. That seems fairly normal.
He can hear laughter, now, and faint music. He swallows down the fluttering in his stomach and knocks on the door, probably too hard, and a pretty brunette woman opens it a second later, finishing off laughing at something that somebody inside said before turning to look at Mickey, jolly expression melting into one of guarded confusion.
“Jesus,” she sighs out in slight incredulity. “Today, of all days? Christmas? You’re gonna get on my ass today?”
Mickey stares at her, perplexed, and briefly wonders if he got the wrong address. “Wh--”
“If you’re lookin’ for Frank, we haven’t seen him in weeks,” she interrupts her, like it’s routine. “Try the usual spots, because he’s not here.” She begins to shut the door, before a familiar voice stops her.
“Whoa, Fiona!”
The woman, Fiona, looks over her shoulder in surprise, before the door widens to present Ian, practically glowing with what Mickey refuses to call The Christmas Spirit.
Maybe he can feel his own expression brighten, too.
“Hey, Mick!” Ian’s eyes sparkle with the greeting, and Mickey’s smile widens.
“Hey, Red,” he replies. It’s crazy, Mickey thinks, how, when Ian is around, he’s still completely incapable of looking anywhere else in the fucking room.
“Uh, Fiona, this is my date,” Ian explains to his sister. “Not...Frank’s drug dealer.”
Fiona stares at Ian, processing what he’s said, before realization seizes her face. “Oh--oh, my god.” She turns back to Mickey with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry. It’s just--Ian told me he had someone coming, I just didn’t realize--I mean, you don’t look--”
“It’s fine,” Mickey cuts in, with a tight smile.
“Ah, Fi, this is Mickey,” Ian redirects, leaning an arm against the door. “Mickey, my sister, Fiona.”
“Hey,” Mickey says with a nod.
Fiona smiles, and Mickey can still see the note of slight skepticism in her eyes, but he tries to ignore it in favor of focusing on Ian’s general existence.
He looks absurdly snug, in a gray sweater, a stark contrast to his hair, and worn jeans.
Mickey gets another wave of lightheadedness, a repeated symptom in the past 24 hours, in which all he can think is: I am in love with Ian Gallagher.
“Well, Mickey, come in!” Fiona offers, stepping aside and gesturing inside. Mickey accepts the invitation, glancing around as he steps through the door.
It’s a bright home; well lived-in, but bright, not dim, not like his home back in Jersey. A small Christmas tree sits in front of a large window to his right, as he walks further in, and a slew of people are scattered across the lower level, including a few kids, none of whom give enough of a shit to turn to look at him.
Ian joins him inside, with a winning smile. “You bring food?”
“That’s all you’re after, huh?” Mickey jokes, with a grin. He lifts the plastic container in his hand, before offering it to Ian.
Ian pops open the corner, peeking inside, and raises an eyebrow at Mickey. “Doughnuts?”
Mickey scoffs. “It’s pampushky, you ignorant Irish asshole.”
“So Ukrainians eat doughnuts on Christmas. Noted.”
“ Pampushky ,” Mickey corrects. “It’s my mom’s recipe. And it cost me, like, fifty dollars and a lot of fuckin’ time to make one batch, so you’ll eat doughnuts on Christmas and fuckin’ like it.”
Ian laughs, smile blissfully fond. “I’ll go put it with everything else.”
Mickey watches, helplessly, as Ian leaves him to put the food in the kitchen.
“Hi,” a rather small, but confident voice greets, and Mickey looks over at the source, a redheaded girl around the age of twelve or thirteen. “I’m Debbie.”
Mickey nods, shoving his unoccupied hand into his back pocket. “Mickey.”
“Are you Ian’s boyfriend?” she asks, and Mickey glances over at Ian, again, who’s been stopped by a ginormous bearded guy for a conversation.
Shit.
“I don’t know,” Mickey answers honestly, turning back to the kid.
“How can you not know?” Debbie protests. “You either are or you aren’t.”
Mickey shrugs. “Yeah, it’s just kinda complicated between your brother and I.”
“Do you like him?” she inquires.
Mickey turns to look at her dubiously. “‘Course I like him.”
“Do you like like him?”
He laughs a bit at that.
I cannot believe I’m having this conversation with a fucking child.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“So you want to be his boyfriend.”
Mickey shrugs again. “I guess I do, yeah.”
“That doesn’t sound complicated to me, at all,” Debbie concludes.
Mickey opens his mouth to protest that it is complicated, of course it’s fucking complicated, they can’t just be together again after everything, they can’t just go back to how they were with all the shit they have to work out, but Ian returns, then, with a beer and a big smile, handing Mickey the former, which he accepts gratefully.
“Goin’ easy on him, Debs?” Ian asks, slinging an arm around his little sister as she rolls her eyes.
“Easy enough,” Debbie answers seriously. Mickey scoffs at that, taking a sip of his beer and wishing desperately that he could feel comfortable enough again to just reach over and hold Ian’s hand, just to feel less like he’s about to fucking pass out.
A guy with curly, dirty blonde hair approaches them and claps Ian on the back, followed by a thin, well-dressed, ambiguously Asian girl with glasses. “Frank dodge payin’ for some uppers?”
Ian casts his gaze heavenward, smile slipping a bit. “This is Mickey. My date , Lip,” Ian corrects through gritted teeth. Lip squints at his brother, and then at Mickey.
“Oh, shit,” he laughs suddenly, gesturing towards Mickey with his beer. “That’s the kid you met in Jersey, isn’t it? The one you--”
“Lip,” Ian cuts him off. “Jesus. Shut up.”
“Aren’t you?” Lip asks Mickey, ignoring his brother.
“Uh, yeah,” Mickey answers, grip tightening on his beer. “That’s me.”
“Pretty long fuckin’ way from home,” Lip observes, wrapping his free arm around the girl beside him.
“Did you come all the way here for Ian?” the redheaded girl asks excitedly. She glances at her brother with a dreamy look in her eye. “That’s so romantic.”
Ian flashes a small smile that suggests he might agree. Mickey would attempt to protest if it weren’t completely, disgustingly true.
A little black kid sprints over unsteadily, then, slamming into Ian’s legs and latching on with a huge smile. Ian grins in response, and leans down to heave the kid up. “And this is our little brother, Liam.” Ian takes a breath, before he seems to anticipate the question on the tip of Mickey's tongue. “Yes, he is black, and yes, we are related to him by blood.” He squints. “Except, I’m only half related to him. But everyone else is fully related to him. It’s really--You know what? It doesn’t matter.”
Mickey takes a sip of beer to mask the smile Ian’s rambling has caused.
“And then Carl’s...somewhere, I don’t fuckin’ know,” Ian finishes. Fiona joins them to squeeze Liam’s cheeks, and she pauses at Ian’s statement, a look of horror on her face
“You don’t know where--Ian, I told you to watch--” Fiona cuts herself off with an irritated sigh, walking to the foot of the steps. “God only knows what-- Carl!” she yells up the stairs, assumedly a common method of communication in the Gallagher house.
A muffled yell sounds in response.
“Oh, thank God,” she murmurs, then raises her voice again to call, “Get down here, it’s almost dinner!”
“We got him a BB gun for Christmas,” Ian states, as if that explains it all.
Obnoxious footsteps proceed Carl’s descension of the stairs, and when he appears and sees Mickey, his face scrunches into one of confusion.
“Are you guys buying drugs?” he asks in a distinctly pubescent voice, attracting the attention of the remaining three people in the room.
“Why the fuck do you all think I’m a drug dealer?” Mickey asks, completely done with being polite.
“Because you look like a drug dealer,” Carl answers frankly.
“ Carl ,” Debbie scolds. “That’s rude.”
“What? He does,” Carl says
Mickey throws Ian a questioning look.
Ian’s mouth opens and closes, as if he’s caught on the spot, until he just shrugs, apparently giving up denying his brother’s observation. “It’s part of your charm,” he settles on.
Mickey can’t help but snort at that.
It’s a blur, after that. He’s briefly introduced to everyone else (the Gallaghers’ neighbors and their kids, Lip’s girlfriend Amanda, and some less than memorable guy that Fiona is dating), and they sit down around the table to a small ham and a spread of side dishes.
The Gallaghers certainly never take a breath. Someone, if not multiple people at once, is always talking. Lip talks about college, Fiona stops every few seconds to scold Carl about something, Debbie talks about her boyfriend.
Everyone talks, Mickey notices, but Ian. Besides the occasional comment regarding someone else’s topic of speech, Ian keeps to himself, and his family makes no effort to draw him in.
Maybe it’s not always like this, but from what Mickey can see, it’s bullshit.
“So, Mickey,” Fiona’s boyfriend (was it Mike?) begins. “What do you do?”
“Wait tables,” Mickey responds over the rim of his beer.
“Do you and Ian go to school together?” Mike asks.
Mickey scoffs out a laugh, glancing over at Ian, before realizing Mike isn’t kidding. He sets his beer down as his smile shrinks. “No, I, uh--haven’t been in a high school for three years.”
“Did you drop out?” Carl asks. His expression suggests he’s looking for the validation needed to leave school early, himself.
“No, I didn’t drop out,” Mickey says pointedly.
“Mick graduated a year early,” Ian boasts, taking a bite of mashed potatoes, and Mickey elbows him.
“Is that right?” Fiona muses, seemingly impressed. The family appears to stop to look at him with interest, and he pauses his quest to scoop multiple peas onto his fork without using his fingers like a fucking heathen.
“Uh, yeah,” he confirms, glancing around the table nervously. “It wasn’t anything I did, though. My mom just couldn’t stand to have me in the fuckin’ house another year, so she got me tested to see if I was smart enough that I could start early. And, uh,” he lifts his beer in a cheer to wasted potential. “I guess I was.”
“I hear that’s socially detrimental,” Amanda comments snidely, and Lip barks out a laugh.
“Yeah, it’s a good thing I was a prodigy in not giving a fuck,” Mickey quips back, trying not to break into a self-satisfied grin when Ian laughs breathily and knocks Mickey’s foot with his own.
“Thinking about college?” Mike asks, once it’s clear the exchange has ended.
Mickey shrugs, not looking up from his plate.
“Wait, really?” Ian perks up, leaning forward in interest. “You’re looking at schools?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Mickey deflects, but Ian gives him a don’t-bullshit-me-we-lived-together-for-months look that forces him into honesty. “But, yeah,” he mumbles in resignation. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it.”
“Since when?” Ian inquires.
“Since Mandy mentioned somethin’ about it.”
“What would you major in?” Mike prompts, and Mickey shrugs again.
“Math, probably?” he answers, uncertainly.
“ Math? ” Amanda repeats skeptically.
Mickey sets his fork down, defensiveness prickling in his chest. “That so hard to believe?”
Lip and Amanda share matching, patronizing glances. “You don’t look like the type,” Amanda elaborates.
Mickey opens his mouth, prepared to inform Amanda exactly what type she looks like, when Fiona claps her hands together and suggests they have dessert.
“Hey,” Ian whispers to him through the bustle, as they both remain seated. “Let’s get outta here.”
Mickey raises an eyebrow at him. He has to admit that, in his current mood, given the choice between spending another thirty minutes with the Gallaghers and doing literally anything else, he would choose the latter consistently.
Ten minutes later, they sneak out the back door, after Mickey’s grabbed Ian’s present from where he left it, on the coffee table, and Ian’s disappeared upstairs to retrieve a tiny package of his own and pull on a coat.
Ian pulls him by the wrist to a broke down van, and something about the cold air and, God help him, the Christmas Spirit, lifts his mood and leaves him nearly giddy.
Ian practically falls into leaning back against the side of the van, pulling Mickey against him into a smiling kiss, and it’s all Mickey can do not to drop Ian’s gift into the snow with how fucking weak in the knees it makes him.
The streetlights cast their usual glow, but something about it seems different. Maybe the combination of the Christmas lights and the soft crooning of Bing Crosby from inside the house, maybe the feeling of Ian’s hands locked behind the small of his back.
“Your family’s kinda shitty,” Mickey comments, when they separate. Mickey leans against the cold metal beside Ian as Ian lights a cigarette.
“Yeah,” Ian sighs, looking up towards the polluted sky. “I love ‘em, though.”
Mickey knows the feeling. Exponentially.
“Yeah, I talked to mine today, too,” Mickey admits, as he accepts the cigarette. “Fuckin’ pricks.”
“How is everyone?” Ian asks.
“Ig’s got a boyfriend,” Mickey starts, deciding to lead with the most jarring news.
“A boyfriend? ” Ian exclaims.
“Yeah. Well, y’know, dumbass won’t admit he’s got a boyfriend, but...we know.” He takes a drag, as he allows Ian to soak it in . “And then Colin,” he strains out with the smoke, “has his own place. Says he loves not babysittin’ our asses anymore.”
“He misses you,” Ian says knowingly, taking the cigarette back.
“‘Course he does. I’m not around for him to yell at on demand, anymore.”
Ian smiles shyly. “I kinda miss how much of an asshole he was to me, sometimes.”
“Yeah, everyone--” Mickey’s voice hitches, and he coughs, to smooth over the silence. “Everyone kinda missed you, too.”
They exchange a tentative, smiling glance, before Ian lifts the cigarette to his lips and asks, “What about Mandy?”
“I think she’s gettin’ her GED online soon,” Mickey says. “Past that...her boyfriend’s a fuckin’ tool, but I think she knows it. She likes Boston, though, I think.”
“She really wanted to get out of Azurra,” Ian remembers, with a slightly far-away look. “I’m glad she finally did it.” He hands Mickey the cigarette. “Glad you all finally did it.”
Their fingers brush, and the contact holds the electricity of the beginning. The beginning, reborn. And he gazes at Ian, looking young but aged, familiar but new, thrilling but steady, beautiful ad infinitum, and he tries to swallow back the endorphins, to no avail.
“What about you?” Mickey asks, after a second. “What’ve you been up to?”
Ian seems nearly surprised by the question. “Mostly school,” he recounts, after a moment’s thought. “I went back once I was stable on my meds. Kind of late, so I need to catch up.”
“What about after you graduate?” Mickey questions further.
Ian opens his mouth, crossing his arms across his chest, and then quickly shuts it again, seemingly not sure what to say. “I don’t fuckin’ know,” he admits, following the pause, accepting the cigarette again. “I wanted to go to West Point, before everything, y'know.” He flicks away some ash dejectedly. “And they’re not letting me play basketball, because I’m already so behind, so I can kiss a fuckin’ sports scholarship goodbye.”
Mickey’s grip tightens a bit on Ian’s present, as he tries not to let it all break his fucking heart.
“You ever think about writing, or somethin’?” Mickey suggests.
Ian scoffs out a laugh. “Writing what?”
“You’ve had fuckin’ life , man.” Mickey reaches for the cigarette one last time, breathing in the smoke and then throwing it to the ground. “You’re talented, too,” he says, soft and tight, on his exhale.
Ian’s expression grows somber for a second, as he stares at the ground, in thought.
Mickey thinks he’d pay money to get inside his head, for a minute.
“Fuckin’ cold, man,” Mickey shivers, after a minute of quiet, pulling his coat tighter around him.
Ian nods, and then tilts his head back towards the van. “Come on.”
He tugs open the back doors, revealing an open space with a blanket and some weather-worn pictures of Megan Fox. “Carl used to sleep in here,” Ian explains, in response to Mickey’s questioning look.
“Ah. Classy kid.”
They climb into the van, which is absolutely no warmer than it was outside, and they sit with their backs propped against one side, their legs stretching until their feet touch the other side. (Or, more specifically, until Ian’s feet touch the other side, since Mickey’s legs fall, regrettably, too short.)
Ian slings an arm around Mickey’s shoulders and it feels, for a second, like they could settle into a rhythm, again. Like maybe it doesn’t have to be a struggle. Like maybe the struggle was the circumstance, and the distance, and the illness. Like maybe they, together, were never the struggle at all.
Or, maybe, it’s just a placid stretch in an ocean of shifting tides.
Either way, he feels much warmer than before.
“Here,” Mickey says, leaning closer into Ian and depositing his present onto his lap. “Merry Christmas.”
“This is wrapped nice,” Ian observes, extricating himself from Mickey and turning it over in his hands.
“Hidden talent,” Mickey provides vaguely.
The present is a rectangular package, tucked into red wrapping paper with little Christmas trees and topped with a bow. Mickey had, in fact, spent a decent amount of time making sure it didn’t look like pure shit.
“Open it, Gallagher,” Mickey urges, when Ian hesitates. “Before Christmas fuckin’ ends.”
Ian unwraps it, carefully, like he’s reluctant to ruin the wrapping, and it’s not until about thirty seconds later that he’s finally reached what’s inside.
A black, leather-bound notebook, with the constellation of Leo embossed on the front in an antique-looking gold.
Mickey chews his lip while Ian inspects it, nervous over the sentimentality of it. He clears his throat as Ian opens it, to blank, lined white paper. “I, uh--I read that writing and shit is good for managing…” his voice fails for a second, on account of his sudden dry throat. “Managing bipolar disorder,” he finishes, quickly.
A smile spreads, slowly, on Ian’s face, but whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t say. He shuts the journal again, and traces the constellation lightly with his forefinger.
“And that’s your star sign’s constellation,” Mickey adds lamely. “Because space is cool, and shit--”
“I’m in love with you,” Ian interrupts him, unrehearsed, brazenly confident.
Mickey’s mouth hangs open, still forming the words of his last sentence, frozen with surprise.
And he knew, of course he knew, he had read the confession from Ian’s own hand months ago.
Ian dares to look at him, eyes nearly blue in the quiet light of the long night, and it’s an odd, familiar feeling, to have that blissful terror back again.
He knew. Of course he knew. But there’s something separate and corporeal about the words, said out loud, that makes it feel like he’s learned something for the first time.
They smile at each other, after a moment of thick silence, and Mickey feels young and dumb, again.
When Ian kisses him, then, short, easy but electric, it feels like they’re on the same page for the first time. Or, at least close to it.
Ian pulls back, and lingers in their connecting gaze, and it is, again, everything Mickey never thought he’d have.
But he’s earned it, he thinks. Been unselfish, and careful, and spiteful of hope for too long.
Ian pulls the small box from his coat pocket, unwrapped and navy blue, and hands it to Mickey.
“Your turn,” he says, fracturing the moment only slightly, replacing his arm around Mickey’s shoulders.
Mickey picks the box up gingerly, and surmises it must be a jewelry box. “You proposing?” Mickey teases, laughing when Ian smacks him in the arm.
“Just open it, asshole,” Ian responds, and Mickey complies, still with a soft grin.
Inside, cushioned by cotton, is a delicate silver pendant, depicting a metallic ripple in the ocean, on a thin leather string.
“I got it for myself, in Azurra, the day I left,” Ian explains, as Mickey pulls it delicately from the box. “But, I don’t really need a souvenir when you’re here, y’know?”
Mickey runs a thumb over the raised surface of the pendant, and allows himself to think of home, for a second.
“You miss it?” Ian asks, softly.
He thinks of the ocean. Cracked sidewalks. Splinters on the boardwalk. His Ma, his siblings.
He thinks of Ian, and the long absence thereof.
Not as much as I missed you, he thinks.
“Yeah,” he settles on, reaching up to intertwine their fingers. “But I ain’t goin’ back.”
Ian hums his contentment with that answer, leaning in to place a kiss to Mickey’s cheek.
They feel like a new set of people, together, in their new beginning. He finds himself grasping for the most vivid parts of their past, so as not to lose the integrity of what they were. What they are.
“How are you doin’?” he asks, resting his arm on Ian’s leg, hand falling on his knee. “With everything with...you know.” He doesn’t dare say Gabe’s name. It’s not his place, yet.
Ian’s grip on Mickey’s hand tightens. “Gabe?”
“Yeah. Him.”
Ian sniffs, and traces the ‘F’ on Mickey’s left ring finger. “It’s, uh…” He laughs bitterly. “Sometimes I think God takes everything he scrapped as someone else’s big childhood trauma and dumps it on me, y’know? Like, Ian Gallagher--” he pauses for emphasis, his eyes shining. “--human landfill.”
“None of that shit is your fault, though, y’know,” Mickey reminds him, thumb tracing lightly against the grain of the denim covering his knee.
Mickey doesn’t know too much about shit like this. Doesn’t know too much about bipolar disorder, or the complexity of rape, but he does know that thinking any of it is Ian’s fault is bullshit.
Ian’s quiet for a stretch, mind miles away. “I just feel,” he goes on, “like if I never said yes in the first place, it never would’ve happened.”
“You think he wouldn’t’ve pulled a fuckin’ gun on you if you said no the first time?” Mickey responds incredulously. “He was psychotic, Ian,” he dictates, when Ian won’t meet his eye. “You were fuckin’ seventeen years old. And you have a fuckin’...illness. Even when you said yes, it wasn’t your fault.”
“It just feels like,” Ian strains, “nothin’ can be special again, y’know? Like...damaged goods.” He shakes his head slightly. “Like, fuckin’ unlovable.”
“Hey,” Mickey protests immediately. “ I love you, okay?”
Ian raises his head, then, to look at Mickey with utter rapt sincerity.
And Mickey falls, head first and eyes wide, into repeating his own confession. “I-- fuck, I love you. And ain’t nothin’--” he pauses, letting go of Ian’s hand, to reach over and brush back a loose strand of Ian’s hair gently. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.”
When their lips meet again, Mickey savors the taste: smoke and sea salt and all the fucking time in the world.