Work Text:
Mickey put his hands in his lap, hiding them under the table. His tattoos stuck out like a sore thumb in this fucking ritzy restaurant with Ian's rich ass friends and he was tired of the looks people were giving him. He wished that he could punch the judgment right off of their faces, but he knew Ian would be pissed if he did.
He'd never been ashamed of his tats before, in fact he'd always been fucking proud of them. Oh Mickey knew they were shitty quality, but his brother Joey had learned how to tattoo on one of his stints in juvie and he'd done them for Mickey. Mickey had been fifteen and all of his brothers had been impressed that he'd had the balls to get them done. It was like a rite of passage in the Milkovich house and Mickey had always worn them like a badge of honor.
Until now.
Ian closed his menu and looked at Mickey. "What are you going to get?"
"I don't have a fucking clue," Mickey muttered, keeping his voice down. "The menu isn't even in English."
Ian laughed like Mickey was making a joke, but he wasn't. The menu was in French or something. The one thing that he could read was the price and that wasn't comforting. Ian had told him that Bryan was paying for everyone, but Mickey was pretty sure people didn't just do that sort of thing out of the goodness of their hearts. Bryan was bound to expect something and if he even looked at Ian the wrong way, well; Mickey wouldn't bother keeping his hands hidden anymore.
If Mickey had his way they wouldn't even be here. His idea of a good night with Ian was watching an action movie and then fucking, but apparently Ian had other ideas. After this they were supposed to go to an art museum for a special Picasso exhibit or some shit.
"I'm having that," Ian said, pointing at one of the cheaper items on the menu. "It's chicken."
"As long as it isn't fucking snails," Mickey said.
"Not a fan of escargot?" the man across from Mickey asked.
"No," Mickey answered abruptly. He'd never actually had snails before, but he figured that he had to draw a line somewhere. He'd eaten some gross things in his life—most of them in juvie—but snails were just too much.
When the waiter came around Mickey told him he'd have the same thing as Ian and handed him the menu back, keeping the hand with "fuck" on it in his lap.
"So," Bryan said, smiling brightly at Mickey. "You made quite an impression on Claude. He said that he'd love to get in touch with you about his dissertation."
"Uh." The last thing Mickey needed was some grad student writing about him. He'd probably end up arrested. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."
Bryan frowned, but moved on to ask Ian about his photography as if taking pictures of the sunset and random people on his cell phone was actually worth talking about. Ian lit up though, talking excitedly about the camera he was saving up for—which was news to Mickey.
Mickey shot down any attempts to draw him into conversation and spent the entire dinner watching Ian move from conversation to conversation as if he actually belonged here with these people. The topics moved from art to music to the upcoming gay pride parade and Ian didn't miss a single step.
He didn't know how Ian could seem just as comfortable here as he was in a bar brawl on the South Side. Part of Mickey had assumed that these men just saw Ian as another twink to indulge and eventually fuck, but he'd been wrong. It was clear that Ian actually fit in here and the realization was like a knife to Mickey's chest because he knew that he never would.
How long would it be before Ian realized that he had better options than Mickey could give him?
Mickey suddenly felt like he was suffocating and undid the top button of his borrowed shirt. It didn't help.
"Are you okay?" Ian asked, shooting him a worried look.
At Ian's question all eyes turned to Mickey and it was just too much. He pushed back from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor and drawing even more eyes to him as he retreated to the bathroom.
"Fuck," Mickey exclaimed once the door was closed behind him. He turned on the tap and splashed a handful of cool water on his face.
"What's wrong?" Ian asked, startling him.
Mickey stared at Ian's reflection in the mirror. "Nothing."
"Bullshit."
Mickey sighed. "Why am I even here?"
"Because you're my boyfriend?" Ian responded like it was a question and as much as Mickey wasn't quite comfortable with the word "boyfriend," the last thing he wanted was for Ian to sound unsure about it—especially right now.
Mickey turned around and swung his hand wide, trying to encompass the whole situation in one gesture. "I know fuck all about Picasso and wouldn't be caught dead carrying a rainbow flag down Halsted."
Ian's mouth tightened disapprovingly, but Mickey didn't care. If Ian thought that him coming out meant he was going to be an activist now then he was delusional.
"I don't belong here," Mickey finished.
"Fuck, Mickey," Ian said, frustrated. "How hard is it to sit through a nice dinner every now and then?"
Mickey chewed on his bottom lip. "And how long until that's not enough? How long until South Side isn't good enough?"
Ian reached out and rested a hand on Mickey's arm. "Are you feeling insecure?"
Mickey ripped his arm away and took a step back. "Fuck no. I'm not some weepy girl, Gallagher."
Ian rolled his eyes. "Mickey, I'm not going anywhere without you. We've been through too much shit together."
"What if you're going places that I can't follow?" Mickey asked softly, despite his best intentions to keep his mouth shut. "You've always dreamed big, Ian. These are the sort of people that can make those dreams happen."
Ian reached out and put his hands on Mickey's hips, squeezing gently. "Mickey, I've had to give up on a lot of my dreams this year because of this fucking disorder, but the most important one came true. I've been head over heels for you since I was fifteen years old and now here we are together, actually together. Any other dreams are always going to involve you."
It was probably the gayest thing that Ian had ever said to him. It was way more embarrassing than that time he'd tried to touch hands through the glass at juvie, and yet Mickey couldn't bring himself to care. Not when the words loosened something inside of him.
There were so many things that he wanted to tell Ian. Mickey wanted to tell him that the only reason he even knew how to dream about the future was because of Ian. That before Ian he'd expected nothing but bad things. But Mickey wasn't good with words so instead he wrapped his arms around Ian's neck and pulled him down into a searing kiss.
After a minute Ian broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Mickey's. "You're here because I don't want to go anywhere without you."
Mickey fisted his hands in Ian's shirt and pulled him closer. "Picasso is the guy with all the extra noses right?"
Ian barked out a laugh. "Yes."
"Okay, that shit's kind of cool," Mickey said. "I can deal with that."
"Thank you," Ian said. "And next week we'll get burgers and watch Scarface."
Mickey grinned. Maybe they would actually make this work. He was done trying to hide who he was, though. If he was good enough for Ian then Ian's friends could deal with him. Tattoos and all.