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Mickey's been awake and away from Ian for too fucking long, and he's dirty from work, and he spent the entire train ride home jiggling his leg anxiously and the whole walk still keyed up with exhaustion. He's ready to be home. He's ready to see Ian. Three days is entirely too long to be away. The world feels like it's ready to reach out its claws and snatch at him and just walking around he feels like the back of his neck is more tense than an iron bar. It's a familiar sensation but it's still fucking annoying. It's a familiar sensation but he's had less of it these days with his freedom and with Ian around. He remembers when he was a teenager and he used to go straight from jobs out of town with his dad to roughing up assholes in the neighborhood to fucking Ian in some abandoned warehouse in the dark to crashing a North Shore house party for shit to steal. Now going straight from a weekend job out of town to fixing cars at his real job without stopping at the apartment means he's fucking beat and he's gonna want to beat the shit out of something if he doesn't get home soon.
The lights are on in the apartment, which means Ian's home. The sound of the front door unlocking as Mickey turns his key is the sweetest sound he's heard in three days.
He kicks his shoes at the wall near the door, doesn't really care where they land, and tosses his keys at the coffee table without looking. Still, he finds himself relaxing as soon as the door is shut and the world outside is gone. Safe inside, hidden behind locks and warm apartment walls without pieces missing or mangled history. Home, the quiet pleasure a surprise like finding money in a pocket or something thought lost behind a couch. The surprise of something so comfortable; unfamiliar every time but good, so good. Safe. The lock clicks him into place.
“Yo, where you at?”
“In here,” Ian's voice carries from the hallway. Mickey follows. Always follows.
Ian is squatting in front of the closet, boxes open and spilling out onto the floor in front of him. A sort of treasure trove of old clothes and knick-knacks and shit they'd forgotten about, the sweet detritus of a life together. He's still in his pajamas, skin peeking through the silver dollar-sized hole torn in the seam at the side of his shirt. He paws at one box's contents, holding his tongue trapped between his teeth. The picture of distracted concentration.
Mickey moves to stand behind him, and a rush of comfort settles over him as Ian leans back to rest against his legs. Relaxed, easy. He feels his shoulders lose their tension and his jaw unclench. That sort of tingle behind his eyes almost like he's gonna cry but it's good this time, it's good. It's been good since he got out. Been good for a while.
“What the fuck are you doing, Red?” he asks, voice gentle despite his words, slipping his fingers into Ian's hair and combing backward.
Ian hums appreciatively, pushes his head into Mickey's hands. “Was on the phone with Debs earlier. She was going on and on about spring cleaning and how it made her feel good to sort through and organize her stuff. Thought I'd give it a try, y'know.”
“We don't have that much shit to sort or organize, man.”
“I know.” He feels Ian shrug against his thighs. “I figured I'd look through our closet anyway. Obviously there's at least some shit to take care of. Hey, don't stop.”
Mickey smirks and resumes the slow scalp massage. The fingers of Ian's left hand encircle his ankle and stroke the skin there, boxes momentarily forgotten. He listens to Ian's slow breaths over the sound of the fan in the living room, feels the weight of him lean back against his knees. The way his eyes flutter closed and the calloused pad of his thumb rubs soft against Mickey's ankle bone. Sometimes Mickey marvels at how far they've come. All the little things he loves that he would have never even thought of doing ten, or even five, years ago. How he can touch Ian now. How he can revel in the home of him. How he can slide his fingers over his scalp or hold his hand or press fingertips against the muscles in his back just to feel him hum and not have to hide behind sex. He lived his whole life in a shack full of chinks and nails and nothing to keep out the cold, just the infinite waiting for summer, and suddenly, out of nowhere, someone's knitted him a blanket and whisked him away to a house with a heater and somewhere soft to sleep. He's never felt like he deserves it. Ian, sure, but not him. It baffles him every day.
Ian's practically using him to hold himself up now, and Mickey nudges his back with a knee. “Yo, you're gonna make me fall over, asshole. Get up here.”
Ian stands, goes easily when Mickey pulls him in close. Smiles and wraps his arms around him and rests the bridge of his nose against Mickey's forehead. He breathes Mickey in, smelling like grease and sweat and new rubber, rubs one hand slow against his lower back. “How was work?”
“The shop was bullshit.” Mickey rolls his eyes, feeling the day's frustration come back just a little, despite the locked door and their soft conversation. “We're understaffed and Greg was on my ass all day and it was a thousand fucking degrees. We didn't need the broken fucking AC during winter so no one called to get it fixed and now that it's fucking summer, we're all sweating our balls off. Either my fingers are freezing to the transmission or I'm dropping gaskets because I'm sweating so damn much.” He shakes his head and leans into the comfort of Ian's arms. “'S why I'm all fucking gross.”
“I'll let you go shower.” Ian starts to pull away, but he's held firmly in place as Mickey locks his fingers together against his lower back.
“Mm, no, I'm good here.”
Ian relaxes back into the hold, leans in again, takes up the space between them, nuzzles against his cheek, murmurs, “Good. I missed you the last couple nights. And this morning. Jerking off is no fun without a partner.”
“I promise, that was the last run until August.” Mickey's shaking his head, looking up into his face, rolling his eyes at Ian's skeptical expression. He frees one hand from Ian's waist to gesture vaguely in the air. “No, I'm serious. Fuckin' Julius was getting on my case, but I told him I gotta lay low every couple months, y'know. I mean, it's partly true, right?”
“What, you didn't want to tell him you're not up for a coke run outta town because you want to spend time with your boyfriend?” Ian jokes. “Ashamed of me?”
“Hey, fuck you,” Mickey bites playfully at the jut of Ian's chin. “Haven't been ashamed since the night I fuckin' came out, you know that.”
Ian's expression softens. “Yeah, Mick, I know.”
They've been over it now, how they knocked into each other like a fucked up relay race, how Mickey had finally stopped running just as Ian started. Two years in a prison cell, they've hashed out every minute of their lives together up to that point, just for something to fucking do. They've been over the hurt and emotional fucking beat downs they gave each other, can almost joke about it now. It doesn't make Mickey's hackles rise or anger burn his throat, and it only makes Ian slide down into that soppy apologetic mess every once in a while. They've built a foundation out of it all, some history and worked-out feelings to hold up all the rooms they're living in. Strange still that all the cuts and bruises from before have scarred over with soft pink skin, have knitted together so now it's just something to brush a thumb across, just memories they talk about but don't have to dwell on, don't have to let the cold in.
So Ian's hands are cupping his spine and Mickey's digging his toes into the carpet and sliding his hands up to mess with the hair at the back of Ian's neck and making an annoyed face that he only sort of feels.
“I just figured I should make sure the fucking parole officer won't be on my tail,” Mickey mumbles, closing his eyes. He leans back into Ian's fingers massaging his shoulders and substitutes a shake of the head for the shrug that might dislodge him. “I know I'll only be able to keep it light for a little while, with you going back to school in September, but still. I'm like an old man when it comes to this shit, all wise and experienced, I don't need Mark fucking Julius telling me what to do.”
“Okay, first of all, you're thirty-three, that's not old. Second, I'm just going to community college in the fall, I'm still gonna have a job, you know. You don't need to risk your ass for me.”
“Gallagher, I risk my ass for you every day.”
“Hardy fucking har. You know what I mean.” Ian rolls his eyes but doesn't stop his ministrations. He grins as Mickey begins to pluck gently at his shirt, thumbs sliding down his ribs.
“Yeah, I know. But I'd like to be able to afford a bit more than just bills and groceries. Even with full time at the shop, shit's fucking hard. Barely minimum wage doesn't exactly cut it. And you'll only be working part time. You should focus on school anyway.”
Ian smirks. “Aww, you're so sweet.”
A half-hearted glare, even though his fingers have climbed under Ian's shirt and are stroking the bare skin of his sides, knuckles grazing just above his hips. “No I'm not.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Mick.”
“Ah, fuck you,” Mickey shrugs, pulling away mildly and turning down the hall toward the bathroom. “I gotta go shower.”
“Without me?”
Mickey throws a teasing grin over his shoulder. “Nah, you can come too.”
Ian follows, turns the shower on and tests the water with his fingertips while Mickey peels his dirty work uniform off and stuffs it in the hamper behind the door, grumbling about sweat and grease. For all Mickey's bluster and aggression, he's better when he's at home with Ian. Coming home to him feels like a massive chunk of his anger just slides away and disappears as he steps through the door. When he's at home, he's not on paranoid high alert, half anxious and half ready to blow at the first annoying or frustrating thing. Kissing Ian pushes all that aggression back and leaves only the shallow irritability that he knows Ian thinks is adorable. It actually feels good, letting that tension go every evening, something he never thought he'd be able to do, ever.
There's grime in the creases of his hands and grease streaked across the back of his neck, so Mickey gets first dibs under the spray. They don't shower together as often as some might expect. Years of showering with other men too close for comfort means alone time in the bathroom has far more value than it might have had before prison. But Mickey closes his eyes and leans back as Ian's fingers massage shampoo into his scalp. He runs a soapy washcloth across his own body, opens his eyes to watch the greasy grey water sluice off his legs and down the drain. Turns as soon as the water runs clear and doesn't hide the way he watches droplets run across Ian's skin.
Soon as he's cleaned off, he switches places with Ian before the water can start to go cold, soaping his freckled shoulders while Ian scrubs shampoo into his own hair. He thinks about the conversation in the hall and sighs, prodding Ian's right shoulder blade to get his attention and grimacing a little apologetically when Ian catches his eye over his shoulder.
He resumes the slow rotation of the washcloth, a distraction while his mouth moves. “Listen, man. I know we don't need the coke money. Not like we used to, at least. I mean, yeah, for once we're not totally struggling to put food on the table or whatever, but, shit, man, I'd like to be doing more than just barely not struggling. And this is shit I know how to do like the back of my goddamn hand.”
“I know, Mick,” Ian sighs and ducks his head under the spray, speaking with his eyes closed. “I just wish— Never mind. Just promise me, any hint of anything with your PO or any fucking cops at all, anything weird, you gotta get out, okay?”
“Come on, man, I'm not an idiot. You think I want to go back in the can for another five to ten? I'm comin' back here soon as I can. Hell, I'm taking a month and a half off to stay here with you.”
“Good. 'Cause I don't want to have to go all the way to Beckman just to see your pretty face every day.”
“Very funny. Only fucking doing this 'cause I love you.”
Ian shrugs simply, hides a smile. “Perfectly valid reason.”
“Sure. But I could be making big bucks out there every week.” Mickey digs his knuckles into Ian's ribs, just hard enough to almost hurt and Ian rolls his eyes, flinching back under the warm spray.
“Okay, okay, cool it.” He places his hands over Mickey's to still them. Leans in until their noses are touching, brushing soft against each other. “I love you too, please don't go out there. A run or two a month is fine by me. But I want you here at home where I can wake up with you, not behind glass where it takes an hour and a half on the bus to get to you.”
Mickey pulls back and thumbs his nose, shrugs playfully. “Cab only takes twenty minutes.”
“Shut up. God, Mick, you're so—”
Mickey grins, widening his stance and going in to knuckle at his head. “What am I, tough guy, huh? What am I?”
Ian gets one hand under Mickey's arm, but finds his other wrist twisted away from him as Mickey finds an advantage. They grapple together, breathless and laughing, grips sliding and temporary. Mickey pinches him in a dirty move and in retaliation Ian manages a shitty headlock despite Mickey's slick skin. Mickey prods at his ribs, grinning, trying to get him to lose his grip. He yelps when Mickey's sharp knuckles hit a pressure point and slips a little on the tile, nearly sending them crashing down.
“Okay, hang on, we shouldn't wrestle in the shower.” They disentangle, still panting. “With our luck, someone's gonna get a fucking concussion.”
“Wouldn't be the first time,” Mickey snorts, then shrugs. “Water's getting cold anyway.”
So they get out and dry off and it's Ian throwing glances at Mickey, Mickey grinning and preening a little under the gaze, still experiencing the swoop of shock that Ian wants to check him out, still basking in a comfortable bedroom warmth every time. And Mickey's pulling on soft grey sweatpants and a stained t-shirt that Ian loves to press his nose into because Mickey's had it for so many years that it only ever smells like him now, no matter how many times he washes it.
The bed creaks as Ian stands up, sliding his palm across Mickey's back as he straightens, nails scratching. Mickey presses back against it like a cat, like he's sliding into place.
“Hey, look, I got an idea.” Ian cocks his head. “What if I work part time this semester, like we planned. If it goes good and I feel okay, I'll switch back to working full time with school next semester.”
Mickey feels the instinct to lock all the doors and windows, to pin Ian to the bed and hold on until everything is fucking happy forever. Like everything could just be what he sees on TV. Like every day could be sweet and soft like this one, seen through a screen and wrapped in a warm blanket. Like if he just clenches his knuckles tight enough around the things he wants the most it'll finally fucking stay.
He stands, sighs. “Ian. Come on, man. Look, your 'full time' is full nights at the warehouse plus part time shifts at fucking Baskin Robbins. That's already more than enough shit.”
Ian sidles up, pulls him close, that smile on his face that used to be almost impossible to say 'no' to. “Yeah, but—”
“Nah, man. That, plus school?” He shakes his head, scowling. “Fuck that noise. You'll burn out, or your meds will crap out on you. I don't want that happening. It's all good. Stick to just the warehouse. I'll find some other place to work if I gotta. Legal, even. Or maybe just selling weed on the side.”
“Mick,” Ian warns, his grip tightening just a little.
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Being a weedman's not so bad as pushing coke. Anyway, we'll figure it out.”
“I guess you have a point.”
“Yeah, I do.” He shoves his nose against Ian's cheek, knocks their heads together gently. “I like you alive and functioning and not falling the fuck apart.”
“Alright, you win.” Ian murmurs, his hand sliding up the back of Mickey's neck to the top of his head, pulling him in for a kiss. It threatens to turn to more when Mickey's hands travel south, fingers curling, only Ian pulls away smirking, turns towards the kitchen. “Chicken stir fry good?” Mickey sighs, nods, follows. Always follows. Watches as Ian digs in the fridge, tosses a bag of carrots and a bell pepper at him. “Here, chop these.”
They make dinner together. Real chicken, real vegetables, real food. Ian at the stove while Mickey wields a knife and a grater and it's like a parallel universe every time. Like he's walked through the wrong apartment door. Every time it's warmth in his stomach and velvet on his eyes and some sweet tickle across his brain. Every time Mickey watches Ian cooking and has to lean his forehead against Ian's back and just breathe him in, just breathe all the normality in because there's no way his younger self would have imagined this, not in a million years, not even with how much he always loved Ian. He was always just fucked for life. Now he's been there, done that with the fucked for life thing. Now he's everything he never dreamed and it blows him away.
“Debbie says Fiona's doing good in Florida, by the way,” Ian informs him as they clear the junk off the table and put their plates down. “Said she's going to community college, bartending on the side for some richy-rich hotel and getting tips like crazy and loving it. She's probably going to fly down with Frannie to visit soon.”
Mickey grabs a beer from the fridge, sits down at the table across from Ian's gaze. “You gonna go with her?”
“Nah, man. You can't leave Illinois yet. I'm not gonna go without you.”
“She's your sister.” He shovels food into his mouth, just to occupy it.
“And you're my boyfriend. I love her but she can come up here. We can FaceTime, we can talk on the phone.” Ian sighs, gives him that pointed look, slides his hand across the table to mess with Mickey's fingers. “Remember what we talked about when you got out? When I said I picked you, I mean I picked you. You fucking come first, okay?”
“Alright, alright. You're so fucking gay.”
Ian laughs and holds up their linked hands. “Look who's talking. Hey, we've got a couple hours before I have to go to work. Wanna watch a movie, finish eating on the couch?”
“I can think of something else we could do...” Mickey leers.
“No, Mick. Not tonight. I want my legs to be working. Gotta lift heavy shit every day and I don't want get hurt. And anyway if we're gonna fuck, I want to be able to go a lot longer than that. It's better when we can take our time. Plus, you just got off an overtime shift.”
“Christ, Gallagher.” Mickey rolls his eyes, feigns annoyance to cover up the heat that pools in his body. “It's like you get off on getting me horny and ready to go just to jerk me around.”
"Tomorrow." Ian raises his eyebrows with a smirk. "You can think about it all day. And when you get home..."
"Fuck you, man," but Mickey's laughing, plucking playfully at Ian's fingers.
“Movie it is, then.”
“Asshole.” But they're both grinning.
He chases Ian out into the living room, growling in mock frustration, even though they're each holding a plate in one hand, even though his playful grabs towards Ian are exaggerated and silly, until Ian puts his plate down on the coffee table and grabs Mickey's hips in retaliation, pulling him in for a kiss and then shoving him away towards the sofa.
“Okay, action?” Ian kneels in front of the DVD player. “Or comedy?”
“I dunno, man, something good.” Mickey shrugs from the sofa, shovels the last of the chicken stir fry into his mouth and sets the plate on the coffee table. “You pick. You have good taste, I like what you like.”
“Says the man who argues for Segal every chance he gets.”
“Whatever man, you know I'm right.”
Ian raises his eyebrows playfully. “In that case, we're watching Double Team tonight.”
The responding groan is equally playful, a joke they've been keeping up all these years. He can't even remember when it started; long before that disastrous sleepover. Long before his lips even neared Ian's. Probably right at the start, probably somewhere between all the secret rendezvous in the bedroom and the weeks in the Kash And Grab after that first stint in juvie. Another little piece of the foundation that holds them up. Another part of all the history and loyalty and promises and confessions that have built them a home to hold them safe against each other's skin.
Ian sprawls back onto the couch, grinning softly when Mickey turns eagerly around, cuddling up against Ian's chest and stretching his feet out across the rest of the couch. Ian drapes an arm across Mickey's shoulders. Like there wasn't ever a time when they didn't do this. Like they both belong there, like they fit. Mickey feels the last of the day's tension slide away under the rug, replaced by the slow movement of Ian's thumb against his bicep.
If he's honest with himself, this is his favorite sort of time with Ian. The moments when his brain suddenly realizes that he can completely relax, completely let his guard down, because Ian is here and there's no one else, and Ian's arms are around him and Ian makes him feel safe. And Mickey can't help the way electricity seems to shoot out from his heart to ignite every inch of his skin whenever Ian's fingers touch him.
Less than halfway through the movie, Mickey's yawning so hard his jaw cracks.
“Jesus christ, man.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Mickey yawns again, adjusts himself in inches until he's mostly got his head in Ian's lap, closes his eyes.
Ian's fingers automatically reach out to smooth across his forehead, slide across his chest to rest comfortably against his heartbeat. Mickey lets out a slow, grumbling sigh and curls his fingers around Ian's on his chest. The heat of Ian's palm seeps through Mickey's shirt and warms his skin, a heavy, comfortable weight on his solar plexus. Ian runs the fingertips of his left hand along Mickey's hairline.
“No more going from a weekend job outta town straight to overtime at work, huh, Mick?”
Mickey pushes his head back against Ian's thighs, frowning a little even though he knows Ian thinks it's cute. “Leave me alone, you said I'm not fucking old.”
“You're not.” Ian scratches his fingers across Mickey's scalp gently. “You just work too hard and worry too much. You need to take some time to chill for a bit.”
“What's it look like I'm doing, man? Lemme sleep.”
Ian rolls his eyes but says nothing, running his fingers through Mickey's thick hair and letting him slowly sink into deep, slow breathing despite the sounds of the movie in front of them.
This is nice. Relaxing like this, being together like this. Their life is better than it used to be, when they were trapped in childhood homes and mental illness and shitty fathers and crazy families and Mexico and hurt and prison and all that shit. They used to strain to catch hold of each other, to turn the right way, but now they only have to hold their hands out and the other will be there in less than a heartbeat. But it's still a fucking struggle to survive and they both work their asses off. Sometimes one or the other goes months without a weekend, sometimes they barely see each other, sometimes they're too tired to do anything but crawl into bed and pass out together. Sometimes they get so fucking tired they fight about something stupid, but it's easy to shrug off, easy to fix. Most of the time it's like this, falling asleep in each other's laps, or a slow, sleepy fuck, or just sitting together in the morning on the weekends with coffee and bacon.
It's something Mickey could never really let himself dream and something he barely believes now. But here they are, cuddling on the couch like his eighteen year old self could never even imagine.
Ian turns the movie off as the credits begin to roll and slips out from under Mickey's sleeping form, kissing him on the forehead before grabbing both their plates off the table and heading back to the kitchen. He washes the plates, tosses the rest of the stir fry into a tupperware for tomorrow, washes the pan. Moves to the bathroom to take his meds and chug a cup or two of water.
From the doorway to the living room, he watches Mickey sleep. He leans against the wall and times his own breathing with Mickey's little whistling snore, slowing himself down so they breathe in harmony. Mickey's always had a little whistle when he sleeps, his nose broken one too many times by Terry or someone else, Ian never really asked. Mickey probably doesn't even know he does it. Ian thinks it's cute. He'd never seen Mickey sleep before he was seventeen; Mickey always woke before he did and always made sure Ian was asleep before letting himself relax. It was only mid-way through Mickey living on his bedroom floor that Ian finally woke early enough to watch him sleep, learning the way his face smoothed out and learning the way his shoulders finally relaxed and learning that little whistle.
Once Mickey was falling asleep in his bed, they would drift off together, limbs tangled.
The clock on the stove says it's 9:08, which means it's time to get it going, get dressed and ready to go to the warehouse for his usual night shift, but he stands and stares for just a little longer before moving into the room to sit down on the edge of the couch beside Mickey's sleeping form.
Ian's fingers caress Mickey's arm, brush the hair away from his forehead, thumb sweeping softly across his temple. He leans down, Mickey's ribs expanding slowly under his arms. Mickey, sleeping the way he only ever does when he's exhausted, when Ian is beside him, sleeping like he's managed to lock the whole world away and he's curled in some safe and sweet place under Ian's palms.
“Mick.” Ian pets his head, presses a tender kiss against his temple, pushes against his shoulder gently until he stirs, groaning. “Hey, Mick, it's almost nine-fifteen, I gotta get ready to go to work.”
Mickey throws a forearm over his face, barely winces when gravity wins and his whole arm slides down to dangle off the side of the couch. “Mmph.”
Ian runs his fingers through Mickey's hair, knuckles catching lightly on tangles and working them out. His face is close, his voice gentle. “You really wanna sleep on the couch? You'll be a whole lot more comfortable in bed.”
Mickey smacks his lips together to clear the cottonmouth, mumbling through the comfortable fog of half-asleep warmth. “I'll sleep here till you get home,” he mumbles.
“Come on, man, don't do that. You'll get a fucking crick in your neck and then you'll blame me. Come on, up we go.” He pushes at Mickey's shoulder gently until he pulls himself upright, lets Mickey lean against him as they stand and stumble, a drowsy three-legged race hobbling towards the bedroom. Ian's fingers tighten against his waist as Mickey nuzzles against his shoulder, mumbling half-asleep nonsense about staying home. If only they could lock themselves away from the world forever. Mickey lets himself fall heavily onto the mattress and catches Ian's hand before he can pull away, tugging him down for a lazy kiss. One slow kiss melts into another and Ian has to plant his hands on either side of Mickey's head just to get himself to pull away from the comfortable feeling of Mickey's lips sleepy and tender against his. “Mm, this is nice but I gotta get dressed and put my shoes on and shit.”
Mickey's hands slide away from Ian's neck and flop down onto his own stomach. “Ugh, fine.”
Ian pecks a quick kiss to Mickey's forehead and moves away to get dressed. Even half-asleep, Mickey tracks Ian with slitted eyes, unable to suppress the soft buzz in his chest at the sight of him. Warmth against his throat and the backs of his eyes. Some bizarre, amazing urge to cling to him and touch him even though his limbs barely want to move right now.
It's like that summer years ago, only a thousand times better. Only their lives are entirely their own, only there's no threat of the house collapsing down around them from relatives or poverty or mental illness or police. Only Ian isn't manic and Mickey hasn't been in denial about any fucking thing for a while now. Only he has Ian all to himself, smiling and kissing him with nothing more in his eyes but his love for Mickey.
It's like that time after, when all Mickey had wanted to do was touch, all he had wanted to do was stay close and hold on and scream his feelings in everyone's faces because it was busting him open it felt so amazing. When he could touch like he never thought he could before and he could admit things that had been trapped in his throat and suddenly he felt like he was finally fucking free. And it feels like that again, without the falling apart at the end.
It feels like that again, like seeing Ian's face is coming home, like kissing Ian is safety, like watching Ian just existing every day is being wrapped up soft and warm and happy in some giant blanket of emotion. He's never been able to articulate how much all this fills him up. He's never been able to articulate how badly he just wants to hold on and never let go. He's never been able to articulate how Ian's skin is like nothing else, how he's the only person Mickey always wanted nothing more than to be soft with. How he pushes the whole world back and tugs Mickey by his heart into a saferoom made of his arms and his lips and his glinting green eyes.
Watching Ian move around the room pushes that feeling against his eyes and the back of his head again, like he might cry but it'll be good. Like he needs something that has no words. Like his nerves crave the sensation of Ian. He listens to Ian pad out of the room, listens to him brush his teeth, spit, rinse. Stares at the doorway for him to come back in, for him to sit on the edge of the bed and put his shoes on. Watches his fingers buckle his watch and wants.
“Get over here, asshole.” Mickey stretches out a hand to reel Ian in when he takes it, tugging him down to catch his lips and curl a hand against the back of his neck. He kisses Ian deep and slow and digs his fingers into the muscles at the back of his neck before pulling away and letting Ian up again. He smiles sleepily when Ian squeezes his hand. “Kick ass out there, man. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mick. I'll see you in the morning.”
And Mickey finds himself smiling in the dark of the room when Ian turns out the light, finds himself boneless and happy with soft, sleepy anticipation thrumming in his chest.
Because he knows Ian will get back home around five-thirty, that he'll lift the covers and crawl into bed behind Mickey, that Mickey will flinch awake with that irreversible instinct to fight but a hand on his belly and lips on the back of his neck will calm him and Ian will curl around him and breathe against the nape of his neck and pull him closer, sighing contentedly. And they will cuddle for half an hour like this like they always do, kissing slowly, running hands over bare skin, a gentle enjoyment of each other's sleepy presence before they both drift off with their limbs tangled.
Mickey never imagined it could be like this. He knew he'd never manage to be totally on the straight and narrow, but he never thought it would just be a side gig, that he'd have a legit job, a legit apartment, real, non-packaged food, and Ian beside him every night. That he'd still be somewhere warm and comfortable. That he'd be safe. That he'd even have anyone beside him, much less Ian. And yet, here he is, nearly three years out of prison, doing more than just surviving.
He never imagined he could be like this: loved, in love, happy.
And eight hours later, he's starting awake and there are lips on the back of his neck and a palm pressed flat and warm against his stomach and he relaxes, sighs with drowsy happiness and turns his whole body over, tangles his legs with Ian's and kisses him, curling his arms around him.
“How was work?” he mumbles into the soft skin of Ian's neck.
Ian's left hand slides across Mickey's shoulders and up to brush softly through his hair. “Was all right. Better now that I'm here.”
“Yeah,” Mickey grinds some of the sleepiness out of his eyes with the heel of his palm and pushes his nose against Ian's in a weird Eskimo kiss. “Definitely fucking better.”
Ian smiles, his voice that affectionate hush he gets in the early hours of the morning. “You glad you didn't wait for me on the couch?”
“Mhm. C'mere.”
The world is silent and dark around them as they kiss, slow and unhurried and soft. Ian peppers Mickey's face with little, gentle kisses. Mickey presses his lips to the underside of Ian's chin, the thin skin of his throat. Ian's fingers tangle in black hair, scratching softly while Mickey's hands slide along Ian's ribs to curl against his hips, thumbs stroking the skin there. They make out lazily, their quiet breaths and the susurrus of sheets against their skin the only sounds, a familiar, gentle lullaby between them. Mickey falls asleep with Ian's lips in his hair and his own mouth pressing softly against the curve of Ian's collarbone.
And in the morning a few hours later, when his phone alarm goes off and he silences it before it can wake Ian up, he stays there for a little while longer, lying under the warm sheets with Ian's nose in the back of his neck and Ian's arm draped around his middle and Ian's leg hooked over his own. Ten minutes later, he extracts himself from the clinging Gallagher limbs and murmurs “Go back to sleep,” when Ian grumbles and looks up at him with bleary eyes.
But he stops when a hand grabs his and reels him in for a slow, sleepy kiss.
“Have a good day at work,” Ian says softly when they pull apart, his hand dropping from the back of Mickey's head to curl gently around the collar at the front of Mickey's shirt, the backs of his knuckles brushing his throat.
“I'll see you when I get back. Go back to sleep, mumbles.” But he kisses Ian's forehead and brushes the hair from his temple. “I love you.”
The only answer is a long, sleep-heavy exhale and Ian's fingers tightening minutely on his shirt before dropping away. Mickey smiles to himself and goes out to the kitchen to make coffee.