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Ian’s body is burning.
It’s been ages since he’s felt like this, if ever. His muscles ache, his cuts sting and he might have fallen asleep on the worst side of his ribcage, because he feels like shit when he tries a deep breath (definitely a bad idea, he decides, not trying those again for a while).
Mickey’s hand is curled around his arm, gentle but holding onto him, as if he’s still afraid that Ian is going to slip away. Ian can’t fight away the guilt that settles on the bottom of his stomach, then. He touches Mickey’s arm gently, runs his fingers softly up the length of it and pulls it away, setting it back down on the bed. Mickey lets out a low hum and shifts a little, but remains asleep, moving to occupy the space Ian just vacated.
Ian looks as shitty as he feels, he decides when he takes a look at himself in the mirror. His face is heavily bruised, and when he lifts his shirt he finds big, purple circles on his chest and back too.
That’s what you get, Mickey had said.
Ian looks away from the mirror and splashes his face with cold water, rinses his mouth and ignores the faint, metallic taste of blood.
~
Mickey is awake when Ian gets back to the bedroom. The house is still apparently, suspiciously empty, but Ian pushes that thought to the back of his mind for later. He stops at the door to stare at Mickey as he sits up, shoulders sagged and face as bruised as Ian’s, if not worse. His hair is wild and eyes are puffy from sleep. It’s cute as fuck, despite their state.
Which isn’t really that bad, either, despite their awful looking bruises.
Ian could easily get used to waking up to Mickey like this, sleepy and messy and very, very kissable.
“The fuck you lookin’ at, Gallagher?” Mickey mumbles, but it’s about five times softer than his usual tone.
“Just wondering if you want any coffee,” Ian replies, his voice soft too. Mickey doesn’t look up to reply, just nodding instead and seeming not to be thinking as much as Ian yet. Ian turns on his heels and heads to the kitchen to start the coffee and put together some breakfast.
Eggs, he decides, and toast.
He even enjoys the quiet of the empty house a little, taking a bit of a momentary comfort in the slow, steady dripping of the sink, the wind rustling the trees outside, Mickey moving around the house to get ready for the day.
Ian looks at the fridge and lowers himself in front of it, analyzing their situation. He takes out the bread and the (empty) gallon of orange juice, then fills the coffee machine and measures the coffee before turning it on. He puts the bread in the toaster and watches as the black, steamy liquid drips down as he waits for the toast to pop, too deep in his own mind that he doesn’t notice Mickey padding barefoot into the kitchen.
“Ian,” he calls, and only then does Ian straighten up and turn to look at him. He blinks at Mickey and Mickey frowns. “Jesus Christ, you okay, kid?”
“Yeah,” Ian says, shaking his head and looking away to check the toast. “M’okay,” he nods, and takes the two pieces of toasted bread out of the toaster before putting in two more.
He puts one piece on each of the two plates he’s gotten out and fills two mugs of coffee, too. “We’re out of eggs,” he says. “And tabasco, and juice, and butter.”
Mickey stares at Ian for a few moments, then looks down at his piece of dry toast and shrugs, taking a crunchy bite. “I’ll send Mandy to the store when she gets back,” he says. “Or I can swing by myself, I don’t know.”
They eat their breakfast in silence, sitting face to face at the Milkovich kitchen table. Mickey looks tired and worn out and a little off, drinks two refills of coffee and still yawns as he finishes his breakfast. Ian reaches his hand across the table to touch him and he recoils, pulling his hands back reflexively. It’s a small thing, but it makes Ian’s heart ache all the same.
Mickey notices, realizes what he just did and bites his lip. He still feels uncertain about it, knows that it’s not something that’s going to change overnight. His hand is slightly shaky and even sweaty, but he reaches it out anyway, placing it on top of Ian’s and squeezing it.
It’s a hard thing to imagine, them touching like that. It’s something so little, but so important, Ian thinks, and they’re doing it. He smiles at Mickey, nudging him under the table with his foot, and the ache in his heart gives way to a flutter when Mickey smiles back at him.
Ian knows that change is slow. That their step last night was a big, risky one, but it makes the victory all that much sweeter, makes him want to take a thousand more giant steps with Mickey.
That’s what you get.
Yeah, Ian thinks. That’s what I get. Cooking Mickey breakfast and holding his hand in the kitchen seems like a very small thing, a baby step, but Ian thinks about the next ones. Kissing with the door open, touching him whenever he fucking wants to, calling him his to whoever will listen.
It’s a long way, he knows, but Mickey will hold his hand through it.