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Mickey is probably the only person on earth to know how it is to be proposed to every other week.
It’s a habit – albeit one of their least normal ones. A quote-on-quote normal habit, off the top of his head, would be filling two mugs with coffee every morning. It’s honestly as simple as that sometimes, and he’s still having trouble reiterating that to his paranoid and used-to-tension brain, but sometimes, Mickey will wake up first and he’ll stumble to the kitchen after a warm shower, and he’ll fill the two mugs to the brim with coffee, barely able to leave the pot down before he feels strong arms wrap around his middle. Mickey never turns, or lets Ian see the smile he cracks – he always stays still and nonchalant, like this is a normal occurrence. Because it is. And on the basis of that, another great example of an annoying habit the two of them have is how Ian will always wait for Mickey to turn around and press his back against the counter, let himself be trapped between Ian’s arms on either side of him with his mug raised to his lips – only then will Ian grin and say something about the extra sugar in Mickey’s coffee, something about sweet guys going for sweet drinks. Mickey never empties his boiling hot mug on his face, but he’s thought of doing it more times than he can count.
It’s sometimes enough to distract him from just how abnormal they can be – or how abnormal they are, have always been. As people, but mostly as a couple. Mickey can’t forget the early stages of this relationship, the hurt and the trauma, but it’s all gone now, even though it lingers like a black cloud over his head when he sometimes catches Ian looking at him from his peripheral, his face almost sorrowful for one reason or another, until Mickey will turn his head and Ian’s expression will morph into a smile, followed by an I love you and a kiss on his temple. Mickey never replies.
But this is not sorrowful. What Mickey’s talking about is perhaps one of the most abnormal aspects of their relationship – something that started as a one-off drunken joke, turned almost into tradition. To reiterate – every other Friday night, without fault, Mickey will inevitably be proposed to.
Yeah. It all started that one fatal evening, their first real date that didn’t involve shotgunning cheap beer or fucking outside with his back pressed against literal filth – they had both been buzzed off of the single wine bottle they could order and tittering amongst themselves. Mickey faintly remembers them playing footsie under the table, although their hands had been sharing gentler, fleeting touches in plain sight on the table, and it had felt good, felt good being able to look at Ian and laugh with Ian and talk to Ian in public, without the burden of constantly having to look over his back. And between all of that, Mickey not so faintly remembers Ian getting that look in his eye, bright and full of mirth, and telling him: “Watch this,” before sliding out of his seat, barely allowing Mickey’s eyebrows to furrow before he got into position, on one knee right in front of a stunned Mickey.
Mickey not so fondly remembers him hissing at Ian to get his ass off the floor and sit back down, remembers people starting to avert their attention from their food to the gay prick kneeling on the floor like an asshole – he also remembers Ian going on a fucking monologue about Mickey, about his eyes, about how he makes Ian a better person, whatever fucking bull his drunken brain could get out without stumbling through his words. Mickey had been glaring at him the whole time, semi-hidden behind the hand supporting his head on the table, and when Ian had finished with a very exaggeratedly breathy, very climactic: “Will you marry me?” to top it all off, Mickey had been acutely aware of the whole section of the restaurant staring at the two of them, breathless and hanging from his lips. Without thinking and with embarrassment and mortification creeping high up the back of his neck, Mickey had grit his teeth together and said yes, without even bothering to fake a smile. Ian had smiled, though, mischievous and bright, and Mickey couldn’t help but poke his tongue into his cheek and suppress his own little smile as his apparent fiance finally stood up and basked into the ridiculous applause that erupted around them, throwing his fucking fist into the air as if he had bothered to bring a fucking ring or even goddamn kiss Mickey after, just to give the illusion of sealing the deal. Maybe he wasn’t helping himself – the whole time their audience had been applauding Ian for his bullshit bravery, Mickey had been sitting with his face buried in his hands, waiting for it all to simmer down. The next time he lifted his head up, Ian had been sitting opposite from him with a lopsided grin and a waiter had been telling them that their meals were on the house.
So, it’s become some sort of a habit. It’s not that either of them is cheap, but why pay for something you could very easily have for free? Well, it’s easy for Ian, Mickey guesses – he hasn’t really recovered from the embarrassment of the first time, but he thinks he’s gotten better almost five years after, even bothering to put on a smile and let Ian kiss him after without so much as a little bite.
It’s never been a big deal. They both silently agreed early on that it would always be something they did for fun, some sort of activity that was reserved for Friday night – neither of them were into the overly romantic and marriage related crap, anyway, and Mickey had no issue with the prospect of them both never making honest women out of each other. Until he did.
Lately, Mickey finds his gaze lingering a bit more after Ian’s done and everybody’s waiting for him to say the word, the breathy yes stuck for a bit longer in his throat as his eyes take in Ian on his knees in front of him, for a reason that’s not crude for once, his hair slicked back to show off the faux earnest expression on his face, his eyes glowing green. Mickey has to physically pinch himself to say the word sometimes, and then Ian nods jerkily with that huge grin on his face that has never gone smaller since the first time, and they’ll kiss, and Mickey will have a melancholic tug in his chest for the rest of the night, far surpassing their free dessert. Mickey will feel it when Ian makes love to him after sometimes, will stare at the ceiling with his fingers digging into Ian’s shoulder-blades, Ian on top of him with his clueless fucking head hidden in the crook of his neck. And Mickey likes to refer to it as making love, but he doesn’t really know if Ian views it that way.
He knows Ian loves him. Even more than that, Mickey knows he loves Ian, and he doesn’t need any confirmation other than Ian throwing an arm around him and reaching for his hand before they fall asleep, groggily murmuring it in Mickey’s keen ear before exhaustion causes him to pass out and start snoring into Mickey’s hair. Maybe love is in the way Mickey can never find himself to mind too much.
But… he can’t help but wonder just how much of a joke it is to Ian. He doesn’t know if it should offend him that proposing to Mickey seems so sci-fi and impossible that it becomes funny in and of itself – it never has before, and he’s found it funny himself for fucking years. But Mickey’s getting older, and Mickey’s falling more in love with each passing day, and maybe growing old with matching bands on their fingers doesn’t have to be such an impossibility.
“Ian…” Mickey finds himself sighing one day – Ian’s on top of him, horizontal on the couch, between his legs, fully clothed and lazily sucking on his neck. Both of their stomachs are comfortably full with the dinner they conned their way into getting – Mickey tilts his head to the side to give him more access, staring at the wall thoughtfully. “Ian. You love me?”
Ian pauses with his lips on his neck, pulling back just a tad to look at him with incredulous eyes. “What?” he asks, eyes flicking between both of Mickey’s, now on him. “Of course,” he says, with a little gap between his lips, thoughtfully waiting for Mickey to elaborate. “Why’re you asking?”
Mickey swallows, his eyes dropping down to Ian’s chest as his fingers come up to fiddle with Ian’s collar. “No reason,” he says, like a liar, his eyes stuck on the loose thread under his fingers.
Ian doesn’t buy it. He raises his eyebrows, his thumb coming up to rub on Mickey’s hand as it plays with his shirt, “This about the chick that hit on me in the parking lot?”
“What? What chick, Freckles?” Mickey raises an eyebrow, gently shoves Ian away by the collar of his shirt – it only makes him laugh, makes him move closer. “Could give a shit. Ain’t you strictly dickly?”
“Well – yeah,” Ian smiles. “But sometimes you forget.”
Mickey nods, eyes still not meeting Ian’s – if Ian senses something’s wrong, he doesn’t mention it, just pouts and tickles Mickey’s cheek with his nose, creased forehead resting against his temple. Mickey keeps staring at the wall, deep in thought.
“Have fun today?” Ian asks him, hesitantly – as dumb as he may be sometimes, Ian’s not stupid, and Mickey’s glad to know he’s at least able to pick up on a quite obvious tonal shift in his mood. Or maybe rueful of the fact in moments like these, when the reason why his mood is sour is embarrassing to say the least. Fucking mortifying.
“Hm?” he hums, taking a chance and looking at Ian in the eyes, his smiling eyes. “Yeah,” he smiles back, “although the food was shit. How come every restaurant you pick ends up being fucking terrible?”
“I told you not to get the mushrooms,” Ian scoffs, nose nuzzling into Mickey’s cheek as he settles his weight on top of him more, trying to relax his tense muscles. “You hate mushrooms.”
Mickey wants to continue with the conversation, wants to say something about Ian’s equally poor choice in dish, but all he can do is tip his head back and stare at the ceiling, slowly breathing out of his nose as he sinks back into deep thought. He hates this – hates the distant ache in his chest even with Ian flush against him, hates the gaping hole he feels in his heart at the thought of taking the next step in this shitshow of a relationship. That hole becomes deeper and wider as he is reminded that this is probably the last thing on Ian’s mind, how he has quite literally fucking laughed at the prospect of marrying Mickey before, either brought up solely for the purpose of a joke by Mickey or others – and the thing is, Mickey had laughed, too, but he doesn’t feel like it anymore. Instead of viewing it like an unattainable impossibility, Mickey yearns for it, and not only for the validation that would come with Ian wanting to marry him – Mickey wants to tie the knot and settle down, perhaps has always done so, ever since he was a teenager and had a permanent vendetta with the shower.
Ian’s eyes are on him, and he can feel them, but he still doesn’t look down.
“Okay,” Ian sighs eventually – there’s a bit of uncomfortable shuffling as he wiggles down and wedges himself between Mickey’s side and the couch, nearly pushing Mickey off onto the floor. Mickey’s forced to obey and lay himself down on Ian’s chest instead, head safely lying on his sternum, with only minimal fussing and huffing. “Tell me what’s up.”
“Nothing’s up,” Mickey tuts, then rubs his cheek against Ian’s chest, as if that will get him not to see through his bullshit. Ian always sees through his bullshit.
“Nah, you just laid on top of me without making a show of not wanting to. Or accidentally kick me in the balls,” says Ian, bright and fond – it makes Mickey even sadder, because Ian knows this is what he does, just how he knows that Ian loves to hold him on top of his chest, but however much they know about the other, Ian would still rather drink bleach than marry him. “Something’s up.”
“Stop saying it like that. Like I’m some bitch and I’m making you passively read my mind,” Mickey responds, narrowing his eyes when Ian does it first. “Nothing’s up. I was just… thinking.”
“Right,” Ian grins, “thought I could smell smoke.”
“Shut up,” Mickey bites his nipple through his shirt, putting his ear against his sternum again as Ian’s hand lazily cards through his hair. The rhythmical beating of his heart momentarily distracts him from the ache in his chest, and he smiles faintly, his mind racing. “Was thinking about your speech tonight.”
“Yeah?” Ian scoffs. “What was so special about it?”
“Do you have to take a dump on the conversation when I’ve barely started it?”
Ian pauses, and Mickey feels him take a deep breath as his chest expands and then concaves. “What about my speech, honey?” he tries again, sickly sweet and fake.
“That’s better,” Mickey tells him, although it isn’t. “And… I don’t know. I just liked it.”
Ian smiles, at least. “Liked it? I say the same shit every night.”
“Yeah, but you added that bit tonight,” Mickey sniffs casually, rests his chin on Ian’s chest so he can look up at him, look at Ian’s hooded lids as he peers down at him. “About how you can’t imagine being with somebody else and, like… how you want to spend the rest of your life with me.”
Ian doesn’t say anything for a while, looking at him with an incredulous little smile and a confused furrow of his eyebrows. “You liked that?”
“Well… yeah.”
“Huh,” he hums, knuckles starting to softly run down the arch of Mickey’s spine over his shirt absently. “Glad you liked it, baby.”
Mickey hums, too, nods his head uselessly, his chin still propped up to give Ian a view of his face, but his eyes are on his own hands, folded further up on Ian’s sternum. He laughs through his nose, shakes his head in embarrassment at what he’s about to ask: “Did you, like… Did you mean it?”
He doesn’t sense Ian’s breathing skip a beat or anything from his close proximity to his chest, although he thinks his own does, and he hopes Ian can’t tell. He’s still not looking at him, but he guesses Ian’s staring, because there are two eye-shaped holes ready to burn through the skin of his face any second now.
“Uh…” Ian laughs, hand pausing on his spine. “That a trick question?”
“No,” Mickey scoffs, then promptly decides to put his cheek flush against Ian’s chest again, as an effort to hide its rapid blushing. “Not everything’s a personal attack, Gallagher. Forget it.”
“I don’t wanna forget it – I was joking,” he says, his finger gently pushing on Mickey’s hot cheek so that his chin’s propped up on his chest again, peering up at him reluctantly. “You asking me if I meant that I can’t imagine myself with anybody but you? Of course I did.”
Mickey chews on his cheek. “How about every other time?”
“Every other time.”
“The first time,” he adds, his eyebrow poised in challenge. “When you said you love me more than life or some shit. I mean– Everybody says shit like that in the crappy movies you watch, anyway. How do I know you’re not just repeating what you’ve heard?”
Ian’s smiling, fond and amused. “You remember what I said five years ago?”
Mickey feels the tips of his ears burn, but he scoffs, gently thumping a soft fist on Ian’s chest. “You asking me if I remember my boyfriend confessing his love to me in public for the first time? Even if it was only a joke?” He doesn’t know if he wants the slight jab to go unnoticed. “Then, yeah. I do.”
“Doesn’t hurt to ask. I mean– We were piss drunk.”
“You don’t forget something like that.”
“What exactly do you need to know?” says Ian, a bit more serious, and Mickey almost gets whiplash from the tonal shift.
Suddenly, he feels small, embarrassed. “I don’t need to know anything. I’d like to know if any of the shit you make me hear every other Friday holds any legitimate ground.”
Steadily, Ian holds his gaze, his silence slowly tearing off a piece of Mickey’s sanity as time moves leisurely around them. “Sounds like you need to know to me.”
Mickey sucks his lower lip in his mouth, nodding his head with his eyes not leaving Ian’s. “Fine,” he says, pats his stomach a couple times before he tries to peel himself away, shrugging a shoulder. “Forget I asked.”
“God, Mick!” Ian laughs, wrapping his fingers around Mickey’s wrist before he can get too far. “You gonna leave over a fucking joke? Come on– I was teasing.”
Mickey licks the side of his mouth, “I was gonna grab a beer.”
“Like fuck you were gonna grab a beer,” he says, digs his teeth into his lower lip through a wide grin as he sits up, pulling Mickey into him by the wrist. Mickey puts on the aforementioned show of pretending like it’s a burden at best, but he lets himself melt into it once Ian’s got him sitting up with his back against his chest, between his legs, arms around his middle safely. Ian squeezes once and lets himself breathe in the scent of Mickey’s hair, leaning down to softly hum into his ear. “Of course I meant it,” he breathes, and a tingle runs down Mickey’s spine. “All of it. I love you.”
He lets a moment pass, lets himself soak up what’s been said, and then Mickey tilts his head back and peers up at Ian, timid but determined. “Even the shit about spending the rest of your life with me?”
Carefully, Mickey watches Ian suck his lower lip into his mouth, and he tries not to deflate as the man that loves him leans down to leave a lingering kiss on his temple, then a more loving one on his mouth. Mickey keeps his eyes open, because it’s still not an answer.
“How’s your food?”
Mickey stops playing with his spaghetti to look up at Ian, curiously peering at him with his chin propped up on one fist. He’s smiling, and Mickey wants to think it’s fond, so he tries to match it with a shrug – he probably doesn’t succeed much.
“It’s alright,” he says, twists his mouth and puts the fork down skeptically. Mickey’s nervous, if his rapidly bouncing leg is anything to go by, and he rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to find the words to use. “Ian–”
“You ready?” Ian says at the same time, Mickey’s voice drowned out by the excitement. He squeezes Mickey’s hand on the table, big and warm and the hand Mickey wants to hold for the rest of his life.
Mickey sucks on his lower lip. “How about we pay this time? I’m starting to think you’re getting cheap on me.”
“Nah, not cheap. Just broke,” Ian raises an eyebrow, then promptly grins, sliding down in position on the floor in front of Mickey.
Instantly, Mickey feels the eyes on them. He doesn’t look anywhere other than Ian, though, who’s already started talking – he doesn’t want to focus on anything he’s saying, doesn’t want to hear it only to obsess over it later, dissect and analyze every word until the doubts and insecurities become too much to bear and he ends up sliding out of Ian’s hold in the middle of the night and sleeping on the couch, only to lie and say he got up for a glass of water and ended up falling asleep when he’s asked. Mickey hates lying to Ian, or calculatedly omitting anything that would prove to be an obstacle to something that’s already so easy, which is waking up with Ian, hugging Ian, teasing Ian, doing everything except the obvious.
Mickey’s practically already fucking hitched. He lives with Ian, he goes grocery shopping with him, his siblings call him brother – hell, he goes to Liam’s fucking parent-teacher conferences, for fuck’s sake. Why does he need a piece of paper to make all of it stand all of a sudden?
When he snaps out of it, Ian’s staring at him expectantly, still on one knee.
“Huh?” Mickey breathes, because he’s an idiot, and he can hear some of the people that have stopped to stare laugh quietly – it’s probably cute, seeing a groom-to-be turning into brainless mush at the sight of his soon-to-be-husband knelt in front of him. Mickey’s not a fucking groom-to-be, though.
Ian laughs, too, grin wide and genuine. “I said: will you marry me?”
He’s too smiley, eyes too glowing green and beautiful. Mickey swallows, his eyes timidly flicking over to some of the faces around him – they’re all holding their breaths, smiling at him encouragingly – and then back on Ian, whose eyes are becoming more curious by the second. Mickey rubs a finger into his eye, shakes his head.
“Ian–” he starts, and it’s all it takes for Ian’s eyebrows to shoot up into his hairline, for people to start murmuring around them. Mickey could care fucking less – all he does is look down at Ian apologetically, slowly push his plate away from the edge of the table. “I can’t–” he pauses, wanting to say more, but his eyes are stinging too much and his throat’s becoming constricted. “I’m sorry,” is all he says before he gets out of his chair, dodging through the frozen waiters and the dozens of eyes on him as he makes a swift exit.
He tries to hoard as much air into his lungs as soon as he’s out in the parking lot, pushes his hands into his hair and leaves them there, trying to get over the fucking mortification. He doesn’t know if he wants Ian to stay where the fuck he’s kneeling or follow him more than the other, but he thinks he’s gonna get his free meal after all. The owner’s feeling too embarrassed on his behalf, probably – it’s not every day that you get shut down and rejected by a walking talking piece of white trash in front of dozens of people.
He sits at the bus stop, right outside of the place, and waits, his arms folded in front of his chest partly because of the need to make himself smaller and partly because of the cold. He sits and he thinks, and it hits him; it’s not the piece of paper that he wants most of all, or at all, really – it’s the confirmation he’s after, and the knowledge that Ian’s committed and will do that for him, as fucked up both of their relationships to marriage are. Ian can say he’s committed all he wants, but actions speak louder than words at the end of the day, and if they love each other so much, how come the ultimate form of commitment is something they won’t tread on?
He doesn’t want to admit it out loud, but Mickey wants that for them, and when there’s a familiar weight sinking down next to him on the seat, he lets his shoulders slump forward with a sigh.
Ian’s watching him, steady and curious. “You okay?” he says, with the exhaustion of a man who’s had his bitch of a boyfriend walk out on him mid fake proposal.
Mickey scoffs, his fingertip digging into the corner of his eye, where a tiny tear has formed, “Golden. Can’t fucking tell?”
“I was just asking,” Ian tells him, no malice behind it. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Mickey sniffs, staring at his hands that are now folded and dangling between his knees, legs open and stiff. He doesn’t reply, only tries not to let the cold bother him too much, and tries to forget that the reason why he didn’t bring something thicker than his jacket is that he thought Ian would keep him warm.
Ian nods at him, “Right. I don’t know how I’m supposed to help if you won’t talk.”
He laughs at that, low and mocking in his throat – Ian’s never had a fucking way with words. Mickey doesn’t even know if he’s trying to be helpful, or if it’s just his mere presence that’s making his anger pile up in him the way that it is.
“What’s so funny? How you walked out on me back there and now you won’t even tell me what’s up?”
Mickey looks at him, hard and daring. “You this wound up over having to pay for some fucking dinner?”
“Screw the fucking dinner– I’m wound up because I’ve been asking you what you’re upset for this past week and you haven’t even bothered to tell me! What the fuck happened to communication? Telling each other everything?”
Mickey’s smiling, but it’s not genuine – it’s angry, dangerous. “Forget it,” he says, with all the calmness that’s left in him, something tells him not for long.
“Don’t tell me to fucking forget it! Look– I love you. You know what that means? It means I care about what you have to say and about whatever stick’s up your ass. You aware of that concept?”
“Because I’m always the fucking bonehead, aren’t I, Gallagher?” Mickey spits. “I’m the one with the emotional IQ of a brick, ain’t that right?”
“The fuck are you putting words in my mouth for?”
“I’m not putting shit in your mouth – you think I’m deaf?” he says, not caring if he’ll regret it afterwards – it’s not like it hasn’t been stirring inside him for years, drowned out by his love and admiration and awe. “Deaf, blind, and dumb? You think I don’t hear you talking shit about me with your shithead brother and whoever will listen to you?”
Ian stares at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Look, Gallagher,” Mickey starts, because this is a can of worms he doesn’t want to open – even though he’s right, he knows he’s right. “I don’t give a shit about what you say when you think I’m not listening – just don’t give me the I love you bullshit.”
It’s not the best way to put it – Ian doesn’t take his eyes off of him, laughing bitterly after a few beats of silence. “You think I don’t love you?”
Mickey exhales through his nose. “I don’t know,” he says, and something in Ian’s face twists, and he turns his body so that it’s completely facing Mickey. “I don’t know, Ian. I don’t know what to believe if– if the thought of marrying me is such a fucking sci-fi concept that you keep joking about it with fucking Lip and– and making a joke out of it every other week. I don’t know.”
Ian’s eyes go wide. “This is what this is about?” Mickey doesn’t speak. “You think I don’t love you because I don’t like the idea of marriage?”
“It’s not that you don’t like the idea of marriage, Ian. You don’t like the idea of marrying me, because I’m such a fucking Neanderthal to you. Did you know I know what that word means?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” Mickey rubs his hand absently over his arm, the gooseflesh starting to become borderline unbearable. “I’m saying it like it is. Ain’t that what your brother’s been telling you from the day you started fucking around with me?”
“The fuck’s up with you and Lip?” Ian says. “Why can’t we talk about this without bringing him into it?”
“Think it’s only fair since he can’t keep my name out of his mouth.”
Ian sucks in his cheek, his hard stare penetrating, but Mickey doesn’t back down. “So… what?” says Ian. “You’re upset because of my relationship with marriage?”
“Oh, boo fucking hoo, Ian,” Mickey glares at him. “Get the fuck over yourself. I’m not upset – it bothers me that I’m such a big fucking joke to you.”
“Because I don’t want to marry you?” Ian explodes, and it stings, but Mickey tries to blame his flinching on the cold. “Since when do you have a fucking problem with that? Why such a fucking advocate for marriage all of a sudden?”
“I love you!” Mickey yells back, faintly glad they’re the only ones around. “Is that so bad? Is it so bad that I want you to love me, too?”
“And you need a fucking piece of paper to know that?”
“I need you to show me that I’m not a fucking joke to you!”
“You think you’re a joke to me,” Ian laughs, pausing with his tongue in his cheek to think his words over. “You want us to get married? Want us to book a fucking venue and go tux shopping? Huh?”
Mickey’s jaw sets. “Fuck you.”
“Want us to walk down the fucking aisle and say our vows? Wear rings like good little bitches?”
“Fuck you!”
“Think about it!” continues Ian. “This isn’t us! And I’m sorry if I rubbed salt on your wounds with this proposal joke, alright? I didn’t know you really wanted it.” He laughs again, bitterly: “Ever heard of communication being key in marriage, Mick? The fuck makes you think it’s for you?”
“Keep my fucking name out of your mouth,” Mickey points at him. “Alright? Save it for your next in depth conversation with Lip about whatever the fuck’s wrong with me.”
Ian rubs a hand over his mouth, seething.
“You don’t know dick about me,” Mickey continues, physically hurting him to say. “I thought you did, but you don’t. It’s been eight fucking years, Ian. Eight. We’re not kids anymore.”
Ian shakes his head, frozen, eyes boring into his. “You can’t make me marry you, Mickey.”
He lets it sink in, lets himself look at Ian and suck his own lip into his mouth, nod and go back to staring at his hands. “I know,” he confirms, “that was never my intention.”
Another breeze passes, and Mickey lets that long overdue shiver run down his spine – it’s partly because it’s chilly, partly because he can’t stand to be around Ian, as much as he aches for it at the same time. Mickey finds himself physically repulsed, wanting to get away as soon as possible, and it’s killing him because never in his life has he felt the need to.
“You’re cold,” Ian says, and Mickey faintly registers him shrugging off his jacket as he digs the heel of his palm into his eye.
“Keep it,” Mickey tells him.
“Mick,” Ian says in warning, draping the jacket over his shoulders and sighing as he lets his hands drop in his lap. He watches him for a beat longer, eyes sad and all-consuming. “I love you. You know that, at least?”
Mickey shrugs a shoulder, pulling the jacket tighter around his shoulders, eyes on his shoes.
“Mickey. I love you.”
“Yeah,” says Mickey, opting to stand up in order not to kick himself. Ian looks alarmed, sitting up in his seat.
“Where are you going?”
Mickey’s already walking away, jacket pooling around his frame as he pulls it on, “Home.”
Ian has the tact to stand up, at least, but Mickey still doesn’t hear him walk behind him, “The bus will be here any minute now!”
“I’m walking,” Mickey calls back. “Don’t follow me.”
He doesn’t.
“Fucking– You’re still here?”
Mickey lifts his head off of the couch cushion, fixing Mandy with a glare as she shuts the door behind herself. “I told you I ain’t leaving,” he tells her, eyes back on the TV.
When he said he was going home, Mickey didn’t really mean it – but Terry’s in jail, and everybody else is either at work or out on drug runs most of the time, so he figured taking refuge in his childhood house wasn’t that bad of an idea.
He’s been ignoring Ian. It’s been a little over a week, but he has been ignoring Ian’s calls, and his messages, and has been trying to tell himself it’s a good thing Ian hasn’t sought him out here yet. He must know Mickey’s here, to be fair – where else could he go?
“Mick,” Mandy says, dropping her bag onto the armchair and crossing her arms over her chest. “Go the fuck home. Ian’s going fucking crazy – he’s driving me fucking crazy!”
Mickey tries not to perk up at the mention of his name, “I said no. You can kick me out if you want – I’ll sleep in the park before I sleep at the Gallaghers’.”
“I’m not gonna kick you out,” she grumbles, like she’s rueful of the fact that she loves him that much. “And take that shit off if you’re gonna pretend you don’t miss him,” she adds, gesturing towards Ian’s jacket that Mickey’s been drowning in ever since he got here, that night when it all went to shit. He flips her off, and she matches him as she stalks off toward her bedroom, probably planning to call Gallagher for a fully fledged report on his apathy. Good.
Mickey’s not apathetic, quite obviously. He misses Ian, wants to forget about it all and just show up on his doorstep and let him hold him, let him tease him and kiss him and all the stuff he yearns for. He wants to say he’s sorry, but most of all he wants Ian to see him for who he is and what he wants, and he wants them to talk about it, and he wants Ian to recognize that he’s worthy of commitment. Mickey’s not sixteen anymore, and he doesn’t want to settle for somebody who can’t give him that commitment – even if that person is Ian, even if he might as well never love like this again.
Mickey watches TV as Mandy clatters away in her bedroom, his hand absently reaching up and bringing the collar of the godforsaken jacket up so that it covers half of his face, inhaling in Ian’s scent that lingers on after a week of unwash. He’s absolutely drowning in it, and it only makes him miss Ian more – makes him miss his strong arms, hugging him or touching him or manhandling him, makes him miss the way his sharp smile would press into Mickey’s neck in the morning when he could not be bothered. He wants to take it off, but it’s become more attached to him than his own skin.
Mickey’s still lying there when Iggy comes walking through the door, pulling him out of the first two calm minutes of shut eye he’s had in a week, two minutes that weren’t spent thinking about Ian. He looks at him, assesses the situation, then promptly groans as he shuts the door behind him.
“Glad to see you, too,” Mickey murmurs, sleepy against Ian’s jacket. “Nothing like brotherly love.”
“Ain’t you working today?” Iggy says, ignoring him, letting himself drop down onto the armchair after throwing Mandy’s bag on the floor. “Or are you planning to melt off into that couch?”
“Not working today, and yes,” Mickey says. Iggy grabs the remote and starts to channel surf, even though Mickey was very much watching something.
“Right,” Iggy mutters, his eyes on the screen. “They got some other five foot faggot runnin’ after those poor shoplifters?”
Mickey nuzzles further into his love’s jacket, wishing he could just go to sleep with no complications for once in his life. “Say that again and I’m gonna kick your ass,” he mumbles, though he doubts he sounds very intimidating.
Iggy never finds him intimidating, anyway. He sighs, settles on a random channel and leans his arms on his knees to look at him, waiting for him to open his eyes before he starts speaking. “Why the fuck aren’t you home, Mick?”
Mickey closes his eyes, “I told you.”
“Wasn’t good enough.”
“My partner thinking marrying me is the funniest shit on earth ain’t good enough?” Mickey scoffs. “Fine. I’ll call you when he starts beating the shit out of me.”
“Not funny,” Iggy hits him over the head with a pillow, and Mickey silently agrees. “Don’t joke about that.”
“Since when do you care?” Mickey tells him, although it’s a pretty easily debunkable question – the only person who probably loves him more than Iggy is Mandy, and he still thinks that there’s no difference between the two if he were to ever put his finger on it, but he likes to hear it sometimes. Not that they’ll ever tell each other, God forbid, but Mickey’s tired, and heartbroken, and he really wishes he had a tub of ice cream like those chicks in Ian’s rom-coms that he’s made fun of up until he was forcibly put in their shoes. “You’ve been beating the shit out of me since I was old enough to feel it.”
“It was a brotherly beating,” says Iggy, and Mickey narrows his eyes at him. “Multiple brotherly beatings. Whatever. Go home.”
“This is my home.”
“Bullshit!” Iggy laughs. “You stopped stepping foot in here as soon as you found an out – and that’s fucking great! I encourage that! Go home to Gallagher.”
Mickey groans, “Am I that unbearable? Why are you people trying to kick me out?”
“Because I don’t wanna see you sulking on the couch unless I’m directly responsible,” Iggy eyes him, lingering on the way Mickey keeps sniffing at the collar of the jacket – like a fucking prick. “Man, take that shit off.”
“I’ll do it,” Mickey tuts, burying his face back into the collar. “At some point.”
“You’re out of control,” Iggy says, leaning back in his seat. “You know what also smells like Gallagher? Gallagher.”
Mickey sniffs, settling further into the cushions, “Fuck Gallagher.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You have to tell me?” says Mickey, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye. “Listen, man – I just need some time to think through things, alright? Things can’t be normal after all this, can they?”
“Because he doesn’t want to get hitched?” Iggy exclaims, incredulous.
“It’s not getting hitched that’s the problem! It’s what it means!” cries Mickey, chewing on his cheek at the disbelieving glare Iggy gives him. “Why doesn’t he want to get hitched at the end of the day? He would if he loved me, wouldn’t he? I’m pushing thirty soon, Igs! I need to know!”
“What are you, some chick? Chasing after the fucking ring?”
“Aye, shut the fuck up,” Mickey points at him, tone dangerous. “You know I don’t give a shit about no ring.”
Iggy’s leg bounces. “Then what the fuck is it?”
“Are you listening to me?” Mickey tuts. “I just feel like… if he loved me as much as I loved him, he would want to do it. I don’t want to force him to, man – I ain’t about that,” he says, sitting up on the couch for the first time today, his head spinning with it as he tries to relax his tense muscles. “I would think that marrying your partner would be something nice instead of, like… a chore. Even the biggest fuckin’ meathead would be able to understand that.” He eyes his brother. “Even you.”
“When you put it like that…” Iggy trails off, snagging Mickey’s half-finished beer from earlier off of the tabletop and grimacing as he feels it run warm down his throat. “And?”
Mickey burps. “And what?”
“And? What are you planning to do?”
“Jack shit is what I’m planning to do,” Mickey shakes his head, propping his feet up on the table with a sigh. “If he wants to talk about it, I’m here. If not, guess it’s done for.”
“Mandy says you’ve been hanging up on him!”
“Well, is he here?”
Iggy throws his head back and laughs, his face buried in both of his palms – it sounds frustrated if anything. “Fucking hell – you’re such a goddamn pain in the ass!” he groans, voice sounding muffled.
“Whatever,” mutters Mickey.
Iggy doesn’t leave him be, because he never has – is probably unfamiliar with the concept – so he leans back forward, fixing Mickey with a serious stare. “You can’t be serious.”
Mickey doesn’t look at him. “Dead serious.” He’s not.
“You mean to tell me you been with this guy since you were a snotty little kid and you’re gonna break it off now?” he raises his eyebrows, and when he puts it like that, Mickey has to look at him. “Mean to tell me that you stayed with him even after Terry gave you the ass-kickin’ of your life – not to mention–”
“Then don’t,” Mickey’s quick to interject.
“Fine. And after all of that, you’re breaking it off because of a technicality?”
“Technicality?” Mickey laughs, a sad, breathy little thing through his nose. Iggy’s looking at him, but it’s not malicious or hard. “I feel betrayed,” Mickey tells him, his heart on his sleeve, because it’s his brother. “I want us to be on the same page, you know? I love him.”
He doesn’t think about the euphoria he should feel over finally being able to say it out loud. “I know,” says Iggy, idly scratching at his palm. “I know. I don’t think this is what he wants.”
Mickey glares at him.
“I mean this whole distance thing– Not marrying you,” he huffs, shrugging a shoulder on second thought. “Although… That second one’s pretty debatable right now.”
“Can you be a fucking big brother for once in your life?”
“Fine,” Iggy scoffs, sitting up in his seat and fixing him with a harsh glare. “Stop acting like a bitch and make things right before you lose the only thing you’ve got left. Call him. Go over there. Whatever – do something.”
Mickey doesn’t budge. “He’s not the only thing I’ve got left. My life doesn’t revolve around Ian.”
“Okay,” Iggy rubs two fingers over his temple. “I have to ask. What would be ideal for you? What do you fucking want?”
Mickey ignores the possibility of Iggy not meaning for it to come across as genuine, and he thinks, eyes set on his fingers that are fiddling with the long sleeves of Ian’s jacket, “I want…” He thinks. “I want him to come over. Tell me what this is to him. I told him – I told him where I stand, and he’s a fucking boneheaded prick if he still doesn’t get it.”
Iggy hums. “And… you want him to propose?”
“No,” Mickey tuts, incredulous. “Well– I don’t want him to propose if he doesn’t want to. I’m not crazy, Igs. I never wanted that – it’s all of you assholes that keep twisting my words.”
Iggy’s got some sort of glint in his eye, one that can never be good, “Right.”
Mickey watches him. “I want him to do it by himself, Igs. No calling him over,” he raises an eyebrow. “Alright?”
“The fuck you think I am?” Iggy scoffs, heaving himself off the armchair to start slowly walking over to Mickey’s old room – the one he started hogging ever since Mickey unofficially moved out. “Wouldn’t hurt you to go over there yourself, though.”
“Ha!” Mickey exclaims. “I’ve done my part! Won’t hurt him to step up for a change.”
“Right– That’s the fucking spirit that will get you two back together.”
“Who said I want to?”
“Good one!” Iggy yells, lingering at the doorframe. Mickey throws a glare over his shoulder. “But seriously– Do call me if you get back together and he starts beating the shit out of you.”
“Ha. So you can watch?” Mickey says.
Iggy raises an eyebrow. “So I can kick his fucking ass,” he says, effectively gaining Mickey’s attention. “Knock his teeth out of his head? Kill him.”
Mickey stares at him, one side of his mouth quirking up involuntarily. “Thanks,” he says, ever so casually, like Iggy’s offering to grab him a six-pack on his way to work.
“No problem,” he calls before he shuts the door to Mickey’s old room, leaving Mickey to go on with his extended schedule of smelling Ian’s jacket like a dog in heat.
His self-control goes to shit a week later, while he’s passively shoving dirty laundry into their piece of shit washing machine in the bathroom, grumbling something about incompetent sisters and brothers ignoring him asking for help. Mickey’s been transformed into a housewife the past two weeks, as much as everybody else would like to think he just sits around sulking all day – determinedly not true, sort of, kind of – and it’s the only thing making him want to forget about his pro-marriage schtick. If he ever got married – to somebody other than Ian, as it seems – Mickey wouldn’t be caught dead on laundry duty again, and that’s a promise.
What was he talking about? Oh, yeah, the destruction of his self-control – something that happens when he looks up from the pile of laundry by his feet and his eyes land on the object of both his painstaking love and wrath for the past fortnight. Ian, in all his handsome glory, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom door with a fucking bouquet of flowers in his hands of all things.
Mickey doesn’t know what to say. Except– “Are you serious?” he deadpans, gesturing towards the offending item in Ian’s hands in disregard.
Ian shrugs, “Carl said it’s romantic. Stole ‘em off some poor lady’s backyard.”
“So, they’re from Carl,” Mickey raises an eyebrow, and it’s not a question. Ian licks at his teeth in frustration at the reaction, so Mickey decides to snag them off Ian’s hands and give them an appreciative sniff. They smell of nothing. “I’ll take ‘em, in this case. Don’t wanna offend him,” he mumbles, his eyes passively flicking over to Ian’s chest before he leaves Carl’s bouquet in the bathtub and carries on with the laundry. “How is he?”
“Carl? Golden,” Ian laments, crossing his arms over his chest – still casually leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve been terrible if you care at all.”
“Oh, I’m sad to hear that,” he tuts. “How’d Liam’s math test go?”
“You could catch up with everybody yourself, you know,” Ian points out, eyebrow poised high. “Home?”
“Would rather do it via the King of Communication,” smiles Mickey, angrily shoving a random shirt into the washing machine – he faintly thinks he’s thrown both a red and white one in there, but he can’t seem to care about it too much. Iggy looks decent enough in pink. “Ain’t that you, Hot Shot?”
“Don’t be like this.”
“I’m not any type of way,” he says, abandoning the laundry to put both hands on his hips, staring at Ian determinedly. “I want some time to think, Ian. This isn’t a fight about your snoring, it’s–” he scrubs a hand down his face, catching himself before he mentions it. “It’s important.”
“How important can it be if it’s tearing us apart like this?”
“It’s important to me,” Mickey elaborates. “And it’s important because it’s tearing us apart. I don’t want to play nice anymore, Red. You hear me? No more keeping it in. If communication’s what you want, it’s what you’ll get.”
Ian’s still standing with his arms crossed, and he looks so good, too good for Mickey to keep his knees intact. He tries, but he hasn’t seen Ian in fourteen fucking nights, and he’d just been able to start forgetting how much he really misses him. It’s all coming back in full force, especially when he’s smiling at him like this.
“I appreciate that,” he tells Mickey, eyes boring into his soul.
Mickey swallows. “I’m glad,” he says, trying to ignore Ian taking a step forward casually.
He draws closer, and closer, and his hand cups Mickey’s jaw while the other brushes back his hair, and he has to resist the urge to close his eyes at the sensation he’s so missed. It becomes too much when he leans in and plants a lingering kiss on Mickey’s cheek, it’s when Mickey decidedly can’t take it anymore. “Ian,” he says, soft and not at all commanding, but it gets Ian to gently pull away nonetheless, hands still on his worried head.
“I love you,” is all Ian says, and Mickey almost gets whiplash from how quickly his eyes have gone from challenging to pleading. “I miss you. I can’t keep throwing my arm around thin air in the morning.”
Mickey manages a shaky laugh, breathed through his nose, “That all I am to you? Some pillow?”
“A sexy one– The kind you dry hump,” Ian points out, and they both laugh, Mickey a tad bit more tearily. “Come on, Mick. Come home,” he continues, thumb starting to stroke above Mickey’s jaw. “If I’m not enough, the kids and adult kids are all asking for you. Liam hasn’t left me alone.”
“Of course you’re enough,” Mickey is quick to say, smiling at the thought of Liam. Ian’s not the only Gallagher he’s missed, as it turns out. “You’ll always be enough, Ian, but… I need to look out for myself,” he sniffs, and Ian’s eyes soften even more, if it was possible. “For once, I want to look out for myself. I can’t be with somebody who– who thinks my commitment is a fucking joke.”
“You were never a joke,” Ian says, louder than everything else. “Don’t ever say that.”
Mickey closes his mouth, torn on what to say. “Can you leave?” he whispers, afraid that if he’s any louder, he’ll say what he really means. “Please.”
“I need to do something first,” Ian replies, smiling sadly. Mickey barely has time to react before Ian’s softly holding onto his hips and sliding down onto one knee, but he does react tenfold once he’s given the chance; he breathes out a teary exhale to calm himself and smacks Ian across the head, ignores his incredulous cry.
“Get up, fuckhead,” he implores, his voice implying there’s no room for discussion. “You hear me? Leave, Ian.”
“Let me do this,” Ian pleads, his hands still grasping on Mickey’s hips – Mickey doesn’t want to think about how he’s so tall that he doesn’t even need to reach up. “Let me do this and then I’ll leave.”
“I won’t, Gallagher,” Mickey laughs, but it’s not genuine – it’s angry, frustrated. “What do you think this is? Tag? I don’t want you to do this because I’m some naggy old bitch, I want you to–”
“I love you, Mickey Milkovich,” Ian begins, voice booming over Mickey’s pleas and protests.
“Fuck’s sake–” Mickey huffs, starting to tug at Ian’s wrist on his hip. “Ian! Get up!”
“I love you– Apparently more than I even thought before, because–” he pauses, laughing briefly. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you ever since you left me high and dry in that fucking bus stop. You got me wishing you weren’t such a midget so I could wear some of your clothes to bed.”
“Ian,” Mickey tries again, ignoring the comment. “Don’t do this.”
“I got a pile of ‘em on your pillow and I shove my face in them so I can fall asleep– This is who I am now,” Ian continues, undeterred – Mickey doesn’t mention the jacket Iggy had to force him out of a couple days ago. Ian laughs nervously, “I– I called Fiona and asked her how to fucking do this and– What to say, so…”
“Jesus Christ,” Mickey murmurs – how many people know about this torture? “Gallagher, I don’t know how else to put it. Get off of the damn floor.”
“She told me to speak from the heart so… Here goes,” Ian clears his throat, and Mickey contemplates when it will be necessary to kick him in the balls and shut his mouth.
“Last time I’m telling you this–”
“First time I ever saw you, I thought… Am I sure this fucking stinker has a spare pencil?” Ian starts, and Mickey has to rub a hand over his mouth to keep from spitting at him. “And then I thought… I didn’t think I was gonna get stabbed today.”
Mickey has to scoff at that, arms tight over his chest. “Served you right.”
“I think… first time I really saw you was that day I came over for that pedo’s gun,” Ian continues, and Mickey averts his eyes at the memory. “It was when you were straddling me, ready to blow my brains out with that pipe, and I thought… I never noticed his eyes are blue.”
Mickey rubs the side of his mouth, shielding said baby blues away from Ian’s sight.
“And then there was that blowjob that followed and I thought, I never noticed how nice his mouth is either.”
“Is this you speaking from the heart?”
“Well, yeah,” Ian clears his throat, fingers fiddling with Mickey’s boxers, where his hands lie on his hips. “I think I ended up staring at you more than I spoke to you the whole time we hung out,” he confesses, and Mickey knows – something that once made him so uncomfortable ended up soon becoming the highlight of his day, this hopeless, redheaded gay kid staring at him like he hung the moon and the stars. “And I spoke… a lot,” he laughs. “Memorized the line of your nose, how long your eyelashes are, how you kept scratching at your eyebrow when you caught me looking.”
They’re not kids anymore, but Mickey scratches his eyebrow again, and he jerks his hand away as Ian grins. “Gallagher,” he barks.
“And how you kept calling me Gallagher,” Ian reminisces. “Do you know how happy I got the first time you called me Ian? I didn’t sleep that night, I think.”
Mickey takes on rubbing at his lower lip instead.
“I’ve always thought you were beautiful. Even with the dirt and the scratches and the cuts on your face,” he says, smiling fondly. “And you didn’t even know it! Would strangle me if I ever mentioned it, in fact.”
Mickey’s aware that he’s blushing, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he lets his eyes flick down onto Ian’s bent leg. “Ain’t your knee cramped?” he tuts.
“Extremely,” Ian responds, but gets back on track soon enough. “You– You made me believe I’m worth something. Like, maybe there’s more to life than constantly trying to please everybody and– and turning myself into a sex object.”
Mickey has to admit he tears up a bit more at that, because the thought of Ian ever viewing himself in that light makes him want to hold him and never let go. “Gotta be at least presentable to be a sex object,” is what he says instead, and Ian laughs whole-heartedly.
“As much of an ugly motherfucker as I am–” he says, even though he doesn’t believe it, the cocky bastard, “–you make me be the best version of myself that I can be. I don’t just love you, Mick, I love– I love the person I am when I’m with you. The person you’ve made me be when I’m not with you.” He pauses to let Mickey react, although Mickey refuses to give him anything. “Since you’re so hung up on what Lip and I talk about– Wanna know what he told me the other day?”
Mickey snorts, “That the house smells better now that I’m gone?”
“I was sulking in our bed and holding one of those ratty vests you wear, and he walked in and looked at me and he said– He said, ‘If you loved yourself a quarter of the amount you love him, you’d get up and go over there to make this right,’” he says, sniffing and laughing tearily. “And I do love myself, I love myself because of you– It took too long to hit me, Mick, but it did.”
Mickey shakes his head, eyes apologetic, “I don’t want you to love yourself because of me, I want– I want you to love yourself when I’m not around, Ian. Regardless.”
“I do,” Ian pleads. “I love myself enough not to punish myself by letting you go.”
Mickey exhales loudly, eyes on the ceiling – if he looks at Ian a second longer, he’s gonna break down, and more so than he is already. “Ian,” he says firmly, looking down at him once again – his eyes like green diamonds, “I don’t want you to do this because you’re being forced to. You understand this? I’d never forgive myself.”
“I love you,” is all Ian says.
“Are you listening to me?”
“I love you,” Ian repeats, powerful and booming.
Mickey sighs in frustration, tugging at his wrist pleadingly, “Get up so we can talk about this properly. Please.”
“I can’t propose standing up.”
“Then don’t!” Mickey barks. “Don’t do it at all! Do you understand what I’m telling you? That’s not how it works!”
“What’s not how it works?” Ian barks back. “Is marriage not a union between two people who love each other to death? Don’t people get on one knee for the love of their lives? So they can live together and love together and grow old together?”
Mickey’s jaw ticks. “Cut the crap. You’re doing this because you feel like you don’t have an out,” he says, shakes his head on second thought. “Or because that fuckin’ traitor Iggy called you up with his big dumb fucking–”
“I can think for myself,” Ian interrupts. “I took you for granted because you were always there. I haven’t seen you in two weeks, and I miss you, and I can finally see what you were saying.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Ian pushes his tongue against his cheek, exhaling in frustration. “I want us to be more,” he says, tries to make it calm and collected. “I’ll always want us to be more, even when there isn’t more to be. I want to marry you!”
“Have you considered that maybe it’s too late?” Mickey snaps, and Ian’s mouth closes. He draws in a breath, “That I don’t want to marry you anymore? Especially if it’s out of pity?”
“It’s not out of– What do I have to do to get you to believe me?” Ian cries, fingers tight around his hips. Mickey’s silent, because he doesn’t fucking know himself – and he wants to let him speak, wants it so bad, but he doesn’t have the mind to contemplate his options. “I want to marry you because of you. Because of how you make me feel, and how I know I make you feel,” he gnaws on his bottom lip, the side of his mouth quirking slightly. “And I guess the tax breaks won’t hurt.”
Mickey laughs at that, low and reluctant. “You wanna marry me for the tax deduction?”
“Well, that first and foremost,” Ian says, and they both laugh, a nice break from the charge in the room. Ian sobers up quick enough, watching him like he matters more than anything else in the world. “You don’t have to say yes. You don’t have to do anything, but– Can you tell me you believe me? You believe I love you?”
Can he? “Ian–”
“It’s simple enough, Mick. Do you believe me when I say I love you more than life?”
Mickey swallows. Ian is earnest, and so beautiful in his eyes, and Mickey knows deep in his heart that it’s true, and it hurts. Reluctantly, he nods, and a tiny smile appears on Ian’s face.
“So… Mickey Milkovich,” Ian clears his throat, laughs as Mickey angrily wipes the tears from his eyes, irritated at himself for indulging this, “will you make me the happiest man on earth – happier than you already make me – and marry me?”
Mickey lets his shoulders shake slightly, hand sliding under his nose nervously, “Don’t do this to me.”
“You can say no,” Ian smiles sadly.
Mickey breathes out, his thumb stroking circles on Ian’s wrist absently, and he’s sure Ian’s skin is tingling under his. It’s what he wants for them – he wants them to be together, wants to make Ian’s skin tingle for eternity. He wants them to be better people – together.
“What are you waiting for?” Ian laughs, a little bit embarrassed. “I, ah… Fuck me, I don’t even have a ring…”
“Do I look like I give a shit about some ring?” Mickey snaps, offended it was even a possibility. Ian smiles warmly, fondly, like he’s missed the outbursts – Mickey feels warm with Ian, cold with himself. “Huh? Think I care about any of it?”
“Mickey. Will you?”
Mickey groans, scrubs both hands down his face, “I don’t want you to do this for me, Ian,” he repeats, and Ian’s watching him when he opens his eyes. “Don’t make me say it again. Don’t do this to me.”
“Say no.”
Mickey exhales shakily, looks up at the ceiling.
“Say it. Say no.”
“I can’t–” he shakes his head when his voice comes out thick and croaky, his thumb and index finger rubbing over both of his teary eyes. He watches Ian, stripped bare, “I can’t.”
Ian rubs his thumbs over his hips encouragingly, one of his hands trapped under Mickey’s still. “Then what do you suggest?” he smiles, his grin only growing wider with each passing second Mickey glares at him. “Mickey. This is the third time I ask, and I’ll ask three hundred more if I need to– Will you marry me?”
Mickey lets a tear slide down, finally, but doesn’t let it travel too far down before he furiously wipes at it, a wet laugh escaping his throat. Ian is watching him, his being slowly engulfed by euphoria. “Are you gonna change your mind on me, Gallagher?” Mickey croaks, raising an eyebrow at him.
Ian tilts his head to the side, “This isn’t a dinner reservation, Mickey.”
Mickey finds himself nodding before Ian’s done speaking, but realizes soon enough his bonehead of a fiance doesn’t get it, so he laughs, shakes his head incredulously. “Yes,” he says lowly, nodding as Ian’s smile drops and is replaced by a disbelieving expression.
“Yes?” he asks, alarmed, finally getting off of his stupid fucking knee and standing tall, a head taller than Mickey – his knee pops as he does so. “Are you serious?”
“Are you serious?” Mickey tuts, but doesn’t have the time to play annoyed since Ian’s wrapping his arms around him and lifting his feet off of the floor, forcing him to throw his arms around his neck for leverage.
“I love you,” he mumbles into his neck, putting Mickey down but not removing their proximity. He’s staring into Mickey’s eyes, awestruck and so, so beautiful, and leans down to give him his first kiss in two weeks. Mickey’s so touch-starved that he melts into it, digs his fingers into Ian’s hair and lets him hold his hips so hard they must be bruised. “I’ll get that ring,” he breathes, his lips still touching Mickey’s as they pull apart for air.
“Fuck your ring,” Mickey scoffs. “Don’t make me save the pre-signed divorce papers under the bed.”
“Our bed,” Ian grins, mischievously, and Mickey shuts him up with another searing kiss.
Mickey’s probably the only person on earth who’s starting to get sick of being proposed to.