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Mickey brushes his fingers over Ian’s upper arm, the rise and fall of his bicep, just tingling the soft hair of his armpit, down to the side of his chest, that expanse of smooth pale skin, the bumps of his ribs. He spreads his hand over Ian’s abs. They’re too fucking defined probably for what’s healthy but Mickey’s not complaining about that. Ian’s stomach is hard and strong even now in the soft pink and yellow morning light. Mickey can’t see it from his position but he knows his fingertips are somewhere near Ian’s dumb eagle tattoo, a tattoo that definitely shouldn’t get Mickey off but that just goes to show how fucking weird desire can be sometimes. Or a lot of times.
Ian stirs softly underneath Mickey’s touch. It’s a good sign because it’s getting late. And because of last night. They’d had sex but neither of them came. Maybe they were both too tired or maybe there’s a depressive episode coming or maybe things just are that way sometimes, no matter how fucking electric the sex can be. Sex doesn’t always need orgasms to be good and Mickey doesn’t really give a shit about it but he knows Ian does. Mickey runs his fingers up and down from Ian’s stomach to his chest, encouraging him.
Ian stirs again, turns to Mickey. His sticky eyes crack open. He closes them and burrows into Mickey.
“Hey sleepyface.” Mickey runs his hand up and down Ian’s side.
Ian mumbles something and Mickey pauses.
It feels a lot like the beginning of a downswing, taking last night into account. It’s important for them to keep their eyes on it but it’s not necessarily a big deal. These smaller ups and downs still come up no matter what medication Ian’s on. But still with a low mood Ian’s gonna take that shit yesterday as an affront to his pride, or maybe his self-worth, his feeling of value in the relationship, which is generally so mixed up with what he can give to Mickey sexually. And Mickeys going to give him a shit ton of reassurance. He has to do it stealthily though because Ian can take that stuff like pity.
Ian mumbles something again.
“Yeah it’s late,” Mickey says, half guessing at what Ian means. He taps Ian’s side. “Almost ten. OK if I get you some food and your meds?”
He tries not to sound tentative about it. He definitely doesn’t want to be accused of being a nurse but Ian needs his brusqueness sometimes. It can cut through Ian’s busy thoughts, all that self doubting bullshit.
Ian sniffs and nods. He stretches a little which is good too.
Mickey kisses him on the shoulder and goes to make him some breakfast. He would ask Ian what he wants but he doubts there’s much in. The other Gallaghers have had time to have their fill by now.
There are eggs though. There’s the last of the toast too. Mickey makes them both coffee. He’s glad he doesn’t start work until eleven. Maybe doing all this shit isn’t that stealthy but fuck it. He brings Ian’s coffee and water and breakfast and meds in on a tray.
“Come on. Sit up, princess.”
And Ian does. Mickey’s mom sometimes brought him breakfast in bed when he was a little kid so Mickey knows this is an easy way to make someone feel better, to take care of someone. The way Ian’s looking at him as Mickey puts down the tray makes Mickey think that maybe Ian’s never had this. It’s not like Mickey doesn’t know what it’s like to wake up hungry and stay that way but still, his heart’s allowed to ache for little Ian, for kid Ian, and it does sometimes, just like it does for little Mickey too.
Mickey ruffles Ian’s hair. He can’t help himself so he counters the softness by gripping it and tugging it a little. Ian’s eyes are on the eggs and the coffee.
He takes a bite of toast. That’s a good sign too. Watching Ian eat relaxes Mickey but that’s the kind of shit he’s got to keep to himself. Just staring at him too much gets him called a “feeder” so Mickey crosses the room to do his deodorant thing.
He can hear Ian chewing behind him anyway. Ian’s probably waiting until he’s gone to take the meds. It’s best to give him all the space and privacy and trust around that shit.
“I’m going to head out to work in a minute, man.” He says to the wall. He glances behind him at Ian, all puffy eyed and wayward hair, resists the urge to go pet him again. “You message if you need me?”
“Mickey...” Ian says, pushing the tray away from him for a moment. Ian’s got his arm out. Mickey goes to him.
“Mmm?” He takes Ian’s hand in his. Grips somewhere near the wrist.
“Today’s uh...” Ian looks at him and then quickly away. “Anniversary.”
“The fuck?” Mickey feels a shock of adrenaline, even though... “No it’s not.”
“No, of, uh...” Ian doesn’t say anything else. Mickey watches his eyes on his coffee.
Mickey takes it off him, pops it on the tray and then puts the whole thing on the floor. He climbs back into bed, facing Ian.
He doesn’t need to know what it’s of, if it’s Monica’s death or something else, something to do with other traumatic shit, the rest of the Gallaghers, Mickey maybe. He kisses Ian’s forehead, cups his jaw with his hand.
Ian closes his eyes. He nuzzles into Mickey’s neck. They lie there.
“Want me to stay?” Mickey asks eventually.
Ian swallows, shakes his head.
“You finish your breakfast then?” Mickey’s definitely being a mother hen now but fuck it.
And yeah, Ian rolls his eyes, but he nods.
Mickey presses a kiss into his jaw and gives him the food back. Tries to find his other boot.
“Your phone’s right here OK? So you can fucking message or call or whatever if you need me.”
“Thanks Mick.”
Mickey looks at him. Ian’s looking at the breakfast now, pretty steadfastly avoiding Mickeys eyes.
“Hey,” Mickey says, trying to draw Ian’s eyes up and it works. He kisses Ian on his slightly crumb-covered mouth. He pats his leg. He’s so proud of him. He’s proud when Ian lets Mickey take care of him like this. “You’re welcome.”