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Mickey wakes up to the intense feeling of being stared at.
“Whatcha watchin’ me for like a creep?” he grunts, leaving his eyes closed for five seconds longer. The room’s chilly, and he tucks the comforter tighter around himself to keep him warm.
Ian pokes his chin from underneath his own comforter to say:
“Just thinkin’.”
He shimmies closer so that they’re like two cocoons nestled together in search of more heat.
“Sorry, man. Can’t help.” Mickey sniffs as he buries his face into the pillow. “I’m fuckin’ freezin’. Think my dick has shriveled up.”
Ian snorts. “As much as I love that imagery… I wasn’t thinking about that.”
“Hmm. What then?”
Mickey hears him kick his feet around until something crawls underneath his comforter and prods at his leg, sending a bolt of shivers through his body.
“Ey!” he yelps, trying to scoot backward. “Would you mind keepin’ your big fuckin’ icy feet to yourself?”
Ian just chuckles. “How soon can you get dressed?”
“Considering it’s a Sunday and I just woke up,” he answers without actually considering anything. It’s too early, their room’s dark, and he’s fucking staying as he is. After a beat, he chances a ballpark, “Like, an hour? Two, maybe?”
“You have ten minutes,” Ian informs him when he leans in for a firm peck, “then we’re leaving.”
He bounces off the bed, and Mickey lets out a prolonged groan.
Eventually, he does get up. It takes more than twenty minutes and some not so gentle coaxing from Ian, but he takes a hot shower, gets dressed, and then they’re out of the house before it’s even nine, all huddled up in their coats and beanies.
Ian’s being weird on the way. Keeps giving him these tentative glances like he’s nervous about something. Mickey half-expects him to stand up and say that he’s changed his mind and that they’re going home--but he doesn’t, and they don’t.
When they get to Patsy’s, Ian takes Mickey’s gloved hand and leads him inside. They get a somewhat private booth by the side and start unwrapping themselves from layers of clothing, spending the entire time eyeing each other curiously.
The waitress comes, but before Mickey even has a chance to open his mouth, Ian orders two coffees and a large pile of flapjacks for them to share.
He looks cute with his hair all mussed and his cheeks red from the cold. Mickey would rather bite his tongue than ever tell him that, but he’s more than comfortable to admit it to himself. He has a cute-ass husband who takes him out on a frosty Sunday morning to sit across from him with a dopey smile in a dingy diner and give him early-stage diabetes, apparently.
Mickey arches his brows in an unsaid question.
“You’re welcome to call me all the names in the book,” Ian starts as he rubs his hands together, either to get them warm or to silence his nerves. Mickey isn’t sure which it is--maybe both. “I didn’t know if we were gonna… I didn’t want to presume, so I just…” he trails off, looking a little lost before he finds Mickey’s eyes and lets his shoulders relax, breathing out: “Happy anniversary, Mick.”
Just like that, Mickey forgets why he was even cold. He bites his lower lip to stop his grin from getting too wide. After all, they’re still in public.
“It’s stupid, I know,” Ian continues rambling, “but I wanted to do something for you. It’s not much, but I remembered how we were once going to--”
“Jesus, you ever gonna let me speak, too, asshole?” Mickey interrupts him, lightly kicking his shoe under the table.
He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and passes Ian a simple white envelope.
“I also wasn’t sure if we, uh, yeah,” he fumbles around his words, feeling like a complete idiot. This isn’t their first date. Why the hell is he so embarrassing? Clearing his throat, he scratches his nose. “So. Happy anniversary, I guess.”
Ian beams at him. “Feels too light for divorce papers,” he jokes, earning himself an eye-roll from Mickey.
“Yeah, yeah, Chuckles. Just open the damn thing.”
Mickey watches as Ian tears the envelope open and immediately snickers at the cheap Walmart greeting card. Originally, it said 1 year and still going strong, but Mickey scratched out the last two words and added ALIVE in his own sloppy handwriting.
Ian flips the card open, his smile growing at Mickey’s simple I love you message.
“That all?” he teases, faking disappointment as he rechecks the insides of the envelope.
Mickey shrugs. “Well, I was gonna blow you later,” he notes, his tongue cheekily poking through the side of his mouth.
“Oh? A special day hummer?”
He nods, laughing. “A special day hummer.”
Leaning over the table, they meet for a kiss. It’s nothing more than a chaste press of lips, and it’s cheesy as fuck, and Mickey would punch himself in the face if his insides weren’t burning with this warm, sweet emotion.
“I love it,” Ian murmurs into Mickey’s mouth. “Love you.”
It was okay. They could be that couple once in a while.
Just when Mickey thinks he’s had enough sugar for a year, the waitress brings them an actual fucking platter overflowing with syrup covered flapjacks, and his appetite kicks back in.
He shares a fond look with Ian and digs in.