Chapter Text
Ian had never been the type of man to say no; the word wasn't a regular part of his vocabulary, not by any means. It didn't matter what the question at hand was, if Ian could help, he absolutely would. And there are, naturally, downfalls to this; there are times when he doesn't know how to draw that one line, the line he simply cannot and should not cross. But Ian's never been the type to pick up an imaginary chalkboard and sketch the imaginary boundary; he's always been the type to extort himself until the very end. Until there was nothing else to give.
Ian had given his all to training in ROTC; it was one battle after another with the army. There was the longing and the despair, and the fuck-ups. There was the endless amount of dreams of getting out, and tears for letting the dream slip through his fingers. His EMT gig was no different; why did Ian have to fuck it all up? These were his dreams, and he had given it his all, and, all of a sudden, he was Gay Jesus.
And why was he Gay Jesus, really? It wasn't as if Ian was religious much; he had never gone to church as a kid, he never cared to know if God existed because God didn't care about him or his family or their struggles.
And yet, Ian gave it all. He tried and tried, and tried even harder to stop the conversion therapies, to stop the nightmare of homophobes who were speaking in God's name.
Ian spoke to God himself, and God told him he was good.
Ian wasn't good; Ian wasn't medicated, and shit had hit the fan sooner rather than later, and fuck, he was going to prison.
And he had lost it all, hadn't he? He had lost his job, the one thing that kept him afloat. He had lost his friends—were they really his friends, or was he just another one of their means to an end, collateral damage?—and he had lost his boyfriend.
And he wasn't talking about Trevor.
There were nagging thoughts in the back of Ian's mind, back then and even now; conversion therapies were wrong. Case and point. They were disgusting and meaningless, and they were nothing but torture to the poor people who were forced to go through with them.
And what had Terry done that one awful morning? Was what Mickey lived through anything but a conversion therapy?
"She's gonna fuck the faggot out of you." Maybe Ian wasn't just fighting for himself and the others. Maybe he was fighting for Mickey who he had lost; a final I love you and I'm sorry.
This is for you, and for all of those who suffered like you did that day.
Ian never admitted that to anyone, not even himself fully.
But there was always a part of him that believed that God was real. That he was there, watching over him and his loved ones, despite the turmoil of their lives.
He believed it when he saw Mickey standing in his cell, locked inside the hell-hole with him. It hadn't been a hell-hole anymore.
He believed it when Mickey got out on parole.
He believed it when he spoke his vows a few years prior at the Polish Doll, at his wedding.
To love and to cherish you till death do us part.
He believed.
And life went on, moving from one world crisis to another; and Ian's life was a mix of craziness and happiness all at once. He was content, satisfied, healthy. Medicated and happy, above all.
He and Mickey moved, then got a dog, then expanded their business, renewed their lease, then lived happily ever after in the heaven they somehow managed to create. (They weren't living in heaven but they were together, and Ian was in heaven each morning when he found himself waking up beside Mickey, snuggled into his body.)
When the call came, Ian was in the kitchen, and Mickey was in the bathroom. He recognized the ID, of course he did. It was hard not to recognize the blaring TREVOR that crossed his screen.
He had paused, apple halfway to his mouth. Mickey had opted for making himself cereal, but Ian was trying to get in better shape. He looked like he did somewhat before the wedding; he felt good, and Mickey loved running his tongue along the crevices of his abs, and that was a huge fucking turn-on. So he chose an apple.
The phone kept ringing; it rang for a while, but Ian didn't answer. Why would he answer? It was his ex, and he had no intention of reconnecting in any way. He let it ring.
"You gonna get that?" Mickey called from the bedroom, his voice echoing throughout the apartment. Ian made no move to answer.
The phone stopped ringing, but it picked up again, and Ian wanted nothing more than to chuck the phone against the wall.
"Ian! Answer the goddamn phone!"
He did. He pressed the green button, and raised the device to his ear, subsequently placing the apple down on the desk before him. It was white and stylish. Mickey had picked it out.
"Hello?" Why was he calling him? Why did a surge of anxiety course through Ian's body? Why did he feel sick, all of a sudden?
It and nothing to do with Trevor, as much as it had to do with what Trevor represented. Trevor was a reminder of a time Ian had tried so hard to forget; his mother dying, losing Mickey, losing his job, becoming a manic cult leader—and fuck, he was having trouble breathing.
"Ian?" Trevor's voice was clear as day. It was deeper than Ian remembered, but it was his, unmistakably.
"Yeah?" He hated the quiver in his voice.
"Sorry for calling like this. But uh, it's kind of important."
Ian thought Trevor lost his number ages ago. He didn't like the fact he didn't; Ian never dealt well with exes.
Still, he answered, "What's up?"
Giving it all he had. Letting other people drain and extort him until there was nothing left but the craziness. It was the Ian Gallagher way.
"It's kind of awkward to ask, but um, the whole Gay Jesus thing? We kinda need it."
We need the Gay Jesus thing. Ian, play a role. Ian, pretend you don't mind. Ian, go with what others want you to do. Ian, you're a blank canvas, we're the ones who fill you with bright colors.
"Wait, what do you need?"
"We're organizing a huge protest. It's like, unbelievable. There are hundreds of us and we kind of need some social media help if we want it to have as wide of a reach. We need your face."
It was like a knife straight through his heart. We need your face.
Nothing but a body, nothing but a warm mouth.
"Oh."
"So, what do you say?"
Ian considered it for a fraction of a moment. If he were to put this call on speaker, and if Mickey were to listen to Trevor alongside him, Ian would lock eyes with his husband. Mickey would send him a questioning look; do you want to do this? Only if you want to do this.
He would tell Ian not to force himself to please anyone. Not to rush into things. And Ian would listen. He would listen to Mickey.
But Mickey was in their room right now rummaging through the drawers, probably looking for pajamas. Ian heard him get out of the bathroom a moment ago.
Mickey would tell him to say what he wanted to say.
"Don't be a pussy. Say what you mean."
And Ian said what he meant because he knew Mickey was right when he told him that other people would use you until you made yourself something other than disposable.
"Sorry, Trevor. But I'm done with the Gay Jesus thing. I just got off parole. I'm on the straight and narrow."
He was lying, but fuck if Trevor needed to know that.
"It's not going to be anything illegal. It's just for the cameras."
Do you want this? Is it going to make you happy or are you going to continue feeling the pit in your stomach like you're feeling it now?
"I'm sorry."
He heard Trevor scoff. "Typical."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Ian startled slightly when he felt soft arms envelop him from behind. Mickey was pressed behind him, his hands interlocked on Ian's abdomen. He felt Mickey's cheek laying against his back. Ian placed his hand over Mickey's interwoven fingers and squeezed.
Mickey pressed a feather-light kiss to his back, and then pulled away, heading towards the kitchen.
Ian resisted the urge to put the call on speaker. He was somehow preparing himself for the worst, and he didn't need Mickey to hear it; he didn't need to hear how pathetic he really was. Not when Trevor started taking.
"It's typical, I said." Ian made the right choice not putting the call on speaker. "Typical of you not to give a shit unless it profits you. You're selfish."
They use him until he's drained. Nothing but a shell; he gives them his all, and they spend it and ask for more, and when he can't give it anymore, they tell him he's selfish.
Selfish.
Mickey had once called him selfish for taking the last slice of pizza. When Ian offered to share, he told him he wasn't hungry, and that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach.
"Be as selfish as you want sweetie." He had teased. Ian had laughed, ate the slice of pizza, and then tackled Mickey onto the couch where he kissed and fucked him senseless.
"I—," Ian didn't really know what to say. The words weren't unexpected, and he was slightly hurt—a little more than just slightly—and Mickey was staring at him quizzically, a worried look in his eyes. And Ian didn't know what to say.
"Don't try to defend yourself. Just forget I even called. The kids thank you for your help, asshole."
And then he ended the call.
Ian felt empty. Suddenly, all of the energy had been sucked out of him, and there was a hollowness in his chest. Was he selfish? Was he a terrible human being for not wanting to help fight against homophobes? Ian felt sick to his stomach, an ache that was expanding through his body with each breath. It started from deep inside his chest, and now his fingers were tingling and maybe trembling slightly too.
"Ian?" Mickey was in front of him, and he was peeling the phone away from his ear—did he forget to put it down? How long had he been listening to the beeping? "Ian? Are you okay?"
Mickey was running his hands over his face, caressing him, urging him to look into his eyes. Ian simply couldn't. What would he find in Mickey's eyes? Ian knew Mickey wouldn't think of him as selfish. He would think of him as a good person who stood up for himself.
"Ian, talk to me."
"I'm fine." He managed to croak out. "Shitty conversation. I'm fine."
Mickey was gripping both of his cheeks in his hands, thumb running over the skin around his lips, gently. "Who called?"
"Had something to do with Gay Jesus." Ian came forward. If there was one person he trusted, it was his husband. "They asked me to do something. Some protest shit. I said no."
"Then what's up?"
"It was uh, my ex who called, and he didn't have a problem telling me how selfish I was for refusing to help."
Ian dared to look into his husband's eyes, and they were still soft. Ian loved Mickey's blue eyes—they glistened whenever he opened up. And he was opening up now, giving all his comfort and love to Ian through this one look. It was obvious he didn't care it was Trevor who called. He didn't care about the Gay Jesus thing.
He cared about Ian, and Ian was relieved he wasn't mad. He felt lighter, somehow, as if the emptiness nestling in his chest was now being replaced by warmth coming from Mickey's hands, his soft touch.
"Who gives a fuck about those assholes? Ian, life's too fucking short to care about any of that. Don't lose your fucking brain cells over some jealous douchebag who's just probably looking for an excuse to see you again."
Mickey was wrong, but Mickey was smiling, and Ian was mirroring his small smirk. The ache was being replaced with love.
"Yeah, you're probably right." Maybe he was.
"Don't let them kill your vibe, Red. Not worth it."
Mickey knew how to make it all better. He knew how to take all of the twisted, fucked up parts of Ian's brain, all of the mismatched puzzle pieces, and properly connect them. Piece by piece, he had always been able to assemble the weird, fucked up picture that was Ian Gallagher's mind, and Ian loved him for it.
Ian pressed his hands into Mickey's sides, holding him close. He tipped his chin forward, and Mickey leaned in, and there was something about Mickey's kiss that made Ian feel like he wasn't drained, but full.
Ian had always given it his all. He had given it his all to the army, to his job, to the Gay Jesus thing.
And he had taken out his soul and heart, placed them on a platter, and handed them to Mickey.
And Mickey took them, and instead of draining him and being selfish, he gave him his own.
Mickey had the power to crush him and leave him paralyzed. But Ian trusted him enough to give it all to him anyway.
Mickey was the only person in this world who could completely drain Ian and still leave him feeling warm.