Work Text:
The front door of the Milkovich house slams open and all Mickey smells is the bitter stench of his father’s cologne, sweat, and a good pint or so of Old Style.
Just another normal Saturday.
It’s August 10th, just past evening, and the sun is just setting behind the shadow of the L that looms through the windows. Red and orange filters into the living room, the only light after their power got cut off for the fourth time that year.
It’s barely enough to even see by but his older brothers sit on the floor counting out cards, smacking each other when one of them fucks it up and they have to start over. Mandy is on the other side of the house, holed up in her room and blasting girly music that thuds through their paper thin walls.
All the while, Mickey is laid back on the couch sinking into the cushions, his boots unlaced and hanging off his feet as he flicks his lighter on and off. The flame glows over his pale face, highlighting faint bruising and broken capillaries along his right cheek— a good week’s out from healing.
One of the easier beatings he’s ever gotten.
None of the boys flinch when the door slams open since Terry’s drunken arrivals were nothing if not common. They usually stay quiet, pretend they’re not there, wait for the rat bastard to fall asleep in his recliner or pass out, drooling on the bathroom tile.
What actually gets them moving is their mom, coming out of the kitchen with a single lit candle. It magnifies the bags under her eyes, the track marks on her arms, the slight yellowing of her teeth through a wavering smile.
“Damn electricity, can’t even turn on the damn oven.” Laura comments, mostly to herself though Iggy titters as he slaps down an ace on top of the pile of cards. “Oh well, doesn’t mean my boy can’t get his wish.”
Her sinewy hand covers the flame as she walks further into the living room, her eyes warm and caring when they fall on Mickey.
August 10th. His birthday. 14 years old.
Mickey convinced himself that no one remembered and it wasn’t far off considering most of his birthdays were glossed over or forgotten for a drug run, overdose, or Milkovich family bonding over a couple of stolen guns.
He isn’t the type of kid to ask for things, not the boy who tugs his mom toward shop windows to check out the newest toy and begs her to get it for him. In fact, maybe the only present Terry or anyone ever gave him was the rare occasion they actually left him alone and that was okay. Being left alone was a blessing.
So Mickey doesn’t celebrate his birthdays. Milkoviches don’t care about that because there are more important things. Money, stealing, fending for yourself. More important.
And really? What good is counting birthdays if there’s no certainty of making it to the next one?
But when Mickey sees his mom carrying that candle out to him, a small olive branch in a world full of thorn filled ones — he allows himself to smile for a second.
A single brief breath of relief. Until it’s gone.
Laura is at most ten feet away from her youngest son when a meaty palm smacks her hand, sending the candle flying into the carpet. The waft of Old Style burns Mickey’s nostrils and he nearly rolls off the couch, immediately standing to his feet at the same time as his brothers.
“The fuck are you doing with that shit?” Terry spits, his thick brow so furrowed that his blackened pupils are hardly visible in the sunset.
Laura flinches in a way her sons don’t and she bends to pick up the candle where it started eating away at the carpet with its flame.
“It’s his birthday, Terry.” She manages weakly and she hunches, purposely preparing her body from what might happen.
Mickey stands there, his lighter in one hand and his other reaching toward his dad. Naive and defensive. “Dad.”
A growl is all Mickey receives in response and a fist curling into his collar, tugging him off his feet and tossing him in the direction of his room.
“This little shit. A birthday?” Terry’s laugh is cold, unfeeling, and he swings a boot toward Mickey’s shins — missing only when Mickey side steps out of the way. “Pussy doesn’t deserve a birthday. Barely big enough for his age.”
“Leave him alone.” Laura’s hand tentatively clings to Terry’s arm, half holding him back though she would never be a match for him. “Sit the fuck down and I’ll get you a beer.”
Terry viciously whips his arm out of her grasp and he pushes his way past her — the promise of a beer bigger than his want to fight. He plops himself down in his recliner, kicks his boots off and tosses them at Mickey’s face one after the other.
“Put them away, boy. Do something fucking useful.”
The first one misses his face and Mickey catches it but the other knocks the top of his forehead, aggravating the bruise underneath the skin and leaving a haggard looking mark by his hairline.
“Do what he says, Mickey.” Laura coos at him, placating but distant. “And go to your room.”
Every ounce of warmth is gone and left behind is a wall of icicles, a protective barrier around the malleable parts inside Laura. Mickey sees it all the time, every day but it hurts more this time, burns from the stark difference in feeling.
His mom says nothing else to him as she turns back toward the kitchen, opens the trash, and dumps the blackened candle into it. Out of sight, out of mind.
Mickey grabs the boots and places them carefully by the front door, watching Terry’s recliner turn toward Laura when she appears again with a beer. It sloshes onto the carpet when he snatches it out of her grip, calling her names that Mickey blocks out.
A sickly heat builds in his stomach and over his face, the glow of the sunset finally giving way to moonlight. In minutes, Mickey is hidden by the darkness and all he can make out is the outline of his parents — the bubbling tension of another argument coming on the horizon.
He darts out of the room before the inevitable, his twitching fingers already working again on his lighter. The edge of the flame licks at his knuckles, stinging the already wounded skin but Mickey focuses on the sound when the yelling starts.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound keeps rhythmic pace on his way toward his bedroom, the door swinging open in beat with Mandy’s music. Terry’s voice booms over the noise and Mickey slams his door shut so rapidly that it shakes the loose nails on the hinges.
He crawls over his mattress with several creaking squeaks, blindly reaching around until he finds his old cd player and a worn pair of headphones that Iggy found in a back dumpster.
There’s only one album loaded and it skips from how often he plays it, always catching in the middle of his favorite song.
Mickey slips the headphones over his head, crawls into bed with his face toward the ceiling, and he jams the buttons until the song loads, crackling into his ears.
Don't get any big ideas. They're not gonna happen.
The lead singer’s voice swells and Mickey shivers, jamming his eyes shut until he drowns out the sound of his mother’s cries and his father’s belittling.
You paint yourself white and fill up with noise
but there'll be something missing.
The bass times his breathing and Mickey brings the lighter up to his chest, resting his wrist against his ribcage. When the song skips, Mickey opens his eyes and follows the flame as it dances in front of him.
Birthdays. Wishes. Hopes.
He stares into that of scarlet and he wishes — he wishes for it all to be over. With one breath, he blows out the light and tosses the lighter onto the ground, not caring much where it’s landed.
“Happy birthday to me.” Mickey speaks brokenly, swallowing back the swell of tears prickling at his eyelids.
Happy fucking birthday.
—
Mickey couldn’t remember how many times he’d spent his birthday behind bars. Much less how many times he never celebrated a birthday at all. He’d lost count after four, stopped caring after the age of 14.
To other people, he knew very well that birthdays were a big event. The kind of thing you take off work for, plan a party, get a big cake and a handful of presents but for Mickey, his birthday was more like any other day. Another 24 hours that pushed him to old age and that was it. There was nothing to look forward to when August 10th rolled around. It was just another day, another x on the calendar.
This year in particular was no different as far as he was concerned.
Mickey rolls over in his creaky prison mattress at exactly 8am, his sheets balled up by his feet and his hair sticking up at the back of his head. It was another restless night, one where he and Ian had argued about something stupid for the hundredth time that week.
It was supposed to be different; being in prison with Ian. It was supposed to be their honeymoon period, their chance to do things right but it had only taken a few months before they were at each other’s throats. Mickey loathes even seeing him half the time so as he rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes that morning, he made sure to stay quiet to avoid waking up his idiot boyfriend.
Right on the edge of Mickey’s bed is Ian’s stacks of books, piled high and tilted slightly to the right with a sheet of paper perched right on top. Ian had this thing about wanting to remember the days, keep track of how much longer they both had left. Mickey never understood why. Time was time, keeping track just made it go by slower.
Mickey peers over at the sheet with weary eyes, sighing as he saw the dates for August scribbled in Ian’s handwriting. Each day up until the ninth was ticked off, making that day August 10th right on schedule.
He rolls his eyes at the offensive number, reaching over to the end of his bunk to grab his yellow jumpsuit. He tugs it over his legs in silence, only getting up with a slight creak of the bed, to pull it the rest of the way up. Despite his best efforts, the squeak is apparently enough to wake Ian who grumbles as he turns to face Mickey from the top bunk.
“You’re up early.” Ian states, one of his hands dragging through his bed head.
Mickey hates the mornings after a fight for one reason in particular. Ian always talks to him with this tone - this irritating tone of formality that gave Mickey goosebumps and not in a good way. “Couldn’t sleep.” He mutters back, doing the buttons on his jumpsuit all the way to his mid chest.
The silence following Mickey’s words is deafening and if Ian has anything else to say, he doesn’t get the chance to before Mickey hightails it out of there, taking the steps down to the laundry without even a peek over his shoulder.
They do this dance at least once a week, a new pattern for the last month. Apparently the summer was lovers and fall - fall was for brutal reminders. Mickey learned to ignore the words they both spat in anger, to push the thoughts of their arguments away because the more he dwelled on them, the more they pushed that same button of worry just under his skin. He doesn’t think of his version of inevitable, of Ian ending things because Mickey knew very well that his nightmares became a reality much more often than his dreams.
The clock ticks to 8:15am by the time Mickey is loading used jumpsuits into the overhead washers and he allows his wandering mind to go blank if only for a few hours. He won’t see Ian again until rec time but he’s not expecting much since neither of them ever so much as acknowledge the need for an apology until they’ve both cooled off.
By hour four, Mickey can hear just his stomach start to rumble between loads and the other guys have taken to mindless chatter. He barely ever joins, not having much to say but one of the guys says it’s his mom’s birthday in a few days and Mickey flinches, getting a small golf ball sized lump in his throat.
Good for her. But to Mickey, it’s just another day.
By the rec time rolls around, Mickey is ready to fucking sleep and when he parks himself at his usual checkers table, the exhaustion on his face is obvious. The other guys make comments on it, joke about the resident bickering prison couple who must be keeping each other awake. Mickey ignores them and starts the game but after a few minutes, he can’t help but glance around and notice someone’s missing among the ranks.
“You seen Ian?” Mickey wonders casually, slapping a red checker across the board.
The man at the other end of the table, Marco, shrugs once, clearly too preoccupied with his next move. “Nope, haven’t seen him since this morning.”
It’s not surprising but it unsettles Mickey for a second. He hides half his face behind his hand to play it relaxed, sliding another checker into place. He shouldn’t care - Ian was being an asshole, annoying, overbearing. He shouldn’t care but all Mickey did was care about Ian.
Marco takes Mickey’s lack of response as the cue to tack on an explanation, his tattooed arms smacking the table as he plays. “Yeah, he was looking for graham crackers or something. Weird guy you got there, Milkovich.”
“Yeah.” He mutters and it’s all he can manage, his thoughts wandering despite his best efforts. Mickey loses his first game of checkers and he swears, silently cursing Ian to hell.
It’s nearing 6pm when Mickey heads back to their cell. It’s empty when he gets there and he chooses to throw himself on his bed instead of thinking about where Ian is, where he’s been sneaking off to all day. His limbs sink into the cheap mattress and Mickey closes his eyes, hoping exhaustion will hit him.
Unfortunately for him though, it’s only a few minutes of peace before Ian’s voice cuts through the silence.
“Mickey? You awake?” He calls out, the sound of the steel door to their cell closing coming from behind him.
Mickey groans, running his knuckles over his eyes and he’s waiting for Ian to start some annoying ass argument about toothpaste. “Am now.”
“Brought you something.”
That alone causes Mickey to sit up, his eyes reading puzzled and lost. “What?”
He stares at Ian, who stands there stupidly with a silver muffin looking container in his hand - a wooden stick poking out of the top of it. Mickey knows what it looks like, he’s not stupid but there’s no way. There’s really no fucking way.
His gaping must have given him away because Ian starts talking again, one hand reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Look, I know it’s not much and you’re probably still mad at me but - happy birthday.”
Ian moves in closer and when he bends down to hand the pan over to Mickey, it becomes clearer where Ian was at all afternoon. He was making Mickey a fucking cake. Well, something like a cake. It’s some crumbled up graham cracker, chocolate, a few stray marshmallows all mashed up into a muffin pan that Ian probably traded lunch for the next week. It’s sloppy at best but fuck does it make Mickey’s heart beat in double time.
He feels like a person and not a prisoner.
“You remembered that?” Mickey asks, his voice hoarse from how he’s holding back the flood of emotions that have slid through his cracks.
“ ‘Course I did.” Ian reaches out and runs his fingers over Mickey’s knuckle, each pad tracing a different letter. “I’ve missed a lot of your birthdays, Mick. I don’t want to miss any more.”
Suddenly Mickey can’t remember what the hell they were even fighting about, all of it disappearing from his mind. He can’t find his voice right away, his throat closing up and a stinging forming behind his eyes. “You’re a fucking dick,” he finally manages to get out.
“So you like it?” Ian chuckles, kneeling down to get level with him. “I thought this was better than us fighting on your special day.”
Special day. Not just any other day.
Mickey stays quiet, the words alluding him again and Ian takes the moment to pull out a small box of matches, striking one of them across the side to get it lit. He leans in and lights the makeshift candle, the flame burning weakly from where it’s buried in the graham cracker.
It’s messy and rushed but as Mickey looks between his “cake” and his boyfriend, a wave of happiness rolls through his body and coats every inch of him in chills. It’s more than anyone’s ever done for him and the doubt he’s carried with him dissipates for the time being.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.” Ian sings the song low enough for just the two of them to hear, a stupid grin on his face as he puts a hand on Mickey’s knee. It reminds Mickey of the last time he heard the tune, of when his mother sang it just as sweet and softly for his fifth birthday. It reminds him of love, of hopefulness. It feels like a promise that everything’s going to be okay.
Ian’s eyes glitter as he watches Mickey, the pair of them staring straight into each other’s souls. The argument is long forgotten, their anger fades into oblivion and leaves behind only what makes them them.
Their love for each other.
“Happy birthday, dear Mickey. Happy birthday to you.” Ian wraps up the song in a near whisper, gently squeezing Mickey’s knee to tether him back to reality. “Come on, before the candle goes out.”
The flame is nearly burnt all the way down and Mickey watches it briefly, aware that he’s supposed to make a wish. The possibilities run through his mind - all the things he wanted when he was a kid, all the things he craved as an adult. But looking into Ian’s eyes, Mickey knows that any of those would just be wasting a wish. He has everything he wants already.
Still, Mickey leans in and blows out the candle, leaving behind only some ash that falls to the ground of their cell.
“What’d you wish for?”
“Not supposed to ask me that.” Mickey laughs and he reaches out to tug on Ian’s uniform, tugging him closer until their lips press firmly against each other’s.
Mickey doesn’t know how to tell him ‘thank you’. Never been good with words but he pours his heart into the kiss, pours every ounce of emotion behind every touch of skin until neither of them can breathe.
He wished for everything to stay just like this. Forever.
They hold each other close, whisper ‘I love you’ while the rest of the prison sleeps, and Mickey even tries the shitty cake for Ian’s sake. They laugh, they embrace, they keep each other close and Mickey thinks for the first time that maybe birthdays can be pretty damn good.
Even in prison.
—
It’s been years since Mickey has had a nightmare.
Every night when his head hits the pillow, he’s lulled into a peaceful sleep with Ian’s arm around his waist and his light snoring offering a comforting soundtrack. His mind doesn’t torture him like it used to, doesn’t swerve back into terrifying memories.
If he called it anything, Mickey might think this is what it means to be at peace.
So when the morning finally cracks and the sun starts creeping in through their newly installed blinds, Mickey expects to be woken up by Ian’s nudging or stupid morning wood but instead, there’s a giant weight crash landing on his chest, knocking the wind out of him.
“Uncle Mickey!” A shrill but tiny voice screeches into his ear, abruptly shaking him from his slumber.
His eyes groggily open and he’s met with the bright green eyes of his niece, her front tooth missing and her red hair tied up at the top of her head in a messy bun. The shocking part isn’t that Franny is there -- Debbie had left her with them so she could have some “time off” -- it was the part where she was yelling in his face at 9am.
Mickey runs his hands over his eyes and he groans, sitting up enough so he can get some oxygen into his lungs. “Jesus, kid. You trying to kill me?”
“It’s morning!” Franny shrieks again, giggling as she moves off of him and sits square on the mattress -- already dressed and ready for the day.
“I can see that.”
A laugh comes from the doorway to their bedroom and of course, the real culprit is there to enjoy the sight. “She wanted to be the one to wake you.” Ian tells him, his arms crossed over his chest and a stupidly smug smile tugging on his lips. “I didn’t know she was going to go full charge with it.”
Even from this distance, Mickey can smell Ian’s aftershave that he’s freshly put on and he wonders just how long the two of them had been planning on ambushing him or more importantly, for what reason.
Mickey waits until Franny isn’t looking to throw a middle finger up at his husband, doing what he can to rid himself of his annoyance. “Uh huh, okay. I’m up. Who’s dying?”
It’s clearly the wrong question to ask because the momentary silence breaks and Franny is up on her feet, jumping up and down to the point that Mickey can almost feel her tiny feet leaving stomp marks on the inside of his half awake brain.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
Oh.
Mickey reaches over to click the screen of his phone and sure enough, there it is.
August 10th. His birthday.
The realization must be obvious on his face because Ian steps in closer and he’s fucking laughing again, his hand reaching out for Franny’s. The little girl keeps bouncing for another few rounds but eventually she jumps into Ian’s arms, letting him guide her onto the floor.
“We’re gonna get ice cream.” Franny says with a big toothless grin, her hands clasped together adorably. Adorable enough that Mickey can’t really dare be mad at her for causing the pulsing now running rampant behind his eyelids.
He breaks through it long enough to manage a smile and a brief chuckle, his hand running over the length of his face. “For breakfast?”
“Later, Fran.” Ian interrupts and he ushers her toward the living room with a light pat on the back. “Come on, let your uncle get dressed and we’ll start on the pancakes.”
Franny giggles again and she takes off like a bullet toward the kitchen, the rattling of pots following soon after. Both Ian and Mickey shake their heads fondly though the bewilderment of Mickey’s birthday wake up call still has him rattled.
He opens his mouth to tell Ian off, to complain about not wanting to do anything special on his birthday but Ian leans in, one knee on the bed and he closes the gap between them wordlessly. Their lips touch for only a few seconds, a quick peck of a kiss but it’s warm and soothing — easing Mickey’s headache with its own brand of magic.
“Happy birthday.” Ian whispers against Mickey’s mouth, his hand sneaking around to lay a firm smack to the side of his thigh. “Now get your ass up, we have plans.”
Mickey makes a muffled noise at the word ‘plans’ and he attempts to get his fist around Ian’s collar to stop him from leaving but Ian snakes his way out of his reach, all while stealing another kiss.
“You’ll see.” Is all Ian gives him and Mickey can’t decide if he wants to kill him or kiss him.
**
After a heaping helping of pancakes and Franny still in tow, the three of them take off to the park despite the growing heat left over from summer. It’s sweltering and each step is walking miles deep in lava but it’s relaxing, calming even as they join the other families walking their way through greenery.
Franny manages to stay still for a good ten minutes until she spots someone else’s dog, making a beeline to follow it through some bushes. Mickey catches Ian’s since when she reappears giggling, her dress covered in a layer of dirt and dog drool.
“Your mom is gonna lose her shit, Franny.” Ian chastises her with his own brand of parental voice, some weird habit he’d picked up after months of babysitting.
Taking Franny’s hand, Mickey shoves Ian’s shoulder with the other defensively. “Let the kid roll around in some dirt. It builds character or whatever.”
“Character.”
“You heard me.”
Franny grins and she gives her other free hand to Ian, waddling in the middle between them as a peacemaker. “Everybody is right on their birthday.”
“Ha, what she said.” Mickey backs her up, swinging his arm back and forth to lift Franny up.
Ian has no choice but to follow suit, helping their niece get off the ground as they circle the park path for the second time. “I’m getting ganged up on by a six year old and her old uncle.” He grumbles, feigning anger.
“Who are you calling old?” Mickey bites back and Franny matches his scowl, a practical mini me.
“You’re pushing thirty, Mick. You’re practically senile.”
“Kiss my ass. You’re old too then.” Both Mickey and Franny give Ian an incredulous look and he’s cornered, having to find his way out of the dog house.
He stops them in their tracks and leans over Franny to lay a sloppy kiss on Mickey’s cheek. A peace offering on his husband’s birthday. What a charmer.
Mickey purses his lips but he accepts, nodding to Franny to keep walking until Ian gets his final word out.
“Still younger than you.” Ian mutters and it’s only a fraction of a second later than both Mickey and Franny chase him down the path, twigs in hand.
**
The rest of the day blows by fairly quickly and Mickey can’t find a single place to complain.
After letting Franny run around in the jungle gym for an hour, they end up at a local ice cream shop as promised that morning.
They order giant sundaes, bigger than their faces and piled high with whipped cream, chocolate, and a single cherry poised on top. It’s a disaster of a sugar high for a kid and maybe even a 27 year old man too but they scarf down the ice cream until their stomachs are near bursting and their heads are on the verge of brain freeze.
Maybe Ian knows or maybe he doesn’t but Mickey would have killed for this at Franny’s age — would have given anything to have normal things on his birthday and now he was getting it.
It’s funny how times change.
**
After another run through downtown to pick up a box that Ian refuses to let Mickey see and it’s back to the house by three. Ian is the first one in the door, making a beeline for the kitchen but the rest of the Gallagher clan are piled into the place, boxes of pizza and decorations already strewn around the room.
There’s even a makeshift banner that reads ‘Happy Birthday, Mickey’ made out of old lettering and cardboard hung up on the wall between the kitchen and living room.
“You’re kidding me.” Mickey blurts out when he sees it, actually taken aback by the effort.
The Gallaghers. Tami. Fred. All of them in one place and for — Mickey. All of it was for Mickey.
Sure, Ian probably had to talk them into it, beg them to play along for a day but he knew damn well his own flesh and blood wouldn’t do the same even if he paid them.
It isn’t much but it’s home.
“What? You don’t like it?” Lip asks with a dry chortle, an iced cold beer on his hand that he slides into Mickey’s waiting palm.
Things between them still aren’t perfectly and they spend most of their time playing pissing match over something stupid but Mickey claps Lip on the back — a sign of solidarity. “Didn’t say that.”
“Presents!!” Franny’s voice interrupts with that same squeak that’s ever harder to resist.
Now back in her mother's arms, Franny squirms and points her fingers toward several boxes on the ground by the fireplace. Some of them are pretty rough, haphazardly held together by old pieces of tape and yet each one is addressed to Mickey — his name written on them in crayon.
Mickey's gaze is caught by the sight that he doesn’t notice Ian now standing by his side, his arms noticeably missing the box from earlier. “Kev and V sent something from Kentucky and Fiona sent her best wishes.”
“The rest of us got you a few things.” Lip clarifies, now perched on one of the arms of the sofa.
It’s not much but it doesn’t seem real. Not even a little bit.
Mickey sighs, looking toward each of the Gallaghers with a blurry sort of haze to his eyes that are certainly not emotions. “Didn’t have to.”
“Gallagher tradition. We go all out on birthdays.” Liam states confidently from the staircase, already too grown for his own good.
It’s not much but it’s family.
**
After a round or two of beer and several pounds of wrapping paper later, Mickey ends up with a new pair of boots, a winter coat, three sleeveless flannels, and a brand new knife that Carl says he ‘got at a crime scene.’
To anyone else, it might not be much. Just a mismatched amount of items in a pile at his feet but it’s more presents than he’s amounted in a lifetime. It’s one of the first times that this many people care that he’s alive to reach 27.
And maybe that's a gift in and of itself.
Mickey finishes off his last beer as the party winds down and Ian helps get the scraps into the trash when Franny leaps onto the couch, a piece of paper in her hand.
“Don’t forget mine, Uncle Mickey.” Franny peers up at him with those doe eyes and holds out a card, folded unevenly down the middle.
‘Happy birthday, Uncle Mickey!!!!’ is scribbled onto the front, some of the letters switched around or upside down over a drawing of Mickey and Franny with little toy guns, standing in front of a house.
“It’s when we play games. It’s my favorite.”
Mickey’s eyes start to sting and he swallows back the lump in his throat from the swell of emotions overtaking him. He turns his body toward his niece and wraps an arm around her, chuckling wetly. “It’s great. Best present I’ve ever gotten.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
At that, Franny throws her arms around Mickey’s neck and clings for dear life, embracing him tightly. It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back and maybe just a small flow of tears hovers to the surface of Mickey’s eyes. Maybe just for a second.
And when Ian meets his eyes across the room, Mickey doesn’t try to hide it because why would he? How could he? All he does is mouth ‘I love you’ and hope that it’s enough.
**
It’s already nightfall when they walk through the door of their apartment after the party.
Mickey’s hand reaches for the light switch to brighten up the place but he’s stopped by Ian’s grip on his wrist. He guides Mickey hand away and up toward his lips, planting a whisper of a kiss on the pulse point.
“Go sit down. On the floor.” Ian motions to the coffee table just in front of their ragged old couch and offers no other explanation except letting go of his rest to head into the kitchen.
“Is this some kink shit you haven’t told me about?”
“Mickey. Just do it.”
Mickey’s eyes follow Ian as he goes but he’s bemused enough to go along with it, sliding his feet out of his boots and heading over to the coffee table. He sits crossed legged on the carpet, his brow furrowed deeply as he tries to make out Ian’s shape through the wall dividing the rooms.
There’s no expectations for anything other than sex so when the flicker of a flame becomes the only light in the room, Mickey forces back another lump buried in his windpipe.
Walking slowly, Ian tiptoes out of the kitchen with a small chocolate cake balanced in his palms — a single candle buried in the middle of the icing.
“I wanted it to be just us when you made your wish.” Ian explains quietly despite it being only the two of them in the apartment.
Wishes. Hope. Something to live for.
“You’re a cheesy motherfucker.” Mickey jokes and Ian rolls his eyes playfully, setting the cake down on the table between them.
“Maybe but I’m your husband. I’m allowed.”
And that’s when it hits him. Something Mickey never realized before.
Wishes are meant for people that are missing something.
“Don’t even know what I’d wish for.” Mickey tells Ian, their eyes connecting through the casts of light brought on by the moonlight and the flame.
Ian takes his hand and plays with each of Mickey’s fingers in an attempt to distract him, ground him. “Anything. Whatever you want.”
Mickey holds it for a beat, rattles his brain for something but he comes up empty except for one thing.
Everything I want is right here.
He sucks in a breath and blows out the candle in one single rush of air, leaving both of them in the greying haze once again.
“You gonna tell me what you wished for?” Ian asks breathlessly and he inches closer, joining Mickey on the other side of the table.
“Told you not to ask me that.” Mickey pulls Ian’s hand into his lap, looking down at the silver of his ring when it catches the light. “But I don’t gotta wish for anything, I already got everything I ever wished for.”
There’s a silence that falls between the two of them and Ian’s palm shakes from where Mickey is holding it. Ten years and it’s the same feeling. A feeling that will never die. Their love would never die.
“Now who’s cheesy?” Ian finally chokes out, his free hand wrapping around the base of Mickey’s neck.
At the same time, Mickey reaches for Ian’s shirt, his fist taking a heap of fabric and tugging him so close that their noses brush up against each other’s. “Shut up, it’s my birthday.”
And when Mickey closes the gap to kiss his husband, savoring the warm feeling of their lips gliding together, it’s all so clear.
Mickey has a family. A husband. Enough love that it surrounds him, fills him to the brim with happiness and the darkness is far away, long gone into nothing but a memory.
He knows now that it’s not wrong to hope because wishes really do come true.