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Mickey looks out of the window, a smile tugging on his lips. "Hey, it's snowed, Ian!" he exclaims. It's not that Mickey likes snow, but freezing your ass off out on the street is nicer with a bit of white reflecting the scarce winter light.
Ian doesn't answer from where he's still lying in bed, not even a tired grunt coming from him. Silent Ian is never a good sign, but it got late last night, maybe he's just dog-tired.
Mickey pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and tries to push away the always lingering fear of the meds not fully working. They are a great help, but they aren't magically erasing Ian's illness.
For a long moment, Mickey stays in the in-between of suspicion and knowing. It's a shitty place, but somehow more peaceful than the truth.
He watches the snowflakes silently falling to the ground. The built-up snow is barely touched. It seems so pure, and Mickey wishes he and Ian could hide under a layer of it, a soft blanket of white freezing a good moment for eternity.
Ian would smile and kiss him, cup his cheek and whisper sweet nothings into his ear. Mickey would kill everybody else for so much as suggesting that the words might touch him. Only Ian is allowed to see him like that, to talk to him like that. Sometimes not even him.
Mickey shakes himself out of his thoughts. There's no use in postponing this. He steps to the bed and pulls the duvet off Ian. The following silence and stillness are answer enough.
Fuck!
"Hey, Ian," Mickey starts. They've been here so many times before. It sucks. "Whatcha want for breakfast?" No answer. "Pancakes or scrambled eggs?"
"Not hungry," Ian murmurs.
Mickey huffs a breath of relief. Babysteps.
"Just enough to stomach your meds," Mickey says firmly.
"Not hungry," Ian repeats, still in the same position despite the goosebumps popping up on his bare arms.
"Okay, but don't bitch about it later when you're getting cramps."
Mickey quickly fetches the meds and a glass of water. He sits down next to Ian and nudges him to sit up.
"Don't wanna," Ian hisses.
"Yeah, I don't like it either. But you gotta take them, Ian."
For the first time this morning, Ian's eyes flicker to Mickey, and he could cry at their forlornness. But he bites the inside of his cheek and pulls on Ian until he sits up, leaning heavily against the wall.
Mickey cups his face and runs a thumb over Ian's cheek. His eyes are cast down, and Mickey takes a moment to breathe around the sudden tightness of his throat. He hates seeing Ian like this.
His thumb runs over Ian's lips that part slightly in response. They are the same ones that kissed him breathless last night between giggles and groans.
'It's gonna be okay,' Mickey wants to say, but he knows it's of no use. Of course it will, but this could be a single bad day or the first of a long week or a month of bad days. It doesn't matter. They have to take each one as it comes.
He picks the first pill and touches Ian's bottom lip with it. Ian's mouth falls open on autopilot, and the pill ends up on his tongue. He takes a gulp from the glass that Mickey is holding for him, then takes the second and continues until he has swallowed them all.
Mickey breathes a sigh of relief and forces a smile on his face. He presses a gentle kiss on Ian's lips and gets up off the bed, covering up Ian as best as he can.
"I want eggs and bacon. Join me if you want," he says, trying to sound light but failing miserably. Ian just hums in response and slides down again, turning his back to Mickey, who purses his lips and runs a hand over his face. Maybe the smell of fried bacon will lure him out of bed, who knows?
***
Mickey returns after his lonely breakfast and slides under the blanket, pulling Ian to his chest. He presses a kiss into his hair and closes his eyes when Ian nestles into the crook of his neck. Tears are wetting his skin, and he pulls Ian a little tighter. They'll get through this. Of course they will. But it never feels like it, in the midst of it.
"We could take a walk later," Mickey suggests. He hates senseless strolls, but Ian loves this romantic shit. And a walk through the still gently falling snow doesn't sound that bad. Not if it means that Mickey gets Ian out of the bed, out of his head.
"Too tired," Ian says.
"We could have hot chocolate afterwards. How does that sound? With little marshmallows and all that shit."
Ian snorts, and Mickey's heart beats a little faster for it. "We could get cinnamon at the shop if we wanna be extra fancy, whatcha sayin'?"
The shadow of a smile tugs on Ian's lips, and Mickey jumps at the opportunity. "Come on, tough guy. Let's put your ass into some pants and get outta the house. The snow’s gonna turn grey and yellow if we wait for too long."
Ian mumbles something unintelligible. "What was that?" Mickey asks.
"You're terrible," Ian repeats.
"Yeah, and you love me like that, so, come on." He gets up and pulls Ian with him. He still looks drowsy, but he's sitting up fairly straight. It takes an eternity to get Ian dressed and out into the cold, but Mickey doesn't mind the slow pace, Ian's silence, or that they don't manage to walk that far. It's a small victory.
And later, when they drink the sweetest hot concoction that Mickey ever had the displeasure of drinking, he looks at his man proudly, licks the cream off Ian's lips and beams at him when his mouth twitches into a barely-there smile.
Bipolar is a bitch, but she's one worth fighting against whenever she thinks she can pull his man to the edge. She doesn't know how stubborn Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich can be when it comes to the man that he loves.