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"Hey! You fucking dropping a deuce in here?" Mickey says, only banging on the bathroom door once before barging straight in.
Ian quickly wipes the tears that were threatening to fall before he heard Mickey's harsh tones.
"We're gonna be la--"
Ian ducks his head, spitting toothpaste into the sink and using the running water to splash at the saltiness in his eyes. Mickey still hasn’t said anything, watching him from the doorway like he was just as shocked to find Ian in this state. He turns the faucet off and wipes his face, tossing the musty towel in their overflowing hamper in the corner.
“Since when do you care if we’re late to brunch, Mick?” Ian deflects. He’s not ready to talk about this yet. He doesn’t even know what this is. The fuck is this even?
Mickey takes the line after a few more seconds, still following his husband’s movements around their bedroom. He leans against their door frame. “They ran out of bacon last time, and that fucking Facebook mommy cult took our goddamn table.”
“Wow, never imagined you being a brunch bunny, Mick.” The cloud that so easily crept up on him disperses gradually the more he focuses on picking a jacket and making sure his phone is charged.
“Yeah, I’m fucking full of surprises. Now, move your fucking ass.”
“Lead the way. You know I like to watch you leave for two reasons,” Ian teases, trying out a smile. Thankfully it comes easy; it’s always easy with Mickey. He’s been happy…they’ve both been good. A year in the bag and they’re talking about starting a family, no matter how one-sided it is right now. Family…they’re gonna be fathers…dads…
Fuck. He doesn’t realize he’s stopped walking until Mickey says something.
“Yo, fuckface, you good?” Mickey’s holding the door to their favorite West side brunch spot, giving the finger to the woman who literally clutches her necklace at his term of endearment.
Ian quickly walks through the door and off to the restroom, not even acknowledging Mickey cursing after him.
“Gallagher!” Mickey kicks in the first stall, startling a man who is not his husband.
“Hey–!”
“My fault– why the fuck are you sitting to pee, man?” Mickey’s face screws up at yet another thing he doesn’t understand about the fucking West side.
“Last one,” Ian calls out through the tears that have finally broken through. He unlocks it when he sees Mickey’s boots. He doesn’t try to hide his face and Mickey’s grimace quickly fades.
“Meds?” He guesses, putting a hand on Ian’s shoulder.
Ian shrugs, laughs a little. “Yes? Maybe? I thought…you know, at first, because…it couldn’t be.”
“Couldn’t be what?” Mickey yanks some toilet tissue from the dispenser and wipes at the tears beginning to fall faster from Ian’s face. “Hey, look at me. What’s going on?”
“I think I…actually miss him?” Ian admits. It isn’t really a question. He’s felt it since everyone found out.
They stayed out partying and drinking til late into the morning. He and Mickey fell into their bed after a very handsy Uber ride to, what felt like, the other side of Chicago. They were laughing and kissing, touching, fucking until Mickey complained about the moon still getting through the expensive ass curtains they finally agreed on. Too tired to shower, they fell asleep naked and sated, only for Ian to get a call from Lip at near 5 in the morning. Apparently, Frank’s file had been so large it took the hospital some time to find a contact he hadn’t forged. Fucking, Frank.
More tears fell and Mickey wrapped him in his arms. They were bigger since they’d been hitting the apartment gym together. And Mickey wanted to check out Mr. McMuscles too.
Ian pulled away, fed up with himself. He wiped harshly at his face, pushing Mickey’s loving hands away. “He’s dead and still fucking things up. I’m sorry, let’s go eat before they run out of bacon.”
“Fuck the bacon, Gallagher,” Mickey held Ian’s hands in his to keep him from rubbing at his eyes so hard.
“New fetish?”
“Shut the fuck up and keep talking…you know what I mean,” Mickey cut Ian off before he could open his smart mouth again. “You lost your fucking memory, huh? I been through this shit.”
Ian’s face changes. “Oh, Mick–”
Mickey waves him off. “He was my fucking dad, alright? Can’t fucking…override the feelings or whatever the fuck. Break shit, get plastered, fuck, smoke a fat one and move the fuck on.”
Ian couldn’t help but chuckle. “What is that? Mickey’s five stages of grief?”
The door opens then.
“Hey, ocupado!” Mickey yells from the stall.
“This is a public restroom.”
“We don’t give a shit, we’re talking here!”
“We? Is this like, one of those glory hole things? Can I get next?”
Mickey almost knocks the shitty door off the hinges, he reacts so fast. “Does it look like we’re fucking running a train in here? This ain’t fucking PornHub, bitch!”
“Mick,” Ian says calmly, holding onto Mickey’s arm that’s still around his waist. He hates crying in public.
“He looks familiar. Pretty sure I’ve seen–”
Ian goes red and lowers his head, a familiar guilt rising alongside the sadness.
“Only thing you’re about to fucking see is the inside of that fucking trash can, fucking prick! Nobody talks to my husband like that–Yeah, you fucking run and eat the last brunch you’re ever gonna get!”
Mickey drags the trash can to block the door and goes back to Ian. He cups his face and lifts his head. “Hey, forget what that shrivel dick said, okay? I’m gonna drop some bad molly in his fucking mimosa.”
Ian smiles, shaking his head. He can’t help it. “So, you were actually listening when I said that stuff to you about coping with grief?”
“Fuck no. You think anyone wants to hear that shit when someone fucking dies? It’s what people say when they want you to stop being a little bitch about it. Doesn’t matter if they were homophobic, shitty or Frank.”
Ian stares at him, waiting for him to say more. Waiting to stop feeling so fucking weird about it.
“Look, I know it feels like you shouldn’t care so much, right? I mean, Frank wasn’t even your real fucking dad. So I don’t get why we’re missing chocolate pancakes for this shit, but it gets better, okay?”
Ian throws the tissue Mickey used to wipe his tears in the toilet, watching it take on water and sink. “I think I’m mad it was a bat virus, of all things.”
Mickey raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was from those Asian spa bitches.”
“That’s racist, Mick,” Ian sighs, “No, I think I’m mad he won’t see what being a good father looks like.”
Mickey nods. Someone tries to enter the bathroom, trying to push it open. They ignore them.
“He fucking wishes he could see you as a dad,” Mickey says. “Better than he ever was with your siblings.”
“I meant you too, Mickey. Neither of them will see us be better than them. It sucks. They don’t deserve our tears.”
“You’re preaching to the church, or whatever the fuck. Join the club, bitch.” Mickey leans up and kisses Ian’s lips.
“The dead daddy club?” Ian lets Mickey kiss him, lets him get close.
“Yeah. We meet every Sunday to cry in bathrooms at brunch,” Mickey grins, wiping a stray eyelash from Ian’s cheek and kissing him again.
“Silver lining, can’t have daddy issues with no daddy,” Ian shrugs.
Mickey laughs, “Now you’re getting it.”
“I think I like the Mickey method of grief.”
“Five stages of fuck you. Can we fucking eat now? They’re probably out of everything but that fucking green shit on bread.” Mickey leads them out of the bathroom, Ian’s hand in his.
“Avocado toast?”
Mickey fake barfs, making Ian roll his eyes and laugh. He gets up at one point during their breakfast tp talk to the host and when they finish, the receipt says the meal is comped; their waiter awkwardly expressing his condolences as they get up to leave.
It takes some more time, and there are still bad days, but Ian is glad he has Mickey to lean on.