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Just this once, just this once, Mickey will agree with his husband’s early rising habits.
Because damn, this is kinda nice.
It started around 5:00 this morning, when a sudden and urgent need to piss struck a sleeping Mickey Gallagher-Milkovich. Irritated, he gathered the strength to leave the warmth of his husband’s embrace and slumped to the bathroom. While having every intent to immediately get back to sleep after doing his business so he wouldn’t be a raging bitch when the sun was out in the real morning, the universe had other plans (if you could call the need to smoke the universe, that is).
So Mickey crept back into their room to grab a cigarette or two then went out onto the balcony.
Easy enough. Walk out, light up, inhale, exhale. Ten minutes maximum, then he’d be back and comfortable in bed again. He’d done it a million times before. No problem.
Except.
Except Ian, the starry-eyed fucker, had started to ease up on smoking recently. During their recently-celebrated sixth wedding anniversary, he made a point of not smoking (cigarettes, at least).
Ian had made a whole big speech to Mickey as they laid in bed in their post-coital haze that he wanted to spend as long as possible together. Wanted to live as long as he could with Mickey there with him. Protecting him, loving him, the full fucking monty. He’d gone on for either ten minutes or ten years about how Mickey had changed his life, how they were gonna be together for the rest of their lives, and how “the rest of their lives” had to be a long fucking time if he had anything to say about it (there was also more than one comment about how Mickey would not be able to get his world thoroughly rocked the way he so frequently does and loves if Ian can’t breathe properly, but the sappy shit heavily carried the conversation).
And Mickey, (who was most certainly not tearing up, fuck you), could only reply with a soft “oh yeah? Works for me, man,” before starting round four.
And now he’s out on the balcony, lighter in hand and an unlit cigarette on his lips.
It’s quiet.
Not unsettlingly, like when they first moved in. Just quiet. But busy.
In the distance, he can see some of the local businesses turning on their lights to start the work day. Some of the neighbors also go on their balconies, trudging around their respective homes to get themselves ready. It’s misty this morning, so he already knows that Ian is gonna bitch about his hair going every fucking place and looking like a ginger cotton ball at the end of the day. He hears the rumble of the school buses on their way to pick up kids for their daily seven hours of torture. He takes the cigarette from his lips to set it down and allows himself to think, just for a fleeting moment, about one day when it’s his and Ian’s kid waking up at ass o’clock in the morning to bitch about having to learn fucking multiplication.
And for once, he gets it.
The sound of the sliding door opening pulls Mickey back to the surface, and not two seconds later there’s a pair of warm arms surrounding him.
The giant fucker is quiet for a moment. He breathes on Mickey’s neck, tucking his chin in right where Mickey’s neck and collarbone meet. He stays there for a long time, more of his weight gradually falling onto his husband.
“You awake there, babyface?”
“Mmm-hmm,” he pauses, still not moving on Mickey’s back, “got cold without you.”
Mickey chuckles, “s’not any fucking warmer out here, genius.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Ian insists, “you’re here.”
Mickey has to pause for a moment then. Feelings course through him at 100 miles per hour. He is here. They both are. Together. And warm. Hugging on the balcony like a couple of queers at what now must be almost six in the morning. Mickey almost sheds a goddamn tear.
“You’re real fuckin’ sweet, you know that?” he says, putting his arms on top of Ian’s where they lay on his waist.
“Mmm-hmm,” Ian hums again, chuckling slightly, “s’why you love me.”
And blame it on the atmosphere or the time of day, but for once Mickey doesn’t have the heart to deny him.
“Guess you got a point there.”
And it’s quiet again until Ian starts leaving little kisses on the section of Mickey’s neck he’s claimed as his own for this morning.
“I really don’t think Lila and her kids are gonna appreciate seeing us bang on the balcony again, E.”
“Don’t wanna bang, m’still tired. Just stay here with me, baby.”
Mickey smiles like a massive idiot and feels his heart flutter. He sinks further into Ian, now slowly running his hands up and down Ian’s arms that have somehow not lost any warmth in the however long they’ve been standing outside.
A police siren somewhere nearby forces Ian’s head up and Mickey to open the eyelids that he had allowed to relax for a while. He tenses for a moment, recognizing that Ian has settled more into consciousness and realizing that he’s not ready for Ian’s tired warmth to return to bed without him.
Mickey turns around in Ian’s arms, looking him in the eyes. Despite being not more than halfway open, their typical lively green has started to bubble to the surface and Mickey just has to take a moment to admire them. He’s seen these eyes completely dead, soulless. He’s seen them terrifyingly and cartoonishly bright. But this, sleepy and warm and a little lovestruck, this is his favorite. Quintessentially Ian, even before his brain has fully kicked on. Mickey’d know the color from 3000 miles away.
(The water that brushes the shores of Mexico is too blue, if anyone asks.)
He raises his hands to link behind Ian’s neck. Keeps them connected.
Just observing.
Ian leaves his arms around his husband’s waist, staring right back. He settles his forehead against Mickey’s for a little while, just basking in all the contact. Mickey whines softly some time later when Ian pulls back, quickly remedying the situation by putting his lips on Mickey’s forehead. He pecks a few kisses right on his favorite spot before just leaving his lips there. Casual.
There’s a brief moment where Mickey closes his eyes and he swears he’s 17 years old again. But this 17 year old Mickey gets to lounge on the couch in the embrace of his gangly ginger boyfriend (who still has yet to hit the growth spurt that inevitably leads to him outgrowing Mickey). They go to dumb tourist traps and get dinner and go for stupidly long walks together, hand in fucking hand.
They laugh, heads bent back and unbidden and loudly. They make out on Ian’s bed and Fiona catches them and winks at them with a loud and chuckled reminder to “use protection you fuckin’ rabbits”. They get caught making out in movie theatres and laugh as they get chased out before ultimately making out in an alley. They play footsie under the lunch tables at school. They do matching couple’s halloween costumes and Mandy sneaks pictures before they take the youngest Gallaghers trick or treating because Ian has the biggest fucking heart he’s ever encountered. Ian calls him those sappy fucking pet names he always likes to slip into conversation while they’re in public and Lip gags. They make fucking mini pizzas while listening to ridiculous top 40 hits at Mickey’s house and laugh in each others’ mouths as they kiss between throwing pepperonis at each other.
They’re kids. Kids in love.
And sometimes he mourns not having that. A childhood. Love. Not allowing himself to be loved and feel love or show love to the boy who, for some reason, kept trying with him. The boy who he was too afraid to acknowledge, to care about.
But then he opens his eyes and suddenly he’s smack dab in the middle of his happily ever after. He’s staring it right in its sleepy, freckly face. He has now what his darkest secrets wanted back then, and he’s never giving it up. The journey led them here.
“Alright, c’mon. Let’s get your ass back to bed before I gotta carry you.”
Here, where Mickey’s motherfucking husband is putting all his goddamn weight on him.
Mickey moves his hands to Ian’s face, resting them there before lightly slapping him and whispering, “c’mon Sleeping Beauty, I’m not haulin’ you back myself.”
And of course, leave it to this motherfucker to only acknowledge what he wants to, “you think I’m beautiful, Mick?”
Ian smirks, the early hour clearly not dampening his spirit. Mickey fights a good battle, but he eventually lets out a small chuckle at his husband’s antics and turns back around to lean over the balcony.
Then it’s quiet again. They sway gently with Mickey’s back pressed against Ian’s chest, his arms again resting atop Ian’s on his waist. Warm. Comfortable.
Mickey’s whisper oh-so-gently breaks the silence, “I do, by the way.”
“Hmm?”
“Think you’re…beautiful. Or whatever.” He can practically feel the warmth and depth of the smile that graces Ian’s face behind him.
“Well,” Ian starts, his voice sounding shaky with emotion before he clears his throat, “I don’t think you’re too bad yourself, m’love.”
Ian kisses the back of Mickey’s head a few times then.
Then there they are again, two queers swaying on a balcony at six in the morning on a weekday. No plans, no fears, no reasons to hide.
Ain’t that something.
Ian breaks the silence, “what got you up before noon on a Friday in the first place?”
Mickey chuckles lightly, “had to take a leak.”
“So what, you decided to do your business on the balcony?”
“Yep. Some yuppie downstairs probably got it in their coffee.”
“Ugh! God, sorry I asked, Mick.”
Mickey laughs then, his body rumbling gently against his husband’s. Ian can only hold it together for so much longer before his laughter joins in too, his feigned disgust dropping completely.
Then it’s quiet again. But still busy. And Ian is conscious enough to notice this time.
“A lot goin’ on this morning,” Ian mumbles into Mickey’s neck.
“Yeah, well, everyone in the city’s gotta send their fuckin’ rugrats to school, y’know.”
“Hmm. Guess so.”
Mickey lets a beat pass before adding, “just wait ‘till that’s us, man. Lunch boxes and all that shit. Gonna be pullin’ our hair out.”
Ian turns him around again, eyes watery and hopeful, “yeah?”
A look passes over Ian’s face like light between the clouds. He visibly brightens, the meaning behind Mickey’s words sinking in and planting itself firmly in his psyche. Mickey brought up kids. Their own kids. Conversationally. Honestly, he’s proud of himself.
Mickey feels Ian’s heartbeat quicken and his breath catch. He grips Mickey’s arms strongly. Images of study guides and PTA meetings and dance recitals pass through both of their heads.
And miraculously? It’s thrilling. Something to look forward to. Mickey’s eyes flick down to the cigarette still laying on the ledge. Flashbacks of the feeling and smell of burning skin bubble to the surface. Uncles and cousins suddenly not showing up to the Milkoviches’ hackneyed version of family reunions anymore. His own fear of the fucking disgrace of a man he called his father passed out on the couch with three of the little fuckers lit in the glass ashtray and one still smouldering on his lips…
No. He’s sticking around and his kids are gonna fucking love him. He won’t be like that. He won’t. He can’t. Not when he and Ian are in the driver’s seat.
Mickey’s eyes are hopeful too as he cracks a smile, his real, Ian’s-eyes-only smile, “yeah.”
Ian holds his head like he’s precious. Like he’s delicate, “holy shit, I love you.”
And then he pulls Mickey in for a kiss, his promise for the future stuck between them. Mickey gets kissed like they are the only two left on the planet. His chest warms and for once he understands the clips in those dumb princess movies where true love’s kiss saves the day.
He is in love.
Lips move against lips and tongues and Ian still has this grip on him like he’s someone special. Worthy. He’s seen Mickey’s faults and failures and been on the receiving end of his violence on more than one occasion, yet here he is, treating his husband to a kiss filled with passion and adoration and pride.
And like a ton and a half of bricks, it hits Mickey that he is someone Ian can be proud of associating with. Vulgar tattoo, even more vulgar mouth and all. Mickey gets to stick around, they get protect each other. Mickey gets to be his happily ever after.
“Alright, alright softie. Quit tearin’ up on me,” Mickey jokes. Ian doesn’t call him out on the fact that his eyes are tearing up too.
He just stares again. Thumb brushing under Mickey’s left eye and a smile growing stronger and stronger on his lips.
He, too, is in love.
“C’mon Freckles,” Mickey whispers a few moments later, “let’s go get somethin’ to eat. All this emotion’s got me hungry than a motherfucker.”
Ian chuckles incredulously and it’s Mickey’s favorite sound in the world, “you? You wanna leave here? Before seven in the morning? Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”
Mickey raises an eyebrow in feigned surprise, “oh you’re married huh? Ol’ ball and chain tuggin’ you down?”
Ian takes a step back to look at his ring in the growing sunlight, “I dunno, I think he’s alright. Gonna get real naggy when he has my babies but-”
“Oh fuck you!” Mickey laughs loudly, pushing Ian’s chest lightly.
“Ask me again after we eat and maybe I will.”
Mickey peers at Ian, then raising his hand and shaking his ring finger repeatedly, “is it too late to return this fuckin’ thing?”
“Yup,” Ian shrugs, “I guess you’re just stuck with me forever, hon.”
“Well,” Mickey looks into Ian’s eyes and smiles warmly, ”I guess there are worse ways to spend forever, huh babycakes?”
Ian honest-to-god blushes at that, looking away from Mickey with redness blooming up his neck, “c’mon lover, we’re going to that fruity-ass coffee shop a couple blocks from here and getting donuts the sizes of our fuckin’ heads. And you’re paying.”
“Whatever you say, princess,” Ian concedes, leaning down to kiss Mickey.
They both take one last deep breath on the balcony, going back into the apartment to put on semi-real clothes and shoes. They steal glances across their living room like the lovesick idiots they know they secretly are and turn off all the lights as they lock the apartment door.
“Ready, dipshit?” Mickey asks, just barely extending a tattooed hand from his (well, Ian’s) hoodie pocket for his husband to take.
“As I’ll ever be, asshole.” Ian looks at the hand then smiles warmly, lacing their fingers and continuing out of the complex and over to the coffee shop.
Mickey’s cigarette remains on the balcony’s ledge, unlit.