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Ian stares at two dress shirts and cannot for the life of him decide which one to wear.
He’s been looking at them for twenty minutes, two tickets strumming against his temple as he considers. Thankfully he’s already showered, he’s already otherwise ready to go, but he can’t seem to keep his head on straight long enough for him to make a choice. Every time he thinks he’s about to pick one up, he reconsiders, and finds himself getting distracted.
What’s distracting him is this: he and Mickey have two tickets to see a concert.
Not a rock band. Not a beer festival that will have some old geezers playing folk music on an ignored stage. Not some South-Side-adjacent-acceptable-activity.
No, this is a concert to see an orchestra play. This is an event where they need to dress nicely, where the bar will only be open at intermission and no one is supposed to get sloshed, and they’ll be surrounded by a bunch of people who they’ve never seen before and who have probably never stepped foot in South Side.
And Ian has no fucking clue what to wear. Is surprised, still, that Mickey agreed to something like this. That’s what’s really throwing Ian, actually.
Ian got the tickets from Lindsey, one of the trainee paramedics on Ian’s ambulance. She and her boyfriend were originally going to go, but they broke up, and now she didn’t want to go by herself. She’d been telling Ian all about the music — though admittedly Ian didn’t catch much of it, being busy with work and all — and then she had said, “I thought you and your husband could go. They’re nice seats. And I hear everyone likes you and Mickey.” He hadn’t realized the whole conversation had been a lead up to her offer, and he’d been stunned.
At the time Ian had thought it is so obvious you haven’t met Mickey yet, because no one else would ever think to suggest this to the likes of them. So, he said, “thanks, but no thanks,” in polite terms and went home.
Later that night, Ian had been laughing about it to Mickey —how they were offered up tickets to some fancy concert in a fancy concert hall — when Mickey said something that was just enough to think Ian had gotten it wrong to turn them down:
“Well, that’d be somethin’ new, that’s for sure.”
So Ian took a leap and, next day, told Lindsey that he did actually want the tickets. She was delighted.
Ever since he’s been expecting Mickey to renege. Has been ready for Mickey to exclaim fuck that, or make jokes, or grumble, or act like Ian was dragging him by the lobes of his ears. This is an orchestra. An orchestra, with violins and wind instruments and brass, the whole shebang, at least according to the small art printed at the top of the ticket. It was at the old Chicago Theater, which Ian had seen in passing all his life but had never stepped inside, but he knew was fancy. This was exactly the kind of event Mickey usually deemed was for rich assholes, or pompous dicks, or for people with too much fucking time on their hands. If nothing else, Ian thought Mickey would have proclaimed this to be gay, and then would follow up with “we’re gay but not that gay, firecrotch,” teasing Ian for even suggesting the idea. Usually Mickey would have expressed his absolute disdain for the whole thing by now, would have been groaning about do we really have to? and Ian would have rolled his eyes and held out Mickey’s dress shirts and told him to choose between the two. Mickey would already be creating a plan to seduce Ian before they could get out the door, miss the concert in favor of a more intimate activity.
Except Mickey hasn’t been doing any of that. He’s been quiet. Ian bought Mickey a deep blue dress shirt a while back and he’s got it hanging on the bathroom door. Mickey’s already in his undershirt, is gelling back his hair, has showered and put on cologne. Mickey is preparing with no fanfare at all.
Ian won’t say it aloud or else he might shatter the peace that’s been made, but he feels like maybe he’s missed something. That there is something unknown to him about his husband still, after all this time. Something he never would have known to ask about.
There’s a creak, Mickey pushing the bathroom door open more as he’s almost done, and yet Ian still can’t choose between his stupid dress shirts. So mystified about Mickey’s behavior that he keeps forgetting he needs to keep things moving and get ready himself.
“Pick the purple one,” Mickey calls out.
Ian’s eyebrows rise up and he spins around to look at his husband. He enjoys when Mickey gives his opinions on what Ian wears. Loves hearing the why. Maybe it’s a little vain, but he feels giddy knowing when Mickey likes how he looks. When Ian gets input from him, he catalogues it away with all of the rest of Mickey’s opinions, files it away in permanent retention storage. It’s why most of his t-shirts now are soft and comfortable, because he noticed that Mickey touches him all the more when his shirt is a soft landing for Mickey’s head against Ian’s shoulder.
And because Mickey knows Ian likes when Mickey tells him, he elaborates voluntarily: “Makes your eyes look really fucking green and your hair look like fire. And it goes with the gray slacks Debbie got for you, and you can wear the shoes that are actually comfortable.”
Oh, the shoes. That’s a good point. He nods and puts his hand on the shirt which is a color he would call lilac, and realizes he likes the way his wedding ring looks with it, too. He picks it up. “Thanks.”
Mickey pokes his head out of the bathroom. “‘Course,” he says with an absolute stunning grin. “Want my man to look nice.” Then Mickey takes the blue shirt off the door and walks toward Ian, sliding his arms into the sleeves. Ian watches as his hands, FUCK U-UP, climb the ladder of Mickey’s buttons all the way up to the collar. Then Mickey pauses. “Think we have to wear a tie?” he asks.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Okay, thank fuck,” Mickey says, the most Mickey sounding he’s really been all evening.
Ian wants to ask about it. Wants to say, “hey, you seem kind of excited for this, something you’re not telling me?” but he keeps his mouth shut. Living in West Side alone made Mickey nervous, made him worried he wouldn’t belong, that they’d become something unrecognizable and somehow be unsafe. He doesn’t want to make Mickey feel insecure or something, not when he’s looking so good. Confident.
“Your hair looks good,” Ian says. “And I knew this shirt would look nice. Thought you could wear it if you got a position at that other bar, too.”
Mickey currently works at the Alibi with Kevin, enjoying bartending and bookkeeping. However, he expressed interest in maybe moving up to somewhere where everyone can actually afford their drinks, where he doesn’t have to see Frank, and where he didn’t have to reach for the rifle at least once a week to keep bastards out of the bar or tone down the fights. That, and apparently Kevin can still get on Mickey’s nerves, especially when him and V are getting it on while on shift. So, Ian had bought him a shirt to encourage him interviewing wherever he wanted.
Besides, they needed to go to christenings and things like that, so, a nice shirt is always helpful to have around. And this one looks really nice on Mickey. Ian reaches forward and undoes the top button, having Mickey expose a little more of his collar. It still looks plenty neat, but he thinks it makes Mickey look sexy.
Mickey eyes him faux disapprovingly, and doesn’t move to change it.
Ian puts on his shirt and buttons it up. He’s already combed back his hair, still a little curlier than it used to be, but it’s looser now that he’s let it get back to being longer. Mickey touches one of the curls and pulls it forward, watches it spring back. “Boing.”
Ian snorts. Pokes Mickey in the forehead. “You’re such a shit.”
Mickey concedes that with a tip to his head. Then he reaches into their dresser door for his gun and tucks it into his waistband. Ian immediately takes it out, his finger in the loop of the trigger assembly.
“They have metal detectors, Mick,” Ian says, putting the gun back into their dresser door. “And I think the cops will be there in two seconds if anything happens. This isn’t South Side.”
Mickey pales. His mouth falls open in an "ah,” and his eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t argue.
Ian’s a little itchy, too, at the thought of being unarmed. He’s gotten used to Mickey having a gun when they go out. Always looking out for Terry over their shoulder, or Ian worries about running into someone when he was Curtis. It’s nice to have a safety net, even though he never wants Mickey to use it.
“We can take any of those fancy fucks anyway,” Mickey exhales out.
Ian smiles. “Yeah. Easy.”
They both laugh, a little nervousness still in their pitch, but when they look at each other they’re calm.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Ian says, a little more sure.
Mickey smiles. Reaches up and kisses Ian chastely. Ian loves these kisses. They’re familiar kisses. Comforting kisses. Married kisses.
“You ready?” Not really, Ian’s mind supplies, because he still feels like he’s got to catch up with everything going on. But he nods. He’ll follow Mick’s lead, Mickey won’t leave him behind. “Let’s go, then, Red.”
Ian’s seen the outside of the Chicago Theater plenty of times in his life. Whenever Chicago is advertised for longer than a minute to get past the Bean and the skyline, inevitably the Chicago Theater comes into view with its long vertical sign lit up in bright red. He’s driven by it a few times, walked nearby. Ian’s never gone inside, though. He’s not even sure if he’s ever walked on the same sidewalk as its entrance.
Mickey looks like he’s thinking the exact same thing.
Like an idiot, Ian checks their tickets. It confirms what he already knew, what’s written on the tickets is also written on the marquee.
There’s a line of women in ballgowns on the arms of men in tuxedos, and Ian wonders if they still managed to be underdressed. Still, interspersed between the absolutely decked out patrons are people who are in more of what their attire is, and some people who are even wearing sweatshirts and jeans.
They’ll blend in well enough, Ian thinks. Still, he presses close to Mickey. Not quite holding hands, but pressing the back of his hand against Mickey’s, feeling the smooth metal of his ring. Ian loves doing that, loves that Mickey does it to him, too. A reminder of their claim to each other, their vows, the fact that they both look at each other these days and can say, “he’s mine,” and it not be a question in the slightest.
“You nervous?” Mickey asks.
Yes, Ian thinks, and he doesn’t even know why. He doesn’t mind things like this. Ian likes things like this. New opportunities, new experiences — hell, Ian had wanted to get out of South Side so he could have a life that, maybe didn’t look like this exactly, but could have potentially. Now that he’s here, though, with Mickey, he finds himself weirdly nervous. Maybe because he keeps waiting for the shoe to drop with Mickey, doesn’t really understand this being something Mickey wants to go to; while he’s delighted, Ian feels like he’s missing something. He hates feeling like that.
Then Ian says something he hadn’t even realized he was thinking. “Last time I was at something even remotely like this I was known as Curtis.”
That has Mickey wrapping his arm around the small of Ian’s back and pulling him closer, a little urgently, shaking Ian a little. He didn’t mean to say that, he didn’t, really, but he’s grateful for Mickey’s hand grounding him back.
“Are you?” Ian thinks to ask.
“Wish I could have my gun, these people look like they’re fuckin’ touchers,” Mickey says, which is his version of yes. Ian leans into him a little more and Mickey smiles. “Gonna be good though.”
“You think?”
“And if it’s not I think we can get up to some fun in the bathroom, wouldn’t you say?” Mickey says, and ah, there’s the husband he knows. Ian laughs, it rattles out of him a bit high pitched, but it helps. A pinprick in the panic balloon, a small screaming sound of air releasing, he feels a little less tense.
“Absolutely,” Ian says.
Then it’s their turn at the podium, a man in a suit learning how to take tickets from a woman in a black dress. “Are you here for the symphony?” the man asks.
Ian looks over at Mickey briefly, before handing over the tickets. “Yes, we are.”
The Chicago Theater is fucking beautiful.
There’s a grand chandelier in the main entrance, and more ornate chandeliers and light fixtures as they make their way through. One crystal probably costs the amount of their apartment, or maybe Ian’s being over grand, but it all seems so spectacular. The stairs and walls are all the color of cream, and engraved in intricate floral and ivy designs that reminds Ian of when he looked a picture of the Sistine Chapel in a textbook in high school. The hallways are artwork, with either honeycomb ceilings or archways with more engravings, and there are displays of famous performances lit up and glittering as they make their way through the hall.
When they enter the actual theater, it is all lush blood red velvet. The curtain is scarlet ruched and gold fringed. Above the fancy box seats are filigreed domed roofs and above those are paintings of blue skies and people in gilded clothes walking through meadows. They’re the kind of paintings Ian would expect to see in a solid oak frame behind glass, yet it’s all out here, mere decoration for whatever’s going to be on stage.
“Jesus christ,” Mickey says, and Ian glances over at him. His eyes are taking it all in, too. “You said some lady at work got these?”
“Yeah. Lindsey.”
They find their seat, and it’s got a clear view of everything. There’s pamphlets in front of them, more information. Ian picks one up, starts skimming through. Mickey’s looking at all the exits.
“Did she win some sort of fuckin’ radio contest?”
Ian shakes his head. Puts the pamphlet away. He doesn’t know enough about what they’re about to watch to really care about the information, about who is a soloist, or the composer’s biographies. “I have no idea.”
“Think your colleague might be a Rockefeller or some shit.”
Ian snorts. “Doubt it if she’s single and working as an EMT, but I’ll see what I can find out,” he teases.
“The guy in that painting looks like he walks like he just got a dick up the ass,” Mickey quips, pointing to one over the box seats on the left, and Ian snorts.
“Yeah, he really does. Or like he got off his horse.”
“Or both. Back then? Coulda been both.” Mickey grins something feral, and Ian exhales.
Then Ian watches as Mickey also takes notice of the programs. Mickey picks one up, and Ian reads the back of Mickey’s hands like he always does, FUCK U-UP, while Mickey’s gaze scans the pamphlet.
And Mickey does more than scan. He continues to read. Ian takes in the sights, all the carved cream walls and the fancy booths where people filter in with their ballgowns. Around them he eavesdrops on other conversations — some people are as new and starry-eyed as he feels, others talk about season tickets and how this show was last year and wondering how it will compare — and he starts to get a little lightheaded from it all. Mickey is still reading, invested in this information, and Ian smiles. He likes that Mickey’s intrigued, even if it is constantly catching Ian by surprise.
Ian reaches for his pocket for his travel container for his pills, since they’re going to be out late and he would rather do it now rather than intermission, when he finds his pocket empty. He thought he’d grabbed them. Thought he’d been prepared. He’d spent so much time looking between two stupid dress shirts, he didn’t bring his fucking pills?
He might have to leave. Let Mickey stay at the concert, he can run home, he doesn’t want Mickey to miss this but he doesn’t want to forget his pills. He’s been good on taking them lately, and he worries that if he misses ‘em —
Mickey rattles a silver container by his ear and Ian turns to face him. Mickey’s still reading the pamphlet, but in his hand is Ian’s travel container.
“You were so worried ‘bout the tickets, thought I’d grab ‘em.”
Mickey’s not usually one for public displays of affection, but Ian grabs him by his arm and pulls him over anyway. Kisses his temple, careful not to disturb his reading as he reads about the music you’ll hear tonight , but he watches Mickey smile.
“Thanks.”
“Anything for you, lover,” Mickey teases, but he reaches up and tugs on Ian’s hair again.
Mickey likes Ian’s curly hair. Likes playing with it, springing the curls. When he was a kid and people did that it annoyed him, but when Mickey does it, he laughs.
Then Ian takes the pills, puts them on his tongue, and grabs his water to drown them down. Out of the corner of his eye Ian watches Mickey fold back up the program and slap it against his palm.
“Apparently we’re not supposed to clap during some of the movements. Or they’ll tell us when we can clap. Apparently this shit ain’t intuitive.”
“You surprised? None of this feels intuitive.”
Mickey’s eyes are on the stage, the ruched red curtain. “Pompous assholes. See if I clap at all, I’m not so easily impressed.” Ian laughs, and he doesn’t say anything more about it, but that is the kind of talk that Ian’s been expecting from Mickey all night.
Above them the lights begin to flicker, signaling… Something. Showtime, Ian would guess. People begin to organize into their seats, and Ian looks at Mickey and Mickey shrugs, and it seems a fair assumption.
Ian tentatively sits down, careful not to bump into the lady next to him who is excitedly talking to her friend. Mickey plops down and spreads his legs out wide, and Ian’s glad he gave Mickey the aisle, because that way he doesn’t have to worry about Mickey being sucked into a conversation with someone else, he doesn’t have to turn toward and accidentally invite other people into their conversation. There’s this strange nervousness twisting up inside him, Ian wishes it were only the two of them right now, which is ridiculous. It’s easier to pretend it is only the two of them, though, when he leans toward Mickey at the aisle and there’s no one else beside him.
Ian doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him, why he’s so antsy.
They’re going to be sitting here watching a show, he will occasionally sip water, he will be told when to clap. This is going to be the easiest shit in the world, and yet, his hands are sweating and he’s bobbing his knees, he keeps extending his legs and retracting them, unable to find a way to sit.
Mickey puts a hand on his knee. Squeezes. Ian stills.
“Settle down, Gallagher.”
“Sorry.”
“Nothin’ to be sorry about, just relax.” It’s strange, because Mickey does sound almost relaxed, and Ian desperately wants to ask him why aren’t you more nervous? Why aren’t you swearing up a storm? Why haven’t you picked a fight with a bartender? Why haven’t you shown me the flask you managed to secret in? What’s going on?
Then the lights begin to dim, and a hush comes over the room. Ian swallows his questions, settles back, and zeroes in on Mickey’s hand on his knee. Relax. He can relax. Everything is fine.
The curtain comes up, and there are rows upon rows of people in black, instruments glittering in their hands. The conductor raises their hands up, and with a flick of her wrist, the concert’s begun.
Ian’s staring at Mickey. He knows he’s staring at Mickey. Staring at Mickey who is watching the concert, but Ian can’t stop staring at him.
It’s a concert, right? So who really cares where he’s looking, let him look at his husband. His husband looks nice, with his deep blue eyes which look even darker and bluer — if that’s a word — ‘cause his shirt, and he has his hair gelled back making it look like midnight, and he put on cologne so Mickey smells really good because it’s the cologne and the hint of tobacco and Mickey. Ian can hear the orchestra well enough and look at his husband. Maybe he thinks Mickey deserves a soundtrack. Actually, yeah, Mickey absolutely deserves a soundtrack, and this one’s amazing, and he likes looking at Mickey to the sound of this music.
The concert is impressive. It is. It’s beautiful. In Ian’s periphery he sees the string instruments sway like reeds in the wind, lean in and back and breathe through their instruments as they play across the long lines. The brass glitters in the light, and they also dance with the music. There are fluttering flutes and bassoonists that bellow and oboes that don’t squeak. In the backdrop, percussion rises and falls, rings loud and then dampens, they control the speed as much as the conductor does, it seems. Everything sounds perfect, but what does Ian know? When they were doing a sound check at the very beginning, the chord alone sounded impressive, Ian didn’t realize it wasn’t the start of an actual song.
Music has always grounded Ian, he’s always enjoyed it, but he doesn’t really have the words to explain what he likes. Knows that when there’s mixed chords that sound a little off he gets goosebumps; or that he really likes when they all get gradually louder and louder and louder until they’re at their loudest pitch, an absolute rush, and then the director cuts them off and the music rings for a moment. In that moment, nobody breathes. Nobody moves. The sound lingers, not an echo of itself, but an elongation, and Ian feels suspended with the sound. He likes that a lot. But he’s not sure he knows any of the words to discuss it with any sort of precision. Next to him he hears the occasional mutterings of people who talk about music terms, and he thinks that this is something that he should listen and enjoy and not try to explain.
Besides, what Ian’s really zeroed in on is that Mickey is watching the concert and barely saying a word.
Every once in a while Mickey leans in, as if drawn to the stage; he puts his elbow on the arm rest and rests his head on his chin and looks intently at something. Ian can tell he’s staring at something in particular, but when Ian tries to follow his gaze he can’t figure out what Mickey’s paying such close attention to. Ian desperately wants to know.
Mickey has made five comments that Ian would expect since the start, and he knows his husband well. Most of the little snipes Mickey are because he knows Ian expects them, they’re words to keep up the act, but they don’t have their typical snap to ‘em. They aren’t real. Which means Ian’s missing something, and he really wants to know what it is.
Mickey shifts again and Ian wonders what he’s going to look at this time, his gaze switching back to the stage, when he feels Mickey’s fingertips on his chin. Ian can’t help himself, caught as he is, he smiles. His attention is promptly turned toward Mickey, but Mickey’s pushing his head, trying to turn him to face the concert. It works for a moment, but Ian turns back toward him, and Mickey’s eyebrows come up and he faces Ian. Drops his hand from Ian’s chin, and Ian watches as Mickey’s mouth stretches into a smile, too.
“Show is that way,” he whispers, pointing toward the stage.
“Got that.”
“Do I need to re-screw your eyeballs into your head, Gallagher?”
“You’re watching,” Ian whispers back dumbly.
“Well, figured that was what getting all dressed up and shit was for was to watch what we came here to fuckin’ see, but apparently you’re wanting to stare at my face.”
“It’s a nice face.”
Mickey smiles a you’re not getting away with that smile, and Ian grimaces. “What’s the matter with you?”
“You’re watching.”
“Yup.”
“I’m just…” still really confused, because I feel a thought rattling in the back of my brain that you’re not yourself, and if you’re not yourself then what the fuck is going on, and what am I missing? And this all sounds like thoughts Ian has when he’s fucking manic and he’s not manic right now. He’s medicated and sure and this is all a little off kilter, that’s all. Ian shakes his head. “Forget it.” He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what’s so weird about this, and he’s probably making Mickey feel self conscious, and he needs to stop.
Shaking himself out, he turns to sit more fully in his seat and looks at the concert. At the way the violinists strum across the strings, the way the light hits the brass and glints gold like it’s intentional. He rubs his eyes and forces himself to focus.
Then Mickey’s hand comes back to rest on Ian’s knee. Ian jumps, turns to look at him, and Mickey presses a kiss on his cheek.
“Sit back and watch, Ian. It’s interesting.”
Oh.
Oh. It’s interesting. Mickey thinks it’s interesting.
That’s the first time Mickey has said something positive, truly positive, about this whole thing. Now he’s said something direct, he’s not speaking slant, Ian doesn’t need to guess as to what Mickey’s thinking. It really is that simple. Mickey is interested and finds it interesting.
It’s stupid, Ian should have figured, but he — he worries. He doesn’t ever want to make them do something Mickey’s not comfortable with, and he knows he occasionally rushes into things. So it’s good to know. Everything clicks into place, then, and he can relax.
Mickey’s gaze softens, his eyebrows coming down. His smile goes from rueful to quiet, but he’s still smiling at him.
“Okay,” Ian whispers. “Sorry.”
Mickey squeezes his knee again, doesn’t remove his hand. “You’re okay,” Mickey whispers.
And because Mickey is in a giving mood, Ian pushes the bounds a little. Slumps down far enough that he’s shorter than Mickey and leans into him, tucking his head against the crook of Mickey’s shoulder, half his weight against him. It’s nice to feel Mickey solidly there, to have Mickey catch him like this. Mickey moves his hand a little further to the inside of Ian’s knee, but it’s not sexual. It’s warm. Comforting. Ian looks up at Mickey and grins.
Mickey laughs quietly. “Soft motherfucker,” he mouths, and Ian sighs in relief.
He likes that Mickey likes it. Likes that Mickey is actually interested in this. Ian can feel a little untethered so long as Mickey is actually enjoying himself, which it seems he is. Ian didn’t realize he wasn’t really enjoying himself before, but now he is. Now he’s enjoying himself, because it’s a night with Mickey, and it really is as easy as that.
They make it to intermission, and Ian feels a bit more like himself in the rush of all the people. This is what Ian is good with. People. Crowds. He deals with this more often than he’d like during work, but he knows how to handle it all, the rush of people and noise.
Mickey told him he was going to go take a piss and asked Ian to get a drink for him, which was fine. It’s nice to have a reason to get up and walk around. So, Mickey left with, “I’ll find ya. Your gangly ginger ass is easy to spot.”
“I’ve got more experience in spotting your ass, I think,” Ian had told him with a wink, and Mickey had flipped him the bird, and Ian had laughed more easily than he had done all night.
Mickey’s order from the bar is standard: “a fuckin’ beer.” Anticipating the long fancy list that will likely be parroted to Ian with great skill by whoever is running the bar, Ian chuckles. Mickey and him, they’re not looking for regions and beers with honey in the soil — simply something that comes in a bottle or in a plastic cup.
So, now Ian’s at the bar, ordering two beers and is pleased when they give him the actual glass bottles. Ian supposes in an establishment like this they trust their patrons to not chuck their trash into a corner. Or they throw whoever would litter like that in a place like this out, Ian’s not sure. Ian hasn’t seen the security here, which means it’s either nonexistent because it’s not necessary — unlikely — or it’s so good that they know exactly where they need to be and only come out when shit hits the fan — likely.
Damn this place has a lot of money. Which is obvious, it’s the Chicago Theater, but Ian still finds himself blinking at that kind of wealth whenever he’s encountered with it. He doesn’t come across money like this often, on occasion he’ll be called to a fancy home or an auditorium for an emergency call, but it doesn’t happen a lot. Those don’t really count, either, because Ian’s not paying attention to the environment around him, he’s paying attention to the emergency that’s before him. He’s working.
This time he’s in it and it surrounds him and they can’t really escape the luxury. There’s so much care in every corner, the artistry plain for everyone to see, and, really, so long as you have a ticket to some sort of show, anyone can walk these halls. It’s kind of amazing. Ian’s drinking a beer he’s had in a hundred different bars, the same beer he can get from his own husband at the Alibi if he chose, but this time he’s walking down plush carpeting and near artwork and costumes from famous operas behind glass.
Heading toward the bathrooms to try to find his husband, it doesn’t take long for him to catch sight of Mickey, and it’s where he least expected — in the middle of a conversation.
Ian had thought Mickey would keep to himself, since everyone here looked like “fuckin’ touchers.” But no. An older woman is leaning against the wall next to Mickey, her thick silvered hair twisted into a fancy jeweled clip, her cheeks painted in red rouge, dressed up in all matching peacock colors with a purple scarf slung around her shoulders. In fact, it looks like they’ve been engrossed in conversation for a while now. It did take Ian a while to get the beers.
For some reason the woman Mickey’s talking to reminds Ian of Shirley Jackson. He thinks it’s her eyes — kind and motherly.
Ian stands against a pillar out of Mickey’s sight and watches. It’s fun to see Mickey in such an unfamiliar context, now that Ian’s shaken out his initial nerves. The way he’s backdropped by such lush scenery, gorgeous artwork, dressed sharp and yet still standing out because he’s Mickey and he always stands out to Ian. Ian kind of wants to pull out his phone to take a picture, but he knows Mickey would catch him then, so Ian tries to commit this to memory. How the golden light of the auditorium makes Mickey’s eyes such a stormy blue, shows off the various shades of black to his hair, and how the warmth of the light only exposes how pale Mickey really is, how he’s like porcelain. He’s beautiful.
Mickey’s gaze flickers to beyond the doors out at the stage, then to the woman, then to her hands. Ian’s gaze follows Mickey’s down to her long nails, her elegant fingers, wrapped around a black pen. She’s writing something on the back of a program, Ian realizes, and Mickey’s nodding along with whatever she’s saying. The woman’s lipsticked lips stretch into a big grin as she speaks. Mickey doesn’t chime in much, but whenever he does her grin gets even bigger. Whatever she says even manages to get a tug to the corner of Mickey’s mouth, an almost smile, which is more than most strangers get.
Then the woman stops writing and seems to give Mickey her full attention again, and Ian takes this as a good time to approach.
“There’s my guy,” Mickey says as he catches sight of Ian. “Took ya long enough,” he jokes, taking the beer from Ian’s hand. Ian clinks the neck of his bottle against his and preens a bit when Mickey gives him his real smile.
“Ah, your husband,” the woman says, turning toward Ian. Ian was worried she’d look off-put by his presence, but she maintains her happy expression.
“That’s me,” Ian replies, breathless. He stretches out his hand. “Ian.”
“Helena. Everyone calls me Leene, though.” She tips her head toward Mickey. “Got caught up with your man here talking about the symphony. They’re doing a beautiful job tonight. They’ve added some flourishes that I’ve never heard before, but I quite like them.”
“Can’t say I’m familiar, but, I’ll take your word for it,” Ian admits. “It all sounds good to me.”
“It is. Your husband’s got quite an ear for music. He could hear the dissonances from back in those low basses. I don’t hear those low registers as well anymore, but I think you’re right! These symphonies are stories, with the foreshadowing and themes, I’ll be listening for that little tune and those chords now in the next part.”
Mickey shrugs as if this is nothing, but Ian’s eyebrows are furrowed. “Huh, really?” Is about to say that Mickey played guitar, sort of, and that maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, but he is so surprised he can’t find himself saying any of that. Only manages, “He’ll have to bring me into the loop.”
The woman, Leene, trills a cheerful laugh. “I’m certain he will. Now, I best go find my own husband, he’s dawdling about somewhere. Hopefully not getting lost. He loves the architecture of these places, I’m worried he’s going to miss the second half because he’s too busy looking at the hallway. Was supposed to get me a chardonnay, too, the scoundrel.”
Mickey snorts. “Oh, trust me, I know all about distracted husbands,” he quips, nudging Ian. Ian laughs a polite sound, but he doesn’t close his mouth, too busy staring at Mickey again. Mickey’s smile goes from smug to all-knowing, and he watches Ian out of the corner of his eye.
“Ah, young love. You two are sweet.” Then she presses the program into Mickey’s hand. “You hang onto this now! Let me know, okay?” and with that, she sets off to, presumably, look for her husband.
Mickey takes a sip of his beer and pushes Ian with his shoulder. “Let’s head back. Don’t want some fucker stealing our seat ‘cause we grabbed a beer.”
Ian follows, because, what else is he to do? He wants to reach out, hang onto Mickey as they go through the crowd, but he doesn’t. Still, he keeps a string between them with conversation, asking, “What did she say you pointed out? Dissonances?”
Mickey hums a “yeah,” and keeps walking as if he hasn’t said anything of note.
“What is that?”
“It’s when notes are played against each other.” Mickey raises his hand up, wiggles his two fingers against each other, a gesture of “against each other,” Ian supposes. “Makes it sound like it’s not right, but it’s intentional. Kinda the opposite of harmony. Creates tension.”
“Ah.” Ian thinks he knows what Mickey’s talking about, but again, music really was never his forte. He likes hearing Mickey talk about it though. Wants to ask more about what that woman told him about, but Mickey gives him a face, takes a sip of his beer, and he leaves it until they’re back at their seat.
But he doesn’t leave it for long.
Settled back onto the red velvet cushion, Mickey takes out the program she’d given him and looks over the information, and Ian does, too. When he notices, Mickey’s eyebrows rise up, and he clearly thinks about crushing it up or hiding it, but then he exhales. Leaves it there, and while he’s not looking at Ian, Ian knows he’s paying close attention to how Ian reacts.
Reading it, Ian sees the word DORIAN and drawn out music underneath it in, presumably, the woman Mickey was speaking to’s handwriting. MAJOR AND MINOR as well, another scale. A circle of symbols that remind Ian of high school math, but aren’t like any equation he’s ever seen. Then a phone number.
“Looks like she talked to you about a lot,” he says.
Mickey shrugs. “Yeah, think she was just excited to relay that she knew all this shit.”
“To a willing listener,” Ian notes.
Mickey shrugs again, and this time, his gaze does flicker to Ian. Then he looks back down, his head knocking away from Ian. “I…” Mickey hems and haws, exhales slow. “Look. When I was a kid, I wanted to learn how to play the piano.”
The words bang around in Ian’s head loud in the pause that follows Mickey’s admission.
Most of the stuff Ian learns about his husband these days scuttles through everything else he already knows and finds its way comfortably into a nook and doesn’t disturb anything. It's just a little more nuance, a slightly new perspective on everything Mickey that Ian already has close to heart.
This, though. This drops like a freighter right at the front of Ian’s mind, a giant heavy block of a thing that he doesn’t know where to put away. Something entirely new.
Mickey wanted to learn piano. Piano. He was reading the information in the program earlier because when he says he’s interested, it’s more than a feigned interest, it’s more than a distant thought or something in the periphery. Mickey has been interested in this concert the whole time because he likes this, at one point maybe even dreamt about this life.
Ian would have never known that if they hadn’t come out tonight. He’ll have to thank Lindsey, get her flowers or something. Though he has no idea how to convey exactly what he’s thanking her for. How to say, “thanks for giving me the opportunity to learn something new about my husband.” Because this is new. Big and bold and new. This is something Mickey probably wouldn’t have ever shown Ian. Maybe, even, didn’t think Ian would want to know. As if Ian wasn’t interested in knowing everything about Mick.
This is what Ian was missing this whole night. What Ian would never have known to ask about. What Ian would never braved asking about when he was younger because ain’t no way Mickey would have done anything but deck him for the thought.
Now, though, he gets to know. And he knows he’s going to get poked for staring at Mickey again, but he can’t help himself, he is invested in this conversation in a whole different way, and he absolutely cannot stop staring at his husband.
Piano. Mickey, after all this time, still thinks about it.
Mickey’s gaze flicks to his for a moment, and he can tell Mickey’s noticed the new way Ian’s looking at him. In a surprising display of restraint he looks back at the program and continues, “I may have let that slip in the conversation, which is where her lecture came from. She used to teach piano, still takes on a few clients, I guess.” Then he glances at Ian again, and the restraint is gone. “She knew I was taken the whole time, and you know I’m not interested in her feminine wiles.”
Ian knows what Mickey’s doing, trying to end it on a joke, a fake jab at Ian’s jealousy, because while this is simple it clearly is something he feels vulnerable about.
“I didn’t know that.” Ian looks at the number. This woman is offering to teach Mickey. This is something he could have. “Why didn’t you ever mention it? School had a band —”
“You kidding? Why do you think I’m the only Milkovich who Terry made sure got his fuckin’ knuckles tattooed at twelve?” Mickey scoffs, strums his fingers against the armrest of the chair. “My hands aren’t meant for shit like that.”
Which was probably exactly what Terry told him when Mickey had dared bring it up as a child. A little kid, talking about idle dreams, thinking about all the possibilities ahead of him. And Terry made sure that Mickey only saw the potential that he saw for him, made Mickey think any alternatives, any dreams, any other future other than Terry’s fucking legacy all looked like closed doors. Took a drill and carved into Mickey’s hands proof that Mickey was to do one thing with his hands and one thing only if he wanted Terry to call him son.
Terry was wrong. Like he was about everything else.
Ian knows his husband’s hands. Ian wrapped his hands around Mickey’s own when they were in a cold refrigerator, so strong as Mickey held himself up and pushed himself against Ian, two kids fucking in a convenience store where no one was supposed to know. Those hands were dedicated and sure, taking a hold of Ian when he was in a haze and unmedicated, about to take a baseball bat to Debbie or a knife to Kenyatta; Mickey had kept his hands on Ian firm but grounding, bringing Ian back to reality with him best he could. Mickey’s hands, fuck, they could be so gentle, the way he drew across Ian’s freckles, smoothed his thumbs along the lines of Ian’s ribcage, traced Ian’s forearms when they laid together, held his hand as he drifted off in sleep. Terry may have wanted Mickey’s hands to be used for one thing and one thing only, but like every other cage Terry tried to keep Mickey in, Mickey broke free and proved what he really was capable of over and over and over.
Ian takes Mickey’s hand now, his thumb sweeping the callused arc of Mickey’s palm where the grip of a gun has rubbed away some of the softness. Raises Mickey’s hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles.
“Ian. It’s not — it’s nothin’.”
Ian nods. Mickey saying that proves how not nothing it really is, but he won’t drag it out much further tonight. “I think you could’ve been amazing at it,” is all he says.
Mickey scoffs. Ian presses one more kiss and he knows he’s about to get the ay, ay, ay, and wave from Mickey, so he lowers Mickey’s hand back to the armrest, but he doesn’t let it go. Mickey doesn’t either, his fingers curling around Ian’s. “I fucking love you,” they say in the clasp of their hands, and Ian smiles at him.
“Soft motherfucker,” Mickey whispers aloud this time, but he smiles back.
The lights begin to dim once more, and Ian’s heart rate ticks up a notch. He squeezes Mickey’s hand again and he hears Mickey scoff out a breath, but he doesn’t let go. Here, there’s no stigma, there’s nothing odd about a couple holding hands, and Ian loves it.
The orchestra starts to play once again, starting onto the next act with a rush of sound, bright and loud and then instantly dropping to soft, with only a few instruments buzzing higher in volume than the rest. Ian listens with a whole new appreciation. Tries to pay attention to, specifically, the piano.
While before he enjoyed the concert, he did, more than he thought he would, Ian finds himself really enjoying the show when he tries to picture Mickey playing. Watches the way the pianist’s hands dance across the keys, never straying too far, so tactile and devoted.
Suddenly, this is the best thing Ian’s seen in some time.
Mickey would have been so good at piano.
Mickey could be so good at piano, if he wanted.
Ian won’t bring it up anymore tonight, he won’t, because that will make Mickey feel too raw in public and will get him all defensive, and he doesn’t want that. But Ian’s got an idea.
An idea for later.
For now, he holds his husband’s hand and listens to the orchestra play, and thinks of little Mickey Milkovich looking at a piano and thinking, maybe, one day. The same way Ian had looked at Mickey and thought maybe, one day.
Ian spares one more glance at Mickey and grins.
For Ian, maybe, one day, became everyday. Everyday and forever, right?
So, maybe this can, too.
Ian didn’t bring it up the rest of the concert. Didn’t ask about the location of the program that Leene gave Mickey, even though he did check to make sure it was still in Mickey’s pocket when they left the theater.
While Ian knows the bubble is going to burst, they’re going to go back to their respective lives and this will be a memory, Ian wants Mickey to keep some of this with him. South Side is going to hang over their heads, Terry is going to be a shadow at their back, but they’ve got plenty of light these days. They can keep the light on this. Mickey can have things that he wants, free of South Side and Terry and all the bullshit that comes from their families. Ian will help him, if Mickey will let him.
It’s a big fucking if, though. When it comes to dreaming up more, Mickey is still so reluctant.
So Ian he doesn’t bring up the piano or the lessons or anything else but how good the music was the night of the concert. Ian doesn’t even bring it up the next day, keeps conversations normal, as if the concert never happened.
However… he does not last a week.
He knows Mickey’s going to annoyed with him, but it won’t be relevant if Ian leaves everything to lie too long. Leene may forget about her offer, or Mickey may pretend he didn’t show Ian this, or whatever, and Ian doesn’t want that. Ian wants Mickey to have the things he wants.
So he got Mickey a keyboard when he got off shift and set it up while Mickey was working at The Alibi.
It’s one with a headphone jack, if Mickey doesn’t want Ian to hear him play he can plug in headphones and practice and Ian won’t overhear him. It’s in the corner of their apartment near the entrance to the balcony, it’s not like Ian made it center stage. It’s something that, if Mickey thinks about it, and decides he wants to try it, it’s available for him. If he doesn’t, though, and would rather leave it all behind them, well Mickey might not even notice the keyboard when he comes back from work. That’s how blended into their apartment that Ian tried to make the keyboard.
At least that’s what he tells himself. He should have known better, though, than to think that Mickey wouldn’t notice a disturbance. Ian’s at the counter eating cereal and writing out reports for work when Mickey comes through the door.
“Look, I like Kev and all, but when he’s uncomfortable he tends to offer free drinks and then he bitches about being poor, I mean it’s basic accounting—” Mickey’s rubbing his eyes, tracing his thumb and forefinger down his face to smear away the stress from the night “— what. Is. That?”
Okay, so, their apartment isn’t big enough for filled with enough furniture for Ian to make the keyboard fucking disappear, but Ian would argue it looks like it belongs there.
“A keyboard.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Ian, let it go.” Mickey’s expression turns from mildly irritated to sour, and Ian grimaces. “Told you it was nothing.”
“Then why haven’t you thrown away Leene’s note?”
Mickey rolls his eyes. “Will right now if it means you drop this.”
“No, wait, Mickey, wait.” Ian knows he does this, he pushes too hard, he has big ideas and he’s supposed to be getting better at communicating them because he knows Mickey doesn’t like when things are sprung on him, but Mickey also needs to get better at communicating things he actually wants instead of resigning himself to not having them. Mickey would rather prepare for disappointment than hope for more, and it makes Ian fucking sad. They can have more now. They’re out of South Side, they’ve got good jobs, they’re happy. They can have things.
Mickey can have things.
“I know. I know it’s a lot, and the box — it’s in the closet, I will pack it up and I will bring it back to the store if you really don’t want to do this, but just, just hear me out.”
“What.”
Despite the nastiness of Mickey’s tone, the way his mouth snaps against the ’t’ of the single word, there was a day when Mickey wouldn’t give Ian the clearance at all. So Ian smiles, something small, something sheepish because he knows, okay, he knows, but Mickey is the one who said fuck forgiveness or permission, just do it.
Okay, that’s another excuse, but, he knows Mickey doesn’t visualize this kind of thing like Ian does. He wanted to provide a real picture. Wanted Mickey to be able to see it and actually consider it before waving it off. That isn’t an excuse. That’s real. He wants Mickey to see this.
“You always wanted to learn to play. You have someone who is willing to teach you. A keyboard is not that expensive, and, it’s got a headphone jack, no one ever has to actually hear you if you don’t want. You could learn to play, if you wanted.”
“Jesus Christ, Ian. It was a thought I had when I was a kid after watching some guy play Piano Man at a bar my dad dragged me to after a drug run, it wasn’t like I was on track to get a fucking Grammy.”
Ian shakes his head. “So? It was something you wanted.” Ian places his hands on his knees, unsure where else to put them. “I want you to have the life you want.”
Mickey jerks back, blinking at Ian with wide eyes. The sour twist of his mouth has eased, the hardness to him has been sanded down. He’s still a little prickly, but Ian knows they’re getting somewhere.
Mickey tosses his keys onto the counter and walks around it before reaching out and planting his hands on Ian’s shoulders. For a moment, he looks Ian in the eye, and whatever bitterness he felt is overcome with something like concern. He moves his left hand from Ian’s shoulder to cup his jaw.
“Ian, the fuck makes you think this isn’t exactly the life I want?” He strums his thumb along Ian’s jaw. “This is more than I ever thought I’d have, are you kidding? What — what more do you think I need?”
Ian smiles. “Me too,” he murmurs, and for a moment he basks in the fact that they have all this and it’s so good.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think Mickey deserves more, if he wants it. Mickey never allowed himself to have dreams when they were young. Ian remembers how he reacted to even his suggesting of community college. He knows how much Mickey rejected the idea of looking too far into the future, of having big goals for himself, of having wants that spanned beyond the then and there. Now Mickey’s broadening his horizons, knows the sun’s going to come up tomorrow, but the instinct to reject, deny, and go without is still ingrained in him.
Which is why Ian’s doing this.
“This isn’t about what more you need,” he begins. “It’s about what you might want. Things you before thought you couldn’t have.” Ian glances over at the keyboard. “You could have this, too. If you want it. You don’t have to, and I’ll put it away and I’ll bring it all back to the store, we don’t ever have to talk about it again. But I wanted you to see it. See what it could be like to actually have it, if you wanted it.”
“Again, why do ya think —”
“I want you to have it all. Everything you dreamed about, if we can make it happen for you, then I want you to have it, Mickey.”
Mickey looks at Ian as if he said something astounding, but Ian thought this was all a given in their vows, if he’s honest. He wants to build a life with Mickey, wants to help Mickey achieve his dreams, because now they’re Ian’s dreams too if Mickey would let Ian shoulder them with him.
A pregnant pause fills the space between the two of them, and Ian can see Mickey thinking. The spines that came up when Mickey walked in through the door are soothing down, and his jaw is losing its tensity. He keeps his hand on Ian’s cheek, and Ian leans into it ever so slightly, loving the feeling of Mickey’s hand on him anywhere.
“Fuck, Ian,” he says, his voice croaking, and Ian wants to reach out but he figures right now is the time for Mickey to try to organize his thoughts. Mickey looks over at the keyboard for a long moment, and Ian’s jittering in his seat, but he can wait. He’ll be patient. “You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.”
Ian knows this. Knows, also, that sometimes Mickey says things like that to avoid the more sensitive truth about what’s happening. That’s okay. Ian can withstand that, too.
“Quit doing this,” Mickey says, his voice firm, but he’s not getting nasty, he’s not angry anymore. “I know — I get why you did it this time. I know — fuck — I know I sometimes don’t react well.” Mickey winces, his mouth twisting into a pained smile. “And I probably wouldn’t have this time either, but, I’d rather you point that out to me. That I’m being a dick. That you’re about two steps from doing the whole sneaky, bring your point to our door thing, because I’m not wanting to talk about something with you. And if I still won’t talk about it, then you have full go ahead to do the whole schtick, but until then, don’t — don’t spring shit on me like this, okay? I am not like you, I do not like surprises.”
Ian nods and presses his lips together in a frown. “Okay. I can do that. I will do that. I’m sorry.”
Mickey scoffs, rubs a hand under his nose as he turns away from his Ian. But he steps closer. Keeps his hand on Ian’s cheek. Always so quick to show they’re okay. Ian appreciates that, he really does.
“Hard to really hear an apology from you when you’re telling me all these things like you want me to have dreams and everything I want and all that shit, so,” Mickey speeds through the words, the blush on his face bright, despite trying to ease it all off with a wave of his hand. “This time don’t be too sorry, but, I appreciate it. Husband.”
The whole thing hits Ian in such a rush, resonates in him like those lingering notes at the end of the songs at the concert, his whole body buzzing. He can’t help himself in the way he stands up off the stool and captures Mickey’s mouth in a kiss. He has to kiss him — he always wants to kiss him in some way, still so fucking needy for him — but right now he has to kiss Mickey.
Mickey takes it with ease. Catches Ian around the ribs, his hands firm on Ian’s body, like he’s feeling it, too.
Ian tips his head a little, and it's a new angle, another way to feel Mickey’s mouth on his because fuck he always feels so good. It makes him a little weak at the knees, always does, Ian’s always been drawn to Mickey like a moth to a flame and Mickey flickers with his touch in such a beautiful way. They’re both ignited by this, Ian knows. Mickey humming into the kiss is all the more confirmation, they’re both buzzing with want.
But, wait, “so what do you want me to do with the keyboard?” Ian asks, pulling away.
Mickey rolls his eyes, grabs Ian by the neck and kisses him, and Ian loves when he initiates even after all this time.
“For now fucking keep it,” he concedes, his teeth scraping against Ian’s lips as he says so. “I’ll call that lady tomorrow.”
Ian grins. Mickey pulls back, raises an eyebrow, chastising Ian with a look. What did we just talk about? plain on his face.
“Won’t do it again,” Ian breathes out. “Unless you’re being a dick. Then, maybe I’ll do it.”
“Unless I’m being a dick, exactly, then you’ve got the all fuckin’ clear.” With a laugh, Mickey’s grabbing Ian by the front of his shirt and pulling him along. “Now c’mere. I’m fuckin’ annoyed from work and want to spend some time with you.”
“Want to make a different kind of music with me?” Ian asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Corny ass motherfucker,” Mickey teases, but he’s pulling Ian into another kiss. His hands are tangled in Ian’s hair, and Ian’s skating his fingertips across Mickey’s stomach, getting his hands under his shirt. Always so warm, so good.
Yeah, Ian doesn’t need any convincing at all. Is happy to follow Mickey as they make their way to the bedroom. Is more than happy to, yes, be corny, and make a different kind of music with his husband.