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Mickey fucking hated the smell of burnt coffee. A lot. Like, take the usual amount someone hates something, and times that by five fucking hundred and that's how much Mickey hates the smell of burnt coffee. And this morning, the one fucking morning when he'd had no sleep the night before because Yev had his first sleep over and the shit got scared in the night, and Mickey had to go around the house at 3am showing this kid that there was nothing to be fucking scared of, and can he just go to the fuck to sleep? So this morning, he leaves Ian at home cooking fucking waffles for the two boys because that tall fuck can cook waffles like he was born to do it. All Mickey wanted was a proper fucking coffee, and maybe one of those cronut things because they tasted almost as good as his boyfriend did but no. He had to be served by the world's most incompetent barista.
The smell hit him before he was even given his drink. His nose wrinkled, his face pulled into a scowl. He could see the guy sweating, swearing under his breath so that the customers didn't hear but Mickey fucking heard, and he fucking could smell the coffee and he knew it was fucking burnt before this twelve year old even handed him his coffee. All it took was one look from Mickey and this kid was physically shaking in his shoes. He had to admit, Mickey liked that he could still have that effect on someone. It was a powerful fucking feeling, one he didn't get as often as he liked. The kid, with shaking hands, put Mickey's takeaway coffee up on the counter and made eye contact. Mickey just shook his head and that was all it took; the kid took it back and began remaking it. He saw Mickey's tattoos. He knew not to even try to serve him the shit in that cup. Never-fucking-mind that there were people waiting. Mickey hated the smell of burnt coffee, like fuck he was he drinking it.
It only got worse from there. He got his coffee – remade, and smelling like actual fucking coffee – and started the walk back to the home he shared with Ian. It wasn't early. Nine am, maybe? He couldn't be fucked checking the time. He was a block away before he realised he'd left his cronut on the counter; twelve year old hadn't even reminded him to take it. Fuck it all. He left it; waffles would have to do. Lucky Ian was a good cook. It was almost winter; the end of fall was approaching, and everything had a chill to it now. Mickey sipped his deliciously not burnt coffee and was just starting to feel slightly more human when the unthinkable happened.
A fucking bird fucking shit on his fucking shoulder. What the actual fuck? Before he'd realised what it was, he'd put his hand up to do what? Wipe it off? The fuck?! Now his hand was fucking covered in bird shit. Fucking bird shit. Was this his morning? Really? Was this just some giant fucking piss take of a dream, and he was about to wake up any moment? It didn't happen. He had bird shit on his hand, and now on his shoulder. And of course, it was the new winter jacket that Ian had surprised him with a week ago. A fucking week he'd owned this fancy ass fucking coat from his stupid boyfriend and now it was ruined with bird shit, of all the fucking things to ruin a coat with.
It was no longer a walk home now, more of a stomp. To the outside eye, he no doubt looked like a fucking clown stomping down the road with a white splotch of shit on his shoulder, and one hand out in front of him for fear of getting it anywhere else on his new fucking jacket. He glanced up and growled. It was going to fucking rain if he didn't hurry his ass up. The thought had barely formed in his mind when the sky opened up and it started to spit. Fucking fuck fuck fuck. Just because god – not that Mickey believed in the fucker, especially not now – hated him, the rain only got heavier. In no time, it was a fucking monsoon. Well, at least it would wash some of the bird shit off. That was the only silver lining to this pile of shit Mickey was being served this morning. Quite literally.
He finally rounded the corner to his street. His house was in sight. The rain thundered down on his shoulders. A quick look told him that the rain had not fucking helped with the bird shit like he thought it would. In fact, in some cruel twist of fate, it had made it worse. Fucking worse. It was smeared now, running in mini white and green streams down the front and back of his jacket. His hand was still covered, though a little less so, but the rain had caused the shit to run between his fingers. Mickey's other hand was getting wet holding his coffee and as he stepped up the first step towards his house, his dumb fucking foot caught the step and he went lurching forwards.
Of course, his first instinct was to put both hands out to stop his fall. His coffee went flying and hit the front door, spilling everywhere. His hands did shit all to break his fall and in slow motion, he fell forward, his hands coming out from under him and his body slipping to the side so that he twisted in mid air and landed on his hip. A second later his head came down and, a little less forcefully, he bumped that on the concrete step. Without even fucking thinking, and because come on, look at his fucking morning so far – he put his bird shit covered hand up to feel his head and instead, smeared shit all over his forehead.
It was about then that he lost all patience – how the fuck he'd lasted that long, he wasn't sure – and let out a yell. It ripped through his throat, let loose into the air and echoed along the street. He didn't give a flying fuck about neighbours, or Ian and Yev, or Yev's dumb friend who'd kept him up all fucking night. He wanted to go back to bed and wake up. This had to be some kind of a fucking dream, or TV show. Maybe he was on the fucking Truman show. There was no way someone had this much bad luck all within the space of a fucking hour.
“Mick?”
From his splayed out position on the steps, Mickey looked up at his saving fucking grace. Ian took in Mickey on the ground, covered in bird shit and no doubt bleeding from the head. Soaking wet. Jacket ruined. The sight of Ian standing there, a tea towel in his hands as he watched Mickey, and a warm house behind him. Mickey could hear Yev and his friend giggling inside. A thousand different emotions rushed over him in that moment. He hated burnt coffee. And he hated fucking bird shit. He hated the rain. And these fucking steps. But right then, he fucking loved his boyfriend. Because he took all of that away.
Ian swept down, not caring that he was now getting wet, too. He took Mickey's face in his hands, smirking slightly but Mickey didn't care; he knew how fucking stupid he looked. He'd laugh at himself.
“The kids are watching a movie. Wanna take a shower?” Ian asked, placing a kiss on the top of Mickey's wet hair – avoiding the bird shit – pulling him close.
“Fuck, yes.” Mickey murmured in return, closing his eyes and basking in the feeling of being loved. Because he fucking loved this. Being taken care of. Having someone to love. He'd hated it in the beginning, but fuck he would be lost without this fucking ginger idiot. “I love you.”
Mickey didn't often say it first. He would always say it back when Ian said it, but it had taken him long enough to say it once, let alone at random intervals. But he loved Ian. He loved lying in bed next to him, he loved fucking him, yes, but more than that. He loved eating breakfast with him. He loved listening to him tuck Yev in, loved hearing Ian tell Yev that he loved him, and hearing Yev say it back. He loved that they just fucking fit. They fucking fit and it didn't matter. Everything else, all the other shit. Sometimes actual shit. It didn't fucking matter because Mickey had Ian. And at the end of the day, that was all that mattered to him.
“I love you, too, Mick.”