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It’s not like Ian didn’t know that Mickey enjoyed drawing. Art in general, really. He also knew Mickey liked drawing him, sometimes. Mostly when he was bored, like in prison - supremely bored, according to Mickey since drawing your ginger head is not as easy as I make it look, Gallagher. Ian had also known him to draw when he was angry or pissed off and he thinks that was what initiated the ‘FUCK LOVE’ written on his wall when they were kids. More recently when he’s annoyed, Mickey’ll draw a cartoon style picture of Ian naked and make his dick really small. He’s also seen him draw a very simple stick figure accompanied by a very detailed dick where the head should be. That one was labelled ‘Lip’ above it, so Ian likes it more than the mean ones of him.
He thought Mickey did graffiti and stuff as a kid to try and vent some of his anger at the world and his dad, but he’d thought that when they got together that had mostly stopped. He thought that their relationship being in a good place had reignited the artistic side of Mickey. He genuinely thought that between the ages of 16 to 24 when they reunited in prison, Mickey had abandoned drawing.
Clearly, he was very wrong. It occurs to him that their healthy relationship probably didn’t draw out the artist in Mickey, only the self-confidence to feel like he can show Ian his drawings. Because he has never in his life seen these before.
He was looking through some old boxes which they’d kinda just shoved under the bed. Mickey had gone out with Sandy for a little afternoon lunch which Ian was apparently not invited to. I don’t even know why you wanna come, man. You don’t like her, she doesn’t like you. You guys just glare at each other the whole time. Mickey had said. Hey, in return, you can stop inviting me to come to your little dinner dates with Lip. I’d be really mad about that. Then he’d laughed and left. Now, Ian was bored and had decided to unpack some of the older moving boxes which clearly had nothing essential since they had been here for months. In the bottom of one was a ratty sketchbook, mostly filled with random drawings of aliens and monsters and the occasional cartoon strip of people Mickey didn’t like getting hurt. Somehow, Mickey had taken it to Mexico with him, since some of the people in those cartoons Mickey’s told him about. But there are also drawings of Ian.
There are six pages of them, that’s all. Maybe Mickey had ripped a few out in anger at the drawing or even Ian himself, or maybe they’d each taken so long that six was really all he’d done. In every one, he’s sleeping and looks the same way he did when he was 18. It’s hard to forget how he looked when he was 18, when at the time it seemed that his looks was all anyone wanted from him. Aside from Mickey. He realised how Mickey liked him for so much more than his body when he came out for him.
So, these drawings are either around 6 or 7 years old or more recent and Mickey is fantasising about him as an 18 year old. He highly doubts it’s the second. The thing is, he doesn’t remember them. At all. He thinks at some point during his drawing he must have seen his boyfriend at the time with a pencil and a sketchpad and asked what the fuck he was doing. But no, nothing comes to mind. It confuses him, because if he’d found out back then that Mickey was drawing him, he would have kept every last one for himself. Even if they were shitty cartoons of him with a tiny dick. These aren’t shitty cartoons. They’re full sketches and look very much like a black and white picture. He is well aware of how long these types of sketches take Mickey, as well as how frustrating he can find them. He must have had a lot of empty time.
Ian examines the drawings with extreme curiosity, looking for absolutely anything that could indicate when these were drawn. His hair is long like it was when he was working at the club. In one of them, Mickey has drawn a wonky background (I can’t fucking draw rooms and landscapes and all that shit, Gallagher) which is definitely not the Gallagher house, so they must have been at Mickey’s. Ian doesn’t think Mickey would risk drawing like this at the Gallagher’s anyway. He’d have thought it would make him look like a pussy. In all of them, his face looks devoid of cuts and bruises, so it must have been at least a couple weeks after Mickey came out. Ian feels like it’s all coming to a head then, like he’s finally figuring out the Mystery of Artist Mickey Milkovich (Sleep Stalker Edition), when his husband bursts through the door to their room.
“Hey, man. Thought you were out, I called you from the door.” Mickey comes in and immediately strips off his jacket and button up, leaving him in jeans and a wife-beater.
“Hmm. No, I’m in.” Ian replies, still focused on the drawings. Mickey is distracted with searching for Ian’s hoodie, which he hid this morning. He loves seeing Mickey in his clothes, but that fucking hoodie is Ian’s favourite and he has about ten others Mickey can wear. But no, apparently it’s his husband’s favourite as well.
“Yeah, clearly.” Ian hears him huff and stop looking for the time being. He starts to change his jeans into sweatpants instead.
“What are you doin’?” Mickey asks, without looking back.
“Going through these old boxes.” He says, and flips to the next page. In the drawing, his hair has fallen in strands against his forehead and the duvet cover has been pulled down slightly to reveal his chest and half of his stomach while he lies on his side. It’s not meant to be sexual, Ian can tell. Maybe that’s what he likes the most. He does also like when Mickey draws him in a sexual context though. Ian wonders how the hell he was so still for so long that Mickey could draw this in any capacity. He must have taken a picture or something.
“Oh yeah?” Mickey responds absently.He’s back to looking for the hoodie, grey sweats on. They’d planned for a mostly lazy Sunday, their only plan was a quick cousin-lunch for Mickey. He still hasn’t seen what’s in Ian’s hands, which Ian is definitely surprised at. He kinda wants Mickey to catch him, so he doesn’t have to bring the drawings up. It just seems like if he brought it up, Mickey would get defensive. He wants Mickey to see the look of awe on his face at how talented his husband is. “Hey, where the fuck’s your hoodie?”
“Mmm… there’s one in the top drawer of the wardrobe.” Ian is fully aware that Mickey will not want that hoodie, but he’s not stealing his favourite again. He turns the page of the sketchbook. Still sleeping, but his face is turned away this time. Mickey has just drawn the back of his head with the shaved sides and the planes of his back.
“Not that one.” He huffs.
“Which one do you mean then?” All faux-innocence. Mickey is adamantly tearing apart the room to find it - which he won’t, because it’s in a ball on top of the wardrobe against the wall. Benefits of having a short as fuck husband.
“You know which fucking one.” He’s looking through their underwear drawer now, Ian looks closer at how his arms are both angled away from Mickey in the drawing. Even back then, they used to sleep curled around each other or at the very least touching in some way.
“Gonna have to be more specific.” He traces the page, using his finger to silhouette his own back.
“The- the fucking blue one with the dangly things.” Mickey moves onto the laundry hamper as he speaks.
“Ohhh, my favourite.” Mickey sighs and huffs again.
“Yes, that one. Where is it?” He’s gonna turn around soon, Ian knows it.
“Can’t tell you, it’s mine.” Ian turns the page again and this time he’s on his back, face still tilted away from Mickey, arms by his sides. They aren’t touching at all. He thinks that makes no sense. He’d been so happy to finally be able to touch Mickey like that after he came out. He wanted to do it all the time.
“Oh yeah? What happened to ‘what’s mine is yours’ and all that marriage crap?” His voice is jovial and light but Ian is really not thinking about the hoodie right now. Mickey turns and comes closer to him, clearly seeing what Ian’s so interested in over his shoulder. Ian can hear him let out a sharp breath. “The fuck are you looking at?” Ian cannot read his tone.
“When did you draw these?” Finally, he looks up at his husband. Mickey doesn’t look mad (thank God) that Ian’s looked at something that could be considered private. He does look a little sad, though. Which Ian doesn’t get. He thought Mickey drew when he was happy and mad. No other times.
“When we were staying at mine.” Thank you Mr Obvious, Ian already knew that.
“But how? You know- you were running the Rub’n’Tug over the Alibi and I was working at the Fairytale and we slept really weird hours… how did you find the time to draw this many while I was sleeping? Were you not sleeping, or something? And you didn’t tell me?” He’d be a little hurt, if Mickey had kept it from him back then. He wouldn’t say anything, though, because he knows how mad he drove Mickey with worry during those early days of his bipolar. Ian watches Mickey, his blue eyes focused on the pictures and not on Ian’s gaze. He wets his bottom lip and catches it in his teeth, biting a bit. Ian’s surprised he hasn’t gone for the eyebrow-scratch tic. Usually, when Mickey’s uncomfortable he does that one. Ian is pretty sure he’s uncomfortable. “I don’t remember any of these.” He says, since Mickey isn’t meeting his eyes, and flips to the next.
“That’s coz- that was because- it was before you got diagnosed, you know?” Mickey looks away from him entirely and at the door of the room.
“Yeah, I guessed that. We only stayed at your place until I got diagnosed.” He laughs lightly, trying to alleviate some of Mickey’s sad eyes. Ian doesn’t understand why Mickey’s being so cagey about this.
“Yeah…” He rubs his face. “It was back in your first depressive episode, Ian.” Mickey finally gets out. “I was- I guess I just… missed you, you know? Didn’t know what the fuck was going on, so I entertained myself, I guess. Also, didn’t really wanna fall asleep and accidentally grab your arm or something during the night. You didn’t want anyone touching you, you know? Which was fine, so most days I slept on the couch but sometimes I just- I fucking missed you, I guess.” He’s still looking away from Ian as he speaks, starting to ramble as Ian stares up at him from his spot on the floor. They haven’t spoken much about this part of their lives. There wasn’t ever a need to, in Ian’s eyes. Most of those few weeks is empty space. Dark, lonely empty space. He had known it had been hard for Mickey, but there was no real need for a discussion. It’s not like either of them did anything wrong. It was just Ian’s brain, fucking with him. Nothing they could do.
“Mickey…” Ian breathes, so in love with his husband. He thinks of a nineteen-year-old Mickey who had a kid to feed and a wife he didn’t want, making sure he slept on the lumpy Milkovich couch so Ian wouldn’t be disturbed in his bed. He thinks of that Mickey missing him so badly that he spent hours not sleeping and drawing instead. He thinks of how caring Mickey is, and how most people don’t fully get that. Ian forces himself not to blame himself for Mickey being sad, because it really wasn’t his fault, and Mickey isn’t acting like it was. But he does let himself mourn that Mickey never had a family the way Ian had, he just had Ian. He had Ian, and a wife who called him names and insulted the size of his dick and a kid who made him feel sick whenever he looked at him and Lip and Fiona, who were so protective over Ian that Mickey probably got an earful on a regular basis. He had Mandy, who was caught up in Kenyatta’s abuse and Lip’s stupid, bullshit drama. God, Ian’s heart aches for a young Mickey.
Ian stands, placing the sketchbook on the bed. He looks at his husband, who remains stubbornly looking at the door. “Look at me.” He whispers, the ghost of a smile playing on his face.
“What?” Mickey replies and turns to Ian, blushing a little. They’re close together, and Ian isn’t sure what to say. He’s not going to apologise because he knows Mickey would be mad and he’s trying to stop apologising for his bipolar, which he can’t control now and definitely couldn’t back then. Ian knows Mickey will not appreciate Ian giving him some sap about how amazing he was for looking after him back then; Mickey just sees it as a part of life. And he tells him that anyway whenever he has the smaller episodes he sometimes falls into. Ian knows Mickey is not feeling under-appreciated. Ian thinks he feels some shadow of sadness from back then, as well as a kind of embarrassment now for caring so much. He thinks it is so, so endearing that Mickey still gets embarrassed about saying sappy shit. They’re literally married.
“They’re really good. I’m… I’m really glad you were there, then. Wouldn’t have wanted it to be anyone else.” Ian leans down and kisses him gently, then hugs him and buries his face in his hair. Mickey hugs back almost immediately, burrowing his face into his shirt.
“Always gonna be there.” Mickey mumbles. That’s it, for Mickey, Ian knows. It’s really that simple. It’s easy. It’s ‘I love you, so it doesn’t matter what goes on, I’m here.’ After a few moments, Ian pulls away and reaches on top of the wardrobe, right by the back. He hands him the hoodie, grinning. After all the nice fucking shit Mickey just said, how can he not give it to him.
“I’m always gonna be there for you, too.” Ian says, kissing his head as Mickey takes the hoodie. Mickey grins up at him, then seems to acknowledge the hoodie situation.
“You hid it on top of the fucking wardrobe?” He sounds so offended. Ian finds it hilarious.
“Sorry you’re not as tall as me.” Ian laughs and walks out of the room.
“That’s not fucking fair, Gallagher! You can’t put shit up there when I can’t fucking reach. Plus, you ain’t tall, you’re a fucking lanky giraffe. Not all of us are lanky giraffes.” Mickey calls after him as he follows Ian out of the room and into the sitting room, pulling the hoodie on. It smells like Ian.