Work Text:
Mickey should’ve lounging by the pool smokin’ a joint, or sitting on the couch eating a cold slice of pizza, watching some shitty movie he’d seen countless times before. It was his and Ian’s day off, damn it. So why the fuck did his husband have to drag him out while he bought some more jeans?
Ugh, Ian was always wanting to do this kinda mundane shit with him now that they were married and not in prison anymore. On any other day, Mickey would’ve went along with it, probably would’ve given him some shit for it too, but today was just not one of those days he wanted to be in the fucking mall .
Too many other people had the same idea; for mid-morning on a Friday, it was too fuckin’ crowded. The store could’ve been bigger, could’ve not had such shitty hipster sounding music playing overhead. And if one more fucking sales person came over to ask if Mickey needed help, he might just find himself thrown back into prison, and Ian could be pissy about it all he wanted.
He leaned against the wall, the part of it that wasn’t covered in clothes that were hung up. At least if he had to suffer through this, he coulda been in the dressing room with Ian. Why the hell should he stay out here and wait? Better fucking question; why did Ian have to try them on all? Should’ve just grabbed a couple pairs and be done with it.
“You done yet?” Mickey called impatiently.
From the other side of the dressing room, he could hear Ian blowing out puffs of air in frustration. “ No .”
“The fuck is taking you so long?”
Not too far away, a woman was pushing along a stroller with her young daughter strapped in it. She shot Mickey a nasty look. He flipped her off.
“Fuck you. You wanna act all high and mighty? Go be with those North Side yuppies.”
“ Mickey ,” came Ian’s exasperated voice. “Leave them alone and help me.”
Help him, ay? He could work with that.
“Sure thing, Lover,” Mickey said slyly, pushing himself off the wall and over to the dressing room door. “Ain’t gotta tell me twice.”
“That’s not what I meant, Mick,” Ian said dryly. Mickey stopped in his tracks, and scowled. “Can you grab me a couple more pairs to try on? I don’t like the way these fit.”
“The fuck do I gotta do that for?”
“Because you’re my husband and you don’t mind doing things for me,” Ian responded.
“You gonna blow me for it later?” Mickey grumbled.
“If you’re good,” Ian said, and Mickey could just picture his husband’s lascivious grin.
Fuck yeah , Mickey thought, making his way over to the various tables and shelves. Ian was probably gonna be a little pissed that all he did was grab random styles that were in his size, but he could get the fuck over it.
Jesus, why were there so damn many kinds of ‘em? And why the fuck were they so expensive?
At this point, his arms were getting weighed down by the sheer amount of jeans draped over them. But there was one more pair he hadn’t taken yet. He grabbed that one too, taking them back to the dressing room for Ian to try on.
And hopefully there was something he liked in there so they could get the fuck out of here soon.
“Mick? You there- oof! ”
He’d started tossing them over so they’d land in the dressing room. He was gettin’ some disapproving looks from the sales people but he couldn’t care less.
“Seriously, Mickey? You couldn’t have just let me open the door?”
“Nah,” Mickey said. “Now hurry the fuck up, Gallagher.”
“Jesus, fine,” Ian scoffed. There was noise, some shuffling going on in there, and then, one pair of jeans came hurling out of there for Mickey to catch. “Take these back.”
“What’s wrong with these?” Mickey unfolded them to examine them further. They were black, and ripped at the knees. Didn’t look half bad if he was being honest.
“I don’t really like ripped jeans,” came Ian’s answer.
Mickey held onto the jeans just for a minute longer. It was fucking weird. He didn’t usually give a shit about clothes. If they didn’t stink and they fit, that was good enough for him. He’d never given much thought about what he wore.
But these ....They looked kinda badass.
Now you’re gonna dress like a faggot? Came the voice of his father, a harsh whisper in his ear that had Mickey freezing up right there.
Even after all this time, Terry Milkovich had a way of getting his son right where he wanted him to be.
And suddenly, these jeans felt like they were burning his hands. Mickey quickly balled them up, shoving them into a shelf so he could stand beside the dressing room again. That smile on his face was only half hearted when Ian came out, coyly remarking on how nice and tight this pair was.
Mickey was aware that Ian was suspicious; he’d been oddly silent on the way out, the drive back, and didn’t even argue with him about what kind of take out they’d have for dinner that night. He just wasn’t ready to talk about it, not right now.
His thoughts kept drafting, kept taking him back to the hipster store with the ripped jeans.
Terry woulda never let him even glance in the direction of those things, let alone wear ‘em. And sure, he had no power over Mickey now, had no say in the choices he made in his life. He knew that.
But that didn’t mean he ever truly left .
Sometimes his voice was just there , man. It slithered up ‘till it was in his ear, softly reminding him of who he was now- a good for nothing fag - and who he used to be. Most days, Mickey could just tune it out, pretend it wasn’t there.
Times like this proved to be much more difficult.
It bothered him, conflicted him that his first inclination upon seeing the jeans wasn't disgust. It wasn’t to make a smart ass remark. He’d liked him, would’ve considered even trying them on too.
He’d accepted he was gay. Embraced it wholeheartedly just as he knew he’d always love Ian Gallagher. Hell, he’d even worn a fuckin’ dress to get through the boarder. But this...makin’ changes to his clothes was too big of a change.
That evening, as a steady rain came down outside, the sky dark and the windows littered with scattered raindrops, the two of them were sitting comfortably on the couch they’d gotten from Kev and V with containers of Chinese food Ian had bought. The television was on, but Mickey’s focus was on his husband pathetically trying to use the chopsticks they were given.
“This is just sad, man,” he said, a small smirk peeking out.
“Fuck off,” Ian scowled, eyes lighting briefly when he successfully picked up a piece of sesame chicken- but then it fell back into the container and he groaned in disappointment.
“Just get a fuckin’ fork-”
“-I can do this!”
Mckey slurped a lo mein noodle, watching the frustration grow and grow in his husband’s eyes. “S’gonna get cold.”
“I can do this,” Ian stressed, jaw clenching when yet another piece slipped out of the hold he had on it. “Just give me a minute.”
His annoyance turned into disbelief when Mickey plucked a piece of chicken right from his container, bringing it right to his mouth with a closed-mouthed cheeky grin.
“Shoulda been faster,” he said after it was swallowed.
“Fucking bastard,” Ian muttered. He ultimately gave up after that, rising to his feet to get a fork, tossing away the chopsticks and coming back with a fuckin’ pout . Plopping back down, he used one hand to affectionately card his fingers through the hair on the back of Mickey’s head.
Times like these, nights like these where they could relax after a long day of deliveries- or in the case of today, doin’ nothing at all- were what Mickey looked forward to. Who would’ve thought this would be his life now? Goin’ from that kid who was abruptly woke up with a tire iron poking him in the back to stayin’ in this fancy ass apartment with his fucking husband , doing the everyday shit together like it was fuckin’ fate or whatever.
For a few moments, Mickey watched the TV, not realizing that Ian was openly staring at him.
“You wanna tell me what’s up?”
“What?” Mickey tore his eyes away to meet Ian’s. There was some concern, some curiosity.
“What’s wrong?” Ian repeated.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong, Firecrotch.”
“You sure?” Ian couldn’t help but press a little. “You’ve been acting weird since we went shopping. Did something happen?”
“Did something- Jesus! Would you get off my ass,” Mickey slammed the container of food on the worn coffee table. “Do I have to tell you every fuckin’ thing that goes on with me?”
“Well, as your husband , I think I have a right to know when you’re upset,” Ian leveled him with a glare.
“The fuck you do!”
Ian was taking deep breaths in and out. He rubbed his fingertips on his eyelids. “Is this all because you didn’t want to go shopping?”
At this, a feeling of hurt seeped into Mickey’s chest. Hurt that quickly changed into anger . That what Ian thought? Didn’t have to think about it, just came to the conclusion that Mickey was acting off because he was forced into something he didn’t wanna do like some fuckin’ child?
Fuck this movie. Fuck this dinner. Mickey was up on his feet, throwing the fork in the sink, letting it clatter loudly. The food went into the fridge, and he slid his hoodie on.
“Where are you going?” Ian quickly jumped up.
“Out,” Mickey said shortly.
“It’s raining dumbass. Where are you gonna go?” Ian snapped.
“Don’t care so long as it’s away from your nosy ass,” Mickey made sure his phone was in his pocket, then headed towards the door.
“Mickey, come the fuck on! Can’t we just talk about this like fucking adults ?”
There it was again. The insinuation that Mickey was acting like a bratty child.
“Fuck you, Ian!” He shouted. He left without another word, slamming the door so hard that the next door neighbor banged on the wall.
All the lights except for the one over the kitchen sink were off when Mickey returned. The TV was off, a sliver of light coming out from their bedroom.
He slid off his boots, throwing his hoodie on the back of the couch, rubbing his eyebrow. Ian was gonna be pissed. He was still a little pissed.
And he was gonna want an explanation for what that was earlier.
“Hey,” Mickey said quietly, opening their door to find Ian already in bed with the glow of the night lamp lighting up the room.
“Hey,” Ian said without looking at him. “You better now?”
“Yeah, still a little pissed at you,” Mickey said, to which Ian’s head swiveled around in his direction.
“ Me? What the fuck did I do?”
He was less angry than earlier, but his tone still held a touch of defensiveness.
They’d been trying to do better about this stuff now that they were married, communicating and all that shit. Mickey knew it was important but fuck , this was a pain in the ass sometimes. Was it really necessary to talk about every fuckin’ thing?
“Didn’t have to assume like you did,” Mickey muttered.
“About what? ”
Mickey took a deep breath, staring his husband in the eyes. “You thought I was actin off ‘cause I had to go shopping with you.”
Ian licked his lips, letting the words sink in. “But it wasn’t....was it?”
“No,” Mickey sat down on the bed, leaning back and letting his gaze longer on the still curtain-less window.
Briefly, there was nothing but silence.
“But then what was it?” Ian said, confused. “What was wrong?”
“Does it matter?” Mickey said with no heat.
“Mick, of course it matters.”
Ian reached out to cup his face but Mickey pulled away. “Why do you gotta assume the worst of me?” He asked instead.
“What?” Ian blinked.
“You didn’t think something else was wrong?” Mickey didn’t try to disguise the hurt in his voice. “You just thought I was poutin’ or some shit?”
The question had Ian deflating, looking remorseful. “I didn’t...You were complaining before we left,” he said lamely. “I just thought you were mad we didn’t spend all day here like you wanted.”
“Yeah, well. I wasn’t.”
Ian scooted closer, his face neatly fitting into the crook of Mickey’s neck.
“I’m sorry, Mickey. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“Damn right you shouldn’t have,” Mickey said, feeling Ian’s lips press a kiss to his neck. “You’re still an asshole, though.”
“I know,” Ian’s words were muffled against his skin. “I’m sorry.”
Mickey tried to curl around his husband, breathing in the scent of Ian and Irish spring soap. “I’m sorry too. Shouldn’t have walked out like that.”
“You were upset,” Ian reasoned. “At least you didn’t punch me.”
“Wanted too.”
“But you didn’t,” Ian pulled back, though he was still close enough for Mickey to take him in his arms if he wanted to. “You showed restraint.”
His eyes were lighter, a smile coming out. He was joking, and it loosened something in Mickey’s chest.
“Gotta show it once and a while,” Mickey grunted.
That smile slowly disappeared. Ian, taking a second to think it over, leaned forward to kiss his temple.
“You wanna tell me what’s wrong now?
“It’s fucking stupid,” Mickey regretted walking out, regretted making it obvious he was upset over a pair of fucking jeans .
“You listen when I’m upset about stupid stuff. Besides, we both know how you downplay your shit,” Ian murmured. “Just tell me what’s up, Mick. I’m listening, I promise.”
How did he even begin to explain this?
“You remember-” Mickey hesitated for a long while, then tried again, “you remember when I was bringing you stuff to try on?”
Ian nodded. “What about it?”
“You remember how you gave me the ripped jeans back ‘cause you said you didn’t like ‘em?”
Jesus, don’t be such a fucking pussy. Just tell him.
“Mick-” Ian started.
“I liked ‘em,” Mickey said, once he’d cut Ian off. “I liked how they looked.”
“You did?” Ian said, mildly surprised. “Well, do you want to buy a pair?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Mickey groaned. “I don’t know, okay?”
Ian nodded slowly. “I’m kinda lost here. You liked the jeans....but why were you upset about that?”
“Why do you think, dumbass?” Mickey sighed. “Fuckin’ Terry.”
His husband’s eyes darkened. “ Mickey ...”
Mickey rubbed at his brow again. “They look like something a fag would wear,” he said quietly, finally meeting his eyes again. “S’what he’d say.”
“Good thing he has no say in any of this,” Ian said firmly. “Mickey, you can wear whatever you want. Terry has no say in your life anymore.”
“I know that. S’just....” Mickey struggled with his words. “Not easy, man.”
“I know,” Ian said gently. “I know it’s not. I just want you to remember that you don’t have to be that person anymore. You don’t have to be at Terry’s beck and call. You’ve done so well for yourself, Mick. I’m fucking proud of you. And if you want to wear ripped jeans now, you should do it. I bet you’d look pretty damn sexy if you did.”
“Ay, cool it, man,” Mickey huffed out a laugh.
“I told you that you have pretty nice legs,” Ian grinned, letting his hand wander along Mickey’s thigh. “I mean it, though. Don’t let Terry stop you from doing what you want anymore.”
Mickey considered this, and frowned. “You don’t think I’ll look-” He trailed off, not knowing how to finish.
Luckily, Ian understood him well enough to know. “You’ll look fucking amazing.”
“Come on, man.”
Ian placed his hand on top of Mickey’s. “If it’s what you want, we’ll go back there tomorrow and buy them.”
“I dunno....”
“Okay,” Ian said after a second of thought, “what if I wanted them? Would I look like a fag?”
“Fuck no,” Mickey said immediately.
“Then why would you?” Ian held Mickey’s face in his hands, kissing him softly. “You don’t have to play by his rules anymore. You’re free, Mickey. And you can do whatever you want now.”
Ian was right...he was fuckin’ free.
And if he wanted to go buy a pair of ripped jeans, he damn well could. Fuck Terry for making him feel otherwise.
“Yeah,” Mickey murmured, realizing how many possibilities were open to him. He didn’t have to give a shit anymore. “Guess I can.”
Ian’s smile was so wide and dorky. “Do you wanna go back tomorrow?”
“Fine. But we better hit the food court for a cinnamon roll too, bitch.”