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The sun was already climbing high when Ian stirred awake, the soft weight of the summer morning settling like a warm blanket around the room. The thin curtains fluttered slightly where the windows were cracked open just enough to let in a lazy breeze carrying the distant noise of the city waking up. Somewhere below, a siren sounded briefly, then faded into the hum of life — cars, footsteps, a dog barking far off.
Ian’s eyes blinked open to the quiet, and there, half curled against his side, was Mickey — the faintest crease of sleep still lingering on his forehead, one arm tucked beneath his head like a pillow, breath even and slow.
He stayed still a moment, watching the small rise and fall of Mickey’s chest, the way the sunlight caught the darkness in his hair, and the softness in his expression. It was the kind of morning that stretched out in slow motion, inviting nothing but the comfort of not moving. Not yet.
Mickey shifted then, eyelids fluttering open with a low groan. “Morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
Ian smiled, brushing a hand over Mickey’s cheek, thumb resting just under his eye. “Morning, baby.”
They didn’t rush to get up. Instead, they stayed tangled beneath the sheets, limbs loose and warm, soaking up the quiet stillness. The clock ticked softly on the wall, the only other sound besides the occasional city noise and their steady breathing.
After a while, Mickey propped himself up on one elbow, squinting toward the window. “Feels like summer today.”
Ian nodded, stretching his arms overhead, the muscles in his back cracking softly. “Perfect for doing nothing.”
“That’s the plan,” Mickey said, a slow grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “No work, no calls, no ‘important’ stuff.”
Ian chuckled, rolling onto his side to face him properly. “Sounds good to me.”
The morning slipped away in quiet rhythms: coffee made strong and black, mugs set on the windowsill while they lazily scrolled through their phones, sharing half-hearted commentary about the latest news or some silly viral video. The apartment smelled faintly of espresso and the leftover scent of Mickey’s shampoo, warm and comforting.
Mickey eventually dragged himself from the bed, moving with the kind of slow, deliberate ease that comes from having nowhere else to be. Ian followed soon after, shedding his clothes for loose sweatpants and a soft, faded tee. They moved through the apartment in an unspoken dance — Mickey heading for the couch with a blanket draped around his shoulders, Ian settling into the armchair with a book he wasn’t really reading.
Outside, the sky was clear, a gentle sun filtering through the open windows. The breeze rustled the curtains just enough to bring a little life to the stillness.
Mickey yawned, stretching long arms above his head. “Think I could fall asleep right here.”
Ian smirked, eyes flicking up from his book. “That’s the point of the day off, isn’t it?”
“Exactly.”
They stayed like that for hours — a little television flickering in the background, half
conversations trailing off and starting again, occasional shared laughter that sounded like it was coming from another room. The kind of comfortable silence where you don’t need to fill every second, where just being near each other is enough.
Eventually, Ian reached for the remote and lazily flipped through channels, stopping somewhere on the local news. The anchor’s voice was steady and calm as they shifted to a weather update.
“Severe thunderstorm warning has been issued for the West Side and surrounding areas,” the broadcaster said, the usual calm undercut with a hint of urgency. “Residents are advised to stay indoors as heavy rain, strong winds, and lightning are expected to move through the area within the next hour.”
Ian looked over at Mickey, whose relaxed expression had shifted slightly, eyes now fixed on the screen as the first rumble of distant thunder rolled through the apartment, making the windows tremble faintly.
The day of doing nothing was about to change.
By late afternoon, the light outside had turned strange—washed out and grey, like the sky couldn’t make up its mind whether to fall or hold back. The city beyond the windows was quieter than usual, muffled by humidity and anticipation. Ian and Mickey had turned off the TV at some point, letting the background noise fade into the quiet hum of the fan on the floor and the distant, slow-building growl of thunder that came and went like a warning clearing its throat.
They stayed on the couch, limbs tangled, a blanket draped lazily over both of them despite the heat. Mickey’s head rested against Ian’s shoulder, his fingers absentmindedly tracing along the veins on Ian’s arm while Ian scrolled through his phone, barely absorbing anything he read.
It started slowly—just a soft patter against the window, gentle like a whisper. Then it built. Within minutes, the sky opened up and dumped everything it had. Rain lashed against the glass in sheets, streaking down in chaotic lines, loud enough that Ian instinctively leaned forward a little, like he needed to see it to believe it. The sound was constant, all-encompassing—like a crowd clapping, roaring, unrelenting.
“Shit,” Mickey murmured, sitting up a little straighter. “Didn’t think they meant this bad.”
Lightning flashed—bright enough to bleach the room for half a second—followed by a violent crack of thunder that hit right after, loud and close enough to rattle the kitchen cabinet doors in the next room.
Ian blinked, eyebrows rising. “Okay. That was definitely above our building.”
Mickey snorted, half amused, half impressed, but there was something else there too—a quiet tension beneath his jaw as he stared out the window, watching the downpour swallow the city whole. The street below was barely visible now, water pooling along the curbs, everything blurred and slick under the assault of the storm.
“I mean… we’re not goin’ anywhere now,” Ian said, trying to keep his tone light as he reached for the blanket and tugged it higher over them both. “Might as well dig in.”
Mickey leaned back again slowly, the muscles in his shoulders softening. “Yeah. Could be worse.”
The storm howled around them like it wanted to be let in, thunder rolling across the sky in angry, echoing waves. The lights flickered once, then steadied. Mickey tilted his head slightly.
“If that power goes out, you’re lightin’ the candles. I’m not fumbling around in the dark while shit’s flying outside.”
Ian grinned. “Deal.”
They fell quiet again, eyes flicking now and then to the windows, the storm still stealing focus, like it was a living thing outside their walls. But inside, the apartment was warm, safe—full of the kind of silence that wasn’t heavy or anxious, just settled. Mickey leaned back into Ian’s side, his hand finding Ian’s and holding it without thinking.
It was nearly an hour later when the apartment gave its last sigh of cooperation.
They’d been sitting close on the couch, half-dozing, the storm still raging outside. The city had sunk into a grayish blur behind the relentless curtain of rain. Every so often, the thunder would still crack so loud it sent vibrations through the floor, but they were mostly used to it now—half-listening, half existing, nestled together in their own quiet space.
Then, without warning, the lights flickered once—twice—and died with a soft, definitive click. The fan spun to a stop. The fridge gave a little mechanical sigh and went quiet. The TV, though off, gave a small electric pop as its standby light vanished.
Mickey groaned immediately.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
Ian sat up, blinking against the sudden dimness as if that might bring the lights back. “Yup. There it goes.”
Outside, the storm didn’t care. If anything, the wind had picked up, battering the windows harder now, the lightning coming more frequently—each flash flooding the apartment with brief ghost-white light before fading into shadows again.
Mickey rubbed a hand down his face. “Knew it. Shoulda charged the speaker. Or your dumb-ass flashlight.”
“I did charge it,” Ian argued mildly, already getting to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. “But it’s in the damn coat closet with everything else you swore we’d never need.”
“I stand by that.”
Ian gave him a pointed look, then padded barefoot across the apartment toward the kitchen drawer where they kept the matches and emergency candles. He lit one as he moved, the small flame flickering to life and throwing golden light across the cluttered countertops and the curve of his cheek.
Behind him, Mickey was already grumbling to himself as he crossed into their bedroom, opening the linen chest at the foot of the bed and pulling out anything remotely soft. He tossed throw blankets into a pile, grabbed two pillows off the bed, then yanked the big cushions from the couch on his way back. He moved like he had a mission now, brow furrowed, voice low but constant as he muttered about their luck, about the shitty grid, about how of course the one day they were gonna do nothing, the universe decided to throw a tantrum.
When Ian returned, candle in hand and four more stubby ones tucked under his arm, he found Mickey already tossing everything into a makeshift nest by the balcony window.
“What’s all this?” Ian asked, grinning a little.
“What’s it look like?” Mickey stood, hands on his hips, surveying his work. “You wanna be bored and pissed off in the dark, or you wanna watch nature’s fireworks show in style?”
Ian stepped closer, holding the candle out so the warm glow lit Mickey’s face. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”
“Blow me.”
Ian chuckled, setting the candles down and crouching to help rearrange the mess of blankets. They layered them thick against the floor, covering the cold hardwood with whatever padding they could find. Mickey dropped the last pillow down with a sigh and flopped onto his back, the storm still going wild just beyond the glass.
Ian lit the rest of the candles, spacing them out safely—one on the coffee table, one on the edge of the kitchen counter, two by the corner of their new setup. The soft light flickered around the apartment, giving it a kind of golden hush that made the storm feel even louder by contrast.
“Alright,” Ian said, lowering himself beside Mickey, “I’ll admit—this was a good idea.”
Mickey smirked up at him, one arm bent behind his head. “Told you.”
The two of them leaned back into the cushions, shoulders brushing, their bare feet tucked under the folds of an old quilt. The balcony door rattled in its frame with every strong gust, but the glass held steady, framing the storm like a painting. Lightning split the sky over and over again, carving brief silver veins across the clouds. The thunder rolled close behind it, sometimes so loud it seemed to come from inside the bones of the building.
They sat like that for a while—saying nothing, just watching. Listening. Breathing in the warm, waxy air from the candles and the sharp, fresh smell of summer rain drifting through the crack at the base of the door.
Mickey reached over eventually, wordlessly, and took Ian’s hand. Interlaced their fingers. Rested their joined hands against the space between them on the folded blanket.
Ian looked over at him, and for a second, the light from the candles caught in Mickey’s eyes, turning them softer than usual—something open and unguarded lingering in the quiet. Ian didn’t say anything. Just gave Mickey’s hand a small squeeze, his thumb brushing over the knuckles in a silent kind of gratitude.
Outside, the city blurred and flashed and roared. But inside, wrapped up in flickering light and mismatched blankets, they had carved out a quiet corner of calm for themselves—unshakable, even in the storm.
The storm outside showed no signs of letting up. Rain battered the windows in steady pulses, and the sky kept bleeding light every few minutes—lightning that lit the whole apartment like a camera flash, stark and brief. The thunder followed fast and loud, rolling through the room like a warning, like something heavy you could almost feel in your chest.
Ian and Mickey sat shoulder to shoulder by the balcony window, nestled in their blanket nest, their hands still joined between them. The candlelight made everything softer—flickering shadows, golden edges on tired faces, the faint gleam of old scars neither of them bothered to hide anymore. The storm was loud, but it felt far away in this little makeshift haven of warmth and softness.
Mickey had been quiet for a long time. Not unusual, not uncomfortable. He’d tilted his head against the glass once or twice, watching the sky like he was trying to read something in it. Ian hadn’t pushed. He never did, not with this sort of quiet. Not when Mickey was half somewhere else in his head.
But then Mickey shifted—just a little—and said, “I used to hate storms.”
Ian turned to look at him. “Yeah?”
Mickey gave a tight nod. “Couldn’t stand ‘em. Not just ‘cause they were loud. It was more than that.”
His thumb moved absently across Ian’s knuckles, not like a romantic gesture, but like something to keep his fingers busy. Like something to hold him here, grounded.
Ian didn’t speak. Just watched him, his gaze gentle.
Mickey breathed out through his nose. “Terry used to get worse when it rained. Especially if the power went out. I don’t know why exactly—maybe it reminded him of prison, or bein’ broke, or maybe he just liked having an excuse. But every time a big storm rolled in, you could feel it in the house. Like the air changed before the weather even hit. You know?”
Ian nodded, quiet.
“There was this one time—I musta been, I don’t know, twelve? Thirteen? It was one of those storms that knocks out the whole block, and the house went dark. Real dark. And I was just sittin’ there in the living room with Mandy and one of her friends, trying to play it cool like I wasn’t scared, ‘cause, you know…” His voice faltered for a second, and he swallowed before going on. “’Cause I knew what was coming.”
The thunder cracked again outside—long and deep—but neither of them flinched.
“He came outta the back room already piss-drunk, yellin’ that someone better light a candle or he’d light the whole house on fire instead. Swear to God, Ian, he had a fuckin’ lighter in one hand and a bottle in the other. Just standing there with that look—like he was already halfway gone, just waitin’ on someone to look at him the wrong way.”
Ian’s heart twisted. He stayed still, eyes on Mickey, letting the story come as it needed to.
“I tried to get up, told Mandy to go hide in the kitchen with her friend. Thought maybe if I stayed close, he’d pick me instead. Figured I could take it better.” Mickey’s jaw clenched, voice thinner now. “And he did. Picked me, I mean. Smashed the bottle on the floor and shoved me down into the glass, all while screamin’ that we were all fuckin’ useless. Dragged me by the hair across the kitchen and back, like—like he was just looking for places to hurt me harder.”
Ian exhaled slowly, but didn’t speak.
“And I remember—this is the part I don’t ever forget—I remember bein’ on the floor after, back bleeding, face all bruised, and the only light in the room was from the lightning. Just these little flashes that lit up the blood on the tile, like it was some kinda horror movie. And I remember thinkin’, at least it’s dark. At least no one can see me like this.”
Ian’s grip on Mickey’s hand tightened—gentle but sure, grounding. His other hand moved to Mickey’s knee, warm and steady.
“After that, I used to flinch whenever the sky lit up. Even when I was older, when I got tougher. My body just… remembered. I used to hide it. Even from you.”
Ian shook his head, quiet but firm. “You don’t ever have to hide from me, Mick.”
Mickey looked over at him then, eyes a little glassy in the low light. “I know that now.”
Ian reached up, brushing a thumb along the edge of Mickey’s jaw, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hate that he did that to you. That you had to go through all that alone.”
“I’m not alone anymore,” Mickey said, low and certain, eyes fixed on Ian’s. “That’s the thing.”
Lightning lit the sky again behind them, but it was just background now. A reminder that the storm was still out there, still loud and wild—but they weren’t part of it anymore. They were here. In the glow of soft candlelight, on a floor made cozy with blankets and effort, in the safety they’d built from the ground up.
Mickey leaned into Ian’s shoulder, letting his forehead rest there for a beat.
“I’m glad we’re stuck in tonight,” he said after a while. “Don’t think I could’ve said that shit otherwise.”
Ian kissed the top of his head. “I’m glad too.”
And together, they sat in silence again—closer now, the air different. Still heavy from the rain, still humming with storm energy—but steadier. Safer. Mickey’s past might’ve roared like thunder behind him, but here and now, with Ian beside him, it could finally quiet down.
Just enough for peace to settle in.