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There are certain things no one wants to hear during sex.
Scratch that – because the world is full of fucking weirdos – there are certain things most people don’t want to hear during sex. And beside the fact that maybe Mickey Milkovich wasn’t exactly “most people”, (because the last time he checked, most people weren’t shower-despising, gun-shooting, trash-talking, high school dropout homosexuals from South Side), he, as most people, didn’t like hearing;
“That’s… that’s not supposed to happen.”
In fact, it was a miracle that Mickey heard anything . He didn’t know if there was any science behind it (science was hardly a part of Mickey Milkovich’s vocabulary) but he could’ve sworn that having rather big objects shoved up one’s rectum did deteriorate hearing.
His own moans probably didn’t help, either, and neither did the Iron Maiden blasting from the speakers.
“Fine, no one’s here I know, fucker” Mickey had grouched, “Expect for Yev… Yev…the kid, and that little shit machine ain’t gonna listen to his dad getting fucked by a ginger, okay.”
“He’s not gonna remember it, Mickey.” Ian had rolled his eyes, “He’s barely two years old. And asleep.”
“Yea, but what if he wakes up? No, fuck that, Ian, not traumating my kid.”
“Traumatizing, Mickey. and I’m pretty sure that’s unavoidable.”
“The fuck is that ‘posed to mean, huh?”
“My bad. Father of the year for sure. Pants down now, we don’t have much time.”
Something was wrong, probably, but it didn’t feel like that to Mickey at all for now. Actually everything felt really, really right and the fact that Ian, what a fucker, had stopped – what the fuck? Mickey glanced over his shoulder;
“Are you memorizing my asshole or what now? Keep going, dickhead!”
“Mickey –“
“What?” Mickey’s voice was threatening and tense. He was barely keeping himself together and having a coherent conversation in his position seemed like a bad fucking option. His knees were sunk deep into the mattress, his thighs were shaking, and he was gripping the bedsheets forcefully. Sweat was dripping in between his shoulder blades and he was chewing on his bottom lip, drawing blood in the process. Mickey Milkovich was even more of a mess than usual.
“Mickey, I think I broke it.”
“You think…” Mickey switched his position slightly and the ben wa beads also switched inside him, “ahh … you think you broke my asshole?”
Mickey was talking but he wasn’t really thinking. Physical distress had snapped the line connecting his brain to his mouth, and all was left was an extremely sexually frustrated creature that look-wise resembled Ian’s boyfriend, but hardly used the few brain cells that were left from excessive drinking which had Milkovich-style started roughly at the age of eight.
Mickey’s veins were filled with Keystone (honestly the shittiest beer available in all of US, Mickey thought but ah so perfect for his budget), filth and cigarette ash.
“No, idiot” Ian ran his hands soothingly over Mickey’s bare back in an attempt to calm down his boyfriend as he dropped the bad news; “the beads.”
Okay, so the ben wa beads were a thing. Maybe too much of a so. Because there’s so much a cheap plastic can take, especially if they’re almost in a weekly use, right. And they definitely had been useful for these past couple of years – Mickey never regretted buying them because god damn, and after getting used to it, Ian found himself being maybe just a little be too eager to use them as well, especially if Mickey had been a pain in the ass (no pun intended) and Ian wanted to make the guy suffer a little.
What was great about the beads was that they gave Ian even more control over what was happening, and loss of control did very good for Mickey who had literally been in charge of his entire family for the past decade.
“You what?”
The reality showed itself in a horrifying light. Sure, the beads were still deep inside Mickey’s system, but they were also hanging from Ian’s hand far away from Mickey. Or at least, some of them were.
“It snapped in half, Mickey.”
“I thought that army taught you patience.” Mickey was grinning mid-kiss, pushing himself up against Ian’s hands on Mickey’s chest, eagerly responding to the simple touch.
“I did some learning alright”, Ian pulled his t-shirt over his head, slightly out of breath, “It’s no secret that marines give the best head.”
“Nu huh, general Gallagher” Mickey stumbled backwards towards the bed with flustered cheeks and dark eyes, “shut the fuck up and get here.”
General Gallagher didn’t have to be told twice.
“It snapped –“
“I heard ya the first time, jesus.” Mickey didn’t know what to do. He was still butt-naked, hard, sweaty and ready to go: “Take them out, would ya? Or do you need a fucking map and a…ahh fuck…flashlight?”
“I might”, Ian rubbed his forehead, bothered by how Mickey didn’t take this seriously, “It’s… I won’t get ‘em out.”
“Fucking” Mickey was basically groaning, “Try!”
“Mickey, listen –“
“’m havin’ a little fuckin’ trouble listening, gingerbread, would you please dig the fuckin’ cheap-ass fuckin’ beads out of my asshole or I swear to god I’ll piss in your eyes and feed them to Debbie’s pet turtle.”
After that, Ian didn’t exactly want to verbalize the situation; how Mickey didn’t seem to understand that they weren’t going to get them out just like that, because human muscles tend to pulsate when they’re stimulated, and how the said pulsation causes motion, and how motion tends to… pull the beads in. Buried probably somewhere next to Mickey’s esophagus. And Ian was not getting them out without severely injuring Mickey in the process.
“You’re going to the ER.” Ian turned off the raging music, leaving them both in an ear-ringing silence. The house was quiet, so Yevgeny was most likely still enjoying his nap. Svetlana wouldn’t come home from work in at least four hours.
Mandy, instead, had disappeared god-knows-where with her god-knows-who boyfriend a couple days before. This was a new thing of hers; she'd pack her shit, disappear, stay gone and then just return like she was never gone. She'd crash through the front door with dramatic gestures and head right to the fridge like it was not a big deal. They'd all gotten used to it; it was an...abnormal family anyway, to say at least. With Svetlana's hookers running around in their underwear, smoking in the balcony and playing poker by the kitchen table, with Gallagher kids running all over minding their damn businesses and Iggy waving his guns around and spreading a strong scent of old booze all over the house, and every other random trespasser – sometimes, Mickey felt like he deserved some fucking privacy with his man, aight?
The house felt empty, truly a blessed opportunity for Ian and Mickey to be as ragingly gay as they liked, and also, show it at any given opportunity. Not that they bothered to hide it anyway, but Mickey wasn't all too into any kind of “hey-look-at-us-fucking-lovebirds”-bullshit, so yeah, privacy was good.
Of course they were also taking care of Mickey’s son, who wasn’t exactly talking yet, but definitely responded to “motherfucker” which worried Ian sometimes (he was pretty sure that the kid thought he was actually named “motherfucker” rather than Yevgeny.)
Mickey was pale, and pissed, to say at least.
“No fuckin’ way.”
“Yes fuckin’ way, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Oh come on” Mickey moaned, “I’ve had bigger things up there. I ain’t kickin’ the damn bucket for this.”
“Bigger things like –“
“You.” Mickey scoffed, “I’mma get ‘em out myself if you won’t help me, pussy.”
“Mickey, be sensible, my dick is organic and it ain't injuring you, but those beads are plastic and probably not good for you –“
“Wasn’t a problem when ya were shoving ‘em in!”
“That was when I still thought they were coming out!”
“They fuckin’ are!”
Mickey was really pissed now, and even though the heated conversation was wearing off the arousal, he was still uncomfortably hard and it didn’t make his situation any more pleasant. To be honest, the foreign object didn’t feel like such a good thing to do anymore. Maybe, he thought briefly, he shouldn’t have ordered the cheapest ones on Ebay.
God, he was becoming miserable. Couldn’t all of this have happened post-orgasm, at least? He hadn’t gotten fucked by Ian in at least two and a half weeks. That had to be some kind of a celibacy record, and Mickey had despised every second of it. A sexless state of mind didn’t suit Mickey. Especially when Ian had a habit of walking around the house barely decent and stretching his still visible muscles from his army times.
“’m not explaining this to a fuckin’ nurse.”
“Rather doing that than some kinda, I dunno, poisoning?” Ian raised his eyebrows, pulling on his boxers and picking up his jeans from the floor, “C’mon, get dressed.”
“What ‘m I supposed to say, huh?” Mickey groaned, the very uncomfortable feeling in his lower half making his legs jerk weirdly like a reflex, “Hello, my name’s Mickey Milkovich and I like it when my dick of a boyfriend shoves weird shit up my ass?”
“A wise man once said”, Ian pulled on his shirt and tossed Mickey’s at his bare torso, “that liking what you like don’t make you a bitch.”
“Fuck off.”
Mickey would’ve argued more, but he knew the look in Ian’s eyes and he didn’t feel like he was suitable for a full-on fight in this vulnerable state, so he began dressing himself hesitantly.
Never in his life had Mickey thought of himself as the kisser type; the sex ed he had received was based on street knowledge without all the school book blah-blah, and kissing was something that may or may not have happened before penetration. And that was sex summed up.
It had been. Then Ian had happened. And Ian it had been since then. The kisser type, also. The one who Mickey wouldn’t mind kissing for longer than necessary. Ian was necessary, Ian’s lips were necessary, and that was that.
Mickey made a horrible mistake of falling for a Gallagher which everyone knew to be a stupid fucking thing to do. And maybe he had gotten hurt, but it all went away for a moment when Ian’s lips were pressed against his own.
“Fuck me.” Mickey panted, “C’mon.”
Ian landed a kiss on a collarbone; “I'd rather play a little.”
“The kid’s not comin’ with us” Mickey struggled to stand with his shaking feet but refused to lean against Ian, “this ain’t the kinda father-son experience I want the little piece of shit to have.”
“He’s two, he won’t remember jack shit.”
“Drop it, cheeto crotch. The kid stays. Get Debbie here to watch him or something.”
It was a pretty regular south side day per se, but there was nothing regular about this and Mickey was starting to freak out a little bit.
So, Ian was forced to make a call, because Mickey wasn’t changing his mind about it. Debbie wouldn’t do it though, because Ian knew that in contrary to the popular belief, Debbie actually had a life of her own – Ian was trying to decide which was worse, Lip or Fiona, because both of them would probably realize the situation’s true nature from three words, and that was not the kind of dinner table conversation topic he wanted to go through. Not that he had dinners at the Gallagher’s too often anymore.
His home was here, with Mickey. Mickey, who was now sitting by the kitchen table and flinching every time he moved just the slightest amount. (Okay, Mickey had to admit to himself while the uncomfortable feeling grew by the minute, maybe Ian had had a point. This was definitely not good.)
While looking for anything that could distract him from his arousal, Mickey also happened to make a mental note about the fucking dishes. He had told Svetlana to handle them, christ, what a bitch. Now Mickey would have to do them for the third time this week? Not cool, man, not cool.
“Fiona?”
Mickey didn’t hear the woman on the other side of the line, and he was kind of glad about that as well when Ian spoke again: “Seriously, don’t ask… but do you have a second? I have to take my dirty white boy into the ER – I said, don’t ask – and we need someone to watch the kid.” Ian paced around nervously and Mickey was planning on telling him to stop that shit, but he didn't trust his voice too much at this very moment.
Mickey bit his lip in the anticipating silence.
“No, we can’t take him with us, will you come or not?” Ian didn’t bother to cover up his frustrated tone.
Mickey glanced at his boyfriend briefly and for his immediate horror (because things weren't fucked up enough ) realized that there was a bright red, painfully obvious hickey in the spot where Ian’s jawline and his cheek met. And not just, some “oh, I walked to a door, can you believe it”- worthy little tiny hickey, but a bright red one, like a goddamn traffic light.
Great, Mickey thought spitefully, now the nurses would have even more visual to the pre-ass-pain events. Exactly what he wanted. To every nurse in the south side to know what Mickey specifically liked in the bedroom (or any other room. Or outside. Or in public bathrooms. He was adaptive, okay.)
As if being openly gay and being forced to carry around some god damn rainbow flag all the time wasn't enough.
Ian put down the phone - “Fiona's coming in ten. She's gonna give me hell for this later, but she'll come.”
“I'm touched.” Mickey rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, trying to keep down the cry that was building in his throat god damn this was too much for him “She better hurry the fuck up.”
“I'll go check on Yevgeny” Ian nodded towards the general direction of the staircase, “You doing alright?”
“I'm doin' fuckin' fantastic, thank you very much, asshole.”
“I love you too.”
The red-haired 20-year-old rushed up the stairs like he couldn't stand the idea of being away from Mickey for more than five minutes.
Oh how the tables had turned – at some point, Mickey had been the overprotective one. Now Ian was repaying the favor with acting like Mickey was dying on his arms, jesus. Mickey hated that. This was not the fucking worst he'd got, that was for sure. But this was different in a sense, because usually the things which injured him did not turn him on in the process, but oh man, did this. Mickey tried to find a better angle to sit so that he wouldn't get the beads rubbing some certain spots, but he failed miserably.
“Fuck.”
“Mickey? Are you alright?” Ian's worried voice came from upstairs before his face appeared on the top of the staircase; “do they hurt?”
“You could say that” Mickey's voice was strained, snapping and breaking, “but it's...fuck oh my god … It feels pretty fuckin' good, I mean -”
“You've got to be kidding me.”
Ian was so done with his boyfriend, honestly. Who the fuck was turned on at a moment like this? Didn't Mickey realize he was in danger of possibly serious internal injury? Why wasn't he freaking out, rather than moaning like a porn star from a cheap clip? And also, why was Ian's own equipment taking interest in it?
“Mickey. This is not the time to be horny.”
“Fuckin' try not to!” Mickey gasped, eyes half-closed and round drops of sweat slowly rolling down his forehead, “I have this thing called prostate, you know!”
“I don't need an anatomy lesson, douchebag, just control yourself! Christ.”
“The sight of your pathetic ass isn't helping either, General Gallagher.” Mickey bit on his bottom lip and threw a very sinful look at the redhead, which he tried to ignore but didn't quite succeed. His own pants were getting tighter by the second.
“Oh my god. Oh. My. God, Mickey. Go wait in the fucking car.” Ian closed his eyes and turned his back at Mickey, desperately trying to hide the fact he was way too into this, “I'm not dealing with this shit. We need to take you to the fucking doctor.”
Once again, Mickey would've liked to continue arguing, and probably would've too, if his mind wasn't too occupied with the primal need to get off. So, instead of complaining, he got up and limped towards the door quite awkwardly, flinching with every step.
As soon as Mickey had gotten out of the door, Ian rushed to the kitchen sink, turned it on and splashed some cold water on his face, running his fingers along the bone structure of his face to sooth him and make him more focused. God, he needed to focus, and Mickey wasn't making it any easier.
The freezing water did its job; Ian's thoughts felt clearer; he knew what had to be done. He'd sit in the car, drive Mickey to the ER, drag his boyfriend in if he'd have to, and then this would all be over.
Maybe they would even laugh about it in like, two, three...maybe ten years, who knew.
Fiona arrived not more than two minutes later, cheeks flushed from running all the way and hair tied into a messy ponytail.
“Mickey's outside” she informed Ian like he wouldn't have known, “How come he walks like he shoved a cactus up his anus? And why does he look like someone just told him that liberals are enacting new gun laws? And why are you wet?”
“Don't wanna answer any of those, thank you very much.” Ian was already heading towards the door and ignoring Fiona's cross-armed position and the demanding look on her face: “The kid's upstairs, he's still asleep but will pro'lly wake up soon. If he cries mom or dad, give him Mickey's old holster to play with, it usually calms him down. Oh, and there's some solyanka leftovers in the fridge if he's hungry.”
“Some what?”
“Solyanka. It's a russian dish. Svetlana says - “
“Okay, okay, I get it. I'll feed Soly-whatever to the kid. Anything else? Any possible drug dealers slash serial assaulters paying a visit I should be aware of?”
The question might have sounded like a joke, but it really wasn't.
Fiona knew what kind of shit went down in the Milkovich household almost on a daily basis, and she wasn't risking anything. Especially not in these shady conditions.
“Not any that we know of”, Ian shrugged, “Listen Fiona, I gotta go or Mickey cuts off my scalp with a butter knife.”
“Fine, fine. But you owe me big time for this shit, little brother.”
“Fair enough”, Ian admitted willingly, “I promise I'll take Liam to the docs for ice cream and whateverthefuck he likes next week so you and Gus will have some privacy to… do god knows what you do, okay?”
Fiona hopped on the counter, nodding approvingly: “Deal.”
“Great.” Ian grabbed a hoodie from the chair and started pulling it on while walking towards the door. Suddenly, the vivid memory of their bedroom flashed in his mind, all of the suspicious things such as lube and a pack of condoms laying on the bed. Fuck. Why hadn't he hidden them while he still had the chance? Now it was definitely too late to do it without causing suspicion and besides, Mickey was probably already planning on homicide in the car.
“One more thing, Fiona.”
“Yeah?”
“Please don't go into our bedroom.”
Fiona rolled her eyes: “What have you done, honestly, Ian? Jesus.”
“Uh...It's probably better if you don't know. As much as I love Mickey, he doesn't like… he tends to overreact a little, so. He probably kills everyone who knows about this. Gus'd be pretty bummed out if you died.”
With that, Ian closed the door behind him.
Ian rushed down the porch with few long steps and sprinted towards the car parked in front of the Milkovich house. Mickey was already sitting in the front seat, seemingly pained. When he noticed his approaching boyfriend, he rolled down the window and whined;
“What the fuck took you so long?”
“Sorry, sorry!” Ian hurried to the other side of the car, opening the car door and launching himself on the driver's seat, “You okay?”
“Do I fuckin' look okay?”
Mickey really didn't look okay. In fact, he looked like someone had dipped him in a pool of sweat and dragged him through a mangle. He was squirming on his seat restlessly, nearly rubbing himself against the seat and gripping on its sides to keep himself from humping air. God, this was the worst case scenario orgasm denial.
“I have to get off”, Mickey groaned from in between his teeth, “There ain't no way I'm going to the god damn ER with my dick hard as a sledgehammer.”
Ian turned on the car and grabbed the wheel, barely listening to his boyfriend. The car engine coughed a few times before starting to purr steadily, and Ian took off the driveway. He tried his best to concentrate on driving, but as he pressed pedal, it all became so much worse:
“Oh my god that's so much worse, ahh… shit...”
“Can you not?” Ian was biting his tongue and staring at the road like a maniac, because he was terrified that having even a tiny look on Mickey would put them both in danger of a car crash. He could tell from the sounds that Mickey was making that the sight he would witness was more pornographic than humanly possible, and it was driving him mad.
“The vibrations!” Mickey whined and his voice was almost breaking, “They're making it so much worse, oh sweet Jesus Mary and Joseph...”
“Mickey, for the love of god, please stop.”
“I can't! I have to fucking cum or my dick's gonna fall off!”
Ian didn't response to that, which he assumed was a good choice, until he heard the very suspicious sound that resembled opening a belt.
“You're not jerking off here, Mickey!”
“If you ain't helping me then I'mma fuckin' help myself!” Mickey was already shoving his hand down his pants, “Or my dick's gonna get gangrene or some shit and then I'll be some kinda lousy eunuch for the rest of my life and oh fuck that's it-”
Ian was having trouble breathing, so, with a shaky hand he turned on the radio and mercilessly forced the volume to a max. If he had to imagine and see glances of this shit, he wasn't hearing it too. For Mickey, it was probably understandable to be turned on, but him? All the nurses would take him as some kind of a sadistic psycho who intentionally put his boyfriend through misery.
Luckily, the music blocked most of the sounds Mickey was making, and it really didn't take more than couple of seconds until Mickey was cumming all over his boxers.
The problem, in addition to the filthy underwear of course, was that despite getting a second's relief the beads were still buried deep inside him, and it wouldn't take long until the vibrations through the car seat and the pressure against his spots would get him good and ready to go again.
Exhausted, Mickey slouched against the back rest and sighed. This day would've gone so much differently if they just would've stuck to the standard dick-goes-into-ass penetration rather than some fancy faggot-y toy things. God dammit.
Ian turned down the volume: “You done? 'Cause we're at the ER in like, five minutes and you're not going in there with your dick out.” The redhead was still staring at the road so hard he was almost cross-eyed. Mickey nearly giggled at the sight.
“Alright, alright” Mickey opened the glove compartment lazily and picked out some old tissues, cleaned himself up half-assedly and rolled down the window to toss away the used tissues. After that he pulled up his jeans and buttoned them, reached for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and waved it at Ian's direction.
“Want a smoke?”
“You ask.” Ian reached for a smoke and gave Mickey an appreciative look, which probably shouldn't have made Mickey feel as good as it did. Considering the consequences it was really not-normal that for a sheer moment, he almost felt like this was okay. He was with Ian, they were alright, no one could bother them for at least, three another minutes. That was enough for Mickey right now.
Just as Ian was picking up a cigarette, Mickey pulled the pack closer to him, away from Ian's reach.
“Kiss me first.”
“What?”
“You heard me”, Mickey insisted, “A kiss, or no smoke.”
“Mickey”, Ian was slowly turning the color of his hair but doing his best to mask it as frustration although the little smile sparkling in the corner of his mouth suggested otherwise, “I'm driving.”
“So?” Mickey cocked an eyebrow, “I sucked your dick once when you were playing Halo.”
“Completely unrelated.” Ian blushed harder.
“No it isn't. Fuckin' kiss me or I won't do the laundry for six weeks.”
“You never do laundry anyway!”
“Fine, Fine,” Mickey shrugged, “I might. If you kissed me.”
Ian really couldn't argue with that, could he? So as soon as he was sure that he wouldn't crash into a tree or possibly another vehicle, he reached over and gave Mickey a quick peck on the lips. Mickey grinned a little into the kiss which made Ian's heart flutter, and he was just so fucking sure that this was exactly the gross motherfucker he wanted to waste the rest of his life with.
“Ready for the ER?” Ian picked up a cigarette and let Mickey light it. The black-haired man also lit up his own, took a deep breath of the smoke and closed his eyes.
“No.”
“That's okay, we're going anyway.” Ian informed, blowing smoke out of the window, “I'll go with you to the appointment room if you want to.”
“Hell no!” Mickey scoffed, “I'm not gonna ruin my ass for you with that gross shit. I'm a big boy, I can handle it.”
“You sure?”
“One hundred fifty fucking percent.”
So be it, Ian decided. Mickey probably didn't want any more witnesses to what might've been the most embarrassing experience of his life. Ian understood that much, even if he wasn't the smartest man alive (Lip had always been the smart one of the family anyway), so Ian agreed silently and pulled the car over to the hospital parking lot.
There weren't many cars there, so Ian prayed for a quiet day. Maybe they'd manage to somehow slip under the radar and not cause too much confusion. Maybe, just maybe the nurses would have the courtesy to handle a matter with this sort of intimate nature with consideration.
Ian scoffed to himself. This was South Side after all, what was he expecting? He had grown up around these corners, he also knew the people who lived in it.
“The fuck you laughin' about?”
“Nothing” Ian unfastened his seat belt and turned to look at Mickey, “We going or what?”
“'course.” Mickey muttered with a rather bitter tone of voice. What a fun way to spend a Wednesday this was. Mickey couldn't come up with anything better, except for maybe flossing his mouth with cyanide. That would've been pretty much the same kind of blast as this.
Mickey opened the car door and climbed out of the car stiffly. He was walking like he was made of cardboard, but trying not to move his lower body was really difficult. Ian tried to offer his hand but Mickey shoved it away, mumbling something incoherent which Ian translated in his head (yeah, the Milkovich to English dictionary was a thing) to “stay the fuck away”, so Ian did.
They really weren't one of those power couples who danced around hand-in-hand, and Ian wouldn't have had it any other way. He had learned to respect Mickey's boundaries.
Too many people took Mickey's upbringing as a sign he lacked basic human feelings, but Ian knew that at some things, Mickey was like most people. Most people weren't comfortable with human touch at all times, and Ian wanted to follow Mickey's rules. Mickey had always followed Ian's, or at least, tried his best to get accustomed with them. Especially when Ian's brain was getting all weird and shit, Mickey was always asking what was okay and what Ian wanted him to do. So, favors, right? Ian was so grateful for Mickey's general existence that he probably would've traveled across the globe for him.
He was lucky for having Mickey just a few blocks away.
Mickey swung the hospital doors open and limped with his head held high, a rather furious look on his face, and Ian followed right after him feeling like he needed to make sure Mickey wouldn't tore anyone's throat open with his teeth.
Straightforwardly, Mickey drifted to the counter and coughed loudly to catch the receptionist's attention. She was 20-something, doll-eyed and looked kind of intimidated by Mickey's overall look. Ian noticed that her hand was hovering over the security button, as she stuttered:
“Uhm... how can I help you... sir?”
“I'm injured”, Mickey grunted and looked the poor girl straight into eyes, “I need a doctor. Or a nurse. Or whoever is actually useful in this place.”
Ian cringed internally, rubbing Mickey's back briefly before pulling his hand back. He didn't want this turn into an any kind of fucking scene, he just wanted to get Mickey treated as soon as possible.
Luckily, the receptionist didn't look like putting up a fight – with shaky hands, she picked some papers from a pile and handed them over to Mickey: “Uhm… please fill out these files and bring them to me when you're done.”
The girl was clearly hoping that Mickey would back off, but she started sweating nervously when he just kept staring, leaning against the counter awkwardly.
“A fucking pen?” Mickey grunted. Judging on his voice, Ian was guessing that the beads were doing their trick again and Mickey was getting hard. God damn it, this wasn't really the time or a place for that.
Luckily, the waiting room didn't look too crowded. Just some old, wrinkly women and a few kids with bloody noses.
The receptionist's hand was shaking when she handed the pen to Mickey, and Ian felt bad for her. Unfortunately, he felt worse for Mickey, so rather than apologizing for his boyfriend behavior he settled with glancing through the questions.
“Write for me, would ya”, Mickey handed the pen and the paper for Ian, and he took it without a complaint. Ian knew that Mickey was a little insecure about his writing; he could write, alright, better than Kev at least, but under a lot of stress it tended to get a lot of harder. Not reading, not forming words or sentences, but gathering his thoughts.
Ian would've never taken Mickey for stupid, but he knew that some people could've. So, Ian didn't question it but filled out the files as quick (polishing the truth about Mickey's drug and alcohol history because fuck that shit, they were not getting cops called on their ass) as he could and then handed them back to the girl.
“Excuse me”, Ian was going for a polite tone but he ended up sounding sarcastic, “how long do you think we'll have to wait 'til he gets in?” Ian glanced at Mickey whose feet were trembling a bit, “he's not feeling too good.”
“What exactly is wrong with him?” The girl looked at the papers, “I'm sure… you won't have to wait for more than...two hours.”
“Two hours?” Mickey growled and Ian tried to shush him down jesus, Mickey, don't get us thrown out, “There's barely any people here! What the fuck are they doin' huh? Having a motherfucking dance party?”
“Sir -”
“Fuck this.” Mickey threw his hands in the air, “If I don't get a doctor in twenty minutes, I'm suing ya hear me?”
“Sir, what exactly seems to be your emergency?” The receptionist was sweating almost as much as Mickey, “If you're in an immediate danger, we'll get you help right now. If, however, your life is not threatened -”
“I have” Mickey leaned closer to the girl's face and she leaned back, “a piece of plastic stuck up my asshole. Very deep. Very, very deep, I can tell ya that much. So I'd appreciate some help here.”
Ian closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. This wasn't going as smoothly as he would've hoped for. The other patients were already taking interest in the fuss. Ian's skin burned under the stares.
God fucking damn it.
“Excuse my boyfriend” Ian tried to stutter, “He's just...in a lot of discomfort -”
“Shut the fuck up, Ian.” Mickey gave the redhead a murderous glare, “Doctor, now. Understood?”
“I...I'll see what I can do.” The girl – Gina, apparently as her name tag suggested, picked up the receiver. She didn't dare to look at Mickey, and to be honest, Ian wouldn't probably have either. Mickey knew to how to be fucking scary sometimes.
Unnecessarily loudly, Mickey felt the need to complain; “This stuff is like, all the way up to my intestines now.” The sentence was probably targeted at Ian, but now that everyone else in the room was listening, hardly no one could've not heard.
“Mickey, there's kids in here -”
“About the time they learn about the wonders of anal.” Mickey rolled his eyes. Some woman covered the ears of his son and gave the couple the dirtiest look any man could dream of. Ian grabbed Mickey's hand worriedly, and when Mickey didn't pull away, Ian squeezed his boyfriend hand; “We're gonna get you a doctor, aight?”
“Aight, fine.” Mickey sighed, relaxing a little, “this sucks.”
“That's what you get” Ian tried to crack a joke, “for not listening to the Christians”, but his audience wasn't really in an appreciative mood. Instead of laughing, Mickey just huffed a little, and Ian could sense that he was craving a smoke.
“Milkovich?” The girl put down the phone and blushed a little, “Doctor Sullivan will see you in five. Down the corridor, third door to the right.”
“Hey, that's great!” Ian nudged Mickey's arm a little bit, “Thank you!”
So, they headed down the corridor into the doctor's office, blatantly ignoring the other patients' mean gleams thrown into their direction. At this point, Ian couldn't care less if they were jealous for the service, just your regular everyday homophobes, or just otherwise stuck up. It didn't matter, because Mickey was finally getting a doctor, and this hell of a day would be over.
Ian was relieved, but he was nowhere near as relieved as Mickey. Getting that thing off of him was something that felt like the only thing that mattered right now. He could live with some stranger with gloves to do some poking around his private areas if they just got out that damn excessive beads out already.
Why did Mickey always have to be so greedy with size, anyway? Jeez. Lesson learned.
Mickey could even stand some kind of lecture about being more safe with toys in the future or whatever bullshit preaching there was to come with this shitty roller coaster of a day. Mickey could take anything, so he just held onto Ian's hand and leaned against his shoulder slightly;
“Next time, you make sure to be more careful, General Gallagher.”
It took a lot of willpower for Ian not to just push Mickey against the wall right then and there, so instead of picking up from where they've left off (even though that would probably happen too in a not-too distant future), he kissed Mickey gently before shoving him lovingly towards the doctor's door.
The best part – this wasn't even the weirdest day he had had with Mickey, and he was sure there were more ridiculous fucking bullshit ahead.
Ian couldn't fucking wait.