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Ian taps his foot against the concrete flooring, the sound ringing out across the grow house. He has two bags of cash hanging from each of his wrists, and there’s another two slung over Mickey’s shoulder. The hands of his watch haven’t moved much since the last time he checked the time, but still, the clients they’re waiting on are getting later and later. It’s already dark outside, they have a busy day of deliveries behind them and Ian’s eager to get home. He can feel the day in his back and his shoulders, tired from a long day of driving and carrying money from place to place.
“You sure you got the date right?” Mickey asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, Mick, I got the date right,” Ian scoffs.
“Just askin’, ‘cause you know you did get the dates wrong—“
“That was one time!” Ian argues, holding back a laugh at Mickey’s teasing. He can’t give him the satisfaction. “And it was months ago.”
“Uh-huh, sure,” Mickey nods, smirk playing around the edges of his mouth. “Sure you don’t wanna check?”
Tutting, Ian wrangles his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna check, just to prove I got it right and you’re being a dick,” he states, flicking through his home screen until he finds his emails.
He scrolls through the piles of emails begging him to buy junk he doesn’t need until he finds the one from this specific client.
“See?” Ian says, smug as he holds it up to Mickey’s face. “Every other Thursday. That’s the 5th and the 19th this month. You wanna guess what today is? The 19th,” Ian tells him, making a mocking face as he does.
Mickey rolls his eyes, even though there’s a playful expression on his face. “Yeah, okay, idiot. You were right, happy?”
“Mhm,” Ian says absently, distracted by his unread emails. “Shit, I need to go to the pharmacy tomorrow morning to renew my subscription, they’ve sent me a reminder,” he informs, scanning over the small script telling him what he needs to do.
“It’s expired again already? We only just got it renewed,” Mickey asks, eyebrows furrowed. He leans over Ian’s shoulder to peak at the email himself.
“It’s been twelve months since the last time I did it,” Ian reads, shaking his head. “That went fast.”
Mickey hums an agreement. “We can do it after our one o’clock delivery tomorrow, that place is right by the drugstore.”
“Yeah, you gotta remind me though. I know I’ll forget,” Ian says.
He nods an agreement, then tilts his head and stares past him for a moment before reaching into his pocket. At first Ian thinks he’s looking longingly at the rows upon rows of weed bushes and possibly planning on pocketing some — which Ian has had to stop Mickey from doing before — until he produces a green pen. Mickey grabs his hand, bag of cash swinging as he does, and runs the ballpoint over the inside of Ian’s wrist. It tickles in some places, and Ian watches him scrawl with his head tilted to one side.
Mickey’s focused, deftly tracing something out that Ian can’t yet see. He just hopes it isn’t a penis.
“What are you doing?” Ian asks when Mickey starts going over places multiple times.
Instead of replying verbally, Mickey finishes up the final bit of the doodle and displays Ian’s own wrist to him with a look of satisfaction. On the pale skin sits an image of a pill, green on one side, left blank on the other, with Mickey’s chicken scratch handwriting beneath it reading don’t forget your fucking meds. The lettering is nearly illegible, both because of Mickey’s bad handwriting and because the pen seemed to stop working about half way through the sentence. The pill doodle is much the same, with the green side being patchy and lighter in some parts.
Breathy, Ian lets out a small snort through his nose at it, more amused by how proud Mickey is of it than by the actual note. Mickey tucks the pen back into his pocket, turning back towards the door to wait for their very late client, while Ian glances again at the drawing.
It’s nothing extravagant and Mickey does much more meaningful things on a daily basis, but Ian smiles down at it. They’ve been married for a little over two years now, and Ian still marvels at how much more comfortable Mickey makes things for him. He thought his disorder would be a life sentence of loneliness, no parole, because who would want to be stuck with him? And, if they did, who wouldn’t be insufferable to deal with when it came to Ian’s meds? His own family drives him insane about it sometimes, giving him a cautious once-over if he laughs too loud or checking up on him if he’s yawned too many times in one day, so how could he expect any different from a partner?
Mickey isn’t like that, at least not anymore. It’s the small things like this, Mickey treating him like he’s normal, making something light out of it with an ugly drawing. They still argue about med-related things sometimes, especially if Ian’s in a particularly pessimistic mood, but even then, Mickey seems to know when to back off and when to stick close by. Ian traces his thumb lightly over the green scribbles so as not to smudge it, a warmth spreading through his chest as he considers how much easier it is for him to manage his disorder with Mickey next to him.
“The fuck are you smiling at?” Mickey asks, smiling himself. “Stop being such a sappy bitch, we’re calling ‘em one more time and then going the fuck home. I’m happy to ditch all this shit here.”
Ian hums an agreement, tutting at the time again while stepping closer to Mickey. He bumps their shoulders together, fond expression on his face. Mickey shakes his head at him affectionately, bumping him back.
////
There's a giant Irish flag covering one wall of The Alibi when they enter, with Kev reaching upwards to hammer a nail into one corner of it. The bar is empty aside from him and the regulars and now Ian and Mickey, who watch Kev work in confusion.
"Fuck's he doing?" Mickey asks, jabbing his thumb in Kev's general direction.
"St Patrick's Day stuff," Tommy answers.
"It's still not straight," Kermit tells Kev in his hesitant voice.
"Really?" Kev asks, turning back around to face him.
"Yeah, that side's still lower," Kermit says, pointing at it.
"Whatever, it's gonna have to work 'cause I'm not redoing it again," Kev mutters, shaking his head and sticking his hammer under the bar.
"You doing some promotional stuff?" Mickey asks as Kev starts pouring them beers. "We gonna get cheap drinks?"
"If you're Irish," Kev answers. "Milkovich," he adds, raising an eyebrow.
"Gallagher's Irish," Ian jumps to say.
"Gotta have an Irish passport," Kev tuts, shaking his head.
"What? That's not fair," Ian pouts, and Mickey scoffs at him.
"I know, it's just to get people in the door, then I tell them the passport thing and they have to pay full price anyway. Genius, right?" Kev smirks, sliding their drinks across the bar.
Mickey chuckles at that, holding his beer up in a salute to Kev’s plot. St Patrick’s Day was always a big thing around the Southside, mainly because everyone loves an excuse to get shit-faced, so it was one of the only holidays that Mickey actually celebrated as a kid. He’s looking forward to it.
Kev seems to abandon the decorations after that, standing across from Tommy and Kermit and listening to their conversation. They’re arguing about something stupid, as usual, so Mickey tunes them out to enjoy a late afternoon drink with his husband.
“Is that all you’re gonna put up?” Ian asks, gesturing at the flag. “No clovers?”
“What’s a clover?” Kev asks, forehead wrinkling.
“Y’know, the shit they put up for St Patrick’s Day, the green clovers,” Ian tells him.
Kev shakes his head, dumbfounded.
“They’re all over, there’s no way you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Ian states, sounding genuinely disturbed.
“I’ll probably know it if I see it,” Kev shrugs.
“Mick, draw him a clover,” Ian says. “You know what I’m talking about, right?”
“Course I do,” Mickey scoffs.
Shuffling around under the bar, Kev searches for drawing equipment. He discovers an orange colouring pen from when his twins needed something to do, rolling it across the counter towards Mickey.
He’s about to pass him a napkin to draw it on, but Mickey drags Ian’s hand over instead and scribbles down the four-leafed clover before he can. It doesn’t take long, the symbol being pretty simple and easy to remember. Ian shows it to him once he’s finished, splaying his hand out on the wood.
“Oh, yeah,” Kev nods. “Yeah, I know those. That’s a good idea, actually, I could have the girls cut some out for me tomorrow and string ‘em all over the walls.”
“Yeah, then you get the authentic kind of touch to it too,” Ian agrees.
Kev turns away after that to refill Tommy’s glass while Kermit asks how him and V are doing with their children.
“You like drawing on me,” Ian says to Mickey, smirking around the edge of his drink. “Been doing it a lot lately.”
“No, I don’t,” Mickey replies, gruff with it.
“You do, though,” Ian argues. “It’s like you like me or something.”
Mickey snorts. “Dunno where you got that from,” he laughs, “you’re just a perfect canvas, being as white as a sheet of paper and all.”
At that, Ian lets out a sharp chuckle, grinning at him widely.
////
Mickey can't see Ian's hand, but he can feel the firm touch along his skin. Their room is warm and dark and neither of them are sleeping quite yet, but they're getting there. These are the moments Mickey likes the most, the quiet ones of shared space and shared touches and shared whispers. He's never found this type of easy contentment anywhere else.
Ian's palm rests on his bare stomach, thumb rubbing circles there. The touch lacks any pressure; he's not holding onto him or pulling him in like he would if they were fucking, it's just there. Soft and sweet and there. Mickey tries to keep the grin off his face.
He wonders, sometimes, whether Ian touches him there so often because of his GERD, whether he's trying to soothe invisible pain, invisible scars, that have gone uncomforted for so long. Ian has a thing with his scars, he likes tracing them, so maybe he's doing the same thing now just isn't being so obvious about it.
“What’re you doing?" Mickey asks lightly, smile in his breath. "Tracing a whole fucking map of America on my damn gut or something?”
Ian snorts, Mickey can feel the huff of air against his face. It smells of mint. “Don’t even know what a map of the US would look like, with all the states and everything," Ian mumbles, laden with sleep. "Was never that good at Geography,” he says, following it up with a yawn.
“I don’t care what it would look like, anyway," Mickey replies, sinking deeper into his pillow.
“Hm, neither,” Ian hums.
He nuzzles closer to Mickey, his head brushing the side of his face. Mickey's hit by a wave of his shampoo, a sweet, clean smell that always feels distinctly Ian. This is his favourite place, Mickey thinks, caught in a limbo between sleep and wakefulness, immersed in the calm happiness they carved out for themselves. Mickey knows this is the type of shit that normal people do, that it's nothing new or unique, but to him it's everything. This is all he ever wanted.
Letting out a sigh, Ian relaxes and lays his palm flat on Mickey's stomach. He's falling asleep. Smiling softly, Mickey leans over to trace patterns on Ian's back with his fingertips. It seems to send Ian further into unconsciousness and Mickey doesn't mind. He's happy and relaxed and that fills Mickey's chest with a comforting warmth. He's almost asleep himself, so the patterns he makes are lazy and slow and barely there.
Mickey's damn lucky that he gets this shit every night forever, he thinks to himself as he closes his eyes.