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It’s not like they don’t fight.
They don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. They know that. It’s caused issues for them and their relationship before, and it continues to now. The only difference is, now they’re a little bit older, a little bit wiser, and they know that no matter how bad it gets, they’d still rather spend a week straight yelling at each other than walk away from any of it.
Ian isn’t really sure why it feels different this time.
It’s the first big fight since moving into their apartment, and maybe the biggest one they’ve had since getting married. He doesn’t even really know how it started. They were talking about dinner, and how they were going to make fajitas in the kitchen together, but the sink was still full of dishes from last night and the counter was a mess.
Okay, so maybe he does know how it started.
That’s always how it starts. Stupid stuff, like dishes in the sink.
But that’s not why he’s fuming as he ties the laces on his sneakers.
It devolved from there, with both of them tired and stressed from a long week where things kept going wrong at work, and neither of them were looking to take any blame for the missteps in their home life. They kept pushing things off, waiting for it to blow over. Make it to the weekend, that’s all they had to do.
They should’ve known better, honestly.
Because everything they’ve shouldered in the last week, maybe two, came bubbling up to the surface once the yelling started, and once they moved on from petty grievances to long term hang ups, it was game on for everyone.
Thinking back on it, Ian can’t follow the line of conversation. He knows bits of it—dinner, truck maintenance, rent going up, seeing too much of their family, seeing not enough of them, dinner again because they’re still starving, blanket hogging in bed, a brief drive by the topic of kids and whether or not they’re ever going to have them, and then everything coming to a crashing halt when Ian said, like an idiot, “Then what are we even doing here?”
Even now, as he swipes his keys from the table by the door, he can’t stop thinking about the horrified look on Mickey’s face before he stalked off to the bedroom and slammed the door.
Ian wanted to take it back immediately, but it was too late.
He scrubs his hands harshly through his hair as he stands by the door, wishing his anger would subside faster, his blood boiling and his body still revved up from the adrenaline of the fight.
Ian chances one more look at the closed bedroom door, then takes off.
Mickey sits on the edge of the bed for a long time.
His mind is racing, going over every part of their fight piece by piece, trying to figure out just when Ian’s breaking point was. Probably when they started talking about kids again. It always comes back to that, in the end.
Mickey didn’t even say no this time, he said I don’t know, which in his mind is progress, but apparently not enough for Ian.
He scrubs the heels of his hands against his eyes, tired and exhausted.
When he hears the front door close behind his husband’s departure, he drags himself to his feet and goes to take a scalding hot shower.
“Hey.”
Lip blinks at him confused from the front door with Fred on his hip. “Hey.”
“Hi Freddie,” Ian coos, tickling his belly and feeling the last bits of anger melt away from his shoulders as the baby laughs.
Lip just stares at him. “Did we have plans today?”
“Me and Mickey got into a fight,” Ian blurts out.
“Okay. What else is new?”
“Lip.”
Lip shrugs but opens the door wider for Ian to come inside.
“It was bad,” Ian tells him. “Like, maybe our worst one ever.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
Fred reaches his arms out towards Ian, and Ian happily takes his nephew and curls him against his chest.
Lip puts his hands on his hips. “Like irreparable bad, or…”
“I don’t know,” Ian sighs. “I fucking hope not.”
“Shit.”
Ian nods. “I walked out. I didn’t even know where I was going until I got off the L down the block.”
“You walked out?” Lip asks, his brows jumping. “That’s my move, not yours.”
“He walked away first, I guess. I don’t know.” Ian shrugs and shifts the baby in his arms. “He went into the bedroom and slammed the door, and I just—I couldn’t be there anymore.”
Lip nods, digesting the information.
“Oh, hey Ian,” Tami calls out from the kitchen, spotting him over her shoulder from where she stands at the stove. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
“Uh, yeah. Kind of a spur of the moment thing,” he tells her.
Tami shrugs. “You staying for dinner? I’m making stir fry.”
“Uh,” Ian hesitates, looking over at Lip who just shrugs. “Sure, thanks. That’d be great.”
She smiles at him easily before turning back to the stove.
Ian lets Lip guide him over to the living room couch, out of earshot. “You ever have fights like that with Tami?” he asks.
Lip gives him a half shrug. “Sometimes.”
“What do you do when they happen?”
“You mean after I spend an hour wondering if we should just break up, or—”
“Never mind.”
Lip pats his thigh. “It’s Mickey, man. You two will work it out.”
“He’s so pissed at me, Lip.”
“He’ll come around.”
Mickey makes the fajitas alone.
He stands in their small kitchen with wet hair and clean sweatpants and makes dinner for two. He drinks two beers—chugs the first one, actually—and they mellow him out a little bit. When Ian still isn’t home by the time the food is done, Mickey puts it all in the oven to stay warm until he does.
He doesn’t know if Ian is just cooling off, or if he’s out there somewhere rethinking their entire marriage, but either way, Mickey thinks a homemade meal could be good for the both of them.
Five thirty turns into six, turns into seven, turns into eight, and the food has gone cold. Mickey zaps some of it in the microwave and eats it over the sink, his whole body tense as the minutes tick by and he waits for the sounds of keys and locks and doors swinging open.
But they never come.
He spends his night sitting on the couch, annoyed with everything he scrolls through on his phone, waiting patiently for Ian to come home.
“What was the fight about anyway?”
Ian sighs as he takes another sip of his Coke. “Lots of stuff.”
The boys are hiding out in the garage while Tami puts Freddie to bed. Lip has a half-fixed bike on one side of the small space, and a workbench on the other. They sit on folding lawn chairs and drink sodas.
“Anything specific?” Lip asks.
Ian shrugs. “Kids.”
“Mickey still doesn’t want ‘em?”
Ian shakes his head and takes a long sip of his Coke. “He thinks he’ll be a shitty dad.”
“You don’t think he will be?”
“I know he won’t be,” Ian tells him, leaning forward so his elbows are on his knees. “But it’s like he doesn’t even try to see it, you know? He’s just convinced he can’t do it, and he doesn’t listen when I tell him I think he can, and it just… It’s exhausting.”
Lip takes a tentative sip of his drink. “What if he never comes around to the idea?”
“I don’t know.”
“That a dealbreaker for you?”
“I… don’t know.”
A beat passes.
Lip shrugs. “You could always divorce him.”
“That’s not funny,” Ian says without hesitating. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Lip just shrugs again.
They sit in silence for a long minute, just watching the light rain fall outside through the open garage door. Lip lets him sit in silence as he turns over the dealbreaker question in his head, and finally Ian sits up and sighs.
“I think if it was anyone else, it might be,” Ian admits. “But it’s Mickey, you know? I can’t… I don’t want to do any of this without him.”
“Even if it means you don’t have kids?”
“If I have to stay an uncle for the rest of my life—fuck it. Yeah.” Ian runs a hand through his hair. “It’s him, Lip. Over everything.”
Lip nods slowly. “Good. Now go tell him that.”
Ian shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I said some fucked up shit to him earlier,” Ian tells him. “He’s probably still really fucking pissed.”
“Like normal Mickey pissed, or worse?”
Ian remembers the way shocked silence cut through the air like a knife, the way his husband’s eyes had gone wide and scared, the way the bedroom door slammed so hard he heard the wood creak.
“Worse,” Ian says softly.
“Shit.”
He grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs. “I think I really hurt him.”
Lip rolls his eyes. “So go fix it.”
Ian pauses. He thinks about the way he stood there for so long, in the middle of the apartment, breathing hard with his heart pounding against his ribs. He thinks about his skin crawling with anger and embarrassment and shame, and how he couldn’t stand to be there any longer.
“No,” Ian says, blowing out a sad breath. “Not tonight. I’ll let him cool off a little first.”
“Ian…” Lip warns.
“You didn’t see his face,” Ian whispers.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it.
Mickey does their nighttime routine alone.
He cleans up from dinner and locks the windows, closes the blinds and shuts off the lights. He makes sure the front door is locked, but he doesn’t deadbolt it like they usually do.
He goes through the motions, brushing his teeth, flossing, turning down the bed. He crawls under the too-cold covers and flicks off the beside lamp, sets the alarm for work tomorrow and slides over to his side of the bed.
The room is too dark and too quiet and too empty, and for some reason Mickey feels like he might cry.
He doesn’t though. He doesn’t.
Because Ian will come home, or so he tells himself. He has to.
He has to.
He promised. No more leaving.
So he lies on his side with Ian’s pillow curled close to his chest and watches the clock as the time ticks closer and closer to midnight.
“You sure Tami’s cool with this?”
Lip waves his brother off as he tosses a pillow down on the couch in his living room. “She’s fine.”
Ian sighs. “Thanks for letting me crash.”
“Sure,” Lip tells him, dropping a blanket down next to the pillow. “But for the record, I think you should just go home and talk to him.”
“I will,” Ian says with a nod. “Tomorrow. Promise.”
Lip just shakes his head and lets out a breath. “Okay.”
“Thanks,” Ian says again, because he means it. Because he’s grateful to have a brother who will listen when he needs it.
Lip claps him on the shoulder. “Get some sleep.”
Ian hugs him briefly, and then Lip disappears upstairs, quiet on his feet so the baby doesn’t wake up.
Ian sighs and drops down on the couch. He props his head up against the pillow and pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket. No new messages.
He taps his finger on the side of the case thoughtfully, then shakes his head.
He turns his phone off completely, willing himself not to think about any of it again until tomorrow.
1AM comes and goes. So does last call. The thirty-minute L ride home from the bars on the southside ticks away silently as Mickey stares at the alarm clock on the bedside table.
Because that’s where Ian has to be, right? He’s at the bar with Carl or Debbie, drinking and carrying on. Right?
That’s why he’s not home yet. But he will be, any minute now. Mickey’s sure of it.
He waits and he waits.
He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he wakes up alone.
His phone rings at just before two in the morning, and Tami backhands him across the chest.
“The fuck,” Lip slurs, rolling over and rubbing his eyes before picking up his phone and staring at the screen.
MICKEY M.
Lip sighs, then drags himself out of bed.
He swipes to answer the call just as he closes the bedroom door behind him. “Hello?” he says in a half whisper.
“Is he with you?”
Mickey’s voice is more panicked than Lip expected. He anticipated anger, or exasperation, not thinly veiled desperation.
“Yeah, Mick,” he answers easily, giving up his brother without hesitation. “He’s here.”
Mickey blows out breath down the other end of the line. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his voice almost wobbly.
“He’s sleeping on the couch,” Lip tells him. “He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
There’s a beat, and then—
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Lip sighs. “Fine. Just don’t wake the baby.”
Ian is startled awake by a hard kick to the couch.
“Fuck—”
“Mickey’s on his way.”
Ian blinks up at Lip, his brain still foggy with sleep. “What?”
“Your husband? He called me,” Lip says around a yawn. “Didn’t know where you were.”
Ian blinks again. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
Ian picks up his phone, then remembers it’s turned off. “Shit.”
“Really, Ian?” Lip asks, annoyed. He moves to unlock the front door. “You couldn’t have at least fucking texted the guy?”
Ian groans as he runs his hands over his face. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Ian watches Lip carefully. “Did he sound… mad?”
Lip hesitates. “That’s not the word I’d use.”
“And what is the word?”
He shakes his head. “You’re an idiot.”
The turn of the knob and the push of the door are loud in the silent house.
Ian looks up from where he sits on the couch, his eyes wide as he takes in his husband standing in the doorway, wearing loose sweatpants and Ian’s faded green hoodie that hangs too long on him.
Mickey looks warm and soft, and all Ian wants to do is wrap him up in his arms, but the scared look he’s trying to hide in his painfully neutral face makes Ian pause. He doesn’t move, afraid he’ll spook him like a deer in the headlights.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Mickey asks after a minute.
And they’re back in it, same as earlier, tensions suddenly higher and the clipped tone of his voice making Ian sigh with exhaustion already.
“Mickey—”
“One fight and you’re done?”
Ian shakes his head, runs a hand over his face. “That wasn’t one fight and you know it.”
It’s true, they both know it, so it confuses Ian when Mickey takes a half step back like he just got burned.
There’s a long stretch of silence, and then—
“So this is it huh?” Mickey asks, voice raspy and barely more than a whisper. “This is you leaving me?”
Ian’s brow furrows and his head starts to hurt. “Mickey, what the fuck are you talking about?”
Leaving him? When did that idea get put on the table? Ian doesn’t want that anywhere near this conversation, and yet Mickey’s standing right in front of him saying it like it’s a foregone conclusion.
Mickey half shrugs incredulously at him with glassy eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open.
Ian just blinks back at him, thoroughly lost.
Mickey’s jaw twitches. “Is this the end?”
Ian shakes his head. “The end of what?”
“Of us.”
He says it so plainly that it takes Ian a second to register the meaning. It makes sense suddenly, all of it—Mickey’s scared and wild eyes, his tense shoulders, the defensive set of his jaw. It all adds up, and Ian realizes what’s happening in real time.
Mickey thinks he walked out. For good.
Ian’s face softens, and his shoulders drop. “Come here,” he says quietly.
Mickey’s nostrils flair in a flash of panic, mistaking Ian’s softness for defeat, eyeing him like the end of the road he’s about to go skidding into.
“No, it’s not—” Ian tries, then shakes his head, frustrated. “Would you just fucking come here?”
He reaches out a hand and Mickey takes a tentative step forward. Then another. Then another.
When he’s close enough, Ian reaches out and grabs his hand, squeezing his fingers gently and tugging him closer. He guides Mickey to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of him, their knees knocking together in the small space between it and the couch.
Ian holds his hand, warm palm pressed against cold fingers, and he runs his thumb in slow, smooth arcs over the back of his husband’s hand.
Mickey watches the movement with intense dedication. He’s scared to look away; scared to look up at Ian.
“You said you’d never leave,” he says quietly, his eyes turning glassy once again. “You said it would be different this time.”
Ian sighs. “I didn’t leave, Mick, I went to Lip’s house—”
Mickey’s eyes snap up.
“You didn’t come home, Ian.”
It’s silent for a beat as they stare at each other, terrified. Something cracks in Ian’s chest, and the space between his ribs starts to hurt.
Ian flounders. “I’m sorry. I just…” He shakes his head. “I thought maybe you needed space and—”
“I didn’t know if you were coming back.”
Ian’s hand stills. His heart breaks a little at the thought, then cracks wide open at the question still written in the lines of Mickey’s face.
“I was,” Ian reassures him. Then, “I am.”
“When?”
Ian doesn’t answer. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but he doesn’t say anything because it all seems so stupid now. Staying at Lip’s house, waiting for the morning. He blushes at how ridiculous it sounds in his own head.
Mickey lets out a deep sigh. “You don’t get to just run off like this anymore, Ian,” he says, carefully but firm. It’s a warning, but it’s not unkind. “And you don’t answer your phone? What the fuck is up with that?”
Ian briefly glances at his phone on the table, the screen dark and unresponsive.
“I know,” he says blowing out a breath. “But I had to get out of there Mick, I needed to cool down—”
“I know that,” Mickey cuts him off. He shakes his head. “Walk it off, talk to your fucking brother, I don’t give a shit. But then you come home.”
That’s when things start to click into place for Ian.
Mickey wasn’t pissed at him—at least, not anymore—he was worried.
And that makes Ian feel a thousand times worse.
“Oh,” he says quietly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.
Mickey reaches out and cups the side of Ian’s neck, thumb grazing along the hinge of his jaw.
“We’re married now, Ian. Good times and bad, remember?” he starts, tentatively. “At the end of the day, I want you home. With me. I don’t care how bad the fight is, and I don’t give a shit what we’re fighting about. You need space? Fine. I’ll sleep on the couch if I have to. You need time? We’ll call it a night and then I’ll keep arguing with you in the morning, and the next day, and the next. I don’t care.” He licks his lips, shakes his head briefly. “None of that shit is important to me if you don’t come home.”
He holds Ian’s gaze for a hard few seconds, then his shoulders drop imperceptibly.
His voice cracks when he says, “I can’t fucking lose you again.”
Ian’s hands land softly on Mickey’s thighs, and he leans into his husband’s touch. He can feel the sting of tears forming behind his eyes.
“You won’t,” Ian whispers, his voice failing him.
“You can’t promise me that.”
“Yes. I can.”
He says it with more conviction than either of them was expecting, and it only makes Mickey tighten the grip his has on Ian’s neck.
“Then why the fuck are you here, Ian?”
And that’s the question, isn’t it? The answer seems so bland, so… petty, in retrospect. He doesn’t want to answer, not after Mickey just laid bare some of his deepest fears in the small space between them.
Ian hesitates, dropping his gaze down to Mickey’s jaw. He can’t meet his eyes. “I thought you wouldn’t wanna see me,” he mumbles, and it’s the last break in the dam before he can feel the tears starting to spill over the edge.
There’s a beat, and then—
“You’re so fucking stupid,” Mickey breathes out, tugging him in by the neck, guiding Ian to bury his face in the crook of his neck as he hugs him. Two strong arms wrap around Ian’s shoulders, one hand sliding up into his hair and holding on tight.
Ian gets his own arms around Mickey’s middle, pulling him closer so their chests are flushed, and their legs slot together perfectly.
His shoulders start to shake as he cries into Mickey’s neck, soft and silent as the emotions flow through and release him.
Mickey holds him, strong and sure, afraid to ever let go.
It takes a while for both of them to calm down.
When Ian finally pulls back from Mickey’s embrace, the tension in the air has completely dissipated. The panic and worry have subsided into relief, but even as they fall away from their hug, neither boy is ready to let go of the other just yet. Ian leaves both hands on Mickey’s thighs, smooth and heavy as they skate over the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and Mickey keeps one hand wrapped around Ian’s bicep.
“I’m sorry,” Mickey says first, his voice scratchy. “For earlier.”
“Me too,” Ian says quickly, nodding his head. He sniffles. “I said some shit. I didn’t mean it.”
Mickey bobs his head to the side, then shrugs. “You were kinda right though. For getting mad about the kid thing.”
Ian shakes his head adamantly. “No, Mick, I don’t—”
“I know you’ve wanted to talk about it again for a while now, and I keep avoiding it.”
Ian lets out a soft sigh, but Mickey doesn’t meet his eyes. “Mickey.”
“I just… I never know what the fuck to say,” Mickey tells him honestly. “You always seem so… sure of it. It’s a lot.” He licks his lips. “And—it’s not like I’m on the complete opposite side of the argument here.”
Ian searches his gaze. “You’re not?”
“I—” Mickey gives him an exasperated shrug. “I don’t fucking know.”
Ian nods reassuringly.
“I’m not saying never. But I’m not saying yes, either. Not right now.” Mickey shakes his head. “And I don’t know how to explain that to you without giving you some kind of false hope. You’ll be picking out nursery colors tomorrow and I’ll still be trying to figure out if I can do this shit or not.”
Ian tilts his head slightly. “If you can do it, or if you want to do it?”
“Both?” Mickey answers, uncertain. He sighs. “I don’t know if I’m making any fucking sense.”
“You are,” Ian says quietly, running his thumbs gently over Mickey’s thighs. “But I think maybe I need to listen more when you talk about this stuff. Without jumping the gun.”
Mickey runs his hand up over Ian’s shoulder and neck, cupping his jaw lightly. “I want to give you what you want, Ian. I want you to be happy, I just—” His voice cracks and he cuts himself off.
“I know, Mick,” Ian tells him. “But I want you to be happy too.”
Mickey visibly deflates.
“I don’t know. About any of it,” he admits, biting at his lip. “All I do know is that whatever way this goes, whatever we end up doing, I don’t wanna do any of it without you.”
Ian gasps quietly. His heart beats fast and loud against his ribs, something settling in his chest.
“I don’t wanna do it without you either,” he says quickly, before Mickey has time to doubt him. He wraps his hand around Mickey’s wrist and squeezes gently.
Mickey’s eyes are sad, tired. “Then what the fuck are we gonna do about this?” he asks quietly. “What if we never agree?”
Ian leans forward and presses his forehead against Mickey’s. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, and Mickey nods against him. “I promise.”
He’s never been more sure of anything in his life.
“Come on,” Mickey mutters, leaning in and kissing Ian softly before pulling back. “Let me take you home.”
Ian nods and lets out a deep sigh. “We’re gonna have to talk about this more at some point.”
Mickey takes his hands and pulls him up off the couch. “Yeah, but not tonight, right?”
Ian wraps his arms around his husband’s shoulders, holding him close.
“No. Not tonight.”
It’s almost three in the morning by the time they get back to the apartment, and they’re both exhausted, physically and emotionally, but that doesn’t stop them from getting their hands on each other the moment they’re through the door.
They have slow, sensual makeup sex with whispered words of love and reassurance and adoration, spilled in the quiet space between the sheets. Ian pins Mickey’s hands above his head, and Mickey slots their fingers together.
They hold each other close in the aftermath, soft touches and lingering kisses clinging to their bare skin and keeping them up until just before the sunrise. Mickey rolls them over just as the first rays start to peek through the blinds, and he falls asleep sprawled out on top of Ian, trapping him to the bed for the next few hours.
Ian wraps his arms around his husband and falls asleep to the first notes of morning.
He’s not going anywhere.
Not now.
Not ever.