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"Shall I proceed with the marriage license application?" The woman behind the desk asks, uncomfortable with the argument taking place before her as she twirls the pen between her fingers.
Mickey's lips curl up into a short lived smile of irritation, "Yeah— please, proceed."
Despite the venom behind his tone, the lady offers the papers to them. She scoots them to the edge of the desk, gesturing to the empty blank, "Okay, Mr. Milkovich, just sign right here."
She advises and Mickey glances at Ian— not with hesitation but rather annoyance. He grips the pen tight as he scribbles down his name, letting it fall to the desk as quick as he could like the pen physically stung to hold.
Ian dragged him into this, the marriage. Mickey wanted to marry Ian more than anything but it was a big step. A step he wasn't sure either of them were ready to dive into just yet.
Then Ian made him reconsider with his soft words and sweet smile because for once, Mickey felt like it was only him. Decades of his life have passed and not once has he ever felt special.
He didn't think Ian had the heart to rip that away from him.
"Then Mr. Gallagher." The woman's voice guides gently, finger tapping the space to sign. Ian scratches his brow before he picks up the pen, hunching over to view the paper fully.
"Yeah, right on that line." Her voice is faint as he stares at the spot, biting his bottom lip.
Ian can't shake the wrongness of this. The thoughts of Frank and Monica and their terrible marriage peer into his mind. Their messy arguments and all that led to Monica sitting in a pool of her own blood on Thanksgiving.
Not that Ian would ever think of doing what Monica did. Sometimes he wonders if things could've been different with her. If she could've came around like he did.
What really haunts him is the thought of tying Mickey to him forever. Ian figured it'd feel good to know Mickey was his forever but now, he's terrified.
He has control over his bipolar now but is Mickey dreading a slip up? He's reassured Ian that he's loved him before but love can't save sickness.
He can't think of tossing that baggage onto Mickey for eternity. Ian can't imagine him, let alone anyone, wanting to deal with that sickness for the rest of their life. Every thought creeps into his fingers and leaves them as still as a statue.
Ian's eyes meet Mickey's and the figure cracks, leaving the pen to collapse on the desk.
Mickey's eyes are big, wide with nothing but hurt. His body sinks in dismay, a deep staggered breath, "You're fuckin' kidding." The words come from deep in his throat, frail sound like a wounded animal.
"Can we just talk for a second—" Ian pleads, unable to stop Mickey from storming past him. His body stiffens with regret, cursing under his breath.
"Can we get our paperwork back please?"
Mickey sniffles weakly, hissing at the pathetic sound he makes and forcing out a groan of anger to cover it. He wipes the growing tear from his eye as he heads for the elevator.
Mickey thinks he's free until he spots the blur of ginger hair moving past the onlookers. His finger slams into the button on reflex, praying to some god he doesn't even believe in that the door would just close and he could drown in self-hatred alone.
"Mickey! Hold on!" Ian called out sharply, not caring for the people that shoot him weird glances as he shoves his hand into the elevator doors. They bend back against the force, opening for him.
Ian absorbs what brief emotions he can pull from Mickey's face but it's hard when he's turned away from him.
"Leave me alone, Gallagher." Mickey replies coldly, pressing the button quicker. He avoided Ian's eyes, fearing he'd either punch him or cry.
Ian can't find the words, hands opening and closing by his sides, "It's just— I haven't really thought this marriage shit through, y'know?" He tries to reason, weasel his way into an opening to keep Mickey from avoiding him.
It doesn't seem to help his case as Mickey remains staring at the doors of the elevator, eagerly waiting for them to open as he blinked away tears.
Mickey's chest aches with betrayal he hasn't felt so deep in ages. Ian's voice that once calmed him down from the darkest pits of himself now sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
"I don't know— I didn't think we'd be having this conversation today." Ian adds on and Mickey loses it.
"Then why the fuck did you bring it up?!" He counters harshly, anger boiling over from the nerve Ian has. Is he fucking with him? Was this seriously just some plan to screw him over for fun? Mickey knows Ian would never but in his heat of rage, he can't ignore the questions his mind stirs up.
"The whole thing was your fucking idea!" Mickey reminds, struggling to keep his voice stable as he meets Ian's eyes, "You talked me into this shit!" His anger weakens at the sorrowful pain in his gut, making his voice crack.
"I know— I know!" Ian cuts off, reinstating the words like he's trying to burn them into Mickey's mind.
Ian's throat is tight, shaky sigh, "Frank and Monica aren't exactly the fuckin' picture of marital bliss!" He reasons and Mickey looks him dead in the eyes with disbelief.
"I don't exactly have a frame of reference to connect this shit to!" Ian continued.
Mickey scoffs, "Oh, poor fuckin' you."
"It's not personal!" Ian insists, pleading eyes and Mickey waves him off, trying his best to ignore the hurt which was extremely difficult with Ian's presence.
"It's fine, it's fine." Mickey repeats, knowing the clear lie won't satisfy Ian but he tries nonetheless. Mickey hopes once he's past him, Ian will give up and just go home.
He knows it won't happen but he's praying he won't cave and punch him.
"Mickey, I love you!" Ian's voice echoes down the hall as Mickey stormed out and steered towards the front doors. He shoves it open as he fails to settle the nausea in his stomach at the words.
Moments ago, Mickey would've felt sick in a good way. Butterflies in his stomach like all those cheesy romance movies talked about which Mickey never believed in until he met Ian. Hell, he didn't believe in love at all until he met him.
Mickey yearned for love and affection since he was born. He wouldn't admit that to anyone ever but he craved it. The problem was his family doesn't do love. He was never shown it and he didn't know what it was like. Only thing so far that reminds him how in love he is — how much it hurts.
Mickey withstood levels of trauma that'd make therapists tremble and yet none of it seemed to compete in weight when it came to Ian. How he brought out this raw pain that courses through his nerves in a mix of sorrow and anger.
Even when he gets burned again and again, he still craves that love because it's all he has.
All Mickey wants is to go back to the good times when they first got out of prison. Ian's smile against his lips when they kissed and his arms around him, holding him with such care.
The memories threaten the nausea and for a second, he fears he might puke on the stairs when he's outside.
Mickey's moving on autopilot, making it to the end of the steps rather fast. His fingers dig around his pockets for a much needed cigarette as the door opens again.
"It's marriage that I don't know if I love." Ian tries from behind, panic coursing through his voice enough to make him backtrack, "Maybe— I don't know."
Mickey's eyes blink open harshly to keep back the tears, stuffing a cigarette between his lips and pressing the lighter to it.
"You're right, it is really fuckin' important so can we just talk about it for one second please?" Ian begs, riddled with distress at the top of the steps. His eyes search Mickey, hoping he'd turn to face him but he doesn't. All he can spot is the smoke that spills from his lips, sneaking behind his neck.
Ian's mouth opens and closes repeatedly with words he can't grasp hard enough to say. His minds racing at the thought of losing Mickey over this and all proper sentences seem to fly straight out the window.
"I wanna know how you feel, y'know?" He manages to breathe out with the guidance of his hand while the other that still held the paperwork laid still.
And Mickey laughs.
It's low and shaky as it racks his frame, teetering on the edges of being a sob as he finally turns to Ian. His fingers flick away the cigarette. His lips are pressed into a thin line to keep his unsettled breaths quiet because Ian doesn't need to hear the pain he's in.
Mickey creeps up the steps, eyes only focused on Ian now. As his feet grace the top, he only stares.
He should feel it.
The thought doesn't even cross him before his fist is swinging, connecting against Ian's cheek hard.
Ian staggered back, not able to make a sound at the force before he's falling over the steps. His body flips over, back slamming against the wall enough to knock the breath out of him. Ian's groan is guttural and heavy. He's winded, hissing at the aching pain that spreads through his leg. He cradles it to no avail.
Mickey wants to scream at him, insult him while he's down and whimpering like a wounded dog but he can't bring himself to. Mickey thought he'd feel better but he felt worse — just as empty as when Ian dropped that pen.
Mickey's slowly dragging himself down the steps to wear the redhead lies, cursing in pain, "Fuckin' really, Mickey?" Ian questions through gritted teeth as his head dips back.
Mickey's brows pinch together, eyes searching Ian while digging through his brain for some type of joy. Taking power and charge as he always has should feel good. But as he spots the bruises that already form over Ian's eye, he just feels guilt.
Mickey's face crumbles against his will and tears that he attempted to shove back bubble over his lashes faster than he can catch them. He hissed, biting his tongue to steer himself away from a breakdown here in public.
Ian eye's are glued to his leg as he attempts to move. He inhaled sharply, leaning back against the step, "You just had to break my fuckin' leg?" Ian shouts but most of the heat is from the pain of the fall he just took.
Mickey doesn't answer for a beat as he turns to wipe his wet eyes, "You can call a fuckin' ambulance." He argues, hating that his voice cracks.
"With what money, Mick?"
Mickey grumbles, fishing out money he made from his job. His hands visibly shake and it's enough to make his face scrunch up as he tosses the money at him, "Just take it." He barks with frustration.
Ian flinches away on reflex, "Mickey—"
"Stay the fuck away from me, Gallagher." Mickey chews out sharply, teary eyes that threaten his glare before he stormed off. Ian's eyes catch him as he rounds the block down the street before he collapses back in exhaustion.
A deep sigh leaves his lips, regret stinging him more than his broken leg as he picks up the money Mickey left with what little room he has to move. Ian awkwardly waved at a couple making their way down the steps when they shot him weird glances.
He stuffed the dollar bills into his pocket. The situation that unfolded before him begins to really stick as he took out his phone to dial 911.
Mickey finds himself walking home despite how far it'd be. He's desperate to keep his feet moving and blood pumping. Healthier to keep his mind on proper footing rather than the darker thoughts that suggest he slams his head against a wall.
His throat constricts against each harsh breath that burns through his lungs fast. The anger that had bubbled over moments ago fades into this nauseating sadness. A sadness that makes him feel pathetic.
"Fuckin' christ." He grumbled under his breath, hands scrubbing at his face to try and reset his brain. Mickey tears his wallet from his pocket to see what money he has left over. Only a few bucks reside in it, tucked away and crumpled up.
His eyes peer back up in disappointment. One sweep of the area makes a sign stand out.
A liquor store.
God knows he deserves to get hammered after this. He's surely got enough money for a bottle of whiskey and if he needs more, he'll find a way. He always does.
Mickey's feet march themselves as he steers towards the store, stealing the cash from his wallet before stuffing it back in his pocket.
"Yup, it's fractured." The doctor commented casually, clicking his pen with raised brows, "Took quite the fall, huh?"
Ian fights the urge to roll his eyes, releasing an irritated blink instead, "You could say that." He catches the doctor scribbling on the notepad before he lets his arms fall to his sides.
"Well." He began with a inhale, "We'll get you a cast and some crutches." The doctor informs, tucking the pen away in the small pocket of his white coat.
"I'm sure you're smart enough to know to stay off of it for a while."
Ian sits up with a noticeable wince, "For how long?"
"You can get your cast off after 6 weeks." The doctor states casually, "It'll still be awkward to walk after but it should heal up fine."
Ian gives a short nod in response, fidgeting with his hands as the doctor stepped out to get the cast. As the door shuts, he reaches into his pocket for his phone.
Mickey's contact is already left open, the last messages he left unread.
Ian (12:30 pm.) — mickey
Ian (12:32 pm.) — can u please talk to me??
His fingers lay still over the keyboard for a moment before he scrolls up, mourning the last texts they sent to eachother. When he could text Mickey a simple come over and he'd immediately oblige.
Ian can't help the sad exhale that leaves his lips as he scratches his brow. He shouldn't have suggested this. He just wanted to insure Mickey wouldn't go to jail again, why was that so wrong?
After all the times he's had to see him behind thick glass and only hear him through a shitty prison phone. He wouldn't lose him to that again.
He chews at his inner cheek with guilt as he types out another message.
Ian ( 1:02 pm.) — please call me
He stares at the message intently, praying that he'll see typing bubbles or Mickey's contact flash up on the screen so he can answer the call in a heartbeat.
His staring contest with his phone screen is cut short as the doctor walks back in and Ian straightens his posture immediately.
Time seems to pass by swiftly with each sip of whiskey. Mickey takes a swig from the huge bottle as he walks home, offering a mean glare to anyone who stared at him for too long.
He's unsure if Terry will even let him stay the night. Sure, he still allows him to come over to work but that's only because it benefits him. His dad's made it abundantly clear he wants his house "faggot free" as he'd say. He could probably weasel his way into it if he promises to help rid more serial numbers off the guns they had yet to move.
Though, Mickey can't shake the nervousness when he approaches the block. The hesitation he had to enter his home as a child haunting him to this day. All the horribles things he'd witness the moment he made it past the door.
Mickey always assumes the worst.
That late in the night, his dad will pin him down and suffocate him with a pillow while he sleeps. Terry would call Mickey's cousins to help dismember him and toss his remains to the bottom of a lake.
Death doesn't seem too bad of a fate with his current state of mind. That's what manages to bring Mickey to the door, whiskey still in hand. He hesitates when he remembers the last conversation they had, hands shaking over the door knob.
"You marry someone with a cock I will bludgeon you dead in your sleep."
A knot lays tight in his throat, breath trembling before he straightens his shoulders. Mickey internally scolds himself for the fear. Terry surely doesn't know they attempted to get married yet. He should be fine.
He tugs the door open, stepping inside. Mickey's chest loosens with relief when he doesn't spot his father. He's instead, greeted by a couple of his other relatives. Sandy being the closest one.
"Aye Mickey, how goes it?" One of his cousins waves and he offers a nod in exchange.
"Where's dad?" Mickey asks naturally though, calling Terry dad always left a bitter taste in his mouth — even if he was his father.
"Went off to move some meth with Uncle Mitch." Sandy answers, tipping a beer at him, "He'll be back later."
Mickey just gives a grumble, bringing the bottle of whiskey to his lips for another sip as he moved past the dining table. Sandy doesn't let him get too far before she's taking ahold of his wrist. He staggers back, nose flaring with irritation, "What?"
"What are you doing here?" She questions, briefly glancing at the bottle, "Thought you we're staying with your boyfriend."
Mickey wets his lips, turning away to avoid her intense gaze, "Don't wanna talk about it."
Before Sandy can question him further, Mickey snatches his wrist from her grasp and turns towards his old room. She gives an abrupt huff of frustration, deciding it's best to not push him with the mood he was in.
Mickey's surprised no one moved into his old room when he left. His brothers and cousins took a ton of his things but at least no one was in here. He sunk into the bed, eyes glued to the wall in front of him.
Flashbacks from earlier reach his eyes before they even touch his brain. Tears weigh on his lids as he tips the whiskey back for another sip.
"It's not personal!"
He can recall Ian's intense desperation when he says it yet it still feels like a lie.
Because it is personal.
Why else would he hesitate when he was the one who proposed?
The liquid burns when Mickey swallows, eyes drifting to his pocket as he pulls out his phone. Unread texts from Ian flash over the screen and he squeezes it tight with anger. It takes every ounce of restraint in his body to keep himself from throwing it at the wall.
Mickey shoves the phone into the blanket, leaving his hand free to rub his eyes. He should've known Ian would back out — he should've prepapred for it. After the times Ian's left, of course he'd abandon the marriage. If that wasn't just the cherry on top of it all.
It brings a weak laugh out of his chest. Theres no real joy behind it as he shakes away the tears. Each swig of whiskey is becoming easier to swallow.
Ian takes the L home once he gets his cast. The short walk to his house is painfully slow with his new crutches. He finally swings down the street, cursing to himself.
Lip lays on the steps when he approaches the gate. He squints at his shadow before he looks up at him, "Woah— the fuck happened to you?" He questions, sitting up at the sight of Ian in a cast walking with crutches.
Ian was so caught up in Mickey he forgot to text about it. Usually, he texts Lip first about everything, "Mickey." He responds simply.
Lip opened the gate for him, scanning him with confusion, "Mickey did that?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
Ian hesitates, pressing his lips together, "Long story." He hopes his brother would drop it after that. However, Lip's gaze made it clear he wouldn't leave it at that.
Lip sat back on the steps, "Try me."
Ian huffed a laugh, stepping close enough to set down his crutches. He slowly leaned back into the steps with a sigh, staring forward, "You ever get tired of being in my business?"
"You're my brother, you've always been my business." Lip counters with a gentle smack to the shoulder, "Now tell me."
Ian holds the railing of the steps, now looking at his brother, "I planned to marry Mickey and I backed out." He explained as quick as possible like he was ripping off a band-aid.
Lip blinks hard, "Wait, you planned to marry him?"
Ian huffs, realizing how much more he'd need to explain, "There's this thing called spousal privilege and if we got married, I wouldn't have to testify against him in court."
Lip nodded, processing the story more this time, "So, why you'd back out?"
"He didn't do it." Ian breathed out, running a hand through his hair and upon seeing Lip's confused glance he adds on, "Mickey didn't kill our parole officer."
Lip inhales, brows raised to his hair, "Shit."
Ian heaved, straightening his posture, "Yeah."
"You— uh- talk to him since the whole?" Lip asked while gesturing to Ian's broken leg.
"No, he's ignoring my texts and calls." Ian breathed deeply.
Lip puffs out air, "Aye, surprised he didn't stab you."
Ian hits his shoulder in response making his brother let out a pained laugh, "I'm serious!"
It's a beat of silence between the two, soaking in the sounds of the chaotic south side of chicago before Lip speaks up again, "You think this is it?"
"What?"
"Between you and Mickey."
Ian doesn't expect his deepest fear to be spoken by Lip. His fingers tense, grasping the denim covering his knees tightly. He gazes at him for a moment before shaking his head, "No, of course not."
Ian shuts down the idea, afraid of thinking about it for too long, "He'll get over it and then we'll talk it out."
Lip shrugs with a squint, "For your sake, I hope so." He says, giving Ian a pat to the shoulder before he stood up, "C'mon."
Ian brings himself up with a groan, difficult to hop on one foot on stairs. Lip grabbed his crutches for him as he made his way up them.
The bottle's empty. Several beer cans litter the floor beside it. Mickey crushes the newest empty one, tossing it with the rest. He stares at the wall, lips drawn into a thin line. The door rattles before it opens.
Sandy gives a rough huff of annoyance, "You gonna keep moping and drinking or talk to me?"
Mickey's silent, hand he used to toss the beer can finally dropping to his side. The lack of seriousness in his expression irritates Sandy more.
She closed the door behind her, trying avoid the trash covering the messy floor. Sandy eyes him carefully, "Is this about Ian?"
Mickey lets out an abrupt laugh at the name, fist raising to his mouth to silence it. Sandy can't tell if it's of joy or hurt. She rolls her eyes when he still remains quiet.
"You won't have the chance to explain when Terry gets home so why don't you talk to me while you can." She states the obvious fact. Once Terry is home, the words Ian and marriage in the same sentence will have him dead in seconds.
Mickey's head dips back, laying on the headboard, "I've fuckin' had it with him." He breathes out, words slurred. For a second, it's unclear if he's talking about Ian or Terry. Sandy sighs, sinking back against the door with crossed arms.
Mickey looks away, blinking slowly. Sandy's eyes remain on him.
"Well, if you really meant that, you wouldn't need to get hammered to believe it." Sandy points out, taking ahold of the empty whiskey bottle and shaking it in teasing manner.
And Mickey knows that. There will never be a true end to them. That's what he hopes at least.
He huffed, flipping her off. The action still doesn't faze Sandy.
"I already told ya, I don't wanna talk about it." Mickey reminds harshly.
Sandy remains and Mickey groans in frustration, "Since when did you get so fuckin' nosey?"
"Yes, it's about Ian!" He clears up with a dramatic wave of his arms, "Now can you just— fuck off?" He practically pleads. He got drunk to take his mind off of what happened for a reason.
Sandy tilts her head, "Just wanted to see if you'd actually admit it." She says with honesty.
Mickey laughs bitterly at that.
"He's really changed you." Sandy adds on.
Mickey stiffens, head raising so fast it makes him dizzy, "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"What do you think it means?" Sandy cuts him off with her reply and Mickey falls quiet, wet eyes staring at her. Silence overtakes the room, air almost suffocating.
"Get over yourself." Sandy mutters thickly, tired of his moping with his little care to do anything about it. She tugs the door back open and slams it behind her. Mickey flinches at the harsh sound, realizing how long he was staring for.
He paws at his teary eyes, aggressive sniff as he snatches another beer he had yet to open from his nightstand. Mickey grumbled under his breath staring at the door as he popped it open with a hiss.
What does she know and why does she even care? Ian always had a strong affect on him because Mickey's never loved anyone else. For him, there is no one but Ian. No one has ever embraced him fully, loved him and cherished him like Ian has.
Mickey can't help but wonder if that could be said about Ian. Is he really the only one in his eyes? He's been with others and surely, its easier to love anyone but a Milkovich.
Mickey's desperate to get up and find someone. Rub it in Ian's face that he can find someone too — that's he's not completely unlovable to others. Thinking of Ian feeling the cold jealousy he's felt for ages is satisfying. Yet, he can't drag himself out of his bed. For once, his anger and pettiness isn't enough to drive him.
In all honesty, Mickey doesn't know if it would feel that good in the end.
All the one night stands he's had just felt wrong. Even when he slept with another man, it didn't feel right.
It didn't feel right because it wasn't Ian.
So, he swallows the anger with another beer.
Ian smiles, snuggling against his pillow. The familiar warmth is comforting — even a hint of Mickey's scent lingering from the pillow.
His favorite days where he'd wake up and pull Mickey close. How he laughed when he kissed his neck to wake him. Now, Ian wakes up to silence and nothing but a pillow in his grasp.
Ian stirs, nuzzling deep into the pillow before hissing at the pain that shoots through his leg when he moves.
Right, fractured leg. How could he forget?
Ian's nose flares with irritation, picking his leg up over the bed before he shuffles to the edge of it. He snatches his phone from his desk. He frowns at the lack of notifications — still nothing from Mickey.
He stuffs it in the pocket of his shorts, stealing his medication from the bedside table. Ian pops the pills in his mouth, washing it down with some old water he had left over. He sighs before he stretches out for his crutches.
Ian's greeted by the smell of eggs when he meets the end of the steps. Liam was already chowing down on them as well as a piece of toast. Carl acknowledged him with a nod since his mouth was full of eggs.
"Morning." Liam greeted after he swallowed.
"Morning." Ian replied groggily, shuffling into the kitchen to get cereal. He took some milk from the fridge with a slow exhale like it was painful.
"Still nothing from Mickey?" Carl questions, fork already picking at his next bite.
"No." Ian states plainly, "Hasn't even opened my texts yet." He wished Mickey would just come talk to him. Hell, he'd even be happy brawling it out just so they could go back to how things were before.
Though, this felt different. Something tells him it won't be so easy this go around.
Mickey and him have misunderstandings but they've always moved past them. This wasn't one of those simple fights. It felt raw and ugly. He's seen Mickey hurt before when he was too numb to acknowledge it.
This time, Ian felt it all. He can't shake the look on Mickey's face when he dropped the pen from his mind.
He absentmindedly poured the milk into the bowl of cereal. He stuffed the clean spoon inside it, hobbling over to the table.
"Why don't you just talk in person?" Liam asks before taking a bite out of his toast.
"He's probably staying at his house and well.." Ian starts as he swivels into his seat, setting the bowl down before he pulls his leg over.
"Terry?" Carl chimes in and Ian gives a point of acknowledgement.
Ian doesn't expand on it, stuffing his face with cereal which only seems to taste bitter. It's harder to eat when he's thinking about Mickey. Each bite is sour and hard to swallow. Was it even safe for him to stay over there? He doesn't care if Mickey's pissed at him — he just wants to know he's safe.
Terry was unpredictable. Sure, he hasn't come by threatening to blow Mickey's head off for being gay yet but staying in the same house with him again surely won't end well.
Mickey is waken up by a sharp slap of pain. He can recognize the blunt object that hits him before he opens his eyes. He winces at the cheapshot, shielding himself even in the agonizing daze he's in.
"Get the fuck up." The nasally shout only makes his head throb more.
Blinding white pain from the blow he just took on top of a hangover keeps his eyes screwed tight. Mickey forces them open against his will to meet Terry. The light is unbearable but he doesn't dare close his eyes again.
"You think you can get out of work, you got another thing comin'." Terry chews out, words muffled with the cigarette pressed between his lips. He raises the pistol again when Mickey doesn't move and he's off the bed in seconds.
"Alright, alright!" Mickey practically yelped, hands raised. His stomach twisted at the sudden movement and he fights back the bile rising in his throat.
"Suck it up and get to filing." Terry demanded coldly as he left the room, trail of thick smoke from the cigar following him.
The silence he leaves behind is painful and Mickey's body shrinks once he's out of sight. His head throbs, skin split from where the pistol scraped him. He holds onto the dresser while his head sinks into his hand.
He's lucky Terry didn't shoot him at least.
Mickey finds blood on his fingers when he pulls back, quick to wipe it off on his pants. He kicks through the empty cans on the floor, groaning at the sun in his eyes. No matter how much he blinked, he can't clear his double vision.
He sways when he walks, managing to shove himself into the bathroom before his nausea overcomes him. Mickey retches, knees buckling before he spilled what little contents he had in his stomach into the toilet.
Mickey huffed, holding his aching head as he sat on the floor in defeat. He can't recall the last time he had this bad of a hangover. He's always had a high tolerance.
Then again, he hasn't drank this much in a while.
Mickey blinks hard as his vision begins to regulate again. He forces himself off the floor, strained groan with the throbbing headache he has. His hands grasp the sink, turning on the faucet to rinse out the taste of vomit from his mouth.
He splashed his sickly face after, scrubbing away the exhaustion. He winces, having forgotten about the cuts that cover the side of his temple.
Mickey eyes his reflection with shame, quickly washing up the blood that spilled down his face from the wounds. He was in no mood to patch them up.
He wipes the remaining wetness from his jaw before he steps out, running a hand through his hair.
A couple of his cousins are up at the table, chowing down on some cereal while his dad scolds them to get back to work with a sharp smack to the back of the head.
Mickey immediately feels uneasy. The Gallagher house had became his home over the years. He was used to this house of horrors he grew up in but being back here after so long made him feel like a scared teenager again.
Mickey wished it was a nightmare. That if he blinked hard enough, he'd wake up to the warm comfort of Ian's body against his. Arms that lay tucked around his waist as Ian whispered sweet reassurances that he pretended to hate.
It's pathetic how much he misses it. He doesn't need that. He doesn't need anyone.
Mickey snatches a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the fridge before he approaches the table. He finds Sandy there, a couple of pills laid out on the table in front of the vacant seat beside her.
"For the hangover." She comments casually before she continued filing the serial numbers off the common handgun.
Mickey mouths a thank you as he sat down, swallowing the pills with the whiskey.
Terry tosses a cloth at his head, "File." He barks harshly as Mickey flinches, taking ahold of the small wash towel.
Mickey fights the urge to roll his eyes as he snatches one of the stray guns from the table, searching for the serial numbers to file off.
"You ain't stayin' another night." Terry clears up harshly, puffing the last of the cigar into the air in thick clouds of smoke. He puts the bud out on the ashtray, "You owe me for stayin' the night."
"Got it, pops." Mickey says with an unamused face, brows raised to his hair. He's too used to Terry's cruelty to be hurt by his words. Yet, the next swig of whiskey seems to taste more foul than the previous sips.
Mickey supposes filing serial numbers gives him something to do. It keeps him from thinking about the events that unfolded yesterday.
He can hear his phone buzzing in his room but he ignores it.
Ian isn't sure how to pass the day. He's already tried Mickey several times and he refuses to answer. He's left a ton of voicemails and texts. His patience was wearing thin.
He didn't enjoy sitting around and waiting like a forgotten housewife. Being out on parole and with Mickey again has kept his mind busy and now, he's stumped.
Ian's considering marrying Mickey to fix this. He loves Mickey more than anything, why would he let this disagreement ruin them?
There's a voice in the back of his head that insists this is a bad idea. That he'll make Mickey miserable and he'll grow to hate him for all he is.
All they've been through together and Ian can't help but wonder if Mickey is sure he loves him. All of him. Does he really want to spend the rest of his life with a ticking time bomb?
Ian shakes the rush of thoughts from his mind, puffing out air in annoyance. He pulls himself from the couch, taking ahold of his crutches to stand up.
The door swings open the moment he's on his feet. Liam stepped in with a school bag over his shoulder, "Hey."
"Hey Liam." Ian replied fondly, idea flashing over his eyes the moment he speaks, "You mind going on an errand with me?"
Liam pauses before tossing his bag onto the chair, "If you get me a trig calculator on the way."
"Sure, nerd." Ian answered with a playful roll of his eyes.
"Then sure." Liam agreed casually, "Though, we'll need money."
Liam pondered with a pout on his face before he spots a purse in the kitchen. Tami's aunt surely wouldn't mind. He skipped towards it, dumping out its contents till he secured a credit card.
Ian fights back a snicker as Liam stuffs the spare items back in the purse. He ruffles his younger brother's hair as he walked back over, "Let's go."
Mickey's gotten through most of the whiskey by now. His hands are numb from filing and his fingers burn from the exertion. That pain was nothing compared to Terry.
It's his side comments and jokes as Mickey tries to focus. Insult after insult, wearing down his resolve. The obnoxious laugh after each sentence was driving him mad.
"Don't spread your aids to em'."
"That gay carrot boy made ya too soft."
"Maybe if you weren't such a fuckin' fairy.."
Mickey's grown accustomed to the words. He heard them long before he came out. He swore he built a high tolerance for his father's hatred after a while but all the insecurities he never acknowledged are shining through the walls he's built up. Terry's cracking them apart, bit by bit.
Ever since Ian abandoned the marriage, everything's turned upside down. Insults he could take before now manage to fuel a deeper fire he had tried to numb out with alcohol.
Mickey's wiping off the handle of a gun, tired lids and aching stomach from the lack of food.
"Why'd you stay over anyway?" Terry questions, "Something happen between you and your boy toy?" His thick brows are raised to his white hair.
Mickey's tongue feels heavy and he can't pick out any words to reply with. His eyes remain focused on the gun that he slowly lowers to the messy table.
Terry cracks a throaty chuckle, "Should've known he'd kick ya to the curb."
His cousins share looks, only offering a mere laugh to appease Terry.
"Serves you right." He added on, lighting a cigarette between his lips that makes his next laugh smokey. There's an edgy beat of silence before Mickey finally speaks.
"Fuck you."
Everyone seems to freeze when the words leave his lips. His cousins exchange looks of worry when Terry remains eerily quiet. Silence in the Milkovich house is always followed by a devastating storm.
"What was that?" Terry asks for clarification but it's clear he heard him. The anger knitted between his brows speaks for itself.
"I said fuck you." Mickey repeats. His tone is raw and harsh, throat burning from the whiskey he'd been drowning in.
"You givin' me lip in my own fuckin' house?" Terry's up on his feet, rage beginning to build rather fast behind his eyes like a wildfire.
"Why don't you do something about it, dad?" Mickey taunts, hands slamming on the table when he stands, "Fuckin' hit me again if it makes you feel like a big shot!"
Terry's shoving the chair out of his way, clearing his path to drive straight towards Mickey, "You son of a bitch!" The curse spills from his lips so fast he nearly loses the cigarette.
He doesn't expect his cousins to help stop his reign of terror. They never do. In the end, it's always Mickey alone in a battle with his father.
Mickey's fast reactions are slower from the alcohol he finished but he manages to swing the bottle at Terry nonetheless. It cracks over the weight of his skull, shards spilling over the floor. His dad groans from the impact before shoving Mickey into the wall.
He's winded from the force, taking the hard right hook Terry throws in all it's glory. Mickey's face burns, nostrils on fire from the blood that begins to pool beneath them. He forgot how hard his father hits.
The blow makes him dizzy, unable to catch the second punch to his face. Left and right, left and right. The pattern was clear and yet, Mickey just took it.
Every fist to the cheek, he let every bruise tank the anger he's been feeling. The sting keeps away the hurt. All those unbearable emotions he won't need to face if his body's surviving the wounds.
The only shot that throws him for a whirl is a sharp punch to the abdomen that makes him sputter. Mickey's knees buckle beneath him but Terry doesn't give him time to fall. He pins his throat against the wall with his forearm, thick breath reeking of smoke against his face, "You move out and suddenly you think you can stand up to me?"
Mickey grit his teeth, managing a glare even in his beaten state.
"You're a pussy. You've always been one." Terry spat with wide eyes. Mickey remembers that same look. The one he wore when he pinned him down and beat him senseless for being gay.
Mickey's forcing back a shiver of fear that shows through a quivering lip.
Terry snatches the cigarette from his lips and without a second thought, stuffs it into Mickey's neck. He twists the bud deep and the burn is instant. Mickey knows he's searching for a reaction and he refuses to give him one.
He remembers it well. He still has the burn scars from the last incidents. Whenever Mickey screwed up, he'd get a beat down. He'd get off easy if he could tank the cigar burn with no reaction because Milkovich men don't cower in pain.
Mickey thought he was done gaining scars.
The pains ugly and every nerve in his body twists from the sting before the burn subsides. Mickey's face remains stiff, only a mere flinch of his features.
He thought this would serve as a distraction. That the pain would keep his mind out of dark territory but now, he feels worse.
"This act of defiance done?" Terry asks, his arm still firm against Mickey's throat. He offers a weak nod but that isn't enough to satisfy him.
"Is it?" Terry's volume spikes as he pressed harder.
"Yes, sir." Mickey answered, voice strained and quiet from the pressure against his neck.
"That's what I fuckin' thought." Terry shoves him toward the door, watching Mickey stumble and hold his throat like a helpless animal, "Get the fuck out unless you want a bullet between the eyes." Terry threatens coldly.
Mickey caught himself, steering towards the door with a choked breath. The adrenaline is beginning to wear off and the pain from the onslaught he took was coming in fast. He fought off a sob that begged to be released, letting out a guttaral groan as he made his way down the street.
He doesn't bother to wipe his tears in fear of irritating his black eye. Mickey blinks them away as best he can, letting his feet lead the way down the block.
His only clear thought was how he'd manage to get his hands on another bottle.
Ian stares at the rings he bought, sinking back into the couch. The silver shine is hurting his eyes but he can't bear to look away. Is he really going through with this?
The more he stares the more the ring hurts to look at. He stuffed them in his pocket, afraid of the doubts that had begun to fill his mind.
Now, what was the point of the rings if he didn't know where Mickey was? How would he even propose?
He doesn't have a chance to get lost in thought over it when there's a knock at the door. Ian lets out a huff, shuffling over to his crutches to pick himself up. He makes his way to the door, opening it and finding Sandy on the other side.
"Hey Sandy, what are you doing here?" Ian asks with raised brows.
"Hey." She replied while holding out a phone for him, "Mickey left his phone at home." Ian immediately recongized it as Mickey's before the words left Sandy's lips.
He takes it from her with a nod, "Thanks but he's not here." Ian states, voice growing a little unsettled.
"He's not?" Sandy seems genuinely surprised, "Thought for sure he would've ran back here after Terry kicked him out."
Worry begins to wrinkle Ian's features, eyes thinning into mere slits as he stared at the dead phone. He's hoping Terry kicking Mickey out is just verbal and not physical but knowing the past incidents, it's unlikely he walked away scot-free.
He say where he was going?" Ian asks while lifting his head.
"No, I wasn't around." Sandy admits honestly, "Just came back and he was gone."
Ian grits his teeth to cage a stressed curse. It was one thing Mickey was ignoring him but now he's off somewhere probably hurt and Ian has no way to contact him. He lets out a bitter sigh, "Alright, thanks Sandy."
"No problem." She replied while stepping back, "Let me know if you find him."
Ian nods before he closes the door. He shakes away the worry as best he can while he made his way to the kitchen. Tami was cooking some dinner rather early it seemed, the smell already managing to fill the house.
"Hey Tami, Is Lip around?" Ian watches her turn to him fast.
"Yeah, he's outside." Tami answered rather casually, pointing briefly at the door, "Who was at the door?" She questioned out of curiosity.
"Just a cousin dropping Mickey's phone off." Ian settles on, unaware if Tami even knew who Sandy was.
"Y'know where he is?" Tami seems concerned as well now but Ian waves it off. He had to solve this himself but he'd definitely need some advice first, "I have a feeling I do." Ian decides on to hopefully calm her worries.
It wasn't entirely a lie either. Ian was one of the only ones who knew the spots Mickey ran to when he was upset. Tami seems satisfied by the answer as she went back to cooking. Ian made his way out the back door to find Lip occupied with his bike. The creaking as he twisted the knobs loud in the otherwise silent evening.
"Hey." Ian greets, eyes only briefly meeting him before looking back at the ground.
It was always painfully obvious when Ian needed to talk by the way he'd avoid eye contact. Lip seems to catch on as always but gives a nod to his brother, "Hey."
Ian twisted Mickey's phone in his grasp, thumb brushing over the screen, "Found out why Mickey was ignoring me." He starts, holding it up.
Lip's eyes scan it before meeting Ian's again, "You sure that's the only reason?" He teased and Ian swats at the air which brings a chuckle out of him.
"Seriously, he usually doesn't leave his phone." Ian states as he puts it in his pocket, "Especially not at Terry's."
With the Milkoviches track record, they would steal it and sell it on their own for some extra cash. Thankfully, Sandy wasn't about to pawn away her cousin's phone.
Lip blinks a few times, "You got no clue where he is?"
"I might know where is but.." Ian tries to finish the sentence but no words seem to fit. Lip waits, sitting upright and noticing his tense frame.
"But?" Lip questions after a beat.
Ian's tongue feels heavier and he can't pick apart what he wants to say. He convinced himself that he'd propose to Mickey and fix all this but something is eating away at him.
"I want him back but I don't think he'll come back unless I marry him." Ian finally manages to voice, "I don't know if I can do this." His chest feels lighter once he gets the words out. The next shaky breath he takes is easier.
Lip hops off the bike, hands falling down by his sides as he walked towards the gate, "Look." He starts, soft and sincere, "You wouldn't have considered it to begin with if you didn't want this one day." He proves a good point and it's enough to make Ian's eyes rise up to meet Lip's.
"So, try to figure out what's holding you back now." Lip suggests.
Ian swallows at the advice, staring off. He spent all day avoiding exactly that. Now, he'd have to face it. He's willing to face anything as long as it means he gets Mickey back.
Ian knows where the first stop is.
The sun was setting, darkness beginning to cover the dugouts. Remaining rays of light bled all over the fields in a nauseating orange. Mickey pleads for the sun to just go the fuck away already.
He doesn't even remember how he ended up here.
After Terry pounded his face in, he straggled off to a cheap store that he managed to steal some frozen peas and beer from. It helped his swollen face by miles but the peas were far past warm now. He would've just stolen an icepack if they kept those in the freezer to begin with.
Despite the swelling calming down, his face stings with each small motion. He finds himself wincing each time he takes a sip from the beer bottle. Mickey's starting to regret not stealing some whiskey too.
His head dips back against the wall for support. All this was to keep his mind off Ian and now, all he can think about is Ian. Seriously, does a day go by where he doesn't think about him?
He wishes they were good thoughts. His best memories are with Ian and yet he can't shake this one mistake. Maybe because Mickey's always feared deep down that Ian would leave again.
How everytime he began to think life wasn't so bad, he'd lose Ian and the world would go back to being nothing but a shithole.
Ian doesn't get to leave him this time. Not again.
Now, he can sit on the end of a phone, begging for him to answer like he did ages ago. Maybe he should abandon him at the border next. The thought manages to bring a dry laugh out of him.
It doesn't last long when those haunted feelings creep through his bones.
Mickey grit his teeth as he chugged the remains of the beer. His mind's foggy as he stares at the empty bottle. It's like every coherent thought has left his mind and all he can focus on is how much he wanted to forget the hurtful conversation. He needed a distraction.
He's bringing the bottle down to his arm in a fast swing. The sound of glass shattering hits his ears before the pain does. Mickey curled forward at the stinging sensation of sharp cuts to his nerves.
"Fuck!" It's an abrupt shout that comes out on reflex, body tipping back for his eyes to access the damage. Only one major cut down his forearm with the heaviest bleeding. The rest were raw and painful but not enough to draw blood.
Mickey's next curse is breathy, weakly inhaling after the adrenaline spike from the injury. He tugs his sleeve down with a wince, tucking his arm around his stomach to keep pressure on the cut. He really hoped he didn't need stitches otherwise that'd be an awkward conversation.
"Mickey?"
He freezes immediately at the call of his name. Mickey sinks back into the wall, turning away when a shadow approaches. He can hear the sound of crutches digging into the terrain than clash against the rocky floor.
The sound rattles his ears until it falls quiet. Ian's silence is suffocating and Mickey just wants to curl in a ball and die.
Ian can't assess the situation with him facing away. All he notices is broken shards from a bottle littering the floor. He waits a beat and Mickey remaims with his back towards him.
"C'mon, Mick." Ian tries, saddened by him ignoring his presence completely, "Will you please look at me?"
Mickey hates how sweet his voice is. He wants to collapse in his arms and soak up the sound of it. His reply is a shaky inhale, barely audible but visible when his shoulders tremble.
"Mickey." It's more stern this time and he gives in.
Ian can't name the amount of emotions that fly through his body at the sight. Mickey's face is covered in bruises, cuts scattered over the side of his head. Dried blood still lingered over the scrape marks.
"What the fuck happened?" Ian asks on reflex, forgetting about his fractured leg for a moment as let his crutches fall to the floor. His concern for Mickey fogs his senses and all he's worried about is kissing the wounds better.
Ian scooted closer on the bench to analyze his injuries. His hand only makes brief contact with Mickey's cheek before he's flinching away from his touch, swiveling out of it.
Ian frowned when he pulled away, weights of guilt chewing at his heart.
"Terry?" He decides to ask after a moment of silence. Mickey doesn't know how to answer. It takes him a minute before he gives a hesitant nod.
"Please let me see." Ian asks, the gentle tone that was once so comforting made Mickey feel nauseous. The sickness was not directed at Ian but rather at himself. The sickening shame he feels for loving Ian so much.
"Why the fuck are you here?" Mickey questions, no heat to his voice from how exhausted he was. Part of him was afraid if he lashed out at Ian now, he'd breakdown crying.
"I was looking for you." Ian states like it's obvious.
"Why?" Mickey follows up with, harsher volume than the last which makes Ian hesitate.
"I'll tell you when you look at me." Ian bargains and Mickey rolls his eyes. They had a shared stubbornness and it was insanely frustrating on both sides.
Mickey huffs in irritation but turns to Ian nonetheless, glaring at him intently. He can see the sympathy pouring from his face within glassy eyes and a twitch of his lips. Ian's hand brushes his cheek, thumb stroking it gently and he doesn't pull back this time. Mickey hates how he savors the touch and leans into it.
Ian's eyes scan over the damage, recongizing the cuts all too well. He remembers the day clearly no matter how hard he tries to forget it. His heart aches at the sight.
"I don't care if you're pissed at me, you can still stay over." Ian voices, sad at the horrible place Mickey put himself in just to avoid him.
"It'd be a little hard to avoid you in your own home, Gallagher." Mickey responds with the usual sarcasm.
"It's your home too." Ian counters, eyes filled with nothing but truth.
The words hit Mickey right in the heart. Tears build up before he has the chance to recover from the blow and he swivels away again to hide it. Ian decides not to push it when he sniffs harshly and paws at his eyes.
It's a brief silence between them again, Ian not wanting to scare Mickey off again by getting too personal. He's come a long way with being vulnerable in front of him but after their disagreement, Ian wasn't taking any chances.
"Is it me?" Mickey asks, voice frail and quiet. Something Ian's never heard before. It makes him blink hard.
"What?"
"Well you didn't want to go through with it because I didn't kill Paula so it's gotta be me, right?" Mickey questions, more intense this time with a dry laugh slipping through his aching throat as he does.
Ian feels guilt all around at the question as it draws his head from side to side, "No, of course it isn't you."
"Then what the fuck is it, Ian?" Mickey asks, voice cracking when he raises it. He internally cringes at himself.
Ian wets his lips, staring off, "It's me."
Mickey eyes him, obviously confused.
"I didn't want to keep you tied down." Ian answers, trying to keep back his emotions when he spills his heart out, "Why would you want to spend the rest of your life with me?"
"Gallagher, the fuck are you talkin' about—"
"I mean I'm bipolar." Ian cuts off, gazing at Mickey as best he can through the buildup of tears in his eyes, "It's one thing to know it but another to live with it."
Mickey doesn't feel pity but rather scoffs, turning away, "That's never mattered to me."
"I know—"
"Do you?" Mickey asks again, brows raised to his hair, "Cause last time you fuckin' left me it was for this same shit."
It's Ian's turn to stare at him with confusion and hurt, eyes wildly darting between his when Mickey stands up.
"I don't know what more I have to do to prove it to you, Ian." Mickey's frame shakes with his words, "I spent this whole fuckin' time losing my mind tryin' to wrap my head around why'd you talk me into this shit."
Everything's spilling from Mickey so fast like a broken bottle. It cracks under the pressure and flows out before anyone can stop it. He raises his hands as if he were orchestrating the words, "I don't wanna be somewhere I'm not wanted, alright?"
"So fuckin' admit you don't love me enough to marry me!"
Mickey's voice snaps through the air like a whip and his deep fear comes true. It's like the floor is ripped out from underneath him.
His chest heaves and stutters, a broken sob tearing through his throat before he can stifle it. Tears soak his eyes when he fails to blink them back.
Ian's speechless at the words. His chest stings as Mickey breaks down. He can't believe Mickey was keeping himself caged at home, believing Ian didn't love him. Like Ian didn't dream of growing old together and having a family together.
It's not just Mickey's pettiness where he'll be hurtful to show how much hes suffering this time. Ian can tell.
Because while Mickey has cried in front of him before, it was never so intense. Raw and ugly tears that he kept locked away deep down to avoid anyone seeing them.
Ian can't shake the impact. How if it weren't for Mickey falling apart in front of him, believing he's unlovable — he'd consider storming into the Milkovich house and beating the shit out of Terry. Ian knows he'd end up shot but all he wanted to do was shield Mickey and keep him from this pain forever.
Not only from the pain of Terry but he doesn't want Mickey to ever think he's unworthy of love again.
"Mick." Ian's voice wobbles when he says his name.
Mickey's breath trembles. His cries are muffled, fist pressed firm against his lips to quiet them as he shakes his head, "Fuck you— don't do that."
"C'mere." Ian breathed out quietly, standing up.
"Fuck off." Mickey chews out between a sob. Ian doesn't listen to his weak protests before he's stepping over and tugging Mickey into a tight embrace. His attempts to pull back are futile.
Mickey lays stiff for a while before he caves and holds Ian back. His head sinks into his chest to silence his cries. Mickey's drawn in by the warmth, tightly grasping at his shirt to keep him close. Ian's fingers run through his jet black hair as he kissed his temple, "I'm sorry."
The apology makes Mickey's breathing slow. Deep, unsteady breaths he attempts to regulate as he took in the situation. He cannot believe he is crying in Ian's arms. Mickey inhaled his scent, savoring what he could of it before he pulled back. Ian keeps him at arms length, staring at him sadly.
"Don't look at me like that." Mickey sniffled with the weak threat, "I don't need your pity."
"Well, you worried me." Ian states, taking a hold of Mickey's hands and remaining surprised that he doesn't yank them back. He does roll his eyes, pouting.
Ian inches closer, keeping his fractured leg a bit elevated to avoid putting a ton of pressure on it. His eyes gaze over Mickey's neck, spotting a recent burn mark.
"Terry." Mickey states, knowing Ian noticed it from the shift in his expression.
Ian's relieved Mickey walked out of the house alive but he wishes he left unscatched. He's already covered in plenty of scars from Terry.
Ian lets out a sad sigh while his eyes fall to blood thats soaked Mickey's grey jacket. It's fresh and recent compared to the other cuts. Ian's face falls into a look of concern once more, "What's this?"
Ian reached out to find the source and Mickey flinches back hard as if he were burned. Ian's worry only heightens at the gesture, "Mickey."
"I's nothin'." He grumbled harshly because this was personal.
Ian's eyes gaze over at the broken shards from the beer bottle. A realization dawns on his face, "Show me."
Mickey hissed in irritation, dizzy from the intense storm of emotions he's felt all in a few minutes, "Go fuck yourself." The heat behind it is fading with his exhaustion. He's all out of fight.
So when Ian forcefully grabs his arm and shoves up his sleeve, he doesn't pull back.
Mickey avoids his gaze, staring away as Ian curses at the deep cut. His grasp softens at the sight and he looks up at him.
"Did you do this on purpose?" Ian asks though he's sure he already knows the answer.
Mickey finally tugs his arm back, frustrated at this interrogation, "So what?"
Ian stares at him with bewilderment, "So what?"
"It's not a big deal, man." Mickey brushes it off, clearly too tired to be scolded for this, "It's just a little cut."
Ian clearly doesn't see it that way. His silence speaks volumes. It's almost like he was studying Mickey.
"Look, it's the same reason we fight, alright?" Mickey does his best to explain, uncomfortable under Ian's intense gaze with the vulnerable state he was in, "Pain's much fuckin' easier to deal with then feelings."
Ian remembers a time when he burned his hand just to feel something and now Mickey was hurting himself to stop feeling all together.
He didn't expect to be put in this sickeningly familiar situation. Then again, he didn't take Mickey for the type to do this.
"Mickey." Ian starts.
He hates that voice and Ian knows it.
"Ian, I'm beat can we just—" It's gotten to the point Mickey's pleading to figure this out later. However, the words don't find his lips when Ian takes a tight hold of his hands.
"I love you." Ian's eyes don't leave his, hoping they reflect the honesty of his words, "More than anything."
Mickey's face is wrapped up in confusion, softening under the words.
"And I'm sorry I made you doubt that cause of my own issues." Ian admits truthfully, thumbs brushing over his knuckles.
"Fuckin' should be." Mickey responds to ease the tension he's feeling a little and is thrilled when Ian lets out a laugh.
"Asshole, let me finish." His smile is bright through the words.
"Alright, alright." Mickey breathes out, meeting his gaze again.
Ian clears his throat to regain the confidence he had moments ago, "I don't want you to ever doubt my love for you again."
Mickey's heart rises to his throat as Ian awkwardly shifts to get on one knee. His breath hitches when Ian pulls his hand out of his pocket — a shiny ring placed between his fingers.
"So, Mickey Milkovich." Ian's nerves have his stomach in knots that makes it take all his strength to keep his voice stable, "Will you do the honor of—"
"Jesus, you're such a fuckin' softie." Mickey cuts off, sounding throaty from the intense day. He cracks a smile for the first time that night and Ian thinks it's the most beautiful smile he's ever worn.
"I'll marry you." Mickey replies, unable to shake the grin once its formed. It's Ian's turn to smile now, heart eyes beaming at him.
Ian doesn't bother slipping the ring on his finger yet as he hops upright, cupping Mickey's face to pull him into a kiss. It's soft, Ian's lips like a gentle reminder that he's here and he's not going anywhere.
Mickey wants to stay in the kiss forever, soaking up every minute of it before they separate for air. Their foreheads remain close, slow breaths sticking together in the small space. Ian's thumb brushes his cheek affectionately.
"Can't believe you're proposin' to me when I look like I was hit by a bus." Mickey mumbles, an insecurity covered up with a light joke.
"I wouldn't have it any other way." Ian replies, nose brushing over his and chuckling at the snort Mickey lets out.
"Suppose it's better than over patty melts." Mickey admits, a fake sound of honesty that is clearly sarcasm.
Ian shakes his head with a smile, "Shut up."
Mickey hums as Ian presses another kiss to his lips, melting into his grasp before he pulls back, "At least put the fuckin' ring on first."
Ian's eyes shoot open, having clearly forgotten about it, "Right— right."
Thankfully, he didn't drop it. Mickey lifts his hand and Ian slides it over his ring finger. Ian's thumb traces the U tattooed over it. He smiles at the sight before Mickey's voice chops him out of the trance.
"Lemme' see yours."
Ian blinks a few times before he digs around in his pocket for the other. Mickey takes it from his palm the moment he has his eyes on it. He takes ahold of Ian's wrist to slide it on his finger.
"Thought I was the softie?" Ian teases and Mickey shoots him a glare that loses it's heat in seconds.
"Fuck off." He utters with a snicker, pushing the ring up with an affectionate smile.
Mickey gazes at Ian fondly, hand caressing the side of his cheek. He leaned into the touch, hand covering Mickey's and giving his a gentle squeeze, "You ready to go home now?"
Mickey nods, "Yeah, I am."