At some point the body is too exhausted to feel fear and even anger. Exhausted from going back and forth into sleep. From waking up to the drone sounds, checking the district — where exactly the piece of iron is flying at the speed of 300 km/hour. Today r**sians tested new reactive drones, they flew in circles above my city, teasing and testing how long they can be there, how fast, how our air defence forces are reacting.
At some point the body is too exhausted to feel fear and even anger. So the sounds of weapons become almost as casual as a podfic in one headphone put in the ear. This is the duality of life people outside of the war can't really imagine. One ear listens to the surroundings for the missiles, another listens to another Gallavich story.
And today will be another normal day, I'll do my work and go to the theatre and will post something here, and maybe someone on the internet will ask if I hate all russians the same way.
At some point the body is too exhausted to answer that question. To feel fear or even anger.
Yes, all of them, the fucking same way. Everyone who’s identifying themselves as russians and doesn’t feel deep shame. Everyone who carries that imperialistic optics, from soldiers who navigate the drones to the “stars” at the Oscars who whitewashes them.
And fuck everyone who says it's inappropriate and rude.
Drones and bombs above my city — that's what’s fucking inappropriate and rude.
ian probably wants to brag so bad to new people about all the romantic shit mickey has done and he hates having to hold back since 1. a part of that story includes him technically harboring a fugitive and 2. mickey needs to keep a low profile indefinitely so it would be counterproductive to show off to others like "oh, he got you flowers? cute. did i ever tell you about the time mickey snitched on a cartel for me?" but you know he wants to. and has probably slipped a few times.
I love that Mickey is canonically the little spoon. I love that Ian is usually the one with his arm round Mickey’s shoulders when they’re just hanging out or when he comforts Mickey, I love how Ian holds Mickey at night, I love how Mickey is the bottom, I love how Mickey doesn’t panic when Ian wakes him up by literally groping him (and it happens multiple times we just only see it once or twice). I love how Mickey, a survivor of severe physical, emotional and sexual abuse, not to mention spending his teenage years and adulthood in and out of prison, trusts Ian so much to have the upper hand. I love that he can have that in Ian. I love that he feels safe enough. I love how Ian knows how much Mickey trusts him physically. I love how Ian honours it. I love how tender he is with Mickey. Like in 11x3 when he choked him he was caressing his cheek. 11x5 when he backed him into the ambulance he was stroking Mickey’s hair. I love how Mickey is able to be physically vulnerable for Ian. I love how Ian honours it.
You think Lip sometimes looks at Ian and Mickey and just smiles a little to himself because who would’ve seen that coming?
Like, Lip’s always been good with odds and numbers and back in the day, back when they started out a fucking lifetime ago, absolutely nobody would have bet on those two making it in the end.
He had been around back then, on the side lines catching glimpses from time to time. From ‘Mickey’s gay and we’re doing it’ and ‘i know what he felt with me’ to ‘you think i should’ve?’ and ‘because i love him’.
And Lip hesitates in the doorway when he enters the living room for a moment and watches them lie on the couch in front of the TV, wrapped up in each other’s arms, sleepy and content, for once neither bickering nor on the verge of fucking and he thinks that he’s never seen Ian so happy and being himself this much at the same time before.
And maybe he shakes his head when he looks at the man in his brother’s arms because holy fucking shit that’s Mickey Milkovich right there.
That’s ‘someone’s gotta get a beat down’, it’s ‘oh shit is right’, it’s anger issues and russian prostitutes and attempted murder and escaping prison to fucking mexico.
But it’s also the guy who pours Ian his coffee in the morning and makes sure he doesn’t drink it before he’s had something to eat, who used to count his fucking pills, who once bought a bag full of B vitamins as if they could fix it all somehow.
It’s who Ian lost sleep over, it’s who he made his best bad decisions for.
And isn’t that so beautifully Ian, that he saw something in that dirty faced thug from ten years ago that no one else ever bothered to look for? that he found a love that proved itself to be stronger than whatever life or fate or Terry fucking Milkovich threw at them, that pulled them back to each other every time they fell apart?
Mickey has been a constant presence in Ian’s life in a way that nothing else but Lip himself ever had. Has been a witness, a catalyst, a victim of Ian’s epic highs and lows, has done insane things to and for and because of him. As fucked up as they always were, they seem to hold the balance, they somehow make it work.
Lip loves his brother with all his heart, has done so his entire life, he knows all the best and a lot of the worst of Ian and he knows that Mickey knows it too. Loves him, too. Signed up for it all, the whole package, good times and bad, sickness and health, Monica and Gay Jesus, mania and depression. Had probably signed up for it long before they stood in front of witnesses at the Polish Doll.
So Lip smiles sometimes when they bicker over breakfast cereal or when Ian can’t keep his hands to himself even when the rest of them is right there or when Mickey talks shit like he’s still big bad Milkovich, south side thug extraordinaire and not the boy who has been in love with Lip’s little brother for the last decade.
Because it’s nice to see they made it. Because if anyone deserves a happy ending and a gentle future, it’s them.
I just caught myself being obsessed with Gallavich again (like I pretty much always am these days), and something kinda clicked for me.
I think one of the main reasons Mickey was able to accept and even love Yev is Ian’s reaction from the very beginning. Even with how traumatic the whole situation was, Ian still cared. He loved the baby anyway. Despite everything — the circumstances, his mental health, all of it — he cared.
And there’s just no way Mickey would’ve gone along with the idea of raising the baby if Ian hadn’t accepted it — if he’d said it was too much.
Mickey always makes it really clear — Ian comes first. Always. When Svetlana threatens to leave and take the baby, Mickey’s priority isn’t the baby, it’s Ian.
Mickey didn’t like the idea of having a kid. Not really (and can you really blame him?). But he could accept it — and even kinda get into it — because Ian was there. Even in that weird situation with Svetlana, like this whole strange family dynamic, it only works because Ian’s part of it.
And at the same time, Ian loving the baby just feels natural. I mean… it’s MICKEY’S KID — he can’t not care. He can’t NOT love him. There’s no way Ian wouldn’t care about something that’s such a big part of the person he loves.
It’s not really fair to the kid, but I’m pretty sure the love Ian and Mickey have for him is deeply rooted in their connection to each other.
ian + mickeys neck (was thinking of the drunk ian fic and wondered if you would be interested in pursuing this idea further?) <3
anon i am CRYING thank u so much for this!!!! i have been feeling like i need to make my contribution to the “mickey’s neck” discourse for a while lmao and this is my opportunity (esp bc ian holding mickey in the 11x12 stills wrecked me)
in the spirit of following up 11x10 i decided to write this based on an amazing post @mickey-millagher made/a prompt that @pombby sent me about ian teaching mickey to swim at a public pool during lockdown at some point early s11- i hope u enjoy<3
(this is the tiniest notch steamier than what i usually write but it isn’t smutty fyi- tw for descriptions of choking😌)
--
There was no one at the park— the air hung heavy and humid over the empty picnic tables and wooden benches that punctuated the fields of dying grass. As much as people on the Southside were definitely not taking any part of this lockdown shit seriously, it didn’t surprise Ian how silent the public park was— there was still a scarcer number of people out on their stoops or lounging on street corners this summer. Ian guessed that the few people who didn’t think that this was a hoax realized that this COVID shit was serious enough that they couldn’t afford healthcare if they got it, or whatever— but regardless, that meant that this Southside summer was weirdly stagnant somehow, and felt different from the noisy and crowded rhythms of summers past.
It was the late morning, just as the air started heat like a convection oven as the sun rose over the skyline— and Ian had his heart set on teaching Mickey to swim today. The conversation had come up last night at dinnertime, when Debbie was complaining about the heat wave— and they had all started reminiscing about the rickety, tin-sided pool they used to put up in the backyard years ago until Carl had taken a hatchet to it when he was 11 when he was trying to tear it down. Sitting next to Mickey at the kitchen table, thighs pressed where their chairs were scooted close together, Ian had suddenly remembered his words from their road trip to the border, years ago now:
“You could try swimming across the border.”
“I never learned how, man.”
And he’d immediately opened his mouth, not catching the words before they moved from his brain to his mouth, and asked Mickey in the middle of the dinnertime chatter: “Hey Mick, did you ever actually learn to swim?”
It was funny, and arbitrary, and stupid; they were married now, but for some reason this small fact about Mickey, the fact that he used to not know how to swim and by now he might have learned without Ian’s knowledge, made something warm pool in Ian’s stomach. He’d known Mickey, and had been itching to be closer and closer to him, for a full decade—and there were still so many things that he didn’t know. And this was proof, this question that Ian still didn’t have the answer to about some weirdly fundamental aspect of Mickey’s identity— he was always going to want to keep asking things about Mickey. And he was always going to get to.
Mickey had looked him with daggers in his eyes, then flickered a defensive glance at all the smirks growing on Ian’s siblings’ faces. “Fuck you. I was doing plenty of other shit in Mexico, didn’t really get the chance to lounge on the fucking beach.”
Ian had reached under the table and placed a hand on Mickey’s knee—a peace offering, an apology for whatever Mickey-can’t-swim quips Carl and Lip would inevitably think up as a low blow the next time they all butted heads at breakfast time— but as the chatter about backyard pools and heat waves continued at the dinner table, Ian felt an idea stirring.
Which is why the next morning he’d woken his husband up by pressing a tender kiss to his jawbone, both of their skin damp and clammy from the heat in the stuffy bedroom, and whispered into his neck:
“I wanna try something today.”
Mickey’s mind had immediately veered in… other directions, his eyebrows raising in vaguely disappointed disbelief when Ian had explained his idea to go to the public pool and teach Mickey to swim with an exuberant grin on his face; but after some very enticing morning persuasion that had a lot to do with the fact that Mickey was still half asleep while Ian had pressed kisses down his spine and dragged him out of bed and handed him a pair of swim trunks, now they were at the public pool in the nearest park at midday, with Ian leading the way and Mickey dubiously and sleepily straggling behind him.
Ian slid open the lock on the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool, the same pool that was usually crawling with groups of teenagers smoking weed and toddlers in floaties who were sticky with melted ice cream on a summer day like today. And maybe he was just all hopped up on nostalgia, but Ian was feeling cheerful— there was a lightness to the blinding summer sunshine, radiating through him as it pooled on his skin, that made him feel weirdly exhilarated and giddy about teaching Mickey to swim in this grimy Southside pool, just because he could.
“I still can’t believe you never learned how to swim.” Ian said it over his shoulder as he strode through the gate, holding it open for Mickey.
Mickey just flipped him off, following behind him and setting down two towels and the 6-pack of beers he’d grabbed from the fridge as they’d shuffled out the door minutes before. Ian grinned. He knew the beers would be warm and syrupy in minutes—the air was muggy and humid, without any hint of a breeze for relief. Ian could already feel the sweat dripping down the back of his t-shirt; he peeled it off as he walked over the sunwarmed concrete towards the pool’s edge, crumpling the shirt and throwing it on top of the pile with the beers and the towels. Mickey was hesitant, not following Ian to the border of the water just yet.
“Seriously. I can’t count the number of times I was shoved into our bacteria-infested backyard pool when I was a kid. I’m pretty sure that Frank tried to drown me in there at one point.”
Mickey just shrugged noncommittally, his fingers slack around the bottom hem of his shirt and his eyes zeroing in on the pool of water. Ian thought Mickey would say something in reply— but the only sound in the air was the faint shouting of kids playing a basketball game the street over.
Holy shit. Ian had been so buoyant and excited about his nostalgia-fueled idea of going to the public pool on a summer day and teaching his husband to swim, dragging Mickey out of the house without a second thought, that he hadn’t realized it until now— Mickey was scared.
Ian swallowed down the grin that was threatening to overtake his face— one he knew that Mickey would immediately notice and hate, because he it drove him crazy when people gave him shit in vulnerable moments like this, when Mickey couldn’t do something. So instead Ian kept talking, hoping his chatter would loosen some of Mickey’s nerves.
“Didn’t you and your brothers ever go down to the other pool over on Trumbull?”
Mickey met Ian’s eyes then, raising an annoyed eyebrow. “Clearly not.”
And, okay. This was understandably bringing up some childhood shit. Ian tried to snap Mickey out of his head— he strode over to where Mickey was standing, a good six feet from the poolside, and snaked a hand onto the back of his neck, squeezing gently in what he hoped was a grounding and comforting touch that would drain the trepidation from Mickey’s defensive stance.
“One summer Debbie was so afraid of getting drowned at the public pool that she learned how to hold her breath for 4 minutes.” Ian grinned at the memory of Debbie dunking her head in a tub of water in the kitchen, making him and Lip time her. “Honestly, it was probably for the best you never went to the public pool. It was a shit show.”
Mickey scoffed, but the lightness was back in his eyes. “If I knew how to swim back in the day I probably woulda been the one doing the drowning.”
Ian barked out a laugh— and why did he immediately turn back into his 15-year-old self, with a god-awful crush on Mickey Milkovich, whenever Mick said shit like that? He pressed his lips into a smile, squeezing Mickey’s shoulder once more for good measure.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, king of the Southside. You ready to get in the water?” Ian’s hand trailed down from its grasp on Mickey’s shoulderblades, dropping to encircle Mickey’s wrist and guide him towards the water.
Mickey immediately recoiled, yanking his hand from Ian’s hold and taking a step back, squinting and holding up a hand to block the bright rays of sun out of his eyes now that he wasn’t standing in Ian’s shadow.
“Fuck d’you mean? I’m not just gonna fucking hop in there and drown. You gotta show me what to do.”
Ian grinned again, without being able to hold it back. He knew what Mickey was like when he was afraid of something— defensive and grumbly and avoidant to touch. He rolled his eyes. “Can’t really teach you to swim when we’re not in the water, Mick. C’mon.”
Ian walked over to sit on the edge, then slid his torso down into the pool. The water was lukewarm and tepid, barely providing any relief from the sticky air— but it felt nice. Ian let out a little breath of relief from the heat as he waded over to the shallow end. Mickey was still standing by the mound of the towels the ground, watching him warily. Ian raised his eyebrows.
“You coming?”
Rolling his eyes, Mickey aggravatedly pulled off his shirt, tossing it behind him— sunrays bounced off of Mickey’s pale skin, owing mostly to the fact that Mickey had barely left the house in the last few weeks because of their prolonged “honeymoon.” He slowly walked to the very edge of the pool and, in a movement that made Ian’s heart grow ten sizes, hesitantly dipped a toe into the water like a cat trying to paw at something. A corner of Mickey’s mouth flickered downwards almost imperceptibly, a worry line sprouting on his forehead.
“I don’t know, man.”
Ian breathed out a laugh. Leave it to Mickey Milkovich, shit-talking king of the Southside, to be afraid of the shallow end of a public pool. Ian reached out a hand in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, still smiling like a sappy motherfucker at his painfully endearing husband.
“C’mon Mick, just stand here with me first.” Ian was waist-deep in the shallow end, the water pressing against his upper thighs— he knew that at this height the water would be at Mickey’s waist, right where his swim trunks met his hipbones.
Mickey’s brows furrowed from where he was still perched on the concrete lip of the pool ledge, his two feet firmly rooted. “Explain what I gotta do first. To swim, or whatever.”
Ian blew out a breath, still grinning like an idiot. “It’s not that hard, Mick. You just gotta circle your arms and circle your legs. But you have to get in the water first.”
Ian treaded over, pushing through the water to where he could rest his upper arms on the edge of the pool beside where Mickey was standing, staring up at him with what he hoped was a convincingly pleading face. Mickey’s eyes were still fixated on the water, lapping at the pool’s edge from where Ian had rippled through it. And suddenly Ian had an idea.
With a teasing grin, he reached a wet hand out from the water and encircled it around Mickey’s ankle, splattering the concrete with drops of water. Mickey immediately jerked like an electric shock had jolted through his body.
“You gonna come in, or do I have to make you?”
Mickey tried to shake his ankle out of Ian’s grasp, but Ian had hold of him with an iron fist. Mickey leaned over and tried to swat at Ian’s arm without losing his balance on the pool’s edge.
“Cut that shit out right now, Gallagher.”
Ian just grinned, squeezing Mickey’s ankle like he was about to tug him in. “Come on, Mick.”
Mickey’s eyes widened and, just as Ian had imagined he would— he started to freak the fuck out.
“Ian stop that shit right now, I swear to god I will fucking murder you if you—”
They were at the 6-foot marker in the pool, right where it was deep enough for Mickey to stand on the very tips of his toes; and with this knowledge, Ian tugged at Mickey’s calf— causing him to falter, his arms circling like a cartoon character before he lost his balance and crashed into the water on his side.
Ian immediately placed his hands on Mickey’s hips, standing him upright before his head even fell under the water— but Mickey was still sputtering and splashing, like the drama queen that he was. Once Mickey regained his composure and realized he was easily standing on the bottom of the pool, his head bobbing just above the water, he swiftly splashed healthy burst of water into Ian’s face, the chlorine stinging his eyes and nose.
“Fuck you, Gallagher!”
Ian coughed at the water that had shot up his nose, but immediately splashed Mickey back—and then, because there wasn’t any way this whole pool situation was going to go anyways, he and Mickey were immediately engaged in a life-and-death splash battle, circling each other in the middle section of the pool.
Ian was laughing so hard he felt a stitch in his side— and Mickey was finally grinning again, water dripping down his cheeks and clinging to his hair. After a few minutes Ian threw his hands in the air in surrender, the water cresting at his shoulders.
“Truce!”
Mickey splashed one more surge of water at Ian’s chest for good measure, grinning like a kid in a candy store— then he took a step closer to Ian, eyebrows raised.
“Truce.”
Ian beamed down at him, pressing a quick peck to the top of his damp hair. “Sorry for throwing you in the pool.”
Mickey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
“But in my defense, it had to happen eventually.”
Mickey shoved him squarely in the chest, taking a step back. “You ruined the fucking truce.”
Ian gave a smug smirk. “Do you wanna learn how to swim, or not?”
Mickey flicked another burst of water at him, just enough to cast a slew of droplets onto Ian’s cheeks. “Alright. Get coaching, Michael Phelps.”
Ian hadn’t really considered how he was actually going to teach Mickey to swim— but it couldn’t be that hard, right? He tried to think back to when Lip had taught him how to tread water, on an equally as sweltering day in the backyard pool, when the yard was packed with lawn chairs and drunk neighbors and smelled of ashy barbeque smoke.
“Okay. So you’ve gotta move your arms in circles, kinda, to stay floating. And your legs too.”
Ian swam over to the deeper end of the pool, just an arm’s length away from where he and Mickey’s feet could touch, and tried to demonstrate how to tread water. “I feel like the easiest way for you to learn is just by doing it. C’mere.”
Mickey looked at him reluctantly, brows furrowed again in an outward display of his bundled nerves. “No fucking way.”
Ian sighed in exasperation. “C’mon, Mick. I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let you drown, you can hold on to me the whole time.”
Mickey raised an eyebrow— but then hesitantly took a step towards Ian, the water reaching up to the bottom of his chin.
“Alright, good. Now step where you can’t reach and try to tread water like I did.”
Mickey stepped forward again, then started to circle his arms under the water— and he was doing great, for a second, before he seemed to get too in his head about the mechanics and started to grit his teeth.
“Little help here, Gallagher?”
Ian grinned and stepped forward. “Here, you can hang onto me.” He stood where Mickey could reach and grab onto his shoulders if he needed to— but Mickey seemed to regain his confidence, and was starting to steadily, if a little bit clumsily, tread water.
He kept it up for a while, until Ian could see that he was overexerting himself— waving his arms under the water with a little too much gusto, brows furrowed and his teeth digging into his lower lip in concentration.
“Mick, you’ve got it. Chill out for a sec.”
Ian reached an arm out, a branch for Mickey to grab on to— because he had been joking before, yes, but he really didn’t want Mickey to fucking drown— and when Mickey grasped onto it, Ian pulled Mickey towards him in the water, kicking backwards so they were suspended in the deeper end of the pool with Mickey clinging to Ian’s neck.
Mickey looked nervous as Ian veered them towards deeper waters, his eyes darting from side to side where they were floating, his fingers digging into the back of Ian’s neck— and Ian smirked at how freaked out he seemed, standing only a few feet from where they could both confidently stand on the tiled pool bottom. But Mickey didn’t resist, or try to propel himself back into the shallower waters— he let himself cling on to Ian, fingers interlaced behind the tops of Ian’s shoulders, as he kept them afloat. Ian laughed softly in a warm, wet gust across Mickey’s cheek. “You okay?”
He could feel the heat radiating off of Mickey’s body, squeezing up close against him— and Ian couldn’t help it, the wave of fondness that came over him as he looked down at where Mickey was pressed against his chest; trusting Ian to keep them above the water, trusting Ian enough to go along with his stupid plan to teach him to swim in a public pool on a random morning just because Ian wanted to. Ian couldn’t help but feel warmth in his stomach at this simple moment, at the two of them bobbing in the pool— at teaching his husband to swim, something Mickey’d never gotten to do as a kid but something that they had the rest of their lives to do together.
“Maybe we could teach Franny to swim next summer. If we have our own place.”
As he said it, Ian hoped that Mickey could see the flood of hopes that he had for them in his eyes— that he wanted a place with a pool, and a balcony, maybe a backyard, and maybe even a fucking garden—he’d always wanted to grow tomatoes. More than anything he wanted to build something sturdy, that could stand up to whatever ground would inevitably shift beneath them in the years to come— he’d been thinking about that a lot these days, especially with all of the pandemic shit that had pulled a rug out from under this entire neighborhood.
Mickey’s gaze flickered up from where it had been boring a panicky hole in Ian’s sternum, meeting Ian’s eyes at the phrase “our own place”— and Ian instantly knew that he got it, that he could see the dreams that Ian was building for the two of them right in front of their eyes. That after months and years of obstacles and chaos and other voices infiltrating their heads, now it was just them— now it was just Ian and Mickey, clinging to each other and drifting through the calm, chlorinated waters.
And maybe it was their proximity, or the intensity Ian knew he was pouring out in his gaze, but instantly the air between them shifted as Mickey looked up— starting to hang heavy like the press of the humidity in the air. Their faces were centimeters apart— and Mickey’s lips parted slightly, his eyes now cast downward at Ian’s lips. Ian could smell the sweet, warm beer on Mickey’s breath, mingling with his own; he looked at Mickey, whose arms were still wrapped around his neck, water dripping down his face from the hair that was fanning over his forehead—and Ian just had to pull him in, had to place a hand in the damp hair at the nape of Mickey’s neck and tug him closer, backing them against the tiled wall of the pool.
Ian could taste the faintest bitterness of chlorine on Mickey’s lips, from the water droplets lingering there, as he took Mickey’s bottom lip between his teeth. Mickey’s hands were still limply wrapped around Ian’s neck, keeping himself afloat— even though Ian had backed them against a wall in the shallow end of the pool again, and Mickey could probably touch his toes to the ground if he wanted to.
Ian raised his hand from under the water, wanting Mickey closer— he pressed a hand to the side of Mickey’s neck, slick with water, and slid a thumb over Mickey’s collarbone, pressing down with the pad of his fingers.
And Mickey gave a little involuntary noise from the back of his throat, sending a jolt down Ian’s spine.
Ian’s hands circling Mickey’s neck was definitely not a foreign concept while they were kissing— it was something they did a lot these days, especially as their hours in bed had taken a turn from the crazed, I-missed-your-body-so-fucking-much sex they were having in the beginning days of being in prison together and those early months after Mickey had gotten released— but both in prison and during this fucking quarantine, they’d gotten a bit more experimental, and a bit more reckless—especially before Ian had gotten his warehouse job and they were still on their structureless “honeymoon,” spending entire days lounging in bed.
It was those days of lazy, languid kisses, after years and years of already knowing each other, that Ian realized that he was maybe a little bit obsessed with Mickey’s neck. He’d always joked about liking Mickey’s legs, and that was true too (if he was being honest, there wasn’t a part of Mickey’s body that didn’t make his blood run hotter)— but the first time Mickey had grabbed Ian’s hand and put it up to his neck while they were tangled together, pressing down until Ian’s hand covered most of his throat, Ian knew that they’d opened Pandora’s fucking box.
By this point, Ian’s hand was pretty much always on Mickey’s neck at some point while they were fucking or even just making out— if he was being totally honest, Ian’s hand was on Mickey’s neck more often than not in lots of contexts these days, once they realized how much they both loved it. But there was something about this current moment, of Mickey wantonly desiring a point of contact there, right now, while they were very randomly and decidedly making out while floating in a public pool on a lazy weekday afternoon, that made Ian’s blood run hotter than usual, and rush quicker through his veins.
Ian let the pads of his fingers creep up the velvet skin of the side of Mickey’s neck, pressing a little deeper, a prelude— he could feel the vibration of Mickey’s heartbeat starting to flutter from where Mickey was still pressed against his chest, still clinging to his neck in the water.
They’d already extensively discussed limits and everything, Mickey would tap his wrist twice if shit got too intense— but even with that in mind, Ian pulled apart from Mickey for a second, trailing ghosts of kisses up the side of his neck and nipping at the underside of Mickey’s jaw. Mickey stretched his neck back and gave a little involuntary sputter of a moan, bubbling out of his mouth before he could stop it. He fisted a hand in Ian’s hair, at the nape of his neck, and leaned forward again to press their lips together with more fervor.
Ian pulled back again, his upper back resting against the concrete lip of the pool. Mickey looked disheveled and wrecked, half-dry chlorine-crusted hair sticking up from where Ian’s other hand had been cradling the back of his head, his blue eyes gleaming and catching the over-bright summer light. Mickey was still clinging his arms around Ian’s neck, holding on— they were in a fucking pool, and Mickey still couldn’t really fucking swim yet— and even though they were standing in a place where Mickey’s toes could certainly touch the ground, the whole thing felt weirdly insular and intimate, like they had to cling to each other.
Mickey raised his eyebrows at Ian, like he was daring him to keep going.
Ian leaned forward, breathing heavily into Mickey’s mouth, but not pressing their lips together yet—and he reached a hand up again, against Mickey’s tender skin. Mickey’s legs were wrapped around Ian’s hips now, locked like a vice to keep himself upright in the water— and he pressed a little harder, gently pulsing at the sides of Mickey’s neck, in tandem with their lips pressing together over and over again as the warm waters surrounded them—the whole thing, the whole combination, made Ian feel indescribably floaty and weird and warm and blissed out; his skin stinging like ice and fire at every point of contact, electricity zapping his nerve endings wherever his fingertips met Mickey’s skin. Mickey fisted his hand harder at the back of Ian’s hair, nodding slightly—and they were definitely not going to fuck here, in the filth of a Southside public pool, but this insular closeness, the knowing what they both wanted to right now, was equally as thrilling and fulfilling to Ian in the moment. He could almost feel his own heart beating, reverberating as it pressed against Mickey’s chest, vibrating straight through Mickey and back to him as they clung to each other in the water.
Mickey’s body was thrumming, letting out little gasps of breath between kisses and touches—and Ian pulled back and dragged his lips down the side of Mickey’s neck, inhaling the sunwarmed skin. Fuck. He was never, never going to get enough of this.
**
Later, they’d dragged their water-heavy limbs back through the still summer streets to the Gallagher house, their skin pink and their bodies exhausted from soaking up the sun— and they’d collapsed into bed, feeling the dried chlorine coating their skin.
Ian reached a hand up, rubbing a thumb over Mickey’s cheek, their bodies pliant and fatigued— and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“Thanks for letting me teach you how to swim.”
Mickey had smirked. “Yup, that was definitely the only highlight of today. Swimming.”
a scene that is ridiculously sweeter than you'd expect.
ian doesn't go in for a deep kiss, but keeps his eyes open, watching to see what mickey will do. mickey has his eyes closed, senses that ian is staying still, and just gives him a soft little peck. ian smiles in satisfaction and pulls away, and mickey does this cute little smile. god i fxcking love this so much.
It's @shamelessbigbang already! In my country it's past midnight so I'll post the first two chapters now and the rest later that day. Thank you so much for hosting this 🧡
A huge thank you to @suzy-queued for this wonderful art! It’s perfect in all ways possible 🧡
Metamorphosis
by JessiJ
At 27, Ian should be at a different point in his life. He shouldn’t let men use his body for money. He shouldn’t take so much coke. He shouldn’t be doing so many things he knows are wrong. Yet he does, because he thinks he deserves no better, can do no better.
But when a young pianist with his own story stumbles into his life, he shows Ian that he is worth so much more.
Just me, a freshly stocked Kindle full of Gallavich stories, and 17 hours in a sleeper cabin on the Ukrainian railway, where I can’t really do much of anything because there isn’t much internet connection. Sounds like heaven? Yep, it’s pretty fucking close! ☺️
P.S. Absolutely enjoyed this one, thanks to all the authors! @awaywithherhead , @hell_yeah_stargazer_lilies, @mickittotheman , @runningempty
I’m usually not a big fan of wedding scenes because, come on, we’ve seen them so many times in so many variations. And in a lot of them I’m like, “yeah, yeah, we know you’re in love—let’s see what happens when real life kicks in.”
But with Gallavich, I just can’t stop rewatching and tear my eyes away and replay it in my mind whenever I need to believe in smth good again.
'Cause they’ve already been through all the shit: worse (worst actualy), poverty, sickness. They know for sure they’ll face it all again. Ian’s diagnosis is still there, and it’s not like they have bright career prospects.
When they say the vows, they’re not saying them just because it’s a ritual. They can back up every word with real experience — and with the readiness to stick with each other through it all, again and again.
When they say “till death do us part,” I fucking believe them.
They WILL love and cherish, as they always did, no matter what.
Mickey "If He Wanted To He Would" Milkovich because Trevor left when he was arrested, Lip refused to look for Ian when he jumped bail, and even Fiona forgot to drop him off at prison, but Mickey turned on a cartel just to make sure he was next to Ian and that he never spent a day alone in prison.
is the promt from @deathclassic for this week's @galladrabbles 🧡
Thanks for the inspiration and hosting!
Total stillness.
He doesn’t move a muscle, stuffed deep inside the wardrobe. Only through thin slit can he see moving shadow on the floor. Pulpy sunset outside colours everything in fiery orange, almost as if rooting for the chaser in this hunt.
Soft steps come closer… now disaster’s inevitable…
'Found ya!!!'
The door slides open in a flash 'Uncle Mickey!'
'Sure’yo did..' fake disappointment’s replaced by a mischievous smile as he steps outside.
'Let’s check if Uncle Ian nailed squeezing his dorky ass under the couch,' he whispers and the grin on Franny’s face lights brighter than the setting sun.
