He finds them in a box in the Gallagher attic.
He didn't know the box existed, was really just up here to scavenge shit for the new apartment before Debbie or Carl got to it, since he's sure Lip took what he wanted when he no doubt came digging for baby things. The Gallagher's are nothing if not pragmatic about saving shit.
But tucked in the back corner, under boxes of Fiona's stuff she didn't take, with an old rolled up rug half hiding it, is a box labeled "Mickey's Shit" in his husband's spikey, jagged writing, as sharp and aggressive as Mickey was when they were kids, dangerous and scary and uninviting.
It must be left over from when they were playing house over on Trumbull, or maybe from after? How it ended up here Ian's not at all sure. That year and change of drug-fueled, unmedicated mania and depression is hazy sometimes, like looking through windows that haven't been properly cleaned in years, filmy and dirty with odd, sparse patches of clarity—easy nights with his beloved little patchwork family, mornings with the babies, and, running through it all, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, shining and bright and so fucking clear, images of him sharp and bright, always in high definition.
Ian opens the box with the spiky writing, smiling gently at the memories that come back to him, trying to reframe his thoughts like his therapist says—it's so easy to think of all the worst things from that time, but all that does is bring shame and self-loathing with it, some days so strong they nearly drown him. Instead, he can counter those feelings with the good things he remembers, and let the positive balance the negative, one memory at a time.
He's hit with the scent of Then-Mickey: the faintly lingering smoke of Marlboro Reds and the strong, almost cloying smell of the Pinaud Clubman aftershave he'd started to swipe from the drugstore not long after he kissed Ian that first time, almost like it was his way of getting dressed up, of showing Ian he meant something. Ian closes his eyes, inhaling that unique blend of sharp citrus, some sweet, soft, flowery things, an undercurrent of musk and the very specific finish of antiseptic alcohol.
Fuck, maybe he needs to stop by the B & G Heinz on his way home and get a bottle, see if Mickey would switch, just sometimes, from that Davidoff stuff he'd picked up on sale from Walmart.
Shaking himself from his scent-induced daze, Ian opens his eyes and finally looks down at the contents of this mystery box.
It's full of...notebooks? Paper? His brow furrows in confusion as he reaches inside, the crinkling of the thick paper the only sound in the quiet attic (it's still so weird for him, to come to this house and find it empty and quiet, even in the middle of the day). He wraps his fingers around the spine of what he sees now is a sketchbook, and he's hit with more memories, little glimpses and flashes—Mickey with a pencil behind his hear and little pocket-sized notebooks while they were spending their time in the abandoned buildings of the South Side, Mickey with some papers spread over a box or a book, a ballpoint pen moving quickly on it's surface; Mickey, sitting across the dark of their bedroom, keeping Ian company in the only way Ian would allow, deep in the throws of his first, terrible, awful depressive episode.
His breath is shaky as he flips the cover back, and he gasps a little at what he sees, eyes stinging and heart swelling even as it breaks a little all over again for the scared kids they used to be.
It's a sketch of Ian, sleeping it seems, lashes fanned over his still-soft cheeks, freckles faded from all the time he spent inside with his almost-nocturnal club schedule, but still noticeable on the high planes of his face. Fuck, they're so specific, the patterns ones he knows well from seeing them every day, the little constellations of them scattershot across his skin, and of course Mickey knew them that well, of course he could replicate them with such specificity, even from across a dark room. Who had ever loved him like Mickey Milkovich has always loved him?
He spends the next ten minutes going through the box, every single notebook and page he pulls from it covered in drawings of Ian, awake, asleep, on his back, his side, his stomach, hair increasingly stringy until suddenly it's not, clothes the same until they aren't, and he remembers Mickey hauling him to the dingy bathroom, sitting on the floor of the tub with Ian's back to his chest while he scrubbed the sweat and grime from Ian's skin, washed the grease from his hair, and helped him into clean clothes before laying him on the couch so Mickey could change the sheets.
He's crying silently by the time he gets to the bottom of the box, and this sketch makes him sob outright. It's the only one he's seen in color, and it feels somehow right that it is.
Seventeen-year-old Ian is sitting up against the headboard, a chipped mug clutched tightly in his hands, and the threadbare red blanket pulled across his legs and hips. He's wearing the gray hoodie he and Mickey had been sharing longer than anything else, so long that neither of them could even remember whose it was to start with. His eyes are closed, but there's sunlight streaked across his face, his hair bright and shining in the golden light, and the barest hint of a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.
He does stop at the B & G Heinz on his way home, but he doesn't limit himself to the aftershave.
"Whatcha got there, lover boy?" Mickey asks from where he's sprawled on their new couch, wearing Ian's red henley and a pair of boxer-briefs (since they live on the fancy west side now he's decided that maybe he'll try out fancy underwear now).
Ian doesn't say anything, just sets the box on the kitchen counter and empties the bag he'd had resting on top. They don't have much up on their walls yet, just wedding photo after wedding photo, with the one most prominently displayed from the moments before their first kiss as husband's, hands on each other's faces, love and devotion and blinding, radiant happiness shining like the sun from them both.
Right underneath, Ian presses his extra purchases, one after the other, the command strips he'd added before he came inside doing their job and attaching them instantly to the wall.
On one side, a drawing of him at what he knew was his absolute lowest, sweat-grimed and greasy, and yet every detail so lovingly rendered it's almost too much for him to bare looking at for too long. On the other, the color sketch he'd found, sun shining on his face and fragile, delicate hope tucked into the smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.
"Oh," is all Mickey says when he joins Ian in front of the drawings. "I forgot I stashed those there, after."
Ian's eyes are stinging again and he turns to cup his husband's face in his hands. "You loved the fuck outta me then, huh?" he asks, and the words are hushed, reverant and with just this side of amazed disbelief.
Mickey nuzzles against Ian's palms, smiling that fucking smile, the same one in the wedding photo behind them, the one Ian is just starting to get used to seeing. "Ah, see, that's where you're wrong, tough guy." His eyes sweep back and forth, ice-blue and beloved, and Ian is so goddamn lucky he gets to see them filled with joy and love like this.
"Loved the fuck outta you then?" Mickey's smile gets even bigger, even brighter, his own hands coming up to cradle Ian's face, thumbs brushing away the tears running down his cheeks.
"Ian Gallagher, I ain't ever fuckin' stopped."
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