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I’ve posted a fic on AO3!
In Your Adorable Glasses
Carlos has a crisis of confidence while trying to select a poem for the wedding ceremony. Luckily, TK is keen to help. Then he accidentally breaks Carlos’ glasses…
(Or, something cute for Christmas, in which Carlos is like a big cuddly hibernating bear and TK is his squishy enthusiastic cat companion.)
can i have mickey talking to ian about ian's "how do you know you love all the versions of me" stuff after they are engaged? just putting ian's fear to rest once and for all, please!
By request I'm now crossposting same day (or trying to) so read below or on AO3. Happy New Year everyone!
Auld Lang Syne
The Gallagher house is louder than ever on the eve of the New Year. Music and talking and cheers, echoing between walls that have seen more celebrations than anyone inside remembered.
And Ian, standing alone in the kitchen, nursing his single beer and watching his family through the entry to the living room.
“Damn, these Gallagher parties are really somethin’ else,” Mickey says as he slips around and into the kitchen. He makes straight for the fridge, opening it with a creak to grab an Old Style from the pack on the door.
He opens it one-handed, kicking the door shut, and takes a long swig before joining Ian at the counter.
“What’re you hidin’ in here for?” he asks, nudging Ian’s shoulder with his own.
Ian makes a show of steadying his drink, earning the crinkle at the corner of Mickey’s eyes that he loves.
“Just needed a little quiet,” he says softly, taking another sip of his own beer. He turns his attention from his family to his fiancé , reveling in the fact that he can.
“It can be a bit much, this time of year,” he explains to Mickey’s raised eyebrows. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it,” he adds, “but it’s been a while since I really had something to celebrate.”
Mickey smiles, a soft simple thing that makes Ian heart thump harder.
“You do now, though,” he says, and it isn’t a question. Just like it isn’t a question when he reaches over, takes Ian’s beer right from his hand to set it on the counter behind them. Like it isn’t a question when he slots himself into the space it leaves between Ian’s arms, and wraps his free hand around Ian’s waist.
It’s a casual intimacy that they’ve had a lot of lately. But that doesn’t make it any less special.
Ian smiles down at Mickey, down at the man that will be his husband. Wonders how he ever thought that wasn’t right.
“Glad we get a fresh start, that’s all,” he says, leaning back against the counter. He tugs Mickey closer between the spread of his hips, and bends down to meet Mickey’s smile with his own.
Except Mickey isn’t smiling anymore.
And he isn’t nestled in the curve if Ian’s hips anymore, or the fold of his long arms. He’s backing away, and frowning, and reaching for the booze he’d set down when Ian pulled him in.
“Mickey?” Ian asks as the other man chugs the rest of his beer. “What did I say?”
Mickey finishes his drink, scowls, and reaches for Ian’s abandoned bottle.
“Fuck fresh starts,” he says sharply, downing that one too. “Our first start was fine.”
And Ian is lost. Truly lost, for the first time since Mickey said yes. And though he knows it shouldn’t, the sudden uncertainty makes him angry.
“Fine, huh?” he prompts bitterly, pushing off the counter. “That what you call quickies in your bedroom while your dad was locked up?”
On anyone else, the expression on Mickey’s face would have been a wince. But on Mickey, it’s a challenge.
“Freezing our asses off at work cause it was the only place no one would see,” Ian continues, not sure why he’s arguing not sure how to stop, “that was a good time for you?”
“And what if it was?” Mickey counters, going to the fridge to grab a new beer. “What if I ain’t got a problem with that?”
Ian snorts.
“Then you don’t have a problem with the fact I was fucking Kash,” he says, and hates himself for it. Goes on anyway. “Or that I ran off when you got married.”
Mickey slams the fridge door shut without getting his drink, stares at the childish art on the door like it has the winning argument written within.
Ian knows it doesn’t, because that argument is already on his lips.
“So you don’t mind that I went fucking crazy,” he states, and feels his heart burn in his stomach. “That I stole your son, or let you go to prison.”
Mickey’s shoulders sink. He sighs.
“Ian…” he starts, but Ian isn’t done. His memories aren’t done with either of them.
“You don’t wanna forget that I left you there?” he asks, his eyes starting to itch. “That I was practically someone else when you came back?”
He takes a step forward, toward Mickey’s back. Is both sorry and glad that Mickey isn’t facing him for this.
“That I left you again,” Ian whispers, standing close enough to feel Mickey’s heat. “That I left you for real, and pretended it was the right thing to do.”
Mickey shifts. Presses back, shoulders just brushing Ian’s chest.
“You came back,” he says, and Ian scoffs.
“No,” he counters, but he doesn’t step away. “You came back, Mickey.”
He doesn’t move as Mickey settles against him, the softness of his touch a counterpoint to the ache in his heart.
“You always came back,” Ian says, and reaches to touch Mickey’s hand. Aborts the movement, lets his own hand fall to his side, but Mickey catches it anyway with rough fingers.
Ian can’t help it. He squeezes.
“And once,” he murmurs as he lets Mickey hold his hand, right there in the kitchen in the middle of a fight he doesn’t remember starting, “just once, I want to forget that you had to.”
“I don’t.”
The words surprise him. Make his hand spasm in Mickey’s grip, only to be held on the firmer. Even as Mickey turns, even as he brings their hands between them, his grip never falters.
“Why, Mickey?” Ian has to ask, the words barely audible over the revelry from the next room. “Why don’t you want a clean slate?” He looks down at their hands, mathcing rings shining. “Why don’t you want to put it behind us?”
Mickey steps even closer. Close enough that his chest obscures the view of their linked fingers.
“Cause it ain’t behind us, Ian,” he whispers, Ian having to bend closer to hear it. “It’s part of us.”
Ian chuckles, a sad, wet sound.
“Well it’s a really shitty part,” he tries, but Mickey smacks his shoulder with his free hand.
“Nah,” he says lightly, rubbing at the spot he had hit. “There are no shitty parts.”
Ian disagrees.
He doesn’t say anything, but it must show in his face. His fear, his memories, his insecurity. Because Mickey sighs again, and leans in, and rests his head on Ian’s shoulder in a mimic of a dance.
“You remember what you asked me that night?” Mickey asks quietly, speaking to Ian’s clavicle. “That night outside Brian’s place—”
“Byron,” Ian corrects absently, and the breath of Mickey’s responding huff lights his nerves on fire.
“Whatever,” Mickey accepts easily, and pushes on despite the interruption.
“You asked me how I knew if I loved you,” he says, and Ian remembers all too well. “How I knew I’d love all the versions of you,” Mickey goes on, ignoring Ian’s obvious tension.
He looks up through his eyelashes, catches Ian’s wary gaze.
“I never really answered.”
Ian swallows. Wishes he had finished his beer.
“You don’t have to…,” he starts, but Mickey ignores that too.
“Think I do,” he speaks over Ian’s objections. “Think it’s kind of fucking important.”
He pulls away, then. Pulls just far enough that Ian is reaching to keep him, but not far enough that he loses his grip.
“And you know what the answer is?” Mickey asks, blue eyes bright in the overhead lights. “You know how I now, somewhere deep,” he continues, “that I love every last fucked-up bit of who you are?”
Ian looks at him. Really looks at him, this man that he’ll spend his life with. The man he loves, the man that loves him back, despite all odds.
And he can’t even shake his head.
“Because I’ve seen them, Ian,” Mickey says, undeterred by the lack of response. “I’ve seen the different people you can be.”
“I’ve seen the fear,” he says, voice getting louder, more certain with every word. “I’ve seen the anger.”
“I’ve seen the self-righteousness,” he adds with a little upturn to his lips, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, “when you think you know the best way.”
“I’ve seen the illness, and the things it does to you,” he states while Ian closes the new distance between them to take him back into his arms. “I’ve seen the days in bed, the hating yourself, the you that’s so high on life that even I can’t pull you back down.”
It hurts Ian, to know that he’s right. To know that he’s shown Mickey that version of himself.
But Mickey isn’t done.
“I’ve seen the you that pushed me away,” he says, back to whisper now, “And I’ve seen the way that you let me leave.”
He leans into Ian’s embrace, one hand in his, one skating up his jumping chest.
“But I’ve seen the you I came back for, too,” he murmurs a breath against Ian’s waiting lips, “and the you that welcomed me home.”
It’s too much. It’s not enough. And Ian almost chokes as Mickey presses soft lips to his, gasps at the release.
“We don’t need a fresh start, Ian,” Mickey tells him, face still close. “We don’t need a clean slate.”
He rests his head on Ian’s shoulder again, like it never left.
“I don’t want to forget,” he says, and kisses Ian’s neck, too. Because it’s there. Because he can.
“Cause fucked up or not,” Mickey says, “painful or not. I love every single fucking bit of it.”
Ian doesn’t argue again. Isn’t sure why he did in the first place. Blames the beer, blames the mood, blames his stupid fucking brain and the shit it pulls when things are going good.
He holds Mickey tighter. Rests his head on soft black hair.
“What’s that thing they start singin’ around now?” Mickey murmurs as the countdown begins on the TV behind them, the cheers in the next room reaching a crescendo. “Auld lang syne?”
Ian hums in acknowledgement.
“That’s us, Ian,” Mickey says, turning his face up. Looking into Ian’s eyes, his own open, happy, wanting.
“There’s no forgetting us,” Mickey breathes, as Ian bends down, “so we might as well fucking—”
The countdown reaches zero. Ian kisses him. And their story doesn’t restart, but stretches on.
Mickey and Ian were plastered. Laughing at the noise their shoes made against the sidewalk, singing dramatic 90’s ballads, would wake up with a skull-splitting headache, plastered.
They didn’t have time to dwell on the consequences. Right then, at that moment, they were happy, content, celebrating. Mickey Milkovich and Ian Gallagher were engaged, soon to be wed. Nothing that life could throw at them would deter their happiness.
“Fuckin love you” Mickey half-slurred his lips almost missing his fiance’s in the heat of the moment.
“Mmm” Ian hummed against his skin, mouth travelled south. He sloppily sucked against the hot flushed skin of Mickey’s neck and down his shoulder. “God I missed this, you”
“Oh yeah, tough guy?” Mickey pushed Ian off of him with a wiggle of his eyebrows. A cocky smirk across his lip.
It felt surreal. That time the night before Ian wasn’t even sure he would ever see Mickey again but now, he stood in front of him. Half dropped eyes, kiss-swollen lips and well, his.
Ian could have just stood there the entire night staring at him, completely overwhelming his senses in all things Mickey. As much as he wanted that to be an option, Mickey’s hungry eyes stared up at him expecting some sort of response.
“Like hell” Ian was quick to peak his lips. The kiss was quick to deepen, the two migrating to the couch as one. Hand movements were sloppy and feverish, trying to grab at any part of one another they could.
There wasn’t much room on the old Gallagher couch, but the couple made do with what space they had. Their legs slotted between one other. Ian’s hand’s dug into the cushion beside Mickey’s head, holding on for dear life.
Ian pulled away, Mickey’s neck strained to chase his lips. “Promise me we’ll never be apart for that long again”
The soft sincerity of Ian’s voice was almost enough to sober Mickey up. He searched the ginger’s eyes.
“Yeah man, promise” His hand met Ian’s cheek with a gentle stroke, pulling him down for another soft kiss.
They pulled away again, Ian adjusting himself to be able to stay hovering with one hand only. He stuck his left hand in Mickey’s face, extending out a pinky.
Mickey couldn’t help but snort. “Ya want me to pinky swear ya like some twelve-year-old chick?”
“Mick, c’mon please?”
Mickey found himself searching those same green eyes again before he extended his own pinky out, linking their appendages. He pulled their interlocked hands down to his lips. A kiss to seal the deal.
“Thanks” Ian’s dopey smile was enough to make Mickey’s heart flip. He knew that he was going to do whatever Ian asked of him, no matter how ridiculous.
Their lips drew back together like magnets, both hellbent on keeping that promise.
By the time Debbie made her way into the living room, Mickey’s shirt had been discarded somewhere off to the side. Ian’s pants are halfway to his ankles. She adjusted Franny on her hip with a huff as she pushed her way through the door before she caught sight of the impromptu make-out session.
“Fucking hell, guys!” She exclaimed, unravelling the scarf around her neck to throw at them in an attempt for them to get a hint and stop. She threw Franny’s too, just for good measure.
“Sorry” Ian downright giggled but made no attempt to crawl off.
“God you’re like horny little weasels” Debbie rolled her eyes. She kicked her shoes off before marching her way upstairs, muttering something else indifferently.
“Night, Debs!” Ian’s voice followed. From upstairs they heard her door slam shut. Both erupted into laughter.
lucky by dinglehorton/@dinglehorton
rating: general audiences
status: complete
length: 1.3k
summary: robert asks for help planning their wedding. aka four scenes i wanted during the wedding episodes.
