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By all accounts, it’s a shitty day outside. Ian thinks as much as he speedwalks down Wallace to Lip’s house, shoes squishing, hair and shoulders soaked. It’s dark and rainy, adding an uncomfortable amount of humidity to the already warm summer air.
Ian smiles when he hears Lip’s yo, walking up to the garage as his brother moves around gathering random bike parts.
“The hell are you guys doing out here?” Ian jokes, pushing an errant wet strand of hair off his forehead. He bypasses Lip altogether to greet his nephew who’s sitting in his stroller. “Hey buddy,” he tells the almost 9-month-old, leaning down to tickle his sides making him squirm in his seat, his tiny new teeth just barely sticking out of his gums.
“Freddie was up most of the night,” Lip explains. “Figured Tami would appreciate some quiet.”
Ian acknowledges Lip with an ahh, pulling a random stool up next to Freddie and letting his nephew grab onto his fingers, shaking them, while they update each other on their lives.
A few minutes into their conversation, Freddie lets out a big yawn, his grip loosening on Ian’s hand as he tries to fight sleep. Lip makes a comment about how his son doesn’t appreciate naps, looking over at the two of them. Ian laughs watching his nephew’s eyelids close for longer and longer periods of time before he gives up, sinking into his stroller seat, face relaxed.
Ian gently pulls his hand back, standing up so he can reach into his back pocket for his cigarettes, hoping they’re not soaked too. He shakes the lighter from the crumpled pack then a cigarette, stepping toward the open garage door and away from Freddie. Ian can feel mist hitting his cupped hand as he flicks the lighter. Taking a hit, he blows out into the rain, the smoke lingering in the humid air.
It’s quiet except for the repetitive taps of rain hitting the roof and streets until Ian breaks the silence. “What do you know about the Milkoviches?” he attempts to casually ask his brother.
“Not much,” Lip shrugs, wiping oil off his hands. “There’s a bunch of them.”
“There’s a bunch of us,” Ian laughs, blowing out another smoky cloud. Lip smirks and puts down the rag, making his way over to Ian, wordlessly asking for a cigarette.
“I don’t know, man,” Lip’s words muffled as he cups around the lighter’s flame. “What I’ve heard isn’t good.”
“What do you mean?” Ian replies confused, taking back the lighter.
“Guns, drugs, Nazi shit,” Lip exhales. “Pretty sure they have a timeshare at Stateville.”
“Oh,” Ian looks at the ground.
“They’re pretty fucked up,” Lip adds. “Why you asking?”
“You know Mickey—” Ian starts.
“Yeah, you might have mentioned him,” Lip cuts him off smirking.
“Fuck off,” Ian smiles before his voice gets lower. “Mickey’s a Milkovich. He doesn’t really talk about his family though,” he shrugs. “I don’t give a shit if they’re messed up, I mean, look at our family, but I was just wondering.”
Ian feels a little guilty about trying to get information about Mickey’s family out of Lip. He knows that Mickey’s a private person, but he also knows that his walls have been steadily coming down these last couple of months that they’ve been together. The thought makes Ian smile, but it doesn’t kill his curiosity.
“You’ve been spending more time at his place, yeah?”
“Yeah, I have,” Ian grins, looking over at a sleeping Freddie.
“Debs says you’re barely at the house anymore,” Lip adds.
“Why are you and Debs talking about me?”
“Have you told him about, y’know?” Lip asks, ignoring his question.
Ian sighs, knowing this was coming, but he has to admit it’s been on his mind as well. “No… not yet.”
“Are you going to?” Lip presses.
“Yeah…” Ian says rubbing the back of his neck. “I have to, right? And… And I want to,” he softly adds. Lip nods at him. “I want him to know because it feels like this could be serious, you know? And it’s not going away so…”
“So you tell him,” Lip replies matter-of-factly.
“Ha, yeah,” Ian huffs out a sarcastic laugh. “It’d be a lot easier if he knew. It’s pretty fucking hard to take a handful of pills without being noticed and I am at his place a lot so if I forget to bring them, I’m kind of fucked.”
“You can’t miss any doses, man. You know wha—,”
“Yes, I do fucking know, okay?” Ian snaps, interrupting a conversation he’s had multiple times with multiple siblings.
“Ian,” Lip walks over to him, wrapping his arm around Ian’s shoulder, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him closer. “You’re my brother and I love you, and I want you to be happy. Mickey’s not going to be mad and he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to scare that easily.” Ian looks away. He wants to believe Lip, but he’s the one that’s scared.
“Hey,” Lip catches Ian’s eyes adding, “If he does, fuck him. Alright?”
It’s been a few days since his conversation with Lip and he’s been obsessing over it in his head. The piercing buzzer temporarily pulls him from his thoughts, but he quickly begins cycling again as he climbs the stairs to Mickey’s apartment. He’s decided he’s going to tell him tonight, for real this time, no take-backs.
When he reaches the top, the front door is cracked open so he can walk right in. He finds Mickey pacing back and forth with an annoyed look, his dramatic eyebrows knitted together. Ian kicks off his rain damp Nikes and quietly heads toward Mickey, gently touching his arm in acknowledgment as he passes. Mickey gives him a brief smile, putting his hand over Ian’s, before he pulls back, his face scrunching up again.
“I know that,” Mick snaps. One minute, he mouths to Ian holding up one finger. Ian nods and goes to the kitchen to grab a beer. When he turns around, Mickey’s already halfway down the hallway.
“Jesus Christ, I fucking know, okay?” he barks, kicking the bedroom door shut behind him.
Every bone in Ian’s body wants to creep outside of the bedroom door to try and figure out who Mickey’s talking to and about what. He twists the cap off his beer, tossing it onto the wooden coffee table, watching it settle next to the artist’s tablet. Fuck, he wants to go down there, but he knows that he won’t.
Mickey’s only gone for a couple of minutes. He comes back into the living room, tosses his phone on the table, and sits next to Ian, playfully bumping his shoulder with a soft hey. He grabs the beer out of Ian’s hand and takes a drink.
“Everything good?” Ian asks, nodding towards the bedroom, taking back the now half-empty bottle.
“Oh,” Mickey’s eyes briefly darts back and forth. “Yeah.”
“You sure?” Ian presses.
Mickey puts a hand around the back of Ian’s neck and gently pulls him over, kissing him and smiling against his lips. Ian knows what Mickey’s trying to do, he’s trying to distract him, and it’s an effective approach. He indulges the artist, and himself, for a minute or two, setting aside the bottle so he can cup the sides of Mickey’s face keeping them close. Mickey tries to escalate the kiss, licking against Ian’s lips, turning towards him to get more bodily contact. Ian can feel one of the artist’s hands sliding up his side, his hand slightly pushing up his shirt. He can tell Mickey is about to climb into his lap, continuing his escalation so Ian pulls back, breathing heavy, taking in Mickey’s classic what face.
“You sure?” Ian repeats.
“Yes,” Mickey groans, sitting back, fingers sliding across his eyes to meet at the bridge of his nose. “I’m fucking sure.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“Gallagher,” Mickey warns.
“Fine, fine,” Ian concedes. “You still want to go out tonight?”
It’s still kind of gross outside so before they even leave the apartment, they decide to Uber to the movie theater. Mickey tells Ian that there’s a pizza place across the street that, according to his coworker, has the best fucking crust. Ian snorts at the weird surfer dude-like tone Mickey puts on whenever he’s mocking someone.
They start to get ready, Mickey gathering his wallet and keys from the table while Ian goes to put his shoes back on. Oh hell yes, he tells himself when he sees his running shoes by the door, realizing that he must have forgotten them last weekend. He slides his feet into them and bends down to tie the laces, grateful he can let his Nikes dry out when he hears a buzz and sees Mickey looking down at his phone. They make their way downstairs, stepping out onto the front porch just as the Uber drives up. Climbing into the backseat, Ian makes small talk with the driver, asking all the polite questions that he’s sure the guy is tired of answering.
“Check this out,” Mickey tells him when there’s a lull in the conversation, handing over his phone. He has the Chicago Reader’s “Best of 2020” pulled up, an annual online poll where Chicagoans vote for their favorites in the city from the best bar to the best music venue to the best pizza, and apparently, the best tattoo artist. Scrolling, he sees that Mickey’s one of the finalists and he looks over to see him shyly biting the corner of his lip.
“Holy shit,” Ian exclaims. “Mick!” He keeps scrolling and sees the picture Mickey must have had to submit. It’s clearly a candid moonlighting as a professional shot thanks to portrait mode. Mickey’s actually kind of smiling, holding his machine with a black nitrile glove covering his hand. It’s clear he’s in the middle of a tattoo, but the client and the background are artfully blurred.
“This is really fucking cool,” Ian tells him, scrolling through the other finalists, some of which he recognizes as Mickey’s friends.
“Alright, alright,” Mickey tells him through a smile, reaching for his phone. “Give it back.”
Mickey plays it off like it’s no big deal, but Ian saw the smirk on his face as he handed over his phone and his subsequent blush when he congratulated him. It’s not surprising though, Ian knows Mickey’s good at what he does and he knows Mickey is well-known within the city.
“You know I’m gonna vote for you multiple times a day, right?” Ian jokes after they get out of the Uber and they’re standing outside the restaurant.
“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey replies, that cute blush making a comeback. Ian gives him a hard time, but he knows that Mickey knows he’s just playing. He’s proud of him and he’s excited.
After they walk inside, a host leads them to a booth across from the bar. They both look around at the art on the walls and sports paraphernalia above the bar, an interesting mix, but kind of cool. The wall next to them is exposed brick with a little lamp illuminating the wooden table from above.
Their server comes over to introduce herself, setting down menus in front of them and taking drink orders, Mickey a beer and Ian a Coke. They spend the next five minutes name-calling and playfully arguing over the best pizza toppings, ultimately ordering classic pepperoni. Mickey calls Ian disgusting for wanting an insane amount of vegetables while Ian counters that Mickey’s a neanderthal that needs to broaden his horizons.
“Broaden my horizons, huh?” Mickey cocks his eyebrow, taking a drink.
“Flirty bitch,” Ian mutters.
“Whatever, you fucking love it,” Mickey teases. “How was your shift?"
Ian goes into a story about this woman they transported to the hospital. She was in her 80s and fell at the nursing home she lives in, likely breaking one of her arm bones when she tried to catch herself. The area was already bruising and tender to Ian’s touch when they got there. She held his hand the entire ride with her unbroken arm and called him “Rusty” because of his hair.
“It’s sad though, I’d say half the calls we get are for elderly people,” Ian finishes just as the server brings their pizza over. After thanking her, Mickey grabs the spatula thing making sure the crust is cut all the way through.
“Gimme your plate,” he instructs, putting two slices on Ian’s than his own.
Ian’s the first to take a bite. The crust is dark, almost burnt looking, but apparently, it’s caramelized in the oven and that’s kind of their thing. It’s definitely crunchier than he expected. He takes another bite, watching Mickey do the same before he offers his review.
“It’s not bad…” he starts.
“But kind of weird, right?” Mickey finishes for him.
Their conversation lulls as they make their way through their drinks and slices. The server stops by to ask how everything is, both of them telling her it’s good and she leaves on the promise to return with more drinks.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Mickey mentions that his sister is coming to town at the end of next month. Knowing that Mickey’s always hesitant to talk about his family, easily becoming cagey, Ian treads lightly.
“Yeah?” Ian replies nonchalantly sipping his drink. “Where does she live?”
“Detroit,” Mickey tells him around a piece of pizza, just the slightest bit of sauce getting caught at the corner of his mouth. “She followed some shithead guy there, but when that went south, she decided to stay.” He shrugs, grabbing a napkin.
“Ah,” Ian affirms. “Is she staying with you?”
“Unfortunately,” Mickey dramatically sighs.
Ian wonders if Mickey will introduce them. He remembers her from history class, remembers her excessive eyeliner and take no shit attitude, but he doubts that she’d remember him.
“Anyway,” Mickey wipes his hands. “Should I be worried about that old lady?” Ian rolls his eyes, giving the dumb flirty artist across from him an unamused look, warning that yes, he should.
Ian can’t help but realize how much things have changed between them in a relatively short amount of time. He was so fucking awkward around Mickey at the beginning, every interaction feeling more cringeworthy than the last, although they’ve both admitted that the artist had a few fumbles of his own. Their embarrassment has steadily been replaced with fondness and ultimately it’s what brought them to where they are now. Brought them to a place where they spend their days texting back-and-forth and many of their nights together, the desire to be near each other growing more and more.
“Maybe it wasn’t that weird after all,” Ian states, leaning back in the booth, hand on his belly.
“Ya think?” Mickey replies, doing the same. They didn’t finish the entire pizza, but they definitely put in a respectable amount of work. “What time is it?”
Ian tells him they’ve got about 30 minutes before the movie starts. Mickey makes eyes with the server who comes over asking if they want dessert or the remaining few pieces boxed up. Ian politely tells her no then Mickey asks for the check. She smiles, taking their plates with her.
Once she brings the check, Mickey wordlessly hands it back with his card. When she returns, Ian watches him quickly sign the bill noting the sweet ass tip he leaves.
They work their way out of the restaurant, thanking their server one last time, and step out onto the sidewalk. The streets are still slick, cars making loud wooshes as they pass. Ian didn’t realize how cold the restaurant was until they’re out in the humid air, his skin ice cold to the touch.
Knowing that Mickey’s going to want to smoke before they go inside, Ian veers off to the side of the theater once they cross the street, far enough from the entrance that they won’t get dirty looks. Predictably, Mickey pulls out a lighter, tapping his pack of smokes against his palm. He lights one up, taking a hit then exhaling through his nose. He offers it to Ian, but the redhead shakes him off. Mickey leans his back against the wall, Ian watching the cigarette bounce between his lips as he talks.
After a few minutes, he flicks the cigarette down and steps on it, calling Ian a hippie when he half-heartedly suggests picking up the butt.
The theater lobby might actually be colder than the restaurant, Ian wondering if he should have grabbed a hoodie. He almost voices this thought but he doesn’t feel like being called a pussy, even though they both know Mickey’s going to be the fucking cold one in that cut-off shirt.
Waiting in line, they talk about the fact that neither of them has seen the first movie, but that it probably doesn’t matter. “It’s all the same shit anyway,” Mickey adds. Ian agrees with a nod knowing that despite their cynicism, action movies are comforting for both of them.
“We have to get popcorn,” Ian insists, pushing the ticket stub an apathetic teenager just ripped in half into his pocket.
“We just fucking ate,” Mickey scoffs.
“Oh well,” Ian responds, walking towards the counter with the artist following closely behind. The redhead orders a medium popcorn, requesting an insane amount of butter and salt, and a large drink for them to share. Mickey tosses a box of candy on the counter at the last minute, Ian gives him a knowing smirk. The artist also slides his card over to pay for their stuff despite Ian’s protests.
Walking down the dark hallway into the theater itself, they can see that it’s fairly empty. They climb the stairs, settling in the center of the top row. The makeout row Mickey tells him, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head, smiling in a suggestive sort of way that makes Ian laugh. They sit side-by-side with the drink in the cupholder between them.
Ian throws a few pieces of popcorn in the air, attempting to catch them on his tongue. He manages to get a few, but the rest bounce off Mickey’s arm leaving behind little buttery marks on his colorful skin.
“The fuck, Ian…” Mickey laughs while Ian reaches out to wipe away the grease spots. Mickey bats at his hand, taking the napkin to do it himself. “You’re a dick.”
Mickey reaches for the carton of Buncha Crunch in the cupholder to his right, ripping open one of the sides, and pouring some into his mouth.
“We just fucking ate,” Ian mocks in a high-pitched voice, Mickey punching his arm as the lights start to dim.
Towards the end of the movie, Ian starts to get real fucking antsy, bouncing his leg and struggling to pay attention. Every brush of their hands and flirty side glance that Mickey gives him reiterates just how good being with Mickey feels. He doesn’t want that to change.
His brain starts the familiar spiral of thinking about the conversation with Lip. The logical part of him knows that he should tell Mickey about his mental health before they get deeper, before it would be harder to pretend a rejection wouldn’t absolutely crush him. Another logical part knows that his diagnosis is just one part of his identity. He can’t control it and he’s worked really hard to accept that, but experience has told him that some people can't handle it.
The credits roll and the lights come on, bringing Ian back to the present. He grabs the empty popcorn container while Mickey grabs the empty drink and candy box. They toss them in the trash on their way out, once again making their way to the street.
“You coming over?” Mickey asks once they’re outside. Ian tells him yes if it’s cool, Mickey giving him an, of course, it fucking is look in return.
They decide to walk back to Mickey’s, the temperature having dropped a bit and the rain stopped.
“Aren’t we supposed to talk about our favorite parts or some shit?” Mickey asks, Ian huffing out a laugh, confirming that’s usually how it goes.
He vaguely listens to Mickey talk about guns and explosions and fast cars, about how it was bullshit so-and-so happened because there’s no fucking way it would have happened like that. Ian nods and responds at the appropriate times, the tone of Mickey’s voice cueing him in, but his mind is a million miles away.
Ian jerks suddenly, hands flying to his jean pockets, checking that he remembered his meds.
“What?” Mickey asks, startled, stopping next to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Uhh,” Ian waivers. “Thought I felt my phone.” Mickey furrows his brow but lets it go with a simple oh, seamlessly finishing his thought about how all the dumbass villain had to do was shut the fuck up and kill them so he could get away with everything.
When they get back to the apartment, Mickey heads for the bathroom and Ian for the kitchen. He grabs a cup from an upper cabinet, filling it with water from the sink, and downs his pills in one go. He wipes a few drops of water from his chin on the back of his hand and sets the glass on the counter. Putting his hands on either side of the sink, he rolls his head from side to side, feeling just how tense the muscles are in his neck and shoulders.
Ian doesn’t realize Mickey’s joined him until he feels the artist’s hands on his shoulders, pushing his thumbs into his tendons and rubbing in little circles.
“You good?” Mickey asks. Ian mmhmm ’ing in return. They stay like that for a minute or so before Mickey turns him around, keeping his hands on the redhead’s shoulders. “You feeling okay?”
Ian rests his hands on Mickey’s hips, meeting his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Told you not to eat all that popcorn. You wanna lay down?” the artist asks, unconvinced by Ian’s quiet response. Ian shakes his head.
“Wanna watch another movie?” Ian shrugs.
“Play video games?” Another shrug.
“Do you maybe want to stop playing 20 fucking questions?” Mickey playfully snarks. Ian runs his hands up his back and pulls him in close. He rests his chin in Mickey’s messy hair that smells like smoke and his tea tree shampoo, maybe a touch of sweat from walking around. He breathes in deep then places a kiss on the top of his head.
“Alright,” Mickey finally snaps, pulling back. “Why you being so fucking weird? You were fine earlier.”
And okay, maybe Ian’s being a little weird and maybe even a little dramatic, but he’s nervous and his heart rate is skyrocketing knowing that Mickey’s expecting a response, an explanation.
Part of him wants to lean forward, pulling Mickey into a heated kiss, pushing his tongue into the artist’s mouth, and using his own conversation-ending tactic against him. He knows how easy it would be to distract Mickey with a well-placed hand on his thigh and a nod signaling that they should head down the hall to the bedroom with an accompanying grin. But another part of him, a bigger part, wants to put everything out in the open.
“Can we go outside?” he asks, hoping the fresh air will help.
“Uh, sure,” Mickey replies, somewhat confused, but follows Ian onto the balcony. Mickey takes his phone and cigarettes out of his back pocket, setting them on the small table out there, and takes a seat, putting one of his feet up on the concrete ledge. Ian pulls another chair next to Mickey unsure of where to start.
“There’s something I want to tell you…”
“Okay?” Mickey lightly shakes his head, a confused look on his face. “So fuckin’ tell me.”
Mickey’s tone could be interpreted as aggressive or annoyed, but Ian knows him well enough at this point. He knows that Mickey’s worried about what he has to say, hiding behind his sharp tongue. He knows that Mickey’s probably doing his own spiraling, anxiety taking over, and Ian feels guilty about it.
Ian rubs at the back of his neck avoiding eye contact. He can feel Mickey watching him.
“Ian,” Mickey says softly.
He finally looks up, eyes meeting Mickey’s bright blue ones. He’ll never stop being amazed at how they stand out even in the dark.
“I’m…” Ian hesitates then growls in frustration. “I’m bipolar.”
“Okay,” Mickey replies, waiting for Ian to go on. He reaches for the pack of cigarettes, pulling two out, and lighting them together, handing one off to Ian.
“Okay,” Ian mimics, reaching out. “It’s, like, uh, for life and I can’t… I can’t really do anything about it besides manage the ups and downs.” He takes a deep, long drag; the nicotine doing very little to calm his nerves.
“What’s it, like, manic depression?” Mickey asks, tapping his smoke off the balcony ledge.
“Uh, yeah, it’s just not called that anymore,” Ian replies. “I, uh…”
Ian tells Mickey about feeling listless and impulsively stealing his brother’s ID so he could join the Army at 17. He watches Mickey’s face closely as he describes those first few days where he felt electric, eagerly taking on every drill or task given to him. He was finally living out his life-long dream and he was fucking good at it, or so he thought. After a few days, the drill sergeants and other recruits started expressing their frustration with his behavior, to put it lightly, taking issue with his constant running around and overstepping, but he didn’t see anything wrong, he was just passionate.
Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up when Ian tells him about the helicopter. The one he tried to fly and ended up destroying. He tells Mickey how that’s what led to his dismissal and how he doesn’t remember any details, all of this having been told to him secondhand by military police at his hearing; a hearing his siblings attended with him, raising suspicions about his mental state.
When he returned to the Gallagher house, his siblings hovered over him, constantly watching him and exchanging worried glances every time he tore through the kitchen talking animatedly about random shit or woke them up making pancakes at 3am. They were worried about him and it all came to a head when he returned from an eight-mile run to find Fiona and Lip waiting for him on the couch. They tried to voice their concerns, but all Ian heard was you’re acting like Monica.
“Shit,” Mickey whispers.
Ian goes on to explain that after months of refusing treatment, he realized that something was off and that he needed help. Fiona took him to the clinic for a mental health assessment and he was diagnosed with Bipolar I with psychotic features. He started taking medication that assists in keeping him level, reducing the intensity of the highs and lows. He also tells him that sometimes the meds stop working and he’ll need an adjustment or… or that a few times in the past, he’s stopped taking them altogether because he felt better and didn’t think that he needed them anymore. He tells him how that's never the case and the cycle just starts all over again.
And that’s what happened with his last boyfriend. They’ve had the previous partner talk, but Mickey didn’t know what contributed to the end. He didn’t know that Ian experienced a manic episode, something the ex-boyfriend apparently couldn’t weather with him.
“So it didn’t really work out because I was too much for him,” Ian looks down and starts tearing at the label on his beer bottle, the idea of being too much weighing heavy in the air.
Ian’s face warms, worrying that he’s said too much and Mickey’s going to find an excuse to call it a night, call it forever.
“What’s it like when you’re manic?” Mickey finally asks.
“Uhh, I just told you?” Ian responds confused. “I do crazy shit.”
“No, I mean what’s it feel like?” he clarifies. Ian takes another drag, slightly tilting his head. No one’s ever asked him that before.
“It…” Ian struggles to find the words. “It feels really good,” is what he lands on. Mickey’s eyebrows rise up. “I feel invincible like I can do anything and everything all at once. Like nothing can stop me. I have so much energy and so many ideas, it’s like a rush, and I, uh, I don’t always realize when it’s happening.”
“That makes sense,” Mickey says after a few seconds. “How that could feel good or whatever.”
“Yeah…” Ian trails off. “But it always leads to the crazy shit and eventually I crash.”
Thoughts of his first depressive episode flash in his mind. How he couldn’t leave his bed and couldn’t explain why. How his siblings kept trying and trying to get him up, whispering about him outside the door, which filled him with guilt. How every rub of his shoulder or invitation to leave the house would remind him that they had no idea what he was experiencing. How he could only muster up enough energy to yell at them to leave him alone.
“I get really depressed where I can’t get out of bed or do anything really and it lasts for days at a time. And nothing really helps, I’m just in this fog that I can’t escape, and half the time, I’m not even sure I want to escape it… or maybe I do, but I don’t have the energy. I don’t know, but it’s not all the time. I have periods where I’m kind of naturally evened out, so don’t think it’s, like, all the time or whatever. I take meds to help with it too, one’s a mood sta一”
“Ian,” Mickey cuts him off, voice gentle with just enough of an edge to get his attention, making Ian realize just how fast he had been talking.
They sit in silence, Ian shifting in his seat, unsure what to do or where to look, anxious for whatever Mickey might say next. He can feel Mickey glancing his way, but he’s too scared to meet it.
“You could leave shit here if, uh,” Mickey sniffs. “If you wanted to.” Ian turns to Mickey, catching him thumb at the side of his nose like he does when he’s anxious.
Ian’s heart fucking soars as he repeats what Mickey just told him in his head. You can leave shit here. Mickey isn’t scared… he didn’t scare him and maybe should have known that but he didn’t and now he does, he knows for sure.
“Yeah?” he asks, surprising himself with how even-toned it came out.
“Yeah,” Mickey nods, shrugging.
They’re quiet for a couple of minutes listening to the sounds of the city: the couple walking down the block laughing, the metallic grind of the L, the hum of cars driving past, the sirens in the distance.
“Tell me something, Mick,” Ian breaks the silence. “I’m feeling exposed here,” he quickly adds with a nervous laugh, eyes pleading with the artist.
Mickey shifts in his seat, biting the corner of his lip while he watches himself flick ash on the balcony edge.
“You know that kid in my photos… the ones at the shop?” he starts hesitantly. Mickey looks up catching the tail end of Ian’s nod. “He’s, uh… my son.”
Mickey’s eyes dart away from Ian as he inhales deeply, finishing his cigarette. He takes his time rubbing it out on the ledge, waiting for the redhead’s reaction.
“Oh…” Ian replies, Mickey’s eyes shyly meeting his own.
“Yeah,” Mickey huffs out a laugh then bites at his bottom lip, eyes looking to the side when Ian doesn’t say anything else. Ian’s thought about that picture, that kid since he was first in Mickey’s chair. Not in an obsessive kind of way, but it would cross his mind whenever he visited Mickey at the shop, figuring the kid was his nephew or something since they look so similar.
Ian realizes he’s probably been quiet for too long when Mickey lights up another cigarette, chain-smoking at this point. He pushes himself to speak before Mickey’s lungs give out, reaching over to pluck the cigarette from his mouth.
“So…” Ian practically sings. “How did that happen?” An amused look creeps across Ian’s face as he tries to lighten the mood, taking a hit. Mickey’s filled with relief as he takes in Ian’s goofy smile, allowing him to relax a little.
“Didn’t you learn that shit in school? When a guy dumps his load—” Ian cuts Mickey off, playfully kicking his leg.
“Seriously, how did that happen?” Ian questions. “If you want to tell me.”
“Well,” Mickey starts. “Svetlana was pretty much my last attempt at being straight.”
“Svetlana?”
“Shut the fuck up and let me tell the story, bitch,” Mickey smirks.
Mickey talks about tying one on with his brothers at the Alibi, Ian grinning at just how much their lives intersect even if it took them a while to catch up. He tells him how this stonefaced Russian bartender, Svet, gave him shit every time he pulled up to a stool, making a comment about his drinking or his tattoos.
Huffing out a laugh, Mickey explains that it was standoffish at first, but it developed a flirty edge when he started giving her shit back. Eventually, they ended up at her place, a nearby apartment that she shared with a roommate, and “banged.” Ian rolls his eyes at Mickey’s word choice.
He goes on to say that he and Svet hung out a couple of times, but they realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t going to work out to no fault of their own. They were both trying to hide pieces of themselves in each other, which lent itself to a friendship but not a relationship. Svet knew that Mickey was gay and she knew from working at the bar his father occupied between prison stints what that meant for him in the context of the Milkovich household, so she kept him close.
“She was kind of protecting me, I guess,” Mickey admits, multiple emotions flashing across his face at once.
Ian slowly nods, eyes softening and stomach souring. Mickey has told him bits and pieces about growing up with his abusive homophobic father, but he’s never gone into detail. Ian knows that’s another piece of himself that Mickey will tell him when he’s ready.
A few weeks later, when Svet learned that she was pregnant, she told Mickey that she was planning to keep the baby. Mickey was terrified at the thought of being a dad. It wasn’t something he ever wanted or even saw for himself given his own experiences, and he suspected Svet knew as much. He also suspected that’s why Svet told him that she didn’t expect anything from him, that she just wanted him to know and hear it directly from her.
“But it was my fucking kid, man,” Mickey says, rubbing his thumb against the smooth plastic sides of his lighter.
Ian nods again, quiet.
After a few seconds, Mickey goes into how everything works between them, how they co-parent 7-year-old Yevgeny. Mickey jokes that he didn’t get any say in the kid’s first name, but that they share the middle name of Aleksandr. Ian grins at the brief expression of worry that passes over Mickey’s face whenever he thinks he’s shared too much. Ian loves watching that face fade when Mickey realizes that it’s okay. He explains that Yev lives with Svet, but that he spends some weekends with him and that he sees him multiple times during the week.
“So, yeah,” Mickey takes a deep breath. “That’s how it happened.”
And then something clicks in Ian’s mind, memories of all the vague texts and conversations they had when Mickey couldn’t get together or had to change their plans last minute. All of the “I can’t this weekend” or “Something came up, I’ll call you later.” Their relationship was too new for Ian to ask more about it without seeming overbearing or maybe even a little crazy, but now it makes perfect sense.
He thinks about the second bedroom in Mickey’s apartment and how it’s obviously more than just a guest room. How Animal Crossing always pops up whenever they settle in to play Mario Kart on the Switch. How Mickey always has the best snacks around like fruit roll-ups and Doritos. How the calendar on Mickey’s fridge always has certain days highlighted. The more he thinks about it, the more Ian wonders how the fuck he could have missed this.
“I never meant for him to be a secret or anything, he’s not. I just...” Mickey trails off.
“You didn’t know how I’d react,” he offers. “Trust me, I get that.”
“Yeah, so that’s who I was talking to earlier,” Mickey tells him. “My baby momma.”
“It seemed a little.... hostile?” Ian finishes like it’s a question.
“Svet can be intense,” Mickey laughs. “But she’s a good mom; she loves that fucking kid. He’s, uh, got some school shit coming up and she apparently thinks I’m gonna forget.” The artist scoffs as if that’s the most ridiculous thing that could ever happen and Ian loves it.
They sit in comfortable silence, smoking and looking up at whatever stars they can manage to see through the city lights, reeling from the adrenaline that accompanies vulnerability and absorbing everything they just learned about each other.
“This doesn’t change anything, does it?” Ian asks, the question seeming loud in the quiet night.
“Nah, not for me,” Mickey says, exhaling smoke and turning towards him. “You?”
“Not at all,” he responds, exchanging soft smiles.