Chapter Text
Something’s wrong.
Ian knows it as soon as it happens — knows it as soon as Mickey squirms out from under his hands.
Mickey hasn’t squirmed away from him in years.
It starts as a soft denial, a press into Ian’s shoulder with a flat palm. A half-hearted, “C’mon, man — stop,” as Mickey tries to duck away, and it turns into a full-bodied recoil when Ian’s touch lingers a little too long, when he stalls in confusion and surprise.
Mickey’s shoulders hunch and he drops his head low; his gaze is firmly averted as he dips away, shaking off Ian’s touch.
Ian pulls back — of course he pulls back — but he doesn’t miss it, in that stalled, surprised breath. That flash of discomfort, that panic, that itch, when Mickey moves away.
He watches in confusion as Mickey rolls off the bed. He shimmies into some boxers before Ian knows what’s happening, then some sweatpants. Grabs a shirt out from their dresser and pulls it on with sharp, forceful tugs, a huff of breath hissing through his teeth.
Once he’s dressed, he bites at his lower lip and looks around, eyes flicking left and right.
Scanning for an escape, Ian knows. He knows all of Mickey’s expressions, his mannerisms, his tells — but this is one he hasn’t seen in a long time. Panicked, trapped, desperate for an out.
Ian doesn’t know what the fuck just happened, but a weight sinks into his stomach, coils tightening in his chest.
“Mick?” he hesitates, still a little breathless from what almost was. Skin-to-skin, Ian’s hands running down the ridge of Mickey’s abs as they pressed close together, and —
Mickey runs a thumb along his bottom lip. Sniffs, and won’t lift his gaze. “Gonna go for a smoke,” he says, gruff, and he’s gone before Ian can blink.
Ian reels through their day in hyper speed, trying to figure out what went wrong.
They’d had breakfast, gone to work. Mickey was in a fine mood, laughing, teasing, snarking as they made their deliveries. He was fine when they got home, kicking his boots off at the door as he made a dig at one of their neighbors they’d come across in the lot.
“Just ‘cause she’s got that shiny fuckin’ convertible parked outside she thinks she’s so much better than us,” he’d quipped, beelining it to the fridge to grab some beers. “We could get a convertible if we wanted to. And we’ll do it without leechin’ money outta five failed marriages, fuck you very much.”
And so it went. They drank their beers, made dinner, showered the grime of the day away in practiced ease.
But then they were in bed, post-shower flushes hot to the touch, and everything went wrong.
He gives Mickey some time, dresses slowly with worry tight in his chest. He crosses into the living room, catches sight of Mickey hunched over the balcony rail, cigarette red-hot against the swiftly-settling night.
He debates, briefly, whether he should retreat back to the bedroom or not. Leave Mickey alone to process whatever this is, or offer him company.
But his worry keeps him frozen to the floor, and he just stands there, like some idiot, watching Mickey make his way through that cigarette, and then another.
He lights up a third before he finally glances over his shoulder. His expression softens, fond and exasperated, and he nods his head towards the courtyard their balcony overlooks, beckoning Ian outside.
Ian feels like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar — but he can’t refuse, either, when concern sits so heavily in his throat he can barely breathe.
He slides the balcony door open slowly, steps into the open space beside Mickey. Shuts it with a quiet pull.
“You’re not subtle,” Mickey murmurs through a cloud of smoke, and passes the cigarette to Ian. “Felt you statin’ at me for like, ten minutes, man.”
Ian winces, taking the cigarette between his fingers. “Sorry.”
“‘S fine. Creepy, though.”
“You worried me.”
Mickey sighs, and rubs a hand over his face. “I just…” He trails off, shakes his head. “I dunno what the fuck is going on. Just freaked out. Felt like I had fucking… bugs, under my skin.”
Ian tries to think it through. Tries to think what could’ve happened, what he could’ve done to bring that kind of discomfort to the surface.
Ian had felt the panes of smooth, solid muscle under his hands — Mickey’s shoulders, and chest, and stomach — and he was beautiful. Everything had been perfect.
“Did I do something?” he wonders, and offers the smoke back, worry flooding his voice. Better to ask than assume he knows; it’s a lesson they’re both learning, slowly but surely.
“Nah,” Mickey dismisses, autopilot. He winces, bites his lip. Takes the cigarette back with careful fingers, and backtracks. There’s a lesson there, too. “You remember that... stupid fuckin’ fight we had?”
Ian smiles a little, his heart heavy. “Which one?” he asks, only half-joking. There have been a lot of fights, recently -- most of them stupid, all of them exhausting.
Taking a long pull, Mickey holds the smoke in his lungs for a beat before letting it out, squinting into the fading dusk. “The one that ended with Vee chewin’ us out in the middle of happy hour?”
Oh.
That one.
Guilt still churns in Ian’s stomach, when he thinks about that one. Weird guilt — shame and regret braided together into something ugly, tied off with a brawl in a bar he wishes he’d never started. They’ve made their peace with it, since then, through words and actions — or at least, Ian thought they had.
He doesn’t get a chance to reply, though, before Mickey’s pressing on. “I’ve never been fuckin’… big, man. And that’s cool? Don’t need to be six feet tall to knock someone’s teeth in, y’know. Can handle myself just fine.”
“I know you can,” Ian assures, because — was that ever in question?
He thinks about the insults they threw at each other, during that fight. Tries to find the common denominator, between then and now. A handful of remarks that were too-quick and tasteless -- also entirely untrue, though that matters less when the words were still said. Thrown like some metaphoric javelin right where it hurts.
Mickey had thrown his own spears -- ones that hurt, that have already made their impact known. Things that left Ian feeling unmoored for some time, after they'd come back together.
But it's been months, since then. They're doing well. They haven't brought it up, and he's surprised to hear that it's still sitting around in Mickey's head, begging for attention.
Usually, it's the other way around. Ian lingering, dwelling, stewing, and Mickey dutifully prying him away. Grounding him in the now, when everything starts getting hazy.
At a loss, he opens his mouth, but Mickey hurries on before he can try to make sense of it all. He speaks quick, like if he doesn’t say it all now then he never will; like he’ll lose the nerve, and the words will die in his throat.
“But my brothers,” he says, his breath coming in sharp puffs, “they were always bigger than me? Growin’ up? And I know it’s just — internalized whatever the fuck, Ian, but. My fuckin’ dad never let me forget it, y’know? That I was the runt of the litter. Some weak fuckin' shrimp, compared to them. And then I got your stupid voice in my head sayin’ shit from that fight, and I know it was forever ago, but I just — ”
He cuts himself off, takes a shuddering gulp of air.
Beautiful, Ian had called him, in the heat of their mingled breath. His hands had moved along soft, smooth skin, and he’d called him beautiful.
He is beautiful. Ian firmly believes that.
But maybe it was the wrong word to use. The wrong time. The wrong day.
Ian shifts forward, settles his weight on his elbows as he props himself against the rail. “I shouldn’t have said all that,” he admits, even though they’ve both long since apologized for the ordeal. “Back then, when we were fighting. The stuff about your body. I didn’t — I didn’t mean it, Mickey. We were just…”
“Rippin’ into each other,” Mickey supplies, and nods. “Yeah. I know. Dunno why I’m bein’ such a pussy about it.”
“Because it was hurtful.” Ian shakes his head, wants to build a time machine and take it all back. “And you’re allowed to be pissed at me when I say shitty things.”
“We both said shitty things, man. And I’m not pissed, I’m —”
Another catch. Another shudder of air. Another drag from the cigarette, held with shaky fingers.
Ian knows.
The runt of the litter, Mickey said. He made himself bigger with tattoos and bruises and a razor-sharp tongue. Fought his way back to the top of the family food chain, puffed out his chest; put his blood, sweat, and tears into showing Terry he’s a man, however he could.
Not a pussy. Not a fag. Not the runt.
A man.
Ian called him beautiful, today, and bugs had crawled under his skin.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he can’t help but ask, and something twists in his chest. “I could’ve — fuck, I could’ve tried to help.”
“What,” Mickey scoffs, humorless, “and risk gettin’ the PC police spewing shit at me about the construct of masculinity and body image and… I don’t know, gender roles, or whatever the fuck?”
Ian presses his lips tight, takes a moment to let it settle.
It is, to his own dismay, where his mind was heading. The idea that men can be beautiful, without being less than.
Mickey’s always had a little bit more at stake on it than Ian has — being seen as a man, in the “traditional” sense. His life depended on it, once upon a time, and Ian knows that’s a hard thing to shake.
Men are supposed to be rough. Jagged edges and bloody knuckles, big and imposing. Men were not small, men were not gentle, men were not tender. Men were not beautiful.
He wants to tell Mickey. He wants to tell Mickey “men can be anything, anything” but he stops himself.
He plucks the cigarette out of Mickey’s fingers, careful not to burn himself on the cherry. “Fair,” he concedes, and goes for a trying smile. “Promise I won’t go Gay Jesus on you, though, if you wanna talk about it.”
Mickey pushes out a breath through his nose, side-eyes Ian without moving his head. After a moment his expression softens and he drops his gaze down, bites at his lower lip.
“I don’t — I don’t hate it, when you say that stuff,” he murmurs, and won’t look at Ian. “Y’know. What you said tonight. Usually don’t hate it. I’m gettin’ better at it. But it just… sat wrong or somethin’ this time.”
Beautiful, Mick, he’d said. His hands had trailed along smooth, pale skin. You’re beautiful.
“I meant it,” he says, and holds the short stub out for Mickey to finish. It’s a gamble, could blow up in his face, but he says it. “You are beautiful. And manly," he hurries to add. "Handsome. All at the same time.”
Mickey shifts his weight, squirms.
He takes the olive branch, though. Brings it to his lips.
“Sexy,” Ian goes on, and smiles. He bumps Mickey’s hip with his. “Strong. You’ve got a great ass. Abs for days.”
“Alright,” Mickey steps in, and there’s a flush to his neck, a twist of lips around the cigarette that looks suspiciously like the ghost of a smile. “I get it.”
“I can keep goin’, though. Want me to keep going?”
“No, I do not want — ”
“Have you seen your arms? Dunno how that’s fair. You haven’t lifted anything heavier than the car keys in months, and you just walk around looking like this.”
“Ian.”
But he’s smiling, so Ian continues. The tension is leaving his shoulders, he’s leaning further into Ian’s space, so he continues.
“Your legs, Mickey — fuck, I don’t think that’s legal. Your thighs? A privilege, to have full-time access to. Truly a gift.”
A laugh, a shoulder-check, short puffs of smoke in the air. “Fuck off.”
“Great ass.”
“You said that already.”
“I really like your ass, Mick.”
“Calm down.”
Ian smiles, shifts a little closer. Their arms brush, and Mickey leans into it.
“And you’re smart,” Ian continues, quieter. “Loving. Forgiving. That makes you beautiful, too, y’know. Your giant fuckin’ heart.”
Mickey’s whole face changes, at that, morphs into something wavering — he blinks, and blinks again, jaw going tight as he curls his bottom lip in, bites at the inside. He swallows hard, stubs the cigarette out on the wall next to him.
Ian hesitates, taps his thumbs against the railings. “It’s okay,” he says after a long moment, and tries to keep his voice open. “To not… always be okay with it. To have days where it doesn’t sit right. You just gotta tell me. So I can stop, or help.”
“I’m tryin’,” Mickey manages, and it’s a weird croak, rough and desperate. “He’s — he’s in my head, man. I’m tryin’ to unlearn all this shit, but it’s just — ”
“I know,” Ian assures, and his heart breaks, just a little bit. “Mick, I know. You’re doing good. Fuck, you’re doing so good.”
“I’m trying,” Mickey says again, pleading, begging Ian to understand. His fingers curl tight around the railing, knuckles white with strain.
Ian reaches over, covers one tense hand with his own. Mickey’s is small, totally encased by his own, and he wishes there was an easier way to do this. To comfort, and heal.
Mickey sniffs. Brings his other hand up to scrub at his face. “The real kicker’s that I — I look at you, y’know? And I think, fuck, he’s beautiful. He's like the fuckin' sun, and he's beautiful. And it’s totally fine. It’s only wrong when it’s me."
Because he has to be tough, Ian fills in — he has to be dirty, and sharp, to make up for it. Split lips and black eyes and bloody knuckles. He can't be that.
Ian squeezes his fingers. Ducks his head, trying to catch Mickey's eyes. "You want me to stop? Saying shit like that?"
But Mickey only shakes his head, swiping quickly over his face again. "No,” he denies, “I -- usually it's fine. Dunno what the fuck happened this time."
"Some days can just be harder, I think.” He pulls his hand up Mickey’s arm, around to the back of his neck. He deflates under Ian’s touch, tension draining from his shoulders, and Ian runs a hand down his spine. “Jesus, Mickey -- figured you of all people should get that."
Blue eyes flit to him, rimmed in pink, but clear nonetheless. "Whaddya mean?"
Ian huffs a short breath, a quiet laugh. "I mean look at how fucking patient you are with me.”
Ian’s had bugs under his skin, too. Bees in his skull, buzzing in his blood. Days that are too much, or entirely too little. Days he can’t stomach being touched, without thinking about body glitter and thumping bass lines.
"That's different."
"It's not, Mickey. I don’t have a monopoly on stubborn, trauma-based hang-ups.”
And he’s waiting for Mickey to push back, waiting for a “fuck you, Gallagher” or an “I don’t got any fuckin’ trauma, man” or even another shake-off, another desperate escape.
He’d let him, if Mickey wanted to. If Mickey needed to escape, he’d let him.
But Mickey just melts into his side, hangs his head down low between his shoulders. He picks absently at some chipping paint on the railing and murmurs a quiet “yeah”, his only response.
And Ian stays with him, as the night continues to settle around them. They wait it out on the balcony, as the sky grows dark, as the windows in the distance grow bright, as the nighttime breeze pushes gently against their skin.
A woman walks her dog through the courtyard, and the dog barks at them. She scolds them for smoking that close to the building, and it makes Mickey laugh. He lights up a second cigarette, just to rile her up, and she stalks away with a huff that has Mickey’s eyes crinkling.
He’ll be okay. He will.
Later, in bed, Mickey mumbles into Ian’s shoulder. Doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him, when he admits his mom used to call him that, too, when Terry wasn’t around. Beautiful.
“Dad caught her, once. Knocked a tooth out. Said she was gonna turn me into a fag, if she kept talkin’ like that.”
Ian holds him tighter, as close as he can.