Chapter Text
Exam season came and went, and before Mickey knew it, he was officially free from all responsibilities for three glorious weeks.
He was pretty sure he did well on all four of his finals, though his optimism was almost entirely because of Ian’s semi-successful attempts to boost his confidence.
“You have the hottest tutor in the program. I wouldn’t let you fail,” he said one morning, watching Mickey relentlessly press refresh on his Canvas app.
Even though he did okay on his midterms, which gave him some leeway with his finals results, he was still nervous as shit. Whether he played in the next portion of the season was entirely dependent on these grades.
“The fuck does your attractiveness have to do with anything?” Mickey mumbled, furrowing his brows at Ian.
Ian shrugged.
“Dunno. Makes your face all red when I say it though, which is kind of cute,” he responded.
Before Mickey had a chance to come up with a retort, Ian swooped down and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He stood up, gave him a cheeky wink and set off to work without another word.
Mickey ignored the heat radiating from his cheeks, and the sweat forming on his brow, in lieu of refreshing his Canvas app a hundred more times.
*
Not only did the end of finals bring about the anxious march towards the posting of results, it also saw Ben and Aria’s departure for New York, leaving Ian and Mickey alone in his large, empty apartment.
Ian was working a lot in the lead up to Christmas, most of the other casual managers back at home, wherever that was, for the holiday break.
It kind of sucked, Mickey missing Ian whenever he pulled himself and his furnace of a body out of bed early in the morning to open up the shop. But his time alone in the apartment allowed Mickey to go into full on planner mode with little distraction.
He was planning one hell of a night. Christmas Eve. Romance overload. He was finally going to tell Ian how he felt.
He even went so far as to use the Moleskine notebook Aria had gotten him as an early Christmas present to jot down his ideas.
The night would begin with dinner, consist of a couple of stops around Ann Arbor, before ending with his confession on the rooftop of his building, serenaded by the snow and the stars.
Aria had forced Mickey to watch enough rom-coms with her for him to get an idea of what was considered romantic and what wasn’t.
Although he couldn’t recite a single one of their plots, he guessed that his subconscious had been taking notes without his consent, because when he had told Ben and Aria his plan before they left, Ben shook his hand proudly and Aria squealed and jumped up and down.
His stomach hurt whenever he thought about it -- not in a bad way, but in more of a ‘if this goes badly I’ll punch Ben and move to a different city’ way.
He just had to make it to December 24th intact.
________________________________
In the end, Ian’s hectic work schedule ended up being a blessing in disguise, because it meant Mickey had minimal chances of ruining the night by spoiling his plans or telling Ian prematurely.
They woke up lazily on Christmas Eve, Ian’s arms wrapped around Mickey and their legs entangled, before Ian carefully got up to get ready.
Ian said he had work, and then some errands to run, but he would be back in time to head to their dinner.
After Ian had left, Mickey stretched out in bed, palming his sleep-dreary eyes, as he ran through the list in his Moleskine of the last few things he needed to get done before tonight.
*
Mickey was on hour three of trying to put a decent outfit together when he mentally chastised himself for not picking one out before today. He’d now spent three full hours trying on every possible combination of clothing in his closet. He was honestly considering taking the bus up to the mall to get a whole new outfit, because not one of the things he’d tried on felt right.
When after another thirty minutes, and several Google searches later, he still had nothing to show for his strenuous effort, he decided he needed to take a different approach.
It was time to call in the big guns. He had no choice.
He opened his FaceTime app, and scrolled to find the contact he was looking for. He took a deep breath and pressed the ‘call’ button, crashing down onto his bed amongst the pile of clothes.
It rang once, twice.
“Mick!” Aria yelled when her face came into view. “Merry Christmas Eve!”
She was outside somewhere, walking along a crowded sidewalk and wearing Ben’s favourite beanie.
“You texted me that this morning,” he said.
“And I’ll do it again later,” Aria replied, swerving around some people and serving them the stink eye. “It’s my second favourite day of the year.”
“Where the fuck are you?” Mickey asked, squinting, trying to make out the background of where she was walking.
“Manhattan!” Aria said, excitedly. “We’re going to see the big Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center and take some pictures for the Gram. Oh, Ben’s here! Say hi.”
She nudged Ben beside her and he popped his head into the frame.
“Hey, Mick!” he said. “We miss you.”
He honestly missed them too. He was beyond happy with his choice to stay back for Ian, but he had loved spending Christmas with them the past two years.
He finally felt what it was like to have a real family.
Before college, Mickey had never celebrated Christmas. There was no point. Terry wouldn’t buy them gifts and anything they got for each other he’d just pawn off to his derelict customers.
One year, when Mickey was fifteen, Mandy had attempted to change that. She had everyone pitch in $25 for food, and offered to make the entire meal as long as everyone agreed to show up and “behave.” With Terry out on a bender slash business deal, Mickey guessed she figured that it was it was now or never.
On Christmas Day, Mandy went all out – decorating the house, and fixing the table for Mickey and his brothers. It was a massive spread, with 4 courses, and she’d even created a centerpiece out of some tinsel and some roses she’d stolen from down the block.
Mickey had never seen Mandy so excited for anything in his life.
Not even two minutes after they sat down to eat, the front door burst open and a stampede of men came crashing through -– led, of course, by the anti-Christ himself.
The meal was ravaged within five minutes, and Mickey still had Mandy’s broken, devastated face burned into his memory.
None of them ever attempted to host Christmas again. Not even after Terry’s death.
So to say that Christmas in New York with his best friends and their generous and welcoming family was a culture shock for Mickey was an understatement.
“Miss you guys too,” he admitted. “But I miss Mrs. Owens the most. Save me some of her mashed potatoes.”
“God. She won’t stop asking about you,” Ben groaned, rolling his eyes. “Asks us how we can live with ourselves knowing we left you alone like 30 times a day. It’s been a great time so far, so thanks so much for that.”
Mickey snorted.
They were silent for a moment, as Mickey watched each of their half heads look around in unison and begin to walk in the opposite direction, before plopping down on a bench.
“What’s going on, Mick?” Aria asked as her full face came into view. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Mickey replied. “Just need some advice.”
Aria’s face softened at his words, a subtle smile playing on her lips.
“Sure, love. What’s up?”
Mickey took a deep breath and flipped the camera to face the disaster that was his room, before focusing it on his bed where the mountain of clothes lay.
He turned the camera back until his face filled the screen again.
“I don’t know what the fuck to wear tonight and all my clothes suck,” Mickey sighed, running his hand over his face.
Aria tilted her head and gave him a pitying look.
“God this is so cute, I want to scream, UGH!” She momentarily left the camera’s view and all Mickey could make out was the back of a bench and a muffled yell.
“Can you come back and help me now?” Mickey asked. “Because I’m kinda panicking. Like I don’t know how fancy or casual this is supposed to be. I don’t know what he’s wearing, so what if he comes out wearing a suit and I’m sitting there in jeans and a t-shirt? Then the whole vibe is off and he’s thinking ‘ well he clearly doesn’t give a shit about this, so what the fuck am I wasting my time for? ’”
Aria nodded in understanding.
“Okay, then why don’t you wear something a little fancier?” she asked.
“Yeah, okay see, I thought of that already,” Mickey said, sitting back against the wall. “But what if I put on dress pants and a button up or something, and he wears jeans and a t-shirt? Then he’s thinking ‘the fuck? It's just dinner, what the fuck is he doing?’ He starts to sense something is going on. I start sweating. He realizes I like him and his stupid face while we’re sitting down for dinner. Suddenly, he’s saying he has to go to the bathroom and the next thing I know he’s climbed out the window like Rachel from Friends and has shipped himself off to the fucking Arctic or some shit so he can forget about my whole existence. Meanwhile, I'm sitting there wondering whether things would have been different if I’d just picked the right outfit.”
Aria blinked at him, completely silent and lost for words. She glanced over at Ben momentarily before focusing back on Mickey.
“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Ben snorted. “You should write scripts. I swear any soap opera would love to have you on board.”
“I'm serious, asshole,” Mickey replied, rolling his eyes dramatically. “And then I'll curse your name for talking me into this shit in the first place.”
“Mickey, he's not going to run away based on your outfit. I swear t-–”
“Will you two shut the fuck up for a second please?” Aria half yelled. “I’m trying to think!”
They both fell silent, focusing on Aria’s concentrated face as she appeared to mull something over in her brain.
“Okay, I got it!” she exclaimed after a few painful moments. “Where are your black jeans?”
“On me,” Mickey answered.
“Perfect! I’m gonna need you to go to Ben’s closet.”
“What?” Mickey and Ben asked, in sync.
“You heard me. No questions.”
Mickey reluctantly got off his bed and padded over to Ben’s room. He opened his closet door.
The closet was filled to the brim with a vast array of colour coordinated pieces, all sorted by item type. There was a reason Ben had been voted ‘best dressed’ and ‘most likely to drop out and become an influencer’ on the team for two years running.
“Okay, do you see a black, half-turtleneck looking thing in there somewhere?” Aria asked.
Mickey searched in the black sweater section and found two sweaters that fit that description.
“There’s two.”
“Oh yeah. The soft one, not the one with the scratchy material that gets my face all itchy when I rub up against his sandpaper of a shoulder,” Aria answered, gesturing towards Ben.
He could feel Ben’s eye roll from Michigan as he threw the soft sweater on Ben’s bed and returned the other to its home.
“Okay. Now do you see a charcoal-ish coat anywhere?”
Mickey found it quickly, hanging up in the coat section, and pulled it out, waving it in front of his camera.
“Okay. Put me down and try both of those on with your black jeans and your white converse,” Aria said, all business, no pleasure.
Ben was a good three and a half inches taller than Mickey, so he was a little hesitant to believe the outfit would work.
Nonetheless, Mickey did as he was told, pulling the sweater over his head, and then the coat. He searched for his converse and pulled them on before grabbing his phone and giving himself a once over in the mirror.
Oh. Shit.
He actually looked pretty damn good.
“Well show me my creation, please,” Aria said impatiently from his hand.
Mickey flipped the camera so it was facing the mirror, offering a full body shot to Aria and Ben.
“Ha!” Aria exclaimed. “See? Not casual and not overly fancy. Literally right in the middle. Now can you stop worrying about him hightailing it to the Arctic? Because you look fucking good.”
Mickey checked himself out in the mirror again. Damn. He did look fucking good.
“If I was gay, I’d totally reciprocate your feelings if you were in that outfit!” he heard Ben yell from off camera. He rolled his eyes and decided to ignore him.
“Thanks, Aria,” Mickey said, flipping the camera back to his face and heading back into his bedroom. “You saved the entire trajectory of my life.”
“Anything for you, honey,” Aria smiled. “And if he doesn’t tell you how fucking good you look, then you need to jump through the window and leave him in the dust because we won’t be taking that energy with us into the new year, let me tell you.”
Mickey chuckled at his insane friends, and steered the conversation elsewhere.
Mickey asked what their Christmas plans were, and almost died of delight when he heard that Ben’s mom was making them go Christmas carolling that night. He told Aria he’d pay her good money to document Ben throughout the entire experience.
“Alright. I’ll let you go,” Mickey said, after Ben and Aria were joined by more family and their voices were drowning out. “Thanks for the help, Ar.”
“You’re very welcome, handsome.” Aria replied through a soft smile.
“Sorry to ruin the moment,” Ben said, out of frame once again “But, Mick, if you and Ian are planning on fucking, I’m gonna have to insist that you do it out and away from that coat. It’s just…it’s really expensive. And I’d prefer not to have to take it to the dry cleaners with… you know, any bodily fluids on it…”
Mickey decided a wink and an abrupt hang up was the best way of handling that request.
Mickey flopped down onto his bed and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
Now all that was left to do was wait.
________________________________
Their reservation was at 7pm, so naturally Mickey started to get ready at 4pm.
By 4:10pm he was dressed and his hair was done, perfectly gelled and coiffed in that effortless I didn't even try but actually tried super hard look. That left him with just under three hours to sit uncomfortably on the couch, watching TV and stressing about the night ahead of him, waiting for Ian to arrive.
Thankfully, for his brain and his entire mental well-being, Ian arrived a little after 6pm.
Mickey opened the door to see a smiling Ian on the other side.
Ian gave him a quick once over, his mouth immediately dropping open, almost comically, as he stared at Mickey wordlessly.
“Uh. Hi?” Mickey said awkwardly. “You good?”
“Uh, I -– yeah,” Ian stammered, licking his lips and staring Mickey up and down again. “I just -– wow.”
Mickey raised his eyebrows.
“Is there something on my face?” Mickey asked, confused.
Ian snorted, and looked down shyly, kicking Mickey’s sneaker with his own, before looking up to meet Mickey’s eye. Green on blue.
And then, in a move that made him want to die, Ian surged forward and took Mickey’s face in his hands, kissing him so recklessly and so passionately for a few beats, before pulling away abruptly.
He rested his forehead on Mickey’s who was, despite being an athlete, completely out of breath.
“There’s nothing on your face, idiot,” Ian said quietly. “You just look really fucking good.”
Mickey exhaled shakily and tried his best to play it off casually even though he literally felt like he was melting and could feel his cheeks reddening by the second.
“Gonna go get ready,” Ian said, pulling back and giving him a warm smile before walking towards Mickey’s bedroom.
Mickey stood there for a moment, boneless and statuesque, trying to wipe the smirk off his face. He could still feel the phantom presence of Ian’s warm hands from where they had briefly touched his cheeks.
He made his way to the island in the kitchen and leaned up against it, far too jittery and nervous to sit down or do anything other than play with the hem of his shirt and practice Aria’s deep breathing exercises.
His phone vibrated a couple of times in his pocket. He pulled it out to see four messages from his group chat with Ben and Aria.
Aria (6:33PM): Good luck tonight, our little romantic!
Aria (6:33PM): We love you so fucking much 🥰🥰🥰
Ben (6:33PM ): go get your man!!!
Ben (6:33PM): ur gonna do great. don’t be nervous. love you bro 💛
Mickey smiled down at his phone. He was so lucky to have them.
Aria (6:34PM): Not the yellow heart, Ben. Jesus fuck
Ben (6:34PM): oh fuck, sorry. i forgot 😶
Mickey (6:35PM): thanks
Mickey (6:35PM): love u guys too
“Hey. I’m good whenever you are,” Ian’s voice broke his concentration as he emerged from Mickey’s bedroom.
Mickey glanced up and was really fucking thankful that he was leaning against the counter, because Ian’s outfit threatened to take him out right there and then.
He was wearing grey pants, and a white button up with a red pullover. He had his glasses on, which Mickey knew was a targeted attack on his well-being because he also knew Ian had a fresh supply of contacts in the bathroom. His hair was subtly spiked up in a messy quiff, and Mickey wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through it, yank hard and kiss the fucking life out of him.
He stood there, mouth wide open, gawking like a fucking idiot.
“Mick?” Ian asked, a knowing smirk on his lips. “You good?”
“Yeah. Yup,” Mickey said quickly, pushing himself off the counter. “Just, uh -– feeling kind of underdressed now. Might have to go change my shirt -–”
“Yeah. I don’t think so,” Ian interrupted him, taking three giant giraffe steps until he was standing in the space in front of Mickey, blocking his way to the bedroom. Ian grabbed onto the lapels of Mickey’s jacket, and looked down at him with an expression he could only describe as fond.
“The only way this outfit is coming off is if I’m the one doing it,” he said quietly, his mouth quirking into a mischievous grin.
Mickey snorted at the insinuation, and reached out to run his hands up and down Ian’s sides.
“Yeah. Okay, Stud,” he said to Ian’s chest, because honestly, he wasn’t sure he could look at the hair-glasses-stubble combo that Ian had going on and still be able to form coherent sentences. “C’mon. Gotta get going. Reso’s in 20.”
________________________________
The Earle, which was about a six minute walk from Mickey’s apartment, was a French-Italian restaurant. Ben had recommended the place when Mickey was avidly searching for somewhere with the right I’m gonna tell the guy I’ve been fucking all semester I caught feelings for him vibe.
They walked side by side, knocking elbows every so often, treading carefully so as not to slip on the icy sidewalk. Mickey could feel Ian looking over at him occasionally, but every time he’d look back, Ian would quickly avert his eyes to the ground, a small smirk playing on his lips.
It was juvenile, but it also made Mickey’s heart flutter something fierce.
They made it to the restaurant and checked in with the host at the entrance. The place was about half full, the lighting ambient and dim, soft jazz music playing in the background. The overall mood was casually romantic which, in hindsight, was pretty much the exact vibe Mickey had been going for.
“Your table should be ready in five minutes,” the hostess told them, smiling warmly.
“Thanks,” Mickey nodded, as he took a couple of steps toward the seats in the waiting area.
They sat and Ian nudged him.
“This place is really nice,” he said, looking around at the restaurant. “Have you been here before?”
“Nah,” Mickey replied, shaking his head. “Ben recommended it. He said he took Aria here on their first date or some shit, so -–”
He knew the second the words left his mouth that he’d overshared and was currently turning bright red. He cringed and shut his eyes for a second, before chancing a glance over at Ian to try and play off the fact that he’d just outright suggested this dinner was a date. Ian was staring at him, neutrally, in such a way that Mickey hoped he hadn’t caught his slip up.
“-- uh. Plus it was one of the only places around here that didn’t have a preset menu, surprisingly...”
Ian tore his eyes away from him a little too quickly and nodded, his gaze now focused over at the bar. A distracted expression settled on his face.
The reaction triggered panic in Mickey’s chest, as he instantly knew that he’d fucked that up somehow. He racked his brain, trying to come up with something to say that would fix it, something that would take that look off Ian’s face.
Mickey nudged him in the arm.
“He also told me that their steak is really fucking good, and you went on a ten minute rant a couple weeks ago about how you'd never tried steak but really wanted to, so…”
Ian looked back at him, his eyes twinkling again behind his glasses, as he bit his inner cheek.
Before he could respond, the hostess called Mickey’s name to indicate their table was ready.
They followed her to the back of the restaurant where she led them to a secluded table in the corner, that was being gently illuminated by a candle on the table and warm wall fixtures around them.
“Your server will be with you shortly,” the hostess said, as she put the menus down and Mickey and Ian took their seats.
She left them to their own devices, and they both just kind of awkwardly stared at each other.
This was the first time that Mickey had faced Ian head on since they were standing in the kitchen, and Mickey was convinced that he’d never seen a more beautiful human in his life. There was genuinely no comparison.
It was like Mickey had been seeing the world in black and white, or a washed out sepia. And then he met Ian.
Ian picked up the menu in front of him, his forefingers tapping along its edge.
“Did you say they have steak?” he asked in an excitable tone that was incredibly endearing.
“Yeah, I think so,” Mickey said, as if he hadn’t scrolled through the online menu, triple checking to make sure that steak was still on it. “Wanna order an appetizer? Fuckin’ starving.”
Ian flipped his menu over, eyes flickering over the page beneath his glasses.
“Bruschetta looks good,” he said.
Mickey nodded in agreement as a waiter approached their table, introducing himself as ‘Paul’ as he began to fill up their water glasses.
“Can I get you started with anything to drink?” he asked.
They ordered a coke each, plus the bruschetta, and the waiter nodded politely before leaving.
They each took nervous sips of water, before Ian cleared his throat and Mickey’s favourite smile made an appearance.
“So,” Ian said, leaning back in his seat. “Do you usually stay in Michigan for Christmas?”
“Nah. Usually go to New York with Ben and Aria,” Mickey answered as nonchalantly as possible.
Ian raised a brow at him. He looked genuinely confused.
“Why wouldn’t you go this year?”
“Uh.” Mickey felt the back of his neck heat up, unease settling in his chest. “Told you, needed to work on some hockey stuff so I don’t completely suck when the season starts again,” he said, looking back down at his menu and pretending to read the appetizer side again. He’d probably be able to recite the whole thing by the end of the meal.
Ian didn’t answer right away, forcing Mickey’s gaze back up to him.
“You haven’t been to the rink once this week,” Ian stated. It wasn’t accusatory, but merely an observation. A fact.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” Mickey replied, because it was all he could come up with.
Mickey scratched the back of his head awkwardly, heat flooding his cheeks as he took another sip of water.
“I was actually supposed to go with them,” he admitted suddenly. “I just…”
He shook his head and let out a breath of a laugh.
“I just didn’t want you to be alone for Christmas,” he finished, not meeting Ian’s eye, looking down at his hands in his lap. “I know you have a big family and shit, so it’d probably be hard for you to be away from them for the holidays.”
He heard a shaky exhale from across the table.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Ian said, after a deafening silence.
Mickey peered back up at him, the expression on his face unrecognizable.
“I know,” he replied, not missing a beat.
He didn’t want to play this off like he usually did.
He desperately needed Ian to know that he wanted to spend Christmas with him. That he wanted to spend all stupid holidays with him for as long as Ian would have him. That Bobby Clarke , a hockey hall of famer and Mickey’s number one inspiration, could have called and invited Mickey over for the holidays and Mickey would have rejected him if it meant he got to spend it with Ian instead.
Ian stared at him, his eyes flickering around Mickey's face, his bottom lip pulled into his mouth. He scooted his chair closer to the table and looked like he was going to reach for Mickey’s hand but changed his mind halfway through and grazed Mickey’s shoe with his instead.
“Mick -–” Ian said, before he was interrupted by Paul bringing out their drinks.
Mickey decided he hated Paul.
“Are we ready to order?” he asked brightly, taking his notepad out of the pouch on his apron.
They ordered their entrees –- Ian getting the Skirt Steak and Mickey the Roasted Chicken.
“I’ll have your appetizer out to you soon,” Paul said before he left them again.
Mickey looked back to Ian, who was already staring at him, grinning wide enough to make Mickey’s breath hitch.
“The fuck you lookin’ at?” Mickey asked, playfully kicking at Ian’s shoe under the table.
“You,” Ian replied, simply. “Just…really fucking appreciate you, that’s all.”
Mickey’s heart sped up as a tender smile broke out on his face.
”Yeah,” Mickey agreed. “Me too.”
“I’m glad you appreciate yourself,” Ian said annoyingly, ruining whatever moment they’d just had. “Self love is very important.”
“Man, shut the fuck up,” Mickey replied, kicking his shoe with more force.
Ian was snickering as their bruschetta arrived, and they talked about their past Christmas’ as they ate.
They talked about what they normally did -– Mickey only really mentioning the last two in New York, and Ian launching into a full rundown of what the day normally looked like for the Gallaghers. Which included keeping the magic of it alive for his youngest brother.
It never failed to surprise Mickey how they never seemed to run out of things to talk about, especially considering the countless hours they spent together and the fact that Mickey, traditionally, wasn’t much of a talker. It was almost alarming how much Ian was able to get out of him.
Ian stole the rogue tomato chunks that were left on Mickey’s side as the waiter came by to take their empty plates. Once Paul had left, Mickey noticed Ian fidgeting under the table.
“Hey, uh. I got you something” Ian said suddenly, as he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, nicely wrapped box.
Mickey furrowed his eyebrows, looking from the box in Ian’s hand up to his nervous face over and over again.
“The fuck, Gallagher?” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t show up with a gift and not tell me about it! Now I look like a dick!”
“You are a complete dick, but not because of that,” Ian joked.
Mickey rolled his eyes, and Ian snorted.
“Trust me, you’ll be so underwhelmed when you actually open it, it’s just --” Ian cut himself off, pausing to shrug nervously and find his next words. “It’s honestly nothing. Kind of stupid really, but, I don’t know. Just. Here.”
He slid the box across the table to Mickey, who picked it up delicately and stared at it in his hands.
He couldn’t remember the last time he received a gift from someone that wasn’t Ben or Aria. Or Adams, who, the other day, took it upon himself to gift Mickey a couple of his old stones that he “no longer felt connected to.”
Mickey would take to the grave the fact that one of them -– the one that Adams explained was for “good luck and fortune” -- was currently in his pocket.
He fiddled with the box, the thought of Ian going out of his way to get him something warming him at his core.
“You gonna open it or just stare at it?” Ian asked.
“Fuck off Gallagher,” he chuckled as he unwrapped the paper to reveal the box.
He lifted the lid, and almost gasped at what he saw.
Inside the small box was a hockey card.
A hockey card with a picture of him travelling up the ice with a puck, Mickey recognizing it as one posted on the Wolverine Instagram page a few weeks ago, his name and #15 placed at the bottom.
He flipped it over to see that all of his stats from last season were listed, including that he was voted MVP for the season.
This felt like a fever dream. Mickey had quite literally spent his entire childhood dreaming of this exact moment -– the moment that he’d be printed on a hockey card. The fact that he was currently holding one in his hands was surreal to the point that he was moved beyond words.
Mickey glanced up at Ian and tried to form words, but all that came out was a garbled, stuttering noise.
“I know you’ll probably get a bunch of these made for you when you make it,” Ian said, softly. “But I thought I’d just get you started now.”
Mickey shook his head, looking back down at the card, and he noticed that his hands were shaking.
“Oh,” he said, pulling Mickey out of his trance as he pulled another card from his wallet. “This was the first draft. I kind of like this one more, but, I dunno.”
Mickey took the card and snorted softly.
It had a different picture of Mickey, one that Ian had clearly taken when Mickey wasn’t paying attention. His hair was pushed back and he was looking down, his face scrunched up and focused, and he recognized the background as study room 15.
He snickered at the words “Tiny (not so) Arrogant Monster” that had replaced the section where his name and number should have been.
He then flipped the card over, and immediately burst out laughing.
Ian had taken the liberty of writing some of his “special skills” where the stats normally went. His skills, according to Ian, were listed as blowjobs, cutting in line, procrastinating, cereal connoisseur, and chasing ball with stick.
“Dickhead,” Mickey said fondly.
He could feel a lump forming in his throat that he tried his best to swallow down.
“I -–” he started, shaking his head. “I don’t think you know how much this means to me. So thank you.”
Mickey remembered the conversation they’d had a month back. The one on the roof when he had told Ian that he used to collect hockey cards as a kid. That he wanted desperately to be on one, one day. That Terry had sold them all and broken Mickey’s heart.
The memory of the rooftop made a smile bloom on Mickey’s face. Thoughtful bastard.
In many ways, that night felt like the start of all of this -– the night they opened up to each other in a real kind of way. It was one of the reasons Mickey chose it as the place that he wanted to tell Ian how gone he was for him.
“So did you really not get me anything? Because I had to look up hockey stats for those and I worked really hard on them, so…” Ian joked.
Mickey snorted again, but internal panic set in.
He couldn’t believe that Ian had gotten him a gift that was so sentimental, so thoughtful, and Mickey had gotten him nothing. It was Christmas for fuck's sake. He had been so focused on meticulously planning every tiny detail of this evening that he’d forgotten that getting people gifts was the cultural norm.
Fuck. He felt so stupid.
“Mick, I’m 100% kidding. You didn’t have to get me anything. We didn’t say we were doing gifts,” Ian said, reassuringly, as if sensing how bad Mickey felt. “This was something that I’ve been wanting to do for a while anyway.”
Mickey nodded, and stared back down at the cards, his brows furrowing.
“Hey,” Ian said, rubbing his leg up against Mickey’s as if trying to comfort him. “The fact that you stayed here with me so I wasn’t alone is the nicest fucking gift you could have given me."
Mickey looked back up, to see Ian’s gentle eyes staring at him, and all he could do was nod, give him a small smile and press back against his leg under the table.
Their food arrived a couple of moments later, and Ian made Mickey wait to dig in until he took some pictures of their meals for his Instagram. He could have sworn that Ian snapped a couple of candid shots of him as well, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Do you think we’ll be able to eat sometime this century?” Mickey asked, as he watched Ian rearrange the table so he could take the perfect bird's eye shot.
“Maybe. If you shut up and let me focus,” Ian replied, getting up on his tippy toes to get a higher angle.
“Maybe if you ask the waiter nicely, he can arrange it so you can dangle from the ceiling and hover over the table, because it seems like this isn’t working for you,” Mickey continued.
Ian giggled, his shoulders and arms moving back and forth so his pictures were likely coming out blurry.
“Shut up,” he said again.
“Just wondering when you became an influencer. Should I expect this to be a thing during all of our meals from here on out? Because if I knew this was gonna be a thing I would have ordered a second appetizer.”
Ian sighed loudly and sat down.
“You’re so fucking annoying,” he said shaking his head, a huge smile plastered across his face.
Mickey winked at him as he began to cut up his chicken.
________________________________
When the bill arrived, Mickey snatched it off the table at lightning speed as soon as it was placed down on the table.
He looked up at Ian as if daring him to argue about it.
Ian only smiled at him.
“It’s okay,” he said simply. “I’ll get it next time.”
Next time.
________________________________
There was snow on the sidewalk and Christmas lights in all the shopfronts, and Mickey mentally high-fived whoever was in charge upstairs for creating a very rom-com-esque vibe on their walk back to campus.
“It’s still early. You wanna try and find a bar and get a drink or something?” Ian asked.
“I, uh,” Mickey stammered. “I actually have something else planned.”
Ian knocked into him, and because of the ice Mickey nearly slipped. He latched onto Ian’s coat at the last second, and Ian kept him upright, even if his laughs undermined his helpfulness.
“Motherfucker,” Mickey exclaimed as he regained his balance.
“Sorry,” Ian said through a chuckle, finally letting go of Mickey once he was upright. “Something else planned, huh? What are we doing?”
“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” Mickey said, lightly. He glanced over to see Ian glancing right back, fondness dancing in his eyes behind his foggy glasses, his cheeks bright pink from the cold and his face glowing from the Christmas lights.
“So mysterious,” Ian replied, an amused smile playing on his lips, before he leaned in and whispered, “it’s kinda doing it for me.”
“Oh yeah? What, you into that James Bond man of mystery shit too?”
“Nah, just...” Ian shook his head, before his smile dropped and his eyes darted to the ground, the mood shifting toward something earnest. “No one’s ever done something like this for me before. Dinner, and surprises.”
“Don’t speak too soon. You might hate the surprise.”
“Don’t think I could ever hate it if it’s spending time with you,” Ian said, shrugging. “It just means a lot, I guess. Most guys have treated me like shit, but this is…”
Ian trailed off, and Mickey’s heart picked up its pace and he was sure Ian could hear it, because he sent over a warm smile that made Mickey lose his breath.
“You deserve it, y’know,” Mickey said, his heart in his throat, head turned to face Ian’s serious, melancholic eyes. “You deserve only good shit.”
It wasn’t the most eloquent phrasing, but he seemed to get his point across, because Ian’s eyes turned glassy and he cleared his throat and looked ahead.
“Thank you,” Ian whispered.
They continued walking, only a few minutes away from campus, and Mickey was letting the back of his hand brush against Ian’s every few strides, a jolt of a spark hitting every time cold flesh hit cold flesh.
It was 20 degrees Fahrenheit, yet Mickey had never felt warmer.
They turned right onto S. State Street, their destination now a mere three minutes away, when Ian nudged Mickey.
“Hey. Look,” Ian said as he pointed to a Domino's Pizza on the left side of the road.
It was the Domino’s they’d visited the night Ian had come to see Mickey play for the first time.
“Our first date spot,” Ian joked, his eyebrows wiggling.
“Fuck off,” Mickey said quickly, partly because that was the night that Ian had given him his jacket and partly because Ian referring to it as a date had him blushing like a motherfucker. He was grateful it was dark enough that it wasn’t noticeable.
Ian sensed it right away, though.
“That was the first time you called me Ian,” he continued, nudging Mickey in the arm again. “Remember that?”
“Remember telling you it was weird you kept tabs on that shit, if that’s what you mean,” Mickey replied, nudging him back. “Besides, we still kind of hated each other back then.”
Ian was quiet for a moment, and when Mickey looked over, he seemed to be contemplating something.
“Don’t think it was that weird, Mick,” he finally said. “Not even back then.”
*
Eventually, the hockey arena came into view on their right, and Mickey broke off the footpath to head that way. He side-eyed Ian, waiting for him to put two and two together.
Ian glanced over, saw Mickey’s suspicious face, looked beyond it to see the arena, before focusing back on Mickey.
“Oh?” Ian asked, brows raised, smile raising.
Mickey had been working on this plan all week. He’d done meticulous research -– looked into the maintenance crew’s schedule, the shut down period, where the 24/7 security cameras were, where the coaches would be -– and they were completely safe. Petrovich was overseas, Murphy was interstate, and 10pm on Christmas Eve meant the rink would be empty.
He’d snuck in the previous night as a kind of rehearsal just to run through the logistics – find the lights, the best route, and to make sure tonight went off without a hitch.
“Well, I promised I’d teach you how to skate, so here we are,” Mickey said, as he gestured to the arena. “A private lesson.”
Ian didn’t respond -– just smiled big at the arena, and then over to Mickey. Before he knew it, Ian was throwing his arm around Mickey’s shoulder, stopping them in their tracks, wrapping him tight into a hug. He bent down almost a comical amount in order to nuzzle into Mickey’s neck, brushing his sweater down to land a sweet kiss there.
Mickey’s eyes quickly glanced around to make sure no one could see them, but it was dark and deserted, and they were blissfully alone. He melted into the hug, allowing himself to be held, and never wanting to let go.
Eventually, Ian pulled back, landing one last peck to Mickey’s cheek.
“What was that for?” Mickey asked, heart beating through his chest.
“Wanted to,” Ian said simply, shrugging, and Mickey couldn’t stop the bright smile that bloomed on his face.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Ian said, turning back towards the arena and heading in its direction. “Will it even be open?”
“I may or may not have enlisted the help of our mighty captain to give me his set of keys. Plus I’ve known the alarm codes since first year.”
He’d talked to Nelson a week prior and asked him for his keys for “night-time practicing purposes.” Whether or not Nelson believed him remained to be seen.
“You can take the boy out of the South Side but you can’t take the South Side out of -–”
Ian was interrupted when Mickey pushed him into a telephone pole and started sprinting towards the athlete’s entrance.
“You’re dead, Milkovich!” Ian yelled as he chased Mickey down, and seriously fuck those giraffe legs because he caught up in less than five seconds.
They wrestle-walked the last few metres, pinching at each other’s sides and laughing obnoxiously, the sound reverberating in the cold, dead December air.
Mickey pulled the keys from his front pocket, and worked them into the door. When it opened, he beckoned Ian in, doing a terrible James Bond impression with a fake gun that had Ian , King of the Dorks , rolling his eyes.
“And you call me a nerd, Jesus fucking Christ…” Ian mumbled.
They walked quietly down the corridor, Mickey stopping to turn off the alarm, before heading towards the locker room. Even though Mickey had quadruple checked there was absolutely zero chance anyone would be here, his nerves were suddenly picking up.
“I can’t believe Mickey Milkovich from the Michigan Wolverines is gonna teach me how to skate,” Ian said fondly as they arrived at the locker rooms.
Mickey went to grab his skates and stick, and then Ben’s from his cubby, and ushered Ian to sit on the bench. He handed over Ben’s skates and began putting his own on.
“Yeah, but after you’ve learnt, we’re playing one on one and I’m gonna beat your ass.”
“I mean, I’d really fucking hope you’d beat me considering I’ve never stepped foot on ice in my life.” Ian said. “You gonna lace my skates for me, Teach?”
Mickey snorted and rolled his eyes, before kneeling down in front of Ian and beginning to lace them for him.
He was well and truly whipped.
*
The sight of Ian wobbly skating along, his arms and legs shaking, was maybe the most hilarious and cutest thing Mickey had ever seen. He looked like a gangly baby deer, and Mickey wanted to kiss the life out of him.
“Jesus fucking fuck, this is so hard!” Ian yelled, his arms out wide to balance himself. “How do you people do this?”
Mickey laughed, dawdling along beside him. He had to admit, watching someone so usually confident and cocky be diminished to an uncoordinated, fumbling buffoon was both incredibly amusing and sickeningly endearing.
“It’s literally not that hard. You’re so dramatic,” Mickey said.
“Yeah, okay, you had a breakdown over Froot Loops but I’m the dramatic one,” Ian replied.
Mickey moved around until he was skating backwards with ease in front of Ian, holding his forearms and wobbling him for sport.
“I’ll kill you if you let me fall, motherfucker,” Ian said seriously, his eyes wide with panic.
“You’re not gonna die if you fall.”
“Maybe if I was as tiny as you, but I’m a giant. A fall from this height might kill me.”
Mickey gave him an annoyed glare, got one last violent shake in for good measure, before he loosened his grip on Ian’s forearms. He gently helped balance him, guiding him forward.
Ian kept almost slipping, and gripping onto Mickey harder, and the sound of their laughs echoing in the empty arena made Mickey’s chest warm. Their eyes kept meeting, bright and sparkling, and Mickey knew this was the lightest and happiest he’d ever felt.
They skated along like that for a while, and eventually, Ian started to get the hang of it. They picked up the pace, and fell into a rhythm.
Eventually, Mickey let him go and Ian was gliding along on his own, Mickey still skating backwards in front of him just in case.
“I changed my mind, this is easy,” Ian said.
“Oh yeah?” Mickey asked through a laugh.
“Yeah. Gonna try out to be a Wolverine next semester.”
“How about some one on one?” Mickey asked. “If you’re gonna be a Wolverine ya gotta spar with the best of them.”
“I’m gonna wipe the rink with you, MVP Milkovich ,” Ian taunted.
“Alright, Ace,” Mickey chuckled.
Mickey fetched their sticks from where he left them on the bench. He skated back to see Ian stretching his arms and limbering up.
Mickey shook his head and handed Ian the stick, showing him how to handle it whilst staying vertical on his skates.
“Do you wanna learn some moves?” Mickey asked.
“No. I know all the moves.”
“Why are you like this?”
Mickey set up a puck at centre ice, Ian facing him, still wobbling but stick at the ready.
Ian’s tongue darted out of his mouth and he bit down on it, a sign of concentration. He looked so cute, and he was trying so hard, but he just sucked so bad.
“Alright, watch out,” Ian said. “Gonna try the Datsyuk.”
“You’re not supposed to tell me what move you’re doing, fuckhead.”
Mickey took it easy on him to begin with, feigning being impressed with his awful attempts at various hockey moves he’d obviously looked up on WikiHow. He let Ian shoot a few pucks through his open legs, fighting the laughter bubbling at the bottom of his throat.
“Oh my god, I’m so good at this,” Ian said loudly, wearing a shit-eating grin after Mickey let him score.
He raised his stick over his head and waved at the fake crowd.
“Thank you! Yes, I’m just this good! I also have a huge dick!”
The laughter poured out of Mickey, then. He adored every iteration of Ian, but annoying and cocky held a special place in his heart. It was the version that he first met, and the version that never failed to make him smile, that never failed to weirdly comfort him.
How he managed to find a way to be cocky while playing hockey with a college hockey player was a real testament to his skill.
Mickey skated the puck back to centre ice. He took off down the ice toward Ian and slowed in front of him, beginning to skate fast circles around him, the puck still in his possession.
He weaved the puck in between Ian’s legs when Ian tried to use his stick to intercept him, and took off for the net. He could hear Ian trying to skate after him but he was eating Mickey’s dust as he leaned down and scooped the puck onto his stick, spinning in a circle and guiding it to the net.
He turned around and completed an obnoxious victory lap for good measure.
In the meantime, Ian had waddled over to the edge of the rink to latch onto the barrier, a very unimpressed look on his face.
Mickey skated over to him, creating a wave of snow when he stopped, a big smile threatening to split his face in two.
“Yeah, yeah, show off. Still got more goals than you,” Ian mumbled at Mickey’s cheesy grin.
“Yeah,” Mickey said, throwing his arms up around Ian’s neck. “Guess you did.”
Ian’s face morphed into one of pure fondness, as he wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist and leaned in to press their lips together.
It started off soft and slow, Ian’s lips cold and dry but becoming warm and wet in mere moments. Mickey moved his mouth, keeping the pace unrushed and delicate, pulling Ian in even closer.
When their tongues finally touched, Ian tightened his grip on Mickey’s waist, and breathed heavy sighs between ardent kisses onto Mickey’s lips.
They made out like teenagers, freezing noses booping together, all softness and sweetness and grabby hands. Mickey’s entire being was sizzling, his nerve endings on fire, and he questioned how a kiss, his thousandth with Ian at this point, could make him feel so much.
Mickey pulled back first, breath coming out in harsh puffs from his mouth, as he rested his forehead against Ian’s until they caught their collective breath.
Ian leaned back, and their eyes connected, and Mickey was sure his heart was about to burst out of his chest from how fast it was beating.
His fingers were tingling where they rested on the back of Ian’s neck, and a lump formed in his throat as he looked deep into the emerald pools of Ian’s eyes.
“Fuck, I like you so much,” Mickey whispered suddenly, the words coming out of his mouth before he knew it was happening.
And wait.
Shit.
This wasn’t the plan.
His feelings confession was meant to be on the roof, under the heaters and the stars. Not rushed, and impulsive, and in the place that was a large part of the reason he had kept it to himself for so long.
No.
This was all wrong.
Mickey felt Ian stop breathing, and his brows furrowed, his eyes darting between Mickey’s, his face looking almost…alarmed?
Oh God.
Oh fuck.
That did not look like the face of a man who was happy to be hearing this. He was such a fucking idiot for convincing himself this could go any other way.
Mickey’s face turned into one of utter panic, as he thought of ways to backtrack and save whatever shrapnel he could from this dumpster fire of a situation.
“I mean, um. Fuck, I’m an idiot, I’m sorry. I just mean that I like, um. Your face. Not like -– shit. I didn’t, I mean. I just…”
Mickey stammered and rambled, eyes clenched shut, his palms clammy despite the temperature, and he wished the ice beneath his feet would swallow him whole.
But then, in a move he was not remotely prepared for, Ian landed an aggressive, open-mouthed kiss on his mouth, a real smack of a thing that immediately shut him up, and Ian breathed puffs of a laugh out of his nose.
Mickey’s eyes shot wide open, excess adrenaline running through his body, and then Ian was leaning back, looking as giddy as a child on Christmas Eve.
Ian’s face morphed into a huge grin, and then went even further, until he was choking out gaspy chuckles, his face now totally amused.
When Mickey had run through potential responses from Ian when he’d rehearsed this in the mirror every day for the past week, Ian looking panicked, and then kissing him violently, and then falling into a laughing fit wasn’t even on the bingo card.
“You’re laughing. Why are you laughing?” was the only thing Mickey could think to say, face still frozen in befuddled panic, voice shaky. “If you’re just gonna tell me you don’t like me back and you hate me, then that’s really mean,” he added quickly.
Ian awkwardly shuffled forward on his skates, until he was completely crowding Mickey’s space. He cradled Mickey’s head in his large, damp hands, and Mickey tilted his head up to see Ian’s laugh subside and an enamoured smile take its place.
“Mickey,” he said fondly, so fondly , like there were little cartoon hearts twinkling above his eyes. “You’re an absolute idiot if you think I’m not fucking crazy about you.”
Oh. Oh God.
Ian was crazy about him.
Ian was crazy about him.
A gaspy sigh escaped from Mickey’s smiling mouth as he leaned up to kiss Ian again, and they were both shaking and chuckling as they kissed each other’s teeth more than their lips because they were smiling so big.
“Thank fuck you finally said it,” Ian mumbled against Mickey’s lips.
“Been wanting to say it for a while,” Mickey mumbled back, before going in for another sweet peck of a kiss.
“Why didn’t you?” Ian asked.
“Was fucking terrified you wouldn’t say it back,” Mickey admitted through a nervous chuckle.
Ian screwed up his face, as if the idea was completely outlandish.
“And here I was thinking I was being so fucking obvious,” Ian joked.
“Dunno,” Mickey said through a shy smile, shrugging. “You probably were. Never been able to play anything cool a day in your life.”
Ian rolled his eyes, his hands playing with the lapels of Mickey’s jacket.
Mickey took a deep breath, steeling himself, before adding –
“Guess it just took me a while to wrap my head around the possibility that someone like you could want to be with someone like me.”
Ian’s eyes turned worried, as he stroked his thumbs across Mickey’s blushing cheeks, Mickey’s arms wrapped around Ian’s lower back.
Before Ian could open his mouth to reply, he lost his balance simply standing there as his skates fell out from underneath him, making him fall hard on his ass, dragging Mickey down with him.
“Ow! Fuck!”
“Motherfucking fuck!”
Mickey burst out laughing, as Ian scrambled to get up, but he just kept slipping. Mickey got vertical quickly, and tried to help pull Ian up, but he was laughing too hard, his arms going lax in the process, and so Ian kept pulling him down on the ice, wrestling him and calling him a punk.
The ice burnt the bits of bare skin it found around Mickey’s wrists and his cheeks, but how could he give a fuck when he was in his favourite place with his favourite person and he had never been this free.
This hadn’t been the big, swelling, romantic moment Mickey had planned, not even remotely. But somehow, it was a million times better.
Eventually they settled, chips of ice on their jackets and their faces pink and shiny. The air sizzled between them, breath laboured, and fuck the rest of Mickey’s plan for the evening.
“Can we get the fuck out of here?” Mickey asked.
“Fuck yeah.”
________________________________
Mickey couldn’t wipe the smile from his face for the rest of the night, and it seemed like Ian was suffering from the same affliction.
They were both quiet on the walk back to Mickey’s apartment, something adjacent to nerves floating in the air between them. Stolen glances, shy smiles and drawn out exhales.
As soon as they entered the threshold of his apartment, the nerves seemed to melt away, as they stepped onto familiar ground. They grabbed onto each other immediately, their nervous half-smiles morphing into grins as a frenzied mess of teeth and tongue and lips carried them all the way to the bedroom.
Ian prepped Mickey lying on his back, peppering kisses over his face, whispering sweet words of praise into his ears, and Mickey still couldn’t believe that sex could feel like this. That he would want sex like this. That he would crave and desire it more than any other kind.
And then Ian was pushing in, and it was so slow, and Ian’s hands were cradling Mickey’s face as if it was something precious. Mickey’s hands grasped at Ian’s back, and his ass, and his neck, latching onto hot, sweaty skin wherever he found it, needing a tactile reminder under his fingertips of everything about this night.
Mickey was beyond overwhelmed, and he kind of felt like crying.
He couldn’t believe he got to have this. He wasn’t sure he’d ever believe this was real.
As they made love that night, because that was what it was, Mickey kept having to open his eyes and tether himself to reality by looking at Ian. To convince himself that someone so utterly beautiful in every way was actually his.
Someone so bright, and strong, and brave, and silly, and everything good and sweet in this world.
Ian picked up the pace, his fingers softly playing in Mickey’s floppy, sweaty hair as his other hand snaked down to wrap around Mickey’s length.
They were oddly quiet, the only sounds filling the air being the slapping of damp skin and their gaspy moans. They were saying what they needed with their eyes and breathless smiles and soft expressions instead.
After a steady crescendo over a couple of minutes, when their soft touches turned into desperate bites and licks, and their gasps became full-bodied moans and groans, Mickey came first.
His body was taut and shaking while Ian watched him from above, and continued thrusting to the point of overstimulation, Mickey feeling the intensity of his orgasm in his toes.
Ian pulled out, hovered over Mickey’s spent body, and Mickey licked into his mouth and brought him off with his hands, until he came all over his stomach, Mickey swallowing his gasps all the while.
They came down together, leaning on their sides and smiling at each other, warm hands exploring soft, damp bodies, come drying in a dirty mixture between them; both cocooned in the safety of a perfect moment.
Their eyes drooped as exhaustion weighed down on them, but their hands kept moving as they caught their breaths.
“So…” Ian said after a while, fingers now lightly drawing intricate patterns on Mickey’s chest.
“So…” Mickey said back, forcing his eyes open and up to face Ian.
The look that Mickey had come to recognize as Ian’s ‘overthinking’ look flashed onto his face. Mickey leaned in and pressed his lips to Ian’s in a quick, soft display of nothing but calm affection.
“What’s up?” Mickey whispered.
“Just wondering what’s next, I guess,” Ian mumbled, fingers now tracing over the bite indentation marks on Mickey’s neck that he was so happy to have and didn’t have to hide, because no one was in Ann Arbor to ruin it.
Mickey thought about making some dorky joke, but Ian looked genuinely concerned, so he withheld.
He tried to think of the right thing to say, to put Ian’s mind at ease. The perfect combination of words to remind Ian that he was as terrified as he was, as unsure about the future, but so certain about his feelings. He worked his mouth, running options over his tongue.
But Ian’s voice got in first.
“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
All the breath in Mickey’s lungs escaped in a fevered exhale, as the corners of his lips upturned instinctively, his entire insides exploding.
Boyfriend. Ian asked him if he wanted to be his boyfriend.
The word and title were such foreign concepts to Mickey, but he’d never wanted to claim something so desperately in his whole fucking life.
Mickey started nodding, kind of erratically, and his mouth broke into a grin as a gasped, “yeah,” came out, followed by a sharp inhale, because he realized he wasn’t intaking enough oxygen.
Their feet nudged at each other above the soft duvet, their legs entangling, and they couldn’t stop their smiles morphing into fits of nervous chuckles yet again.
“So I guess I’m the secret boyfriend of Michigan Wolverine Mickey Milkovich, huh?” Ian said cheekily, leaning in to nibble at Mickey’s neck.
The word secret left a sour taste in Mickey’s mouth, because he didn’t want Ian to be a secret, nor did he deserve to be a secret. He wanted to show Ian to the world and be like, “Hey! This is my boyfriend! Look at his hair and his face and his grades and his smile! I’m gay and this is my boyfriend!”
But Mickey wasn’t there yet. And there was time to talk about all that; logistics, how together they could be in public, what Mickey being in the closet to the wider world meant for them as a couple.
But right now, Mickey didn’t want Petrovich, or Terry, or any of the bad shit that had kept them apart for so long to encroach on this perfect moment. But he needed to know one thing.
“You okay with that?” Mickey asked, quietly, because he couldn't not.
Ian gave him a funny look before gently carding his fingers through Mickey’s hair.
“Course,” he replied. “I’ll have you any way I can."
The familiarity of that sentiment hit Mickey's core, and his anxiety immediately settled.
They were on the same page.
“Guess that means I’m stuck with you. Fuckin’ nerd,” Mickey joked, playfully pinching Ian’s side.
Mischief flashed in Ian's his eyes, and before he knew it they were wrestling again, throwing jock-nerd stereotypes at each other left and right.
They were best friends, and they were boyfriends, and they were laughing so hard their stomachs hurt, and Mickey, maybe for the first time in his life, believed that he deserved this.
That they deserved this -- after all the shit both of them had been through.
And it felt kind of inevitable in a strange way.
Two gay kids growing up on the South Side, abused and neglected in different ways, escaping to a whole other state, yet finding their way to each other.
Like magnets. Something written in the stars.
And then after the tussling gave way to something much sweeter, they were connected again, at the lips, and stomachs, and below. They were moving together again, rolling around until they were both on their sides, Ian rocking into Mickey from behind as he wrapped him in a bear hug.
Their hands were entwined, sweaty fingers turning white from how hard they grasped onto each other, and they moved together perfectly as one, and Mickey couldn’t help but hope this feeling would last forever.
________________________________
Mickey woke before Ian, warm and sated, his sleepy eyes opening to see Ian drooling on his pillow and snoring loudly.
Mickey bit back a smile, brushed the sweat-damp hair off Ian’s forehead, and carefully extracted himself from the mess of limbs under the cover.
Last night felt like a dream, and if it was, Mickey hoped he never woke up.
Boyfriend . Mickey had a boyfriend . Ian Gallagher was his boyfriend. What kind of magic, hypnosis, witchy, higher power nonsense allowed this to happen to him?
He pulled on a pair of boxers, which he realised once they were on were actually Ian’s, but what was Ian’s was his and all that shit.
He padded out into the living room, heading toward the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot, rubbing the sleep from the corner of his eyes.
He saw his pants lying alongside Ian’s, discarded on the kitchen table and living room floor, respectively, and he realized he hadn’t checked his phone since last night.
He went and retrieved it from his back pocket, took note of the time of 7:58am and, as expected, saw he had missed messages from Ben and Aria.
Aria (10:32pm): I’ve held out as long as I could– how did it go?
Ben (10:32pm): we are taking your silence as a good sign but pls tell us how it went
Ben (11:01pm): we’ll settle for a single emoji
Ben (12:04am): THIS HAS TO BE A GOOD SIGN DO YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND
Ben (12:04am): merry christmas etc
Aria (6:45am): Are you dead?
Ben (6:46am): for the love of baby jesus who was supposedly born on this very day just tell us what happened
Ben (7:22am): i’ll kill you
Mickey chuckled fondly at his phone, and was thankful for that midnight message, because he had straight up forgotten it was Christmas Day.
Mickey (8:00am): 👌
He headed to the couch, turning the TV on to put on Home Alone, while he waited for Ian to wake up.
Watching Home Alone was a Christmas tradition in Ben’s family that, it turned out, was now a tradition in Mickey’s too.
His eyes glazed over while the credits ran, his mind racing back to the frankly unbelievable events from the night before. He glanced up at the closed door Ian was sleeping soundly behind, a blood rush of equal parts endearment and fear flooding his body.
Endearment for the goofy nerd who was now his boyfriend, and fear that he, Mickey, was going to be a bad one.
Something Ian had said last night was on playback in his mind.
Most guys have treated me like shit.
He wanted to be different. He wanted to be a good boyfriend. He wanted to be everything Ian deserved and more.
Mickey once again made a mental note to track down any guy who ever treated Ian less than the angel he was and bash them with a hockey stick.
He tapped at the corner of his phone, biting his lip, before he opened up Google Chrome and searched “ nice things to do for your boyfriend on christmas morning. ”
Most of the articles included shit to do with Santa and leaving cookies and carrots out or some shit, so he took out Christmas and just searched “ nice things to do for your boyfriend in the morning” instead.
He trawled through some cringey-ass articles before finding a tutorial for a Romantic Breakfast in Bed Bonanza, which still made him cringe, but had a recipe for chocolate chip pancakes that looked good and relatively easy to make and not fuck up.
He walked over to put his phone on the counter in the kitchen, and headed for the pantry, pulling out the ingredients for the pancakes. He was very thankful for Aria in that moment who loved cooking and always kept their kitchen well stocked.
He followed the recipe, carefully measuring the ingredients, before whisking them together in their mixing bowl.
Wow. They had a mixing bowl.
He poured the perfect amount into the sizzling saucepan that had been preheating, flipping the batter, and holy shit it actually turned out good!
He was pouring the second round of batter into the pan when he felt a pair of arms snake around his torso, a face nuzzling into his neck and shoulder.
He’d been so laser focused on these motherfucking pancakes, he hadn’t even heard Ian escape from the bedroom.
Mickey smiled, instantly melting back into the touch.
Ian kissed his neck softly and pulled him tight to his chest.
“Morning, boyfriend,” Ian said softly against his neck, and Mickey could hear the joy in every syllable.
“You’re gonna be so fucking annoying about that, aren’t you,” Mickey mumbled. He secretly wasn’t complaining, those two words setting butterflies loose in his stomach.
“Mhm,” Ian said, nosing behind Mickey’s ear. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to say it. You’ve opened the floodgates and they won’t be closing any time soon.”
Mickey let out a breathy laugh, and flipped another pancake.
“Get outta here, boyfriend . I was supposed to serve these to you in bed,” Mickey said, gently whacking Ian’s hand with the flipper.
“Be careful. A guy could get used to this,” he tutted quietly, running his lips along the back of Mickey’s neck, leaving a damp trail that caused a shiver to travel its way straight down his spine. “I was never here.”
Ian untangled himself and made his way back to Mickey’s room without another word.
Mickey inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, the unadulterated elation coursing through his body a nanosecond away from bursting out of him in weird and inappropriate ways.
Tiny, affectionate interactions like that were what he’d been chasing for the last month, and it hit Mickey as he flipped pancakes and stared at Ian’s back disappearing into his room, that he got to have them now.
He got to have soft mornings with his fucking boyfriend in bed, eating pancakes and watching movies.
He got to have it all.
There was no way anything could top what he was feeling right now on this slow, lazy, snowy Christmas morning.