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English
Series:
Part 2 of Mickey's Bucket List
Collections:
Gallavich Week 2023
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Published:
2023-06-25
Words:
2,238
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
23
Kudos:
177
Bookmarks:
20
Hits:
3,032

Something F*ggy

Summary:

Mickey reveals the next thing on his bucket list.

Notes:

So this is officially a series. Oops. Also, sorry if this comes off a little preachy, I'm trying to do something with this particular Mickey... I hope it lands. Eep.

✨✨✨Big shout out to NotHereNJ for the beta, as well as the "fearless."✨✨✨
✨✨✨Another shoutout to GallavichGeek13 for the homemade porn idea.✨✨✨
✨✨✨And a HUGE shoutout to Darthvader's Wife for the art!✨✨✨

Work Text:

Ian should not have laughed. When Mickey rolled over after they’d enjoyed an early morning cuddle and whispered his latest bucket list wish while still in the throes of a brain-melting orgasm, Ian should not have laughed.

If he had held in his laughter, maybe his one follow-up question would’ve landed more softly. Unfortunately, he did laugh, and his husband did punch him square in the jaw. Who knew the man could hit that hard from a lying position?

Before Ian had an opportunity to protest, Mickey bounced from bed and yanked on his sweatpants. “Mick?”

“This ain’t talkin’ hours, Gallagher.”

The next thing Ian was aware of was the very loud stomping of his husband’s feet down the stairs, followed by the smell of something burning in the backyard. Peering out the bedroom window revealed a bleak scene. Mickey standing shirtless at their grill, fresh charcoal briquettes laid out haphazardly, his sweatpants smeared with black dust.

He was about to throw a small notebook into the flames, prompting Ian to throw the window open and shout out, “Fuckin’ stop! Don’t burn that shit!”

Mickey flipped him off and threw the book in the flames anyway.

***

Now, two hours later, Ian finds himself standing in his brother’s garage. Carl’s, not Lip’s. He drove around for an hour tryin’ to figure out how he was gonna explain this fresh batch of buffoonery to Lip and realizing there really is no way to explain himself properly. He decided to turn to the only Gallagher who’s dumber than he is. Dumber than he in matters of the heart. Dumber than he used to be?

Who’s he kidding, he’s still dumb as fuck. He’s the one that laughed.

“So run this by me again, why’re you here?” Carl asks, rolling a doobie, ignoring the police force’s zero tolerance stance, as well as the fact that it’s somewhere around fifteen past eight on a Sunday morning.

“Got into a wrestling match in the backyard. With the grill. Grill won.” Ian mumbled through his swollen lip.

“‘Kay, cool. What about the fat lip?”

“‘Icky gave me that.”

“‘Icky?” Carl’s voice is half disbelief and half amusement. “You mean Mickey?”

“Fuck off. My husband punched me in the jaw cuz… y’know what? Wrong Gallagher. Should’a gone to Lip.”

Carl licks his joint closed, shrugs his shoulders, and mumbles, “Fuckin’ fine, go talk to Lip, see where that get’s ya. Not sharing my weed, though.”

Sober and irritated. And absolutely not looking forward to explaining to the smuggest of all Gallaghers what led Mickey to going back on their promise to not hit each other anymore, Ian makes his way to his car, bumping into Kermit on the way out. Literally.

“Oh, hey there, Ian. Good to- what’s on your face?”

“Mickey belted me.”

“Nice to see you boys are gettin’ along.” Kermit’s beatific smile made him look like a kindly frog of the same name. “Just the other day Tom-”

Kermit’s ringtone interrupts his story. He gives Ian the wait-a-second finger, quickly disposing of the call in a few seconds.

Ian blinks. “What’s that song?”

“Are we playing a game? I used to be real good at ‘Name That Tune’?”

“No, fuckin’, Kermit.” Ian doesn’t know why he’s frustrated at this sweet, simple man, but here he is, ready to implode. “The ringtone!”

He hums like a dummy trying to recreate the tune.

“Oh, that’s that lezzie gal. Has all the wives she keeps knocking up and divorcing.”

“What?”

“You know, that one that plays the guitar, been around for a while. From the 90s… Bill and Hillary… AIDS quilt… um, breast cancer… ah, Ridge something.”

“Christ, just Spotify me the song.”

Kermit grimaces his confusion. “What?”

“Jesus. CARL!”

After more rigamarole than he cares to admit, they finally figure it out. The song was "Lucky," by Melissa Etheridge and the lyric that had caught Ian’s attention was “I wanna see how lucky, lucky can be, I wanna ride with my angel and live shockingly.”

It turns out Kermit had heard the song at the Alibi, just a couple of weeks ago. Coincidentally, Mickey had been there, too. Ian remembers that night; it was the same night that Tipping needed an extra barback to help out for Officer Somebody-or-Another’s big promotion celebration night.

“It’s a good song, put it on the classic rock playlist with Crosby and Joplin for when the old schools come 'round,” Carl said. “It’s all about going out there and laughing in the face of fate. Like, grabbing destiny by the balls, or ovaries, or neither. ‘Cause, ya know. equality and shit.”

Ian listens to the song again, still standing outside the garage, between Carl and Kermit, who respectively are swaying and subvocalizing along to the lesbo anthem.

“More than that, Carl,” Kermit adds, “Tommy's gay sister says it’s about not being afraid to live. You know, she wrote this album after beating breast cancer. She was with Wife Number Whatever at the time. She just… went out and lived her life afterwards. Had more kids, launched a big tour, whole shabang. Fucking fearless.”

And now it clicks. Now, Ian understands why, when his husband whispered into his ear that he wants to challenge himself to do something faggy for his next bucket list item, it was a pedicure that he had chosen.

Fearless.

He thinks back to the Mickey he knew over a decade ago. Seventeen-year-old Mickey, whose fists were titanium, but whose heart was dandelion fluff.

Hard, yet fragile.

Ready to disintegrate with the slightest breeze.

“I wanna see how lucky, lucky can be,” Ian sings, and then turns to Kermit and Carl. “Hey guys, I need to go talk to my husband.”

***

Sore jaw notwithstanding, he knows not to show up empty handed, Ian’s a goddamn gentleman that way. The two paper bags he sets on top of the coffee table, directly blocking Mickey’s view of the TV blaring the latest episode of some needlessly graphic crime documentary, are filled with pedicure supplies.

He sits dangerously close to his Mickey, fingers nervously drumming his knees. “Right off the bat, I owe you an apology.”

Mickey presses the mute button, but that’s his only reaction. His face remains trained on the TV screen.

“I’m sorry, Mick.”

A grunt of acknowledgement from the intrepid Milkovich. Ian knows he’s making headway when the TV screen goes black.

Pressing his good fortune further, he extends a pinky, grazing it along Mickey’s right thigh. He plays dirty a little by crossing his right leg over the left, letting his foot dangle, casually pointing in the direction of the shopping bags.

“Is there anything I can do to make this up to you, Mick? How can I help?” Ian's foot sways slowly back and forth between them and the brown paper sacks. Mickey pretends his eyes are not tracking the movement.

It's quiet for another half minute.

Finally, Mickey takes the bait. He cracks a smile. “You got any beer in those bags ya tryin’ to be subtle ‘bout, No Chill?”

Ian pulls an innocent face that fools no one. “I do happen to have two kinds: a six-pack of Old Style cans, and a four-pack of a nice microbrew in bottles.”

“Pfft, microbrew,” Mickey tuts. “I don’t drink that shit.”

“Why not, Mick? Too faggy?”

Dark eyebrows hit the sky. “Oh.”

The mask of innocence melts from Ian's face; there's no reason to continue the farse. “Yeah, I didn’t get it at first. But I do now. ‘Least, I think I do now.” He takes Mickey’s hand in his own. “Fearlessness, right?”

Mickey raises a single shoulder. “Yeah… No. It’s… Okay, remember how I used t’get all hung up on what’s too gay or the right kinda gay? And whether I’m this kinda gay or that kinda gay?”

He stalls out there. Ian nods and squeezes his husband’s hand. Waits.

Mickey levels his breaths and continues. “Occurred to me one night, that night I helped out at the Alibi. All those hangups? That was me fuckin’ participating in stereotypes. Can you believe that, Gallager? All that time, runnin' from being labeled, wound up slappin' a bullshit label on myself anyway. Big, fat self-loathing label.”

"Hey, Mick, none’a this is on you." Ian leans in to press a soft kiss on Mickey’s lips that leads to a deep embrace.

Mickey's breath feathers across Ian's neck, his arms feel warm around Ian's middle.

"Fuck. I know, just sucks," Mickey says, he separates from the hug, to face Ian. “That's why the pedicure. Picture it, Gallagher. Me, a Milkovich –Terry's kid – at that bar, surrounded by cops? Then this song comes on that every fuckin' gumshoe n' meter maid starts bobbing their heads to…"

"That Melissa Etheridge song, right? Carl told me about it."

Mickey gives him a quizzical look, but doesn't voice his confusion. "Yeah, that song. One second, I'm bussing trays, the next this song's got me rethinking everything I know 'bout myself. Got me thinkin', fuck labels. And then I thought, what better way to say, 'Fuck labels. Fuck stereotypes. Fuck Terry,' than a gettin' my toes done up like a big ol' mo?”

Ian's grin widens, he reaches for the lighter of the two brown bags, dragging it across the coffee table toward Mickey's lap. He shoves his hand deeply into the sack and roots around until he finds what he's looking for. The bottle is small, but its contents are bright red –bleeding wound, warning sign, danger-danger red.

Passion red.

Dangling the nail polish bottle in front of his husband's eyes, Ian beams, "Then, it's a good thing I rescued your bucket list from the grill, huh, Milkovich?"

***

At just past 9:30 a.m. on the same Sunday that had Mickey almost destroying his precious sex bucket list, Ian watches as his beloved husband, freshly showered and wearing nothing but an oversized white bathrobe, enjoys the collection of homemade porn they've saved on their iPad. Mickey looks unconflicted and peaceful sipping on a bottle of microbrew while he watches the dozen or so videos of the two of them enjoying each other's bodies in all manner of sexual positions. That's a good thing. Good enough that Ian has to remind his husband several times to keep his hands off his dick until after the pedicure is done.

"Stick to the plan, Mick. First the good stuff, then the better stuff," Ian reminds him over and over again.

It doesn't stop Mickey from using his unoccupied foot to tease Ian's cock. Or from walking his toes up Ian's bare chest, and then dragging his foot down to the elastic waistband of Ian's pants where Mickey coaxes the material downward to reveal the "V" of Ian's hips and pelvis.

"Keep playing, Mick, still not deviating from the plan."

Not tearing an eye away from the porn on the screen, Mickey brushes aside a section of bathrobe revealing himself at half-hardness.

"You willing to put money on that, Gallagher?"

Mickey smirks. Ian smirks. Teenage Mickey and Ian would've spunked their shorts just from the eye fucking alone. But they ain't kids anymore, and they can eyeball each other like this all night. Sometimes they do it just for the fun of it –bonus points if it happens to irritate Lip.

According to the directions he found on wikiHow, at-home pedicures follow four basic steps:

1. Soak.

2. Exfoliate.

3. Trim and file.

4. Moisturize and massage.

With the first three out of the way, Ian keeps up the flirtatious atmosphere of the room as he proceeds to step four. He's got Mickey's left foot grasped firmly in his hands, working both thumbs into all the nooks and crannies. When he's done digging in with his thumbs, Ian wraps his big hands around his husband's foot and begins flexing, manipulating, and otherwise rubbing into the tendons and muscle structure. The real live Mickey Milkovich groans in delight just as vociferously as the pre-recorded Mickey Milkovich on the 10-inch screen. And just when Mickey thinks it's over, Ian switches to the right foot.

When he's done. When he's got his husband limper than a bowl of soggy noodles, Ian brings out the bottle of nail polish.

.

.

MickeyPedi

.

.

"Don't think that I didn't notice you watching the entire time I was painting, Impatient."

Mickey feigns innocence. "Who, me? Never!"

Ian crawls onto his knees, pushes Mickey's naked legs apart at the ankle, carefully avoiding the freshly painted nails. He lifts both his husband's legs up for inspection.

"Not too fucking shabby," Ian self-congratulates. "If I do say so myself. What d'ya think, baby?"

"Baby?" Mickey raises an eyebrow, he sets his legs down, man spreading a bit more. "That mean m'getting blown now?"

Ian lifts a shoulder to match Mickey's eyebrow, brushes a panel of bathrobe to the side. "I mean, might smudge your pretty toes if I nailed ya and polished your ass with–"

"Stop with the dumb-ass jokes, babe."

He makes himself comfortable between Mickey's thick thighs. "Babe? Breaking all conventions today, aren’t we?"

Mickey never gets the chance to verbally defend himself because Ian swallows him down good, but not too hard. He uses all his husband’s favorite tricks, not letting up, much less giving him a chance to breathe 'til Mickey's a bumbling, blubbering mess. Until he throws his head back in a contented, gasping grunt, exploding his messy orgasm down Ian's throat.

.

.

MickeyPedi2

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