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Mickey never thought much about remembering dates.
Birthdays, holidays, family events, even things like due dates for homework didn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. The Milkovich household ran on a strict policy that every day was just another day and no one and nothing got special treatment. So Mickey got used to ignoring the time of the year when his birthday rolled around and spending Christmas watching old reruns instead of receiving presents. It was his normal, his life, his tradition.
But things changed when he got married. Well, really everything changed when he got married. It wasn’t just his traditions anymore, his way of life, because now it wasn’t just him — it was them. It was Mickey AND Ian and everything that mattered to Ian, mattered to Mickey. Now that he had a husband, a family — Mickey didn’t have to just remember holidays or birthdays, he had to remember a day that was much more important.
An anniversary.
And no matter what Mickey was taught, he knew his wedding anniversary wasn’t just any other day. It was the most important day. The day he felt the most alive, the day he got the love of his life forever, the day Mickey finally felt free. It wasn’t something to look over, to pass by, so there was no way Mickey was going to forget that, even if every part of his brain was programmed to.
It’s a little rough at first though. The date gets lost in between rent, work, and constant bickering between him and Ian but by mid September, it pops back up unexpectedly when Ian reminds him how long it’s been since the wedding. It’s pointed more at Mickey’s lack of a job in that time than anything else but it settles in again anyway.
Six months.
Soon, it’d be a whole year and it’s coming up on him quickly, to the point that Mickey isn’t sure where the time went at all. A whole year with the love of his life and everything’s changed. Instead of the darkness of uncertainty, of lonely days and empty promises — Mickey’s days are filled with Ian’s laughter, his smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, of Ian’s strong arms wrapped around him in bed, morning kisses, and casual declarations of love. There’s more light in his life than ever before and for once, there’s nothing to ruin it. Not a single thing that can tear it down.
And Mickey wants to celebrate that. The guy who never celebrated anything as a kid wants to shout from the rooftops at any given moment that Ian Gallagher is his husband, that they fucking made it. But as the months before their anniversary turn into weeks, Mickey still can’t figure it out. How does he celebrate their wedding all over again? How does he make it special for Ian?
—
It’s the first Sunday that Mickey has had a moment to breathe in between security jobs and he’s held up in their condo while Ian takes his daily few rounds in the pool. He promised Ian he’d actually try cleaning up the stuff he hauled there in his trash bags but in the last hour, all he’s managed to do is make a batch of pizza rolls for himself and look up the cost of blinds on his phone.
Their apartment hasn’t evolved much in the last week but whether Mickey likes it or not, it is starting to feel more like home. Their fridge is stocked with Old Style that Mickey bought on the corner store back on the south side, right alongside Ian’s protein shit. Their walls have their posters, Mickey’s drawings, and Ian’s weird camo collection. Little fragments of each of them decorating something that initially felt so disconnected from who they are.
One of those things being a calendar Ian took off the family fridge before they left. Mickey is pretty sure it’s not even for the right year but Ian hung it up anyway, sliding it next to the open space near their fireplace. It’s not something Mickey notices on the day to day, usually ignoring it or not even remembering it’s there but today, he turns his head at the right moment to catch the red x’s Ian leaves on every passing day.
March 7th.
Mickey blinks as if he read that wrong, going as far as counting the marks one by one until he gets back to the current date. March 7th. Has it always been that close to the 21st? Because Mickey is sure it’s only the first week of March, not nearly the second. The reminder kick starts something in his brain and his heart rate picks up to an uncomfortable rate that leaves him lightheaded.
Two weeks to plan a whole fucking something for his anniversary and he hasn’t even started. There’s irony in there somewhere and Mickey curses outloud, thankful Ian isn’t there to witness his breakdown. He throws his used pans into the dishwasher and starts to pace back and forth, chewing on his bottom lip in thought.
Okay, weddings. Anniversaries. They’re not that different. Except that they are. Another round of swearing and Mickey snatches his phone back off the counter in desperation. He isn’t sure what he expected to find but when he searches first anniversaries and finds a bunch of shit about giving paper, he re-enters the search with ‘gay’ tacked on to the end.
Stupid ass bracelets, notes in a bottle, quotes written on planks in loopy font and fucking tuxedos in a glass case all flood his phone screen and it’s enough to make Mickey nauseous. All of it seems impersonal the more he scrolls though, like the kind of stuff for those husbands that phone in every anniversary so their partners don’t bitch at them for days or weeks afterward. It’s cheesy enough to make him grimace at nothing, closing out all of the open tabs and flipping his phone face down on the table top.
Mickey doesn’t want their anniversary to be any other day. He doesn’t want to fuck it up. He doesn’t want Ian to think it doesn’t matter.
Because it does.
The rest of his pizza rolls get pushed onto a plate as Mickey leaves for their basically empty bedroom, a new sense of urgency pushing him forward. He tosses clothes, books, and random blankets out of one of their trash bags, digging and digging until his hand slides over the smooth casing of a notebook. It’s creased now, frayed around the edges and the wedding ideas Mickey clipped out a year ago are barely holding on for dear life to yellowing pieces of scotch tape.
He grins at the notebook like he’s struck gold and flings it onto their bedroom floor, flipping it open right there on the carpet while he stuffs his mouth with the piping hot rolls.
If Mickey could plan a whole fucking wedding, he could plan an anniversary. Easy.
Or at least it should be easy.
Mickey goes through his notes page by page, refreshing his memory of all the details. The Polish Doll, the stargazer lilies, the chiavari chairs, the playlist that Ian and Mickey both added songs to until it was perfectly them. The best day of his life built up by so many smaller pieces, each one memorable in their own way.
And isn’t that what anniversaries are for? Remembering something?
With his mind swimming, Mickey ignores the click of the front door and Ian’s shuffling feet until his light is blocked by a body standing just behind him.
“We have a counter, you know? You don’t have to eat on the floor, Mick,” Ian tells him, a lilt of amusement in his voice.
Mickey nearly jumps out of his skin and he throws his body over his notebook, hiding most of it under his chest. “Jesus, you ever learn to knock?”
Ian furrows his brow slightly but it softens just as quickly. “I live with you. Why would I knock?”
“In case, I was — I dunno, jerking off or something.”
“Sounds like a good time to me.” Ian chuckles softly, kicking his sneakers into a corner of the room. “What are you doing anyway?”
Mickey’s mouth slacks and he clears his throat, resting his chin in his hand to seem more casual. “Nothing. Cleaning.”
“Cleaning?” Ian asks him incredulously, picking up some of their belongings that Mickey haphazardly threw around the room.
Mickey takes the second that Ian isn’t looking to flip around and shove his notebook into the back of his pants, flipping his shirt over it. He manages to conceal it just as Ian holds up a pair of his boxers, his face oddly smug.
“Mind your business. I got a system,” Mickey mumbles, standing up carefully.
Ian’s smile only gets wider and he drops the fabric in favor of reaching for Mickey’s hand, pulling him closer. “Oh, is that what this is?”
Ian smells like chlorine mixed with fading remnants of his cologne and his shirt sticks to the parts of his skin where he didn’t dry off completely but Mickey finds himself staring, his heart oddly skipping a beat.
It’s not a new thing. Ian always made Mickey’s heart move erratically, act out, jump to life and that’s one thing being married didn’t change. Ian still has the power to move Mickey with just a glance, a smile, a word.
Mickey’s worry fades and it’s replaced by the softest grin, one that he only half attempts to conceal. “Yeah, that’s what it is.”
“Mmm, it’s cute.”
Ever since Ian found out the lady with the weird fucking dog called him ‘cute,’ it’s become somewhat of a mantra for him — remarking that every damn thing Mickey does is cute just to mock him.
He rolls his eyes and tries to escape Ian’s grasp, pushing on his chest with one hand. “Cute, my ass.”
Ian keeps his grasp firm though and he loops his fingers through the belt loops of Mickey’s jeans to hold him steady. “Your ass is cute too,” he says, wiggling his brows in that playful way that does Mickey in every time.
“Fuck off,” Mickey insists even though his next shove is much lighter than the first and he subconsciously runs his thumb over Ian’s hand. “Look, I gotta go take care of something but I’ll be back in an hour.”
Without meaning to, Ian’s grin drops into a pout — his bottom lip and chin jutting out slightly. “You better. I’m going to try and get the stove going, make us spaghetti.”
The stupid look on Ian’s face pushes a laugh out of him and Mickey leans in, pecking his lips once as he untangles their hands. “Don’t burn the place down.”
“I think boiling water is pretty easy.” It’s said with a look that is pure cheese, Ian’s cheeks flushed pink and soft just like they did when he was fifteen.
Mickey is almost reluctant to leave when Ian is being especially adorable but the spiral of his notebook presses into his back, reminding him of what he needs to do. “Uh huh, love you.”
Ian quickly steals another kiss while he can, running his hand along the length of Mickey’s arm. “Love you too.”
As Mickey walks off toward the front door, he wonders if there will ever come a day where any of Ian’s kisses don’t mean the world to him.
He’s pretty sure that’s impossible.
—
For one of them to end up at the Alibi in the middle of the day isn’t exactly unheard of. Whether they were arguing or not, neither Ian or Mickey had found a place on the west side that matched up to their local hangout. They’d been going there since they were old enough to see over the counter, maybe even before, and when Mickey looked back on it, he’d seen and done it all at that place.
Spent hours nursing a bruised face after one of Terry’s tirades, drank his thoughts away when Ian was gone, started a business with Kev, came out in front of everyone, planned his wedding, and now — thinking about his anniversary.
When he puts it all into perspective, it’s almost like he’s reflecting on someone else’s life — one of those success stories people in their neck of the woods consider a pipe dream but is his reality. He’s light years away from the kid who blasted Radiohead on repeat in the loneliness of his room, the one who convinced himself that better was a fallacy and no one would ever love him. No, Mickey is now a man with a purpose, with a life that means something, so it seems only fitting that he brings it full circle.
Kev’s voice is the first one Mickey hears as he walks in, the man standing behind the counter in his usual stance of one hand on the beer tap filling a glass. He’s in the middle of heatedly discussing baseball with Kermit but breaks it off mid sentence to look Mickey’s way. “Look who it is. Thought you were moving stuff into your new place.”
“Still figuring that shit out,” Mickey tells him in a dry tone, moving to slide into one of the stools, settling his elbows on the edge of the counter.
The beer Kev was holding gets placed in front of him and Mickey can feel all their eyes on him, even Kermit and Tommy stopping their Sox talk to turn toward him.
Mickey side eyes the three of them, his brow creasing heavily. He didn’t come there with the intention of drinking but without Ian’s optimism to push him, Mickey lets his worry seep back in. His hand curls around the glass and he knocks the beer back in almost one go, letting it fall on the counter with a clunk once it’s empty.
The three other men all blink at him in unison and Mickey briefly flashes back to the day after he came out, an uncomfortable itch under his skin.
“Got something on your mind?” Kev asks as he pours another beer for Tommy, motioning silently at him and Kermit to butt out.
The conversation strikes back up between the two of them and Mickey relaxes, casting out a heavy sigh. “It’s just — it’s gonna be a year, you know since the wedding.”
Kev turns behind him to grab a bottle, almost reading Mickey’s mind when he serves him a whiskey on the rocks. “Almost forgot V and mine’s first anniversary, took me the whole day to remember. You should have seen her face. But I got her some flowers, made dinner, and didn’t lose one of my balls. Win, win if you ask me.”
“That’s the thing. Don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to get Mickey and Kev’s brains working together since it never really worked out flawlessly in the past but he needed all the help he could get.
“Keep it simple. Old fashioned family get together.”
The rest of the drink gets emptied into Mickey’s mouth and he fidgets with the glass, considering the suggestion. “You think?”
Kev nods and he motions to the space around them. “Yeah, might as well use the Alibi while we still got it.”
Mickey can’t wrap his mind around a day without the Alibi. For years, it’s been a comfort place, a staple and now before any of them knew it, it would cease to exist in this form. Maybe the least they could do was let it go out in style.
“Did you just make a good point?” Mickey jokes with him, quirking a brow at him.
Kev takes it on the chin and chuckles, taking back Mickey’s glass and pouring him one more for good measure. “Happens sometimes.”
Leaning over the bar, Mickey lifts his arm and without needing an explanation, Kev bumps forearms with him in a show of solidarity. “Thanks, man.”
Kev gives him a crooked smile, moving toward the other side of the bar. “Anything for family.”
Yeah, Mickey thinks. Anything for family.
—
Mickey is only a quarter buzzed when he takes the L a couple blocks away from the Alibi. It’s a twenty minute train ride at this hour back to the West Side so he settles in, taking up two seats on one of the emptier cars.
One thing off his checklist. Location. But as the cityscape changes from his familiar dilapidated buildings to the brand new construction of the other side of town, Mickey recites everything else that needs to get done for this to actually happen. Food, decorations, guests, music, flowers? What the fuck else?
He takes out his phone and scrolls past Ian, Sandy, the stupid Gallagher family group chat, until he finds Lip’s name — aptly filed under Lip 🖕.
Mickey: You busy?
It takes a few minutes for Mickey to get a response and he immediately rolls his eyes when he reads it.
Lip: Why? Want a rematch?
Mickey: I won that fight and we both know it.
Lip: Sure, man. What’s up?
Mickey: You still got those party decorations in the basement?
Lip: Think so.
Lip: What for?
Mickey: I was thinking of throwing a party.
Lip: For your anniversary?
Mickey pauses to look around the empty train car, his paranoia thinking that maybe Lip or Ian has been stalking him this whole time.
Mickey: How’d you remember that?
Lip: I was the best man, remember? And Ian mentioned it.
Just those three words get stuck in Mickey’s head. Ian mentioned it.
Mickey: Oh yeah? What’d he say?
Lip: Not much, just that he was looking forward to it.
Mickey: I wanna surprise him.
Lip: And you want us to help?
Mickey: That’s the idea.
It’s another ten minutes and Mickey is nearing his stop when Lip answers and he’s pretty sure the asshole waited on purpose just to give Mickey a heart attack.
Lip: I’m in.
Lip: I’ll text Debbie and Carl. See if they can get some food and spread the word.
Mickey: No one better let it fucking slip.
Lip: I’d be more worried about Ian guilt tripping you all day.
Mickey remembers Ian’s pout and he laughs to himself, getting off the train when his station is called.
Mickey: I got it covered.
No other messages come through during the ten minute walk back to the condo and Mickey is fumbling for his keys, already smelling whatever Ian is cooking through the cracks of the door. He manages to get the door open and hears Ian’s quick and playful ‘you're late’ seconds before his phone goes off again.
Lip: If you say so.
Asshole.
—
It’s Tuesday afternoon around lunch time and Mickey is sitting at the Gallagher dining table, surrounded by the remnants of their kitchen. Ian made them get an early start to try and help Lip with the repairs but it ended up with his husband begging Debbie to take another look at their ambulance parked outside.
It wasn’t in the cards to discuss his plans with Ian so close by but when the silence is too much to bear, Mickey pulls out a tiny notebook from the inside of his jacket pocket, spreading it open in front of him. It’s covered in doodles, Mickey’s messy handwriting scratching along the lines of every page. There are prices, lists of decorations, ideas to tack onto the party, and some clip outs Mickey found from the wedding plans. Maybe he’s taking this too seriously and he’s had to hear it from everyone that he doesn’t have to go overboard but the details swim in his head, aching to put down on paper.
“How much to get one of those planes that carry those signs behind it?” Mickey asks out loud, a bright yellow highlighter tucked in between his forefingers.
“More money than any of us have,” Lip mutters from the wall where he’s still paving over the hole, painting different streaks of test paint along the rough patch job.
Mickey huffs at that, crossing off a line on his checklist and moving on to the next one. “Still got to talk to those Polish girls and see if I can’t bribe them into coming down for a few hours.”
Tami comes from the other side of the counter and sets a mug of coffee down in front of Mickey with a relaxed smile, taking the seat across from him. Freddie is sleeping soundly in his car seat at her feet, gently rocking with the aid of his mother’s hand.
Surprisingly Tami was the most onboard for the idea. Where Lip mocked him, told him he was being dramatic and soft — Tami thought it was sweet, offered to help him find the right kind of lights to string up in the Alibi. With Sandy gone to god knows where, it was nice to have a woman’s guidance, someone who knew a hell lot more than the fucking Gallagher siblings did.
“Polish girls for what?” Tami wonders, taking careful sips out of her own mug as she raises a brow at him in curiosity.
Embarrassment catches Mickey off guard and he flushes, heat rising up the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Atmosphere or whatever. To remind us of the wedding.”
“Atmosphere?” The stairs creak from Carl coming down them, Liam not too far behind and they both look at Mickey with the same confused expression.
Tami brushes them off for Mickey and waves the two boys off to the other side of the kitchen. “I think it’s cute.”
‘Cute’ was starting to become one of Mickey’s hairpin triggers but he lets it slide coming from her. He ignores the other’s comments and goes back to his list, chewing on the end of his highlighter. “Gonna get one of those polka players to do the wedding playlist on the accordion. That’s romantic, right?”
Lip turns back to them with a paintbrush in hand, half listening to their conversation and half squinting at the wall in thought. “I guess so, yeah.”
A scowl contorts Mickey’s features and he snaps without meaning to. “What am I asking you for you anyway? He’ll like it.”
“And that’s the most important part,” Tami interjects, getting up from the table and squeezing Mickey’s shoulder once. She throws Lip a look on her way to leave her mug in the sink, muttering something about being more supportive.
Lip clears his throat, setting down the paintbrush and wiping the remaining paint on his hands on the front of his worn in shirt. “I found one of those happy anniversary banners. I sent it over to Kev so he can hang it up on the day of.”
“And the candles?” Mickey asks, moving through each item in his head for the hundredth time.
“Already took care of it. Found the same ones you guys used at the wedding in one of the boxes.”
“Good.”
Lip grabs a mug and pours himself the rest of the coffee in the pot, taking it with him when he takes the seat Tami was occupying. “Anything else?”
“Not really. Kind of just gotta put it all together,” Mickey concedes with a half assed shrug.
At the same time, Carl and Liam move around each other in the kitchen, each of them making poor excuses for sandwiches. They’ve done their fair share in helping, having worked on the guest list alongside Debbie.
“You worried?” Carl asks in the middle of cracking open the jar of mayo, spreading a glob of it on his bread in the same breath.
Tami clicks her tongue in disapproval, shuffling around them to pick Freddie into her arms when he starts fussing. The filter in this family was nearing zero and Mickey isn’t sure if it’s helpful or not.
“Always worried,” he admits and shuts the notebook for the time being. Mickey can already feel the headache start to pulse behind his eyes and he sighs, running a hand over his face.
Maybe Lip reads it on his face, maybe it’s in the way Mickey curls in on himself but his words are less harsh. “Don’t be. If I know Ian, he’ll love it.”
“Yeah?” Mickey glances and silent acknowledgements flicker between them.
“Yeah.”
Mickey chews on his lip again, a nervous tick that he’s picked up in the planning process. He wants Ian to love it. He wants to see that shine in his eyes when Mickey surprises him. Just the thought gives Mickey a rush and his skin warms imagining Ian’s cheeks dusted a light shade of pink in happiness.
He nods twice at nothing in particular, ready to get back to it but the front door opens and Franny runs in, followed closely by Debbie and Ian.
“Were we not invited to the party?” Ian questions while Franny bounds her way into the empty chair next to Lip, her little feet dangling over the edge.
The word ‘party’ shocks his system and Mickey practically flings the notebook under the table, watching it land by his boot and he steps on the cover in a panic. Luckily Ian isn’t watching, too busy getting the orange juice out of the fridge but Franny giggles at Mickey’s actions, her eyes locked in on his foot.
Carl finishes up with his sandwich and is a mouthful into it, coming around to Mickey’s side of the table to steal a swig from Lip’s mug. “We were just plan—”
Before he can even finish his sentence, Mickey digs his elbow sharply into the younger man’s side in an attempt to shut him up.
Carl hisses and he angles away from Mickey’s arm, rubbing at the side of his rib cage. “Fuck, I mean — we’re just hanging out.”
For a second, Mickey thinks that’s it. Secret’s out. But Ian stares at them blankly, nothing more and nothing less. “I don’t even want to know.” He drinks the rest of the juice straight out of the carton before coming around to head up the backstairs. “I’m going to grab more of my things from upstairs. You need anything?”
“I’m good.” Mickey grits his teeth to keep calm, fighting not to crack, though it’s not helped by Franny giggling again and kicking at his knee.
Ian still doesn’t notice or he pretends not to, smiling at Mickey and his niece on his way up the steps. “I’ll meet you outside so we can do our last drop off.”
“Yep, got it.” Mickey waits for Ian to get all the way up the stairs and once his footsteps are no longer audible, he fully punches Carl square in the stomach. “Open your fat mouth and I’ll knock your teeth out. Cop fucker or not.”
Carl groans and Mickey takes his wheezing for understanding, getting off his chair to ruffle Franny’s hair. Ian would be down again any minute so he picks the notebook off the floor and tucks away for safekeeping. “Kev’s got everything squared down at the Alibi. Just make sure everyone gets to the place on time,” he reminds Lip, the man hiding his smirk behind his mug.
Lip clears his throat and he sets his mug down, checking over his shoulder for Mickey who is already heading to the living room. “What time is that again?”
“Jesus Christ, Sunday at 7,” Mickey hisses at him and his nostrils flare angrily. “Do I have to do everything around here?”
Both Carl and Lip hold back their laughter and Mickey thinks about strangling both of them right then there. Lip turns in his chair, his arm resting on the back of it. “They’ll be there Saturday at 8. Don’t worry.”
Gritting his teeth, Mickey just flips the pair off and he marches into the other room to flop down on the couch. He finds an abandoned box of cigarettes on the table and lights one up, letting it dangle in his lips to clear his head.
His family was a bunch of fuckers, that part was pretty damn clear.
—
Mickey doesn’t sleep well for the last days leading up to the big day. He spends his nights watching the moonlight filter through their brand new set of blinds while listening to Ian’s soft snoring beside him. It’s all set, everything is planned to the fucking T but his nerves chew at his insides because there’s still that tiny chance that it’ll all go balls up.
Or worse, Ian could actually think he forgot and hate him.
It’s a long shot because Ian knows him, he knows Mickey would move mountains for him but as good as things have been, there’s still that tension of moving and changing and shifting that keeps both of them on edge. It’s a gamble but nothing good comes without risk. Mickey learned that the hard way.
The nervousness only gets worse the morning of and Mickey is up at the crack of dawn, pacing back and forth until he works up the strength to get in the shower. Every nerve ending in his body is buzzing and he ticks off that same damn checklist in his mind another ten times to make sure everything is taken care of. All that’s left is for Mickey to put on the best performance of his life and pretend it’s just another day. Another day on the calendar, nothing else.
Mickey gets out of the shower twenty minutes later and pads quietly back to their room on the off chance that Ian is still sleeping. Sitting on the corner of the bed, though, is Ian, already changed into his clothes for the day. There’s an odd quirk to his features and he’s passing his phone back and forth between his hands.
“It’s Liam. We gotta go to the house,” Ian says dryly, wiping his hand across his forehead.
Mickey can’t tell if it’s just the paranoia again but he can see Ian deflating by the second. “What is it this time?”
“Frank may have OD’ed again.”
Figures. Selfishly, Mickey is glad that Ian’s detachment isn’t caused by his lack of mentioning their anniversary first thing and even if it was, as long as Ian doesn’t mention it — a distraction is a distraction.
“Give me five.”
Leave it to Frank, his own father-in-law to pull shit on one of the most nerve wracking days of Mickey’s life. Mickey gets changed as fast as he can and they head to the ambulance in near silence. Ian opens his mouth a few times as they pass from the West to the South and he eventually settles into speculating that Frank was either missing or broke a limb. It’s normal conversation for the two of them, nothing they haven’t dealt with before and yet Mickey is constantly eyeing Ian on their trip over to the house.
Maybe he forgot. Maybe he’s too preoccupied. Maybe he’s seething with rage from the inside. Mickey can’t be too sure.
They get to the house in record time and find the rest of the family huddled around Frank’s motionless body drugged out on the couch. If it was anyone else, maybe they all might care more but it’s Frank and while no one would admit it, seeing Frank go wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened to them.
And for Ian? Yeah, Mickey is pretty convinced that Ian wouldn’t give two shits if the bastard went.
Eventually they all get tired of watching Frank grow roots in the cushions and move to the kitchen, each of them finding their respective spots. It’s business as usual and Ian is hung up on furniture talk again so Mickey slips in a relaxed cough, raising both brows in Kev’s direction.
Realization takes a second to kick in and Kev starts up, rattling off the best excuse they could come up with. “Oh yeah, everybody should come to the Alibi later. Drinks are gonna be half off. It’s a special thank you to our customers for their years of loyal alcoholism.”
It isn’t what they rehearsed and talk about dry delivery but Mickey doesn’t care about that as long as it was convincing enough.
Mickey quickly swallows the coffee still left in his mouth and he backs up just out of Ian’s eyeline. “Mmm, that sounds really great, Kev.” He holds up seven fingers, his brows nearly up to his hairline. “What time do you want to do that?”
Another blank look from Kev until he catches the drift, trying to follow Mickey’s lead. “Seven?”
Mickey gives him two thumbs up and a forced smile because hell, it’s better than nothing.
Thankfully Lip picks up the slack and he hits Kev lightly on the chest, making the whole thing seem more normal. “Good, we’ll be there.”
Mickey visibly relaxes and his attention moves to Ian and again, he considers the possibility that he forgot because Ian downs his pills without so much as batting an eyelash at Kev’s piss-poor acting job. Should he be offended? Mickey doesn’t know because it isn’t like he mentioned it either but at least he did something.
So Ian better not have forgotten.
Everyone goes their separate ways and the pair end up upstairs to drag Ian’s mattress out of their old room, taking it down the porch steps to the ambulance. Mickey steps over the curb and angles it to the left enough to give Ian clearance to get the doors open.
Before he does, Ian’s head pokes from around the side of the mattress. “You know what today is? 20th or 21st?”
And there it is. Ian remembered.
Mickey’s heart does a single somersault but he keeps it casual, giving his usual snarky response in return. “The fuck should I know?”
“I’m thinking it’s the 21st.”
Another grunt and Mickey lifts the mattress higher so he can support it with his shoulder. “Maybe a little less thinking and open those doors, this fucker’s heavy.”
Ian drops his side of the mattress abruptly and Mickey can practically smell the irritation rolling off him in waves. He holds in a snort, way too amused now that he knows Ian’s aware of the date. Even if he kills him, at least Mickey got a good chuckle out of it.
After that, Ian mentions the date at least four times throughout the day, all in different ways and each time, Mickey fights back the urge to spill over and tell him the truth. Ian is nothing if not petty and obvious, laying it on as thick as possible so Mickey could catch the hint.
If he had a death wish, he might have mocked Ian for it.
Once they finish up at the furniture store and Ian buys him the pizza he mentioned, they make their last stop at Kev and V’s house. They head in through the back door, wading through the boxes and piles of clothes collected around the living room. Just another hour or so and Mickey would be in the clear.
Unfortunately for him though, the universe throws another wrench into the system and the mention of kids turns Mickey’s blood cold.
“What?” Ian is staring at him and whatever else he was feeling is replaced by concern.
Mickey’s throat goes dry and he fixates on the crib, recalling his childhood, or his lack of one. The father who robbed him of safety and security. The father who never loved him a day in his life.
“I’d be a shitty dad, man.”
Ian’s brows stitch together slightly and for a moment, he appears to regret bringing it up. “No, you wouldn’t.”
This isn’t where Mickey expected their day to lead. It’s supposed to be fun, nerve-wracking but memorable and here he is, airing out skeletons he didn’t think still existed. “Yeah, what if I like beat it or —?”
What if he turned out like Terry after all?
“You won’t,” Ian responds firmly, much more certain in comparison to Mickey.
Ian knows it all. He was there for a good portion of the torture Terry put him through, watched Mickey break down and tear himself apart for a man that wasn’t worth it. Ian nursed his real scars as much as the invisible ones but Mickey never delved into the part of him that was still scared. The part that worried about how hard the Milkovich genes kicked back.
“Spare the fireplace poker, spoil a child — that’s the kind of shit my dad always said,” Mickey mumbles and he shifts awkwardly, hunching forward.
Ian’s eyes watch his every move and he understands, he’s the only one who understands. “Come here,” he urges him gently, taking a half step closer.
“Fuck you,” Mickey bites back defensively and without meaning to.
“Come on.”
“Fuck off, no I don’t wanna —” Mickey tries fruitlessly to push him away, his whole body wanting to reject the comfort, but Ian’s arms loop around him protectively. His chin tucks in against Ian’s shoulder and he folds, becoming limp and weak in the embrace. No one but Ian ever sees him like this — vulnerable and torn open, exposed to his reality. “I hate this.”
Ian’s arms curl tighter around him and his warmth washes over Mickey, tethering him to the moment. His breath glides over Mickey’s ear in a whisper, words only meant for him and him alone. “You’re gonna be a great dad.”
Something neither of them ever had. A great dad. Mickey doesn’t say anything else because he can’t. He just focuses on Ian’s hand slowly grazing the back of his head and neck, his breath evening out. He doesn’t fight back and he clings to Ian’s jacket in the minutes they stand huddled together.
There’s doubt in Mickey’s head, persistent devils on his shoulders that tell him it won’t work and that he’s just masking the parts of himself that are just like Terry. There are bits of his past that he’s long since buried — a child out there with eyes that are just as blue as his own but that’s not for today. Mickey can’t think about that now. All he knows is that if Ian believes in him, maybe he could start to believe it too.
Maybe he could really be better than that.
—
After the conversation at the house, Ian and Mickey don’t talk much on their way to the Alibi. It’s not an uncomfortable type of silence but there’s a layer of uncertainty that neither of them is willing to address. It’s a subject for another day and Ian understands that — Mickey knows that much — but pair it with him supposedly forgetting their anniversary? Mickey is surprised Ian hasn’t fully strangled him yet.
Ian pulls the ambulance up to the entrance of the bar and they both get out at the same time, the slamming of their doors ringing louder than normal. Mickey is a few steps ahead of Ian, already heading to the door only to stop when he speaks.
“I don’t wanna stay too long, alright? I want to get back to the apartment so I can unpack my clothes.”
Mickey doubles back and nods, an eagerness to his motions. “Yeah, four or five beers and we’ll go.” He heads for the door a second time but Ian contradicts him.
“One beer and we’ll go.”
“Alright, man,” Mickey mutters nonchalantly, his hand just about to grip the handle and again, Ian interrupts.
“Do you seriously not know what today is?” There’s an edge there, an inflection in Ian’s throat that cuts between annoyed and upset.
Number five. The day is starting to sound fake and Mickey doesn’t have to fake his annoyance from how many times he’s heard it because the answer is right behind that door if Ian would just let him get that far. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know. Thursday?”
“21st,” Ian reminds him. “Doesn’t ring any bells with you?”
Mickey puts on his best innocent face, contorting it into confusion. “No. Should it?”
“It’s our wedding anniversary.” And the strain in his voice only magnifies itself, apparent to Mickey from years of learning everything about Ian.
Mickey plays it off coolly though, remembering to open his mouth in shock. “Oh, no shit.”
He silently applauds himself for his acting and not bothering to take offense that Ian sincerely thinks he forgot. It was the one day Mickey would never forget for a hundred life times.
“One year ago today.” Ian blinks a few times in succession and his shoulders hunch over, making him smaller and suddenly ten years younger. It’s a stance Mickey remembers and the lump in his throat doubles in size.
“Hey, man. That’s great.” Mickey says as cheerily as he can, moving in to slap Ian’s shoulder. He can read the disappointment flaring dangerously on Ian’s features and when the pair stare at each other, Mickey is ready for this whole secret thing to be over. He never wants to see that look on Ian’s face ever again. “Come on, I’m thirsty,” he tells him casually, finally getting to the door and heading inside.
Ian is only seconds behind him but Mickey’s heart jumps to rapid speed, knocking so loudly he can hear it in his eardrums. He holds the door open for Ian, his smile wide and brimming when his husband turns the corner.
‘Surprise’ and ‘happy anniversary’ ring out loudly from everyone in the Alibi — friends, family, and even a few randoms that Mickey barely knows. All of it cascades over both of them, blaring whoops and different noisemakers, and Mickey pulls back to let the door fall shut, standing there to take in Ian’s shocked expression.
Ian blinks in the same way as he did outside and from Mickey’s angle, he catches a glint in his eye that he easily recognizes as tears just bubbling over his bottom lids. All of the panic Mickey put himself through cancels out because just the way Ian looks at him, makes it all worthwhile. Better than anything he imagined.
“Speech, speech, speech!” The crowd cheers Ian on but eventually falls silent to let him speak.
Ian gapes, smiling in disbelief and it’s clear he's at a loss for the right words. He stands there watching the crowd but then those glassy green eyes turn to Mickey, full-blown and starry. “I love this man,” he announces to everyone — proudly and happily — and he reaches for Mickey, putting his hands on either side of his face.
It’s all Mickey needs to hear. It’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. It swells inside of him like a thousand butterflies, brimming him to full capacity with happiness. The accordion music kicks in right on cue, serenading them with ‘At Last’ and accompanying the moment as if it was plucked straight out of some romantic movie scene.
Mickey’s cheeks are warm under Ian’s palms and when their lips touch, he’s reminded that this isn’t a dream. He won’t ever wake up as the man he used to be because if he got this far, he can keep pushing.
Mickey won’t ever stop fighting.
When Ian pulls back and they meet each other’s gaze, both of their eyes are brimming with unshed tears. Mickey brings his hand up to Ian’s cheek, running his fingers along his jawline.
“I love you too.”
Ian chuckles softly and Mickey can tell he’s breaking, his emotions overwhelming him. They get lost in their own bubble, the rest of the party coming to life behind him but all Mickey can see is Ian. The song swells and Ian’s hand slips to Mickey’s waist, pulling him up against his chest. He says nothing and simply starts swaying with him in time to the music.
Slow dancing in the Alibi in front of their family and friends. If fifteen year old Mickey could see him now, he hopes that he’d be proud.
Because he made it. He did it. And Mickey believes more now than maybe ever before that he isn’t fucked for life. He doesn’t have to be alone. It took ten years. Ten years of struggling, of separation, of pain, hurtful words and punches, and now they’re here. No more Terry. No more questioning. Nothing else standing in their way.
One year down.
Forever to go.