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Mickey looks up at the red “Honorary Disney Family Av” street sign, glances at the yellowish house in front of him, and silently wonders what all the fuss is about. There’s nothing special about the building itself. Besides its white picket fence and the well-kept yard full of green stuff, and how clean the surrounding neighborhood is, it may almost as well have been one of the rare properly attended houses in the South Side.
A shriek of “dada”, followed by a heavy bounce that makes him oof and steady his stance, pulls his attention to the energetic baby strapped to his front. Her entire body is now in motion, arms waving and legs kicking, signaling excitement about something. Mickey looks around, trying to see what led to this sudden, semi-violent animation. All he gets for his efforts is a kick to the stomach. If this little one doesn’t turn out to be a soccer player when she’s older, or maybe a karate master, he’ll eat his fucking socks. Without thinking about it, probably due to his previous thought, he rights Willow’s green sunhat and checks that each of her purple socks is still attached to its respective foot.
“Hey, little Will-pill with no chill, what’s got you all riled up, huh?” Mickey asks, leaning close enough to her head for her to hear him properly, careful not to be headbutted in the process. All he gets in reply is another “dada” and a decisive clap of hands. That’s final then, he mentally shrugs, she probably did see Ian in the throng of people around them.
She wriggles around some more and Mickey can’t help the grimace he feels forming on his face. Man, his nips are going to be chafing later. He ponders why they’ve ended up surrounded by a crowd of mostly too fucking cheerful people, far too many of them kids, in a far different part of town, at midday on a bright and blistering late-June Saturday.
It’s beyond him how on Earth Ian had managed to convince him that it was a great idea to not only leave their air-conditioned apartment, but also to get on the Metra to travel through half of Chicago — with what felt like half of the Chicago population joining them on the train. Why couldn’t they have just hung out by the pool at home, the one where no one but their neighbors can annoy him (and where he has Ian’s permission to piss in the water — not that he would, his own kid spends time in there now for Christ’s sake), like normal fucking people?
Thank fuck their child is an easy-going, almost scarily happy little urchin, who’d enjoyed the hell out of the train ride. He has a feeling she's going to UNO reverse them hard by turning out to be the sulkiest, most emo teenager ever. Too bad for her that both of her parents have most people beat when it comes to both having and dealing with depression and shitty attitudes.
As soon as they’d stepped out onto the sidewalk from Healy station, Mickey had been more than prepared to just find the nearest bar to grab and chug a large cold one. As luck would have it, there was one right up on the corner in the direction they were heading, a big sign spelling out The Levee a sight for his sore eyes and parched throat. As he’s always had shit for luck, of course the place was closed until afternoon. Not that Ian would’ve let him have a beer anyway, especially since Mickey’s the one carrying their daughter around, but still. Shit. For. Luck.
They’d kept walking for about twenty minutes, not passing much of interest apart from some psychic, astro bullshit shop. Ian and him had looked at each other, chuckling at the “love specialist” part of its name, and agreed that no, they did not want to pay ten bucks for their manos to be lectura’d. What kind of dealer, no matter their business, more or less gave that kind of “information” away for a ten-spot? A shit one, that’s who, in Mickey’s opinion. Not that he believed in any of that spiritualist crap anyway, so it wasn’t like the pricing even mattered all that much to him. It was more important that they hadn’t even walked past a corner store where he could get something to drink, anything at all that wasn’t the likely tepid water Ian had packed in their now constant baby bag companion.
Turning off from the bustle of West Fullerton, they’d slowly walked along the tiny, tidy front yards of North Tripp Avenue towards their destination. There had been people milling about, some bypassing them, but Mickey hadn’t thought too much about it. Wherever the hell part of Chicago they were in, the place had a nice, relaxed atmosphere about it. He was enjoying himself, apart from the fucking sun and heat boiling him.
They’d had to stop for a minute to let the little bug on Mickey’s chest squeal at a dog that was walking by, its owner greeting them happily and smiling at an equally happy baby. Mickey had already thought by then that he was likely to break out in hives if all this happiness continued going on around him. He should have known better by now than to jinx himself, even more so considering he kind of knew where they were going. He just, well, he just hadn’t known, not for real. It’s not as though happy-go-lucky cartoons and feel-good shit had been a major part of his childhood, let alone people who had time for those kinds of fantasy worlds. He’d started to grasp it as they’d approached their stop, though: the Walt Disney Birthplace and its ongoing Creativity Days block party slash arts festival.
This is what Mickey’s life has become now: weekend excursions with his little family, traveling around by public transport to obscure places that Ian somehow finds all over Chicago. He ain’t about to complain, at least not out loud, except for about the weather and its consequences. It does often feel surreal though, like a dream he’s afraid to wake up from, so far removed from anything he could’ve ever imagined for himself. But, both Ian and Willow have pinched him enough times for it to be absolutely real, sometimes painfully so.
The intersection they’re at is busy, but not because of car traffic. There are people of all ages milling about, activities going on here and there, people singing somewhere, food being cooked and handed over to hungry customers. Some kids are drawing on the sidewalk with large pieces of all different colors of chalk, some are doing other kinds of arts and crafts, while some are playing around or sticking to their relatives.
If someone had told a much younger Mickey that he’d one day be standing in front of an unremarkable house—surrounded by smiley people they’ve never met before and likely will never meet again, more or less wearing a baby he loves and for whom he has parental responsibilities because he’d both chosen and wanted to—simply because these little outings delight his husband and child, he would’ve laughed in their face and then put his fist to it.
Ian’s off somewhere getting them something to eat and Mickey's promised him to wait by the little red street sign. Willow is settled safely against his front in her BabyBjörn carrier, facing outward so she can babble and wave at anything and everyone. He’s sure she’s smiling and blinking at the people around them all charmingly too, that’s just the kind of baby she is. He has no idea where she gets it from, this outgoing and bubbly personality of hers. A sunny chatterbox disposition sure as hell isn’t a trait of his. Except he pretty much does smile anytime he so much as looks at her. Mickey may be biased in many ways when it comes to her, but she generally seems to just have that effect on people.
Their little Willow June, who’d turned one less than a week ago, is better than any happy pill you could waste your money on. Who the hell wouldn’t want to bring all that cuteness and sunshine along for the ride of everyday life? Beat being bored out of his mind, that’s for fucking sure. Plus, she’s the perfect scapegoat when he wants to get out of a social situation. Unfortunately, she’s also most often the reason he’s found himself in the situation to begin with. And it's great, always having someone to talk with. Willow has opinions on plenty of things, but they’re still up for Mickey’s interpretation, which mostly suits him just fine. Except for on those few occasions when things seem dire and he has no fucking idea what she’s trying to tell him.
Mickey’s pulled back from his musings when Ian steps up next to him, lightly grabs one flapping soon-to-no-longer-be baby foot in his hand, and flashes their daughter one of the sunniest smiles Mickey has ever seen on his husband's face. If Mickey wasn’t already a melted puddle of sweat, he’d probably swoon a little. As things are, he’s not in the mood for anything more taxing than a little sway on his feet to relieve the pressure on his soles. He throws Ian a halfhearted glare, seeing as his husband is now part of the too fucking cheerful crowd, only managing to make Ian laugh at him.
Willow, reanimated now that her dada is standing right beside her, blows a raspberry followed by a loud laugh in response to Ian’s. These two are going to be the death of Mickey, thankfully in the best of ways.
Or maybe not in the best of ways, because..
“Hey June bug, do you want to switch daddies, maybe get a better view from higher up?” Ian asks, shaking her right leg a little while talking to her, before grinning mischievously at Mickey. He’s an evil motherfucker, this husband that Mickey for some indiscernible reason decided to get married to. Stay married to. Hell, have a kid with.
If it weren't for all the people around them, Mickey would have flipped Ian the fuck off with both hands. He has to settle for scowling.
“Fuck you and fuck right off, I’m not walking around with a visible giant ass sweat stain all over my front for everyone to turn up their noses at. Besides, she weighs less than that monster of a bag you insisted on bringing. You carry that, I’m keeping the kid.”
Ian just rolls his eyes at Mickey good-naturedly and hands Willow a little box of organic, no sugar added, berry lemonade they’d bought at the Whole Foods where his husband now insists on doing most of their grocery shopping.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted to eat, if you wanted food or just a snack, but there are some trucks and stalls around for whichever”, Ian tells him while helping Willow with the straw that appears to be constantly trying to escape her mouth.
Mickey’s not sure either, the heat is kind of killing any sense of hunger, but he’ll eat something anyway or listen to Ian lecturing him about it until he actually is hungry. He’s also still none the wiser why they’ve ended up here, of all the places in Chicago to visit on an early summer weekend at the most blazing of daylight hours, but the outing is making his husband and daughter happy and that’s more than enough reason for Mickey to be too.