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“Y’know…my dad wasn’ wrong about this.”
Mickey swung his head lazily around to eye Ian next to him on the couch, raising an eyebrow at the redhead. “Hell frozen over, fuckwit?” Ian frowned at him as though genuinely trying to understand. “Thought the world’d end before either one of us said that,” he clarified.
Ian laughed, loose and vibrant, in the way he only did when he was well on his way to full-on wasted. He stared fondly at the glass of Jack Daniels and orange juice in his hand. “Frank’s wrong about a lot of shit,” he said, elongating the words “a lot” as though they were approximately six syllables long. “But this really isn’ that bad. S’like breakfast, Mick.”
Mickey chuckled, his attention half on the bad late-night action flick on the television. “Breakfast?”
Ian nudged him lazily. “Cause it’s oooorange juice.”
Mickey’s hand darted out to grab the cup from Ian’s hand, sniffing at the drink inside. “Smells like more Jack than juice to me,” he said, smirking as Ian clumsily lunged for the cup and easily holding it out of his reach.
“Givvitback,” Ian slurred, grabbing for it but only succeeding at faceplanting into Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey barked out a laugh at that, dislodging Ian’s head against him, but secretly enjoying the way Ian reached out to steady himself with one hand on Mickey’s torso and the other braced on his knee. When Ian kept flailing, he muttered, “OK, man, OK,” and handed the drink back to him.
“Yurra good boyfriend,” Ian mumbled, settling back again in the couch cushions. Mickey sighed, not without fondness. “Mean it, Mick. You’re the Jack Daniels to my orange juice.”
Mickey reached out to pull gently at Ian’s short hair. “Yeah, you would be the orange juice, Firecrotch,” he snorted.
It was a ridiculous comment—the ramblings of a drunken idiot, if you asked Mickey. But when he dragged Ian’s ass off the couch and into bed, Ian threw an arm around his shoulders and drawled, “’S true, y’know. You’re the best boyfriend ever, JD.”
Mickey paused, trying to track what exactly Ian had just said. Finally he caught on. “Shut the fuck up, Tropicana. You too.”