Work Text:
When Ian Gallagher stepped out from the plane, his heart was already beating unsteadily. He did his best to compose himself as he raced through the airport unpatiently, cursing the whole checkout procedure.
It seemed to take ages.
When it was finally done with, he walked into the sunlit waiting room. It was just March, but Mexico greeted him with unexpected warmth. The room stood cheerful with laughter and murmur of people greeting each other happily and he gazed across the room, looking for a familiar face. There was no one there. He walked slowly, somehow managing to tug and drag all of his three suitcases, everything he owned, searching for someone who should have been waiting right there.
Where was he? Why wasn't he there?
Was he having second thoughts? No, that was ridiculous. It was Mickey, Mickey never had second thoughts. Not about him, at least. Never about him. Mickey was there, had been there, through thick and thin; and this was supposed to be their thin. He would never miss their thin, would he?
There were times, Ian remembered, when he thought he'd never see Mickey again. When he first went to Juvie and Ian spent weeks deliberating whether he should go visit him. He was at least partially responsible for Mickey getting shot, so he wasn't sure if he'd be welcome. However, the minute he walked in and set his eyes on Mickey's I'm-tryin-hard-to-look-uninterested face, he knew he was forgiven. He was always forgiven. He had been forgiven when he cheated. He had been forgiven when he took Yev. He had been forgiven for pushing Mickey away. He had been forgiven for resisting treatment. He had been forgiven for not visiting while Mickey was in prison. He had, most recently, been forgiven when he left Mickey at that border, too scared to take the final step towards the thin they spent so long chasing.
He was always forgiven.
Ian knew now, and accepted it, that many of the things he had to be forgiven for weren't exactly his fault. He knew he wasn't to blame for being sick and having to take his time to accept and start to manage his disease. It wasn't easy, not at all, and it took a while, but he got there. He got there and Mickey was a big part of that, no matter what Fiona said about it. Mickey had been there for him through the thickest of the thick. And even though Ian knew a lot of his mistakes weren't exactly his, he still needed to be forgiven in order to forgive himself. And Mickey forgave, just like that.
He was always forgiven.
Even for the incident at the border, which was Ian's responsibility entirely, Mickey never blinked before he forgave. He was Ian and Ian was always forgiven, it was like a code, apparently, one Mickey was unable (or unwilling?) to break. You're under my skin, man. Was that what it had meant?
That was certainly the way Ian saw it. He wouldn't be standing at an airport in Tampico, Mexico, looking for the face he spent the past month longing to see, if he wasn't sure he had been forgiven and waited for. But where was Mickey now? Why wasn't he there?
He turned his phone on. No messages. He tried calling, but what he assumed was Mexican answering machine picked up. He left a brief message asking where he was and telling him he would be waiting at the entrance in five minutes. He walked further and when there was still no sign of Mickey anywhere, he put his suitcases down and sat on a nearby bench. He glanced back at his phone, but nothing had changed. He called again, but the same voice recited annoyingly. He sighed, tired from the flight, overwhelmed by insecurities, annoyed by the holdup. He lit a cigarette and took a puff, trying to relax.
"Sorry I'm late." A soft voice pierced the silence and Ian turned abruptly around. There he was, behind him. A cigarette in his mouth, his hands tucked into his pockets. A grin on his face.
Ian looked him in the eyes and flinched at the hints of nervousness he saw behind the mask of smugness. His heartbeat raced, like it always did after being away from Mickey for more than a couple of days, and he felt sudden sweat spreading over his palms. Mickey raised his hands in invitation and Ian felt his legs dragging him to close the distance even before his mind could respond to the gesture. In a blind, effortless movement, he was in Mickey's space, tugging his head upwards, holding him tight and kissing him deeply, completely oblivious to the rest of the world around them. Their lips crashed hard and their foreheads crashed even harder, but adrenaline wiped clean any discomfort that might have caused and they kept kissing and kissing and Ian felt Mickey's hands grasp him tightly and hold onto him desperately, cutting off his air supply in the process. He withdrew his lips, but left his hands on Mickey's face, holding him in place. He opened his eyes and Mickey's blue ones were already there, a million emotions underlining his irises. Ian smiled softly at the sight and he enhaled deeply, letting the familiar scent lull him into blissfulness. "Who said you could wear my shirt?" A voice still soft spoke and Ian let go of him, laughing wholeheartedly.
"Thought it'd be a nice touch." He shrugged and Mickey smiled, letting his eyes wander all over Ian.
"Not bad." He took a puff of his cigarette and let the smoke exit his mouth in harmony with his voice. "Looks better on me, though."
Ian laughed again. "Of course." He said unconvincingly. "To its rightful owner, then." He started unbottoning the buttons of Mickey's beloved Hawaiian shirt and Mickey's eyes widened.
"The fuck you doing?"
"Returning it." Ian grinned.
Mickey rolled his eyes, but failed to suppress his naked want. He bit his lip and tossed the cigarette on the ground casually. He reached for Ian, bringing him into another kiss, a more tender one this time. He took hold of his upper lip, caressing it under his own and Ian felt his whole body relax into the sensation. When Mickey broke apart, Ian opened his eyes again and the man grinned at him mischievously. "Leave it." He glanced down at the shirt and then back to Ian's lips. "I wanna be the one to take it off." Ian's pulse raced again and he nodded enthusiastically.
"Ask and you shall recieve." He winked. (Why did he wink? And when did he get so lame?)
Mickey didn't seem to mind, though. He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I shall, shall I?"
Ian burst out laughing and a second later, Mickey followed. "I'm sorry, but this is ridiculous."
"You're ridiculous."
"True." Ian agreed. "What happened to the 'no kissing at airports' policy? Suddenly not too cliché for you?" He smirked and Mickey rolled his eyes again.
"Fuck you, you didn't mind while you were trying to suffocate me."
"Me?" Ian yelled, remembering too late to keep his voice down at a public place. "As far as I could tell, you were the one holding on like I was about to evaporate." He stated and Mickey arched a shocked eyebrow.
"Fuck off." He retorted. Ian laughed loudly at the fake grumpiness.
Mickey picked his bags up and pointed at a car at the other side of the street.
"Where we goin'?" Ian asked when they settled in.
"Home." Mickey turned to look at him and Ian smiled at the word. Home. With Mickey Milkovich. It had been so long since he was able to be home with Mickey Milkovich. And now he was there: the finish line. Home never felt better. Home never felt more home.
When they got home, kisses grew more passionate and bodies grew more restless. When Mickey guided him to their bed and lay him on their mattress, Ian knew home could only be a person for him. A person in Chicago, a person in Tampico, a person in prison, but always that same person who now lay on top of him, naked, with swollen lips and fluttering eyes. When that same person came on top of him, breathing hard and mouthing his name, Ian knew home could only be a sensation. A sensation in bed, a sensation in the middle of the ocean, a single sensation provided by a single person with a single facial expression. Home. Wherever they were, it was home.
They lay together, breathless, both staring at the ceiling above them. It was still daylight and dimmed rays of afternoon sunshine cast their reflection upon the window glass. The rush of everyday life grew slowly quieter outside and the room around them seemed to shrink just to the two of them, intertwined in a warm bed, clutching onto each other, relishing the feeling of home all over their skin. Ian smiled to himself. This was it. It had been bumpy and fucked up in more ways than one, but it was worth it nonetheless. It was worth breaking if this was what it felt like to be mended.
He traced his thumb over Mickey's upper arm and he felt the man relax into the touch. His smooth skin made Ian's heart grow warmer and he closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the tenderness. They had shared many moments like this one, back in their previous lives, and it had been what Ian missed the most: the touch of Mickey's warmth under his fingertips and the smell in his nostrils when he enhaled, immersed completely in the man next to him. They had shared countless moments like that, Ian knew, but it still felt like the first time. Every touch felt like the first. Every breath felt like a flashback and a prophecy simultaneously. So he breathed. He breathed with Mickey right there beside him, his skin under Ian's fingertips again. And he felt as if could breathe for real again, after so long. After years. Because he was home. He smiled again. He was home.
"Missed that." He heard Mickey announce breathlessly and he looked up from his arms to his eyes and saw Mickey had been smiling as well.
"Missed everything." Ian whispered and cleared his throat self-consciously. Mickey raised a curious eyebrow.
"I can't believe you actually-" Mickey gestured with his hands towards Ian's suitcases and failed to finished the sentence. Ian's heart beated loudly.
"Of course I actually did." He frowned. "I always would, Mickey."
"Always?"
"Yes, always. It's always been you, even when I was too stubborn to see it."
Mickey nodded slightly and his eyes lit up a little, almost unnoticably. But Ian noticed because Ian knew. Ian had always known. Even back when Mickey tried much harder to hide it, Ian had known. If there was ever a man in love, it was Mickey Milkovich. And if there was ever a man loved, it was Ian Gallagher. He had always known and Mickey had always proven him right.
He was always forgiven and he was always loved. Always.
"You learn how to swim yet?"
"Yeah, actually." Mickey stated proudly and Ian raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Mickey smiled. "I didn't spend all my time here just waiting for your pale ass to join me, bitch." There was no sting in his tone, Ian noted and he grinned widely, his heart in place.
"Well, I'm here anyway."
A fond silence grew between them.
"To the beach, then?" Ian suggested and the only reply that came was Mickey's body on top of his again.
"The beach can wait." He murmured before bringing their lips together in a lazy union. He backed away and looked at Ian with a painful heaviness in the lids of his eyes. "I need you to stay, Ian." He stated with a hoarse voice and Ian blinked tentatively.
"Of course I'll stay." He whispered, swallowing a lump in his throat. "You took me home, remember? When I asked you where we were going, you said home." Ian looked at him, his eyes pleading with reassurance. "Home." He repeated and he thought Mickey seemed to understand what he had meant, for he kissed him again, and he kept kissing him, on their bed, in their home.
It had been a long one step from the finish line, but they got there eventually.
Hallelujah, you're home.