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What Was That About?

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“Okay, what the FUCK was that?”

Mickey’s still feeling the adrenaline from smashing up that stupid chair, and he doesn’t immediately answer Ian. What can he say--it wasn’t his fault their wedding planner is probably mentally challenged? That it wasn’t too much to ask for gold chairs instead of those ugly black ones? That this was the one time in his life he got to plan his own fucking wedding and he’d be damned before he let someone fuck it up?

What the hell is wrong with him? What does it really matter what color a chair is? He’s marrying Ian, not a fucking chair.

“Mickey?” Ian’s reaching out a hand toward his shoulder, and before he can stop himself, Mickey bats it away.

“I’m fine!” he says out of habit. “I’m okay, I just...the guy’s an idiot.”

“That 'idiot' just told me to get another wedding planner,” Ian says curtly. “And I had to pay him for the chair you broke or he was going to call the cops.”

Those last two words register with Mickey, and he shoots an almost-guilty look back at the shop.

“Shit. He didn’t, did he?”

“No. But we can’t afford to go all Groomzilla while we’re still on parole. You know that.”

“I’m not a fucking Groomzilla!” Mickey shouts. “He got the wrong fucking chairs!”

“Yeah, and now we have to find someone else to plan our wedding!” Ian fires back. “You really set us back with your little diva fit.”

Mickey says a few obscene things under his breath, but finally starts to calm down.

“Fine. Who else is there?”

“I’ll check,” Ian says, still looking pissed. “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? You were up till three last night, maybe you’re over-caffeinated.”
“I didn’t have coffee today.”

“Just go home,” Ian reiterates. “I’ll try and find us a new planner, and I’ll let you have final say on who it is. Okay?”

“ 'Kay.” Mickey turns on his heel and walks away.

***

He’s gonna call it off again.

Mickey can’t sleep, because every time he shuts his eyes, he sees that weak-ass wedding planner’s terrified face and Ian looking like he regrets ever proposing to him.

You’re getting cold feet and you’re freaking out over chairs as a cover.

Since when did his inner critic start to sound like Dr. Phil? He’s not getting cold anything. He wants to marry Ian. He wants everyone they love to see them get married. He wants a nice, elegant wedding that’s a contrast to the cheap, trashy nightmare of his first one in every possible way. What’s so wrong with that?

Well, if it’s not cold feet, what is it?

It’s nothing. It’s stress, and nerves, and trying to plan everything in a span of six months when he had no fucking clue how much there was to decide on, and it’s feeling sick every time he imagines his dad crashing the wedding to object, or at the thought of Frank passing out on the dance floor right the middle of their first dance, or feeling sick when he samples that godawful cake that tastes nothing like “lemon zest” and he’s not about to pay $1500 for it, fuck you very much Katherine. Or wanting to puke when he smells whatever the fuck calla lilies are, because they look like bleached vaginas (a comment that got them banned from one florist already.)

Come to think of it, he’d been feeling sick a lot lately. It had always seemed to coincide with wedding planning, but he’s lying in bed trying to relax and his stomach still isn’t giving him a rest. He thought skipping caffeine this morning would help, but apparently it isn’t the problem.

Great, he’s probably got mono or something. Must’ve picked it up in prison, or from someone at work who never covers their fucking mouth when they sneeze. He knows he’s clean and so is Ian, so this isn’t his fault.

But mono doesn’t hit months after being infected. And nobody at work is sick right now. So either he’s stressing out about the wedding way more than he anticipated he would, or…

Or there’s another reason. One that might have involved morning sex about a month or so ago, and they were out of condoms but figured fuck it, they’d been tested and all that, so why not? It wasn’t like the one time they ran out of protection, life was gonna go all after-school-special on them and---

Mickey flings himself out of bed and runs to the bathroom, searching for--godfuckingdammit--a fucking pregnancy test.

Thanks to the fact that there’s always at least one woman in this house, Mickey finds a box of tests and takes two simultaneously. He sets a timer on his phone and sits against the door (anyone who so much as knocks is dead,) with his hands over his face, feeling like the biggest fucking cliche in the world. Here he is, planning a wedding while potentially knocked up. Svetlana would laugh at him if she knew. Hell, anyone would. It’s almost funny.

Except for the part where he doesn’t want kids right now. He’s still on parole, he and Ian are just scraping by with their meager paychecks and saving up for a shitty one-bedroom apartment, and this is the way kids get fucked up for life, when their parents don’t want them and can’t take care of them--

--His phone alarm goes off. Taking a huge breath and trying to keep his breakfast on the inside, he gets up and checks the tests.

***

“Mick?”

Ian walks into their room to find Mickey sitting on the bed, holding four pregnancy tests, and he puts it together in about two seconds.

“Oh, shit.” He kneels down (a little awkwardly, cause his leg’s still healing) in front of Mickey and takes his face in his hands.

“Mickey, it’s okay. We’ll figure this out. We’ll move up the wedding if you want, or there’s a clinic that’s really discreet if you want that instead. Either way, we’re in this together.”

Mickey smiles at him.

“They’re negative, you fucking moron.”

The look of relief on Ian’s face mirrors exactly how Mickey feels.

“Oh, thank God!” Ian kisses him hard. “Thank fucking God, I was so scared.”
“You were scared? How do you think I felt?” Mickey tosses the things in the trash and lies back on the bed, reveling in the fact that they dodged another bullet and their life is the same as always, but without an unplanned pregnancy to fuck things up even more.

Ian sits next to him. “So, you’re sure you’re not--”

“I pissed on every test in the fucking box, they all say no. Don’t worry about it.”

“Great. So I don’t have to give you a pass for the way you acted earlier.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Not my fault this wedding planning crap is run by idiots.”

“But you can’t freak out and smash shit up everywhere we go,” Ian says. “That’s gonna get old really fast. I had no idea it mattered so much to you what kind of chairs we had.”

“It’s not the fucking chairs,” Mickey sighs, sitting up again. “It’s...it’s everything we can’t plan for. I have nightmares about our dads ruining the day for us, or I show up and you’re not there, or you’re there and I turn around and run out.” He sighs heavily. “I’m scared, man. I’m fucking terrified that this is gonna turn out to be a disaster.”

He’s never said that out loud before, but it feels surprisingly good.

Ian puts an arm around him. “I know. I have the same kind of dreams, only I’m the one ruining everything. I’ve had to adjust my meds just to deal.”

Mickey glances at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, and I’m better now,” Ian reassures him. “But you’re not the only one who’s panicking.”

Mickey rubs his hand over his forehead. “Great. So what do we do?”

“We find a new wedding planner and adjust our budget so that we can have the kind of chairs you like, but maybe a little bit sturdier.”

Mickey snorts. “Fuck off.”

“And we help each other when it looks like one of us is starting to spiral,” Ian adds. “Like...we have a code word.”

“Like a safeword?”

“Sure. What do you want it to be?”

Mickey thinks. “How about ‘dildo?’”

Ian laughs. “Seriously? Dildo?”

“Yeah, like that time you threw one at my face. Remember?”

“Okay, fine, ‘dildo’ it is.” Ian kisses Mickey’s cheek. “We good?”

“We’re good. You still wanna marry me?”

“I do.”