It’s six in the morning and Mickey is awake. He’s been awake for a while now.
They’re standing in the dugouts, backs against the fence and Ian looks like he’s about to break.
Mickey’s not good with moments like this, doesn’t know how to act, what to say. His emotions are all over the place right now and he the only thing he can properly identify is fear. Fear for Ian, fear for what Ian’s told him, for how Ian’s been feeling and for what he’s been going though, what he’s currently going through. For how Mickey was too wrapped up in everything else to even fucking realise. Fear churning deep in his gut because the only thing he’s certain of right now is that Ian needs him, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to do that.
So he just goes with it and drops all his guards because that’s what Ian needs right now, and fuck the days when he couldn’t be there for him. This moment, it’s about Ian. It’s about Ian and Mickey and bipolar disorder and all the fucked up things they’ve been through over the years and all the fucked up things they will likely have to deal with in the future, for whatever fucking reason.
“Fuck.” Mickey mutters, and he reaches over to drag Ian against him, wrapping an arm around his waist and one around his back. Ian stills for a moment, before tentatively bringing his arms up, around Mickey, hugging him tightly and burying his face against his neck. Mickey can feel him shaking slightly and he hugs him tighter, burying his nose in Ian’s shoulder and taking a deep breath.
Ian, Ian, Ian.
That’s all he could think about lately. Heck, all he’s been able to think about for months, maybe even years. Everything, everything is Ian and fuck if he wouldn’t fight for him, wouldn’t do anything and everything for him. Fuck if he hasn’t already done that.
Ian in his arms.
Ian in his sheets.
Ian under his skin, in his blood and in his heart.
Ian, Ian, Ian.
Fuck, don’t cry, Ian.
“I love you.” Mickey feels more than hears against his skin. He takes a moment, breathing in the smell of grass and the rusty chain link fence and Ian.
“Love you too, tough guy.”
Ian chuckles quietly, breaths in a sharp breath and Mickey thinks he might start crying again, but instead he mumbles “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“Never thought I’d say it...” Mickey thinks back to Ian, Ian ten minutes ago, Ian at the hospital, Ian at the club, Ian leaving, Ian at his wedding, Ian when he got out of juvie, Ian the first time they were here at the dugouts, Ian on his doorstep. “...out loud anyway.”
He can feel Ian smile against his neck, he shuffles a bit, moving an arm lower to rest around Mickey’s waist and they just stand there for a few moments longer, breathing each other in.
It’s coming on seven in the morning and Svetlana is probably stepping out of her room, wrapped up in her thin robe and smoking a cigarette. Yev will probably wake up in twenty minutes, quiet, but making enough noise to let her know that he needs attention. Fiona is probably stretching, getting ready to roll out of bed and start her day. Lip is fuck knows where at the moment, but he’s probably awake, running his fingers through his hair as he muddles over something or another.
Mickey needs to be at the Alibi in an hour. Kev is probably sneaking out of bed to get ready himself, trying not to wake Veronica and checking on the twins.
And Ian is here, in his arms. He pulls back slightly, taking in his face, and he considers saying something sappy and gay before he catches himself. He’s done enough of that today already, and acting like the lead role in a torrid romance won’t do anything progressive for Ian feeling upbeat again.
“Fuck you.” He says instead, and Ian beams at him. And yeah, they’ll be okay, because if the last three years are anything to go by, they can make it through anything.
And fuck it if they won’t try.