Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ian felt like a spool of thread that’s been dropped to the ground. He was rolling undone. He had been lying awake for what seemed to be hours, unable to sleep a wink after he cracked his eyes open at four in the morning. It seemed as though it had only been seconds since the curved spoon of the moon last peeked through the clouds. All he wanted was to sleep, but the prison of his body and mind were holding him captive, pulling his weighted eyelids open with tongs. Normally, if he couldn’t sleep, he’d use it as an opportunity to get an early workout in, make some nice breakfast for he and Mickey, be productive. However, he couldn’t move a muscle this morning. He wanted to, he truly did, but he felt paralyzed. Now, the sun was showing its face, creeping towards nine AM, and he felt Mickey stir in the bed behind him. Ian’s back faced towards him, as he was hiding from the blaring light that peered through their westside apartment window. The knot in his throat swelled to twice its size, his tongue still in the coffin of his mouth. Trapped.

Mickey rubbed his eyes and saw his husband laying beside him, appearing to be asleep, unmoving as if made of marble. He slipped out of bed, leaving the bedroom and Ian watched him walk away. Please, just look back. Ian begged in his mind, not able to speak. An awful sinking feeling almost stopped his breath. A feeling he could not name was growing in his chest. It was large and large and large and it expanded inside his throat and choked him as he struggled to yell for Mickey to stop. Turn around. Notice him. 

He was gone though, and Ian was left in the bed alone. He couldn’t help the pain planted in his chest, the pit of anxiety in his stomach, fanning its palm leaves wide and casting a shadow on all he’s known. After some time passed by, Mickey was done with the start of his morning and decided that scrolling on his phone was as entertained as he was going to get without his other half, so he waltzed back into the bedroom to wake him up. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be dead asleep. He looked at him for a moment before waking him and felt the warmth radiated from his company. Ian was a bulb in his heart. If he thought about it, they were truly destined to be together. After all of the obstacles the world threw their way, parting them, they always ended up back together. Ian was the synchronicity and alignment of all of the collective stardust. Fate. He admired his eyelashes- violin strings that played a melody every time he blinked or fluttered his eyelids God, he was a soft son of a bitch for him.

“Yo, it’s getting late.” Mickey patted Ian’s bicep and brought his head down when Ian didn’t budge. “Sleepy face. Get up.” He nudged a little harder, making his limp body fall a bit to the side. His tired eyes gradually opened, dull with dark circles. The pain in his eyes is a twin for the ache in Mickey’s, fore now he understood what was happening and it made him hurt as well. In the blink of a second, Mickey’s face went blank. On a hard breath, he brought his hand against his chest, as if trying to press a pause button on his heart, which had already dropped into his gut. “Shit.” His tone was a serrated knife. He knew.

A wave of worry blew through Mickey and smacked him in the face. He never had to do this alone before and it terrified him. His episodes weren’t even something Mickey thought of when deciding to move out together. It was right in front of his face, yet it blew right over his head. Now it was too late for planning. It was happening right now and he needed to act.

“Alright...” Mickey thought out loud. “Meds.” He popped back up. “I’m gonna go get your meds.” He left the room yet again, mostly because he needed a moment to freak the fuck out without Ian seeing him. “Fuck fuck fuck.” Mickey repeated to himself in a whisper as he walked over to their kitchen to which Ian had meticulously organized, claiming it was so the building owners thought they were neat, but he knew damn well Ian just wanted an organized kitchen. Mickey purposely misplaced items in there a lot just to get a kick out of Ian’s annoyance. Bringing his focus back, Mickey took out one of each of Ian’s pills, pouring him a cup of burnt coffee as well. He entered the room again, dreading seeing his husband in the state he was, and placed the mug and the pills on the night stand beside him.

“How long have you been awake?” Mickey asked, pulling the blanket off of Ian. He opened his mouth, taking a breath in to speak, but nothing came out. “Right. That’s fine.” Mickey dismissed the question, running his hands through his own hair, trying to think on the brink of the moment. “Can you sit up?” Mickey’s words weighed down on Ian, becoming an avalanche. No. He couldn't sit up. Mickey’s eyes were wide and he took a gulp of air. He joined him again on the bed and got close, slipping an arm underneath the crook of Ian’s neck. Mickey was a strong force, someone who could walk barefoot without being scorched. He was a ferocious defender, but he was also a nurturer. He wanted to do anything he could that would make Ian feel just the slightest amount better, but he didn’t know what. He had never really wanted to aid someone the way he did Ian. Of course, he was always there to help the people he loved, but everyone else was just an aspiration, a flame he wanted to kiss. But for Ian, he would light an entire island.

“You’re fine.” Mickey tried to assure both his husband and himself. He had a sense of calm to his voice that made him want to lean into his words. Ian was hesitant because he hated being so dependent on anyone, or to what he believed was burdening to Mickey. He was a medicine Ian knew he needed, even though he cringed at the taste. However, sometimes you need to depend on someone else's bit to make your story work. He needed him. It came as a surprise to Ian, especially considering he had felt more numb than anything, but all of a sudden, he had tears streaming down his cheek. The sob pulled up from the well in his chest, full and wet. Mickey wrapped his arms around him like a koala bear, squeezing to remind him he was there. 

Pain yawned open inside of Ian’s stomach, a weep of agony pulled up from his throat. The sob barreling past his lips pulled an army of tears with it. He couldn’t stop. His body heaved, folding into Mickey’s arms. He rubbed Ian’s bicep in small, small circles, pressing his chest up against his back. Mickey was his place of solace, and Ian tattooed his heart. 

They stayed there for a while, not speaking, just lying together as Ian slowly calmed down. Although he didn’t show it, Mickey was quite struck at what was happening. He thought that this whole “comfort” thing would come naturally now that they were happily- very happily married, but he still didn’t feel in place. The puzzle piece wasn’t smoothly sliding in, but maybe it just needed to be turned around and worked with for a bit longer. He was hoping that his husband didn’t feel his own heart pounding out of his chest. He must have been doing something wrong. He could bring in the world's funniest comedian or take Ian to his favorite amusement park and he still wouldn’t be happy. He knew that all he could do was just be there.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Mickey reminded, digging his head into the crook of his neck. Ian brought his other hand shakily over to Mickey’s arm that still wrapped around him, and gave a weak squeeze, light as air. Mickey felt it though. He felt it and he met him with his own hand, interlacing their fingers. He trailed over the wedding ring on Ian’s finger, the silver band enhancing his cool skin tone. “Just a little.” Mickey started again. “Try to sit up; I’ll help.” He slid his arm out minimally, still holding onto his shoulders, and lightly nudged. He eventually was leaning on the wall, barely enough to be considered up, but still enough. Mickey leaned over him, grabbing the lukewarm coffee and pills that awaited on the nightstand. “Just take a few sips, get your pills down.” He dropped the three pills into Ian’s palm that rested on his lap, but he did not move it. His hand stayed still and he stared at the medicine. 

His arm was heavy. There was no way he was going to carry his hand back and forth, especially after sitting up, which had left him even more exhausted than he already was. This was impossible. He looked over to Mickey, who was looking at him with the same worried gaze he hadn’t seen in awhile. Not since he first got sick. He hated it. He forced himself to take the pills, using all of his strength to do so, taking miniscule sips of the coffee that Mickey still aided him in carrying. A breath Mickey didn’t know he’d bitten whooshed through his teeth. Ian felt pathetic, but the look of worry on his husband's face changed into something he wasn’t quite sure of. It was pride though. Mickey was so. fucking. proud of him. Shortly afterwards, Ian sunk down to lay on the bed again, and Mickey placed the mug back down, snuggling up against him.

“Is this too close?” He asked, not even expecting an answer. Ian lightly shook his head and Mickey melted into him, getting comfortable. It was never too close. Mickey’s presence was all he needed. Nothing in the world would have made him feel better. “I know it’s not enough.” Mickey tried. “But I’m gonna stay with you all day. If- if that’s what you want.” His voice shook, trying not to break for him. But it was enough. It was so very enough.