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The moment Mickey wakes up, he knows something is wrong. Everything is still in that half-awake, half-asleep fuzz, but the discomfort is rapidly waking him up. He's sweating, for one. This isn't necessarily unusual, not when his husband is the human embodiment of a furnace, who insists on wrapping himself around Mickey at all times, but this sweat is a cold kind of sweat, the kind that feels like an uncomfortable second skin, the kind that indicates something being off.
He had gone to bed feeling a bit weird, but he had simply brushed it off at the time. He couldn't pinpoint what exactly was off, and had offhandedly mentioned to Ian that he felt a bit weird, but it's not like he could do anything about it. He also didn't want to worry his husband unnecessarily. EMT instincts, even if unused for a few years at this point, never really faded, and it tended to make Ian get concerned over nothing. There was nothing to worry about, so why spend time thinking about it? He would feel better the next day after sleeping it off. If push came to shove, Mickey would ignore it completely and go about his day like nothing was wrong. Now, it seems as though the weird feeling had evolved into something worse, and not something so easily brushed off.
It's late, he knows that much, since it's still dark out and there's no tell-tale sounds of the city being awake yet. Mickey shivers, the bedroom fan sending a cold breeze over him, and he instinctively tries to burrow deeper under the covers, regardless of the sweat. The movement makes his stomach turn, a wave of nausea overtaking him, the feeling of discomfort ramping up. He tries to ignore the feeling, taking steady breaths and staying as still as possible, hoping it'll pass and he'll manage to fall back asleep.
No such luck, as the more time that passes, the more his stomach churns and the worse his nausea gets. He is not going to throw up, he isn't, and he tries to keep this mantra going as he extricates himself from Ian's grasp and hauls himself out of bed and towards the bathroom. He hasn't thrown up in years, and he won't be starting back up now. They've got work to do in the morning, so all he has to do is push through this weird feeling and man up. If Ian catches him looking sick he'll get all mother-hen and treat Mickey like he's made of glass, but he isn't sick and he'll be fine, and he won't throw up. He just has to sit on the cold bathroom tile for a bit and he'll be right as rain.
As he enters the bathroom, he shuts the door so that the light won't wake Ian up. He slumps down, back against the bathtub and legs awkwardly bent to try and feel as much as the cold tile as possible. The cold feels nice against his skin, which feels cold, warm, and clammy at the same time, and he's grateful he only went to bed in boxers and a tank top. He tilts his head back slightly, eyes closed, as he focuses on breathing and ignoring the waves of nausea as they pass.
Eventually, after sitting for who knows how long (he forgot to bring his phone with him, but he assumes it was only a few minutes), the nausea seems to fade slightly. He stays put for a little while longer, just to make sure, before sighing a small breath of relief. No vomiting today.
He goes to stand, legs a little stiff from staying in one position for so long, and turns slightly to go back to the bedroom and go back to sleep, which is what he should've been doing this entire time, before the world seems to tilt on its axis, along with his stomach.
Motherfucker, he thinks to himself before dropping down to his knees and gripping onto the toilet bowl for dear life.
He had forgotten just how uncomfortable throwing up is. The last time he could remember having thrown up was when he was still a teenager, maybe around the ages of thirteen or fourteen. He had caught what must've been the flu, and after forcing himself to do runs for his dad all day, he had thrown up what small amount of food he had forced down earlier that morning. Terry hadn't been sympathetic, kicking him out of the way and spouting some bullshit about how Milkoviches don't get sick, boy, stop being a pussy and get the fuck outta the way. He had eventually dragged himself to his room to sweat out the fever and avoid further vomiting, while Terry yelled about useless sons and whatever else he decided to blame Mickey for at that given moment. Father of the year.
For now, he can only sputter and cough his way through the seemingly endless cramping of his stomach.
"Mick?" He hears a knock from the other side of the door and Ian's concerned voice, "You okay in there?"
Does it sound like I'm fuckin' okay in here? he wants to ask, but another cramp has him gagging into the bowl. He hears the sound of socked feet walking away from the door, and he has a moment where he truly believes Ian is just going to leave him puking his guts out without offering any help. But of course, his husband would never do that, because just moments later he hears the sound of footsteps come back.
"I'm going to come in now, okay?" Ian says, the door slightly creaking as he opens it. Mickey doesn't dare raise his head, not trusting his stomach for one second. He does, however, press his forehead against the porcelain and close his eyes. He hears Ian make a small sound of concern as he kneels down next to Mickey, a hand coming to gently rest between his shoulder blades while the other flushes the toilet.
"I brought you a glass of water, think you can take a small sip?" He speaks softly, "It'll help get the taste out of your mouth."
He goes to open his mouth to speak, but another wave of nausea has him franctically raising his head and sputtering into the bowl again. The noises he's making are horrendous to his own ears, and he feels vaguely guilty for forcing Ian to hear them as well. The guilt is moreso in the background, though, because his stomach keeps twisting like it's trying to tie itself into the world's most intricate knot and the pain is what's keeping most of his attention.
"Shit, Mickey," Ian mutters, his hand still resting on Mickey's back, now rubbing slow circles in an attempt to comfort him. He knows his husband can feel how tense his muscles are, how they're slightly shaking as he spits into the bowl.
"Fuck me," he gasps out, voice brittle. There's nothing left in his stomach, he's sure, but it seems as though his stupid body hasn't gotten the memo.
After a few more torturous minutes of dry heaving, he feels like his guts won't end up on the floor if he sits back a little. He takes a moment to breathe, muscles untensing slightly when no more waves of nausea arrive. Ian helps him sit against the bathtub again, hand moving to Mickey's knee.
"How 'bout that water now? Small sips," Ian says, "don't want to make you throw up again."
Mickey nods weakly and reaches towards the glass with shaking hands. He feels gross, and he's sure he doesn't look much better, but Ian still wipes the hair from his sweat-slick forehead with his unoccupied hand as Mickey takes a small sip of water. He's grateful for the coolness and the removal of the absolutely awful aftertaste.
"You look shitty," Ian says, a frown pulling at his lips and his eyebrows furrowed in concern. Mickey huffs weakly, putting the glass back down next to him and looks at Ian tiredly.
"Thanks, Einstein," he says, drily, his voice a bit hoarse, "that might be 'cause I just puked my fuckin' guts out."
"Yeah, I heard," Ian replies, "are you feeling any better now?"
He feels shaky, sweaty, and tired, but the nausea has calmed down. He nods, picking slightly at his sweat sticky tank-top in slight discomfort.
"Fuck," Mickey mutters, rubbing a hand down his face, "I feel so gross." Ian makes a noise of sympathy and pats his hand on Mickey's knee.
"C'mon," he says, picking up the glass of water and setting it down on the bathroom counter as he stands, before holding out his hand, "let's get you on your feet so you can brush your teeth. I'll go get you a change of clothes, and then we can go back to bed."
He helps Mickey up, heading out of the bathroom for the aforementioned clothing, as Mickey looks in the mirror. Yeah, he definitely looks like shit. He's paler than usual, almost ghastly, the bathroom lights are casting a shadow across his face that make the bags under his eyes look even more pronounced, his hair is sticking to his skin, his hands are still shaking, and he still looks a bit clammy.
He focuses on the fact that he does feel better, that the nausea seems to be dissipating, and that his husband is currently getting him some pyjamas that won't stick to his skin. In the meantime, he brushes his teeth to get the disgusting taste out of his mouth, slightly hunched over the sink from the fatigue settling in his bones.
"Here you go," Ian says as he comes back, putting down some fresh boxers and one of his slightly worn t-shirts on the counter. Mickey expects him to go back to bed, but Ian stays as he finishes brushing his teeth and when he goes to change.
"You know you can go back to bed now," he says as he peels his clothing off, "don't think I'll be throwin' up again." Ian just shakes his head and takes the sweaty clothing out of Mickey's hands.
"It's nice to be the one taking care of you for once," he smiles a bit, "I get to return the favour." Mickey just looks at him, confused.
"You take care of me all the time," he says, "What're you on about?"
"Well," Ian starts, after shooting him a fond look, "it's not often you're sick, is all."
"I'm not sick," Mickey narrows his eyes.
"Mhm," Ian says, "that's why you just threw up for ten minutes straight," he raises an eyebrow. It's not like he has a very good comeback for that, but he refuses to admit it. Not that there's anything to admit, because he isn't sick.
"Whatever," Mickey mutters, "'M not sick."
"Sure, Mick," Ian placates, "let's go back to bed, you need to rest."
Normally, Mickey would argue a bit more. He doesn't need to be coddled, but he's worn out and all he really wants to do is lie down. So he follows Ian back into the bedroom, and doesn't complain when Ian brings him a refilled glass of water, tries to tuck him into bed, and kisses him on the forehead.
It's…nice. To be taken care of. Something he never would've expected to experience back when he was a teenager in the Milkovich household. It was always "survival of the fittest," that any form of perceived weakness would be punished, and that meant you had to look out for yourself. It still messes him up, sometimes, that Ian wants to take care of him, or that he's allowed to ask for help with certain things. He was fully prepared to take care of himself and let Ian rest without telling him.
Not that he ever expected Ian to accept that. Ian has been digging himself under Mickey's skin for years, offering help like it was something easy to give away, like Mickey deserves to be helped. But they're husbands now. Sickness and health, all that shit. He's learning to accept Ian's help like Ian's still learning to accept his.
If he's being honest with himself, he's glad Ian was there to help, even with the conflicting feelings of allowing Ian to even see him, weak and vulnerable on the bathroom floor. But his husband had stayed by his side, keeping him company, offering him comfort, getting him a change of clothes, and got him back to the comfort of their bed. Because they're husbands, and they do that for each other when the other is sick (not that he's sick).
Ian is currently wrapping himself around Mickey's back, kissing the base of his neck and mumbling "I love you" after listening to him vomit for twenty minutes, like it's the easiest thing in the world.
So, while he still feels slightly off, and he knows they'll probably bicker in the morning over if he's sick or not, on whether or not he needs to rest or if he can do the deliveries with Ian, he can't help but smile and place his hand over the one Ian has resting on his chest and whisper back "I love you too."