Shameless (2011-2021)

lazystargazy

So far his life was like a caged bird's, waiting for the moment where someone took the time to lift the clasp and let him out. That was Ian, a breath of fresh air, a never ending ray of sunshine.
Ian was his freedom.

He dropped the newspaper because Mickey flew forward, crushing him into a hug, laughing madly. It was so shocking that Ian didn’t know what to do at first, whether he should be laughing too or not. He listened to Mickey’s genuine laughter and felt a tightness in his throat when that laughter started to become broken. It turned raspy and soon enough, it wasn’t laughter anymore, it was a soft panting. Ian tightened his arms and kissed the top of Mickey’s head, telling him it was okay to let it out.
Mickey didn’t bother covering up the tears soaking into Ian’s shirt because the trembling in his shoulders and knees gave it away anyways, so what was the point? How could anyone subdue that kind of happiness? The kind of happiness that comes with finding out that the nightmare you lived with, that you thought was untouchable, can be taken away, and can’t creep out of the shadows to drag you back down into hell.
Terry would be going to jail, he would disappear, he would lose protection, something terrible would happen to him, wouldn’t it? This was a sign that karma really was a bitch, right? Delusional, wishful thinking, whatever it was, Mickey felt as if an anchor was cut from his leg and the constant fear in the back of his mind slipped, even if it was just for a second.

orphan_account

"Sometimes it's just easier to just lose yourself and want to forget." He remembered Thera telling him. "But there's just some things in life that you need to remember. Even if it hurts. Even if they're bad. You shouldn't just drink it away.
Thoseー those shitty momentsー they're the ones you need to remember the most. Otherwise you'll forget how to deal with the pain. And one day, it'll be too hard, it'll be too painful and you just won't know how to fix it. You'll break and there's no way to come back from it."

Squash (JeSuisGourde)

Mickey kept knives under his anxious skin so he could always lash out first, could always threaten the threats. Ian learned how to use a knife but always waited for someone else to shield him first before he got it out. Ian had a needle pointing him always towards the tangled knot that tried to stitch his jagged edges together with all the scraps they could find. Mickey burned himself a fire to keep warm, to find some place to come back to, sacrificed his hands and all the soft and lovely things he could find inside to keep safe on his own in the house of horrors.

But when you think you've lost everything except an identity you never wanted to have in the first place, you're bound to misread things.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats himself. Like when he was a kid and he used to say things over and over again and hope that by the end of the chant they'd work themselves out.
That's not how it works. He knows this. More than anything the burning body beside him knows this.

Mickey had two burning torches for hands but he knew what to do with them. Ian's head was on fire and all he knew was how to run and keep running.

Mickey's lips press gentle and open against his solar plexus. Branding his name in the center of Ian's chest. The needle bends. The needle snaps. The needle drops away.

zankiefanatic

They kissed softly quickly finding themselves underneath the covers. It felt like Ian was leaving his touch on Mickey’s soul. He wondered how he could push anyone away. How anyone could look at him and not wanted to be closer, not want to mold themselves to every piece of him. Mickey could feel himself molding into any crevice of Ian’s life that he could. It was a terrifying thought, to be a piece in the infrastructure of someone’s life, but he wanted to try. With Ian. He just wanted to try.

“Stop talking about the future and just be content with the present."

Ian had gotten under his skin, and there was no ridding his veins of that touch. He needed it, craved it. None of it mattered. None of it had ever mattered. The stupid shit you’ll do for love.

TheManSings

“I missed you.”
He closed his eyes and let the words make him high. His hand moved to Ian’s stomach and he just wanted to say so much but it would ruin it. He couldn’t be eloquent and beautiful with his sentences because words were meant to kill. When fists failed you, words never would.

“And I can say that when he left it was like getting shot but having no bullet to show for it so what’s that leave you? Just holes and no substance.”

There’s an innate quality that every human has that wants to connect and wants to just fucking spill everything. Mickey wants to scream every inner thought and secret he has because Ian can see how lonely and boring it gets to only ever be able to argue about it with yourself.

Ian walked over and stood between his open legs, too close. Too fucking close. “You want to kill me.”
He looked up. The man before him had aged. He really had. He still looked young and perfect despite the blemishes that were always being put on him because he never fought back – but he was older. And Mickey could say that because he wasn’t some bullshit bitch that didn’t notice how someone’s eyes were fucking everything. It wasn’t dumb if it was true. Because eyes never fucking lie and that’s why he adverts them. Always.
“I want to save you.”

BeckyHarvey29

He didn’t want to lose him. Although scared of getting hurt and unsure how to navigate his feelings, he didn’t want to lose Ian. It all came down to that. Deep down, he knew Ian was worth the risk, as scary as it was.

Ian released a trembling breath and pressed his forehead against Mickey’s. “You love me,” he repeated as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself.
“I do,” Mickey murmured, cupping Ian’s face with both hands. “Don’t know how the fuck it happened, but I do.”
“I love you, too,” Ian whispered, leaning in and pressing his lips against Mickey’s. “So fuckin’ much.”

For the first time in a long time, Ian didn’t feel so alone in the world. He felt content, happy, and loved.
Mickey and Yevgeny made Ian feel alive again.
He finally allowed himself to believe he deserved it.

Loftec

He must be breathing, anyway, he can feel his own chest rising and falling in the tight space between them. He must be breathing, because every lungful of air suddenly feels impossible, like there’s a heavy weight on his ribs, restricting him.
And Ian must be waiting on him to make the next move, because he’s staring at him like he still isn’t sure. Mickey wants to make it clear, show him all the things he’s wanted to do with him since the day they met, all the things he’s wanted to have with him over the years as he broke his own heart little by little, erasing Ian’s memory over and over and over again.
Ian is waiting on him but he can’t do it, not like this. Not yet.

kissteethstainedred

Ian fell in love with both of them.
He fell for Jordan, hard, that was for sure. There wasn’t a moment of doubt now. When Ian looked at him there was just—love, everywhere, all the time. He could be watching Jordan’s mouth or the back of his neck or his tattoos and Ian would just love him.
He fell for Em, too. He just felt so happy around her, her presence always making him feel better. They could be at the movies or laying in her bed or doing simply nothing at all and he’d still feel happy and secure.
He needs that love. He needs them.

It hits him, how beautiful they both are. Mandy, leaning back against the headboard, her hair golden in the lamplight, her skin flushed slightly from the cold air coming out the window, and her smile and laugh as warm as summer itself. Mickey sits by the window, pensively smoking, and the light doesn’t quite reach him, but god, he’s beautiful too, still a contrast of dark and pale, still rough and smooth at the same time.
Day and night, they are, Ian thinks. The sun and the moon. Beautiful. Always cycling.
Cycling.
Here one day and gone the next.

MintSauce

In that one moment, which seemed to be hanging by nothing more than the thinnest of threads, the frailest of heartstrings, maybe Mickey was fragile.
He was certainly brittle enough to shatter.
And Mickey would have liked to have said that the words were first spoken during a hot round of sex, when neither of them knew what they were saying, when neither of them could be held accountable. But that wasn't how it went. No, it was standing there, their hold started to loosen around each other, when Mickey looked up through the water at the redhead who never seemed to stop growing. It was then that Ian looked at him through his lashes and Mickey could tell what he was going to say even before he opened his mouth.
"I love you."
It was out there, in the open, spoken for the first time.
And Mickey could feel the panic pounding through his veins, knew some of it probably showed on his face if the way Ian's expression darkened was anything to go by. Mickey would never deny that the panic was there, that the urge to run wasn't the first thing that consumed him, but after that it was something akin to satisfaction that he felt.
He'd say happiness, but that was just fucking stupid.

biblionerd07

“I’m not going to let him hurt you, either, Mickey.”
And then Mickey’s crying, oh Jesus, he’s crying, because when has anyone ever said that to him? All anyone ever sees when they look at him is a thug with a sneer on his face and brass knuckles in his pocket. He doesn’t need protecting.
But Ian knows him better. Ian knows how soft Mickey really is, how weak and scared and tired he always is. Ian knows that what Mickey wants most in the world is to hide his face and let someone else take over. So Ian lets him.

pink_ink

Ian feels like those doors at the site, oddly sized and hard to sand down. Doors awkwardly holding onto the hinges, not closing correctly. Being shoved hard if it’s locked, the key needing to slide into the lock at just the right angle. There’s always an open place around him. Missing. Light coming in. Shadows coming in. A crack in the door that always looks like someone is about to walk in, or someone is about to leave.

There is only a split second before Ian feels Mickey’s hand on his face, before they are kissing again. Ian feels lost, desperate, unsteady. Somewhere, deep in his body, he's falling. No. Wait. Not falling. Not exactly. More like drifting, but he doesn’t know which direction. He ties his thoughts to Mickey’s mouth on his, Mickey’s hand on his cheek. He ties his thoughts to Mickey’s fingertips, fingernails, running up his leg, his thigh, his hip. He bucks, just a little, and Mickey grabs onto his hip harder. He pulls his mouth away.
“Open your eyes,” Mickey says softly. His voice is softer, sweeter, the edge whittled down. Still, there’s a deep feeling of gentle control, soft certainty, like Mickey understands everything Ian is thinking of, everything Ian is feeling, and it’s okay.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if he was ready. Mickey didn’t creep up on him. He didn’t slowly slide next to him. Mickey had crashed into him. Hard. Fast. Messy. Completely. And Ian had grabbed on hard with both hands, starving again, and he didn’t want to let go.

“I love you, too.” Ian wants to reach for him, but can’t move his arms. He’s trying to steady his breathing.
In the end, he doesn’t have to do anything, because Mickey leans forward, slowly, and slides his lips against his. He slides his hands up Ian’s back and pulls him closer. His mouth is soft, and it feels the way it always feels, like some sort of present Ian unwraps carefully. Ian lets Mickey guide him backward, closer to the sink, and Ian feels like he’s in water again, but it’s so clear, so warm, the sun glinting off the surface, his limbs loose and sure. Not treading water. Not sinking. Just floating there with Mickey in his arms, on his lips, in his brain. That brain of his that feels like it’s broken, sometimes, like he’s been told it’s broken. But Mickey’s hands are on his face, sliding into his hair, and his mind relaxes, and there’s something there, suddenly, that wasn’t there before, something quiet and healed and theirs.

Ian stills, lets Mickey kiss him, pull him. He closes his eyes and breathes. All he can hear in his mind are Mickey’s words at the site. All he can see are Mickey’s eyes on his, his quiet voice. You happy now?
He is. God, he really fucking is. He’s happy now. Not just with Mickey right here, like this. Not just with Mickey like that, like before, saying those words. He’s happy. He knows he can be happy. Not afraid. Not broken. He feels Mickey’s lips, Mickey’s tongue in his mouth. Mickey’s hand against him. You happy now?

He squeezes against his wrists, first, just a little, just a hello before he moves his hands into Mickey's, slotting their fingers together.
Because this is what Mickey is like. He is soft, and he is hard. He is everything Ian has ever wanted, dreamed of, everything he never thought he’d be able to have. Be worthy of having. You happy now? He is.

"[...]what’s my brother like? To you, I mean.”
He is like a thunderstorm, the weight in the air before things release, that smell, that wonder. He is the barest scratch of stubble, the softest skin. He is strong and soft and it makes Ian want to cry when he thinks how lucky he is to love him, and be loved by him.
“He’s,” Ian says. “He’s the best person I’ve ever met.”

“Life doesn’t have to be like this, you know? I mean, it doesn't have to stay like this. Broken." Ian is surprised how he can focus on Mickey’s face so clearly, past the noise of Iggy’s grunts and Mandy’s screamed words. Focus on Mickey’s eyes. Mickey knows what he means. Safe. “It’ll be better, okay? You’ll know what to do. It’s like you always say, right? How you can see how the plan should work once the building is down to frame? We’re gonna get it to frame. Then you can see it. You’ll see it. I know you will.”
“And then what?”
Ian bends down, hand finding the handle. “Whatever you want,” he says. “You can do anything you want.”

rosaecae

There aren’t stars behind Mickey’s closed eyelids like everybody says. There aren’t fireworks, no. No. There’s a spark in his skin, but the feeling that results isn’t an explosion. It’s a glow starting in his head and spreading through his body like alcohol in his veins. It’s sunshine under his skin, in his chest, in the back of his throat. Especially there. He’s warm.

Fuck, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of looking at Ian.
He would write sonnets about his skin, if he could. Paint pictures using only the colors in his eyes, compose symphonies about his smile, so when he leaves he’ll have something left, something to remember. If he could. If only he could.
He can’t. He knows he can’t. He’s got these hands, these calloused fucking hands, that were never meant to create. Survivor’s mind. He’s never had the luxury of art. Never took a deep enough breath for it.

It’s slow. There’s hardly anything, for a while. Just the idea of something to come, a golden prediction that leaves him wondering if the sun will ever show itself. Then, it comes, tiny and pink and underripe. The two of them are quiet, and Mickey can’t say he knows shit about music, but he could swear the sunrise is like a slowly swelling symphony.
Mickey finds himself looking for that picturesque moment, but it just keeps building. The sun packs on more weight as the sky wakes up and it seems to come in movements, only moving forward, like a plot line, exposition to rising action to climax to climax to climax, a sight you think you’ve learned until you look away for a second and then turn back and find a whole new story. He glances away for the last time, during a loud fusion of golden orange and hopeful blue, at the boy beside him, a boy that must be made of sunlight. He’s never glowed quite this much, before. It feels cliche to even think, but here he is, sitting right there, the source of the sunrise, his skin the pinks and yellows and his hair the fire of the sun and his eyes the ripple of the water.
Mickey opens his mouth, to say something, speak his mind, but the sunrise is too loud and honest. He sips his coffee, realizes he’s cracked some sort of code. Sunrise over the ocean looks the same everywhere, Ian had said. It doesn’t, Mickey knows, but he’ll never tell. Ian wasn’t meant to find religion in this sky. He’s not meant to be aware that the best view is reflected off his own skin.

lilbatfacedgirl

Did everyone’s world descend into chaos with some degree of regularity or were there really people out there who just sailed through life without a care, who’s families were stable and who’s minds were always sound. Did other people treasure the loves of their lives or did they stomp their hearts to pieces?

Hate was exhausting and in Ian’s experience, it usually wasn’t worth the energy it took to cultivate it. Sometimes, though, hate was the only option. Sometimes, the feeling was so strong and so deserved that it took no energy at all.

Mickey had escaped from prison and come out in spectacular fashion in the middle of a dive bar on the southside of Chicago, but even among all that, he thought this public rejection by the man he had once called “Dad” had still managed to be the most freeing moment of his life.

“I’m taking care of myself okay. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I’m always gonna worry.”
“Why?”
“Cause I fucking love you.”

He wasn’t perfect. Neither was Mickey. They were fuck-ups and criminals but murder was a line they’d never crossed, and he didn’t want to now. Mickey was right. He saved lives. That’s what he wanted to do, what he’d always wanted. Soldier or street medic, it didn’t matter. He wanted to help people, not hurt them. But if one suddenly required the other…

“Stop fighting,” Ian whispered in his ear. “You don’t have to anymore. When you wake up, it’ll still be okay.”
Mickey felt Ian’s arms tighten around him. He heard the truth in the redhead’s voice. And with that, Mickey let go and let the darkness suck him down.
He knew Ian would be there when he woke up.