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iansmoons · 2 years

Note

Just came across this anon ask about Ian and breakfast. You have thesis level ideas for Ian making breakfast? Well. How about:

5 times Ian made breakfast (in various emotional states? Or not. Your thesis) +1 time someone made him breakfast 😁

cw for bipolar mania, reference to domestic abuse, mild blood and injury

also posted here here

It’s even colder somehow; colder still than it was yesterday morning. At this point in the winter, Ian thinks he should be used to it by now. But it’s still somehow colder this morning.

The heat’s been out all week.

Ian pulls on extra layers before creeping down the stairs, not wanting to visibly shiver under Fiona’s guilty gaze. It’s not her fault. She’s doing everything she can.

Including, it seems, working another overnight shift at that seedy motel a few miles from the house. She’s nowhere to be found when he reaches the bottom of the back staircase - the kitchen is quiet and still in the pale, thin light of the morning.

Ian grabs his hat from the kitchen table and pushes his stiff limbs towards the coffeemaker. There’s only a scoopful of grounds left in the tin - he uses just half of it to get the coffee going.

It’ll be watered down and unsatisfying, but it’ll be hot enough. They can make do again tomorrow.

And maybe he’ll lift a new tin when he stops by the Kash and Grab again after school today.

Linda Karib turned him down for a job yesterday, arching an eyebrow and telling him to come back next year when he’s old enough to work. Kash stood behind her, eyes wide and jaw slack.

Ian thinks he might have more luck if he goes back today and talks to him.

He has to start earning.

Lip stumbles down the stairs as the coffee starts brewing, grunting at Ian in greeting and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He grabs a poptart from the cabinet and raises it to his temple in salute before disappearing out the door for a tutoring session.

Lip’s bringing in cash, Fiona’s hurtling from gig to gig like a pinball shot by the force of their poverty. And Ian’s standing quietly in the kitchen, thinking through which foodbanks to hit this weekend.

The kids will be scrambling downstairs soon, in search of breakfast and warmer clothes. Ian eyes the clock; Fiona’s not back yet.

He pours himself a mug of coffee water and hunts through the cabinets. Lip took the last poptart and there’s maybe half a bowl of cereal. They’ll need the rest of the milk for Liam, anyways.

They ran out of eggs earlier in the week. Ian adds them to his list of items to steal.

There’s enough oatmeal left for a small pot, and Ian’s stirring in an old, hardened clump of brown sugar when Debbie and Carl trudge downstairs, Liam in tow.

“Fuckin’ freezing in here,” Carl groans, handing Liam to Debbie, whose hands shake as she settles him into the highchair.

“Put on your hats,” Ian tells them. “Scarves, too.”

He ladles some oatmeal in bowls, saving some for Fiona in case she comes back in time. There’s a single, browning banana on the counter - Ian slices it up for Liam.

“Grab him some milk, will ya, Debs?” he asks, setting their bowls on the table. Carl looks down at the thick, lumpy oatmeal, rightfully unimpressed. But it’s the best he’s got.

It’s cold in here. It’s cold outside. Ian can’t get the heat turned back on. The best he can do is fill their bellies with something warm.

Fiona rushes through the back door then, freezing air whipping in behind her.

“Sorry,” she breathes, running a hand down her tired face. She moves to unzip her coat before thinking better of it, zipping it up further as she closes the door.

“I got off late, missed my bus,” she explains. “I think there’s enough breakfast, I can make something - ”

She cuts herself off when Ian hands her a cup of watered down coffee, shrugging in apology at the lack of milk or sugar.

Fiona takes the mug with a sigh. She brings it to her face and presses the ceramic to her cheek. Ian hopes, at least, that the heat is warming her hands through those threadbare gloves.

She sits down across from Liam, running a hand over his curls.

Ian sets a bowl in front of her. His sister looks down at it through watering eyes: the chipped rim, the pathetic serving of hardening breakfast at the bottom.

She looks to Liam, Debbie, Carl. Checks to see that they’ve eaten at least some of their meal. Her body goes slack when she notes that they’ve made it through another morning.

The day can begin, they can fight their way to the next one.

“You get any?” she asks Ian, spoon halted above her bowl.

“All good,” he lies through his teeth. The warm coffee in his belly will hold him over until -

Oh shit.

“We got anything to make for lunches?”

The world is glowing this morning.

Chicago is alive and the bass from the club is still thumping in his skull as his feet pound the pavement.

The sun roars over Lake Michigan, sending the skyline up in flames as it rises. The grainy photos on his phone don’t do it justice, this feeling. The crackling wonder in his skin as he watches the city burst forth into a new day.

But he can’t wait to show Mickey.

He was asleep when Ian crept out into the dark morning, breath even and deep at last after tossing and turning for most of the night. His body was tense in sleep, tight under the weight of his worries.

Mandy slept in Lip’s room, battered and bruised and just out of reach.

Ian’s not sure if she actually slept last night. He hovered in front of the door when he got back from work and again before heading out for his run, knocking lightly just once.

If she heard him, she didn’t make a sound.

The world feels massive as Ian moves through it, making his way back home. Unknowable, but conquerable. His for the fucking taking.

He wonders if Mandy and Mickey ever got to feel like this. Powerful - like even if the threads of their lives are frayed and splitting, they have the power to reknot them into something unbreakable.

There’s something waiting for him. Something fucking huge. It’s just on the edge of his mind, right at his fingertips, waiting to be known. He can just feel the shape of it.

And when he’s able to make that surge forward — when he’s able to pull it close and make it his — he’s going to give it to them.

To Mandy, to Mickey. His family. He’s buzzing with want; with the need to give them all of him.

The morning has fully overtaken the sky by the time he gets home. His siblings are scattered, spinning out across Chicago. There is so much to be done.

There is so much to be done.

Every item on his list ricochets across his mind as he pulls off his hat and peeks around for any sign of life downstairs. There are footsteps above him; they’ll be down soon.

Mandy needs somewhere safe stay or he’ll find her here and take her back and maybe next time Mickey won’t be there to take her away and Mickey needs more cash for the baby and his wife fuck he has a wife still and he has an idea that could make them rich if Lip would help him and Lip hasn’t been back in a while and he hasn’t seen Fiona in days there’s a kink in his neck he needs to stretch more and the kids what’s going on with the kids has he really been so distracted is Frank even still alive he needs more eyeliner he’s working again tonight isn’t he -

There has to be somewhere to start. There has to be somewhere to start today. A way to begin. Then he can give them all the world.

He’s flipping pancakes when Mickey comes downstairs.

Everyone cleared out a while ago.

He’d meant it, when he told them he didn’t want to do anything today. They’ll all have to get on without him anyways. And he wants to be here.

Ian’s not sure when he’ll be here again.

He wanders from room to room, letting his hand run lightly along faded, worn walls. He remembers his family living their lives within these walls, growing up alongside the many versions of himself.

Bounding from his room with Lip in hot pursuit, laughing and shoving each other towards the stairs. Holding Liam, hushing and soothing, walking up and down the hall when he cried at night. Bathtime, playtime, bedtime.

He remembers kissing Mickey against these walls.

With a heavy chest Ian heads downstairs, pausing to touch the bat hanging in its place. He feels sick for a moment, wondering if they’ll need it while he’s gone.

He walks past the aquarium tank, the decrepit couch, the box of Franny’s toys shoved in the corner of the living room.

The kitchen is quiet, his siblings having long since deserted the house.

Of all the rooms he’ll miss, he thinks he’ll miss this one most. Its soft yellow glow, the well-worn table and chairs where Gallagher history unfolds.

The plans hatched over cups of coffee, the long conversations over ice cream or beers. Confessions, realizations. The bustling lives of the people he loves.

He’s not sure when he’ll be here again.

It’s a little late for breakfast, and there’s no one here to eat with him. That’s the way it’s been lately, anyways. Rushed bowls of cereal before heading off and away from each other. A far cry from the mounds of scrambled eggs and plates of bacon Fiona used to churn out before she hurried them off to school.

Still, he’s cracking an egg before he realizes what he’s doing. Adds a bit of milk. He whisks in flour and sugar, digs around the cabinet for some baking powder.

Ian’s never been a great cook. Neither of them are - it was always about quantity rather than quality in this house. Enough calories to get through the day without also bankrupting them.

But breakfast. Ian’s always been pretty good at breakfast.

It’s easy, methodical. He can cycle through the steps in the comfort of this kitchen. Whether the mornings are bustling and chaotic or quiet and lonely, it all seems to come together over breakfast.

The bananas fold easily into the batter, the smell of them warm and sweet. Familiar. Comforting, like a moment he can just remember. Mickey, probably. Drowning his stack of pancakes in syrup before eating half the stack in one bite.

And maybe that’s why he made them despite not being that hungry. To indulge his senses in something soft, something that makes him feel safe. Things are about to become so harsh.

They’re perfectly warm and golden when Ian sits down to eat alone.

The plastic tray isn’t quite big enough to handle all of this, but Ian refuses to take a second trip. He refuses to be away from Mickey for any moment longer than necessary.

He wasn’t supposed to show up yesterday, busting through his bedroom window and then setting up shop like he never left. Ian had a plan for Mickey’s homecoming and this wasn’t it.

But it’s not like he’d send Mickey back for a chance at a welcome home do-over, so Ian’s made it work.

It’s late in the day: far closer to lunch than breakfast. Everyone has already pretty much cleared out of the house, likely to save themselves from their continued reunion.

Ian let Mickey sleep though, sitting up in bed to watch the morning light creep across the room. He can’t believe it. Mickey’s here. After so long and so much - he’s here, sleeping in that cramped twin bed again.

Last night was a fucking nightmare. Paula scares him - she fucking scares him, and there’s a deep, aching worry that has taken up residence in his bones.

But he won’t let that touch this morning.

It’s a struggle to push open the door while balancing the tray of food, but Mickey doesn’t stir when Ian stumbles into the room. Last night was the hardest they’d both slept in a while, wrapped up together again.

“Hey,” Ian whispers, setting the food down on the little bedside table. “Mick, wake up.”

He runs a hand over Mickey’s hair, fluffy and soft after his long post-fuck shower late last night. Mickey leans into the touch, smiling as he blinks awake.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep. Ian loves him so much he thinks he might die. “You’re up early.”

Ian snorts. “Mickey, it’s almost noon.”

“Shit, really? Fuck, I could go for a few more hours, man.”

“You can stay in here all day if you want,” Ian tells him, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting Mickey on the leg. “Just thought you might wanna eat some non-prison breakfast.”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Mickey says, sitting up and stretching. Ian is mesmerized.

It’s been years since he last watched Mickey come to life in this bed. By the end of those long, painful days, Ian didn’t even stop to appreciate the way Mickey’s nose crinkled up as he yawned.

He’ll never make that mistake again.

Ian leans in for a kiss, marveling at the fact that he can touch Mickey with leisure again. No visitation room glass, no hiding from unfriendly prison guards, no looking over their shoulders for border patrol.

Boundless time, for the first time in their lives.

“It’s not the big spread you were supposed to have,” Ian says with mock irritation. “But since you showed up early, I guess two somewhat stale toaster strudels, this questionable thing of yogurt, a bunch of grapes, and some toast will have to do.”

“God,” Mickey groans, reaching out his hands, “as long as there’s coffee and no instant prison eggs, I literally do not care.”

Ian laughs, passing over a mug of hot coffee. “I’ll take you out later,” he promises.

“Don’t have to do that,” Mickey says, face in his mug. “I’m cool to eat crap with you as long as you don’t get out of this bed all day either.”

He snags a grape from the tray, smiling as it bursts across his tongue.

“Deal.”

He’ll take Mickey out one day soon. Give him everything he deserves, at last. But there’s time.

They have time.

Ian wakes up sluggish and embarrassed.

They fought last night - or something like it. Quick and loud and hot with shame.

He’s been up, elevated. He knew it. He knew Mickey knew it. It’s just been one of those episodes to cycle through, to keep track of and get over, adding another notch in his fucking belt.

His meds are fine.

His moods are fine.

He’s just. He’s more. Ian can hear himself talking, he knows it’s too much too fast too many burning gulps of breath before moving onto the next thing - but he can’t stop himself.

There’s so much in him right now, and he can’t stand to let it waste away.

He was cooking last night. Chopping peppers and onions for a spicy dish he thought Mickey would like. The blade moved of its own accord, gliding across the cutting board in a way that felt controlled, practiced.

Ian felt skilled, despite never having tried this before. He felt clear, steady.

He tossed the veggies in the skillet, relishing in the smell of spices and the crackling of oil.

“Jesus,” Mickey said, appearing behind him at the counter, voice laced with that familiar apprehension. “Should turn that fuckin’ flame down, man.”

“It’s fine,” Ian muttered, focused on his herbs. “Gotta add the sauce in a sec.”

“Ian, it’s too high,” Mickey warned, shoving around him to lower the heat. “Gonna set the smoke alarm off if it - what the fuck is that?”

“Cilantro,” Ian said, brows knit in confusion, “you’ve tried it before.” He moved to turn the heat back up, but Mickey grabbed at his wrist.

“Not that, jackass,” he snapped, bringing Ian’s hand closer to his face. “You’re bleeding all over the fuckin’ place.”

It wasn’t until Mickey said it that Ian felt the pain. Breathless, startling. He hadn’t even noticed it; hadn’t seen the blood staining his fingers or spattering the cutting board.

“Oh,” he breathed as Mickey turned off the burner altogether and pulled him to the sink. “Shit, I didn’t realize.”

“You didn’t realize you’d cut your hand open?”

And it was there again. The edge of panic, the shake in Mickey’s voice as he spoke. It scared Ian as much as it pissed him off.

“No, I didn’t, so it’s not so bad,” he insisted, even as he winced when Mickey started to clean him up.

“Not so bad,” Mickey muttered, studying Ian’s split skin closely, probably trying to decide if it needed a stitch. “Jesus fuck, Ian.”

To his credit, Ian didn’t yank his hand away. He didn’t snap, he didn’t storm off. He didn’t tear the sky down and burn it in the smoldering ash of his fucking mood.

Not right then, anyways.

“Come on, Mick,” he argued instead. “It’s not that bad. Just put a bandage on it and let’s finish dinner.”

Mickey had stilled then, looking up at him with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll order a pizza,” he said thinly. “We gotta figure this out.”

“What is there to figure out? I wasn’t careful, I nicked myself. It’s fine.”

“Ian,” Mickey breathed, voice going soft. Ian felt himself getting pissed off again. “I thought we were past this. We’re a team here, remember?”

“Of course,” he replied, firm in his agreement even if he was getting fucking angry. He always hates this part. When they talk to him like he’s an idiot. Like he’s not even there.

“Then tell me you get this,” Mickey sighed. “You gotta know what’s going on.”

Ian finally wrenched his hand away. Mickey’s face fell, and Ian almost offered it back. But he felt the sky come down, and he couldn’t stop it.

“You think I don’t know?” Ian said, incredulous. “You really think that by now I don’t know?”

It’s unfair, really. How fucking hard he has to work to keep himself in line. To keep his voice level, to keep his chest from heaving. To keep the burning in his throat from reaching his eyes - keeping them open, but not too wide. Keeping them clear and free of those stinging tears.

How goddamn hard he always has to work so they won’t write him off as hypomanic without hearing him. To take him seriously, even if he’s sick.

They never mean to. They’re always trying. But he can always see them file it away, focusing on the symptoms instead of on him. They can’t always help it. But he always knows.

“You hurt yourself, Ian.”

“It was an accident!” Ian cried. “It could have happened either way! I know what’s going on, Mickey. We already talked about it. I did what I was supposed to do. I talked to my doctor and she didn’t think I needed to change anything. You know this.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just ignore it, Ian. We gotta talk about it more. You can’t let this get worse!”

“And what do you want me to say,” Ian snapped, leaving the would-be dinner on the stove and stomping out to the living room. Mickey followed behind, socked feet padding quickly to keep up. “That I’m fully aware that I’m sick right now? That I did what I was fucking told and I’m still like this? That I can see you watching me all the time? Why do we have to have an intervention every time? You know it, and I know it. What do you need me to fucking say?”

Mickey was quiet for a moment. He looked down at the floor while Ian struggled to catch his breath. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright.

“I know this fucking sucks for you. M’not saying you need to rush back to the clinic, Ian. But you need to be careful. You need to try to slow down and you need to let me fucking help you.”

He knew. He was just so fucking tired of having to talk about it.

But he always catches up, eventually. So he nodded sharply and gave Mickey what he wanted. What Ian knew he needed, anyways.

Ian crossed the floor again, heading back to the kitchen and rummaging through their drawer for his sedatives. He swallowed one down dry - Mickey appeared in the corner of his eye, leaning against the corner.

“We’ll make a plan tomorrow,” Ian said lowly, hanging his head and walking back to their bedroom. He touched Mickey’s arm briefly as he passed; the only apology he had the strength to offer in the moment.

As the familiar heaviness of the drug claimed him, Ian felt Mickey slide into bed next him.

This morning he wakes up alone. And maybe this shouldn’t surprise him given last night, but his heart still sinks at the coolness of Mickey’s side.

Ian takes his time brushing his teeth, washing the sleepy daze from his face. When he walks out to the living room, he’s surprised again to find it empty.

He’d anticipated finding Mickey on the couch, coffee in hand and ready to talk.

Instead, Mickey’s in the kitchen.

The dishes from last night’s failed culinary attempt are put away. There’s a familiar pink box on the counter - chocolate cream, no doubt.

The kettle is whistling. Ian notes two mugs with tea bags waiting. No coffee. Too much caffeine.

“Shit,” Mickey hisses from his place at the counter. He’s slicing up strawberries.

Ian clears his throat, moving into the kitchen to grab the kettle. He pours the water over the tea bags, watching the golden color bloom in their mugs. It smells bright, clean. Like a new morning.

“Hey,” Mickey says. He scoops the berries into a bowl and pads across the kitchen to kiss Ian on the cheek. “I know you don’t like to eat a lot after taking one of those, but - I dunno. Thought you might like somethin’ nice.”

Nice.

Last night wasn’t nice. Ian was not nice. Sometimes it takes over faster than he can see it, the nastiness. The barbs that defend him from his own shame - for a moment.

But, god, he would like something nice. He would like his life to be nice. He would like to be nice. Good, as he always thought he could be.

Ian nods, throat too clogged to speak. He takes the bowl from Mickey and places it on their dining table. Mickey follows behind with their teas.

They’ll talk. They’ll make a plan to fix this, revisit their plans for future episodes. They’ll talk about how Ian felt cornered. About how fucking scared Mickey felt. About how sorry they are, how they wish they’d handled it all more gently.

But they’ll also talk about this: in the grand arc of their lives, this was just a flash. For a moment — a brief, hideous moment — it felt like the end of the fucking world. It was serious, and it was real.

It just wasn’t bigger than them.

They’ll have a slow day. They’ll take their time with each other. They’ll share the berries on their kitchen table. Later Mickey will bring Ian a chocolate cream, and when Ian leans in to kiss him, he’ll taste the sweetness on his tongue.

#+1 did in fact make me cry thank you mel

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iansmoons · 2 years

Note

either 2 or 15 or both if ur still taking prompts ? thank u :)

ok ok ok first of all I’M SO SORRY this took me over two months?? 😳😵‍💫 brain decided to go puff. I hope you enjoy this anyway anon!

I went with prompt n2: “it’s weird, ok? it makes me feel weird” which you can find here - as usual a big thank you to calli @ianandmickeygallavich for her amazing prompts 💞

inspired by @squidyyy23’s absolutely heartbreaking tags on this post 🙃

- - -

It all starts with a squeeze to his belly.

A squeeze that throws him for a loop.

Suddenly, he’s all too aware of every single touch, every gentle caress. Mickey’s fingertips burn on his skin, his lips on his belly make his ears flush and his heartbeat pick up, but not with arousal.

It’s embarrassing, he knows— a grown up man getting nervous about his own husband seeing his belly.

The belly that somehow hasn’t stopped growing since the wedding. A belly that’s a far cry from the toned abs he used to sport in those tight golden shorts.

Getting rounder and bigger and softer with each passing day and he didn’t even notice.

Not until the squeeze.

And then it starts. It blows up under his nose so quickly that he doesn’t even have the time to realize what is happening. What he’s doing.

He starts grabbing Mickey’s hand every time it sneaks under his shirt. He brings it up to his mouth and kisses it to disguise it. Holds onto it, as far away from his belly as possible.

Mickey doesn’t seem to notice. He holds onto his hand as well, fingers interlacing, and it’s okay.

Until it’s not.

Until Mickey’s on top of him. “Let’s take this off, huh?” He pants, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt and suddenly Ian’s shoving him away, away from his shirt and from his belly.

Until he rolls over and quickly pads over to the bathroom, ignoring Mickey’s lost what the fuck?

Until there’s hot water in his ears drowning out his voice.

Ian, you alright? What’s going on? Ian?

He’s worried and Ian hates that he is. That he’s worrying him.

He steps out of the shower and puts on clean clothes. Shirt hiding everything he needs it to hide.

He’s expecting Mickey to be out there by the door, eyebrows raised and bottom lip between his teeth.

He’s not.

He’s in the kitchen, making fucking hot chocolate in the middle of the night.

There’s a lump in his throat but he swallows it down, eyes starting to burn and he can’t stand to look at him, at this husband of his being gentle and patient and understanding.

He steps onto the balcony, guilt eating at his insides but there’s nothing else he can do.

The chill air of the night sends a shiver down his spine and he crosses his arms on his chest.

“Hey,” mickey says, suddenly behind him. “You’re gonna freeze your fuckin’ ass off, man.”

Ian doesn’t turn to face him. “It’s okay.” He mumbles, surprised at the thickness he hears in his voice.

There’s a quiet sigh from behind him, then their couch blanket is gently enveloping his shoulders.

He inhales shakily. Grips the soft fabric and holds it closer to his sides. It feels safe, like this.

“Thanks.” He whispers.

“You okay?” Mickey asks, coming to stand beside him, elbows leaning on the railing. “Look, I’m uh.” Ian looks at him from the corner of his eye. He’s thumbing at his nose. He’s nervous. “I’m not gonna make you talk to me if you don’t want to, but—“ He lets out a breath, turns so he’s facing Ian. “You can if you want, you know?”

He nods, eyelids closing. “I know.”

“I just want to be sure you’re okay.”

Ian huffs. “It’s embarrassing, Mick.”

“We’re married, dumbass. And I love you.” He holds up a hand to smooth back one of Ian’s curls, then brings it down to pet at his ear. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me.”

Ian turns his head, and the look he finds on Mickey’s face is so sincere that his breath trembles. Mickey must pick up on it because he rests his forehead on his shoulder, just a second.

“Nothing.” He whispers again, straightening back up.

Ian bites his lip, keeping his face from crumpling. “When—“ He stops. Takes a deep breath. Tries again. “When you touch me—my belly.” He sighs, doesn’t dare looking at Mickey. His fingers tighten around the fabric to the point that his knuckles hurt. “It’s weird, ok? It makes me feel weird.”

There’s nothing but silence for what feels like hours, until Mickey lets out a quiet, “Oh.”

Tears pool in his eyes and he can’t stop them from pouring out. “I’m sorry.” He chokes out. “I don’t know why I’m like this.”

Mickey’s hands are on his cheeks in an instant, thumbs swiping away the tears. He leans into them.

“You don’t gotta apologize for that, man,” Mickey says, then presses up to softly kiss his forehead. He looks at him and his eyes are wide and bright, pupils blown. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat before he speaks again. “I’m just— I’m sorry I made you feel like this.”

He shakes his head so fast that his head spins.

“No,” he says firmly, planting his hands on Mickey’s neck. “It’s not you. I—“

He can’t find the strength to say what he wants to but he doesn’t need to, because Mickey’s arms are around him and then he’s holding him tight to his chest and this is okay. It’s okay for now.

Mickey takes his hand. “Why don’t we go inside and drink that hot chocolate, huh?”

He smiles. Yeah, they can do that.

Then he’ll tell him.

He’ll tell him on the couch, head resting on Mickey’s lap and his husband’s fingers carding through his hair, scratching at his scalp. Bending down to press his lips to Ian’s forehead.

He’ll tell him and he’ll get a million kisses and cuddles, and then he’ll smile and flush and laugh, a bit embarrassed, when Mickey tells him just how beautiful and hot he finds him. All of him. Belly included.

#oh my god ian😭😭

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