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"Well?" Ian asks, arms out to his sides as he does a quick spin.
Mickey blows smoke out through his nose and thumbs at his bottom lip as his eyes trail up and down Ian's body appreciatively. Ian gives a little grin, a little brow bounce, and Mickey feels, what the fuck, a little fluttery in his belly.
"You've looked worse," Mickey says and takes another drag from his smoke.
"I've looked worse," Ian deadpans and gives Mickey a look of pure annoyance. "And they say all the romance goes away after you get married."
"Ay, if you wanted Prince Charming, you got yourself shacked up with the wrong guy."
"Maybe you're just too emotionally stunted to give me a compliment. Here, let me teach you a thing or two," Ian smirks and saddles up to Mickey, both hands gripping on to his hips. "You look good, Mick."
"Oh wow, you're so good at that. My panties are melting as we speak," Mickey says and rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, well, it never took much to get you wet..."
Ian only steps closer when Mickey's nose scrunches up, lines their bodies and leans down to rest his chin of Mickey's shoulder.
"You look really fucking good. Everything about you is exactly what I want," he rumbles in Mickey's ear. "These tight ass jeans, talk about Van-double-Damme," he laughs and Mickey pushes him away irritably.
"Look, you gonna sit here all night with your cheesy pickup lines that wouldn't work on a paid fucking whore, or you gonna march my ass to Sizzler's and get me a god damn steak?"
"Marching isn't the only thing I'm gonna be doing to your ass tonight."
Mickey's sighs and shakes his head, but doesn't put up a fight when Ian laces their fingers and leads him outside.
The menus aren't sticky. That's the first thing Mickey notices. They aren't sticky and they don't look like they're nearly as old as he is, and it might just be fucking Sizzler's, but it's definitely one of the nicest places he's been to. He looks up at Ian, just over the edge of the laminated folder in his hand, and watches as Ian's eyes scan the pages.
"Anything looking good to you, Gallagher?"
Ian's eyes flick to Mickey's, crinkled and mischievous, before he licks his lips. He’s really something, Mickey thinks, really putting the moves on even when he knows Mickey’s a sure thing. A married thing.
“I’m thinking I’m gonna get sloshed. Gonna drink a whole mixed drink. And you’re gonna deal with it. That sound good to you, Milkovich?”
“Long as I don’t have to carry your ass, you do what you want, Gallagher,” Mickey smirks, intent on doing the same. Fuck it, they don’t have to drive, and neither one of them works tomorrow, might as well enjoy the night. And alcohol makes everything more enjoyable.
“Hi guys,” their waitress smiles when she steps up to the table. She’s blonde and perky and her voice is already grating on Mickey’s nerves, but he won’t say shit about it. He’s not here to ruin Ian’s night.
“Are we celebrating anything tonight?”
Mickey thinks it’s a stupid question. Who the fuck celebrates anything at Sizzler’s, of all places? He opens his mouth to say so, but Ian cuts him off.
“First official date as husbands,” he smiles, wiggling his ring finger for proof. He’s kind and open, and god he’s so fucking dumb, but look at him.
“Aw, cute! Congratulations!” She squeals, the sound piercing at Mickey’s ears. “Well, can I start you all off with some appetizers? Drinks?”
“Got whiskey?” Mickey asks before Ian can open his mouth.
“Oh, sorry, no. We just have beer and wine. Would you like either of those?” Her hair bounces as she speaks, and it’s a lot, but fuck it.
“Pitcher of beer is good,” Mickey shrugs, not bothering to ask Ian if he agrees or not. He knows he will. Knows Ian isn’t gonna want a glass of wine like he’s some uptight yuppie crawling in from the Northside.
“Okay, great! We have stout, craft-”
“Beer?” Mickey interrupts, but she doesn’t seem to mind... too much, anyway. She gives a tight lipped smile and turns from their table.
“Maybe I was gonna order an appetizer,” Ian pouts, “but you had to go and scare her off.”
“You want me to go get her?” Mickey asks, grabbing for his rolled up silverware and unearthing his steak knife. “I’ll bring her back.”
“You’re going back to prison,” Ian laughs, not that prison is anything to joke about, but it makes Mickey smile, too. Dark senses of humor, and all of that.
The waitress comes back not long after, carrying a pitcher of too foamy beer and plain glasses. She sets them down, wipes her hands on her apron, and pulls out a note pad and pen.
“What can I getcha?”
Ian goes first, ordering a medium rare steak and a side salad. Mickey asks for a steak so rare it moos and a baked potato with like, all the cheese and extra fucking bacon.
“You’re gonna have to start eating better,” Ian sighs once she’s left, and Mickey scoffs.
“You’re gonna have to start minding your own fucking business,” he says and takes a gulp of his beer.
“You are my business. Legally,” Ian reminds him, and takes a sip of his own, raising an eyebrow in a challenge.
“Yeah. Well...”
He doesn’t have anything to say to that. Because it’s true. Legally, he’s Ian’s. And Ian is his. He grins when he thinks about it, and Ian must know what’s going through his head, because he reaches out and waits for Mickey to put his hand in his. And Mickey does, unashamed and without hesitation.
“Love you,” Ian says out of nowhere- but is it, really? He doesn’t need a reason to say it. He can say it whenever the fuck he wants, and Mickey reminds himself not to over think it anymore.
“Love you, too.”
The steak is rare, Mickey will give them that. He cuts into it, pleasantly surprised to find it juicy and red. Doesn’t taste half bad, either, especially when it’s washed down by mouthfuls of halfway decent beer- even if it isn’t as cold as he’d like it. Ian seems to like his, too, taking big enough bites of his salad to leave traces of ranch on his chin.
“Looks like someone jizzed on your face, slob,” Mickey laughs, balling up his napkin and tossing it in Ian’s direction.
“Get it for me,” Ian says as he hands the napkin back and holds his face for Mickey to have easy access to.
“You really are gay, aren’t you?”
“Did my big gay wedding and my big gay husband not give that away, or...?”
“Fuck you. C’mere.”
So he wipes his face. So what? Fight him.
They get a piece of cake and another pitcher of beer to split, and okay, alright. This dating thing isn’t so bad. Not with his full belly, and buzzing veins and Ian’s smiling face- flushed with alcohol sprinkled with a little bit of genuine happiness.
They pay the bill and Mickey leaves a little bit more than he usually would for a tip. She was annoying- but she did alright, and she congratulated them again before they left.
They step out into the cool night air, colder now than when they went in, but it doesn’t really matter. Mickey feels warm and comfortable and ready for the walk back. Ian stumbles a little, laughs about it, and keeps going.
“We are young,” he sings softly, and Mickey rolls his eyes, but follows it up appropriately.
“Heartache to heartache we stand...”