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Thinking about road trips, about the two of them deciding to try it again except this time there’s no heartbreak and devastation waiting for them at the end, no having to look over their shoulders every second.
Their parole is finally up, they’ve got money saved and an actual car so they think why not?
Ian’s got a list with bullet points of places to visit along the way and what to pack. (“You’re such a fucking nerd” “I’m not eating carrot sticks this whole trip Gallagher”)
Mickey’s got a playlist that they blast the whole way, singing Lady Gaga and Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen with the windows down, their hair blowing in the wind, laughing at how ridiculous they look.
They hold hands over the gear shift, Ian absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over Mickey’s ring as he looks out the window, Chicago city landscape giving way to country back roads and mountains.
Half their car ride is filled with long winded, elaborate discussions about the end of the world and how they’d handle zombies, arguing about the merits of guns vs knives vs crossbows, who would survive longer, and what’s the best zombie movie ever. (Ian claims 28 Days Later; Mickey shoots back that it’s not a zombie movie. They agree to disagree.)
They try the whole blanket and shooting stars thing again but only make it a half hour, bugs eating them alive. It’s a race back to the car, Ian winning easily, laughing wildly. (“Fuckin’ gazelle,” Mickey says panting, before he tackles Ian into the backseat)
There’s arm wrestling at a roadside bar and silly shouting matches about Van Damme vs Segal, furious makeouts in a random alleyway, a near head on collision when Mickey tries to blow Ian on a random stretch of highway.
There’s a flat tire in the middle of nowhere that leads to a screaming match on the side of the road, both of them red faced and steaming, ignoring each other as they wait for a tow. One of them throws pebbles which leads to a slight scuffle which slides into making out right up against their broken down car, laughing into each other’s mouths, illuminated by the tow truck lights (They’ll apologize to each other later).
There’s selfies, SO many selfies that Ian insists on taking because we gotta make up for lost time Mick plus we have to document our trip, dozens upon dozens of photos of Mickey driving and Mickey sleeping and Mickey laughing, shaky videos of Ian laughing hysterically at Mickey mooning people on the side of the road, of the two of them screaming the lyrics to Livin’ On A Prayer on a beautiful sunny day down a long stretch of highway, wind whipping their hair into their faces.
There’s impromptu tattoos at a hole in the wall place filled with bikers, sign in the window advertising cheap flash tattoos. They decide to surprise each other, Ian rolling his eyes at the small switchblade dripping with blood on his inner arm that Mickey gets, grinning at himself in the mirror as he checks it out. He’s much more endeared to it when Mickey points out the stargazer lily he coaxed the tattoo artist into drawing on the handle of the blade, blue flower stark against the black lines of the knife.
Mickey calls him a fuckin’ sap when he sees the simple MM on his ring finger, but that doesn’t stop him from holding Ian's hand up that night to look at it again, finger running over it softly, slight blush on his cheek.
There’s a bar fight with a drunken homophobe, both of them yelling and flipping off the bouncer as they’re pushed out the door. They spend the walk back to the car bickering about who punched first, Ian insisting on taking a look at Mickey’s hand to make sure nothing’s broken. (Come on EMT, show me some of that mouth to mouth shit, Mickey says smirking as he pulls him down, mindful of his bruised hand)
It’s nearing midnight when they finally make it to the coast, Ian asleep and snoring slightly in the passenger seat.
Mickey takes a minute to lean on the car, watching the moonlight bounce off the waves and thinks about how surreal it is that they’re here, no worries, nothing holding them back, just them. He’d think it was romantic too if he thought things like that.
He wakes Ian up with a shake, brandishes a bottle of tequila to celebrate the moment, tongue sticking out as he grins and laughs, watching as the liquor dribbles down Ian’s chin as he takes a shot.
Licking it up off his throat, he whoops wildly, snapping him with the towel and runs for the water, Ian hot on his heels.
Spreading a blanket out and looking at the stars goes much better on the beach. They share a joint, making up increasingly dumb names for constellations that make them giggle like teenagers. There’s thankfully no sand in uncomfortable places but they do get chased off the beach in the morning, flipping off beach security as they run naked for the car, blindingly white asses practically glinting in the sun.
They sit on the hood of the car by the water and eat tacos, talking with their mouths full about where they want to go next, moaning about how good the food is and debating the best taco toppings, music from the boardwalk playing in the distance.
Mickey breaks out his Hawaiian shirt with a dumb little flourish, Ian rolling his eyes and groaning and thinking god my husband is so weird, why do I love him so much.
They head for the water next, wading in up to their waists and pushing each other around, floating on their backs which turns into trying to dunk each other, which turns into laughing breathlessly as they attempt to covertly jerk each other off under the water.
Their last night they splurge on a fancy ass hotel room similar to their honeymoon, view of the beach and the sunset right through the bedroom. It’s cheesy and corny and perfect for two boys in love.
They talk about Ian’s gardening plans and it feels a little like baring his soul, the way you can only do when it’s 3 am under the cover of darkness, whispered between the sheets like a secret.
He tells him how it makes his head feel more steady, how he doesn’t have to think about what’s real and not real when he’s out there in the garden, dirt under his fingernails.
Mickey reaches a hand up to stroke his cheek, fingers brushing away the tear that escapes the corner of his eye and he’s not sure when he got so fucking emotional about tomatoes, sorry for being such a pussy, Mick.
He smiles at him in the dark, leans forward to kiss him soft and sure, lingering, heart aching for this man he loves so desperately.
They go home windswept, slightly sunburnt, a little bit tanner, wallets somewhat lighter, hearts swelling with the fact that they both got to marry their best friend.