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“Ian!” Mickey shouted from the bathroom. “If you want to make it to this sure-to-be, fucked up family breakfast of yours, we gotta get going.
When he didn’t immediately hear a response from the other room he leaned out of the bathroom, yelling down the hallway: “Ian!”
“Stop yelling!” Ian grumbled, inching out of the bedroom. “I’m moving.”
Mickey rolled his eyes and went back into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
“What crawled up your ass, this morning?” He asked, before sticking his toothbrush in his mouth.
Ian stepped into the doorframe. “Evidently, not you.”
Mickey smirked, around the foaming toothpaste filling his mouth before spitting into the sink. “Yeah, well some of us have been up for an hour already.”
He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to face his husband. “Want sex?” He asked rhetorically, “Gotta get up on time.”
It wasn’t until he leaned in to kiss the redhead, that he noticed the heat rolling off Ian’s body. He pushed himself off, immediately placing the back of his hand on Ian’s forehead.
Ian backed away. “Mick, gross.” He said, scrunching his nose. “You just used that same hand to wipe your mouth.”
Mickey raised his eyebrow. “Seriously? Of all the fluids we swap, toothpaste spit is where you draw the line?”
Ian scowled and grabbed the towel off the adjacent rack, swiping at his forehead.
Mickey shook his head in disbelief. “Was checking your temperature dumbass. How long you been feeling sick?”
Ian pushed past Mickey, reaching for his own toothbrush by the sink. “ ‘m not sick.”
Mickey crossed his arms. “Then how do you explain the heatwaves you’re throwing off?”
Ian shrugged. “I just got out of bed.” He said, spreading toothpaste on the bristles. “The bedroom’s warm.”
Mickey gave him a skeptical look. “You expect me to buy that shit?”
Ian pointed his toothbrush towards his back molars. “Buy what?” He asked, “I’m fine.”
Mickey looked down at the ground, physically biting his tongue, to subdue the argument resting on his bottom teeth. God Ian could be so goddamn stubborn sometimes.
Mickey turned his attention back to his husband. “Okay, whatever.” He stuffed his hands into his jean pockets. “You almost ready? I don’t need Orphan Annie up my ass for being late. Especially since it isn’t my fault this time.”
Ian spit the remaining toothpaste that accumulated on his tongue into the sink and swiped the towel across his mouth. “Yeah let’s go.” He said, lightly smacking Mickey in the chest before making his way to the front door. “You driving?”
“Since when do I let you drive my car?” Mickey asked, walking behind Ian. “No shit I’m driving.”
—
They couldn’t have been on the road for more than two minutes when Mickey looked over and found Ian conked out in the passenger seat. He couldn’t help but smirk. It never failed; the motion of the car always managed to put Ian to sleep.
He turned down the radio a touch and looked back at Ian. Jesus, he looks pale (and that’s saying something).
Mickey rounded the corner towards the Gallagher house and found himself hoping one of them could convince Ian he wasn’t “fine.” He heard Ian stir from his spot in the passenger seat, and watched as Ian pressed his cheek against the window.
“Hey sleeping beauty.” Mickey joked, taking turns glancing from Ian to the road.
“Pull over.” Ian mumbled.
Mickey turned the radio even further. “What’dya say?”
Ian pressed his hand against his mouth. “Gonna puke.”
“Woah. Okay, okay hold on.” Mickey said, steering towards the curb ahead.
Ian scrambled for the door handle before leaning out of the side of the car and projectile vomiting.
“Fuck Gallagher.” Mickey said, leaning over to tug on Ian’s shirt to keep him from tumbling out.
Ian heaved forward, adding to the growing pile laid out on the pavement. Mickey kept a firm hand at the small of Ian’s back and grabbed his phone in the adjacent cup holder. He quickly found Lip’s number in his contacts and pressed the phone between his shoulder and his cheek; once again occupying his other hand with a handful of Ian’s shirt—the one thing keeping him from nosediving out of the car.
“Yo.” Lip chirped, answering on the third dial.
“Hey, we aren’t going to make it to the breakfast thing.”
Lip frowned. “What? Why? Debbie has been planning this for weeks.”
Ian lurched forward, bringing up another mouthful of vomit.
“What was that?” Lip asked, pressing the phone closer to his ear.
“Your brother trying to convince me he’s fine.” Mickey quipped, rubbing his hand down Ian’s back. “He is yacking into someone’s front yard as we speak.”
Lip rubbed a hand across his brow. “Jesus. Is he okay?”
“He will be.” Mickey said. “I’m going to take the stubborn fuck back home and get him into bed, once were done here.”
Lip nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll let Debbie know. Tell Ian I’ll text him after a while; see how he’s doing.”
Mickey nodded. “Yeah, thanks Lip.”
Ian sat back into the car, leaning his head back against the headrest.
“Hey, Lip. I've gotta go.” Mickey said, “I’ll call you later. Keep you posted.”
Mickey placed his phone on top of the dash and turned his attention back to his husband. Ian had his eyes closed and was taking shallow breaths through tight lips.
“Hey.” Mickey said softly. “You good to start moving, again?”
Ian slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to face Mickey. “I feel like shit.”
Mickey couldn’t help but smirk. “Yeah you don’t look so hot.”
Ian moaned and wrapped his arms around his torso. Mickey frowned and brought his hand up to cup the back of Ian’s neck and the side of his face.
“Why don’t we get you home, hm?” Mickey asked. “Let me take care of you.”
Ian nodded and pulled the passenger door closed. “Yeah, okay.”
——
They made it back to the apartment unscathed. Ian had managed to swallow the upcoming bile by clenching the rows of his teeth. It wasn’t until they were back inside that Ian made a run for the bathroom.
Mickey sighed. Damn. Was really hoping he could catch a break.
Mickey grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen before joining his husband on the bathroom floor. Ian was hunched over the bowl, once again throwing up. This time only bringing up the dredges of his stomach lining.
Mickey found himself once again, rubbing circles on Ian’s back. It was the one good thing he could remember his Mom doing for him before she bailed. When he was a kid he had gotten ahold of some stray beer bottles that had been laying around the house. At 5 years old, he hadn’t yet developed the Milkovich alcohol tolerance and found himself bent over a bucket all night long. His Mom was there, rubbing his back and speaking softly into his ear.
Ian hunched forward, his back bowing under the force of the dry heave. Mickey leaned forward and put his hand under Ian’s forehead to keep it from meeting the porcelain. “It’s okay.” He soothed, “you’re almost done. Just let it out.”
Ian gagged once more before crossing his arms over the seat and resting his head on his hands. He spit the sour saliva that had accumulated on his tongue into the bowl and moaned. “Mick?”
Mickey straightened up. “Yeah, I’m right here.” He said running his hand down Ian’s arm. “What do you need?”
Ian spit into the bowl once more. “Fucking shoot me.”
Mickey rolled his eyes. “Not happening.”
Mickey handed him the glass of water. “Here. Rinse your mouth and let’s get you to bed; sleep this off.”
Ian accepted the water before swishing it around and spitting it back into the toilet. “I don’t think I’m done.”
Mickey reached forward and flushed the toilet. “We’ll put a trash can by your side of the bed.” He put his hands out for Ian’s. “Come on let’s go.”
Ian let Mickey maneuver him off the floor, pausing when the floor took a diagonal dive. Ian fell against the wall, trying to steady himself.
“Woah. What’s going on?” Mickey shouted.
Ian took a shaky breath. “Dizzy.”
“What, like the spins?”
Ian groaned, pressing his head against the wall.
“Okay. I got you,” Mickey said, draping Ian’s arm over his shoulder. “Just close your eyes.”
Ian folded his head on top of Mickey’s, placing all of his weight onto his husband’s small frame.
“Jesus Christ.” Mickey huffed out, “What have you been eating?”
“Check the plumbing.” Ian grumbled.
Mickey snorted. “Okay smartass. Let’s get you to bed.”
---
Mickey glanced over at Ian from his spot on the bed. He hadn’t moved, since they had successfully maneuvered him away from the bathroom and Mickey was grateful to see he was getting some much needed sleep.
Mickey gently crawled out of bed, looking back to make sure he hadn’t woken up Ian before running towards the bathroom. Whatever Ian was plagued with, was apparently contagious. He closed the door behind him, before making a dive for the toilet and throwing up into the bowl. Fucking-a.
He felt his stomach turn and gagged, bringing up more vomit into the water below.
“Mick?” Ian asked, tapping on the door.
Mickey groaned, propping his elbows up on the seat. “Don’t come in here.”
He heard the door unclick and felt Ian sit down on the bathroom floor behind him.
“Get your ass back in bed Gallagher.” He said, leaning his head further over the basin. “You’re sick.”
Ian ran his hand down Mickey’s spine. “So are you dumbass.”
Mickey gripped the rim of the toilet seat, as more of his stomach came crawling up his throat. Ian averted his eyes, his own stomach giving a sympathetic roll.
“Mick.” He swallowed. “I love you b-but,” He took a deep breath. He moved to hover over the tub before he heaved, bringing up yellow strings of stomach acid.
“Fuck, this isn’t good.” Ian breathed.
“Ya think?” Mickey moaned, pressing his forehead against the cool porcelain.