Work Text:
Mickey’s always felt different. In more ways than one.
School had always been difficult for him. He would look around at the kids who sat still in their chairs, looking straight at the board and taking in what was being said and realize this fact over and over. He just couldn’t do school. The teachers never stopped to explain, they moved quickly from one subject to the next, assuming every student had fully understood the lesson they had just taught.
Mickey just assumed he was dumb. Simple as that.
That’s what everyone else said about him. He’s just too stupid to get it. Too stupid to sit still, too stupid to understand, too stupid to pay attention.
So, he sits outside the bubble, watching his peers from a far. He resigns himself to this feeling, he pretends to like it.
He talks a lot, he runs around a lot. Fidgets, as his mom would say.
“Stop fidgeting, Mikhailo!”
“Can’t you sit still, Mikhailo?”
“Just stop!”
The thinly veiled anger only spurred the guilt and isolation Mickey had already felt. It only told him that he’s not normal, not really.
His entire childhood, he’s felt different. Unfortunately, that unwavering feeling persists into his adulthood, working its way into his day to day life.
He doesn’t understand it. He’s tried to control it. He’s tried to try. Really, he has.
He used to tell his mother how sorry he was, how he hadn’t meant to upset her. He tried telling her that he didn’t know how to fix it. She always just told him that he wasn’t trying hard enough, that he was doing it on purpose.
Maybe he is, maybe he is doing something wrong. So he did what anyone would do; he went to Google.
He doesn't like what he finds.
According to Google, his problems match up with something called ADHD.
What the fuck is that?
He throws his phone on the bed and shakes his.
Wouldn't someone have noticed?
Obviously, Google can't diagnose him with whatever the fuck this is. Besides, Google’s been wrong before. One time, Mickey had a stomach ache and WebMD told him he had cancer, the internet isn’t exactly a reliable source.
Yet, he can’t help thinking about the symptoms, the description, the fact that he checks most of those boxes presented to him.
“Mick!” His husband calls from the other room, “It’s date night, we should leave in, like, an hour or so.”
Mickey clicks his phone off and puts it on the nightstand. Whatever, he thinks, pushing it away despite the fact it’s gnawing at him.
He shakes his head and goes to the bathroom to get ready.
“Mick! What do you want to eat?”
Ian sits down on the mattress, tugging his shoes on. He searches for his nicest dress shirt through the pile of unmade clothes on the bed. It’s a different kind of date night, Ian deciding to take Mickey out instead of staying on the couch all night, eating pizza and watching trashy television.
“I don’t know! What’s close?” Mickey calls from the bathroom. Ian smiles, imagining Mickey tucking in his shirt and styling his hair because despite himself, he always wants to look nice.
Ian throws a glance around the room, realizing he left his phone in the living room. Not wanting to get up and find it, he picks up Mickey’s phone on his nightstand. He unlocks it by typing in his birthday and clicks the little G in the bottom corner.
Just as he’s about to type in restaurants near me, he takes pause at the recent google searches.
“Why do I talk too much?”
“Reasons for short attention span.”
“How to sit still for long periods of time.”
And finally, the question that gets lodged in Ian’s mind:
“What is ADHD?”
He’s heard of it before, the word being tossed around as a joke or maybe said by a coworker, explaining the diagnosis a doctor gave their child.
He’s never really thought too much of it, certainly never cared enough to search its meaning. He clicks on the recent search to gain clarity. When he does, he sees a little blue box to the side of a list of articles, some of which are purple, indicating Mickey’s clicked on them.
“A chronic condition including attention difficulty, hyperactivity, and impulsiveness.”
Ian thinks about the description over and over and over again. He runs it through his head and tries to apply it to Mickey. He’s always been impulsive and a little hyperactive, ever since he was a little kid running around, terrorizing the neighborhood. He moves onto the next paragraph.
“ADHD often begins in childhood and can persist into adulthood. It may contribute to low self-esteem, troubled relationships, and difficulty at school or work.”
“Huh,” Ian says out loud. Mickey's penchant for self depreciation has always been present. He remembers Mickey’s line when they were teenagers in the dugouts, fucking like rabbits and trying to get close enough to brush skin.
“I’m fucked for life anyways.”
He always attributed that to his family and he supposes that’s still an insecurity but thinking about it now, maybe those aspects of himself that Ian adored had affected his self esteem as Google put it. He knows he was never one for academics but he figured he didn’t care. Maybe he did; maybe he tried.
Ian puts the phone down and thinks that maybe he’s jumping to conclusions, projecting meaning and drawing lines where there aren’t any. Maybe Mickey was just curious, maybe this was one of his interests now. He’s always had so many, these intense fixations. He’s always loved talking about them, researching them, whether it be guns or celebrity gossip.
He doesn’t see Mickey enter the room and watch him go through his phone until he looks up to his husband's stern expression.
“What are you doing?” Mickey snatches his phone back and opens it back up, seeing what Ian had searched. He might have been expecting to see restaurants Ian was thinking about going to, instead he saw the webpages Ian opened back up.
He doesn’t speak, he just gathers himself, his nostrils flair and he presses his lips together.
“I just wanted to check what places to eat were close,” Ian smiles up at him but Mickey squints his eyes suspiciously.
“Cut the shit, you saw that ADHD shit. Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing,” Mickey shrugs and tosses the phone back onto the bed, his jaw tense and his eyes frantic.
Ian catches it, he always does, “Do you wanna talk about it?”
They’ve been practicing that shit, the questions that open up the floor to communication. Ian isn’t sure whether or not there’s anything for them to talk about but he knows Mickey’s tense, he sees that he’s worried, and he also knows that sometimes Mickey gets stuck in his own head. He forgets that it’s okay for him to have feelings. Ian knows he’s sensitive, knows he feels things intensely and worries about things people don’t think he worries about but something stops him from talking about them. That wall that he’s built around himself is fortified and strong, but Ian sees through it, hopeful Mickey will just sit down and talk, let him in.
“I don’t fucking know. What’re you busting my balls for, huh? It’s just Google, man,” Mickey still won’t maintain eye contact.
“Is it? I mean, if you think that you could match up with the symptoms, I wanna know,” Ian keeps his voice low and casual despite the urge to ask more questions. He keeps thinking about the low self-esteem quality he read about. What if Mickey feels that way now? What if Ian doesn’t know about it? What if Ian can’t help?
“Yeah, I guess, but whatever, let’s just go to like Sizzlers or something,” Mickey scratches his forehead and bites his lip, his anxiety raking over him harshly.
Ian sighs, tilting his head, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go to Sizzlers.”
Mickey’s anxiety is palpable throughout the night, Ian doing his best to comfort him. He runs a hand up and down Mickey’s back when they’re seated, grabbing his hand and tracing patterns into the back of it while they order. He makes his presence known, he wants to let Mickey know that he’s here, that whatever’s been bothering him so much doesn’t have to stay bottled up.
The topic fades into the background but the tension stays put.
Especially when they’re back at home, readying themselves for bed. The anxiety creeps back into Mickey’s speech and body language. Ian notices the minute it happens, he sees his jaw tighten and his chest inflate, recognizing the signs he’s seen a million times.
Mickey comes out of the bathroom in one of Ian’s shirts, obviously too big for him, it hangs down to his mid-thigh, the sleeves covering his hands, and the neck hanging down his chest much farther than it should.
Ian admires the scene for a minute, watching his husband yawn and shuffle onto the bed.
“Come here,” Ian says, stretching out his arms wide. Mickey slides in beside him and nuzzles into Ian’s chest, a routine they’ve had since they were teenagers.
They stay like that, Ian assuming they’re about to go to sleep until Mickey says, “I don’t know.”
Ian knows what he’s referring to but asks anyways, “Don’t know what, babe?”
“I don’t fucking know what I have or if I have anything and it might just be stupid and I’m just fucking reading into things but I can’t stop thinking about it,” he turns a little, so he’s not leaning on Ian’s chest but instead facing the ceiling.
“Well-”
“But it’s like my entire fucking life, I always felt different- and not just cause I liked to suck cock- but it always felt like I was missing something that everyone else already knew.”
“Alright-”
“And I know this sounds so fucking dumb but that ADHD shit fits so fucking well and now I’m thinking well fuck, that might be it. But I kept thinking how did everybody miss that, that makes no fucking sense, right? But then I remember that everybody just called me stupid and moved on, they didn’t give a shit if you were getting shit grades or if you didn’t understand something cause they didn’t care.”
“So-”
“And now I’m thinking if there’s a fucking term for it, it must be something people know about, yeah? People understand it and if I got it, they might be able to help or something.”
Ian waits for a minute, just to see if Mickey’s done talking.
“Well? Aren’t you gonna fucking say something?” Mickey snaps his neck to look at Ian, who nods.
“Well, I was going to say that if you really think you might have it, we can look into it. You know, get a professional’s opinion and all that shit. Maybe a diagnosis.”
Mickey’s breath stutters at the mention of a diagnosis.
“I know,” Ian says, “Fuckng scary, isn’t it.”
Mickey breathes out a laugh and nods, “Yeah, man.”
Silence encompasses the couple for a minute, leaving them in a tranquil and quiet state.
Eventually Mickey gravitates back to Ian, limbs coiling around Ian’s and head finding its way back underneath Ian’s chin, nestled between his neck and collarbone. Ian mutters a soft goodnight into Mickey’s hair, leaving a kiss on the top of his head.
Mickey sighs into Ian’s chest and relaxes, allowing his anxieties about his neurodivergent nature and diagnoses’ to fade into the background and instead opts to drift to sleep and listen to his husband’s steadying heart beat.