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"This is fucking crazy."
Ian grins, one hand on the wheel and the other fiddling with the radio. "Isn't it better when you can actually see?"
He looks over at Mickey, sitting back in the passenger seat and sliding his new glasses up and down over his eyes. Up and down. On and off. Lenses, no lenses. The gift of sight, blurry oblivion.
"This can't be what normal people see every day," Mickey says, his brows pinching together as he slides his glasses on fully. "Feels like I can see for fucking miles."
"Welcome to the world of having twenty-twenty vision," Ian tells him. "Well, artificially manufactured twenty-twenty.
"You're telling me you can see this shit all the time?" Mickey asks, bewildered. "Like—all the fucking branches on the trees? The cracks in the sidewalks? The street signs half a block away?"
"I can't believe you can't see that shit, and it hasn't come up until now."
Mickey just shrugs. "Didn't know I was supposed to."
It's been an ongoing battle for the last year, at least, with Ian noticing more and more that Mickey... squints. Not all the time, just at things that are far away. When he drives and he's trying to read the road signs to follow the GPS, when they're watching a movie on TV and the main character holds up his phone for the audience to read a text message, when they go down to their favorite west side local haunt and he has to read the beer menu scribbled on a chalk board behind the bar.
He squints, and his eyes crinkle, and his crow’s feet—that Ian loves dearly—get deeper with each far away thing Mickey tries to read. Half the time he just brushes it off when Ian asks him if he can read the score on the Sox game on the TV across the bar or see who's down at the other end of the pool when they're sitting out on their balcony sharing a cigarette.
After months of badgering and sweet talking and Ian trying every trick in the goddamn book to get Mickey to make an appointment with the eye doctor, through sheer persistence alone, he got his husband to cave.
And when the optometrist asked Mickey to read the letters on the third line down on the poster across the room, Ian choked on his coffee when Mickey replied, "What letters?"
"It's kinda nice though, right?" Ian prompts, reaching over and squeezing Mickey's thigh. "Seeing everything?"
"Fuckin' weird, man," Mickey answers. "They're like—" He pauses, shakes his head. "I don't know. They're fine. "
"No, what?" Ian prompts.
"They're like... Throwin’ me off. I'm not dizzy, but if I move my head too fast, it's like my balance is off," Mickey tells him. "Is it supposed to be like that?"
"I don't know. The doctor said it would take a few days to get used to them, especially 'cause the prescription is kinda strong. Your eyes have to like, re-focus or whatever." Ian shrugs. "We can Google it when we get home. Or if it's still bugging you in a few days, we can call the place and ask."
"Fuck me," Mickey says, peering out the windshield. "Do you see that bird flying? All the way on top of that building?"
Ian bites back a smile. "Yeah, I see it."
"Huh."
The truck rolls to a stop at a red light and Ian takes the opportunity to really drink in his husband's new look. He reaches over and turns Mickey's head with a gentle push on his chin, bringing them face to face over the center console.
Sleek black frames rest across the bridge of Mickey's nose, the color matching his hair better than any of the brown, or dark gray, or tortoise shell prints ever could. The frames are thin, not quite wires but definitely not thick enough to make a statement or draw away from the blue of his eyes.
"You look handsome," Ian says, a slow grin creeping up from the corner of his mouth.
"Shut up," Mickey mutters, but it's not without the beginnings of his own smile. "I look like a dork."
"A handsome dork."
Mickey huffs and pulls his chin away from Ian's fingers, grinning outright as he rolls his eyes.
"No, I don't know," Ian says, shrugging as the light changes and the truck starts to move again. "You look good in 'em. Seriously. It's sort of a new look, but I really like it."
Mickey bites at his lip. "They make me feel old."
"They make you look sophisticated," Ian tells him. "Like a... hot DILF that just moved into the apartment next door. Bachelor, college educated, probably owns stocks or some shit."
Mickey's brows jump up on his forehead as he looks over. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Damn. Alright." Mickey grins, tongue in cheek. "Maybe these aren't so bad after all."
"Oh, or maybe like a Clark Kent kinda thing," Ian adds. "Yeah... Yeah we could have some fun with this."
Mickey laughs, this breathy little thing that he ever only does around Ian—and makes Ian's insides melt on the spot—and goes back to lifting his glasses up and down off his nose so he can see the difference in the cityscape as they make their way home.
"If they start to make your head hurt, give 'em a break for a while," Ian reminds him, echoing the doctor's words. "Gotta ease into it."
"Yeah, whatever," Mickey says, barely paying attention. Up and down. On and off. Lenses, no lenses.
The battle is won, but the war is likely far from over. Ian knows that the next few months of his life hold many don't forget your glasses and just bring your glasses and no one cares if you wear your glasses, but it's his cross to bear. He'll talk his husband up, make him feel good, make him see that he looks good. Because he does. He always fucking does.
"Jesus Christ," Mickey whispers, looking out over a mile-long line of cars sitting in traffic on the interstate as they drive along the overpass.
Ian wonders how many license plates he can see.
"You really do look good," he says easily, just floating it out there as they turn into their neighborhood. "I like those frames a lot."
Mickey reaches over and takes Ian's hand, tangling their fingers together with his left while he keeps sliding his glasses in place with his right.
Up and down. On and off. Lenses...
Lenses, he decides, setting them firmly in place.
"Yeah," he says, still staring out the window. "Me too."