#and i flat out refuse any lunch money im offered

[mxxnkirby]

being extremely sick and the oldest daughter is actually so funny because what do you mean nobody has done the laundry or cleaned dishes or mopped or swept or organized the house or washed the windows or paid the phone bills or made food or woken up my sisters for school or fed the baby or taken care of the baby or polished the wood or done anything at all. I literally have no clean clothes to wear tomorrow to school. there's five people above the age of twelve here who could at least help a little?

what could possibly be going through someone's mind to wake someone up from their fever chills shivering pool of sweat and blood stained blankets from the constant gum bleeding and nose blood clots (they amount can NOT be humanly possible)... so they can ask for food? um? I'm literally too weak to squeeze medicine out of the Tylenol bottle and y'all won't even help me do that because "don't drink so much, it's expensive" (I haven't drank any??) but ok yeah sure I'll cook a whole meal for you. just dont yell at me when you get sick too

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

For life, yeah?

Gallavich Gift Exchange 2017 for @frank-iero-owns-my-ass! The prompt was:  Mickey coaxing Ian through a particularly depressive week, it's lasted longer than usual and Ian won't come around. Ian is secretly afraid Mickey will leave him if he keeps up his manic episodes, but he feels so helpless, as does Mickey in trying to help him. Mickey pov (general guidelines, feel free to change it, im so easy to please) So here is my interpretation and I really hope you like it :) Also a huge thank you to @gallavichthings for organising this whole thing. xx

Mickey hisses through his teeth as he runs his bloody knuckles under the stream of cold water.

“Mother fucker!”

He grits out through pursed lips and flexes his hand experimentally. It’s going to bruise like a bitch but he doesn’t think anything is broken. Thank fuck for that! Ian is going to be pissed enough without adding a hospital bill. He keeps his hand submerged for a couple more minutes and then carefully wraps it in a mostly clean towel and returns to the scene of the crime.

Yev turns away from the carnage as his Papa approaches and looks up at Mickey with large, sympathetic eyes, sucking in his lower lip.

“Ah shit.”

Mickey groans, surveying the damage for himself.

“Shit, Papa.”

Yev agrees sombrely. Mickey nods and mimics the little boy’s lip movement. Though now is not the moment for taking a photo, if anyone was there to do so, it would serve as an excellent paternity test if there was any doubt left as to who fathered Yevgeny. They are two frowning, blue-eyed peas in a South Side pod.

“Daddy is gonna be super mad.”

“Yeah.”

Mickey nods grimly already thinking about the sheer level of jutting chin he’s going to have to deal with for this one. He squats down beside his five year old and Yev wordlessly hands him the broken controller. Mickey runs his thumb over the cracked plastic and floppy toggle sticks. It wasn’t Ian’s remote thank God, but it’s still going to be an expense they could do without. The re-run of the K.O that caused the meltdown is still playing on the TV.

“Your hand okay?”

Yev asks, rocking up onto the balls of his feet to see the rather impressive swell of bloody knuckles his Papa is sporting.

“Hurts a bit.”

Mickey admits and glances up at the fist shaped hole in the wall. From this angle it looks even worse.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

Yev agrees again and puts a comforting arm around his Papa’s shoulders. Mickey gives him a little lopsided smile and stands up, lifting Yevgeny with him and settling the boy on his hip. Yev raises his eyebrows at his Papa and flicks his gaze to the broken plasterwork.

“What are we gonna tell Daddy?”

“That I lost my shit and busted the wall I guess.”

Mickey shrugs.

“Are you gonna get a spanking?”

“Maybe, little man. Maybe.”

Mickey laughs despite himself and Yev bites his lip in consternation. He has never been spanked but has been threatened with it a couple of times and he understands the general principle of it well enough to know it is to be avoided at all costs. He looks back at the wall over Papa’s shoulder as Mickey carries him out of the room.

“We could fix it?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely gonna have to fix it. But, hey, listen, you get that what I just did was really bad, right? We ain’t supposed to throw toys.”

“Or stamp on them.”

“Right.”

“Or punch things.”

“No …”

Mickey grimaces as Yev continues to tick things off on his fingers

“Or say cuss words really loud.”

“Okay...”

“Or …”

“I think you got it, little man. Good job!”

Mickey kisses his son’s forehead and stands him down in the kitchen, handing the kid a chocolate chip cookie. Yev isn’t supposed to have sugary snacks before lunch but when Mickey acts out in front of him, which doesn’t happen as often as most would expect, but more often than he likes to admit, he always feels like he needs to spoil him a little to make up for it. It’s not great for a five year old to learn new and improved tantrum techniques from his father.

“Want a bite, Papa?”

“Nah, you enjoy it, man.”

Yev smiles happily and stuffs the rest of the sticky treat into his mouth, chewing with a noisy enthusiasm, broken toys and punched walls all but forgotten.

*

Mickey is just pondering how best to patch up the wall without Ian freaking out too much when the front door slams open and his boyfriend crashes in along with a flurry of snow and cold wind, face drawn and angry.

“Daddy!”

Yev cries excitedly, immediately abandoning Mickey in favour of charging toward Ian.

“Hi Yev.”

Ian picks his son up obligingly but Mickey’s ears instantly prick at the sound of Ian’s voice. It is flat, devoid of its usual flair and light.

“Hey, you’re home early.”

Mickey ventures cautiously as Ian walks over to him, his uniform is crumpled, messy, it looks like Ian has been hunched over rather than his normal straight-backed elegance.

“Not feeling good.”

Ian looks at Mickey, glances at the hole in the wall and closes his eyes, turning his face to bury his nose in Yev’s hair.

“What the fuck did you do?”

“I … ah …”

“Papa punched it.”

Yev offers. 

Ian’s eyes instantly harden.

“Jesus Christ, Mickey. What the Hell is wrong with you?”

The frustrated disappointment in Ian’s weary voice renders Mickey immediately mute and he studies his bruised knuckles intently. Ian kisses Yev’s temple and hands him over to Mickey, actively trying to avoid touching him at all.

“I need to lie down. Just leave this shit alone until I get up. I don’t want your clumsy fuckin’ patch up disturbing me.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the harsh words and harsher tone but the bags under Ian’s eyes silence any retort he might try to make.

“And put the damn heating on. You spend enough on cigarettes; you can spend some money on keeping our kid warm.”

Ian gestures around the already warm house and glowers at Mickey who bites his tongue with an effort and nods.

“I’ll bring you in some lunch, okay?”

“Whatever.”

Ian stomps past and closes the bedroom door loudly behind him and Mickey lets out the breath he has been holding. Yev looks up at his father uncertainly

“Is Daddy okay?”

“Yeah, just tired and mad at me for the hole in the wall.”

Mickey smiles at Yev and then glances up at the closed door, a frown creasing his own brow. It has been nearly a year since Ian’s last depressive episode, and Mickey supposes it had to happen again at some point.

*

The next morning Mickey wakes up and rolls over to face the Ian shaped bundle of blankets that is beside him. He knows that Ian is awake from the pattern of his breathing and Mickey tentatively rests his hand on the outline of one strong arm.

“Good morning.”

No response.

“How you feelin’?”

Mickey inches the covers back slightly to try and get a look at his boyfriend but Ian shivers against Mickey’s palm as it is laid on his shoulder and pulls away silently.

Shit.

Mickey sits up and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, wiping away the grains of sleep gathered in the corners.

He rolls himself out of bed and grabs his dark blue dressing gown from the back of the door. The thick, coarse towelling is a reassuring glint of normality and makes him feel a little better as his bare feet adjust to the cold kitchen floor.

He flips open the pill dispenser lid and empties the four pills Ian takes every morning into his palm, poking at each of them in turn with his forefinger, scowling. He wishes he knew which one of the little round fuckers had flunked out on Ian this time. He’d crush it, toss it down the toilet then take a shit on the pieces.

However, Mickey doesn’t know and so he carries all four back to Ian with a glass of water and focusses his attention on the task at hand.

“Hey man. Time to take your pills.”

Ian’s voice is muffled but clear enough for Mickey to make out:

“Go away.”

“I will in a minute, I promise. Just take these and I can go.”

Mickey crouches besides him and gently tugs the covers back from Ian’s face. He should have had Yevgeny stay the night. Ian is in pretty bad shape but not so bad as Mickey had feared and he almost always takes the pills when Yev offers them to him. As long as Ian is not at the very bottom of the pit of despair, he is still a pushover for the kid.

“Please, Mick ...”

“C’mon. You know I gotta see you do it.”

Mickey’s thighs are beginning to cramp from the squat and he shifts awkwardly, trying to be patient. Ian eventually uncurls a hand and Mickey slips the pills into it and then holds the back of Ian’s head, helping him sip water to get them down.

“Alright. I’m gonna make you a sandwich and leave it on the side here. You can eat it if you want to.”

Mickey stands, pressing a kiss to Ian’s cheek before drawing the covers back over his shoulder. Ian tugs them the rest of the way over his head and Mickey nods to himself. Fine.

He goes into the bathroom and whilst he releases the torrent of his morning piss, half-heartedly aiming at a stain on the back of the bowl, he tries to stem the rising panic bubbling in his chest, reciting the familiar mantras to himself.

They’ve done this before.

One of the pills is out of whack and needs to be regulated.

Ian will spend a day or two like this and then he’ll manages to move, they’ll go to the clinic and sort it.

They’ll be okay.

Ian isn’t even as bad as he sometimes gets, he can still call Mickey ‘Mick’ and he took the pills without crying, lashing out or just refusing until Mickey had to force him.

It’s all okay.

It is all going to be okay.

He texts Fiona and receives a reply that she’ll be over soon. Gallagher’s love a fuckin’ drama, he thinks wryly and then chides himself for being an asshole. The last couple of years the Gallagher clan have been pretty good about accepting Mickey and Fiona is always ready to help out when Ian hits a rough patch.

Mickey makes Ian a baloney sandwich, leaves it on the side with a glass of water, and goes out for his morning smoke.

He stands on the porch in his robe, a battered pair of tartan slippers on his bare feet, faded blue shorts and a tank top, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. A couple of kids ride by on bikes, leaving tracks in the fresh snow, and one of them flips Mickey off. He returns the gesture and they pedal away, shrieking with delighted laughter. They’ll probably tell their friends that they flipped off Mickey Milkovich and got away with it. Mickey doesn’t care. His is one of the few houses that has never had a juvenile break in, that tells him all he needs to know about his status in the community, thank you very fuckin’ much.

The sounds of South Side fill the morning air and Mickey inhales deeply, appreciating the familiarity of them. Sirens, screeching tires, the deep rumble of machinery in the distance.

He settles into the creaky old lounger that Ian dragged home from Christ knows where and tips his head back, drawing heavily on his smoke. The material is cold even through his dressing gown but he doesn’t mind that. It’s peaceful out here and if he freezes his balls off it doesn’t really matter. He won’t be using them for a little while anyway with Ian like this.

He feels like he has forgotten something but shrugs it off. Ian had his pills, he’s got food, he’s got water … Mickey snorts and shakes his head. Sometimes caring for Ian in these phases feels like having a sick old cat: Feed it, medicate it, clean up its … SHIT!

Mickey hastily stubs the cigarette out and hurries into the house. He shrugs out of his robe and pushes their bedroom door open gently.

“Ian, hey, we gotta ...”

Mickey trails off as his eyes light on the glass of water. No longer clear, it is now a dull yellow. Ian has pissed in the glass. It is full to the brim, Mickey’s gaze follows the splashes on the table, down the draw, and he knows, without looking there is going to be a big old wet patch on the floor. It’s not Ian’s fault. He knows it isn’t, but his eyebrows are still up to his hairline and his lips compress into a tight line.

Mickey rakes a hand over his face and waits in the doorway until he can be sure that his temper is under control.

“Okay. Fuck. Alright ...”

Mickey nods to himself and stalks into the bathroom grabbing a bucket, cloth and bottle of disinfectant all the while worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.

As he enters the bedroom, he composes his face to neutrality. Ian is looking out from the cocoon of his blanket with flat, red-rimmed eyes.

“It’s on the carpet.”

Ian whispers miserably. Mickey shrugs and glances down dismissively as if the carpet brought it on its fucking self by being in Ian’s way.

“It doesn’t matter. Carpets shit anyway.”

Mickey gingerly tips the glass into his bucket; not bothering to try to pick it up, it is too full. He drops the cloth to the carpet and stamps onto it a few times, spraying the bedside table with disinfectant at the same time.

“I’m sorry.”

Ian shakes his head hopelessly and Mickey gives him a lopsided little smile

“Meh. We’ve all been there. I once pissed in Mandy’s cereal bowl ‘cause I didn’t wanna pause a video game. Don’t worry about it.”

A tear slides down Ian’s nose but he manages to lift one trembling corner of his mouth at the anecdote as Mickey pats his cheek very softly, stroking the tip of Ian’s short sideburns with his finger. Mickey hates seeing him like this, somehow when Ian is in the grip of a deep depression it is easier, the rules and limitations become more defined. This is a weird middle ground, the pills are trying to work but they are just enough out of sync to keep Ian submerged below the waterline of his illness.

“Hey. You listening to me? It’s okay.”

“You must hate me.”

“Not in this life, Gallagher.”

The kiss Mickey places against Ian’s lips is a full stop rather than a question mark and Ian reaches up to trace the curve of Mickey’s cheekbone gratefully. There is a flash of utter clarity amongst the clouding of his vision and Ian sighs gently. He doesn’t have the energy to reassure Mickey that he is still there, he just has to trust that he already knows.

*

Fiona arrives just as Mickey is finishing the clean-up and wiping Ian’s hands with a couple of the little wipes they keep for Yev.

“Hey Sweetface.”

She murmurs and spends a few minutes speaking in a soft, sweet voice to Ian and catching him up on family gossip. He doesn’t show any signs of interest but he is acknowledging the information and that is something. Mickey loiters on the edge of the bed, his fingers lightly resting on Ian’s foot. He is glad that Fiona is telling him normal shit, sometimes she can get a bit maudlin and it puts him on edge, plus he doesn’t want her making Ian feel worse. Once he is content that Ian is in safe hands, Mickey excuses himself to make coffee and when Fiona comes out of the bedroom, they sit at the table to drink it.

“What can I do to help, Mickey?”

Mickey taps the rim of his mug and sighs

“Not a whole lot for this but I was wonderin’ if you could watch him for a few hours on Thursday? If he’s not feelin’ better, you know?”

Fiona nods and sips her drink, it’s stronger than she’s used to but looking at the lines beside Mickey’s eyes, he desperately needs it strong today.

“What time?”

“Late afternoon? I gotta job to do and it’s kinda time sensitive. I’d tell the guy I can’t do it but I took the cash up front so now it feels shitty to bail on him.”

“You got a job?”

Fiona looks so happy that Mickey feels almost sorry to burst her nosy bubble

“Ah … not like … uh … it’s just a beat down. Some guy is havin’ trouble gettin’ his daughter’s ex to fuck off and he asked me if I could help.”

Mickey can feel the blush that creeps into his cheeks and scowls defensively, although to be fair Fiona hasn’t actually said anything but it still feels a little awkward admitting how he pays the bills.

“We need the money.”

“Sure, of course.”

Fiona’s smile is a little more stretched but credit to her, she’s trying to look impartial and Mickey cocks his eyebrow at her, letting a small grin lift his own lips.

“It’s a full service in this house. I beat ‘em up and Ian gets the call to go fix ‘em up.”

Fiona gives a surprised snort and her smile relaxes into a much more genuine grin.

“Fuckin’ Milkovichs.”

“Fuckin’ Gallaghers.”

Mickey counters as they touch coffee cups lightly and Fiona hands Mickey a cigarette. It isn’t exactly a friendship, but it’s close. Fiona respects that Mickey stands by Ian during his periods of illness and Mickey respects that Fiona shows up when he asks her. He suspects that the old superiority complex is still there deep down, but she treats him evenly and the whole family is great with Yevgeny, so fuck it. Sometimes you gotta accept the wins where you find them.

“Are you guys gonna be OK?”

“We’ll be fine. Tomorrow or Thursday, he’ll pick up and we’ll get to the clinic. Just a balance issue with the meds.”

Mickey’s tone doesn’t leave room for any disagreement so Fiona just nods and glances around the sparsely decorated little house. She likes how easy it is to pick out who chose what. The bright coloured cereal bowls, army paraphernalia and colourful movie posters are Ian to the life, whilst the solid, dark wood coffee table and Jack Daniels posters are very obviously Mickey. She glances at the no-nonsense black cup in her hands: Mickey.

“What happened to the wall?”

Fiona frowns at the gaping hole in the wall beside the TV and Mickey shrugs

“Milkovich temper tantrum.”

He hedges and to his joint relief and horror, Fiona gives him a sympathetic look and sighs

“Yev did that? Jesus. Trust me, the tantrums they have at five are nothing compared to the meltdowns of a pissed off eight year old. Carl once cracked a car wind-shield.”

Mickey makes a non-committal noise and buries his nose in his mug.

*

The next few of days pass in a really fucking monotonous blur for Mickey. Ian is either asleep, crying or angry. It is a low dip but it’s not the sort where he can’t function at all.

He can still demand that Mickey go out and get him some coke to help his mood, then throw a plate of food across the room when he is refused.

He can still recognise that he’s being difficult and sob his guilt and remorse into Mickey’s chest before pushing him away again.

Mickey just replaces the thrown food, refuses to get anything stronger than a joint, and strokes him back to sleep when he cries. What else can he do?

It is part of the illness, part of his body and mind trying to readjust and find a way through. Mickey knows all this, Ian’s doctor has explained it and Mickey has seen it several times. It can be hurtful, sure, but Mickey has taken a lot worse from people he doesn’t like half as much as Ian, so he figures he can handle it when it occurs.

On the fourth morning, Mickey lays down beside Ian after giving him his pills and kisses from his elbow to shoulder, resting his chin on him after the final kiss.

“I love you.”

He murmurs, sweeping a length of slightly greasy hair back behind Ian’s ear. Mickey kisses the muscular shoulder again and feels his body begin to stir. He shifts his hips back, not wanting Ian to feel the bulge in his pants. It isn’t anything Mickey can control, being near Ian is enough to get him going, no matter the circumstances, but Ian doesn’t need that kind of attention right now.

They watch a couple of shows and Mickey reads while Ian sleeps. It isn’t difficult exactly but it is boring as Hell.

When Fiona comes to relieve him of Ian watch for a couple of hours, Mickey is actually a little excited to get out of the house and work out some of his tensions and frustrations on some little punk who needs to learn when to back off.

He drives over to his clients place and parks a block over in case it goes to shit and the cops show up. This part of town is worse even than where he and Ian grew up and a few suspicious looking dudes glance appraisingly in his direction before clearly thinking better of it and going back to whatever hole they crawled out of.

One guy follows Mickey a couple hundred yards and Mickey toys with the idea of using him for practice, it’s been a while since he had a proper fight but it all seems a bit too much like hard work and although he’s glad to be out, he is worrying about Ian and his head isn’t really in the game.

The guy begins to move in on Mickey and with an impatient grunt, Mickey pulls his butterfly knife out of his jacket pocket and begins to flick it to and fro, flashing the blade with a familiar deadly grace, the metal making little ‘snicking’ sounds as it flits between his fingers.

The guy disappears down a side street and Mickey knocks on his clients door without further incident.

“Oh shit! Mickey, hey!”

“Hey Joe. You ready?”

“Oh man, listen, Ariel got back with the little prick last week, I meant to call you ...”

Mickey raises his eyebrows in irritation

“I already spent that money, Joe.”

Joe, a retired boxer and occasional bouncer flinches back at the frustrated look on the younger man’s face. He hasn’t seen the youngest Milkovich boy for a while but he seems pretty fired up and Joe knows from experience that underestimating his temper is a fool’s errand, it’s why he hired him in the first place.

“Keep it, she’ll break up with him soon and I’ll call you. OK?”

Mickey is bitterly disappointed but nods curtly.

“Alright man. Take it easy.”

“You too, Mickey.”

Mickey pauses to light a cigarette on the doorstep and hears a bolt slid discreetly into place. That cheers him up a little, he likes it when big guys feel a bit uncertain of him and Joe is a really big guy. Mickey supposes its professional pride but it is nice to know that your work is so respected that people want to make sure you don’t turn it around on them.

He considers chasing down one of the smack-head assholes who wanted to go with him earlier but decides against it. It would be just his luck to get arrested and Fiona might be okay with Ian for a few hours but Mickey doesn’t trust her (or anyone else for that matter) to see Ian through the rest of this shitty thing if he ends up doing a couple weeks inside. He’s never been away from Ian before during a depressive episode and fuck knows what would happen if Mickey got sent down right when Ian needed him most. Nothing good, that is for sure. Mickey flares his nostrils, chucks the butt of his cigarette into the gutter and heads toward his home.

*

“How is he?”

He asks as soon as he gets in and Fiona grimaces

“Mean. You know how it can go. I tried to feed him but he wouldn’t eat. He’s watching YouTube videos in bed.”

Looking up at Mickey she does a double take and scowls

“Jesus. You look deranged. What happened?”

“Nothin’ job got cancelled.”

He answers tersely and then gestures to his bedroom.

“The videos are good, right? He’s engaging with the world around him and all that. It’s a good thing.”

Mickey repeats, frowning at Fiona.

“Yeah of course but, Mickey, he’s being kind of a prick and you look strung out … you want me to stick around?”

“Why? In case I flip out and beat the shit out of him?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

Fiona is just tall enough to tower over him slightly and unlike Joe, she has no fucking fear. Mickey pushes a hand through his hair and shrugs against the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m not gonna do that. Thanks for hanging out and all but I got it.”

He won’t outright tell Ian’s family to leave unless he has to but it’s a close call and Fiona seems to understand this as she begins to gather her coat and scarf without comment.

“How much longer can you do this, Mickey?”

“Long as it takes.”

“He might need ...”

“Whatever it is he needs, I can give him. This is his home.”

Fiona gives Mickey a sympathetic look and he shifts his eyes, not wanting to meet her concerned gaze. She’s never tried to force him to take Ian to hospital, but she has suggested it before and Mickey desperately hopes she’ll leave it alone now. He doesn’t have the patience today. Fiona clearly thinks this too as she shrugs and says

“If you need me, just call.”

“Yeah thanks.”

Mickey nods and waits with his arms folded whilst she says goodbye to Ian. He expects her to just leave but she pauses beside him and gives his cheek a tiny kiss too.

“See you Mickey.”

“Uh… yeah, you too.”

His words don’t make sense but then neither does the kiss so Mickey doesn’t worry about it too much.

 *

Time passes. Ian’s mood doesn’t improve and neither does Mickey’s. 

It has been eight days since Ian came home in a foul mood and went to bed.

Eight days and the hole is still in the wall, the controller hasn’t been replaced, the laundry isn’t piling up because neither of them are changing their damn clothes but the dishes are high in the sink and Mickey forgot to do Yev’s assignment with him so Svet has pitched a fit over text. Things are falling apart gradually and all Mickey wants is for Ian to eat something and have a wash.

He looks down at the cracked plate and the squashed and scattered sandwich remains on the carpet. Ian had asked for the sandwich. Mickey had made the sandwich. Ian had thrown the fucker into a wall.

“Guess you didn’t fancy it, huh?”

No response. Ian doesn’t even look up from his phone.

“You want me to make you another one?”

Nothing.

“How about some chips? Give the vacuum cleaner a bit of textural variety?”

Ian glances up from the video he is watching but doesn’t answer. Mickey’s patience slips

“... or maybe I could just shove the whole fuckin’ meal deal up your ass?”

“Fuck off.”

Ian glances up from his phone and glares at his boyfriend. Mickey tongues at his upper lip, clearly aggravated. The room stinks, Ian stinks. It is the cloying smell of an unwashed body and Mickey is sick of it.

“Fine. Don’t eat but you gotta wash.”

Mickey informs him, stripping down to his own boxers ready to get Ian to the shower, his legs will be wobbly after so long in bed.

“No.”

“Ian …”

“No.”

“It’ll just take a minute …”

“You fucking deaf? I SAID NO!”

Ian roars, sliding down the mattress, dragging the blanket back over his head. Mickey’s own temper flares as  he presses his lips together tightly, raises his eyebrows and yanks the blanket away again with a sharp tug.

“I’ve had enough of this shit! Get the fuck up! You are on your fuckin’ phone watchin’ videos. You ain’t so far gone you can’t get up.”

He half crawls onto the mattress, intending to haul Ian off bodily and put him in the fuckin’ shower, even if he has to hold the fucker under himself.

“Go away, Mickey!”

The back of Ian’s hand catches Mickey just under his eye and he jerks back, startled.

“Ow! Fuck, Ian!”

Ian curls inward, turning his face into the pillow.

Mickey gets off the bed and closes the door behind him as he leaves. He isn’t built for this shit. When Yev had tantrums as a toddler he pretty much either ignored them or handed the kid over to Ian to deal with.

Ian is the one who deals with peoples shit. He’s the one who smooths stuff over and stays calm. Mickey doesn’t.

He tugs on some sweat pants and a thick sweater of Ian’s still over the back of the couch.

His cheek is stinging and Mickey’s hands are trembling from the shock of the whole damn thing. He paces around the house uncertain of whether or not to go back in. He decides against it. 

He drinks a beer and smokes three cigarettes outside on the porch, slumped down in the lounger. He shouldn’t have yelled, shouldn’t have snatched Ian’s cover away, shouldn’t have tried to force him. So many things he shouldn’t fucking do and he does most of them anyway. 

His phone vibrates in his pants pocket and Mickey glances down at it expecting it to be Svetlana about the school project again.

Ian: I’m sorry. I love you. Please come back.

Mickey doesn’t want to go back into that room. He slips his phone back into his pocket and pretends he hasn’t seen the message. Just ten more minutes, that’s all he needs. Ten minutes to himself and then he’ll go and lie with Ian or anything else his boyfriend wants of him.

Five minutes pass and Mickey is just about to light his last smoke when the back door squeaks and Mickey looks round, one eyebrow arched in surprise. Ian is stood in boxers and vest, shivering in the cold, looking down at him in absolute misery.

“Fuck, man! Get inside!”

Mickey stumbles to his feet, smoke curling out of his nostrils as he clamps the cigarette between his lips and barrels Ian back into the house.

“I’m so sorry, Mickey.”

Ian is trembling from head to toe and Mickey grabs a blanket from the couch, throwing it around Ian’s shoulders like a cape, rubbing his arms brusquely.

“It’s okay.”

“Your eye’s all puffy … Jesus.”

Ian’s lip joins the rest of his body, quaking miserably and Mickey makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat.

“I’m fuckin’ tired, both my eyes are puffy.”

Ian shakes his head and shakes off Mickey’s hands, reaching out and pulling his boyfriend roughly into his chest, holding him close.

“I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay...”

“Stop saying that! I’m sick, I’m not a little kid. Stop telling me it’s okay!”

Ian orders, and he sounds so much like his usual-self Mickey doesn’t even want to argue back. He likes authoritative Ian, he likes it when Ian takes charge of situations so that Mickey doesn’t have to. One of the hardest parts about the depressive episodes for Mickey is the responsibility of it all. What Ian eats, drinks, when he takes his meds, it is all down to Mickey and he hates it. He wants Ian to be in charge of his own life.

“Fine. It’s not okay. You’re being really fuckin’ hard to handle and I sort of want to kick your ass.”

“I know.”

Ian nods his chin against the top of Mickey’s head.

“I’m glad you’re up.”

Mickey says quietly and Ian nods

“I thought you might have left me.”

“Not likely.”

Mickey smiles against Ian’s chest and then pulls back looking up at him.

“You and me are for life, Firecrotch. We’re family.”

Mickey gives Ian a serious look as he says this and the younger man nods.

“Okay.”

Ian’s eyelids start to droop again. The adrenaline that got him this far is wearing off and his legs are shaking alarmingly. Mickey takes some of his weight and begins to guide him toward the bedroom but hesitates.

“Bathroom first.”

“But ...”

“Two minutes.”

He says firmly. Ian’s eyes drift down to him and it is as though Ian sees, really sees, Mickey for the first time in days. The tiredness, the strain, the smell of them both. 

“Oh shit, Mick …”

“What? You think I look like shit? Man, I’m a fuckin’ runway model compared to you.”

Mickey smooths Ian’s greasy hair and kisses his hairy cheek. They’re both sporting the beginnings of beards and the soft rasp of stubble is so calming that Ian actually turns his cheek, pressing it closer to Mickey. The effort is exhausting but the smile it raises on his boyfriends face is worth it.

“You actually like this, huh?”

Mickey asks softly and Ian nods.

“Sexier on you now than when we were kids.”

“Alright. Well, we don’t have to shave mine but we gotta shave yours. Makes you look like a damn schnauzer. I’m gonna start the shower and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

Ian feels a tear slide over his nose, and Mickey’s breath hitches as he notices it, but when he speaks, his voice is firm.

“I need you to help me, Ian. I can’t carry you.”

The amount of weight Ian has lost in the last week, this is probably not true but it has the desired effect and Ian straightens his spine determinedly.

“OK.”

“Good.”

Ian hears the water running in the bathroom, he hears Mickey’s tuneless humming, and he hears his heart pounding in his temples and knows that it beats for the man who is so desperately trying to take care of him. Ian grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and with great effort, he tugs his shirt over his head and peels out of his boxers.

It is like moving through a swamp, like his limbs have turned into thick rubber noodles that refuse to cooperate with his minds commands but he takes the few steps he needs to reach the bathroom door and pushes it open.

Mickey is leaning over the bath, his sweater sleeves pushed up, testing the temperature of the water raining down. His ass is jutting out in a sweet, round bubble against the soft fabric of the sweats. Ian feels nothing at all and the realisation stops him cold.

Then Mickey turns and he is smiling that wide, generous smile that is only for Ian, all white teeth and creased eyes, his nose scrunching just the tiniest bit and Ian manages another step forward.

*

Two weeks later

*

Mickey wakes to the smell of coffee and waffles. He blinks, frowns, squints against the small stream of sunlight that has found a chink in the curtains and is falling stubbornly over Mickey’s face. It takes him a few seconds to process the smells in conjunction with a small, warm weight covering his back.

He half pushes himself upright but an impatient noise stills his movements as a little hand takes a fistful of his t-shirt.

‘Yev’ Mickey thinks with a small huff. He half remembers the kid coming in during the night and squeezing in between him and Ian. He considers it a bad habit and something of a liberty but Ian doesn’t seem to mind at all so Mickey tend to just stake his claim on as much mattress as possible and ignores it.

Now, Mickey rolls over slowly until the weight dislodges with another grunt and a tiny bump on Ian’s side of the bed.

“Yeah, that’s what you get.”

Mickey mumbles as he sits on the edge of the bed and fondly smooths the frantic sweep of Yevgeny’s hair down, tucking the blanket around his sturdy little shoulders.

“Good Papa.”

Yev murmurs up at him approvingly, already slipping back toward sleep. Mickey smiles to himself and yawns widely.

Padding out of the bedroom he makes his way downstairs rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Ian is moving slowly around the kitchen, he looks tired but content. Mickey’s eyes flick toward the pill box and he notices the lid is flipped up which means Ian has remembered to take them. He’s been doing really well since the meds changed but Mickey always checks.

“Good morning.”

“Oh! Oh shit! I wanted to surprise you!”

Ian pauses mid waffle flip, a tiny frown creasing his brow

“You did.”

Mickey assures him, scratching at his beard. It’s come in a lot fuller than the last time he tried to grow one at seventeen and it’s actually pretty impressive now. Ian has tried to convince him to go for the full ‘Hipster’ look but Mickey has to draw a line somewhere and apparently, it gets drawn at a top-knot.

“How you feeling?”

“Shitty but I made breakfast and don’t feel like I need to sleep again already so I’m doing great, right?”

Ian lets his expression soften into a self-effacing smile and pours Mickey a cup of coffee.

“Damn right, you are.”

Mickey sips his drink and snakes a hand around Ian’s waist, palming him lightly.

“Not while the waffles are cooking.”

Ian’s scolds but his smile broadens when Mickey clucks his tongue in faux impatience.

“Fine but they better be damn good waffles.”

“Oh you know it. Sit your ass down and I’ll bring you some over.”

“Make sure I get the biggest one. You always give it to Yev.”

“Are you pouting?”

Ian laughs as Mickey settles into his usual spot at the head of the table and lights a cigarette

“Not yet.”

Mickey says evenly, flashing Ian a smile around the smoke. Ian serves them up, making sure to give Mickey the largest one and putting Yev’s share in the oven to keep warm. They eat in an easy silence, Ian’s foot nudging gently against his boyfriends.

“Hey, listen, I gotta patch up that hole in the wall today and I know we’re gonna take Yev home, but once we’ve done that … you wanna head down to town hall?”

“What for?”

Ian looks up from his plate and gives Mickey a sweet, wonky smile. Mickey scratches the side of his nose a little embarrassed and shrugs

“I figure now you’re out of bed, we’ll get married.”

Ian chokes on his coffee and Mickey pounds his back with a little bit of unnecessary force

“Jesus. I didn’t realise the thought of marrying me would make you wanna kill yourself by fuckin’ beverage inhalation.”

“No it’s … well, fuck! I wasn’t expecting it that’s all.”

Ian truly wasn’t. If anything he was bracing himself for a talk about maybe not being quite right for each other or something. He knows it’s stupid, that Mickey loves him and is fiercely loyal but when Ian has come out the other side of an episode, manic or depressive, he always wonders at the back of his mind if this will be the one to finally push his boyfriend away.

“Look it’s not a roses and champagne proposal it’s just … Fiona is your next of kin and fuck knows who mine is. I wanna know that if something happens it’s you and me who make the big decisions.”

Ian’s smile wavers but holds

“Did she try and get me into hospital?”

“No, but I wanna know that no one can. I make that call for you. You make it for me. Seems right.”

Mickey shrugs and looks shiftily between his coffee cup and the bright green eyes of his partner.

“So? Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Jesus Christ, Ian. Marry me! Will you marry me?”

Mickey’s eyebrows are half-way to irritated and Ian grins at him

“I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Asshole.”

Mickey suppresses his own grin, nudging his tongue into the corner of his mouth impatiently when Ian continues to stare at him.

“Ian, I swear if you don’t give me a fuckin’ answer, like, now…”

“Yes, Mick. I’ll marry you.”

“Today?”

Mickey prompts, blue eyes shining with happiness that he cannot quantify and doesn’t try to.

“Yes, today.”

Ian laughs, nodding and then seems to think of something else and shakes his head a little.

“Are you sure though? You really want ...”

“I just asked you, didn’t I?”

Mickey says sternly but tempers his tone with a soft kiss on Ian’s cheek.

“Yeah but …”

“It’s you and me, Gallagher. For life.”

“I’m so fucking lucky to have you.”

Mickey flushes slightly at the unexpected praise and Ian grips the back of his head, drawing him close and kissing the tip of his nose, lips twitching with a hidden smile

“You hear me? I am lucky to have you. You are a kind, generous, good person Mickey.”

Ian holds Mickey’s gaze until he is sure the words have sunk in and then pulls him into a kiss, knowing Mickey is more comfortable with expressing himself physically than verbally and damn, does Mickey express himself well.

 Ian’s mouth is warm and welcoming and the sweet tang of syrup mingles with the taste of coffee and cigarettes. Mickey sighs into him as Ian drops his fingers questioningly into Mickey’s lap and finds the answer all too apparent.

The words “I love you” float up between them and it is not clear which voice speaks them, but it doesn’t matter. They are simply and irrevocably true.

[jintheawkward]

one, two, three, jump

pairing: 2seok (Seokjin | Hoseok)  words: 3745 summary: Hoseok found himself trapped on the top of a 70m tall platform and it was all Jeon Jungkook’s fault.  

ao3

All the screeching and creaking of the cabin sounded much more horrifying than the special effects that had echoed through the walls of the haunted house Jungkook had once dragged him into. Hoseok had almost passed out from screaming his lungs out that time before a very flustered ghoul had had to escort him out. So it wasn’t an exaggeration by any means to say that he currently felt like he was about to die from a panic attack. And then he would actually die for real because that’s what happens when you jump from seventy meters, attached to a cord or not.

As the old shaky lift, which had definitely seen better days, was slowly squeaking its way up the jumping platform, Hoseok prayed to all the saints to either make it out alive, or to let his end be quick since his pain tolerance was even lower than his drinking stamina which on the scale from one to ten was already a poor 3.

Honestly, he should have known better than making any bets with Jungkook whose existence was solely based on winning and making the rest of the world suffer. However, forcing Hoseok to use his bungee jumping voucher he had won in the dance fest raffle last month (and had sworn to never use) was a whole new level of cruelty. If there was any justice in the world, Jungkook would at least wake up with a giant zit on his forehead the next day.

“You okay?”

Being at his wits end, Hoseok nearly forgot about the other man, who was taking a ride up with him up to relieve his colleague from his shift. Yoongi, as the nametag on his black staff T-shirt read, had wearily slumped down in the corner with a furrow between his brows as soon as they had entered the lift. There was something unsettling about the fact that this person was supposed to be in charge of his safety later.

Since Hoseok didn’t trust his voice enough, he just nodded in response.

Yoongi glanced at him briefly, obviously not buying it at  all. “There’s no need to be nervous.” He looked like he was about to add something more, but opted for silence instead.

Soon enough, the lift came to a grinding halt, reaching its final destination and Hoseok’s first stop to hell. The loud thumping in his ears got even louder, while he stood rooted to the spot with his eyes shut close and hands clutching at the door, his legs refusing to make a single move and step out of the cage just as his instinct of self-preservation kicked in.

“Hello, and welcome to BH Top!” Someone called out friendly, but Hoseok’s current state of mind didn’t allow him to even lift his head, not talking about reciprocating the greeting with the same amount of cheerfulness. The tone of their voice, however, altered with the following words. “Thank God you’re here, Yoongi, I’m starving.”

Launching himself off the wall and leaving Hoseok behind, Yoongi let out a scoff. “When are you not, hyung.”

“Well, I’m sorry my body isn’t able to survive only on litres of black coffee and sarcastic comments like someone else’s.”

“Is that why you are always broke? One day, hyung, you will have to sell your kidney on the black market to satisfy your bottomless stomach.”

“Luckily enough, I will still have the other one. And possibly another pair in reserve if you keep annoying me,” said Yoongi’s co-worker, not going down without a fight and letting the younger man had his final word. “Okay, I’m going for lunch now. I will send Namjoon up in a bit, since Taehyung is going to be done for today soon too.”

“And where is he now?”

“Napping like a baby.”

“Taehyung? Napping?

“I refused to give him any sweets since he always gets even more jittery.”

“Being trapped with him in close space up in the air, I’m not quite sure which one of these is worse – Taehyung high on sugar, or on the contrary, Taehyung deprived of it.” A pause followed. “Tell Namjoon to hurry up.”

“Hopefully he won’t hurt himself in the process of doing so,” sighed the other man.

There was a sound of footsteps coming in Hoseok’s direction, and when Hoseok dared to crack his eyes open, a pair of sneakers with rosy shoelaces came into a view.

“Is everything alright? Do you need any help?”

Knowing that having a conversation with someone else’s laces was just plainly rude, Hoseok looked up at the stranger and if he wasn’t already holding on to something, he would flop down right on his butt. The man in front of him was breathtaking with his soft black hair falling into his shiny eyes, and a mouth straight from lip gloss commercials.

“Huh, no, I’m fine. Totally fine. Super fine. Super-duper totally fine,” Hoseok faltered a reply, suddenly remembering again where he was.

“Doesn’t seem so. Are you scared?”

“A little.” What a big fat lie.

“It would be okay even if you were scared a lot,” the guy offered him a faint smile, and be it any other day, Hoseok wouldn’t hesitate to come up with a time-proven pick-up line.

He drew in another shaky breath, realizing that the weird wheezing is actually coming out of him.

“Okay, I might be terrified to the extent where I think about my parents, the trip to Hawaii that I’ve never had enough money to realize, and about how embarrassing it would be to start crying now,” he laughed, even though there was nothing funny about the whole situation.

“You wouldn’t be the first or last one, so don’t worry about spilling some manly tears. Like, it’s completely normal to feel this way, to be afraid. Afterall, we’re having this conversation more than two hundred feet above the ground, which is quite overwhelming.” A pat of encouragement landed on his back when he groaned at the number. “But I can assure you that it’s completely safe and nothing will happen to you. Dozens of people per day jump at our place, and we have quite a lot of regulars. Moreover, all of us here are properly trained and licensed…”

The handsome instructor was going into more details about some statistics, safety locks, equipment and more numbers, which Hoseok tuned out because he was too busy going through all the possible scenarios of how this could go wrong. He was too young to leave this place for good, he hadn’t achieved anything yet, and now he was supposed to just painfully die?

“Look, I can’t force you to jump, because in the end it’s solely up to you. If you don’t feel like doing it, just don’t. There’s no shame in that,” the man said, his voice reflecting the perfect amount of affability, comfort and professionalism that probably coaxed people into trusting him with their lives. Hoseok would prefer for this warm angel to send him to death rather than the sardonic grim reaper who was resembling a snake the way he was yawning now. “I’m going down right now, so you can join me - it wouldn’t mean you’re less of a man or anything like that.”

“N-no, no, I have to stay and get done and over with this. You know, I’ve lost a bet and if I chicken out in the last minute, I won’t stop hearing the end of it.”

A look of sympathy and understanding flashed over the instructor’s face. Maybe he too had to deal with stupid friends on a daily basis. “Would it help if I jumped with you?”

“WHAT?” Hoseok exclaimed, his voice going at least an octave higher. “Is that even possible?”

“Sure, couple bungee jumping is quite trendy these days. We’re not a couple, of course, but you know… I could jump with you. That’s if you want me to.”

This time, Hoseok tried to keep his calm, swallowing the squeal tickling his throat. “And you would really do that?!”

“Well, my shift is over and I can’t wait to get something to eat. Actually, it’s the quickiest way down, so…” The instructor simply shrugged like he just had been asked to simply raise his hand.

“Okay, okay, cool.” There was nothing cool about Hoseok not only committing a suicide, but also sealing the fate of an innocent man who would otherwise have beautiful babies in the future. Or he may have already had a cute family? Jesus Christ, was Hoseok about to kill someone’s father?

A cough interrupted the train of his thoughts, the instructor clearing his throat and watching him with slight amusement. He motioned to the lift cage where Hoseok had decided to spend the rest of his life. “How about trying to get off first?”

“Give me a minute, maybe two?” Hoseok laughed in a way that should have been nonchalant but even to his ears, it sounded strangled and nervous. “Aaah, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Take as much time as you need. You have a whole day.”

“Actually, …”

“Yoongi, shut up.” When the instructor snapped at his colleague, there was a warning attached to his words.

“Yeah,” Yoongi nodded and Hoseok found his forcefully penitent face funny. “Look, you made it all the way up here in that tremendous lift, which is already an accomplishment since that crappy thing is the real adrenalin adventure here. Like, the way down in that box is much worse.”

“What Yoongi is trying to say is that you’ve already come so far that it would be a pity to give up now.”

All of sudden, an echo of shouting cut through the air.

“HOBI HYUNG! ARE YOU UP THERE? IF YOU DON’T FEEL LIKE JUMPING, JUST FORGET IT AND COME DOWN. BUT HURRY UP! IM GETTING HUNGRY”

“SHUT UP, JEON JUNGKOOK!” Hoseok screamed in reply because what terrible person could think about his own stomach when his hyung was about to do the dumbest thing in his life and land flat on his face after a fatal fall.

Only Jeon Jungkook, that’s who.

“HYUNG, ARE YOU OKAY?!” This time, it was Jimin, the ever so sweet Jimin who unlike Jungkook at least had the decency to sound worried.

“NO!”

“Your friends?” Mr Angels-carved-my-face leaned over the railing.

“Not anymore,” Hoseok huffed, steeling himself for that one step forward. “Okay, I’ll just… Ah, no, it’s shaking.”

“It’s not, that’s fear messing with you. Here, hold my hand. I’m Seokjin, by the way.”

Despite his initial hesitation, Hoseok reached out, gingerly taking the offered hand in his and before he could make any sound, he was pulled out by a lean but strong arm. Then, a soft smile with crinkled eyes and a little hand squeeze soothed his trembling heart for a brief moment but it started to act crazy again once Hoseok focused on the man in front of him, drinking in all the beauty one can possibly possess.

“See, you made it. It wasn’t so bad right?”

Don’t look down.

That’s the golden rule for everyone with acrophobia. And everyone with a common sense would follow it.

Nevertheless, Hoseok was always a creature of emotion rather than of reason which is probably why he completely forgot about his fear of heights and did the most stupid thing he could possibly do.

He looked down.

And decided to lose the last piece of his dignity because, screw it, who cares about pride when coming face to face with Death?

“GODDAMMIT, IT’S SO HIGH, I HATE IT, I HATE IT, I HATE YOU JEON JUNGKOOK!”

“Calm down,” said Seokjin in a way that was both firm and comforting, not wincing a bit even though Hoseok was probably crushing all 27 bones in his hand while bursting into tears. Rubbing little circles on his back, Seokjin nudged him slightly to wear the prepared body harness that was currently lying at his feet. “Whenever you feel like stopping and not jumping, speak up.”

“Except for when you’re already hanging in the air – then you will have to suck it up.”

Seokjin, skillfully putting on the other harness, didn’t even bother to open his mouth this time, however, his silent frown probably carried the same amount of authority as his voice did since Yoongi licked his lips in what seemed like a regret.

“Right, ‘shut up, Yoongi’, I know.”

When Seokjin looked away from Yoongi back to Hoseok, he sighed as if ready to take care of another baby.

“Stop crying,” he said and wiped the tears on Hoseok’s face with his thumbs. He proceeded to tighten all the straps and buckles, pulling and checking on each one of them.  “Now, do you know what colors are burgers?”

“W-what?” Hoseok stuttered, glancing up at Seokjin through his glassy eyes. Okay, he might be the one having a panic attack right now but Seokjin actually might have been losing his mind. Was it the result of the thinner air up there?

“What color are burgers?” Seokjin repeated, fighting back the laugh and falling silent for effect afterwards. “Burgundy.”

Somewhere behind them, Yoongi grunted disdainfully, most likely rolling his eyes too. “Oh my god, hyung, you will make that poor guy cry even more.”

Truthfully, the joke was atrocious.

Even Hoseok’s father would rather cut his tongue out than being caught telling a terrible Dad joke like that one. And that already said something since his old man’s sense of humour was painfully bad and corny.

Nevertheless, lame or not, Seokjin sacrificed his image to put him at ease, for which Hoseok was grateful. So he smiled politely because that was the least he could do.

“Here, all set up,” Seokjin said and patted the harness. He looked up at Hoseok.  “I realize I didn’t even ask for your name.”

“Hoseok. But Hobi is fine.”

“Nice to meet you, But Hobi. Now, see that spot over there? The red zone?”

There was no need for Hoseok to check where Seokjin was pointing – afterall, he had been avoiding even glancing in that particular direction this whole time on purpose.

“You mean the one that kind of juts out and has no railing at the end,” he peeped.

“Yeah, exactly. How about we try to slowly reach it. You know, to get used to the view.”

A nervous laugh escaped his mouth. “I quite like it here.”

But once again, slender fingers were already wrapping around his wrist, pulling ever so slightly at his arm. Hoseok started to believe that it must have been some kind of magic that made him go pliant under Seokjin’s touch, following him blindly like a sheep.

“See? Pretty right?” Seokjin asked with a smile dancing on his lips as they came up to the edge. “The view is the most beautiful early in the morning, when everything is calm and silent.”

Hoseok didn’t really share the same excitement. “I can’t look there. I feel like throwing up everytime I realize how high it is.”

“You don’t have to look if you don’t want to. You can have your eyes closed the whole time.”

“Okay,” replied Hoseok with resignation, trying to calm down the jitters.

“What do you call a group of killer whales playing instruments?”

“I have no idea.”

“An Orca-stra.”

“That was really bad.”

Hoseok didn’t try to hide anymore how embarrassing and awful Seokjin’s old man jokes were since the instructor didn’t seem to really care, enjoying them sincerely on his own.

Once he stopped making the weird squeaky sound which Hoseok with amusement realized was the other man’s laughter, Seokjin fixed his eyes on him.

“Now, are you ready?”

“Aaah, just a moment, please,” Hoseok whined, breathing so rapidly it became hard to tell when an inhale ended and an exhale began. “Uhu, why am I even doing this. Mooom!”

“Come here. Right there. Fine, now, put your arms around my waist,” Seokjin said patiently, while stepping forward and carefully drawing Hoseok closer, which left the latter one speechless and staring wide eyed at him like an idiot.

Seokjin’s s hands were warm and calloused, yet soft and gentle. Everything about Seokjin was very soft and gentle to the extent that Hoseok only wished to burrow himself in all of that and die blissfully in peace.

“Great. Okay, I’m going to hug you, if that’s okay with you.” There was a little stammer in Seokjin’s voice as he cleared his throat. An odd feeling settled in Hoseok’s stomach and it spread a little when he noticed the red coloring Seokjin’s neck. “Um, you can lean on me. In case you feel like it.”

He chanted a quick series of yes yes yes in his head before embracing Seokjin more tightly, burying his nose in the cotton T-shirt which smelled faintly of sweat, deodorant and jasmine.

What kind of guy smells like a freaking jasmine?

When Seokjin raised his arms and put them around him, Hoseok couldn’t help but noticed how perfectly they fit together.

“Oh god, thank you for doing this. Like, if we survive this I’m going to pay for both your lunch and dinner,” Hoseok murmured into Seokjin’s shoulder, his words coming out a bit muffled.

Seokjin chuckled at that, the bubbly sound vibrating against his rib cage and directly blessing Hoseok’s ears. “I’ll take you up on that offer. Though, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Alright, people,” Yoongi grumbled to catch their attention. “Since it seems like you’re all ready, I’m going to count to three, and then on the jump part you’ll, well, you’ll jump. Any questions?”

“No,” Hoseok offered a quick but meek answer in fear he would change his mind. With his eyes shut, he firmly pressed his face against Seokjin’s chest and locked him in a more suffocating hug.

“One…” Yoongi gave off the impression of a sloth-like person, but damn, even his counting was frustratingly slow, each vowel drawn out like a sticky chewing gum. “… two… th-“

“Ah, wait, wait!” A voice cried out with a hint of hysteria creeping in. Wait. His voice.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Seokjin hummed and he began to rub his back soothingly when Hoseok mustered the courage to peek over the edge of the platform, the remaining confidence vanishing into thin air when met with the wide lake stretching underneath them, the clear water sparkling in the noon sun.

“What did the late tomato say to the early tomato? ... I’ll ketch up.”

“Jesus,” Hoseok sighed in surrender. “Fine, uh, fine. Start counting.”

“One.”

Jungkook was a dead man for sure. Large doe eyes or not, for the sake of his own health and sanity Hoseok wouldn’t spare that demon seed.

“Two.”

It’s not like this is the perfect timing to have this kind of thoughts, but while Seokjin was unbelievably broad in the shoulders, the man had a slender, wasp waist - the finding of this adorable yet sexy contrast had Hoseok short of breath and his head spinning.

“Three.”

Dad, Mom, noona, Mickey, I love you.

“JUMP!”

He let out a murderous shriek when he lost the ground under his feet as Seokjin squeezed him and took the leap, both of them diving in the air as if going into a tailspin. His scream died in his throat, the strong pressure silencing him and the wind swallowing all the sounds around.

As soon as the first wave of shock had subsided, a strange mixture of sensation and fear washed over Hoseok as they were flying down, falling headfirst. However, before he could marvel in the feeling more, they were launched in the air by the spring force as the cord pulled back on them.

As if the abrupt yank unscrewed an invisible cap, all the emotions that had been bottled up inside him made their way out in the form of inconsolable and never-ending yells and shouts of fear and hysteria. Dangling like a rag doll in the wind, he screamed and screamed until his voice gave out.

A hand came up to his head, gently stroking his hair. Not stopping with the caressing, Seokjin rested his chin on top of his head. “Hey, it’s okay now. It’s okay.”

Hoseok was aware of the wet traces left on his cheeks, as well as of more tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and his runny nose. Nonetheless, he leaned against Seokjin and breathed in the delicate flowery smell that seemed so familiar and calming now. He didn’t think Seokjin would care about the disgusting evidence of Hoseok’s mental breakdown staining his T-shirt that much, but Hoseok knew a perfect dry cleaner’s if the other man eventually did mind.

“The last thing I think about now is food, but I guess, I owe you a lunch, if you still feel like eating. I definitely am not,” Hoseok croaked once he found his voice and the rope stilled enough for him not to go mad again. If he put his imagination into work, it was almost like swinging on the tyre back at his parents’ house.

“Meet me few times more and you will realize that words like ‘lost appetite’ aren’t in my vocabulary,” Seokjin said meaningfully, while getting childishly excited. ”Moreover, there’s nothing better than fresh air and exercise for a starving stomach.”

“If I knew there would be a hot instructor to jump with me, I would voluntarily replace Hobi hyung,” said Jimin, his mouth unconsciously forming a little sulky pout as he eyed the couple fooling around few steps in front of him.

Seokjin, as the instructor introduced himself, was now telling one of his too many cheesy but in a certain way funny jokes while furiously flapping his arms. It only resulted in Hoseok playfully nudging his hip, the wave of their laughter immediately filling the air.

Life wasn’t fair and Hoseok was a lucky bastard who’d just scored a sort of lunch date with a gorgeous human being that was way out of his league, no offense. Jimin couldn’t help it but kicked a pebble on the pavement.

Meanwhile, Jungkook shrugged and took a loud slurp of his tea, the ice already melted thus the drink getting too warm and disgusting for his liking. A mischievous grin tugged at his lips which released the straw in a seemingly lazy manner. “There might be another stunning dude up there. Wanna bet and jump, hyung?”

“Screw you, Jungkook.”