Ian and Mickey's Instagrams

ian's:

mickey's:

some notes:

I’m sorry but no kiss on television will ever be as hot, charged, and devastatingly intimate as Ian and Mickey’s kisses in the dock scene. None. Ever.

There’s no choreography, no prettiness, no hesitation. It’s desperate and hungry and emotional in the most raw way possible. They’re not kissing to be sexy, they’re kissing because they can’t not.

And that’s why no other couple reaches that level. You can’t fake that kind of chemistry.

Other couples kiss because the script tells them to. Ian and Mickey kiss like the world could end in five minutes and this is the only thing that matters.

That dock scene permanently raised the bar and then destroyed it.

Everyone else is competing for second place.

winter season winter season winter season winter season winter season

ok so i have a sad artist!mickey headcanon and i’m sharing it with the hope that it will make other people just as sad as it makes me. post 4x12 when ian is depressed in bed and sleeping, he’s so still that mickey, who has no clue what to do, decides to use him as a model and draws his sleeping figure. ian finds the drawings years later but doesn’t remember the story behind them.

He finds them in a box in the Gallagher attic.

He didn't know the box existed, was really just up here to scavenge shit for the new apartment before Debbie or Carl got to it, since he's sure Lip took what he wanted when he no doubt came digging for baby things. The Gallagher's are nothing if not pragmatic about saving shit.

But tucked in the back corner, under boxes of Fiona's stuff she didn't take, with an old rolled up rug half hiding it, is a box labeled "Mickey's Shit" in his husband's spikey, jagged writing, as sharp and aggressive as Mickey was when they were kids, dangerous and scary and uninviting.

It must be left over from when they were playing house over on Trumbull, or maybe from after? How it ended up here Ian's not at all sure. That year and change of drug-fueled, unmedicated mania and depression is hazy sometimes, like looking through windows that haven't been properly cleaned in years, filmy and dirty with odd, sparse patches of clarity—easy nights with his beloved little patchwork family, mornings with the babies, and, running through it all, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey, shining and bright and so fucking clear, images of him sharp and bright, always in high definition.

Ian opens the box with the spiky writing, smiling gently at the memories that come back to him, trying to reframe his thoughts like his therapist says—it's so easy to think of all the worst things from that time, but all that does is bring shame and self-loathing with it, some days so strong they nearly drown him. Instead, he can counter those feelings with the good things he remembers, and let the positive balance the negative, one memory at a time.

He's hit with the scent of Then-Mickey: the faintly lingering smoke of Marlboro Reds and the strong, almost cloying smell of the Pinaud Clubman aftershave he'd started to swipe from the drugstore not long after he kissed Ian that first time, almost like it was his way of getting dressed up, of showing Ian he meant something. Ian closes his eyes, inhaling that unique blend of sharp citrus, some sweet, soft, flowery things, an undercurrent of musk and the very specific finish of antiseptic alcohol.

Fuck, maybe he needs to stop by the B & G Heinz on his way home and get a bottle, see if Mickey would switch, just sometimes, from that Davidoff stuff he'd picked up on sale from Walmart.

Shaking himself from his scent-induced daze, Ian opens his eyes and finally looks down at the contents of this mystery box.

It's full of...notebooks? Paper? His brow furrows in confusion as he reaches inside, the crinkling of the thick paper the only sound in the quiet attic (it's still so weird for him, to come to this house and find it empty and quiet, even in the middle of the day). He wraps his fingers around the spine of what he sees now is a sketchbook, and he's hit with more memories, little glimpses and flashes—Mickey with a pencil behind his hear and little pocket-sized notebooks while they were spending their time in the abandoned buildings of the South Side, Mickey with some papers spread over a box or a book, a ballpoint pen moving quickly on it's surface; Mickey, sitting across the dark of their bedroom, keeping Ian company in the only way Ian would allow, deep in the throws of his first, terrible, awful depressive episode.

His breath is shaky as he flips the cover back, and he gasps a little at what he sees, eyes stinging and heart swelling even as it breaks a little all over again for the scared kids they used to be.

It's a sketch of Ian, sleeping it seems, lashes fanned over his still-soft cheeks, freckles faded from all the time he spent inside with his almost-nocturnal club schedule, but still noticeable on the high planes of his face. Fuck, they're so specific, the patterns ones he knows well from seeing them every day, the little constellations of them scattershot across his skin, and of course Mickey knew them that well, of course he could replicate them with such specificity, even from across a dark room. Who had ever loved him like Mickey Milkovich has always loved him?

He spends the next ten minutes going through the box, every single notebook and page he pulls from it covered in drawings of Ian, awake, asleep, on his back, his side, his stomach, hair increasingly stringy until suddenly it's not, clothes the same until they aren't, and he remembers Mickey hauling him to the dingy bathroom, sitting on the floor of the tub with Ian's back to his chest while he scrubbed the sweat and grime from Ian's skin, washed the grease from his hair, and helped him into clean clothes before laying him on the couch so Mickey could change the sheets.

He's crying silently by the time he gets to the bottom of the box, and this sketch makes him sob outright. It's the only one he's seen in color, and it feels somehow right that it is.

Seventeen-year-old Ian is sitting up against the headboard, a chipped mug clutched tightly in his hands, and the threadbare red blanket pulled across his legs and hips. He's wearing the gray hoodie he and Mickey had been sharing longer than anything else, so long that neither of them could even remember whose it was to start with. His eyes are closed, but there's sunlight streaked across his face, his hair bright and shining in the golden light, and the barest hint of a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.

---

He does stop at the B & G Heinz on his way home, but he doesn't limit himself to the aftershave.

"Whatcha got there, lover boy?" Mickey asks from where he's sprawled on their new couch, wearing Ian's red henley and a pair of boxer-briefs (since they live on the fancy west side now he's decided that maybe he'll try out fancy underwear now).

Ian doesn't say anything, just sets the box on the kitchen counter and empties the bag he'd had resting on top. They don't have much up on their walls yet, just wedding photo after wedding photo, with the one most prominently displayed from the moments before their first kiss as husband's, hands on each other's faces, love and devotion and blinding, radiant happiness shining like the sun from them both.

Right underneath, Ian presses his extra purchases, one after the other, the command strips he'd added before he came inside doing their job and attaching them instantly to the wall.

On one side, a drawing of him at what he knew was his absolute lowest, sweat-grimed and greasy, and yet every detail so lovingly rendered it's almost too much for him to bare looking at for too long. On the other, the color sketch he'd found, sun shining on his face and fragile, delicate hope tucked into the smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.

"Oh," is all Mickey says when he joins Ian in front of the drawings. "I forgot I stashed those there, after."

Ian's eyes are stinging again and he turns to cup his husband's face in his hands. "You loved the fuck outta me then, huh?" he asks, and the words are hushed, reverant and with just this side of amazed disbelief.

Mickey nuzzles against Ian's palms, smiling that fucking smile, the same one in the wedding photo behind them, the one Ian is just starting to get used to seeing. "Ah, see, that's where you're wrong, tough guy." His eyes sweep back and forth, ice-blue and beloved, and Ian is so goddamn lucky he gets to see them filled with joy and love like this.

"Loved the fuck outta you then?" Mickey's smile gets even bigger, even brighter, his own hands coming up to cradle Ian's face, thumbs brushing away the tears running down his cheeks.

"Ian Gallagher, I ain't ever fuckin' stopped."

ian discovers mickey's old drawings

thanks to @m4ndysk4nkovich and @milkmaidovich for the lovely hc and fic!

Once again I am plagued by the parallels and I must share!

Mickey, young and trapped in a marriage he's being forced into by his father. His collar is tight, suit stiff and ill fitting, awkwardly formal.

Cut to older Mickey. Out Mickey. A Mickey marrying for love, not obedience. His suit fits well and the cut is flattering. The colors are inverse, bright to reflect his outlook on this relationship and they way, to him, this is a first. A new experience. A rebirth.

And IAN, his HUSBAND, fixing his tie, the same type of tie that felt like it was choking him before. The tie he was frantically loosening as he paced back and forth before facing the expectations othersset on him. The tie isn't suffocating. Mickey isn't suffocating. He can breathe. Things are lighter, even if his face is bruised. This is better.

They're talking the future. Together. Before, he pushed Ian away. Told him there was no future. These two moments are not the same, they are the inverse of one another. We got to witness the full 180 of Gallavich.

Cameron Monaghan

by Ilaria Ieie for Numéro Netherlands

It’s been a long time since I’ve actually posted in the Shameless tag, so here’s the prettiest EMT of them all.

He isn't afraid to kiss me.

THE ROAD TO GALLAVICH: MICKEY HAS FREAKISHLY SMALL HANDS

my shaylas

TikTok trend pt. ???

I had an idea and I wanted to bring back this little series I did!

"It's just a quick Q&A, it'll only take like forty minutes. An hour, max." Debbie pleads, waving her phone in Ian's face.

"An hour is a long time." Ian points out. "I don't wanna talk to your weird online people for an hour."

"Yeah, me neither. No way." Mickey agrees.

"If you hate it, I can just end the live. Or continue the live without you guys. Just give it a chance." Debbie presses, doing her best I'm-your-baby-sister-please-do-what-I-want face to Ian.

"You really want Mickey on a live? Without a censor?" Ian asks, raising his eyebrows. "He'll get you cancelled."

"Cancelled?" Mickey asks, eyebrows furrowing.

"It's like when people stop following you because you said something or did something offensive. And you say offensive shit all the time." Ian explains.

"To you, maybe. Not to anyone else." Mickey argues.

"Mickey, you called the guy who was in front of us at the store a 'yuppie fag'. You weren't even quiet about it."

"He took ten minutes deciding between two candles, Ian. They were both lavender. Ten fucking minutes. I timed that shit. He was a yuppie fag."

"Right, so you getting pissy over what types of chairs we had at our wedding was... what?"

"Fucking different, is what." Mickey snaps.

"Anyway," Debbie steps in, trying to grab Ian's attention away from Mickey. It's usually a difficult task, "I think you guys should give it a chance. Or at least Ian, you're usually more open with questions anyway."

"Sounds good to me." Mickey nods, smiling mockingly in Ian's direction. "Have fun with that, hotshot. I'm gonna go smoke a joint."

"No, wait, Mick--" Ian tries, but Mickey's already walking out of the kitchen with a smug look on his face. He's about to get up and follow, so Debbie stops him with a truly sad look. For a moment, Ian seems to consider going after him anyway, but Debbie's desperate expressions wins him over in the end and he sits back down with a huff. "Don't get too high without me!" He yells up the stairs, to which there's no response.

He turns to Debbie, exasperated. "I'll do your stupid live as long as I can leave when I want and don't have to answer stupid questions. I'm not telling a bunch of creeps on the internet about me and Mickey's sex life. I know they ask that shit."

"Thank you." Debbie sing-songs, grinning. "I wouldn't expect you to answer shit like that anyway."

Before he can change his mind, Debbie opens up TikTok on her phone and starts the live. It's flooded with people fast, and she greets them with the influencer-smile that she had to learn on her face. When there's enough people on it, she drops the phone down to show both her and Ian on the screen. He smiles at it, awkwardly waves, and glances longingly up the stairs where his husband abandoned him.

"So, today," Debbie starts, "I figured I'd give you guys what you've been asking for. So, here's my brother, Ian, because you all seem pretty mad that you can't find any of his socials to stalk." She laughs, joking. "He's here to answer some questions. Normal questions only, though."

Debbie knows the moderates will stop any weird ones from coming through, but she still thinks she should warn them against it.

"Hey." Ian says, seeming not to know what to do with himself. "Do I have to look for questions in the chat thing?" He asks Debbie, furrowing his eyebrows at the small screen.

"No, I'll just look through them on my other phone." She tells him. "I'll ask you them."

"Since when do you have two phones?" Ian asks, gawking at her second phone.

"Since ages ago when I first went viral. Now shush, I'm trying to read." She tells him, swiping through the comments.

"Loads of people are saying hi to me." Ian tells her, watching the chat on the phone that's recording.

"So say hi back."

"Hi." Ian says. "They're asking where Mickey is."

"So answer them." Debbie tells him, rolling her eyes. This isn't as hard as Ian's making it seem.

"He's upstairs right now." He says. "He doesn't want to be live streamed. I also think he swears too much for TikTok."

Debbie snorts a little at that, nodding along.

"What's that on my face?" Ian asks, squinting at the screen.

Looking up, Debbie sees there's a cowboy hat filter pasted over Ian's head. "Thank you, theatrenerd567 for the gift." She says, on autopilot. "That's a gift. It's like money, and it gives you a little filter."

"That's weird." Ian mutters. "Someone just asked me to take off my shirt."

"Well don't do that." Debbie scoffs. "That's probably Mickey from some secret account."

"I don't think he would want me to take off my shirt in front of so many people." Ian argues, shaking his head. "They're giving me roses now."

"Great, so say 'thank you' and stop narrating everything that's happening." Debbie orders, rolling her eyes.

"Thank you." Ian parrots.

"Okay, I found a good question." Debbie says, sitting up and actually paying attention. She's been ignoring any about Gay Jesus or prison or bipolar disorder. This is supposed to be a fun live, not a deep chat. She thinks it would take a lot more convincing for Ian to go live and answer those kinds of questions. "How did you and Mickey meet?"

"We sort of always knew each other, I guess." Ian says. "We lived in the same neighbourhood, we went to school together. He was in the grade above me, though. But we started hooking up when he stole something from my boss and I went to get it back."

"Ooo, I like this one." Debbie says. "How did your families react to you guys dating? Like did we like Mickey, did Mickey's family like you?"

"Well, obviously Mickey's dad hated me, 'cause he's a homophobic prick. Other than that, I was already super close with his sister so she didn't care. His brother's didn't really mind me, I don't think. I don't think they cared too much about me either way." Ian says, laughing about it. "Obviously my family also knew Mickey before we were together. Lip hasn't ever really liked him, but the feeling's pretty mutual. They get along okay now. Fiona was a bit iffy about him. I think he confused her. Debbie, you always liked Mickey, didn't you?"

Debbie nods with a smile. "Yeah, I thought he was funny. I didn't know him before you guys started dating, not like Lip or Fiona did, but I liked you two together back then."

"Yeah." Ian agrees. "Carl thought he was really cool. That was kind of why Fiona didn't like him, because she didn't love that Carl was so into all his tattoos and knives and guns. Thought Mickey was a bad influence, I guess, but that wasn't really Mickey's fault. Liam was a toddler, but he seemed to like Mickey fine. He likes him now, anyway. And Franny met him for the first time about eight months ago and she loves him. Oh, and Frank's always liked him."

"Really? Frank liked Mickey?" Debbie asks, cocking her head.

"Uh-huh. He found out about us super early and seemed pretty happy for us. I think he finds Mickey funny. I also think he's scared of him, which is valid, so he's not gonna say a bad thing about him to his face."

"That makes sense." Debbie nods. "'Do you believe in soulmates?' is the next question."

"I don't know." Ian says, scoffing. "I never thought about it much. I don't think so. I don't think me and Mick are perfectly suited to each other or any shit like that. I think we love each other and we make it work."

"What's the first thing you remember thinking about Mickey?" Debbie asks, steamrolling ahead. She doesn't need to react to all of his answers. She knows enough about their relationship, it's only new to the people watching.

Ian laughs. "I remember thinking he's an asshole with a stealing problem."

"This one's kind of more for me." Debbie says. "'How did you introduce him to Frannie?'" She quotes. "Frannie's used to a lot of people living here, so she isn't nervous around strangers. Obviously, I've taught her to be safe around strangers, though. Anyway, I told her about him before she met him, and then when she did meet him she just asked him loads of questions and wouldn't leave him alone for like a week. Then she got over it. She's used to him being around now."

"I remember that." Ian snorts. "She pestered him constantly. It was so funny. He did make her cry once, though."

"Really? When?"

"He was making fun of me for being ginger, like he always does. I think he called me an ugly ginger or something, and she overheard and got upset thinking she was ugly 'cause she's ginger. It was pretty easy to convince her that he was joking." Ian laughs.

Debbie raises her eyebrows at the chat. "They don't like that."

"Why?" Ian frowns.

"They think it's mean that Mickey says mean things to you. Guys, they're joking. They make fun of each other all the time. It's not a big deal." Debbie tells her camera, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, we know it's a joke. Mickey doesn't actually think I'm ugly, and he doesn't actually have an issue with gingers." Ian tells them.

"Yeah, I do." Mickey grunts, appearing suddenly at the bottom of the stairs.

Ian grins, face lighting up. "Yeah? Is that why you married a ginger?"

"Planning on slipping hair dye into your shampoo." Mickey threatens, off-camera.

"You sure you don't wanna say hi, Mick?" Debbie asks, smiling sweetly.

Mickey flips her off and shakes his head, taking a seat behind the camera.

"They asked me what my first thoughts were about you that I can remember." Ian tells him, live forgotten. "What were yours about me?"

"Thought you were a dork." Mickey says and Ian laughs, bright and happy. Loud.

"See now they think you're mean again, Mickey." Debbie huffs.

"Show them a picture of him back then. They'll get it if they see it." Mickey mutters.

"I'm never letting that be on the internet." Ian scoffs.

"Nah, didn't you have Facebook or some shit back then? You posted on something, I remember Mandy talking about it. If they look, they could definitely find some old photos." Mickey states.

Shaking his head furiously, Ian thins his lips. "No, no, don't look for any old photos. Don't do that. Can they really find old photos of me?" Ian asks Debbie.

"I mean, if you had a Facebook account that's still up, then probably."

"Shit." Ian mutters, taking out his phone. "I don't know how to log into that. I'm pretty sure it was private. It was private, Mick, right?"

"Fuck knows. I didn't have Facebook." He shrugs. "They weren't that bad, anyway."

"Some of them were. I used to hide the cringey ones from you. Also, that's a fucking lie, you did have Facebook. I remember hiding photos from your account. Everybody go look for Mickey's old Facebook."

"Never had Facebook." Mickey argues.

"Uh-huh, you did. Oh my God, I remember now. Mandy set it up for you. There must be some old dirt on you there." Ian grins, snickering to himself. "Okay, that makes me feel better. If they find shit on me, they'll find shit on you too."

"No one's finding any shit on me." Mickey grumbles, trying to log into Facebook on his own phone, mirroring Ian from moments ago. "How do I do this shit?"

"Mandy made the passcode, Mick, there's no point." Ian chuckles, ignoring the evil look Mickey sends him.

"Whatever. I'm done with this live shit." Mickey says, even though he never showed his face. "Going back upstairs."

"I'll join you." Ian says. "I answered loads of questions." He tells Debbie as he stands.

"Yeah, I was about to wrap it up anyway. All the other questions are really sexual. Stop asking this shit, guys, it's weird." Debbie tells them, then takes the camera away to spend some time on her live alone. It's a good thing for her to do every so often. it makes her followers feel more connected to her.

Ian follows Mickey up the stairs, laughing as he tries to grab his ankle and almost gets a kick to the face. Debbie's glad she didn't film that, her followers would likely find it worrying too,

-> all of the other parts should be in my moments fic on ao3 linked here (also somewhere on Tumblr but deep into my account)

-> thank u for reading, I hope people enjoyeddd <3

Ian + smiling in season 10

carl is so much like ian sometimes it makes me unwell (positive)