Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mickey sat with his back to the wall, eyes brimming with tears, watching the only man he’d ever loved hurriedly march away from him. He let out a high, muffled whine as cursed fingers wiped away the overflow now pouring down his face. His chest heaved and shoulders convulsed at the strain of doing his level best not to bust out in raucous laughter in response to the names the barista had just called out.

But those tears had actually already started brewing before he’d been caught off-guard by the obliviously shouted order announcement and subsequent orange blur.

~~~~~

After being dragged along to this nightmare of a monument to gentrification like a stubborn toddler, following many tense and lengthy negotiations, Mickey had let his husband steer him to a seat close to the coffee shop’s entrance. With an annoyed huff, he’d dropped down petulantly into his assigned chair as Ian cheerily sat down next to him and pulled the phone from his own pocket to check the status of their in-app orders.

As Ian’d continued to dick around on his screen, Mickey, like any good hostage, reluctantly surveyed his surroundings. That’s when it had started dawning on him that this royal pain in his ass had actually put in a lot of thought and taken great pains to make this ordeal as painless as possible for his begrudging ass.

That annoying asshole had consciously chosen a seat where Mickey would have an unobstructed view of the entire café and all its entrances and exits, without being too far away from at least one, where he couldn’t get cornered, but also no one could approach him from behind. He’d looked over at his still-hunched-over-his-phone husband, knowing that he’d known that that was the best chance Mickey would have to relax at all or to be receptive to any public displays of affection.

“Almost ready,” Ian had breathed out anxiously, a combination of almost giddy excitement and a desperate attempt at appeasement, looking up from his phone into Mickey’s now-glossy eyes. Clifford the Big Red Puppy had pre-ordered, so his dick of a husband wouldn’t have to spend a second longer than necessary accompanying him on an outing he’d been wagging his tail about for weeks.

~~~~~

Mickey could barely breathe or clearly see that guffawing, coffee-fetching fool of his trying not to spill the drinks before Ian finally plonked them down onto their table and fell back into his original seat. Mickey let out several long, voiced sighs and wiped his eyes again to see some woke, hipster, wannabe artist’s extravagantly scrolled scrawlings on the sides of the two lidded to-go cups.

‘Hugh Dredhogg’ and ‘Cy Squeane’

Mickey’s refilling eyes lifted and locked onto the two shimmering emeralds that were absolutely dancing above the blinding, impish grin belonging to the
Mother.
Fucking.
Love.
Of.
His.
Life.
Before either man knew what’d hit him, two be-dewed and tattooed hands grabbed both sides of that freckled mug, pulled it close, and Mickey took a long, deep quaff of his sweet Irish cream.
~
**Alternate last line:

Before either man knew what’d hit him, two be-dewed and tattooed hands grabbed both sides of that freckled mug, pulled it close, and Mickey shoved his tongue down that cheesy fucker’s throat.