A Little Dog with a Fuckin' Sweater
Mickey was on his knees, busily looking through the pile of crap on his floor for a relatively clean t-shirt when he heard the front door close.
"Ay, Gallagher!" he called without looking up. "Know where my gray shirt is?"
"Which one?" Ian asked from the doorway.
"The one with the tree on it," Mickey clarified, still rifling through the laundry at the foot of the bed. He thought he found it and pulled it out eagerly but was disappointed to see it was actually one of Ian's shirts. He sighed and tossed it back down.
"Did you check the dryer? I think Mandy just threw a load in this morning," Ian suggested.
Mickey got to his feet and only then did he get a look at his red haired boyfriend.
"What the fuck are you wearing?"
Ian was dressed in a pair of pastel-green slacks with a baby pink polo shirt. He looked like someone vomited Easter chocolate all over him.
"What do you mean?" the younger boy asked innocently.
"Are those... boat shoes?" Mickey didn't even know how he knew what boat shoes were but the question was out of his mouth before he could dwell on it.
The redhead looked down at his feet and nodded.
"Is it Halloween or something?" Maybe Gallagher was dressed like one of those country club fairies on purpose...
"No... it's the beginning of spring, Mick."
Mickey blinked at his boyfriend, utterly confused and completely disgusted. "Then why the hell are you dressed like such a faggot?"
Ian smiled and shook his head as if Mickey was the silliest person in the world. "Come on, baby. Don't be mean! You know Princess doesn't like it when we fight..."
Baby? Since when did Ian call him baby? But the more important question was, "Who the fuck is Princess?"
Ian reached down and unzipped a bag that Mickey was sure hadn't been there a second ago, producing a tiny, little chihuahua wearing a beige and pink argyle sweater.
Mickey watched with horror as Ian started lovingly talking to the dog as if it was a baby, telling it how cute it was and letting it lick his mouth. He was going to vomit. He squeezed his eyes shut to fight the sudden wave of terror that flooded over him, but when he opened them again, it was dark.
He shot up, gasping for air and frantically looking around for pastel Ian and the dog, Princess, only to realize he was in his bed. He took a few gulps of air and was eventually able to calm his pounding heart.
He felt a hand on his lower back. "Mick, you okay?"
He grunted out some unintelligible sound.
"You're covered in sweat. Did you have a bad dream or something?"
Taking another deep breath, Mickey turned to look at Ian. The redhead was lying beside him in a pair of boxers and a white wife-beater, haphazardly covered by the thin blanket. "Yeah," Mickey sighed, exhausted. "Yeah, I'm good," he muttered. "Just a bad dream..."
He was physically drained, and it took all the energy he had left to lie back down. Ian put his arm over Mickey's waist and pulled him closer. "Good," he said kissing the brunette's shoulder. "Go back to sleep. I promise not to let the 'Princess' or the 'boat shoes' hurt you," he added, laughing quietly as Mickey's eyes widened.