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He hates it. He's fat. He doesn't fit into any of his clothes. He can't see his toes. People look at him weird. Why do they keep looking at him weird?
And then Ian, fucking Ian, insists that he's beautiful and that he loves him no matter what he looks like. It's fucking annoying as shit.
Not only is Ian a stage 5 clinger, but he hovers. It's always, "Mickey are you comfortable?" "Mickey are you hungry?" "Mickey do you need to go to the bathroom?" "Mickey do you need help?". He wants to stab Ian more often than not.
"Mickey, you okay in there?"
Holy fuckin shit, Gallagher. "I'm fine, Firecrotch. Aren't you supposed to be making me a sandwich?"
"I was–am. But you've been in there a while and I-"
"Yeah, that's great. How bout you finish making me that sandwich now?"
He hears Ian shuffling outside of the door and he has never wanted to kill himself, but he's seriously considering it. He sighs and pulls the t-shirt off. It's baggy and old and Ian probably stole it from Frank but it's the only thing that fits. The only damn thing. He hates it. He hates this.
He hates Ian for making him this way and he hates himself for letting Ian make him this way. He wishes he hadn't. He wishes he didn't look like a fucking whale. He wishes he didn't look like this.
He stares down at his stomach. At almost three months he's huge. His ankles are swollen and the doctors are dabbling with the idea of the child being a little larger than average. He's ugly. The stretch marks and the constant hunger are a constant reminder of his new weight. He wants this baby out. He wants it gone.
He does this every day. Every day he'll ask Ian for a sandwich and he'll lock himself in the bathroom. He'll pull his shirt off and just stare. He stares at his stomach, stares at how ugly it is. And he wonders why Ian's still here. He almost asks a couple of times, too. He almost asks Ian why he's still here when he's so obviously unappealing.
He won't let Ian touch him. He shies away from every advance and really, he tries to avoid being naked around him. He doesn't want him to see. The baggy shirts can only hide so much, but at least they hide the worst of it.
He feels inadequate. He feels like a whale. He feels large. He feels too large. He shrugs the shirt back on and looks down at himself. He's a mess. He's gross. He wouldn't blame Ian for leaving him right now. He'd leave himself right now.
He sits on the couch and waits for Ian to bring him out that sandwich. While he waits he watches. He watches Ian's body. He remembers when Ian was awkward. He remembers when he was too skinny, remembers when he didn't have the muscles he's seemed to gained. He remembers when Ian wasn't so good looking.
But Ian was always good looking to him. Ian was always appealing, even when he was far too young for what he was doing. Ian was Ian. Ian is Ian. Mickey loves Ian, even if he still can't say it out loud.
"Mick?" Ian's handing him the sandwich plate.
"Hm?"
"You okay?"
"I'm okay."
"Something's wrong."
He wants to strangle Ian for knowing. He's not supposed to know. "No."
"If nothing's wrong, then let me touch you."
Fuck him. "I don't want you to touch me."
"Why not?"
"Because-" I'm ugly. I'm unappealing. I don't want to see you look at me like I look at me. But that dies in his throat.
"What's wrong? Just tell me. I can't fix it if I don't know what's wrong."
"I'm fat." He says.
"What? You're pregnant, Mickey."
"Fat Ian."
"What does that have to do with me not-" Ian breaks off and Mickey knows. He knows that Ian knows. And he's a little terrified but not that Ian knows. He's scared that Ian knows he can be vulnerable, too. Because he doesn't want to be vulnerable.
"Jesus, Mickey. I–you're my mate, man. We're fucking bonded. That means something. Just because you've gained weight—which, by the way isn't actually fat at all but our child—that's not going to change. I love you like this. I love you pregnant and swollen and knowing I'm the one who did it to you. I love all of it. If it's doing anything, it's bringing me closer to you rather than pushing me away."
"... You really think so?"
"Fucking absolutely, Mickey."
"Oh."
"Are we good?"
"Yeah, we're good."