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On the days when Ian is convincing enough (or, rather, Mickey is more persuadable), they take walks in Central Park. It usually starts with Ian trying to get Mickey to go running with him, and Mickey usually arguing that he’d rather spend the morning in the apartment. Really, a walk is a pretty good compromise as far as Ian is concerned.
Summer is slowly but surely melting away into fall, and the weather hovers at just nice enough that people seem to be more willing to be outside. The park is full of people walking their dogs, or pushing babies in strollers, or having picnics.
“Not happening,” Mickey says suddenly, and Ian realizes he’s been staring at a collie for the last several minutes.
“I didn’t say anything!” Ian replies in good-humored defense, smiling in that way that means he sort of was. Mickey just rolls his eyes, and it says more than Mickey’s mouth ever voluntarily would.
Ian tries to keep his face as neutral as possible as he spends a good ten minutes staring at strollers and toddlers, and the increasingly terrified expression on Mickey’s face is absolutely worth it. It’s funny, considering how great Mickey is with Yev whenever they spend time together (it’s not easy shuttling a small child back and forth between Chicago and New York, especially when Svetlana isn’t exactly cooperative). Still, Mickey generally gets cagey and disgruntled around even the idea of children.
It’s sort of adorable.
And really, it doesn’t bother Ian. Kids aren’t even close to the top of his list. He’d like to warm Mickey up to the idea of marriage first, at least.
“You’re not fucking serious, right?” Mickey hisses, and he has that darting look in his eyes, like he’s about to break out into a run. Ian grins at him.
“Well you said we couldn’t get a dog, so…” Ian muses, drawing this out just a little longer.
“Ian, how the fuck are we going to look after a dog in our tiny ass apartment when we’re both at work all fucking day?” Mickey points out, going for the degradation of Ian’s intelligence. It’s a front that Ian knows well, and sees through easily. Mickey’s arguments never have to do with a dog pissing all over the floor, or chewing up furniture, or costing them money. It’s always about how they don’t have the time or space to properly look after a dog.
Sometimes Ian can’t get over how much of a fucking softy his boyfriend is, and how much he fucking fights against it.
“I know, I know.” It’s not the first time they’ve had the dog talk. “Spare me the fucking lecture.” Ian shoots Mickey a put-on exasperated look, and Mickey scowls at him. “And I wasn’t serious, about the kid thing. I just think it’s funny when you get that shit-your-pants-terrified look on your face.” Ian’s laugh shakes in his chest even though the sound doesn’t come up, and Mickey knocks their shoulders together hard.
“Fucking dick,” Mickey spits with affection.
It’s still weird to be in New York, especially coming from where they come from. It has its rough neighborhoods, of course, it has its own brand of ignorant asshole. And yet Ian feels like everywhere they go, they see at least one other gay couple. Like the universe constantly wants to remind them that, hey, they aren’t fucking alone in the world, even if Ian logically knows that.
And it’s fucking surreal, to see two guys holding hands or kissing around dozens of people who, more often than not, don’t blink an eye.
Even with the assurance, Mickey’s not big on PDA. Ian wonders if he’ll always carry that latent fear in him, like touching Ian where strange, unfriendly eyes might see would be like signing their kill orders. Sometimes, it gets to Ian, but most of the time, he tries to be patient.
Being in love with Mickey Milkovich is a waiting game, and Ian has no problem playing it.
So they walk side by side, nearly no room between them, shoulders bumping and arms brushing, speaking in low enough voices that their conversations stay between them, but that’s it. Sometimes Ian longs for more, tries to drag it forcefully out of Mickey in a way that always ends in explosive arguments, but at the end of the day, it’s enough.
For now.
Ian has learned to be very patient.
It shouldn’t be such a fucking novelty still to see a gay couple when they take these walks. They usually see several, and probably pass by more that they don’t even notice (and there’s a concept—a brand of normality that lets them fade into the backdrop, just like everyone else), and yet it always seems to draw both of them up short—Mickey more so than Ian. It’s like staring at an oasis and not being sure if its a mirage or not.
There’s a couple sitting on a bench, bundled up for fall even though there’s hardly a chill in the air, huddled so close together that they’re practically on top of each other. Their fingers are linked loosely together, put on display where it’s resting on one of their thighs. Their heads are bent close together, the lighter-haired one talking at a rapid pace while the darker-haired one just smiles softly.
Ian doesn’t even realize he’s stopped walking until Mickey himself notices, having walked a few steps in front of him before being hyper-aware that Ian was no longer beside him. It’s weird how Mickey’s spatial awareness can make his heart flutter.
Ian watches the couple as Mickey comes back for him, walking with all the airs of someone who has been greatly inconvenienced. But that’s all it is, Ian knows—just an air.
“Legs forget how to work or something?” Mickey jokes, and he must realize that Ian isn’t really paying attention to him—the couple is laughing now, so close together that their foreheads brush. There’s a single moment of stretching silence between them, and Ian is just about to turn away, continue their walk, when Mickey says in a quiet, unsure, and yet still defensive way (because Mickey doesn’t do vulnerable without a little bit of bite to it), “That the sort of shit you want?”
And it’s that that breaks Ian’s gaze, and he turns back to Mickey to see him rubbing at his mouth with the pad of his thumb. As if his question wasn’t clear enough, he jerks his chin in the direction of the couple on the bench, and Ian realizes exactly what he’s asking.
Do you wish we were like that?
And Ian just thinks, Sometimes. Because it would be lying if he didn’t think about wrapping his arm around Mickey’s shoulders when they walked, or taking his hand while they sit side-by-side on the subway, or kissing him because sometimes that’s the only thing Ian can even think about.
Ian looks back at the couple, just in time to see them eskimo kiss (and that’s a little much, even for Ian). Mickey and Ian have been staring at them for a solid block of time, but the couple hasn’t even noticed—they’re in their own little world.
When he glances back at Mickey, it’s with a shrug on his shoulders and a small smile on his face.
“I think I’m pretty happy with what I have,” Ian tells him completely truthfully. Being with Mickey has been about patience and compromise, sure, but Ian’s pretty sure that’s how it’s supposed to be. Ian might not get everything his way, but either does Mickey—them standing in Central Park is testament to that. At the end of the day, no matter what else goes down, what Ian wants is Mickey.
And, somehow, he’s got him.
Ian starts walking again, and Mickey falls into step beside him a few seconds later, quiet in that way he gets when Ian blindsides him with how he feels. After all these years, it still seems to knock Mickey off balance. But that’s okay. Ian will just have to keep hitting him with it until he adjusts.
But apparently Mickey can’t be the only one thrown for a loop. Ian’s pretty sure he’s making things up when he feels the back of Mickey’s hand brush his, but he can’t deny the careful, cautious, heartbreakingly sweet way that Mickey threads their fingers together.
Ian’s eyes widen, shoot around like he’s just been told he won a luxury car because things like that don’t happen. This doesn’t happen.
But Ian knows better than to say anything. He grips Mickey’s hand, and when Mickey’s clasp pulses back, Ian can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.
*
***
*
It’s nearly fall, and Kurt can practically smell it in the air. He’s already started airing out his fall wardrobe, and he’d greeted his cardigans and scarves with loving strokes. He’d missed them. But fall is more than the best part of his wardrobe. It’s more than pumpkin spice lattes and the warmth of their apartment (and Blaine’s arms) after a rainy day.
Fall is Saturday morning walks in Central Park, being able to see the leaves change on the trees almost like time-lapse photography, sipping coffees and enjoying the crisp weather before walks in the park require heavy coats and gloves (and even then, they still take them).
“Is it still too warm for hot chocolate?” Blaine asks as they walk, fingers linked together. They’re dressed for fall, even though it’s still far too warm for it, but the second Kurt had started pulling things from the storage, the greater the urge had been to wear them. It’s been months since he’s been able to even think about putting any of these things on.
“It’s never too warm for hot chocolate,” Kurt replies, even though a few weeks ago he would have been horrified at the mere suggestion of ingesting any sort of hot liquid that wasn’t necessary to functioning (like coffee). “But I think I’m going to get an iced mocha, instead.” Speaking of coffee.
“Maybe share a cookie?” Blaine suggests as they alter their stroll to find themselves in line for a coffee truck. Kurt gives Blaine a look.
“We’re going to get lunch in like half an hour, and you put chocolate chips in our pancakes this morning.” Kurt loves chocolate, but he also loves being able to fit into his skinny jeans. “Ooh, let’s split one of those chocolate mousse desserts after lunch instead?”
“A man after my own heart,” Blaine coos.
“Don’t I already have that?” Kurt hums, looking contemplative, and Blaine laughs before pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek. They settle into line together, Blaine’s arm slipping to rest around Kurt’s waist instead, and Kurt pulls him closer. It is too warm for all of this, but maybe if they act like it’s already fall, the season will come faster.
(Kurt can hope, can’t he?)
“Shit, you trying to fucking poison me?”
Kurt looks over as a knee-jerk reaction—there’s a loud noise, and he is subconsciously drawn to pay attention to it. There’s a small crowd of people huddled around the pick-up window at the other side of the truck, presumably waiting for their orders, and a couple of guys are off to the side just enough that they seem like their own separate entity.
During Kurt’s glance, one of them—dressed in ill-fitting pants and the most unflattering t-shirt Kurt has possibly ever seen outside of Ohio—spits. He just spits right onto the sidewalk, and all Kurt can do is stare in horror and disgust, even as the same guy wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“That’s repulsive,” Kurt murmurs under his breath without really meaning to.
“You’re staring,” Blaine reminds him gently, as if maybe Kurt didn’t know that he was doing something most people consider rude.
“Did you see that?” Kurt’s eyes are practically bulging out of his head. “He just—right on the sidewalk, where anyone could walk.” Kurt’s voice gets faster and a little higher pitched, and Blaine lays a hand on his arm as if that might calm him down (it doesn’t, but it does remind Kurt where they are).
Blaine’s noise wrinkles, as if he agrees with Kurt’s distaste, and then Kurt is turning his attention back to that vulgar creature.
“It’s coffee,” the redhead he’s standing with explains with a laugh in his voice. He’s dressed slightly better—Kurt can’t tell the designer of his jeans, but at least they fit a bit nicer, and his shirt-and-jacket combo aren’t exactly eye catching but they don’t offend Kurt, either. It would look much better with a printed cardigan.
“That is not fucking coffee,” the darker-haired one replies heatedly, and Kurt frowns. Is it really necessary to swear that much? Especially in public? There could be children around.
“Huh,” Blaine comments out of the blue, and Kurt turns back to him. He’s looking at the other boys now, too, but as surreptitiously as possible, as if that somehow makes it more polite. It distracts Kurt for a moment as he smiles—his fiancé goes above and beyond to appear ever-the-gentleman sometimes.
“What?” Kurt asks the second he recognizes the look on Blaine’s face—it’s thoughtful and considering. It’s the same way he looks at fine art as he tries to decipher things about it, or the look he adopts when Kurt needs his opinion on a particularly daring ensemble.
“I just wouldn’t have pegged them as a couple,” Blaine explains with a shrug, and then looks away again. Kurt gapes for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, and looks back at the group. Couple?
“Who exactly are you talking about?” Kurt asks as his eyes dissect the group.
“Those guys—the tall redhead and the shorter, impolite one. I never would have taken them for a couple,” Blaine states simply, as if it’s not the most ridiculous thing he’s said all morning. Kurt laughs.
“You think they’re a couple?” Kurt asks incredulously.
“You don’t?” Blaine seems just as confused as Kurt is amused.
“No. I mean, maybe, maybe the redhead has some homosexual leanings, but the other one? The spitting one? He wouldn’t know a pair of fitted jeans if it smacked him in the face.” It doesn’t help that he looks like the sort of person Kurt would be uneasy walking on the same side of the street as, that shouldn’t even be looked at wrong. Like the sort of boy a much younger, insecure Kurt would be terrified of just because of who he is.
“You’re stereotyping,” Blaine chides. Kurt waves his hand dismissively.
“The point is, they’re not a couple,” Kurt says decisively, and he looks back over at them for confirmation. They’ve moved a bit further away, stopped again as the possibly-gay one tries to get the absolutely-not-gay one to drink more of the coffee, smiling like he’s playing a game.
“Are to,” Blaine singsongs in return, and Kurt’s eyes snap to him in a competitive glare, the same one he adopts whenever someone is challenging him.
“What even makes you entertain such a ridiculous notion?” Kurt stares at Blaine shrewdly, eyes narrowed, and Blaine just gives another one of his little shrugs, like he doesn’t know what he’s talking about even though he does.
“The way they look at each other,” Blaine says. “The spitting one, as you so eloquently named him, looks at the redhead… Well, kind of like the way I look at you.” Blaine smiles, soft and private. “A little different, but love never looks the same way on everybody else, right?”
Kurt blinks at his fiancé, and then looks back at the couple (or non-couple, as Kurt still believes) in question. There’s space between them, and there isn’t a single point of contact between them—no light touches of hands against arms. Nothing. But they’re both smiling, talking through them, and then the redhead laughs and is rewarded with a sharp (but seemingly playful) shove. It occurs to Kurt that he’s been looking at them on and off for a good chunk of time now, but they haven’t once looked around—haven’t once given their attention to anyone else. It’s like they’re in their own little world. And that is certainly something that Kurt can attest to being in love with someone.
But it still takes a lot more than that to convince him.
“I still don’t see it,” Kurt finishes, loftily, and Blaine just grins and shakes his head as they wait for the last person in front of them in line to finish up their order.
It must be some sort of karma thing, where Blaine needs to win something to try and balance him out against Kurt, that they see the couple again as they make their way to the subway station to catch a train to midtown. They’re walking shoulder to shoulder, and their fingers keep brushing against the backs of each others hands.
“I might be wrong,” Kurt says, and Blaine looks at him as if he has no idea what Kurt is talking about (which makes sense, considering that Blaine had been in the middle of a verbal grocery list for later). But it doesn’t take Blaine long for him to see the couple, to understand what Kurt’s saying, and Kurt is thankful that Blaine doesn’t rub it in his face right at that moment.
Even though he’s sure that he will, later. Blaine never misses an opportunity to be right.