Work Text:
If Winter Comes
Ian had grown accustomed to the veil of solitude he'd built around himself over the past seven years. He'd shut himself off from the big scary world, protected only by the stability his carefully curated rituals and routines provided. The dizzying complexities of the outside world often overwhelmed him, yet he tried not let it show; he was untouchable, unshakable (or at least that's what he wanted everyone else to think). Running a company on your own was hard, and even after Rhett and Link swooped in, he still felt that strong sense of obligation. It all balanced on his shoulders, and his shoulders were splintered and cracking with each waking moment.
And then, on a random Friday, completely out of the blue, Anthony reappeared. That was his best friend - his rock - the one he'd always been able to depend upon.
The one who had left him.
They hadn't spoken since everything had changed.
"Is that really you?!" He'd asked, his voice trembling with a turbulent mix of disbelief and joy. This is the moment he'd long since stopped dreaming about - the base desire so secret that some days he forgot it was even a possibility at all. It was like some sort of wish had been granted, but somehow before the wish had even been thought up; it was everything Ian needed, without him even knowing it.
"Yeah, buddy," Anthony's voice was different, deeper now and strained almost. Ian thought back to the other's instagram stories of social smoking in dark, foggy rooms, and it all seemed to puzzle together, "it's me." His smile was warm and familiar, placed on an older, stubbled face, his hands reaching out openly. Everything was one big oxymoron and Ian didn't quite know how to interpret it as he held him close, inhaling the foreign scent of burnt wood and nicotine. Little did he know how familiar that smell would soon become.
"D'you wanna come in?" He'd asked timidly, welcoming the taller man into his home, gesturing simply with his arm. He wanted to say something more, but he couldn't find any words inside himself that made much sense at all. He didn't want to risk sounding stupid, to fuck it up. He didn't want Anthony to just turn around and walk away, to leave again. It had already been seven years, he didn't know if he could take any more - not now that the possibility of something other had been dangled in front of him.
Anthony had walked in, removing his toggled coat and hanging it in the hallway so naturally, like it was his own home and he'd only been away for a day's work or two. It was like he owned the place. His shoes came off next, shirked beside Ian's own, resting by the mottled skirting board, around a metre from the matted front door mat. How did he know exactly what to do, how did he know exactly how to not break the routines Ian had painstakingly set out for himself?
It was like it was meant to be.
The two soon found themselves relaxing, laughing and reminiscing on old memories, days held fondly but only in their minds. They drank whiskey and smoked cigars and just... were. In time, it became it's own routine, one not based on necessity this time, but based on love and freedom. It wasn't there to make everything okay, but everything was okay because it was there. They were reconnecting, they were two hearts as one, they were together again.
These old rhythms weren't to be hidden though, they were produced to be celebrated, to be sung out from rooftops and broadcast all across the world. It was nice just being them for a little while, in their own little makeshift world of memories and nostalgia, but eventually they knew that they had to share the news. They had to do the thing - they had to *be* smosh again.
They prepared for far longer than they should've, writing speeches and performing mock-interviews with hairbrushes and spatulas well into the early hours of the mornings. It felt like 2005 again, but with an almost ofputting film of fear and loathing clinging to the surface. Ian was terrified - petrified even, and yet he knew that whatever he felt must be ten times as passionate and burning inside of Anthony. Ian wondered if they'd accept Anthony back, if they'd be mad at him for leaving all those years ago, mad at him for not just seeing it through for another few years. He tried to reason, but the angry thoughts did nought but nip at him through the nights, keeping him tossing and turning for hours on end, ripping like razors through his brain.
In the end though, he'd worried for nothing. He was glad, even if he felt a bit stupid. Of course everyone loved Anthony - they loved that they were free and independent - they loved the changes, the vibe. They even said they loved the way *he'd* changed.
"What do you mean?" Ian asked, cocking his head to the side, watching the way Chanse rolled his biblically accurate eyes back into his head before looking pointedly at Angela - the one who had made the comment in the first place, hand on his hip, foot tapping the floor expectantly.
She'd smiled, her choppy voice confidently ringing out, even if her facial expressions betrayed her a little - "You look loads happier, dad!" She grinned, all teeth, and Arasha grinned too, squeezing his arm, and Ian thought for a second or two before coming to the conclusion that - yeah, life definitely was a lot happier now. They'd carried on with the party for hours after that, dancing and vibing and just generally having a good time. The cast and crew was as one, and that one was unstoppable.
They churned out sketch after sketch, challenges, games, flashbacks, podcasts, livestreams - they made more content that Ian could even stand to remember. It was a whirlwind of good to great to amazing, and their big live show in May only acted to top it all off. They were on top of the world, they were finally bringing in the views they'd all dreamt of. They were a team who truly loved one another as they hugged eachother close in the heat of the grand finale, studio lights blaring, whispering words of encouragement in one another's ears. They were truly unstoppable.
He should've known better though. Good, happy things can't really last forever, and unstoppable *definitely* is hyperbolic. He'd learnt that back in 2017, and now he was learning it again, sitting against the off-white wall of his doctor's office in 2024. His mouth was dry, his eyes streaming tears that he never even remembered letting fall. The world played in slow motion, followed by fast forward - everything was wrong and made no sense, this wasn't what was supposed to happen. Was this the end?
He'd denied at first, hidden it and pretended it wasn't true - after all, he felt fine enough. And then he started to get properly sick and it all just suddenly felt so real. He had a year to live. Approximately. The doctor had been crystal clear with that last word - there were no promises that Ian would still be here even three months later.
But three months later is when the people around him first began to notice, even if he wasn't quite dead yet.
"Are you okay man?" That had been Shayne, his face serious and deep-thinking, a jaded juxtaposition to his on-screen persona. It was a Tuesday, and they'd been in the middle of a shoot.
"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?!" Ian was quick to defend, to dig his claws in as quickly as possible at the first sign of attack. He didn't want them to know, he didn't want their pity, their sad looks, their *support*. He just wanted to sit with his friends on the new games sofa and smile softly at them as they cracked jokes and laughed about how the fans would be on at them for not taking their shoes off again. He wanted to enjoy the little moments, even if only for a short while longer.
"I don't know, maybe the fact that you're chucking up blood?!" Shayne stared at him, eyes wide as saucers, and Ian stared back, moving backwards from the toilet seat. He'd run off halfway through the shoot, segwaying straight to the bathroom. He wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his ever-growing hoodie... or maybe it was him who was shrinking.
Oh yeah. No point in hiding it now.
"What's going on?" Shayne asked, voice once again calm and collected. Ian envied the way Shayne could do that - could put aside his own fears for someone else's comfort so easily. He squatted on the floor, eyes sympathetic yet strong, waiting for Ian to make the first move.
"It's-" He stuttered over his words, feeling the congealed blood on his lips, on his gums, feeling the heavy ache of his jaw as he spoke, "it's not what you think!" There was a sense of urgency to his voice. He *needed* Shayne to believe him, he *needed* to believe himself.
Shayne's lip quirked, "And what do I *think* it is?" He leant back, his huge arms flexing slightly.
Ian sighed.
"I have nine months left."
"Jesus, man."
Shayne didn't tell anyone. Even Courtney. And although Ian's heart ached and he hated the thought of making the couple keep secrets from one another, he couldn't bring himself to let anyone else know. He'd take it to the grave if he could; he didn't want to cause unnecessary hurt. He feared being perceived in any way but that which others already knew. He wanted to be the strong leader, the fearless father. He couldn't be either of those if he was dying.
Two months after that, Ian was sitting by Anthony once again, this time at Anthony's place instead of his own, their whiskey glasses half empty, ice melting to water as they lay forgotten, cast aside. Their feet rested on wicker footrests, arms brushing against one another's with teenage curiosity. Ian was full of a false confidence that he'd later blame on the warm alcohol coursing through his veins. His head was all swimmy, everything dancing in front of his eyes like a melting oil painting. He remembered hearing Anthony ask him if he was alright, he remembered watching the terrifying tango of light against dark, fireflies against nightmares.
And then he was on the floor.
Anthony had screamed, and Ian's eyes had rolled back into his head. The world no longer danced, it slept. And Ian's body came alive as if possessed.
There was a storm of flashing lights and moving bodies, everything moving so quickly. Passionately.
Then two hours later, it was Anthony who sat in the living room contemplating. Alone. The weight of his treacherous and non-committal past hovering all-seeing in the air of his small apartment, a tangible presence that seemed to cling to every surface like a demon-in-wait. Each tiny object, from the worn-down patchwork armchair in the corner, to the half-empty glasses of whiskey with no ice remaining, buzzed and hummed with an aura of mystery. They whispered soliloquies of his life before he returned to Ian - his life filled with restlessness and the insatiable need to escape. He wanted them to stop. He wanted to be able to sit in his own home and feel comforted in his decisions - to feel like he'd made the right choice in restarting his old life. To be able to forget that he'd ever abandoned the ones he loved for his own self-preservation.
The rain outside had just turned to a gentle patter, the drops on the window now languidly meandering rather than racing. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of Ian's seizure. It was a stark contrast to the whirlwind of Anthony's thoughts.
Ian now lay still on the living room carpet, eerie as a corpse, the way he always slept. A soft snore escaped his lips, and Anthony smiled gently; old habits don't die quite so easily. The paramedics had come and gone, Ian had woken briefly and fallen back into a fitful sleep. He'd been conscious just long enough to protest going with them - just long enough to stop Anthony's fretting mind from feeling comforted. The colour had begun to return to his cheeks for the first time in months, the fear and darkness in his eyes covered by his heavy lids.
Anthony slid himself forwards and onto the spiral rug, his knees resting by Ian's shoulders, his heart racing in time with the storm outside. He hadn't known what to do when Ian had first gone down. He hadn't known what to do for a long time actually. It was the first time he'd ever seen a seizure, and now the sordid experience was forever etched into his memories.
His tattooed hand trembled as he reached for Ian's softer one, his equally icy fingers remaining dead to the touch. He squeezed tightly, willing everything to be okay.
If only he'd known how little his will had influence over the wicked and wretched whims of the world.
Ian had sighed in relief when he at last woke up, the chills of early morning causing his body to rattle and shake with cold. Anthony had wordlessly pulled out a fleece blanket, draping it around Ian's shoulders like a doting mother, and Ian for the first time in a while, realised that he rather liked being taken care of.
Still, he remained stoic in his ideology. Anthony was not to know - it'd only ruin the good things blossoming between them. Ian smiled slightly as he thought of the lingering glances the two had been enacting lately when they thought the other wasn't watching, the hugs they shared getting longer and longer, deeper and deeper. Ian could practically smell that scent of burnt wood and nicotine on himself most days.
"What're you smiling about?"
Oh yeah. He'd have to explain something to appease Anthony.
"You properly scared me man - I thought you were dying or something!"
If only Anthony had known how right he was.
Ian was 100% of the opinion that it must've been something subconscious inside of Anthony, forcing him to believe the lies he proceeded to feed him that night. He assured him that everything was fine - it was a lack of sleep, and yes, he'd make sure to rest properly now. He felt bad for lying, but he knew that it was for the best. Smosh was bigger and better than ever, and Ian didn't want to be the one to fuck it all up.
Anthony had hugged him good night, arms tight round his middle, before walking him to the guest room, all the whilst moaning in jest about waiting up for him. Ian said thank you more times than he could remember, and just before the two turned round to head their separate ways, Anthony placed his quivering hand gently on Ian's shoulder.
"Please," his face was soft, but eyes serious and staring, a hidden hurt rising to the surface, "promise me you'd tell me if something was wrong?" He had an air of fragility about himself that Ian had only seen thrice in him before before: when his grandma had died, when he'd been ill during high school, and for the short while before he'd left smosh.
He'd hummed in response, not quite being able to fully commit to the all-important lie now that Anthony's tearful eyes were a part of the equation. He'd turned around and marched down the landing to the guest bedroom, not sparing so much as a glance backwards to where he was sure Anthony still lingered, unspoken words and thoughts wracking his mind. Anthony knew something was up. Anthony knew.
Anthony *knew*.
The next morning had been awkward, Ian grabbing his bags and darting out of the door before Anthony could so much as offer a lift to work. He couldn't face him - couldn't keep up the lie any longer. He had to tell him, had to be there for him, to comfort him and hold him close and tell him everything would be okay. Maybe that could be their new lie, one that they could practice and preach together instead. He couldn't bare to spend another moment with him at that time - the vicious lies festering in the air around them, threatening to ruin all that they had built.
It was two nights later that Ian set his grand plan into motion. It was his first opportunity to think of anything but the flashing 'call in-progress' screen of his phone, and the still off-white walls of his doctors office where he'd spent the past few days. He sat cross-legged on the floor of his cluttered office, surrounded by half-full plastic cups from all of the matcha lattes Erin had been ordering for him lately. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to finish one, and the state of his office brazenly told such a tale also. The clock ticked at a metronimic pace, the second hand creating a blur of red as it whizzed past the other hands time and time again. Late afternoon turned into evening, into night, until eventually it chimed three am and Ian began to question why exactly he had chosen to stay at the office so late.
He rubbed his eyes, feeling the all too familiar exhaustion take hold of every inch of his frail body. It was mostly dark, his glasses reflecting the pale light eminating from his laptop back at him, casting a cold blue glow across the room to offset the striking blackness. His fingers danced across the keyboard fluidly, typing out words that seemed to hold a forbidden weight to them. They were the kind of words one couldn't say out loud - the kind of words that made him stutter and blush and struggle to articulate, reverting him back to that sad, scared little boy he'd been all those years ago. Pre-Anthony.
He sat in that room for longer than he needed, making sure that everything was good and proper. If he was going to do this, he needed to do it right.
With a final wavering click, he printed his macabre masterpiece, giving the two double sides of a4 one last proofread before he folded them once down the middle and slid them into a manila envelope. He'd stolen it from a new packet on Selina's desk that morning, hoping that no one would notice. He doubted anyone would care regardless, yet his whirring worries still harmonised with the mechanical clicking of the printer. He pressed the top of a ball-point pen, letting the resounding click resonate around the empty office, filling the sleeping building with a tiny pop of life. He put pen to paper and wrote.
'Anthony'
With that, he stood up, stretching his aching back and legs as he took one last lingering look around the room. He'd been doing that lately - treating every experience as if it could be his last. It often filled him with a melancholic and cathartic sense of peace that he had never before experienced, nor heard, put into words. He felt ethereal, free, like he was finally ready to part with the material world. It was odd, and Ian didn't know quite why.
His eyes caught on Courtney's wall of Polaroid photos, his gaze lingering on each one for longer than they perhaps would've ordinarily. He was enthralled by the stills of life, and the beauty that they provided - the candid of Shayne laughing, the posed shot of Chanse and Angela sticking their tongues out at the camera, and at last the one of Anthony and him. Anthony was handsome as ever, and Ian was healthier, his eyes less sunken and cheeks less sallow. It was the day they'd announced they were buying smosh back, and he remembered the buzzing excitement of that day, streamers popping and pink frosted sprinkle doughnuts being laid out on the desks in their dozens. He remembered Angela calling him dad, Arasha leaning on him as she'd bent over in laughter, Keith chiding them for keeping it a secret for so long, huge grin covering two-thirds of his face. They'd been a real family for the first time in forever. Ian hated that he was betraying that bond, he hated that he was taking it all for granted.
He walked a little further, finding Anthony's makeshift desk pushed against the wall. He was only supposed to be there temporarily, just until they'd fixed him a proper office. It had never happened, everyone being too busy all the time, but Ian surmised in that moment that Anthony could just have his soon enough - it wasn't like he'd be needing it for much longer. He placed the letter on the desk, hesitating for a moment or two, hand hovering just above the table. He knew that once he let go, that he couldn't take it back. They'd never be able to go back to the way things were in that beautiful moment from Courtney's photograph. They'd never be smosh, as everyone knew it, again. He swallowed, letting go and tilting his head backwards. He needed to know. He needed to know that Ian trusted him.
The next morning, everything had felt somehow different. Even though nothing had really changed at all, Ian still felt that something was fundamentally wrong. He kept his head down as he walked into work that day, scared that everyone suddenly knew - that they were all watching and laughing, whispering and gossiping. That part was nothing put the paranoid ramblings of his infested mind, but the former soon confirmed itself as founded, as Anthony barrelled into his office, eyes wide, thumbed letter clutched in his waving hands.
"What the fuck?!" He all but screamed, top button undone, arms gesticulating wildly. He looked like a madman, a person seconds away from doing something they'd regret for the rest of their lives. He looked broken in a way that only years of therapy could help.
Ian didn't respond, only looking down.
"Ian I swear to god - this better be a bit or something!" He clearly knew it wasn't a bit - clearly knew that the world was collapsing in on them by the moment, but he hung on for dear life to the unobtainable idea that perhaps it could all be reversed, undone. He continued, his foot moving from where it previously stood, holding the door open. The door slammed shut behind him, and Ian came to the horrific conclusion that the whole goddamn office would've just heard Anthony's screams.
Ian looked up slowly, still not meeting Anthony's eyes, instead choosing to count the squares in his checked shirt in his aimless desperation. "Not a very funny bit, is it?" He murmured, words sluggish and claggy as they clung to his throat, not quite ready to come out yet. Why did he have to make everything into some sort of stupid joke - why couldn't he just admit it?!
Anthony looked close to tears, like a man teetering on the edge. Ian felt his heart collapsing - he had caused that. "Why-" He stopped himself, throat similarly closing up around his voice, his cheeks painted red, eyelashes clinging together with wetness, "How- How did I not notice?!" Of course he was blaming himself for not seeing the signs - he was just that sort of guy. Ian felt sick, his stomach contracting around itself, butterflies flitting and floating about, insides stinging like someone had just injected him with acid. Why did Anthony have to be so *good*?! So... Anthony?
"Subtlety isnt normally my jam, you know, autism and all." Ian cursed his stupid brain. He felt the strongest emotions coursing through his veins, and yet all he could do was joke, a nervous smile finding it's way onto his face. This is why he'd written the letter - he'd been able to pour his heart out, put everything he truly thought without everything going wrong. In the moment, he regretted every word he spoke. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Anthony choked back a sob, pushing his hand against his mouth to quell another one. "Is this all a game to you?!" He sounded outraged as he began to shake - or perhaps he'd been shaking all along. He finally let go, tears rushing down his scarlet cheeks, caressing his lips and collecting in puddles in the divot of his chin, "Is that why you didn't tell me?! Was it all part of your sick and twisted plan?!" He didn't mean it, and perhaps they both knew that deep down, but in the moment the air grew stale around them, tension gripping onto every inch of their bodies, causing them to repel eachother like magnets - destined to never be together, unable to spend even a second more in close proximity.
Ian didn't trust himself to speak another word. He didn't trust himself to not ruin everything, to not make Anthony somehow hate him even more. He stood there dazed for a moment or two, before reaching his arms out towards the taller man, much the same way that his friend had done that first night they'd reunited. He didn't quite know what he'd expected, but Anthony briskly pushing him away was not it. He gasped, the fractured sound piercing the air, as Anthony turned his back, reaching for the door handle. He'd never forget the hurt glint in his friend's eyes, the catatonic glaze to his actions. Now was his chance to say something - to make things right - to say sorry a thousand times. He said nothing. He just stood and watched, dumbfounded as Anthony left, leaving behind him an aura of discomfort. Of treachery. "Fuck." Ian whispered to himself softly, feeling his arms go limp as he rested his aching head against his office wall, thoughts muddling and mixing into a murky mess of mayhem. Everything was wrong - this was *not* what he had intended at all.
The sun set slowly for Ian that day, the key turned in the scratched lock of his office door, barricaded away from the outside world. He couldn't face anyone, not now, not ever. He wished he could just drop dead there and then, skip out the middle man, skip out the few pain-filled months he was due. The sky turned from a quiet blue, to dark amber, to purple, and Ian didn't so much as move an inch, feeling the hard plastic of his chair digging into every inch of his slouched body.
Anthony cried. He cried harder than ever before, he too locked away in solace as he hid in the furthest toilet cubicle. He didn't have an office to call his own, he didn't have much of anything anymore it turned out.
His slumped shoulders heaved as he leant forwards, elbows resting on his knees, all folded up, making himself as small as humanly possible. All of that yoga had been good for something after all. The deafening echo of his sobs bounced off the walls, his dark eyes a blur of tears, his chest aching like he'd just been stabbed a thousand times. The office outside was a hive of activity, dancing a frantic foxtrot of productivity, but in the toilets, it was just him and his sordid grief. The crumpled paper in his pocket was a silent witness to his state - to the facts he was trying so hard to comprehend and process. The facts that brought him to his knees, begging and praying to a god he'd never once before even considered as real.
At one point, a quiet pair of footsteps approached, paired wifh the metallic clang of the tap being turned on, water flowing. They pierced through the lonely atmosphere Anthony had created. He tried his hardest to still his haywire breathing, to prevent himself from blubbering in front of someone else.
"Are you okay?" A voice rang out, and Anthony instantly recognised it as Shayne. He wanted to ignore it - act as if he wasn't really there, but he knew that that would just further Shayne's worry - only causing him to ask more questions in the long run.
"Yeah," he called back, his fragile voice betraying him so obviously as *not* being alright at all, "it's just hayfever." That was his time-honoured excuse stretching all the way back to his childhood. Every time things had become just a tad too hard with his mum and little brothers, he'd started to struggle with his hayfever. He'd known that no one *really* believed him, even then, but it made them stop asking questions - it gave them a box to tick, and sometimes that's all people were after.
Apparently Shayne cared more than the adults who had been paid to care when he was a child though, as he didn't get up and walk away. He didn't tut or chide or roll his eyes. He just, stayed. He heard the click of Shayne's heels against eachother before he replied again, a few painstakingly long seconds passing, "We all heard you earlier - when you shouted at Ian..." he sucked in a breath, "I know it's not my place, but-"
"I don't know what to do." Anthony blurted out, his voice overlapping Shayne's, causing the younger to stop talking, "I don't know how-" his voice cracked again, fresh tears spilling and mingling with the old ones. There were so many layers of tears at this point, that Anthony felt like one of his own oil paintings. He supposed, that he really wasn't too different - after all, he too was currently also trapped in a singular terror-filled moment for what felt like eternity.
Shayne hummed for a few beats, the monotomous sound buzzing about the room and bouncing back to him before he spoke again, "Did he tell you?" His voice was lower now, more serious than ever, as he took in the weight of the situation.
Anthony felt his cheeks heat up as he considered the idea that he could very well have been the last person to know. Is this all he meant to Ian? "That he's dying?" He asked bitterly, a stunned whistle of a laugh leaving his mouth as he spoke those words out loud for the first time. It felt ridiculous to say - how could *Ian* be dying?! He was thirty-six - he was *younger* than Anthony for god's sake! "He sent me a letter explaining everything."
Shayne didn't respond, but Anthony heard a scuffle through the door as he settled himself onto the floor outside the cubicle. He could see Shayne's hands through the gap at the bottom, along with the way his legs were crossed, soles of his shoes dust-covered and waiting.
He continued, "What am I even supposed to say to that? How am I supposed to act?" He finally was managing to voice everything he thought, even if said thoughts were all jumbled up and confusing and didn't make much sense at all. He asked as many questions as he could before his voice grew hoarse and scratchy, and his eyes finally ran out of tears to cry. And Shayne - Shayne sat and listened to every single one, like a priest in a confessional, from his precarious seat on the other side of the door.
It was a number of minutes after Anthony finally stopped talking, that Shayne finally responded. Anthony at first decided that maybe Shayne hadn't really been listening - that he'd zoned out early on, but that soon was refuted when Shayne's voice returned, soft and calculated, words silky smooth as they poured themselves into Anthony's ears. "Maybe it's less about what you say, and more about what you do. I think Ian just wants us all to treat him like normal - that's why he's keeping everything secret."
It was times like those that Anthony remembered that Shayne had a psychology degree. There were a lot of things he had needed to rediscover about his collegues and friends when he'd first come back to smosh, and now over a year later, he was still discovering things on the daily that he should've aready known. It was weird, and Anthony wasn't too sure whether he liked being in the dark or not.
"Do you think he hates me?" He couldn't help himself, the words running off his tongue before he could stop them.
"No." Shayne answered quickly, confidently "I know, for a fact, that he could never hate you." There was a slight hint of hope to his voice, and Anthony realised quickly that Shayne had started smiling, "Even when you were gone, Ian didn't hate you - he wouldn't hear anyone say anything bad about you. He loves you man, he loves you more than I think I've ever seen anyone love anything."
Anthony thought back to Shayne's wedding over half a year before, and the smiles that the newlyweds now shared daily. He thought of the way they held eachother close, sending eachother brief affirmations whenever they had the chance. It didn't sound too different to what he and Ian had. He thought back to the photographs of Courtney and Shayne at the alter, standing side by side, and imagined doing that with Ian, their shoulders rubbing against one another's with gentle gratitude.
Three weeks later, they dinally stood together, Ian subtly leaning against Anthony's side for stability, in front of the whole office. Even Olivia had flown in, the duo having requested 100% turnout. They didn't tell them everything, but they didn't need to. The announcement that they would be going on a short break, mixed with the appearance of Ian's weak and feeble body explained all they needed to know. There was not a dry eye in the building as Ian told them all goodbye, a smile forced onto his tired, tired face.
They realised that he was sick and heeded his every word, but looking back, Anthony wasn't sure whether they quite realised the true gravity. None of them knew that they wouldn't be seeing Ian again, that the loose hugs and handshakes, that he barely managed to hold himself upright for, would be the last fleeting touches Ian would ever have upon the office. Anthony remembered, all too clearly, Ian struggling as he climbed the stairs on the way out, tears glistening in his eyes, wheezing breaths crackling out of his mouth. He remembered the glassy stare, the bitten lip. Ian had nodded his head, holding his breath. He was ready to go. He was ready to leave and never go back. He was at peace.
Only a week after that, Ian looked out the kitchen window in his small ground-floor apartment, his gaze lingering on the swaying branches of the old oak tree. The leaves shimmered with the last rays of the setting sun, casting a warm glow over the garden. He took a deep breath, the scent of freshly cut grass and blooming roses filling his nose. It was a peaceful moment, the kind that seemed too perfect to shatter.
Turning away from the window, he saw the reflection of his gaunt figure in the toaster. The mirror-like finish showed his sunken cheeks and the dark circles curling under his eyes. He had lost more weight than he remembered losing, and as a result, his clothes hung loosely from his frame. He couldn't keep any food down lately, his body rejecting everything he put into it. He no longer had any kind of energy - long forgotten was that teenage boy who would show up at Anthony's house unable to sit still. Long gone were a lot of things now, so many of them zapped away by the unfairness of the world. His hair was thinning even more than before, clumps of it getting stuck in his hairbrush each morning. He felt weaker and weaker each day, and he wondered for how much longer he could possibly carry on.
Anthony had walked in then, just in time to cut short Ian's seemingly neverending ramblings, a look of concern etched on his face. Ian had been left alone with his crumbling thoughts too often over those last few weeks, his face now permanently etched into a disillusioned frown. "You okay, Ian?" he asked, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Ever since *that day*, he'd been pinned to Ian's side, not for so much as a second letting him leave his eyeline.
Ian took a moment to compose himself before turning to face his best friend. "Yeah," he lied, forcing a smile. "Just enjoying the view." He wondered how many more times he'd be able to look at those same views that he'd taken for granted for so many years. He wondered whether there'd be views like that one in the afterlife - views that reminded him of the things he'd left behind.
Anthony's eyes searched Ian's, seeing past the façade. "You know you can talk to me," he said, his voice a gentle reminder of the promise they'd made to each other as kids. Ian needed reminding of a lot of things these days - not just the emotional things, but the physical too. Anthony often found himself forcing the other to drink water and go to bed; he'd wash his hair for him over the sink, helping him onto the toilet when he realised too late that everything was leaking out of everywhere. He never felt any embarrassment or shame - Anthony wasn't even sure if Ian even remembered such emotions existed anymore.
Ian sighed heavily, his shoulders drooping, his eyes tearing themselves from the window they spent most of their time glued to. "I know." His voice was thin and raspy, his lisp he'd worked so hard to get rid of returning, "I don't have much time left." He admitted it so freely, so earnestly, as if he was saying something as simple as a restraunt order.
Anthony's world tilted. He stared at Ian, unable to process the words. Silence stretched out between them, thick and suffocating. Then, without thinking, he pulled Ian into a hug, holding him tightly as if he could somehow keep the life from slipping away. It was a hug that had been years in the making, one filled with more love and pain than any other they'd ever shared.
Ian felt faint, the room spinning around him. He leant into the embrace, his heart racing. He had so much to say, so much he wanted to confess, but the words stuck in his throat. His body and mind were broken; they weren't meant for this kind of thing anymore. Instead, he just held on, feeling the warmth of his friend's body against his own, the steady beat of his heart. It was in this moment that he finally allowed himself to acknowledge the truth that had been growing inside him for so long.
"Anthony," Ian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I love you."
Anthony's grip tightened around him, the shock of Ian's confession reverberating through his body. They had been friends for as long as he could remember, but this was something he had never expected to hear. He'd never expected Ian to admit it - to let himself be so vulnerable. He pulled back slightly to look into Ian's pale eyes, searching for any sign that this was a goodbye, a desperate attempt to ease the pain of the inevitable. But what he saw was genuine love, a love that had long been hidden behind layers of fear and doubt.
Without a word, their eyes remained locked, the gravity of the moment weighing heavily on them. Then, as if time had slowed to a crawl, their faces moved closer, and their lips met in a kiss that was tender and filled with the unspoken promises of a lifetime - no matter how short said lifetime may be. It was a kiss that had been waiting to happen, a kiss that contained all the love and longing that both Ian and Anthony had held back for so long.
Their bodies pressed together, the warmth of their embrace the only thing that seemed real in a world that had suddenly become so uncertain. The kitchen faded away into nothingness, the duo floating in a liminal space filled with all of their greatest desires - there was only the sound of their breath mingling, the soft brush of their lips, and the rapid beating of their hearts.
They lay together for the first and last time that night, their bodies pressed together in a feverish tangle of passion.
"Sometimes I wonder, how many things I've influenced just by being me." Ian let his eyes finally fall closed, sighing in relief as his pain ebbed away slightly. He marvelled at the dancing lights behind his eyelids, tracing the way they flowed and popped in almost forbidden patterns.
Anthony stared at him, not quite ready to believe what he was saying, "how'd you mean?" He asked slowly. He wasn't prepared for this like he was on his youtube channel. He hadn't spent months gathering questions and wondering about what this moment would feel like. He was a fish out of water, a child lost in a sea of uncertainty. He didn't know what to say, how to say it, how to make every moment truly count. He was angry and mad and all worked up all at once - why hadn't Ian just told him sooner?! Why hadn't he let him comfort him?!
"I wonder how many people have memories of things I've been a part of, even if I'm just a blurry image standing silently in the background?" Ian felt images of his life flash through his mind - happy moments and sad, times with Anthony and without.
"Ian, you're scaring me now."
"I wonder how many people will be upset when I die - how many people will think of those memories and smile. I hope I've made a lot of people laugh." He thought of the squad, of the games crew - the ogs: Mari, Sohinki, Lasercorn and Joven. He hoped that there was no bad blood, no unspoken emotions or upkept feuds. He thought of the new guys, their innocent eyes, the way that they could so easily helm smosh - help them to be something they'd never been before.
"You definitely have."
"I want to make them laugh even when I'm gone." Ian forced his eyelids open, letting the light behind them dim for a moment or two longer than usual. When had it become so hard to just *exist*?
He was but a pile of knobbly knees and traceable ribs beside Anthony's toned form, his body already sunken into the mattress as deep as his eyes now sunk into their sockets. He looked like a living corpse, and as he lay beside him, the unsteady rattle of his breath in Anthony's ear reminded him of one too.
"You can let go if you like," Anthony whispered, his brown eyes meeting with Ian's baby blues just like they had that first time in science class all those years ago, "you've held onto everything for so long. We can look after it for you now."
Maybe that was all Ian needed to hear. The confirmation that everything would be okay, that he wouldn't just be leaving everyone in the lurch like defy had done, like *Anthony* had done.
Ian was always the backbone of smosh. He was the protector, the number one cheerleader and fighter. Smosh was his baby, he hadn't been able to let it die.
In his final moments, Anthony liked to think Ian smiled, knowing that everything would be okay for them. They'd look after the baby, they'd honour his work. They'd make everything he'd worked hard for count for something.
Anthony lit a candle in Ian's office the next morning. He didn't have to say anything. The entire office was cold and eerily silent. They knew.
"He'd want us to smile." It was a cliché line, but true.
"He wants us to smile."