Ordinary, chapter 35
summary: Ian is diagnosed with cancer. In this chapter, he visits his mother.
warnings: gross sobbing and foul language.
rating: pg-13
Ordinary, chapter thirty five
Ian was sitting in his room on the hottest day of the year thus far, protected by the air conditioner, when his mother called. He would normally let it go to the machine, his guilt at his own impending death causing him to avoid her, but he knew what she would say, so he picked up.
"Hey, Mom!" His voice was falsely cheery.
"Hello, sweetheart!" Her bubbly, caring voice responded. "I'm so glad to hear your voice, it's been so long since we've talked."
"Yeah, I know." Ian answered, the guilt in his voice apparent for a moment. "I've just been busy with Smosh and stuff."
"Well that's okay, honey, you're working hard and making me proud." His mother said with understanding.
Ian sucked in a breath and screwed his eyes shut, trying not to let his emotions get to him. He wasn't ready to break down, not yet. "Thanks, Mom." He mumbled after a moment.
"But I hope you can take time to come over tomorrow. We have this block party every fourth of July, I'd hate for you to miss it." His mother said, full of hope.
"Of course I will, Mom, I wouldn't miss your favorite day of the year." Ian answered, distant, his eyes still closed.
"Great!" His mother didn't notice the flat tone of his voice. "I'll see you at noon tomorrow, sweetie, love you!"
"I love you too, Mom." Ian said, throat tight, and hung up the phone. He sat for a long time, completely still on his bed. The only noises to be heard were the air conditioner and Ian's weak breathing. He was not deep in thought, not struggling over a great decision. One lie before him, but thought was unnecessary, for his answer was clear; he had to tell her. He had to tell his mother he had terminal cancer.
***
It was almost twelve when Ian pulled up to a street perpendicular to the one he grew up on, the actual road barricaded with orange cones. The block party had not yet started, but their was already a lot of action in the small, normally silent neighborhood; a bouncy house was being inflated, water balloons were being filled, popcorn and cotton candy machines were preparing their treats, a piñata was being tied to a tree, paper streamers were sitting in the branches, limp from the lack of wind.
Ian knew he would be unable to have fun with all of the kids and teens in the neighborhood, as he had done every year since he was little, but a small smile came to his face as he walked down the road anyway, the cheer of the party planners and goers infectious. He found his mother in her front yard, talking to her neighbor about the amount of paper plates they had, and took a moment to compose himself. It was too hot to wear a hoodie, so his thin, pale arms were visible beneath his too big tee, and he was already sweating from the panic he had driving there. He was terrified he would be unable to drive, as he was Sunday, terrified that he would die before telling his mother he had to do so.
He took a deep breath, and stepped forward.
"Hey, Mom!" he called out, and grinned when his mother turned around and gave him a wide smile, then a little laugh of surprise when he pulled a small bundle of blue hydrangeas from behind his back, which he bought on the way over.
"Honey!" She walked to him quickly and took the flowers from him, then gave him a tight hug. His joy from the hug left him quickly, though, when he realized that she could feel how thin he was, and pulled away, hiding his sadness with another smile. His mother did not notice, and admired her flowers, calling over her neighbor, Mrs. Ryans, to show them off, and brag about Ian and his career, and remind Ian how much he missed home. Mrs. Ryans was a kind old woman, his mother's best friend, and he could clearly remember being a teenager, leaving at night in the Summer to have fun with his friends, and seeing them sitting on her porch with iced tea and gossip, a little image in his mind that made him nostalgic whenever he thought of it.
His mother, after a few minutes of small talk, pulled him away, into the house, where she chatted amiably as she put the flowers in a vase, filled it with water, and placed them in the fridge to protect them from the warm Summer air.
She then pulled him again, all throughout his house, which was full of neighbors and visitors, and then through the yard and all down the road, chattering away about Ian and everything he's done, bragging with pride and thoroughly embarrassing her only son. His sister, still in Pennsylvania, would have to be fawned over some other time.
It was around one o'clock when Ian's mother released him, to tend to the food and welcome everyone who had arrived. Ian smiled until she no longer saw him, then, worn down, went to sit on the rocking chair on Mrs. Ryans' porch. He took a few minutes to take deep breaths, gathering strength and clearing his mind. He had been numb for the past hour he'd been at the party, shutting out his feelings so he wouldn't be overcome. Now, however, it was hard not to feel a sweet sorrow as he stared out to the crowd.
A few mothers were setting up limbo across from him. One of the fathers was juggling to impress his young daughter and her friends. The girl from down the road who was about to go to college, Amy, was painting a little boy's face, while his friend stood watching and munching popcorn. A group of teenage boys were blowing up balloons in the yard, gleefully telling each other that when they finished blowing them up, they would use the helium to raise their voices. An elderly man, to whom Ian could relate, was sitting at a plastic table, rubbing his knuckles and complaining about his arthritis, before seeing his old wife approach, then laughing and removing a deck of cards from his front pocket to play with her.
All of them reminded Ian of his better times, and all of them reminded him how much beauty still survived in this world. It was over for him; he was an old man now, the oldest one there, but all of these people were lucky enough to keep going. They were going to live short lives and long ones, happy and sad, filled with different experiences. No matter what happened to those people, they would still have good lives, even if they never realized it, because they got to live in such a beautiful world. Because they helped make it beautiful.
Ian spent most of his final block party in that chair, watching kids play with maracas, jump in the bouncy house, run from water balloon fights that were more enjoyed by the teenagers and fun-loving adults. The real food started being served around five, a wide array of sandwiches, hamburgers and hot dogs, and hot Italian and Spanish food, but Ian's stomach twisted, so he ate little. He selected some watermelon before returning back to the chair, then smiled at the sight of everyone, children, teens, adults and the elderly, sit around on plastic chairs, lawns and curbs, enjoying a meal together.
He was an old man, wise with experience, knowing the wonders of the world, the wonders others could not appreciate until they were as close to death as he was. Sunlight and laughter, family and friends, Summer and flowers and blue. If everyone in the world had realized how lovely this all was before they hurt, before they hated, how peaceful it could have been.
It was nearly six when the deejay, who was playing many different types of music as to please everyone in the crowd, started playing an older song, one Ian did not recognize. A few feet away, he heard Mrs. Ryans laugh.
"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" She called to his mother, who nodded and gave a large laugh. She looked around and spotted Ian, then smiled.
"Come dance with me, sweetie!" She called out to him, and he tensed in his chair, but answered casually.
"Maybe later, Mom." he called back with a smile.
She stomped her foot playfully. "But this is such a good song! Come on, hon, just do this, and I won't make you do the Macarena."
Ian laughed and stood slowly, and his mother let out a cheer as he walked towards her and grabbed her hands. Rolling his eyes, but smiling, he danced along to the happy tune, admiring his mother's smile. He really had missed her, having so little contact with her after he discovered he had cancer that he forgot how much he loved her. She raised him and his sister, mostly on her own.
They were both successful, one of them was happy. The other was dying, but that wasn't her fault. It wasn't any person's fault.
Time sped up. He wanted the song to be longer, he wanted more time with her, with everyone. But that was impossible, and the song was over quickly, and he was out of breath and in his chair, and she was off enjoying herself with another friend. It hurt, it felt unfair. But he pushed that sadness away, and focused on enjoying the few moments he had left with her.
Night came after the cake, dancing, games of tag, truth or dare, listening to stories while making smores, watching the sunset, waiting for the fireflies. When the moths were surrounding the street lamps, and the crickets as loud as the party, the music was turned off, and the fireworks were lit. Ian stood next to his mother, watching them and the full moon light up the darkness.
He turned and looked at his mother's care worn face, illuminated by the flashes of red and gold. This was it. This would be one of the last moments she lived without knowing her son had cancer. A bright firework boomed in the sky, and her face glowed from her smile and the white light. Ian sighed sadly, and clapped with the rest of them. He would let her have that day. Just that day. And then, the next, he would break her heart.
The party dispersed slowly after the fireworks were finished. Some drove away, some retired to their houses, some stayed in the houses of the people on the block, either too tired or too drunk to drive home. Ian could recall several block parties when a drunk teen or two crashed on their couch, and was made breakfast in the morning by his mother. He would stay at his childhood home overnight as well, but in his old bedroom.
He was sitting on his bed, knowing his mother had already fallen asleep, at nearly one in the morning. Sadly, he stared at the desk across from him, neat from his mother's cleaning after he left home, but still containing loose papers and fond memories. He sighed. The room was important to him, it was the start of something. He sat at that desk and wrote ideas for videos. He and Anthony filmed in there, packaged the first T-shirts to sell in there. He grew up there, and now he was in there again, twenty four years old, and it would be his final visit.
Ian kicked off his shoes, slowly removed his shirt and jeans, and curled up in bed in just his boxers and socks. He stared blankly at the desk once more, then felt heat in his face as tears began to fall. Silently, he cried, tired and upset and afraid. He would die. He would never see the room again. He would never see his mother again. She would die after him, and his sister would sell the house and throw away their belongings, and the world would keep turning. He wanted to assume this was a good thing, the world going on, but it caused a sadness in his chest that made him ache for a reason he couldn't put into words.
***
Ian awoke early the next morning and was ill, as he usually was, but in his mother's house instead of his own. He slowly went to take a shower, his mind purposely blank; he did not want to think of what he had to do later.
His mother was in the kitchen, fiddling with the coffee maker, humming that song from yesterday. He stood at the end of the hallway, taking deep breaths, watching her last few moments of sweet unawareness. On the outside, he was strong. On the inside, he was breaking.
"Good morning, Mom." He said to her, and she turned and smiled.
"Hello, dear. Would you like some breakfast?" He wished she wasn't so loving, so caring. It only made things harder.
"No thanks. Can you sit down for a minute? I need to talk to you." Ian, attempting to keep his face neutral, motioned to the couch. His mother still smiled.
"Of course, honey." She left the coffee machine and sat on the couch, Ian trailing behind her. Slowly, he sat next to her, then positioned himself as to face her.
"Mom." He began softly, solemn. His eyes searched her face, and saw her smile fade as she figured out something was wrong. "I have cancer."
Shock, pain, and terror flashed on her face. She stared at him, completely still, then after a moment began to shake her head. She made several attempts to speak, but words failed her. At last, she forced them out, but her sadness had reeked havoc upon them. "But...but Ian...no, no, no..."
And her "no's," her protest continued as sobs escaped her, and she broke down in front of her dying son. Ian sighed, tears forming in his own eyes, as she leaned into him, and he embraced her in a hug. He could feel her shaking, tears already dampening his shirt. All Ian wanted was for all of it to stop. To just not be happening. Anything else.
He felt wrong telling her. He felt like a sadist, causing a nice old woman such harm. He felt selfish, he felt dirty. Like he had a duty to protect her from all the sadness in the world, and he failed. He felt guilty, like he shouldn't have said it. He needed to take it back. He needed to ease her pain.
"Mom? It's-it's okay." He said softly, desperately to her, still holding her. "My insurance covers a surgery for me. It looks like it's really gonna help."
She pulled back, and looked at his face, tears in his eyes, and pouring from hers. "Really?"
"Yeah." He choked out the lie. "The doctor said it's not too serious, and that the surgery's probably going to fix it. I'm having it in a few weeks."
"Oh, honey, that's wonderful news!" She smiled through her tears, hopeful. "So you're going to be okay?"
"Yeah, Mom." He said with a soft smile. "Every-everything's going to be fine. Just don't tell Anthony, okay? Not yet, I don't want him to be worried. I'll...I'll tell him myself, when the best time comes." He didn't want Anthony to find out from his mother. He didn't want him to find out at all; he could not bear to see that kind of sadness again.
She nodded. "I won't, dear, I promise, let's just thank heavens. I'm so glad you're alright. Do you want some coffee?"
"No." He said quickly, not wanting to stay and risk breaking down or accidentally confessing. "I have a lot of work to do." He lied as he stood and kissed his mother's cheek.
"Okay, honey. You'll call me before your surgery, right? I want to hear more about it." She wiped her tears and looked at him, eyes full of hope.
"Of course." He answered, throat tight.
"Good. I'll talk to you later, sweetie." She gave him a small smile.
"You too." He answered quietly, and hurried out, forcing his emotions away from him as the tears threatened to spill over. He drove home without thinking, without feeling, and found himself in his normal place once more, away from his mother and his childhood home.
He sat in his bedroom, looking around at the absence of items, most of them having been donated less than two weeks previous, but it felt like so much longer. But he would not allow himself to ponder on that sadness, for he had one more thing he had to do that day. He took out his phone, and called Anthony.
"Hello?" He picked up quickly.
"Hey, Ant, listen, I got food poisoning at the block party yesterday, I don't think I can film next week."
"Oh, man, that sucks." Ian could hear the pity and disappointment in his friend's voice. "Okay, well, let me know when you feel up to it, and we'll resume filming. I'll call the crew and tell them to take some days off."
"Thanks, man." was the only way Ian could respond, glad that Anthony bought his lie, but hurt at knowing that, in reality, he was just too sick to be with the crew anymore.
"It's no problem, Ian." He hesitated. "I just want you to be okay."
Ian was silent, not sure how to respond. Anthony was concerned, no doubt because of his low blood pressure, but he couldn't lie, he couldn't say he was okay. He just couldn't.
"I gotta go, okay? Get better." Anthony said after a moment of silence.
"Bye." Ian said flatly, the only thing he could.
"Bye." Anthony hung up.
Ian was a mess of thoughts and feelings, but was sick and weak, and spent the rest of that day, and the day following, alone in bed. No visitors, no texts or calls, just the faint rustling of Charlie in his cage and the hum of the air conditioner. Outside, the days were warm and vibrant, similar to the weather while filming the last Lunchtime with Smosh, days Ian could only appreciate from the view from his window. He was detached from the rest of the world, shunned in a loneliness he hated, just to save his family some pain, just to save himself some pity. But by then, the loneliness, the detachment, would have been the same, whether surrounded by loved ones or not. And he was starting to realize it.
A/N: Hey everyone, we're getting close to the end, so I was wondering, would you guys like me to post the synopsis and soundtrack? The soundtrack is something I used to do in a creative writing class, where we took the important moments of the story and matched them to already existing songs, and the synopsis is the basic plot I wrote out prior to writing the entire story, which is a bit boring, but it also includes symbolism, themes, and basic backgrounds of Kris and Marrow (not written out like a story, just to let you know what happened in their lives). Let me know if you would like that.
warnings: gross sobbing and foul language.
rating: pg-13
Ordinary, chapter thirty five
Ian was sitting in his room on the hottest day of the year thus far, protected by the air conditioner, when his mother called. He would normally let it go to the machine, his guilt at his own impending death causing him to avoid her, but he knew what she would say, so he picked up.
"Hey, Mom!" His voice was falsely cheery.
"Hello, sweetheart!" Her bubbly, caring voice responded. "I'm so glad to hear your voice, it's been so long since we've talked."
"Yeah, I know." Ian answered, the guilt in his voice apparent for a moment. "I've just been busy with Smosh and stuff."
"Well that's okay, honey, you're working hard and making me proud." His mother said with understanding.
Ian sucked in a breath and screwed his eyes shut, trying not to let his emotions get to him. He wasn't ready to break down, not yet. "Thanks, Mom." He mumbled after a moment.
"But I hope you can take time to come over tomorrow. We have this block party every fourth of July, I'd hate for you to miss it." His mother said, full of hope.
"Of course I will, Mom, I wouldn't miss your favorite day of the year." Ian answered, distant, his eyes still closed.
"Great!" His mother didn't notice the flat tone of his voice. "I'll see you at noon tomorrow, sweetie, love you!"
"I love you too, Mom." Ian said, throat tight, and hung up the phone. He sat for a long time, completely still on his bed. The only noises to be heard were the air conditioner and Ian's weak breathing. He was not deep in thought, not struggling over a great decision. One lie before him, but thought was unnecessary, for his answer was clear; he had to tell her. He had to tell his mother he had terminal cancer.
***
It was almost twelve when Ian pulled up to a street perpendicular to the one he grew up on, the actual road barricaded with orange cones. The block party had not yet started, but their was already a lot of action in the small, normally silent neighborhood; a bouncy house was being inflated, water balloons were being filled, popcorn and cotton candy machines were preparing their treats, a piñata was being tied to a tree, paper streamers were sitting in the branches, limp from the lack of wind.
Ian knew he would be unable to have fun with all of the kids and teens in the neighborhood, as he had done every year since he was little, but a small smile came to his face as he walked down the road anyway, the cheer of the party planners and goers infectious. He found his mother in her front yard, talking to her neighbor about the amount of paper plates they had, and took a moment to compose himself. It was too hot to wear a hoodie, so his thin, pale arms were visible beneath his too big tee, and he was already sweating from the panic he had driving there. He was terrified he would be unable to drive, as he was Sunday, terrified that he would die before telling his mother he had to do so.
He took a deep breath, and stepped forward.
"Hey, Mom!" he called out, and grinned when his mother turned around and gave him a wide smile, then a little laugh of surprise when he pulled a small bundle of blue hydrangeas from behind his back, which he bought on the way over.
"Honey!" She walked to him quickly and took the flowers from him, then gave him a tight hug. His joy from the hug left him quickly, though, when he realized that she could feel how thin he was, and pulled away, hiding his sadness with another smile. His mother did not notice, and admired her flowers, calling over her neighbor, Mrs. Ryans, to show them off, and brag about Ian and his career, and remind Ian how much he missed home. Mrs. Ryans was a kind old woman, his mother's best friend, and he could clearly remember being a teenager, leaving at night in the Summer to have fun with his friends, and seeing them sitting on her porch with iced tea and gossip, a little image in his mind that made him nostalgic whenever he thought of it.
His mother, after a few minutes of small talk, pulled him away, into the house, where she chatted amiably as she put the flowers in a vase, filled it with water, and placed them in the fridge to protect them from the warm Summer air.
She then pulled him again, all throughout his house, which was full of neighbors and visitors, and then through the yard and all down the road, chattering away about Ian and everything he's done, bragging with pride and thoroughly embarrassing her only son. His sister, still in Pennsylvania, would have to be fawned over some other time.
It was around one o'clock when Ian's mother released him, to tend to the food and welcome everyone who had arrived. Ian smiled until she no longer saw him, then, worn down, went to sit on the rocking chair on Mrs. Ryans' porch. He took a few minutes to take deep breaths, gathering strength and clearing his mind. He had been numb for the past hour he'd been at the party, shutting out his feelings so he wouldn't be overcome. Now, however, it was hard not to feel a sweet sorrow as he stared out to the crowd.
A few mothers were setting up limbo across from him. One of the fathers was juggling to impress his young daughter and her friends. The girl from down the road who was about to go to college, Amy, was painting a little boy's face, while his friend stood watching and munching popcorn. A group of teenage boys were blowing up balloons in the yard, gleefully telling each other that when they finished blowing them up, they would use the helium to raise their voices. An elderly man, to whom Ian could relate, was sitting at a plastic table, rubbing his knuckles and complaining about his arthritis, before seeing his old wife approach, then laughing and removing a deck of cards from his front pocket to play with her.
All of them reminded Ian of his better times, and all of them reminded him how much beauty still survived in this world. It was over for him; he was an old man now, the oldest one there, but all of these people were lucky enough to keep going. They were going to live short lives and long ones, happy and sad, filled with different experiences. No matter what happened to those people, they would still have good lives, even if they never realized it, because they got to live in such a beautiful world. Because they helped make it beautiful.
Ian spent most of his final block party in that chair, watching kids play with maracas, jump in the bouncy house, run from water balloon fights that were more enjoyed by the teenagers and fun-loving adults. The real food started being served around five, a wide array of sandwiches, hamburgers and hot dogs, and hot Italian and Spanish food, but Ian's stomach twisted, so he ate little. He selected some watermelon before returning back to the chair, then smiled at the sight of everyone, children, teens, adults and the elderly, sit around on plastic chairs, lawns and curbs, enjoying a meal together.
He was an old man, wise with experience, knowing the wonders of the world, the wonders others could not appreciate until they were as close to death as he was. Sunlight and laughter, family and friends, Summer and flowers and blue. If everyone in the world had realized how lovely this all was before they hurt, before they hated, how peaceful it could have been.
It was nearly six when the deejay, who was playing many different types of music as to please everyone in the crowd, started playing an older song, one Ian did not recognize. A few feet away, he heard Mrs. Ryans laugh.
"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" She called to his mother, who nodded and gave a large laugh. She looked around and spotted Ian, then smiled.
"Come dance with me, sweetie!" She called out to him, and he tensed in his chair, but answered casually.
"Maybe later, Mom." he called back with a smile.
She stomped her foot playfully. "But this is such a good song! Come on, hon, just do this, and I won't make you do the Macarena."
Ian laughed and stood slowly, and his mother let out a cheer as he walked towards her and grabbed her hands. Rolling his eyes, but smiling, he danced along to the happy tune, admiring his mother's smile. He really had missed her, having so little contact with her after he discovered he had cancer that he forgot how much he loved her. She raised him and his sister, mostly on her own.
They were both successful, one of them was happy. The other was dying, but that wasn't her fault. It wasn't any person's fault.
Time sped up. He wanted the song to be longer, he wanted more time with her, with everyone. But that was impossible, and the song was over quickly, and he was out of breath and in his chair, and she was off enjoying herself with another friend. It hurt, it felt unfair. But he pushed that sadness away, and focused on enjoying the few moments he had left with her.
Night came after the cake, dancing, games of tag, truth or dare, listening to stories while making smores, watching the sunset, waiting for the fireflies. When the moths were surrounding the street lamps, and the crickets as loud as the party, the music was turned off, and the fireworks were lit. Ian stood next to his mother, watching them and the full moon light up the darkness.
He turned and looked at his mother's care worn face, illuminated by the flashes of red and gold. This was it. This would be one of the last moments she lived without knowing her son had cancer. A bright firework boomed in the sky, and her face glowed from her smile and the white light. Ian sighed sadly, and clapped with the rest of them. He would let her have that day. Just that day. And then, the next, he would break her heart.
The party dispersed slowly after the fireworks were finished. Some drove away, some retired to their houses, some stayed in the houses of the people on the block, either too tired or too drunk to drive home. Ian could recall several block parties when a drunk teen or two crashed on their couch, and was made breakfast in the morning by his mother. He would stay at his childhood home overnight as well, but in his old bedroom.
He was sitting on his bed, knowing his mother had already fallen asleep, at nearly one in the morning. Sadly, he stared at the desk across from him, neat from his mother's cleaning after he left home, but still containing loose papers and fond memories. He sighed. The room was important to him, it was the start of something. He sat at that desk and wrote ideas for videos. He and Anthony filmed in there, packaged the first T-shirts to sell in there. He grew up there, and now he was in there again, twenty four years old, and it would be his final visit.
Ian kicked off his shoes, slowly removed his shirt and jeans, and curled up in bed in just his boxers and socks. He stared blankly at the desk once more, then felt heat in his face as tears began to fall. Silently, he cried, tired and upset and afraid. He would die. He would never see the room again. He would never see his mother again. She would die after him, and his sister would sell the house and throw away their belongings, and the world would keep turning. He wanted to assume this was a good thing, the world going on, but it caused a sadness in his chest that made him ache for a reason he couldn't put into words.
***
Ian awoke early the next morning and was ill, as he usually was, but in his mother's house instead of his own. He slowly went to take a shower, his mind purposely blank; he did not want to think of what he had to do later.
His mother was in the kitchen, fiddling with the coffee maker, humming that song from yesterday. He stood at the end of the hallway, taking deep breaths, watching her last few moments of sweet unawareness. On the outside, he was strong. On the inside, he was breaking.
"Good morning, Mom." He said to her, and she turned and smiled.
"Hello, dear. Would you like some breakfast?" He wished she wasn't so loving, so caring. It only made things harder.
"No thanks. Can you sit down for a minute? I need to talk to you." Ian, attempting to keep his face neutral, motioned to the couch. His mother still smiled.
"Of course, honey." She left the coffee machine and sat on the couch, Ian trailing behind her. Slowly, he sat next to her, then positioned himself as to face her.
"Mom." He began softly, solemn. His eyes searched her face, and saw her smile fade as she figured out something was wrong. "I have cancer."
Shock, pain, and terror flashed on her face. She stared at him, completely still, then after a moment began to shake her head. She made several attempts to speak, but words failed her. At last, she forced them out, but her sadness had reeked havoc upon them. "But...but Ian...no, no, no..."
And her "no's," her protest continued as sobs escaped her, and she broke down in front of her dying son. Ian sighed, tears forming in his own eyes, as she leaned into him, and he embraced her in a hug. He could feel her shaking, tears already dampening his shirt. All Ian wanted was for all of it to stop. To just not be happening. Anything else.
He felt wrong telling her. He felt like a sadist, causing a nice old woman such harm. He felt selfish, he felt dirty. Like he had a duty to protect her from all the sadness in the world, and he failed. He felt guilty, like he shouldn't have said it. He needed to take it back. He needed to ease her pain.
"Mom? It's-it's okay." He said softly, desperately to her, still holding her. "My insurance covers a surgery for me. It looks like it's really gonna help."
She pulled back, and looked at his face, tears in his eyes, and pouring from hers. "Really?"
"Yeah." He choked out the lie. "The doctor said it's not too serious, and that the surgery's probably going to fix it. I'm having it in a few weeks."
"Oh, honey, that's wonderful news!" She smiled through her tears, hopeful. "So you're going to be okay?"
"Yeah, Mom." He said with a soft smile. "Every-everything's going to be fine. Just don't tell Anthony, okay? Not yet, I don't want him to be worried. I'll...I'll tell him myself, when the best time comes." He didn't want Anthony to find out from his mother. He didn't want him to find out at all; he could not bear to see that kind of sadness again.
She nodded. "I won't, dear, I promise, let's just thank heavens. I'm so glad you're alright. Do you want some coffee?"
"No." He said quickly, not wanting to stay and risk breaking down or accidentally confessing. "I have a lot of work to do." He lied as he stood and kissed his mother's cheek.
"Okay, honey. You'll call me before your surgery, right? I want to hear more about it." She wiped her tears and looked at him, eyes full of hope.
"Of course." He answered, throat tight.
"Good. I'll talk to you later, sweetie." She gave him a small smile.
"You too." He answered quietly, and hurried out, forcing his emotions away from him as the tears threatened to spill over. He drove home without thinking, without feeling, and found himself in his normal place once more, away from his mother and his childhood home.
He sat in his bedroom, looking around at the absence of items, most of them having been donated less than two weeks previous, but it felt like so much longer. But he would not allow himself to ponder on that sadness, for he had one more thing he had to do that day. He took out his phone, and called Anthony.
"Hello?" He picked up quickly.
"Hey, Ant, listen, I got food poisoning at the block party yesterday, I don't think I can film next week."
"Oh, man, that sucks." Ian could hear the pity and disappointment in his friend's voice. "Okay, well, let me know when you feel up to it, and we'll resume filming. I'll call the crew and tell them to take some days off."
"Thanks, man." was the only way Ian could respond, glad that Anthony bought his lie, but hurt at knowing that, in reality, he was just too sick to be with the crew anymore.
"It's no problem, Ian." He hesitated. "I just want you to be okay."
Ian was silent, not sure how to respond. Anthony was concerned, no doubt because of his low blood pressure, but he couldn't lie, he couldn't say he was okay. He just couldn't.
"I gotta go, okay? Get better." Anthony said after a moment of silence.
"Bye." Ian said flatly, the only thing he could.
"Bye." Anthony hung up.
Ian was a mess of thoughts and feelings, but was sick and weak, and spent the rest of that day, and the day following, alone in bed. No visitors, no texts or calls, just the faint rustling of Charlie in his cage and the hum of the air conditioner. Outside, the days were warm and vibrant, similar to the weather while filming the last Lunchtime with Smosh, days Ian could only appreciate from the view from his window. He was detached from the rest of the world, shunned in a loneliness he hated, just to save his family some pain, just to save himself some pity. But by then, the loneliness, the detachment, would have been the same, whether surrounded by loved ones or not. And he was starting to realize it.
A/N: Hey everyone, we're getting close to the end, so I was wondering, would you guys like me to post the synopsis and soundtrack? The soundtrack is something I used to do in a creative writing class, where we took the important moments of the story and matched them to already existing songs, and the synopsis is the basic plot I wrote out prior to writing the entire story, which is a bit boring, but it also includes symbolism, themes, and basic backgrounds of Kris and Marrow (not written out like a story, just to let you know what happened in their lives). Let me know if you would like that.