SMOSH FIC: What It Was Before (Chapter 1)
Title: What It Was Before (Chapter 1)
Ratng: PG-13 (NC-17 later chapters)
Pairings: Ian/Anthony, Anthony/OC
Genre/Warnings: Angst, OOC, Drama
Summary: Ian comes out of a coma caused by a car accident to find himself feeling like a stranger in his own life. Anthony struggles with the idea that his best friend had almost died.
Ian broke a plate.
“I’m okay,” he told Anthony who was there the instant the sound of ceramic glass shattered throughout the quiet home. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it, man.”
It was suffocating but Anthony refused to let Ian pick up the broken pieces, only swatted his hand away and told Ian to sit at the table. “I’ll get the food. You just wait.”
Ian almost limped into the mess of what used to be a plate but Anthony’s hand gripped his good ankle in midair. It was a hard strong hold. It was times like these that Ian wondered if things were always like this. He wondered if Anthony had always been so angry and frustrated with Ian. He wondered when Anthony would look at him with something other than furrowed brows and sad eyes.
“Are you sure you can do it this time?” Anthony asked, sitting beside Ian and placing their meals on the table. There was a hint of doubt in Anthony's voice and Ian knew it wasn't intentional but it was bitter to swallow.
“I’m fine, Anthony,” Ian said between gritted teeth. “Just- I can do it.” It was difficult but Ian managed to wrap his fingers around the fork. He lifted it up but the utensil slipped between his rigid fingers, clanging hard against the wood table. Anthony managed to pick it up before it fell to the floor.
“C’mon. I’ll help you.”
"No!' Ian said too sudden and Anthony's hand recoiled from Ian's. "No. I'm good," he said again, softer this time because Ian saw once again the wounded look Anthony had too often.
Anthony nodded and they continued their meal. Ian could feel Anthony's sideways glance as he tried again and again to put food to his mouth. He had little success though and frowned in resentment at the noodles splattered over the table. It took a lot of restraint for Ian not to burst out in curse words and break yet another plate, picturing it being hurled across the room.
"Actually, I feel like eating a sandwich instead," Anthony said. He stood up and offered to take Ian's plate. Ian knew what he was doing. Anthony didn't want to see Ian struggle so he tried to do anything he could to avoid it. Anthony always picked things up for Ian, always set the table, always wrote Ian's name when it had to be written, answered the phone and even fed Ian when Ian couldn't even lift his hand.
And Ian always obliged because he was tired. He was tired of Anthony always asking if he was alright. He was fed up watching Anthony's hand move from his side to Ian's, seemingly confused on whether to help or not. Ian especially hated when Anthony avoided his gaze but when their eyes did meet, it was never anything Ian wanted to see.
Ian grabbed Anthony's wrist before he could take the plate. "J-Just… let me do this, okay?" Ian sighed when he saw Anthony's bottom lip jut out just slightly. "I can do it, alright?"
Anthony sat down again, defeated, and watched as Ian tried again to fit his quivering tight fingers around the thin metal of the fork. It rattled against the plate and Ian put his face close, thinking less distance to his mouth would be easier. It was like all of Ian's energy and thoughts were stuck at his elbow and he could not, however hard he sweated and cursed, get his hand to move the way he wanted. It was so frustrating and he could easily picture himself violently killing anything and that is, if his body listened.
"Shit!" Ian exclaimed, pushing the table away but his wrist impacted at an awkward angle and it only increased the pain Ian was feeling. The table teetered and the plate of noodles spun away and dropped onto the floor. "Fuck!" he shouted, his face red and hot with fists clenched as he roared, "I hate this!"
"Ian, Ian," Anthony said, all the while holding Ian's wrists and trying to stop him from hurting anything else. "It's okay, it's okay."
Ian could feel fierce tears welling up in his eyes. "No it's not!" he spat, digging his nails into his palms. "I can't move anything right. It's not fucking okay, alright?" Ian whispered after, a little beat down, "This is so stupid."
Ian could imagine Anthony's face now: frowning with eyes that would advert from anything that was Ian and shoulders that fell limp and dead.
"I’ll clean this up and make some sandwiches."
There were a lot of things Smosh could not do without Ian. And it was the first time Anthony really realized how great of a presence Ian had made in their little world. Sketches with just Anthony didn't cut it and he had tried two weeks after the ordeal with the film crew to re-create something resembling of Smosh with just one half of it. The script was painstakingly hard to write and the actual act of putting it up on tape was even more agonizing.
Not even halfway through filming, Anthony called it quits. His mind was too cluttered to focus on being funny and entertaining. The camera crew felt awkward without Ian, always asking if he was sure and begging Anthony to just take a break and be with Ian. Plus every time Anthony turned around with a question on the tip of his tongue, Ian wasn't there.
There were no more Ask Charlie episodes or Lunchtime or Ian is Bored because all of those things required Ian's laughter and ridiculous faces. It required Anthony to laugh and smile and talk to somebody and if it wasn't Ian that was engulfing a tiny taco, it shouldn't be anyone else.
"At least the Smosh Pit Weekly episodes can still keep running," Mari said one day when Ian was still in that stupid coma. They were in the hallway of the hospital, staring at the matte silver of the elevator doors. "The website should run fine. You've got a lot of people putting up content still. We could even-"
"Yeah," Anthony interrupted. He wasn't really listening. "That's good, I guess."
Mari laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry." she said, sighing and rubbing her forehead. "This is probably not what you want to be talking about."
"Thanks," and Anthony tried his hardest to smile. "It'll be alright. Barry will think of something."
"Yeah, that's good," Mari offered Anthony a smile he didn't see. "Everything's going to be fine,"
When Ian woke up three weeks later, a million thoughts stormed through Anthony's mind. He wanted to hit his best friend and hug him at the same time. He really wanted to yell at him for being stupid and ask him if he was retarded. But what Anthony wanted most of all was to just look into Ian's pale blue eyes and know that he was okay.
Yet when Anthony managed to get the window of time to himself while Ian's relieved and crying mother let go of her injured son, Anthony knew instantly that this broken Ian wasn't Ian at all.
"Hey, buddy," Anthony heard himself whisper. He would have spoken louder but Ian looked nauseous and hurt. He was so small with his head wrapped up in white linen and cheeks grazed with burgundy red. "It's Anthony. How are you feeling, man?" Ian just stared back at him, face unmoving and eyes blank.
He didn't know what came over him but soon, Anthony's eyes stung and his bottom lip quivered out of control. He didn't wait for an answer from Ian, only fled the moment he felt the tears slide down his face.
Anthony walked fast towards the elevators with his head down and tears obscuring his vision. His shoulder racking violently as he bumped against the cold wall. He couldn't help himself but sob out loud only once, crushing his mouth to his hand to cover it up.
He had never been so scared in his entire life.
A fractured foot and a broken left arm was what Ian woke up to. Add in some broken ribs and nasty bruises and cuts. Along with a collarbone that could fit a strand of hair if you slipped it in and a concussion that wiped out whole pieces of Ian's life.
"It's a miracle," they all said but all Ian cared about was why Anthony had walked out on him like he was a diseased carcass. Ian had drawn a blank when he saw Anthony. He couldn't remember his name and it had freaked him out because in the back of his mind, Ian knew Anthony. He just didn’t remember him.
His mother told him everything. She showed him all the newspaper articles from both the Sacramento Bee and even the L.A. Times along with a handful of online articles she printed off in hopes of cheering Ian up. She seemed proud of him for living, something Ian questioned several times a day as he slowly grew to learn that his body was completely mangled and his mind frayed.
"You went head first against a lamp post after flying fifteen feet across the air," his mother said too animatedly with a smile that both laughed and cried. "I'm so happy you're alright, sweetie."
“Anthony saved your life,” his sister said, looking up at Anthony who looked uncomfortable standing in the room with the Hecox family.
Ian’s concussion caused some amensia . He still knew who he was and only vaguely remembered his family. He hadn’t known when his birthday was but when Anthony blurted it out after a few minutes of his struggling to recall, he remembered that he was also twenty-three. The doctor didn’t seem impressed but nonetheless, pumped drugs into him that let the pain float precariously too close but far enough.
He could hardly move anything and he dreaded the day they would have to take out the catheter. Ian’s head was always splitting apart into bits and pieces and flashes of memories that he could not put together. Sometimes he’d remember days where he and Anthony would be together, lazing in front of the television or laughing at something that took their breaths away for too long. Sometimes he would remember working long hours and staring at a screen with a chin on a sweaty palm. Sometimes when Anthony visited Ian and they talked and looked at each other, Ian could not remember a thing except that he was missing something.
“What kind of car hit me?” Ian asked one day, trying to smile but his lips were chapped and broken. “Felt like a fire truck.”
Ian had a vision of Anthony laughing, head back and mouth wide open but Anthony only stared back. “I don’t remember, man.”
Physical therapy took over his life. Rolling tennis balls and picking up various building blocks and putting them into a bin made Ian’s skin crawl with fire and his jaw ache from all the tense teeth grinding. Learning to stand would be a completely new obstacle once his foot healed. He had visitors he didn’t know, didn’t remember and for every one of them, Ian felt so embarrassed because he wasn’t himself and they knew it too. He wanted out and away from the damn hospital. He wanted out of the never darkness that was lit by dry white lighting and the smell of medicine invading his senses like an unwanted enemy. He hated the paper thin sheets and having to be wheeled around everywhere wearing mismatched socks. His mother had to help him shave and cut his face several times. Anthony was better at it but when he did it, Ian’s skin went clammy and his hands would shake so bad that he would have to hold them still and hope Anthony didn’t notice. Embarrassment and shame slid down his body like disgusting slime and he wanted out so bad.
Most of all, he wanted the life he dreamt of every night since the accident.
“How do you feel about filming something for Ian is Bored?”
“What?” Ian asked. Barry, their manager, and Anthony had given him the break down of what Smosh was. He recalled memories of himself and other people, always with Anthony, acting stupid and having fun. Ian also remembered the long hours of frustrating arguments and conflicts.
“You know...” Anthony started, camera in hand as he moved the hospital chair to Ian’s bedside. “So the fans can know you’re okay. We haven’t put a new video up for weeks.”
"Oh, okay then... What should I do?" It was two weeks since he had come out of his coma and just yesterday, the damned therapists had actually forced him to walk with crutches and put pressure on his broken foot. It was painful and difficult, especially since Ian had the hardest time making his feet move forward. He felt like a broken CD, replaying one note over and over again except the sound never left his mind.
"Just be yourself," Anthony said, then elaborated when he saw Ian's frown. "Show them your casts and we can laugh about how much the hospital sucks. I already took some footage around the hallways."
Ian nodded and tried to pull out from his memories the way he should act for things like this. He tried to remember how to be himself but as the camera's light turned red, he found it hard to know what to do. Anthony would say something to it and point it at Ian and he would just splutter out some half-hearted humour he hoped was funny.
"Well guys, leave any suggestions on what to do for the next Ian is Bored below. And I'll make sure Ian doesn’t turn into a vegetable." Anthony pointed the camera back to Ian, expectation written all over his face as seconds went by with Ian just staring back at Anthony. "Say bye, Ian."
"O-Oh..." Ian started, then said hesitantly, "Bye, everyone."
The doctors had said Ian had slept through the worst pain possible for his condition. And his body was healing well and it would be soon when his mind would recover back to its previous state. They said he was remembering and that was good and nothing permanent seemed to be luring within the depths of his brain.
Sometimes Anthony would spend the night in the chair in Ian's hospital room. He would watch nurses come in every few hours, pressing buttons and tapping IV bags. They would give him a smile and a blanket or two because the hospital always seemed to be freezing. There were some nights he actually went home but he found himself unable to stay still and sleep was futile.
He should be asleep but every time he closed his eyes, Anthony's mind would wander back to the night Ian was hit. It was terrifying and as Anthony watched Ian sleep, he wished he was the one who had forgotten.
A call vibrated in his pocket and Anthony was surprised he had forgotten about Makayla. "Hello?"
"Anthony? Where are you?" She sounded concerned but Anthony heard the accusation in her voice.
"At the hospital," he sighed, feeling suddenly very tired when he actually had to do something other than watch and think.
"How's Ian?" she asked, her voice softer now and weary. "You don't have to be there all the time, Anthony."
"I know," he said. There was a silence on the other line before Anthony heard her sigh. Then Anthony remembered: they were supposed to see each other tonight. He groaned, smacking his head with his free hand. "Shit, I'm sorry, Kay. I forgot. I promise, tomorrow I'll-"
"It's alright, Anthony," she said too calmly. "I get it. It's Ian.
Anthony sighed again, feeling weighted. "Yeah."
"Well, I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" Makayla said after Anthony apologized again. "Love you."
Anthony hesitated. "Yeah, you too."
He hung up, feeling even worse. He put his head in his hands, letting his nails scrape along his scalp. Anthony wanted to hurt something. He wanted to break something but he succumbed to pulling at his hair and breathing through his nose. There were too many things going on and only one thing he had enough mind for.
"Anthony?" a small voice from Ian and Anthony was instantly at his feet and at the side of Ian's bed.
"You okay? Does it hurt? Do you need me to go get a nurse?"
"What time is it?" Ian tried to sit up but his hand landed at a jagged angle and Anthony forced him to lie back down.
"It's almost midnight."
"What?" Ian swatted Anthony's hand away. "What are you still doing here? Go home."
Anthony sat on the bed, trying to feel Ian's head but was continuously knocked away. Ian usually woke up with a fever and Anthony would have to go out and find a nurse to calm it down. He didn't see Ian's angry face before he was pushed off the bed.
"Dude, what the hell?"
"Get off!"
"Look," Anthony said, trying again to sit on the bed but for a one armed gimp, Ian was strong. "I'm just trying to see if you've got a fever or something--"
"I don't, alright?" Ian was shouting now and Anthony worried some nurses might come in because of the noise. "Back off, you douche!"
"Ian! Just, let me--"
Anthony suddenly found it very funny; every time he got too close, Ian would swing his arm like a disabled helicopter, hitting him in the face or slapping him on the side. Pretty soon, Anthony was laughing, each time trying a different tactic to get close to Ian. He could see Ian's smile in the half-lit room, teeth shining against the navy of the late night.
"Stop it, Anthony!" Ian whined, ducking his head underneath his arm with Anthony's fingers waggled too close. Anthony gave a cry and hoisted himself onto the bed, crashing against Ian's body. He landed on Ian's good side, face knocking into Ian's forehead.
"Ow, motherfu--" but before Ian could finish, Anthony wedged a hand between their foreheads, palm slippery against Ian's hot skin. Anthony could feel their heat and breaths mingling together to create warmth he hadn't felt for a month. It calmed him and he allowed himself to laugh again, liking the feel of familiarity fill up his whole being.
He doesn't remember exactly what happened after that but when they had settled their heaving breaths, they must have fallen asleep. It was the best sleep Anthony had had for weeks.
Chapter 2
A/N: I just began the second season of Queer as Folk and had started written this a few weeks ago and I found just how unoriginal my ideas are... I mean, I'm sure a lot of other movies/books/stories play with the idea of coma and amnesia and blah... OH WELL! Let's all have fun with cliches, shall we?
I had some difficulty with keeping Ian and Anthony in character (seeing that we hardly get to see them acting serious at all or in really traumatic situations). But I hope I was able to make them believable enough if they were thrown into a situation like this. So I beg of you all to call me out if you think anything is ridiculously off with the characters.
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