Smosh Fic: Greyscape (Chapter 2)
Title: Greyscape (Chapter 2)
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: (future) Ian/Anthony
Beta: 98ninetyeight
Genre/Warnings: AU, Angst, Apocalypse, Death, Gore, Violence, OOC
Summary: The world is a wasteland. Nothing is what is used to be. Humans? They are scarce and few. What is left is a mutation of human. And Ian Hecox is the cure.
Chapter Summary: Ian can't decide what's worse: when he closes his eyes or when he opens them.
Previous Chapters: One
A/N: There is some vivid grotesque imagery in this chapter and I have to say, it will just keep on becoming more disgusting in later chapters. So there's my preliminary warning.
As always. con crit is much appreciated. :) Enjoy!
The dream starts again the moment Ian lets himself sleep. He shouldn’t, he knows. He should watch Anthony; make sure nothing happens to the both of them, to his friend - to himself.
But how can he resist when for the first time in two years, seven months, twelve days and twenty hours, he finally has someone else to talk to? Someone to sleep beside? Warmth to feel behind his back and a breath to listen to that lulls him to a slumber?
So he succumbs to the tiring folds of sleep that claw his eyelids close and numbs the tips of his fingers. The strained muscles holding his shoulder blades become lax and an audible exhale whispers good night to his retiring waking mind. Ian thinks his body and brain will finally shut down but it awakens; his thoughts scatter into a hundred pieces, held together by a steel string he can never cut which never lets him forget, no matter how hard he tries to. The scenes flutter by in rapid flashes and he tries to shield himself from it but it’s not possible when he’s asleep and his mind is constantly haunted by the horrors of his worst imaginations and the truths of his stark reality.
The dream starts with Melanie. She’s standing in the middle of the empty bus that would eventually take them to L.A.; to Safe Zone C-5: California’s Naval Dockyard and Military base. She’s beautiful, with the yellow sun falling like silk on her pale white skin. She’s giving him the biggest smile she has with her full ruby lips and bright brown eyes. A scratchy static voice blasting outside of the bus repeats a mechanic, urgent message over and over again: All civilians must evacuate immediately. All civilians must report to their assigned buses. All civilians must go. All civilians must run. All civilians must escape. Ian looks to his left, just outside the scratched flexi glass.
The world turns orange.
Melanie taps him on the shoulder and he turns around to see that she is blue-eyed with greying lips and contorted horrifically from limb to limb. And he screams so loud that the bus windows shatter all around him. It rains shimmering rock crystals that cut his face and his hands until the sky caves in and the rain turns into blood.
He’s completely covered by the thick molasses-like consistency of the blood-rain now and his mouth begins to fill with it so that his screams turn into gargled, bubbling cries. He needs to get out. He can’t swallow. He can’t have his open wounds touch the infected blood but he’s covered in it. So his heart right about bursts through his chest in fear that he would become one of them.
Ian’s drowning now and a current washes him towards a growing pile overhead of grey, mangled, rotting bodies of the Almost Dead. All he can see is red, red, red and feel blood, blood, blood. He closes his eyes at the sickening sight and a hand wraps around his neck. He’s not only drowning but choking now, too.
He opens his eyes. Anthony’s the one holding onto his neck. They’re both floating in the thick liquid. Anthony’s eyes are blue and it sends a shiver right to Ian’s toes but otherwise, he is still Anthony with his dark hair and tanned skin. His friend is shouting at him to run, get away from here, leave me, it’s all right, just go! But how can he go when Anthony’s got him by the throat and squeezing him to death?
“Anthony!” he cries, his voice oddly clear now in the gushing river of blood. But Anthony just keeps on telling him to get away from me before it’s too late!
Ian is almost out of air and he can feel his body convulsing from the loss. But then, at the very last second, the blood drains away and Ian blinks to find himself in his own bed with Anthony clicking away on the computer beside him. His heart hammers heatedly within his chest.
Anthony’s showing him a video, telling him to look at this. They’re all dying. He’s laughing. And he takes Ian’s hand and leads him to the living room where they’re filming their new sketch. Take off your clothes, Ian. Monsters don’t wear clothes.
“Okay,” Ian agrees and strips to his boxers. Anthony smiles at him and pokes Ian’s round belly, telling Ian he looks good in Anthony’s SpongeBob boxers and to return them when the day is over. “Okay,” Ian says again. Anthony lays a flat palm on top of Ian’s chest and Ian revels in the feel, blinking back sudden tears as he touches Anthony’s hand with his own.
A man in a doctor’s coat comes in from the kitchen with a clipboard and stethoscope hanging on his shoulder. He tells Anthony that he’s got diabetes and Anthony looks to Ian with horror. But it’s Type 2 and he just needs to watch what he eats and gives Anthony that new insulin drug to take before each meal.
Will I become a monster like Ian? Anthony asks and everybody - Barry, Steve, Mari and even the old guys that danced with Ian when he acted as bald guy - in the room nods. Good. We’re best friends. We should do everything together. Friendship always wins, remember that, Ian.
“I’m not a monster,” Ian says but everybody keeps on nodding and looking at him. Anthony takes his hand off of Ian and pokes his belly again.
You were so fat. But look at you now, Ian. You’re just like me.
“What?” Ian turns around to face the living room mirror and is stunned to see hollowed ice-blue eyes staring right back at him. His grey skin stretches all the way down to his toes. Ian starts to scream and is horrified to see himself with a wide open mouth full of blood so acidic it burns through his teeth and drips out of his throat onto the floor in front of him where Melanie lies dead, her chest sliced open with intestines just poking out of her peach white skin.
The mirror shatters and Ian wakes up with a scream on the tip of his tongue.
“Were you having a bad dream last night?”
Ian looks behind him at Anthony as he stamps out the fire from their breakfast. He’s still a little shaken by his dream and tired from the day before. But he’s used to it. Used to the after effects like an alcoholic is used to the constant drumming inside their heads after a night of liquid acid abuse.
Ian favours to study his boots instead of answering Anthony. He admits his friend’s patience for him is incredible. How long can these silences between Anthony’s questions and Ian’s half-hearted answers last before Anthony breaks? Ian thinks this as he realizes he’ll need new boots. The ones he took from some dying military guy are getting too small. He’s grown. He could take Anthony. He could snap Anthony’s skeletal forearms in two and punch his darkened face right in. His knuckles are rock hard steel compared to Anthony’s cookie crumble face. Now he’d definitely win during an arm wrestling match. Ian almost laughs at the thought.
Anthony’s still waiting for answer, patiently as he sits against a rock with his too big shirt torn and his gloves beside him on the ground. He's rubbing the back of his neck, most likely sore from sleeping on the forest floor for the first time (although, Ian can't fathom why Anthony hurts now when he's probably been sleeping in other unconventional places in the city for two and half years). His clothes and hair are stained with dirt. Anthony doesn’t know to avoid the twigs when they walk or not to step in mud so his shoes are all covered in dried dirt and pieces of yellow grass. His face is burnt at the hairline and peeling. He’ll need a hat, Ian thinks. The hollowed out cheekbones make Anthony look like a corpse along with his sagging grey skin.
Boots and a hat. They’ll need those things the next time they enter the city again. Ian tries not to let that lump of disgust come out of his throat every time he looks at Anthony.
“No,” Ian finally says. He kicks some dirt at Anthony when he scoffs at Ian. “Shut up, I wasn’t.”
“Sure, you weren’t, Ian,” Anthony says slowly, clearly teasing Ian with that horrible grin. “I’m sure you were just having a nice, erotic dream about somebody. Who was it that you called out for again?”
Ian turns bright red; his neck heating up like flame work. The only person he had called out for in his dream was Anthony but Ian knows he doesn’t talk in his sleep - not anymore. There was no way Anthony heard, unless Ian had somehow been so relaxed as to forget all the long nights of training himself to sleep half alert, categorize every sound before he closed his eyes and to wake at will if danger persisted. He would have scoffed right back at Anthony, called him a jerk face or a bitch but he suppresses the familiar banter that wants to come out of him naturally at the sound of Anthony’s voice.
Because Ian can take one look at Anthony - his skin the colour of stone and eyes that are indecisive between the earth and the sky - and realize that, no, this isn’t really Anthony. Not yet.
Instead, he ignores Anthony and starts to count his weapons. He hears Anthony’s defeated sigh and shifting behind him. Ian shouldn’t have his back to Anthony. He really shouldn’t. But he ignores that nagging defensive quip too and keeps counting: three service pistols, knife on each side of each ankle, one in his hand, and the Viking Sword he found in one of those collectible stores that nerds had spent hours sitting around a table playing with fantasy battle games and Pokémon card battles. It had even come with a manual that had explained the history of the Viking Sword. It reminds him of Link and the sword he’d use to fight. It was the only sort of sword training Ian had ever had: jab-jab, slash, slice at the screen with the nunchuck and hope that the Wii remote motion sensor picked up his scrambled movements.
A pang of sadness stabs into his chest. Fuck, playing video games was so much easier. Ian would give up anything to be able to be in his living room again with Anthony and play video games all night, just for one night or even for one measly hour. He’d give up his life. He’d give it all up. No matter that he had managed to keep himself alive for almost three years. No matter how hard he had worked to ensure that he’d live to see the sunrise after the sunset. No matter how many times he had to talk - scream - at himself out of suicide. Role-playing games in reality don’t have options to pause or lives that start up again after a Game Over.
He dealt with it. Ian deals with it, though. He deals with his suicidal tendencies that rise out of him in moments like this where he allows himself to think. A familiar itch calls to him as he wraps his hand around the handle of his sword, the cut on his palm sending sharp needles of pain all the way to his elbow as he grips hard.
Ian is startled out of his thoughts at the feel of Anthony sitting beside him on the ground. His tense grip on the sword turns his knuckles white. Ian has to stop himself from reacting and silences the beating in his ears. Anthony doesn’t seem to notice Ian’s tension and race of thoughts. Instead, his friend pulls back his sleeve to reveal blue veins under translucent silver skin. Anthony places his arm right up beside Ian’s own, the hairs on his skin tingling with the close contact. Again, Ian has to fight the urge to flinch, to take his arm back and to move away from Anthony.
“You’re bigger than me now,” Anthony says, his voice sounding soft and sad. “You’re probably bigger than all the burritos we’ve ever eaten.”
Ian relaxes, just a bit. He can’t stop the mirth tugging at his lips. Anthony is too easy and Ian lets the natural insulting response loose to his lips. “My dick’s always been bigger than yours.”
They stare at each other with straight faces, mouths twitching until Anthony gives in first and lets out a loud, familiar, head-thrown-back laugh. Ian laughs, too, for once (the first time in genuine hilarity and not morbid helplessness). He can just picture the old Anthony: the one with the flushed cheeks and too much stubble on his chin. His hair a mess after showering under his old grey beanie. His farmer’s tan from all the t-shirts he wore and the way he would scrunch his whole face into a pained look every time he tried to hold in a thunderous laugh. Ian can almost imagine it. He can almost pretend they’re not in the forest, not in L.A., not twenty-five and a lifetime away from normalcy. Not in a world where it feels like Ian is the only one really alive.
Their laughter dies down to smiling sighs. Ian finds himself staring at Anthony’s hand and trying his best to push away the repulsion that assaults his thoughts at the colour of it. He wants to look at Anthony, see Anthony the way he used to. But -
“I know I’m gross,” Anthony says the words Ian’s been thinking. “I know, Ian. I feel gross.”
Ian doesn’t say anything. Just slowly lets his eyes travel to Anthony’s face. Up the long neck, past the chin and the blue-tinged purple lips and finally, the eyes. Ian lets out a relieved sigh. Brown.
He’s okay with that. The repulsion isn’t so blinding when Anthony’s eyes are that amazing, beautiful shade of brown.
“Poop eyes,” Ian whispers. He doesn’t know he’s said it out loud until Anthony’s eyes flash with confusion.
“Thanks, man. I feel much better,” Anthony says sarcastically. He smiles anyway when Ian laughs. “Do you remember the song?”
Ian shakes his head with a smile. “No. Wish I did though. It was an awesome song.”
“Yeah, it was.” Anthony’s grin is mesmerizing and Ian finds himself laughing more. His stomach hurts from this new but old, laughing-thing. It’s a weird feeling but Ian decides he likes it. It fills him up for a bit. It makes the sun shine brighter and feel warmer and the dark cloud of the abandoned city becomes just another unimportant, unassuming silhouette in the morning sky.
He misses it. And it’s nice. And Ian can pretend not to notice the way Anthony still hunches forward, how he growls under his breath or how when he’s almost at the point of delirium, his brown eyes become blue and Ian becomes absolutely terrified but ready all at the same time.
Ian’s laughter stops abruptly when he feels Anthony’s fingers ghosting over his bloodied bandaged palm. The touch is fleeting because Ian snatches his hand to his chest like he’s been burned, his expression falling back easily to its guarded state. Anthony’s own smile is gone and replaced with surprise.
“Don’t touch me,” Ian warns, almost spits at Anthony.
Anthony stutters, “Dude, I-I-I just - I’m not - Your hand, it’s -”
“If you want some, you could just ask.” Ian stands up and takes three steps away from his friend. He can hear the venom in his next words. “Don’t touch me again.”
Ian has to calm himself, stop his heaving chest and the anger that travels all the way to his head. They stare at each other for a long time; Ian with hot raging blood in his vision and Anthony with contrasting concern.
“That’s not what I -“ Anthony starts. He lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his hands through his thin hair. He looks back up at Ian. “I don’t want your blood. I don’t. I really, really, don’t.”
Ian settles as he looks into Anthony’s eyes. Still brown. Keep it that way. “You need it,” Ian states and unconsciously touches his bandaged palm. “Or you’ll -“
Ian stops when Anthony stands up and Ian instantly tenses up. His sword is on the floor, where he dropped it while laughing but he’s got his guns strapped to his hips. They’re a second a half from his fingertips and safety off. Anthony takes a step back, clearly noticing Ian’s ready stance.
The moment of laughter, of ignorance, of let’s pretend it’s just another day, is broken. The weight of the quiet, Sleeping, world crashes down around them.
“Ian,” Anthony says, eyebrows scrunched together and voice apprehensive. “What happened? What happened when I was gone? What’s happening? What happened - to you?”
Ian’s answer is clear in is mind - two years, seven months, thirteen days and nine hours of this, of all of this - but the words never form. Instead, he says, “Nothing.”
Chapter Three
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: (future) Ian/Anthony
Beta: 98ninetyeight
Genre/Warnings: AU, Angst, Apocalypse, Death, Gore, Violence, OOC
Summary: The world is a wasteland. Nothing is what is used to be. Humans? They are scarce and few. What is left is a mutation of human. And Ian Hecox is the cure.
Chapter Summary: Ian can't decide what's worse: when he closes his eyes or when he opens them.
Previous Chapters: One
A/N: There is some vivid grotesque imagery in this chapter and I have to say, it will just keep on becoming more disgusting in later chapters. So there's my preliminary warning.
As always. con crit is much appreciated. :) Enjoy!
The dream starts again the moment Ian lets himself sleep. He shouldn’t, he knows. He should watch Anthony; make sure nothing happens to the both of them, to his friend - to himself.
But how can he resist when for the first time in two years, seven months, twelve days and twenty hours, he finally has someone else to talk to? Someone to sleep beside? Warmth to feel behind his back and a breath to listen to that lulls him to a slumber?
So he succumbs to the tiring folds of sleep that claw his eyelids close and numbs the tips of his fingers. The strained muscles holding his shoulder blades become lax and an audible exhale whispers good night to his retiring waking mind. Ian thinks his body and brain will finally shut down but it awakens; his thoughts scatter into a hundred pieces, held together by a steel string he can never cut which never lets him forget, no matter how hard he tries to. The scenes flutter by in rapid flashes and he tries to shield himself from it but it’s not possible when he’s asleep and his mind is constantly haunted by the horrors of his worst imaginations and the truths of his stark reality.
The dream starts with Melanie. She’s standing in the middle of the empty bus that would eventually take them to L.A.; to Safe Zone C-5: California’s Naval Dockyard and Military base. She’s beautiful, with the yellow sun falling like silk on her pale white skin. She’s giving him the biggest smile she has with her full ruby lips and bright brown eyes. A scratchy static voice blasting outside of the bus repeats a mechanic, urgent message over and over again: All civilians must evacuate immediately. All civilians must report to their assigned buses. All civilians must go. All civilians must run. All civilians must escape. Ian looks to his left, just outside the scratched flexi glass.
The world turns orange.
Melanie taps him on the shoulder and he turns around to see that she is blue-eyed with greying lips and contorted horrifically from limb to limb. And he screams so loud that the bus windows shatter all around him. It rains shimmering rock crystals that cut his face and his hands until the sky caves in and the rain turns into blood.
He’s completely covered by the thick molasses-like consistency of the blood-rain now and his mouth begins to fill with it so that his screams turn into gargled, bubbling cries. He needs to get out. He can’t swallow. He can’t have his open wounds touch the infected blood but he’s covered in it. So his heart right about bursts through his chest in fear that he would become one of them.
Ian’s drowning now and a current washes him towards a growing pile overhead of grey, mangled, rotting bodies of the Almost Dead. All he can see is red, red, red and feel blood, blood, blood. He closes his eyes at the sickening sight and a hand wraps around his neck. He’s not only drowning but choking now, too.
He opens his eyes. Anthony’s the one holding onto his neck. They’re both floating in the thick liquid. Anthony’s eyes are blue and it sends a shiver right to Ian’s toes but otherwise, he is still Anthony with his dark hair and tanned skin. His friend is shouting at him to run, get away from here, leave me, it’s all right, just go! But how can he go when Anthony’s got him by the throat and squeezing him to death?
“Anthony!” he cries, his voice oddly clear now in the gushing river of blood. But Anthony just keeps on telling him to get away from me before it’s too late!
Ian is almost out of air and he can feel his body convulsing from the loss. But then, at the very last second, the blood drains away and Ian blinks to find himself in his own bed with Anthony clicking away on the computer beside him. His heart hammers heatedly within his chest.
Anthony’s showing him a video, telling him to look at this. They’re all dying. He’s laughing. And he takes Ian’s hand and leads him to the living room where they’re filming their new sketch. Take off your clothes, Ian. Monsters don’t wear clothes.
“Okay,” Ian agrees and strips to his boxers. Anthony smiles at him and pokes Ian’s round belly, telling Ian he looks good in Anthony’s SpongeBob boxers and to return them when the day is over. “Okay,” Ian says again. Anthony lays a flat palm on top of Ian’s chest and Ian revels in the feel, blinking back sudden tears as he touches Anthony’s hand with his own.
A man in a doctor’s coat comes in from the kitchen with a clipboard and stethoscope hanging on his shoulder. He tells Anthony that he’s got diabetes and Anthony looks to Ian with horror. But it’s Type 2 and he just needs to watch what he eats and gives Anthony that new insulin drug to take before each meal.
Will I become a monster like Ian? Anthony asks and everybody - Barry, Steve, Mari and even the old guys that danced with Ian when he acted as bald guy - in the room nods. Good. We’re best friends. We should do everything together. Friendship always wins, remember that, Ian.
“I’m not a monster,” Ian says but everybody keeps on nodding and looking at him. Anthony takes his hand off of Ian and pokes his belly again.
You were so fat. But look at you now, Ian. You’re just like me.
“What?” Ian turns around to face the living room mirror and is stunned to see hollowed ice-blue eyes staring right back at him. His grey skin stretches all the way down to his toes. Ian starts to scream and is horrified to see himself with a wide open mouth full of blood so acidic it burns through his teeth and drips out of his throat onto the floor in front of him where Melanie lies dead, her chest sliced open with intestines just poking out of her peach white skin.
The mirror shatters and Ian wakes up with a scream on the tip of his tongue.
“Were you having a bad dream last night?”
Ian looks behind him at Anthony as he stamps out the fire from their breakfast. He’s still a little shaken by his dream and tired from the day before. But he’s used to it. Used to the after effects like an alcoholic is used to the constant drumming inside their heads after a night of liquid acid abuse.
Ian favours to study his boots instead of answering Anthony. He admits his friend’s patience for him is incredible. How long can these silences between Anthony’s questions and Ian’s half-hearted answers last before Anthony breaks? Ian thinks this as he realizes he’ll need new boots. The ones he took from some dying military guy are getting too small. He’s grown. He could take Anthony. He could snap Anthony’s skeletal forearms in two and punch his darkened face right in. His knuckles are rock hard steel compared to Anthony’s cookie crumble face. Now he’d definitely win during an arm wrestling match. Ian almost laughs at the thought.
Anthony’s still waiting for answer, patiently as he sits against a rock with his too big shirt torn and his gloves beside him on the ground. He's rubbing the back of his neck, most likely sore from sleeping on the forest floor for the first time (although, Ian can't fathom why Anthony hurts now when he's probably been sleeping in other unconventional places in the city for two and half years). His clothes and hair are stained with dirt. Anthony doesn’t know to avoid the twigs when they walk or not to step in mud so his shoes are all covered in dried dirt and pieces of yellow grass. His face is burnt at the hairline and peeling. He’ll need a hat, Ian thinks. The hollowed out cheekbones make Anthony look like a corpse along with his sagging grey skin.
Boots and a hat. They’ll need those things the next time they enter the city again. Ian tries not to let that lump of disgust come out of his throat every time he looks at Anthony.
“No,” Ian finally says. He kicks some dirt at Anthony when he scoffs at Ian. “Shut up, I wasn’t.”
“Sure, you weren’t, Ian,” Anthony says slowly, clearly teasing Ian with that horrible grin. “I’m sure you were just having a nice, erotic dream about somebody. Who was it that you called out for again?”
Ian turns bright red; his neck heating up like flame work. The only person he had called out for in his dream was Anthony but Ian knows he doesn’t talk in his sleep - not anymore. There was no way Anthony heard, unless Ian had somehow been so relaxed as to forget all the long nights of training himself to sleep half alert, categorize every sound before he closed his eyes and to wake at will if danger persisted. He would have scoffed right back at Anthony, called him a jerk face or a bitch but he suppresses the familiar banter that wants to come out of him naturally at the sound of Anthony’s voice.
Because Ian can take one look at Anthony - his skin the colour of stone and eyes that are indecisive between the earth and the sky - and realize that, no, this isn’t really Anthony. Not yet.
Instead, he ignores Anthony and starts to count his weapons. He hears Anthony’s defeated sigh and shifting behind him. Ian shouldn’t have his back to Anthony. He really shouldn’t. But he ignores that nagging defensive quip too and keeps counting: three service pistols, knife on each side of each ankle, one in his hand, and the Viking Sword he found in one of those collectible stores that nerds had spent hours sitting around a table playing with fantasy battle games and Pokémon card battles. It had even come with a manual that had explained the history of the Viking Sword. It reminds him of Link and the sword he’d use to fight. It was the only sort of sword training Ian had ever had: jab-jab, slash, slice at the screen with the nunchuck and hope that the Wii remote motion sensor picked up his scrambled movements.
A pang of sadness stabs into his chest. Fuck, playing video games was so much easier. Ian would give up anything to be able to be in his living room again with Anthony and play video games all night, just for one night or even for one measly hour. He’d give up his life. He’d give it all up. No matter that he had managed to keep himself alive for almost three years. No matter how hard he had worked to ensure that he’d live to see the sunrise after the sunset. No matter how many times he had to talk - scream - at himself out of suicide. Role-playing games in reality don’t have options to pause or lives that start up again after a Game Over.
He dealt with it. Ian deals with it, though. He deals with his suicidal tendencies that rise out of him in moments like this where he allows himself to think. A familiar itch calls to him as he wraps his hand around the handle of his sword, the cut on his palm sending sharp needles of pain all the way to his elbow as he grips hard.
Ian is startled out of his thoughts at the feel of Anthony sitting beside him on the ground. His tense grip on the sword turns his knuckles white. Ian has to stop himself from reacting and silences the beating in his ears. Anthony doesn’t seem to notice Ian’s tension and race of thoughts. Instead, his friend pulls back his sleeve to reveal blue veins under translucent silver skin. Anthony places his arm right up beside Ian’s own, the hairs on his skin tingling with the close contact. Again, Ian has to fight the urge to flinch, to take his arm back and to move away from Anthony.
“You’re bigger than me now,” Anthony says, his voice sounding soft and sad. “You’re probably bigger than all the burritos we’ve ever eaten.”
Ian relaxes, just a bit. He can’t stop the mirth tugging at his lips. Anthony is too easy and Ian lets the natural insulting response loose to his lips. “My dick’s always been bigger than yours.”
They stare at each other with straight faces, mouths twitching until Anthony gives in first and lets out a loud, familiar, head-thrown-back laugh. Ian laughs, too, for once (the first time in genuine hilarity and not morbid helplessness). He can just picture the old Anthony: the one with the flushed cheeks and too much stubble on his chin. His hair a mess after showering under his old grey beanie. His farmer’s tan from all the t-shirts he wore and the way he would scrunch his whole face into a pained look every time he tried to hold in a thunderous laugh. Ian can almost imagine it. He can almost pretend they’re not in the forest, not in L.A., not twenty-five and a lifetime away from normalcy. Not in a world where it feels like Ian is the only one really alive.
Their laughter dies down to smiling sighs. Ian finds himself staring at Anthony’s hand and trying his best to push away the repulsion that assaults his thoughts at the colour of it. He wants to look at Anthony, see Anthony the way he used to. But -
“I know I’m gross,” Anthony says the words Ian’s been thinking. “I know, Ian. I feel gross.”
Ian doesn’t say anything. Just slowly lets his eyes travel to Anthony’s face. Up the long neck, past the chin and the blue-tinged purple lips and finally, the eyes. Ian lets out a relieved sigh. Brown.
He’s okay with that. The repulsion isn’t so blinding when Anthony’s eyes are that amazing, beautiful shade of brown.
“Poop eyes,” Ian whispers. He doesn’t know he’s said it out loud until Anthony’s eyes flash with confusion.
“Thanks, man. I feel much better,” Anthony says sarcastically. He smiles anyway when Ian laughs. “Do you remember the song?”
Ian shakes his head with a smile. “No. Wish I did though. It was an awesome song.”
“Yeah, it was.” Anthony’s grin is mesmerizing and Ian finds himself laughing more. His stomach hurts from this new but old, laughing-thing. It’s a weird feeling but Ian decides he likes it. It fills him up for a bit. It makes the sun shine brighter and feel warmer and the dark cloud of the abandoned city becomes just another unimportant, unassuming silhouette in the morning sky.
He misses it. And it’s nice. And Ian can pretend not to notice the way Anthony still hunches forward, how he growls under his breath or how when he’s almost at the point of delirium, his brown eyes become blue and Ian becomes absolutely terrified but ready all at the same time.
Ian’s laughter stops abruptly when he feels Anthony’s fingers ghosting over his bloodied bandaged palm. The touch is fleeting because Ian snatches his hand to his chest like he’s been burned, his expression falling back easily to its guarded state. Anthony’s own smile is gone and replaced with surprise.
“Don’t touch me,” Ian warns, almost spits at Anthony.
Anthony stutters, “Dude, I-I-I just - I’m not - Your hand, it’s -”
“If you want some, you could just ask.” Ian stands up and takes three steps away from his friend. He can hear the venom in his next words. “Don’t touch me again.”
Ian has to calm himself, stop his heaving chest and the anger that travels all the way to his head. They stare at each other for a long time; Ian with hot raging blood in his vision and Anthony with contrasting concern.
“That’s not what I -“ Anthony starts. He lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his hands through his thin hair. He looks back up at Ian. “I don’t want your blood. I don’t. I really, really, don’t.”
Ian settles as he looks into Anthony’s eyes. Still brown. Keep it that way. “You need it,” Ian states and unconsciously touches his bandaged palm. “Or you’ll -“
Ian stops when Anthony stands up and Ian instantly tenses up. His sword is on the floor, where he dropped it while laughing but he’s got his guns strapped to his hips. They’re a second a half from his fingertips and safety off. Anthony takes a step back, clearly noticing Ian’s ready stance.
The moment of laughter, of ignorance, of let’s pretend it’s just another day, is broken. The weight of the quiet, Sleeping, world crashes down around them.
“Ian,” Anthony says, eyebrows scrunched together and voice apprehensive. “What happened? What happened when I was gone? What’s happening? What happened - to you?”
Ian’s answer is clear in is mind - two years, seven months, thirteen days and nine hours of this, of all of this - but the words never form. Instead, he says, “Nothing.”
Chapter Three