Glass.
Here's a depressing one-shot. I don't know why I'm so dark right now, but this is quite darker than what I would usually write. Sorry.
Rating: Pg-13
Pairings: Ian/Anthony
Genre: Angst
Summary: There is an accident during a filming session and Ian risks his health to spend time physically and mentally with Anthony one last time.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters involved and none of this happened.
~~~
Anthony tore through the driveway, long legs stretching over pavement quickly. In his mind, Ian's previously spoken words were still ringing inside his brain, seeming more desperate than they were supposed to be when he had asked, "Anthony, could you run to my bedroom and get the blonde wig?" Taking his job seriously, Anthony jumped away from Ian and the rest of the film crew outside and skidded through the gaping front door, pushing it shut behind him and unknowingly locking it on his way inside.
Looking up quickly, he took a rushed glance at the living room, packed with filming equipment and lighting, cables and cords everywhere. Nearly tripping over a giant cardboard box, half-blocking the hallway entrance, Anthony felt the corner of the box knock against his skinny, jean covered hip. The box went flying into the dining room table. "Shit," Anthony breathed out, watching in apprehensive fright, as a clear vase on the dark table dangerously swayed in a circular motion before it finally came back to it's original standing position.
Taking that as a cue to escape the room before causing further damage, Anthony lurched forward and jogged further into the house, searching for Ian's requested wig. This time, feeling more careful, Anthony quickly made the unconscious decision to distance himself to the right, in order to avoid another sketchy collision with the army of tricky cardboard boxes and transparent containers, filled with unnamed props. Watching the boxes suspiciously from the corners of his eyes, Anthony felt a heavy panic as his left shoe came in contact a sheet of slick bubble wrap. Slipping quickly to the right, Anthony felt his body slam into two thick, heavy metallic poles that painfully knocked against his shoulder, little bolts connecting the structure together bruising his skin. He fell to the carpeted floor fast, hitting his head on the side of the kitchen's half-wall partition, on his way down. Blinking quickly, he watched on his back, frozen in fear, as the structures, two unlit lighting fixtures, creaked and came crashing down on top of him, smashing his head to the floor a second time, with a loud deafening thud. The crash of the light fixtures were so disturbingly loud, the noise seemed to echo through the entire house, lights smashing into the floor and breaking upon contact. Anthony gasped in pain as his some of his dark hair swung over his eyes, the last thing he remembered seeing was the pale, textured ceiling go grey and then finally disappear as his eyes shut slowly.
***
"Did you hear that?" Ian asked, looking up from a clipboard, blue eyes growing wide with concern. "What was that sound?"
"I don't know." A tattooed cameraman said, looking up from his giant camera and into Ian's worried eyes, freezing for a second. "Don't worry about it-"
"Nah, I don't know, man, that sounded pretty bad." Harry spoke up from behind the two men. He was holding a stack of papers and pushing his way towards Ian, leaving a crew of other cameramen and supervisors behind on the driveway. "Should I go inside and check, Ian?"
"No, no, I'll do it." Ian said quickly. It was his house, and he had the right to investigate whatever happened for himself. "Hold this for a sec." Ian dropped the clipboard into Harry's already full hands and left the two men behind, jogging calmly to the front door.
Fearing the worst and expecting to see an array of expensive broken equipment, Ian tried the door knob.
It was locked.
"Shit." Ian stammered under his breath, feeling a rising panic in the bottom of his stomach. He tried it again, shaking it desperately now, but it wouldn't budge. "Anthony?" Ian called, banging a fist on the door, just inches under a black "no soliciting" sign and golden peephole. There was no response from the inside of the house, and thinking Anthony didn't hear him the fist time, Ian shouted out again, louder this time, "Anthony? Anthony, is everything okay?"
Again, there was no response. Ian felt as though the world was collapsing on him and his lips began to quiver.
"Is it locked?" The sound recording man hesitantly called from the group men on the driveway, who were all watching Ian worriedly, frozen in confusion.
"Yeah, it's locked." Ian tore his eyes from the door and shifted them towards the crew, who were watching helplessly. Ian huffed in frustration and dropped his palms flat against his thighs. "Does anyone have the spare key?"
"No, I think they're all on the table inside." Someone nervously answered from the small crowd.
"Fuck." Ian turned back to the door and slammed a fist on the door over and over. "Anthony! Anthony, are you there?"
He stopped banging at the door and waited impatiently for any recognizable sound from his friend. There was a continuous and haunting silence.
"Where the hell is he?" Ian hissed, swinging around, almost into the rest of the crew, who had come up to the door to investigate.
"Shit, I don't know. Check the windows." Another man in a grey jacket said, as nodded to the slim window next to the door.
Ian brought his face to the glass, squinting to see anything. Milky white shears blocked his view, and he cursed to himself for putting them there in the first place, in attempt to keep out the eyes of curious fans.
Without warning, Ian jumped from the front door and ran, circling around the house to the nearest window. He smashed his forehead against the hard glass of the closest window and peered inside. His view was facing the table they always had lunch on every Friday and the bright kitchen behind it, which was packed with bags, beer and cluttered with more props. "I swear, there were two lighting fixtures standing there..." Ian thought out loud, squinting his eyes and scanning the room for the missing pieces of equipment. Suddenly he saw where they went. Ian's eyes grew wide, mouth gaping, as he caught sight of Anthony laying mangled on the floor completely unconscious, with the missing giant lighting fixtures laying over him. Heart pounding and ready to beat out of his trembling chest, he gasped painfully and let out a knee buckling shudder as his eyes caught sight of blood stains on the floor where Anthony's head laid, twisted violently to the the left. His skull looked crushed under the light fixtures, and there was blood all over his shirt and hair, soaking right into the carpet underneath him.
Ian's lungs felt like they had just burst open, as he screamed. He couldn't control his weak body and he stumbled back from the window with the force of an invisible giant hand pushing through his unsteady chest. Ian fell to his knees and sunk into the damp, cool grass, heart hurting and limbs shaking. With icy eyes wide and bloodshot, Ian looked at the rest of the crew with an open mouth. He said nothing, as the the crew came sprinting, as if in a high-speed film recording to Ian, calling out jumbled questions and fragmented sentences. Two of them grabbed Ian's trembling shoulders and tried to speak to him as he kept mumbling and stuttering, trying to repeat Anthony's name over and over again through chattering teeth. The rest of the men gravitated to look through the window to see what Ian had just seen, an immobile Anthony laying in a shallow pool of his own blood.
"Call the paramedics! The hospital...the ambulence...911-something!" The tattooed camera man shouted. In an instant, five men were reaching for their pockets, some phones open and began dialing numbers desperately.
"Ian, it's going to be alright." Harry said, with an unsteady voice, as he quickly strode from the window and the group of dialing men to kneel to the ground next to Ian. He gripped the wide-eyed man's weak shoulders firmly and looked into his blank eyes. "Ian, everything is going to be fine, just-"
"An...an-antho...anth...an-" Ian gasped, shaking his head.
"Ian, listen to me."
"B-uh-buh...an..a...anth..anth-hu...an.." Ian's voice cracked. "Anthony!"
It was sudden and unusual, but Ian felt a rush, like a heat wave of a tense, bundled energy rise from inside of him, radiating from his stiff muscles and shivering bones. Ian's hands were lifted from his lap, as if from an invisible force had possessed him and he pressed them down on Harry's shoulders, standing up, flinging himself away from the kneeling man and running, crashing right into the window.
"Fuck! Ian!" A voice shouted, as the crew watched Ian smash his body through the thick window and flying glass shards.
It was almost beautiful to watch, seeing the pure determination surge through Ian's body as his light, soft hair fell from his face, revealing eyes that had a burning dedication to be there, pushing hands forward, and springing from the earth, smashing through sharp glass. The shatter was loud and distinct, cutting through the cool air, just as cleanly as the pieces slit cuts in Ian's face and hands. Glass flew from the window in a sharp eruption, showering down upon the grass and twinkling through the pale sunlight. Ian fell through the other side not cleanly enough, thighs brushing against sharp, unbroken shards of the window and tearing holes in his jeans. He fell into the house, crunching his ribcage right into the back of the dining room chair Anthony always sat in. He lay still on the floor for a few seconds, wincing in agony. After a quick pause, he pushed himself up through what felt like unseen claws scratching and scooping at his his intestines. He ignored the pain and the fresh, bleeding cuts around his face and arms, as he stumbled towards Anthony, whimpering his name over and over.
A sudden thought hit Ian so hard, he faltered in his steps and felt his insides shrink. It only just occurred to him to think that Anthony might be lying dead on the floor. Ian blinked away bitter tears, thinking that all that they have ever been, all that they ever shared together and all that they've ever told each other was now all gone in an instant if his best friend wouldn't wake up again.
A fuzzy memory washed over Ian as he remembered a childhood memory when Ian spent the night at Anthony's house. Anthony's parents were at a party, and he was left alone at home until his parents were supposed to return, much later in the night. According the the forecast, Ian recalled that a thunderstorm was on it's way to Carmichael that humid evening, and Ian knew that Anthony was scared of thunder more than anything in the world. Feeling frightened for the poor boy, Ian snuck out of the house before the storm hit, and in his pajamas he ran down the darkening street, carrying soft, warm blankets and a pillow all the way to his frightened friend's house. They set up a fort in the soft, glowing TV room and sat inside their structure the whole evening, huddling together under a cotton blanket, as Ian reassured Anthony that their blanket fort would protect them from the thunder because they made it together.
"Anthony." Ian whispered hoarsely, as he took one shaking step at a time, left arm wrapped around the right side of his ribcage, the other hand covering a large, oozing gash that stretched from the top of his right ear to the bottom of his neck, which was mercilessly spewing warm blood. He limped, doubled up in pain with pieces of glass imbedded in his pale skin, in desperate attempt to reach and be with the unconscious, dark haired man on the floor who he loved more than anyone in the world.
Another memory. It was a sunny, dry day in Ian's fading childhood. The air held Ian together like a thick blanket, and he loved the feeling because he never felt alone when it was hot outside, like someone was always holding him. He was at home sitting on the grass in his backyard with Anthony. They were gulping down sugary lemonade Ian's mother had prepared for them after a much nagging. "What does it feel like to die?" Anthony said suddenly, in a sleepy voice. Ian blinked expressionlessly. "I don't know. Why?" Anthony took a messy, unskilled sip from his clear glass, rubbing the remaining drops on his chin with the back of his hand. "Oh, I dunno. Dying in my sleep is too boring. I think girls wold find it hot if I caught on fire." He paused thoughtfully and turned to a worried, unmoving Ian. "Get it? Hot?" He prodded Ian's shoulder and laughed. Ian laughed too after taking a moment to think, but inside, he was strangely hurt and lost.
"Anthony," Ian said in a barely audible whisper, his voice beginning to fail him, as he fell to the ground, his bruised knees hitting the red-soaked carpet beneath him. Ian grabbed weakly at the heavy lighting fixtures and tried pushing them away from Anthony's body, being careful not to injure his friend any further. It took many frustrating attempts to move the black rods, before they finally fell next to Anthony with merciless thuds. Feeing exhausted, Ian began to tremble uncontrollably, his neck unable to hold his head up any longer. "Anthony." Ian repeated in a faint murmur, head falling onto the still man's chest.
Anthony's eyelids were covered by his blood-stained, dark hair, sticky wisps covering his pale cheeks, which were once pink and full of life, and now covered in oozing blood. The Anthony Ian stared at, with a skewed hazy vision, was only a physical ghost of what he was a few minutes before the accident. Grunting quietly, Ian shifted his painfully shoulders so he could reach for Anthony's hand, which he held in his cut hands, stroking the rough fingers gently. "Anthony...please." Ian cried silently in a scratchy whisper. "Anthony."
A final memory. Ian and Anthony were walking next to an unnamed river, not far from where they lived. It was their last day of junior year before summer break and it was a beautiful day outside, with clear skies for miles and miles. The trees were swaying gently in a soft, cool breeze and leaves were falling from branches, swishing in gentle circles at their feet. Anthony stopped walking. "There's something in my shoe." He let his lanky arm fall on Ian's shoulder as he leaned over and pulled his foot free, shaking the shoe with his other hand. "So you're expecting me to stand around here and let you lean on me ? What kind of friend are you?" Ian said sarcastically, not intending to hear a response from his laughing friend. "Well, your point is invalid, Ian." Anthony said. Ian narrowed his eyes playfully. "How so?" Anthony slipped his foot back into his shoe and settled his leg back into the ground. Despite the fact that he had both feet to support his body again, he still kept a hand wrapped around Ian's shoulders. It was then when he leaned over and kissed Ian gently on the cheek. Ian went red. "What the hell?" Anthony let go of Ian and turned, walking away. "I'm not a friend because you're more than a friend to me. You're like family, or even a soulmate. Like we're meant to be together for a long time." He turned back to face Ian, with a broad grin on his face, sun-lightened brown eyes glimmering. "Come on! Let's run!"
Ian inched closer to Anthony's still face, using all the strength he had left inside of his body to press his nose into the bottom of Anthony's smooth chin. Taking a deep breath, Ian inhaled the strong and sickening scent of Anthony's slowly drying blood. Shaking, Ian moved his head up once more, feeling a sharp and uncomfortable prickling sensation run up and down the back of his neck. His last movement was slow and deliberate, as he positioned his lips over Anthony's cold cheek, kissing him softly only once before he too had his eyelids close unwillingly, as his world faded away.
Rating: Pg-13
Pairings: Ian/Anthony
Genre: Angst
Summary: There is an accident during a filming session and Ian risks his health to spend time physically and mentally with Anthony one last time.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters involved and none of this happened.
~~~
Anthony tore through the driveway, long legs stretching over pavement quickly. In his mind, Ian's previously spoken words were still ringing inside his brain, seeming more desperate than they were supposed to be when he had asked, "Anthony, could you run to my bedroom and get the blonde wig?" Taking his job seriously, Anthony jumped away from Ian and the rest of the film crew outside and skidded through the gaping front door, pushing it shut behind him and unknowingly locking it on his way inside.
Looking up quickly, he took a rushed glance at the living room, packed with filming equipment and lighting, cables and cords everywhere. Nearly tripping over a giant cardboard box, half-blocking the hallway entrance, Anthony felt the corner of the box knock against his skinny, jean covered hip. The box went flying into the dining room table. "Shit," Anthony breathed out, watching in apprehensive fright, as a clear vase on the dark table dangerously swayed in a circular motion before it finally came back to it's original standing position.
Taking that as a cue to escape the room before causing further damage, Anthony lurched forward and jogged further into the house, searching for Ian's requested wig. This time, feeling more careful, Anthony quickly made the unconscious decision to distance himself to the right, in order to avoid another sketchy collision with the army of tricky cardboard boxes and transparent containers, filled with unnamed props. Watching the boxes suspiciously from the corners of his eyes, Anthony felt a heavy panic as his left shoe came in contact a sheet of slick bubble wrap. Slipping quickly to the right, Anthony felt his body slam into two thick, heavy metallic poles that painfully knocked against his shoulder, little bolts connecting the structure together bruising his skin. He fell to the carpeted floor fast, hitting his head on the side of the kitchen's half-wall partition, on his way down. Blinking quickly, he watched on his back, frozen in fear, as the structures, two unlit lighting fixtures, creaked and came crashing down on top of him, smashing his head to the floor a second time, with a loud deafening thud. The crash of the light fixtures were so disturbingly loud, the noise seemed to echo through the entire house, lights smashing into the floor and breaking upon contact. Anthony gasped in pain as his some of his dark hair swung over his eyes, the last thing he remembered seeing was the pale, textured ceiling go grey and then finally disappear as his eyes shut slowly.
***
"Did you hear that?" Ian asked, looking up from a clipboard, blue eyes growing wide with concern. "What was that sound?"
"I don't know." A tattooed cameraman said, looking up from his giant camera and into Ian's worried eyes, freezing for a second. "Don't worry about it-"
"Nah, I don't know, man, that sounded pretty bad." Harry spoke up from behind the two men. He was holding a stack of papers and pushing his way towards Ian, leaving a crew of other cameramen and supervisors behind on the driveway. "Should I go inside and check, Ian?"
"No, no, I'll do it." Ian said quickly. It was his house, and he had the right to investigate whatever happened for himself. "Hold this for a sec." Ian dropped the clipboard into Harry's already full hands and left the two men behind, jogging calmly to the front door.
Fearing the worst and expecting to see an array of expensive broken equipment, Ian tried the door knob.
It was locked.
"Shit." Ian stammered under his breath, feeling a rising panic in the bottom of his stomach. He tried it again, shaking it desperately now, but it wouldn't budge. "Anthony?" Ian called, banging a fist on the door, just inches under a black "no soliciting" sign and golden peephole. There was no response from the inside of the house, and thinking Anthony didn't hear him the fist time, Ian shouted out again, louder this time, "Anthony? Anthony, is everything okay?"
Again, there was no response. Ian felt as though the world was collapsing on him and his lips began to quiver.
"Is it locked?" The sound recording man hesitantly called from the group men on the driveway, who were all watching Ian worriedly, frozen in confusion.
"Yeah, it's locked." Ian tore his eyes from the door and shifted them towards the crew, who were watching helplessly. Ian huffed in frustration and dropped his palms flat against his thighs. "Does anyone have the spare key?"
"No, I think they're all on the table inside." Someone nervously answered from the small crowd.
"Fuck." Ian turned back to the door and slammed a fist on the door over and over. "Anthony! Anthony, are you there?"
He stopped banging at the door and waited impatiently for any recognizable sound from his friend. There was a continuous and haunting silence.
"Where the hell is he?" Ian hissed, swinging around, almost into the rest of the crew, who had come up to the door to investigate.
"Shit, I don't know. Check the windows." Another man in a grey jacket said, as nodded to the slim window next to the door.
Ian brought his face to the glass, squinting to see anything. Milky white shears blocked his view, and he cursed to himself for putting them there in the first place, in attempt to keep out the eyes of curious fans.
Without warning, Ian jumped from the front door and ran, circling around the house to the nearest window. He smashed his forehead against the hard glass of the closest window and peered inside. His view was facing the table they always had lunch on every Friday and the bright kitchen behind it, which was packed with bags, beer and cluttered with more props. "I swear, there were two lighting fixtures standing there..." Ian thought out loud, squinting his eyes and scanning the room for the missing pieces of equipment. Suddenly he saw where they went. Ian's eyes grew wide, mouth gaping, as he caught sight of Anthony laying mangled on the floor completely unconscious, with the missing giant lighting fixtures laying over him. Heart pounding and ready to beat out of his trembling chest, he gasped painfully and let out a knee buckling shudder as his eyes caught sight of blood stains on the floor where Anthony's head laid, twisted violently to the the left. His skull looked crushed under the light fixtures, and there was blood all over his shirt and hair, soaking right into the carpet underneath him.
Ian's lungs felt like they had just burst open, as he screamed. He couldn't control his weak body and he stumbled back from the window with the force of an invisible giant hand pushing through his unsteady chest. Ian fell to his knees and sunk into the damp, cool grass, heart hurting and limbs shaking. With icy eyes wide and bloodshot, Ian looked at the rest of the crew with an open mouth. He said nothing, as the the crew came sprinting, as if in a high-speed film recording to Ian, calling out jumbled questions and fragmented sentences. Two of them grabbed Ian's trembling shoulders and tried to speak to him as he kept mumbling and stuttering, trying to repeat Anthony's name over and over again through chattering teeth. The rest of the men gravitated to look through the window to see what Ian had just seen, an immobile Anthony laying in a shallow pool of his own blood.
"Call the paramedics! The hospital...the ambulence...911-something!" The tattooed camera man shouted. In an instant, five men were reaching for their pockets, some phones open and began dialing numbers desperately.
"Ian, it's going to be alright." Harry said, with an unsteady voice, as he quickly strode from the window and the group of dialing men to kneel to the ground next to Ian. He gripped the wide-eyed man's weak shoulders firmly and looked into his blank eyes. "Ian, everything is going to be fine, just-"
"An...an-antho...anth...an-" Ian gasped, shaking his head.
"Ian, listen to me."
"B-uh-buh...an..a...anth..anth-hu...an.." Ian's voice cracked. "Anthony!"
It was sudden and unusual, but Ian felt a rush, like a heat wave of a tense, bundled energy rise from inside of him, radiating from his stiff muscles and shivering bones. Ian's hands were lifted from his lap, as if from an invisible force had possessed him and he pressed them down on Harry's shoulders, standing up, flinging himself away from the kneeling man and running, crashing right into the window.
"Fuck! Ian!" A voice shouted, as the crew watched Ian smash his body through the thick window and flying glass shards.
It was almost beautiful to watch, seeing the pure determination surge through Ian's body as his light, soft hair fell from his face, revealing eyes that had a burning dedication to be there, pushing hands forward, and springing from the earth, smashing through sharp glass. The shatter was loud and distinct, cutting through the cool air, just as cleanly as the pieces slit cuts in Ian's face and hands. Glass flew from the window in a sharp eruption, showering down upon the grass and twinkling through the pale sunlight. Ian fell through the other side not cleanly enough, thighs brushing against sharp, unbroken shards of the window and tearing holes in his jeans. He fell into the house, crunching his ribcage right into the back of the dining room chair Anthony always sat in. He lay still on the floor for a few seconds, wincing in agony. After a quick pause, he pushed himself up through what felt like unseen claws scratching and scooping at his his intestines. He ignored the pain and the fresh, bleeding cuts around his face and arms, as he stumbled towards Anthony, whimpering his name over and over.
A sudden thought hit Ian so hard, he faltered in his steps and felt his insides shrink. It only just occurred to him to think that Anthony might be lying dead on the floor. Ian blinked away bitter tears, thinking that all that they have ever been, all that they ever shared together and all that they've ever told each other was now all gone in an instant if his best friend wouldn't wake up again.
A fuzzy memory washed over Ian as he remembered a childhood memory when Ian spent the night at Anthony's house. Anthony's parents were at a party, and he was left alone at home until his parents were supposed to return, much later in the night. According the the forecast, Ian recalled that a thunderstorm was on it's way to Carmichael that humid evening, and Ian knew that Anthony was scared of thunder more than anything in the world. Feeling frightened for the poor boy, Ian snuck out of the house before the storm hit, and in his pajamas he ran down the darkening street, carrying soft, warm blankets and a pillow all the way to his frightened friend's house. They set up a fort in the soft, glowing TV room and sat inside their structure the whole evening, huddling together under a cotton blanket, as Ian reassured Anthony that their blanket fort would protect them from the thunder because they made it together.
"Anthony." Ian whispered hoarsely, as he took one shaking step at a time, left arm wrapped around the right side of his ribcage, the other hand covering a large, oozing gash that stretched from the top of his right ear to the bottom of his neck, which was mercilessly spewing warm blood. He limped, doubled up in pain with pieces of glass imbedded in his pale skin, in desperate attempt to reach and be with the unconscious, dark haired man on the floor who he loved more than anyone in the world.
Another memory. It was a sunny, dry day in Ian's fading childhood. The air held Ian together like a thick blanket, and he loved the feeling because he never felt alone when it was hot outside, like someone was always holding him. He was at home sitting on the grass in his backyard with Anthony. They were gulping down sugary lemonade Ian's mother had prepared for them after a much nagging. "What does it feel like to die?" Anthony said suddenly, in a sleepy voice. Ian blinked expressionlessly. "I don't know. Why?" Anthony took a messy, unskilled sip from his clear glass, rubbing the remaining drops on his chin with the back of his hand. "Oh, I dunno. Dying in my sleep is too boring. I think girls wold find it hot if I caught on fire." He paused thoughtfully and turned to a worried, unmoving Ian. "Get it? Hot?" He prodded Ian's shoulder and laughed. Ian laughed too after taking a moment to think, but inside, he was strangely hurt and lost.
"Anthony," Ian said in a barely audible whisper, his voice beginning to fail him, as he fell to the ground, his bruised knees hitting the red-soaked carpet beneath him. Ian grabbed weakly at the heavy lighting fixtures and tried pushing them away from Anthony's body, being careful not to injure his friend any further. It took many frustrating attempts to move the black rods, before they finally fell next to Anthony with merciless thuds. Feeing exhausted, Ian began to tremble uncontrollably, his neck unable to hold his head up any longer. "Anthony." Ian repeated in a faint murmur, head falling onto the still man's chest.
Anthony's eyelids were covered by his blood-stained, dark hair, sticky wisps covering his pale cheeks, which were once pink and full of life, and now covered in oozing blood. The Anthony Ian stared at, with a skewed hazy vision, was only a physical ghost of what he was a few minutes before the accident. Grunting quietly, Ian shifted his painfully shoulders so he could reach for Anthony's hand, which he held in his cut hands, stroking the rough fingers gently. "Anthony...please." Ian cried silently in a scratchy whisper. "Anthony."
A final memory. Ian and Anthony were walking next to an unnamed river, not far from where they lived. It was their last day of junior year before summer break and it was a beautiful day outside, with clear skies for miles and miles. The trees were swaying gently in a soft, cool breeze and leaves were falling from branches, swishing in gentle circles at their feet. Anthony stopped walking. "There's something in my shoe." He let his lanky arm fall on Ian's shoulder as he leaned over and pulled his foot free, shaking the shoe with his other hand. "So you're expecting me to stand around here and let you lean on me ? What kind of friend are you?" Ian said sarcastically, not intending to hear a response from his laughing friend. "Well, your point is invalid, Ian." Anthony said. Ian narrowed his eyes playfully. "How so?" Anthony slipped his foot back into his shoe and settled his leg back into the ground. Despite the fact that he had both feet to support his body again, he still kept a hand wrapped around Ian's shoulders. It was then when he leaned over and kissed Ian gently on the cheek. Ian went red. "What the hell?" Anthony let go of Ian and turned, walking away. "I'm not a friend because you're more than a friend to me. You're like family, or even a soulmate. Like we're meant to be together for a long time." He turned back to face Ian, with a broad grin on his face, sun-lightened brown eyes glimmering. "Come on! Let's run!"
Ian inched closer to Anthony's still face, using all the strength he had left inside of his body to press his nose into the bottom of Anthony's smooth chin. Taking a deep breath, Ian inhaled the strong and sickening scent of Anthony's slowly drying blood. Shaking, Ian moved his head up once more, feeling a sharp and uncomfortable prickling sensation run up and down the back of his neck. His last movement was slow and deliberate, as he positioned his lips over Anthony's cold cheek, kissing him softly only once before he too had his eyelids close unwillingly, as his world faded away.