Perfection
summary: Ian recalls his life with Anthony before Smosh broke up.
warnings: mentions of depression and suicide
rating: pg-13
genre: hurt/comfort
previous chapters: one-shot
You're outside on the perfect Summer day. You're barefoot, toes embedded in soft grass and cool dirt. The sun is getting low in the sky, with only a few clouds dotting the blue. There's a light breeze to take your mind off the eighty degree heat.
You're throwing a softball to your son. He's got a bat, and he's standing just the way you taught him to; knees bent, legs apart, prepared for the ball. He's five now.
You throw lightly, underhand, an adept toss. He hits it and runs to the first base set up in your front yard. By the time you get to the ball, he's at second. He has boundless energy, just like you used to have. He's smiling, proud of himself. You smile back. You're proud of him, too.
"Man on second!" Your wife calls out as your boy returns to home plate, keeping track for you. She's sitting on the front steps of your porch, tanned skin glistening, just as yours is, from that delightful Summer sweat. Her long chestnut hair is pulled back into a bun, and the sweet smile on her face as she looks at her perfect family makes her glow like sunshine.
She's beautiful. She was when you first met her, and still is now. She's the most gorgeous woman on the block, smart and funny with a successful career that allows her to spend enough time at home with her family. You've done well yourself, a prominent business man, well respected. You're viewed as flawless, the best family in your quaint little neighborhood.
Your son runs to his mother, grabbing her hands. They're lovely, not yet wrinkled. She tickles him and he laughs, then runs to the backyard, playfully expecting you to take chase. You do so, and the pair of you end up in the pool. He's already a good enough swimmer, so he doesn't use a float to stay above the surface, but even if something goes wrong, you're there to save him. Just like always.
He starts telling you things. He's a smart boy, good at his school work, so he's telling you about places and capitals and cultures. But you're slipping away, so you only half listen.
It's perfect days like this that make you think of the past. Of the days when the work was harder, and the play didn't make you feel so grown up. You think of your friend. Your greatest friend. You think of all the awful things that made you loose him.
You correct your son on the pronunciation of a capital. He says it slowly aloud. Havana. He splashes around, kicking his little legs. He smiles at you. A tooth is missing. You recall the other night, sneaking a dollar underneath his pillow. He starts telling you little facts about sharks. You get lost again. You always think back to that day, those months, when your life feels this perfect. To remind yourself of the things you had to do to get here. Perfection requires sacrifice.
You think about your former best friend, Anthony Padilla. You met in middle school, bonded, became best friends. Became Smosh. Back in those days, you pictured him as the best man at your wedding. You imagined him holding your kids. You thought Smosh was going to take off, that you two would be friends and business partners for life. But Smosh, like your friendship, crashed and burned.
Your son is laughing. He starts cracking jokes. Nothing you've never heard before, the average knock-knock jokes. You laugh. You remember Anthony's laugh. It was comforting back then, like going home. When you two were in meetings in New York, and you missed California, all you had to do was hear his laugh. It made you a little less tired, a little less stressed.
You remember the last time you heard that laugh.
He'd been acting odd for months. You thought it was because of his break up. You kept telling him that he was too good for Kalel, anyway. You tried to get him to go out with your friends, just relax and drink some beer. He never wanted to go anywhere.
You remember how his laughs became different. Uneasy. As if he was hearing himself for the first time, holding himself back. He got quiet, spoke less on set. Watched the way he walked, ate slowly. It was if he was inspecting himself, checking to make sure all of his actions were correct. You knew it was because of the breakup: he had become insecure, lost all of his confidence. You vowed to help him.
Your son wants to play Marco Polo. You try to focus on the game, but it's impossible. You're too obsessed with what once was. You remember the old days.
You and Mel took Anthony out. Parties, gallery openings, just to dinner. He was stiff and awkward, and lived like he was in physical pain. The fans were worried when he wasn't as loud in the videos. He had to take on smaller roles in the weekly skits, and you skipped episodes of Lunchtime. You were beginning to get desperate.
You asked him why he was unhappy. He said he was just thinking. It was hard being with him at that point. He avoided people, even you, his best friend. Things seemed hopeless. You wanted to ask him to go to a doctor, a therapist, anything to make him better. Then Kalel said something.
It was an accident. Whenever you saw the fans tweeting and blogging about it, that's all you would think of. You wanted to scream at them, remind them that it was an accident. But deep down you hated her for saying it, too. She outed him.
That was the last day he laughed. Before he found out she told someone. And that laugh had changed. It was nervous and dull, void of true happiness. You actually felt a little jab in your stomach when you heard it. Your broken friend.
He cried. You remember sitting on the couch with him, late one cold winter night, and he couldn't look at you, only at the ground, crying. You wrapped him in a hug, you told him it was okay. You told him it didn't matter that he was gay. You told him that the hate would die down soon. It didn't.
He told you he loved you, whispered it through choked sobs. You told him you loved him too, but you didn't know that he didn't mean it the way you did.
Your son finds you, lets out a huge laugh, a happy one, so joyful that he doesn't even mind too much when he chokes on the chlorinated water. You clap him on the back until he's done coughing, and he laughs again. Resumes the game. You resume thinking of agonizing memories.
You thought after the Crying Night (as you would come to call it) he would get better. Feel like he didn't have to hide himself, feel less depressed. It got worse. You called him, asked him to please feel better, please fix this. He hung up. Mel replaced him in Ian is Bored and Mailtime with Smosh. Mari replaced him in the main channel. He stopped using his Twitter, stopped talking to the fans. You lost even more subscribers, fell behind on editing, posted videos late. Fans moved between concern and outrage.
You kept calling Anthony. He ignored you, or he didn't say much. Finally, you convinced him to come over. You were angry. You yelled at him. Smosh, the thing you'd loved and cherished for years, was failing. You, in your rage, told him you did everything you could. You said he didn't try hard enough. There were tears in his eyes, and you felt guilty. You just wanted things to be normal again.
He said he'd been thinking. About everything he did, everything he was. You just nodded, because you knew. You saw him second guess himself for nearly a year. You saw him fall apart.
He told you he loved you. Really loved you. As more than friends. You were stressed, you didn't know what to do. You said you loved Mel, but you said it softly. And then you remember, your heart breaking, that he said please. In a strained, despairing little whisper, he said please.
You lost it. Yelled at him, told him that you would be nothing more than friends. That you loved Mel. That he was being pathetic. That he was ruining your life over a stupid crush. Tears fell down his face, and he ran out. You couldn't stop shaking, with both anger and fear, fear of what would follow.
You called the crew members the next day and told them you were suspending filming for a while. They all asked why, but you didn't answer. Fans were asking you why Anthony deleted his Twitter. You got rid of the Smosh blog on Tumblr, and people really started to panic.
You told the writers to stop posting in the Smosh pit, you halted the voice-overs for El Smosh, you deleted the ShutUp!Cartoons channel. Without anyone needing to say anything to you, you knew it was over.
Your tweet was short and vague, and far less than the fans deserved. You threw away the Ianh channel. You slowly dismantled the Smosh website. Finally, you took down the main channel. You acted indifferent, but when no one was around, you cried.
Kalel made a vlog where she was sobbing, blaming herself. She said she never felt more sorry in her life. You pitied her.
You heard a long time fan committed suicide. You deleted your Twitter, threw out all of the fan mail, stopped talking to Mari and the few crew members you were still friendly with. You felt responsible.
You sold the house. Bought a new one in New York, asked Mel to live with you. She said yes, and you both left that place forever. You didn't say goodbye to anyone, you didn't even try to search out Anthony. You didn't go back to California, not even when your mother died. Your sister went to the funeral without you, and you used Mel's pregnancy as an excuse.
"Time for dinner, boys!" Mel calls out to you and your son in the pool. She's standing on the deck, holding a pile of towels.
"Come on, Anthony." You say to your son. You both hop out of the pool and thank Mel for the towels. You kiss her on the cheek, and you know she notices that desolate look in your eyes, but she says nothing.
You haven't seen Anthony since that time. Since he said please. You don't even know if he's still alive. You don't want to know. You're plagued by guilt, but you still blame him for what's happened, even though you know that you shouldn't. You hate him almost as much as you hate yourself. But you keep pretending. Pretending there's ease in perfection.
warnings: mentions of depression and suicide
rating: pg-13
genre: hurt/comfort
previous chapters: one-shot
You're outside on the perfect Summer day. You're barefoot, toes embedded in soft grass and cool dirt. The sun is getting low in the sky, with only a few clouds dotting the blue. There's a light breeze to take your mind off the eighty degree heat.
You're throwing a softball to your son. He's got a bat, and he's standing just the way you taught him to; knees bent, legs apart, prepared for the ball. He's five now.
You throw lightly, underhand, an adept toss. He hits it and runs to the first base set up in your front yard. By the time you get to the ball, he's at second. He has boundless energy, just like you used to have. He's smiling, proud of himself. You smile back. You're proud of him, too.
"Man on second!" Your wife calls out as your boy returns to home plate, keeping track for you. She's sitting on the front steps of your porch, tanned skin glistening, just as yours is, from that delightful Summer sweat. Her long chestnut hair is pulled back into a bun, and the sweet smile on her face as she looks at her perfect family makes her glow like sunshine.
She's beautiful. She was when you first met her, and still is now. She's the most gorgeous woman on the block, smart and funny with a successful career that allows her to spend enough time at home with her family. You've done well yourself, a prominent business man, well respected. You're viewed as flawless, the best family in your quaint little neighborhood.
Your son runs to his mother, grabbing her hands. They're lovely, not yet wrinkled. She tickles him and he laughs, then runs to the backyard, playfully expecting you to take chase. You do so, and the pair of you end up in the pool. He's already a good enough swimmer, so he doesn't use a float to stay above the surface, but even if something goes wrong, you're there to save him. Just like always.
He starts telling you things. He's a smart boy, good at his school work, so he's telling you about places and capitals and cultures. But you're slipping away, so you only half listen.
It's perfect days like this that make you think of the past. Of the days when the work was harder, and the play didn't make you feel so grown up. You think of your friend. Your greatest friend. You think of all the awful things that made you loose him.
You correct your son on the pronunciation of a capital. He says it slowly aloud. Havana. He splashes around, kicking his little legs. He smiles at you. A tooth is missing. You recall the other night, sneaking a dollar underneath his pillow. He starts telling you little facts about sharks. You get lost again. You always think back to that day, those months, when your life feels this perfect. To remind yourself of the things you had to do to get here. Perfection requires sacrifice.
You think about your former best friend, Anthony Padilla. You met in middle school, bonded, became best friends. Became Smosh. Back in those days, you pictured him as the best man at your wedding. You imagined him holding your kids. You thought Smosh was going to take off, that you two would be friends and business partners for life. But Smosh, like your friendship, crashed and burned.
Your son is laughing. He starts cracking jokes. Nothing you've never heard before, the average knock-knock jokes. You laugh. You remember Anthony's laugh. It was comforting back then, like going home. When you two were in meetings in New York, and you missed California, all you had to do was hear his laugh. It made you a little less tired, a little less stressed.
You remember the last time you heard that laugh.
He'd been acting odd for months. You thought it was because of his break up. You kept telling him that he was too good for Kalel, anyway. You tried to get him to go out with your friends, just relax and drink some beer. He never wanted to go anywhere.
You remember how his laughs became different. Uneasy. As if he was hearing himself for the first time, holding himself back. He got quiet, spoke less on set. Watched the way he walked, ate slowly. It was if he was inspecting himself, checking to make sure all of his actions were correct. You knew it was because of the breakup: he had become insecure, lost all of his confidence. You vowed to help him.
Your son wants to play Marco Polo. You try to focus on the game, but it's impossible. You're too obsessed with what once was. You remember the old days.
You and Mel took Anthony out. Parties, gallery openings, just to dinner. He was stiff and awkward, and lived like he was in physical pain. The fans were worried when he wasn't as loud in the videos. He had to take on smaller roles in the weekly skits, and you skipped episodes of Lunchtime. You were beginning to get desperate.
You asked him why he was unhappy. He said he was just thinking. It was hard being with him at that point. He avoided people, even you, his best friend. Things seemed hopeless. You wanted to ask him to go to a doctor, a therapist, anything to make him better. Then Kalel said something.
It was an accident. Whenever you saw the fans tweeting and blogging about it, that's all you would think of. You wanted to scream at them, remind them that it was an accident. But deep down you hated her for saying it, too. She outed him.
That was the last day he laughed. Before he found out she told someone. And that laugh had changed. It was nervous and dull, void of true happiness. You actually felt a little jab in your stomach when you heard it. Your broken friend.
He cried. You remember sitting on the couch with him, late one cold winter night, and he couldn't look at you, only at the ground, crying. You wrapped him in a hug, you told him it was okay. You told him it didn't matter that he was gay. You told him that the hate would die down soon. It didn't.
He told you he loved you, whispered it through choked sobs. You told him you loved him too, but you didn't know that he didn't mean it the way you did.
Your son finds you, lets out a huge laugh, a happy one, so joyful that he doesn't even mind too much when he chokes on the chlorinated water. You clap him on the back until he's done coughing, and he laughs again. Resumes the game. You resume thinking of agonizing memories.
You thought after the Crying Night (as you would come to call it) he would get better. Feel like he didn't have to hide himself, feel less depressed. It got worse. You called him, asked him to please feel better, please fix this. He hung up. Mel replaced him in Ian is Bored and Mailtime with Smosh. Mari replaced him in the main channel. He stopped using his Twitter, stopped talking to the fans. You lost even more subscribers, fell behind on editing, posted videos late. Fans moved between concern and outrage.
You kept calling Anthony. He ignored you, or he didn't say much. Finally, you convinced him to come over. You were angry. You yelled at him. Smosh, the thing you'd loved and cherished for years, was failing. You, in your rage, told him you did everything you could. You said he didn't try hard enough. There were tears in his eyes, and you felt guilty. You just wanted things to be normal again.
He said he'd been thinking. About everything he did, everything he was. You just nodded, because you knew. You saw him second guess himself for nearly a year. You saw him fall apart.
He told you he loved you. Really loved you. As more than friends. You were stressed, you didn't know what to do. You said you loved Mel, but you said it softly. And then you remember, your heart breaking, that he said please. In a strained, despairing little whisper, he said please.
You lost it. Yelled at him, told him that you would be nothing more than friends. That you loved Mel. That he was being pathetic. That he was ruining your life over a stupid crush. Tears fell down his face, and he ran out. You couldn't stop shaking, with both anger and fear, fear of what would follow.
You called the crew members the next day and told them you were suspending filming for a while. They all asked why, but you didn't answer. Fans were asking you why Anthony deleted his Twitter. You got rid of the Smosh blog on Tumblr, and people really started to panic.
You told the writers to stop posting in the Smosh pit, you halted the voice-overs for El Smosh, you deleted the ShutUp!Cartoons channel. Without anyone needing to say anything to you, you knew it was over.
Your tweet was short and vague, and far less than the fans deserved. You threw away the Ianh channel. You slowly dismantled the Smosh website. Finally, you took down the main channel. You acted indifferent, but when no one was around, you cried.
Kalel made a vlog where she was sobbing, blaming herself. She said she never felt more sorry in her life. You pitied her.
You heard a long time fan committed suicide. You deleted your Twitter, threw out all of the fan mail, stopped talking to Mari and the few crew members you were still friendly with. You felt responsible.
You sold the house. Bought a new one in New York, asked Mel to live with you. She said yes, and you both left that place forever. You didn't say goodbye to anyone, you didn't even try to search out Anthony. You didn't go back to California, not even when your mother died. Your sister went to the funeral without you, and you used Mel's pregnancy as an excuse.
"Time for dinner, boys!" Mel calls out to you and your son in the pool. She's standing on the deck, holding a pile of towels.
"Come on, Anthony." You say to your son. You both hop out of the pool and thank Mel for the towels. You kiss her on the cheek, and you know she notices that desolate look in your eyes, but she says nothing.
You haven't seen Anthony since that time. Since he said please. You don't even know if he's still alive. You don't want to know. You're plagued by guilt, but you still blame him for what's happened, even though you know that you shouldn't. You hate him almost as much as you hate yourself. But you keep pretending. Pretending there's ease in perfection.