Ordinary, chapter 14
summary: Ian is diagnosed with cancer. In this chapter, Ian thinks of everyone living without him.
warnings: sadness and language.
rating: pg-13
Ordinary, chapter fourteen
Ian found himself surprisingly well rested as he sat in therapy. He hadn't realized how much sleep he was losing from the cancer, even prior to his diagnosis, and was now satisfied by the increase in rest he had. The Zaleplon had done exactly as promised, and although it didn't make Ian any less cramped or nauseous, he felt his condition had improved exponentially, of which he informed his therapist.
"So, Anthony pointed out that I looked tired Thursday." Ian began, settling into the huge chair.
"Oh?" Kris threw him a look of concern. "Was he suspicious?"
Ian shook his head. "He thought I might still be feeling down about Mel. Which I am, ya know, she was great...but I have actually had a lot of problems sleeping, more so in the past week."
Kris processed the words thoughtfully. "You look very well rested today. Did you finally get some sleep?"
"Yeah." Ian smiled, then frowned as the thought of his other doctor's hospital room. "I went to Marrow Friday morning and got a prescription for sleep medicine. It's been working, so far."
"Excellent. Any foul side effects?" Kris appeared genuinely pleased and curious.
"Nausea, dizziness...so it's basically the same as it's been." Ian explained.
"And no...no unfortunate dreaming?" Kris hesitated to ask.
"No." Ian said, faint smile returning. "I've been good. Despite, well, my condition."
Kris chuckled and nodded. "And what will you be doing this week, since you're so well rested?"
"I've been thinking of cleaning out my closets a little bit. Spring cleaning, and donating some things." Ian said seriously.
Kris nodded at the man, in silent approval of his thinking to the future, but contempt for what his future brought.
And Ian did as he said he would, slowly throughout the week. Upon arriving home, he fell sick just before Anthony came over, but managed to film Ian is Bored normally. Anthony didn't mention it, but Ian could tell Anthony was pleased at how well rested his friend was. He didn't admit to getting a prescription, and only assumed Anthony thought his friend spent the weekend in bed, asleep.
After Anthony left, Ian edited alone for a short time, then fell sick once again, then took his medicine and fell asleep. The next day, he looked well while filming, but was distracted, and could finally amend this after the crew's departure. He took a plastic garbage bag from the garage, and took it to his hall closet as if on a mission.
Opening the closet door, he paused to examine what he would be cleaning. Mostly coats and props resided in the small space, so Ian didn't worry about it being too much work. He pulled out the first jacket, one he hadn't worn in years, and threw it in the bag. The next one he pulled out was the one he had worn in the Sexy Beatz video, the one he had decided to wait until Spring to get rid of.
It was March 20th, which meant the weather had been turning warm, and the famous California sun was shining brightly once again. And it was Spring, Ian's final Spring. Summer was always his favorite, but he knew he wouldn't see the whole season. He sighed and dumped his jacket into the bag.
He pushed several more jackets into the bag, along with some old sweaters. He saw he had two umbrellas, and donated one, knowing rain would come with Spring, and he would still find need for a shield from it. He added several scarves, mismatched gloves, a pair of earmuffs and a ski mask, all from the shelf on top, to the collection in the bag. Pushing forward, he placed a baseball, a mitt, and a bat he kept up there long ago into the bag as well.
Leaving the bag, he fetched another, returning quickly to the closet. Only three jackets and several wire hangers hung on the bar, but two of those jackets were left by his mother and Anthony. He kneeled down slowly, then sprawled out on to the floor. He grabbed an old pair of boots, shoving them into the bag, then did the same to two more. He threw in some older running shoes, his current ones safe in his room, then some old sandals. He left a pair of dress shoes, in case he needed them, but threw away a pair of heels Mel had abandoned.
Ian finally stood, tying both bags closed, and admired his work. The closet was now barren, save three jackets, an umbrella, some of his own shoes and many that Anthony left. He ended his cleaning for the day.
His cleaning continued Thursday morning, when he went to the garage to not only grab a garbage bag, but empty his car. He would be using it much more in the next few months (his mother would have to sell it after his death), but he knew he would be weak by then, and, unsure of what his physical state might be in the future, decided it was safer to make it spotless now.
Opening the passenger door, Ian remembered he needed to donate his bike, which he often kept in the backseat, and made a mental note as he opened the glove compartment. There wasn't much he could throw away, however: he kept the manual for the next driver, and most of the menus for himself and Anthony, and whatever other official documents he could find. Eventually he only threw away a few fast food menus, an old, crumpled script, a page of newspaper, a piece of candy, and a copy of Of Mice and Men.
He then took his vacuum and cleaned the seats, the trunk, the floor, everywhere he could possibly reach. The whole process hurt and tired him, and halfway through he rushed away to the toilet. But eventually the car was clean, and after polishing the dashboard and rear view mirror, Ian quit his week's cleaning, a grim feeling resting in his pained stomach.
***
Sunday, he drove to the church, two black garbage bags resting in the backseat. He was donating again to the kind deacon, whose name he did not yet know, but he felt a special fondness for him all the same.
He arrived again as Sunday Mass was ending, flocks of people leaving the large, white building. He moved slowly against the crowd, bumping into everyone with his donations, and finally stopped in front of the organ, several feet from the deacon. The deacon saw Ian and smiled, stepping over to him while moving cautiously around the old women who seemed to always stay at the church and help out.
"Hello, friend, I believe we skipped introductions our last meeting." The deacon held out his hand, and Ian shook it, responding.
"Oh, yeah, I'm Ian."
"I am Deacon Tim Franklin, you may call me Deacon or Tim or Franklin, whatever you like." When Ian looked surprised, he laughed. "We're Baptist, we relax here." he reminded the young man. He was extremely tall and lean, bald and black with strong features. He looked like a leader, easily able to command a room, which was an important factor for a man who spoke to an assembly each week.
"Um, okay, Deacon." Ian gulped, then offered to him the black bags. "I brought these to donate."
The old women behind them sensed a donation, and flocked over to examine the charity. Ian, uncomfortable, took a step back, handing them the bag. Franklin smiled in gratitude.
"Thank you so much, Ian. I know your last donation was some time ago, but we at the Sacramento Baptist Church are grateful for any consideration to the less fortunate." He seemed truly thankful, and Ian wondered how often they received donations, and how many families needed them.
"Of course." Ian turned to leave.
"My child." Franklin called out, and Ian turned back to him. "Should you need to talk to anyone, or wish to find a place in our safe haven, please feel free to find me. I am quite a trusted member of this church, my uncle was the previous deacon here, and my great-grandfather built the church with his own hands!"
Ian only nodded and walked out, bitter tears stinging his eyes as they did after his last donation, at the realization that one day, his sister's descendants would talk of him, and of Smosh, and of all the great things he did, but then speak only one word, only one hated word that would stain their memory- cancer.
***
"Good afternoon, Ian. How was your week?" Back in therapy. It was routine now, but a routine Ian was glad for. He loved being able to talk about this difficult process, and he found a great friend in Kris.
"It was okay. I donated some clothes to the church yesterday, but the deacon, Tim Franklin, made me think of something, um, unpleasant." Ian flinched at his encounter in the church, despite his respect for the man he encountered.
Kris studied his frown. "What did the deacon make you think of, my boy?"
Ian still got a warm feeling when Kris called him that, and cleared his throat before explaining. "He was talking about how his great-grandfather built the church, and how his uncle was the deacon before he was. And all I could think of was my sister's future kids talking about me. Like, they would think I'm pretty cool, I bet, but the part they would remember most would be that I-I got cancer." Kris opened his mouth to speak, but Ian spoke quickly before him. "Not that I don't think Smosh isn't big or important. It's the biggest, most important thing I've ever done, and I love it. And it's not that I care so much about my reputation, because everyone's gonna remember I was a pretty good guy. I'm just thinking of everyone living without me."
Kris looked as though he more properly understood the younger, and nodded. "Alright, that makes sense. You're very much at peace with yourself, Ian, and for that reason, you care less of your reputation than others, but you still care of your legacy. And, as you are aware, you will be remembered for Smosh, and for yourself as well. You're thinking of what it's going to be like for everyone you love when you're not around."
"Not just that." Ian said. "When they find out I've lied to them. When they find out I knew I had cancer for months. What if- what if they hate me?" Tears filled his eyes, and the hot liquid splashed quickly down his face. He rubbed it away and sniffled in embarrassment.
"They might." Kris admitted. "Or they could be extremely upset, or pity you, or a combination of the three. You won't be around though, son, you won't know."
Ian nodded, aware, but couldn't stop thinking of it.
"I know you're still thinking of it." Kris began, reading his mind. "But you have to expect critique in death, as you experienced in life. People will judge you, some will frown at you. But do you think those who truly loved you in life could hate you, so deeply and so permanently after your passing?"
Ian sat in thought, then slowly shook his head. He knew Anthony would be mad and upset, but he was just getting nervous now, just forgetting what he already knew: his friend loved him, and would love him until the end of his days.
"Thank you, Kris." Ian smiled at the wise man, eyes still teary, but mind recovering.
"You are so very welcome, my boy." Kris could not look more pleased to solve another's problems.
***
For much of the week's filming, Ian thought of the crew walking through his house, empty and dusty, filled with cobwebs and silence. He could clearly imagine the dust rising from the carpet as the big men, donned in their boots, trekked across it. He told himself repeatedly not to think of such things, that the house would not become suddenly dusty upon his death, but then reached the bitter conclusion that his house would be sold after he left, and no new Smosh videos would be made there.
This lead to him thinking of an episode of Smosh being filmed without him, at the park, with Anthony standing alone, looking foolish climbing up the slide without a friend. He wondered what would happen to Smosh without him. Would it be the same success, or would it crash and burn? Would he be replaced, or would Anthony perform alone?
He thought of this again during Lunchtime with Smosh. Every word out of both his and his friend's mouth's made him question the progression of events yet to come.
"Hey everyone, we're gonna get some veiners!" Anthony would laugh, flaunt a bad accent now, but what would he do when Ian was gone? Would he eat at the same places, would he keep his fake accent? When would he laugh again?
"Sitting in the drive thru, sitting in the drive thru..." And their song, when would he sing that song again, how much pain would it put him in? And who would he sing it with? Would he sit in the car alone, or with Kalel, or with a friend?
"Oh, yah, ve got some vieners." Ian could still make Anthony smile, but how long would it be before he would smile again?
Sitting with him at that table, Ian could feel a great divide between himself and Anthony. He knew Anthony would overcome his death, he was strong, and it was human nature to keep moving forward. But he knew, he knew one day, Anthony would have to do it without him, and that was all he knew. As he saw his friend, chomping happily on his hot dog, all he could picture was some morose future, where he ate in silence. Didn't scroll through Twitter. Didn't rate his meal and laugh with him and post a video.
He would miss Anthony's birthday, and his mother's, and his own, and Christmas, and the "apocalypse." He would miss 2013 and every year after. Anthony could get married, have kids, and he would never see. His mom would die, and he would not be there for her. Anthony could grow old and grey, but he would never be old and grey with him.
And the worst part was that he would never be sure. He would never be sure how life for his friend would change without himself in it. Uncertainty, to the mind, to the body, to the soul, was man's greatest enemy.
***
Ian may have been upset that week, but found his own answers over the weekend. He spent many stressful hours doing yoga, and in that time decided it was better to listen to Kris and not dwell on a future he would not be alive to control. You can't have all the answers, he would tell himself grimly. Life can't give you all the answers, and neither can death.
warnings: sadness and language.
rating: pg-13
Ordinary, chapter fourteen
Ian found himself surprisingly well rested as he sat in therapy. He hadn't realized how much sleep he was losing from the cancer, even prior to his diagnosis, and was now satisfied by the increase in rest he had. The Zaleplon had done exactly as promised, and although it didn't make Ian any less cramped or nauseous, he felt his condition had improved exponentially, of which he informed his therapist.
"So, Anthony pointed out that I looked tired Thursday." Ian began, settling into the huge chair.
"Oh?" Kris threw him a look of concern. "Was he suspicious?"
Ian shook his head. "He thought I might still be feeling down about Mel. Which I am, ya know, she was great...but I have actually had a lot of problems sleeping, more so in the past week."
Kris processed the words thoughtfully. "You look very well rested today. Did you finally get some sleep?"
"Yeah." Ian smiled, then frowned as the thought of his other doctor's hospital room. "I went to Marrow Friday morning and got a prescription for sleep medicine. It's been working, so far."
"Excellent. Any foul side effects?" Kris appeared genuinely pleased and curious.
"Nausea, dizziness...so it's basically the same as it's been." Ian explained.
"And no...no unfortunate dreaming?" Kris hesitated to ask.
"No." Ian said, faint smile returning. "I've been good. Despite, well, my condition."
Kris chuckled and nodded. "And what will you be doing this week, since you're so well rested?"
"I've been thinking of cleaning out my closets a little bit. Spring cleaning, and donating some things." Ian said seriously.
Kris nodded at the man, in silent approval of his thinking to the future, but contempt for what his future brought.
And Ian did as he said he would, slowly throughout the week. Upon arriving home, he fell sick just before Anthony came over, but managed to film Ian is Bored normally. Anthony didn't mention it, but Ian could tell Anthony was pleased at how well rested his friend was. He didn't admit to getting a prescription, and only assumed Anthony thought his friend spent the weekend in bed, asleep.
After Anthony left, Ian edited alone for a short time, then fell sick once again, then took his medicine and fell asleep. The next day, he looked well while filming, but was distracted, and could finally amend this after the crew's departure. He took a plastic garbage bag from the garage, and took it to his hall closet as if on a mission.
Opening the closet door, he paused to examine what he would be cleaning. Mostly coats and props resided in the small space, so Ian didn't worry about it being too much work. He pulled out the first jacket, one he hadn't worn in years, and threw it in the bag. The next one he pulled out was the one he had worn in the Sexy Beatz video, the one he had decided to wait until Spring to get rid of.
It was March 20th, which meant the weather had been turning warm, and the famous California sun was shining brightly once again. And it was Spring, Ian's final Spring. Summer was always his favorite, but he knew he wouldn't see the whole season. He sighed and dumped his jacket into the bag.
He pushed several more jackets into the bag, along with some old sweaters. He saw he had two umbrellas, and donated one, knowing rain would come with Spring, and he would still find need for a shield from it. He added several scarves, mismatched gloves, a pair of earmuffs and a ski mask, all from the shelf on top, to the collection in the bag. Pushing forward, he placed a baseball, a mitt, and a bat he kept up there long ago into the bag as well.
Leaving the bag, he fetched another, returning quickly to the closet. Only three jackets and several wire hangers hung on the bar, but two of those jackets were left by his mother and Anthony. He kneeled down slowly, then sprawled out on to the floor. He grabbed an old pair of boots, shoving them into the bag, then did the same to two more. He threw in some older running shoes, his current ones safe in his room, then some old sandals. He left a pair of dress shoes, in case he needed them, but threw away a pair of heels Mel had abandoned.
Ian finally stood, tying both bags closed, and admired his work. The closet was now barren, save three jackets, an umbrella, some of his own shoes and many that Anthony left. He ended his cleaning for the day.
His cleaning continued Thursday morning, when he went to the garage to not only grab a garbage bag, but empty his car. He would be using it much more in the next few months (his mother would have to sell it after his death), but he knew he would be weak by then, and, unsure of what his physical state might be in the future, decided it was safer to make it spotless now.
Opening the passenger door, Ian remembered he needed to donate his bike, which he often kept in the backseat, and made a mental note as he opened the glove compartment. There wasn't much he could throw away, however: he kept the manual for the next driver, and most of the menus for himself and Anthony, and whatever other official documents he could find. Eventually he only threw away a few fast food menus, an old, crumpled script, a page of newspaper, a piece of candy, and a copy of Of Mice and Men.
He then took his vacuum and cleaned the seats, the trunk, the floor, everywhere he could possibly reach. The whole process hurt and tired him, and halfway through he rushed away to the toilet. But eventually the car was clean, and after polishing the dashboard and rear view mirror, Ian quit his week's cleaning, a grim feeling resting in his pained stomach.
***
Sunday, he drove to the church, two black garbage bags resting in the backseat. He was donating again to the kind deacon, whose name he did not yet know, but he felt a special fondness for him all the same.
He arrived again as Sunday Mass was ending, flocks of people leaving the large, white building. He moved slowly against the crowd, bumping into everyone with his donations, and finally stopped in front of the organ, several feet from the deacon. The deacon saw Ian and smiled, stepping over to him while moving cautiously around the old women who seemed to always stay at the church and help out.
"Hello, friend, I believe we skipped introductions our last meeting." The deacon held out his hand, and Ian shook it, responding.
"Oh, yeah, I'm Ian."
"I am Deacon Tim Franklin, you may call me Deacon or Tim or Franklin, whatever you like." When Ian looked surprised, he laughed. "We're Baptist, we relax here." he reminded the young man. He was extremely tall and lean, bald and black with strong features. He looked like a leader, easily able to command a room, which was an important factor for a man who spoke to an assembly each week.
"Um, okay, Deacon." Ian gulped, then offered to him the black bags. "I brought these to donate."
The old women behind them sensed a donation, and flocked over to examine the charity. Ian, uncomfortable, took a step back, handing them the bag. Franklin smiled in gratitude.
"Thank you so much, Ian. I know your last donation was some time ago, but we at the Sacramento Baptist Church are grateful for any consideration to the less fortunate." He seemed truly thankful, and Ian wondered how often they received donations, and how many families needed them.
"Of course." Ian turned to leave.
"My child." Franklin called out, and Ian turned back to him. "Should you need to talk to anyone, or wish to find a place in our safe haven, please feel free to find me. I am quite a trusted member of this church, my uncle was the previous deacon here, and my great-grandfather built the church with his own hands!"
Ian only nodded and walked out, bitter tears stinging his eyes as they did after his last donation, at the realization that one day, his sister's descendants would talk of him, and of Smosh, and of all the great things he did, but then speak only one word, only one hated word that would stain their memory- cancer.
***
"Good afternoon, Ian. How was your week?" Back in therapy. It was routine now, but a routine Ian was glad for. He loved being able to talk about this difficult process, and he found a great friend in Kris.
"It was okay. I donated some clothes to the church yesterday, but the deacon, Tim Franklin, made me think of something, um, unpleasant." Ian flinched at his encounter in the church, despite his respect for the man he encountered.
Kris studied his frown. "What did the deacon make you think of, my boy?"
Ian still got a warm feeling when Kris called him that, and cleared his throat before explaining. "He was talking about how his great-grandfather built the church, and how his uncle was the deacon before he was. And all I could think of was my sister's future kids talking about me. Like, they would think I'm pretty cool, I bet, but the part they would remember most would be that I-I got cancer." Kris opened his mouth to speak, but Ian spoke quickly before him. "Not that I don't think Smosh isn't big or important. It's the biggest, most important thing I've ever done, and I love it. And it's not that I care so much about my reputation, because everyone's gonna remember I was a pretty good guy. I'm just thinking of everyone living without me."
Kris looked as though he more properly understood the younger, and nodded. "Alright, that makes sense. You're very much at peace with yourself, Ian, and for that reason, you care less of your reputation than others, but you still care of your legacy. And, as you are aware, you will be remembered for Smosh, and for yourself as well. You're thinking of what it's going to be like for everyone you love when you're not around."
"Not just that." Ian said. "When they find out I've lied to them. When they find out I knew I had cancer for months. What if- what if they hate me?" Tears filled his eyes, and the hot liquid splashed quickly down his face. He rubbed it away and sniffled in embarrassment.
"They might." Kris admitted. "Or they could be extremely upset, or pity you, or a combination of the three. You won't be around though, son, you won't know."
Ian nodded, aware, but couldn't stop thinking of it.
"I know you're still thinking of it." Kris began, reading his mind. "But you have to expect critique in death, as you experienced in life. People will judge you, some will frown at you. But do you think those who truly loved you in life could hate you, so deeply and so permanently after your passing?"
Ian sat in thought, then slowly shook his head. He knew Anthony would be mad and upset, but he was just getting nervous now, just forgetting what he already knew: his friend loved him, and would love him until the end of his days.
"Thank you, Kris." Ian smiled at the wise man, eyes still teary, but mind recovering.
"You are so very welcome, my boy." Kris could not look more pleased to solve another's problems.
***
For much of the week's filming, Ian thought of the crew walking through his house, empty and dusty, filled with cobwebs and silence. He could clearly imagine the dust rising from the carpet as the big men, donned in their boots, trekked across it. He told himself repeatedly not to think of such things, that the house would not become suddenly dusty upon his death, but then reached the bitter conclusion that his house would be sold after he left, and no new Smosh videos would be made there.
This lead to him thinking of an episode of Smosh being filmed without him, at the park, with Anthony standing alone, looking foolish climbing up the slide without a friend. He wondered what would happen to Smosh without him. Would it be the same success, or would it crash and burn? Would he be replaced, or would Anthony perform alone?
He thought of this again during Lunchtime with Smosh. Every word out of both his and his friend's mouth's made him question the progression of events yet to come.
"Hey everyone, we're gonna get some veiners!" Anthony would laugh, flaunt a bad accent now, but what would he do when Ian was gone? Would he eat at the same places, would he keep his fake accent? When would he laugh again?
"Sitting in the drive thru, sitting in the drive thru..." And their song, when would he sing that song again, how much pain would it put him in? And who would he sing it with? Would he sit in the car alone, or with Kalel, or with a friend?
"Oh, yah, ve got some vieners." Ian could still make Anthony smile, but how long would it be before he would smile again?
Sitting with him at that table, Ian could feel a great divide between himself and Anthony. He knew Anthony would overcome his death, he was strong, and it was human nature to keep moving forward. But he knew, he knew one day, Anthony would have to do it without him, and that was all he knew. As he saw his friend, chomping happily on his hot dog, all he could picture was some morose future, where he ate in silence. Didn't scroll through Twitter. Didn't rate his meal and laugh with him and post a video.
He would miss Anthony's birthday, and his mother's, and his own, and Christmas, and the "apocalypse." He would miss 2013 and every year after. Anthony could get married, have kids, and he would never see. His mom would die, and he would not be there for her. Anthony could grow old and grey, but he would never be old and grey with him.
And the worst part was that he would never be sure. He would never be sure how life for his friend would change without himself in it. Uncertainty, to the mind, to the body, to the soul, was man's greatest enemy.
***
Ian may have been upset that week, but found his own answers over the weekend. He spent many stressful hours doing yoga, and in that time decided it was better to listen to Kris and not dwell on a future he would not be alive to control. You can't have all the answers, he would tell himself grimly. Life can't give you all the answers, and neither can death.