Ordinary, chapter 18
summary: Ian is diagnosed with cancer. In this chapter, Ian prepares for death.
warnings: some sadness and mild foul language.
rating: pg-13
Ordinary, chapter eighteen
Ian entered therapy Monday afternoon, pleased when he saw Kris in his usual chair. He sat down in his own seat when Kris beckoned him in, and greeted the old man.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"Hello, Ian. How are you? Or, how is your condition, I mean."
Ian nodded. "The same. Not much has changed, physically."
"And mentally?" Kris questioned.
"I have been thinking about something." Ian scratched the ever-present stubble on his chin. "It's kind of important, I think."
"Okay, let's hear it." Kris leaned forward in his seat in rapt attention.
"I've done some cleaning, just because I don't want there to be too much stuff left when I'm gone." Ian began, but Kris interrupted out of curiosity.
"You don't want your family going through your things when you're gone?" Kris raised an eyebrow, evaluating the young man's psyche.
"No, it's not that, it's- I just don't want them to be too burdened. I'm not throwing everything away, I just want to clear most of it out for them." Ian explained, slightly strained at the thought of his friends and family cleaning up after his death. Kris nodded, and sat silent for a moment. Ian took several deep breaths, gathering the strength to continue.
"Anyway, I want to start some real, major cleaning. I haven't done much so far, and I think it's best to start now, because I don't know how I'll be in a month or two, how my health will be."
Kris nodded again. "I think that's a wise decision, Ian. I also find it quite respectable that you want to help your family like that, decrease the pain a bit. It's very responsible on your part."
"Thank you." Ian said, trying not to make it as big of a deal as it was. He didn't want to think of how big, how daunting, the life in front of him was, not at that moment, for he was not yet ready to face the thought of them; friends, family, Anthony, even Mel, knowing him to be dead and gone, but he not knowing their reactions.
***
Ian spent the entirety of his time that week filming, editing, or cleaning. On Tuesday, he attacked his drawers and closet, and Wednesday, searched for any clothing in the other rooms that belonged to him. He found some, and a few articles Anthony left behind, which he folded and placed in the hall closet next to the shoes, along with a note reading "Anthony, you left some clothes and shoes behind. They're clean and folded -- Ian." The note was left blank of emotion, just in case Anthony found it before Ian passed on. He would not want his secret disease revealed because of a note on some shoes.
Thursday, he spent much of his day editing, and even more so on Friday, but upon choosing small objects on top of his dresser to throw away, he stopped, gave the caged Charlie a smile, and promised him a bath tomorrow.
Saturday, he woke up just past three in the morning, sick to his stomach once again, and spent a few hours migrating from the bathroom to his bed, insides writhing in pain. At six, he took a shower, and when he got out, decided to clean Charlie, knowing he had to film later that day.
He took his old friend to the sink, petting his back lightly. "Gonna give you a bath, Charlie."
"Fuck you and your baths." He answered himself in Charlie's voice, after being pained by the moment of silence. He chuckled half-heartedly under his breath, and was reminded of telling Charlie he had cancer as he ran the tap. Placing the rodent in the sink, he began a gentle bath.
"Gonna clean you up real nice, Charlie, there's a boy." Ian smiled when Charlie made an attempt to escape the sink, slipping and failing miserably. He rubbed some shampoo onto the pet's back.
"You know, the first person I told was that insurance woman, Linda." Ian said quietly. "But that was just business. You were the first person- animal- who I told, who mattered to me., almost the only one, really." The only other true friend who knew was Kris, but he found out by way of business.
He smiled at the naïve animal as he rinsed his fur. He was silent as he dried him, brushed him, and clipped his nails. Charlie stood, nose twitching, on his little towel, and Ian sighed.
"Don't worry, Charlie, I'll make sure someone takes care of you when I'm gone. I promise." He returned Charlie to his cage in silence. It wasn't time for a final goodbye to his furry friend. Not yet.
***
Ian found himself passing great wooden doors, once again. The usual old women surrounded the deacon, Tim Franklin, who stood tall and regal as always. He shuffled cautiously to the man. There had not been one time in this old church when his emotions did not sway dangerously, and he just wanted to drop off his donation and leave in peace.
"Hello, Ian." The deacon recognized him. "What is that you have with you, another donation?"
Ian felt the eyes of the charity-loving old women turn to him. He nodded quickly. "Just some old clothes, books, maybe like a knick-knack or two." He nervously handed his bag to an old woman who had raced towards him, and she sped back to her pack to examine the goods.
"Thank you, Ian." The deacon, for a moment, seemed to have nothing more to say, so Ian turned to exit, but he took a breath and spoke again. "I'm not really sure why you've been donating these things, but I'd like you to know that I'm, rather, we are, very grateful."
Ian nodded stiffly, anxious to leave.
"May I ask, Ian, why you are donating all of these things?" The deacon asked kindly, in hope of clearing some of the confusion in his mind surrounding this random young man. Ian felt an odd pull inside him, behind his navel, and thought foolishly of a portkey from Harry Potter before realizing it was an actual desire to tell the deacon. He struggled with that desire for a brief moment, the smallest of wars waging in his head, before turning back to Franklin, and answering.
"Just being charitable." He kept his voice dull and void of emotion. Ian could tell the deacon was not convinced, but the man only nodded.
"Thank you." He said once more, sincere as always. Ian nodded respectfully, turned again, and left, again dissatisfied with the mass of emotions weighing down on him.
warnings: some sadness and mild foul language.
rating: pg-13
Ordinary, chapter eighteen
Ian entered therapy Monday afternoon, pleased when he saw Kris in his usual chair. He sat down in his own seat when Kris beckoned him in, and greeted the old man.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"Hello, Ian. How are you? Or, how is your condition, I mean."
Ian nodded. "The same. Not much has changed, physically."
"And mentally?" Kris questioned.
"I have been thinking about something." Ian scratched the ever-present stubble on his chin. "It's kind of important, I think."
"Okay, let's hear it." Kris leaned forward in his seat in rapt attention.
"I've done some cleaning, just because I don't want there to be too much stuff left when I'm gone." Ian began, but Kris interrupted out of curiosity.
"You don't want your family going through your things when you're gone?" Kris raised an eyebrow, evaluating the young man's psyche.
"No, it's not that, it's- I just don't want them to be too burdened. I'm not throwing everything away, I just want to clear most of it out for them." Ian explained, slightly strained at the thought of his friends and family cleaning up after his death. Kris nodded, and sat silent for a moment. Ian took several deep breaths, gathering the strength to continue.
"Anyway, I want to start some real, major cleaning. I haven't done much so far, and I think it's best to start now, because I don't know how I'll be in a month or two, how my health will be."
Kris nodded again. "I think that's a wise decision, Ian. I also find it quite respectable that you want to help your family like that, decrease the pain a bit. It's very responsible on your part."
"Thank you." Ian said, trying not to make it as big of a deal as it was. He didn't want to think of how big, how daunting, the life in front of him was, not at that moment, for he was not yet ready to face the thought of them; friends, family, Anthony, even Mel, knowing him to be dead and gone, but he not knowing their reactions.
***
Ian spent the entirety of his time that week filming, editing, or cleaning. On Tuesday, he attacked his drawers and closet, and Wednesday, searched for any clothing in the other rooms that belonged to him. He found some, and a few articles Anthony left behind, which he folded and placed in the hall closet next to the shoes, along with a note reading "Anthony, you left some clothes and shoes behind. They're clean and folded -- Ian." The note was left blank of emotion, just in case Anthony found it before Ian passed on. He would not want his secret disease revealed because of a note on some shoes.
Thursday, he spent much of his day editing, and even more so on Friday, but upon choosing small objects on top of his dresser to throw away, he stopped, gave the caged Charlie a smile, and promised him a bath tomorrow.
Saturday, he woke up just past three in the morning, sick to his stomach once again, and spent a few hours migrating from the bathroom to his bed, insides writhing in pain. At six, he took a shower, and when he got out, decided to clean Charlie, knowing he had to film later that day.
He took his old friend to the sink, petting his back lightly. "Gonna give you a bath, Charlie."
"Fuck you and your baths." He answered himself in Charlie's voice, after being pained by the moment of silence. He chuckled half-heartedly under his breath, and was reminded of telling Charlie he had cancer as he ran the tap. Placing the rodent in the sink, he began a gentle bath.
"Gonna clean you up real nice, Charlie, there's a boy." Ian smiled when Charlie made an attempt to escape the sink, slipping and failing miserably. He rubbed some shampoo onto the pet's back.
"You know, the first person I told was that insurance woman, Linda." Ian said quietly. "But that was just business. You were the first person- animal- who I told, who mattered to me., almost the only one, really." The only other true friend who knew was Kris, but he found out by way of business.
He smiled at the naïve animal as he rinsed his fur. He was silent as he dried him, brushed him, and clipped his nails. Charlie stood, nose twitching, on his little towel, and Ian sighed.
"Don't worry, Charlie, I'll make sure someone takes care of you when I'm gone. I promise." He returned Charlie to his cage in silence. It wasn't time for a final goodbye to his furry friend. Not yet.
***
Ian found himself passing great wooden doors, once again. The usual old women surrounded the deacon, Tim Franklin, who stood tall and regal as always. He shuffled cautiously to the man. There had not been one time in this old church when his emotions did not sway dangerously, and he just wanted to drop off his donation and leave in peace.
"Hello, Ian." The deacon recognized him. "What is that you have with you, another donation?"
Ian felt the eyes of the charity-loving old women turn to him. He nodded quickly. "Just some old clothes, books, maybe like a knick-knack or two." He nervously handed his bag to an old woman who had raced towards him, and she sped back to her pack to examine the goods.
"Thank you, Ian." The deacon, for a moment, seemed to have nothing more to say, so Ian turned to exit, but he took a breath and spoke again. "I'm not really sure why you've been donating these things, but I'd like you to know that I'm, rather, we are, very grateful."
Ian nodded stiffly, anxious to leave.
"May I ask, Ian, why you are donating all of these things?" The deacon asked kindly, in hope of clearing some of the confusion in his mind surrounding this random young man. Ian felt an odd pull inside him, behind his navel, and thought foolishly of a portkey from Harry Potter before realizing it was an actual desire to tell the deacon. He struggled with that desire for a brief moment, the smallest of wars waging in his head, before turning back to Franklin, and answering.
"Just being charitable." He kept his voice dull and void of emotion. Ian could tell the deacon was not convinced, but the man only nodded.
"Thank you." He said once more, sincere as always. Ian nodded respectfully, turned again, and left, again dissatisfied with the mass of emotions weighing down on him.