SMOSH FIC: Ordinary Days (Drabbles)
Title: Ordinary Days
Ratng: PG
Pairings: Ian/Anthony
Genre/Warnings: Fluff, PWP
Summary: Four random, fluffy shorts focussing on ordinary events in Ian and Anthony's lives.
One.
“I’m tired, Anthony.”
“Almost done,” Anthony says, cutting and pasting a clip again. His hand withers and he cuts too much, grunting in annoyance to find the audio starting mid-word. “Dang it.”
“’S fine, who cares?” Ian whispers, his voice raspy with sleep and drifting as his head rolls to the side, body completely crumpled and melted into the chair.
“I do,” Anthony bites back his angry tone. He pushes himself away from the desk in irritation and swivels his seat to face Ian. “C’mon, you try to do it.”
But Ian’s eyes are closed and his mouth hangs slightly open, pink lips glistening dewy in the dark room. Soft breath escapes in and out evenly and Anthony knows he’s fallen to sleep.
“Ian,” Anthony whispers quietly even though he wants to wake Ian up. Ian only lets out a shuddering sigh, chest under the burgundy hoodie softening. “Bitch,” he growls but smiles, leaning back in his own chair to watch. Anthony likes this Ian, natural and almost child-like with a lax face and brown downy hair floating over milky freckled skin.
He finishes editing, resting his face against the cool wood of the desk and letting the image of Ian asleep in the chair beside him send him to sweet slumber.
Two.
When Ian eats, it’s always big mouthfuls and purposeful chewing. He’ll bite into something, fill his whole mouth, and then have bits of food decorating the corners of his lips. Anthony sometimes watches, both disgusted and fascinated, entranced by the way juices from a steaming hamburger could dribble so slowly and wet down a stubbled chin.
He’ll do a double take when Ian would moan, exaggerating how delicious the food is and closing his eyes with a strange and satisfied grin.
It has gone to a point that Anthony only starts his food after Ian’s first bite. It becomes habit when they sit and his eyes would wander expectedly towards Ian who’s own eyes sparkle blue and sunshine at the crunch of unwrapping grease covered paper or the opening screech of Styrofoam boxes. Anthony would freeze with hungry eyes as if Ian’s mouth and tongue were his own, taking in greedily his best friend’s reaction as he ate.
Sometimes Anthony would stare for too long and Ian would open his eyes and look at him. He would smile sheepishly, not embarrassed at all at the fact that his face was a complete mess that made Anthony’s fingers itch to do something about that sauce on the left of his cheek. He’ll raise a brow and stare at Anthony’s untouched food in a silent question. It takes all of Anthony’s strength to look away and start with his own.
And Anthony would take a tentative bite, his eyes flickering back and forth from his hot dog to Ian’s munching face.
“Dude, you got a little ketchup on your nose.”
He looks down, cross-eyed and swipes a palm over his nose. The hand comes back clean.
“Did I get it?” Anthony asks, touching the bridge of his nose for good measure. Ian only lifts the corner of his mouth slightly, eyes crinkling in amusement.
“Nah, you missed,” he says, pointing a finger to the left of his own nose. Ian taps the spot and Anthony again rubs his fingers around his face. He feels only clean skin, not the expected slime of red sauce.
“What the hell?” Anthony places his chewed hot dog down and uses both hands to feel his face for the mess. He’s wondering if there is anything on his face at all and suspecting Ian’s just being an idiot and screwing with him. He scoffs at his hands, no residue of ketchup on them.
“It’s still there!” Ian laughs and he points at Anthony’s face, leaning in close. There’s the telltale sign of trickery in the upturn of his pink lips and Anthony plays along.
“What? Still?” Anthony puts on a show, giving Ian an expression of exasperation. “Where? Help me get it off, man.”
“It’s right…” Ian stands up over the table, a hand coming towards Anthony’s face and he knows his friend is about to either slap him or slather Anthony’s face with the spilt mustard and ketchup on his own hands. “…here!”
As expected, Ian purposely wipes his messy finger down between Anthony’s eyebrows, leaving a trail of warm greasy condiment juice on skin. He laughs wide and joyful, bellowing louder when Anthony grunts and throws a balled up napkin at him.
“Fuck you,” Anthony says, laughing too because he likes the way Ian’s voice rattles as he tries to hold in his snickering, his hand holding onto his belly as if his little prank was the funniest and best thing to happen in the world.
The skin at the centre of his face tingles with a sort of muffled sparkling.
Three.
Anthony wakes to find Ian dressed in his winter jacket, looking small as he loops a fluffy knitted scarf around his neck.
“It’s snowing!” he exclaims too loud, ripping the blankets away from Anthony. Cold shocks the soles of his feet and goose bumps crawl up to the elbows of his arms.
“Hey!” Anthony cries and gathers the blankets again, violently shivering once and shooting a wary glance at his friend who leaves the room in a too excited sprint. The tail of Ian’s scarf drags itself behind him and Anthony hears the front door open loudly and the yelp of exhilarated laughter.
He doesn’t believe it’s snowing and even if it is, California would melt it to an ashen watery mush. Anthony hides his own excitement, unwilling to feel it until he sees it with his own eyes as he stumbles groggily and skeptical out of bed.
“Anthony!” a distant voice drifts from outside the window. A knock and Anthony peaks through the blinds to see a flushed Ian, cheeks and nose pink and eyes dancing with brightness. “Get out here, right now!”
“It’s not really snowing,” Anthony argues but Ian doesn’t hear, cupping a hand over his ear. He yells louder, hands in his pocket and refusing to open the blinds completely. His tired eyes don’t see the small white butterfly tufts of snow falling. He’s too focused on Ian who’s shaking his head, hair misty damp and lips pouting for Anthony to come join him outside.
“C’mon, Ant, before it melts!”
Anthony rolls his eyes and sighs, giving in and stomping clad in his sleep clothes and socks to the front door. He doesn’t bother to wear shoes, thinking he would step on rough rocky cement. But his eyes are playing tricks on him because he’s greeted to a land of white blankets and the dancing twinkles of snowflakes. It could be a dream, especially since his cheeks numb instantly and his neck stiffens from the chilly wind.
He doesn’t even feel the shocking wet coldness soak through his socks until a snowball hits him on the side of his head. The icy coolness seeps through his ear and the snow melts chilled water into his ear.
A single promise to kill Ian forms in his mind. And he’s grabbing powder cold into his raw red hands, hurling broken snowballs in the direction of mocking laughter.
They’re like that for a long time, ducking behind snow covered bushes and getting wet and unfeeling cold all over. Anthony is soaked and his feet feel like ice when he teeters sideways, dodging a wad of snow thrown at him.
“I-It’s c-c-cold!” he stutters but doesn’t let Ian have the last throw. He heaves a basketball sized snowball at Ian who is five feet in front of him behind the tree. It hits him on the hip and Ian roars, tackling Anthony to the ground.
They’re rolling around and Anthony eats more snow than breathes. Ian’s laughing hard beneath him, squirming and halfheartedly pushing Anthony away. His whole body racks with mirth and his eyes shine with tears of too much fun, making the blue in them swirl with diamonds.
“I’m fucking f-free-eezing!” Anthony’s teeth clatter together and he tries to get up but Ian’s got his fists full of Anthony’s drenched collar. His fingers burn from digging in the snow so he places them around the hot skin of Ian’s rosy cheeks, earning him a yelp and arms wrapping tight around his shoulders.
Ian is very close and Anthony has to almost look at him cross-eyed. Their foggy breaths mingle between them, creating soft misty warmth around their faces.
“Serves you right for not believing me,” Ian says, smiling and their foreheads touch. He doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable and Anthony wonders why he feels perfectly natural and absolutely content even when their noses bump and Anthony slides his cheek against Ian’s, burying his cold face into the other’s burning neck.
He’s not cold anymore. Not when Ian is radiating warmth that envelopes all of Anthony so well that as he breathes in the distinct scent of skin and hair, he wishes it would snow every day.
Four.
“You’re a hundred degrees.”
“No shit.”
“Here,” Anthony coaxes Ian into a sitting position, “drink this.”
Ian stares at the offending little cup of red syrup and grimaces, a gleam of glistening sweat forming all over his skin. He downs the foul tasting medicine and instantly plops back down onto the bed, groaning and whining.
The other boy is sick and Anthony chuckles at the irony of the situation. He should be the one in bed with snot dripping and throat scratchy and painful. Instead, Ian’s wrapped snugly in a mountain of blankets, hair sticking to his forehead and breathing raspy and labored. He looks like death and the doctor had instructed he sleep and sleep. Something like this didn’t have a quick fix.
“’S not fair,” Ian complains, turning his face to bury it in his damp pillow. Anthony has a cup of water in his hand and he uses his fingers to pry Ian up again to force him to drink.
“Geez, you’re such a baby.”
“Shut up,” and Ian coughs purposely on his friend. Anthony jerks away, the water spilling over the rim of the cup and wetting his hand. “Hah! Now you’re sick too.”
“Great,” Anthony says sarcastically. Despite Ian’s sick appearance, he still smiles and tries to sit up. He resembles a fat caterpillar, trying to climb the headboard of the bed.
“Hey Anthony,” Ian says and smiles goofily with his eyes half closed. “Anthony, wipe my nose. It’s stuffy.”
“Hell no! That’s disgusting.”
“Please, Anthony?” Ian frowns and Anthony feels himself liking that look on his friend. But the thought of touching diseased green mucus makes him recoil from Ian who’s leaning in close with his nose dripping. “Puh-lease!”
“Get the fuck away from me, you sick-o!” He laughs and pushes Ian away but out of the cocoon, his hands grab Anthony’s elbow and pulling him into the bed. They roar at each other, wrestling and fighting and yelling. Anthony’s surprised Ian even has the strength to hold on as he writhes on top of him. A little bit of snot or saliva or sweat touches the collar of his neck as he struggles and Anthony cringes. “Gah! Gross!”
Ian laughs so hard that he’s reduced to fits of bubbling coughs. They stop and lay side by side, panting out breaths of exhaustion and looking at each other with wide smiles. Ian snorts, sighing and using the back of his hand to wipe his nose but Anthony stops him.
“Fine, here,” Anthony offers a napkin from the bedside table but Ian doesn’t take it, obviously still intent on Anthony doing it for him. He rolls his eyes, heaving a defeated sigh and cleans Ian’s nose. Ian’s satisfied snot-free face borders on tiredness, but the superior smirk is there. “You’re an asshole.”
“Damn right, bitch.” Ian grins lazily and closes his eyes, looking about to fall asleep again.
Anthony makes to get up again but he’s pulled down with fingers that grasp his own. They’re sticky and hot ones that grip tight and forceful. Anthony is succumbed to lie down beside his sick friend whose smug look is still plastered proudly on his sweaty face.
He sighs, faking exasperation but he squeezes Ian’s hand and smiles too, daring to plant a kiss on a clammy forehead when Ian is asleep. They stay together that night, breathing in and out together and wake up sick together as well.
And Anthony isn’t too bothered, just happy when Ian wipes his nose for him the next day.
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Ratng: PG
Pairings: Ian/Anthony
Genre/Warnings: Fluff, PWP
Summary: Four random, fluffy shorts focussing on ordinary events in Ian and Anthony's lives.
One.
“I’m tired, Anthony.”
“Almost done,” Anthony says, cutting and pasting a clip again. His hand withers and he cuts too much, grunting in annoyance to find the audio starting mid-word. “Dang it.”
“’S fine, who cares?” Ian whispers, his voice raspy with sleep and drifting as his head rolls to the side, body completely crumpled and melted into the chair.
“I do,” Anthony bites back his angry tone. He pushes himself away from the desk in irritation and swivels his seat to face Ian. “C’mon, you try to do it.”
But Ian’s eyes are closed and his mouth hangs slightly open, pink lips glistening dewy in the dark room. Soft breath escapes in and out evenly and Anthony knows he’s fallen to sleep.
“Ian,” Anthony whispers quietly even though he wants to wake Ian up. Ian only lets out a shuddering sigh, chest under the burgundy hoodie softening. “Bitch,” he growls but smiles, leaning back in his own chair to watch. Anthony likes this Ian, natural and almost child-like with a lax face and brown downy hair floating over milky freckled skin.
He finishes editing, resting his face against the cool wood of the desk and letting the image of Ian asleep in the chair beside him send him to sweet slumber.
Two.
When Ian eats, it’s always big mouthfuls and purposeful chewing. He’ll bite into something, fill his whole mouth, and then have bits of food decorating the corners of his lips. Anthony sometimes watches, both disgusted and fascinated, entranced by the way juices from a steaming hamburger could dribble so slowly and wet down a stubbled chin.
He’ll do a double take when Ian would moan, exaggerating how delicious the food is and closing his eyes with a strange and satisfied grin.
It has gone to a point that Anthony only starts his food after Ian’s first bite. It becomes habit when they sit and his eyes would wander expectedly towards Ian who’s own eyes sparkle blue and sunshine at the crunch of unwrapping grease covered paper or the opening screech of Styrofoam boxes. Anthony would freeze with hungry eyes as if Ian’s mouth and tongue were his own, taking in greedily his best friend’s reaction as he ate.
Sometimes Anthony would stare for too long and Ian would open his eyes and look at him. He would smile sheepishly, not embarrassed at all at the fact that his face was a complete mess that made Anthony’s fingers itch to do something about that sauce on the left of his cheek. He’ll raise a brow and stare at Anthony’s untouched food in a silent question. It takes all of Anthony’s strength to look away and start with his own.
And Anthony would take a tentative bite, his eyes flickering back and forth from his hot dog to Ian’s munching face.
“Dude, you got a little ketchup on your nose.”
He looks down, cross-eyed and swipes a palm over his nose. The hand comes back clean.
“Did I get it?” Anthony asks, touching the bridge of his nose for good measure. Ian only lifts the corner of his mouth slightly, eyes crinkling in amusement.
“Nah, you missed,” he says, pointing a finger to the left of his own nose. Ian taps the spot and Anthony again rubs his fingers around his face. He feels only clean skin, not the expected slime of red sauce.
“What the hell?” Anthony places his chewed hot dog down and uses both hands to feel his face for the mess. He’s wondering if there is anything on his face at all and suspecting Ian’s just being an idiot and screwing with him. He scoffs at his hands, no residue of ketchup on them.
“It’s still there!” Ian laughs and he points at Anthony’s face, leaning in close. There’s the telltale sign of trickery in the upturn of his pink lips and Anthony plays along.
“What? Still?” Anthony puts on a show, giving Ian an expression of exasperation. “Where? Help me get it off, man.”
“It’s right…” Ian stands up over the table, a hand coming towards Anthony’s face and he knows his friend is about to either slap him or slather Anthony’s face with the spilt mustard and ketchup on his own hands. “…here!”
As expected, Ian purposely wipes his messy finger down between Anthony’s eyebrows, leaving a trail of warm greasy condiment juice on skin. He laughs wide and joyful, bellowing louder when Anthony grunts and throws a balled up napkin at him.
“Fuck you,” Anthony says, laughing too because he likes the way Ian’s voice rattles as he tries to hold in his snickering, his hand holding onto his belly as if his little prank was the funniest and best thing to happen in the world.
The skin at the centre of his face tingles with a sort of muffled sparkling.
Three.
Anthony wakes to find Ian dressed in his winter jacket, looking small as he loops a fluffy knitted scarf around his neck.
“It’s snowing!” he exclaims too loud, ripping the blankets away from Anthony. Cold shocks the soles of his feet and goose bumps crawl up to the elbows of his arms.
“Hey!” Anthony cries and gathers the blankets again, violently shivering once and shooting a wary glance at his friend who leaves the room in a too excited sprint. The tail of Ian’s scarf drags itself behind him and Anthony hears the front door open loudly and the yelp of exhilarated laughter.
He doesn’t believe it’s snowing and even if it is, California would melt it to an ashen watery mush. Anthony hides his own excitement, unwilling to feel it until he sees it with his own eyes as he stumbles groggily and skeptical out of bed.
“Anthony!” a distant voice drifts from outside the window. A knock and Anthony peaks through the blinds to see a flushed Ian, cheeks and nose pink and eyes dancing with brightness. “Get out here, right now!”
“It’s not really snowing,” Anthony argues but Ian doesn’t hear, cupping a hand over his ear. He yells louder, hands in his pocket and refusing to open the blinds completely. His tired eyes don’t see the small white butterfly tufts of snow falling. He’s too focused on Ian who’s shaking his head, hair misty damp and lips pouting for Anthony to come join him outside.
“C’mon, Ant, before it melts!”
Anthony rolls his eyes and sighs, giving in and stomping clad in his sleep clothes and socks to the front door. He doesn’t bother to wear shoes, thinking he would step on rough rocky cement. But his eyes are playing tricks on him because he’s greeted to a land of white blankets and the dancing twinkles of snowflakes. It could be a dream, especially since his cheeks numb instantly and his neck stiffens from the chilly wind.
He doesn’t even feel the shocking wet coldness soak through his socks until a snowball hits him on the side of his head. The icy coolness seeps through his ear and the snow melts chilled water into his ear.
A single promise to kill Ian forms in his mind. And he’s grabbing powder cold into his raw red hands, hurling broken snowballs in the direction of mocking laughter.
They’re like that for a long time, ducking behind snow covered bushes and getting wet and unfeeling cold all over. Anthony is soaked and his feet feel like ice when he teeters sideways, dodging a wad of snow thrown at him.
“I-It’s c-c-cold!” he stutters but doesn’t let Ian have the last throw. He heaves a basketball sized snowball at Ian who is five feet in front of him behind the tree. It hits him on the hip and Ian roars, tackling Anthony to the ground.
They’re rolling around and Anthony eats more snow than breathes. Ian’s laughing hard beneath him, squirming and halfheartedly pushing Anthony away. His whole body racks with mirth and his eyes shine with tears of too much fun, making the blue in them swirl with diamonds.
“I’m fucking f-free-eezing!” Anthony’s teeth clatter together and he tries to get up but Ian’s got his fists full of Anthony’s drenched collar. His fingers burn from digging in the snow so he places them around the hot skin of Ian’s rosy cheeks, earning him a yelp and arms wrapping tight around his shoulders.
Ian is very close and Anthony has to almost look at him cross-eyed. Their foggy breaths mingle between them, creating soft misty warmth around their faces.
“Serves you right for not believing me,” Ian says, smiling and their foreheads touch. He doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable and Anthony wonders why he feels perfectly natural and absolutely content even when their noses bump and Anthony slides his cheek against Ian’s, burying his cold face into the other’s burning neck.
He’s not cold anymore. Not when Ian is radiating warmth that envelopes all of Anthony so well that as he breathes in the distinct scent of skin and hair, he wishes it would snow every day.
Four.
“You’re a hundred degrees.”
“No shit.”
“Here,” Anthony coaxes Ian into a sitting position, “drink this.”
Ian stares at the offending little cup of red syrup and grimaces, a gleam of glistening sweat forming all over his skin. He downs the foul tasting medicine and instantly plops back down onto the bed, groaning and whining.
The other boy is sick and Anthony chuckles at the irony of the situation. He should be the one in bed with snot dripping and throat scratchy and painful. Instead, Ian’s wrapped snugly in a mountain of blankets, hair sticking to his forehead and breathing raspy and labored. He looks like death and the doctor had instructed he sleep and sleep. Something like this didn’t have a quick fix.
“’S not fair,” Ian complains, turning his face to bury it in his damp pillow. Anthony has a cup of water in his hand and he uses his fingers to pry Ian up again to force him to drink.
“Geez, you’re such a baby.”
“Shut up,” and Ian coughs purposely on his friend. Anthony jerks away, the water spilling over the rim of the cup and wetting his hand. “Hah! Now you’re sick too.”
“Great,” Anthony says sarcastically. Despite Ian’s sick appearance, he still smiles and tries to sit up. He resembles a fat caterpillar, trying to climb the headboard of the bed.
“Hey Anthony,” Ian says and smiles goofily with his eyes half closed. “Anthony, wipe my nose. It’s stuffy.”
“Hell no! That’s disgusting.”
“Please, Anthony?” Ian frowns and Anthony feels himself liking that look on his friend. But the thought of touching diseased green mucus makes him recoil from Ian who’s leaning in close with his nose dripping. “Puh-lease!”
“Get the fuck away from me, you sick-o!” He laughs and pushes Ian away but out of the cocoon, his hands grab Anthony’s elbow and pulling him into the bed. They roar at each other, wrestling and fighting and yelling. Anthony’s surprised Ian even has the strength to hold on as he writhes on top of him. A little bit of snot or saliva or sweat touches the collar of his neck as he struggles and Anthony cringes. “Gah! Gross!”
Ian laughs so hard that he’s reduced to fits of bubbling coughs. They stop and lay side by side, panting out breaths of exhaustion and looking at each other with wide smiles. Ian snorts, sighing and using the back of his hand to wipe his nose but Anthony stops him.
“Fine, here,” Anthony offers a napkin from the bedside table but Ian doesn’t take it, obviously still intent on Anthony doing it for him. He rolls his eyes, heaving a defeated sigh and cleans Ian’s nose. Ian’s satisfied snot-free face borders on tiredness, but the superior smirk is there. “You’re an asshole.”
“Damn right, bitch.” Ian grins lazily and closes his eyes, looking about to fall asleep again.
Anthony makes to get up again but he’s pulled down with fingers that grasp his own. They’re sticky and hot ones that grip tight and forceful. Anthony is succumbed to lie down beside his sick friend whose smug look is still plastered proudly on his sweaty face.
He sighs, faking exasperation but he squeezes Ian’s hand and smiles too, daring to plant a kiss on a clammy forehead when Ian is asleep. They stay together that night, breathing in and out together and wake up sick together as well.
And Anthony isn’t too bothered, just happy when Ian wipes his nose for him the next day.
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