Smosh Fic: Forget it the Next
Title: Forget it the Next (Monthly Challenge - "Mistletoe")
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Ian/Anthony
Genre: Angst, Violence
Summary: (Side Story to "Words Unsaid") There’s something in Anthony that Ian knows. He pretends not to notice.
A/N: The story takes place between Anthony catching Ian in his bedroom and before Ian leaves in "Words Unsaid".
There’s something in Anthony that Ian knows. He pretends not to notice, staring at the mistletoe hanging lone on the doorframe between the kitchen and the hallway to the bedrooms. There’s something about the feather green leaves and the pale cream of the berries that Ian would rather look at than see Anthony.
He’s trying his hardest not to be pulled in, sipping amber liquid and wincing a little as it scratches the back of his throat, fizzing down hot and warm. Ian tries not to take note of the way Anthony glances at him from across the room; little flickers of gazes that catch his eye and send him almost falling back. Someone pushes him from behind, wedging their way between Ian and the back of the kitchen counter. He thinks it’s Melanie but he barely spots her leaving the room with a few of her friends and his eyes lock with Anthony’s again. He pretends it’s the alcohol that blurs his vision and puts everything past Anthony’s face out of focus.
It’s been a while since Ian has noticed, since he’s known. It wasn’t too difficult to decipher it, having been through it already. He doesn’t want to recognize it though, pushing it away further and farther every day. Every day turns into every hour and every hour to every second. It goes to a point where Ian has to form a mantra in his mind to stop thinking about it, to stop wishing, to stop wanting and hoping.
He’s not to suppose to think this way.
Ian scratches the back of neck, finding his fingers sweaty and clammy as he strains his neck back to keep on staring at the ribboned Christmas garland. His vision swims a little as he suddenly feels Anthony close again, being so used to knowing what it’s like. His nose and his chin tingle and his chest hurts. He pretends it’s because he can’t hear Charlie’s wheel squeaking down the hall. How he can hear anything over the noise is beyond him, but he grapples onto this idea like a lifeline. The truth is too dangerous.
“Hey,” Anthony says, quiet but loud enough over the thumping of the music. It takes Ian a second to tear his gaze from the ceiling to Anthony and he almost regrets it. The beer is a lot more appetizing now and Ian nods, gulping down half of it into his stomach.
“Enjoying yourself?” Ian asks and he forces a smile past the sizzling on his tongue. He wants to say more, maybe tell Anthony he’s tired instead, a little depressed, because that’s how he feels right now.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” Anthony answers, for some reason, nervous and hesitate. It’s hard to know when Ian’s judgement is separating from him as he teeters a little sideways. A hand comes up almost to touch Ian but it wavers and falls back to his side. Ian watches the hand, one second wanting the grip on his arm, his shoulder, his waist, anywhere and the next completely forgetting about it because Ian isn’t supposed to think like that.
Ian wants to break the tension so he laughs out of nowhere, not knowing what else to do because he’s nervous too. He blames the beer and the people all around him too happy and unashamed of who they are, prancing and writhing to the music. Ian makes the mistake again of looking straight into Anthony’s eyes, seeing what Ian had been trying to avoid and finding his breath escape out of his lungs too fast. He’s winded suddenly and tries to grasp around him for the lost air to come back.
“You’re drunk,” Anthony observes, when Ian’s laughs turn into choked snickers. He cringes, Anthony’s voice travelling down the side of neck and making his skin crawl with fuzziness. Ian thinks Anthony sounds concerned, warm and worried. He likes it for a minute, replaying the words for some odd reason, but Ian makes himself forget it the next.
He shakes his head, sloshing the last bit of his drink into his mouth before Anthony can grab the cup away. “No, I’m not… bitch,” he protests, smiling and even he can hear his own words bending together. His friend frowns and puts the cup on the counter behind Ian, Anthony’s arm grazing lightly just over Ian’s bicep. The cotton of his sleeve slides against his burning skin and Ian almost shivers when Anthony’s breath lingers at the crook of his bare collar. That’s where all the air in his body has gone, right into Anthony.
And Ian is blaming again his absolute lack of control, the alcohol that runs through his blood and the way Anthony notices too, just how close they are, cheek almost touching cheek. The warmth is so inviting and Ian almost, just almost, dares to let gravity take hold of him and press himself against Anthony. But before he can, Anthony is in front of him like an apparition, tense with a gaze that flickers everywhere around Ian, lingering right at the sight of the mistletoe.
But he’s a lot closer. Two steps more than before and half a step away.
Ian’s not quite sure what to do, so engrossed in his previous thoughts and trying to shake them off. He watches Anthony, notes his surprise and realization, the way the gears in his head turn and the way his throat tightens with a gulp.
Ian manages to croak out, awkwardly, quiet, “What d’ya think it tastes like?”
“What?” Anthony almost squeaks and Ian’s lips quirk upwards slightly, a tiny part of him glad to know he isn’t the only one out of the two shaken up. The room’s spinning now and the tips of his fingers feel numb, just fidgeting for feeling again. Anthony is very close.
“Mistletoe,” Ian whispers for some reason. The meaning behind that word hasn’t quite struck him yet but it leaks into his consciousness slowly. Maybe the idea has already been there before, just like how Ian feels about Anthony, but he’s just trying to forget like always.
“Oh,” Anthony whispers too and the sound drips. “You can’t eat that, you douche. It’s plastic.”
“Oh.” Ian stands a little straighter which inevitably brings them a little closer. Anthony doesn’t move back. He wonders if Anthony can hear the trembling in his blood.
Ian is reminded of that moment alone, for some reason, just a few days ago when Anthony had gone out on a date with some girl he had just met. Ian had stood naked, alone, in his dark room, thinking that being completely devoid of anything that could hide him, unclothed, would disgust himself enough to stop. He remembers running his hand slowly down, breath hitching when he sees himself completely erect just envisioning Anthony. And he had told himself it was the last time he would let these feelings in.
Ian’s brought back to this moment now as Anthony shifts his neck a little to the side. They don’t speak. They just stand there and breathe.
He remembers the time his body betrayed him in that moment of jealousy, loneliness and want, just like it is now as he takes half of that half of a step towards Anthony. He feels the laces of desire wrap around him, sly and velvety until they turn into tight ropes that would only loosen until Ian obeys. The people around them, the ricocheting notes of heavy music and even the mistletoe that hangs above them disappears.
So he listens for once to what he wants because everything is silent and he blames the stillness that inches him closer and closer.
Just when he’s almost there, their faces a breath away, he feels Anthony’s hands grip his shoulders, holding him in place. Anthony’s eyes are searching, confused, the brown in them swirling with emotions that Ian finds so familiar because it’s exactly what’s tumbling inside beneath his own skin.
Ian could shrug off those hands, warm and gentle, he could easily keep moving. But he’s losing his confidence suddenly.
“What the hell are you doing?” Anthony whispers and the sound is barely heard being swallowed by the deafening beat of Ian’s heart.
It takes a moment for Ian to answer because he knows what’s happening: what he wants to do and at the same time, he knows what he should be doing and what he shouldn’t. So he decides to take the route of easy and possible. “I don’t know.”
It’s always easier not to know.
It’s easier not to think as Anthony nods, his throat tightening again. It’s so much easier not to want Anthony to lean just a little closer, have his hands move somewhere, anywhere, everywhere because Ian likes the fluttering his body does as Anthony touches him.
“You’re drunk,” Anthony says again.
“I’m not.”
And maybe it’s the way Anthony is biting his lip, or the way his cheeks were flushed and his unholy heat is making it too easy not to draw closer. And maybe it’s the way Anthony’s eyes glance up at the mistletoe in silent prayer, hoping it’s traditional magic applied to the both of them. But Ian finds himself pressed right up against Anthony, his hands still at his sides because he still sort of wants to play this off as him falling into Anthony.
In case anything went wrong, as their lips hover over each other, stinging and shuddering with sensations that Ian wants so bad, so much, right now, he could pretend he had just fallen, a little tipsy. He could save the two of them explanations as to why they were so close.
But it’s sort of too late now because Ian’s eyes are closed and they’re kissing all of a sudden. He’s sure Anthony closes the distance. Ian vaguely compares it to all the people he’s ever kissed and even though it’s not a hungry kiss or one that’s done in haste, he likes it more than any other. It’s one of those kisses that don’t seem to really be happening so you have to do it more, move into it a little deeper, lest it leaves you too soon and not enough.
The way Ian feels right now; he can’t understand it. His mind is playing tricks on him because he keeps going from wanting and tasting, tongues tentatively tangling to, he shouldn’t, this is wrong, what the fuck are you doing?
The more he moves with Anthony, already half-hard against Anthony’s stomach, the more he knows he needs to get out of there, stop, Ian, you’re not supposed to.
And he could have silenced those thoughts completely because it’s so much easier to give in if not for a voice that cries his name out from across the room. Its surprise and fear lending itself back into Ian’s mind as he opens his eyes.
Melanie is just standing there at the entrance of the room, expression shocked and disgusted and it takes a second for Ian to understand why.
It could have taken quicker for Ian to realize what he has done, what he’s been doing in that haze of overwhelming out-of-control desire if it wasn’t Anthony who he was kissing. If it were anybody else, anyone other than Anthony.
The room starts to spin again, the noise catching up and Ian’s head hurts badly when he jerks too fast away and hits it against the frame of the door. What probably hurts more is when he raises his fist, not knowing what it’s about to do until it connects to Anthony’s face and he feels all the joints in his knuckles popping upon impact.
It’s the same feeling that grips his heart as he watches his friend crumple to the floor, crying out and Ian just catches the tears welling up under wide chocolate brown irises. The hope in them fades away and Ian is sorry and regretful now.
Anthony’s accusing eyes, as friends gather between them to stop them, to help Anthony and as Ian is being dragged away by Melanie; the tearful eyes ask him, Why? Why did you do that? What is this?
Don’t you feel the same way?
Ian’s lost control. He feels dirty. He feels disgusting. He feels horrible because he never wants to stop feeling this way. And he remembers nights where he has lain in bed, wishing, longing, and hoping for Anthony to be beside him.
Not just beside him, but beside him as more than Anthony is supposed to be.
But he isn’t and could never be. Ian isn’t going to let that happen again as the throbbing pain in his hand and the suffocating loss in his chest reminds him. As he stumbles after Melanie, who he’s supposed to be, who steers him out of the house, furious and confused. He knows. They have to stay the way they are. And he’s sorry, knowing Anthony wants more too. He’s sorry that he’s too scared to do the thing where he lets himself love his best friend.
Melanie asks him a million questions, What was that? What the hell were you doing? What was Anthony doing? What were you thinking? Why did you punch him? Are you all right, babe? You’re drunk.
He could only mutter under his breath, something only he could really hear, the reason he’s going to blame for how he feels, for that kiss, “Mistletoe.”
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Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Ian/Anthony
Genre: Angst, Violence
Summary: (Side Story to "Words Unsaid") There’s something in Anthony that Ian knows. He pretends not to notice.
A/N: The story takes place between Anthony catching Ian in his bedroom and before Ian leaves in "Words Unsaid".
There’s something in Anthony that Ian knows. He pretends not to notice, staring at the mistletoe hanging lone on the doorframe between the kitchen and the hallway to the bedrooms. There’s something about the feather green leaves and the pale cream of the berries that Ian would rather look at than see Anthony.
He’s trying his hardest not to be pulled in, sipping amber liquid and wincing a little as it scratches the back of his throat, fizzing down hot and warm. Ian tries not to take note of the way Anthony glances at him from across the room; little flickers of gazes that catch his eye and send him almost falling back. Someone pushes him from behind, wedging their way between Ian and the back of the kitchen counter. He thinks it’s Melanie but he barely spots her leaving the room with a few of her friends and his eyes lock with Anthony’s again. He pretends it’s the alcohol that blurs his vision and puts everything past Anthony’s face out of focus.
It’s been a while since Ian has noticed, since he’s known. It wasn’t too difficult to decipher it, having been through it already. He doesn’t want to recognize it though, pushing it away further and farther every day. Every day turns into every hour and every hour to every second. It goes to a point where Ian has to form a mantra in his mind to stop thinking about it, to stop wishing, to stop wanting and hoping.
He’s not to suppose to think this way.
Ian scratches the back of neck, finding his fingers sweaty and clammy as he strains his neck back to keep on staring at the ribboned Christmas garland. His vision swims a little as he suddenly feels Anthony close again, being so used to knowing what it’s like. His nose and his chin tingle and his chest hurts. He pretends it’s because he can’t hear Charlie’s wheel squeaking down the hall. How he can hear anything over the noise is beyond him, but he grapples onto this idea like a lifeline. The truth is too dangerous.
“Hey,” Anthony says, quiet but loud enough over the thumping of the music. It takes Ian a second to tear his gaze from the ceiling to Anthony and he almost regrets it. The beer is a lot more appetizing now and Ian nods, gulping down half of it into his stomach.
“Enjoying yourself?” Ian asks and he forces a smile past the sizzling on his tongue. He wants to say more, maybe tell Anthony he’s tired instead, a little depressed, because that’s how he feels right now.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” Anthony answers, for some reason, nervous and hesitate. It’s hard to know when Ian’s judgement is separating from him as he teeters a little sideways. A hand comes up almost to touch Ian but it wavers and falls back to his side. Ian watches the hand, one second wanting the grip on his arm, his shoulder, his waist, anywhere and the next completely forgetting about it because Ian isn’t supposed to think like that.
Ian wants to break the tension so he laughs out of nowhere, not knowing what else to do because he’s nervous too. He blames the beer and the people all around him too happy and unashamed of who they are, prancing and writhing to the music. Ian makes the mistake again of looking straight into Anthony’s eyes, seeing what Ian had been trying to avoid and finding his breath escape out of his lungs too fast. He’s winded suddenly and tries to grasp around him for the lost air to come back.
“You’re drunk,” Anthony observes, when Ian’s laughs turn into choked snickers. He cringes, Anthony’s voice travelling down the side of neck and making his skin crawl with fuzziness. Ian thinks Anthony sounds concerned, warm and worried. He likes it for a minute, replaying the words for some odd reason, but Ian makes himself forget it the next.
He shakes his head, sloshing the last bit of his drink into his mouth before Anthony can grab the cup away. “No, I’m not… bitch,” he protests, smiling and even he can hear his own words bending together. His friend frowns and puts the cup on the counter behind Ian, Anthony’s arm grazing lightly just over Ian’s bicep. The cotton of his sleeve slides against his burning skin and Ian almost shivers when Anthony’s breath lingers at the crook of his bare collar. That’s where all the air in his body has gone, right into Anthony.
And Ian is blaming again his absolute lack of control, the alcohol that runs through his blood and the way Anthony notices too, just how close they are, cheek almost touching cheek. The warmth is so inviting and Ian almost, just almost, dares to let gravity take hold of him and press himself against Anthony. But before he can, Anthony is in front of him like an apparition, tense with a gaze that flickers everywhere around Ian, lingering right at the sight of the mistletoe.
But he’s a lot closer. Two steps more than before and half a step away.
Ian’s not quite sure what to do, so engrossed in his previous thoughts and trying to shake them off. He watches Anthony, notes his surprise and realization, the way the gears in his head turn and the way his throat tightens with a gulp.
Ian manages to croak out, awkwardly, quiet, “What d’ya think it tastes like?”
“What?” Anthony almost squeaks and Ian’s lips quirk upwards slightly, a tiny part of him glad to know he isn’t the only one out of the two shaken up. The room’s spinning now and the tips of his fingers feel numb, just fidgeting for feeling again. Anthony is very close.
“Mistletoe,” Ian whispers for some reason. The meaning behind that word hasn’t quite struck him yet but it leaks into his consciousness slowly. Maybe the idea has already been there before, just like how Ian feels about Anthony, but he’s just trying to forget like always.
“Oh,” Anthony whispers too and the sound drips. “You can’t eat that, you douche. It’s plastic.”
“Oh.” Ian stands a little straighter which inevitably brings them a little closer. Anthony doesn’t move back. He wonders if Anthony can hear the trembling in his blood.
Ian is reminded of that moment alone, for some reason, just a few days ago when Anthony had gone out on a date with some girl he had just met. Ian had stood naked, alone, in his dark room, thinking that being completely devoid of anything that could hide him, unclothed, would disgust himself enough to stop. He remembers running his hand slowly down, breath hitching when he sees himself completely erect just envisioning Anthony. And he had told himself it was the last time he would let these feelings in.
Ian’s brought back to this moment now as Anthony shifts his neck a little to the side. They don’t speak. They just stand there and breathe.
He remembers the time his body betrayed him in that moment of jealousy, loneliness and want, just like it is now as he takes half of that half of a step towards Anthony. He feels the laces of desire wrap around him, sly and velvety until they turn into tight ropes that would only loosen until Ian obeys. The people around them, the ricocheting notes of heavy music and even the mistletoe that hangs above them disappears.
So he listens for once to what he wants because everything is silent and he blames the stillness that inches him closer and closer.
Just when he’s almost there, their faces a breath away, he feels Anthony’s hands grip his shoulders, holding him in place. Anthony’s eyes are searching, confused, the brown in them swirling with emotions that Ian finds so familiar because it’s exactly what’s tumbling inside beneath his own skin.
Ian could shrug off those hands, warm and gentle, he could easily keep moving. But he’s losing his confidence suddenly.
“What the hell are you doing?” Anthony whispers and the sound is barely heard being swallowed by the deafening beat of Ian’s heart.
It takes a moment for Ian to answer because he knows what’s happening: what he wants to do and at the same time, he knows what he should be doing and what he shouldn’t. So he decides to take the route of easy and possible. “I don’t know.”
It’s always easier not to know.
It’s easier not to think as Anthony nods, his throat tightening again. It’s so much easier not to want Anthony to lean just a little closer, have his hands move somewhere, anywhere, everywhere because Ian likes the fluttering his body does as Anthony touches him.
“You’re drunk,” Anthony says again.
“I’m not.”
And maybe it’s the way Anthony is biting his lip, or the way his cheeks were flushed and his unholy heat is making it too easy not to draw closer. And maybe it’s the way Anthony’s eyes glance up at the mistletoe in silent prayer, hoping it’s traditional magic applied to the both of them. But Ian finds himself pressed right up against Anthony, his hands still at his sides because he still sort of wants to play this off as him falling into Anthony.
In case anything went wrong, as their lips hover over each other, stinging and shuddering with sensations that Ian wants so bad, so much, right now, he could pretend he had just fallen, a little tipsy. He could save the two of them explanations as to why they were so close.
But it’s sort of too late now because Ian’s eyes are closed and they’re kissing all of a sudden. He’s sure Anthony closes the distance. Ian vaguely compares it to all the people he’s ever kissed and even though it’s not a hungry kiss or one that’s done in haste, he likes it more than any other. It’s one of those kisses that don’t seem to really be happening so you have to do it more, move into it a little deeper, lest it leaves you too soon and not enough.
The way Ian feels right now; he can’t understand it. His mind is playing tricks on him because he keeps going from wanting and tasting, tongues tentatively tangling to, he shouldn’t, this is wrong, what the fuck are you doing?
The more he moves with Anthony, already half-hard against Anthony’s stomach, the more he knows he needs to get out of there, stop, Ian, you’re not supposed to.
And he could have silenced those thoughts completely because it’s so much easier to give in if not for a voice that cries his name out from across the room. Its surprise and fear lending itself back into Ian’s mind as he opens his eyes.
Melanie is just standing there at the entrance of the room, expression shocked and disgusted and it takes a second for Ian to understand why.
It could have taken quicker for Ian to realize what he has done, what he’s been doing in that haze of overwhelming out-of-control desire if it wasn’t Anthony who he was kissing. If it were anybody else, anyone other than Anthony.
The room starts to spin again, the noise catching up and Ian’s head hurts badly when he jerks too fast away and hits it against the frame of the door. What probably hurts more is when he raises his fist, not knowing what it’s about to do until it connects to Anthony’s face and he feels all the joints in his knuckles popping upon impact.
It’s the same feeling that grips his heart as he watches his friend crumple to the floor, crying out and Ian just catches the tears welling up under wide chocolate brown irises. The hope in them fades away and Ian is sorry and regretful now.
Anthony’s accusing eyes, as friends gather between them to stop them, to help Anthony and as Ian is being dragged away by Melanie; the tearful eyes ask him, Why? Why did you do that? What is this?
Don’t you feel the same way?
Ian’s lost control. He feels dirty. He feels disgusting. He feels horrible because he never wants to stop feeling this way. And he remembers nights where he has lain in bed, wishing, longing, and hoping for Anthony to be beside him.
Not just beside him, but beside him as more than Anthony is supposed to be.
But he isn’t and could never be. Ian isn’t going to let that happen again as the throbbing pain in his hand and the suffocating loss in his chest reminds him. As he stumbles after Melanie, who he’s supposed to be, who steers him out of the house, furious and confused. He knows. They have to stay the way they are. And he’s sorry, knowing Anthony wants more too. He’s sorry that he’s too scared to do the thing where he lets himself love his best friend.
Melanie asks him a million questions, What was that? What the hell were you doing? What was Anthony doing? What were you thinking? Why did you punch him? Are you all right, babe? You’re drunk.
He could only mutter under his breath, something only he could really hear, the reason he’s going to blame for how he feels, for that kiss, “Mistletoe.”
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