Work Text:
The first time it happens, it has been roughly half a year since Anthony left.
This new reality, one where he ignores Ian’s texts, driving it home that they’re not friends anymore, is slowly starting to set in. Which is fine in all the ways it isn’t fine. Realistically, they hadn’t even been best friends anymore before the break-up. Anthony isn’t the person he would want to confide in if something is on his mind, and he hasn’t been since they were teenagers.
Of course, there wasn’t anything to confide about. Ian, by and large, is fine.
But it’s almost Christmas. He’s a bit homesick, there is an Anthony-shaped hole in his life, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.
When he wakes up, he will realise it had been a dream. At the moment though, he’s panting, anxious, running from someone he can’t see. A shade of brown he wishes didn’t feel so familiar anymore. His feet are stuck on the ground. A warm body, solid, feeling entirely too real. No matter how hard he tries, he isn’t moving forward. He can’t go back either.
“Please don’t leave me,” he hears himself whisper. The person sighs, and Ian feels fingers brush against the nape of his neck. His eyes open, shining with alien vulnerability. An Anthony who doesn’t quite look right coos and envelops him in his arms.
When sunlight hits his face and rips him awake, his jaw hurts from clenching it so hard.
The dream burns itself into his memory instead of fading away. After the initial anxiety, Ian tries to examine it from a neutral perspective, absentmindedly staring off into space at work so many times his colleagues notice. He tells them it’s nothing.
If dreams are a window to your soul – what the hell did that mean?
The second time it happens, it’s Christmas Eve.
He’s in his childhood home, trying to sleep in a bedroom that has not changed in the last fifteen years. Ian hadn’t particularly wanted to fly home to Sacramento this year, not feeling the Christmas spirit, with his girlfriend being in the hospital again and all. Pam, from her bed, had gently bullied him until he gave in and only cancelled her ticket, not both of them.
“You haven’t seen your mom in almost a year because of me. I’ll be here when you come back in three days,” she had said. When his mom hugs him hello at the door and asks where he left his sweet girlfriend, Ian has to swallow.
“She couldn’t make it,” he mumbles into her hair and blinks rapidly.
On the uber-drive over, he passes Anthony’s mom’s house. He can’t help but wonder if he’s visiting too. The sharp stab in his chest reminds him that he doesn’t even know. For a split second, he entertains the idea of telling the driver to stop right there, to get out of the car and ring the doorbell. He wants to text Anthony.
He doesn’t do any of it.
In his dream, he’s back at the hospital. A monitor is beeping loudly but steadily, the chair is as uncomfortable as ever. Pam is in her bed, one of her small hands in his. She’s just asleep. He wants to breathe out in relief, but the sudden surge of guilt washing over him hits him by surprise, his hand clenching around hers until her face is no more than a few blurry dots.
Black hair, kind eyes and a sweet smile. Goddamn it.
“Hey Ian, you’re alright. It’s alright,” a quiet voice whispers. An arm snakes around Ian’s shoulders, a body pressing itself along the side of his own – not pulling him away from her, simply moving closer, like they’re the only thing that’s holding him together.
Ian instinctively knows who it has to be. It’s happening again.
He looks down at his lap, sniffling, not sure if he should, or if he can respond. A hand, weird, unfamiliar, with swirly black lines and silver rings all over it, reaches out and takes his own hand in theirs, squeezing. As if on reflex, a chain reaction, Ian squeezes Pam’s hand too.
“You’ll be alright, Ian. Happy holidays.”
The third time it happens, it catches him completely off guard. He hadn’t had any strange dreams in almost half a year and truth be told, Ian had kind of forgotten about it. Three times is a pattern though, isn’t it?
The hotel bed is uncomfortable, the fans are wild, and the room service is bad. A trifecta that, in a way, reminds him of the chaos that was the first VidCon nine years ago. They’d laughed about the craziness together afterwards. Today, Anthony had caught his eye across the creator floor. Seeing him in person had hurt in a way he didn’t think was possible.
Ian watches his videos, in part self-flagellation, sure, but mostly to see what he’s up to.
Truth be told, Anthony is floundering. Experimenting in front of millions of people, who are watching with judging eyes. He’s throwing different things at the wall, trying to see what could stick, trying to figure out what he wants to do. Ian knows it wouldn’t be too long until Anthony strikes gold, because that’s what he always does.
Not once had he turned his back or strayed in the past year though, not for a collab, not even a call or a text. So when Anthony catches his eye, Ian freezes. No nod, no smile, nothing. All he gets from Anthony is mild surprise, his eyes widening ever so slightly, before he looks away again.
Asleep, he relives the moment hundreds of times. Sometimes, nothing changes. Sometimes, Anthony sneers in disgust before turning away. Sometimes, he must catch the look on Ian’s face, because he points and laughs. Poor, washed-up Ian, the half of the duo that can’t move on.
A giggle interrupts him. Someone hauls him in from the side, pulling him out of his stupor enough to let him turn his head. He catches a silver earring, a bun, and a friendly smile.
“Stop spiralling, Ian,” Anthony says, patting his back. “You know I could never hate you.”
Pam and Ian break up. It’s inevitable and for the best, it really is, but Ian is devastated. He puts on a brave face when he leaves her apartment, but as soon as he pulls into his own driveway, he puts his head down onto the wheel and bursts into tears.
It’s wet, and gross, and incredibly embarrassing, and yet – he can’t stop. He hiccups when he tries to breathe in and turns off the motor, then the lights. After a few minutes, he hastily wipes at his own eyes and his nose. Hopefully none of his neighbours can see him, because the tears keep coming against his will, even as he walks up to the door.
Mechanically, Ian unlocks it, then slips off his jacket and his shoes. Forgoing any more ceremony, he slumps onto his bed and buries his face into the pillows. He hasn’t cried like this in years.
“I just wish you were better at communicating,” she’d told him. Is that the reason people keep leaving him, then?
He almost expects a dream, anticipates it in a way, but it still hits him like a truck when he gains awareness.
“Oh. I must be dreaming,” Ian says, to no one in particular. He’s back in his bed at his parents place. On his bedside table, an old Walkman; on the side of his bed, a lumpy mattress ready for a sleepover. Ian feels different, smaller and lighter, the frames of his glasses not digging into his face. His best friend, next to him, looks different too. Older. “Oh.”
Unlike the last two times, Anthony doesn’t say anything.
Ian blinks, and his nose is pressed into the crook of Anthony’s neck. He blinks again, and Anthony is smoothing a palm over his back in soothing motions, trying to calm him. Oh, right. He buries his face into the skin before him when the tears threaten to spill over again. He clings, and clings, and clings, and Anthony doesn’t say a word, doesn’t complain.
Anthony still smells the same. The same old shitty, achingly familiar cologne.
Ian thinks this is what free fall must feel like. Defy is gone, the entire company is gone. His job, the thing he had been doing for almost fifteen years, is gone. But more importantly, all of his colleagues are out of a job too. He can’t help but feel like it’s his fault.
When Shayne asks him, unsure what’s going to happen, a resolve overtakes him like he’d never felt before. He’d fix this, he’d figure it out, even if it meant working eighty hours a week. They’d find another parent company, he’d beg at every doorstep, and he’d find one that would see the value of their content, maybe even let them have more freedom creatively.
They’d flourish again.
Ian is sure of this as long as he’s around the others, around the chaos of the building getting looted. As soon as he arrives home, the doubt starts to set in though. Who is he actually kidding? He can’t do this by himself. He’s getting too old, he’s part of a dying brand, the viewership had been dropping in the past year anyway and this must be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
Then, his phone vibrates. It’s a text from Anthony.
saw the news on Twitter, sorry to hear about it.
Ian wants to scoff, but the sound gets stuck in his throat. Anthony is probably popping a bottle of champagne because Defy is gone.
thanks man. yeah, sucks
Anthony sees the message immediately and doesn’t respond. Ian waits for a few seconds, before the scoff finally does work its way out of his mouth. He locks the phone and throws it on the coffee table. So this is where they’re at still. Disingenuous words.
A pitter-patter of footsteps in the hallway interrupts his pity party. Ian’s head snaps up, heart beating in his throat. Did he forget to lock the door? Is someone trying to rob him? He grabs the nearest item, a pillow, and slowly stands, creeping closer to the wall.
“Your hallway is still weird as fuck, Ian,” echoes across the open space. “Why are there mirrors in every nook and cranny?”
What the fuck? Ian thinks. He repeats the sentiment out loud. “What the fuck?”
Anthony, earring and bun in place just like last time, peeks around the corner and smiles at him. He quirks an eyebrow. “What are you planning to do with that, exactly?”
Ian blushes and clutches the pillow closer to his chest. He debates throwing it at his former best friend to let off some steam anyway, sorry to hear about it, when Anthony fully rounds the corner and– Jesus. Anthony is covered head to toe in tattoos. Not just his arms or his naked shins, but also his neck, and his ear.
“I like the pig.” There’s also lines on the inside of his palms, Ian notices when Anthony points at the painting. “And look at that, you have a picture of me up?” Ian feels the heat in his face intensify tenfold when he shuffles closer. Maybe he should’ve put the snapshots down a while ago, as it didn’t make much sense to keep displaying them. But he couldn’t bring himself to for some reason. “And Stone Cold Steve Austin of course, which is just as important.”
“Am I losing my mind?” Ian asks, which, he must be. This all seems like a very intense hallucination – perhaps being out of a job did finally make him snap.
“You tell me, Ian. Are you feeling okay?”
No. No, not really. His life’s work is collapsing before his eyes and the man he built it up with is probably out celebrating and pissing on its grave. Ian is slowly, slowly, coming to terms with the fact that Anthony and he will never be friends again, but damn it, he misses his best friend like a cut-off limb right now. Anthony would panic too, be unreasonable, but at least they’d do it together.
Ian doesn’t know what to do now. He’s never felt quite so small.
“God, you were such a tiny little thing, weren’t you?” Anthony, the old Anthony, murmurs and pulls him in, just like in his last dreams. The old Anthony is broader, more muscular than the one he knows, and Ian, suddenly sixteen and scrawny all over again, crumbles like paper. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now, okay? But you will, I can tell you that. You’ll be okay, you’ll find someone to support you guys.”
It takes a few minutes before Ian stops shaking.
“Why do you keep showing up?” Ian asks, drawing back. “Did I fall asleep? Am I dreaming?”
“You tell me, Ian,” Anthony repeats and leans forward, giving him a peck on his forehead, over his bangs.
Ian flinches so hard he wakes himself up.
During quarantine, something changes. The world is in flames, but there’s no big crises in his personal life for once: the channels are floundering, but they’re surviving, and his nonexistent love-life is barely worth mentioning. Yet, Anthony keeps showing up in his dreams. Sitting beside him, playing video games, in the passenger seat on a drive, on a hike, and on one notable occasion: doing yoga shirtless in Ian’s living room.
“It’s so weird to see you with these old, blocky glasses,” Anthony mentions, pokes him in the temple, and sprawls out beside him on the couch, sweaty and still half naked. Ian makes a grumpy noise and leans away from his prying fingers until Anthony giggles. He decidedly doesn’t steal a glance at him. “Don’t worry, you still look very cute.”
When Ian does a spit take, Anthony just laughs harder – and if Ian does peek at his abs after all, who’s gonna tell on him?
Anthony is, Ian notices, becoming not only increasingly affectionate, but also flirty. He’s not sure how he should react to it, because for one, back in the day only Ian – if jokingly – flirted with Anthony, and secondly, it stirred up an awful lot of feelings that Ian had buried dead about a decade ago.
Ian doesn’t want to dream of himself with the bowl cut, but somehow, his subconscious gets the better of him. Anthony almost makes himself sick he laughs so hard. Tears in his eyes, he hurries to reassure Ian when he starts pouting, pawing at his folded arms.
“No, no, it looks… nice,” Anthony’s voice gives out on the last word and turns into another wheeze. Almost placatingly, Anthony squeezes his forearms when he drops his head onto Ian’s shoulder, stumbling into another round of giggles. Despite his best efforts, Ian’s lips start to twitch. “You can definitely style it in the front to look okay, but… the back does look rough all shaved, I have to admit.”
When Anthony reaches out to adjust his bangs, then scratches at the buzzed hair at the back of his neck with his blunt fingernails, Ian almost forgets himself.
“I need to start running again,” Ian says.
His mirror is acting all funky, which made him aware he’s dreaming a few minutes ago, but it doesn’t matter. Ian knows what he looks like right now, and it’s not good. Compare that to the new clip of Anthony on Insta he saw. He’s flourishing, and Ian’s lack of self-care is starting to affect his body. It’s why he’s only been wearing hoodies for a while.
Thankfully, it’s still winter.
Anthony looks up from his painting – where did he even get that from? – and frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean,” Ian shrugs in a sweeping gesture across himself, “look at me.”
“I am,” Anthony replies evenly, and then he does. The room settles into a thick tension, Ian’s cheeks turning blotchy with embarrassment. Before he knows it, Anthony is in front of him and in his worry to withdraw, his shoulders hit the wall behind him. “Listen I’m all for self-improvement, but you look cute regardless of how much pudge you think there is here.”
Anthony reaches out, his fingers skimming the hem of his hoodie before dipping below. He gently strokes the skin of Ian’s hip before gripping his side, the pad of his thumb resting on his waist. Ian’s never seen this side of him before.
“I could still pick you up and throw you around.”
“...Oh,” Ian utters, bashful and breathless.
Anthony, noticing how Ian’s a bit overwhelmed, lets his smile turn playful. He lets the tension break. “I’m your best friend, I know these things.”
Ian nods absentmindedly, but has to swallow around the gigantic lump in his throat. “...Are you? My best friend?”
“Hm,” Anthony hums. “I will be.”
When his friend eggs him on to reconnect with Anthony, going as far as to plan a dinner together, Ian can barely wait to fall asleep.
“...And I know she means well, but I can’t just– I don’t know! I don’t think we should, you know–” Ian rants, pacing back and forth, in front of Anthony, the older one, sitting on the sofa with his head resting on his knuckles.
“I never knew you were stressed about it like that, I thought it was just me,” Anthony smiles fondly as he plays with his earring. “It will be fine, Ian.”
“You keep saying that,” Ian snaps, whirling around. A second later, he catches himself. “Sorry. I don’t know where…”
“I keep saying it because I am right every time. You’re gonna be okay. You won’t be alone with me there, alright? There will be people between us, picking up the slack. I can promise you it won’t be awkward. I’ll be happy to see you. You need to talk to me,” Anthony says.
“But, I can do that with you.”
“Nah, I already know all of the things you’ll say. It’s better this way, trust me.” He reaches out to squeeze Ian’s hand, affectionate as always. “You’ll need to talk it out with the real me.”
Anthony is right of course, Ian realises. Unfortunately. This isn’t sustainable, only being able to talk to his best friend when he’s dreaming. As if someone cut his strings, he slumps down on the couch beside his friend and buries his face in his hands.
“When the fuck did you become so wise? You’re supposed to be the anxious and impulsive one out of the two of us,” Ian mutters, earning a laugh. Could he make the real Anthony still laugh like that?
“Come here,” Anthony requests happily, grabbing onto his hand again. Anthony pulls.
Oh. Oh, oh my God.
Ian hovers awkwardly, until Anthony rolls his eyes and yanks him down sideways onto his lap. Ian swallows down the squeak that threatens to leave his mouth and shifts until he feels Anthony’s fingers flex against his hips in warning.
“You’ve done so well these past few years, Ian. It’s not been easy, I know that. But it will be amazing, soon, just… let yourself fall, alright?” Ian squirms anxiously, before abruptly remembering where he is. He looks at his friend with big eyes, who is already looking back. “I'm gonna catch you. Anything you want, I want too.”
Ian can’t help but flick his gaze down to Anthony’s lips for a second, before darting back up. “Anything?”
“Yes,” Anthony answers. He doesn’t really know who leans in first, him or Anthony, but it doesn’t matter. The kiss doesn’t feel like the last one they shared, joking in front of a camera. It also doesn’t feel quite real, a bit floaty, a bit hazy around the edges, but it’s perfect anyway. Anthony sighs into his mouth. “Ian…”
Ian moans in response.
Anthony’s fingers tighten against his sides, visibly having to reign himself in. Ian feels a lick of heat in the lower pool of his belly. He wonders how quickly he can make him look kiss-drunk, how red his lips can get, how far down the flush on his cheeks goes. If he can make Anthony lose his composure.
“If you want the real deal,” Anthony pants, then swallows, “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to talk to the real me. I think our time is up.”
Ian nods, leaning in one last time. He can feel it, the first whispers of morning gnawing at his consciousness. He’s about to wake up.
“I’ll… um. I’ll miss you,” he whispers against his lips.
“Ah,” Anthony laughs and pulls back. When Ian reaches for his cheek, he already starts to fade. “You don’t need to. You have me.”
Ian wakes up.