scrunkly man enjoyer (this is about spencer agnew)

They’re all laughing at first.

Markers squeaking, chalk dust floating, everyone crowded around the makeshift “graveyard” of foam-board tombstones propped up on crates. Damien’s is theatrical. Courtney’s is hilarious. Shayne’s is oddly poetic. Spencer’s is unhinged in a way that earns an immediate “Dude, what?” from Tommy.

Ian stands there trying to play ball, pen hovering over his own board, eyes flicking between jokes and bits and the camera lights blinking red.

He forces a smile, pen still hovering uselessly over his own blank board.

He knows he should toss out a joke, something snarky, something that makes sense on-camera. But every time he tries to write, the tip of the pen just…stays there. Not moving. Not committing.

The others are buzzing with energy, bouncing ideas off each other, roasting each other’s epitaphs. It’s loud, chaotic, exactly the kind of dumb challenge they do all the time.

But Ian’s chest feels tight.

He keeps glancing over at Anthony, not at his tombstone yet, just at him, just watching him sketch something with that old familiar concentration. The same way he used to lean over props, scripts, edits. Head tilted. Brows drawn. Tongue just barely pressed to the corner of his mouth in thought.

It hits harder than Ian expects.

This whole bit, drawing tombstones, writing obituaries, was supposed to be goofy. Morbid in a lighthearted, YouTube-safe way. But for him, there’s an edge to it he can’t quite shake. A pressure behind the ribs, a ghost of a feeling he’s spent years filing away in the back of his mind.

What the hell is he going to write?

What does he put on a tombstone? The guy who kept things running. The guy who stayed. The guy who learned how to move forward even when everything felt like it was moving without him.

The pen still isn’t moving.

Around him, everyone laughs again- loud, bright, bouncing off the warehouse walls- and Ian laughs too, because that’s muscle memory by now. But it’s thin. Not quite reaching.

His eyes flick back to Anthony, to the half-finished shape of a headstone forming beneath his hand.

And Ian can already feel it, whatever Anthony writes, whatever joke or heartfelt punchline he’s building, it’s going to hit him somewhere deep, somewhere tender he thought had finally healed.

He swallows, grip tightening on the marker.

Ian shifts his weight, trying to look casual, trying not to stare too hard at the half-formed lines on Anthony’s board. He forces himself to glance around instead.

Courtney is narrating her own epitaph out loud in a dramatic Victorian voice. Shayne is pretending to be deeply offended by Damien’s choice of font. Spencer is loudly insisting that no one understands the symbolism of whatever he just drew, which only makes Tommy laugh harder.

It’s all normal. It’s all fine.

But Ian can’t shake the prickle under his skin.

His own board is still blank except for a tentative curved line he immediately regretted drawing. He rubs at it with his sleeve, pretending to fix something, pretending he isn’t stalling.

“Dude, you haven’t written anything,” Damien calls lightly, not unkind, more amused than anything.

Ian lifts his marker in a helpless shrug. “I’m… uh. Brainstorming.”

“Take your time,” Shayne says with the absolutely chaotic energy of someone who finished his own tombstone in thirty seconds. “Death is a big decision.”

Everyone snorts.

Ian musters another laugh, but his fingers are tight around the marker like it’s trying to escape.

Out of habit, bad, involuntary habit, his eyes slide back to Anthony.

Anthony’s bent over his board, brow furrowed, tapping the marker against his chin the way he used to tap pens during script meetings. He hasn’t written any words yet, just outlines, little details, a shape that’s starting to look… intentional. Thoughtful.

There’s something about watching him think- quietly think- that tugs at Ian in a way he hadn’t prepared for today.

He looks away again, quickly.

He tries to pay attention to Courtney telling Angela that her tombstone looks like “a sad toaster,” but his mind keeps drifting back, circling the same thought:

Why is this affecting me? It’s stupid. It’s a silly challenge. Get it together, dude.

He drags his marker across the board, starts writing the letter “I,” and immediately panics and scribbles it out. Great. Now it looks like a mistake grave. Perfect metaphor, maybe, but not exactly Pit-video material.

He exhales slowly, trying to settle the buzzing in his chest.

From across the table, he hears Anthony murmur to himself, too soft for the cameras, just a thoughtful little hum, like he’s almost got it figured out.

And Ian feels that hum right under his ribs.

Ian keeps his eyes locked on his own board, but his mind… his mind is nowhere near it.

Six years.

Six years of pretending everything was fine. Six years of answering interview questions with a smile, of saying it was mutual, it was amicable, it was time. Six years of trying not to look at old thumbnails where their faces were side-by-side. Six years of editing around a missing presence, of walking into sets that felt too quiet, too hollow, too full of echoes.

It wasn’t a real death. No one brought flowers. No memorials. No closure.

Just a slow, numb adjustment to a world where his best friend wasn’t beside him anymore.

Ian had learned to mourn someone who was still alive.

And the strangest, cruelest part was that he had to do it publicly- on camera, in jokes, in comments sections watching for cracks. Every time someone said “It’s not the same without Anthony,” it felt like someone pressing on a bruise he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge.

He couldn’t lash out. He couldn’t break down. He couldn’t say, “Yeah, I know. I lost him too.”

He had to keep working. Keep the ship afloat. Keep moving forward because stopping- letting himself feel it- felt dangerous. Like if he let that grief open up, it would swallow him whole.

He’d gotten good at it. Too good.

These days, he could laugh with Anthony again. He could talk to him, stand beside him, plan videos with him. But there were still landmines, quiet ones, things he didn’t expect to hit.

Apparently… fake tombstones were one of them.

A bright, sharp laugh bursts from Courtney. It snaps Ian out of the spiral just long enough to breathe.

He grips his marker harder, knuckles whitening. Don’t think about it now, he tells himself. Don’t go there while the cameras are rolling. Don’t unravel in the middle of a bit about your own funeral.

But the ache keeps climbing.

Six years of trying to fill the empty half of a duo. Six years of telling himself he didn’t feel abandoned. Six years of trying not to resent the weight he was left holding. Six years of pretending that missing someone so much wasn’t humiliating.

And now here they were, drawing tombstones. Of all things.

Across the table, Anthony pauses, staring at his nearly finished outline with a strange, contemplative softness.

Ian feels his breath catch.

Because whatever Anthony is about to write… it’s going to touch that wound. Maybe gently. Maybe not. But it’ll land right on the part of Ian that remembers every quiet, lonely year between then and now.

He stares at his own blank stone and thinks, with a bitter, exhausted little pang:

How do you fake your way through grief that’s already had six years to rot?

He blinks fast.

Laugh. Smile. You’re on camera. It’s fine. You’re fine.

But his chest feels tight. Too tight.

He steals one more glance at Anthony.

His eyes flicker between Anthony’s tongue, slightly peeking from his teeth, and his own grave, with the stupid scratched-out letter, and he gets to work.

Words are written, no order to where or why, strewn all over the styrofoam. Words and phrases and entire sketch ideas, poured out onto this plastic slab, words that made Ian so proud, that made Anthony look at him like he really had it all together, like they weren’t just faking their way through this whole YouTube thing. Words that Dave and Defy and YouTube didn’t like, didn’t want, didn’t see value in. Each word and phrase and sketch is scratched out, just legible under the lines, but also clearly obscured on purpose.

He only writes in black sharpie, no colour. There isn’t space in this fucked-up writers-management meeting for colour. Only the gray of the tombstone and the black of the words, and the indents from how hard he’s scratching each one out.

In the middle of his words, his failure, he writes his name. He pauses, writes the birth and death, pauses. Takes a deep breath. Slowly writes the epitaph. The marker rests against his fingers, warm from being held too long.

Just seven small words.

“He kept going, even when it hurt.”

The letters wobble a little at the end, like his hand hesitated, like part of him still wants to scrub it off and replace it with a cheap joke, something less true, something safer for the camera.

But he doesn’t.

He caps the marker, staring at the epitaph with a strange heaviness in his throat.

It feels too raw. Too revealing.

It also feels… right. In a way that scares him a little.

Because for six years, that’s all he did.

He takes longer than he realised just scratching things out. There’s no colour. The engravings are all written in a white sharpie that contrasts the entire board. Some black bleeds into the white words, but he almost likes it like that.

Kiana calls time, and they all raise their hands. The tombstones are gathered and lined up, and they all line up behind them to reveal their art.

Courtney’s is a mess of colour and drawings, messy in a way only hers can be. “Died from being dramatic for no reason” sits on the bottom of the art, and everyone laughs. They take a long bow, and the camera moves on. 

Shayne’s is normal. There’s no big art, no big, grand flourish. He’s drawn stick figures along the bottom of his, each labelled with names, of people from Smosh and some of his friends not in Smosh, all with him even in death. He’s written, under his name, “Here lies Shayne Robert Topp, who died after his back finally snapped from carrying the comedic value of Smosh.” It’s funny and a little true, because Ian can’t imagine going through Defy and the collapse and his best friend leaving completely on his own- Shayne kept him more sane that the man probably knows.

Spencer’s is bright yellow, and a shockingly well-done Kickstart label is drawn along the side, with a small top hat on the corner of it. His name is at the top, his full name, once again shocking Ian that his name isn’t actually Spencer since it fits him so well. His epitaph reads “His last words were “Guys, trust me”.” 

It’s shaped like a rounded chapel window, the foam board trimmed with soft pastel colors she blended with surprising artistic precision. A small cartoon ghost (smiling, of course) floats near the corner, as if it’s waving hello rather than haunting anything. The epitaph sits perfectly centered, handwriting neat and looping: “Too loud for this world. Too caffeinated for the next.”

Damien’s tombstone is somehow both dramatic and deeply unserious- perfectly on brand. It’s taller than everyone else’s, as if his gravestone needed stage presence. He shaded the edges heavily in charcoal-gray marker, giving it this moody, fog-bound look that absolutely no one asked for. Beneath them, his epitaph sprawls across the stone in sweeping, exaggerated cursive: “Perished in a flourish of theatrical nonsense. Encore pending.”

Tommy, who is judging the competition, shakes his head exasperatedly, moving on to the next contestant.

And then Anthony props his tombstone up.

Anthony’s tombstone is still unfinished, but even half-done, it already has a presence the others don’t.

He’s drawn it slow, thoughtful, each line placed with a kind of quiet care that makes Ian’s stomach twist. The foam board is a simple rectangular shape, but the top is rounded in a familiar curve—almost identical to the old Smosh logo silhouette if you squint. He hasn’t said that out loud, but Ian noticed it immediately.

There’s none of the chaos everyone else has used. No doodles, no jokes, no bits.

Instead, Anthony has sketched a small border around the edge—thin, clean, minimal. Just a single line tracing the shape of the tombstone, like he’s framing something he hasn’t decided how to say yet.

In the upper corner, there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible doodle: the simplest version of their old camera symbol. The one they used to draw on whiteboards and notebook margins while brainstorming videos in a rented room with peeling paint. The one they built together in a bedroom full of wires and cheap props.

It isn’t labeled. It isn’t highlighted. It’s just… there.

The center of the stone is blank. Empty. Waiting. The marker rests uncapped in his hand like he’s been holding a thought for minutes. He keeps tapping the tip of the marker against his thumb, staring at that empty center with a look that’s both nostalgic and weighed, like he’s building toward something he’s not sure he should actually write.

It’s not funny. It’s not dramatic. It’s not performative.

It’s personal.

Tommy offers a moment for him to finish, because everyone else got to write their parting words. They stand there for longer than the camera catches (bless the editors), before Anthony writes something, shaking the marker to keep the tip from drying out.

He steps back, letting Tommy judge his now-mostly-finished tombstone.

The epitaph reads:

“He wandered, he tried, he came home anyway.”

Everyone laughs- bright, genuine, a little surprised at how heartfelt it is. Someone (probably Shayne) claps Anthony on the shoulder, jostling him with a “Damn dude, okay poet!”

It plays as a bit. A good one. A warm one.

But Ian goes still.

Because for everyone else, it’s a joke.

He sees the tombstone, and suddenly the set feels too bright, too warm, the air too thin. Six years crack open in his chest all at once. Six years of pretending he didn’t miss him, of interviews where he said it was fine, of working through silence, of filling spaces Anthony used to stand in. Six years of mourning something he never got to bury, because it wasn’t a death, just an absence that hurt the same.

He feels the years stack behind his ribs- the interviews where he smiled too hard, the nights he stayed late fixing videos because the silence felt worse at home, the constant grind of making it all work without the one person he’d never imagined doing this without.

Everyone else moves on to commenting on his minimalistic art choices, chattering, laughing, nudging Anthony as he tries to shrug off the attention.

But Ian stands there, still staring, feeling six years of buried, unspoken grief uncoil like a wire inside him.

Because for them it’s a joke.

For him, it’s the first time he’s let himself admit he never stopped waiting for Anthony to come back.

They move on, and then it’s Ian’s turn. With shaking hands, he turns his own tombstone. 

The room shifts.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Not in a way the cameras will catch, because everyone is still riding the laughter from Anthony’s reveal, still making soft jokes about his “poetic arc” and “wow, you made the rest of us look unhinged.”

But a few things happen at once, quiet as dust settling:

Courtney’s smile falters. Damien’s eyebrows pull in, small and sharp. Shayne stops fiddling with the corner of a prop. Even Tommy, mid-judge mode, mid-bit, lets his voice trail off as he actually sees the board Ian’s holding.

Because Ian’s tombstone isn’t funny. It isn’t messy in a goofy way. It isn’t a brand joke or a character gag.

It’s… carved. Scratched. Written like he was exorcising something onto cheap styrofoam.

Black ink crosses over black ink. Words visible beneath thick slashes- ideas abandoned, jokes never made, scripts that lived and died in meeting rooms run by people who didn’t understand any of them. The kind of thoughts no one writes down in this job, because they hurt too much and no one wants to be the one who says it first.

And in the center, amid the wreckage of self-edits and pain he hadn’t meant to put on display, there’s his name. His dates. His epitaph.

“He kept going, even when it hurt.”

The phrase just hangs there in the air like a held breath.

For a long moment, no one speaks.

It’s not awkward silence. It’s not “uh-oh, Ian took this too seriously” silence. It’s the silence of people who know him well enough to recognize that something deeper is happening here but not well enough to know how to step into it without breaking something.

Tommy’s mouth opens, then closes.

Courtney’s eyes flick to Anthony- reflexive, confused.

Shayne’s posture goes soft around the edges, shoulders lowering.

Damien presses his lips together, thoughtful in a way the cameras never fully catch.

And Anthony- 

Anthony stares like someone shoved a fist directly through his ribs.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe for a second too long.

Because no matter how the others see it- artistic, dramatic, unexpectedly heavy- Anthony sees the scratched-out jokes. The buried words. The handwriting he knows almost as well as his own. The empty spaces that look exactly like six years he wasn’t there for.

He sees all of it.

Ian can feel his gaze like heat on his skin.

But he’s not looking at Anthony; he can’t. His eyes stay fixed somewhere over everyone’s shoulders, on the warm studio lights blurring at the edges.

His hands still tremble on the sides of the tombstone, but he forces them steady.

He keeps going. Even now. Even when it hurts.

Tommy clears his throat, trying, very gently, to bring the bit back. To make it fun again. To ease whatever tension no one knows how to name.

“So,” Tommy says slowly, carefully, “uh… wow, Ian. That’s… uh… that’s metal as hell, dude.”

A soft ripple of laughter goes through the group- off-balance, but trying.

Ian nods once. Shrugs like it’s nothing. Like it’s fine. Like this isn’t the closest he’s come to cracking open in front of them in years.

But Anthony hasn’t moved at all.

And Ian doesn’t dare look at him.

They move on, and Tommy does a grand gesture of revealing who gets which points- creativity, style, poetics, funniest epitaph, cleanest exposé- turning the energy back up like a stage light. He’s good at that. They all are. The Smosh crew can pivot vibes on a dime.

But Ian feels like he’s underwater.

He forces a smile every time Tommy looks his way. He chuckles when the others rib each other, when Courtney accuses Spencer of bribing Tommy with snacks, when Shayne yells “RIGGED!” at a score he definitely deserved.

He’s even pretty sure he makes a normal noise, something laugh-adjacent, when Angela dramatically “accepts” her award for Best Spooky Vibes.

He tries. God, he tries.

But his heartbeat won’t settle. It’s too loud in his ears, too sharp, like it’s trying to push something out of his chest.

He hasn’t looked at Anthony.

Not once.

He won’t risk it.

Because the moment he does, the bit is dead. The show is dead. Everything they’ve built for the camera, this easy, chaotic chemistry, shatters under the truth he almost said out loud without meaning to.

Tommy is wrapping up, announcing totals. People cheer, groan, clap each other on the back. Foam props are bumped and jostled, someone’s fake gravestone falls over and Shayne kicks it dramatically like it owes him money.

Tommy squints at the score sheet like he’s not convinced the math is correct.

“Okay, okay- so, um… in first place- and I swear the universe is messing with me-”

Everyone leans in.

“-the winner of the entire competition, with a total of thirty-nine points, is…” He drags it out, because he’s Tommy, and he can. “Anthony Padilla!”

The room explodes.

“WHAAAAT?” Shayne yells, hands flying into his hair. “It wasn’t even done!” 

“It was profound,” Angela says in a mock-serious tone. 

“It was minimalist,” Courtney corrects, raising a finger like a judge. 

“It was lazy,” Spencer counters. “But like… poetic lazy.”

Anthony lifts both hands. “Guys- hey- no- what? No, I literally- my marker was dying!”

Shayne grabs the tombstone and shakes it like proof of a crime. “YOU WIN WITH A HALF-FINISHED GRAVESTONE?”

Everyone laughs, loud, chaotic, genuine.

Everyone except Ian.

He forces a smile because the camera is still technically rolling. He even makes a breathy little laugh when Courtney says, “He came home anyway… guess the judges really felt that.”

But Ian can feel Anthony’s eyes flick toward him- brief, searching, almost hesitant- and he keeps his own gaze locked on the floor, on Tommy, on anything else.

He can't look up. Not after reading those words. Not after feeling them hit like a punch straight behind the ribs.

Tommy hands Anthony a ridiculous plastic trophy shaped like a tiny Grim Reaper. Anthony holds it up, laughing. “I’d like to thank my fans, my family, and the fact that apparently emotional damage scores really well.”

More laughter.

Ian swallows, something sharp sticking in his throat.

Because everyone else is laughing at the bit.

And Ian is just trying not to cry on camera.

✦✧✦✧

Ian hears the knock before he’s even finished sitting down.

It’s soft, too soft to be anyone else. Everyone else on the team knocks like they’re trying to win a prize for Most Chaotic Entrance. Shayne drums his knuckles like a warning. Courtney knocks with the back of her hand, playful. Damien just announces himself like a Victorian ghost.

But this knock is hesitant. Measured. Careful.

Ian closes his eyes. For one long second he actually considers pretending he didn’t hear it.

But then-

“Ian? …Hey. Can I-?”

Anthony’s voice. Not loud. Not performing. Just… him.

Ian’s stomach drops.

He exhales through his nose, forces his hands still on his desk- because they’ve been shaking since the set- and says, as evenly as he can manage:

“Yeah. Come in.”

The door cracks open.

Anthony steps inside with that same hesitant energy he had while holding the uncapped marker earlier. He closes the door quietly behind him, not all the way, just enough. Enough to show he wants privacy but won’t trap Ian in it.

He stands there a moment, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, looking strangely small in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time.

Ian nods. “Hey.”

Silence stretches.

Not awkward. Not yet. Just full.

Anthony toes the edge of the rug with his shoe. “Uh… you dipped out pretty fast after we wrapped.”

Ian’s jaw tenses. “Yeah. Just needed to, uh- send an email.”

Anthony’s eyebrows lift with a look that lands somewhere between amused and painfully gentle. “Right. An email.”

Ian looks away.

Another pause.

Then Anthony exhales and walks further in, pulling a chair over but not sitting yet, like he’s waiting for Ian to give him permission to stay.

“I just wanted to check on you,” Anthony says. “You seemed… off.”

Ian’s throat tightens.

He tells himself to deflect. He tells himself to joke. He tells himself to lie.

But for the first time all day, there’s no camera. No bit. No audience.

Just Anthony. Standing in his office like he never left.

Ian grips the armrests of his chair, grounding himself.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically.

Anthony gives him a look. A quiet look. A look Ian remembers from years ago, the look he used to give when Ian was lying and he didn’t want to call him out, he just wanted him to feel safe enough to tell the truth.

It hits harder than Ian expects.

Anthony swallows, voice steady but softer.

“It was the gravestone, wasn’t it?”

Ian freezes.

Anthony pulls the chair closer and sits, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I noticed,” he says gently. “When you saw it. When you read it. Something in you just… shifted.” He hesitates before adding, barely audible, “And I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt you with it.”

Ian’s breath shudders.

He looks at the floor, at the desk, anywhere else.

But his voice comes out cracked anyway:

“You didn’t hurt me.”

Anthony’s brows knit. “Then why-”

“It’s just-” Ian cuts himself off, jaw tight, throat hot, trying to swallow back something too big.

Six years. 

Six years of swallowing it. 

Six years of pretending it didn’t matter.

He drags a shaky hand down his face.

“It’s complicated,” he finishes.

Anthony doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. Doesn’t retreat.

He just nods once, slow and steady.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Then… can you let me sit here with you? Until it feels less complicated?”

Ian closes his eyes.

A stupid, broken laugh tries to escape his chest.

Of course that’s what Anthony would say.

Of course that’s the one thing Ian isn’t sure he can handle.

But he nods anyway.

“…Yeah,” he whispers. “You can sit.”

Anthony exhales, relieved, and stays right there, close enough to be real, far enough to be safe.

“I liked yours,” he starts softly. “That’s the sort of thing I wish we saw more of, if it wasn’t supposed to be so played-up. The realness.”

He nods, eyes still closed. His hand stays near his mouth.

Anthony watches him for a moment, quietly, carefully, like he’s memorizing every micro-flinch, every shaky inhale. Not to analyze him. Not to press. Just to see him.

“I mean it,” Anthony adds, voice low. “Yours was… real in a way none of them were.”

Ian huffs a breath, something between disbelief and exhaustion. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

Ian shakes his head quickly, too quickly. “Nothing. It- I shouldn’t have…” His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t supposed to be serious. Everyone else’s was fun. Mine was just-” An accidental confession, he almost says.

Anthony leans forward a little. Not enough to crowd him. Just enough to show he’s here.

“It wasn’t ‘just’ anything,” Anthony says. “It was honest. That matters.”

Ian’s throat burns.

Honest. 

He hasn’t been honest about this- any of this- in years.

Anthony shifts, relaxing into the chair like he’s prepared to stay as long as it takes. His voice softens even further.

“Ian… your tombstone wasn’t scary, or bleak, or too much. It was… I dunno.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It felt like you saying something you’ve been carrying for a long time.”

Ian’s hand drops from his face, slow and heavy. He still won’t look at Anthony. Can’t.

Anthony lets the silence settle, then speaks again, gentler still.

“‘He kept going, even when it hurt,’” he repeats quietly. “I know you wrote it like a joke, but… I don’t think that was a joke.”

Ian’s breath falters.

A long, trembling moment passes.

And then- barely audible, barely there- he whispers:

“It wasn’t.”

Anthony’s inhale is sharp, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Ian’s fingers curl against his lips, like he’s trying to keep the next words inside.

“I meant it,” Ian murmurs. “More than I should’ve. It’s… embarrassing.”

Anthony’s voice is immediate and steady. “It’s not embarrassing.”

Ian swallows hard. His eyes sting, pricking traitorously.

Anthony shifts again, elbows still braced on his knees, body open, grounded.

“Ian… you don’t have to tell me everything,” he says softly. “But you don’t have to hide everything from me either.”

That’s what does it- that.

Not the tombstone. Not the six years. Not the memories.

It’s Anthony saying me like it still means something.

Ian presses his thumb against his mouth, eyes squeezing harder.

Anthony waits, calm, patient, unmoving.

“I liked yours too,” Ian finally murmurs, voice thin and shaking. “The epitaph.”

Anthony’s breath catches just a little. “Yeah?”

Ian nods once, still not looking at him.

“It felt like a… like a summary,” Ian whispers. “Of all the parts I… didn’t get to see.”

He finally manages to open his eyes, staring at the floor.

“‘He wandered, he tried, he came home anyway.’”

His voice breaks on the last word.

Anthony’s chair creaks as he leans in, instinctively, like his body moved before he could think.

“Ian…”

He says his name like it’s a hand offered. Like it’s an anchor.

“I came home. I’m home.”

Ian’s chest tightens so violently he can barely breathe. The words hang in the air, simple, grounding, like a rope thrown across a canyon he’s been dangling over for six years.

He blinks, slow, and finally- finally- lifts his gaze. His eyes find Anthony’s, and for the first time in a long time, he lets the raw weight of everything press into the space between them without flinching.

“I know,” he whispers, voice barely audible, trembling as it slides out of him. “I… I never stopped waiting.”

Anthony exhales, a small, quiet sound that seems to carry relief, hope, and patience all at once. He leans back slightly, just enough to let Ian take up the space he needs, but his presence is unwavering, steady, a tether.

Ian swallows hard. His hand drops from his face and rests on his desk, gripping the edge. It’s the first solid thing he’s felt all day. The first thing that isn’t a hollow, performative anchor for everyone else.

“I didn’t think… I didn’t think you’d ever…” Ian’s words falter, breaking on the last syllable.

Anthony’s smile is soft, quiet, unshakable. “I told you. I came home. I’m home. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”

He exhales, long and shaky, and says, “I missed you.”

Something in Ian breaks as he says it, something he’d pushed down and sheltered from the world, from himself, and he’s angry. He’s standing before he knows it, hands braced on the desk, eyes not seeing.

“I had to- to mourn you! For six years, you weren't coming back, and I had to be okay with that. And I really fucking missed you. And…and I can't think about fucking mourning you again.”

Anthony stays still, absorbs every word, lets it land without interruption. His hands remain folded loosely in his lap, his eyes locked on Ian’s, unwavering but gentle.

Ian’s chest heaves, shoulders trembling, eyes blazing with the fire of everything he’s held back- grief, frustration, relief, anger- all tangled together. The room feels impossibly small, every sound outside fading, every second stretching.

Anthony leans forward just slightly, voice quiet, steady, deliberate: “You don’t have to mourn me anymore, Ian. Not ever. I’m here. I’m actually here.”

Ian shakes his head sharply, overwhelmed, a laugh breaking out somewhere between disbelief and exasperation. “I… I don’t even know how to- how to handle this. Six years I built my life around not being able to handle this!”

Anthony shifts, edges closer without crossing the line, letting his presence anchor Ian instead of crowding him. “Then don’t handle it alone. You never had to. You don’t have to now.”

The words hit Ian like a tidal wave. His hands slide off the desk, clenching slightly at his sides, his jaw tight. For a moment, he’s silent, shaking, caught between relief and the tremor of old pain.

Then he lets himself collapse into the chair, head dropping to the desk, voice muffled against the surface: “I can’t… I can’t even believe this is real.”

Anthony reaches out a hand, rests it lightly on Ian’s shoulder, not pushing, not demanding, just there, a tether, a promise. “It is real. I’m here. I came home.”

And for the first time in six years, Ian allows himself to stop pretending. To stop holding back. To let the weight of everything he’s carried finally settle. And in that presence- quiet, steadfast, unshakable- he realizes, maybe he can breathe again.