Chapter Text
You were a new crew member at Smosh. New as in you’d been there for about two weeks.
You weren’t too close to anyone- you had pretty damn strong social anxiety, and intrusive thoughts that buzzed around your brain like swarms of insects.
Little whispers that they’d hate you, that the internet would tear you apart as your voice so much as appeared on camera.
The internet tore apart anyone who dared to appear, no matter how uncontroversial, the person was- and as someone who wasn’t exactly cisgender, it would be even worse for you.
I mean, Courtney had to deal with a lot of hate for using she/they pronouns. You’d seen the comments calling it a ‘mental illness’.
You didn’t want to be in the spotlight, to be able to be perceived. Unfortunately, that was kind of hard at Smosh. If you were a crew member, you could still show up in videos- Shayne Guesses, Hide and Seek, Who Memed It.
You could be mentioned offhandedly on Smosh Mouth, or in some video.
Just existing in the same orbit as the cast members could lead to that.
You were kind of a jack of all trades- you were ann editor and in the art department, helping make costumes and sets and props that brought everything perfectly to life.
You used to write- sketches in high school before your anxiety took over, fanfiction buried deep online, essays that could’ve won awards if you only put in a little more effort- so Ian had said you might be consulted occasionally, but it wasn’t your actual job.
You did what you were good at- hiding along the edges, unseen, never quite in anyone’s direct line of sight.
You liked that, but at the same time, it buzzed around you- who would notice if you were gone?
Who would mourn your departed soul?
Who would give a damn?
Ian and Anthony liked you.
They’d hired you, after all.
You were good at what you did, talented but not willing to accept the credit and praise placed upon you.
You couldn’t.
That required being perceived, and that made your head buzz and race. You wanted everything still, stable, safe.
You didn’t like the whispers and thoughts that were hidden just under your skin, the anxiety tracking your every move. The compulsions that could ruin your day, your week. And it went on forever- a desperate need to be seen, and the knowledge that if you were, everything you’d worked so hard to build would crumble.
Ian and Anthony tried to subtly get you closer to people- calling you into rooms with other cast members, suggesting you be in crew videos. You denied it every single time.
They meant well.
But there’s a difference between intent and impact.
You were always around, though. You liked to watch.
Every time there was a video and you didn’t actively have something to work on, you’d go sit with the rest of the crew and watch silently.
Ian encouraged it, saying if a prop or costume broke, you’d be there to fix it, but you and him both knew he invited you for the selfish reason of praying that you could enjoy life. You were silent, always. Because if you spoke, they could hear it.
But, after two weeks of doing that, something finally broke.
The video was a Try Not to Laugh Prop Tart, and Shayne was in the stool.
You’d been a bit zoned out- eyes half-closed, one earbud in, because the cast was loud, okay, Angela was there, so…best not to listen fully.
You didn’t mind Angela, obviously, she was super nice, you’d watched Black Friday and Nerdy Prudes Must Die and knew she was insanely talented- they all were - but you hadn’t really interacted with her.
You really hadn’t interacted with any of them, except Ian and Anthony, and Spencer, since he was also an editor. But there was a loud clatter, and you finally looked up.
Shayne quickly spit out his water, staring at the guy next to him- Damien, dark brown hair messy, hazel eyes wide and guilty like a puppy’s. He was holding the hilt of a sword woven out of copper wires and glass- one you’d spent most of your time employed here making- the blade fallen on the ground. His cheeks were flushed a deep red behind the stubble, and he looked like a deer in headlights.
“Fuck,” he murmured.
The prop sword- delicate and beautiful, something you’d spent plenty of time on- was for a sponsorship that was pretty damn important.
You didn’t like talking- you were pretty sure none of the cast members in the video but Ian knew who you were- but this did kind of piss you off. Ian emerged immediately, taking in the damage.
“Oh, fuck-“ he muttered.
You shot him a glare- not mad at him, mad in general.
“Yeah, fuck,” you replied.
Damien’s eyes flickered to you as you spoke, most people’s gaze rested on you then- it was rare you spoke, rare you made a single noise. You decided to use Ian as a kind of bridge, talking to him so he could talk to the others.
“Why is the sword being used? We need it for-“
“-The sponsorship, yeah. I didn’t realize it was that sword until just now- uh, it’s the prop for this round of prop tart,” Ian said quietly. You shot him a disbelieving look.
“That’s the fucking prop everyone has to use?” You hissed at him, eyes wide. He sighed quietly, an apology laced in it even though he did no wrong. Damien and Shayne were glancing between you like they were watching a tennis match.
“We can reshoot it with a normal sword. But, to be fair, I didn’t break it,” he said.
Your gaze flitted to Damien. His hands raised defensively.
“It was an accident! And I didn’t choose it as the prop. But…I am sorry,” he said quietly, as you turned to look at Shayne. He shrugged.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t know it was important. It was just backstage with everything else, so I assumed it would be okay,” he replied. You, a bit too kind to fully blame either or them, turned to Ian.
“Can you reshoot the bits for this round? I’ll try and fix the sword for the sponsorship.” You said with a sigh. He patted your shoulder in an oddly paternal way.
“Sure thing, Socrates,” he drawled, as you shot him a glare. Ian, like many cast members, liked finding nicknames- and due to some nervous rambling about the Will Wood song ‘Willard!’ and the comparison of you to a mouse due to your very quiet demeanor, he’d dubbed you Socrates, and called you it constantly. You weren’t even sure some people knew your name- Spencer had never called you anything else.
You were okay with it though.
It felt nice to be included but not be in the spotlight.
So you left, grabbing the blade and hilt from Damien, his pale fingers briefly brushing yours in a way that made you flinch as you left the room, staring at the beautiful wreck of wires and glass you’d painstakingly woven together for someone else to shatter in just a few seconds.
When you went to grab lunch- you were just grabbing a drink from the fridge, you didn’t like to eat with the others, besides, you needed to fix the sword- someone was suddenly in front of you. The shy, wide eyed guy from earlier- Damien, fidgeting with the tips of his hair, hazel eyes resting on yours and flickering away just to return like they were magnetized.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
You blinked up at him- not quite sure how to reply.
You weren’t a cast member, hired for social skills, you weren’t even sure someone hired because you were damn good at what you did.
He was too.
He seemed good at fucking everything.
“Hi,” you finally bit out, realizing speaking was the socially acceptable thing in a conversation and talking was kind of the founding premise of it.
He played with his hair a bit more anxiously, before saying, rushed and apologetic, “I’m sorry I broke the sword, it was beautiful and I feel like shit- not that me feeling bad is any excuse, but I do feel guilty, it clearly took you a lot of time, and now you’re skipping lunch because I fucked up-“ he blurted quickly, eyes screwing shut as if to block out your face, expecting…what? Anger?
In a sudden burst of courage you were sure would never return, your hand came up to rest somewhere between his shoulder and chest that made his eyes flutter open and his cheeks flush.
“Listen, Damien-“ Would he think it was creepy you knew his name? You’d had to edit videos with him in them, would it be weirder if you didn’t? “- you’re okay. It was an accident. And I don’t eat lunch with them anyways.” You said calmly, softly. He paused, tilting his head like a confused puppy.
“Why not?” He asked genuinely, not mocking, just curious.
“People are terrifying,” you said after a beat, “And often assholes.”
He blinked, and you hastily added, “Not that you're an asshole! Or any people here, really, people are just…a lot, and my brain is too loud sometimes, y’know? And the internet is huge, and-“ you paused, staring into his hazel eyes with huge pupils.
“Fuck. Sorry. I think I need to shut up,” you said, hand dropping. He gave you a little half smile.
“Nah, you have a nice voice.” He said softly, flushing deeper.
He stared at his shoes, before saying, “I’m…going to go eat. But I might stop by later to keep you company while you fix the sword later. And you can always sit with us,” he said, flashing a small smile before vanishing.
Fuck.
He was cute, unfuckingfortunately. You groaned softly, fidgeting with your fingers.
Right, you really had to fucking work. And you knew, deep down, you wouldn’t sit with him.
You headed off to the Crying Bathroom, because you really fucking needed a beat alone.
As you approached it, the door swung open- and suddenly you were face to face with Tommy, his eyes wide behind his glasses, blonde strands of hair falling into his face.
“Whoa- shit bub, you okay?” Tommy asked immediately- pretty on brand for him, you two had never spoken before, but there was a silent moment of understanding because, well, the Crying Bathroom.
You realized you hadn’t replied yet, and slowly nodded.
“…Yeah. You?”
He nodded back, giving you an awkward pat on your shoulder and walking away.
You walked inside, staring at yourself in the mirror after locking the door- eyes meeting your own in the reflection.
The anxiety bubbled up again.
The lights seemed to flicker- they didn’t you know they didn’t- and the whispers filled you.
Turn off the lights or you’ll die they’ll all die it’ll all be your fault everyone will be dead gone corpses- and you turned the lights off, sinking to the ground and sobbing.
About three weeks later, you were exhausted. You managed to fix the sword, thank god. It was pretty important for the sponsorship.
You were at your desk when Ian appeared.
“Socrates,” he drawled, grinning down at you.
You glanced up- something was up, you were well fucking aware.
“Ian.” You replied, tilting your head back to make eye contact better.
“Soooooo. The TNTL Prop Tart came out,” he said calmly, grinning widely. “And. We made some jokes about the sword after you left, because, you know, it was funny as hell. Andddd you got mentioned by Anthony a few times in an Smosh Games video, and Spencer chipped in. And now our darling viewers have been commenting a lot about ‘Socrates’.”
Oh, fuck.
Your whole thing- staying under the radar, out of the spotlight, existing only to the employees of Smosh- was falling apart at the seams.
“Ian,” you said, calmly, well, not calmly, your life was crumbling before your eyes, the buzzing louder, pushing against the side of your head.
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, blue eyes locked onto yours. “I…genuinely did not think the viewers would lock onto it so hard.”
“But they did,” you said back, kind of pathetically, because you didn’t know what else to say. He paused, sitting on the floor next to your desk.
“You could be on a Phone it In. Or a Shayne Guesses. Or a Who Meme’d it-“
“Ian.” You said quietly. He sighed, standing again with a quiet groan.
“C’mon, Y/N. They don’t even know your name,” he said softly.
“Let’s keep it that way.” You replied.
You were eventually persuaded to submit a meme for a Who Meme’d It.
It was some niche reference to a video you’d edited. Damien, Chanse and Spencer were guessing.
“See, I think this is Ian,” Spencer started, flipping around his board (The name was spelled ‘Euhn’.) Damien grinned.
“You think Ian actually watches Smosh videos he’s not in?” Damien joked, which made Shayne laugh.
“Okay, smartass, who’d you put?” Spencer asked, elbowing him in the side.
“I put Socrates,” Damien announced, flipping his board to show the room, his eyes locking onto yours. He flushed the slightest shade darker, hazel eyes gleaming in the studio lights.
“I think they’re the only one smart enough to make this,” he added, grinning widely. Shayne laughed at that.
And Chanse guessed Shayne, which led to him laughing harder, because-
“I would’ve laughed a fuck of a lot harder if it was my joke.”
It was revealed to be you.
Damien let out a celebratory whoop, beaming so happily, so at peace, hazel eyes crinkled and resting on you.
Your name wasn’t on the screen, just a simple ‘Socrates’, and the photo you’d chosen didn’t have your face.
The photo was from an old Halloween costume, you in a Ghostface mask, fake blood on your hands, and a suit instead of the robe.
Damien said softly to you from where you were sitting among the crew, “Nice outfit, Socrates.” in a gentle tone.
You almost didn’t want to reply, but your brain always did reprogram itself for pretty people, so you said- speaking, out loud, aware it would make it into the Final Cut because Chanse had made a joke at the same time as you guy’s conversation, “Thanks, Dame.” In a very quiet voice.
It was one of the braver things you’d done, it seemed it in the moment at least, and Damien’s pleased smile rewarded you greatly for it.
You were addicted to the thrilling drug of making him happy, the craving driving you out of your comfort zone and into the dim light where you could be heard.
You knew you were blushing, so you stared at your shoes, eyes turned down to the floor. There was another meme later that referenced you- that one meme of the math symbols and the woman, text reading, ‘POV OUR CAST CREW AND VIEWERS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHY THE FUCK SOCRATES IS CALLED SOCRATES’. You flushed, putting your earbuds back in. It was going to be a long fucking day.
Damien appeared at your desk later that day, hazel eyes wide and searching yours.
“Hi,” he said, a bit breathlessly, flashing a lopsided grin.
“…Hi,” you replied slowly.
“Are…you okay? I know you don’t really like being mentioned,” he said nervously, fidgeting with his fingers.
You unconsciously started rubbing your knuckles together to stim in response, because talking to him, or anyone, was overwhelming.
“Aha, yeah. All…good. Fantastic.” You replied with a forced smile.
He gave a few quick nods in reply, flushing, and then asked you softly, “Well…since I broke your sword a while ago, and I’m the reason you talked in a video…could I maybe take you out to dinner?”
You blinked, stunned. “What?!”