I would start a riot

Some People Care ~ June 2015

"Come on," Stephen said, letting a reluctant smile slip through his weary façade, "Let's get the interrogation over and done with."

Emma frowned, kicking him under the restaurant's table, not all that softly. "It's called friendly concern, Stephen! You have to let me fuss once or twice a month."

"A month?" Stephen repeated incredulously, still grinning, "Call it a week, maybe."

"You wouldn't let me show as much interest as that," she retorted, huffing out a laugh and then turning serious again. "Go on then."

"I'm not going to monologue about my feelings for ten minutes," Stephen replied amusedly. "You're not my therapist, Em."

"Oh, so you're still going to therapy?" Emma interjected with a wicked smugness. He shook his head helplessly and laughed again.

"Yes, I am," he replied patiently, wondering what her response to self-deprecation would be. "I think they'd be asking questions if I decided now wasn't the time to be going to therapy."

"Is it helping?"

He watched her return to her food quite deliberately, giving him time to get his thoughts out, or maybe to come up with another deflection. His own attention drifted to the window and he stared out at the location she'd chosen for this particular ambush. Small, London restaurant. Good food. Nice and quiet. Limited escape routes. She was good.

"Stephen?"

Stephen sighed, dragging himself back to her patient, unwavering gaze. He didn't particularly know how to answer that question without creating more for himself.

"I'm not sure," he replied eventually. "Honestly, I don't think it's making a difference right now but I'd probably feel worse if I wasn't going. It's not doing any harm, is it?"

He ate a forkful of food just to give himself an excuse not to carry on talking. One month on and he still felt a little unsteady; maybe a lot unsteady. He was nervous for no discernible reason out in public and especially so when he was filming for anything. What he had once liked about audience interaction; the spontaneity and unpredictability; he now found himself fearing.

He was still bad at expressing certain things to Dec, feeling the other man tend to withdraw unless the discomfort was obviously present on his face. And he worried about that too, on top of everything else he found himself anxious about: why Dec was quieter than normal, why he was being a little distant, what he had to hide.

"How are your parents?" Emma interrupted his thought process all over again, another persistent question ready.

"Upset," he said tightly, looking down at his plate and starting to understand why Dec had got shirty with everyone the week it had all happened. Part of him wanted to bury it all, leave it with everything else he'd never quite faced head-on, and just get on with his life. The number of people trying to get him to talk about it should probably have been an indicator that burying his head in the sand was widely considered to be a bad idea. Still though, things were messy and he was fed up of it dictating the way he lived his life. It wouldn't fix anything to dwell on it now. "It's kind of sad how it took that happening for my mum to really think about the stuff I've had said to me by other people in the family. She still doesn't get it completely but she's trying."

Emma nodded, mouth curled downwards thoughtfully. As much as she had pressed, Stephen still hadn't let her know too much of the realities of his family dynamic. It was something that only Dec understood completely and there was something sacred about that – it was a distinction between him and other people. It was one of the many things that set him apart in Stephen's mind.