An unexpected love || Ant x Stephen

At The Studio - Chapter four

The car ride to the studio was a masterclass in avoided eye contact. Ant spent the entire journey staring intensely at the passing London traffic, while Dec sat beside him, tapping a rhythmic, annoying beat on his knees. Every time Dec opened his mouth to revisit "The Stephen Situation," Ant would suddenly find a very important email to read or a script note to obsess over.

When they finally pulled up to the studio gates, the familiar buzz of the television world acted as a temporary shield. But as they walked through the double doors toward the main stage, the shield shattered.

The morning light in the studio was unforgiving, glinting off the polished floors and highlighting the frantic energy of a crew preparing for a live broadcast. For Ant, every flickering monitor and buzzing headset felt like a distraction from the tight knot of anxiety twisting in his stomach. He moved through the corridors with a purpose that looked like professionalism but was actually a desperate attempt to avoid a certain tall, blonde magician.

Dec followed at a more leisurely pace, his eyes darting around every corner with the opposite intent. He was practically vibrating with the secret knowledge of the morning's confession, his mind already churning through a dozen ways to force a confrontation.

As soon as the heavy door to their private dressing room clicked shut, Ant collapsed onto the leather sofa, burying his face in his hands.

"Now," Dec started, not even giving Ant a second to breathe, "why exactly aren't we telling Stephen?"

Ant groaned into his palms. "Seriously? We're still on this? We have a three-hour rehearsal starting in twenty minutes, Dec."

"Yes, we are still on this!" Dec countered, plantng his feet firmly. "You can't just walk around with that look on your face all day. You look like you're waiting for an execution. You've got to talk to him."

Ant sat up, his expression fraying at the edges. "Why? Give me one good reason why I should risk everything right now. What if he doesn't feel the same? What if he only did it because he was three sheets to the wind and couldn't tell me apart from a coat rack? If I bring it up and he regrets it, I've made it awkward for the rest of our careers."

"Well, you're right there..." Dec started.

"Exact—" Ant began, thinking he'd won.

"Or," Dec interrupted, his voice dropping into a tone of rare, piercing logic, "what if he does feel the same? What if that alcohol was the only thing that gave him the courage to finally show you how he feels? You saw him this morning, Ant. He wasn't just hungover; he was terrified. He thinks he's ruined the best thing in his life."

Ant opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. The logic was sound, and it terrified him more than the rejection did. The idea that Stephen might be sitting in a room nearby, drowning in guilt for something that Ant had actually... enjoyed.

A sharp, hesitant knock at the door shattered the tension.

Ant's heart performed a violent somersault. He rolled his eyes at Dec - a silent plea for him to behave - and walked to the door. He pulled it open, the word "Yes?" dying in his throat.

"Hi," Stephen said.

He looked small, despite his height. His usual spark was dampened, replaced by a weary, hollow look behind his eyes. He had spent the last twenty minutes in his own dressing room, a place that usually felt like a sanctuary of props and glitter, feeling like the walls were closing in. He had weighed the pros and cons until his head spun. On one hand: total social annihilation. On the other: a chance at the only thing he'd ever truly wanted.

"Stephen..." Ant mumbled. He was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were standing.

"Stevie!" Dec's voice boomed from the sofa, far too loud for the small room. "How's the hangover, mate?"