An unexpected love || Ant x Stephen

Panic Attacks - Chapter Sixteen

The six-month mark of their relationship had been a milestone of laughter, shared secrets, and a love that felt as solid as bedrock. But for Stephen, beneath the surface of their domestic bliss, a familiar, jagged shadow was beginning to stretch.

Anxiety wasn't new to him. It was a cold companion he'd carried since he was thirteen, a byproduct of growing up in a world where he felt he had to perform to be accepted. He had mastered the art of the "showman"—always "on," always cracking a joke, always ensuring everyone else was comfortable so no one would look too closely at the tremor in his hands.

Lately, the tremor was becoming harder to hide.

Stephen was terrified to talk to Ant about it. It wasn't that he didn't trust him; it was that he trusted him too much. He had been told in the past that his panic attacks were a sign of weakness—that he needed to "man up" and stop being so sensitive. The thought of Ant looking at him with pity, or worse, disappointment, was enough to send his heart into a frantic, uneven rhythm.

The silence of the house at 3:00 AM is a heavy thing. For the fourth night in a row, Stephen lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom while the man he loved slept soundly beside him. Every time Ant shifted in his sleep or let out a soft, contented breath, Stephen felt a pang of guilt.

He was drowning in "what-ifs." What if I have an attack during a live show? What if Ant gets tired of taking care of someone so broken? What if he realizes I'm not the fun person he fell in love with?

By 3:45 AM, the walls of the bedroom felt like they were closing in. Stephen slipped out from under the duvet, moved with the stealth of a thief, and padded downstairs. He tried everything to quiet his mind. He picked up a book, but the words blurred into meaningless ink. He flicked on the TV, muting it immediately, watching the flickering images without seeing them.

Finally, driven by a desperate need to outrun his own thoughts, he changed into his running gear and slipped out into the pre-dawn chill. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs felt like lead, hoping the physical exhaustion would override the mental static.

When he returned at 5:00 AM, the sky was just beginning to bruise into a pale, dusty purple. He hung his jacket up, his breath hitching in the quiet kitchen. He poured a glass of orange juice, his hands shaking so much the liquid sloshed against the glass, and sat on the sofa in the dark.

"Stephen?"

The voice was soft, gravelly with sleep, but it hit Stephen like a lightning bolt. He jumped, nearly dropping his glass, and turned to see Ant standing in the doorway. Ant looked rumpled, his hair a mess and a blanket draped over one shoulder.

"Ant! You... you're up early," Stephen stammered, turning back to the dark TV screen as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"It's half five in the morning, Stevie," Ant said, walking closer. The worry in his voice was palpable. "I woke up and the bed was cold. I thought you might be in the loo, but then I heard the front door. Where have you been?"

"I just... I couldn't sleep. I went for a run."

Ant walked around the sofa, sitting beside him. He didn't say anything at first, just watched Stephen's profile. "Stephen? Look at me. Please."

When Stephen finally turned, the dark circles under his eyes were impossible to miss.

"How much sleep have you actually had tonight?" Ant asked gently.

Stephen looked away again, his throat tight. "None."

"And last night?"

"A bit."

"Stephen," Ant sighed, reaching out to take Stephen's hand. His thumb traced a soothing circle over Stephen's knuckles. "Talk to me. You've been a ghost in your own house for two weeks. I was waiting for you to come to me, but I can't watch you fall apart like this. What's going on?"

Stephen took a ragged breath. The dam was breaking. "I think I'm overthinking things... but I realized we never really talked about it. Properly."

"Talked about what?"

"My anxiety," Stephen said, the word feeling like a confession of a crime. "It's getting worse again. I feel the way I did when I was a kid—trying to hide who I was, trying to keep everyone happy so they wouldn't see how scared I was. I feel the panic attacks starting to creep back in, and I'm terrified that you'll think I'm weak. I don't want to be a burden, Ant."

Ant's face softened, his expression a mix of heartbreak and confusion. "Weak? Stevie, you're the strongest person I know. Why would you think—"

"It's just this whole situation," Stephen interrupted, his words moving faster than his brain could filter them. "These last few months... the pressure, the secrecy, the constant worrying about us... it's making me feel anxious again. It's making everything feel so much heavier."

Ant's hand went still. He slowly pulled his fingers away from Stephen's, his face going uncharacteristically pale.

"Situation?" Ant repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "You mean... us? Our relationship is making you anxious?"

Stephen froze. He saw the shift in Ant's eyes—the sudden, sharp flash of hurt. He realized instantly how it sounded. He didn't mean that loving Ant was the problem; he meant the circumstances—the hiding from the press, the fear of the public's reaction, the intensity of his own feelings.

But his brain, fogged by sleep deprivation and adrenaline, couldn't find the correction. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked like a man watching a car crash in slow motion.

Ant waited. One second. Five. Ten.

The silence grew cold. Ant looked at the clock on the wall; it was nearly 6:00 AM.

"Right," Ant said, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. "I get it. I'm... I'm part of the problem."

"Ant, no, that's not—"

"I've got to get ready for work," Ant said, standing up abruptly. His movements were stiff, robotic. "I've got meetings all day. I'll... I'll head back to my place after work. Give you some space. Less 'situation' to worry about."

"Ant, please, just let me explain—"

But Ant was already halfway up the stairs.

Upstairs, Ant moved through the bedroom like a stranger. He grabbed his clothes, his chest feeling like it was being crushed by a physical weight. Happiness is a fragile thing, he thought, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He had been so sure of them. He had thought these six months were the start of forever, but now it seemed his presence was causing the person he loved to spiral into panic.

Downstairs, Stephen remained on the sofa, his head in his hands. The orange juice sat forgotten on the table. He felt a familiar tightening in his chest—the herald of a panic attack—but he fought it down with a desperate, bitter strength. He had finally tried to open up, and he had managed to break the one thing that kept him grounded.

Fifteen minutes later, the floorboards creaked. Ant came down the stairs, dressed in his work suit, his bag slung over his shoulder. He looked polished, professional, and entirely unreachable.

Stephen stood up, his face etched with regret. "Ant, I didn't mean—"

Ant didn't look at him. He couldn't. If he looked at Stephen, he knew he'd break, and he had to be "Ant from Ant & Dec" in an hour. He just gave a small, curt nod toward the door.

"I'll text you later," Ant said, though both of them knew it was a lie.

The front door opened and clicked shut.

Ant walked two steps onto the porch, then slumped against the wood of the door, letting out a long, shuddering breath. He felt hollowed out.

On the other side of the door, Stephen did the exact same thing. He leaned his forehead against the cold wood, tears finally stinging his eyes. The house was quiet again, but it wasn't the peaceful quiet of a sleeping home. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a mistake that felt too big to fix.

He had wanted to talk about his anxiety to save their relationship, but in the grey light of the morning, it felt like he had just ended it.