An unexpected love || Ant x Stephen

Trying To Fix It - Chapter Seventeen

The silence in Stephen's house had become a physical presence, thick and suffocating. It had been forty-eight hours since the front door had clicked shut behind Ant, and in that time, the house seemed to have lost its color. Stephen sat in the exact same spot on the sofa where the "situation" had unfolded, staring at a television that hadn't been turned on in two days.

His mind was a carousel of regret. He knew exactly what he meant to say: that the world felt loud and frightening, that the thought of the press and the inevitable vitriol of the internet made his skin crawl, and that Ant was the only person who made the noise stop. Instead, he had made it sound like their love was a burden. He wanted to reach out, to crawl across London and bang on Ant's door until his knuckles bled, but the old, familiar voice of his anxiety whispered that he had already done too much damage.

If he wanted you, he would have called, the voice hissed. He's realized you're too much work. He's relieved to be away from the 'situation.'

Stephen was lost in that spiral when a sharp, rhythmic pounding echoed through the hallway. His heart did a violent somersault in his chest. He didn't just walk to the door; he scrambled, his socks sliding on the hardwood as he fumbled with the latch, his breath catching in a hopeful "Ant?"

He swung the door open, his face prepared to crumble into an apology, only to find himself staring down at a very familiar, very unimpressed Geordie.

"Oh... it's you," Stephen said, the light extinguishing from his eyes as quickly as it had appeared. He turned and walked back into the living room, his shoulders slumped, leaving the door standing open in a silent invitation.

"Nice to see you too, sunshine," Dec said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he followed him in. "I see the 'Mulhern Charm' is in full swing today. You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backward."

"Sorry, I was just—"

"Hoping for Ant?" Dec finished for him, his tone softening just a fraction as he took in the sight of Stephen's hollow eyes and the stack of untouched takeaway menus on the coffee table.

"Yeah," Stephen admitted, falling back onto the sofa. "I guess I was."

Dec didn't wait to be asked to sit. He dropped into the armchair opposite Stephen, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looked less like a TV presenter and more like a concerned older brother ready to stage an intervention.

"What are you doing here, Dec?" Stephen asked, his voice sounding thin and irritated.

"More importantly, what are you doing here?" Dec countered, gesturing to the empty, quiet house.

"I live here? Last time I checked the mortgage papers, anyway."

Dec rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "I mean why aren't you with Ant? Why am I spending my Tuesday afternoon watching my best mate mope around his kitchen like a Victorian ghost because he thinks his boyfriend wants to dump him?"

Stephen's head snapped up. "What? He told you that?"

"He hasn't told me anything," Dec lied poorly, then sighed. "Of course he told me. He's a wreck, Stephen. He's convinced that your 'anxiety about the situation' is just a polite way of saying you're done with him. He thinks the pressure of being with him is too much for you and you're waiting for the right moment to pull the plug."

"That's—that's not it at all!" Stephen cried, finally finding some volume. "It's not him! It's the... it's the everything else. It's the thought of the headlines, Dec. It's the thought of people saying he's 'changed' because of me. I'm terrified of what I'll do to his life if we're caught. I'm not anxious about loving him; I'm anxious about the world not letting me love him in peace."

"Then why haven't you told him that?"

"Because he hasn't called!" Stephen threw his hands up in frustration. "It's been two days. If he wanted to hear from me, if he wanted to fix this, he would have reached out. He's the one who walked away."

Dec let out a long, weary groan, rubbing his temples. "You two are the biggest pair of idiots I have ever met in twenty-five years of television. Do you know that? It's like watching a silent movie where everyone is blind."

Dec stood up, pacing the small space between the sofa and the TV. "He's sitting by his phone waiting for you to call because he thinks he needs to give you space. He thinks if he calls, he's pestering you or making your anxiety worse. You're both sitting in separate houses, starving yourselves of sleep and food, because you're both too proud or too scared to be the first one to say 'I'm sorry.'"

Dec stopped pacing and looked Stephen dead in the eye, his expression turning deadly serious.

"Stephen, call him. Or better yet, go to him. Talk to him. I know you're not an expert at the 'feelings' stuff—I've seen you try to talk about your emotions, it's like watching a baby giraffe learn to walk—but you have to try. He is miserable without you. He isn't sleeping, he's barely eating, and he's messing up his links because his head is stuck in this house with you."

Stephen looked down at his trembling hands, Dec's words sinking in like lead weights. The idea that Ant was suffering as much as he was—that Ant was scared of losing him—felt impossible.

"Please, Stephen," Dec said, moving toward the door. He paused on the threshold, looking back at the younger man. "Don't make a stupid mistake because you're afraid of a few hypothetical headlines. The public will do what they do, but they aren't the ones holding your hand at night. He is. Or he should be."

Dec gave the doorframe a firm tap. "Don't let the 'what-ifs' ruin the 'what-is.' Fix it, buddy."

As the front door clicked shut, the silence returned, but this time it felt different. It wasn't heavy anymore; it was expectant.

Stephen fell back into the sofa cushions, burying his face in his hands. A raw, frustrated sound escaped his throat. "Fuck!" he yelled into the empty room. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

He stood up, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He didn't have a plan, and he didn't have the right words, but he knew he couldn't spend another minute in the silence. He grabbed his coat, his keys, and his phone, and ran for the door. He had a "situation" to fix.