Ant and Dec One Shots

Fading Into The Light

It had been months since Ant first noticed the disconnect-a creeping, insidious sensation that he no longer fit in with Dec and Stephen, his boyfriends. At first, he brushed it off as paranoia, convincing himself he was overthinking. But then, moments started to stack up: dinners out where he wasn't invited, movie nights where he found himself watching from the edges of their shared laughter and inside jokes. He'd laugh along, hoping to feel included, yet each chuckle felt hollow, echoing in a room where he was becoming more invisible with every passing day.

As days turned into weeks, each encounter stung a little more, like salt in a wound that hadn't healed. He told himself they probably didn't notice his absence-that it was all in his head. Yet his chest ached every time he caught Dec and Stephen exchanging quick glances, small touches, or bursts of laughter that excluded him. It was as if they'd found something precious together, something he was once part of but had somehow slipped away, even after fifteen years with Dec and three since inviting Stephen to join them. The thought gnawed at him, sharp and persistent.

Ant tried to reconnect, laughing louder, trying to join their conversations, tossing in stories and jokes he hoped would bring him back to that inner circle. But his efforts were met with distracted nods and vague smiles, responses that only deepened his sense of being invisible. It felt like they'd forgotten how to see him. On stage, where he and Dec had always thrived, even the easy banter between them felt forced; Ant couldn't bring himself to pretend anymore, and each performance chipped away at the persona he could barely maintain.

Every time he wanted to speak up, the words caught in his throat, strangled by the fear of dismissal-or worse, pity. So, he began to withdraw, staying up late after Dec and Stephen had gone to bed, pouring himself into work to numb the ache that had settled in his chest. He skipped meals with them, knowing his silence would betray how deeply he hurt. Food lost its appeal; he'd stare blankly at his plate, struggling to taste anything past the bitterness in his heart.

Night after night, he sat alone, bathed in the soft glow of his computer screen, using work to keep his mind from drifting to the sharp edge of his loneliness. His eyes grew hollow, dark circles forming beneath them as sleep eluded him. Even his laugh, once warm and genuine, felt like an echo, a faded remnant of who he used to be.

What hurt most were the small, tender moments that reminded him of what he'd lost. He'd watch Dec and Stephen nestled together on the couch, Stephen's head resting on Dec's shoulder, fingers intertwined as if they didn't even notice they were touching. Their shared laughter was a melody from a world he could no longer access-a world where he no longer belonged.

Then, one night, the weight became unbearable. Watching them close together, feeding each other popcorn and whispering jokes just out of his hearing, something inside him snapped. The sight was too much. With his heart hammering in his chest and tears welling in his eyes, he stood up abruptly, muttering, "I'm going upstairs." His voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it carried the weight of the pain he'd been hiding.

Upstairs, he packed in a daze, shoving clothes into a bag without knowing where he'd go. He just knew he had to escape, to outrun the loneliness that had twisted its way around his heart. The thought was relentless, echoing in his mind: Maybe they'd be better off without me. He knew they would, really. They'd been fine without him for months.

But then, he heard footsteps behind him. Dec and Stephen had followed, their faces full of concern, brows furrowed as they took in his half-packed bag and the tension in his shoulders. The worry in Dec's eyes-the same eyes Ant had known since he was thirteen-was enough to break the last of his resolve.

"Ant?" Dec's voice was gentle, tentative, like he was afraid of breaking him further.

Ant's hands stilled, his voice shaking as he forced out, "I'm... I'm not needed here anymore." He could barely keep his voice from cracking. "You both have each other... I don't fit, I don't belong here. I don't even remember the last time either of you wanted me around." His words were raw, every syllable laid bare.