Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alex sighed as he pulled out his phone. He was completely exhausted. It had been a long day; the charity match had been a success, the fans had enjoyed themselves, the celebrities had been well-fed with drinks, and now the donations were being totalled. Despite moving back to Walthamstow after the divorce, his love for Chesham never faded. He also knew he was pretty much contractually obligated to participate in this event once a year.

“Al,” Tim called, walking up and giving Alex a friendly bump on the shoulder.  

“You alright?” Alex replied with a smile. “I’ve got a taxi booked to take you home, unless you want to come over for a pizza?”  

“Oh god—why not? You’ve twisted my arm,” Tim grinned.

Alex settled into the back of the taxi, the familiar hum of the engine a comforting backdrop after the chaos of the day. Tim slid in beside him, loosening his jacket and letting out a satisfied sigh.

“So,” Alex started, nudging Tim with his elbow, “how was America? Film stuff?”

Tim grinned, leaning back. “Yeah, good. Different vibe, obviously. Lots of coffee shops, endless green stuff—some kind of obsession with avo toast I didn’t get—and, well, the film’s coming along. Bit surreal, really. You know, trying to make something in Hollywood without losing your soul.”

Alex chuckled. “Sounds like the usual. I bet Greg would’ve loved it there”

Alex’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a message lighting up the screen:

Greg Davies: How’d the match go?

Alex Horne: Okay, I guess. Fans were loud, celebs drunk, no injuries though!

Greg Davies: Sounds like my kind of party. Wish I were there to… keep things interesting.

Alex blinked, a slight flush creeping up his neck. He showed Tim the screen.

Tim snorted. “Oi, looks like Greg’s flirting with you. Birthday booze bringing out the charm.”

Alex rolled his eyes but smiled. “He’s probably just being Greg.”

“Yeah, but maybe don’t leave him hanging, Al. You know how he gets.”

The taxi pulled onto the familiar streets of Walthamstow, lights flickering past the window. Alex glanced at the messages again and shook his head with a fond grin.

“Anyway,” Tim said, “how’d you find the match?”

Alex sighed. “It’s always weird, isn’t it? Being back in Chesham, hosting this thing, seeing old faces. But it’s nice. Feels like... some things don’t change, even if everything else does.”

Tim nodded thoughtfully. “Same here with the States. Strange to be so far away and yet so connected. Like, the film might take me somewhere new, but my roots pull me back.”

Alex glanced at his phone again. Another message from Greg popped up.

Greg Davies: Don’t leave me out next year, yeah?

Alex Horne: There’s no way you’d come to a football match. 

Greg Davies: I’d come if you asked me to. 

Alex stopped for a second at the second message - Greg despised football, Alex had asked him before to come, not even to play, just to come and be there, and he had always refused. 

Tim grinned wickedly. “Better text him back, before he starts sending you photos from the party.”

Alex laughed, snapping back to reality, tapping out a quick reply.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The taxi rolled to a halt outside Alex’s building. He stepped out stiffly, tucking his phone into his pocket and rolling his shoulders with a groan.

“I’m on the top floor,” he said, wincing. “Might have to take the lift — my knees are shot after today.”

“I’d be taking the lift anyway, mate,” Tim replied, already heading for the building’s front door. “I’m not trying to prove anything at this hour.”

Inside the lift, a heavy silence settled. The kind of silence that made your ears ring slightly — not awkward, but filled with something unsaid. Tim kept sneaking glances at Alex, who was staring at the floor numbers like they might offer him guidance. He was chewing his bottom lip again, a sure sign something was going on behind the eyes — eyes that looked, to Tim, like they were scanning a horizon only he could see.

“You thinking about Greg?” Tim said suddenly, half-grin already on his face.

“What? No!” Alex replied far too quickly, his voice cracking slightly — the same tone he used that time Greg asked if he'd had Botox on Taskmaster .

Tim snorted. “You’re doing that face.”

“What face?”

“That sort of... fussy face, but like you've just shit yourself.” He cackled, pleased with his own analysis.

Alex rolled his eyes and shook his head as the lift pinged and the doors slid open. “You’re such a dick,” he muttered, unlocking the door to his flat.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Tim said breezily, flopping onto the sofa.

“I’m having a shower,” Alex called, already halfway down the hall, towel slung over one shoulder. “You know where everything is.”

The bathroom filled quickly with steam, the water thudding down against the tiles like applause. Alex leaned into the spray, letting it wash the day off him. His muscles ached from the match, and his skin was tight with sun and sweat — but none of it was enough to distract him from the flicker of a certain tall Welsh man in his thoughts.

He didn’t mean to think about Greg, but there he was anyway all sharp wit, broad grin, and text messages that made something fizz and twist in Alex’s chest.

As if summoned, his phone buzzed loudly from the basin.

Greg Davies: You’re missing me, aren’t you? Be honest. I’m devastating tonight.

Attached was a blurry selfie of Greg, clearly mid-pint, collar open, hair a mess, grinning like he’d just won something. Behind him, a wall of bottles and birthday balloons.

Alex rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. He quickly snapped one in return, steam curling at the edges of the mirror, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, Chesham United football shirt clinging to his still-sweaty torso. He looked flushed and a bit ridiculous, but what the hell. He sent it with a caption:

Alex Horne: This is what devastation actually looks like. Post-match heroics. We  won, but I’ll be paying for it for the next two weeks. 

Greg Davies: Unfair. You know that shirt does things to me… and I hate football, but you in a football kit… that’s something ENTIRELY different 

Greg Davies: Or maybe it’s the thought of you sweaty and wet…

Alex let out a breath of laughter, leaning against the sink. Before he could type back, there was a loud knock on the bathroom door, and then it opened

“Oi!” Tim’s voice echoed through. “Pizza’s on its way, and I’ve opened a bottle of wine you definitely paid too much for. Get a move on, Beckham.”

Alex jumped, nearly dropping his phone into the sink. “Christ, Tim!”

There was a pause, then Tim added, in his most blasé tone, “Mate, I’ve seen you naked before. Grow up. Get a move on.”

Alex walked back into the living room, dressed in grey jersey shorts and a clean yellow T-shirt that clung slightly to his still-warm skin. His hair was damp, and he looked comfortably knackered.

Tim was already halfway through a slice, a glass of red wine balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa. “Took your sweet time,” he said through a mouthful of pepperoni. “I was about to start without you. Well, continue without you.”

Alex collapsed onto the other end of the sofa and reached straight for the pizza box. “You’ve got no respect for ritual,” he said, grabbing a slice. “Pizza should be a shared experience.”

“Don’t get all poetic about it now,” Tim replied. “You were in there mooning over Greg’s texts like a teenager.”

Alex rolled his eyes but said nothing, choosing instead to bite into the pizza. He chewed, savoured, and raised his glass. “Right. Cheers. To surviving today.”

Tim clinked his glass lazily. “To the three pints I earned just watching you sprint around pretending to be twenty-five again.”

They ate, laughed, and drank a little more. The wine softened everything — the ache in Alex’s legs, the edge of a long day, the slight tangle of feelings he wasn’t quite ready to unpack.

Alex’s phone buzzed again on the coffee table. Another message from Greg.

Greg Davies: If I were a pizza I’d be like…a very sexy one. Like, wood-fired. Not in a weird way. But also kind of in a weird way.

Tim caught sight of the message and nearly choked on his crust. “He’s gone . That’s proper circling-the-drain texting, that.”

Alex laughed, shoulders shaking as he took another sip. “He’s absolutely mortal. I don’t even think he knows what he means anymore.”

Another message followed, no punctuation and all caps:

Greg Davies: ALEX HORNE YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL GIRAFFE OF A MAN NEVER CHANGE

Alex choked on his wine this time. “Oh my God.”

Tim grinned. “Right. That’s it. Screenshot that. I need it printed on a tea towel.”

Alex was laughing now, properly laughing, the kind of laugh that filled a room and made everything else fall away.

He looked down at his phone, fingers hovering, and then typed:

Alex Horne: You’re going to regret all of this tomorrow. Goodnight, you chaotic tree of a man. See you at the BAFTAs

Greg Davies: I LOVE YOU XxxxxxXxxxxXXxx

Tim leaned back, stretching, and said, “You know, you two are the weirdest will-they-won’t-they since Mulder and Scully. Except louder. And drunker.”

Alex gave him a look. “Shut up and pass me another slice.”

Tim grinned. “See? Fussy face and denial. Classic combo.”

The pizza box was mostly empty, the wine bottle decidedly lighter. The telly was still playing something in the background, but neither of them was watching.

Tim stretched with a groan, reaching for his shoes. “Right, I should probably make a move. Before I end up passed out on your sofa again and drooling into your cushions.”

Alex grinned. “You know you’re always welcome.”

“I do. But I’m at that perfect tipsy point where I know if I don’t leave now, I’ll wake up here with a headache and no socks.” He pulled on his jacket, then paused. “Thanks, though. Was good. Like, proper good.”

Alex gave him a warm look. “Yeah. It was.”

Tim opened the door, then turned back with a grin. “Tell Greg you love him too.”

“Piss off,” Alex muttered, shoving him gently out the door.

“Night!” Tim called as he disappeared down the hall.

Alex chuckled to himself, shutting the door and locking it. The flat fell quiet, the faint clink of glass from the washing up he hadn’t done. He wandered into the bathroom and started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, his reflection looking a bit more wrecked than usual — hair tousled, cheeks pink from wine, eyes soft with sleep.

Just as he spat out the toothpaste, his phone buzzed. A voice note. From Greg. Alex paused, toothbrush still dangling in his fingers. The message was only a few seconds long. He hit play.

At first, it was just a muffled bit of pub noise. Then Greg’s voice, too loud and too close to the mic, like he was only half aware he’d pressed record.

“—nah, listen, I do. I love him. Like, love him, love him, alright? Properly. He’s just—he’s ridiculous, and tall, and clever and kind and… just, fuck. I love him so much, it’s stupid. You know? It’s really stupid. And I just want to—”
There was a pause. A breath. “God, the things I’d do to him. And for him. Don’t tell him I said this…”

Then the sound cut out with the sharp clink of the mic brushing something, followed by what sounded suspiciously like Greg shouting for another drink.

Alex stood frozen, toothbrush in hand, heart absolutely thundering in his chest.

Alex leaned against the bathroom counter, heart still pounding like it was trying to get out. The voice note hung in the air, suspended in the quiet like smoke that refused to clear.

He stared at the screen. The little waveform blinked back at him innocently, as if it hadn’t just cracked something wide open.

Greg didn’t know he’d sent it.

That much was obvious - it had the feel of a phone slipped into someone’s back pocket mid-speech, the kind of accidental truth you never intend to say out loud, let alone record and send.

Alex replayed the final few seconds, the way Greg’s voice faltered, the heat in it - something softer beneath the slur. Something he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with.

“Fuck,” Alex whispered to himself, slowly setting the phone down like it might catch fire if he held it too long.

He ran a hand through his damp hair and stared at his reflection. His ears were pink. His eyes wide. He still had toothpaste around his mouth.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, wiping his face with the towel.

He picked up the phone again, thumb hovering over the screen. He could message back. Say something. Joke. Pretend he didn’t hear it properly. Laugh it off. Or he could ignore it. Say nothing. Let the night swallow it whole.

Another voice in his head - probably Tim’s - was already muttering, Don’t be a coward, Horne.

But he didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

He locked the screen, left the phone on the counter, and stepped into the hallway, heart still thudding like a drumbeat under his ribs.

The flat was soaked in a hazy midday light, the kind that made everything look a little too honest dust in the corners, rumpled sheets, the open wardrobe with his suit hanging too neatly like it was trying to play the adult in the room.

He stood, barefoot on the cold wooden floor, and reached for the suit bag. He unzipped it slowly, dragging the tux free. The fabric was heavy and smooth, already carrying that faint scent of dry-cleaned starch and something like pressure. The kind of clothes you wore when you were expected to smile and nod and pretend everything was fine.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and dragged his hands over his face. Greg’s voice stuck in his skull like a song he couldn’t switch off.

That voice note. He hadn’t slept properly. Hadn’t even replayed it after the third time — couldn’t. It felt too close, too raw. Too real .

He reached for his phone and opened WhatsApp. Greg’s name was still there, unchanged. Alex swallowed, his thumb hovering as he opened the chat. Then he stopped. There it was. Or rather, there it wasn’t .

“Message deleted”

No more audio clip, just the grey, polite stamp where truth used to be. Alex froze, staring. The words blurred slightly, and his hand clenched around the phone. It was deleted. He knows.

Alex exhaled slowly through his nose. He placed the phone down carefully on the mattress beside him and stared at the half-unzipped suit bag, heart beating behind his ribs like a warning drum. 

Somewhere in South London, Greg had just clawed his way out of unconsciousness.

It was the kind of awakening that felt like resurrection gone wrong. He opened one eye, instantly regretted it, then buried his face in the crook of his arm like a vampire shielding himself from the day. His mouth felt like someone had lined it with velvet and despair. The duvet had slid to the floor like even it was done with him, and his spine cracked in about seven separate places as he attempted to sit up.

“Ohhh Jesus Christ,” he groaned, dragging himself upright like a man who’d been reanimated by accident. “I need medical attention and possibly an exorcism.”

There was a crisp stuck to his temple. He peeled it off, inspected it, then immediately regretted doing so. His phone buzzed somewhere in the tangle of sheets. Or maybe it was under him. He had the horrible suspicion he’d slept on it like a roosting hen.

He found it eventually, wedged between his thigh and the duvet. Picking it up was like touching a nuclear reactor. Bright, hot, full of doom.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Damage report.”

He opened his gallery first — always the safest way to gauge the scale of the carnage. Like opening a plane’s black box after a crash.

There it was. A blurry video of him dancing with a bar stool, selfie with Rhod Gilbert, moustache drawn on in what he hoped to God was ketchup, three-second video of Greg shouting “I’m the walrus of love!” into a takeaway kebab.

He slammed the gallery shut and opened WhatsApp with all the reverence of a man disarming a bomb.

Greg’s heart, which had only just managed to stabilise, did a violent little tap-dance in his chest. There it was.

Voice message — 0:23

Greg stared at it, dread pooling in his stomach, but his thumb was already pressing the play button. He had to know. His own voice erupted from the speaker, slurred, affectionate, and foolishly sincere. Greg froze. His mouth went dry, and then his voice, traitorous bastard that it was, continued speaking.

Greg stared at the phone like it had insulted his entire lineage. He hurled himself backwards onto the bed, hands gripping his face.

“You absolute bellend.” He whispered, “YOU CONFESSED. YOU CONFESSED YOUR LOVE VIA VOICE NOTE LIKE SOMEONE IN A BLEEDING ITV CHRISTMAS SPECIAL.”

He sat up again, wild-eyed, hair now resembling a discarded hay bale.

“You told him you loved him. You told him you fancy him. What is wrong with you?!”

He checked the chat again, he stared at it for a full ten seconds, debating his own moral compass and then, without a word, he deleted it.

It disappeared from the screen like it had never been there, but the panic? Oh, the panic remained. It dug itself into his ribs like a tapeworm of shame. He dropped the phone onto the nightstand and stared up at the ceiling.

“You are a 56-year-old man,” he whispered. “And you just confessed your undying love to your best mate via drunken voicemail and now you’ve got to see him in three hours…”

The car’s air conditioning struggled against the intense heat outside. Alex sat in the backseat, perfectly still, as if any movement might disturb his immaculate black suit. The white piping on his lapels caught the light, giving him a glowing appearance. His bow tie was snug, his posture straight, and his shoes shone brightly, revealing someone deep in thought.

The car slowed to a crawl, then stopped and the door opened. Greg stepped in, the sun following him for half a second like it didn’t want to let go.

Black three-piece suit, tailored to his frame with a kind of ruthless elegance. The waistcoat hugged him, the jacket cut sharply, the tie dark and slim. His sunglasses reflected the sky, which felt unfair, like the weather itself was collaborating with him to make him look too good.

He ducked into the car with a grunt, muttering something about the heat. But Alex barely registered the word, he was too busy trying not to stare.

“Jesus Christ,” Greg muttered, peeling off his jacket and tossing it beside him. “Who decided formalwear was suitable for a furnace?”

“You alright?” Alex asked, voice tight

Greg pulled off his sunglasses and gave him a look half amused, half squinting. Silence slid in between them. Not hostile. Just charged . Like a theatre just before the curtain. Greg fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt. 

“So,” Alex said, filling the “Still feeling philosophical? Or just hungover now?”

Greg smirked faintly, eyes still on the road ahead. “I’m in the denial phase. Give me an hour”

Alex laughed, soft and brittle. Then silence again.  Alex cleared his throat.

“So... the weather turned out alright for it,” he said, the words landing with the enthusiasm of a limp party popper.

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Like a proper summer’s day.”

Another pause. Alex tried again. “I was worried I’d melt in this, but turns out my fear of creasing outweighs my fear of heatstroke.”

Greg gave a faint noise of agreement. His fingers tapped once against his thigh, then stopped. Like, even that was saying too much.

Alex wanted to say something else. To break the silence properly, to reach across the awkward space between them. But the words felt useless in his mouth, too fragile, too risky. What could he say?

Eventually, the car slowed again. A pause. Then the driver’s voice came through the intercom.

“We’re here, gents.”

They both shifted at the same time, straightening, adjusting, reaching for sunglasses, breathing deeper than needed. The shared ritual of men who’d done this dance a hundred times before — cameras, fans, smiles. The show of it.

The door opened to a rush of noise and sunlight.

The BAFTAs red carpet stretched out in front of them, bright and blistering and alive . A wall of cameras. Screaming fans. Glittering dresses, sharp suits, the buzz of industry oxygen.

Greg stepped out first, tall and sharp in the light, sunglasses back on like a shield. Alex followed, a fraction behind the sun, hitting his suit just so, making the white piping flash bright against the black.

The crowd clocked them immediately.

“GREG! ALEX! OVER HERE!”

The choreography began. Smiles. Poses. Greg did his usual mock-serious pout for one set of cameras, then leaned in to whisper something daft in Alex’s ear for the next. Alex laughed too loudly, too quickly, but it looked good in the photos.

They took selfies with fans, signed a few programmes, and shook hands with fellow comedians and TV faces. All the while, Alex’s heart thudded with a kind of low-grade panic because Greg was doing the act. The banter. The crowd-pleasing charm, but underneath it in the way his hand lingered half a second too long at Alex’s back, in the glances when he thought no one was looking, was something else.

They were ushered down the line like show ponies — glittering lights, clipped voices directing them left and right, flashes going off like fireworks. Greg adjusted his sunglasses with one hand and smoothed the front of his jacket with the other, entirely composed.

Alex, meanwhile, was trying not to look like he’d sweat through his shirt. His fingers were twitching at his sides, fiddling with his cuff, his collar, anything. The noise, the heat, the proximity to Greg — it was all pressing in.

Then came Tom Allen, all teeth and tux and microphone. Standing beneath a branded parasol, sweatless and pristine as ever, like someone had summoned him out of a fragrance advert and handed him cue cards.

“Look who it is!” Tom beamed, holding his arms out in mock-reverence. “The actual kings of telly. Greg Davies, Alex Horne — the people’s BAFTA.”

Greg chuckled warmly, Alex laughed too, slightly hollow 

Alex wasn’t listening really, he helds the mic up to Greg letting him do the talking as usual. Everything around him wasn’t there… until he heard Greg say one line

“I’d like a wife,” he said.

Alex blinked.

Tom burst out laughing. “A wife ? Really?”

Greg smiled, easy, charming. “Yeah. Why not? I think it’s time. ”

Alex’s heart sank, he forced a smile, but his face turned pale. His pulse raced in his ears, and his mouth went dry. He couldn’t focus on what Tom was saying because Greg’s voice echoed in his mind. It hit like a slap. He felt physically sick, his insides had turned to ice. His hands were suddenly too cold for the heat of the afternoon.

Greg looked at him, oblivious, still charming the camera. Still acting and all Alex could think was:

What the hell did that voice note mean, then?

Because if Greg could say that — joke or not — to a national audience, then maybe the things he'd said the night before hadn't meant what Alex thought they did.

Maybe he was just another mate Greg loved when he was drunk and lonely. Maybe he was just convenient.

Alex swallowed the sick taste at the back of his throat. The interview ended, the camera moved on, but the damage was done.

They moved on to the photo wall next — the click and flare of paparazzi like a swarm of gnats with expensive lenses. The heat bounced off the pavement and the white screens, making everyone gleam with the same sweaty, glassy-eyed enthusiasm.

“Closer, gents!”

Greg leaned in without hesitation, that winning smirk plastered on like a badge of honour. His arm lifted slightly, half-reaching for Alex’s back, but Alex had already stepped sideways, feigning a check of his cuff. Just enough to avoid the contact without making a scene.

Greg didn’t react, or maybe he didn’t notice, but Alex’s jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt.

He posed through it. Flash after flash. Each one catching his smile like a lie.

By the time they hit the stairs to the pre-awards meal, the silence had cemented.

Greg was a few steps ahead, still riding the high of it all, soaking in the buzz. Alex, behind him, felt nothing but white-hot bitterness prickling under his skin.

A wife. He wanted a wife.

He could still hear Greg’s voice from earlier, echoing back like static in his ears and for what? For show ? For a laugh? Or was that real?

Because it sure as hell hadn’t sounded like a joke. Not to Alex. Not after the voice note. Not after what he'd said — the way he'd said it. He’d heard Greg’s voice, the crack in it, the drunken warmth laced with something raw and genuine.

Now he was throwing around wistful bullshit about getting married like they hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours orbiting something real .

Alex’s stomach turned as they reached the top of the stairs. He hated how sharp the jealousy felt petty, irrational, hot enough to burn through his ribs. He hated that he’d let himself believe the message had meant something. That he had meant something.

The pre-awards meal felt suffocatingly heavy with polished cutlery clinking against fine china, murmurs of rehearsed congratulations, and the faint, cloying scent of expensive perfume mixed with stale nerves. Alex sat rigid beside Greg

Greg was animated, trying to break through the silence with stories and laughter, but Alex was a storm barely contained, bristling beneath his calm exterior.

“You’re hardly listening, are you?” Greg’s voice held a wounded edge as he leaned closer, eyes searching.

“I’m listening,” Alex snapped, sharper than intended. “You just keep going on and on.”

Greg’s smile faltered, tension crackling in the space between them like static electricity.

“Don’t be like that,” Greg said quietly, but Alex barely heard him.

Andy and the producers exchanged worried glances, their polite smiles stretched thin. The air around Alex felt dense, every whispered word from nearby tables seeming to echo his shame.

Later, seated in the main theatre, the pressure only mounted. They were front and centre, under the harsh lights and the relentless gaze of cameras and executives alike. Alex’s world had shrunk to the cold stiffness of the chair.

Greg tried again, voice low and earnest, “Alex, what’s going on with you tonight? You’re not yourself.”

Alex bristled, words spilling out before he could stop them. “Don’t pretend to care. You’re here with your big smiles and your speeches about wanting a wife — and you don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“That was a joke.” Greg whispered.

“No, it wasn’t,” Alex hissed, voice breaking despite himself. “I heard what you said. I heard everything .”

The argument spiralled, voices rising, barely restrained. Nearby heads turned, uncomfortable glances thrown their way. The polished facade of the evening cracked like glass.

James, one of the execs, cleared his throat sharply, his voice low but commanding over the tension. “Enough. Alex, this isn’t the time or place.”

Alex swallowed hard, fists clenched. James looked pointedly at one of the producers nearby.

“Sit next to him. Between him and Greg. Keep them apart.”

Before Alex could protest, a poised woman slipped into the seat beside him, her eyes calm but firm

Greg shot Alex one last, searching look as the producer’s presence wedged itself between them, an unspoken barrier.

Alex’s throat tightened, the bitter ache of jealousy, anger, and heartbreak swirling in the air like smoke. He stared forward, silent and trapped, caught between the public glare and the private wreckage of what they’d become.

Greg didn’t speak to Alex for the rest of the ceremony. The categories came and went in a blur of polished speeches and polite applause, but Alex sat stiff and distant, the weight of everything pressing down on him.

When their category, Best Entertainment, was announced, and Taskmaster didn’t win, Alex’s jaw tightened, his smile faltering. He looked genuinely gutted, the disappointment etched deep in his eyes.

Greg glanced over, catching Alex’s gaze, but Alex just rolled his eyes slightly, a small, almost dismissive gesture that didn’t go unnoticed.

Greg shook his head in mild annoyance, feeling the sting. He was trying, really trying, to be there for Alex, but the walls were still up. Greg turned his attention back to the stage, the moment quietly slipping away.

Later that evening, Greg had been called up to present the award for Best Host, he walked to the podium with that usual swagger. The crowd hushed, expecting his trademark dry wit — and he gave it to them.

“Well,” Greg began, leaning into the microphone, “I’ve had the great honour of being eligible for this award… on not one, but two different shows this year.” He paused, letting the crowd absorb that with a smirk.

“And one I wasn’t nominated for one” he continued. “ and the other…” He turned slightly, gesturing toward the front row where Alex sat stiffly, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for weather.

“…I lost because of him .” Greg's finger pointed squarely at Alex, his voice still in that playful register, but with an unmistakable edge beneath it that was sharp and sour, wrapped in the silk of a joke.

Alex didn’t look up. His eyes were locked on the programme in his lap, mouth set in a tight line. He felt the bite in it, the not-so-hidden barb inside the throwaway humour. Greg’s tone was all performance, but the glance, the pointed finger, the twist in his mouth… those weren’t for the cameras.

Alex stepped onto the pavement first. Greg followed a moment after, slower, like the night had knocked the wind out of him. His tie was askew now, jacket unbuttoned. 

“Al,” he said, stepping a little closer. “Listen, can we talk?” 

Alex turned, face lit by the headlights of the car waiting at the curb. His eyes were tired. Not glassy or dramatic, just tired in that particular way someone gets when something’s been pressing on them too long.

“Greg,” he said sharply. “I don’t want to talk right now.”

Greg’s mouth opened like he might protest but nothing came out. He just stood there, blinking, the rejection hitting colder than he expected in the heat of the night.

The car door opened. Alex slid in without a backwards glance.

Inside, he sank into the seat and undid his bow tie with one hand, jaw clenched. The black fabric crumpled in his palm before he shoved it into his pocket like it had wronged him personally.

The door shut. The car pulled away. Greg didn’t move. Just stood there.

Greg stood motionless on the pavement, heat rising from the tarmac, clinging to the backs of his knees and the inside of his collar. The distant hum of traffic filled the silence Alex had left behind, but Greg couldn’t hear any of it properly — not over the blood rushing in his ears.

Then it clicked. All of it.

The way Alex had looked at him on the red carpet, all tension and narrowed eyes. The biting, brittle jokes at dinner, the snapped words, the cold silence in the car. The way he couldn’t even bring himself to accept a goodbye hug.

He had heard it, of course, he had.

Greg let out a breath that shook as it left him. He scrubbed a hand down his face, then into his hair, eyes squeezed shut like the force of it might rewind the night, erase everything.

“Shit,” he whispered. “He heard it. He heard it and now—”

Now he hated him or couldn’t look at him the same, or worse, felt sorry for him.

Greg took a step back and leaned against the wall of the building, letting the cool brick press into his spine, grounding him. He remembered the words exactly. Not the slur of them, not the drunken clumsiness, but the way it was the only time he could ever be truthful. 

Greg didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t breathe, he had to move - he walked away from the venue into the street. Greg barely made it to the corner before his vision swam, black curling at the edges of his sight like an old film reel burning up. He leaned on a lamppost for a second too long, breath shallow, stomach twisted like he’d swallowed a fist.

You bloody idiot. You absolute idiot. 

He yanked his phone out again, thumb fumbling as he opened the app, hailed an Uber. Couldn’t face waiting. Couldn’t risk someone from the industry seeing him as a BAFTA host, no less slumped and pale on a Soho street like a jilted ex at the end of a Channel 4 drama.

The car pulled up a minute later. Black Prius. He slid into the backseat and shut the door fast, like the whole world might leak in otherwise.

He heard it. He hates me. Or he doesn’t — maybe he felt something, no, no, he’s angry, he’s embarrassed, you put him in a position — you selfish bastard, Greg! 

Greg sat back and realised he was the punchline tonight. A joke with no setup.The worst part? It wasn’t even funny.

Chapter Text

By the time Thursday rolled around, they were six studio recordings deep, and the cracks were starting to show.

There were four left to go. Just four.

Four more episodes of pretending everything was fine. Of laughing at the right moments. Of sitting a chair’s breadth away without flinching.

They’d kept the act together. Just about. But today? Today, it was wearing thin.

It had started like the others — too quiet. They only spoke when necessary. Brief nods. One-word answers. Alex had barely looked at Greg outside of filming, and when he had, it was with the kind of clinical coldness that made the runners nervous and the lighting techs glance at each other.

Everyone at Pinewood had noticed.

The crew. The warm-up comic. Even the people setting out sandwiches in the green room. There was a storm brewing, and it smelled faintly of aftershave and unresolved sexual tension.

Greg arrived on set first, suited and towering and looking far more put-together than he felt. He slid into his throne and the audience applauded. He waved, threw out a few warm-up lines, and grinned with that usual mix of charm and menace.

“Evening, you lovely bunch. Let’s get this circus rolling. Don’t worry, I’m still just a fat old man under all this fabric—”

“Don’t lie to them,” came Alex’s voice.

The crowd tittered. He stepped into view with his clipboard, hair neatly in place, looking every inch the Taskmaster’s trusted minion — if that minion had been simmering in bottled-up chaos for days.

Alex walked over with a slow theatrical flourish, adjusting his glasses, narrowing his eyes like he was assessing merchandise.

“Mmm,” he said, circling Greg’s chair, “tailoring’s doing overtime today. There’s a lot of… presence.”

The audience roared. Greg turned his head to track him, raising an eyebrow. Alex pulled a mock-serious face and gestured toward the waistband of Greg’s trousers. 

“Honestly, it’s like he’s been poured into that suit and forgot to say when.”

“Alright, Casanova,” Greg muttered under his breath, trying not to smile, voice just loud enough for Alex to hear.

And then a voice from the audience piped up:

“Did you two ever make it to the BAFTAs afterparty?”

The room paused, like it had collectively sucked in a breath and was holding it hostage.

Greg gave a dry little laugh. “Oh, we had a party, alright.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Not sure it counts when only one of us turned up emotionally.”

Laughter again, though this time more awkward. Like they weren’t sure if it was still part of the act.

Greg turned to Alex, something sharp behind his smile. “You were the one who slammed the car door and drove off like it was EastEnders, mate.”

Alex didn’t blink. “Only one of us was acting.”

There it was. That moment.

The audience laughed again, less certain now, but they laughed. The jokes were still landing. Just. But underneath it, there was a thrum of something electric, dangerous. Greg leaned in closer, tone teasing, eyes anything but.

“Careful, Little Alex Horne. I might start to think you missed me.”

Alex smirked without humour, stepping back to his podium. “I think we both know who did the missing.”

The lights were still down the contestants were seated, the first VT rolling, audience laughing along obliviously but inside their ear pieces, it was a different story.

Andy’s voice sliced through the static like a knife dipped in frustration.

“What the fuck is going on with you two?”

Alex flinched slightly. He didn’t move otherwise, still staring ahead at the screen as if nothing had happened.

“I mean it — I’m getting really sick of this. This moody, passive-aggressive bollocks is bleeding into the show. Do you think people can’t tell?”

Greg shifted in his throne, jaw tightening. He pressed his finger to the mic discreetly.

“Everything’s fine.” His voice was low, calm, falsely cheerful. A performer’s voice. “It’s just banter.”

“Don’t insult me,” Andy fired back, sharp and immediate. “Greg, your ‘banter’ sounds like foreplay in a murder mystery. Alex, your timing’s off and you’ve snapped at the floor manager twice . You’re not teenagers. Sort it.”

Alex didn’t respond. He just stared ahead, rigid, shoulders high and stiff. Andy wasn’t finished.

“This is a flagship series. Do you want press sniffing around asking why the chemistry’s suddenly died? You want rumours? Leaks? Grow the fuck up, both of you.”

Greg glanced sideways at Alex, whose face was impassive in the flickering blue of the task footage, eyes glassy like he was somewhere far, far away. 

Greg pressed his earpiece again. “We’ll keep it professional.”

Alex stared up at the autocue, the corners of his mouth twitching with something unreadable.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I forgot about this one.”

Greg shot him a sidelong glance. “What?” he whispered back, brow creasing.

Alex didn’t answer. Just stood slowly, as though pulled by invisible strings,  then walked a few steps to his right, still facing the audience and eased himself directly onto Greg’s lap.

The crowd erupted in laughter and confused whoops, mistaking it for another outrageous in-joke.

Greg’s entire body went rigid for a second. His hands, out of instinct, moved — one landed firm on Alex’s knee, the other ghosted to his hip. Alex leaned back just slightly, his shoulder blades brushing Greg’s chest. Greg’s mouth opened to speak 

“Alex, what the fu—” but was cut short by Alex settling against him and the sheer proximity of him. His scent, the warmth of his skin through the cheap polyester suit. Greg, against all common sense and self-control, dipped his head like a reflex and let his teeth graze fabric just above Alex’s shoulder a bite, not even a proper one, just contact. Just madness. He didn’t even know what he was doing until he’d done it.

“Can you both stay like that for a minute?” Andy’s voice crackled into their earpieces. “We want a clean shot for the edit — just… hold. Please.”

Greg didn’t move. Couldn’t. Alex didn’t look at him. His eyes were fixed on the far side of the studio, expression unreadable.

The audience’s laughter faded into a buzz. The lights, the cameras, the crew it all seemed to fall away, like being underwater.

Greg swallowed hard. His hand was still on Alex’s knee, thumb moving gently unconsciously over the seam of his trousers. He forced himself to stop.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he muttered low enough so only Alex could hear it.

Alex didn’t respond. Just kept still, almost statuesque, but Greg could feel the tension humming through him. Like a wire pulled too tight.

Greg swallowed hard, chewing the silence like it was part of the gum. They were halfway through the series, halfway through pretending and miles away from each other.

Later that night Alex had been lying there for hours, barely blinking, not moving much, just watching the slow spin of headlights across the ceiling. The air was too warm, the sheets were twisted, and his head wouldn’t shut up.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Greg had looked tonight. Not just physically, though that didn’t help, but the way his eyes kept finding Alex’s across the theatre. The way he laughed too hard at other people’s jokes. The way he bit down on everything he wasn’t saying.

Alex sighed, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. His heart was tight in his chest, like it had been strung up between guilt and fury. Greg was his best mate . Had been for a decade. Ten years of ridiculous costumes, sarcastic glances, and unspoken understandings. Ten years of interviews and scripts and shared hotel bars after shows. Greg knew him. Knew how he ticked.

So why didn’t he know this would break him? Why send that voice note—why say it now —after everything?

Greg had thrown the whole rhythm of them off-kilter, like a note in a song that didn’t belong, and now Alex couldn’t find the melody again. He was confused, and angry, and exhausted. And yet, underneath all that, stupidly— stupidly —he missed him.

And just as he was finally starting to drift into a thin, uneasy sleep

Buzz.

He flinched at the light from his phone screen.

01:02. Seven texts. All from Greg.

His chest sank before his stomach caught up.

Greg Davies: Alex.
Greg Davies: You up?
Greg Davies: Mate please
Greg Davies: I fucked it. I know I did
Greg Davies: Don’t hate me
Greg Davies: I miss you I miss talking to you I miss your stupid face
Greg Davies: Please just pick up. I need you to pick up.

Alex’s hand hovered over the screen, heart drumming in his throat. His thumb shook slightly and then the phone rang; he hesitated. Then he picked up.

“…Greg?”

Greg's voice stumbled through immediately, too loud, too fast, full of frantic, slurred edges. 

“Alex. Alex, thank fuck. Just—don’t hang up. Please, mate. Please. I just need—fuck, I don’t even know , I just need to talk to you—”

Alex sat up, spine aching with the sudden motion. “Greg. It’s one in the morning.”

“I know. I know .” Greg sounded breathless, like he’d been pacing or crying or both. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I just—I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about you, and the voice note, and the stupid red carpet, and how much I’ve cocked this up—”

Alex’s eyes slipped shut. “Greg—”

“I miss you, alright?” Greg pushed on, voice shaking. “I miss us. And I’m such a fucking idiot because I—I feel all this stuff and I don't know what to do with it and I ruined everything, didn’t I? I ruined ten years of—of—fuck.”

His voice cracked, and for a second Alex genuinely thought he might start crying.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Greg whispered. “I just wanted you to know .”

Alex swallowed hard. His voice was low, flat with weariness and something else underneath. “Greg. You’re drunk. And rambling.”

“But it’s true,” Greg murmured, quieter now. “It’s all true.”

Alex dragged a hand through his hair, heart aching, face twisted in the dark. He was angry—still—but hearing Greg like this… broken open and spilling everything at once, he hated that he wanted to fix it.

“You need to go to bed,” Alex said, gentler than he meant to. “You’re not making anything better right now.”

There was a long pause and then, quietly: 

“Right. Yeah. Okay. Night, Alex… my sweet Alex”

Alex didn’t respond. He just stared at the screen as it went dark in his hand. The next day had been relentless—back-to-back setups, lighting checks, prop malfunctions, and everyone on edge from the heat, the pace, and whatever unspoken tension had been lingering like a fog around the set all week. Greg had barely said a word to anyone beyond what was required of him. He’d been operating on autopilot, coasting through line reads, chuckling where he should, sitting still where he had to.

But now, finally, it was quiet.

The next day Greg sat alone on the battered little sofa in his dressing room, suit already half-buttoned, legs sprawled out inelegantly. The air was stale, and the room smelled faintly of talcum powder, aftershave, and whatever grim sandwich someone had microwaved in the corridor.

He stared at the wall, still nursing the hangover from both the wine and his own idiocy.

The phone call replayed in his head like a radio he couldn’t switch off. His own voice, desperate, raw. The ache in Alex’s voice. The silence that had followed. He rubbed his face with both hands and sighed into them.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” he muttered into his palms.

Then, voices, outside the door, familiar. Alex.

Greg froze, like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. His spine straightened involuntarily, mouth gone dry. He couldn’t make out everything, but he could hear the cadence of Alex’s voice, measured and casual, talking to someone on the crew about camera angles for the next setup.

He swallowed, heartbeat tapping at his throat. Then came the knock. A quiet, deliberate tap tap tap on the door. Three beats.

Greg blinked and stood up too fast, stumbling over his own feet. He wiped his hands down his trousers like that would somehow make him more prepared.

The knock came again, softer.

“…Come in,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.

Greg didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Alex stepped in, closing the door behind him, but he didn’t move any further. Just stood there for a second, iPad still in hand, costume perfect as ever, He didn’t say anything. He just closed the door behind him with a gentle click and stood there, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do now that he was inside.

Greg stood, a little too fast. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Alex’s voice was dry, restrained. His fingers tightened slightly around the clipboard.

Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sure you’d—”

“Yeah, well.” Alex shifted “Figured it was either this or keep avoiding eye contact for the rest of the series.”

Greg gave a humourless laugh. “Bit of a toss-up, really.”

Alex cracked the smallest smile, brittle, tired. “God, it’s Friday. We’ve still got another show to get through today. Isn’t that depressing?”

Greg nodded, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to Alex. “Yeah. And I… I think we should talk. After. Not here. Somewhere that isn’t under twenty lights with six cameras pointed at us.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, cautious. “Talk.”

“Yeah. Properly.” Greg took a step forward “I’ve been a complete idiot. And I want to fix it, if I can. I don’t want it to be like this anymore.”

Alex looked down, his jaw tight. “I don’t know if you can fix it, Greg.”

Greg hesitated, then reached out just lightly, fingertips brushing Alex’s wrist. Barely a touch. But it was something.

“I don’t either,” he said. “But can I at least try? Sober. Like a grown-up. Tomorrow?”

Alex didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look up, either.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m still… still pretty pissed off with you.”

“Fair enough,” Greg said, voice quiet. “You’ve every right to be. But I’ll put the kettle on. Or pour something stronger. You decide.”

Alex sighed through his nose. A long, reluctant breath. “Alright. Tomorrow.”

Greg smiled, just a flicker. “Thank you.”

Alex finally looked at him. And for a moment, just a flicker, the cold between them seemed to ease.

Then Alex pulled back, composed himself, adjusted himself and straightened his suit 

“I’ll see you on set,” he said, turning toward the door.

Saturday - 14:00.

Greg checked his watch again, as if staring hard enough might make the time rewind or fast-forward — anything but this excruciating stillness in the middle.

The flat was too clean. He’d hoovered twice, not because it needed it, but because the noise had drowned out the gnawing in his chest. Every cushion was exactly aligned, every mug chosen for a reason. He’d changed his T-shirt three times before settling on one he didn’t even like, just something that felt neutral. Something that said: I am calm. I am fine. I definitely didn’t drunkenly text you at 1am and call you seventeen times.

The coffee machine hissed in the kitchen like it disapproved of everything he’d ever done. He made two cups — black for him, oat milk and one sugar for Alex — as if making it perfectly might balance the years of everything else he’d fucked up.

Then — a knock.

Three short raps. Not tentative. Not confident. Just... there.

Greg’s stomach dipped, something between dread and relief. He crossed the room, every step a small war, and opened the door.

Alex stood there, the grey afternoon sun slanting behind him like some dramatic lighting cue. Hoodie zipped halfway, wind-tousled hair, hands in his jacket pockets. His expression unreadable a fortress behind a curtain.

Greg’s throat went dry. “Hi.”

Alex’s nod was minimal. “Hey.”

He stepped past him, brushing lightly against Greg’s shoulder, a ghost of contact that lingered like the last touch of a dream before waking.

Greg swallowed hard and shut the door behind him.

“I made coffee,” he said, voice uneven, like he’d forgotten how to speak to Alex without a camera or a script. “Didn’t know if you’d want it. But it’s... there. Yours. If you—”

Greg cleared his throat, leaning back into the sofa like it might absorb some of his nerves. The silence between them crackled — not violent, but charged, like static before a storm. He stared into his mug and offered the first olive branch he could muster.

“You still take it with two sugars?” he asked, his voice low.

Alex nodded, taking a careful sip. “Yeah. milk, two sugars. You remembered.”

Greg gave a weak smile. “I always remember. Burnt into my brain like your bloody trainer collection.”

Alex made a noise in his throat — somewhere between a laugh and a scoff — and let the cup rest in his lap. “Didn’t expect that to be the first thing we talked about.”

“Thought I’d ease into it,” Greg muttered. “Didn’t want to start with… y’know.”

Alex shifted his weight, still not looking directly at Greg. “The voice note.”

Greg sighed, eyes closing for a beat. “Yeah.”

There was a silence. Long. Almost theatrical, like even the air wanted to watch it unfold.

Alex tilted his head, staring at the grain in the coffee table. “You were talking to Rhod, weren’t you?”

Greg looked up, surprised — and then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I was. He’d asked me if I was alright and I… I went off on one. Didn’t realise I was still recording when I hit send to you.”

Alex gave a dry laugh, short and bitter. “Brilliant.”

“It wasn’t meant for you, but…” Greg trailed off. He scratched at his beard, suddenly desperate for something to do with his hands. “I’m not gonna lie and say I didn’t mean it.”

“You sounded… wrecked.” Alex’s voice was measured, quiet but heavy. “Drunk and wrecked.”

“I was,” Greg admitted. “But it wasn’t the drink talking. I wish I could say it was. I meant every word, just didn’t mean to throw it at your face like that.”

Alex’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. “So… what? You tell Rhod you’re in love with me, and then act like nothing happened for a week?”

“I panicked,” Greg said, jaw tight. “I didn’t know what the hell to do. You’re my best mate, Alex. You’ve been by my side for a decade. I’ve sat next to you for more hours than I’ve spent with family. I didn’t want to break it.”

Alex finally looked up. “You already did.”

Greg swallowed, the words hitting him square in the chest. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

Alex stared at him for a moment. Long enough for Greg to feel every year between them. “I don’t know what to do with it,” Alex said finally. “I’m still angry. Still confused. You’ve been everything to me for so long, and now it all feels… off balance.”

Greg’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I get that.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” Alex muttered. “I didn’t sign up for the emotional monologue at one in the morning like it’s the bloody finale of a drama.”

Greg huffed a laugh — soft, self-deprecating. “No. You didn’t.”

Alex paced slowly, his arms crossed over his chest, the tension rolling off him in sharp waves. The flat felt too quiet, too warm — like the walls were leaning in to eavesdrop. Greg stood awkwardly, still holding his half-empty mug like it might anchor him.

“I just keep going back to that night,” Alex said finally, eyes not on Greg but somewhere distant. “The BAFTAs. I was already spinning, trying to hold it together after that bloody voice note. Then you go and stand there — all charming, all fucking six-foot-eight of you — and say you want a wife . To the whole room.”

Greg’s expression twisted, regret settling into the creases of his face. “Alex, that—”

Alex held up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t try and tell me it meant nothing. You knew I’d heard the message. I was standing right there and still… that joke?”

“I panicked,” Greg said quietly. “I was trying to cover—”

“Cover what?” Alex snapped, voice sharp. “The fact that you told me, accidentally or not, that you were in love with me, then couldn’t face it the next day? That you needed to put it back in a box, so you made it a joke? Pretended you wanted some fantasy wife to clap and laugh and not be me?”

Greg ran a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No? Because it felt like that,” Alex bit back. “It felt like I was being rewritten in real-time. Like I’d made it all up — the voice note, the look you gave me after we lost the award, the way you wouldn’t meet my eye for days. You made me feel mad .”

“I was scared,” Greg said, voice rising a little now too. “Alright? I was scared out of my bloody mind. You’re my best mate, Alex. Ten years. Ten years of sitting next to you and laughing at shit no one else finds funny. And then I realise I want more and I think, I know , if I say it, I lose you.”

Alex stared at him. “You didn’t lose me because you felt something. You lost me because you buried it under sarcasm and that voice note. And then doubled down on national TV.”

Greg looked like he’d been slapped. He set his mug down slowly on the table, fingers trembling. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“But you did ,” Alex said, quieter now, but no less certain. “You made me question everything. My own feelings. Our friendship. My sanity. I’ve been walking around like a cracked glass trying not to shatter.”

Greg stood still, helpless in the middle of his living room, watching Alex unravel like threads being pulled loose from a well-worn jumper — coming apart in places Greg hadn’t even noticed were fraying.

Greg tried to speak “Alex-” 

Alex just kept going, pacing now, hands in his hair like he was trying to keep his skull from splitting open.

“I listened to that voice note over and over again, before I slept” Alex shouted, his chest heaving. “Trying to figure out if I was hearing things. Trying to convince myself it didn’t mean what it sounded like. And then the BAFTAs, that joke, like I was some stupid footnote in your bloody stand-up routine!”

Alex, please–” Greg took a step forward, but Alex turned on him, face flushed and eyes glassy.

“No, don’t ‘please’ me,” he said, voice cracking like glass under pressure. “You said it — you said it, Greg. You said you loved me. And you might not have meant to send it, but it’s in my inbox. It’s mine now. And you can’t just make that disappear with jokes about wives and gum-smacking silence!”“

His breath hitched. He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles went white. And then it broke — the dam, the fury, the fear.

Greg looked wrecked. Like the wind had been punched out of him. He moved slowly, cautiously, like approaching a wild animal. Alex stared, chest rising and falling, the weight of the truth hanging thick between them like smoke in a room with no windows.

Alex’s breath came in ragged gasps, his whole body trembling as the hysterics took hold. The dam had broken, and now the flood poured through every inch of him. His tears fell freely, his voice shaking with every sob that escaped.

Greg moved instinctively, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Alex’s shaking frame. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Alex fought him - pushing away, jerking back, as if pulling away was the only way to keep the chaos inside from spilling out entirely. 

“No, Greg - no! I can’t - don’t -”

“Shhh,” Greg whispered softly, persistence unrelenting. “Let me hold you.”

Alex’s protests weakened in the face of Greg’s unwavering support. His defiance faltered, shoulders sagging as exhaustion and grief overwhelmed him, ultimately leading him to fall into Greg’s arms. They lost their balance, collapsing onto the floor.

On the ground, Alex clung to Greg like a lifebuoy, burying his face in Greg’s chest, his cries heart-wrenching and filled with despair. Greg’s eyes also welled with tears, the quiet sobs breaking his usual composure as he held Alex tightly, swaying him gently.

Alex lifted his tear-streaked face, eyes wide and raw with pain, trembling as sobs rattled through him. Greg’s forehead pressed gently against his, trying to offer some fragile comfort, but Alex was barely holding himself together.

Then Greg’s lips brushed his own, a soft, desperate kiss. Alex jerked back, shaking his head through gasping sobs. 

“No… no, Greg, please…” he choked out, voice breaking, “I can’t…”

But even as he said it, his hands were pulling Greg closer, clutching at his jumper like a lifeline. Between broken breaths and stifled cries, Alex leaned in again, pressing trembling lips to Greg’s, shaky and hesitant but hungry all the same.

He pulled away slightly, tears spilling down his cheeks, whispering, “No… yes… God, I don’t know…”

Alex was still crying—ragged, uneven sobs that caught in his throat and left him gasping for air between kisses. His face was red and wet, tears soaking into Greg’s collar as he gripped at him like he might fall apart if he let go. Greg’s arms were wrapped tight around him, his own cheeks damp, the strain of everything they hadn’t said breaking out of him in broken murmurs.

“I love you—” Greg whispered, over and over again like it was the only thing he knew how to say, like saying it might fix it, might pull Alex out of the wreckage. “I love you so much, Alex. Jesus—”

“Stop saying it,” Alex sobbed, burying his face into Greg’s neck even as his fingers fisted in the fabric of his t-shirt. “You don’t get to say it like that—not now—not after—” But he didn’t let go. He only held tighter. As if he needed to feel every part of Greg under his hands to believe this was real.

Greg's hands were frantic now, not lustful, but desperate—tugging at Alex’s jumper like he needed to anchor himself. They pulled each other closer and closer, shaking with the force of it. Their mouths found each other again, messy, tear-salt kisses that tasted like heartbreak.

It wasn’t romantic—it was survival. Their bodies spoke the words they couldn’t untangle. Anger, love, years of repression all boiling to the surface in a twisted knot of grief and longing.

Alex whimpered against Greg’s lips, still crying, still broken. “You ruined everything,” he whispered.

Greg cupped the back of his head, his own voice wrecked. “Then let me fix it. Let me try. Please, Alex.”

They slipped further down, bodies giving out beneath the weight of it all until they were lying flat on the rug, tangled limbs and soaked cheeks, breath coming hard and fast between them. Alex landed on top of Greg. 

Greg’s hand cradled the side of Alex’s face, thumb trembling against wet skin. His lips were still chasing Alex’s—kiss after kiss, deep and desperate.

“Alex-” Greg whispered into his mouth, voice cracking. “Please. Please just stop fighting it. You feel it. I know you do.”

Alex whimpered, his hands clinging to Greg’s back like he was drowning. He shook his head, a broken “no” slipping out but it didn’t stop his mouth from seeking Greg’s again, didn’t stop his body from arching toward him like gravity had shifted and Greg was the only thing holding him down.

Greg kissed him again, more gently this time, pulling back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, his nose brushing Alex’s. “I love you. I’ve loved you for years. Just—just let it be true.”

Alex’s eyes were wide and shining, lips parted and trembling. He blinked like he couldn’t believe any of this was happening, like it hurt to feel this much. His voice was barely there. “I don’t know how,” he breathed, wrecked and scared.

Greg cupped his face tighter, kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his temple, whispering in between every touch. 

“You don’t have to. Just stay here. Just let it happen.” Greg’s voice broke the silence, low and rough. 

“Alex.” It wasn’t a question, not really. More like a plea, a word that carried the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

Alex’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, almost startled. 

Alex whimpered, his hands flying up to grip Greg’s wrists. He wanted to push him away, wanted to run, but his body betrayed him, leaning into the touch, his lips parting as if drawn by some invisible force. 

“Greg—” he started, but the words died in his throat as Greg’s mouth crashed into his.

The kiss was desperate, messy, years of pent-up longing pouring out in a single, searing moment. Alex’s hands moved to Greg’s back, clinging to him like he was drowning, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. He shook his head, a broken “no” slipping out—but it didn’t stop his mouth from seeking Greg’s again, didn’t stop his body from arching toward him like gravity had shifted and Greg was the only thing holding him down.

Alex’s hands moved to Greg’s shoulders, his fingers trembling as they gripped the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the heat of Greg’s body through the thin material, the way his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. His own heart was pounding, a wild, erratic rhythm that matched the chaos in his mind.

Greg’s lips found his again, softer this time, more controlled, but no less intense. His hands slid down to Alex’s waist, pulling him closer until their bodies were pressed together, chest to chest, hip to hip. Alex could feel the hard line of Greg’s arousal against his thigh, and a shiver ran through him, his own body responding in kind.

Alex’s breath hitched as Greg’s hands slid under his shirt. He arched into the touch, desperate to feel more of him, to close the distance between them.

Greg pulled his t-shirt off revealing the broad expanse of his chest, and Alex’s hands immediately went to his skin, the faint dusting of hair.  Alex’s t- shirt joined Greg’s on the floor, and then Greg’s hands were on him. Alex’s head fell forward, a moan escaping his lips as Greg’s mouth found his neck, his teeth grazing Alex's throat, his tongue soothing the sting.

Alex’s breath came in short, shallow gasps as Greg’s hands worked at the fastenings of his trousers, his own fingers fumbling with Greg’s belt. “Fuck, Greg,” Alex whispered, his voice trembling, “this is—I don’t know if—”

“Don’t think,” Greg interrupted, his voice low, gravelly, as he leaned in, his lips brushing against Alex’s ear. “Just feel.”

The sound of zippers being pulled down, fabric being pushed aside, filled the room, mingling with the soft, desperate sounds of their breathing. Greg’s hand wrapped around Alex, and Alex’s hips jerked, a strangled cry escaping his lips. His own hand found Greg, and they moved together, their bodies pressed close.

Their bodies moved together, grinding with a desperate hunger, the friction between them sending waves of heat rippling through their cores.

Greg’s hips pressed into Alex’s with a rhythm, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against Alex. Alex’s breath hitched, his hips arching instinctively, meeting Greg’s thrusts with a need that bordered on desperation. Greg gripped onto Alex's arse as if trying to get all he could.

Their bodies moved together, frantic and unsteady, their breaths mingling in the space between them. Alex’s hands clung to Greg’s shoulders, his nails digging into the skin.

“Fuck, Greg, I’m so close,” Alex gasped, his voice breaking, his body trembling as the pressure built, overwhelming and sweet.

Alex’s breath hitched, his body trembling as Greg’s mouth moved lower, his hands gripping Alex’s hips.

“Greg, I’m—I’m going to—” His voice broke, tears pooling in his eyes as the pressure built, overwhelming and sweet.

Greg’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I know,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Me too. God, Alex, I’m so close.”

Their bodies moved together, frantic and unsteady, their breaths mingling in the space between them. Alex’s hands clung to Greg’s shoulders, his nails digging into the skin.

Greg’s response was a groan, low and desperate, as his forehead pressed against Alex’s. “I love you,” he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you, Alex.”

They came together, their bodies shuddering, their breaths catching in ragged gasps. Alex cried out, his voice breaking as he clung to Greg, falling forward, tears streaming down his face.

Alex’s sobs were muffled against Greg’s chest, his fingers clutching at his back. “I love you too, Greg,” he whispered, his voice trembling, his heart pounding in his chest as he let himself get lost in the moment. “I love you so much.”

Alex’s chest heaved, his small frame shaking like a leaf in a storm. His eyes were wide, glassy with unshed tears, but locked onto Greg’s as if he might drown in them. His hands clutched at Greg’s back, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

“I-I can’t,” he stammered, but his lips were already seeking Greg’s again, trembling against them.

“Don’t run,” he pleaded, his voice raw, almost breaking. “Stay with me. Please.”

Alex’s breath hitched violently, like his own ribs were trying to trap him in place. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven waves, his pulse fluttering wildly in his neck like a bird trying to escape its cage. He tore his mouth from Greg’s, eyes wide and glistening, and pressed his trembling hands flat against Greg’s chest.

“I need to go,” he whispered, voice strangled.

He stumbled upright, every movement jerky, brittle like he might shatter from the inside out. His hand brushed his face, smearing the tears still hot on his cheeks. He winced as he moved, the emotional weight settling in his spine, heavy and unwelcome.

Greg blinked, rising slowly to sit back on his heels, like getting up too fast might break the fragile, unbearable thing between them.

“Alex… wait.” His voice cracked. “Don’t—don’t walk out like this.”

Alex was already turning away, snatching up his jumper from the floor with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered, more to himself than Greg, but loud enough to wound.

Greg flinched. “No, it wasn’t,” he said, rising to his feet like a storm barely holding back thunder. “Don’t you dare say that.”

Alex tugged the jumper on roughly, wiping at his face with the sleeve, his entire body curling inward. He wouldn’t look up.

“You don’t get to tell me what this was,” he snapped, voice trembling, not angry, not really completely overwhelmed. “I let it happen. I let it all fall apart.”

“You let it happen?” Greg echoed, stepping forward, fire rising in his chest. “You think this was just you? You think I didn’t feel every bloody second of it with you?”

Alex turned sharply, his face a picture of heartbreak and disbelief. “I can't get over why the hell would you said that wife line at the BAFTAs, Greg?” His voice cracked, rising louder, each word trembling with hurt. “You knew I’d heard the voice note! You knew what I’d heard you say — and then you stood there, onstage, and made a joke like none of it meant anything!”

Greg’s breath caught, guilt flashing across his face like lightning. “We've been through this Alex,” he said, softly. “It was a stupid, shitty joke, and I didn’t know how else to hide how wrecked I was—”

Alex shouted suddenly, his voice raw. “You did hide it. You humiliated me instead! You made me feel like I’d imagined it — like I’d dreamed the whole fucking thing!”

The tears were pouring now, Alex’s face crumpling, his body trembling as he backed away toward the door. “And I hate you for it,” he sobbed. “I hate you for making me feel like I was insane for loving you—”

Greg’s heart stopped. “What?”

“I love you, you absolute arsehole!” Alex cried, voice breaking into pieces. “I love you, and I hate it, and I hate you for ruining it!”

He dropped to his knees like his legs had given out, curling in on himself, hands over his face as the sobs wracked his body, loud and ragged and gasping.

Greg moved instantly, falling beside him. “Alex—Alex, please—” He reached for him, but Alex batted his hands away, pushing at Greg’s chest, shoulders, wherever he could reach.

“Don’t. Don’t touch me. Don’t—” Alex screamed but he didn’t mean it.

He was trembling, overwhelmed, collapsing into Greg’s arms even as he shoved at him. Greg gathered him in anyway, gripping his smaller frame tightly, whispering “I’m sorry” over and over again, voice hoarse with his own tears.

They crumpled to the floor together, half-fighting, half-clinging. Alex’s fists thudded weakly against Greg’s chest before curling in his shirt, twisting it like it could anchor him to reality.

“I love you,” Greg said again, breathing it like prayer. “I love you. I love you so much I don’t know how to be a person without you.”

Alex’s face was buried against his neck now, still crying, still gasping, shaking his head like he didn’t want to hear it—but his arms were wrapped around Greg like he couldn’t let go. Like he never wanted to.

“...And I love you too, but I don’t know if you really do…” Alex whispered.

They sat there on the rug, hearts in their hands, sobs quiet now but no less heavy. They were wrecked. Both of them. Tangled in love and fear and everything they didn’t know how to say without falling apart.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Alex whispered, hollow. “I don’t know how to be okay. With you. Without you. Any of it.”

Greg leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of Alex’s head, his own tears still tracing silent lines down his face. “We don’t have to fix it tonight. Just… don’t run from me. Please.”

But Alex didn’t answer.

His arms tightened for a second, just a second, like muscle memory, like the echo of something he wanted so badly to believe in. And then he started to pull away. Carefully. Slowly. Like removing a part of himself.

“I’m sorry…” he said, barely audible, as he reached for his jumper, dragging it over his head with clumsy, shaking hands. “I need to go.”

Greg blinked, like the floor had fallen away. “Alex—wait. Just wait—”

“I’ll see you Monday,” Alex interrupted, avoiding his eyes as he slid on his shoes, each movement stiff and clinical. “For the final recording. And the wrap party. We can be normal then.”

Greg stood too quickly, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. He reached for Alex’s arm, his lips parting to ask for just one kiss. One goodbye. One moment of softness before the door shut.

But Alex flinched back like he’d been struck. “No.”

Greg froze.

“I—” Alex’s voice cracked, the rawness rushing back in like a wave, “I just… I need to be alone right now. Please, Greg. Don’t follow me.”

Greg’s hand fell to his side. Powerless. Silent.

Alex didn’t look back as he walked to the door. He didn’t say another word. The door clicked shut behind him like punctuation at the end of a sentence neither of them had the courage to finish and Greg stood in the silence, breathing like it hurt. Because it did.

Chapter Text

Monday

The atmosphere at the studio was off from the moment they both arrived.

Alex walked in first, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, the usual bounce in his step dulled. His shirt was creased at the collar. He offered tired smiles and hollow greetings as he passed crew, but his hands stayed jammed deep in his pockets like he was trying to keep himself from coming apart.

Greg arrived not long after, sunglasses on despite the gloomy overcast sky outside. His jaw was clenched. He didn’t say much. Just muttered something about traffic and coffee before disappearing into his dressing room.

The makeup team tried to laugh it off, brushing concealer under Greg’s eyes and smoothing Alex’s skin with.

“Jesus, what did you two do this weekend?” joked Kelly, dabbing foundation onto Greg’s cheek. “Looks like you’ve both been on a three-day bender.”

“Yeah,” Greg muttered, voice thick. “Something like that.”

Alex let out a low, breathy laugh from the next chair, eyes fixed firmly on the mirror. “Maybe we just hate wrap days.”

Another makeup artist raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know wrap days came with matching emotional breakdowns.”

Greg gave a mirthless snort. “You should see what our Friday looked like.”

They didn’t elaborate. The room went a little too quiet after that.

The studio lights buzzed. The final episode of the season should have felt celebratory, nostalgic, fun. But it didn’t. Not really. Something about the energy between them unsettled everyone.

They were professionals, yes. They still hit their cues. Still played the roles, but there were moments. Brief, sharp ones, like broken glass beneath the surface of every joke.

“God, you’re so pedantic sometimes,” Greg snapped during a retake, after Alex pointed out a mistake he made reading from the autocue.

Alex blinked, caught off guard by the venom, then smiled — tight, brittle. “Well, I am the assistant. It’s my job to fix your messes.”

The audience laughed. But not as loudly as usual. Something felt… off.

Later, when Alex fumbled slightly over a contestant’s score and Greg interrupted him to correct it — unnecessarily — Alex fired back with a too-quick, “Thanks, darling. You always do like to have the last word, don’t you?”

The room fell silent for half a beat too long. The crew exchanged glances.

Andy’s voice crackled through their earpieces a few moments later: “Alright, let’s take five, yeah? Everyone breathe. Reset. Let’s not murder each other before the wrap party.”

Alex stood near the drinks table, twisting the cap off a bottle of water like it was personally offended him. Greg hovered by the monitors, arms folded, face unreadable.

Neither had spoken directly since arriving that morning. Alex eventually crossed the room and stood beside Greg, close enough that their arms brushed. The air between them felt loaded. Pressurised.

“Nice jab about the last word,” Greg muttered under his breath, eyes on the screen.

Alex took a sip of water. “Nice tone in front of the crew. Real professional.”

Greg turned to look at him, the corners of his mouth twitching, not in amusement. “Could say the same to you.”

Alex exhaled through his nose. “This is unbearable.”

Greg didn’t disagree. They stood there, side by side in heavy silence, the bright studio around them buzzing like static. Everything they weren’t saying pressed like a hand around both their throats.

Eventually, someone called them back to set. They straightened their jackets. Adjusted their mics. And walked out together like nothing had happened — the perfect double act, broken in places only they could see.

The applause had faded like smoke, swallowed by the vastness of the studio. The lights dimmed, casting the set in half-shadow, and the crew moved with the quiet efficiency of people used to packing up moments too big to name.

But Greg and Alex hadn’t moved.

Alex had slipped away the moment the final shot wrapped, tearing off his mic pack with trembling hands in the side corridor, the peeling tape tugging at raw skin. He hadn’t looked back. Not once. Handing the mic pack to a runner, he made his way to his dressing room. 

Greg followed.

The door swung shut behind him with a dull click , the sound final and heavy.

“You’re going to ignore me forever, then?” Greg asked, his voice low but tight.

Alex didn’t turn. “I’m not ignoring you.”

“Bullshit,” Greg snapped. “You’ve barely looked at me all day. You’re doing that thing—”

“What thing?” Alex spun, voice raised and raw. “What thing, Greg? The one where I pretend none of this ever happened because I’m trying not to fall apart in front of an entire crew of people?! That thing?”

Greg’s eyes lit with something fierce. “Well, congratulations, because you’re doing a crap job at it.”

Alex let out a jagged laugh—half sob, half fury. “Yeah? You think I want to be like this? You think I planned to completely unravel in the middle of filming the final show we’ve spent a decade building?”

Greg took a step forward, something wild and desperate flaring in his eyes. “You said you loved me.”

“I do! ” Alex shouted, the words erupting from his throat like they’d been trapped there, clawing to get out. “I do! That’s the whole fucking problem, Greg!”

Greg faltered, momentarily stunned. Then, softer: “Then why won’t you let yourself have it? Have me ?”

“Because you don’t get it!” Alex shouted, his voice fraying at the edges. “You said it—you want a wife, you want a normal life, and I can’t be the thing you settle for when the room goes quiet!”

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it—”

“I don’t know it!” Alex barked, pacing like the walls were closing in. “I don’t know anything anymore! You said you loved me on Saturday, Greg. And then what, 24 hours later you're making jokes on national television like none of it mattered?!”

Greg looked like he’d been punched. “I was panicking, alright? I didn’t know if you were going to show up again after you walked out. I didn’t know if I’d already ruined it.”

“You did ruin it,” Alex hissed. “And then I did. And now we’re just… stuck in this stupid, endless limbo where I can’t even look at you without—” his voice cracked, “—without remembering how it felt when you held me we cried and well you know what we did... I let you touch me. I TOUCHED YOU and you told me loved me like it was the easiest thing in the world." 

Greg’s voice softened again. “It was. It is. I love you, Alex.”

“You love the idea of me,” Alex said, smaller now, shrinking. “The version you’ve built in your head — the clever little sidekick who’s always there. But this—” he gestured helplessly between them, “—this messy, panicking, terrified version of me? You don’t want that.”

Greg surged forward, close now, close enough that Alex could feel his breath. “I do,” Greg said fiercely. “I want all of it. Every broken, infuriating, brilliant piece of you.”

Alex’s jaw clenched, and he blinked hard against the burning in his eyes. “You’re going to break my heart.”

Greg’s reply was nearly a whisper. “I've broken hearts, but I'd never break yours... never... I'd break anyone who tried to break it”

Alex wavered. His chest rose and fell in shaky waves, like he couldn’t breathe properly. He looked at Greg — really looked at him — and for a second, Greg could swear he’d made it through.

But then Alex shook his head, a single, slow motion. “You don’t get to ask me to choose between being safe and being yours. Not when I already made that mistake once.”

He pushed past Greg then, the contact brief but shattering, and yanked open the door.

The pub was packed. Laughter and glasses clinked under low amber lights, and someone had already hijacked the playlist with a painfully nostalgic throwback mix. The crew milled about in good spirits, hugging, trading stories, and toasting to ten years of television and chaos.

But Greg was shifty.

He hovered at the edge of every conversation, nodding vaguely, his drink untouched. His eyes kept flicking toward Alex, who stood by the bar, half-smiling at things people said, stiff in every photo, clutching a whisky like it was armour.

“Hey,” Tim murmured, leaning toward Greg. “You and Alex okay? You’ve both been… weird. Since this morning.”

Greg forced a laugh. “Just tired. Long week.”

“Looks more like long war,” Tim muttered before wandering off.

Greg took a deep breath and tried to look anywhere but at the man he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Alex, for his part, was doing no better. He had smiled for every photo, gritted his teeth through every toast, and tuned out every soooo what’s next for you two with the practiced ease of someone desperate not to scream.

He was halfway through pretending to enjoy another conversation when he saw Tim beeline toward Greg, of course.

Tim had always been around. Too funny, too sharp, too good at knowing exactly when to slide in. Alex’s stomach turned.

Greg didn’t notice him watching. Tim leaned in, hand on Greg’s shoulder, laughing a little too loud at something. Greg smiled—tight, polite.

Alex’s jaw clenched. He turned away, but it was too late. The jealousy had already landed. Loud and stupid and red-hot in his chest.

He was pouring himself another drink when Tim appeared at his side.

“You’re angry,” Tim said, not unkindly.

Alex snorted. “And you’re observant.”

Tim hesitated. “He looks like hell.”

“Yeah, well,” Alex muttered, “we both do.”

Tim tilted his head. “He’s been trying to talk to you all night.”

“He’s had ten years,” Alex snapped. “He picked tonight to get shy?”

Tim didn’t flinch. “He’s scared.”

Alex looked at him sharply. “Of what?”

Tim gave a tired smile. “Of what you’ll say when the lights come back on.”

Before Alex could answer, the room dimmed. Murmurs spread as the music cut and a soft spotlight hit the makeshift stage near the pub’s back wall.

Greg was there. Standing behind the mic. Pale, glassy-eyed, visibly shaking.

Everyone turned. Phones were pulled out. Cheers rose from some corners of the crowd—he was, after all, the face of a beloved show. But Greg didn’t smile.

He scanned the crowd until his eyes found Alex and then, he began to speak.

The room simmered with half-muted chatter, like a pot just on the edge of boiling over. Greg shuffled to the microphone, looking like a man who’d accidentally wandered onto a stage in his slippers and was now regretting every life choice. His lanky frame seemed almost too large for the spotlight, casting long, awkward shadows on the walls like a misplaced giant in a dollhouse.

He cleared his throat, the sound echoing oddly in the suddenly hushed pub. “Right, so… public speaking, eh? I’ve spent a decade doing it, and I’m still rubbish at it. Which is brilliant, because I’m about to talk about feelings in front of you lot. Perfect.”

A few nervous chuckles ripple through the crowd.

Greg’s eyes flicked to Alex, who was leaning against the bar, glass in hand, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the swirling amber liquid like it held some kind of secret escape hatch. Alex looked utterly drained — like he’d been wrestling with a thunderstorm in his head all weekend and finally lost.

Greg sighed, the kind of heavy, world-weary sigh you give when you know you’re about to ruin a perfectly good party. “I had this speech. Big, sweeping words about teamwork, legacy, the usual bollocks you’d expect after ten years of putting on a show. But you know what? I don’t care about any of that bollocks tonight.”

The crowd fell quieter, sensing something more serious beneath the bluster.

Greg’s voice softened, cracking just enough to feel like the dam was starting to give way. “I’ve spent the last few days pretending I’m fine — like some British stiff upper lip with a pint — but the truth is, I’m a complete mess. Because the only thing that matters to me is one person in this room.”

His gaze locked onto Alex, who suddenly looked painfully small, the weight of everything pulling his shoulders down like he was trying to shrink out of sight. His fingers tightened around the glass until his knuckles went white.

Greg swallowed hard. “Alex… I love you. I know I’ve been an idiot — an absolute berk. But I don’t want to spend another day pretending you’re just a character in my story. You’re the whole bloody narrative.”

The opening notes of Peabo Bryson’s “If Ever You’re In My Arms Again” crept in, jangling through the room like a reluctant cue. Some poor sod at the soundboard was trying to lighten the mood, but it only made the air thicker.

Greg reached into his pocket, the motion slow, deliberate, as if pulling out a grenade he hoped would somehow explode into something beautiful instead of chaos.

He held up a tiny velvet box.

“I’d get on my knees,” he said, voice dry but raw underneath, “but I don’t reckon I’d get back up. I’m too old and knackered for that.”

Laughter — nervous, affectionate, like a collective exhale.

Greg opened the box, revealing a simple ring that caught the dim light like a shard of hope.

“Alexander James Jeffrey Horne — my co-host, my pain in the arse, my best friend, my bloody love. Will you marry me?”

The room waited. Time stretched. Alex’s heart pounded so loud he was sure the whole pub could hear it. His chest felt like it was caught in a vice half aching, half hopeful, half terrified. His mind spun, unable to form words, caught between the safety of silence and the storm of everything he’d been holding back.

No answer. Just the music swelling and Greg, standing there, awkward and vulnerable, waiting for a sign.

“Well, Alex?” Greg whispered into the mic “What do you say?”