That Telling MomentChapter 36

The commute was almost worse than he’d anticipated. Not because of stares or whispers or pointed fingers, but because of their complete absence. Stephen sat on the Central line, surrounded by the usual Monday morning zombies scrolling through their phones, and not one person looked up. Not one flicker of recognition.

He’d prepared for hostility. For judgment. For someone to lean over and ask if he was “the omega from that article.” Instead, he got the standard London treatment: aggressive indifference and someone’s armpit uncomfortably close to his face.

By the time he reached Dabney, every nerve ending felt exposed. The security guard’s routine nod suddenly seemed weighted with meaning. The receptionist’s standard smile felt like a grimace. Even the bloody potted plants seemed to be judging him.

“Morning, Stephen,” someone called from behind him.

He turned to find Priya from Contracts, her expression carefully, aggressively neutral.

“Morning,” Stephen replied, matching her tone precisely. Two could play at aggressive normality.

The lift journey was excruciating. He was crammed in with five other people, all steadfastly examining their phones or the LED floor display like it contained the secrets of the universe. A woman from Accounts actually stepped back when Stephen entered, creating a small but noticeable gap.

Right. So that’s how it would be.

Legal was worse. Conversations died mid-syllable as he passed. Jenkins fumbled his coffee, sending a splash across his desk blotter. Someone dropped a stapler.

Stephen kept walking, spine straight, expression neutral. His desk sat waiting, deceptively normal, though he noticed someone had tidied it. Moved his pen holder three inches to the left. Squared his notepad with precision. Like they’d been examining his workspace for clues about his secret omega proclivities.

“Huxley.”

Victoria Harlow stood by his desk, her expression unreadable. Stephen braced himself for the conversation, the delicate HR dance of “we support you but also please don’t bring scandal to our doorstep.”

“The Morrison brief needs your input by three,” she said. “Conference room B is booked for the client call at four. Try not to be late.”

Stephen blinked. “That’s… it?”

“Yes. Unless you’ve suddenly forgotten how to practise law overnight?” Her eyebrow rose fractionally. “Though given your recent performance on the EU compliance framework, I doubt that’s the case.”

She swept away before he could respond. Around him, Legal gradually returned to its usual hum of activity. Keyboards clicked. Phones rang. The printer jammed in its traditional Monday morning protest.

Nobody approached him directly. But nobody fled either. It was a peculiar kind of quarantine, professionally maintained distances that allowed work to continue whilst acknowledging the elephant in the room by studiously ignoring it. It was all so very, very British.

Stephen threw himself into the Morrison brief with desperate focus. Contract law was safe. Predictable. It didn’t care about viral hashtags or comparative twin analysis. It just needed proper clause construction and attention to precedent.

His email pinged. Ryland’s name in the sender field made his chest tighten.

Board presentation running long. Idiots questioning the electromagnetic field calculations. As if Bernoulli’s principle is suddenly negotiable. Rain check on lunch? Will make it up to you. Have already calculated optimal dinner locations based on your stress indicators.

Stephen smiled despite everything. Only Ryland would consider electromagnetic fields and dinner reservations in the same thought process.

No problem. Knock them dead with science. But maybe use smaller words so they can follow along. People get hostile about ideas when you make them feel stupid.

The response came immediately:

Attempted that. CFO asked if I was being ‘patronising.’ I explained I was simply calibrating my vocabulary to match his demonstrated comprehension level. HR suggests this clarification made things worse.

Stephen actually laughed, earning curious glances from nearby desks. He quickly schooled his expression back to professional neutrality, but something in his chest had loosened.

By lunch, he’d almost convinced himself he could get through this. He’d shown his face, done his work, proven he wouldn’t crumble at the first hint of scandal.

He found himself outside the server room before he’d consciously decided to go there. Just thirty minutes. Just a break from the carefully maintained distances and unspoken questions. He’d earned that much.

The blue glow welcomed him. Stephen sank onto the floor between server banks, finally letting his shoulders drop. His mobile came out automatically, thumb hovering over news apps before he decided he’d rather know than wonder.

\#TwinGate was holding steady at number three trending. The memes had evolved, becoming more elaborate. Someone had created a “Corporate Stephen/OnlyFans Lysander” Jekyll and Hyde poster that was actually quite artistic, if you ignored the part where it was his face being used for internet entertainment.

He scrolled past think pieces (”The Omega Twin Phenomenon: A Study in Contrasts”), past hot takes (”Why Stephen Huxley is Everything Wrong with Respectability Politics”), past comments that made him want to throw his mobile into the Thames.

Then an Instagram Live notification popped up: TheOfficialTheo is broadcasting.

Stephen’s finger moved without conscious thought.

Lysander filled his screen. His twin looked wrecked. Properly, thoroughly destroyed in a way Stephen hadn’t seen since they were thirteen and he’d suffered through his first ‘real’ break-up. His eyes were flaming red eyes, his usually immaculate face was blotchy, and he wore rumpled designer.

“Right, let’s try this again,” Lysander said, voice thick. “Since apparently none of you can grasp basic fucking concepts like ‘identical twins can live lives independent of each other.’”

The comments were already flowing past: THEOOOOO MY KING why are you crying babe? SHOW US THE GOODS when’s the next heat video??????

“My brother,” Lysander continued, ignoring the stream of emojis and propositions, “is nothing like me. Stephen’s brilliant. Properly brilliant. First in his class at law school. Works harder than anyone I know. He’s never…” Lysander’s voice cracked. “He’s never done what I do. Never wanted to. Never needed to.”

take it off

Get your cock out!!!

You crying is hot ngl

onlyfans.com/theotheo for the real show folks

“Stop it,” Lysander snapped at the camera. “Just fucking stop for five seconds and listen. A man attacked my brother. Physically attacked him. Because that sick bastard couldn’t tell the difference between a legal professional and someone who…” He gestured at himself. “Someone who sells their arse online.”

Stephen’s throat tightened. He wanted to look away but couldn’t.

“Steve’s the good one,” Lysander continued, tears flowing freely now. “Always has been. Yeah, he complained when I started this. Of course he fucking did. Told me I was making both our lives harder, that I was being selfish. He was right. He’s judged me for it every single day since, and you know what? He had every bloody right to. Now he’s being crucified because some psycho wanked himself stupid to my videos and decided that meant he owned me. Owned us.”

The comments kept flowing:

you’re both hot though where’s Stephen’s OF?

STOP CRYING AND STRIP this is boring, show hole

“This is my fault,” Lysander said, and something in his voice made Stephen’s chest crack open. “All of it. The attack should have been on me. Would have been, if the universe had any sense of justice. I’m the one who put myself out there. I’m the one who made us targets. Steve just… he just wanted to be a lawyer. Wanted to be normal. I took that from him.”

“No,” Stephen whispered at his phone. “Sander, no.”

“So yeah,” Lysander wiped his face with his sleeve, designer fabric be damned. “Keep your jokes. Your memes. Your fucking hot takes about omega twins and respectability politics. But remember that my brother nearly died because one of you decided that watching my videos meant you owned me. That you had rights to my body, my time, my fucking existence. He’s traumatised. He’s scared. He still went to work today because he’s braver than any of you keyboard warriors will ever be.”

Someone had gifted a row of aubergine emojis. Someone else demanded feet pics. The disconnect between Lysander’s pain and the audience’s consumption of it made Stephen’s stomach turn.

“I should quit,” Lysander said quietly. “Should have quit years ago. Would quit right now if it would help Steve, but the damage is done, isn’t it? Can’t seal up that can of worms again. Can’t un-attack him. Can’t make you lot see him as anything other than my twin.”

He looked directly at the camera, and Stephen could see his own eyes staring back, red-rimmed and desperate.

“He deserves better than this. Deserves better than me. Always has.”

The stream ended abruptly. Stephen stared at his phone screen. His chest hurt. All those months of resentment, of anger at Lysander for making his life complicated, and here was his twin falling apart in public, taking on guilt that wasn’t entirely his to carry.

Stephen’s hands shook as he closed Instagram. He needed to call Lysander. Needed to tell him… what? That it wasn’t his fault? That Stephen didn’t blame him? Nothing he could say felt adequate against Lysander tearing himself apart on camera.

His phone buzzed. Another email from Ryland:

Board finally released me. Morons eventually grasped that physics won’t bend to their requirements. I will see you in the server room (your movement patterns are predictable when you’re distressed). Coming to you.

Stephen almost cried at the simple certainty of it. Ryland tracking him down not to comfort or coddle, but just to be there. To exist in Stephen’s space when everything else felt so fractured.

But no. Not today. Today Stephen needed to stand on his own feet, omega designation be damned. He couldn’t hide behind his alpha every time the world got difficult. He refused to yield to the the stereotype.

Actually in the middle of brief review. Will find you later. I’m okay.

The lie felt necessary. Stephen pushed himself to his feet, straightened his tie, and prepared to face the afternoon. He had three hours until the Morrison client call. Three hours to pretend his twin wasn’t destroying himself online. Three hours to maintain the façade that he was just another junior legal counsel, nothing special, nothing scandalous, nothing to see here.

He could do this. He’d been doing this his whole life, hadn’t he? Protecting Lysander from consequences, maintaining the perfect front whilst chaos swirled around them.

The server room door closed behind him with a soft click. Time to be Stephen Huxley, legal professional. The good one, as Lysander had said, even if right now he felt like a fraud holding his shit together with spite and expensive coffee.