That Telling MomentChapter 39

Stephen woke to the sound of curtains being drawn back, the light hitting him directly in the face.

“Morning to you too,” he mumbled into his pillow, recognising the precise movements even through his sleep fog.

“There are three individuals with professional-grade cameras outside your building,” Ryland announced without turning from the window.

Stephen shot upright. Lysander stirred beside him, burying his face deeper into the duvet.

“There’s paps outside? Now?”

“Have been since approximately 6:47 AM.” Ryland finally turned from the window. His hair defied several laws of physics, his shirt was buttoned wrong, and he’d clearly been awake long enough to conduct a full tactical assessment of their siege situation. “I’ve documented their positions and movement patterns. Would you like to see the diagram?”

“Of course you made a diagram,” Stephen said, but fondness bled through the exasperation.

Anger followed close behind. How dare they? How fucking dare they camp outside his father’s flat like they had any right to their Saturday morning?

“I could order in breakfast,” Ryland offered.

“No.” Stephen swung his legs out of bed, Lysander groaning as the movement disturbed his sprawl. “I’m not hiding. We’re not hiding.”

“Morning, loves.” Colin appeared in the doorway, fully dressed and carrying tea. “David, you’ll want sugar in yours. Know you said you take it black, but you look like you need sweetening up.”

“I’ve been monitoring the photographers outside since I noted them during my arrival,” Ryland said, accepting the mug. “There are three of them strategically positioned to—”

“Need to go to B&Q,” Colin interrupted calmly. “Bathroom sink’s leaking again. You know anything about plumbing, David?”

Ryland blinked. “I… yes? The basic principles of fluid dynamics apply to domestic water systems, but the photographers—”

“Can’t stop us buying washers, can they?” Colin sipped his tea.

Lysander finally achieved consciousness, sitting up with his hair doing things that defied both gravity and good taste. “What’s happening? Why are we talking about washers?”

“Paps outside,” Stephen summarised. “Dad needs plumbing supplies. Ryland’s made tactical diagrams.”

“Obviously he has.” Lysander scrubbed at his face, then straightened. “Right. Can’t hide forever. Might as well give them something boring to photograph.”

Ryland looked between them. “That’s your counter-strategy against media intrusion? Hardware shopping?”

“Nothing more British than arguing about plumbing supplies on a Saturday morning,” Colin said serenely. “Very disappointing for them. No drama in toilet seats.”

“I need a shower,” Lysander announced. “And clothes that don’t look like I slept in them.”

“Borrow whatever fits,” Stephen offered.

An hour later, they assembled by the front door. Lysander had managed to make Stephen’s Marks & Spencer jumper look intentionally vintage rather than what it was: ancient. Ryland had fixed his shirt buttons but given up on his hair. Colin carried a shopping list with the focus of a shot-caller in a military operation.

“Ready?” Stephen asked, hand on the door handle.

“I should go first,” Ryland said immediately. “Create a physical barrier between you and—”

“We all go together,” Colin corrected gently. “Like a normal family on a normal Saturday.”

The door opened to an immediate burst of camera clicks. Stephen forced himself not to flinch, not to react, just to walk. Ryland fell into step beside him, positioning himself between the cameras and the rest of them without making it obvious. Casual proximity doing the work of a shield.

“Stephen! Any comment on your brother’s livestream?”

“Lysander! Are you moving back home?”

“Is this your boyfriend, Stephen?”

They kept walking. Colin led the way. Lysander stuck close to Stephen’s other side, chin up, hands trembling slightly.

The car journey passed in tense silence. Ryland navigated Saturday morning traffic with his usual precision. Stephen caught glimpses of the photographers following in two separate cars, maintaining what they probably thought was discreet distance. Lysander fidgeted with the window controls until Colin told him to “leave it alone before you break it.”

B&Q loomed, all orange and industrial optimism. The automatic doors whooshed open to reveal an acre of home improvement possibilities.

“Christ,” Lysander muttered, taking in the warehouse aesthetic. “It’s like someone decided to make shopping as ugly as possible.”

“Function over form,” Colin said, already heading for the plumbing aisle. “Don’t need pretty when you just need your sink to stop pissing water everywhere.”

The photographers had given up at the entrance, presumably warned off by security or knowing store policy. Stephen caught glimpses of them through the windows, stationed in the car park. Which meant, for now at least, they could argue about sealant in peace.

“Forty-three quid for silicone that’ll last two months?” Colin held up the tube like evidence in court. “Highway bloody robbery.”

“What about this one?” Ryland picked up an alternative, having apparently decided to embrace the mission. “The molecular structure should provide superior adhesion.”

“Let’s buy this tap. It’s gold,” Lysander said, holding up a display model with unnecessary crystals around the base. “Who doesn’t love a gold tap?”

Colin’s look could have stripped paint. “We’re fixing a leak, not auditioning for MTV Cribs.”

“I don’t know what that is, but your tone suggests disapproval.”

Stephen found himself grinning despite everything. His family, refusing to be cowed by the vultures with cameras. This was better than hiding. This was living.

“I’d forgotten what normal shopping feels like,” Lysander admitted quietly while Colin and Ryland debated silicone sealants with enthusiasm that should be illegal before noon. “No Instagram posts, no product placement. Just buying stuff we need.”

“A novel concept,” Stephen agreed, bumping his shoulder against his twin’s. “You doing okay?”

“Getting there.” Lysander picked up a packet of washers, turning them over in his hands. He glanced over at where Ryland and Colin were bent over the sealant display, heads together in serious discussion about viscosity ratings. “He’s a good one.”

“Yeah,” Stephen said softly, watching Ryland gesture at a tube with the enthusiasm most people reserved for football scores. “Worth waiting for. Worth all the absolute bollocks it took to get us here.”

Lysander smirked. “Look at you, all settled with your mad scientist.”

“Piss off.”

“I mean it.” Lysander’s voice dropped. “You look like yourself again. Haven’t seen that in years.”

Stephen swallowed hard. “Could say the same about you. Here in B&Q without a ring light in sight.”

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Lysander laughed, but it wobbled at the edges. “I think I need to just be with myself for a while. Work out who the fuck I am when I’m not performing for someone. Before I even think about another alpha.”

“Probably smart,” Stephen agreed, then caught Lysander’s expression. “Definitely smart. When did you suddenly gain forty extra IQ points?”

“Sometime between leaving Knightsbridge and discovering B&Q sells blinged out taps.” Lysander set the washers down. “Actually knowing yourself before letting someone else define you. Mad concept.”

“Revolutionary,” Stephen deadpanned.

They ended up in the garden centre cafe because Colin insisted you couldn’t make important hardware decisions on an empty stomach. The queue snaked behind a coach party of pensioners arguing about Wellington boots.

“Look at it,” Lysander whispered, gesturing at the hot food counter. “It’s all beige.”

“That’s British cuisine for you,” Stephen said. “Fifty shades of brown.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Colin said, already eyeing the scones. “They’ve got sausage rolls. What more do you want?”

“Flavour?” Lysander suggested. “Nutritional value? The will to live?”

“I’ll have tea,” Colin told the server, ignoring his son entirely. “Strong enough to stand a spoon in.”

Ryland ordered with an exactness that confirmed he’d calculated caloric requirements beforehand. Stephen went for coffee and a cheese toastie that looked brutalised by the sandwich press. Lysander, after much deliberation, admitted defeat and ordered scones.

“This is actually decent,” he admitted five minutes later, cream and jam threatening to drip onto his borrowed jumper.

“See?” Colin said smugly. “Not everything needs to be fancy.”

“The ratio of cream to jam is scientifically optimal,” Ryland added, having apparently analysed his scone before consumption. “Though the structural integrity could be improved.”

A photographer sidled closer, trying to get an angle that made their garden centre breakfast look newsworthy. Stephen watched him fail. Hard to spin scandal from four people eating adequate food and discussing mineral content in tea.

“We need more teaspoons at home,” Colin announced, apropos of nothing.

“No, we don’t,” Stephen said automatically. “We’ve got loads.”

“Half don’t match.”

“So? They still function as spoons.”

“I could buy some,” Lysander offered. “There’s this designer who does titanium ones that—”

“The ones from Poundland work just fine,” Colin cut him off.

“I could create a durability study,” Ryland offered. “Test various metals under standard usage conditions.”

Stephen looked around their little table. His boyfriend offering to conduct cutlery science. His twin trying to introduce designer goods to their household. His father defending the honour of discount spoons. The photographers outside recording every moment of their aggressively mundane Saturday.

He glanced at Lysander, cream on his nose, more relaxed than Stephen had seen him in years. At Ryland, drawing diagrams on his napkin about optimal spoon structure. At Colin, presiding over it all, his family together and functional despite everything trying to tear them apart.

Perfect. It was absolutely perfect.

“Right then,” Colin said eventually, draining his industrial-strength tea. “Let’s get going.”

They rose to leave. Stephen reached for Ryland’s hand. Lysander stuck close to their father. The photographers could document this all they wanted. Let them try to make scandal from a family who met invasion with plumbing supplies and beige food and the revolutionary act of continuing to exist.

As they headed back into the warehouse proper, Stephen caught Ryland’s eye. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For being here. For understanding this.”

“I’ve recalculated our defensive positions for the return journey,” Ryland replied.

Stephen squeezed his hand and followed his family into the bright orange aisles, ready to face whatever came next. Even if it was just his father spending the next hour in the power tool section.

## +++

The chicken grease had already started seeping through the bottom of the box, creating translucent patterns on Colin’s kitchen table.

“Three piece meal for each of us, extra chips, assortment of dips,” Ryland announced, unpacking their feast. “The protein-to-carbohydrate ratio remains suboptimal, but I’ve grown oddly fond of their inconsistent cooking temperatures.”

“Look at you being such a big, strong alpha provider,” Stephen said, stealing a chip before Ryland could finish arranging everything into neat categories.

Lysander rolled his eyes. “Please don’t encourage him.”

“If I actually were a big, strong alpha, I would have selected significantly healthier options,” Ryland muttered, lining up the chicken pieces with geometric precision. “Grilled fish. Quinoa. Perhaps a vegetable that hasn’t been deep-fried into submission.”

“But you didn’t,” Stephen pointed out, stealing another chip. “Because you’re perfect.”

“I’m pragmatic,” Ryland corrected. “I’ve calculated that attempting to enforce optimal nutrition would result in relationship conflict outweighing any health benefits.”

“What, no sex for a week?” Lysander suggested with a smirk.

The whack to the back of his head came swift and precise, Colin’s parental reflexes still sharp after twenty-five years.

“Ow!” Lysander rubbed his head. “What? I was just applying his logic to its natural conclusion.”

“There are some conclusions,” Colin said mildly, returning to his tea, “that don’t need stating at the dinner table.”

Lysander’s mobile buzzed against the coffee table. Again. For approximately the eight hundredth time that evening.

“Turn it off,” Stephen said through a mouthful of chicken. “Or throw it out the window. I’m not fussy.”

“Can’t.” Lysander didn’t look up from whatever digital train wreck he was monitoring. “Need to document the harassment for the lawyers.”

The phone buzzed. Stephen’s eye twitched.

“Look at this,” Lysander said, holding his mobile screen out towards Stephen. “The Mirror’s website. ‘TWIN BORES: Huxley Brothers’ Mundane DIY Trip Disappoints.’”

Stephen leaned forward, scanning the article. The photos showed exactly what they’d intended: four people looking terminally uninterested in plumbing supplies. Ryland examining sealant with scientific intensity. Colin comparing prices. Lysander somehow making the B&Q trip look like a personal tragedy.

“The comments are brilliant,” Lysander continued. “’My nan’s shopping trips are more exciting.’ ‘What next, exclusive footage of them paying council tax?’”

“Mission accomplished then,” Colin said, distributing plates. “Made ourselves more boring than Countryfile. They’ll lose interest soon enough.”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzzz.

“Jesus Christ,” Stephen snapped. “What’s he want, a kidney?”

“That’s just Dane,” Lysander said, finally acknowledging the relentless notifications. “He’s angry I shut down my OnlyFans account.”

Stephen nearly choked on his chicken. “You did what?”

“Shut it down. This morning. Well, technically it’s a sixty-day wind-down period for existing subscribers, but no new content. Ever.” Lysander shrugged. “Seemed like the time to.”

“That’s a significant revenue loss,” Ryland said, pausing mid-bite. “Your subscriber base was approximately—”

“Yes, thank you, I’m aware of the maths,” Lysander cut him off. “Turns out you can’t put a price on not hating yourself.”

Colin reached over and squeezed Lysander’s shoulder. Once. Lysander’s whole body loosened, something unknotting behind his ribs.

Buzz. Buzzzzzzzz. BUZZZZZZZZZZ.

“Right, that’s it.” Stephen grabbed for the phone. “I’m launching it into the Thames.”

“I could block the number,” Ryland offered, already extending his hand. “Simple process. Prevents further contact whilst maintaining evidence trails for legal purposes.”

Lysander hesitated, then grinned. “Just don’t go scrolling through my photo gallery, yeah? Unless you want an eyeful.”

“Full of intimate photographs?” Ryland’s tone didn’t shift. “I assumed as much, given your former profession.”

“Not just intimate. We’re talking full spread, nothing left to the imagination, possibly some creative angles that—”

“I’ve seen Stephen naked,” Ryland interrupted. “You’re genetically identical. The physiological variations would be minimal. Perhaps some minor differences in muscle tone or grooming preferences, but nothing that would cause significant surprise.”

Colin choked on his tea, spraying it across the table.

“Ryland! I’m scandalised,” Stephen announced, pressing a hand to his chest. “Absolutely scandalised. How dare you imply my arse isn’t unique and special?”

“Your arse is perfectly adequate,” Ryland assured him. “I simply meant that from a purely anatomical standpoint—”

“Stop talking,” Lysander laughed, his first real laugh in days. “Please. I’m begging you. Take my mobile and stop talking about comparative arse analysis.”

Ryland accepted the mobile, his fingers already navigating to the appropriate settings. The constant buzzing finally, mercifully ceased.

“Thank fuck,” Stephen muttered, then caught his father’s look. “Sorry. Thank goodness.”

“Better,” Colin agreed, though his lips twitched. “Eat your chicken before it goes cold. Or colder. Not sure it was ever properly hot.”

They settled into comfortable domesticity. Lysander abandoned his mobile to properly attack his food. Ryland organised the chips by size. Colin produced tea from somewhere, the mysterious parental ability to generate hot beverages from thin air intact.

“Dane’s blocked,” Ryland announced eventually. “I’ve also adjusted your privacy settings to prevent contact from unknown numbers. Should reduce harassment by approximately eighty percent.”

“My hero,” Lysander said, only half-joking. “What would we do without your statistical interventions?”

“Probably make emotional decisions based on emotion alone,” Ryland replied seriously. “Far more inefficient.”

“Pass the chips,” Colin said, and Stephen did, and life went on, aggressively ordinary, and utterly perfect.