heyy queen how are youu. Could you write if your comfortable an Anthony Joshua fic where’s he’s experiencing grief and he’s having a really hard time and starts to push reader away because he doesn’t want to reader to see him as “weak” but eventually he lets his walls down and he breaks down to reader.
open up
an anthony joshua fic
summary ~ requested !
includes ~ angst to fluff // comfort // grief
a/n ~ thank you for your request my love !
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Anthony was not the kind of man people expected to fall apart.
That was the problem.
The world had made strength his language before he was old enough to understand the cost of speaking it every day. Strength in his shoulders. Strength in his hands. Strength in the way he stood before fights with his jaw set and his eyes steady. Strength in the interviews, in the training clips, in the photographs where people looked at him and saw discipline, control, power.
A champion.
A fighter.
A man built like he could survive anything.
You knew better.
You knew the softer places in him. The quiet humor. The thoughtful pauses. The way he could sit with a cup of tea in both hands and listen to you talk about your day like there was no place on earth he would rather be. You knew how gentle he was when he loved someone. How carefully he held the people who mattered to him. How deeply he felt things even when he did not always know what to do with the feeling.
So when grief found him, you saw it before he named it.
It started in small ways.
Anthony became quieter.
Not peaceful quiet. Not the familiar silence he slipped into when he was thinking or tired after training. This was different. This silence had weight. It sat on him heavily, pulling his voice deeper, making his answers shorter, stealing the warmth from rooms he used to fill without trying.
At first, you gave him space.
He had lost someone close to him, someone who had known him before the fame, before the belts, before the cameras decided his body belonged to the public. Someone who had been woven into his life quietly enough that the loss did not feel dramatic from the outside, but inside him, you could see it had split something open.
The first few days after the funeral, he let you be there.
Barely.
He let you sit beside him on the sofa. He let you make him food he only picked at. He let you run your hand over the back of his head when he sat leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. He let you stay the night, though he barely slept. Every time you woke, he was awake too, lying on his back, eyes open in the dark.
But then something changed.
Or maybe the shock wore off.
Maybe the house got too quiet.
Maybe the flowers started wilting and everyone else went back to their lives, leaving him with the kind of grief that arrived after the condolences stopped.
That was when Anthony began pushing you away.
Not cruelly at first.
Anthony was too careful with you for cruelty to come naturally, even when he was hurting. He started with distance disguised as consideration.
“You should go home and rest, love.”
“I’m fine here.”
“I know, but you’ve been here all week.”
“So?”
“So you need your own bed.”
“I need to be where I want to be.”
His mouth would tighten at that, and he would look away. “I don’t want you worrying about me.”
That sentence came up often.
I don’t want you worrying.
As if worry was something you could set down because he asked nicely.
As if love did not naturally lean toward pain.
By the second week, he stopped calling as much. Texts that used to be warm and easy became practical. Short. He skipped dinner twice and claimed he had already eaten, though you knew him well enough to hear the lie in his voice. When you came over, he kept himself busy. Dishes that did not need washing. Laundry that could have waited. Training footage playing on mute while he stared through the screen instead of at it.
Anything to avoid sitting still long enough for grief to catch him.
One evening, you found him in his kitchen with the lights off.
It was raining outside, the kind of steady London rain that turned the windows blurry and made the whole house feel smaller. You had let yourself in with the key he gave you months ago, carrying a bag of groceries and a stubborn hope that maybe tonight he would let you cook for him.
Instead, you found him standing at the sink, both hands braced against the counter, head lowered.
He had not turned on a single light.
“Ant?”
His body stiffened.
That hurt more than it should have.
Once, your voice had made him relax.
Now it made him prepare himself.
He turned slightly, not enough for you to see his face clearly. “You didn’t say you were coming.”
“I texted.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“I know.”
He looked down. “You shouldn’t have come in the rain.”
You set the grocery bag on the counter. “It’s water. I’ll live.”
He did not smile.
That was how you knew it was worse than usual.
You stood in the dim kitchen, watching the outline of him against the window. Big, still, unreachable. His shoulders looked tense beneath his black sweatshirt, his posture controlled in a way that felt exhausting even from across the room.
“I brought stuff to make soup,” you said softly.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You don’t have to eat now.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
The sharpness landed before he could pull it back.
You both froze.
Anthony closed his eyes, jaw flexing. “Sorry.”
You swallowed. “It’s okay.”
“No.” He shook his head, still not looking at you. “It’s not.”
The silence that followed was cold and wet around the edges.
You moved closer, slowly. “Anthony, talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“I know you don’t.”
“Then don’t ask.”
His voice was rough now.
Not loud.
That almost made it worse.
You stopped a few feet away from him. “I’m asking because I love you.”
He let out a humorless breath. “That’s why you should stop.”
Your heart pulled tight.
“What does that mean?”
Anthony finally turned toward you.
In the low light, he looked exhausted. Not physically, though that was there too. His face was drawn, eyes heavy, beard slightly grown in. He looked like a man who had been holding up a wall with his bare hands and refusing to admit his arms were shaking.
“It means I don’t want you seeing me like this,” he said.
Your voice softened. “Like what?”
He looked away again, and when he answered, the words seemed to cost him.
“Weak.”
The word entered the room like something ugly.
You stared at him.
Anthony rubbed a hand over his face. “I can’t do this, yeah? I can’t have you looking at me like I’m broken. Like I’m not—” He stopped, searching for the word and hating that he needed one. “Like I’m not myself.”
You took a careful breath.
“You think grief makes you weak?”
His eyes flashed briefly, defensive. “I didn’t say that.”
“You did.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He looked at you, and for a moment you saw anger there. Not at you. At himself. At the loss. At the fact that the world had taught him a man could be admired for bleeding in a ring but not for crying in his own kitchen.
“I mean I’m supposed to handle it,” he said. “I’m supposed to keep moving.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what I do.”
You shook your head gently. “That’s what people watch you do.”
His face shifted.
You stepped closer.
“That’s not the same thing.”
Anthony looked down, throat working.
You wanted to touch him, but something told you not yet. Not because he didn’t need it, but because if you reached too soon, he might retreat out of instinct. He was standing so close to the edge of himself. You could feel it.
“I’m not them,” you said quietly.
He didn’t answer.
“I’m not the cameras. I’m not the crowd. I’m not someone waiting for you to say the right thing after a hard night. You don’t have to be impressive with me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I don’t know how to not be,” he admitted.
That broke something in you.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
You looked at this man you loved, this powerful, gentle, grieving man standing in the dark because turning the lights on might make it all too real, and you understood then that he was not pushing you away because he loved you less.
He was pushing you away because he trusted you too much.
Enough that your opinion could hurt him.
Enough that being seen by you felt more dangerous than being watched by millions.
“Anthony,” you whispered.
He shook his head once, like he already knew what you were going to say and couldn’t bear it.
“I don’t want you carrying me through this,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“I’m not carrying you.”
“You are.”
“No.” You stepped close enough now that he had to look at you. “I’m standing with you.”
His eyes shone faintly, but he blinked it back fast.
Too fast.
You saw it anyway.
“I don’t need you to be okay,” you said. “I need you to stop pretending being alone is the same as being strong.”
He breathed in, and it came out unsteady.
For a second, you thought you had reached him.
Then his walls came up again.
“I think you should go,” he said.
Your chest hurt.
But you did not move.
He looked at you more firmly. “Please.”
The please was what almost made you break.
Because even now, even while trying to send you away, he was trying to be gentle.
You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
His face changed, just slightly. Like he had expected you to fight.
You picked up the grocery bag from the counter, though your hands trembled.
“But I’m going to say one thing before I do.”
Anthony looked tired. “Love—”
“No. You can ask me to go, and I’ll respect that. But I’m not leaving with you thinking I only love the strong version of you.”
His expression cracked.
Just a little.
You held his gaze.
“I don’t.”
The rain tapped harder against the windows.
“I love you when you’re steady. I love you when you’re laughing. I love you when you’re focused, when you’re stubborn, when you’re walking around the kitchen acting like you know better than everybody.”
That pulled the faintest, saddest breath of a laugh from him.
Your eyes burned.
“And I love you now. Like this. Angry. Quiet. Hurting. Scared. I love this version too.”
His mouth tightened, and he looked away.
You knew he was fighting tears.
You knew because he always looked away when softness got too close.
You set the groceries back down.
“I’ll go if you really want me to,” you said. “But don’t confuse me leaving with me giving up on you.”
The silence stretched.
Then Anthony’s shoulders moved.
Once.
A barely visible shake.
Then again.
He turned fully away from you, one hand covering his mouth, the other gripping the edge of the counter.
You heard the first broken inhale.
Your heart dropped.
“Ant.”
He shook his head, but his body betrayed him. Another breath tore out of him, rough and uneven. He tried to swallow it down, tried to fold grief back into whatever place he had been storing it, but it was too late. The wall had cracked. Everything behind it was coming through.
You crossed the room.
This time, when you touched his back, he did not move away.
His body shook beneath your palm.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I can’t—” His voice broke. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
You moved beside him, your hand sliding gently to his arm.
Anthony lowered his head, eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping despite every effort to stop them.
“I keep thinking I should’ve called more,” he said. “I keep thinking I was busy. Always busy. Training, meetings, camp, flights. Always something. And now I keep remembering every time I said I’d come round next week, or I’d ring later, and there is no later. There’s no—”
The sentence collapsed.
He covered his face with both hands.
The sound he made then was not loud.
It was worse.
It was the kind of sound someone makes when they have finally run out of places to put pain.
You wrapped your arms around him as best you could, pressing yourself against his side.
He turned into you so suddenly you nearly stumbled.
Then he was holding you.
Not carefully.
Not with the usual awareness of his size, his strength, the way he always made sure he never overwhelmed you.
He held you like he was drowning.
His arms closed around you, his face dropping to your shoulder, his body shaking as the grief came out of him in heavy, broken waves. You held him tighter, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other moving slowly over his back.
“I’ve got you,” you whispered.
He cried harder.
“I’ve got you.”
His knees seemed to weaken, and you guided him down slowly until both of you were on the kitchen floor. The tiles were cold beneath you, but he clung to you like he did not feel them. His head rested against your chest now, his arms around your waist, his breathing ragged and uneven.
You had seen Anthony tired.
You had seen him frustrated.
You had seen him after losses, after brutal training days, after moments where the world tried to turn his humanity into headlines.
But you had never seen him like this.
Completely undone.
And all you felt was love.
Not pity.
Not disappointment.
Love.
Because this was not weakness.
This was a man finally letting himself be human after trying to survive as a symbol for too long.
“You should’ve heard me,” he whispered after a while, voice muffled against you.
“What?”
“When they told me.” His hand gripped the fabric of your top. “I didn’t say anything. Everyone was crying, and I just stood there. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t talk. I kept thinking if I didn’t react, it wasn’t real.”
You brushed your hand over his head slowly.
“And then people kept saying, ‘Stay strong, champ.’” His voice twisted around the words. “Everywhere. Messages. Calls. Stay strong. Stay strong. Stay strong. And I wanted to scream.”
Your eyes filled.
“I know they meant well,” he said. “But I don’t want to be strong. I want them back.”
The simplicity of it shattered you.
You bent over him and kissed the top of his head.
“I know,” you whispered.
“I want them back,” he said again, smaller this time.
“I know, baby.”
His tears soaked into your shirt.
You let them.
For a long time, the rain and his breathing were the only sounds in the kitchen. You didn’t try to make grief tidy. You didn’t tell him everything happened for a reason. You didn’t tell him they were in a better place, though maybe they were. You didn’t offer the kind of comfort people used when they were desperate to stop pain from making the room uncomfortable.
You just stayed.
When his sobs quieted, his body became heavy with exhaustion. He remained against you on the floor, one arm still wrapped around your waist like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he said hoarsely.
You looked down at him. “I know.”
“I hate it.”
“Crying?”
“Feeling out of control.”
You nodded, fingertips tracing lightly along his shoulder.
He turned his face slightly, eyes red and tired. “Do you think differently of me?”
The question was so quiet you almost missed it.
Your heart clenched.
You touched his cheek, guiding his gaze up to yours.
“Yes,” you said.
Pain flashed across his face before you continued.
“I think you’re braver than I did yesterday.”
His eyes closed.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered, voice breaking again.
“Do what?”
“Love me so well when I’m being difficult.”
A sad smile touched your mouth. “You’re not being difficult. You’re grieving.”
“I pushed you away.”
“You tried.”
His brows furrowed faintly.
You wiped gently beneath his eye. “You didn’t get very far.”
For the first time in days, his mouth curved.
Barely.
But it was there.
You smiled back, small and soft.
“There he is,” you whispered.
His face crumpled again, but this time the tears were quieter. He turned his face into your palm, pressing a kiss there before lowering his head.
“I’m tired,” he admitted.
“I know.”
“Not sleeping tired.”
“I know.”
“Soul tired.”
You swallowed.
“Then let me help you rest.”
He did not argue.
That was how you knew something had shifted.
You stayed with him on the kitchen floor a little longer, until the cold tiles became too uncomfortable and his breathing steadied. Then you helped him up, though he didn’t need the physical help. Maybe he just needed to let someone do something for him. You made tea. He sat at the kitchen table, quiet but no longer unreachable. When you placed the mug in front of him, his fingers brushed yours and stayed there.
“I’m sorry for telling you to go,” he said.
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I know that too.”
He looked down into his tea. “I just thought if you saw too much, you’d…”
You waited.
He shook his head, ashamed. “I don’t know.”
“Leave?”
His silence answered.
You sat beside him.
“Anthony, I’m not here because you’re easy to love.”
His eyes flickered to yours.
“I’m here because I choose you. That means the hard parts too.”
His throat shifted.
“You can have ugly days,” you said. “Silent days. Angry days. Days where you don’t know what you need. I won’t always know how to help, and I might get it wrong sometimes. But I’m not going to look at you grieving and decide you’re less of a man.”
His eyes shone again.
“You hear me?”
He nodded slowly.
“Say it.”
His voice came out rough. “You won’t think I’m less of a man.”
“No.”
He looked at you, vulnerable in a way that made him seem younger.
“Promise?”
You reached for his hand.
“Promise.”
That night, for the first time in weeks, Anthony slept.
Not perfectly. He woke twice, once from a dream that left him breathing hard in the dark, once because the grief simply returned without warning. Both times, you were there. Both times, he reached for you instead of turning away.
The second time, he whispered, “Are you awake?”
You were.
You turned toward him beneath the covers. “Yeah.”
He stared at the ceiling, eyes reflecting faint moonlight.
“I was thinking about something they used to say,” he murmured.
“Tell me.”
And he did.
He told you a story you had never heard before. A small one. Not dramatic enough for a funeral speech, not polished enough for public memory. Just a real memory. Something funny. Something ordinary. Halfway through, he laughed softly, and the laugh cracked into tears at the end.
You held his hand through both.
After that night, grief did not vanish.
It never did.
It came in waves. Some mornings Anthony seemed almost himself, moving around the kitchen with sleepy eyes, kissing your forehead while the kettle boiled. Other days, he went quiet again, disappearing into his head, staring too long at old messages or photographs. Sometimes he still tried to say he was fine when he wasn’t.
But he stopped locking you out.
That was enough.
A week later, you found him in the living room with an old photo in his hand. His eyes were wet, but when you walked in, he did not hide it.
He looked up at you.
“I miss them today,” he said.
Your heart softened.
You crossed the room and sat beside him. “Tell me about the picture.”
He leaned into you, shoulder heavy against yours.
And he told you.
Months later, the world still called him strong.
They always would.
They would see him in the ring and say he looked unbreakable. They would watch him train and say he was built different. They would hear him speak with measured calm and call it composure.
You understood now that strength was not always what people thought it was.
Sometimes strength was standing in front of thousands.
Sometimes it was getting out of bed after loss.
Sometimes it was calling someone you love instead of sitting alone in the dark.
Sometimes it was a man like Anthony crying on a kitchen floor, terrified of being seen, and letting himself be held anyway.
One evening, long after the sharpest edge of grief had softened but before it had fully become something he could carry without wincing, Anthony stood in the kitchen making tea while you sat at the counter watching him.
He looked over. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed.”
His mouth curved. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
He brought your mug over, setting it carefully in front of you before leaning both hands on the counter.
You studied his face. Still tired in places. Still carrying loss. But more open now. Less alone.
“I’m proud of you,” you said.
His smile faded into something softer. “For what?”
“For letting me stay.”
He looked down.
For a second, you thought he might brush it off.
Instead, he reached across the counter and took your hand.
“So am I,” he admitted.
You squeezed his fingers.
He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, slow and grateful.
“I thought breaking down would make me feel weak,” he said quietly.
“And?”
He looked at you.
“It made me feel loved.”
Your chest tightened.
You slid off the stool and came around the counter. Anthony opened his arms before you even reached him, pulling you into his chest. His hold was warm, familiar, strong in the way that no longer felt like armor.
This time, it felt like trust.
You pressed your cheek against him and listened to his heartbeat.
Steady.
Human.
Alive.
“You are loved,” you whispered.
His arms tightened gently around you.
“I know,” he said.
And this time, he sounded like he believed it.
--
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