[FIC] The Longest Day - (Towards Home 4) - Barlowen - M - 1/1

[jenexell]

The fourth story of the Towards Home series. This one has been a quite litteral headache. I say this every time, but Much love, huggles and smooches, to ttfan for all the hand holding and listening to me waffle for hours about plot bunnies. This time I couldn't mean it more. litterally this story could not have existed without her support.

Title: The Longest Day
Series: Towards Home
Author: jenexell 
Pairing: Barlowen (Gary Barlow/Mark Owen)
Rating: M
Disclaimer: If this was real, I wouldn't share. As its not, I'm sharing with no personal gain or profit, other than perhaps to feed my attention whore complex. non-recognisable elements are mine! plagiarists will be eaten alive weasels. Much information has been gleaned from interviews (TV and print) the Take One and Take Two books, and my bible - My Take by Gary Barlow.
Distribution:  My Journal (jenexell), barlowentakethatslashtt_slash and quite a few other places too. (attention whore complex). If you want it, ask me.
Warnings: Wow. How to put the warnings for this one in here without spoilers. Serious heavy angst. Reference to serious world events. Please be cautioned this story deals with subject matter than some may not be comfortable with. (what it does not deal with is anything that would squick your average human being out)

Series Alert: This story is part of a series, and won't make sense without having read the first part (One Saturday in April) At least I don't think it will. It might do. You could try it. Please go read the warnings on the first part at least. Previous stories are:

One Saturday In April :: Ghosts :: A Bit of a Pickle

Summary: In the back of a taxi on route to Frankfurt airport, Mark Owen laid his phone down on the seat, raised his hands to his face, and let himself cry.



The Longest Day

July 2005

The longest day had been and gone. Summer had been given its cue to arrive, and in fits and starts it was trying. Under a blanket of oppressive unyielding cloud, the temperature and humidity rose. Even once the sun went down the sticky heat continued; trapped by a full sky and corralled by buildings, fuelled by the exhausts of thousands of cars and overworked air-conditioning units.

High up above the ground, casually leant on the balcony rail of his luxury apartment in an exclusive development on London’s south bank, Gary Barlow stared blankly at the grey orange of the London night.

He had a good view from this balcony. It was one of the reasons he’d bought it. At the time he’d just needed a crash pad, somewhere to lay his head over night as he flitted in and out of the city on route to other places during his solo career. He’d grown tired of hotels, of strange beds and impersonal surroundings. He’d needed somewhere private, easy to get to, secure, and hadn’t cared about the price tag. He must have made that estate agent’s day when he’d said that. This place was only two bedrooms, but had cost him more than Delamere had; but that was London for you. And it had certainly been useful.

Out of the three people other than the cleaner who had a key, he probably used it the least. He’d been here three days, would be going home tomorrow and would be grateful for it; this was the longest trip to London he’d done since before Christmas. Elliot used it whenever he was in town, he was asleep right now in the second bedroom in fact, and would be here tomorrow and Friday too. Mark also used the place, probably more than he and Elliot combined. Like him, Mark had grown disenchanted with hotels, and it had made sense to offer this place to him, even back two years ago when they’d only just been becoming friends again.

After all, at the time he’d been convinced he’d never set foot in this place again. Back then he’d still been exerting a great deal of what little energy he’d had to spare trying to convince everyone he was done with music completely, that he was retired. Those days seemed a long time ago now. These days he knew he’d go mad if he didn’t work. He loved his children with every fibre of his being but being a single parent was the hardest job in the world, and although he still felt uncomfortable being away from them, he needed the break sometimes too.

Thankfully no-one, not his family, not Elliot, not his manager, not his publishers, not Mark, no-one had let him give up. They’d given him time, of course they had, none of them were insensitive. But they’d kept casting lines, and eventually ten months after Dawn... after ten months he’d taken the bait. He hadn’t wanted to, he’d almost said no again.

‘Just talk to Mark, Gary, he really wants to work with you.’

‘why?’

Why indeed. He still struggled to work that one out. Mark was a damned good songwriter in his own right. Yes working with other people was important, and Mark was a far stronger lyricist than he was a writer of music, but there were plenty of people out there he could have worked with. There were plenty of people out there he had already worked with, so why had Mark wanted to work with him? He’d never asked. He never planned to ask. Looking a gift horse in the mouth and all that. Working with Mark had been a mile stone in his life, had been an important first step back to normality. A tentative one initially, but its impact on so many parts of his life was incredible.

It had been the start of something neither of them had expected. It had been the start of a writing partnership, of a friendship. It had been the start of having a Landrover parked in his garage for weeks at a time while its owner bounced around Europe touring and promoting. It had been the start of the kids asking when MacMac was coming for another visit. It had been the start of late night panicked phone calls because of computer problems, and having to play tech support to a man who still felt pen and paper were the way forward. It had been the start of finding quorn in the freezer and lentils in the cupboard. It had been the start of learning to like green tea. It had been the start of late night games of pool while trying to win each other over to recent albums they liked. It had been the start of trying to write songs while his eyes streamed with tears of laughter. It had been the start of having a best friend who set him up on dates with some of the most bizarre women Gary had ever met. It had been the start of feeling like he could actually go back to work. It had been the start of feeling like a whole person again.

It had been the start of the longest hardest path Gary had ever had to walk down. One he hoped he’d never have to travel again, because he knew he wouldn’t have the strength, but one he was endlessly proud of having made it so far down. And grateful. Grateful to the people who had walked it with him; picking him up when he fell, cheering him on at every obstacle.

Below him, the odd boat chugged its way up and down the river. London Transport’s own river service had finished for the night, but there was still activity down there. A Familiar tune caught Gary’s ear and he turned his head to catch sight of one boat headed up river in his direction. A Party boat.

Teenagers in suits and elegant dresses were visible on the open decks, the odd down dressed adult scattered amongst them. School Prom? There were a lot of those this time of year. As the boat passed closer he could see the lights of the dance floor through the windows, and his lips twitched at the dancing he could see on deck. Well not dancing, arm movements. Arm movements being led by one of the teachers, a young woman, clearly reliving her own school days as she gleefully showed the students how to clap in time to Never Forget.

Nice to know people were still listening to that one. It was fitting too, for a school prom. He hadn’t thought of that at the time. He’d have to tell Howard, he’d be chuffed as punch. The music changed to something more current, something more in the style of the recent wave of Miami based hiphop and R&B acts that had been making the charts this year. The boat was almost out of sight now, the sound lost on what little breeze there was. Gary looked back to the skyline.

He was in a strange mood tonight. His thinking was woolly, oddly nostalgic and wistful. He felt tense and tied up inside. Restless but unwilling to move. The back of his neck prickled like he felt guilty about something, but he couldn’t think what it was he should be feeling guilty about. He itched with anticipation but couldn’t fathom what it was he was waiting for. He felt there was a storm coming but couldn’t work out if it was in the air or in his head.

Beep-boop-bababa-beep-boop-bababab

Turning away from the dark vista before him, Gary hurried inside the apartment, growling softly under his breath when his laptop on the desk didn’t wake up quite as quickly as he wanted it to. When the mouse finally responded he dropped down into his seat and grinned as Mark’s face appeared on the screen, looking confused and a little flustered.

“Can you hear me? Is it working now? God I hate this bloody thing."

Mark really wasn’t the best at computers. He could use one; he could send emails and use Word, he could download pictures from his phone and could even print them out. He could listen to music if someone else put it on there for him, and could watch films as long as autoplay kicked in when he put the DVD in the drive. But anything beyond that was slow going. Getting Mark’s head around using Cubase - the softeware for song writers and producers - just wasn’t going to happen, despite the fact that these days they even had a version that was used in schools, and its whole layout was far more user friendly than when Gary first came across it way back in 1993. Hell, Mark still wasn’t coping with iTunes let alone anything more complicated. He had however finally got his head around iChat.

Chuckling, his previous thoughts having evaporated like mist on a sunny morning, Gary hastened to reassure Mark before he clicked something and disconnected himself. “I can hear you, it’s working fine."

On the screen, Mark shifted around, clearly trying to get comfortable sat on his hotel bed, and huffed. “Why do you make me do this?"

“Because I’m goin’ to drag you into the twenty first century even if it kills me Mark." Gary laughed back, turning in his large executive office chair to put his feet up on the desk. “How’s Frankfurt?"

“Hot." Mark replied succinctly. “How’s London?"

“Cloudy." Gary returned, just as briefly, and they shared a smile over the screen. “Muggy as all hell an’ all. You gotta love an English summer."

“We don’t have summers, we have warmer seasons of rain." Mark laughed, then his expression turned thoughtfully guilty, “You spoken to the kids tonight? It were a bit late when I got out this evenin, didn’t want to disturb your Mum by callin."

“I phoned earlier. They’re so busy getting spoiled rotten and stuffed full of Mum’s cooking I don’t think they’ve noticed we’re gone." Gary reassured him laughingly, something in his chest swelling and warming at the relieved expression on Mark’s face.

“You’ll be home tomorrow anyway." Mark smiled back. “And you know they’re missing you like crazy."

“Fish and ships last night, and Shepherd’s pie and apple crumble and custard tonight." Gary replied deadpan, one eyebrow raised.

On the screen, Mark near enough cackled, “Right, not missing you at all then."

“No a bit. If they weren’t my own kids I’d call ‘em something nasty right now." Gary shook his head and sighed. “I’m sure Mum does it on purpose. I’ll get home tomorrow and nothin’ I cook for the rest of the week will be good enough."

“Nothin’ you cook will be fatty or sugary enough you mean." Mark chuckled. “Anyway, don’t be a daft sod, they love your cooking. Fuckin’ hell Gaz, everyone loves your cookin’. I love your cookin’ and I’m the fussiest eater goin’."

That was certainly true enough, but all the talk about food was making Gary hungry, and he could clearly recall Elliot leaving an open box of celebrations on the coffee table before he’d gone off to bed. Bastard. “So, enough about my cookin’ how’s the meetin’s goin’? you getting anywhere?"

“Great actually." Mark replied, settling himself back into a comfortable position and pushing his hair out of his face. “John’s been doing most of the work to be honest, but yeah, today went well. Could have done without the air conditioning breaking down half way through the mornin’..."

“Oh don’t..."

“Hey, you try actually being there."

“I’ve told you before Marko, I’m quite happy with the job I’ve got thank you."

~
~

Mark lifted the jug of coffee from the refreshment table and poured, wishing they had proper mugs rather than the generic caterer’s standard cups and saucers. He could do with a mug. A large one. Black with lots and lots of sugar. God he was shattered.

He and Gary had stayed up chatting on the computer far later than was good for either of them, and didn’t that thought make him feel old? Gone were the days where he could stay up chatting late into the night then be up at the crack of dawn bright as a button. As it was, Johnathon Wild, his manager, friend and co-director of Sedna records had had to almost break down his hotel room door to wake him up this morning, and they’d almost been late. Something that would not have gone down well with this crowd.

Over the years he’d spent enough time in Germany to know that a lot of the common stereotypes the Brits had for the Deutschlanders were little more than myths, but he seemed to have fallen into an archetype wonderland this morning. The girl at the front desk had looked like the female SS officer off Alo! Alo! And the people with him in the meeting had clearly had their sense of humour removed at birth. He’d never met a more uptight, precise group of people in his life. He’d never seen as much Grecian 2000 outside of a movie before either. He’d walked in this morning, not having shaved, the most he’d done to his hair having been to run his hands through it, wearing ratty jeans, a pattern short sleeve shirt, sunglasses and a straw cowboy hat, and instantly felt the disapproving stares burning into his skin.

Not a great start. He just hoped Gary hadn’t suffered a similar false start; he had a 9:30 train to catch from Euston this morning. They really shouldn’t have talked so long. But Gary had been in an odd mood last night and Mark had felt somehow he’d needed to keep talking. Not that they’d talked about anything in particular.

They’d covered other topics from the weather, the kids, his sister’s current boyfriend, the road works on the M6, the extortionate cost of a single bus journey in London if you paid cash compared to using an Oyster card, (some things never changed, Gary might have more money than god, but he still wheedled at the pennies, the tight git) all sorts. The bulk of the conversation however had circled around Mark’s current ten day trip to Germany and Italy to secure marketing and distribution for his album.

Because that was such a riveting topic. Mark had to laugh at himself. This had been his choice, he’d been the one who’d thought of starting his own label, no one had talked him into it, and yet there were times when he really wondered what the hell he was doing. He loved to write; to hear and see and feel a song take shape and form until apparently out of nothing a piece of beauty and emotion was born. He loved to perform: to the see the light and joy in people’s faces and eyes, to know that the music he was creating was bringing people happiness, to feel the buzz of a crowd lifted and entertained by what he was doing and to know that they were sharing that buzz with him.

It was very difficult to describe the feeling of standing in front of an audience, an audience waiting to be entertained, and reaching that moment when the crowd lets the performer know they’ve succeeded. Unless someone had felt it for themselves, there really weren’t words. It was an incredible sensation, the high was indescribable. It didn’t matter if it was a hundred people or a hundred thousand Mark had discovered, the feeling was the just the same. True a hundred thousand was vastly more daunting, nerve wracking and yes, terrifying, but that just meant that the high was reached from a different place, and that journey brought its own exhilaration.

It was a high he was willing to admit he was addicted to, one he couldn’t imagine giving up. Just like he couldn’t imagine not writing now that he’d found the writer inside himself. Take That had been all about the performance. That’s where he’d found his heart in the band. Helping to create and deliver amazing shows that would not only showcase the brilliant music Gary was feeding them, but also to bring that joy to so many people. After Take That it had been about the music. Back in the day Gary had taught him, hell had taught all of them, how to play chords on the keyboard or piano. He’d had a teacher to teach him how to play base. He’d taught himself guitar, and a couple of other instruments along the way. Each one getting him one step closer to finding the music. Finding the music inside himself. Finding his music. What spoke directly to him. And when it came to writing he’d had great teachers. Gary had been the first, although somewhat unwittingly, then there had been the other writers and producers he’d worked with, the people in his band. So many people he’d learned from.

Looking back over his albums, he could trace his steps so clearly. As much as he was proud of his first, it almost felt like looking back at old books from primary school; the pride he had was tempered against all that had been learned since. He hadn’t known who he was as a person then, and had been trying so hard to escape the shadow of Take That he’d dismissed a lot of what he’d learned out of a mixture of spite and pride. His second album was definitely more him, like an old T-shirt that wasn’t quite in style anymore but was still comfortable to wear. He’d stopped trying to escape where he’d come from by that time. Six years of rejection would make anyone take a long hard look in the mirror, and what he’d found was that he’d fallen into the same trap so many people fell into. He’d forgotten that pop music, was short for popular music, and by trying to go in the opposite direction, by getting his head stuck in ideas like credibility and artistic integrity, his first album had become exactly what he’d set out to make it; the opposite of popular. So when he’d come to make his second album he’d relaxed a bit more, had fun with it, worked with people he admired and tried to make music he enjoyed. But it was this last album, the third, where he felt he’d found his voice, his style, what it meant to be Mark Owen the song writer.

He knew Gary had been disappointed not to be involved in it; they wrote together regularly, had even won an award together (alright so it hadn’t been an Ivor, instead a best original song for a motion picture award from an independent film festival in Canada, but hey, baby steps) and it was something they both enjoyed immensely. He knew however, that Gary understood his reasons.

Although Gary never spoke of his own solo career, Mark knew from conversations with Elliot that Gary’s confidence by the end of it had been shot to pieces. He couldn’t play a note, write a single lyric without desperately looking around for someone to tell him it was alright. The lack of self esteem Mark had initially assumed had been caused by Dawn’s death, had in fact been a regression to a state of mind that had been caused by the constant rejection of his writing talents by the very people who were supposed to have supported him. Instead of trusting in the talent that had sent five gangly kids from Manchester to the top of the charts, Gary’s American bosses had dismissed his work and sent him off to write with other people, slowly stripping away his input until what was being produced wasn’t really his at all.

If being dropped once hadn’t shaken his faith in the big labels, learning the finer details of the way Gary had been treated by Clive Davis, Arista and BMG certainly had. Being dropped by Island had just been the final nail in the coffin as far as Mark was concerned. Coming out of that deal he hadn’t been despondent, he’d been furious. He’d needed to prove to himself and to the rest of the world that he didn’t need anyone else coming in to make his music palatable, or commercial, or whatever else it was that his Island bosses had felt he’d lacked and couldn’t achieve if given another chance.

That was why he’d done this. That was why he hadn’t given up on being dropped a second time. That was why he now willingly endured tedious meetings about product distribution and predicted sales. Meetings that started at stupidly early hours of the morning, so stupid in fact that they broke for coffee when most people were only just on their way to work.

He did it so he could do what he loved. So he could write and perform. So he would have the chance to experiment, develop and grow as an artist without constantly looking over his shoulder, without being judged by some fat overbearing accountant who wouldn’t know music if it beat him over the head with a mallet.

And he’d had Gary’s support all the way, and knew how lucky he was for it too. He didn’t know where he himself had been those six years in Take That, or during his solo time with BMG and Island, but wherever Gary had been he’d certainly learned a lot. Gary understood things about the industry that Mark had never even thought of considering before, and was thankfully more than willing to share those insights. Gary also had a far better business head than he did. He envied Gary that. Gary would never have turned up to a business meeting in a straw cowboy hat. He’d have worn an ugly suit the cut of which had gone out fashion before either of them were born, but not a straw cowboy hat.

“Excuse me, Mr Owen?"

Looking up from his coffee cup at the precise but heavily accented female voice, he smiled at the young woman who had appeared at his side. He couldn’t remember her name, actually he wasn’t sure he’d been told it. She’d sat in her smart suit beside the big cheese at the meeting, taking meticulous notes but not saying a word. She probably wasn’t much older than nineteen or twenty. Her dark hair was scraped back so tightly into a bun Mark wondered if it didn’t make her head hurt, but her smile was shyly genuine. “You alright Luv?"

Glancing around quickly, she pulled out her notepad and a pen. “I’m sorry to bother you. My sister is a very big fan of yours. Would you mind?"

Taking the pad and pen, Mark had to laugh. What were the odds? Giving the girl a slightly disbelieving look, the pen paused over the pad. “Your sister?"

Shrugging with one shoulder, she gave him an apologetic look. “I’m more a fan of dance music. House, electro, that type of music. sorry"

“Ah," Mark laughed. “No need be sorry, luv. We all like what we like. So what’s your sister’s name?"

“Claudia." She supplied.

Nodding, Mark balanced the pad and began to scribble a short message. “You know, our Dougie’s a house DJ now. works over here most the time actually." at the confused silence that met his idly made statement, Mark thought about what he’d said and shook his head “Howard Donald, we were in Take That together, way back when. Goes by DJ HD now. "

“I’ll look out for him." She smiled back with a nod, taking the pad from Mark and looking down at it, a huge grin splitting her face. “Thank you. She’ll love this."

“You’re welcome." Mark laughed. “Now do I get to know your name?"

~
~

The bang was so loud it made his teeth rattle. The train jolted. People around him cried out in bemusement and fright. The lights flickered and died as the train screeched to a halt and smoke began to fill the packed carriage.

He was thrown to the floor, his head colliding harshly with something. Someone fell over him. The world span. Standing back up was hard. The person on the floor next to him found it harder. He held out his hand and helped them to their feet. There was nothing outside the windows. The world inside the carriage was choking. He couldn’t breathe. Smoke. Was there fire?

His heart raced. His vision swirled. So many thoughts falling through his mind in that one second that he couldn’t track them. Certain in the knowledge he was going to die here. Certain they were all going to die here. From flame or smoke. Desperate he joined those clawing at the doors. Someone was trying to break a window. It wasn’t working. The doors gave a fraction, and face pressed to the gap he gulped for air, working on instinct, not thought. Thought was gone.

Something smashed behind him. Blessed air pouring in as smoke poured out. Through watery eyes he watched it clear from beyond the windows and found himself staring into hell.

~
~*

Her name was Stephanie, she was studying business management at university, but was interning at the company during the summer break. She came from a small town just outside Frankfurt with a name Mark had already forgotten since it was too hard to pronounce, let alone remember. Contrary to his previous assertion, she had a wicked sense of humour, and spoke English better than he did.

She hated coffee, and had acquired a taste for tea the English way while staying with a family in Dorset on a foreign exchange when she was fourteen. She liked his hat, but hated his shirt.

And through the next part of the meeting, Mark had kept catching her eye and trying to make her laugh, much to her increasing annoyance.

It was half ten. Time for more coffee it seemed. Wandering back to the refreshment table he wasn’t surprised when he caught sight of her making her way over out of the corner of his eye, but he was surprised when John caught his arm and pulled him to one side.

“Stop flirting with the secretary." John reprimanded with something that could only be described as fond exasperated amusement.

Mark blinked at that. He wasn’t flirting with her. He was... he was flirting with her. With a groan he looked over his shoulder at where she was standing, and caught the smile she shot him. Oh god. He was officially stupid. Deeply stupid. Turning back to John, he sighed and then glared up at the much taller man. “You couldn’t have said something to me a couple of hours ago?"

“A couple of hours ago I thought you had two brain cells to rub together and remembered you had someone waiting at home for you." John shot back without pulling any punches.

“Thanks, that’s helpful." Mark bit out sarcastically.

“Go let her down gently then." John laughed.

“You’re funny. You’re really fuckin’ funny." Mark hissed before turning and making his way over to where Stefanie was making herself a cup of tea. He didn’t want to hurt the poor lass’ feelings, but he really hadn’t meant anything with his flirtations. He’d just been enjoying a good chat, and alright he’d been flattered by the attentions of a beautiful nineteen year old. Wasn’t often these days he got chatted up full stop, let alone by someone like Stefanie. Of course there was the chance she was thinking something similar. Other than John, Mark hadn’t spotted anyone else around that was even vaguely attractive, or under forty. Given the hours she must be working, he was probably the only non-family member even remotely close to her age she’d seen in a while.

Slightly bolstered by that thought, Mark reached the refreshment table and began pouring himself another coffee.

“You’re very cruel." She laughed next to him.

“Me? How am I cruel?" Mark coughed slightly, suddenly wondering if she was a lip reader, or possibly a mind reader.

“You’re going to get me fired." She admonished. “Stop trying to make me laugh."

Turning, Mark put his hands up in surrender, “OK, OK. No more making Stefanie laugh. Got it."

Shaking her head, Stefanie took a sip of her tea, before casting her eyes over the room and then turning a thoughtful gaze on Mark. “Your business partner doesn’t like you talking to me."

No she wasn’t a mind reader, but damn she was astute. Probably a good thing too. If left to his own devices, Mark knew he’d end up saying something stupid. Stefanie’s observation was the perfect opening for him to be bluntly honest. Offering her an apologetic look, he shrugged. “He’s good mates with my partner."

For a moment she just looked at him, tilting her head on one side. Then she sighed and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “There’s an expression in English, isn’t there. The good ones are always married or gay? I’m not sure I want to know which one you are."

Catching the somewhat resigned, but understanding amusement in her voice, and relieved to hear it, Mark couldn’t resist his reply. “Which one would hurt your feelings less?"

“Married obviously." She replied, giving him a pointed look.

“Then I’m married." Mark lied, nodding emphatically as if to make his lie more believable when his tone clearly gave him away. “Very married. Incredibly Married in fact. Feel better?"

“No, because you are so gay." She laughed, a little self depreciatingly.

“Only half gay." Mark threw in.

“What’s the other half?"

“Very aware at this moment that the gay half is not single." Mark offered apologetically. “But thank you by the way, for saying I’m a good one."

Stefanie shrugged. “You’re welcome. He’s a lucky man. He didn’t come here with you?"

“No, No..." Mark shook his head, the idea of Gary tagging along on this trip actually laughable. “He’s a songwriter and producer. He’s away working in London at the moment." Suddenly checking his watch, Mark realised the time, “Actually, right now hopefully he’s on the train home."

“Stefanie."

They both looked over as the big cheese barked out Stefanie’s name, he looked a little impatient.

“Sorry. I have to go." She groaned.

“No problem. And sorry, you know." Mark winced at his own social ineptitude.

“Pfft." She waved him off as she hurried away, leaving Mark with his cooling cup of coffee and a slightly less guilty conscience than he’d had five minutes ago.

Maybe it was because he really wanted to know, or maybe because he just wanted to sooth that itch at the back of his neck, but Mark pulled his phone from his pocket and started to tap out a text message.

‘U on train?’

Sending...Sending.... Sending... Unable to deliver message.

Weird. He had full signal bars. Deciding to try calling, he hit dial and lifted the phone to his ear, looking over towards John. “John, you got signal mate?"

‘I’m sorry, we are unable to connect your call at this time. Please try again later.’

Walking over, John pulled his phone from his pocket and checked it. “Yeah, why?"

“Just tried to send Gary a text, but it wouldn’t send. Can’t get a call through either." Mark explained with a frown. Something unsettling building in the pit of his stomach. It was stupid he knew, but he didn’t like that he couldn’t get through.

“Let me try." John offered.

Mark waited as John brought up Gary’s number, hit dial and waited for it to connect. All too soon, he lowered his phone from his ear. “Unable to connect your call at this time."

“I’m gonna try outside. I need a smoke anyway." Mark huffed, turning away and stalking towards the door. He wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings much beyond getting him to the door, his focus on his phone and repeatedly trying to send the text message. He didn’t notice the crowd around the TV in the main offices until he almost walked into it. It was in his way.

“Mark."

Something about the tone of voice made Mark pause. Looking up finally from his phone, he found himself looking into Stefanie’s worried face.

“Sorry, luv I gotta make a..."

“Your partner." She cut him off. “You said he was getting a train from London this morning?"

“Yeah, why?" Mark hedged, he didn’t like that tone any more than he liked that he couldn’t get a hold of Gary; that she was talking about Gary and using that tone made him feel like someone was pouring led into his stomach.

Instead of replying, Stefanie bit her lip, took his hand in hers and nodded towards the TV screen, drawing Mark’s attention to it for the first time. British ambulances, police tape, people on stretchers, people cradling bleeding wounds, people covered in soot and filth, running and crying. Flashing blue lights and London transport signs. A ticker ran across the bottom of the screen in German, but he didn’t need to be able to read German to be able to know it was London, to read words like Kings Cross, Euston, Edgware Road. There were more, but those in particular slammed into Mark like a sledge hammer.

“What’s happened?" He whispered, his throat too tight to get out anything louder.

“They’re saying. Explosions, on trains. And a bus." She explained equally quietly.

~
~

He walked. Walked in the open air. Feeling it against his face, in his lungs. Sounds echoed in his ears, drowning out the noise of the city. Cries, screams, the shattering of glass, that terrible bang. A balloon a child was holding popped, reverberating in his head, making him cry out and instinctively turn towards the sound as he flinched. The child was crying. The child’s mother looked up from comforting the startled toddler and looked right back at him. Something in her face wasn’t right. She picked up her little one and hurried away.

He kept walking. Crossed the river. Crossed roads. Walking. The sun was shining. It was hot. Not as hot as down there.

One foot in front of the other. He kept walking.

~
~
Mark sat in the back of the Taxi, tucked into a corner, knees drawn up to his chest, his phone seemingly glued to his hand. Frankfurt rushed by outside the window, but he didn’t see it, his eyes were burned with the images he’d seen on the TV.

Absently he tugged on his thumbnail with his teeth. His hands were shaking with the pent up need to explode. But he’d exploded once already. He’d yelled and screamed and sworn and demanded and hollered. Demanded Stefanie translate what was being said on TV. Demanded John get him a flight home. Demanded everyone else fuck off. He didn’t want to talk to anyone else but Gary.

They couldn’t understand. They couldn’t understand the fear inside him. Couldn’t understand what the not knowing was doing to him. Lisa had called. Landlines were working, mobiles weren’t. That had reassured him for a fraction of a second until he remembered that Gary knew how to use a fucking payphone. He’d called Gary’s flat, Elliot had answered. He’d said Gary had over slept, left late. It hadn’t made him feel better. It’d made him feel sick. He’d made Gary late. Elliot had promised to call if he heard anything.

Lisa had called again. No news. Just wanted to tell him they’d decided not to get the kids early from school. No need worry them unnecessarily. He’d wanted to scream at her to get off the phone. But knew she just wanted someone to talk to who wasn’t going mad, like Gary’s family were. She didn’t realise he was going mad too.

He didn’t want to think about the kids but couldn’t help it. They’d already lost their mum, they couldn’t lose their dad too. He couldn’t lose their dad. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

Oh god. How had Gary survived this? How had he sat and watched Dawn slip away from him unable to stop it, unable to help or comfort? How had he sat there and seen his world disappear and not been utterly destroyed by it? Mark knew he had no solid reason to think that Gary was gone but every time he closed his eyes his mind would spin a web of lies and pictures, his life beyond this moment should he receive a call confirming Gary as one of the casualties. Would play out scenario after scenario of fear and pain and death, making him curse every action film he’d ever seen for supplying his imagination with such images to draw from.

His heart hurt. He couldn’t breathe just thinking of it.

He shouldn’t be thinking like this. Jumping the gun. Breathe. Think. The mobile networks were down. The transport system was in chaos. Gary was more than likely fine. He’d call when he could. Breathe. Believe.

He just had to get home. He just had to get home. He couldn’t wait for news here. He had to be home. He had to be with the kids.

He had to know. No matter what else. He had to know.

~
~

He’d reached a door. He didn’t remember stairs, but he knew this door was on the seventh floor. He had keys to it. They were in his hands. When he had looked for them?

He shivered. He did that a lot. The door opened.

“Gary, that you? Gary! Oh thank god."

That was Elliot. Wasn’t he supposed to have driven home by now. “Can I borrow your car?"

Where had that come from? It was a good idea. He needed to get home. He couldn’t walk home. But he could drive home. He didn’t want to get on another train right now.

“No, but you can sit down."

His arms and legs suddenly agreed that sitting down sounded good. Stumbling to the sofa, he dropped into it, his eyes drifting to a picture on the wall. It was strange. He didn’t remember buying it. Not really his taste. Mark’s then. He looked around. More things that looked more Mark than him. There was nothing like that at home. Why wasn’t there more stuff like this at home? He quite liked the abstract statuette of lovers entwined.

“Gary, are you hurt?"

Was he? No. Not really. His hand came up to his forehead. That hurt a bit. But no. He wasn’t hurt. Not like the people in the other train. They’d been hurt. So hurt. That woman. She’d been in and out of consciousness. Was she still hurt? Or had she escaped it, like Dawn had.

NO! Blank thoughts. Empty head. Don’t think.

“No its Elliot. He’s here. Mark... Mark. Mark stop. Mark he... Yeah, by the look of things. He’s OK though. Mark! He’s ok. He’s OK!... No he’s not talking much. I think he’s in shock. Yeah. I’ll watch him. I promise Mark... Gary, its Mark."

Elliot was holding a phone out to him. He brought it to his ear. “’lo?"

“Heya Gaz. You alright bub?"

Was he? Maybe. “I’m fine."

“I’m on my way home OK? I’ll be there in a few hours. You just sit tight with Elliot."

Home. He wanted to go home. Couldn’t though. Elliot wouldn’t give him his car. “I’m not at home. I’m at the flat."

“I know you daft sod. I’ll be there soon though alright. Then we’ll go home together."

He wanted to go home now. He wanted to see Mark now. He didn’t like that those two things didn’t seem to mesh well. He wanted to see the kids. He wanted to stop hearing the bang. He wanted to stop smelling burning flesh. He wanted to find out what happened to that woman. “I need to call my Mum."

“You do. She’s right worried about you, you know."

He hadn’t meant to worry anyone. Why would they be worried? He was fine. Not like the others. Bodies and bodies and bodies. “I bet she is. Sorry, I’m a bit..."

“Go lie down Gaz. I’ll be there soon."

“Right."

“Love you."

“Yeah."

~
~

In the back of a taxi on route to Frankfurt airport, Mark Owen laid his phone down on the seat, raised his hands to his face, and let himself cry.

~
~

He couldn’t stop watching the news. He could barely stand to leave the room even to use the toilet just in case he missed something. Elliot had made him go wash his face. Wash off the dust and soot. He’d been black, literally black with it. He’d changed too. He didn’t want to take the time for a shower, just thrown on an old pair of joggers and t-shirt.

It had been hours. It was early afternoon. He didn’t feel like his head was quite so full of cotton wool anymore. He still couldn’t quite remember how he’d made it back to the flat, but he at least felt like he wasn’t standing one step outside himself. He’d called his mum. She’d scolded him for worrying everyone, but he’d heard her relief behind her words. He’d talked to the kids. That had been hard. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he’d found himself struggling for words to say to them.

He still wanted to go home. It was so very hard to articulate how much he wanted to go home. But he understood why he couldn’t. Even if he felt like getting on a train right now, which he really didn’t, there weren’t any running. Elliot wasn’t going to lend him his car, thanks to having a bump on the head and having turned up at the flat like some kind of space cadet, and all that aside, Mark wasn’t going home, he was coming here.

Now he was waiting and watching. Watching was easier than remembering. Than thinking.

He still wasn’t ready to be thinking. There was too much noise up there to think about anything properly.

A mug appeared in his line of sight, and Gary reached out for it, using his other hand to hold the blanket that was draped over shoulders in place. Sitting down beside him, Elliot put his own mug on the coffee table.

“Still cold?" He asked, giving Gary a careful look up and down.

“A bit" Gary admitted. Shock. That’s what Elliot had said, and there was little point trying to argue the point; he was sitting under a blanket cradling a steaming hot mug of tea when Elliot was sitting there in shorts and T-shirt looking baked. He didn’t feel like he was in shock though. He felt... Not a lot actually. “You don’t have to stay you know."

“And face a seriously pissed off Mark Owen the next time I see him? No thanks. I’ll stay put." Elliot chuckled.

Gary just snorted at that. “What time did he say..."

“No earlier or later than the time I told you five minutes ago." Elliot cut him off.

“God, I sound like the kids on a long car journey don’t I?" Gary groaned. “Sorry."

“But on the plus side you’re talking in full sentences." Elliot joked, “So I’ll put the memory lapses down to the bump on the head." He suddenly paused and squinted his eyes. “You didn’t actually forget that I told you did you? Coz I still think I should have taken you...."

“I don’t need a hospital." Gary glared back. “I’ve had worse from the kids. Leave it now."

Raising his hands in surrender, Elliot picked up his mug and sat back on the sofa. “So, any developments?"

Gary sighed, releasing the tension that had suddenly hunched his shoulders and sat back too.

Waiting and watching.

~
~

There were many ways a person might hope to react in certain situations. They might wish to be stoic, or they might wish to show strength and maturity. They might wish to keep their masculine reserve, or prove their control.

When Mark saw Gary standing in the middle of the open plan kitchen living room, well and whole and not full of holes, he quite frankly couldn’t give a stuff about any of it. He ran.

He threw his arms around the man who had come to mean so much to him, around whom he’d built his life, formed his hopes for the future and to whom he’d entrusted his heart and he crushed them together so he could feel that familiar body against his own. Smell that familiar smell. Run his hands over that familiar back and bury his face in that familiar neck.

Because for all those tears he’d shed in that taxi, for all the cigarettes he’d chain smoked in the last few hours, for all the nails he’s bitten to the quick and all the relief he’d felt, it hadn’t been real until he’d seen it with his own eyes. Holding onto Gary now, he could breathe again.

Stepping back, he held Gary’s face in his hands. “Hey."

“Hey." Gary replied, his hands resting easily on Mark’s hips, his lips quirking into a faint half smile.

Nope. He couldn’t wait another second. He took those lips with his own. Savouring the taste and feel of something that for the longest hour of his life he’d thought he’d lost. Feeling Gary respond with equal fervour. Running his fingers through Gary’s hair, feeling Gary’s large hands pulling them even closer.

“I’ll be off then."

They pulled apart and as one looked over to a very amused looking Elliot. Sliding his hand down Gary’s arm to link their fingers, Mark began to walk towards the much larger man, dragging Gary behind him.

“Hey!" Gary protested with a laugh.

Turning back, Mark shot Gary a silencing look. “I am not letting go of you for the foreseeable future Barlow. Live with it." That said, he continued to lead Gary across the room until he reached Elliot.

He had thanks to give, and then...

He couldn’t think about ‘and then’, except that involved Gary. ‘And then’ would always involve Gary.

~
~

It had taken a couple of hours. But Mark had had to let him go eventually. He hadn’t been happy about it, but Mark hadn’t been happy with getting soot on his hands every time he ran his fingers through Gary’s hair either.

Besides, real life had intruded. Mark had left things in disarray in Germany, and there was only so much John had been able to sort out on his own. So while Mark had made the phone calls he’d needed to, Gary had finally agreed to have a shower.

Alone in the glass cubical, he wished Mark hadn’t let him go. Alone in the glass cubical, he’d started to think.

He thought about the bang again. He thought about the lights going out. He thought about the frightened screams.

He thought about smoke. He thought about how it had filled the carriage, filled his lungs. He thought about being certain he was going to die. He closed his eyes and remembered thoughts that had filled his mind in that moment.

Thoughts of Daniel and Emily. Of how glad he was they weren’t there. How relieved. Of how he desperately wished he’d been able to see them one more time, hold them one more time, shower them with kisses and love. And how selfish he had felt at thinking that.

Thoughts of Dawn. How lucky she had been not to see her death coming, how she’d just slipped quietly away, peacefully, no longer in pain, no longer afraid. How much he still missed her. How easy it would be to breathe deeply and be with her.

Thoughts of Mark. Of the tenderness and care he’d shown him. Of the joy and laughter he’d brought into his life. Of how good he was with the kids, and how his smile made him feel all of fifteen with a silly schoolboy crush. How he’d never told him that. Not once. Never taken the time to tell him. To say three stupid little words that held so much meaning.

Thoughts of family and friends. Regrets and empty dreams.

He remembered being able to breathe again. He thought about the smoke clearing. He thought about the other train.

He thought about the sounds of the people on that train. He thought about the smell of burning flesh and wretched.

He thought about the old black guy too dazed to hear them as they called to him. He thought blood, and limbs and bits.

He thought about the woman on the floor. Mother, wife, lover, sister, daughter. He thought about who she would have been thinking of.

He thought of horror and carnage and the utter pointlessness of it all. He thought of body bags and twisted metal. He thought of how close he’d come and how someone would right this minute be cursing him for surviving, because someone they loved hadn’t.

He thought of all of this. And he cried. Great choking, heaving sobs he was powerless to hold back. He cried until his knees gave out. He cried under the spray until it was turned off. He cried on the floor of the cubical until gentle hands helped him to his feet and wrapped him in a towel. He cried on his feet until he was laid down on a soft bed and a warm body wrapped around him, a quiet voice in his ear offering only reassurance that Mark was there. No platitudes. No empty promises to make it alright.

Nothing could make this alright. How could anything make this alright? How could anything make someone strapping a bomb to themselves and blowing up a train full of random innocent people alright? How could the death of someone’s parent, lover, brother, sister, aunt, uncle, son or daughter, ever be alright? How could being so very very glad it wasn’t him ever be alright?

He cried until he felt the need to talk become so great he couldn’t hold back, and through his tears he let it go. Everything. He couldn’t hold any of it back. Any of it. He needed so desperately for Mark to understand. The relief and guilt. What he’d seen, what he’d heard and smelled and tasted. What he’d thought and felt. And not just today. He cried for the dead, and the people they’d left behind, knowing their hurt all too well. He cried for the injured, for his own fear of what they were now enduring. He cried for Mark, for the realisation of the neglect he’d shown him. He cried for Dawn, and all the harder for the realisation that he had never cried for her before. He cried for himself.

He cried and talked until his voice was spent and his vision greyed. And through all his words, memories, regrets, apologies and confessions, Mark held him. Through his confusion and doubt he just held him. Held him, listened and cried with him.

As exhaustion finally silenced him, eased his sobs to heavy breaths, and slowed his tears from a flood to a trickle, he let himself feel the safety and warmth of those arms without remorse. Sleep crawled at his mind, its blanket falling heavily on him. But as he slipped beneath its comforting oblivion he heard Mark speak for the first time in hours.

“I always knew you loved me you daft sod. You show me every day."

~
~

Outside in the living room, the clock struck midnight, drawing the 7th of July 2005 to a close. The Longest Day. The day London would never forget.

The End

Author's Note: I am aware that I have chosen a very delicate subject matter with this story, and I hope that I have not offended anyone with it. 7/7 is something very close to my heart. My mother was a witness to the tavistock square bus bomb, and knowing she was due to be working in tavistock square that morning, was supposed to have been on the tube, and not being able to reach her until she finally made it home after midday, were the worst few hours of my life. Much of my portrayal of Mark's side of the story has been drawn from my own memories of that wait. Gary's side of the story is in part taken word for word from his autobiography, and I have expanded upon it for narative purposes. It was difficult decision whether or not to write this story at all, but in the end I feel that writing it was the right decision.

This story, its sentiment, and my thoughts throughout writing it, were and are dedicated to the victims, survivors and families of the July 7th London Bombings.

Edgware Road
Aldgate
Russel Square
Tavistock Square

Never Forget. Never Again.

Next Story: Movement