[FIC] Movement - (Towards Home 5) - Barlowen - M - 1/1

[jenexell]

So here it finally is. the fifth story in the towards home series. Sorry for the delay, but my computer died. 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, and for all her support through the evil dialog from hell!

Title: Movement
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: Nothing major beyond the basic warnings for the whole series. See the first story for more info, but basically its slash, there's character death (in the past, and not one of the boys). Other than that, its pretty warning free.

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 :: The Longest Day

Summary: Sometimes you have to stop and look, to see what's really there.



Movement

Bright summer sunshine rained down on the lush and verdant Cheshire countryside. It sparkled in the ripples on water, glinted in droplets of dew. It filtered through thick canopies of leaves to dapple the floors of wooded land with ever changing golden shapes. The only relief from its heat was the softest of cool breezes that ruffled the leaves of the trees and made the long grasses sway, kicking up the scents freshly cut grass, drying straw and something that was uniquely country air.

Jogging to a halt on the stone terrace that spread out from the rear of Delamere Manor and looked over his entire estate, Gary Barlow leant forward and braced his hands on his knees, taking the time to draw steadying even breaths, before exhaling loudly and straightening, bringing his arm up to check his watch. Not a bad time. Not his best, but it was too hot to push it. He’d done a good distance though, considering the heat. About three miles. He could do, and had done, longer distances on the treadmill but who wanted to be inside when the weather was like this and there was a lovely route around the grounds he could take? One that took him pretty much all over, through the wooded area, around the lake and past the pump house. Beautiful.

Hands on hips, Gary tilted his head back, resting for a moment before pulling one foot up behind him and then the other, warming down. He might never have been a fitness freak, still wasn’t now to be honest - running was a means to an ends - but if Howard had managed to ram one thing into his head back in the day and make it stick, it was the importance of a good warm up and warm down.

Later he wouldn’t be able to say exactly what it was he felt stood there bathed in summer sun with the breeze tickling his sweaty skin, but in that moment of complete non-thought he felt something.

A pang in his chest, a prickle at the base of his skull.

A sudden awareness of the quiet.

The faint rustle of leaves, a few birds and nothing else. Not a car passing on the road, not an aeroplane over head. Nothing.

It hit him then. Complete stillness. His parents had taken advantage of the good weather and had gone away for the week. Ian and Lisa were at work. All the kids, his and Ian’s, were all at school or nursery. Mark was off rehearsing with his band, just three weeks to go until his tour kicked off. And there he was standing in the middle of one hundred and seventy two acres.

Completely still.

The only person for at least half a mile in any direction.

The nearest neighbour a road away, the nearest shop over two miles away.

There were no morbid thoughts in his head. No alarming images of dropping dead and not being found for hours. No jarring pangs of loneliness or a sudden profound urges to escape the overwhelming openness of a clear sky. No his thoughts were much softer, a sunrise more than a blinding flash. The dawning of realisation.

Turning slowly he wandered into the house, feeling like he was looking, really looking, at his surroundings for the first time in far longer than he could recall. The transition was striking, going from the open space of the outside to the closed in oppression of the indoors. It shouldn’t be closed in or oppressive; this was a huge house. And yet it was. The rooms were vast but felt small, filled from floor to ceiling.

They should be filled with memory, but they weren’t. They were just filled. He paused by a painting, studying it, trying to recall why he’d bought it, why he’d hung it where he had. Wondering if he liked it, or had bought it for another reason and simply got used to it being there. That he didn’t know and couldn’t remember was disturbing.

He found himself in the main hall, the central point of the house. More crowded rooms were visible through all the open doors, and this space was no better. The walls were filled with art, the floor packed with furniture, the surfaces covered in figurines, statuettes and ornaments. Even the piano which filled the middle of what little space was left was covered. Picking up a tiny porcelain figurine of a cherub blowing a trumpet, he rolled it over in his hand, studying it with a raised eyebrow and a faint slightly bemused smile on his lips.

He placed the figurine down again, making sure to carefully realign it with its siblings. Moving on and around to the business end of the piano, he lifted the lid, wincing as he caressed a couple of keys only to be rewarded with the grand’s protests at not having been used for so very long, and not having been tuned in even longer. That was no way to treat such a beautiful old lady, especially one who’d been with him so long. Pianos were supposed to be played, not just polished. He made a mental note to call in a tuner, closed the lid and stepped away, something like guilt, but at the same time not, driving him from the old lady’s side.

Floorboards creaked under his feet, various clocks ticked; the only sounds in the empty house. He had no destination in mind, no specific room he was headed to; he just drifted, occasionally stopping to stare at a picture or touch a piece of furniture.

So much stuff. Years and years of compulsive spending. Not just art, furniture and antiques, but rooms filled with CDs he’d never listened to, or only listened to once. A room devoted to keyboards he had no reason to keep beyond the sentimental; these days he could replicate each of their unique sounds by selecting the make and model from a drop down menu on his computer but there they all were; each in their own custom fitted sliding wooden tray in their specially made storage units.

Every room he entered was filled to bursting but somehow felt empty and devoid of something crucial. There wasn’t a space unfilled, a surface uncovered. The story of his life mapped out in things. He stopped by the grandfather clock on the upstairs landing, and although he could hear it ticking, could see the pendulum swing, he found himself checking it against his watch to see if it had stopped.

It hadn’t, and he resisted the sudden urge to open the case and still the pendulum. He moved on. His bedroom. The kids rooms. Mark’s old room with its A3 sugar paper door sign still on the door, standing out in vibrant contrast to the rest of the rich decor; the words ‘MacMac’s Room’ were emblazoned on it in poster painted and glitter coated macaroni.

Downstairs again, kitchen, family room. The long hallway down to what would have been the servants quarters, now the studio spaces. Spaces, not space. Storage cupboards full of mics, amps, more keyboards. Mark’s little writing room with its hundreds of photos, mixed up with pictures the kids had drawn, magazine clippings and newspaper cuttings on the dark brown painted walls, red curtains beside large windows. Ratty old couch covered in an Asian print throw. Lots of cushions and pillows. No Carpet. An old upright piano, the desk and chair, two isolated pieces of artwork and a number of small abstract ornaments; all rescued from Mark’s house before the builders had moved in.

His studio. Pictures on the walls, photos of the people he’d worked with, the official photo of he and Mark holding their award for the score and song they’d written for that film Mark’s Canadian director friend had made. They hadn’t gone to Canada to collect it. The picture had been taken right here in this room. Why hadn’t they gone again? They could have taken the kids skiing. The ATAT on the bookshelf. His framed copy of the original Starwars movie score. His Ivor Novello awards in their very understated display case. Emily’s duplo town in the corner, pictures she and Dan had drawn on the walls above. Every other space filled with the most up to date equipment a studio could need, mixed in with pieces he’d bought through the years and found himself reluctant to update or get rid of.

Back out. Back along the hall of fame. The hall of shame. Silver, Gold, Platinum disks along one side of the hallway. Over and over again. So many, from so many different countries, many of them accompanied by photographs of five beaming very young men. Boys. Just boys really. But damn they’d been good at what they did. The disks filled the walls. Crammed together, their frames touching. There were more in one of the storage cupboards, ones that wouldn’t fit. The other side, his side alone, was starkly bare by comparison.

Into the walled garden, past the primary coloured plastic children’s play equipment and back out onto the terrace and its views of the immaculate sweeping empty grounds. The obelisk, the lawns, the avenue, the lake.

He found himself turning back and forth, looking up at the house, over the grounds, and back again. His hand drifted to play with the ring on its chain around his neck, a year and a half since the ring had come off his finger. His thumb ran over the place on his hand where it had sat. There wasn’t even a dent there now.

He thought about the last time he’d worn any ring at all. Elton’s white tie and tiara ball last year. Expensive watch, expensive rings, expensive cufflinks, expensive suit. He hadn’t wanted to go. Mark had nagged and pushed and blackmailed until he’d agreed, but only on the condition Mark went with him.

Mark had tried to convince him he might meet someone there. Mark had been happily playing cupid at every opportunity back then. But Gary had already been starting to realise that he had met someone. Someone incredibly special.

They’d had so much fun that night. They had so much fun a lot of nights. They also had quiet nights. Serious nights. Tired nights. He thought about crying in Mark’s arms.

It hit him again then. In the continued quiet and stillness. Once again struck as he stood the only living soul for half a mile in any direction, looking up at his pop star’s mansion with its pop star’s grounds. With its rooms crowded with antiques and artwork he wasn’t especially attached to, but had at some point felt he just had to have. Who was he trying to impress? He wasn’t a pop star. He hadn’t been one for a very long time and had no desire to be one again.

With its miles of fencing, security gates, cameras and alarms. Who was he hiding from? Who was he afraid of? Those gates, cameras and alarms hadn’t kept him safe last week. They hadn’t stopped him from seeing what he’d seen on that train. The grace of god, pure bloody luck, they’d kept him safe, at least from physical harm. They’d brought no comfort either. Comfort had come in Mark’s arms, in seeing his children safe and well. Comfort came every night since when he heard the bang in his dreams, and Mark had pulled him back to the bed, helped him calm his breathing and return to sleep. All this space, behind all that security, and the place he felt safest was currently rehearsing in a rented shed in Manchester. The house itself, the distance it granted him from everything outside, the fences and gates, cameras and alarms, they’d all had kept the world at bay when he’d wanted them to, when he’d needed them to, but now they felt enclosing, like they were keeping him in.

Ten years he’d owned this house. Ten years. Ten years since the end of Take That, almost. Ten years since Rob walked out at any rate. Ten years since he and Dawn had finally got it together. Ten years since he’d seen this place, with its lake and land and thought of another much bigger house, with a much bigger lake, belonging to a much much bigger star who he’d modelled himself around. Ten years since he’d found his fortress in which he could happily pretend to be Cheshire’s answer to Elton John.

Well, if Elton John had ever been in a boy band, or was married with two children, then a widower with two children.

But was it Gary Barlow? Was it Gary Barlow now, not the Elton John wannabe, not Frodsham’s boy wonder, not the teen heartthrob, ‘the next George Michael’, or the press’ favourite point of ridicule, but Gary Barlow, father to Daniel and Emily, partner to Mark, songwriter and producer?

Thinking about it, much of the house bore the mark of Dawn Barlow, her memory filled the place, her subtle influence pervaded. The house had never really been theirs, it had always been his, but her essence lingered in every room.

That the house was home to children wasn’t obvious at first glance, or at second or third glance if he were honest, but their presence was felt. More blatantly in some rooms than in others.

Very little was Mark Owen.

And he beginning to feel it wasn’t him either.

~
~

“Are you happy here?”

Mark remained lent over the pool table, not as low as he had been, but still lent over as he watched the balls; hearing the satisfying click as the white hit its target, but then the dull thump as his ball missed the pocket and bounced elsewhere. Twisting his lip and wrinkling his nose in a disappointed expression, he sighed and straightened up properly, holding his cue upright and curling his arm around it to lean on. “Sorry Gaz, what?”

Moving around the table to line up his own shot, Gary didn’t answer until he was ready to shoot. “Are you happy, living here?”

That made Mark pause, and he drifted over to the side table to pick up his wine glass before he answered. Taking a sip, he frowned, lowering the glass to cradle it against his chest. “That’s a hell of a question to ask outta nowhere.”

Gary took his shot, perhaps a little more forcefully than was necessary. “Well, are you?”

“Am I happy?” Mark repeated thoughtfully, a little cautiously, watching Gary’s ball roll into the pocket giving Gary another shot, and giving himself time to light a cigarette. “Yeah. Course I am.”

This room and his writing room were the only two rooms in the house he was allowed to smoke in. Well that wasn’t technically true, Gary hadn’t ever said he couldn’t smoke in the house, just asked that he not smoke in front of the children, which he completely understood. This room and his writing room were the only rooms the children never went in.

That wasn’t the only reason he liked this room though. This was the adults only room, the games room. It was dark, wood panelled, very traditional, like an old style gentlemen’s club. Huge extremely comfortable brown leather couches, one of which faced the massive flat screen TV, pool table, a real full bar. This was the room they retreated to once the kids were in bed. Where they could kick back and watch the footy, or a film that had something higher than a U rating. Where they had playful wars over which CD to play, and could unwind after a long day with a drink and game of pool.

This was the room where they could, and often did, talk about things that shouldn’t be discussed in front of the kids. Mark had thought they might be in for one of those serious discussions ever since he’d come home tonight. He’d been late, not unexpectedly, but later than he’d planned - the traffic had been murder. The kids had already been in bed by the time he’d walked in the door and a little unexpectedly, Gary had decided to wait for him to have dinner. Gary never waited for him to eat dinner. Not because he was impatient to eat, but because he had very firm beliefs about family meal times.

But that on its own hadn’t been enough to clue him in; it had been the combination of that and Gary’s mood. Not that he could pinpoint what it was about Gary’s mood that had made him suspicious, but there had just been a vibe as they’d sat in the kitchen. Actually he could pinpoint it now that he thought about it, Gary had been quiet. Gary had been a lot of things in the last week - extremely attentive, slightly clingy, surprisingly upbeat, clearly very glad to be alive, full of energy and drive - but quiet wasn’t one of them.

It hadn’t been a miserable or morose kind of quiet or an angry kind of quiet. It had been a kind of pensive, observant quiet, leaving Mark with the impression he was being studied. It hadn’t been silence though, they’d chatted but Gary’s contribution had been limited. Now Gary was asking if he was happy here? Why all of a sudden did he feel the need to ask? Frowning, Mark rested his cigarette in the ashtray, took another quick sip of his wine and moved back over to the table. “What’s brought this on?”

“I guess...” Gary sighed, stepping back to let Mark past him as he looked for his shot. “I guess I was wondering if you’d be happier. Somewhere else.”

Having just lined up his shot, Mark stilled, stretched over his cue, turning his head to look at Gary and blowing a puff of air upwards to shift a piece of hair that had just fallen across his eye. “Somewhere else.”

“Yeah.” Gary confirmed.

Something painful clenched in Mark’s gut. Gary was being evasive. Obtuse. Quite frankly it made him nervous. His question had two meanings Mark could think of and neither sat well. Either Gary was asking Mark if he wanted to leave, or was asking him to leave. Nervous and angry. After everything, especially the events of last week either possibility was, simply put, an insult. Turning back to his shot, Mark scowled at the white ball. He was too tired for this shit. “If by somewhere else you mean somewhere you and the kids aren’t...” It was his turn to hit the cue ball with a touch too much force, not really caring what it hit as he stood up. “...Then the answer is no. There is no bloody way I’d be happier somewhere else. That answer your question?”

“Markie no...”Gary shook his head stepping towards him. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Leaning his cue against the table, Mark folded his arms across his chest and levelled Gary with a deeply unimpressed look. “Then what did you mean?”

Gary paused in his advance, Mark’s body language screaming at him to keep his distance. “I meant us. The four of us. You me, the kids... I wanted to know if you were happy living here, or would be happier if we lived somewhere else.”

Narrowing his eyes, Mark’s expression lost its hard edge and turned thoughtful, his momentary anger and pang of insecurity lost under the weight of a sudden and surprising revelation. “Just so we’re clear, are we talking about moving? House? Leaving here?”

“Yes exactly.” Gary confirmed.

“Your shot.” Mark nodded at the table, giving himself a temporary reprieve. He needed a drink. Pushing away from the table, Mark crossed back to where he’d left his wine and cigarette. Seeing that the latter was half burnt down, he flicked off the ash, took a drag then reached for his glass. Turning back around, he ran his hands through his hair, watching Gary’s back as he stooped low over his cue. “Do you really mean that? Don’t answer for a sec, alright? Just think about it. Is that something you really want? To let this place go?”

“Honestly?” Gary sighed. Having pocketed a ball, he moved around the table, squinting as he eyed up possibilities. “I don’t know... But I think I need to” Line up. Draw Back. Clip to the side. “... damn. You’re up.”

Stubbing out his cigarette, Mark picked up his cue, but his mind wasn’t really on the game anymore. Even as he positioned himself, his eyes kept darting over to Gary who had wondered over to the bar to pour himself another Jack Daniels and Coke. Small measure of Jack, large amount of coke. The man was still a lightweight, but unlike many lightweights Mark knew, at least Gary was aware of it.

To be honest he was a little surprised at how relaxed Gary was about this conversation. This was important. Momentous. What Gary was talking about was huge. Even bigger than agreeing to spend ten days in Utah working with Donny Osmond last year and that had been a battle neither he nor Elliot had actually thought they would win. When Gary had finally agreed, they’d both been so shocked they’d almost given Gary enough room to wriggle out of it. But they weren’t talking about leaving for ten days this time; they were talking about leaving for good.

To be honest, this was never a conversation he’d expected to have; the thought of Gary ever wanting to leave Delamere had never even crossed his mind. This house was Gary’s refuge, his safe place to hide away from a world that in the last decade had been far from kind to him and that had been something Mark had understood and accepted going into their relationship. Gary, the kids and the house all came together. Now Gary was saying the house didn’t have to be part of the package, and Mark wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

It wasn’t that he felt some kind of attachment to this place. Putting aside the fact that it had become his home, his only investment in Delamere was an emotional one, and that investment was in the people who lived here, not the building itself. Thinking back the only building he’d ever considered ‘home’ purely on the basis that it was ‘his house’ was the house in the lakes, and that had unsurprisingly lost its charm when it almost fell on his head. So no, he wasn’t really fussed about leaving here. But he was worried about why Gary would want to.

“Then what is this about?” He asked quietly, holding Gary’s cue out for him to take. As Gary came back over and took it, Mark continued. “Don’t get me wrong Gaz, that you’re thinking about this. It’s amazing. But I don’t want you to do this because you think it’s something I want, you know? This is your home. You love it here, you’re happy here. Why would you want to move?”

“I...” Gary paused, gathering his thoughts as he studied the table. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try.” Mark prompted, stepping up to the table and leaning his hip against the edge. Something Mark had learned about Gary in the time he’d lived here - in the time they’d been friends and then lovers - was that sometimes Gary needed to work up to things, and sometimes the only thing to do was give him the time he needed to do that. Of course there were also times when what he needed was an old fashioned kick in the arse, but part of loving Gary was learning when to connect your size nine with his posterior and when to wait him out. He was a deeply private person; it was just who he was - a product of his nature and upbringing. Exposing the deeper parts of himself wasn’t something Gary would ever find easy to do. Mark knew though, that now wasn’t time to put the boot in. He wasn’t sure how he knew, he just did.

“I feel like I’ve hit a wall.” Gary began a little cryptically. Line up. Draw back. Check angle. Gentle tap on the cue ball.

“A wall.” Mark repeated, half question, half statement.

“Like I’ve come to a point where I can’t go any further.” Gary tried to clarify, then seeing Mark’s still confused face, he huffed as he straightened from his shot, leaning on his cue. As Mark walked past him to find his own shot, Gary reached out and ran his hand down Mark’s arm, hanging onto his fingers for second until Mark gave a little smile and moved out of reach. “I do love this house, and I am happy living here with you and the kids, but I walked round this place today and I just felt... I don’t know. Smothered maybe? Trapped? Does that make any sense?”

“I’m gonna be honest, Gaz” Mark replied, turning to face the slightly older man. “No.”

Gary seemed to pause for a moment in indecision and then walked up to Mark, taking his cue from his hand and placing it along with his own on top of the table.

“Sit up.” He commanded softly, and instantly understanding what Gary meant, Mark placed his hands on the table behind himself and pushed himself up to sit on the edge, grinning a little when Gary slid his hands along his thighs and came to stand between them; those large hands finally coming to rest on his hips as Mark looped his arms around Gary’s neck. “Behave you. We’re having a serious conversation.”

“Didn’t say a word.” Mark denied with mock offence.

“I know that look, Marko.” Gary grinned back, giving Mark’s thighs a squeeze. “You were the one who wanted an explanation. Remember that.”

For the fun of it, Mark threw Gary a pout, but his words belied his expression. “So come on then. Explain.”

“Alright, but bear with me OK? Because I’m not sure how much sense this makes.” Gary almost pleaded, sobering.

“Not goin’ anywhere.” Mark soothed, lifting one hand to gently run his fingers through Gary’s hair.

Taking a deep breath, Gary began to speak. “It’s like... This house is all about the past. My past. All the reasons I had for buyin’ it, for living here, they’re not relevant now. And I don’t want them to be relevant. I know I have a good life, don’t get me wrong. I have two beautiful children, an amazing partner, who for some reason puts up with me, and I love him so much for that...”

Swallowing a little stiffly, Mark offered Gary a gentle smile and stroked his fingers down the man’s cheek. No it wasn’t the first time Gary had said those words to him, the first time had come through a curtain of tears last week after what Mark considered one of the most frightening, if not the most frightening days of his life. But that didn’t matter. To hear Gary say it still made something warm and chokingly pleasant ball in his chest. Because Gary wasn’t a man to use those words lightly.

Catching Mark’s fingers with his own, Gary continued. “I have a job that I love, one that I’m bloody good at. But I know there’s more out there. I know there can be more to my life than living with one foot in my past and I can’t find it hiding away from the world in here. That’s not how I want to spend the rest of my life. But if I stay here, that’s what will happen.”

“So what do you want?” Mark asked softly.

“I want to start again somewhere.” Gary replied with conviction. “You, me and the kids. I want us to find a house somewhere, and build a life, a real life. Something that’s ours. Not you trying to fit yourself into my life. Not you trying to work yourself in around the life of the widower, the single father, the failed popstar and boring one from Take That.”

“Gary.” Mark scolded, yanking a piece of his hair and narrowing his eyes. As far as Mark was concerned, no one was allowed to say things like that about Gary, and that included Gary himself.

“But that’s the point.” Gary scowled, rubbing his head. “If I stay here that’s all I’ll ever be, and no matter what we do, you’ll never be more than my live in lover, because this will never really be your home. I don’t want that. I don’t want it for myself, for you, for us. What I want is for us to be us. Mark and Gary, the singer-songwriter and his partner the music producer living in our home with our children, living our lives. That’s the life I want.”

Nodding, Mark took a couple of breaths to calm the lump that formed in his throat.

“I think I like the sound of that.”

The End

Next Story : The Choice