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- Follow Me
Sunrise
It can’t take more than a few steps to reach his door. Two leaping strides, you judge from your memories of the racing competitions that took place earlier on in the week, when spirits were higher. You didn’t join in though, it wasn’t your thing. They competed, softly berating each other as they went, and you just watched. Sidelines Barlow, you christened yourself in a moment of indulgent self-pity. That’s all you are to them. You’re not sure how or when or why this separation occurred but it’s there and it makes you feel guilty. Because you know that to them it feels as though you’ve placed yourself on some pedestal too high for them to reach. Yet still you find yourself counting every footstep to his door. You go to him because there is no one else to go to. Or at least, that’s what you conclude. You feel guilty too, about the argument, about the heated exchange of words. You don’t expect an apology from him though, he doesn’t owe one and that much you reluctantly admit because everyone knows that when someone argues with him it’s usually their fault. He’s as strong-willed as any man but he is incurably understanding and pathologically reasonable. No. When someone argues with him it’s usually their fault. And when you argue with him? It’s definitely your fault.
Your nervous hands half-stumble as you knock upon his door and you briefly wonder to yourself what it is like to be loved by him. Because you don’t think you are. Liked, occasionally. Perhaps he even feels a mild affection from time to time. But he can’t possibly love you, certainly not right now. You wonder what it would feel like to know his love, to have that calm and gentle assurance. To be loved by him – by any of them – was different to being loved by your family. Your family’s love is guaranteed. You still appreciate it, you still seek comfort from it, perhaps even bask in it from time to time. But it will still be there even if you do nothing to earn it. His love is not so easily won but a lot more easily shaken off. You wonder how long it’s been slipping through your fingers – because he did love you once, didn’t he? And then his face appears in the dimness of the doorway. The harsh hotel light dances awkwardly off his face, leaving his jaw all angles. His eyes are neither bright nor brilliant. Not like they should be. No. Slate grey and hollow – why’s that? The lighting? The horrendous time of night? Or is it just your effect on him?
Over his shoulder you see Howard spread out on his bed like some fallen supernova. His body is sprawled out languidly across the sheets, tangled and flopping lazily off the sides. His face is obscured by the bracken of dreadlocks amassed upon his pillow and he snores lightly into its plumpness. He shifts a little at the shaft of light cast into the room, mumbling something incoherent, and at that slight sound Jason’s head turns from you slowly, an affectionate smile dances briefly in between the angles of his face before he turns back and looks at you once more.
“Look I’m...I’m sorry about...” you begin, trying to address the argument, trying to explain why you were so unwilling to listen. But then you remember; as strong-willed as any man. Perhaps that and then some. No amount of understanding or reasoning could change the tiny streak of stubbornness in him. After all, isn’t that partly why it’s him you admire so much? You find a defiance in him, a determination that demands admiration from somewhere inside your gut.
“It’s late,” he offers emptily and you decide that you need some excuse, some reason other than peacemaking to be here, because peacemaking, you realise now, cannot be done upon waking someone up in the small hours.
“Mark’s um...Mark’s not in the room...” you try but there’s a sudden flash in his eyes and you wonder what trap you could possibly have walked into now.
“He met a girl down in the hotel lobby. If you tell Nigel you’ll live to regret it – I’m covering for him if it comes to that,” he mutters and you feel a stab of guilt that he thinks you should need threatening in order to keep quiet. You’d needed cover enough times, you owed them! What made him think you would be so heartless? Had you given them much reason to think otherwise though?
“Oh...I er...thanks for the warning...” you stammer. He eyes you sharply but you can’t help but feel there’s a touch more softness to his look.
“You’re his roommate. You should be the one covering for him,” he points out in a whisper. Ah. So Mark doesn’t trust you either then. But then Mark hasn’t really trusted anyone all that much since Robbie left. Well. Anyone except Jason. He trusts Jason to sit there and listen and understand and not judge and definitely not tell a soul.
“Sorry...” you sigh, looking at your feet. Suddenly you’re fascinated with the hotel carpet.
“Come on Barlow, in,” he sighs after a beat and you look up just in time to see the tiny shake of his head, his barely-there smile, as he nods into the room. You smile back, a little wider than his smile but you can’t help the rush of relief. Because as soon as you see that tiny glimmer in his eyes you know that his understanding, reasonable, not-hurt-a-fly streak has finally subdued his wilfulness. And you know that your wrongs have been put aside, if not forgotten.
You leave his room at sunrise. Howard still lolling dozily on the bed like a faithful family hound. Jason’s guard dog. You get the impression that the two of them were waiting for your reluctant knock and Howard was ready to pounce, round on you, defend Jason, scare you back to your own room, back to watch Mark’s empty bed and contemplate the mistrust you had spread. But, in the end, for all that Howard had offered Jason companionship and unquestioning loyalty, he had not been able to stave off sleep. And that was how you ended up talking with him until daybreak. He looked at the dapple of purples and golds with tired eyes and sighed a sigh that revealed the strain of his emotions. So you left him at sunrise and you knew you were somehow neglecting something by not asking him to share his troubles with you instead.
***
The silence that stretches between you and him is no secret. Two hours in a car, maybe more, and you’d be on his doorstep. And yet you make no move. The silence is so deafeningly normal to you that sometimes you almost forget that there was a time when you did see each other, when you lived out of each other’s pockets. You know he sees Howard. He saw Mark not too long ago. But there’s a silent understanding between all four of you that, whilst hard feelings are scarce, it was definitely you who made this sorry silence of our friendship a way of life and you who should therefore put an end to it. You’re sitting in your car when it finally dawns on you and you briefly entertain the idea of a little get-together, all four of you round the table, good wine and good laughs. But you don’t think they’re quite ready for that. They’re just getting used to being their own people, they’re just starting to relax into their dream of life outside that mad bubble of fame. Briefly your fingers dance on the steering wheel. You know the places you need to go, the people you have said you will visit, the things that need to be done. But whilst your head makes lists of places and times and things to get at the shops, your heart beats a steady pace that you could have sworn spells out his name.
You try and ignore it all day, the solemn tapping of it against your ribcage. You feel sure that if any doctor pressed a stethoscope to your chest they wouldn’t find a heartbeat, just his voice. Funny that, because you never thought it when he was actually in your life and you have no reason to now. Except for a nagging need in the pit of your stomach to see him, to confirm that yes, you are in fact still a friend of his. Somewhere inside you there’s a pang of worry that maybe you are no longer within range of his heart, however far-reaching he keeps it. And he does. Family, extended family, friends of the family, friends of his own from long ago and from more recent times. Somewhere he must keep some chart with all their photographs on, you’re sure. He must pluck pictures off when they become faded though, must have to in order to keep track of it all. He couldn’t afford to keep a silence-spinner like you up there. Howard had made the effort, Mark had bobbed up just in time to keep his place. It takes you until very late in the day to decide to do the same.
It’s some time into the drive before you realise it’s probably a little longer than two hours and for a moment panic pervades you as you wonder if it’s going to be yet another night spent hovering in Jason Orange’s doorway muttering apologies about waking him up. But he’s always been something of a night owl, that can’t have changed. In any case, the silence was becoming unbearable, you remind yourself as you stand outside, your knuckles hovering just in front of the door. You suspect he’d know that apologetic knock anywhere, and sure enough his face harbours little confusion as it finds you stood before him in the grey-scattered night.
“You bastard; do you know what time it is?! You could have bloody rung first!” he scolds you bluntly but a small grin slowly cracks his features and there’s a twinkle in his eyes, although you can’t help but wonder if that’s got more to do with the moonlight than your arrival. Still, he lets you in and folds you into his inviting warmth. You glance around for any sign of that chart, wondering if he has just now stuck your picture back up with the rest. But as he busies himself with the kettle you decide that was a mad idea; Jason Orange surely wouldn’t be so fickle.
He shakes his head softly at you and rolls his eyes. How many times have you seen him do that? He reminds you that phones are the most normal method of absolving one’s random bouts of missing someone’s company and you want to try and explain to him. You decide not to tell him about the heartbeat thing, determined not to sound like a total idiot, so instead you explain about the stretching silence and he watches you with calm blue eyes, a strange curve to his lips. Bugger. Understanding fills the pause that he leaves after your little speech and you know that somehow, God knows how, he knows about the heartbeat thing.
“We’re still mates, despite the bullshit though, you know? So the silence didn’t seem right and I thought...since I was in my car already...” you shrug after a beat. He nods silently, that peculiar half smile still lingering on his lips, before handing you a steaming mug of something that smells a lot like camomile tea.
“Here, drink this. It takes the edge off,” he assures you with amusement to his tone. You raise an eyebrow and meet his eyes for the first time since you got here.
“The edge off what?” you frown and he sips quietly at his own drink.
“Life,” he remarks astutely and for a moment you’re frozen. How did he know that you felt like the weight of the world was on your shoulders? How did he know you weren’t your best right now? How did he...how did he still know you so well? You shake your head an stare deep into the camomile tea.
“Oh Jay, what would the you of days-gone-by think if he came and took a peek at you now?” you sigh but Jason’s forehead merely creases into the briefest of frowns.
“That I am what I was always going to be, in all the important ways at least. Maybe less arrogant but that’s never a bad thing,” he tells you with another sip and you have to agree. Jason has, in all the right ways, grown up into the man people expected him to be. Thoughtful and honest, intelligent and sympathetic. Trustworthy. The phrase you’re searching for is ‘a good man’. Or maybe ‘a good friend’ would be a better thing to say. He holds those rare values tightly against the shifts of the world, prizes them more than any superficial titles gained from jobs or habits or circles of friends.
“You’re probably right,” you concede. And then he looks at you, another one of those understanding little glances you’re slightly scared of.
“And what about you? What would you make of yourself if you could see you now?” he prompts gently and you swallow. You know he doesn’t expect you to answer him as he turns away to busy himself with nothing at all. But it gets to you all the same. You don’t think you’ve quite turned out how you might have expected yourself to. Not in the ways that really matter. But you’re not a bad person, you’re just not Jason. The jobs, the habits, the circles of friends. They matter more to you.
You don’t get home ‘til sunrise. You’re not sure how long he let you talk, how long he joined in with easy conversation before packing you back off home with a parting smile and silent worry. He’s good at that, the silent worry. It’s his way of caring. His way of caring deeply, in fact, although you wonder briefly if that’s just you flattering yourself. But no, silent worry is just a part of Jason’s love and you think he’s gotten better at it with time. He’s grown up in your eyes somehow and no matter how hard you try and dismiss it as being down to the scrub of stubble that now grazes his jawline you know that something somewhere has changed. You close your door at sunrise and, sadly, you note that you’re somehow shutting him out with the daylight. For now that’s how you’ll deal with change, even if it means closing out his silent fretting too.
***
God it’s a long time until you see him again. Too much time and too much distance; two long car journeys and a long haul flight were just part of what was involved before you come to his door again. When you knock and there’s no answer, you find yourself slightly surprised. He’s always been there for you before, why should he not be now? For a moment some irrational fear takes you over and you worry that he has transferred the affections and sympathies that are the trappings of his friendship to someone else. Those affections are irretrievable and irreplaceable. The thought gets to you and for the first time in a long time you realise there’s a niggling hole where his friendship used to be. Where all of them used to be. They are achingly missing from your life and you find yourself almost entirely overwhelmed by the sensation of loss. It’s been so long they probably don’t even remember your name. But that’s not true, something dusty and forgotten inside your head reminds you. There’s something about the four of you that never seems to get lost, it just sits there quiet and dormant until you find yourselves together again. It’s his doorstep you’ve come to though. Yet again. You’re not sure what to read into that and briefly you waver, calculating in your head how long the drive is to Mark’s place, trying to recall in your mind which of Howard’s phone numbers is the one you should use. You spend so long calculating these things that it’s actually starting to go dark. You laugh at your own ridiculous behaviour. He could be out ‘til any hour, he could even be out of the country. You shake your head and pinch the bridge of your nose. You will go. Just one more minute. Maybe two.
You’re not sure how many ‘Just one more minute’ promises you’ve made to yourself by the time you finally hear it; the soft scuffle of disbelieving footsteps. You look up and sure as anything you meet his face. He’s hardly changed, you’re reassured to find. Perhaps a little more stubble. The lines of his face are slightly harder now but that only adds to the reassurance you find in it. Those eyes are still sharply blue. A messenger bag is slung across his thin frame and briefly you wonder if it’s his ribs you can see just below the surface of that tight shirt. He mutters something along the lines of ‘What is it with you and phoning first?’ but still he manages to hide whatever level of surprise he feels. You guess that he’s been expecting you for a while now. There isn’t a newspaper in the country that hasn’t stamped on you and mocked you and left you for broken beyond repair. He’s probably polite enough to ignore their jibes. A good enough friend not to write you off completely. A sensible enough mind to expect the tide to wash you up at his door.
He watches you a moment as he fishes out his keys from his bag, eyes bright and alert to every little detail about you that’s changed. You don’t carry your shoulders as squarely as he does. You certainly don’t carry them as squarely as you used to. He takes a mental note of that as he opens the door.
“You’re in luck, there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge,” he informs you as he disappears into the house and you smile slightly, following him. Jason’s touch is all over this place; a groaning bookshelf, a tidy CD wrack that’s close to overflowing, a TV with a thin layer of dust across the screen and a guitar tucked quietly into a corner. Something about the modest peace of the place suits him down to the ground.
After a while he hands you a glass and you smile at him gratefully.
“Will this take the edge off?” you ask with a troubled laugh. He looks at you a moment, recognising his own words and perhaps even realising the small note of hope with which you use them.
“No. But if you’re lucky it’ll make you numb for a while,” he tells you honestly and you smile back faintly. He doesn’t pour a glass of wine for himself straight away and instead he watches you carefully, trying to judge what damage the years have done to you. You’re a battered specimen, that much you know. You hope he doesn’t see that. He does though. Any of them could. You remember that when you ran into Mark a while back, the poor man had needed a full minute to truly recover from the shock of seeing you with so many pieces hacked out of you. Jason doesn’t seem so surprised though. For a moment you wonder if he saw it coming. But no one’s that good, not even Jason, and you sigh into your wine glass.
“When did life get so crap, Jay?” you frown and Jason arches an eyebrow. You debate rephrasing it; ‘When did my life get so crap?’ is probably more accurate. Jay’s life doesn’t seem to be. He looks ok. Maybe more than ok, actually. He looks happy. More content than he was towards the end of our career together. They all do, when you really think about it. They’re all contented. Or they seem to be. They’re very good at making themselves seem happier than you anyway. But that’s not hard, you remind yourself pitifully. Jason draws a breath and folds his arms.
“Well I hope you’re not looking for a miracle cure,” he warns quietly. You smile at the mixture of concern and reprimand that is laced through his tone.
“You’re my miracle cure,” you explain softly, trying to not look at him as you say it. He pauses a moment and a flicker of a smile flits through his heart. Then he turns away to pour his own glass.
“Doesn’t take much to get you drunk does it Gaz,” he says and you take comfort in the understanding that you know he secretly has.
“You expecting company?” you ask after a moment and you wave a vague hand at the wine bottle. You know he doesn’t drink any more, expect on special occasions. He tilts his head to one side.
“Well...I was expecting you,” he shrugs and for a moment the pair of you lock eyes.
“You take the edge off,” you whisper and part of you hopes he doesn’t hear you. But of course he does. His smile twitches a little in fond recognition of the sentiment before he turns away from you in a beautiful display of tact that makes you smile.
He packs you off at sunrise. God knows why he’s up that early but you don’t complain because he let you sleep on his sofa and he even gives you tea and biscuits before he makes you leave. He reminds you that you have a family and you wonder, momentarily, if the comment about him being your miracle cure has got him all on-edge with guilt. Guilt is the other thing he’s good at and you suppose it goes hand in hand with the worry. But you know his heart is in the right place, even if his head gets scrambled crossways from time to time. So you drive off into the distance at sunrise and try to pack away all those emotions for another few years or so.
***
Eventually he arrives and it’s all four of you again – or at least it’s one and three drunkards. Two hours after the rest of you got there he treads tentatively in and surveys the wreckage of you all. Howard’s leaning dangerously to one side whilst Mark is about two giggles away from either choking or doing a celebratory jig on the table in his fancy stacked heels. He raises an eyebrow and slides in next to you, you suppose this could be because he can sit opposite Howard that way or maybe because you look the least plastered but a small part of you hopes it’s because he wants to be next to you. Howard’s pointing at him in that way that drunken people do, one eye semi-closed as he tilts his head and pulls a face at Jason, labelling him ‘late’ then ‘slacker’ then ‘genius’ before jumping abruptly at the sound of Mark’s bright laugh. Mark swears that you’re not as drunk as you all look and Jason regards him sceptically. You see the frisson of nervousness run through him at Mark’s disclaimer and it’s as if he can sense the disruption, the change that listening to the three of you could bring him if he doesn’t get out now. But he doesn’t get out. He stays at your side with some sense of intrigue and a little – possibly misguided – trust.
You watch with amusement as Howard shamelessly mocks each one of the group, paying special attention to making Jason blush of course. It’s so easy, after all. Your ears prick up at the sound of Mark’s warm laugh, crackly and bright and oh-so-inviting. Jason’s eyes fix briefly on yours and for a moment you entertain the idea of offering him a proper drink, promising him it’ll take the edge off of what he is tentatively agreeing to here. Mark starts singing then and the moment is lost as Howard briefly joins in before collapsing into laughter, Mark following him and Jason and you falling easily behind them. The bickering starts up again in a moment.
“This is mad,” Jason informs the three of you sharply.
“You should know!” Howard grins, raising his glass. Mark nods that he will toast to that and with a sheepish chuckle you join in. Luckily for you it’s Howard who gets Jason’s brisk kick to the shin but they share a look you know all too well and to say it makes your heart swell a little at the sight sounds corny but true. So you say it and Mark eyes you strangely.
“Softie,” he slurs. Jason and Howard’s heads turn as one. Jason plucks at the fancy scarf and waistcoat whilst Howard pulls one of Mark’s polished, pointy shoes from his feet.
“Because you're lookin' a real hardcase over there, Marko; waistcoat, scarf, pointy shoes...” Howard begins to list and you are quick to grin mischievously.
“And two men pawing all over you...” you add and you and Mark almost choke on your drinks when Jason and Howard relinquish their grip on Mark in a sudden sharp harmony.
It’s amazing that the four of you manage to get back to someone’s house. But here you are, nevertheless. You feel a lot better now that there’s a piano close by and you rest you fingers on it contentedly. Unfortunately for you they don’t miss a trick.
“Aw, lads, he’s in love!” Mark coos, flopping heartily into your lap before launching into yet another 90s hit. You’re pretty sure the band never sung this particular one but Howard’s joining in and, you notice with amusement, even Jason has been coaxed closer to the piano. You’re pretty sure he’s still sober but you’re not so you play in time to Mark’s little ditty.
“I’m drunk!” Howard announces happily after a while, crashing into the sofa. Jason eyes him thoughtfully and quietly agrees.
“Yes, yes you are,” he deadpans, perching on the arm of the sofa and smiling down affectionately at Howard’s form draped across it. From somewhere underneath his dark curls Howard grins at him, a grin that Jason cannot help but return.
“I think I’m sober...” Mark counters with the smallest of pouts and you and Jason regard him steadily. He’s not wobbling anymore but he still has a dopey smile lurking in his eyes and Jason folds his arms.
“No you’re not,” he tells him and Mark’s pout deepens as he turns his bright, wide eyes to Jason.
“Ohw,” he musters up at last and Jason smiles affectionately.
“Ever the poet,” he remarks, mostly to you and not Mark. Mark falls dramatically into your shoulder at that and waves his arms a little.
“Sing me a song Barlow!” he orders and Howard sits up.
“Sit on my lap Orange!” he joins in with the strange requests. You’re not sure what surprises you most; the fact you start to sing or that fact that Jason obediently takes a place on Howard’s lap. Howard bobs him in time to the music and you think you’ve landed in some surreal universe until Jason promptly stands up and gives Howard an affectionate whack around the head.
“Still drunk,” he confirms and Howard simply laughs. You all laugh, actually, because the thing is, you’re all pretty sure that Howard’s almost entirely sobered up by now. Mark pushes his face sleepily into your neck.
“Don’t make me laugh, it hurts! I’ve pulled a muscle laughing tonight,” he mumbles.
“Pulled a muscle in your brain maybe. I’m still not going on tour with you,” Jason tells you all.
“You are,” Howard promises, so much hope dancing in his eyes that you can almost see Jason melting. But he tries to sound firm.
“I’m not,” he repeats for the millionth time.
“You’ll see,” Howard retorts softly and he and Jason exchange sparkling glances before another round of four-way bickering is opened up by a discussion of past tours where Jason is mocked roundly and Mark is picked on affectionately and Howard is teased loudly and you...well you are just as much a part of all the memories as you thought you were. Which is good to know. Because you did worry sometimes that maybe you weren’t. But no. It’s then that they all turn on you and you can only smile. Yes, they assure you, you were part of it and you were just as much of an idiot as the rest of us.
You wake up at sunrise, surrounded by the chaos of last night. Howard’s on the floor, but he looks happy there you have to admit. Mark’s curled up in the armchair, his legs tucked firmly under him so that he’s so small he’s almost disappearing down the gap in the cushions. And Jason’s lying next to you, his head in your lap, his shoulder underneath your idling fingertips. It’s as if he knows he’s being watched because slowly his eyes flicker open and as he pushes himself up you can see the confusion lingering in his face. And then he looks at you and right away it seems to click.
“I won’t go on tour with you,” he says instantly but there’s something in his eyes that’s betraying what he’s really thinking so you simply smile at him, a quiet knowing smile the like of which he’s inflicted on you far too many times.
“I know,” you nod and he returns your smile. We both know he’ll be there, eventually. All four of you stir at sunrise and as they slowly pick over their memories of last night you know that something’s stirring.
***
You can’t sleep and that’s strange for you, especially on your first proper night back from a tour. But every time you close your eyes your mind is filled with slow-motion sequences of bantering and warmth and you feel a dull ache in the back of your chest that you know is a result of the inevitable comedown. It’s over. Another one done, another collection of moments and smiles which must be consigned to the memory banks. Mark riding around sound check on Jason’s shoulders. Howard getting himself locked in the dressing room. You and Mark staging a duet of ‘The Entertainer’ on a tiny electric keyboard. Mark riding around sound check on Howard’s shoulders. You and Jason sharing a romantic rendition of Take That And Party at the top of your lungs. Mark attempting to ride around sound check on your shoulders. It’s like a flood and you’re making precious little attempt at putting up a dam. Briefly you ponder on Mark’s new trick of calling you ‘Boss’ – a tease that Howard and Jason caught hold of in record time. When it first started it filled you with some awful panic. You wondered if you’d really set yourself above them in some way, if really they were still separate from you and you just hadn’t noticed. Sidelines Barlow; that ancient taunt raises itself from the ashes. But then you catch the conspiratorial light in their eyes as they say it to you.
“Morning Boss,” says Mark at breakfast one day. You rewarded him with an affection wink.
“What time do you call this Boss?!” Howard demands one time when you arrive late to the sound check. You make a very Northern-lad comment about needing a good brew before work and he looks at you with a boyish grin before getting on with the task at hand.
“Night Boss,” Jason calls over his shoulder one night as he leaves the hotel bar. You smiled after him thoughtfully before ordering him to get some sleep, an instruction he waved a dismissive hand at whilst telling you that chance would be a fine thing.
Eventually you drift off at sunrise and finally you get it; he was never more than two heartbeats away the entire time, none of them were. That warmth didn’t vanish, it never could. The arguments obscured it, the silence drowned it and, every now and then, the distance tested it. But it bounces of each of you straight back to the others, reflected brighter with every bounce. But then you think of Jason and Jason alone and you know that he’s probably still the one that seals the deal. Takes the edge off life. The miracle cure to your every woe. You think of him at sunrise. And it’s his warmth that reflects on you brightest, whispering you softly to sleep.
Your nervous hands half-stumble as you knock upon his door and you briefly wonder to yourself what it is like to be loved by him. Because you don’t think you are. Liked, occasionally. Perhaps he even feels a mild affection from time to time. But he can’t possibly love you, certainly not right now. You wonder what it would feel like to know his love, to have that calm and gentle assurance. To be loved by him – by any of them – was different to being loved by your family. Your family’s love is guaranteed. You still appreciate it, you still seek comfort from it, perhaps even bask in it from time to time. But it will still be there even if you do nothing to earn it. His love is not so easily won but a lot more easily shaken off. You wonder how long it’s been slipping through your fingers – because he did love you once, didn’t he? And then his face appears in the dimness of the doorway. The harsh hotel light dances awkwardly off his face, leaving his jaw all angles. His eyes are neither bright nor brilliant. Not like they should be. No. Slate grey and hollow – why’s that? The lighting? The horrendous time of night? Or is it just your effect on him?
Over his shoulder you see Howard spread out on his bed like some fallen supernova. His body is sprawled out languidly across the sheets, tangled and flopping lazily off the sides. His face is obscured by the bracken of dreadlocks amassed upon his pillow and he snores lightly into its plumpness. He shifts a little at the shaft of light cast into the room, mumbling something incoherent, and at that slight sound Jason’s head turns from you slowly, an affectionate smile dances briefly in between the angles of his face before he turns back and looks at you once more.
“Look I’m...I’m sorry about...” you begin, trying to address the argument, trying to explain why you were so unwilling to listen. But then you remember; as strong-willed as any man. Perhaps that and then some. No amount of understanding or reasoning could change the tiny streak of stubbornness in him. After all, isn’t that partly why it’s him you admire so much? You find a defiance in him, a determination that demands admiration from somewhere inside your gut.
“It’s late,” he offers emptily and you decide that you need some excuse, some reason other than peacemaking to be here, because peacemaking, you realise now, cannot be done upon waking someone up in the small hours.
“Mark’s um...Mark’s not in the room...” you try but there’s a sudden flash in his eyes and you wonder what trap you could possibly have walked into now.
“He met a girl down in the hotel lobby. If you tell Nigel you’ll live to regret it – I’m covering for him if it comes to that,” he mutters and you feel a stab of guilt that he thinks you should need threatening in order to keep quiet. You’d needed cover enough times, you owed them! What made him think you would be so heartless? Had you given them much reason to think otherwise though?
“Oh...I er...thanks for the warning...” you stammer. He eyes you sharply but you can’t help but feel there’s a touch more softness to his look.
“You’re his roommate. You should be the one covering for him,” he points out in a whisper. Ah. So Mark doesn’t trust you either then. But then Mark hasn’t really trusted anyone all that much since Robbie left. Well. Anyone except Jason. He trusts Jason to sit there and listen and understand and not judge and definitely not tell a soul.
“Sorry...” you sigh, looking at your feet. Suddenly you’re fascinated with the hotel carpet.
“Come on Barlow, in,” he sighs after a beat and you look up just in time to see the tiny shake of his head, his barely-there smile, as he nods into the room. You smile back, a little wider than his smile but you can’t help the rush of relief. Because as soon as you see that tiny glimmer in his eyes you know that his understanding, reasonable, not-hurt-a-fly streak has finally subdued his wilfulness. And you know that your wrongs have been put aside, if not forgotten.
You leave his room at sunrise. Howard still lolling dozily on the bed like a faithful family hound. Jason’s guard dog. You get the impression that the two of them were waiting for your reluctant knock and Howard was ready to pounce, round on you, defend Jason, scare you back to your own room, back to watch Mark’s empty bed and contemplate the mistrust you had spread. But, in the end, for all that Howard had offered Jason companionship and unquestioning loyalty, he had not been able to stave off sleep. And that was how you ended up talking with him until daybreak. He looked at the dapple of purples and golds with tired eyes and sighed a sigh that revealed the strain of his emotions. So you left him at sunrise and you knew you were somehow neglecting something by not asking him to share his troubles with you instead.
***
The silence that stretches between you and him is no secret. Two hours in a car, maybe more, and you’d be on his doorstep. And yet you make no move. The silence is so deafeningly normal to you that sometimes you almost forget that there was a time when you did see each other, when you lived out of each other’s pockets. You know he sees Howard. He saw Mark not too long ago. But there’s a silent understanding between all four of you that, whilst hard feelings are scarce, it was definitely you who made this sorry silence of our friendship a way of life and you who should therefore put an end to it. You’re sitting in your car when it finally dawns on you and you briefly entertain the idea of a little get-together, all four of you round the table, good wine and good laughs. But you don’t think they’re quite ready for that. They’re just getting used to being their own people, they’re just starting to relax into their dream of life outside that mad bubble of fame. Briefly your fingers dance on the steering wheel. You know the places you need to go, the people you have said you will visit, the things that need to be done. But whilst your head makes lists of places and times and things to get at the shops, your heart beats a steady pace that you could have sworn spells out his name.
You try and ignore it all day, the solemn tapping of it against your ribcage. You feel sure that if any doctor pressed a stethoscope to your chest they wouldn’t find a heartbeat, just his voice. Funny that, because you never thought it when he was actually in your life and you have no reason to now. Except for a nagging need in the pit of your stomach to see him, to confirm that yes, you are in fact still a friend of his. Somewhere inside you there’s a pang of worry that maybe you are no longer within range of his heart, however far-reaching he keeps it. And he does. Family, extended family, friends of the family, friends of his own from long ago and from more recent times. Somewhere he must keep some chart with all their photographs on, you’re sure. He must pluck pictures off when they become faded though, must have to in order to keep track of it all. He couldn’t afford to keep a silence-spinner like you up there. Howard had made the effort, Mark had bobbed up just in time to keep his place. It takes you until very late in the day to decide to do the same.
It’s some time into the drive before you realise it’s probably a little longer than two hours and for a moment panic pervades you as you wonder if it’s going to be yet another night spent hovering in Jason Orange’s doorway muttering apologies about waking him up. But he’s always been something of a night owl, that can’t have changed. In any case, the silence was becoming unbearable, you remind yourself as you stand outside, your knuckles hovering just in front of the door. You suspect he’d know that apologetic knock anywhere, and sure enough his face harbours little confusion as it finds you stood before him in the grey-scattered night.
“You bastard; do you know what time it is?! You could have bloody rung first!” he scolds you bluntly but a small grin slowly cracks his features and there’s a twinkle in his eyes, although you can’t help but wonder if that’s got more to do with the moonlight than your arrival. Still, he lets you in and folds you into his inviting warmth. You glance around for any sign of that chart, wondering if he has just now stuck your picture back up with the rest. But as he busies himself with the kettle you decide that was a mad idea; Jason Orange surely wouldn’t be so fickle.
He shakes his head softly at you and rolls his eyes. How many times have you seen him do that? He reminds you that phones are the most normal method of absolving one’s random bouts of missing someone’s company and you want to try and explain to him. You decide not to tell him about the heartbeat thing, determined not to sound like a total idiot, so instead you explain about the stretching silence and he watches you with calm blue eyes, a strange curve to his lips. Bugger. Understanding fills the pause that he leaves after your little speech and you know that somehow, God knows how, he knows about the heartbeat thing.
“We’re still mates, despite the bullshit though, you know? So the silence didn’t seem right and I thought...since I was in my car already...” you shrug after a beat. He nods silently, that peculiar half smile still lingering on his lips, before handing you a steaming mug of something that smells a lot like camomile tea.
“Here, drink this. It takes the edge off,” he assures you with amusement to his tone. You raise an eyebrow and meet his eyes for the first time since you got here.
“The edge off what?” you frown and he sips quietly at his own drink.
“Life,” he remarks astutely and for a moment you’re frozen. How did he know that you felt like the weight of the world was on your shoulders? How did he know you weren’t your best right now? How did he...how did he still know you so well? You shake your head an stare deep into the camomile tea.
“Oh Jay, what would the you of days-gone-by think if he came and took a peek at you now?” you sigh but Jason’s forehead merely creases into the briefest of frowns.
“That I am what I was always going to be, in all the important ways at least. Maybe less arrogant but that’s never a bad thing,” he tells you with another sip and you have to agree. Jason has, in all the right ways, grown up into the man people expected him to be. Thoughtful and honest, intelligent and sympathetic. Trustworthy. The phrase you’re searching for is ‘a good man’. Or maybe ‘a good friend’ would be a better thing to say. He holds those rare values tightly against the shifts of the world, prizes them more than any superficial titles gained from jobs or habits or circles of friends.
“You’re probably right,” you concede. And then he looks at you, another one of those understanding little glances you’re slightly scared of.
“And what about you? What would you make of yourself if you could see you now?” he prompts gently and you swallow. You know he doesn’t expect you to answer him as he turns away to busy himself with nothing at all. But it gets to you all the same. You don’t think you’ve quite turned out how you might have expected yourself to. Not in the ways that really matter. But you’re not a bad person, you’re just not Jason. The jobs, the habits, the circles of friends. They matter more to you.
You don’t get home ‘til sunrise. You’re not sure how long he let you talk, how long he joined in with easy conversation before packing you back off home with a parting smile and silent worry. He’s good at that, the silent worry. It’s his way of caring. His way of caring deeply, in fact, although you wonder briefly if that’s just you flattering yourself. But no, silent worry is just a part of Jason’s love and you think he’s gotten better at it with time. He’s grown up in your eyes somehow and no matter how hard you try and dismiss it as being down to the scrub of stubble that now grazes his jawline you know that something somewhere has changed. You close your door at sunrise and, sadly, you note that you’re somehow shutting him out with the daylight. For now that’s how you’ll deal with change, even if it means closing out his silent fretting too.
***
God it’s a long time until you see him again. Too much time and too much distance; two long car journeys and a long haul flight were just part of what was involved before you come to his door again. When you knock and there’s no answer, you find yourself slightly surprised. He’s always been there for you before, why should he not be now? For a moment some irrational fear takes you over and you worry that he has transferred the affections and sympathies that are the trappings of his friendship to someone else. Those affections are irretrievable and irreplaceable. The thought gets to you and for the first time in a long time you realise there’s a niggling hole where his friendship used to be. Where all of them used to be. They are achingly missing from your life and you find yourself almost entirely overwhelmed by the sensation of loss. It’s been so long they probably don’t even remember your name. But that’s not true, something dusty and forgotten inside your head reminds you. There’s something about the four of you that never seems to get lost, it just sits there quiet and dormant until you find yourselves together again. It’s his doorstep you’ve come to though. Yet again. You’re not sure what to read into that and briefly you waver, calculating in your head how long the drive is to Mark’s place, trying to recall in your mind which of Howard’s phone numbers is the one you should use. You spend so long calculating these things that it’s actually starting to go dark. You laugh at your own ridiculous behaviour. He could be out ‘til any hour, he could even be out of the country. You shake your head and pinch the bridge of your nose. You will go. Just one more minute. Maybe two.
You’re not sure how many ‘Just one more minute’ promises you’ve made to yourself by the time you finally hear it; the soft scuffle of disbelieving footsteps. You look up and sure as anything you meet his face. He’s hardly changed, you’re reassured to find. Perhaps a little more stubble. The lines of his face are slightly harder now but that only adds to the reassurance you find in it. Those eyes are still sharply blue. A messenger bag is slung across his thin frame and briefly you wonder if it’s his ribs you can see just below the surface of that tight shirt. He mutters something along the lines of ‘What is it with you and phoning first?’ but still he manages to hide whatever level of surprise he feels. You guess that he’s been expecting you for a while now. There isn’t a newspaper in the country that hasn’t stamped on you and mocked you and left you for broken beyond repair. He’s probably polite enough to ignore their jibes. A good enough friend not to write you off completely. A sensible enough mind to expect the tide to wash you up at his door.
He watches you a moment as he fishes out his keys from his bag, eyes bright and alert to every little detail about you that’s changed. You don’t carry your shoulders as squarely as he does. You certainly don’t carry them as squarely as you used to. He takes a mental note of that as he opens the door.
“You’re in luck, there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge,” he informs you as he disappears into the house and you smile slightly, following him. Jason’s touch is all over this place; a groaning bookshelf, a tidy CD wrack that’s close to overflowing, a TV with a thin layer of dust across the screen and a guitar tucked quietly into a corner. Something about the modest peace of the place suits him down to the ground.
After a while he hands you a glass and you smile at him gratefully.
“Will this take the edge off?” you ask with a troubled laugh. He looks at you a moment, recognising his own words and perhaps even realising the small note of hope with which you use them.
“No. But if you’re lucky it’ll make you numb for a while,” he tells you honestly and you smile back faintly. He doesn’t pour a glass of wine for himself straight away and instead he watches you carefully, trying to judge what damage the years have done to you. You’re a battered specimen, that much you know. You hope he doesn’t see that. He does though. Any of them could. You remember that when you ran into Mark a while back, the poor man had needed a full minute to truly recover from the shock of seeing you with so many pieces hacked out of you. Jason doesn’t seem so surprised though. For a moment you wonder if he saw it coming. But no one’s that good, not even Jason, and you sigh into your wine glass.
“When did life get so crap, Jay?” you frown and Jason arches an eyebrow. You debate rephrasing it; ‘When did my life get so crap?’ is probably more accurate. Jay’s life doesn’t seem to be. He looks ok. Maybe more than ok, actually. He looks happy. More content than he was towards the end of our career together. They all do, when you really think about it. They’re all contented. Or they seem to be. They’re very good at making themselves seem happier than you anyway. But that’s not hard, you remind yourself pitifully. Jason draws a breath and folds his arms.
“Well I hope you’re not looking for a miracle cure,” he warns quietly. You smile at the mixture of concern and reprimand that is laced through his tone.
“You’re my miracle cure,” you explain softly, trying to not look at him as you say it. He pauses a moment and a flicker of a smile flits through his heart. Then he turns away to pour his own glass.
“Doesn’t take much to get you drunk does it Gaz,” he says and you take comfort in the understanding that you know he secretly has.
“You expecting company?” you ask after a moment and you wave a vague hand at the wine bottle. You know he doesn’t drink any more, expect on special occasions. He tilts his head to one side.
“Well...I was expecting you,” he shrugs and for a moment the pair of you lock eyes.
“You take the edge off,” you whisper and part of you hopes he doesn’t hear you. But of course he does. His smile twitches a little in fond recognition of the sentiment before he turns away from you in a beautiful display of tact that makes you smile.
He packs you off at sunrise. God knows why he’s up that early but you don’t complain because he let you sleep on his sofa and he even gives you tea and biscuits before he makes you leave. He reminds you that you have a family and you wonder, momentarily, if the comment about him being your miracle cure has got him all on-edge with guilt. Guilt is the other thing he’s good at and you suppose it goes hand in hand with the worry. But you know his heart is in the right place, even if his head gets scrambled crossways from time to time. So you drive off into the distance at sunrise and try to pack away all those emotions for another few years or so.
***
Eventually he arrives and it’s all four of you again – or at least it’s one and three drunkards. Two hours after the rest of you got there he treads tentatively in and surveys the wreckage of you all. Howard’s leaning dangerously to one side whilst Mark is about two giggles away from either choking or doing a celebratory jig on the table in his fancy stacked heels. He raises an eyebrow and slides in next to you, you suppose this could be because he can sit opposite Howard that way or maybe because you look the least plastered but a small part of you hopes it’s because he wants to be next to you. Howard’s pointing at him in that way that drunken people do, one eye semi-closed as he tilts his head and pulls a face at Jason, labelling him ‘late’ then ‘slacker’ then ‘genius’ before jumping abruptly at the sound of Mark’s bright laugh. Mark swears that you’re not as drunk as you all look and Jason regards him sceptically. You see the frisson of nervousness run through him at Mark’s disclaimer and it’s as if he can sense the disruption, the change that listening to the three of you could bring him if he doesn’t get out now. But he doesn’t get out. He stays at your side with some sense of intrigue and a little – possibly misguided – trust.
You watch with amusement as Howard shamelessly mocks each one of the group, paying special attention to making Jason blush of course. It’s so easy, after all. Your ears prick up at the sound of Mark’s warm laugh, crackly and bright and oh-so-inviting. Jason’s eyes fix briefly on yours and for a moment you entertain the idea of offering him a proper drink, promising him it’ll take the edge off of what he is tentatively agreeing to here. Mark starts singing then and the moment is lost as Howard briefly joins in before collapsing into laughter, Mark following him and Jason and you falling easily behind them. The bickering starts up again in a moment.
“This is mad,” Jason informs the three of you sharply.
“You should know!” Howard grins, raising his glass. Mark nods that he will toast to that and with a sheepish chuckle you join in. Luckily for you it’s Howard who gets Jason’s brisk kick to the shin but they share a look you know all too well and to say it makes your heart swell a little at the sight sounds corny but true. So you say it and Mark eyes you strangely.
“Softie,” he slurs. Jason and Howard’s heads turn as one. Jason plucks at the fancy scarf and waistcoat whilst Howard pulls one of Mark’s polished, pointy shoes from his feet.
“Because you're lookin' a real hardcase over there, Marko; waistcoat, scarf, pointy shoes...” Howard begins to list and you are quick to grin mischievously.
“And two men pawing all over you...” you add and you and Mark almost choke on your drinks when Jason and Howard relinquish their grip on Mark in a sudden sharp harmony.
It’s amazing that the four of you manage to get back to someone’s house. But here you are, nevertheless. You feel a lot better now that there’s a piano close by and you rest you fingers on it contentedly. Unfortunately for you they don’t miss a trick.
“Aw, lads, he’s in love!” Mark coos, flopping heartily into your lap before launching into yet another 90s hit. You’re pretty sure the band never sung this particular one but Howard’s joining in and, you notice with amusement, even Jason has been coaxed closer to the piano. You’re pretty sure he’s still sober but you’re not so you play in time to Mark’s little ditty.
“I’m drunk!” Howard announces happily after a while, crashing into the sofa. Jason eyes him thoughtfully and quietly agrees.
“Yes, yes you are,” he deadpans, perching on the arm of the sofa and smiling down affectionately at Howard’s form draped across it. From somewhere underneath his dark curls Howard grins at him, a grin that Jason cannot help but return.
“I think I’m sober...” Mark counters with the smallest of pouts and you and Jason regard him steadily. He’s not wobbling anymore but he still has a dopey smile lurking in his eyes and Jason folds his arms.
“No you’re not,” he tells him and Mark’s pout deepens as he turns his bright, wide eyes to Jason.
“Ohw,” he musters up at last and Jason smiles affectionately.
“Ever the poet,” he remarks, mostly to you and not Mark. Mark falls dramatically into your shoulder at that and waves his arms a little.
“Sing me a song Barlow!” he orders and Howard sits up.
“Sit on my lap Orange!” he joins in with the strange requests. You’re not sure what surprises you most; the fact you start to sing or that fact that Jason obediently takes a place on Howard’s lap. Howard bobs him in time to the music and you think you’ve landed in some surreal universe until Jason promptly stands up and gives Howard an affectionate whack around the head.
“Still drunk,” he confirms and Howard simply laughs. You all laugh, actually, because the thing is, you’re all pretty sure that Howard’s almost entirely sobered up by now. Mark pushes his face sleepily into your neck.
“Don’t make me laugh, it hurts! I’ve pulled a muscle laughing tonight,” he mumbles.
“Pulled a muscle in your brain maybe. I’m still not going on tour with you,” Jason tells you all.
“You are,” Howard promises, so much hope dancing in his eyes that you can almost see Jason melting. But he tries to sound firm.
“I’m not,” he repeats for the millionth time.
“You’ll see,” Howard retorts softly and he and Jason exchange sparkling glances before another round of four-way bickering is opened up by a discussion of past tours where Jason is mocked roundly and Mark is picked on affectionately and Howard is teased loudly and you...well you are just as much a part of all the memories as you thought you were. Which is good to know. Because you did worry sometimes that maybe you weren’t. But no. It’s then that they all turn on you and you can only smile. Yes, they assure you, you were part of it and you were just as much of an idiot as the rest of us.
You wake up at sunrise, surrounded by the chaos of last night. Howard’s on the floor, but he looks happy there you have to admit. Mark’s curled up in the armchair, his legs tucked firmly under him so that he’s so small he’s almost disappearing down the gap in the cushions. And Jason’s lying next to you, his head in your lap, his shoulder underneath your idling fingertips. It’s as if he knows he’s being watched because slowly his eyes flicker open and as he pushes himself up you can see the confusion lingering in his face. And then he looks at you and right away it seems to click.
“I won’t go on tour with you,” he says instantly but there’s something in his eyes that’s betraying what he’s really thinking so you simply smile at him, a quiet knowing smile the like of which he’s inflicted on you far too many times.
“I know,” you nod and he returns your smile. We both know he’ll be there, eventually. All four of you stir at sunrise and as they slowly pick over their memories of last night you know that something’s stirring.
***
You can’t sleep and that’s strange for you, especially on your first proper night back from a tour. But every time you close your eyes your mind is filled with slow-motion sequences of bantering and warmth and you feel a dull ache in the back of your chest that you know is a result of the inevitable comedown. It’s over. Another one done, another collection of moments and smiles which must be consigned to the memory banks. Mark riding around sound check on Jason’s shoulders. Howard getting himself locked in the dressing room. You and Mark staging a duet of ‘The Entertainer’ on a tiny electric keyboard. Mark riding around sound check on Howard’s shoulders. You and Jason sharing a romantic rendition of Take That And Party at the top of your lungs. Mark attempting to ride around sound check on your shoulders. It’s like a flood and you’re making precious little attempt at putting up a dam. Briefly you ponder on Mark’s new trick of calling you ‘Boss’ – a tease that Howard and Jason caught hold of in record time. When it first started it filled you with some awful panic. You wondered if you’d really set yourself above them in some way, if really they were still separate from you and you just hadn’t noticed. Sidelines Barlow; that ancient taunt raises itself from the ashes. But then you catch the conspiratorial light in their eyes as they say it to you.
“Morning Boss,” says Mark at breakfast one day. You rewarded him with an affection wink.
“What time do you call this Boss?!” Howard demands one time when you arrive late to the sound check. You make a very Northern-lad comment about needing a good brew before work and he looks at you with a boyish grin before getting on with the task at hand.
“Night Boss,” Jason calls over his shoulder one night as he leaves the hotel bar. You smiled after him thoughtfully before ordering him to get some sleep, an instruction he waved a dismissive hand at whilst telling you that chance would be a fine thing.
Eventually you drift off at sunrise and finally you get it; he was never more than two heartbeats away the entire time, none of them were. That warmth didn’t vanish, it never could. The arguments obscured it, the silence drowned it and, every now and then, the distance tested it. But it bounces of each of you straight back to the others, reflected brighter with every bounce. But then you think of Jason and Jason alone and you know that he’s probably still the one that seals the deal. Takes the edge off life. The miracle cure to your every woe. You think of him at sunrise. And it’s his warmth that reflects on you brightest, whispering you softly to sleep.