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The Complete Fic Directory
- All I Do Each Night Is Rehearse The Pray Routine
- Appendicitis
- An Act Of Un-Remembrance
- Beginnings
- Better Than Today - Kylie Minogue
- Black
- Breathe Out
- Christmas Shopping
- Choreography
- Dancers
- Dangling
- Days
- Default Settings/Do You Love Me? [Part One]
- Displacement Theory [Blue]
- DJ (I Could Be Dancing) - Alphabeat
- Enchanted
- Ends (Loose And Otherwise) [Ends]
- Enemies
- Family
- Fine Time To Lose Your Mind - Jack McManus
- Fireworks
- Flat Tyres And Palm Prints [Birth]
- Flu
- Friends: A Dictionary [Friends]
- From Angels To The Moon/The Soup
- Green Light [Green]
- Hell Raisers
- Home Invasion
- Hours
- In My Veins
- Insides
- It Was The Death Of Something [Death]
- Just Like Children [Children]
- Kiss And Make Up
- The Last Time
- Lonely At Christmas
- Love Songs
- Lovers
- Middles
- Midnight Sun
- Mistletoe
- Months Go By [Months]
- More Important Than Fear
- Muddied Stars [Brown]
- Not Enough
- Of Peacocks
- On The Subject Of Angels [Orange]
- Playing House [Parents]
- The Price Of Friendship
- The Prize
- Post-Match Analysis
- Puddles
- Red
- Secret Admirer
- Secret Agent Owen
- Shades
- Shine - Skies Of America
- Slow Dancing In A Burning Room
- Snap
- So Good To See You
- Stage Fright
- Stay (Oh Darlin')
- Study In Motion
- Summertime Feeling - S Club 7
- Sunrise
- Sunset
- Teammates
- That Night In Amsterdam/Do You Love Me? [Part Two]
- This
- Three Sets Of Three
- Twenty-Nine (And A Half)
- Under A Colourless Sky [Colourless]
- We Found Something That Belongs To You [Outsides]
- We Were Strangers Once [Strangers]
- Weeks
- What Did You Say This Time?
- What Will The Papers Say? [Purple]
- White Out [White]
- The Wordsmith/Breathe In
- Years
- Yellow
- Yesterday's Promise
- 3-0 Defeats
- Barlow's Music Shop Series
- Fanfiction Challenges
- The Postcard Prompts
- OT3, OT4 & OT5
- Stories By Band Member
- Stories By Ship
- Stories By Genre
- Stories By Era
- Band-Free AUs
- Prompt Requests
- Other Fandom Fics
- Follow Me
Love Songs
So I heard you and the press broke up, he says. And you stand there slightly dumbstruck as he pushes quietly past you and settles himself on the sofa. They’re the first words he’s said to you in months but when you point that out to him he simply shrugs and asks you if you have any popcorn before commandeering the remote. You and the press...yeah, that was a messy break-up. But he falls asleep with his head on your shoulder that night and somehow that makes it all ok.
The next time you see him it’s in a different city and he’s altogether less comfortable. It’s too hot in the room and no one can really look anyone else in the eyes. You remember his words and you realise that, whilst your love affair with the press might be over, his never even began. Neither one of you looks at the other as you silently reach across and take his hand beneath the table. He doesn’t take it away until everyone stands to leave and he doesn’t look you in the eyes when you say your goodbyes. Safe journey home, he says. And you nod as you turn away and get into your car.
I’ve stopped believing in ‘happily ever after’, he says. And you laugh without really meaning it, watching him throw away the remnants of a cigarette and lean his head against the wall. There’s creases just starting to form more permanently around his eyes. Smile lines, not that he’s smiling now. That makes you uncomfortable. You’re not sure where Howard and Jason have disappeared to but, for the moment at least, you really don’t care. You take a step closer to him and offer out an arm. You pull him into a tight hug. He smells of smoke but on him you don’t mind it. You tell him that just because the press hate ‘happily ever after’ it doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Neither one of you is sure if you’re still just talking about the band as you stand alone in the cold morning air.
You’re drunk the next time you’re left alone with him and you suspect that can’t be a good thing. Because you have a track record for idiotic behaviour and unconsciousness when you’ve had too much alcohol and neither of those things can be flattering. But he’s more than tipsy too and he’s smiling and you can’t help but notice his cheeks look rosy when he turns his head towards the light. You lean together conspiratorially for a moment and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that he is one of the few people who knows every version of you. The arrogant prick who wouldn’t give up a lead vocal for love nor money, the quietly determined man locked away in his room writing songs ‘til all hours whilst everyone else was out having fun. The somewhat hopeless example of a man you became when it all fell apart. The altogether more hopeful, if slightly drunk, man that’s laughing with him now is actually a man that he coaxed out of you. A person you always wanted to be but could only seem to latch onto in his presence. Jay will say no, he says. And you tilt your head in acknowledgment, because you know as well as he does that Jay and the press have never really managed to strike up a friendship. You remind him that we do have Howard on our side. He grins as you wink and you both look up as Howard returns to his seat between you. You both lean back but your eyes are still on each other despite his presence.
So you and the press made up, he says. And you smirk and shake your head, leaning on the doorframe. He grins back at you before turning his eyes downwards, looking over the newspapers spread out on the bed in front of him. There’s sunlight coming in through the windows but he isn’t framed by it, you realise, he reflects it. You stand in the reflected light and let it turn your eyes into an even more audacious shade of blue, hoping to bring his attention back to you. You ask him what he’s doing tomorrow night and he laughs, tells you that he is, like you, due to sing in front of a few thousand people. You have to laugh at your own stupidity. I meant after that, you explain. He shrugs. Drinks with Howard and Jay is the best he can come up with. For some reason you can’t bring yourself to ask him for a change of plans. I’ll join you, you tell him.
It’s the last night of the tour when he comes to find you. You know it’s him because neither Howard nor Jason would have bothered knocking. He’s come to ask you what happens next, because strangely, for someone who has been such an integral part of making you enjoy your life again, he always looks to you to take the lead. You let him in and the two of you sit side by side on the floor. He hugs his knees and you lean your head backwards and neither of you says a word until at last he takes a breath and leans his own head back in a mirror of your pose. Maybe the press could learn to love this happy ending after all, he says. You smile softly and put your hand on top of his. We’re the ones who need to start believing in happy endings again, you remind him. He doesn’t reply but he smiles into the darkness. The two of you stay that way until the sun is just coming up over the city skyline and he wordlessly leaves your room.
Whatever will the press say, he says. And it strikes you that you really don’t care. You drove over here in the middle of the night for no reason other than him. For the fact he makes you want to write songs about love again and for the way every time you tell a joke you’re not satisfied unless you hear him laughing in response. You came over here not because of the band or the press. You didn’t even come over here because it’s what you want, although it is what you want that much is true. You came over here because you know Mark Owen has been dying for you to kiss him. Ever since that night with the popcorn he has been begging for you to pull yourself out of the dark. A cliché about moths and flames springs to mind as you watch the way the moonlight shines over his skin. He lets you kiss him again and something in the back of your head tells you that, really, this was the only logical conclusion. It slips your mind to ask him if he’s convinced about happy endings yet.
And years later, one night when the world’s just fallen apart and the two of you are helping each other put it back together, he will tell you that ‘happily ever after’ is just what you do. I learnt it out of the love songs you wrote, he'll say. And you will know then that the two of you will be ok.
The next time you see him it’s in a different city and he’s altogether less comfortable. It’s too hot in the room and no one can really look anyone else in the eyes. You remember his words and you realise that, whilst your love affair with the press might be over, his never even began. Neither one of you looks at the other as you silently reach across and take his hand beneath the table. He doesn’t take it away until everyone stands to leave and he doesn’t look you in the eyes when you say your goodbyes. Safe journey home, he says. And you nod as you turn away and get into your car.
I’ve stopped believing in ‘happily ever after’, he says. And you laugh without really meaning it, watching him throw away the remnants of a cigarette and lean his head against the wall. There’s creases just starting to form more permanently around his eyes. Smile lines, not that he’s smiling now. That makes you uncomfortable. You’re not sure where Howard and Jason have disappeared to but, for the moment at least, you really don’t care. You take a step closer to him and offer out an arm. You pull him into a tight hug. He smells of smoke but on him you don’t mind it. You tell him that just because the press hate ‘happily ever after’ it doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Neither one of you is sure if you’re still just talking about the band as you stand alone in the cold morning air.
You’re drunk the next time you’re left alone with him and you suspect that can’t be a good thing. Because you have a track record for idiotic behaviour and unconsciousness when you’ve had too much alcohol and neither of those things can be flattering. But he’s more than tipsy too and he’s smiling and you can’t help but notice his cheeks look rosy when he turns his head towards the light. You lean together conspiratorially for a moment and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that he is one of the few people who knows every version of you. The arrogant prick who wouldn’t give up a lead vocal for love nor money, the quietly determined man locked away in his room writing songs ‘til all hours whilst everyone else was out having fun. The somewhat hopeless example of a man you became when it all fell apart. The altogether more hopeful, if slightly drunk, man that’s laughing with him now is actually a man that he coaxed out of you. A person you always wanted to be but could only seem to latch onto in his presence. Jay will say no, he says. And you tilt your head in acknowledgment, because you know as well as he does that Jay and the press have never really managed to strike up a friendship. You remind him that we do have Howard on our side. He grins as you wink and you both look up as Howard returns to his seat between you. You both lean back but your eyes are still on each other despite his presence.
So you and the press made up, he says. And you smirk and shake your head, leaning on the doorframe. He grins back at you before turning his eyes downwards, looking over the newspapers spread out on the bed in front of him. There’s sunlight coming in through the windows but he isn’t framed by it, you realise, he reflects it. You stand in the reflected light and let it turn your eyes into an even more audacious shade of blue, hoping to bring his attention back to you. You ask him what he’s doing tomorrow night and he laughs, tells you that he is, like you, due to sing in front of a few thousand people. You have to laugh at your own stupidity. I meant after that, you explain. He shrugs. Drinks with Howard and Jay is the best he can come up with. For some reason you can’t bring yourself to ask him for a change of plans. I’ll join you, you tell him.
It’s the last night of the tour when he comes to find you. You know it’s him because neither Howard nor Jason would have bothered knocking. He’s come to ask you what happens next, because strangely, for someone who has been such an integral part of making you enjoy your life again, he always looks to you to take the lead. You let him in and the two of you sit side by side on the floor. He hugs his knees and you lean your head backwards and neither of you says a word until at last he takes a breath and leans his own head back in a mirror of your pose. Maybe the press could learn to love this happy ending after all, he says. You smile softly and put your hand on top of his. We’re the ones who need to start believing in happy endings again, you remind him. He doesn’t reply but he smiles into the darkness. The two of you stay that way until the sun is just coming up over the city skyline and he wordlessly leaves your room.
Whatever will the press say, he says. And it strikes you that you really don’t care. You drove over here in the middle of the night for no reason other than him. For the fact he makes you want to write songs about love again and for the way every time you tell a joke you’re not satisfied unless you hear him laughing in response. You came over here not because of the band or the press. You didn’t even come over here because it’s what you want, although it is what you want that much is true. You came over here because you know Mark Owen has been dying for you to kiss him. Ever since that night with the popcorn he has been begging for you to pull yourself out of the dark. A cliché about moths and flames springs to mind as you watch the way the moonlight shines over his skin. He lets you kiss him again and something in the back of your head tells you that, really, this was the only logical conclusion. It slips your mind to ask him if he’s convinced about happy endings yet.
And years later, one night when the world’s just fallen apart and the two of you are helping each other put it back together, he will tell you that ‘happily ever after’ is just what you do. I learnt it out of the love songs you wrote, he'll say. And you will know then that the two of you will be ok.