- Home
- About Me
- What's New
- Comments & Questions
-
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
Study In Motion
So there he was. Just sat on that stage on his own, looking very small and thin against the backdrop of the stadium. He was swinging his legs off the side, his head turned up towards the sky. You didn’t know where the others were or why he was on his own. You didn’t even think to wonder. You just walked towards him, no scruples with interrupting the snatched moment of loneliness he had engineered. He rolled his head and stretched his neck and you noticed how the sun glanced off his skin and made his tired expression suddenly splendid. For a moment you stood on the ground looking up at him and you could see how he has lived far more than you, more than any of the rest. Sure, you got rich and drunk and famous and wasted. But you didn’t really make that daring grasp for anonymity, not like he did. Something that is so ingrained in him now you wonder if he even realises he’s famous sometimes. He certainly doesn’t seem to realise he’s rich – how rarely does he spend obscene amounts of money? Not often enough. He doesn’t even have one mansion. You and Gary should try and teach him but neither of you do because you don’t want to ruin him. You couldn’t come to him begging if he realised he was a star. If he knew how in awe of him you were you wouldn’t ever be able to swallow your pride long enough to tell him ‘I’ve forgotten it all’. He sits up a little and opens his eyes. He has to shield them against the sun to look at you and for a moment you are treated to a flash of those eyes, the colour of broken glass. ‘I’m not sure, Rob, that at this late stage you can really go round saying things like that without people starting to worry’ – he seems to be smiling slightly behind the warning. Neither one of you speaks for a moment after that. You shove your hands in your pockets and he leans back on his hands a little. ‘You know Rob, you say all this stuff, about how you can’t do it and whatever, but the minute someone puts a spotlight on you, you go for it. You’re a born entertainer mate, you shouldn’t forget that’ – you have to wonder how many people have told you that over the years without making it sound so much like a telling off. Maybe they should’ve told you off though. You feel like you’ve been put in your place, but you don’t mind that so much, you know you need to stop whining. He’s not angry with you, he understands it more than anyone. It’s not something Mark or Gaz can talk to you about and you never try to get them to. ‘It’s not a case of what you want or I want...it’s not about any of us anymore. It’s about them out there now. They won’t care if you fall on your arse you know. They love a bit of panto’, he’s not looking at you anymore but at the thousands of seats that surround you both and part of you thinks this little pep-talk is for his own benefit as much as yours. That’s the insecurity in him creeping out. He won’t let it stay, he never does. ‘Show me again’ you ask and he looks back at you immediately. He takes a moment or two to move; you watch as he stretches out that body of his. It’s like watching someone unbend a coathanger when he straightens up and stretches both arms above his head. ‘If you think about it too much, you lose it, yeah?’ he says calmly. Broken glass eyes fixed on you and only you. You look up at him. He’s just a silhouette and two bright eyes from down there, the sun’s behind him. ‘Yeah’ you reply because that’s what he expects of you. He sucks in a breath and looks at you. ‘Come up here’ is all he says and you think you’ve done something wrong. You are cautious as you climb the steps and stand beside him. His face is all business and you don’t risk a smile. He steps behind you and puts his hands on your shoulders. He pulls both of you back one step. ‘Breathe’ is his only instruction and you suddenly realise you’ve been holding back your breath since the moment you saw him out here alone. You let it out and you open your eyes. He’s in front of you now. ‘It’s simple, I promise. It’s just left on the beat, right on the offbeat. Like this’ he tells you gently, following his words with the briefest of demonstrations. He can’t resist a following spin for flare though, his arms going out to stop him, his fingers splayed, his head tilted, his eyes closed. You realise as you watch him that this is in every fibre of him, this grace and rhythm. His swagger has never been about ego, it’s been about how he moves. He would always rather move gracefully than in an ungainly fashion. That doesn’t make him a poser, that makes him an artist. ‘If you get stuck then look at Howard, he’ll help you out’ he assures you, suddenly self-conscious once more. You nod and look down. He doesn’t know it, because you’ve never said it before, but you won’t look at Howard. When it all falls apart you would rather look at the man who taught you how to dance again. ‘Actually Jay...I’d rather look at you.’