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przedI seem to have committed more Take That fic.
Title: Four Times Robbie Might Have Left, and One Time He Didn't
Fandom: Take That
Pairings: If you squint, Howard/Jason, Mark/Robbie
Notes: Massive thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
halotolerant for inadvertantly supplying the idea and then giving it a blazingly fast beta.
One
Gary sat in the suite's living room, surrounded by packed bags, staring at his mobile and trying not to feel quite so disappointed.
Dawn and the kids had gone to bed ages ago, but he'd stayed up, hoping that Rob might text, might call, might even drop by. But there'd been only silence from their youngest former member.
Gary had hoped and planned and even, yes, schemed. But most of all he'd hoped.
He'd hoped he could mend the rift with Rob, could find a way to talk to him, could find a way to work with him. All of them. Maybe write a song. Maybe even record an album. Maybe, if he was wishing for the stars, maybe they could all tour together. Take That Mark III, and wouldn't that be fantastic?
But here it was, Gary's last day in L.A., and his plans, his schemes, his hopes were so much dust.
There'd been texts and phone calls. There'd been promises. But Rob had never followed through, never arrived, never offered an invitation of his own.
He was very glad, now, that he'd never told Mark about his schemes. Hadn't told him he was going to try and get Rob back in the band, if only for a song. Because Rob had disappointed Mark enough over the years and Gary didn't want to watch it happen again. Didn't want to see Mark put on the defensive smile that never entirely hid the worry and pain in his eyes, not if you knew what you were looking for. And after all this time, Gary definitely knew what to look for.
But then, Mark probably knew what he was up to as well. Mark knew him at least as well as Gary knew himself. Would have known there was something up when he was vague about his plans in L.A., when he'd avoided all question about whether he'd contacted Rob.
No, Mark would be hurt, when he sussed out what had happened, but if he was more vulnerable than people thought, he was stronger, too. He'd be fine, in the end. They all would.
It would have been grand, though, if he'd managed it. Rob back with the band. Rob getting the same second chance the rest of them had had to become friends again. To experience Take That like it had never been back in the day, but always should have been.
It would have been bloody brilliant.
Two
Rob laid in the bed and pulled a pillow over his head as his mobile buzzed for what seemed the thousandth time that hour. He couldn't do it. He couldn't open the phone and listen to the messages, read the texts. Couldn't face the anger, the recrimination, the anguish, the hurt he'd managed to cause yet again.
He'd been so sure he could do it, could work with the other lads, could write with them, could record with them, could maybe even tour with them. After all, they were all adults now, all successful in their own right, not kids petrified of being thrown out of a stupid pre-fab boyband. They'd all done some growing up in the last fifteen years. Him most of all, if he was being honest.
The first few weeks in New York had been, well, terrifying really, but also brilliant.
He'd known things would be brilliant with Mark—things were always brilliant with Mark—but it was amazing how much he and Gaz sparked off each other now, how much they drove each other to be better. How much they pushed each other to find the perfect lyric, the ideal melody, the ultimate hook for every song.
He'd forgotten how good, no, great, Howard was at harmony, how he could create backing vocals that took a good song and made it incredible. And he was amazed how much in common he and Jay had, now that he wasn't an irritating git of a sixteen-year-old trying to wind up what he'd seen as Jay's pomposity but now knew was his thoughtfulness.
But then they'd all fetched up back in the U.K., where they weren't just Rob and Gaz and Mark and Doug and Jay, but Robbie Williams, and Take That. There'd been paparazzi and press speculation and pressure, and by the time they'd ended up on stage together at the Children in Need gig, Rob had thought he was going to explode.
He'd fled back to L.A. after that, and holed up in this bedroom. He hadn't even talked to Ayda about it, because he'd barely understood himself why he'd had to leave. He hadn't told the other lads, not in person. He'd left it to his manager to deliver his apologies after he'd run back to California, the furthest he could get from England.
His phone buzzed again and he hoped, really hoped, that it wasn't Mark who was texting him incessantly. It had to be, of course. Mark was the one person who had never given up on him. Not ever. Mark wouldn't give up on him now, even if he should. Even if Rob desperately wanted him to.
He'd brought it all crashing down again, and this time he knew there'd be no going back.
Three
Jason was sitting at his kitchen table, having a cup of tea, when the phone rang.
"Hello."
"He's legged it." Howard's voice was rough. Much rougher than usual.
"Who?" Jason said, sitting up straight, the taste of the tea suddenly metallic on his tongue. "Mark?" Because that's what he'd been fearing this past week: Mark leaving rehab before he was ready, putting the needs of the band before himself, just like he always did.
"Not Mark. Rob."
"Rob?" Jason couldn't process that, because it was wrong, wasn't it? Rob had grown up. Rob wasn't that irresponsible twat he'd been, not any more. Rob wasn't that cruel. Was he?
"Rob," Howard repeated.
"Bastard." The word slipped from Jason's tongue before he could call it back. Because that was more something Howard would say than he would, wasn't it?
"Bastard," Howard echoed back, reflecting Jason's thoughts back to him, just like he always did.
"Does Mark know?"
"No. He's not allowed any outside contact for another two weeks."
"Probably best for now. This'll gut him."
"Yeah," Howard said, and then a silence fell between them as Jason struggled with this worst of all possible news.
There was a beep on the line, and then Howard was speaking.
"Listen, that's one of my daughters. I've got to go. But I'll come over tonight, yeah?"
"Yeah," Jason said, already distracted, already letting the phone fall out of his hand onto the table.
Rob gone. And with Mark in rehab. Bloody hell. He felt like he'd stepped back twenty years. He felt like he always had when Rob had done something stupid and thoughtless and hurtful. He felt like he wanted nothing more than to cuff the stupid boy 'round the head and to tell him to grow up. But he couldn't do any of that, because the stupid boy had buggered off and left the rest of them to pick up the pieces.
And they all would. Pick up the pieces, that is. They'd meet and talk and make sure Mark was okay. They'd make sure they all were okay, and find a way to continue.
They'd look after each other.
Jason was just a bit sad that after all they'd been through together in the last few months, Rob hadn't realized that whatever his problems were, whatever had made him run, they'd have found a way to look after him as well.
Four
Breathe. Stretch. Hold. Breathe.
"Bastard."
It was no good.
Howard stood and began to pace the floor of the dance studio, glad he'd managed to get here before the other lads, before the dancers and the choreographer and everyone. Maybe he could work himself out of this black mood before anyone else showed up.
He got to the end of the studio and kicked a plastic chair that had the bad judgment to be in his way, smiling in grim satisfaction as it clattered and bounced and hit the wall opposite.
"Who was that meant to be, then?"
Howard started and turned and found Jay looking at him, his arms crossed, looking as bleak as Howard felt.
"Who do you bloody think?"
"Our Rob?"
"He's not our Rob. Not my Rob, anyway. Bastard." Howard kicked again, this time at nothing more than air, wishing it was Rob and his very-much-in-need-of-a-kicking arse in front of him.
"We have time to fix it."
"A week. He left with a week to go. One week to completely redo the show." An arse kicking was the least of what Howard owed our Rob. Because it wasn't just them that were depending on him now, not just the four of them. It was the dancers and the musicians and the riggers and the sound blokes and the drivers. It was everyone who depended on Take That for their living.
"'Lo, Jay. Howard."
They both turned to find Mark hesitantly standing in the doorway, uncertain of his welcome. His shoulders were bowed, as if he were carrying a heavier weight than his slight frame could bear, and the hollows under his eyes were worse than before he'd ended up in rehab.
Howard didn't hesitate. With Jason beside him, he strode to the door and had his arms around Mark in an instant. Jay completed the circle, the two of them surrounding Mark, supporting him, protecting him.
"It'll be all right," Howard said in Mark's ear. Mark nodded, but Howard could see he didn't believe a word of it. Not yet, not with the wound this fresh. But he would. The three of them, him and Jay and Gaz, would make sure he would.
This time 'round they weren't kids. This time they knew how to take care of each other. This time they'd make sure Mark was fine, no matter that Rob had broken his heart again.
Five
The roar from the crowd when the five of them first took the stage of the Sunderland Stadium of Light--and how perfect was that name?--was the loudest Mark had ever heard in a career that had seen more than a few triumphant stage shows. The standing ovation for the five of them seemed to roll over the stadium like an unending wave of thunder, like the surge of a North Atlantic storm. It swelled around them, surrounded them, buffeted them, until Mark felt like he wasn't surrounded by the audience of a pop concert, but some primal force of nature, raw and boisterous and exhilarating.
But that wasn't even the best part.
The best part, for Mark, came later, came half way through the show, came during Shine.
It had always been a hard number for Mark, outwardly sparkly but inwardly gloomy, full of hope but also desperation. It invoked, for him, the best and worst of his friendship with Rob, the push and pull between them, the light of his best wishes for Rob and the dark of his worst fears.
But this night, this night hope eclipsed desperation, light eclipsed dark. This night, he was singing not to Howard and Jay and Gaz, not to the audience, not even to the unseen subject of the song. This night he was singing to Rob in the flesh, the two of them grinning like idiots while the band and the dancers and the musicians swirled around them.
He'd had his doubts that they'd ever get this far, that Robbie would stick it out for the recording, for the press, for the tour. He wasn't quite sure how he'd talked him back after the Children in Need show. He'd thought he might disappear again when Mark himself vanished into rehab. But Rob had stayed. Rob had been there for the others. Rob had been there for him.
Rob was there as he hit the final notes of Shine, as the stage lights went to blackout, as the crowd roared.
They had only seconds to get to their places for the next number, but Rob was there, right there, squeezing him hard enough to knock the breath out of him, burying his face in Mark's hair.
What they'd been through, however bad it had been, it had all been worth it to get this. This one fantastic, utterly brilliant moment.
From that point forward, Mark didn't think he stopped smiling for the whole tour.
Title: Four Times Robbie Might Have Left, and One Time He Didn't
Fandom: Take That
Pairings: If you squint, Howard/Jason, Mark/Robbie
Notes: Massive thanks to
halotolerant for inadvertantly supplying the idea and then giving it a blazingly fast beta. One
Gary sat in the suite's living room, surrounded by packed bags, staring at his mobile and trying not to feel quite so disappointed.
Dawn and the kids had gone to bed ages ago, but he'd stayed up, hoping that Rob might text, might call, might even drop by. But there'd been only silence from their youngest former member.
Gary had hoped and planned and even, yes, schemed. But most of all he'd hoped.
He'd hoped he could mend the rift with Rob, could find a way to talk to him, could find a way to work with him. All of them. Maybe write a song. Maybe even record an album. Maybe, if he was wishing for the stars, maybe they could all tour together. Take That Mark III, and wouldn't that be fantastic?
But here it was, Gary's last day in L.A., and his plans, his schemes, his hopes were so much dust.
There'd been texts and phone calls. There'd been promises. But Rob had never followed through, never arrived, never offered an invitation of his own.
He was very glad, now, that he'd never told Mark about his schemes. Hadn't told him he was going to try and get Rob back in the band, if only for a song. Because Rob had disappointed Mark enough over the years and Gary didn't want to watch it happen again. Didn't want to see Mark put on the defensive smile that never entirely hid the worry and pain in his eyes, not if you knew what you were looking for. And after all this time, Gary definitely knew what to look for.
But then, Mark probably knew what he was up to as well. Mark knew him at least as well as Gary knew himself. Would have known there was something up when he was vague about his plans in L.A., when he'd avoided all question about whether he'd contacted Rob.
No, Mark would be hurt, when he sussed out what had happened, but if he was more vulnerable than people thought, he was stronger, too. He'd be fine, in the end. They all would.
It would have been grand, though, if he'd managed it. Rob back with the band. Rob getting the same second chance the rest of them had had to become friends again. To experience Take That like it had never been back in the day, but always should have been.
It would have been bloody brilliant.
Two
Rob laid in the bed and pulled a pillow over his head as his mobile buzzed for what seemed the thousandth time that hour. He couldn't do it. He couldn't open the phone and listen to the messages, read the texts. Couldn't face the anger, the recrimination, the anguish, the hurt he'd managed to cause yet again.
He'd been so sure he could do it, could work with the other lads, could write with them, could record with them, could maybe even tour with them. After all, they were all adults now, all successful in their own right, not kids petrified of being thrown out of a stupid pre-fab boyband. They'd all done some growing up in the last fifteen years. Him most of all, if he was being honest.
The first few weeks in New York had been, well, terrifying really, but also brilliant.
He'd known things would be brilliant with Mark—things were always brilliant with Mark—but it was amazing how much he and Gaz sparked off each other now, how much they drove each other to be better. How much they pushed each other to find the perfect lyric, the ideal melody, the ultimate hook for every song.
He'd forgotten how good, no, great, Howard was at harmony, how he could create backing vocals that took a good song and made it incredible. And he was amazed how much in common he and Jay had, now that he wasn't an irritating git of a sixteen-year-old trying to wind up what he'd seen as Jay's pomposity but now knew was his thoughtfulness.
But then they'd all fetched up back in the U.K., where they weren't just Rob and Gaz and Mark and Doug and Jay, but Robbie Williams, and Take That. There'd been paparazzi and press speculation and pressure, and by the time they'd ended up on stage together at the Children in Need gig, Rob had thought he was going to explode.
He'd fled back to L.A. after that, and holed up in this bedroom. He hadn't even talked to Ayda about it, because he'd barely understood himself why he'd had to leave. He hadn't told the other lads, not in person. He'd left it to his manager to deliver his apologies after he'd run back to California, the furthest he could get from England.
His phone buzzed again and he hoped, really hoped, that it wasn't Mark who was texting him incessantly. It had to be, of course. Mark was the one person who had never given up on him. Not ever. Mark wouldn't give up on him now, even if he should. Even if Rob desperately wanted him to.
He'd brought it all crashing down again, and this time he knew there'd be no going back.
Three
Jason was sitting at his kitchen table, having a cup of tea, when the phone rang.
"Hello."
"He's legged it." Howard's voice was rough. Much rougher than usual.
"Who?" Jason said, sitting up straight, the taste of the tea suddenly metallic on his tongue. "Mark?" Because that's what he'd been fearing this past week: Mark leaving rehab before he was ready, putting the needs of the band before himself, just like he always did.
"Not Mark. Rob."
"Rob?" Jason couldn't process that, because it was wrong, wasn't it? Rob had grown up. Rob wasn't that irresponsible twat he'd been, not any more. Rob wasn't that cruel. Was he?
"Rob," Howard repeated.
"Bastard." The word slipped from Jason's tongue before he could call it back. Because that was more something Howard would say than he would, wasn't it?
"Bastard," Howard echoed back, reflecting Jason's thoughts back to him, just like he always did.
"Does Mark know?"
"No. He's not allowed any outside contact for another two weeks."
"Probably best for now. This'll gut him."
"Yeah," Howard said, and then a silence fell between them as Jason struggled with this worst of all possible news.
There was a beep on the line, and then Howard was speaking.
"Listen, that's one of my daughters. I've got to go. But I'll come over tonight, yeah?"
"Yeah," Jason said, already distracted, already letting the phone fall out of his hand onto the table.
Rob gone. And with Mark in rehab. Bloody hell. He felt like he'd stepped back twenty years. He felt like he always had when Rob had done something stupid and thoughtless and hurtful. He felt like he wanted nothing more than to cuff the stupid boy 'round the head and to tell him to grow up. But he couldn't do any of that, because the stupid boy had buggered off and left the rest of them to pick up the pieces.
And they all would. Pick up the pieces, that is. They'd meet and talk and make sure Mark was okay. They'd make sure they all were okay, and find a way to continue.
They'd look after each other.
Jason was just a bit sad that after all they'd been through together in the last few months, Rob hadn't realized that whatever his problems were, whatever had made him run, they'd have found a way to look after him as well.
Four
Breathe. Stretch. Hold. Breathe.
"Bastard."
It was no good.
Howard stood and began to pace the floor of the dance studio, glad he'd managed to get here before the other lads, before the dancers and the choreographer and everyone. Maybe he could work himself out of this black mood before anyone else showed up.
He got to the end of the studio and kicked a plastic chair that had the bad judgment to be in his way, smiling in grim satisfaction as it clattered and bounced and hit the wall opposite.
"Who was that meant to be, then?"
Howard started and turned and found Jay looking at him, his arms crossed, looking as bleak as Howard felt.
"Who do you bloody think?"
"Our Rob?"
"He's not our Rob. Not my Rob, anyway. Bastard." Howard kicked again, this time at nothing more than air, wishing it was Rob and his very-much-in-need-of-a-kicking arse in front of him.
"We have time to fix it."
"A week. He left with a week to go. One week to completely redo the show." An arse kicking was the least of what Howard owed our Rob. Because it wasn't just them that were depending on him now, not just the four of them. It was the dancers and the musicians and the riggers and the sound blokes and the drivers. It was everyone who depended on Take That for their living.
"'Lo, Jay. Howard."
They both turned to find Mark hesitantly standing in the doorway, uncertain of his welcome. His shoulders were bowed, as if he were carrying a heavier weight than his slight frame could bear, and the hollows under his eyes were worse than before he'd ended up in rehab.
Howard didn't hesitate. With Jason beside him, he strode to the door and had his arms around Mark in an instant. Jay completed the circle, the two of them surrounding Mark, supporting him, protecting him.
"It'll be all right," Howard said in Mark's ear. Mark nodded, but Howard could see he didn't believe a word of it. Not yet, not with the wound this fresh. But he would. The three of them, him and Jay and Gaz, would make sure he would.
This time 'round they weren't kids. This time they knew how to take care of each other. This time they'd make sure Mark was fine, no matter that Rob had broken his heart again.
Five
The roar from the crowd when the five of them first took the stage of the Sunderland Stadium of Light--and how perfect was that name?--was the loudest Mark had ever heard in a career that had seen more than a few triumphant stage shows. The standing ovation for the five of them seemed to roll over the stadium like an unending wave of thunder, like the surge of a North Atlantic storm. It swelled around them, surrounded them, buffeted them, until Mark felt like he wasn't surrounded by the audience of a pop concert, but some primal force of nature, raw and boisterous and exhilarating.
But that wasn't even the best part.
The best part, for Mark, came later, came half way through the show, came during Shine.
It had always been a hard number for Mark, outwardly sparkly but inwardly gloomy, full of hope but also desperation. It invoked, for him, the best and worst of his friendship with Rob, the push and pull between them, the light of his best wishes for Rob and the dark of his worst fears.
But this night, this night hope eclipsed desperation, light eclipsed dark. This night, he was singing not to Howard and Jay and Gaz, not to the audience, not even to the unseen subject of the song. This night he was singing to Rob in the flesh, the two of them grinning like idiots while the band and the dancers and the musicians swirled around them.
He'd had his doubts that they'd ever get this far, that Robbie would stick it out for the recording, for the press, for the tour. He wasn't quite sure how he'd talked him back after the Children in Need show. He'd thought he might disappear again when Mark himself vanished into rehab. But Rob had stayed. Rob had been there for the others. Rob had been there for him.
Rob was there as he hit the final notes of Shine, as the stage lights went to blackout, as the crowd roared.
They had only seconds to get to their places for the next number, but Rob was there, right there, squeezing him hard enough to knock the breath out of him, burying his face in Mark's hair.
What they'd been through, however bad it had been, it had all been worth it to get this. This one fantastic, utterly brilliant moment.
From that point forward, Mark didn't think he stopped smiling for the whole tour.
