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In the studio and in the rehearsing room, Gary was the boss. They all knew it, that's how they thought of him from a day one – he was the boss. Nigel was a god but Gary was the man behind the music, the god's right hand, the brain, the VIP... If they found it funny at all, they'd probably play a game of who would make up more titles of that sort for Mister Barlow.
Gary was a full blown boss, too, with all the huffs and puffs of the important person, with a huge ego, with all those mannerisms that would drive them all up the wall, and the guys would have those little bickering conversations on the side, snide remarks and tiny vicious pokes they'd send Gary's way when he wasn't looking. And they would ask – Rob, how come you're putting up with all that so well? You're in his face one moment, telling him he's a cunt and a wanker, but then you go and do exactly what he wants!
And Rob would just smile at that, he would shrug and reply with yet another stupid joke of his, a bit too nasty or filthy, offending just about everything that was Gary, his intelligence included, but he would smile. Because none of them knew.
None of them knew how it was behind the closed door, when they weren't in the studio or rehearsal room, or on a band meeting, or on stage, or any public place. None of them knew that all it took was to close and lock the hotel room door, the dressing room door, the bathroom door, any door really, and Gary would go quiet, would lose that stupid frown of his, this haughty pout, this air of superiority. All it took was Rob's body pressed into his, backing him against the wall, Rob's hand in his hair, pulling and pushing, Rob's hard grip on his shoulders, a decisive shove sending him down onto the mattress, over the table, onto the floor.
“Just shut the fuck up, Barlow,” Rob would say and Gary would scowl but just out of habit, not even trying to talk back and losing the scowl seconds later as well, too busy with Rob's lips pressed against his in hard kisses, all tongue and teeth and no mercy.
“Shut up and suck it,” Rob would say and Gary would just do it, just go down on his knees, his hands trembling slightly as he'd be undoing Rob's trousers, pulling him out, wrapping those long, strong fingers around Rob's cock and then sucking it, so good, so deep, so hot, swallowing everything without a second of hesitation while looking up with those huge, bright eyes.
“Shut up and roll over,” Rob would say, and Gary would do it, quickly and gracefully, rolling onto his stomach and glancing over his shoulder at Rob, panting and shivering, with his own hand on his own hard cock, waiting for Rob to come to him, to push into him, to fuck him hard.
“Shut up, shut the fuck up,” Rob would growl, pant, moan against the back of Gary's neck, his shoulder, the tender lobe of his ear, and Gary would, he would bite down on the pillow, on his own forearm, his fist, muffling his desperate moans, swallowing down Rob's name that would carelessly roll off his tongue in the moments of passion.
“Shut up and ride me,” Rob would moan, plead, hooking his hands under Gary's arms, yanking him up, pulling them both up, making Gary fall against his chest, snapping his hips and driving up hard into the tight heat, making Gary struggle in his grip, struggle to stay quiet, struggle to follow the rhythm as he bounced on Rob's lap, his head thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, his whole face a picture of pain and pleasure.
A picture of beauty.
That's how Gary looked behind the closed door, just for Rob's eyes. The real Gary, quiet and subdued, with his eyes clouded with desire he would never speak about, not to anyone, not even Rob. And it was good like that, Rob didn't need him to talk.
As long as he would say Rob's name, after. In this soft, deep voice no one else got to hear.