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“We’re in a band.” Liam says to Noel one day, and even though it’s just the two of them in this raggedy apartment with peeling wallpaper, Noel isn’t sure who Liam is talking to.
The wallpaper has French houses printed on it and it’s everywhere, covering every inch of this undoubtedly moldy apartment. It gives Noel an unfamiliar sort of fatigue, the kind you get after looking at three floors worth of antiques in a museum — everything is starting to blend together, the edges of Noel’s eyes blur and Liam’s thighs are milky white. They taste like it, too.
Christmas Eve. Sara has left him a few messages, inquiring about his whereabouts and the status of their relationship and the Christmas presents, but Noel can’t bring himself to pick the phone back up. Answer any of her questions. He hasn’t slept in weeks. Hours. Days. Months. He’s lost track. He’s never been able to keep track. He should go back into the studio and see what they’ve done with the remaining tracks, if anyone has been able to get anything done without his explicit babysitting.
His eggs are burning. He can taste the burnt butter on his tongue. He should’ve started a pot of coffee.
“You? Band?” Noel scoffs, as he turns back to his burning eggs on the stove. Those deserve his attention a lot more than Liam does. “Great, another thing you could half-arse and forget about by snorting half the cocaine in New York City.”
Liam has this talent for being good at things no one really needs to be good at. He’s good at boiling eggs, doing a cartwheel while smoking a cigarette, rolling a crisp one dollar bill — okay, maybe the last one is an essential life skill. And Liam is good at getting angry. Noel is expecting to dodge Liam’s landline or his shoe or his dresser table, but when Liam says nothing, lets the silence simmer between them, Noel turns away from his eggs to look at Liam, just to make sure he’s really there and that he hasn’t hung himself at the sound of his big brother’s verbal disapproval.
“You should come see us.” Liam says, quiet as a mouse. “We’re good, Noely.”
Noel flips the eggs in the pan. Dark bottom. “Don’t got the time.” He says, succinctly.
The silence is terse. Liam is beginning to get agitated, Noel can see it in his face. The scrunched brows, the pursed lips and the hand clutching the bedsheets so tightly. It would drive Noel up the wall if it wasn’t for the fact that Liam’s still naked that’s making it so painfully comical. Noel has burned the eggs. There’s no saving them. Liam is in a band. All facts of life that both surprise and don’t surprise Noel.
Noel goes back to work after days of frolicking around and inside his brother. Gem embraces him tightly and Bonehead tells him that they were in the process of ordering a casket made of gold — what they don’t know is that Noel finds gold unbelievably tacky. He’s more of a diamond guy. So is Liam.
And the only reason he knows this is because at the cusp of one of their numerous climaxes, Noel asked Liam what he wants for Christmas — other than a good shag and enough snow to flood Liam’s weak little system — and Liam’s proclamation, accompanied by the softest gasp and the pitchiest moan, was a diamond necklace. Two, in fact. Sometimes, it scares Noel that there’s a person alive under the sun who knows everything about him, the way he thinks and the luxuries he desires. Fuck, Liam.
Speaking of Liam, Liam. In a band. Putting effort into something other than his hair and birdwatching. Noel almost can’t believe it, his little brother growing right up before his eyes. Noel shouldn’t, but he’s a little envious that Liam is starting to consider getting his life together. Even if it is by joining a silly little band.
Noel always knew he’d end up being better off than Liam — not that it would take much. He thought he’d always have to drag Liam around. Liam, his pathetic, good-for-nothing younger brother who only chased skirts and the next best hit and Noel, of course — and Noel could be his savior. His knight in shining armor. Liam’s sun and Liam’s moon and Liam’s soul and now Liam is in a band. He’s getting his life together.
And really, Noel isn’t a good big brother. He hates this, hates this a lot and he wants to go see Liam. Just to tell him that he’s bad at this. That Liam isn’t good for anything other than opening his mouth and spreading his legs. That all Liam should do is spend his life under the heel of Noel’s boot and that’s his place, that’s where he looks the best and Noel will reward him with everything Liam’s feeble mind could come up with. Drugs, sex, alcohol, Noel’s approval.
Tiffany’s because Noel is an asshole but he isn’t cheap and there’s a small, tiny part of him that gives in because Liam asked him for it. Liam doesn’t ask for much. Liam never asked for much, and whenever he did, Noel didn’t pay much heed. When you let someone hold your finger, it’s only natural that they’ll attempt to grab your hand. Tiffany’s on Christmas Eve and when the man behind the counter says, “Last minute gifts for the missus on Christmas, eh?” Noel doesn’t disagree, merely smiles.
He supposes that’s what Liam is to him. His missus. They scream and they fight and they bite and they make love with the passion of a thousand fiery suns and who is Liam if not his missus because they’ve transcended the bounds of familial love and frankly, having to call Liam his brother is strange, a tooth that’s fallen out, leaving a gap in your teeth that your tongue can’t help but trace, it’s not right, it needs to be filled by something else and who would demand a diamond necklace for Christmas if not a missus?
It’s one of his oldest fantasies — when he figured out that he isn’t normal, his relationship with Liam isn’t normal, that they were nothing like any other sibling pairs that they knew, there was something deeply, fundamentally, cosmically wrong with them, with the way Liam looked at him and the way Liam dressed for him and the way Liam spoke to him and — Liam with longer hair, a fuller chest, rouge on her cheeks and the same fucking tongue that makes it difficult for Noel to fall asleep at night. He thinks if Liam was born a girl, loud and feisty and simply fucking gorgeous because there’s no way that Liam Gallagher, in any way shape and form, could be anything but fucking gorgeous, Noel wouldn’t have moved to New York. This thing, this sick thing that they have could’ve been understood by him then.
Because Noel thinks with his brain and Liam’s looks, they would’ve made gorgeous, smart babies. Leaders of the world. He never would’ve let Liam work, no missus of Noel ever has to work and he used to think about it all the time before he left and when he found out — Liam, bearing his children, being his wife, that one eventful night at their home when Liam was still growing up, what it would’ve been like if Liam was only a little bit different. He’s made Liam sing and he’s made Liam dance and it’s difficult to tell the difference sometimes.
Liam is performing at the grimiest club in town and everyone here is high, drunk, horny and the atmosphere is electric. It’s seeping in through his jacket, his jeans, the hipster fucking beanie on his head because Liam will recognize him if Noel isn’t disguised. And the only reason Noel is here is to talk Liam off this cliff he’s about to jump off of. It’s not for everyone, baby because Noel knows how much Liam secretly adores being called baby, it’s okay, everyone is good at something, we just have to figure out what you’re good at.
Noel gets a drink and nothing else because he isn’t planning on being here for too long — someone is definitely going to pickpocket him, these people could barely afford the entry ticket for this greasy spoon, Noel can tell — and he lies in wait for his talentless, good-for-nothing younger brother, Tiffany in hand. The diamond necklace should soothe him.
There’s no particular ambience, flashing lights and half a drum set, a microphone set on a stand center stage. The beer is snaking its way through Noel’s system, the tightness in his muscles beginning to ooze out of his pores and Noel might be hallucinating when he sees Liam walk out on stage.
It’s not His Liam. It’s not. It is but it’s not. Liam has a cigarette clutched between his teeth, adding to the hazy environment, strobing lights in this club and Noel is definitely hallucinating because people behind him are screaming, shouting Liam’s name and the girl beside him is crying and Noel is confused. He’s very confused. Liam is wearing Noel’s shirt as he stands in front of the microphone, sunglasses on his face and people are screaming, birds are passing out and Liam’s hands are behind his back, microphone on his lips and he looks just the way he does when he’s on his knees, except Noel can drown in the swirling pools of blue in his eyes then. There’s no dishonesty. Now, there’s no telling what Liam is thinking, who he’s thinking of, if Liam is praying for Noel to be there, if he already knows Noel is going to be there.
There’s a man behind Liam on the drum set, a guy with a guitar and this might be a legitimate fucking band, a legitimate fucking purpose in Liam’s life and it fills Noel’s lungs with this pressure, he’s a second away from popping in rage and then Liam begins to sing.
For a second, the chatter ceases to exist. The only voice in the room is Liam’s. The lights dance and color Liam in green, blue, purple, pink and everyone in this room wants to fuck Liam Gallagher. There’s sweat clinging to Liam’s brow, hair curling to stick to his forehead and Noel never knew Liam could sound like this, a million fucking bucks, Noel never knew Liam could look like this in front of other people, strangers in fact, who don’t know him, don’t understand him and Noel wants to shield his brother from everyone’s lust. Not one person in this room deserves him, any piece of him.
They’ve got actual lyrics and memorable tunes but nothing matters. Liam is the star of this show. Everyone is here to watch him. He’s got a cigarette tucked in his belt, his hands still behind his back and Noel is starting to feel increasingly misplaced, the ground underneath his feet beginning to shake because it’s starting to hit him that Liam knows everything about him, but Noel doesn’t know everything about him. And it makes him feel sick. His evening hotdog is churning in his stomach. Liam is intelligent enough to keep certain parts of his life hidden from Noel. What more is he capable of? Liam brings his hands up to push his hair back, slicked from sweat and the heat in this room and Noel hears the girl beside him lightly gasp.
Fuck Patsy, is Liam sleeping with anyone else? Is Liam getting on his knees for someone else? Is he asking for diamond necklaces from someone else? Is he, dropout Liam fucking Gallagher, nothing like what Noel thought of him? And Noel thinks he’s made a mistake. He’s made a mistake coming here. Liam is done with his set and he’s grinning, he’s smoking his cigarette and people are cheering, people are fucking gaga for him, and Noel shouldn’t have come here. He flew too close to the sun and now his body is incinerated.
The owner of the greasy spoon knows who Noel is and lets him backstage. Lines of cocaine on the dressing table disappear up Liam’s drummer’s nose and when the door slams open, Noel and his Tiffany present in hand, everyone looks up but Liam.
“Get out,” Noel says, and apparently, he looks serious enough for Liam’s bandmates to take him seriously. They scram, exchanging nervous glances and Liam is still sitting in front of the lone mirror in the dressing room, rubbing the booger sugar off his philtrum. He hasn’t looked up even once.
The room is dim and it’s difficult to see, but Noel can feel Liam’s body heat in this room, emanating off him in waves, the energy of the stage is infectious. Noel’s teeth are digging into the insides of his cheeks as he makes his way over to where Liam is sitting, apparently too enthralled by his own appearance to even spare Noel a glance. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, going to do.
The mirror is cloudy but Noel can see the parts of Liam’s face that matter when he stands behind him. Like Liam’s classic snarl set on his lips, the scrunch of his eyebrows, his eyes that look up to meet Noel’s and Liam turns halfway in his seat. Looking Noel up and down.
“What?” Noel asks, but Liam doesn’t say anything. He just stares which is strange and unnerving and it’s getting under Noel’s skin. He holds up the bag, Liam’s eyes following the movement like he’s a motionless doll. “Merry Christmas.”
Liam is gritting his teeth when he stands, kicking the chair away before he grabs the bag from Noel’s hands. There’s anticipation in Noel’s veins which is new, when did the tables turn on them, when did Noel start wanting Liam’s approval, and Liam looks at the necklace. Doesn’t say anything. Looks up at Noel like he might as well have handed him a chewed up bone.
“You don’t like it?” Noel asks, because he’s a lot of things but a bad gifter isn’t one of them. Liam’s sunglasses are on top of his head and Noel can see a sad, pin-sized version of himself in the lenses. Fuck, does he look pathetic. “I got you what you wanted.”
And nothing about that makes Liam smile or at the very least, mildly happier. Liam only gets angrier and he’s going to walk away, Noel can see it in his eyes and Noel is filled with that cold dread again, in his lungs because he can’t imagine a universe in which he can live with Liam angry at him. Sad is one thing, angry is —
Noel takes the necklace from Liam’s hands and puts it on the dresser table behind Liam. Liam hasn’t done a line yet, his eyes are still focused and full of rage as Noel snakes an arm around his waist and he isn’t sure about what he’s saying, what he’s doing. All he knows is that Liam wants honesty, not some diamond fucking necklace and Noel pulls Liam closer, Liam’s mouth set in a grim line and Noel says, “You were beautiful out there, baby.”
Because he was. He was. He was nothing like Noel’s Liam and he was everything like Noel’s Liam and Liam’s eyes widen. Mouth slightly falls open and Noel can see his pink tongue. Liam’s mouth is open but there’s nothing leaving and Noel realizes that for the first time in his life, Liam is speechless. Awestruck.
And Noel, a lifetime opportunist, seizes the day and kisses his brother. Liam is no longer strung tight like an elastic band, body loose and receptive as Noel sneaks his hands under Liam’s (read: Noel’s) shirt. Liam tastes like nicotine and technically, it’s been three months since Noel quit so he chases the high as he pushes Liam up against the dresser table.
“Invite a lot of birds up to your room?” Noel asks, when they break away, and Liam is gasping for breath, eyes half-lidded. Noel can tell he’s barely processed the question because he’s thumbing for the fly of Noel’s jeans, diamond necklace forgotten and Liam shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Liam’s head hits the mirror as Noel pushes his shirt up, running his tongue along Liam’s abdomen and he’s trying to remember if they’ve locked the door. “Really? Who?” Noel asks, because the thought of Liam, waiting for someone makes him feel sick and he wants to know, needs to know who the bastard is so Noel can do his head in with a cricket bat.
Liam is gasping, hands on either side of Noel’s head as Noel undoes the button to Liam’s jeans and pulls his fly down with just his teeth — a beautiful trick he picked up from this girl in Milan — and waits for Liam’s answer.
Liam’s cheeks are flushed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as Noel goes to kiss him again, pulling Liam’s jeans down and everything is warm and loud, there’s someone playing the drums outside as Liam pulls away, his hands on Noel’s chest. Noel looks at him, really looks at him and all he sees is a piece of his soul trapped inside this person in front of him and Liam opens his mouth, presses a kiss to Noel’s neck as he says, “I’m waiting for my big brother.”
And it doesn’t happen often, Noel isn’t a man who gives in to animal instinct but something violent and primal overtakes him and he can’t wait, Liam deserves better than to wait, and every bone, every muscle in Noel’s body is charged and Liam finally finds the zipper, pulling him out and they’re both sleeping with other people — Noel knows this and Liam knows this — but if they wait any longer, if they delay this any longer, all that’s going to left of them come morning is bits and pieces, torn to shreds by each other’s teeth.
And Noel doesn’t kiss him, Noel wants to watch Liam’s face when he does this, everything Liam has desired since he was a child and Noel thought he was joking, it’s just a phase, my brother isn’t in love with me, it’s sick and it’s wrong and Liam’s body arches and Noel can’t see his face anymore because his eyes might be shut, all he feels around him is Liam, Liam, Liam, the taste of Liam’s body and the taste of Liam’s sweat and the tightness of Liam around him and Noel doesn’t think they’re ever coming back from this. It’s deeply, fundamentally, cosmic, the sickness they’ve infected each other with.
Noel used to think his father was the worst that ever happened to him. He should’ve known he was wrong with one look into Liam’s cornflower blue eyes.
Liam wraps his arm around Noel’s neck, drawing him closer and he sticks two fingers into Noel’s mouth, stretching him open and Noel is about to bite down on his fingers, he hates when Liam pulls some childlike move when they’re having sex — and Liam sticks his tongue into Noel’s mouth. They’re not really kissing, Noel isn’t sure what it is they’re doing, but it’s doing something for him and it’s really been a night filled with surprises.
He’s close, he can feel it, it’s overwhelming and he grabs Liam’s leg to pull him closer so it’s easier access and Liam’s chest is heaving. They’re as close as humanely possible, Liam’s lips on the shell of Noel’s ear so when Noel grabs the back of Liam’s knee and pulls him forward, slamming into him at some new angle, he can hear Liam loudly gasp and say, “Fuck, Noel, ah, right there.”
Not Noely. Not baby. Not some stupid fucking nickname. Noel.
Noel’s heart is jackrabbiting in his chest and Liam is sniffling, the way he gets when he’s close and it’s a high Noel thinks he’ll spend the rest of his life chasing. This particular night. This particular moment.
They’re in a cab and they’re in a seedy motel room and the lights are turned down and they’re sleeping with other people, but they’re brothers. There’s no fucking relationship in the world that could come before blood. Liam is exhausted, bone-tired, Noel can tell, so he reaches into his jeans pocket on the floor and grabs the small tube of snow. Liam can barely see him in the dark so he reaches for the lamp on the bedside table, pulling the string, flooding the room with this soft golden light as Noel uncaps the tube, cocaine on the nail of his pinky finger and Liam brightens up, bringing his head closer to snort the sugar.
Liam gets hit with this tremor of energy and suddenly, Liam is focused, eyes sharp and he grabs Noel’s face and kisses him with metric tons of force and their teeth clash and it’s messy and sloppy and Noel is terrified. He’s in this, in this way too deep and he thought he left this behind when he ran away to New York but he watches Liam guide Noel into him and he realizes — he’s a fucking goner. He’s gone on his brother.
There’s splices of soft golden light on Liam’s face, streaks of sweat on his chest because fuck knows how many hours they’ve been at this because Noel is tired, he doesn’t really do drugs and he’s got Liam’s wrists pinned above him on the headboard. Liam, always looking for a way to one-up the other person, always quick on his feet when it comes to running his tongue, kisses Noel and asks him against his mouth, “What should we name our daughter?”
Noel’s blood turns to ice in his veins and he tells Liam he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about and —
“Fucking liar,” Liam spits, but it’s not cruel, it’s understanding, it’s not horror, it’s kindness and Liam’s leg is wrapped around his waist and there’s nowhere to go, it’s time to pay the piper and Liam says, “Tell me, Noel. Please.”
And they’re fucking sick because Noel says Beth or Annie and Liam wrinkles his nose and says, “Am I birthing a fucking fifty-year old?” And fuck, Noel can see it, Noel can imagine it, Noel is sick in his fucking head and Liam sees it in his eyes because he unwraps his leg from Noel’s waist and waits, like an obedient younger brother who knows his place. Noel can’t believe how fucking lucky he’s gotten, he’s hit the lottery, he’s rich and he’s young and he’s got Liam fucking Gallagher in his bed — and Noel grabs Liam’s legs and folds him in half, pushing Liam’s knees up to his chest and Liam grabs Noel’s face with his newly freed hands and kisses him.
It’s a sickness and there’s no way to tell if Liam started it or if Noel did, but when Noel pushes into Liam and Liam breathes, it almost looks like a bump in his abdomen and Noel is a fucking goner. Liam is calling out his name, not Noely, not baby, not some stupid fucking nickname, Noel, Noel, Noel, his big brother and Noel remembers the reason why he left without saying goodbye. He didn’t want his being to be consumed by anything that wasn’t his work.
The effect is starting to wear off and Liam is tired, boneless, and Noel slumps on top of him, burying his face in Liam’s neck and everything smells just like home. Just the way it’s meant to be. Maybe tomorrow they can wake up and pretend that none of this ever happened but for now, Noel settles for the press of Liam’s lips to the shell of his ear, whispering something that sounds awfully close to I love you.
✯