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The little studio always feels smaller at night. Maybe it is because there is no movement outside the frosted windows by then, no muffled voices drifting through walls from other rooms. The whole place settles into itself after midnight, warm and dim and strangely hidden from the rest of London.
Damon likes it better this way. Especially since lately, it means Liam is with him.
Of course the danger still exists, naturally following them everywhere they go. One person recognising Liam on the way in, one receptionist remembering the wrong detail, one photographer getting lucky outside at half one in the morning.
Sometimes, they swap studios entirely just to avoid patterns. Sometimes, Liam arrives first and Damon waits ten minutes around the corner pretending to read flyers pasted to a brick wall. Sometimes, Damon pulls his coat collar halfway over his face despite knowing it does absolutely nothing. Sometimes, it sucks.
It should feel ridiculous, yet it feels thrilling instead Thrilling not in the dramatic tabloid scandal or tragic Romeo and Juliet type of way. Thrilling in a simple way. Thrilling in the quiet private way of having something entirely for themselves in a world where very little belongs to either of them anymore.
Tonight is one of those nights.
Liam sits cross-legged on the floor right in the middle of it all like he belongs there. He probably does by now.
Damon watches him from the mixing desk while another demo spins quietly through the speakers, all rough edges and unfinished layering. With his chin tipped slightly up and his arms folded loose across his chest, Liam listens, his expression unreadable in the way it always is when he actually likes something.
If he hates it, he says so immediately.
If he loves it, he acts annoying first.
“Bit shit, this.”
“Right,” Damon snorts.
“The keyboard bit sounds like summat from a children’s programme.”
“You said you liked it five minutes ago.”
“Changed me mind.”
Liar.
By now, Damon knows to listen for the things Liam asks to replay, the details he pretends not to notice, certain lyrics he quotes back days later while acting like he hasn’t memorised half the tape. Liam mocks Blur relentlessly and then sits perfectly still through every new demo Damon gives him, listening harder than most producers do.
It still catches Damon off guard. Every time.
Not the attention itself. He is used to attention, used to people wanting pieces of him constantly, interviews and performances and endless conversations where everyone tries to drag meaning out of him before he fully understands it himself.
This feels different.
The demos are different too.
They have always felt oddly raw to him, more vulnerable than finished songs ever are. Finished songs become public eventually, finished songs stop belonging entirely to him after that. People pull them apart and misunderstand them and project themselves into them until Damon can barely recognise the original shape anymore.
Demos however, demos remain fragile little things. Unsteady. Half-formed. A thought before it hardens into certainty.
Years ago, hell, months ago, he couldn’t even imagine letting anyone hear them this early, especially not someone like Liam Gallagher. And yet, it comes easier than letting Liam touch him did at first, which says something unfortunate about Damon, doesn’t it...
Music vulnerability at least follows rules he understands. He knows how to survive that sort of exposure, has built an entire career out of dressing himself up inside melodies and pretending that makes him difficult to reach. Songs can always be softened with distortion or buried beneath enough instruments to stop feeling entirely personal.
Intimacy is worse.
Intimacy leaves nowhere to hide, or at least it didn’t initially.
Now though, now Liam sprawls across studio floors at two in the morning listening to unfinished tapes while Damon rambles about chord progressions, and somehow that feels safer than most things in his life.
The demo finishes with a soft click.
Lazily, Liam points towards the cassette player. “Play that one again.”
Damon smiles before he can stop himself. “Knew you liked it.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You asked for it again.”
“Maybe I just fancy hearin’ how shite it is twice.”
“Mm.” Damon rewinds the tape anyway before they fall back into silence.
He abandons the mixing desk then, instead moving to stretch himself dramatically across the battered couch shoved against one wall. He shifts several times before finding a position that works, one leg hooked over the back cushions and his feet propped untidily against the wall. His head hangs upside down off the edge of the sofa until his fringe brushes the carpet.
“There ya go,” Liam comments dryly whilst grinning. “Proper normal behaviour.”
Without opening his eyes, Damon lifts one hand towards him. “Shut up.” It is comfortable, what is he supposed to do? The room spins gently in this position, softened at the edges by exhaustion.
As the demo ends again, Liam nods to himself, then smiles at Damon. Approval.
Just as Damon moves to put on something else, some background music, Liam beats him to it, and soon enough, Stereotypes starts ringing through the room, the sound on lower than before, low enough to blend into the hum of the studio itself. Of course Liam would choose to play The Great Escape. Honour the band rivalry or whatever.
Neither comments on it.
Liam lights a cigarette near the cracked-open window, careful with the smoke despite constantly pretending he doesn’t care about anything at all.
Damon watches him upside down.
The strange thing is that Liam always looks softer during moments like this. Not publicly, never in interviews or photographs or backstage chaos, but here, in the middle of the night with no audience left to perform for, where the sharp restless edges of him loosen somewhat.
His hair falls into his eyes.
His shoulders unclench.
He listens.
In the end, that might be the most dangerous thing about him. The listening. The listening and not the loose mouth of his or the constant noise surrounding Oasis everywhere they go.
The listening and the watching and the waiting and the loving.
It’s why Damon said yes, isn’t it?
Because no matter what, Liam listens carefully when Damon speaks. Speaks about music, about melodies, about things that upset him, about stupid tiny details nobody else bothers remembering.
Once someone starts listening like that, it becomes horribly difficult not to hand them everything else too.
Eventually, Top Man finishes and The Universal starts softly drifting through the room. By now, Liam finished his cigarette and plopped down on the floor next to Damon’s head, leaning against the sofa. Due to the strenuous angle, Damon stopped looking at him and began staring at the ceiling instead.
The strings sound warmer on old studio speakers. Well, everything kinda does.
Upside down, Damon feels pleasantly detached. Detached and tired, honestly.
Blood rushes slowly to his head, his body is heavy with exhaustion. He plays with his ring.
Maybe he should sleep. Liam would let him, he knows. There had been enough instances on studio nights alone where he fell asleep and woke up with his head in Liam’s lap and his fingers in his hair, either moving if he was awake, or just as still as Damon when sleep took him too. Enough instances where Damon fell asleep lying on Liam, cuddling, hugging.
Enough instances where it had been the other way around.
But Damon doesn’t fall asleep, not tonight, not yet anyway, and neither does Liam. Both of them listen to Damon’s voice coming quietly from the speakers, and Damon then feels that strange uncomfortable distance he always feels with finished songs, like somebody else has already taken ownership of them. It is odd, really, hard to explain.
“You know what bothers me about this one?” he asks because he doesn’t want to lose himself in thoughts and he knows Liam too prefers for him to voice them out instead of letting them bury him.
Glancing over, Liam clearly considers him before answering. “Loads of things probably.”
“No, seriously.”
“That usually means this conversation’s gonna last an hour.”
Damon pointedly ignores him. They both know Liam would sit beside him conversing, or even just listening, for all of eternity, would listen to every wandering thought Damon had to offer until the stars themselves burned cold.
And what, really, is one stolen hour measured against something as endless as eternity? He smiles.
His fingers dangle loosely towards the carpet then, absent-mindedly tracing shapes through the air as he continues. “It sounds too pretty.”
Liam snorts softly. “That’s the problem?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a song, not a motorway pile-up.”
“No, but listen…,” Damon twists slightly, enough to adjust the angle needed to look properly at him upside down without straining anything. “That’s exactly what I mean. Everyone hears the orchestra and all that and thinks it’s comforting.”
“It is comforting.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
That earns him a raised eyebrow, yet Liam doesn’t say anything else, and that is dangerous too, Damon thinks. The silence. Liam knows when to interrupt him and when to let him keep going, and Damon always keeps going once given enough space.
“The whole thing’s meant to feel artificial,” Damon says, words speeding up now that he starts properly. “Like plastic happiness. Everyone’s medicated and detached and entertained all the time and nobody notices anything real anymore because everything’s packaged nicely enough to stop people asking questions.”
“Hm.”
“They’ll sing along to it in clubs or whatever and think it’s optimistic, but it’s not optimistic at all.” He laughs quietly through his nose. “It’s horrible, actually. Dystopian.”
“You write horrible songs then make ‘em sound cheerful,” Liam says.
“Exactly.”
“That’s a bit manipulative.”
“That’s music.”
No further comment or reaction beyond a thoughtful look.
“I just think people like pretending things are fine because it’s easier. Everyone wants something shiny enough to hide inside, everyone’s on a Universal drug to ease their stress and pretend… pretend everything’s fine, but it isn’t.” His voice grows rougher around the edges the longer he continues.
“That’s The Universal, mate, nostalgia and pain woven into a confused kind of fake clarity. Fuck the truth, do drugs. Comfort in denial. It really could happen…”
“...Tragic.”
“Touching.”
“Nightmarish,” Liam states as he catches Damon’s eyes. Damon smiles, then looks away first. Liam understood it.
Now, his upside down position combined with the rather depressing topic make the room feel oddly dreamlike. He feels safe. Safe because of the little things, like the golden lighting and their coats stacked on a chair because the hangers broke a few days ago (cheers, Alex) and, and…
And maybe all that too is part of the paradigm shift brought upon him by Liam.
Years spent building himself into something slippery and difficult to pin down, then somewhere along the way, Liam simply… stayed, without demanding or pushing.
Occasionally, Damon still doesn't know what to do with that. With Liam touching the back of his neck without paying attention while listening to tapes. With Liam remembering lyrics after hearing them once. With Liam asking if Damon got home safe without turning it into a joke afterwards.
Safe little things.
Terrifying safe little things.
Even now, there are moments where tenderness catches him off guard so badly it nearly frightens him.
Physical intimacy especially still feels impossible on bad days, just like it did in the beginning. And it sucks, because it’s never been due to him not wanting it, but because wanting things from people has always felt vaguely dangerous to him. Easier to bury it under jokes or work or music or cleverness. Easier to let songs say things he can’t say directly, no matter how hard even that can be.
Damon swallows. “The weird bit is that far too many people think songs are less personal than they actually are,” he admits quietly. “People hear an interview and think that’s honesty, but interviews are easy. You can lie in interviews. Songs are worse.”
“How?
“Because they happen before you’ve had time to make yourself sound reasonable.”
That earns a tiny smile from Liam and before Damon can think better of it, he presses on.
“A song catches you before you’ve edited yourself properly, before you’ve figured out which parts are embarrassing.”
“And ya hate that.”
“I hate people noticing it.”
“But ye still show everyone.”
“Not everyone.” The words leave his mouth too quickly, the silence afterwards feeling different. He can hear the soft orchestral swell of The Universal filling the room again as the chorus soars once more.
Beside him, Liam goes very still.
Suddenly, Damon feels heat crawl unpleasantly into his face despite being upside down. He talks when nervous, always has. Silence leaves too much room for people to look directly at him, and Liam has become far too good at that.
“So when people say this song’s comforting, they’re missing the point entirely. It’s meant to sound exhausted, like everybody’s sedated enough not to care anymore.”
“You care though.”
“Obviously I care.”
“That’s why yer whingin’ about it at two in the mornin’.”
“I’m not whinging.”
“Ye are a bit.”
Groaning dramatically, Damon lets one arm flop over his eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And yer dramatic.”
“Mm, true.”
For a moment neither speaks.
Damon lowers his arm again and looks at Liam, with Liam looking back quietly, listening, waiting. Privately attentive as per usual, his expression so open it nearly makes Damon nervous.
His chest tightens strangely, although it feels far softer than panic.
“You know,” Damon says carefully, “I don’t usually let people hear demos this early.”
“I know.”
“You take the piss out of all of them.”
“They’re Blur demos. Someone’s gotta keep ya humble.”
Despite himself, Damon smiles. Then, quieter, “but you listen properly.”
Liam’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly at that. The room suddenly feels very small and very warm.
Damon becomes aware of everything at once, of the blood rushing to his head, of the scratchy fabric of the sofa beneath him, of the low strings swelling through the speakers, of Liam close enough that Damon could reach down and touch his hair if he wanted to.
He does want to.
“It’s odd,” he murmurs. “Music’s easier than people for me, I think.”
Liam says nothing.
“I can hide inside songs a bit. Even when they’re honest.” Damon laughs softly at himself. “But actual intimacy’s awful because there’s no distance in it, no performance. You can’t bury yourself under production.”
Still, Liam says nothing, only watching him, quieter and quieter as Damon speaks until eventually, the entire room seems to narrow down to the two of them alone. To Damon hanging upside down off the sofa rambling himself emotionally inside out, and Liam sitting there listening with that unbearably fond expression he gets when Damon stops pretending not to mean things.
It makes him feel transparent without ever once feeling Liam is demanding honesty outright.
For a moment, Liam appears strangely unreal, soft golden light caught along his cheekbones, dark eyes heavy with exhaustion, mouth slightly parted like he means to say something and decides against it. He is playing with his ring now while looking at him.
Damon finds himself checking for his own ring, as if he would ever take it off let alone forget to put it on again.
Something unreadable flickers through Liam’s expression. Damon’s stomach twists. “What?” he asks quietly.
Liam shakes his head once. “Nothin’.”
“Liar.”
A tiny shrug before Liam shifts closer, the motion happening slowly enough that Damon notices every part of it. The movement of Liam’s hand against the carpet. His shoulder brushing the edge of the sofa. The faint smell of smoke and rain and laundry powder clinging to his clothes.
Instinctively, Damon stills, aware rather than frightened. Aware in the way he only becomes with Liam, where every touch feels important because none of them are careless.
Liam is first to reach out, his fingers coming up to slide briefly against Damon’s jaw, warm and rough from guitar strings, as he has been playing the guitar more and more lately, and Damon can’t explain it, but he just knows it is because of him. Maybe his musical vein has rubbed up on Liam.
His thumb settles lightly near Damon’s ear as if checking whether this is alright.
It is.
God, it is.
Yet his breath catches anyway.
And then, Liam kisses him upside down, and Damon faintly recalls having been in this position kissing with Liam once before.
The angle is awkward immediately. Damon can feel Liam smiling faintly against his mouth because of it, can feel his own hair falling stupidly towards the floor, can feel the blood rushing warm behind his eyes from hanging off the sofa too long already.
But none of that matters after about half a second, because Liam kisses him with unbearable, unhurried gentleness, one that is warm in a way that spreads through Damon so suddenly it almost hurts.
The Universal wraps up, its melancholy remaining even as Mr. Robinson’s Quango begins playing. However, it doesn’t matter as the music blurs into something distant and dreamlike while Liam’s hand stays steady against his face, grounding him there so naturally that Damon stops thinking altogether for one perfect impossible moment.
It is then that the feeling opens up inside him, the feeling of… home. The warmth of it rushes through him so vividly that his exhausted brain drifts somewhere else entirely:
Summer sunlight through lace curtains.
Grass warm beneath bare feet.
A kitchen window thrown open somewhere in the countryside while somebody laughs in another room.
Long afternoons as a child where time barely existed at all. Running outside until the air smells like sun-heated earth and wildflowers. Coming back indoors flushed pink and breathless to find homemade biscuits cooling unevenly on a tray. Fresh orange juice at breakfast. Soft cardigans smelling faintly of soap powder. Sleepiness after swimming. A radio humming quietly while somebody cooks eggs collected that morning.
Safety without needing to earn it, that is what the kiss feels like.
Safety, not excitement.
Safety, not danger.
Safety, not the sharp frantic thing Damon always assumes intimacy must become eventually.
This feels familiar in a way that makes no sense at all, as though some exhausted hidden part of him recognises Liam instinctively and finally stops bracing for impact. Like stepping through the front door after weeks away. Like warmth returning to frozen fingers. Like finding the light already on for you.
Before he can stop himself, Damon makes a tiny helpless sound into the kiss, and in response, Liam brushes his thumb against his cheekbone once.
Still gentle.
Always so much gentler than anybody expects him to be.
Damon kisses him back properly then, one hand reaching blindly downward until his fingers catch in the fabric of Liam’s sleeve just to hold onto something. The position makes everything slightly dizzy and weightless. When Damon nearly slips further off the sofa entirely, Liam laughs softly against his mouth for a second.
The laugh breaks something open in Damon’s chest because yes, it is ridiculous, of course it is ridiculous.
They are two exhausted grown men hiding in a cramped studio at nearly three in the morning, kissing upside down while Blur plays quietly through battered speakers yet somehow, it feels more real than almost anything else in Damon’s life.
Liam’s got that effect on him.
After that, the kiss slows naturally, though neither of them pulls away abruptly, Liam’s hand still cradling Damon’s face like it belongs there, warmth and soft breaths lingering.
When they finally separate, Damon stays hanging upside down for another few seconds because he genuinely can’t remember how gravity works anymore.
Liam looks unbearably fond. “Yer gonna fall,” he murmurs.
As long as Liam will be there to catch him, Damon doesn’t have much of an issue with that, he finds. “Probably.”
“You alright?” The question lands softly between them, simple and cautious.
Damon looks at him for a long moment and there it is again, that awfully wonderful feeling of recognition, one that is steadier than excitement, deeper. Like discovering he has been homesick for a place that turns out to be a person.
Liam waits without pushing and Damon’s chest aches with it.
“Yeah,” he says finally, voice quiet and honest enough to frighten him a little. “Yeah, I think I am.” At which Liam smiles then, small and crooked and real.
Suddenly and with complete certainty, Damon decides that he could spend the rest of his life chasing that expression.
But then he remembers he is still upside down. “Oh, Christ,” he mutters, blinking hard as he finally tries pulling himself upright. The movement immediately goes wrong as the room tilts sharply sideways and while the rush of blood previously felt somewhat pleasant, it now is near unbearable as it flows through his head after hanging there far too long. It throbs.
Damon makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan as he nearly slides straight off the sofa entirely, just like Liam predicted.
“Easy, easy…” Liam is moving before Damon even fully registers it.
One second, he is still crouched beside the couch, the next he is on his feet with both hands steadying Damon by the shoulders and waist, guiding him back against the cushions before gravity can properly betray him.
“Absolute idiot,” Liam says, though the words come out soft with concern rather than sharpness.
“I think all the blood’s evaporated from my brain.”
“Think that happened years ago.”
Eyes squeezed shut while the dizziness settles itself out, Damon laughs weakly.
Afterwards, Liam stays close. Close enough that Damon can feel warmth radiating off him through layers of clothes. One knee presses into the sofa beside Damon’s thigh while one hand remains absent-mindedly spread against his side, still grounding him there automatically.
Protective without making a performance of it.
Liam does these things so naturally now, as if somewhere along the line, caring for Damon has become instinctive.
Slowly, Damon opens his eyes again, to find Liam watching him with that same unbearably fond expression still lingering around the edges of his face, softened further now by love and dim studio light.
Before he can overthink it properly, he reaches up and hooks his fingers loosely through the front of Liam’s jacket to pull him impossibly closer, exactly where he wants him and where he supposes Liam belongs.
Easily, Liam comes and settles half across Damon and half against the sofa cushions, one arm braced beside Damon’s head while Damon sinks further into the worn fabric beneath them both. The position is awkward and sleepy and entirely too familiar by now.
Perfect, really.
Neither says anything else as Liam kisses him again, even slower and even more lazy this time. It is the sort of kiss born entirely from tiredness and affection rather than urgency. Seems to be their norm. Damon knows how lucky he is as he naturally melts into it.
There is something wonderfully unguarded about kissing Liam like this, tangled together in the half-dark with no expectation beyond closeness itself. No audience. No performance. No version of themselves shaped for interviews or stages or photographs.
Just Liam’s mouth warm against his.
Just Liam’s weight resting comfortably over him.
Just Liam’s fingers slipping into Damon’s hair while Damon’s own hand drifts beneath Liam’s jacket just to feel the steadiness there. They, the world around them, all of it feels beautifully small in here, like there is just this room, just this sofa, just this person. Just this love.
Damon kisses him deeper, enough that it almost aches, and Liam responds with a tiny pleased hum that vibrates warm against Damon’s mouth. The sound settles directly into Damon’s chest.
Home, he thinks again, isn't tied to buildings or cities or childhood memories anymore. Home isn’t a place.
Home is the feeling currently wrapped around him in the shape of Liam Gallagher. Home is warmth and safety and tired laughter at three in the morning. Home is someone listening carefully when Damon speaks, someone steadying him before he falls, someone kissing him like tenderness is the easiest thing in the world.
Tightening his fingers in the fabric at Liam’s side, Damon lets his eyes drift back closed while they continue kissing slowly beneath the low golden studio light.
And with Liam pressed tight against him and music humming softly around them like another heartbeat altogether, a shared love beyond the one they have for each other, Damon thinks with quiet, unwavering certainty, that Liam is his home.