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The whole flat was a disaster. The air felt thick, heavy, like something dark had crept through the curtains and settled in the corners.
Vinyl records were scattered across the small living room table. Next to Please Please Me sat a small tin box that both of them knew all too well. Inside, there were only tiny cotton balls and a burned spoon.
Down on the floor, Damon’s head rested heavily in Liam’s lap.
"No, no, no," Liam repeated, the desperation in his voice almost intoxicating.
Damon could barely focus on him, and bloody hell, he was trying.
"Please. Please," Liam's cold hands slid up to his face, cradling his cheeks.
His hands.
Damon loved (loves) Liam's hands.
The way they always felt warm against his skin. The tenderness with which he'd thread his fingers through his hair. The peculiar way Liam would intertwine their fingers while ranting about Noel's latest meltdown.
Damon used to watch him for hours. He listened to every word, of course, but he also paid attention to every tiny detail. The crease between Liam's brows whenever something upset him. The grin that appeared whenever he was trying to bring out the famous Gallagher swagger. His eyes...
God, his eyes.
They always seemed to be hiding something. Not anything bad. No. Something that took them both far too long to understand.
"Damon," Liam's voice dragged him back. "Damon, look at me."
His thumbs brushed against Damon's cheeks. It felt like he was trying to ground him.
"Fuck you, you sodding bastard," the words sounded angry, but his voice cracked halfway through. "Don't ya fucking dare."
Don't ya fucking dare.
That was a funny thing to say. Damon remembered the last time Liam had said those words.
France.
Blur's flight had been delayed, while Oasis’ had arrived earlier than expected. A rare stroke of luck. It meant a few hours together. Damon had been ridiculously excited to see him again.
Three months.
They had agreed to meet at the hotel; it was the only place where they'd have enough privacy to be themselves. So there was Damon, sitting on the sofa. Then on the bed. Then, at some point, on the floor. He was being ridiculous. Liam would laugh his arse off if he could see him now.
Damon stood up and took a peek through the window for what had to be the tenth time.
"What are ya lookin' for?"
That voice. A shock ran through his body. Shivers. Proper shivers. He turned around so quickly he nearly lost his balance.
"They told me some musicians were coming," he said, trying (and failing) to sound casual. "Not a big band, though."
"Little bastard," Liam muttered under his breath, wearing that grin that made Damon's chest tighten a little (a lot).
By the time Damon realised what he was doing, he was already in Liam's arms. God, he'd missed this. The familiar weight around him, the scratch of stubble against his cheek, the warmth radiating through Liam's jacket despite the cold outside.
And the smell. Liam's cologne, already fading after a long day of travelling, mixed with cigarette smoke and whatever cheap hotel soap he'd used that morning. Damon hated those cigarettes. They were too strong.
"Too Gallagher," Liam had called them once, looking absurdly pleased with the description. Maybe he had a point. Only maybe.
For a moment, Damon simply stayed there, his face buried against Liam's shoulder. Three months. Three bloody months.
"What?" Liam scoffed. "We haven't seen each other for months, and ya're not even givin' me a kiss?"
"It was three months, actually."
"Oh, don't ya fucking dare." Liam tightened his grip around him.
"What?"
"Make this about timing and kiss me already."
Oh, that was a nice memory, but maybe that wasn't the last time Liam had told him that.
His memories felt like a long hallway he could wander through freely, opening whichever door he wanted.
No, France wasn't the last time.
Damn. Maybe he shouldn't have picked that door.
It was late at night. One of those cold London nights when the sky turned from grey to black, the moon hid behind thick clouds, and not a single star was in sight. They were at Liam's flat. It had been one of those days when neither of them could tell exactly when a conversation had turned into a fight. Both of them were sharp. Their tongues were weapons, and they left each other bleeding because neither knew when to stop. Neither knew when enough was enough.
"Ya keep sayin' that. As if sayin' it would make it true," Liam gestured vaguely through the air.
"I'm being realistic."
"No," Liam snapped. "Yer bein' a coward."
The word landed harder than Damon expected. He laughed, humourless. "Right. That's rich coming from you."
Liam was pacing now, running a hand through his hair. "Every time somethin' gets difficult, every time we're apart for too long, every time one of us fucks up, you start talkin' like we're already over."
Damon's jaw tightened. "Maybe because one day we will be."
"Oh, don't ya fucking dare." There it was again—that phrase. Liam pointed a finger at him, closing the gap that was definitely necessary between them. "Don't ya dare decide that for me. Don't ya fuckin' dare."
Yeah. That was the last time he heard it, but he wasn’t exactly sure when it was. A week ago? A month ago? Last night? Time had become a mischievous thing lately.
“Oi,” the voice dragged him back again. “Please, Damon…” It sounded broken. God, he hated hearing him like that.
Damon had been feeling guilty for a long time now. He would love to stand up, take Liam's hands, look him in the eyes, and kiss him to let him know it was all going to be alright. There were so many things Damon would have loved to do. For instance, he would have loved to be conscious enough to speak. He was good at that. Talking. Defending his ideas, running his mouth... and that big mouth of his had gotten him into a lot of trouble over the years. Fucking things up with Liam was just the latest highlight.
He wished he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
No, that wasn't quite it. It wasn't about keeping it shut; it was about wishing he'd never said those things in the first place. The cruel things. The things he knew would hurt because he knew exactly how to make Liam bleed.
He would have loved to take them back. He would have loved to go back and do things properly. He would have loved to be Liam's person instead of the bloody disaster he always seemed to become.
"I love you..." Liam's voice cracked into a sob as his hand pressed against Damon's chest. It felt heavy, or maybe Damon's heart was simply beating too slowly. "Don't leave me."
Damon tried to focus on him, really focus, but Liam remained little more than a blur, a shape, a voice, a pair of trembling hands. And somehow, that made it worse.
Liam was crying. Liam was crying because of him.
The sobs turned into sharp, uneven breaths, each one shaking his shoulders.
"Fuck, Damon," Liam's fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. "I hate you."
Damon did too. He hated himself.
If he could have cried, he would have broken apart right there in Liam's arms. A single tear slipped down his cheek. He felt it. He also felt Liam’s grip trembling against him.
His mouth opened; he tried to speak.
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.
𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦.
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘓𝘪𝘢𝘮.
But none of it came out but a broken sound, something close to a plea.
Through the suffocating silence filling his ears, another sound began to bleed in. Distant and wailing. For a second, Damon’s fading mind thought it was guitar feedback, echoing through an empty stadium, but it wasn’t. It was too sharp. Too rhythmic.
Sirens.
"Stay with me," Liam was pleading too. "Please… please…"
His voice was slipping away, swallowed by the roar inside Damon’s head.
Damon let his eyes fall shut. He didn’t want to go, but the hallway of his mind was there again, and this time, all the doors were closing on their own.
The last thing he felt was the wet trace of Liam’s tears against his skin, and the distant, wailing promise that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t their last moment.