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Noel doesn’t make a habit of listening to voicemails from unknown numbers.
For years, he’d had unknown numbers automatically blocked. Mam was too eager for him and Liam to get on again, giving out his new number every time Noel changed it, so he’d just blocked all unknown callers (once he’d been shown how). Liam never left his name, a message, or a number to ring him back on, just breathed heavily down the line for a second before clicking off, but Noel always knew it was him anyway, knew it from the way his heart would skip a beat, from the electric feeling that would course through his veins.
One, two, three years had passed, and Noel’s anger hadn’t abated. Four, five, six, and it started to turn from a boil into a simmer. Seven, eight, nine, and Noel had started to feel the guilt creep in around the edges. Ten, and he barely even remembered why he’d been so angry, what Liam had even said.
(It had been somewhere in the eighth year, he thinks, that he’d got drunk out of his fucking mind one night and spent a good twenty minutes trying to figure out how to let unknown numbers call him again.)
Before Noel had blocked unknown numbers, Liam had called a lot. Once every few weeks, or maybe more. Noel had been so furious then, furious at Liam and furious at himself for still loving Liam, and had channelled it all into hatred and spite. He’d pick up the calls sometimes - the ones he saw, at least - and shout fuck you, or fuck off, or I wish you’d been fucking aborted down the line, and then hang up before waiting for any response. He’d never feel good afterwards, although he’d kid himself he did. The self-satisfaction always held a tinge of guilt that meant he could never quite enjoy it.
After Noel unblocked unknown numbers, though, jumping every time his phone rang in the early hours or every time he saw a missed call after getting out of an interview, Liam never called. It hurt more than Noel wanted to admit, made him bitter and twisted because in the depth of his mind he thought maybe he’d fucked it up. Noel would never make the first move, both of them knew that, but maybe he’d shut the door on Liam’s first moves one too many times. On his darkest nights, sitting with a bottle in one hand and his phone in the other, he’d even wonder whether maybe Liam didn’t need him anymore.
So, when he wakes up one morning at five a.m. after a restless night of uneasy sleep, pads downstairs quietly so as not to wake anyone and picks his phone up to while away the time as he waits for the kettle to boil, rubbing at his eyes sleepily as he presses the home button, the last thing he’s expecting to see is a missed call and a voicemail from an unknown number at four fifty-five.
His stomach immediately flips, because there’s only one unknown number that would ring him at that time, and he braces himself against the counter subconsciously as he unlocks his phone with fumbling fingers, dialling 123 to get to his voicemail.
“Yes, fucking hell, fuck’s sake ,” he mutters, stabbing at his phone like it’s going to do anything when the guy’s voice starts slowly ( so fucking slowly) reciting that he has one new voicemail, from an unknown number at four fifty-five a.m, would he like to listen to it? Finally, after Noel’s made his way through the automated options menu, he hears a click, and then static for a few seconds. His heart’s already beating out of his fucking chest, because nobody leaves silent voicemails except fucking drama queen of the century, Liam Gallagher, when-
“Uh,” he hears, and he grips the counter behind him so hard he thinks he could probably crack it. Jesus fucking Christ. The first word Liam’s said to him directly since 2009, and it’s fucking uh?
“I don’t know if you’ve got me blocked,” Liam continues, blissfully unaware of Noel’s racing thoughts, staticky and tinny through the phone line. Noel feels a little sick at the sound of his voice, at the edge of hesitancy he can hear. They’ve talked to each other, sure, through interviews, through their mam, through Paul and through other people, but not like this. There’s always been an audience, someone to posture for, a middle man to lose things in translation, but this is so fucking raw, just the two of them.
“Anyway. I know you reckon it’s a load of bollocks, but I’ve been giving therapy a go. Think it’s actually helped and all. Lot of shit to work through, haven’t I?” Noel huffs out a slightly shaky laugh at that. “Yeah. Well,” Liam says, like he’d anticipated that response from Noel. “‘S working, I think.” Liam pauses, and Noel listens to him breathing, knows he’s weighing up what to say next and it hurts, because Liam never had to weigh up what to say to Noel before.
“He always goes on at me about how I should talk to you. Told him you wouldn’t want to fucking hear from me, but he told me I’d never be able to get - uh, what was it, closure? Yeah, closure - unless I spoke to you. Thought I’d leave a voicemail in the dead of night since every time I ever tried to ring I just got a bollocking from you.” Yeah, seven fucking years ago , Noel thinks, a little bitterly, a little guiltily.
“Fucking hell, I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Liam says, and Noel can just imagine him raking his fingers through his hair, the little crease of stress between his brows. Liam never stressed for much, but when he did, it was for Noel. “Don’t fucking know what I’m meant to say. This is meant to feel good, y’know what I mean, therapeutic and all that shit, but I just feel fucking shite. Got ten years worth of shit to tell you, don’t I, a voicemail’s not going to fix fuck all.” He pauses again, and then sighs. “Dunno. Guess I’ll say the important shit. This’ll be the last fucking time you ever hear from me, anyway. Might as well get that off my fucking chest.” Noel inhales deeply at the same time as Liam, knows their heart rates are in sync, beating at a hundred and fifty million beats per minute. What the fuck does he mean, the last time? Melodramatic little fuck.
“I love you,” Liam says, oblivious to Noel’s question, and it sounds so helpless that Noel has to swallow back a mixture of bile and guilt. “I fucking love you. You know that. I’ve never been capable of not loving you. Don’t think I’ve got it in me. And I thought that was us, y’know what I mean? Both of us. Thought you were the same. Thought it’d just be a few years, that you’d get the fuck over yourself, that Mam’d talk you down. Could’ve swallowed my pride, y’know. For you.” He hesitates, and then adds, a little softer: “Could’ve done anything for you, Noel.” The sound of his name on Liam’s lips makes Noel’s stomach clench.
“You took my fucking life away from me. Like, fuck the band, I don’t give a fuck about that. Gave a fuck back then, but that’s because the band was you. Easier to hate you for taking that away from me than admitting it was because you took you away from me, y’know what I mean? You were always everything to me, weren’t you? From being a fucking kid, getting into scraps at school for your fucking attention. ‘S always been you.” Liam pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is heavy and sad. “Thought that was us , though . Thought I mattered to you too. Everything I ever did was for you, y’know? Yeah, ‘course you know. You fucking loved it. Loved the attention, loved that everyone wanted me and all I ever wanted was you. Loved being a fucking cunt to me knowing I’d always come crawling back. You’re fucked, you are, y’know that, Noel? You’re proper fucked.” God, Noel knows. He fucking knows. He doesn’t need reminding.
"Thought I hated you for a few years,” Liam says lowly. “Or maybe I didn’t, I dunno. Maybe I just wished I did. You made it so fucking easy to hate you, a fucking- fucking open goal, y’know what I mean, and I don’t think I ever could. Or maybe I did, but I thought it was love. Dunno. Fucking hate and love you all the time, don’t I?” He sighs. ““S fucking exhausting. Reckon you’ve got the right idea, picking just one, y’know what I mean? Maybe that’s where this was always gonna end up. You’d pick hate, I’d pick love. Yin and yang, init? Cain and Abel.”
Liam sighs, and Noel hears everything in it. The pain, the hurt, the sadness, the longing - no, yearning - and the defeat, the love, the edge of bitterness and hardness. It twists like a knife deep in his gut - he’s done that. Him and his fucking pride.
“Whatever, eh? You’re not gonna listen to this anyway, you cunt. Even if you hear it, you ain’t gonna listen, y’know what I mean? Not sure what my therapist thought I’d get out of this, fucking hell. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is a load of bollocks.” There’s a pause, and then another sigh, quieter, softer. “Nah. Feels better, actually, getting it out. Tried, didn’t I, on TV and all that? But it’s not the same as actually speaking to you. Even though you don’t wanna speak to me. Mam said you’ve not once asked for my number.” There’s another pause, this time of hesitation, and then Liam adds: “Haven’t changed it, y’know. Kept it. Just in case you ever…” he trails off, and then clears his throat. “Whatever, man. Fuck you. I fucking hate you. Fucking love you. Don’t know where my head’s at with you, ever, and it does my fucking nut. But I’d never have it any other way.” Noel swallows. “Love you. I do. Really fucking love you. Don’t want my last words to you to be anything else. I love you, Noel. Always will.” There’s a click, and then silence.
Noel’s still clutching the phone to his ear, white-knuckled, palm sweaty, staring wild-eyed into the dark corner of his kitchen. The kettle’s boiled, but he barely notices. All he can think, the thought that’s screaming louder than all the others jostling for his attention, is what the fuck does he mean, his last fucking words to me? What the fuck is he going to do?
His fingers type out the number he’s never managed to forget and the phone’s back at his ear before he’s even managed to process what the fuck he’s doing, because all that’s swirling around his mind is Liam’s in danger, Liam’s in danger, Liam’s in fucking danger.
“Hello?” he hears a gruff voice say, a little slurred, and Noel’s heart rate, impossibly, picks up.
“Liam?” There’s a moment of silence at the other end of the phone.
“ Noel ?” Liam sounds somewhere between shocked, bewildered, afraid and excited.
“Are you alright?”
“What? Yeah, I-”
“You taken anything?”
“I- fucking hell, ‘course I have, but-”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Noel hisses, mind already running three miles ahead of itself, and he’s already halfway to the bowl with the car keys in. “Okay, fuck. Stay on the phone to me, yeah?”
“Fucking hell, Noel, what the fuck’s this about?” Liam says, sounding annoyed, as Noel picks up the first set of keys he can find and jogs towards the door.
“Are you fucking insane?” Noel says, pressing the button on the keys wildly and seeing Anais’s shitty little Fiat 500 flash up. Fucking whatever, he bought it for her, didn’t he, and Liam’s only five minutes away.
“What the fuck?” Liam says, still sounding a touch baffled. “Did you fucking call me for the first time in ten years to ask me if I take drugs?”
“You know what I fucking mean,” Noel says, car skidding on the driveway as he reverses far too quickly. He slams down the clutch, forces the car into gear and revs, creating a nasty sound and smell as he doesn’t lift the clutch fast enough - fucking hell, he should have taken more than three driving lessons - but then he’s off, switching straight from first to third and not bothering to look when he gets to the road, just swinging off to the right.
“I don’t fucking know what you mean,” Liam says irritably. “‘S this about the voicemail?”
“‘Course it’s about the fucking voicemail, you cunt,” Noel grits out, switching into fifth and running a red light. Whatever, he can pay that fine. What are they going to do, suspend his nonexistent license?
“Fucking hell, that’s what fucking broke you?” Liam says, and he actually sounds angry now. The slurring’s gone, though, Noel notes vaguely, registering it as a good sign. Maybe anger’s focusing Liam, overriding whatever the fuck’s coursing through his system. Maybe Noel should rile him up more.
“What, three minutes of you being a fucking pathetic little cunt?” Noel sneers, slamming on the brakes to take a left turn that he’d almost driven past. The car jerks, and he jerks with it, but manages to keep hold of his phone, swearing loudly when he stalls.
“Fuck you,” Liam spits. “Forgot how much of a fucking cunt you are.”
“Fucking takes one to know one,” Noel says, starting the car up again and going straight from first to fifth, ignoring the way it whines at him. He’s almost there - Liam’s on the next road, just up to the right, and he ignores the profanities Liam’s spitting at him as he screeches to a halt, right in the middle of the road, lifts the handbrake without waiting for the car to stop fully, and gets out, vaguely registering that he’s still in his pyjamas and barefoot. He’s pretty sure he knows which one’s Liam’s house - he’s fucking had cabs drive him past it enough times in the early hours of the morning when he’s drunk out of his fucking mind - and he’s up the driveway while Liam’s still spouting something about fucking cunts, twats, and pricks that Noel’s heard a million times before in connection to him.
Liam’s always left his spare keys about an inch into the earth of the flower pot to the right of the door (“What, it’s fucking safer, in’t it?” he’d always say indignantly, whenever Noel raised any objections. “Someone could just nick the whole fucking pot,” he’d say, and Liam would scoff, put an arm around Noel, and say: “No one but you would ever think of nicking a fucking flower pot, you fucking twat.”). Noel’s half-listening to Liam’s rant as he digs in the earth with a grimace - something about Liam opening up and Noel throwing it back in his face, cunt cunt twat - and he mumbles a ‘fuck you’ when he hears Liam raise his voice, fumbling with the key in the lock. As long as he keeps Liam talking, he’s alright, he reckons, stepping into the house and realising - shit. He’s never been here. He has no fucking idea where Liam is, where the bedroom is, the bathroom, if Liam’s even in any of those places.
“Where the fuck are you?” he says, and Liam stops mid-rant.
“What, are you fucking coming over here?” he says, taunting. “Gonna fucking deck me, are you? Punch my fucking kneecaps?”
“Yeah, fucking hell,” Noel says, pushing open the first door on his left to see a dark dining room, no Liam in sight. “You in the bathroom puking your fucking guts up yet?”
“In the fucking living room if you’re that fucking bothered,” Liam growls, and Noel pushes open another door to reveal a kitchen. Fucking hell. This place is a fucking maze.
“Where the fuck’s your fucking living room?” Noel asks.
“You’re not fucking serious?” Liam says, a touch incredulously, and then Noel spots a crack of light under the second door on the right. He turns the knob, opens the door, and-
There’s Liam.
Liam, at least six years older than the last time Noel saw him, with more fucking wrinkles that make Noel’s heart ache a little, slouched on the sofa, phone in one hand, beer in the other, shocked expression on his face.
“What the fuck?” Liam says, but it’s not angry.
“What did you take, eh?” Noel says, softer than he’d have liked, striding over to Liam and crouching down to his level, crease of stress between his brows. “Coke? MD? Acid?” Liam blinks at him, like he can’t really believe Noel’s there, like it’s some kind of drug-induced hallucination. Noel doesn’t fucking blame him, but the kid’s trying to fucking kill himself. Even Noel’s pride can’t withstand the brotherly instinct that kicks in at that.
“Why d’you fucking care?” Liam says, a little petulantly.
“‘Cause I’ve got to fucking tell the paramedics when I call them, haven’t I?” Noel says. Liam frowns.
“Why the fuck’re you calling parademics for?” he says. “‘S not like I’ve never fucking done it before, is it? I’m not a fucking blushing virgin, now, am I?”
“Yeah, not tried to fucking off yourself before, though, have you?” Noel says, half-irritably. Liam’s really fucking close, he notices almost absently, his face maybe two feet away from Noel, and Noel has to suppress a ridiculous urge to lean over and kiss him. Fucking hell. This is never how he imagined their reunion going. There was always a lot more pleading and wide doe eyes from Liam in his imagination.
“What?” Liam sounds bemused. “Who said I’m trying to off myself?”
“You did, you fucking cunt,” Noel snaps. “Kept telling me these were your last fucking words.”
“They were fucking meant to be,” Liam mutters, and brings the beer bottle to his lips again. Noel reaches forwards, snatches it out of his hand, and for a moment, their fingers brush, and Noel’s stomach does a fucking Olympics acrobatics set, electricity zinging through his entire body. Liam doesn’t even complain about Noel taking his beer, hand still hovering in mid-air, just stares at him, something Noel can’t quite read in his eyes. He’s not sure when Liam gained so many crow’s feet, or when his beard became so salt-and-pepper, but his heart twists at the sight of it, at the irrefutable evidence that Liam’s lived, breathed, aged, all without Noel.
“You’re looking old, you are,” he says, without thinking.
“Dick,” Liam says, but there’s no heat to the word. “I’m not trying to fucking off myself.”
“What the fuck’s the voicemail about, then?” Noel says.
“I fucking said, didn’t I, my therapist keeps going on at me to talk to you,” Liam says, and at the word ‘therapist’ he tears his gaze from Noel and stares blankly into the corner of the room. Noel has to fight back an urge that screams at him kiss him, punch him, shout at him, anything to get him to look at you again. Fucking hell. He’d forgotten how fucking strong whatever the fuck they had (or have?) was, how much training it had taken him to be able to swallow those urges down.
“Last fucking words?” Noel says, and Liam shrugs, fingers twitching, and Noel knows he wants to reach for the beer bottle but doesn’t want to break the uneasy, unspoken truce.
“Well, ‘s not like you ever fucking responded for the past decade, is it?” he says. “Thought I’d just say everything once and for all and move the fuck on from you. Stop fucking pining like some fucking sixteen year old with a broken fucking heart.”
“So you’re not trying to fucking kill yourself?”
“No, you cunt.” Noel sits back on his heels, pulling himself away from Liam, embarrassment lapping at him from all angles.
“You fucking made me think-” he starts irately, and then stops himself. It’s been ten years already. He doesn’t want to make it another ten. He inhales deeply, and Liam tilts his head at him curiously.
“You been to fucking anger management, or summat?” he says, a touch teasing, a touch genuine, and Jesus Christ, Noel had forgotten how many fucking buttons he has that only Liam can find and press.
“Fuck you,” he says, but when his eyes meet Liam’s again, pupils blown from God knows what and lashes dark and inky, the same eyes he’s been dreaming about since he was twenty-fucking-three, he finds he doesn’t mean it. Liam, though, cocks an eyebrow, and smirks.
“If you’re lucky,” he says. Noel swallows, fighting back images of Liam, young and supple, on his back in hotel room beds, blinking up at Noel with fucking lovesick eyes and a small grin, his hands looped around Noel’s neck, Noel’s either side of his head.
“Cunt,” Noel manages.
“Twat.”
They sit in silence for a moment, and Liam decides that Noel’s not going to do shit if he goes for the beer, so he reaches over, grabs the neck of the bottle from Noel’s hand and pulls at it. His little finger brushes against Noel’s index finger, and both of them jerk a little at the fucking feeling, the sensation that Noel’s tried so fucking hard to replicate with anyone, anyone other than Liam, man or woman, and has only ever managed to get a weak echo of.
“‘S it ever been like that with anyone else?” Liam says, because the fucker doesn’t know when to keep his fucking mouth shut.
“No,” Noel says, because he doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut either.
“Me either,” Liam says, and his fingers are still on the neck of the bottle but he’s not pulling anymore. It’s what Noel wanted to hear and the last thing he needed to hear at the same time. Ten fucking years without speaking, he thinks bitterly, and Liam’s still the only person who ever had more of Noel’s heart than Noel himself did.
“‘S not how I imagined this going,” Liam says, when Noel doesn’t respond, and Noel can’t help the snort that escapes him. Liam seems to take this as encouragement, and adds: “Much more kissing in my imagination.”
“Much more fucking crying, you mean,” Noel retorts. “Bet you’re holding back fucking tears right now.” Liam nudges him with his knee, gently, and scoffs.
“Yeah, crying at the fact you’re an ugly cunt and I share your fucking DNA,” he says. “Looks bad for me, don’t it?” Noel rolls his eyes.
“Since when d’you know what DNA is?” he says, but he can’t hide the amusement in his voice. Liam grins at him, nudges him with his knee again, and Noel gets what he’s asking. Sit here with me.
It can’t hurt, right? It’s fucking five in the morning, and Noel’s still got the remnants of adrenaline of thinking his brother was going to fucking kill himself coursing through his veins, so he can blame it on that. No one’s there but them, no one’s going to interrupt them. It’s just the two of them, for the first time since the fucking nineties.
“Since fucking always,” Liam declares, eyes glittering with something that Noel places as excitement and anticipation when Noel gets to his feet, slowly, and then sits down next to Liam, only a foot between them. “I’m dead fucking smart, me.”
“Dead fucking cunt, you mean,” Noel says, arching an eyebrow to try and disguise the way his heart’s fucking hammering in his chest. Liam grins again, and leans in a little.
“As if you’d have me any other way,” he says, and Noel feels his breath, lips only inches from Noel’s own.
“Liam,” he says, a little weakly, and he doesn’t fucking know what he’s asking. Don’t? Please?
“I know,” Liam murmurs, and he leans in a little further. Noel can’t help himself, inching forwards slightly, until there’s only about two inches between the two of them.
“You’re a fucking cunt,” Noel says, and he hates how fucking breathless he sounds. “I’m never forgiving you.”
“Fucking prick,” Liam says, eyes darting from Noel’s lips to his eyes. “Never expected you to.”
“You’re a self-obsessed fucking bastard,” Noel tells him, quietly. “Can’t put anyone but yourself first, you selfish prick. You’re fucking temperamental, you’re a pain in the fucking arse, you’re fucking blinded by how much you love yourself and your fucking ego. You’re not all that. Fucking rock-and-roll star, my arse. You’re just a fucking dramatic, whiny little cunt.”
“You’re a fucking twat,” Liam says, eyes flicking back to Noel’s lips. “You think you’re fucking God’s gift to fucking songwriting, like you’ve never listened to any other songwriters in the past thirty fucking years. You’re bitter and jaded and haven’t moved with the fucking times. You’re fucking mean and nasty, got a big fucking cruel streak. You’re fucking proud, you are, and fuck knows of what.”
“Fuck,” Noel says, and surges forwards, closing the gap between the two of them. His lips meet Liam’s awkwardly, neither of them quite at the right angle, but like yin and fucking yang they immediately melt into it, tilting their heads on automatic pilot. Liam kisses Noel back hungrily, and Noel can feel the past fucking ten years of desperation in it, can feel it in the way he licks at Noel’s lips, the way his hand comes up to rest on Noel’s waist, pulling him closer, demanding more.
It’s fucked, and it’s wrong, but nothing in the past ten years has ever felt more right to Noel. It makes him feel sick, the way he suddenly stops feeling misaligned, the way kissing his fucking brother like this - unchaste, hands everywhere, not leaving any fucking room for Jesus - feels like the only thing he’s ever needed, the only thing he’ll ever want. God, he’s fucked.
He pulls back, and Liam lets out a little whine of complaint that Noel doesn’t even have the energy to mock him for. Liam looks fucking obscene, lips spit-slick and parted, pupils blown (although that’s mostly not from Noel), eyes dark, hooded, following Noel as he moves away.
“That what you wanted?” Noel says, a little breathlessly.
“Don’t act like you’re doing me a fucking favour,” Liam murmurs, eyes flitting to Noel’s lips and back to his eyes. “You kissed me , mate.”
“Cunt,” Noel says, because he can’t think of anything better to say, mind still intoxicated from the scent of Liam, the feeling of Liam, the taste of Liam. Liam’s lips crook up in a smile, and he grins at Noel, looking far too fucking pleased with himself.
“Yeah,” he says. “Your fucking cunt.”
“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” Noel says, and Liam grins, and nods.
“Fucking hope so,” he says. “Would be my act of charity to the world.” Noel can’t help but grin back at that, shaking his head, because it’s so fucking Liam, and Noel knew he missed him but he didn’t realise how much he missed him. It feels like a fucking whirlwind, a sickening punch, a fucking train running him over at three hundred miles an hour.
“I should go,” he says thickly, because it’s easier than facing whatever the fuck this is now. He pulls away, but Liam catches his sleeve, pulls him back.
“Stay,” he says lowly, and it sounds like an order but Noel hears it for the plea that it is. He hesitates, and Liam knows he’s got him on the fence, and adds: “For me. Go home and never speak to me again in the morning, see if I give a fuck. But stay for me now.” Noel hesitates a moment longer, and then relaxes, letting Liam pull him back down.
“You’d better not fucking snore anymore,” he warns, and Liam scowls.
“Never fucking snored in the first place,” he grumbles, and Noel snorts.
“Yeah, right, just carried a fucking pneumatic drill with you everywhere you went,” he says, as he slings an arm around Liam and pulls him closer. Liam lets himself be pulled, resting his head on Noel’s shoulder, and it feels like it’s nineteen-ninety-fucking-four again, Liam cuddling up to Noel and Noel grudgingly allowing it, trying to savour any minute they can get to themselves where he can let his guard down in the way that only Liam can see.
“Can’t believe you thought I was going to fucking off myself,” Liam mumbles, and Noel’s arm around him tightens, because what he hears is I can’t believe you cared.
“‘Course I did,” he says, and hopes Liam knows what he’s actually responding to. Liam nestles closer into Noel, presses a kiss to his neck that sends a shiver down Noel’s spine.
“Love you, you know,” Liam says quietly.
“Yeah, you fucking tell me enough, you soppy cunt,” Noel says, but he turns and presses a kiss to the top of Liam’s head, which as close as Liam’s going to get to an I love you too.
He’s never been able to reckon with the supernova that is Liam fucking Gallagher, but fuck if he’s not always wanted to be a star on Liam’s event horizon.