Work Text:
Back when he had been a roadie (what felt like lifetimes ago but was really only little more than a couple of years) he'd known homesickness.
The band talked about it. Clint, Graham--they were used to the constant travelling, but they'd blurt it out all the time. They were missing the missus, the chippy around the corner... hell, even some shitty sofa at their mam's.
He also missed stuff. He missed footie, and the pub, and mam's cooking. He missed his whole damn mam's house. He missed the staircase, even, with the bit on the handrail that had splinters and everything. He kinda missed Louise's flat, and Louise, and that but--not the way he missed his mam's house.
And that's why he figured it was called homesickness, because it wasn't really rational or based on what was good and whatnot. It lodged inside your brain and made you long for whatever it learned was comforting in your childhood, and well, that place had become his house only when he was about 16, but any place before that certainly wasn't a home, so that's what he got. And yeah, maybe in this house he shared a bedroom with his annoying kid brother (who was all grown-up now) and that wasn't comforting in the least, and maybe all his memories weren't all that great, and maybe mam didn't even actually cook that often because she was always at one of her three fucking jobs so they ate out of boxes and tins, and what was up that staircase was his annoying little brother that loved to smoke all his weed and lie in his bed and leave fingerprints all over his records--but he missed it anyway.
So yeah, he called, way more often than the rest of them, with his salary that was much smaller than theirs, and he talked to his stupid brother that never had anything interesting to say and he felt better for a couple of days knowing how MCFC was doing, that mam was okay, that Paul was okay, that Liam had Weetabix for breakfast, and he'd gone to the pub and two birds had asked for his number, and he'd used his dole to buy himself crisps and a tshirt at M&S, and that he was watching Dastardly and Muttley reruns on the telly.
Anyway, so then he got back to Manchester, and suddenly he had a band of his own, right. And then he went and moved to London. And fuck, he'd been homesick then too. Five hours away felt in many ways farther than the fucking ocean he'd been across when he'd been in America. Even though he had Pot Noodles and MCFC.
He figured it was because he was alone, as opposed as when he had a band of friends around him, and he was unemployed--even if he was working non-stop trying to network and get people to listen to their demo.
Anyway, because of that, he called home a lot, and that was fine because it was cheaper, and this time at least Liam had actually interesting stuff to say--they'd been practicing this or that song, they'd been giving out flyers to that one gig that Noel should come back for next week, Liam would sing him bits to ask for his opinion on how to enunciate and that, and maybe Noel could come back a couple of days earlier so they could rehearse all together? Or maybe Liam could come over to London for a few days, rehearse guitar and voice only while the rest of the band practiced on their own?
They could never afford that, really, so it was just possibilities being discussed but it felt like they were doing something, so it eased the sickness. They had so many things to discuss with the band that he forgot to ask about mam and Paul sometimes, and he'd have to call back. That was fine though, local rates, and it meant they were focused on their career, nothing wrong with that.
Anyway, that was little less than a couple of years ago now, but things were plenty different.
They were travelling all over, spending months at a time away from home. He had a shitload of money now, and he could splurge on drugs and alcohol to get through long days and jetlag, but truth is that he'd done that when he couldn't afford it anyway. He tried weird food, and had to sleep in random hotel rooms day in and day out, but he didn't miss his bed back in London, really. He didn't miss the footie and the food. He did call mam often, but it was mostly because she no longer had to work and he wanted to check that she wasn't feeling bored. Make sure she was going out with friends and that.
Anyway, rest of the band, bunch of idiots, kept whining about missing this and that thing back home, as if they didn't have it so much better now. It was annoying as hell. Even more annoying was trying to talk to other people about it. Every single band he'd tried to discuss it with would go on a litany about how difficult life on the road was, as if they hadn't chosen this.
And well, he tried to talk about it with Liam too but when he asked him if he missed home he just looked pensive for a second and then said "nah", with that blank stare of his, and never elaborated on that. The cunt.
So he's telling all of this to some poor geezer that is tending the bar in Madrid. And the bloke said he doesn't really speak very good English, and Noel's accent will impede even natives from getting him sometimes, but he nods politely, organizing glasses behind the counter, earning his tip.
Noel would be annoyed under normal circumstances, but an opportunity for venting is always welcome, and knowing that the bloke won't go to the press, even moreso. Not that he knows why the press would give a shit about a story about how Noel Gallagher doesn't get homesick anymore.
He downs the rest of his drink then, takes a few notes from his wallet, rolls them up and places them under the mat. "Must mean I'm home, right?" he says with a smirk, not quite thinking about it, and the lad nods and laughs, not actually getting the joke.
He can't wait to embellish the story for Liam later.
Calls betwen hotel rooms are free.