Work Text:
She notices. He wakes up at the normal time and he does his normal things, he makes jokes and tunes his guitars, but she notices.
He gets like this a couple of weeks at a time, out of nowhere, and then just as it arrived, it’s gone. As though he hadn’t been struggling. As soon as he bleeds out a song that he’ll bury in a drawer for years, or someone outright asks if he misses him, it’s as though Noel can refuel the perpetual flame he holds for him and can once again choose to call it hate.
It hasn’t been just a couple of weeks this time, though, and Noel has been asked in interviews, and he has called him names, and Noel has been writing nonstop, and it’s not getting better.
It’s been four months, day after day, and he’s drinking more and fake laughing less, and it’s 2014 all over again. As they walk down the street he looks over his shoulder and shrinks when it hits him that there’s no need to check whether his brother is keeping pace. It’s 2010 all over again.
She knows pressuring him to talk has never worked. She knows he is not the kind for sentimental speeches, as much as he might manage to be in song. She knows he won’t admit any weakness, she knows he will never bring him up to her. Not since he made his choice.
She ambushes him in the kitchen, when he’s been washing his mug for five minutes too long. Wraps her arms around his middle, peers over his shoulder, feels him relax a little, even if it’s not enough to call it ‘progress’ yet.
“You can talk to me about him, you know?” she whispers into his neck, “I know,” she adds even more gently, and she hopes that he gets that she means both ‘I know you miss him’, and ‘I know why’. That she means she’s ready to hear whatever he needs to dig out of his heart to get better, that she’s ready to pretend she has no clue about the things he won’t say as well. She hopes he knows it means that she knows why he’s not going back to him. That she is grateful for that. That she knows he meant it when he picked her. That she knows he wishes he hadn’t had to pick at all, sometimes.
“I hate that cunt,” Noel says, and he closes the tap.
“I know,” she replies.
“Wish he’d fucking-- wish he would--” he doesn’t finish the phrase, his wet hand reaches for her own that is gently resting on his belly, grasps it tight. He mumbles “fucking Wonderwall.”
She hears a near-silent whimper and feels the accompanying shudder in his chest, so she tightens her arms around him and kisses the side of his neck. “I know.”
When he turns in her arms and sinks his head against her neck, and she feels the wetness on his face, she thinks this might finally be progress.