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Damon hadn’t fully come to when he first heard the guitar strumming, a sunny day after a fucked out night causing warm, sleepy fuzz to override any caution and concern. His brain went to logical assumptions like ‘Liam’s left the radio on’ or ‘Liam's left some obscure Lennon track playing in his headphones on the music player’, or even ‘someone outside is busking, looking for pity from a well to do North West London neighbourhood.’
But there was no static, and Liam’s headphones weren’t even on his head. No, the guitar seemed far closer than any pavement could possibly be.
His brain, however, hadn’t reached those conclusions until he’d stepped out of Liam’s room with a fresh set of boxers and a baggy nightshirt. It was too late to do anything by the time Damon caught eye of the black guitar - that usually stood untouched - in the arms of Noel Gallagher, who looked all too comfortable playing it, perched on Liam’s tattered couch.
Melodic humming accompanied the strums, half-formed vowels any writer could identify as ‘I’m working on a new song and trying to figure it out’. When the words you want to fall from the sky aren’t quite making their way to you yet, but they’re at the tip of your tongue, ready to cascade.
God, he was hearing a new Oasis track. God, Noel was in Liam’s living room playing an in-progress Oasis track. God, fucking Noel Gallaghers here, the realisation drawing a harsh gasp from Damon.
Noel’s head darted right in his direction at the sound of it.
He stopped playing, staring agape at Damon’s largely uncovered form in front of him. Neither moved, spoke, or breathed for at least five seconds, before they both blurted out “What are you doing here?”
“Why the fuck are you asking me that?” Noel continued, eyebrows Damon had become familiar to now completely foreign when worn by someone else. He could recognise the anger, but not the intention, nor could he predict where it would go. He’d met Noel before. He’d liked him enough. He’s also heard a lot from Liam that brought a new light on the man. Not necessarily a bad one, just different. Nuanced. “What are you doing here?”
Stunned, Damon took in his own appearance against the fully clothed Noel. God, he hadn’t had his morning coffee yet. “But I asked you too?”
“I’m his brother.”
“Oh,” Damon retorted, as if the question answered anything, and he could do anything about it. His mind was actively spinning so many questions about what was happening, and what was yet to come, that apparently only the really shit questions were able to leave his mouth. “How’d you get in?”
Noel put the guitar down to stand up, gesturing at the thankfully shut front door. “Picked his lock didn’t I.” As if stating the obvious, his frown deepened. “Cunt weren’t answering the door,” visceral anger seeping back in.
With that, Damon rushed back into Liam’s bedroom, mercilessly shaking the sleeping man, yelling as quietly as he could. “Liam, wake up.” He jumped on the bed, leaning over Liam to really get him up, not stopping even as light blue eyes began to wince at the morning light “Wake the fuck up, Noel’s here.”
Trying to wriggle out of Damon’s grasp, Liam grumbled an “Aye?” out loud.
Straddled over Liam’s waist, Damon leaned closer to him, whispering with a finger over his lip. Those eyebrows, the familiar ones now, were the most confused Damon had ever seen them. “Your brother’s standing in the living room.”
“What d’ya mean?” Liam rubbed at his eyes, the gesture reading sweet to Damon until he remembered the Noel of the situation. The same eyes trailed over his body, landing on his bare thighs. “Don’t let him see yer or-”
“Well he’s already fucking seen me, hasn’t he? In a shirt and my boxers.”
A hand landed on his waist, grounding them both. Damon’s quickening breaths were unsettling Liam to say the least, as Liam’s nonchalance was increasingly pissing Damon off. “Least you had boxers on.”
“Liam!” The gravity of Noel, Liam’s brother, seeing Damon, who he doesn’t really like as far as he’s aware, in his brother’s flat wearing no trousers, was really setting in.
Although Noel wasn’t the topic of each of their conversations, thank God, he did pop up occasionally. How couldn’t he? And between each mention, every ‘Noel says this’ and ‘Noel does that’, was an underlying current of ‘the geezer doesn’t like me talking to you.’ That was always met with a silent ‘how does he even know you’re talking to me, you said you never told him’ Damon kept to himself.
When they all first met, Liam called them all cunts and Noel defended them. Damon had thought that admirable.
Funny how things change.
“Alright, fucking hell,” shoving Damon off, Liam heaved himself up in just his pyjama trousers. He looked a sight early in the mornings, dazed and scruffy. Usually it brought them both a bit of lazy pleasure. Unfortunately, the guy in the sky had other plans for them today. “I’ll sort the bastard out, just stop fucking shitting yourself for fucks sake.” Walking out, he quickly glanced back. “And get some proper gear on.”
Damon immediately went searching for some trousers of his own he could throw on, and found nothing, resulting to last night’s jeans. He mentally chastised himself for not having spare clothes here, as Liam had mentioned to him a week ago.
Outside, Liam’s loud footsteps stopped, accompanied by a lackluster groan. “‘Ave told ya not to pick me fucking locks.”
“Well you should start answering the fucking door then.” The bitterness Noel projected sent shivers down Damon's spine, and likely everyone within a mile radius. Everyone except Liam, that is. “What’s he doing here?” The ‘He’ being spat out like someone who’d swallowed soap as punishment from their parents. Like he needed cleansing of.
Getting closer to the door, Damon eavesdropped for a minute, trying to gauge the state of the room he’d eventually have to cross into again. “Teaching me how to chop onions man, what do you think?”
“You don’t even like him.”
“Yeah I do.”
“No you don’t.”
“I fucking well do.”
“No, you fucking don’t.”
Before he could risk walking into an active war zone, Damon decided to bite the bullet, head hanging low as he walked into the brothers stood a metre away from each other, eyes intensely met. Neither likely realised he’d even come in, so focussed on the matching pair of contemptible blue eyes that reality might as well have stopped.
A cough, and those eyes landed on him. Seeing the two together, not just on a magazine page or in a mentioned memory, was yet another weight on Damon’s shoulder he hadn’t realised he’d have to get used to with the added nuance to his and Liam’s relationship. Being in the same room as them was like breaking through the atmosphere of a planet tailor made for them, and only them, to breathe. Even if one of them gives you a space suit, the other is as equally likely to send a hammer through your helmet and laugh as you suffocate.
There’s no one in particular you’d rather have laughing at you, either. You wouldn’t have time to worry about it when you’re dead. Whichever brother wanted to save you in the first place wouldn’t try to save you once the other had condemned you. So long as they’re alive, anything on the ground is nothing more than dirt to be cleaned up.
And Damon didn’t feel that equipped for the atmosphere of the room at all. As much as the morning sun bled finely through the checkered curtains, natural warmth emanating around the flat, Damon was choking on thick tension. It entered his body the first time Liam brought him a drink and has been growing specifically for this very moment; to render him hapless against the man he loves, and the man who wants nothing more than to protect the man he loves.
Damon couldn’t even blame Noel.
“Anyone want a coffee? Tea?”
Liam huffed down onto the sofa, reaching for a pack of cigarettes that must’ve been Noels from the coffee table. “I’ll have a tea.”
And so Damon began his routine, two mugs out of Liam’s oddly placed cupboards after turning the kettle on. They hadn’t reached the point of ‘my mug’ and ‘your mug’, they were all Liam’s after all, but he had a collection with animals in twee coats playing instruments which Damon always gravitated towards.
Specifically, a fox on its tiptoes playing the double bass. A squirrel playing the accordion looking fairly amused with itself was Liam’s favourite. “Look at ‘im man,” he’d said, showing off his new purchase. “S’a squirrel playing the fucking' recordian.”
He had only just gotten the milk out when Noel piped up again. “What d’ya think you’re playing at, Albarn?”
Tutting, Liam tossed the packet of fags at his brother. “Fucking leave it man.”
“Why am I the only one acting like this is insane?” No one reacted, and Noel threw his arms up. Part of it was giving the essence of a toddler about to have a temper tantrum because they’re being kept out of a big secret. “You two pretending like ‘m not standing here watching you play domestic? Am I a fucking ghost? Gonna have to get a fucking ouija board to ask what the fucks going on?”
“Yeah, good morning Noel.” Part of it was also the rightful reaction to catching someone you care about messing with someone the press is putting them up against. Someone you don’t like and, to be quite honest, doesn’t like you too much either. “Been a while.”
“Un-fucking-believable.”
Smoke from Liam’s fag was beginning to hit Damon on the other side of the room, particularly when he waved a hand out in front of him, dismissing Noel’s sentiments. “Just shut up for two seconds Noel. Doing my fucking head in. Chill the fuck out.”
“Would you like a tea as well, Noel?”
Noel paused his eyes glaring daggers into Liam to direct them at Damon, mentally assessing whether taking the cigarette from Liam’s mouth to send flying onto Damon’s hair was worth it. “Milk and two sugars.”
Not worth it.
He’ll be getting the badger with the banjo mug.
“Fuck you doing here anyway?” Liam asked, taking a long drag from his cigarette before handing it to Noel, who sat on the couch adjacent to him.
“Got some new songs haven’t I?” He gestured to the guitar that was carelessly balanced on the arm of the sofa before quickly reaching towards the coffee table to pick up some scattered papers. “But ‘m not playing fucking owt till that twats gone.”
“You’re such a prick.”
“You don’t know what he’s up to, kid.”
“There’s nothing nefarious going on,” Damon interjected, everyone looking at him cautiously stirring the two teas and his coffee. “I promise,” Forgive him for feeling the need to defend his own honour! Between the roll of Noel’s eyes and Liam’s sarcastic aww, he didn’t have the energy to explain himself further. Who’d be listening, anyway? Not the one who matters.
A car horn blared outside.
Noel muttered, “Would say that ‘n all,”, passing the cigarette back to Liam.
“You’re being worse than when you caught me with Mike fucking Dwyer.”
“I’d argue shagging the ponce from Blur’s worse than shagging a United supporter.”
“I’d argue not, dickhead.” Liam reached behind Noel to open the window, clambering over his brother with the elegance of coked up cat on ice. “Didn’t even know he supported ‘em ‘till ya told me.”
The sound of a teaspoon hitting the cold, tiled floor brought the Gallagher’s attention to Damon once more. He hadn’t even looked up at the sight of Liam’s limbs dangling over Noel, couldn’t jolt himself from the candidness of them mentioning Liam’s gay escapades.
While Liam had never shied away from detailing his experiences with Damon, he’d never been under the impression anyone else knew. It wasn’t as if Liam was telling the world about his experiences, was it? People never take anything Liam says seriously anyway, let alone if he came out and said, well, “I’m out.”
Late nights high on God knows what, giggling into each others hair about what people would make of them being queers never came with the caveat of “by the way, Noel knows, and he hasn’t killed me over it. In fact, we joke about it. We do in fact joke about my little gay larks.”
No, Liam had always seemed rather lonely when discussing it, though apparently not now. “Oh, yeah Noel knows.” Face nothing like the heavy brow that drew in when talking about his walks home from tripping acid in a field.
“Only shared a room with ‘im for how many years.”
Damon nodded. He hadn’t yet grown used to how obvious things were between those two. Maybe between them, it was obvious, but that didn’t help out the poor sod in the room who wasn’t clued in.
Mischief filtered its way onto Liam features, seeping through his limbs as he clambered back into his chair. Grabbing a new spoon, Damon kept an eye on him as he reached for another packet of cigarettes, his own this time. “Be a bit fucking-”
“Don’t.” Noel spat, a finger raised pointedly.
“Bit fucking, what’s the word,” Liam looked up, thinking like a child whose only reference of ‘thought’ was Homer from The Simpsons. “Be a bit fucking hypocritical too, wouldn’t it?”
The cigarette, thankfully unlit, was smacked from Liam’s hand. “Shut the fuck up.”
He raised his hands in surrender, reaching for the fag again and lighting up, a deep inhale quickly succumbing to “How many nights this kid’s got back home after a night of popping pills ‘n shagging blokes at the Haçienda, having a panic attack in his bed, and I’m having to go,” Liam mimicked wrapping his arms around a little baby, bottom lip jutted forward to a mean pout. “Ah c’mon Noely, yer alright. I know you feel like a sick fag right now but have some paracetamol an’ you’ll still wake up a faggot, but you won’t feel as sick no more.”
No one moved a muscle, except for Liam, who cooed and coddled at the imaginary Noel between his arms before laughing the whole act off, leaning back and taking a deep drag of his cigarette.
Any normal person would choose this moment to make their grand exit. Regrettably, Damon had already gotten halfway to walking between them with all their drinks when Liam had started speaking. A normal reaction would give him three degree burns.
But he did start to think about the plans he had for today. He’s sure he had something going on that didn’t involve having to get between the vicious scowl on Noel’s face, and the taunting one on Liam that begged Noel to punch him in the face.
“Don’t ever,” Noel began, already in the motion of getting up. “Ever call me a fucking-”
Completing his trip, Damon cruised between the two, putting Liam’s mug on the coffee table and handing Noel’s directly into his hands. “You didn’t have to say that, Liam.” He levelled at Noel, sending as apologetic and sympathetic a smile as he could. For all Noel looked like he was about to leap over the guitar to strangle Liam, he hadn’t yet, not even by the time Damon had sat down himself, knees tucked under his chin in the furthest corner he could get from Noel.
His heart was racing.
Perhaps he could’ve missed the coffee this morning.
“Oh what, now I’m the cunt for trying to help the situation?” Disbelief riddled Liam’s voice, high and whiny. “'E broke into my fucking flat!”
“You let me break in.” A sensitivity broke its way through Noel’s voice, the same that found itself in Liam’s every time anything too deep came up in conversation. “We’ve fucking talked- Kid, I don’t fuckin’ know this geezer.”
“Alright, but now we all know we like shagging blokes ‘n don’t have to worry ‘bout it, do we?” Drinking from his mug, Liam tapped some ash into his new glass ashtray. It was marbled dark and light blue, and glowed heavenly onto the table under direct sunlight. Damon had bought it for him. A shame, as it is the closest thing within throwing distance for either brother. “If I was with some bloke’s brother and I thought he was straight, I’d be thinking fuck, he’s gonna sell me out to the fuckin’ Sun. That cunt. But if I knew he was a ponce, I wouldn’t be arsed.” Liam leaned back again, closer to Damon, who with every next word wanted to claw out of his own skin and burn into the ether by the cigarette ash. “‘Cos he knows what it’s like to be outed an’ he wouldn’t do that, would he?”
Liam looked around for agreement with his logic. He didn’t get any.
Sometime in Liam’s sound argument, Noel had lit himself a fag to gnaw at. When he wasn’t inhaling rapidly, his mug protected the entire left side of his face. He cradled the mug against his cheek with sorrow in his eyes, and Damon had to look away.
“So you’ve decided to just-” Noel could hardly get the words out. “What, out me yourself for the sake of him.”
A nod. “Yeah.”
Silence.
The tapping of Noel’s foot.
Liam sniffling, cold getting to him without his shirt on.
Damon sipping at his coffee, trying to calm the worst part of himself that’s eager to anticipate every worst case scenario that comes with the unpredictability of Liam. The secrets of the Gallaghers. The murderous glare of Noel, even as it drifts off into the distance.
Silence nonetheless, prying each of them open in their own ways to be as abjectly tortuous as the situation could allow.
In the months Damon had known Liam, grown to appreciate his presence and love him in ways that shocked them both, one thing that had caught him off guard was how easy it seemed. How natural the flow between their dynamic shifted, and how easy it was to accept that it was love. Damon wanted it to be difficult; to struggle coming to terms that Liam was important to him, that his thoughts mattered and his words could make him laugh.
None of it was, and it tore at Damon in his worst moments. On stage, backstage, in his bed, in the coffees he makes every morning. Everything with Liam came too fucking easy, which meant there had to be the price.
It would be obvious for the price to be, well, moments like these. Unpredictability. Tactical ills for the sake of karma. Betraying the trust of your brother unprovoked for a laugh.
Feeling like the pawn in a multi-dimensional chess game didn’t inspire honour, or loyalty.
There’s a danger to it, a similar danger always on his mind when he gets called into his label. He dreads the day someone from school decides to ring up News of the World with a dazzling new headline for them. In fact, he’s quite surprised it hasn’t happened already.
But it did just happen for Noel, he thought to himself. Town crier Liam had gone too far, spilt the evening edition too early. In that regard, he really does feel for Noel. No young queer kid has sex thinking, “Fuck, what if I get famous and this person recognises me and sells me out?” It’d destroy you, not being able to live as who you are. Damon knows. Noel apparently fucking knows. Liam does.
Such as the price of loving Liam is the price of living. There’s no part of Damon that doubts Noel hadn’t come to term with that many years ago. Being face to face with something so consuming is sure to amplify and intense emotions, but if it tears Damon apart in his worst moments, in his best, he’s a selfish bastard who's starting to realise that he never gets charged the bill.
“Must be a fucking idiot, me,” Noel began, eyes meeting Liam’s in a duel. “I always thought you were with that guitarist of yours.”
It took Damon a few seconds to realise he was being spoken to, lost in his thoughts. “Graham?” He asked. “No. Why would you say that?”
“Seen you snogging him enough times. Or is that the bassist?” Liam’s arm brushing Damon’s side tensed. Noel lit up like a hawk, still refusing to meet Damon’s gaze. “No, definitely Graham. I like him, actually. Funny geezer. Remember when we first met you lot an’ our kid called him a fucking cunt for driving up to see us.” He sipped his tea cooly, holding it against his cheek again. “Thought that were a bit out of order. You lot were only trying to be nice. How is he, anyway?”
Damon ground his jaw, coffee precariously placed on his knee. He took hold of it when Liam’s hand started madly tapping the couch between them, chest increasingly rising and falling.
His history, hell, his current dynamic with Graham isn’t one he particularly wants to discuss with Noel. It’s difficult enough to talk about the man with Liam. The kissing thing had come up before. Neither were sober enough to remember what was said the morning after, and likely for the better.
Being a chess piece in the Gallagher game was one thing. Damon didn’t want his best friend being dragged into it. Best friend and, well… Noel’s point exactly. “You’ll have to pick his lock and ask him yourself.”
The hand stopped tapping, a huff of laughter falling from Liam as he wrapped his arm round the back of the sofa.
Finally, Noel’s eyes darted to Damon’s. A truce, perhaps. An elevation, even. Intrigue in those blue eyes that entice you closer, just to clip you ‘round the ear when he puts his sunglasses back on. The Manchester Medusa.
“When’d this start then?”
“Pfff,” Liam blew out. “Different question mate.”
“Are you being fucking serious?”
Damon placed his coffee on the table. “I think I’m going to leave you two to it.” He stood up, scouring the living room for his shoes. He didn’t want to be at the epicentre of the nuclear bomb after having the secret of who made it dropped on him.
Whining, Liam leant forward to bat Noel’s knee with the back of his hand. “Don’t go ‘cos he’s being a cunt. He’ll run out of questions or fucks to give eventually, like.”
“Might not actually.” Noel shook his head. He rose, moving to stand right up to Damon in three long strides. The press already took the piss of the height difference between the older Gallagher brother and younger; against Damon, it was even more pronounced. Even though Damon had to look down, he felt himself shudder on his exhales. To be fair, he could feel Noel’s too, pausing his motion to be face to face with him. “Got a fair fucking few.
“‘Cos my thinking is that it’s really fucking difficult being around this cunt if you don’t have to be, y’know? A lot of hard work I don’t think some southern shandy fairy ponce is gonna be capable of, which means you must want something. My question is what that is exactly, and how quickly it’s gonna be before you realise you’re not fucking getting it. Might not even be your own choice, huh? Big boss behind you pulling ‘ya silk strings? Kind of glad McGee’s not a sadistic cunt, ‘cos I’m really not the type to whore myself out to spy on enemy camps.”
Liam shot up, scowl across his face. “Shut the fuck up man!” Noel remained undeterred.
Damon laughed, walking to his shoes and putting them on with ease. “Nothing I say is going to change your mind, is it? That I do just enjoy his company.” He walked back over, reaching behind Noel for his keys on the coffee table. “But if you’re that hell bent on seeing me whore myself out, I can get you backstage for one of my gigs anytime you like. Really put on a show.” Whispering, he felt his own narcissism take over. There was no record exec behind him making him spy; no one could make him spend time with Liam, except for Liam. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be a bit sadistic about it. “You’d love it.”
“Noel’s not into singers. Prefers the guitarists.” A joke from Liam, trying to defuse the situation he’d brought upon himself. “Or if you play the keys.”
Noel glared.
“As I said,” Damon dropped any amusement he had racked up, trying to be sincere. He didn’t want to make an enemy of Noel. Didn’t want Noel to think of him as a liability on a personal level, charts aside. “Nothing nefarious.”
“How long?”
“Few months.”
“Don’t fucking mess with him. Don’t promise him anything.” Beside them, Liam wandered off. “We’ve got shit to do.”
“So’ve we.”
Noel looked at where Liam had gone, in the direction of the bedroom, then back to the guitar. “He’s not a fucking saint.”
Damon ducked his head down, seeing their shoes toe to toe. “We’re all going to hell.”
A laugh from behind him.
A small smile in front.
“Sod off.”
Surviving Medusa - being able to walk off - felt like a win to Damon, though he doubts it feels like a loss to Noel. No, Damon is being allowed to walk away. Bestowed the honour of it.
Then, he was allowed to say “Yeah, okay,” when Liam asked him if he was coming back later. He was leaving the building unscathed with such a hefty secret on his shoulders.
That had to mean something.
Just before shutting the door behind him, he caught the final ebbs of the conversation piercing in the air. “I’ve no clue what any sad bastard sees in you. You’re a fucking liability.”
A look back would show Liam reclined back into the sofa, hands behind his back, a vacant stare but smug smile blessing his face. “Least I’m a great shag.” He lit up a new fag. “And a funny fucker.”
“Same thing, kid.”