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Noah is dozing off in a secluded corner of the airport when he hears the familiar thomp-thomp-thomp of thick platform boots strolling closer. His lids flutter open with difficulty, and instinctively he pulls the mask higher on his face as his vision slowly blurs into focus.
“Hey, kid.”
Noah looks up, hair falling down his face. It’s much longer now, an annoying curtain that hides half of Oli from him, whom he doesn’t see much of anyway with all the scarves and hoodies and beanies and whatever else he’s got going on.
Have to cut it, he thinks mechanically.
And so much fucking else, he thinks again, stomach shifting uncontrollably. When he gets back home—a lot of it leftovers from a lifetime ago, upon which new additions stacked, a cluster of unwanted, nameless shit he knows will catch up to him sooner or later.
Touring, on what feels like pretty much the other side of the world, would do that to you. To Noah more than anyone else—harder and harder every time, despite how much smoother each tour becomes now that Bad Omens is a well-oiled machine; the crew competent, diligent, the funds stable enough to allow them small luxuries.
But still, it fucking sucks.
Oli, famously resistant to this lifestyle—or so he likes to show, and does a freakishly scary good job at hiding the damage—is still smiling. He squats down unceremoniously, huffing and puffing, elbows digging on his own knees as he stares intently at him. He does that, so very often. Just taking in Noah's existence, gazing with a strange awe that bleeds into sometimes dangerous territories, sometimes into nothing at all as his eyes flicker away and he forgets all about him until the next time curiosity—or hunger—pulses inside of him.
Noah’s getting used to it, slowly. It's fine. It’s one of those things that came without notice.
“You’re gone, then,” Oli starts, blinking slowly.
Well, fuck. It shouldn’t feel like that. It shouldn’t actually feel like anything, but from the moment he first landed in this old, rainy, gloomy country, he knew he’d go back changed. In what way there was no telling or guessing, but from time to time when you slip outside of yourself you can feel the ghost-touch of fingers along your spine, the same ones that weave fate and write destiny, and you realise, breathless, that you’ve got to fucking brace yourself.
Noah hadn’t. Not really. He’s a believer of fuck all. He’s an imbecile, a gambler who liked to think the universe held no regard for his life; that it had no grand design in store for him, and left himbehind, alone and clueless, to make do with the scrapes of the discarded happiness the lucky ones didn’t know what to do with.
But now his chest’s moving in waves. He wonders and wonders and wonders. Oli looks at him with eyes like flowing rivers, sure of their tranquil path—crystal-clear and open under the airport’s harsh neons. It casts down hard-cut shadows on his face, adds sharpness his face doesn’t need but welcomes all the same with a similar grace Oli does everything else in life.
Noah wants to reach out, so he does. Tugs at the hem of Oli’s sleeve for no real reason, only that he wishes it could just mean kiss me the way it would anywhere, anytime else. Had they been different people—stars less crooked, lives less troubled. Had they taken a little more time getting to speak to each other earlier, all those times their paths haphazardly intertwined across the years and they did not know, they did not realise.
Noah pulls his mask down his chin, snorts lightly, and gives a small smile back. “Don’t bury me just yet, old man. I’m right here. Just don’t fucking know for how much longer still, but,” he ends with a shrug, doesn’t want to delve deeper into that—it stinks and sucks and, well, it’s really whatever.
The movement of Oli’s wrist is lightning-fast and precise and mean, and Noah whines when his forehead burns where his fingers flick—it only serves to stretch Oli’s smile bigger. His laugh is a soft rumble that still sounds as nice as it first did when Noah had to against his chest, but it’s not enough that he forgets the guy nearly just killed him.
“Die,” he rasps, rubbing at his aching forehead. The other hand is still clutching Oli’s sleeve pretty damn hard, and he only realises it when his own fingers and joints give a little throb of warning under the pressure he’s putting.
Which is—fuck. Noah doesn’t have the words for it, but the feeling’s pretty bad for all sorts of different reasons.
“Never,” Oli replies very decidedly.
He plops down on his ass, crossed at the ankles, uncovering much of his face from the fluffy scarf around his neck. He ruffles his hair, sighing as he does so, mutters something about scissors and mirrors.
Needs to all fuckin’ sod off, he remembers Oli complaining, around mid-tour—when he got sick of having to routinely go through lengthy hair wash days, the goddamn arrays of products Alissa busted his ass about, of finding confetti stuck in-between flattened strands of hair days after a show still. Noah remembers the rest, too; threading his fingers through the sweaty curls after a show, pulling at them roughly just to hear Oli’s voice break—digging blunt nails into his scalp to hear him beg and beg and beg.
Or that one single time he almost damned them both with overly complicated things, forgot himself for a second as he tucked hair away from his eyes during soundcheck, around all their guys—Oli had said nothing, lips quivering, and Noah had to pretend this was casual, natural, as he kept on speaking and speaking and speaking.
Now, though, Oli’s eyes flicker up and down his frame for a moment, here one moment and there the next, hazy and unfocused and probably going a million miles a second, until he settles his mind and shuffles closer. Noah’s chest floods again. "Can't let you little pup outlive me, hell no.”
Noah has to pull his mask up. His cheeks burn with the same thing that’s pulling at his heart—and isn’t this so damn comical, that’d he’d still feel this way in the great year of 2024, foolishly convinced he’s the only one on God’s green earth to ever go through such miserable fits trying to keep his stupid, stupid heart from escaping its cage of bones?
Still. it’s hilarious, too, in its morbid irony—that Noah of all people would outlive Oli. Walk the earth still when he’s gone, as if it made any fucking sense, as if Noah himself had ever considered it a possibility.
And I burn, I burn just like my idols; I dwell above a sea of flames.
Noah hopes there’s enough threat in his eyes that it gets the point across without needing to physically shake Oli. “You better.”
He checks the time on his phone; early still, but so fucking late. His bones feel heavy and clobbering in his body, overadded weight. He’s tired. Noah doesn’t know how he’ll manage those upcoming dates, a full-blown headlining tour with no other supporting band; Moriah’s good, a powerhouse of her own, but Noah still feels like they’re feeding her to the sharks with this one. Can’t help the anxious pit that digs itself deeper in his stomach every time he so much as thinks about this goddamned european tour, and he can’t help either the subtle, but perceptible whole-body-flinch when Oli reaches out.
Oli stays very, very still. “Christ,” he says, staring him down with eyes that know too much—makes Noah want to duck his head, run away, but he can’t do much except slip further down the floor, cringing and wincing when he realises he’s got a nice hoodie on, suddenly afraid he might’ve peeled some of the backprint off.
It’s silly. It’s nothing. But that’s about enough to do his head—the small, useless little sorrows.
After all, what’s ruining your favourite band merch in the face of what’s looming right fucking ahead? Noah’s not even in that goddamned plane yet, and still his guts are coiled tight and everything feels wrong.
Oli takes this all in silently, then drops his hand gently on Noah’s knee. “You know you got this, right?”
He bites the insides of his cheek until he tastes blood. Considers lying, pretending Matt texted him and he should go, running far away. But every option makes him feel sick, and Noah has never been a great liar anyway, so he gives up almost too easily. Barely any fight left in him; low on juices, low on everything.
“I don’t think I do, no,” he replies truthfully, voice a tiny thing.
He closes his eyes for a short, painful breath. Oli’s thumb draws soothing circles on Noah’s knee as they sit silently for a moment, if not for the automated messages, the distant rolling of luggage, echoes of voices. Breathing doesn’t do much to lessen the crushing pressure in his ribs, not even when he removes his mask, rubbing one eye tiredly, not even when Oli gently pries his hand away, chastising him about basic survival skills—don’t touch your fucken’ eyes when you’re outside. It’s motherly enough to steal Noah away from his brain, a small, pathetic smile tugging at his lips. Oli doesn’t let go of his hand, then, and Noah’s gaze never leaves their intertwined fingers either.
“You’ll be just fine if you stop doin’ your own brain in every time. You’re a smart kid, but Jesus fuck, Noah. You’ve gotta let go.”
“Yeah,” he mutters.
He keeps his eyes pinned on his shoes, and wonders how this scene would look like from the outside: him, miserable and down on the floor with all his stupid fucking luggage full of nothing and Oli, with his many layers and many chains and scary Drop Dead crosses clashing with the fluffy cat-eared beanie, down on the floor too but not quite miserable.
Both knee to knee, Noah fidgeting with his fingers, his rings. But there’s no one around, not at this hour; they always choose the later flight times, when airports become temporary homes for the sleepless wanderers, the exhausted businessmen and broken-hearted musicians. To have a place to nurse old and new wounds, reset their brains, quiet their hearts before the next tour stop.
It’d be quite the ridiculous sight, really. But Noah’s thankful, so very thankful that Oli managed to read right through his lies yesterday, when he said he was leaving happy and ready for this next thing. Germany was right there, really; an ocean—barely anything—then a few small countries, and Noah would be away from the UK for a long, long time. Ignorant as to when he’d come back, properly come back, not just for hit-and-runs kinda festival dates that they’re in the midst of wrapping up.
Nonetheless, at least there’s a reason to come back. It meant the world to Noah—and the other guys too, he knew—that BMTH had extended their invitation to more opening slots. That this was a thing no longer in perpetually boring and formal emails threads his manager was speaking of half-convincedly, but now a real, concrete event: Bring Me The Horizon would headline half, if not all of the European summer festivals, and Bad Omens would be right there. Second headliners. Somehow more sought after than Bring Me themselves, but only because they were this new, wild, buzzing thing—it would either cement their place in this goddamned scene, or paint them forever as the TikTok-famous frauds. Double-edge sword, one that Noah was deathly afraid of.
“Murphy’s law,” he murmurs to himself, but then again, to his sleep-deprived, foggy, almost shutting down brain this too is funny.
What’s the worst thing that could happen, if not that there’s a chance it could simply not happen at all, no matter how hard he tries?
Oli’s eyes flash meanly, but it’s not anger aimed at him. He gives a hard squeeze to his knee. “Fuck that.”
There’s a harsh, cutting edge to his voice; a gritty seriousness that matches his eyes, the green of his irises crystallized and shining like gemstones—Noah can’t look away, and it’s good. It’s grounding. It keeps his mind from slipping elsewhere, as the fingers digging into his flesh keep his body from going overdrive.
“You’ll pull this off. Hell, you did so far. Listen to me,” Oli’s speaking more softly, the same tone he had used before as Noah clung to his body, waiting, desperate for a touch, a word, anything, until Oli had allowed him to finally, finally come. It hooks and claws and digs into the same tender, fucked up part of his brain, floods his neuron pathways with the instinctive, overwhelming need to obey. “I know you’re afraid to, but you’ve got to look behind and see how far you’ve fuckin’ come. It’s easy to forget. It’s easy not to see, with all the burning bridges, the fuckin’ smoke. It’s easy to choke on it, ain’t it? But you gotta. You have to. Or else you lose yourself, kid. Believe me.”
And Oli had, hadn’t he? So many times. Enough to be the only one who could tell him all of that without that distinct and definitive air of vanity, that slow, patronizing tone people usually carry saying these things—everything will be fine; it’s mostly all in your head, you know; look, if you only ever give a negative feedback loop to your brain, well; I know you can’t help blowing it out of proportions, it’s anxiety after all, but could you try and not let it eat you alive?; maybe a bit of fresh air could help, don’t you think?; it could always be worse, come on, look around you.
Noah’s exhausted, really. He likes the warmth of Oli’s hand in his, how easy it is to find comfort and truth in his words; they fall around him, slowly, a protective cloak to help with the thorns in his thoughts.
“You’re great,” his voice comes out thick and rough, but steady, calm. He’s got this. “Anyone ever told you you’d make a great cult leader?”
Oli laughs. He drops Noah’s hand, only so he can reach out and gently swipe a thumb underneath his right eye. The skin is puffy and sore there, dark from lack of sleep and red from exhaustion. Noah tilts his head just enough so he can leave a fleeting kiss on the inside of Oli’s palm, a way to say thank you when his throat is too tight to speak.
“I’d say you oughtta try your hand at it, kid, but I don’t think you’re cut out for that grand flashy rock-star life.”
“Fuck, no,” Noah whispers.
Tries to imagine himself doing what Oli does—the close proximity to his people—family and strangers alike—how loyal he is to them and how it feeds an undying and unwavering love back; the glitter, the sass, his presence everywhere, the constant interactions; his willingness to bare himself whole to the world, let the lions and wolves and dogs and hyenas and vultures have a go at his deepest wounds if it means it can distract them from their own bleeding flesh a bit—he thinks of himself in Oliver Sykes’ shoes and just shudders.
Like every other time; every night of this tour he spent tirelessly watching Oli and all the Bring Me guys pulling their magic to a crowd of thousands, he’s again filled with awe, those damn fuzzy feelings of adoration and giddiness in his belly. Can’t help looking at Oli like he’s the brightest thing around, saying, “you’re really fucking great, aren’t you?”
Then, watching as Oli’s eyes widen, how he tries to hide back inside of himself, close off and shield away from the attention now that the job of pulling Noah out of his brain is done, thinking to himself again and again—I will always carry you in my heart, everywhere.
Oli scoffs, hand dropping, about to move or get or something else that they never get to know about because Noah pulls on his sleeve again, but much harder this time.
Doesn’t wait for him to get to clue, doesn’t wait with a bruising and sad heart for the universe to give him what he painfully longs for. He does what would make Oli proud, what he tried drilling into him these past few days. He reaches out first. He takes what he wants.
Oli falls against his chest, barely having time to put out a hand against his chest for support—Noah’s got his arms around his shoulders and holds him as tight as he can, and maybe even tighter than that. Because Oli’s more solid than he’d ever be, real and authentic, his body—warm and familiar and comforting—the only grounding thing Noah has known these past weeks. Because he can. Because he’s allowed to, as miserable as it seems. Because Oli carved out a place for Noah in his chest himself, and for once it’s easy not to let guilt take him first and eat away at his resolve.
“I’ll manage,” Noah says, muffled against Oli’s neck. Breathing him in, settling the last of erratic heartbeat. It’s enough. It’s entirely enough. “Won’t lose myself. Promise. I’ll manage and I’ll pull this shit off. I will. Thank you.”
Oli doesn’t reply. Holds him tighter, and waits for Noah to patch up and sew the very last of himself back together, until he’s the first to let go. Then he’s flicking Noah’s forehead again—the same damned spot—and somehow the second time around is so much worse.
The pain is such that Noah forgets all about being sleep-deprived and fucked up sad and questioning his entire existence and future in the middle a deserted airport, tears welling in the corner of his eyes.
“What was that for? What the fuck.”
Oli only ever grins. Ear to ear, as devilish as he always looks. Still clear-eyed, still rock-solid, still Noah’s favorite sight despite the white-hot pain buzzing on his forehead.
“So you don’t forget any of this, you charming little prick.”