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Liam leaned over the railing of the motel he and Noel were staying in, spliff dangling between his fingertips as he stared out into the night. America was like nothing he’d ever imagined. Manchester stayed washed in greys and muddy browns, but America was all sepia orange and rich cyan blue. Cracked, winding highways and buzzing neon signs canvassed the barren desert landscape out on the west coast, with motels, gas stations, and diners dotting the edges of Route 66. The Mother Road, it was commonly called, according to a gas station attendant in some fucking…Liam didn’t even know where. He didn’t know what state they were in, couldn’t have told you what day of the week it was, couldn’t have told you who he was either.
Liam Gallagher was someone elusive; Liam Gallagher was a figment of a dream. Liam Gallagher was a rock n’ roll star, done up in makeup and sparkling scarves, denim and leather, glory and stardust. Liam Gallagher faded in and out of the edges of Liam’s consciousness, flickering like a mirage in the swelter of the desert.
Sometimes, Liam thought, it was like someone had bashed a hole in his brain, and by some miracle of coincidence, the universe began pouring into said hole. Noel thought maybe something had gone wrong after the hammer incident of ‘69, but Liam knew better. He’d been born half-mad, hadn’t he? Fucking celestial from day one.
Sometimes, though, he felt the two parts of his soul start to tear away from each other, and reality slid in and out of his grasp like the last curls of smoke from a cigarette. It was nights like these when he felt the splitting most—with every passing day here, Liam slipped a little further away and Liam Gallagher danced ever closer to the spotlight.
He wondered if it was the same for Noel. Noel had glimmering, beautiful parts of him locked up inside, too, and Liam had seen him shine brighter than ever since they’d touched down across the pond. Away from the dull hum of Manchester, Noel glowed. He was more gorgeous than ever, dark hair wind tousled and his usually pale face ruddy with the beginnings of a healthy tan. Liam could feel the happiness coming off of him in waves, and underneath that, the wanting.
Noel didn’t want to go home either.
Liam knew they could build a life for themselves here, in the valley like Noel talked about sometimes when he was high enough to let himself admit to wanting things. They could find a little house, tucked away in the trees, where Noel could write songs on the porch and Liam could bask in the sun. Noel was a great writer and Liam, well. Liam could sing. Noel didn’t know that yet, but Liam could sing like nobody had ever seen. They could start their own band—they could be Mick and Keith, John and Paul, Plant and Page.
Liam sighed softly, the joint burning down to his fingertips. He could picture them, then, up onstage, under the lights where they belonged. Where Noel belonged, but where Liam belonged by his side. They would be beautiful.
He flicked the last bit of the joint into a flowerpot and found his way back to the room. He opened the door quietly; Noel was still asleep under the covers, right where Liam had left him. Liam shimmied out of his jeans and settled in beside his brother, earning a sleepy grumble of protest as the mattress shifted.
“Love you,” he whispered as he closed his eyes. Noel didn’t say it back, but he did sling his arm over Liam and pull him close, which was more than good enough.
Liam dreamt of bright lights and a blurred sea of faces, chants of his and Noel’s names ringing in the air as a filthy cacophony of sound exploded around them.
He would make it happen.