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The record player is right next to the small television that has yet to see any color, the one that still gives him occasional shocks every time he touches the screen when passing too close. It's Bod's, the record player, not the television. Well, It's actually Dad's, but the last thing Noel wants to think about while the vinyl plays is that one of the only things he loves in that house is his. Everything is his, really, because he brought it, because he found it, because he created it. All his favorite things, and that makes his stomach churn, and it hurts more than any of the punches he receives, more than any kick to the head. Absolutely everything he loves has Tommy Gallagher's name on it in big red letters, howling danger. Mom isn't his because he doesn't love her, nor is Paul because he has always despised him. Noel is the one furthest from being his, even though he's his miniature figurine. That always makes him cry. Every time someone says they look even the slightest bit alike, Noel has to fight back the urge to cry and sob uncontrollably.
That's not even the point. The point is, the record player is one of his favorite objects in the house. It's old and too heavy to move around by himself, and the shelf it sits on is cluttered and filled with old vinyl records and a couple of new ones that aren't played very often because Dad's been home a lot lately. He's heard he has another girlfriend, one younger than Mom, who has a daughter just as blonde as Liam, barely younger than his little brother. And still, he keeps coming home drunk to make each and every one of the inhabitants of the little house suffer.
Oh but Noel loves his little brother too. A lot, maybe too much. And more than he loves his guitar and the record player. It's a strange love, one he doesn't have for Mom or Paul, one that will never come close to that of the girls he has kissed out there.
Aunt gave Mom an ABBA vinyl record. He saw her mother smile genuinely for a long moment, her tired features illuminated by the roaring title "The Visitors." Mom treasures it at the bottom of the small piece of furniture, under Dad's old vinyl records so he doesn't take away that small piece of happiness translated into catchy melodies and sweet voices.
Dad has left behind broken souls, the ones that returns to pick up their pieces from the floor again. Every time he leaves, pieces splinter and fall apart, never fitting back together.
Liam's breathing at the base of his neck brings him back to the present. He's fast asleep, cheeks still damp with tears, almost completely lying on top of Noel, squeezing him in the places that ache like a silent plea for him not to leave. Maybe because he has heard him talking to Mom between stutters and sobs, maybe because Liam has heard his pleas to Mom to let him leave that house, his threats to kill the most horrible monster that the old man is. Mom has promised him they'll leave soon. Maybe not now because Christmas was two days ago, because everyone else is still living in the perfect, fantasy bubble inside their beautifully decorated homes. Everyone else, except them.
The hot chocolate Mommy made him, and was able to buy only thanks to her overtime at work, is cooling on the nightstand, her vinyl playing in the distance. Luckily, Paul isn't there because he's a little older and can escape the nightly ordeal inside the house, but Noel's heart isn't strong enough to leave Liam alone to endure the nightmare his father carries with him. Nor can he leave Mom facing it so meekly. She's already asleep, having locked the front door, a chair propped firmly under the handle to make opening it difficult enough.
Liam spasms in his dreams, small sobs as he curls up against his older brother in search of healing warmth, fast asleep. Noel's fingers comb through his soft blond hair; it never tangles, always shining like the sun on a good morning, when Manchester doesn't seem like the black hole of the world where everyone dumps their bitterness.
He smells his hair and his lips rest on his little boy's temple. Yeah, Liam is his. He's not Dad's, he's not Mom's, or Paul's. Liam is probably the only thing that's his in that house, ever since Mom promised him that the baby girl growing in her belly was for him, because it's the only thing he's ever wanted and asked for, at least for as long as he can remember. He never asked for anything else. Liam didn't come home as a little girl, but as a crying boy wrapped in overly soft blankets, only calmed by tight, close hugs. And yet, from his first heartbeat, that little boy was absolutely and completely his. His chubby little hands and plump cheeks that quickly turned red when he got angry. Every little part.
The most beautiful boy in the world in Noel's head, the only one who deserves all the good Noel can create, even if sometimes he can't bear him. Totally and completely his, forever.
He kisses his forehead and holds him tightly to his chest. The tears he hadn't let go after dad's beatings suddenly shower his cheeks and run furiously down his neck. He's all he has. Liam is the center of his small, battered universe. The only thing that continues to shine and sparkle like the most delicate piece in a porcelain collection, nestled in Noel's arms that wrap around him like bubble wrap, both of them reclining on the too-small sofa in the empty living room.
The record player keeps spinning. The needle creaks, skipping between tracks, barely a hum in the thick silence of the house. The song changes, and the melody he's already grasped, "Slipping Through My Fingers," slips through like a winter breeze under the front door. Agnetha's voice seeps like a whisper into the corners of the room. Noel listens to her, his throat tight, his chest full, as if someone has pressed their hands between his ribs and is squeezing slowly but steadily, so as not to wake anyone with heavy sobs. That song makes him think about things he doesn't have time or permission to think about, not when people are around. About how fast Liam is growing up, about how he no longer understands him half the time, that there's alway this huge fear of losing him forever. About how quickly everything happens when you're so busy trying to bear life. Time genuinely slips through his fingers, and he no longer knows what's in his little mind, growing so fast that he won't even know how to be a child, or worse, he'll end up making up for his childhood when there are no obstacles, perhaps when Noel is gone.
He wonders if he'll ever forget the way Liam looks at him when he's scared. If he'll forget the way Mom seems to have forgotten what it felt like to laugh like when she was young. If one day, without realizing it, Liam will stop looking for his hand in the dark, for his gaze among people.
He doesn't want that day to come.
The sound of the vinyl, old, warm, imperfect from the passage of time and neglect, continues to fill the room like a comfort to his frightened heart. Liam has completely calmed down from that nightmare that seems to have crept into his sweet dreams; his breathing is rhythmic and soft, the small arms still around him, possessive even in sleep, afraid that Noel will leave.
He closes his eyes. He imagines with all his might a future where he can truly protect him, where he can guide him the way he knows best, one where he can give him the most precious things he has. Perhaps where they have a home without shouting and without fear. A place where Mom doesn't have to surrender her freedom to demands she doesn't understand, hiding her fear under submission. Where Liam can sleep without pressing himself against him at night as if he could protect him, as if his nine-year-old body were a wall for his older brother.
Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next month. But someday.
Mom has said they'll be gone soon. That it won't be long. And although those words have sounded thousands of times and always seem to melt like snow in the sun, sworn by some father in the most hypocritical church in Manchester, this time he wants to believe her. Not only because he trusts her, but because Liam deserves it.
The record player stops playing with a dull click as side A of the vinyl ends. Noel doesn't move. He doesn't want to let go of Liam, or face the complete silence that falls when the music fades, when Liam's breathing stops being a comfort and his heartbeat begins to echo the footsteps of a monster coming back home like every night. But this time there is nothing but silence. His hands remain firm, wrapping that small body like a silent oath. Another kiss falls on Liam's forehead, one on his cheek. Noel has to bend down a little, but finally kisses his lips. Chaste and sweet, nothing more than a touch, it's a promise, it means so many things that giving it just one name is simply selfish. And he remains floating in the air, tangled in the dust that dances in the dim light that enters the house from the street lamp. He clings to him as if he were a rope thrown in the middle of a shipwreck.
And in that corner, between the music that no longer plays and the ghosts that still inhabit the house, Noel allows himself to cry silently for a while longer. This time not from fear. For the first time with something that, deep down, almost manages to resemble hope.