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Liam opens his front door with one hand, rubs his eyes with the other.
“Cool it with the ringing, man,” he says. His voice is scratchy in the grey before dawn, his hair stuck up in wild little tufts. “You’ll wake Debs.”
“You weren’t answering your phone,” Noel says. He’s gripping his in one hand, flips it around to prove his accusation: there, at the top, is Liam Gallagher in red. The number beside: 27. Liam’s stomach flips.
“Yeah,” Liam says, smiling. “‘cos I were asleep.”
It’s clear, now, that Noel wasn’t. He looks a little wild himself, if not with the unguarded look of sleep. In jeans and a zip-up, in smart little boots. He’d not even bothered to put on a coat for the walk over, and it’s proper cold out. His eyes are squinty but searching, more telling than if they’d been open wide. Liam knows what his brother looks like when he’s been songwriting.
“You want to come in?” he asks, first as he’s polite, second as, you know, if Noel’s got a bit of leftover adrenaline and they’ve got spare bedrooms —
“No,” Noel says — then, catching his angle, squints more. “No. I need.” His brows furrow. “To borrow your voice.”
Right on the money, of course. ‘cos he knows, Liam does, ‘cos he’s fucking wise and more importantly he knows Noel better than anything. “Thought you were only writing music for your caged birds.”
“Shut up.” There’s no heat behind it; Noel even winces a little. Probably closer to tears than anything, poor lad. “Will you come?”
“Yeah.” As it’s Christmas after all, and this is a bit like if Santa Claus were to just knock right on his door at four thirty in the morning with a song in his back pocket, as that’s what he really wanted all along, and he’s not one to look a gift Noel in the mouth, and anyway he’d not really got Noel a gift himself so his voice will have to do.
He tugs on his trainers and a proper coat, does the hood up and all. Takes his keys, leaves the rest.
It’s the first time they’ve made this walk, you know, properly. He’s seen Noel’s new digs, had come by with wine and all only a week after they’d got him settled in, but that time he’d been dropped off after dinner and the driver had stalled outside for an hour while he got the tour and that. No time even to break the place in.
Anyway that’s to say that it’s nice, really. It’s dead quiet out, as it’s not even yet dawn, no early rising old ladies to join them on their morning walk. The air is brisk and a bit sharp with cold, but the wind doesn’t blow his hood off.
Only issue is Noel’s acting like it’s a fucking race to get there, working his little legs and still about five paces ahead.
“Hold on, man,” Liam calls ahead. “Easy on the sprinting. We’ve only just got up.”
There’s a delay, and then Noel spins, brow furrowed, like he’s prepared to scold. Liam only trots on, smiling at him, and the pause is enough for him to catch up — so he nudges Noel’s spine with his knuckles and says, “Get on, then, so as you don’t leave me behind.”
Noel’s kept the door unlocked, as Liam learns when they get up to the door and he pushes inside with no key or code or nothing. “Tch,” he scolds under his breath. “Fucking madman.”
Noel doesn’t even notice. Doesn’t say he does, anyway. So Liam flips the lock behind them — which delays him about four seconds too long, it seems, as Noel turns to grab at his sleeve and drag him on. “If I lose the tune you’re dead,” he says, solemnly.
“Alright, alright. Grumpy geezer. You’ve got it locked in your head, surely, rattling around with all the rest of your nonsense. Fo—”
“Shh.”
“Alright.”
They go up the stairs and down to the right to a door Noel hadn’t opened for Liam last time he was in. He’d figured — well, he’d figured it correctly, but he’d spent a lot of time telling himself it were a storage closet or an extra toilet so as to not get his hopes up or to have Noel tell him no, which wasn’t at the moment productive for either of them.
Noel’s in-home studio is proper big, a real feature, must’ve been built special. He’s got all his recording equipment and a lovely little spread of guitars — even a drumset tucked away in the corner.
“Fucking hell,” Liam says, awed.
“Don’t.” Noel doesn’t so much as look at him, but this time he does shut the door behind them.
“Don’t what? It’s mega, man. It’s a proper set-up you’ve got going here.”
“Yeah, so keep your head on about it. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Well,” Liam starts, as it’s really not, as Noel’s got the habit of treating his studios like the private bedroom he never had. Once he’d torn off a page from his notebook and, in his big scrawl, written LIAM: KEEP OUT, like the bratty little sisters do in films. Drama queen. So it is rather a big moment, this, his being invited in. Demanded in. He’s on fucking holy ground and that.
To pay his respects proper, he takes his shoes off. His jacket, next — it’s a fucking furnace in here.
“Right,” Noel says. He takes his notebook from atop a desk, flipped open to a spot over halfway through, and flips the rest of the pages underneath as he hands it to Liam. In the next breath, he’s gathered his guitar into his arms like a wee swaddled babe and sat upon his playing stool. “So listen. Remember?”
What he means is: remember this routine? Remember falling into sync like we do? Are we capable of it still, or is this going to go to shit before it has the chance to get really good?
Liam nods. Ages since they’ve done this bit, but they were in sync just about every night this beautiful fucking year. Noel’s got his nerves, and Liam —
“My voice,” he says.
“Ah.”
“Is all.”
“Don’t fucking mind about your voice.”
“Only I’ve not had my tea or warmups.”
“Well do you want your tea and warmups?”
They, for a brief moment, lock eyes: testing each others’ sincerity. Noel is put-out but genuine, will scarper off to put the kettle on if he says so. Liam is only just remembering this morning he’s not nineteen anymore.
“Nah, nah.” Liam decides. “Only don’t be a cunt if it’s not top shape, yeah. Certainly not if you’ll have me belting this early.”
“Only a bit of belting,” Noel reassures. “So listen.”
He starts in strumming his tune; Liam watches his toe tap softly against the ground to keep rhythm.
It’s got a bit of pep, his song, which is a good thing; it’ll turn in time to proper rock n’ roll, once Noel’s got the arrangements all sorted. Doesn’t make him feel like an old geezer about to do a sad amphitheater tour, for certain, which is really all that matters anyway.
Liam picks it up easy after a couple of intro bars, and his voice isn’t even half bad. Bit rough with disuse, is all, but then he’s been resting it up anyway. Ready for business like this.
“Stop,” Noel says, mid-strum, and so Liam stops, and Noel holds out his hand for the songbook, and Liam obliges. Noel balances his guitar and scrambles for a pen, which he uses to alter the last line, and then he hands the book back. “Again?”
Liam nods. The air sparks electric.
It builds with every verse, every revision, ‘til they’re buzzing with it, ‘til the four-something minute song has gone on over ten, and Liam’s throat feels open and warm, and he’s even giving the belting a proper run.
‘Til there’s nothing left to revise and they’re just left, the two of them, every atom between them crackling with energy.
“Gorgeous,” Noel says in a voice that’s so sincere it’s almost stern. “Fucking gorgeous. Once we get a proper recording on that…”
“Christmas miracle, yeah,” Liam says, feeling right pleased with himself.
“Fucking hell,” says Noel. “So it is.”
“I imagine you’ve got your family business on,” Liam says in a way that suggests — well, y’know, if he didn’t —
Only Noel explains: “Kids’ll come ‘round for tea, and Anaïs and Callum will join at dinner, after which we’ll — ” so Liam has to feign a yawn. “Oh, what.”
“Nodding off only thinking about it. We’ll be having more fun, my lot.”
“Playing party games, no doubt,” says Noel disdainfully, pulling a face.
“Could stop by for breakfast,” Liam says anyway, mostly as it’d be a shame not to make the offer.
“That’s alright. Probably be — ”
“Sleeping,” Liam agrees. “That’s alright.”
He grabs Noel’s head with an open palm, wiggles it back and forth enough it makes Noel’s eyes close. Then he can lean in and press his lips at the top of Noel’s forehead, just along his hairline. He’s stepping back and Noel opens his eyes, looks up with blatant, if hazy, wanting.
Well, you know, it is Christmas and all, and seeing as he didn’t get Noel a proper present and Noel got him just about all he was wanting — with the exception of the tour, yeah, but give it a bit and he’ll be proper convinced of that too — so really it’s the least he can do.
“So come on then,” Liam says. “Tuck you in all nice after, like.”