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"You're doing it again," Liam had muttered, his voice muffled by Damon’s skin.
"Doing what?"
"Thinking. I can hear your brain whirring. It’s keepin’ me up. you are supposed to sleep after sex."
"mate" Damon huffed a laugh
“Do you ever think about what life would be like for us if things were different?” he asked, his fingers gently tracing through the brown locks of hair.
“What, like if I was a bird? I’m tellin’ you—if that’s what you’re on about, you’re gettin’ a personalised fist to the jaw.”
“No, not that. I mean... if we weren't hounded by a thousand people every time we stepped out on the street.”
“Being famous, you mean?”
“Yes. That’s the word. Famous.” Damon said it like it was a dirty secret, something he wanted to wash off his skin.
“The way you say it... your posh accent makes it sound so bloody sophisticated. You’d make a right good impression on the Queen, wouldn't you?”
“Piss off,” Damon laughed, giving Liam’s hair a playful tug. “I’m being serious. Answer the question.”
“Yeah, I do. But it’s not really worth the head-fuck, innit? We are who we are and blah blah” Liam turned his head, blue eyes locking onto Damon’s
“I suppose not. I think about it a lot though.”
“Yeah?”
“It's a bit pathetic, really. But I like to imagine what our first date would’ve been like.”
“We had a first date.”
“Sniffing glue in a bathroom stall isn’t exactly a date, mate.”
“Fair point,” Liam conceded with a grin. “But the glue was top-shelf, at least.”
“I’d take you somewhere proper. Somewhere nice. Tablecloths and special wine." Damon said.
Liam just closed his mouth.
silence settled between them.
“White tablecloths,” Damon had whispered into the quiet room, his voice barely a thread. “I’d buy you a suit, Gallagher. A nice one. Not that parka you live in.”
Liam hadn’t been fully awake, but he’d let out a low, gravelly hum of disapproval. “Fuck off with the suit. I’d look like a copper. You’d look alright, though. All pretty and posh. I’d probably have to punch someone for lookin’ at you too long.”
“You’d protect my honor, huh?”
“I’d protect my dinner. You’re payin’, remember?”
"I’d even introduce you to my family.”
“Your family probably hates my guts already. They’ve seen the papers.”
“I don’t think so. My mum would probably find you ‘charming’ in a tragic sort of way.”
“Guess we’ll never know, then.”
“That sounds depressing.”
“It is depressing. I’d bet that creative head of yours could write an album and twenty songs ‘bout this.”
“I definitely should,” Damon whispered, leaning down until their foreheads touched. “Or maybe I already did.”
“You’re a proper pain in the arse, Albarn.”
“And you’re a nightmare, Gallagher.”
They both giggled and hugged each other as they drifted away to sleeptown.
Damon remembered that conversation with a stinging clarity. It had been the 14th of November, in that cramped apartment in London.They were both freshly showered, tangled in the bedsheets late at night. Usually, they’d just talk rubbish until they drifted off to sleep, but that specific talk had been playing on a loop in his head ever since.