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The rest of the band had already left the studio after a pretty bad day; liam had refused to sing, arguing he wasn’t feeling like it, or blaming it on paul’s bass, arguing that the groove was not there.
Noel was about to explode during that poorly rehearsal., but he rather did a line in the bathroom and spent the hour and half biting his lip to not explode..
Now, they were slumped in the lounge area of the studio. Noel was mindlessly picking out a chord progression on his acoustic, while Liam paced in frantic circles, a cigarette dangling from his lip as he ranted.
"His stupid ballpoint pens and notebooks are still stacked up on my nightstand!"
"Mate, I don't fucking care about whatever lad you're shagging," Noel muttered, not looking up.
"It’s not just some 'lad'!"
"It’s Damon," the older Gallagher mocked, punctuating the name with a sharp C-chord.
"Oi! Come off it! I have to listen to you whine about birds all the bloody time."
"You don't, actually."
"I promise I’ll sing if you just listen to me cry about this for once."
Noel sighed, stopping his fingers on the strings. "The band’s already gone, so I guess I haven't got much choice. Go on then, spit it out."
Liam let out a massive, jagged noise, somewhere between a sigh, a yawn, and a scream.
"He’s just... he’s everywhere, innit?" Liam spat, the smoke curling around his head like a halo. "I open a drawer to find a lighter and there’s one of his little 'artistic' sketches. I go to put on a jumper and it smells like that fancy soap he uses. It’s like living with a ghost that hasn't had the decency to die yet."
Noel shifted, his fingers subconsciously finding a melancholic minor chord. "Maybe if you stopped bringing his jumpers home, you wouldn't have that problem, would you, Sherlock?"
“I don't anymore.”
…
“i hate seeing him at parties with a hundred chicks cling to him while im here suffering, like he never, like we were never a thing”
Noel stopped playing. The silence in the studio felt heavy, filled with the hum of the amplifiers and the distant sound of London traffic. He looked at his younger brother—really looked at him. The bravado was gone. This wasn't the frontman of the biggest band in the world; it was just Liam, his younger brother.
"You really care about the posh lad, don't you?" Noel’s voice had lost its mocking edge. It wasn't kind but it was steady, like a dad’s.
“ye, i fuckin’ do”
"Look," Noel said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I think he’s a massive prick. I think his band is pretentious, and don't get me started on the acid. But if he’s the only one who makes you feel like you can actually breathe... then who am i to judge kid?,
“you mean-”
“dont push it liam, yeah, go back to him i guess, if ya’ stop whining and moaning, go back to him”
liam looked at his brother and smiled at him, noel didnt smile back, but his gaze, nonetheless, softened.
The taxi ride back to his own place was a blur of orange streetlights and rain-slicked pavement. But the moment Liam turned the key in his lock, the silence hit him like a physical blow.
He stepped inside and dropped his keys on the sideboard, only to see a silver zippo sitting there. It wasn't his. It was the one Damon had used to light a hundred cigarettes, the one he’d forgotten three weeks ago. Liam stared at it, half-expecting a slender hand to reach out and grab it. He grabbed it on his own, the lighter felt cold, maybe just like him, okay that was too much.
Liam walked into the bedroom and stopped dead. There, draped over the back of a chair, was the stupid green shirt Damon had been wearing the last night they’d fought. It still held the shape of his shoulders.
He didn't move it. He couldn't bring himself to touch it. He just sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress feeling miles wide, and realized that leaving the man was the easy part. It was living in the museum of everything they’d lost that was going to kill him.
He reached out, his fingers hovering over the striped fabric of the shirt, before pulling back and burying his face in his hands.
"Posh prick," he whispered into the empty room.
but Damon's ghost didn't answer.
in a very much london, depressing movie scene, that night it rained.
liam wasnt able to sleep, so he grabbed a scotch bottle and put the telly on.
suddenly the bell rang once. twice.
he ran to the door.
"Albarn?" Liam’s voice was barely a whisper. "What the fuck are you doing here at three in the fucking mornin'?"Liam hissed, blocking the doorway with his shoulder.
Damon looked wrecked. He hadn't bothered to shave, and his coat was soaked through with rain. He looked at Liam, really looked at him, and didn't offer an excuse. He didn't offer a promise to "get better" or to change.
"I’m not here to tell you I’m fixed," Damon said, his voice quiet, lacking its usual performative polish. "I’m not fixed. I’m a mess, Liam. I’m a complete, absolute disaster. And I’ve been sitting in that flat for three days staring at the wall, and the only thing I could think about was how much I wanted to be with you."
“you wont gain me back with your fuckin’ romantic shite”
"We are a disaster. We’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to each other. But the alternative... the alternative is just silence. And I can’t handle the silence, Liam. It’s killing me."
"You make me act like a cunt," Liam muttered, his voice cracking. "I’m a better person when you’re not around. I’m quieter. I’m calmer. And I hate it."
"I hate it too," Damon said, reaching out to grip Liam’s wrist. It wasn't a gentle touch; it was an anchor. "I don't want you to be calm. I want you to be this. I want the shouting, the fighting, the stupidity. I want us to be a mess, as long as we’re a mess together."
He grabbed Damon by the collar of his coat and yanked him inside, stumbling back against the wall. The movement was frantic, almost violent, fueled by months of starving or maybe yearning.
"Don't you ever leave again," Liam growled against Damon’s mouth, his hands tangling in Damon’s wet hair.
"I’m not going anywhere," Damon gasped.
They didn't make it to the bed, not really. They made it as far as the hallway floor, tangled in coats and the sudden, suffocating need to prove the other one was actually there.
Afterward, the silence that settled over the room wasn't empty. It was thick, heavy, and tasted like salt and adrenaline.
They didn't move to the bed. They just lay there on the scratched-up floorboards of the hallway, their limbs tangled, chests pressed together. The sweat was cooling on their skin, making them shiver in the drafty air of the flat.
Liam collapsed forward, his forehead resting on Damon’s shoulder, his breath hitching in a way that sounded dangerously like a sob he was trying to choke back. Damon didn't say anything. He just wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close, feeling the steady, thumping heartbeat under Liam's ribs..
"You're a prick," Liam murmured into the darkness, his voice barely audible.
Damon let out a weak, shaky exhale that ended in a smile. "I know."
"You’ve got terrible timing, too," Liam muttered, his voice gravelly. "I was halfway to hating you for good, and then you show up looking like a drowned rat."
Damon let out a shaky laugh.
"I’m nothing if not inconvenient. It’s part of the charm, isn't it?"
"It’s not charm. It’s a health hazard."
Liam pulled away just enough to look at him, his blue eyes searching Damon’s face in the dim light
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They shuffled toward the bedroom, moving with the kind of practiced intimacy a married couple has.
The bedroom was dark, save for the orange streetlamp glow filtering through the blinds. They collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to straighten the sheets. Liam sank into the mattress like he was anchoring himself to the earth, his eyes closing almost instantly.
Damon lingered, sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment, watching him. He reached out, his fingers tracing a faint, red scratch near Liam’s collarbone.
"You alright?" Damon whispered.
Liam didn't open his eyes. He just huffed out a breath;
"I'm starving. Andim in love with ye’ You’re a little prick when you want to be, Albarn."
Damon let out a soft, genuine laugh, the tension in his chest finally uncoiling. He crawled over, settling into the space beside Liam, tucking himself into the familiar curve of his side. Liam’s arm shifted, instinctively pulling him flush against his chest.
Liam fumbled on the nightstand, his fingers finding a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one, the flame flickering in the dark, illuminating the sharp, tired planes of his face for a second before he drew the smoke in. He took a drag, then passed it to Damon.
"Don't get used to this," Liam muttered, the words thick with sleep, his voice rasping against the top of Damon’s head. "Me being soft. It 's temporary."
“I think im in love with you too, gallagher”