Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE.

“I hate the books you read,

And all your friends,

Your music's shite, it keeps me up all night, up all night,

[…]

And it will be nice to be alone,

For a week or two,

But I know then I will be right,

Right back here with you,,,”

---

April, 1995.

“Numbeh fuckin’ one! We’re number one, and you're not!”

Petty.

Very petty, indeed.

Uncalled for, too, definitely.

The words kept replaying nonstop inside Damon's head. Because, well, it's not everyday that some lad you've spoken to barely a couple of times – and he meant it; He knew Liam, of course, spoken to him maybe twice, saw him sporadically – comes up to you, completely out of it, and spits out that his band is “number one” and yours “is not”. Because, first of all: rude. Second of all: gross. Third of all: uncalled for. And certainly not on Damon's list of expectations for the Creation Records party.

He'd crashed it with not too many (expectations) on his imaginary list, only looking for some free drinks, maybe some pics with the other musicians, since, why not? And a few good chats. A pretty bird to charm, if he got lucky. His band wasn't around much that night, so why not have some fun, right?

Well, sure, would be, was being, before, of course, Oasis– no, specifically, he came around. It was weird, now that Damon thought about it. Very. You see, he was just finishing his third pint, absentmindedly licking his lips and enjoying his own company for a while, unbothered by whatever was going on around him, free hand tangled in the wild blond fringe, blue eyes focused – or rather, unfocused, starting to get blurry – on the glass… 

He remembers how the music was loud, some of the biggest hits at the moment; pumping nonstop, making his ears ring pleasantly. The flashing lights, almost psychedelic, made him wanna look for his package of powder, always did. He didn't use it often, just one or two lines when he felt too lonely, nothing special about it. Nothing concerning either, he hoped.

He had done it all by now; drank and chatted and laughed and smiled and took pictures he barely remembered taking and charmed and mingled… –, and with his social battery being currently at its lowest, he decided to chill at the bar before leaving. He barely acknowledged the arrival…

Either way, at some point, he even remembers hearing that song play. That one. The “Some Might Saaey” one, he found it pretty funny, actually, may have found it catchy a bit, in his drunken-to-be state of mind…

But, well, remember how Oasis came in? Joined in with the other bands around? Yeah. Well, their frontman was surely having a blast. Damon could hear his loud voice coming from all the way from the other side of the party. It was wild. He had a nice voice, though. Just too loud for Damon's taste. Sure, it was their party, Oasis were signed to Creation Records since forever, really. A party to celebrate their single, Some Might Say, being a success. Damon knew they'd be there when he agreed to come, knew Liam would be there.

He recalls actually talking to the loudmouth's brother at some point that night before the rest of Oasis came in, maybe taken a picture with him, even. The two obnoxious brothers from Manchester, yeah? Blur had done a couple of appearances together with them, maybe. Taken pics, joked around. Appeared on radio with them, things have been friendly. Blur was blasé, they surely didn't have anything against Oasis. Damon was sure. He didn't mind Oasis.

He was about to be forced to mind Oasis, though.

At some point of the party, specifically when Some Might Say began to play, the already loud voice of Liam Gallagher became even louder and, somehow, for some reason, the younger Gallagher decided he wasn't having enough of a night, and, again, Jesus knows why, came up to Damon's table, leaning straight into him abruptly, almost making him drop his pint and, well, might as well have knocked the whole table over. Rude. Damon, needless to say, suddenly very uncomfortable and confused, backed away on his chair, meeting Liam's higher than a kite gaze, about to say something– Anything, I mean, “Hello? Yeah, hey, yes, I see you, hi, hello, back off, please?”, or something.

He knew of Liam's reputation of being a magnet to problems, specially of instigating problems and actively looking for them, but he had never had much of an opinion on it. Barely acknowledged Liam until that night, if Damon was completely honest. He remembered the few times he'd seen Liam, bars and pubs, and seen him sing, and he'd never thought anything more than “Well, he's funny”. And Noel didn't seem too bad (sometimes, rarely) so his brother couldn't be that insufferable, could he, now?

“Numbeh fuckin’ one! We’re number one, and you're not!”

He could.

Liam, for the lack of a better word, spat the words in his face. Right at it. Gross. Words slurred in a way that made Damon impressed with how he was even still standing up, voice loud over the music while the song version of himself sang slyly. Talk about ego.

And just like that, he smiled, grinned, like the arsehole that he knows he is, and laughed. Actually laughed, like he had every right to be bragging. Alright, what the fuck?

His mates laughed, Damon didn't really know any of them, except Noel, who didn't really do much to stop Liam, but didn't laugh either, instead giving his young brother a light smack on the head for it, calling him a “Knobhead”. Still, Damon was sure the whole place heard it. It kind of reminded him of how he'd feel at school when he was younger, with his bullies around his table at lunch, picking on him for whatever. Yeah, wasn't nice. Uncalled for, it was.

Deciding against giving a severely altered Liam Gallagher a reaction, Damon lifted his drink again, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip. He chuckled, then. Trying to seem indifferent. “Alright…?” he gave the group his best polite smile. Liam didn't seem to like the answer, and he made it clear.

“Aight’, yeah? Yer’ fuckin' soft, lad! Lookin’ all fancy an’ shite, ’m talking to you, mate, our song's mega, it is, yer’ little posh band’s pathetic,” he spat again, waving his hand nonsensically at Damon, like he had personally offended him by existing. Damon could smell the alcohol on his breath, strong and gross, his eyes even more downturned than they normally were because of it. Damon didn't like any of it. Because, yeah, he was in another dimension himself, for sure, but that was fucking humiliating. “Pathe’ic, yeah? You, pretty lad, you mark my words, yeah? Oasis' the bes' band in the world, we're number one, and you're not!”

He repeated, repeated it like the pettiest child to ever petty would. Like Blur hadn't been the thing in Britain since 1991, way before Oasis showed up.

“Ya hear? Ey, 'm talking ta you, prat.” he leaned in again, thick eyebrows furrowed and big parted lips, swatting at the air in Damon's direction. “Yer one of 'ose artsy clowns, innit? Yea’, mate, ’s right, I know your band. Fuckin’ posh gets, all of you.”

Plonker. Damon's eyes narrowed.

His flustered ear involuntarily picked up when a group of young musicians laughed with Liam, maybe at him, but still. Didn't make it any less embarrassing for Damon. It was Essex. It was school all over again and he was nine once more. He didn't think that'd happen to him anymore now that he was a star.

Bloody bully, that bloke.

Noel, not having anymore of it, gripped Liam's arm, taking him and his mates away from Damon's table with a drunk, yet very displeased look. “C'mon, our kid, that's enough, leave the lad alone, will ye'? You too, you bunch’a knobs, go back to the bar or something.” he ordered, pulling his brother away with him, mostly because Liam, although with the advantage of being taller, was luckily way too intoxicated to fight Noel off.

“Oi! Fuck off, will ye', Noel? Shite, our kid, can't let a lad have a good laugh!”

“‘Good laugh’, yea’, right. You're bothering ’im, pisshead, c'mon.”

And just like that, Liam was off, complaining to God and the world about how much of a spoilsport his brother was, stumbling off and still trying to keep that swagger on, chin up, occasionally spitting nonsensical noises, flirts at birds and threats at every other soul who so much as glanced his way. How he could still get ladies with that attitude, Damon would never know.

Damon sipped his drink. His fingers gripping the glass. What a bunch of wallies.

The laughs around him didn't stop, dying down to quiet chuckles. A bloke he knew had asked him if he was alright. Damon gave him the most yeah, I don't mind look and smile he could muster, claiming that course', mate, why shouldn't I be? but his gaze soon sharpened again once they met that thick-headed nest of dark, messy hair from afar, tall and lanky, posture questionable, hands behind his back and voice loud…

Getting up, Damon adjusted his jumper, mindlessly reaching behind himself to get his wallet and pay for his drink. Leaving the money and the table behind, he squeezed between the wave of people, aiming for the exit. His ears were ringing again, unpleasantly. So was his head.

Outside, the cold breeze made him stop, taking out his lighter and a cig, lighting it silently. He called a cab, didn't say anything for the entirety of the ride, and once he reached his London flat, he closed and locked the door behind himself.

Getting rid of his trainers, he went straight to the bedroom, sitting down on the chair beside his bed and writing table, and opening his lyrics book, picking up a pen, shaking it lightly before starting to aggressively scribble something down…

Damon didn't mind Oasis.

Until he did.

✷

BLUR VS OASIS

August 14: The Big Chart Showdown

Then and there.

August 20, 1995.

And Country House had sold 58 thousand copies more than Roll With It. Damon, well, he couldn't deny it, he had been proud of that. Proud of himself, especially. After long nights of writing, discarding lyrics, rewriting, asking for feedback from his bandmates, writing again… He'd done it.

He hadn't meant to engage in an actual silly ‘war’ with Oasis, but, after that night, Damon had promised himself he'd show Liam something. He was sure from now on he'd need to hop on in millions of Interviews, and get asked constantly about Oasis and Liam, specially, but he didn't mind. They needed a single for the new album anyway. Liam just ignited Damon to write it sooner than expected. He kind of liked it, he'd show Liam that Blur was for business. It was all just because of their bands, of course. If they – he – wanted war, they'd get it. He'd get it. Would be fun.

Now, who was number one?

✷

August 25, 1995.

I never thought that'd escalate.

The next time he'd see Liam Gallagher again, face to face, would be at a party, an event of sorts. Of course. One of those Brit parties where loud British hits would play and bands would gather to have some fun.

I hadn't planned it. Not really.

Damon had been drinking that night. Blur hit number one on the charts, it was a good excuse to get out of his head, wasn't it? This was a celebration after all. He hadn't gone alone. His bandmates tagged along, all eager to enjoy a night out with each other, with lots of pints and a place that'd play their songs full volume at some point of the night just to stroke their egos a bit and emphasize it: They were number one.

He was high. Higher than a kite.

Laughing with Alex, feeling his body in a state of pure relaxation. He'd shared a joint with him and Graham earlier before they arrived at the party, their jumpers reeked of earthy cologne and the faint smell of weed. The effects were starting to die down a bit, just reaching the end of its peak, but still going strong for the time being. In his hand, some fancy drink he hadn't really asked what was, but it tasted good, so Damon wasn't complaining.

He was lucid enough, he thought. Almost sure of it.

He didn't expect Oasis to show up. They'd hit number 2, and having their ego hurt and still show their faces wasn't like the Gallagher brothers and their mates at all, but they surprisingly did, staying in a corner the whole night, drinking away their gloom and sulking. Poor lads, Damon almost felt pity, but seeing the pissed off look on Liam's face was just priceless. Funny. He kinda deserved it...

I could've never predicted things would start that way. 

The party kept on going, music pumping loud, lights flicking, the atmosphere felt dizzying in a way, and Damon was starting to feel comfortably tipsy. Course’, he could still make very conscious decisions, thank you very much, but his body was feeling warm, and the easy smiles were starting to show even when Alex didn't say anything particularly funny. Which, to Damon, he never truly did, but still. He chuckled into his drink, and felt the familiar need to go to the loo.

“Damon, you listening?” Alex asked, voice slow and rough, tossing his fringe away from his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sorry,” the blond apologized, smiling at his friend, and setting his drink beside him on the counter. “I need a quick wee. Be right back, don't drink that, yeah?” he pointed at the drink, only half joking.

“If you take too long there it's your loss.” Alex replied, smiling like the cat who got the cream, quickly going back to focusing on his own drink, downing it while Damon shook his own head, sighing nasally and heading straight to the bathrooms. He was stopped a few times by random people to congratulate him on the single, or ask if they could get him a drink… Flattering, that. He didn't know that being a popstar made people like him this much. It made him feel pretty good.

He pushed the door open, and found the place nearly empty, except from a bloke or two, zipping up their pants and going straight to washing their hands, and another accidentally bumping into Damon on the way out, not bothering to apologize. Tosser. Damon headed straight to one of the urinals, sniffed, and unzipped his trousers…

Once he was finished, he zipped them back up, beelining to the sink and turning the faucet on to wash his hands. He was eager to get back to his drink, maybe find some pretty lady… He felt the cold water drip, escaping between his fingers, reaching for the small bottle of hand wash and pumping some on his palms, absentmindedly…

Damon heard footsteps coming towards the door. He muted it, planning the rest of his night in his head; He'd finish his business and go back to Alex, they needed to find Graham and Dave and celebrate properly before the night ended, get wasted and sing along to the hits playing. They've been itching to party in honor of the success they made and the overall excitement for their new album. Graham was probably off his mind and wouldn't be too long before the poor lad was stumbling somewhere so it was best if Alex and Damon found him before that. Dave had probably found some mate of his at the party and well, though that wasn't bad, it'd still be nice to find him too…

The door was pushed open by a careless hand, and, from the corner of his eye, Damon saw Liam strutter in.

Oh, just brilliant.

It was thrilling. Had been thrilling. I thought it'd be fun. I shouldn't have.

He walked in that peculiar way of his, arms swaying and steps firm, his lips parted on a cigarette, fingertips holding it and taking it out so he could blow out the smoke into the air; he headed to the sink, right by Damon's side, looking in the mirror. What, checking your looks? Damon almost snorted when Liam started fixing his dark hair, eyes unfocused, hands messing with the strands. He pretended not to be paying attention to him, reaching his back pocket and taking a small piece of tissue to dry his hands instead, gaze down, sometimes, unconsciously, flicking towards the other…

There was a beat of silence between them, just the sound of the muffled speakers outside, laughter, talking, singing, and the faucet still running. Damon turned it off.

“What'cha lookin’ at, nuhrdy?”

Damon looked at him, looked away, chuckled, looked back… “Nothing.”

Liam smiled – smirked at him, “Yeah? Not lookin' like it, yer eyeing me doin' me hair, eh. See summat ye like?”

If Damon were slightly more sober, he'd find the way Liam was speaking to be weird, funny in a way (he was obviously drunk, it was funny), but unlike him. From what Damon knew about him, anyway. Which, he supposed, wasn't much... But still. Yet, being tipsy and also still high, he only had it in him to find it oddly funny, so he just laughed. Where was all that bite in Liam, anyway?

“Well, can't a lad look? My apologies,” he retorted, sarcastically, and finished wiping his hands… Still doing so for no reason. “And no. Not properly. Just surprised you're not at my throat right now.” maybe it was because Liam's voice could be surprisingly pleasant when it wasn't on full volume, he almost looked civil.

Liam side eyed him, smiled, took a drag of his cigarette then turned to face Damon, bluntly. “Funny lad, ain't you? Wha’ am I, some wild animal or summat? I 'on bite, y’know.” he teased. Drunk, yeah. Completely. Only reason why he seemed all bark no bite today. Maybe Liam was a bipolar drunk. Damon understood that. He, too, was a huge bipolar drunk. Just teasing, playful banter between “rivals”, wasn't it?

His blue eyes would be my ruin.

Damon would've thought Liam would want his head on a silver plate after losing the “britpop chart war”, so he was relieved and amused that didn't seem like the case right now.

“Yeah… I guess not. First impression's what counts, right?” he teased back, smiling relaxedly.

Liam chuckled, and took another drag, a long one, getting closer to Damon. He wasn't sure If Liam meant to or not. Opening his mouth again, finally, he blew a smoke ring right at Damon's face, making him wince, a small cough escaping him as he waved his hand in front of his face, his nose scrunching in reflex. 

“Yea’? Ye haven't seen nothin’ yet, pretty boy,” pretty— “I could be at yer’ throat alright, have any preference in how?” was he?—

“Oh– …Yeah? Well, ain't you a charmer. Is that how you talk to the ladies, Liam? Not really working on me, mate.” Damon joked, sly and leaning back against the sink. It was actually the funniest thing ever to him that Liam Gallagher of all people was, what, flirting with him? Or maybe he was taking the piss. Maybe. Definitely.

Really funny, actually. Almost flattering.

“I mean, ye’ look like a bird and all,” he mused, intoxicated mind refusing to elaborate further, it seemed. Touche, alright. “Ain’t ’te most good lookin’, but.” he said, pretending to be analyzing Damon's features like a judge, then his eyes met Damon's, and he smirked. Taking the piss it was, then.

“Sod off.” Damon snorted, rolling his eyes, but laughed. “Well, neither are you.”

Liam looked offended. “Wha’!? 'M way betteh lookin’ then you, me.”

“Hmm, don't think so,” Damon said “Maybe it's your style, like, your clothes. That parka, specifically, does it actually get you laid? Looking like that?” he asked, smile ever so funny. Liam's face was priceless.

“Wot’s wrong with me parka, eh?!”

“Nothin’, just not particularly my type, I prefer people that dress well.” Damon teased. Liam smiled, ever the confident bastard, and leaned in closer, basically trapping Damon; alright, not really his plans for the night, to be trapped by a particularly drunk Liam Gallagher in a urinal. So far so good. He wouldn't complain, at least Liam was being funny while drunk and not a complete arse like he was the first time they “talked”. So far so good.

It wasn't my plan for the night. But looking back, I never really stood a chance against him, did I?

“Yeah, sure, mate, like you ’on't find it alright on the eyes,” he tilted his head a bit, “Yer a damn clown, you know that? ’M still mad yer little artsy crap made i’ number one, load’of bollocks, it was.”

Damon wasn't fazed. Tilting his head at Liam.

“Well, it still hit number one, did it not? What was it you said? We're number one and you're not.” he repeated, jokingly, laughing like it was the funniest thing ever to get back at Liam like that. Bold, way too bold. He got like that when he drank. And the laughing was probably the weed's fault.

Liam chuckled. “Yer a damn pothead.” his voice came out almost euphoric. Seeing him up close showed Damon everything he had to know, because it wasn't just the strong smell of alcohol reeking from him, but also the way his nose looked red, pupils blown wide, erratic movements. Explains it.

Damon was surprised at the insult-compliment-observation-fact? Chuckling back, “I ain't the only one out of my head right now, so I guess that makes you a… Hypocrite.” he paused, funnily, and gave Liam that side smile of his. That one. Fuckin' tease, Liam thought, dazedly.

“A hypo–whatever shite?” Liam's eyes half-closed, a puzzled, drunken look on his face. ’Course you have no clue what a hypocrite is, you arrogant prick. Damon's smile only grew, ever the nonchalant. Liam snapped out of his confusion, going right back to invade Damon's personal space again, a smirk growing on his own face. “Feelin’ a bit saucy t’night, are ye? Cheeky bastard.”

“I ain’t the one flirting with my rival right now, so who's really the cheeky one?” Damon observed, automatically. His brain processed it way too slow. What was he even saying? Could he hear himself? He liked to tease, naturally, but not Liam. Was Liam really flirting with him, then? Right, then why wasn't he finding it absolutely repulsive? Specially because Liam smelled like a whole bottle of alcohol– well, sure, so did he, but– “I mean, your first ‘hello’ to me wasn't the friendliest, I thought you'd wanna punch me or something, didn't expect such a–… Warm approach.” again.

It sure was warm. Maybe it was because the room was small and they were face to face, or just because they were both burning due to the alcohol and drugs. Why wasn't he leaving, anyway? Alex was probably waiting for him–

– but, well, what else? He smelled like alcohol, but what else? Liam wasn't unattractive. Not at all, actually. ’S not like Damon hasn't fancied a bloke before, so– Not that he fancied Liam, anyway… For sure. Maybe. Did he? Well, shoot, maybe that was why he wasn't finding it repulsive then. He did. Not proper fancy him, he guessed, but he did find him charming enough. In a twisted way.

“Ah, ye remember that, then. Eh, wasn't in me right mind, wanted ta give ya a little scare, don't mean I can't stand ye,” Liam said it like it was obvious. His dilated gaze running around, analyzing Damon's every detail, finally landing on his lips. Liam smirked, then. Damon felt his hands start to sweat. Proper hot, he was. If he meant himself or Liam, he couldn't be arsed to know, licking his lips back in response.

Bloody hell. Before he knew it, Liam had his hand on his hip. A tingle went through his body. God, he forgot how electrifying every touch felt when he was high. He leaned into it. “Yer a fuckin’ tease, does me head in, that attitude of yours.”

“Yeah?” a chuckle. God. He felt bloody electric. “What attitude?”

“C'mon, luv,” Yeah, that did it. It bloody did it. Damon reached Liam's neck with his hand, feeling the burning skin beneath his palm, his breath hitting Damon's face, warm mouth way too close to his to protect any kind of decency inside him. “Ye know what ye do, with t’ose posh lips and t’hat voice of yours…”

Liam looked at his lips again, Damon bit his lower lip, smiling. Well, all be damned, then. He was never one to say no to a good snog, and Liam was hilarious.

“I don't do much with them, I just sing.”

This was gonna be good.

That night would follow me throughout my entire life. But I couldn't take it back now, could I?

“…Yer naughty bloody bastard.”

✷

August 26, 1995.

The next thing Damon knew, he was laying down. Not only on a soft surface but also on top of someone. Opening his eyes, blue irises met the sunlight, bright and sharp, causing him to wince and close them back. His flat, that he recognized instantly by the color of the blinds and also a few posters on the wall. His cheek pressed against a tight, warm, naked chest. Flat chest. The memories came back almost instantly.

“We could go to my place, if you'd like?”

Liam's mouth on his, Liam's hands all over him, Liam's breath against his neck, Liam's voice on his ear– their bodies meeting in the dark, the quiet aftermath and how satisfied he remembered feeling after, dozing off right after.

Oh, right.

Brilliant.

He looked up, lazy. Liam was, indeed there, asleep with an arm covering his face, eyebrows furrowed. Beautiful man, he was. Stupidly so.

Damon sat up on the bed, eyes hurting, his mouth felt dry, his throat felt raspy, his body felt warm, sticky – sweat –, deliciously sore, and he could smell alcohol on himself, and Liam's deep cologne mixed with his, mixed with the dried sweat. His chest was bare, his colorful beads hanging from his neck, he didn't have his jeans on, neither his jumper (discarded on the floor mercilessly next to a very familiar green parka), and his head was spinning gently...

He needed some tea.

Getting up, Damon was met with the mess on the floor, clothes, wallets, trainers, belts, Liam's sunglasses… He was careful not to step on anything and left the bedroom, leaning to sit on his counter, licking his lips before picking up the teapot, placing it on the stove and turning it on. Running his hand through his hair, he sighed nasally, staring out at the morning sky.

Had he really shagged with Liam Gallagher?

Yeah, well, what did he think? The floor was evidence enough. The soreness and the headache that could only mean a sleepless night. He had.

Well, fuck. Now that wasn't on his to-do list this week. Now what?

Damon knew better than to look shocked; he wasn't. He was partially sober that night, he knew what he was doing. Remembers it, in fact. So now, he was dealing with the sweet, sick silence of the aftermath. The sudden change of loud music and party ambiance to the quiet, consequential morning.

He got down. Well, he figured there was nothing he could do now. Except from tea. So he made tea. A cuppa to ease his headache, he hoped. He turned his mind off, staring in silence at whatever and nothing at all. The kettle whistled. He took his cup, poured the hot water and put the little green bag inside, letting it make its magic…

He gathered his trousers from the floor, put them on and leaned against the counter, mixing the tea with a drop of milk with a teaspoon, doing circles and staring at the view outside. A snog was a snog, but a shag was something entirely different, and in his own house, Jesus wept. With a bloke he barely knew. 

He found himself thinking about it, even after having already accepted that it did, in fact, happen and that he would not, at all, be surprised or put much thought into it. It happened.

But God had it been good. Again, he remembers it. Not nearly everything, but enough. He clicked his tongue, chewing the inside of his cheek; His eyes closed for a second and Damon could almost smell Liam on him, feel him, the ghost of hands squeezing his skin, tenderly palming the flesh as if handling dough, and that loud mouth whispering absolute filth in his ear, teeth biting down his shoulders, throat, collarbones, leaving a trail of kisses and bite marks on his neck, it was exhilarating. Damon wasn't soft, either, he vaguely remembers being just as passionate – passionate? –, marking Liam all over, straddling him, dominating the pace.

Liam was responsive, intent, horny, absolutely so, and Damon, this time, allowed himself to be.

And, Jesus, was Liam loud. He wasn't just a loudmouth at the stage, or off of it, for that matter, he couldn't stop fucking talking. At all. “Yeah”s being muttered, alongside dozens of “Fook”s and praises; Damon almost laughed at the memory. He kind of liked how Liam never shut up. Sometimes Damon felt sort of numb while in situations like this, unsure of what to say, so to have someone constantly bring you back to reality by talking nonstop and filling the silence was… Oddly nice. He never had to talk, Liam did all the talking work for the both of them.

Eventually, Damon was in reality again, hearing thuds coming from his bedroom. Feet stomping the ground like there was a lazy, angry gorilla walking closer. And maybe that comparison wasn't far off, Damon hummed.

—And, as if on cue, soon enough, there was Liam; bare feet firm on the ground as he walked out of the bedroom like a mummy would arise from its tomb, naked chest heaving, eyes shut, with his hand tangled in the mess of hair on his forehead, eyebrows furrowed in a sour expression; “Fookin’ell… Me head's killin’ me, mate,” he grumbled, stepping into the kitchen…

Damon's eyes followed his body, he leaned in against the counter… “Oi, Noel! Where's the fookin’— Fookin’ell! Jesus!” he stopped in his tracks, staring at Damon, up and down, then at himself. Their lack of clothing said all he needed to know.

He looked around, lips parted like a fish, typical Liam. “Ohh, fook. Forgot ’hat happen’d. I thought y’were our kid, sorry ’bout ’at, mate.”

He mumbled, lazily, and beelined towards the counter, leaning against it with his body facing Damon's bare back. “Yer got’a smoke on ye or sumethin’?” Liam asked, way too casually. Damon sipped his tea, clicking his tongue, then looked back into his cup.

“Why, morning, Liam,” he answered flatly, presenting him with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He reached the pocket of his jeans, and didn't find anything. He turned to rummage through the drawers, eyes scanning through a line of cups and mugs, landing on a small package of— Nothin’ here, then. He closed it, turning back to Liam. “Hm, no. I'll see if I have some in my jumper.”

“Mm’yeah, sure, mate.”

Mate. As if Liam hadn't been deep inside him just a few hours ago. Not that Damon thought it meant anything. Damon narrowed his eyes, looked away and went back into the bedroom, eyes running through the carpet. He didn't really wanna look toward the bed. Too much evidence. He'd deal with that later.

Finally finding what he was looking for, he picked it up, arm swinging, and searched the pockets until he found a small, crumpled package of cigs. Nothing ruined. Good enough. He marched back into the kitchen, only to find Liam absolutely at home.

He was drinking from his cup, sitting on his counter, making a mess of his drawers and holding his box of cereal.

“Oi, what's with this place? There ain't nothin’ good,” he set the box aside, reaching for his container of seeds and nuts instead. Liam made a face. “What ’he fook is that? Where are t’ eggs and, I dunno, milk or bacon?”

Damon grimaced, raised an eyebrow, taking the container from him. “Well, that is mine, is what it is, and I'm sure you're not the seeds and nuts type,” He closed the container, putting it back in its place and handing Liam the pack of cigs instead. “Why’re you looking for eggs, anyway? You expecting some five star breakfast or somethin’?” he leaned back against the counter, all lazy smirks and closed eyes, taking back his cup from Liam's hand.

“Well, yeah.” he replied, in the most insufferably monotone way possible. Oh, he was serious. He opened the pack, reached into the back pocket of his jeans and found his lighter, lighting the stick and putting it between his lips as he leaned back beside Damon.

Damon hummed, smiled, sighing through his nose. He realized it, then: Liam knew he was good looking – so maybe Damon lied, the parka was a good look on him, and he was, strangely enough, his type in a way. Various ways—, and because of that, he thought people were supposed to do things for him. Eyeing him, Damon could perceive that, he had that carelessness to him. Unbothered, eyes big and sleepy staring ahead, long face, that big nose of his and the lips wrapped around the cancer stick. He definitely thought people should do things for him. Damon had a pretty big ego, but this was a low.

“Well, maybe at your place, then.” He hummed, taking a sip from his drink.

Damon wasn't the type to do things for his flings. He thought of himself as a gentleman, sure, but with the ladies he'd gotten with. Not with Liam Gallagher. Liam wasn't a lady. He could act like one sometimes, Damon noticed, but he wasn't a bird.

It was what this was, right? A fling.

A one night stand, at best.

Damon wouldn't call it special, he wasn't a virgin before and surely still isn't one now, so nothing truly special there. He'd had a fling just days before being with Liam. No breaking news. He wouldn't call it a mistake, either. It wasn't, not really. Was a pleasant experience, Liam was good, an arsehole, but good, so Damon wouldn't call it a mistake, no. Just something that happened and wouldn't happen again.

He turned to Liam. “You can have the nuts, though, if you'd like. Or tea.”

“That y’r idea o’ breakfast?”

Damon shrugged. “Take it or leave it.” Liam eyed him and scoffed.

“Fook’ off, then, I ain't eatin’ no pigeon food, mate,” Liam frowned, displeased and petty as ever. What a wonder. He zipped his pants, cigarette on his lips. Damon watched as Liam walked back to Damon's bedroom, found his shirt and his parka, put it on alongside his shoes, not saying anything. So he was going, then. Damon felt himself struggle to care.

Damon picked up his barely used flip phone on the counter, turning it on only to see the screen flashing with 23 missed calls from Graham, 2 missed calls from Alex, 2 missed calls from Dave... Damon stared, sighing nasally, closed eyes and ran a hand on his messed hair, scratching his head. Liam reappeared, clothes on, walking to the front door of Damon's flat, not bothering to say any proper goodbyes.

“Ta, mate, see ya.”

“Sure.” he smiled, and so, Liam was gone. The door closed with a thud, and Damon went to the couch, mug in hand, dialing Graham's number… Eyes drifting from the device to the mess of his clothes on the floor, and the smell that won't go away. Liam's smell.

Damon needs a shower.

✷

Going back to the studio, he finds his bandmates waiting for him, Graham sitting on the floor with his guitar, headphones on; Dave was leaning on his chair, dopey eyes and that blank face of his, twirling a drumstick with his fingers; Alex was holding his bass, a cigarette hanging from his lips. Damon was a few minutes late.

“Hello.” he waves, and Graham takes off the headphones as Damon walks up to him first. “Sorry again.”

“It’s fine,” Graham mumbled, frowning; fixed his glasses. “I guess, um, I can't really say anything… We, um, we all just went a little overboard with the drinks yesterday, I guess… ’S just… We were worried. You disappeared, man.”

“You noticed? Well, I'm sorry again. I don't remember much of what happened.”

“Oh, I do, Mr. Going for a ‘quick wee’. You went to the loo and never came back,” Alex joked, teasingly. Damon was glad his friends didn't seem mad at him. “I thought you were kidnapped or something. I went after you after a, er, maybe an hour or so?”

“…An hour later?” Dave eyed him.

“I mean–” Alex turned to him, shrugging. “Maybe he could've been doin’ some lines, innit? Or, I don't know, number two?”

“Gross.” Graham said.

“Either way, at least I went out looking,” he turned back, hand on his hip, tossing his hair. “Didn’t find you there, I thought about calling but I don't really use my phone. So I went to find em’. We went off looking for you and when we didn't have any luck, Graham went to call a taxi and Dave gave me a ride home.” he paused, thinking. “I mean, I wasn't sure if you’d gone back to your flat, you said we had plans so I was waiting. Where were you, then, you div?” he tilted his head up, curiously. “Don’t tell me you found some nice pair of–”

“Fucking do not.” Graham glared at him, and Damon did the same. Alex just smiled angelically.

“–Beautiful eyes.” he showed his teeth. Dave snorted. Graham sighed.

“Well, I told Graham, I wasn't feeling good. Maybe it was that drink they were handing out,” Damon replied, ignoring Alex’s little joke. “Made me sick to my stomach, I called a taxi after throwing up in the bathroom. So, yeah, went home, forgot to call, went to sleep right after.”

“Hmm.” Alex pressed his lips together.

“Well, um, it's whatever now,” Graham said. “It was a crazy night, we've had some rest, it's fine now, anyway. Everyone feeling good?”

The three nodded.

“Good,” he sighed. “I mean… We could, um, I don't know, celebrate tonight? With much less alcohol, I think I'm done with the drinks for now, can't bear another hangover twice in a week…”

“Me too. Oh, but those drinks there were amazing,” Alex smiled. “Can’t imagine how you got sick from it, Damon, those were tasty. (Weren't they?” he turned to face Dave.

“They were fine.” Dave replied, shrugging.

“They were more than fine, I reckon I could've drank the whole bar.” Alex smiled excitedly.

“Let’s stop talking about drinking for now.” Graham made a face.)

“Yeah, can't imagine either.” Damon replied, smiling back, ears muting the rest of the conversation as he went to grab his microphone…

✷

Life moved on from there.

Damon kept on writing, singing, doing shows with his band, touring once in a while, and the parties, too, God, they were priceless.

Alex was the party monster in the band, so he always knew where a good party was and would demand they go with him, so, how could they say no? Besides, Damon had been having some luck with finding pretty people to snog, and he was a popstar, so life couldn't be any better, now, could it?

He was busy with work, The Great Escape was soon to be released; a fling here or there, but ultimately, Damon felt something. Because the popstar life was nice, being wanted was nice, but to want was even better. Maybe he was a hopeless romantic, yeah. But he missed the feeling of falling in love. Of being with someone. Maybe he'd find someone nice and settle down, it was about time.

In the meantime, he saw Liam around. At the parties, interviews… Talking him down. Absolutely trashing him. Damon didn't mind, it was the industry, and maybe Liam was just an arsehole, in the end. He probably got off on trashing his musical rivals, and the media ate it up so Damon let himself be petty too, sometimes, it wasn't personal, anyways. He made sure to clarify that.

Damon kept himself as busy as he could, and, ultimately, life went back to what it had previously been. Except, of course, from the fact that he could not get rid of Liam's smell.

No matter how much he tried. What was the cologne that arsehole used, anyway? He barely looked like he showered at all. Let alone smell good. It was strong.

Damon cleaned his flat up a lot after that night. Changed his sheets almost immediately after, and still, somehow, Liam's smell wouldn't go away. Damon severely guessed it was his karma for sleeping with his rival. Now he'd have to deal with the constant – albeit funny – reminder. He found Liam's sunglasses, too. Must've forgotten there, the airheaded idiot. Damon secured it inside a drawer. He could've thrown it away. Could've, sure.

✷

September 8, 1995.

Lights.

Sounds so loud it was almost obnoxious, the monotony of life inside the flat mixed with the agitation of britpopstar status, it did something funny to Damon's head. He'd been having some pretty harsh writer's block. Mostly, the words would come spilling from him, almost like he couldn't help it, he'd sit down by the moonlight, next to his bed, pick up a pen and just write endlessly, had a mind of their own, he felt like their vessel sometimes, a tool for the creativity he was cursed and blessed with to spill. But as of recently, he wrote a small verse, yawning before bed, and the pen stopped. He focused, narrowed his eyes, drank some water, came back… Still, the pen wouldn't move. When it did, Damon scratched the word. Fine, so the words were shy lately.

“I'm short of inspiration, I guess.” he'd told Graham over the landline phone, hand in his head. It was almost midnight and he had promised himself he'd sleep early as soon as he finished to write. But he couldn't write. So that fucked his entire routine. And now he felt pretty useless. “I dunno, I don't really fuckin' know. I get that our next album's soon to be released but still, I feel like I've gotta write more than this. I can write more than this.”

“Look, Damon, it's normal, that happens sometimes,” Graham reassured him. “You can't be inspired all the time. And, I know how you're, and I know how you must be feeling stupid but, you're good at it, you're a great songwriter… Just need to, um, I don't know, find the right thing? Inspiration will come eventually, I'm sure, don't bother with it, it's not like we need new songs anyway, we'll be the big thing in a few days. Don't push yourself too much, will you…?”

Damon sighed. Smiled faintly. Graham was always a good friend. Maybe that was it, the partying had been getting to him. The drinks and everything. He'd slow down on that. He'd slow down in every way, in fact. Or try to. Inspiration will come. “Right. You know, I think I know what to do. Thanks, Graham. I'll be fine.”

He just needed to find the right thing. Right.

“No problem. I hope you find the inspiration you need. And you can always tell me and the lads if something's up.”

✷

Damon glanced at his writing table, untouched, from the bed, sighed. Turned his back to it, pulling the covers over himself and closing his eyes as the faint shining of the moon entered the room from a small opening on his curtains… Sighing again, Liam was the smell of his sheets. He inhaled, fingers twisting the fabric. What a mess.

★

…Knock, knock, knock!

…Thud!

…Knock, KNOCK, KNOCK.

Damon's eyes shot open, he lifted his head from his pillow, hair messy and eyes barely staying focused before closing again, he grumbled. What the fuck was that noise? Who the fuck was that?

He checked the clock on his nightstand, 7:36 in the morning. Was it Graham? Alex? Dave wouldn't really show up this early, not even if the world was ending. Fuck. He— KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. FINE!

Damon got up, throwing his blankets aside; he'd been having the best sleep ever, all cozy. Seemed like everytime he was having a wonderful sleep, someone or something woke him up. He barely felt sane. Fucking shit. He put on his pajama pants, and grabbed his keys.

“Fucking hell, wait! I'm coming. Geez.” he announced; maybe it was serious, or Graham was in a bad mood, or Alex was taking the piss. He marched over to his front door, unlocked it with a sleepy hand and opened it— “Wh–…” Damon froze; mouth hanging open as he stared.

“Mornin’, sunshiane,” Liam said, dryly, a little teasing on it for sure. Damon barely had the time to find Liam's pronunciation funny. “Ye’ve seen me glasses sumewhere or wha’?”

“Your glasses…” Damon mumbled, still looking dazed. He snapped himself out of it. “Yeah. Yeah, I do, I mean, I did. Yeah. You came here just for that, Liam...? …Are you fucking mental, mate?”

“Yea’, mate, been losin’ me fookin’ head over’it, looking all over ’e fookin’ place, Noel called me er knobhead for it,” he explained, with the usual Liam Gallagher swagger he had, head up, mouth open and little to no care about the noise he was making at 7 am on the doorstep of a flat that wasn't his. Damon's neighbours wouldn't be happy. They already weren't before. “Fookin’ sod, he. I like those glasses, I want em’ back, y'know what I mean.” So he was mental after all.

Great. 

“Oh, sure.” right. Weird. But Liam wasn't normal anyways. So if he wanted the sunglasses back, it wasn't Damon's business. “I'll go get them, you wait here, yes.” he said, turning to close the door again and go back into his room, but Liam moved his foot in front of the door, pushing it back open with his hand and entering uninvitedly anyways. Right, like he'd care. Damon reminded himself not to be surprised.

“I alrea’y ’now the way, don't I.” he hummed, walking past Damon and going straight to his bedroom. A sigh escaped the blond's lips, a roll of his eyes; he followed Liam. Liam was rummaging through his drawers, making a mess, throwing his stuff on the floor carelessly, and cursing a lot. Damon had a slight impression that Liam was drunk, or at the very least, hangover. Hangover, definitely. Nobody drank at 7. Except for Graham, maybe.

“Hey, it's not there, stop it,” he approached, taking Liam's hands away, making Liam turn to look through his bed instead. “It’s not there either.” 

“Who knows, yeah, maybe ye’ kept’it as recordation.” Damon stared at him after that, processing the implication. Bloody idiot. He smirked, sensing Liam's own smirk behind his back; he'd forgotten the size of Liam's ego. He chuckled, ever the calm character.

“Wouldn’t bother, but whatever helps you sleep at night, Liam,” he spoke back, and Liam was midway through lifting his pillows and throwing them on the floor when he turned to Damon. “It wasn't that important.”

“Oh-ho-hoo, well, look at you, yer sad little muppet, sorry if I didn't live up to yer expectations, yeah? Yer highness? I'll do betteh next time.” Next time.

“Next time?” Damon smiled at him, tilting his head. He licked his lips, then chuckled, closing his eyes a bit. Nope. Damon reminded himself that he couldn't and wouldn't do it again, let it happen again. Liam might want it– nice, it was, feeling wanted – but Damon was above it. Pointing: “In that drawer right there. There's your treasure, go on, then.”

He avoided Liam's excited stare, taking his pillows from his hands and setting them back on the bed, rearranging it. Liam turned, went to open the drawer and picked his sunglasses, putting them on immediately.

“Cheers.” he snickered, grinning like a dog; he then turned back and walked past Damon again, Damon thought that was it, he'd leave, then, and things would go back to what they were. Once again. He barely even bothered – or tried not to –, so he finished to clean up Liam's mess and left the bedroom to go to the bathroom and wake up properly– Stumbling upon Liam rummaging through his kitchen.

“Just what the hell are you doing now?” Damon asked, furrowing his eyebrows, squinting. Liam turned to him, a box of cornflakes in his hand.

“Ye’ still don't have proper breakfast. Fook, mate, there's only granola here. Fookin’ bird food.” he complained, but took one of Damon's bowls and poured himself some of the cornflakes, opened Damon's fridge and picked the box of Damon's precious, imported, swedish oat milk up, spilling some inside the bowl with a face, then reaching to get a little dairy-free yogurt cup. “Not even proper milk, fook, mate, how'd you survive.”

So that was how it'd be, then. Damon couldn't be bothered, not this early in the morning. He just shook his head, and went to the bathroom, taking his toothbrush and brushing his teeth as he splashed some water on his face and hair, getting a towel to wipe it off. He could hear Liam in his kitchen as he did it, munching and roaming around, opening cabinets, eating his apples. Damon didn't mind it as much as he probably should. He considered going back to sleep. Maybe he would.

He heard the TV being turned on. Getting comfortable, wasn't he?

Leaving the bathroom, he found Liam on his couch, the bowl on his lap, the yogurt gone, just the little empty cup on the carpet, and a half eaten apple on the table, switching channels. Right. Damon understands now why Noel looks so tired all the time, maybe that's truly what dealing with Liam 24/7 does to someone. And he's only been there for a few minutes.

He thought about saying something. He probably should. Get rid of the pest inside his home. But a part of him didn't want to say anything, convincing himself that, if he didn't say nothing, Liam wouldn't go away.

Damon didn't truly want him to. He didn't know why, but he reassured himself that it was just because Liam wasn't causing any harm or mayhem, he wasn't destroying his flat, so why not let him stay a bit. He'd heard once that Liam didn't actually live with Noel, or with anyone in particular, so maybe he just wanted somewhere to stay for a bit.

A bit rude not to ask for it first, surely, but to expect manners from Liam Gallagher was in and out of itself, an act of stupidity. This was the most well mannered he'd get, Damon supposed. He could understand that, sometimes he needed to stay somewhere else, too.

“Don’t destroy my place, yeah? I'll have a kip.”

Liam, munching on the apple, grumbled a low “Yeah, mate, sure” that sounded slightly like gibberish. Fine, then. He went back into his bedroom, lied down and yawned, scratching his head, he could hear the faint voices coming from the TV, and Liam's own from time to time, seemingly enjoying himself. Damon closed his eyes and let himself relax.

✷

He woke up again to the sound of his alarm going off, and he slapped it shut, frowning as he lifted his head, getting up on his elbows; he checked the clock; 9:00 am. Yeah, figures. He needed to actually live now.

Leaving his bed, he stepped out of the bedroom, and Liam – Damon remembered he was there, the memories coming back to him. Right. – was still on his couch… Asleep.

The bowl was empty, left on his table alongside the now entirely eaten apple and an empty bag of chips Damon forgot he had. Liam was relaxed, sprawled uncomfortably on the couch, on his stomach, breathing steady and soft, dark hair covering his face a bit… He was striking, indeed. Alarmingly pretty as a fallen angel, almost. Unfairly so for someone so bloody loud.

Damon sighed, focusing on getting ready to leave. Who cared. Damon didn't think Liam would steal something from his flat or anything. He wouldn't have anything to gain with doing that, knowing that Damon could get him in jail for it easily. Still, he just truly didn't believe Liam would do that. Now, maybe he was trusting too much, but fuck it, anyway. So what if he did. Damon stared at Liam's sleeping face for a few moments, pondering…

“Heading off now, see you lads soon.”

He called the band before he left; Took his keys, closed his front door, leaving it unlocked and zipping his jumper. When Liam woke up, groggy and with a headache, he felt warm all over. Opening one eye, he was wrapped around something soft; a big blanket.

✷

Damon got back home around 4 pm, after an intense rehearsal session with Blur. Then, he'd jogged around the park before heading to his flat, opening his door and finding his place, miraculously, exactly as it was when he left. He stepped in, the TV was still on, but Liam wasn't on the couch. He had his back turned to Damon, standing in the kitchen with a sandwich on his hand and a paper on the other. One of Damon's writing sheets for a Blur song.

“Why, hello. You're still here, it seems.” Damon set his bag down on the couch, walking towards Liam. “Didn’t know you knew how to read.”

Liam eyed him and scoffed. “Oh, yer a right fookin’ clown, ain't ye, ’ery funny lad, you,” he gestured, smirking. Liam was fun to tease, because he could tease back. Damon smiled, funnily. “Readin’ yer posh shite, is what. You think yer Mozart or somethin’. This one ain't half bad, though, I'll give you that.”

“Wow, a compliment? Why, thank you, Liam, you're so kind, I'm gonna cry.” Damon said, sarcastically, and took the paper from him. Beetlebum. “You liked this one?”

“It ain't bad. Fishin’ for compliments, are ye?” he teased, taking a bite from his sandwich.

“Not really, but it's lovely to know you like a song I wrote, unexpected, that. It's a draft, though, so don't bother…” Damon replied, looking away; he wanted to sound sly, only managing to sound genuinely flattered. He surprised himself. Liam swallowed his food, and opened his mouth again; “Sounds like a proper fookin’ tune in the makin’, I'll give you that.” he repeated; didn't look particularly excited, but to have Liam compliment you and have it seem genuine as he repeated himself was an accomplishment. “Right, now you're just being too much. Thank you,” he smiled, suddenly awkward, and changed the subject. “I see you've been here for a long time, huh? Isn't Noel worried?”

Liam took the paper back from him, right, he really liked it, then. Damon turned to the faucet and grabbed a cup, to distract himself from the warmth on his hands and cheeks. “Nah, r’kid doesn't mind, he. I called ’im just now. Ye got a nice little place. Couch's shite, though, fooked with me back, it did. How’d you sleep in that thing?”

Damon smiled. “I don't? I sleep in the bed, of course, you should try it sometime,” he'd said, processing his own words too late; what if it sounded like he was inviting Liam to his bed? “Don’t you have your own bed somewhere? I'd heavily recommend using it for sleep, it's pretty nice.” he improvised.

“I could try yours.” Liam replied. Not letting that go. Noted. Damon hid his smile at that.

“So you didn't while I was out? Why, you're polite, aren't you, waiting for my permission. What a good boy.” he said, half joking. He could see his attention – and praise – had this effect on Liam. Because he was flustered. “Tell me, then, how'd you know my address anyway? I'm curious. I thought you'd have forgotten it, you weren't particularly sober the first time you came here.”

“I asked around.” Liam mumbled, looking down, as if it was obvious. Right. Made sense.

“Ah, smart lad, aren't you? I guess that makes sense,” Damon hummed, letting the water spill into his cup, taking a sip then. Liam munched on his sandwich, absentmindedly. Where did he even get that from? “Where'd you get that, then? I definitely don't have ham.”

“I'Wen’ou’ while yer’was’ou’, get sum’real food and that,” Liam told him, mouth full, reaching behind himself, taking another sandwich and offering it to Damon. “Got two. C'maon, take’it.”

Damon eyed him. Chuckled. “Are you serious…?” he looked down at the offered food, staring at the piece of ham.

Liam looked at him like he just committed a crime. “Yea’, mate, fook you mean am I serious?”

Damon's smiled disappeared. Oh, he was serious. He didn't know. “Oh, you're kind, alright,” he chuckled, trying not to put too much thought into the gesture. “I don't eat meat, though. As you probably know.” he teased. Liam blinked at him, stared down at the sandwich, looked back up, swallowed what he had in his mouth and unwrapped the sandwich, taking the piece of ham out and eating it unceremoniously, offering again, with a blank face.

It was Damon's turn to blink, baffled, mouth open as he studied Liam's face for a moment. He laughed, then, taking the offering.

Oh, brilliant, now he really needed to try hard not to put too much thought into this. He flipped the sandwich, analyzing it a bit; lettuce, tomato, bread. Not very different from what he ate usually. Looked fresh enough. He took a bite, sighing as he leaned his lower back against the counter. So much for being rivals, yeah?

Damon almost found it sweet. But he digressed. Liam was staying in his flat, unapologetically so, he kind of owed Damon something, did he not? Damon scratched his head, and for a beat, they just shared their sandwiches in silence.

“Say, wha’re plannin’ ta do now, then?” Liam broke it once he was finished, rubbing his hands together. So he was bored. Rude to be bored in someone else's place, but okay.

“Well,” he paused, chewing, eyes fixed on the floor. “I was gonna write a little something, was the plan. Many tracks to finish. The one you liked in particular. You?” ‘Are you leaving?’ was what Damon wanted to ask. Liam made a vague gesture.

“Whatevah’, mate, what's’ere to do in yer place, anyway? Watchin’ telly's gettin’ borin’n’all.” Yeah. Rude. Damon chuckled.

“Oh, well, I apologize that my flat doesn't suit your tastes, I'll make sure to accommodate you better. Any particular wishes? Pool table? A toboggan in the kitchen, perhaps?” he asked, hand on his chest and voice exasperated, as if truly preoccupied. Liam smirked.

“Feelin’ funny, are ya? ’S alright, it is, I like ta place, might move in.” Liam stated, and Damon wasn't sure if he was teasing or not; he realized now, Liam was way more complex than Damon had previously thought he was; It troubled him. Damon liked understanding things. He liked knowing what to expect, liked to pick details apart and put them back together in place, change it, fit it, get it, he felt satisfied like that. He thought he understood everybody, he thought he understood Liam. He didn't. Yet.

Liam had gone off to Damon's studio, probably looking for something to do; mess with his instruments or whatever, since Damon knew he didn't know a thing about playing instruments. Damon had a tambourine somewhere, maybe, that'd keep Liam entertained…

He realized he had stopped chewing.

✷

September 12, 1995.

After that day, Damon woke up every single day to the sound of Liam around. He didn't leave after that. Damon didn't mind it, really. It was actually pretty relaxing having someone around when he woke up. He went into the kitchen to make breakfast and found Liam already there, complaining about the lack of “proper food”, but eating the cereal Damon had anyway. He stole Damon's toast sometimes, too, most of the time. And even accepted to eat the granola once. He spat it out the second after, sure, but Damon still smirked fondly at him.

Charmingly stupid. Damon decided that was the best definition for Liam. Now, he didn't think he fancied Liam to the extent of having romantic feelings towards him, but that was just what he thought – he didn't really want to dwell on it for too long, though, was the reality. Was scared of actually, horrifyingly, being proved wrong by his own thoughts.

He couldn't be so sure about Liam, though. Well, he thought so. Damon truly despised not understanding people and things. And Liam was hard to get. Oddly unpredictable, in a way. Then again, Damon was almost sure Liam had feelings for him. Now, why that out of a sudden?

At the very least, unpredictable or not, Damon always knew it when someone fancied him.

Bright blue eyes lifted their gaze up from the unfinished page of Beetlebum – (an old draft of Ultranol right under it), pen tapping on the unfinished work on the paper, he saw Liam from the gap on his bedroom door, uselessly leaning against the counter of the kitchen, listening to Shoot You Down by The Stone Roses on Damon's little radio, mouth open and gaze lost in the ceiling. Damon's eyes narrowed fondly. You see, Liam said things and did things sometimes. And the flat, once awfully quiet, now had this almost domestic feeling to it, all because of Liam, and it made Damon think…

Like the previous night, when Liam had showed up — ‘showed up’, like he lived there permanently, like a husband coming home from work. It amused Damon to death every time he imagined it. Not like Liam worked, anyway, he was always just wandering about and being a dosser. Sometimes, miraculously, actually meeting up with Noel to work, or so Damon heard – with food. “Dinnuh.” he had said.

Damon just looked at the bags of food from where he was, pouring tea into a mug for himself. “What’s that, now?” he had forbidden himself from continuing his next phrase with ‘we’– “I have food and I can cook, you know.” and he had. And he could. Barely. But he knew Liam was probably worse.

“You call t’at bloody shite food? ’S bloody squirrel food, it is, ’m no fookin’ squirrel, me,” he had replied, even though he did eat the food Damon had, most of it, in fact. He turned to the bags, gesturing. “‘S actual food, proper stuff, good stuff.”

Damon hummed into his mug, warmly. “Hm, if you say so. Go ahead.”

Turns out, it was proper dinner, as Liam said it; Bangers and mash with gravy, wrapped and inside a box, still warm, and– A burger with bacon. “That’s pub food.” Damon had judged, rightfully. Liam didn't deny it, it was probably pub food. Then again, it wasn't all, because there was also another box, and Liam opened it: cheese and tomato pasta, steamy and delicious looking, and on the side, a slice of what seemed to be vegetable pie. Damon’s face visibly softened. “What’s that, then?”

“’S for you,” Liam mumbled, as if it was obvious. “Since ye don't eat meat and whateva.” Oh.

“…Yes, that I can see, I'd like to know why you bought me food.” the blond replied, eyeing the food.

That was it, then. It wasn't the first time Liam had got him food; what was it? If not infatuation? For the great Liam Gallagher to do something for him? And, what a gentleman, he actually remembered Damon was vegetarian. Damon smiled at that, funnily, at the thought of Liam having a crush on him; Sure, could be just a lad doing something nice for a mate, yes? 

Well, a mate he shagged once, but still. That had nothing to do with a crush.

“So ye don't endup dead on the bloo'y floor, ye only eat that fookin’ rat food all day long, ’s all, don't go gettin’ all swooned over me fer it.” Liam defended himself, but his gaze definitely had something in it when he looked away from Damon, the faintest glint: awe. Oh, he was head over heels, alright, Damon could see it. His heart felt like it had been squeezed tenderly. How an interesting turn of events it was. He couldn't help but smile, leaning closer to Liam and taking the bags from him… “Oi!”

“Thank you.” Damon told him, sincerely, eyes on his – he knew what he was doing when he did so –, he could see it when Liam visibly tensed up, eyes staring right back at his: attraction. Well, that one wasn't so romantic, was it, but still, Damon was satisfied. Flattered. He smirked. “I’ll put these on some plates, then… Would you like some tea? How'd you like it?”

Watching Liam’s mouth gaping like a fish out of the water was oddly satisfying, Damon had to contain himself not to let out a chuckle or a laugh; “Strong, a drop of milk, two sugars.”

“Oh, lovely. I’ll get the oat milk, it'll do,” he replied, serenely, and gestured towards the dinner table. “Take a seat, let me repay you.” that did something irreparable to Liam's ego, Damon was sure, but it did something to Damon's own as well, in a way, knowing he had such a huge effect on Liam; Liam didn't need to be told twice, he sat down like a dog being commanded. Damon smiled to himself.

Just lovely.

✷

Damon's pen moved on the page as he recalled the night before, thumb on his lip, teeth grazing the skin only briefly as he focused on the words, allowing them to flow out of him freely.

He hadn't felt this motivated in longer than he felt comfortable with, so to feel like himself again was quite nice (Find the right thing, was it?), and aside from the fact that he had the man who had been actively trashing him all over the headlines and interviews and has also given him some heavy stress – Damon was a perfectionist. To, in a band, be constantly put against another heavily talented, Damon had to admit, band, in a perfectionist’s mind like his, was hell — living – yes, living, apparently – in his flat, Damon felt terribly relaxed. And, although he'd like to think otherwise, that feeling was mostly due to Liam himself.

It was oddly satisfying.

Liam couldn't keep his name out of his mouth, be it on interviews or parties – that was a funny topic on itself, since they still went to the same parties, frequented the same pubs and hung out with, mostly, the same people. A couple of days ago, he remembered having Jarvis ask him if Liam fancied him, because, according to him: “Why, you've been quite the eye catcher for the Gallagher one all night.” “Oh, have I? Which one? Perhaps you're seeing things.” “Like I would. Don't play it, will you, the louder one. Liam. He's practically undressing you with his gaze. That's scandalous.” and Damon had laughed then, because Jarvis laughed too, and he didn't know, of course, but even he could guess. Damon felt even surer, then. – or even in his own flat, when Liam couldn't go a minute without asking him what he was doing.

That very same night – September 12 – they came back to the flat in different cabs, for obvious reasons, but stumbled into it with their bodies pressed close, mouths even closer– because Jarvis had told Damon something funny: “Evening, Damon. Congratulations on the new album. Say, you wanna hear something interesting?”, “Thank you, Jarvis. Let’s hear it, then.”, “I was chatting with some mates of mine over there, and Liam Gallagher joined in. I'm guessing he must be really smashed, or feeling funny…”, “When isn't he. Go on.” Jarvis smiled at him then, with an air of smug curiosity, he leaned in to whisper over the loud music. Damon leaned in as well. “Because,” he said the word softly, amusement clear in his voice. “He said he quite fancies taking you home tonight.” there was a pause. Damon licked his lips, smiling thoughtfully, a mix of morbid flattery with overwhelmingly brief arousal starting to grow… “Is that so?”, “Oh, yes. Told me to tell you. Apparently, he reckons he'll succeed.” Jarvis grinned at him, lazily.

And he did.

But Jarvis didn't need to know that.

Liam had his tongue deep inside his mouth while Damon had his hand fisting Liam's hair, back hitting the wall; soon, they fell on the couch, Liam on top of Damon, sliding Damon's jumper off his arms while the londoner’s hands worked expertly on his belt.

Well, so maybe Damon wasn't as ‘above it’ as he said he was. But, then again, he was only human. And feeling wanted had always done things to him. To want, too, he wanted this too. Felt like it.

Damon had, admittedly, been feeling quite awfully lonely again, not meeting anyone in weeks – which was strange it itself. He didn't want to meet anyone in weeks. He took a moment to stare at the wall from where he was when it was over, a cigarette between his fingers.

He'd let Liam take him home, in the traditional sense of the implication, but, then again, that was his home, not Liam's. Did Liam consider there his home as well? Well, how special sounding, Damon thought, sighing heavily against the loudmouth’s warm neck. This felt downright Illegal, really, to feel this good to be in a situation like this.

Predictably, Damon left to his bathroom afterwards; take a shower and live. From his bedroom, he heard Liam do the same once he was finished.

He was still lost in thought, replaying and processing everything that had happened in the last few days when he heard a sound coming from his living room, shrill and loud, screeching, rude– He recognized it as being his piano… Being badly played. His eyes narrowed instinctively and he flinched, letting his pen go. “Jesus wept! What is he doing?”

He gritted his teeth, getting up from his chair and to the living room, finding Liam pressing his fingers clumsily and lazily on the tiles, sat on the chair in front of the piano next to the couch; Damon went up to him, a dissatisfied smirk on his lips. “Jesus Christ, mate, that's not how you play it, are you trying to get us both deaf?” he pushed Liam aside a bit. “Let me.”

“Oi! That's fookin’ rude, ’m trying ta play.”

Damon smiled as Liam complained, yet moved away so Damon could sit down on the chair instead. “Don’t you only play the tambourine? This one's advanced, requires actual practice.” Damon asked him, funnily, teasing, cracking his knuckles, tips of his fingers reaching the tiles ever so slightly. Was it weird to talk so normally with someone you just had sex with? Just the act of talking felt like it carried tension in its bones, in fact. It seemed to be becoming just another regular thing for the two of them, Damon realized. Oh, well.

”I can play whatevah I wan’, mate,” Liam replied, gesturing, ultimately pointing at himself with his thumb. “I’ma machine, me. I play it all. Tambourine’s only the main,” he said, confidently; Damon smiled genuinely at him, thinking, thoroughly, how could someone know they're lying but still act like it's true? Not like teasing. It was almost like he believed himself. Damon sighed, unconsciously fondly. Fuck it if he knew why. Liam was amusing, he was. It was getting to Damon in a way he was yet to comprehend.

He had quite the impression, sometimes, that Liam liked to pretend he was bigger than he actually was. Was it to impress Damon? “But you play the piano betteh’, yer do. Posh little instrument, it is, suits you,” Liam forced him out of his thoughts, rough fingers reaching to run through Damon's dark blond hair. “Play tha’ Beetle whateveh one, I like that one. C'mon.” the excitement in his voice almost made him look like a child on Christmas Day, Damon couldn't help the fond eye roll. Liam could be rude, then playful, then horny, then spacey. And sometimes, just sometimes, almost dewy-eyed.

Damon licked his teeth behind his lips, staring ahead for a moment. “Alright, then. Excited, are you?” he adjusted his posture, recalling the notes in silence.

He had not yet tried playing Beetlebum on piano, since it didn't really require one in his head, but he was sure he could play it if he tried; Or, at least, play what he thought the song could sound like, he had yet to present it to his bandmates and find the right rhythm for it with them through discussion… Damon, frankly, thought of throwing the draft away at first, but hearing Liam praise it so much, see the excitement and genuine appreciation in his face did something to Damon. He'd have thrown it away has it not been for Liam to show up in his life.

He started pressing down on the tiles, allowing the music to start patiently, before the lyrics began to leave his lips. “Beetlebum… What you've done…” sharply and steadily, his shoulders moved every now and then while he played, blue eyes half closed, closing completely whenever he had to focus on a particularly longer-higher note…

Liam's eyes were on him, he could feel them. Tried not to pay it any mind. Licked his lips, continued playing, singing lightly. He felt a pair of hard hands meet his shoulders. “Fook yeah, ’at’s brilliant…” The proximity of Liam's voice made Damon miss a note, not that Liam noticed, anyways, probably couldn't know to notice. That slurred pronunciation and the faintest warmth of his breath on Damon's earlobe was just a little too much to take. Liam sure liked complimenting him, and it— “’S brilliant, it is. Yer fookin’ brilliant.” did. Things. To him—

⁠✷

September 13-19, 1995.

He never quite finished to play Beetlebum that night. A pity, really, Liam seemed to have enjoyed it. But he enjoyed snogging Damon a lot more, apparently. 

Damon had been with countless people before. Slept in different beds, smelled different bedsheets, but nothing quite like this.

Now, he’d open his eyes, eyelids heavy as the sunlight invaded his bedroom; and was met with Liam's sleeping face, chest naked with dried sweat, matching Damon's own. Damon licked his lips, a breathy sigh escaping him as he pushed a strand of hair away from Liam's face; he'd get up, make his — and now Liam's — favorite flavor of tea and set the mugs on the table.

While he'd do it, Liam would wake up, stumbling out of bed and to the kitchen. Sometimes he'd start complaining about Noel, sit down on one of the chairs, or, yeah, crazy, but, he'd wrap his arms around Damon. And Damon wouldn't tell him off, didn't want to, he acknowledged after a while.

He'd laugh instead, bite his lip and casually engage in Liam's yapping.

He'd stumble on Liam's things sometimes as well, a shirt, a jumper, some ring, sunglasses, Liam's star shaped tambourine – Damon really liked that one. Liam had said he'd get him one. Charming, innit? –… He'd really moved in. He wasn't joking, after all. And Damon scared himself with just how unbothered about it he was. If anything, he was utterly relaxed with the idea.

Yet, Liam would sleep mainly on the couch, even after all that; Damon used to imagine him as something similar to a bloody parasite, that having Liam in his home would feel like absolute hell, and yes, Liam could be quite the freeloader, but, then again, parasites don't wait for permission. Liam did.

He'd not sleep in Damon's bed if Damon didn't tell him he could. Would barely use his bathroom. Damon had to tell him, “If you're staying, you can use it, go on.” and just then Liam would actually do it.

Surely, after they'd last been together, Liam did sleep on his bed afterwards, but not the night after, when they didn't engage in any sexual contact.

Damon noticed a pattern then. Maybe Liam didn't want to make whatever they had to feel unnecessarily real by sleeping in his bed. It wasn't like they were seeing each other… What the fuck was it, anyway? That fucking thought always got to Damon lately. Fucking haunted him in a way, whenever they'd touch, whenever they had their mouths meeting, or their bodies sweating on one another. But, then again, they didn't always shag. So that must count for something…

On one occasion, Damon had been reading on the couch – objectively, Liam's favorite spot in the entire place –, the news about the industry, bands like theirs, their bands…

On the other end of the couch, Liam had been laying down, sprawled like a lazy dog, eyes on the TV, a can of some alcoholic drink in his hands; he was definitely tipsy, and Damon wasn't exactly sober either, though not in the sense of drinking, having smoked a joint and a few fags. When Liam's hand met his thigh, he didn't really stop him, turning the page absentmindedly… Then, he heard Liam move, and soon he felt his lips on the side of his mouth, and yes, for a moment, Damon reciprocated, moving his face to meet Liam's lips with his, feeling Liam's mouth open, welcoming his tongue.

They snogged for quite some time, Damon's hands never letting go of the paper he was holding, yet his lips were fully focused on Liam's. Though, as soon as Liam's hands began finding their way under his shirt, Damon pulled away.

“Wait up,” he’d murmured, turning his head away. “Can we not, you know, sleep with each other tonight? I'm not really feeling it.” Damon had told him. Exhausted, he was. Then again, he was an emotional lad. Always had been. That's why he'd stopped drinking lately, he was a sad drunk, the bipolar kind, that'd be laughing one minute and sobbing the next. He'd ‘drink his gloom in’, his friends would say. And, again, he was always up for a good snog, but shagging was just too crude for his sad head sometimes.

His partners would understand, mostly, and would leave him be; he didn't mind it when they did, even if he wished he'd just be held and be able to hold someone for a while, but maybe that was just his hopeless romantic heart speaking…

“Huh?” Liam muttered back, halfway through leaning to kiss Damon's neck.

“Yeah. Shagging. I'm not really in the mood tonight, yeah? You okay with that?” Damon repeated himself, patiently. He'd imagined Liam would leave, find someone who'd do it for the night, then. He used to, in the first days he'd stayed in the flat, – Damon remembered seeing the marks on his neck, lipstick stains or scratches down his back. Damon wouldn't mind, it wasn't his business anyways, he'd come back home with marks of his own sometimes, too. He didn't notice when the marks on Liam started to be made exclusively by himself. The other way around, too. – but, curiously, lately, he didn't. And this time was no different.

“Yeah,” Liam replied, then, licking his lips, greyish blue eyes staring right back at Damon's, dazed and awkward; he leaned in, pressing his lips boldly to Damon's, before pulling back. “Yeah. Uh-huh.”

Damon blinked, smiling at him, a nasal sigh escaping him. He got up then, heading to his bedroom, to sip some tea and go to bed. Liam wiped at his nose, leaning back against the couch, lying his head down on the pillows. Damon stopped, setting the newspaper down on his nightstand before he turned back, resting his hand on the door frame as he looked at Liam in silence.

Liam looked back at him. “Wha’?” he mumbled. Damon smiled serenely.

“You can come sleep in my bed if you like.” he invited, voice definitely carrying a lot more care than Damon himself had expected.

Liam stared at him dumbly, and Damon's smile just grew. The other didn't say anything, but got up and followed Damon into the bedroom, flopping down on it immediately, face down. Damon lied down next, back turned to him, finding his half empty mug of tea and downing it, pulling the blankets to cover himself, feeling Liam do the same. He woke up the next morning with Liam’s arms on him, holding him close.

Making whatever it was that they had unnecessarily real or not, Damon fucking adored it.

After that, Liam began sleeping there constantly now. And, to Damon's delight, would be generally touchy after the first nights, warm fingers poking at his ear, his earring, running down his back – would get Damon going in seconds with that one –, or just mindlessly touching him, as if exploring him in whichever way, sometimes intently, sometimes not so much, out of boredom or just because he felt like it. Liam seemed to be genuinely interested in exploring his body. That delighted Damon to no end. And, if they were both feeling like it, they'd talk in bed.

Actually talk. Damon still couldn't quite believe it. It was mostly pillow talk, when they were feeling electric still, naked and sweaty, tangled, muttering nonsense, breathing still heavy, voices wrecked, eyes half open yet focused.

“And then, the tosser clubbed me in the ‘ead ’ith a bloo’y hammer, mate, way back in Manchester. And after ’at, I got t’e talent in me ‘ead. Thought music was for fookin’ dafts. Tell you what, I started listening to music, proper listenin’, fell in fookin’ love with it then, d’you know what I mean?” Liam would tell him, Damon would laugh, the sound muffled by the pillow.

“Did you, now? God! Well,” he chuckled, head in his hand, the free palm absentmindedly playing with Liam's hair, as the other had his fingers tracing Damon's collarbone, then playing with Damon's beaded necklace. “That’s a fun way to get talented… You're lucky, I had to take vocal lessons as a kid, my parents introduced me to the piano and the violin as well, then I enrolled in music course, bit too much to start liking music, innit?” he whispered, a soft smirk growing on his lips.

There was just something so intimate about whispering, Damon had always thought so. He preferred Liam's voice when he was whispering, too. He never liked too loud. Or he did, maybe. He liked Liam after all.

“But yer good at it, you. Didn't need ta get hit. Ye’ve got a nice voice an’ all.” Liam whispered back. Damon liked it.

“Oh, you flatter me, Liam. Thought you said my band was shite, now you say that. Trying to get a snog or something?” he teased, and Liam didn't even hide it, of course, he went all in, capturing Damon's lips in an all too soft kiss; Damon pulled back just to whisper. “Yeah. As expected, you were. You dog.”

Liam grinned at him. “Only fer you. Yer full of it… But yer lucky ye've got nice lips. Ye've got the nice voice, yer band's still shite.”

“How romantic.” Damon rolled his eyes, smiling against Liam's lips, diving right back into the kiss.

Pillow talk was nice, but when they were just plainly talking to each other, it felt all the more great.

“So, then I learned to play the piano. As you know, my parents wanted me to like music, I grew up surrounded by it, so I eventually took a liking to it around, I'd say, middle school, and now it's… All I know, I guess, really. I tried acting at some point but wasn't interested, I think music's my thing, after all,” Damon whispered. Liam didn't say anything, puffing the smoke of his cigarette into the air. He let Damon speak, Damon liked that about him. Fuck, he liked many things about him. Concerning. “I like songwriting the most, though.” he ignored the obvious attraction he felt. He'd acknowledged it. Accepting it was a different task.

“Yah, I can tell,” Liam murmured, finally. “Oasis is bettah, but you're not half bad. Ye can write some tunes. Still hate your band.” Damon chuckled then.

“Wow, thanks, and here I thought you found me brilliant, as you always say. I represent my band, you know.” he lowered his tone, eyeing Liam sideways with that faint smirk of his that, with time, he'd learned got Liam absolutely crawling for him. It said all it needed to: nonchalance will get you nowhere with me. If you want to get somewhere, complimenting can get you a long way.

It worked wonders, as usual, as Liam quickly moved from where he was sitting on the bed, reaching with his free hand to touch the back of Damon's neck, bringing him closer so Liam could kiss the side of his mouth. “C’mon, luv, ye know you’re brilliant, fookin’ majestic. The only talent in yer band.” that earned a satisfied, funny laugh from Damon, who chose to ignore how Liam was still trashing his band. That was something to work on, definitely.

“Now you're doing too much. ‘Luv’, is it? Why, someone's feeling romantic,” he smiled, turning to him fully, leaning to kiss his lips. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of the taste…

Yeah.

Nevermind, if Liam kept up with this, Damon could accept the fact he really did fancy him in no time. “Hm. And you, then? When it comes to music. You don't write the songs, I recall.”

Liam hummed into his lips as Damon spoke against his mouth. “No, no, tha’s,” he pulled away briefly to catch his breath, changing his mind midway and taking a drag from his cigarette. He puffed it out. “R’kid’s job, innit. He writes the really good tunes an’ I sing em’, me. ‘S what I'm good at, innit.”

Damon smiled, feeling Liam's fingers fidgeting with his necklace again. “Yeah, it is. Don't you ever wish you'd do something else, though? Write a song, maybe, play something. Other than the tambourine.” he asked, voice sleepy and worn out as he stretched, yawning. He always felt so relaxed in Liam's presence. If expectations could kill…

“Nah,” he pondered, then, scratching his head. “…Maybe, but I ain't got ’e talent for it.”

Damon blinked, tilting his head. “You don't need talent, Liam, you know that, right? You only need practice,” Liam looked at him then; Damon pulled the blankets, covering them. “And inspiration. You could write something truly mega, I reckon.” he never really noticed when he'd started to speak like Liam sometimes. Liam set his cigarette off on the ashtray, his hands finding Damon's hips under the covers; he pushed his forehead against Damon's, then, half stunning the blond for a quick second.

“Could I write ’bout you, d’you reckon?”

Damon stared, open mouthed, sleepy eyes fixed on Liam's features. Liam leaned in, his big nose brushing against Damon's button nose. Damon looked for any sort of joke or teasing, but it didn't come. Fucking hell. Fucking hell. He smiled at him, then, feeling that tight squeeze on his heart again, his stomach felt full of fucking butterflies, it was… Exhilarating, fucking overwhelming; Liam's own felt like spilling out of his body, he felt nauseous, hands cold and sweaty. Fuck, he felt vulnerable.

“Well, why not?”

⁠✷

September 20, 1995.

It wasn't casual.

It didn't need to be said, but it wasn't.

They'd have dinner together, Liam would bring Damon food every other night, and when he didn't, Damon would cook. He liked cooking for his partners. He thought he'd only ever do it for ladies, never really expected having something that was looking, as the days went by, more and more like a proper relationship with a bloke. But he enjoyed it, nonetheless. So did Liam.

Showers weren't exactly separate either, since they've seen everything there was to see already. So that was something that happened now as well. Damon would sit by his writing table, writing endlessly, while Liam was sprawled on his bed, watching, smoking, eyes following Damon's pen, sometimes his hand would reach out to squeeze Damon's hip, just to annoy him, make him squirm, then give Liam some payback by pinching his thigh. It always worked. Liam said he enjoyed seeing him ‘all worked up’. He'd follow Damon around, watch him play his instruments, hum to himself, cook…

And Damon enjoyed having him around, complimenting him, irritating him–

It downed on him soon.

Painfully soon.

Realization, then. He really fancied that fuckass, didn't he? So, maybe Damon was wrong. Which made him mad. He was almost never wrong, as far as he knew. But about that, he definitely was.

He had a thing for Liam. A big thing.

And he knew it whenever Liam wouldn't go out – when he complimented him, when he said nice things, when he acted dumb, when he acted charming, when he was arrogantly attractive, when he riled him up… – or would, but would come back with no marks on him, when he'd look for Damon first. Look for his lips. His body. His bloody moans, and gasps, and smile, and laugh, and hair and eyes, and swears and hands. His, his, his, all his.

It got addicting real fucking fast. The way Liam wanted him, and the way Damon wanted him back. Right. Back.

He tested the waters first at some point. Resigned.

“D’you reckon this is a relationship, then?” he asked, landline phone next to his ear, leaning against the wall outside his flat, the sole of his shoe keeping him balanced against it, eyeing the ground, cigarette tapping. He brought it to his lips, waiting.

“I–… Maybe?” Graham replied on the other end. “Just, well, just by the fact that there's so much to process, I, um, I think so. Wouldn't be if it was just sex… I think. Yeah. Yeah, maybe. D’you fancy her?”

Damon leaned his head back against the wall, opening his mouth to let the smoke out. A faint smile grew on his lips. Fuck it.

“I do.”

He ran his hand on his arm and neck, careful of the cigarette dangling from his fingers; empty. Too empty without Liam's own. “I really do, Grah. I think I do. Is it bad?”

He couldn't see it, but he could feel Graham's awkward smile on the other end. “No. If she's making you feel good, then no.”

So Damon smiled.

⁠✷

September 25, 1995.

He'd wrap his arms around Liam, and Liam would laugh, call him a “Fookin’ soft muppet”, but kiss his face and call him “Babe” and “Luv” and “Day” the next moment.

He saw that Liam really did take his advice, after all. Because he started seeing him write sometimes. Sitting one leg bent and the other dangling from the couch between the pillows of the sofa, notebook in his hand and pen scribbling. He'd come to see Damon write his songs, revisit some drafts. They always ended up coming back to Beetlebum. Or Sing. Funnily enough.

“You reckon you'll finish it by 1996?” he asked, looking over Damon's shoulder. He tugged at Damon's shirt, uncovering his neck, pressing a small kiss and a bite there. Damon leaned away, but smiled.

“Oi, you're interrupting,” he said, but melted, turning to kiss his mouth, shutting him up. He did like it when Liam shut up sometimes. If he was the reason, of course. “Maybe, if I have enough inspiration for it. It's a sad song, though, I don't think I'm in the saddest mood for it now. I started it long ago. I'm working on a new music video, though.”

“Hmm, wha’ for?” Another bite. Bastard.

“For Tomorrow, my song. I filmed one before, with my band. Back in Primrose Hill. I was– With someone before. Well, I just thought it'd be appropriate to film it again. Differently. Maybe I just want an excuse to visit Primrose Hill again, though. That's all.”

“Oh, I know tha’ one,” Liam murmured, pulling back to kiss the bite he'd just made. He felt the skin tense warmly beneath his lips. “The la-la-la-la-la shite.” Damon chewed the inside of his cheek, letting out an involuntary chuckle.

“Yeah. It's nothing serious. Just wanted to try it again. It’s not decided, anyways. Just a thought.”

“I could be in it, me,” Liam said, immediately, smile big and dumb, just the way Damon unfortunately swooned over. “I’m good lookin’, I reckon ye’d get famous if I did.” again, Damon laughed.

“Don’t get cocky, I'm already famous. But why not?” Damon replied, blinking, pondering, a fun smile on his lips. He thought about it for a moment. Bringing Liam Gallagher to re-film his most romantic song yet and to his favorite place ever… Well, what could go wrong? They were going out unofficially, anyways, weren't they? Weren't they? “We’re supposed to hate each other, though,” He said, ultimately, turning his face to look back at Liam. “And my bandmates don't know we're something. And your brother doesn't, either. I probably won't be able to use that recording.”

Liam stared back at him, hands massaging Damon's shoulders. He then shrugged. “Yeah, well, and so wha’? Fook it, then, don’ use it. We'll do it. Keep it. Jus’ for fun. ’S whatevah if nobody’s gonna see it, ’s betteh tha’ way, anyway, ’m camera shy, me.”

Damon laughed then, loud, snorting. “No, you're not– You're bloody– not–” he chuckled between words as Liam grinned wickedly, starting to kiss his neck again, making Damon turn to him fully, snog him properly. “Fucking arsehole.”

“Tha’s me.” Liam gladly replied, hand meeting the back of Damon's neck, as Damon's hand went to Liam's cheek. Eyes meeting. Grins matching.

“Yeah, I know. A pain in the arse.” Damon continued.

“Uh-huh.” Liam leaned in, brushing his nose against his.

Damon smiled against his lips, sighing. Then…

“I fancy you.”

He said. Truthfully. Calmly. He half expected Liam to stop, maybe leave. It wasn't stupid to, he knew Liam had some heavy commitment problems. Well, problems in general. Attachment problems, love problems, problems problems—

“Don’t they all?” Liam said instead, almost immediately. His grin softened a bit, almost awkwardly. Damon pulled away, sighing nasally and rolling his eyes. He was really about to say Nevermind, but Liam continued: “And I fancy you, yer sappy fooker. Proper do, ye drive me crazy, you do.”

“Someone’s got a crush.” Damon said, lazy, eyes sparkling, smile looking way too bright.

“Yeah, the biggest one. C’mere.”

Damn 1995 and its way of fucking with Damon's life.

The worst was yet to come.

⁠✷

“Says, "Let's take a drive to Primrose Hill,” (la, la, la-la-la),

It's windy there, and the view's so nice (la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la-la),

London ice can freeze your toes (la, la, la-la-la),

Like anyone, I suppose you're (la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la-la),

Holding on for tomorrow, oho,,,”

★