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There are three stages of drowning.
The first is surprise. It's like an anaphylactic shock, the way it chokes you up and takes away what little breath you have left. Words spill out of your mouth, everything you've ever wanted to say is laid out bare for the ocean to swallow whole, forever lost in sea and gone before anyone could even catch a glimpse. You accept your fate, think about how you got here, the moments that lead to this. And you don't know who to blame.
The second is involuntary breath holding. You panic, you've never felt this before—Suffocation. You do anything you can to fight it. But then water enters your mouth and your body attempts to protect itself by closing the airway, thereby speeding up your own demise. You'll lose consciousness. Your skin turns blue. Your mouth froths, limbs start to get tired and you start to as well. You'll begin to wonder why death likes to toy with its victims first, like a cat with a mouse mere minutes before the cat sinks its teeth into it. It's a slow process, death, but the thought isn't as comforting as you'd like it to be. You don't really believe someone will be there for you, who saves you just in time, that someone will reach out their hands to you and engulf you in their warmth and whisper the words you accidentally let slip into the ocean back to you. You don't really believe someone will find you. But you do so anyways.
The third stage, of course, is clinical death.
It's quite an awkward ordeal, dying, when you think about it.
Liam knows because he remembers his brush with it like it was yesterday; he was 7 and chubby and deep down wanted so badly to fit in with his older brothers (He's 23 now, quite lithe, and yet still the same. But let's not talk about that.) Noel and Paul were supposed to keep an eye on him, as per their mam's very clear instructions ("Take Liam with you."— that, of course, entails holding his hand when he walks, buying him whatever snack or toy he wants, keep him as flawless and clean as he was when he left his mam's hold and never, ever letting him off their sights.) but they were too busy chatting with their mates to notice their little brother wandering off on his own to a nearby stream and him trying to swing across with a rope as soon as he got bored of being ignored by everyone.
In the end it was one of Noel's mate, an older boy called Paul Hewitt, who jumped in the stream he was swept away in and dragged him back to land, back to safety, to Noel and Paul, who stood in shock as the whole thing went down. It's not really something he holds against them, to be honest.
But it is something he thinks about a lot.
—
Damon's here. His room is a mess, clothes littered everywhere but in his closet, his bedsheet almost halfway undone. His curtains are drawn tight, so it's dark and he feels really cold and he smells of drawn out sex and cheap drugs and cigarette stains and he could still feel the after effects of alcohol kicking in his system, and Damon's here.
Patsy must've left before he woke up.
Liam toed his right slipper on before noticing his left pair was hanging on the ceiling light above him. He thinks he could remember how it actually got there the night before, but he doesn't really want to think about that right now. Damon's here.
Damon's here, in his house, leaning on his doorframe, watching Liam trying to process everything, and he has a weird expression on his face that Liam wants to mimic— it's the same one that he never really manages to read, even after 5 months of getting to know the very last details of what makes Damon, well, Damon, down to the lines of his palms to the scar on his stomach, but he's too tired to do anything so all he does is stare.
He does that a lot actually; staring. Especially as a kid. It used to bug his Da' a lot, threatening to slap the lights out of him if he catches Liam doing it again and cursing Noel for setting a precedent, like being quiet and withdrawn was contagious and he was patient zero. By the time Liam was a teen, the stares had turned into glares, picking fights with anyone who doesn't immediately cower at him, and his Da' never really brought it up again. Maybe because the cunt never had the guts to visit them anyways.
Damon had smiled when Liam glared at him the first time they met eyes. He had a nice smile, and Liam found that he couldn't stop staring once he discovered that about him.
Liam noted his mussed up blonde hair and casual outfit, like he just rolled out of bed and ended up here. He looks nonchalant to be standing by Liam's door, his eyes staring right into his own, and it's as if he doesn't notice the angry red marks on Liam's neck, the handprints of someone else pressing down on his body, touching him the way Damon knows he likes to be touched, but Liam's good at reading people, Damon especially, and Liam knows that everything he does is deliberate. Purposeful. Calculated.
Even behind his resigned expression, Damon just has that sort of intensity about him, plays up his detached act all too well. That's why it's so terrifying when Damon gets upset— he can get a lot worse than Liam, he reckons. Damon's just too good at covering his tracks.
Liam supposes they're similar like that; two emotionally intense, touch starved, attention-seeking cunts who found each other. Them against the world. It's almost romantic when he puts it like that.
Damon finally opens his mouth, "Good morning."
Liam furrows his eyebrows in response.
"Up," Damon orders casually. "I'll make breakfast," he says again.
Liam furrows his eyebrows even more. That sounds like a threat.
"Come on," Damon rolls his eyes, "get off your arse."
Liam fell back on his bed with a definitive thud. He's not really in the mood for burnt omelette with bits of eggshells in it. He tells him as much, his voice muffled underneath his duvet.
Damon proceeds to pick up a pillow from god knows where and smack it on his face with so much force he genuinely felt his hangover cured in an instant. He heard the laughter from said twat as Liam groaned and whined in pain, and immediately, he felt the familiar combination of emotions that were exhilaration and anger surging through him, his face betraying his intent to guilt trip Damon as it twists into a carefree grin.
Liam grabbed the pillow-cum-deadly weapon Damon used on him and launched it towards his face when he was too busy laughing to notice, then tackling him to the ground as soon as his guard was down, the bedsheets that were tangling his feet following suit and trapping Damon below him.
Damon's lips were warm and soft, even as their teeth clash from grinning so wide. He had a hard time processing that this wasn't a dream, that he won't wake up in a few minutes, hangover and sweaty and ready to hit the pub again, but then Damon bit Liam's lower lip and slipped his tongue in and Liam realizes that everything just feels too good to be a dream right now. Damon presses in even deeper, angling himself for Liam to grasp at his neck and his grip on Liam's hair is getting tighter and tighter and it's like he's hell bent on not letting Liam breathe, much less let him actually start his day off. He briefly registers the fact that he literally just woke up and still very much sore from yesterday's bender with Bonehead. He can't help but laugh into their kiss. Damon follows suit.
They were a giggling, tangled lump of mess; two cunts from the biggest bands in Britain acting like schoolboys head over heels for each other. It's sick, really. If Noel saw him...
"Okay, now get off me, you prick," Damon lets out in between breaths of laughter, "you fucking reek."
"But you smell so good," Liam says, pinning down Damon's hands as he leered over him with a grin. Damon wasn't putting much of a fight, letting Liam bury his face in his neck and his hands wander. He smells like toothpaste and expensive chemicals mixed with fucking Earl Grey and it's ridiculously intoxicating, "who are you trying to impress?"
As if it clearly didn't work on Liam.
"It's basic fucking hygiene, Liam," Damon says flatly, laughing when Liam rolls his eyes. "I'm more impressed that you're impressed by that."
Damon is on top of him now (when did that happen?), and Liam hooks his legs around Damon's waist. He wraps himself around him and says, "I should kick your arse for that."
Damon only laughs, "You can start by letting me go."
"You just.. smell nice."
He's still hugging Damon, his eyes tightly shut. He can feel his eyes burning holes into him, and he hopes Damon's not doing that face again, the one Liam can't decipher, because deep down he knows it looks like hurt, and maybe it is, maybe Liam pretends he can't read Damon when he's hurt, because it's easier. Lying. It's too easy and Liam is too much of a coward to face the truth.
But Damon is smiling, easygoing and fond and so stupidly pretty.
"Well I'd like to keep it that way. So get off me."
He lets Liam put his cock in his mouth right there and then anyways. He sucks Damon slow and languid, relishing in the way his body calms and his breath levels. Damon whispers sweet words into his ears and cradles his head like he's holding something precious in his hands and Liam only smiles a little bit this time. It's nauseating, how easy and nice this has become for them, honestly. By the end of it, they both reek of each other, but Liam's mouth smells of Damon and he can't really bring himself to care when Damon complains that he keeps licking his lips for the rest of the day.
...
Later on, the sky turns grey and it begins to pour. The birds have stopped chirping. Now all he hears is the wind howling and water coming down on trees outside his house, splattering and relentless. He looks at the sky again and thinks a storm is brewing, he recognises the patterns after years of studying it as a child.
Liam remembers hiding under the table during thunderstorms, watching the rain pour from his safe spot as his mam tries to coax him into her arms. He also remembers acting like he's not that same boy, who closes his eyes shut at the sound of thunder or flinches when lightning strikes, because Noel called him a crybaby for it, once, and Liam's, well he's Liam, and he wants to prove people wrong. Noel, especially. He's been at it since birth.
Liam's 23 now. He installed noise-cancelling drapes in his flat the second Oasis took off and money wasn't an issue anymore. Noel still offers him looks when it gets too noisy in the studio and glowers at cameramen when their flashes get too overwhelming for Liam. Wanker.
Damon shuffles in the kitchen, preparing "breakfast" (it's almost 2PM) for the two of them, and he's wearing Liam's apron, the one with buttons on it that Patsy bought for him as a joke when she moved in. It all feels so familiar and nice that Liam can't bear to even look at him, his heart twisting in ways he can't begin to describe every time he thinks he could see so much as glimpses into their future —he wonders if it would be a shared one, knows better than to dwell on it.
Pots clang, dishes break, and Damon keeps giving him sheepish remarks ranging from "Sorry" to "I'll buy you a new one" but Liam thinks he's never been more at peace. Damon's here and it's all he wants to think about.
He hopes it'll rain the whole day today. Maybe a typhoon is headed their way right now. It'll rip his flat straight from the ground and take them up and away to a place where they can start over again, like Dorothy, leaving Kansas and opening her door to a whole new world. Dorothy, who closes the door behind her from normal life and never looks back. Being with Damon feels like that sometimes.
The sky rumbled. Liam smiles faintly. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the idea.
He's almost asleep by the time Damon hands him a plate of burnt toast, grilled tomatoes, hash browns, bacon and scrambled eggs. A full English breakfast. The whole fucking thing. Liam would laugh if only Damon wasn't being so entirely earnest with it.
So he just looks at Damon, who was sitting across from him, and smiles, "Thanks."
Damon grins as though Liam had hung the moon and stars for him, "I'm never doing this again."
Liam takes a huge bite of his bacon, burnt beyond recognition. "Thank fuck."
"Piss off," Damon laughs fondly, the sound of it warming Liam's entire body to the point of shivers up his spine, "I knew you'd be a brat about this."
"You're here anyways," Liam says curiously. And that's the thing he's been meaning to bring up; why was he even here? It's usually Liam that goes over to his house to fuck. And they just did that, so why was he still here?
Like he was reading his mind, Damon tilts his head and says in a tone too casual and collected to be unrehearsed, "Well, I wanted to see you. I, you know, keep thinking about you."
Liam couldn't help but smile dryly from behind his spoonful of scrambled eggs. Sometimes he wishes it's all just a big joke to him, like how it was in the beginning, that way it'll spare him the heartbreak he feels every time Damon opens his mouth. But nothing's funny anymore, even when he attempts a joke, "Having a wank over me? I'm touched, mate."
It falls flat. Damon doesn't laugh. Instead he says, "No, I just think about you. I've missed you."
The sky is a cool tone of blue now. Distantly, he hears bird chirping and trees rustling. It's stopped raining. Liam feels like he's been brought back down to Kansas. A gust of wind hits Liam through an open window and it feels nice, comforting. I've missed you.
Liam looks away. Damon is doing that face again.
He takes another bite of his bacon, it's still burnt, and takes in Damon's words again and again and again and it hits him like a fucking truck when he begins chewing on his rock solid bacon that oh.
Oh no.
They're in love. And this is what love is like, isn't it? It's going over to your house uninvited and chain-smoking in bed and sharing a bath and cooking for you just because, and you eating it even though it tastes like shit. It's buying you a discontinued type of sweet from your childhood because you mentioned offhand that you missed it, it's you being reminded of him everywhere you go, until you're dizzy and sick and can't think of anything else, like being fucking drugged. It's you dedicating a song for him even though you don't outwardly say it, just know that he's listening, somewhere, and he'd immediately get it, a smile on his face that is reserved for you and only you.
It's the way Damon is looking at him right now, all glassy eyed and scared but so full of warmth. Like Liam has the power to break him with a single motion and yet letting him loose anyways.
Damon's looking at him, clearly expecting him to say something, but Liam feels like running all of a sudden, his fight or flight instincts always kicking in at the most inappropriate moments, and he just can't fucking deal with this. He wants to fly away and sink to the bottom of the ocean and let the ground swallow him up all at the same time. He can't move and his head is spinning so fast he's thinking of hurricanes and cyclones and typhoons all over again and he can't tell if he desperately wants to scream, or maybe cry, or maybe just fucking sleep.
"You okay?"
Liam looks up and remembers that Damon's here. He's actually here in front of him and his hands were so cold against his (Why is Damon always so cold anyways?) and his eyes are so blue, and he's staring Liam down like he's not letting him off this time, like he's tired of half-answers and Liam slithering away before it all gets too real, and it feels like Damon is everywhere all of a sudden. It's too much for him, and he can hear alarm bells ringing in his head, the familiarity of it all suddenly choking him up.
It was raining when they first kissed. It was the type of kiss that isn't a prelude to anything, just a chaste kiss between the two of them, butterflies in their stomachs and heads in the cloud— it had felt like he was 15 years old again, hiding behind library shelves and going on his tippy toes to kiss John from English class. Liam, skittish yet awfully excited, had closed his eyes when it happened and Damon laughed into his mouth, guiding him with a tenderness he should've considered a bad omen in hindsight—they were doomed from the beginning and he was stupid enough to not realize it any sooner. The rain had carried Damon's laugh away, and he swore it sounded like windchimes were ringing in his ears the whole day that day.
He's hearing it again.
Damon's still looking. He's looking, and looking, and looking, and Liam can't breathe. His eyes are so pretty it makes him feel stupid.
So, with his ears ringing and his mind spinning and spinning, Liam figures there's no use denying his awful fate anymore; He's doomed. He's done for. He's in love. He can't fucking believe this.
He feels like a brand new person and half a stone lighter. Liam turns away to hide his face and focuses on the scar on his thumb he got from his childhood, courtesy of Noel. "Maybe I've missed you too."
Liam sneaks a glance at Damon. The smile Damon gives him was nothing short of blinding. Liam stares and hates himself for it.
—
It's Damon's fault, really.
The first time it happened, Liam had the excuse and the very means to chalk it up to alcohol, drugs, the adrenaline rush from performing, or the fucking heatwave that went on that summer, or maybe it was a combination of all of the above that had caused them to behave in erratic ways even he thought was way too out of line. He suspects he went mad to the point of no return that summer, thus he should probably not be held accountable for anything that he did. He just wasn't right in the head. It's that simple.
Case in point; Fucking Damon Albarn in his dressing room just because he was bored and too jittery to sit in his own dull room.
It had been a farce, Liam told himself. A mistake. One of those moments in your life where you'll look back at with nothing but abhorrence, absolute embarrassment, and maybe even regret.
But the thing is, he couldn't bring himself to feel any of those for the life of him. And it drove him up the fucking wall. He couldn't stop thinking about Damon, the way he made him feel, the sounds he emitted. Watching him come undone right in front of his eyes. There was something so exciting about it, seeing him so pliant from Liam's touches. He can't stop thinking about it—about him—and it's fucking terrifying. He's going insane and he's only 23. Maybe he just needs Noel to bash his head in with a cricket bat again. That'll do it.
It only made sense that when Liam saw Damon from across a party one night, he had all intentions on avoiding him as though he was a disease-ridden maniac—hell, he's as good as one in Liam's head— not even sparing him a single glance throughout the night despite him having the audacity to call Liam over for a little chat in the closet. He's not stupid, despite popular belief. Nope. He's above that. It's like what that German (Austrian? Fuck him, who knows) bloke with the cat said; What he refuses to confront can't and doesn't exist.
Call it Schrödinger's sexual tension hypothesis; it's not real unless you acknowledge it. And Liam swears up and down on his nanny's grave that he won't.
The following few hours consisted of Liam evading Damon and his eyes being on high alert, scanning the surroundings for messy blonde hair that sticks up so much all you want to do is run your hands through it and fuck it up a bit more, and blue eyes so soft it could almost fool you into thinking that its owner was an angel sent from the fucking nines, and not the obnoxious Southern dickhead who laughs at his own lame jokes and regularly trips on air that he actually was.
It's like the shittest game of cat and mouse ever. Which, he's pretty much used to doing with Damon, just not quite as literal. It feels like Damon's actively chasing Liam tonight, he's everywhere he looks and he feels like he's going in circles. Before this, they'd always danced around each other, talking in riddles and half-baked attempts of being friends, when both of them know they have absolutely zero interest in that. He's never dared to step in the dark, murky waters of potential, always skirting around the edges and shutting off any and all thoughts of what ifs, even when he's alone, late at night and staring at the ceiling after hours of trying to shut his well working, too sober brain off.
It's only convenient that he's a man with principals when sober and an actual dunce when he's drunk, of course.
And because he's drunk right now, he's a moron, which means he forgot what he's doing and heads to the bathroom to piss. Alone.
Because he just had to fucking piss, didn't he? And Damon just had to be there. The fucking wanker. He probably followed him in.
Next thing he knows, he was dragged into a stall and pinned against the wall, his grip on Liam's shirt so rough it had scared Liam a little. But then Damon's hands had ran across his body, urgent and curious, like he wanted nothing more than to learn more about the anatomy of Liam's body, how it works, how it responds, and Liam could only bite down a shiver as he trailed his fingers along his jaw, his chest, anywhere he could get his hands on.
Damon's lips left marks on him— his neck, his shoulders, his inner thighs— like he was already used to this, a sense of newfound familiarity developing with every little touch between them, and it made his head spin and spin and spin so hard he almost passed out right in his hands. Detachedly, Liam wonders if he'll ever get used to this, too, and tries not to think how once upon a time when he was 22, he swore he wanted nothing to do with Damon, deciding that he was a right git when Damon had first walked up to him at some party and extended his hand to him, a glint in his eyes and a smile that haunted Liam for days to come. Hi, I'm Damon.
Now in the tight stall, he still has that same glint in his eyes. Only, Damon had looked very impatient, like he has any right to be mad at him for trying to cling onto the last bits of his sanity for both of their sakes, but Liam went along anyways, and in the end, he doesn't really feel any semblance of regret within him, even as he's gripping Damon's hair and crying out in pleasure so loudly he was sure someone had heard him.
Damon asked him to grab coffee together, the morning after, a sheepish smile on his face, like he didn't just stuck his tongue down Liam's throat barely even 12 hours ago, and really, that's when Liam knew he's fucked. Completely and irreversibly fucked. This won't end well, he tells himself. He suspects Damon knows, too. And it'll all be his fault, Liam thinks again. Damon probably knows that as well.
A few months later and he's feeling an awful sense of déjà vu washing over him.
Or maybe that was just the alcohol starting to take hold over him. Maybe he's had a few too many.
Fuck that. He's no doubt exceeded his so-called limit the day he even began this spiral of binge drinking, which was probably around 10? 5? No, 3? days ago? Whatever. He feels like throwing up right now. The DJ just started playing "Girls & Boys". Probably because the fucker saw him, Liam Gallagher, in all his drunken glory, stumbling his way through the crowd, chatting up birds who would give him mere crumbs of their attention, presumably because he doesn't have anything better to do with his time. Cunts. All of 'em.
He really needs to leave. Damon's voice is hurting his head, it's all he's heard the past week anyways. He doesn't need to hear Damon crooning through the obnoxiously loud stereos about fucking anyone you want as long as you love them when Damon's voice has already been ringing in his head like a broken record. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.
He tries very hard not to think about Damon's stupid face if he saw him here, drunk and drugged out to the point of seeing doubles, lying to himself that this is good, actually. Not seeing Damon. It's only been a week (or two) so he should be able to get over this. He should be getting used to the emptiness he feels as of late. Whatever they were doing had been running on for too long and well, look where they are now. In love. What a joke. He just wants to fucking sleep.
Maybe a few lines will do him some good. He still has the bag Bonehead sold him buried deep in his pocket.
Liam walked out of the club, his eyes straining to find the exit as he shoved past the sweaty crowd and muttering "Fuck off" to anyone that has a problem with it. Mostly they give way, annoyed grumbles trailing after him like clockwork. It's okay, love. That's just the bloke from Oasis. You know what they're like. Liam wants to laugh; do enlighten him, what were they like, really? Too dirty for their posh pretentious night clubs? Fucking twats.
It's funny. In another life, the only reason these people would ever talk to him was to hand over their car keys to him, pretty birds in hands, whispering to him, "Fuckin' scratch it and watch what happens." but stealing glances at him when they think he's not looking and going red all over if he does catch them in action.
As it was, he's already lived that life—way back when he was 18 years old and a valet at some posh hotel with a hobby of stealing records from music stores and snogging posh boys in tight alleyways— in the dark of the night, of course, and it's always in the dark, because they wouldn't want to be seen in public with him, and he should just accept that. Really, Liam. Have some sense. I'd be ruined. He tells himself he doesn't care. So he doesn't. It feels like a lifetime ago.
Still, Liam thinks some things just don't change—The ocean is deep. His Da' is a piece of shit. Noel will never forgive their Mam for giving birth to Liam. Liam is still the same stupid boy from Manchester who runs his mouth faster than he can think, who's afraid of thunderstorms and hates the sound of rain.
And maybe he still snogs posh boys in dark alleyways. Particularly blonde posh boys with dazzling eyes and a knack for telling bad jokes but kisses him stupid when Liam's being a dick about it and writes him songs so intimate and gut-wrenching it makes him think of all the ugly things about him that he would rather keep buried deep, deep within him. Like love and all that.
He wishes things would change. He often wonders what it would feel like to kiss Damon in broad daylight, seeing the light bounce off his blue eyes and his lips shiny with Liam's spit.
Liam tries to breathe. He squints his eyes to focus on nothing as he leans against the wall behind the club for support. He checks his pockets for the bag Bonehead slipped him a few months ago, cracks a dry smile when he found it lying empty on the palm of his right hand. The fucker.
Whatever. He's itching for a smoke now. He still can't decide if he wants to pass out or vomit, either one of which will be done right then and there, under the dingy lights of some alleyway behind the posh club he's never visited before tonight. Liam struggles for a minute, wondering why that is—it was quite a nice place, if not a bit stuffy with its decorations. And the club goers treated him weird, like they weren't allowed to look at him directly, but he likes it here anyways. The drinks were good. He makes a mental note to come back.
Distantly, he manages to make out footsteps coming his way, but Liam was too busy fidgeting with his stupid fucking lighter to notice how familiar it sounded, the slow pace, the awkward shuffling of his feet—like he's thinking too hard about something as basic as walking—and the lazy dragging of his steps. But Liam's drunk. Too drunk. He feels like an idiot when he finally comes to.
Damon's here.
He considers it being another one of his hallucinations, but Damon had smiled at him when Liam looked up from his shoes, asking him for a fag and Liam gets a whiff of Earl Grey when he leans in to light his cigarette with Liam's lighter. So, no, not a hallucination. Damon's actually here.
Damon's here and he's looking at Liam like a child staring at a stray cat on the street. Pity mixed with genuine care. Can we keep him please? He's got his hands shoved deep in his fucking jeans and his polo shirt is wrinkled and yet still too tight on him. What a feat. Liam wants to laugh but his throat hurts for some reason. Like he's choking. Suffocating. Liam tries to breathe again.
Damon clears his throat. He says, "Hi," and Liam struggles to function.
"Uh," Liam says, voice low, and nodding a little. He clenches his fists so hard he thinks he'll probably draw out blood from his palms by the end of the night, "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Damon says, genuinely curious. "I thought you hated this part of London."
Liam squints his eye. "I'm in London?"
He thought he left London ages ago, from the way he was crawling from pub to pub, inching further and further from decency and closer and closer to a fall from sanity. He can't tell if Damon is amused or concerned by the expression on his face, mostly because it was gone too soon, replaced with a shrug, "I'm on my way to Graham's."
Ah, Liam's mind helpfully supplies, that's why you don't come here very much. Enemy turf and all that.
"Oh," is what Liam settles on.
"It's cold tonight," Damon comments idly, in lieu of saying anything useful.
"I guess."
Damon turns to face him. "Do you have any way of going home? It's pretty late."
Liam grimaces. "I, well, I'm not planning on going back tonight."
A pregnant pause befell them and it was Liam's turn to face him. Damon was looking at the ground, his eyes transfixed on his old shoes as his fingers twitched around his cigarette, "When's the last time you slept? You look like you could use 10 days worth of it."
"Still better looking than you, though," Liam says lightly, blowing smoke into the air.
"Prick," Damon's lip twitches. "I'm serious."
"Well, me too."
That manages to startle a laugh out of Damon, and the sound of it was enough to make up for how absolutely shite his whole week has been. Liam was smiling before he even knew it. Damon seems to soften at the sight. "Stop deflecting, asshole."
"I wasn't—"
"Yeah, I saw through your cunning ruse," Damon says dryly, stifling a yawn as he taps on his cigarette, ashes dropping from his fingers.
"Whatever. It's not like it's any of your business," Liam takes a long inhale of his cigarette and swallows the bitter aftertaste of nicotine down to his lungs. Winces a bit when it starts to burn.
"I'm making it mine," Damon says simply, shrugging as he glances over at Liam, who was already looking at him, immobilized. They stared at each other, and for a moment Liam forgets that anyone else exists, just him and Damon under the drab fluorescent lights that stood between them and total anonymity. Want floods him and it twists his insides like a dagger through his stomach. He wills himself to look away. Damon sighs, "Get some sleep, Liam."
Liam fixes his eyes on his cigarette and thinks about how much he doesn't deserve Damon. His lungs are so filled with bitterness, it overflows to his head, and almost tips out his lips. "You don't have to worry about me, we've been through this."
"You make it really hard to sometimes."
Liam fights the urge to roll his eyes, instead looking at Damon and noting the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hair sticks up like he's run his hands through it and clenched it several times today. He doesn't look that good himself. Has he even been sleeping? Maybe he's working on a new project. He does tend to overwork himself to death, sometimes. A wave of frustration washes over him; Damon was in no position to lecture him about resting when clearly he hasn't been getting any. He should be sleeping right now, the twat. "You're one to talk. I think it's past your bedtime, old man."
"Fuck you," Damon says, taking another drag. "I'm not even tired."
"Yes you are," Liam shrugs. Then, in a quieter voice, Liam says, honest and maybe even a bit concerned, "You should rest. Take a break from whatever it is you're so hung up about. I'm fine, really. I'm having the time of my life."
But Damon looks at him like Liam had just slugged him in the face and Liam can only guess what he had said wrong. Damon forces his eyes shut, like he can't bear looking at him any longer, shakes his head to the ground. Then, with a scoff, he says, "You know, you're a real pain in the arse sometimes."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Damon doesn't say anything. Instead, he lets his cigarette hang from his lips as he chewed on it thoughtlessly. Liam can't look away, for whatever reason, and Damon catches his gaze, fixing him with a hard stare. It reminds Liam of the way he looked at him last week, when it was just the two of them in the privacy of his home. Liam felt an overwhelming urge to reach out his hand the way Damon had, but he's sober enough to remember where they were, so he kept his hands to himself and pretends he didn't know that Damon had noticed. His jaw is tighter now and his eyes softer and his shoulders are held taut, like he was a wire tightly strung and he was about to snap. Damon is upset. He doesn't want to show it, or maybe he knows that Liam can read him like an open book at this point and doesn't care, but he's upset. Everything he does is deliberate. Purposeful.
For a few seconds they say nothing, just the two of them on the precipice of open vulnerability. Neither wants to jump first. The intensity between them becomes very severe and Liam finds it almost unbearable.
He wishes Damon would just get it over with, say whatever he needs to say and leave him alone already, instead of making room for silence to creep in, for it to press in on his ribs and suffocate him to the point where he feels physically ill. Then again, maybe he deserves this.
Damon chooses his words carefully, but the next sentence that leaves his lips doesn't surprise Liam as much as it probably should, "You've been avoiding me, haven't you?"
His tongue feels heavy and his head still isn't functioning properly and he thinks he's very close to passing out. And it's all as if he hasn't already imagined this exact scenario unfolding in his head before. Most his imaginations ended with Liam being unselfish for once in his life and allowing himself to Damon, to just give him his well deserved happiness—and it's a nice memory to store in his head, even if it never happened and he conjured it all up in a drug fueled weekend. It's so stupid. He feels so stupid.
Still, Liam lies through his teeth, his eyes staring straight into Damon's. He's a selfish bastard, and he'll use it to his advantage. He can't help it. "No, 'm not."
Damon's pupils seemed to strain, and it looks like he saw this coming as well. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair, his eyes pleading Liam to stop being purposefully dense before diverting it to his shoes altogether.
Liam's palms are now dripping with a warm, red liquid, the smell of iron taking over his nostrils. Damon opens his mouth and the sound of his voice forces Liam to look at him in the eye, "Alright. So. You know."
Liam feels his heart drop to his stomach. He looks down on his shoes, mumbling, "Know what?"
Damon legitimately looks pained. His eyebrows are furrowed and he looks like he's very close to tears and Liam tries to convince himself with all his might that he'll forget how outright hurt Damon looks right now once he wakes up tomorrow. Hopefully by then, it'll just be another one of his looks that Liam can't read, the same one that tugs at his heartstrings and makes him want to cry and apologise for being so, so awful all the time, "You're really going to make me say it to you out loud?"
Liam looks away. He doesn't want to do this anymore. He wants to close his eyes and wake up in his bed and find Damon leaning against his door, promising breakfast and his hands lost in the mess of Liam's hair. When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice cracks. "Then stop. 'Coz I don't want to hear it."
The "from you." part was implied but they both heard it clear as day. The silence that followed was intense enough to make Liam stop breathing all over again. He wonders what would happen if he did just stop breathing forever, if Damon would be happy to be rid of him. He knows he would be.
"You're impossible," Damon says, disbelieving and almost in awe at how adamant Liam can be.
"Me?" Liam almost yelled, flailing his hands around. "You're the one making a mess out of things! We're not even—"
"Nothing about this—us—isn't messy," Damon snaps. His eyes are red and he looks so, so tired. He wishes Damon wasn't so pretty. He hates it when he ruins beautiful things—Noel's songs, a plentiful of his past friendships, and now Damon himself. "We're sneaking off to see each other everyday and lying to everyone about it—what about that is normal? It's messy and we're hurting a lot of people and it's not fair and everything about us is just so fucking wrong but it's just— There is nothing more simple than what I feel for you, Liam."
"Stop," Liam says, wincing at Damon's words. "I'm too fucking hammered for this— "
"I don't give a shit," Damon interrupts, cutting straight to the chase, not letting Liam off, as per fucking usual. Liam resents him for it sometimes, and Damon does nothing to deter him from fueling it even further, "I'm tired of this, of you running away from everything in your life and me having to act like everything's okay. I'm so sick of it— Why can't you just be honest with yourself for once?"
Liam barks out a bitter laugh. "Rich coming from you! Do you think it would make any fucking difference if I did? Are we going to get married and live happily ever after or summat? Get fucking real, Damon."
Damon looks away and clenches his fists. "I didn't say—"
"Exactly, so just drop it," He doesn't even register the fact that this is all coming out of his own mouth, just tries not to look at how Damon had collapsed into himself.
His throat hurts so much. All he wants to do is breathe instead of choking down the sobs and all the words he wants to say but he can't. He just can't. If he does say them he doesn't think he'll be able to stop. So, instead, he opens his mouth and all the wrong things spill out, "We're not— I can't— I can't do this. We can't do this anymore. It's gone on for too long, we're too far gone and it's not— We have to stop before it gets even worse."
Damon wasn't smiling, but Liam still can't get his eyes off of him. He's so, so beautiful and it feels unfair that Liam has to be the one to ruin him like this. His eyes are strained and his lips pressed into a thin line and he looks as though he had just met Liam, like he was a fucking stranger. Liam refuses to look away, even as Damon's eyes get more and more distant and closed off and it feels like a punch to the gut the more he stares.
And then it hits him that maybe Damon really is a stranger, maybe they've never met before, maybe none of this ever happened and Liam is still stuck in class, staring out the window while Ms. Doyle was busy teaching Maths in the afternoon, and he'll come to his Mam preparing dinner for him and Noel and then in a few hours he'll bang on Noel's door to get him to come down for dinner instead of being holed up in his room all day, plucking away on his silly guitar. He wishes that was the case.
"Okay," Damon doesn't yell, he never yells, he raises his voice and keeps on raising it to get his point across but he rarely ever yells at Liam. Even when he deserves it. It pisses him off sometimes, now more than ever. He wishes Damon would yell, throw him the obscenities he deserves to hear, punch him till he's black and blue. Till he's not breathing and Damon's the last thing he sees. But Damon just looks exhausted. He drops his cigarette to the ground and stomps on it. Liam watches the light flicker before it dies unceremoniously. "Thanks for the fag."
Pathetically, he watches as Damon turn into a distant figure, his feet rooted on the floor even when his nerves are thrumming wildly under his skin, telling him to run. Far, far away. To a remote place where he's free to scream and shout and jump without the fucking eyes and ears of every cunt in London being aware of him. Stupidly, he watches in case Damon turns around so Liam could wrap himself around Damon and kiss him all over and never let him go and tell him that he didn't mean what he said and that he's sorry and that he loves him too and that he doesn't deserve him. He wants to yell out his name, tell him to turn around, please just come back, just turn around and come back here already but it feels like there's a flock of unruly birds gathered in his throat, and Liam's doing his best to swallow it down that he struggles to speak.
So he watches and keeps watching until the cold gets the better of him and he has no choice but to try and move to the next pub that would have him.
He doesn't get that far. He throws up after taking his 5th step and then passes out, right then and there, in the cold and under the dingy lights of the posh club he never, ever wants to visit again.
...
("I thought you hated me," Damon says, his lips brushing the shell of Liam's ear as he sucked bruises into Damon's throat. It turns into a whimper when Liam tugs on his hair, a little rougher than he had expected it to be.
Liam fights back an apology. Somehow the word "Sorry" seemed too intimate for them, like an admission for something. A confession, brought out by emotions too genuine to be faked. Care, maybe. It's a slippery slope. If he starts admitting to things, starts telling the truth, who knows what else Liam would say when he's plunged deep in tenderness he doesn't deserve and blue eyes that looked at him with trust he hasn't yet earned. He's never been good with vulnerability. And Damon is always so open with his.
Even now, in Damon's dressing room, where it's just the two of them, muffled laughter just outside their door reminding Liam that the world hasn't stopped and waited for him to cross this threshold from normal life and into the start of his own downfall, Damon just seems wrecked. Liam is doing the biggest mistake of his life, he's aware of this as he's unbuckling Damon's jeans with his fumbling hands. Damon lets him take his time and Liam can barely look at him in the eye. They can't go back on this, and Liam is fucking terrified, but Damon just looks at him like he's been waiting for this for so long and Liam barely manages to hide his face from Damon when he feels heat rising up his neck.
There is something unfamiliar brewing in chest every time he looks at Damon, threatening to spill out of his lips if he's not careful enough. But Liam doesn't like to heed warnings and maybe that's why it all went wrong. He kisses Damon's shoulders, leaving small pecks along his collarbones. "No, I don't. I like you—" Liam lingers on his throat. "—I like you a lot."
Truthfully, Liam didn't know how to feel about Damon, but he didn't exactly hate him either. There was a time, when Oasis just started out and he didn't know any better, Liam had secretly looked up to Damon, but the more they started running into each other, the more he simply could not stand him; the way he smiles at him, how he brushes off Liam with a shrug, it feels like he's treating him as if he's just some dumb kid who got lucky, when he's not. Liam knows things too. And so the admiration died out just as quickly as it had sprung. He didn't like Damon, or how his gaze would linger on him when they're in the same room, a quiet challenge in his eyes that he's never had the guts to accept. It bothers him a lot. Damon, in essence, bothers him a lot.
But Damon had melted into nothing the moment he said that, holding him closer and digging his fingers into Liam's back, like he's determined to not let go, and Liam's hold on him only tightens so maybe it was never Damon that bothered him. Maybe it was the way his heart skips a beat when they meet eyes. The way he can't stop staring at Damon when he smiles at him.
"I've never hated you," Liam says, surprised at how honest it had come out, nuzzling into the crook of Damon's neck. "God knows why. You're terrible."
Damon kisses Liam's neck to hide his widening smile and Liam pretends not to notice.
So maybe it had been Liam's fault just as much as it was Damon's. But that's a conclusion he's willing to draw once he's not completely drunk out of his mind.)
—
"Noel?"
Noel hums in acknowledgement. "What?"
Liam takes a deep breath. "I'm scared."
Noel stops tinkering on his guitar, and for a second he says nothing. He turns his head to find Liam, who was already staring at him, hugging his knees and trying to drown out the ruckus of their surroundings. Noel frowns, "Are you taking the piss?"
Liam flushes, "No, I—" God, he's fucking sloshed, his head is banging against his skull and his vision is starting to blur and Noel's going to kill him when he realizes he's hangover before a gig, so he needs to stop blabbing and keep his mouth shut, fuck's sake, "—I don't feel well."
"Oh, fuck you, I'm having none of that," Noel snaps, a warning for Liam to get his shit together. He looks like he wants to strangle Liam dead when he adds, "You're fucking fine."
The finality in his voice made it clear to Liam that he doesn't want to hear anything else from him, be it a sneeze or the sound of his breath. Noel glares at him, daring Liam to say something, anything, but Liam was more than willing to take the bait so he huffs out, "What do you know?"
"A question I ask myself about you everyday," Noel mutters to himself, rolling his eyes before placing his guitar flat on his lap. Noel seems to be in a pleasant enough mood today, mostly due to the fact that he hasn't been drinking in a while, working on songs by himself in the studio. Besides, the sporadic visits from Liam has been dwindling, so really, this is probably Noel at his happiest. "I know that you're not sick. I know that you're just hangover and you're acting like a fucking brat because you fucked things up with Patsy or some shit."
Liam bristles, "I'm not—"
"I can smell the alcohol from outside our room, dickhead, don't even deny it," Noel scoffs.
"No," Liam rolls his eyes, "I'm not— I haven't— Patsy and I are fine. I've been nothing but good to her, fuck you."
"Well, congratulations," Noel says sarcastically, a sneer on his face showing Liam that he has zero interest in listening to whatever Liam had to say to him. "Didn't know you had a single romantic bone in you."
"Piss off," Liam mumbles, burying his face in his hands. His head is fucking killing him.
Noel lets out a yawn, his eyebrow twitching as he gave Liam a once-over, taking in his less than stellar state, from the heavy circles under his eyes to his bitten fingernails— a habit he's stopped doing since he was 10. With an nonchalant sigh, he asks, "Alright, what is it then?"
Liam closes his eyes, face pinching. "Nothing."
"You've been acting strange since Albarn dumped you on my doorsteps last Monday," Noel says, lost in his own thoughts as he disregards the way Liam tenses a little and tries to keep his breath steady. He eyes Liam with keen interest, drags a hand to his chin and frowns a bit, "Why would he do that anyways? Didn't know you two were that close."
"I don't know," Liam, of course, knows why Damon—annoying, persistent, stupid Damon— would do something as tiresome as dragging a passed out Liam to Noel's studio in the middle of the night when he had just broken his heart and stepped on it with all the grace and subtlety of a bull in a china shop. He knows, of course he does. "And we're not that close. We're barely friends."
Noel doesn't seem to believe him, sending him a look reminiscent of the one he sent him a couple of nights ago, when Liam had woken up on Noel's couch, disoriented and eyes glued shut, sticky from tears. He had seen Noel's face leering down on him, suspicion clouding his gaze as he prepares him tea and tells him what had happened; apparently Damon came across Liam passed out behind a club when he was on his way to Graham's, and he had recognised Noel's flat from the papers so he decided to bring him here out of the kindness of his heart. Nothing more, nothing less.
Noel had snorted, "Does he think you're some sort of peace offering for a ceasefire or something? The twat."
Liam didn't hear much of what he said after that, to be honest, his head was too wrapped around the fact that Damon had turned around after all. He came back for Liam. Damon had wanted to go back to him, even after everything he's said. Liam had never recovered from a hangover as quickly as he had that day; his head cleared like clouds parting way after a rainy day and his ears were ringing from Damon's name, his voice, his laugh, and Liam had a grin so stupid even Noel was perturbed by it. He doesn't know why but the realization that Damon had hauled his drunken arse to Noel's flat—even having to endure small talk with the cunt, when he knows how terrified Damon was of him—was enough for Liam to come to two conclusions;
Damon's a proper dumbass and Liam is absolutely in love with him.
Maybe even more than he had accounted for. Definitely more.
Liam was shitfaced again the second it dawned on him. He's so fucked it's not even funny.
Noel plays a few strings of his guitar, tuning the pegs when it comes out flat. "He told me something, you know. Said he won't bother you anymore."
Liam had guessed as much. He hasn't heard a peep from Damon, even when Liam had walked up to his flat with his tail between his legs and he'd bang on his door with the cadence of a madman. Justine had answered. He's at Graham's. Now fuck off.
"Oh, that's nice," Liam mumbles noncommittally. "Did he say anything else?"
Noel shakes his head. Then he frowns, "He's a bit odd, isn't he? I bet he's a poof. God knows what you have in common with him."
Liam would laugh if only his head wasn't hurting so much. He groaned into his hands, letting out a string of obscenities, mostly directed at himself, and thinks about how amazing a pint would taste right now. "—ugh."
"You okay?"
"Head hurts."
"Shocking, considering you barely use it."
"Fuck you."
Noel sighs, like dealing with his little brother was the most difficult thing in the world. Liam recognises the humour behind his tone anyways "Alright, I'll talk to Albarn. Let your big brother handle things, eh?"
"Piss off," Liam manages a snort, flipping him off and rolling his eyes when Noel laughs.
"You're right, then, you should do it yourself," Noel shrugs. Liam shrinks into himself at the mere idea and it was Noel's turn to roll his eyes. "Just talk to him, dickhead."
The last time Damon tried that with him, Liam had shut him off and basically opted to ruin what they had just because Liam was that avoidant of candour. He won't blame Damon if he wants to throw that back to his face, but the thought alone is enough to put him off from stripping back the layers of his bravado, down to the core of the rotten, soft parts of himself. He hates how honesty goes hand in hand with vulnerability, downright despises how difficult everything is because of it.
"I really fucked up, Noel," Liam admits quietly, his downcast eyes burning holes into his bitten fingernails.
"You always do," Noel says bluntly. "Never stopped you from fixing it before."
...
He doesn't go see Damon after that.
Even as days pass and the seasons change, he doesn't go see Damon. He spends his day holed up in his room, definitely not thinking about him all day, or the things he should say to him to fix this mess he's catapulted himself into, or wondering if Damon still misses Liam. He doesn't go see Damon, and Damon doesn't come find him, in return. Which was fair, he expected this.
He knows he should do something about it; about his feelings, about the way they ended things, about the bullshit he sprouted to Damon. But Liam feels stupid and he doesn't know how to fix things this time. Doesn't know if he can.
There are days where Damon is all he can think about, and on those days he finds that he misses him so much he doesn't know how to cope with it. So he looks back and tries to pinpoint how it had come to this, where it all went wrong; was it when they first met eyes and Damon had smiled at him? Was it when Damon introduced himself at Alan's party? Was it when Liam first burst into Damon's dressing room? Or was it when they talked over coffee and he had a much better time than he could have expected? Or when they had kissed and it felt like he was a kid again?
Or maybe it was pointless, trying to pick out moments lost in time like that. Maybe this is just what happens when time passes. Like an old knife wearing away until its sharp edges were no longer.
Liam should go see Damon, by all means. He misses him so much he can't breathe sometimes. But Liam thinks he needs to sort his own shit out first. So he doesn't go see Damon. Not immediately, anyways.
It took him longer than he was proud to admit, getting his shit together and figuring himself out, but something tells him Damon doesn't mind waiting for him anyways.
Not when Liam had rushed into his arms the second Damon answered the door, wrapping himself around him and grinning as he took in the smell of his stupid fucking aftershave. He smells like Chamomile today.
"Liam?"
"I love you," Liam finally tells him, and God, did it feel good. The look Damon gives him was enough to make him weak in the knees. So he looks down on his shoes and continues, "I'm in love with you. I am. I don't know if you still feel the same, maybe you don't, and that's okay, but I just want you to know—"
Damon grabbed him by the collar and shoved him inside his flat, closing the door with a loud thud before pushing him against said door and kissing him senseless. Liam's head is ringing with Damon, Damon, Damon, and nothing else. The fact that they're touching again, that he's holding his head in his hands like he's never had something so fragile under his fingertips, like Liam could break at any moment, when Damon's the one that's always so fucking vulnerable all the time. Liam can't feel his legs and he wonders if this is what flying would feel like; Damon's lips on his and a gentle caress to his face.
He hadn't even realized he was crying when Damon had whispered it to his ears, "Why are you crying?"
Liam shakes his head and hides his face in Damon's chest and then it all comes tumbling out of his lips, the words he's choked down, the tears he's swallowed, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, turtles all the way down, "I just— I was scared, I didn't want us to change and it was just too much for me, because this wasn't supposed to happen, we were supposed to get bored of each other but, well, I don't know, I'm so sorry for being so horrible and awful and I'm sorry, I'm just so sorry— "
"No. Liam," Damon says quietly as he guides Liam by the chin to look at him. He was smiling and his eyes were gentle, and Liam felt like he was staring into the sun, burning his eyes to the point where his tears were unstoppable. "I'm the one that should be apologising. You weren't ready, and I, well, I should've accepted that. I realize that now. I shouldn't have—"
"Stop being a cunt—" Liam hiccups through bouts of tears, "—and let me finish."
But Damon just smiles that beautiful smile of his and brings Liam closer to him, "I love you, Liam."
Hearing him say that did unimaginable wonders to his poor, barely functioning heart. Liam sobs even more and Damon trails kisses along his cheeks, wiping the tears away as he looked at Liam with eyes so ridiculously fond of him he thinks he would be happy if the world ends right now.
So much of their relationship, if you can even call it that, was hidden in the dark. In their dressing rooms. The backend of some alley. Behind tightly drawn curtains. The thought of their emotions finally stepping into the light was terrifying to Liam. But with Damon's hand in his (still cold) and his face breaking into the prettiest smile he's seen on anyone, Liam can't remember what he was so afraid of in the first place. Can't remember why he had resisted so much, wasted their time with his cowardice and denial.
"Liam."
"Yeah?" Liam asks, breath uneven as he's rubbing his eyeballs with his sleeves. Christ, he's a mess.
But Damon's smile only widens at the sight and he turns away to hide it from him, "You're really pretty when you cry."
Liam was sure he had snot running down his nose but he flushes anyways, "Fuck off."
"And when you're embarrassed."
Liam rolls his eyes. Way to ruin the moment.
"And when you're mad."
That manages a laugh out of him, "You do it so effortlessly, don't you?"
"It's a gift," Damon smiles softly, pulling Liam from the door and into his bedroom. Liam lets himself be pulled. He thinks he'd let Damon get away with anything at this point. Love, he supposes, is an odd little thing.
They kiss again. They kiss until their lips feel numb and Liam struggles to breathe. They kiss until Liam drops down to his knees and promises to make it up to Damon in more ways than one. Sunlight breaks through the curtains and Liam looks up just in time to see the light refract off Damon's eyes, clouded with arousal, and it's as beautiful as he had imagined.
Liam allows himself to stare and he almost smiles when he hears the sound of rain coming down on them.