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The way you see it there's the rest of the world and then there's you. And there's no point thinking about the rest of the world because they don't have the facts. They weren't there when it went down so they can't understand. Mostly you try not to think about it the usual way because words aren't a very good form of expression. Maybe pictures would be, if you could draw. Or music. But that's Noel's scene. You could never come up with a tune good enough to do it credit.
It's a feeling. It's a living thing, like. Not the way you maybe pictured love when you were a kid and you saw the world in stick figures. A line for the horizon and half a ball with some squiggly lines for the sun and a green line beneath for the grass. You and your brother were two blue lumps. He was the taller one back then. Anyway, now it's like a painting you might see in a museum. But an abstract one, like. And maybe the artist had an inkling of what it was all about but you haven't a clue until you see the little plaque at the bottom of the frame: love. And now it makes more sense and you can see it if you squint. It's not about brush strokes, it's the feeling you get looking at it like your heart doesn't fit in your fucking chest and one more second and you're ready to pop.
This is why there's no point bringing it up because there's nothing to say, really. And once you put the thing in words it turns into something bizarre. Something you might laugh at if you were standing on the outside looking in. Look at that retard. What's his problem? Who climbs into bed with their brother and pulls up his T-shirt just so he can feel him breathe? Because you needed to know you weren't alone. Because sometimes it's hard to live in the world for no particular reason at all and when you feel his breath on your mouth you know you're still breathing. And for a long while that's all it was. Just that.
You never had much to talk about in those days, except maybe the football. Words are overrated, anyway. During the day you usually just groused at each other and wished to God you had your own room so you could hear yourself fucking think. But when you were alone you missed the constant strumming of his guitar and the way he kept changing the lyrics until he got it to sound like it was supposed to. Like magic, because if it had been down to you, you probably would have gone with the first version because it sounded good enough to you. But not him. He's never happy until the magic happens.
Like one time when you were pressed against him in his bed, and his hands weren't anywhere near your dick, but you were hard as fuck and you were trying to decide if there was a way to do anything about it without seeming weird. And before you could say anything he put his tongue in your mouth and you saw stars behind your eyelids. You would have been just as happy wanking side by side. He helped you clean off afterwards. Magic.
You'd go about your day after that, meet your mates and not even really think about it except sometimes when a memory hit and your skin was just buzzing with it. You'd do it again and again. It's like drugs cause you kept chasing that perfect high. You kept going that extra mile cause that's just how good it felt. And then one day you had his dick knocking against your tonsils, and if this was unnatural, what does natural feel like? This felt like it was meant to be.
It's not like it was every day. Not every day. Certainly not. Not even every other day. Most days you were hot for girls. And they were mad for you. Still are. You're fighting them off with a stick. He does okay, too. And anyway, for ages when he lived with Louise nothing happened at all. You figured you'd outgrown each other. You hardly thought about how his body felt curled against yours. What the inside of his mouth tasted like. How he smelled. A bit like you but also like himself. You hardly ever woke up hard after dreaming about him. You never wanked in the shower wondering if he was doing it too and thinking of you.
You'd look at other men and try to figure out if it was worth trying something. If you were just gay and that's what all the fuss was about. Sometimes you managed to get a bit turned on by some bloke's smile but only if you were off your face and gagging for it. Even then it was usually when you were missing him. It wasn't really worth it. That's what you reckoned. Not worth the fucking trouble. You and him—that was like a completely different league.
If you're completely honest with yourself and you are most of the time, because otherwise, what's the point? You did it for him. The singing. The band. You thought if I can just get him to shut up and listen to me for once. Then. Then what? What then? You never really thought past that part. But you liked it. You liked yourself doing it. It felt like opening yourself up and pouring out all that anger you had bubbling inside you, letting it fizz over the edge and spill out all over every fucker listening. It felt like you could remake the world into any shape you wanted. The only other time you felt like that was playing football or touching him.
He came back from touring and went to see the band, and when you saw his face you knew it. He could see you now, he could hear you. The next chance you managed he had you pinned against a wall and wouldn't even let you kiss him. He put one hand down your keks and the other hand over your mouth and you came all over yourself, biting down on his thumb. He kissed you after. It felt like he was claiming you. Like you were a piece of luggage he had lost and only now remembered to pick up after years. But fuck if you don't still have his name printed on you in big bold letters: Noel Thomas David Gallagher.
The fact that you make it, that you end up being the greatest band in the world with everyone shoving diamonds in your pockets really isn't that big of a surprise when you think about it, because you feel invincible with him. And he feels invincible with you. You're each other's super power. Together, you're supersonic. But being with him is like being on drugs. You have to take the highs with the lows. And man, the lows are low. You snort crystal meth and stay up for days. He fucks you on the floor of a hotel room and it feels unreal. Yeah, he fucks you. Because that's how it is now. All the way. Because it was always going to be all the way or nothing. You didn't know sex could feel that good. You didn't know anything could.
And then you make a mess of it on stage. A real mess. You shout at the audience, do lines on stage and throw a tambourine at his fucking head and when it's over and you see his face it's like you murdered him. He's in shreds. Maybe he could never really trust you after that. Maybe he never trusts anyone anyhow. You can't trust him, either. He takes off, leaving you a note. Can we go on like brothers?
We are brothers. We're always gonna be brothers, you dumb cunt. And more. There's no word for what we are.
When you get him back you want to beat his head in. You don't, though. You act like you weren't even worried he was missing. Like you knew he'd turn up. Like a stray dog or a lost umbrella. Of course he doesn't break up the band. You never thought he would. He doesn't say sorry. He lets you do it to him. It feels almost sacrilegious. He says things you never expected to hear from him. Things you don't dare repeat to yourself. Because once you start down that road, you're fucked. It's too much to process. You don't think the human mind was built to understand the dynamic between you. All you know is he's the only part of you that makes sense.
You're his. And he knows it and because he knows it he makes you regret it. He knows ways to make you do what he wants. He knows what to say to pull you apart piece by piece. So you fight back, tooth and nail. You walk off stage. You break stuff. Hotel rooms and televisions and his guitar. That last wasn't you, you don't think. He ignores you and belittles you and hits you over the head with a fucking cricket bat. He thinks you're erratic and unreliable, you show him erratic and unreliable. You grab him on stage, kiss him in public. Because you want to see him squirm with embarrassment. Because you know he can't really react in public. And he says he hates you and you say you hate him. You do, you hate him. And you hate his bird, Meg—dumb bitch—even if you introduced them. You hate the idea he might be up there on stage singing about how much he loves her through you. You want all his tunes. All of them. If you get even the faintest glimmer of her, you strangle the song in the cradle. It's a crime of passion. You go right up to the edge of the cliff and spit down the abyss. Because, fuck you. Fuck you, world. I can do whatever I like.
Where does it end, Liam? That's what he wants to know. And you don't know what the fuck he's talking about.
What end? It doesn't. It doesn't ever end. It goes on forever. Till me last breath.
He looks at you like you're speaking Chinese or summat.
Because what we have is magic.
He turns away, leans his head against the headboard of the hotel bed. He pulls out a cigarette and you smoke it together, him holding it out and placing it against your lips.
Aren't you fucking tired of it?
You're not sure what he means. You and him fighting? The split-down-the-middle push and pull of your respective dual lives? You've given up trying to understand why you need each other like you do. And yeah, he needs you, too. He's just better at denying it. You shrug.
Cause if you're not kicking and screaming you're not really alive, are you? Besides. It's worth it.
You put a hand on his thigh and he looks down like he's seeing you the first time.
You mean it, don't you?
You stub out the cigarette and kiss his mouth.
Course I mean it. We love each other.
He doesn't deny it. That's better than nothing, right?
You're spread out beneath him and he's getting ready to give it to you. But you're not having it, you want it face to face so you can see him come and he has to admit to himself, it's you that done it. It's you and not anyone else. If he can't be honest with himself about it, then what hope is there for him? It's different than all the other times. It's horrible and tender, he's fucking you like he's afraid of breaking you. He looks so vulnerable it makes you feel sick to your stomach. He's your brother. Your brother. He watched you being born. He held your hand when you crossed the street. He lent you his football kit. He's balls deep inside you and making sounds like he just can't help himself. He says your name once, his lips pressed against your pulse. Just soft, like: Liam. And you just fly apart. Like he was the only thing holding you together in the first place and now he's let go you shatter into a thousand fragments.
After, when you manage to pull yourself together, he slides a hand into your hair and grabs it like he's trying to keep you from getting away. Like he fucking owns you. But you aren't going anywhere, you can't even feel your fucking legs. He's tapping his fingers against your throat, playing you like a guitar.
That your new song?
It's something.
You know what I think?
I'm pretty sure you're gonna tell me.
I think, right? I think. You wrote all them songs about me. All them love songs.
The sound of his laughter makes you half-hard again. He rubs his thumb under your jaw like he's considering strangling you.
Fuck, he says, his voice is low and thick.
You know that's a yes.
He says it during an interview one day. Just casually, like it's the funniest thing in the world.
He says to me one night. All your songs are about me, aren't they?
I'm his muse, you say proudly.
You can't help it. You're shining with it. You're incandescent. Everyone can see it. You're staring at him like a starving man in front of a banquet. You're hanging on his every word. And it feels like you're an animal caught in one of those sharp-toothed traps. You hate him and you need him. So you do what you've always done. You piss all over it. At least that's what he says.
You say it on stage, a shit-eating grin on your face. You're a little drunk already, and rambling.
Me and our kid like...love each other by now. Me and him. We love each other. We had sex last night.
He looks mortified, laughing that nervous little laugh and calling you a prick and a twat and a cunt over and over. He says he hates you. He's laughing but you can tell he's more than a little angry. You love that sharp edge of his rage. You love how hot and bothered it gets him. You love when he's so angry he can barely get the words out. He starts to stammer like he did as a kid. You love when he can't wait till you're in private to take it out on you. And he drags you into the gents and pulls out your dick and sucks you off so angrily you worry he might bite it off. But really, you know he won't. Because how would he explain it to the doctors? He slipped on some piss, fell and bit off his brother's cock? And when you go back out into the throng you're glowing and he's mellow and affectionate. And everyone thinks the Gallagher brothers were at it again, their appetite for drugs is insatiable.
He's sick to death of your antics. It's like as soon as he gets what he needs he forgets he's part of it, too. He gives you a lecture that makes you want to spit in his face. He's the Chief. He gets to run the band the way he likes. But he doesn't fucking own you, no matter how it feels.
You want to skywrite it? Tell the world. Exclusive interview. Liam Gallagher confesses he's his brother's bitch.
No one even takes it seriously. It's a laugh. No one ever listens. They just think we're mad fuckers. And I'm not your bitch, you add quietly but he doesn't hear you.
He doesn't think you should laugh about it. He's such a hypocrite. You think he's perfectly willing to allude to it in public if he's the one pulling the strings. Cause he thinks he's cleverer than the rest of the world. He thinks it's edgy and rock and roll when he does it. It's his brand of anarchy. And when you do it you're just stupid and embarrassing and determined to destroy everything. You tell him he's not as clever as he thinks. Half the time he's as obvious as fuck.
Well I am, right? Cleverer than you, by a long shot. You never know when to stop. Have you even thought of Mam? It would break her heart. Can you even comprehend the complete disaster…?
You turn away from him. I'm not stupid. You always think I'm stupid. But I'm not.
You know things he can't comprehend.
What things. What things? Tell me one fucking thing.
But what's the point when he's like this?
No one cares, you repeat. No one believes it. You're on top of the world, you and him. And God knows you like the attention. You can do anything. We could fuck on stage and they'd still cheer us on.
Oh, shut up, he says angrily. Shut the fuck up.
You laugh out loud and fold your arms over your chest but it feels like someone is walking over your grave. Then you turn your attention to the lines of coke you're chopping out. You go first, taking your time, really making a show of it and then rubbing the remaining powder onto your gums. By the time it's his turn he looks about ready to murder you. You decide you're done for the day. You just want to have fun but he's got it in his head you've got to argue this out.
I'm talking to you, dickhead, he says. Don't you want to talk about it? You're always on me to talk about it. Well, let's fucking talk.
You shrug. Go ahead, then, Chief.
This is wrong.
This is wrong, you parrot.
It's finished.
It's finished, you repeat.
I'm...I'm...trying to have a serious conversation here, you fucking idiot.
Is this about Meg? you ask. Because it's never bothered you before. She say something? Did she? Says I'm a bad influence. She don't know the half of it, you think.
What does Meg have to do with anything? This is about you!
Because it wasn't wrong last time, was it? you interrupt him. It wasn't over then. Or the time before. Or the time before.
I just want to make music. Can't we just do that?
No, you think. No, we fucking can't. Because if you take me, you fucking take all of me.
It's not over, you're just in a mood.
I'm not in a...in a fucking mood. I just don't want to do it anymore.
Do what? you ask. Make love? Then don't. Don't do it anymore. No one's forcing you. I'm not forcing you. Think I care if we ever make love again?
He flinches every time you say the words “make love”. You knew he would. You hit the bullseye.
He's looking down as if the sight of you makes him sick. He's ashamed. Ashamed, that cunt. Now, let's see if you can make him cry.
What's the matter? Swallowed your tongue? No genius answer this time? So you don't want to be my girlfriend no more...I'll live.
This is rubbish! he says but he doesn't sound too convinced. It's rubbish, you're rubbish! You can see his hands are in balls at his sides like he's trying to hold something in and failing.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah, rubbish! You know what it is? You're obsessed with me. That's what. You think you're fucking in love with me. Like we're getting married and having babies and the whole lot. Well, surprise! That's not what's going to happen.
I'm shocked, you say dryly. Maybe you shouldn't have bought me a wedding ring, then, d'you reckon?
He's just fucking staring at you, mouth wide open, and you slowly lift your right hand and show him your middle finger. On it gleams the plain golden claddagh ring he gave you. Today, the tip of the heart points to your wrist which means you're taken, apparently. But it doesn't really mean a thing, that's just how you stuck it on this morning. He wears an identical ring on his ring finger. When he gave it to you he said it was because you'd admired his.
That's proper gay, innit? you laughed. But you loved it.
I mean, loads of people dress their kids in matching outfits. You're pretty sure you, Noel and your kid all had the same jumper that Mam had knitted for Christmas. You looked like three identical knobheads. Some brothers still dress alike even when they're grown. I mean, the fucking Beatles wore matching suits. You never really felt the urge as your taste is far superior to Noel's. But you liked the ring. You liked the symbolism. Love, loyalty, friendship. He didn't give it to you like it was a present. He made it seem like he was doing you a favour. Like he was a bit put out he had to buy it for you. Sometimes when he's had a few he twists it round your finger, runs his thumb over the hands and heart and crown. You don't think he bought it because you're Irish or brothers or even because he wanted to do something nice for you. He gave it to you cause you belong to him. And he likes the idea that everyone can see it but they don't know what they're looking at.
It's just a…
Just a ring...a bit of gold. Just a token of friendship. Why don't you say it like it is? You're the one who's in love with me. Have been for fucking ages. You're the one writing songs about me. You're the one who…
He grabs you by the collar. Will you shut up?
You twist yourself out of his grasp, pull the ring off your finger and throw it at him as hard as you can. Fuck you! Fuck you, mate. You remember after San Francisco? Remember how you said...you said...you said…?
Shut up! Shut your hole! You're like a dog with a bone, you are! They're just fucking words! It's not...they're not...it's not real, right? They're not about anything. He's shaking so badly now you think you could finish him off with one well-placed punch. But you don't. When you take a step towards him he weaves away anyway.
You're the one who said...remember what you said? You said you wrote that song about the first time you and me...
He said he'd written it for Louise but then after his vanishing act in L.A. he told you it was about you. Something always made your pulse jump when you sang it, and now you knew why.
You didn't fucking imagine it. You remember the hot, flushed feeling of his skin beneath your hand. He closed his eyes when he said it. That's you and me. Two of a kind. He wrote it for you and fuck him if he tried to take it away now.
I never said that, he protests. I never said it. You twist things round in that head of yours. You make it into something it isn't, he says. Like you're an idiot. Like you're some backwards cunt who doesn't know what's what. I don't even remember the first time.
You don't remember? You don't fucking remember? I'll tell you, brother. Give you a little clue.
It wasn't as bad as he's making it out to be. He came home drunk and stoned, got in your bed and shook you awake. You started to kick him out but he just sat there.
Fucking woke me up from a brilliant dream, you cunt, you said. City won 5:1 against United and I had two birds, twin sisters, one in each arm and…
He didn't even look at you, just stared straight ahead.
What's wrong with you? Are you going to be sick? Do you need me to hold your hair back?
He finally looked at you, eyes slightly out of focus, a crooked smile on his face that didn't seem to have anything to do with happiness.
Are you on acid? Is that it? Cause I done it once and I thought me mates were trying to murder me. Course, knowing those fuckers they may well have been…
He put his face in his hands and mumbled something.
If you don't tell me by the time I count to three…
Noel let out a pained sigh.
One...one and a half...one three quarters...two...
She laughed. That's what he said. She laughed at me.
Who did? You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. Noel put his feet up on the bed and hugged his knees.
Diane.
Diane, that cow, Noel's girlfriend. Thought she was better than everyone else. Better than you. That was fine, sometimes people did. But what made you see red was that she figured she was better than Noel. Noel was worth ten of her.
What did she laugh about? you asked. You could imagine, though.
He mumbled, kicked off his shoes and lay back over your legs. I couldn't…
Couldn't what? you asked, stifling a grin. Couldn't get it up? You realised he must be pretty fucking out of it to tell you this. You could dine on this for months. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. You didn't say a word, though, you just waited patiently for him to speak.
She's always going on about how fit this bloke is or another. When I take me kit off, she's staring. Like I'm a circus freak.
Well, she's hardly a beauty, is she? Maybe that's the problem. You did laugh then and kicked off the covers to prod his hip with your foot. He caught your foot in one hand, made like to tickle you. You need a right sexy bird, a real woman, you said. Not some slag wouldn't know a proper man if he bit her on the twat. You pulled your foot out of his grasp and nudged his crotch playfully. Someone who gets you rock-hard just thinking about her.
He pushed you away with a squawk of indignation. What do you know about women? he asked and leaned in to poke you in the ribs. He grabbed at your dick through your sweatpants, laughing. Do you even have hair on them balls? He pulled at the waistband of your sweats like he was going to check and you went so hard you throbbed against his hand. He let out a little laugh, half leaning into you. You don't have problems in that department, apparently, he said.
You could feel him stiffen against your thigh. A wave of wonder washed over you. Wonder and lust. Wonderlust. There may have been a moment when you could have thought about it. When you could have stopped it. But it was very brief. You barely had time to register what was happening before he was squeezing your dick and you let out a moan, pressed your thigh against his crotch. Shhh, he whispered and put his mouth on your neck, and you could feel his lashes against your skin. And you couldn't think anymore, you just couldn't think. Ah, fuck it. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. You can't remember if that was him or you. But you didn't. You still don't.
There's a crumpled sort of look to him now. Like he can't stand to listen anymore. You were sixteen, he says softly.
So? You mean that. You weren't some wide-eyed virgin. He hardly stole your virtue. You remember he bit your earlobe when he came. Your mates teased you mercilessly for the mark he left. You remember that part was better than getting off. His temporary loss of control. He was always wound so tightly in those days. You couldn't help feel proud he'd let you in. Let you catch a glimpse of the real Noel.
But that wasn't even the first time.
What do you mean?
Can't you remember? You were what? Ten? Eleven? You used to get in bed with me when you couldn't sleep.
What of it?
He doesn't continue for a while. You have to kick him before he does.
You'd do this thing where you put your arms round me neck and matched me breathing.
Is that all? Doesn't sound that bad.
No, that's not all.
Well, spit it out. I was there, wasn't I? I can't remember nothing pervy. At least nothing I didn't want to do.
Sometimes in the mornings...Well, you know, being a teenager. Morning glory. You used to just grab yourself right there in my bed, like you didn't give a flying fuck. Just to piss me off. I'd kick you out of bed and tell you to take it to the bog. And you'd just do it again cause you're an annoying little twat.
Stars behind your eyelids.
You kissed me.
No.
You did. I remember that.
I didn't kiss you. I think I licked your face. I meant to, anyhow. But you opened your mouth.
And I came all over meself. Dead embarrassing, actually. But you were cool as a cucumber. Got me something to wipe off with and washed out my shorts. Kind of romantic, come to think of it.
What the fuck is wrong with you? he asks, distraught. Can't you see it?
See what? Can't I see what? All I see is you and me. And everyone else can go fuck themselves.
You're sick, he says.
I'm sick?
You're sick. You're a fucking sick, sick, fucking degenerate sick cunt. He's bug-eyed and trembling.
I didn't do nothing wrong. My conscience is clear. Don't act like it wasn't what you wanted. Like you didn't go right ahead with it when you could have stopped.
And you took it, didn't you? Like a bitch in heat. There's that look he gets when he's really angry. What are those dogs again? The ones that don't let go once they've bit you? They just bite all the way through? That's what he's like. Like one of them dogs. You took it. And took it and took it. But that's not enough. You have to ruin every good thing I have.
The other thing about him is he never knows to stop himself before he says something he regrets. He never says he's sorry but he does regret. You don't regret much. No point, is there? You're determined to hurt him now, seeing as you're past the point of no return anyhow.
What good thing? I gave you what you've got. You wanted to make music. Boom. Oasis. You wanted me? Well...You laugh here, bitter and filthy, and he lifts his hand to squeeze his temples.
You must have wanted it the whole time. That's what I think. Cause what I remember you didn't even hesitate. You didn't hesitate, man. So maybe you're sick, right? Maybe you're a degenerate, right? Maybe, yeah? Maybe you ruined what I had. You always make it out like you can't depend on me for nothing. Like I'm always asking for the shirt off your back. I took it, yeah? I took it. But you're the one was doing the taking, mate.
He's standing still, his shoulders look funny. Like when you're so cold you tense up. He's looking down at the floor. You can hear his ragged breath, can practically see his resolve like a clenched fist. He's trying to think of something that will break you but there's only one thing he can do that would ever break you. Only one thing.
You know what I think? you say after a long beat. I think you're a fucking pedo.
His shoulders fall, he makes that sound with his tongue against his teeth. That little 'tsk' of annoyance or frustration. And then he looks up at you. His mouth looks funny, like a red smudge in his flushed face. His eyes are perfectly round, bloodshot and so blue they make your heart stop. So blue, Noel's eyes. True blue. He blinks angrily and scrubs a hand over them. When his hand falls away you can see tears trembling in his dark lashes. If you had the wherewithal you'd write a tune about it. That's how beautiful he is.
He clears his throat. Sorry, he says at last. It shouldn't have...I shouldn't have let it...I should have stopped it happening. Tears spill down his cheeks. Your breath catches in your chest. It's what you wanted, isn't it? Didn't you set out to make him cry?
Don't. Don't...you stammer...I'm not sorry...don't...You've pushed him too far. You reach out to touch him and he takes a step back. You're proper crying, too, now. You need to blow your nose but you don't have a tissue. You wipe the snot on your sleeve and think of all the times he's laughed at you and told you you look like a woman when you cry, but you don't care.
Noel, you say but that's as far as you get. He leaves the room. He doesn't say a word and no matter what you shout at him he doesn't answer you. Then you do what any sensible man would do. You get drunk. You drink until you can no longer hear his voice not answering you. You get in a scuffle over absolutely nothing and the face you see as you beat the man black and blue keeps alternating between his and yours. When you come to the first thing you remember is the dark, rich sound of his regret. Soft, like velvet.
Your whole body feels sore. Not just your body, your mind feels bruised. A kind of panic spreads through you, trapped animal scratching of fear in your throat. Maybe this is when he finally leaves you for good. Maybe you're on your own now.
Liam says he can't sing.
You only see the way he shrugs, that fluid motion, the tilt of his head.
Wouldn't the first time. So he doesn't sing.
You'd always assumed he needed you. That he couldn't do it without you, but here's the truth staring you in the face. He already has everything. He needs you like he needs a hole in his head. Maybe that's why you and Patsy decide to get married. So you have someone to hang on to in a world that's off its tits. You even buy her a ring. It all feels a bit like play-acting, and when you slip the diamond on her finger you can picture that startled, hurt expression on Noel's face when you flung his ring at him.
It takes days for him to come round. Days of him pretending not to see you standing there when he walks into a room. Days of him ignoring you when you speak. Ignoring you when you shout. When you rant and threaten him. Finally, you try apologising in your own way.
I didn't mean that pedo thing.
He looks up, his eyes darting over your face briefly.
You were out of line.
I know, I know, I know...Look, I wanted it to happen, you say. Maybe that's an oversimplification because it's not like you had ever really thought about it before it happened. All you knew was that you wanted him to notice you. You wanted him to need you. And then he did. And now you never want to lose that. But how do you say it without sounding like you're soft?
So maybe I'm the one with a few screws loose, you admit. If you know what I mean. You're right about that part, I reckon.
He makes a noncommittal sound.
Mam always said I'd be the death of you, you recall. Cause I always took everything too far, right?
You'll need to cut back on the fags, he says after a while. You sound like shit. What's the point of a singer who can't sing?
You think about that for a moment. I'm still a gorgeous fucker. You grin at him.
The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. You figure he's on the mend.
The funny thing about him and you is sometimes it's like you're psychic or something. You know when he's thinking about you. You're in the pub, off your trolley and you can feel him like a punch in the gut. Like he's in there with you and everything else just falls away. And for once in your stupid life you're perfectly at peace. Which is sort of ridiculous because everyone knows he's like your kryptonite. Most of the time you're two magnets repelling each other north to north. And it's so unfair it can't be like this all the time. Makes you want to glass the whole world. Makes you want to blow it all up.
You're well on your way to a pleasant buzz, Red Stripe and something a touch stronger, when he walks in with a smile on his face. He hasn't looked at you like that in ages.
What's happened to you, looking like the cat that got in the cream? You're a little annoyed he's so cheerful all at once. Flip of a switch he's acting like nothing happened. You crack open another beer and glare at him.
Can't I just be happy? Look at the crowd out there on the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond! He looks so clean and shiny. His new trousers and that leather jacket. You almost want to pull back the collar to check if he even had time to cut the tags off but you're afraid if you touch his skin you won't be able to stop.
Right, you say instead.
You're looking right glum for a man who just got engaged, he says, looking at you sharply.
Yeah. You lift your chin and shrug. Seemed like a good time for it and all. Besides. I love her.
He gives you a long look, a flash of something in his eyes like he's just thought of something particularly hurtful to say and he can't wait to unleash it on you.
Just get it over with. You think she's a silly tart.
But instead of attacking you like he's clearly dying to do, he just holds up his hands in protest. No...no...she's a great bird…
You're so bad at lying for someone who does it all day and all night long.
He raises his brows at you. And ignores the jumping in point yet again. He doesn't want to argue and you can't tell if that's a good thing or not. Well...you could have said something. Imagine having to find out from the papers me own brother's getting wed.
You could have guessed. I'm over the moon about her, you say sullenly.
He nods distractedly and then taps the side of his nose as if only just remembering something. I almost forgot. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls something out. In the palm of his hand rests a gold ring. Hands, crown and heart. For a split second you think he's returning the ring you threw at him. Only instead of a plain gold heart it gleams ruby red, so large it's obnoxious. You don't understand. You stare at him open mouthed.
What's this?
What do you think? You must have dropped it. I swear you'd lose your head if I wasn't there to pick it up for you.
You don't move a muscle and that's really quite unusual for you. It's so big and shiny and obvious you think it has to be some kind of trap. It's too beautiful. Too romantic.
Are you going to put it on? he asks.
You take it from him but your fingers are stiff, and fumbling, you drop it on the ground. Fuck.
He leans down and picks it up and grabs your hand. Careless cunt, he says and slides it on your finger. Then he leaves because it's time for interviews or sound check or summat. You're too stunned to follow him straight away, and anyway, sound check bores the shit out of you. You keep looking down at your hand, your brain unable to comprehend what just happened. The tip of the ruby heart is pointing towards you. Taken.
You're sort of floating, pleasantly drunk on beer and adulation and the memory of Noel's hand on yours, his thumb flicking over your knuckles. You give yourself over to the moment because your thoughts are too scattered to be tamed. And anyway, it's too loud up here on the stage with the music and the masses. And there's nothing better than this. Nothing better. Except maybe you think he loves you. You can tell he's standing behind you by the way the crowd is screaming in front of you. You look up at him as he leans down. He isn't smiling, his eyes are very bright. Like he can't even see anyone else but you. Like he never wants to see anyone else but you.
You know what he's going to do before he does it. He closes his eyes, his arms are draped around your neck, his hands clasped over your collar bone. And it registers just before you open your mouth against his that the whole fucking world can see you do this. And he doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care. And you never did, anyway. You slide your tongue into his mouth, feel his tongue soft, almost shy against yours for a moment before he breaks the kiss. He's a trifle breathless and his eyes glitter feverishly.
Are you mad fer it? he murmurs in your ear.
Aye, cocker.