Chapter Text
It had been a bullshit idea.
It had been a pile of shit nonsense and he regretted every single step that brought him here.
He loved Manchester, he did, it was just--well. It was Manchester. It was home. And home loves you, but home knows you, and he'd fought for decades for the right to not feel known. In London, the right clothes and the right places were enough for him to be one of them. The shiny people with no sordid pasts and nothing about them worth knowing. Nobody asked anything, they just let him walk right through. Manchester fucking knew his first calluses were from laying bricks.
He wasn't ashamed of it (there were things he should be ashamed of and was), being working class had been shit, but it was a good story. His current mates boasted Oxbridge and he didn't even finish school--but he was richer and the people loved him more. It wasn't tragic or whatever, but he didn't like to carry it. He didn't like to talk about it. It was just all bundled up with too many other things that he could not stand to look at so he just--didn't. Manchester meant Mam, and Paul, and Liam. Manchester meant the dole, and the pills, and scribbled shit lyrics that went nowhere.
Manchester was only safe when it was football, and 'I'm richer than you', and blue little plaques that meant nothing.
Manchester was lonely, was what it was. Manchester (without Liam) was lonely.
So yeah, whoever (himself) decided that the concept for his new album's artwork should be a deconstruction of the themes from his now forgotten Chasing Yesterday (using 'the streets of my life'), involving photoshoots at all the old spots where he'd built himself from the ground up--well, that person could fuck right off a cliff for all he cared.
That album was forgotten in his set lists for a reason. There was nothing he wanted to remember anymore.
So, of all places, he's in India House now. And they've set up a somewhat modest living room in one of the flats (not the one where he lived, really, the one next door), the clashing styles of early 90s and the mid-2020s gadgets bothering him an unreasonable amount.
He trusts every single person around him to do a good job. He has worked with them on countless occasions and they all tiptoe around him in distressed, respectful awe which is basically the only way he knows how to relate to people these days. He wanted to come here. He came up with the fucking idea. He's paying for the whole fucking thing. Why the fuck does he feel trapped if he can literally walk out with zero consequences?
"Think we're set! Noel?" he hears a non-descript voice call out from behind a light stand, and, while he sat motionless for well over half an hour, he figures now is the time to get up and go to the bathroom. They're waiting for him. That should remind them.
Everybody fucking smiles and nods. He locks the door behind himself.
And there (small, old, grimacing) he catches himself in the mirror. Wearing jeans like he always has. A white shirt, like the past decade or so. Maybe he should've worn a jacket. Maybe he should ditch the sunglasses. He removes them to find his hardened eyes and lines marking his frowning brow, and puts them back on.
What even is the point? At least Liam seems to try to wear a variety of garbage bags and hairstyles. He has been so focused on building and maintaining a certain look that this could be 2014, or 2018, or 2009. Even if his shoulder knows exactly what year it is.
Well, at least that's still his. His wardrobe is only his. ("Actually, it's our wardrobe" the Liam in his head quips when he thinks of that one jumper, and that one suede jacket thing).
He likes how he looks. He has put effort into every single fucking inch of his body being exactly as good as it could be. But it still makes him uncomfortable. It still feels like Liam is going to walk in drunk and stinking after three days sitting in piss, and look like beauty incarnate. It still feels stupid to be looked at when there's Liam. Even when there isn't.
Putting on a performance of confidence for the lens should have gotten less taxing with time, he thinks. But it hasn't.
So he's thinking all this, fixing up his clothes, setting the wisps of his grey hair just right. He's smoothing out his eyebrows, the wrinkles under his eyes. He buttons and unbuttons the top two in his shirt, the ones in his sleeve. He looks at his hands. Stocky, short-fingered, worker hands. He sees his golden rings, his golden bracelet. As he reaches to open the faucet, he remembers those horrible Liam videos, with that fisherman beard he had, singing as he washed his hands years ago, and he buries the thought immediately.
It happens often. Remembering stupid things his brother did some time forever ago when he's just trying to live his life. It's been happening more, lately.
He's probably just getting old. Or his kids are, and he fears what he'll have to face when he doesn't have to look after them anymore. Doesn't matter. He's definitely not thinking about how he had a laugh-crying breakdown when he first saw those videos, because Matt (of all people) linked them to him, asking if he'd charge royalties for it.
At the time, he had been a right dick about the virus. At the time, he had had the vague hope it'd get him, and kill him and his weak cocaine-damaged heart.
Things got better though. Still, when he wipes his nose, he gets a flash of Liam giggling in his face after snorting his first line, right in this bathroom. Or, well, the--Louise's bathroom. The real one.
Doesn't matter. It's fine. It's time for work and he can just get this done and get the fuck out, and get the fuck back home. He can buy a new guitar and a new fucking castle if he so wishes.
He dries his hands with a paper towel (he's not a beast, wiping them on his clothes or shaking them dry, thank you very much), and he fixes the sleeve on his shirt one last time before unlocking the door.
And when he steps out, somehow, everything is different.
It takes a second for it to click. He didn't quite register what it looked like before but--this is a home. This looks like someone's home.
There's a dirty cup on the coffee table, and there are slippers sticking out from under the sofa. The sofa itself looks lived-in. There are pictures on the walls.
Something feels wrong. The air itself feels strange against his skin. The lights and equipment are gone. There is not a single person from his team in sight. He doesn't react outwardly. He's way too practiced at modulating that to forget, but--well, panic might be a strong word for it, but it definitely settles in his gut.
"Very funny, guys," he says out loud, rolling his eyes and smirking in the most annoyed manner he can. But there is no reply. He hesitates for a moment before doing it, but he finally takes off his sunglasses and rubs his eyes, willing away the delusion, but nothing changes. He looks all around worriedly, kind of expecting the roaring laughter to erupt from somewhere. But it doesn't.
He feels his stomach drop to his feet then, turns on his heel as he has half a mind to go back into the bathroom, but even that's different now. The sterile look from before gone, now all green and pink towels, a half-used bar of soap in the shower. He digs into his pocket then and, sure enough, his phone is there, but there is no signal whatsoever. He can't even get the clock on it to work since it is trying to update through the network that does not seem to exist.
He doesn't quite understand what's happening, but the realization hits him all at once, whatever it is, he's not supposed to be here. Wherever he is, this is someone's house and he's an intruder. And however he manages to fix whatever has happened, it will be much harder if the police gets involved.
He's glad for muscle memory then, running away still hard-coded into his soul after all these years. Within seconds he's out the door, closing it behind him silently. He has the vague impulse to check the flat next to it, but he doesn't. Choosing instead to leg it out of the whole building. Whatever is going on, is not going to get better if he walks in on someone who knows him, and if what he thinks is going on, really is going on, that might be Louise (or himself, or Liam) behind the next flat's door.
The panic doesn't exactly subside when all the fucking cars in the street seem thirty years too old. When the bus that drives down the street looks exactly like the one that used to take Liam home when he came to visit.
He figures he must be dead.
He died and this is hell. He's going to be trapped in a desolate (and loud) early 90s Manchester for the rest of eternity. He went into that bathroom, slipped, cracked his skull on the toilet, and his brains got flushed down the drain alongside his dignity. Rock'n'roll death alright.
His kids will inherit his millions, spend them all, and forget him within ten years. Oh, he had been a shit dad. Telling the media he had favorites, letting Matt joke about Donovan--God, the arguments he'd had with Anaïs. He was nowhere near as bad as his own dad, but--
He finds himself holding tightly onto a lamp post. He has to breathe. He's spiraling. That's nonsense. He was not a shit dad, he was fine. He was not--he never quite managed to be as fun a dad as Liam, but he had never gone and gotten them new fucking siblings they'd never meet, at least. He wasn't--
He stops himself there. Because yeah, if this is hell, he knows full well why he's here.
It's got nothing to do with his kids, or the drugs, or the stealing, or even the--well, he knows.
He knows that if this is hell (and if it isn't, when it is), it'll be because of what he did to Liam (he gets a bright flashback of Liam biting his lip, smiling up at him and lifting his eyebrows as he gets down on his knees). No. That was wrong under every law but--that would not be it.
He didn't mix his words. Not what he did with Liam.
To.
When he's able to think again, he stands back up. Random people down the street don't look at him, but occasionally grip their purses tighter. That's home in the 90s alright. Don't they know he's wearing more than what they fucking make in a year?
Fuck. It hits him then. Nobody knows he's here, he has nowhere to go, and he might as well have ponce idiot tattooed on his forehead. That's a fucking death sentence, that is.
He needs to find a way to blend in if he doesn't want to get mugged. He needs--fine, he is going to do what he always does: find a way to survive this, and then try to change it. And well, he might be a poncy idiot, but he knows this place. It's his.
His steps are sure as he heads down Princess Street to the one place where he figures he might be least likely to get robbed at however early in the morning it is now. He hopes he's right.
He keeps talking himself into every step, though, because all in all, church is never a place he wants to visit. But he reasons, whether it's safe or not is secondary, because it is fairly private. The back benches would allow him to collect his thoughts and they're meant to welcome everyone, even him (as long as they don't really know all that he is). And well, if this is hell (which is something that hasn't been disproven yet), that's as good a place as possible to get more info.
He crosses himself clumsily and sneaks into the third to last bench, then. Some bloke near the altar is fixing up the candles, and he smiles at him gently. Noel tries to respond in kind without getting too much attention. It's quite hard being anonymous again, really, he doesn't know how to look normal, how to drop the act.
He sits down at first, and then figures he's more likely to avoid being interrupted while he thinks if they believe he's praying. Reluctantly, he kneels down, and his joints aren't happy about it, he closes his eyes and holds his hands together as he rests his forehead against them. What does he know? He knows the city. He knows roughly that it's the early 90s. He knows he doesn't fit in. He knows his phone doesn't work. He knows his Mam's phone, his home address, Louise's address, what Liam looks like first thing in the morning.
He knows--he has to concentrate. He knows that he has some coins and notes in his wallet, he has to check whether they are the old notes or if he won't be able to use them due to the year they're from. He knows he has some jewelry on himself and the place of a good no-questions-asked pawn shop nearby, where they would bring some gear they stole when they were younger. He knows how to play guitar, how to sing. With his current skills he might actually be good enough to get the singer spot in the Inspiral Carpets, but he knows that he can't do that.
He knows how to lay brickwork, and dig ditches, and lay pipes. He knows how to flip coke and E to rich kids at the Haçienda. He--if he has to build a new life all over again (and die before the turn of the millennium), he's ready to do that.
That would be the life he actually deserved, after all.
He also knows that he wants to see Liam. He knows that he can't let that happen. And there is some rotten, painful comfort in knowing that this is the one thing that is still the same as it has been over the past fifteen years (thirty years ahead).
He gets back up then, the pain in his knees starting to bother him (hardened wood fairly different from the fancy mats at the gym), and he slumps into the seat, wondering how appropriate it would be to start looking through his coins while that altar bloke is still around.
He has all his coins and notes laid out by him, noticing in despair his crisp 50s are brand new and there is only one fiver from before 2002. At least the coins could be used, people wouldn't look at them that closely. All 2.50 pounds of them.
He's trying to remember roughly how long that could sustain him, if that's a meal or not, when the altar boy whispers gently at him, "Good morning, are you here for confession?" For a second, Noel thinks it might be a test, a sign... he opens his mouth, no sound manages to make it out of his mouth before the other man continues, "That starts in about an hour, but you're welcome to join us for the adoration of the Sacred Sacrament meanwhile, that will start shortly."
That brings him back to reality. There's no fucking answers here after all.
"Thank you, I'll come back later," he replies through an awkward smile. The bloke nods and walks away. Noel gathers his belongings and organizes them in his pockets. Pawnable jewelry and usable coins in his left pocket. His wallet and irreplaceables (his wedding ring, his ruby ring, his green and silver claddagh) in his right.
He stands up, shoves his wallet and phone in his back pockets, pulls his shirt down to cover them.
If this is his new life, he's going to get some funds and get drunk first thing and see where that takes him.
Hopefully, not back to Burnage.
He has managed to avoid thinking for a good fifteen minutes, until the bloke at the pawn shop tries to short him.
"200?! Listen mate, this is--" Noel starts, but it hits him. Brands don't matter here. Fucking designer bracelet? It's getting melted anyway. It's probably stolen. It's-- "Give me 300 for the chain and bracelet. Your sign says 5 quid per gram, that's nearly 70."
An inkling of rage flares in his stomach, then, because that fucking pawn shop owner probably scammed them dozens of times. He wants to blame Liam for it, but truth was Noel was the one to find it. Liam had been twelve.
Thank God for his business accumen now, he guesses. He had, what? The equivalent of probably two whole months on the dole in his left pocket, now.
He has no idea how much things cost, nowadays. He has no idea which of his so-called-friends he could crash with for a few days. He knows where the pubs are, though. He knows Liam is somewhere out there.
He wishes he could stop thinking about Liam.
He's still a couple blocks away, he's starting to doubt he'll make it. The real weight of it all is finally getting to him when he hears it.
"Hey, moneybags! Got a cig?," a nasal, high-pitched voice he'd recognize anywhere.
He turns around so fast he half-loses his balance, and the boy several feet away takes a step back himself in shock.
At first, Liam's eyes widen in confusion, then his eyebrows knit in the middle, and within a second he's back to his aloof demeanor, although still squinting slightly.
Noel has no idea what he must look like at the moment, he has no control over his body. His mouth runs dry, his heart aches and this is it, this is how he dies.
Then, as if completely unaware of the effect he has, Liam licks his lips and asks again, "Got a cig?"
Whatever he thought hell was, now he's going to find out for real.
"No," he manages to say, and Liam looks taken aback for a second, as if he had never considered a response to that perfectly natural reply. But, before he speaks, Noel has managed to find his next sentence. "If-- if you tell me where, we can buy some, though," he says, and the kid hits him with that curious smirk he pulled while playing chicken.
"Alright, then," Liam says, and he should be worried about the amused tone in the kid's voice, but when he signals with his head for Noel to follow him, he does.
Because if this is hell, then he might as well earn it.