Chapter Text
The Cock & Bull is a decent pub. It’s one of those old-school corner types, run under the same management for decades and never bothering to change its decor beyond installing a television or two, so it’s all dark wood paneling and worn rugs and cozy warm lighting, and the undying stench of spilled beer of years past.
Noel’s been coming here since he was still in school, because the owner, Bill, doesn’t pay too close attention to IDs— or what you bring into his bathrooms— so long as you’ve got the money to pay your tab. He also always shows the City matches and doesn't even mind too much if your gang gets rowdy, so long as you don’t start a fight; Bill’s got a strict no fighting rule. And even better, it’s not so far from Noel’s new flat to be an unpleasant schlep home when he’s pissed.
As with all pubs, it does get pretty crowded on weekends and match days, but it’s also a nice place to come and unwind after work, or a long day looking for work, or a long day lying on your bed thinking about looking for work. Noel’s been a frequent patron for all three; these days the Inspirals crew will stop in for a drink or dinner after rehearsal or a local gig, but many a night Noel has found himself in a booth with his Haçienda mates, dozing into a pint as he comes down off the club high, trying to stave off daylight a few hours more.
This night, however, is a bit of a novelty. Noel’s got plans to head to the Haçienda later, but at the moment he’s sat on a stool at the bar with his eyes fixed on the door, though he’s trying valiantly to look like he doesn’t. Last week he’d met a girl backstage at an Inspirals show and she’d been light-years out of his league, model-gorgeous and taller than him— though admittedly that’s not too rare a feat— and yet still she’d leaned on his arm and flirted and given him a generous look down her low-cut blouse, and said yes when he’d stammeringly asked for her number. He’d figured he’d just meet up with her again at a club or another gig, but when he rang she’d suggested they meet here, and Noel’d been too distracted by the memory of her glossy brown hair curling against her collarbone to do anything but agree.
He fucking knows he’s being twitchy. His knee’s bouncing and his shoulders are practically up at his ears under his jacket, but he can’t help the skitter of nerves under his skin. He’s not yet practiced at more than getting his hand up a bird’s skirt and doing her up against a dark alley wall; he certainly doesn’t take them to fucking dinner, or buy them a drink in a place they don’t have to shout to hear each other. The Cock & Bull isn’t helping him much, either, despite his years of loyalty: their stereo system must be broken, because there's just faint radio playing from the back, a scratchy soft rock station that only serves to make the evening patron chatter and clinking of glasses all the more painfully audible.
He’s on the verge of just booking it, saving his ego the bruising it has in store when she inevitably realizes what a colossal mistake she’s made now that they’re out of the smoky backstage haze. But just as he’s resolved to split, a figure appears in front of him behind the counter, and he hears an all too familiar voice.
“What’ll it be? Vodka cran? It’d help that nasty itch you got.”
It’s Liam, grinning at Noel from where he’s stood behind the bar in employees-only territory, haloed by the gleaming wall of liquor bottles behind him.
Noel frowns. “The fuck you doing here? Why’re you back there?”
“Got a job, didn’t I?” Liam answers, like that’s obvious.
The kid does, in fact, have on one of those black waist aprons the staff wears, but he probably just nicked it off a counter for a joke. “Did you fuck. Get out from there before you get us both thrown out,” Noel tells him.
“I’m serious. Ask Bill. I’m a barman, me.” It’s not that simple with Liam, though, Noel knows. Never is.
“Not a chance. What, did you run out on the check? Start a fight?” The grin drops and Liam’s eyes go shifty, which means Noel’s right. He smirks just to watch Liam scowl. “You did, didn’t you. And now Bill’s got you working off your debt. Who were you fighting? What’d you break? I hope you won, at least. Can’t have a twat for a brother.”
“You’re the fuckin’ twat, twat.”
The plucky opening notes of a Billy Joel tune float their way from the shitty radio. Noel snaps his fingers. “The stereo! You broke the stereo, didn’t you?” He laughs when Liam’s scowl deepens further. Right again. “Better than pissing on it, I guess, but why’d he give you a job ‘stead of havin’ you arrested? You’re just gonna break even more shit back there. What do you know about working a bar?”
“Know plenty ‘bout drinking at one, don’t I? Same thing.”
“Y’know barmen can’t drink on the clock.”
“Can’t pour one meself, yeah, but can’t say no if someone buys one for me, neither.” Liam wags his eyebrows meaningfully. Noel scoffs.
“I’m not buying you a drink.”
Liam sticks out his tongue, because he’s actually four years old. “Yeah, well, you can’t sit here if you don’t buy one for yourself either, eh, cunt. So what’ll it be?”
“Hold your horses, will you? I’m waiting for someone.” Noel’d almost forgotten his real reason for being here, caught up in Liam. It’s an effect he’s well used to: the kid’s like gum on the bottom of your shoe. If you’re not careful, he’ll stick in all your grooves.
Only it was the wrong thing to say, because now Liam’s interested. He leans in, propping his elbows on the bartop. “Who?”
Noel’s knee resumes bouncing. “None of your fucking business.”
“Do I know them?”
“Shut it.”
“Is it a bird?”
“Fuck off.”
“It is, isn’t it? Noely G, ladykiller.”
Noel fights to keep his cheeks from heating. “If it is, you’ll just scare her off when she sees yer ugly mug, so get lost.”
Mercifully, he’s spared any more bickering by the arrival of another couple patrons at the other end of the bar, whereupon Liam grumbles under his breath, but— to Noel’s immense surprise— shoves off the bar to go greet them, like an actual proper barman. Though he does flip Noel off as he goes.
Left to himself again, Noel tries to refocus on the door, but he keeps Liam in his periphery— another old habit, from the days Liam would trail after him like an eager puppy you had to stop from wandering into traffic.
But he’s also more than a little curious to see his brother in this new element. He’s never seen Liam be servile before; the kid’s always been the one being waited on hand and foot, spoiled rotten as the youngest child, though that’s also probably mostly Noel’s fault. What with their mam always working and Paul fucking off who knows where, Noel was the one charged with making Liam his tea and keeping him entertained when he was little, which often just meant giving in to whatever would shut him up the fastest.
Regardless, the kid’s always been contrary for the hell of it, refusing to clean his teeth or his side of the room or put on a coat even when he was cold unless Noel was the one to zip it up for him, so how he’s going to take people’s orders for shit tips without raising a stink, Noel has no idea.
But as he watches Liam smile amiably at the couple before setting to making their drinks, he wonders if maybe this is somehow a new, adult Liam, freshly 18 as he is. It’s been a while since their paths have crossed, not since Noel got the roadie job and the new flat and hasn’t been able to stop in at his mam’s as often, and the passage of time makes itself known: Liam’s hair is longer— though not as long as Noel’s yet— and while he’s been taller than Noel for years now, he’s grown even more this past summer, broader in the shoulders, more angular in the jaw. He’s still the face Noel knows better than his own, though. His eyelashes are still ridiculously long in profile, his eyes still wide and blue as the sky, and his skin still glows golden even in the dim bar lighting.
Noel’s mouth is a little dry. Maybe he should’ve ordered a drink after all.
Then the front door opens, and his date walks in. She waves when she spots Noel, and he glances Liam’s direction again before he can stop himself. Nor can he stamp down on the little flare of pride in his chest when he sees Liam’s eyebrows rocket up his forehead, because of course Liam’s been on the lookout too, fixed on Noel as he ever is.
Noel stands to greet her and she kisses his cheek, and then he’s helping her onto the seat and signaling for a bartender. But even though he can feel Liam’s eyes on them, the kid doesn’t return to take their orders, too occupied with a group of blokes in business suits that have gathered at the other end. So it’s one of the usual waitstaff who pours Noel and his date their drinks. Noel shoves down his dismay.
The evening goes pleasantly enough, even with the awkward sound level. He and his date make polite small talk for a while, but Noel’d been right: there’s not much in the way of sparks now, out here in the open. It’s always easier to be someone else when you’re shrouded in the fog of smoke machines, unable to piece together a full impression in the strobing lights. Easier to lose yourself in music and sensation rather than try to keep sounding clever in conversation.
It especially doesn’t help that he feels a bit like he’s performing now, with his little riveted audience of one behind the counter. But Liam’s kept busy enough that he doesn’t pass them again, not even to make a teasing remark that Noel'd pretend to disapprove of but privately delight in. Nor does Liam reappear when they finish their drinks— neither of them suggesting food or a second round— and Noel pays the tab, or when Noel helps her into her coat and they head out.
He can feel Liam’s eyes following, though, hot as a brand on his neck. But he doesn’t look behind him.
(He does still make the girl come, later, his hand up her skirt in the alley behind the Haçienda, and she returns the favor on her knees, but she doesn’t say anything about meeting up again as they straighten their clothes, and he doesn’t ask. For some reason, he finds he’s not that disappointed.)