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Here’s the thing about Liam Gallagher: For as much as people liked to pretend to know him, pretend that they could read him and anticipate his actions, Liam was reduced to a sort of animal. This was an incorrect reading of the man, of course, who despite his faults was still a very smart, charming, funny person-- this last characteristic seemed to evade most people, who couldn’t fathom the idea of Liam being funny or God forbid lying for the sake of comedy. Somehow (perhaps due to Noel’s constant preaching that Liam was too simple-minded and incoherent) everyone had convinced themselves that he was dumb.
Graham knew that he wasn’t, not like it was a huge surprise-- anyone who thought about it for more than a second would be able to realize this obvious fact, and still somehow it escaped them.
Still, Graham couldn’t fault them for assuming that he was dumb. It would be too unfair to give him even more credit. To think that Liam--sweet doe-eyed Liam, siren-like Liam--could be as imposing as he was, as beautiful as he was, as commanding as he was and still have even more good qualities was too much. Almost unfair. He needed to have faults, but his actual faults--his addictions, his inhuman capacity for violence--were too unsavory. Liam being dumb, however, fit him just right, didn’t it? Made him more palatable, easier to forgive. Easier to consume. Wordlier.
Graham wished Liam was dumb. He did. He wished the frontman could be stupid and a caricature of a typical Manchester hooligan and leave him be. But that was too much to ask for, wasn’t it? Because Graham didn’t ever get what he wanted. It was like God loved Liam and, in turn, had left everyone else behind.
Because, as he tried to calm himself from a bad trip on some random balcony--the wind so harsh that he might stumble and fall over the railing by accident--, Liam stumbled upon him and shyly tried to talk him through it. When the sky felt like it was collapsing onto him, like the floor turned to quicksand, Liam’s continuous ramblings managed to pull him out just enough to calm him, though not enough to make the buzz fade.
Of course, Liam didn’t really know what to do. He didn’t think of possible solutions, procedures, who to call. All he thought to do was…be there, in the moment, distracting Graham and talking to him, looking at him with cow eyes, smiling when Graham said something funny even if he wasn’t being funny, holding his hand when they finally sat down and sharing his drink even though, by that point, it was nearly lukewarm and disgusting. God. It was like he was back in school, going through a downer and having one of the popular girls take pity on him and do her best to cheer him up.
And of course, in turn, Graham’s heart betrayed him. Of course he wasn’t immune to Liam’s otherwordly-wordly charm. Of course Liam’s eyes met his and he felt like the air had been punched out of him. Of course he glanced down at Liam’s plump girly lips and found them slightly parted, peachy, enticing, enchanting, inviting.
Of course Liam didn’t pull away when Graham held him in shaky hands and inched closer, closer, and--unlike himself, as if bewitched by the frontman--actually kissed him. Kissed him like it was his first ever kiss, lips pressed together and skin flourishing while everything around them came to a screeching halt, his hands still holding Liam’s jaw like he was forcing himself onto him, even though Liam’s own hand held onto Graham’s to keep it against his face.
It was…
It was…good. That was the worst thing about it. It was a good kiss, even compared to the myriads of actual open-mouth tongue kisses that he’d had. This kiss, childish and clumsy and not even a real kiss, left Graham speechless. God, how embarrassing.
When it was all over, Liam still looked at him with those marveled eyes. Like the feeling, the fairytale-esque I’ve never felt like this before…, was mutual. Graham looked down at himself, shirt soaked in sweat and alcohol, hands dirty with grime, his posture slightly slouched. He must’ve looked, felt, tasted like shit. Vomit, even though he was still to reach that particular milestone that night. His eyes eventually glanced back up, and he was met with Liam Gallagher’s face as he zoned off-- probably still reeling from the shock. How embarrassing.
“I’m…” He started, his voice small, “I’m sorry. I- I don’t know why I did…”
Liam glanced at him, more relaxed than expected, sending him spiraling all over again.
“...that.” He finished, realizing that he’d lost his train of thought when looking into his eyes. Siren-like indeed, wasn’t he? God, that was stupid. “Sorry. Sorry.”
As best as he could, he managed to pull himself together. Anxiety consumed him. He tugged at his shirt, wiped his palm on its fabric, wiped his forehead, fixed his glasses-- all under the watchful eyes of Liam, who only spoke when Graham ran out of things to distract himself with.
“It’s…fine,” He tilted his head, as if surprised by his own calmness, “‘s good.”
Graham paused, stunned. “Is it?”
“Yeah.” Liam insisted, his tone casual, “Didn’t know you were a poof, though.”
There it is.
“I’m not!” Graham shot back quickly, stumbling over his words, his muscles tensing instinctively.
Poof meant trouble, meant he was about to be pinned to a wall and breathed down on and punched. Poof was poisonous, so of course Liam used it as naturally as he used any other word.
“‘m not a poof.”
He said it more to himself than to Liam then, trying to reassure himself, trying to make it come true somehow, like he was wishing upon a star. A mantra, something he’d said a million times throughout his life to everyone he knew. I’m not a poof, I’m not a poof.
When his eyes landed on Liam again, he saw the shadow of a smirk on his face. Quickly, however, he hid it by caressing the bridge of his nose and looking away. If Graham had been tougher, more like the young man before him, he would’ve grabbed at Liam’s shirt and asked what’s so funny? without it sounding ridiculous. As it was, however, all he could do was stare in disbelief.
“You’re not?” Liam asked, looking far too innocent as he did.
“I’m not.” Graham breathed. “I’m not, Liam.”
He hummed, nodding, “...Right.”
God, are you there? Kill me now, please.
“Could’ve fuckin’ fooled me,” he continued, “but I get it, I s’pose. Not the first time a lad fuckin’ ‘s come onto me, d’you know what I mean? ‘s like they can’t help themselves.”
They can’t help themselves. What an odd way of saying it, Graham thought, sufficiently undone as to let his muscles relax. Was Liam…not angry? No, that couldn’t be.
He frowned slightly, his brown eyes scanning the young man’s figure. Dressed in a signature oversized jumper, his frizzled hair framing his face and his Lennon-style glasses nowhere to be seen. His face, Graham determined, was too relaxed to tell if he was lying or not-- if he was being funny or not. It drove him mad.
Why wasn’t he angry? Why did he speak so casually? Why did he hold Graham’s hand when they kissed? Why did he accept his apology?
He wasn’t “above it all” like his brother liked to pretend he was, in fact Liam would allow himself to go lower than needed. He wasn’t past name-calling and mocking, still young enough that they were valid torment tactics, still charming enough that everyone followed his lead in whatever interaction he found himself in. What did this mean, then? If they were both alone, if Liam let it be, if he allowed it to roll off his tongue with such ease when he forgave Graham…was he-- did he want Graham to forgive himself? Not to worry? Did he expect his lead to be followed even if it was only the two of them in that balcony?
He clicked his tongue, still troubled, “Right.”
“t’was a shit kiss though.” Liam smirked, “Do you kiss all your birds like that?”
It was like he was trying to give him whiplash.
“Huh? No, no I don’t- this is- Jesus.”
“Yeah, Jesus. God-like, wasn’t it? For you, anyway. Say it, c’mon.”
“Say what, Liam? What are you talking about?”
“‘m a great fuckin’ kisser. Can’t have you ruinin’ my score,” He sat up straight, looking at Graham straight in the eyes, “goin’ ‘round talkin’ ‘bout how I froze up ‘n shit, like I’m a fuckin’ bird. Nah, man. Come here. Get it right.”
He looked at the Oasis frontman with incredulous eyes. Is this real life?
Before Graham could process the mancunian’s words through the slur and the speed at which they spewed out of his mouth, Liam slid closer and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Closer.
He wanted to protest, God he wanted to protest, but when Liam held his face so tenderly and looked at him with an unknowable fire in his eyes--determination, like he was trying to score a goal--, Graham found that he was putty in his hands. He melted, he did. He looked back up at Liam, almost whining as he scanned the face of a man who’d been tormenting him for months through tabloids, and closed his eyes when Liam lowered himself closer to his face.
Now, Liam’s everything felt too tender to be his. When his fingers caressed his skin, they felt so good that they sent shivers down his spine. They didn’t have the callouses that every musician had, which rather than envy or mocking made Graham feel like he could cry--Liam was too good to be asked to do anything other than sing, was he? Too precious, too delicate--at the tenderness of them. He wanted to kiss those hands, feel their velvet smoothness against his own callouses, bite down on the too-soft skin and consume it like a communion wafer. A feast that would be his undoing, surely, and Graham felt--knew--that he didn’t care if it was. If his hands alone were enough to turn him into an animal, what would Liam’s kiss feel like?
When he kissed him, he started with his cheek--romantic, far too loving for the position they were in and the place where they were--then the corner of his mouth, and finally--finally--his lips. It was a series of quick pecks at first, though each kiss was longer and longer. Longer wasn’t enough. He wanted--needed--more.
A moan died in his throat, desperate. Graham’s hands reached for Liam’s waist, finding it smaller than expected under the jumper he wore, and his legs parted to make space-- space that Liam was quick to fill, a smile on his lips as he dove in again. Then, Liam did something unexpected: he separated and grabbed Graham’s glasses off his face, not giving him time to ask why before diving back in and-- ah, he could’ve drowned in the kiss and died a happy man. He tilted his head to fit in better against Liam’s, briefly wondering how those eyelashes felt against skin and smiling at the thought, parting his lips enough for Liam to take the kiss even further, deeper, and slide his tongue into his mouth.
That was it, then.
One of Liam’s hands slid from the side of his face and up towards his hair, running its fingers through it and making Graham see static even with closed eyes, while his other hand slid behind his neck and around it. Graham was trapped, caged into a kiss that--at the moment--he couldn’t imagine ever ending, He wouldn’t allow it to end if he could help it, his own arms wrapping themselves around Liam’s torso, his hands feeling the texture of the wool of his jumper, digging in and trying to feel skin. Greedy.
The kiss tasted like nothing Graham had ever tasted in his life--wonder, nirvana, a fucking champagne supernova, whatever that was--, and he found that everything he’d ever done in his life had lead him to this very moment, the culmination of everything he had worked for, the peak of his life and his youth and his humanity. Fuck did he like it. He loved it, felt like life without this kiss wouldn’t have been worth living, like there was a before and after, like the Big Bang had been nothing compared to the implosion currently occurring within Graham, deep in his soul.
Ego death. Celestial.
His hand clutched Liam harder, wanting him even closer, closer than possible. In turn, Liam let out a sort-of moan within his throat. It was lovely, lovely, and though it felt impossible--sinful--to want more from him, Graham decided that he wanted to hear more of those delicious moans. How? He didn’t quite know.
It was odd, unlike himself, to feel such desperation. Desperation, the need to take, take Liam. Was that how his fans felt? Was this the rush they were seeking when they turned up to Oasis’ concerts? No, how could they ever know? How could they ever fathom the feeling of-- of this? This, this sin. How could Liam have dared deny Graham this for so long? He’d been so good, so good, so, so…
Liam’s hand, the one that had been caressing Graham’s hair before, slid downward and pressed down onto his windpipe. He gasped, electrified, and opened his eyes just as Liam started to pull away from him. Too soon, he felt, so soon that his brain hadn’t had time to catch up and his hands still clung onto the wool of Liam’s jumper, unable to help themselves, as if Liam would take pity on him if he begged hard enough. Graham looked up, his eyes unfocused, dizzy, and found that Liam was in a similar state.
Liam, whose eyes were always unfocused and nearly post-orgasmic, whose doll-like skin was covered in dried sweat and looked so ready to bite into, looked down at him with the same wonder that he’d had after their first kiss. Behind him, Graham swore that the dingy, warm yellow light of the lantern on the wall gave Liam a halo. Fitting, he thought, for such a heavenly being.
He realized that Liam was breathing a little rapidly, out of breath, and his fingers could feel the beating of his heart through the layers of clothes. Graham swallowed, thinking--shyly--of how his heart must feel skin to skin. He wanted to bite down onto him, wondering how Liam’s pulse would flow as his teeth trapped any bit of skin and flesh he could manage to catch.
He knew what he’d done, that monster. Liam knew, for sure, the effect that he’d had on Graham. He must’ve known, when he allowed his soft hands to grasp onto Graham, that he was about to ruin him for anyone else-- he’d dug himself deep into his psyche, deep enough to hold onto his very soul, mold it to his liking, much like a child would clutch onto a lump of clay without thinking of the repercussions, the consequences of its violent touch.
He thought of the electricity that was coursing through his body, the supernatural need that he had--still--to latch onto Liam, how his empty eyes, for once, pierced through Graham and he was able to see everything and anything all at once.
“That’s how you do it, glasses.” Liam grinned, breathing a laugh as Graham looked at him with wide entranced eyes, “Y’ better ‘ave taken notes, eh? ‘m not gonna show you twice.”
He tilted his head, sniffed, caressed the bridge of his nose and, finally, turned to the door.
“Y’ look a fuckin’ mess. Fix yerself before comin’ back.”
And just like that, Liam Gallagher left. Left him with his heart on his hands, his glasses forgotten somewhere on the floor, Liam’s pint forgotten and spilled next to where he had been sitting next to Graham.
He wished that he’d taken Graham’s glasses with him, so that at least Graham could follow after him and keep even the slightest bit of dignity as he trailed after him. As it was, however, all Graham could do was stay there, like a dog, breathing hard and looking at the now-closed door like he was praying.
What an idiot Liam was, what a selfish idiot, for giving Graham a taste of heaven and expect him to go on with his life.