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Noel can’t remember the last time he slept. Thousands of pinpricks behind his eyelids, his feet feel like mush and the music doesn’t sound right. Noel’s teeth dig into the insides of his cheek and he’s trying to keep his tongue under control. Everything hurts. It’s snowing, it’s fucking snowing in New York City. Noel hates when everything is wet and slippery but the whiskey in the hot chocolate mug is an added bonus, he supposes.
Noel Gallagher, the fucking optimist.
“Wrap this up,” he says to no one in particular.
Both Bonehead and Gem look at him on the couch, a sorry excuse for a boss, and exchange worried glances. Noel has been down since he got into the studio at five in the morning and he’s fully aware that he’s being difficult to deal with. Leaving his shoes and his coat and his sunglasses anywhere, changing lines that piss him off or remind him too much of home. Noel wants to go home. He hasn’t been home for Christmas in close to three years.
“‘K boss.” Bonehead says, motioning to the artist from their side of the glass and Noel closes his eyes. Bad idea. His eyes are flaming hot, and he motions to Gem to refill his mug. Alcohol sloshes around Noel’s mouth. The exhaustion won’t go away.
He does want to go home. The big Christmas trees, the snow everywhere, the puffy coats and the alcoholics on every corner make Noel want to go home. He’s tired, deep down to his bones and he wants to go home. He has Bonehead call the car around for him, New York’s cold weather biting at his ankles and he crashes into the backseat, dreaming of his mother’s Sunday roast and he wants to go home. Home.
He doesn’t think about it often — the reason for not going back. He thinks of those gorgeous blue eyes, raspy voice in his ears early in the morning, smoke blown in his face. Noel really should’ve eaten his breakfast because in the backseat of his car, everything is starting to make him feel sick. He looks out the window, at the streets, the people on the crossing and he sees —
Doesn’t matter how swanky the interior of his new limousine is, doesn’t matter how loud the music his driver plays is, doesn’t matter that he’s got three messages in his inbox from Sara — the world seems to slow when Noel looks out the window, New York City at his feet, and sees his brother on a bicycle, same pair of baby blue eyes that have been looking up at him since Noel was five.
Fucking Liam Gallagher. There’s no escape, even three thousand miles away from home.
It can’t be him, Noel thinks, as he speeds by his brother. He’s watching the traffic lights, eyes glittering from the Christmas decorations put up everywhere and his lips, slightly parted and wet, making him look like a whore who’s just begging for it. Like he always did. Liam’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ears like he’s fucking Gordon Ramsay, a trunk on his bicycle that reads Uncle Lou and Noel could lose track of everything in the world, but he could never forget the way Liam looks, the way Liam smells, the way Liam’s eyes used to brighten up at the sight of Noel. Not so much anymore, of course, courtesy of the bridges Noel burned when he decided to move across the world just to escape Liam Gallagher.
It’s fucking insane, it can’t be him and yet it is. It’s him. There’s no doubt about it. The only person who could pull off a delivery uniform is Noel’s brother. Noel wants to drink himself into oblivion.
He should call Mam and ask her how she managed to keep this from Noel for longer than two minutes. How’s he here? How’d he get the money? Why, why, why, of course, and he knows what their mother is going to say. He just wanted to be close to you, Noely, you know this. You know how much Liam loves you. Damn right, Noel knows how much Liam loves him. That’s exactly the problem. Then again, maybe Liam asked her not to tell him. Liam was always the favorite.
Noel takes the elevator up to his penthouse. If he’s not wrong, Sara should be away at one of her benefits or her girlfriends’ parties or somewhere fucking some other guy and Noel could care less. The fireplace is burning up, everything smells like roses — they fucking spend a fortune on roses and tulips and lilies and billies and all of this bullshit — and Noel’s brother is here. Here. There’s no escape.
Noel reaches for the far end of the couch, the gap between the seat and the armrest where he stores his cigarettes. Sara’s got him on this vegetarian hippie diet that’s got him unable to smoke cigarettes and he’s been good all this while, he’s listened to his girlfriend’s whims and he’s made her happy but his brother is here. Here. There’s no escape.
Noel goes up to one of their many spare bedrooms, pops a window open and climbs on top of Sara’s desk to make sure that the rest of New York is inhaling the nicotine along with him. The air is fresh, vibrant and buzzing with energy and Liam, especially on a night like this, must be out somewhere dancing or singing or snorting cocaine off an American model’s tits because even though he’s an ordinary delivery boy, minimum wage worker, he’s Liam fucking Gallagher and that’s really all he needs.
Noel smokes the rest of the cigarette, his lungs begging for another hit but he’s loyal enough to his girlfriend — if you don’t count that time in Mumbai or Milan or Vienna or Berlin or Chile or Las Vegas or Reno or Bangkok or London or Manchester — so he puts it out. Mourns his peace, which surprisingly hasn’t been disturbed at all. If Liam is in New York — and is well aware that Noel is in New York, why hasn’t he reached out yet? Why hasn’t the addict begged for a hit yet? Has the effect worn off, finally, after all these years? The mere thought of it makes Noel want to light another one up.
He needs to go back to that studio tomorrow morning. He needs to finish buying Christmas presents. He needs to call Tony and find out if it’s really him.
*
“One point eight meters? He bloody well wishes, our kid. Think he’s one point five… one point six… something. I would ask Mam but you know her, Tones, she’ll start it up again. I just want to know if he’s here or if it’s the Ghost of Girlfriends Past, y’know. Christmas spirit and all that.”
“Uh huh.” Tony says on the other side of the call. “And he was delivering?”
“Chinese, yeah. Couldn’t believe me eyes, Liam doing an honest day’s work.”
Liam couldn’t hold down a job at a grocery store back home and he’s in New York on a bicycle, doing God knows what, God knows why and Noel needs to know. He’s got an hour before he’s supposed to be at the studio and Uncle Lou’s is on his usual route. Funny how Noel had never noticed it before. He opts for one of his subdued cars because it’s still morning and he doesn’t want Liam to get an early hint and jet off like a rabbit with a lion on its arse. Not that Liam would ever use his brain for things like this.
It smells like scallion pancakes, cold sesame noodles, deliciously fried Szechuan wontons and Noel’s mouth waters. He hasn’t eaten in days. Weeks. Months. Hours. Wait, he’s starting to lose track of everything. He hasn’t slept in hours. He has slept. He just woke up two hours ago. Has he showered, brushed his teeth, is he naked in the middle of this Chinese takeout place, does he want pork or beef or chicken?
He takes ‘em all. He’s rich and he’s young and he’s in New York fucking City. He’ll get pork and beef and chicken.
The cashier stares at him angrily as he doesn’t give her tender exact change. He clears his throat, tries to look past her loud makeup and pink lipstick and says, “Liam work for you?”
She blinks at him. “Who?”
Noel sighs. Takes the wontons that she hands him. It smells delicious and he hasn’t eaten in days. “Liam. Gallagher Wears weird fucking jackets everywhere.” He pauses, then tries again when she blinks at him again. “Delivery boy.”
She opens her mouth in an ahhhhhhhh kind of realization, nodding in understanding. She runs a hand through her hair, points to the clock and holds up one finger, no need to elaborate as to which one. “Late,” she says, precise and succinct even through her thick accent. “Fuckin’ bastard.”
Noel doesn’t even ask her why she hasn’t fired him yet because it’s the same reason why Noel didn’t beat the lights out of him when he caught Liam swiping his pocket money. It’s Liam. You just can’t do Liam any wrong. It’s those eyes and it’s those tears and it’s that mouth and Noel holds his bag of food close to his chest like it can defend him from God’s wrath that’s no doubt about to rain down upon him. He tips her, thanks her, leaves and heads back to the studio.
Liam got to New York three months ago, Tony says, and during none of those ninety days did Liam ever think to reach out to Noel. He doesn’t know what to think or how to feel about that. Bonehead and Gem absolutely demolish the wontons. Noel needs coffee, coffee, more coffee to make this music sound right. This girl is ruining everything.
“Man, I’m feelin’ Chinese for lunch.” Gem says, grabbing for the landline as he dials a number off a non-descript pamphlet. Noel can’t read Chinese, he has no idea what the characters on that takeout menu say. He wants Singapore Mei Fun and spring rolls and egg-drop soup and a stone-cold Guinness and he sort of wants to see Liam. In a sick way, wants Liam to see how well he’s done for himself without Liam anywhere around him. Good luck charm, his arse. Noel did all of this without Liam. He wants to see what Liam will say about that.
Liam doesn’t deliver their Uncle Lou’s food. It’s a fifteen-year old boy and the boxes are larger than him and Noel does feel sorry for him for a bit, before he remembers his days in construction. He would’ve delivered takeout, no fucking sweat. The egg-drop soup is delicious, it tastes just like Liam, dangerously hot and borderline addicting.
Noel smokes another one in the car, rolling one window down and it isn’t snowing. They stop at a red light, even though Noel wants to drive past it, just for the sake of it. If he can, he should. But across the street, leaning against the fucking signal is Liam. It’s Liam. Noel blinks and blinks again and Liam just isn’t disappearing in a puff of smoke. He isn’t a mirage, that’s actually him, that’s actually Liam and —
He’s smoking. He’s holding the cigarette exactly how Noel taught him to — not that there’s any other way to do it, but Noel likes taking credit for things, the universe owes him — and he hasn’t cut his hair in weeks. To untrained eyes, it may seem that way. But Noel knows better than anyone that Liam cares about his hair. He fucking cares about everything, that’s always been his bloody problem and oh, it looks like he’s been working out, all that effort lugging around boxes of rice is paying off because he looks good, he looks good —
“Follow him.” Noel says, pointing at Liam who’s crossing the street, and thankfully, he pays his driver enough not to ask any questions.
They discreetly follow Liam down streets. Noel is starting to wonder if he’s hired James Bond or some secret operative from MI6 because it isn’t funny just how good he is at this. Liam takes a right, they take a right, Liam takes a left, they take a left. And finally, Liam gets home. He says something into a speaker and someone buzzes him in. Someone buzzes him in. Noel is about to pull a few teeth out.
It takes him a few hours but he makes it back home — not home, his penthouse, important distinction to be made here — and Sara isn’t home yet. Noel has no idea where she is. He hails a cab back to his brother’s apartment with whatever sleazy whore he’s shacked up with and Noel is in the mood for murder. He hasn’t slept in days. Weeks. Years. Hours. It’s impossible to tell.
He’s still got his fortune cookie from this afternoon. He grabs at the chit with oily fingers as a woman leaves the apartment building. Something in Noel’s gut tells him it’s Liam’s bird. To be sure of hitting your target, shoot first, then call whatever you hit the target. Funny. Liam surely would think so.
Noel walks up to the intercom, leans into the speaker. The taxi cab driver is gone so it’s just him on this lonely street in the middle of the night. Noel is a hundred percent confident that he’s going to be jumped very soon, he’s definitely cute enough. He hits a few wrong apartment numbers and gets cussed out. Typical New York. This whole thing has been a goose chase. Maybe Noel’s eyes were playing tricks on him and that wasn’t Liam after all. Just remnants of his guilty conscience.
Noel hits one last button. He’s two minutes from being stabbed, kudos Liam for picking the safest neighborhood in the safest city in the world. It buzzes to life. “Hullo?” Liam’s voice says and Noel forgets what he’s supposed to be saying.
He hasn’t heard Liam’s voice in years. The last thing Liam ever said to him was to go fuck himself. That was very many years ago and Noel hasn’t slept for most of them. The fortune cookie is stuck in some of the crevices between his teeth. Liam sounds inviting and exhausted and it begins to snow. To be sure of hitting your target, shoot first, then call whatever you hit the target. Noel chews on the inside of his cheek, brushing off the snow that’s landing in his hair and on his shoulders and he coughs into the intercom.
“Hi.” Noel says. “It’s me, our kid.”
Radio silence. It’s the longest minute of Noel’s life.
The door buzzes open.
The elevator is out of order, so Noel takes the stairs. His knees creak with complaint because Noel can’t remember the last time he had to walk more than five steps in a place and he’s huffing for breath by the time he makes it to Liam’s apartment. Correction, Patsy Kensit’s apartment. Noel needs to pull his teeth out so he can feel anything other than this sickness in his gut.
He doesn’t know what to expect. The last time he really saw Liam back home, their last conversation was him telling Liam that he’s leaving for New York and Liam — fuck, Liam on his knees, begging Noel to stay, crying and kicking and screaming and Mam wasn’t home — Noel remembers this. He remembers how hot and sticky his room felt, Liam’s skin tasting like orange peels because his bird back then was in cosmetology school and she loved putting these weird face masks on him — Noel remembers this. He remembers his brother kissing him, telling him that he loves him (I love you, I love you, I don’t love anyone more than I love you, I love you like you won’t understand, but you understand, right? Noely?) and Noel remembers getting on the flight anyway. Without a final goodbye.
He doesn’t know what to expect.
Noel knocks on the door. When the door creaks open, Noel gets his very first glance at his baby brother in years. Swollen, sunken in eyes. Shaggy haircut. A jacket that’s two sizes too large for his frame and Noel can’t see those muscles that Liam has been building up anymore.
Frankly, he hasn’t thought about this moment at all. When he left Manchester, he never thought he’d see Liam again and now that he’s confronted with the sum of all his desires, Noel goes to open his mouth. Say something.
Thankfully, Liam starts the conversation for him. With a punch to the gut.
It’s the way brothers are. Always at each other’s throats. One moment, Liam’s trying to bite his ear off, the other moment Noel’s got a fistful of Liam’s hair and he’s yanking and they’re on the floor and Liam’s — or rather, Patsy’s lamp is knocked over, coffee table glass shattered — and Noel is looking up at Liam, those big blue eyes and fuck, Liam has always been gorgeous but he’s a looker with that bust lip, frayed hair and Noel is finally breathing again.
“Look at you,” Liam sneers, straddling Noel’s hips as he grabs Noel’s fur coat. Not much of a faithful vegetarian, Noel is. “Proper fucking prissy fuck, Noely.”
And it’s the sound of his name from Liam’s mouth and Noel is being pushed underwater. There’s a litter of bruises by Liam’s clavicle. Noel picks at it, traces it with his fingers and asks, “Patsy Kensit?”
Liam shrugs. In a very Liam way. “Don’t know. Can’t remember.”
“I was out to buy you a Christmas present.” Noel says.
“I don’t want anything from you,” Liam replies, and it sounds half-hearted even to him with the way Liam physically deflates, product of his angry childhood but not enough to sustain it for long.
Noel, with the confidence of a thousand suns, “Don’t lie to me.”
And Liam’s eyes glimmer like they’ve got a thousand stars trapped behind them, small grin on his lips and Noel gets rewarded for his efforts with Liam’s mouth on his. It’s the way brothers are. Always at each other’s throats.
It’s snowing outside. Liam’s skin doesn’t taste like stale orange peels anymore. Liam’s mouth trails from Noel’s chest to his stomach and when Noel sinks into the warm heat of Liam’s mouth, he sees heaven for that split second. The worry and the exhaustion seeping from his bones. Through his bangs, Liam looks up at him, big large blue cornflower blue eyes and he shines brighter than Patsy’s knocked over lamp. His heart in his throat, Noel runs his fingers through Liam’s hair and locks him in place.
Liam’s got cigarettes in his jeans pocket. They watch television, cuddled up in Patsy’s bed, on Patsy’s sheets and the penthouse has never felt less inviting. He thinks of the fireplace and he thinks of how it could never beat Liam’s body heat, shared between the two of them. Liam holds the cigarette to his lips and Noel breathes in, smoke filling his lungs.
He’s the richest man in the world.
*