Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1993, Chiswick 

She hasn’t let him come inside her, but they’ve been more reckless than they should. What would Sister Mary say now, she thinks, the ringing warning in old lectures coming to fruition.

He knows she’s late, watches her too closely, knows her body too well for her to hide it. For days, she feels his eyes move across her, sees the uncharacteristic restraint in the questions held on his tongue. 

When the seams of the silence become too much to bear, she tells him. Just enough. She sees his lips start to form the question, the hesitation in his eyes. 

If he knew, he’d never let her. If he knew, he’d never forgive her.

So she lies, says, 'I’ve been seeing Clint again.' Watches him flinch. Gives it a moment. Watches the hurt flashing across his slate blue eyes harden into a wet resolve. 

'Alright,' he says, slowly. 'Wha-what do you wanna —'

She brings a hand up to card his fringe away from his face. Her brave boy who’ll always protect her.  

'If —' he swallows. 'If you wanna —' 

He can’t bring himself to say it, but she knows what he means. If she wanted to keep it. If their Irish Catholic heritage wanted to rear its ugly head. If she wanted to be just another one in the long line of poor Irish mothers that came before her. 

He shifts his shoulders back and squares his jaw. She knows, before he says it: She can. If she wanted to, she could. She could have a child he’d dote on — more than an uncle, less than a father. She could give up the band, if she wanted. He’d give up the band, if she wanted. Get a shite job that he’d be shite at. Live a shite life of poverty and mediocrity like their mother and grandmother before them, growing fat, and weary, and leathered. 

She lets her head tilt onto his shoulder. Feels his breath ghost across the nape of her neck, the gentle press as he leans his cheek against her. Her silly, foolish boy. 

She gets it done a fortnight later. Takes a cab home alone against the nurses’ admonishment to find him waiting for her on her sofa, lips bitten, lashes wet. Lets him pull her down against him and fold her into his arms. Bone of his bones; flesh of his flesh. She can never tell him.

Chapter Text

June 2024, Maida Vale

Kat sends her a link with an ominous text: You’ll want to see this. 

Sighing, she opens the link to a grainy Youtube video. His name’s in the title, of course. The audience lets out raucous cheers as he shakes his tambourine aggressively. 

 'All right, then,' he says, tall, lean, and broad-shouldered. 'I’m gonna dedicate this song to my big sister — hey, hey — who’s still playing hard to get. But that’s all right. Been sending her chocolates, and cards, and flowers. Big fuckin’ bouquets for her big fuckin’ house. And word on the street is, she likes 'em. Dries ‘em, presses ‘em, keeps ‘em under her pillow. So, you never know, eh?'

She scoffs. He has been sending flowers every year on her birthday, through a service. (He’s allergic, the stupid boy.) She made the mistake once of sending Mam a picture — a frankly ridiculous gargantuan bouquet of white roses, taking up half the dining table. (Sara hadn’t been impressed.)

On the tiny screen, he leans into the microphone, declares, 'Sister Lover'. She freezes.  

1996, Ridge Farm Studio

It’s a late night in the studio and she’s noodling on the guitar, while he half-dozes on the sofa next to her. 

She learns forward and scribbles on a notepad: Faith in the Lord is something I can never have. Scribbles a few more lines, then crosses them out. As usual, the melody came easy, but she’s stuck on the words. 

Then, the press of a warm back against hers. His arm reaches around her to draw the pen from her grasp. 

Faith in my sister is gonna set me free, he scrawls, in that looping text he learned from her.  

She can feel his breath against her ear, as he turns to nuzzle into the crook of her neck. Carefully, she sets her guitar down. Reaches an arm up to clasp the back of his neck.

June 2024, Maida Vale

It was stupid. Stupid to put pen to paper, stupid to finish the song, stupid to record a demo. She’s tried to get it locked down, but there’s a bootleg floating around on the Internet somewhere (fuckin’ Alan, the spiteful cunt). It’s not advertised, but it’s not exactly a secret. At least they’d had the good sense to change the recorded lyrics from 'you’re my lover' to 'I'm your brother', even if they hadn’t changed the title. 

It’s the only song they’ve ever co-written, despite what the sole credit to her name suggests. 

Jesus fuck. She pauses the video, and her thumb flicks unthinkingly over to the speed dial for her lawyers, before she pauses. She knows better; denial always draws more attention. 

Tossing her phone aside, she stretches and walks to the kitchen window. Pauses, considering, before stalking back to reach for her phone again. Maybe Paul’s in. 

Chapter Text

January 1994, Monnow Valley Studio 

He’s not happy about it. 

'Should be you,' he mutters, for the umpteenth time. 

Well, if wishes were fishes. 'Don’t be daft,' she says, rehashing the same old, tired argument. 'Nobody wants to see a girl play guitar in a rock-n-roll band.'

Tony’s fumbling his way through the guitar solo in Supersonic. She wants to drown herself in the sink. 

His jaw sets mulishly. 'They’re your songs,' he points out, again for the umpteenth time. 

'Our songs,' she says absently. The grooves of this argument are well-worn and familiar. It should annoy her, but it’s comforting, having her kid give voice to the frustrations and complaints she’ll never say aloud. He’s only been doing it for sixteen years.  

Tony’s fingers slip on the strings, and a discordant twang rings out. 

They wince in unison. Her kid shoots her a meaningful look. She shrugs, but her heart clenches. He watches the vein pulse in her neck. Says nothing, lets the back of his hand brush against hers. 

Later that night, he gives Bonehead or Guigsy or whoever the fuck he’s rooming with the slip, and crawls under the covers with her. Lays his head on her chest, turns that sloe-eyed gaze on her. Hums. The vibrations spread across her sternum. She usually wouldn’t allow it with the rest of the band so near.

'Should be you,' he says, threading his fingers through hers. After a moment, his fingers unwind from hers and his hands skim up her sides, curve around her ribs, slide down to her waist. She won’t look at him.

'It’s goin' to be you,' he says.

And it’s just like him, this angel child, for whom the universe bends and sways. For whom mothers smile and fathers drop their battering fists. Just like him, to think he can speak a world into being. Half the time, it’s even true.

Chapter Text

2008, Grosvenor House

Russell is, well, for starters, not as clever or charming as he thinks he is. His hair is ridiculous, and he dresses like an Edwardian gentleman who got roughed up in an alley and then wandered into a Bershka. When he’s not oversharing on live radio to an appalling degree, he texts her incessantly. Long rambling streams-of-consciousnessness about everything and nothing in particular, that she only sometimes reads. The liberal periodic use of the block function does nothing to deter him.

He’s also constantly trying to chat her up. Relentlessly, and cheerfully.

Anyway, they’re at some industry awards event in London, and it’s horrifically boring. The speeches drag on too long, the alcohol isn’t flowing quite as freely and plentifully as she’d like, and she’s alone. 

Sara is back in the Highlands because they’re on a break again, seeing as how her gorgeous (ex-?) girlfriend is once again expressing doubts about whether Noel is actually gay. (Which she isn’t, for the record, even though she’s not quite sure why it matters. According to 'the kids' nowadays, the correct term is bisexual. Sara, per form, remains unpersuaded this is something that actually exists outside of porn categories.) 

Colin’s visiting his mother in Durham, Andy’s back in Sweden, Chris is doing whatever it is drummers do in their free time, so she’s here on her own to accept some award on behalf of the band. Well, not alone — Matt and Russell are here too, for inexplicable showbiz reasons.

When the event comes to its long-awaited and pitiful conclusion, they collectively agree to adjourn to Russell’s hotel suite upstairs, which he no doubt reserved for his nefarious sexcapades. (He’s had two bit parts in Hollywood movies and suddenly he’s splashing out like he thinks he’s fuckin’ Hugh Hefner.) 

They’re barely halfway into a bottle of champagne when Matt — lovely, beautiful, faithful Matt — begs off to go home to his Princess-of-LA girlfriend, whom he has duly impregnated under advisement. 

Noel’s lounging on top of the duvet, drinking from the bottle of bubbly in hand when, from the overstuffed armchair, Russell turns the woebegone face of the sexually afflicted to her. 

'No,' she says immediately, 'abso-fuckin’-lutely not.' 

The hangdog face intensifies.

She groans. Takes a generous swig and collapses back against the duvet. 

In her defence, she’s tired, right? She’s not been sleeping well. She wants a fuckin’ break. Sony wants another album, but writing’s been slow-going. Every day, there’s shite that needs her attention, from talking to the lawyers, to wrangling the label executives, to approving the press releases and the cover art. Getting Mam to keep up her specialist appointments in London with the eyewateringly (hah!) expensive eye doctor. (Bod’s been more hapless than usual, which is really saying something. There’s something going on with him, god knows what, since it’s not like he actually does anything.) 

And there’s something wrong with Liam’s voice. Something insidious. Something doing more damage, or maybe a different kind of damage, than what the nights of cocaine, cigarettes, and boozing have already made a pretty sizeable dent in. They can all hear it. Everybody knows, but no one’s saying nothin’. 

Too fuckin’ right. Andy, Colin, Chris — they know it’s not just the partying. And they’re all lookin’ at her to sort it, sort him. But he won’t see a doctor, just sets his jaw in that sullen scowl she hates or storms off when she asks. 

And now he’s fucked off to Ibiza with Nicole and baby Gene. He won’t take her calls, and only replies to a text every other day or two, or sometimes three. 

She hasn’t seen Paul in a while, too. He’s trying to make things work with the — fourth? fifth? she’s lost count — mother of his children. It’s probably going fine, and will go fine, right up until he leaves for tour next summer.

And in spite of Russell’s best efforts to make himself as unappealing as humanly possible, she’s only mildly disturbed to find she’s grown somewhat fond of him. He’s sort of like a fungus, ugly and sticky, made only semi-palatable by Matt’s steadfast and inexplicable determination to stand by his man. Her best mate’s best mate. Ugh.

But he does grow on you. 

She heaves out a sigh. 'Fine.' 

'Really?' He seems more in disbelief than anything, mouth hanging open.

'Yes,' she sighs resignedly, pushing herself up. 'But you’re not calling me mother.'

'Noella, you wound me,' he says. His languid sprawl has transformed into that restless, vibrating kinetic energy.

She doesn’t kiss him or take her clothes off, but she lets him finger her against the vanity. At least he’s clean, and his cologne smells good. After a serviceable, if somewhat perfunctory orgasm, he wanks off on his knees between her feet, while she idly wonders if it’s worth risking the smoke alarms for a cheeky cigarette. 

'Well?' he demands later, after she’s cleaned up and is back on the bed, sipping from the bottle of bubbly clutched against her chest.   

'It was… barely adequate,' she remarks dryly. It’s hardly the eviscerating critique it sounds like. He knew, but he had to ask. He wouldn’t be Russell otherwise.  

'That’s because you’re a lesbian, Noella.'

He’s washed his hands at her insistence and is now half-sitting, half-lying on the edge of the bed. His absurd hair is falling in stringy waves across the sheets, and he’s surreptitiously, if poorly, trying to inch his way across the bed closer to her.     

She places the bottle on the floor, turns on her side. 

'Out,' she says.

'It’s my room,' he whines. 'I paid for it!'

'Mm,' she hums. 'All the same.'

She’s not sure how, but she can hear the pathetic desolation as he gathers himself up. She relents. 

'All right,' she says, beneficent. 'You can sleep on the couch.'

When she’s heard him settle in the next room and finally stop flailing his unnecessarily long limbs around, she closes her eyes. Tries not to think of anything at all.

Chapter Text

May 1994, Chiswick

There’s a bouquet of fresh carnations at her door. No card. She rolls her eyes, but she can feel the corners of her lips tugging up in spite of herself. The absolute narcissist; does Weller not read his own lyrics? 

She’s washing out a pitcher to stick the flowers in when she hears the key turn in the lock. 

'What’s that?' he says, leaning against the doorframe, chin gesturing at the flowers she’s sticking into the glass. He slouches forward and reaches for a stem. She bats his hand away, chiding, 'You’re allergic.'

His eyes narrow. 

'Weller.'

'Weller,' she confirms, then amends — 'Paul.'

'Paul,' he repeats, in a tone of mild disgust.

She shrugs, leaves the pitcher of flowers next to the sink. Rinses her hands thoroughly with soap, wipes them on the back of her skirt. Makes her way to the small space that can only charitably be described as a sitting room. 

He trots behind her obediently; more of a simian sway, really, but the intent is there. 

'Weller’s married,' he offers. 

She doesn’t rise to the bait. Folds herself down onto the threadbare rug in front of her poor excuse for a sofa. 

He lays his head on her lap, closes his eyes as she strokes the fine brown strands, runs her fingers lightly against his scalp. His psoriasis is bothering him; he’d been scratching at rehearsal today, lips pursed in an angry pout when he wasn’t belting out her lyrics. She’ll have to get up soon to get the cream from her medicine cabinet. 

Bod used to curl his lip at them when he saw her massaging cream into the dry flaky patches on his scalp. But of course Bod never had to deal with his scrunched up little face, the scratching and complaining, or the incessant wailing when it came to it. 

The air around them is slow, syrupy. She rests her index finger lightly against his Adam’s apple. Strokes once, gently. His familiar heavy-lidded gaze drifts open. Her hand is in his hair again, and he’s turning slowly to press his face into her belly. Breath warm and wet against the thin fabric of her skirt.

Chapter Text

10 August 1996, Ed Sullivan Theatre

Bonehead’s pissed, can barely hold his head up, let alone strum in time. And she’ll be damned before she lets Tony go out there again, after the unmitigated disaster that was Whiskey-a-fuckin’-Go-Go. This is a live broadcast, for fuck’s sake.

Her kid’s uncharacteristically quiet, except for the occasional tap of the tambourine against the side of his leg. His face is still, empty of expression. No one else will meet her gaze, except for Maggie, who isn’t bothering to hide her dismay. 

The silence is weighty and expectant.

‘All right,’ she exhales. ‘We’ll do it acoustic.’ Pauses, then makes it clear: ‘I’ll fuckin’ do it.’ 

Everyone leaps into action. Maggie hurries over and is furiously whispering with a producer as the crew bring in two stools. 

Her kid swans onto set, nary a care in the world. She picks her guitar up and follows, tuning as she goes. A crew member hurries over to mic up her guitar. 

Squinting a little under the lights, she heads for the stool set about a foot away from his left. Stops, turns to him, tilts her head at it. He knows what she means, some leftover instinct from the days where’d he move equipment for the Inspiral Carpets under her steady direction, earnest, and quiet, and helpful. Grabs her stool and pulls it up next to his, adjusts the mike stand slightly downwards so it’s pointing down between them. 

They perch on the stools, their knees barely touching, making a loose triangle. Like they have on so many nights, in so many studios, and rehearsal rooms and hotel rooms before. Like they did all the time back in Burnage, in her cramped little room, wishing away for another day.

There’re a few whoops of encouragement from the audience. 

(‘Come on, Noelle!’ some bird hollers. Fuckin’ Americans.

‘Shut up,’ she tosses back playfully, to scattered laughter.)

Letterman is introducing them —‘Oh-Eh-Sis’, which, seriously? — and she sneaks a glance at her kid from behind the lens of her tinted glasses.

He’s not wearing his usual slack-jawed, dead-eyed expression. Instead, he’s beaming, wide and brilliant. 

It sparks something in her, a roiling ecstatic burn, exquisite and not a little tender, a little painful. She leans forward to speak into the mic, coughs a bit before she can begin.  

‘The ugly two can’t be here today, so you’re left with the pretty ones.’ 

And then she’s strumming the opening chords to Live Forever, and his voice comes in. The voice that lives in her dreams and colours her days. Strong, and vibrant, and free. 

11-17 August 1996, New York City & London

Overnight, they’re media darlings. Their pictures are everywhere in the music press: dark hair, blue eyes, pale skin looking paler in print. The media won’t shut up about their “difficult upbringing” or “impoverished childhood circumstances” or whatever fuckin' euphemism they’re using today. 

Sony lines up an endless series of interviews. It’s humiliating. 

Interviewers won't stop asking her about what it’s like being “a woman in rock” (what does that even mean); or about how their “Irish working class identity impacts her songwriting process” (it doesn’t); or what it’s like being “siblings in a band” (they could ask the fuckin’ Jackson 5 or literally any one of the other fifty people in famous bands with their families). 

They want her opinion on every famous woman in music from the past five years: Dolores O’Riordan (fine), Alanis Morisette (overwrought), Gwen Stefani (ugh). They don’t want to hear her talk about The Stone Roses, or The Smiths, or even The fucking Beatles. Thankfully, her kid, the little nutter, mentions his interest in Lauryn Hill and, uh, Ahliya?, whoever the fuck, and the interviewers get distracted trying to decipher his rambling.

The Rolling Stone tries to put her in a full face of makeup, and they walk out an hour into what they learn is an eight hour photoshoot. 

They get subtitled on MTV.  

This entire country is fucking insane. 

Then they’re back in England, and Alan’s calling her, and calling Marcus, and the next thing she knows, Tony’s out. She’s still not sure how it happened.  

Then they play Knebworth. 

Chapter Text

23 August 1996, Knebworth Park

It’s somehow worse than Letterman and MTV and every fucking thing they’ve done across the pond, even factoring in the cameras and the Americans and their relentless fuckin’ good cheer. 

The crowd is roaring, ravenous, rippling like the tide. Somehow, she makes it through Columbia and Acquiesce. It’s only her third or fourth gig.

It’s Supersonic next, and that’s when it hits her. It feels like her arse is about to fall out of her trousers. Her knees threaten to buckle, and she clutches the neck of her guitar like a life buoy. Christ, all those people.

He feels it, of course, the shift in her from one moment to the next. Doesn’t even need to look at her to know, just cocks his head to the side and frowns briefly behind his glasses. The hand holding his tambourine falls to one side and then he’s swaggering over, throwing an arm around her shoulders. 

Presses a kiss to her temple, murmurs into her ear, ‘Alright, Noely?’

She straightens, turns. Their eyes meet. 

His gaze is clear, steady, untroubled. The sickly feeling that’s been coiled inside her tightens, then releases. They’re suspended in this moment, a small eternity between them. 

'Aye,' she nods, a smile breaking on her face. 'Mad ‘fer it.'

Later, they’re holding hands as he drags her off the stage into the wings, sweaty and exuberant. He’s triumphant, glowing with the adulation of the crowd, and the certainty of her hand in his.

Patsy’s there. 

Her kid’s been seeing her a little. Or rather, been seen with her, before they left for America. (While still fooling around with Lisa naturally, the daft cow.)

And the thing is. The thing is. She despises Patsy. Despises her bottle-blonde hair, her plunging necklines, her fake tits, her plastic face. Despises her hackneyed movies and salacious tell-all interviews. And — worst of all sins and most of all — despises her absolute crimes against dance music. 

Patsy’s clearly set her eyes on him as the latest in her string of rockstar ex-husbands. Sure, now it’s gear, and fooling around, and falling out of strategically chosen clubs in front of conveniently there photographers. But soon, she’ll be leaving early because she’s got to pick up little James from school in the morning and no, of course it’s not hard being a single mum, she doesn’t mind, not at all; in fact, she’d do anything for her son. Only she worries, doesn’t she? Wishes his father could be more present for him. And one day in the not-too-distant future, she’ll be running late for a meeting, and her parents will be out-of-town, and the sitter’s cancelled, and she’s sorry to ask this but could he, maybe, watch little James, just for a bit? James’ is a good boy, won’t be any trouble at all. Then there’ll be watching cartoons, chasing him ‘round the garden, and beans on toast for tea. It’ll be a skip and a hop to the altar and wedded bliss from there.

No, she’s not having that. 

'Liam,' she says quietly. His attention snaps to her, the tension between them pulling taut. 

She has to stretch up a little to put her arms around his shoulders. Draws him into what will look to the roadies and groupies milling around them like a sisterly embrace and presses their foreheads together. Wraps her hands around the sides of his face, conveniently shielding their mouths, and tells him, 'We can. Tonight, if you want.'  

For a fleeting moment, he rests his hands over hers, presses their foreheads tighter together. Then she’s shaking him off, smoothing her hands down the front of her jeans and striding away, grabbing her guitar case from a roadie as she goes. She doesn’t need to look to know he’s following close behind her. 

They climb into the car and she feigns a tiredness she doesn’t feel, tells the driver they’re skipping the afterparty and to take them back to the hotel. Leans her head against the glass of the window, waits for the police escort to sort itself out. He’s a silent, watchful presence now, a seat away from her. Eerily still the way he is sometimes, the way people are often surprised at, then not. Her ever-protective, ever-present shadow. 

As the car pulls away, she closes her eyes and imagines Patsy, a lone figure growing smaller in the distance.

Chapter Text

26 May 1998, Hammersmith 

Noel taps the tip of a calloused, nail-bitten finger against the side of her coffee cup. Considers the girl — woman — seated across from her. Lisa looks well, all things considered. It’s only been two months, but she’s lost most of the baby weight. Or maybe she never gained that much to begin with, Noel wouldn’t know. 

They’re at the River Cafe, at a secluded table far out toward the end of the garden. Nothing that would particularly draw attention, but nothing hidden. Discreet, but respectable. 

Lisa’s in a sun dress and Noel’s in her usual (shades, t-shirt, jeans). If anyone saw them, it wouldn’t ring any alarm bells. Just two gals being pals, as the Yanks would say. 

There’s a manila envelope resting on the table between them, with details of a house and job in Seattle, an ironclad settlement agreement with several monetary and nondisclosure clauses, and the papers for a trust fund currently holding £250,000 pounds. Arrangements that had taken no small amount of time and expense to secure. Noel’s made promises in exchange for several favours, assurances which are no doubt going to be called in at some inopportune time in the future. Not to mention the sizeable dent in the coffers of her (still growing) net wealth. 

Lisa shifts in her seat, twists her cup in its saucer. She’s a nice girl, Lisa. Done a few backing vocals for them; not a bad voice. Her career’s gone nowhere, more’s the pity. 

It’s a matter of minutes or less to get everything signed. Noel slides the papers into the leather binder she carries with her in case inspiration strikes. Shoves out her chair, stands to leave. 

'Would you … ' Lisa hesitates. 'Would you like to see Molly?'

Noel shifts her sunglasses down from her fringe to her eyes, drops a few notes on the table. Walks away without a word.

26 May 1998, The Strand Palace Hotel

It’s several hours later when he slips into the room. She’s been to the solicitor’s offices, picked over small plates at the bar for tea, and is now one and a half glasses of whiskey into the evening. 

'You’ll need to sign this,' she says, and taps the binder on the hotel desk once. Firmly. Decisively. 

His eyes fall to it. Doesn’t ask what it is, doesn’t say a word; he knows she knows. 

She drains her glass and sets it on the desk. Turns to look at him properly. His eyes are huge and luminous in the dim hotel light. 

And suddenly it’s welling up and pouring out from within her, the resentment and outrage roaring in her ears. She thinks about the nights lying awake since she knew: mind racing with possibilities, the alternatives, the what-ifs. The tabloids, the scandal, the humiliation, and Mam, feckin’ Christ, if Mam knew. Noel couldn’t bear it. 

She doesn’t remember moving, but she’s suddenly standing before him, grasping his hair to expose the long line of his neck, pale and unblemished. 

He’s still; waiting. 

'Do you…' she mutters, swallows thickly before continuing, 'Do you, do you want to see the baby?'

He doesn’t answer. 

But then he’s sinking to his knees, hands shaking and fumbling over the buttons of her jeans. Her hands are tight in his hair, pulling at the roots, and his mouth is on her, warm and wet and insistent, as she shivers and gasps and tries not to cry. 

Chapter Text

11 November 1989, The International 2 

‘Eeyar, Noeleen,’ Coyle says, coming up behind her and handing her a can of lager. She’s standing sidestage, supervising the crew who’re breaking down the equipment after the gig.

Coyle cracks open his can, gestures with his chin over at her kid, who’s rolling up some cables in the corner. ‘Tha’ your kid?’

‘Aye.’

‘Good lad.’

She snorts.

Onstage, one of the newer crew struggling with an amp trips over a cable, nearly careening into the rack of guitars before he catches himself

‘Oi, easy!” she yells.

‘You play?’ asks Coyle, out of the blue. He’s a bit odd, this one.

‘A lil’ul,’ she allows.

Her kid’s done with his bit, bounces over, overhears this. There’s a loose thread sticking out from the fraying edge of his jumper sleeve. She reaches out, twists and snaps it off, hands him the can of lager.

‘She’s well good, she is,’ he says loyally.

‘’M sure,’ Coyle nods peaceably.  

‘Go check if they’re loadin’ out the Farfisa proper,’ she tells the kid. ‘I don’t trust these muppets not to drop it, and then Clint’ll be havin’ all our ’eads.’

‘Not yours,’ says Coyle, proper cheeky. She elbows him. 

Her kid cuts her a glance. ‘Yer comin’ home tonight? Only Mam says I’m to walk ya.’

She rolls her eyes. He woulda done it anyway, Mam or no Mam. Gives him a nod, then tilts her head at the exit. He goes. 

Everyone’s mostly loaded out. ‘cept for Coyle and the guitars, the slacker. One of them’s still plugged in, even

‘Get a move on,’ she tells him. 

The lanky fucker sways over. How they trust him with anythin’ is a mystery to God and man. 

‘Go on then.’ He’s standing there expectantly, hand fanned out at Graham’s Gretsch hollowbody. ‘‘ave a go.’

It’s tempting. She glances around to see the coast is clear, then picks it up, throwing the strap over her shoulders and adjusting it. 

Coyle flicks on the amp and she strums idly for a bit, before playing something she’s been working on for a bit. Half-singing and trailing off into a hum before stopping. 

‘That’s not half-bad,’ comes a voice behind her.

She startles, turns around. 

Clint’s there, smiling slightly, and Graham too. 

‘Don’t remember sayin’ you could borrow that, though,’ adds Graham grinning. She flushes. Wanker. 

She hands off the guitar to Coyle, who's finally getting round to doin’ his job. Graham claps him on the shoulder and starts telling him something when her kid walks back in again. Pauses, ducks his head, a hand rubbing awkwardly over the back of his neck. 

‘It’s all sorted,’ he tells her. 

‘Right,’ she nods. 

He’s hanging back, uncertain. She opens her mouth to say something when —

‘C’mon, lad,’ says Graham, walking over to sling an arm around her kid’s shoulders. ‘I’ll buy you a pint. Your sister’s got better things to do than be botherin’ with the likes of us.’ 

‘Sound,’ agrees Coyle. Pats her amiably on the shoulder as he ambles over to the remaining amp. Her kid’s still looking uncertainly at her. 

It’s her turn to slant him a glance. Not now. He hesitates for the slightest moment before going along, helping Coyle to shift the amp out. 

There’s a warm touch at her elbow. 

‘Noelle.’ Clint’s tilting his head down slightly to speak to her, voice low and gentle. Tall fucker. ‘C’mon then. There’s somethin’ I want to ask ya.’  

‘About your shite lyrics?’ she asks, expression innocent, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

He laughs, places a large hand on the centre of her back to guide her out. 

As she turns to leave, she catches a glimpse of her kid from the corner of her eye. He’s glancing back at them, frowning slightly. She shakes her head slightly, puts the expression on his face out of her mind.

Chapter Text

1992, Burnage

She’s smoking out the window of her room when he gets in. The door shuts behind him, leaving them mostly in the darkness, but she can see his frame and the outline of his features from the faint light through the window. 

He’s impossibly taller now, lean, any traces of baby fat gone from his face. Nearly a man. 

She hadn’t told anyone she’d be coming home. 

He watches her for a moment, face empty of expression. 

Says, 'Mam says yer stayin’.' 

'Got the sack, didn’t I?' she says lightly. It’s not. 

She exhales the last of her cigarette. Flicks the stub to kill the flame, and drops it out the window. Mam’ll have her head tomorrow. 

'And yer man?' he asks. His gaze is falling somewhere to her side, not on her face. 

'Weren’t really my man, were he.' 

He looks up sharply. 

And then he’s making his way to her. Steps certain, so unlike the tentative tread of his youth. Comes to a stop beside her.

She reaches out to swing the glass panes of the window closed. Draws the threadbare curtains, turned gauzy in the streetlights. Can’t bring herself to look at him. 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push. If she inhales deeply, she can smell faint traces of beer and cigarette smoke. A hint of sweat and, underneath that, the familiar musky-sweet, almost vanilla scent of him. 

They’re not touching, but he’s still and intent beside her. For reasons she can’t quite explain, her heart is thudding in her chest. When the silence stretches long, too long, she turns to face him. Has to look up to meet his gaze.

There’s an expression on his face she’s been glimpsing the past two or so years, in fleeting moments. Something resolute, unwavering, but soft. 

And then his hands are against her cheeks, and his lips are on hers, moving gently. Slightly clumsy, but not unpractised. 

He kisses her for a long moment, then stops. Kisses her left cheekbone, then her right, like he did all the time as a child. But now his kisses are whisper soft, and his eyes are still pools of grey in the dark.

There’s nothing to say. She’s known. She might not have thought about it, but she’s known. He’s been hers all his life, and she knows him. Knows the frail, tender heart of him; the jagged edges of his rage; and the howling, hollow desperation in his chest. She knows him better than anyone, even herself.  

He’s beautiful, and he wants her. He wants her. 

And then they’re crashing into each other, and she’s opening her mouth to his, as they stumble over to the bed. 

He’s pulling off her loose cotton t-shirt and she’s rucking up his shirt and struggling with the buttons of his jeans, fingers clumsy with desire. 

'Love,' she gasps, 'please'. 

He strips off quickly, and then his body is bare against hers, and he’s pulling down her knickers and pressing hot kisses to her throat, her breasts. His fingers sliding against her.

He’s done this before, then. Often, even.

She’s not ready, but she doesn’t want to wait. Wants to feel it, wants it to hurt a little, maybe. 

'Come on, love,' she tells him, grasping at him and shifting so he can thrust inside her. 

His mouth is open and panting, and his eyes are bright, and there’s something terrible and shaken in his expression as he looks at her. 

She can’t bear it. Presses her mouth to his desperately, closes her eyes. Feels him move against and inside her, sharp and aching. 

It’s not long before she can feel him trembling, knows he’s about to come. Pushes with her hands against his hips so he slides out. Takes his hand with hers and wraps it around his cock, stroking, to show him what she wants. He does what he’s told and it’s a matter of a minute, or seconds maybe, before he’s coming against her cunt, wet and hot. 

And it’s good, it’s so good. He’s so good, for her. 

He sags against her, trying to catch his breath. She takes his weight and strokes his hair, his back, slippery with sweat. Reaches her other hand down to the mess he’s made on her —

 — but he’s shoving himself up on his forearms and moving down her body. His tongue on her cunt, lapping eagerly, hungrily. Just how she wants him. Just how she needs him. 

After, he lies on top of her, head pillowed on her chest, breath evening out. He’s heavy, but not suffocating. 

She wants to kiss him. Touches the edge where his hair meets the nape of his neck, and he lifts his head up so their lips meet. He tastes bitter, and faintly salty and a little sweet from her cunt. 

He settles down against her, head on her shoulder, nose brushing against the side of her neck. She wraps her arm around him, feels him go loose-limbed and drowsy. 

And she feels the truth of it then, in her bones and in the fibre of her being. In the secret, hidden parts of her she will never share, not even with him: She loves him, she loves him, she loves him. More than Bod, more than Mam, maybe even more than the music. 

Chapter Text

Sara’s at a conference in Edinburgh, so Noel’s taken Donny down to see Matt and Katie and their kids. (Coen and Winter, the poor lass. And their Da not even a proper celebrity to excuse it.) 

Matt’s saint of a wife, whom Noel will only admit under protest he deserves, is helping to put the kids to bed, so Noel and Matt are in the back garden, getting steadily sloshed on a combination of Pimms, gin and pale ale. She’s about three shots and one pint ahead of him, the lightweight.

Matt’s idly wondering aloud about Russell and she’s halfway to bladdered, which is her excuse for how it slips out.

'You what?' cries Matt, his voice rising an octave. 

She slouches into her chair, hides her face behind a hand. 

'Don’t remind me.'

'You brought it up!' 

She takes a long drink. He’s still gawping at her. 

'I mean, Russell used to go on about it all the time, but I thought he was just being Russell, you know? Just delusional, like.' 

She groans, waves a dismissive hand at him. 'It was a bit of mediocre fingerin’, it’s not like he was stickin’ his cock in —'

'Noooooooo,' Matt moans, the overdramatic little diva. 'I don’t want to hear about my best mate shagging my former best mate!'

What are they, in primary school? 

'I just said, it wasn’t sh —'

'La-la-la-la–la–' he sings, sticking his fingers in his ears. Which, rude. She throws a napkin at him, before clambering to her feet, fingers almost slipping on the condensation on her glass.

She stumbles cheerfully into the living room and begins rifling through Katie’s vinyl records. (There’s some good stuff here. She’s really too good for him.) Flicks on the preamp and speakers, and puts on Hounds of Love on the turntable she bought him for Christmas. 

'You know, the Futureheads cover is pretty good —'

'Nope!' she says, popping her lips obnoxiously on the ‘p’. Blasphemy. She won’t hear of it. 

'What is it with you and Kate Bush?' he says, bemused. 

Well, she’s not mates with him for his musical taste. 

She plops onto the enormous, heavy rug they bought the kids. Lays back and runs her hands flat along the thick pile. She loves this rug. Hums along to the synth line of Running Up That Hill. Feels the drum track throb in her bones. Fuckin’ yeah. No drummers, just drum machines, all the way. Kate had it right, the genius. 

Katie’s come down the stairs now, and peers over at her. 

Noel waves. 'Kids down?' 

'Yeah,' nods Katie. 'No trouble.'

'Cheers,' says Noel. Katie’s the best, even if she is (unfortunately) Californian. 

'I was going to turn in early,' Katie says, turning to Matt. They exchange a look, before casting identical glances of mild concern at Noel, who’s starfished on the rug. (Ugh. She hopes she and Sara don’t do that Stepford couple shite.)

She waves them away. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, go on.’

Matt, who’s not in much better shape than her truth be told, stumbles out of the room and back, sets a bottle of water and a blister pack of Ibuprofen down next to her. 

‘I’m not sleeping here,’ she says. Mam raised her with some manners, thank you very much. ‘Headin’ up in a bit. Night.’ 

There’s a chorus of ‘night’s from the lovely couple, who take their leave.

Running Up That Hill spins over into Hounds of Love. She closes her eyes, hums along.

Now hounds of love are hunting / I’ve always been a coward / And I don’t know what’s good for me

If she runs into those Fuckerheads twats or whatever they’re called, she’s going to knock some sense into them. Desecratin' Kate’s work with their art-rock-whatever-the-fuck nonsense. Sacrilege. 

I’m still afraid to be there / Among the hounds of love / And feel your arms surround me 

As the song trails off, she gets up and stops the record. Swallows down half the bottle of water, meanders to the kitchen to drop her glass and the bottle in the sink, and up to the guest bathroom to take a piss and wash her hands and face. Makes her way to the spare bedroom they’ve converted to an extra kid’s room. 

She pads in softly to where Donny’s curled up in bed. He’s sweating a little, hot under the covers, the duvet half kicked off. Soft golden strands sticking to his forehead. Lightly, she strokes his hair away from his forehead, before folding down the duvet neatly, and gently shifting onto the bed. Curls around him in the too-small bed, and drops a gentle kiss to the back of his head. Closes her eyes and listens to him breathe.

Chapter Text

February 1995, The Manor Studio

‘’Ere, let me play you somethin’.’

They’re in the studio in Oxfordshire where Paul’s recording the new album. They’ve just finished laying down the guitar tracks and her backing vocals for I Walk On Gilded Splinters. 

She waits as he adjusts the board, curious. She hasn’t heard any of the other tracks on his album, but Yolanda’s been telling her about it, says it’s sounding good. Different from the one before, bit more bluesy, bit more rock.

The song starts playing over the speakers. Lush, mellow, piano chords, before his voice comes crooning over the speakers. About hanging on a wire for a love he’ll never find. The guitar riff is soulful, longing. 

It makes something twist in her chest. 

When the last of the notes fades away, he looks at her, awaiting her verdict.

‘It’s good,’ she says, swallowing. ‘I like it.’ 

‘Good,’ he says. ‘‘Cos it’s about you.’ 

For the first time around him, she doesn’t know what to say.

She knew he liked her, is the thing. Had to be an idiot not to, what with the flowers, and jamming sessions, and drinks, and meandering conversations about music and the like. His careful hand on her back as he introduced her to people, guided her in and out of rooms. But he’s never said or done anything, really. Nothing that meant anything. 

She just — she didn’t think it was serious.

He must sense her hesitation, because he shakes his head. There’s something fond in his expression, not quite a smile.

 ‘I’m not askin’ anythin’, Noelle. ’s just a song.’ 

He stands, moves to shrug on his coat. ‘Come on, we’re finished ‘ere anyway. Let’s go get a drink.’ Holds out her coat for her to step into.

She slides her arms into the sleeves of her coat. As he tucks the front of her coat around her, hands smoothing out the fabric over her shoulders, she thinks.

He’s separated from his missus, last she heard. She’s stopped by Oxfordshire on her way down to London for a meeting with McGee. Left Liam with Bonehead and the rest of the band so as not to scare the label people. 

He’s guiding her to the door, hand on the small of her back. 

It’s too much.

‘Paul.’ 

He stops. Turns to her questioningly.

‘Paul,’ she says again, words failing her. Reaches up to put her hands around his neck, pulls him down to kiss him. 

There’s a flash of surprise in his face, before something wild overtakes it and he’s pressing her up against the wall of the studio. His tongue is in her mouth, firm, but coaxing. She helps him strip off their coats, as he makes quick work of the buttons on her cardigan. He rucks up her skirt with one hand, rolls down her leggings, rubs two fingers of his hand against the dampness in her knickers. Gets his fingers wet with his mouth, pushes the fabric of her knickers to the side and slides his fingers in, thumb rubbing circles against her clit. 

It takes a moment to realise she’s whimpering against his mouth. He does something with his fingers and — jesus fuckin’ christ. It’s overwhelming, almost too good; she can’t stand it. It’s building and building inside her. Before she knows it, she’s coming, too soon, in spite of herself, as he kisses her, swallows her cries.

She gasps softly as he slides his fingers out of her, takes a step away as he presses a kiss to her forehead and — where is he going? 

“Don’t have a johnny,” he says, smiling wryly. 

She shakes her head, grabs at him and pulls him to her, reaches for his belt buckle. He’s taken aback just for a second, before the look on his face changes, hungry, impatient. 

He wraps his hand around her wrists to hold her hands back. Tears off her leggings and knickers. Shoves his trousers down, gets his cock out. Grabs the back of her thighs to lift her up, before shoving into her. Bends his head to the skin above her breastbone as he thrusts, sucks a kiss above the neckline of her blouse, before laving his tongue over the bite, soothing.

She’s almost dizzy with it, with how good he feels. It’s not as if she hasn’t fucked around with other men before, a number of them older. Clint, for one. It hadn’t felt like this. 

When they’re done and she’s managed to clean up as best she can using the freezing tap of the studio’s toilet, they lie on the carpeted floor of the studio, his coat spread over her. She curls into his side, his arm around her, as he tells her more about the other songs he’s working on, about who’s coming into the studio, about the talks to appear on Jools Holland. Tells her she should come with him.

Chapter Text

November 1997, Washington

He closes the door behind him, before flipping the security latch. (She always checks it twice when he comes to see her.) Casts his gaze around the room — neat, but bed still unmade — and, like always, his eyes fall on her.

She’s sitting on the small sofa, head in one hand. Scattered on the coffee table in front of her are various gossip rags, all on a single theme. 

He gathers up the magazines and newspapers, doesn’t look at the images splashed across them. Stacks and aligns them neatly and drops them in the corner of her desk on the far left of the room, tidy and partially obscured from view. She’ll want them later, when she talks to the PR people. 

He pads back to the sofa. He’s stripped off his shoes and socks at the door like she prefers, and the rough texture of the hotel carpet chafes a little against the soles of his feet. He studies her for a moment. She’s still as a statue, hasn’t moved since he came in. 

Slowly, he lowers himself to his knees in front of her, rests his head against her thigh. Her left hand doesn’t move from where she’s resting her head against it, elbow propped up on her leg, but her right hand comes up to cup against the back of his head, rests there. 

He doesn’t care, ‘s the thing. It doesn’t matter. Not fuckin’ Weller, not fuckin’ Clint Boon, not all the other men and women she fucks sometimes when they’re on breaks during tour and he’s on the lash. He fucks around sometimes too. It doesn’t matter. 

And it shouldn’t matter. Not to her, and not to anyone. She’s the best fuckin’ songwriter in the world, better than anyone alive, better than even fuckin’ Weller. 

She wouldn’t have written that fuckin’ boring song that she and Weller played at the Royal Albert Hall, eyes burning at each other across the stage. She didn’t sing, but she played the guitar, the Gibson that he got her, right, off Johnny Marr for a pretty fuckin’ penny and everythin’. The guitar she takes with her everywhere, for every fuckin’ gig, the one she’s never without. 

And she made it sing. Not sad, like, but joyful. Strong. 

She fuckin’ wrote Slide Away. She doesn’t need to care about any of these cunts. 

He lifts his head, turns to kiss the palm of her right hand, her wrist. Raises his arms and lays a palm flat on each of her thighs. Looks at her, steady, and waits, still on his knees.

It takes a while, but slowly she lifts her head from her palm. He turns his hands over, lets her hands fall on his open palms, entwines their fingers. She looks down at their hands. He stares at her face and, eventually, her gaze meets his, like he knew it would. 

They don’t need words. They’ve never needed them. 

She didn’t know he’d be at the gig, but she saw him, after, waiting in the wings of the stage. And she’d left with him, and she hadn’t looked back.

He stretches up slowly, telegraphing his movements. Tilts his head left to bring his mouth to hers. Tells her, reminds her, with his lips and tongue, of the only truth he’s ever known: It’s only them. It’s only ever been them.

Chapter Text

2019, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 

They’re at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony for Kate. It’s the school hols, so she’s brought Donny along as her date. 

(Can’t hurt trying to inject a little culture into him, after all. She still shudders when she thinks about Liam’s short-lived breakdancing phase, which she attributes entirely to some kind of gross sisterly neglect on her part.) 

She spots Big Boi in the crowd. 

‘Big Boi!’ she exclaims delightedly. 

‘Noely G! In the house!’ 

She laughs as he gives her a quick, bear hug

Puts her arm around Donovan’s shoulder, pulling him forward.  

‘My son, Donovan,’ she beams, proud as punch. Who wouldn’t be? 

‘What up, lil’ man?’ he says, clasping hands with Donny, who smiles shyly.

‘He’s just done the cover art for my next EP,’ she adds, bragging shamelessly. It’s her prerogative. 

Big Boi gives Donny a congratulatory fistbump, which he takes in stride and reciprocates. Good lad.

‘This man,’ she tells Donny very seriously, ‘has six Grammys.’ 

‘Did you know,’ she adds, turning to Big Boi conspiratorially, ‘Oasis has never won a Grammy. I don’t think we’ve even been nominated.’ 

‘What! Nah, man.’ 

‘It’s true!’ she exclaims. It is outrageous. Not to even be acknowledged.

‘Anyway, did you ever find her — Kate? If you come back to England with me, we can try again together. Do a tour of old castles, you know, keep an ear out for mysterious organs playing from the top of high windows.’ 

He’s grinning sheepishly now. ‘I… did, actually.’

No. ‘Wot?’ 

‘We had dinner. With her kid, too.’ 

‘No,’ she says, momentarily struck dumb. 

Even Donny’s trying to hide a smile now. 

She puts a hand on Big Boi’s arm. Tells him, very seriously, ‘You have to tell me everything. Spare no detail.’ 

Anyway, she kind of fucks with the seating chart by planting herself at Big Boi’s table so she can pester him with questions about his dinner with Kate. He mentions a collaboration, the fuck? God knows no one deserves it more than him, but still. Can’t say she isn’t a little jealous.  

The night rolls on. Big Boi gives a moving, poignant speech about Kate, and St Vincent does an ethereal cover of Running Up That Hill. It’s a proper, good night out.

By the end of it, Donny’s a little starstruck and jetlagged, but bearing up well, all things considered. Still, best to get going while the going’s good. 

She’s chivvying her little man along when they turn a corner and run smack bang into — Nic. 

‘Noelle!’ says Nic, sweet as ever. ‘Hi!’

Fuck. She didn’t know she was going to be here. Didn’t think to expect to run into her, all the way across the pond. But her memory is now belatedly reminding her — thanks fuckin’ much — that All Saints reunited a year ago, so this isn’t entirely unprecedented. 

‘Hi!’ she says. She and Nic do that weird cheek air-kiss thing that celebrities do. Ugh. 

‘Gene loved the Fender you sent for Christmas. I think he might even be sleeping with it,’ Nic jokes.  

(Another Gallagher offspring she wasn’t taking a chance with. No sense the child’s musical sensibilities should suffer, just because she and his father aren’t on speaking terms.) 

‘This is Donovan,’ she says, gesturing with her chin at her son, who is now listing against her slightly with exhaustion. ‘Donny,’ she tells him, brushing his fringe away from his face, ‘this is your — your Aunt Nicole. Say hello.’

‘Hullo,’ says Donny politely, little voice faint with exhaustion. 

‘Former aunt, at best,’ Nic says, with a rueful smile. 

Well, it’s not Nic’s fault that her ex is a bit of a cad. Anyway, Noel’s always liked her. 

‘No,’ insists Noel decisively. ‘Auntie Nicole.’ 

Nic’s smile turns a tad more genuine. 

‘It’s nice to meet you,’ she says to Donny. Then, to Noel, ‘Gene’s been asking after you. He wants to see you, to thank you for the gifts and all that.’ 

Ah. Tricky, that. The last time she’d seen Gene he was, what, four? Five, maybe? Most of her memories of him are as a toddler, golden-haired, cherubic, looking even more angelic than Liam did at that age, if that were possible. Contact had petered out for a bit, after Nic and Liam’s breakup, probably for the best. But Nic’s been trying to get Noel to visit for a few years, texts her every few months with pictures of Gene on his birthday and Christmas with the gifts Noel sends. 

‘Maybe you could pop by for Christmas? I’ve got Gene this year,’ suggests Nic, hopefully. 

‘Maybe,’ Noel allows, ‘if we’re in town.’ 

Next to her, Donny makes a small disgruntled noise, his face a moue of discontent. He’s reached the end of his tether, her poor boy.

‘All right, baby,’ she says, rubbing his arm, ‘we’re going now’.  

She catches Nic’s eyes drift to Donny, and a small frown cross her face.

Most people assume Nic’s not too bright, right, ‘cos she’s blonde and pretty, and nice to a fault, and makes catchy pop music in a girl band. It’s not a mistake Noel’s ever made. 

And she knows that Donny, even with his blue eyes and eyebrows and thick wavy hair darkening from dirty blonde to brown, doesn’t look much like her half the time. His features are sharper, the bridge of his nose smooth and sharp, unlike her button nose. When he’s not pouting like he is now, his lips are thinner than hers, with a sweet Cupid’s bow.  

Noel tucks Donny under her arm. Leans forward to Nicole and says, a little softly like she’s imparting a secret, ‘I might take him down South to see Paul this Christmas, if Sara doesn’t mind.’ 

Understanding dawns on Nic’s face. She nods sympathetically. They exchange farewells, promises to keep in touch (which Noel intends to honour only with the bare minimum), and part ways.

In the car to the hotel, after she’s buckled Donny in, she curves an arm around him, cuddles him close. He presses his face against her, frown smoothing out as he dozes off. 

She drops a kiss to his forehead, and thinks about the other boy she used to hold close; wilder, fiercer, often raging with tears. Thinks about how easy it was then, to coax him, and soothe him, and settle him in her arms. Thinks about how easy it was, for her to be enough.   

Chapter Text

23 March 1996, Westbury Hotel Dublin 

She startles awake, sits up, heart thudding furiously. Something’s not right. 

There’s a pounding at the door. It’s Maggie. ‘Noel,’ she says breathlessly, ‘you’ve got to come. The bar downstairs.’ 

She’s in long trousers, but a threadbare shirt. She pulls on a jumper — his jumper he’s forgotten on the chair in her room — slips her feet into the hotel slippers and makes a mad run for it. 

Stops in front of the scene at the bar. Their da’s there, smirking, arms folded across his chest. Taunting. 

Facing him, bristling and snarling, is her kid. Iain’s standing in front of him, holding him back by the shoulders with burly arms.

When her kid’s eyes fall on hers, a flash of terror seizes his face, and then he’s struggling against the iron grip of Iain’s hands with renewed vigour, pupils dilated.

She wants to run to him, but holds herself back. Walks over with quick strides.

‘Iain,’ she says. ‘Let go of him.’  

Behind him, she hears their da say something she can’t quite make out. Catches the words ‘slag’ or summat like that. Charming, how some things don’t change. She blocks out the sound of his voice.

‘Iain,’ she says, more forcefully.

Iain throws her a concerned look, but her tone and face brook no argument. He releases her kid, who’s about to lunge forward at this spectre from their childhood, hand already reaching out to shove her protectively behind him. 

‘Liam. Liam!’ 

He stops. 

‘Come with me. Right now.’ 

He looks at her, confused, uncertain, something wild in his eyes. 

She reaches up to draw his face down to hers, presses their foreheads together. 

‘Come with me,’ she asks him softly. Pleads, ‘Please.’ 

He lets her take his hand in hers and pull him out the room, the sound of jeering words overlapping with Iain’s gruff voice fading behind them. 

As they exit the bar, she spies a terrified looking slip of a girl hunched against the bar, notepad abandoned on the counter behind her. Reporter, can’t be more than 26, 27. (Makes a mental note to get the office to look into which rag thought it’d be a good idea to send a young girl up to Dublin with their mad cunt of a father.) 

She doesn’t let go of his hand as they make their way up in the lift and into her room. There’s a dull and vacant expression on his face as she pulls him along, tugs him into her room and shuts the door behind them, flicking the security latch.

He stands at the centre of the room, hands hanging uselessly by his side, eyes unfocused. 

Right. She steers him to the side of the bed. Pushes gently on his shoulders so he sits. Bends to unlace his trainers, pull off his socks. 

‘I’ll be back,’ she promises. She goes into the en-suite bathroom, washes her hands. Cups a mouthful of water to drink from the tap. Stares into the mirror. 

When she comes back out, he’s still sitting where she left him. 

She kicks off the hotel slippers she had hastily shoved on earlier. Gently takes off his shirt, jeans, boxers. She presses his shoulders down and he moves where she wants to lie flat on the centre of the bed. Crawls on top of him to sit with her legs spread, bracketing his hips, bends to press a kiss to each of his cheeks, then to his mouth. Slips her tongue inside him.

His mouth is slightly sour with the taste of stale beer. His hands come up to grip at the fabric of his jumper on the small of her back. 

‘Hands on the bed,’ she tells him. 

He obeys. She pulls off her trousers and knickers, tosses them aside. Pushes two fingers of her left hand into his mouth to get them wet. Reaches down to press them inside herself, stroking and scissoring, stretching herself out slowly. Her other hand is on his chest, propping her up. His eyes are fixed on her face, barely blinking, still filled with that distant, faraway quality.

When she’s ready, she puts her hand up to his mouth.

‘Spit.’ He does what he’s told.

She strokes her hand up and down his prick, getting him wet and hard, then lowers herself slowly onto him.

‘Be good for me,’ she tells him, before beginning to move her hips. His hands stay flat on the bed. 

The lights in the room are still on. He’s beautiful, almost impossibly so, pale skin coloured a soft amber under the warm hotel lights, his chest rising and falling with her as she moves. Body held still and taut for her, eyes fixed on her face. 

When the muscles in her thighs are burning and she can’t stand it any longer, she reaches for his hand, brings his fingers to rub against her clit to take her over the edge, make her come. Gasping, falling, clenching around him. 

When she comes down from the high, his hands are lying flat on the bed again like she told him. There’s a slight sheen of sweat across his chest and forehead, and she can feel the straining tension in his body. 

She takes his face between her hands, kisses him softly. Whispers, ‘It’s all right. Let go for me, now.’ 

He thrusts once, twice, and comes, hands flying up to grip around her back. When he’s done, she stays on top of him, feels him slowly soften inside her. His eyes have fallen closed, and there are tears pricking at the corner of his eyes and gathering under his lashes.

She kisses away the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, and swipes her thumb gently under his lashes. Moves up so he slides out of her to tuck his head under her chin, hold him close. 

The rest of the band and crew are on the same floor. She should send him away, but—she can’t bear to. 

The next morning, they’re a little late down to breakfast. 

He’s sleepy, warm and quiet, but that’s not unusual for the mornings. Sits next to her, yawning into his sleeves as she butters and slides a slice of toast onto his place. 

Everyone at the table is trying to observe them discreetly and failing miserably.

‘All right, Noel?’ says Bonehead. It’s a question and a greeting in one. 

She nods. ‘Sound.’ Bless him, he’s a good ‘un.

Turns to Iain. ‘It’s taken care of, then?’ 

He grunts in the affirmative. She nods appreciatively. Butters another slice of toast, drops it onto Iain’s place in thanks. 

She butters a third slice of toast for herself, as her kid chews contentedly beside her. Wipes her hands off on a napkin. Pours two cups of tea; splash of cream, no sugar, for her; adds two cubes of sugar for Maggie and hands her the cuppa. Tells her, ‘We’ll need to call McGee, and the lawyers, before we leave today. Marcus, too.’ 

Maggie nods, brisk and efficient as always. ‘It’s sorted. I rang their offices, they’ll both be in by 10.’ 

She hums contentedly. Starts in on her tea and toast. Underneath the table, she feels him press the side of his pinky against her thigh. 

Chapter Text

2005, Radio XS Manchester Studio

She’s trying not to swivel her chair in the XS Manchester studio while she talks to Clint about their latest album, which some critics are, according to the quotes he’s reading her, calling a 'return to form'.

Honestly? She’s doing her best to make a good go of it, to volley and rib, but she’s maybe a little off her game, a little distracted by memories of things that happened more than a decade ago. 

See, she’d been young, right, but she hadn’t been stupid. She knew what it was. Knew about the groupies, knew he had Debbie — and occasionally, so had she, during late nights in the Inspiral’s office — waiting for him at home. 

So, discreet. Casual. Mostly on tour, and not all the time. Maybe they weren’t quite discreet enough, but nothing that would cause any problems with the tours, with her job. 

And he’d been good with her. Gentle, funny, tender. Made her laugh. 

So maybe it’d stung when it happened, to be dropped summarily for a 20-year-old All-American groupie and then sacked shortly after, when they were chopping necks to save some cash. She just — she hadn’t seen it coming. Or she thought they’d — he’d — be a little kinder about it, instead of a note from the office with 300 pounds and not so much as a ‘by your leave’.

In retrospect, she had been a little naive. 

‘Noelle,’ he says in that smooth baritone after her fifteen minutes on the clock are up. It’s not been her best work, much like the past four years and two albums. ‘I mean it. You’re looking well.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

She’s worth at least 50 million pounds, at a conservative estimate. She’s written six number one albums. She’s part of what, at one point, was the biggest band in Britain, maybe even the world, and is still pretty fuckin’ huge even in a bad year. A good case could even be made that she’s one of the most influential songwriters of her time. 

The Inspiral Carpets fell apart in 1995, the same year (What’s The Story) Morning Glory hit the shelves and became the highest selling album of the ‘90s. They reunited for one modest tour in 2003; no stadiums, no arenas, no festivals. Clint's been a radio presenter and a DJ for the past decade or so.

And yet. 

Being around him, hearing his voice, seeing the twinkle in his eyes when he chuckles which somehow hasn’t dimmed with age, it brings back memories she’s not thought about in years. Makes her feel small, and young, and stupid again. 

She hasn’t felt this awkward or uncomfortable in her skin in a long time.

‘All right, then?’

She and Clint swivel their chairs to the side to see her kid slouched in the frame of the door. Usual parka, atrocious haircut, not wearing his shades.

‘What’re you doin’ here?’ she asks, perplexed. Doesn’t bother asking how he’d got into the building; he has his ways. ‘sides, he’s not exactly unrecognisable.

‘Came up to see Mam, heard you’d be out here. Reckon’d I’d come by and get you’s, so we can take Mam out to dinner.’ 

That’s not true; he’d only just come up to see Mam a week ago. It’s the whole reason she was doing this blasted interview alone in the first place.

‘Liam,’ Clint says warmly. ‘It’s good to see you.’

Her kid nods at him briefly in acknowledgment, then tilts his head at her expectantly. 

She stands, grabs her jacket. 

He slouches over to throw an arm around her shoulder, hustles her out the door.

As they make their way out, she catches him slant a look at Clint as they depart, something dark and complicated in his eyes; she doesn’t quite understand it. 

When they’re out of the Laser House, into the Mancunian weather that is predictably grey despite it being the middle of summer, she turns to ask him what on earth that was all about. But he’s looking down at her tucked under his arm, grinning. Her kid brother again. 

‘Mam’s still got me old scooter,’ he says. ‘Wanna go for a ride?’ 

‘I am not gettin' on a scooter with you,’ she says immediately. ‘No.’

‘C’mon…’ he says, wheedling. ‘Noely.’ 

‘Right,’ she tells him. ‘Great headline that would make. Singer and lead guitarist of Oasis die in freak scooter crash, more at 10. Very rock ‘n’ roll.’ 

He mithers her about it all the way on the bus ride back to Mam’s, and they get several curious or judgmental looks for their trouble. She supposes it’s not every day you see two of Britain’s biggest rock ‘n’ roll stars on public transport bickering about the relative likelihood of scooter rides ending in certain death. 

By the time they get to Mam’s, he’s worn her down, and she’s agreed to give it a go on the condition that he’ll stop at the end of the lane if she says so. (This can only end in tears.) She insists on leaving a note saying that Colin’s to get all her guitars if she snuffs it in a freak scooter accident. 

She forgets all about the interview.

Chapter Text

September 2019, London

They’re doing one of Matt’s silly podcast things when it comes up. 

‘Aimee who?’ 

She racks her brain, confused. Matt shows her a photo on his phone. 

Oh, right, she remembers her. Blonde, pretty, weirdly intense. Maybe '94, '95? 

‘Oh, yeah. American bird. Kept insistin’ I knew musical theory or summat. Was sorta really fixated on it.’ 

She has vague memories of failing to shut her up and eventually a quick shag in a hall closet? The memories are pretty hazy, honestly. 

‘She wrote a song about you!’ 

‘What?’ 

‘You really didn’t know? She did! I looked it up. It was on the soundtrack of Cruel Intentions and everything.’ 

‘Cruel Intentions?’ She’s never seen the movie, has no idea what he’s on about.

‘No, listen — ’

He flicks through his phone and presses play. 

The song is — okay, Noel supposes. Not bad or anythin’. But what are those lyrics? Strange bird. 

He’s going to have to edit the music out, so after the song’s over, Matt recites the pertinent parts of the lyrics. It’s even weirder without the melody.

‘You really didn’t know?’ he asks, when he’s done with his little spoken word piece. 

‘No!’ 

‘She performed it on Jools Holland.’ 

‘What?’ Jools Holland? She really feels like somebody should have told her about this. If her old media team were still around, somebody’d be getting the sack.

‘So what d’you think that’s all about?’

‘Dunno. Sounds like she thinks I was a bit of an arsehole.’ 

‘Were you?’ 

‘No clue. Honestly can’t remember.’ She really doesn’t.

‘How many other songs are about you?’

She levels him a look. Sees where this is going. 

He grins, unrepentant. 

‘Dunno,’ she drawls, then adds saucily, ‘Seems like there should be more.’ 

She recognises that look on his face, the one that says he’s going to push it. God, this is going to be another one of his crabs-encased-in-a-glass-plate nonsense, isn’t it. 

‘Any of Liam’s?’ 

Cheeky bugger. Still, two can play this game. 

‘Dunno,’ she drawls again. ‘Don’t really listen to his new stuff. But …’ She trails off, pauses deliberately. ‘Maybe one or two of Weller’s.’ 

‘Oh.’ He knows what she’s doing, narrows his gaze at her. She raises an eyebrow at him. Too bad, he’s gonna have to follow up on this if he wants people to keep tuning into his stupid little podcast. 

The rest of the podcast goes on in the usual vein (him asking her stupid questions, her answering with as inventive lies as she can get away with). 

‘Got to dash,’ he says when their time’s up, hurrying to gather up his things. He, Katie and the kids came down to London for the weekend. ‘Pickin’ up the kids, and Katie wants to get sushi.’ 

He bends over to give her a quick hug, and a little faux European air kiss to the side of her cheek. 

‘Love you!’ he chirps.

‘Love you,’ she grumbles back. 

As he’s walking out the studio, he turns in the doorway and says, ‘Someday, you’re going to have to talk about it, Noeleen!’ 

She pushes down her sunglasses onto her face, flips him the bird. He chuckles and leaves. 

He’s so annoying.  

But when she gets into the car, she pauses for a moment before pulling up the record of the unplugged gig at Hull City Hall on her phone. (It's only just come out; she hasn't heard it yet. Hasn't wanted to.) Presses play on Once. Sits with the car in park for a bit, hands unmoving on the steering wheel. Lets his voice wash over her through the shitty car speakers, lower, fuller and more melodic than her memories. It suits him. 

When he speaks to the audience, it’s low, commanding instead of goading. They’re chanting his name, worshipful, euphoric. 

The recording segues into the next track. It makes something in her chest twist. He sounds aggressive, expansive, effortless — like he did in the ‘90s when they did Knebworth, but fuller bodied. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard him sound like this before. 

The tune itself is hopelessly derivative, of course, arranged in some kind of quasi-Western cinematic and orchestral style. (When she runs into that fuckin’ Andrew Wyatt American twat, they are going to have words.) She doubts Liam had any more than passing input on the composition; there’s nothing of the sweetness and tension of his melodies. None of the poignant simplicity of his lyrics either, the phrases instead stuffed with belaboured similes and images (‘the burning house casts shapes upon the scrim’ — seriously? Does Liam even fuckin’ know what scrim is? Does she?) 

Then his voice comes in after the chorus, threatening and menacing, as he speaks instead of sings into the mic: 

‘Now woman, I wanna tell you something,
I ain’t never seen the likes of you before.
So I was willing to stand still while you pushed me,
but you finally pushed me out the door.’

She feels the urge to scream. Viciously jams the button to turn off the ignition, and the speakers cut off. Throws her head against the steering wheel and rests it there. Damn him. Damn him.

Chapter Text

September 2007, Abbey Road Studios

He doesn’t play her his songs anymore, not since Songbird. It’s always Colin or Andy who bring her the rough demos. 

This time, they both come into the studio, where she’s fiddling on her acoustic with a tune that isn’t quite working. Andy sets the tape down in front of her wordlessly, and Colin quietly hands her a cuppa. They try (and fail) not to exchange worried glances before leaving.  

She waits until it’s late, very late, and she’s sure everybody has left for the day, before playing the tape. 

His voice is in good nick on the demo, although it comes and goes more nowadays. 

She listens, and thinks about the way things are between them now. 

How he still comes to her late at night, or in the early mornings, but never anytime else.

How he’ll get on his knees, but there’s something distant in his gaze, like he’s not entirely there. And she has to stop him, because she doesn’t want it. Not like that. 

How, instead, he’ll curl around her back, face buried in the nape of her neck, hands running over her stomach, her breasts, and down to where he’s buried inside her. 

How the tender words she has for him die in her throat. 

How he only kisses her with his eyes closed. 

There’s something desperate and broken in the way he fucks her, like she’s breaking his heart, which she doesn’t understand because he’s the one who keeps leaving after. He doesn’t stay, not even when they’re back at the old flat in Chiswick she bought, when they came into some money after Morning Glory. 

And they’re never together anymore, unless they’re fucking. He’s rarely there when she pops in to see little Gene, has Nic making excuses for him. Avoids interviews or events she’ll be at, unless there’s no other option. Even in the studio, he finds ways around recording his vocals when she’s there more than half the time. He’s quiet about it, doesn’t make a fuss, but he isn’t subtle. Everyone’s noticed. Colin very studiously doesn’t say anything, and Andy occasionally sends concerned glances her way, and the worst of it all is she doesn’t have any answers for them. 

She thinks about the wild nights, the drinking, the cocaine binges, that are getting more and more frequent, and don’t make him look any happier for it. Thinks about whether he’d stop, if she asked him, if she really asked him. 

She can feel him slipping through her fingers like water, essential but impossible to hold onto. 

And now he’s writing songs about being out of time. About having to go, as if she’s sending him away. But she’s not, she’s not, and she would never. She thought he knew that. 

She doesn’t know how to persuade him of something that’s been in the foundations of her since before she had the words for it. She’s given him her body, her heart, her songs. She thought he’d given her everything; maybe she’d been wrong.

For the first time, she forces herself to think about the question she's not dared to voice in her mind, the question she’d never imagined she’d have to ask: If he wants to go, if he needs to go — maybe she should let him. 

Chapter Text

July 1997, London 

She and the band are at some industry party when that insufferable posh wanker from Blur starts making his way toward her. She wants to dodge him, but it’s a little too late. Ah, fuck.  

He stops in front of her and gives her that too slick cover-of-teen-girl-magazines smile. 

‘Dermot,’ she acknowledges lazily.  

‘Damon,’ he corrects, smile barely faltering. He moves to shake her hand, but she holds up her drink to ward him off, never mind that she has another hand that’s plenty free.

Contrary to popular belief, she’s got nothing against Blur’s music. It’s not for her, but not everybody wants or can — or should — do rock ‘n’ roll. (And she doesn’t mind their guitarist. Wonders vaguely if he’d ever detach himself from for better pastures. Then again, word has it he’s as bad as Bonehead with the drink, and they can really only afford one guitarist who’s already perpetually sloshed.)

So, nothing against Blur and their little arty pop music, but — fuckin’ Albarn. 

‘How’s the missus? She here?’

‘Oh,’ he makes a show of glancing around. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says, with that faux bashful smile, ducking his head. Sure, the girlies must eat that all up. 

Anyway, Noel wasn’t born yesterday; she sees where this is going.

Her kid is on a couch at the other end of the room, nodding along to something Bonehead is effusively rambling about. But his eyes are on her, like always, quietly watchful. She beckons him over with a tilt of her head. 

Albarn starts saying, ‘I thought your new single was really —’

She spies Justine a short ways away, the fuckin’ liar. 

‘Oi! Justine!’ 

Justine startles and glances over. Noel waves cheerfully. She likes Justine — who doesn’t? Doesn’t know her too well, but she’s a far fuckin’ better sight of a songwriter than her twat of a boyfriend. 

Also, Justine is well fit. 

Noel gestures her over, sees Albarn’s face fall marginally from the corner of her eye. Honestly, Justine could do so much better than this cunt.

‘Hullo.’ Justine smiles politely, seems mildly surprised by Noel’s enthusiasm. 

Justine’s about to say something else, when Albarn cuts in over her again. ‘I was telling Noel —’

Mercifully, her kid materialises at her shoulder.

‘This is Justine,’ she tells him. ‘Say hello, r’kid.’

‘Hello,’ he echoes obediently. 

‘Hey, Liam, good to see you,’ interjects Albarn.

If she never has to hear this man speak again — or sing, for that matter — it will still be too soon. In fact, if she doesn’t shut him up in short order, she’ll be in the nick shortly for manslaughter charges, and then where would the band be?

So she turns to Justine, leans into her space just an inch, and says conspiratorially, ‘You know, the label’s been talking about an EP of a few collabs or maybe features.’ 

‘If you’re up for it,’ Noel drops her voice soft and low, to something just above a whisper so Justine has to learn forward as well to hear her properly, ‘maybe you could come down to the studio for a day or two? See if we can’t work something out. Just us girls, right?’ 

She lightly brushes her fingers against Justine’s forearm with a casual, friendly intimacy, and raises her voice just enough so she’s certain Albarn hears. ‘Leave your fella at home.’

Waits a moment’s pause, before adding casually, ‘Us girls, and maybe r’kid.’  

On cue, said kid leans forward to rest his chin on her shoulder, tilting his head up to look Justine in the face. Noel doesn’t need to be looking at him to know the impression he’s making: smooth, unblemished white skin; the curving dip of his lashes; the faraway, almost dreamy, gaze in limpid blue eyes. 

Justine’s already a fair bit taller than her, so it’s no stretch for Noel to peer up at Justine earnestly with bright blue eyes through the sweep of her lashes. Noel’s maybe not the prettiest, right, next to her kid and in a business where everyone is basically model fit; but she does all right.

‘Sure?’ says Justine, uncertainly. 

‘Right, well, I’ll give you my number, yeah? You can ring us when it suits.’

She dislodges him gently from her shoulder, and plucks a pen from her jacket pocket. Curves her fingers around the wrist of Justine’s hand that isn’t holding her drink, and takes the liberty of dragging the tip of the pen across Justine’s forearm, writing her number in a pronounced, curving script. Not so large as to be tacky, and not so small as to be easily overlooked. 

‘Cheers,’ Noel says, as she closes the curve of the last digit. ‘Good seein’ you.’ She stands on her tip-toes to press a quick kiss to Justine’s left cheek. ‘Say goodbye, r’kid.’  

Her kid leans over to brush a glancing kiss to Justine’s other cheek, mirroring her. 

They make to leave, and she stretches up to press a quick, appreciative kiss to his cheek too, hand now curled in the crook of his elbow. 

As they walk away, she gives Albarn a careless wave over her shoulder. 

Tosses out casually, without looking back, ‘See ya, Dermot.’

Chapter Text

August 2017

Kat’s come over from her management’s office, with an advance copy of his new record. 

‘Some of it’s about you.’ 

She sighs. ‘Which ones?’ 

Kat hesitates. ‘I think … it’s best if you listen to it yourself.’

She suppresses a groan. Kat makes a quick getaway soon after. Noel gathers her reserves of will, supposes there’s not much point in putting it off any longer; she’ll find out anyway, sooner or later. Best be prepared before she runs into some enterprising pap asking questions. 

She drops the CD into the player she keeps in her home office. Presses play and sits back in the recliner with a cuppa. 

About twenty minutes in, right around the time he’s singing about being down on his knees and worked overtime (Christ, is there a rating on this? Will nobody think of the children?), she gets up to root around for the bottle of whiskey she keeps in her desk. Splashes a generous amount into her tea that’s gone cold. 

‘Some of it’ — get to fuck. It’s nearly fuckin’ all of it.

At least the one that’s obviously the designated single, Wall of Glass, isn’t about her. She’s certain he didn’t write that one (‘paraphernalia’, for fuck’s sake). She wants to know whose bright idea this was. Isn’t a wall of glass basically a window? Maybe she should’ve been a bit more bothered about his education, but she hadn’t been terribly academically-minded herself.

The longer the record goes on, the more she can feel herself getting steadily incensed. 

What the fuck is this, he’s never been to Chinatown in all the time she’s known him, which is basically his entire life. 

And what the fuck’s happening with the production? Didn’t they say he’d gotten his voice back? What good’s that if you can barely hear it through all the effects? 

By the time she reaches the end of the album, she’s texted Kat to send her the full credit listing. Gets pen and paper out and makes a detailed list, by order of offence, of several names that are going to be on her hit list for all eternity. 

October 2017

Unfortunately, the negotiations with the international distributors of her third album have taken so fuckin’ long — its times like these that make her think with a measure of fondness about Sony, those greedy cunts — that her third album is scheduled to drop about a month after his. Fuck. She could push the release, but the lovely thing about owning your own label is that there’re bills to pay, and death and the taxman wait for no one, so she grits her teeth, and steels herself for the promotional cycle from hell.

The album is fairly well-received, all things considered. The press is mostly complimentary about it. Favourable comparisons are made to Goldfrapp (which she’ll gladly take) and St Vincent (flattering for her, though she’s not sure how Annie would feel about it). She almost lets Charlotte take her scissors onto Jools Holland in what can only be described as a temporary break from sanity, but fortunately comes to her senses at the last moment and enlists Jessica to hide them. 

The interviews, though. They won’t stop asking her about his fuckin’ album, whether she’s listened to it (she lies), whether they coordinated releases (no, at least she didn’t), and what she thinks of it (she doesn’t, mostly).  

By the seventh interview of the day, she has a throbbing headache from deflecting all day and she can practically feel the vein at the side of her neck pulsing with tension. So when Lane Brown starts referencing that Greg Kurstin cunt in glowing terms — ‘A wizard?’ Of what, fuckin’ Oz? — and mentions Macca, of all people, she snaps. 

‘What,’ she bites out. ‘Did he write the one that was about a fuckin’ window, or the one that sounds like Adele shouting into a bucket? 

Fuck fuck fuck. So much for keeping her cool. 

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. She’s already put her foot in it, no sense in being coy now. It’ll make a good headline, at least.

‘If Greg Kurstin ever needs me to teach him how to write a fuckin’ song,’ she tells Lane venomously, hoping they print this verbatim, ‘he should give me a call, right, because what I’ve heard’s embarrassin’.’

Lane seems a little taken aback by her outburst, but quickly rallies. 

‘So you’ve heard Liam’s album then. You didn’t like it?’

‘Did you?’ she fires back. ‘Look, I’ve heard some of it, right. It’s overcommercialised drivel, written by a team of Lord knows how many fuckin’ people waiting for a pay cheque. It’s like putting a Ferrari in the 20 zone — what’s the fuckin’ point?’ 

‘Not all of it, though,’ says Lane tentatively. ‘There’re one or two tracks Liam’s written himself. Like Bold.’

‘Yeah, well.’ She shrugs a shoulder. ‘Be great if you could hear him under the layers of production, innit.’

The interview moves on, but she knows the damage’s been done. After the day’s over, she texts her PR people to batten the hatches. Drops her head into her hands in the car and groans.

She wouldn’t mind a word with that Greg Kurstin cunt, though.

Bonehead

‘Nóilín,’ Bonehead grins, ‘yer lookin’ well.’

‘Fuck off,’ she tells him. 

He’s Donovan’s godfather, comes over every few months to catch up and check in on the lad. Donovan adores him, but he’s down for a nap after spending twenty minutes with Bonehead chasing him around in the evening sun. 

Colin’s here, too, since they’ve just finished rehearsals before this. (She was sorry to hear about Beady Eye, but she really feels she should have gotten custody of Colin in the first place.) She presumes he and Bonehead have bonded over the shared experience of playing rhythm guitar in a band with a bunch of mad cunts, herself included. She doesn’t really want to know. 

They chat a bit in the garden over non-alcoholic pints (disgusting), about their kids, and the old train carriage in Bonehead’s garden (you’d think he’d be less weird after kicking the booze, but evidently not). 

After a while, the conversation comes to a natural lull. Bonehead’s eyeing her carefully. He thinks he’s subtle; he’s not. 

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Out with it.’

‘Heard your kid’s new album.’

‘Oh, fuck right off,’ she snaps immediately. 

‘Y’know,’ says Colin, not quite jumping but certainly moving quickly enough to his feet. ‘I think I’ll go check in on Sara. See if she wants any of these biscuits.’ He disappears into the house with the plate, the coward. 

Bonehead’s still smirking at her. 

‘“Like a Ferrari,” he quotes, “in the 20 zone.”’ 

She doesn’t have to take this in her own home. She gets up and stalks off with dignity to grab a real beer from the fridge, which she fully intends to drink slowly and indulgently in front of him; see how he fuckin’ likes that. 

Matt & Katie 

They’re recording Matt’s podcast, chatting about her new album for a good fifteen minutes, and the fucker’s lured her into a false sense of security — which is when, of course, he brings the subject up. 

‘Oh, don’t start.’

‘I quite like it,’ says Katie placidly. She’s joined them in the studio today, which she does on occasion. (They were supposed to get martinis later. Clearly, not anymore.) 

Noel knew this woman was too good to be true.

‘You like it?’ she asks incredulously.

‘I think it’s quite good,’ chimes in Matt loyally. 

‘Your taste in music, as we’ve established, is abominable,’ she tells him. 

‘And you,’ she turns to Katie, ‘what’s happened to you? Has long-term exposure to this numpty turned your head?’ 

Katie remains unperturbed. 

‘His voice sounds good,’ she says, sanguine as ever. 

‘You can’t even hear it,’ Noel tells her. 

She should’ve known; Katie’s from L.A. She comes from the land where manufactured pop is born. How would this poor princess of Los Angeles know any better? She’s been brainwashed from birth, she has. 

Matt adds cheerfully, ‘My favourite’s For What It’s Worth. Good lyrics.’  

This is out of order. She does this podcast for free, because she loves him, and his beautiful wife, and his gorgeous kids. She does not have to sit here and take this abuse. 

Haughtily, she shifts her sunglasses from her forehead over her eyes. Tells them both, ‘I’m leaving now.’ Exits with the remaining shreds of her dignity. 

Sara

‘The people at the office were playing it,’ Sara tells her. ‘They liked it, asked about him’ 

Sara is a tenured professor in a university. Her colleagues are esteemed professors and researchers. They should be listening to classical music, or something with lutes or harps or summat. They should not be listening to the deranged vocal stylings of a washed up rock star.

‘Oh?’ murmurs Noel faintly, over her tea. 

Sara nods. ‘I thought it was all right.’ 

Her beautiful girlfriend in their beautiful home. Sara doesn’t even like Noel’s music. This is a betrayal that cannot be borne. 

‘Where are you going?’ Sara is asking, bewildered. 

‘ ‘M away for a walk!’ she fumes as she grabs her coat and storms out the door. She wishes Paul wasn’t away on tour, that she could go and hide out with him for a bit; he’d never agree with any of this.

Donovan 

‘Mum,’ Donny’s asking, as she tucks him into bed. ‘Are you all right?’ 

Her sweet, darling boy. ‘Yes, love. Mum’s just had a long day, on account of your uncle being a massive twat.’ 

‘Why’s he a twat?’

Noel catches herself. There’s something beyond mere curiosity in his eyes, something bordering on longing.

He’s always been curious. They swap Easter, Christmas and New Year’s at Mam’s, but he’s seen the photos, heard Mam’s stories of what Liam’s been up to. 

And he’s an only child. Noel, who’s always had Bod and then Liam and a swarm of innumerable cousins living just down the road, can’t imagine what that’s like. He doesn’t see Gene, and there aren’t any kids on Sara’s side. (Sara’s an only child, too.) 

She needs to get a grip on herself. He’s only seven; he doesn’t understand. And he’s going to be older soon, he’s not going to be her baby for much longer. Maybe two or three more years, if she’s lucky. And although she intends to keep him as far away from the Internet as she can, she knows he’ll have more questions. 

Besides, she tries not to lie to him if she can help it. 

‘Your Uncle Liam’s not really being a massive twat. Just a little bit of one. Also,’ she adds hastily, ‘we don’t call people twats if they’re annoyin’, right?’ (Sara is going to kill her if she catches Donny saying this.)   

‘But why?’

‘Why what?’ 

‘Why’s he a twat?’ 

Noel winces. The damage’s been done to her son’s vocabulary. Sorry, Sara. 

‘‘Cos he wrote a few songs about me, with some other people. And they’re not very good.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

‘If you’re going to write a song about someone,’ she tells him very seriously, because this is important, ‘it has to be good. You have to do it yourself, and you have to mean it.’

‘Oh.’ He thinks for a bit. 

‘Did you write any songs about Uncle Liam?’

‘A few, yeah,’ she says, understating things while climbing into the tiny bed to squeeze in next to him. 

‘Which ones?’ 

Well, she’s not going to tell a seven year old about Slide Away. There are limits to this honesty business.

‘Mm, you remember Live Forever, yeah? You liked that one. It’s a bit about your Nan, and a bit about Uncle Liam, and a bit about you.’ 

His face scrunches up into a familiar frown, and it tugs at something in her chest. 

She cuddles him close as he very adorably and vehemently insists in his posh little accent that it can’t be about him because he wasn’t born yet, Mum. (Good to know her son’s got a linear understanding of time.)

She can’t help herself. She keeps him up ten minutes past his bedtime trying to convince him that songs can be about people in the future and the past, can span across time, you know? Like in Doctor Who. It’s something that Liam would say. Donny’s not especially convinced. 

When he’s finally out for the count and she’s extricated herself from the tangle of blankets and tucked him in again, she goes to her office. Closes the door and grabs her acoustic. Thinks for a moment, longingly, about her electric sunburst Gibson. Then she bends over her guitar, and she plays and she writes. 

The next morning’s rough. There are circles under her eyes from too little sleep. She apologises to Sara for storming out, confesses abashedly to the latest addition to Donny’s vocabulary, and kisses her before she leaves for the school run with Donny and to the university. 

When she’s alone, she returns to the sofa in her office and opens the audio file from the night before on her phone. Plays it through once. Thinks she should have kept the original line about keeping the photograph instead of referring to the photograph, it told the story better. Anyway, it’s too late now. 

She attaches and sends the file to a number she doesn’t have saved, but knows by heart. Follows it with the message:

‘If you’re going to write a song about someone, do it proper.’

Chapter Text

23 August 1996 (Knebworth Day One), The Lanesborough Hotel 

She’s wearing the shirt he wore onstage, the flimsy white one, unbuttoned. It’s rank, and gorgeous, and absolutely filthy.

His fingers are flexing as they grip against the headboard while he arches into her mouth, pupils blown wide.

Earlier, he was angelic on stage, almost immaculate. Before the gig, he’d bent to light her a cigarette, hand cupped around the flame. And she’d stared a moment too long at his lips, at the quiet absorption on his face. 

Now he’s a wreck. His hair is an unholy mess, strands sticking to his face with sweat. Lips bitten red, face wild and desperate. And it’s for her, it’s all for her. 

She pulls off him with a final suck as he whines. ‘Hush,’ she whispers, sliding up his body to stroke the matted strands away from his face, pressing fleeting kisses to his lips and cheeks. ‘Darling. Love.’ 

She leans and reaches back to stroke his cock again as he arches his hips, chases her hand. She lets him thrust into the circle of her hand for a bit before pulling away, watches his eyes squeeze close and his face twist. 

He’s lovely. He’s the loveliest thing she’s ever seen. 

‘Love,’ she says, stopping the movement of her hand, shifting up so she can cup the side of his face in her other hand, stroke her thumb lightly across the ridge of his cheekbone. ‘Love, would you like to come?’

His grip against the headboard is white-knuckled. He hasn’t let go since she told him to keep his hands there, to be still for her. 

She can see it in his face, he wants to say yes, wants to nod and plead and cry with desperation. 

But more than all of that, he wants to be hers. He wants to be good for her.

He shakes his head slightly, panting heavily, gaze latching onto hers, imploring.  

‘I know, darling, I know. You want me to choose.’ She kisses him as a reward. He opens his mouth to her, lets her tongue slide into him, claiming. 

Asks him, not expecting an answer, ‘Do you want my cunt or my mouth?’ 

He gasps wetly. Shakes his head again, frantic, still wants her to choose. He’s always so good. 

With deliberate purpose, she lowers herself onto him once more. The slide is easy; he’s already made her come twice with his fingers and his mouth. 

He’s almost shaking with it now, but she isn’t moving, not yet. 

And she knows she shouldn’t, but there’s always been something about him that made her want to give him things, too. That made her let him crawl into her bed for a cuddle long after he was too old for it. Made her barter and trade favours for a new pair of trainers in his size. Made her work and scrimp and save so he’d never have to go without, not the way she did. He’d look at her like she’d hung the moon — still does — but she’s greedy and she wants it again. Wants it all the time. 

It’s going to be horrifically embarrassing tomorrow, when she’ll have to enlist Maggie’s help to get the pills she needs, make up an excuse of a man that Maggie will know, but won’t say, doesn’t exist. Or at least not exactly. 

‘Darling,’ she asks, the question entirely rhetorical, as she scrapes the nails of her fingers down his chest, ‘would you- would you like to come in me?’ 

He almost cries out, and his body flexes, jerks against and inside her, but he doesn’t come. Because he’s good. He’s waiting. 

‘You can,’ she tells him. ‘You can, but only ever for me, d’you understand? Not for any of your groupies, not for the birds you meet in the clubs. Not for anyone, but me. D’you understand?’ 

She can see it in his face as he nods; he knows what she means, he understands. Good.

‘Go on then, love.’ 

He begins to jerk and buck, beneath her and inside her, desperately chasing sensation. She helps him along, hands pressed against his chest to steady herself. She doesn’t think she can come again, but this is better; this is more than good, to have him craving and straining beneath her. 

When she can tell he’s riding the edge, she leans down to scrape her teeth against his chest. Bites at him gently once, twice, again. Tells him, ‘Come for me, love. Come for me.’ 

24 August 1996 (Knebworth Night Two), The Lanesborough Hotel

The next morning, she’s clean and dressed, and watching him step out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist. He looks around, a little disoriented, and then grimaces.

‘What?’ she asks, amused at the expression on his face, which somehow manages to be both lost and grumpy at the same time. 

He ducks his head, embarrassed. ‘Forgot a second outfit,’ he mutters. 

This boy. She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. ‘What d’you mean you forgot a second outfit?’ 

‘Forgot we were doin’ a second night, didn’t I?’ he mutters. 

She laughs; he’s ridiculous. Wouldn’t be able to tie his shoelaces without her. He scowls, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling, pleased he’s made her laugh. 

She always keeps a spare change of clothes or two for him with her, together with razors and shaving cream, for when they end up in situations like this, in the same room the morning after (which they really shouldn’t, she’ll have to keep him away for the next few nights or so). 

She roots around in her luggage, tosses him pants, jeans, socks and a Stone Roses t-shirt. It probably won’t satisfy him, the vain creature. 

As he pulls on his clothes, she digs around in her luggage again, pulls out an oversized corded white jumper. It’s huge on her, goes down past her knees. She wears it like a dress on cold nights. Throws it at him. 

He catches it, looks down at her. Strokes his thumb over the texture of the cords. Smiles at her, wide and easy. 

They’re late again to breakfast.

Chapter Text

24 July 1994, Manchester 

She fuckin’ hates video shoots. Technically, she doesn’t even need to be here, she’s not in them, after all. You don’t need a songwriter at a video shoot, and she couldn’t give less of a fuck about the ‘concept’ of the video (which sounds like bollocks anyway, but what does she know). 

Unfortunately, her kid has a tendency to wander off set if left unsupervised and the other three are no help at all. So here she is, at arse o’clock in the morning, with her kid and the three Goodies. Proper waste of a day. 

They’re on what can only be described as a rough patch of land, ‘round the back of some council houses. The director is, for reasons she doesn’t understand and which haven't been explained to her, an American, who seems enamoured with what is basically a pile of dirt on a council estate. 

Her kid, who’s been idly staring at some daisies sprouting off the ground, starts meandering away and she throws out a hand on instinct to grab his sleeve and reel him back in. 

If it were up to her, every video would just be a recording of a gig, ‘cause that’s what Oasis is about, right? It’s about the music, and the gigs, and the fans. But, according to the executive from Creation, that would apparently be ‘repetitive’ and ‘formulaic’. (Where does McGee find these people?)

She could be at Johnny’s studio working on fixing the actual album — which is still going to shite, thanks very much for askin’ — but no. And then the director starts talking about burying the guitar, which — does he even know how much these things cost? Is he making this up as he goes along? 

‘Absolutely not,’ she cuts in. 

The director looks at her quizzically. 

‘If you even think about putting that extremely expensive piece of musical equipment into the ground, r’kid here’ — she jerks a thumb back meaningfully at said kid, who’s finally started paying attention to the proceedings — ‘will be putting you into the ground.’ 

The American looks confused. She scoffs. ‘It’ll be cheaper to put the guitarist in the ground than the guitar, even.’ 

The mad cunt looks delighted. Huh.

As one, the rest of the band turn to look at Tony, who looks like he’s barely resisting the urge to back away slowly. 

Never mind her earlier complaints — this is the greatest day of Noel’s life. 

‘Kid,’ she tells her kid very seriously over her shoulder, ‘grab a shovel’.

Chapter Text

2002, Orlando

Things have been good between them, ever since she decided to leave Songbird on the record. She’d had his mouth on her just ten minutes ago and they’d only narrowly avoided being late for this interview. (Who schedules interviews on a Saturday morning? Christ above.)

Now she’s smoking, eyes hidden behind her shades, legs crossed. She’s trying not to shift around, but her knickers are still uncomfortably sticky, trapped between her and her jeans. She hadn’t really had time to change and, if she’s honest, hadn’t really wanted to.

He’s on the other end of the sofa. She’d put her foot down on the bicep tattoo—because there are limits—but the cut-off shirts have (unfortunately) remained. His elbows are on his knees and his head is down, but he’s listening as attentively as he gets, while Cat Deeley tries to pretend she’s above making eyes at him like the rest of ‘em. (He hasn’t fucked her, at least. Noel has a blanket rule against all journalists, or their press coverage would be more of a disaster than it already is.) 

The interview rolls on in typical shambolic fashion: she slags off George Michael (always an invigorating exercise), Cat asks about S Club Junior (Who? She’s not sure, but her kid seems to know.) He finds pretexts to move across the sofa closer to her as the interview progresses, teasing and prodding, annoying-little-brother-act on full display, until they’re almost sitting thigh-to-thigh. 

The good mood doesn’t last, sadly, because Cat then asks about her short-lived driving lessons. More specifically, about the aftermath of them. 

She crushes out her cigarette that’s burnt down to the filter. Lights another one. 

‘Well, I had this driving instructor, right. Maybe about 20, 30 stone. And one day, we were near a council estate in Slough or summat, and he put his hand on my thigh.' 

She takes a deep drag from her cigarette.

'So I broke half his fingers.’ 

Next to her, he’s stiffened. She drops her hand to his knee to settle him. 

‘And then I got sued,’ she says, finishing the story. ‘Can’t talk about the rest, but it’s over with now.’ 

She’d settled to avoid the indignity of being dragged through court, but she’s still livid about it. Will be, for a while. 

She notices Cat’s eyes fall to her hand on his knee, and just barely resists the urge to snatch it away. Instead, she casually transfers her cigarette from her right hand to her left. Blows out a long stream of smoke. 

‘Do me a favour,’ she tells Cat. ‘Change the subject.’ 

‘Liam, you wrote Songbird. It’s your first tune on an Oasis record. Was it easy to write?’ 

‘Yeah, I think so.’ He nods. ‘‘Cos the tune’s pretty easy itself.’ 

‘A lot of the fans think it’s about you, Noelle.’ 

‘Nah, nah,’ she says, shaking her head. Feigns a teasing tone, ‘About one of his birds, innit?’ 

‘Is that right, Liam? You’ve found love?’ Cat looks intrigued. Sure, it’ll make a good story: Playboy, hedonist rock ‘n’ roll star finds love.  

Noel nudges his shoulder casually with hers. Looks friendly, but he knows what she means: Play along.

‘Yeah,’ he says, avoiding Cat’s eyes. He’s subdued now, good spirits vanished in a blink. 

Cat’s looking at them with increasing bewilderment at the sudden shift in his mood.

‘He’s shy,’ Noel’s quick to tell her. 

Ah, Cat nods, looks charmed. But the interview goes nowhere after, the effusive energy of the morning disappeared like a wisp of smoke. 

They finish up the interview soon after that. 

Later that night, he asks her: ‘Why’d you have to say that?’ 

She’s resting by his side, head propped up against her hand to look down at him. Brushes the loose strands of hair away from his face.

‘You know why,’ she tells him again. Tries to be gentle, but it’s wearing on her. They’ve only had this conversation about a hundred times. ‘Bad enough—’

He cuts in abruptly, something fierce in his tone. ‘—so fine for you to do it, but if I—’

Suddenly, she’s furious. What is he not getting?

‘My songs don’t—’ 

He looks like she’s slapped him. She curses her slip of the tongue; didn’t mean it like that.

‘Love—’ she says, regretfully, reaching for him. 

He shrugs her off, and climbs out of bed. Pulls on his clothes and leaves without a second glance, closing the door quietly behind him. 

She pulls on a robe and goes to the door. Slides down to the floor with her back against the door, knees drawn up. Buries her head in her hands. 

Chapter Text

1990, Burnage

She’s helping Mam with the dishes from dinner when he gets in, trekking mud and dirt into Mam’s precious and pristine new kitchen. 

(Typical. She leaves on a world tour for several months and shortly after she’s left they get approved for new council housing.) 

Mam’s gone upstairs for a lie down, and Noel has her hands immersed in the sink, soap suds up to her elbows.  

He stops in surprise when he sees her. Mam must not have mentioned she was coming home; strange, that. 

It’s been drizzling (when isn’t it, in Burnage) and he’s clearly just come back from footie, covered in mud and dirt. He’s gotten it all over his face and hair too. How does he manage these things? 

He comes to stand by her. She sniffs at him. 

‘You’re rank.’ 

He scowls, and it’s the same scowl he had when he was 5 and 6, and he’d get himself covered in all sorts of dirt and grime mucking about outside, and she’d have to help Mam wrestle him into the bath. 

He isn’t saying anything. Doesn’t say much when Mam puts him on the phone when she rings home, too. Answers yes or no. Words’ve never really been his strong suit. 

He’s still standing a little awkwardly next to her, not making eye contact. She wants to roll her eyes — she hasn’t been gone that long this time; it’s only been a few months.

Instead, she flicks dirty dishwater and suds at him. 

‘Oi!’ he yelps. 

She smirks. Does it again. 

He’s annoyed, and a little nonplussed. 

But then she sees intent forming in his eyes. 

He’s always been her little brother so it’s easy to forget sometimes that he’s taller than her now, stronger too. 

‘Liam. William,’ she says hurriedly drying her hands on a tea towel, even though the dishes are nowhere near done. 

Takes a step back, while he inches forward. 

‘No, no, don’t you — WILLIAM JOHN PAUL GALLAGHER —’

He grabs her in a hug and wraps his arms around her so she can’t get away. Rubs his muddy face and hair on her face and head gleefully and, eurgh, this is filthy. 

‘Gerroff me — oi!’ she cries, thwhacking him with the damp tea towel, to no avail. 

Unfortunately, he clings to her stubbornly like an octopus, and now there's going to be mud stains down the front of her freshly laundered blouse as well, the menace. 

She thumps him on the back futilely, but he playfully wrestles her onto the floor, hand coming up to wrap behind her head so it doesn’t collide with the linoleum. 

There’re clumps and smears of mud and dirt everywhere, ugh. Mam’s gonna have a fit if she sees. Now they’re going to have to clean the kitchen floor too. 

‘Pleased wi’ yourself, aren’t yer.’ 

He grins from above her, unrepentant. The rascal. 

‘Goin’ to say hello now or what?’ she demands. 

‘Hello,’ he tells her. 

Idiot boy. She reaches up to ruffle his mud-streaked hair. 

‘Been alright, then?’ she asks, softer. 

He nods, eyes roving over her face.

His gaze falls for a split-second to her lips, before moving back up again to look her in the eye. Leans down to press a quick kiss to her cheek, a little too close to the corner of her mouth. Flushes faintly. 

She tries not to think about what it means. Brings a hand up to the back of his head to ease him down, so he can rest his face in the crook of her neck. 

They stay there for a bit, having a little cuddle that he’s definitely too old for, stuck together with mud, dishwater and sweat on the cool linoleum of the kitchen floor. 

Bod gives them a weird look when he gets in a few minutes later. 

Her kid doesn’t care. Rolls off her casually and sits, legs folded into a lotus-shape by her side, waiting for her to tell him what to do. He’s not smiling, but he’s happy; she can tell. 

She’s missed him too. 

Still makes him scrub the kitchen floor, though. 

Chapter Text

22 July 2000 (Wembley Night Two), Wembley Stadium

Her kid stalks out, shades in place, lean and menacing. Stands before the mic with that stillness that could contain a universe, arms outstretched like Christ on the cross as the crowd’s adulation washes over him. There must be at least 70,000 rapt faces in the stadium roaring his name, as he declares: 

‘I ain’t no fuckin’ celebrity, I ain’t no fanny, I ain’t no dickhead, man. I’m a rockstar, and I don’t fuckin’ arse about!’ 

A deafening roar of approval from the crowd. All right. Kid’s still got it, proper rock ‘n’ roll. The gig kicks off, and it’s fuckin’ mega. 

It’s only midway through the gig that the trouble starts. 

‘Noel’s on it, aren’t ya, Noel?’ he teases. 

‘Tell you what, wish I was on what you were fuckin’ on,’ she ribs back, grinning.

And then he’s sailing over, and his hands are on her face and — what the fuck is he doing? 

She just about stops herself from flinching away, as he turns her face to press a kiss to her cheek, lips hovering close to the corner of her mouth. He feels her face freeze under his hands, and he frowns minutely. Is he insane? 

‘Don’t,’ she hisses. 

He leans back, hands falling from her face, eyes wide with shock and hurt behind his tinted lenses.

He stalks back to his mic, as she tries to deflect for the crowd.

‘He just apologised profusely in my ear, he did. I swear to you,’ she says for their benefit. 

‘Yeah,’ he speaks bitterly into the mic, ‘apologisin’ for makin’ so much fuckin’ money for her.’

‘You don’t have to fuckin’ apologise for that,’ she says, trying for joking, but it falls a little flat. 

She can see Whitey sending her an alarmed look from behind the drums. 

The rest of the gig is a fuckin’ disaster. It’s as if something’s sputtered out of him. At one point, even Colin, who usually plays like he’s in his own world, fails to hide a wince.

Most of the crowd is still mad ‘fer it, but she can feel some of them starting to turn angry, confused, at the sudden collapse in energy. Fuck.

When it’s over and they’re safely in the wings, she doesn’t waste a second, shoving him towards the private exit so they can get into the waiting car and security escort.

Fuckin’ Mel C, who’d been hanging around with her kid pre-gig is still there, which is just about the last thing Noel needs. Mel’s about to congratulate them, but before she can say anything, Noel snaps, ‘Not fuckin’ now.’ 

His shoulder is stiff under her hand. He allows her to herd him along, but there’s a suggestion of defiance in his body, like he wants to but isn’t resisting. 

They sit in silence for the hour-long drive back into London. 

22-23 July 2000, The Dorchester

As they make their way from The Dorchester’s highly secure private carpark, up through the private elevators and into her room, she thinks about how they’re going to have to splice the footage with the footage from the night before for the DVD release. Thinks about how that doesn’t change the fact that tonight’s gig went out live to an audience of 60 million people across Europe. 

Once they’re safely in her room, she turns around and demands, ‘What the fuck was that?’ 

‘Noel … ’ He deflates in the face of her anger, hand reaching out imploringly.

‘What, you think you’re touchin’ me after fuckin’ a Spice Girl?’

He reels back. 

‘I-I-didn’t —’ He shakes his head vehemently, the layered waves of his hair sweeping against his shoulders. 

She softens. No, she knows he hasn’t. She isn’t being fair. Had asked the small, well-oiled, discreet team of investigators she keeps on retainer to confirm as much. (Although the frontman of Oasis muckin’ about with a Spice Girl? What has the world come to?)

‘Sixty. Million. People.’ 

This gig was — it was supposed to resurrect them. Counteract the media coverage about the staid, ‘uninspiring’ release of their fourth album, where many reviews suggested, if not outright said, that she had perhaps ‘lost her touch’. 

‘You know what this gig was for, right. You know the album hasn’t been well received.’  

His face turns obstinate, something which both vexes and comforts her. As always, he has his own feelings about the music. He likes the album, wouldn’t have sung most of it if he hadn’t. 

But still, somehow, that’s not the issue. 

She wraps her arms around herself, sucks in a breath. Exhales slowly.

‘Andy knows.’ 

Immediately, his demeanour shifts into something dangerous and alert. She’d been waiting for after the gig to tell him; maybe the fault’s hers.

It’d been in the wee hours of the morning, this morning. The Valium makes her — not reckless, exactly, but less vigilant. Makes everything feel hazy, less urgent, further away. Makes her care less about things she’d ordinarily be militant about. 

She’d been shoving him out the door of her room while he’d been playfully resisting, and he’d leaned over to give her a quick kiss in the doorway before finally leaving. She’d let him. Even kissed back, watched him go fondly.

And then she’d turned, and Andy’d been there, keycard out and about to enter his room at the far end of the corridor, and their eyes had met.

She likes Andy, sure, but he’s not family. He’s not Maggie, or Bonehead, or Guigsy, or even Iain. He’s only been in the band for a few months. (She doesn’t even know what he’s doing with them, to be honest. Ride’s bloody good, if he could just sort things out with Mark.)

And if word got out. It doesn’t bear thinking about. 

Across from her, he’s holding himself with a thrumming, barely suppressed tension. 

‘You’ll not do anythin',’ she snaps. ‘I’ll sort it.’ 

They’re in her room. She’d asked Andy in for a drink when he’d got back from the afterparty, forced casual, and he’d met her gaze for a long moment before nodding. He’s showered, presumably rang his wife, and now he’s here. 

It’s been a long day; actually, it’s so late they’re well into the next day. Maybe not the best idea she’s had, trying to sort it all tonight. But it’s been eating at her all day when she wasn’t distracted by the gig, feels like bile keeps rising in her throat, and she doesn’t think more Valium is the solution. 

Maybe she hasn’t thought this through. 

‘Andy —’

They’re interrupted by the whirring sound of the electronic lock from the door.

Andy’s eyes flick to the doorway where her kid’s just let himself in, dressed in track pants, a worn t-shirt, hair soft and unstyled. Catches the expression that passes across Andy’s face in a split-second. 

Oh. Oh.

She knows that expression. Has seen it countless times on the faces of the birds that cling to her kid’s arm and whose names he never learns or forgets the morning after. Even on some of the boys who stare, and hang on his every word, and lean a little too close when he speaks. 

He wants him. Might even love him a little. 

Her kid comes to stand by the arm of her chair. Lithe, magnetic, graceful. It’s the way he looks on stage, under the lights, with thousands of people chanting his name. 

Slowly, deliberately, he lifts a hand. Rests it on her shoulder as his eyes meet Andy’s. 

Something heavy and unspoken passes between them.

A beat, before Andy’s standing up. 

‘Noel,’ he says to her. Nods once at her. As he passes, he and her kid exchange a final glance, before he leaves and they’re alone.

It should feel like a relief, to have the matter summarily closed without even discussion — but it doesn’t. It feels like something at the bottom of her chest has dropped open, leaving behind a yawning chasm. 

She turns her head into the circle of his arm, hides her face in his side. He drops to his feet and takes her face in his hands, rests their foreheads together. Strokes his thumbs across her cheekbones as he waits for her breathing to slow.   

Chapter Text

April 2010, St Mary’s Hospital

It’s gone as well as can be expected. The bairn’s fine, healthy, but the doctors want Noel to stay a day or two longer for observation so they can monitor her blood pressure. According to Noel, it’s because they don’t want to have the death of the saviour of modern rock ‘n’ roll on their hands. Naturally, she’s not keen on it, wants the comforts of home and Peggy (who’s making her way down to stay with them) fussing over her.

It’s utterly predictable that Noel won’t complain or say a word about the agony of labour, but is more than ready to kick up a fuss about something as inconsequential as staying in a private hospital room, the best that money can buy, with a highly trained medical team on call, for a mere two days.  

It’s already running from evening into night. She'd woken from a fitful sleep in a sulk, wanting the baby and then wanting to go home. Colin’s with her now, good-humoured and coaxing, with more patience than Sara has left in her, so she’d taken the opportunity to step out for a quick fag. 

She’d quit smoking when Noel did, ostensibly in solidarity but in reality from the sheer inconvenience of having to go outside to the garden every time she wanted a smoke. But her girlfriend of several years has just had another man’s child, so she thinks she’s entitled.

She doesn’t have a pack or a light with her, but she has the vague idea that she could bum one off someone, which is when she turns from the hospital exit and sees him, standing underneath a street light.

He looks older, much older, even though it can’t have been more than just over a year since she last saw him. His face is lined, sallow. There’s a vacant, dead-eyed expression on his face. Not hollow, but the suggestion of something worse than emptiness. Noel has it sometimes, too, when she thinks no one’s looking. 

Sara stops. And thinks. 

The thing about Noel is that she’s direct, funny, sometimes blunt, with her disarming Mancunian cheek and bright blue eyes. She looks after the people she loves, can be generous to a fault. Endearing, even when she’s grumpy or in a mood. Easy to like, easy to love. It makes people think that what you see is what you get, and not look deeper or ask any other questions.

But Sara’s been with her a long time, longer than she’d imagined when she first started seeing her. For better or worse, she loves her. 

So Sara knows, maybe better than anyone, that Noel is — well, she’s selfish. 

It’s not that she doesn’t think about the consequences of her actions or that she doesn’t feel sorry about them. She’s not like the friends of hers in the business that Sara’s met either, who gorge themselves on attention, drugs and the fine things that get handed to you on a platter when you’re gorgeous, and talented, and the world loves you, but only for now. Noel is steady, self-contained, and doesn’t believe in regret. She generally doesn’t want much, apart from the money and the security it brings, both of which she has in spades. 

But in the rare instances when she wants something, really wants something — she takes it. Never mind the price, never mind who pays. 

It’s been like this for most of the time they’ve been together. There’s something about Noel that makes people loyal, often beyond reason. That makes them want to do things for her, give her things, or accept situations, make compromises, that they would never imagine otherwise. 

(Case in point: Sara, here, playing the supportive girlfriend, while Noel has someone else’s — probably Paul Weller’s — baby.) 

But however disastrously and messily the band had ended, Noel has never said a word against Liam about it. She’d cursed the label up a storm, complained at length about the extortionate lawyers' bills, and had a litany of things to say about the press that was liberally punctuated with vivid and imaginative Mancunian swearing.

But not saying a thing about Liam, not even mentioning his name — that means Noel feels guilty. That she believes it’s at least partly her fault. 

Given how Colin’s sitting with Noel and the bairn now, it’s not surprising, if Sara thinks about it, that Liam would be here. Barred from entry, but still lurking outside the gates. Like a dog banished by its mistress that doesn’t know where else to go. In spite of her own misery, she feels a stab of pity. 

‘Liam,’ Sara calls out. 

He startles, sees her, then looks shamefaced to be caught. Takes a deep drag from his cigarette to hide it, hand obscuring his face. 

‘Bum a fag?’ she asks. 

He passes one over to her and lights it for her, while she takes the opportunity to study him. 

She’s never really known what to make of him, and the feeling’s been mutual. It used to amuse Noel, the mutual bafflement with which he and Sara regarded each other. Sara had neither the interest in coddling a grown man, nor the inclination to throw herself at him (or any man), which she understood from Noel and observation to be the two reactions he inspired in women. He, on his part, seemed a little thrown without the usual script to follow. 

But he was polite enough, and — for all the carry-on in the media about loud-mouthed rock ‘n’ roll antics — quiet, for the most part, which was more than Sara could say for most men. She used to think it was a regressive hangover from their Irish Catholic upbringing, how Noel would fuss over him and nag, butter his toast and fix his hair, like a mother would. But she remembers seeing, too, the way he’d once shoved himself in between Noel and a pack of paparazzi who had gotten maybe a little too close, with a snarling, determined ferocity.

He’s tapping his feet against the gravel, antsy with unspoken questions. It’s clear what he wants to know from his face, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask. 

She decides to put him out of his misery.

‘She’s fine. Bairn’s fine, too.’ 

He visibly relaxes, although there’s still something strained about him. 

‘A boy,’ she adds. 

A flicker of something terrible and tender crosses his face, before he hides it away. Nods in acknowledgment at her words. 

‘D’ye … ’  She hesitates. She’s not sure it’s her place; it probably isn’t.

He shakes his head. They both know if Noel had wanted him there, he would be. She doesn’t. There isn’t much more to say. 

They stand together, smoking in silence. 

When she’s done, she thanks him again for the fag. He nods again.

As she walks away, she realises he hasn’t said a single word to her the whole time she’s been here. 

When she turns back to look at him, there are tear tracks running down the side of his cheeks, as he rocks back on his heels, eyes closed, face tilted to the sky.  

Chapter Text

2005, Chiswick

They’re at the flat in Chiswick. It’s the only place where he stays the night. 

There’s nobody around to see him come or leave. She owns the neighbouring flat as well, the only other flat on this level. Lets it out on a rotating basis through a company to a series of short-term renters, occasionally leaves it empty for periods of time. 

The decor hasn’t changed much, since she lived here in the ‘90s. She wouldn’t let him live here, even back then. Said it would lead to too many questions, so he’d stayed with Bonehead instead. 

He’s already dressed, watching from the bed as she brushes her hair at the vanity in her underwear.

She had him in the shower earlier. On his knees, his tongue and fingers inside her, the spray of the shower turning cold against his back as she’d sighed and shivered. Carded her fingers through the damp strands of his hair. He’d kissed and licked his way back up her body when she was done, tasting her wet skin, her yielding mouth. 

He always wants her, has always wanted her. Even before he understood what it was, only knew that he craved the closeness of her body, the way she’d touch him as she ruffled his hair or stroked his cheek, gentle and claiming.

She’d washed his hair properly after, like she’d done when he was a kid. Dried and combed it out patiently, like she used to do so he wouldn’t go to bed with his hair wet and catch his death. 

He wants her again. But there’s some awards show later, and interviews before that, so she won’t allow it. 

He’s indifferent to the awards shows. She likes them sometimes, when she’s in the mood to socialise, but he knows today she’s tired, though not from a lack of sleep. She’s in no mood to have cameras flashing in her face, to be chatting with people with plastic smiles, or listening to speeches that drone on for too long by half, by uninteresting, uninspiring people who have nothing important or useful to say. She’d much rather stay in bed. 

If she let them, they could stay. While away the afternoon, as the shadows grow and stretch from the window. He could press her into the mattress, curve his body over hers, block out the world the way she likes sometimes. Stay there for hours, if she wanted. 

He remembers their first awards show. She hadn’t been sure about going, but he’d looked at her and she’d grimaced, and he knew she was imagining him, or Bonehead, or Tony, or, God forbid, Guigsy, giving an acceptance speech. So they’d gone, and they’d won something or the other, and she’d let him throw an arm around her shoulders while she’d made a clever and charming comment into the mic, half-lost on the audience of gaping dickheads.  

Now he goes with Nic, and she goes with a bird she’s seeing or one of her vapid celebrity friends or goes alone, claiming she’s there with Colin even though Colin’s already supposed to be there as part of the band. Sometimes they sit together, and sometimes they don’t. It is what it is. 

She’s staring into the mirror, gathering the energy to pull on her jeans, and shirt, and leather jacket, and shades. He can tell she doesn’t want to; she wants her leggings, and her comfortable skirts with the wide pockets, and her cardigans or his jumper. 

He gets to his feet and moves to the closet, then her. Passes her her jeans, and waits for her to pull them on, before handing her her shirt. 

She puts that on, then looks at him expectantly for her jacket. But he drapes it over the back of the chair, and grabs his jumper he left abandoned on the edge of the bed instead. Puts it over her head, waits for her to pull the rest on. Reaches across the vanity counter for the box holding the necklace he’d bought her in Argentina. Stands behind her to close the clasp around the nape of her neck. Brushes a kiss there, before folding her into his arms and hooking his chin over her shoulder. They stare into the vanity mirror, her hand reaching up to cup his head, to hold him close.

Later, they take separate cabs to the interview. Before the show, she takes off his jumper, puts on the jacket. Leaves on the necklace.

Chapter Text

1997, The White Horse Tavern, New York City

‘It came out in a blaze of press coverage, which is summat I don’t particularly like —’ 

‘Oh, you don’t like press coverage? You don’t like attention?’ says the smarmy, sarcastic fuck from CNN. 

‘’course we do,’ she says, struggling to hold on to what little reserves of patience she has. ‘But no album’s gonna live up to whatever gross exaggerations are being made in the media by people who’ve never even heard it.’

‘It’s also the first album Oasis has recorded with you as lead guitarist, without Tony McCarroll.’

She knows what he’s insinuating. 

‘If you knew Tony, right, you’d know he did fuck all in the last two records an’ I re-recorded those too. I don’t care what tha’ cunt says otherwise.’ 

‘But do you think the lacklustre reception of the tour in North America has something to do with the change in lineup? That you’ve shot yourself in the foot, maybe?’ 

She’s boiling. If it wouldn’t reinforce the unfortunate stereotypes about brutish drunken hooliganism, she’d break her pint glass over his head. 

Worse, she knows what’s going to happen next. He’s going to ask about Weller. Because in the eyes of the media, her fucking Paul (allegedly) is somehow relevant to the fact that she wrote all the fucking songs for Oasis, including for the first two albums that they so love to compare to the much maligned Be Here Now.  

But then her kid, who’s been silent and still as a statue next to her, is straightening and leaning over the table towards the dickhead Yank.  

‘If we’ve shot ourselves in the foot,’ he says, voice low and hostile, ‘why the fuck are you talkin’ to us?’

His hands, which were resting palm down on the table, are now curled loosely into fists. His eyes glint behind the tint of his sunglasses.

‘You want us,’ says her kid. ‘Big time.’ He smiles, baring all his teeth, menacing and contemptuous, before letting it drop from his face. 

The interviewer chuckles nervously, tries to brush it off. ‘Nah, not me personally.’

‘No, not you personally, no,’ he acknowledges. Turns that unblinking, foreboding gaze directly to the camera. Enunciates carefully, ‘But C-N-N wants it.’

‘Right, ah —’ 

‘Look, the record sold 695,000 copies in the first week of release in Britain, right?’ she points out. ‘That’s the fastest-selling album in British history. It’s number two on your charts here.’

‘Sales here are still less than Morning Glory though, and coming from a band that said it wanted to be bigger than The Beatles—’

Her nerves are fraying again. ‘We didn’t say bigger than the Beatles —’ 

‘We don’t want to be bigger than the Beatles. She said, as important as the Beatles, in this day and age. Which we are.’ He’s risen to his feet. Right, time to wrap this up.

She stands up briskly. ‘Listen, mate, we’d love to stay and chat some more to —’ she pauses to enunciate in a similar fashion — ‘C-N-N, but we’ve got a gig tonight to get to, yeah? Cheers.’

She wraps her hand around the crook of her kid’s elbow to lead him away. Lets Maggie bundle them into the back of a cab and take a seat upfront.

‘Noely?’ He’s looking at her with mild concern, all the fight in him gone. Her boy again. 

‘Don’t talk.’ 

When they reach the hotel, she practically marches him to her room, past Bonehead, Whitey and Guigsy who are seated at the hotel bar. They wince in collective sympathy at the stony expression on her face.

When they reach her room, she double-checks the door is locked, and flips the security latch. 

‘Noely —’ he says, holding his hands up appeasingly. 

‘Sit down,’ she says, pointing at the armchair at the corner of the room.  

He sits. 

She draws the curtains. Flicks on the lights. Crawls into his lap. 

He’s looking up at her, eyes wide. 

‘Stop terrorising the American media,’ she scolds. 

He nods. 

Then she kisses him fiercely, and his arms come up to wrap around her waist. 

After a bit of that, she climbs off him and drops to her knees, unbuckles his jeans and takes him out. 

‘Noely —’

‘Quiet. Put your hands on the chair. Don’t say a word.’

He does as she says. She gets her mouth and hands on him. Works him over ‘til he’s coming soundlessly down her throat. Kisses the taste of him back into his mouth.  

When the televised interview with CNN comes out, they watch it with the rest of the band. It’s a riot; a proper disaster. He scratches the back of his neck, smiles at her sheepishly, while the rest of the band fall apart with laughter around them. She makes a show of thumping him on the shoulder, but hides a smile. For once, she doesn’t give a fuck. 

Chapter Text

2011, Maida Vale

Her office sends her a carefully collated briefing with updates on his public appearances every morning. She doesn’t tend to look at them, unless Kat tells her there’s something important. 

But it’s their first tour since the record dropped. Colin hasn’t said much about it over the phone, and it’s been a while since he’s been seen out and about. 

When she opens the photos, she feels the shock of it in her gut. He’s buzzed off his hair. He looks broader, severe, and almost, almost as old as her. 

It’s a matter of minutes to get his touring schedule; they still share the same management. She scans the dates for a window. Sara’ll be taking Donny up to see her parents in the Highlands then, and Noel’s meant to head up to join them a few days later after a series of label meetings.

She texts him a date and time. Doesn’t say where; he’ll know.

2011, Chiswick

When she gets into the flat, he’s already waiting, standing in the centre of the living room. She doesn’t see the point in wasting any time.

‘Strip,’ she orders. 

He obeys. Tosses his clothes aside.

She feels the thrill of it surge through her body, the way it doesn’t with anyone else. 

(She’d tried it, once. Last month at The Firehouse. It’d been her first time out properly since Donny. Some party or another that Sara didn’t want to attend. She doesn’t usually go for men — boys. But the one that had come up to her at the bar had brown hair, blue eyes, and sharp features, and he’d smiled and looked down shyly, pleased, when he’d made her laugh. 

She’d taken him to a room upstairs and put him on his knees. He’d gone willingly, but it hadn’t felt the same at all. Had felt worse afterwards than never having done it.) 

He’s waiting, eyes burning, perfectly still.

She runs her hand over his chest, now broad and thick, instead of lean and flat. Scrapes her fingers over the buzzcut, against his scalp. It’s novel; he’s never been novel to her before.

For the first time in her life, she wants to hurt him. The fuckin’ audacity. How dare he look like that, and sing songs that aren’t hers but are about her. How dare he make her want him, and miss him, and hate him, and still (always, always) love him. 

He’s hard. His eyes are still boring into her. She can tell he wants to see her, too.

But her body doesn’t look the same, does it? She’s got stretch marks, and her tits are saggy, and there are varicose veins running up her legs. She wouldn’t trade it for the world, because it means she has Donny, but it doesn’t mean she wants him to see. 

She pulls off her knickers and lies back on the carpeted floor of the living room. 

‘Come here,’ she tells him. ‘Fuck me.’

He leans over her on one forearm, his other hand skimming down the front of her skirt and underneath it, sliding up her legs. 

‘No.’ She leans up to grab his hand. ‘I said, fuck me.’ 

He’s taken aback now. Hesitates. She doesn’t give a fuck. Reaches for his waist to pull him against her, and he’s unsure, confused still, but as always, he does what he’s told. 

It hurts. She’s not ready, not wet enough, and it’s too dry without lube. She fails to muffle a cry of pain at the sudden intrusion. 

He freezes. She can tell he wants to pull out, to stop.

‘Keep going,’ she tells him. 

After a moment, he complies. 

It hurts, of course it hurts. She can’t stop the soft gasps of pain he’s punching out of her with each thrust. 

He keeps his head down, won’t look at her, and that — that won’t do. 

‘Harder,’ she demands. Rakes her nails down his back. 

She used to have to be careful, right? Once he settled down with Nic, and she with Sara. Couldn’t do anything that left marks. 

See if she gives a fuck now. 

His hair is too short to tug on, so she brings her hands round the back of his head, forces his head up to look her in the eye. 

‘Make it hurt.’ Bites hard against the junction where his neck meets his shoulder so he understands. 

Like always, he knows what she wants. He grips her shoulders in his hands, holding her down into the carpet. Bites fiercely at her neck, and above her breastbone, hard enough to bruise.  

For all that it feels like he’s splitting her open, it’s starting to feel good. On instinct, she hikes up her legs to press them against his back to urge him on. Feels the rough drag of the carpet burn against her back. 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough. 

She gropes for his hand and presses it to her throat. His rhythm stutters, and his head falls above her shoulder by her ears, his breath hot against her ear, and she hears him choke back a sob. 

She turns and he’s-he’s crying. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes, his breath coming in wet gasps.

There’s a dawning horror in her chest. What is she doing? 

Maybe she’d wanted him to hurt, the way she’d been hurt. Wanted him to feel that moment of terror when the person you love most in the world, the person you thought would always keep you safe, hurts you, scares you. Presses down on you and traps you with a weight that you can’t escape, with a weight that you always used to want. Wanted him to feel what it was like to have that safety taken away. 

But he already knows. All he ever wanted was to be hers, to be there with her. And she’d lied to him, and stole from him — stole the one thing that would have mattered to him more than anything — and when he’d found out, she sent him away. 

‘Stop, stop,’ she gasps at him. Pushes at him, so he rolls off her. He lies with his forearm over his eyes, tears flowing freely, and the guilt is crushing, suffocating. She has to fix this. 

She doesn’t take his hand, but she knows he’ll follow her. Leads him to the kitchen and hands him a glass of water. Waits for him to drink all of it, then leads him to the bedroom, where the bed is always made. Strips off the covering sheet with its thin layer of dust, pulls open the duvet so he can slide inside. 

She hesitates a moment before she takes off all her clothes. She’s stiff and sore now, as the endorphins fade. Gingerly, she climbs into the bed under the duvet too, pulls the cover over their heads. 

They don’t touch, but she lies on her side facing him, so he can look at her. Reaches a hand over to thumb the tears away from his cheeks. 

In the morning, he’s gone. Mechanically, she cleans herself up, then the flat.

When she gets home, she calls her estate agents. Tells them to sell the Chiswick flats. 

Chapter Text

July 2023, Cincinnati

The tour’s not been going well, to say the least. Bit of a disaster, if he’s honest. 

Noel’s been in a mood. She’s missing Donny badly, hates America, hates the people, the accents, the food, and she wants to go home.

Maggie, who’d been (in Colin’s humble opinion) foolishly lured out of retirement by Noel’s promises of extravagant pay and even more extravagant and patently false promises of better behaviour, had thrown up her hands in exasperation and told him to deal with the situation before they got thrown out of the hotel for noise complaints. 

He bangs against the door until he’s heard. 

She peers distrustfully through the latch, before brightening. 

‘Colin!’ she exclaims delightedly, with the cheerful abandon of the heavily soused.

He waves. 

Steps into the room, which has gone quiet and then winces as Blondie blares again from the speakers at a volume that he’s sure the entire floor can hear. (She insists on bringing the speakers around with them, at no small inconvenience, and has a roadie set them up in every hotel room she’s at.)

ONCE I HAD A LOVE, AND IT WAS A GAS / SOON TURNED OUT HAD A HEART OF GLASS

She’s swigging directly from the bottle of white wine, as she stumbles to collapse on the couch, lying with her head against the arm rest. Peers at him from upside down and says something, but it’s impossible to hear her under the thrumming of the bass and arpeggiated synth lines. 

He squints at her quizzically, then gestures at the speakers helplessly.

She makes an exasperated, long-suffering face and an ‘oh fine’ gesture in the direction of the speakers, so he goes to turn down the volume to something approaching reasonable. 

‘Colin,’ she says. ‘Colin. Colin. Colin.’

She’s been his boss long, and his friend longer. Has been, since she came by when he was still looking after his mum, paid for a carer, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Told him to take as long as he needed, that the band would be waiting for him when he was ready.

Things are bad, if she’s putting Blondie on. 

‘I like your lyrics, Colin,’ she tells him earnestly. ‘Why’d you not write more?’ 

‘Playin’ the guitar for you, aren’t I,’ he says, moving to sit at the other end of the sofa and lifting her feet to make room. 

She ponders that for a bit, as she settles her socked feet in his lap.

‘Could still do, though. Could write some for me.’ 

He laughs. 

They sit without talking for a while and listen to Debbie Harry wail against the pulsing beats of the drum machine. 

Once I had a love and it was divine / Soon found out I was losing my mind

‘D’you know, I once had a love and it was a gas.’ She frowns down at the bottle she’s clutching. ‘Did turn out,’ she says, in a loose affectation of Debbie Harry’s mid-Atlantic accent, ‘to be a “pain in the ass” though.’

This is rapidly encroaching into the territory of Things They Don’t Talk About.

‘It was better, when it was you,’ she says. ‘Helpin’ him with the words. An-an’ you taught him guitar, right? You, not me.’

‘So’s I did.’

‘Right, so. Your fault then.’   

The track starts again. Oh no, she’s looped it.

‘The tour’s been shite,’ she says.  

‘Maybe it’s the flowers,’ he tells her.

She’s outraged. ‘You take that back.’ 

He grins.

She sulks. ‘Couldn’t have flowers before, y’know? ‘Cos he’s allergic.’ 

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hey Noel.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘What’s my favourite season?’ 

‘What?’

‘Cinnamon.’ 

She whacks him with a throw pillow. 

The next morning, he’s got a crick in his neck from falling asleep sitting up on the sofa and she’s suffering through the hangover from hell. 

On the tour bus, he puts down next to her two Paracetamol and a packet of Jaffa cakes he’s been keeping stashed away. 

‘Colin,’ she tells him very seriously, from where her head is pillowed miserably on her arms against the stowaway table, ‘you’re my favourite.’ 

He knows. 

Chapter Text

1992, Burnage (Part 2)

The next morning, the mood’s a little different.

‘He’s what?’ she cries. ‘In a band?’

Mam shushes her, dishes up eggs and sausages onto her plate. She’s overjoyed that Noel’s back for good, so happy she even spared her from helping in the kitchen this morning for once. She’s never really approved of Noel’s job, seeing as how it involved travelling the world with a group of lads doin’ god-knows-what with god-knows-who.

More details not being forthcoming, she turns to him and demands again, ‘Why is Mam sayin’ you’re in a band?’

He avoids her question and her eyes, pushing his eggs around his plate with his fork.  

‘He’s the singer,’ Mam says, blissfully unaware or callously uncaring (probably the latter) of the devastation she’s currently wreaking on Noel’s psyche. 

‘You’re the singer?’

He sets his jaw stubbornly, stabs at his eggs with his fork. 

This is unbelievable. He’s unbelievable. That hammer must have done more damage than she worried about. 

‘You wait,’ she tells him, waving her fork furiously. ‘I’m gonna find out more about this, I am.’ 

Despite her best efforts, she can’t weasel anything out of him. In the daytime, he either finds a way to duck out of the conversation or puts his mouth to more distracting uses that she really can’t complain about. 

She’d ask him at night, when the whole house is still and he can’t run away, but the way he’s yielding and open and tender in her arms makes her heart stop. Makes all the things that seem so important by daylight feel trivial and insignificant. 

She’s just curious, 's all. It’s not entirely surprising he’d take an interest. He’s spent what must be hours sitting or lying quietly beside her as she fiddled with her guitar. But apart from his short-lived breakdancing phase, he hasn’t really shown any of his own interest in music, been content to listen to whatever records she puts on. 

And a singer? He barely even speaks half the time. It just — it throws her a little. He hasn’t shown any inclination, not in all the time she’s known him. She wonders where it’s coming from. 

Still, Noel’s older than him, been in the business, however tangentially, and knows most of his friends, so it’s the work of a few phone calls and a visit to the McGuigans’ to find out the band is called Oasis (? Still better than the Inspiral Carpets, she supposes) and they’re playing The Boardwalk on Friday, opening for Sweet Jesus.  

She wouldn’t say she’s hiding, but she’s short and hardly going to be noticed by whoever’s on stage. She elbows her way close, but not too close, towards the side of the stage out of direct view from whoever stands at the centre mic. 

The band’s getting set up and she knows half of ‘em, except the drummer and one of the guitarists, the unfortunately balding one. (Guigsy’s mam mentioned a Bonehead writing the tunes?) Her kid’s standing in front of the mic, as still as he always is.

Then the riffs start, and it’s all right, nothing spectacular. This Bonehead lad clearly listens to a lot of the Stone Roses (nothin’ wrong with that, who doesn’t like the Roses), but then her kid opens his mouth and — and he can sing. 

It’s effortless. Still young, but with an edge of danger underlying it. On stage, sweat is pouring down the side of his face, as he presses his mouth to the mic. 

They’ve finished about two songs into the set — the second one is diabolical, this Bonehead lad needs help — when someone jostles her and she stumbles forward and his eyes light upon her. Ah, bollocks. 

Surprise and embarrassment flit across his face. But the drums and bass line are kicking in, and his face firms with resolve. It’s the same look he had, right before he kissed her for the first time. 

The guitar riffs are screeching against the thrumming bass line — this is proper good — before his hand comes up to grip the mic as he looks her straight in the eyes. Her heart is in her throat.

Jesus. What are those lyrics? She can feel herself flushing to her roots, as she tugs futilely at the collar of her too warm jumper. Her heart is beating a steady drumbeat in her chest, in counterpoint with his vocals. Fuck. Fuck. 

When the song ends, the crowd goes mad. Cheering, whistling and applauding. But he only has eyes for her, their gazes still locked.

And she knows, in that moment, what all those songs she’s been writing without a purpose are for. The songs that have been spilling out of her for years, even more in the week and a half since she’s had him in her bed. They’re not her songs — they’re their songs. They’re meant for him.

Sweet Jesus is fairly mediocre, so she loses interest and leaves after the first thirty seconds to track him down backstage. 

Marches into the tiny dressing room where he’s talking to this Bonehead fella, a towel around his neck. He’s drenched in sweat. 

She waves distractedly at Tony and Guigsy as she hurries over and whacks him on the arm. 

‘You can sing?’

It’s a stupid question, given the events of the past ten minutes, but still. 

Bonehead is looking between them with amusement.

‘This your kid, then?’ 

‘Aye, he’s my fuckin’ kid,’ she says.  

She turns to said kid again and demands, ‘Since when can you sing?’ 

He ignores her, tells Bonehead instead, ‘My sister, Noeleen. She’s the one with the tunes.’ 

On that note, she turns to Bonehead and asks incredulously, because someone needs to take responsibility for this, ‘“Take Me”?’

‘Liked that one, eh? Your kid wrote the lyrics.’ 

‘He what?’ She turns back to him. ‘You wrote the lyrics?’ 

She needs to stop repeating herself, she’s starting to sound daft. 

He’s determinedly pretending he can’t hear her, but he’s colouring faintly. Right, well, they can discuss this at home.

‘I’m Paul.’ Bonehead shakes her hand. Nice manners, this one. ‘Bonehead,’ he amends. 

‘Noel. Nice to meet ya,’ she tells him. Can’t resist adding, ‘The first and last tunes were good. Second one were shockin’ though.’  

‘Your kid says you’ve got better ones for us.’ 

‘Oh, he does, does he?’ She narrows her eyes at her kid. ‘First I’m hearin’ of it.’

Bonehead introduces her to their drummer, some Southerner, Whitey, and she makes brief small talk with Tony (who, now that she’s regained more of her senses, she’s remembering was a little appalling) and Guigsy (stoned as usual). But soon, they’re getting chased out by the club’s management, and she’s dragging her kid home by the arm.  

After they’ve both had a turn in the bath, she sets down a mug of tea next to him on the side table, where he’s sitting on the edge of her bed, towelling his hair dry.

She takes over drying his hair, so he can sip at his tea. 

‘“Take me,”’ she says, pointedly. 

He scowls, before looking up at her, eyes flashing. 

‘You liked it, though.’ 

Well, so she did. And he hadn’t been subtle with the lyrics.

‘Put down your tea,’ she tells him mildly. 

Later, when they’re stuck together with sweat, limp and sated, he tells her about all of it in between lazy kisses. About the hammer, and hearing, seeing, the music for the first time and—

‘Madonna?’

‘Mmhmm.’ 

‘Madonna,’ she repeats stupidly. She’s been doing this a lot lately; it’s entirely his fault.

After a moment, it occurs to her to ask, ‘Which Madonna song?’ 

‘Like A Virgin.’ 

‘Like A Virgin?’

‘Mm. Cerice liked it.’

If she’d known about this, she’d have started fucking him earlier. Madonna, honestly.

‘No more Madonna,’ she tells him firmly, dropping another kiss to the Cupid’s bow of his mouth. ‘Only our songs from now on.’

Chapter Text

12 July 2009, Maida Vale

She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a whiskey, her hands pressed against her eyes, trying to hold back tears. 

Liam’d fucked off again midway through the gig, so she’d had to take over. It’d been a nightmare, as usual. 

She’s not a frontwoman, right? She plays the guitar. She writes the songs. That’s what she’s meant to do. 

She’s just gotten off the phone with Paul. He’d been quiet, when she told him. Unsurprised. (Why would he be? It’s happened before.) She knows what he thinks, but he’d been kind enough not to say it. 

And the fans — it’s not the best situation, she knows. They’re good about it for now, let her do an acoustic set to wrap things up, applaud and sing along, before she and the rest of the band finish with Don’t Look Back in Anger. 

But these are stadium gigs. The fuck’s the point of being a rock ‘n’ roll band if you can’t play rock ‘n’ roll. The fuck’s she write all these songs for him if he wasn’t even going to try to sing them. 

And then there’re the fruitless arguments — can they even be called arguments, if one person isn’t speaking? The ones where she rails, and reasons, and coaxes, and he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say a word.

When they’re not fighting, they’re fucking. He’s either furtive and guilty in bed, or almost frightening in his intensity, pressing harsh, desperate kisses all over her body. And it’s still good, it’s always good with him, but it’s also — awful. She’d stop it, but then she’d have close to nothing of him at all. She barely even has his voice half the time. 

She’s started travelling separately for the gigs that are out of town, just to spare everyone else the awkwardness of being around both of them on long flights. But it’s awkward and uncomfortable regardless, especially for Colin and Andy. On top of everything else, she feels bad about that too. 

She wants Sara, but Sara’s off teaching a term somewhere in Edinburgh. Sara doesn’t listen to Oasis, doesn’t read the tabloids. Doesn’t know much about the band apart from what Noel tells her. She doesn’t care about the reviews saying the gigs are ‘lacklustre’ or ‘mediocre’ or ‘pathetic, rusty, despondent, and out of tune’ . 

The doorbell chimes. Mindlessly, she goes to unlock it; doesn’t bother checking who it is.   

‘Noelle,’ Paul says, stepping in. She startles. 

‘Thought I said you didn’t have to come.’ 

It’s not been an easy year for him, either. He took it hard, when his da died. She’d sat with him when Hannah couldn’t, idly wondering what it’d be like to care enough to cry if your da died. Maybe not so different from cryin’ over your mam. 

He hangs up his coat, comes to take her in his arms. 

She tries to turn away from him, scrubs at the corner of her eyes. He’s had her six ways to Sunday, but she doesn’t want him to see her cry. Doesn’t think she could bear it. 

‘Noelle,’ he tells her gently. ‘It’s time.’

She shakes her head. No. 

‘I-I can’t. The fans, an-an’ the band—’

‘You don’t need the band.’ 

He unclips her hair, which has been falling out in thick locks from the claw clip she’d messily shoved it in. 

‘Noelle,’ he murmurs. ‘Listen to me.

‘You don’t need the band. You don’t need the fans. And you don’t need Liam. 

‘I know what it’s like with these things, with the big labels — fuck the label. You’ve got the money to set up your own. More than I did, anyway,’ he adds, to make her laugh wetly. ‘You’ve done it before. 

He combs his fingers through the coarse locks of her hair, and tucks the loose strands behind her ears. Twists and clips her hair up again with an easy, practised familiarity. 

‘You can sing your own songs. Write the tunes you want.’ 

He tilts her chin up so she’s looking at him. 

‘Noelle, more than anythin’, you have the music.

Brushes his lips against hers.

‘An’ you have me.’ 

Chapter Text

1999, Chateau de La Colle Noire  

Things are different in France. 

They’re staying at a chateau, of all places. There’s a pond, a park, and a chapel. No paps waiting in the bushes, no long lenses, no clamouring crowds. There’re maybe a handful of staff who look after the estate, and two sound engineers. 

It’s far too large for them; their rooms are in a wing of their own on one end of the chateau. There’s not even the rest of the band. No more Bonehead, no more Guigsy. Whitey’s not flying in; they’re going to finish writing and recording the demos first before they decide what they need from him, and they can just as well record those in London. 

He’s kissing her breasts and stroking his hands down her body, as he slowly presses into her, where she’s warm and wet and ready for him from his mouth and fingers.

There are fading marks of rope burn around his wrists from when she’d fucked him hard yesterday, hands bound in front of him like he’d wanted. She’d rubbed lotion over them, and he’s been hiding them in the day under the sleeves of his shirt, not that it probably matters.

She’d ridden him hard this morning in the armchair in her room, his hands grasping around her waist, and stroking up and down her back. And when it hadn’t been enough, he’d bent her across the bed, his tongue licking across and into her hole, his fingers inside her cunt, patient and relentless until she’d come. 

The staff don’t come until mid-morning, by which time they’ve often made it down for breakfast. It’d barely been light this morning after they were done, and he’d cleaned up and snuck into the kitchen to steal a few oranges, while she took her time in the bath.

They’d sat on the bed in his room, and she’d peeled and fed him segments of orange, and he’d kissed her, sticky-sweet. 

He’s been so good, to and for her. 

Once, it’d been late and the engineers had left for the day, and she’d been working on the arrangement for Sunday Morning Call at the piano. He’d checked the doors were locked, and then knelt and stayed on his knees for hours, resting his head against her thigh while she worked. 

He’s deep in her, but not deep enough, and she makes a noise of discontent. Obediently, he helps her angle up her hips so she can more easily wrap her legs around him, and god, it’s good, he’s good, it’s what she wants.

Sometimes, when she’s working late in the studio, laying down the rhythm guitar and bass lines for the demos herself, she thinks about how they won’t play with Bonehead or Guigsy again. About how she misses them, and he misses them more, even though he’ll never say. But there’s always another pill, and another drink (not always, not a lot, she’s careful), and the warm circle of his arms. 

‘Tell me,’ she says, as he thrusts deep inside her, her hands clinging to his shoulders, his neck. ‘Tell me.’ 

‘I love you,’ he gasps out. ‘I love you, Noely, please—’

‘Say there’s no one else, no one else who makes you feel this way—’ 

‘There’s no one. There’s no one, Noely, you know, you know–’ 

She does. She does know. 

She kisses him and he opens his mouth to hers.

He speeds up his thrusts, but keeps them steady, rhythmic, just how she likes it. 

It’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous. He’s so deep inside her; she wants to eat him alive.

He knows she’s close, brings his fingers down to rub and stroke against her clit.  

An eternity passes in seconds, before she’s coming, clenching over and over again around him, while he stills, stays deep inside her as the aftershocks shudder through her. 

He pulls out of her, collapsing on his back and panting. He’s still hard, and that won’t do. 

She turns him towards her so they’re both facing each other, lying on their sides. Cups her hands around his balls, traces her fingers along his taint. Curls her hand around his prick and strokes, then slides her hand against the slick of her cunt to get it wetter, before wrapping it around him again. His hand is on her waist, gripping, but in spite of everything, gentle, careful. 

It’s all right. She wouldn’t mind if he made her bruise. 

‘Darling,’ she tells him, ‘love. Say you’re mine.’ 

He doesn’t hesitate. His voice is clear, strong, the way it is when he sings.

‘Yours. I’m yours.’ 

She twists her hand around the head of him, makes him come. 

Later, after he’s licked his spend from her hand and tugged her into the bath, she lies against him, the water growing cold as their fingers and toes prune. He drops the occasional kiss against the top of her head, as he tells her about the things he saw on his walk around the gardens, even though she’d been there with him, not holding his hand, but close. She closes her eyes, and allows herself to drift.

Chapter Text

2006, Hampstead

He and Nic’ve just gotten in. She’d prodded him into taking Nic out for dinner, said Nic deserved it, and she’d babysit. (She likes Nic. Always been soft on her, more so since the pregnancy and Gene being born.)

She’s sitting on the wicker chair with little Gene cradled in her arms, murmuring and singing softly to him under her breath, her finger stroking the pillowy softness of his cheek. Smiles at them both as they come in, murmurs to Nic that Gene’s been fed and changed as she passes him carefully into Nic’s arms. 

He loves his baby boy, a love that’s wholly new, that he’s never felt before. He loves Nic; she’s sweet, and kind, and how could he not, with everything she’s given him? He’s wanted this, he’s always wanted it. 

But when Nic moves upstairs with baby Gene, he’s still in the sitting room, which is how he sees the expression on her face after Nic’s taken Gene from her. The yawning grief and bittersweet longing, like there are cracks inside her where the light seeps out.

She’s never looked like this before. Not at any time when they were kids, not when their Da beat her so black and blue she couldn’t get out of bed for two days. Not even in ‘93, when she’d had things taken care of.

He’s done this. He’s done this to her. 

And now he knows. Every time she comes over to hold little Gene in her well-practised arms, when she coos over him and wipes away his drool, and changes him, and takes over the bottle so he and Nic can have a lie down — this is how she feels. 

It feels like he can’t breathe. Like there’s a rising tide inside him, drowning him from the inside out. 

She catches him staring at her. Wipes the look from her face, raises her eyebrows at him. 

He wants to crawl to her on his knees or fall at her feet. Wants to stay there, prostrate, until she lets him up. Or stay there forever, if that’s what it takes. To fix this, to make that look in her eyes go away.  

She sees the shadow of it in his eyes, but she shakes her head at him and looks pointedly above to where Nic and Gene would be in the bedroom on the floor directly above them. 

She rises and smooths her hands over her skirt. Rings for a cab, and kisses his cheek. Tilts her head up meaningfully to gesture to where his missus and child are waiting upstairs.  

And then she leaves.

He heads up the stairs to where Nic’s settled Gene in his crib for the night. Checks in on his little boy, before taking his turn in the bath and brushing his teeth.

The bedroom’s mostly dark when he gets in, Nic already under the covers, only the night light on. He turns it off and gets into bed, curling an arm around her.

He doesn’t like going out much, with the paps always lurking about, ready to shove a camera in their faces. But they’d had a private room at the restaurant, and he’d held Nic’s hand over the table, and she’d been happy. Radiant, even, in the candle light. 

Nic turns in his arms to face him and he tucks her head under his chin, holding her close as she sighs contentedly.

But when he closes his eyes, all he sees is the look on her face.

And if he could trade all this, just so she’d never have that expression pass her face; trade the warmth of this home, Nic’s gentle love, even his baby boy who is more precious to him than words can say, all to wipe that split-second of grief from her face — he’s not sure his answer would be no. 

Chapter Text

4 September 1995, Abbey Road Studios  

She doesn’t really know what she’s doing here. The band is contributing a track, so she’d come with her kid. But Paul had insisted they come early enough for the first recording of Come Together with Macca, Steve, and the like, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and Kate had jumped at the invitation, so now she’s here.

(Thank God Kate is here. Unfortunately, this means Depp is also here. He’s got even less of a reason to be here than Noel — she will not accept this man is a musician, it’s a fuckin’ joke — but at least Kate seems happy enough.) 

She’s been trying to blend into the wallpaper with her kid, who’s slouched against the wall, as placid as ever. But Paul’s come over to take her gently by the arm — she can feel her kid glaring furiously behind them — and he’s steering her over in spite of her protests and introducing her to Paul McCartney. She’s talking to Macca. 

(Desperately, she wishes Johnny were here. Hadn’t he told her about spending eight hours playing with Macca or summat after he’d left The Smiths? He’d know what to say, and she wouldn’t be standing here dumbly, her brain a buzzing line of static.) 

Paul is chatting away with Macca like everything is normal, and then he’s suggesting she do rhythm guitar for the track (in front of Macca, he knows what he’s doing). Macca is smiling amiably, and at this point it would be churlish and even more mortifying to refuse, even though Steve is here and they really, truly do not need her on this track. 

The recording rolls along. Paul is doing a second take of the vocals for Come Together, headphones on and cigarette in hand. He’s being very Paul about it. Kate is giggling up at him with dreamy eyes — embarrassingly, Noel can’t say she doesn’t understand the sentiment — while her kid glowers at them from a corner. Rolling her eyes, she goes back to him and nudges him with her shoulder until his scowl transforms into a pout. Anyway, they’re watching a 50-something-years-old Macca grooving around and playing the drums. It’s a bit of a trip. 

Eventually, they get around to doing Fade Away. The first few takes with her kid on vocals and her doing guitar and backing vocals are fine. They’re professionals, right? Nothing to worry about, nothing to see here, everything’s good. 

Except Paul suggests, ‘Noelle, maybe do a take with you on the main vocals.’ Is he mad?

She turns to her kid who she’s sure is going to shoot this down, but he’s looking thoughtful, considering. 

‘Kid, no,’ she hisses, shaking her head at him. 

But then he’s making eye contact with Paul – what is this, are they conspiring – and nodding. 

‘No, no, no, no, no.’ She shakes her head. Turns around to look for support, but Steve, who has chosen this exact moment to be a spineless cunt, shrugs at her. 

She’s about to protest furiously, but gets distracted when her kid makes a grab for her guitar. 

‘Stop it,’ she scolds, batting his hands away. He can play a little, right, mostly their songs, but not properly, and he is not embarrassing her — or himself — in front of Macca. 

He grins, and tries again. She smacks his hand away. 

‘I don’t care whether you’re doin’ the vocals or I am, you’re not playin’ the fuckin’ guitar.’

Fuckin’ excellent, now they’re squabbling in front of Paul Weller and Macca. 

He sits back and beams at her, triumphant. 

She thinks back to what she just said. Oh no. 

Paul’s smiling at her encouragingly, and Steve is being typically blase about this, and fine, fine, she’ll do it; they don’t have to use her take anyway. 

When the excruciating ordeal is over, her kid waits impatiently for her to confirm they’re done, before grabbing her hand and dragging her out of the room. 

She waves goodbye to Steve and Kate, suppresses the urge to give Depp the finger, and glances at Paul over her shoulder. He’s smiling indulgently at them as they go. She gives him a helpless shrug as her kid pulls her along, wrapping an arm around her waist as they exit the room.

Chapter Text

June 2008, Blakes Hotel 

Paul’s rough with her, the way he knows she likes it, but there’s something more considered in it than usual. It’s in the way he kisses her, forceful but sweeter than usual; in the careful way his hands stroke across her body as he holds her down, his teeth sharp across her nipples. 

It’s only afterwards as she’s nestled against his chest that she realises: he’s saying goodbye. 

She rolls out of his arms. Wraps herself in a hotel robe, pours herself a finger of whiskey, and takes it with her for a smoke on the balcony.

When he comes out to stand behind her and puts his hands on her arms, she allows it, but doesn’t lean back into him like she usually would. 

‘’s only for a while, darlin’,’ he murmurs, ‘just ‘til I sort things out with Sam.’ 

It’s almost offensive. 

‘Paul,’ she tells him tersely, ‘don’t treat me like I’m a child.’ 

He understands. Lights her another fag when she’s done, and they stand together sharing it in the darkness, fingers brushing as they trade it back and forth between them, his hand on her waist. 

The fuckin’ irony of all this is, Sara left because she found out Noel’s been fucking Paul. And it’s not fucking him that Sara primarily objects to (although she certainly objects to that as well). No, Sara’s main problem is that Paul’s a man. As if that’s what matters. 

(She wonders what Sara would say if she knew about Liam. She wonders if it would matter to Sara that, with him, it was — is, has always been — love.)

When their shared cigarette has burned down to the filter, she drops it into the amber remnants in her glass. Lets him kiss her and fuck her against the wall for old time’s sake. 

And then he’s gone. She pours herself a fresh tumbler of whiskey and takes stock: no Sara, no Paul, and, at this point, only a ghost of Liam. As always, it’s just her, and the music. 

November 2008, Maida Vale 

It’s several months later when she hears Paul’s moved in with Hannah. It’s unsurprising; for all his fierce intelligence and fiery spirit, maybe because of it, he’s always needed a parent or a nursemaid. 

She doesn’t envy Hannah. She’s known Paul for a long time; he’s passionate, attentive, generous, but also overindulged, temperamental, obsessive. Prone to fits of violent lunacy and derangement when he’s drunk, worse than any she’s ever seen, and she’d come up with a bunch of Irish Mancs in the ’90s and grown up on a council estate in Burnage, besides. (She’d ended up on one of those legendary benders with him and Steve once and left midway; hadn’t spoken to him for about three months after.)

She’s jealous, but not in the way you’d think. Paul is a ball of idiosyncrasies, but there’ll always be a woman waiting to keep him company, to put up with his moods, to wash his clothes, and cook his meals, and bear his children. Liam can go on drunken benders for days, ruin what’s left of his voice on booze and coke, and come home mysteriously late (or early, depending on how you look at it) without explanation on the nights he’s with her, and Nic and Gene will still be waiting for him at home.

Noel doesn’t complain, and she doesn’t brood. She’s not one of those women who will whinge on in the papers about the sexist treatment of women in the music business. She wouldn’t, and she can’t; she’s written about twenty hit singles in the past fifteen or so years. She’s got awards to her name, and the respect of most of her peers — at least the ones she herself respects, anyway. She and her kid have a combined net worth estimated at a cool £45 million pounds, and the lion’s share of it is hers, and the royalties keep coming.

But in her moments of weakness, she wonders what it’d be like if things were different for her. If she could do what she wanted, say what she wanted, and know that it ultimately wouldn’t matter. That she’d still have the respect she’d earned, the connections she’d made, and someone to be with her. To clean up her messes, and tolerate her failings, and make sure she’s never alone. 

Liam will always love her — she knows that, no matter what’s going on with him now — but things between them can’t be the way they were before. They haven’t been for awhile. He’s settled down, has — not a wife, at least, she doesn’t think she could bear it — but a good missus and a beautiful kid. 

And even if he hadn’t, even when he hadn’t, it’s not like they could be together the way they were before Oasis was a household name, before people knew her name and her face, before there were lenses peeking from the bushes or shoved up their faces, scrutinising his and her every move. The opportunities have eroded over time, grown fewer and fewer, for them to be the way they were, just existing in each other’s company, back in her hovel of a flat in Chiswick or on tour with only the band and a trusted few. 

He’s still avoiding her, still never stays the night, and she’s reached the point where she doesn’t want to ask why. He still doesn’t talk to her, not even after they’ve fucked. 

When he was younger, fucking always seemed to unlock something in him. In post-coital contentment, he’d ramble; tell her about his day even if she’d been there, his thoughts about the people he’d met and the things he saw, what he enjoyed and hated. She liked it, maybe liked it even more than the fucking sometimes; the way she was the only one to hear his funny little leaps of logic, his cutting, sharp insights, his silly idle wonderings. 

He’ll always want her, she’s certain of at least that, if nothing else. And she’ll always want him. But she can’t have him, not the way she wants, and she’s tired of being lonely. 

And if Paul and Liam don’t have to be — well, maybe she doesn’t have to be, too. If the past ten years of her career have shown her anything, it’s that she can have the things men have, the things they take for granted, while she plans and claws and toils. Might take a fair bit of blood, sweat and tears, might cost a little bit of her soul, but she can do it. She’s done it for Oasis and for the music, so why not for her own life as well? 

She can do it. She can call Sara, send endless flowers and letters, even make a surprise trip up to the Highlands, proper romantic like; she can make promises she doesn’t intend to keep; she can fuck her nastily (the way Sara likes) and then make love to her (the way Sara likes more and will never admit), and whisk her away. Sara fancies herself a sensible, down-to-earth woman, but Noel knows better than anyone that, deep down, everyone wants a little escape, wants a little fantasy. Everyone wants to feel treasured, and desired, and owned, and if they claim they don’t, they’re lying. 

Noel’s a fucking multimillionaire, and she spins dreams and fantasies into song for a living. If she’s sick of being alone, if she wants to have this woman, she can, and she will. 

So she does.

Chapter Text

13 July 2009, Maida Vale

She startles when Liam lets himself in. He’s always had a key to her home, but it’s been ages since he’s come over, what with Sara being here half the time and all. They’re usually at the flat in Chiswick, if they’re not in her hotel room when they’re on tour. She hadn’t expected to see him tonight, and certainly not here. 

Paul’s unfazed. Rises without ceremony from where he’s seated next to her on the sofa, kisses the top of her head, and goes for his coat. Nods at Liam in parting before he leaves.

Paul’s always respected Liam, even when that respect hasn’t been reciprocated. Been respectful of him anyway, never said a word against him to her, even as he’s pushed for her to go solo, to let Oasis fall apart. When Liam had covered Carnation with Steve — she knew exactly why he’d done it and it hadn’t been intended as a tribute in the slightest — Paul had liked it. 

(She doesn’t know how much Paul’s figured out about the way things are between her and Liam. It’s not the type of thing they talk about.) 

A small mercy that she wasn’t actually doing anything with Paul when he came in. Paul had wiped away her tears, and sat with her on the sofa with his arm around her, holding her hand in his like she’d done for him after his Da died. 

(Last week, though. An exhausted and wrung-out Hannah had called her in desperation, when Paul’d been in one of his black moods, wretched and furious, the ones that have only gotten worse and more frequent since his Da died. She’d only managed to stop him from going on another unhinged bender by coaxing him over to her gaff and getting him to bend her over the kitchen counter where she and Sara have breakfast when Sara’s in town, let him fuck his rage and grief out in her, the thrill, and shame, and sorrow she’d felt blurring together in frenzied pleasure.) 

‘What’d Weller want?’ Liam demands, snapping her out of the memory.

There was a time when she’d have — not lied, exactly, but avoided the question, evaded or distracted him, to spare his feelings. But there’s no point now. She’s not the one who keeps leaving.

‘Paul thinks I should go solo.’ 

The pulse in his neck is jumping. He smells like a distillery, his hair is limp and greasy, and it’s horrific how much she misses him, is always missing him, even when he’s standing right in front of her.

She throws back the last of her drink and moves to stand before him, placing her hand on his chest. 

‘Liam,’ she says quietly, and she’s not telling or ordering, she’s asking. ‘Just once. For me. Please.’ Goes up on her tip-toes to kiss him, gently, sweetly, the way it was when they were in love. 

He hesitates for a moment, before wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her to him. Brushes the loose strands of hair away from her face, his hand on her cheek angling her mouth to his so he can kiss her deeply. 

She takes him to bed by the hand. Leaves the ceiling lights off, but turns on the lamp on her bedside table, their bodies casting blurry shapes against the wall. He unclips her hair so the thick, coarse locks, which are starting to grey, spill over and past her shoulders. (It’s always been a nightmare to manage at this length, but he’s liked it like this since he was a kid, and she’s always kept it long for him.) 

She draws him down over her to kiss him again. For the first time in a long while, he looks her in the eyes as he skims his hands over her body, his mouth moving gently over hers and then against her throat. He trails kisses over her breastbone and down her body as he unbuttons her cardigan and pushes up her shirt, pausing to look up at her in between kisses. But there’s a terrible sadness in his gaze that he can’t hide, and she has to close her eyes against the sight of it so she doesn’t cry. 

Part of her wants to tell him to stop. Part of her wants them to stay locked together like this for always, suspended in shared sorrow. 

But if she keeps her eyes closed, if she ignores the scrape of his stubble against her skin, if she doesn’t think about all the things that have happened between them before and since, she can almost pretend they’re back in her bed at Mam’s; young, and eager, and feeling like they’d never be apart.

Chapter Text

21 July 2009, Roundhouse 

They’re almost at the end of the set at the iTunes Festival, midway through Slide Away, when his voice gives out again. 

It’s painful. 

Colin’s in his own world as usual, but she can see Andy trying not to cringe.

She can tell he’s not going to make the outro. In spite of her best efforts, she can feel her face crumpling with grief.

She turns away from the speakers and steps forward to the mic to take over the vocals. 

From the corner of her eye, she sees him move to sit at the back of the stage, bottle of water in hand, expression blank, hair matted to his face with sweat.

And I wanna try now
Gonna make you mine now

She thinks about when she’d rewritten the lyrics. Sitting with him and her sunburst Gibson, the one he’d gotten her off Johnny Marr with almost all his advance because she’d loved it that much, the one she’s playing now. Sitting so close their knees knocked together, the guitar plugged into the small amp she kept by her bedside. Playing the melody. Writing the lines and having him sing them back to her, then writing more. 

The way he’d smiled at her, uncomplicated and happy. How it’d made her feel shy and duck her head, even after all the things they’d done. 

But I don’t know, don’t care
All I know is you can take me there

She used to be everything he wanted, the only thing he wanted. 

He never had to say it, but she knew he thought it, had thought so too: the other half of his soul.

She used to know him, to be the only one to really know him. 

But she doesn’t anymore. Doesn’t know what’s wrong, doesn’t know what’s changed, doesn’t know why he won’t tell her. 

Take me there
Take me there
All I know is you can take me there

He only ever wanted to be around her, and now all he does is leave her: on stage, in bed, alone.

And she’s tried, and she’s tried, and she’s tried.

But he’s the love of her life, and he won’t stop leaving her. 

She can feel a rising sensation in her chest, the one threatening tears. Swallows it back, lets it carry her into the guitar solo. 

As her fingers move across the strings, she remembers how she’d carefully set aside her guitar after the lyrics were done, opening her arms to him. 

How he’d thrown himself into her with a boyish enthusiasm, tumbling them to the bed. Laughing, peppering her face with kisses. 

When the last notes of the solo ring out and she turns around, he’s gone.

Chapter Text

1982, Burnage 

Da’s hit her so hard she’s stumbled back, her ribs colliding sharply with the back of the dining chairs. It’s going to bruise, but it doesn’t feel like it’s fractured (it's happened once before). 

She can take it; it could be worse. There’re girls whose fathers or brothers don’t use their fists or feet, but who slip inside their rooms at night when their mams are asleep. It could be worse; this is nothing. 

And then there’s a blur of movement and her kid is there in front of her. David against Goliath. 

What’s he doing here? He’s not supposed to be here. 

Now she’s panicking. Liam’s supposed to be Da’s favourite. He’s never touched him, never. It’s just about the only thing that makes this bearable for her, while Mam waits, and waits, and waits, for news of new council housing that Noel knows is never going to come.

She’s been careful lately, not to set Da off. She can swallow her pride if it matters, let the bastard think he’s winning. Hold her tongue unless she’s sure her kid is at school or off with Coatesy. He’s getting older and of course he knows, ’course he does, but she doesn’t want him to see. Doesn’t want him within the firing range of Da’s temper, just in case.  

‘L-liam,’ she chokes out, panic clogging her throat, reaching for his shoulder, trying to pull him away.

He’s ten, awkward and coltish as he grows into his limbs. Still a scrawny thing, but he may as well be made of lead, the way he refuses to be moved. 

Da’s staring fiercely, pupils dilated and red-rimmed, but he’s thrown off by the unexpected interruption. Long seconds pass, her heartbeat thundering in his ears, before Da growls and storms off, and they hear the sound of Ma’s figurines smashing to the floor as he leaves.

She’s dragged herself upstairs. She’s lying on her back in her bed, her arm wrapped around her side. Her ribs hurt. She’d get an ice pack, but going to the kitchen feels like an impossible ordeal, and Mam isn’t home yet.  

He’s lying on his side at the edge of her bed, facing her. Worried, watchful, waiting.

She’s tired, and she wants to go to sleep, but she has to put an end to this now, while she still has the will to. She stays on her back, but turns her face to look at him.

‘Liam.’ She makes a point to use his name; she only ever uses it when he’s really in trouble. ‘You can’t do that again.’

He opens his mouth to argue.

‘No,’ she says. Definitive, final. 

His jaw juts stubbornly. She has to stop this; she is going to stop this. And it’ll be the truth.

‘It’s not jus’ about me, right? It’s about Mam. It’s not goin’ to be you, and it’s not enough for him if it’s just Bod, and if it’s not me, it’ll be worse for Mam.’

She can tell he still wants to argue. 

‘You an’ me, we’re not always gonna be ‘round. Got school an’ that. Can’t be with Mam all the time. 

‘And Bod’s … Bod can’t handle it, right? So if it’s gonna be anyone, it’s gotta be me, ‘cos it ain’t goin’ to be you.’ 

His large, blue, fathomless eyes are fixed on her. He blinks, and there’s a sheen of wetness covering them. It tugs at something inside her, brings her closer to real tears than anything Da’s ever done. He’s upset, and that’s not what she wants, either.

‘Not-not sayin’ you can’t do owt.’

She gropes for his hand with hers, grips it tightly, presses their palms together. He bites his lip, fingers curled in the gaps between hers.

‘You can be here, right?’ 

The grip of his hand tightens. He shifts closer to her, careful not to touch, mindful of the bruises that will soon start blooming. 

She brings his hand to rest on top of her chest where her heart is.

‘You can be here,’ she promises him. ‘You can be here, with me.’ 

Chapter Text

1982-1989, Burnage

Da’s not often at home anymore, although Bod still sees him on jobs and that. The bastard’s got a fancy woman somewhere, takes better care of her and her child than he does Mam or any of his actual children. But it’s better this way. 

When Da is home, her kid sticks to her like a burr. He’s never far away while Da’s in the house, always within view if Da’s around her. 

He doesn’t interfere when things get bad like she told him, but something about his unflinching gaze seems to put Da off. The beatings are shorter, the shouting tapers off quicker. Mercifully, Da never tries to do anything more, even when she thinks she catches the desire in his face, but his eyes will flick to that pale, little face watching silently from the corner of the room, and he’ll curse and swear and backhand her instead. 

Sometimes Da will rage and scream at him in a bid to get him to leave, but it never works. He’ll remain unmoved like stone, eyes fierce and challenging. He took it to heart, when she promised him he could stay.

She still does her best not to set Da off, for all their sakes. Bites her tongue, goes through the motions of fetching and carrying, tries to be the picture of the perfect Irish daughter he so wants and is never pleased with.

But if he’s hollering for something, like his supper, and it’s late and Mam ain’t in, or when he stumbles home in the wee hours reeking of drink and in a temper from losing too many wagers he can ill afford, he’ll yell for her, and if she’s not quick enough, he’ll come thundering up the stairs, ready to drag her out by the hair. It’s happened once or twice, with her kid running frantically down the stairs at the commotion, almost tripping over his feet, and Bod following helplessly behind trying to hold him back. 

So at night, when Da’s home or when they hear the ruckus he makes as he stumbles in drunk, her kid’ll drag his blanket and pillow from his room with Bod into hers, turn the flimsy lock in her door after he comes in. (Not that it does much good from past experience, but it makes them both feel a little better anyway.) He’ll curl up on the floor by her bed and invariably, she’ll take pity and pat the side of her bed, so he knows he can crawl up and lie down beside her. 

Sometimes he’ll come to her room at night even when Da’s not home. When he has a nightmare, or she’s had a bad day, or just because. She doesn’t mind; sleeps better when he’s there.

It’s another seven or so years of living on tenterhooks when Da’s around, but they’re not always unhappy. Most of the time, in fact, they’re not. 

While she’s still at St Marks, they walk to and back from school together. When he’s eleven or twelve, grown too pretty by half, the girls start coming round to walk him to school in the mornings, and she’ll hear him tell them, ‘’s all right, Noely’s taking me.’ If Da’s home or Bod’s on a tough job that makes him cranky to be around, they’ll take the long way home so they can be alone for a little longer and she can pretend she doesn’t feel the dread pooling in her gut.

When Da’s not home, he’ll still hang around sometimes as she works on her chores for Mam. Sometimes he’ll help, and sometimes he doesn’t, just sits there daydreaming and wandering off in his head. When she wants to be alone or have a chat with her friends, she’ll send him off on errands or kick him out to go spend time with Coatesy. 

He likes to sit by her when she’s playing her records and working things out on the guitar, trying to play the bass lines from Joy Division songs. Flops on her bed, closes his eyes, and listens to the discordant twangs she’s making. 

His teachers say he’s polite. Quiet, but unmotivated. Dreamy and fidgets a lot, can't focus. But he’s still a boy from a council estate, so he gets into fights, and Mam gets called in to talk to the headmaster a fair number of times a year. He argues and mouths back when Mam scolds and nags him about it, but when Mam’s at the end of her tether and has all but thrown up her hands at him and Noel’s heard enough, she’ll give him a sharp look and he’ll shut his mouth immediately, cowed. The headmaster cottons on and, soon enough, it’s sometimes Noel, not Mam, who gets summoned out of class to his office when Liam’s gotten into scraps. It’s embarrassing and annoying. She’ll purse her lips and say nothing to him or in his defence, but he always hangs his head after, sheepish and apologetic, and soon the fights start to reduce in frequency, even if they don’t entirely stop. 

Once he’s twelve, Da starts taking him with Bod to the Irish clubs or on jobs sometimes. Barely pays him, but that’s the least of her worries. She’s always tense when he’s off with Da, worries the day will come when Da’s fondness runs out. (Mam’s mentioned that he looks a little like Da’s brother, William, the one who died and he was named for. She doesn’t know if it’s true.) She makes Bod swear twice to keep an eye on him, and if they’re out nights, she’s not able to sleep until he’s home and she can look him over, make sure with her own eyes he’s all right.

When he’s fourteen or fifteen, he gets into breakdancing for a bit. She tries to institute a ban on him playing his godawful breakdance tracks on the record player she and Bod bought with their hard-earned money from jobs on weekends and after school. But he pouts and sulks until she inevitably gives in, as he knows she will. It’s horrible, but he’s happy. 

Around the same time, Bod starts taking him to the matches. He’ll try to drag her along and, more often than not, she’ll give in when she can spare the time. They’ll watch the match together, all three of them, and she’ll laugh at the longsuffering look on Bod’s face as he mithers Bod throughout the match. 

When his trainers start to fall apart or when he outgrows his clothes (which is always), she’ll scrimp, and save, and haggle to get him new ones. She gets to know a couple of unsavoury characters for this purpose, but she can’t say they’re not useful or interesting. And when he sees the things she’s left him on his bed or when she passes them casually into his hands, he doesn’t say thank you, but she’ll catch a glimpse of the pleased, shy smile on his face, before he ducks his face to hide it.

Mam doesn’t always approve of him coming to her room at night when Da’s not around, even though it isn’t often. But who’s to stop him? Mam’s spoiled him rotten, they all have. And he’s stubborn. Even if Mam dragged him out of her room by his ear, which she’d never, he’d just be back once she’s gone back to bed. 

Sometimes, she’ll make a show of complaining about it in front of Mam or Bod, but he knows she doesn’t really mind. It happens less frequently as they get older, when the time between Da’s visits stretch longer and longer. But once in a blue moon, on the nights he’s curled towards her, arm outstretched, he’ll hold her hand like he’s tethering her to him, their joined hands the only point of contact. 

She goes on dates sometimes, after work. Stays out late when she thinks she can get away with it, if Mam has an early shift the next morning. Goes dancing with the boys and the girls, and maybe does more than dance if the fancy strikes her and they’re willing. When she finally makes it home, he’s usually waiting up for her, and sometimes she’ll make him something to eat if she’s up to it, and other times she’ll stumble off to bed, and try and fail to send him back to his room, and she’ll fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing next to her. 

He’s with her the first time he tries weed, and later mushrooms and E. She gives it to him, actually, figures it’s better he’s with her the first time, so he knows what he’s in for. She wishes she had a photograph of the look on his face, eyes wide as saucers. It makes her smile when she thinks of it. 

Maybe they spend more time together than most siblings would, are closer than most of the siblings she knows, but he’s her responsibility. She’s always looked after him. 

They don’t have a lot, and the looming threat of Da always lingers. But they have Mam, and Bod, and each other, and sometimes she almost feels lucky.

Chapter Text

28 August 2009, Rock En Seine

It’s thirty minutes before the gig is due to start, and he’s leaving again. It’d be one thing if they cancelled yesterday — short notice, but not too late to offer refunds, claim he has laryngitis again or summat. 

But there’s nothing they can do now. There must be 30,000, maybe 40,000 clamouring people outside, who want to see Oasis, even at the worst of its decline.

Maggie’d come running to her on some old instinct, as if it’d do any good. As if it hasn’t been a long time since she’s been able to stop him from doing anything. 

He won’t look at her. He’s striding past her, eyes set on the door of his dressing room she’d closed behind her, and if he wants to fuckin’ leave again, right, leave her to deal with the horde of enraged and disappointed fans, he can. If he wants to leave for good, even, he should. 

But he should leave for the right reasons. He should know. 

Something inside her goes very still. 

‘Liam,’ she says quietly, pushing that edge of inflection into her voice. The one she hasn’t used in a while, the one that used to make him fall to his knees, and do anything she wanted.

He stops in his tracks.  

‘Ninety-three,’ she says. 

He turns around to look at her, his brows furrowing in confusion.

‘Ninety-three,’ she says again. ‘It was—’ She chokes a bit. ‘Ours. It was ours.’

A crack of silence like lightning in the air. It’s suffocating and freeing, like nothing she’s ever felt before. 

Then a howl of grief, and impotent rage. A rush, and he’s shoving her backwards into the wall, his hands curled around her shoulders in a bruising grip. 

His jaw is heavy, and his teeth are sharp against her lips, against her neck. His hands are rough against her body, on her hips, as he pins her under him with the weight of his body.

The wounded animal in him is baying for blood, for love, for anything she’ll let him have. 

‘No,’ she says, ‘no —’ 

He doesn’t listen. 

Her heart is thundering in her chest, and she doesn’t want to but she’s struggling, hands coming up futilely to shove him off. 

‘NO,’ she tries to bellow, but her voice goes high and cracks—

He reels back, stunned.   

She straightens up from the wall and he recoils, face colouring with fear, and shame, and regret. 

And she knows, then. He’s not her kid anymore; not the boy she cradled, the one she coddled and doted on, who stroked her cheeks, and kissed her bruises, and made her laugh. 

Standing before her, he’s just a man. And she’d sworn she’d never live under the thumb of a man again.  

Chapter Text

August 1990, Burnage

The night before she leaves on tour, he eases his way carefully into her room, mindful of the creak in the door that Bod’s never quite got round to fixing. Stands by her bedside patiently. 

She sighs. Pats the covers next to her. 

He gets onto the bed to lie on his side facing her. He’s far too old for this; she shouldn’t be indulging him, really. But it’s hard to see the harm in it, when she’ll be gone for at least three months tomorrow. It’s the longest time they’ll be apart. 

She turns on her side to face him, still under the covers. He’s careful not to take up too much space, his arms and hands pressed against his body. Stares at her, eyes turned silvery grey in the dark. 

She takes his hand, threads their fingers together. Places their joined hands over her heart, and lets the rise and fall of her chest lull them both to sleep. 

When she wakes, it’s still dark and the sun is just rising. He’s still curled on top of the duvet, despite the chill. Their bodies aren’t touching, but his forehead is pressed lightly to her shoulder. It’s going to be impossible to get up without waking him.

She lies in the darkness, and waits. Stares without seeing at the dust motes floating above her in the first rays of sunlight that stream through the window. 

But eventually, she can’t put it off any longer. She shifts away and sits up. Runs her hand over his hair as his lashes flutter open. 

She drops the blanket she keeps on her chair over him, before she goes to wash up and gets dressed.

When she comes back into the room, he’s turned to the other side so he can watch her come in the door. She slings her duffle bag over her shoulder. Pauses to ruffle his hair, and stroke a thumb across his cheek the way she did when he was a child, cheerful and pink-cheeked with exertion from running around outside with his mates.   

She doesn’t say goodbye as she leaves. Neither does he. He stays where he is, unmoving. Watches her go with wide, unblinking eyes. 

Chapter Text

October 2009, Maida Vale

He’s here. It’s been about two months since the band broke up; she’d been expecting him sooner. Sara’s upstairs, just flew into London this morning; she doesn’t want to wake her. Leads him to her home office, leaves the door open. 

She can see in his face he’s sorry; knew he was sorry from the moment it happened. He’s waiting for her to tell him what she wants him to do, how to fix it. 

But she hasn’t got anything for him. There’s nothing to be done.

The silence is painfully awkward, the way it’s never been between them, not even on their worst days.

Eventually, as his hesitation and simmering anxiety mounts, she can see the intent form in his face, the instinct to fall to his knees —

She doesn’t want it. 

He shifts, but before he can move, she tells him, not unkindly, ‘No.’ 

He’s lost now, and there’s a mounting desperation in his features.

She has to stop this, before it kills them both.

‘Liam,’ she tells him, ‘it’s over.’ 

She’s not talking about the band, and he knows it. 

But he’s studying her carefully now, suddenly distracted. His eyes are skimming over her slightly swelling breasts, the subtle, more pronounced curve of her belly, barely noticeable. On instinct, she places a hand on herself self-consciously, and then swears internally because she’s as good as confirmed it. 

Takes in the devastation on his face.

She’d only found out last month. She hasn’t told anyone apart from Sara, not even Mam. 

It’d been a genuine shock to discover she was pregnant again. She’d thought the weight gain and fatigue was stress at first, what with the band breaking up, the endless calls with the lawyers and Sony and Ignition, being raked over the coals by the fans and the media. 

She’s been on the pill, but maybe she’s missed a few doses in the stress of the last tour, been a little distracted.

And she’s 42. Not impossible, but certainly more risky. 

But with everything fallen apart, she’d thought — maybe this time she could. No band, no obligations. Sara would understand, accepts — well, begrudgingly tolerates — that Noel likes a man from time to time. She hadn’t been pleased about it, but she hadn’t really held it against her. And she’d be a good mam or aunt, if she wanted. 

He’s leaning forwards toward her, arm outstretched, wanting but not daring to touch without permission. 

She shakes her head, regretfully; tells him, as gently as she can, ‘No.’

It’s maybe the worst thing she’s ever said since — since about two months ago. 

He’s curling in on himself, the rejection like a blow. 

‘Liam,’ she has to force the words out, and this, this is the part where it feels like she’s severing a limb, ‘you-you have to go.’ 

He doesn’t have it in him to argue, not with everything that’s happened, but he can’t seem to move. 

‘Liam,’ she tells him again, ‘go.’ 

So he goes. 

The next morning, she walks into her office-cum-makeshift studio and sees the sunburst Gibson on its usual stand, where it always is when she’s not on tour. She digs out its case, and lays it carefully inside. Tells Kat to get it from her office and have it sent to his address. 

Chapter Text

9 August 2002, Indianopolis

‘Don’t care about the fans,’ he’s insisting bullheadedly.

She sighs. Ordinarily, she’d press her thumb and index finger to her forehead to rub out the tension she’s feeling, but her face is still bruised and tender from the accident. They’ve been arguing about this for the past ten minutes. 

She wished she’d been stoned like Andy and Colin when it happened. They’d been mostly unscathed, but she’d been in the front seat. It’d hurt. No point in pretending otherwise in front of him when he’d been in the backseat and scrambled out and to the front after the collision, frantic. 

He’d refused to leave her side. It’d been a struggle and a half for the staff to get him looked over for what were thankfully only minor cuts. She’d woken from a medically-facilitated slumber to find him lying with his head pillowed on his arms against her mattress, visiting hours be damned. The nurses had eventually taken pity and given him a blanket (he’d accepted) and offered to set up a cot (he’d refused). 

It’d been a relief to be discharged, even if only to a hotel room. Better still, to get adjoining rooms with a shared doorway with him. No one batted an eyelid after the accident; everyone knew he’d want to keep an eye on her.

‘Liam. People‘ve paid good money to see this tour.’ 

He scowls. ‘Yer not well.’

‘I will be-I am. It’ll be fine, it’s just a couple a’ gigs.’

She’s so tired. She doesn’t want to argue with him about this. Turns around instead and drops into a chair. 

In a flash, he’s at her side, kneeling by her. Worry plain as day on his face. From this angle, with his wide eyes and mussed hair, he looks like he did right after the collision, a little like how he did when they were young and their da had thrown her down the stairs or across the room. 

Something in her softens, relents. 

She strokes a thumb across his cheek. ‘Okay, love. We’ll cancel the next six gigs, all right? Not three, the next six.’

He nods, biting his lip; it makes him look so much younger. She runs her fingers through his hair, wishes it wouldn’t hurt to kiss him. 

‘Come lie down with me.’ 

He helps her up. She’s still a bit stiff and sore; maybe he’s right.   

He lifts the covers for her so she can get in easily and climbs in after her, drawing the covers gently over them. Shifts a little closer so she can feel the heat of his body without touching, mindful of the rest of her aching body. Takes her hand in his. 

‘Call Mam an’ Meg later, yeah? Tell ‘em I’m all right.’ 

He taps her hand twice with his index finger, and she knows he’s heard. 

She feels him stroke his thumb back and forth over her hand. Falls asleep under the gaze of those storm-blue eyes. 

Chapter Text

1993, Manchester

His brother isn’t given to hyperbole, so when he says the new band playing at the university next Friday is ‘pretty good’, Johnny feels compelled to check them out.

It’s electrifying — it’s the most exciting thing he’s heard in five years. Main guitarist’s a bit lacking, but the songs — they’re familiar, yet new. If these kids can make things work, they could be big. 

After the gig, the singer (good voice, excellent haircut) bounds off the stage, unheeding of the several girls in the front trying to catch his eye, and heads straight into the audience for a petite brunette standing in the corner with her arms crossed. The rest of the band trails behind him.

‘That’s Noel,’ says Ian. ‘The sister. Writes all the tunes.’  

Interesting. He makes his way over to them with Ian. 

The sister’s a bit plain, but pleasant looking. Roundish face, oversized jumper, skirt with leggings and sensible shoes. 

Close up, the boy is even more striking than he looked on stage. Pretty, bordering on beautiful. He seems content to stand by her side quietly, while she gives a spirited bollocking to the lead guitarist, who looks both somewhat cowed and slightly resentful. 

He clears his throat. Identical blue gazes fall on him, before her expression morphs into one of amazement and mild horror. 

‘Hi,’ he says, sticking out a hand to shake hers. ‘I’m Johnny.’ 

She shakes his hand, looking a little faint.

‘Ian says you wrote the tunes. They’re well good.’

She stares dumbly. Catches herself, stutters out, ‘T-thanks. I’m Noel.’ There’s a tinge of pink spreading across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She grabs her brother by the elbow. ‘Uh. This is our kid, Liam.’ 

He looks at the boy. ‘All right?’ The boy nods politely, gaze placid next to his sister’s vibrating tension. 

Johnny chats a bit with the rest of the band, asks them whereabouts in Manchester they’re from, can see they’re a little starstruck. From behind him, he hears Noel whispering furiously. 

‘Ian,’ she hisses, ‘when you said your kid Johnny was in the business, you did not say your kid was Johnny fuckin’ Marr.’

Ian, laconic as ever, replies, ‘Y’didn’t ask.’ 

He suppresses a smile.

‘Noel,’ he says, addressing her again. Her attention snaps back to him. She’s blushing furiously now, pasty white complexion not hiding much. ‘You got a demo tape or somethin’?’ 

She’s stunned for a moment, then fumbles with the pockets of her skirt, pulls out a tape and presses it into his hand. It says ‘OASIS’ in neat block letters with a short track list and her name and number. 

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I've gotta be off. This your number, yeah? I’ll call ya.’ 

She nods, face fully scarlet. He gives up on hiding his grin. As he and Ian turn to leave, he sees her brother nudge her gently and steer her to a nearby stool. 

He calls Marcus the next day. Tells him he’ll stop by for a chat when he’s in London next week, drop off a demo that Marcus might be interested in. 

1993, London

When he’s at Marcus’s office, he passes him the tape with Noel’s name (N. Gallagher) and number scrawled on the back.

‘Who’s the geezer?’ 

‘A woman. Noel.’ 

‘A bird?’ 

‘You’ll want to be talkin’ to her.’

‘What, it’s a girl band then?’ 

‘Nah,’ Johnny says. ‘Bunch of geezers. Proper rock-n-roll’.  

Marcus looks dubious, but peers closer at him. He can tell Johnny’s serious about this.

‘Just listen to it,’ Johnny tells him. ‘Then call Noel. She handles the band. Wrote all the tunes, too.’

‘She’s in charge?’

He nods. ‘She’s in charge.’

Chapter Text

11 May 2016, Maida Vale 

‘Right, ‘ere.’  

They’d both stopped to sign autographs for the lad who’d excitedly intercepted them in the street on the way to lunch. The kid’s been admiring Paul’s shirt, and Paul’s now unbuttoning the top of his Henley, and she knows exactly where this is going. 

She sighs, before stating the obvious. ‘Paul. I’m not sittin’ with you in a pub if you haven’t got a shirt on.’ 

He stops, hands on the remaining buttons of his shirt. Both of them look at her with matching forlorn expressions. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. 

‘Tell you what,’ she says to the boy, ‘give us your address and number. He’ll mail the shirt to you. Throw in a signed CD if you want.’ 

She types in the details the boy recites to her in a daze in her phone and sends it in a text to Paul, before shooing the lad away.

Paul has re-buttoned his shirt and is about to continue walking in the direction of the pub, but she stops him with a hand on his arm. 

‘Don’t think we’re going to the pub, are we?’ she says, arching an eyebrow at him. 

2016, Montagu Place Hotel

A hasty car ride later, she’s pressed up against the headboard of the hotel bed, as she feverishly helps him strip off that godforsaken shirt. 

‘That was unnecessary,’ she tells him about this afternoon’s display. 

He’s wrapping a hand round the back of her neck, and tugging at her hair to make her arch up into him as he kisses her neck. 

‘Was it?’   

She kisses him to shut him up. 

She’d brought condoms and lube in her jacket pocket because she’s (finally) learned to be prepared for eventualities like this, particularly with him. (She’s learned her lesson about the pill — or more specifically, whether she can be trusted to take it daily and on time. She loves Donny more than anything, but she’s not going through the prolonged horror of pregnancy and childbirth again, thank you very much. Her son is perfect, and precious, her firstborn and also her last.)

Paul’s eaten her out and fucked her, made her come twice, and the lube’s come in handy now he’s got four fingers in her and is going for a fifth. 

‘Oh Christ, fuckin’ hell — Paul, are you sure about this?’

It’s a rhetorical question; he’s sure. His thumb is in her now too, and his fingers are moving inside her up past the second knuckle, as she grips desperately onto his biceps. What is she letting him do to her?

She wants to scream, but it comes out as a whine as his right hand slides a further half-inch into her. 

‘Good girl,’ he says, turning to press a kiss to her thigh which is hiked up over the crook of his left arm. 

‘Shut up. You-you’re not my fuckin’ da,’ she chokes out, trying and failing for indignant. She’s almost 50, mind. But now she’s introduced that thought into her consciousness, of all the fuckin’ cliche things in the universe, and it’s — she can’t lie, it’s doing something for her.

‘Sweetheart,’ he murmurs fondly, ignoring her complaints as his hand slides even further into her cunt. What the fuck. What the fuck. 

It’s terrible and wonderful, what he’s doing to her. She hates him a little for it. 

He keeps at it, pausing to mouth at her, licking and kissing around where his hand is buried three quarters to wrist deep inside her, as he runs his free hand up and down her thigh. His fingers inside her are pressed together in the loose shape of a fist, and he changes the angle slightly to rub carefully against that spot that drives her mad, that makes her end up in these situations with him, over and over and over again, despite her better judgment. 

She’s fully collapsed against the bed now, hands fisted in the sheets, eyes squeezed shut. It’s like she’s outside her body, and she hears herself make soft cries, helpless and pleading, against the intrusion of his hand, steady and unrelenting.

‘Enough, enough,’ she begs, after what feels like eons, when it gets too much and it feels like he’s going to split her open. 

He stops. Seals his mouth over her clit.

When she comes again on his fist and mouth, she blacks out a little. It feels like she’s submerged in some kind of fog, as she drifts in a strange headspace that’s neither here nor far enough. She whimpers a little as he slowly withdraws his hand from her, gentle and careful. 

It takes a while for her to return to her senses. When she’s finally back in her body, he’s got an arm around her, firm and steadying, and another behind her neck, holding her carefully. He’s wiped off the worst of the mess on his hand in the sheets, but his fingers are sticky against her arm. 

‘All right, darlin’?’ he asks, tender, serious. 

She nods dumbly, tries to shift closer into the warmth of his body. Now that the last of the pleasure’s worn off, she’s starting to feel an awful soreness in her cunt; she probably won’t be walking normally after this for a day or two.

He draws her closer to him, cradling her. Kisses the top of her head. 

After some time passes, he leaves, despite her murmured protests, before coming back to carry her out of bed to the bathroom where he’s run her a warm bath. Lowers her in and kneels by the tub to run a bath sponge over her chest, neck and shoulders, and wipes away the tear streaks from her face with a damp face towel. Reaches a hand into the water to stroke and probe with his finger, where he’d had his whole hand in her before.

This lovely man. 

She puts a hand to his cheek and angles his familiar, lined face towards her so she can kiss him. 

‘I’m fine,’ she promises. ‘It was good.’ The last traces of concern in his expression finally abate. She smiles at him, waits for him to smile back. 

She loves him. Never been in love with him, despite what everyone thinks, but what does it matter? For more than twenty years, he’s been her friend, her lover, her musical collaborator, and then her neighbour. There’ve been times when they don’t see each other for months on end. Times when he’s on tour, and then she’s been on tour, or when they’ve each or both done something stupid (but never unforgivable). 

He’s mercurial, demanding, often unreasonable. But he understands her. She understands him; more importantly, she trusts him. He’s been there for her when it mattered. 

If he’s going to be smug about this, he’s earned it. 

‘Thank you,’ she tells him, no qualifications or cheek for once. She kisses him on the cheek, then on his mouth softly, different from the way it usually is with them. 

He doesn’t say anything. Kisses her back, brings her head down to rest in the crook of his neck.

Chapter Text

29 May 2014, Maida Vale  

There’s a van outside her gate, and two strapping young lads have just unloaded and are carrying a truly staggering number of flowers into her home. 

It’s absurd. There must be twenty or so cylinders of floral arrangements laid out on the dining table and in her sitting room. Spikes of rich purple flowers interspersed with sprigs of white buds — baby’s breath, maybe? 

Donny’s fascinated. Sara’s annoyed, until she hastily explains they’re not from Paul, and she can see Sara’s face soften when she realises by elimination who they’re from.

She keeps one of the cylinders for her vanity, and texts Kat so she can donate the rest of it someplace.

Afterwards, Kat sends her an (unsolicited) text, telling her the flowers are  purple hyacinths and baby’s breath; asks if she wants to know what they mean.  

She tells Kat no, but later, she looks it up herself: remorse, sorrow; eternal love. 

She tries to forget what she’s read. But she leaves the arrangement on her vanity, changes the water daily, until the flowers wilt and die.

29 May 2015, Maida Vale 

On her next birthday, the floral arrangements are even more numerous. Her morning starts with box after box of bouquets being loaded into her house, as she scrambles to make room for them. 

It’s not that the arrangements themselves are particularly extravagant or large. They’re daffodils, she knows that much, and little white flowers that look a bit like daisies in the shape of stars. There’re just so many of them, in white and clear vases, and they’re all over her dining table, kitchen counter, and the coffee table, as she scrambles to make space.

Donny, who she suspects may be allergic, keeps sticking his runny nose and grubby five-year-old fingers into the flowers, until she has to haul him back by the collar while he pouts. 

It’s a nightmare trying to get rid of them. Kat helps her give away most of it, but there are so many left over. She sends some over to Paul and Hannah, but there are still enough left to stick a vase or two in every room in the house. 

Kat sends her another unsolicited text, this time with further unsolicited commentary: new beginnings, a fresh start; honesty, hope, a request for forgiveness.

She feels a headache coming on. But — it seems a shame to bin them. 

29 May 2016, London

It’s about three weeks to her birthday, and she’s being interviewed on the telly. She’s in the midst of touring Chasing Yesterday, and Sara’s in the midst of remodelling the house and being unusually high-strung about it.  

Jonathan Ross is asking her about her plans for her birthday, which she’d sort of forgotten about. It occurs to her that Sara really will go spare if there’s another incident with the flowers like last year, especially with the builders coming in and out. She has to suppress a wince just thinking about it. 

So when the inevitable question comes about her and Liam, she lies blatantly and tells Jonathan, ‘No, no, our kid and I are on good terms now. He sends me flowers for my birthday.’ Jonathan looks delighted and she’s definitely going to spend the next 15 minutes (and foreseeable future) fending off questions about an Oasis reunion, god, but at least she manages to look directly into camera two and say, ‘Be great if he keeps it to just one bouquet though.’ 

Sure enough, on her birthday there’s a single vase of white tulips. She surrenders to the inevitable and looks it up: love, respect, a desire for reconciliation. 

They haven’t spoken in five years, except through sporadic quotes in interviews and through stories from Mam. But she knows what he’s trying to say. Subtlety’s never been his strong suit.

Still, she’s not calling him; she doesn’t care how many flowers he sends. He can buy an entire nursery if he wants, she does not have to call him. 

But she does keep the tulips on the desk in her office until they start to brown. 

29 May 2017, Maida Vale 

In retrospect, she should have seen it coming after he sends her yellow jonquils on her fiftieth.

Chapter Text

July 2010, Maida Vale 

Andy’s come to see her, and little Donny. She was surprised when he’d texted, pleasantly so. Things’ve been civil between the two of them since the band split, always have been, but Liam had always hung in the spaces between them, even before. 

He’s stepped out for a fag in the garden. She’s quit, right, and she’s not an irresponsible mother so she won’t have one herself. But she has literally shoved a human being out of her. It’s been three months, and still her body feels like a horrific mess in ways she tries not to think about, and her tits hurt all the time, so she feels like she’s owed. Can she be blamed if she loiters around and sniffs surreptitiously while her old bandmate has one? Certainly not. 

She hands Donny over to Sara and heads out to the garden where she spies him standing near the garden wall. He’s always had surprisingly good posture, for a lanky guitarist.

He’s startled to see her. Makes a move to crush out his cigarette. She shakes her head vehemently, and he smiles with his usual good-humoured amusement as she leans next to him against the garden wall and tries to disguise the fact that she’s basically sniffing at the air around him like a dog.

‘Thanks for comin’. An’ thank Shiarra for the massive hamper. Sorry I missed the weddin’.’

‘I think having a baby is the one time you’re allowed to miss a wedding.’ 

They both know she wouldn’t have been there, anyway. Couldn’t have been, when Liam was best man. 

‘Got something for you as well.’ 

He digs into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulls out a disc in a clear case, with the letters ‘BE’ scrawled in marker on it. 

‘It’s just the demos. They haven’t been properly arranged.’

She thought maybe it’d be Colin who’d bring it. But this — this makes sense. 

She takes the CD from him. Stares at it as he finishes his fag. 

After she’s walked him to the gate, he hugs her goodbye. She rests her head on his bony shoulder and clings to him for a moment. People don’t think it, and maybe he doesn’t, too, but she does miss him. Ten years is a long time to be in a band with someone. A long time for someone who isn’t even a bassist to play the bass for you. 

‘You’ll look after him, then.’ It’s not a question when she says it, not really.

He nods. ‘Take care of yourself, Noel.’ 

After he leaves, she checks to see that Donny’s settled with Sara, then shuts the door to her office, and plays the demos.

The songs are beautiful and sad. They sound just like him, with Colin and Andy in the mix. 

He’s begging and pleading. He doesn’t understand, wants her to take him back, to start anew. 

But how can they? After everything that’s happened. After the way he’s hurt her. The way she’s hurt him.

Nothing’s changed. She hasn’t forgiven him. 

And he still has Nic and Gene, and she still has Sara, and now Donny. They’d still have to sneak around, and lie, and pretend. (And she’s not sure how much he could pretend, now that Donny’s here; he’s never been very good at it). They’d still be living half a life. 

But she misses him so much. Feels like she can’t breathe sometimes, with how much she misses him. 

She’d wanted him at the hospital when she held Donny in her arms for the first time. Felt a bit like he’d been there, somehow. 

Everything hurts. She’s always tired, and in pain. Mam had been great, but Noel had felt a little guiltily relieved when she’d gone back to Burnage. ‘Cause sometimes Mam would look at Noel and she’d know that Noel was missing him. And she’d open her mouth as if she had something to say, and then close it. Because what was there to say, really? Noel could’ve had him back anytime she wanted; everyone knew it. She had her reasons.

Those reasons seem far away now. 

Sara probably still has Donny in her study facing out to the view of the garden. She’s got a bit of time before his next feed.

She goes into the empty nursery, and stares at the wooden crib. Traces the intricate carvings along the wooden rail with her fingers. 

He had it delivered almost three months to the day before Donny was born. (Kat had looked it up: Oak, handcarved, custom-made in Donegal. Very expensive.)

She wasn’t sure how he’d known when she was due; Mam, maybe. She hadn’t wanted to ask. 

She locks the door, and takes her phone from her pocket. 

‘Noel?’ 

Her breath hitches. 

‘Liam. Liam.’ 

She’s crying now, can’t stop herself.

‘Noel …’ he whispers, anguished. 

They stay on the phone, her crying, him too, until her sobs peter out, and she can’t do anything, can’t even say goodbye. Just hangs up.

Chapter Text

1992, Burnage (Part 3) 

She’s sitting on the edge of the small desk in her room, legs spread. 

Mam and Bod are both at work. They’ve hours yet before rehearsal, and neither of them have a shift at work today. It’s rare, not having to muffle her cries.

He’s on his knees between her legs, busy with his lips and fingers and tongue, while she clutches at his hair. He’s talented with his mouth, her kid, in more ways than she’d imagined. 

She tugs at his hair once, sharply, and he lifts his mouth to suck at her clit while he slides two fingers into her, crooking them carefully. It sets her veins on fire, the way he’s so responsive, so eager. How she barely has to tell him what she needs when he’s so focused on her body, on reading the way she moves and arches against him. 

When she comes, it ripples through her core. Leaves her feeling like she's floating on a sea of pleasure. 

It’s only been two months or so since they started doing this, but there’s a comforting familiarity in his body, even as she craves the novelty of having him, wanton and desperate and dear. 

He’s applying himself to her cunt again, careful with how sensitive she is — Christ, how many times has it been? She wonders whether he’s like this with other lovers, then shoves away the unwelcome thought. 

‘Love,’ she stops him, pulling him back by the grip she has on his hair. ‘Don’t you wanna come?’ 

‘Wanna do what you want,’ he says, looking up at her. Mouth shiny with slick and spit, eyes hazy with contentment, even if his knees and jaw must surely be aching madly by now. They’ve made a mess of the desk. 

‘C’mere.’ She pulls him up. He stumbles a bit, knees stiff from kneeling. She wipes at his mouth with her sleeve and leans up to kiss him. 

She reaches for his tracksuit bottoms, but he shakes his head. 

‘What you want,’ he repeats.

She’s a little confused, and it’s not helped by the post-orgasm haze. He kisses the side of her neck, hides his face there, as she puzzles it out. She scratches her fingers against the edges of his hair where it’s starting to curl at the back of his neck; he’ll need a trim soon.

‘What I want.’ 

‘Mm.’

‘Whatever I want’.

‘Mmhmm.’ 

She pulls back a little so she can see his face.

‘An’ if I told you to go?’ 

The edges of his mouth crease slightly, but he starts to pull away, even though it’s clear he doesn’t want to. 

She grabs at him. ‘No, stay.’ 

The relief in his face is instant. 

She wraps her arms around his neck. Laughs as he picks her up by the waist and spins her around once before setting her down. 

She leans back against the wall, pulls him closer by the waist so he’s caging her with his body. Conveniently, he’s not wearing a shirt, so she sets about sucking and biting over his torso. Grins against his skin when he tenses and gets ticklish as she mouths at his belly. 

When she’s satisfied with the red marks she’s left scattered across his skin, she takes him out and shoves his kecks down around his thighs.

‘Look,’ she tells him, as she wraps a hand around him. His arms are braced against the wall above her as he looks down, watches as she strokes him slowly, while she watches him. Commits to memory the desire and devotion written on his face.

Chapter Text

7 May 2022

She shouldn’t. But. 

‘What,’ she says flatly upon picking up. 

‘Noel?’ He’s immediately on alert. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Why the fuck are you even callin’ me.’ 

‘Dunno, just thought I’d check in an’ all. Haven’t heard from you in a bit.’

There’s an awkward silence. She lets him stew for a bit. 

And she really shouldn’t, but it’s building up inside of her and she can’t help herself —

‘“And you won’t get the girl you want, but you’ll get the girl you need,’” she spits out. 

He’s quiet for a bit. 

‘I didn’t write that.’

‘Your name’s on the fuckin’ song credits for what then, fun?’ 

‘Not-not those lines. And the credits are — it’s just business stuff, you know what I mean. Royalties, ‘an all that. I dunno, Debbie sorts it.’

‘Right,’ she says, ‘Debbie.’ 

There’s a longer silence. 

‘Listen, Noel,’ he speaks up finally. There’s a banked anger in his voice. ‘I don’t know what you want from me, right. You know what I wanted — what I want. I ain’t the one who chose this.’ 

The fuckin’ gall of him. 

‘D’you know —’ she spits, tone venomous now. She can’t stop herself. 

‘D’you know Alex wanted to drop you after the split? An’ so did Sony, an’ the lawyers, an’ the accountants, an’ Iain. Even Jil. Well, guess who put a fuckin’ stop to that. Because it certainly weren’t fuckin’ Marcus, and it weren’t Debbie.

‘And you never fuckin’ asked, because you never had to. Because you never think.’

She adds more quietly, but bitterly, ‘Maybe you didn’t write it. But you sure as fuck sang it.’

‘Noel,’ he says softly, after a moment. Coaxing, almost. She doesn’t want to hear it. 

‘Fuck off,’ she says, and ends the call. 

She doesn’t expect to hear from him that soon, but she gets a text that night.

‘Needed you’ 

She doesn’t reply. The second text comes a few minutes later.

'You knew’

She turns off her phone. Puts on Hounds Of Love and pours herself a drink. 

9 May 2022

It’s almost a quarter past midnight. He’s called her about fifteen times over the past two days, the last five times in a row. She’d block him, but what if something happens with Mam? 

He’s calling again.

On the eighth ring, she caves and answers.

‘We’re not fuckin’ talkin’ about this—’

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up. Jus-just fuckin’ listen, all right?’ 

She’s flabbergasted. He’s never spoken to her like this before, in all his life. 

‘I know, right? I know what you done for me. Don’t know all the details, maybe, but I know enough. So don’t fuckin’ talk to me like I’m a child, ‘cos I’m not.’ 

She opens her mouth to — she doesn’t know, to deny it or to disagree — but he’s speaking again.

‘An’ you fuckin’ knew. You knew I needed you, right. You know this don’t mean anythin’, it’s just a song.

‘An’ you can’t be mad, 'cos you done it too. Sent me that fuckin’ song ‘bout love lyin’ dead in the water. An’-an’ it don’t mean anythin’ neither, 'cos you didn’t do a fuckin’ thing,’ 

Now hang on just one fuckin’ minute. Does he seriously believe it’s the same thing? The trite, cliche-riddled songs written by his army of paid writers, and the song she wrote about him, for him, her guts spilling out of her, heart cracked open, the shards of it lying across the floor? It’s not even remotely the same thing. 

‘The difference is, when I wrote it, I fuckin’ meant it.’ 

‘Didn’t fuckin’ seem like it.’ 

‘Then why the fuck am I even talkin’ to you?’ 

That stops him. 

‘I —’

‘Fuck you, Liam.’ 

She refuses to cry. Ends the call. 

29 May 2022

On her birthday, he sends her purple heliotropes, clusters of small, delicate, purple flowers, with white and yellow stars in the centre (devotion, faithfulness, eternal love; ‘I turn towards you’; ‘my heart follows you, no matter where you go’). 

His album dropped two days ago. 

She brings the flowers to her face, inhales the vanilla scent of them. It reminds her of him, the way he’s always smelled under his cologne, that hint of cream, musk, and sweetness.

25 December 2022

They don’t talk for several months. Communicate about Mam through Bod. 

But on Christmas, she gets a message: 

‘Love you’ 

She doesn’t reply, but she likes the text. 

Chapter Text

March 2010, Maida Vale

Paul’s here. Sara’s at work for most of the day and she certainly won’t be happy if she finds out, but Noel’ll deal with it if the time comes. In the meantime, her feet hurt, her ankles are swollen to truly monstrous proportions, and she’s the size of a beached whale. 

She has never felt less attractive in her life. 

She’s lying on the couch — her back won’t thank her for it later — her arm over her eyes. Paul’s settled on the other end of the couch, strong fingers kneading skilfully into the soles of her aching feet.  

She groans with relief; it’s obscene. This is quite possibly better than anything he’s ever done with his fingers in bed. 

‘Course you’re good at that,’ she moans. ‘What with the five kids and countin’.’ 

There’s a weighty pause as his hands slow on her feet. 

‘Noelle,’ he says carefully, ‘you tellin’ me somethin’?’

She blinks through the pregnancy-induced brain fog, thinks back to what she said—no, no. She was just being flippant, she’s genuinely lost count of the number of children this man has and whether there’re any more on the way. (And can anyone blame her?) 

Anyway, she’s thought about it before, and she’s not sure there’s anything to discuss. And even if there were, what would be the point? 

Still, she can’t believe he’s making her talk about it.

‘My baby is not going to be a Mod,’ she tells him, hoping that puts an end to this train of conversation. 

His hands resume their steady kneading. Thank the fuckin’ Lord. 

She tries to settle back into her previous state of relative comfort; she feels wretched.

‘Darlin’,’ he says, after some time has passed and she’s nearly dozed off. ‘Somethin’ else you wanna tell me?’ 

She groans. Of course he’s fuckin’ picked up on it. 

It’s been driving her to madness. And it’s stupid, she knows it’s stupid. It’s completely, utterly irrational. 

But sometimes, when the baby has been merrily kicking against her bladder, and she has to get up for the umpteenth that night and can’t fall back asleep, the thought eats away at her. 

She’s heard people say that being a mother is all-consuming, becomes your entire identity, your everything; it’s what Mam said as well.  And she knows this isn’t what they meant, but—what if the music goes too? 

It’s only that the songs have always been there, even on the worst days, even after she’d lost Liam. What if she has this kid, and then they’re not? 

If she’s really, truly honest with herself, she worries more about this than the baby. The tests show the baby’s probably going to be fine. Can’t test the health of your future songwriting abilities, can you? She’s already lost Liam, she doesn’t think she could bear losing this too. 

She doesn’t have anyone to tell. Sara wouldn’t understand. She doesn’t think Kate would, either. Besides, Kate had proper, real reasons to be stressed when she had Lila (Kate’s a supermodel, for crying out loud). It’s not the same.

She’d thought briefly about calling Johnny, but the sheer embarrassment that had washed over her at the thought put a stop to that. They’re friends, and he’s always been patient, and kind, and wise, but in some ways, he’ll always be Johnny fuckin’ Marr from the posters on her walls to her. Besides, she privately thinks he or Angie would probably say something sane, reasonable, and entirely unhelpful. 

Paul wouldn’t lie, not to spare her feelings. He’s not a mother, but he’s got five kids and, from what she can tell, he’s a good da. Maybe that counts for something.

She pulls her feet away from him and heaves herself up. She wants to draw her feet up to her chest, but that’s clearly not going to happen, given the state she’s in.

‘It’s only—’ she hesitates. ‘It’s only, what if … it goes?’

He trains his sharp, piercing gaze on her. 

She tries again. ‘After I have the baby. What if I-I can’t anymore?’

She looks down. Her voice comes out smaller than she thought it would. ‘Haven’t written anythin’ in the past month or two … Been fuckin’ miserable, ‘aven’t I? So nothin’s comin’.’

There’s a long, painful moment of silence that makes her want to crawl into a hole in the ground and never come out. 

But he’s taking her hands in his, like he’d done months ago after he’d told her to go solo. (He’d been right, but not for the reasons he’d thought.) Brushes a kiss over her fingers with cool, dry lips.  

‘When you get to the point when you feel you’ve lost it, an’ you think you’re never gonna get it back, then I’ll be there for you,’ he promises. ‘Cos I’ve been there, an’ I know what it’s like. An’ I came out of it, an’ I’ll make sure you do too.’

She doesn’t burst into tears, but with the hormones, it’s a near thing. Throws her arms around his neck and clings to him instead.

Chapter Text

September 2024, Maida Vale 

They’ve kissed. They’ve kissed a lot, but they haven’t actually done much else. He’s kept his hands at her waist or around her back. Chaste, even as he’s kissed and sucked at her neck, nipped at her earlobe. 

He’s nattering on about something, but she’s not really paying attention. She’s a little distracted staring at him, her chin on her hand.

It’s just—he’s so fuckin’ fit. With that face, and that hair, and that body. Christ alive. She might be post-menopausal, right, but she’s not dead.

He’s holding her hand across the table in her garden, and gesturing whimsically with his other hand. They’re behaving more like teenagers than they did when they were actual teenagers. She is losing her mind. 

‘Noel?’ He’s cottoned on to her not listening. 

Enough’s enough. 

She stands up and drags him by the hand into the house. He’s a little bewildered, but follows as usual.  

She shoves him down onto the sofa and climbs into his lap. Pushes off his jacket insistently and tries to devour him with her mouth.

They snog for a while, hands running everywhere. Things are getting hot and heavy, fuckin’ finally, and she’s fumbling with the button on his jeans when he stops her. 

‘Noel. The last time.’ 

It’s like he’s dumped a bucket of cold water over her. She can’t think about it; she doesn’t want to think about it. 

She climbs off him, but he catches her arm before she can walk away. 

‘Noel. We-we gotta talk about this.’ 

They don’t have to do anything. He can fuck off if he wants to, but the last thing she’s doing is talking about this. 

She tugs her arm out of his grasp, but he’s staring at her with those pale blue eyes that somehow haven’t lost any of their effectiveness despite the fact that he’s fifty-two now and fuck, fuck. 

‘Fine,’ she tells him flatly. ‘Talk.’ 

‘I …’ he trails off, grasping for words. ‘I-I still wanna do what you want, right? That’s not changed. But I can’t do it like that again. I don’t wanna hurt you. Even if you wanna.’ 

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. 

‘An’ I’m sorry. For what I did. In Paris.’ 

Well. She doesn’t want to think about any of it, but—she’s sorry too. 

She crosses her arms and glances away, before forcing herself to look back at him. 

‘Just so you know, the mood is well an’ truly dead.’  

‘I know.’ 

‘It’s six feet under, that’s how dead it is.’ 

He smiles wryly at her.

She throws herself down onto the sofa, and shifts closer to him. He puts an arm around her shoulder to tuck her into his side, and she turns to press her face into his chest, inhaling deeply. Lets herself feel surrounded by his arms and his scent around her.

‘We won’t, not like that. Not ever,’ she murmurs, because it feels important, like he needs her to say it. ‘But can we please never talk about this again?’ 

‘Okay.’ 

She pulls her knees up to fold her legs underneath her, her knees resting against his thighs. His arm tightens a fraction around her as he drops a kiss to her head. 

Chapter Text

December 2009, RAK Studios 

Three quarters through the day, the session’s a wash. It’s something with Liam, although not his voice. The new songs aren’t like the Oasis songs. They’re not belters, not out of his range. But something’s off, in a bad way. If he’s honest, it’s been happening intermittently for a while.  

He and Gem exchange glances, before Gem starts companionably chatting with Steve, asking him for a drink at the pub. Claiming he’s stuck on the lyrics for the demo they’re recording tomorrow and maybe a change of scenery would help? It’s utter nonsense, but Gem makes it sound almost believable, although Steve clearly isn’t buying it. Steve glances between the three of them before thinking better and deciding to go along with it. Gem makes a show of asking him and Liam too, but he shrugs it off, making an excuse about things at home. 

As soon as they’re out the door, Liam sags against the wall by the piano and slides down to the floor.

‘Liam. Hey. Liam, what’s wrong?’ 

Liam’s got a hand against his head. His hand is trembling, almost shaking. He’s hunched into the corner, knees drawn up. Trying to make himself as small as possible. 

The urge to panic is instinctive, but he tamps it down. Crouches in front of Liam, lowers his voice. 

Gently, carefully, he says, ‘Hey. Tell me what’s wrong.’  

‘I-I can’t-’ Liam stutters out, a hand over his eyes.

He waits quietly for Liam to find the words. It takes him a while sometimes. 

‘Noel-’ Liam wrenches out. ‘She-she used to tell me what to do, right? Didn’t have to think ‘bout nowt.

‘An’ now she’s gone. An’ I.’ He can’t finish. 

In a flash, he understands: Liam doesn’t know what to do, with himself or with his life. It’s not just about the band or the music—it’s everything. 

Even if he hadn’t seen them, the night after the first show at Wembley, he’d have known; it was obvious. 

He doesn’t know exactly when or why things started going wrong between them, but he can hazard a guess. Sometime around when Liam’s voice started deteriorating, when Gene was born. Noel and Weller had been an open secret for years, but around that time, they’d become more obvious, less clandestine about it. And the more frequently Liam walked off stage when his voice was threatening to give out, the more Weller had been around. He’d seen Weller, once or twice, striding down the hotel corridors to Noel’s room when they were staying out on tour. Weller hadn’t been in any way abashed or ashamed about it, even stopped to say hello. 

She and Liam had mostly stopped talking by then, when it hadn’t been necessary for recording, rehearsals or press. She’d relay messages through Gem or him half the time. Stopped travelling with them on long-haul flights or on the same tour bus.

But her absence was loud, unmistakable. It filled the air around the band, around Liam, seemed to seep into the cracks and crevices of his silence. He refused to see a doctor, drank more, but for everything else, he’d gone where he was told, like always. Silent, compliant. 

He doesn’t blame her for leaving; she had her reasons. He and Gem had seen the toll the press had taken on her, the way she’d have to steel herself not to flinch when a particular vitriolic review hit the papers or telly, like she’d been personally responsible. (Gem had been worried, done his best to talk to her, but no one could’ve convinced her otherwise.)

And she’d hated taking over the vocals. That had been obvious, too, but neither he nor Gem could’ve helped. Oasis was Noel and Liam’s band, their songs. The crowds would accept it from her, the sister stepping up for her absent brother, but no one else. 

None of this changes the fact that Liam had orbited around her. What does the earth do when the sun goes out? 

Maybe this has been long overdue. Liam’s been splitting apart at the seams for months, maybe even a year. But Beady Eye needs him. Nicole and Gene need him. The world needs him. Liam Gallagher needs to be Liam fuckin’ Gallagher, as the Mancs would say, the way he hasn’t been in a while. 

Slowly, he rises to his feet. 

‘Liam,’ he says quietly but in a tone brooking no argument, ‘look at me.’ 

Liam raises his head slowly, staring into the middle distance. His hair’s greasy, matted. He hasn’t shaved. 

He places a hand against the side of Liam’s head, angles Liam’s head up and holds it there so Liam has to keep looking at him.

‘I’m gonna take you home. You’ll take a shower. And if Nicole an’ Gene are home, you’ll eat with them. And if they’re not, you’ll eat with me.’ 

Liam’s gaze is caught on his. Hazy, but present. 

‘You won’t drink. You’ll go to bed early, by ten. And you’ll sleep.

Liam’s hands drop to his sides, still trembling slightly, but loose. 

‘In the morning, you’ll shave. Eat something. I’ll come get you at nine, an’ we’ll do the vocals for Gem’s track here. 

There’s a desperate relief dawning in Liam’s eyes. 

‘Nod if you understand.’

Liam nods. His entire body goes lax, the tension bleeding out of it.  

He allows himself the small indulgence of stroking a thumb across Liam’s cheekbone. Liam leans into his palm, and closes his eyes.

It’s the smallest of gestures, but it spurs something in him to make a promise, a promise he knows is going to make whatever-this-is come to grief—but only for him. 

‘Show me you can do as I say,’ he tells his friend, thumb brushing against his cheek in slow, careful strokes, ‘and we can do this again.’

Chapter Text

January 2023, Maida Vale

She doesn’t mean to speak to him so soon after his text on Christmas, but she gets an email from her accountants and it suddenly becomes imperative she speak to him immediately.

When he answers, she doesn’t waste time with pointless greetings.

‘Are you trying to buy a house in France with my name all over it?’ she demands.

Lord knows he’s done a number of ridiculous things in his life, but this really takes the cake.

She can hear the embarrassed silence over the phone.

‘How’d you hear ’bout that, then.’ 

‘We have the same accountants, you numpty.’

‘Well,’ he says defensively, ‘not your name, issit? It’s Noel Edmonds’s.’

He is ridiculous. 

‘Right. So, you wanna buy a house in France, that costs a good chunk of your net worth, which happens to have the name ‘Noel’ engraved into every surface. And it’s pure coincidence that it’s my name, too.’

‘Yep,’ he says, completely unrepentant. It reminds her a bit of Donny when he’s in a snit.

Not for the first time, she regrets not getting Debbie’s number. It would make things a lot easier.  

‘Isn’t Debbie supposed to stop you from doing these things?’

‘Debs thinks it’s funny.’ 

Jesus, Debbie’s worse than Matt.

‘Debs’s got a sister too, y’know. Twin.’ 

‘Okay… ?’ She’s failing to see the relevance of any of this.

‘Right, so,’ he continues like he’s explained anything, ‘Debbie gets it.’ 

‘Liam. There’s nothing to “get” apart from you making an extremely stupid financial decision on a whim.’

‘“Financial decision”,’ he scoffs. Christ, he’s definitely going to be Tweeting about this later, isn’t he. 

‘Stop spendin’ money on houses in France you do not need.’

‘Can’t stop me.’ 

Can’t stop—for the love of God. 

She changes tack. ‘Why d’you need a house in France, anyway?’ 

‘Just do.’ 

Donny’s twelve, and it’s honestly easier reasoning with him than this. 

She pinches the frown at the centre of her forehead. She’d throw her hands up at him, but 3.5 million Euros is an awful lot of money. He’s worth a fraction of what she is, and she certainly isn’t buying pointless property in France on a lark. 

‘I’ll buy it before you can,’ she threatens. ‘I’ll offer more.’ 

‘Why’d you wanna do that for?’

‘Why’d you? Tell you what, how ‘bout I buy the house in France, and you can pay for a stonemason and a carpenter, an’ get them to carve Noel Edmonds’s name round your place in Highgate an’ everythin’.’ 

A beat. 

‘That an order?’ he drawls. 

… The cheek on him. 

‘I’m hangin’ up,’ she informs him, and does. 

A fortnight later, he buys the house. She doesn’t stop him. 

Chapter Text

February 2024, Maida Vale 

She’s systematically and meditatively smashing egg after egg into the sink when her son walks in. 

‘Er, Mum? What’re you doing?’

She looks down at the fragments of eggshell and raw egg, forming a thick, mucus-like swamp of gloop in the sink.  

‘... Makin’ a cake.’ 

‘You’ve not got flour out. Or sugar.’

‘Makin’ an omelette,’ she amends.  

‘Er.’ 

‘Stop mitherin’ me ’bout what I do in my own kitchen,’ she complains. Can a woman not get peace from her own child? (Not like Mam got much peace of mind from you, a voice in her head points out. She resolutely ignores it.) 

‘It’s just—um. Are you all right?’

‘Leave me be. Go to your room and play Fortnight, or have a wank or somethin’,’ she complains. 

‘Mum!’ 

‘What? I grew up with two brothers, I know what teenage boys get up to. Anyway, girls do it too.’ 

‘Mum!!!’ 

Her posh lad. 

‘Go on,’ she shoos him away, inadvertently splattering a sticky trail of mucus-gloop and bits of eggshell onto the countertop. 

He edges away reluctantly. 

She stares into the sink. There must be about half a tray of eggs, which she’s smashed into the aluminum sink. 

This would’ve been unthinkable in Burnage. 

She would have rung Paul, but she’s been treading carefully, seeing as Sara hasn’t forgiven her for the debacle at Parents’ Evening last week. (She’d only been asking questions; you’d think a school would be used to answering them. But then Paul had questions too, and it had all sort of degenerated from there.) 

Can’t do anything like smash plates that would damage ye old moneymakers when there’s a tour comin’ up. So, eggs it is. And now her son probably thinks she should be sectioned.  

It’s just—those fuckin’ photos. 

It’s not a big deal, is the thing. She likes Debbie, she does. Debbie’s done far better for Liam than anyone at Ignition has or could’ve done, and the co-management thing has evidently worked out. She’s made sure Liam’s not done anything too stupid, except for buying that fuckin’ house in France, and his lyrics, which Debbie certainly can’t be held responsible for (that Andrew Wyatt cunt, though). 

Debbie’s sensible, competent, and well fuckin’ fit. If Debbie hadn’t been dating her brother, she might’ve given her a go herself. 

But. Well. Those fuckin’ photos.

A few hours later, she knocks on Donny’s door and gives it several seconds before going in. (She’d meant it about what teenage boys get up to.) 

She doesn’t want him to worry. He’s sweet, her boy. She’s been bracing for the moodiness and rebellion that her friends and all of pop culture’s warned her about, but he’s still her baby. Maybe a tad grumpy or sulky from time to time and not very good at his books, but that’s about all.

He’s sitting up in bed on his iPad. She ruffles his hair, as he looks up at her.

‘Is … is Uncle Liam putting out a new album?’ 

‘What makes you say that?’ she mutters evasively. 

Her child might be a disaster at school, but he’s inconveniently perceptive at times. 

‘Actually, don’t answer that,’ she adds hastily, before continuing. ‘Anyway, he is, but it’s fine. It’s with John, John Squire. You remember him? The one who lives on a farm. You met him a long time ago.’ 

(She’s heard it. She had wanted to like it, Greg Kurstin notwithstanding, and she does, but… it’s a little boring. Although some of the lyrics had made her worry a little about John.‘You should’ve fucked me when you had the chance’—Is he all right?) 

‘Oh.’ Donny tries again. ‘Is it ’cos Sara’s still mad about last week?’

‘Nah, she’ll come 'round.’ 

‘She says you were being “obstinate and obstructive”’. 

‘So I was.’ 

‘She also says you’re “prone to dramatics”—’

‘Maybe I’m menopausal,’ she tells him seriously. ‘Maybe I’m mood swingin’, and havin’ hot flushes, and—’

‘Ugh, Mum.’ He shoves a pillow over his face. Ha, who’s being overdramatic now? 

She pats his arm. ‘Come out from under there, love.’

He sticks his head up, hair a mess, and face all scrunched up. 

Donny’s not really like anyone in the family. He’s good-natured, not arch like Sara or sarcastic like her. Friendly. Good at art. Less talkative than her, Sara or Bod, but more chatty than Liam. He’s maybe most like Mam, but English. (And how she and her Scottish girlfriend raised an English child, she’ll never understand.) 

But sometimes, when he pouts or scrunches up his face like that, he looks exactly like Liam did as a kid. 

‘I’m all right, darling,’ she says, dropping a kiss on top of his head. ‘Don’t worry ’bout me.’  

He mumbles something unintelligible.

‘Goodnight, baby,’ she says, patting his shoulder, and leaves him be. 

But that night, as she tosses and turns next to Sara—who has finally let her back into the master bedroom—she can’t stop thinking about the fuckin’ photos, and the voice in her head that says: 

It should’ve been me. 

And, worse, the voice under that, whispering: 

It could’ve been you. 

Chapter Text

29 May 1996, Chiswick

When he first comes in, his nose is red, his eyes are watering slightly, and he’s holding something behind his back. She frowns. Is he ill? 

The mystery solves itself when he unceremoniously shoves a bouquet of daisies and Hewitt’s biography of the Small Faces into her hands, the one that she’d been meaning to but never got round to reading, what with all the organised chaos of the last tour.

He’s scowling, but also blushing faintly. Her idiot boy. He’s got terrible allergies. It used to drive her spare when they spent summers in Ireland, and he’d wander off and come back with terrible hay fever after sticking his face into all manner of flowers and plants in absorbed fascination. 

She tuts at him, and his scowl turns sheepish. She puts the flowers into the vase she got two years ago after the carnations from Paul. Washes her hands, brews a mug of tea with lemon, and fetches and pushes two antihistamine tablets between his lips, making him swallow them down with tea. 

She sits down on the sagging sofa and he flops down next to her, slouched low, resting his head on her shoulders as she flips through the pages of the book, engrossed.

It’s late in the evening when she emerges from her book. He’s fallen asleep on her shoulder—he’s going to get a crick in his neck—and she realises she’s forgotten about tea. She wakes him with a kiss to his head, and presses her thumb in circles against the knot of muscles in his neck. Watches fondly as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, mouth lax. It’s the same way he looked as a child. 

It’s a miserable spring, cold and wet, with an endless drizzle of grey rain. He tucks her under his arm so she’s safely under the shelter of the umbrella, as they make their way to the chippy down the corner. 

They have chips for tea at home, and he playfully tries to steal some of hers, until she smacks his hands away. She feeds him bites instead, as he licks the traces of salt and vinegar off her fingers. They share a fried Mars bar in lieu of cake (his idea); it’s decadent, delicious, and disgusting, all at once.  

They brush their teeth before squeezing into the bath together. He splashes bath water at her and in retaliation she bites at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. The ensuing tussle mostly results in half the bathwater being sloshed all over the sides of the tub, and her pressed up against him in his lap as they kiss until the water runs cold. 

Afterwards, they cuddle up in bed under the warmth of the covers, not bothering with clothes. His fingers steal down her body as he swallows her sighs of pleasure. 

It’s one of the best birthdays she’s had in a while. 

Chapter Text

10 October 2005, Q Awards, Grosvenor House Hotel

‘We needa commit—what do the Japanese call it—harikiri? Hari—’

‘Harakiri,’ Andy interjects.

‘Yes, that. Coldplay beat us for Best Act in the World. Fuckin’ Chris Martin is officially a better frontman than Liam. As decided by the fans. Fuck me.’ 

On stage, Chris Martin is waffling on. She likes Chris—he may be the nicest man in Britain’s music industry, no, in the world—but he has the charisma of a limp dish rag.

‘We’re not great at these speech things—’ he’s saying. 

‘YEAH, YOU’RE NOT!’ she hollers.  

‘Hi Noelle!’ Chris gives her a cheerful little wave from the stage, completely unperturbed. 

‘Hi Chris!’ she yells back, in spite of herself. He cannot be real. MI5 must have manufactured him in a lab somewhere. Or maybe the CIA. Maybe he’s secretly American. He’s so nice all the time. It’s distinctly un-British.

Liam’s seated across from her at their table next to Nic. 

‘That beanpole on stage,’ she tells him, gesturing with a thumb behind her, ‘is a better frontman than you. Accordin’ to the people.’  

He shrugs at her. 

‘Nic, I’m sorry to inform ya that yer man is past his prime.’

Nic laughs.  

She pours herself another drink. Vodka, no chaser. How does Paul’s song go? For there is no drinkin’, after you’re dead. Too right.  

‘Oi, Albarn.’ 

‘Oh. Noelle.’ 

‘Borrow a light?’ 

He extends her a lighter. 

‘Fuckin’ light it for me, ya cunt,’ she complains. ‘I’m still a lady,’ 

He obliges. She studies him. Man looks glum. 

‘So… cartoon monkeys, eh? Wassat all about?’ 

He doesn’t respond. Mardy bastard. 

The tunes are good, though, she can admit that. But no Graham, no Justine, and fuckin’ cartoon monkeys. She feels kinda bad for him. 

At least misery looks good on him. Not her type, regardless, but still a vast improvement from the nineties. 

She shuffles closer to him, nudges him with her shoulder. 

‘Eeyar, Albarn, cheer up. Best Producer an’ Best Video ain’t nothin’ to sniff at, eh? From the people, no less.’ 

He tries to smile at her, but it’s more of a grimace. Good Lord. He looks like a dog ’bout to be put down.

‘And ya record’s good. Don’t tell anyone I said this, though, or I’ll hafta get Liam to kill ya.’ 

The smile turns a smidge more genuine. Thank Christ. 

She crushes out her cigarette stub underfoot, takes out another one. He moves to light it for her. As she bends forward to the flame, the pendant on her necklace swings forward, catching the light. 

Liam bought it for her, in Argentina. At an antique store or something, she’s not sure. 

She straightens up, and leans back against the wall. Takes a deep drag.

‘Me brother’s havin’ a baby,’ she tells Dermot-er, Damon. 

(She remembers Justine’s stories. Albarn’s obsessed with babies, like Paul. He’s one of ’em.) 

‘Congratulations,’ he says. It sounds genuine. 

‘Nah, not yet. But his missus wants to, so probably soon, like.’ 

Nic had confided in her about it earlier today, after they’d made it through the red carpet. Hadn’t seemed too bothered by the fact that her man hadn’t made it home last night. 

(He hadn’t. He’d been fuckin’ her.)

Anyway, Nic’s thirty, so it’ll have to be soon. Liam will do just as well as anyone. 

And he’ll be a good da, she knows. He deserves it. He’s owed, so to speak. She’ll probably give it her blessing.  

‘Noelle?’ 

Damon’s looking at her with some concern. She’s been quiet for too long. Ah, fuck, the brooding’s catchin’. 

She’s saved when she spies that heinous blight on pop music, James Blunt, in the near distance.

‘Tha’ fuckin’ cunt.’ 

Damon groans in agreement.

She nods furiously. ‘Exactly! Best New Act? What have we come to?!’

She gestures vehemently with her cigarette. ‘D’you know they wanted Paul to duet with him? Paul Weller! The fuckin’ Modfather! Doin’ a duet with that shitstain!’ 

Damon looks outraged. ‘What’d Weller say?’

‘Said he’d rather eat his own shit.’ 

Damon chuckles, as she laughs. She’d have given anything to see the look on Paul’s face when they first asked him.

‘You’re all right, Albarn,’ she tells him. 

He grins at her properly, for the first time this afternoon. 

‘That Albarn fella’s not too bad, y’know,’ she comments to Colin, as she slumps back into her chair. ‘Bit mardy, though.’ 

Liam boggles at her from across the table.

Andy says something complimentary about the digital chimpanzees or whatever. And about Albarn and Hewlett goin’ to China to collect folk songs or summat? Art school weirdos. 

It’s barely mid-afternoon. This award show is interminable. She is going to die of boredom here.

She gives up on pouring herself a drink, and swipes the bottle to swig from it. 

‘I’m gonna die here,’ she tells Colin. ‘Gonna die here of boredom. In a room with that James Blunt twat and his whiny music.’ Keith had given Blunt a hug. Nothing is sacred anymore. 

Colin nudges her with his elbow. She looks down and he opens his palm under the table to reveal two little pills. 

She looks up at him. Her saviour. 

‘Colin,’ she says, very seriously, ‘you’re my favourite.’  

‘Paul,’ she says glumly. She’s meandered over to his table. 

‘Noelle.’ 

‘We won Best Album.’

‘I know.’ 

Looking at her feet, she mutters, ‘The album’s not even very good.’

It’s got two or three great tunes on it. The rest of it is kind of … lacklustre. Paul thinks so too, she knows. But the rest of the world seems to love it, and love James Blunt, so she’s not sure what she knows anymore.

And, tragedy of tragedies, the E hasn’t kicked in yet. 

Paul stands up to put his arm around her, and she’s promptly distracted following the line of his trousers up from his shoes.

‘What are you wearin’?’ she says, aghast.  

The jacket’s all right, and she likes his glasses, but those trousers? Between this, and Liam’s grey jacket/tunic/whatever-it-is with the Mandarin collar that looks a bit like what a slutty Oriental eunuch would wear, it’s a dark day for men’s fashion.  

He raises an eyebrow at her, mildly offended.

‘I’m leavin’,’ she tells him, and stalks off. 

The E’s finally kicked in and she’s rolling in peace, love, and joy for all mankind. (’Cept for James Blunt. Fuck that twat.)

Liam’s off makin’ eyes at Yoko Ono (she’d done it for a bit too, but he’ll probably be there forever), Nic’s cuddled up with Andy (what on earth is that about), and Colin’s God knows where, so she’s floating around alone backstage in a sea of people and lesser lifeforms otherwise known as journalists. 

‘Noelle! Are we in a fight?’ Chris Martin calls out to her.

She wanders over. 

‘A fight? With you?’ She blinks. 

‘Who started this fight?’ Chris quips. 

‘You did! You’re a lairy bastard.’ 

He gives her a kiss on the cheek, which she accepts. Nicest. Man. Alive.

‘Not in a fight,’ she tells the microphones arrayed in their direction. ‘Be a bit like takin’ candy from a baby, but the baby’s prob’ly more of a challenge.’

Chris says, ‘This is Noelle from the band—’

‘—Osmosis,’ she finishes. 

‘We used to be friends, until she slept with my sister.’

‘Good lay.’

‘I’m joking!’

‘I’m not!’ 

They exchange a bit more witty repartee before she gets bored and wanders off again, giving him a quick hug before she goes. 

Nic is so pretty. An’ nice. An’ smart. An’ fun.

She likes Nic. She likes Nic so much she gave Nic the other tab of E from Colin, that’s how much she likes her. 

‘You’ll be a good mam,’ she says to Nic, her arms thrown around Nic’s shoulders. 

Liam, who’s hovering beside them, does a double take. 

‘Thanks,’ says Nic. She’s maybe fluttering her eyelashes a bit, her arms around Noel’s waist. 

She’s very blonde. It reminds Noel a little of Meg.

‘Cute, too,’ she tells Nic. 

‘So are you,’ Nic giggles.  

She leans in to nuzzle at the side of Nic’s neck. She smells sweet—berry-ish, and a little vanilla. A bit like Liam, but lighter, feminine. 

She runs the tip of her nose from Nic’s throat over her face until their mouths meet. Presses her mouth carefully against Nic’s, and coaxes her lips open with slow, sweeping strokes of her tongue.  

When they break apart after a bit of snogging, Liam is staring at them, slackjawed. 

‘Close your mouth,’ she says, using a finger to lift his chin up so his jaw shuts with a clack. 

‘Noelle.’ Paul’s come up to them. ‘Shall we?’

He’s looking between her and Nic with casual appreciation.

She nods agreeably. ‘Be good for Nic,’ she tells Liam, patting his cheek. He’s frowning again. She gives him a quick peck on the lips, then does the same to Nic, before Paul guides her away, his hand on the small of her back. 

They’ve got a room upstairs. No sense in making a trip to another hotel and risk being papped (what Sara doesn’t know won’t hurt anyone). And it’s not like anyone in the scene doesn’t know about them, or isn’t here with someone they shouldn’t be with. 

She shucks off her leather jacket, hops onto the hotel table, and makes grabby hands at him until he comes to stand in front of her. She gets a start on the buttons of his jacket, but they’re awfully fiddly. He catches her hands by the wrists to stop her after several seconds of fumbling. 

‘Ugh,’ she groans, giving up and tipping her head forward onto his chest, hands falling out of his grasp. 

‘All right there, darlin’?’

She mumbles incomprehensibly into the fabric of his jacket. It’s kind of scratchy; she doesn’t like it. 

‘Wossat, love?’ 

She lifts her head up to squint at him. ‘You’re well fit,’ she tells him, ‘but your haircut is incredibly stupid.’ 

He looks like he can’t decide whether to be amused or offended. She pats his chest consolingly. ‘’S all right, you’ll prob’ly still be fit when yer eighty or summat.’ 

She resumes her struggle with his buttons, until he puts her out of her misery and undoes them himself, before helping her tug off her shirt. The pendant of her necklace gets caught on her collar for a moment as she pulls her shirt off, before it falls against her chest. 

She fiddles with it for a bit. Considers taking it off, but decides against it. 

Paul lifts her up by her thighs and drops her on the bed. It’s almost offensive that he can still do this some ten years after they met. 

When he’s finally taken off his jacket and those appalling trousers, and she’s wriggled out of her jeans, she rolls on top of him. 

He toys with the edge of her knickers as he scrutinises her. He’s taken off his red-lensed Lennon-esque glasses. She wonders if she can pinch them later. 

‘Not feelin’ it then?’ 

She pouts. He’s right—she’d wanted to, but she isn’t feeling like it. 

His fingers slip under the waistband of her underwear.

‘Could help you along.’ 

She shrugs. He probably could, but it doesn’t change the fact that she doesn’t feel like she wants to, even on the E.

‘Could blow you?’ she offers half-heartedly. 

He doesn’t look particularly interested in a lacklustre blowjob—which, fair enough. She flops down and curls up with her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. Rubs her cheek against his stubble, and drops kisses on his face. 

‘Love you,’ she tells him, because she does. He strokes up and down her arm, as she tucks her head under his chin. 

‘I miss Liam,’ she says. 

He’d been with her yesterday night, and this morning. She hadn’t wanted to leave, hadn’t wanted him to leave. It’s so daft. Who holds awards shows in the afternoon anyway? Fuckin’ Q Awards. 

And now he’s goin’ to be a da. 

‘Wanna come to the gig?’ Paul says, interrupting her train of thought. 

‘Wot?’ 

‘Playin’ tonight. At HMV on Oxford Street.’ 

‘Oh.’ She thinks about it. 

‘Could play you a tune,’ he offers. 

‘I wanna Beatles tune. A Lennon one.’ Meeting Yoko today had been, as her kid said, mega. 

‘Could do “All You Need Is Love”.’ 

She sits up. 

‘Really?’ 

‘Mm. Jus’ stop sulkin’.’

‘Am not!’ She protests.

‘Are.’ 

‘Hmph.’ 

He pinches her arse. 

‘Oi!’ 

She smacks his chest. 

‘C’mon then,’ he says, sitting up. ‘We can go a bit earlier. You can mess around during the soundcheck.’ 

She does like those, it’s true.

After they’re dressed again, she hugs him, squeezing tightly around his torso, before reaching up to pluck his glasses off his face and put them on herself. 

The gig is fun. It’s a good distraction, especially when Paul drags her on for ‘All You Need Love’.

(She tries not to think about Liam. She’s mostly successful.)

Chapter Text

March 2020, London 

So the cuntin’ lockdown is happening for real. 

She should call Bod since he actually lives near Mam, but unless there’s actual ferrying and carrying to be done, he’s near useless with anything that requires planning or advance coordination. (Seriously, what does he do all day?) 

The phone rings five, maybe six times. She counts each one. 

‘Noel?’ 

‘Liam.’ She has to swallow, before continuing—

‘We hafta talk about Mam.’  

They talk about practicalities. Whether he’ll be staying in London, or moving to the country for the duration. He offers to move back in for a bit with Mam if she wants. She doesn’t think it’s necessary.

The care plan: the groceries, the medication refills, who will talk to the doctors (she will), and who will update and coordinate with Bod on what they’ve discussed (he will). When they’ve agreed on all the salient matters—it hadn’t taken long, mostly she’d suggested and he’d acquiesced—the conversation settles into a not exactly comfortable, but not horribly awkward silence. 

This would be a good time to hang up. 

‘Right, that’s-that’s all then. I’ll, uh, text you, if there’s anythin’ else.’ 

‘All right.’ 

Neither of them end the call. 

‘I…’ 

She pulls herself together. 

‘I gotta go.’ 

‘Okay.’ 

‘An’—thanks. For the flowers.’ 

She doesn’t wait for a response; ends the call. 

Chapter Text

1999, The Met Bar

She’s at the Met Bar when Goldie calls her over. 

He’s got that twat Mark Sutherland, ignominious editor of Melody Maker, up against a wall as he shakes him like a rag doll.

‘Go on,’ Goldie demands, ‘fuckin’ say it to her face.’ 

Sutherland looks like he’s about to shit his pants, which frankly he’d deserve and she’d love to see. But they’ve just about weathered the PR storm with Bonehead and Guigsy leaving, so unfortunately she’s going to have to ask Goldie to, quite literally, drop it. (The press were always going to spin Bonehead and Guigsy leaving as nastily as possible, no matter how amicable it really was, and it certainly hadn’t been helped by the fuckin’ lawsuit with McCarroll.) 

The commotion has also summoned Liam, who materialises at her side. 

She lets Sutherland stammer on for about ten seconds, before she says, ‘G, let the pasty-faced cunt go. C’mon, let’s go get another drink.’

But Goldie’s grip is tightening on Sutherland’s collar. ‘Fuckin’ say it to her face.’ 

‘Goldie, leave off the man.’ It doesn’t really register. 

Sutherland is pale with terror, but he might soon start turning purple if Goldie’s grip keeps tightening. 

Liam glances at her. She gives him a small shake of her head; she’ll handle this. 

‘Clifford. Drop him.’ 

Goldie looks at her. 

‘Drop him,’ she repeats firmly, but softly.  

Goldie lets go of the shit stain, who sags against the wall.   

‘C’mon,’ she says, taking his hand, ‘let’s leave the lump. We’re goin’ upstairs.’

Liam on their heels, she leads him up to their room in the hotel, where Whitey and various hanger-ons and the inevitable girls are. 

She tells Liam, ‘Get everyone out.’ 

Liam does as he’s told. Clears everyone out, before sorting out the mess around the room. 

Meanwhile, she sits down on the sofa in the room. Goldie’s a bristling presence, pacing back and forth in the narrow confines of the room. 

She pats the sofa next to her expectantly. He throws himself down next to her, and she puts a hand on him to get his attention. 

‘Appreciate it. What you did for me, for us.’ She flicks her gaze to Liam, who’s now leaning against the wall across the room, watching them. ‘Sortin’ that cunt out.’

‘He shouldn’t have—’  

‘I know. You were right.’ She curls her hand around his wrist, and strokes the inside of his wrist gently with her thumb. 

Goldie looks down at her hand around his wrist, stunned. But he’s still thrumming with that coke-fierce energy. Restless. 

‘Clifford,’ she says, ‘do summat else for me?’ 

‘Yeah. Anythin’, Noel, you know.’

She glances at Liam, who flips open the covers, and stacks up the pillows at the headboard. 

She shrugs off her jacket, takes off her boots, and goes to lie back against the pillows, half propped up. Liam sits down on her other side.

Goldie’s eyes dilate more than they already are. This isn’t something they do. 

‘Noel, you don’t—’ 

She cuts him off before he can start rambling. She knows what he’s like, especially on coke.

‘Don’t hafta, if you don’t wanna. But I’d like it if you did.’ 

He moves towards her, almost in spite of himself, and stops at the edge of the bed.

‘Take off your shirt, and your shoes.’ 

Goldie unbuttons his overshirt and takes it off, and toes off his shoes, so he’s left only in his undershirt, trousers and socks.

‘Come,’ she says, opening her arms to him. 

He settles against her, as she guides his head to rest in the crook of her neck and strokes the back of his head. Liam is a warm presence at her back as she turns to hold Goldie closer to her. 

She runs her hands over his shoulders and arms. He’s nearly vibrating out of his skin, worse than he normally is. It must be exhausting. 

She’d like him to settle.

‘It was good of you,’ she murmurs, ‘lookin’ out for us.’

He presses closer to her, hand coming to rest on her stomach, sitting up a little, eyes intent on her face.  

Usually, he’s her mate Goldie. They have a laugh, drink, do a bit of coke, dance. She knew objectively he was fit; she’s not blind. 

But like this, it’s different. Bright eyes, something a little lost about them. Beautiful body. She can feel herself getting wet. She kisses the top of his head. 

‘You can touch me.’ 

She can feel his muscles tense with the desire to surge against her, but he’s not sure if it’s allowed. And Liam’s here.

‘Go on,’ she coaxes. ‘I want you to. Liam won’t mind.’ 

He moves his hand under her shirt, so it’s resting against her skin, moving in circles against her belly. 

‘That’s good,’ she says, hands around the nape of his neck, fingers scratching gently against his scalp. ‘Get my kecks off.’ 

Goldie undoes the button and zipper of her trousers, and Liam helps her shimmy off her trousers and knickers so she doesn’t have to move too much. 

Goldie’s hand slips over her cunt, fingers against her opening, as she murmurs encouragement at him. 

‘Liam.’ 

Liam moves his hand under her shirt to unclasp her bra, and get a hand on her tits. 

She kisses Goldie first. He’s more insistent than Liam ever is, chasing something. She holds his face in her hands as she kisses him, before she leans back and up to kiss Liam.

Goldie’s trying to get closer to her as he works at her with her fingers. She unbuttons his trousers and shoves down his boxers to take him out

As he fucks the circle of her hands, she turns to Liam, a question in her eyes. He bites his lip. 

That’s a no, then. It’s all right. This is good; it's better than good. She gives Liam a quick kiss, so he knows she’s not disappointed. 

She strokes Goldie purposefully, in time with how she wants the rhythm of his fingers. He catches on almost immediately. DJs, god. 

She smiles at him and he smiles back, that glinting grin. 

‘You’re lovely,’ she tells him. He seems almost shy at hearing it. Spurred on by the praise, he kisses her before going down on her with his mouth, as Liam’s fingers pinch and roll her nipples. 

Goldie’s very good, not that she’d expect anything less, given the many, many women she’s seen him with. Things get hot and hazy soon, as she urges him on with praise, letting him hear her gasp. Every once in a while, Liam dips his head down for a kiss which she readily gives.  

After she’s come and made Goldie come, Liam gets up to get a damp towel to clean her up and wipe the spunk off her hand. He’s hard, still mostly dressed, but she knows he won’t want her to do anything about it, not with Goldie in the room. He disposes of the wet towel and strips down to his boxers before lying down next to her, while she coaxes Goldie into lying half on top of her. There’s too much coke in Goldie’s system for him to drift off, but he’s settled now, careful not to put too much weight on her.

She understands why Björk liked him. He’s sweet. She already knew he was, but it’s different experiencing it for herself, holding him in her arms. 

‘Stay like this,’ she tells him, stroking his back, kissing his forehead.

Liam pulls the covers up over the three of them before closing his eyes. 

She wakes to the rustling sound of Goldie pulling on his clothes in the middle of the night. 

‘Not gonna say goodbye?’ 

He pauses in his movements, awkward. 

She pushes herself up, dislodging Liam’s head from her shoulder, and reaches out an arm for him. 

Reluctantly, he comes over, the eager puppy enthusiasm of earlier gone. She puts a hand on his face. 

‘It’s all right.’ 

She’s going to miss him.

His eyes catch on hers for a split second before he looks down. She strokes his cheek with her thumb once, then lets her hand fall away. 

After he leaves, she gets up to use the loo—she really should have earlier before drifting off—and rinses herself off properly. 

When she comes back to bed, Liam’s waiting for her. She curls up in his arms, as he rests his cheek against her head. 

She stops hearing from Goldie after that night. 

2000, Steele Road

But when she comes back from tour to the house she’s renting in Steele Road, there are two young lads on mountain bikes wheeling around doing tricks at the front of her place. Liam looks on curiously from where he’s unloading their bags from the cab.  

‘Oi! What’re you two doin’ here?’ she asks. 

‘We’re lookin’ after the house! Goldie sent us.’ 

Oh. She stuffs a £20 pound note in each of their pockets as they whoop. ‘Tell Goldie I said thanks,’ she instructs, and watches them ride off. 

In the front room of her house, there’s a canvass. Bold colours, familiar brushstrokes. She looks at the card next to it with lettered writing (‘The Serpent and the Rainbow’), and smiles. 

Chapter Text

11 May 2014, Etihad Stadium

She’s got Donny in her arms, sweating, pouty and sticky. She reckons she’s got about ten minutes left at best before he starts kicking up a fuss, and another ten minutes after that before he starts wailing. 

She doesn’t usually come to the games, but if she doesn’t start Donny early in the grand tradition of Man City supporters in her family, there are many uncles and a few aunts who’ll readily disown her, multimillionaire or not. All the same, she should probably leave while the going is good, before Donny’s tantrum inevitably erupts. 

It’s when she’s out of the stands and making her way past the loos that she sees him. 

He’s seen her first. He’s got an arm around Gene, who has shot up like a weed since she last saw him. But his eyes are locked on her and the golden-haired toddler tucked in her arms, miserable little face squashed against her neck. 

She can’t help the way her eyes run over his face and body, cataloguing the differences since she last saw him. He’s grown out his hair again, but his body looks the same, chest and shoulders broad.

The sight of him shouldn’t take her breath away; she’s seen photographs of him with Beady Eye, she knows how he looks. 

But it’s different in person, the solid reality of his presence. 

(His eyes. His mouth. The new lines on his face that she wants to trace.)

But then Gene sees her too, and he looks up to ask Liam something and Liam distractedly murmurs back, and she—she can’t do this. 

She turns away to leave, Donny ensconced in her arms, but she can’t help looking back for one last glimpse of him. He’s rooted to the spot, staring at them, face open with longing.  

Chapter Text

1990, Manchester

They’re in the dressing room after one of the local gigs. The rest of the band has left, but he’s stayed behind to talk to Noelle. She’s nattering on about the logistics of transport for the upcoming tour, when he interrupts her.   

‘Debbie’s not comin’.’

‘What? Why?’ 

‘Band’s decided. No girlfriends.’ 

‘She works in yer office!’ Noelle cries, gesticulating wildly, already fuming on Debbie’s behalf. ‘Runs yer office, don’t she? Yer a bunch of thick cunts, you are —’

He catches her wrists to stop her flailing about in outrage. Unexpectedly, she winces. 

He looks down. The sleeve of her jumper has ridden up to reveal where his fingers have landed across purplish finger-shaped bruising. 

Her eyes, incandescent with rage, turn flinty and defensive, as she tries to tug her arm out of his grip. 

He doesn’t let her; presses a kiss to her wrist instead. After a stiff moment, the fight seems to go out of her.

‘Noelle. Come with us.’ 

‘I am comin’ for the shows down south. Have ye gone daft? Who’s gonna manage Coyle an’ the rest of yer team of imbecile roadies if I ain’t there?’  

‘Not that,’ he says, pulling down the sleeve of her jumper over her bruised wrist, and taking her hands in his. ‘Come for all of it. Be our tour manager.’ 

It can’t come entirely as a surprise. They’ve talked about the idea before, of her helping Debbie out more, acting as assistant tour manager and the like, having more responsibilities. She’s tempted; she wants to say yes. 

‘What’d Debbie say?’ She wants to know.  

‘Debbie’s all right. Says she’d rather it be you.’ 

She mulls over it for a bit. He kisses her palm as she thinks.

‘I want more money.’ 

‘Mm.’

‘An’ I’ll have to tell Liam.’ 

She broods a little, as he kisses the palm of her other hand. 

She makes a face. ‘Ugh, I’ll have to tell Mam.’ Her face is a picture. ‘Can I stay with you an’ Debbie ‘til we leave? Be safer ‘fer me, or Mam might lock me up an’ throw away the key.’ 

She’s all right then, if she’s back to her usual level of irreverent cheek. He pulls her closer.

‘You can stay,’ he tells her, in between kisses, ‘for as long as you want.’

October 1990, Japan

He’s doodling ideas for new t-shirts on the hotel notepad, when she steps out of the shower in a cloud of steam, clad in the hotel bathrobe, hair damp. 

She swings her legs over his thighs and climbs into his lap, laces her hands behind his neck. 

He abandons the sketch to give her his full attention. 

‘Let’s go out,’ he tells her, not for the first time. He’d like to take her out, see the city. Ask her about her plans after this tour’s over. He hasn’t discussed it with Debbie yet, but he thinks they might be on the same page. 

She tilts her head at him, before grinning. 

‘Now why’d we do that?’ Her eyes glint with mischief, and she’s pulling open the sash on her bathrobe, hips grinding slowly against him. She’s not wearing anything underneath. 

Why, indeed. 

She’s a whirlwind of energy the next morning. 

‘Gotta run,’ she says, garbled, a toothbrush stuck in her mouth as she tugs on her jeans and nearly falls over before she rights herself. 

‘Run where?’ he asks, amused. She doesn’t have to be at the new venue until mid-afternoon for line check. 

‘Got me own life, y’know. Things to do, places to see. Can’t be hangin’ round an old geezer like you all day, wastin’ me youth.’ 

She goes to the bathroom to spit and comes back, pulling on one of his t-shirts, and leaning over to give him a quick peck. 

Before she can pull away, he wraps an arm around her waist, and rolls her back into bed. 

‘Get off me,’ she complains, batting at him. 

‘Where you off to?’ He nuzzles and nips at her neck, laughing at how she relaxes into the mattress for about two seconds, before resuming her bid to squirm her way out from under him. 

‘None of ya business.’ 

Hm. This is interesting. 

‘I’ll come with you.’ 

‘What for?’ 

‘See the sights. Been meanin’ to look around.’ 

She eyes him speculatively. 

‘Only if you make yerself useful,’ she says. ‘An’ ask no questions.’ 

He hums in assent, hand moving to where her jeans are unzipped, but she stops him.

‘C’mon,’ she says, shoving at his shoulders. ‘You’ve got ten minutes to get ready, then I’m leavin’ without you.’ 

Oh, this is very, very interesting.

They’re in a massive electronics store. Noelle’s striding down the beauty and health aisle, past electric toothbrushes and hairdryers, until she stops at the section on personal massagers. She scrutinises the merchandise carefully until she finds what she wants, then begins grabbing box after box off the shelf, and dumping them into the basket she’s made him carry. 

He looks down at the boxes of Hitachi Magic Wands. 

‘Get a move on,’ she chides, marching briskly to the cashier. Her arms are filled with boxes too. She’s cleared out the shelf.

The pattern repeats at the next two stores. His arms are laden with bags and bags of heavy duty, “therapeutic”, personal massagers.

When they reach the cashier of the third retailer, he watches as she pulls out yet another wad of yen. He raises an eyebrow. They pay her fairly well, but… 

She catches his look. 

‘I’ve got investors,’ she sniffs. ‘Anyway, fuck off. Don’t ask you what you do with yer money, tight bastard.’ 

Fair enough. 

The gig is good and the load-out as efficient as ever, with Noelle scolding, chivvying, and barking out orders. He declines the invitations to drinks and goes back to the hotel with her, where he heads to his own room for a shower before letting himself into hers. She’s standing by the bed, counting off boxes as she shoves them into her luggage, pausing from time to time to scribble into a small black notebook and check things off as she mutters to herself.

She’s still wearing his t-shirt, which she’s knotted at the base to hold up the excess fabric. (She’d hidden it under her track jacket while they were at the venue.) He moves her hair to the side of her shoulder, so he can breathe on the nape of her neck, as he encircles her waist with one arm, while the other goes to unknot her (his) shirt. 

‘Stop mitherin’ me,’ she grouses. ‘I’m doin’ inventory.’ 

That may be so, but he wants her. Wants to reduce that charming, insolent mouth to incoherent swearing, gasps, and moans. He’s wanted to since watching her stride around the stores earlier today, on a mission of her own making.

He’ll make it worth her while. 

‘Could use one of these on you.’

She pauses mid-scribble.

‘Quality inspection, so to speak,’ he says, as he slides a hand under her shirt.  

She sets down her pen and notebook. 

‘Suppose it’s good practice,’ she concedes. ‘Testin’ the merchandise. You know, for quality control and such.’ 

‘Quality control,’ he agrees. 

They test the product at length. It performs impeccably. 

1992, Manchester

He’s tried ringing at her new number, but it’s never her answering the phone. It’s either her older brother (Bod?) or more often Liam who answers, and tells him she’s not in before hanging up summarily. 

He understands. Things hadn’t ended well between them. 

Noelle had pretended not to care, but she hadn’t liked Meghan—neither had the rest of the band nor most of the crew—and she’d started avoiding him more, spending more time with Coyley or cosying up to Graham, who’d been in turn vexed and longsuffering about it.

But he’d wanted more with Noelle, and she hadn’t. Dodged the conversation every time it came up. He doesn’t hold it against her; she’s young, ambitious, headstrong. They want different things. 

The decision to let her go had happened quickly. He couldn’t really argue against it; it’d made sense. He’d tried to call her that night, but nobody answered. 

But he’s got something for her, and he’d heard about Liam being in a band and them playing at this bar tonight, so he’s made her way over. (It surprised him a little, the idea of Liam, Noel’s shy and self-effacing kid, as a frontman, though he certainly has the looks for it.) 

He's run late and missed practically the whole gig because Harley had been crying, but he makes it for half of the last song. He knew Noelle’s tunes were good, but the band isn’t bad too, except for maybe the guitarist. And Liam’s a revelation. 

After the song ends, the band makes their way off, and Liam leaps off the side of the stage to make his way to his sister, who’s standing at the bar, arms crossed.

Liam’s taller now, body lithe instead of scrawny. Noelle’s always looked younger than her age, but like this, they could almost be the same age. 

She beams at Liam, who grins. Liam’s hand goes around her waist, and he bends to say something to her below the ambient noise of the pub, lips moving against her ear.

She laughs and tucks herself closer into his side, smiling up at him; the smile that makes her eyes curve into crescents. The way she sometimes used to smile at him or Debbie. 

That’s when he realises: they move like lovers.

He can’t say he isn’t shocked. Most people would be, it’s not the first thing you think of with siblings. 

He’s not entirely sure he’s reading this correctly; maybe they’re just close in ways that are different. He knew there was trouble at home, saw the bruises she’d tried to hide. She’d talked a lot about Liam when they were away, complaining about the trouble and scrapes he’d get into. Spoke often about her mother and other brother as well—but never once about their father. When she rang home weekly, it was always a one-sided series of incessant questions from Noelle, undaunted by the brevity of Liam’s answers. He’d noticed the way her voice dropped too when she’d ask whether their da had been round. 

But they hadn’t been like this before. When the band played gigs at home, Liam would come help, bashful and tentative. Quick to do as she directed, but not hovering, never too close. Maybe because he and the others had been there. 

But they’re in a packed pub now, and it’s not stopping them.

It’s not something he’d ever have thought of, not until several moments ago in the low light of the pub, her brother’s arm protective and possessive around her as she turns to him like a flower to the sun. 

He’d leave her be, only he’s got something for her. It’d taken a while to get it sorted; the rest of the band and the management are fond of her, but they were none too keen on spending more money on a former tour manager who’d been let go, and who they weren’t likely to work with again. He and Debbie had chipped in with their own money. 

He rings the doorbell at the new address he’d gotten from the office.

A bloke who looks a little like Noelle answers the door; this must be Bod. 

‘Hey, I’m Clint. Noelle in?’

Bod looks surprised, but shakes his head. ‘Nah. Out with the band.’ 

‘Right. Could you see she gets this?’ He thrusts the envelope containing £1,000 into her brother’s hands. ‘Ask her to ring me, yeah? At home or at the office.’ 

(He won’t know she’ll never get it, won’t fully understand why she’s cold or distant on the rare occasions they run into each other around the scene. Chalks it up to youthful resentment. Neither of them will ever find out.) 

Chapter Text

March 2007, Blakes Hotel

She’s lying on her side, cocooned by the heavy drapes of the four-poster bed, giggling to herself as she fiddles with the sides of his hair. His haircut is so stupid. 

She wants to know, ‘Are you really never changin’ your haircut?’ 

Paul catches her hand, presses a rough kiss to her wrist with chapped lips, before releasing it.

‘Someday you’ll be sixty,’ she continues delightedly, ‘still with these things’. She walks her fingers across the ridge of his nose. 

‘Hush.’ 

A calloused hand wraps around her wrist, holds it down in a firm grip. 

Her mouth is cottony from the hash, but she’s feeling too languid and lazy to do anything about it; tilts her chin up for a kiss instead. 

He kisses her back, indulgent. Hash isn’t his vice of choice anymore, but he’s not fussed if she has a spliff from time to time. She tips the staff well enough to turn a blind eye when the mood strikes her; usually has a cheeky smoke out back with the dishwashers, who sometimes bring her chips or shots of gin in exchange for half her spliff. It’s a good system. 

His hand is pressing on her shoulder, turning her on her front into the mattress. She feels the bed shift as he moves up and above her. 

Experimentally, she tries to wriggle away, but his hand is firm against her. He runs one broad hand down her body, cool and dry, as she sighs contentedly. 

It’s funny. Ever since the tabloids have leaked that she’s been seeing Sara (and Sara had not been happy about that), they can do whatever they want. She can be seen out and about with him. She can play whatever she wants with him on stage. Because it’d be homophobic now, to suggest they’re fucking, and isn’t that a riot?  

He’s playing for The Teenage Cancer Trust with her on Monday. They’d settled on Sunflower, but somebody had suggested they play Carnation. It’s hysterical.

His hands are on her, in her. Opening her up, moving her where he wants her. 

She wouldn’t say it feels good, exactly, but it feels right. Easy. To let him arrange her body as he wants. To let him press his cock into her, insistent and unyielding, almost too rough by half. To feel the unrelenting drag of him, more harsh than she’s used to; nothing like the way it is with Liam. To let him handle her, and use her, and not have to think about anything at all. 

Chapter Text

Feb-April 2023, King Edward VII Hospital

When he wakes, she’s there. 

‘Debbie’s stepped out to get a cuppa,’ she tells him. 

Groggy and blurry from the anaesthesia, he’s not entirely sure she’s real. But she doesn’t look like how she does when he thinks about her. 

There are more crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth. Her fringe isn’t in bangs anymore, hair cropped just above her shoulders. She looks wan and tired under the fluorescent lights. 

She’s beautiful. 

She’s sending a quick text, and getting up and leaving—no, no, no, he wants her to stay. He tries to call out, but his throat is so dry he can barely make a sound.

When she bustles back in several moments later holding a cup, he wants to cry with relief. 

‘Told Debbie you’re awake.’ 

She comes over and spoons ice chips between his lips. He swallows. It’s a startling relief to his parched throat. Like waking up and seeing her, real and present with him, something out of a dream. 

She strokes a hand, cool from the cup of ice chips, through his hair.

‘Feelin’ all right?’ 

He blinks at her. 

‘It’ll hurt later, when the anaesthesia wears off.’ 

He doesn’t care if it means she’ll stay. 

She sets down the cup, wipes her hands on her trousers, and drags her chair close to his bedside. Sits down, and takes his hand in hers. 

‘Sleep. I’ll stay ’till Debbie’s back.’

He doesn’t want to; he wants to stay awake, to keep looking at her, here with him. 

She presses her lips together. Hesitates, before promising, ‘Go to sleep. I’ll come again.’ 

She’s come to check on him, now that they’re sending him home. He can see her biting back the impulse to fuss and boss everyone around; Debbie’s got everything well in hand. Not really anything for her to do, but she wants to. 

‘Debbie says they’ve been hurtin’ for a while.’ 

He shrugs. 

‘Why’d you put it off so long?’ she demands. 

He doesn’t answer her. He’s not sure himself, exactly. The pain had been bad, but it had been grounding in its way. The soul-deep pain made flesh and bone. And he’d thought about closing his eyes and never waking up, all without seeing her again.   

‘Liam.’ The way she says his name: gentle, chiding. A blessing. 

Debbie tells him, ‘Your sister wants to know if you’ve been doing your exercises.’ 

He likes that she’s keeping tabs on him, but he wishes she’d talk to him instead. She’s stopped calling, since the day he left the hospital. He hasn’t called, either. Doesn’t want to break whatever fragile feeling it was that made her appear at his bedside. 

He knows he’s been grumpy and difficult today. Debbie’s frustrated. At least his physiotherapist is unfazed by the tantrums of a 52-year-old rock star. 

Only he’s tired, and restless, and bored, and he hasn’t heard from her in several days. 

His phone chimes with a text. 

'Debbie says you’re not doing your exercises.’

He doesn’t respond. 

Another text, several minutes later: 

Be good.

He’s feeling petulant and childish. Writes back: 

Why 

She’s calling him now. It takes some effort, but he doesn’t answer. 

More minutes pass. He resists the urge to ring back. 

Now she’s FaceTiming him. He’s not that strong; he answers.

‘Liam,’ she tells him sternly, ‘do the fuckin’ exercises’. 

He feels a rush of satisfaction at provoking her attention. Well done, him. 

‘Why?’ he asks again. She’ll figure it out.

She looks exasperated. ‘Because if you don’t do the fuckin’ exercises—’

She’s distracted by something off screen. 

There’s the sound of someone speaking, and then he hears her say, trying to suppress the annoyance in her voice, ‘Ask Sara. I’m on the phone with your uncle—’ she glances pointedly at him on the screen, ‘—who won’t do the exercises that his extremely capable and highly recommended physiotherapist has—’ 

Oh. 

She’s saying something else, before turning back to her phone screen, and catching a glimpse of the expression on his face before he ducks his head. 

‘Liam …’ There’s something like but not quite pity in her voice. It’s somewhere between sympathy and an apology. 

He forces himself to look back at her. Tries, and fails, at nonchalance. 

Her face falls a little, before rallying. ‘Just… just do the exercises, and I’ll see about us all goin’ up to Mam’s, all right? We can all go up an’ see her with the kids. Or she can come down.’

Her tone is soothing now, coaxing.

‘But you, you gotta be well. So you gotta do the fuckin’ exercises.’ 

He nods. He can do that. 

‘Right,’ she says uncomfortably. ‘I’m off.’ She ends the call without ceremony. 

Maybe he’s a fool. Maybe she’s making empty promises. Maybe it’ll happen, maybe—probably—it won’t. But he’s got hope. 

Chapter Text

December 2023, London

‘What d’you want for Christmas?’

He knows what he wants, but he’s not sure she’s ready to hear it, so he says the next best thing instead: ‘Oasis.’ 

‘Fuck’s sake, Liam.’ 

He likes that she uses his name now. It’s better than the stretch of years when she hadn’t, when she had only referred to him in interviews as ‘my brother’. But he’s never satisfied. He wants more from her, like he always does. He wants to hear her call him ‘love’ the way she used to, like he was something precious that belonged to her. He can’t remember the last time he heard it. 

‘Noely,’ he whines instead. He doesn’t care that he’s fifty two, he’s always going to be her annoying little brother. 

‘We’re not reforming Oasis for your Christmas present.’

‘Why not?’ 

She scoffs over the line. 

Noel’s always been like this, is the thing. She prides herself on being pragmatic. She’ll turn away the things she wants, the things she deserves. Spurn the thought of even trying so that she won’t have to deal with being told no. It’d been like this when Tony had been butchering the guitar solos in her songs. He remembers telling her that night at Ridgefarm what he’d always known—it was going to be her. And he’d been right, hadn’t he? 

She’ll dig her heels in, if he keeps asking. But maybe she needs to be pushed, just a little. And it’s been working so far.

When he tells John they should cover ‘Gimme Shelter’ during the tour, John eyes him for a long while without saying anything. 

Chapter Text

February 2024, London

When she answers the phone, it’s with a glib, ‘Pretty boy.’ 

‘Don’t play with me, Noel,’ he snaps.

She regrets it instantly. She’s just a bit cheesed off she hadn’t heard from him sooner. Her album’s been out for several days. 

‘Sorry.’ 

Thankfully, the tone of his silence shifts from tense to mellow, so it can’t be too bad. 

She changes the subject. ‘How’s Squire? Rehearsals goin’ okay?’

‘Yeah. Might add a few covers to the set list.’ Covers. This is what you get when you let Greg Kurstin produce your album. You have to use covers to spice things up.

‘Don’t hafta use that Kurstin fella all the time for your albums, you know,’ she tells him, for maybe the hundredth time. ‘You know lots of producers. Or I do. Good ones, even.’ 

They’re not FaceTiming, but she knows he’s rolling his eyes. 

‘So…’ she ventures.

‘Yeah?’ 

Dear God, it’s like pulling teeth. 

‘Did you listen to the album?’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

Her mood plummets. It’s only—well. She knows it’s not for everyone, her solo stuff. But she thought Liam, at least, would understand it. 

But they’ve been apart for a long time. That’s mostly her doing, so maybe it was foolish of her to believe some things wouldn’t change. 

She wants to ring off so she can go lick her wounds and curl up in the bath with a bottle of wine. She’s trying to think of an excuse for hanging up, when he asks, ‘Things all right with Sara?’ 

No, not really. 

Things haven’t been easy for a while. She’s not sure what changed. Lockdown had been surprisingly all right. It had been nice, being cocooned together for a bit. Brought a bit of the first flush of romance back. Teasing Sara for getting all schoolmarmish with Donny’s Zoom lessons. Making dinner together. Sneaking into Sara’s study to fuck in the middle of the day, her mouth on Sara’s cunt as Sara dripped slick into the rug that Noel swore up and down she’d take care of later. 

But after lockdown had ended, things had changed. Not overnight, but gradually. Sara—more restless, less patient. Telling Noel she’s ‘cold’ and ‘distant’. Quicker to anger when Noel is out late or in the studio. Accusatory and paranoid about Paul, even though Noel hadn’t really seen him all that much. 

And Sara wants Noel to do things in bed, things Noel has only ever done with one person, excepting that one miserable incident with the lad from The Firehouse. Sara had fuckin’ kicked her out of the master bedroom, ostensibly over the debacle at Donny’s school last month, but which they both knew was a pretext to avoid addressing the thing they’re no longer talking about.

She wants to dissemble, but what purpose would it serve to lie? It’s pointless. Besides, Liam will know if she does. 

‘Don’t wanna talk about it.’

‘You all right?’ 

‘Yeah.’ It is what it is.

‘Anyway,’ he says after a moment, ‘liked your album.’ 

Oh, now he comes out with it.

‘Dunno about that,’ she huffs. ‘Took you a while to call. Album’s been out for several days.’ 

‘You said to delete your number,’ he says aggrieved. ‘Weren’t sure if you still wanted me callin’.’ 

‘Yeah, and I really wanna change my star sign.’ Idiot. 

She hears him shift to speak to someone else, voice muffled, before he comes back.

‘Gotta go. Rehearsal in a bit.’ 

‘All right.’

His voice is softer when he says, ‘Noel?’

‘Yeah?’ 

‘I liked it. I liked the album.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

‘I’ll ring again later, all right?’ 

‘Okay.’ 

He hangs up. She stares at her phone screen. 

It’s good he liked it, she supposes. She only wrote it for him.

Chapter Text

June 2024, London

She’d been so vexed when she went over to Paul and Hannah’s to vent about Liam singing the song she is not acknowledging that she’d somehow allowed the Wellers to bamboozle her into agreeing to accompany Paul to this painfully boring charity event in Hannah’s stead, a commitment she’d only remembered when she’d woken up to Hannah’s text this morning, head pounding with the remnants of a hangover. 

Squinting at the monstrosity in front of them masquerading as art, she understands why Hannah didn’t want to come. 

‘What,’ she asks, tilting her head to the side, hoping the change in angle might improve the view, ‘is that supposed to be?’ 

Paul’s lips twist in wry amusement. Before he can quip back, one of the overly earnest curators, who has been circling them hungrily like a bird of prey with good intentions, swoops down on them.

‘Hullo! Does this strike your fancy? Considering making a bid?’ 

If she were blind, maybe. ‘Don’t really know anythin’ ’bout art. I’m just a girl from Burnage, y’know. He’s the one with the suits, and the saxophones on his records, and everythin’.’

‘Ah, but Noelle’s much richer,’ Paul says, slanting her a look that conveys he very much knows what she’s doing. ‘An’ she has saxophones on her records too.’ 

‘Eh,’ she says, making a dismissive gesture. ‘Ain’t there an American artist with your name or summat?’ 

‘See? Noelle knows about art.’ 

‘Nah, don’t know anythin’ ’bout art. I mean, I like Squire’s stuff. Think they’ve got one by him here somewhere.’

Paul makes a moue of distaste. 

‘You could both bid on it!’ interrupts the curator, enthused. ‘Maybe start a bidding war. For the children, you know?’

‘Right. For the children.’ She nods with appropriate solemnity. ‘Um, we’ll, uh, think about it. Talk it over, d’you know what I mean? Don’t wanna hurt Paul’s feelings if he’s really keen on it.’

The curator beams and sashays away. Paul raises an eyebrow at her.

‘Give over,’ she says, elbowing him. ‘Sara’ll kill me if I come home with that.’

‘An’ Hannah won’t if I do?’ 

‘I’ll pay not to go home with that,’ she tells Paul very seriously. If it comes down to it, she’s much richer than him, as he’s pointed out.  

‘Paul!’ They turn to the source of the Cockney accent.

Oh, Christ. Adele. Bird’s got a set of pipes on her, she’ll give her that, but she’ll never understand the appeal of the endless, sobbing ballads. 

Adele squeezes Paul in greeting around his bony waist, while he kisses her cheek.

‘Hiya, Noelle!’ Adele chirps at her. She reluctantly accepts the offered hug. 

Adele turns to look at the painting they’re standing in front of, expression morphing into one of incredulity. ‘What is that?’ she cries. 

There’s a pause as all three of them contemplate the horror anew. 

It is terrible. It’s a character study, but Noel genuinely can’t tell if it’s a person, animal, or vegetable. 

‘You know,’ she says, after a bit. ‘Think I’ll ask Bono if he’s interested.’

Chapter Text

July 2024, Maida Vale 

It’s early on a Saturday morning when he rings her. It’s not too unusual; he’s always been a horrifically early riser, and she doesn’t sleep well nowadays. Hasn’t, not since Sara left for good, and the papers pounced on it soon after. 

‘Where’s your boy?’ he asks without preamble when she answers. 

‘Sleepin’. It’s 7.30 in the morning.’ 

‘Right. I’m at your gate.’

He’s what. She hastens to the video intercom to check. Doesn’t really believe it when she sees his profile through the screen in miniature, and hastily jams the button to open the gate, before going to the front door to unlock it. 

‘It is 7.30 in the morning on a weekend, you maniac. What are you doin’ here?’ 

He’s standing on her doorstep, bold as brass. It’s broad daylight; literally anyone could have seen him.

‘Got somethin’ for you.’

‘Couldn’t have sent it by post?’ 

‘No.’

‘What are you–fuckin’ come in before somebody sees.’

She tugs him into the house and locks the door.

‘What are you doin’ here?’ she demands. 

Ignoring her, he strides down the corridor to her living room as she hurries after him, which is when she notices he’s carrying a familiar looking guitar case.

He bends down on her rug to unzip the case.

‘Right. This is yours.’ 

It’s the sunburst Gibson. 

‘That’s why you came,’ she says in disbelief. ‘To bring me this.’ 

He straightens up. ‘I’ve got somethin’ to say.’ 

She’s not sure she wants to hear this. ‘Liam, listen—’

‘No, you listen. You sent me away like Moses in the desert, wanderin’ for forty years. I’ve had enough of that. I’m done waitin’ for permission.’ 

He stops. Steels himself.

‘If this is about Oasis—’ she tries.

‘Fuck Oasis.’  

She’s speechless; she’s genuinely at a loss for words.

‘Look, I love you, and I want you. Always have, always will. And I know you love me, but—’ he falters, before rallying. ‘But do you want me?

‘Only it’s a yes or no question. You can say no. You can send me away again. It’ll kill me, but I’ll go. Just don’t–don’t make me wait again.’ 

Her blood is roaring in her ears. Her heart is thudding a staccato beat in her chest. She feels hot and cold all over. 

‘N-Noel?’ 

She’s missed him so much. 

She wraps her arms around herself, and looks down. 

A long moment passes before she chokes out in a hushed whisper, ‘Yes.’ 

When she forces herself to look up at him, he looks a little shell-shocked to get the answer he wants, mouth half-hanging open. Their gazes meet and it seems to startle him back to life, because he stumbles over to take her in his arms.

Her tears are flowing freely now. She presses her face into his chest and clings to him, as he wraps his arms tightly around her, a hand in her hair.

‘That’s… that’s all right, then. Don’t–don’t cry, Noely.’ But he’s crying now, too, she can hear it in his voice.

He’s so stupid. They are both so stupid. 

They cling to each other for a bit, standing in the centre of her living room. 

After a while, she lifts her head and laughs wetly as he wipes away her tears with his thumbs, while she scrubs at his face with the edge of her sleeve. 

She leads him by the hand to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea. She’s loath to let go of his hand, and so is he, so she clumsily manoeuvres around her kitchen one-handed like an idiot.

Once she’s settled him into a chair, a warm mug in his hands, she stands in front of him, running the tips of her fingers over the lines on his forehead, the divot between his brows, the crow’s feet gathering at the corner of his eyes. He tilts his face up into her hands, as she frames his face with her palms, her thumbs resting in the laugh lines around his mouth. 

It’s probably close to eight now. Donny will be up soon. 

She rests her forehead against his, the tips of their noses brushing, and watches a smile spread like dawn over his face. 

‘Do you …’  she asks, a little shy. ‘Do you wanna meet Donny?’ 

Chapter Text

October 2024, London

NOEL

When she couldn’t find him in his usual spots in the house, she’d gone looking. He’s in the attic, staring at Donny’s crib. She hasn’t had it warehoused, even though she should have. 

‘Kat says you got it from Ireland.’ 

‘Yeah. Went meself.’

She watches his fingers curl and clench around the rail. It’s something she’s felt countless times before. Looking at Donny as a baby, and thinking about Liam. Missing him fiercely, an ache in her gut. She knows how the curved engravings of flowers and vines feel against his palms. 

‘Why’d you lie?’ he asks. She’s standing beside him, but they’re not touching. 

‘’Bout?’

‘You know.’ 

The silence is heavy between them. When it grows unbearable, she admits, ‘You wouldn’t have let me.’

He’s quiet. 

‘An' what life would it have been for a child? For me, an' you?’ 

‘Could ’ave made it work.’ 

‘There wouldn’t have been Oasis. People would never have heard you. No band, no money, no—’ She’s working herself up into a state.

‘... I didn’t want to,’ she says at last. ‘I didn’t, I didn’t—’ He has to know, surely he must know—?

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest, head bowed over hers as they sink to the ground in each other’s arms, shuddering with grief until they’re hollowed out and shaken apart. 

Eventually, he lifts his tear-stained face from her shoulder. ‘An’–an’ Donny?’ 

‘I dunno, I think-maybe?’ They’ve wasted so much time. She’s wasted so much time. 

LIAM

Once he’s certain she’s asleep, exhausted from grief, he eases himself out of bed and goes to sit in the garden. He wants to be with her, but he needs to think. 

Noel was right, but not in the way she thinks. He could have been happy, being ordinary with her; a life of small miracles. A wife as much as a sister, a nephew as much as a son. He’d have been happy singing her songs to her and a child, was just as happy singing them to an audience of twelve as he was to hundreds of thousands of people, so long as he could.  

Only she wouldn’t have been happy, so he couldn’t have been either.

Because Noel had wanted Oasis: the money, the fame, the people singing their songs. His sister’s not a romantic, except when she is. A streak of sentiment writ so large you miss the sky for the stars. She couldn’t tell anyone she loved him, so she told the whole world and made them sing it too. With Oasis, they’ll live forever through her songs.

But most of all, she’s wrong—he would have let her. Couldn’t have done it himself and not by his hand, but he’d have gone with her, and held her hand if they allowed it. He’d done it before as a child: watched, and wept, and grieved, as she bled. 

If he were younger, it would have driven him to madness thinking about it: He’s loved her in many ways, but never falsely. How could she not have known what he’d do for her, the way he’d loved her, the way he loves her still?  

But he’s older now, and he understands. She’s not a god, or angel, or some other celestial being; she’s his sister—brave, fallible, and proud. Her fears eclipse her reason, just like anyone else. 

If he told her the truth, the guilt and grief would kill her. She can never know.

He made a promise to her and to himself, which he’s not always kept but which he’ll keep now: Whatever she wants, whatever she needs. Soul to soul, flesh to flesh, blood to blood. 

But he still thinks about their child. 

The next morning, he hears Donny plodding down the stairs just as he’s coming in from his run, so he makes his way to the kitchen. When he returns, Donny’s flopped on the couch, scrolling through his phone, as Buttons dozes with her head in his lap. 

He hands the bowl of porridge to the boy, who makes a face when he sees what’s in it that’s exactly like the face Noel makes when someone’s put jazz on. He feels the impulse to ruffle Donny’s hair and tease him like he would Gene, but things are still too new between them—less awkward, but careful. Noel’s boy, who he wasn’t allowed to know.

It’s three weeks later when Donny finally asks. 

They’re walking with Buttons in his garden at Highgate as she sniffs around, happy to be back in familiar territory. 

What happened? Donny wants to know. With you and Mum. 

Liam doesn’t believe in lying to children. What good does it do? Mam had tried to hide things from him, but he knew enough, even if he hadn’t known all of it. Even knew about the things that no one spoke of. That it wasn’t love that made him, but something vile—an act of everyday evil committed by husbands against wives, somehow a lesser sin than divorcing a father who beats his children and rapes his wife. 

Given a choice, he wouldn’t lie to Donny about it, not in so many words. He’d say: I was angry, and violent, and I scared her. I reminded her of our father. And she couldn’t forgive me for it.

But Donny’s not his son, not in any way that matters. Noel hadn’t wanted a father for her child, so it’s not his place to act as a father would. 

So he does what Noel would want, what Noel would do, and tells Donny the facts while omitting the truth.  

‘You know about Oasis in the aughts. Things hadn’t been right for years—me voice was goin’. Had the thyroid thing, but didn’t know it then. And people… they were hard on your mam. They liked her tunes, but they blamed her for everythin’.’ 

They watch Buttons roll around joyously in the grass. Donny is trying to discreetly sneak a look at his face. 

‘I didn’t handle it well. Felt like I was lettin’ her down, y’know? Made me ashamed, like. So I drank more, an’ it made her angrier, an’ we kept goin’ longer than we should ’ave, an’ one day we just—couldn’t keep goin’ anymore, I guess.’

‘What do you mean?’ Donny asks, after a while.

It takes a second for him to find the words. ‘No one can keep a band as big as we were goin’ forever. We were already pushin’ it, testin’ our luck. You gotta understand, it was years of things goin’ from bad to worse. Weren’t somethin’ that happened overnight.

‘Then your Mam found out she was gonna have you, an’ I guess she wanted a fresh start. One without the band’ — without me, he means — ‘draggin’ her down all the time, makin’ her unhappy. 

‘And once she made up her mind about that, I guess it was easier not to have anythin’ around that reminded her about it, at least for a while.’ 

Donny knows there are things he’s leaving unsaid, but the kid is too well-mannered to say so directly. (Gene, on the other hand, would have. Funny how much Gene takes after Noel, more than he does Liam or Nicole.) 

Buttons seems to have tired herself out and trots back at them, tail wagging. Donny strokes her neck as she pants at him, tongue lolling out.  

‘You all right?’ he asks Donny.

‘Yeah,’ Donny says thoughtfully, his hand on Buttons’ fur, ‘I’m all right.’ 

Chapter Text

August 2024, Maida Vale 

‘By the way, you need to fire that Andrew cunt. Anybody with ears can tell he pinched that kiddie choral arrangement off The Rolling Stones.’ They’ve talked about it, but she’s still got a bee in her bonnet about More Power. 

‘You pinch things from other songs all the time, too,’ he points out, trying to sound reasonable. He probably shouldn’t, but it’s fun to watch her get riled up about his solo stuff—it was only ever really meant to get her attention anyway. 

‘The difference is, when I pinch things, it sounds good,’ she scoffs.

He hides a grin behind his cuppa. His little big sister. She’s closer to 60 than 50 now, hair gone a silvery grey, still thick and curling. She’s letting it grow out a bit more, fuckin’ finally. 

Age suits her. She’s grown into her features, looks more like herself than ever now. Gained back the weight she lost after Sara left. He’s seen some of the fan comments on Twitter saying she’s a bit of a MILF—too right.

‘So’s,’ he says, ‘be honest, right, which one of my solo tunes do you hate the most?’ 

She wrinkles her nose. ‘There’s a lot to choose from.’ Thinks. ‘Maybe Gone.’ 

‘Not that one.’ He grins at her shamelessly.

She makes a face. ‘Ugh, fine.’ A beat. ‘Chinatown.’ 

He laughs. 

‘You've never been to Chinatown. Not here, and not in any single country we’ve visited. You barely even leave Highgate!’ 

‘Could ’ave,’ he says lightly. 

‘Could ’ave,’ she allows. Smirks. ‘Didn’t.’ 

She’s right. She’s so smug—it’s adorable. 

He sets down his mug. Moves quickly, before she can react, to wrap his arms around her waist and drag her onto his lap. 

‘Oi!’ she yelps. 

He nuzzles into the side of her neck, unrepentant, and sniffs behind her ear; her perfume smells fresh, like a garden. 

Buttons trots in, looking for attention. 

‘Hullo, dog,’ she greets Buttons, scritching behind Buttons’ ear as she relaxes into his arms. 

He’s deliriously happy. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy in his life.

Chapter Text

September 2024, Maida Vale 

She’s back from a night out and is trying to slip discreetly into what is officially Liam’s room in the house, not that he spends much time in it. He usually has to sneak out of her bedroom before Donny’s up for school, but it’s not a problem. Much to her horror, she’s learnt his propensity to rise early has only gotten worse with age and he now gets up at five in the morning. Five. She’s threatened to murder him if he wakes her, so during the weeks he’s with her and not Debbie, he gets up, takes Buttons on a walk, makes her and Donny breakfast, and then entertains himself until they’re up. (She never thought she’d say this, but she’s glad for the invention of Twitter.)

Despite her attempt at surprise, she causes a slight racket when, on account of being just a wee bit inebriated, she trips and bangs her shin into the side table. 

‘Ow.’ 

‘Back early,’ he observes from where he’s sitting up in bed, fiddling with his phone. No doubt he’s on Twitter again; he’s definitely addicted. It’s a problem.

‘Got bored. Girls were natterin’ on about nothing in particular.’ Shucking off her jacket onto the floor, she drops onto the bed.

‘Donny in bed?’ she asks.

He sets aside his phone. ‘Yeah. In his room, anyway.’

She studies him. He’s in a white cotton t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He’s wearing his glasses with the thick black frames. His shirt is thin from multiple washes and a fraction too small for him; it clings to the frame of his shoulders. Agonising.

‘Criminal how fit you are,’ she complains. ‘Couldn’t have gotten even a bit fat or wrinkly?’

‘Got fat for a bit. Thyroid thing.’ 

‘Nah,’ she shakes her head. ‘You had nice tits then. Better than mine.’ 

She swings a leg over him and sits down on his thighs. ‘If I had a time machine, I’d go back and shag you every single year, even the years you had those stupid sideburns. Tragic, those were. Why’d Debbie let you do it?’

‘Weren’t that bad.’

‘William.’ She takes his face in her hands and gets momentarily distracted by the rasp of his stubble against her skin. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but they were an abomination. They were a crime against man and God.’ 

‘You liked them, though.’

‘Did not!’ Outrageous slander. 

He pulls her closer towards him, so she’s properly sitting on his lap.

‘Stop manhandlin’ me,’ she complains, shifting against him. 

‘You sure?’

‘No,’ she concedes. 

She leans in to inhale at the side of his neck. He smells so good. He always smells so good. Why does he always smell so good? 

‘Remember when you wanted to get that tattoo?’ she says into the side of his throat, voice muffled. 

‘Yeah. You wouldn’t let me.’

‘’Cos it woulda been diabolical!’ she says, sitting up to look at him. ‘With them cutoff sleeves and sideburns.’ 

‘You liked the cutoff sleeves.’

‘Looked like you were in a boyband.’ Although she did like them, it’s true.

‘Could still get a tattoo now. One with your name on it.’ 

She gives him an unimpressed look, before changing the subject. 

‘An’ you’re always in parkas now. Why are you always in parkas? An’ you never smile in photos.’

He smirks. ‘Knew you’d been looking.’

‘Get to fuck.’ But she doesn’t deny it. And now she can look all she wants. 

Taking off his glasses, she says, ‘Shirt off.’

He pulls it off. She slides his glasses back on his face, before running a hand over his chest. What was that meme Donny had shown her about the Maroon 5 wanker? Oh, right. 

Very seriously, she tells Liam, ‘This body of yours is absurd.’ 

He starts laughing, crow’s feet creasing.  

‘Remember when we ended up in their bassist’s house?’ she reminisces. ‘What was his name again?’ 

‘Don’t remember. Probably somethin’ naff.’

‘Nice house, though.’ 

‘Mm.’ His fingers start tracing circles on the small of her back. ‘So, no parkas’.

‘Well, maybe some parkas,’ she amends, because she does like the parkas too. She puts her arms around his neck. 

‘Got any other instructions?’ he asks, grinning at her. ‘For right now?’

Why are the glasses doing it for her? Maybe this is what happens when you date a professor for too long—you develop a fetish for things like books and glasses. 

‘I want…’ She pauses. There’s a thought that’s been kindling in her mind. She grinds down a little against his hardening length. ‘Want you to do what you want.’

His hand flexes on her thigh as he leans a fraction towards her.  

‘Yep!’ She nods decisively. ‘We should do what you want. That’s what I want.’ 

There’s a second’s pause, before he wraps a hand around the back of her head to kiss her. He’s different now, her boy. It’s easy to yield to the confidence of his desire, the hunger he doesn’t temper. 

He sucks at her nipple through the fabric of her shirt, making her arch against him for more. When he pulls away, he leaves a wet stain spreading on the silk fabric of her shirt. He begins working at her buttons to get the front of her shirt open so he can apply himself to her other breast, scraping his teeth over her nipple lightly. Her jeans are a rough barrier between them, the seams at the crotch almost painful as she rocks against him in a bid to get more friction, but she can’t bring herself to pull away from him to fumble them off. 

By the time he’s had his fill, she’s soaked through her knickers and made a mess in her jeans. He lifts her off his lap by the waist and flips her onto her back. It’s a relief when he finally—finally!—tugs off her jeans. 

He presses his mouth to her abdomen and groans. He bites and kisses the flesh there—it’s a little ticklish. 

Soon, she’s trying to squirm away as his mouth moves lower. ‘Liam,’ she chides. She’s fairly trim for her age, but she can’t shake the paunch sitting at her middle that seems inescapable for every woman above 50, despite the time at the gym and all the pilates. (She blames the devil’s blight of menopause.) ‘Don’t. I—’ 

He looks up at her, pouting a little. ‘You said what I want.’ 

So she did. She drops her head back against the pillow, and lets him have at her. He sucks a bruising kiss into her skin, before licking at the silvery stretch marks that haven’t gone away since her pregnancy. ‘Fuckin’ love your body,’ he mutters. 

Heat rises to her cheeks. This is new too: the frank desire with which he speaks to her in bed. She doesn’t think he ever spoke like this during sex in the past. She has to hide her flushed face in her hand because it’s fuckin’ embarrassing, is what it is. She’s fifty-eight.  

He tongues at her opening through the damp cloth of her underwear, before impatiently pushing the fabric at the crotch aside to get his mouth on her. She spares a moment to be grateful that the house is huge, because the noises she’s making are not discreet in the slightest. Her hands scrabble for purchase on his close-cropped hair as he kisses and sucks at her cunt, lips moving carefully, letting her clit brush teasingly against his nose. 

Before long, he gets frustrated by the fabric getting in the way and yanks her sodden knickers off her legs, shoving her thighs up and open so she’s splayed open for him to do as he pleases. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Taking his time, he laves his tongue over her, sucking at her clit. He eases one finger in, and then another, crooking them carefully inside her as he continues working at her with his mouth. His oral fixation is a known quantity, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the things he’s doing to her with his mouth. 

She’s reduced to incoherence, gasping words strung together nonsensically, variations on a theme: liam love darling please more more more

Just as she’s on the verge of coming, he pulls away. She could scream. She’s this close to forcing his head back down when he looks up at her, lips and chin smeared wet, and says, ‘Sit on my face.’ 

He’s still wearing the glasses, Christ alive. 

She scrambles to do as he says, pausing to pluck the glasses off his face and set them aside hastily because some things are too much to bear. As she lowers herself onto his mouth, he noses at the creases of her thighs and licks with broad swipes at the outer lips of her cunt, before putting his mouth where she needs him. 

This whole exercise is minging; she hasn’t even had a shower and she’s been out all night. Not that it seems to matter to Liam—he’s blissed out with it, uncaring about his own erection. 

Her baby. Her boy. He’s like a dream. In her memories, her fantasies, when she touched herself thinking about him, she couldn’t have thought up anything close to the real thing. He’s fucking her open on his tongue, his hands on her arse, as she grips the headboard for support. The noises they’re making are obscene.

She chases the sensation until it builds to a peak and she’s trembling all over as she cums, cunt clenching hungrily. Before she’s even finished riding it out, he lifts her off him and urges her to lie face down on the bed, knees folded under her, cunt on display for him to fuck. 

Despite the overstimulation, it’s an exquisite relief when he enters her, as she takes him over and over again, his thrusts shoving her forward as she shakes with it. Noel, he’s saying, sounding as wrecked as she is. Noel. She wants him to cum in her. She wants him to fill her up. She wants them to stay like this forever, the beast with two backs, like God should have made them, the way they were meant to be. 

The past and the present mingle together in her mind: her kid, fumbling and eager to please, who touched her with a delicacy she didn’t always deserve; the brother who broke her heart with his silence and clung to her with his lust; and the man he is now, forthright and unabashed about his desires, splitting her open with a fierce, relentless tenderness. 

His cock in her, his hands holding her, his sweat dripping onto her. His love, his worship. Nobody will ever want her like he does. Nobody will ever love her like he does. He’s hers, but she’s his too. She used to think he was made for her, but if that’s true, then she must have been made for him as well, a sister to have and to hold. He gave her all of himself back when he had nothing but himself to give, so it’s only fair now that she gives herself back to him. He’ll have her forever—it’s the thought that echoes in her mind as she arches to take him in deeper, surrendering to his relentless devotion.  

The next morning, she startles to consciousness when she hears several knocks on her door. 

‘Mum?’ comes Donovan’s voice.

Ah, fuck. They’d snuck up to the master bedroom last night so they could clean up, trying not to giggle as they crept up the stairs.

‘Be down in a minute, love,’ she calls out. Liam’s arm tightens around her waist.

She disentangles herself from Liam, who mumbles discontentedly, and drags herself out of bed. Body aching pleasantly, she pulls on a dressing gown and underwear and stumbles downstairs. She’s not hungover, but she’s exhausted and she’s sure her hair is frightful. 

When she finds her son in the kitchen, he wants to know, ‘Where’s Uncle Liam?’ 

Right. Liam’s usually in charge of breakfast. ‘Dunno,’ she lies. ‘Maybe he’s gone home.’

‘Buttons is still here,’ he says. She blinks and looks down. Buttons is under the kitchen table, looking a little put out. 

She improvises. ‘Oh, er, maybe he’s slept in?’

‘Liam never sleeps in. He says he hates sleeping.’ 

She blithely ignores him, reaching out to ruffle his hair as he ducks away. Like Liam, Donny’s a little precious and vain about his hair. ‘Feed yourself some cereal and take an Uber to school, all right? I’m hungover from last night with the girls. Probably not a good idea to drive.’ 

‘Oh-kay…’

She’d hug him but she hasn’t had a chance to shower properly and she’s filthy. She makes two teas, as he pours himself cereal, and leans over to kiss his forehead. ‘Have a good day, darling.’ 

He stares at her. ‘Mum, why are you making two teas?’

Curse her offspring’s powers of perception. ‘Er, one’s for you, love.’

‘I don’t drink tea in the mornings,’ he points out.

‘Should start. Not very English of you, is it.’ 

‘You’re Irish.’

‘Yes, but you’re English.’ 

He makes a face. ‘Can I be English if you’re Irish and Sara’s Scottish?’ 

Tragically, yes. ‘All right, love, you’re British. Not very British of you not to be drinkin’ tea in the mornings.’

She hands the mug to Donovan, who continues staring at her with an indecipherable look on his face. She digs in one of the pantry cabinets and shoves a muesli bar at him. ‘Drink your tea.’

He takes a sip and makes a face. ‘I don’t like it without sugar.’ Oops. Liam does. 

When she finally herds her annoyingly observant son to the door, Buttons following and whining pathetically, Donovan says, ‘I already fed Buttons and took her out, by the way.’  

‘Thanks. I’ll let your uncle know once he’s up. Have a good day at school.’ 

She does not like the look her son is giving her, so she lovingly shoves him out the door and waves goodbye. Buttons whines and noses at her pathetically. 

‘Don’t you start,’ she tells the dog. 

Giving up on making another cup of tea and figuring she and Liam can share, she makes her way back up the stairs to her bedroom, ignoring the mournful eyes Buttons is giving her from the base of the stairs. (Liam’s dog has spent the past few days working up the courage to attempt the stairs, because she has a weird complex about it for some reason. Just as well.) 

Noel enters the bedroom just as Liam steps out of the shower with a towel around his waist. He still hasn’t shaved. 

‘Donny all right?’ he asks.

‘Off to school.’ Rivulets of water are dripping down Liam’s chest. 

‘I need to feed Buttons and take her out,’ he says.  

‘Think Donny’s already done it.’ 

‘Good lad.’ 

Neither of them move. 

Loudly, she says, ‘I need to shower.’ 

Liam nods. 

‘I think you should help.’