Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Damon shouldn't be obsessing over this. None of them should. And they also should be rehearsing right now, yet somehow, they agreed that talking off annoyance seems so much more therapeutic right now. Damon sits on the edge of the battered sofa in the rehearsal room, one foot hooked around the leg of the coffee table, watching Graham pace and Alex sprawl and Dave, bless him and his work-ethic, drumming his fingers against his knees like he is trying to remember how not to play.

“They’re insufferable!” Graham cries out, clearly having held that one in for hours.

“They really are,” Damon immediately agrees.

Dave snorts. “You're only saying that because you watched the charts like a hawk all week.”

Despite knowing it is true, Damon still bristles. Country House sits at number one and it feels good, better than he expected it to, but the victory tastes strange, like sugar on something rotten. However, he doesn't like how much it matters, and he especially doesn't like how much Oasis seem to care. “They make it impossible not to watch, acting like it's some stupid war.”

“It is a war,” Graham says. “They started it.”

“They were born ready for it,” Alex adds. “They wake up wanting someone to hate.”

Damon thinks of Noel’s face on television, smug and sharp, and Liam’s grin, all teeth and contempt, like the world is a joke he is telling badly on purpose. He thinks of interviews, of headlines, of the way Oasis talks about Blur as if Blur were a concept rather than four people who exist.

“I don't even think they hate us,” Damon muses. “I think they hate the idea that anyone else is allowed to win.”

Dave nods. “They hate losing more than they like music.”

Graham stops pacing and leans against an amp. “Liam hates everything. He hates chairs. He hates microphones. He hates breathing.”

“That's not true,” Alex says. “He loves himself.”

Damon laughs despite himself. It comes out thin, but it's real. The tension in the room shifts, loosens just slightly. They have been wound tight since the charts came out, since the press started circling like they are waiting for blood.

“They have been everywhere lately,” Dave says. “Every show thing, every party. You can't escape them.”

“Like a rash,” Graham mutters.

Damon stares at the smoke curling upward, watches it smear against the ceiling. “It's strange,” he sighs.

Alex looks at him. “What is?”

“The proximity. We were never… near them before. Not really. Different circuits. Different rooms.”

“Different planets,” Graham says.

“And now,” Damon continues, “it's like they're always there. Backstage. Side-stage. Outside the toilets.”

Dave laughs. “Liam nearly walked into me at the NME thing. Didn't even notice.”

“Does he ever?” Alex asks.

Damon hesitates, unsure of how to phrase it. He has been noticing things he has no language for yet, like trying to describe a feeling that refuses to sit still. Yet, he is unsure if he really wants to share the thoughts he has been hoarding for some time now. They do seem rather unreal.

“He notices,” he starts slowly. “Just not in the way people usually do.”

Graham frowns. “What does that mean?”

Damon shrugs. “I don't know. He looks at you like you're furniture. Or like you're already gone.”

Alex shifts, sitting up a little. “That's poetic. Disturbing, but poetic.”

“I'm serious,” Damon says. “Have you ever actually seen him eat?”

The room goes quiet.

Dave looks up at that, beyond confused now, clearly. “Eat?”

“Yes, eat. Food. Chewing. Swallowing.”

Alex opens his mouth, closes it. “I mean. I haven't exactly been watching-”

“No,” Graham says slowly. “No, actually. I don’t think I have.”

“He drinks,” Dave frowns.

“Beer,” Alex adds.

“Yeah, a lot of beer.”

“That's not eating,” Damon answers.

Graham pushes off the amp. “Plenty of people barely eat.”

“Not like that. Not never. Not at parties where there's nothing else to do but drink and eat and posture.”

Alex rubs his jaw. “He's always just… standing there.”

“Yes,” Damon says. “Or gone.”

Dave tilts his head. “Gone how?”

“Vanished,” Damon says. “He's there, and then he isn't. Especially late. Especially before morning.”

They all sit with that for a moment, the room filled with the low hum of equipment and traffic filtering in through a cracked window. It's strange to share these thoughts.

Graham laughs, suddenly. “You sound like you're telling a ghost story.”

Damon bristles again, though he can't pin to why. “I'm just saying he's odd.”

“No argument there,” Alex says. “He's a cartoon.”

“But cartoons change,” Damon goes on. “They age. They evolve. He doesn't.”

Dave squints. “What are you on about now?”

Damon reaches for his jacket pocket, pulls out a folded magazine he has been carrying without quite admitting it to himself. He opens it, spreads it on the table. A photograph from years ago. Oasis early days. Liam leaning into a microphone, sneer intact, eyes bright and sharp.

“Look at that.”

They lean in.

“Okay,” Alex says. “And?”

“And now,” Damon says, flipping to a more recent issue, another photograph, nearly identical in posture and expression. “Look.”

Graham’s mouth twists. “He has a better haircut now.”

“That's not what I mean. Look at his face!”

Dave studies it longer than the others. “He looks… the same.”

“Yes,” Damon exclaims excitedly. “Exactly the same.”

Alex scoffs. “You're acting like he's a painting.”

“I'm acting like he doesn’t age,” Damon snaps, then exhales. “At least not the way the rest of us do.”

Graham rubs at his own tired eyes, the lines there deeper every year. “He's younger than us.”

“There’s like four years between me and him. Not enough for this.”

Dave leans back. “Plenty of people age well.”

“This isn't well, this is static!”

Alex raises his eyebrows. “You're obsessed, mate.”

Damon opens his mouth to argue, then stops. He considers it. The way his thoughts keep circling back, uninvited. The way he tracks Liam across rooms without meaning to. The way the man feels like an unanswered question standing too close.

“I'm annoyed,” he settles on instead. “There's a difference.”

Graham snorts. “That's what people say right before they do something stupid.”

Dave chuckles. “We all hate them. You don't need a thesis.”

“I hate Noel,” Alex says easily. “That one I understand. Calculated. Smug. Knows exactly what he's doing.”

“And Liam?” Graham asks.

Alex shrugs. “Liam is… loud.”

Damon shakes his head. “Liam is empty.”

The word lands heavier than he expects. He didn't mean it cruelly, he meant it clinically. Like an absence one notices because the space around it bends.

Dave frowns. “That's harsh.”

“It's accurate,” Damon says. “He's all surface. All posture. Like something wearing a man.”

Graham stares at him. “You really are telling a ghost story now, Dames.”

Damon laughs weakly. “I'm not saying he's supernatural.”

Alex smirks. “You were about to.”

“I'm saying he feels wrong, like he’s stuck.”

Dave nods slowly. “I've noticed something.”

They all look at him. Damon beams.

“His eyes,” Dave says. “They don't change.”

Graham raises a brow. “Eyes change?”

“Yes,” Dave says. “When people get tired. When they get bored. When they get older.”

“And his don’t…,” Damon says quietly.

Alex rubs his arms, suddenly uncomfortable. “Jesus. Listen to us.”

Graham forces a laugh. “We sound jealous.”

Damon stiffens. “I’m not jealous of him.”

“No,” Graham agrees quickly. “No. Of course not.”

Silence stretches again. Outside, a siren wails and fades.

Damon thinks of parties where Liam stands at the edge of the light, beer untouched in his hand, watching the room like he is waiting for it to disappoint him. He thinks of backstage corridors at four in the morning, the way Liam is simply not there anymore, like he dissolves when no one is looking directly at him. He thinks of old footage, of photographs that should belong to the past but refuse to look like it.

“I don’t like him,” Damon says finally. “I don't like any of them. But there’s something shady about him that makes my skin itch.”

Alex nods. “Fair.”

Dave clears his throat. “Maybe he's just… broken.”

“Maybe,” Damon says. But the word tastes wrong.

Graham picks up his guitar, finally. “Well. Broken or not, they lost.”

Damon smiles at that, small and sharp. “They did.”

The victory settles over them again, imperfect but real. Country House at number one. A moment carved out of noise.

And yet, even as they tune up, even as Graham starts to play, Damon’s thoughts drift, uninvited, toward a man who doesn't eat, doesn't age, doesn't stay.

Toward a rival who feels less like an enemy and more like a question the world refuses to answer.

-

Damon doesn’t mean to start watching Liam Gallagher.

It happens the way habits do: quietly, without permission, justified as vigilance rather than interest. After the conversation in the rehearsal room, after the words have been said out loud and refused to go away, Damon finds that his eyes keep tracking a familiar silhouette whenever Oasis occupies the same space, which, thanks to the chart battle, has been happening more and more. It isn't conscious at first. It feels like checking exits, like counting drinks, like the small rituals he uses to stay upright in rooms designed to knock him off balance.

Liam is easy to spot, always has been.

He stands wrong. He occupies space like he expects it to yield. His shoulders tilt forward, aggressive and loose at the same time, as if gravity itself has learned to make exceptions for him. Damon notices how still he can be, how little extraneous movements there are when he's not performing. No fidgeting. No restless hands. Just a body held in readiness, like a weapon set down but not put away.

Damon tells himself this is hatred. Scrutiny as a form of opposition. He tells himself it's normal to want to catalogue the enemy.
But it doesn’t feel like that.

It feels like standing too close to the edge of something deep and trying to convince himself he is only admiring the view.

The party is one of those industry things that pretends not to be mandatory. A record label celebration folded into an awards afterparty folded into a vague acknowledgment of the charts. The building is all glass and polished concrete, the kind of place that looks temporary even when it costs a fortune.
Lights wash the walls in soft colours that do nothing to soften the noise.

Damon arrives already tired. He hates these things. Hates the smiles that feel like negotiations, the conversations that loop without landing anywhere. He hates the way victory becomes something they are expected to apologise for.

Blur drifts in together and then apart, like they always do. Graham vanishes toward someone who wants to talk about guitars. Alex finds a drink immediately. Dave hovers near Damon for a while, then gets pulled into a conversation with a producer whose name Damon will forget in the next five minutes.

Damon ends up near the edge of the room, drink in hand, watching reflections move across the glass.

And then Oasis arrives.

They don't enter so much as assert themselves. The air changes in a way Damon resents, like a draft he can't block. Noel is talking already, voice carrying, face sharp with amusement. Liam follows a step behind, hands in pockets, chin lifted, eyes scanning the room with a flat, predatory patience.

Damon feels it in his stomach before he names it.

Awareness.

Liam doesn't look at him. That makes it worse.

Damon watches anyway. He tells himself he is checking his theory. He tells himself he is proving himself right. He tells himself he isn't drawn to the stillness, to the way Liam doesn't drink the beer someone hands him, to the way he accepts it and then sets it down untouched.

Time passes strangely when Damon watches him. Minutes stretch. Conversations blur. He responds automatically when someone speaks to him, laughs when expected, nods at the right moments. His attention keeps snapping back like a magnet finding north.

Liam moves through the room with intention. He stops where he wants. People come to him, he doesn’t seek them out. Damon notices how often Liam’s gaze flicks toward throats, toward wrists, toward the vulnerable angles of the human body. It's subtle, it could be imagined.

Damon tells himself it's imagined, that there's no way.
But his skin prickles anyway.

At some point, he can't later say when, Liam looks at him.

The connection is immediate and electric, like a wire suddenly stripped bare. Damon feels it in his chest, a sharp, startled jolt that makes him inhale too quickly. He is aware, suddenly, of how exposed he is. Of the line of his neck. Of the pulse there.

Liam’s eyes narrow.
He doesn’t smile.

The recognition isn't mutual interest, it isn't curiosity. It's something colder, something assessing.

Damon looks away first, and he hates that he does.

He focuses on his drink, on the condensation slicking his fingers. He tells himself he is being ridiculous. He tells himself that this is what rivalry does to the brain, turns glances into threats, coincidences into patterns.

When he looks back, Liam is still watching him.
Closer now.

Damon’s heart picks up pace, an unhelpful, traitorous thing. He shifts his weight, angling his body slightly, trying to appear relaxed. He does not want to draw attention, he would rather disappear into the architecture than that.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.

Liam moves toward him with unhurried precision. Each step feels deliberate, measured. Damon watches him cut through the room, the crowd parting with unconscious obedience. Conversations falter in his wake. There is something about him now that feels different from the stage persona, from the caricature Damon has always dismissed.

This Liam is quiet.

This Liam is focused.

Damon’s mouth goes dry. He tells himself to straighten up, to meet whatever is coming with the practiced disdain he uses in interviews. He tells himself he has traded insults with this man in public and survived.

But this feels private.

Liam stops an arm’s length away.

Up close, the differences are sharper. His eyes are too bright, his stillness too complete. There is a tension in him that feels coiled, like a held breath that has been held for far too long.

“What the fuck are ya starin’ at, Albarn?” Liam snarls. His voice is low, controlled. There's no swagger in it.

Damon swallows. “Evening to you too.”

Liam’s gaze flicks over Damon’s face, his throat, his mouth. Damon resists the urge to step back. He doesn't want to give ground, doesn't want to show fear.

But his body betrays him anyway, a shiver crawling up his spine, small and involuntary.

“Don’t play clever now,” Liam says. “Ye’ve been watchin’ me all night.”

Damon forces a smile. It feels brittle on his face. “You flatter yourself.”

Liam leans in slightly. Not enough to touch, but enough to invade. Damon smells him then, not beer, not smoke. Something sharper. Something metallic and dark that makes his stomach turn.

“Don’t lie. Yer bad at it.”

Damon’s pulse is loud in his ears. He is acutely aware of how alone he is, of how the room seems to have shifted around them, a pocket of space opening without anyone consciously deciding to leave it empty.

“I can look wherever I want,” Damon retorts. He hates how thin his voice sounds.

Liam’s eyes flash. For a moment, something ugly and raw flickers there, hunger, Damon thinks, and the word lands with terrifying clarity. Not metaphorical hunger. Not ambition. Something older and sharper.

“Careful then. People get ideas when ye look at ’em like that.”

“I wasn’t looking at you like anything!”

“That’s bullshit,” Liam leans in ever so slightly. “Ye look at me like yer tryin’ to figure me out.”

Damon laughs, short and nervous despite himself. “You’re not that complicated.”

Liam’s mouth twitches, but not into a smile. “That’s where yer wrong.”

For a heartbeat, Damon thinks Liam might touch him. Like he might bring up his hands to force Damon’s head where he wants it, skin to skin, the metal of the stupid golden ring with that small green, shimmering stone Liam always has on his right pointer finger burying itself into Damon’s cheek. He doesn’t, but the space between them feels charged, unstable. Damon’s skin feels too tight, like it does right before a fever breaks. And he suddenly becomes painfully aware of his own body, warm, breathing, fragile. He hates the vulnerability of it.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” Damon says, attempting irritation, attempting control. “But I’m not interested.”

Liam’s eyes drop, just briefly, to Damon’s throat. There is no way he's just imagining that.

Damon shudders. The movement is small and he can't stop it. Liam notices.

Something in Liam’s expression shifts again, sharpens. Satisfaction, maybe. Or confirmation.

“That’s a lie,” Liam says softly. “Yer terrified.”

Damon’s breath catches. “I'm not.”

“Yeah,” Liam says. “You are.”
The certainty in it is worse than the accusation.

Before Damon can respond, before he can gather himself enough to push back, to say something cruel or clever or dismissive, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

Noel Gallagher steps into the space like he has been summoned by instinct. His expression is tight, controlled. He doesn't look at Damon immediately. His focus is on Liam, on the way Liam is standing too close, leaning too far forward.

“Think ye’ve had enough, ’rkid,” Noel says. It sounds casual enough, but Damon is pretty sure it isn't.

Liam doesn’t look away from Damon. “I’m talkin’.”

Noel puts a hand on Liam’s shoulder. The gesture is firm, anchoring. “Yer done.”

For a long moment, Liam resists. Damon watches something wordless pass between them, a communication older than speech. Finally, Liam straightens, steps back. The space he vacates rushes in like oxygen.

Liam’s eyes never leave Damon’s face.

“We’ll finish this,” Liam says. It's not a threat, it's a promise.

Noel’s jaw tightens. He steers Liam away, one hand still heavy on his shoulder, murmuring something low and sharp in his ear. Damon catches none of the words, doesn’t need to. The intent is clear: removal, containment, damage control.

They disappear into the crowd, swallowed by noise and light.

Damon stands very still.

His hands are shaking. He curls them into fists, digs his nails into his palms until the sensation grounds him. His heart is racing, uneven and frantic. He takes a breath, then another, and realises how shallow they have been.

Dave appears at his side. “You alright?”

Damon nods automatically. “Fine.”

Dave frowns. “You don’t look fine.”

“I am,” Damon says, too quickly. He takes a sip of his drink and nearly chokes. His throat feels tight, tender, like he has been holding back a scream.

Graham joins them, glancing toward where Oasis vanished. “What the hell was that about?”

“Nothing,” Damon says.

Alex arches an eyebrow. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

Damon shakes his head. “He just… didn’t like being stared at.”

Graham snorts. “Pot, kettle.”

Damon forces a laugh. It sounds wrong to his own ears. “I’m going to get some air.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, already pushing toward the exit, past clusters of people who suddenly feel too close, too warm. Outside, the night air hits him like a shock. He breathes it in deeply, grateful for the cold.

His reflection stares back at him from the glass, pale, eyes too bright, mouth tense.

Hungry, a voice in his head supplies, unbidden.

Damon shakes his head sharply, as if he can dislodge the thought.

He doesn’t understand what just happened, he only knows that something has shifted. That the caricature has cracked, revealing something underneath that frightens him more than open hostility ever could.

Inside, the party goes on. Music swells. Laughter spikes.

Outside, Damon presses his hand to his chest and waits for his heart to remember how to behave.

He knows, with a certainty that makes his stomach drop, that he will not stop watching now. And that whatever Liam Gallagher is, it's watching him back.

-

Top Of The Pops always smells and sounds the same backstage.

Hairspray clings to the air long after it should have settled. Hot lights bake the corridors until everything feels faintly sticky, and the sound never quite resolves into anything coherent. Music bleeds through walls, muffled cheers ripple at odd intervals, and somewhere a floor manager is always shouting a name that no one answers.

Damon stands with his back against a painted cinderblock wall, jacket slung over one shoulder, watching a runner weave past with a clipboard held like a shield. The performance is done. The smiles have been worn and put away. Adrenaline drains in fits and starts, leaving behind a hollowed-out tiredness that settles in his bones.

Alex talks animatedly to someone from the crew, hands moving too much, laughter spilling out a little too loud. Dave leans nearby, towel around his neck, hair damp. Graham is already restless, shifting his weight, eyes flicking down the corridor with interest that has nothing to do with logistics.

Damon knows that look.

The tension has not left them since the charts. If anything, it has thickened, becoming something everyone pretends not to notice until it presses too close to ignore. Winning has not brought relief, it has sharpened the edges.

Footsteps approach from the far end of the corridor, heavier and less purposeful than the clipped movements of staff. Damon hears the voices before he sees anyone, familiar tones carrying without effort. Laughter first, rough and careless. Then Noel’s voice, cutting through it with dry precision.

Oasis rounds the corner like they own the space.

Liam walks slightly behind the others, shoulders hunched forward, hands buried in his jacket pockets. Under the harsh lighting, his face looks washed out, skin almost translucent, the planes of his cheekbones sharper than Damon remembers. There is something unsteady in the way he moves, a subtle lag between intention and action that reads as wrong rather than merely drunk.

He looks like he has not slept.

He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days.

Damon registers the impression without lingering on it. There are too many bodies suddenly sharing too little space, too much history packed into a narrow corridor. The air tightens.

Alex notices them immediately.

“Well, if it isn’t the fucking Beatles,” Alex says, loud enough to carry.

Damon closes his eyes for a fraction of a second. Idiot.

Noel’s head snaps up, eyes sharp with recognition. A smile curls at the corner of his mouth, humourless and practiced. “Careful, mate. Might trip over your own ego saying things like that.”

Alex grins, teeth flashing. “Just thought I’d congratulate you on second place.”

The words land exactly where intended.

Bonehead laughs, short and derisive, lifting the bottle he is holding in a lazy salute. Guigsy mutters something under his breath. Liam doesn't react at first. His gaze drifts, unfocused, before settling on Damon with unnerving intensity.

Damon shifts his weight, annoyance flaring hot and immediate. The rivalry feels absurd in this space, reduced to posturing and cheap insults. The show is over, the cameras are gone. None of this matters.

Alex, however, has never cared about that distinction.

“Funny thing about charts,” Alex continues. “They don’t lie.”

“Neither do cunts,” Bonehead says. He takes a swig from the bottle, misses his mouth slightly, and wipes at his chin with the back of his hand.

Dave steps forward instinctively. “Alright, let’s not.”

Graham mutters Alex’s name under his breath, warning threaded through irritation.

The corridor feels smaller by the second.

Noel’s smile thins. “You lot always this gracious when ye win?”

Alex shrugs. “Only when it counts.”

That does it.

Bonehead lunges first, bottle still in hand, shoulder slamming into Alex hard enough to knock him back a step. The impact echoes off the walls, sudden and ugly. Alex stumbles but recovers quickly, shoving back with equal force, laughter gone, expression hardening.

Everything fractures at once.

Dave grabs at Bonehead’s arm, shouting something lost in the noise. Graham swears sharply as someone clips his shoulder. Damon moves without thinking, reflex kicking in before judgment can catch up. A hand grabs his jacket, yanking him forward, and he shoves back blindly, elbow connecting with ribs.

The smell of alcohol spikes, sharp and sour.

Bodies collide. Someone curses loudly. A runner yelps and scrambles away, clipboard abandoned on the floor. The neat order backstage dissolves into chaos, a tangle of limbs and shouted insults.

Damon does not want to be here.

The thought registers distantly even as his fist connects with someone’s shoulder, even as he ducks a wild swing aimed at his head. This is ridiculous. It's childish. It's inevitable.

Bonehead staggers back, bottle raised again, eyes bright and unfocused. For a split second, Damon notices the glass glinting under the lights, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

Then the bottle breaks.

The sound is sharp and unmistakable, glass shattering against the wall as Bonehead swings too hard and loses control. Shards scatter across the floor, catching the light. Bonehead barely hesitates. He grips what remains of the neck and turns back toward Damon, face twisted with something between fury and glee.

“Noel!” someone shouts.

Damon sees the motion too late.

Bonehead lunges again, arm slashing forward in a clumsy arc. Damon raises his hands instinctively, trying to deflect, to protect his face. The broken glass catches his left forearm, slicing through skin with a hot, immediate sting.

Pain flares bright and sudden.

Another shard grazes him as Bonehead’s momentum carries him closer, the jagged edge tearing a second line along Damon’s arm. Blood wells almost instantly, dark against pale skin, warm and slick.

Damon swears loudly and shoves Bonehead back with all his weight, adrenaline surging. The movement sends a fresh wave of pain through his arm, sharper now, insistent. He barely notices the blood dripping onto the floor.

The fight should continue.

It doesn’t.

Liam has stopped moving.

Damon becomes aware of it in the way one notices silence after a loud noise. Liam stands a few feet away, frozen, his entire focus locked onto Damon’s arm. His face has gone even paler, eyes wide and unblinking. His mouth parts slightly, breath hitching.

The world seems to narrow around that stare.

Bonehead laughs again, oblivious, raising the broken bottle once more. “Come on then,” he slurs.

Liam makes a sound.

It's low and involuntary, something dragged out of him rather than spoken. His body shifts forward, one foot stepping closer, shoulders tightening. The look on his face is no longer vacant or irritated, it's intent. Hungry in a way that makes Damon’s stomach drop.

For a heartbeat, no one else appears to have noticed.

Blood slides down Damon’s arm, pooling at his wrist before dripping to the floor. The scent hits the air, metallic and raw, cutting through the smell of alcohol and sweat.

Liam’s pupils dilate.

Noel sees it then.

“Liam,” he calls out sharply.

Liam doesn’t respond.

Noel moves fast, faster than Damon has ever seen him move. He grabs Liam by the upper arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, yanking him back with a force that borders on desperation.

“Don’t,” his voice is low and dangerous, a clear warning for his brother.

Liam resists for half a second.

The resistance is instinctive, violent in its restraint. His body strains toward Damon, gaze never breaking, jaw clenched so tight the muscles stand out beneath his skin. Damon feels suddenly, acutely exposed, aware of the blood, the open skin, the way Liam’s attention clings to it like a physical thing.

Fear curls cold in his gut.

Noel tightens his grip. “Enough!”
Something in Noel’s tone cuts through.

Liam blinks once, twice. The tension drains out of him in a rush, leaving behind a visible tremor that runs through his frame. He swallows hard, eyes flicking briefly to Noel’s face before snapping back to Damon, still fixed, still unsettlingly focused.
The others are finally noticing.

Bonehead falters, confusion creasing his brow. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Pack it in,” Noel snaps, not taking his eyes off Liam. “Now.”

The corridor has gone quiet in the way spaces do when something has gone too far. Staff hover at a distance, uncertain. Dave stands between Alex and Guigsy, breathing hard. Graham presses a hand to Damon’s shoulder briefly, grounding.
“You’re bleeding,” he notes.

“I’m fine,” Damon answers automatically.

Liam exhales shakily, the sound too close to a growl to be comfortable.

Noel steers Liam backward, step by careful step, never turning his back on Damon. His expression is tight, controlled, eyes flicking once to the blood before forcing himself to look away.
“We’re done,” he says to no one in particular. “Come on.”

Oasis retreats without further argument.
Bonehead drops the broken bottle on the floor, glass clattering loudly. Guigsy avoids looking at anyone. Liam walks backward for a few steps, gaze still locked on Damon, before Noel turns him firmly toward the exit.

The last thing Damon sees before they disappear around the corner is Liam’s face, flushed now, eyes dark and bright with something Damon doesn't want to name.

The moment they are gone, the corridor exhales.

Someone swears. A staff member rushes forward, asking if everyone is alright. Dave grips Damon’s uninjured arm, steadying him as the adrenaline ebbs, leaving behind a hollow ache.

“Jesus Christ,” Alex says, breathless. “That escalated.”

“Sit down,” Graham orders. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”

Damon allows himself to be guided toward a folding chair, his legs suddenly untrustworthy. A runner reappears with a first aid kit, hands shaking slightly as she kneels in front of him.
The sting sharpens as she cleans the cuts, antiseptic biting into raw skin. Damon hisses through his teeth, jaw tightening.

“They’re not deep,” she says. “Messy, though.”

Damon nods, eyes unfocused, attention drifting back to the image of Liam frozen in place, to the way Noel had moved without hesitation, like this wasn't the first time he had needed to stop something like that from happening.

Bandages wrap around his forearm, snug and clean. The pressure dulls the pain, leaving behind an insistent itch that settles under the gauze.

“Keep it clean,” the runner says. “Watch for infection.”
Damon thanks her absently.

As they gather their things and prepare to leave, the corridor feels different. Charged. Unsettled. Damon can't shake the sense that something fundamental has shifted, that a line has been crossed without anyone agreeing to it.

When they finally step out into the cool night air, the image of Liam’s stare follows him, never once leaving his mind for the rest of the day.

-

By the time Damon leaves the pub, the night has softened at the edges.

It's the kind of London night that feels almost forgiving, air cool but not biting, streets busy enough to feel lived in without being loud. The glow from shopfronts and streetlamps blurs pleasantly when he stares at them too long, and his steps land with a slight delay between intention and execution. Someone has laughed too loudly at something unfunny just before he left, and the sound follows him out the door, clinging.

Blur stays behind. Graham has found a conversation he doesn't want to leave. Alex is still ordering another round, already leaning into the bar like it might move away if he lets it. Dave gives Damon a look that asks a question without asking it, and Damon waves him off, loose and unconvincing.

Fresh air, he says. A walk. Clears the head.
It must have sounded reasonable enough that no one argued.

The alcohol sits warm and heavy in his bloodstream, a dull hum rather than a sharp buzz. Too much, maybe, but not disastrously so. Enough to loosen his limbs, to soften the constant vigilance that has followed him since the party. Enough to make walking feel like a good idea rather than a foolish one.

His arm aches as soon as he steps outside, the sensation blooming as the cold touches the skin around the bandage. White gauze peeks out from under his jacket sleeve, already smudged where he has been careless with it. It isn't pain so much as awareness. A persistent sting when he flexes his fingers, a tugging itch beneath the wrapping that demands attention without offering relief. The skin around it feels tight, warmer than it should. Healing, probably. Bodies do that.

Damon shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking.

The pavement feels slightly unsteady under his feet, but he adjusts easily enough, letting momentum do most of the work. His thoughts drift, untethered, skipping from fragments of conversation at the pub to the bright lights of Top Of The Pops earlier in the evening. The cameras, the smiles, the practiced ease of it all. Familiar ground.

Liam’s face intrudes again, without warning.

Not the loud version. Not the sneering grin aimed at an audience. The version from the party, eyes sharp and intent, voice low enough to feel like a secret.

Damon shakes his head once, briskly, as if the movement might scatter the image.

The street opens up as he walks, residential now, quieter. Rows of houses sit close together, their windows glowing unevenly. Somewhere a television murmurs behind a thin wall.

He keeps his pace steady, conscious of the way his arm throbs when his stride jostles it. The itch grows more insistent, a crawling sensation under the bandage that makes him want to scratch without knowing where. He resists, flexing his fingers instead. The sting sharpens briefly, then settles.

It will heal fast, he thinks vaguely, and then lets the thought drift away.

The night stretches.

At first, the sense of being followed arrives without form.

It isn't a sound, exactly. Not footsteps he can clearly place or count. It is a pressure at his back, a subtle tightening between his shoulders that makes him straighten despite the alcohol weighing him down. His breathing shifts, shallow without him meaning it to.

Damon tells himself it's nothing. Late night nerves. Residual adrenaline from the evening. London is full of people moving in the dark for reasons that have nothing to do with him.

He keeps walking.
The sensation persists, a lurking presence.

A noise reaches him then, faint but distinct enough to catch his attention. A step that doesn't echo his own rhythm. A pause where there should be continuity. The sound is too measured to be accidental.

His shoulders tense.

He doesn't turn around.

A quick glance over his shoulder would confirm or dismiss it, but the idea of seeing someone there feels worse than not knowing. He focuses ahead instead, on the familiar landmarks that mark the route home. The corner shop with its shutter half down. The narrow alley he avoids at night even when sober.

Another sound, closer now.

Damon’s pace increases almost without conscious decision. His steps lengthen, feet landing harder, more decisively. The alcohol protests, sending a brief wave of dizziness through him, but he rides it out. The itch in his arm flares as his muscles tense, a sharp reminder of vulnerability.

The presence behind him tightens.

He hears breathing then. Not loud. Not laboured. Controlled.

His mouth goes dry.

The night no longer feels forgiving.

Damon turns onto his street too quickly, nearly misjudging the kerb. The familiar row of buildings comes into view, dark brick and iron railings, and relief flares sharp and sudden. Home is close. Safety feels tangible, a door he can shut.

The sound follows, closer still.

His heart picks up speed, a frantic flutter that rattles against his ribs. His hand brushes the bandage as he swings his arm, and the itch becomes almost unbearable, a maddening distraction layered over fear.

Keys. He needs his keys.

His fingers fumble in his pocket, clumsy with drink and adrenaline. Metal bites into his skin as he grips them too hard, and the pain grounds him just enough to move faster. He doesn't look back. The urge to run presses hard against his restraint, but running feels like an invitation.

He reaches the building and wrenches the door open, slipping inside and slamming it shut behind him with more force than necessary. The sound echoes loudly in the stairwell, a sharp crack that seems to hang in the air.

The lock turns under his shaking hand. Once. Twice.

Only then does he pause.

The stairwell smells faintly of dust and old paint. The light hums overhead, casting harsh shadows that make the space feel narrower than it is. Damon listens, breath held, waiting for the sound of pursuit, of someone testing the door, of anything that confirms his fear.

Nothing comes.

His heartbeat pounds anyway, stubborn and loud. He swallows and starts up the stairs, taking them two at a time despite the protest from his legs. The alcohol makes the ascent feel steeper than it should. He grips the railing for balance, skin slick against cool metal.

Each step creaks slightly under his weight, familiar sounds amplified by his nerves. He reaches his floor and fumbles again with his keys, the frustration sharp and immediate. The lock finally yields, and he slips inside, slamming the door and throwing the bolt with a decisive clatter.

The noise feels necessary.

He doesn't turn on the light.
The flat greets him with darkness and silence, the shapes of furniture barely visible in the faint glow from the street outside. Damon stands just inside the door, listening again, every sense stretched thin.

Nothing.

Slowly, carefully, he moves through the space.

He checks the windows first, drawn to them by instinct rather than logic. Curtains part beneath his fingers, and he peers out into the street below. The view swims slightly, blurred by drink and the uneven light. A car idles briefly before pulling away. Shadows shift as clouds pass over the moon.

No one stands there.

He moves to the next window, then the next, scanning the angles he can see, the corners where someone might linger unseen. His reflection flickers in the glass, pale and indistinct, and he startles at it despite knowing better.

Still nothing.

The quiet presses in around him, heavy and expectant. Damon releases a breath he had not realised he was holding, though the tension doesn't fully leave his body. His arm throbs again, a dull ache now layered under the persistent itch. He peels off his jacket carefully, wincing as the movement pulls at the bandage.

The two cuts aren't much to look at. Thin lines beneath the gauze, red, yes, but already closing. Too neat. Too fast.

He touches the edge of the bandage, testing it lightly, then withdraws his hand. The sensation is unpleasant, a reminder of how thin skin really is.

Damon moves through the flat with quiet efficiency, habits guiding him where conscious thought falters. Shoes kicked off near the door. Keys dropped into the bowl by the counter with a metallic clink that sounds too loud in the stillness. He pours a glass of water and drinks it standing up, the coolness welcome but insufficient.

The presence lingers in his mind even when his senses insist he is alone. A memory of pressure at his back, of breath too close to belong to coincidence. His thoughts circle it without landing anywhere solid.

Eventually, exhaustion outweighs vigilance.

He undresses in the dark, movements slow and careful, mindful of his injured arm. The bed waits where it always does, familiar and unremarkable. Damon sits on the edge for a moment, the mattress dipping under his weight, and rubs his face with his free hand.

When he lies down, sleep doesn't come immediately.

The room holds its breath around him, shadows deepening in the corners as his eyes adjust. Every small sound registers too clearly, the distant rumble of traffic, the settling creak of the building. His heart takes its time slowing, each beat still a little too forceful.

Eventually, fatigue drags him under.

The last thing he is aware of before sleep claims him is the faint, irrational certainty that the night outside has not finished with him yet.

-

Morning arrives with light pressing through the thin gap between curtain and wall, pale and insistent, turning the dust in the air into something visible. Damon wakes with his mouth dry and his head thick, the residue of alcohol sitting behind his eyes like an uninvited guest that refuses to leave. For a few seconds, he doesn’t remember why his arm feels tight.

Then he shifts.

The bandage pulls. Skin protests. Awareness snaps into place.

He lies still, staring at the ceiling, letting memory surface in pieces rather than a whole. Backstage lights. Glass breaking. The heat of blood against his skin. Liam standing motionless, eyes fixed, body pulled taut like a wire drawn too far.

The recollection doesn't blur the way it should.

Damon turns his head and looks at his arm.

The bandage is clean. Too clean, considering. No seepage. No discolouration. He expects stiffness, swelling, the dull throb of injury settling in. Instead, there's only that faint, maddening itch beneath the gauze, the sense of skin knitting itself together without consulting him.

He flexes his fingers slowly.
The sting is minimal.

Later, after coffee he barely tastes and a shower that does nothing to clear his head, Damon finds himself thinking back to the exact moment everything stopped. Not the fight itself. Not Alex shouting or Dave pulling someone away. His mind keeps returning to the pause, the way the corridor seemed to hold its breath when Liam noticed the blood.

It's not how long Liam stared, it's how completely.

The rest of the room had continued to exist, technically, but it had ceased to matter. Even Noel had taken a fraction of a second to understand what he was seeing before reacting, and that delay feels significant in hindsight. Noel isn't slow. Noel doesn't miss things that require management. Or at least he doesn't seem like he does.

Damon dresses with unusual care, conscious of the bandage, of the way fabric brushes against it. He chooses a long-sleeved shirt without thinking, buttoning it neatly, hiding the evidence. When he catches his reflection, he looks ordinary enough. Tired. Pale. Nothing that invites scrutiny.

The day unfolds around him.

Rehearsal space. Conversations about schedules. Someone mentions Oasis in passing, and Damon feels the familiar tightening low in his chest, a reflex now. He doesn't contribute, simply listens.

They are at the same events more often than not now, there's no avoiding it. The industry enjoys proximity when it smells drama.

The first time Damon notices it, he almost dismisses it as coincidence.

They are standing off to the side at a radio thing, waiting for their turn, when someone nearby laughs too hard and clips their hand against a metal railing. The sound is small, insignificant. The injury even more so. A thin line opens across a knuckle, a bead of red surfacing slowly.

Damon notices because Liam does.

Liam’s head turns immediately. Not sharply, not dramatically, but with a precision that makes Damon’s stomach tighten. His gaze locks onto the hand, and his body shifts almost imperceptibly forward before he stills himself.

Noel steps closer without looking like he is doing so.

The moment passes. Liam looks away. The injured hand gets a laugh and a napkin pressed against it. Conversation resumes.

Damon doesn’t move.

The second time, he can't dismiss it.

They are backstage at a small awards show, the kind that tries to feel intimate and ends up cramped instead. A runner squeezes past, carrying too many things, and drops a stack of programs. Paper scatters. Someone bends to help and catches their finger on a staple.

A wince. A curse. Blood again, brighter this time.

Liam reacts before the sound registers.
His shoulders tighten. His hands curl at his sides. There is a sharp intake of breath that he doesn't quite manage to suppress. Damon sees it from across the room, sees the restraint snap into place immediately afterward, sees Noel’s eyes flick to him and back.

The look they exchange lasts less than a second, but it's enough.

Damon’s pulse starts to feel loud.

He tells himself he is pattern-seeking. That this is what happens when the brain latches onto an idea and refuses to let go. The human mind is excellent at turning coincidence into narrative.

That explanation doesn't account for the way his skin prickles when Liam is nearby now.

Over the next few days, Damon finds reasons to be where Oasis is. He doesn't articulate this to himself, he simply stops avoiding the rooms they occupy. He lingers longer than necessary, positions himself where sightlines are clear.

Nothing overt happens.

Liam keeps his distance. When their eyes meet, which happens rarely, Liam looks away first. The bravado is present in interviews, the swagger intact onstage, but off-camera there's a tightness to him that Damon can't unsee.

At one point, during a rehearsal for a televised charity thing, a guitarist from another band scrapes his hand on a speaker edge. The injury is shallow, barely worth attention to the average person.

Liam has gone rigid.

Not forward this time. Back. As if the movement required conscious effort in the opposite direction. His jaw clenches, his eyes shutting briefly, lashes dark against his skin.

Noel steps in front of him fully, blocking his view.

Damon’s mouth tastes like metal.

That night, alone in his flat, Damon can't stop replaying the image of Liam straining against his own body. The hunger he thought he saw backstage doesn't feel like a metaphor anymore. It feels specific. Directed.

He sleeps poorly.

The dreams are indistinct but leave him waking with his heart racing, his arm tingling beneath the bandage. At some point in the night, he scratches at it half-asleep, only realising what he's doing when the itch spikes unpleasantly. He jerks his hand away, breath catching, and lies still until the sensation fades.

In the morning, the bandage comes off.

The cuts aren't gone yet, but they are as good as.
Red lines remain visible, clean and closed, skin smooth and unbroken around them. They will likely be pink within a week, and gone in two. There's no scabbing, no tenderness. Damon presses lightly, testing, and feels nothing more than the faint echo of yesterday’s awareness.

That should be reassuring, right?

When he is standing in his kitchen later on, Damon doesn’t know what got to him, as he purposefully fumbles with a glass, letting it slip and only half-heartedly trying to catch it.

It breaks louder than he expects.

The sound snaps something inside him, a sharp echo that keeps ringing long after the shards of various forms and sizes have settled across the kitchen floor.

Damon stands there with his hand still half-raised, pulse skidding, staring at the mess as if it might rearrange itself into something sensible if he waits long enough.

Fear arrives late.

It's not fear of the noise, or the cut blooming red at the edge of his thumb from when he tried to save the glass, or even of getting caught doing something stupid. What unsettles him is the clarity that follows. The awareness that the thing that pushed him to drop the glass wasn't anger, wasn't clumsiness, wasn't even the lingering buzz of drink, but something colder and more deliberate.

He looks at his hand.

Blood beads slowly, bright against the pad of his finger. The sight pulls his attention inward in a way that feels uncomfortably familiar already. His stomach flips. Excitement prickles at the base of his spine, unwelcome and unmistakable.

That reaction scares him more than the cut.

The bin sits open under the sink. He sweeps the shards into it quickly, methodically, ignoring the sting in his thumb. Paper towels, water, pressure. The practical motions come easily. What lingers is the afterimage of red, the way his body leaned into it without permission.

Long after the floor is clean and the glass is gone, he stands in front of the bin again.

Night presses against the windows. The flat is quiet in that particular way that makes every thought feel too loud. His thumb has stopped bleeding. The normal response would be relief.

Instead, curiosity hums.

Damon opens the bin and digs through the rubbish until his fingers close around cold, sharp edges wrapped in a paper towel. He pulls them free, heart kicking harder with each second, and lays them out on the counter like contraband.

The shame hits him immediately, though it does nothing to stop him.

He tells himself it's just to understand. To check whether the reaction he saw, the attention, the way Liam’s focus had sharpened, was coincidence or something else. Framing it as curiosity makes it feel clinical. Reasonable. Necessary, even.

He picks out a few of the bigger shards, before throwing the rest back into the bin. Then, he takes one of them and places it on the back of his left hand, his right hand shaking.

The cut is small, controlled. Pain flares and fades into a steady burn. Blood follows. His breath goes shallow.

Nothing else happens.

The absence of response is almost disappointing.

-

The first time he had reopened the bottle-fight wounds, it was accidental in theory. He had gestured too sharply during a conversation, felt skin split, saw red bloom through fabric. His heart leapt into his throat.

Across the room, Liam had frozen.

The reaction was instant, visceral, impossible to misinterpret. Something sharpened in his posture, his gaze snapping toward Damon with frightening intensity. Noel had noticed too, stepping in without comment, shifting Liam’s attention elsewhere with practiced ease.

Damon had barely heard the rest of the conversation around him.
Heat floods his face. His hands shake. The pain in his arm had suddenly felt distant, secondary to the rush curling low in his gut. Guilt had slammed into him right after, heavy and nauseating, but it didn't erase the exhilaration.

He had forgotten about it up until now, sitting on the ground next to his bed with one of the shards in hand. Sitting on the bed would somehow feel wrong for the execution of the idea that had crossed his mind.

Shakily, he places the sharpest edge of the shard on one end of the smaller cut. First he presses, then he pushes. It doesn’t do much. He's overthinking this. So he lets the shard hover over the closed cut first, before dragging it through the skin way more aggressively. That does the job, and the cut reopens with minimal pain.

Fascinated, he stares at it, the small dots of blood forming before connecting and welling over. Maybe Liam simply has a really intense blood kink.
He repeats the motion on the second cut, slicing in even deeper with the new found clearness of how easy it is.

The shame hits after a minute or so of staring. He knows it won’t stop him.

Every other day becomes a pattern.

Never more than one cut at a time. Sometimes two, if he is already healing from the last. He's careful, or at least tells himself he is. Hands, mostly. Arms, though only when the wounds from the fight start to close, fingers worrying at scabs until they give way again.

Each time, Liam notices.

Not always immediately. Not always openly. But Damon feels it now, the shift in the air, the way Liam’s attention narrows and fixes, the way his body reacts before his mind can catch up. Fresh blood matters. And Damon’s blood matters more than anyone else’s, he can tell by how much stronger Liam reacts to his blood, his wounds, no matter the size.

Someone else’s bleeding lip receives a glance, at best. Damon biting open his lip has Liam staring at them, mouth agape.

However, Damon’s bandmates realise too. Accidents become less convincing.

Someone asks about his arms at a rehearsal, frowning at the angry red lines that refuse to disappear, asking why sometimes he wears bandages and sometimes he doesn't. Damon shrugs, easy smile already in place.

“Neighbour got a cat. She’s cute but feisty, sometimes visits me over the balcony.”
The lie slides out smoothly. He hates himself for that just as much as he does for the cutting.

But the guilt never quite outweighs the thrill. There is something intoxicating about being seen like this, about commanding that kind of focus without a word spoken. Liam’s gaze feels different from the others. Hungrier. Strained. As if Damon has stumbled into a secret language no one else can hear.

Fear threads through it all, tightening the pleasure into something sharp and addictive. He knows he's playing with something dangerous. He knows this isn't normal curiosity, not a healthy response to stress or rivalry or fame.

The word psycho floats up once, unbidden. He lets it pass.

Mentally ill crosses his mind too, followed by a hollow laugh he doesn't voice. Labels feel flimsy compared to the reality of what his body does when he sees Liam react. Whatever is wrong with him, it feels alive in a way he has not felt in months.

At night, lying awake, he presses his thumb against the tender edges of healing skin and remembers the way Liam’s attention locked onto him like a physical force. The memory hums under his skin, restless and demanding.

He tells himself it will stop, tells himself it's temporary. That once he understands what is happening, the urge will fade. That he is in control.

The glass shards wait where he hid them, wrapped carefully, tucked away like a promise and a threat all at once.

-

The days that follow don't calm him. If anything, the tension sharpens.

At another event, smaller and more cramped, someone cuts their finger opening a crate of equipment. The injury is laughable, barely worth notice. Liam’s reaction is equally minimal, a flick of attention that slides away as quickly as it arrives.

Damon notes it anyway.

Later that night, a photographer catches their hand on a loose edge of metal and swears loudly, blood dripping freely. Liam stiffens, shoulders pulling back, jaw clenching. Noel steps closer without looking at him.

The reaction is stronger, but still contained.

Damon watches, pulse quickening.
There are clear patterns starting to emerge, whether he wants them to or not.

Accidental injuries draw Liam’s attention. Intentional ones hold it.

Fresh blood matters more than dried. Slow, seeping wounds matter more than sharp, sudden ones. And when Damon is involved, when the blood is his, the restraint falters.

The realisations sit heavy in his chest.

At rehearsal one afternoon, alone except for the echo of instruments and the smell of dust, Damon catches himself staring at his own arm, fingers tracing the faint lines beneath the sleeve. He pulls his hand back sharply, as if burned.

This isn't investigation, this is indulgence.

The shame every time he reopens them, has not faded. It has deepened, layered with something worse. He supposes for something like this, that's a good thing. That the knowledge that he keeps doing this, that he keeps reopening what should be left alone, not for answers but for reaction, still makes his stomach churn proves to him that he's not that fucked up.

Doesn’t mean he will tell anyone, of course.

At the next shared appearance, Damon is hyperaware of every movement, every shift of his body. He keeps his arms close, gestures smaller, careful. The effort feels unnatural, like holding his breath.

It doesn't last.

A question from a journalist lands wrong. The rivalry flares easily, old and well-practiced. Damon answers sharply, hand slicing through the air for emphasis.

The fabric pulls. Skin breaks.

Pain registers dimly, secondary to the immediate wave of awareness that crashes over him. The room seems to tilt. His pulse roars in his ears.

Liam’s head snaps up.

This time, Damon doesn't look away.

The look on Liam’s face is raw enough to steal Damon’s breath. Control strains visibly, held together by something Damon can't see. Liam’s lips part slightly, as if on the edge of saying something or doing something that would ruin everything.

Noel is there again, already moving, already managing.

The journalist laughs awkwardly and redirects. The moment dissolves.

Damon excuses himself, heart hammering.

In the bathroom, he stares at his reflection, pale under fluorescent lights. His hands tremble as he cleans the cut, tapes it hastily. The sight of his own blood makes his stomach twist, not with fear but with something far more unsettling.

He thinks of Liam’s eyes.

The word forms unbidden, heavy and ugly.

Predator.

The thought makes him flinch as if struck.

He grips the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening, breathing through the rush of self-loathing that follows. He doesn't want to think of Liam that way, doesn't want to reduce him to instinct and hunger and danger.

Another word follows, softer and somehow worse.

Starving.

The pity that rises alongside it is unwelcome and persistent. It crawls under his ribs and settles there, uncomfortable and inescapable.

Damon closes his eyes. This isn't safe territory.
He knows that now with a clarity that leaves no room for denial. By noticing, by watching, by testing boundaries he pretends not to see, he has stepped into something that watches back.

The shift from observer to participant doesn't announce itself. It simply happens, quietly and irrevocably.

When he returns to the room, Liam doesn't look at him.
That almost feels worse.

-

Noel telling him he wants a meeting was the weirdest twenty second phone call he ever had. All he had been told was a place and a time, no reassurance if he's even free that day, no clue what the hell it could be about. Not like he doesn’t have an obvious hunch.

The place Noel chose feels intentional in its neutrality.
It is neither a bar nor a venue. It isn't anywhere that would invite a photograph or a rumor. The lobby of a radio building hums with low, constant activity, people moving through with headphones around their necks and takeaway cups cooling in their hands. No one lingers long enough to become scenery. No one looks twice.

Damon sits on the edge of a plastic chair with his jacket folded over the back, fingers loosely interlaced, posture casual enough to pass. He arrived early out of habit rather than eagerness and has spent the last ten minutes pretending to read a flyer about upcoming programming while listening to the echo of his own pulse.

Then Noel appears.

No greeting shouted across the room, no dramatic entrance. One moment the seat opposite Damon is empty, and the next Noel occupies it, coat still on, expression set in something that reads as weary impatience rather than aggression. There's a tension in him that Damon has not seen before, a tautness held in check by routine rather than temperament.

People pass behind them. A laugh carries. A door opens and shuts.

“Figured we should talk,” Noel says. “Professional courtesy and all that.”

Damon raises an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Noel’s mouth twists. “Since things start lookin’ messy.”

Damon resists the urge to glance at his arm. The bandage is gone now, replaced by currently faint lines that look more like memory than injury, but the awareness of it lingers. He keeps his hands still.

“If this is about charts, you’re a bit late,” he tries to sound casual, as if he had no clue what Noel could possibly be on about.

Noel waves a dismissive hand. “Couldn’t give a toss about that.”

That surprises Damon more than it should.

Noel leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. The shift brings a change in energy, subtle but unmistakable. This isn't posturing, this is intent.
“You like starin’ at me brother.”

Damon’s jaw tightens. “That’s not true.”

Noel smiles thinly. “See, that’s the thing. Yer shite at lyin’.”

The echo of Liam’s words from the party sends a brief chill down Damon’s spine. He keeps his expression neutral.

“You ordered me here to accuse me of looking? This is your idea of professional?”

“I ordered ya here to tell you to stop,” Noel replies. “Big difference.”

Damon lets out a short breath. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Noel studies him for a moment, as if weighing how much is worth saying. The silence stretches without becoming awkward. It feels deliberate, a test of patience.

“Yer clever,” Noel says eventually. “Everyone keeps sayin’ it like it’s a fuckin’ miracle. Figure ye’ve noticed a few things.”

Damon doesn't answer.

Noel’s gaze sharpens. “Have you?”

The question hangs between them, stripped of insult, almost honest. Damon chooses his words with care.

“I’ve noticed your brother doesn’t like blood,” he says.

Noel huffs a laugh that holds no humour. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

“And I’ve noticed,” Damon continues, “that you don’t like it when he notices it.”

Noel’s expression hardens. “Watch yerself.”

“I am,” Damon says quietly. “Constantly.”

Something flickers across Noel’s face. Not anger, recognition.
“Ye think this is about you? It’s not.”

Damon tilts his head. “Then why am I here?”

“Because yer an inconvenience,” Noel replies. “Because yer clever enough to put pieces together and stupid enough to keep lookin’.”

Damon’s mouth tightens. “That sounds like a compliment in your dialect.”

Noel ignores that, continuing to talk instead.

“Look, what happened backstage the other day wasn’t a one-off, and it wasn’t a drink, at least not for Liam.”

Damon nods once. The other Oasis members seemed pissed, and quite frankly, Blur were too. But Liam did seem rather sob, perhaps even the most sober of them all. “I know.”

Noel studies him again, this time with something like reluctant respect. “Good. Then there’s no need to think or talk about it.”

Damon can’t help but let out a laugh, sharp and incredulous. “Oh so that’s what you’re worried about? About me talking but what I saw? Not the fact that your brother nearly jumped me?”

Noel’s eyes flash. “Don’t get dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Damon repeats. “He froze when he saw blood. You froze when you saw him freeze. That’s not nothing.”

Noel leans back again, dragging a hand down his face. The movement is tired rather than frustrated, a habitual gesture worn smooth by repetition.

“I’m worried ‘bout Liam’s image,” Noel says. “I’m worried ‘bout him doin’ somethin’ that can’t be laughed off or spun or buried. I’m worried ‘bout headlines that don’t go away, okay?”

“And my safety doesn’t factor in,” Damon says.

Noel looks at him flatly. “Yer not dead, are ya?”
The words land harder than any insult could.

Damon’s breath stills. “That’s not reassuring.”

“Then stop lookin’. Ye’ve been watchin’ him since and ye can’t deny it again and you should really just stop it.”

Damon realises that if Noel has realised he has been watching Liam, it means Noel has been watching Damon. A self-righteous, disbelieving smile crawls onto his lips. “So you’ve been watching me.”

“Someone’s gotta manage the mess,” Noel replies, not even trying to deny it.

“Manage?” Damon repeats.

Noel’s mouth twitches. “Don’t get ideas.”

“I’m not,” Damon says. “I’m trying to understand.”

“That’s yer first mistake,” Noel snaps. “This isn’t a puzzle you have to solve.”

“Then stop treating it like one! You keep stepping in. You keep deflecting. You keep pulling him away like nothing weird is going on.”

Noel’s silence this time feels heavier.

“Ye don’t get to know everythin’,” he says eventually. “Ye don’t need to.”

“But I get to know some things, right?” he decides to try one last attempt of clarity. ”Like that Liam has been watching me as well.”

Surprisingly, Noel answers, lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah.”

“And he’s watching injuries,” Damon adds, figuring Noel might be willing to give away some truths after all.

“Yes.”

The confirmation sends a strange mix of relief and dread through Damon’s chest. He has not imagined it. That matters more than he wants it to.

While he's thinking about how to word his next question, Noel takes a proper look at him, eyes flicking briefly to Damon’s scratched (cut) up hands. With his arm, it is easy not to overdo it, to just occasionally reopen the two cuts and leave it at that. His hands tend to get the worst of it, especially since they are visible in any sort of context, easy to place in Liam’s sight.
Noel grimaces. “Christ.”

That single word carries more weight than any explanation could have.

Suddenly, Damon feels he doesn't want to stay under Noel’s attentive gaze any longer than necessary, doesn't care about unanswered questions. This meeting is starting to feel like being exposed to the scrutiny of an older brother he doesn't usually have and it's a whole new kind of odd. It reminds him of how Noel talked about ‘managing’ Liam. He must be ‘managing’ Damon too now.

He decides to aim for the end of the conversation and meeting.
“So what are you asking me to do? Avoid him?”

Noel nods, bringing his eyes back up to Damon’s. “That’d be a start.”

“And if that’s not possible?”

Noel’s gaze hardens. “Then don’t bleed.”

The bluntness of it makes Damon bark a humourless laugh. “That’s your solution?”

“ ‘t’s the safest one,” Noel replies.

“For whom?”

Noel doesn't answer straight away, and when he does, his voice is quieter. “For everyone.”

Now it's on Damon to study him. Up close, Noel looks older than his years, the lines around his eyes etched deep by more than late nights and studio lights. There is a weariness there that doesn't belong to rivalry or fame.

Uncertain of what these observations mean, Damon hastily stands up, putting on and smoothing his jacket as he does so. “I don’t plan on provoking him.”

“Good,” Noel says.

“I also don’t plan on pretending I didn’t see what I saw,” he adds.

Noel looks up at him. “That’s not yer call.”

“It’s already happened,” Damon replies.

Noel sighs, long and tired. “Ye really are a pain in the arse.”

Damon allows himself a small smile. “So I’ve been told.”

As he turns to leave, Noel speaks again, voice low. “But seriously, be more careful ‘bout those wounds, mate. They really do drive him mad y’know.”

Damon freezes. Slowly, he turns back, one last question on the tip of his tongue. “But why?”

Noel meets his gaze, irritation flaring just enough to mask something else. “None of yer fuckin’ business, twat.”

Damon leaves the building with his thoughts louder than the traffic outside, unease settling deeper rather than lifting. In a way, he isn't alone in this anymore, but the thought does nothing to make him feel better, safer.

-

After Noel’s warning, Damon tells himself he will stop paying attention.

The resolution lasts less than a day.

Awareness doesn't announce itself as thought, it arrives first in the body, subtle and unwelcome. Damon is mid-conversation, nodding along to something Alex is saying, when the air shifts around him in a way that makes his shoulders tighten. His focus narrows without permission, sound dulling at the edges. It isn't fear exactly, isn't anticipation either. It's closer to the sensation of realising someone is standing too close behind one without touching.

He looks up.

Liam is there.

Not near him. Not approaching. Simply present somewhere in the room, positioned with a care that feels deliberate once Damon starts noticing it. Always within Damon’s line of sight. Never close enough to invite comment.

The first few times, Damon tries to write it off. Shared spaces are unavoidable. Industry events funnel people into the same corners whether they like it or not. But repetition sharpens suspicion into recognition.

At a label thing that smells of stale beer and carpet cleaner, Liam leans against a column directly opposite Damon, arms folded, gaze unfocused in a way that would read as boredom to anyone else. Damon feels it anyway, the low-grade pressure settling between his shoulder blades.

When he shifts to get a drink, Liam shifts too.

The distance remains constant.

Damon isn't sure what unsettles him more, the attention or the restraint. Liam could close the gap easily, and yet he never does. Instead, he holds the line, watches, waits.

Their eyes meet more often now.

The first time it happens deliberately, Damon feels his breath catch. Liam doesn't look away. The stare isn't challenging in the way Damon expects, not performative. It is intentional, assessing. Something sharp and contained flickers behind it, the hunger Damon has come to recognise, but it's tempered now by control so tight it hums.

Irritation edges into it too.

Not at Damon’s presence, exactly. At being seen.

Damon realises, with a jolt of something like grim satisfaction, that Liam knows he is being watched.

The awareness goes both ways.

Noel is still around, but not always. The constant shadow Damon has come to associate with Liam loosens slightly. Sometimes Noel lingers at the bar, deep in conversation, eyes tired and unfocused. Sometimes he leaves early, trusts the structure he has built to hold.

Though it doesn’t feel like trust, it feels like fatigue.

Damon catches Noel watching them once, gaze flicking between Damon and Liam with something like resignation. The look lasts only a second before Noel turns away, shoulders slumping.

That image sticks.

At another event, the air feels wrong before Damon even registers why. His skin prickles, pulse quickening, focus snapping into place. He looks up to find Liam standing near the exit, jacket already on, posture relaxed but ready.

Their eyes meet.

Liam’s mouth curves into something that might be a smile on anyone else. It doesn't reach his eyes. The hunger is there again, restrained, leashed, and beneath it something else that unsettles Damon more.

Recognition.

Not rivalry. Not annoyance.

Difference.

The realisation lands quietly and stays.

Damon isn't just another body in the room to Liam anymore. He isn't just the singer from the other band, the public enemy, the convenient target. Whatever Liam is tracking, whatever he is managing to contain, Damon has been sorted into a separate category.

That knowledge doesn't feel like victory or satisfaction. Exposure would be a more accurate word, Damon finds.

The air between them tightens with each shared glance, stretched thin by what remains unsaid. Liam never approaches. Damon never invites him to. The distance becomes a language of its own, deliberate and loaded.

Trust has not formed. Comfort is nowhere to be found.
What exists instead is a mutual awareness that refuses to fade, an understanding that something has shifted and can't be unshifted.

Damon goes home afterward with his nerves humming, the sense of being watched lingering even in the quiet of his flat. Noel’s words echo in his head, stripped of insult and bravado, reduced to their core.

‘Yer clever enough to put pieces together and stupid enough to keep lookin’.’
‘This isn’t a puzzle you have to solve’

Damon lies awake long after the city outside has settled, acutely aware that whatever line he has crossed, Liam Gallagher is now watching him from the other side.
And that, more than anything, changes everything.

-

Under these lights, everything always feels louder than it should.

Damon stands with his shoulder angled toward the wall, arms loosely folded, listening to Alex argue with someone from a label about something that doesn’t matter. The room hums with the usual posturing, laughter pitched too high, bodies packed close enough to share heat without intimacy. Sweat and perfume and beer cling to the air. It's the kind of space where nothing private survives for long.

Oasis are there. Of course they are.

Damon knows this before he sees them. The awareness comes first, a tightening low in his chest that has nothing to do with rivalry and everything to do with pattern. He looks across the room and finds Liam almost immediately, planted near the bar, jacket open, playing with his ring, posture loose in a way that looks careless until you know better.

Noel is close. Not hovering, not touching, simply there, a constant within Liam’s orbit.

Damon exhales through his nose and tells himself, not for the first time, to stop cataloguing.

The argument near him escalates, voices overlapping, sarcasm sharpened into something with an edge. Damon joins in almost without thinking, the familiar cadence of confrontation slipping over him like an old coat. Words come easily when he's annoyed. Gestures follow.

His arm moves sharply.

Pain flares, quick and bright, cutting through the noise.

Damon hisses under his breath and looks down to see red blooming through the thin fabric at his lower arm and wrist. One of the lines must have reopened. Maybe the last time he opened them again himself, he cut a little too deep into that one.
He presses his fingers there instinctively, heart stuttering in irritation more than alarm.

Across the room, something shifts. He feels it before he looks up.

The change isn't loud or dramatic. It's a pressure, sudden and focused, like the attention of the entire space narrowing down to a single point. Damon’s skin prickles. His breath catches halfway in, caught on nothing he can name.

When his eyes find Liam, the effect is immediate.

Liam has gone still.

Not frozen, exactly. Not like backstage, not like that moment burned into Damon’s memory. This is different. This is alertness snapping into place with predatory efficiency. Liam’s head is tilted slightly, eyes locked on Damon’s arm with an intensity that makes Damon’s stomach drop.

The noise of the room doesn't stop. Laughter continues. Someone bumps into someone else. A glass clinks. Each sound feels even more irrelevant than the last one.

Damon presses harder against his arm, pulse racing. The blood seeps between his fingers anyway, warm and unmistakable, the sleeve of the shirt already ruined. The sight of it makes something twist sharply inside him, a familiar rush of shame rising unbidden.

Liam takes one step forward, Noel’s hand closing around his forearm right away. The grip looks casual, but not gentle.

Liam doesn’t pull away, doesn’t need to. His jaw tightens, tendons standing out along his neck. The hunger Damon thought he imagined at the party is there again, stripped of theatrics, stripped of bravado. There is nothing ridiculous about it now.

Damon’s mouth has gone dry.

The argument beside him peters out, attention drifting as people sense the shift in atmosphere. Someone laughs nervously. Alex says Damon’s name, confused.

Damon doesn’t answer.

Liam’s gaze flicks up briefly, meets Damon’s eyes, and the impact of it hits like a physical blow. There's anger there, yes. Resentment. Something feral and restrained. Beneath it all, unmistakable and horrifying, is want.

Not metaphorical want. Not desire dressed up as rivalry.

Need.

Noel murmurs something in Liam’s ear. Damon can't hear it over the ringing in his own head. Whatever it is, it works enough to halt Liam’s forward momentum. Liam’s hands curl into fists at his sides. His breathing is shallow and fast, chest rising sharply under his shirt.

Damon forces himself to look away first.

The shame is immediate and crushing.

He turns back to the conversation at his side, mutters something about needing air, pressing his arm more firmly to stem the blood. His hands are shaking. He hates that. He hates how much of this feels like his fault.

Outside, the night air is cold enough to sting his lungs. Damon leans against the brick wall and closes his eyes briefly, letting his head fall back. The city hums around him, indifferent and constant.

The image of Liam’s face refuses to fade.

Back inside, when he finally returns, Liam is gone.

Noel lingers near the door, scanning the room with tired vigilance. When his eyes meet Damon’s, there's no anger there. Only warning, sharp and wordless.

Damon nods once, and Noel leaves.

-

The lights backstage feel harsher than they should.

Damon notices it first as a pressure behind his eyes, a dull insistence that refuses to fade no matter how many times he blinks. The corridor hums with activity, cables snaking across the floor, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The typical Top Of The Pops effect, the combination of adrenaline and exhaustion grinding people down to something brittle.

He shifts his weight and immediately regrets it.

Warmth seeps unpleasantly against his skin beneath the sleeve, followed by that telltale tightness that makes his stomach sink. Damon glances down, subtle at first, then sharper when he sees the darkened patch spreading through the fabric. And another shirt ruined, great.

He presses his arm against his side, heart kicking up its pace. The bandages have held just long enough to lull him into forgetting about them, just long enough for complacency to set in. And now he bled through the useless things.

Doing a quick mental inventory, he comes to the disappointing verdict of: empty. Nothing. No spare bandages, no tape, no anything. He didn't thing to pack, to restock. In all fairness, last time he checked the cuts, there was no way they would open again by themselves, for once having been quite far in the healing process.

Someone laughs nearby, too loud. Damon swallows and turns away from the cluster of people, moving down the corridor with what he hopes looks like purpose rather than mild panic. The bathroom sign feels like a small mercy.

Inside, the air is cooler, quieter. Fluorescent lights buzz on overhead the second he steps in. Motion detector, he must be alone then, checking the thesis quickly, before stepping into one of the stalls and shutting the door. The latch clicks but doesn’t catch.

Damon exhales slowly through his nose and rolls up his sleeve. The sight makes him wince. Blood has soaked through the bandage entirely now, the white fabric turned an ugly brownish red. The skin around it looks irritated, angry. Damon carefully peels the bandage back, jaw clenched, and hisses quietly as air hits the wound.

He presses a wad of toilet paper against it, immediately dissatisfied. The paper darkens too quickly, flimsy and inadequate.

“Brilliant,” he mutters under his breath.

The room tilts slightly when he straightens, a faint wave of dizziness washing over him. Damon leans his forehead briefly against the cool metal partition, breathing slowly until the sensation eases. Thank God Top Of The Pops has clean bathrooms.

Footsteps echo outside on the corridor, growing louder, halting.
He freezes.

The bathroom door opens, hinges creaking softly. Someone enters, pauses. Damon’s pulse spikes instantly, the quiet suddenly oppressive.

From inside the stall, he can see the shadow of a person stretched on the tiled floor. Then their feet. They stop.

A second stretches. Then another.
The stall door shifts, before being opened completely.

He forgot to lock.

Damon’s breath catches sharply as the gap widens and he finds himself staring at Liam Gallagher.

There's no bravado in Liam’s posture. No swagger, no grin, no performative hostility. He stands just outside the stall, one hand still on the door, eyes flicking immediately to Damon’s arm and then back up to his face.

Damon’s mind scrambles for explanation, for accusation. How could Liam possibly know he's in here? How could he have found him out of all the places backstage? What is he going to do? He has never been this close to Damon with such an obvious injury, with so much blood. Damon is aware, if his observations and Noel warnings are anything to go by, he's in danger. Especially Noel’s ‘don’t bleed’ comes to mind.

None of it makes it past the spike of fear lodged in Damon’s throat.

Liam looks different up close, stripped of stage lights and noise. He looks well. Not pale. Not shaky. There's colour in his cheeks, steadiness in the way he holds himself. His gaze is sharp and assessing rather than wild.

Nothing about those details is reassuring.

Damon straightens instinctively, pressing himself back against the stall wall, painfully aware of the blood, of the vulnerability of the space. His hand tightens around the wad of paper, useless and soggy.

Liam’s eyebrow lifts slightly,t he gesture almost familiar, almost casual. It does nothing to soften the tension coiled tight in Damon’s chest.

Neither of them speaks.

Liam’s eyes flick once more to Damon’s arm, then away. His mouth presses into a thin line. Without comment, without stepping closer, he lets the stall door swing shut again.

The click of it closing feels deafening.

Footsteps retreat. The bathroom door opens and closes.

Damon exhales shakily, legs weak beneath him.

He moves fast then, driven by a rush of delayed panic. The stall door is slammed shut properly this time, the latch shoved into place with more force than necessary. His hands tremble as he fumbles with it, making sure it holds.

Only then does he lean back, heart pounding.

What the hell was that.

Questions pile up instantly, tripping over one another. Why Liam was alone. Why he looked calm. Why he didn’t say a single word. Why he left.

Damon swallows hard and looks back down at his arm. The bleeding hasn’t stopped.

A fresh wave of dizziness hits, stronger this time. Damon squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe, counting slowly until the spinning eases. He can’t leave like this. He can’t walk back out into bright lights and cameras with blood soaking through his sleeve.

Panic sharpens, edges cutting into thought.

The bathroom door opens again and Damon stiffens, every muscle locking at once.

Footsteps approach, slower this time. Someone stops in front of his stall. The handle rattles as they try it.

Locked.

A huff of irritation follows.

“Let me in,” a familiar voice says, low and rough. “I got bandages.”

The words don’t register all at once.

Damon’s breath stutters.

Liam.

His hand moves before his brain catches up, fingers sliding the latch open with a sharp metallic click. The stall door swings inward. Why is he letting him in now? For all he knows, Liam could have said that to lure him out again. Make him feel safe first, then leave. An animal toying with his food.

Once the lock is open, Liam steps inside without hesitation and shuts it behind him, locking it again firmly. The space shrinks instantly, air thickening with proximity. Surprisingly however, it doesn't feel dangerous in any way. Damon’s pulse roars in his ears, but somehow not in fearful anticipation and more at the sudden proximity, really.

He's close enough now that Damon can see the faint lines around his eyes, the set of his jaw. He carries a small bundle of supplies in his hands, grabbed hastily from somewhere, gauze and tape and antiseptic wipes. Bandages, just like he said.

Noel is nowhere in sight.

Liam doesn't look at Damon’s face this time. His focus goes straight to the wound, eyes narrowing slightly. He crouches without asking, movements efficient and unshowy.

“Hold still,” he orders. The words are flat, not unkind, not gentle. An instruction, that's all.

Damon obeys without thinking.

Liam cleans the wound carefully, wiping away the blood with practiced motions. The antiseptic stings sharply, making Damon flinch despite himself. Liam pauses for a fraction of a second, grip adjusting, then continues.

No commentary. No insults. No jokes.

The silence presses in, broken only by the rustle of packaging and Damon’s uneven breathing. Liam’s hands are steady, confident. He works quickly, wrapping fresh gauze around Damon’s arm, securing it with tape pulled tight enough to hold without cutting off circulation.

The closeness is unbearable.

Damon can feel the heat of Liam’s body, the brush of his knuckles against Damon’s skin. Every nerve feels lit up, hyperaware. Fear coils in his gut, sharp and electric.

At any moment, this could go wrong.

At any moment, Liam could change his mind.

The thought sits heavy and undeniable. Damon doesn't trust this situation, he doesn't trust Liam, and he doesn't trust himself to read whatever signs might come next.

Liam finishes, fingers lingering just long enough to check the bandage holds. He straightens, stepping back immediately, reclaiming space as if it costs him something to give it up.

“There,” he says.

Damon nods mutely, throat tight.

Liam doesn't wait for thanks, instead unlocking the stall door and opening it, pausing with his hand on the frame. For a brief second, his gaze flicks up, meeting Damon’s eyes again.

Something unreadable passes between them.

Then Liam is gone.

The door closes. Footsteps retreat down the hall.

Damon stays standing where he is for a long moment, staring at the closed stall door, body buzzing with adrenaline and something darker beneath it. His arm throbs faintly beneath the fresh bandage, a grounding, familiar sensation that keeps him from floating away entirely.

Slowly, he sits down on the closed toilet lid, head dropping into his hands.

Liam could have hurt him.

The thought arrives fully formed, heavy and inescapable.

He could have done it easily. In the confined space. Alone. No Noel. No witnesses. Damon had been dizzy, bleeding, vulnerable in every possible sense.

But he didn’t. Liam brought bandages, and he didn’t only bring them, he also used them on Damon. He did a good job, too.

That restraint unsettles Damon far more than violence would have. It suggests control where Damon expected chaos, intention where he anticipated instinct. It suggests that whatever Liam is fighting within himself, it isn’t mindless.

Trust doesn't bloom from this realisation. If anything, the unease deepens.
Because necessity has cracked the door open, just enough to let something dangerous through.

-

The week stretches strangely after the bathroom. Time moves, but it doesn’t settle.

Damon stops carrying spare bandages (not just forgetting them, but actively deciding against them). He throws out almost everything sharp he owns. The broken glass shards go first, then old razors. The process feels ceremonial in a way he doesn’t like. Control isn't what it looks like when he stands over the bin, fingers hovering, choosing what to let go.

One shard remains.

It is small, translucent, wickedly thin at one edge. He doesn’t keep it hidden, letting it sit on his bedside table in plain view, catching light during the day, dull and harmless-looking at night. Damon doesn't touch it, he doesn't have to. Its presence is enough.

Listening to Noel’s warning feels like restraint, not resolution.

What he has instead is a plan. A plan containing that one shard.

The idea doesn’t arrive all at once. It builds slowly, layering itself over memory and pattern and that final, unwanted clarity that came in the bathroom stall. Liam’s hands had been steady. Not at one point did Damon have actual reason to believe Liam was gonna attack him, hurt him, do anything but help him. The restraint had been absolute.

That doesn’t happen if the hunger Damon has seen so often is simply metaphorical.
That doesn’t happen if this is just attraction twisted into something ugly.

The thoughts settle and stay.

Another party fills the calendar. Another industry obligation wrapped in loud music and bad lighting and too many bodies pretending to be relaxed. Damon attends because he always does. Absence invites questions, and questions invite scrutiny.

The room is already half-dark when he arrives. Most of the light comes from the full moon outside, the coloured lights installed inside not doing much where they crawl across the walls. Music pulses low enough to feel in the chest. Drinks sweat in people’s hands. Conversation happens in fragments, half sentences shouted into ears.

Damon feels it almost immediately.

The air is wrong.

Not charged, not anticipatory, but off-kilter. His focus narrows. The edges of the room blur slightly, as if he has stepped into a place that doesn't quite belong to him. He moves through clusters of people on instinct, eyes scanning without urgency.

A corridor opens up along one side of the venue, dim and largely ignored. He stares at it for a while, but it remains empty, a long stretch of shadow leading nowhere important.

Damon drifts toward it without fully deciding to.

Voices echo faintly ahead.

Noel’s voice carries first, sharp-edged and tired. Liam’s answers come slower.

Damon slows his steps as he approaches, heart beginning to hammer, not with fear, but with something sharper and more focused. Anticipation hums through him, lighting nerves he has tried to keep quiet. What could they be arguing about in there?

They stand partway down the corridor, half in shadow.

Noel leans against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Liam stands opposite him, posture rigid, hands flexing at his sides. Even from a distance, something about him looks wrong.

Liam’s skin is pale to the point of translucence. The usual restless energy has collapsed inward, leaving him brittle and strained. Even from further away, Damon can tell his eyes look too bright, too focused. Too much like they are burning through whatever little he has left to burn.

Damon grows more and more sure of his thesis, more and more confident in his plan. If he isn’t mistaken (and he now highly doubts he is), Liam needs blood.

When he first had the realisation, it didn't arrive with triumph, it arrived with a heavy, settling certainty. Everything he has seen, every moment of restraint and loss of control, aligned neatly into place.

Now that he's here, seeing Liam for the first time since he had the revelation, in such a state, the word vampire flickers through his mind, an urban legend, absurd and too easy, dismissed almost immediately. Not that, but like one.

Damon fully steps into the corridor, basking in his newfound confidence.

Noel notices first. His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. Recognition crosses his face, followed by irritation, then something closer to alarm.

“Christ,” Noel mutters. “Not you again.”

Damon barely registers him. His gaze locks onto Liam.

The effect is immediate. Liam’s head lifts sharply, eyes finding Damon with unnerving precision. The hunger there is no longer restrained. It's raw, shaking through him, held back by nothing but habit and whatever scraps of control remain.

Damon’s pulse roars in his ears, but he feels oddly calm.

The shard is already out of his pocket and in his left hand, fingers closing around it, the edge biting lightly into his skin without breaking it. The sensation grounds him.

Heart hammering, Damon steps closer.

Noel swears under his breath. “Don’t.”

Damon doesn’t look at him.

Liam’s eyes flick to Damon’s hand, then back to his face. His breathing is shallow, chest rising and falling too quickly.

Damon pushes up the sleeve of his right arm, the one that is still unblemished, the movement deliberate, ritualistic. His skin prickles as cool air hits it. He holds his arm out in front of him, elbow bent, skin exposed up to under the shoulder. The shard flashes briefly in the dim light.

He cuts.

Pain blooms sharp and immediate, bright enough to make his vision white out for a fraction of a second. The cut is deep, deeper than he has ever gone before. Blood wells instantly, dark and thick lines slithering down his forearm in a way that is impossible to ignore.

Noel’s curse rings out, loud and furious. “Goddamnit, Albarn.”

Liam doesn’t move, he stares.

His body shakes with the effort of holding still, muscles trembling visibly. Want and need visibly crash through him in waves, barely contained. His jaw clenches so hard it looks painful. His hands curl into fists and then open again, fingers flexing as if grasping at air.

Damon feels a rush of certainty cut through the pain, last bits of doubt eliminated with finality.

He definitely is right.

Blood isn't just tempting to Liam, it is necessary.

Damon steps closer and raises his arm higher. He flexes his hand deliberately, the movement sending a fresh surge of blood from the wound, warmth spilling freely. The sight makes Liam’s breath hitch audibly.

The pain sharpens, spreading outward from the cut, but Damon barely notices it now. Adrenaline floods his system, heightening everything. The corridor feels smaller, darker, the walls pressing in.

And then, Liam’s composure snaps.

He lunges.

The movement is fast enough to blur. One moment he's across from Damon, the next his right hand clamps around Damon’s wrist, grip iron-hard. His left hand lands on Damon’s bicep, fingers digging in to hold him steady. Both his hands are cold.

The contact sends a jolt through Damon’s entire body.

Liam doesn’t bite immediately. His head dips, his tongue drags along the cut, cleaning the blood from Damon’s skin. The sensation is shocking in its intimacy, cold and wet and wrong in a way that makes Damon’s breath stutter. New blood wells instantly, responding to the contact.

Liam presses a brief kiss to the center of the wound, before he bites.

Damon gasps.

The pain is nothing like he expects. It is sharp and deep and immediate, fangs sinking into already damaged flesh. Reflexively, his body jerks as a choked sound tears out of him. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of agony and pressure that makes his knees weaken and thoughts begin to fragment.
Adrenaline surges hard, then falters. Blood loss creeps in beneath it, a slow, insidious draining that dulls the edges of sensation even as the bite remains painfully present. Damon’s vision tunnels. The corridor tilts.

Liam drinks. The sound is quiet but unmistakable, a steady pull that Damon feels deep in his arm and deeper still in his chest. Each swallow sends a strange echo through him, a hollowing sensation that leaves him light-headed and weak.

Noel’s voice cuts in, sharp and urgent. “That’s enough, 'rkid.”

A hand taps at Liam’s shoulder. Then again, harder. Damon watches it happen through hazy eyes. Noel doesn't pull him away, doesn't push him off. His movements are careful, precise, aware of the danger.
Distantly, Damon registers the concern, and a faint, drifting thought surfaces, about how sudden movement could have Liam’s fangs tear his skin open further. However, the idea slides away before it can fully form.

The corridor feels endless now, stretched out and dim. Sound warps. The music from the party becomes a distant thrum, barely there. Cold creeps into Damon’s fingers, spreading slowly up his arm.

Noel’s voice grows more insistent. “Liam!”

Nothing changes. Nothing other than the fact that Liam's grip tightens briefly, before he adjusts it again, clearly careful not to move the wound. His drinking slows slightly, but it doesn’t stop. Damon’s legs give out. Strong arms catch him from the left.
Noel has moved around him, one arm braced across Damon’s back, the other steadying his shoulders. The support is firm and grounding, now literally the only thing keeping Damon upright. His head lolls slightly, chin dropping to his chest.

Awareness flickers. The sense of being emptied intensifies, a deep, bone-level weakness settling in. In an attempt to compensate, his heart races uselessly. Each breath feels thinner than the last.

Finally, Liam stops, drawing back slowly. His mouth leaves the wound with care, tongue sweeping over it once more. Another kiss follows, softer this time, almost reverent.

Liam looks transformed, there is no better way to put it.
Colour has returned to his face. His eyes are clearer, focused. The shaking has stopped entirely. He looks alive in a way Damon has never seen before.

“Thanks,” Liam says quietly, the word reaching Damon through a haze as his body slumps fully, strength entirely gone. Darkness creeps in from the edges of his vision, swallowing the corridor whole. Just before it takes him, he feels hands reaching for him from the right, Liam’s grip sudden and urgent as Noel holds him steady.

The world cuts out.

Sound returns first, voices drift in and out, muffled and distant. Damon can’t move. His eyes refuse to open. His body feels heavy, unresponsive, as if he has been poured into himself incorrectly.
Cold air brushes his face telling him that he is outside. That they are outside.

Noel’s voice is clear now, close enough to register annoyance layered over relief. “Ye could’ve held back a little, wanker.”

“He offered, hello?” Liam laughs softly. “Besides his blood tastes absolutely delicious, like fuckin' sunshine, 'kid.”

Noel snorts.

“Well,” Liam adds, voice thoughtful, “and like Lager. Sunshine and Lager.”

The sensation of being lowered carefully follows, gentle hands guiding Damon’s body into a seat, before the car door closes with a solid thud.

Darkness takes him again, deeper this time, carrying with it the unsettling certainty that nothing about this is normal. That nothing about this has been resolved, only confirmed.