▸ cigana - jorge ben jor

the rooftop of the hotel is warm even though the sun is already starting to set. the noise of the rio toned down by the music on the speakers – sometimes oasis, sometimes other british artists, sometimes a very curated selection of brazilian songs. the pool glows every time people in it laugh a little too hard, not even minding if they’re spilling their drinks in the water. every single type of alcohol being served just because oasis needs to be properly welcomed to brazil.

cold beers sweat in buckets of ice. caipirinhas are as authentic as they could get: cachaça being the main option, but vodka when someone pulls a face at the strong taste. limes, but also options of other tropical fruits mixed with tons of ice. strawberry, watermelon, passion fruit – and some that they’ve actually never even heard of and that are fucking delicious, like lichia and caju. coconuts handed over with straws. little plates of pão de queijo and pastéis keep circulating, disappearing almost as fast as they arrive.

you’re there because of a friend – a friend of a friend, really – dragged along with the promise of free drinks and some celebrity sightseeing. you don’t expect to stay long, thinking that this would just be a gringo trap.

acabou que a festa tá muito boa. gringo é importante, né? fazer o que.

and as you’re laughing with some of your girlfriends, you feel it.

you glance over, and he’s already looking at you. not subtle about it either. leaning over the bar like he owns the place, mindlessly nodding along to whatever that guy was talking in his ear, beer in hand.

he looks wildly out of place and completely at ease at the same time. when you look away, he doesn’t stop.

and eventually, he wanders over.

“alright?” he says, easy. polite, like he isn’t already thinking about you on his bed.

“alright” you answer, smiling before you can stop yourself.

he talks. about what he knows and has seen so far: crazy crowds, brazilian football legends, the weather and the beaches that are nothing like manchester. he’s nice, funny, and despite the strong accent, you talk back. about nothing important. about the music he’s not familiar with, about the teams he’s never heard of. you make him laugh while talking about the stereotypes that sometimes are true and sometimes aren’t at all. é 8 ou 80.

“you’ve got an accent,” he says eventually, head tilting.

you laugh. amused and, honestly, charmed. “so do you.”

he laughs, head tipping back and nodding immediately. “fair.”

nearly an hour later, you end up sitting with him at a lounge chair. he’s had a few drinks, relaxed in that loose, chatty way that makes him lean in when you talk. that makes him bold enough to rest his hand on your thigh despite feeling eyes on both of you.

he takes another sip of his beer, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he’s trying to behave and failing quietly. “so,” he says, casual. “teach me something in portuguese”

you laugh softly. “like what?”

he shrugs, smiling. “somethin’ useful.”

“oi, tudo bem?”

“meu nome é noel”

“boa noite. obrigado”

he repeats all of those slowly, accent thick, wrong in an almost endearing way. you correct him with a small laugh, not mocking, amused. he tries again, still wrong, his grin widening, embarrassed but clearly enjoying himself.

“the bad ones now, cmon. know you’ve got it in you”, he asked.

“puta merda”

“caralho”

“filho da puta”

“merda”

he repeats it, tongue clumsy around the sound. each time he gets closer, his hand drifts higher on your thigh. sometimes louder than necessary just to make you laugh, squeezing your leg just to emphasize. and you do, laughing so hard your belly hurts, grabbing his wrist as you say “shhhh!” for him to keep it down.

“too much?”, he asks. smirking and pleased with himself, playfully giving your thigh another little squeeze.

you laugh, scrunching your nose, thumb brushing his wrist and his knuckles. “just a little”

minutes later, you two end up near the edge of the rooftop, a quieter place with the excuse of grabbing a cigarette. the conversation is still very much there, just slightly different. charged. he leans against the railing, his eyes flick to your mouth every time you take a drag. he smirks every time you laugh at something he says. he drags out the accent a little more – either so you understand it a bit better or either because you lick your lips every time it comes out a bit too british.

then, “what d’you call a pretty bird in portuguese?”

you huff out a little laugh, eyebrows raising softly. “a bird?”

“yeah, love”, he nods, completely serious despite the smirk. “bird.”

you furrow your brows, lifting your hands and flapping them a little. “pássaro?”

he bursts out a soft and hearty laugh, grabbing your hands mid-gesture. “no, no- fuck, not that bird”, he shakes his head, still laughing, eyes brighte with amusement and something else. “a bird. girl. woman. y’know.”

“ah”, you say, laughing too, amused. “gata. or linda”

he repeats it quietly, testing the sound, your hands still on his. then, smug, “yeah, sounds ‘bout right.”

there’s a pause. he looks at you, smirking and tipping his chin. “how d’you ask for a kiss, then?”

you smile, stepping a little closer. “me dá um beijo”, you say softly, eyes darting down to his lips.

he begins to repeat it under his breath, immediately fucking it. he cringes, then laughs, shaking his head, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. “fuck me, that… sounds complicated”

you smile, shaking your head too. “no, cmon. you’ve got this.”

he squints, still smirking, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “won’t shoo me away if i fuck it up?”

you laugh, warm and easy, leaning in, voice softening as you shrug teasingly. “gonna kiss you anyway,” – eyes flicking to his lips – “just wanna make you work for it a little.”

he huffs a laugh, clearly gone already. “that’s cruel, that is.”

“go on”, you tease. smirking.

he licks his lips, smiling like he’s already embarrassed of it. “me… dá… um… beijo.” slow. not that bad, to be honest.

you bite your lip, fighting a smile. “almost.”

“almost?”, he groans playfully, but he’s smirking. his hand slowly dropping yours and already finding your waist. “christ.”

you shrug, hand moving to the back of his neck as you smile back at him, “good enough”, you say quietly, already leaning in and closing the distance.

▸ mania de você - rita lee

you only realized how “too much sunscreen” for a british-irish pale man is never enough hours later. no matter how much he fusses about it. now, back at the hotel room and post shower is when that is very very clear.

noel has his back propped up against the headboard, the only piece of fabric in his body being a towel around his hips and the sunburn covering his skin. his hair is still wet, and he’s still grumpy over the fact that no matter how hard he rolls his eyes, you still think the pink shade all over his face is cute.

his hands rest absentmindedly on your hips, you’re straddling him while only wearing his shirt, hair still wet from the shower and definitely not burnt like him. “brazilian goddess tanning genes”, he teased while watching you tan on your stomach seconds before leaving a sharp slap on your ass.

karma, this must be. or at least that’s what trying to convey, like having your hands rubbing lotion all over his sensitive skin is such a pain in his arse. he doesn’t move a muscle, though.

“don’t look at me like that”, he muttered, eyes stuck on your face while yours follow your hands. rubbing his shoulders, the sides of his neck, his chest – occasionally sliding underneath the silver chain that rests over the soft chest hair.

you hum, amused. “like what, hm?”

“like i’m a fuckin’ tourist who didn’t listen”, he grumbled.

you huffed out a tiny laugh, tilting your head and not letting up on your ministrations for a second. “well, you are one. that’s why you look like a tomato now”

he rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “s’not that bad.”

you smile, hands sliding down to his belly, still slick with the cream that smells like you. he doesn’t complain about that, but he won’t admit that he’s secretly enjoying that fact. “it is, amor. tá todo vermelhinho…”, you say softly, leaning in to press a quick kiss on his lips. he doesn’t even pluck them like you, but his eyes squint at the sweetness, like he’s silently saying ‘don’t make me break’

you just smile, soft and unapologetic, and keep going. your hands slow, careful. you rub the lotion into his shoulders again, thumbs pressing just enough to ease that tight line there, the one he always carries from guitars and bad posture and thinking too much.

“does that feel good?”, you ask gently, but it’s barely reassuring, because you know it does.

he huffs out a breath, nodding slowly. his hands tighten slightly on your hips.

you hum, almost smug, and lean in to kiss his lips, and this time he kisses you back – just a little, trying to not give himself away. you smile, moving your mouth and leaving a small kiss on the pink bridge of his nose.

“you’re enjoyin’ this a bit too much”, he mutters. you huff out a soft laugh, humming in agreement as your palms keep moving. slower now, almost reverent. chest. collarbone. down his side.

he watches you watch your palms over him like he’s trying not to. eyes half-lidded. pretending this is nothing, that he’s not absolutely melting at being taken care of like this.

and as your palm rubs over the small curve of his belly, right over his happy trail, his hips shift. just slightly.

you pause, because that’s when you feel it. a smile breaks on your face, “baby…” you say softly, almost fond. “you’re hard”

he exhales through his nose, caught, but not really embarrassed. “well, yeah”, like it’s obvious. “fuckin’ rubbin’ me up like that. what did y’expect?”

your smile widens slowly as you lean in, hands still warm on his skin, and kiss him properly now. unhurried. he kisses you back with a small hum that’s nearly a moan.

“yeah?” you murmur against his lips, grinding your hips over him once. “gostoso” you whisper, barely there.

his hands tighten on you, fingers digging in just enough to tell you he’s losing whatever composure he had left. “fuck sake. you’re evil”, he mutters, already leaning closer again.

“no…”, you correct softly, kissing the corner of his mouth. then, his jaw. then, his cheek. and as you grind your hips over him one more time, you kiss his neck. “i’m nice, noelly. aren’t i?”, you whisper near his ear.

he tilts his head into your mouth with a low moan, his hands now sliding over to your ass and grabbing it. because every gentle touch, every careful kiss, every quiet little i’ve got you wrapped up in the way you handle him has him unraveling faster than anything rough ever could. “fuck me”, he breathed out, fully defeated now.

you smile, pulling back and slowly peeling off the towel that’s covering him – his length slapping against his belly showing you everything he’s been trying to hide.

“só tô cuidando do meu amor, não tô?”, you said softly, wrapping your hand around his cock. he licks his lips and nods slowly in response.

you let out a small breathy laugh. “what are you nodding for, hm?”, you tease, moving your hand up and down slowly, “don’t even know what i’m saying”

he breathes out a tiny laugh, taking in a deep inhale after at the feeling. “fuck, don’t… think i need to, do i?”

you smile, smug and fond and warm all at one. shaking your head slowly as you shift off from his lap and moving until your mouth is close to where he needs you the most. his hand finds the back of your head and rest softly there, fingers moving slowly and gently against your scalp as you shake your head.

“guess not”

▸ dano sarrada - marina sena

the party has been in high spirits since the moment you got there, hard not to be excited when the caipirinhas are being made in the authentic proper way. but it’s when the dj starts playing the good stuff that the party actually starts for you.

it doesn’t take long until your hair is sticking to your neck, a permanent smirk on your face as you sway your hips rhythmically and sing along to the dirty words blasting through the speakers. your dress rides higher, clings on your skin. hair a mess. you couldn’t possibly care, not when you feel his eyes on you long before you turn.

noel’s leaning back against the wall. his grey hair messy, drink in hand, sleeves shoved up his forearms and enough buttons undone to make you flip. he’s drunk, too, but his gaze still tracks you like gravity. slow and unashamed. mouth curled into that crooked smile that means he’s gonna fucking eat you up in no time.

you catch him looking, and you smile wider. because you’re gonna let him, of course.

you walk closer, head tilting once you stand in front of him. tipping your chin up just like he is – teasing, playing this little flirting game both of you know damn well where it ends every time.

“you keep staring at me”, you tease. accent coming out thicker in that way it always gets when you’re drunk, the same way it makes him have to physically restrain himself from not taking you right there. your finger hooks into the collar of his shirt, tugging him just a bit closer. “gonna charge you for that.”

he smirks, eyes glinting with challenge while he slowly nods. “bill me, sweetheart”

you huff out a smug laugh, biting down a smile and leaning closer. “yeah? how much then?”

he smirks right back, shaking his head at your cheekiness and shamelessly dragging his hand down your lower back and squeezing a handful of your ass. “whatever you feel like. jus’ won’t stop lookin’ at ya”

you laugh, low and pleased, leaning in until your mouth brushes his ear. “keep the sweet talk and you’ll get a lot more than a dance, gallagher”, you whisper, teasingly grazing your teeth on the side of his neck – not hard, just enough to make him let out a hiss between a smirk and grab your ass ever harder.

he mutters a small “fuck me” and then his mouth finds yours, messy and heated. both of you hungry and laughing in the kiss, his hand firm on your ass bringing you closer as his mouth devours yours. right there in the middle of everyone. he doesn’t give a fuck right now.

he pulls back with a low moan, decisive, fingers tightening. “right. we’re getting the fuck outta here”

you grin, flushed, dizzy with the drinks, the music, the heat and with him. “yeah?”, you say with a laugh while he basically yanks you with his hand tight on yours. and as he walks through the crowd towards the door, he’s smiling too. because both of you know exactly how the night’s going to end.

▸ amante amado - jorge ben jor

the place is absurdly nice. noel had only heard of são paulo, curitiba and rio de janeiro, trancoso was a new one. and he was liking it, to be fair. cold drinks and his missus happy and sun kissed? that’ll do him just fine, no matter what else is going on. to top it off: world cup is happening, and as a football obsessed man, he catches himself amused by the fact that even with the fancy white linen tables, ocean breeze and the hard to pronounce foods. football is football, no matter the place.

the waiters pretend that they’re not paying attention like the rest of the clients with their eyes stuck on the giant screen. and no matter how interesting the game is, he’s far more entertained by you and your brain immediately returning to its default portuguese setting just because you’re mad.

you’re sitting down, and you have been shaking your head for at least five minutes now. drink sweating on the table, shoulders tense, surrounded by other brazilians who absolutely do not care that this is a “luxury beach resort restaurant” and keep muttering portuguese cuss words just like you.

because you lost. again.

and he’s watching all of it behind the sunglasses in that relaxed and maddeningly attractive way he has – slightly sun-kissed, the wind messing his grey hair in a way he doesn’t really care. and that doesn’t even make you look at him, kiss his neck and take in his after shave like you usually do. yeah, you’re proper pissed.

“filho da puta do caralho”, you snap quietly, shaking your head even more intensely. “nunca também essa porra”

you sip your drink through the straw like it personally betrayed you. noel huffs out a laugh at the scene, still not saying anything. you put the glass down with a soft thud, crossing your arms and huffing out a breath harshly. and then, you keep going.

“esse bosta do neymar, também. desgraça de homem”, you mutter angrily, pointing at the tv like neymar himself can hear you. you clicked your tongue in that angry brazilian way he’s always swore you did every time you were mad, and you denied every single time. “pelo amor de deus, cara”.

noel’s eyebrows lift, amused. smirking to himself despite not daring to bring anything up that would prove his point. no, no. he’d like to keep his head attached to his body, thank you very much.

“thiago. trai a mulher dele pra caralho, podia pelo menos ganhar essa copa. desgraçado. filho da puta. ruim. horrível”, you rant, gesturing wildly at the screen. you snap your head towards noel, saying it like he can fully understand what you’re saying right now, “capitão pra que? fazer a gente passar vergonha? não fode, porra”

noel finally steps in, gentle hand reaching for your arm. “love-“

“não me encosta, noel. sai”, you snap, pushing his hand away. “país amaldiçoado, meu deus”

he does not, in fact, sai (despite knowing that one!) but instead, he wraps an arm around you anyway, firm and warm, pulling you into his chest like he knows you’ll fight it for exactly two seconds before melting.

you sigh into him, forehead pressing into his shoulder, still fuming. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice calm in your ear, rubbing your arms. “i know, i know…” he murmurs. “england’s shite. know it all too well”

you let out a small, disbelieving laugh despite yourself, shaking your head against his chest. “shut up”

he grins, completely unbothered, thumb brushing soothing circles against your arm. “had to say it”

you sniff, still frustrated. but still clinging to him. he tilts his head, looking at you with that infuriating tenderness. “still bonita though, eh?”, he adds lightly. his two hands rubbing your arms up and down and squeezing as he teases: “muito gostosa”

you laugh, shoving his chest weakly. “dick”

he laughs, arms tightening around you. “yeah, yeah. what is it? corno?”

“no, not that one. cuzão”, you say in between laughter.

he smiles, kissing your temple. “there, that’s the one. i’m a fuckin’ cuzão”

▸ lua cheia - marina sena

the sun was low and warm, turning the sand gold and the sea a lazy, glittering blue. noel was stretched out on his lounge chair, sunglasses tipped low on his nose and a beer sweating on his hand as he watched you come out of the water.

you smiled as you saw him watch you. salty water on your hair and your skin while your bikini clinged as you walked toward him. you didn’t rush. and he clocked every second of it.

you placed your hands on the chair and leaned your down to give him a kiss on the lips, already smiling because you knew what was coming. a slow grin tugged at his mouth against your lips, pulling away only to say what he’s been holding in the moment you got up to go for a dip – his gaze unapologetically darting between your cleavage and your face.

“love when you’re close…” he said casually, shaking his head softly while his eyes shameless and hungry, his hand finding your hip and sliding over your ass and squeezing it like he’s proving a point. “but fuck me. love watchin’ you go”

you snorted softly, leaning closer again. “that so?”

his grin widened, nodding and pulling you closer until you were fully sitting down on his lap.

you leaned in again, kissing him slowly and smiling during it at the feeling of his hand shamelessly groping your ass – not as shameless as the other one, that made a bold attempt of sliding up your inner thighs, only being stopped by you clamping your legs together. your nose brushing his, teasingly sucking his bottom lip and whispering against his lips. “safado.”

he laughed under his breath, pleased with himself. “oh, i know that one.”

you raised a brow, giving him a soft peck before pulling away to look at his face. “yeah? what does it mean then?”

he dipped his head, still smiling as he nibbled the side of your neck. his fingers reached up and hooked his palm under the strap at your hip, grabbing your skin and pulling you closer in the way he always does when he’s tired of being good. “let’s go back to the hotel room, i’ll show you what it means”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ .

FEBRUARY 24, 1994

INTERVIEW RECORDING WITH LIAM GALLAGHER OF OASIS

INTERVIEWER:ALRIGHT. I'M RECORDING NOW, LIAM. BE ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOUR, PLEASE. LIAM GALLAGHER:I'M ALWAYS ON MY BEST BEHAVIOUR, ME! I: IGNORING THAT ... IT'S FEBRUARY TWENTY-FOURTH, NINETEEN NINETY-FOUR AT TEN IN THE MORNING. CURRENTLY, I AM SITUATED IN OASIS FRONTMAN LIAM GALLAGHER'S PLUSH LEATHER COUCH IN HIS NEW CAMDEN RESIDENCE. LG: OH, YOU REALLY ARE SERIOUS, HUH. I: I ARRIVED THIRTY MINUTES PAST NINE, AS AGREED UPON, TO WHICH MR. GALLAGHER OPENED THE DOOR HARRIED AND CONFUSED, ASKING ME FOR THE PURPOSE OF MY VISIT. IN NOT-SO POLITE TERMS, I SHALL ADD. LG:OI! WHAT HAPPENED TO CONFIDENTIALITY? JOURNALISTIC INTEGRITY? THAT MEAN ANYTHIN' TO 'YA? I: NOTE THAT THE FLAT IS STILL QUITE BARE, WITH ONLY A COUCH, A WITHERING FERN, AND SOME DIRTY DISHES LITTERING THE SPACE. THE FLAT IS BRIGHT AND AIRY, A LOT OF SPACE LEFT UNOCCUPIED. THOUGH, HIS COLLECTION OF BEATLES RECORDS HAVE TAKEN UP A PLACE OF PRIDE ON THE MANTLE ALONG WITH A HALF EMPTY PACK OF CIGARETTES. LG: THE FERN ISN'T WITHERING! LET IT BE KNOWN ON THE RECORD THAT THE FERN IS NOT WITHERING! I WATER IT EVERY DAY!

I: PROCEEDING FURTHER, THIS IS SESSION ONE OF A DAY IN THE LIFE OF LIAM GALLAGHER; TITLE PENDING. LG: YIPPIE...

I: ... LG: ... I: LIAM, WE'VE TALKED ABOUT THIS. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO JUST GO ABOUT YOUR DAY. ACT LIKE I'M NOT EVEN HERE. WHAT WOULD YOU DO AT THIS TIME OF DAY? IS IT BREAKFAST? A RUN? SOME TELLY? LG: YOU AIN'T GONNA ASK ANY QUESTIONS? REALLY? I: WEREN'T YOU LISTENING WHEN I BRIEFED YOU? LG: CAN YOU MAYBE REPEAT IT? I: ... JUST ... DO WHAT YOU WOULD NORMALLY DO, OKAY? I'LL ASK QUESTIONS WHILE YOU DO IT. LG: PROPER F****** BARMY. LIKE WATCHIN' AN ANIMAL IN A ZOO, THIS IS.

LG: WELL, FIRSTLY, MR. RECORDING MACHINE, PLEASE DON'T EXPECT ME TO ACT LIKE YOUR OWNER AIN'T HERE AND SITTIN' PRETTY ON MY COUCH. FIRST THING I'LL BE DOIN' THIS MORNIN' IS BREWIN' MYSELF AND THE LASS SOME TEA. ME MAM RAISED ME WELL, SEE. C'MON NOW, I'LL TAKE 'YA ON A TOUR. THIS WAY TO THE KITCHEN. I: SPEAKING OF YOUR MAM ... PEGGY, RIGHT? HOW IS SHE DOING THESE DAYS, WHAT WITH TWO SONS TERRORIZING THE BRITISH MEDIA, AND BEING A RECENT EMPTY NESTER. LG: I WAS ON THE PHONE WITH HER LAST NIGHT, YEAH. A LOT OF LADS WOULDN'T SAY THIS, ESPECIALLY LADS FROM MY NECK OF THE WOODS, BUT I MISS ME MAM. I'M A PROPER MAMA'S BOY, AND I AIN'T AFRAID TO SAY IT. THAT WOMAN IS TOUGH AS NAILS, SHE IS, AND I'M PROUD TO BE HER SON. SHE GOT ME AND ME BROTHERS OUT OF A ROUGH SPOT WHEN WE WERE KIDS, SHE WORKED THREE JOBS JUST TO GIVE US A GOOD LIFE. I WOULD HAVE CARRIED ON LIVIN' WITH HER FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, REALLY. BUT ME MAM DESERVES A BIT OF REST, AND I FIGURE I'M QUITE THE HEADACHE TO BE AROUND. SO A PHONE CALL NOW AND THEN IS BETTER THAN ME BEING UPSTAIRS IN MY CHILDHOOD ROOM. FOR BOTH OF US. I: THAT'S QUITE SWEET. I CAN TELL FROM THE WAY YOU SPEAK ABOUT HER THAT SHE REALLY CARES FOR YOU LADS. LG: AYE, ME ESPECIALLY. I'M HER FAVOURITE, SEE. I: I'M NOT PUTTING THAT IN. WE DON'T HAVE EVIDENCE TO SUPPORT THAT. LG: B*******. THAT'S UNBIASED, THAT. ASK NOEL! I: NO WAY. NOTE TO SELF: LIAM GALLAGHER BELIEVES THAT HE IS HIS MAM'S FAVORITE. LG: CAREFUL, THE TEA'S HOT. GIVE IT A SEC, YEAH? I: THANKS. CUTE MUGS. I'M GUESSING THE RUMOURS ABOUT YOU BEING THE BIGGEST BEATLES FAN AREN'T INFLATED? PLEASE NOTE THAT LIAM GALLAGHER IS CURRENTLY DRINKING OUT OF A BEATLES NOVELTY MUG SCULPTED IN THE SHAPE OF JOHN LENNON’S HEAD, COSTUMED IN HIS SGT. PEPPERS GARB. ADDING TO THAT, I AM DRINKING OUT OF THE PAUL VERSION OF THE MUG. LG: MATE, NOT AT ALL. I'M A PROPER FAN, ME. TOTALLY MAD FER IT. IF YOU ASK ME, THEIR LOT IS AS GOOD AS MUSIC WILL EVER GET. THEY CREATED HISTORY, D'YA KNOW WHAT I MEAN? SO, I AIN'T HEARIN' ANY OF THIS OVERRATED CRAP PEOPLE HAVE BEEN SAYIN' ABOUT THE BEATLES LATELY. SHOW SOME FUCKIN' RESPECT. ONCE YOU WRITE THE WHITE ALBUM, THAT'S WHEN YOU CAN SLAG 'EM OFF. BUT NONE OF THEM GEEZERS HAVE BEEN DOIN' THAT YET, SO THE BEATLES JUST REMAIN ON TOP, YEAH. I: HMM. BUT LAST WEEK YOU WERE JUST SAYING THAT OASIS WERE THE NEW BEATLES. HAVE YOU CHANGED YOUR MIND ON THAT OR ...?

LG: NAH. I SAID THAT THESE NEW FOLKS ON THE SCENE NEED TO WRITE THEIR OWN WHITE ALBUM, YEAH? THAT'S WHAT RKID DID WITH DEFINITELY MAYBE. SAY, D’YA MIND IF I POP ON A RECORD? I USUALLY HAVE SOMETHIN’ ON IN THE MORNINGS.

I: LEAD THE WAY.

[SOUND OF SCRAPING MUGS, SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS]

I: SO YOU MENTIONED YOUR BROTHER, NOEL, AND HIS SONGWRITING. YOU SEEM TO THINK VERY HIGHLY OF HIM. BUT THE PRESS SEEMS TO PAINT THE TWO OF YOU IN A CERTAIN LIGHT; ALWAYS AT EACH OTHER’S THROATS, NEVER AGREEING, ALWAYS ARGUING. WHAT REALLY IS THE TRUTH WITH YOUR RELATIONSHIP?

LG: THE C**** AT THE SUN AND THE MIRROR AND ALL THAT S**** PROBABLY DON’T HAVE ANY BROTHERS. IF THEY DID, THEY’D KNOW THAT MARDING WITH THEM IS NATURAL. EVEN MY MAM DOESN’T BLINK SOMETIMES AT THE THINGS WE SAY TO EACH OTHER. THAT’S JUST THE WAY THE WORLD WORKS, D’YA KNOW WHAT I MEAN? IF ‘YA GOT A BROTHER, ‘YA GOTTA FIGHT WITH HIM.

I: THEM’S THE RULES?

LG: THEM’S THE RULES. [THE REVOLVER ALBUM BY THE BEATLES STARTS PLAYING ON LIAM’S RECORD PLAYER]. SAY, NOSY, D’YA HAVE A BROTHER?

I: LIAM, YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ADDRESSING ME LIKE THAT. I’M ASKING THE QUESTIONS HERE.

LG: NO FUN. AIN’T THIS SUPPOSED TO BE AN ARTICLE ABOUT THE THINGS I DO? WELL, WHAT I’M DOIN’ NOW IS TALKIN’ TO YOU. IT GETS PRETTY BORING JUST TALKING ABOUT MYSELF. FEEL LIKE A RIGHT KNOB.

I: I HAVE THREE BROTHERS. TWO OLDER. ONE YOUNGER

LG: YIKES. Y’GOT ME BEAT. BUT Y’GET WHAT I’M SAYIN’, YEAH? ‘BOUT BROTHERS.

I: I’M NOT AT LIBERTY TO SAY.

LG: THIS AIN’T A PEACE TREATY YOU’RE COVERIN’, NOSY. Y’CAN HAVE AN OPINION.

I: YEAH, I GET WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. I LOVE MY BROTHERS BUT IT’S EASY TO HATE THEM NOW AND AGAIN. BUT THAT JUST MEANS THAT THEY’RE EASIER TO FORGIVE ONCE THE TIDE PASSES.

LG: EXACTLY. SMART GIRL.

I: NOW BACK TO THE TOPIC AT HAND …

LG: F*****’ … SORRY, HOW LONG IS THIS GONNA TAKE?

I: ALL DAY. I ALREADY TOLD YOU.

LG: B*******.

I: LIAM.

LG: ‘S’JUST THAT … THAT’S A LOT OF TIME.

I: I KNOW. THAT’S WHY I HAD YOU SIGN A WAIVER.

LG: I SIGNED A WAIVER?

I: JESUS. [SOUND OF RUSTLING PAPERS].

LG: AH. LOOKS LIKE I DID.

I: LOOK … WE CAN TAKE A BREAK IF YOU NEED? I GET THAT THIS IS OVERWHELMING, ME INTRUDING ON YOUR SPACE AND EVERYTHING.

LG: NAH, KEEP IT GOIN’. BUT D’YA MIND IF I SMOKE? I USUALLY HAVE ONE BY THIS TIME OF DAY.

I: DO YOU USUALLY DO IT INSIDE?

LG: YEAH.

I: …

LG: …

I: …

LG: WELL, DON’T LOOK SO DISGUSTED. I’LL OPEN A WINDOW, YEAH.

I: AMAZING.

LG: MY HOUSE, MY RULES. SORRY. [SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS, SOUND OF WINDOW OPENING, SOUND OF BEEPING CAR, SOUND OF FLICKING LIGHTER, SOUND OF INHALE, A SIGH]

I: THAT BETTER?

LG: LOADS. I USUALLY SNORT A FEW GRAMS AFTER BREAKFAST, BUT I CAN’T REALLY DO THAT AROUND PRESENT COMPANY, EH?

RECORDING ENDS HERE.

INTERVIEW RECORDING WITH LIAM GALLAGHER OF OASIS

I: BEHAVE.

LG: YES, MA’AM.

I: IT'S FEBRUARY TWENTY-FOURTH, NINETEEN NINETY-FOUR, THIRTEEN MINUTES PAST ELEVEN IN THE MORNING. I AM CURRENTLY SEATED AT THE WINDOW LEDGE OF LIAM GALLAGHER’S CAMDEN RESIDENCE, WITH A FULL VIEW OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD FROM HIS THIRD FLOOR FLAT. ACROSS FROM ME SITS LIAM GALLAGHER, WITH A CIGARETTE IN HIS MOUTH.

LG: HELLO.

I: THIS IS A CONTINUATION OF AN EARLIER RECORDING THAT HAS BEEN CUT OFF DUE TO SOME … UNSAVOURY ADMISSIONS.

LG: [SNORT]

I: SO, LIAM … AS YOU WERE SAYING …

LG: AH, YES. THE COCAINE.

RECORDING ENDS HERE.

INTERVIEW RECORDING WITH LIAM GALLAGHER OF OASIS

I: IT’S NOT CENSORSHIP, LIAM. WHAT YOU’VE BEEN SAYING IS LITERALLY ILLEGAL.

LG: THEN CUFF ME, THEN! I AIN’T CENSORIN’ MYSELF FOR NO ONE. NOT EVEN FOR A CUTE JOURNALIST LIKE YOURSELF. NAH, I’M GONNA SAY WHAT I’M GONNA SAY, AND THE PEOPLE HAVE TO JUST DEAL WITH IT.

I: HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ARRESTED?

LG: YEAH. SHOPLIFTING. ASSAULT. TRESPASSING. THE USUAL.

I: HOW’D THAT GO FOR YOU?

LG: WELL ENOUGH.

I: RIGHT … IT'S FEBRUARY TWENTY-FOURTH, NINETEEN NINETY-FOUR, TWENTY-ONE MINUTES PAST ELEVEN IN THE MORNING. THIS RECORDING IS A CONTINUATION OF PREVIOUS ONES FROM THE SAME DAY.

LG: DUE TO …?

I: I’M HERE WITH LIAM GALLAGHER, WHO HAS JUST FINISHED SMOKING A CIGARETTE ON HIS WINDOW LEDGE. LIAM, THE VIEW HERE IS SPECTACULAR. WHAT MADE YOU FINALLY DECIDE TO MOVE TO LONDON AFTER A LIFETIME IN MANCHESTER? SURELY, IT MIST HAVE BEEN A TOUGH DECISION FOR YOU.

LG: GREAT SEGUE THERE, NOSY. TO BE HONEST, I DIDN’T REALLY WANT TO MOVE TO LONDON. NO OFFENSE TO THE CITY FOLK OR NOTHIN’, BUT THIS JUST AIN’T MY STYLE, Y’KNOW? I PREFER MANCHESTER WHERE MY MATES AND MY PUB ARE. I KNOW THAT CITY LIKE THE BACK OF MY HAND. AND LONDON AIN’T THAT EASY TO READ. LOTS OF DODGY FOLK HERE, LOTS OF CRIME.

I: WELL, YOU’VE DONE GOOD WITH CHOOSING YOUR NEIGHBOURHOOD THEN. YOU LIVE IN AN AREA THAT CURRENTLY HAS THE LOWEST CRIME RATE IN THE ENTIRE CITY!

LG: THAT’S MINT.

I: ASIDE FROM THE CRIME AND THE DODGY FOLK, HOW HAVE YOU BEEN ENJOYING LONDON? HAVE YOU BEEN MAKING GOOD ON YOUR PROXIMITY TO ABBEY ROAD?

LG: OH, LET ME TELL Y’SOMETHIN’. I DIDN’T CHOOSE THIS FLAT BECAUSE IT WAS CLOSE TO ABBEY ROAD, YEAH? BUT IT DOESN’T HURT THAT IT’S JUST ‘ROUND THE CORNER. I’VE BEEN POPPIN’ ROUND THE SHOP ALL THE TIME JUST TO CROSS THAT CROSSWALK, Y’KNOW! I EVEN SHED MY SHOES AT ONE POINT, LIKE PAUL. I’M MAD FER IT. I’VE GOT THREE CARTONS OF MILK IN MY FRIDGE ‘CAUSE OF IT. CAN’T STOP GOIN’ TO THE SHOP.

I: THREE CARTONS OF MILK? MIND SHOWING US YOUR FRIDGE?

LG: DO THE PEOPLE HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO WITH THEIR LIVES ASIDE FROM SEE WHAT I’VE GOT IN MY FRIDGE?

I: LIAM.

LG: THIS WAY TO THE KITCHEN. AGAIN. BARMY WOMAN. SHOULD HAVE ASKED ME TO DO THIS EARLIER WHILE WE WERE THERE.

[A SMACK]

LG: UNPROFESSIONAL THAT. RIGHT. KITCHEN, YEAH? COUNTER, ITALIAN MARBLE. CABINET NUMBER ONE, PLATES AND BOWLS. CABINET NUMBER TWO, GLASSES AND MUGS. CABINET NUMBER THREE, TEA AND BISCUITS. CABINET NUMBER FOUR, CRISPS.

I: LOVELY.

LG: TOO F*****’ RIGHT. NEXT; DRAWERS. SPOONS. FORKS. KNIVES. BITS AND BOBS. WHATEVER.

I: WHATEVER?

LG: YEAH. DUNNO WHAT ELSE IS IN THERE. A CAN OPENER? DO I HAVE ONE OF THOSE?

I: WOW.

LG: RIGHT, THE FRIDGE. TA-DA.

I: JESUS CHRIST.

LG: THREE CARTONS OF MILK, HALF EATEN CAN OF BEANS, SOME BUTTER FOR MY TOAST, SOME SPAG BOL BONEHEAD GAVE ME YESTERDAY, LEFTOVER CHINESE. YEAH, THAT’S IT.

I: HOW DO YOU … EAT?

LG: WITH A FORK USUALLY.

I: …

LG: RELAX. I AIN’T USUALLY HOME. I JUST EAT OUT OR ORDER IN OR CRASH AT RKID’S FOR DINNER. I DON’T STARVE, IF THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE THINKING.

I: STILL … HEY, WHY DOES YOUR MILK HAVE A FORK IN IT?

LG: AH, JUST SUMMAT RKID SAID TO ME A WHILE AGO. HE HAD THIS FORK IN A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE, RIGHT. TWO DAYS LATER, IT’S STILL SPARKLING. KEEPS IT FRESH, HE SAID.

I: OH, I DON’T THINK —

LG: BATHROOM TOUR. FOLLOW ME

I: OKAY.

[FOOTSTEPS, DOOR CREAKING OPEN]

LG: RIGHT. TOILET, SINK, TOWEL RACK, TOWELS, TUB, SHOWER, FLOOR MAT.

I: MIND REVEALING YOUR SKIN CARE?

LG: MY F*****’ WHAT?

I: SKIN CARE.

[SOUND OF SHOWER CURTAIN OPENING]

LG: RIGHT. MY SOAP IS DOVE. SHAMPOO IS LOREAL. SO’S THE CONDITIONER.

I: FAB.

LG: TOO F*****’ RIGHT. Y’WANT MY SHAVING CREAM AND EVERYTHIN’? BRAND OF RAZOR? HAIR PRODUCTS?

I: I’M GETTING THE FEELING THAT YOU DON’T WANT TO DISCLOSE.

LG: BEFORE WE KNOW IT, TOO MANY LADS WOULD BE WALKIN’ DOWN CAMDEN TRY’NA SMELL LIKE ME. NAH, NAH. THERE’S ONLY ONE LG.

I: OKAY, THEN. KEEP YOUR AIR OF MYSTERY.

LG: IT’S NOT JUST AN AIR OF MYSTERY, YEAH? MORE LIKE … JUST NOT WANTIN’ EVERY BIT OF ME ON PAPER.

I: I GET THAT

LG: I’M IN A BAND. I MAKE MUSIC. THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE SHOULD CARE ABOUT. NOT WHAT DEODORANT I USE ON MY PITS.

I: AND WHAT DEODORANT IS THAT?

LG: …

I: OH MY GOD, I’M KIDDING.

LG: OH! DIDN’T CATCH THAT. I’M A BIT LOOPY RIGHT NOW, SEE. DIDN’T GET MUCH SLEEP LAST NIGHT. MY NEW MATTRESS HAS BEEN F*****’ KILLIN’ ME.

I: CAN I SEE IT FOR MYSELF?

LG: …

I: …

LG: EAGER, HUH?

I: NO! I WAS — WHAT I MEANT TO SAY — UGH! I WAS TRYING TO SAY —

LG: C’MON, STOP STUTTERIN’, NOSY. I’LL TAKE YOU TO MY BEDROOM, DON’T FRET.

I: I’M NOT FRETTING!

[FOOTSTEPS, DOOR CREAKING]

LG: NOW THIS IS WHERE THE MAGIC HAPPENS.

I: THE MAGIC? I’M ASSUMING THAT YOU’RE REFERRING TO YOUR PLAYBOY IMAGE?

LG: AIN’T NO IMAGE, BABE. AIN’T NO PLAYBOY EITHER. JUST HAVIN’ SOME FUN. LETTIN’ OFF STEAM.

I: HM.

LG: OI, STOP LOOKIN’ AT ME ROOM LIKE YOU’RE TRYING TO SEE WHERE I HID THE SEX SWING AND THE VIBRATORS.

I: I’M NOT! I WAS JUST WONDERING WHY YOUR ROOM LOOKS SO … BARE?

LG: I JUST MOVED, YEAH?

I: YEAH, ALMOST THREE WEEKS AGO.

LG: BEEN BUSY.

I: THE BAND KEEP YOU AT THE STUDIO AND REHEARSALS MUCH?

LG: AYE. NOEL’S BEEN DRIVIN’ US ALL UP THE WALL WITH THIS NEW RECORD. NEUROTIC PERFECTIONIST, RKID IS.

I: SPEAKING OF A NEW RECORD, CAN YOU TEASE — OH MY GOD, LIAM IS THAT BLOOD ON YOUR SHEETS?

LG: OH. YEAH.

I: WHAT HAPPENED?

LG: RELAX, NOSY.

I: LIAM, THAT’S A LOT OF BLOOD.

LG: JUST … A GIRL GOT HER PERIOD THERE.

I: AND YOU HAVEN’T WASHED IT BECAUSE …?

LG: NOT BECAUSE OF ANY PERVERTED REASON, LIKE! BUT IT WAS JUST … RECENT, YEAH?

I: OH.

LG: YEAH.

I: RECENT, HUH?

LG: MHM.

I: ANYONE WE KNOW?

LG: I DON’T KISS AND TELL.

I: BUT YOU’D SAY ENOUGH TO IMPLY THE EVENT OF PERIOD SEX.

LG: SORRY, WHAT WAS THAT? DIDN’T QUITE CATCH YOU.

I: I SAID, YOUR ROOM SMELLS SICKENINGLY OF LAVENDER DETERGENT. HOW MANY BATCHES OF LAUNDRY DID YOU DO?

LG: A LOT.

I: LIKE, HOW MUCH?

LG: JUST … A LOT.

I: HAND WASHED OR DRY CLEANERS?

LG: A LOT OF IT GOES TO THE DRY CLEANERS?

I: BUT SOME ARE HANDWASHED? LIKE WHICH PIECES?

LG: DELICATES. PIECES I DON’T PARTICULARLY FANCY BEING EATEN BY A MACHINE.

I: RIGHT. LIAM, YOU’RE KNOWN FOR YOUR FASHION SENSE AND YOUR BUDDING IMAGE AS A FASHION ICON OF THE NINETIES. I’D BE REMISS TO NOT HAVE A LITTLE TOUR OF YOUR CLOSET.

LG: UHHH. CAN YOU MAYBE STEP OUT FOR A SECOND. I HAVE TO CHECK MY CLOSET FIRST.

I: … Y’GOT A TROPHY CASE OF BRAS YOU’VE CATCHED DURING CONCERTS? I’VE SEEN YOU DO THAT, Y’KNOW. NOEL IS RIGHT, YOU DO HAVE A KNACK FOR IT.

LG: HA HA. I’M NOT A WEIRDO. IF ‘YA WANNA TALK ABOUT A COLLECTION OF THROWN BRAS AND KNICKERS, ASK RKID. CALL THAT A JOURNALIST TIP, YEAH?

I: NOTED.

LG: NOW, WILL YOU STEP OUT FOR A SEC?

I: STEPPING OUT! STEPPING OUT! BRINGING MY RECORDER WITH ME!

RECORDING ENDS HERE.

***

Liam nearly bangs his head on the closet door. “She was on her period?” he repeats to himself in mild disgust. “Of all the excuses … Girl on her period … Fairly recent … God fuckin’ damn it.”

Liam knew this would be a bad idea. A journalist shadowing Liam Gallagher at all times? Bad news. A journalist following Liam Gallagher who was secretly Spiderman? Catastrophic.

He knew he should have said no. In fact, he already had said no. But when your name left Alan’s lips as the assigned interviewer, well, he had no other choice. Suddenly, Liam was all Mr. Publicity. Noel still hadn’t stopped giving him shit for it.

Liam sighed, head hanging down in exhaustion. This really could be one of the worst ideas he’s ever had. And all this just so he’d have you follow him around. Even if you’d think that the blood stains on his bed were from a lover rather than an unfortunate hit that a kidnapper dealt on him with a switchblade a few nights ago. Maybe it was even more embarassing to admit that he hasn’t cleaned his sheets since then. Well, this is where that brings him. With you outside his bedroom door with a recorsing device and a curious glint in your eye.

Liam was screwed. So fucking screwed.

With that, he yanks open the closet door and rips out the Spiderman suit he hung by the end of the closet rack, shoving it between his mattress and bedframe.

“Come in!”

***

EXCERPT FROM AN INTERVIEW RECORDING WITH LIAM GALLAGHER OF OASIS

LG: HERE YOU GO AGAIN WITH YOUR SPIDERLAD OBSESSION.

I: IT’S NOT AN OBSESSION!

LG: I WOULD SAY IT IS. PROPER IN LOVE WITH THE LAD.

I: YOU’RE RIDICULOUS. AND BLOWING THIS OUT OF PROPORTION. I’M JUST TAKING A JOURNALISTIC INTEREST, MY GOD.

LG: WE WERE TALKIN’ ABOUT GOIN’ OUT TO GRAB A QUICK BITE AT THE CHIPPY BY THE CORNER AND YOU MANAGE TO MENTIOM HIM!

I: I MANAGED TO MENTION HIM BECAUSE HE RECENTLY STOPPED A BREAK-IN AT THAT CHIPPY! THE POLICE GOT A TIP FROM SPIDERMAN HIMSELF FOR THEM TO COME COLLECT TWO SUSPECTS AT A NEARBY PARK.

LG: SNOOZEFEST.

I: WHATEVER. WHAT WERE YOU SAYING ABOUT THIS CHIPPY AGAIN?

LG: C’MON, PUT YER SHOES ON. IT’S JUST A QUICK WALK AWAY.

I: LOOKING AT PARKAS REALLY MAKES A GIRL’S STOMACH GO CRAZY.

LG: OKAY, WEIRDO.

END OF RECORDING.

***

Liam’s day hasn’t felt that fun in ages. Lately, all his days were filled with exhausted trips to the studio, exhausted trips to rehearsals, exhausted prowling of London, and exhausted crime-fighting whenever he can. But today, you managed to be a bright spot in all of that.

Still, the memory of your laughter at his local chippy wasn’t enough to erase his responsibility. To the band or to the city.

But when a lad like him spends a day with a cute girl at his side, even crime fighting gets a bit boring. Even London seemed to have calmed down because of you.

Out on a ledge — quite literally for him, as he had one spandex clad foot balanced on a window ledge of a twenty storey complex, Liam debated calling it an early night. There were no tingles up the back of his neck, no cries for help, and no suspicious looking shadows creeping around the edge of the city.

It was a quiet night. And Liam was not about to lose sleep over it. He retreats his dangling foot and reaches his arm out to climb sideways to the fire escape when he catches sight of you.

He feels like a silly fuckin’ school boy.

The sight of you brings a smile to his face, one that he’s glad that his mask doesn’t capture. It doesn’t matter that no one could see him anyway. He just wouldn’t suffer the indignity.

He scampers down the fire escape, quick on his feet before shooting a web out one one of the rungs and swinging quickly down. Maybe he’d grant your journalistic wish of meeting Spiderman. It was the least he could do after you brightenes up his day with your stupid recorder and thoughtfuk questions.

He landed on the pavement, quick on his feet, the street you were walking down was near deserted, street lamps flickering in the night. He clucked his tongue. Terrible survival skills.

He stuck close to the wall, avoiding prying eyes as he tried to mimic your lace from where he was, across the street from you. He weaved in and out of alleyways, ducking down dumpsters, and even disturbing the sleep of a few alley dwellers. He sent them a sympathetic smile before remembering they couldn’t see it. He probably looked a right sight. Stupid.

He closes in on you a few blocks later. He’s close enough that he sees the glimmer of your hair in the passing headlights, the bag of groceries you were hauling in your arms, the flush of your cheeks in the cold, amd the cute twitch of your nose as you passed by a pile of garbage.

Liam really needed to get a grip. Here he was, following you like a lost puppy trying to find its owner. Pathetic, really. Someone gives him a scrap of the attention he craves and he’s suddenly gone mad. Noel would have a lot to say about that. Liam briefly considers telling Noel about you during rehearsals tomorrow to get his sense knocked into him by way of Noel’s harsh words. But he thinks better of it, shaking his head instead and starting the other way, to the direction of his flat, and his bed, and his stupid withering fern. Noel would also have a lot to say about that.

Liam sighs, ready to sink into his plush mattress more than anything, when he feels it; the electric prickle up his spine that gathers like buzzing bees at the base of his neck. He sees you next, the violent pull at your arm, the aborted scream, and the hand covering your mouth.

You plummeted into the dark mouth of an alley in a quick span of time. Luckily, Liam was quicker.

His feet moved silently along the pavement as he gathered enough force to swing himself over and across the street. With a few light strides, Liam sped down the path and gained enough momentum to swing himself forward by shooting a web on a hanging beam. He landed quietly on the other end of the street, the only eyes on him were that of a poodle pissing on the brick wall of a bank with his leg up. 

“Shh,” Liam said to it as he passed by him and his distracted owner and went into the alleyway where you vanished. Everything else in the world seemed to fall away as he went further in, the city noise, the pissing poodle, the flickering street lights. All he had was the soft pad of his feet on the pavement and the sound of his mask-clad breathing. 

Which is why it was easy to hear your muffled cries for help. 

You were a fighter, Liam would give you that. At your feet was a man clutching at his eyes in agony as another cradled his family jewels a few feet away from you. Still, one of your captors managed to get ahold of you by pinning you to the rough brick behind you and placing his hand on your mouth. 

Liam didn’t dawdle. He didn’t quip. He just let himself be silent in the shadows, just long enough to find a weak point and focus on it. 

In the end, once the man got a little too close to you for comfort, and your scared cry pierced his heart, Liam shot out like a bullet, ramming into him in full force and landing harshly on the ground with an oof. The webs came quickly after, trapping the dazed man down. 

Liam didn’t even have to look to see that the two other men were running away. Desperate not to go down along with their buddy. With quick confirmation to see that you were unharmed, Liam burst forward into a sprint and shot two webs on either side of the buildings flanking the alleyway, catapulting him in front of the two men, just in time to deliver a swift kick to the gut for the pepper spray victim, and a punch to the jaw to the man whose bloodline you probably ended. The webs came quickly after. 

“Holy shit,” Liam hears you breathe out in disbelief. His head quickly snaps up to see you, hobbling down the alley and coming right towards him with wide eyes.

To him? To Spiderman, more likely. Liam doubted that you’d dare smile that wide at him. 

Still, he meets you halfway, speeding down the pavement to take a closer look at you. A few scrapes, he notes, nothing that wouldn’t take more than just three days to heal. Still, he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, to ask how you’re doing before he realizes that you’ve been hearing his voice drone on and on and on all afternoon. His damned fake posh accent wouldn’t do under your scrutiny, and you wouldn’t believe any attempts he had at sign language.

Clumsily, Liam gestures emphatically to you, before tilting his head in an exaggerated manner of question, before shooting a thumbs up. Are you okay? It meant to say. 

You seem to have gotten his cue and smiled. “I’m okay, yeah. Just a bunch of purse-nappers.” 

Liam smiled and nodded. Starting another sentence against his better judgement he gestured; down to your strewn groceries on the floor, to the bag’s contents still scattered, and to his mask where he drew an exaggerated frown. 

Your laugh hooked him in. “Nah, that’s better than having a knife wound to the side, don’t ‘ya think?”

Liam nodded again before moving to quietly pick up your stuff. The job of the friendly neighborhood Spiderman. 

“Hey, I didn’t know that you didn’t talk. Some folks on the papers say that you have a posh accent.” Ever the inquirer, you ask.

Liam, now crouched on the floor collecting your things as he avoids the flailing body of one of your attackers, gestures to his throat with the free hand not clutching your salvaged groceries. Sore throat, he means to say. But he ups the ante and mimes choking himself for good measure.

“Yikes,” you wince. “Okay, so charades it is,” you mumble to yourself.

Liam sighs internally. He knew you wouldn’t let him go without a few questions.

“See, Mr. Spiderman, I’m a reporter for the London Daily Bugle,” you begin. “Well, rather, I’m on their magazine production … music sector.”

Liam bites an amused smile at your furrowed brow and slight frown. 

“The point is, I would like to have a word with you regarding your superhero activities. Are your webs a biological product, or more of a developed weapon? Why have you decided to migrate from the North into London? Were you the one that —“

Overwhelmed, Liam stops you with two hands in the air. Miraculously, you stop your assault of questions and tilt your head consideringly at him as Liam begins to mime.

He points slowly to his wrists, where the spider that bit him had permanently altered his body and where you had seen him shoot his webs from. 

You caught on. “Your webs?”

Liam nodded, encouragingly before drawing a circular motion in the air, as well as a question mark, prompting you to repeat the question.

“Oh, uhh, are your webs biological or a developed weapon?”

Liam holds up one finger. Option one, he means to say.

“Biological?” you ask, eyes alight.

Liam nods his confirmation. 

“How?” you ask, suddenly more curious than before.

Liam resists a sigh at your game of charades. He should have just risked the accent. Pointing to the spider his mam had etched on the chest area of his suit, Liam looked to you. Through a spider. He didn’t know how to say radioactive in charades speak, so he settled for pointing at the spider and making a biting sound under his mask. Spider bite.

“A spider bit you?” you said. Liam pointed enthusiastically at you. You frowned. “You’re not taking the piss, are you? Aren’t you supposed to be friendly?”

Liam shook his head violently, his head whipping like a dog trying to dry itself.

“No to not taking the piss? Or no to being friendly?”

Liam shook his head and mimed pissing all over the floor.

And there it was again. Your laugh. 

Liam could honestly have stayed in that alley with you forever; with no voice, stupid charades, and your unending question. But the men who attacked you were still writhing on their web cocoons on the floor, and Liam didn’t particularly fancy them getting out anytime soon. 

Swiftly, Liam got up on his feet, bringing your purse and remaining groceries and handed them to you. “Thanks,” you said, a shy smile blooming on your face.

Liam bowed to you, albeit a bit clumsily. Still, you seemed to appreciate the gesture.

“Well, I guess you gotta take care of this now. Hey, how’re you gonna call the cops with no voice?”

Liam waves you off. Don’t worry about it — especially since Liam wasn’t actually rendered mute.

You shrugged, readjusting your things in your arms before gazing at Liam with something he couldn’t recognize.

“I really would love to do an article on you,” you said. That’s when Liam pinned the emotion in your eyes; longing. Not for the spider or the man underneath. But for what he could bring you. A spot in the news team, a byline everyone would recognize. 

Liam smiles sadly. Then for your sake, just hangs his head in regret. He really did wish he could give you that interview.

“Maybe I’ll see you again,” you said, hope coloring your tone. And before he knows it, you walk away from him, stepping over the men who attacked you.

Against his better judgment, he doesn’t call the coppers just yet. No, he tails you all the way to your building, scaling up buildings and jumping on rooftops just to see you turn on the light at your window. Safe and sound.

He wonders briefly if the light in your flat is warm, before turning back.

Liam sighs as he leaves a lavender scent trail behind him, the abnormally large amount of detergent he used to soak his suit making him feel like a walking perfume ad. It wasn’t discreet, it was akin to a flashing neon sign announcing his very presence. It wasn’t even a scent you would think a superhero would have — no one would have expected the famed Spiderman to walk around the streets of London smelling like a flower farm. It was ridiculous and it was embarrassing and Liam wished he could just take his suit out to the dry cleaners. Maybe then, he’d actually start smelling like a normal person. 

But then again, he wasn’t really normal, was he?

“Next time ‘ya take a shot at me, mate, make sure ‘ya don’t miss!” crowed Liam, his usual Mancunian drawl replaced with a garbled and higher posh accent. With Oasis’ flight to fame, a lot of people were beginning to recognize him from voice alone. And he really wasn’t tooting his horn, but you could really hear him everywhere in London. In the cab radio, in a shop’s speakers, on the telly, live at a gig — people were starting to notice him. Which meant that in being Spiderman, Liam really had to be less … Liam. 

Which is a shame, because if this wanker knew that he was face to face with Liam Gallagher, then he probably wouldn’t have socked him in the face. Or he still probably would — a lot of people disliked him, really. Still, he would appreciate not having the moneymaker beaten up. 

“Not the face!” he whined, going to grab the guy’s fist and launching it back at him. Liam didn’t let up, just plain annoyed now. Honestly, he’s been up for hours, all he wants is some sleep, the high he had from the coke he snorted at the studio earlier had faded long before this fight started, and his face was sure to be a black and blue mess tomorrow. He shoved the blonde man out of the way and dodged an incoming hit from his red-headed partner. Liam kicked out just as the blonde got up to have another go at him, the force of his kick sending him flying with an oof. Cracking his neck, Liam turned to face the red-head, doling out one punch, then two, then a third one just for fun before finally wrapping shit up and shoving the man down and webbing him to the park’s cobblestones. Liam craned his head and did the same to the blonde who was struggling to get up. 

“Cunts,” Liam grunted, panting as the two of them wriggled on the floor. 

“Fuckin’ spider-freak! You’ll regret —” Liam didn’t so much as blink as he shot out both hands and webbed both the men’s mouths closed, dimming their voracious yelling to muffled grunts. 

Liam, petty as anything, leaned down close to the two of them and said through gritted teeth, “It’s Spiderman!” Liam corrected, going as far as to shove the men’s faces back down into the ground.

The night started differently, with a normal pint in his hands, at a normal pub, after a normal day at a normal studio rehearsing normal music with his normal band. It was all good and normal, just like the old days, laughing as Guigsy tried to play the old piano at the pub and Bonehead tried to warble a tune out. An old Elvis song! they cried as Liam was left in near tears as he asked them what the fuck they were trying to sing. Noel was laughing along, arms strewn around a random blondes shoulders as he elbowed Liam on his side and mumbled a joke that Liam can’t even remember now. For once, Noel wasn’t looking at him with his signature annoyance etched on his face. Liam seemed to annoy Noel a lot these days, the random bruises, the late entries, the wrecked vocals from exhaustion, the constant disappearing. 

Which is why Liam even debated leaving the pub when the hard-to-miss tingle scored up his spine and landed at the base of his neck. Surely, London could go a night without him? That’s what the cops were for, innit? So Liam settled in the booth, and drank from his pint. It was only when his laugh started to go hollow and the prickle in his neck was getting hard to ignore that Liam stood up and announced that he’d be going to the washroom. 

He shed his jeans and parka in the bathroom, hid it in a nook behind one of the toilets, and scampered out the window in his suit. 

God fuckin’ damn it. 

So here he was, sometime between three and four in the morning, glaring up at the moon as these criminals writhed and wriggled on the floor. 

Liam had caught them, crowbars and all, trying to get into the local chip shop a few blocks away from the pub he was at. It was a shame, Liam knew the owners of the chip shop, a married couple that moved into the city just last year and were finally hitting it big with their business. Had Liam not moved quick enough, or had he ignored the prickle in his neck, then Liam would be sure to see the couple’s dejected faces the next time he walked into the shop to buy his usual order. 

Liam decided to throw the towel in for the night, supposing that he could still catch up with the lads at the pub at this hour — maybe at a night cap in one of their hotel rooms if he was quick enough. So Liam prowls away from the criminals, and makes his way to the nearest phone booth to call the cops. 

“Easy job they fuckin’ have. Just comin’ to collect,” he grumbled as he swung the booth open, only to be met with the snivelling face of a terrified child. 

“Are you here to help me?” she said wetly, curled into herself in the dirty corner of the booth, her hands wound around her knees as she looked up at Liam with her teary eyes. She couldn’t have been more than four years old, a tiny lass with a muddy pink coat on and her curly brown hair falling into her rosy face.

Liam melted instantly, sinking down onto his knees on the booth floor beside her. “Hey,” he said softly, his over the top posh accent replaced with his usual Mancunian drawl. And after a quick glance in the direction of the criminals, Liam decides to shed his mask off as well, his dark hair a matted mess where the mask had flattened it. He smiles at the girl, a small quirk of his lips that she shyly returns. He takes it as a victory. “What’s your name, kidda?”

“Rose,” she mumbles, not quite looking him in the eye as she wrings her hands in her lap. Briefly, Liam catches sight of the cartoon print backpack beside her. 

“Rose,” Liam says, rolling the name in his mouth. “I like it. It’s just like your cheeks,” he grins. Another triumph, Rose giggles quietly. “Say, Rose, what’s a brave girl like you doin’ out here all alone, aye?”

She frowns, her pout tugging at Liam’s heartstrings. “My mummy went away for a while, left me with Frieda from next door.”

Liam cocked his head. “And is Frieda not good to you?”

Rose shakes her head vehemently. “She’s great,” she says emphatically. 

Liam settles himself further in the booth, his knees aching from how he was crouching down at Rose’s level. He scoots over and sits himself beside the girl, her cartoon backpack a barrier between them. “Then what’s the problem? D’ya miss your mam?”

She nods tearfully. “She went to Leeds because my grand-mammy’s sick,” she whispered. “And I miss my grand-mammy so so so much. But mummy said the trip is long and that she’d be back soon. But I really wanted to see grand-mammy again.”

Liam’s heart splits. “Oh,” he says, letting the admission hang in the air. “You really love your grandma, aye?”

Rose sniffles. “She used to make paper birds with me. Then she got sick and I couldn’t see her again. So I thought I’d ride a bus to Leeds to see her but I got lost.”

Liam sighs, leaning his head against the booth. “I’m sorry you can’t see her again, Rosie, sweetheart,” he says, looking at her intently. To his surprise, she looks back at him. “But I’m sure your gran is looking out for you right now.”

“Right now?” she squeaks. 

Liam nods, a slow smile creeping up his face. “Maybe it was her that sent me here, y’know. I’m sure she’s a powerful woman, your gran. All she needs to do is think summat up, then it will happen! The universe is funny like that. She wouldn’t want you to be alone and scared in a phone booth, and she wouldn’t want your mamy to be all worried that you’ve gone off. She wouldn’t even want dear old Frieda to be losing her head and running around like a headless chicken try’na find you.” At that, Liam imitates a loud and boisterous chicken, wings and all. 

Rose’s giggles permeate the space. “Frieda doesn’t do that!” she giggles.

Liam nods solemnly. “Aye,” he said. “But you never know, do ‘ya? She could be doin’ that right now! Which is why I think I gotta bring you back home, alright kidda?”

Rose pouts, bottom lip jutting out, but decides against arguing. Instead, she dusts herself off, heaves herself off the floor, and swings her backpack over her shoulder. 

Liam smiles, a tiny thing in the dead of night, and puts his mask back on, standing up with a drawn out groan. Without thinking, Rose puts her hand in his and settles it right there as Liam calls the cops, as they flee the scene, and as they walk down the silent streets of London with nothing but the padding of their feet on the pavement as their soundtrack. 

Through droopy eyes and a sleepy tone, Rose says to him before he drops her off at her window, “You’re very funny, Mr. Spiderman, sir.”

Liam clambers down the building’s fire escape with a bit more pep in his step after that. Maybe the superhero thing was worth it, after all.

***

Maybe the celebrity reporter thing wasn’t worth it after all. Your schedule was jampacked; an up and coming indie rock band’s debut record signing, an American folk singer’s sound check, re-writing your draft from an interview with Jarvis Cocker, a Britpop-filled after-party in the evening, and contemplating your life choices after all was said and done. 

You were grateful for the opportunity to write, you really were. But you started this job thinking that it was just a means to an end. That it was just a stepping stone to your true calling — news reporting. Actual news, not just who’s shagging who in the UK music scene. 

You sighed as you locked your door, coat bundled tightly and eyes still drooping with exhaustion. In a daze, you walked yourself over to the lift and smile as your neighbor, Elsie, follows you in. 

With greying hair, a purse full of caramel sweets, and an eye for trouble, Elsie was easily your most amusing neighbor. She always had a story for each day, and with the way her stories weren’t always told in the past tense, her prime was not yet over. You would have loved interviewing her back in your days in the Features beat in your uni publication. 

Day already much better at the sight of her, you smiled and held the lift door open. “Alright, Elsie?” you greet her. 

With the way she sighs, you could already tell that she had a story geared up as she stepped into the lift. Six floors down was more than enough time for an entertaining story, you thought as the doors closed and the slow descent of your prehistoric lift began. 

“Last night, aye, I was wearin’ me necklace,” she began, showing you the heart pendant with the ruby inset. You nodded at it, the sight familiar on Elsie’s neck. “A gift from my second husband, Earnest. Though he wasn’t a very Earnest man, that lad,” she mused. 

You smiled. “Let me guess,” you said. “Did Earnest’s ghost come back last night to say hello?”

She looked at you and wrinkled her brow. “Oh, no, dear. Earnest is still very much alive. It’s a shame. The bastard.” You laughed, she continued. “No, there was this awful commotion down the street and I turned to look. Turns out, it was one of those schemes! I went over to cross the street to help this quarreling couple, but then the man just takes one look at me, then me bosoms where the necklace sat, and clutched it in his greedy hands!”

You gasped. “Your necklace was snatched?”

“Aye,” she said, shaking her head. “And I know I still look fit as a lass in her prime, but I don’t have the knees for runnin’ no more. So I sat there thinkin’, ah, there goes the last of Earnest.”

You tilted your head. “I thought you didn’t like him?”

Elsie shot you a look as if you were the one that wasn’t making sense. “What makes you think that?” she asked, you held in a laugh. You had to ask her about that another time. “Anyway, I got the necklace back because of this spider!”

“A spider?” you said, a thick fog of confusion coating your words. 

Elsie nodded. “He had this red and blue suit, see! And a mask that covers his face, and hands that shoot out webs. I’ll say, I’ve never seen anythin’ like it! We didn’t have any of that bollocks back then!”

That’s when it clicked. Elsie was talking about Spiderman. You had seen the papers of course, and the news they rolled out on the telly. He started in Manchester, stopping a bar fight gone too far. Everyone was too sloshed to see who it was, but it was undeniable that the opposing side woke up cocooned in thick spiderwebs. Then after that, it was thieves sneaking into homes in a local neighborhood in Burnage, then a kidnapping in the city, then saving a kid stuck on a rooftop during a fire. Spiderman was a Northern sensation, their very own superhero. It was of great debate whether or not he was actually super, some saying that it must have been a trick of science rather than comic logic as they preferred to call it. But all you really needed to know right now was that he was in London, just in reach. 

You thanked Elsie for the story and promised to stop by her flat for tea sometime soon, zig zagging out the building and out the city beyond. You walked with a bit more confidence on the way to the record signing, a proposal already weaving itself in your mind. 

Your mood had shifted completely, the light at the end of the tunnel brighter than ever as you went about your day. You sat through the signing, alert and attentive as if it was your first day on the job. You hailed a cab immediately after and got yourself a coffee right before heading in and greeting the American star with a bright smile and a flurry of questions before she headed to the stage for sound check. You re-wrote your article on Jarvis in the cab on the way back to the office, your pencil never stopping it’s course along the page. You were flushed with a giddy sort of happiness a you made your way up the lift and knocked at your boss’ door, already composed and ready. 

“Afternoon, Ms. Price!” you greet cheerily enough for her to look up from her desk and narrow her eyes at you. But you were undeterred, still smiling as you sat on the plush chairs across from her. 

“Alright?” she says with mild suspicion at your oddly cheery mood. “How was your morning?”

“Amazing,” you say earnestly. “The signing went without a hitch and I’ve already started a few paragraphs of the draft. The American sweetheart was as amazing as she is in her records, and I think I’ll be focusing on batting away the allegations that she can’t sing, since her vocals were strong compared to what tabloids are saying. The interview with Jarvis Cocker has been revised as per your comments. I just need to type it out and then I’ll be set.”

She nodded, satisfied, adjusting her glasses as she leaned back on her seat. “Perfect, just have the drafts sent to me as soon as you’re done, yeah?” she said before clearing her throat. “And another thing,” she began. You blinked, the first sign of your usual downcast attitude peeking through. Ms. Price nearly smiled at the familiar sight. “Your Oasis article was phenomenal. You really put a lot of care into your descriptions of the Gallaghers. Liam especially.”

You smiled hesitantly, you weren’t expecting this. But then again, you did know that that particular article was the best one you’ve managed to write in a long time. “Thank you,” you say.

Ms. Price nods, “Because of that, me and the board have decided to have a profile article on Liam Gallagher for our next issue. One of those detailed articles of him going about his day, the life of a rockstar, what he is outside of that. All that fun stuff, y’know?”

You felt your stomach drop. You knew where this was going and why she was bringing it up to you. “And … you want me to do it?”

Ms. Price smiles. “Of course! Why, you did such a great job with all of two thousand words in crafting Liam’s elusive image that we thought it best to expand on that. And he’s a star, the people just can’t get enough of him. I’m sure that a detailed article on him will be flying off the shelves!”

You shook your head, “Ms. Price,” you started, gathering your confidence. “I came in here today to ask you if I could possibly be transferred to the news section of the publication.” For all the times that you’ve told her this, you could have bet that she would put a hand out to stop the rest of your sentence from flowing out. But she remained seated, still looking at you through her cat-eye glasses and her tailored suit. “This morning, my neighbor told me of a run-in she had with Spiderman — he ran after a pickpocket and returned her necklace to her. And he’s an interesting character! He started in Manchester about two years back, and has recently left a trail here in London. He’s known for stopping petty crimes and handing criminals over to law enforcement, but the crime rate has recently gone down by twelve percent just with him being here! Miss Price, if I could just do a piece on him, I know I wouldn’t disappoint you.”

Assessing as always, Ms. Price leaned forward and put her elbows on her desk and peered at you from above her glasses. “Spiderman, you say?” she asks, curious. “And how do you wish to go about producing an article that’s not been written about him yet? It’s not as if you could get an interview with him, really. And if you do manage to make an article about him, it would all just be regurgitated facts and eyewitness accounts. That’s the difference with the news and entertainment section, dear. You have to work harder for them.”

You frowned. “So that’s a no on my transfer?”

She shook her head, dark hair falling in waves with the movement. “It’s more of a not yet,” she says gently, softening her stance and leaning back. “And I applaud your interest in this spider fellow. But I do think that writing about that would become an oversaturated market soon enough. I mean, a superhero in our midst. Everyone’s talking about it!”

“Right,” you say drily, a sigh almost escaping your lips as you dejectedly sink back into the cushions. 

Ms. Price looks at you with a raised brow. “And I’m guessing that that’s also a no on the Liam Gallagher profile?”

This time you don’t resist a sigh. “Do I have a choice?”

The smile she sends you should be reassuring but just makes you sink deeper into your seat instead. It was hard to hate her when she smiled like that. “His agents already approved. So, no, not really.”

So your day ended up right where you began, even the weather matched your mood as grey clouds made the sky overcast and turned the once sunny day dreary as you typed away in your cubicle, totally not grumbling about your failed request at a transfer. And add to that, a new article was now on your beat. It was just a spectacular day. It didn’t matter that you finished writing the rough draft for each article, it didn’t matter that you began to write your possible questions for Liam, and it didn’t matter that you were basically being paid to go to an exclusive party after office hours. 

The music scene wasn’t new to you, and neither were their parties. Sure, you once stood wide eyed and gobsmacked at the sheer debauchery of these gatherings, but after your fourth one, you just learned to tune everything out and zone in on a target for the night. That’s what made your coverage of these articles fun, painting a picture of the entire night and turning someone into the main character of the evening. 

But at this party, it seemed like the target zoned in on you instead. 

With a mocktail in one hand and a notepad in the other, it wasn’t hard to mistake you for anything else other than a reporter. A few other people had stopped to say hi, but Liam wasn’t one for foregoing a grand entrance. 

“Oi!” Liam cried from across the room. “Reporter gal!” 

You whip your head around from where you were seated at the bar to give him a small wave, to which he returned it ten times bigger in size and enthusiasm. And before you could even turn back to your notepad and sharp observation of the scene, Liam was already shouldering past his musician peers and making his way to you. 

“Nice evening?” you ask Liam, mouth quirked in amusement as you sipped on your mocktail. 

Liam heaved himself onto the barstool next to you and immediately flagged down the bartender for a lager. “Can’t complain,” he said. In this light, Liam looked in his element, the cobalt blue jumper he was wearing complimented his features, his hair was cut to showcase the sharp angle of his face, and his eyes were particularly shining as the light of the club shined down on him. And hard to miss was the bruise he was sporting on his cheekbone, an ugly thing that stood out against his pale skin, accompanying the fading bruise you’ve come to recognize from the time you interviewed him. 

You pointed casually at his face. “That looks like it hurts.”

Liam’s lager arrived and Liam wasted no time taking a gulp before answering you with an arched brow. “Well, aren’t you little miss nosy?” he snorts, foam still sticking to his rosy lips.

You bristled, “I’m not — I just — I was only asking!” you said defensively.

Liam laughed, a loud noise that turned heads all across the bar. “Relax, nosy! Was just jokin’. Got into a fight with someone, that’s all.”

You raised a brow. “With who?”

Liam turned to look at you fully before winking. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he joked, you were about to say something else when Liam burped and tilted his head curiously, “So what’s management tellin’ me about a profile article? It ain’t like a playboy centerfold or nothin’, is it?”

This time, you were the one that laughed. “No, no,” you giggled. “Definitely not a centerfold.”

He nodded solemnly. “Right. Was afraid you’d try to strip me down to me socks on the first day of interviews, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just essentially gonna be me following you around for a few days, trying to get a peek into your life.”

Liam wrinkled his nose. “And people would like that?”

You snorted in disbelief. “Are you kidding? People would be lining up in shops all over London just for this article!”

Shaking his head, Liam mumbled, “Crazy, that.” 

You nudged his shoulder teasingly. “So, how’s it feel to have people lining up all over the country to read about you?”

“Didn’t know the interview started right now,” Liam rolled his eyes, still grinning. “But it feels well deserved, that.”

You chuckled. “Of course you’d say that.”

Liam bumped his shoulder with yours, an echo of your own action as he wiggled his thick brows. “What about you, eh? How’s it feel to be writin’ the articles people are linin’ up all over the country for?”

You sighed, swirling your mocktail by the stem and wishing for the nth time that you could get drunk at one of these things without messing up on the job. “People usually skip over the byline, y’know? I don’t mind, my name doesn’t ring much bells to some people, but it means a lot to me that people like what I write. No matter how much I wish I was writing something else.”

Liam dropped his head and leaned closer, the curious set of his brow etched onto his face. “Y’don’t like what you write?”

You shrugged. “I’m more of a news gal,” you say, as simply as you can, as if it doesn’t sting. 

Liam hums next to you. “You don’t like talkin’ to singers in bars at an after-party? What, you’d rather be out coverin’ some crimes instead?  I get it, a lot of these lot are proper head cases, yeah? But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“The world is wider than just music,” you muse, sipping your mocktail, notepad fully cast aside now. You sat up straighter in your seat, fully turned towards Liam now, “Like, have you heard that Spiderman’s in London now? I mean, it could be one of those copycats, but he seems like the real deal! A real life superhero, who wouldn’t want to report on that?”

Liam raises a brow, nodding. “So you’re more into superheroes than rockstars, I see.”

You shoot him a wry smile. “When it comes to reporting, then yes.”

“What makes this Spider-lad so interestin’ anyway. Whole city’s yammerin’ on about him. Can’t shut their gob about askin’ who is he? Well, he wears a mask and everythin’, so I don’t think it’s for us to really know. Besides, how do we not know it ain’t a she? Ain’t we supposed to be supporting this girl power thing or summat?”

“It’s Spiderman,” you correct drily. “And I guess the anonymity is part of the charm. It’s like Clark Kent. He could be walking among us right now and we wouldn’t even know.”

“So, look for the nearest lad with a pair of glasses then,” quips Liam before sipping his lager. “All I’m sayin’ is that this spider whoever ain’t as big of a deal as the press are makin’ him out to be.”

You raise a brow. “Keep up with him a lot?” you tease. “You a fan or something?”

Liam rolled his eyes. “More likely that he’s a fan of me,” he snorted.

“Right,” you drawl, drawing out the word in amusement. “If he ever sends you a piece of fanmail, let him know that I’d like to have a chat, yeah?”

Liam sends you a mock salute. “I’ll tell ‘im to wear his Sunday best and bring a bunch of roses, yeah?” You laugh, Liam grins at the sound and leans forward, “Imagine a date with that spandex clad lad. What a nightmare. Y’know, I think that —”

Suddenly, like a switch was flipped on inside Liam, he sat up straighter in his stool, back ramrod straight as his brow furrowed in concerntration. You straightened along with him, a tad alarmed by the sudden shift. “What is it?” you ask slowly, following with your eyes as Liam’s head turned minutely to the left and to the right, shoulders tensed. 

“Thought I heard summat,” he mumbled, still distracted by whatever it is that caught his attention. You exhaled, calming a bit. It must have been just something from the party’s noise, or a result of the lager Liam had been drinking nonstop all night, or the drugs he had in his system. Either way, you let yourself relax. But not until … “‘S’cuse me, yeah? Gotta go check summat out for a sec.”

And then, he was gone, sliding out the barstool with practiced ease and weaving cleanly through the crowd and making his way out a dodgy side door. 

Naturally, you followed. You sensed a story, and you were getting it. 

You didn’t weave through the crowd with as much grace as Liam, it was more like a wave jutting through a rocky shore as you bumped into shoulders and chests, and apologized profusely on toes you definitely stepped on. 

By the time you made it outside, Liam was hauling a guy up and off the ground by the waist, while another was held on tightly by someone you didn’t quite recognize. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘ya, fuckin’ bastard! Y’think y’could sleep with my girl and get away with it, huh? I’ll fuckin’ have your head on a platter, mate! Just wait! —” the ranting was unmistakable in the cold London air, the alleyway echoing with the harsh words as the two men, bruised and scuffed up, attempted to have another go at each other. 

It wasn’t until you got even closer that you saw the knife in the grip of the man Liam was holding. “Cool off, mate,” Liam grumbled to the writhing man. “Fuckin’ cool it before I call the coppers, aye? What d’ya think ‘yer doin’ with that knife, yeah? Unless y’wanna go to jail, better let that go, you wanker.”

You blinked at the scene in front of you, neither of the men having noticed you yet. 

“Yeah, listen to him! Walk the fuck away, Johnny! Walk away!” yelled the man being held opposite him, his pants scuffed with dirt and blood and his face beaten to a pulp. 

You quickly piece the scene together. And it wasn’t anything you haven’t seen at one of these parties before. A man sleeping with someone else’s girl, they get caught in the throes, and everything after that is a whole shit show. At least in this scene, there was no girl, barely dressed, standing between them like there usually was. 

Rolling your eyes, you decide to walk forward to the mouth of the alley and hail a cab with a sharp whistle. One lad was sent home on a black cab a few seconds later, and the knife wielding one was sent back inside for the cops to collect. And to think that they would have all just gone on like that had you not called a cab. 

“Quick thinkin’ there,” said Liam, walking your way as he pocketed the lad’s knife in his trousers. “Couldn’t really have called a cab from over there, but it was a good thing you followed.”

“You really do have a nose for fights,” you observe, head tilted as you smile at him. “Like a magnet, you are.”

Liam’s mouth twists in amusement. “Ha ha,” he says drily. “Nah, just heard all the yellin’.”

“Thought you’d join in?” you tease. 

Liam shrugged easily. “Didn’t seem too fun. Maybe next time, though.”

You grin at him. “Hey, maybe Spiderman could be a she,” you tease as you look up at him, the fresh night air cooling your skin from where the club permeated it with sweat. “I don’t really know any man that would make a great problem solver, yeah?”

Liam laughs loudly, uncaring of the night he had just disrupted with the noise. Slinging his arm over your shoulder, he leans over you. “C’mon, nosy,” he said through a smile, you resisted the urge to smile back. “Get yer coat. I think that’s enough fun for tonight. I’ll walk y’home, yeah? Lest any spider weirdos try to get a piece of ‘ye!”

And as you walk back inside the club, still laughing, the booming bass sending a shock through your system as you retrieved your things, Liam let himself look up at the sky and ask London for forgiveness. The city could do just one night without him, really. Besides, he was looking out for you by walking you safely home. That was a charitable act, was it not?

He convinces himself that it was just his civic duty when you come back out the club bundled in your cute coat, your notepad peeking out the pocket, as you walk past him and tip your head to usher him forward. 

Liam walks you home, one eye on the city and the other on you. And when he drops you off at your building, he just lets himself pretend, just for one night. 

Dearest Noel,

The first time I saw you, I was pretty sure my heart fully stopped. I had liked other guys before you, had written them letters like these as well. But none of them made me feel like you did. What was once just a flutter of my stomach turned into a roar, hard to ignore. Which is why I’m writing this, in the hopes that putting pen to paper would make me feel less like this feeling would eat me alive. 

Not that you’ll ever read this, mind. 

It all started when I was thirteen years old, biking around the council estates when I saw you walking back to your home, wearing a blue jumper and carrying groceries in your arms. I just about fell down to the pavement at the sight of you. I didn’t have the guts to ring my bell at you or smile at you or even ask for your name. It wasn’t until a week later when I saw you again that I knew your name. Noel. Your little brother had been yelling it at the top of his lungs at the park, it was quite hard to miss, yet I do thank him for somehow introducing you to me by way of his tantrums. 

Since then, you’ve always been in my periphery. And steadily, you began to notice me. Just in tiny ways; nodding your head at me when I passed, picking up my stack of books when they got too heavy on my walk home, staying with me at the bus station so I wasn’t alone late at night. You’ve always been kind to me, courteous, I would even say. And that made me fall even harder for you. 

I know you don’t see me in the same light. How could you? I’m just your younger neighbor that likes to knock on your door to give cookies. You are kind to me because that’s just the kind of man you are, not because you like me like I like you. And that’s what pains me the most. 

I hope I never lose you in my life. You are a light, Noel Gallagher, and I hope you know that. 

Love, 

Your silly neighbor

***

You had always worn your heart on your sleeve. It was most likely a byproduct of the cheap paperback romance novels you loved reading, but you were a lover at heart; you loved giving your friends their favorite baked goods, you loved watching romantic comedies that made you swoon, you loved taking pictures to keep in your glitter-filled scrapbook, and you loved writing letters you’ll never send. You loved finding love everywhere in your life. 

Maybe a little bit too much. 

“Hey!” Amy called out from where she was biking right next to you. “Hellooooo?” she singsonged. From the tinge of exasperation in her tone, you could already tell that you’ve done it again. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop daydreaming while on the way to work?”

You shot her a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” you said, inconspicuosly trying to pedal faster to avoid the impending lecture. 

Your efforts to cycle quickly away were in vain. “I swear, one day you’ll bump headfirst into a pole and there’d be nothing any of us could do about it!” she huffed in frustration, pedaling her bike closer to you to lightly shove at you. 

You wobbled. “Careful!!” You took one hand off the handlebar and swatted at her. She rolled her eyes and dodged it easily. 

“What were you even daydreaming about this time?” she said wryly, already exasperated by your antics. Her face took on a teasing look that you dreaded as she cooed, “Was it Noel Gallagher?” she giggled, too loudly for your taste. 

You whipped your head around all directions before scolding her. “Amy!” you say, affronted. “Shhhhh!”

She only laughs in response, a bellowing thing that echoes down the streets of Burnage. You redden in embarrassment. “I swear,” she says, still chuckling under her breath. “All this daydreaming, yet still no action. Your love life’s drier than the Sahara.”

You grumble something unintelligible under your breath. 

Amy forges on. “You’re gonna have to make a move,” she says, urging. You’ve heard this spiel many times now, and not just with your infatuation with Noel. Amy’s said it when you first started having a crush on Samuel from your class, when you hid behind your hair whenever you saw Gary deliver your eggs to your house, the time when you liked Jonathan from the park so much that you couldn’t even look him in the eye. Amy’s always been in your ear telling you do something about your crushes. You’ve always just stared her down and told her you were content with loving them from afar. 

You didn’t quite know if you were saying a lie when you said that then. 

You sighed. “Yes, Amy,” you say frustratedly, legs pedaling faster and faster. Amy matches your pace much to your dismay. “I get it.”

Amy tears out a ragged breath beside you. “I don’t think you do, kid,” she declares. “It’s been how long since you’ve liked Noel?” she prompts.

You frown. She knows very well how long you’ve liked Noel. You grumble your response, “Two years.”

“Two years!” she shouts into the nearly empty street. You shake your head at her dramatics. “Two years and still no progress.”

“Who says there has to be progress?” you shot back. “Just because I like him doesn’t mean something has to happen.”

Amy gives you a flat look. “I can see you’ve convinced yourself of that,” she says flatly, the mild ire coating her tone prompting you to frown. “Just … try?”

You huff. “Try what?” you ask petulantly. 

She shakes her head, a motion that was more for herself than for you. “I can feel that big things are coming, kid,” she says, gaze now back on the road. “And I’m gonna need you to try and ride the wave, yeah?”

You wrinkle your brow in confusion. “Well, that’s not cryptic at all, Amy. Thanks,” you quip drily. 

Amy gives a half smile and kicks at your pedals, careful not to do any real damage. “After all I do for you,” she grumbles, but the upturn of her lips tells a different story. 

You smile at her. Amy truly did so much for you. “Diner’s just up ahead,” you told her. “You gonna be okay without me?”

Amy was still chortling by the time that you veered into the diner’s parking lot and chained your bike to the post, Amy continuing onto the main road to get to her own job at the pharmacy a couple blocks ahead. 

Sweetheart’s Diner was an old Manchester relic. Maintaining much of its original 50s charm, it’s a cultural staple that has been in the neighborhood for as long as anyone can remember. Everyone has a memory from Sweetheart’s — for you, it was the taste of their strawberry milkshake on that one summer day after your parents had saved up enough money to get you your own bicycle. 

That was your first taste of freedom.

You had always just borrowed Amy’s bike from her when she allowed you to. But she was strict with how long you could have it for and where you could take it. She claimed that the diner was too far away for you to bring her bike, so you stuck to just pedaling around the estates like a clown on a unicycle. 

But on your twelfth birthday, your father had brought home a bicycle, not exactly brand new like Jessica Bailey’s cobalt blue bike, but not beat up like Cyrus McConnell’s scuffed up monstrosity. It was pale pink with a matching pink bell on the handlebars, a seat that you suspected your father had reupholstered himself, a few faded stickers that hadn’t quite been scraped away, and dent marks in a few places. But you didn’t mind its imperfections, your eyes locked into the bike and you instantly knew that it was yours.

The first place you went to that afternoon was Sweetheart’s where Mrs. Pillock, the original owner’s grandaughter (or great-grandauhter, or great-great grandaughter — no one quite knew how old this woman was) had spotted your beaming smile and sold you a strawberry milkshake at half price. 

“Not for free,” she said sternly, though it felt less like being scolded and more like a maternal lecture. You smiled up at her, straw in your mouth. “Because nothin’s for free, yeah, hon?”

You giggled then, high off having the wind in your hair, the solid feeling of your own pedals on your feet, the sound of the bell chiming in the bright afternoon. That’s what you remember from Sweetheart’s the most, the freedom.

It wasn’t a hard choice to apply to be a waitress at Sweetheart’s for the meantime. After all, a uni scholarship only paid a certain amount of bills, and you needed to cover your half of it. So you walked up to Mrs. Pillock, handed her your resume, to which she snorted and hired you on the spot. 

“You didn’t even look!” you protested. 

“Don’t need to, kid,” she said roughly. “You start on Monday, yeah? You’re on the day shift.”

You’ve been donning the Sweetheart’s frilly pink waitress apron since then. 

It wasn’t horrible, all things considered. The days were busy, but it was miles better than the night shift, or worse, the graveyard shift. Working in a twenty-four hour diner in Manchester has its ups and downs, and you were glad that you were on the up of it all. You served customers with a smile, Mrs. Pillock dealt with the rude customers with efficiency, Asa the cook set aside enough food scraps for all the waitresses and baristas that they could be considered as full meals, and Noel Gallagher tended to buy two bacon butties on his home from work every Friday, an hour before your shift ended.

It was always a great pick-me up in the end of your week. Your bones would set in with a tiredness that you can’t seem to shake, your smile would begin to turn less and less genuine with each passing hour, and your wrist would ache something fierce everytime you carried a whole tray of orders. It’s always been just much of the same.

Though this Friday, it was a different face you were met with. 

You had just finished serving a table full of old ladies playing cards on a corner booth, their cooing over your appearance still ringing in your ears when he walked in. 

The shaggy cut of his hair was unmistakable, though you were quite sure that you’ve seen the shirt he’s wearing on Noel once. His blue eyes were drooping slightly as he scanned the neon signs displayed on the far wall by the entrance, and his fingers tapped a beat similar to the Elvis song playing on the old jukebox. He was unmistakable in his unbothered stance, the swagger of his walk, and the way that he lifted his chin just so — like he knew how good he looked and wasn’t above putting it to good use.

Liam Gallagher was trouble. Everybody who knew him knew that. Hell, just a few years back, you remember your mam telling you about how Liam was rushed into the hospital with a cracked skull from a hammer. Poor lad, she had lamented. 

He was loud, he was obnoxious, he was annoying, he was irritating, he once almost ran you over while driving his mate’s motorcycle, and he was …

Holding a suspiciously familiar stack of envelopes in his hand?

Your heart dropped to your stomach. 

“Fuck,” you whispered harshly, eyes wide at the impossible sight in front of you. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Fridays were for the old ladies playing bridge, the single mom who took her young son for a vanilla cherry coke after footie practice, the couple who ordered waffles in the early part of your shift, the little girl who spends her allowance on a banana split, and Noel Gallagher coming home from the construction site to buy his bacon butties. That’s what Fridays were more or less about — there was a balance to the world with Fridays at Sweetheart’s and Liam Gallagher was not about to ruin it. 

Amy’s words from this morning echoed dully in your head as your heart began to race where it had migrated to your stomach. I can feel that big things are coming, kid. And I’m gonna need you to try and ride the wave, yeah? You grit your teeth and cursed her. Of course, she’d do this. Who else knew about those letters? Who else was annoyed enough at you to mail them to their supposed recipient? Who else had the balls to drop the letter in the Gallagher’s letterbox, unafraid of the consequences she might face. 

“Y’alright, kid?” Maria, a waitress you were on shift with saddled close to you, her brows knit in concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Looking at Liam Gallagher, a stack of frilly love letters in his hand, you feel like you’re seeing worse. “I just —” you stutter, not taking your eyes off Liam who got sidetracked by the jukebox and was now rummaging in his wallet for some loose change. 

Maria turns to see what’s got you looking so shell shocked and cocks her head at the sight of Liam. “Ex-boyfriend of yours?”

“What? No!” you protest indignantly, a bit too loudly that Maria raises a brow and Liam turns to see the commotion. You hiss, backing away from the counter slowly as he prowls your way. You send Maria a pleading look. “Just stuff from the neighborhood!” you tried to reassure her shakily.

“Uh huh,” she says, unimpressed. 

You pout. “Maria, it’s nothing serious,” you say, the distance between the two of you growing as you begin to slowly back yourself towards the staff exit. “But I’m going to need you to cover me for the last hour of my shift.”

She sighs, deep and fond. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says warningly as she marches to the time clock and punches you out early. 

That’s all you need, you see Liam finally at the counter trying to get Maria’s attention but you’re already gone, past the kitchens where you loudly bid Asa goodbye. You didn’t even hear his response as you shouldered the heavy door open and ran to your chained bike. 

The bell above the diner rings as a customer steps out, your hands shake where they try to find your lock key in your pocket. “Oi!” Liam calls out to you. “Neighbor girl! Yoo-hoo! Wait up!” he calls out as he makes his way down the tiled steps, smiling jovially at you as his hands grip the unmistakable envelopes that contains your bare heart. 

There was no way that you were going to have that conversation with Liam Gallagher of all people. Hell, there was no way that you were going to have that conversation at all! No one was supposed to see those letters in the first place. 

You curse as he gets closer, the key not anywhere near to being found. In a desperate bid for escape, you search your surroundings and your eyes quickly alight as they catch sight of a pale blue bike with a scuffed up handlebar. 

“Aye, lover girl! Slow down!” Liam calls, seconds away from you, his scuffed up trainers making quick work of the distance. 

Your heart beats unnaturally fast in your ribcage, your palms sweat as you wipe them down on the frilly apron you forgot to take off before leaving, and you ask for silent forgiveness as you take hold of the bike’s handlebars and swing yourself on top of the seat.

You left Liam Gallagher in the dust, pedalling hard enough for you to be panting like a dog seconds in. It wasn’t until you had made it to your neighborhood that you saw the initials etched on the bike.

LG

Amazing. Absolutely top. The day started out well enough, it had been too chilly for you to wear your favorite skirt, but you thought your misfortunes would end there. Amy had given the last of the milk up to you for cereal, she had given up the first shower, and she didn’t even rush you when you insisted on finishing the lasat chapter of your book before leaving. Amy had been gracious and generous the entire morning and you were blissfully unaware that she was hiding an ace up her sleeve. 

You really should have known. The moment that you accidentally let the existence of those letters slip, you should have already burnt them. Because of course, Amy, the all-action go-getter that she is, would take matters into her own hands. 

You pedaled faster, a bit unused to the unbalanced way that Liam’s shoddy bike tipped to one side. Your hair whipped around your face as you let out a quiet shriek of embarrassment. Had Noel read your letters and sent Liam to come reject you because he couldn’t do it himself? Had Amy mailed out all of your letters? Did Liam find your heartfelt scribbles to his brother so amusing that he showed it to all his dodgy mates? 

You could cry with frustration, trying to ransack your brain for every line and ever sentence that could be deemed incriminating in those letters. You sighed as you realized that they were all quite incriminating. 

You make it back home to the estates at a record time, pausing by the Gallagher’s home with your head cocked as you watched for any sign of life. When there isn’t a creak or cough to be heard from the inside you look quickly to the side to see if anyone’s watching as you haul Liam’s bike over your shoulders, wincing in pain at the heaviness. You attempt to get it over their wooden fence and into their yard safely without any knuckleheads attempting to steal Liam’s bike. After all, that was not a crime you would like to be pinned onto you.

For the next five or so minutes, you spend your time with Liam’s bike over your shoulders, trying to make it go over, but instead having it fall with a loud clang everytime it fell on the pavement at your feet instead. 

A door creaks open, a head pops out to see you still panting, “You alright over there, dear?” Liam’s kind neighbor, Doris, had her glasses perched on her nose and her hand clutching a pack of biscuits. You smile and wave at her, trying to look like you weren’t returning Liam’s stolen bike. 

“Peachy, Eden! Absolutely swell!” you say, voice cracking as you shot her a thumbs up. 

She smiled warmly at you. “It’s nice to see those Gallagher boys finally having a good egg like you around them,” she said before closing the door and leaving you to your own devices. 

You huff, bending down to a squat and lifting the bike above your shoulders before finally tipping it over with a loud crash. “Shoot,” you mumbled at the sound. “Hope I didn’t break that.”

Then you run. In hindisight, it was quite stupid. There was no one but little kids and old people milling about the streets and the Gallaghers weren’t even home to watch your numerous attempts at getting their youngest’s bike in their property. Your hands were stained from where the bike scuffed as you lifted it, you were pretty sure there were some marks on your face as wel, but you were determined to get home. 

You ran down the street, into your yard where Amy’s bike was already parked, ripped the front door open and dashed up the stairs into your room. You didn’t yell for Amy yet, no, you needed to be sure. You got down on your knees on the shaggy pale pink carpet of your bedroom and lifted up your bedskirt to rummage for the old hatbox that had your letters. 

A swift count of them revealed that there were seven letters missing. It was no coincidence that you wrote seven letters to Noel Gallagher. You grit your teeth. 

“Amy!” you screeched, pushing yourself off the floor and nearly taking out your bedroom door from the hinges as you crossed the space between your bedroom and hers. “Amy, I can’t believe you did that!” you screeched, walking into her room and finding her smiling at you sheepishly. 

“Hey,” she greets, turning in her swivel chair to greet you. The nerve.

You march up to her, looking down at her from where you stood as you stomped your foot. “You sent my letters.”

“Not all of them,” she said plainly. “Just all of Noel’s.”

“Why?” you grit out, frustrated at her lack of understanding of the situation. 

She shrugged, you smacked her arm hard enough for her to protest. “Because you weren’t going to do anythin’ about it!” she exclaimed, still rubbing her arm. “You weren’t goin’ to send them!”

You groaned, stepping away from her and falling back into her bed. “They weren’t meant to be sent,”” you cry, putting your hands up to your face to hide in them.

Amy sighed. “Then were they meant to sit in that ugly old hatbox of yours forever?”

You took your hands away from her face to glare at her icily. “Yes,” you said emphatically. “And my hatbox is not ugly!”

You feel the bed dip beside you as Amy sinks and lies down right next to you. You cross your arms petulantly as she turns her head to look at you. “To each their own,” she muses. “But about those letters … kid, y’know it had to be done. You’ve been pinin’ away for two years now, sighing everytime Noel passes and it breaks my heart that you won’t give yourself the chance to fall in love because you’re stuck in this kind of bubble.”

You hum, half stewing in your butthurt feelings, half listening to Amy’s spiel. 

“The truth is that you won’t get anything you want without going for it. And the way I saw it, you wanted Noel Gallagher —”

“Want is a strong word,” you interrupt wryly.

“You want,” she continues, sending you a sharp look. “The kind of love you read about in those books of yours. And you’re not doin’ anythin’ about it.”

You sigh, finally turning to look at her. “Well, it wasn’t your decision to make.”

“I know,” said Amy. “It was a risk I was willing to take.”

You give her a look. “On my behalf?”

She shrugs, looking away from you and turning her gaze to the ceiling. “Big sisters know best, yeah?”

You snort and shove her lightly. “If this turns out badly, promise me you’ll go to Noel and tell him it was an elaborate prank.”

She laughs. “Promise,” she says. “But I have a feeling it’ll turn out fine.”

You look at her flatly. “Liam Gallagher barged into Sweetheart’s this afternoon with the letters. I had to clock out early and have Maria cover my shift so I wouldn’t have to speak to him,” you admitted. “Then I stole his bike. I had to lift it back into their yard before going home.”

“Well, at least this is entertaining?”

You shake your head in exasperation. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I kinda saw that coming. But I’ll do your laundry for a month if you just stick with this for a hot minute, yeah?”

“Just a hot minute?” you ask. 

A hot minute is like an eternity when your heart is in a stack of envelopes in Liam Gallagher’s hands. Are you curious to know why he has them in his possession? Obviously. But are you curious enough to go up to him and ask him about it? Absolutely not. In fact, you spend the entire weekend hiding away in your room, not so much as going into the view of any street facing windows lest either Gallagher brother catch sight of you. 

You felt like a wanted woman on the run. You refused to go out with Amy when she asked you to go to the shops with her, you had Amy buy the groceries your mam trusted you with, and you didn’t dare attempt go back to Sweetheart’s to get your beloved bike. You watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s, then The Philadelphia Story, then Sabrina. Then you read a few novels to keep your mind occupied. Because it it wasn’t, you tended to bury your head in a pillow and scream in embarrassment for your predicament.

You didn’t work weekend shifts. Anyone at Sweetheart’s could tell Liam that. But that doesn’t erase the fact that Liam very much knew where you lived. 

“Your bike’s back,” Amy said on Sunday, pouring herself some cereal as you munched on some toast. 

You blinked. “My bike?” you asked, dumbfounded. “How –?”

“How else d’ya think?” Amy asked flatly, speaking with a mouth full of Cheerios. You wrinkled your nose in disgust. “Liam picked the lock on your bike chain. Brought it over here last night.”

You wrinkled your brow in confusion. “Liam?” you said. “And how do you know all of this?”

She sighed, burdened. “The bastard kept throwin’ pebbles at my window thinkin’ it was yours.”

You raised a brow. “And did you tell him that it wasn’t?”

Amy shook her head, hair a tangled mess where it fell. “Nah,” she said. “He ain’t the brother you’re goin’ for, aye? Why bother?”

So you go back to eating your toast, heart a bit more full with the thought of your bike returned to you. At least you weren’t going to work in the morning on the back of Amy’s beat up bike like a toddler. 

But to every high, there was a low. Monday inevitably came. And you weren’t in the position to skip work, you needed that check. So you heave yourself up and off the bed, getting ready to march yourself into the outside world once again.

And what do you know, you clock in at eight o’clock in the morning on the dot to see Liam Gallagher already seated at the diner’s high chairs by the counter, sipping on a chocolate milkshake and swinging his legs off the seat with that carefree attitude of his. 

You sigh and make your way behind the counter. Liam clocks you instantly. “Wa-hey!” he cheers, mouth stained with a bit of chocolate. “It’s the bike thief!”

You whip your head around to glare at him. “Shhh!” you hiss. “Keep it down.”

He clucked his tongue at you. “I had to walk all the way home, me.” He shook his head in mock sadness, but the playful glint in his eyes told a different story. 

You scanned the diner for a way out of this conversation, a customer to tend to, maybe? But it was an abnormally slow morning. Great. “You could have taken the bus,” you told him. 

He shrugged, back to swinging his legs on the seat restlessly. “Didn’t have any more money. Put it all in that jukebox of yours.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Well, that part isn’t my fault.”

“Aye,” he nodded. “Just the bike stealin’ part.”

You sigh before handing him a napkin and gesturing to his lips. He dutifully wipes the chocolate off. “Listen, Liam,” you began. “I’m really sorry for stealing your bike, yeah? But I had an emergency —”

“The emergency bein’ that you ain’t wanna see me?” he asks cheekily. 

You look at him flatly. “Well, no. I —”

He nodded. “Saw that I had your letters and had to run,” he continued your sentence for you. 

He kept hitting the nail on the head. But he didn’t have to know that. “What letters?” you deny, a bit stupidly in a bid for control over the situation. 

Liam is unimpressed, he leans his forearms onto the counter to be closer to you and raises a thick brow. “You expect me to believe that?”

You swallow thickly before nodding. “Yeah, Liam. I dunno what you’re talking about. Really, I just had an emergency that I needed to get to.”

He blinked before nodding, reclining back into his seat and slurping his chocolate milkshake loudly. You let him drink in silence, turning to do some work in the counter and to serve a few customers milling about. It isn’t until nearly fifteen minutes later when Liam speaks again, “Dearest, Noel. The first time I saw you, I was pretty sure my heart fully stopped. I had liked other guys before —”

You shriek and all but clamber over the counter to cover Liam’s mouth with your hand. “Jesus!” you hiss, pressing down on his smug smile. “Why do you have it memorized?” you bite.

The vibration of his laugh under your palm is unmistakable. You let go with warm cheeks and stare him down. “Got a fine memory,” he said, tapping his temple. “Hammer to the head can’t do damage on this baby.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms defensively in front of you. “Why do you even have the letters in the first place?”

He snorts. “You sent it, yeah?”

You huff. “Technically, I wasn’t the one who sent it,” you corrected. “My sister went snooping around my room and decided to play matchmaker.”

He shrugs. “Well, either way, it was sent to my gaff.”

“But it isn’t for you,” you grit out.

He grins. “Yeah, I got that bit, lover girl. Saw the swirly glitter pen on the envelope sayin’ Noel Gallagher and everythin’.”

“Then why did you open it?” you whisper shriek. 

Liam was having way too much fun with the situation. “Was bored,” he said simply. “And Noel ain’t home.”

“What?” you ask blankly. 

“Noel ain’t home,” he repeats. “He’s off with that magic carpet band of his. Won’t be back for another two weeks.”

“Inspiral Carpets,” you correct absently before shaking your head as if to clear it. “Wait, I’m sorry. So, Noel doesn’t know about the letters.”

Liam shakes his head and bites his straw. “Nah,” he said.

Your grin widens as you begin to giggle. It was a modern day miracle! “Great!” you say through a laugh. “That’s great! Oh, I’m so relieved.”

Liam’s thick brows knit together in confusion. “Uh,” he mumbles. “How is that a good thing?”

You sigh. “I didn’t want those letters sent out, okay?” you explain. “I don’t want Noel reading them, or finding out how much I like him, or that I even wrote him letters in the first place.”

Liam pouts in confusion, head cocked to the side. “But,” he begins. “Those letters were class. Proper fuckin’ love letters they were. Was almost jealous that Noel’s got seven of ‘em.”

You chuckle. “Well, Noel doesn’t need to know, alright?” you say. “Please, Liam. Can you promise me that you won’t tell?” You bat your lashes, helplessly trying to get Liam to side with you on this one. 

Liam barely stops himself from laughing in your face as he plucks the cherry garnish of the milkshake from the dregs of his cup and pops it in his mouth. Stem and all. “Well,” he begins, mouth full. “I have an interestin’ proposition for you, lover girl.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

He continues on as if you hadn’t interrupted. “What if I set you up with Noel? Give you the juicy goss on how to woo him? Ain’t that a dream?”

You wrinkle your nose. “And why would you wanna do that?”

He pops the cherry stem out of his mouth. “You’re a kind bird. I always kinda liked you. Wouldn’t mind my brother havin’ you.”

“I’m not something to have, Liam,” you explain, patience dwindling. “And you expect me to believe that you’re just doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”

He reacts as if he’s been shot, hand to his chest and an overexaggerated groan leaving his pink lips. “You don’t think I can be a kind lad?”

You sigh. “You’re deliberately being thick,” you tell him, flatly. “Of course you’re a kind lad. But I have trouble believing that there isn’t something in it for you.”

Liam hangs his head and pushes the milkshake glass your way. You deftly take hold of it and bring it to the kitchen’s dishwasher. You return to find him with his head propped on his chin, watching you. You raise a prompting brow and he relents. “Fine,” he says petulantly. “I figured if my brother fell in love with some nice bird, then he’d write some nice tunes for my band.”

“You’re in a band?” you ask, shocked. 

He gives you a dry look. “You know Noel writes songs but you ain’t noticed that I’m in a band.”

You shrugged. “There’s a reason those letters say Dearest Noel instead of Dearest Liam,” you tease.

He laughs easily, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, our songs are kinda shite now and Noel alway has some good stuff. But he ain’t been writin’ as much as he used to. I figured some good ol’ lovin’ would make him pick that pen back up.”

You hummed, piecing it all together. “So you want to set me up with Noel so he’d fall in love and write songs about it?”

He nodded eagerly. “He needs a muse, yeah?”

You smile sadly at him and his excited expression. “Liam,” you say gently. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be anyone’s muse.”

He pouts, bottom lip dragging downwards. “That’s a load of shite, c’mon!”

You shake your head resolutely. “No can do, Liam. Sorry.”

He retreats into his seat, looking at you a bit lost. Like he can’t quite understand you before sighing and saying, “Noel would like you if you just gave it a shot,” he said, picking at the hem of his shirt. You open your mouth to say something before he beats you to it. “You’re smart an’ funny. You live just down the road from us which would be great whenever he wants to visit. You have a job that pays well which means that you won’t have to rely on him all the time. You’re sweet, and you’re pretty, and you’re a nice bird. I don’t get why you think you ain’t a muse.”

You blink, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know you paid enough attention to me,” you laugh stiltedly, assessing Liam in this new light. 

He shrugs as if it was no big deal. “Ain’t hard,” he says. Then, in an act that balances his sweetness out, he burps and asks you, “Now, d’you got any of those basket of chips, please?”

He doesn’t take the chips to go like you hoped he would. He sits by the counter, humming tunes to himself as he eats like supplies are running low. The thing about Liam Gallagher that you were currently learning was that he was persistent. Once he knew what he wanted, he grabbed onto it and wouldn’t let it go. Which meant that for your entire nine hour shift, Liam sat on that counter seat and waited. Not patiently, god no, never patiently. He chatted with every patron that came, played a number of Beatles tunes, went out for a smoke a total of five times, and even began charming Maria. 

“He’s a nice lad, aye?” she said to you as she passed, winking. 

You flushed. “He’s my neighbor!” you explained. 

“Mhm,” she hummed, leaving you and Liam to your own devices. 

He pouts as you. “How long is your shift,” he whines pitifully. 

You laugh, “Five more minutes then I could clock out,” you say. “You don’t have to wait up, y’know? It’s not like I agreed to your weird suggestion.”

“It ain’t weird!” he protests. 

You stick your tongue out at him as you leave to take care of your last table. 

Liam watches eagerly as you clock out and hang your apron, giving him a look that made him stand up hastily and follow you out the main entrance of the diner. You catch sight of his bike next to yours and smile. “Hey, I never thanked you for returning my bike,” you said, walking next to him. “That was very sweet of you.”

“No sweat,” he said. “Figured it was a thank you for hauling my bike up our fence. Doris said it took an age for you to do.”

You groan as he laughs loudly. “I didn’t know she watched the whole thing!”

“Said it looked like you were out there trying to catch a stroke,” he giggled. 

You sighed. “It was a heavy bike,” you grumbled. 

He smiled warmly. “Thanks for bringin’ it back, yeah?”

You take the key out of your pocket and unlock the chain, putting it in your bag as you swung your legs onto your bike. You raised a brow at Liam, “I forgot we’re going the same way.”

“Don’t get sick of me yet, lover girl!” he says, pedaling away. With a sigh, you pick up your pace and ride next to him. The ride home after your shift was always a peaceful thing. As much as you loved the diner, it could be loud nad overwhelming. Being on your bike, the wind on your face, and houses rushing past you in a haze was a way for you to finally breathe. 

Beside you, it seemed like Liam was doing the same thing. Just breathing it all in.

You thought about Liam’s proposition and you thought about Amy’s words. An opportunity seemingly landed in your lap. What better way was there to woo Noel than to find out more about him from his brother? Noel and Liam were close. They liked to pretend they weren’t, but they’ve always been thick as thieves. If you have the approval of one brother, you’ll gain that of the other. 

You looked to Liam, his hair a mess in the afternoon wind, and made up your mind. You weren’t a betting woman, but you’ll place your bets on this.

It wasn’t until you two had passed his home and had stopped at yours that either of you spoke. 

“Please think about my suggestion —”

“I’ll do it —” 

You two spoke at the same time, facing each other, still on your bikes. Liam blinked, having caught the start of your sentence, and pushed his bike off him to give you a big bear hug. “Fuckin’ class!” he cheered. “‘Ya won’t regret it, lover girl!” he said, shaking you in his joyful embrace.

You laughed and smacked his chest. “Yeah, yeah,” you said. “Better make it worth my while.”

“Oh, you’ll be Noel Gallagher’s bird in no time, babe,” he guaranteed. 

You were still smiling as you shut the door behind you, watching Liam pedal away from your house, turning to wave at you with only one hand on the handlebar. “Eyes on the road!” you warned. His laugh rang jovially down the street.

“See ‘ya tomorrow, bike thief!” he yelled loudly, heating your cheeks up as you closed the window in embarrassment and drew the curtains. 

You ignored Amy’s smug smile as you went up the stairs to your room. 

***

Liam doesn’t have the patience to stay for another round of your nine hour shift. Instead, he waits outside Sweetheart’s in your last ten minutes on the clock, and comes in to order two milkshakes to go.

“One chocolate milkshake and one of whatever your favorite flavor is,” he says, taking out his busted wallet and wiggling his brows. “My treat.”

You snort as he gives you a crumpled up bill and tell him to wait outside for you.

You have the barista whip up the creamiest milkshakes before you hang up your frilly pink apron, clock out, and leave with Liam. The milkshakes were definitely an obstacle that you didn’t foresee, one hand occupied with holding it tight while the other kept you upright on the bike. Liam, for all his swagger, kept swerving into you.

“Liam,” you warned as he bumped into you again.

“I’m tryin’” he whined. 

You huffed. “Where are we even going?” you asked, beginning to tire from biking with one hand. 

“It’s just up ahead!” he said defensively. 

“Where?” you asked curiously. 

“The chippy by the estates!”

The chip shop near your neighborhood was a staple. Gertrude had been manning the shop with her husband Michael since the seventies and had made it a cozy space to land after nights out, tiring afternoon shifts, or early mornings. You and Amy often bought from the very same chip shop on days that your family didn’t quite feel up to cooking anything. It was on those days that fish and chips felt like a meal fit for a queen. 

Gertrude greets you with a coo and a cheer, asking after your sister and your parents fondly. But she greets Liam with a gigantic hug and a motherly kiss to his cheek. “Oh, Liam! It’s nice to see you, sweetheart! You don’t come to visit here as often as you should. Haven’t seen your cherubic face in so long!”

You bite your lip to prevent a laugh from escaping, Liam sends you a look beforee taking Gertrude’s hand in his and kissing it charmingly. “Missed ‘ya, Gorgeous Gertie!” he crowed. 

That’s how you ended up with a gigantic free basket of chips. 

“You’re well loved around here,” you say, more of a statement than a question. It was true, the way Gertrude fussed over Liam, the way Michael made sure to make his fish just the way he likes it, the way that their youngest son came up to Liam to show him his new football. It was endearing, a side of Liam you didn’t know.

He shrugged, shoveling a gigantic portion of fish into his mouth. “I’m well loved everywhere, me.” He puffs up his chest and winks jokingly. 

You shake your head, eat your chips, and sip on the strawberry milkshake Liam bought for you. Liam devours his meal in the eeries way that young men often do. Which meant that as he pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket and extracted a pen from the other, you had only take five bites out of your meal. 

“Strategy time,” he says, smoothing the creases of the paper and beginning to write. You smiled at his concentration and leaned back to let him do all the talking. “So it’s gonna be like school, yeah? Gonna have one of those curriculum thingies to follow.”

You hummed and bit your straw.

“First,” he starts, writing sloppily on the paper. “Is gonna be about Noel. Everything there is to know about him; what he likes, what he dislikes, what he listens to, what he does, where to take him, how he showers, how he shits —”

“Ew!” you protest.

Liam rambles on, “Every fuckin’ thing, lover girl. That’s where we’ll start.”

The scribbles on the paper where unintelligible, but you let Liam do his own thing, too endeared to even tell him that you couldn’t read what he was frantically trying to write. 

“Next,” he says. “Is putting you in Noel’s life. Introduce you to his friends, to his family, the works.”

You frowned, suddenly nervous. “Isn’t that like … a girlfriend thing?” you say. “I mean, it would be kinda embarassing to be introduced as the girl pining after Noel to all his mates.”

Liam sighs. “You’ll be introduced as my friend, ‘ya nutter,” he grumbled, as if confused by your confusion. “Him and I have the same mates, the same mam, the same everythin’. Would be easy to introduce you to them. And trust me, they’ll like you.”

You scoff. “How are you so sure?”

Liam looks at you intently as he says, “I’m sure.”

You bite into your fish to avoid ensuing eye contact. “And next in the curriculum …?” you prompt him. 

Liam perks up, writing steadily on the paper you were sure he was gonna give to you and you were going to have to pretend to understand. “Next in the curriculum is all about you. Gettin’ you ready to see Noel again and make your move.”

You nod, trying to look determined. But your voice wavers when you ask, “When’s he back again?”

Liam steals a handful of chips off your plate. “On the fourteenth.”

“Right,” you say drily, the situation only making itself known to you right at that moment. 

“Valentine’s Day,” Liam wiggles his brows. “Day of love,” he singsongs. 

You groan and slump in the viny seat. “Perfect.”

“It is!” Liam says enthusiastically, not catching your tone. “Mam’s gonna throw a little welcome back for her boy, and you are gonna be there.”

You nod, having the sense that you’ve bitten off more than you could chew. “Okay,” you say, voice a higher pitch than normal. “That’s okay.”

It definitely was not okay.

Liam worked quick, and he worked efficiently. He spent the succeeding hour in that chippy doing a play by play of all Noel’s favorites; color, song, food, movie, which jumper he liked using, which aftershave he prefers, what ice cream he pretends not to like, which restaurant he’d always wanted to go to, his favorite spot to go smoke a joint. Liam puked up all information on Noel that you could possibly need.

You went home dizzy and overwhelmed and you fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. 

Another thing about Liam is that he seemingly didn’t rest. The moment you woke up, you were bombarded with pebbles hitting your window. And there could truly only be one perpetrator for that. You sigh as you turn in your bed, rip the sheets off your body and march over to your window to open it with an agressive pull.

“Ow!” you yell as a pebble hits you square in the forehead. “Liam!” you hiss, looking down at Liam’s sheepish figure rubbing the back of his head. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, flashing a smile that crossed with a grimace. “Can I come up?” he asks, gesturing to the trellis of roses leading up to your window. 

You yawn and retreat from the window, but not before calling, “Help yourself.”

Liam crawled up the trellis in a startling show of athleticism. Grunting and groaning as he climbed, and landing with a heavy thump on your carpeted floor. “Whoa,” he breathed as he stepped into your room, gazing at the frilly mess of it all. You were quite proud of your room; it was like one of your scrapbooks come to life. It had polaroids of your loved ones, pieces of lacy ribbons strewn everywhere, glitters and gems on surfaces that didn’t usually have glitters or gems, vintage furniture from the charity shops, and books shoved in every surface.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say as you fix your bed. You point to a pale pink foot stool, “Take a seat?”

Liam obliged, looking abnormally large as he sat. “Nice place,” he said, still assessing the room. There wasn’t any passive aggressive or joking tone to be found in his voice. In fact, he seemed kind of awed as he turned his head this way and that. He smirks and stands up, beelining for a picture you knew he’d take notice of. “Look at the pair of ‘ye.” He taps the polaroid, booping picture-you’s nose. “The perfect couple.”

It was taken last year during your birthday. Amy had taken to surprising you with a party at Sweetheart’s, filling it with your favorite people. Noel had come, an hour late but bearing a stuffed bear that sat on a place of pride on your book case. Pictured was Noel’s arm around you as you leant into him, beaming as you held the bear up to the camera.

You blushed. “Shut up,” you mumble.

Liam just grins and sits back down, doing his best to look laidback in his seat. “So,” he drawls, rummaging in his rucksack to pull out what must have been twelve CDs, all of them clacking on their jewel cased plastic. He handed them to you. “Came here to bring ‘ya this.”

You blink and quickly take it from him. The Smiths, The La’s, The Stone Roses, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Sex Pistols, The Kinks. You looked at each cover and smiled gratefully at Liam. Even you knew how much music meant to Noel. “Thanks, Liam,” you said, truly grateful. 

He beamed. “Start with The Smiths. I don’t like ‘em, but ‘rkid thinks they’re amazin’”

You set the CDs down on the made bed turn to Liam. “You’re a bit early today,” you say, leaning on the foot of your bed. You should really start getting ready, but you very well couldn’t do it while Liam was in the room. The thought made you blush. “I thought you were gonna swing by after work?”

He shook his head, shaggy head of hair shaking. “Nah. Got a gig later, d’ya know what I mean.”

Your brows raise. “Ah. The infamous The Rain.”

“Well, don’t say it like that!” he protests with a frown. “We’re class!”

You laugh, not unkindly. “I’m sure you are.” He’s still frowning when he mumbles something under his breath. You lean in closer to hear him. Honestly, this boy. As petulant as a puppy denied a treat. “What was that?” you ask.

“I said,” he repeats loudly. You resist a snort at his tone. “You should maybe come to the gig tonight. Couldn’t hurt havin’ one more familiar face in the audience.”

“Wow,” you say wryly. “Glad to know you think so highly of me.”

He huffs, fidgeting with his hair, mussing it up. “You know I want you there,” he says, surprising you. “But this could also help with introducing you to Noel’s mates. They’re gonna be there tonight.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “Oh.”

Liam gave you a look. “C’mon. They ain’t gonna bite.”

You frowned. “I’m not gonna know anyone there, Liam. All I’ll know is you and you’ll be up onstage doing god knows what!”

“I sing,” he corrected easily.

“You’ll be up onstage singing!” you continue, distressed. The thought of being at a place as lively as a gig, knowing no one in the crowd was intimidating. Knowing you need to make a good impression on top of that was even more intimidating. “Maybe Amy’s free tonight,” you mused.

Liam’s look sharpened. “Hey,” he scolded. “We both know that if ‘yer sister’s there, you’ll just end up clinging to her. You need to broaden your horizons, lover girl.”

“Don’t call me that,” you respond automatically. 

“C’mon,” Liam coaxed, his eyes a shining pool of blue. 

You sighed gruffly. “I’ll think about it.”

Liam’s smile began to grow. “Really?”

“I’m still not sure, Liam,” you try to say but Liam’s already whooping with joy, gathering you in his arms and rendering you unbalanced enough to fall into his lap.

It was then that Amy wrenched open your bedroom door. To the odd scene of you in Liam Gallagher’s lap as he thanked you profusely. She raises a brow.

“Hello!” Liam greets jovially, you still seated firmly on his lap.

Amused but trying not to show it, Amy says, “Hello?” 

“I’m Liam,” he introduces uselessly, seeing as he and Amy have known each other for more than a decade.

“I know,” she says. “Say, Liam. D’ya mind unhanding my sister and letting her get ready for work? We’re gonna be late.”

It’s only then that Liam lets go.

And it’s only after Liam clambers joyfully out the open window where he came, crying a See ‘ya tonight! to you with an ear splitting grin that Amy turns to you with a baffled look.

“Now what the fuck’s all that about?”

The rest of the day passes by in a haze, your palms unbearably sweaty, the Peter Pan collar of your dress too tight, and your leg twitching for the entirety of your shift. 

You ignored Amy’s badgering on the way to work, steadfastly explaining the situation and refusing to bite at every sly joke she makes. 

You spend the rest of the day with your mind preoccupied, nervous for tonight. Because you knew that even if you told Liam that you’d think about it, that meant that you’d actually be there. It would be a disservice to you not to, and it’d be a mild disappointment on Liam’s end. You owed it to yourself to try, even though the thought scared you shitless.

“Your boy ain’t here?” Maria says, bumping your hip with his. 

You huff. “Not my boy,” you correct. “And he’s got a gig tonight.”

“Oh,” she says, brows flying to her hairline. “He’s in a band?”

You nod. “I hear they’re pretty great. Liam’s the singer and everything.”

She smiles. “That sounds lovely. Enjoy tonight, hon. I remember goin’ to my boyfriend’s gigs at that age. What a time!”

Before you could protest, Maria sidles away to tend to a customer. You don’t have much time to mull over what she said as a man asks for a refill of his coffee.

Before you know it, the clock ticks to five o’clock and you’re waving goodbye to Maria who hugs you goodbye and kindly asks Is that what you’re wearing to the gig? Which you interpreted to mean Don’t wear that to a rock gig.

So you add Go home to change on your agenda and cycle home with a racing mind. What if Noel’s friends don’t like you? What if you spend the night miserable and in one corner? What if you realize that you’d rather be anywhere than at The Boardwalk listening to local bands? What if it’s too tight, too crowded, too amped up, too loud — You nearly miss the turn to the estates and have to double back to get on the right track. 

The evening is spent rushing. You wash the grime of the day with a quick shower, you put your usual make up on, you curl your hair prettily, and you spend an age picking out something to wear. “Amy!” you screech, though she was just in the room beside yours. “Amy! C’mere!”

She drags herself to your room, dead eyed and unimpressed as you show her your pick of at least seven outfits. “Are you going to be doing a quick change every set?” she bites.

You frown. “Help me!” you plead.

She rolls her eyes and enters your room. With efficiency, she throws out three of your outfits (Too school girl, too posh, trying too hard to be a rockstar). You’re left with four, all laid out neatly on your bed as you and Amy stand side by side to look at it from every angle. 

“I think the red one’s chic,” you blurted out after moments of deliberation. “Simple enough but still cool.”

Amy shoots you a look. “Then wear that.”

You drag out a breath. “But what if it’s not good?”

“As long as it’s good with you, then it’s perfect,” she says. “I can’t believe I have to tell you that. Just be yourself tonight, yeah? Don’t go actin’ like someone you’re not. They’ll all love you. See, Liam likes you, and his and Noel’s mates are just like ‘im. You’ll be a star!”

You nod jerkily, bundling up the outfit in your arms. “Okay,” you breathe. “Be myself, okay,” you mumble to yourself, not unlike a mantra.

Amy pats your shoulder. “Atta girl,” she says before moving to leave. “Have fun tonight. Don’t be late for curfew. And move a bit quicker because you’re late.”

That lights a fire under your ass. You get dressed quickly, do one last check of your outfit before grabbing your essentials. You yell a quick goodbye to Amy as you slam the front door closed and start your trek to the bus stop. Biking there could very much kill you and render you an hour late. The bus would still make you late, but at least you won’t be panting and sweating on it. 

To your delight, the bus arrives early, and you greet the driver with an enthusiastic hello! that he chuckled at. You sat close to the door and watched the world pass by in colors as the bus sped away. 

You rocked your foot nervously, tapping an uneven rhythm that had the old lady across from you handing you a sweet to ease your nerves. You smile grateful at her and put the caramel toffee in your mouth, eager to have something to occupy you. 

You were only eighteen minutes late when you got to The Boardwalk. But with the way Liam was scanning the crowd from the bar, he didn’t even think you were gonna make it. You smile as you catch sight of him, brows knit as he searched the faces in the space, hand cradling a cold lager, and his lips forming a small frown. 

You grin and raise your hand high in the air to wave. “Oi!” you shout, catching his attention. He brightens immediately, his frown turning up into a fond grin as he catches sight of you.

“Lover girl!” he cries out, arms spread wide as he welcomes you with a tight hug. You reciprocate, winding your amrs around his middle and swaying a bit as Liam rocks you back and forth. He lets go and all the warmth goes with him. “Thought ‘ya wouldn’t make it?”

“You thought I’d chicken out?” you said with a raised brow. 

He raises his glass to you and grins cheekily. “Bawk bawk!” he clucks, imitating a chicken. You laugh and smack his arm to which he dodged easily. “Aye, don’t hit the talent. I’m on in a few minutes!”

You smile up at him. “Oh, good luck! Can’t wait to hear this class band of yours.”

He matches your smile. “And speakin’ of a class band,” he says, winding an arm around your shoulder and facing you in the direction of his mates who were all sporting amused grins at Liam. “These are mine and Noel’s mates!”

You smiled sheepishly at them and give a wave. “Hello,” you say. “Nice to meet you all.”

Liam points to various people. “That over there is Bonehead, lead guitar and pain in the arse. Over there is Guigs, if ‘ya need any ganja, ask him for some. And then we have Tony on the drums, class act,” he says. “And over there, just millin’ about are our mates.” Liam jostles you in his grip then addresses the group. “Now, you lot take care of ‘er while me and the band are up there, aye. She’s funny, this one, so make sure to get that out of her.”

A few people roll their eyes but they all rush to meet you, offering you a drink. You accept and go up to the bar, but not before shooting Liam a smile as he disentangles from you and heads to the stage. “Thanks,” you say quietly.

“No problem,” he answers. ‘Now, wish me luck.”

You grin, giddy. “Luck!”

All your worries melt away as the lights dim, Liam’s mates make earnest conversation about how the two of you met, and to be quite frank, when the drinks enter your system. Someone asks you if you were the one to steal Liam’s bike and you have the time of your life rehashing that whirlwind of a story. 

It wasn’t long until you were laughing along with them that the band finally took the stage. There wasn’t much conversation after Liam started rasping into the mic.

Watching him up there, all swagger and confidence, you could see just how much he was meant to be a rockstar. He looked so at home on that stage, not a single amount of trepidation in his body as he looked over onto the gathered crowd and made them dance to songs that they didn’t even know the lyrics to. He was a magnetic force, drawing in the attention of every person in the room. You knew then that he was destined for greater things. 

Drunk on a a number of gin and juice, you tell him so at the back alley of The Boardwalk, leaning against the brick wall as him and his mates smoked. He grins, wide and boyish when you tell him this, as if he’d just found the secret to eternal happiness. “Really?” he says, eager and sincere all at the same time. 

You nod, tilting your head up to meet his gaze as he draws another breath from the cigarette. He outstretches one to you, brow raised, but you shake your head. He shrugs and makes no comment. “Manchester’s next big thing,” you muse.

He smiles, more subdued, only half listening to Bonehead’s drunken rambling beside him. “Add Noel in the mix and we’ll be the entire world’s next big thing.”

Noel. Right, you haven’t even thought of him all night. “Yeah,” you say. “I’ve never heard him play live but I bet he’d be amazing.”

Liam tilts his head at your comment but shakes it off instead of blurting out something. He takes a drag of his cigarette and leans his head back on the brick wall. You watch the column of his throat bob and swallow thickly. 

“Listen, Liam,” you begin, but then sigh instead. “I gotta go.”

Liam blinks, looking at you a bit wounded. “Now?” he asks incredulously, which catches the attention of his mates. 

You smile at all of them and wave, clinging onto your jacket. “Sorry, lads and ladies,” you say jokingly as some of them begin to protest. “Gotta run soon. I’ve got a curfew and everything. If I get home even a minute late, you won’t be seeing my face for another decade.”

Liam pushes himself off the wall and stubs out his cigarette with no hesitation. “Well then,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You blink at him and ignore the wolf whistling from the group. “You’re walking me home?”

He rolls his eyes and keeps you close with an arm across your shoulder. “Takin’ the bus,” he corrects pedantically. “And yeah. Your parents would kill me. Or Amy would first. Either way, I’m dyin’.”

You huff in amusement and pat his chest. “Then let’s go, rockstar. We got a bus to catch.”

You say goodbye to the group, exchanging numbers and addresses, laughing with held hands, making plans for the next few weeks, and trading a few new inside jokes. Liam raises a brow at you as you finally separate from his mates and make your way to the bus stop. 

“Look at Ms. Popularity over here,” he crows. “Told ‘ya not to worry. They love you!”

You laugh and let Liam pull you in closer as you walk a bit criss crossed and tipsy. “I think I love them as well?”

Liam laughs loudly, a booming sound in the night. You giggle with him. “And I thought I heard you make plans with Mike and his bird? What’s that all about?”

“Oh!” you say, bright eyed with a pep in your step. “We’re gonna go to that new drive-inn thing to watch Barefoot in the Park!”

Liam chuckles and shakes his head. “Noel is so gonna love you when he gets back.”

You squeal with joy, a bit tipsy and a lot happy. You couldn’t wait to see Noel again.

***

The weekend arrives with little fanfare. Save for your frantic baking and distressed complaining of Amy, if you take a sample out of that batch, I swear I’ll combust.

The last two days were uneventful, with Liam bringing you hangover cures the morning after his gig, then dropping you off at work before heading over to rehearsals. Friday was spent with the same customers and the same routine, your body on autopilot as you served the customers with a smile. 

Saturday came and went, but not without Liam knocking on your window to tell you to get ready for tea with him and his mam the next day. He climbed down the trellis so quickly that you didn’t even get to protest.

Which is how you end up on the Gallaghers’ front porch, holding a decadent chocolate cake, apple tarts with vanilla creme, homemade donuts, and honey butter biscuits.

You don’t even wonder if you’ve gone overboard with the baked goods until Peggy opens the door, Liam at her heels like a dog gearing up to run out into the street, and exclaims loudly at your haul. 

“Goodness, dear. ‘Ye didn’t have to go through all the trouble!” she cries, ushering you inside. You smile as you go in, eyes taking in every bit of their home. It was much of the same layout as yours, but the way they used the space made everything feel different. The pictures on the walls, the records on the shelf, the VHS tapes scattered everywhere. You smile at the warmth.

“It’s no trouble, ma’am,” you say.

“Ha!” Liam laughs. Peggy shoots him a glare. “She called you ma’am.”

Your face heats at the possible mistake and Peggy rushes to comfort you. “Oh it’s no big deal. You were just bein’ respectful unlike some people,” she says pointedly to Liam who pouts. “But you can just call me Peggy.”

You smile at her. “Yes, Peggy,” you say dutifully before sending Liam a pointed look. “D’ya mind bringing this into the kitchen with me?”

Peggy sighs as Liam rushes to take the bundle of goods out your arms. “I swear I raised the lad better than that,” she mumbles to you. “So sorry my other lads can’t be here today. I remember Noel talks quite a bit about you.”

You perk up. “He does?”

She nods, heading towards the kitchen. You follow her. “Aye. Says you always serve him his bacon butties on Fridays.”

You stifle a grin as you enter the kitchen, giddy and nearly floating off the linoleum. Liam catches sight of you from where he’s setting the plates up on the table and winks. “Her and Noel would make a grand couple, yeah, mam?”

Peggy gives him an odd look before shaking her head with a sigh. You and Liam exchange a confused look. “Never mind,” she grumbles. “Sit down, sweetheart. Liam will bring us our tea. We’ve got Spaghetti and bread sticks for tonight.”

You sit down on the seat she’s patting next to her and listen as she regales you of the tale of her sons. “Oh, dear. Did ‘ya know that my Liam used to cry and cry and cry so much as a babe that he’d throw up on himself?”

“Mam!”

You leave the Gallaghers’ with a tub full of leftovers, a full stomach, your cheeks aching with laughter, eyes satiated with baby pictures of the brothers, and Liam by your side as he dutifully walks you home. Not because my mam would clip me ‘round the ear if I don’t! he was quick to correct.

“You already fit right in,” he muses as he matches your unhurried pace down the sidewalk. 

You turn to look up at him. “Yeah?” 

He nods. “He’s gonna come back and find that you’re in his life forever. His mates like you, his mam likes you, his brother likes you.”

You raise a teasing brow. “Oh, does he now?” He rolls his eyes and moves to shove you with his body. You stand your ground and pout, “Hey! Careful or I’ll tell all your mates about the story of you in the lake when I see them again next week!”

Liam groans. “Menace,” he says before perking up. “You said you were going to be hangin’ out with me mates next week?” he asks.

“Yup,” you say. “Dunno if you’re invited, though.”

“Haha,” he says drily. “I’ll invite myself.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course.”

“Keep your schedule open for tomorrow night, though,” he says.

You frown in confusion. “Why?”

He grins wildly. “Got plans for us. You’ll see. I’ll pick ‘ya up at work tomorrow? Make sure to dress comfortably!”

The next day, Asa and Maria greet Liam with a smile and a free milkshake as he comes to pick you up. Grinning as they pinch at his cheeks and coo over him. You roll your eyes and drag him away as soon as you clock out, waving goodbye to the pair and to Mrs. Pillock watching you with a smile in a corner booth. 

On your bikes, you laugh as Liam leads you to the destination looming at the distance. After all, it wasn’t that hard to miss the ferris wheel and the rollercoaster that wasn’t usually there. 

The fair was in town just in time for Valentine’s Day. In the darkening dusk of the evening, it was idyllic; the sparkling lights, the loud roar of the rollercoaster, the ringing of bells for each carnival game. It was straight out of a movie. 

With an arm around your shoulders, Liam leads you to the heart of it all. You frown in confusion. “Are we not here to go on some rides?” you ask.

Liam chuckles. “Maybe later,” he says. “But we are here for educational purposes, d’ya know what I mean?”

“No,” you say flatly.

Liam doesn’t let your mood bother him. “The fair, lover girl,” he begins his explanation. “Is a breeding ground for single lads to pick up cute birds.”

You don’t catch on. “So?”

He shakes you a bit in his arms. “So,” he grits out in a combination of frustration and laughter. “This is where I’ll teach you to get your flirt on!”

You push away from him in horror. “No!” you shriek, he only laughs harder, nearly bent over. “That’s not in the curriculum!”

“The curriculum,” he begins through a wheeze of laughter. “Is going as planned. Learn about Noel? Check. Integrate you into his friends and family? Check. Focus on what you need to improve? Still no dice.”

You cross your arms defensively. “Need to improve?” you shriek. 

He rolls his eyes and holds his arms out in what’s supposed to be a calming motion. “Easy, girl,” he says. “I just mean that you need to get used to the whole romance and flirtin’ thing, yeah? ‘Cos so far, you’re not that confident about all’at yet.”

You grit your teeth. “And why’d you say that.”

He shrugs. “You don’t believe that you could pull my brother. You don’t think you’re half as good as you actually are. And I need you to start believing that, yeah?”

You sigh, looking pleadingly at Liam. “Do I have to?”

Liam matches your sigh and gives a soft kiss to your temple. “Sorry, lover girl. You’re gonna have to.”

“Can’t I just do it with you?” you ask desperately, twisting to see him eye to eye. 

He balks, taken aback. “What? Flirt with me?”

You scoff. “Don’t sound so disgusted.”

“I’m not —” he protests loudly before groaning, hands mussing up his hair. “That won’t work,” he says. 

You stomp your foot petulantly. “Why not!”

“Obviously I’ll be a bit biased!” he cries. “You’re my friend!”

You frown deeper. “Damn it,” you grumble before sighing heavily. “Fine. Just show me what to do.”

He gives you a high five that you reluctantly return. “Atta girl!”

Your first mark, funnily enough, was named Mark. According to Liam, he had been in Noel’s class, was recently single, and had nothing going on for him. When asked why he’d like to saddle you to such a guy, he just shrugs and claims it’s in the name of practice. You sigh and go in for the kill. Your walk is that of a newborn foal, your opening line of a drawled out yet unpracticed heyyyyy was horrendous, and your wink was just an exaggerated blink that made him think you were having a stroke. Still, you sauntered over to Liam, waving about a piece of paper with Mark’s number on it. 

“I got his number!” you yell triumphantly.

He smiles and boldly turns you over in another direction, pointing to another lad. “That one. Go.”

Through some conversation and small talk, you find out that his name was Jacob and that he was attending uni in the city. He had a deep love for Pink Floyd, which meant that you got to finally put Noel’s borrowed CDs to good use as you spoke to Jacob about it. You leave triumphantly with his number. Liam sends you a thumbs up and a goofy smile as he points to another lad down by the ring toss. 

You saunter up to him, ask him his name, and turn around quickly when you find out he has a girlfriend. You apologize and grimace, and run to Liam with a tail tucked between your legs. 

“Huh,” he says. “Didn’t know they got back together.”

He instead redirects you to a guy manning an empty game booth where you ask him about how the game works, how many people win in a night, which is his favorite carnival game. And you don’t end up with his number but he let’s you do a free game at the booth where you win a gigantic puppy dog. 

“I’m gonna name him Liam!” you tell Liam giddily as he laughs and points to another guy, this one waiting in line for some corn dogs. You hand over Dog Liam to Human Liam before confidently stepping forward.

You ask over his day, ask what is it about corndogs was appealing, have bit of banter about your food preferences, and he ends up giving you his number. You return to Liam with a pep in your step. “Easy there, heartbreaker,” he laughs, cradling the puppy in his arms as he gives you an enthusiastic high five. “Wanna take a break from being a Casanova?”

Liam ends up knowing the guy who mans the ferris wheel, having the two of you (three if you count Dog Liam) skip the line and ride the carriage immediately. You sigh and lean back as the ferris wheel begins to rise and spin. “That was nice.”

Liam smiles and digs his elbow into your ribs. “What did I tell ‘ya, lover girl?” he says smugly. 

“Liam’s right, I was wrong, this is the best night ever, and I got a cute puppy!” you said. “If this is what happens when you’re right, then I wouldn’t mind being wrong.”

He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t?” he asks skeptically.

“Oh, I so would,” you say. “I’d be pissed for about a week.”

Liam laughs loudly enough to rock the carriage, you squeak and smack him in the arm. “We ain’t gonna fall, trust me,” he says.

You chuckle drily. “Oh, I trust you. It’s these carnival ferris wheels I don’t trust.”

He shakes his head in amusement. “Don’t worry, we’ll live to see the day that Noel comes home.”

You smile and pretend that you don’t hear the traitorous pitter patter in your heart as you lay your head on his shoulder, the evening air breezing past you as the carnival lights shine like it was just for you and Liam.

***

Everything comes to a head soon enough. You couldn’t go back to just ignoring it. Your days pass by quickly, the routine of working at Sweetheart’s broken by Liam’s presence and his smile. 

You do your best impression of a girl who isn’t confused as all hell with Amy by your side as the two of you watch Casablanca on the couch in your living room. 

“So,” you say in between scenes. Quite frankly, the two of you have the entire film memorized by that point. You knew what was gonna happen before it happened. “Noel’s back tomorrow,” you say.

Your sister hums, eyes glued to the telly. You grit your teeth as she pops in a piece of popcorn in her mouth. “Have fun at his welcome back party.”

You sigh. “Yeah, I will.”

“I’m sure Liam’ll be a hoot.”

“Yup,” you say.

“He’s a good lad.”

“I know.”

Suddenly, Amy jerks and turns off the telly. You leap up to protest but she silences you with a glare. “Just admit it?”

You shrink back, already knowing what she wants to hear. But you stand your ground. “Admit what?”

She looks at you sharply before groaning in frustration. “Let’s see. There’s this boy who takes you home from work, sometimes he’d bring you there as well, he takes you on carnival dates where you win stuffed puppies and name them after him, you go to his band’s gig and become best mates with his best mates, you meet his mam, he climbs the trellis on your window like goddamn fucking Tarzan, and he’s not the guy you’ve been in love with for the past two years.”

Your eyes well with tears. “I’m sorry,” you squeak.

Amy immediately softens. “Oh, hon, no,” she breathes, gathering you into her arms. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You sigh wetly. “I know.”

“It’s just that you need to make a choice, yeah?” she says gently, hands gently cradling your skull. Just like she did when you first scraped your knee riding on her bike. “And I, for one, think it’s a very obvious choice.”

***

Noel comes home on February 14th, the afternoon bright as he steps into his home and is greeted by his friends and family. 

The sight of Noel used to send shivers down your spine, you used to think that everytime you saw him, cupid struck right to you. But as he drops his baggage down by the door and greets everyone in attendance, you only feel a prickle of fondness.

“Go get ‘im, Casanova,” Liam whispers in your ear. You shiver as he disappears to give his brother some stick. Then, he points to you and both brothers turn to look at you. Liam with a shy smile, Noel with a jovial one. You wave, and both of them wave back. 

You spend your afternoon with Noel and Liam’s mates, talking about the drive-inn you went to with Mike and Isla, Bonehead’s new bird, Guigsy’s run in with the coppers. Noel is in the middle of each conversation, the prodigal son returned, as he shoots you periodic looks of bafflement and wonder at the fact that you slot into his life so perfectly while he was gone. The bafflement increases when Peggy kisses your cheek and hands you the first slice of pie.

You don’t get a moment alone with Noel until sunset when he’s taken a moment outside to have a smoke and the air inside the house began to get too stifling for your tastes. “Oh,” you say as you catch him there.

He turns to look at you and smiles, cigarette between his lips. “Hello,” he greets quietly. “Didn’t know ‘ya smoked,” he said.

You shook your head and stood next to him by the wall. “I don’t,” you said. “But it was getting a bit rowdy inside.”

Noel snorts in amusement. “Tell me ‘bout it.”

The silence stretches on, you steel your resolve and decide that now was the time to do it, his cigarette was getting shorter with each drag and the night was beginning to grow dark around the edges. “Hey, Noel?” you ask. “Did ‘ya ever know that I liked you?”

Noel turns, his attention fully on you as his brows draw together. “You’re shittin’ me,” he breathes.

You chuckle. “Yup,” you say, amused as you shake your head. “Wrote you a bunch of love letters and everything. I’ll have you read them someday.”

“Huh,” says Noel, astonished beyond words. 

For the first time, you admit, “I don’t like you anymore, though. If that’s what you’re wonderin’. I just … used to. A lot. And it feels wrong not to tell you. I dunno, I just feel like you should know. Close this whole chapter of my life and everything.”

He nods. “Wow,” he says. “I did not see that comin’, yeah?”

You laugh. “Neither did I.”

He joins in on your laughter. “Imagine that,” he says. “My brother’s girl used to fancy me,” your heart skips a beat at that. 

“Wha— How do you —?” you stutter, trying to get the words right.

He stubs out his cigarette. “‘Rkid never shuts up about you on the phone. Been hearin’ your name for weeks. Then he introduces you to our mates, then to mam,” he shrugs. “Figured you were his girl.”

You stare at Noel, heart pounding erratically in your chest as you breathed, “Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

Noel smiles at you, begininning to head back in. He looks back at you from the stone steps and asks, “You comin’ in?”

***

It’s the second time you’ve stolen Liam Gallagher’s bike, but you think this time he’d forgive you much quicker. You find him where Noel said he’d be, sulking like a toddler in the football field, and you smile when you see him kicking the ball around like a man with nothing to his name.

“Thought you used to be quite the player?” you ask him, jolting him from his mood and making him look up at you with furrowed brows. 

“Hey,” he says softly. Softer than you’ve ever heard. It made your heart ache with something fierce as you walked closer to him. “Why’d you leave the party? We’re on a mission, yeah?”

You step closer to him, close enough to touch as he heaves a heavy breath, hair a mess and his chest rising and falling erratically. “Why’d you leave?” you snap back. “Thought you’d be by my side, yeah?”

He shakes his head with a sad chuckle. “You don’t need my help anymore.”

You look up at him earnestly before revealing, “I told Noel I fancied him,” you say, his head snaps up to meet your eyes, the blue impossibly deep. 

“And?” he prompts urgently.

You shrug casually. “He doesn’t like me back.”

Liam blinks before taking your shoulders in his palms and turning you around into the direction of the bike. “Then get back there!” he yells. “There’s no way that that fucker could ever turn you down. C’mon, I’ll knock some sense into the bastard. Honestly, rejecting you, the gall —”

“Liam,” you interrupt softly, fondness swimming in your eyes as you turn to face him, his arms still on your shoulders. “I don’t like Noel anymore.”

“Yeah?” Liam breathes, licking his lips nervously as his fingers stutter a beat on his thigh.

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling dorkily up at him. “See, he has this brother that I—”

Liam Gallagher kisses you like a million love letters poured into one simple action. You could feel the smile on his mouth as he presses your lips to his, a triumph that you were proud to call yours. 

***

My darling Liam, 

Happy Valentine’s, silly boy! If you look in the fridge, I left you a chocolate cake with a cheeky milkshake to go with it. It’s not like the ones we used to have at Sweetheart’s but it would do for our first Valentine’s away from Manchester. (And yes, I will pretend that I didn’t see the strawberry milkshake you’ve got specially ordered from Sweetheart’s. Prick. You really had to upstage me with my own Valentine’s Day gift?)

Say, I think there’s something else that’s important that’s happening today … I just can’t quite put my finger on it …

Kidding! Happy Anniversary, Liam. Four years around the sun with you. Could you believe it? We still have a whole forever to go! Can’t wait! A forever with you would be like a dream come true (Could that maybe be a lyric for the new album?)

Now, listen, I have a few more surprises in store for you today. But I think it will all have to wait until after you get out the recording studio. Unless Noel would be willing to call it a day off in the name of true love? I do worry about him sometimes, maybe I could set him up with one of my girl friends.

Anyway, there isn’t anything to say in this letter that I haven’t already said. But you know me, I’ll still say it again and again. I love you, you are my world, you are my best friend, you are my partner in crime, and because I know you’ll roll your eyes if I don’t include it; you are the most gorgeous man to walk the earth. 

See you in a minute, rockstar. Don’t forget to wipe off the glitter from this card!

Love always,

Your lover girl

P.S. Peggy called and wished us a happy anniversary

P.P.S. NOEL CALLED TO CANCEL REHEARSAL! Says he’s caught the flu but Bonehead told me it was just a hangover. What do you think of a quick trip back to Manchester?

To the prettiest loveliest fittest smartest beloved bird in all of England,

Your letter writing is cute but you really could have just said all that to my face. We share the same house, we sleep in the same bed, and I’m pretty sure this was the same letter you were scribbling away on last night when I told you to come and have a kip with me. You chose this letter over layin’ in the couch with me?

To make it up to me, I am suggesting you do a live reading of the letter right in front of me. Dream date, aye?

And don’t think you’re the only one in this relationship with a few surprises up their sleeve. (It ain’t just the milkshake in the fridge, babe)

See you later, my lover girl. Happy Valentine’s and Happy Anniversary.

Love you long time,

LG xx

P.S. I will call mam after I get to kiss my lovely girl. She’ll understand, yeah?

Liam was never subtle when he didn’t want to be. And he definitely wasn’t subtle when he was in a good mood, of course he was.

I cracked one eye open, just enough to see him moving around the room like it wasn’t six in the morning, like he hadn’t slept two hours, like he hadn’t had me underneath him until late, whispering his name into his neck.

He pulled on that thick polar jacket, the one that made him look like he was built to survive the London apocalypse. Hood up. Half his face gone. He looked like a criminal who stole peace of mind, stability, and the ability to walk straight.

He glanced at me.

“Go back to sleep,” he muttered, like that was even remotely possible.

I didn’t answer. I pretended I was asleep, because if I spoke, I’d sound exactly like I felt: wrecked. Warm. Still burning. Still carrying the aftershocks of last night in my skin.

I heard the door click shut.

And only then, when the silence settled back in, my mind did what it always did.

It replayed him. His hand on my waist. His mouth against my throat. The way he’d spoken into my ear like he knew I’d spend the entire morning thinking about it.

I buried my face in the pillow. Didn’t help. The feeling was still there. That slow, unbearable ache. That sharp little pulse between my thighs that kept growing, like my body was throwing a tantrum because he’d walked out so calmly, like nothing had happened. Like I wasn’t still completely wrecked. I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling.

And I thought: no. This isn’t ending like this.

Because Liam had this habit — this infuriating habit — of getting up to go running like I didn’t need him. Like it wasn’t his fault I felt like this.

I smiled while grabbing my phone and got up lazily, still wearing last night’s shirt, the one he handled me after the session we had, and walked over to the mirror. Messy hair. Sleepy face. Lips slightly swollen. Screaming post-sex.

I took a picture. Nothing obscene, just enough. The bed behind me, sheets still tangled, my shoulder bare, the shirt slipping off like it had lost a fight. And my expression… the kind that said yeah. something happened here.

I posted it on my Instagram story. No explanation. Just the photo. And I waited.

It didn’t even take ten seconds. My phone buzzed.

Liam: what are you doing?

I laughed, covering my mouth with my hand like I was committing a crime. I sat back down on the bed, legs folding under me, heat crawling up my spine again.

I replied innocently.

Me: nothing, why?

Three dots appeared instantly.

Liam: you playing dumb now?

Of course he’d see it immediately. Of course he’d react like it personally offended him.

Me: i don’t know what you mean liam… shouldn’t you be busy running?

His reply came so fast I could practically hear him scoff.

Liam: don’t start. Me: start what? Liam: i’m coming back.

My stomach dropped. My pulse spiked.

Me: for what? Liam: [image attached].

I opened it. And my breath caught. It was him.

Hood up. Face half-covered. That look, the one that said I’m not playing. The Manchester City logo on his chest.

Liam: take a good look. that’s the view you’re getting for the next two hours.

My whole body went hot. I stared at the screen like an idiot, heart punching against my ribs.

“You absolute bastard…” I whispered, alone.

And smiled. My fingers flew across the keyboard.

Me: bold of you to assume you’ll last two hours. Liam: that’s not what you said last night.

I froze and swallowed hard. Like he’d grabbed me by the throat again from miles away. The memory hit like a wave and my thighs pressed together on instinct.

Me: you’ll see when you get here. Liam: don’t move. Me: what if I don’t listen… and I make myself feel good before you even get here?

This time he took longer. And somehow that was worse. Because I could picture him running, breathing hard, phone in hand, jaw clenched, that expression he got when something annoyed him… and turned him on at the same time.

When he finally replied, it was short. Simple. Deadly.

Liam: go ahead. Liam: i want you desperate when i walk through that door.

I stared at the message. Goosebumps exploded across my skin. My entire body went tight, like a wire pulled too far.

I tossed the phone onto the bed with a quiet huff, almost annoyed at how little it took. Two messages. Two lines. And suddenly I was back in that state — warm, restless, aching in a way that felt unfair.

It pissed me off how easily he could do this to me.

My hand slid down my thigh, slow and deliberate, fingers dragging over skin that felt too hot, like it was burning from the inside out. All because of him. I closed my eyes, letting the memory hit me in flashes.

My breathing turned uneven before I even realised it. My fingers kept moving, tracing higher, slower, like I was daring myself. Like I was daring him. And just when it was about to get interesting, when my head tipped back and my lips parted on a silent gasp, the bedroom door swings open with a soft creak.

And there he is—Liam, striding in like he owns the damn world, which, in this moment, feels like he owns me. His winter jacket clings to his broad shoulders, zipped halfway up, the hood half-fallen back from his messy greyish hair. His cheeks are flushed pink from the biting cold outside, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker than usual, that post-run heaviness in his breath making my pulse spike.

God, he looks edible, all rugged and alive, the scent of crisp morning air and his sweat hitting me like a drug. But then his eyes drop straight to my hand, hovering just at the edge of my thigh under the rumpled sheets, and a slow, wicked smirk curls his lips.

“Got you just in time,” he drawls, his voice low and rough, laced with that cocky amusement that always unravels me.

I freeze, my fingers twitching against my skin, heat flooding my face as I yank my hand away like I've been burned. I try to play it cool, pulling the sheet higher over my chest, batting my lashes like butter wouldn't melt.

“What? I was just... stretching. Cold morning and all.”

He chuckles, a dark, throaty sound that sends shivers racing down my spine.

The cold drafts in with him, chilling the air around the bed, but it does nothing to cool the fire building between my legs. He doesn't rush, oh no, Liam never rushes when he knows he's got me squirming. Instead, he shrugs off his jacket, letting it drop to the floor in a heap, revealing the tight black running shirt stretched across his chest, damp with sweat. His scent intensifies, musky, masculine, mixed with the faint pine from the woods he jogged through.

“Stretching, huh?” He steps closer, his running shoes silent on the carpet, eyes locked on mine with that possessive glint that makes my thighs clench. “You were about to finger that greedy little cunt without me, weren't you? After all those filthy texts, teasing me about starting early. Thought you could get away with it?”

My breath hitches, heart pounding as he reaches the edge of the bed. I shift back against the pillows, feigning innocence, but my voice comes out breathy, desperate.

“Maybe I was. Big deal. You left me here on my own, didn’t you?”

Liam's smirk widens, predatory, as he plants one knee on the mattress, the bed dipping under his weight. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist in a firm grip not painful, but unyielding, possessive. He pulls my hand to his lips, pressing a hot kiss to my knuckles while his eyes strip me bare, raking over my shirt rolled up almost to my waist barely hiding my hardened nipples.

"Oi, it is a big deal, love." His lips brushed my forehead slow, deliberate. Almost gentle. "Look at you…" Another kiss, this time just above my eyebrow. "All worked up over a couple of texts." His mouth drifted down, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. Unhurried, like he wasn’t torturing me on purpose. "You’re a right state." His hand slid down my thigh, fingers warm against the heat burning under my skin. He lowered himself slowly, dragging his mouth with him, kissing the inside of my knee, soft and teasing. "Couldn’t even wait five minutes for me, could you?" His lips pressed a kiss higher up my thigh, just close enough to make my stomach flip. "I’ll sort you out."

A whimper slips past my lips, his words hitting like sparks on dry tinder, reigniting everything that’s been simmering since last night. I tug at my wrist half-heartedly, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he presses one last kiss to my thigh slow, possessive before lifting his head. And then he moves. He trails his way back up like he’s taking his time on purpose, like he wants me to feel every inch of the distance between his mouth and mine.

“Admit it,” he murmurs, voice dripping sarcasm and sin. “You saw that picture and started dripping, didn't you? Picturing yourself on your knees, looking up at me just like this while I fuck your pretty mouth.”

I swallow hard, my free hand fisting the sheets as his grip tightens just enough to remind me who's in charge. “Liam...” It's half plea, half challenge, but my body's betraying me, hips shifting restlessly under his stare.

He releases my wrist only to grab my chin, tilting my face up to meet his eyes those piercing blues that see right through me.

“On your knees. Now. Show me how sorry you are for being such a impatient little slut.” His tone is confident, filthy, laced with that sharp edge that makes my core throb. No room for argument, just pure dominance wrapping around us like the sheets tangled at my waist.

I scramble to obey, sliding down the bed onto my knees on the soft carpet, the cool air kissing my exposed skin as I pulled my shirt off, leaving me in nothing but my underwear. My hands tremble as I reach for his waistband, but he bats them away, lowering his running pants himself with deliberate slowness. His cock springs free, thick and hard, already leaking pre-cum from the tip, the sight making my mouth water. He was out there running, thinking of me, getting this worked up... it's intoxicating.

“Eyes up,” he commands, fisting my hair gently but firmly, guiding my gaze to his as he strokes himself once, twice, right in front of my face. “Just like I told you. Look at me while you take it, babe. Show me you're mine.”

I nod, breathless, obsession flooding my veins as I lean in, lips parting to wrap around the head. He groans low, the sound vibrating through me, and thrusts shallowly, filling my mouth with his salty taste.

I suck eagerly, tongue swirling, hollowing my cheeks as I take him deeper, gagging just a little when he hits the back of my throat. His hand tightens in my hair, controlling the pace, slow at first, teasing, then faster, fucking my mouth with raw intent.

“That's it, fuck... such a good girl when you want to be,” he growls, hips snapping forward, his free hand bracing against the bed. “Knew you'd look perfect like this, choking on my cock.”

Tears prick my eyes from the intensity, but I don't stop, moaning around him, the vibrations making him curse.

He pulls out suddenly, strings of saliva connecting us, and hauls me up by the arms, tossing me back onto the bed like I weigh nothing. The mattress bounces, and before I can catch my breath, he's on me, jacket forgotten, shirt yanked off.

“You're gonna scream for me,” he threatens, voice rough with need as he pins my wrists above my head with one hand, the other sliding down to rip my panties aside. His fingers plunge into me without warning, two thick digits curling against that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. I'm drenched, clenching around him instantly, and he laughs triumphant. “Fuck, listen to that. So wet for me already. Couldn't wait, could you? Now you'll take every inch and thank me for it.”

“Liam, please—” I gasp, arching into his touch, my body a live wire under his. 

He withdraws his fingers, smirking at my whine of protest, and lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging my entrance.

“Please what? Beg properly, baby. Tell me how bad you need this cock.”

“I need it—fuck, Liam, I need you inside me, hard and deep. Please.” The words tumble out, breathless and obsessive, my hips bucking up desperately.

With a savage grunt, he slams home, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. I cry out, the stretch burning so good, filling the emptiness that's haunted me since he left. He doesn't give me time to adjust and sets a punishing rhythm immediately, pounding into me like he's been starving for it, raw want etched on his face. The bed creaks under us, the room filling with the wet slap of skin on skin and our mingled moans.

“Mine,” he snarls between thrusts, releasing my wrists to grip my hips, angling deeper, hitting that perfect spot over and over. “This pussy's mine, babe. Say it.”

“Yours—oh god, all yours!” I claw at his back, nails digging into sweat-slick muscle, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. 

He leans down, capturing my mouth in a messy, devouring kiss, teeth nipping my lip as he drives harder, faster.

“Gonna fill you up, make you drip with my cum.” His dirty talk pushes me higher, filthy promises spilling from his lips like weapons.

The coil in my belly tightens unbearably, every thrust sending me spiraling.

“Liam—I'm close, fuck, don't stop—”

“Come for me,” he orders, thumb finding my clit and rubbing tight circles, his pace relentless. “Scream my name, let the neighbors know who owns you.”

I shatter, vision blurring as pleasure crashes over me, walls pulsing around his cock in waves. He follows seconds later, burying deep with a guttural moan, hot spurts flooding me as he collapses half on top, both of us panting, spent, tangled in the sheets.

But even in the afterglow, his hand strokes my side possessively, a smirk tugging his lips.

“Told you you'd be desperate. Next time, wait for me.”