you gotta keep on keeping on

1974

Today I meet a boy at school called Noel.

At first, I thought he hated me. He sits two desks away from me and looks at everyone like they are stupid, even Mrs. Kelly, and Mrs. Kelly is not stupid because she knows all the times tables without looking. He has brown hair and a face like he is always thinking something mean. When I ask him if he wants one of my biscuits at break, he says no, but then looks at it for so long that I leave it on the wall beside him.

He eats it when he thinks I am not looking.

After that, he tries to pull my hair two times. The first time, I tell him he is horrible. The second time, I kick his shoe and he says, “Ow,” but he is laughing, so I know he is not really mad.

I decide he is my friend. He does not decide anything because Noel does not like deciding nice things out loud.

Mum says some boys are strange when they like you. Dad says that is not an excuse to pull girls’ hair. I agree with Dad, but I still sit next to Noel the next day because he lets me copy his drawing of a spaceship and he does the best explosions with red pencil.

The first time he comes over, Mum makes fish and chips, and Noel eats so fast that Dad tells him, “Slow down, son, nobody’s taking it off you.” Noel looks at him funny and then he eats slower.

I show him my room after tea. He says it is too pink, even though it is not that pink, only the curtains and the blanket and my little lamp. I tell him his face is too miserable. He says my doll looks possessed. I tell him he is not allowed to insult Susan because Susan has been through a lot.

He asks, “What’s she been through?”

I say, “You.”

And he laughs so hard he has to sit on the floor.

After that, he comes over all the time. Sometimes after school. Sometimes on Saturdays. Sometimes when it is raining and his coat is wet and his hair sticks to his forehead. Mum always makes him take his shoes off by the door. Dad always pretends to be annoyed when Noel and I are too loud, but he never really is.

Noel likes our kitchen best. He says it is because Mum has better biscuits than his mum, but I do not think that is true because Peggy is lovely and she buys us ice cream when we see her near the shops. She always says, “You two behave yourselves,” and Noel says, “We always do,” even if we absolutely do not.

Peggy takes us to the park sometimes too. She lets us run ahead, but not too far, and one time she brings Noel’s baby brother, Liam, who is only little and has big eyes and cheeks like bread rolls. I think I might die because he is so cute. Noel says babies are boring and loud, but when Liam drops his little toy on the ground, Noel picks it up before anyone else can.

I tell him he loves his baby brother.

Noel says, “Shut up.” That means yes.

Peggy is nice, and Paul is nice too when I see him, but I never go inside Noel’s house. Not once.

He comes to mine. I go to the park with his mum. We buy sweets from the corner shop. We sit on the kerb and make up stories about the people walking past. But I never go in.

When I ask Noel why, he just shrugs. “Nothing to see,” he says.

After a while, I stop asking.

One night, he sleeps over because Mum says it is too late for him to walk back, even though his house is not that far. She says it in her serious voice, the one that means I am not supposed to argue.

We make a tent in my bedroom with two chairs, my blanket and Dad’s torch. Noel says it is a rubbish tent because it keeps falling down on his head. I say it only falls because his head is too big.

He says, “Your head’s bigger.”

I say, “No, it isn’t.”

He says, “Yeah, it is. Full of nonsense.”

I shine the torch under my chin and make a ghost face at him. He does not laugh that time. He is lying on his back, looking at the blanket above us like it is the sky. The torch makes little yellow shapes on his face. For a bit, he does not say anything.

Then he says, very quiet, “I don’t like my house.”

I wait because I think maybe he is going to say more but he doesn't.

So I say the first thing that makes sense. “I think your house is haunted.” Noel looks at me. I whisper, “Your dad is always mad.”

He looks away again. “Yeah,” he says after a bit. “Maybe.”

I ask, “Are you scared of ghosts?”

“No.”

“You can be. I won’t tell.”

“I’m not scared of ghosts.”

“What are you scared of then?”

He pulls a thread from the blanket and twists it around his finger. “Nothing.” But he says it like he is lying.

So I move my pillow closer to his and tell him he can sleep in the tent if he wants, because ghosts cannot get inside tents. Everyone knows that. Noel says that is stupid. Then he stays in the tent anyway.

In the morning, everyone is already awake except for him. Dad is in the kitchen with the paper, Mum is putting plates on the table, and I am standing there in my pyjamas, thinking about Noel still sleeping in my bed like the morning forgot to take him home.

“Why is Noel still asleep?” I ask.

Mum glances toward the hallway before she answers. “He’s very tired, love.”

“Tired from what?”

“Just tired.”

I frown because that is not a real answer. “He sleeps loads here.”

Mum puts a plate of toast on the table and smooths my hair back from my face. “Then let him sleep,” she says softly. “Sometimes people are very tired and need a bit more rest.”

“But it’s morning.”

“I know.”

I look toward my bedroom. “Should I wake him up?”

“No.” Mum smiles a little. “Let him rest.”

So I do.

By the time he wakes up, Dad was reading the paper at the table and reaches out to ruffle Noel’s hair when he walks in. Noel flinches so fast it is almost invisible. His shoulders jump, his head ducks down, one arm comes up halfway like he is trying to protect himself before he even knows he is doing it. Then he realises it is only Dad, only a hand in his hair. Nobody says anything about it.

That is how it starts happening more.

Not every night, not even every week, but sometimes Noel stays. Sometimes Mum makes up reasons before anyone asks, sometimes Dad says, “Sofa’s free if you’re tired, lad.” Sometimes I find extra blankets folded at the end of my bed even though Mum says they are just there because it gets cold.

Noel never says thank you properly. He says things like, “Your dad snores,” or “Your mum burns toast,” or “Your house smells like washing powder.” But he keeps coming back and I know that means thank you.

Months go by, then more months and Noel and I become the sort of friends people stop asking about because we are always together. At school, if someone sees me, they look for him. If someone sees him, they ask where I am. Mrs. Kelly says we are like two peas in a pod, but Noel says that is stupid because peas are disgusting.

We fight all the time. We fight about who gets the last biscuit. We fight about whether dogs are better than cats. We fight because he says my handwriting is too neat and I say his looks like a spider fell in ink and died. We fight because he cheats at games and then says cheating only counts if you get caught.

But if anyone else is mean to me, Noel gets meaner. And if anyone says anything about Noel, I get louder.

Mum says we are like brother and sister. I say no, because Noel is too annoying to be my brother.

Noel says, “You’d be lucky.”

I throw a cushion at his face. He throws it back harder.

But sometimes, when he is asleep on our sofa with one arm hanging off the side, or when he stands in our kitchen eating toast with jam on his cheek, or when he follows me around the park even though he says he is not following me, I think maybe Mum is right. Maybe Noel is not just my friend, maybe he is something that got left at our house by accident, something we are allowed to keep.

1976

Noel is nine now and I am nine too, which means we are nearly grown-ups. That is what I tell Mum when she says we are too little to go to the shops alone.

She says, “Nearly grown-ups still need to hold hands when they cross the road.”

Noel says he is not holding my hand because that is for babies. Then he holds my sleeve the whole way there.

He is taller than before, but not by much. His hair is messier and his face is sharper, like someone has rubbed out the soft bits. He still looks cross most of the time, but I know better now.

Noel is cross when he is hungry or when he is tired or when he is embarrassed. And sometimes Noel is cross when he is sad, because being sad is worse and he does not like people knowing.

I know lots of things about him now. I know he hates carrots but eats them at my house because Mum looks pleased when he does and I know he likes sitting closest to the heater, but pretends he does not care where he sits also I know he says Liam is annoying, but lets him climb all over him when Peggy brings him to the park. I know he likes stories with ships and treasure best, even though he says stories are stupid if they have too much talking.

I also know there are days when Noel does not come to school. And when he comes back, he does not tell me why.

“Were you ill?” I ask once.

“No.”

“Then where were you?”

“Nowhere.”

“You can’t be nowhere. Everyone is somewhere.”

Noel kicks a stone across the pavement. “Maybe I was nowhere.”

I think about that all afternoon. I do not like the idea of Noel being nowhere.

One Friday, he comes to my house after tea.

He is not supposed to because he did not come to school that day, and Mum always says if you are too poorly for school, you are too poorly for playing. But when she opens the door and sees him standing there, she does not say that.

She just says, “Come in, love.”

Noel’s lip is split. Not a lot, just a little bit, right in the corner, like when the cold makes your mouth crack in winter. But it is not winter. It is May.

I stare at it. Noel glares at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop looking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m looking at your stupid face because it is in front of me.” He snorts, but it hurts him because he touches his mouth after, very quick, like he does not want me to see.

Mum sees, Dad sees too. Nobody says anything. That is worse sometimes, when the grown-ups do not say anything, because it means there is something so big they are stepping around it.

After tea, Noel and I go upstairs. We are pirates now. We have been pirates for three weeks because Noel found a stick shaped like a sword near the park and said it was too good for me, so obviously I stole it. We make a ship out of my bed and the chair from my desk. The floor is the sea. My blanket is the sail. Susan, my doll, is a prisoner, but only because Noel says she has “shifty eyes.”

I tell him captains do not sit on the floor looking miserable.

He says, “Good thing you’re not captain then.”

“I am captain.”

“You’re rubbish.”

“You’re rubbish.”

“I’m first mate.”

“You can’t be first mate if you’re horrible.”

“Yes, I can. Pirates are horrible.” This is true, so I let him win that one.

We sail to India because I like the name and because it sounds far enough that ghosts cannot follow us. Noel says pirates do not go to India just because I like the name. I say these pirates do. He says I am bossy. I say he is lucky because otherwise he would be a boring pirate with no treasure.

He laughs, but only a little. Then he lies down on the bed-ship and looks at the ceiling. I sit beside him with the torch in my hand. His mouth is still red in the corner.

I ask, “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He does not answer.

I poke his shoulder. “Noel.”

“What?”

“You can tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

I look at the ceiling too because sometimes it is easier to talk when you are not looking at someone. “Did your house get haunted again?”

He goes very still. That is how I know. He does not cry. Not really. Noel almost never cries in the proper way, with noise and snot and all that. His eyes just get shiny and angry, like they are doing something without asking him first.

“I hate it there,” he says.

It is so quiet I nearly miss it. But I do not, I hear it. And something in my chest feels funny, like when you are running too fast and the air gets stuck.

So I say, “Then come live with me.”

Noel turns his head. “What?”

“You can live here.”

“That’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, because we can be pirates.”

His eyebrows move closer together. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“If you live here, we can be pirates every day. And you won’t have to go back to the haunted house. And you won’t have to cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Fine. You won’t have to not cry.”

He looks away fast. I keep talking because I think if I stop, he will say no properly and then I will have to think of another plan.

“You can have the sofa, or we can ask Mum if you can have the little room with the boxes. We can move the boxes. I’ll help. And you can have toast whenever you want, and Dad won’t make you eat carrots if you tell him they make you sick.”

“They don’t make me sick.”

“They could.”

“That’s lying.”

“Pirates lie all the time.”

Noel makes a sound that is nearly a laugh.

I sit up on my knees. “And if the ghosts come, we’ll fight them. I’ll have the sword because I’m captain, but you can have the torch.”

“I don’t want the torch.”

“You can’t have the sword.”

“I’m better with the sword.”

“You are not. You hit the lamp yesterday.”

“It was in the way.”

“It was on the table.”

This time he does laugh. Only for a second. Then his face changes again and he looks nine and not nine at all. I do not know what to do with that face. So I take my blanket and put it over both our heads like a tent, even though we are too big for it now and our knees push up the sides.

“There,” I say. “Closet.”

“It’s not a closet.”

“It is now.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Fine. It’s a pirate closet.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is if I say it is.”

Noel is quiet. Under the blanket, everything is warm and dark and yellow from the torch. I can hear him breathing next to me. I can hear Mum downstairs washing plates. I can hear Dad laughing at something on the telly.

I whisper, “You can hide here if you want.”

He does not say anything for so long that I think maybe he has fallen asleep. Then his shoulder touches mine. Just barely.

“I’m not hiding,” he says.

I nod, even though he cannot see me very well. “Okay.”

“I’m just sitting.”

“Okay.”

“With you.”

I smile in the dark. “That’s allowed.”

He wipes his face with his sleeve, quick and angry.

Then he says, “If I lived here, I’d be captain sometimes.”

“No.”

“Then I’m not living here.”

I think about it. “Fine. Tuesdays.”

“Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“One Friday a month.”

“Every Friday.”

“Noel.”

“What?”

“You are very difficult to rescue.”

He goes quiet again. Then, in the smallest voice, he says, “Yeah.”

I do not know why that makes me sad. So I give him the sword. Only because pirates need rescuing too sometimes.

1981

Noel and I are fourteen now, school still starts at nine. Buses still splash dirty water on your tights. Teachers still care about homework. Boys still push each other in corridors and act like idiots because apparently that is what boys are made for.

Noel is still my best friend.

He is taller now. Not properly tall, just taller than he was, and thin in a way that makes all his clothes look like they are waiting for him to grow into them. His hair is darker and always falling into his eyes. He has started walking with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders up, like he is bored of every person on earth.

He still looks miserable. Only now, unfortunately, he also looks nice and this is a terrible problem.

I do not tell anyone because I would rather be hit by a bus than say I fancy Noel Gallagher. Especially because he is Noel, and he would never let me live it down. He would probably make a face and say something awful like, “Course you do,” and then I would have to move countries.

Also, he knows everything about me. He knows I cried when my rabbit died even though it was actually my cousin’s rabbit and I had only met it twice. He knows I cannot whistle no matter how many times I try. He knows I still sleep with one foot out of the blanket because I get too hot. He knows I am scared of deep water, but only if I cannot see the bottom.

Sometimes, when he stays over, we do not build tents anymore because we are too old and because if anyone from school found out we were under a blanket together, we would both have to throw ourselves into the canal. Now he sleeps on the sofa. Or sometimes on the floor of my room if my parents are too tired to make rules and we are watching telly too late. Nothing happens. Obviously. We are not like that. We are normal.

Except sometimes his foot touches mine or sometimes we lie there in the dark and neither of us moves away and sometimes I can feel him looking at me and I pretend I do not, sometimes I look at him and he pretends he does not know.

So, normal.

One Thursday, he does not come to school. This is not new, but it still makes my stomach feel wrong.

By the last bell, I have chewed the skin beside my thumb until it hurts. I walk home slowly, looking for him even though I tell myself I am not looking for him. I look near the corner shop, by the park, at the bus stop. I look down every street like he might appear by magic, with his stupid coat and his stupid face and some stupid thing to say about how I walk too slowly.

He is not there.

Then, when I am almost home, I hear someone shout my name, I turn around and Noel is running down the street. Actually running.

Noel never runs unless Liam is chasing him with something sticky or someone has threatened to take the last chip. His coat is open, his hair is all over the place, and he looks like he has forgotten he is supposed to be too cool for everything.

For one horrible second, I think something bad has happened. Then I see his face, he is smiling, properly. It makes him look younger and older at the same time.

I stop in the middle of the pavement. “What happened?”

He reaches me out of breath, one hand on the wall beside us, laughing a little even though he is trying not to.

“She’s doing it,” he says.

“Who?”

“Our mam.” I stare at him. He looks at me like I am being thick on purpose. “She’s leaving him.”

Everything goes quiet. “She is?”

“Yeah.”

“Noel.”

“She is.” His voice cracks a bit, and he hates it, so he looks away fast. “She’s actually doing it. She’s taking us.”

I do not know what to do first. Maybe I laugh or cry or throw myself at him. I only know that suddenly my arms are around his neck and he is hugging me back so tightly it hurts. His face presses into my shoulder for one second, just one, and I feel him breathe like he has been holding it for years.

Then he says, against my shoulder, “We’re leaving Burnage.”

And my heart drops so hard I almost let go.

I pull back slowly. “What?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “We’re going somewhere else. Don’t know exactly. Somewhere away from him.”

“Away,” I repeat.

“Yeah.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us says anything. His smile has gone smaller now, like he knew this part was coming and hated it before I even heard it.

I look at his face. The one I know better than any face in the world. The one I used to see across a blanket tent when we were little. The one I used to check for bruises before I knew that was what I was doing. The one that has annoyed me every single day for seven years.

“You have to go,” I say. He blinks. I hate that he looks surprised. “Obviously you have to go.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Stop saying good.”

“I’m saying it because it is.”

“I know it is.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to tell you not to.”

He looks away. That is enough of an answer. I feel something split open inside me. Because I do want to tell him not to.

I want to say you can live with me, remember? We can still be pirates, even if we are too old and stupid now. I want to say you can have the sofa, my room, the little room with the boxes, anything, just do not disappear from the only place I know how to find you.

But I am fourteen, not seven. I know things now. So I swallow all of it, for him.

I say, “Noel, you have to leave.”

His jaw moves, he nods once. “I know.”

“And don’t be stupid about it.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“You are sometimes.”

“You’re always stupid.”

“You’re the one who thought pirates couldn't go to India.”

“That was years ago.”

“You were wrong then and you’re wrong now.”

“About what?”

“About thinking you should feel bad for going.”

He looks at me properly then. I wish he would not. There are some things that are easier when he is not looking at me.

“You’re allowed to be happy,” I say, and my voice sounds strange. “You know that, right?”

His face does something I cannot name. For a second, he looks like the little boy under the blanket again. The one who said he hated his house. The one who said he was not hiding. Then he looks fourteen again, and mean, and embarrassed, and close to crying in that awful Noel way where his eyes get bright and his mouth goes sharp.

He catches my wrist, not hard. Just enough. For one second, neither of us moves. His hand is warm around my wrist. His thumb is right where my pulse is, and I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart is going. I wonder if his is doing the same thing. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he has always known.

Then he lets go like he has burned himself.

I put my hand in my coat pocket and pretend it is nothing. “When?” I ask.

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“In a couple of days maybe.”

“That’s very soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Will you write?”

He makes a face. “I’m not writing letters like some old woman.”

“Noel.”

“What?”

“Will you write?”

He looks at the pavement. “Maybe.”

That means yes. Or maybe it means no and he is too much of a coward to say it. I cannot tell this time, and I hate that.

We start walking to my house like we always do. Even now. Even when everything has changed, our feet still know where to go.

Mum is in the kitchen when we arrive. She sees Noel’s face before I say anything. Peggy must have told her already, because Mum’s eyes go soft and sad.

“Oh, love,” she says.

Noel rolls his eyes. “Don’t.”

But he lets her hug him. That is how I know he is really happy.

Dad claps him on the shoulder, careful like always, and says, “Best news I’ve heard all year, lad.”

Noel stares at the floor. “Yeah.”

Mum makes tea. Dad makes toast even though it is not tea time. Noel eats three slices and says our butter is rubbish. Mum tells him he has been eating our rubbish butter for seven years. He says that is how he knows. Everyone laughs. I do too. But it feels like laughing with a stone in my chest.

Later, we sit on the back step while the sky goes grey and the air smells like rain. We are shoulder to shoulder, but not touching.

Neither of us says much. There is too much to say, so we say almost nothing.

“You’ll be alright,” I tell him.

He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“How?”

I look at him. “Because you won’t be there.”

He goes quiet. The rain starts very softly, little dots on the concrete. He does not move. I do not either.

After a while, he says, “What if it’s worse?”

“It won’t be.”

“What if it is?”

“Then you come back.”

“And do what?”

“Live with me.” He looks at me. I try to smile. “We’ll be pirates.”

For a second, he almost smiles too. Almost. Then his face falls apart in the smallest way. Not enough for anyone else to see. Enough for me.

“You’re mental,” he says.

“I know.”

“That was a stupid plan then.”

“It was a brilliant plan.”

“You wanted me to sleep in a pirate closet.”

“It was safer than your house.”

The words come out before I can stop them. We both freeze. The rain gets a little harder.

Noel looks away first. “Yeah,” he says.

It is barely a sound. I wish I could take the sentence back. Not because it is not true, but because it is too true. It sits between us, ugly and honest.

I put my hand on the step between us. Not touching him. Just there. After a moment, his little finger hooks around mine. It is such a tiny thing. So stupid, childish. So us.

I stare straight ahead because if I look at him, I will cry, and if I cry, he will either be horrible or he will be kind, and I do not know which one would hurt worse.

“I’m glad,” I say.

His finger tightens around mine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like someone’s died.”

“Maybe someone has.” He turns his head. I do not mean to say it. I really do not. But it is already there. I shrug, like it is nothing. “Not you. Just… us.”

Noel does not make a joke. He just looks at our hands, at his little finger around mine, like he is trying to memorise something without anyone noticing.

Then he says, “There’ll still be us.”

I want to believe him. I do. I want it so badly it hurts. But I know how grown-ups say things they cannot promise. I know how people leave even when they do not want to. I know letters get forgotten. I know buses go different ways. I know life is bigger than two fourteen-year-olds on a back step pretending their hands are not touching.

So I say, “Okay.”

Noel hears everything I do not say. He always does. He leans his shoulder into mine. This time, he does not move away. We sit there until Mum calls us in because we are getting soaked. And when Noel stands up, he lets go of my finger first. I try not to hate him for that. I try to be happy. I am happy. I am. He is leaving that house. He is leaving the shouting and the doors and the flinching and the terrible quiet after terrible noise. He is leaving the place that made him look older than he was. He is leaving the place that taught him to turn soft things sharp before anyone else could touch them.

That is the best thing that has ever happened. So why does it feel like someone is taking him from me too?

That night, after he goes home, I lie in bed and look at the ceiling. I am too old to make a tent. Too old for pirate closets. Too old to believe you can save someone by moving boxes out of the spare room. But I still think about it: he could have lived here, I would have let him be captain on Fridays.

And also I hope he goes but I hope he stays too, and I hate myself for the second one.

1991

I am twenty-four when I see Noel Gallagher again.

It happens in a pub so small and miserable it looks like it has been forgotten on purpose.

The floor is sticky. The beer is warm. The lights are bad. There is a band playing in the corner, or trying to, but the sound is mostly feedback and someone’s amp giving up on life. People talk over them anyway. Nobody here looks like they are going anywhere.

Then I see him. At first, it is just the back of his head. Dark hair. Shoulders slightly hunched. Cigarette between his fingers. A pint in front of him. One elbow on the bar like he owns the place and also hates it.

I know him instantly. That is the stupidest part. Ten years go by. People grow up. Faces change. Voices drop. Lives happen. You forget the exact shape of someone’s hands, the way they looked in a school jumper, the sound of their laugh before it got heavy with smoke and adulthood.

But I know him. Before he turns around. Before I see his face. Before anyone says his name. I know him.

My feet move before I decide anything. “Noel?”

He turns. And for one second, all the noise in the pub goes somewhere else. He is older, obviously. Sharper. His face has lost the last of the boy I knew, except it has not, not really. It is still there in the eyes, in the way he looks at me like he is trying to be unimpressed and failing so badly it almost hurts.

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. That is how I know it is really him. Noel Gallagher, speechless.

I should enjoy it more. Instead, my chest feels too tight.

“Hi,” I say, because apparently after ten years that is all I have.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then he says my name. Just my name. Like he has had it somewhere in his mouth all this time and is surprised it still fits.

I smile, even though I feel like I might shake apart. “You remember me, then.”

He stares at me. “Are you joking?”

I shrug. “A bit.”

“You look…” He stops. He looks annoyed with himself. “Different,” he says finally.

“That’s insulting.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is if you say it like that.”

“I mean you don’t look twelve anymore.”

“I was fourteen.”

“Yeah, well. You looked twelve.”

“And you looked miserable.”

“I still do.”

I laugh. And there it is. His face changes. For a second, he looks exactly like the boy on my back step in the rain, little finger hooked around mine, pretending leaving did not hurt because staying would have killed him.

He looks away first. Of course he does. “You want a drink?” he asks.

“I’ve got one.”

He glances at the glass in my hand. “That’s not a drink. That’s coloured water.”

“It’s a lager.”

“It’s tragic.”

“You’ve been back in my life for twenty seconds and you’re already annoying.”

“Good to know I’ve still got it.”

He buys me a beer anyway. A proper one, according to him, which tastes almost exactly the same but I do not say that because he looks pleased with himself.

We sit in a corner where the table wobbles every time one of us moves. Ten years sit down with us. At first, we talk around them. He tells me he has been working, doing bits here and there, roadie work, music, bands, nothing glamorous. He says it like he does not care, but his fingers tap against the glass every time he mentions music. I tell him about my life. Not all of it. Just enough. Where I moved. What I studied. Jobs I hated. People he does not know. Places that meant nothing because he was not there.

He asks about my parents. “They’re good,” I say. “Mum still burns toast.”

“She always did.”

“You always ate it.”

“I was being polite.”

“You once told her her butter was rubbish.”

“Yeah, but I ate the toast, didn’t I?”

I smile down at my drink. “She asks about you sometimes.”

His face does something careful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He nods like that is nothing. It is not nothing. I know him.

“And Peggy?” I ask.

“She’s alright.”

“Paul?”

“Alright.”

“Liam?”

Noel snorts. “Loud.”

“So, alright.”

“Depends who you ask.”

I laugh again, and this time he does too. Properly. Quiet, but real. For a moment, it is easy. Then it is not. Because his knee brushes mine under the table and neither of us moves. Because I notice his hands. Because he looks at me too long and then looks away like he has been caught stealing. Because ten years is a very long time until suddenly it is nothing.

“You disappeared,” I say.

Noel looks into his pint. “Yeah.”

“I wrote twice.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t write back.”

“I know.”

“That was horrible of you.”

“Yeah.”

I expect a joke. I expect him to go sharp. I expect him to make it easier by making me angry but he does not. He just sits there, older and not older, with his thumb rubbing at the wet ring his glass has left on the table.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he says.

I hate how much I believe him. “You could’ve said anything.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

He looks at me then. And suddenly he is fourteen again, and I am fourteen again, and the rain is on the concrete, and his little finger is around mine, and everything we were too young to say is sitting between us again.

“Because if I started,” he says, “I wouldn’t have stopped.”

My throat tightens. The band in the corner starts another song. Someone cheers ironically. Someone drops a glass near the bar. The pub keeps living around us like it has no idea.

I look at him.

Noel says, “You still look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know things.”

“I do know things.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You always did.”

I should say something clever. I should ask him about the band, or his life, or where he lives now, or whether he is happy, or whether he ever thinks about the pirate closet, or whether he remembers promising there would still be us.

Instead, I say, “I missed you.”

His face breaks. Then he leans forward and kisses me. It is ten years of not writing back. Ten years of almost forgetting and never managing it. Ten years of every house after his not being mine. Ten years of my name still fitting in his mouth.

Then it slows. His hand comes up to my face like he is checking I am real. I kiss him back before I can think better of it. Maybe I do not want to think better of it.

When we pull apart, he stays close. Too close. His forehead nearly touches mine. For once, Noel does not look like he has something mean to say. He looks scared.

I whisper, “Noel.”

He closes his eyes for half a second. Then he says, very quietly, “I still got love for you.”

I look at him, at the boy I lost and the man sitting in front of me, and I realise some things do not disappear just because nobody says them for ten years. Some things wait. Like songs. Like ghosts. Like love.

I touch his wrist under the table and this time, he does not let go.

Noel finally sat up, his hair a magnificent mess of "just rolled out of bed" rockstar chic as he let out a tired groan. He slipped his arm over your shoulders and pulled you into his side, kissing the top of your head. "So," he said, pulling you back down into the duvet. "46. Halfway to 92. I reckon I’ve got at least another forty years of annoying you left in me."

"Only forty?" You laughed, resting your head on his chest and slipped your arm around his waist. "I was hoping for fifty."

"Let's not get greedy, love. My knees are already starting to click when I stand up."

A frantic scratching sounded at the bedroom door.

Noel sighed, a look of mock-betrayal on his face. "And here comes the real star of the show. Let the ginger menace in, will ya?"

You hopped out of bed, not fazed by your lack of clothing and opened the door. Ziggy charged in, skidding across the hardwood before leaping onto the bed and landing directly on Noel’s stomach.

"Oof! Bloody hell, Ziggy! I'm an old man today, have some respect!" Noel wheezed, though he was already scratching the kitten behind the ears.

You walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a small, flat box wrapped in silver paper. "This is from me. And Ziggy helped pick it out. Mostly by trying to eat the ribbon."

Noel took the box, his expression shifting from playful to genuinely touched. He opened it slowly, revealing a vintage, leather-bound notebook with the initials N.G. embossed in gold on the corner. Inside the front cover, you’d tucked a Polaroid of the three of you that had been taken on the day you got engaged.

Noel stared at the photo for a long time. He didn't say anything, but he cleared his throat twice.

"For the new songs," you said softly. "The ones for the next chapter."

Noel looked up at you, his eyes unusually bright. He reached out, snagging your waist and pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of sleep and soulmates. "It’s perfect," he murmured against your lips. “Thanks, love.”

"Come on then, birthday boy," you said, swatting his arm playfully. "Get dressed. Anais is coming over for lunch, and she’s apparently made you a card that involves a lot of glitter and some very questionable poetry."

"Glitter? In this house? We’ll be finding it in the sofa cushions until 2015.” Noel groaned, falling back onto the pillows dramatically making you giggle.

“Better than your sweaty socks.” You muttered as you attempted to get up from the bed, but Noel quickly pulled you back onto the bed making you laugh even more.

“Cheeky sod.” He chuckled as he wacked you with a pillow.

By 2 PM, the kitchen island looked like a craft shop had exploded. Anais sat proudly across from her dad, who was currently nursing a glass of wine while sporting a singular, large piece of pink glitter stuck to the end of his nose.

“You’re supposed to read the poem out loud, Dad,” Anais insisted, leaning on her elbows. “It’s art.”

Noel cleared his throat as he held the card (which was more glue than paper) at arm’s length. “Right. Here we go. ‘Roses are red, your hair is quite grey... you’re the best dad in the world, even if you’re ancient today.’” He looked up, deadpan. “Ancient? I’ve seen 80-year-olds in better shape than you on a Monday morning, kid.”

“It rhymes!” she defended, giggling.

“It’s a masterpiece,” you chimed in, leaning over Noel’s shoulder to drop a plate of sandwiches onto the island. You couldn't resist; you reached out and flicked the glitter off his nose. “Very festive, love.”

“I’m surrounded by comedians,” Noel muttered, though he pulled Anais into a one-armed side hug, kissing the top of her head.

The "vultures" outside had thinned out, bored of waiting for a rockstar to do something rockstar-ish on his birthday. When you asked Noel what he wanted to do for his birthday, he said something that involved peace and quiet. So, the rest of the afternoon was surprisingly domestic. The three of you sat in the lounge watching a film with a cuppa and some birthday cake that you and Anais had baked. It was uneven, dripping with buttercream and jam, Victoria Sponge that had far too much icing sugar on one side, but Noel thought it tasted delicious and had two generous slices.

Once Anais had been picked up by Meg, after a series of dramatic hugs and a final warning from Noel to "keep the glitter contained at your mam's house", the house fell into a quiet, warm lull. Ziggy was fast asleep on the back of the sofa, exhausted from a day of chasing ribbons and stealing ham from sandwiches. It was time for the adults to celebrate the birthday boy’s special day.

You headed upstairs to find Noel staring at a row of shirts in the wardrobe, looking uncharacteristically indecisive.

"Do I look old for my age, love?” he mused, pulling out a dark navy button-down.

"You know you don’t.” you said, stepping up behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. You caught your reflection in the mirror, your engagement ring catching the late afternoon light. "You look gorgeous. And like you said this morning, you’re like a vintage Gibson. Built to last, always sounds amazing and feels good in my hands.” You whispered teasingly as you ran your hand over his crotch with a giggle.

Noel let out a dry, short breath, not quite a laugh, more like a nervous exhale, turning in your arms to face you. He rested his hands on your hips as he looked past you, squinting at his own reflection in the mirror, tracing the lines around his eyes that seemed a little deeper in the unforgiving afternoon sun.

"I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror earlier," he said, his voice dropping into that rare, quiet register he only used when it was just the two of you. "Next to you, in your leather jacket and that 'don't-give-a-toss' look... I looked like I’d been through the wars, love. Grey hair, lines everywhere. I’m 46 today. You’re... well, you’re in your prime." He looked back at you, his hands tightening slightly on your hips. "You sure you aren't gonna wake up in five years, look over at the snoring old Manc next to you, and wonder where the rock star went?"

You felt a sharp pang of affection in your chest. The "Chief" was always so bulletproof in public, so sure of his own legend, that seeing this flicker of human doubt was like seeing the raw demo of a perfect song.

"Noel Thomas David Gallagher, look at me," you said, pulling your hands from his waist to cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "First of all, the 'rock star' isn't in the hair colour or the lack of wrinkles. It's in the way you walk into a room like you own the floorboards. It's in that brilliant, stubborn mind of yours."

You ran your thumb over the line at the corner of his eye.

"I don't see an 'old man.' I see the man who I flashed my tits to at an Oasis gig. The man who took me to a record shop where we first met, got down on one knee and told me he loved me. I see the man who defended me against his own family. I see the man that makes me feel more loved than I have ever felt, every single day we spend together. And for the record," You gave him a playful, wicked little smirk. "The 'wear and tear' looks incredibly good on you. You've got that rugged, 'I’ve-seen-it-all' thing going on. It’s a lot sexier than a boy who’s never had a story to tell."

Noel’s tension seemed to bleed out of him. A slow, genuine grin started to tug at the corners of his mouth, the one that made his eyes crinkle in exactly the way you loved to photograph.

"Rugged, eh?" he mused, his confidence returning like a physical tide. "So, what you’re saying is, I’m like a vintage Jaguar. A bit of trouble to start in the morning, but once I’m going, I’m the best ride in London?"

You laughed, "Exactly," You leaned up to press a firm kiss to his lips. "Now put the navy shirt on. You look sophisticated, dangerous, and precisely like the man I’m going to marry."

Noel chuckled, snagging the shirt and pulling you back in for one more lingering kiss. "I can work with that."

The two of you began getting ready for your night out at The Firehouse where you had booked a table for a special birthday dinner.

Noel wore the navy shirt with dark denim jeans, and polished black boots with a leather jacket. He looked sharp and sexy. You slipped into sleek black silk slip dress that fit you like a second skin, a tailored blazer over your shoulders, a pair of strappy black heels, paired with the "Diamond Shield". You truly felt like you belonged on Noel’s arm, and his reassuring “Fuckin’ ‘ell, love,” really helped.

As he checked his collar in the mirror, he caught your eye through the glass and winked, the same wink he’d given you in the wings of the Albert Hall. The doubt was gone. The Chief was back, but as you headed down the stairs to the waiting car, you knew he was carrying that little leather-bound notebook in his pocket, ready for the next forty years of lyrics.

The drive to ChilternFirehouse was quick. Noel seemed unusually chatty, mostly talking about the new demos he’d been working on in the notebook you gave him. When Alan pulled up to the entrance, the usual handful of photographers were there, but Noel handled it with a quick, practiced wave as he ushered you inside.

The hostess greeted you with a knowing smile. "Right this way, Mr. Gallagher. Your table is ready in the back gallery."

As you walked through the bustling restaurant, Noel kept his hand firmly around yours and close to his side. When the hostess pulled back the heavy velvet curtain to the private dining area, you felt Noel's grip tighten slightly.

"SURPRISE!"

The room erupted. You saw the familiar, grinning faces of the High-Flying Birds, along with a handful of Noel’s closest friends and long-time crew members. There were streamers handing from the light fittings, a few "Happy Birthday" balloons floating around and enough booze on the table to launch a small ship.

Noel froze, his jaw dropping for a split second before a massive, genuine grin broke across his face. "You set of bastards!" he shouted over the cheers. "I told her I wanted a quiet one!"

"Don't look at me!" you laughed, holding your hands up. "I just followed orders."

"Happy Birthday, Chief!" Mike yelled, thrusting a glass of something fizzy into Noel's hand and clapping him on the back.

The evening turned into a riot of laughter, tour stories and the women gushing over the engagement ring and the story of how Noel asked you. There was no talk of charts or press, just the people who actually knew the man behind the headlines and the number ones. Between courses of oysters and ribeye, the lads kept toasting to "The Old Man" and "The Future Mrs. G."

At one point, Noel leaned over to you, his face flushed with wine and happiness, and whispered into your ear, "You knew about this the whole time, didn't you?"

"It’s a possibility," you teased, sipping your wine.

Noel shook his head, looking around at the room full of people who genuinely loved him. He looked back at you, his eyes soft. "Suppose we’ll have to have this lot on the wedding guest list won’t we.”

"Definitely," you agreed, clinking your glass against his. "Happy Birthday, love."

"Best one yet," he said and kissed you. For once, the man who was famous for having something to say was perfectly content to keep his mouth shut, sit back and enjoy the music of the people around him.

The night at the Firehouse roared on, a chaotic symphony of banter, clinking glasses, and the kind of laughter that only comes from decades of shared road stories. Noel was in his element, leaning back in his chair, a cigarette (strictly "off the record," given the indoor setting) tucked behind his ear, holding court with a sharp-witted anecdote about a lost tour bus in 1994 with his left hand firmly placed at the base of your neck.

By midnight, the table was a graveyard of empty bottles and discarded party poppers. The High-Flying Birds were debating the merits of various 70s synth-pop bands, and Noel was looking at you with that glazed, heavy-lidded expression that told you he was officially "done" with being forty-six for the day.

"Right," he announced, standing up a bit unsteadily and slapping the table. "Before Mike starts singing 'Wonderwall' in a high-pitched voice, we’re making a move. Thanks for the booze, you lot. Try not to get arrested on the way home."

A chorus of "Happy Birthday, Chief!" followed you both out into the crisp London air. The drive home was quiet, your head resting on his shoulder while he hummed a melody under his breath, likely one of the new ones he’d been working on.

Back at the house, the silence was a welcome relief. Ziggy didn't even wake up as you crept inside; he was just a ginger ball of fur tucked into the corner of the sofa.

Noel shed his leather jacket, tossing it over the banister, and immediately began unbuttoning his navy shirt. He stopped halfway, looking at you as you kicked off your heels with a sigh of relief.

"You really pulled that off, didn't you?" he murmured, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom. "The surprise. The lads. I honestly thought we were just going for a boring pasta and a moan about my back."

"I have my ways, Gallagher," you said, stepping toward him and sliding your hands inside his open shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin. "I wanted you to see that getting older isn't so bad when you've got the right people around you."

Noel wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He looked down at you, your engagement ring sparkling in the dim hallway light, and for a second, the cocky rockstar was nowhere to be seen. It was just your Noelie.

"I’ve spent a lot of birthdays in a lot of different places, love," he said softly, his voice thick with sincerity. "Backstages, hotels, planes... usually surrounded by a thousand people I didn't actually like. But this?" He kissed your forehead, then your nose. "Waking up with you, the messy cake with the kid, and then seeing that lot tonight... fuckin’ perfect."

He leaned down, captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of the expensive red wine and the promise of that private, quiet wedding you'd discussed earlier.

The air between you was thick, charged with the lingering adrenaline of the party and the deep, possessive intimacy that had been building all day.

Noel didn’t move as you pulled back from the kiss, his eyes dark and heavy as he watched you. You didn't say a word; you simply reached up and slid the silk straps of your dress off your shoulders. The black fabric slithered down your body, pooling at your hips before you stepped out of it completely, leaving you in nothing but your lace thong.

Noel’s breath hitched, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fucking hell, love… you’re trying to kill me on my birthday, aren’t you?”

Instead of answering, you slowly sank to your knees on the plush carpet. You looked up at him through your lashes, the "Diamond Shield" on your finger catching the dim lamp light as you reached for the belt of his jeans. Noel let out a low, jagged groan, his head falling back against the doorframe as you unzipped him.

With practiced ease, you reached inside his underwear, your warm palm closing around the rigid length of his cock. He was pulsing, already leaking a bead of cum that you smeared over the head with your thumb. You leaned forward, the tip of your tongue flicking over the velvety head of him.

“Y/n…,” he rasped, his fingers tangling in your hair, not to pull you away, but to anchor himself as you took him into your mouth.

You swirled your tongue around the head of him before wrapping your lips around him and taking him deep, your eyes fixed on his as you worked him with a slow, rhythmic suction. Noel’s hips jerked instinctively, his breath hitching into short, sharp pants. The sound of him, the raw, unfiltered vulnerability of a man who usually had a comeback for everything, turned you on more than any song he’d ever written.

You used your left hand to stroke the base while your mouth focused on the tip, pushing him to the very edge. You could feel the muscles in his thighs tensioning underneath your other hand, his fingers tightening in your hair as he neared the point of no return.

“Wait. Wait, love,” he choked out, his voice a broken whisper. “I want to see you. Stop.”

You pulled back off him with a pop, a thin string of saliva connecting you for a second before you sat back on your heels. You reached for the waistband of your thong and tights, shimming them down until you were completely bare. Then, you arched your back, pushing your chest forward and cupping your plump breasts, offering them up to him. Your nipples were dark, pebble-hard in the cool air.

“Watch me, Noel,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire.

Noel looked down at you, his chest heaving. “Fuck.” He looked wrecked, his hair dishevelled and his blue eyes burning with an intense, frantic hunger. He wrapped his hand around his cock, his knuckles white as he began to stroke himself in a fast, desperate rhythm, his gaze locked onto your chest.

You moaned as you pinched one of your nipples with your right hand. You slipped your left hand down between your legs. You moaned as you gave your clit a few strokes, your eyes fixed on Noel’s hand moving up and down his thick cock.

“That’s it, baby… look at me… watch your fiancé, Noel.”

He didn't need telling twice. He picked up the pace, his breath coming in ragged, guttural hitches. You watched the play of muscles in his forearm, the way his jaw was clenched so tight the bone stood out. He was close, you could see it in the way his eyes began to roll back.

“I’m gonna, fuck, Y/n. I’m gonna cum!”

He gave three more frantic, heavy tugs of his hand, his body racking with a sudden, violent shudder. A low, primal roar ripped from his throat as he erupted. The first thick ropes of heat hit your collarbone before splattering across your pale, rounded breasts. He didn't stop, his hand working through the climax until you were painted in his warmth, the white cream stark against your skin.

Noel stood there for a moment, his hand falling limp at his side, his head bowed as he tried to find his breath. The room was silent except for his ragged gasping. Slowly, he dropped to his knees in front of you, his forehead resting against yours.

“Happy birthday, Noelie,” you breathed, reaching out to stroke his damp hair.

He let out a weak, shaky chuckle, his eyes opening to look at the mess he’d made on you. He reached up and with his thumb he wiped up a stray drop of his cum from the curve of your breast before looking up at you with a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. He held his thumb up and let out a breathy groan as you wrapped your lips around his thumb and sucked it clean.

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★ 2000.

“okay, noel gallagher,” you slurred out, plopping down the seat beside him. he looked at you with his eyes already far too glazed, lips curling up at your bossy tone that, quite frankly, you always held. “what’s crawled up your ass?”

only this time, you were drunk. proper. and he was too.

he let out a short huff, shaking his head and asking in an almost disbelief tone. “think something’s crawled up my ass, darlin’?”

“oh, i’m sure. you’re always grumpy, but this…” you start, gesturing over his face with a small grin. “this is faaaar too much”

“is it?” he teased back, eyes heavy from the drinks.

“mhm.” you hummed, nodding. “now spill”

he scoffed lightly, the corner of his lip curling upwards despite himself. “yeah, piss off.”

“hey, no!” you started, already laughing and putting up a finger close to his face like a playful warning. “don’t do that. cmon. i’m your friend, you can talk to me!” you said with a smile, pointing at him.

“think you’re just nosy,” he said, but there was no bite to it at all.

“fuckin’ rude, you!” you said, playfully shoving his shoulder. “i’m drunk. not nosy! now come onnn, tell me. maybe i can help.”

“can you write me a proper album?” he said.

“oh, definitely not,” you said immediately, getting a laugh out of him. you tilted your head, eyebrows raising and a smile growing even more in your lips, “i can make you laugh though, see? you’re already looking better.”

he let out a short huff of a laugh, shaking his head and lips curling up. his body slumping slightly on the cushioned booth when you playfully shoved his shoulder. “and hey, fuck you. i do many, many things for you lot.”

he laughed, shaking his head. then he sighed, saying it still lightly. “just stuff doing my head in”

“stuff…” you said, giving him a hint to carry on.

he sighed. god, you’re stubborn. “album, liam, the divorce... and i can’t even do coke anymore so, guess what’s left for me is being a grumpy cunt.”

“that’s not all there is!” you said lightly.

he gives you a look that screams oh, really?

“look at me for example, haven’t got laid in… fucking months, and i’m still bubbly and cheerful! yay” you say simply, shrugging and then taking a sip you definitely didn’t need afterwards.

you’re not lying about that. why would you? sure, the tone sounds like it’s a joke, but you definitely mean every single word you said.

noel swallowed, his gaze darting down to your lips for the same reason his stomach is twisting in a way he always brushes off when it comes to you. because yeah, you’re fit.

but he can control his impulses, he’s done a pretty damn good job so far. despite never seeing the point in condemning himself having these kind of thoughts, he’s a man after all, those are normal – no point in talking about it either, or acting on it. god, no. that’s a liam thing to do.

“yeah. as always.” he said, casually. you really are bubbly most times, not in a way that’s annoying. he doesn’t think so, at least.

which is actually the whole reason you’re both still here. it was a combination of things actually: you for some fucking reason knowing how to speak the language of the bar’s owner plus knowing a friend of a friend of a friend – or just being fucking great at convincing, that’s why you’re their pr, after all. so that’s why the owner gave you the keys of the bar when everyone protested when he called out last rounds. sure, the oasis celebrity status helps, too.

“mhm. not making it everyone’s problem. because i’m an adult.” you teased.

he huffed, taking another sip of his drink. then, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “why aren’t you gettin’ laid then? you’re a fit fucking bird, y’are.” he said casually.

you tilted your head, eyebrows raising as you took another swig of your glass. you swallowed it down harsher than you’ve been doing all night. for no reason. shut up.

you leaned in closer teasingly, your tone playful: “well. that’s none of your fucking business, is it?”

he smirked, nodding and tilting his head when he caught your gaze darting down to his lips just like his has been doing since the moment you sat down beside him. “guess not.” he said lowly.

your lips twitched. your chest went up and down a little heavier. the sound of the last three people from the crew – or the band? god, you really weren’t paying attention to that right now – singing along to whatever song they’ve drunkenly made up fading away as they walked towards the exit. “see you!” you heard someone shout from a distance.

but noel didn’t budge.

fuck.

“funny you say that, yknow.” he said lowly.

“what?” you ask quietly despite already knowing. you feel it.

“jus’ haven’t had it in a while, too.” he said.

you blinked. then scoffed lightly. “fuck off.”

“serious.”

“no groupies?” you asked quietly, eyebrows raising softly.

he scrunched his nose, shaking his head. “too old for that shite now.”

“huh,” you say, amused. and he raises his brows, not breaking the eye contact. then, you slap the table like you’ve just solved a murder mystery, “well… there you go then! you need to get laid, noelly.”

he stared at you for a second too long.

too still. too quiet.

fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“yeah?” he said finally, voice low, rougher now, and still so fucking smug. his eyes didn’t leave your face. “that’s what you reckon?”

you laughed, leaning closer because you were drunk enough not to care and brave enough not to stop. your knee knocked into his under the table. you didn’t move it away.

“mhm,” you nodded, grinning. “what you need is a proper shag.”

his mouth twitched. and you could see something passed behind his eyes – hunger, frustration. the weight of months of pressure and no release and pretending he was fine when he wasn’t. you could see the restraint slowly becoming background noise in his head.

“funny” – he muttered, tilting his chin up – “say that like you’re offerin’.”

“don’t flatter yourself” you said quietly.

but you didn’t lean back.

neither did he.

the bar felt suddenly smaller. quieter. the air thick with that electric, stupid tension that only shows up when you’ve wanted someone for too long and never crossed the line.

another beat.

“fuck it.”

and then he kissed you.

his hand found the side of your neck at the same time his body pressed against yours so hard it made your back hit the cushioned sofa with a soft thud.

a small sound escaped from your lips as his tongue searched for yours, immediately letting him in. he wasn’t gentle or careful now, instead, it was like he’s letting out what he’s been holding in for years.

his other hand came up to your jaw, thumb pressing just enough to tilt your head back, your mouths fitting in a way that was electric.

you let out a shaky breath as you were kissing him back just as hard. your fingers found the back of his head and softly tugged it as an attempt to pull him closer, while your free hand grabbed the fabric of his jacket.

he kissed you deeper, desperate, before he pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, pupils blown searching for yours.

“not understandin’ this wrong, am i?” he asked, already panting.

you shook your head quickly, your breathing ragged and your fingers now fisting his collar like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

“no” you breathed out. “fuck, no.”

then, you closed the distance again. your hands remained in his hair as you threw your leg over the other side of his lap, straddling and letting out a heavy huff of air when his hands grabbed your ass harshly. you couldn’t help but break the kiss with a moan once you felt his warm and hard length under the fabric of your jeans the moment you shifted on his lap.

his hands were already everywhere, trembling with adrenaline and too much whiskey. his fingers started clumsily fumbling with the buttons of your blouse until he gave up and just yanked the fabric aside. he was messy, desperate, leaning down and sucking the skin right above the lacy fabric of your bra before managing to get the fabric out of the way. then, noel eagerly pushed it down and took one of your nipples into his mouth. your head tipped back, a broken and needy moan coming out of your throat as grinded against his lap at the feeling.

his hands stayed firm on your ass once he stood up from the booth, pulling a needy moan out of you at the sudden change. your nails digged into the back of his neck and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. his head lifted from your chest and his lips slick with spit found yours again as he sat you down on the table, standing up between your legs.

he sat you down on the edge of it and he didn’t say a word, just reached down and fumbled with the button of your jeans, impatient.

“fuckin’— christ, hold on.” he muttered lowly.

he worked it out quickly once you lifted your hips, tugging the jeans down your legs along with the soaked lace of your panties in one eager move. the soft thud of your clothes hitting the floor went completely over your head the moment he leaned down closer to your cunt. his hands wrapped around your thighs, spreading them as he he pooled a heavy amount of saliva in his mouth and let it drop onto your warm core.

you bucked, a strangled moan leaving your throat at the feeling – eyes scrunching up and head falling back once his thumb followed his own spit dripping down your slit, smearing it over your clit with a pressure that had your toes curling.

“look at you.” he rasped, his posture straightened again just so he could watch your expression, his gaze darting down to his own hand disappear between your legs because he simply couldn’t resist. “always this needy or is it just me, huh?“ he asked, low and smug.

before you could reply, his free hand went to his own belt. clumsy and swearing under his breath as he freed himself, his immediately wrapping his hand around his cock that was already warm and leaking.

you whimpered softly, bucking your hips closer to the edge and rubbing your thighs up and down on his sides as an attempt to pull him in. but then, he paused – his thumb mid tracing the head of as the reality hit him.

“fuck.” he breathed out, leaning until his forehead rested against yours. “don’t have a cond—”

you reached out, fisting his hair and interrupting him with a kiss. “i’m on the pill.”

at your pleading words, he huffed out a laugh. in that smug, mancunian way you usually cussed him and liam out for – suddenly becoming the hottest thing you’d ever seen right about now, fuck sake.

he let out a soft huff. “yeah?” he teased and guided his cock to your folds, and definitely not pushing in. fucker. he teased you with it, giving your pussy little, mocking slaps with the head of it, watching the way you whimpered and tried to push back against him. “want it that bad? want it to just fill you up?”

“noel, pleas— fuck. just fuck me.”you moaned, looking down and shifting until you were closer.

his free hand went to your face, grabbing it and forcing you to keep looking at his face – not at the tip of his cock, that now rubbed slowly along your slit, dragging it up and down and inevitably coating himself in your wetness. you moaned, your hips lifting off the table in a desperate search for friction.

“say it. tell me what you want,” he whispered, his breath warm and smelling like whiskey.

"fuckin' do it, noel," you gritted out, arching your chest closer to him.

just then he pushed forward, cutting you off as he buried himself inside you with one heavy thrust. the air left your lungs in a loud moan as you felt him stretch you, and he didn't give you time to adjust – he started moving immediately, his hands tight on your legs to make sure they were spread while he began to pound into you.

your hands grabbed the table harder, head throwing back as you moaned. his hands grabbed your thighs harshly, cussing and groaning as he looked down at his cock disappearing inside you. “fuck,” he moaned, one of his hands going to the back of your head and grabbing a fistful of your hair – almost yanking your head as he shifted your gaze to where your bodies met, smirking at the sight of your eyes already droopy with pleasure.

“look at it, love,” he said, voice shaky with pleasure. his fingers spreading over the part where your leg and hip meet and one of them applying pressure in your clit in perfect sloppy circles. “yeah, fuuuck, look at it. stretching this pretty cunt out. jesus, fuck.”

you threw your head back with a loud moan and propped it back up immediately, your hands grabbing his hair and tugging him close, making him hiss and thrust into you harder. “dirty fuckin’ girl. lettin’ me fuck you raw like this, eh?”

you whimpered, nodding dumbly and moaning loudly again once his hand went to your jaw, grabbing it tightly and slipping his thumb inside your mouth. your tongue immediately darted out without him even telling you to, you lapped at his finger, sucking it messily – dirty and filthy in a way neither of you had expected this would go down.

but fucking hell, weren’t you glad.

“yeah? cunt’s squeezing my cock like you've been waitin' for this. s’what you wanted all along innit?” he grunted, his pace becoming even more punishing, his hands bruising your jaw as he held you in place. “wanted this… too fucking long. shouldn't have let you wait, should i? should've just bent you over months ago.”

“y-yes, fuck! yes!”

“yeah? should’ve give it to you like this, hm? fucking you like a fucking slut? that’s what you wanted?”

your only reply was a loud moan, eyes scrunching tight as the sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt filled the space.

“fuck, so fucking tight,” he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. “god, you’re so fuckin’ tight. gonna go in two minutes if you keep squeezin’ me like that.” he gritted out, crashing his lips against yours once more and huffing out heavily once you started to pulse around him. “good girl. takin' it so fucking well, such a good girl, love... go on, cum f’me.” he slurred against your mouth.

your mouth fell agape as you immediately complied to his command, eyes squeezing shut and feeling your body go limp as your orgasm washed over you. his thrusts got sloppier through it, and your hands grabbed onto the edge of the table for dear fucking life as your shaky body calmed down.

your back fell slowly onto the table and arching as he didn’t let up on his fingers messily rubbing your clit until he started to spill inside you.

he groaned and kept thrusting into you as he panted, finally scratching that itch that had been there for months. “fuuuck, that's it,” he whispered and slowed his thrusts down, licking his lips and panting as his hands twitched and grabbed your thighs. he breathed out a “fuck” as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, breathing heavily. his hips now still and his cock still throbbing inside you as tired and warm breaths from his nose hit your skin.

he stayed there for a long time, slumped over you as you panted just like him. your hands limp on your sides and your legs twitching and still tight around his waist while his face stayed hidden in the crook of your neck as your breaths eventually slowed down. the silence of the empty bar returned, heavy and thick.

“jesus,” you cut into the silence with an amused huff of a laugh. and it got a quiet and tired laugh out of him, only then pulling away to look at your face.

“reckon you were right,” he said teasingly.

and you laughed, genuine and warm, nodding. “well, when aren’t i?”

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