#prefame

The bell over the shop door never sounded polite. It always clattered like someone had kicked it instead of nudged it, the metal vibrating sharp through the quiet lull of the late afternoon. At first it annoyed you to the point where you’d complain to the manager. But he, being the tight bastard he is, says it attracts customers. Iconic shit and all that. That forces you to grow used to it, the jarring little clang announcing customers who never knew what they wanted, looking around like a lost puppy for an hour. Only to come back with one tape, rarely a vinyl.

And just like any other night, the bell rang. You muttered a half-hearted, “Welcome to the Shack Shop, how can I help you?” but there was no response nor a step sound. You only looked up because the silence dragged on too long.

There he was, Liam bloody Gallagher. You’d met him just about three weeks into work, when the manager started putting you on the late rota, 3 to 9, because you asked for it. The Gallaghers weren't exactly unknown. You’d seen him around the block before. Funnily never in school, although he was around your age. But the bloke always made it to lunch, possibly because his mam is the lunch lady and he didn’t want to get busted for skipping classes. Teachers whisper he’s a mini version of his brother.

And you did know his brother Noel, after cursing him for getting your dress splattered when he scooted past. You could see the resemblance in both: thick brows, blue eyes, only Liam had a dark fringe hanging over them and longer lashes. Some might say (pun intended) that he’s a bird catcher. And it runs in the blood apparently, the bastardness of the Gallagher wasn’t really infamous. Strong genes came with a price you guess. 

He didn’t greet you back. Of course not. Just a slow nod, eyes flicking over you the way he took in everything : suspicious first, curious second, interested never but somehow… always. Then he trudged behind the counter and clocked in like he’d been forced to exist here by God Himself. 

One thing you know is Liam cares about nothing but himself. He shelved ‘The Stone Roses’ under S for “stone” because, quote, “That’s what makes sense, innit.” And he didn’t even hide the fact that he doesn’t give an arse about the job. Only God knew why he kept coming in, late as ever, like he owned the goddamn place.

And you yourself keep this job to save up for college. So when you saw your name next to his on the rota, same shift, every day, the whole miserable week, you just sighed. Apart from serving customers, apparently the new rota requires you to babysit Liam too. He shelved things wrong, you fixed them. He glared at difficult customers, you dealt with them. No point complaining. No hope management would spare you. 

And it worked. Barely. But it worked.

You and Liam had just finished shelving the new crate of the latest record. All worked in pure silence. You both still cling on the unspoken rules of the shift, to not speak a word to each other. Or at least you do. You don’t find yourself as a small talk person with him. Not that you despise him that much, but you’d do that to anyone anyway. 

And surprise surprise, Liam did his job right this time. So you don’t really let out a noise since there’s nothing to scold. The silence didn’t feel very cold, nor comfortable either. It was rather charged. Like static clinging to the air. 

The work finished quickly and so break came around 6. You didn’t do much around these times. Not fancy having a dinner at work either so you could hardly call it a break yourself. Sitting at the counter, putting your songs of choice inside while Liam in the back was the complete opposite of the coin. He uses the spare time to smoke his arse outside like he’d die if he didn't. 

He grabbed his stuff, heading for the door like always. But this time, he paused mid-step, glanced at you, and nodded toward the backdoor.

“You comin’ or what?”

You held your urge to raise your brows, keeping a neutral face. Does someone hit him with a hammer? It’s hard to believe that he finally recognized you as a coworker, hell as a person. 

“…to smoke?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Or to get out of this dump for ten minutes. Doesn’t matter.”

Not an invitation. Not exactly. More like he didn’t mind if you came along. You needed the fresh air anyway. So you wiped your hands on your jeans and followed him out the back.

The back alley behind the shop weren’t glamorous in the slightest, cracked pavement, bins lined up like they were sulking, a faint smell of cold dust and last noon's rain. You watch as Liam leaning against the brick wall, spliff already dangling from his lips.

He flicked his lighter, shielding the flame from the wind with his palm. The orange glow lit up his face for a brief second, sharp jaw, thick lashes, the faintest shadow of stubble that made him look older than twenty, but also somehow younger, like he was still growing into the shape of himself. Of course he was smoking joints on break, what a lad. But you suppose he had his own reason today.

Well you weren’t the type to pry and he wasn’t the type to overshare either. But it doesn’t slip from your eyes how he looked rather rough than the other days. He dropped his jacket on the counter a bit too hard, rubbing the back of his neck like someone had pissed him off before going off to this old building. You glanced up just in time to catch a sharp, frustrated breath escaping him when he leaned against the turntable display. 

He took the first drag slow. Not to show off. Not to look tough. Just because he always did things at his own pace, stubborn, steady, like the world could hurry around him but he stayed the same. Like he holds the control of time in the palm of his hand. 

Then he held the joint out to you. 

That caught you off guard. Blinking at the blunt, unsure of what to do. “I don’t smoke,” you remind him quietly, eyes flick up to him.

He tilted his head, one brow lifting the slightest bit. “Didn’t ask if you did.”

You furrowed your brows “…Then what’re you doin’?”

“Offerin’,” he said, shrugging like he didn’t care one way or the other, but his eyes were locked on yours, waiting. 

You hesitate for a second but then realize how uncool it'd be if you just turn him down right now. After all, you were tired of being the one who never knew anything about the world. Maybe it’s time to finally have a taste of the piece you had missed before. So you took it. Finger brushed when he passed it over. And his eyes never passed the way you inhaled badly and coughed almost immediately.

He huffed out a laugh. You catch it and heat up in embarrassment. Trying to shove the spliff back into his hand.

“Easy,” he murmured, stepping just a little closer. “Don’t pull like you’re tryin’ to suck on a demon.”

You rolled your eyes between coughs. “Shut up.”

“You shut up,” he muttered back, eyes glinting with something warmer than mockery. Not quite flirtation. But something that had teeth. And you can’t help but find it captivating. So this is the charm they had whispering around the block? 

He took the joint from your hand, putting the stuff back in his mouth for a drag. Showing you exactly how it's done. And you watch it. The way his lips pursed a bit when he inhaled. And the movement of the faint nerve on his neck when the smoke comes out of his mouth.

He passed it again. This time, with a bit of knowledge you took a drag. Mimicking the way he slowly takes the cannabis in and puffs it out within your nose. It burns a little in the back of your throat but you could feel the way your shoulder less tense. And while you’re basking in the sensation, you feel a little bit lighter than before.

He smirked, proud at your new achievement. "There you are."

He didn't take the bone back. He lit a new one and before you know it you started smoking together. He talks about literally everything. Football and music mostly. You were quite surprised to know that he actually listened to The Beatles, which by the way he always misplaced on the shelf. It occurs to you how he always seemed to ignore ‘The’ in a band name. John Lennon seemed to affect his mind in any kind of way, you reckon he’ll name his kid with the name someday. He laughs at your story about bumping into his brother in the streets. Agreeing with you how bastard he is to recklessly ride around the puddle.

When you have nothing to say he fills your quietness. You just stood there huffing out a new addiction he just injected, smiling at his rambles about anything.

He lit up a second one, ever the gentleman he offered it to you. But you refused it feeling a bit floaty and less tense than needed. You’re still on clock anyway. He didn’t push, you were relieved by that. He took a drag and eyes instantly sticking into you. And he just stared like that, like it was the most natural thing to do.

“You’re different when you’re not dealin’ with customers,” he said suddenly.

You blinked “Different how?”

He shrugged “Dunno. Softer, maybe.”

You scoffed. “I’m not soft.”

He flicked his eyes toward you. “Didn’t say you were soft all the time.”

“Then what?”

You could see him thinking. Something you thought he’s not capable of. He looked utterly beautiful. Eyes up in the sky fully fogged by the drugs he just smoked. He looks like a renaissance painting, perfectly sculpted nose with heavenly eyes. At this point you’re convinced that he tricks you into smoking to see this angelic side of him.

A minute long passed, the joint became a roach when he puffed the last smoke. Making a circle like shape out of it. The smell curled warm into the cold air. And you watch the way it moves up to the sky until it loses its shape and just disappears. You could tell that he wasn’t used to explaining himself, and it took effort to find the right words.

“You’re… less guarded out here,” he said eventually. “Not holdin’ your breath as much.”

You opened your mouth but then shut it. Not sure about what to say about that. It’s a streak of surprise he is. Was he telling you that all this time, while being a pain in the arse, he had been glancing at you? 

Good thing Liam didn’t seem to expect a comeback. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t even tense. It was… aware. Charged like a low hum under the skin. The kind of silence where something is happening, slowly, quietly, but unmistakably.

“D’you always smoke back here?” you ask, letting his previous statement clings in the air.

“Yeah.”

“Alone?”

He nodded “Don’t like people watchin’ me breathe.”

That lifted the edge of your lip, “That is so dramatic.”

“Dead serious,” he replied, somehow having a smile himself. “I just don’t like bein’ looked at, unless I choose it.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes at the statement. “So you’re choosin’ it now?”

He didn’t immediately snap with a comeback as you’re expecting. That made you swallow, pulse quickening as you watched him throw his gaze into somewhere around the sky. Having the same angelic look when he thinks. Funny how thinking doesn’t fit his image at all, felt like God made him do it for aesthetic only. You couldn’t find yourself to peel your eyes off of him.

“Maybe I am,” he said quietly.

And the world suddenly felt too small. Or too big. Or both. Was he flirting with you? Was it the joint had hit the level of heat where everything suddenly feels too electric? But before either of you could speak again, the shop door cracked open.

“Break’s up!” the manager shouted.

Liam’s jaw tightened, not in anger, just in that tch way he had, like the whole world existed to inconvenience him personally. He stubbed the roach out against the wall and looked at you again. A bit longer than needed, or maybe it’s just the joint that slows down the time.

“C’mon,” he muttered, brushing past you just barely, just enough to feel the heat of him. “Don’t wanna go back there without you.”

And that sits right with you. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it’s already enough to tilt the entire week ahead of you.

And it did.

As the next day rolls in, he clocks in late as always, like he’s allergic to punctuality. Neither of you mentions what he said yesterday. Not a word. Makes you wonder if you imagined the whole thing… if the smoke made everything feel more intimate than it really was.

But you’ve developed a routine without ever agreeing to one. Every day now you slip out to the back alley, sharing a lighter, sharing the cold air, sometimes staring up at the night sky like the both of you are trying to find shapes in the clouds that aren’t there. He never brought the weed again, just a normal cigs. You took them anyway.

Suddenly he wasn't just a coworker who thought the alphabetical order was optional. He was like your daily diary bud. Always been updated on how your day is going, and it goes the same with him. His brother once came into the shop to buy a record. And you can’t lie about how good it felt when the three of you stood there, caught in a conversation that felt easy only on the outside.

Liam is a funny lad. He always seems to have a perspective of his own on every topic. Twisting his words into a joke that never fails to make you laugh. He pinched your waist whenever he passed by you. And you always flipped him off for that. 

On one occasion he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders because you’re freezing your arse off. It wasn’t intimate. Wasn’t really romantic. But there’s something building inside you. Slow, stubborn, buried in the cracks between the laughter and the stupid arguments about aliens or who really built the pyramids.

By the time you step back inside, the shop’s nearly silent. The street noise fades behind you. Just the hum of the old fluorescents overhead, flickering like they’re on their last legs, and the soft crackle of the turntable Liam’s already dropped the needle onto.

He does it casually but with that strange, unconscious care he only shows with music. Like the vinyl’s the one thing in his life he won’t fuck up. And for once you thought he’s made for this jon, just not the customers.

Liam’s glancing at you every few seconds. Not obvious, not staring, just quick little darts of attention. The kind that makes your skin prickle. The kind you pretend not to notice behind the papers you read. 

He drifts toward the turntable by the window, kneels by the stack of vinyls, fingers trailing across the spines like he’s reading them by touch alone. The managers had left early, complaining how the day had frozen his bollocks off. And Liam is now choosing a song to play, something he always does at the end of the shift. Although the clock just hit 8.20.

You lean against the counter, watching him with arms crossed. “Closin’ early?” you ask with a hint of tease. There’s something funny in watching Liam trying to get away from this cursed place.

He shrugs. “No one’s comin’ in. Can’t be arsed.”

You snort. “Very responsible of you.”

“’Course it is,” he mutters and finally looks at you. Then, with a little tilt of his chin he asked “You want a tune?”

That didn’t land how he planned. It’s too casual for a Liam, sounds rehearsed. Barely. You catch the bit of tremble in his voice. How odd of him, you thought.

“Yeah,” you say. “Go on, then.”

He pulls out a record, slides it onto the deck. The buzzing, empty shop fills with a tune unfamiliar at first, but it’s got a rhythm that hooks you immediately, makes your head nod without realising. You know this tune, your father had been blasting the album for a whole week in the car. You just never realise how good the song was.

You let out a low whistle. “Fuckin’ hell. You’re good.”

He doesn’t face you, but the little laugh that comes out of his mouth says enough. He heard you, and he seemed to like the praise. Minute stretch, the shop feels warmer as you hummed out the melody. You watch the way his finger taps along the broom as you both clean the place before clocking out. Once in a while he glances over just to check if you’re still listening.

It’s The Stone Roses, the album he’s been shelving wrong for weeks. You always assumed he hated them, but the way he listens now… you’re not so sure. 

“…I got more at home,” he mutters, voice low, almost careless.

“More what?” you ask, hand plug off the computer from the desk counter.

“Records. Tunes. Stuff worth hearin’.”

He meets your eyes for a heartbeat. And he looked rather curious  “…If you wanted to carry on,” he says, pretending to fiddle with the volume. “I could, y’know… take you to me place for a bit.”

You blink, a bit caught off guard by the sudden invite. Liam fucking Gallagher invite you over? You don’t see why not to pinch yourself to check if this was a dream. But seeing a hesitation from his eyes as your silence lingered a second too long, you cleared your throat “Sure… yeah.”

He tries not to smile, but his lips twitch anyway. Amused and satisfied with your answer. 

Before you know it, you’re following him down the pavement. Streetlamps buzzing overhead as  you fix your coat from the night air. He doesn’t live far, four blocks from the shop and one from your house. You both could’ve walked together to work and go home, but then you remember how the lazy bastard always seems to clock in late. He fills the quiet in the walk. Everything feels too fast, too slow, and strangely inevitable when you suddenly arrive at the Gallagher’s.

Leading the way, Liam entered the house with a greeting to his mam the announcing your appearance. And the nice lady just answers from the other room. The house smells faintly of laundry and Liam’s mam’s dinner. He elbows you, nodding his head to the stairs. Carpet worn, stairs creaking like they’re complaining as you both step up. His bedroom is on the left, last one in the small hall.

“This is your room?” you ask the obvious. He wouldn’t drag you to his siblings room now would he?

“Me and me brother, actually. He’ll be back late anyway or not at all. Wha’ever” He said as he opened the door for you.

He lit the lamp and that's when you could see the room. Two beds on each wall separated by a table for a nightlamp you suppose. Each side had their own quirk you might say. But none of them seems very neat. Boys. 

There’s a window and a table with stuff on it. You suppose it wasn’t Liam since he already walked towards his side, across the stereo on the table. 

He kicks some shirts aside, muttering, “Don’t judge. It’s… a shithole.”

You flop onto the bed beside him. “Cozy.”

He snorts but doesn’t argue, crouching by the box of tape besides the bed. You lean in to watch his fingers flipping through the sleeves like they’re old friends. He picks one, then walks to the stereo on the other side. Putting the tape in. Music blooms. Swirling, hypnotic, a little too pretty for the state of his room.

He drops his coat on the floor, rummaging through his pockets like he’s looking for spare change, then pulls out a crumpled pack.

“You want one?” he asks, holding it out without much ceremony.

You think he means a normal cig, so you nod pluck one from the pack and he taps another out for himself. The lighter flicking with that familiar sound he’s mastered from years of skiving off responsibilities. He leans in a little just enough that the flame brushes the tip of your cigarette. The gesture had your heart beating in your neck as your eyes met. Just enough that you catch the warmth of his breath for half a second. 

You inhale. And immediately choke.

You cough once, eyes narrowing.  “Fucking hell, this isn’t a cig.”

He bites back a grin, poorly.

“Didn’t say it was, did I?”

“You cheeky little- Warn a person next time!”

He bursts out laughing, actual laughing.  Head thrown back, had his messy fringe shaking. “Look at you! Thought you were hard, that.”

You glare at him, but the warmth in your chest isn’t just from the smoke. “Fuck you,” you mutter, taking another drag. It hits smoother the second time, sinking warm behind your ribs. 

Liam pushes himself up from the edge of the bed and crosses the room, moving on instinct more than thought. He shoves the window open and the cold air rushes in, sharp and immediate, dragging the smoke out with it. He leans forward, exhaling once more, then lifts a hand and waves it through the haze, impatient, like he can bully it into disappearing faster. The smell lingers anyway, clinging to the curtains, the sheets, his clothes. Eyes cutting to the door, making sure none of it slips under and rats him out to his mam.

“So this is why you never bring the stuff back to the shop? You take it down here now?” You ask, eyes following his every move.

“Nowt is free forever, love. The price had been up lately. Our pay is shite, can’t really smoke it daily now can we?” he said as he crawled back into his bed.

You hummed in response. Fair enough, since he always gives free cigs for you. You flick the joint into a bowl he had turned into an ashtray. “Reckon I have to pay for this?” you meant that as a joke.

And he gets the note, smirking as he returns it. “In a way, yes.”

You whip your head toward him and he immediately looks away, pretending he said nothing. 

The record hums softly in the background, filling the little room with warmth and crackle. Liam sprawls on his back again, arms behind his head, legs half on the bed, half dangling to the floor, eyes glinting under his fringe. You’re perched on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, hands resting on your thighs, trying not to stare too obviously, but failing spectacularly. 

He glances at you, that faint lift of one eyebrow that makes your stomach twist. You pretend to be absorbed in the ceiling white plaster with faint cracks, shadows flickering from the record’s soft glow, but your gaze keeps sliding down to him. His hair falls into his eyes, and you catch him brushing it away absentmindedly, fingers lingering just a second too long near his cheek.

A laugh bubbles up in you for no reason at all, and he sits up slightly, peering down at you. “What?” he asks, feigning irritation but smirking.

“Nothin’,” you mutter, cheeks warm. “Just lookin’ at the ceiling. Very… contemplative.”

He snorts, rolling onto his side toward you, knees brushing yours again. “Contemplative, eh? Like a poet or some daft romantic?”

“Maybe both,” you reply, trying to sound casual but failing as your fingers accidentally graze his forearm. He didn’t seem to pull away either.

Minutes stretch thin. You sit close enough to have your arms brush. You knocked your knee against his. He mutters, “Oi,” in mock annoyance, but his lips twitch upwards. You snort. 

The smoke drifts around you in lazy spirals. At this point, you had your cheek resting on his shoulder. From here, you can smell him, faint, earthy, comforting and it makes your chest squeeze. He clears his throat, looks away, but the corner of his lips quirk upwards.

He shifted, the movement had you lean back from his body. Your eyes were locked against his baby blue one. Pupils dilated, maybe from drugs, maybe from the tension. Your breath shudders when he leans in. Foreheads nearly touch. Your noses graze. 

No one seems to move first, both hesitating to lean and close the gap. Always stop mid air and lean back to go back to the same place. You both laugh silently, embarrassed, but unwilling to move apart.

“Christ,” he whispers, muffled, “we’re terrible at this.”

“Maybe you’re terrible,” you tease, reaching out to flick at the fringe that keeps falling into his eyes. 

He laughs quietly, a soft rumble against the quiet music. His hand comes up into your cheek, thumb grazing in a soft line. You notice the way he’s watching you, eyes dark, mischievous, but careful, like he’s testing limits without crossing them.

His lips hover near yours for a second too long. You swallow, heart beating in your throat thinking about what he can do to you. But then he chuckles quietly, brushing hair off his forehead. Your palm brushes his chest. He shivers, half-laughing, half-cursing.

“Oi, stop it,” he murmurs, mock stern. But the smirk betrays him.

“Stop what?” you whisper, barely audible.

“Making it… complicated,” he says, voice low. Your heart hammers.

A soft exhale from him, a laugh caught in his throat. Your hands find his wrists accidentally, sliding up his arms in a clumsy attempt to steady yourself. He grips your forearm lightly, thumb brushing against your skin, teasing, not letting go.

You try to lean in, then pull back. He does the same. Almost kissing. Almost laughing. Almost touching. And then bursts out laughing because your knees bump again, both of you tangled in sheets and arms, failing spectacularly.

“God, we’re idiots,” he mutters, face buried in your shoulder for a second, then lifts his head, smiling sideways at you.

“Nah, we’re high.” You smile, “Up in the clouds, we.” tracing patterns on his sleeve with your fingertip.

A pause. Quiet. Music crackles. Smoke drifts. And then, inches apart, you both inhale together, like holding your breath before finally letting it out. He leans forward slightly tentative, testing, and your noses brush. A heartbeat later, you both close the gap.

You shut your eyes you feel his lips move on yours. Hand slipping into his hair as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. 

His tongue greets your lips first. And you didn’t hesitate to let him in. Dancing with your tongue in a way that builds a heat under your stomach. You let a moan into his mouth and he devours it. Hand trailing down to rest on the side of your neck. The other one steady on your waist.

You both pulled back for a moment. Catching breath as your forehead bumped together. His eyes glint with something. Something that makes the heat in you start to feel unbearable.

Liam leaned for a kiss again. This time bolder, as he pulls you into his lap. Your body reacts before your mind does, legs on each side of his hips, straddling him. The kiss is getting louder. Your heartbeat drums in your ear as you feel his hand roamed into your shirt. Cupping one of your breasts into his cold hand, send a shiver down your spine. 

His mouth trailing down into your jaw, then nesting on your neck. Making your head tilted back in pleasure as he sucked a sweet sweet spot there. His hands still working under your shirt. But he grazed a ticklish part, and you can’t help but burst laughing mid moaning. He freezes. Laughter bubbles up uncontrollably. 

He mutters, “Oi! Stop laughing or I’ll—”

But he can’t finish because you both are laughing too hard, fumbling, soft, messy, warmth spreading through you in all the right ways. Your head buried in his shoulder. Trying to muffle the sound.

“Oh bloody hell-!!”

The laugh dies in your throat, snapping into a sharp gasp as the door flies open. You both whip round.

There he is.

Coat half on, keys still in his hand, eyes already narrowing before he lets out a long, tortured groan. Noel. He slams the door shut behind him and drags a hand down his face like he’s reconsidering every life choice that led him here.

“Fuck me,” he mutters, stumbling a few steps in before stopping dead, hovering awkwardly like he doesn’t know whether to kick off or walk straight back out. “I knew it. I fuckin’ knew it. Tweedledee and Tweedledumbass hotboxin’ in me room.”

You cannot escape the embarrassment from his words. Mortified, you scramble off Liam’s lap while he just sighs, not half as bothered. “Our room, ya prick,” Liam shoots back, one arm still lazily round your waist. “Didn’t think yer miserable arse’d be back tonight.”

“Ever heard of a phone, ya knobhead?” Noel snaps. “There’s a bloody key for a reason. Could’ve spared me eyes from… whatever the fuck that was.”

Noel wrinkles his nose. “You takin’ up smokin’ indoors now, are ya?”

Liam sputters. “Oh, wind yer neck in.”

Noel throws his hands up. “That’s it. I’ve had a long day, I’m knackered, and I am not dealin’ with this shite.”

The bloke, with no care in the world, flopped into his bed side. Face buried down. You and Liam exchange a look when you both hear a snoring sound not long after the grumpy furrball falls into his bed. You had leaned your head into Liam’s face as you both quietly laughed.

“Proper gobshite, him,” Liam murmurs. “Don’t mind the potato.”

You just laughed at that. “Well, better get home or we’ll poke the potato bear up. He’ll eat us.”

“Yeah?” Liam grins, eyes glinting as he leans closer. “Next time yer here, I’ll eat ya instead.”

You laugh, shaking your head. He holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary, then nods toward the door.

“Come on,” he says softly. “I’ll walk ya.”