#ruby sparks

“john lennon. the singer? er' pullin' my leg, surely 'ya know john lennon. nah, nah, 'ya definitely know his song, imagine?”

“dunno, never heard of him before.”

“you've never heard of john lennon?” liam repeats the question back to the girl, equal parts horrified and offended. the girl shrugs, turning her head back around to look up at the stars.

“why, is he really famous and important?”

“he's probably—no he is one of the greatest musicians in the world.”

“only one?”

“well, duh, me, oasis are the greatest band in the world too y'know?” liam shrugs casually, though a cocky grin slides across his face.

“yeah, well. i'd like your band no matter what.”

her words immediately rip the smile off his face, replacing it with a stunned grimace as he whips his head around to look down at the girl.

“what didja just say?”

“i like oasis. just the way it is.”

࿔*:･liam gallagher who wakes up immediately after those words, his body jolting upright as a blaring alarm sounds through the room. immediately struck by a sudden burst of inspiration for his new song, he kicks his legs over the side of his bed and stumbles into the living room.

the melody and words flow right through him as he writes it down, a familiar warmth spreading through his body the more he thinks about you. he rushes over to the studio after phoning the rest of the band, proudly showing off his new work with a toothy grin on his face.

“met a bird then, have 'ya?”

“...not really i suppose,” liam admits sheepishly, his hand rubbing over the back of his neck. he swallows harshly, ignoring his brother's incredulous gaze, fingers moving to itch the spot right underneath his ear. “thought 'bout writing to the fangirls, y''know? 'ya said yerself they bloody well gave us our career, yeah?”

noel's quiet for a moment; he lets the dumbfounded silence sink into the atmosphere for a little longer, his jaw slack and lips grimaced into a look of confusion. liam shivers as a tingle crawls up his spine, unable to bear the awkward silence any longer.

“...right.” noel almost winces at the silence, his gaze dropping down to the frail piece of paper held in his grasp.

“...wouldja stop starin' at me like that?!” liam snaps, his mancunian accent thick around the edges. “'ya asked for a song, 'n i gave 'ya a song!”

“yeah, yeah,” noel waves him off absentmindedly, turning his back and walking over to the booth. “c'mon then, and if it's fuckin' shit i'm scraping it, mate.”

“yeah, yeah, 'ya fuckin' prick.” liam mumbles as he slips into the booth, muttering a few insults under his breath before slipping the headphones over his ears. he stares at his brother through the glass until noel gives him a quick thumbs up and leans back in his chair, his gaze shifting into something scrutinising.

࿔*:･liam gallagher walked back to his flat with a pep in his step that night, the stress of that damn song melting right off him as soon as he saw noel nodding along — his most subtle form of praise.

࿔*:･liam gallagher wakes up the next morning, his head a little fuzzy and confused as he pushes the white sheets off his body, hardly noticing how dishevelled they looked on the right side of the bed. he slowly swings his legs over the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, trying to get himself to wake up.

his eyebrows furrow inwards as the sound of noise in the kitchen. he could hardly distinguish the blended sounds of rustling apart, which was occasionally followed by a small clink of cutlery hitting against something. adrenaline surged through him at the realisation, any haunting atom of slapped quickly snapping into anxiety-fuelled energy as he jumped to his feet, immediately clambering down the stairs to investigate.

it's you.

you stand there, in the middle of liam gallagher's kitchen, wearing an over-sized shirt of his and a bowl of cereal in your hands.

“missed you in bed last night,” you mumble, your mouth half-full with cereal as liam snaps his head towards you, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and horror. “didja get some good writing done?”

“oh, god.” liam mutters under his breath, taking a slow step backwards as you continue talking. his mouth is wide agape, his heart stammering as a mixture of fear and worry swirl together, held unsteadily in his chest. “oh fuck me. fuck.”

“hey, do you want a bite? it's crispix.” you tilt your head curiously, completely unaware of the inner turmoil almost ripping him to shreds.

“what the fuck...?”

࿔*:･liam gallagher who spent the rest of his morning in his room, trying to shake himself away. i mean, no way the girl he just dreamed about was sitting in his kitchen, looking like some sick perverted version of a wet dream. he slaps himself on the cheek, the sharp, irritating sting doing nothing to make him forget about his morning—

“liam?”

liam turns to find you standing in the doorway, his oversized shirt still hanging off your frame. you resemble a small, worried child; your face curled into a look of fearful desperation, your eyes wide and teary as they scan over his face before dropping to the floor, a small sob bubbling up in your throat.

“are you mad at me?”

࿔*:･liam gallagher spent the rest of his day convincing himself you were real. he brought you out in public, even going as far to ignore you in conversation just to see if anyone else actually noticed you. it was a mess really. some poor busboy got reeled into the middle of it, yelled at by the liam gallagher to see if he could really see you. god, he was fearful of the next morning's tabloids. but alas, you were here with him.

and you were real.

it was all to much and yet not enough at the same time... he wanted more.

he slowly but surely began to write another song, sitting hunched over his desk into the god awful hours of night, his mind so incredibly loud as he jotted down a few more lyrics. he turned his head over his shoulder to look at you, curled up on the other side of the bed, sleeping peacefully without a worry in the world.

liam turns back, an idea simmering in his mind as his lips pursed into a thoughtful scowl. he turns back to look at you one last time before quickly scribbling down a useless line he knew he'd scrap.

“y/n was miserable without liam. she had to be near him all the time, or she would become despondent.”

there's a beat.

a quiet rustle from the sheets.

“liam,” you sleepily whine from your shared bed. “come to bed with me. stay.”

࿔*:･liam gallagher walks you through a crowd of tourist, street-vendors, club-goers and god, almost every single person who lived in manchester. the streets are bustling, the crowd loud and intense as you trot through them, your hand firmly wrapped around his own. his phone rings, and distracted, he swiftly drops your hand and continues to walk forward.

“hello?”

“r'kid! 'ya comin' down to the pub tonight or what, mate?” noel's unisually spiffy voice greeting him through the speaker. liam almost laughed, but settled for a quiet snicker instead. it was obvious he's already had a few.

“'m with y/n, right now, mate. look i, uh, i could...” liam's voice faltered as he finished crossing the street, turning towards where you were to mouth 'one second'— but you're not there. liam whips around, head turning around wildly, panic beginning to swell in his chest. you were nowhere to be found.

“liam?”

“i'll call 'ya back, fuckin'...hold on.” liam rushes through his words before hanging up, head still swivelling around as he tries to search the crowd. “y/n!”

liam swears he sees you across the street, merely through a small flash of colour. he skittishly attempts to cross the street, but cars continue to whiz by. he raises his head above the crowd, trying to keep an eye on you as the crossing light flicks to a bright green colour. he dashes across the street, pushing through the crowd to where you stand, your head tilted down towards the ground.

“hey, hey, hey...what're 'ya doin', babe? i turned 'round and you were—you were just gone!” liam ushers over you, his hands caressing your warm cheeks before dropping down to your shoulders and your elbows.

“you let go of my hand.” you reply meekly, your throat burning as you hold back tears. your voice quivers at the edges, desperation and sadness scratching at your vocal chords. liam falters for a second, his eyebrows twitching before furrowing inwards.

“i, w-what?”

“you let go of my hand!” you repeat, tears brimming against your waterline. liam slouches down to your level, his hands sliding back up to caress your cheeks as he quietly shushes you.

“baby, i-i had to pick up the phone!” liam's voice drops to a quieter, reasoning tone as he looks around for a brief second before looking back at you. you look so small and vulnerable, your shoulders hunching and turning inwards as tears threaten to drip down your cheeks.

“i know, but you let go!” you cry out, tears beginning to spill down your cheeks. liam sighs, looking to his side once more before gripping your cheeks firmer, pulling you closer towards him as you rest your weight in his palms.

“y/n, sweetheart, you need to calm down,” liam reasons with you before pulling you into a hug. your hands grip at his chest as his warm, large hand caress the back of your head, the other sliding over your lower back. it's soft. and comforting. warm. “shh, baby, y'know 'm sorry. c'mon...won't do it again i promise, babe.”

࿔*:･liam gallagher who after realising his “power” uses it to “fix” his little jealousy problem.

“fuck you. i am not your child.” you spit, pointing an accusatory finger towards him. liam stands ominously in the doorway, towering over you with a blank, indiscernible look of anger on his face. “you do not get to decide what i do.”

“wanna bet?” liam speaks coolly, his tone dipping into something dark, lingering on a casual mockery. you tense, mouth dropping open into a confused grimace, eyebrows furrowing inwards. “i'm pretty sure i can make 'ya do whatever. i. want.”

“what're you gonna do? stop me?”

liam turns stiffly, a thin smirk stretching across his dark face. he casually strides into the next room, and you stare after him, your face curling into a look of frustration.

“liam. i'm leaving. i will call you tomorrow.” you declare, following after him. liam sits at his desk, scribbling something down quickly before turning his head over his shoulder, eyes narrowed into a glare as he looks over at you.

“liam.”

“fine. go.” liam sneers through his teeth, unable to stop his lips from twitching up into a cocky, smug smirk. you shake your head before turning to leave, only to find yourself stopping abruptly, your body jolting backwards as you had hit a wall. you tried again. again. again.

“what....? liam stop. what are you doing?”

liam silently hands the piece of paper towards her.

"y/n could not leave liam's house. she couldn't even leave his room."

“what the fuck is this?”

“my new song,” he smiles, sickly and dangerous. “do you like it?”

“is this some kind of sick joke?”

“no it's pretty serious.”

“stop, liam. this is private. you can't do this, you can't write about me!”

“i'm not writing about you,” liam hisses, standing up from his chair rather violently. the chair slams against the edge of the desk as he pushes himself upwards, taking slow, dangerous strides towards you until you're corned. “i wrote you. i made you up.”

silence.

“you're sick. jesus, you made me up?! let me tell you something, liam: you are not the centre of the fucking universe. if this is how you think of other people, then you are in for a long, lonely, fucked up life!”

liam rips the piece of paper back from your hands, a small gasp ripped from your throat as he snatches it from you. he stalks back over to his desk, slamming the piece of paper down before angeringly pressing the pen into the paper, blotches of ink spilling out as he writes something down.

“je te jure, tu ferais mieux d’ecoutez ce que j’ai… mon dieu. je parle francais? mais, je ne sais pas parler francais. qu’est-ce-que—”

“y/n speaks french.” liam states, his voice cold and devoid of that warm affection that once lingered in the air. his eyes pierced through yours, his spine rigid and his jaw ticking as his teeth clenched against one another. he pulled his shoulders back, drawing his spine tighter and higher as your panicked gasps drew higher and quicker.

“i told you i could make you do anything.” he snarls, turning his head back around to shove the piece of paper in your face. silent, fearful tears slide down your cheeks, your head tilting upwards as he walks back over to you, his fingers carefully dancing over your throat as he slides them up towards your jaw. “are 'ya gonna behave f'me, darlin'?”

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Scene One

You were on him again. When weren't you?

Calvin just barely made it inside the threshold of the home you shared, feeling your arms gently slipping around his waist from behind as he shut the door, your cheek pressed to his interscapular region as if you were trying to meld your two souls.

With big doe eyes and sweet little pout, you mumble into his back, “You didn't answer my last text…”

“I was walking home,” he replied, voice even and semi-sarcastic. “Didn't think you'd panic in the… five-minute window between texts.”

“I wasn't panicking,” you lied. “Just… checking.”

Calvin huffed and set down his bag, containing a journal full of ideas, a pen for writing it all down, and a laptop for when he gets inspired-- (He doesn't mess with that typewriter anymore). Your arms are still snug around him, as if he might float away if you weren't there to ensure he stays tethered to the laminate flooring. He didn't pull away– not immediately. He just… stood there, letting your weight settle against his tense body.

“You know…” he started dryly, “normal couples greet each other with a wave or… maybe a hello. Not… entrapment.”

“I’m not all that normal…” you mumble into his sweater. “Thought you knew that when you fell for me.”

He replied with a reluctant huff– the closest he ever gets to a laugh off when he's tired. His hand moved– albeit, brief– to pat your arm. It was stiff, awkward, but there.

Look. Calvin had been careful. Once.

With words. Space. Time. Love. Especially love. After… Ruby… love had always been something he approached like a vicious creature in a trap– gentle and cautious, scared it’d bite.

Then you happened– and you were the opposite of careful. Uninhibited. You always wore your heart on your sleeve. You gave affection freely– aggressively, almost– like you hadn't been taught to hold it back. You held his hand in public. You touched his face when you sensed a hint of sadness. You clung to his bicep like a second limb– humming and smiling, burying yourself in his sweaters when the world got too loud.

Calvin? He doesn't always know what to do with you. But over time, something inside him softened– almost imperceptibly.

Scene Two

“Flowers?”

Calvin questioned one morning as he trekked down the floating stairs of his mid century-modern home, hair messy with a confused look on his sleepy face.

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, a small woven basket before you as you threaded tiny white clovers into a braid along your temple, humming something off-key– cheerful.

“They help,” you reply, without looking up. “With the nerves.”

He cocked a brow.

“Natural anti-anxiety,” you added with a gentle smile.

Calvin didn't understand it. With you, he never quite does. The way you adorned yourself when you felt small, like some gentler version of Midsommar- but he never questions it. Not when it kept you from shaking and panicking when someone bumped into you in the grocery store too hard.

He sat beside you– wordless– and reached out to tuck a daisy deeper into your braid.

You blinked. “What are you doing…?”

“I don't know…” he hummed softly. “Helping?”

After a few moments of silence, Calvin chuckles to himself.

“You're too much sometimes.” He states, as if it's the most obvious fact one could possibly think of. However, it wasn't cruel. It was just so… honest.

“I know,” you hummed quietly.

Calvin paused. You always had a way of deflating him with honesty– the raw, unguarded kind. He expected whining. Protest. But you just… said it. Like a truth you had carried for far too long.

And instead of pulling away, he wrapped his arms around you– tight, this time. Certain.

“You're not too much,” he sighed slowly. “I’m just… still learning how to hold all of it.”

“All of what?”

“You.”

Love, he's realized, doesn't have to arrive fully formed. Sometimes it grew quietly. Unevenly. Like those flowers in your hair, pressed in place by uncertain hands.

He wasn't like you– open, clingy, soft. But… he was learning. Every touch from you was a seed, and even if he didn't know how to water them-- yet, he held them carefully. He tried. And he realized something.

It takes man to live.