#I CANT STAND THE HEAT GR

[radioroxx]

roommate is not letting me turn off the heat. i fear i will not survive the winter

[randombubblegum]

oh my godddd i always forget grace leaked the fandom tracklist and every time i re-remember it i’m just like AHHHH the rage i feel on behalf of awsten is so strong. like your ex girlfriend who is fucking your best friend gets on her livestream to the followers she only has bc shes fucking your best friend and LEAKS THE THING YOUVE PUT SO MUCH WORK INTO FOR X AMOUNT OF MONTHS like i can’t even IMAGINE. to be a fly on the wall during that conversation with awsten and otto after it happened. bc didn’t awsten tweet&delete something right after that was along the lines of “don’t forgive someone on my behalf bc i am still angry” or something??? and like you just KNEW it was bc otto was like “oh bby grace it’s okay honey it was a mistake” while awsten was FUMING

NO BECAUSE ^^^^ ALL OF THIS COSIGNED FR……. it is absolutely INSANE the way she continues to cling to parx for relevance and free clout when awsten has made extremely clear over and over again that he is NOT okay with it and frankly for good fucking reason???? like i am SO FURIOUS on his behalf over this LOL i have my moments where i think awstens out of line but this is not one of them. like gr*ce is a fucking nutjob and i cannot believe shes been allowed to get away with doing this THIS LONG especially when she and everyone else knows damn well what she pulled w otto. imagine not only having to still deal with all that bc shes still fucking the best friend she hooked up with behind your back shes ALSO still clinging to ur work and brand for free clout bc shes too lazy to actually do her own content anymore but cant stand not having attention. sickening.

also DID HE? that sounds super familiar actually im 99% sure ive heard that before……. i wasnt around when it happened but i DO know she immediately tweeted all this like….insanely immature unhinged pity party shit like “you think i fucked up? you hate me? you could never hate me as much as i hate MYSELF” and continued throwing a tantrum until finally deleting her twitter to avoid the heat. el oh el. its especially bad when you remember how SERIOUSLY awsten takes any leaking of his plans or fucking with his info release schedule? like he went absolutely haywire when equal vision leaked entertainment (and dd?) stuff too early. he even put a whole ass FAKE TRACKLIST into the website code for fandom!!!! and then gr*ce comes and does this and fucks with his art she shouldnt even still be mentioning much less trying to attach herself to.

i know some parxies were trying to comfort this grown ass woman telling her it wasnt her fault and everyone makes mistakes blah blah which i assume awstens tweet was about but if it was actually bc of otto…… yeesh. YEESH. i know awsten was absolutely furious like not a joke LIVID over it too. i think otto put his foot down after that and set perhaps SOME boundaries with her bc she never puts him in her lives anymore buuuuut clearly not enough if shes out here in 20fucking22 opening question boxes for new parx teasers like she has any business doing that! :)

[calumcest]

i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter seven

[ao3]

yes i missed last week but i have a good excuse i was in hospital when i was supposed to be posting we’re back on our scheduled bullshit this week also sidenote can we please appreciate that i have actually stuck to this schedule for nearly TWO MONTHS ?? i’m actually dead gassed w myself i really should do this with soulmate au maybe once britpop is finished i will replace monday evenings with soulmate au. do not hold me to that though i work on whims 

of course i must thank my lovely @tirednotflirting who has been suffering in this document with me as i struggled through this chapter i cant lie to you sam your little comments and just knowing that you’re watching me suffer feel like a little pat on the head thats like gwarn you can do it so thank u for that <3 and also this chapter owes the life i have forcibly breathed into it to @kaleidoscopeminds who listened to me scream about it for like half of today and helped me navigate part of it i hope i have done it some slight justice 

Michael insists that he knows a great local chippy, but when he turns into yet another residential street with no shops in sight after a good five minutes in the freezing cold, Calum frowns.

“Thought you said it was local?” he says.

“It is,” Michael says. “Never said it was local to me, though.” Calum stops, and stares at him. 

“Are you serious?” he demands, edged with a little uncertainty, because he’s not quite sure whether they’re there yet, not after one conversation, and Michael laughs, bright and loud. It makes Calum’s stomach flip, and he’s not quite sure whether it’s pleasant or unpleasant, or maybe just because he’s absolutely fucking starving. 

“It’s not far,” Michael promises. “Two minutes, tops.” 

“This had better be the best fucking fish and chips I’ve ever had,” Calum grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets and nosing into the collar of his coat. Jesus, isn’t London supposed to be warmer than the north? He’s not inhaling all this pollution for nothing.

True to Michael’s word, though, another street-and-a-half later they’ve made it to the chippy, and Michael shoves the door open with his shoulder, pushing it far enough that Calum can make it through before it swings shut again. 

“Fuck me, it’s warm in here,” Calum mutters, pulling his hands out of his pockets and stretching his fingers experimentally, wincing as that horrible burning sensation of a sudden temperature change shoots through them. 

“It’s what, maybe fifteen degrees?” Michael says, amused. “What sort of a fucking Australian are you?” Calum glares at him instinctively, and then falters, because he’s still not sure exactly where he stands, but Michael just laughs, turning to the menu. 

“They do a good battered sausage,” he tells Calum, who reaches around into his pocket for his wallet as he blinks up at the prices. Fucking hell, two quid for a bag of chips? And Noel and Liam want to move down here?

“Who the fuck goes to a chippy and gets a battered sausage?” Calum says, scanning the menu, and frowning. “Where are the mushy peas?” 

“The what?”

“The mushy peas.”

“What the fuck is that?” Calum tears his eyes away from the menu to stare at Michael. 

“What the fuck are you on about?” he says. “Y’know, mushy peas?” 

“Is that some kind of northern thing?” Michael asks, and Calum frowns. Surely not; mushy peas are a fucking staple of a fish-and-chip dinner, aren’t they? What the fuck do they eat down south if not mushy peas? Mushy capers, or something? 

“Can’t be,” Calum says, still frowning, turning back to the menu. “What the fuck else do you eat with-”

“Hang on a minute,” Michael interrupts, frowning. “Is that- is that Liam? ” Calum cuts himself off abruptly, blood running cold.

What?

“What?” he says, and hopes Michael can’t hear the way his heart is in his throat, spinning wildly on the spot and trying to follow Michael’s gaze.

“Over there,” Michael says, sounding mildly intrigued and moderately confused, and nods in the direction of a table in the corner. 

Sure enough, there, frowning down at his chips as he shakes out a sachet of ketchup and says something indecipherable to Noel, who’s sat opposite him - Calum would know the back of that head anywhere, sees the top of it enough with the five inches he has on him - is Liam. 

Fuck. 

Shit.  

“D’you want to go over?” Michael says, and Calum swallows. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say? He can’t imagine no, because I’ll get kicked out of my band, and you might get murdered will go down well. It doesn’t really matter, though, because his hesitation is an answer in itself. 

“They don’t know you’re here, do they?” Michael’s voice is a little heavy, a little bitter, and a little sad. It makes Calum’s stomach curl in on itself, like it’s trying to make itself too small to feel anything anymore. 

“They know I’m here,” Calum says. “Just- not to see you.” What’s the point in lying? That’s been the whole point of him coming down here, hasn’t it? Stop lying to Michael, start lying to Liam and Noel instead. It’s like Calum has a limited amount of honesty to go around, can’t keep himself in one piece, has to hand people little parts of himself so they won’t see the full thing. It’s fucking exhausting, especially when he hasn’t got booze or drugs to numb the pain of the pieces he keeps chopping himself into. Maybe it would have been easier if he’d stayed in Manchester, if he’d said no when Michael offered his phone number. 

(But, Calum knows, somewhere in the depths of his ragged soul, that no matter how many worlds there are out there, no matter how many parallel universes, there could never be one in which he could say no to Michael.)

“Why?” Calum can’t help but bark out a short, humourless laugh at that as he turns around, heart beating wildly, praying Liam hasn’t seen them. 

“They’d fucking kill me. And you.” Michael glances over at Liam again, frowning slightly, and then looks back at Calum, confusion lacing the green-blue of his eyes, like he’s trying to work out what Calum really means by that. Calum thinks he’s been pretty fucking clear, isn’t really sure what Michael’s searching for in his eyes, until Michael opens his mouth, and says:

“Are you ashamed of me?” Jesus. Does Michael really want to do this here? In a fucking London fish-and-chip shop?

“No,” Calum says. “Can we- can we do this somewhere else? Just-” he cuts himself off, and Michael purses his lips, considering, and then sighs, nods, and heads for the door. Calum nigh on fucking runs after him, speedwalks out and halfway down the street until he thinks they’re a safe enough distance away, and then stops, letting Michael round on him. 

“Why haven’t you told them?” Michael asks, and Calum can see all the hurt swimming in his eyes and thinks fuck, not now, not just when I’ve got you again.  

“They’re-” Calum stops. He’s not really sure how to phrase it. Fucking cunts is probably the closest he can get, but then he’d have to try and explain why despite that, despite the fact that neither Liam nor Noel have a rational bone in their bodies, Calum loves them, and would do anything for them. “Not exactly reasonable, when it comes to this shit.” Michael raises an eyebrow. 

“‘Not exactly reasonable’?” he echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Calum shrugs, a little uncomfortably. 

“They take this whole Blur-Oasis thing very seriously,” he says, and Michael frowns. 

“They do?” He sounds surprised.

“Don’t you?” 

“No,” Michael says. “Damon thinks it’s a fucking laugh.” Calum almost groans. Fucking hell, isn’t that just brilliant? He gets stuck with the mental northern lads who can’t take anything seriously except the one thing they don’t need to, and Michael gets the sensible southern boys who’ll listen to reason and probably hold hands while they do. 

(Calum wouldn’t change it for the fucking world, though.) 

“Well, Noel and Liam don’t,” Calum says. “I’d get chucked out of a window if they knew I so much as thought about you.” Michael stares at him. 

“They’re mental,” he says, incredulously. “They’re absolutely fucking mental. What is this, fucking Montagues and Capulets?” 

“That’s what they’d have you believe,” Calum says, shoving his hands back in his coat pockets. Michael blinks. 

“Jesus,” he says, after a moment. “So they don’t even know we’re talking?” Calum can’t help but bark out a short, humourless laugh at that. 

“No,” he says. “No. Noel would- and Liam- no. No.” His stomach churns as a number of thoughts flash through his mind - Noel and Liam screaming at him, kicking him out of the band, never speaking to him again - and he shakes his head, half to try and clear his head of the thoughts and half to emphasise just how much Calum can’t tell them. 

“So, what, I’m your dirty little secret?” Michael sounds a little bitter about it, and Calum can’t really blame him, but that doesn’t stop his heart twisting a little in his chest at the tone of his voice. 

“I- look,” Calum says, a little desperately. “This is my life, Michael.” Michael inhales deeply, doesn’t exhale, just looks at Calum, weighing something up in his mind. His eyes are a little sad, a little angry, heavier and older than Calum remembers them ever being. It sends a tiny shiver down his spine, but for the first time the irrefutable evidence of Michael changing doesn’t make him feel a little queasy. Instead, it’s oddly thrilling, seeing the new self-assuredness and confidence with which Michael makes his decisions, no longer based purely on a split-second emotion. It drives home that Michael’s different, now, that things aren’t the same as they were back then, but in a way that makes Calum think maybe different could be better. 

“Alright,” Michael says eventually, on a long  exhale. “I- okay. I get it. They’re your band, right?” He pauses, and then smiles, a little sheepishly. “And to be honest, I haven’t told anyone you’re here today, either.” Calum blinks at him. 

“Hypocrite,” he says, but it’s soft, tentative, no heat to it. Michael grins all the same, and it just about manages to reach his eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, protesting a little. “They at least know we’re talking.” Calum hesitates.

“What’ve you told them?” he asks. Michael shrugs. 

“Just that we’ve spoken on the phone a few times,” he says. “I mean, it’s not like I could avoid it, after Graham picked up your call on my birthday.” Oh, shit. Yeah.

“Oh,” Calum says. “Yeah. I forgot about that.” 

“Yeah,” Michael says, grimacing a little. 

“Did he ever tell Damon you locked him in a bathroom?” Michael laughs, bright and a little surprised, like he’s taken aback that Calum remembers that. 

“No,” he says. “But for the price I paid, he’d better keep his mouth shut about everything I ever fucking do for the rest of my life.” Calum raises an eyebrow, and Michael grins, properly this time, and shakes his head. 

“Wouldn't you like to know,” he says, and takes a step back, walking back into the stream of people that have been passing by.

“Oh, c’mon,” Calum says, falling into step with Michael, who just laughs again. “You can’t say that and not tell me.”

“I’m not telling you,” Michael says. “I take this Blur-Oasis shit seriously, y’know? Can’t be fraternising with the enemy."  Calum throws him a sharp glance, but Michael’s still grinning, eyes sparkling with something a little mischievous that reminds Calum so much of the Michael he once knew that he falters, almost trips over his own feet. 

“Is that why you’re trying to starve me to death?” Calum says, testing the waters. Michael snorts. 

“You were the one that wanted out of the best fish and chip shop in London, my friend,” he says, mock-snootily. “Luckily for you, I’m feeling particularly magnanimous today, so I’ll take you to a good Italian place.” Calum raises an eyebrow. 

“Magnanimous?” he echoes. “Since when do you know words that long?” 

“Damon’s rules,” Michael says. “Have to learn at least five new words a week, and a spelling test on Sundays.” Calum blinks at him. 

“Really?” 

“No, you fucking idiot,” Michael says, a little incredulously, a lot amused. “Jesus, don’t they do sarcasm up north?” 

“Better than most,” Calum says. “It just sounds like something Damon would do, is all.” Michael laughs, turning to grin at Calum over his shoulder as he pushes the door to a small Italian place open. 

“He did make me read Siddhartha before he let me join the band,” he admits, and Calum makes a noise of triumph. 

“See?” he crows, and Michael just laughs again, and Calum thinks the warmth stealing over him really has nothing to do with the central heating in the restaurant.

  -------

  They spend a leisurely hour or two in the restaurant, talking about absolutely nothing of import, skirting around anything that seems like it might get a little too serious, and Calum’s grateful for it. His carbonara tastes all the creamier when Michael starts pointing out passers-by, commenting on their frowns or their fast walks or their hideous coats, making Calum grin and splutter into his drink with every wicked and quick comment he makes. It’s almost like the old days, has the same sharp wit and ease that Michael’s tongue has always been good with, but is a little more refined than then, has something more mellow to it, like Michael’s no longer trying to impress Calum or keep him by his side. It’s oddly heady, actually, the new sheen of confidence that polishes all of Michael’s words before they leave his mouth, makes Calum lose his focus every once in a while as he just stares at the easy self-assuredness held in Michael’s shoulders, until Michael waves a hand in front of his face and says Earth to Calum, a small smile playing at his lips, a slight glimmer in his eyes. Calum can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed, though, still knows Michael well enough to read the smile as a pleased one, the glimmer as charmed, and just grins back, trying to stop his heart from jumping from his chest to his throat to his feet to his stomach and back again. 

It’s already getting dark by the time they head out of the restaurant - fucking December, honestly - and they take their time walking back to Michael’s house, wandering down side street after side street as Michael tells Calum about the difficulties he’s been having with his neighbour. Calum just listens, nodding and sighing and calling the neighbour a cunt in all the right places, and by the time they’re back at Michael’s house, it’s fully dark, the two of them bathed in the harsh orange light of the London streetlights. 

“When’s your train?” Michael asks, digging in his pocket for his keys and sliding them into the lock. 

“I, uh,” Calum says. “Didn’t book a specific one.” Michael raises an eyebrow at him over his shoulder as he unlocks the door, then steps inside and holds the door for Calum to walk in.

“Why not?” he asks, flicking the light switch on, and Calum shrugs, busying himself with pulling his shoes off. 

“Wasn’t sure how long I’d be here,” he says. Michael just hums at that as he kicks his own shoes off, like he’s mulling it over.

“When are Liam and Noel heading back?” he asks, and Calum shrugs again, a little more tense this time. 

“Don’t know,” he says. “Probably no later than six. Liam’ll want to be on the piss by nine.” 

“Not much else to do up there, I s’pose,” Michael says, a little flippantly, heading into the living room, making Calum frown as he follows. 

“There’s plenty to do,” he says, a little indignantly, and Michael turns back, throws him a slightly-amused look  over his shoulder.

“Proper Manny boy now, aren’t you?” he says, settling down on the overstuffed armchair opposite the sofa again, curling his legs underneath himself. Calum sits down on the sofa, stretches out for a moment to try and crack his back, and then settles back against it with a scowl. 

“It’s home,” Calum says, surprising himself with the sincerity with which the words are saturated. Michael cocks his head, and Calum knows what he’s thinking. When did Sydney stop being home to you?  

“D’you not ever miss it?” he says, but he only really sounds curious. Calum shrugs. 

“Not really,” he says. “I only really- uh. Miss the people.” He averts his gaze, tries to stop his cheeks heating up. He’d almost said I only really miss you.  

“Luke and Ashton are flying over in January,” Michael says. “You should come down and see them.” Calum swallows. 

“Depends when,” he says. “Think we’re back over in America in January.” Michael frowns. 

“You’ll be at the NME awards, though, won’t you?” he says. 

“Well, yeah, but so will Noel and Liam,” Calum says, and Michael’s face falls. Only fractionally, so slight that if Calum weren’t instinctively tuned into Michael’s frequency he would have missed it, but he is, so he doesn’t. 

“Oh,” Michael says. “Yeah. Right. Well, I know they’d love to see you.” 

“Mm,” Calum says, a little uncomfortably. He hates this, doesn’t want to be in a position where he has to pick his old life or his new. 

“I told them,” Michael says, and he sounds a little apologetic. 

“Told who?”

“Luke and Ashton. About us, y’know. Talking again.” Calum’s stomach flips. Right. So now the entirety of Blur and two of his friends from five years ago know, and his own best friends don’t. Brilliant. 

“Oh,” he says, and Michael has the dignity to look a little ashamed. 

“They were happy,” he offers, like it’ll assuage any of the guilt that’s bonded itself so tightly to each one of Calum’s blood cells he barely remembers what it’s like to walk around without their heavy burden weighing him down. “They’ve been asking after you.” 

“Oh?” Calum says, and hopes Michael doesn’t hear the thickness of his voice. 

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Luke’s finished his pilot training, now. He was in Japan the same time as me, so we went for a coffee.” 

“How’s he doing?” 

“Good,” Michael says, “yeah, good. Misses Ashton when he’s away, but.” He shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not sure what else he expected, becoming a pilot.” Calum huffs out a laugh, a little bitter, a little amused. 

“And Ashton’s a teacher?” he says, and Michael nods. “What does he teach?”

“RE, I think,” Michael says. Calum snorts, but it’s sort of fond. 

“Sounds like Ashton,” he says, and Michael grins. 

“At least he put all those fucking books about Buddhism and that to good use,” he says. 

“D’you remember when he tried to make us all read the entire Bible?” Calum says, and Michael laughs, short and bright. 

“I remember him being beside himself when we just circled all the verses about masturbating,” Michael says, and Calum finds a laugh punched out of him by a sudden memory, surprising him with its intensity.

“D’you remember Luke made it through the entire Old Testament?” he says, and Michael’s smile grows, and he nods. 

“The things love makes you do,” he says, grinning, and Calum’s smile falters. 

Yeah. Love can make people go to the ends of the Earth for each other, or make someone read the entire Old Testament, or maybe even make someone lie to their best friends and put their entire career on the line. Calum doesn't want to think about that. 

(It can't be that, anyway. It just can't.)

Michael seems to sense the change in Calum’s mood, because he shifts a little uncomfortably and clears his throat. 

“Are you staying home for Christmas, then?” he says, and Calum blinks, and nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Is Mali coming?” 

“No,” Calum says. “Can’t stand a cold Christmas, she says.” Michael smiles, a little wistfully. 

“Took me a while to get used to,” he says. “Fuck me, the first time it snowed? ” 

“Oh, God, I know,” Calum says, a little more fervently than he’d intended to. “I thought it’d be all soft, y’know? Liam fucking saw to that misconception. Turned up at my house with a bunch of pre-made snowballs, the prick. Looked like I’d got battered in a pub brawl, or something.” Michael snorts. 

“No one ever mentioned how slippery it is, either,” he says.

“Or how nasty it is when it melts,” Calum agrees. 

“Or how wet it is in your hair,” Michael says. Calum raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s water,” he says. “You could’ve worked that one out for yourself.” Michael rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. 

“Fuck off,” he says. “Where’s the Aussie solidarity?” 

“Gone as soon as you insulted Manchester,” Calum tells him, and Michael laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“S’pose there are a few good things about it,” he concedes, eyes glittering. “One, in particular.” Calum swallows. 

“Oasis are pretty good, yeah,” he says, and Michael's eyes flash with amusement. 

“Pretty subpar bassist, though,” he says conversationally. 

“Is that so?” Calum says. Michael looks at ease, relaxed and sunk back into his armchair, smile on his face and eyes lit up with laughter,   but Calum can’t help but feel hesitant, a little afraid to lean too far into the comfortable familiarity of the conversation. What if Michael changes his mind? 

"Mm," Michael says. "Personally, I think they just keep him in for his looks." Calum raises an eyebrow, tries not to let the way his heart's just skipped a beat show on his face. It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself. It's just Michael's sense of humour. 

"What, with Liam in the band?" Calum says, and Michael scrunches his face up. 

"He's too pretty for me," he says, and then unscrunches his face again and raises his eyebrows. "Mind you, though, I wouldn't say no if-" 

"You fucking would if you know what's good for you," Calum tells him, and Michael laughs. 

"Would I?" he says, eyes gleaming. "Think I'd need a more tempting offer." He's looking at Calum in anticipation, like he's expecting a certain response, and it makes Calum swallow - twice, because his heart doesn't know how to behave. 

"I'll see what I can do," he says, and Michael grins at him. 

Right answer. 

  -------

  The journey back home is uneventful. 

Michael had kindly forgotten to inform Calum of just how much of a rush hour rush hour really is in London, meaning he has to wait for three tubes to pass before he makes it to the edge of the platform, and then has to spend the two stops back to Euston shoved uncomfortably against the glass that divides the seats from the door area. At least it’s only two stops, though, he tells himself, tumbling off the train with a bunch of serious-looking commuters, half of whom seem to be headed back to Manchester. Calum’s train is already packed when he gets on, even though he walks all the way to the end so he won’t have to walk far when he gets to Piccadilly, and he ends up having to sit next to a family of three, an exhausted mother scolding her two young children and trying to get them to sit still. Calum offers her a small smile, wishing he’d brought a book or his Walkman or something, and settles for staring blankly out of the window to the other side of the four-year-old girl on his left, trying to make out shapes in the inky darkness of the night so he doesn’t have to focus on his thoughts. 

It turns out not to matter much, though, because even when the train’s whipping through the countryside and the children are still kicking up a fuss about something or other, Calum can’t focus on anything at all, zoning out entirely and feeling a bone-deep tiredness seeping through him, gluing him to his seat. He prefers it that way, though, prefers that he doesn’t have to feel anything but an echo of guilt for a while, lets it steal over him as he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the seat. 

He must fall asleep for a while, because it feels like no time at all before a bustle of commotion wakes him up, and he finds everybody on their feet, patting their pockets and reaching for coats and bags. He blinks a few times, rubs his eyes, and then stands up, fumbles around in his pocket for his ticket as he files out of the train with everyone else. It’s surprisingly cold in Piccadilly, and he draws his coat around himself as he swerves around the mother and kids to beat them to the barriers, shoving his ticket in and stepping through. It feels like another threshold, like he's crossing back from a dream world into the real world, and he tries not to think about it too hard as he heads out to the bus stop.

The bus journey back home is cold and expensive, and by the time Calum gets home he thinks he might be in danger of losing a few of his limbs to the frosty air. It’s toasty warm inside the house, though, and there’s a plate of chicken and rice covered in cling film waiting for him on the kitchen counter, and Calum sticks it in the microwave, listens to the muffled sound of the TV floating out from the living room as he waits for his food to finish before taking it out to the table. 

The sound of the microwave dinging seems to have alerted his mum to his return, though, because no sooner has he sat down at the table than she's appeared in the doorway.

“Where’ve you been?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe. 

“London,” Calum mumbles, through a mouthful of chicken and rice, and scoops another forkful in, just for good measure. 

“To see Michael?” Calum falters, and then nods, averting his gaze. His mum sighs, loaded with something heavy that Calum decides he doesn’t want to pick apart. “And?” 

“And what?” 

“What happened?” Calum swallows, and shovels another loaded forkful of food into his mouth. 

“Nothing,” he says, and hopes she’ll attribute the way he winced at the evasiveness of his tone to the fact the food is really fucking hot. 

“Calum,” she starts, in that I’m about to give you a lecture voice that only parents (and Noel) can really manage, and Calum swallows again, chokes a little as the un-chewed food almost gets stuck in his oesophagus, and shakes his head. 

“Don’t,” he says, a little sharply. “I’m twenty-two, mum.” She sighs again, a little exasperated this time. 

“I know, but you’re still my kid,” she says. Calum inhales deeply, and closes his eyes. 

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to have to explain every single tiny movement he makes, not every time he comes home. He doesn’t want to be monitored whenever he comes or goes, doesn’t want to have to answer to anyone. He’s not used to it anymore, not after so long on tour; he’s used to crashing into hotel rooms with a bagful of white powder and a body full of booze, one or two or maybe even three loud and brash Mancunians in tow, vision hazy around the edges from the weed he’s just taken a few hits of, used to sleeping three hours on a bus and waking up in a different city to the one he’d fallen asleep in. It feels oddly claustrophobic, now, coming home. He loves it, loves seeing his mum and his dad and eating proper meals and getting to potter around the house and go down the pub with Liam, but he’s outgrown it as a lifestyle. He’s too big for that little room upstairs, now, too big for this two-up two-down, maybe even too big for Manchester. 

“I’m going to look at houses,” he blurts, before he’s even thought about it. A flash of something crosses his mum’s face, but she schools her features into something encouraging before he has a chance to really interpret it. 

“That’s a good idea,” she says. “You’re old enough to be gone, now.” Calum nods, and brings another forkful of food to his mouth. 

“In London,” he adds, and his mum blinks at him for a moment. 

“Well, I suppose it makes sense,” she says, sounding far too brisk, like she’s forcing it. “That’s where the music industry is, isn’t it?” Calum nods. 

“Noel and Liam are moving down, too,” he says, and she raises her eyebrows. 

“That’s a recipe for disaster,” she says shrewdly, and Calum shakes his head. 

“No, not together,” he says. 

“Oh,” she says. “Well. You should probably still look for somewhere further away from them.” Yeah, he probably should. 

(He won’t, though.) 

“Yeah, maybe.” He’s almost finished his plate of food, wishes she would fucking leave, so he doesn’t have to have the rest of this conversation with her. She seems to get it, though, just sighs again, and pushes herself off the doorframe.

“Let us know if we can help with anything,” she says gently, and Calum throws her a tight smile as she leaves. 

He’s not really sure where that came from. Okay, he’s been thinking about moving out for a while, but not in any concrete way; it’s very much been conceptual, something that he thinks he should probably do, but hasn’t been bothered to think about beyond that, something that’s stayed very firmly at the back of his mind. It feels right, though, he realises. He’d sort of thought it would be frightening, something that he was doing because he felt he had to rather than because he wanted to, but he feels oddly settled after saying it to his mum, like he's been making do in the dark and now he's turned on the light. It'll be good for him, he thinks, to live on his own. 

Plus, he thinks, as he scrapes his chair back from the table, gathering up his plate and cutlery, Liam could probably do with a set of eyes on him, couldn’t he? And the fact that Kentish Town is close to Camden has absolutely nothing to do with it. 

  -------

  Calum’s woken up at ten the next morning by a knock at the door. 

“Mm?” he mumbles, not entirely sure whether he’s actually awake or not yet, and the door opens a crack to reveal his mum. 

“Noel’s on the phone for you,” she says, and throws him a significant look that he chooses not to interpret. What the fuck does Noel want at ten in the morning? 

“Tell him I’ll call him back,” he says, and she purses her lips. 

“Tell him yourself,” she says, and tosses the handset at him. He squawks, flinching to avoid getting a hunk of plastic to the head - she’s never had the greatest aim - and then picks up the receiver that’s landed (painfully) on his forearm. 

“What?” he says, rubbing his eyes. 

“What were you really doing in London?” Jesus Christ. Straight to the fucking point. 

“Running errands.” 

“Bullshit.” Calum sighs. 

“What the fuck d’you want me to say?” he says tiredly. 

“You looked like you’d seen a fucking ghost when we came over,” Noel says. 

“I wasn’t expecting to see you, was I?” 

“You knew we were going to be in London. Liam says he told you.” Fuck’s sake. 

“London’s a big fucking place, though, isn’t it?” Calum says. “Still didn’t expect to see you there.” 

“Cut the fucking shit, Calum. I know who lives in Camden.” Calum’s blood runs cold. Shit. He should have known that they would have seen them in the chippy, should have made Michael leave faster, hide his face, turn away, anything. All it would have taken would have been one errant look from Liam, and the cat would have been out of the bag. 

“Why the fuck are you so convinced this is some kind of conspiracy?” Calum bites out. Fight fire with fire, he thinks. Works for Liam, doesn’t it? 

“I’m going to give you one chance to be honest with me,” Noel says. His voice is dangerously even, too controlled, that sort of wound-up serenity he gets a minute before he explodes, and Calum can’t even swallow, can’t get anything past the lump suddenly in his throat. “Were you or were you not seeing Thom Yorke?” Calum stops. 

What? 

“What?” he says. “No, I- what? What? I don’t even fucking know the bloke.” 

“You spoke to him at Glastonbury, didn’t you?” Noel says, utterly hostile. Calum blinks. 

“That was- that was six months ago.”  

“So?” Noel sounds like he’s bristling. “First Blur, now Radiohead? Are you just working your way through our competition? Were you fucking him too?” There’s a bitter edge to his voice, and Calum’s mouth drops open as he tries to process what Noel’s accusing him of. 

What?

What?

“What the fuck?” Calum says incredulously. “I’m not fucking Thom Yorke. What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“You’d better be fucking certain about that, Calum, because-” Noel starts warningly, but Calum cuts him off. 

“Jesus Christ, Noel, I’ve spoken to him once. I don’t know where the cunt lives. Why the fuck do you know where he lives?” There’s a pause. 

“Alright,” Noel says, still tinged with suspicion, like he can’t quite let go of the idea that Calum had snuck to London to visit Thom fucking Yorke.

“You’re fucking insane,” Calum says, and doesn’t stop the derisiveness from leaking into his voice. Who the fuck rings someone at ten in the morning to accuse them of sleeping with a random bloke they haven’t seen in months? Noel’s acting like a fucking jealous ex, or something. 

“I’m insane?” Noel says, a little coldly. “You’ve got previous, mate.” And yeah, that’s fair enough - more than fair enough, because Calum is going behind Noel’s back, is betraying his best friend and his band - and the thought of it makes the guilt chase the anger out of his veins, makes him slump back into his pillow and rub a hand over his eyes. 

“Christ, Noel,” he says wearily. “You need to stop taking this shit so seriously. Let the music speak for itself.” Noel barks out a laugh. 

“I take it seriously because none of the rest of you do,” he says. 

“Just fucking relax,” Calum says. 

“I’ll relax when I’ve made my millions,” Noel says. “Until then, you can get your fucking arse in the studio and make me some money.” Calum rolls his eyes. 

“You snort all your money away,” he says. 

“So?” Noel says. “Just have to make me more, then, won’t you?” Calum can’t help but huff out a laugh at that. 

“You fucking idiot,” he says, but the smile playing at his lips makes it come out fond, and when Noel laughs this time, it’s soft and pleased. 

“Aye,” he says. “But I’m no Liam.” 

Well. He’s got a point.

  -------

  Christmas comes and goes without much fanfare, which is just how Calum likes it, and what he needed after all the months of touring. 

He gets up early, yawning and rubbing at his eyes as he slaps a hand on his alarm clock to shut it up, and spots a tiny little stocking at the foot of his bed, despite the stern look and the you’re almost twenty-three, Calum, you’re too old for stockings his mum had given him the night before . He grins, stifling another yawn as he empties it onto his bed, collects the little chocolate coins that spill out and unwraps the small present to find a little travel-sized bottle of his favourite aftershave. It makes him smile, that even though he’s a fucking rockstar in the making now, his mum still buys him aftershave, and he tucks the little bottle into his still-packed suitcase so he won’t forget it when they leave for Scotland on Boxing Day.  

His parents are both already up when he gets downstairs, showered and dressed and ready to help with cooking dinner, and he throws his dad a quick merry Christmas before heading into the kitchen where his mum is humming along to the tune blasting from the radio. 

“Morning,” he says, and she whips around, throws him a cheery smile as she puts something in the oven. “Thanks for the aftershave.” 

“What d’you mean, thanks?” she says, a twinkle in her eye. “Do I look like Father Christmas?” Calum tuts and rolls his eyes, presses a kiss to her cheek, and reaches for the carrots she’s been peeling. 

“What needs doing?” he asks, and she smiles at him, starts telling him that after he’s done with the carrots he should get some sprouts out of the freezer, please, and then fetch some of that wine from outside - the good wine, mind, Calum, and I know you drank the really good wine and thought we wouldn’t notice - and Calum just grins sheepishly, nods along to what she’s saying as he slices up the carrots, hums along as she switches to talking about Janet and how she’s got a baby on the way now. 

He’s halfway through chopping potatoes when the all-too-familiar drum beat of Supersonic starts up on the radio, a little fuzzy from the static. He starts, his heart lurching with adrenaline, and turns to his mum. 

“That’s us,” he says excitedly, but she’s already reaching for the volume on the radio, turning it up and beaming. 

“That’s you, isn’t it!” she says, sounding even more excited than him. “I like this one, actually. It feels very optimistic.” Calum bites the inside of his cheek, looks back down at his potatoes to try and stop himself laughing. Yeah, it was written while Noel was high as a fucking kite on coke; no wonder it sounds optimistic. 

“I like it too,” he says, grinning as Liam’s voice starts filling the room, raw and velvet and a little grimy, just how Calum likes it. Only fucking rock ‘n’ roll star there is, now, me, Liam would say, if he were here, and Calum would roll his eyes, and Noel would probably cuff Liam upside the head, and Bonehead would laugh, and Tony would shake his head and look the other way. God, Calum loves his band, loves their dysfunctional dynamic, loves every bit of the coke and the booze and the fighting and the laughing and the tiny moments of peace where Liam’s curled up against him, fast asleep, and Noel’s throwing him an exasperated but fond look from across the room.

( You don’t love it enough to be honest with them, though, a little voice in his mind tells him, but he pushes it into the back of his mind with as much force as he can muster. Not on Christmas. He deserves one day without guilt, however much of a cunt he’s being.) 

They ring Mali after dinner before the Queen, because it’s pushing on for time back in Sydney and his dad sagely points out that she’ll be too drunk to hold a proper conversation once it hits midnight. She’s already well on the way there, shouting and laughing merrily down the phone, but it just makes them all laugh, makes Calum’s heart ache a little bit, but not in a way he particularly minds. He misses her, but he knows he’ll see her soon enough. 

After an already fairly lengthy catch-up, his mum wants to speak to her about something to do with her rent which neither Calum nor his dad particularly care about, so they head into the living room and start sorting out potential VHSs to watch that evening. They’re in the middle of arguing about whether or not Blackadder is an appropriate Christmas show when Calum’s mum appears in the doorway, holding out the phone in her hand. 

“Mali wants to talk to you,” she says, and Calum scrambles to his feet, grabs the handset off her and heads into the kitchen, hoping his mum won’t follow, will let the two of them have a moment of privacy.

“Hello?” Calum says, throwing a glance over his shoulder to check his mum’s not following. Sure enough, she’s tutting at his dad, telling him Blackadder isn’t a Christmas show, David, be serious, please, so Calum turns into the kitchen, doesn’t bother turning the light on, just leans against the counter in the dark.

“How’s my baby brother?” Mali asks cheerfully, and Calum grins, and shakes his head. 

“I’m good,” he says. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“Heard you on the radio today,” Mali says, and Calum’s stomach flips. They’re playing Oasis in Australia? Fucking hell. 

“You did?” 

“Yeah. Sounds really fucking good, actually.” Calum grins. 

“‘Course it does,” he says. “It’s me, innit?” Mali laughs, bright and tinny in his ear. 

“You’re spending too much time with those Gallaghers,” she tells him. “Where’s my shy little brother got to?” 

“Gone with all the coke and booze,” Calum says, and Mali snorts. 

“Fair enough,” she says. “How’s the rockstar life treating you, then? Number one album, isn’t it?” 

“Fastest-selling debut album in British history,” Calum says, and Mali whistles lowly. 

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” 

“Yeah, think so.”

“Alright, then, I’m impressed,” she says flippantly, and Calum huffs out a laugh. “What’s it like?” 

“What’s what like?”

“Y’know, fame, and all that. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Although I’d rather not hear about the sex, if it’s all the same to you.” Calum snorts. 

“Good,” he says, “it’s good. Weird, though, getting asked for autographs, and that. Touring’s strange, too. But it’s good. And I’m glad I’ve got my band with me.” 

“Good to know someone’s glad,” Mali says. “I bet the rest of the world aren’t glad to have those two delinquents running wild. Mum and Dad don’t know about the number of hotels you’ve been kicked out of, do they?” 

“No,” Calum says warningly, “and they’re not going to find out.” 

“No, no, I’ll toe the line, Cal,” Mali says breezily. “For a price.” 

“Get fucked,” Calum says, but he’s grinning. 

“C’mon, you must be fucking loaded by now,” Mali says, but she’s grinning too, just trying to wind him up. “I mean, you played Glastonbury, right? That was a big fucking lineup. Pretty much anyone who’s relevant was there, if my boss is to be believed. She might just be saying that because she was there, though.” Calum’s face drops.

“Yeah,” he says, and bites his lip. He should tell her about Michael. She knew, back then, knew better than almost anyone, and she should know now, really. “I, uh,” he starts, and then licks his lips, and swallows. Mali just waits, though, knows him well enough to know that it’s going to be something important, and Calum takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I saw Michael.” 

“Clifford?” 

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. 

“I wondered how long it’d take,” Mali says, and she sounds a little mournful. It makes Calum blink, makes him frown as he thinks - more than a little upset - what the fuck? She knew?

“You knew? About him being in Blur?” 

“‘Course I knew. I’m in the music business, aren’t I? I’m in Australia, Cal, not on the fucking moon.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mali sighs. 

“I was trying to protect you,” she says. Calum grits his teeth. 

“Would’ve protected me more if you’d warned me before I ran into him at a fucking awards show,” he says. 

“Shit,” Mali mutters, and Calum makes a yeah, fucking right sort of noise. “What happened?” 

“Liam and Noel nearly fucking skinned me alive,” Calum says. 

“With Michael, I mean.” Calum hesitates. 

“Nothing,” he says. “Until Glastonbury.” 

“What happened at Glastonbury?” Calum stares down at the floor, digs his thumbnail into the countertop behind him.

“Bumped into him,” he says. “And then he rang me a few days later. And then we- uh. We started calling. And I went to his house last week.” Mali’s silent for a long, long moment, so long that Calum would think that she might have got disconnected if it weren’t for the sound of her breathing, slow and considered in Calum’s ear. 

“Oh, Cal,” she says, and the words come out sad and heavy. “Are you- are you…?” She trails off, clearly not sure how to phrase it, but Calum knows what she’s asking. He closes his eyes, brings a hand up to rub over his face, and shrugs, even though she can’t see him. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know. Maybe. Not yet, though. But maybe.” Mali sighs again, sounding more sober than she has for the entire call. 

“What do the rest of them think?” she asks. Calum swallows. 

“They don’t know,” he admits. 

There’s a pause. A long, long fucking pause, and Calum sort of wants to just hang up, sort of wants to laugh and say joking, just kidding, can you fucking imagine, wish I could see the look on your face, but he doesn’t. He clenches his fist, waits it out, and eventually Mali exhales heavily. 

“That’s a dangerous fucking game,” she says, and Calum can’t help the humourless laugh that escapes him at that. Doesn’t he fucking know it. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I just- I can’t tell them. They don’t understand.” 

“Even Noel? He was always the reasonable one, wasn’t he?” Calum snorts, and it’s bitter. 

“Not when it comes to the music,” he says. “And-” he cuts himself off, biting his lip. He hasn’t told anyone about him and Noel, not even Mali, because it didn’t matter at the time, and as soon as it started to matter, he had no one to tell. But it’s pertinent now, isn’t it, and it’d probably be a weight off his shoulders, so he takes a deep breath, and says: “And, uh, I fucked him.” There’s another pause. 

“You- you fucked Noel?” Mali doesn’t quite sound like she believes him. 

“I- well-” okay, she doesn’t need to know that technically Noel fucked him “-I mean, yeah. Years ago, though, like, three years ago. But- y’know.” He winces, cringing at his own words. 

“Fucking hell, Cal,” Mali says, sounding a little awed. “You’ve made yourself a right fucking mess, haven’t you?” 

“I know, I know,” Calum groans, tipping his head back. “It- it didn’t matter, y’know, it was just a one-time thing, but now with Michael back in the picture…” he trails off, and Mali sighs again. 

“Does Michael know?”

“No.” 

“Jesus, Cal, are you honest with fucking anyone in your life?” 

“I- yeah, I just- look, it’d be presumptuous of me to tell him,” Calum says. “We haven’t- we only just made up last week.” Mali hums, a little disapprovingly. 

“Well, I suppose,” she says, but she still doesn’t sound too happy about it. “You’ve got to tell your band, though. I’ve seen bigger bands fall apart for less.” Calum’s stomach flips. He knows that, and he knows full well that they could fall apart for less. But he also knows that he’s too far deep with the lie, now, could maybe have got away with the months of sporadic phone calls but hammered the final nail into his coffin in a chic house in Camden, that if he tells them now it all comes crashing down anyway. 

“I can’t,” he says, and he hears the desperation in his own voice. “I can’t, Mali. I’d be-” he doesn’t even want to think about it. A life without Oasis, fine, whatever, he can go back to fixing fences and walls. But a life without Noel? A life without Liam? Calum can’t even stomach the thought of that, let alone the prospect of it being a reality. “I can’t. I can’t lose them.” 

“What the fuck is the deal with you and those two?” Mali says, a little exasperated, because she knows he doesn’t mean Bonehead or Tony. “They’re nothing but trouble.” 

“They’re my best friends,” Calum says, which is a bit of an understatement. Liam’s more of a part of the fabric that makes up Calum’s soul, but it feels a bit dramatic to say that out loud. 

Mali’s quiet for a moment, and then she sighs again, long, heavy, resigned. 

“Be careful,” she says gently. Her reluctant seal of approval. 

“I’m trying.” Mali hums. 

“Give my love to Mum and Dad,” she says. “I’m going to get high as fuck and try to forget that someone in my family has fucked Noel Gallagher.” The ghost of a smile crosses Calum’s lips at that. 

“Night,” he says. “Love you.”

“Love you most, Cal.” There’s a click, and then she’s gone, nothing but the sound of Calum’s ragged breathing and his racing heart swelling in the silence of the dark kitchen. 

Calum sets the phone down on the counter, then inhales deeply, staring up at the ceiling. Mali’s right. He’s made himself a right fucking mess. 

Well, he thinks, a little bitterly. Merry fucking Christmas, eh?

taglist: @callmeboatboy @sadistmichael @clumsyclifford @angel-cal @tirednotflirting @cthofficial @tigerteeff @haikucal @queer-5sos @i-am-wierd-always @stupidfuckimgspam @bloodyoathcal @pixiegrl @pxrxmoore @currentlyupcalsass @clumthood @another-lonely-heart @calumscalm @casually-fallen 

if you’d like to be added to my taglist pls fill in this form!