#i cannot believe i have 50k of this. 50k. i'm seriously going to hell
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i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter one
[ao3]
have i ever mentioned my britpop au? i donât think i have :) this is quite literally the definition of self-indulgence like genuinely this is so self-indulgent that it probably counts as a deadly sin and i have literally no justifications for itÂ
before anybody comes for me for starting another chaptered fic: i have 50k of this lined up and iâm still going at the speed of light (as sam can attest to) fear not weâre going to get there with this one i promise also for anyone still waiting for the soulmate au thats going to get finished too once this is out of my systemÂ
i have an inordinate number of people to thank for putting up with me/this fic so let us begin: @tirednotflirtingâ deserves every single ounce of praise and love i have to offer for reading this whole thing, listening to me talk about it, bouncing ideas with me, being so patient and kind about it, coming up with such brilliant ideas and for just generally being an all-round sweetheart. @calumftdukeâ also deserves excessive praise and thanks for reading a big old chunk of this and being so sweet about it. @killingangelsâ genuinely breathed life into this fic and cheered it on to the place it is today thank u for diving into a britpop phase with me. @ashesonthefloorâ and @clumsycliffordâ listened to me whine about this fic even though neither of them care and i truly owe them for that. @kaleidoscopeminds lets me thirst over the gallaghers but keeps me in my place about it which is truly the vibe check i need and also listened to me talk about this fic over the past few weeks and is just generally such a joy to speak to. iâm certain iâve forgotten someone my brain has not been switched on in weeks now but anyone whoâs listened to me talk about this over the past few weeks deserves a ticket straight to heaven honestlyÂ
quick bit of vocab: our kid is a term used by siblings in manchester. not sure why i donât understand mancunian culture myself but the gallaghers are always saying it in interviews and my mancunian friend concurred that it is correct so idk what goes on up thereÂ
warnings: heavy drug use (its oasis and blur in the â90s theres a lot of coke/weed/alcohol) and lots of swearing (including the c word because theyâre british)
-
Heâs here, in England, not in Sydney, and heâs twenty, not seventeen. That was then, and this is now.
But for a moment - just for a few seconds - he could have sworn that then and now were the same thing. Just for one moment, he could have sworn heâd seen Michael Clifford.
-
or: calum's in oasis and michael's in blur and it's the height of the 1990s britpop war
Liam had once asked Calum if he believed in fate.Â
âDâyou think itâs all real?â heâd said one day, out of the fucking blue. Calum, though, used to Liam beginning conversations in the middle after two long years of knowing him, had just looked at him.Â
âDo I think whatâs all real?â heâd asked. Liam had indicated up at the sky with his eyes and cigarette.Â
âFate, and all that,â heâd said, lifting the cigarette back to his lips. Calum had watched as his cheeks hollowed around it, turning potential answers over and over in his mind.Â
âIâll believe it when I see it,â heâd said eventually, and Liam had raised his eyebrows and nodded as heâd exhaled a cloud of grey smoke that had blended in with the sky and the council houses.Â
Calum thinks he probably should have known then. Maybe Liam had been trying to make a point, in that strange way he sometimes does - what are the odds youâd end up here, with us? Calum hadnât given it a second thought at the time, just rolled his eyes and nudged Liamâs foot with his own and said Noelâs going to do his fucking nut if weâre not there in ten, and that had been that. The conversation never even crossed his mind again until it was too late, until fate had already had her way with Calum.Â
In Calumâs defence, though, fate never showed her hand. She never threw him any hints, no flashing neon signs that said Calum, your destiny is this way. Fate came piecemeal, came in short snippets of conversations or flashes of familiar faces or, on occasion, Liam and Noel swearing loudly at each other as they stomp up the stairs in Calumâs house.
âIâm arsed,â Liamâs saying loudly, when he barges into Calumâs room. Noelâs hot on his heels, midway through a spiel heâs clearly prepared which Liamâs having none of, and he turns to Calum when they get through the door, an annoyed expression on his face.Â
âTell him heâs a prick,â he says.Â
âWhy?â Calum says, setting his magazine aside, because he needs to know what heâs supposed to be endorsing before he picks a side in an argument between the Gallagher brothers.Â
âOur kid wants us to miss the match tonight and go to some fucking gig,â Liam grumbles, throwing himself down on Calumâs bed and picking up his magazine.Â
âItâs not âsome fucking gigâ, Liam,â Noel says irritably. âItâs the fucking Boardwalk. Weâve got to hear what else is out there right now.âÂ
âI told you, Iâm fucking arsed what else is out there right now,â Liam says, flicking about five pages on from the article Calum had been in the middle of reading. âI donât write the fucking songs, do I? Go on your fucking own. Youâre a big boy, arenât you?â Noel rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, and Calumâs Gallagher Explosion Incoming senses start tingling, followed swiftly by his Peacekeeping Skill Set activating.Â
âLook,â he says hurriedly, before Noel can say something thatâll lead to a couple of black eyes, mostly because neither of the brothers have ever cared much about collateral damage and Calum values his bruiseless skin. âWhat if we start the match, and if City look like theyâre going to lose, we go to the gig?â Noel closes his mouth, and then opens it again, and then closes it again.Â
âFucking whatever,â Liam grumbles, which is the closest theyâre going to get to acquiescence from him. Calum stares at Noel beseechingly, because this is the best idea heâs got and pretty much the only one he thinks Liamâll agree to, and Noel rolls his eyes, sighs dramatically, but then nods reluctantly.Â
âCity wonât fucking lose,â he mutters, as he sits down in the chair at Calumâs desk. âNot to a bunch of Scousers.âÂ
âLost to Liverpool not four weeks ago,â Calum reminds him, and Noel scowls.Â
âThat second goal was fucking offside,â he says.Â
âRef was a fucking wanker,â Liam chimes in, from where heâs lying on Calumâs bed, still thumbing through the magazine. ââEre, whatâs this, then?â he adds, with a grin, and turns the magazine around, tapping on the page. Itâs a picture of a (very pretty) boy spread across a motorbike, and Calum rolls his eyes, snatching the magazine out of Liamâs hands.Â
âFuck off,â he says, but Liamâs just laughing, head tipped back on the bed, all full lips and bright blue eyes and long, dark lashes. If Calum hadnât been doing lines with Liam for half of last night, he could almost believe the angelic innocence the boy gives off.Â
âLooks like our kid,â Noel says, sitting down on the chair at Calumâs desk. Liam raises his head far enough to give Noel a two-fingered salute, but heâs still grinning, and Noelâs grinning too when he flips Liam off in return.Â
Fucking hell, Calum thinks. Itâll take more than his three O Levels to fucking understand those two.Â
 -------
 City end up conceding three goals in the first twenty-five minutes, and Liamâs the one who stands up, voice already hoarse from screaming at the TV, and demands they go out. Noel, never one to resist pressing buttons that only he can find on Liam, makes a snide comment about it, and Calum, to keep the peace, makes a comment about United, giving both brothers something to spend the entire bus journey to the Boardwalk ranting about.Â
Noel gets them in for free, because he knows someone who knows someone whoâd been a roadie with a band who had been on tour with the Inspiral Carpets for like, half a second, or something. Calum doesnât really care how they get in for free, whether Noel gets them in by knowing someone who knows someone or by hiring a hitman on the bouncer, as long as they do get in for free, because heâd rather save his money for weed.Â
The band thatâs playing are immediately declared to be boring little fuckers by Liam, who beelines for the bar and only has to flutter his lashes twice before the pretty girl behind the bar sidles up to him with a coy look on her face. To his credit, though, he doesnât linger after getting the drinks, weaving through the crowd to Noel and Calum with a mixture of shouted insults and threats at anyone in his path, three overfull pints balanced precariously in his hands.Â
âYouâre paying me back for these,â is how he greets them again, taking a sip from Noelâs before handing it to him. Noel just rolls his eyes, turning back to the stage and raising the pint to his lips.Â
âAm I fuck,â Calum says, taking the other beer out of Liamâs outstretched hand. Liam scowls, but lets him take it, taking a sip from his own glass.Â
âIâll just smoke your weed, then,â he says, like he doesnât do that anyway. Calum just shakes his head and turns back to the stage, where a new band are setting up, fiddling with their amps and mic stands.Â
âDâyou even know who these pricks are?â Liam asks Noel.Â
âDonât even know if theyâre worth knowing yet,â Noel says. Liam shrugs, like thatâs a fair point, and then a squeal of feedback makes all three of them (and the rest of the crowd) jump, causing loud swearing from at least eight people in the vicinity as their drinks slosh over them.Â
âFucking hell,â Noel mutters, shaking his hands off.Â
âEvening,â the lead singer says, voice deep and rich. âWeâre Blur, and this is Popscene.â They immediately launch into something thatâs all guitars and overdrive and beat, and Noelâs soon tapping his foot along in interest, spilled beer forgotten, as the singer starts jumping around enthusiastically. Theyâre not standing anywhere near the stage, and the distance and bright lights combined with the movement are making the singer look more translucent than opaque, which is making Calumâs head hurt. He chooses to focus on the bassist instead, because Noelâs kind of got a point that they should be listening to what else is around, although heâs probably just looking for more people to nick ideas off.Â
By the third song, though, Calum realises heâs really stood far too far away to get any benefit from watching the bassist - he canât even tell whether heâs using a plectrum or not, and his eyes are already starting to hurt from squinting - and lets his gaze wander across the stage. Thereâs a guitarist wearing glasses, which Calumâs pretty sure Liamâs going to have a comment about thatâll involve the words âfuckingâ ânotâ and ârock ânâ rollâ, with maybe âcuntâ chucked in for good measure. The drummerâs so far back that all Calum can make out is a shadowy figure behind the kit, and when the singer stands still long enough for Calum to see more than just a hazy figure all he can vaguely make out is what looks like very pretty features and blonde hair.Â
It��s the other guitarist, though, that makes Calum stop, his heart stilling in his chest for the briefest of moments.Â
He looks so familiar, messy blonde hair sticking up at all sorts of angles that Calumâs only ever seen on one other person, that it makes Calumâs stomach lurch. Heâs got his face down, focusing on whatever theyâre playing, so Calum canât really see - not that heâd be able to tell from this distance, anyway - but thereâs something thatâs so achingly known to Calum that it makes him swallow, mouth suddenly dry. Even the guitaristâs posture is familiar, a little tense, a lot focused, with an edge of something cool and relaxed.Â
Calumâs so mesmerised by the guitarist, heart hammering in his chest, that he barely even realises three more songs have come to an end until the band all stop, gather together at the front of the stage and do an awkward half-bow-half-wave to the crowd. Thereâs a smattering of applause as they straighten up, and the lights are too bright for Calum to see properly, but he sees a flash of a smile that looks so much like one he hasnât seen in almost four years that it makes something electric shoot through him before heâs even processed it, and then theyâre turning around and heading off the stage.Â
âFucking shite,â Liam says, over the sound of the crowdâs growing murmurs. âWouldâve rather watched City fucking lose.â They all know heâs lying. Liamâd probably rather cut off his limbs one at a time than sit at home to watch City get thrashed.Â
It reminds Calum where he is, though, as he takes a sip of his beer with slightly shaky hands. Heâs in fucking Manchester, in a dingy bar with two of the biggest pricks heâs ever met in his life, watching shitty bands play mediocre songs to avoid having to watch his football team get massacred by Everton. It grounds him, shakes him out of it, makes him remember that heâs here, in England, not in Sydney, and heâs twenty, not seventeen. That was then, and this is now.Â
But for a moment - just for a few seconds - he could have sworn that then and now were the same thing. Just for one moment, he could have sworn heâd seen Michael Clifford.Â
 -------
 They stay to watch three more bands, and then Liamâs in a fucking mood and even Noelâs had enough of the music, so they head back to Noelâs flat to drink and get high. Liam and Noel bicker the whole way there, first about whether or not Liam should be paying for all the weed Noel buys that he smokes, then about whether or not Liam had actually slept over last night or whether heâd been at home, then about whether or not the shirt their mam had bought Noel for Christmas had been green or blue. Calum offers his input on all of them, siding with Noel twice and Liam once, but gets snapped at to shut the fuck up by the both of them each time, making him roll his eyes as he kicks stones along the pavement.Â
(âNoelâs a fucking cunt,â Liam had said to him once, fuming, after a particularly nasty argument that had ended in every bag of frozen peas being dug out of the freezer.Â
âYeah,â Calum had said. âSo are you, though, mate.âÂ
âDonât call my brother a cunt,â Liam had said, and Calum had rolled his eyes, picking up the now-defrosted bag of peas on the table and taking them back into the kitchen, where Noel was nursing his own black eye.Â
âWhat the fuck is his problem?â Noel had said furiously.Â
âYouâre both twats,â Calum had said with a shrug, tossing the peas back in the freezer.
âHey,â Noel had said sharply. âThatâs my fucking brother.âÂ
Calumâll never pretend to understand them.)Â
They spend the night lying on Noelâs living room floor, pleasantly drunk and so stoned that Liam and Noel forget to argue for about three hours. Calum drifts in and out of sleep, listening to Liam and Noel mumbling to each other and remembering to speak once every twenty minutes or so, until Noel nudges him at what must be about five in the morning.Â
âWhatâd you reckon?â he says, looking thoughtful.Â
âAbout what?âÂ
âThat band, tonight.â They saw five bands, so Calum would be well within his rights to ask which one, but somehow, he knows.Â
âGood,â he says. âInteresting. Sounded new, yâknow?âÂ
âYeah,â Noel says, rolling on his side to face Calum. He hums, like heâs thinking Calumâs words over. âLiam reckons theyâre not rock ânâ roll enough.â Calum rolls his eyes.Â
âLiam reckons the fucking Stones arenât rock ânâ roll enough,â he says, and Noel snorts, and it sounds so fucking ridiculous that Calum giggles, which makes Noel burst out laughing, and soon theyâre cackling on the floor, tears streaming down their faces as they gasp for breath and clutch at their stitches. Liam, whoâs been sleeping soundly, looking peaceful and tranquil and not at all like the guy whoâd threatened to knock Calumâs teeth out for suggesting City should have played a different formation not six hours ago, stirs and opens his eyes, blinking blearily.Â
âShut the fuck up,â he mumbles, and then rolls over, and goes back to sleep. Noel glances at Calum, flushed and panting from laughing, eyes bright and gleaming, and that one look is enough to make the both of them collapse in laughter again, cheeks and sides and throats hurting.Â
The next morning, when Liam wakes Calum up by nudging him in the ribs and saying get up, lazy bugger, weâre late for work, thatâs what Calum remembers from the night before. He remembers laughter, Noelâs living room going blurry around the edges, and the pleasant buzz of alcohol, weed and two of his best mates thrumming through his veins. He doesnât remember the boy on guitar in the Boardwalk.
 -------Â
 The next time fate has her way with Calum is a good year and a half later.Â
Theyâre recording their first album, which Noel seems to think means heâs recording his first album and everyone else is just there to complement his fucking genius. Heâs not managed to stop being a cunt for about six months now, and, not one to let Noel beat him in anything, Liamâs getting equally insufferable. The studio is a fucking battleground, and Bonehead always takes Liamâs side and Tonyâs just fucking useless, and Calum thinks to himself at least twice a day: is this really worth it? Maybe I shouldâve just stuck with construction.Â
Theyâre getting there, though, and when itâs good, itâs fucking good. They can all sense that thereâs something there, something new and bold and, as Noel in all his endless humility declares it one night, groundbreaking. Theyâve recorded Supersonic, a song that Noel somehow wrote in about half an hour, recorded a video for it on the roof of some warehouse in London, and thereâs something about it that none of them can quite put their finger on, something that feels almost overwhelming, feels like itâs bigger than them. Theyâve even been on the radio a few times, been playing bigger and bigger venues, got a contract and management and all that nonsense, and for all the flaws that combine to make up the Gallagher brothers, Noelâs got a fucking knack for songwriting and Liamâs voice is unlike anything Calumâs heard before.Â
The problem is that lately, itâs been bad more than itâs been good. Theyâd done sessions at Monnow Valley which had sounded like absolute shit, too clean and thin, and with every day that passed and every track that couldnât be used Noel got more and more frantic, snapping at everyone who dared speak to him. Liam, never one to resist a fight with his brother, had risen to the challenge, and the fallout had been messier and dirtier and involved more collateral damage than even Calum had expected. It had culminated in a trip to Amsterdam which had ended before it even began after a fight broke out on the ferry. Calum remembers seeing Liam zooming past, a happy grin on his face, heading right for the middle of the action, and then twenty minutes later zooming past again, bruised and bloody, still grinning, being chased by a policeman. It had ended in Liam being deported, handcuffs and all, and a screaming match between the brothers in which both of them quit and were fired by the other at least twenty-three times.Â
Since that, though, things have got a little better. Theyâve started recording in Sawmills in Cornwall with Noel as a co-producer, and Noel and Liam have started talking again, and everyone had breathed out a collective sigh of relief when Noel had announced he was going to head to the shops and Liam had wordlessly got up to join him. Slowly but surely, things have started looking up.Â
Itâs in the middle of one of those sessions that everything changes.Â
âEeyar, Calum,â Noel calls, from the corridor outside. âYour mamâs on the phone.â Calum sighs - fucking hell, what does his mum not understand about weâre recording an album and Iâm twenty-two years old, Iâll call you when I fucking call you - but puts his bass aside and gets up grudgingly, trotting outside to see Noel holding out the receiver for him.Â
âI want you back in in ten,â he says warningly, like heâs Calumâs dad and theyâre eating dinner soon, and Calum rolls his eyes and flips him off, which is as good of a yes as Noelâs going to get. Noel sticks his tongue out at him and heads back into the studio, probably to yell at Bonehead from the soundboard for being too loud, or maybe too quiet, or maybe too middling. Heâll find something.Â
âWhat?â Calum says, a little irritably, lifting the receiver to his ear.Â
âHello to you too, Calum,â his mum says smartly. âI havenât heard from you in over a week.â Calum rests his arm against the wall, and his forehead against his arm, and stares at his shoes.Â
âIâm recording an album, mum,â he says, hoping it doesnât sound too annoyed. âWeâre busy.â She makes a small hmm, a you should have stayed in a real job kind of hmm, but doesnât push it.Â
âAre you eating well?â she asks, a stern undertone to her voice, like she knows Calumâs diet right now is entirely liquid.Â
âYes,â Calum lies. He gets another disapproving hmm for his trouble which sounds like it might be the prelude to a speech about how he should stop wasting his time and come home and do a proper job and eat some vegetables, so he decides to change tack. âHowâs home?âÂ
âOh, homeâs good,â his mum says. âJanet next doorâs got a new man, invited us to the wedding next month - can you imagine? A wedding in March? I said to her, I said âyouâll be wanting to move it to Mayâ, and she said âoh, we want an indoor wedding anywayâ.â Calum hums noncommittally, because he has absolutely no idea what thatâs supposed to mean. What the fuckâs wrong with an indoor wedding in March? âAnyway, your dad and I have decided to go. Janet extended the invitation to you, too, but I said I didnât know if youâd be back from your recording session.âÂ
âI donât know either,â Calum says. âNoelâs being a right cunt about the whole thing.â Â
âCalum,â his mum says reprovingly, like she wasnât the one he picked the word up from in the first place. âWell, regardless, youâll be home by April, wonât you? I told your dad youâd help fix the wall in the garden.â Calum groans, because thatâs pretty much the last thing on the list of things he wants to do, including having Noel claw his eyeballs out for fucking up the bass on Supersonic again, and his mum tuts. âYouâve got experience in construction, Calum. You should put those skills to good use.âÂ
âIâve never fixed a fucking wall, mum,â he says.Â
âWell, the wall needs fixing,â she says, like thatâs that. The wall needs fixing, so Calumâs got to suddenly develop the skills to do it.Â
(For her, though, Calumâll do it.)Â
âWhatâs wrong with it?â he says, already mentally ringing up the cost of the bricks and mortar heâs going to need. âLooked fine last time I was home.âÂ
âI think the ivy must have loosened the cement,â his mum says. âI was watching TV the other night - I saw Michael on Top of the Pops, actually - and then-â
âHang on,â Calum interrupts, because he only knows two Michaels, and one of themâs here in Cornwall with him. âMichael who?âÂ
âMichael Clifford,â his mum says, like itâs obvious. âAnyway, then I heard a huge crash outside, and I told your dad to go and take a look, and he said the wall had caved in. Just a bit, you know, near the shed, but-â sheâs still talking, something about foxes and de-weeding the garden, but Calumâs not listening.Â
Michael Clifford, sheâd said, like it was simple and obvious. Like it stood to reason that she saw him on Top of the fucking Pops. Like it made sense that Calumâs childhood best friend, his fucking everything from the age of seven to seventeen, was on a British music show.Â
âMichael Clifford?â he repeats, in the middle of whatever his mumâs saying.Â
âYes,â she says, sounding a little annoyed that Calumâs not listening to her impassioned speech about ivy. âAnyway, your dad said heâd need some help with it, and that it can wait until youâre back. But I want it done as soon as you are, because I donât like the idea of Janet being able to see into our garden. Oh, thatâs the chicken done. Call me in a few days, let me know how things are. Give the others my best. Love you.â She doesnât even wait for a response, just hangs up, leaving Calum staring at the floor with a dial tone ringing in his ear and a name bouncing around in his mind.Â
It canât be him. She must have been mistaken. What the fuck would Michael Clifford be doing on Top of the Pops? What the fuck would Michael Clifford even be doing in Britain? The last Calum had heard from him, about a year and a half after heâd left Sydney, Michael had been sure about becoming a policeman. Heâd seemed so dead set on it, had signed himself up for the academy and everything. Calum might not have heard from him in almost half a decade, but heâs pretty sure nobody would stray so far from âpoliceman in Sydneyâ to end up at âmusician in Britainâ. No, he thinks, shaking his head and pushing himself off the wall with his arm, his mum must have been wrong. She hasnât seen Michael since theyâd moved from Sydney five years ago either, so itâs understandable that sheâd mixed him up with someone else.Â
But, a little voice says, as he heads back into the studio and is greeted with the sight of Liam sprawled across the sofa, laughing at something Noelâs just said, both of them looking far too high-spirited for Gallaghers, she watched Michael grow up. She knew his face better than you ever did.Â
ââEre,â Liam says, interrupting the voice in Calumâs mind as itâs about to start reeling off a list of times Calumâs mum had spotted Michael in a crowd or down the road or in a photo before Calum had. âNoel says heâll sprint around the house naked if Tony doesnât fuck up his drums on this take. What dâyou reckon?âÂ
âI reckon itâs a good thing Tony canât fucking play drums then, isnât it?â Calum says, as Liam drops his feet to the floor to make room for Calum on the sofa. Liam snorts, and Noel scowls, but his eyes are still lit up with amusement.Â
âWell, I reckon youâre both cunts,â Noel tells them, and Calum grins, hoping they donât see the way it doesnât quite reach his eyes, and reaches over for Liamâs beer to try and calm his churning stomach.Â
 -------
 Calum canât sleep that night.Â
Heâs usually so drunk that Liamâs gentle snoring doesnât even register to him as he throws himself down on his bed, often fully-dressed, and falls right asleep, only waking up to fumble around for paracetamol in the middle of the night when his throbbing headache overpowers his exhaustion. Heâs not used to lying there, stomach still unsettled, mind racing, staring blankly up at the ceiling, growing more and more frustrated by the noise of Liam sleeping.Â
Liam rolls over in his sleep, mutters something under his breath, and then his breathing evens out again, and Calum times the minutes passing by the way he breathes in, out, in, out. The moonlightâs getting brighter - or maybe itâs the sun rising, heâs not sure - and eventually, when Liam rolls over again and smacks his lips in his sleep, Calumâs had enough. He gets up, pads out of the room and down the stairs, heading in the direction of the kitchen for a drink.Â
Heâs surprised, though, when he pushes the door open, to find Noel sat at the breakfast bar, a sheet of paper in front of him, still wearing the same clothes from the day before. He turns around at the noise of the door opening and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like a greeting to Calum, who grunts back at him as he grabs a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water.Â
âCanât sleep?â Noel asks, and Calum raises his eyebrows over the glass of water heâs gulping down.Â
âNo,â he says, setting the glass down on the counter. âYou?â Noel shakes his head.Â
ââS Boneheadâs fucking snoring,â he says, by way of an explanation, but Calumâs known Noel for five years now, and knows him better than that.Â
âAnd thatâs why youâre still dressed?â Calum says shrewdly.Â
âFuck off,â Noel mutters, raising a can of beer to his lips so he wonât have to say anything else. Calum sighs and shakes his head, but chooses not to push him on it, hopping up on the counter and swinging his legs.Â
âYou writing?â he asks, and Noel looks down at the sheet of paper under his hand, and shrugs.Â
âTrying,â he says. Calum hums, and the two of them lapse into a comfortable silence for a while.Â
It helps, Calum finds, to be with Noel. Heâs never been a man of many words - neither him nor Liam have ever been particularly gifted in that area - but Calum knows heâs always safe with Noel, thrives in the quiet comfort of Noelâs presence. Noel never asks, never pushes, but heâs always there if Calum ever needs anything, and even though they never speak about it, they both know the same is true vice versa.Â
(Calum can count on one hand the number of times heâs needed Noel, and can count on one finger the number of times Noelâs needed him.)
Thatâs not to say Noel doesnât have his moments, though. Heâs obstinate, brash, loud, arrogant, thinks his opinion is worth at least twelve times as much as anyone elseâs, and takes himself far too seriously half the time. Calumâs had some of his most memorable arguments with Noel, edged out only slightly by how spectacular his arguments with Liam have been. Both of those, however, are eclipsed by how fucking nuclear the arguments between Noel and Liam are. The two of them bring out both the worst and the best in each other, grating at each otherâs virtues and soothing each otherâs flaws. They donât know how to be happy unless theyâre dancing along the line between love and hate, and Calumâs not sure itâd work any other way. Heâs seen them in their brief, private moments of peace - Liamâs head on Noelâs chest, Noelâs arm wrapped around him, Liam murmuring something about a song or a memory that makes Noel snort, which in turn makes Liamâs lips curve up in a proud smile - but neither of their ships could sail anywhere without a restless sea to guide them. They need the fighting, need the bickering, even need the punches, to keep the wheels turning. A conversationâs not really begun if Noel and Liam havenât called each other cunts at least twice, Calum thinks, and if Calumâs not been called upon by both of them to call the other a cunt within ten seconds of the inevitable argument breaking out.Â
It had been an argument like that a year or so ago that had led to them traipsing to the Boardwalk to watch that band play. Calum remembers the energy they had, raw and a little off-kilter but something there all the same, remembers the lyrical shouting of the singer and the way heâd bounced all over the stage, but not as much as he remembers the guitarist.Â
Heâd looked so familiar, blonde hair and posture combining to make Calumâs heart ache like no music had ever quite managed to. It couldnât have been him, though, heâd told himself. There was absolutely no way that Michael Clifford could have been playing in the fucking Boardwalk. Michael was in Sydney, back home, probably sunning himself on Bondi Beach and laughing at something Ashton was saying as Luke grinned at Ashton with wide blue eyes. Michael wasnât in Manchester.Â
Except, a little voice in his head says, maybe he was. Maybe Calumâs mum hadnât mistaken some guy in a band on Top of the Pops for Michael. Maybe it was Michael.Â
âDâyou know that band we saw, a few years ago?â Calum says, out of the blue, before the thought to say the words has even crossed his mind. Noel looks up at him, thick brows furrowed.Â
âSeen a lot of fucking bands,â he says, a little slowly, like heâs trying to figure out what Calumâs actually asking. Calum half-considers dropping the subject entirely, but Noelâs been in the business far longer than he has, and if anyoneâs going to know, itâs him.
âThe one in the bar. After the City match.â Noel purses his lips, brows creasing further, before nodding thoughtfully.Â
âOh,â he says. âYeah. Theyâre famous now, they are.âÂ
âOh,â Calum says, and swallows. Thatâs not what he expected - or, he finds, wanted - to hear.Â
âYeah. Heard their first record. Or maybe it was their second, I donât know. It wasnât all that.âÂ
âWhatâre they called, again?â Calum asks, hoping the question sounds innocent, but Noelâs eyes narrow a fraction.Â
âBlur,â he says.Â
âBlur,â Calum repeats, testing the word out, letting it sit on his tongue.Â
âWhy?âÂ
âNo reason,â Calum says. Noel looks at him for a moment, like heâs weighing up whether or not to say something, but then seems to let it go, shaking his head.
âYouâre a fucking odd one, you are,â he says, which is the nicest thing heâs said to Calum in months.Â
âCheers,â Calum says, with a grin. âGood-looking, too.âÂ
âDonât push it,â Noel warns, and Calum laughs, swinging his legs.Â
âWhatâre you writing, then?â he asks. Noel looks back down at the sheet of paper.Â
âDonât know, really,â he says. âJust canât seem to get it right.âÂ
âWant me to take a look?â Calum offers.Â
âYou?â Noel says sceptically. âYou barely even play a fucking instrument.âÂ
âBass is a fucking instrument, you prick,â Calum says, only half-incensed.Â
âYouâre up there with the fucking tambourine player,â Noel says, but thereâs a smile playing at the corner of his lips.Â
âFuck off,â Calum says, and Noel leans back in the chair, grinning. âYouâre the one who bought him that fucking tambourine, anyway.âÂ
âLittle twat might as well do something worthwhile,â Noel says, like Liamâs voice isnât one of the two indispensable elements theyâve got.Â
âAt least I can play guitar,â Calum counters. Noel raises an eyebrow.
âPlaying?â he says. âWell. If thatâs what you want to call it.â Calum scowls and flips him off, and Noel just laughs and gives him a two-fingered salute in return.
âGo on, then,â he says, shoving the piece of paper to the edge of the breakfast bar. âLetâs see how much damage can be done to my genius.â Calum rolls his eyes but reaches over to pull the piece of paper towards him. Thereâs barely anything on there, just two lines: I canât tell you the way I feel/Because the way I feel is oh so new to me. Fucking hell.Â
âIâm off to bed,â Noel says, like he can sense the questions bubbling under the surface of Calumâs frown, and pushes himself back from the breakfast bar. Calum looks up, catches the brief look of donât you dare fucking ask me what thatâs about that flits across Noelâs face, just the most fractional chink in his armour, and nods, hopping off the counter and tucking the sheet of paper into his pocket. He should probably try and get some sleep too, if only because heâs going to have to be in the best frame of mind possible to deal with how insufferable Noelâs going to be tomorrow on three hoursâ sleep.Â
âIâm going to smother your brother if heâs not stopped snoring,â he tells Noel, following him out of the room. Noel snorts as he starts up the stairs, that strange mixture of derisive and fond that the Gallaghers manage so well.Â
âYouâve got more of a fucking chance of him waking up a bird than you do getting him to stop snoring,â he says. Calum sighs, all long-suffering, like this is news to him, even though heâs been sleeping in rooms with Liam since they were seventeen and sixteen respectively.
âGood thing the tambourine playerâs expendable, then,â he says, and Noel laughs, soft and quiet in the stillness of the night.Â
âYouâd be doing the world a fucking favour,â he says, but thereâs a strong edge of pride and fondness that Noel only ever gets when talking about Liam, and Liam only ever gets when talking about Noel, and they never get when talking to each other. Calum thinks theyâd probably both rather switch to being United fans than ever admit any semblance of love exists between the two of them, but it hums lowly beneath the surface, visible for anyone who bothers to look beyond the black eyes and hurled insults and weeks of refusing to even look at each other. No one can deny that the two of them fucking hate each other half the time, but without the push and pull of their relationship, without the back and forth and the give and take, the band couldnât work. If the two of them ever lost that, if one of them ever pulled or pushed too hard, thatâd be it. It should probably concern Calum more than it does that his entire career is poised on the knifeâs edge that is Liam and Noelâs endless tug-of-war, but he's yet to lose the strangely settled feeling in his stomach every time Noel quits or fires Liam that tells him they'll be alright. You'll be alright. There are still better things to come.Â
âYouâre just saying that because you want to sing,â Calum retorts.Â
âNah,â Noel says with a grin, hand hovering over the door handle of his and Boneheadâs room. âIâm saying it because I want more royalties.â Calum rolls his eyes, but heâs grinning too.Â
âIâll see what I can do for you,â he promises.Â
 -------
 As Calum had predicted, Noelâs a fucking nightmare the next day.Â
He snaps at everyone who dares come within a ten metre radius of him, and, when everyone stops going into the same room Noelâs in, he specifically goes out of his way to find Liam to start an argument that ends in Liam complaining that one of his teeth is loose.Â
(âItâs not fucking loose,â Bonehead says, and then decides to leave the room, presumably because he doesnât want to deal with Liamâs moaning and whining. Calum canât really blame him, and starts to shift surreptitiously towards the door himself.
âSince when are you a fucking dentist, you cunt?â Liam shouts after him, and Bonehead flips him off as he walks away. âYouâre coming with me to the dentist, you are.â Heâs rounded on Calum now, blocking the path to the door, and Calum sighs.Â
âIf we get more beer on the way back,â he bargains, and Liam nods.)Â
Thatâs how Calumâs ended up in some posh dental surgery, spread out across a leather sofa and looking very incongruous in his oversized shirt and baggy jeans amongst the glass and the fancy-looking plants, waiting for Liam to come out of his appointment. Itâs taking far longer than heâd expected - heâd thought itâd be a quick your toothâs not fucking loose, you knob, youâve definitely had worse, like everyone else had told him, but Liamâs been in there for a good fifteen minutes now, and Calumâs getting bored.Â
The receptionist keeps making eyes at him, and Calum canât tell whether theyâre I want to fuck you eyes or whether theyâre you look like youâre going to try and rob this dental surgery eyes, so eventually he picks up the nearest magazine off the coffee table and flicks it open to a random page just for something to look at that isnât her.Â
Thereâs a very pretty guy staring back at him when he looks down, blonde and blue-eyed and grinning inanely at the camera, and the caption reads BLUR: the cocky rebels youâre allowed to love.Â
Blur. Thatâs what Noel had called the band from that bar in Manchester last night. Theyâre famous now, they are, heâd said. Â
Calum barely even notices the way his heart speeds up as his eyes fly across the page, scanning the article for any mention of Michael before he really realises what heâs looking for. The author and the singer - Damon, apparently - keep referring to a Mike, an Australian Mike, which puts Calum right on edge, but Michael had never gone by Mike. He fucking hated it, corrected anyone who called him anything other than Michael, refused to respond to any teachers who tried to call him Mike, threw glowers at any classmates who did the same. Heâd barely even let Calum call him Mikey in his most vulnerable moments, rubbing small circles on his back soothingly as he coaxed him to throw up all the cheap booze theyâd nicked from the corner shop.Â
Calumâs fingers are slick with sweat as heâs turning the page and his eyes are starting to water from how little heâs blinking, and heâs not sure whether itâs a good or a bad thing, whether he wants Mike to be Michael or not. When he reaches the bottom of the second page, however, Calumâs heart stops.Â
Thereâs a picture of the whole band. Damonâs standing second from the left, right arm holding his left bicep, head tilted upwards, looking lazy and effortlessly beautiful, like he fucking knows heâs worth looking at. It reminds Calum of Liam a little bit, the way he plays into the camera, the way he knows that with a small tilt of his chin and a slight lowering of his lashes heâll have half the fucking nation on their knees for him. Maybe thatâs just the way singers need to be, Calum thinks, eyes flitting to the ginger guy to Damonâs left, who looks a little uncomfortable, and then to the guy directly on Damonâs right; tall, broody-looking, dark hair swept across his face. To his right is a shorter dark-haired man, looking tense and on edge, and to his right is-
Michael Clifford.Â
Thereâs no mistaking him. Heâs got the same blonde hair still sticking up at all sorts of angles, the same sleepy, sea green eyes, the same pretty lips slightly parted in a pout. Heâs holding himself confidently, miles away from the slightly scrawny teenager Calum had left behind, staring into the lens of the camera like itâs a challenge. Come on, Calum. Tell yourself I ever stopped mattering to you, go on.Â
Calum doesnât need to read the caption to know itâs Michael, knows it from the way heâs clutching his right wrist with his left hand, but does it anyway, one final, desperate grasp at a straw - from left to right: David Rowntree, Damon Albarn, Alex James, Graham Coxon, Michael Clifford.Â
Michael Clifford.Â
The words seem to sort of swim in front of Calumâs eyes, like theyâre not really there, like his mindâs superimposed them on the article somehow, but the pictureâs still there, clear as day. Michael, a hint of stubble on his jaw, face more angled and figure fuller and shoulders broader and God, he looks so fucking good that Calumâs stomach flips and drops and flips again.Â
â-fucking hell, Earth to fucking Cal,â Liam says, sounding sort of muffled, and Calum nearly drops the magazine in shock, yanked back into reality so suddenly and jarringly by the sound of his voice.Â
âWhat?â he says, looking up to see Liam with an irritated expression on his face, cradling one cheek in his hand.Â
âLetâs fucking go,â Liam says, already halfway to the door. Calum stares after him for a moment, mind trying to process Liam wants to leave over the tangled jumble of Michael Michael Michael currently winding its way through every cell in his brain, before he jumps up, magazine still in his hand.Â
âSir,â the receptionist calls immediately, like sheâs had her eye on him the whole time. âYou canât take the magazine with you.â Calum looks down at the magazine, and Liam turns around from the door, a slight tension in his posture that Calum recognises as the one he gets when heâs spoiling for a fucking fight. Christ, heâs not about to deck the fucking receptionist, is he?Â
âOr what?â Liam says, a little menacingly. âYou gonna fucking stop him?âÂ
âI just-âÂ
âWhat the fuck do you want with the fucking magazine, eh? Fucking paid enough for the appointment, buy yourself another."Â
âCâmon,â Calum mutters, rolling the magazine up and hurrying over to Liam, putting a hand on the small of his back. âLetâs go.â Liam hesitates for a moment, like heâs torn between going to get beer or shouting at a receptionist, but eventually the alcohol seems to win in his mind, because he settles for throwing her one final glare and letting Calum guide him out of the door.Â
âWhatâd they say?â Calum asks as they walk out, his hand still on Liamâs back, because he knows Liam better than to trust he wonât just change his mind on a whim and go storming back in to give the receptionist a piece of his mind for not wanting Calum to take a fucking magazine.Â
âDonât fucking know,â Liam mutters, pushing open the door to outside. Calum shivers a little when the cool late-February air hits him, and decides that Liamâs probably safe now, letting go of him to wrap his arms around himself as they head back to the car thatâs been waiting for them. âSounded like he said something about my flaps.â Calum snorts.Â
âBit forward of him,â he says, and Liam grins.Â
âWhyâd you take that fucking magazine, then, eh?â he says, rounding the car without looking into the road and flipping off the car that has to screech to a halt to avoid running him over.Â
âWhat?â Calum says, a touch shiftily. âOh. Saw a good article in it. Wanted to finish reading it.â Liam throws him a look over the top of the car, a look thatâs unnervingly shrewd, but then shakes his head and ducks into the car. Calum does the same, taking a moment to tuck the magazine into his pocket and feeling it weigh down one side of him, unbalancing him just slightly. Itâs kind of apt, he thinks as he gets into the car. Michael had always made him feel a little unbalanced, too.Â
âLetâs get some fucking beer,â Liam announces, and Calum grins, trying not to think about the way the magazine feels pressed between him and the seat.Â
âLetâs get some fucking beer,â he agrees.
 -------
 Calum doesnât look at the magazine again until a good week later.Â
Heâs drunk, and maybe still a little high, which is the driving force behind the whole evening. They all are, because Liam had scored some great coke off some guy called Neville, which Calum had declared to be the funniest dealer name in all of history, leading Bonehead to admit that his weed dealer used to be called Barnaby. Noel had sided with Calum, claiming Neville was far worse than Barnaby, and, predictably, Liam had jumped straight in on Boneheadâs side, and after about two minutes of shouting Tony had mumbled something about not being drunk enough for this and slipped out of the room.Â
âFucking useless,â Liam says derisively, as Tony walks out. âI should fire him.âÂ
âI fired you two days ago,â Noel says, pointing at Liam with the card heâs using to cut up the coke. âYou canât be firing anyone.âÂ
âItâs my fucking band,â Liam says, incensed, like itâs not actually Boneheadâs band that Liam had wheedled his way into.Â
âWho writes the fucking songs?â Noel counters. âYou just play the fucking tambourine and look mardy.âÂ
âFucking greatest frontman in the world, I am,â Liam says indignantly.Â
âYouâre too fucking high to find the front of the stage half the time,â Noel says contemptuously.Â
âI know where the front of the fucking stage is,â Liam says, pointing at Noel with one hand and Calum with the other. ââS between knobheads numbers one and two.â Noel rolls his eyes, too busy cutting lines to flip him off, so Calum does it on both of their behalfs, and Liam grins, swigging from his beer.Â
âSave us a fucking line,â Bonehead says to Noel, whoâs just bent down to hoover up at least four of the thin white lines on the table.Â
âGet your fucking own,â Noel grumbles, like heâs the one whoâd scored it, not Liam, but he lets Bonehead push him aside, slumping back against the sofa.Â
âGreedy cunt,â Bonehead mutters, and Noel swats him upside the head, handing him the card.Â
âWe should have a fucking celebration,â Liam declares grandly, gesturing widely with his beer bottle.Â
âFor what?â Noel says. âAlbumâs not even fucking finished yet.âÂ
âSounds fucking great, though,â Liam says.Â
âWell, youâve clearly not heard it then, have you?â Calum says with a snort, accepting the card Bonehead holds out to him and leaning over towards the coke. Thereâs not much left, but Liamâll fucking do one if he doesnât leave any for him. âFucking hell, Noel. You a fucking vacuum?â Noel just grins and shrugs at him, cocaine clearly starting to settle into his veins, and Calum rolls his eyes, cutting two thin lines for himself and leaving enough for the same for Liam.Â
âItâll sound great once itâs mixed,â Liam insists, as Calum bends down. Â
âThatâs what you said last time,â Bonehead points out.Â
âNo I fucking didnât,â Liam says, even though heâd literally spent about a week bouncing around saying itâll sound fucking great when itâs mixed, just you fucking wait. Itâll be fucking biblical. Calum straightens, wincing slightly and pinching the end of his nose, and throws Liam a look.Â
âYou fucking did,â he says. Liam scowls at him, and motions for the card. âCome over here. No way youâll reach the coke from over there.â Liam rolls his eyes but complies, heaving himself up and then throwing himself down next to Calum, making a noise of outrage when he sees how little is left for him.Â
âWhat the fuck, Noel?â he demands, and Noel just cackles. Christ, heâs blitzed out of his fucking mind already.Â
âWe should fucking celebrate,â Noel says, like he hadnât shot down Liam saying it not two minutes ago.Â
âCelebrate what, you prick?â Calum says, wrinkling his nose as the bitter cocaine drips down his throat. Fucking grim. At least his mouth will be too numb to taste it soon.Â
âFucking all of it,â Noel says. âUs. Recording an album. The fact that weâre going to be number fucking one.â Calum snorts, but heâs starting to feel a little giddy, a little warmer, and he leans back with a grin.Â
âNumber fucking one,â he repeats, and Liam nods solemnly next to him.Â
âFucking right,â he says, like itâs what theyâre owed. Calum catches Boneheadâs eye and grins, knows heâs thinking exactly what Calumâs thinking - yeah, us two fucking deserve it for putting up with the both of you.Â
âJust wait âtil we release Supersonic,â Calum says, shuffling up a little to rest his head on Liamâs shoulder. Liamâs arm comes around him, warm and comforting, and he squeezes Calum absent-mindedly as he hums contentedly. Calum lets his eyes flutter shut, euphoric and a little overheated, grinning to himself as he lets himself fantasise. Number fucking one, he thinks to himself. Fucking imagine.Â
âKnock those Blur cunts off the top,â Noel says, and Calumâs eyes fly open.Â
âWhat?â he says.Â
âTheir new song,â Noel says scornfully. âFucking, whatâs it? Girls who like boys who like girls who like boys, something like. Fucking shite.âÂ
âNew song?â Calum echoes, mind trying to work around the cocaine to process what heâs being told.Â
âAm I the only one who fucking listens to the radio?â Noel demands. âThatâs our fucking competition, that is. Weâve got to knock them off the top spot.âÂ
âCompetition,â Calum says slowly. Competition. Michael Clifford is his competition.Â
And, fucking hell. Does Michael even know Calumâs his competition? Does Michael even know Calumâs in Oasis - does Michael even remember Calum? Itâs been what, four fucking years now since the letters had petered out, since Calum had got too caught up in his new life of Liam and Noel and drugs and music and Michael had been too busy with his family and friends and the fucking police academy. Michael might not even recognise Calum, might not even remember his name.Â
(Something tells him, though, even through the haze of drugs and alcohol, that they could never forget each other. After all, it says, who forgets their first kiss? Who forgets their first fuck? Who, it says, a little too knowingly for Calumâs liking, forgets their first love?)Â
Liam seems to have sensed somethingâs up because heâs frowning, waving a hand in Calumâs face, and Calum blinks, shakes his head abruptly and sits bolt upright. He stopped loving Michael. He fucking did, no matter what the churning in his stomach might be telling him. Thatâs just the fucking booze.
âWhat the fuckâs up with you?â Liam says, sounding annoyed.
âDonât feel great,â Calum says, which isnât entirely untrue. The highâs too high, and the alcoholâs making his stomach clench and contract, and heâs sweating a little too much, and his hands are clammy, and-Â
âOh, fucking hell,â he says, a little faintly, and lurches to his feet, crashing into the bathroom next door and only just making it to the toilet bowl before heâs throwing up everything heâd ingested in the previous twenty-four hours. Heâs glad heâs still high because it means he canât quite taste the bile in his throat, canât entirely feel the way his stomachâs heaving that he distantly registers is going to absolutely fucking kill tomorrow.Â
Halfway through his retching someone appears behind him, kneeling down beside him and rubbing small circles on his back comfortingly. Calum feels fucking pathetic, slumped over the toilet bowl with tears leaking out of his eyes, someone making quiet, soothing sounds behind him, all because of fucking Michael Clifford.Â
(That thought makes him retch once again.)
âWaste of fucking coke, that is,â the person says mildly when heâs finished, leaning up and flushing for him, and itâs Liam. Of course itâs Liam. No one else would willingly spend their short high in a tiny, cramped bathroom watching Calum throw up. Noel would probably lock him in and turn off the water supply, maybe grab a camcorder for good measure.Â
Calum huffs out something thatâs supposed to be a laugh but sounds like more of a sob as he sits back, wipes his upper lip and forehead and rests his head against the cool tile wall. Liam sits down opposite him, legs pressed against Calumâs because theyâre both too fucking big for the bathroom on their own let alone together, and blinks at him.Â
âFuck brought that on?â he says, more curious than anything. Calumâs stomach lurches again, images of Michael smiling at him sleepily on a Saturday morning, of Michael with his head tipped back in detention, laughing at something Calum had said, and the picture of him in the magazine, so much older and yet so fucking familiar, flashing through his mind in rapid succession.Â
âProbably just overdid it,â he says weakly. Liam gives him a hard stare.Â
âA fucking baby wouldâve had a hard time getting high on what you snorted,â he says.Â
âBaby wouldnâtâve drunk five fucking beers beforehand, though,â Calum says, coughing slightly and wincing as he tastes the echo of acid at the back of his throat.Â
âDepends whose baby it is,â Liam says. âPretty sure mine would.â Calum snorts, and lets his eyes flutter shut as he starts to come back to himself a little, shivering and wrapping his arms around himself as he realises how cold he is. Fuck, heâs all clammy. Gross.Â
Almost as though he can read Calumâs thoughts, Liam nudges Calumâs knee with his own.Â
âYouâre fucking rank,â he says.Â
âCheers,â Calum says, not opening his eyes.Â
âTake a fucking shower.â Calum pulls a face. Heâs not in the fucking mood to shower.Â
âTomorrow,â he says. Itâs not like Liamâs never done the same.Â
âYouâre fucking rank, â Liam tells him again, like heâd not thrown up in the sink two nights ago and left it there overnight, but he puts his hand on Calumâs shin and pats it, and Calum offers him a weak smile.Â
âYou donât have to stay,â he says.Â
âWhat, go back in there and listen to our kid break his neck sucking his own cock? Donât fucking think so,â Liam scoffs. âIâll be fucking sober in five minutes, anyway, given the amount of coke you pricks left me.â Calum smiles again, a little less wobbly this time.Â
âSober?â he says. âYou drank twice as much as me.âÂ
âNot all of us are fucking Aussies, though, are we?â Liam says, and Calum can hear the grin in his voice. âMight as well be a fucking southerner, you.â That makes Calum open his eyes a fraction, enough to glare at Liam.Â
âPiss off,â he says. âYou and your fucking Irish blood. Iâd drink anyone else under the fucking table.âÂ
âFucking right,â Liam says proudly. âNever met anyone who could outdrink me, let alone an Aussie.â
âYouâve never met any except me, you prick,â Calum says, and Liam grins.Â
âWell, most of you fuckers are smart enough to stay where itâs warm and sunny and the birds are fit, arenât you?â he says. âOnly the stupid ones end up here.â Calum scowls, and kicks at Liamâs leg half-heartedly.Â
âFuck off,â he says. âDidnât choose to move here, did I? Got dragged kicking and screaming.âÂ
âBut youâre still here,â Liam points out, and Calum finds he doesnât have an answer to that. At least, he thinks, not one heâs willing to give Liam.Â
âYou must miss it,â Liam says when Calum doesnât answer, a little surprised, like the thoughtâs only just crossed his mind after five fucking years of friendship. Which, knowing Liam, is probably the case.Â
âAustralia?â Liam hums his assent. âDunno. I guess. I miss Vegemite.â He hesitates, before adding: âMostly miss my mates, though.âÂ
âOh?â Liam says, cocking an eyebrow at him. âYou still talk to them?â Calum shrugs, a little uncomfortably. After all, it had been him that had ignored the last letter Michael had sent him. Heâs the one who hadnât written back.Â
âNo,â he says. âPhone calls are too expensive, and none of us are fucked writing letters.âÂ
âAh, well,â Liam says, stretching out on the tiles and sighing contentedly. âJust you fucking wait âtil weâre number one. Youâll see them then. Weâll be touring Australia three times a year, and that.â Calum canât help but snort.Â
âThree times a year?â he says. âThereâs only five fucking cities worth playing in.â Liam grins.Â
âAnd youâd better have friends in all of them, mate,â he says. âNot bloody paying for hotels if I can help it.âÂ
âMy mates are all in Sydney,â Calum says, and thereâs a little tug in his chest as he realises that actually, that might not be true anymore. He doesnât know what happened to Ashton and Luke, either. If Michael can go from police cadet in Sydney to fucking famous musician in the UK then Ashton and Luke are probably, like, astronauts, or something. Maybe he should check with the ASA.Â
âWhat?â Liam says curiously, clearly seeing the expression on Calumâs face, and Calum hesitates.
Heâs not sure whether he should tell Liam. What the fuck would he even say? My ex, sort of, is in the band Noelâs lining up as our competition? You know Blur? Yeah, I fucked one of the guitarists. Liam wouldnât get it. Great, heâd say, eyes gleaming. Eeyar, you must have some good stories about him. You can embarrass him in the press. Or maybe, get in, mate. Infiltrate them, eh? Fucking good thought. Oi, that Damonâs alright, isnât he? Maybe Iâll have it on with him. He wouldnât understand the weight behind it, what Michael meant to Calum. Means to Calum. Fuck, he doesnât know anymore.Â
âI think a mate of mine might have moved over here,â Calum says eventually, when Liam raises an expectant eyebrow. It feels fucking weird calling Michael a mate. The word doesnât feel quite complete in his mouth, like maybe there should be a soul prefixing it.Â
âOh aye?â Liam says, raising his other eyebrow too, like he knows what Calum might mean by âmateâ. âWhereâs he living?âÂ
âI donât know,â Calum admits. Liam hums, like heâs thinking it over.Â
âDâyou want to know?â he says, in that strangely perceptive way he sometimes does. Calum shrugs, and hopes Liam doesnât catch the tension in his shoulders.Â
âMaybe,â he says. âDunno. Depends.â He doesnât elaborate, and Liam doesnât ask him to. Instead, his emotional capacity probably filled for the night, he claps his hand on Calumâs thigh.Â
âWant to see if we can get Noel to piss himself?â he says, eyes bright, and Calum canât help but snort.Â
ââCourse I fucking do,â he says, getting to his feet. Liam braces himself on the sink as he pulls himself up, a little unsteady, and grins.Â
âTen quid says he does,â he says, and Calum snorts. Noel had pissed himself once, three years ago, and Liam canât fucking let go of it.Â
âYou donât fucking have ten quid,â he says, following Liam out of the room, still feeling a little light-headed and woozy, but no longer nauseous.Â
âNeither do you,â Liam counters, pushing open the door to the living room, and Calum has to concede there.
âHow about the loser sucks the otherâs dick, then?â he says, grinning, and Liam throws his head back as he laughs.Â
âYouâre on,â he says over his shoulder, eyes twinkling.Â
âWhoâs getting who to suck their dick?â Noel demands.Â
âYouâre helping me get Calum to suck my dick,â Liam tells him, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Noel and resting his head on Noelâs chest. Almost instinctively, Noelâs arm comes around him, holding him close. Calum could almost be fooled into thinking theyâre in some sort of a truce, that the booze and cocaine have broken down the barrier of hatred between them and left only the underlying love, until Liam reaches forwards, picks up a bottle of beer and holds it to Noelâs lips with a wicked grin.Â
âDrink up.â
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chapter two
#malum#lashton#5sos fic#5sos fanfic#5sos slash#mate i seriously cant believe im posting this#what goes on in my head. or more accurately what doesnt go on in my head why dont i have a brain#i cannot believe i have 50k of this. 50k. i'm seriously going to hell
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