#nadya...i have Some Thoughts but i need to collect the fics

[calumcest]

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

[ao3]

cannot believe the malum is going somewhere now this is truly scenes...only 50k into the fic and all...would you believe that i don’t read fics over 8k long because i’m too impatient i’m literally the worlds biggest hypocrite i HATE slow burn look at me. i literally write everything i hate 

@tirednotflirting my lovely basically-co-writer i love you thank you for dealing with this shit i changed like half of it i cannot believe you had to read it in the state it was in...truly vile...also this chapter actually owes its life to @kaleidoscopeminds i wasn’t going to post today bc the laptop i have to use rn is doing my nut and bc i thought nobody cares but meg cares and so this is for her <3 

Noel gets back the next afternoon. 

He’s dishevelled, he’s sleep-deprived, he’s stone-cold sober and in a right fucking mood, but he’s there. Calum sees him at breakfast, sat at a table chatting to Alan - he’s just got off his flight, still hasn’t taken his suitcase back up to his room, looks like he hasn’t got changed in the four days he’s been gone - and when Noel spots him, he just stares for a minute, wavering, like he’s not sure how Calum’s going to react. It makes Calum falter too, because Noel’s always so certain about these things, always scoffs and says c’mon, then, don’t be a dick, all business-like, so it’s an unexpected reaction. It feels almost like a shift, feels like maybe something’s irrevocably changed, now, and he’s not really sure what to make of it, not sure whether the way his stomach flips is because of that or Noel or the comedown he’s currently pushing through. 

He heads to the table, though, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do - skip a free meal? No fucking chance - and Noel’s eyes follow him the whole way, a slight edge of trepidation leaking into the edges as Calum gets closer and closer until he’s hovering at the table. He’s not going to speak first, Calum realises. He’s going to let Calum take the lead, and that’s unusual too, nothing like the Noel that had left all of four days ago. Jesus, what the fuck do they do to the water in San Diego? Whatever it is, he hopes Noel’s brought some back for Liam to drink.

Alan’s watching the two of them, that managerial instinct telling him that something’s not quite right here, like he can see the way Calum’s skin is crawling with this strange, unknown hesitancy around Noel, and Calum doesn’t want to make a scene in front of him, so he just cocks his head and looks down at Noel.

“You’re a prick,” he says. Noel blinks, and for a brief moment Calum’s stomach drops, like maybe even that has changed, now, like maybe that’s not the right way to say I love you, you massive cunt anymore, and then Noel grins tiredly. 

“Aye,” he says simply, and Calum grins back, relief flooding his veins, and sits down opposite Noel.

It goes pretty much the same with Tony and Bonehead, although Bonehead does cuff Noel upside the head a little harder than strictly necessary. Liam doesn’t come down for food, even though he’s always the first up, and when he realises that the waiters are clearing away the chafing dishes without an indignant Mancunian telling them oi, I’ve only had six hash browns, Calum exchanges a look with Bonehead. Liam’s going to make Noel go to him, isn’t going to let them have a chance meeting. He’s going to make Noel go to him, which for Noel is the same as crawling through broken glass on his hands and knees. 

Noel does it, though, swallows his pride and heads up to Liam’s room when everybody else is chatting animatedly, relief powering the conversation. Calum doesn’t even notice he’s gone until he turns to ask Noel to back him up on Help! being better than Rubber Soul, which is probably what Noel wanted. He’d hate to make a big show of it, for everyone to know that the roles are reversed, that Noel’s going to Liam rather than Liam going to Noel. Still, though, Calum thinks, turning back to the rest of the group and launching into his impassioned defence of Help!, it’s not like Noel. Something’s changed, and Calum’s not entirely sure what, and he doesn’t fucking like it. 

The rest of them don’t see Liam and Noel all day, but when Calum passes by Liam’s room he hears two low voices talking calmly, quietly, rationally, and catches what sounds like look, you love me, I love you, so let’s make this work, and ...for mam’s sake, if nowt else. They emerge again at dinner, and don’t speak about it, and nobody dares to ask, not even Calum. It’s not like anyone else would understand, anyway; the two of them live on another fucking planet where the normal rules of brotherhood and family and basic fucking decency don’t apply. 

Once Noel and Liam have made up, though - or, at least, started calling each other cunts a little less venomously - the rest of the American leg of the tour goes off without a hitch. 

They’re there until late October, and despite an edge of tension in the band, a little uncertainty as they all try to find their feet in their new, post-Whiskey-a-Go-Go-disaster relationships, the tour goes well. Noel and Liam don’t escalate past their usual arguments, only ignore each other for a few hours at a time, and all their dates are sold out. On top of all that, the album’s hitting heights none of them had even dreamed of. 

(Well, maybe Liam had dreamed of them. In fact, Liam had laid it out plainly for them on the first day of recording, pointing accusingly first at Noel, then Bonehead, then Calum, then back to Noel, skipping Tony completely: it’s going to be number fucking one, you hear me, and it’s going to go fucking platinum, and whatever the fuck comes after platinum. It’s going to be fucking mega. ) 

Noel had written some songs while he was in San Diego, one candid acoustic ballad that makes Calum and Bonehead share a slightly alarmed glance when they hear it, and Alan insists that they’re masterpieces, so they head to a studio in Texas to record them. Calum stands with Liam behind the thick glass that separates the live room from the control room, watches as Noel blinks down at his acoustic guitar and sings I wanna talk tonight ‘bout how you saved my life and then looks up at either Calum or Liam, Calum can’t tell, and sings you and me see how we are. It sends a shiver down his spine, the sheer fucking openness of it, and for the first time makes him think shit, what was going through Noel’s head when he was gone? He’s been so preoccupied with their side of it, with Bonehead’s drinking and Tony and Maggie’s conversations and Liam shutting himself in his room that he hadn’t stopped to think about what Noel might have been feeling, about just how literally Noel means you saved my life. 

When the rest of them get back into the studio to record the other songs, though, it feels like something slotting back into place. It reminds them all who they are, what they are, and smooths over the discordance, evens out the dissonance. The five of them come out of it grinning, laughing, shaking their heads at some ridiculous tale Liam’s spinning, and it feels good. For the first time in weeks, giddy with nothing but adrenaline and love, Calum feels good. The music’s what makes them, and the music’s what fixes them. It’s an important lesson, that they can go through something like that and stitch up the wounds with a few guitar strings, and it makes them all feel a little more grounded, a little more confident that they’re back on their feet. 

The day of their flight back to the UK, when they’re all still nursing their incredible hangovers from the celebrations of finishing the North American leg of the tour the night before, Calum goes down for breakfast to find Noel and Liam already sat at the table, deep in what looks like a heated conversation. He hesitates for a moment - any conversation with the brothers whispering fiercely like that is likely a conversation he wants no part in - but it’s too late, because Noel’s seen him, and he’s beckoning him over, brows knitted together. 

“What?” Calum says warily, about three feet from the table, far enough away that he can still make a break for it if it devolves into a shouting match. 

“D’you know where we were this morning?” Noel says. Calum shrugs. He doesn’t even know where they are now, let alone where Noel and Liam might have disappeared to before he was awake. 

“We had a radio interview,” Liam says. Calum’s not sure why he’s supposed to care about that. 

“With Blur,” Noel adds, and Calum’s stomach drops. 

What the fuck? 

“What the fuck?” Calum says, trying his best to school his features into something neutral, feeling the two identical sets of blue eyes scrutinising him, watching for a reaction. “Why- what? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“We didn’t know,” Liam says, a little coolly, and takes a sip of his tea, eyes still on Calum to see how he reacts. 

“What happened?” 

“What the fuck was s’posed to happen?” Noel says, raising an eyebrow. “We did the fucking interview.” 

“Without calling them cunts?” 

“‘Course,” Liam says, pulling a cigarette out of the packet lying between himself and Noel on the table. “We’re fucking professionals, we are.” Calum snorts. The most professional thing either of them have done is turn up to a bus call only twenty minutes late. 

“You did call Damon a prick,” Noel says mildly to Liam, who waves the hand that isn’t flicking his lighter dismissively. 

“Cal asked about cunt, though, didn’t he?” he mumbles around his cigarette, and Calum and Noel both roll their eyes, Calum huffing out a laugh and Noel tutting, both edged with fondness. 

“The Sun’s going to have a fucking field day,” Calum says, deciding it’s safe enough to sit down. The two of them don’t seem in too bad of a mood; in fact, they seem a little too calm, both of them looking at Calum with almost blank expressions, heads tilted one way. “What?” Calum adds, a little defensively, and Liam leans forwards, taking the cigarette out of his mouth just so he can speak properly. 

“Mike was there,” he says, like he’s revealing a big secret that he’s been bursting to tell. Calum’s heart skips a beat, but he keeps his face straight, and just blinks at Liam. So that’s what this is about. He should’ve known, really; it would have been too much to ask for the Gallagher brothers to forget about that part of Calum’s sexual history for, like, two fucking minutes. 

“Well, he’s part of Blur, isn’t he?” Calum says. 

“He asked after you,” Noel says, far too nonchalantly, stirring his tea. Calum swallows, feeling the all-too-familiar guilt surge up in his lungs. He shouldn’t be talking to Michael. He shouldn’t have taken Michael’s number, shouldn’t have learnt it off by heart, shouldn’t have sat in Noel’s empty hotel room and turned to Michael on one of the worst days of his life. And he definitely shouldn’t have done all of that without telling Liam or Noel. 

“Oh,” Calum says. “Well.” He’s not sure what else to say, what else the guilt will even let him say. “What did you say?” Liam throws him a slightly indignant look. 

“Told him to fuck off, obviously,” he says, like he’s a little offended Calum’s even asked. “Not telling him fuck all about you, am I?” God. If it were anyone else they were talking about, Calum would feel a pure rush of love for Liam, at the fact he’s so unquestioningly and unnecessarily protective of Calum, but because it’s Michael, a huge surge of guilt washes over the love that rises in him, lapping at his veins before the love can get there. 

“Oh,” Calum says again, and Liam just turns back to his tea, clearly thinking the conversation’s over, that what needed to be said has been said and satisfied with Calum’s response. Noel, though, is still looking at Calum, something too perceptive in his cool blue eyes. 

“Why would he ask?” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice, something cold and challenging. 

“What d’you mean?” Calum says, holding his gaze, trying to push all the panic rising in his chest back before it reaches his eyes. Shit, what the fuck had Michael said? Did he mention anything about the phone call? Does Noel know?

“Seems a bit friendly.” Noel’s eyes are carefully blank, expression guarded, not giving anything away, cards held close to his chest. 

“He’s a friendly guy,” Calum says, relieved at how even his voice comes out. “Just because you two are cunts.” At that, Liam looks up again, frowning. 

“Who’s a cunt?” he says, incensed. Calum almost lets out a sigh of relief - if Liam’s back in the conversation, Noel won’t say anything else. At least, not now, he won’t. Calum’s just buying himself time, really; Noel’s going to stew on it, mull it over on late-night bus calls and midday hangovers, and come back to Calum when he thinks he’s got something infallible to slash at Calum’s defences with.

“You are,” Noel tells Liam. 

“You are too,” Calum reminds him, and Noel shrugs. 

“Could be worse,” he says. “Could be Damon Albarn.” Liam snorts, and even Calum has to roll his eyes and shake his head, reaching over for Noel’s tea and pulling it towards him, wanting something to do with his jittery fingers. Noel lets him, even pushes a packet of sugar in his direction because he knows Calum can’t stand drinking tea unless it’s immediately going to give him diabetes, and Calum smiles, watching as something a little disarmed crosses Noel’s face for a split second before he schools his features back into that half-irritated, half-challenging expression that’s so Noel he might as well patent it. 

Strange, Calum thinks, as he empties the entire packet of sugar into what’s now his tea. Noel doesn’t have chinks in his armour, not really. At least, not when it comes to anyone whose name doesn’t start with an ‘L’ and end with an ‘iam’, and last time Calum checked, he wasn’t a loud-mouthed twat from Manchester that Noel’s been exasperatedly hauling out of trouble for the past two decades. He doesn’t really have time to wonder what it’s about, though, because then Liam’s sighing loudly, raising his hand to catch the nearest waiter’s attention, and saying: “Alright, mate, don’t happen to know where the best place to score coke around here is, do you?” 

“Liam,” Noel says warningly, the well-worn older-brother irritation already lacing his tone, and Liam just shoots him a what? sort of look, as the waiter stares back at them. 

“Coke?” he asks, a little hesitantly, like he’s sure he’s misunderstanding what Liam’s asking. 

“Yeah, mate, y’know, the old Colombian marching powder,” Liam says, nodding his head, like this is a perfectly normal conversation to have with a waiter at ten in the morning. 

“I- uh, sir, I’m not sure-” the waiter starts, a little nervously, and Liam leans forwards. 

“Cocaine, mate,” he says slowly, clearly thinking the waiter’s not caught on, like that’s the only possible explanation for why he’s not immediately gone oh, yeah, ‘course, hang on, let me my local dealer on the line.

“Piss off, Liam,” Noel says, a definite note of annoyance in his voice now, and Liam’s like a shark to blood, turns away from the waiter, all thoughts of getting whatever white powder he can procure up his nose forgotten as he spots a new drug of choice; arguing with Noel. It’s something Calum’s seen a hundred times, the way Liam will find a gap in Noel’s defences and worm his way in, make a home under Noel’s skin just for a few minutes of his attention, and it’s not something he fancies sticking around to watch, knowing it’ll end with fists flying with no regard for who might be caught in the crossfire.

“I’m going back up,” he says, even though he hasn’t eaten yet, but neither Noel or Liam are listening anymore, already caught in a half-hissed, half-yelled conversation about whether it’s inappropriate or street-smart to ask a random local guy for coke plugs at his job, Liam, at his fucking job, and do you know how many fucking hotels we’ve been kicked out of because of you so far this year? Liam’s raising his voice as Calum walks out of the room, shouting something about me? It’s not just me, you prick, you were in fucking Sweden as well, right, and you’re the one who took off to fucking San Diego, what the fuck else was I going to do while we all waited for you to stop being such a pathetic little cunt? , and Calum knows he’s left just in time when he hears the sound of crockery shattering in the distance as he jogs back up the stairs to his room. He doesn’t really mind, though, doesn’t care if they get kicked out of this hotel too, because all he can think, heart pounding, is why the fuck did Michael ask after me, when the last thing he might have heard is me calling him ‘no one’?

He doesn’t even get time to think about that, though, because Bonehead’s on his way down as Calum’s on his way up, and he blocks Calum’s path and insists Calum join him on a walk to the supermarket because the amount of beer he’s going to have to drink to deal with the brothers on an eight hour flight back home needs two people to carry it. Calum thinks shit, he’s right, so they fetch Tony to carry all the alcohol Calum’s going to need to drink too, and then spend the walk to the shop and the entire time traipsing around it arguing about whether or not Tony should get any of the alcohol they’re loading into their arms. Calum weighs in for the first ten minutes, but it becomes clear Bonehead and Tony are just looking to fight about something, so Calum draws back and lets them have at each other, walks next to them and lets the sound of their rowing wash over him as his thoughts turn back to Michael.

Did Michael really want to know? Or was it a power play, him saying something to Liam and Noel knowing it would get back to Calum? No, surely not, Calum thinks, as Tony and Bonehead bicker about whether or not Tony deserves at least one of the six-packs Bonehead’s picked up. Michael wouldn’t do that. He’s not that kind of person. 

Maybe Michael isn’t, a little voice in his head says, but maybe Mike is. You don’t know Mike, do you? 

(Calum thrusts one of his six-packs at Tony, suddenly feeling a little too sick to drink.)

  -------

  They head back to Europe in November, first to the UK to record Whatever, and then straight off to France. Noel even manages to make a joke about the Amsterdam ferry incident as they’re waiting to board in Dover, which is as close to saying I forgive you to Liam for the episode as he’s going to get. 

Calum doesn’t speak to Michael for almost two months. He doesn’t want to call first, after the way the last call ended and still uncertain about the whole Michael-Liam-Noel situation, and Michael doesn’t call him. Calum tries not to dwell on it, to think too hard about the sound of the dial tone and the way he’d called Michael no one, but Blur are fucking everywhere. It seems like they’re playing all the same places as Oasis but a few weeks earlier, because every time Calum walks down a French street he’s accosted by blown up images of Michael’s face, moody and pretty, staring down at him from billboards and bus stops and fucking lampposts. 

It’s one of those posters stuck haphazardly onto a lamppost in Berlin that Calum sees, a few hours before they’re due to play a show, that reminds him, with a jolt, what the date is. 

The twentieth of November. 

Michael’s birthday. 

Calum’s almost taken aback that he remembers. He’d forgotten for the past three or four years - the date had passed him by without so much as a second glance - and the thought makes him feel a little guilty, a little sick, like he’s broken a promise to himself that he never even knew he made. 

There’s a little phone booth next to the lamppost that looks like it might not even be working, and Calum finds himself striding in that direction, fumbling in his pocket for the few German coins he’d been given. It’s nothing, he tells himself, as he starts dialling Michael’s number. It’s just polite to wish someone a happy birthday. It doesn’t mean anything. 

It only takes two rings for someone to pick up, a soft click and a moment of silence at the other end of the line.

“Hello?” It’s not Michael; it’s a woman. Maybe Michael has a house-sitter? Calum’s pretty sure Michael must be loaded now, right, if he’s in Blur? He’s probably not pissing all his royalties away on drink and drugs. They probably have a group accountant to manage everything for them, rather than Noel cuffing them all upside the head and going eeyar, yous need to start buying cheaper coke.  

“Oh,” Calum says. “Uh. I’m looking for Michael?” 

“He’s in Japan at the moment,” the woman says. Her voice is sweet and warm, almost comforting, and oddly familiar. It’s probably just the Australian accent, Calum thinks. Anyone with an Australian accent has sounded familiar to him since he left.

“Oh,” Calum says again. He should’ve guessed, really. Of course Michael’s not at home. He’s in a fucking band. In Blur, no less. Of course he’s on tour. 

“May I ask who’s calling?” the woman says. Calum hesitates. 

“Just a friend,” he says, a little evasively. “Just- uh. Wanted to wish him a happy birthday, is all.” 

“Oh, that’s lovely,” the woman says, and she sounds like she’s smiling. “I can give you the number of his hotel room in Japan, if you’d like.” 

“I-” Calum’s not sure what to say to that. He might be sending a message he’s not entirely sure he wants to send if Michael finds out Calum had called his house first, and then got the number for his hotel in Japan. 

“Or I can pass along a message?” the woman offers. “What’s the name?” Calum bites his lip. It can’t hurt, he thinks. It’s not like Michael will have spoken about Calum to anyone who’s known him in the past few years, if he hadn’t told his own bandmates. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Yeah, that’d be good, thanks. It’s Calum.” The woman lets out a little gasp. 

“Calum Hood?” she says, and Calum’s stomach drops. "I should have recognised your voice! You've lost your accent, haven't you?"

“Uh,” he says intelligently, but she’s already started talking again. 

“It’s Karen,” she says. 

Oh, fucking hell. 

“Oh,” Calum says. Fuck. Jesus Christ. Of course it’s Michael’s mum. Of course Michael wouldn’t get a fucking house-sitter, rich and in Blur or not. It’s oddly steadying, though, that in this instance at least Michael’s Michael and not Mike, makes something electric shoot through Calum as he thinks maybe I still know enough of him. “Uh. Hi?” 

“I didn’t know you and Michael were still in contact,” she says, and he can hear the grin in her voice, how happy she sounds about it. It makes his stomach twist in guilt, heavy and leaden. 

“Yeah,” Calum says weakly. “Well. Not really. But- y’know. It’s his birthday.” He cringes at his own words, stilted and uncomfortable, but Karen doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m sure he’ll want to hear from you himself,” she says jovially. “I’ll give you his number, hang on a minute.”

“Actually, I-”

“Yes, here it is. Have you got a pen and paper?”

“I don’t-” Calum breaks off, looking wildly around him, and picks up the pen on the top of the telephone keypad, scratching it against the sign that tells him how much of his money he’s pissing away on this phone call. He’s roped into this, now, isn’t he? Karen will tell Michael Calum called, and if Calum doesn’t call Michael after telling Karen he would, it’ll look suspicious. Or it’ll look like he doesn’t care enough, which, with their fragile balance and Calum not knowing where Michael’s head’s at, is the last thing he wants. 

“Okay. It’s oh-one-two,” Karen begins, and Calum nods along as she reels off the number for him, phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder as he forces the last of the ink from the pen onto his hand. “Oh, and the country code is zero-zero-eight-one.” Great. Now he can’t even use that as an excuse. 

“Thanks,” Calum says, hoping it comes out genuine and not sarcastic. “I’ll, uh. I’ll call him, then.” 

“Do,” Karen says, and Calum can tell she’s positively beaming. God, he’s a terrible person. “I’m so happy you called, Calum. I should have known you two would have stayed in contact and not let any of this Blur versus Oasis nonsense get in the way of your friendship.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says feebly, feeling guilt tap insistently at his lungs, waiting to be let in. “Well. It was nice talking to you?” He’s not sure how to end a phone call that isn’t either a polite speak to you soon or an exasperated Liam, you cunt, don’t you fucking hang up on m- 

“Of course!” Karen says brightly. “I’m very proud of you, Calum. Y’know, I remember you getting your first ever guitar, and look at you now. I’m glad you kept your head screwed on straight.” Calum thinks of the three thin white lines Liam had cut for him earlier that are probably still in his bloodstream, and winces. 

“Yeah,” he says, trying for grateful. “I, uh, I try. Thank you.” 

“I’m sure I’ll speak to you soon,” Karen says. “I hope you manage to catch Michael!” 

“Thanks,” Calum says again, and hopes he doesn’t sound like he wants to gouge his own eyes out. Karen doesn’t seem to notice, though, just chirps a happy goodbye! and leaves Calum to stare at the telephone keypad, holding the receiver loosely in his hand, like he can’t really believe what’s just happened. 

Well, fuck. Now he’s got to call fucking Japan. 

Calum sighs and starts dialling the number, sending out prayers that Noel’s got some really big fucking tunes up his sleeve for the next album to pay for this call. It rings three times, and then there’s a click as someone picks up. 

“Hello?” It’s not Michael. Jesus Christ. Why the fuck is wishing someone a happy birthday this much of an ordeal?

“Is Michael there?” he asks. There’s a short pause. 

“Who’s calling?”

“A friend,” Calum says. “Who’s this?”

“Graham.” Which one was that? The one with glasses, right? The other guitarist? 

“Right. Is Michael around?” 

“Depends on who’s calling.” Calum sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Wishing someone a happy birthday really shouldn’t be this fucking hard.

“It’s Calum,” he mumbles. “From Oasis,” he adds, in case Michael happens to have met a few more Calums in the past couple of years. 

“What the hell are you calling for?” 

“Why the hell d’you think?” Calum knows he sounds hostile, but he doesn’t care, not when the nervousness that had been contained in his stomach is starting to seep out into his bloodstream.

There’s another pause. 

“Alright,” Graham says, but he still sounds suspicious. There’s a rustling sound, and then Calum hears him yell Mike! Calum’s on the phone for you. Yes, Oasis Calum, d’you know any other Calums? Well, okay, yeah, but you haven’t spoken to him since last Chri-

Every second feels like an eternity - although that’s probably at least slightly to do with the fact that he’s spending his entire month’s pay on this call - but eventually there’s more rustling, some fierce muttering that Calum can’t understand beyond - in the bathroom, you dick, and then the sound of a phone being lifted to someone’s ear. 

“Calum?” Michael says, and there are footsteps, like he’s walking as far away from the handset as possible. 

“Happy birthday,” Calum says lamely. All of this for those two words. It feels incredibly anticlimactic. 

“Oh,” Michael says, and he sounds surprised. “I mean. Thanks. I didn’t think you’d remember.” Neither did Calum. 

“Well,” Calum says, because he doesn’t want to say that. “Just wanted to call and- uh, say happy birthday, I guess.” 

“How’d you get this number?” Michael asks, sounding curious. Calum bites his lip. 

“Your mum gave it to me,” he says. 

“You rang my house?” 

“Well, it’s the only number I have for you, isn’t it?” 

“Did you tell her it was you?” 

“Yeah.” Michael exhales heavily. 

“I haven’t told her,” he admits. “That we’re talking again. Or- y’know. I just haven’t mentioned.” 

“I know,” Calum says. “She was surprised that I called.”

“What did she say?” Michael asks. Calum swallows. 

“Just, y’know, nice to hear from me, she’s glad I called, all that,” he says vaguely. Michael hums, like he’s mulling it over, and Calum’s stomach flips. Maybe he shouldn’t have called at all. Maybe Michael wants Calum to be his dirty little secret just as much as Calum wants Michael to be his. After all, Calum’s own mum doesn't know either, does she? It’d be hypocritical of Calum to hold it against Michael if he wanted to keep it under wraps too. 

(It still kind of stings, though.)

“I’m going to get a fucking Spanish Inquisition when I get home,” Michael says eventually, and Calum huffs out a laugh, stomach untangling itself a little from the tight knot it’s been in for the past five minutes. 

“Yeah, probably,” he says, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face as he thinks back to being grilled and reprimanded by Karen any time she got so much as a whiff of a secret from either of them. “D’you remember that time she thought we-”

“Remember when she thought we’d been out smoking weed?” Michael blurts at the same time, and Calum can’t help but smile properly this time, heart somersaulting at the fact that Michael remembers too. 

“She was so angry,” Calum says, through a grin. “Kept saying she could smell it on you.”

“Fucking crazy woman,” Michael says, but Calum can hear that he’s grinning too. “We couldn’t afford weed, what was she on about? We hadn’t even been drinking, just been-” he cuts himself off abruptly, and the smile drops off Calum’s face. 

They’d been fucking, is what they’d been doing.

“Good thing she didn’t smell that on us,” Calum tries, and Michael huffs out a small laugh, but it’s tight and uncomfortable. Neither of them speak again for a moment, the silence awkward and palpable, until Michael sighs. 

“What are we doing?” he mumbles, sounding a little pained. 

“I’m wishing you a happy birthday,” Calum says, because he doesn’t want to follow the road that Michael’s words are beckoning him down.

“You know what I mean,” Michael says. “We need to talk.” Calum’s stomach twists. Those words are never followed by any good conversations. 

“Do we?” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound as apprehensive to Michael as it does to him. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to have that conversation, to hear Michael say you fucked up, and this is it, doesn’t want to have to go all the way to see him just to hear him say I don’t want you anymore.  

“When are you back in the UK?” 

“December,” Calum says. “Late December. Near Christmas, I think. I’ll have to ask Maggie.” 

“Maggie?”

“Our tour manager.” 

“Oh.” There’s a moment of silence. “Well. Call me when you’re back?” 

“Look,” Calum says, a little desperately, clutching the receiver to his ear. “I- if you want to, like, end whatever this is, not talk to me anymore, I’d rather you just do it now. I don’t want to travel all the way to London for you to tell me you never want to speak to me again.” Michael inhales, and doesn’t exhale. 

“I didn’t say that,” he says carefully, after a minute. “But we need to talk.” Calum blinks at the telephone keypad. He’s not sure what to make of that. 

“Okay,” he says. “I- uh, yeah. Okay. I’ll call you when I’m back home?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says. He pauses, and then adds: “I should go. I locked Graham in the bathroom to take this call.” Calum can’t help the snort that escapes him. 

“I should try that on Liam,” he says. 

“I think it’d take more than a bathroom door to contain Liam Gallagher,” Michael says. He’s got a point. 

“You’ve got a point,” Calum concedes, and he hears Michael huff out a small laugh at the other end of the line, crackled and tinny but genuine and soft. “I should probably go too. I’ve got a show in a few hours.” 

“Where?” 

“Berlin.” Michael hums. 

“We played there a few weeks ago,” he says. 

“I know,” Calum says, without thinking. “Uh. I mean. The posters are all still up.” 

“Surprised Liam and Noel haven’t gone around tearing them all down,” Michael says, and Calum can hear the smile in his voice. 

“I think they’re planning on pasting posters of us over you.” 

“Hope they have a lot of them.” Calum grins, eyeing the three Blur posters he can see in his line of vision. 

“That’ll be my entire share of the royalties gone,” he says, and Michael snorts. 

“I really should go,” he says, sounding a little regretful. “I’ve got to spend at least half an hour convincing Graham not to tell Damon I locked him in a bathroom to talk to you.” 

“Why?” Calum’s not sure why he asks, because he’s fairly certain he doesn’t want to hear the answer. Because I don’t want anyone to know we’re talking. Because I want to keep you a secret. Because I’m ashamed of you. It’s even worse because he can’t blame Michael for it.

“If I do anything to Graham, Damon takes it as a personal attack.” Oh. Well. That probably shouldn’t make something warm blossom in Calum’s stomach, the fact that it’s not because of him, but it does. 

“Damon doesn’t seem particularly intimidating,” Calum says. 

“You fucking wait,” Michael says, and there’s a fondness to his tone that makes Calum’s heart ache, because Michael used to talk about him like that. “Call me when you’re back in the UK, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Bye, Michael.” He’s expecting a click, the thin sound of the dial tone, but it doesn’t come. 

“I’m glad you called,” Michael says after a moment, all in a rush, like he’s had to build up the nerve to say it. 

“I’m glad I did, too,” Calum says, and he can’t help the small smile playing at his lips. Michael’s glad he called. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Michael says. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, smile slipping off his face as his stomach flips unpleasantly thinking of the inevitable conversation. “Soon.” 

The dial tone rings loud and harsh, and Calum listens to it for a good few moments before putting the phone down and stepping out of the booth. Three Michaels stare at him from different angles as he heads back for the hotel, declaring something in German that he can’t read, eyes seeming to follow Calum as he turns the corner. They seem almost disapproving, like they know Calum doesn’t want to talk. Or maybe that’s Calum’s guilt-ridden imagination. 

Well, Calum thinks, stomach flipping as his eyes find another picture of Michael plastered to a lamppost. At least they aren’t posters of Noel and Liam, in that case. 

  -------

  December comes far too soon. 

The album goes platinum while they’re in Southampton, or maybe Sheffield, and Calum joins the rest of the band at some grimy nightclub, drunk and high and full of adrenaline because shit, that’s their fucking album. Number one and platinum, fucking hell. It doesn’t feel fucking real.

They film a video for Whatever somewhere in London, and Noel turns up late to the filming, still dressed in his clothes from the night before, so drunk that he can barely play his guitar. Liam’s fucking furious, probably because this is the first time Noel’s ever been drunker than him, and Calum has to spend the rest of the day making sure Liam doesn’t go into the same room as Noel, because they still have a few weeks worth of dates in the UK and they could do with having both the lead guitarist and singer alive for them. 

The UK dates pass so fast in blurs of games of Frustration on the tour bus as green and grey whip past the window that Calum barely notices that it’s their week off until he sees a river that looks suspiciously like the Mersey and asks Noel where they are. 

(“Liverpool,” Noel says, throwing him a strange look. 

“We’re going home tomorrow,” Liam adds.

“Too right you’re fucking going home,” Noel says. “Not fucking kipping at mine again.” Liam scowls, opens his mouth with an indignant expression, and Calum decides now’s a great time to find Alan and ask him about the re-stringing of Calum’s bass he’d said he’d sort out before the gig.) 

He’s so exhausted after their last show, having his first proper comedown in weeks, that he can’t do anything but crash through the front door and stumble to his bed at six in the morning. He sleeps like the fucking dead, and by the time he gets up and showers, feeling a bit more alive than he has done the past few days, it’s nearly dark outside. 

“Good morning,” his mum says pointedly, when he wanders into the kitchen, yawning, and pulls open the fridge. 

“Morning,” Calum says, pulling out a beer and some leftover pasta. “Where’s Dad?” 

“Gone fishing,” his mum says. Calum grunts to let her know he’s acknowledged it, and heads to the microwave. 

“Liam called earlier,” his mum says, as he presses some random buttons - he really should figure out how this microwave works - and then sets it off. 

“Oh?” Calum says. 

“He was asking if you wanted to come round tonight,” his mum says. Calum hums, frowning a little. Liam’s not very good at being on his own, no one to take his endless energy out on now that both Paul and Noel have moved out, but he can usually take at least a day or two. 

“Might do,” he says, because there might be something more to it if Liam’s already itching to see him again after less than twenty-four hours, and then sees the disappointed look on his mum’s face. “After dinner?” Her face clears, and she nods. 

“We’ll be eating around seven,” she says. “Oh, and another bit of wall’s fallen in. Could you take a look?” Calum groans, and tips his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, drawing out the first syllable. His mum tuts, and the microwave dings. “Yeah, alright.” He opens his eyes and reaches for the microwave. 

“Michael called, too,” his mum says, and Calum swears again as the plate drops out of his hand and crashes to the floor, smashing to pieces and dropping hot, steaming pasta everywhere. His mum jumps out of the way, swears loudly, and says: “Bloody hell, Calum.”

“Sorry,” Calum says, scrambling to his knees to try and pick up as many pieces of plate as he can. “It was hot.” His cheeks are burning, partially from embarrassment and partially from whatever’s making his heart race like it is, and he stares steadfastly at the floor as he shuffles around. 

“What did he want?” Calum asks, as casually as he can, speaking to the floor. 

“He didn’t say,” his mum says. She hesitates, and then adds: “What’s going on with you two?” Fuck if Calum knows. 

“I don’t know,” Calum says, still not looking at her. He doesn’t want to see the inevitable disapproving look on her face, the motherly instinct to stop him doing something that’s probably just going to get him hurt etched on her features.  

“When did you start speaking again?” Calum hesitates, hand hovering over a shard of ceramic. He’s not really sure himself. Would it be the awards show? Or Glastonbury? Or that first phone call a few weeks later? It’d be Glastonbury, he supposes, because Michael hadn’t even acknowledged his existence at the awards show, couldn’t even look Calum in the eye. Glastonbury had been the first time Michael had admitted to the both of them that he still remembered Calum. 

“Glastonbury,” he says, and his mum inhales sharply. 

“Why didn’t you say?” she asks. Calum sits back on his heels, looking up at her, and shrugs. 

“I didn’t know how,” he says, which is sort of the truth. He leaves out the fact that he hadn’t really wanted to tell her, had wanted to squirrel it away, the last little piece of Michael that he could have to himself. 

Her expression softens, and she purses her lips, a little sadly. 

“Be careful with him,” she says, and Calum’s not sure whether she means Calum should protect himself or protect Michael. After all, she’d seen all the unopened letters Michael had sent.

“Yeah,” he says, looking back down at the pasta still spread across the floor. It feels sort of fitting, somehow. “I’ll try.” His mum sighs, and pushes herself off the kitchen counter she’s been leaning against. 

“Go,” she says. “I’ll clean this up.” 

“No, it’s alright, I-”

“Go,” she says, a little more sternly, and Calum gets to his knees, wiping his hands and dusting his knees off. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll just-” 

“Call him,” she says. He hates that she knows him so well. 

Calum heads out for the phone in the hallway, not wanting to take the call in the living room or kitchen where his mum might eavesdrop, and dials Michael’s number. He twirls the cord around his finger while it rings three times, until there’s a click and someone picks up.

“Hello?” 

“Hi.”

“Oh,” Michael says. “Hi. Your mum said you were asleep.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, a little apologetically. “I didn’t get up until, like, half an hour ago. We played our last show for a while yesterday.” 

“Oh,” Michael says again, a note of recognition in his voice. Of course, Calum thinks; Michael’ll know what last shows - particularly home shows - are like. “Well. I just wanted to see if you were home, really.” He doesn’t say why, but they both know. 

“I am ‘til the twenty-seventh,” Calum says. Michael hums. 

“When can you come down?” Calum exhales heavily. He could go down any day, really. Tomorrow, if Michael wanted. He’s not sure whether he should just get it over with, or whether he should make the most of the last few days that he might have with the secret feeling of maybe there’s still hope. It’s been six months; he can probably stand a few more days of anticipation. But then again, it’ll be better to get it out of the way now, to have as long before Christmas as he can to gather himself after whatever Michael will throw his way so that it’s not overshadowing the few days his parents will get with him before he’s off again. 

“Tomorrow?” he offers, a little tentatively. He’s not sure whether it seems a bit too keen. 

“Yeah, tomorrow’s good,” Michael says. 

“I can be in London for twelve?” He winces, thinking about how early he’s going to have to get up for that. 

“Twelve works. Where d’you come in?” 

“Euston.” 

“Can you get to Camden?” Michael asks. “Or d’you want me to pick you up?” 

“No, I can get there,” Calum says, even though he’s not entirely sure he can. 

“Alright. I’ll give you my address, hang on-” there’s scrambling at the other end of the line. 

“D’you not know your own address?” 

“I- well, sort of, but-” Calum can’t help but laugh. “Fuck you,” Michael says, but Calum can hear he’s smiling too. “You got a pen and paper?” 

“Yeah,” Calum says. Michael reels off an address, postcode and all, and Calum dutifully jots it down, only stopping him once to ask whether he’d said D or E. 

“Alright,” Calum says, re-capping the pen and tearing the sheet of paper off the pad next to the phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

“See you tomorrow,” Michael echoes, and Calum only hesitates for a moment before hanging up. It feels strange, he thinks, not to hear the dial tone ringing in his ear, one last reminder of Michael even after he’s gone.

(He wonders whether Michael lingered like he always does.) 

  -------

  Liam ends up coming round for dinner, sounding relieved and grateful when Calum calls him and offers, making Calum frown and file the information away to quiz him on later. Calum’s mum rolls her eyes and makes exasperated noises when Calum tells her he’s coming, because now I have to make dinner for four people, Calum, couldn’t you have told me a bit earlier? but Calum knows she doesn’t really mind. Brash and corrosive though Liam can be, he’s got a childlike charm to him that captivates anybody who meets him, Calum’s parents included. They spend dinner laughing at stories Liam tells about tour, exaggerated and carefully skipping over all the drug use, and Calum’s mum even waves them away when they go to help wash up, tells them with a smile to head to the pub, go on, enjoy yourselves, you deserve it. 

“I fucking love your mam,” Liam says, practically skipping as they walk down the dark street to the pub. He’s not even wearing a coat, the fucking madman. Calum huddles further into his own, nosing into the collar of it as the cold wind whips at him. 

“You’re just saying that because she made your favourite pasta,” Calum says, and Liam turns back to him and grins. 

“Didn’t hurt,” he says. “C’mon, it’s cold.” 

“Why the fuck didn’t you bring a coat?” Liam shrugs, hopping from foot to foot. Calum’s not sure whether it’s because he’s cold, or because he’s Liam. 

“Nearly there, anyway,” Liam says, as they round the corner to the street the pub’s on. “Mam gave me a tenner for drinks.” Calum snorts. 

“Why’s your mum giving you money for drinks?” he says. “You’ve got a fucking number one album.” Liam grins. 

“Still the youngest kid, though, aren’t I?” he says, eyes twinkling. He’s got a point. Peggy would never give Noel a tenner for the pub. 

“Y’know, I can see why Noel hates you,” Calum comments, and Liam’s grin widens as he pushes open the door of the pub. 

It’s warm inside, and Calum says he’ll get them a table if Liam gets the drinks, which Liam doesn’t want to do until he sees a pretty girl tending the bar, and then he’s off like a shot. Calum squeezes between a bunch of tipsy men laughing far too loudly into a table in the back corner, wrinkling his nose as he steadies himself on the table and comes into contact with something sticky. Gross. 

Liam, inevitably, takes a good twenty minutes to come back with the drinks and a phone number tucked into his shirt pocket, grinning and eyes twinkling as he sets Calum’s pint down opposite him. 

“Took your fucking time,” Calum says, raising an eyebrow, and lifts the pint to his lips. 

“Did you fucking see her?” Liam says. “‘Course I took my bloody time.” He takes a sip from his own pint, and then nods at Calum’s. “You owe me for that.” 

“No I don’t,” Calum says. Liam scowls at him.

“That’s your fucking Christmas present then,” he says, and Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling into his beer.

They drink in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Calum’s enjoying the warmth of the pub, the familiarity, the way it feels a little like home. He wonders whether Sydney would feel foreign to him now, whether he’d still love the feeling of the warm sand under his feet at Christmas. 

“We used to go to the beach at Christmas,” he says, without thinking. Liam shoots him a strange look, before his face clears. 

“Oh, ‘s all the wrong way round down there, innit?” he says, like he’s just remembered. “Must be weird for you, Christmas being cold.” Calum shrugs. 

“It was at first,” he says. “I’m used to it now.” 

“Oh aye?” Liam sounds genuinely interested, so Calum carries on. 

“Yeah,” he says, with another shrug. “I never saw snow until I moved here.” 

“Did it freak you out?” Liam asks. “Seeing things all white, and that.” Calum blinks at him. 

“What?” 

“Well, if you’d never seen snow, what’d you think all the white stuff was?”

“I knew what snow was, you fucking idiot,” Calum says incredulously. “Fucking hell.” 

“Well, how the fuck am I meant to know that?” Liam says defensively. 

“You ever seen a camel? You think camels don’t exist?” 

“ Yeah, but-”

“You thought I didn’t know what snow was?” 

“How the fuck am I meant to know what they do and don’t teach you in Australia?” Liam demands, and Calum snorts and shakes his head. 

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” Calum says, even though Liam thinking Calum didn’t know what snow was until he moved to the UK is entirely believable. Liam scowls, but it’s good-natured. 

“Fuck you,” he says. “You wait, I’m going to fucking leave you in Australia when we tour there.” 

“You wouldn’t last a minute without me,” Calum says confidently. “Who’ll save you from the bities?” 

“The fucking what? Bikeys?” 

“Or the freshies and salties?” 

“What? Those aren’t words. You’re fucking making this up, you are.” Calum laughs, and Liam folds his arms, resting his elbows on the table.

“Watch it,” Calum says, nodding at his elbows. “Table’s sticky.” Liam looks down, and grimaces, unsticking himself from the table. 

“Couldn’t’ve told me that before, could you, you prick?” he grumbles, dusting off his elbows, like it’s going to get rid of the stale beer. 

“Didn’t know you were going to put your fucking elbows down, did I?” Calum says, and Liam just sticks two fingers up at him as he reaches for his drink again, making Calum grin in response and wink at him over the rim of his own glass. 

They drink in silence for a while, listening to the chatter in the pub as they let the cosy atmosphere and the drinks warm them from the inside out. It’s nice, Calum thinks, downing the last of his pint. He hasn’t been alone with Liam in God knows how long, been stuck on tour buses and in planes with him and at least five other people for far too long, and he realises just how much he’s really missed his one-on-one time with Liam, the easy comfort of a friendship that both of them fall into without even thinking about it, the security of knowing their lives are irrevocably intertwined now. It’s nice that they don’t have to speak, that they can just sit here and drink each other in, just exist alongside each other in quiet peace.

Liam’s not usually this quiet for long, though, usually can’t contain his incessant energy for more than three minute bursts at a time, but Calum knows better than to push. There’s something there, but Liam will say it when he’s ready to say it, and not a moment sooner. Calum’s been burnt one too many times by his own good intentions in that area, so he just sits back, pushes his glass away from himself and waits. It only takes another few minutes of Liam staring down at the bottom of his glass, brows furrowed and deep in thought, until he suddenly says:

“Noel’s moving to London.” The penny drops. 

Ah. 

“Is he?” Calum says, although really, he’s not that surprised. They’re getting somewhere, and Manchester’s not exactly the place for an up-and-coming musician to be based. It’s been at the back of his own mind, but he’s been pushing it aside, preoccupied with too many other more pressing issues to worry about the logistics of moving that far out. 

“Yeah,” Liam says, still staring at the bottom of his glass. 

“You knew he would,” Calum says, trying to make it as gentle as possible. 

“I know,” Liam says. He doesn’t sound as upset about it as Calum had expected, actually. “He’s going to look at houses tomorrow.” Shit. London’s big, though, isn’t it? What are the odds that he’ll bump into Noel? 

“Did he say where?” Calum asks, hoping it comes out casual. He wishes he had another pint in front of him, wanting something to do with his hands and feeling just how sober he is all of a sudden, so used to either being on a high or a comedown. 

“Yeah, but fuck if I remember,” Liam says, with a shrug. “I’m going with him. Cunt’s making me get up at eight to catch the train.” Oh, fucking brilliant. Two Gallaghers to avoid in London, not just one. Is it too late to call Michael and reschedule? Probably; his mum’ll be listening if he makes a phone call when he gets back from the pub, and he doesn’t want to deal with all those questions. It does explain, though, why Liam doesn’t seem all too torn up about Noel moving so far away; Noel allowing Liam to come and look around with him is a silent acknowledgement that he knows Liam’ll be spending more time there than he will at home, most likely, so it’s got to be a place he likes too. 

“You’re a fucking scrounger,” Calum tells him, knowing Liam will know what he’s talking aout, and the ghost of a smile crosses Liam’s lips, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he plays with the rim of his glass. Calum frowns. He’s missing something.

“What?” he asks, and Liam shrugs, a little uncomfortably. He’s feeling something he’s not sure how to articulate, then, something he can’t channel into punches or barbed words. It’s something to do with Noel, because that’s the only topic he never knows how to approach while knowing exactly how to navigate it with his eyes shut and his hands tied behind his back, but it’s not something that Noel’s done, or Calum would be fucking hearing about it, and it’s not something that Liam’s done, or Calum would also be fucking hearing about it, but from Noel. It’s got to be something else, something that Noel doesn’t know about yet, something internal for Liam. Something about him moving to London, maybe, since he’s managed to bring that part up. Something that Liam feels about Noel moving to London, something that’s making him hesitant about accepting that he’s going to be spending a lot of time at Noel’s new place-

Oh. 

“He’s not doing it to get away from you, Liam,” Calum says, and Liam swallows, finger stilling on the rim of his glass for a split second, and Calum watches a little apprehensively as two conflicting emotions flash across Liam’s face; anger, irritated and embarrassed at the fact that Calum’s just called him out on it, and vulnerability, afraid and wanting Calum’s reassurance. Calum knows Liam better than almost anyone, and even he can’t ever tell which way it’s going to go. Luckily for him, though, Liam seems to struggle with himself for a moment before he exhales heavily, and slumps back in his chair.

“You don’t know that,” he says.

“I do,” Calum says. “He’s your brother, Liam.” Liam looks pained at that. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “But- y’know. After LA.” He doesn’t say anything else - probably doesn’t know how or what to say - but Calum gets it. Everything had changed after Whiskey-a-Go-Go, shifted a few centimetres to the left, and even though everything’s okay again, it’s a different kind of okay to before. 

“That wasn’t your fault,” Calum says, because it wasn’t. 

“Wasn’t it? I was a right cunt.” 

“You’re always a right cunt,” Calum says, but he doesn’t mean it unkindly, or even teasingly. He means that’s just how you are, and we’re all still here, aren’t we? “And anyway, so was Noel.” Liam has to concede there, tilts his head to indicate yeah, I s’pose.  

“I dunno,” he says, still staring steadfastly at his empty glass. “Maybe he just needs a break from me.” 

“He always needs a break from you,” Calum says. “But he never takes one.” 

“Took one in LA.” 

“Yeah, and then he came back,” Calum says. Liam seems to mull the words over, let them roll around in his mind, see how they feel, but Calum can see from the look on his face that they aren’t quite enough. 

“Maybe you should get your own place in London,” Calum suggests. Liam looks up for the first time, brow furrowed. “Then you could be close, but not too close.” Liam’s brow stays furrowed, but he hums thoughtfully. 

“You think?” he says, sounding a little uncertain. Liam moving out of Manchester is quite a big step, the city etched into his veins like none of the rest of them, but it makes sense. And, Calum thinks, they’ll probably all have to move to London, eventually. It might be better to get it done at the same time as Noel, to have someone who knows how to navigate Liam’s inevitable misplaced temper tantrums at the fucking movers or traffic or furniture shops when he’s really just stressed about the change.

“Yeah,” Calum says. “It’d do you good, anyway, being on your own. Probably do you and Noel a world of good too, not living on top of each other all the time.” Liam scrunches his face up, looking ten years younger than he is, like the annoying little kid that Noel must see him as, and then sighs heavily and nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right. Yeah. Might have a look myself tomorrow, then.” Calum swallows. Not in Camden, he thinks as loudly as possible, in case Liam’s psychic. 

“Yeah, do that,” he says out loud. Liam nods again, a little more decisively this time, clearly not listening to Calum’s thoughts, and then grins at Calum, bright and easy, like the past five minutes hadn’t happened at all. 

“You’re getting the next round,” he says, and Calum sighs, all long-suffering, but heaves himself out of his seat, forgetting that the table’s sticky and squawking when he puts his hands down on it to support himself. Liam laughs delightedly, like there’s nothing in the fucking world that brings him more joy than Calum’s misfortune, and Calum scowls good-naturedly and flips him off as he heads in the direction of the bar. 

Well, he thinks, as he jogs down the steps leading up to their seating area and weaves through tables of increasingly tipsy old men laughing far too loudly. At least Liam’s sorted. And London really is big, right? Must be twice the size of Manchester, at least. And he’ll be in Michael’s house, anyway, won’t he? There’s no way he’ll see Noel and Liam there. 

Yeah, he thinks, flagging down the bartender. It’ll be fucking fine. 

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chapter six