Chapter Text
There is a faint memory of moaning.
Guttural and erotic moans. Heavy breathing, intoxication, pressed against the sheets and clinging onto them like a life line.
His breathing picks up as he wakes, heavily puffing out of his parted lips. “Uh-” He groans, jolting out of sleep. He looks around the white room before he blinks. Taking the sleep from his vision. He shuffles around the white sheets, propping himself up on his elbow and trying to figure out where he is.
A television. Cream carpet covering the floors. The smell of lavender and tobacco. He hums and rubs his eyes. Hotel room. He can smell the sex.
He falls back onto the pillow, it consumes his hungover head. He closes his eyes and moves around, unconsciously trying to get comfortable.
He finds a body next to him. His skin touches theirs. He hums and moves closer, nuzzling into them.
They groan. “Yeh awake?” He hears, the voice is gravelly with cigarettes and sleep.
“Mm.” Damon hums, pressing his head into their neck. They smell good, musky.
“Righ’ then.” The man replies.
Damon blinks, his body stiffening. The voice is familiar. Grossly familiar.
Suddenly their touching skin burns like acid. Damon jumps away, moving to the other side of the bed. He can see him more clearly now.
The brown hair. He doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to know.
“Where’re yeh off to?” He grumbles, reaching his hand out and feeling for Damon.
When he realizes Damon moved away he turns onto his back to investigate. He lays on his back for a moment, his eyes still closed.
Damon can see the exhaustion in his sluggish movements. Protesting to anything other than rest. Damon can also see his face now. Long, thin. Cheek bones protruding, long lashes falling to his cheeks with his eyes closed. A brown fringe covering his forehead. Swollen pink lips. Big eyebrows, dark and angular. That big nose.
“Liam.” Damon huffs, disbelief in his voice.
“Uhn.” Liam groans, turning his head slightly. It seems as though he’s fallen back asleep.
“Liam.” Damon says again, louder this time. Stern.
“Yeah?” He grunts, popping one eye open just enough to look at Damon. “What’s it, love?” Damon’s mouth falls open.
He stays paused for a moment: his knees close to his chest, his hands closed around the sheets. His face is confused, worried.
“What happened?” He asks, his eyes burning into Liam’s naked chest. It’s hairy. He didn’t think it would be hairy.
Liam lets his head fall to its side. “Think we fucked didn’t we?” He mocks.
Damon tries to picture the night before as he stares at Liam.
“No..” He mutters, his mind blank of even meeting Liam.
“Really?” Liam asks. “Don’t remember-” He begins to moan girlishly, his lips curling into a smile. “Oh- Liam- Harder- that’s it!” He teases, his eyes still shut.
The teasing sets off Damon, making his stomach twist in horror. “Oh, fuck off.” He spits as he jumps out of the bed. He hops around the room, one hand covering himself as he dips low to pick up his boxers. He can feel Liam’s eyes on him as he tries to slip into his shorts as modestly as possible.
“Bend a little lower there,” Liam goads. He’s now propped up on his elbows, watching.
Damon stops, shooting Liam a disbelieving look. “I-” He starts before dropping it. A slight blush creeps over his cheeks.
“You don’t want teh shower no?” Liam asks as Damon pulls on his jeans. His nonchalant tone irritates Damon.
“What?” Damon asks, clipping his necklace on.
“Yer mates’ll smell yeh.” Liam says simply. He pops a cigarette in his mouth and lights it.
“Piss off.” Damon grits, throwing his shirt over himself. He pulls on his shoes.
“Yeh not hungry?” He hears Liam ask.
Damon stops tying his shoes for a moment. A misty memory wafts by him.
“I’m so hungry.” Damon mumbles, slurring his words. “I’ll give yeh something to eat.” Liam replies, his hand clutched around Damon’s jaw.
Then Damon giggled, looking away shyly.
“No.” Damon spits, now back in the present. He’s hardly able to look at Liam. Sitting in bed like it’s a throne.
“Bye, love.” Liam calls as Damon goes for the door with his jacket in hand. He pauses, his hand on the handle.
He looks back at Liam. He lets out a disgruntled noise before leaving.
-
Liam.
Liam.
That cocky bastard from Manchester who wouldn’t leave them the fuck alone. Blow smoke in your face Liam. Damon shoves his hands in his pockets as he storms down the desolate halls. He squeezes his eyes shut. He couldn’t have shagged him. He’s dreaming, dreaming.
“Sorry-” He gasps, bumping into a cleaning woman. Her mop falls to the floor. She looks at him, annoyed. She doesn’t respond.
Guilt sharply shoots through Damon. “Sorry.” He mumbles again before moving towards the lobby.
He looks up at the big clock above the reception. He stares for a moment, going over his schedule in his head.
Go to the studio, meet with- No. Then his nail in his mouth, between his teeth. He chews. He can’t remember. His head is spinning.
His eyes find the lobby phone. He stares at it. He bites. It stares back. A rush of nerves runs through him.
“Hello?” Graham sounds tired.
Damon falters. “I- Uh-”
The feeling of someone’s hand pressing down on his neck shoots through him. He stops talking, shocked by the image.
“What’s up?” Graham mumbles.
“What’re we doing?” Damon says at last.
“What?” Graham asks, confused.
“I mean-” A yuppie pushes past him, shoving roughly against Damon who gives him a filthy look. “Watch it, would you?” Damon spits. “Wanker.” He mutters into the phone.
“What?” Graham asks.
“Nothing.” Damon looks back at the man who’s blissfully unaware that he’s done anything wrong, speed walking out the door. Damon’s eyes focus on his briefcase.
“Some guy- whatever.”
He swallows. A hand on his hip.
“You alright?” Graham asks passively.
Get off the phone. Something whispers urgently.
“I just-”
My mind is racing.
“What are we doing- eh- today. What- I mean we’re meant to be-”
My mind is racing. Get off the phone.
“Is it?”
“What?”
“You said- Damon, are you alright?” He can here Graham shuffle around in his bed. Damon coughs. He brings his fingers to his eyes and roughly pushes against them, trying to ground himself.
“We’re meant to be meeting this one for the paper.” He says at last. “Are you gonna be ready?” He asks.
“Yeah, eh.. yeah sure.” Graham says, surely uncertain.
“Right, then.” Damon says before slamming the phone down on the receiver. He lets out a sigh of relief. Then he is paused, his fingernail between his teeth once again. A million things fly through his head. He tries to run over them. The paper and then recording. The idea soothes him. Being in the studio, poised before the piano and playing and singing and writing.
Liam flashes through his mind once again. He hears himself gasping “Harder, Liam.” Damon’s heart thumps once, hard.
He shakes his head as if trying to shake the memory from his head.
When he gets outside he pauses on the steps to light a cigarette. He inhales, savoring the relaxation.
He looks at the view before him. Not much of a view. The ground is covered in concrete that rises almost completely up the skyline.
He bites his lip and chews. Liam.
The name makes him uneasy. He never in a million years would have even considered the idea. Christ.
--
“Did you lot see Liam last night?” Damon asks almost without meaning to. His eyes are on his coffee. It looks unappetizing but he wants it.
“Liam?” Dave asks.
“Gallagher?” Graham finishes.
“will we get cake?” Alex asks absentmindedly, looking around for the waitress.
Graham looks at the counter. “I’d like another glass of wine.” He mumbles.
“Yeah..Liam Gallagher” Damon says, his eyes still on his coffee. Watching the bubbles spread across the black liquid.
“Didn’t see him.” Dave says, he takes a drag before leaning back in his seat, picking at his nails.
“Did you?” Graham asks passively, not too interested in the conversation, his eyes on his near empty glass.
Damon looks up into Graham’s eyes. He hesitates. “No.” He says at last.
The coffee shop is empty, cleared for the celebrities. It feels cold and dreamlike. Damon stares absently at the oddly sterile room.
“Where’s the waitress?” Graham mutters, frustrated.
Alex leans into Damon, his nose close to Damon’s collar. “Is that a hickey?” Alex laughs, pointing a stiff finger at Damon’s neck. Damon seizes.
“Hi, nice to meet you, at last.”
Damon looks up, his hand now covering where Alex pointed. “Uh-” He starts, staring dumbly at the woman before him. Small, particular. Neat peroxide hair, dark experimental eyeliner. Her hand is reaching out to Damon, expecting.
“Nice to meet you.” Dave says, reaching out and shaking her hand. “Very nice to meet you.” Alex adds, reaching his own hand out. He smirks. The woman gives him an uncomfortable laugh. Damon’s foot begins to bounce erratically.
“Hi.” He says, spaced out, staring wide eyed at the table. Graham stares. Damon shakes his head, snapping out of his daze. He takes a quick sip of coffee before he reaches his hand out to the woman.
“I’m Damon.” He says, winking. She smiles. “I’ve heard.”
She sits down and the interview begins.
Damon tries his best to stay with it, in the moment. But his mind keeps looping to other places. I need to calm down, he thinks as his heart beats fast, so fast he feels like it’s going to explode. The need for dope fervently presses at him. He has some at home, in his drawer, waiting. His eyes keep darting between the band. And he can’t stop thinking about what Liam said. They can smell him.
“We we’re just talking about him actually.” Alex starts. “What?” Damon asks, quickly snapping back into the conversation.
“I’m asking about Oasis, the Gallagher brothers.” The woman starts, her voice is venomously curious as she tilts the mic towards Damon. “If you ever see the brothers, now that they’re in London.” She eyes him.
Damon stares. “Oh.” He says bluntly. “No.”
“And what do you think about what they’ve been saying about you in the papers?”
Damon squints. “That’s-” He stops short, halting his annoyance. “I don’t really care.” He sighs.
-
“Well that was a waste of time.” Damon mutters, his elbows on the counter, waiting for Graham to order their drinks.
“Do you have whiskey?” Graham asks the waitress.
“I thought it was alright.” Dave shrugs. Alex reappears from the bathroom. Damon stares at Graham. “What did you think?” He asks quietly.
“What?” Graham responds, blunt. He’s watching the waitress pour two hefty glasses of white wine.
“I said what did you think,” Damon starts. “Of the interview?”
He listens to Dave’s cigarette sizzle beside him. The harsh noise from the drag irritates him.
“I thought it was great.” Alex grins, leaning close to Damon who ignores him. “She was a ride.”
“Shut up.” Damon says, shooting Alex a look.
“I thought it was alright.” Graham says after thanking the waitress and paying her.
He scoops the glass into his hand and begins to drink. Damon takes the second one.
The two silently gulp for a minute while Alex fidgets and Dave smokes.
“We should probably go.” Damon says at last, finishing his wine.
--
“You lot head on.” Damon mutters, half listening. He’s scribbling down notes on paper.
“You sure?” Graham asks.
Damon pauses his writing, his eyes are tired, his hand is tired.
“Just want to see if I can sort this bit out,” He says, moving to look at Graham.
He’d rather wish they’d just leave him alone. They have been doing nothing but argue all afternoon.
Depleting Damon’s comfort in the studio. They haven’t gotten anything done, the idea makes Damon want to tear his hair out as something whispers in his ear. Too old to fall behind now, it says over and again. So he would rather be alone. He would rather the three just leave him alone.
“Right then.” Graham shrugs, swigging the last of his whiskey and slamming the glass on the table. Damon jumps slightly at the noise.
Tired.
Tired.
“What?” He mumbles, staring at the page. He looks up to find himself alone. The lights are low, the studio is dead quiet. He frowns, blinking. Wondering if he fell asleep sitting up. He sighs and refers back to the page. He coughs when he sees it. Liam. Liam. Liam. Scribbled in insane writing. Absurd. His breath catches. He quickly tears it out of the book and shoves it in his pocket. He decides he won’t get anything else done today. He’s too tired. He wants a drink.
--
Alone, walking through the streets of London. The horribly busy streets. Kids and workers and parents and junkies and yuppies all merging into one blur as he moves himself farther down the street. People shouting in the distance, bikes near crashing into him. He feels tired and oddly depressed. He tells himself its the comedown. The comedown. Not from one thing, from a multitude of things. Drink and age and Liam. Soft lips against his shoulder before he bites down.
“Are you Damon Albarn?”
He has heard that name too much today. Damon. Damon Albarn.
So much he isn’t quite sure who he exactly is. The voice calls the name again and for a moment he’s sure it's another reporter. Long nails about to burn into his skin, dragging him to hell with their questions.
When he lazily turns his head, he is met with a teenage boy, standing with anticipation.
The postures of the two are drastically different. One is old, one is young. One is tired, one is buzzing.
“Hi,” Damon says, a polite smile sluggishly spreading across his face. It does that itself now. He can smile without realizing it, without wanting to at all.
“Can- can I get your autograph?” The kid stutters out, pulling a marker from his pocket.
“Sure,” Damon says quietly, plucking the marker from the kid’s fingers. “Where do you want me-”
“Here.” The kid pulls up his sleeve, revealing his skin.
“Alright,” He talks as he is writing his name. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. The words spill out of his mouth like he is a puppet, limp and controlled by something he doesn’t quite understand.
As he’s writing he sees a few scars lining the boy’s arm.
He pauses briefly, staring at them before continuing.
“Nice to meet you.” He says, handing the kid his marker back. “Thanks!” The kid spits, his face contorted into a mad grin, teeth clattering with excitement. His hand shakes as he pulls his sleeve back down, staring at Damon. Taking him in. He smiles back, his lips strung once again to return the smile even though he feels quite disgusted with himself.
--
The train ride back home is lulled. He listens to the screech of the tracks. Screaming into his ears so loud he squeezes his shut eyes tight.
His shopping sits in a bag next to him. He decided not to go to the pub to drink. The idea made him depressed; he wasn’t happy enough to meet someone.
He landed on buying a bottle of whiskey and drinking it at home. Maybe he can stick on a record and try get an idea from there.
He stares blankly at the seat opposite him.
Empty, stained. He feels dirty, the idea of what happened last night is so prominent in his mind he feels as though it is sitting across from him, talking.
“Filthy.” It hisses.
He tightens his jaw but he doesn’t look away. He accepts it.
“You disgust me.” It says, whispering.
“Whore.”
Damon blinks, pouting at the empty seat. A tingle buzzes through his fingers. That one didn’t sound so unfamiliar.
He could recognize the voice. Not angry but teasing.
His heart jumps and as the train glides along another screaming patch of tracks a desperate curiosity hits him. This vitality hits him.
Liam’s hand possessively pressing into his hip. There’s a swell in his stomach and suddenly he feels like he's going to cry.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, considering cracking the seal on his bottle and gulping shamelessly.
He waits until his heart slows before he opens his eyes to peek at an old woman entering the train. Shuffling on so slowly, distilled by her rotten bones. He looks at the floor. The sticky floor covered in crumbs and wrappers and cigarette buds. He tries to think about the song. That patch that’s driving him insane.
His lips. Whole and smirking. His torso poking above the bed sheets. Thin, slowly moving as he breathes.
Pale, young. Confident. His laugh cuts through Damon’s train of thought. Strong and loud and hearty. With a real reason to laugh, he does it.
The knot in Damon’s stomach swells farther, a lump forms in his throat.
He glances around the carriage anxiously. As if the bored people could see his thoughts.
Panic runs through him as his mind suggests that something changed this morning.
He didn’t see Liam Gallagher the way he always did. A memory swirls in his mind. Him backstage after an award show.
A year and a half ago, something like that. Liam refusing to take a photo beside him. Damon remembers staring at him and feeling nothing but disdain.
This kid. It’s always been this kid, running around thinking he’s more than he is.
Unprofessional, angry and immature. Picking fights for nothing. Damon had seen him on the front of the papers. Waiting for the train, his stare catching the concession booth. Liam’s face poking out from behind other celebrities. His angry, worked up face. Shouting at paparazzi.
And then back stage, Liam closing in on him, pointing a finger in his face.
“Stop pretending.” He spat. And all Damon felt was hatred. Frustration.
He recalls going back to his flat that night, pouring a cup of tea. Showering, strolling around in his towel. His mind flashing briefly back to Liam, his stupid self-involved speech. His hand tightened around the mug. How furious he was at this kid with this entitlement of anger.
Damon had reasons to be bloody fucking furious. He had thousands of reasons to take this 20 something by his collar and beat him dead. But he didn’t. He told himself not to think about it, it’ll only make him angry.
And now he sits on the train thinking back to that anger, wondering where it’s gone and how it went.
--
The rain taps on the windows of his flat. He takes off his coat and hangs it up.
He pushes off his now untied shoes. He wonders when the laces fell apart and how he could have tripped himself up.
“How dangerous” One voice whispers. “How senile.” One says to the other.
Damon ignores them, shutting his eyes as he strips off his shirt. He lays his shirt over the sofa and places the bag on the table.
He slips the bottle out of the bag and cracks the lid open.
He examines the bottle, the warm color, the deadly amount of it.
He examines himself, the headache still present in his mind.
Not soft or uncaring. It is a violent thumping like kicking to his skull, urging him to throw up.
Then he’s swigging, tipping his head back and pouring that horribly stinging alcohol down his throat.
He slams it down on the table and lets out a little burp; his body immediately rejecting the drink.
He blinks the water from his eyes and moves towards his record player.
It sits on the floor in the corner of the living room. His records are beside it, leaning against one another like tired soldiers.
He lazily plucks out a Dusty Springfield album. He pulls it out of its sleeve, places it on the table and lines the needle up.
He waits for the music to swell, staring blankly at the inky black vinyl spinning hypnotically.
He settles on the sofa; a big glass of whiskey is set down on the table. He grips a notebook in his hand and he stares at the lyrics.
He stares for what feels like a long time, his mind blank. He swallows. He tries to concentrate. Then he slips into a mild flow, writing down random words, muttering them. Playing with them. He scribbles different concepts down, picturing the album as a whole. He does this for twenty minutes, pausing only to sip his drink. The effort he has to put into his writing is slowly driving him insane.
He can’t focus. Just focus.
“Filthy.” it hisses.
“Right, then.” He spits. He tosses the notebook on the table, it skids along it and falls to the floor. He picks up the glass and swallows the rest of his whiskey before slamming it aggressively onto the table.
Liam jumps into his mind again. His face, smiling.
“Prick.” Damon grunts, taking off his trousers and going into the bathroom.
He flips the light switch on, illuminating the tiny bathroom. It’s unclean with various empty shampoo bottles scattered around, razor heads, empty toothpaste.
He moves around with purpose, frustration consuming him. He turns the shower on.
The water comes spraying out of the head. Violent and screaming.
He strips off his boxers and gets into the shower.
The hot water hits his body and he instantly begins to sob.
His body slackens as the anger vanishes at once. The water spills over his head as he lets out these guttural cries.
His body is shaking and trembling.
“Oh, God.” He moans.
Liam.
Liam.
He haunts his mind, causing him to cry harder.
The knot in his stomach swells farther. Maybe it's the alcohol or the desperate curiosity of the unknown.
He isn’t sure why but with tears rolling down his face he brings his hand to his dick. He’s already half hard and it takes him no time before he is fully erect.
He guides his hand sloppily up and down, stroking as the knot in his stomach aches with need.
He continues to sob, choking out little moans that grow in volume and his strokes become faster. His head falls against the tile wall, the water now spills down his back, tickling him. His breathing becomes absurd. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes. He quickens his pace, now only thinking of one thing. One person. He can’t help it. He’s so hard, so desperate.
“Liam.” He whines, hardly able to contain himself.
His breathing turns to wild panting before that knot collapses and he comes.
His face twists as he lets out an erotic, terribly loud moan. He comes all over the tiles in front of him.
He stands there for a minute, supporting himself against the damp wall as he regains his breath. His mind is blank, completely numb.
-
Damon sits on his bed, dry but still naked. The record has been taken off the player after spinning and neglected, the needle jumping.
He has turned the lights out and stuck on his lamp so the room is filled with a warm yellow that almost aches across the walls.
The rain is louder now, beating against the windows.
Damon hunches as he pulls the substance into his needle.
At first it was difficult to do all of it himself but now he’s used to the routine.
He tosses his lighter and spoon back in his drawer. He takes up his belt and starts the tedious task of wrapping and clipping it to his arm.
After a slightly frustrating struggle he succeeds in strangling his bicep.
He spanks the inner part of his elbow a few times until the vein appears behind the slight bruising on his skin.
It has begun to get sore injecting in the same spot over and again so when he slides the needle into his vein he sucks in a sharp inhale.
Then the pain subsides. He pushes down and injects himself. He sighs, humming as he slowly removes the needle.
He lazily places the needle on the bedside table before he lies down on his side. A sloppy grin spreads across his face as his eyes slowly blink closed.
He tells himself he’ll write in a second. But his eyes don’t open and he soon falls into a deep sleep.
Incoherently mumbling as his body shivers from the cold on his skin.