#and i also have sams burgeoning love for britpop

[calumcest]

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

[ao3]

this is the latest i’ve ever posted a chapter...but technically it still counts. as long as i havent slept its still monday and you dont know whether i live in california or not 

@tirednotflirting​ thank u for entertaining my insane little ideas and improving them this fic is truly nothing without you and @kaleidoscopeminds​ thank you for making my entire fucking week with that helpful little encouragement although i have to say its only monday so don’t get too gassed about that compliment. 

i said on ao3 that half of this was written to a specific song so here i’m going to reveal the other half was written to just be good to green by professor green which honestly? fucking slaps i can’t be lying to you on this fine monday evening/tuesday morning 

They have a few dates in the UK at the end of December, and Calum finds that his week or so away from his band has actually been a week too long. It almost made him forget the warmth that fizzles through his veins with the laughter that comes from Noel making contemptuous comments about Liam and Bonehead and Liam and Tony and Liam again, from Bonehead cheering loudly as Calum and the brothers groan and wince when they hear -and City have conceded yet another goal, this really is poor form- on the radio, from Liam slinging an arm around Calum in a bar in Glasgow and grinning madly at him, eyes lit up from the high of the show and the booze and the drugs, and shouting I fucking love you, Cal, over the sound of the shitty music. It makes Calum grin back, makes him press a sloppy kiss to Liam’s cheek, makes him giddy with the thoughts of how could I ever give this up? that rattle around what little of his mind the coke in his veins has left him. 

It’s good, though, because the week-and-a-half apart is all the breathing space they needed, so once they’ve all recovered from their frankly alarming post-New-Year’s hangovers, the first few weeks of January, which are precious weeks off, are spent cooped up in a rehearsal space, or down the pub, or lying on the floor of Noel’s flat, stoned out of his mind, or wrapped up in a bunch of sky-blue scarves screaming abuse at the away stand at Maine Road. 

Or, looking at houses in London. 

Calum had mentioned it to Liam in a carefully-casual way, biting the inside of his cheek to contain a smile as Liam’s bright blue eyes had lit up and he’d said, a little too enthusiastically, eeyar, y’know Kentish Town’s a right nice area? Bet you could find a place there, too.

“Have you got a place, then?” Calum had asked, and Liam had shaken his head. 

“Not yet,” he’d said. “Got some more viewings next week, though, if you fancy tagging along.” Calum had hummed, and nodded. 

“Might do,” he’d said. “What’re you looking at?” 

“Houses,” Liam had said immediately. “Big fuck-off houses. Mansions." Calum had snorted, and rolled his eyes. Typical. 

“Give us the number of your estate agent,” he’d said. “I’ll ring and see if they’ve got anything for me.” 

So Liam had called Noel and asked for the estate agent’s number, because he’d lost his address book again, and then Calum had rung the estate agent and told them vaguely what he was looking for - a place somewhere around Kentish Town, not too far from a pub if possible - asked to be put on the books, and been posted a few particulars. There had been a few places he’d been interested in, two houses and one flat, and with a little bit of wrangling he’d managed to get himself viewings on the same day that Liam had said he’d be going down, which is how they’ve ended up here.

They’ve seen both the houses that Calum had been considering, neither of which were quite right - one had a deceptively large garden, which Calum simply can’t be bothered to deal with, and the kitchen of the other one needed far too much work doing - and they’re in the second of Liam’s now, ambling around an airy, spacious living room. It’s a nice house, Calum thinks as he runs a finger over the mantelpiece above the fireplace, if a little big for his own taste. Liam, though, seems to be fucking loving it, craning his neck to look at the high ceilings and the sash windows, whatever the fuck those are. Calum had tuned out of whatever the fuck the estate agent’s droning on about approximately ten minutes ago, electing to simply wander around on the other side of the room, lost in his own thoughts. 

It’s going to be fucking weird, he thinks, living in London. Manchester’s home. It’s where he’s been for almost six years, where his life had gone from bland and mundane to the fucking rollercoaster it is now, where he'd settled in and grown into himself. It’s going to be fucking weird being away from it, not going to Maine Road on a Saturday afternoon or a Tuesday evening, not heading down to the pub round the corner from his house for a pint with Liam, not hopping on a bus to cross town to Noel’s flat. Somehow it feels even stranger than when he’d first found out he’d be going on tour, leaving Manchester and sleeping in a different city every night, because he’d still always known where his home was. Sydney hadn’t ever really felt like home, not in the way Manchester does, and it makes Calum’s skin prickle with a tiny bit of fear to think that he’s choosing to uproot himself again, choosing to displace himself entirely this time, on a strange leap of faith chasing his best friends down to London. 

Well, he thinks, glancing over at Liam again, and a warm wave of comfort washes over the prickling under his skin. At least he’ll have a little bit of home here with him. 

Almost like he knows he’s being watched, Liam turns on his heel and catches Calum’s eye.

“What d’you think?” he says, like they’re a couple, or something. Calum shrugs. He likes it well enough, but it’s not his money, is it?

“‘S your money,” he says. 

“Yeah, but what d’you think?” Calum shrugs again, casting his eyes back up at the huge bay windows opening out onto the street. He can imagine Liam here, sprawled out across a big sofa with ten empty bottles in front of him, TV blaring in the background, phone hanging off the hook. He’d probably have those NME covers of himself blown up and hung on the wall over there, maybe above the fireplace, might even get a vinyl of their album and stick that up on the wall behind the sofa- yeah, Calum can imagine Liam here. 

“I like it,” he says. “Think it suits you.” Liam beams at him. 

“Yeah?” he says, and turns back to the estate agent, who’s been hovering a little nervously in the doorway as Liam prodded around the brilliant white living room. “How much was this one, again?” 

“Five hundred and forty six thousand,” the estate agent says politely, and Liam nods thoughtfully, like that isn’t the most enormous sum of money Calum’s ever heard of. 

“D’you want to ring our accountant, maybe?” Calum says pointedly, and Liam shakes his head. 

“Seeing Noel tomorrow,” he says, and Calum hums. Fair enough. Noel’ll probably know the state of Liam’s finances better than their accountant, anyway. "Right, let's have a look at your little bedsit, then, eh?" Calum rolls his eyes, and shoots Liam a playful glare. 

"Get to fuck," he says, and Liam grins, following the estate agent out of the house. 

The flat Calum had liked the look of is literally around the corner from the house Liam’s keen on, and there’s a pub halfway between the two of them that Liam points out and stops outside of, peering in and asking the estate agent how much a pint costs there. 

“Two pound fifty?” he echoes in shock, when the estate agent informs him. “Who the fuck do they think they are?”

“You’re literally a fucking millionaire,” Calum reminds him, and Liam tears his gaze away from the window to glower at him. 

“It’s the fucking principle,” he says, but he slouches away from the pub, albeit not without throwing it one final glare. 

The flat’s on the ground floor of a huge house, one that looks like something Calum might expect Brett Anderson to live in, and he has half a mind to ask whether any other potential rival band members are living in the area before letting Liam loose in it, but decides he’s not going to play the role of Liam’s minder if he doesn’t have to. He, at least, isn’t bound to him by blood and double-helixes like some people, and he’s going to take full advantage of that. 

The estate agent’s saying something about excellent schools in the area as they walk in, and Calum just stares at her back, thinking do I fucking look like I’m about to have kids? I don’t even know how to boil an egg or change a lightbulb - or anything beyond playing bass and taking drugs, really. Liam doesn’t hold back his snort, and Calum throws him a glare over his shoulder but can’t hide the amused smile playing at his lips, which just encourages Liam, makes him say eeyar, Cal, could tuck your little kids Mary and Jane into bed right here, couldn't you? when they get into the smaller bedroom.

The flat’s not too big, but it’s definitely not small, either - two bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom and a toilet, and a kitchen, with a little patio at the back over the shared garden which, the estate agent assures him, is taken care of by the building managers. It’s exactly the right size, really - big enough that Calum feels like he’d have breathing space, even with the four noisy Mancunians that are inevitably going to be spreading themselves out across his new place like they’d been the ones to spend a few hundred thousand on it, but small enough that it wouldn’t feel empty, wouldn’t make him feel lonely if he were there on his own, and, more importantly, wouldn’t be a fucking ballache to clean. 

He looks down at the particulars he’d had the foresight to bring with him - or rather, that his mum had shoved in his hand before he’d left the house - and scans it for the price again. A hundred and ten thousand, alright. That’s still fucking extortionate, but after hearing the price of the place Liam’s thinking of it feels like a bargain, and he’s already got his mortgage in place thanks to the chivvying from his parents, so he turns to the estate agent when they get to the kitchen and says: “I’d like to make an offer at the asking price.” She brightens, and nods. 

“We have one more viewing on this property this afternoon, but I’ll get in touch with the seller as soon as I get back to the office and let him know,” she says, and Calum smiles politely at her, feeling incredibly out of his depth. Fucking hell, maybe he’s not ready for this. Maybe it’s too early to be living on his own; maybe he should have a transition period, move in with Liam, or something, rent something in Manchester. 

But, like he can sense it, Liam turns to him, and nods decisively. 

"This is your fucking place," he says, like it's obvious. "And I'll be right 'round the corner." 

So it's decided.

Buying a flat, it turns out, though, is a right fucking hassle.

It involves lawyers, which Calum hadn’t expected, and it involves a surveyor, which he’d never even heard of, and it involves his parents insisting on coming down to London to look at the property he’s chosen, like they can’t trust him to make an adult decision. 

(Well, Calum thinks, when Liam casually offers him a bump of coke in the pub the evening before they're due to go down to London. Maybe they’re right.) 

His mum thinks the kitchen is too small for entertaining, and Calum doesn’t have the heart to tell her that the kitchen probably won’t be used for anything other than storing alcohol for a good few years, and his dad thinks the shower could do with replacing, which Calum just nods at - he’s not sure how he’d go about doing that; call a plumber? A builder? He’ll figure something out - but they both nod, satisfied, when Calum’s finished the full tour and turns back to them expectantly. 

“How close did you say Liam would be, again?” his mum asks, too casually, and Calum can’t help but laugh as he leads them out. 

There’s no way it’ll all be done before they have to head back out on tour again, so Calum has to sign a bunch of documents authorising his parents to be informed about what stage of the buying process he's in, but the lawyer Noel had found for him assures him that everything will be done by the end of January when they’re back for a few days for the NME awards and Calum’s birthday. 

About a week and a half before the NME awards, Michael calls. 

“A little birdy tells me you’re buying a place in London,” is how he greets Calum when Calum picks up the phone after hearing the Calum, it’s Michael yelled up at him from the kitchen, and Calum can’t help but huff out a surprised laugh. 

“How the fuck d'you know that?” he says. 

“I’ve got my sources,” Michael says, and Calum can hear that he’s grinning. 

“You’re not spying on me, are you?” Calum says, a little suspiciously. 

"'Course not," Michael says breezily. "Can't speak for Damon, though. Y'know, this whole Blur-Oasis thing is really stepping up a notch with the NME awards around the corner." Calum can’t help but smile himself, grinning down at his lap. 

“Fuck off,” he says, and he feels comfortable saying it, and Michael laughs, and it all makes a strange warmth curl up and make a home for itself in the pit of his stomach. 

“Dave’s looking to move to Kentish Town,” Michael explains. “Went to an estate agent, who said it was surprising to see three members of Oasis and one member of Blur there in the space of a week.” 

“Those bastards,” Calum says evenly. “Thought we were paying for exclusive rights to their services. Pretty sure Liam would've made sure we had a verbal contract, or something; none of those Blur cunts allowed." Michael laughs again, and the sound goes straight to something deep in Calum, something that he reckons might be either his heart or soul but chooses to ignore because he can feel the threat of panic rising in his chest at the very thought of entertaining that idea. 

“What made you decide to move down, then?” Michael says, and Calum shrugs, even though Michael can’t see him. 

“Thought it was about time I moved out,” he says. “And- y’know. London’s sort of the place to be, if you’re in the music scene.” Michael hums. 

“Y’know Kentish Town’s right around the corner from Camden?” he says, a little too nonchalantly. “‘S where that fish and chip shop I took you to was.” Calum swallows. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. He hesitates, and then adds, in an equally too-casual voice: “You’ll have to show me around the area.” 

“Might do,” Michael says lightly. “For a fee.” 

“I’m going to be skint after buying this place,” Calum tells him. "It'd be an act of charity." 

“Who said the fee was monetary?” Michael says, and Calum’s heart skips a beat. He clears his throat, and goes to say something, but can't. It doesn't matter, though, because Michael’s carrying on, a little hastily, like he’s picked up on Calum’s silence. “You could nick me a few of Noel’s songs. Damon’s really struggling for lyrics. Came into the rehearsal room yesterday after being stuck in traffic with a song that goes who maddest one on the M1?” He pauses, and then says: “It’s pretty good, though.” Calum can’t help but snort at that, heart beating a little too fast, even though Michael’s glossed over the awkward moment. Or maybe papered over it; Calum's never been great at telling the difference.

“I’m not looking to get murdered,” he says, and Michael sighs dramatically. “Plus, it’s not like Noel’s lyrics are any better.” 

“True,” Michael muses. “What’s that one about, fucking, Mr Soft?” Calum huffs out a laugh at that, leaning back on his bed. 

“Don’t remember a song about fucking Mr Soft,” he says, and Michael tuts, but Calum can hear the note of amusement in it. 

“Should’ve been that instead,” Michael says flippantly. “I reckon it would’ve been an improvement.” 

“Bit rich, coming from someone who’s got a song that half-consists of the word ‘parklife’,” Calum retorts, and Michael makes a noise of indignance. 

“That’s a fucking brilliant tune,” he says, and Calum can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Damon barely even sings on it,” Calum says. 

“Shouldn’t do, either, for what we had to pay Phil Daniels,” Michael remarks. “Damon’s obsessed with getting these fucking features on. D’you know we’ve got Ken Livingstone lined up for our next album?” Calum can’t help but laugh out loud at that, bright and surprised. 

“Ken Livingstone?” he echoes. “Like, Ken Livingstone?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says, and he sounds exasperated, but fond. “I don’t know what the fuck is going through Damon’s head most of the time, but it’s easier to just give him a pat on the head and go aww, Damon, that's a lovely idea, what a clever boy you are than to try and understand him. Don’t have the energy for that. And I’m still making money, aren’t I?” 

“If your house is anything to go by,” Calum says. 

“Hey,” Michael says, mock-serious. “Let’s not talk about my house. Nice flat you’re buying.” Calum has to concede there, with a grin. He’s got a point. 

“Does Damon call all the shots, then?” he asks, a little curious. He doesn’t actually know much about Blur’s dynamic - they’re nowhere near as transparent as Oasis are, and all he really knows is what he’s heard from Michael, which seems to be that they’re decent blokes and good friends, and what he’s picked up from the Oasis camp, which seems to be that they’re all Tories and that the jury’s still out on whether they’re the antichrist or whether that’s Liam. 

“What’s this, trying to infiltrate us?” Michael asks, but Calum can hear that he’s smiling. “He tries, but Graham won’t let him. We sort of step back and let their do their thing most of the time. Alex gets involved, sometimes, but I think Graham and Damon like the fighting.” Calum hums, not really sure what to say to that, besides sounds like Noel and Liam.

“You’d like Damon, I think,” Michael says, after a moment of silence. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Well, y’know. If your insane bandmates would let you.” 

“Yeah, well.” Calum shrugs, a little awkwardly, and casts his eyes back down at his lap, picking at his pyjama bottoms. Michael doesn’t say anything to that for a minute, just breathes down the phone line and lets the two of them simmer in a slightly-uncomfortable silence, and then he sighs. 

“I should go,” he says. Don’t, Calum wants to say, but he doesn’t have a good enough reason to keep Michael on the line. Michael pauses, like maybe he’d been waiting for Calum to ask him not to go, and then sighs again. “Alright, well. I’ll see you at the NME awards, I guess.” Calum’s stomach twists. Shit. He’d forgotten Blur were going to be there. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Yeah, we’ll be there. Don’t think you’ll be able to miss us, the number of awards we’ve been nominated for.” Michael laughs at that, and it’s soft, but it’s a little wistful. Maybe Calum should have asked him to stay. Maybe he didn’t need a good enough reason. Maybe just wanting him to would have been reason enough. It’s too late now, though, because Michael’s saying I don’t think anyone within a six mile radius of Liam can miss him, and Calum huffs out another laugh, but the smile accompanying it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“I’ll see you then,” he says, and then hesitates, and adds: “I mean-”

“I know,” Michael says quickly, and Calum’s grateful for it. “I promise not to even look in your direction all night.” Calum snorts. 

“What’re you going to do when we’re up on stage collecting all the awards we’ve beaten you to?" 

“Go to the loo,” Michael says immediately, and this time, the smile does reach Calum’s eyes. 

“You’ll be up and down like a fucking yo-yo,” Calum says. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure, given the number of awards we’re up for,” Michael says, and it’s smooth and cocky, confident without being arrogant, and it sends something electric charging through Calum, knocking the breath out of his lungs and making his vision blur a little around the edges for a moment. What the fuck is that? 

“Guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Calum manages to get out, proud of and relieved at how light and even his voice sounds. 

“Guess we will.” Michael’s voice is light and amused, but that searing edge of confidence is still there, and Calum has to swallow, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll see you there.” 

“You will.” He hears Michael breathing for a moment longer, and then there’s a click, and he’s gone, leaving Calum sitting in bed, staring at the wall opposite him, mind finally kicking into gear and helpfully offering him an explanation for the way his heart’s racing in his chest and his breath coming out a little shorter and shallower than before. 

Arousal. 

 -------

 They have a show in Hollywood on the twenty-second, which means Noel ramps up rehearsals for the week before they go, probably mostly because he just loves to wield power over them all. Calum doesn’t really mind, though, enjoys the way that Liam and Noel snipe at each other, the way Bonehead grumbles about needing to re-tune his guitar again because he can’t be bothered to restring it, the way that they all roll their eyes at Tony when he fucks up the rhythm for Supersonic again in the first few bars. 

Well, actually, he’s not enjoying that so much. 

See, he knows Tony’s not the best drummer, the same way he knows that Noel’s far from the best guitarist and he’s not the best bassist. They’re all getting there, though - Calum can hear how much better he sounds than even half a year ago - except for Tony. Tony’s not got any better, doesn’t even seem to care enough to try, content to get by with what he’s got away with doing so far and then go down to the pub for a pint or two and ring his missus when he gets back to the hotel, but it’s not good enough anymore. It might have worked when they were fighting tooth and nail to get on a bill, but now, when they’re selling out bigger and bigger venues, when they’re on a six-album contract and they’re in the running to be the biggest fucking band in Britain, it’s not enough. 

The tension’s been mounting for a while, the exasperated looks Noel throws in Tony’s direction turning to scornful, to ugly, twisted lips and dark, furrowed brows, but so far, no one’s said anything. Liam might snipe at him a little more, might seek him out to get out his pent-up anger when Noel’s tired of fighting with him, and Noel might snap at him faster, might say Jesus, you’re fucking incompetent with absolutely no shred of fond exasperation, but no one’s said anything. It’s only a matter of time, though, Calum thinks, as he watches Tony falter on the beat again and Noel turn around, fingers stilling on the strings, shoot him a furious look and say d’you feel up to doing your fucking job today, or what? Should I do it myself? They’re going to have to address it at some point. 

Not now, though. Now, they’re flying to America again, and Calum’s trying to get Liam to go to sleep on the flight instead of demanding peanuts from the poor air hostesses every two minutes, and Noel’s turning around in his seat and saying stop kicking me, you dick to Bonehead, who just shrugs and kicks harder, and Tony’s pretending to nap across the aisle. Everything’s in its strange, fragile balance, and none of them want to be the first to upset it. 

The show in Hollywood goes well enough - which is measured by the fact that Noel only had ten minutes of criticisms to hand out, rather than the usual twenty - and then they’re flying back to the UK, drugged-up and exhausted from jumping back and forth across timezones, being ushered into a hotel in London and told you’ve got a day off, and the NME awards in the evening. That’s a human evening, Bonehead, not fucking midnight. Calum’s sharing with Liam that day - or is it night, he can’t fucking tell anymore - and they just fall right into bed and sleep for sixteen hours, only waking up at five in the afternoon when someone hammers on their door and shouts Noel says to wake you up, and to tell you that you’re lazy cunts. Liam rolls over, and blinks blearily at Calum. 

“Time’s it?” he mumbles, and Calum squints at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock balanced precariously on the edge of his bedside table. 

“Five,” he says. Liam groans, and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. 

“Fucking Noel,” he says. “Don’t even have to leave for another hour. Prick just wants to torture me.” 

“Probably,” Calum agrees, because that sounds like Noel. Liam groans again, rubs at his eyes, and then pushes himself up on his elbows, looking back over at Calum. 

“Did we raid the minibar last night?” he asks, and Calum thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. Liam smiles, satisfied, and swings his legs out of bed, stretching and yawning as he gets to his feet. 

“Perfect,” he says, heading straight for the little fridge under the desk. “Noel can pay for these, then.” Calum just rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning when Liam winks at him over his shoulder and tosses him a little bottle of vodka. 

They drink the entire minibar between them, and by the time they’re heading out for the car that’s waiting to pick them up, Calum’s laughing at everything Liam’s saying, skin pleasantly warm and tingling, which is just encouraging Liam to say stupider and stupider things and gesticulate more and more wildly. Usually, Noel would nip that right in the bud, but he’s a little pink-cheeked himself, just laughs along at Liam’s antics and the weird little stories he tells on the journey to the venue. 

It’s fucking packed when they get there, and Calum’s almost blinded when a few cameras go off in his face, and he barely has time to think brilliant, bet I look fucking great in those before someone’s tugging on his sleeve and pulling him up the steps and inside. He’s still blinking away the blue-green-purple behind his eyes as he stumbles into the room, gets ushered to a table with the rest of them, and twists around in his chair, trying to drink in the rest of the room. 

It’s fucking packed, and it’s full of people Calum recognises from festivals and from magazines and newspapers - Elastica, Radiohead, Suede, Pulp - but he’s only really looking for one band. He’s trying to do it as subtly as possible, though, knows he doesn’t have a lot of time to look before Noel notices and gets shirty about it, but can’t find them anywhere in the crowd of people as people get up and sit down and lean around their table to talk to someone at another table. He turns back to his own band, tuning into the conversation that’s going on about whether or not they’d actually been nominated for Best Single; he'll just look for Michael the next time the Gallaghers have gone to take whatever it is they're on tonight.

There’s drink on the table, and there’s drugs in Noel and Liam’s pockets, and by the time the ceremony’s begun they’re all looking very fucking merry and pleased with themselves. The brothers actually manage to behave themselves, though, sitting back quietly as the first award - Best LP - is introduced. 

Of fucking course, it’s Blur. 

They watch as Blur traipse to the stage to a round of polite applause, looking very relaxed and pleased with themselves, coming from somewhere against the wall to the far left of the Oasis table, and Calum feels his heart start to speed up as he spots Michael at the back of the group, saying something to Graham with a smile on his face that makes Graham laugh too as they follow in Damon, Dave and Alex’s wake. 

Damon leans into the microphone, saying something about thank you to the fans, blah blah blah, but Calum’s just staring at Michael, willing him to catch his eye. Michael’s scanning the crowd in a way that Calum could mistake for idle if he didn’t see the slight narrowing of his eyes, the slight downturn of his lips. He’s looking at the back, then at the left, then somewhere around the middle, and then finally his eyes fall on Calum’s table, and his lips curve upwards ever-so-slightly. 

And then, like Noel and Liam aren’t sat right fucking there, he winks. 

Calum knows what he’s saying. First award goes to me, eh? Fucking cocky little shit, he thinks, through the haze of alcohol, but it makes his next intake of breath a little sharper all the same. 

“Pricks,” Liam says derisively, reaching for another beer. Calum hums his agreement, but his eyes don’t leave Michael, who’s now trying to suppress a fully-fledged smile. Calum shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, and reaches for his own beer, just for something to put between himself and Michael. 

Damon finishes his speech, thank you to their management, blah blah blah, and then they’re heading back off the stage, and Michael breaks his eye contact with Calum easily, like it’s nothing, tossing another nonchalant comment that Calum can’t make out in Damon’s direction. It sort of stings, seeing how easily Michael can act like it's nothing, but it’s also an odd relief, because Calum’s all too aware of the two fuckers he’s sat between. 

He’s downed another beer by the time the next award’s being announced - Best Single - and it looks like they have indeed been nominated for it, because they win it. 

“Fucking get in,” Liam crows, getting to his feet, and Noel doesn’t even have it in him to do anything but cuff him upside the head fondly as they head for the stage. 

“None of you cunts deserve this,” he says, as they jog up the steps. “Least of all you.” He directs the last part at Tony, but unlike the first half of his sentence, it’s got an edge of venom to it, a bit of Noel’s cruel streak leaking through. Calum shoots Noel a sharp look as they head for the podium, because tonight is not the fucking night, and shakes his head. 

“Don’t be a cunt,” he says, and Noel just shrugs, turning away from him to accept their award and then stepping over to lean into the microphone. Liam’s there too, quick as a fucking flash, not willing to let Noel have any more than about forty percent of the limelight, and Calum just rolls his eyes and steps back, deciding to just let the fucking shitshow happen. He’s got other things to think about, anyway - Blur had come from his left when he’d been sat down, so they should be sat somewhere on what’s now his right, and he frowns as he scans the room, squinting into the bright stage lights as he tries to make out the all-too familiar shape of Michael sat at a table.

He actually spots Damon before he spots Michael, and he feels an odd stab of excited anticipation make his heart lurch as his eyes slide around the table, like he’s a fucking fifteen year old with a crush again. There’s Graham, Dave, some woman he doesn’t know, Alex- 

Luke.

Fucking hell. 

He’d completely forgotten, somehow, that Luke - and Ashton, who’s sat right next to him - were going to be here. It makes his stomach tighten, seeing the two of them again in this unfamiliar context, makes him blink like they’re going to fucking disappear if he tries hard enough. Luke’s hair is long, now, curly like it always used to be after they’d been swimming at Bondi Beach, and he’s broad as fuck, fills out the shirt he’s wearing in a way that would probably make Calum’s mouth water if it were anyone other than Luke. Ashton looks older, too, has his sleeves rolled up far enough to expose very muscled arms, hair dyed black and one slightly-curled strand falling into his eyes. He’s got his hands in front of him, clasped together and elbows on the table, and Luke’s leaning back in his seat, one arm around the back of Ashton’s chair, leaning into him a little. They look the same, and they look so different.

Calum doesn’t even realise Liam and Noel are done with their antics until Bonehead shoves at him with his shoulder and inclines his head with a frown, signalling get off the fucking stage, you prat. It only just occurs to his alcohol-addled mind to flick a quick glance over at Michael, who’s grinning up at him easily, even looking a little proud, and it makes Calum’s already-leaden stomach flip somehow, in a way that he thinks might be pleasant but isn’t entirely sure about. 

He follows the rest of his band off the stage in a daze, almost trips over his own feet at least four times on his way back to the table, drawing enough attention to himself that Liam throws him a frown as they sit down, concern for Calum cutting through all the drink and drugs in his veins. 

“What’s up with you?” he asks, managing to make it sound hostile somehow. Calum blinks at him. 

He can say it, can’t he? It’s not like they’ve got any shit with Luke and Ashton. Well, Noel probably will on principle, but anyone who isn’t the most vindictive person on the planet shouldn’t have. 

“I, uh,” he says, and clears his throat as he realises Noel’s tuned into the conversation too, even though he’s still facing the stage, sitting far too still as he listens to what Calum has to say. “I saw the Blur table. Michael’s brought two of my best mates from Sydney.” 

“Oh,” Liam says, sounding a little disappointed, like he’d been expecting something juicier than that. “D’you wanna go and say hi?” That gets Noel to turn around, to shoot Liam a furious glare. 

“Are you insane?” he demands. 

“What?” Liam says defensively. “They’re his mates.” 

“They’re with Michael.”

“So? They’re still Calum’s mates.” 

“They’re with Blur.” Liam scoffs. 

“Don’t be so fucking unreasonable,” he says, raising his voice a little to be heard over the applause as the next award is announced - Calum has no idea what it is, but Blur are receiving it again. Noel laughs incredulously, and his eyes are narrowed and cold, and Calum thinks for fuck’s sake, not again. 

“I’m being fucking unreasonable?” Noel says. 

“Yeah, you fucking are,” Liam says stubbornly. “What the fuck have they done? They’re not in Blur, are they?” 

“They’re-” Noel cuts himself off, throwing his hands up in the air, like the fact that Liam’s not on his side on this is beyond him. Liam throws him one last look, and then turns back to Calum. 

“D’you want to say hi?” he asks again, and Calum hesitates. He’s not really sure. 

“Jesus, why don’t you ask him if he wants to fuck Mike again too, while he’s at it?” Noel says scornfully, which makes Liam’s eyes flash with anger for a moment, and he rounds on Noel again. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he says. “Just fucking leave it.” 

“Leave it?” Noel echoes. “Leave-” 

“Stop it," Liam says, something uncharacteristically firm and serious to his tone. "You’re making yourself too obvious.” That makes Noel’s mouth snap shut, but his jaw muscles continue to work furiously as he glowers at Liam, something so irate in his expression that Calum can’t even read it. He doesn’t want to, anyway, not when he sees the defiant set of Liam’s jaw and realises they’re having one of those brotherly we know something you don’t know moments, sees the silent conversation occurring between the two of them and just waits it out, waits for one of them to snap. It’s Noel this time, folding his arms and sitting back in his chair, still glaring at Liam, but Liam seems to know what he means by that, because he throws Noel one final look that looks almost like those I’m disappointed in you looks that Noel so often sends Liam, and turns back to Calum again. 

“Let’s go over,” he says. 

“Not now,” Noel says sternly. Nothing to do with Blur, though; this is Noel’s business voice. “We’re in the middle of a fucking awards ceremony.” 

“So?” Liam says, with a carefree shrug. 

“No.” Liam looks like he wants to argue for a moment, but Noel holds his gaze, and eventually Liam sighs and slumps back in his seat. 

“Fine,” he says sullenly, but before Noel has time to say something cutting in response, everyone around them is jumping to their feet and cheering. 

“What?” Calum says to Bonehead, who throws him a funny look. 

“Best new band,” he says, and Calum’s heart clenches, but in a way that he definitely likes. 

Fucking hell, he thinks, as he gets to his feet and grins broadly at Noel, who grins back, the previous conversation completely forgotten. Well, that makes him two-for-two with Michael, doesn't it?

 -------

 Oasis end up winning three awards, eclipsed only by Blur, who take home five. Liam claims that they win four, though, because Alan wins the Godlike Genius award, and he’s basically Oasis, innit? Oh, fuck off, Noel, you’re not Oasis. If anything, right, I’m Oasis, ‘cause- and then Calum tunes out. 

Someone mentions something about an afterparty, because of course they do, and everyone agrees enthusiastically. They’re all getting to their feet when Liam turns to Calum with a look of surprise on his face, like he’s just remembered something. 

“Your mates,” he says, and Calum swallows. His mates. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Uh- yeah. I might-” he cuts himself off, but Liam gets it, and nods. 

“Want me to come over with you?” he says, and Calum hesitates. No, because I’m not sure I can handle the guilt of being around you and Michael at the same time is thrown up at him by his mind, but his heart says yes, please. I’m scared. I need you there. 

“Can you refrain from calling them all cunts for five minutes?” Calum says, because he can’t say please, and Liam grins, a sparkle in his eyes. 

“Guess we’ll find out,” he says cheerily, and skirts around the edge of the table, making a beeline for the table Blur are gathered around on the other side of the room, lingering and laughing at something Michael’s saying with big, grand hand gestures. He can feel Noel’s eyes on the two of them as he jogs to catch up with Liam, who strides like a fucking maniac despite the fact Calum’s got a good three or four inches on him, but he doesn’t say or do anything. That’s almost more dangerous, though, Calum thinks, because Noel never forgets, just files the information away to act upon later. He doesn’t have time to worry about it, though, because the speed with which Liam’s powering towards the table means they’re there before Calum’s really realised they’ve crossed the room, the band and the other assorted people that Calum doesn’t know blinking at them curiously. Well, blinking at Liam curiously, Calum thinks, stomach bottoming out. They all know about him and Michael talking again, don’t they? Do they know that Liam doesn’t know? Do Calum’s fucking rivals know how Calum’s betraying his own best friend? 

“Who’re you?” Liam says to Luke and Ashton, ever the fucking diplomat. “Cal says you’re his mates from Sydney.” The two of them blink at Liam, clearly not entirely sure what to make of him or the situation, until Ashton clears his throat. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says, and Calum’s next exhale comes out a little shaky at the sound of his voice. It’s so fucking familiar, has the same intonation and confidence it’s always had, and the same thick Australian accent that both he and Michael have lost along the way.  

“I’m Liam,” Liam says, completely oblivious to the entire group of people staring at him like he’s absolutely insane. Well, Calum supposes, he must be used to that. Pretty much everyone stares at Liam like he’s insane, most of the time. 

“Oh,” Ashton says, and shoots Michael a look, like he’s not sure what to do. “I mean. We know.” He hesitates, and then adds: “We really like your album.” Liam grins. 

“‘Course you do,” he says breezily. “It’s fucking brilliant.” 

“We’ll see you at the party, Mike, yeah?” Damon says, and throws Michael a pointed look. Michael just shrugs, and Damon looks at the rest of the table, who all kick themselves into gear and start slowly ambling away from the table as they shrug their coats on, mumbling to each other too quietly for Calum to hear. Damon’s the last to go, tossing Liam an easy smile, a glint in his eyes.

“Nice to see you again,” he says. 

“Fuck off,” Liam says, not even bothering to look away from Ashton, and Damon’s lips just twitch in an amused smile as he catches Michael’s eye, who rolls his eyes at him and shoos him away. He goes, though, turns on his heel and jogs to catch up with Graham, who’s been loitering a few tables away, seemingly waiting for him, and Liam leans forwards, rests his elbows on the vacant seat in front of him and puts his chin in his hands. 

“Who’re you, then?” he asks again. 

“I’m Ashton,” Ashton says. 

“I’m Luke,” Luke says, and his voice is deeper than Calum remembers. 

“Right,” Liam says, and then glances at Michael. “Are you gonna fuck off, or what?” 

“Me?” Michael says. “No, I’m alright.” Liam narrows his eyes at him, and Calum watches a flash of amusement cross Michael’s face before he schools his features into something convincingly solemn again. 

“Hey, Cal,” Ashton says, before Liam has the chance to tell Michael to get to fuck, or whatever, and Calum tears his gaze away from Michael to meet Ashton’s eyes. 

“Hi,” Calum says, throat suddenly dry. He clears his throat, and tries again. “How’re you?” Ashton blinks at him. 

“Good,” he says, “we’re good, yeah.” He glances at Luke, as if to anchor himself, and it makes Calum’s heart ache, makes memories of Luke doing the same to Ashton five, six, seven years ago bubble up in his mind. 

“Michael says you’re a teacher now,” Calum says, just for something to say, wanting to cry at the awkwardness of the atmosphere. It seems to be the right thing to say, though, because it makes Ashton’s lips hitch up in a smile, something warm reaching his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “Yeah, I teach RE.” Calum smiles at that, and he can’t help but glance over at Michael, thinking about their conversation a few weeks ago. Michael’s looking at him too, and their eyes lock for a split second, held together by a private memory, before Calum breaks it to look over at Ashton again. 

“Could’ve guessed that,” he says, and Ashton’s smile turns into a grin, something like relief tingeing it, like he hadn’t been quite sure how Calum was going to react to him. It emboldens Calum to add: “You and your fucking philosophy.” 

“Hey,” Ashton protests, but he’s still smiling. “Not all of us are cut out to be rockstars.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Michael says, and Calum remembers. 

“Oh, hey, d’you still play drums?” he asks, and Ashton wrinkles his nose. 

“‘Course he does,” Michael says. 

“Well, y’know-” Ashton starts cagily, but Michael interrupts him with a scoff.

“Oh, shut up,” he says in exasperation, rolling his eyes, but it’s utterly fond. “He’s the fucking man of the scene in Sydney.” 

“You’re in a band?” Trust Liam to be suddenly interested. 

“I- well, I’m in a few-” 

“You’re in a few?” Liam frowns, and pauses, before asking: “Are you really fucking good, or really fucking shite?” 

“Really fucking good,” Michael puts in, and Liam shoots him a glare. 

“Did I ask you?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, though, just rounds on Luke, and asks, blunt as fucking anything: “D’you talk?” Luke’s eyes widen, and he looks so much like that seventeen-year-old that Calum had left behind that it makes Calum’s head spin for a moment. 

“Don’t be a cunt,” Calum tells Liam sharply, who turns enough to throw Calum a look over his shoulder. 

“Just asking a fucking question,” he says, but it’s grumpy, which means he’s going to relent. 

“Michael says you’re a pilot,” Calum says, to try and ease the tension, and Luke’s eyes flit to him. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“That’s pretty cool,” Calum says, and Luke hesitates, and then smiles. 

“Coming from you,” he says, and Calum grins back. 

“International rockstar’s a pretty good job,” he agrees, and Luke’s smile turns into a full-blown grin too. 

“Is that what you write down on visas?” he says, and Calum snorts. 

“I don’t, but this prick does,” he says, nodding at Liam, who just smiles inanely. 

“Not gonna lie to the authorities, am I?” he says, and Luke, Ashton and Michael all laugh, and it’s real. It’s not forced, it’s not polite, it’s real and amused and warm, and Calum thinks he might have ascended to another fucking plane of existence, seeing his two best friends from Sydney, his best friend now, and his- well, whatever the fuck Michael is, all getting on, if only for a moment. 

It hurts, though, because he thinks this is what it could be. This is what I could have, if Noel and Liam weren’t such fucking cunts. 

“Right, are you done?” Liam says, straightening up again. “We’ve got drugs to take.” Michael rolls his eyes, and Luke and Ashton look a little startled, and Calum thinks oh, fucking hell, but he sighs, and steps back. 

“We’re in the UK ‘til Saturday,” Ashton says. “We, uh. It’d be nice to see you. If you have time?” Calum blinks at him. Fucking hell, he doesn’t know his own schedule; he just jumps when Noel tells him to. 

“I, uh,” he says, but Liam speaks for him. 

“Could do Friday,” he says. “If you can come to Manchester.” Ashton glances at Luke, who shrugs. 

“I mean- yeah, sure,” he says, and Liam nods, satisfied. 

“Seven at the Vic on Burnage Road,” he says. 

“Is this an open invitation?” Michael asks mildly, and Liam glares at him. 

“Not to you,” he snaps, and puts his hands in his pockets. “Right, well. Nice to meet you. Me and Calum’ve got toilet lids to be getting to know. See you Friday.” Calum just blinks, not entirely sure what’s just happened, watching as Liam slopes away. 

“Uh,” he says intelligently. “Sorry about him.” 

“He’s…” Luke trails off, and Calum can’t help but huff out a laugh. 

“Yeah, he is,” he says, but he can’t hide the fondness and pride in his voice. “I- sorry, I really should- Noel’s-” 

“No, no, don’t worry,” Ashton says. “We’ll see you on Friday.” Luke’s still watching Liam, who’s now hovering in the door and throwing Calum an impatient glance, apprehension etched on his features.

“Will he be there?” he asks.

“I- uh. Seems like it.” Which is fucking insane. 

“Right.” Luke doesn’t sound too happy about that, but Ashton throws him a stern look, and he just sighs and then smiles at Calum. “See you on Friday, then.” 

“See you,” Calum echoes, and then throws Michael a glance. “I’ll-” 

“Yeah,” Michael says quickly, so Calum won’t have to say it. “Don’t worry. I know.” He smiles, and he means it, and Calum wants to cry. He doesn’t deserve Michael. 

He turns on his heel and jogs to the door, still trying to process what the fuck’s just happened. It must be written all over his face, because Liam frowns at him when he gets to the door, and then squares himself, looking a little hostile.

“What?” Liam says defensively,. “They’re your mates, aren’t they?” 

“Well, yeah, but-” 

“And they’re not in Blur.” Calum hesitates. 

“You don’t have to,” he says, and Liam shrugs. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says easily, pushing open the door to the venue. There are no photographers outside, now, just a few wannabe groupies hanging around and a couple of cars still waiting to ferry people from the venue to their hotels or the afterparty. It’s one of those that Liam opens the door to, clambers into without holding the door open, meaning it almost shuts on Calum as he follows, just about managing to get his leg in without the door slamming on it. “But they were important to you, weren’t they?” 

“Well- I mean, yeah, but-”

“That’s that, then.” He blinks steadfastly out of the window as Calum stares at him for a moment, drunk brain trying to understand what’s going on, what Liam's doing for him, and why he's doing it.

God, he thinks, as the familiar guilt settles deep in his veins again. He doesn’t deserve Michael, and he doesn’t deserve Liam, and neither of them deserve what Calum's doing to them.

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

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

#malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #5sos slash #i have to dip because i have unfortunately got important business to attend to hpefully before 3am #but i will be back tomrorow #im just all over the place at the moment #so many thigns are happening in my life but not to me #very stressful times all round #LUCKILY i have noels EXCELLENT music to get me through these trying times #and i also have sams burgeoning love for britpop #which gets me through pretty much everything #love u sam