Life of a Gallagher
folder
Singers/Bands/Musicians › Oasis
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
7
Views:
1,899
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Singers/Bands/Musicians › Oasis
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
7
Views:
1,899
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrity I am writing about. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
2
Chapter 2! This is where it all happens. *wink*
***
It was all about me.
It was all my fault.
I never should have done it.
We were at my place, occasionally. It was a coincidence. It could've happened anywhere.
He still can't believe my house, or all the stupid things around it, the pool for example. It was summer, so he got undressed and jumped in. I just sat on the edge, my feet in the water, watching the shadow of his body and his red underwear beneath the surface. He tried to pull me in, too, the bastard. He didn't want to come out, so I let him swim. His sunglasses were in the grass. This was the life.
Waiting for him to come inside, I made some sandwiches, barefooted on the cool kitchen floor. I know what he likes. His taste changes from time to time, but I know exactly how to make a Liam-sandwich.
God, that's what we used to call them, back when he was a little boy and I was hanging around at home, doing nothing. I always made him sandwiches, even after he was old enough to make them himself.
I saw him in the pool, floating on the surface, his eyes shut and all the light of the sun was focusing itself on him. I yelled 'Liam-sandwich' and he immediately climbed out and took them from my hands. He's got the same nasty reflexes as me. I told him he was a prick for making my floors all wet. He laughed and ran an extra lap through the house, chewing on his sandwiches. 'These are good,' he told me with his mouth full. 'You're still a prick,' I told him.
I was playing guitar, with him singing along, alone in my bedroom. Joking around. Our foreheads were pressed together. I was trying to concentrate but was feeling so damn happy at the same time. It was the perfect time for his voice, around five in the afternoon. He was sort of dancing around, clapping his hands and all, and I watched his brown hair, so soft and light around his face. It made me feel the butterflies. I tried to surpress them. I tried to at least finish the song. I fucked up my solo.
'I wanna be your groupie,' I said, not knowing what I was saying.
'Was it that good?' he smiled.
He never saw it coming.
His pink lips were the softest of soft. I hit his teeth when he tried to get away. I forced my tongue in. He gave up. It was the most terrible thing I've ever felt, the feeling of his body becoming weak, as if he was dying in my arms. I didn't let him go, I never showed him any mercy. I got all sick of myself. But I could feel his hair, finally, and I felt his tongue against mine. He tasted like the Liam-sandwich I had made for him. That feeling was so much stronger. If only I had been someone else.
I tried to make some sort of joke out of it. I wiped my mouth and walked out of the room, cool as ever. I knew what he probably looked like. My heart shrunk when I thought of it, so I didn't think of it. He didn't leave the room. He didn't move.
We never talked about it again. Not until it was too late. I guess we could have stopped the whole process if we had. But we didn't.
We grew in it. We developed a way to cope with it. We pretended to be a couple, who were secretly in love and pretended to be just friends. I don't understand how he did it. I don't understand how he got over the immense feeling of WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. I don't understand why he did it.
He had changed. I was the only one to notice, and I was the only one refusing to help him. In his everyday life, he was the normal Liam. But in a weird way, as if he forced himself to be the person everyone knew. He started to stutter when he talked to others. I guess it runs in the family.
When we were together, he always gave in to me immediately. He wanted it to be over. I entered his room at night. He was usually already in his bed, with the lights off. Probably trying to discourage me to come in. I found my way through the room and laid myself next to him, and I would kiss him and touch him. I made him touch me. And eventually, it wasn't all defeat that made him do it. At least, that's what I've been trying to tell myself for years. I thought I saw something in his eyes, heard something in his voice, that was telling me 'I love you too'. It was all just a secret, after all. Maybe he didn't mind loving me for an hour. He was my hooker.
I needed the warmth of his bed, of his embrace. I needed his naked body against mine at night. I needed his fully clothed body against mine during the day. I couldn't miss his skin. It got worse. The first few weeks, I only went to his bedroom on the Saturdays. The weeks after that, I did it more often. And after three months I took every chance I could get.
After I was done with him, I would leave him. Most of the times naked and numb. One time, I thought I heard him cry after a session like that. I was relieved to hear him cry, because it meant he was still capable of emotions.
Jesus. I hate myself.
***
***
It was all about me.
It was all my fault.
I never should have done it.
We were at my place, occasionally. It was a coincidence. It could've happened anywhere.
He still can't believe my house, or all the stupid things around it, the pool for example. It was summer, so he got undressed and jumped in. I just sat on the edge, my feet in the water, watching the shadow of his body and his red underwear beneath the surface. He tried to pull me in, too, the bastard. He didn't want to come out, so I let him swim. His sunglasses were in the grass. This was the life.
Waiting for him to come inside, I made some sandwiches, barefooted on the cool kitchen floor. I know what he likes. His taste changes from time to time, but I know exactly how to make a Liam-sandwich.
God, that's what we used to call them, back when he was a little boy and I was hanging around at home, doing nothing. I always made him sandwiches, even after he was old enough to make them himself.
I saw him in the pool, floating on the surface, his eyes shut and all the light of the sun was focusing itself on him. I yelled 'Liam-sandwich' and he immediately climbed out and took them from my hands. He's got the same nasty reflexes as me. I told him he was a prick for making my floors all wet. He laughed and ran an extra lap through the house, chewing on his sandwiches. 'These are good,' he told me with his mouth full. 'You're still a prick,' I told him.
I was playing guitar, with him singing along, alone in my bedroom. Joking around. Our foreheads were pressed together. I was trying to concentrate but was feeling so damn happy at the same time. It was the perfect time for his voice, around five in the afternoon. He was sort of dancing around, clapping his hands and all, and I watched his brown hair, so soft and light around his face. It made me feel the butterflies. I tried to surpress them. I tried to at least finish the song. I fucked up my solo.
'I wanna be your groupie,' I said, not knowing what I was saying.
'Was it that good?' he smiled.
He never saw it coming.
His pink lips were the softest of soft. I hit his teeth when he tried to get away. I forced my tongue in. He gave up. It was the most terrible thing I've ever felt, the feeling of his body becoming weak, as if he was dying in my arms. I didn't let him go, I never showed him any mercy. I got all sick of myself. But I could feel his hair, finally, and I felt his tongue against mine. He tasted like the Liam-sandwich I had made for him. That feeling was so much stronger. If only I had been someone else.
I tried to make some sort of joke out of it. I wiped my mouth and walked out of the room, cool as ever. I knew what he probably looked like. My heart shrunk when I thought of it, so I didn't think of it. He didn't leave the room. He didn't move.
We never talked about it again. Not until it was too late. I guess we could have stopped the whole process if we had. But we didn't.
We grew in it. We developed a way to cope with it. We pretended to be a couple, who were secretly in love and pretended to be just friends. I don't understand how he did it. I don't understand how he got over the immense feeling of WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. I don't understand why he did it.
He had changed. I was the only one to notice, and I was the only one refusing to help him. In his everyday life, he was the normal Liam. But in a weird way, as if he forced himself to be the person everyone knew. He started to stutter when he talked to others. I guess it runs in the family.
When we were together, he always gave in to me immediately. He wanted it to be over. I entered his room at night. He was usually already in his bed, with the lights off. Probably trying to discourage me to come in. I found my way through the room and laid myself next to him, and I would kiss him and touch him. I made him touch me. And eventually, it wasn't all defeat that made him do it. At least, that's what I've been trying to tell myself for years. I thought I saw something in his eyes, heard something in his voice, that was telling me 'I love you too'. It was all just a secret, after all. Maybe he didn't mind loving me for an hour. He was my hooker.
I needed the warmth of his bed, of his embrace. I needed his naked body against mine at night. I needed his fully clothed body against mine during the day. I couldn't miss his skin. It got worse. The first few weeks, I only went to his bedroom on the Saturdays. The weeks after that, I did it more often. And after three months I took every chance I could get.
After I was done with him, I would leave him. Most of the times naked and numb. One time, I thought I heard him cry after a session like that. I was relieved to hear him cry, because it meant he was still capable of emotions.
Jesus. I hate myself.
***