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Noel has no fucking clue where he is.
Or like, he has some idea, right. They’re on tour in the States— he knows that, obviously— though he couldn’t tell you which fucking state they’re in at the moment; just that it’s one of those flat ones that they call the ‘midwest’ but isn’t actually in the middle or the west, that take half a bloody day to drive through, and the most exciting thing their bus passes is a handful of cows every hour or so to break up the scenery of endless, dreary brown.
Liam— sitting with his forehead pressed to the tinted windows, his skull thunking audibly against the glass with every bump in the tarmac and probably scrambling his brains worse than they already were— had been the one to spot the sign for the roadside apple orchard/petting zoo/pumpkin patch, appearing out of the monotony like a mirage, and had been the one to throw a truly ungodly tantrum like the overgrown toddler he is till they finally pulled over.
Noel, for his part, had only raised a minor fuss in protest, and more for appearances’ sake than anything: after all, they had the day off tomorrow, so they didn’t really have a deadline hanging over their heads for when to be at the next venue. And to be honest, he was getting a bit carsick, cramped up as they were with their entourage in their coke den on wheels, and unable to drag Liam off for a moment or two of distraction with so many sets of prying eyes. Even thinking about the hotel waiting for them at the end of this unending day, mentally playing through the usual fantasy of there not being enough rooms and him and Liam having an excuse to share, to not have to sneak between doors once everyone else had gone to sleep, to be able to wake up wrapped around each other and stay that way— even that was driving Noel up the walls with impatience, and frustration at how that fantasy would likely remain just that, a fantasy, and not even his guitar could save him from wanting to crawl out the windows and into the fields where he’d happily get eaten by a cow or whatever just so he could stop thinking.
So the chief had finally acquiesced, and the rest of the lads— and the poor sucker that had ended up as their driver— had seemed equally pleased with the impromptu detour, and the chance for some fresh air.
Plus, Noel had to admit, the farm was a charming enough place. Like something out of a postcard with its big red barn and hay bales and rows and rows of red and yellow-leafed trees, carved into the side of a cornfield sea. It wasn’t even that busy either, the afternoon chill chasing most visitors off early and leaving only a few other cars in the parking lot with their massive bus, a couple families milling around with their sacks of apples and paper cups of cider. Maybe the day could be salvaged after all.
Or that’s what Noel had thought, when they’d first piled out— only for Liam to immediately latch on to his jacket and proceed to drag him along to every goddamn attraction in the place, as excited as a kid in a candy shop. First to the petting zoo, where Liam shot off towards the goats like they were a caravan of girls cheering his name and flashing their tits— “Can we take one with us?” “We can’t have a goat on a tour bus, Liam.” “Why not? We’ve got you, haven’t we?”— then to the pumpkin patch, where Liam scoured every row for the biggest one he could find just to point at it and say, “Look Noely, that one’s as big as your head,” to which Noel had pointed to a particularly lumpy one and replied, “And that one’s got as many warts as your dick,” and had had to duck behind a fucking scarecrow to avoid getting a warty gourd to the face.
After purchasing said warty gourd to appease the disgruntled farmer or whoever— the guy had had dungarees on, didn’t farmers wear dungarees?— and a few rounds at the cider stall and a little table offering samples of apple donuts and apple pies and apples straight off the trees, the others had all gone off for a tractor ride. Noel could’ve done with a sit down himself, but just as he was about to follow, Liam had grabbed Noel’s arm yet again and yanked him towards the godforsaken corn maze.
As they’d gone, Bonehead had yelled after them. “If you kill him, hide the body in the corn! They won’t find him till harvest!”
It wasn’t entirely clear to which of them he was speaking, and Liam wasn’t slowing down in their death march to the corn, so Noel had shouted back for both of them. “The fuck you know about harvests?”
But, from where Noel is now, he’s starting to think they really might not find him till harvest, whenever the fuck that is, because he’s lost as all hell in a fucking corn maze in fucking Nowheresville, USA, and Liam might as well have been the one to kill him, because Noel also has no idea where the kid is.
Liam had kept a vise-grip on Noel’s sleeve through the first dozen turns, leading them deeper and deeper into the mile-high corn stalks— but as soon as Noel was properly turned around and all signs of civilization had vanished, the kid had sprinted ahead, cackling maniacally as he disappeared around a corner. Liam’s always been annoyingly quicker than him, so when Noel had scrambled after, he’d found himself faced with a fork in the maze and zero trace of his asshole of a brother.
And Noel is not scared, fuck you. He’s just— he can’t figure out the appeal of mazes for the life of him, right? Why would any sane person ever deliberately get themselves lost? What fucking joy is there in working yourself into a near-heart attack for no good reason? It’s not even a particularly big maze, Noel knows, having glimpsed the little map at the entry for a split second before Liam had whizzed past it, but the stalks tower high above Noel now, up into the almost offensively bright blue, cloudless sky, and there’s straw poking into his ankles and corn dust in his nose threatening to make him sneeze, and the apple cider he’d chugged— kindly spiked by the contents of Bonehead’s flask— wasn’t nearly strong enough for this to be anything remotely resembling fun.
There’s a rustle somewhere to his left, and Noel whips around. Trust his pest of a brother to step off the mowed path and into the field around them for the sake of a prank. “Liam!” he shouts, trying to make himself sound the dangerous kind of angry, the kind of tone that usually gets Liam mad in return, all “Can’t take a fucking joke?” It’ll start a fight, but at least it’ll get the kid back in sight. “This isn’t fucking funny!”
A snap to his right, now, has him spinning the other way. A prickle of unease starts to creep its way along his shoulders. He’s not much of a horror film fan, but the Inspirals had watched Children of the Corn once, years back, in some dingy hotel room when it’d been the only thing on TV. And Noel might be used to unseen eyes on him by now, living life in the public eye as they do, but there’s a twist in his stomach making him suddenly not so sure they’re alone. They hadn’t passed anyone else in their trek into the maze, but— what if—?
“You fucking wish I never find you, cause you’re a dead man!” Noel yells, absolutely hating the way there’s a tiny waver in his voice.
Forget horror movies or corn mazes— Noel’s never cared much for Halloween in general, with the dumb costumes, the gaudy decorations, the plastic skeletons and fake spiderwebs and always having to take Liam out trick-or-treating long after Noel was too old and cool for it, while Paul got to stay home and watch Gremlins. He couldn’t even find any satisfaction in stealing from Liam’s candy stash, because he doesn’t even like candy that much. As far as he’s concerned, this whole holiday can go top itself with one of its fake blood-covered axes.
There’s a dark, Dracula-sounding chuckle that seems to come from all around him, and Noel swears he’s gonna punch a fucking ear of corn.
The sky is still bright and cheery above him but the sun is probably going to start setting soon, and Liam’s probably gonna get himself lost like the idiot he is, and then Noel won’t be able to find him without getting lost himself, and there’s no chance he’ll be able to find his way back to the farm to gather a search party, and he can see the fucking headlines now, Oasis Brothers Die in Cornfield in America Like Twats—
—and then there’s a Tarzan-like yell as something leaps out of the corn and right onto Noel’s back.
Noel— to his dismay— shrieks, and— staggering relief aside— he’ll murder Liam with his own bare hands if he ever dares to tell anyone. Noel’s pride is only saved by him immediately taking a swing at the fucking spider monkey on his back— Mancunian instincts, thanks very much— but Liam dodges neatly, jumping around to grab at Noel’s arms and wrestle them down to his sides, laughing all the while.
“Man, you should’ve seen your fucking face!” Liam says through his mirth, eyes dancing, and Noel manages to yank out of the kid’s grip to shove at his chest, but again Liam just grabs his wrist, grinning jovially, and Noel hates that he can probably feel his pulse racing beneath his fingers.
Noel has half a mind to break Liam’s nose with his other hand, but he’s still too relieved the kid’s reappeared that he just scowls as best he can.
“You know there are spiders in there, right? Big as your fucking hand. They’re probably all in your hair now, cunt.”
Liam doesn’t bat an eye, still smiling toothy as a Jack-o-lantern.
“Don’t come crying to me when one bites you and turns you into some mutant spider freak with webs shooting out your arse. Prick,” Noel tacks on, thumping at Liam’s chest again. He means to pull away, but instead his palm ends up resting against Liam’s jacket, somewhere over his heart. “Don’t you fucking dare leave me like that again,” he warns.
“I’m not gonna leave you.”
It’s said with just a bit too much sincerity that it has Noel pausing. Liam’s eyes are still dancing, that light eternally burning beneath the surface of Noel’s beautiful, infuriating little brother, but he says it solemnly, like a vow, and there blooms a sudden warmth in Noel’s chest despite the crisp fall air nipping at them through their clothes. That is, until Liam continues, “‘Sides, you’re so fucking little I’d never find you again.”
Noel narrows his eyes. “You’re barely an inch taller.”
“Make that two inches, dick.”
“You’ve got a two inch dick? Maybe I should let that spider bite you.”
“That’s not what you were moaning the other night, was it.”
Noel can’t help it— he laughs. Then he glances down between them: as they’ve been speaking, Liam’s moved his fingers from Noel’s wrist to his palm and slotted them through Noel’s still slightly-shaky ones, where they fit perfectly, always have. He lowers their joint hands and uses them to tug Noel closer, until their chests bump, and what’s left of Noel’s scowl melts away like candle wax.
He sighs heavily, giving into fondness like he always ends up with Liam, and Liam’s smile softens.
But then Noel’s preservation instincts abruptly kick in in high gear, reminding him that they are very much out in public, where anyone could see them, and he tries to yank back, put some distance between them— but Liam’s grip tightens.
“No one’s around for miles, Noely,” the kid says. It’s not entirely true, because they’re probably barely a half mile into this maze, but his argument dies on his tongue as he realizes abruptly that Liam did this on purpose. Liam brought them out here, into this stupid maze, so they— if only just for a little while— could be alone, and together, outside of the four walls of their bedroom back in Burnage, outside of the four walls of every nondescript hotel room, or the stinking stalls of nightclub bathrooms with untrustworthy locks or supply closets or every other hovel they seek out just so they can touch each other for a stolen, precious moment, the way they wish they could do always, anytime, anywhere.
And Liam’s holding Noel’s hand, too, which he knows Noel loves, even though Noel will never admit to it. They don’t get the chance to do it often, but he loves Liam’s fingers, so much thicker than his own, the skin soft and uncalloused and so unlike Noel’s. He loves the way they practically swallow Noel’s hand. The two of them are so different in so many ways, and yet they still bafflingly fit together so perfectly— yin and yang, Liam had called them. Noel had teased him, naturally, when really, he hadn’t been too off the mark.
So when Liam squeezes Noel’s hand and sends a little shockwave zigzagging through Noel’s bones, and takes a step closer again, Noel lets him. And then it’s the easiest, most right thing in the world to let Liam lean in and press their mouths together, fitting seamlessly there, too. And sure, Noel’s ears are strained for footsteps or voices, braced for someone to turn the corner or burst out of the corn and shatter this small fragile peace of theirs, but before his eyes fall shut he lets himself look at his little brother’s face so close to his and commit it to memory, preserve it in amber, seal it up like a jar of the last lightning bugs of summer.
The wind whispers through the corn and the afternoon sun makes the endless fields around them glow golden, but Liam’s still the brightest thing in the big twisting maze of it all, the thing Noel will always find at the center of the world, of their music, of himself. Of course he is.