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The first mistake Paul Arthurs made on a hot August night on a tour bus in Tokyo was checking to see if William was ok. Him and Noel had been really fucking queer all day, had the cameras on 'em, they did, for a documentary, staring each other up n' down like the pair of little weirdos that they were - he'd seen things. No wonder he was losing his hair.
But he didn't care much, wasn't his business. Turned a blind eye, he did. They were all his mates and the pay was good. Crack on, lads. It were good enough for the Krays.
But anyway, an argument had broken out on the bus - Noel could be a right nasty cunt when he wanted, Bonehead considered, particularly when he'd been winding Liam up all day, parading around like Gods fucking gift to mankind, black vest on, skinny little guns out, watching the birds arses but then goading his kid into kissing him, his sunnies falling off in the process like a cartoon.
They were always fucking kissing.
So after ten minutes since blastoff had occured, he'd left the others, 'e's probably havin' a wank, Noel had jeered, knew Liam was a soft lad under the knobbish exterior - and wandered down the bus to see what was going down. Sometimes a bit of a sit and a fag and a natter was enough to sort the kid out. But where was he?
He assumed he was in the little room at the back, behind the kitchen, watching telly by himself, sulking, but there was no sign. The toilet? He knocked on the door. No reply.
He set off up the narrow steps, steel glinting under the low light, holding onto the sleek handrail as he made it to the top. It was quiet up here, cool from air-conditioning, the low thrum somehow making him tense. He paused, then walked softly through the lounge area, checking Liam wasn't passed out on the sofas, then continued past the wardrobes to the sleeping quarters. Surveyed the bunks. They ran from halfway down the length of the top deck, three high - the top ones rarely used - either side of the aisle. Liam had claimed the end one, right at the back, Noel unusually choosing the one opposite. Often, he'd nab one the furthest away but not this time.
Bonehead called out Liam's name. No reply. He strained his ears, trying to sense presence, thought he must be back here, didn't really want to intrude, but was also worried.
"William?"
Maybe he had headphones on?
He slowly pulled back the curtain of Liam's bunk to find emptiness, no one there. And then he heard it. Very close by. The fuck!?
A moan. Quiet, but without a shadow of a doubt, Liam was in Noel's bunk-
And that was the second mistake he made that night, because without even thinking, and it should have crossed his mind because, well, who knew what he was about to find - except he needed to find Liam -
Oh, he found him, alright.
Behind the curtain was the kid, slumped into the corner of Noel's bunk, wearing just a sweaty rumpled t-shirt, hair stuck to his head, a sheen of sweat over his bare legs, glistening in the low light. And he had his hand wrapped around his cock, stiff, mid-wank, dog-eared copy of fucking SMASH HITS magazine on the mattress- ohfuckinell, gulps poor Bonehead, clocking it's them, it's them, that fuck-ass photoshoot on the cover.
Liam blinked. "Y'alright Paul?" he said, unflinching, like he'd just bumped into him in the street. He carried on a slow move with his hand, half glancing at the picture of himself and his brother, looking back to Bonehead, a bit distracted, like, but obviously determined. He was biting his lip.
Bonehead couldn't seem to move, he was caught, stuck to the spot, no useful thoughts forming to help him get away, and whatever Liam was thinking, well- he was absolutely fucking shameless. He were making his face hot. He rubbed his neck. Yep. This was real.
"I- I came to see if you were ok," he stuttered, still not closing the curtain and running away, like he should've done the minute he heard that sound. The fuck was wrong with him he had no idea. Tours get you like this, he thought, get you a bit loopy, fucking fruitloop central, this one was, of course he was allowed to have a wank, they all did, they were young men, doesn't matter how many groupies around, a wank's a wank at the end of the day innit.
But in your brother's bunk?
With -
With a fucking copy of-
He hadn't even opened it to the Spice Girls.
"I won't be long, mate," said Liam softly, still torn between Smash Hits and Bonehead, oh god he's moaning thought Paul, and then- then Liam stopped.
"You can wait if you like."
It wasn't really a question, just a statement, an offer, not an invitation or a request to join, thank fuck, thought Bonehead, because he'd suddenly realised he was feeling all a bit fucking hot under the collar, his shorts feeling tight, like he said, tours can turn you loopy, what happens on tour stays on tour.
Liam was staring at Bonehead, eyes all languid, puppy like, his angry swollen cock poking out of his fist, slowly, mouth open, oh god look at his mouth, no DON'T, unmistakable noise of wet skin perceptible over the air-con.
No wonder, thought Paul, licking his lips, no wonder, I would as well!! He couldn't help steal a look at the magazine, both brothers, Noel wearing shades and Adidas, arms wrapped around Liam like he was saving him from drowning or summat, I'd fucking save him too!
He involuntarily pushed a hand over his crotch, sucking in a breath. This couldn't be happening, shouldn't be. So much- everything was wrong about this, so much at stake, someone will come up, he's wanking over his brother in his bed, I'm not even gay and, AND, by the way, why the FUCK am I watching this shit show?
Bonehead was snapped back to reality when Liam let out an unholy sound, bitten off, grunting as he shot his come, rope after rope, line after fucking white line, all over Noel's face, his own face, moaning softly in a way the lead fucking singer of Oasis never would've done, except he did, because he saw it and heard it with his own head.
And he still couldn't move, evidently, because he was still there, making a very embarrassing tent of his shorts as Liam rolled up the magazine into a telescope, looked at him through it, smiling a wonky grin, cock shining like a fucking olympic torch, still jutting up, 22 he was, probably ready to-
"Don't tell rkid, will ya, he's been madferit it all day."
Paul put a finger to his lips. "Mum's the word," he replied, inexplicably, pulling the curtain, finally, his legs turning to jelly as he wobbled to his own bunk, Jesus Christ, he thought as he palmed his shorts, pulling them down and grabbing his dick, closing his eyes.
Noel Gallagher doesn't stand a chance.