Noel watched with slitted eyes as Liam swiped a tissue at them both. Noel was finicky about waking up crusty, now at his ripe-old age of thirty-five, but also near-incapable of doing anything about it after a proper shag, and Liam—well, Liam was indulging him, was what. New album, new tour stretching out before them: together they settled something in Liam that always seemed to be fidgeting in between times, and it left him willing to be indulgent.
When they were both as clean as they were going to get, Liam tossed the tissues on the hotel floor and stretched out next to Noel, whose eyes had fallen shut. He wasn't gone yet, though. "We're not doing this again," Noel said.
Those words would've struck fear in Liam, years ago. He'd have pushed Noel about it, probably worked them both into a strop that would've ended with one of them walking out, slamming doors behind him. But Liam knew better these days. He'd matured. "Sure we ain't," he agreed. He tucked in close against Noel's side and splayed his hand over Noel's hairy belly.
He scrubbed his fingernails over the skin until Noel twitched sluggishly. "Fucking gerroff," he said, barely conscious. "Fucking kick you out of bed."
He wouldn't, though, Liam knew. Liam closed his eyes and let the rise and fall of Noel's breath—in Liam's ear, under his palm—soothe him to sleep.