Liam hadn't really got the hang of the wings yet. Even when he tried to hold still, which was struggle enough when it came to Liam, one feathery wing or the other would flap suddenly, all on its own, and then there'd be new chaos. Noel reckoned that bloke in the elevator was going to have a black eye, which would be an average late-night encounter with the Gallaghers except for how Liam, half-panicked, had tried to apologize for it.
"I hate them," Liam said, when Noel'd got him up to the room at last. "Fucking shit, where the fuck'd they come from?" He looked miserable enough, stood there carefully in the center of Noel's room, shirtless and as far from anything breakable as possible. Even the wings were drooping.
"I don't think they're so bad," Noel said, which was not what he'd meant to say.
Liam squinted suspiciously at him. "They're shit."
"They look good," Noel said, just to be contrary. That was the whole reason. "Sing us a tune, it's like you're in the heavenly choir."
"Yeah, I'm one of the angels, me," Liam scoffed, not nearly as entertained by this image as Noel.
Noel reached out to stroke along an inside edge, not so far from where the wing joined with Liam's back. The wing twitched slightly against his fingers and then stilled, letting Noel feel the softness of the feathers and the unyielding bone underneath. They didn't really look much like how Noel pictured angels' wings, what with the dramatic dark coloring on top and the creamy speckled undersides, but white wouldn't have suited Liam anyway. "I think they're mega," Noel said, too soft. "Proper rock 'n' roll star wings."
The dark of the wings made Liam's eyes look darker, too—or maybe, given how eagerly Liam kissed back, that was for another reason altogether.