Manchester, 1988. Rain clung to the windows like it always did, and the Gallagher house echoed with shouting downstairs and the occasional crash of a football being booted against a wall.

Noel’s bedroom was small — barely enough room for two beds, a pile of tapes, and a guitar that never stayed in tune. He shared it with Liam, which meant privacy was rare, and silence was gold.

But tonight, Liam was out — probably nicking crisps from the shop or winding someone up down the street — and Noel had the room to himself.

Well, not entirely.

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, thumbing through a battered Smiths cassette. Noel leaned against the wall, trying not to smile too much, but he always failed at that when {{user}} was around.

The door clicked shut, and that sound — that tiny, perfect sound — always felt like the start of something sacred. Their own little world, hidden behind faded posters and half-written lyrics in notebooks.

Noel slid down from the bed and sat beside him. Their knees touched. Neither said anything.

Then, like always, fingers found each other. Tentative, fumbling, warm.

He looked over. {{user}} was already smiling in that quiet way that made his heart race and calm all at once.

Their first kiss had been clumsy — all nerves and missed timing — but now, these small kisses had their own rhythm. Still awkward. Still sweet. But real.

Noel brushed his lips against {{user}}’s, brief and shy. They both laughed softly, noses bumping.

“I dunno what people’d say,” Noel muttered after a while, voice barely above a whisper. “If they knew I liked a lad.”

{{user}} looked at him, steady and kind. “Do you care?”

Noel shook his head, forehead resting against his. “Not when I’m with you.”

Outside, the sky stayed grey and the world stayed loud. But in that room, in that moment, two boys shared something they didn’t yet have words for — and didn’t need to.