1995 ⸻

champagne supernova and cheap gin

The afterparty is a blur — quite literally. Cigarette smoke drifts in soft ribbons through the air, dim lights bounce off sequined dresses and champagne glasses, and the faint hum of a Pulp song plays somewhere in the back. You’re half-tipsy, eyeliner smudged just enough to look dangerous, the sleeves of your silk shirt rolled up and a drumstick tucked behind your ear — out of habit more than anything.

Blur had won big tonight. Damon’s grin had been wolfish when your name was announced alongside the rest of the band. You remember his hand brushing against your back as you all walked off stage, a fleeting thing — one that shouldn’t mean as much as it does.

Now, hours later, the celebration has spilled into a cramped Soho club, too loud and too intimate for anyone to pretend they’re not watching each other. Oasis are here too — of course they are — their entourage crowding the bar like they own it.

You can feel Noel Gallagher’s eyes before you see them. Every time you glance up from your drink, he’s there. Leaning against the wall, pint in hand, that knowing half-smirk that could cut glass. It’s infuriating. It’s intriguing. And it’s very, very inappropriate.

“Don’t look so tense, love,” Damon murmurs from beside you, voice low enough to melt straight into your skin. His breath smells faintly of gin and lime. His knee bumps yours under the table. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, just sips his drink like he hasn’t been tracing invisible circles on your thigh for the past ten minutes.

But you do look tense. Because Noel’s still watching. Because it’s the kind of stare that says I know something you don’t.

You catch his eye finally, defiant, and he raises his glass slightly in your direction — a mock salute, maybe, or a dare. You can’t tell. You don’t look away.

The room buzzes louder, and someone’s shouting for another round. Graham’s laughing about something across the table, and Damon’s hand tightens against your leg — subtle, possessive. You can practically feel the tension flickering between the two sides of the room. Blur. Oasis. Rivalry turned mythology.

“Careful,” Damon says quietly, his voice feather-light but edged. “He’s not the kind of bloke you want trouble with.”

You glance at him — at that sharp, boyish face, at the familiar stubborn pride that’s always gotten him into fights with journalists and Gallaghers alike. “And you are?”

He smiles, lazy and dangerous. “Never said I wasn’t.”

Later, when the night’s begun to dissolve — bodies pressed too close, laughter echoing down the narrow hall — you slip away toward the bar, craving air. That’s when Noel finds you.

He leans on the counter beside you, all smirk and swagger. “Didn’t think Blur’s drummer would be this… distracting.”

You arch a brow. “Didn’t think Oasis’ guitarist would be this predictable.”

He laughs — low, genuine. “Touché.” Then, quieter: “Tell Albarn he’s not the only one who can keep a secret.”

Your heart trips in your chest, just as Damon appears from across the room, eyes sharp, searching. Noel drains his glass, gives you one last glance — that kind that says your move — and disappears back into the crowd.

Damon reaches you a moment later, brushing his fingers against your arm like he’s grounding himself. “Everything alright?”

You nod, even as the music swells and the smoke thickens again. You’re not sure what’s more dangerous — Damon’s hand on you or Noel’s look across the room.

And for the first time that night, you realize you don’t really care who wins this rivalry — because maybe the real trouble is you.

⸻

The air outside is cold and sour, London at 3AM kind of cold — wet pavements reflecting pink neon, cigarette ash swirling in puddles. You’ve slipped out the back door of the club with a half-finished drink in hand, coat hanging loosely off one shoulder. Inside, the party hums like an engine refusing to stall.

You need a breather. Damon’s intensity always lingers.

“Didn’t think I’d find you out here.” It’s noel, in his parka, hair ruffled. Eyes gleaming with mischief.