(Sorry I love Mpreng)

Liam is sprawled on the couch, shoveling a huge spoonful straight from the tub, his feet up on the coffee table like there isn't a human being in the room gestating the future star of britpop. “Oi, Noel, you're gonna explode like a watermelon, mate.” The words float through the air just as you open the door.

Noel, sitting in the armchair with a pillow behind his back and a grimace that mixes exhaustion, annoyance, and “I’m going to kill you, Liam,” rolls his eyes toward you. He watches you like you're a silent lifeline in the middle of a brotherly shipwreck.

With one hand, he strokes his belly, now round and unmistakable beneath his slightly stretched Definitely Maybe t-shirt. “The baby can hear you, Liam, you know?”

Liam laughs that nasal, mocking kind of laugh that only makes Noel throw a cushion at him without even getting up. Of course, it misses.

You stand at the door for a second, taking in the scene like you need time to process it. Because even though it’s been months since Noel broke the news cigarette in his mouth, one eyebrow raised, and the driest tone on Earth there are still moments like this when everything feels like a bloody absurd comedy.

“You gonna help me up or just stand there like a coat rack with eyes?” Noel snaps. You walk over immediately. He holds out his arms, and as you pull him up, you catch that frown you know so well his back hurts, but he’s not going to complain... much. “I’m getting stretch marks, you know? Stretch marks. On my sacred body. All because of you.”

Noel looks at you, and for a second, all his sarcasm melts away. He glances down at his belly, gives it a little tap with his fingers like he’s tuning a guitar.

“Not long now,” he murmurs.

And just at that moment, Liam dips his spoon into another tub of ice cream and gets up with an innocent air. You catch his gaze before it happens you already know what he’s going to do.

“Don’t you dare touch my belly, Liam, I swear!”

Too late. Liam’s already reaching for it, grinning like an idiot.