Live Forever // A Liam Gallagher Fanfiction

Chapter One

IT'S ALREYT IN MANCHESTER. The kids are making mindless trouble at night, whilst their parents have no notion of their wrongdoings (at least for the time being). The dogs and cats are in their pens, waiting for the heavy-footed trudges to suddenly turn into tip-toe steps as soon as they reach the threshold of the home in question. The grandmams and granddads, the whole lot of them, are cursing the loud shite coming from their neighbour's houses, pretending they didn't remember being reckless and rebellious in their teenage years.

By two o'clock the summer will officially have ended, its departure accompanied by the heavy footsteps of youths not drunk enough to forget that the house keys are under the flower pot and that mum shouldn't know about the house parties. It's fortunate weather for the last thrashing night of summer--the rain from this morning relegated to the dips in the street where it can pool, the wind a crisp breeze to cool the heat-oppressed mind.

I can't sleep on nights like these. It's been this way since I first hopped the pond to Manchester, the first night when I stayed up worrying. I barely knew the way to school, felt totally lost but was drawn to the window when I heard the foreign sound of British rock music and shouting with a loud drawl. Behind the blinds were teenagers romping around in their pants and T-shirts, looking very much at home and very much comfortable with their foolish decisions.

I've been watching them ever since.

I forgot how much I hate England, I remind myself as I try to pick out which house is having the blowout. I forgot how desperately I tried to retain my American accent, my American manners, my American ideas but the British ones have a way of knocking themselves into your head when you least want them to. The music, the slang, the outlook. I try to catch myself when I say "were" instead of "was," put more makeup on my eyes than I want to, hum Beatles tunes despite myself. And I hate the Beatles. They aren't even rock music.

The knock is more like a bang at the door, but I can't risk having one of my parents wake up at this hour and have the teenagers down the street busted.

Maybe they've grown on me.

I open the door to a totally shitfaced neighbour with his equally shitfaced, if not more, girl of the night. He looks at the girl in the door like he expected it to be his brother, not his neighbour.

"The fuck are you doin' 'ere?"

"What do you think?" I scowl. "You're the next one down." I slam the door in the faces of the fuckers.

I slip through the flat like a shadow and head back to my room. This time, I turn on the light and sift through a notebook, looking for a clear page. Then I write down all the things that have been gathering in my head.