Fic: Ice Cubs
Title: Ice Cubes
Author: she_burns1
Pairing: Bret/Jemaine
Rating: R (just Dave’s language though…dropping of the ‘F’ bomb!)
Word Count: 5,387
Summary: Jemaine makes lists, Bret makes ice cubes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing FOTC related…thought I wish I did!
Notes: For the Summer Writing/Fanart Challenege at conchords_slash! As usual, I went over the word count amount (damn!) but I got the green light to post it anyway - I went with the prompt, '10 Ways Bret and Jemaine Beat the Heat'! Enjoy!
Jemaine looked at the yellow pad in front of him with great dissatisfaction.
At their last band meeting, Murray had gone through his normal notes - most of the items being about the bands’ general dress and demeanor (or, ‘stage presence’, as Murray had put it with actual finger air quotes) and not at all about actual gigs - and then concluded with the announcement that he would be out of town for the next two weeks on ‘an important Deputy Cultural Attaché for New Zealand assignment’.
Bret, however, had noticed Murray’s airline tickets sitting on his desk stating that he was actually going to Florida.
“Yes, well,” Murray had looked apprehensive when they had questioned him on this, “You know, it is the summer. People…they tend to go on vacations in the summer time. Even important deputies like me! Besides! There is some work attached…I’m going to, you know, hand out…pamphlets. To other guests. In my hotel. About New Zealand.”
Bret and Jemaine highly doubted that Murray was going to hand out pamphlets in Florida.
In fact they were both relatively sure he was going to spend the majority of his time in a pool or in the ocean or anywhere in the area where it was cool, because, unlike New York, Florida presented plenty of places to cool off.
And it was hot in New York.
The moment the summer hit the temperatures went through the roof. The news programs and papers wouldn’t shut about it. ‘Colossal heat wave’, ‘record-breaking temperatures’, etc, etc.
Dave even closed the Pawn Shop for a few days, quoting, “It’s too fucking hot to even take a shit, much less stand behind a counter.”
Jemaine had thought that a pretty graphic, and wholly unnecessary, way to describe the situation.
Not that Dave was wrong.
It was hot.
And it didn’t look to be getting cooler any time soon.
With Murray gone, Jemaine had taken it upon himself to be the substitute band manager, but each time he sat down to make notes, the yellow legal pad just mocked him.
Mocked him with its mocking empty blankness.
He just couldn’t think of a single thing to write.
Not one item.
And here he had always thought Murray’s job laughingly simple.
Maybe it was harder to be a band manager than he thought.
Jemaine shifted about in his seat at the kitchen table and picked up his pen, trying again. He wrote a clear ‘1’ and sat back, looking at it. He added a period to the end of the one to make it look more official. He smirked a little.
There.
Better.
At least he’d written something.
At least the legal pad wasn’t so starkly bare anymore. Now to add something to the one and the period. Now to make an actual item. He wracked his brain for something related to the band he could bring up, some bit of band minutia...
Maybe now would be a good time to point out to Bret how he was the band leader. Something along the lines of how Bret was Keith Richards to his Mick Jagger or Joe Perry to his Steven Tyler. But then…maybe that would confuse Bret…they weren’t exactly a rock band, per say…
Jemaine realized suddenly that he’d been absent mindedly scribbling on the yellow pad and he scowled. Great. Now he’d ruined his work. He couldn’t have random squiggles on the band notes - how would that look? A sight unprofessional, that’s how.
Jemaine sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, the sound of the pen tapping the paper loud in the quiet apartment. Bret was currently at his sign holding job and Jemaine had hoped to have a least half a page of notes by the time he came home.
Instead he had nothing.
Jemaine dropped the pen and cursed as he ran a hand through his hair.
He groaned at the feeling, grimacing as his hand dropped to one side and he lounged back in the chair. It felt sort of gross. Everything felt…sort of gross. The air conditioning unit they had was pretty pathetic at its feeble attempts to pump out cool air; causing the apartment to feel rather…well…the only word for it was ‘moist’.
The air in the apartment had that quality, that temperature, about it that felt like when you were in a small bathroom and you had had the shower on full blast, hot water causing clouds of steam to curl out and not yet dissipate even after the water was turned off.
Just…steamy and sticky and…gross.
And it settled over everything like an icky blanket you wanted to slouch away from but just…couldn’t. Jemaine sat up and licked his lips. Maybe he should try to come up with a list on how to try and fix this. Fix the nasty hot feeling of the apartment…and maybe if he gave himself a specific number…
Jemaine wrote quickly, skipping every other line and stopped, looking at the page. He had given himself up to ten. Ten ways, ten ideas, on how to fix this heat problem. Ten ways to cool off.
He tapped the pen against one cheek while he thought. Okay. Ways to cool off. What was there?
Next to the number one he found himself quickly jotting ‘cold bath’. Yes, a good cool bath would probably help. Bret certainly loved a good bath. And, while Jemaine would never breathe this aloud to anyone, he too, enjoyed a good soak, especially if it was accompanied by fragrant bubbles.
Okay, so one idea. Good! Now he needed nine others…
Jemaine looked around the apartment for inspiration. He saw the window and almost wrote ‘open a window’ but stopped himself in the nick of time. Without any wind, it was just as hot outside as inside. He noticed the air conditioning unit and glared at it. Not that that helped much either. ‘Turning on the air’ was certainly not being added to the list…at least not the air here…
Jemaine debated on this point a bit and decided to come back to it. He moved on and spied the fridge. Hm. Okay. He wrote ‘stick your head in the fridge’ next to the two and then, on a lark, added a slash and the word ‘freezer’ as either compartment was certainly low in temperature.
Thinking of the freezer also brought to mind ice cream and he wrote this next to the three. Jemaine smiled, feeling pretty pleased with himself as he wrote each thing. This was easier than he had thought it would be. He noticed the small mini fan they had on one counter and wrote this next to four, then added ‘imagining being in Antarctica’ next to five.
Thinking of Antarctica took him off on a completely different tangent mentally wise, as he started to wonder if there were penguins there. He thought he remembered hearing that that wasn’t where penguins lived. But if they didn’t live there, then where did they live? He didn’t like penguins, but he was sure Bret did, so it would help to know where…
Jemaine was so distracted by these thoughts that he lost track of time and before he knew it the tale tell click of a key in the apartment door snapped him out of it. Bret entered the apartment, he was wearing his jeans, a white shirt, and his puffy orange and white jacket - the one they joked looked like a life preserver. Which was, in a way, fitting to wear currently, as he looked wet and annoyed, “Hey man, how’s it going?”
Jemaine answered with a noncommittal sound and watched as Bret shut the door behind him and locked it. Bret walked over to the chair opposite Jemaine and collapsed into it, wiping at his brow, Jemaine frowned, “You look…damp.”
“It’s like a million degrees out there.”
Jemaine snorted derisively, “I doubt it’s a million.”
“Half a million then.”
Jemaine whistled lowly, “That hot?”
Bret nodded weakly, still mopping at his face and neck, “Could barely hold up my sign. Kept slipping through my fingers, my palms were so sweaty. Eddie told me to not even bother coming in tomorrow - seems no one wants hot dogs or men’s suits in the heat wave…that and he’s facing a possible law suit from one of the other sign holders for heat stroke…never did like Kevin.”
“Kevin?”
“The guy who might sue Eddie…no loyalty for the craft whatsoever.”
Jemaine raised an eyebrow “‘The craft’?”
Bret looked incredulously at Jemaine, as if he should know the answer, “Sign holding.”
“Right.” Jemaine drew this word out, avoiding the eye roll but still driving the point home. He did sit up a bit though, as a thought occurred to him, “Well, if you’re really hot, then maybe you can help me thinking up more items for my list.”
“No way, man, I can’t thinking of band notes right now. Too hot.”
“No, no, this is a different list. This is a list about ways to cool off.”
Bret found himself sitting up now, an interested glint in his eyes, “Really? Huh. Okay.”
Jemaine frowned, suddenly self conscious, “What? You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“Nah, man. I think it’s a good idea.”
“Really?”
Bret nodded and Jemaine tried to ignore the glowing feeling that grew in the center of him. Then he decided, ‘eh, why not?’ and let the feeling grow, because, hey, he could take a compliment.
Bret looked about, thinking, “Hmm. You write in ‘fan’, yet?”
“Yeah. That’s number four.”
“Oh,” Bret frowned, disappointed to have not thought of this first, “Okay.”
“I’ve also got cold bath and, here,” Jemaine just scooted the pad towards Bret, who gave it a cursory glance. Jemaine continued, “I gave myself up to ten things to think of. I’m half way there, did all that on my own, but if you want to help a bit with the rest…”
Bret nodded to himself, thinking hard, eyes narrowed in concentration, teeth worrying his lower lip. Jemaine looked at his friend and then at the pad, then at his friend again. A dark curl of hair, wet with perspiration, hung low over Bret’s forehead and Jemaine felt this weird sensation on the back of his hand, at the tip of his fingers.
This weird little tingle that whispered, ‘touch, touch, touch’, this tingle that told him to wipe that arrant lock away from Bret’s face, to tuck it away. Which was so…strange. And wrong. Very, very wrong.
And Jemaine would like to think this was the first time such a thing had occurred to him, but he knew he’d be lying to himself if he did. This was in fact the…well…actually…he hadn’t kept count. Hadn’t kept track. His attempt at band notes was a perfect example of how he was not like Murray.
He couldn’t just itemize everything.
Much less something as embarrassing as this.
He pressed one hand over the other and then back again, squeezing at his hands to try and drive the feeling away as Bret raised his own hand to his face, thumb playing along his mouth, his lower lip, tugging at it as his eyes met Jemaine’s and he said, “Ice?”
Jemaine blinked, startled out of his peculiar thoughts, “Huh?”
“Ice. You don’t have ice on here…or snow. Like, you can make it.”
“You can’t make snow.”
Bret’s hand dropped from his face and he let out a breath through his mouth, lips flapping before he noisily clicked his teeth, “You can make ice though.”
“True.”
“In fact,” Bret got to his feet and opened the freezer; he took out an ice cube tray and showed it to Jemaine proudly, “Check these out.”
Jemaine looked down at the tray and made a face, “Bret…there’s…these ice cubes are…wrong.”
Bret shook his head and went over towards the sink. He pulled out a big silver bowl from one of the cupboards and put it in the sink, then he lifted the tray over the bowl and twisted the tray this way and that until all the ice cubs cracked free from the plastic surface. He turned the tray over, dumping the cubes into the bowl.
He brought the bowl over to the table and sat it down between Jemaine and himself before resuming his seat, “I made these. There’s nothing wrong with them.”
Jemaine gingerly picked up one of the cubes and held it up for Bret’s inspection, “There’s a black thing in the center of this one.”
“That’s a blueberry.”
Jemaine’s eyebrows rose, “A blueberry?”
Bret reached into the bowl and picked up another cube, “And this one has a raspberry in it.”
Jemaine set down his cube and picked up another, “And this? This one is all yellow.”
“Yeah,” Bret drew out, face scrunching up in thought, “Think I made that with lemonade…or maybe Gatorade.”
Jemaine sighed and sat back, folding his arms over his chest, “And you did this because…?”
“I had this idea,” Bret said and Jemaine almost scoffed. Any time Bret said ‘I had this idea’ it was followed by some daft, crafty thing Bret had thought up. Some silly scheme. Hair-helmets, face pizzas, epileptic dog cures - all these came from ‘I had this idea’.
Bret, undeterred, continued, “See, Dave gave me these ice cube trays he got from his mom-roommate. Said he couldn’t sell them in the shop and that I looked like the ‘Martha-Stewart-Happy-Fucking-Homemaker’ type.”
Jemaine had interjected with a sharp, ‘Bret!’, when Bret said ‘fucking’, but Bret finished repeated what Dave had said before coloring and adding, “Dave’s words, not mine. Anyway, I asked what you use them for and that’s when he gave me that look.”
“That look?”
“You know the one,” Bret tried to emulate the ‘look’ and Jemaine blinked, confused, “The look where he looks like he’s constipated?”
“No, no, this one,” Bret tried again. This time he looked sort of baffled and annoyed, Jemaine understood, nodding, “Ah, yes! Yes. That one. Right.”
Bret smiled, pleased to have recreated the face properly, “So he gave me that look and told me that I put water in here to make ice cubes, but, if I wanted to, I could put any liquid I wanted in here and it would make cubes…he, um, he said some types of liquid and…um, other…fluid…things I could do but, um, don’t really want to repeat those.”
“So…you chose to make lemonade ice cubes?”
“Or Gatorade ones. Like I said, don’t remember which.”
“…but then what about the…fruit ones?”
Bret beamed, “Well, I started thinking maybe I could freeze things inside the cubes and…you know…I needed small things so - berries! I also have one with an olive in here…”
Bret fished around in the bowl a bit, before drawing his hand back with a hiss, “Oh! ‘S bit cold.”
Jemaine did roll his eyes this time, “It’s ice, Bret. I imagine it would be cold. Especially if it’s a big bowl of it.”
“Still,” Bret said with a small grin, “This is a good idea, right? Maybe make some money off it…”
“Bret, I highly doubt that this is an original creation. Especially if Dave gave you the idea in the first place.”
Bret pouted, “Oh. Yeah. Right.”
Jemaine sincerely wished that he wasn’t affected by Bret’s pout, but knew he was, as he said, “Still,‘s nice to have some variety - here, I’ll even try one…not-not the yellow one though.”
Jemaine fished through the bowl and picked up an ominous dark purple one, he raised an eyebrow and looked cynically at Bret, who shrugged, “Grape juice?”
Jemaine didn’t like how unsure Bret sounded but decided to give it a go and stuck the small cube in his mouth. He jolted up right in his seat, hissing a bit as the freezing cold cube meet the heat of his mouth. He tossed it about his tongue, the dryness giving way to a slippery feel as it melted and he could slowly taste the grape. He smiled and nodded, “‘S ‘ape.”
Bret frowned; eyebrows knitted together, “Wot?”
“‘S ‘ape.”
Bret shook his head, “What…Snape? Like in Harry Potter? Jemaine, I told you, I didn’t read those books-”
“N’ n’,” Jemaine shook his head, mouth still full and half frozen as he tried again, “‘H co’b ‘s ‘ape.”
“It’s…Jemaine, it’s not Snape flavored - there’s no such thing-”
Jemaine grunted in annoyance and took the cube from his mouth, “Grape, Bret! I said it’s grape!”
“Oh. Why didn’t you just say that then?”
“I did! I just had the ice cube in my mouth when I said it!”
“Well then, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bret scolded. He never did like when Jemaine took that tone of voice with him. It was like Jemaine thought he was stupid or something.
Jemaine didn’t notice this, instead focused on the ice cube, which he now held between his thumb and forefinger, licking it idly, “True enough…but, I will say, if you didn’t read those books, I don’t know how you know who Snape is.”
“You told me, remember?” Bret asked, “When you wouldn’t shut up about them.”
“Is it my fault you don’t like good literature? ‘Sides…thought it’d be up your alley, what with all the magic and the owls and such-”
“Well it’s not.”
“…’s ‘cause you’re scared of Voldemort, that it, then?”
Bret didn’t answer but Jemaine smirked, knowing he’d hit the nail on the head, “He’s not that scary…”
“Snaked faced, scary-looking…look, can…can we talk about something else?”
Jemaine sighed and looked at the list in front of him, as he put the cube back in his mouth. Once it was mostly dissolved, he got to his feet. He opened the fridge and let the cool air coming out wash over him. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling before speaking again, “Well…could talk about dinner…any ideas for what you want?”
Bret looked at Jemaine and pursed his lips in thought, “Not really. Anything in the fridge?”
“Mm?” Jemaine mumbled, eyes still closed, lost in the luxuriating feel of the fridge’s air.
“The fridge, man. You’re standing right in front of it.”
“Oh. Uh. Haven’t quite looked yet.”
“What, you just standing there in the doorway with your eyes closed?”
“Yes.”
Bret looked at the yellow pad again, “You write that on the list?”
“Number two.”
“Nothing about the air conditioning?”
“Doesn’t work.”
“So it doesn’t get added to the list?”
Jemaine made a sound of conformation and Bret shook his head, “Nah. ‘S not fair, air conditioning works in other places-”
“Doesn’t work here, so I didn’t add it.” Jemaine stated firmly, trying to close the matter.
Which was fine enough, as Bret had basically all ready closed it off himself, his thoughts now distracted by the ever-melting bowl of ice cubes in front of him. He looked at the ice cubes, then at the distracted Jemaine and he had an idea.
Smiling mischievously, he grabbed the cube with the olive frozen inside its center and got to his feet stealthily. In fact, so stealthily that he mentally compared himself to a cat and felt a rush of pleasure at the comparison. He had always liked cats.
He stalked over towards Jemaine, as quietly as possible. Jemaine wore his long sleeved, light blue shirt and jeans and, looking first at the top collar and then at the waistband, Bret debated which one would be easier to pull back quickly. He decided on the collar and, with more stealthy, cat-like grace, he eased the collar of Jemaine’s shirt away and slide the ice cube down his shirt.
Jemaine yelped and jumped, the feeling of a freezing cold ice cube sliding down his spine unexpected. Bret doubled over laughing as Jemaine skittered about, jerking like he was in the throes of some crazy new dance.
Jemaine managed to ease the ice cube out and held it in the palm of his hand. He narrowed his eyes accusingly at a laughing Bret who shook his head and managed to get out between chuckles, “There! There’s another one for the list! Can be number seven! Ice cube down the shirt!”
Jemaine shut the fridge and continued to scowl as Bret picked up the bowl and walked over to the sink. He dumped the bowl out and did his best to catch his breath as his laughter died off, “There we are now. Shame really, losing all these, but I can always make another batch.”
As Bret started to run some water over the cubes to accelerate their melting, Jemaine thought of the ever melting cube in his hand. His fingers felt a bit numb from squeezing it and, looking at Bret now, seeing him distracted, he had his own evil idea.
Two could play this game.
Jemaine thought to say, ‘or ice cubes down the pants!’ and slide the ice cube down the back of Bret’s jeans but decided against it, thinking it too gay. Instead he decided to settle on a good ‘turnabout is fair play’ remark and he moved over to Bret.
Unfortunately, Jemaine’s movements weren’t nearly as quiet as Bret’s were, and Bret, hearing him, turned in just the nick of time. Jemaine lunged forward with the ice cube and Bret did his best to dodge.
The kitchen, however, was small, and Bret didn’t manage to get far, instead easing over to his left, away from the sink but with the kitchen counter still digging into his back as he caught both of Jemaine’s wrists and struggled with the bigger man, who was trying his hardest to ease forward the rest of the way and stick the ice cube down the front of his shirt.
Bret and Jemaine struggled against one another for a while in this way, gasping and laughing. Bret found himself sort of hitching himself up on to the counter, sitting on it in a way to gain, what he thought would be, leverage. But all it ended up doing was giving Jemaine an opening.
Weakened by the repositioning, and his still sweaty palms, Bret lost his grip on one of Jemaine’s wrists and, regrettably, it was the wrist of the hand that held the ice cube. Triumphant, Jemaine quickly slipped the ice cube down the top of Bret’s shirt collar.
Bret gasped and thrashed about and, crowing with victory, Jemaine did his best to keep the ice cube from readily escaping Bret’s clothing. Bret slapped at him, laughing as well, but eventually the slippery cube eased out the bottom hem of his shirt, landing to rest on the fly of his jeans.
Jemaine scooped up the ice cube and, without any thought, popped it into his mouth.
Then stopped.
Bret stopped as well, swallowing thickly.
More often than not, situations like this, when they occurred, resulted in either two of the following actions. Either, a, it went over their heads and neither of them noticed the odd thing unless some one (see, Dave) pointed it out to them, or, b, they both just ignored it and pretended like it never happened.
But right now…
There was really no way to pretend an ice cube hadn’t just been running all over Bret’s bare body (under his clothes, against his skin), landed in his lap, and then been picked up and tossed casually into Jemaine’s mouth.
It was like…
It was almost as if…
Bret and Jemaine locked eyes and neither could look away.
And, just there, they both could see it in the other’s eyes, behind the dilating pupils, the image, the idea of Jemaine’s mouth on Bret’s body.
Bret shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold ice cube that had just been touching his skin.
Jemaine just stood there, the ice melting, melting, melting…melting on his tongue…melting away into nothingness…
It felt so heavy, so cold, so thick…and yet so warm…was that from his mouth or from Bret’s body or from both and Bret still had that arrant curl stuck to his forehead from the heat…
Jemaine’s eyes wandered to that curl and he found his fingers tingling again and this time they moved of their own volition. Hand rising up (touch, touch, touch), fingertips brushing it away (touch, touch, touch), his palm along Bret’s forehead, his cheek (touch, touch, touch).
Bret let out a shaky breath and he fidgeted where he sat on the counter, a pulsing beat forming somewhere in the center of him, radiating out along his veins, his limbs, everything sparking and alive and he noticed his knees, looked at his kneecaps idly. Skinny, skinny kneecaps on either side of Jemaine and Jemaine was between his legs.
If the other man just moved that much closer, just…inches…they would be interlocked and Bret felt his feet, sneakers on them unusually weighted but moving, sort of flopping, twitching, thinking about moving behind Jemaine’s own knees, thinking about moving up Jemaine’s legs, wrapping around his waist, bringing him forward, edging him those inches closer…
And this was…wrong…
This was…gay…
This was…
Jemaine’s hand had left Bret’s face and now both hands rested on either side of him on the counter and as he let out a breath Bret could feel it against his face, cool and intriguing and instead of easing Jemaine closer, he himself moved closer, just that little bit, that little tiny bit and he was so, so afraid. Heart in his throat, lungs collapsing, stars exploding, worlds ending…
And Jemaine, his eyes had closed at some point, and he could feel the weight of his glasses against his face and ice still in his mouth and then he just sort of drew in, caved, fell, falling and falling and tumbling and his forehead met Bret’s, rested against it gently, warm, moist skin pressed against one another and Jemaine opened his eyes just that little bit as he tilted his head and made the final connection, his mouth touching Bret’s for the first time.
And Bret tried not to make a sound.
Tried and failed as the tinniest noise left him. A strange, meek sort of a noise that made Jemaine’s whole body throb with it, suddenly hotter and tighter than it had ever been.
Bret pressed forward, feet finally rising up, shoes at the backs of Jemaine’s knees, urging him that much closer and Bret’s hands had somehow woven their way up Jemaine’s back, fingers threading through thick, dark hair as his mouth moved against Jemaine’s lips, opening, and hungry, and suddenly very insistent.
Jemaine groaned and his own mouth opened and their tongues finally met and Bret gasped, startled by how cold Jemaine’s mouth was and then the ice slid between them and it was almost all gone now, the bitter, salty olive all that was left and Bret drew back completely, ending the kiss, startled by it.
Jemaine looked slightly startled himself and he quickly bit down on the olive, surprised by how juicy it still somehow remained. He swallowed it quickly and avoided Bret’s eyes because they had just kissed.
They.
Had.
Just.
Kissed.
Jemaine had just kissed his best friend. Jemaine had just kissed Bret. Jemaine had just kissed a man.
He blinked and blinked and blinked. He felt sort of…light headed. Sort of…out of sync. It was like he was standing outside his body watching himself, floating somewhere just outside his peripheral vision. It was as if he was in two places at once. As if he was between Bret’s legs, inches from him but also way across the way on the other side of the apartment - as far away from Bret and from what had just happened as possible.
And he swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing, the sound deafening and he still couldn’t look at Bret and he couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.
Bret seemed about the same, except that somehow words bubbled out of him without his meaning too, lips numb, tongue thick but a voice, a voice, a voice spoke and it came from his own mouth, so quiet and so unsure and he looked rigidly away from Jemaine, his gaze focused firmly on the fraying material of the couch, “What was that, man?”
And Jemaine’s ears heard the words, the voice that came from Bret and barely registered it. Barely recognized it. But he heard it and he knew it was a question and he knew it had to be answered but he couldn’t think of the answer and shit, shit, shit, he had been the one to kiss Bret hadn’t he? He had kissed him…right? It had been him first…he had made the connection, he had made their lips meet, it had been him, hadn’t it?
And he felt his skin flush warmly then go cold only to flush warm again and he imagined this was how it felt if you actually catalogued and kept record of blood pumping through your veins. Jemaine sighed and he wanted to cry. He wanted to cry and to laugh and to go crazy and to just…
And, like Bret, words just came out of him.
“Dunno…just…seemed like you wanted me to.”
“I wanted you too?”
“…I might have wanted to…as well…maybe…little bit,” And most of this became almost incomprehensible by the end of it but the point was made and Bret sighed deeply, steadying himself, finding his center and he was nodding before he knew it, voice firm as he said, “Okay.”
Jemaine turned and looked at him, stunned, shocked, amazed. Mere minutes ago, nothing on earth could have made Jemaine look at Bret, and now nothing could tear his eyes away from him as he repeated, “Okay?”
Bret turned and met Jemaine’s eyes, a sort of tentative grin creeping about his face, uncomfortable and unsure but just that edge of excited, “Okay.”
“Bret….do you-do you know what you’re saying?” Jemaine asked critically, eyes narrowed, hands fidgeting about his arms and pushing up his glasses and running through his hair and crossing and uncrossing as he continued, “It sounds like…I mean…are you…are you sure you’re…”
“I’m…okay, Jemaine,” Bret returned, the grin surprising Bret as it blossomed into a smile, more comfortable with each passing minute as the world continued turning, “It’s…okay.”
“Bret…that would make you…that’d make us…”
“Is it gay?”
“Very, very much so.” Jemaine said firmly.
Bret’s head bounced this way and that about his neck before he nodded again, “All right then.”
“All right then?!” Jemaine breathed, his heart seizing.
“Yeah. All right,” Bret repeated and he looked at Jemaine with interest, sort of half shrugging, “Why not?”
“Why not?!”
Bret’s eyes narrowed, “You…going to be okay, Jemaine? Keep repeating everything I’m saying…”
“Am I going to…” Jemaine parroted some of it but couldn’t say more as he shook his head. He felt as if someone had just clocked him, but good. How could Bret be so easy about this? So flippant? They had been friends for years! Mates! And now Bret just wanted to…
Everything would be turned on its ear if…
And how could it not be awkward if they were…
Things couldn’t just…
Wouldn’t be simple and…
Jemaine felt like his mind was shorting out as it flew and rotated in a million different directions, orbiting around a million separate ideas and thoughts and images and Bret just found that his own mind was becoming clearer, and more silent, and settled. Singular.
He raised his feet back up, hooking them around Jemaine’s knees once more and he scooted the older man close again, rather eagerly, as a light took his eyes, “Least this takes care of one problem.”
“Problem?” Jemaine gasped, mind still imploding.
“Yeah. Not single anymore, now am I?”
Jemaine didn’t even know where to begin with that.
Bret, however, seemed pretty set in his mind and his hands rose up to Jemaine’s collar, straightening it before settling on the top button of his shirt, picking at it idly, “Hey Jemaine…”
Jemaine managed a sound of recognition but otherwise it still seemed as if no one was home.
“Thought of another way of getting cool.”
Jemaine didn’t respond. Bret continued.
“Number seven…take off your clothes…”
Author: she_burns1
Pairing: Bret/Jemaine
Rating: R (just Dave’s language though…dropping of the ‘F’ bomb!)
Word Count: 5,387
Summary: Jemaine makes lists, Bret makes ice cubes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing FOTC related…thought I wish I did!
Notes: For the Summer Writing/Fanart Challenege at conchords_slash! As usual, I went over the word count amount (damn!) but I got the green light to post it anyway - I went with the prompt, '10 Ways Bret and Jemaine Beat the Heat'! Enjoy!
Jemaine looked at the yellow pad in front of him with great dissatisfaction.
At their last band meeting, Murray had gone through his normal notes - most of the items being about the bands’ general dress and demeanor (or, ‘stage presence’, as Murray had put it with actual finger air quotes) and not at all about actual gigs - and then concluded with the announcement that he would be out of town for the next two weeks on ‘an important Deputy Cultural Attaché for New Zealand assignment’.
Bret, however, had noticed Murray’s airline tickets sitting on his desk stating that he was actually going to Florida.
“Yes, well,” Murray had looked apprehensive when they had questioned him on this, “You know, it is the summer. People…they tend to go on vacations in the summer time. Even important deputies like me! Besides! There is some work attached…I’m going to, you know, hand out…pamphlets. To other guests. In my hotel. About New Zealand.”
Bret and Jemaine highly doubted that Murray was going to hand out pamphlets in Florida.
In fact they were both relatively sure he was going to spend the majority of his time in a pool or in the ocean or anywhere in the area where it was cool, because, unlike New York, Florida presented plenty of places to cool off.
And it was hot in New York.
The moment the summer hit the temperatures went through the roof. The news programs and papers wouldn’t shut about it. ‘Colossal heat wave’, ‘record-breaking temperatures’, etc, etc.
Dave even closed the Pawn Shop for a few days, quoting, “It’s too fucking hot to even take a shit, much less stand behind a counter.”
Jemaine had thought that a pretty graphic, and wholly unnecessary, way to describe the situation.
Not that Dave was wrong.
It was hot.
And it didn’t look to be getting cooler any time soon.
With Murray gone, Jemaine had taken it upon himself to be the substitute band manager, but each time he sat down to make notes, the yellow legal pad just mocked him.
Mocked him with its mocking empty blankness.
He just couldn’t think of a single thing to write.
Not one item.
And here he had always thought Murray’s job laughingly simple.
Maybe it was harder to be a band manager than he thought.
Jemaine shifted about in his seat at the kitchen table and picked up his pen, trying again. He wrote a clear ‘1’ and sat back, looking at it. He added a period to the end of the one to make it look more official. He smirked a little.
There.
Better.
At least he’d written something.
At least the legal pad wasn’t so starkly bare anymore. Now to add something to the one and the period. Now to make an actual item. He wracked his brain for something related to the band he could bring up, some bit of band minutia...
Maybe now would be a good time to point out to Bret how he was the band leader. Something along the lines of how Bret was Keith Richards to his Mick Jagger or Joe Perry to his Steven Tyler. But then…maybe that would confuse Bret…they weren’t exactly a rock band, per say…
Jemaine realized suddenly that he’d been absent mindedly scribbling on the yellow pad and he scowled. Great. Now he’d ruined his work. He couldn’t have random squiggles on the band notes - how would that look? A sight unprofessional, that’s how.
Jemaine sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, the sound of the pen tapping the paper loud in the quiet apartment. Bret was currently at his sign holding job and Jemaine had hoped to have a least half a page of notes by the time he came home.
Instead he had nothing.
Jemaine dropped the pen and cursed as he ran a hand through his hair.
He groaned at the feeling, grimacing as his hand dropped to one side and he lounged back in the chair. It felt sort of gross. Everything felt…sort of gross. The air conditioning unit they had was pretty pathetic at its feeble attempts to pump out cool air; causing the apartment to feel rather…well…the only word for it was ‘moist’.
The air in the apartment had that quality, that temperature, about it that felt like when you were in a small bathroom and you had had the shower on full blast, hot water causing clouds of steam to curl out and not yet dissipate even after the water was turned off.
Just…steamy and sticky and…gross.
And it settled over everything like an icky blanket you wanted to slouch away from but just…couldn’t. Jemaine sat up and licked his lips. Maybe he should try to come up with a list on how to try and fix this. Fix the nasty hot feeling of the apartment…and maybe if he gave himself a specific number…
Jemaine wrote quickly, skipping every other line and stopped, looking at the page. He had given himself up to ten. Ten ways, ten ideas, on how to fix this heat problem. Ten ways to cool off.
He tapped the pen against one cheek while he thought. Okay. Ways to cool off. What was there?
Next to the number one he found himself quickly jotting ‘cold bath’. Yes, a good cool bath would probably help. Bret certainly loved a good bath. And, while Jemaine would never breathe this aloud to anyone, he too, enjoyed a good soak, especially if it was accompanied by fragrant bubbles.
Okay, so one idea. Good! Now he needed nine others…
Jemaine looked around the apartment for inspiration. He saw the window and almost wrote ‘open a window’ but stopped himself in the nick of time. Without any wind, it was just as hot outside as inside. He noticed the air conditioning unit and glared at it. Not that that helped much either. ‘Turning on the air’ was certainly not being added to the list…at least not the air here…
Jemaine debated on this point a bit and decided to come back to it. He moved on and spied the fridge. Hm. Okay. He wrote ‘stick your head in the fridge’ next to the two and then, on a lark, added a slash and the word ‘freezer’ as either compartment was certainly low in temperature.
Thinking of the freezer also brought to mind ice cream and he wrote this next to the three. Jemaine smiled, feeling pretty pleased with himself as he wrote each thing. This was easier than he had thought it would be. He noticed the small mini fan they had on one counter and wrote this next to four, then added ‘imagining being in Antarctica’ next to five.
Thinking of Antarctica took him off on a completely different tangent mentally wise, as he started to wonder if there were penguins there. He thought he remembered hearing that that wasn’t where penguins lived. But if they didn’t live there, then where did they live? He didn’t like penguins, but he was sure Bret did, so it would help to know where…
Jemaine was so distracted by these thoughts that he lost track of time and before he knew it the tale tell click of a key in the apartment door snapped him out of it. Bret entered the apartment, he was wearing his jeans, a white shirt, and his puffy orange and white jacket - the one they joked looked like a life preserver. Which was, in a way, fitting to wear currently, as he looked wet and annoyed, “Hey man, how’s it going?”
Jemaine answered with a noncommittal sound and watched as Bret shut the door behind him and locked it. Bret walked over to the chair opposite Jemaine and collapsed into it, wiping at his brow, Jemaine frowned, “You look…damp.”
“It’s like a million degrees out there.”
Jemaine snorted derisively, “I doubt it’s a million.”
“Half a million then.”
Jemaine whistled lowly, “That hot?”
Bret nodded weakly, still mopping at his face and neck, “Could barely hold up my sign. Kept slipping through my fingers, my palms were so sweaty. Eddie told me to not even bother coming in tomorrow - seems no one wants hot dogs or men’s suits in the heat wave…that and he’s facing a possible law suit from one of the other sign holders for heat stroke…never did like Kevin.”
“Kevin?”
“The guy who might sue Eddie…no loyalty for the craft whatsoever.”
Jemaine raised an eyebrow “‘The craft’?”
Bret looked incredulously at Jemaine, as if he should know the answer, “Sign holding.”
“Right.” Jemaine drew this word out, avoiding the eye roll but still driving the point home. He did sit up a bit though, as a thought occurred to him, “Well, if you’re really hot, then maybe you can help me thinking up more items for my list.”
“No way, man, I can’t thinking of band notes right now. Too hot.”
“No, no, this is a different list. This is a list about ways to cool off.”
Bret found himself sitting up now, an interested glint in his eyes, “Really? Huh. Okay.”
Jemaine frowned, suddenly self conscious, “What? You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
“Nah, man. I think it’s a good idea.”
“Really?”
Bret nodded and Jemaine tried to ignore the glowing feeling that grew in the center of him. Then he decided, ‘eh, why not?’ and let the feeling grow, because, hey, he could take a compliment.
Bret looked about, thinking, “Hmm. You write in ‘fan’, yet?”
“Yeah. That’s number four.”
“Oh,” Bret frowned, disappointed to have not thought of this first, “Okay.”
“I’ve also got cold bath and, here,” Jemaine just scooted the pad towards Bret, who gave it a cursory glance. Jemaine continued, “I gave myself up to ten things to think of. I’m half way there, did all that on my own, but if you want to help a bit with the rest…”
Bret nodded to himself, thinking hard, eyes narrowed in concentration, teeth worrying his lower lip. Jemaine looked at his friend and then at the pad, then at his friend again. A dark curl of hair, wet with perspiration, hung low over Bret’s forehead and Jemaine felt this weird sensation on the back of his hand, at the tip of his fingers.
This weird little tingle that whispered, ‘touch, touch, touch’, this tingle that told him to wipe that arrant lock away from Bret’s face, to tuck it away. Which was so…strange. And wrong. Very, very wrong.
And Jemaine would like to think this was the first time such a thing had occurred to him, but he knew he’d be lying to himself if he did. This was in fact the…well…actually…he hadn’t kept count. Hadn’t kept track. His attempt at band notes was a perfect example of how he was not like Murray.
He couldn’t just itemize everything.
Much less something as embarrassing as this.
He pressed one hand over the other and then back again, squeezing at his hands to try and drive the feeling away as Bret raised his own hand to his face, thumb playing along his mouth, his lower lip, tugging at it as his eyes met Jemaine’s and he said, “Ice?”
Jemaine blinked, startled out of his peculiar thoughts, “Huh?”
“Ice. You don’t have ice on here…or snow. Like, you can make it.”
“You can’t make snow.”
Bret’s hand dropped from his face and he let out a breath through his mouth, lips flapping before he noisily clicked his teeth, “You can make ice though.”
“True.”
“In fact,” Bret got to his feet and opened the freezer; he took out an ice cube tray and showed it to Jemaine proudly, “Check these out.”
Jemaine looked down at the tray and made a face, “Bret…there’s…these ice cubes are…wrong.”
Bret shook his head and went over towards the sink. He pulled out a big silver bowl from one of the cupboards and put it in the sink, then he lifted the tray over the bowl and twisted the tray this way and that until all the ice cubs cracked free from the plastic surface. He turned the tray over, dumping the cubes into the bowl.
He brought the bowl over to the table and sat it down between Jemaine and himself before resuming his seat, “I made these. There’s nothing wrong with them.”
Jemaine gingerly picked up one of the cubes and held it up for Bret’s inspection, “There’s a black thing in the center of this one.”
“That’s a blueberry.”
Jemaine’s eyebrows rose, “A blueberry?”
Bret reached into the bowl and picked up another cube, “And this one has a raspberry in it.”
Jemaine set down his cube and picked up another, “And this? This one is all yellow.”
“Yeah,” Bret drew out, face scrunching up in thought, “Think I made that with lemonade…or maybe Gatorade.”
Jemaine sighed and sat back, folding his arms over his chest, “And you did this because…?”
“I had this idea,” Bret said and Jemaine almost scoffed. Any time Bret said ‘I had this idea’ it was followed by some daft, crafty thing Bret had thought up. Some silly scheme. Hair-helmets, face pizzas, epileptic dog cures - all these came from ‘I had this idea’.
Bret, undeterred, continued, “See, Dave gave me these ice cube trays he got from his mom-roommate. Said he couldn’t sell them in the shop and that I looked like the ‘Martha-Stewart-Happy-Fucking-Homemaker’ type.”
Jemaine had interjected with a sharp, ‘Bret!’, when Bret said ‘fucking’, but Bret finished repeated what Dave had said before coloring and adding, “Dave’s words, not mine. Anyway, I asked what you use them for and that’s when he gave me that look.”
“That look?”
“You know the one,” Bret tried to emulate the ‘look’ and Jemaine blinked, confused, “The look where he looks like he’s constipated?”
“No, no, this one,” Bret tried again. This time he looked sort of baffled and annoyed, Jemaine understood, nodding, “Ah, yes! Yes. That one. Right.”
Bret smiled, pleased to have recreated the face properly, “So he gave me that look and told me that I put water in here to make ice cubes, but, if I wanted to, I could put any liquid I wanted in here and it would make cubes…he, um, he said some types of liquid and…um, other…fluid…things I could do but, um, don’t really want to repeat those.”
“So…you chose to make lemonade ice cubes?”
“Or Gatorade ones. Like I said, don’t remember which.”
“…but then what about the…fruit ones?”
Bret beamed, “Well, I started thinking maybe I could freeze things inside the cubes and…you know…I needed small things so - berries! I also have one with an olive in here…”
Bret fished around in the bowl a bit, before drawing his hand back with a hiss, “Oh! ‘S bit cold.”
Jemaine did roll his eyes this time, “It’s ice, Bret. I imagine it would be cold. Especially if it’s a big bowl of it.”
“Still,” Bret said with a small grin, “This is a good idea, right? Maybe make some money off it…”
“Bret, I highly doubt that this is an original creation. Especially if Dave gave you the idea in the first place.”
Bret pouted, “Oh. Yeah. Right.”
Jemaine sincerely wished that he wasn’t affected by Bret’s pout, but knew he was, as he said, “Still,‘s nice to have some variety - here, I’ll even try one…not-not the yellow one though.”
Jemaine fished through the bowl and picked up an ominous dark purple one, he raised an eyebrow and looked cynically at Bret, who shrugged, “Grape juice?”
Jemaine didn’t like how unsure Bret sounded but decided to give it a go and stuck the small cube in his mouth. He jolted up right in his seat, hissing a bit as the freezing cold cube meet the heat of his mouth. He tossed it about his tongue, the dryness giving way to a slippery feel as it melted and he could slowly taste the grape. He smiled and nodded, “‘S ‘ape.”
Bret frowned; eyebrows knitted together, “Wot?”
“‘S ‘ape.”
Bret shook his head, “What…Snape? Like in Harry Potter? Jemaine, I told you, I didn’t read those books-”
“N’ n’,” Jemaine shook his head, mouth still full and half frozen as he tried again, “‘H co’b ‘s ‘ape.”
“It’s…Jemaine, it’s not Snape flavored - there’s no such thing-”
Jemaine grunted in annoyance and took the cube from his mouth, “Grape, Bret! I said it’s grape!”
“Oh. Why didn’t you just say that then?”
“I did! I just had the ice cube in my mouth when I said it!”
“Well then, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bret scolded. He never did like when Jemaine took that tone of voice with him. It was like Jemaine thought he was stupid or something.
Jemaine didn’t notice this, instead focused on the ice cube, which he now held between his thumb and forefinger, licking it idly, “True enough…but, I will say, if you didn’t read those books, I don’t know how you know who Snape is.”
“You told me, remember?” Bret asked, “When you wouldn’t shut up about them.”
“Is it my fault you don’t like good literature? ‘Sides…thought it’d be up your alley, what with all the magic and the owls and such-”
“Well it’s not.”
“…’s ‘cause you’re scared of Voldemort, that it, then?”
Bret didn’t answer but Jemaine smirked, knowing he’d hit the nail on the head, “He’s not that scary…”
“Snaked faced, scary-looking…look, can…can we talk about something else?”
Jemaine sighed and looked at the list in front of him, as he put the cube back in his mouth. Once it was mostly dissolved, he got to his feet. He opened the fridge and let the cool air coming out wash over him. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling before speaking again, “Well…could talk about dinner…any ideas for what you want?”
Bret looked at Jemaine and pursed his lips in thought, “Not really. Anything in the fridge?”
“Mm?” Jemaine mumbled, eyes still closed, lost in the luxuriating feel of the fridge’s air.
“The fridge, man. You’re standing right in front of it.”
“Oh. Uh. Haven’t quite looked yet.”
“What, you just standing there in the doorway with your eyes closed?”
“Yes.”
Bret looked at the yellow pad again, “You write that on the list?”
“Number two.”
“Nothing about the air conditioning?”
“Doesn’t work.”
“So it doesn’t get added to the list?”
Jemaine made a sound of conformation and Bret shook his head, “Nah. ‘S not fair, air conditioning works in other places-”
“Doesn’t work here, so I didn’t add it.” Jemaine stated firmly, trying to close the matter.
Which was fine enough, as Bret had basically all ready closed it off himself, his thoughts now distracted by the ever-melting bowl of ice cubes in front of him. He looked at the ice cubes, then at the distracted Jemaine and he had an idea.
Smiling mischievously, he grabbed the cube with the olive frozen inside its center and got to his feet stealthily. In fact, so stealthily that he mentally compared himself to a cat and felt a rush of pleasure at the comparison. He had always liked cats.
He stalked over towards Jemaine, as quietly as possible. Jemaine wore his long sleeved, light blue shirt and jeans and, looking first at the top collar and then at the waistband, Bret debated which one would be easier to pull back quickly. He decided on the collar and, with more stealthy, cat-like grace, he eased the collar of Jemaine’s shirt away and slide the ice cube down his shirt.
Jemaine yelped and jumped, the feeling of a freezing cold ice cube sliding down his spine unexpected. Bret doubled over laughing as Jemaine skittered about, jerking like he was in the throes of some crazy new dance.
Jemaine managed to ease the ice cube out and held it in the palm of his hand. He narrowed his eyes accusingly at a laughing Bret who shook his head and managed to get out between chuckles, “There! There’s another one for the list! Can be number seven! Ice cube down the shirt!”
Jemaine shut the fridge and continued to scowl as Bret picked up the bowl and walked over to the sink. He dumped the bowl out and did his best to catch his breath as his laughter died off, “There we are now. Shame really, losing all these, but I can always make another batch.”
As Bret started to run some water over the cubes to accelerate their melting, Jemaine thought of the ever melting cube in his hand. His fingers felt a bit numb from squeezing it and, looking at Bret now, seeing him distracted, he had his own evil idea.
Two could play this game.
Jemaine thought to say, ‘or ice cubes down the pants!’ and slide the ice cube down the back of Bret’s jeans but decided against it, thinking it too gay. Instead he decided to settle on a good ‘turnabout is fair play’ remark and he moved over to Bret.
Unfortunately, Jemaine’s movements weren’t nearly as quiet as Bret’s were, and Bret, hearing him, turned in just the nick of time. Jemaine lunged forward with the ice cube and Bret did his best to dodge.
The kitchen, however, was small, and Bret didn’t manage to get far, instead easing over to his left, away from the sink but with the kitchen counter still digging into his back as he caught both of Jemaine’s wrists and struggled with the bigger man, who was trying his hardest to ease forward the rest of the way and stick the ice cube down the front of his shirt.
Bret and Jemaine struggled against one another for a while in this way, gasping and laughing. Bret found himself sort of hitching himself up on to the counter, sitting on it in a way to gain, what he thought would be, leverage. But all it ended up doing was giving Jemaine an opening.
Weakened by the repositioning, and his still sweaty palms, Bret lost his grip on one of Jemaine’s wrists and, regrettably, it was the wrist of the hand that held the ice cube. Triumphant, Jemaine quickly slipped the ice cube down the top of Bret’s shirt collar.
Bret gasped and thrashed about and, crowing with victory, Jemaine did his best to keep the ice cube from readily escaping Bret’s clothing. Bret slapped at him, laughing as well, but eventually the slippery cube eased out the bottom hem of his shirt, landing to rest on the fly of his jeans.
Jemaine scooped up the ice cube and, without any thought, popped it into his mouth.
Then stopped.
Bret stopped as well, swallowing thickly.
More often than not, situations like this, when they occurred, resulted in either two of the following actions. Either, a, it went over their heads and neither of them noticed the odd thing unless some one (see, Dave) pointed it out to them, or, b, they both just ignored it and pretended like it never happened.
But right now…
There was really no way to pretend an ice cube hadn’t just been running all over Bret’s bare body (under his clothes, against his skin), landed in his lap, and then been picked up and tossed casually into Jemaine’s mouth.
It was like…
It was almost as if…
Bret and Jemaine locked eyes and neither could look away.
And, just there, they both could see it in the other’s eyes, behind the dilating pupils, the image, the idea of Jemaine’s mouth on Bret’s body.
Bret shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold ice cube that had just been touching his skin.
Jemaine just stood there, the ice melting, melting, melting…melting on his tongue…melting away into nothingness…
It felt so heavy, so cold, so thick…and yet so warm…was that from his mouth or from Bret’s body or from both and Bret still had that arrant curl stuck to his forehead from the heat…
Jemaine’s eyes wandered to that curl and he found his fingers tingling again and this time they moved of their own volition. Hand rising up (touch, touch, touch), fingertips brushing it away (touch, touch, touch), his palm along Bret’s forehead, his cheek (touch, touch, touch).
Bret let out a shaky breath and he fidgeted where he sat on the counter, a pulsing beat forming somewhere in the center of him, radiating out along his veins, his limbs, everything sparking and alive and he noticed his knees, looked at his kneecaps idly. Skinny, skinny kneecaps on either side of Jemaine and Jemaine was between his legs.
If the other man just moved that much closer, just…inches…they would be interlocked and Bret felt his feet, sneakers on them unusually weighted but moving, sort of flopping, twitching, thinking about moving behind Jemaine’s own knees, thinking about moving up Jemaine’s legs, wrapping around his waist, bringing him forward, edging him those inches closer…
And this was…wrong…
This was…gay…
This was…
Jemaine’s hand had left Bret’s face and now both hands rested on either side of him on the counter and as he let out a breath Bret could feel it against his face, cool and intriguing and instead of easing Jemaine closer, he himself moved closer, just that little bit, that little tiny bit and he was so, so afraid. Heart in his throat, lungs collapsing, stars exploding, worlds ending…
And Jemaine, his eyes had closed at some point, and he could feel the weight of his glasses against his face and ice still in his mouth and then he just sort of drew in, caved, fell, falling and falling and tumbling and his forehead met Bret’s, rested against it gently, warm, moist skin pressed against one another and Jemaine opened his eyes just that little bit as he tilted his head and made the final connection, his mouth touching Bret’s for the first time.
And Bret tried not to make a sound.
Tried and failed as the tinniest noise left him. A strange, meek sort of a noise that made Jemaine’s whole body throb with it, suddenly hotter and tighter than it had ever been.
Bret pressed forward, feet finally rising up, shoes at the backs of Jemaine’s knees, urging him that much closer and Bret’s hands had somehow woven their way up Jemaine’s back, fingers threading through thick, dark hair as his mouth moved against Jemaine’s lips, opening, and hungry, and suddenly very insistent.
Jemaine groaned and his own mouth opened and their tongues finally met and Bret gasped, startled by how cold Jemaine’s mouth was and then the ice slid between them and it was almost all gone now, the bitter, salty olive all that was left and Bret drew back completely, ending the kiss, startled by it.
Jemaine looked slightly startled himself and he quickly bit down on the olive, surprised by how juicy it still somehow remained. He swallowed it quickly and avoided Bret’s eyes because they had just kissed.
They.
Had.
Just.
Kissed.
Jemaine had just kissed his best friend. Jemaine had just kissed Bret. Jemaine had just kissed a man.
He blinked and blinked and blinked. He felt sort of…light headed. Sort of…out of sync. It was like he was standing outside his body watching himself, floating somewhere just outside his peripheral vision. It was as if he was in two places at once. As if he was between Bret’s legs, inches from him but also way across the way on the other side of the apartment - as far away from Bret and from what had just happened as possible.
And he swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing, the sound deafening and he still couldn’t look at Bret and he couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.
Bret seemed about the same, except that somehow words bubbled out of him without his meaning too, lips numb, tongue thick but a voice, a voice, a voice spoke and it came from his own mouth, so quiet and so unsure and he looked rigidly away from Jemaine, his gaze focused firmly on the fraying material of the couch, “What was that, man?”
And Jemaine’s ears heard the words, the voice that came from Bret and barely registered it. Barely recognized it. But he heard it and he knew it was a question and he knew it had to be answered but he couldn’t think of the answer and shit, shit, shit, he had been the one to kiss Bret hadn’t he? He had kissed him…right? It had been him first…he had made the connection, he had made their lips meet, it had been him, hadn’t it?
And he felt his skin flush warmly then go cold only to flush warm again and he imagined this was how it felt if you actually catalogued and kept record of blood pumping through your veins. Jemaine sighed and he wanted to cry. He wanted to cry and to laugh and to go crazy and to just…
And, like Bret, words just came out of him.
“Dunno…just…seemed like you wanted me to.”
“I wanted you too?”
“…I might have wanted to…as well…maybe…little bit,” And most of this became almost incomprehensible by the end of it but the point was made and Bret sighed deeply, steadying himself, finding his center and he was nodding before he knew it, voice firm as he said, “Okay.”
Jemaine turned and looked at him, stunned, shocked, amazed. Mere minutes ago, nothing on earth could have made Jemaine look at Bret, and now nothing could tear his eyes away from him as he repeated, “Okay?”
Bret turned and met Jemaine’s eyes, a sort of tentative grin creeping about his face, uncomfortable and unsure but just that edge of excited, “Okay.”
“Bret….do you-do you know what you’re saying?” Jemaine asked critically, eyes narrowed, hands fidgeting about his arms and pushing up his glasses and running through his hair and crossing and uncrossing as he continued, “It sounds like…I mean…are you…are you sure you’re…”
“I’m…okay, Jemaine,” Bret returned, the grin surprising Bret as it blossomed into a smile, more comfortable with each passing minute as the world continued turning, “It’s…okay.”
“Bret…that would make you…that’d make us…”
“Is it gay?”
“Very, very much so.” Jemaine said firmly.
Bret’s head bounced this way and that about his neck before he nodded again, “All right then.”
“All right then?!” Jemaine breathed, his heart seizing.
“Yeah. All right,” Bret repeated and he looked at Jemaine with interest, sort of half shrugging, “Why not?”
“Why not?!”
Bret’s eyes narrowed, “You…going to be okay, Jemaine? Keep repeating everything I’m saying…”
“Am I going to…” Jemaine parroted some of it but couldn’t say more as he shook his head. He felt as if someone had just clocked him, but good. How could Bret be so easy about this? So flippant? They had been friends for years! Mates! And now Bret just wanted to…
Everything would be turned on its ear if…
And how could it not be awkward if they were…
Things couldn’t just…
Wouldn’t be simple and…
Jemaine felt like his mind was shorting out as it flew and rotated in a million different directions, orbiting around a million separate ideas and thoughts and images and Bret just found that his own mind was becoming clearer, and more silent, and settled. Singular.
He raised his feet back up, hooking them around Jemaine’s knees once more and he scooted the older man close again, rather eagerly, as a light took his eyes, “Least this takes care of one problem.”
“Problem?” Jemaine gasped, mind still imploding.
“Yeah. Not single anymore, now am I?”
Jemaine didn’t even know where to begin with that.
Bret, however, seemed pretty set in his mind and his hands rose up to Jemaine’s collar, straightening it before settling on the top button of his shirt, picking at it idly, “Hey Jemaine…”
Jemaine managed a sound of recognition but otherwise it still seemed as if no one was home.
“Thought of another way of getting cool.”
Jemaine didn’t respond. Bret continued.
“Number seven…take off your clothes…”