Fic: Two Days
Title: Two Days
Author: she_burns1
Pairing: Bret/Jemaine
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,714
Summary: Two days in the present, two days in the past.
Disclaimer: I own nothing FOTC related…thought I wish I did!
Warning: Language, some sensuality, Character!Death
Notes: This switches around a bit in tenses and is a bit...different, as far as my fics go, but I think it turned out rather well. This was my answer to the Fall Fanfiction/Fall Fan Art Challenge. As always, waaaay over word limit. Being character!death, it IS angst, so please be prepared for that. However, if you read it, I hope you enjoy it!
.Now.
The lights in New York are dimmer than he remembers.
Maybe that’s sort of fitting, considering he’s come back here alone.
Jemaine could have gone anywhere he wanted. He could have gone to Chicago. Or San Francisco. Heck, he could have even stayed in New Zealand if he had wanted to. But for some reason, New York had called to him. Called him home, he supposed, but it wasn’t really home anymore.
No place was.
And this place of all places…
It was full of ghosts.
He sees them, hiding in coffee shops and on street corners. Places where he had gone previously. Places where they had gone previously.
And it seems harder at this time of the year. The crisp Autumn air, the changing color of the leaves.
It shouldn’t be harder. Or at least, not harder than any other time. Actually, it should be getting better. Right? Isn’t that what they always said…
Ah, the ever vague, ‘they’, a collective, faceless body of random consciousness that had somehow formed for just these things.
Still, it was ‘they’ who would say that, over time, things should be getting better. Not harder. After all, Bret had been…
It had been almost six months since…
Jemaine sighs and watches his breath cloud before him in the chilly air.
It is harder.
88888888888
.Then.
“Hey, Jemaine.”
“Mmn?”
“D’you know what next week is?”
Jemaine blinked owlishly, distracted from adjusting his bass by Bret’s talking, “Saturday?”
“No, man, it’s Halloween.”
“Oh,” Jemaine shrugged, attention back on his instrument. There was a silence that lasted all of five minutes. Bret spoke again, “It’s Halloween, man.”
“Yeah, Bret, I heard you the first time,” Jemaine muttered, annoyed, “So what?”
“So what? Jemaine, Halloween! We can dress up in costumes and-”
“M’not dressing up.”
“What?! Why not?”
“Bret, come on, it’d be weird. We’re…I’m a grown man.”
“Yeah, well, me too, but I’m going to dress up,” Bret pressed, pouting slightly, “You should to.”
“We don’t always have to do the same things, Bret. You can dress up, if you like. Me? I’m not.”
“But it’s no fun to dress up alone!”
“I imagine Murray’ll be dressing up, sounds like a Murray-thing to do.”
“A ‘Murray-thing’?” Bret repeated, Jemaine only grunted an affirmative. Bret shook his head and tried again, “Look, Jemaine, you’ve got to dress up, it’ll look weird if I do and you don’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, we’re going out that night, remember? With Dave? To that bar? You know, that one near the ferry?” Bret reminded him, then, as innocently as possible, “Speaking of the ferry-”
“No, Bret,” Jemaine said tiredly, “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, we can’t afford it.”
Bret grumbled but continued, “Okay, okay. But, still, we’re supposed to go to that bar with Dave and he said he’d be dressing up-”
“Well then, Bret, there you go, you and Dave’ll be in costume, so I don’t see why I have to-” Jemaine stopped in mid-sentence as a realization caught up with him, “Dave is dressing up?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Hmm,” Jemaine sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, teeth worrying it as he thought deeply. Dave was one of the coolest people he knew, if Dave of all people was dressing up for Halloween…
Bret, not noticing Jemaine’s deep thoughts, continued speaking, “If Dave and me are in costume, it’ll look weird if you’re not. ‘Sides, Dave says the best thing about this time of year is the costumes. He said lots of women dress up as nurses and cats and police women, but he said ‘slutty’ in front of each one, so, you know, they dress up as slutty nurses, slutty cats-”
Jemaine was sold, “Okay, I’ll dress up.”
88888888888
.Now.
Jemaine’s hair is shorter, his body trimmer. He has a permanent five o’ clock shadow that he finds himself unconsciously running his hands over now and again. He’s currently staying at a motel near the harbor and he rides the Ferry almost everyday.
He doesn’t ride it towards any real destination. Just back and forth.
Bret had always wanted to ride the ferry.
Jemaine had told him they couldn’t afford it.
With just himself, he can easily afford it now.
The wind cuts like a knife coming off the water and it’s been cloudy almost the entire month. The skies and water match in color. A deep, cold gray slate.
Still, it’s better here, where things are less familiar.
When he goes deeper into the city, when he gets close to old haunts…
East Broadway isn’t where Murray’s office is anymore. Jemaine has no idea who is head of the New Zealand consultant now. Maybe there isn’t anyone. Maybe the position doesn’t even exist anymore.
The Pawn Shop is still on Montgomery, but once Jemaine works up the nerve to go inside, to possibly see Dave, he finds he isn’t there anymore. The fat, balding man behind the counter tells him Dave got married and moved to Jersey. The man offers Jemaine Dave’s number but Jemaine doesn’t take it.
Mel and Doug...Jemaine's not even sure how to find them, and frankly, he really doesn't want to. If he told Mel about Bret...
And then there is Chinatown. Then there is 28 Henry Street.
Jemaine hasn’t even gone near there.
He doesn’t know if he can.
88888888888
.Then.
“What’re you supposed to be, man?”
“I’m a devil.” Jemaine said defensively.
“How so?” Bret asked.
Jemaine’s eyes narrowed and he pointed to the headband on his head that was topped with two horns, “See? Devil.”
“That’s it? That’s your costume? Just that?”
“It’s a costume, isn’t it?” Jemaine returned tersely, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, but the rest of you…” Bret said, waving a hand up and down Jemaine’s length.
Past the horned headband, Jemaine wore his basic attire. Black short sleeved shirt topped with a long-sleeved blue shirt and jeans. Jemaine shrugged, “It’s my idea of the devil. Cool clothes, great hair, and horns.”
Bret looked skeptical but Jemaine was firm, “It’s fine, Bret. ‘Sides, not like you went all out.”
Bret wore a long sleeve black shirt with white skeleton bones on it and black jeans, he looked down at the outfit then back at Jemaine, “I’m a skeleton.”
“Yeah, I know that, Bret, but it’s not like you got the bones outlined on your pants and you’re not wearing like, skeleton make-up or something-”
“How can a skeleton wear make-up?”
Jemaine groaned, annoyed, when he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to see Dave standing there in army gear. Dave looked him up and down and whistled, “Wow, you Icelandic fuckers don’t know shit about costume design, do you?”
“No. And it’s New Zealand.”
Dave shook his head, “Look at me and then look at you, Jemaine. I got the camouflage shirt, the camouflage pants, hell, even the camouflage bandana. Not to mention this sweet piece right here.”
Dave touted his paint ball gun in the air like it was a real riffle, “I’m true to life to my fuckin’ character. And trust me when I tell you, women love that shit. They’re all about accuracy. When we go to the bar, I’m going to have some slutty I-Dream-of-Jeanie bitches all over me. But you? You just got some shitty horns. You’ll be lucky if you can lay yourself a slutty I-Love-Lucy.”
“Yeah, but, I figured, I could point to my horns, say I’m horny.” Jemaine offered.
Dave blinked, and then waved the barrel end of the gun around in Jemaine’s face, “Wow, man. Nice. I’m impressed. Never figured you for a slick motherfucker, but that’s some pretty good shit right there.”
“Really?” Jemaine blinked, stunned. It was the closest Dave had ever come to giving him (or anyone) a compliment.
Dave nodded, “Yeah, man, not bad. And Bret,” Dave pointed the gun at the smaller man, “You can toss out something about boning.”
Bret frowned, confused, “’Boning’?”
“Yeah, dude, goes with the costume. Though, frankly, you look like that to me on a regular basis. You’re skinny ass could really use some cheeseburgers, know what I’m saying?”
Bret shook his head, not knowing what Dave was saying, but Dave just shrugged, “Come on you, pussies, let’s go get laid!”
88888888888
.Now.
Children on the street pass him in costumes. Ladybugs and witches and goblins. Jemaine’s lips tug slightly and his eyes water. He doesn’t know how he’s feeling.
His hands are cold in the pockets of his jeans and he goes into a local coffee shop he has never been in before. He takes his coffee black - he doesn’t drink tea anymore. Coffee is better anyway. Bitter and black - endless and wakeful.
He had the flirtings of a dream last night. Or maybe, more accurately, the flirtings of a memory, in his sleep. A smoky bar, bad conversation and his skinny best friend wearing a ridiculous skeleton bones shirt.
Jemaine ponders whether or not he should go to a bar himself tonight. Probably best to not spend this night, of all nights, alone. And it wouldn’t be hard. It wouldn’t be hard at all.
Since he’s returned to New York he’s been out most nights - usually to nameless bars with faceless women. It’s become so much easier to pick up girls. One shot of soulful eyes, with a dash of slumped shoulders, and a sort of ‘aw shucks’ look and he’s in.
More often than not he goes back to the motel with someone. Sometimes it doesn’t even get that far. Dresses and skirts make life easy. Just get a woman drunk and outside to a semi-secluded place and he has her there - up against the side of a building - hot and hard and meaningless.
But better than being alone.
So, so much better than that.
That feeling of connection.
There used to be a time he could write a song about that, but no more. There is no more music left in the world. And if there is, he can’t hear it. Not anymore.
Jemaine should really go to a bar tonight and pick up some woman. But he finds himself getting to his feet and knowing exactly where he is going to go.
His heart starts beating faster.
88888888888
.Then.
“Bret! Stop swinging your legs like that!” Jemaine grunted, annoyed as he adjusted his hold on Bret yet again.
The bar had been a complete failure. No women seemed interested in Jemaine’s ‘horny devil’ shtick and Dave left fairly early on with a slutty Marilyn Munroe that Jemaine wasn’t entirely sure wasn’t a man in drag.
As for Bret, he had somehow gotten caught up in some drinking game, only to discover that, apparently, he had a fondness for butterscotch schnapps. Even more so when it was in the form of a ‘caramel apple’ shot. Enough of a fondness that he was now completely drunk and having Jemaine carry him home piggyback style.
“But…m’legs, ‘maine….they swingy!”
“Well, stop them! This is hard enough!”
The pair continued their arduous trek in silence. Bret snatched the horns off of Jemaine’s head and Jemaine winced as it caught some of his hair. He scowled and kicked at some orange and red leaves littering the ground.
Lousy America with its lousy holiday and its lousy cold weather and lousy colors and lousy, lousy Bret!
Jemaine could see a cluttered collection of pumpkins in the distance and recognized it as the front of their building. Apparently, Eugene had a fondness for pumpkin carving. So much so that their front stoop was littered with jack’o lanterns. As to their carvings, well, Jemaine tried not to think about them. He didn’t want to have nightmares.
He started to struggle up the steps, then stopped, “Bret, can you maybe…just up the stairs and to the apartment-”
“Awww…no’ more horsies?”
“’Horsie' is about ready to pop you one if you don’t get off!” Jemaine muttered and let go of Bret’s legs. Bret’s body slid down the length of his back and Jemaine turned to make sure his friend had landed okay. Bret stood there on his own two feet, eyes glassy, Jemaine’s devil horns now perched on his own head.
He gave Jemaine a wavering smile, “Lookit, Jemaine! I made it!”
“You sure did.”
Bret blinked and looked down, “I’can see m’bones!”
“Bret-”
“Look, J’maine! Lookit my bones! Am I dead?”
“No, Bret.”
“You sure?”
“Yes!”
“’Cause if I was, it’d be your job t’tell me…”
“You’re not dead!” Jemaine barked, “Though sometimes I wish you were! Now get upstairs!”
Bret’s head straightened up and he suddenly looked suspiciously sober. His eyes looked less glassy now and more watery as he blinked. Jemaine cursed under his breath. Great. Just great.
Bret shouldered past him and rushed upstairs and into the building.
Jemaine sighed and followed after him.
88888888888
.Now.
Jemaine’s heart has been beating so hard for so long now that his whole chest aches as he approaches the building.
He swallows a big gulp of air, trying to steady himself.
Here it is.
28 Henry Street.
There is still a collection of jack ‘o lanterns on the steps. The carvings are no where near as strange or perverse but they still hold the same craftsmanship. They are unlit, the sun not yet low enough to warrant it and Jemaine finds himself turning slightly.
He could walk away.
He could just walk away.
He doesn’t have to do this; he doesn’t have to put himself through this…
Jemaine sits down on one of the steps, cold hands taken from his pockets, now clasped before him.
How many times has he sat here?
How many times did they sit here?
Just talking.
Just…
Jemaine can almost imagine Bret to one side of him. He tries. He tries to push his mind into imagining Bret more clearly. Bret to one side of him, saying something about animals, saying something about music, saying something about…anything.
But he just can’t imagine it well enough. He can’t make it real enough.
Bret was always the one with the imagination. Not him.
So he sits there. Alone and cold and waiting.
Waiting to see if he has the courage, the strength, to go inside and see what he wants to see. What he needs to see.
He waits.
88888888888
.Then.
Jemaine entered the apartment to find Bret sulking in front of the television. Bret was watching ‘It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown’ on VHS for the millionth time. Jemaine swore he had that film memorized. Dave had given it to them, saying that no one in Pawn Shop would buy ‘this pussy kiddie shit’.
No one but Bret, apparently.
Jemaine cleared his throat, trying to think of a way to smooth things over, “Would you like some tea, Bret? We’ve still got the cinnamon apple spice and the pumpkin autumn spice.”
Bret didn’t answer, but instead shook his head morosely, eyes glued to the screen.
“I’ll make you some anyway,” Jemaine returned, “It’d be good for you. To have some…spice,” he finished lamely, then added under his breath, “Why are all the Fall teas ‘spiced’ anyway…”
Jemaine went through the motions, making the tea and pouring it. He sincerely wanted a cup himself, but with only one cup, he made the sacrifice. He joined Bret on the couch, offering it to him.
Bret ignored him at first and Jemaine sighed, setting the cup aside, “Bret.”
Bret continued ignoring him.
“Bret,” Jemaine tried again, then, with more whining, “Breeeeet.”
“Do you really wish that, man?” Bret’s voice was quiet and sad as he looked firmly at the television screen.
Jemaine sighed, feeling uncomfortable, but knowing what he should say, even if it embarrassed him, “No, man. I didn’t mean it.”
“You said….Jemaine, if I was dead-”
“Stop talking like that, man, it isn’t going to happen.”
“But-”
“No, buts, Bret! ‘S crazy.”
“Not gonna live forever, Jemaine,” Bret said sagely, “Everybody’s got there…mean…could happen tomorrow…”
“But it won’t,” Jemaine said, feeling sort of his sick, his stomach twisting and flipping. This conversation was making him feel more and more uncomfortable. More unhappy. He didn’t like talking about stuff like this. Never had. It was morbid.
And to think of your own mortality…
Jemaine hated this.
He licked his lips, “Look, Bret, can we - can we not talk about this? I said I was sorry-”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Oh,” Jemaine was taken aback, “I didn’t?”
“No, Jemaine. You just offered me tea.”
“Well…that’s sort of an apology, isn’t it?” Jemaine replied weakly. The look Bret shot him answered that question and Jemaine sighed, head tossing from side to side, “Okay, okay, I’m…I’m really sorry, Bret. I didn’t mean to say that. What I said. I was just…I had a bad night. And I took it out on you and…you know…”
Bret sighed, his eyes returning to a slightly glazy, and, happier, drunkenness, “Yeah. I know.”
“Come on, we should put you to bed.” Jemaine said that and didn’t know why he said it. He wanted to retract it, but it was a bit too late to do so, so he just let it hang there.
Bret gave him a big smile that was a cross between sleepiness and drunkenness, “Naw, man, I should work on my carving…”
“You mean the spot of vandalism you’re committing on our window sill?” Jemaine remarked, pointing towards their bedroom.
Most days for Bret and Jemaine were filled with spots of boredom and it was in those spots that Bret came up with his ‘projects’. His latest one involved him writing his name into the wooden windowsill of their bedroom window. He had gotten as far as ‘Bre’. He planned to toss on a ‘t’ as well as the date, stating that it would be a way of marking himself in history.
“Years and years from now, Jemaine, and my name will still be there!” he always said, which was what he said now and Jemaine sighed, shaking his head, “Not tonight, Bret. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I could toss your name in there too!” Bret noted, then, brightly, “Hey! I just got an idea! Could just start up with your name now! I got ‘Bre’, well, your name has an ‘e’…could just toss in the last bits there and done!”
Jemaine frowned, thinking, “Bret, if you did that it’d read ‘Bremaine’.”
Bret blinked, and then shrugged sluggishly, “So?”
“So? It’s like some bizarre bastardization of both our names!”
“Works for Brangelina.”
“Bret! They’re a married couple!” Jemaine tossed out, scandalized, then, shaking his head, got to his feet, “No, crazy idea, man. Now, come on! Time for bed!”
Bret slouched about on the couch, “Don’t wanna. M’legs are still…sort of…”
Jemaine rolled his eyes and then offered his hand. Bret took it and Jemaine tugged him to his feet. Jemaine half helped his friend walk and half carried him to the bedroom, where he deposited him in his own bed. Bret looked up at Jemaine, shivering, “Don’t feel so good, man…”
“You going to be sick?”
“Maybe.”
“You want me to get a trashcan?” Jemaine asked, turning to walk away when Bret caught his hand, “No, man, can you just…can you stay with me?”
“Stay with you?”
“Yeah, man. In the bed. Just…just make sure I don’t roll over and choke on my own vomit or something.”
“Aw! Bret! Gross!” Jemaine groaned, then, more awkwardly, “It’d be weird if we shared a bed, Bret.”
“We’ve shared a bed before. Remember? On tour-”
“Yeah, but this is,” Jemaine shuffled his feet where he stood, “It’d definitely be-”
“Please Jemaine,” Bret whispered, “Just for t’night.”
Jemaine sighed and looked around the dark room suspiciously, as if a million eyes were watching him, he rubbed one arm, “You…you won’t tell anyone, will you?”
Bret shook his head.
Jemaine let out another loud sigh, and then crawled into bed with him.
88888888888
.Now.
“Jemaine?”
Jemaine blinks and looks up.
Eugene stands there.
Jemaine gets to his feet, “’Lo, Eugene.”
“Wow, haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“Yeah.”
“How you been?”
“Good.”
“Thought you got deported.”
“I did.” Jemaine returns. He doesn’t even toss in a ‘thanks to you’, like he would have done. There’s no point. Water beneath the bridge.
Eugene nods, “Ah, so, you back? Smuggled in on a truck? That’s the way to do it to get across that ol’ border.”
“New Zealand’s border to America is water.”
“You smuggled in on a boat?” Eugene asks, eyes wide as he whistles, “Nice work.”
A woman suddenly emerges from the building behind them, her eyes on Eugene, “Oh! Honey, good, I catch you ‘fore you leave, when you go to store could you also get - oh! Hi!” the woman stops and looks at Jemaine. He notices her accent is very thick. Maybe Japanese? She speaks again, “Hello, interest you in being tenant here? Nice building! Good floors!”
Eugene speaks to her in some foreign language fluently and Jemaine blinks, stunned. She speaks back to him and this goes on for a few more minutes. Jemaine thinks he hears his name in there, but he’s not sure. It ends with her nodding and then looking at him, “Okay, well, you have good day, Mister Jemaine.”
She disappears back into the building and Jemaine looks at Eugene. Eugene looks sheepish, “Married her last year.”
“Good for you.” This is all Jemaine can think to say.
“You’re not,” Eugene looks suspicious, “You’re not with the government now, are you? I know that ginger guy worked with the feds-”
Jemaine doesn’t even begin to correct him, just supplying a simple, “No. I don’t.”
Eugene brightens considerably, “Good, good. So-”
Jemaine hears the question before Eugene says it.
“-where is Bret?”
“He’s not here,” Jemaine offers. He doesn’t want to get into it.
“Oh. Okay, well, what are you-?”
“I was wondering if I could see the old apartment,” Jemaine’s heart thumps painfully within him. He’s grateful his voice stays level.
“Oh, okay, yeah, yeah, well…someone lives there now. But, I mean, I think she’s going to take her kid trick or treating tonight. I can sneak you in about seven-”
“No. That’s okay.” Jemaine says sincerely, even though part of him likes that idea better. Still. “I’ll just go up now.”
Eugene shrugs, “Yeah, you can do that. She’s a pretty nice lady. She’ll probably let you in. Might think about getting flowers though. Women love flowers. Speaking of…”
Eugene says no more, instead walking off. Jemaine imagines Mrs. Eugene is going to get flowers. Jemaine shakes his head and looks at the building. He licks his lips, and then nods before going inside.
88888888888
.Then.
“Bret, stop shivering.”
“Can’t help it.”
Jemaine muttered unintangible words under his breath. Here he was, squished up with Bret on Bret’s entirely too small bed, and Bret was vibrating. If Bret kept it up, Jemaine would end up on the floor. But then, they were back to back to each other. Maybe if…
Jemaine felt his face heat up and was thankful for the dark as he turned on his side, facing Bret’s back. He squeezed his hands together hard before raising them up and rubbing Bret’s sides. Bret let out a surprised squeak but didn’t pull away as Jemaine touched him. Jemaine’s voice broke slightly as he said, “Just getting you warm.”
Bret didn’t say anything, but instead just lay there. Jemaine could feel Bret’s body relaxing under his hands. Bret sighed dreamily, whispering, “Thank you, Jemaine.”
The heat from Jemaine’s face spread.
He was so, so thankful for the dark.
88888888888
.Now.
Jemaine raises a hand to knock on the door. It floats there. Just suspended in space.
He can still turn and leave.
He can still just walk away.
He bites his bottom lip hard and knocks briskly.
The door swings open to reveal a rather attractive blonde haired woman. She’s wiping her hands on a dish towel and she blinks at him, “Yes? Can I help you?”
Jemaine lets out the breath he’s been holding, and he hears himself speaking words, though he’s not sure how he’s doing it, “Yes. Um. I used to live here, and I was wondering-”
“Mommy, mommy-” A little girl cries from behind the woman, she rushes forward, same blonde hair, “Can I put on my costume now?”
“Not yet, sweetie,” The woman says warmly, and then returns her attention to Jemaine, “I’m sorry, you are?”
“My name is Jemaine. I used to live here and-”
“Oh, Jemaine? Really?” The woman blinks and the little girl looks up at Jemaine with curiosity, and then chirps happily, “Your name’s in my room!”
Jemaine swallows, “Is it?”
The girl nods and the woman picks her up, “I’m sorry, she’s…my name is Loren. And this is my daughter, Lily.”
“Hello,” Jemaine says quietly to the little girl, “Nice to meet you.”
Lily looks shy now, fingers playing with her lips. Loren adjusts Lily on her hip and opens the door wider, “You can come in.”
“Thank you,” Jemaine returns, “I promise I won’t be long. I really appreciate-”
“Don’t worry about it,” Loren says and watches as he enters. Jemaine looks around the apartment. It’s the same, but also different. Loren’s touch is obvious - little womanly things. A nice couch, nice curtains. Shades of soft blues and greens. Vases and flowers. It’s all really quite lovely.
He looks at the bedroom and wonders if it’s okay to go in there when suddenly he feels someone tapping his leg.
He looks down to see Lily there. There is still an air of shyness about her, but she offers her hand, “I can show you your name. Mommy said so.”
Jemaine hadn’t even heard them talking. He nods, taking the girl’s hand and she leads him into the next room.
This room is a distracting pink and Jemaine is sure it is more for Lily than anything, but he is grateful for it. Grateful the room looks nothing like it used to. If it looked even close to how it did then…
Lily moves a few things, little limbs working in earnest until the windowsill is uncovered, “See? Here it is!”
Jemaine keeps blinking as he looks at the windowsill.
It’s old and faded, but it’s still there.
Bret + Jemaine, Nov. 1.
The year is all but gone. Too hard to make out. Jemaine likes it better that way. It’s more eternal.
“Years and years from now, Jemaine, and my name will still be there!”
Jemaine gasps and runs a hand over his face. Lily looks up at him, innocent face so happy, as she points to his name, “That’s you!”
“Yes. It is.”
“Mommy read it to me when we first moved in and now I can read it too!”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Lily,” Loren says softly from behind them, “Can you come with me? I think Mister Jemaine would like to be alone for a minute.”
Lily seems reluctantly to leave, but she obeys her mother.
Jemaine swallows, throat constricting as he tries his best not to cry.
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.Then.
Jemaine woke up to see Bret sleeping across from him. He scowled but didn’t get up. Bret looked different in sleep. Jemaine couldn’t quite say how, just different. He laid there, in his skeleton shirt, the devil horns askew on his head, breathing quietly and Jemaine could smell something coming off him. It smelled like candy.
Jemaine didn’t think that was fair. Normally, when he drank (what little he drank) he would smell like old cheese pizza and stale beer the next day. Not like candy. Not sweet and good.
Jemaine considered rolling out of bed, going to make more tea and breakfast, but instead he just kept lying there, looking at Bret.
Last night was lousy.
He hoped today would be better.
Bret took in a deep breath and Jemaine was worried he would wake up.
Jemaine didn’t know why he was worried about it, but he was. He didn’t want Bret to wake up. He wanted to keep watching him sleep. It was so weird, but there it was.
Bret didn’t wake though and Jemaine was glad.
But the more Jemaine watched him, the more he found he did want his friend to wake up. He wanted Bret to wake up and to look at him and he wanted, he wanted…
Jemaine didn’t know why, but suddenly his lips were tingling.
He found himself leaning closer, bringing his face nearer to Bret’s. He didn’t do anything. But he was closer. Just so much closer. The smell was even stronger now. Jemaine could taste it in his own mouth. A gentle sweetness. Like caramel apples.
Jemaine licked his lips and found his arms somehow wrapping around Bret, their faces were practically touching. Jemaine lifted his head up, just so their lips weren’t so close. His mouth was just inches from Bret’s forehead and he mouthed something.
He mouthed words.
Three words.
He didn’t say them aloud. He didn’t even think them.
But his lips moved.
His lips said them.
He pulled away and Bret’s eyes were open.
Bret didn’t say anything.
He just blinked and smiled.
There was a taste in Jemaine’s mouth.
Something sweet.
And then it was gone.
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.Now.
“Thank you. Again. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s not a problem, Jemaine,” Loren says kindly as she leads him to the door. Lily looks sad to see him go. For her, it was probably like meeting someone famous. She twists from side to side on her feet, looking at him and her mother, exasperation growing, “Do you have to leave, Mister Jemaine?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Can you come back? Can you come back and bring Bret with you?”
It is such an innocent question. Jemaine takes in a deep breath, prepared to answer, but Loren beats him to it, “Lily, I’m sure they’re both too busy. It is Halloween, after all. Maybe another time?”
Lily pouts and looks ready to say more when something seems to click for her. Something surprising for a child to pick up on, but she seems to understand as she merely nods and walks away.
Loren shifts on her feet, eyes heartfelt, “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.”
“But…you know, I mean, if you want…maybe we could get some coffee tomorrow.” Loren looks at him uncertainly and suddenly Jemaine sees something there. Something small, but nice. Something friendly.
“Maybe.”
Loren quickly writes down her number and gives it to him. As she hands it to him, she adds softly, “I’m sorry, too. For your loss.”
She says this simply and he appreciates it. He doesn’t know how she knows, but he knows that she does and he appreciates her just knowing it, appreciates not having to explain it to her, not having to put it into words, not having to say it aloud.
“Thank you.” Jemaine turns and leaves.
88888888888
.Later.
Jemaine goes back to the motel. ‘It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown’ is on television. He watches it and then he goes to bed.
And at first his dreams are a messy jumble.
Just random images and strange scenes.
And then he’s there.
Bret’s there with him.
And Jemaine takes his friend’s face in his hands, fingers threading through the curls of his hair as his own head tilts to one side and he kisses him. Bret kisses him back, their tongues tangling together, that sweet, sweet taste in Jemaine’s mouth again, but this time real and warm, not just an imaginary, phantom taste.
And everything has that hazy quality. Perfect, yet indistinct and they’re making love, limbs a delicious tangle, bodies moving against one another and there’s no friction, no uncomfortable fumbling, just them. Together.
And when Jemaine climaxes, that’s when he feels the tears finally break loose. Uncontrollable and overwhelming. He cries and he cries and he hugs Bret tightly, whimpering, “I miss you! I miss you!”
He moans in heart wrenching despair, the sound broken and miserable, as he buries his face into his friend and breathes deep, sobbing, “I miss the smell of you.”
And Bret doesn’t answer. He just runs a hand through Jemaine's hair and along his whole length and then everything sort of slow and tilts, like water swirling down the sink drain.
Jemaine wakes up, belly cold and wet, sleep crusting his eyes.
He wakes up alone.
And he’s okay.
For the first time in a long time. He’s okay.
88888888888
.Nov 1. Then.
Jemaine finished making the cinnamon apple spice tea and called Bret.
“In a minute, man!”
“You’re not still working on that vandalism, are you?” Jemaine returned.
“It’s not vandalism! It’s art!”
“See what Eugene has to say about that,” Jemaine muttered under his breath.
Bret came in, looking quite pleased with himself, “I’m going to finish it today, Jemaine, You just wait and see. I might even have a surprise for you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Bret took the cup (even though it wasn’t his turn) and took a big sip, much to Jemaine’s chagrin, as he said proudly, “Just think of it Jemaine, years and years from now-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re name. Still there. Big whoop.” Jemaine grumbled.
Bret winked, “Maybe it won’t just be me.”
Jemaine rolled his eyes.
88888888888
.Nov 1. Now.
Jemaine dials the number, then hangs up.
He dials it again. Then hangs up a second time.
He can’t do this.
He can’t.
To do this…
It means moving on. It means its over. It means Bret is really…
Jemaine sighs deeply and thinks of last night.
He thinks of the dream.
He thinks of Bret.
Jemaine thinks all about him. All about how he was as a person. He thinks of every single last thing about him.
And then the craziest thing happens.
Jemaine hears it.
He hears music.
Jemaine blinks and shakes his head. Can’t be. Must be from another motel room. Or maybe he left the television on.
But he knows that isn’t it.
It’s back. The music is back. It fills his mind.
Music.
He shakes his head and laughs.
Oh, Bret.
Jemaine picks up the phone and dials the number. Two rings and its’ answered, “Hi, Loren? It’s Jemaine. Yeah, I’m…I’m good. Would you…would you like to get a cup of coffee? Really? Great, okay…”
Jemaine keeps talking, the sound of the music growing.
Author: she_burns1
Pairing: Bret/Jemaine
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,714
Summary: Two days in the present, two days in the past.
Disclaimer: I own nothing FOTC related…thought I wish I did!
Warning: Language, some sensuality, Character!Death
Notes: This switches around a bit in tenses and is a bit...different, as far as my fics go, but I think it turned out rather well. This was my answer to the Fall Fanfiction/Fall Fan Art Challenge. As always, waaaay over word limit. Being character!death, it IS angst, so please be prepared for that. However, if you read it, I hope you enjoy it!
.Now.
The lights in New York are dimmer than he remembers.
Maybe that’s sort of fitting, considering he’s come back here alone.
Jemaine could have gone anywhere he wanted. He could have gone to Chicago. Or San Francisco. Heck, he could have even stayed in New Zealand if he had wanted to. But for some reason, New York had called to him. Called him home, he supposed, but it wasn’t really home anymore.
No place was.
And this place of all places…
It was full of ghosts.
He sees them, hiding in coffee shops and on street corners. Places where he had gone previously. Places where they had gone previously.
And it seems harder at this time of the year. The crisp Autumn air, the changing color of the leaves.
It shouldn’t be harder. Or at least, not harder than any other time. Actually, it should be getting better. Right? Isn’t that what they always said…
Ah, the ever vague, ‘they’, a collective, faceless body of random consciousness that had somehow formed for just these things.
Still, it was ‘they’ who would say that, over time, things should be getting better. Not harder. After all, Bret had been…
It had been almost six months since…
Jemaine sighs and watches his breath cloud before him in the chilly air.
It is harder.
88888888888
.Then.
“Hey, Jemaine.”
“Mmn?”
“D’you know what next week is?”
Jemaine blinked owlishly, distracted from adjusting his bass by Bret’s talking, “Saturday?”
“No, man, it’s Halloween.”
“Oh,” Jemaine shrugged, attention back on his instrument. There was a silence that lasted all of five minutes. Bret spoke again, “It’s Halloween, man.”
“Yeah, Bret, I heard you the first time,” Jemaine muttered, annoyed, “So what?”
“So what? Jemaine, Halloween! We can dress up in costumes and-”
“M’not dressing up.”
“What?! Why not?”
“Bret, come on, it’d be weird. We’re…I’m a grown man.”
“Yeah, well, me too, but I’m going to dress up,” Bret pressed, pouting slightly, “You should to.”
“We don’t always have to do the same things, Bret. You can dress up, if you like. Me? I’m not.”
“But it’s no fun to dress up alone!”
“I imagine Murray’ll be dressing up, sounds like a Murray-thing to do.”
“A ‘Murray-thing’?” Bret repeated, Jemaine only grunted an affirmative. Bret shook his head and tried again, “Look, Jemaine, you’ve got to dress up, it’ll look weird if I do and you don’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, we’re going out that night, remember? With Dave? To that bar? You know, that one near the ferry?” Bret reminded him, then, as innocently as possible, “Speaking of the ferry-”
“No, Bret,” Jemaine said tiredly, “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, we can’t afford it.”
Bret grumbled but continued, “Okay, okay. But, still, we’re supposed to go to that bar with Dave and he said he’d be dressing up-”
“Well then, Bret, there you go, you and Dave’ll be in costume, so I don’t see why I have to-” Jemaine stopped in mid-sentence as a realization caught up with him, “Dave is dressing up?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Hmm,” Jemaine sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, teeth worrying it as he thought deeply. Dave was one of the coolest people he knew, if Dave of all people was dressing up for Halloween…
Bret, not noticing Jemaine’s deep thoughts, continued speaking, “If Dave and me are in costume, it’ll look weird if you’re not. ‘Sides, Dave says the best thing about this time of year is the costumes. He said lots of women dress up as nurses and cats and police women, but he said ‘slutty’ in front of each one, so, you know, they dress up as slutty nurses, slutty cats-”
Jemaine was sold, “Okay, I’ll dress up.”
88888888888
.Now.
Jemaine’s hair is shorter, his body trimmer. He has a permanent five o’ clock shadow that he finds himself unconsciously running his hands over now and again. He’s currently staying at a motel near the harbor and he rides the Ferry almost everyday.
He doesn’t ride it towards any real destination. Just back and forth.
Bret had always wanted to ride the ferry.
Jemaine had told him they couldn’t afford it.
With just himself, he can easily afford it now.
The wind cuts like a knife coming off the water and it’s been cloudy almost the entire month. The skies and water match in color. A deep, cold gray slate.
Still, it’s better here, where things are less familiar.
When he goes deeper into the city, when he gets close to old haunts…
East Broadway isn’t where Murray’s office is anymore. Jemaine has no idea who is head of the New Zealand consultant now. Maybe there isn’t anyone. Maybe the position doesn’t even exist anymore.
The Pawn Shop is still on Montgomery, but once Jemaine works up the nerve to go inside, to possibly see Dave, he finds he isn’t there anymore. The fat, balding man behind the counter tells him Dave got married and moved to Jersey. The man offers Jemaine Dave’s number but Jemaine doesn’t take it.
Mel and Doug...Jemaine's not even sure how to find them, and frankly, he really doesn't want to. If he told Mel about Bret...
And then there is Chinatown. Then there is 28 Henry Street.
Jemaine hasn’t even gone near there.
He doesn’t know if he can.
88888888888
.Then.
“What’re you supposed to be, man?”
“I’m a devil.” Jemaine said defensively.
“How so?” Bret asked.
Jemaine’s eyes narrowed and he pointed to the headband on his head that was topped with two horns, “See? Devil.”
“That’s it? That’s your costume? Just that?”
“It’s a costume, isn’t it?” Jemaine returned tersely, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, but the rest of you…” Bret said, waving a hand up and down Jemaine’s length.
Past the horned headband, Jemaine wore his basic attire. Black short sleeved shirt topped with a long-sleeved blue shirt and jeans. Jemaine shrugged, “It’s my idea of the devil. Cool clothes, great hair, and horns.”
Bret looked skeptical but Jemaine was firm, “It’s fine, Bret. ‘Sides, not like you went all out.”
Bret wore a long sleeve black shirt with white skeleton bones on it and black jeans, he looked down at the outfit then back at Jemaine, “I’m a skeleton.”
“Yeah, I know that, Bret, but it’s not like you got the bones outlined on your pants and you’re not wearing like, skeleton make-up or something-”
“How can a skeleton wear make-up?”
Jemaine groaned, annoyed, when he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to see Dave standing there in army gear. Dave looked him up and down and whistled, “Wow, you Icelandic fuckers don’t know shit about costume design, do you?”
“No. And it’s New Zealand.”
Dave shook his head, “Look at me and then look at you, Jemaine. I got the camouflage shirt, the camouflage pants, hell, even the camouflage bandana. Not to mention this sweet piece right here.”
Dave touted his paint ball gun in the air like it was a real riffle, “I’m true to life to my fuckin’ character. And trust me when I tell you, women love that shit. They’re all about accuracy. When we go to the bar, I’m going to have some slutty I-Dream-of-Jeanie bitches all over me. But you? You just got some shitty horns. You’ll be lucky if you can lay yourself a slutty I-Love-Lucy.”
“Yeah, but, I figured, I could point to my horns, say I’m horny.” Jemaine offered.
Dave blinked, and then waved the barrel end of the gun around in Jemaine’s face, “Wow, man. Nice. I’m impressed. Never figured you for a slick motherfucker, but that’s some pretty good shit right there.”
“Really?” Jemaine blinked, stunned. It was the closest Dave had ever come to giving him (or anyone) a compliment.
Dave nodded, “Yeah, man, not bad. And Bret,” Dave pointed the gun at the smaller man, “You can toss out something about boning.”
Bret frowned, confused, “’Boning’?”
“Yeah, dude, goes with the costume. Though, frankly, you look like that to me on a regular basis. You’re skinny ass could really use some cheeseburgers, know what I’m saying?”
Bret shook his head, not knowing what Dave was saying, but Dave just shrugged, “Come on you, pussies, let’s go get laid!”
88888888888
.Now.
Children on the street pass him in costumes. Ladybugs and witches and goblins. Jemaine’s lips tug slightly and his eyes water. He doesn’t know how he’s feeling.
His hands are cold in the pockets of his jeans and he goes into a local coffee shop he has never been in before. He takes his coffee black - he doesn’t drink tea anymore. Coffee is better anyway. Bitter and black - endless and wakeful.
He had the flirtings of a dream last night. Or maybe, more accurately, the flirtings of a memory, in his sleep. A smoky bar, bad conversation and his skinny best friend wearing a ridiculous skeleton bones shirt.
Jemaine ponders whether or not he should go to a bar himself tonight. Probably best to not spend this night, of all nights, alone. And it wouldn’t be hard. It wouldn’t be hard at all.
Since he’s returned to New York he’s been out most nights - usually to nameless bars with faceless women. It’s become so much easier to pick up girls. One shot of soulful eyes, with a dash of slumped shoulders, and a sort of ‘aw shucks’ look and he’s in.
More often than not he goes back to the motel with someone. Sometimes it doesn’t even get that far. Dresses and skirts make life easy. Just get a woman drunk and outside to a semi-secluded place and he has her there - up against the side of a building - hot and hard and meaningless.
But better than being alone.
So, so much better than that.
That feeling of connection.
There used to be a time he could write a song about that, but no more. There is no more music left in the world. And if there is, he can’t hear it. Not anymore.
Jemaine should really go to a bar tonight and pick up some woman. But he finds himself getting to his feet and knowing exactly where he is going to go.
His heart starts beating faster.
88888888888
.Then.
“Bret! Stop swinging your legs like that!” Jemaine grunted, annoyed as he adjusted his hold on Bret yet again.
The bar had been a complete failure. No women seemed interested in Jemaine’s ‘horny devil’ shtick and Dave left fairly early on with a slutty Marilyn Munroe that Jemaine wasn’t entirely sure wasn’t a man in drag.
As for Bret, he had somehow gotten caught up in some drinking game, only to discover that, apparently, he had a fondness for butterscotch schnapps. Even more so when it was in the form of a ‘caramel apple’ shot. Enough of a fondness that he was now completely drunk and having Jemaine carry him home piggyback style.
“But…m’legs, ‘maine….they swingy!”
“Well, stop them! This is hard enough!”
The pair continued their arduous trek in silence. Bret snatched the horns off of Jemaine’s head and Jemaine winced as it caught some of his hair. He scowled and kicked at some orange and red leaves littering the ground.
Lousy America with its lousy holiday and its lousy cold weather and lousy colors and lousy, lousy Bret!
Jemaine could see a cluttered collection of pumpkins in the distance and recognized it as the front of their building. Apparently, Eugene had a fondness for pumpkin carving. So much so that their front stoop was littered with jack’o lanterns. As to their carvings, well, Jemaine tried not to think about them. He didn’t want to have nightmares.
He started to struggle up the steps, then stopped, “Bret, can you maybe…just up the stairs and to the apartment-”
“Awww…no’ more horsies?”
“’Horsie' is about ready to pop you one if you don’t get off!” Jemaine muttered and let go of Bret’s legs. Bret’s body slid down the length of his back and Jemaine turned to make sure his friend had landed okay. Bret stood there on his own two feet, eyes glassy, Jemaine’s devil horns now perched on his own head.
He gave Jemaine a wavering smile, “Lookit, Jemaine! I made it!”
“You sure did.”
Bret blinked and looked down, “I’can see m’bones!”
“Bret-”
“Look, J’maine! Lookit my bones! Am I dead?”
“No, Bret.”
“You sure?”
“Yes!”
“’Cause if I was, it’d be your job t’tell me…”
“You’re not dead!” Jemaine barked, “Though sometimes I wish you were! Now get upstairs!”
Bret’s head straightened up and he suddenly looked suspiciously sober. His eyes looked less glassy now and more watery as he blinked. Jemaine cursed under his breath. Great. Just great.
Bret shouldered past him and rushed upstairs and into the building.
Jemaine sighed and followed after him.
88888888888
.Now.
Jemaine’s heart has been beating so hard for so long now that his whole chest aches as he approaches the building.
He swallows a big gulp of air, trying to steady himself.
Here it is.
28 Henry Street.
There is still a collection of jack ‘o lanterns on the steps. The carvings are no where near as strange or perverse but they still hold the same craftsmanship. They are unlit, the sun not yet low enough to warrant it and Jemaine finds himself turning slightly.
He could walk away.
He could just walk away.
He doesn’t have to do this; he doesn’t have to put himself through this…
Jemaine sits down on one of the steps, cold hands taken from his pockets, now clasped before him.
How many times has he sat here?
How many times did they sit here?
Just talking.
Just…
Jemaine can almost imagine Bret to one side of him. He tries. He tries to push his mind into imagining Bret more clearly. Bret to one side of him, saying something about animals, saying something about music, saying something about…anything.
But he just can’t imagine it well enough. He can’t make it real enough.
Bret was always the one with the imagination. Not him.
So he sits there. Alone and cold and waiting.
Waiting to see if he has the courage, the strength, to go inside and see what he wants to see. What he needs to see.
He waits.
88888888888
.Then.
Jemaine entered the apartment to find Bret sulking in front of the television. Bret was watching ‘It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown’ on VHS for the millionth time. Jemaine swore he had that film memorized. Dave had given it to them, saying that no one in Pawn Shop would buy ‘this pussy kiddie shit’.
No one but Bret, apparently.
Jemaine cleared his throat, trying to think of a way to smooth things over, “Would you like some tea, Bret? We’ve still got the cinnamon apple spice and the pumpkin autumn spice.”
Bret didn’t answer, but instead shook his head morosely, eyes glued to the screen.
“I’ll make you some anyway,” Jemaine returned, “It’d be good for you. To have some…spice,” he finished lamely, then added under his breath, “Why are all the Fall teas ‘spiced’ anyway…”
Jemaine went through the motions, making the tea and pouring it. He sincerely wanted a cup himself, but with only one cup, he made the sacrifice. He joined Bret on the couch, offering it to him.
Bret ignored him at first and Jemaine sighed, setting the cup aside, “Bret.”
Bret continued ignoring him.
“Bret,” Jemaine tried again, then, with more whining, “Breeeeet.”
“Do you really wish that, man?” Bret’s voice was quiet and sad as he looked firmly at the television screen.
Jemaine sighed, feeling uncomfortable, but knowing what he should say, even if it embarrassed him, “No, man. I didn’t mean it.”
“You said….Jemaine, if I was dead-”
“Stop talking like that, man, it isn’t going to happen.”
“But-”
“No, buts, Bret! ‘S crazy.”
“Not gonna live forever, Jemaine,” Bret said sagely, “Everybody’s got there…mean…could happen tomorrow…”
“But it won’t,” Jemaine said, feeling sort of his sick, his stomach twisting and flipping. This conversation was making him feel more and more uncomfortable. More unhappy. He didn’t like talking about stuff like this. Never had. It was morbid.
And to think of your own mortality…
Jemaine hated this.
He licked his lips, “Look, Bret, can we - can we not talk about this? I said I was sorry-”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Oh,” Jemaine was taken aback, “I didn’t?”
“No, Jemaine. You just offered me tea.”
“Well…that’s sort of an apology, isn’t it?” Jemaine replied weakly. The look Bret shot him answered that question and Jemaine sighed, head tossing from side to side, “Okay, okay, I’m…I’m really sorry, Bret. I didn’t mean to say that. What I said. I was just…I had a bad night. And I took it out on you and…you know…”
Bret sighed, his eyes returning to a slightly glazy, and, happier, drunkenness, “Yeah. I know.”
“Come on, we should put you to bed.” Jemaine said that and didn’t know why he said it. He wanted to retract it, but it was a bit too late to do so, so he just let it hang there.
Bret gave him a big smile that was a cross between sleepiness and drunkenness, “Naw, man, I should work on my carving…”
“You mean the spot of vandalism you’re committing on our window sill?” Jemaine remarked, pointing towards their bedroom.
Most days for Bret and Jemaine were filled with spots of boredom and it was in those spots that Bret came up with his ‘projects’. His latest one involved him writing his name into the wooden windowsill of their bedroom window. He had gotten as far as ‘Bre’. He planned to toss on a ‘t’ as well as the date, stating that it would be a way of marking himself in history.
“Years and years from now, Jemaine, and my name will still be there!” he always said, which was what he said now and Jemaine sighed, shaking his head, “Not tonight, Bret. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I could toss your name in there too!” Bret noted, then, brightly, “Hey! I just got an idea! Could just start up with your name now! I got ‘Bre’, well, your name has an ‘e’…could just toss in the last bits there and done!”
Jemaine frowned, thinking, “Bret, if you did that it’d read ‘Bremaine’.”
Bret blinked, and then shrugged sluggishly, “So?”
“So? It’s like some bizarre bastardization of both our names!”
“Works for Brangelina.”
“Bret! They’re a married couple!” Jemaine tossed out, scandalized, then, shaking his head, got to his feet, “No, crazy idea, man. Now, come on! Time for bed!”
Bret slouched about on the couch, “Don’t wanna. M’legs are still…sort of…”
Jemaine rolled his eyes and then offered his hand. Bret took it and Jemaine tugged him to his feet. Jemaine half helped his friend walk and half carried him to the bedroom, where he deposited him in his own bed. Bret looked up at Jemaine, shivering, “Don’t feel so good, man…”
“You going to be sick?”
“Maybe.”
“You want me to get a trashcan?” Jemaine asked, turning to walk away when Bret caught his hand, “No, man, can you just…can you stay with me?”
“Stay with you?”
“Yeah, man. In the bed. Just…just make sure I don’t roll over and choke on my own vomit or something.”
“Aw! Bret! Gross!” Jemaine groaned, then, more awkwardly, “It’d be weird if we shared a bed, Bret.”
“We’ve shared a bed before. Remember? On tour-”
“Yeah, but this is,” Jemaine shuffled his feet where he stood, “It’d definitely be-”
“Please Jemaine,” Bret whispered, “Just for t’night.”
Jemaine sighed and looked around the dark room suspiciously, as if a million eyes were watching him, he rubbed one arm, “You…you won’t tell anyone, will you?”
Bret shook his head.
Jemaine let out another loud sigh, and then crawled into bed with him.
88888888888
.Now.
“Jemaine?”
Jemaine blinks and looks up.
Eugene stands there.
Jemaine gets to his feet, “’Lo, Eugene.”
“Wow, haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“Yeah.”
“How you been?”
“Good.”
“Thought you got deported.”
“I did.” Jemaine returns. He doesn’t even toss in a ‘thanks to you’, like he would have done. There’s no point. Water beneath the bridge.
Eugene nods, “Ah, so, you back? Smuggled in on a truck? That’s the way to do it to get across that ol’ border.”
“New Zealand’s border to America is water.”
“You smuggled in on a boat?” Eugene asks, eyes wide as he whistles, “Nice work.”
A woman suddenly emerges from the building behind them, her eyes on Eugene, “Oh! Honey, good, I catch you ‘fore you leave, when you go to store could you also get - oh! Hi!” the woman stops and looks at Jemaine. He notices her accent is very thick. Maybe Japanese? She speaks again, “Hello, interest you in being tenant here? Nice building! Good floors!”
Eugene speaks to her in some foreign language fluently and Jemaine blinks, stunned. She speaks back to him and this goes on for a few more minutes. Jemaine thinks he hears his name in there, but he’s not sure. It ends with her nodding and then looking at him, “Okay, well, you have good day, Mister Jemaine.”
She disappears back into the building and Jemaine looks at Eugene. Eugene looks sheepish, “Married her last year.”
“Good for you.” This is all Jemaine can think to say.
“You’re not,” Eugene looks suspicious, “You’re not with the government now, are you? I know that ginger guy worked with the feds-”
Jemaine doesn’t even begin to correct him, just supplying a simple, “No. I don’t.”
Eugene brightens considerably, “Good, good. So-”
Jemaine hears the question before Eugene says it.
“-where is Bret?”
“He’s not here,” Jemaine offers. He doesn’t want to get into it.
“Oh. Okay, well, what are you-?”
“I was wondering if I could see the old apartment,” Jemaine’s heart thumps painfully within him. He’s grateful his voice stays level.
“Oh, okay, yeah, yeah, well…someone lives there now. But, I mean, I think she’s going to take her kid trick or treating tonight. I can sneak you in about seven-”
“No. That’s okay.” Jemaine says sincerely, even though part of him likes that idea better. Still. “I’ll just go up now.”
Eugene shrugs, “Yeah, you can do that. She’s a pretty nice lady. She’ll probably let you in. Might think about getting flowers though. Women love flowers. Speaking of…”
Eugene says no more, instead walking off. Jemaine imagines Mrs. Eugene is going to get flowers. Jemaine shakes his head and looks at the building. He licks his lips, and then nods before going inside.
88888888888
.Then.
“Bret, stop shivering.”
“Can’t help it.”
Jemaine muttered unintangible words under his breath. Here he was, squished up with Bret on Bret’s entirely too small bed, and Bret was vibrating. If Bret kept it up, Jemaine would end up on the floor. But then, they were back to back to each other. Maybe if…
Jemaine felt his face heat up and was thankful for the dark as he turned on his side, facing Bret’s back. He squeezed his hands together hard before raising them up and rubbing Bret’s sides. Bret let out a surprised squeak but didn’t pull away as Jemaine touched him. Jemaine’s voice broke slightly as he said, “Just getting you warm.”
Bret didn’t say anything, but instead just lay there. Jemaine could feel Bret’s body relaxing under his hands. Bret sighed dreamily, whispering, “Thank you, Jemaine.”
The heat from Jemaine’s face spread.
He was so, so thankful for the dark.
88888888888
.Now.
Jemaine raises a hand to knock on the door. It floats there. Just suspended in space.
He can still turn and leave.
He can still just walk away.
He bites his bottom lip hard and knocks briskly.
The door swings open to reveal a rather attractive blonde haired woman. She’s wiping her hands on a dish towel and she blinks at him, “Yes? Can I help you?”
Jemaine lets out the breath he’s been holding, and he hears himself speaking words, though he’s not sure how he’s doing it, “Yes. Um. I used to live here, and I was wondering-”
“Mommy, mommy-” A little girl cries from behind the woman, she rushes forward, same blonde hair, “Can I put on my costume now?”
“Not yet, sweetie,” The woman says warmly, and then returns her attention to Jemaine, “I’m sorry, you are?”
“My name is Jemaine. I used to live here and-”
“Oh, Jemaine? Really?” The woman blinks and the little girl looks up at Jemaine with curiosity, and then chirps happily, “Your name’s in my room!”
Jemaine swallows, “Is it?”
The girl nods and the woman picks her up, “I’m sorry, she’s…my name is Loren. And this is my daughter, Lily.”
“Hello,” Jemaine says quietly to the little girl, “Nice to meet you.”
Lily looks shy now, fingers playing with her lips. Loren adjusts Lily on her hip and opens the door wider, “You can come in.”
“Thank you,” Jemaine returns, “I promise I won’t be long. I really appreciate-”
“Don’t worry about it,” Loren says and watches as he enters. Jemaine looks around the apartment. It’s the same, but also different. Loren’s touch is obvious - little womanly things. A nice couch, nice curtains. Shades of soft blues and greens. Vases and flowers. It’s all really quite lovely.
He looks at the bedroom and wonders if it’s okay to go in there when suddenly he feels someone tapping his leg.
He looks down to see Lily there. There is still an air of shyness about her, but she offers her hand, “I can show you your name. Mommy said so.”
Jemaine hadn’t even heard them talking. He nods, taking the girl’s hand and she leads him into the next room.
This room is a distracting pink and Jemaine is sure it is more for Lily than anything, but he is grateful for it. Grateful the room looks nothing like it used to. If it looked even close to how it did then…
Lily moves a few things, little limbs working in earnest until the windowsill is uncovered, “See? Here it is!”
Jemaine keeps blinking as he looks at the windowsill.
It’s old and faded, but it’s still there.
Bret + Jemaine, Nov. 1.
The year is all but gone. Too hard to make out. Jemaine likes it better that way. It’s more eternal.
“Years and years from now, Jemaine, and my name will still be there!”
Jemaine gasps and runs a hand over his face. Lily looks up at him, innocent face so happy, as she points to his name, “That’s you!”
“Yes. It is.”
“Mommy read it to me when we first moved in and now I can read it too!”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Lily,” Loren says softly from behind them, “Can you come with me? I think Mister Jemaine would like to be alone for a minute.”
Lily seems reluctantly to leave, but she obeys her mother.
Jemaine swallows, throat constricting as he tries his best not to cry.
88888888888
.Then.
Jemaine woke up to see Bret sleeping across from him. He scowled but didn’t get up. Bret looked different in sleep. Jemaine couldn’t quite say how, just different. He laid there, in his skeleton shirt, the devil horns askew on his head, breathing quietly and Jemaine could smell something coming off him. It smelled like candy.
Jemaine didn’t think that was fair. Normally, when he drank (what little he drank) he would smell like old cheese pizza and stale beer the next day. Not like candy. Not sweet and good.
Jemaine considered rolling out of bed, going to make more tea and breakfast, but instead he just kept lying there, looking at Bret.
Last night was lousy.
He hoped today would be better.
Bret took in a deep breath and Jemaine was worried he would wake up.
Jemaine didn’t know why he was worried about it, but he was. He didn’t want Bret to wake up. He wanted to keep watching him sleep. It was so weird, but there it was.
Bret didn’t wake though and Jemaine was glad.
But the more Jemaine watched him, the more he found he did want his friend to wake up. He wanted Bret to wake up and to look at him and he wanted, he wanted…
Jemaine didn’t know why, but suddenly his lips were tingling.
He found himself leaning closer, bringing his face nearer to Bret’s. He didn’t do anything. But he was closer. Just so much closer. The smell was even stronger now. Jemaine could taste it in his own mouth. A gentle sweetness. Like caramel apples.
Jemaine licked his lips and found his arms somehow wrapping around Bret, their faces were practically touching. Jemaine lifted his head up, just so their lips weren’t so close. His mouth was just inches from Bret’s forehead and he mouthed something.
He mouthed words.
Three words.
He didn’t say them aloud. He didn’t even think them.
But his lips moved.
His lips said them.
He pulled away and Bret’s eyes were open.
Bret didn’t say anything.
He just blinked and smiled.
There was a taste in Jemaine’s mouth.
Something sweet.
And then it was gone.
88888888888
.Now.
“Thank you. Again. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s not a problem, Jemaine,” Loren says kindly as she leads him to the door. Lily looks sad to see him go. For her, it was probably like meeting someone famous. She twists from side to side on her feet, looking at him and her mother, exasperation growing, “Do you have to leave, Mister Jemaine?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Can you come back? Can you come back and bring Bret with you?”
It is such an innocent question. Jemaine takes in a deep breath, prepared to answer, but Loren beats him to it, “Lily, I’m sure they’re both too busy. It is Halloween, after all. Maybe another time?”
Lily pouts and looks ready to say more when something seems to click for her. Something surprising for a child to pick up on, but she seems to understand as she merely nods and walks away.
Loren shifts on her feet, eyes heartfelt, “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.”
“But…you know, I mean, if you want…maybe we could get some coffee tomorrow.” Loren looks at him uncertainly and suddenly Jemaine sees something there. Something small, but nice. Something friendly.
“Maybe.”
Loren quickly writes down her number and gives it to him. As she hands it to him, she adds softly, “I’m sorry, too. For your loss.”
She says this simply and he appreciates it. He doesn’t know how she knows, but he knows that she does and he appreciates her just knowing it, appreciates not having to explain it to her, not having to put it into words, not having to say it aloud.
“Thank you.” Jemaine turns and leaves.
88888888888
.Later.
Jemaine goes back to the motel. ‘It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown’ is on television. He watches it and then he goes to bed.
And at first his dreams are a messy jumble.
Just random images and strange scenes.
And then he’s there.
Bret’s there with him.
And Jemaine takes his friend’s face in his hands, fingers threading through the curls of his hair as his own head tilts to one side and he kisses him. Bret kisses him back, their tongues tangling together, that sweet, sweet taste in Jemaine’s mouth again, but this time real and warm, not just an imaginary, phantom taste.
And everything has that hazy quality. Perfect, yet indistinct and they’re making love, limbs a delicious tangle, bodies moving against one another and there’s no friction, no uncomfortable fumbling, just them. Together.
And when Jemaine climaxes, that’s when he feels the tears finally break loose. Uncontrollable and overwhelming. He cries and he cries and he hugs Bret tightly, whimpering, “I miss you! I miss you!”
He moans in heart wrenching despair, the sound broken and miserable, as he buries his face into his friend and breathes deep, sobbing, “I miss the smell of you.”
And Bret doesn’t answer. He just runs a hand through Jemaine's hair and along his whole length and then everything sort of slow and tilts, like water swirling down the sink drain.
Jemaine wakes up, belly cold and wet, sleep crusting his eyes.
He wakes up alone.
And he’s okay.
For the first time in a long time. He’s okay.
88888888888
.Nov 1. Then.
Jemaine finished making the cinnamon apple spice tea and called Bret.
“In a minute, man!”
“You’re not still working on that vandalism, are you?” Jemaine returned.
“It’s not vandalism! It’s art!”
“See what Eugene has to say about that,” Jemaine muttered under his breath.
Bret came in, looking quite pleased with himself, “I’m going to finish it today, Jemaine, You just wait and see. I might even have a surprise for you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Bret took the cup (even though it wasn’t his turn) and took a big sip, much to Jemaine’s chagrin, as he said proudly, “Just think of it Jemaine, years and years from now-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re name. Still there. Big whoop.” Jemaine grumbled.
Bret winked, “Maybe it won’t just be me.”
Jemaine rolled his eyes.
88888888888
.Nov 1. Now.
Jemaine dials the number, then hangs up.
He dials it again. Then hangs up a second time.
He can’t do this.
He can’t.
To do this…
It means moving on. It means its over. It means Bret is really…
Jemaine sighs deeply and thinks of last night.
He thinks of the dream.
He thinks of Bret.
Jemaine thinks all about him. All about how he was as a person. He thinks of every single last thing about him.
And then the craziest thing happens.
Jemaine hears it.
He hears music.
Jemaine blinks and shakes his head. Can’t be. Must be from another motel room. Or maybe he left the television on.
But he knows that isn’t it.
It’s back. The music is back. It fills his mind.
Music.
He shakes his head and laughs.
Oh, Bret.
Jemaine picks up the phone and dials the number. Two rings and its’ answered, “Hi, Loren? It’s Jemaine. Yeah, I’m…I’m good. Would you…would you like to get a cup of coffee? Really? Great, okay…”
Jemaine keeps talking, the sound of the music growing.