ACCEPTANCE
PART 1: BED
Jemaine was sure he’d misheard, because even Bret wasn’t that stupid. ‘You did what?’
‘I broke my bed.’
‘...How?’
‘I was listening to The Who. I was being Pete Townshend,’ said Bret, as though this were explanation enough.
Jemaine sighed. ‘I guess that’s like, the second coolest way to break your bed. Still pretty stupid, though. At least you weren’t listening to Hendrix. So what are you gonna do now?’
‘Sleep on the couch, I guess.’
‘Yeah, well just don’t break it.’
Bret sulked. ‘You’re so mean, Jemaine,’ he huffed, leaving the room. Jemaine mumbled, struggling for words. He genuinely didn’t like hurting Bret’s feelings, yet somehow he managed to do it on a regular basis. ‘I like your sweater, Bret,’ he called hopelessly from the bedroom.
‘I thought you didn’t like penguins,’ called Bret.
It had penguins on it? Damn it, Jemaine was even bad at fake compliments. ‘No, I don’t,’ he backtracked quickly, ‘but...you know...colour suits you.’ – Bret had better not test him on the colour. It was definitely either blue or yellow.
‘Thanks, man,’ smiled Bret, placated, peeking back into the room. Oh. Red. OK. Jemaine thought he should probably pay things more attention.
That night there was a storm. It rattled the windowpanes and moaned through the keyholes. Bret sat bolt upright on the couch, cocooned in his blanket, arms wrapped around himself. He felt stupid for still being scared of thunderstorms, but his fear overcame his embarrassment. He tiptoed into the bedroom and crept under Jemaine’s covers. He’d just have to explain himself when Jemaine woke up. Which was now. Flip.
‘Bret! What are you...get out of my bed!’
‘You know I don’t like storms!’
‘So? You’ve never got into my bed before. Get out!’
‘When I was in my bed it was different. I knew someone was there. I was all alone on the couch.’
Jemaine huffed. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘but don’t touch me.’
‘Look who’s talking, Mr Spoony.’
‘That was different. I was lonely.’
‘Yes, getting into bed with a guy because you’re lonely is far less gay.’
‘Shut up and go to sleep. Goodnight, Bret.’
‘G’night.’
They both fell asleep fairly quickly. Though Jemaine would never admit it, it was kind of comforting having Bret there, his arm warm against Jemaine’s back. Jemaine was woken a few hours later, however, by a soft moan. Sort of cute, Jemaine thought, drifting between wakefulness and sleep. Then there was another moan. And another. Progressively less and less cute. Jemaine began to fear that Bret would keep him up all night with his sleep-noises. Bret moaned again, low and gentle, and then mumbled, ‘Oh yeah, that’s good...’
Ew! Jemaine recoiled so that Bret’s arm was no longer touching him. He turned and looked accusingly at the sleeping form beside him. Bret was having sex dreams! In Jemaine’s bed! Gah! Yuck! Jemaine wanted to wake Bret, but he was sure he’d heard somewhere that it was dangerous to wake someone talking in their sleep. Like, their voicebox would fall out, or something. And also, once the initial disgust had worn off, it was kind of funny. He wondered what other insights into Bret’s subconscious he could glean. They might be good for future blackmail. ‘Mmm, yeah,’ moaned Bret, eyelids fluttering a little.
‘Having a nice dream there, are you, Bret?’ grinned Jemaine.
Bret’s sleeping brain attempted to process the question. ‘M’not dreamin’,’ he mumbled, ‘you...you’re a...weird girl.’
Jemaine stifled laughter at this. No shit, Bret. Bret shifted onto his side and Jemaine watched his peaceful face. He couldn’t help but smile. As much as Bret got on his nerves, he really did like the guy. It was actually rather fun sharing a bed like this. Like a kid’s sleepover. Except for the sex dreams. Maybe more like a teenage sleepover. And then he felt Bret’s breath on his face and realised it was actually much more like something else. His face was inches from Bret’s. He looked down and realised that the same went for the rest of him. He also noticed that there was a prominent erection in the tiger-print shorts facing him. Worse than that, though he had expected a wave of nausea at this revelation, he felt instead a tingling frisson of excitement.
Wait...what?! Jemaine laughed it off, nervously. He guessed it was catching, like yawning. A chain reaction. Besides, he didn’t feel horny. He felt more...curious. He wondered how far he could test the other man before he woke up to tales of his embarrassing sleeptalking. In the cold light of day, Jemaine would have looked on this unhealthy curiosity with suspicion. But it was dark and the storm was rumbling outside the window, and it really didn’t occur to him that it might not be OK. Bret sighed shakily and unconsciously placed a hand on Jemaine’s hip. Jemaine ignored the sensations that gesture prompted. Just a chain reaction. ‘Feel so good,’ growled Bret, and Jemaine found he couldn’t ignore the spark of desire that went straight to his cock at the intensity in Bret’s voice. He bit his lip. ‘What feels so good, Bret?’ he whispered, trying not to dwell on the tremor in his own voice.
‘You,’ moaned Bret. ‘Touch...touch me...’
Fuck. Shit. Help. Jemaine knew Bret was only dreaming – knew he’d kind of courted inclusion in the dream – but this was probably going too far. Then...then again...it’s only an experiment, right? Interesting to know whether sensations as well as sounds could permeate a sleeping person’s dream. Jemaine tentatively placed a hand on Bret’s chest (over the t-shirt, naturally). No reaction. He moved it a little, stroking gently. No reaction. He felt mingled relief and frustration at this. Irresponsible in his frustration, he let his hand skirt over Bret’s nipple. Bret moaned raggedly, his breathing audibly speeding up. Jemaine wondered when Bret’s vocal chords had set up their direct line to Jemaine’s cock. He dragged his hand over the clothed nipple again, more roughly this time. Bret gave a little cry and suddenly thrust his hips forward, closing the gap between them. The feeling of mingled fear and arousal that shot through Jemaine was overwhelming. His own barely stifled cry reached Bret through the haze of sleep. Bret’s hand began to creep under Jemaine’s t-shirt, just momentarily brushing his hardness on its way to rest on his stomach. Jemaine moaned again at this, his forehead on Bret’s shoulder.
‘Please...’ moaned Jemaine. He was beyond rational thought now. He was beyond worrying about whether or not this was irreconcilably gay and wrong. He was beyond even caring that Bret might wake any moment. His lust unreasonably assumed that Bret would just carry on in the event of waking. He just needed...just needed that touch...that blessed friction...oh god. Bret’s hand slipped down onto Jemaine’s crotch, stroking him through the material of his boxer shorts. Jemaine mirrored Bret, unthinkingly touching his friend, loving the heat and the hardness of him, getting closer and closer to completion with every moan he drew from Bret’s lips.
Bret groaned, thrusting into Jemaine’s hand, and his eyes fluttered open. ‘God,’ he moaned, then slowly realised that he was a) about to come and b) no longer dreaming. ‘Uh...what? God...fuck...oh god...who...FUCK, JEMAINE?!’
‘Sleeping! I was sleeping!’ cried Jemaine, quickly removing his hand from Bret’s crotch and not unaware of the way Bret’s hips momentarily instinctively tried to follow it. They both fell back to lie on their backs, not touching, looking at the ceiling. Jemaine listened to Bret’s breathing, still heavy and uneven, and felt an ache of longing. Bret tried to justify in his mind the fact that part of him desperately wanted Jemaine to carry on. But obviously he wouldn’t now. And, just as obviously, Bret shouldn’t want that. After a few minutes’ awkward silence, they both simultaneously said, ‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ then looked at each-other suspiciously.
‘You go,’ said Bret, finally. ‘I’d...the storm’s blown over. I’d better get back to the couch. Yeah.’
‘Yeah. Bret...tomorrow...’
‘Nothing happened. We won’t talk about it.’
‘Right. Goodnight, Bret.’
‘Goodnight...Jemaine.’
Their eyes met for a moment, and each registered the other’s reluctance to part. ‘Goodnight, Jemaine,’ Bret repeated, steeling himself, and he left.
PART 2: COUCH
They had managed to avoid each other, more or less, all day. Now they sat on the couch, not touching, staring vaguely at the TV. They both felt the previous night hanging over them, as though it were a physical presence in the room. They both knew the other could feel it too. But there was no way they were going to talk about it. No way. Jemaine shifted, trying to get comfortable, and his hand brushed Bret’s. Bret gasped quietly and pulled his hand away. Jemaine quickly moved his hand too. He glanced over at Bret, who was staring forwards like he meant it, his hands clamped together in his lap. Oh well, at least Jemaine could put his hand down now without touching him.
Finally comfortable (as much as he could be, sat next to a man he had done inexcusably gay things with the night before), Jemaine tried to relax. He liked the Dog Show, although the episode Murray’s mother had taped was starting to wear a bit thin. Still, it beat thinking about things. Just as he was starting to pleasantly drift, no longer thinking about anything in particular, he felt something brush his hand and then flinch. He glanced down and saw Bret’s hand in a tight fist beside his own. He wanted to pull his hand away again, but he’d just got comfortable. Bret would have to move. Jemaine wasn’t backing down. He turned his attention back to the TV screen, acting as though he hadn’t noticed. He heard Bret exhale slowly beside him, and vaguely wondered if Bret had been holding his breath. Then he felt it again.
Jemaine looked down at his hand. Bret’s little finger was just touching his own. He glanced up at Bret, who was still resolutely facing the screen. A tingling, crackling sensation, like static electricity, marked the point where their hands touched. Jemaine felt nervous – overwhelmed – as though the touch could mean nothing or everything or anything in between and his reaction to it could be horribly important or disappointingly meaningless. Testing Bret, Jemaine moved his hand just a little. In a less highly-charged situation, a person sitting by him would never have guessed the movement was anything less than innocent. It manifested as the tiniest stroke of his friend’s shaking hand. Bret inhaled sharply, but his hand didn’t move.
Jemaine hadn’t known that it was possible to be so tense just sitting watching TV. Except he wasn’t really watching TV. He was listening to Bret’s shaky breathing. He was feeling Bret trembling beside him. He wondered if he was being as obvious as Bret was. God, how were they going to get over this? Why had he touched Bret in the first place? Why had he wanted to? A feather-light movement against his hand caught him off-guard, making him stifle a whimper. He looked down to see Bret’s little finger hooked over his own. He had no idea why this should have such an effect on him. He felt like he was made of nothing but a bundle of harassed, desperate nerve-endings. The touch of Bret’s trembling hand was making him stiffen in his jeans. It was ridiculous. Still, his pride wouldn’t stand for Bret winning this particular game of ‘chicken’. He curled out his fingers so that they stroked along the palm of Bret’s hand. The barely perceptible moan that escaped Bret’s lips had Jemaine suddenly, fully and achingly hard. He did it once more, dying to make Bret moan again. It worked, the low, desperate, reluctant sound driving Jemaine to distraction.
The scent of Bret, too, was getting inside Jemaine, adding to his hopeless arousal. All at once it occurred to him that one or both of them must have leant in closer, since he hadn’t been able to smell him before. He glanced up at Bret, who was suddenly very close. Bret’s eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He was still facing the TV, as though that would make everything alright. Jemaine realised he hadn’t breathed for a while, and let out a breathy sigh. Bret moaned again and momentarily gripped Jemaine’s hand, his hips bucking slightly against nothing. The action drew a similar moan from Jemaine. What had he done to make Bret do that? All he had done was breathe. On Bret’s neck. Ah...interesting. Jemaine leant in further and brushed Bret’s neck with his cheek.
Bret moaned a little louder this time, his breathing uneven, his eyes clamped shut. This wasn’t fair. He was so hard it hurt and every little thing Jemaine did was so good, too good, and none of it made any sense...
Jemaine turned his head a little, letting his lips just barely brush the sensitive skin of Bret’s throat. This was dangerous, he knew. He was ploughing further and further into territory where he could no longer pass his actions off as accidental. But oh god, Bret was moaning and trembling and it was because of him, and nothing had ever turned him on so much. He dared himself to do it. Dared himself to turn the brush of his lips into a kiss. ‘Don’t...’ moaned Bret, and though Jemaine knew it shouldn’t be the thing that made him lose control entirely, it was.
He hadn’t realised that his hands wanted to be anywhere in particular, but suddenly they were on a mission. One moved to the back of Bret’s neck, holding him possessively against Jemaine’s mouth. The other began to undo the top buttons of Bret’s shirt. He groaned as he felt Bret’s hand creep onto his thigh, alternating between stroking and grasping, clearly unsure what to do but all the more wonderful for it. The angle was uncomfortable so Jemaine moved to kneel beside Bret, gasping when the unexpected movement caused Bret’s hand to accidentally press against the bulge in his jeans. Bret moved his hand away instinctively, and for a second Jemaine thought that was it: reality had bitten and Bret wouldn’t touch him anymore.
On the contrary, Bret knelt opposite Jemaine and looked into his eyes. His expression was heartbreaking, because Jemaine understood it completely. It said, ‘touch me, but please don’t make me ask for it. Please don’t make me talk about it.’
Jemaine took pity on Bret and didn’t look at his face. Instead his eyes roved over Bret’s body. He undid some more buttons on Bret’s shirt and pushed the material aside. He pressed his mouth hotly to Bret’s collarbone, and suddenly Bret’s nervousness was replaced with raw need. Deft hands began to undo Jemaine’s belt, unzipping his jeans and slipping inside, drawing a helpless groan from Jemaine. Jemaine reached down to undo Bret’s fly, still pressing hot, hard kisses to Bret’s neck and chest. Jemaine felt stupidly clumsy, but Bret didn’t seem to notice, thrusting into Jemaine’s hand as soon as it found its way into his jeans. Jemaine bit his lip to stop himself saying the words that were forming in his head. He wanted to tell Bret how fucking hard he felt in his hand, and how good it was, and how Bret’s moans were amazing, and how much he wanted to make Bret come...but talking would make it all too real. Too scary. Besides, actions could speak louder than words. He ducked his hand under the waistband of Bret’s underwear.
Bret made a sobbing sound as Jemaine’s hot hand wrapped around his cock. It dawned on him, with a dizzy, spiralling certainty, that he was going to come all over his friend’s hand. Jemaine’s hand. How could he get so worked up so suddenly by someone so familiar? And, more importantly, thought Bret as Jemaine’s thumb brushed over the head of his cock, who the hell cares? Bret slipped his hand under Jemaine’s boxer shorts and began to stroke him. ‘Fuck, Bret...’ moaned Jemaine, and Bret felt the scrape of teeth on his neck and suddenly he was coming so hard (and so loudly, he distantly noticed) that he didn’t know what to do with himself. As he came round he registered Jemaine slumped against him, panting, and felt the somewhat unpleasant sensation of wetness cooling on his hand. Bret felt a pang of disappointment that he had been so wrapped up in his own pleasure that he’d missed Jemaine coming. ‘Next time I’ll watch him when he comes,’ he thought, and then, nervously, ‘next time?’
‘Um...’ said Bret.
‘Don’t talk about it.’
‘Right.’ – Bret felt like a cold stone had been dropped on his chest.
‘Going to wash up.’
‘OK.’
‘Fuck. We can’t do this anymore.’
‘Don’t talk about it, you said.’
‘Right. Right.’
Jemaine got up without looking at Bret and went to wash himself up in the Bathroom.
That night Jemaine wept into his pillow. It was the first time in his adult life he’d wanted something so much he cried.
PART 3: RAMBO
It was getting easier, kind of. When they didn’t think about it too much, it seemed to be getting easier.
It was getting more messed up. When they thought about it, it was definitely pretty damn messed up.
They hadn’t touched again – not since that time on the couch. They had even managed to talk normally, albeit at a greater distance from one another than they used to talk. Come too close, and they risked being caught in that irresistible magnetic field. They’d stand just close enough to feel the pleasant burn, the electric pull between them, but not close enough to be overwhelmed by it. And then they’d talk about music, about America and New Zealand, about films and animals, just like they always had. It almost wasn’t strange at all.
But something had to give, and it was this unspoken something that made their relationship such a Jerry Springer car crash of a mess. The first time something gave was the night after the couch incident. Jemaine was in bed, listening to Bret brushing his teeth and getting undressed in the bathroom. He was trying not to listen, but the sounds of Bret seemed to fill the flat. Jemaine closed his eyes and guiltily imagined Bret pulling off his t-shirt. In Jemaine’s mind, Bret’s hands slowly and teasingly pushed the material up, revealing his flat, hard stomach. The t-shirt was pulled over his head, then dropped in a heap on the bathroom floor. Now Bret was half naked, his hair messed up, and...Oh. An idea occurred to Jemaine. What if Bret was thinking about him? What if Bret was as horny as he was? Bret had been quiet in there for some time. Perhaps his eyes were glazed with guilty desire. Perhaps he couldn’t stop thinking of Jemaine. Perhaps he was aching to touch himself. Aching. Achingly hard. Oh. God. Jemaine groaned and automatically reached down to stroke himself through his underwear.
Jemaine would have been amazed to know how close his fantasy was to the truth. Bret, his t-shirt crumpled on the floor, was supporting himself on the sink having just liberally splashed his face with cold water. He had been playing out the night before obsessively in his head. As the water dripped from his hair, he imagined Jemaine following the drips with his tongue. One droplet fell onto his chest, snaking down and around an already-hard nipple. A tremor of arousal shivered through him as he imagined Jemaine’s tongue there, flicking over and around his nipple, so hot, so good...Then he felt a drop of water land on his lower lip. He licked at it, imagining Jemaine’s tongue following. Strange, he had never really enjoyed kissing girls that way. It seemed unnecessarily sloppy and offputting. But the thought of Jemaine’s sweet, hot mouth covering his own, the thought of Jemaine’s tongue slipping in, caressing his own, tasting and claiming him...Fuck it, thought Bret, undoing his jeans. He bit his lip as he took himself in hand and began to stroke. Then he heard Jemaine groan. It might have just been a sleepy murmur, but it sent a dangerous pang of arousal straight to Bret’s cock.
Oh yeah, thought Jemaine blindly as he hastily rid himself of underwear and kicked away the covers. Yeah, Bret would be dying for him right now, so desperate for more of the touch that had made him cry out so loud and ragged the night before. ‘Bret...’ he whispered, as he began to touch himself in earnest. It felt naughty and good to say Bret’s name while he did this. He said it again, a little louder, his voice breathless and cracking.
Bret froze as he heard his name. He didn’t answer, but stood silently bent over the sink with one hand supporting him and the other still wrapped around his cock. Then he heard something that made his head spin. It was quiet, but sound carried easily in their flat. ‘Yeah, you like that, don’t you?’ panted Jemaine, low and intense. ‘You love it. Tell me you want it. My mouth on you. My hands on you. Fuck. You feel so good. God, I want you...’
Bret moaned and began stroking himself again. Was that what Jemaine had been thinking last night? Bret mused wryly that he’d probably never be able to hear Jemaine talk again without getting hard.
Bret’s moan carried to Jemaine. His eyes shot open. Holy shit. Bret really was getting off in there. And god, god, the beautiful sounds he made. ‘Fuck, I love it when you moan like that,’ growled Jemaine, eyes closed again, hand roughly fisting his cock. Bret, bent over the sink, supporting arm shaking with the effort, moaned again. He was no longer fantasising. No need, when Jemaine was in their bedroom, masturbating loudly over him and talking dirty. God, that filthy mouth. Those wicked lips ought to be wrapped around Bret’s cock, Bret thought, hand speeding up between his legs. Fuck, yes, a hand in Jemaine’s hair, guiding his head as he sucked him...Wow, Bret didn’t know he could think so dirty. It was Jemaine’s fault. Bret vaguely noticed that his own sounds of pleasure were coming out fast and desperate, tumbling over each other as he drifted back into fantasy, urged on by Jemaine’s words. ‘Jemaine...’ he moaned, too loudly.
When Bret said his name, Jemaine knew he couldn’t last much longer. ‘Gonna make you come so fucking hard, Bret,’ he growled.
‘Oh...god...yes...’ gasped Bret.
‘Fuck...’
‘Jemaine...want you...oh...oh...’
Bret cried out helplessly as he came, pulsing hot over his hand, the sink and the bathroom floor. His first cry sent Jemaine tumbling after him, moaning low and fierce as he spattered his own belly and chest.
This had become a nightly occurrence. Neither was absolutely certain that the other could hear, but they both knew it was pretty likely. Yet somehow this weirdness had created a bridge between them. During the day, they were able to converse like the friends they had always been. The only moment of awkwardness was when Bret would say, ‘I’m gonna get ready for bed.’ – Then Jemaine would nod, his face heating at the implicit agreement between them.
* * * * *
Bret and Jemaine had gone (almost) cold turkey for some time. No inappropriate touching. Definitely no kissing. Sure, there were the nightly long-distance shared masturbation sessions, but they belonged to the night and would not be thought about, let alone discussed. But then, it was only a matter of time.
Murray had invited them to his birthday party. It was fancy dress, with a ‘Letter “R”’ theme. Murray had started this charming tradition two years ago: fancy dress parties in which guests dressed up as the letters of the birthday boy’s name. The first year, Murray had come as a mutant, with an extra arm and leg. The second, he had made good use of his clipboard as a ‘unionist’, which seemed to involve him dressing in his own clothes but shouting a bit more.
The boys were changing, Jemaine in the bathroom, Bret in the bedroom. The other way round would have potentially promised something for which they didn’t have time tonight. When Bret emerged from the Bathroom, he and Jemaine exchanged annoyed, incredulous looks. ‘We’re dressed the same,’ Bret pointed out.
‘I know. You should change.’
‘Why me?’
‘You know I love Rambo,’ explained Jemaine. ‘I was sure you’d dress as a robot. Can’t you just wear what you wore for the music video?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Bret was caught out. Before he and Jemaine had embarked upon their journey of weirdness and denial, he would have worn that costume for sure. He hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, but he had decided against it because it wasn’t sexy. He realised he wanted Jemaine to be tempted by him. He wanted to test him, to tease him in public. He wanted to see in Jemaine’s eyes the lust that he knew hid there.
‘It’s broken,’ lied Bret. ‘I was keeping it under the bed.’
‘Oh. Well...OK.’
Jemaine looked at Bret and sincerely wished the stupid robot outfit wasn’t broken. He didn’t mind being dressed almost identically to Bret. The problem was that, while he felt like a bit of an idiot in his costume, Bret looked unreasonably hot. He wanted to pin Bret against the wall and kiss him hard, slide a hand under his camouflage t-shirt, sink down and bite (not too hard, but hard enough to feel it) at the hard flesh of Bret’s stomach, because Bret deserved it, because he shouldn’t be so hot and it wasn’t fair.
Bret looked at Jemaine and wished he could get out of the damn party. It wouldn’t be Jemaine letting his guard down. Bret could feel his common sense melting into nothing as he took in Jemaine’s bare, shapely arms and the glimpse of chest hair that he shouldn’t find so hot because it was unabashedly masculine. God, he wanted the heat and the weight of Jemaine on top of him. He wanted to be kissed roughly. He wanted to be taken, ravished, hands grasping his hips hard enough to leave bruises. ‘Let’s get going, then,’ he mumbled.
* * * * *
‘Hey, you guys!’ beamed Murray as he opened the door. ‘Nice costume, Bret. What are you?’
‘I’m Rambo.’
‘And what are you, Jemaine?’
‘I’m also Rambo.’
‘A houseful of Rambos! Imagine that! Can you tell what I am? Your money or your life!’
‘Yeah,’ said Jemaine, ‘but Peter Pan doesn’t begin with “R”.’
‘No, I’m not Peter Pan. Look! The bow and arrow? The Lincoln green? No?’
Bret and Jemaine shrugged and shook their heads.
‘I’m Robin Hood! Honestly. Come in, then.’
Bret and Jemaine shuffled in. An old ‘Top of the Pops’ LP scratched and stuttered on the turntable. Greg was sat on the sofa wearing a striped jumper and a mask and cradling a sack with a large dollar sign on it. Eugene was sat next to him dressed as a rabbit. It was most disturbing. Good turn out this year. One better than last year.
The party wore on interminably. Murray had to sit out most of the game of charades because he cheated. He thought this unfair, because it was the only way to persuade Bret and Jemaine that no, he really wasn’t miming any kind of biscuit.
Several boring party games later, Murray suggested Sardines. Without looking at each other, without needing to, Bret and Jemaine both blanched. ‘You hide, Bret,’ said Murray, ‘because you’re small. You can fit into all the little nooks and crannies.’
Murray, Greg, Eugene and Jemaine closed their eyes as Bret crept reluctantly off to hide. And Jemaine knew he shouldn’t, but just before Bret’s footsteps became too quiet, he peeked. Bret had hidden behind the door. It was Bret’s usual hide-and-seek trick. Hide in the same room as the counter, and they don’t expect it. Sure enough, when they had finished counting, the others scattered through the house, leaving Jemaine alone with Bret in the living room. Taking a deep breath, he crept behind the door. Bret looked up at him, his eyes wide and almost scared, his back pressed against the wall. And Jemaine instantly forgot all the reasons why he should be controlling himself. Taking Bret’s face possessively in his hands, he swooped down and kissed him softly, asking silently for permission. Bret stared at him.
‘You...you kissed me.’
‘Well...yeah,’ agreed Jemaine, uncomfortably. Why did Bret feel he had to point it out? Wasn’t like it was the first time. Except...hang on...yes. Now he thought about it, it was the first time. For all they had done, they had never kissed before. Kissing was something else. Kissing was...romantic.
‘Do it again,’ breathed Bret.
Jemaine kissed Bret again, allowing his lips to linger this time. He felt Bret’s lips part slightly under his own, and deepened the kiss, his tongue sneaking into Bret’s mouth. Jemaine felt he ought to hold back a little, because he could feel the heat and the hunger quickly growing in him. He allowed his hand to stray under Bret’s t-shirt, feeling the bare flesh there for the first time. And as he kissed and Bret kissed back, making tiny, stifled sounds in the back of his throat, Jemaine realised that he would gladly have sex with this man. In fact, he wanted it. Wanted to thrust into him and hear him cursing and crying out Jemaine’s name. Jemaine was hard against Bret’s hip, now kissing and licking at Bret’s neck. Bret was hard too, his face buried in Jemaine’s shoulder, finding it harder and harder to remain quiet.
‘Huddle up some more, Boys, and stop fidgeting or we’ll get caught,’ said Murray, arriving. Bret and Jemaine separated and looked hopelessly into each other’s eyes. Jemaine pushed himself into the corner with his back to the wall. Bret faced him and huddled closer, allowing Murray to creep into the increasingly cramped hiding place. When Murray wasn’t looking, Jemaine surreptitiously bit at Bret’s neck, then licked the place he had bitten. ‘Stop it,’ whispered Bret, seriously.
‘Later?’ whispered Jemaine, and two syllables had never held so much desperate hope.
‘Later,’ agreed Bret.
* * * * *
As soon as they got through the door of the flat, Bret and Jemaine exchanged a heated, breathless look and then they were on each other again. Jemaine pushed Bret until he had his back to the wall, and then began kissing him hard, tongue thrusting into his mouth. He pulled Bret’s t-shirt off, dragging his bandana off with it, before kissing him again.
‘Always...trying...to get me...up against...the wall...’ panted Bret between kisses, his hands pushing up the material of Jemaine’s tank top.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Jemaine, grinning, vaguely thinking how amazing it felt to suddenly be able to talk. He pulled off his own shirt and dropped it in a pile with Bret’s. ‘It’s so I can do...this.’
Jemaine took Bret’s wrists and pinned them either side of his head, then rolled his hips against him so that their still-clothed erections rubbed together. Bret groaned, and then suddenly Jemaine found their positions reversed. Bret was surprisingly strong, having flipped Jemaine so that his back was now against the wall. ‘Do you know what you’ve been doing to me with that dirty mouth?’ he growled, looking darkly into Jemaine’s eyes. He put a hand on the back of Jemaine’s neck, drawing his head down to whisper in his ear. ‘Do you know how hot you’ve made me every night? Fuck, Jemaine, I’m so hot for you right now.’
Jemaine whimpered, overwhelmed, as Bret’s tongue came out to lick at his neck. Bret’s mouth, kissing, licking, gently biting, moved lower and lower, drawing more and more desperate sounds from Jemaine. Then Bret stopped and moved back up again to kiss Jemaine on the lips. Jemaine was so distracted by the kiss that he didn’t notice Bret undoing his jeans and easing down his underwear. ‘I’m...gonna try something...’ murmured Bret.
Bret sank down to his knees in front of Jemaine. Jemaine stared down, wide-eyed. Bret looked up at him, wicked yet vulnerable. ‘Tell me if I do something wrong,’ he said. ‘And...tell me if you like it, too.’
Bret took Jemaine’s cock in his hand and began to stroke it. Tentatively, he tongued the head of it, tasting the salt flavour of the precome welling there. ‘Oh god, Bret...’ moaned Jemaine, his head going back and hitting the wall. Encouraged, Bret let his lips wrap around him. Jemaine moaned again and his hands came to rest in Bret’s hair. As Bret sucked, sweet lips wrapped around his cock, tongue flicking occasionally against the head, Jemaine felt a fire slowly building inside him. This wasn’t like the other times, desperate for completion. He wanted to do this forever. But that seemed unlikely, the way Bret was moving his tongue just so, driving Jemaine slowly crazy. Oh god, yes, not much more, he was so close...
‘Bret!’ panted Jemaine, ‘Bret...Bret...I...I’m close...I...’
Bret stopped and stood in front of Jemaine, who was panting and bemused. ‘Please...’ begged Jemaine.
‘Don’t worry,’ soothed Bret. ‘I just...had to see you. Here...’
Bret began to stroke Jemaine again. He was so overstimulated that the touch was almost unbearably good. ‘That good, Jemaine?’ panted Bret, watching Jemaine’s tightly shut eyes and bitten lips.
‘Yes...’ managed Jemaine.
‘I want to see you come,’ moaned Bret, so turned on he was struggling to focus his attention yet determined to watch Jemaine. Still stroking Jemaine, he undid his own trousers with his other hand. He wasn’t wearing any underwear and as soon as his aching cock was free he held it against Jemaine’s and began stroking them both together. There was little unwelcome friction, Bret’s hand slicked with precome, and they both began to groan as soon as Bret’s hand started moving. In no time at all Jemaine’s head hit the wall again as he came, spilling over Bret’s hand and cock and suddenly Bret was coming too, the erotic pull of Jemaine’s orgasm too much. As he slowly became aware of his surroundings again, he heard Jemaine whisper, ‘Bret, I love you’.
Oh. Holy. Shit.
PART 4: OFFICE
‘No you don’t,’ said Bret, numbly. Jemaine opened his mouth as though to speak and then closed it again, confused. That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. Not that he’d been expecting anything in particular. He’d said it without thinking, surprising himself as much as Bret. Still, he hadn’t expected to be contradicted. ‘Um...I think I do,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Bret more fiercely, ‘You don’t.’
‘...Why?’ asked Jemaine, stupidly. He had the ominous feeling that this was going to be a truly horrible conversation.
‘Because you don’t, OK? You can’t. It’s one thing...fooling around...but this...you just can’t. This is messed up enough already.’
Bret’s eyes were stinging. He wiped the back of his clean hand over them and turned from Jemaine, angry and sad and hating all of this. He was sure he was doing the right thing. They had already probably ruined their friendship by introducing sex into it. To pile confessions of love onto the heap was some kind of suicide. Better to call the whole stupid affair off and try to get back some of what they had before. God, he missed his best friend. And yet, deep down, he realised that he too wanted something more. He wanted to hold Jemaine forever. He wanted Jemaine to be his, his, no one else’s. But that was a fantasy and he was in over his head and drowning and the only possible lifeline was to say...
‘This has to end here, Jemaine.’
‘No,’ said Jemaine.
‘It has to. Don’t kiss me again. Don’t touch me again. Ever.’
‘Do you...should I...move out?’ – Jemaine blinked and heavy tears rolled down his cheeks. Bret couldn’t bear it.
‘No. No. Stay. I want us to be friends again.’
‘But...you’ve broken my heart.’
Bret stared at Jemaine, pale and drained. This was, without question, the worst thing he had ever done in his life. He felt like he’d been given a beautiful, perfect flower and torn it apart. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice cracked with tears. ‘We can...we will get over it. We will.’
‘I guess we’ll have to,’ said Jemaine dully.
‘Years from now this will just be a weird thing that happened when we were younger.’
Jemaine didn’t answer. Bret instantly realised how disrespectfully jokey that had sounded, but didn’t know how to make it right. ‘Let’s just...let’s just go to sleep now. Tomorrow morning, a new start. We’ll be friends again. Like old times.’
‘Right. Goodnight then.’
‘Jemaine?’
‘What?’
‘I really do miss being friends with you.’
‘Yeah. Well. It might take some time.’
‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’
Jemaine just shook his head and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
* * * * *
Over time, things got better. Bret was so diligent and dedicated about getting things back to normal that before long Jemaine couldn’t help but go along with it. He couldn’t stand not being friends with Bret, even though he had meant it when he said Bret had broken his heart. Eventually, they even began to sleep in the same room again, Bret’s bed having been half-heartedly and somewhat suspiciously fixed by Eugene.
But Bret had a flaw. That flaw was insecurity. And as soon as he’d almost fixed things he started to wonder if he should be offended that things were fixed so easily. Was he that easy to resist? Why wasn’t Jemaine trying anything with him? Why did he never catch Jemaine looking at him? Or masturbating over him? Surely Jemaine hadn’t got over him just like that. Bret realised he’d come to depend on the validation that Jemaine wanting him had provided.
So one day he leaned over Jemaine to get the TV remote, letting his arm brush against him, and was gratified at the barely audible yet telling intake of breath it brought about. Yes, Jemaine was still hot for him, he was just hiding it well because they’d agreed to call it off. Good.
But that wasn’t enough. Soon he felt insecure again. Every time he needed a little confidence boost he’d test things out by accidentally-on-purpose touching Jemaine, or gently flirting with him, or glancing at him in a way that suggested the promise of something they both knew he couldn’t give. And Jemaine rose to it every time. Because, unlike Bret, he had resigned himself to the fact that he was still achingly in love and lust. He knew he shouldn’t keep encouraging Bret’s teasing, but he was a fool for any kind of attention from him. Still, it was getting worse. It was almost as if Bret was angling for another night with him, and Jemaine was damned if he’d do that when he knew Bret didn’t love him back. Jemaine should have known that, one way or another, he’d crack soon enough.
They were in Murray’s building when it happened, borrowing Greg’s internet after hours. Everyone had gone home, and Murray had left them with the keys and a stern warning not to break anything. Jemaine was typing an email while Bret sat, idly twisting in the swivel chair beside him. Bret glanced at Jemaine. ‘Where’d you get that jacket?’ he asked.
Jemaine looked down at himself, having forgotten what jacket he’d put on that day. ‘Thrift store,’ he said, going back to face the screen again.
‘Makes you look like you just walked off the set of “Life on Mars”.’
‘Yeah, shut it, Tyler,’ grinned Jemaine, not looking away from the computer screen.
Bret wheeled the chair closer to Jemaine. Jemaine broke out in goosebumps at the sudden proximity. ‘Make me, Hunt,’ whispered Bret. Jemaine turned and found himself looking into Bret’s eyes. Bret looked away coyly and began to wheel the chair away from him. But for Jemaine it was one flirtation too many. Bret couldn’t keep acting like that and expect Jemaine just to suffer and not do anything about it. Frankly, if he wanted Gene Hunt right now, he could have him. Jemaine stood up abruptly and spun round Bret’s chair so that he was facing him again. ‘Get up,’ he said, his voice dangerous. Bret looked confused.
‘...What?’
‘You heard me. Get up.’
‘But...’
Jemaine reached down and dragged Bret up by the front of his shirt. Before Bret could struggle or protest, he found himself shoved roughly against the filing cabinet, the metal cold through his shirt and contrasting deliriously with the heat of Jemaine holding him there. Jemaine’s thigh was between his legs, pressing against his crotch, and Jemaine had one hand around his wrist and another wound tightly in his hair. Jemaine’s breath was hot against his neck. Bret was caught helplessly between arousal and fear. Jemaine had been assertive before, but never like this. It wasn’t like him.
‘Is this what you want?’ growled Jemaine into Bret’s ear. ‘This is what you asked for, isn’t it? This is what you’ve been asking for every time you turned me on when you knew I wouldn’t do anything about it because I love you. And well done. Congratulations. I’ve been tempted. I’ve been tempted every time. You’d like me to give in now, wouldn’t you? Damn bastard cocktease. I can tell you’re dying for it. I should fuck you right here against the filing cabinet. But you know how it would end up? Exactly how it ended up before. Don’t you get it? I love you. I’m in love with you and every time you deliberately make me want you it tears me apart a little more. So if you don’t love me, stop leading me on, fuck off and let me type my fucking email in peace. Please.’
Bret’s eyes grew wide for a second, as though something had suddenly become clear to him.
‘No,’ he said.
Jemaine faltered, his adrenaline giving way to remorse for talking to Bret like that. ‘What?’
‘No. I’m not going to leave.’
‘Please, Bret, don’t make this more difficult. I don’t have any fight left. It’s not fair.’
‘No, listen, Jemaine. I’m not going to leave without you, because...I do love you.’
‘That’s really low, Bret. It’s one thing leading me on physically, but...’
‘No, I’m not just saying that! I do! I just...didn’t recognise it...or...couldn’t admit it. I don’t know. But...Jemaine...’
Bret broke free from Jemaine’s clutches and stroked his face. ‘I love you,’ he said, softly.
‘I don’t believe you. You’re just saying it because you want me to boost your confidence by spending the night with you. The next day we’ll be back to not speaking. It’s not gonna happen.’
‘...I’ll prove it.’
‘How?’
‘Come with me.’
Bret took Jemaine’s hand and led him out of the building.
* * * * *
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Murray, suspicious. ‘Did you break my hole punch?’
‘No,’ said Bret. ‘I’ve got something to say.’
‘This isn’t a scheduled band meeting.’
‘This isn’t band business. It’s personal business.’
‘Still...hang on...’
Murray disappeared back into his house for a moment and then re-appeared with a yellow notebook.
‘Right. A...personal meeting. Bret?’
‘Present.’
‘Jemaine?’
‘Present.’
‘And Murray. Present. Sorry, Bret, I just thought by your tone that this would be something important and formal. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you dying?’
‘What? No!’
‘Good. Not...dying...’ – Murray scribbled the words onto his pad.
‘Murray. I came here because I wanted to tell you that I’m in love with Jemaine.’
Jemaine looked at him, painfully embarrassed. ‘Bret! Shut up!’
‘No. Murray, I’m in love with Jemaine and he doesn’t believe that I am. So I’m going to tell everybody so that I can’t possibly take it back. Write it down. I’ll write it for you.’
Bret took the yellow pad from a stunned and speechless Murray and wrote, ‘Bret is in love with Jemaine, signed, Bret.’
Murray found his voice. ‘You can’t be in love with Jemaine, Bret!’ he said, ‘Surely that will cause tension in the band, if one member is in love with the other one...’
‘Actually,’ said Jemaine, smiling, ‘I’m in love with him too. I was in love with him first.’
‘No, you just admitted it first,’ said Bret.
‘Oh,’ said Murray, digesting the information. ‘Well I suppose...this might open up a new demographic for us. I hear the pink dollar is very strong these days. That’s gay money. Gay people buy records. How do you feel about wearing cowboy hats?’
‘Let’s save it for the band meeting tomorrow,’ suggested Bret. ‘I have heaps more people to tell.’
‘Well...good luck, then. Look after Bret, Jemaine. And look after Jemaine, Bret.’
‘We will,’ they said in unison. When the door had closed, Bret grinned smugly and genuinely happily at Jemaine. ‘Ready to go tell Dave?’ he said.
‘Oh god. No.’
‘Chicken.’
‘You would really tell Dave?’
‘I’ll tell anyone you like. I don’t care what happens as long as you know I love you.’
‘We can tell Dave tomorrow,’ said Jemaine, taking Bret’s hand in his own and stroking it. ‘Let’s go home.’
‘What, no fucking me against the filing cabinet?’ grinned Bret.
‘I’m going to make love to you. In my bed. Then I’m going to fall asleep with you. Then I’m going to wake up with you and make love to you again. Then I’m going to make you a cup of tea.’
‘Wow. That’s way better.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Jemaine...you’re my best friend. And I love you.’
‘Let’s go home, Bret.’
They walked home hand in hand. Whenever a stranger stared, Bret would proudly proclaim that he was in love with Jemaine, and that was why he was holding hands with him. Bret was deeply embarrassing. But Jemaine wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
PART 1: BED
Jemaine was sure he’d misheard, because even Bret wasn’t that stupid. ‘You did what?’
‘I broke my bed.’
‘...How?’
‘I was listening to The Who. I was being Pete Townshend,’ said Bret, as though this were explanation enough.
Jemaine sighed. ‘I guess that’s like, the second coolest way to break your bed. Still pretty stupid, though. At least you weren’t listening to Hendrix. So what are you gonna do now?’
‘Sleep on the couch, I guess.’
‘Yeah, well just don’t break it.’
Bret sulked. ‘You’re so mean, Jemaine,’ he huffed, leaving the room. Jemaine mumbled, struggling for words. He genuinely didn’t like hurting Bret’s feelings, yet somehow he managed to do it on a regular basis. ‘I like your sweater, Bret,’ he called hopelessly from the bedroom.
‘I thought you didn’t like penguins,’ called Bret.
It had penguins on it? Damn it, Jemaine was even bad at fake compliments. ‘No, I don’t,’ he backtracked quickly, ‘but...you know...colour suits you.’ – Bret had better not test him on the colour. It was definitely either blue or yellow.
‘Thanks, man,’ smiled Bret, placated, peeking back into the room. Oh. Red. OK. Jemaine thought he should probably pay things more attention.
That night there was a storm. It rattled the windowpanes and moaned through the keyholes. Bret sat bolt upright on the couch, cocooned in his blanket, arms wrapped around himself. He felt stupid for still being scared of thunderstorms, but his fear overcame his embarrassment. He tiptoed into the bedroom and crept under Jemaine’s covers. He’d just have to explain himself when Jemaine woke up. Which was now. Flip.
‘Bret! What are you...get out of my bed!’
‘You know I don’t like storms!’
‘So? You’ve never got into my bed before. Get out!’
‘When I was in my bed it was different. I knew someone was there. I was all alone on the couch.’
Jemaine huffed. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘but don’t touch me.’
‘Look who’s talking, Mr Spoony.’
‘That was different. I was lonely.’
‘Yes, getting into bed with a guy because you’re lonely is far less gay.’
‘Shut up and go to sleep. Goodnight, Bret.’
‘G’night.’
They both fell asleep fairly quickly. Though Jemaine would never admit it, it was kind of comforting having Bret there, his arm warm against Jemaine’s back. Jemaine was woken a few hours later, however, by a soft moan. Sort of cute, Jemaine thought, drifting between wakefulness and sleep. Then there was another moan. And another. Progressively less and less cute. Jemaine began to fear that Bret would keep him up all night with his sleep-noises. Bret moaned again, low and gentle, and then mumbled, ‘Oh yeah, that’s good...’
Ew! Jemaine recoiled so that Bret’s arm was no longer touching him. He turned and looked accusingly at the sleeping form beside him. Bret was having sex dreams! In Jemaine’s bed! Gah! Yuck! Jemaine wanted to wake Bret, but he was sure he’d heard somewhere that it was dangerous to wake someone talking in their sleep. Like, their voicebox would fall out, or something. And also, once the initial disgust had worn off, it was kind of funny. He wondered what other insights into Bret’s subconscious he could glean. They might be good for future blackmail. ‘Mmm, yeah,’ moaned Bret, eyelids fluttering a little.
‘Having a nice dream there, are you, Bret?’ grinned Jemaine.
Bret’s sleeping brain attempted to process the question. ‘M’not dreamin’,’ he mumbled, ‘you...you’re a...weird girl.’
Jemaine stifled laughter at this. No shit, Bret. Bret shifted onto his side and Jemaine watched his peaceful face. He couldn’t help but smile. As much as Bret got on his nerves, he really did like the guy. It was actually rather fun sharing a bed like this. Like a kid’s sleepover. Except for the sex dreams. Maybe more like a teenage sleepover. And then he felt Bret’s breath on his face and realised it was actually much more like something else. His face was inches from Bret’s. He looked down and realised that the same went for the rest of him. He also noticed that there was a prominent erection in the tiger-print shorts facing him. Worse than that, though he had expected a wave of nausea at this revelation, he felt instead a tingling frisson of excitement.
Wait...what?! Jemaine laughed it off, nervously. He guessed it was catching, like yawning. A chain reaction. Besides, he didn’t feel horny. He felt more...curious. He wondered how far he could test the other man before he woke up to tales of his embarrassing sleeptalking. In the cold light of day, Jemaine would have looked on this unhealthy curiosity with suspicion. But it was dark and the storm was rumbling outside the window, and it really didn’t occur to him that it might not be OK. Bret sighed shakily and unconsciously placed a hand on Jemaine’s hip. Jemaine ignored the sensations that gesture prompted. Just a chain reaction. ‘Feel so good,’ growled Bret, and Jemaine found he couldn’t ignore the spark of desire that went straight to his cock at the intensity in Bret’s voice. He bit his lip. ‘What feels so good, Bret?’ he whispered, trying not to dwell on the tremor in his own voice.
‘You,’ moaned Bret. ‘Touch...touch me...’
Fuck. Shit. Help. Jemaine knew Bret was only dreaming – knew he’d kind of courted inclusion in the dream – but this was probably going too far. Then...then again...it’s only an experiment, right? Interesting to know whether sensations as well as sounds could permeate a sleeping person’s dream. Jemaine tentatively placed a hand on Bret’s chest (over the t-shirt, naturally). No reaction. He moved it a little, stroking gently. No reaction. He felt mingled relief and frustration at this. Irresponsible in his frustration, he let his hand skirt over Bret’s nipple. Bret moaned raggedly, his breathing audibly speeding up. Jemaine wondered when Bret’s vocal chords had set up their direct line to Jemaine’s cock. He dragged his hand over the clothed nipple again, more roughly this time. Bret gave a little cry and suddenly thrust his hips forward, closing the gap between them. The feeling of mingled fear and arousal that shot through Jemaine was overwhelming. His own barely stifled cry reached Bret through the haze of sleep. Bret’s hand began to creep under Jemaine’s t-shirt, just momentarily brushing his hardness on its way to rest on his stomach. Jemaine moaned again at this, his forehead on Bret’s shoulder.
‘Please...’ moaned Jemaine. He was beyond rational thought now. He was beyond worrying about whether or not this was irreconcilably gay and wrong. He was beyond even caring that Bret might wake any moment. His lust unreasonably assumed that Bret would just carry on in the event of waking. He just needed...just needed that touch...that blessed friction...oh god. Bret’s hand slipped down onto Jemaine’s crotch, stroking him through the material of his boxer shorts. Jemaine mirrored Bret, unthinkingly touching his friend, loving the heat and the hardness of him, getting closer and closer to completion with every moan he drew from Bret’s lips.
Bret groaned, thrusting into Jemaine’s hand, and his eyes fluttered open. ‘God,’ he moaned, then slowly realised that he was a) about to come and b) no longer dreaming. ‘Uh...what? God...fuck...oh god...who...FUCK, JEMAINE?!’
‘Sleeping! I was sleeping!’ cried Jemaine, quickly removing his hand from Bret’s crotch and not unaware of the way Bret’s hips momentarily instinctively tried to follow it. They both fell back to lie on their backs, not touching, looking at the ceiling. Jemaine listened to Bret’s breathing, still heavy and uneven, and felt an ache of longing. Bret tried to justify in his mind the fact that part of him desperately wanted Jemaine to carry on. But obviously he wouldn’t now. And, just as obviously, Bret shouldn’t want that. After a few minutes’ awkward silence, they both simultaneously said, ‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ then looked at each-other suspiciously.
‘You go,’ said Bret, finally. ‘I’d...the storm’s blown over. I’d better get back to the couch. Yeah.’
‘Yeah. Bret...tomorrow...’
‘Nothing happened. We won’t talk about it.’
‘Right. Goodnight, Bret.’
‘Goodnight...Jemaine.’
Their eyes met for a moment, and each registered the other’s reluctance to part. ‘Goodnight, Jemaine,’ Bret repeated, steeling himself, and he left.
PART 2: COUCH
They had managed to avoid each other, more or less, all day. Now they sat on the couch, not touching, staring vaguely at the TV. They both felt the previous night hanging over them, as though it were a physical presence in the room. They both knew the other could feel it too. But there was no way they were going to talk about it. No way. Jemaine shifted, trying to get comfortable, and his hand brushed Bret’s. Bret gasped quietly and pulled his hand away. Jemaine quickly moved his hand too. He glanced over at Bret, who was staring forwards like he meant it, his hands clamped together in his lap. Oh well, at least Jemaine could put his hand down now without touching him.
Finally comfortable (as much as he could be, sat next to a man he had done inexcusably gay things with the night before), Jemaine tried to relax. He liked the Dog Show, although the episode Murray’s mother had taped was starting to wear a bit thin. Still, it beat thinking about things. Just as he was starting to pleasantly drift, no longer thinking about anything in particular, he felt something brush his hand and then flinch. He glanced down and saw Bret’s hand in a tight fist beside his own. He wanted to pull his hand away again, but he’d just got comfortable. Bret would have to move. Jemaine wasn’t backing down. He turned his attention back to the TV screen, acting as though he hadn’t noticed. He heard Bret exhale slowly beside him, and vaguely wondered if Bret had been holding his breath. Then he felt it again.
Jemaine looked down at his hand. Bret’s little finger was just touching his own. He glanced up at Bret, who was still resolutely facing the screen. A tingling, crackling sensation, like static electricity, marked the point where their hands touched. Jemaine felt nervous – overwhelmed – as though the touch could mean nothing or everything or anything in between and his reaction to it could be horribly important or disappointingly meaningless. Testing Bret, Jemaine moved his hand just a little. In a less highly-charged situation, a person sitting by him would never have guessed the movement was anything less than innocent. It manifested as the tiniest stroke of his friend’s shaking hand. Bret inhaled sharply, but his hand didn’t move.
Jemaine hadn’t known that it was possible to be so tense just sitting watching TV. Except he wasn’t really watching TV. He was listening to Bret’s shaky breathing. He was feeling Bret trembling beside him. He wondered if he was being as obvious as Bret was. God, how were they going to get over this? Why had he touched Bret in the first place? Why had he wanted to? A feather-light movement against his hand caught him off-guard, making him stifle a whimper. He looked down to see Bret’s little finger hooked over his own. He had no idea why this should have such an effect on him. He felt like he was made of nothing but a bundle of harassed, desperate nerve-endings. The touch of Bret’s trembling hand was making him stiffen in his jeans. It was ridiculous. Still, his pride wouldn’t stand for Bret winning this particular game of ‘chicken’. He curled out his fingers so that they stroked along the palm of Bret’s hand. The barely perceptible moan that escaped Bret’s lips had Jemaine suddenly, fully and achingly hard. He did it once more, dying to make Bret moan again. It worked, the low, desperate, reluctant sound driving Jemaine to distraction.
The scent of Bret, too, was getting inside Jemaine, adding to his hopeless arousal. All at once it occurred to him that one or both of them must have leant in closer, since he hadn’t been able to smell him before. He glanced up at Bret, who was suddenly very close. Bret’s eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He was still facing the TV, as though that would make everything alright. Jemaine realised he hadn’t breathed for a while, and let out a breathy sigh. Bret moaned again and momentarily gripped Jemaine’s hand, his hips bucking slightly against nothing. The action drew a similar moan from Jemaine. What had he done to make Bret do that? All he had done was breathe. On Bret’s neck. Ah...interesting. Jemaine leant in further and brushed Bret’s neck with his cheek.
Bret moaned a little louder this time, his breathing uneven, his eyes clamped shut. This wasn’t fair. He was so hard it hurt and every little thing Jemaine did was so good, too good, and none of it made any sense...
Jemaine turned his head a little, letting his lips just barely brush the sensitive skin of Bret’s throat. This was dangerous, he knew. He was ploughing further and further into territory where he could no longer pass his actions off as accidental. But oh god, Bret was moaning and trembling and it was because of him, and nothing had ever turned him on so much. He dared himself to do it. Dared himself to turn the brush of his lips into a kiss. ‘Don’t...’ moaned Bret, and though Jemaine knew it shouldn’t be the thing that made him lose control entirely, it was.
He hadn’t realised that his hands wanted to be anywhere in particular, but suddenly they were on a mission. One moved to the back of Bret’s neck, holding him possessively against Jemaine’s mouth. The other began to undo the top buttons of Bret’s shirt. He groaned as he felt Bret’s hand creep onto his thigh, alternating between stroking and grasping, clearly unsure what to do but all the more wonderful for it. The angle was uncomfortable so Jemaine moved to kneel beside Bret, gasping when the unexpected movement caused Bret’s hand to accidentally press against the bulge in his jeans. Bret moved his hand away instinctively, and for a second Jemaine thought that was it: reality had bitten and Bret wouldn’t touch him anymore.
On the contrary, Bret knelt opposite Jemaine and looked into his eyes. His expression was heartbreaking, because Jemaine understood it completely. It said, ‘touch me, but please don’t make me ask for it. Please don’t make me talk about it.’
Jemaine took pity on Bret and didn’t look at his face. Instead his eyes roved over Bret’s body. He undid some more buttons on Bret’s shirt and pushed the material aside. He pressed his mouth hotly to Bret’s collarbone, and suddenly Bret’s nervousness was replaced with raw need. Deft hands began to undo Jemaine’s belt, unzipping his jeans and slipping inside, drawing a helpless groan from Jemaine. Jemaine reached down to undo Bret’s fly, still pressing hot, hard kisses to Bret’s neck and chest. Jemaine felt stupidly clumsy, but Bret didn’t seem to notice, thrusting into Jemaine’s hand as soon as it found its way into his jeans. Jemaine bit his lip to stop himself saying the words that were forming in his head. He wanted to tell Bret how fucking hard he felt in his hand, and how good it was, and how Bret’s moans were amazing, and how much he wanted to make Bret come...but talking would make it all too real. Too scary. Besides, actions could speak louder than words. He ducked his hand under the waistband of Bret’s underwear.
Bret made a sobbing sound as Jemaine’s hot hand wrapped around his cock. It dawned on him, with a dizzy, spiralling certainty, that he was going to come all over his friend’s hand. Jemaine’s hand. How could he get so worked up so suddenly by someone so familiar? And, more importantly, thought Bret as Jemaine’s thumb brushed over the head of his cock, who the hell cares? Bret slipped his hand under Jemaine’s boxer shorts and began to stroke him. ‘Fuck, Bret...’ moaned Jemaine, and Bret felt the scrape of teeth on his neck and suddenly he was coming so hard (and so loudly, he distantly noticed) that he didn’t know what to do with himself. As he came round he registered Jemaine slumped against him, panting, and felt the somewhat unpleasant sensation of wetness cooling on his hand. Bret felt a pang of disappointment that he had been so wrapped up in his own pleasure that he’d missed Jemaine coming. ‘Next time I’ll watch him when he comes,’ he thought, and then, nervously, ‘next time?’
‘Um...’ said Bret.
‘Don’t talk about it.’
‘Right.’ – Bret felt like a cold stone had been dropped on his chest.
‘Going to wash up.’
‘OK.’
‘Fuck. We can’t do this anymore.’
‘Don’t talk about it, you said.’
‘Right. Right.’
Jemaine got up without looking at Bret and went to wash himself up in the Bathroom.
That night Jemaine wept into his pillow. It was the first time in his adult life he’d wanted something so much he cried.
PART 3: RAMBO
It was getting easier, kind of. When they didn’t think about it too much, it seemed to be getting easier.
It was getting more messed up. When they thought about it, it was definitely pretty damn messed up.
They hadn’t touched again – not since that time on the couch. They had even managed to talk normally, albeit at a greater distance from one another than they used to talk. Come too close, and they risked being caught in that irresistible magnetic field. They’d stand just close enough to feel the pleasant burn, the electric pull between them, but not close enough to be overwhelmed by it. And then they’d talk about music, about America and New Zealand, about films and animals, just like they always had. It almost wasn’t strange at all.
But something had to give, and it was this unspoken something that made their relationship such a Jerry Springer car crash of a mess. The first time something gave was the night after the couch incident. Jemaine was in bed, listening to Bret brushing his teeth and getting undressed in the bathroom. He was trying not to listen, but the sounds of Bret seemed to fill the flat. Jemaine closed his eyes and guiltily imagined Bret pulling off his t-shirt. In Jemaine’s mind, Bret’s hands slowly and teasingly pushed the material up, revealing his flat, hard stomach. The t-shirt was pulled over his head, then dropped in a heap on the bathroom floor. Now Bret was half naked, his hair messed up, and...Oh. An idea occurred to Jemaine. What if Bret was thinking about him? What if Bret was as horny as he was? Bret had been quiet in there for some time. Perhaps his eyes were glazed with guilty desire. Perhaps he couldn’t stop thinking of Jemaine. Perhaps he was aching to touch himself. Aching. Achingly hard. Oh. God. Jemaine groaned and automatically reached down to stroke himself through his underwear.
Jemaine would have been amazed to know how close his fantasy was to the truth. Bret, his t-shirt crumpled on the floor, was supporting himself on the sink having just liberally splashed his face with cold water. He had been playing out the night before obsessively in his head. As the water dripped from his hair, he imagined Jemaine following the drips with his tongue. One droplet fell onto his chest, snaking down and around an already-hard nipple. A tremor of arousal shivered through him as he imagined Jemaine’s tongue there, flicking over and around his nipple, so hot, so good...Then he felt a drop of water land on his lower lip. He licked at it, imagining Jemaine’s tongue following. Strange, he had never really enjoyed kissing girls that way. It seemed unnecessarily sloppy and offputting. But the thought of Jemaine’s sweet, hot mouth covering his own, the thought of Jemaine’s tongue slipping in, caressing his own, tasting and claiming him...Fuck it, thought Bret, undoing his jeans. He bit his lip as he took himself in hand and began to stroke. Then he heard Jemaine groan. It might have just been a sleepy murmur, but it sent a dangerous pang of arousal straight to Bret’s cock.
Oh yeah, thought Jemaine blindly as he hastily rid himself of underwear and kicked away the covers. Yeah, Bret would be dying for him right now, so desperate for more of the touch that had made him cry out so loud and ragged the night before. ‘Bret...’ he whispered, as he began to touch himself in earnest. It felt naughty and good to say Bret’s name while he did this. He said it again, a little louder, his voice breathless and cracking.
Bret froze as he heard his name. He didn’t answer, but stood silently bent over the sink with one hand supporting him and the other still wrapped around his cock. Then he heard something that made his head spin. It was quiet, but sound carried easily in their flat. ‘Yeah, you like that, don’t you?’ panted Jemaine, low and intense. ‘You love it. Tell me you want it. My mouth on you. My hands on you. Fuck. You feel so good. God, I want you...’
Bret moaned and began stroking himself again. Was that what Jemaine had been thinking last night? Bret mused wryly that he’d probably never be able to hear Jemaine talk again without getting hard.
Bret’s moan carried to Jemaine. His eyes shot open. Holy shit. Bret really was getting off in there. And god, god, the beautiful sounds he made. ‘Fuck, I love it when you moan like that,’ growled Jemaine, eyes closed again, hand roughly fisting his cock. Bret, bent over the sink, supporting arm shaking with the effort, moaned again. He was no longer fantasising. No need, when Jemaine was in their bedroom, masturbating loudly over him and talking dirty. God, that filthy mouth. Those wicked lips ought to be wrapped around Bret’s cock, Bret thought, hand speeding up between his legs. Fuck, yes, a hand in Jemaine’s hair, guiding his head as he sucked him...Wow, Bret didn’t know he could think so dirty. It was Jemaine’s fault. Bret vaguely noticed that his own sounds of pleasure were coming out fast and desperate, tumbling over each other as he drifted back into fantasy, urged on by Jemaine’s words. ‘Jemaine...’ he moaned, too loudly.
When Bret said his name, Jemaine knew he couldn’t last much longer. ‘Gonna make you come so fucking hard, Bret,’ he growled.
‘Oh...god...yes...’ gasped Bret.
‘Fuck...’
‘Jemaine...want you...oh...oh...’
Bret cried out helplessly as he came, pulsing hot over his hand, the sink and the bathroom floor. His first cry sent Jemaine tumbling after him, moaning low and fierce as he spattered his own belly and chest.
This had become a nightly occurrence. Neither was absolutely certain that the other could hear, but they both knew it was pretty likely. Yet somehow this weirdness had created a bridge between them. During the day, they were able to converse like the friends they had always been. The only moment of awkwardness was when Bret would say, ‘I’m gonna get ready for bed.’ – Then Jemaine would nod, his face heating at the implicit agreement between them.
* * * * *
Bret and Jemaine had gone (almost) cold turkey for some time. No inappropriate touching. Definitely no kissing. Sure, there were the nightly long-distance shared masturbation sessions, but they belonged to the night and would not be thought about, let alone discussed. But then, it was only a matter of time.
Murray had invited them to his birthday party. It was fancy dress, with a ‘Letter “R”’ theme. Murray had started this charming tradition two years ago: fancy dress parties in which guests dressed up as the letters of the birthday boy’s name. The first year, Murray had come as a mutant, with an extra arm and leg. The second, he had made good use of his clipboard as a ‘unionist’, which seemed to involve him dressing in his own clothes but shouting a bit more.
The boys were changing, Jemaine in the bathroom, Bret in the bedroom. The other way round would have potentially promised something for which they didn’t have time tonight. When Bret emerged from the Bathroom, he and Jemaine exchanged annoyed, incredulous looks. ‘We’re dressed the same,’ Bret pointed out.
‘I know. You should change.’
‘Why me?’
‘You know I love Rambo,’ explained Jemaine. ‘I was sure you’d dress as a robot. Can’t you just wear what you wore for the music video?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Bret was caught out. Before he and Jemaine had embarked upon their journey of weirdness and denial, he would have worn that costume for sure. He hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, but he had decided against it because it wasn’t sexy. He realised he wanted Jemaine to be tempted by him. He wanted to test him, to tease him in public. He wanted to see in Jemaine’s eyes the lust that he knew hid there.
‘It’s broken,’ lied Bret. ‘I was keeping it under the bed.’
‘Oh. Well...OK.’
Jemaine looked at Bret and sincerely wished the stupid robot outfit wasn’t broken. He didn’t mind being dressed almost identically to Bret. The problem was that, while he felt like a bit of an idiot in his costume, Bret looked unreasonably hot. He wanted to pin Bret against the wall and kiss him hard, slide a hand under his camouflage t-shirt, sink down and bite (not too hard, but hard enough to feel it) at the hard flesh of Bret’s stomach, because Bret deserved it, because he shouldn’t be so hot and it wasn’t fair.
Bret looked at Jemaine and wished he could get out of the damn party. It wouldn’t be Jemaine letting his guard down. Bret could feel his common sense melting into nothing as he took in Jemaine’s bare, shapely arms and the glimpse of chest hair that he shouldn’t find so hot because it was unabashedly masculine. God, he wanted the heat and the weight of Jemaine on top of him. He wanted to be kissed roughly. He wanted to be taken, ravished, hands grasping his hips hard enough to leave bruises. ‘Let’s get going, then,’ he mumbled.
* * * * *
‘Hey, you guys!’ beamed Murray as he opened the door. ‘Nice costume, Bret. What are you?’
‘I’m Rambo.’
‘And what are you, Jemaine?’
‘I’m also Rambo.’
‘A houseful of Rambos! Imagine that! Can you tell what I am? Your money or your life!’
‘Yeah,’ said Jemaine, ‘but Peter Pan doesn’t begin with “R”.’
‘No, I’m not Peter Pan. Look! The bow and arrow? The Lincoln green? No?’
Bret and Jemaine shrugged and shook their heads.
‘I’m Robin Hood! Honestly. Come in, then.’
Bret and Jemaine shuffled in. An old ‘Top of the Pops’ LP scratched and stuttered on the turntable. Greg was sat on the sofa wearing a striped jumper and a mask and cradling a sack with a large dollar sign on it. Eugene was sat next to him dressed as a rabbit. It was most disturbing. Good turn out this year. One better than last year.
The party wore on interminably. Murray had to sit out most of the game of charades because he cheated. He thought this unfair, because it was the only way to persuade Bret and Jemaine that no, he really wasn’t miming any kind of biscuit.
Several boring party games later, Murray suggested Sardines. Without looking at each other, without needing to, Bret and Jemaine both blanched. ‘You hide, Bret,’ said Murray, ‘because you’re small. You can fit into all the little nooks and crannies.’
Murray, Greg, Eugene and Jemaine closed their eyes as Bret crept reluctantly off to hide. And Jemaine knew he shouldn’t, but just before Bret’s footsteps became too quiet, he peeked. Bret had hidden behind the door. It was Bret’s usual hide-and-seek trick. Hide in the same room as the counter, and they don’t expect it. Sure enough, when they had finished counting, the others scattered through the house, leaving Jemaine alone with Bret in the living room. Taking a deep breath, he crept behind the door. Bret looked up at him, his eyes wide and almost scared, his back pressed against the wall. And Jemaine instantly forgot all the reasons why he should be controlling himself. Taking Bret’s face possessively in his hands, he swooped down and kissed him softly, asking silently for permission. Bret stared at him.
‘You...you kissed me.’
‘Well...yeah,’ agreed Jemaine, uncomfortably. Why did Bret feel he had to point it out? Wasn’t like it was the first time. Except...hang on...yes. Now he thought about it, it was the first time. For all they had done, they had never kissed before. Kissing was something else. Kissing was...romantic.
‘Do it again,’ breathed Bret.
Jemaine kissed Bret again, allowing his lips to linger this time. He felt Bret’s lips part slightly under his own, and deepened the kiss, his tongue sneaking into Bret’s mouth. Jemaine felt he ought to hold back a little, because he could feel the heat and the hunger quickly growing in him. He allowed his hand to stray under Bret’s t-shirt, feeling the bare flesh there for the first time. And as he kissed and Bret kissed back, making tiny, stifled sounds in the back of his throat, Jemaine realised that he would gladly have sex with this man. In fact, he wanted it. Wanted to thrust into him and hear him cursing and crying out Jemaine’s name. Jemaine was hard against Bret’s hip, now kissing and licking at Bret’s neck. Bret was hard too, his face buried in Jemaine’s shoulder, finding it harder and harder to remain quiet.
‘Huddle up some more, Boys, and stop fidgeting or we’ll get caught,’ said Murray, arriving. Bret and Jemaine separated and looked hopelessly into each other’s eyes. Jemaine pushed himself into the corner with his back to the wall. Bret faced him and huddled closer, allowing Murray to creep into the increasingly cramped hiding place. When Murray wasn’t looking, Jemaine surreptitiously bit at Bret’s neck, then licked the place he had bitten. ‘Stop it,’ whispered Bret, seriously.
‘Later?’ whispered Jemaine, and two syllables had never held so much desperate hope.
‘Later,’ agreed Bret.
* * * * *
As soon as they got through the door of the flat, Bret and Jemaine exchanged a heated, breathless look and then they were on each other again. Jemaine pushed Bret until he had his back to the wall, and then began kissing him hard, tongue thrusting into his mouth. He pulled Bret’s t-shirt off, dragging his bandana off with it, before kissing him again.
‘Always...trying...to get me...up against...the wall...’ panted Bret between kisses, his hands pushing up the material of Jemaine’s tank top.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Jemaine, grinning, vaguely thinking how amazing it felt to suddenly be able to talk. He pulled off his own shirt and dropped it in a pile with Bret’s. ‘It’s so I can do...this.’
Jemaine took Bret’s wrists and pinned them either side of his head, then rolled his hips against him so that their still-clothed erections rubbed together. Bret groaned, and then suddenly Jemaine found their positions reversed. Bret was surprisingly strong, having flipped Jemaine so that his back was now against the wall. ‘Do you know what you’ve been doing to me with that dirty mouth?’ he growled, looking darkly into Jemaine’s eyes. He put a hand on the back of Jemaine’s neck, drawing his head down to whisper in his ear. ‘Do you know how hot you’ve made me every night? Fuck, Jemaine, I’m so hot for you right now.’
Jemaine whimpered, overwhelmed, as Bret’s tongue came out to lick at his neck. Bret’s mouth, kissing, licking, gently biting, moved lower and lower, drawing more and more desperate sounds from Jemaine. Then Bret stopped and moved back up again to kiss Jemaine on the lips. Jemaine was so distracted by the kiss that he didn’t notice Bret undoing his jeans and easing down his underwear. ‘I’m...gonna try something...’ murmured Bret.
Bret sank down to his knees in front of Jemaine. Jemaine stared down, wide-eyed. Bret looked up at him, wicked yet vulnerable. ‘Tell me if I do something wrong,’ he said. ‘And...tell me if you like it, too.’
Bret took Jemaine’s cock in his hand and began to stroke it. Tentatively, he tongued the head of it, tasting the salt flavour of the precome welling there. ‘Oh god, Bret...’ moaned Jemaine, his head going back and hitting the wall. Encouraged, Bret let his lips wrap around him. Jemaine moaned again and his hands came to rest in Bret’s hair. As Bret sucked, sweet lips wrapped around his cock, tongue flicking occasionally against the head, Jemaine felt a fire slowly building inside him. This wasn’t like the other times, desperate for completion. He wanted to do this forever. But that seemed unlikely, the way Bret was moving his tongue just so, driving Jemaine slowly crazy. Oh god, yes, not much more, he was so close...
‘Bret!’ panted Jemaine, ‘Bret...Bret...I...I’m close...I...’
Bret stopped and stood in front of Jemaine, who was panting and bemused. ‘Please...’ begged Jemaine.
‘Don’t worry,’ soothed Bret. ‘I just...had to see you. Here...’
Bret began to stroke Jemaine again. He was so overstimulated that the touch was almost unbearably good. ‘That good, Jemaine?’ panted Bret, watching Jemaine’s tightly shut eyes and bitten lips.
‘Yes...’ managed Jemaine.
‘I want to see you come,’ moaned Bret, so turned on he was struggling to focus his attention yet determined to watch Jemaine. Still stroking Jemaine, he undid his own trousers with his other hand. He wasn’t wearing any underwear and as soon as his aching cock was free he held it against Jemaine’s and began stroking them both together. There was little unwelcome friction, Bret’s hand slicked with precome, and they both began to groan as soon as Bret’s hand started moving. In no time at all Jemaine’s head hit the wall again as he came, spilling over Bret’s hand and cock and suddenly Bret was coming too, the erotic pull of Jemaine’s orgasm too much. As he slowly became aware of his surroundings again, he heard Jemaine whisper, ‘Bret, I love you’.
Oh. Holy. Shit.
PART 4: OFFICE
‘No you don’t,’ said Bret, numbly. Jemaine opened his mouth as though to speak and then closed it again, confused. That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. Not that he’d been expecting anything in particular. He’d said it without thinking, surprising himself as much as Bret. Still, he hadn’t expected to be contradicted. ‘Um...I think I do,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Bret more fiercely, ‘You don’t.’
‘...Why?’ asked Jemaine, stupidly. He had the ominous feeling that this was going to be a truly horrible conversation.
‘Because you don’t, OK? You can’t. It’s one thing...fooling around...but this...you just can’t. This is messed up enough already.’
Bret’s eyes were stinging. He wiped the back of his clean hand over them and turned from Jemaine, angry and sad and hating all of this. He was sure he was doing the right thing. They had already probably ruined their friendship by introducing sex into it. To pile confessions of love onto the heap was some kind of suicide. Better to call the whole stupid affair off and try to get back some of what they had before. God, he missed his best friend. And yet, deep down, he realised that he too wanted something more. He wanted to hold Jemaine forever. He wanted Jemaine to be his, his, no one else’s. But that was a fantasy and he was in over his head and drowning and the only possible lifeline was to say...
‘This has to end here, Jemaine.’
‘No,’ said Jemaine.
‘It has to. Don’t kiss me again. Don’t touch me again. Ever.’
‘Do you...should I...move out?’ – Jemaine blinked and heavy tears rolled down his cheeks. Bret couldn’t bear it.
‘No. No. Stay. I want us to be friends again.’
‘But...you’ve broken my heart.’
Bret stared at Jemaine, pale and drained. This was, without question, the worst thing he had ever done in his life. He felt like he’d been given a beautiful, perfect flower and torn it apart. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice cracked with tears. ‘We can...we will get over it. We will.’
‘I guess we’ll have to,’ said Jemaine dully.
‘Years from now this will just be a weird thing that happened when we were younger.’
Jemaine didn’t answer. Bret instantly realised how disrespectfully jokey that had sounded, but didn’t know how to make it right. ‘Let’s just...let’s just go to sleep now. Tomorrow morning, a new start. We’ll be friends again. Like old times.’
‘Right. Goodnight then.’
‘Jemaine?’
‘What?’
‘I really do miss being friends with you.’
‘Yeah. Well. It might take some time.’
‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’
Jemaine just shook his head and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
* * * * *
Over time, things got better. Bret was so diligent and dedicated about getting things back to normal that before long Jemaine couldn’t help but go along with it. He couldn’t stand not being friends with Bret, even though he had meant it when he said Bret had broken his heart. Eventually, they even began to sleep in the same room again, Bret’s bed having been half-heartedly and somewhat suspiciously fixed by Eugene.
But Bret had a flaw. That flaw was insecurity. And as soon as he’d almost fixed things he started to wonder if he should be offended that things were fixed so easily. Was he that easy to resist? Why wasn’t Jemaine trying anything with him? Why did he never catch Jemaine looking at him? Or masturbating over him? Surely Jemaine hadn’t got over him just like that. Bret realised he’d come to depend on the validation that Jemaine wanting him had provided.
So one day he leaned over Jemaine to get the TV remote, letting his arm brush against him, and was gratified at the barely audible yet telling intake of breath it brought about. Yes, Jemaine was still hot for him, he was just hiding it well because they’d agreed to call it off. Good.
But that wasn’t enough. Soon he felt insecure again. Every time he needed a little confidence boost he’d test things out by accidentally-on-purpose touching Jemaine, or gently flirting with him, or glancing at him in a way that suggested the promise of something they both knew he couldn’t give. And Jemaine rose to it every time. Because, unlike Bret, he had resigned himself to the fact that he was still achingly in love and lust. He knew he shouldn’t keep encouraging Bret’s teasing, but he was a fool for any kind of attention from him. Still, it was getting worse. It was almost as if Bret was angling for another night with him, and Jemaine was damned if he’d do that when he knew Bret didn’t love him back. Jemaine should have known that, one way or another, he’d crack soon enough.
They were in Murray’s building when it happened, borrowing Greg’s internet after hours. Everyone had gone home, and Murray had left them with the keys and a stern warning not to break anything. Jemaine was typing an email while Bret sat, idly twisting in the swivel chair beside him. Bret glanced at Jemaine. ‘Where’d you get that jacket?’ he asked.
Jemaine looked down at himself, having forgotten what jacket he’d put on that day. ‘Thrift store,’ he said, going back to face the screen again.
‘Makes you look like you just walked off the set of “Life on Mars”.’
‘Yeah, shut it, Tyler,’ grinned Jemaine, not looking away from the computer screen.
Bret wheeled the chair closer to Jemaine. Jemaine broke out in goosebumps at the sudden proximity. ‘Make me, Hunt,’ whispered Bret. Jemaine turned and found himself looking into Bret’s eyes. Bret looked away coyly and began to wheel the chair away from him. But for Jemaine it was one flirtation too many. Bret couldn’t keep acting like that and expect Jemaine just to suffer and not do anything about it. Frankly, if he wanted Gene Hunt right now, he could have him. Jemaine stood up abruptly and spun round Bret’s chair so that he was facing him again. ‘Get up,’ he said, his voice dangerous. Bret looked confused.
‘...What?’
‘You heard me. Get up.’
‘But...’
Jemaine reached down and dragged Bret up by the front of his shirt. Before Bret could struggle or protest, he found himself shoved roughly against the filing cabinet, the metal cold through his shirt and contrasting deliriously with the heat of Jemaine holding him there. Jemaine’s thigh was between his legs, pressing against his crotch, and Jemaine had one hand around his wrist and another wound tightly in his hair. Jemaine’s breath was hot against his neck. Bret was caught helplessly between arousal and fear. Jemaine had been assertive before, but never like this. It wasn’t like him.
‘Is this what you want?’ growled Jemaine into Bret’s ear. ‘This is what you asked for, isn’t it? This is what you’ve been asking for every time you turned me on when you knew I wouldn’t do anything about it because I love you. And well done. Congratulations. I’ve been tempted. I’ve been tempted every time. You’d like me to give in now, wouldn’t you? Damn bastard cocktease. I can tell you’re dying for it. I should fuck you right here against the filing cabinet. But you know how it would end up? Exactly how it ended up before. Don’t you get it? I love you. I’m in love with you and every time you deliberately make me want you it tears me apart a little more. So if you don’t love me, stop leading me on, fuck off and let me type my fucking email in peace. Please.’
Bret’s eyes grew wide for a second, as though something had suddenly become clear to him.
‘No,’ he said.
Jemaine faltered, his adrenaline giving way to remorse for talking to Bret like that. ‘What?’
‘No. I’m not going to leave.’
‘Please, Bret, don’t make this more difficult. I don’t have any fight left. It’s not fair.’
‘No, listen, Jemaine. I’m not going to leave without you, because...I do love you.’
‘That’s really low, Bret. It’s one thing leading me on physically, but...’
‘No, I’m not just saying that! I do! I just...didn’t recognise it...or...couldn’t admit it. I don’t know. But...Jemaine...’
Bret broke free from Jemaine’s clutches and stroked his face. ‘I love you,’ he said, softly.
‘I don’t believe you. You’re just saying it because you want me to boost your confidence by spending the night with you. The next day we’ll be back to not speaking. It’s not gonna happen.’
‘...I’ll prove it.’
‘How?’
‘Come with me.’
Bret took Jemaine’s hand and led him out of the building.
* * * * *
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Murray, suspicious. ‘Did you break my hole punch?’
‘No,’ said Bret. ‘I’ve got something to say.’
‘This isn’t a scheduled band meeting.’
‘This isn’t band business. It’s personal business.’
‘Still...hang on...’
Murray disappeared back into his house for a moment and then re-appeared with a yellow notebook.
‘Right. A...personal meeting. Bret?’
‘Present.’
‘Jemaine?’
‘Present.’
‘And Murray. Present. Sorry, Bret, I just thought by your tone that this would be something important and formal. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you dying?’
‘What? No!’
‘Good. Not...dying...’ – Murray scribbled the words onto his pad.
‘Murray. I came here because I wanted to tell you that I’m in love with Jemaine.’
Jemaine looked at him, painfully embarrassed. ‘Bret! Shut up!’
‘No. Murray, I’m in love with Jemaine and he doesn’t believe that I am. So I’m going to tell everybody so that I can’t possibly take it back. Write it down. I’ll write it for you.’
Bret took the yellow pad from a stunned and speechless Murray and wrote, ‘Bret is in love with Jemaine, signed, Bret.’
Murray found his voice. ‘You can’t be in love with Jemaine, Bret!’ he said, ‘Surely that will cause tension in the band, if one member is in love with the other one...’
‘Actually,’ said Jemaine, smiling, ‘I’m in love with him too. I was in love with him first.’
‘No, you just admitted it first,’ said Bret.
‘Oh,’ said Murray, digesting the information. ‘Well I suppose...this might open up a new demographic for us. I hear the pink dollar is very strong these days. That’s gay money. Gay people buy records. How do you feel about wearing cowboy hats?’
‘Let’s save it for the band meeting tomorrow,’ suggested Bret. ‘I have heaps more people to tell.’
‘Well...good luck, then. Look after Bret, Jemaine. And look after Jemaine, Bret.’
‘We will,’ they said in unison. When the door had closed, Bret grinned smugly and genuinely happily at Jemaine. ‘Ready to go tell Dave?’ he said.
‘Oh god. No.’
‘Chicken.’
‘You would really tell Dave?’
‘I’ll tell anyone you like. I don’t care what happens as long as you know I love you.’
‘We can tell Dave tomorrow,’ said Jemaine, taking Bret’s hand in his own and stroking it. ‘Let’s go home.’
‘What, no fucking me against the filing cabinet?’ grinned Bret.
‘I’m going to make love to you. In my bed. Then I’m going to fall asleep with you. Then I’m going to wake up with you and make love to you again. Then I’m going to make you a cup of tea.’
‘Wow. That’s way better.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Jemaine...you’re my best friend. And I love you.’
‘Let’s go home, Bret.’
They walked home hand in hand. Whenever a stranger stared, Bret would proudly proclaim that he was in love with Jemaine, and that was why he was holding hands with him. Bret was deeply embarrassing. But Jemaine wouldn’t have changed it for the world.