It had been a hard day at work.
Bret’s arms ached. His head throbbed dully. His eyes felt like he’d spent all
day trying to stare at the sun. Sign-holding was hell on hot, stifling days
like these. He needed a nice cup of tea, a cool bath and a sleep, in that
order. Chances were he’d just fall asleep at the kitchen table and wake up to
find Jemaine having doodled on his face again. Bret walked quickly, fed up,
agitated and eager to get home. He was so wrapped up in his various mental
gripes that he didn’t notice the figure coming in the other direction until it
was too late. They collided with a bump. The other man was tall and solid, so
Bret came off worse. He was not amused. He was just about to tell the stranger
off, when...
‘...Jemaine?’
As soon as he said it, he knew he was wrong. The guy looked uncannily like Jemaine, right down to the gap in his teeth, but it wasn’t Jemaine. He had long hair for a start, no glasses, and a bit of proper facial hair, nothing like the fake beard Jemaine had stuck on when he’d been trying to impress Brahbrah. Unless Jemaine had grown an actual beard since this morning, it couldn’t be him. Beyond that, the weirdly familiar stranger had a cool, calculatedly casual, almost beatnik look about him, and moved with a kind of loping grace that was not like Jemaine at all. The stranger looked behind him, as though trying to work out who Bret was talking to, then turned to face Bret. ‘No,’ he said, and even his voice was like Jemaine’s, though not quite. More like a natural, effortless version of the voice Jemaine used when he was trying to chat up a girl. ‘Kieran Vollard,’ said the man in his soft, deep voice, ‘Artist’. It took Bret a while to answer, because the sound was so musical and so unnervingly familiar he forgot to listen to the words.
‘Uh...sorry...I thought you were somebody else.’
Bret tried to avoid Kieran’s gaze. It was intense, focused, and a little dark, and it was weird being looked at that way by a man who was the spitting image of his quiet, shy friend. He looked at Kieran’s shoes. He heard a polite cough and looked up again.
‘And you are...?’
‘Oh. Bret. I’m Bret.’
Why exactly was he exchanging introductions with a random guy in the middle of the street? Kieran held out his hand and Bret took it, numbly. Kieran didn’t shake Bret’s hand. He held it gently but firmly in his own, still studying Bret’s face. ‘Enchanting,’ he murmured.
Bret didn’t move, even though he wanted to. He felt like a rabbit, caught in headlights. ‘Er...what?’
‘Of course, somebody must already be using you, bone-structure like that...’
‘Er...’ – Bret tried to think of anything to say other than what he’d already said. No luck. ‘...what?’
‘What are they paying you?’
‘The...sign people?’
‘I’ll double it.’
‘Double what?’
‘Triple it, then. Don’t deny me, Bret, I simply must have you.’
Bret finally pulled his hand away. ‘Look,’ he said, uncomfortably, ‘Kieran, is it? I don’t know what you want with me, but...’
‘What I want? Isn’t it obvious? I want to paint you.’
‘You want to...’ – understanding and relief blossomed on Bret’s face. – ‘...Oh. Well I’m sorry, but I don’t think...’
‘Don’t think. Just feel.’
‘Um...yes, well...’
‘Just consider it, Bret. That’s all I ask. Here’s my card.’
Kieran snatched up Bret’s hand again before he could pull it back, and pressed the folded card into his palm. He used his other hand to close Bret’s fingers around it. Bret felt like he must be blushing terribly as Kieran held his hand in both of his own. Then, as though coming out of a dream, Kieran dropped Bret’s hand, looked at him one more time and strode off. Bret was left reeling.
* * * * *
‘That’s not really news, though, is it?’ said Jemaine, bored. ‘I’m not that unique-looking. Probably loads of people look a bit like me.’
Bret sighed. ‘He didn’t look a bit like you, he looked a lot like you.’
‘Meh. So what was he like, this long-haired, twenty-twenty-vision me? Did he act like me?’
‘No. He was friendly. And...weird.’
‘Friendly and weird.’
‘Weirdly friendly. He wanted to paint me.’
‘...Paint you? Why?’
‘I think because I’m enchanting. With a good bone-structure.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you fall asleep on the way home from work, Bret?’
‘I didn’t dream it! Look, here’s the card.’
He took the card out of his pocket and showed it to Jemaine. Jemaine regarded it with minimal interest.
‘So...do you think I should?’ prompted Bret, when Jemaine said nothing.
‘Should what?’
‘Pose for him.’
‘No. No, I think that would be weird.’
‘He offered to pay me triple what the sign people are paying me.’
‘Really? I...I think that just makes it more weird, man.’
‘Why?’
‘Well...why should he want to paint you that much?’
Bret shot Jemaine a hurt look and shuffled off to the bedroom. Screw tea and cool baths. He needed to sleep.
* * * * *
Bret wasn’t seriously going to take Kieran up on his offer. Of course not. It would be weird. Still, he kept the card in his pocket and looked at it every now and then. Especially when the heatwave didn’t let up and he found himself out on the street again, holding up a heavy sign, feeling like he was made of nothing but aches and sweat and frustration. Triple his current pay. For what? To sit in someone’s house and let them draw him? Big deal. Really, it needn’t be that weird.
He made the decision to go for it without even knowing why. It was unplanned. On the way to work one morning, he just took a detour and wound up at the address on the card. His first thought was that this Kieran guy must be a pretty good artist to afford a place like this. The house was huge, set apart from the city in grounds that looked like a park. The front door was large and intimidating, made of dark wood. Bret knocked nervously. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. It was crazy. The guy was clearly overly friendly. Who knew what he’d ask for in return for the money?
The door opened with an ominous creak. There stood Kieran, dressed in a black bathrobe and towelling off his hair. Bret felt his face heating. Not only shouldn’t he be there, he wouldn’t even be wanted there. Of course, not everybody was up and into their day yet at this time of morning. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I’ll just...’
‘Bret,’ said Kieran, and the name sounded rather noble and beautiful on his lips. Bret shook his head, though he wasn’t sure why. ‘You’re here.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t...’
‘Welcome to chez Vollard. That’s French for Vollard’s house. Don’t be alarmed by my avant-garde mode of speech – that means, clever and futuristic – I speak over three languages, some of them to a conversational level. But don’t be intimidated. I’m a very surprising man.’
‘Um...yes,’ agreed Bret, bemused.
‘Come in. I just finished my daily meditation and herbal jacuzzi.’
Bret followed Kieran into the house. It was dimly lit – what his aunt used to call, ‘mood lighting’ – and brimming with exotic-looking statuary and paintings, candles, lanterns, sprawling plants and art materials. Bret felt like he’d stepped into a Sinbad movie. It was pretty cool. He was so intrigued that he had already followed Kieran through several rooms, taking several turns in both directions, before he realised that he had no idea where he was in relation to the front door. He suddenly felt vulnerable and a little scared. It was time to assert himself, though it didn’t come naturally.
‘Look,’ he said, loudly, making Kieran stop and turn to look at him. ‘I don’t know exactly what you had in mind for today...’
‘I never make plans. Inspiration is a capricious mistress. One day she demands a photo installation. The next, mud sculpture. Have you ever seen an anatomically pristine female body made entirely of mud?’
‘Um...no.’
‘Neither have I. But I could make one. The power lies in these hands.’
Kieran held up his hands. So much like Jemaine’s. Bret shook himself. Kieran was very difficult to talk to. ‘Look,’ he said again, ‘I...I’m just gonna tell you straight off...I’m not comfortable with, you know...’ – he lowered his voice – ‘...nudity.’
‘I’ll dress, then. Before we begin.’
‘Er...’
‘Pity. Inspiration is like sunshine. It feels so much better kissing naked skin.’
Bret’s mind wandered back to the day before, stifled and sweaty in his clothes. Then he remembered the somewhat alarming situation in hand. ‘I meant I didn’t want to pose nude. Were you...I thought you just said you were...you weren’t going to...strip...to paint me?’
Kieran shrugged. ‘Don’t ask a bird to show you its flying schedule,’ he said, enigmatically. ‘A bird flies when it needs to. Do you like animals, Bret?’
‘I love animals.’
‘...Wonderful.’
* * * * *
‘This is my studio.’
Bret looked around the room. It did indeed look like an art studio. Strange pieces – presumably Kieran’s own work, since they were mainly of himself – were scattered around the edges of the room. By a large window there stood an ornate wooden chair, facing what was actually a chaise longue but which Bret mentally identified as a ‘funny couch’. ‘A drink?’ asked Kieran, like it was some kind of test.
‘Um, do you have any water?’
Bret instantly realised what a stupid question that was. Even his own pokey little flat had sinks with running water, albeit water that sometimes ran upwards. Of course Kieran had water. As the artist wandered off to fix Bret a drink (he’d half expected a butler or a fleet of umpa-lumpas to appear), Bret mused on how much like a child he felt in this strange place, with this strange man. The sheer scale of the house, and its opulence, made him feel very small and plebeian, like a kid visiting a rich old relative. He felt he ought to behave himself, be quiet and polite and not touch anything. He was staring at a sleek, waxy yucca plant in the corner, not really seeing it, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, and turned to see Kieran holding out a glass of water whose sides had misted from the ice inside.
Kieran was dressed now, in black as usual, and wearing a half-quizzical, half-amused expression that Bret took to be the Kieran equivalent to a smile. Not for Kieran the goofy grin that Jemaine sometimes sported, the one that coaxed Bret out of his stubbornest bad moods. ‘Thank you,’ said Bret, quietly, taking the glass. The cold of it was a delicious shock to his system in the still-uncomfortable heat. As soon as he put the glass to his lips he realised just how thirsty he was. He drank the whole glass down in one go, then let out an unabashed sigh of pleasure before abruptly remembering where he was. He coughed and wiped his mouth self-consciously with the back of his hand. Kieran was watching him again. He could tell, though his own eyes were fixed on the floor.
‘Sit,’ said Kieran. Bret hesitated. ‘Here,’ Kieran prompted, ‘on the chaise longue.’
‘The what?’
‘On the fainting couch.’ – he made a short appreciative sound, as though savouring some delectable morsel. – ‘You’re so wonderfully unschooled.’
‘Hey!’ said Bret, offended. Still, he sat down on the funny couch as Kieran had directed. ‘So...’ he went on, ‘You’re just going to paint me. Right?’
‘I’d like to sketch you in charcoal, first.’
‘OK. And...three times my usual pay?’
‘Money is nothing. I’d give my soul to sketch you.’
Bret felt a heady mixture of pride and squirming embarrassment at this unprovoked compliment. The result was what he was sure must be a truly epic blush. If things went on this way, he just hoped Kieran had a lot of red paint. ‘So...how do you want me?’ he asked, trying to ignore the way the words sounded to him.
‘Relax. Put your feet up. I want you natural. Comfortable.’
Bret did as he was told, but muttered under his breath, ‘Yeah, well right now comfortable isn’t natural.’ If Kieran heard him, he didn’t let on.
‘There. Lay back.’
‘Hm.’
Kieran looked over the plainly uncomfortable figure before him with a mercilessly studious eye, taking him in, mapping every curve and line of him. Bret swallowed. He felt a fluttery feeling in his chest and stomach. Kieran’s gaze was so unflinching, so intense and almost...hot. And his body language was so open. He had never looked less like Jemaine, and for this Bret was grateful. He wasn’t sure his already weirded-out brain could have coped with his best friend’s spitting image staring at him like that. He had seen Jemaine intense, of course, from time to time. Working out riffs on his bass, or listening to music. In an intangible, never-spoken kind of way, Bret even quite liked to see his friend so absorbed. But that was a Jemaine-ish kind of intensity, quiet, self-contained. Manageable. And, of course, never directed at him. He closed his eyes to block out Kieran’s scrutiny.
As soon as Bret’s eyes closed, his thoughts began to swim a little, dreamy and disconnected. The heat had made him lethargic. He toyed with the idea of peeking to see if Kieran was still looking at him, but his eyelids were heavy and the “fainting couch”, as Kieran had called it, was deceptively comfy. Maybe I am fainting, he thought for a second. But no. Not fainting. Just...falling...asleep...
* * * * *
‘Bret.’
Nothing.
‘Bret.’
‘Mnm, shut up, Jemaine, ‘m sleepin’...’
‘Bret, it’s one o’ clock.’
Bret blinked twice, disoriented, then jumped up. ‘I wasn’t asleep!’ he said, uselessly, then, ‘...Do I have a couch-print on my face?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. You didn’t leave a face-print on my couch.’
‘...No,’ said Bret, uncertain whether this was an attempt at humour.
‘Do you know who used to own this couch, Bret?’
‘The...couch shop?’
‘Tracy Emin.’
‘Really?’ – He thought about asking who that was, but he already felt enough of a philistine.
‘If you’d rubbed off any of the signature stains I’d have been beside myself.’
‘...Stains?’
Humour? Not humour? Deadly serious? He had a creeping suspicion that it might be the latter. Just for safety’s sake, he stood up.
‘Ebay, Bret,’ said Kieran, sagely, ‘Ebay. It’s a modern miracle.’
Bret thought it was safe to assume that Ebay was where Kieran had bought the couch, though his speech was so offputtingly non-linear that, to be honest, he could have been talking about anything. ‘...Right,’ agreed Bret.
‘So. How much do I owe you?’
‘Oh. You’re...you’re still paying me? Even though I slept for like...six hours?’
‘I hate money. It’s only good for houses and cars and pools and personalised bath towels and Tiffany lamps and purchasing the services of beautiful women.’
‘...’ said Bret. He thought it best.
‘So? How much?’
Bret told him. Kieran reached into his pocket and pulled out more money than Bret had ever seen. Bret’s eyes widened as Kieran counted out the amount he’d told him into his hand.
‘Um...wow, thank you,’ said Bret, staring at the money in his hand. He was rich.
‘The same time tomorrow, I hope.’
‘Oh, but...really? Because...I dunno, I thought this was gonna be a weekly or a one-off kind of...you’ve actually given me three weeks’ pay, not three days...’
‘And the same tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that. Please. It’s worth it, to immortalise you.’
Despite himself, Bret smiled. He wasn’t used to compliments. He had a fleeting thought that he wished Jemaine would compliment him like that. Well, not like that, obviously. Not in a weird, slightly creepy, kind of gay way. More in a mate sort of way.
* * * * *
No such luck. When Bret got home, there was a frosty atmosphere in the apartment. Jemaine, sitting on the couch, glanced up at him, then looked away again. He looked subdued and pensive. In Jemaine, this was rarely a good thing. ‘Are you OK?’ asked Bret, in the tentative, gentle voice one might use on a small child who has fallen over and not yet cried.
‘Your work called.’
‘Oh.’ Flip.
‘Said you didn’t turn up today.’
‘No...right. What did you tell them?’
‘Told them you were sick. Of course.’
‘Oh, good. Thanks, man.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Are...are you being cool again, Jemaine? Did you find some more hair gel?’
‘Nah. Not sure I can really pull it off. Not with my bone-structure.’
‘...Ah.’
Jemaine looked quietly but disproportionately angry as he went on. ‘You were there today, weren’t you? You went to see that...artist guy. Who looks like me.’
‘Yeah, so what?’ – Bret tried to come across both casual and authoritative. He achieved neither.
‘So nothing. Nothing. I don’t care.’
‘Yeah, well...good.’
‘You know you’re on the way to losing your job? If you go back there...’
‘I missed one day!’
‘But you are going back there. Aren’t you.’
Bret didn’t bother to answer. After all, it wasn’t really a question.
* * * * *
It sure beat holding a sign. After a week of Bret being a no-show, Eddie gave up on his star worker and gave his job to someone else. Jemaine reported all this in the same dull, slightly angry tone. Bret couldn’t understand Jemaine’s attitude to his new job. Yes, it was a little unusual, but it was well-paid and easy and the hours were good. If he was honest, Jemaine himself didn’t understand why it made him so edgy. There was just something wrong about Bret spending all this time with one guy, a guy who was paying him fortunes just to look at him. And as for Bret’s bizarre insistence that the man was his own double, well...it was just all too weird.
Sitting for Kieran’s sketches got easier as Bret became accustomed to the other man’s strange, forward manner. Still, sometimes Bret wondered when Kieran would finally finish his sketches and get around to painting him. Part of him hoped it would be soon. Part of him was enjoying the money. And perhaps, deep down, a little part was enjoying the attention. After two more embarrassing nodding-off episodes, Bret even gave up closing his eyes.
* * * * *
It was another hot, sticky day. Bret shifted restlessly in the velvet armchair that was, for today, his pedestal. He knew Kieran’s studio off by heart now, having studied it over and over while avoiding Kieran’s ever-present gaze. Now, at last, (and only because the easiest jobs are usually also the most boring), he allowed himself to surreptitiously glance at Kieran. First, the hair, neither sleek nor scruffy, a shade lighter than Jemaine’s (and yes, of course he was comparing him to Jemaine – how could he not?). Now Kieran’s eyes. Bret watched them for a moment before Kieran, with almost psychic accuracy, looked up and caught his gaze. Kieran’s hand stilled on the paper. Bret swallowed, butterflies dancing illogically inside him. Then, just as quickly as he had looked up, Kieran returned his gaze to the page and continued sketching. Bret let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He felt hot all over. Squeezing his eyes shut, he placed the moment of eye-contact carefully into his mental box of things to be forgotten and never spoken of again. When he opened his eyes again he saw Kieran brush his hair out of his face, leaving a smudge of charcoal like warpaint on his cheek. Bret shivered.
This ought to stop, he thought, but despite his own sensible advice he continued to covertly study the artist at work. There was his mouth, slightly open to reveal that maddening gap between his front teeth which Bret had thought unique to Jemaine. His neck was half in shadow, somehow putting Bret in mind of old noir movies. His forearms, where the sleeves were rolled up, were much like Jemaine’s (except that Jemaine would never dress like that). His hands always seemed active, even when they were still. Occasionally he would look over his progress, and then he’d rest one hand on his thigh. There were grey charcoal smears there, paler than the black of his trousers. He always sat with his legs very far apart, Bret had noticed. Or, he corrected himself, not so much noticed as...what’s less gay than noticed?
Bret hardly realised where his gaze had dropped to, until he saw something that made him look away so quickly he thought he might get whiplash.
No. Surely not. Bret felt dizzy and a little scared, as though he’d just realised the drop on the rollercoaster was taller and steeper than he’d thought. Disbelieving his own eyes, he forced himself to glance back. Oh flip. Oh god. Between Kieran’s spread legs there was a large and unmistakeable bulge. His trousers were tight and Bret could see the shape of it, clearly defined and pushing brazenly against his fly. And why, why was Bret still looking? It took him several moments to notice that he could no longer hear the sweep of charcoal on paper.
Kieran had put both book and charcoal down, and was sitting with his legs still spread and his hands on his thighs, looking at Bret with mild interest. ‘Does it make you uncomfortable, Bret?’ he murmured in his low, purring voice. Bret squirmed but didn’t answer. ‘Let’s not be coy,’ Kieran went on. ‘We’re all boys, aren’t we? You have one too. Clothes are just silly masks for a race of children. We all know what’s underneath.’
‘...Yes,’ said Bret, quietly mortified, ‘but mine’s not...you know...you seem to be...’
‘Rock hard,’ provided Kieran.
‘Um. Yes.’
‘I’m not going to censor myself for you, Bret. Art is a very erotic process.’
‘Kieran...’ Please talk about the weather, or TV, sports, anything other than this...
‘The brush, the pen, the charcoal,’ – he held up the charcoal in his hand – ‘they’re all just vehicles for the life force.’
‘...what?’
‘Vigour. Passion. Fire in the blood. Basically they’re all substitute dicks. Not that I need a substitute, of course...but these work much better on paper.’
Bret stood up. He had to leave. Now. ‘This way I capture you for posterity,’ Kieran went on as Bret shuffled past him, silent, eyes trained on the floor. Though Bret tried not to listen, as he fled he just overheard Kieran’s last words: ‘But if I just wanted to etch something onto your memory, beautiful boy...oh, the art I could make of you...’
* * * * *
‘Jemaine,’ whispered Bret from his bed. There was no answer. ‘Jemaine,’ he said again, ‘are you asleep?’
‘Yes,’ came the grouchy, muffled voice from across the room.
‘Jemaine?’
‘What?’ – Jemaine remained facing the wall. He didn’t take kindly to being woken in the middle of the night.
‘Can I...ask you something?’
‘...Yes,’ said Jemaine, a long-suffering tinge to his voice.
‘What would you do...if a guy was looking at you...and you could tell he was...um...turned on?’
Jemaine moved onto his back and looked at the ceiling, blurry without his glasses. ‘By me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘Why’d I ask, or why’s he turned on by you?’
‘Why’d you ask?’
‘It’s just hypocritical.’
‘...What?’
‘You know, just say this happened, what would you do?’
‘Hypothetical,’ corrected Jemaine with a yawn.
‘Yeah. So what would you do?’
‘I don’t know. I guess...be flattered but tell him I’m not interested? It’s never come up, and it’s not likely to happen to you either, so I wouldn’t...’ – The last word petered out into nothing. Something had clicked. ‘Oh...my god...’ said Jemaine, too quietly for comfort, ‘This is about Kieran, isn’t it?’ – Bret didn’t answer. He felt guilty and sick, though he had no idea why. Jemaine was shaking his head, either in disbelief or to clear the image from it. ‘You let him...you let him...’
‘Hey, he couldn’t help it! What was I supposed to do? It’s not that weird. Is it?’
Jemaine turned violently back to face the wall. ‘It is that fucking weird,’ he said.
* * * * *
‘What’d I do? Shit! I’d run to the hills!’
‘Yes, I thought you probably would.’
‘I mean...shit, man, what kinda weird-ass question is that?’
‘It’s a hypothetical question.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe they do things differently in Hypothetica...’
‘What?’
‘Seriously, dude. Run to the fuckin’ hills.’
‘...Thanks, Dave.’
* * * * *
‘Turned on? Like...tuned in? Hip? Cool?’
‘No! Like...you know...hard.’
‘Ah. Well.’ – Murray covered the intercom with a hand and leaned in close to Bret. ‘I’m glad you came to me first,’ he whispered, loud enough for Greg to hear him quite well without the need for an intercom. Bret didn’t contradict him. He didn’t want to be demoted to a stranger again. ‘I happen to have a fair bit of experience in this area.’
‘...Really?’
‘Yes, and the answer is, when a really hard guy is giving you the eye, don’t make eye contact, don’t engage him in conversation, find a crowded place and talk to a policeman.’
Bret rubbed at his forehead and sighed.
* * * * *
‘Seriously?’
‘...Yeah.’
‘Woah. God, that’s hot.’
‘No it isn’t. What is? Nothing’s hot. This is just hypothetical.’ – Bret was getting good at that word. He was also getting kind of sick of it.
‘Sure,’ grinned Mel, poking Bret playfully/inappropriately in the ribs. Bret flinched away. ‘Very hypothetical. Jemaine told me about your little modelling Job. That Kieran’s a lucky guy. Maybe we should switch, right? He can have Doug and I can keep you?’
‘Um...’
‘I’m kidding!’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m not.’
‘...Oh.’
‘I am. I don’t have that kind of money. Maybe if someone gave me a raise on my housekeeping...’
‘When that promotion comes through, honey,’ said Doug, placidly.
‘So,’ said Bret, trying hopelessly to steer the conversation back to his question, ‘what would you do?’
‘Touch it,’ said Mel, a wicked smile on her face. ‘He might have been lying. Better touch it and make sure.’
‘I don’t think he was lying. It was kind of obvious.’
‘Touch it anyway,’ she said, in a voice that suggested she was amazed Bret hadn’t decided upon this course of action without her help.
‘I don’t really want to. I’m not really very interested in another man’s...’
‘Hey! Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,’ admonished Mel. Somewhat disturbingly, Doug nodded his agreement.
‘...and even if I was, it’d be too weird. He looks just like Jemaine.’
‘...’
Mel’s eyes had glazed over. This was Bret’s signal to leave. The bottom of the barrel well and truly scraped, he began to wander home.
* * * * *
‘Go on, then,’ said Bret. His arms were crossed. Evidently, he was in defensive mode. ‘Tell me you knew I’d come back.’
‘I didn’t know. I hoped. I know the average person can’t handle art at its rawest. I hoped you weren’t an average person.’
‘Yeah, well...I am average. But I’m also poor. I need the money and I don’t want charity.’
‘I don’t give charity. Except to puppies. Puppies with sad faces. I can’t resist those adorable little bastards.’
‘...Good. So. Let’s go to the studio.’
‘Not yet. I have something I want to show you.’
Bret grimaced. ‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ he said, ‘I still haven’t got over the last thing you showed me.’
For the first time since they had met, Kieran smiled. It was a real, unaffected, genuinely amused smile, accompanied by an almost shy tilt of the head that made his hair fall in his face. The smile was identical to Jemaine’s, and Bret was surprised and a little ashamed at how sunshiney it made him feel. ‘Well,’ chuckled Kieran, ‘I’m flattered.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Bret, stonefaced but holding back a smile.
‘I do. But come with me. This will be something you’ll like, I promise.’
Still sceptical, mentally preparing himself for something so avant garde he couldn’t fathom it, or so inappropriate he couldn’t stomach it, Bret followed. They wound through the impossibly large house until they reached a surprisingly modest back door. Kieran unlocked it and ushered Bret through.
Bret gasped in sheer delight. All around the sprawling gardens, hopping or sleeping or nibbling at the flowers, there were...
‘Rabbits!’ grinned Bret, as if Kieran might not have noticed. Bret was shifting from foot to foot, excited as a kid on Christmas morning, dying to be given permission to pet them.
‘Go ahead,’ smiled Kieran, fondly, indulgently. ‘They’re quite friendly.’
Bret didn’t need to be told twice. He walked out onto the lawn, almost forgetting Kieran existed. One rabbit, a little long-haired, flopsy, mottled thing, nibbled on his shoe. ‘Oh, you’re my favourite,’ he sighed, bending down to pick the bunny up. He cradled the rabbit in the crook of his arm and stroked its soft fur, cooing baby-talk at it, forgetting he wasn’t alone.
‘He likes you.’ – The words were murmured right in Bret’s ear. He felt them as hot, damp breath, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Somehow, while Bret had been distracted, Kieran had crept up behind him. They weren’t touching, but Bret could feel him there, as though their bodies were magnetic and close enough to feel the pull. A faint, sinuous scent of leather and patchouli was messing with Bret’s head, making his heart beat too loudly and a little too fast. He tried to control his breathing. He couldn’t understand why Kieran’s proximity should throw him into such an uncharacteristic panic. Except that – and this was the worst thing of all – part of him knew full well that if it were a girl behind him, he’d have no problem understanding. ‘Beautiful creature,’ murmured Kieran, his velvety voice and the scent of him stroking at Bret’s senses. Then there was a brief thrill of sensation that made Bret catch his breath. He looked down and saw Kieran’s hand affectionately scratching behind the rabbit’s ear. Their hands had touched. Accidental? The hell it was. Kieran meant to do it. This was all an excuse for...for what? What did Kieran want with him? How much? And Bret wasn’t even interested, he wasn’t. Boundaries, he had to set some boundaries. Funny, he thought he already had. He put down the rabbit and moved away from Kieran as easily and naturally as he could. Out of the reach of his breath and his scent, everything seemed more manageable again.
‘Thank you, Kieran,’ said Bret, his voice level and emotionless. ‘That was very thoughtful. Now draw me, please. I told you I don’t want charity.’
‘That wasn’t charity. The pleasure was all mine.’
‘Let’s keep to business, shall we? I don’t think anything else is really...appropriate.’
‘As you like. You keep to business.’
Bret breathed a sigh of relief and began to walk back towards the studio. But behind him, in a voice that was quiet but obviously intended to be overheard, Kieran muttered, ‘But you can’t stop me finding business pleasurable. It’s always a pleasure with you.’
Bret ignored him. What else could he do?
* * * * *
Bret went straight to bed when he got home. He wanted oblivion, and the sweet idiocy of night-dreams. Daydreams were too lucid. He couldn’t conjure up an image strong enough to blank out the memory of being excited by another man’s closeness and touch. And not just any man, but stupid Kieran, who just would have to look pretty much exactly like stupid, stupid Jemaine. His best friend. He had practically been turned on by his best friend.
Thankfully he fell asleep quickly, but his dreams were not of giraffes in wigs or spaceships made of ice cream as he’d hoped.
* * * * *
Bret lay on the chaise longue, naked but also clothed, which made perfect sense and needed no explanation. Kieran was sketching him, his hot gaze like a firebrand on Bret’s naked-clothed skin. Bret inwardly cursed his financial dependence on this infuriating man. Who did he think he was, that he could make Bret so vulnerable and remain so impassive himself, even while talking about sex, even with his legs spread and his cock hard? He deserved to be taught a lesson. A taste of his own medicine, that was what Kieran needed. So Bret lifted his head and fearlessly looked into the other man’s eyes. They’d just see how Kieran liked being an object to be studied. He stared into Kieran’s eyes and Kieran stared back, and Bret felt that magnetic pull again, like before but stronger. He stood up and stepped towards the artist, and it felt good to be the one standing. Though they weren’t far apart it seemed to take forever to approach the seated man, but Bret was undeterred by the syrupy consistency of the air between them. He moved forward slowly but surely, until he was standing over Kieran and Kieran was looking up at him with an expression of uncertainty. And, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, Bret bent down and kissed him...
* * * * *
Bret woke in a cold sweat from what was either a nightmare or a wet dream, and hopefully the former. He suspected dully that it might have been the latter, had he not awoken when he did. It was dark now – it had been still daytime when he went to bed – and he could hear Jemaine’s soft breathing in the bed across the room. Jemaine. Dear, familiar, grumpy, annoying Jemaine. If only he didn’t look so much like Kieran he might have been an anchor to hold onto in this sea of weirdness. There was a rustle from the other bed, and Jemaine rolled over so that he was facing Bret. He looked so endearingly vulnerable in sleep, his glasses left on by accident. Really, he wasn’t that much like Kieran after all, was he? Kieran would never let his guard down like this, not even in sleep. He probably slept with his eyes open, hanging upside down like a bat. Bret suppressed a giggle at the thought.
He was pleasantly half-awake, half-asleep, and looking at Jemaine seemed like a good idea. Jemaine’s eyelashes fluttered a little every now and then against his cheek, so Bret supposed he must be dreaming. His lips were slightly parted. Those lips. Unique, surely. Surely Kieran didn’t have lips quite like that. Bret couldn’t remember, and to be honest he didn’t want to think too hard about it. No, he was definitely right. Kieran couldn’t have lips like Jemaine’s. Nobody did.
Sweet lips. Sweet Jemaine. Sweet, security-blanket Jemaine, with the glasses and the kinda messy hair and the complete inability to hide his feelings. Bret was terribly grateful for him, all of a sudden. He was a great comfort to Bret, even when he wasn’t trying. Which was good, because he didn’t try very often. Usually he was a bit of a dick, to be honest, but at least he wasn’t always in control like Kieran. He pretended to be, sometimes, but he wasn’t. Bret could always see right through him, could always get to him if he wanted to, to spite him or to cheer him depending on his own mood. And maybe it was selfish to enjoy that, but there it was. It was nice to have some measure of control.
Bret sat up in bed, still watching Jemaine. He felt restless, but in a lazy, dreamy kind of way. He felt like talking to his friend, but he didn’t want to wake him when he looked so peaceful. So he got up, almost sleepwalking, and went over to Jemaine’s bed. Jemaine sighed and fidgeted a little, then settled again, his breathing soft and even. Then, all at once, on a whim that he would have stifled and forcibly forgotten in waking hours, Bret leaned down and gently touched his lips to Jemaine’s. Jemaine moaned softly in his sleep and, against all reason, kissed Bret back. Bret had meant (as much as he had had a plan at all) to withdraw as soon as his lips touched Jemaine’s, but suddenly they were kissing – a real kiss. A good kiss. Jemaine’s mouth moved so sweetly, gently capturing Bret’s lower lip and then releasing it, doing it again, once tentatively dipping his tongue into Bret’s mouth but withdrawing it as though, even in sleep, he was a little scared of going too far.
It was Bret who broke the kiss, scared that if it carried on he was bound to make sounds that would wake Jemaine. As soon as they parted, the insanity of what he (or they?) had just done hit Bret hard. He put a hand over his mouth and backed away to his own bed, falling onto it when it hit the backs of his knees. He got under the covers and closed his eyes.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t. It was part of the same stupid dream. No way he had kissed Jemaine.
No way he had enjoyed it.
God, that kiss.
Bret tried valiantly to ignore the fact that he had an erection. Half-asleep as he had been, he wasn’t sure whether it was the result of the dream or the kiss. Or the dream followed by the kiss. Or, he corrected himself, the dream followed by the other dream. Either way, he was aching. Aching with a need he had to suppress and couldn’t. A longing just to forget for a moment that it was Jemaine in that bed. To go back there and close his eyes to block out the reality of it, and just feel those lips again, that tongue, hear more of those sweet, slightly inhibited moans that meant the other person was turned on too and trying to hide it. And more, he wanted to wring other sounds out of the other person (the anonymous person who definitely was not Jemaine), sounds of need, urgent sounds accompanied by hands clutching at him, at his hair, at his hip, pulling him in closer...
Bret groaned and covered his head with the pillow. These thoughts were not helpful, and moreover, not allowed. He was still hard, more so than before, and aching to touch himself. But he wouldn’t do that with Jemaine in the next bed. What was he, some kind of animal? So he ignored it as best he could and counted a million and seven sheep. Mercifully, when he finally slept, he slept too deeply to dream.
* * * * *
Bret woke up horny. He took a shower (cold), and was still horny. He got dressed horny. He ate breakfast horny and brushed his teeth horny. He concluded that he was unlikely to get any less horny any time soon. Fortunately Jemaine was still in bed as Bret sat at the kitchen table, trying to simultaneously fathom and forget the events of the night before, and to decide whether he could face going into work. He couldn’t keep that half-asleep kiss with Jemaine out of his head. He wanted to brush it off but it lingered, an unbearably sweet sense-memory on his lips and tongue and deep inside him. Because the fact was, it had been the single most erotic kiss of his life. Sally had been his benchmark for hotness because, well, of course she was, but she had never kissed him like that. No girl ever had. Sally kissed like she was posing for a photo. Coco, like she was on a diet and nibbling on a dry biscuit to tide her over. Last night’s kiss had been so different from that, so focused and uncomplicated just for a moment, a kiss for the sake of a kiss. The slow, sleepy sensuality of it was, even now, making his cheeks burn with the memory. He licked his lips and remembered the tentative sweep of Jemaine’s tongue. He was in hell.
Bret groaned, head in his hands, then got up, picked up his bag and hauled himself out of the door. He might as well just bite the bullet and get to work. He’d just agonise over it and then come to the same conclusion anyway. He was broke without this job. Calling it ‘work’ and a ‘job’ sort of helped. It played down the implied creepiness of the situation. Not that Bret found Kieran creepy, as such. Weird as all hell, yes, and wildly inappropriate. Also unnervingly compelling and (though he was damned if he’d admit it to himself) sexy.
Admit it, Bret.
No. Shut up.
Admit it, repeated the admonishing voice in Bret’s head, which sounded suspiciously like Jemaine. He couldn’t help putting familiar voices to his various interior monologues. Murray was the angel on his shoulder. Dave was the devil on the other. Greg kept his shopping lists.
Come on, admit that you like him.
I like him as a friend.
You don’t. You think he’s probably a bit of an asshole. But you fancy him.
I do not. He’s a man.
You’ve thought about him.
That doesn’t mean anything. Thoughts don’t count.
You’ve pictured it.
...
You’re picturing it right now, aren’t you?
...Yes. Flip. I’m screwed, aren’t I?
Pretty much. Good luck with that. Later, let’s talk about that time you kissed me.
Oh, god.
* * * * *
It seemed that, for once, fortune had smiled on Bret. Kieran had finally decided to paint him, so he was hidden behind the easel for the most part, only glancing out to look at his model. Relaxing, Bret began to feel like everything might start going back to normal again. He was almost giddy with normality. Emboldened, he decided to try that well-tested weapon of the awkward man, small talk.
‘So,’ he said, as Kieran continued to paint, ‘what do you like to do outside of art?’
‘There is nothing outside of art,’ said Kieran, earnestly.
‘Right. But...do you have any hobbies? You know...pastimes? Leisure activities? That you do? Do you...run, or...I dunno...bake? Collect stamps?’
‘I like to swim,’ said Kieran. Bret tried to block out the shamefully instant and vivid image that appeared in his mind – Kieran stepping out of the pool, shirtless and dripping wet. ‘I have my rabbits,’ Kieran went on, ‘and beyond that...I like to fuck.’
Bret spluttered. ‘Sorry? I thought you just said...’
‘Sex. Sexy sex. Either with another person or just...’ – he swept a hand out in front of him in a gliding motion – ‘...flying solo.’
‘...Oh,’ said Bret in a weak voice. ‘Wait...solo?’
‘Yes,’ said Kieran, rolling his eyes and performing an obscene explanatory hand-gesture, ‘solo. Not...shocked...are you?’ – he smirked behind his easel.
‘...No,’ lied Bret.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never let yourself enjoy that beautiful body of yours. It would be a crime.’
‘No, I have,’ said Bret, quietly, blushing, wishing the ground would swallow him up.
‘Ah, but have you really?’
‘Yes!’ said Bret, not really knowing why he was admitting it at all, let alone insisting. Maybe he was fed up with Kieran seeing him as such a complete innocent.
‘And what did you do, hmm? What did your elaborate self-love sessions entail?’
Bret was bewildered. What a question. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, ‘You know...’ – He attempted a weak, embarrassed approximation of Kieran’s obscene hand-gesture.
‘Is that all?’
‘Well...’ said Bret, despite a strong suspicion that he’d soon regret it, ‘What else...is there?’
‘Masturbation is an art, Bret. When I masturbate, I take the phone off the hook. I don’t accept any distraction for at least an hour.’
‘An...hour?’ – Surely masturbation was the work of minutes, seconds if he was particularly horny.
‘Why rush it? Imagine a play that was nothing but a quick mumbled summary of the plot and a clumsy, hurried finale. No. Three full acts, a standing ovation and not a dry seat in the house, that’s how to do it. I could...show you...if you’d like...’
‘No!’ cried Bret. He tried to compose himself. ‘No,’ he repeated, ‘I’m not interested in you that way. Just...paint me, OK? You paint, we’ll talk, it’ll be...normal.’
‘Right,’ said Kieran, disappearing behind the easel again, ‘I’ll paint. And talk.’
‘Good.’
‘So,’ said Kieran, conversationally, as he painted, ‘I lie down and close my eyes first, and feel my breath inside me, moving: in...out...in...out...in...’
Bret fidgeted in his seat and tried not to make a sound. God, how could a description of breathing sound so dirty? He felt a little panicked. Kieran was going to talk about touching himself, all in his unique, vivid, licentious way, and here was Bret, already turned on by the preamble. This could not be good. ‘Can we talk about something else, please?’ he muttered. Kieran didn’t hear, or pretended not to.
‘I push my shirt up. Feel my hands on myself, on my stomach, still, centred...but such power in them. Power to create. Power to make me cry out in pleasure and spill over my fist...but not yet...’
Bret felt a little sudden spark of arousal at the thought of Kieran coming hard over those paint-stained hands, and then a secondary ache, low and keen, at the thought of him teasing himself and denying himself that release. Bret was already half hard. He suspected the rest of his blood had gone to his face. Sometimes he felt like he was being paid to be embarrassed.
‘When I’m ready I take my shirt off. I explore my torso – the maleness of it, flat and hard and powerful...I play with my nipples – rub them, pinch them, roll them between thumb and forefinger...has anyone ever done that to you, Bret?’
‘Hngnh,’ said Bret, and then, realising that it was not any kind of adequate response, ‘Er...no.’
‘Your lovers have done you a disservice, then.’
‘Eh?’
‘You should try it. Seriously. It rocks.’
‘...Oh.’ This wasn’t happening. They were not having this conversation.
‘I let my hands trail down...’
‘Oh, god.’
Kieran smirked. Bret mentally cursed himself. That had definitely been out loud. He didn’t want to let him know he’d got to him.
‘But I won’t touch my cock. Not yet, even though I’m more than ready. I put my hands on my thighs, feel them through my trousers, maybe scrape a little with my nails...Yeah...’
Bret was trying his best not to appear in any way turned on by Kieran’s words. He counted his breaths, trying to keep them measured and even, not shaky and ragged as they threatened to be. He had tried to surreptitiously pull his t-shirt down over his erection (now fully hard and rather uncomfortable in his jeans) but had to settle for draping his arm over his lap. Kieran didn’t mention the fact that Bret’s pose had changed, which was both fortunate and highly suspicious. It took his last bit of attachment to his pride not to allow his arm to drag a little against his crotch. There could be no accidentally-on-purpose. Not today.
‘...over my balls, my perineum – look it up in your dictionary – not touching my cock until I think I’m going to die with need...’
Bret thought he was going to die with need. He shifted a little and felt the tiniest bit of glorious friction on his pent-up cock. He bit his lip and forced himself to stop moving.
‘Then I touch it, stroke it through the material, slowly, steadily, over and over, until the precome soaks through...’
God, he has no shame, thought Bret – how can he talk about things like that?
‘That way, when I finally undress completely, when I finally get my hand around it, it’s so slick it’s like I’m thrusting into somebody’s tight, willing body...then one stroke, two, maybe three...and I’m coming like a fucking volcano. That’s sex magic, Bret: making a volcano erupt by rubbing a snake.’ – He laughed at his own joke.
‘And I suppose,’ said Bret, shakily, barely aware he was saying it out loud, ‘you call it your “essence” and use it to paint with.’
‘...Now there’s an idea. Maybe one day I will. Maybe a nice conceptual abstract. All over your stomach and chest.’
Bret snapped out of it, suddenly sickened and scared. He glared up at Kieran and stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. He was still hard, but he was angry too. ‘Right!’ he shouted, ‘That’s it! That’s...enough, that’s just...who do you think you are? You think I’m gonna just let you...flip. You are sick. You’re just sick. Just cos you get off on having an audience, doesn’t mean you can...’
Something like delightful revelation dawned on Kieran’s face. It was unnerving. ‘Oh, Bret,’ he said, fondly, ‘you think I’m an exhibitionist? Bless your heart.’
‘You trying to tell me you’re not?’
‘Oh no. Like all artists, I’m a voyeur.’
‘Meaning?’ asked Bret angrily, hoping for an explanation and not just a definition. He wasn’t that naive. Kieran got up and approached him. Bret could smell that devastatingly alluring leather and patchouli smell again, with a feral undertone of pure sex. He couldn’t move away. His cock throbbed. Kieran moved till they were almost touching, then leaned in to murmur in his ear.
‘Meaning, I don’t get off on having an audience. I get off on watching you squirm.’
Bret felt humiliated, but also helplessly aroused. He was afraid of what he might let Kieran do. He said nothing, so Kieran went on:
‘Christ...you’re just so responsive, aren’t you...trembling...’
Bret was panting and his legs felt weak. He wished he had something to hold onto. He was damned if he was going to hold onto Kieran.
‘What if I was to bite your neck now? Hmm?’
Bret let out a little broken moan. He felt Kieran chuckle against his neck, then the slightest brush of lips, the slightest scrape of teeth. ‘Fuck...’ he whispered.
‘Oh, yes...you’re so delicious...I can hardly bear to ration myself as I’d planned...’
Abruptly, Bret pushed Kieran away. Kieran stumbled, caught off guard, and nearly fell. ‘Ration yourself?’ repeated Bret, ‘Like I’m just some...commodity? You can take what you want and save some for later? Is that it?’
‘I’ve told you before,’ said Kieran, coolly, ‘I don’t expect anything from you. I just hope.’
‘Yeah, well stop hoping,’ said Bret, gathering his things haphazardly and heading for the door. Kieran didn’t follow him but smiled smugly as he left. He hadn’t got into Bret’s pants, not yet, but there was no doubt he’d got right under his skin.
* * * * *
Times were hard, chez McLegnie. Eddie wasn’t inclined to offer Bret his job back after the long absence, and had even gone so far as to refuse to call him anything other than ‘princess’ when they talked. Bret wasn’t sure whether this referred to his modelling stint or an inference that he felt that sign-holding was below him. Either way, it sucked. Now his days were spent handing out resumes all around town. And the truth was, he had got used to better. Worse still, Jemaine was still hardly talking to him.
Bret was still lost in his thoughts when he collided with a person coming in the other direction, spilling his pile of resumes all over the ground. ‘Damn flipping flip!’ he cursed, and dropped to the ground, partly to pick up the papers and partly to avoid the eyes of the stranger who had just been treated to his embarrassingly creative non-swearing. ‘Ha,’ he thought, wryly, ‘the last person I crashed into like that was...’
‘Bret, let me help you.’
Kieran. Fantastic. Just great.
‘Kieran,’ said Bret, coldly, allowing the other man to collect up some rogue papers and thrust them into his hand.
‘I’m so glad to have found you.’
‘Yes, well...’ – Bret was itching to leave.
‘I feel so terrible about the way we left things.’
‘The way you left things,’ corrected Bret, his indignance momentarily eclipsing his desire to ignore his former employer.
‘Yes,’ agreed Kieran. ‘But...Bret, you have to understand. I know I acted wrongly, completely unprofessionally, but I...when I’m around you it’s so hard not to want you. You are so irresistible, and you don’t even know it. But I regret that I let that get in the way of us, just when we were starting to be...’
‘To be what, Kieran? What were we starting to be?’ – Bret didn’t have time for this.
Kieran seemed to slump, defeated. Right on cue, Bret felt guilty. Good old familiar guilt mechanism, kicking in. ‘Oh, Bret,’ sighed Kieran, and Bret forced himself to look for a staged sheen to the apparently sincere tone, ‘I would so love it if we could be...friends.’
‘...Friends?’ – It was just what Bret wanted to hear, though he hadn’t realised. Jemaine didn’t seem to like him much anymore. Here was a friend offering himself up on a plate – a friend who looked and sounded enough like Jemaine to offer a little comfort just by being there. But this was the man who had hinted heavily at using him. Using him to coax and tease himself, using him as part-muse, part-sex toy. Still... Bret did want a friend. He needed one, badly. A friend to pick up his dropped papers, to compliment him, to validate him. It was easy, so easy, too easy to forget the bad things. ‘But...if we were real friends, you know, there’d be no more of this...’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Kieran, hastily, cutting Bret off. ‘Nothing untoward. Just mates, hanging out together.’
‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart,’ said Kieran, solemnly doing the appropriate action.
‘Well...OK. Sure. Friends.’
Kieran smiled his Jemaine-smile. All was right with the world. ‘Now,’ he said, conspiratorially, ‘I have something I want to talk to you about. Come with me.’
He grabbed Bret by the hand and pulled him into a cafe. It was warm inside, full of steam and the smells of coffee, tea and chocolate. Kieran sat Bret down and went to order. He returned with an espresso for himself and a cappuccino for Bret. Bret liked the smell. Ate the foam, heavily dusted with chocolate. Left the coffee. ‘Right,’ Kieran began. ‘Here it is. No bullshit. I need my muse. I can’t create without you. I need you to come back and pose for me.’
‘So all that “friends” stuff...’
‘No! No, I do want us to be friends. I just need to keep painting you.’
‘Kieran, I can’t...’
‘I’ll be entirely professional. I promise. It will be hard, but I’ll do it.’
‘No funny business?’ asked Bret, reminding himself disconcertingly of Murray.
‘None at all. I won’t even touch your hand. Not even your hair. I won’t even hug you. Though, you know, that stuff isn’t really out of bounds between two friends...’
Kieran’s voice and his earthy, animalistic scent were starting to cloud Bret’s mind again. He was gazing at the couch cushion, or rather at the small portion of it that was visible between himself and Kieran. Damn that magnetic pull. After all his anger at being used, after all his insistence that Kieran keep things platonic and professional, his hand was shaking with the effort of not sneaking onto Kieran’s thigh. A touch of the hand or the hair. A friendly hug. Really, it was unkind of him not to allow Kieran that much. ‘No, that stuff’s...OK...’ murmured Bret, as a hand crept into his hair. He shivered. Kieran smiled a smile that was nothing like Jemaine’s.
* * * * *
Bret closed the door behind him and leaned on it, sighing. He was angry with himself, and happy, and smug, and exhausted, and energised, and mildly amused by the absurdity of his own mixed emotions. He had begun something, or rather Kieran had, and he had no idea where that thing might take him. Really, he wasn’t sure what he’d given Kieran license to do. Certainly more than he’d intended. Now, more than anything, he felt restless. Small, near-platonic touches laced with unspoken promise had left him frustrated, unsatisfied. Wanting. Wanting what? He wasn’t sure. But if he couldn’t get rid of this nervous energy soon, he’d have to resort to running round and round the room. Maybe the exercise bike?
I don’t want exercise.
Not THAT kind of exercise.
What?
It dawned on Bret with uncomfortable certainty that what he really wanted was only likely to be provided by Kieran. His mind drifted briefly to the sleepy kiss he had shared with Jemaine, but he smothered the thought before it could become a fantasy. It was hardly shared, after all.
So here was the dilemma. He felt a sweet, maddening ache of want, and he could do something about it himself, he could...except that that would mean admitting to himself that he had been turned on by Kieran in the café. He felt suddenly tired. Fed up. Why all this denial? So what if Kieran was a guy? Bret wouldn’t exactly be the first dude to find himself in this position. And so what if Kieran was potentially no good for him? Chastity hadn’t exactly been treating him great, either. Why not? Why not take a risk?
The ache was still there, and Bret’s mind wandered back to Kieran’s gloriously vulgar description of masturbation as an art. Interesting. Bret didn’t know much about art, but he knew what he liked.
* * * * *
Jemaine pushed the unlocked door suspiciously. It opened without a sound onto a silent room. Robbed? Cleaned out by Bastard Australian Girls again? Bret taped to the wall? He peeked in. Everything seemed to be in place. Had Bret gone out without locking the door? Probably couldn’t wait to get back to that creepy little...huh?
There was a small sound from the bedroom – an exhalation of breath. Maybe Bret was asleep. Jemaine tiptoed to the bedroom. Bret was lying on his back on the bed, his t-shirt rucked up a little and his hands on his bare stomach. His eyes were closed. To all intents and purposes, he looked asleep, but something about the picture stopped Jemaine from leaving, or from going and lying down on the other bed beside him. Instead, he watched, trying to work out what was wrong with the scene in the room. Perhaps Bret’s breaths were a little too measured and deep. Perhaps his expression was just a little self-conscious, though he obviously thought he was alone. Whatever the reason, Jemaine was suddenly sure that Bret wasn’t asleep. Meditating, then? Since when did Bret meditate? Probably Kieran’s stupid idea. Stupid Kieran.
Then Jemaine noticed that something had changed. Bret’s thumbs were moving, just a little, barely noticeably, against his bare skin. Jemaine swallowed. He watched as Bret’s fingertips began to move in earnest, tracing lazy, random patterns an inch or so above the waistband of his jeans.
Oh God.
Jemaine’s stomach clenched a little, as though the touch had been transferred somehow from Bret’s body to his. The feeling was not unpleasant. Actually, it was all too disconcertingly pleasant. He couldn’t do this. No matter what forbidden things he had thought about sometimes, no matter how much stamped-down desire had haunted him (for months now, so many months he’d lost count), he could not do this. But his eyes didn’t leave Bret for a moment. He hovered in the doorway, ready to hide.
In a swift, impatient movement Bret pulled his shirt off and dumped it on the floor, before laying down and closing his eyes again. Jemaine hid, his heart pounding. When he was fairly sure of not being caught, he peeked in again. Bret’s hands were on his chest now, rubbing slowly as though to map every contour of himself. Jemaine watched, his mouth dry and half-open. He couldn’t imagine ever touching himself like this. Actually, up till now he would never have imagined Bret doing so. And he’d be lying if he said he’d never pictured it – Bret in the shower or curled under the bedclothes, one sure hand wrapped around himself, stroking and stroking...
A sharp little cry snapped Jemaine out of a burgeoning fantasy. Bret was biting his lower lip as with one hand he stroked and pinched at a hard nipple. The other hand was on his stomach again, shaking a little. His hips bucked very slightly, and Jemaine noticed the unmistakeable bulge in his jeans. Jemaine’s mind was taking over, inundating him with teasing flashes of fantasy that he smothered before they could develop.
My mouth on his mouth...licking clean salt sweat from his neck...something visceral, something raw and right about denim-covered cock against denim-covered cock, moving and rutting...Bret beneath me, needy, unravelled, completely wanton, eyes tight shut, sweet panting mouth, dark curls stuck to his forehead with sweat, moaning my name...
Jemaine realised he had started palming his hard cock through his jeans. He stopped, in an agony of mixed guilt and need. Bret’s hands were on his thighs, rubbing, squeezing, and Jemaine thought he knew what came next. He was wrong. Without warning (and really, what warning could he possibly have given?) Bret angled his hips slightly upwards and began to gingerly stroke down between his legs. He whimpered a little as his hand slid over his balls and lower. He swore under his breath as he began to stroke almost roughly, back and forth, between his still-clothed buttocks. And Jemaine couldn’t stop himself. A hopeless, hungry sound spilled from him before he could stifle it, and Bret flinched, his hands moving to his sides and his eyes snapping open. Jemaine hid again, shaking and holding his breath. In the tense quiet, he heard Bret’s panting breaths and had to stop himself from moaning again.
Near-silence for a while, and then a shuffling, rustling noise. Either getting up to check what the sound was (no, no, no!) or...maybe...taking clothes off? It was some time before Jemaine mustered the courage to look, and when he did he almost gave himself away again. Bret’s hand was finally on his cock, but he was rubbing himself through the fabric of his underwear, and so slowly it would have looked like he didn’t care whether he ever came or not, were it not for the palpable tension in his shaking body and the small sounds escaping him.
Jemaine had thought that the terror of being almost caught would put a dampener on his arousal. Once again, he was mistaken. And as Bret stroked himself, slow but hard, over and over, it dawned on him that if he knew how this was going to end for Bret, he ought to have a pretty good idea how it would end for himself. Panic set in, but it did nothing to curb his desire. How could it, when Bret was now groaning at every stroke?
Shit. I’m going to come like this, aren’t I, clutching the wall, biting my other fist to stop me saying his name...no, I can’t...Bret, Bret...don’t think it, you’ll end up saying it out loud...
Bret was just reaching under the waistband of his underwear when, against all odds, an almost feasible idea shot into Jemaine’s head. Tearing his eyes away from the dangerous vision before him, he crept back to the front door and slammed it. He heard a little cry and a hurried shuffling noise from the bedroom, and even through his panic and arousal realised that, had he not been watching, he wouldn’t have suspected a thing. Without waiting for a greeting from Bret he quickly went into the bathroom and locked the door.
Jemaine stood in the bathroom for a moment, wondering what he was going to do. Then he realised it was pretty much a foregone conclusion. Why agonise over it? He flicked open the button on his jeans and unzipped them, pushed them down a little way along with his underwear, and began to touch himself. There was nothing artful or teasing in his movements. He came suddenly, roughly, and it felt like the orgasm had been torn from him. He tried not to see himself in the mirror as he cleared the evidence of what he had done.
* * * * *
Dinnertime was customarily quiet and cold. Bret hated that. Since he had resumed his job with Kieran, Jemaine’s manner had gone from standoffish to icy. Bret tried his best to persuade himself that things might be looking up. He had engineered something which would be, he supposed, kill or cure. ‘So,’ he began, as naturally as he could, ‘I thought maybe it was time that you, er...met Kieran.’
Without looking up, Jemaine abruptly threw his fork down. It bounced loudly off his plate and onto the floor, carrying a forkful of macaroni cheese with it. He made no move to retrieve it. ‘What?’ he asked, evidently through gritted teeth.
‘Uh..well...you know, you’re my friend, he’s my friend...’
‘He’s your friend?’
‘Yes, of course he...’
‘That perverted, pretentious...’
‘Hey! Just cos he’s...just cos he used to be attracted to me doesn’t make him perverted! You’ve never even met him! At least he’s nice to me. You used to be nice at least some of the time. You could learn something from...’
‘I am not meeting him.’
‘You are, actually.’
‘You can’t make me meet him.’
‘I can. I did.’
‘...What?’
‘He’s coming round. Now.’
‘What?!’ – Jemaine jumped up, unreasonably panicked. – ‘What do you mean now? When now?’
‘He’s due here...’ – Bret looked at his watch – ‘...five minutes ago.’
There was a knock on the door. Perfect comic timing. Jemaine shot a furious look at Bret and disappeared into the bathroom. Bret opened the door. Kieran leant coolly in the doorframe, wearing a wolfish expression that made him, Bret thought, even more disarmingly attractive than usual. Bret had only a moment to register the rush of blood to his face before he was scooped into a warm hug that lasted rather too long to be strictly platonic. This was compounded by Kieran murmuring into Bret’s ear, ‘You look stunning’. Bret extricated himself from the hug, looking flustered, and escaped to the kitchen to fix Kieran a drink.
Kieran was on his way to sit down when he was shoved hard up against a wall. He hit the wall hard, but made a point of not reacting. He focused on his assailant. ‘Jemaine, I presume?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Kieran Vollard. Artist.’
‘I said, shut up.’
‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘I want you to keep away from Bret.’
‘...Ah,’ said Kieran, all the pieces of the jigsaw suddenly falling into place. So the friend was in love with the muse. Hence the bitterness. How very crass. ‘How very gallant,’ he said, his tone patronising. ‘But I assure you, my interest in Bret is purely artistic.’
‘Liar.’
Kieran didn’t answer, but smiled in a mock-innocent way. Jemaine was disgusted and (he was beginning to realise) entirely helpless to do anything about it. Finally, sensing little real fight in Jemaine, Kieran decided it was time to push the hapless friend a little further.
‘Bret is the perfect model,’ he said, wistfully. ‘So beautiful. And so very pliable.’ – he intoned each word as if it were delicious. Jemaine shoved him again, his head colliding with the wall with an audible crack. He just smiled. ‘Oh, Bret was right about you,’ he murmured. ‘So much like me.’
‘I am nothing like you,’ said Jemaine, fiercely.
‘Oh, but you are. We both know it. Bret has the face of an angel and a lovely, innocent little heart to match. I know. And you know. But you...oh, you have something else entirely. Like me. Features a little too deep set to be classically handsome, perhaps, but such fire in you. Such passion. And in your case, so delightfully bottled up that the slightest provocation might start a blaze. Ohhh, yes...’
Jemaine swallowed. His grip on Kieran loosened as his hand began to shake. There was real fear in his eyes, but he couldn’t look away.
‘Jemaine,’ Kieran went on, ‘Have you ever heard of autosexuality?’
No answer. Kieran smiled.
‘Imagine it, Jemaine. You and almost-you.’ – He slid a hand onto Jemaine’s hip, up onto his waist, inching under his shirt. – ‘With every button undone, new similarities or differences exposed. I see that fire in you, even if he doesn’t. Makes you kind of wild. And very fuckable.’
Jemaine reeled back, pushing Kieran away again as he did so. ‘No!’ he shouted, then remembered to keep his voice down. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t want you.’
‘I know,’ said Kieran, suddenly cool and disinterested. ‘I know exactly who you want. And here’s a word of advice, because I’m a sporting man. He’s an innocent. He’s never in a million years going to make the first move, no matter how many times you’ve jerked off to the idea of it in your sad little single bed. So you’d just better take him while you still have the chance. Because if you don’t, and soon, I will. He’s fair game. But don’t pout, now. I’ll make it good for him. Far better than it would be with you. He deserves a man who knows what he’s doing, don’t you think? Really, it’s a good thing you don’t have the balls to take him for yourself. Best for everybody. Well. This has been nice, but I think I’d better leave you to your thoughts. Give Bret my regards, won’t you?’
And Kieran left. Jemaine felt numb with anger. And numb, too, because he knew that what Kieran had said was true.
* * * * *
After his encounter with Kieran, Jemaine’s first and most profound instinct was to get in the shower and scrub and scrub. He ignored it. He wasn’t going to become a cliché for that cocky asshole. Still, for hours afterward he was sure he could smell the bastard on him. He’d told Bret that Kieran had remembered a prior engagement and left in a hurry. ‘Yeah, right,’ Bret had said. ‘You were rude to him, weren’t you. You said something to upset him.’ – and Jemaine, being Jemaine, had just clammed up. Because how could he say anything? How could he, when his own secret was so much more devastating? Kieran wouldn’t think twice about outing him. The scene ran through his head, vivid as a fever-dream.
‘Is this true, Kieran? You’ve just been trying to get me into bed?’
‘Jemaine told you that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow. I guess he really can’t stand any competition.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well I knew he had a thing for you, of course, but I thought once I’d promised to keep it professional he’d leave us alone.’
‘What? No, you must have made a mistake. He doesn’t have a thing for me, we’re just...’
‘Oh, God, you didn’t know? Sorry. But...I thought it was obvious.’
‘You thought WHAT was obvious?!’
‘The man’s obsessed with you! When I came round that night he just came at me out of nowhere. Slammed me against the wall. He was trying to make me promise I’d never see you again. It was actually kind of scary. Creepy too, to think of him living in the same house as you all this time and just secretly lusting after you. I mean...he’d have seen you sleeping. Seen you undress. Do you always remember to lock the door when you take a shower?’
‘No. You’re wrong. I don’t know how, but...’
‘Well, maybe. I guess we’ll never know. Unless...does he keep a diary?’
‘...Yes.’
‘Does he have a lock on it?’
‘No.’
‘...Do you know where it is?’
Jemaine shuddered at the thought. Of course, there was one possible scenario that would break him far more quickly and effectively.
‘Bret, I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, but Kieran’s only after one thing. He said as much. He’s trying to get you to have sex with him.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Jemaine felt tears sting his eyes and rubbed at them angrily. It was very possible that Bret knew exactly what Kieran was up to, and wanted it. No, no, no, no, no...
Just to add to the messed-up hell that was Jemaine’s world, he now knew for sure that his feelings for Bret weren’t just a blip in his heterosexuality. Because, God help him, for a second Kieran’s seduction had affected him. The anger with which he remembered the encounter was edged with something he really didn’t want to acknowledge. A brief but undeniable frisson when the artist’s fingers had brushed his bare skin. The hard, untempered masculinity of Kieran’s body. The rush of power he’d felt from being the one doing the shoving and the restraining, however illusory his handle on the situation had turned out to be. Basically, it had been the closest he’d ever come to a gay encounter outside his dreams, and he hated that it had had any effect on him at all.
That night, for the first time since he’d caught Bret touching himself, Jemaine didn’t have a borderline wet dream about his friend. It was much, much worse than that.
They were back in the living room, he and Kieran, and Kieran was up against the wall. But this time, Jemaine was just pummelling him ineffectually with his fists, shouting, ‘I hate you,’ over and over again.
‘You only hate me because Bret likes me better than you.’
‘He doesn’t! You’re lying!’
Jemaine punched Kieran in the mouth. The force of it nearly turned the artist’s head around. When he looked back at Jemaine he had a split lip and a wild look in his eyes. He tentatively ran his tongue over his wounded lower lip. There was blood on the tip of his tongue as it disappeared back into his mouth. He smiled an oddly satisfied smile. ‘Oh, such fire in you,’ he said.
‘Bastard,’ spat Jemaine, ‘I’ll show you fire.’ – and he roughly grabbed a handful of Kieran’s hair and kissed him hard on the mouth. It was a brutal kiss, intended to hurt. He tasted blood, and relished it. ‘Autosexuality, right?’ he whispered harshly against Kieran’s lips as he fended off the other man’s hands (were they pushing him away or pulling him closer?). ‘This what you had in mind?’ – he bit at Kieran’s lower lip, and smiled to hear the artist hiss in pain.
Jemaine let go of one of Kieran’s wrists and reached down between them. ‘You don’t waste any time,’ Kieran observed, panting a little. His hand was sneaking onto the back of Jemaine’s neck.
‘Don’t fucking touch me,’ warned Jemaine. Kieran’s hand only tightened around his neck. In an instant, Jemaine flipped the other man around, the offending arm twisted painfully behind his back. The small part of Jemaine’s mind that was watching this scene, half-aware that it was a dream, was almost impressed. He guessed he’d watched enough cop shows to know, at least in theory, how to defend himself. ‘I said,’ he repeated, ‘don’t touch me. I don’t want anything from you.’
‘Then what’s this for?’
‘Always in control, aren’t you?’ Jemaine said, quietly but fiercely against Kieran’s neck. ‘Well not this time.’
‘So what, you’re going to rape me? Because you know, it’s not rape if it’s consensual.’ – he ground his arse lewdly against Jemaine’s crotch. Jemaine slammed his head into the wall. It sounded hard enough to give the guy concussion. But Kieran just growled, ‘Look at you. All this aggression. What would he say?’
‘Who cares? I’m never gonna have him, anyway. Just cos I didn’t ever try to use him. Just cos I’ve got something to lose. You stole my best friend.’
‘So what do you want out of this, exactly?’ – Kieran actually sounded bored.
‘I want to see you helpless. I want to bring you off like this and leave you spent and humiliated with your limp dick hanging out. I hate you.’
And the part of Jemaine that was aware looked on in horror as he unzipped Kieran’s trousers and began to roughly stroke and squeeze him. And Kieran wasn’t humiliated. He was smiling. Smiling like he’d planned it all. All at once the dream took on the panicked feeling of a nightmare. Wake up, wake up, wake up...
Jemaine’s own panicky noises woke him. He felt himself thrashing about, and stopped. ‘Shh,’ said a voice, ‘It’s OK. You’re OK.’ – The sweetest voice. Jemaine just wanted to lie there, eyes closed, and listen to that voice forever. Then, oh God, a cool hand rested on his forehead. For a moment he wanted to weep with joy. Then he remembered. He remembered that, even if Bret did care that he was having a bad dream, nothing had actually changed. Kieran was still going to take Bret at the first opportunity, and Jemaine’s heart would be broken. He turned away from Bret’s touch. He half imagined he could hear Bret crying. Stupid, to imagine Bret crying over him.
* * * * *
‘Tonight,’ said Kieran, in that dramatic tone that made him sound half-schoolmaster, half-ringmaster, ‘body painting.’
‘Er...what?’ said Bret. He had gone to Kieran’s that night (night, mind you, not day, on Kieran’s request), truly believing that he could and would do anything the artist suggested. Now, all of a sudden, he felt as exposed and nervous as he had on that first day, seemingly so long ago, when he’d fallen asleep on the chaise longue from closing his eyes to Kieran’s intense gaze.
‘Body painting,’ repeated Kieran, though he knew Bret had heard and understood what he said. Just for emphasis, he added, ‘painting on the body.’
‘No, but...I kind of said, didn’t I...about the whole no nudity thing. It, er...still stands.’ – He didn’t sound nearly as resolute as he wanted to.
‘Oh Bret, you needn’t be nude,’ said Kieran, reassuringly, moving to breeze past Bret towards his paint cabinet. Bret breathed a sigh of relief that was cut short when Kieran paused right beside him to murmur low in his ear, ‘...as much as I’d like to run charcoal-covered fingertips up your thighs until you begged me to go higher...’
All the blood rushed to Bret’s face, which, all things accounted for, was probably the safest possible result. ‘Don’t,’ he muttered, without much conviction. Kieran rifled briefly through his paint cabinet and brought out what looked like a large and complicated ladies’ powder compact. ‘Is that make-up?’ asked Bret, confused.
‘A body-paint palette. My own design. Compacted powder-paints of all colours. Very good for finger-painting.’
‘...Uh...’ said Bret, his mouth going dry. Then he repeated, ‘I’m really not taking my clothes off, you know.’
‘I know. I’ll just have to see what I can do with your face, arms and hands. And your neck...’ – The way he said ‘neck’ sounded (to Bret, at least) suspiciously like the way a vampire might say it.
‘Right. That’s...I guess that’s OK. So where should I sit today? The couch again, or...?’
‘The chaise longue?! Fingerpaint on Tracy Emin’s chaise longue? Bret, how could you? No, not there, and not on my chair either. I’ll put some paper down here on the floor.’
Kieran did so, his face so studious that Bret was reminded uncannily of Jemaine working out chords on his bass. The thought sent an unexpected tremor through him. Jemaine. His fingertips would be rougher than Kieran’s. He’d probably be rougher than Kieran, too. Unpractised. A little confused and angry with himself for doing it. God, thought Bret, I miss my best friend. His mind drifted back to reality when he noticed a Polaroid camera sitting suspiciously on the floor beside the paper island Kieran had made.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Well, if I create something good tonight, I’d like to capture it,’ Kieran reasoned. His voice was all innocence.
‘Oh. OK. So I just...sit on the floor, now?’
‘You just sit on the floor. Legs out in front of you will probably be best.’
Bret sat, feeling foolish. He interlaced his fingers on his lap, and stared at his hands awhile before mustering the nerve to look up at Kieran. The artist looked incredibly tall from Bret’s vulnerable position, so Bret was relieved when he dropped to his knees. Relieved, that is, until he started studying Bret as he had before, up close this time. Kieran’s avid eyes flickered between Bret and his paint palette. Finally he settled on a rich plum-purple. He swirled the pad of his thumb round and round over the block of chalky powder paint. Then he grabbed Bret’s hand in his own, turned it so it faced palm-up, and began to rub the paint in small, languid circles onto Bret’s palm.
Bret swallowed. He felt like he’d just missed a rookie manoeuvre in a game of chess. The touch on his hand was terribly erotic. And Kieran knew it. Bret knew he knew it. But wasn’t this perfectly within the rules? Nothing untoward about it whatsoever. It was all just part of the artistic process. Kieran would claim innocence. Or maybe he wouldn’t. It didn’t really make any difference. The fact remained that if Bret admitted to being uncomfortable with this, he was a prude. And if he admitted to being aroused, he was a pervert.
The circles were spiralling wider on Bret’s palm now, and he was relieved when, finally, Kieran turned his hand over and began to paint the back of it a vibrant turquoise. His relief was short lived, however. Kieran began to stroke the paint over each of Bret’s fingers in turn. He stroked slowly up and down. The action was so obviously metaphorical it was absurd. It couldn’t have been more plainly euphemistic if Kieran had actually said, ‘This is what I’d like to do to your cock.’ – All the same, Bret was rather grateful that he didn’t.
He looked at his hand. It looked like a kid’s who had been making handprints. It was colourful, but was it art? He had little time to contemplate this before the whole process was resumed on his other hand. It seemed like ages before the second hand was finished, covered in chalky magenta and orange. Bret’s sigh of relief was cut off when Kieran’s fingertips began to drag slowly and gently up his forearm. The sound he actually made was far too easy to read for comfort. Kieran smirked. Bret suddenly realised the extent to which he was trapped here. Kieran was going to touch him. Kieran was going to touch parts of him that shouldn’t get him so worked up, innocent, untested little erogenous zones that would drive him crazy. Kieran was going to touch him excruciatingly slowly, unbearably gently, and Bret was going to be good and quiet and let him do it, because calling attention to it meant losing the game.
Kieran traced slow patterns up and down Bret’s arm. Bret trembled, trying hard to control his breathing. Kieran seemed to be paying special attention to the delicate hollow of Bret’s elbow, making tiny circles there with feather-soft touches of his fingers. Bret’s eyes were shut tight and his mouth half open in a silent moan of desire. ‘Stop it,’ he whispered, hardly trusting himself to talk.
‘Stop what?’
‘I can’t...just paint my face or something. Not there.’
‘Why?’
‘I...I’m ticklish.’
‘OK. Alright. We wouldn’t want you getting too ticklish...too soon. Would we.’ – Kieran smiled knowingly. Then he wiped his hands on a rag and re-applied some sea-green paint to his thumb. Seemingly all of a sudden he was terribly close. Bret could feel his warm breath and smell him, oh god, that damned animal smell, like adventure, like sex. ‘Close your eyes,’ ordered Kieran.
‘...Why?’
‘I’m applying some paint to your eyelids,’ said Kieran, his tone suddenly disconcertingly professional. ‘Don’t worry, it’s as harmless as eyeshadow.’
‘I don’t wear eyeshadow, either,’ Bret pointed out.
‘Eyes closed.’
Bret obeyed. He felt Kieran’s hands cupping his face, tilting his head slightly from left to right as though looking for the perfect angle. Then he felt the pad of a finger sweeping gently over one eyelid, then the other. A pause, and then it happened again. The soft brushes of Kieran’s fingers spread outwards, over Bret’s face. It was almost relaxing. Fingers brushed his cheekbones, teased at his hairline, slid down his nose. Then Kieran’s thumb brushed over Bret’s lips. Bret inhaled a shaky breath. His lips were parted and for a mad moment he fantasised about Kieran’s fingers dipping into his mouth. No such thing happened. Instead there was a longer than usual pause, and he finally heard Kieran’s low voice murmur, ‘You can open them now.’
Bret blinked. He’d almost fallen asleep again. Kieran was holding up a mirror and Bret peered in, curious to see the artist’s handiwork. He laughed, then smiled, looking at himself from every angle. ‘Wow,’ he said, happily, ‘I look just like Bowie!’
‘Who?’
‘David Bowie!’
‘...Is that a musician?’
Bret looked at Kieran like he’d just grown an extra head. ‘Wait...you don’t know who David Bowie is?’
Kieran waved his hand dismissively. ‘Oh, I don’t follow pop music,’ he said.
‘...Oh.’ – That was weird. Weird that Kieran didn’t know David Bowie, but weirder that it mattered so much to Bret. He supposed it was because Kieran was his only close friend now. Jemaine would’ve been really excited to see this. Bret sighed distractedly, but if Kieran was good at anything, it was taking Bret’s mind off Jemaine. Kieran’s hand was in his hair all of a sudden, gently pulling his head back. Bret whimpered.
‘Sorry, did that hurt?’
Bret shook his head. Kieran began painting Bret’s neck, his fingertips drifting down just beneath the neckline of Bret’s t-shirt. Bret was breathing a little more heavily than was strictly proper, but he couldn’t help it. ‘Sorry about the heat,’ murmured Kieran as he continued to work on his masterpiece, ‘the air conditioning’s gone.’
Really. Has it really. What a surprise.
‘I understand your reluctance to make yourself too...vulnerable. But perhaps...in the circumstances...you might like to take your shirt off?’
Screw it. Bret knew where this was going. Why prolong it? He went to pull off his t-shirt, but hesitated. ‘What about my make-up?’
‘It’s not make-up, Bret, it’s art.’
‘What about my...art?’
‘It all adds to the effect. Art’s a living thing. No point keeping it caged.’ – As Bret pulled his shirt off he thought he heard Kieran add, softly, ‘...just like desire.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. May I have your permission to continue?’
Bret took a deep breath, steeling himself. ‘...Yes.’
He leaned back on his hands, closed his eyes and gave in. Too hard now, too much trouble to worry about whether or not this was any good for him. It felt good. Kieran’s clever hands were all over him, tracing patterns, smearing the paint over his collarbone, over his nipples, and down. He exhaled, and it almost sounded like a sigh of pleasure. ‘You look so beautiful like this,’ murmured Kieran. ‘Like there was never any you before my fingers shaped you.’
Bret was silent apart from his shaky breathing.
‘When are you going to admit that you want me?’
Bret didn’t respond other than by biting his lip. He was fighting his body’s instinct to answer in the affirmative. He felt Kieran flick open the button on his jeans. Kieran’s hot hand slipped under the waistband, teasing. Bret squirmed and whimpered. ‘You want this,’ Kieran went on. ‘So do I.’ – He was stroking over and over, dangerously close to Bret’s erection and inching closer. Bret could no longer keep quiet. He panted and moaned, and Kieran breathed, ‘...Perfect.’
And all at once the touch was gone. Bret’s eyes fluttered open to see a smug Kieran standing over him, shaking the Polaroid picture he’d just taken. ‘This is just what I was hoping for,’ enthused Kieran.
‘...But...what?’
‘Oh,’ smiled Kieran, his tone predatory. ‘You want more?’
‘Well, I...’
Kieran dropped to his knees by Bret and put a hand under his chin, leaning in as though to kiss him. ‘I could give you more,’ he murmured. ‘I know you want it. You just have to do one little thing for me.’
‘What?’ whispered Bret, staring at Kieran’s lips that were so uncannily like Jemaine’s.
‘Beg me.’
‘...What?’
‘You heard me. You’re close enough. Why don’t you beg me.’
‘I’m not going to beg you.’
Kieran shrugged. ‘Too bad,’ he said. ‘Could’ve been fun.’
He sat back and watched Bret collect his things and disappear into the shower. That was a shame. He’d been certain Bret would crack. Maybe he was made of stronger stuff than Kieran had anticipated. Never mind. He was going to have Bret on his terms one way or another. The little innocent was hooked so bad even this wouldn’t put him off. Kieran smiled and poured himself a glass of wine.
*****
Bret stood at the door, contemplating whether to knock or to finally follow Dave’s advice and run to the hills. He had compiled a mental list (dictated in Greg’s voice with angry interjections from Jemaine) of Kieran’s pros and cons. Kieran was sexy. Bret had admitted as much to himself, after much soul searching. Sexy and unpredictable. Now unpredictable was exciting. It was also more than a little unnerving. Kieran was fun to be around. He made Bret feel like he could try things he’d never even considered before. But were they friends? Real friends? Were they deep, unbreakable soulmates? No, they weren’t friends like that. The lack of that connection was hard to ignore, when he’d had it and lost it – and never appreciated it until it was gone. Jemaine. Bret shook himself and tried to focus on the pro-con list. Next item: last night. Bret hadn’t liked at all that sudden, subtle change in Kieran’s attitude, when he’d told Bret to beg. He didn’t like being in that position – Kieran the artist, Bret the muse. Kieran the teacher, Bret the student. Kieran the master, Bret the pampered or punished pet. That wasn’t right.
Still, it was with a kind of nervous excitement that Bret found himself back at his master’s door and knocking at it. He wouldn’t beg, that was for flipping sure. But he did want more. Kieran opened the door and flashed a wolfish grin that made Bret feel like giving in there and then. His black shirt was undone, and Bret caught himself eyeing Kieran’s bare torso covetously, wanting to touch him, to rake his fingers through the hair on his chest, to trace the line of his hipbones. He was shocked at himself. A sudden, unprovoked thought entered his head: God, does Jemaine look like this? Under his comfy thrift-store clothes, is his body so...so...
Bret blinked and shook his head, then raised it to look at Kieran’s face. Kieran was looking at him with an expression that was simultaneously amused and seductive. It would never have occurred to him, Bret knew, that his muse had eyes for anyone but him. He reached out and took Bret’s hand, then turned and walked through the house, leading Bret behind him. ‘Just a pet,’ Bret thought, but his heart was pounding with excitement. ‘I thought today we’d take the day off and enjoy a little...inspiration,’ said Kieran, conversationally.
‘Inspiration?’
‘Yes, get out in the sunshine, have a drink together, just...chill.’
‘...Just chill.’ – Bret’s default setting around Kieran was suspicion. He wasn’t stupid.
‘Exactly.’
Kieran grabbed a bottle and two glasses as they rushed towards the back door. Bret half felt like he was dreaming, as though Kieran with his strangeness and unerring air of authority were in charge of time itself, making everything go just a little too fast. Before he knew it they were in the garden, in the gorgeous sunshine, with cool grass beneath them and Kieran’s rabbits hopping about them. ‘Ah...’ sighed Kieran, throwing his head back. Bret watched, hopelessly hooked. Suddenly there was a drink in his hand. He eyed the greenish liquid suspiciously.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘Just a little love potion,’ grinned Kieran.
‘Seriously, what is it?’
‘Just drink.’ – Kieran took hold of the glass and poured some of the liquid inside gently into Bret’s mouth before he could stop him. Bret licked his lips.
‘Funny. Tastes like liquorice.’ – He took another sip, and Kieran smiled. Oh, that smile...
‘Shall we sit?’ suggested Kieran. Sitting sounded good. They sat beneath a tree. ‘Take off your shoes,’ said Kieran. ‘Feel this – nature under your feet.’
Bret kicked off his shoes and socks. He felt good. Relaxed. All of his worries were melting away in the heat of the warm summer day. The tree felt good and strong against his back. The grass felt good and cool and damp under his feet. Kieran’s arm felt good and warm against his. He realised he’d drained his drink already, and placed it clumsily in the grass beside him. He was silly to drink it all so quick, he supposed. It would go to his head. Kieran hadn’t touched his. Still, no matter. ‘This is...this feels...nice,’ he said, finding the words a little difficult to enunciate.
‘Yes,’ agreed Kieran. ‘How’s your drink?’
‘All gone. I think it might’ve gone to my head a bit, already, though. All gone to my head.’ – This struck him as terribly witty, and he laughed. Then he laughed at himself laughing. He turned to Kieran, whose face was very close. ‘Hi,’ he smiled.
‘Hello. Feeling good?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Yes. Can...can you hear that? Does my voice sound funny to you?’
‘Your voice sounds perfectly delightful to me.’
‘Yeah...no...but...you know, like...somebody else is saying it? Or it’s me, but...far away?’
‘Just the heat making you drowsy. Rest against me.’
‘Mmm...’ – Bret slumped lethargically against Kieran, still smiling. He noticed that Kieran’s hand had moved onto his own and was stroking it, softly, sensually.
‘I think it’s time we...took our relationship to the next level,’ murmured Kieran.
‘Huh?’ - Bret squinted at a bird, silhouetted against the sun.
‘I know my teasing’s been hard on you. It’s been hard on me, too.’
Bret snorted. ‘Ha! You said “hard-on”...’
‘...Yes. Well, I suppose that’s apt. Perhaps it’s best not to talk, hmm? Kiss me.’ – He put a hand on the back of Bret’s neck to guide him, and kissed him on the lips. Bret felt his body light up, but in a strange, disconnected way. He heard himself moaning. Feeling lightheaded, he broke the kiss. Kieran was panting, his eyes wilder than ever. ‘The first moment I saw you,’ he said, his face buried in the crook of Bret’s neck, ‘I knew I had to have you.’
‘...have me?’
‘Yes. And my instinct was so right with you, Bret. You’ve been perfect. Just the perfect mix of responsive and reluctant. Enough of a challenge to add spice to the game, but not so much that I ever suspected I’d lose.’
‘Uh...what?’ – Bret couldn’t quite compute Kieran’s words. Not with his head swimming and that mouth on his collarbone. Was his shirt undone? When had that happened?
‘Your body, Bret, your beautiful body, is made for pleasure. Give in to it. If there’s something you want, something you really need, body and soul, go ahead and take it. Life’s so short. Take what you want before it’s over...’
Clarity flashed like white-hot light through the haze of Bret’s mind. ‘Oh...oh God...’ he slurred, ‘You’re right! Kieran, you’re right! I’m sorry, I’ve got to...got to go...thank you!’ – and he stumbled barefoot away from his seducer. In years to come, Kieran would often wonder what it was that made him let the boy go.
* * * * *
Bret practically fell through the door. ‘Jemaine!’ he called, ‘Jemaine! Jemaine!’
‘Bret?’ – Jemaine hurried into the room, his bad mood put on hold by the apparent urgency in Bret’s voice. He looked at his friend. ‘Why aren’t you wearing any shoes?’
‘Am I? Am I not?’ – Bret looked down at his feet. ‘Oh yeah. Must have left them...in Kieran’s garden.’
‘Bret, are you...drunk?’
‘I think, maybe...a little bit.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ scowled Jemaine, disgusted. He’d sworn a lot more since Kieran came on the scene. ‘How much have you had?’
‘Just one drink.’
‘Just one? You sure? You shouldn’t be that drunk on just one.’
‘Yeah. Must’ve been pretty strong, though, because...everything’s further away than it is.’
‘...What?’
‘Or...closer? Either further or closer. You know?’
An expression of sick realisation fell over Jemaine’s face, and he steadied himself on a chair. ‘Oh, no...’
‘What?’
‘That fucking...Jesus, Bret, how could you be so stupid? How could you let this happen?’
‘Let...let what happen? Are you OK?’
‘Your new best friend Kieran has spiked your drink, and no, I’m not fucking OK, because I don’t know what he spiked it with, and I don’t know whether you just need to sleep it off or if I should make you be sick or take you to a hospital, or...’ - Jemaine looked close to tears.
‘No...no, he wouldn’t do that...’ – Bret’s voice grew uncertain. He did feel pretty weird. More like a few hours after he’d taken those acids that one time than any time he’d ever been drunk. Jemaine was gripping his shoulders hard.
‘Look at me,’ said Jemaine, urgently.
‘Yes,’ smiled Bret. That was exactly what he wanted to do. He looked hazily into Jemaine’s eyes.
‘Did he...did he...do anything to you?’
‘Kissed me.’
Jemaine winced, but carried on with forced calm. ‘Anything else?’
‘No. But he said something, Jemaine, something fantastic!’
Jemaine’s hands dropped from Bret’s shoulders, the fight suddenly going out of him. ‘Yeah,’ he said, dully, ‘I bet it was sheer poetry.’ He turned away and wiped his eyes discreetly.
‘He said...if you want something, if you really really want it a lot...you should take it. So I came home.’
‘...I don’t understand.’
‘No, neither did I until just now, but it’s so obvious, Jemaine. The thing I really really want more than anything...is you.’
Jemaine stood silently for a moment with his mouth open. Then he closed it abruptly and said, ‘No.’
‘I...No? What do you mean no? You don’t know what I want. I want you.’
‘You’re crazy. Worse. You’re fucking stoned.’
‘But I mean it! Kieran, he was just a...what do you call it? Oh...a....substitute! A substitute for you, because he looked like you and you were acting like you hated me all the time, and...’
‘Just go to bed. You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘I do! I’ve never been so clear! I want you and I know you want me too. It just makes sense. All those times you sabotaged my dates. The way you got so jealous of Kieran. You like me. You more than like me. Don’t you?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Stupid like a fox. It’s in your eyes. You’ve never been able to lie to me. And that’s cos we’re connected. You and me. You and me forever. Kiss me...’
‘You’re embarrassing yourself, Bret.’
‘Come on!’ – He began to tug at Jemaine’s shirt. Jemaine pulled away. ‘You know what Kieran says?’
‘Oh, fantastic chat-up line.’
‘He says the body is made for pleasure. Your body. Your beautiful body...’
‘No!’ shouted Jemaine, pushing Bret away rather harder than he’d intended to. Bret fell like a rag-doll onto the couch and stared, shocked, at his friend. ‘No, it’s not!’ Jemaine went on. ‘Maybe it’s OK for him, for an artist, but not for you and not for me! The body’s made for carrying groceries, for...taking a walk, playing a gig, eating breakfast, taking the trash out. And yes, sometimes for sex, but that’s the biggest joke of all, that’s just a great big fucking red herring, because you know what? You’re not even supposed to enjoy it that much. You just wait half your life for a girl to do it with you and then when she does it’s not even that good and you know what you do then? You damn well accept it and you’re grateful for it because if you...the one person that you...the one who really....gah.’ – his shoulders slumped. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me,’ said Bret, more clearly than before.
‘Go to bed.’
‘Not until you finish what you were saying.’
‘...Fine. Not like you’ll remember it tomorrow, anyway.’ – Bret took a deep breath. In his hazy way, he could feel that something very important was about to happen. Jemaine opened and closed his mouth several times before he finally said anything, apparently uncertain how to put it. At last, he said, very quietly, ‘When the only person that really matters, that really makes you feel good...when the only one who really turns you on is so out of bounds your whole life could fall apart if you pursued anything with...with her...you just don’t. No matter how much you want to.’
‘You hesitated. Saying “her”. You hesitated.’
‘Go to bed.’
‘Fine. But you did hesitate.’
Jemaine was already halfway to the bedroom. ‘Shut up, Bret,’ he said, just loudly enough for Bret to hear the tears in his voice. ‘Just shut up.’
* * * * *
Jemaine was woken by a groan. ‘Hungover?’ he asked, not without some smug satisfaction. Bret had given him hell last night in his drugged-up state, and deserved whatever the spiked drink wanted to serve up to him this morning.
‘Oh...god...yuck. Not fair. Only had one drink. Turn the light off!’
‘It is off.’
‘Close the curtains.’
‘They’re closed.’
‘Turn the sun off!’
‘Alka seltzer and a glass of water by the bed,’ said Jemaine in his customary bored monotone. He hoped Bret wouldn’t twig that he’d put it out ready for him. He’d had hardly any sleep, checking on Bret through the night. It was a quiet day, as it turned out. Bret spent most of it trying to feel vaguely human again. Jemaine kept out of his way. It was not until late evening when they sat on the couch watching new popular spin-off series ‘The Cat Show’ that they addressed the matter that had been hanging over them all day. ‘...You know last night?’ asked Bret, apropos of nothing and staring resolutely at the TV screen.
‘...’
‘I said, you know last night, Jemaine?’
‘That dark time before this morning? Yes, I’ve heard of it.’
So he was going to play ignorant. Well, Bret had expected as much. ‘Well...the thing about last night is...I remember it.’
‘...Oh.’
A long pause. ‘All of it,’ added Bret, significantly.
‘Right. You know, I don’t think this show is as good as the Dog Show. Too many cats.’
‘And Jemaine. Jemaine? Jemaine, listen to me!’
‘I am listening!’ shouted Jemaine, too loudly, turning roughly to face Bret.
‘...I meant what I said. Last night. It wasn’t just the spiked drink. That just...opened the floodgates. I meant everything.’
‘Yeah, well, so did I,’ said Jemaine with difficulty, and he turned back to face the TV.
‘But I don’t understand! You like me and I like you! What’s keeping us apart now?’
‘I don’t like you!’
‘You said it. You can’t un-say it. I know.’
‘You know nothing.’
‘Jemaine, you know...you know that cupboard in the kitchen, third one from the left?’
‘I...what?’ Jemaine looked back at Bret despite himself, confused.
‘Well, you know how we hardly ever open it? Because...once you open it...it’s really hard to close again?’
‘It’s not impossible to close,’ said Jemaine, his voice set.
‘It’s not a perfect metaphor.’
For a while there was uneasy silence. Neither man looked at the other. Finally, exasperated, Bret said, ‘At least tell me why you won’t be with me.’
Jemaine closed his eyes and sighed. Then, eyes still closed, he murmured, ‘I hate...I hate being out of control. It’s bad enough with girls. Always wanting more from you than you can give. Changing you. Telling you what to wear. Telling their friends about you so that they can have a good laugh comparing their boyfriends’ bodies and bank books. And then you, Bret. Then I had to fucking fall in love with you, and look at you and just feel so helpless, and I hate feeling helpless! Not trusting myself to get too close to you. Not being able to control how I felt when you were around, when you were gone, when you were out with women, and with him. What I feel for you...I just can’t handle it. It’s too much. Too intense. It stops me being in control. I wish it would just go away.’ – He put his head in his hands, too mortified to cry.
Bret was shellshocked. Poor Jemaine was so messed up by all this. And god, he was amazing for admitting all that. So brave. Brave and wonderful. Bret realised in that instant that he more than wanted Jemaine. And in that instant, too, he made a decision. ‘OK,’ he said.
Jemaine looked at Bret like he’d gone mad. ‘OK?! How can any of this possibly be OK? Were you even listening to what I said?’
‘I was listening, and my answer is, OK. You can be in control.’
‘...What?’
Bret looked at Jemaine with his bravest face, though inside he was not so confident. He figured that after that difficult confession, Jemaine needed him to be brave enough for both of them. ‘I just want you back. I don’t care how. So I’m putting you in control of this. If you can’t handle being more than friends, then we’ll just be friends. But if you wanted to...well, you could go as slow as you wanted. Or, you know...not so slow.’ – He looked down shyly. Jemaine swallowed.
‘So...you’re...’
‘Giving you free reign. Complete control. You set the pace. I’ll run with it. Whatever you decide to do or not to do.’
‘...Oh.’ – Bret’s heart soared. It was only one syllable, but there was a definite tone of interest. ‘But...what if I did something you didn’t like?’
Bret thought about this. He’d not considered the possibility. ‘Then...I guess I’d just tell you I didn’t like it. But I wouldn’t make a fuss about it or make you feel bad. And...I really can’t imagine me not liking anything you could do to me.’
Jemaine swore again under his breath and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Bret smiled to himself. He knew Jemaine well enough to know that that was not a dismissal. He could practically see Jemaine’s overriding thought scrolling across his forehead. And the thought was, ‘This shit just got real’. He came back into the living room with his tea cradled in his hands like a security blanket. He gripped it tight for a few moments, as though wrestling some inner demon, then relaxed a little, and placed it in front of Bret. ‘I...I thought we could start up the cup roster again,’ he muttered, smiling weakly. Bret had never seen anything as beautiful as that tentative smile.
‘I’d like that,’ he said.
‘Don’t do that. Don’t be extra-nice to me. You always hated the cup roster.’
‘Yeah, well, right now I like it. Feels like old times.’
‘Yeah,’ smiled Jemaine, just a little easier than before. Bret himself could not stop smiling as he sipped at his tea. He didn’t notice Jemaine struggling to muster the courage to ask one more question. Finally, he blurted it out. ‘Bret, what if I go too far?’
Bret’s eyes widened, but his smile didn’t wane. In fact, surprise quickly gave way to an almost mischievous expression. ‘Oh...’ he breathed, ‘do you...do you think you might, then?’
‘I don’t know!’ cried Jemaine, uncomfortable. ‘Don’t say things like that! You’re making me feel under pressure again! I might not do anything!’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to. What I meant to say, though, was, er...well. You know, with Kieran, there was always this feeling of risk. I didn’t know what he might do, and...I think I always knew deep down that if he wanted to do something he wasn’t above just doing it...whether I was comfortable with it or not. But you...I know you’d never try to get me to go all the way if I didn’t want to.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t!’
‘I know. And that...well, it kind of...makes me want to let you.’
Jemaine made a small incoherent noise and held onto the back of the couch for support. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘Rules. Rule one. You can’t talk like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘It’s leading. You were trying to turn me on.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Bret in a small voice.
‘...Oh.’
Awkward silence. Then Bret prompted, ‘Rule two?’
‘Right. Rule two is, you can’t touch me. I can touch you, but you can’t touch me.’
‘OK.’
‘And rule three...you can’t...respond too much if I do touch you. Like...make sounds, or tell me you like it or anything like that. You can tell me if you don’t like something, but not if you do.’
‘Why?’
‘And rule four: you can’t ask questions.’ – He didn’t want to admit that the idea of Bret actually getting excited by his touch turned him on beyond all reasonable bounds and left him feeling helpless again. Bret just nodded and smiled, looking like a kid at Christmas time.
* * * * *
The Cat Show episode Murray’s mum had videoed was starting to get old. Then again, neither Bret nor Jemaine were really watching it. Bret stole a glance at Jemaine, only to find that Jemaine was gazing at him. He turned back to face the TV, his cheeks burning. He suddenly felt all off-kilter. Butterflies fluttered madly inside him. He was shocked that he should react so strongly to just a look.
‘Bret?’ said Jemaine.
‘Yeah?’
‘Can I...?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hadn’t finished.’
‘I know. But yes. You can do anything you want.’ – Bret’s words tumbled nervously over one another.
Jemaine huffed, exasperated. ‘Now I feel pressured again! Feels like you expect me to go all Kieran on you, and I’m not that, that’s not me!’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you. Please. Say what you were going to say. I’ll shut up.’
‘...Hmm. Oh, fine. I was just going to ask...gah, I’m embarrassed now!’
‘Oh.’ – Bret frowned, unable to hide his disappointment, but he didn’t complain. Jemaine looked at him, cast one hopeless look to the heavens (or rather, the ceiling), and took one deep breath.
‘Can I hold your hand?’
Bret closed his eyes and smiled. This was slow and awkward and difficult, but nothing had ever felt so good, so nourishing. A word popped into his head and to his surprise it hardly scared him at all: love. ‘Yes,’ he said, and then Jemaine’s large, warm hand was on his. Their fingers interlaced. Bret’s eyes remained closed and the smile never left his face. Jemaine saw it, and instantly caught Bret’s smile. Grinning like a loon at his apparently blissed-out friend, he instinctively stroked just a little with his thumb. Bret gasped quietly and his hand twitched slightly.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Jemaine.
‘N-no...that was...OK. I mean I’m not supposed to...but I’d tell you if I...didn’t like it.’
‘Oh.’ – Jemaine stared at Bret. The relaxed, happy expression had returned to his face, but Jemaine couldn’t shake the feeling (part panic, part excitement, part curiosity) that his small gesture had caused that brief upheaval. He began to stroke again, watching Bret’s face. Bret bit his lip. His hand was trembling. Jemaine stopped when he realised he could hear his own breathing, a little shaky and audible even over the sound of the television. ‘I think perhaps that should be...it...for tonight,’ he said, still holding Bret’s hand.
Bret sighed, not letting go until he absolutely had to. ‘OK,’ he said. Then he added, ‘Look. I know you said I wasn’t allowed to touch you, but is it OK if...sometimes...I might at least ask if I can do something?’
Jemaine squinted, confused. ‘I think you just did,’ he said.
‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’
‘But I guess that’s OK. I mean...It depends. What were you going to ask to do?’
‘Please can I just give you a little kiss on the cheek? Just a peck? I feel like it’s the right time for that. You know?’
‘Just on the cheek?’
‘I promise.’
Jemaine swallowed nervously, then nodded. Bret leant in and kissed him softly on the cheek. His lips lingered just a little, and then he rested his forehead against Jemaine’s temple. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. He felt tears welling up, and let them. Never in his life had he wanted so much to say the words, ‘I love you,’ but he didn’t. Not yet. Jemaine wasn’t even close to ready. He let himself breathe in the warm, familiar scent of Jemaine for a moment before pulling away and wiping his eyes. Jemaine squeezed his hand.
‘This was a good idea, Bret,’ he said gently. Then he released Bret’s hand and stood up. He hesitated for a few seconds, and finally laid a hand on Bret’s head. It was barely a stroke – he’d done enough scary stuff for one day – but it made Bret’s heart swell with joy. Jemaine went to the bedroom without saying goodnight, but Bret didn’t worry. The affectionate hand on his head had said it all.
* * * * *
There had been a hell of a lot of hand-holding over the past three days. Bret loved it, of course, but was increasingly worried that his own perception of it was very different from Jemaine’s. He’d worked himself up so much over Jemaine that the slightest touch was turning him on far more than it ought to. And Jemaine, though nervous, seemed pretty much unaffected. Maybe Jemaine’s feelings were purely emotional. Asexual. Bret thought he might die if he knew Jemaine didn’t want him that way at all. But he wasn’t going to throw this away for anything. He was pondering this on the bus on the way home from a band meeting. There were no free seats, and as many people standing as could possibly fit onto the bus, so they were forced to stand close, Jemaine directly behind Bret. Bret could feel the other man’s body behind his, tall and broad and...guh, damn it! Kieran was nothing. He’d never wanted anybody like he wanted Jemaine. Bret groaned quietly.
An echoing sound behind him made Bret’s stomach turn over. ‘Don’t do that,’ said a voice in his ear, an urgent whisper. Bret was undone. He couldn’t stop himself leaning back a little to feel Jemaine pressed against him. He let out a shaky breath, trying not to make a sound as he felt undeniable evidence that Jemaine’s feelings for him were not asexual. ‘Fuck, stop it,’ whispered Jemaine with even more urgency than before. Bret felt hands on his hips, pushing him away. He scooted forward so that their bodies were no longer in contact, but the hands remained resting on his hips. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He wondered if anyone else on the bus was aware of the erotic drama playing out between the two of them. He really hoped not. This felt decidedly private.
‘Sorry,’ said Bret, quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Jemaine, unsteadily. ‘I just...oh, god, you were so close and I couldn’t...Oh, thank god, that’s our stop!’ – Jemaine’s hands dropped from Bret’s hips and he pressed the bell several times. Some people turned and gave him a dirty look. When the bus stopped he pushed past Bret and didn’t talk to him for a good half-hour. That night, though, when they were watching TV, he took Bret’s hand in both of his and kissed it. Very quietly, he laughed to himself and murmured, ‘You know, earlier on the bus...it was kind of fun, wasn’t it?’
Bret laughed incredulously. ‘Fun’ was not quite the word he would have chosen for it. ‘Really?’ he said.
There was a long pause, so long that Bret thought Jemaine had decided not to answer. Then Jemaine said in a low, careful voice, ‘I know this is going kind of slow. And I do need it to. But...I am really interested, you know? Not just...in theory. What I mean is...don’t give up on me.’
‘Jemaine, I won’t. Never. I lo...’ – Bret shut his mouth quickly. Jemaine stared at him.
‘Say it.’
‘...I’d finished.’
‘No you hadn’t. This is really hard for me, you know. But that’s just the way it is. So if it’s hard for you too, OK. Man up. Say it.’
Bret looked at Jemaine like he’d never really seen him before. The man was more than attractive to him at that moment. He was amazing. ‘I love you, Jemaine,’ he said.
‘I love you too.’
They exchanged shy kisses on the cheek. Neither of them slept very well that night. They were too excited.
* * * * *
Bret was washing the dishes when he heard, or perhaps felt, Jemaine enter the room. This would not be so very notable, were it not for the fact that he seemed to have developed an unfortunate pavlovian reaction to his friend. These days, when Jemaine was anywhere near him, his body and his emotions seemed to go haywire. So there he was, elbow-deep in washing up water, suddenly horny as hell. He stopped what he was doing, inadvertently holding his breath. As far as he could tell Jemaine wasn’t moving, just standing in the kitchen behind him. Why? Was he watching? Trying to decide what to say? And if he was trying to decide what to say, was that a good thing or a bad thing? Was he composing sweet nothings or a breakup speech? Breakup. That would be a joke. What did they actually have to break up?
Everything.
Bret was still caught between agonizing and horny when he suddenly found himself turned around. There was Jemaine, looking nervous and determined and strange, his hands on Bret’s waist where they had spun him round. Bret opened his mouth to ask what was happening.
‘Shh,’ said Jemaine. Bret shut up. Jemaine’s hands moved from Bret’s waist to his face, thumbs stroking tenderly at the other man’s cheekbones. He licked his lips and took a steadying breath. Then he moved in and kissed Bret. It was, Bret felt, the most intensely passionate thing he had ever experienced – as though Jemaine were trying to express in one kiss everything he wasn’t brave enough yet to say. Jemaine was making little, half-stifled, urgent sounds, his hands trembling as they stroked Bret’s face and ran through his hair. Their mouths had been closed – barely – but Bret could no longer stop himself making noise. His lips parted in a moan of desire. ‘Bret, please...’ moaned Jemaine against Bret’s lips.
‘Yes, anything...’ panted Bret.
‘Making noises...the rules...don’t react...’ – Jemaine’s words tumbled out in no particular order between kisses. He distantly hoped they made some sort of sense. Bret pulled away and looked at him, eyes dark with desire. Jemaine closed his eyes.
‘Kiss me properly. Shut me up.’
Jemaine opened his eyes, indignant. ‘What, I wasn’t kissing you properly before?’
Bret grinned mischievously. Jemaine couldn’t help but grin back. This time, when Bret opened his mouth to reply, Jemaine swooped in and kissed him again. This kiss was a whole new kind of passionate. If the first kiss had been an outpouring of emotions, this one was pure heat. Bret was pushed back against the sink, dishwatery hands moving to Jemaine’s back as he felt their bodies pressing together and his friend’s tongue stroking against his own. Hands were suddenly scrabbling at the bottom of his shirt, pushing it up, pushing underneath, somewhere between amazing and almost-too-ticklish on his stomach and sides and hipbones as they kissed. And then Jemaine pulled away.
‘Uh...whuh...?’ managed Bret, reaching out for Jemaine. Jemaine took his hands in his own shaking ones, still breathing heavily. Bret could feel Jemaine’s pulse racing.
‘Sorry. Sorry. I...That was getting kind of...more than I’d anticipated. You know?’
‘I guess. Yeah.’
Jemaine looked wretched. ‘I’m so sorry for messing you around like this,’ he said.
‘’s OK,’ mumbled Bret, unable to hide his disappointment. Then he took a deep breath, and snapped himself out of it. ‘You’re not messing me around,’ he said, ‘you’re doing what you need to do. That...well, it was...flipping awesome. Amazing. You’re amazing. And yes, I want more, I want...I want you...but you know I’ll wait. I can. I will. I’m good at waiting, you know, cos of my...mould farm.’ – Bret frowned. Somehow that had started off romantic and mature but turned out a bit weird.
Jemaine smiled. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘Yeah. We’re both pretty amazing. Especially you.’
‘And especially you.’
* * * * *
Bret had been listening to Jemaine’s breathing. It sounded like awake breathing. Sure enough, after some time, Bret heard a quiet voice:
‘...Bret?’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s me, Jemaine.’
‘Good. Anyone else in our bedroom at night would be weird.’
‘Right.’
‘Like that time Eugene...’
‘...yeah.’
‘...and that time Mel...’
‘...yeah. That was definitely a bit weird.’
‘That was very weird. The bit with the robot was especially weird.’
‘...I think you might’ve dreamt the bit with the robot.’
‘Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. And the bit with the whipped cream?’
‘No, that was real.’
‘Oh. Yuck.’
‘Yeah...anyway. Bret.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Can I come...hold you?’
‘Oh. Yes. Definitely, yes.’
‘In your bed?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You sure?’
‘Come into bed, man.’
Jemaine got up and negotiated the short but intimidating distance between his own bed and Bret’s. He paused briefly before getting under the covers and looking at Bret’s face. It was a little blurry, since he wasn’t wearing his glasses, but it looked happy. ‘Hey,’ he said, smiling.
‘So...how do you want to do this? You wanna face me, or spoon me, or...?’
‘Just...here. You could...put your head on my chest.’
Bret rearranged himself around Jemaine until he had his head resting on the other man’s chest with Jemaine’s arms around him. So safe, so warm and lovely, but so distractingly sexy, too. He found it kind of turned him on that Jemaine was bigger than him, and mingled with the comforting feeling of being held was a kind of niggling curiosity. It had been so hot, when Jemaine had pushed him against the sink that time, that tall, solid frame against him, all flesh and desire and love and pent-up emotions pouring out into him. He sighed loudly, and felt Jemaine kissing the top of his head. ‘This is...nice,’ he murmured. And it was, really. Frustrating as all hell, but really, more than nice.
‘Could be nicer,’ murmured Jemaine, and Bret looked up at him questioningly. Jemaine pulled him up a little so that their lips could connect. It was a slow, tender kiss. Bret moaned, and Jemaine didn’t stop him, just slipped his tongue in and deepened the kiss. But when Bret’s hands began to move over his chest and lower, he grabbed one hand and stilled it. ‘I...I can’t...’ he stammered.
Bret sat up, and looked at Jemaine. ‘You can.’
‘But I...’
‘Look. I will wait forever for you if I have to. If you really need that, then I will. But I think...I think you’re just talking yourself out of something you really want. Not want. Something you need. I can understand not wanting to be out of control, not wanting to be put in a position where you can’t say no, but...this isn’t just sex, is it? I mean, it wouldn’t be. If we were having sex. It wouldn’t be just sex. It’d be love. And that’s not about who’s in control. It’s not. It’s about two people being together. Being happy. Being...complete. And you know, I’m just as vulnerable as you are, here. You make me feel totally helpless. But you make me feel safe at the same time. Cos I can’t stop myself feeling like my world’s turned upside down when I’m near you. But I know you’d never use that to hurt me. And you know I’d never use your feelings against you. So...yeah. Sorry, that kind of turned into a rant.’
Jemaine stared at Bret, an expression on his face that Bret had never seen before. ‘What?’ asked Bret, nervously.
‘I want you,’ he said, simply.
‘...Oh.’
Jemaine pushed Bret gently but firmly down on the bed and followed, lying between his legs and kissing him. He growled when he felt Bret’s erection pressing against his own. ‘God,’ he moaned, between kisses, ‘don’t know...what to do...want...everything...all of you...all at once...right now...’
‘Don’t...have to rush...got forever...’
‘Take your shirt off.’
Bret quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head. Jemaine put a hand on his chest and began to stroke gently. The hand moved nervously but sensually over his nipples, through the sparse hair on Bret’s chest, down his torso and onto his stomach. Bret squirmed and moaned, biting his lip. Jemaine’s hand stilled for a moment before slipping down lower and stroking Bret through his underwear. ‘I know what I want,’ murmured Jemaine. He eased Bret’s boxers down and held Bret’s cock in his hand. Bret whimpered. It was hard yet velvety-soft, a drop of precome welling up and spilling over as he held it.
‘Jemaine, please...’
Jemaine gave Bret’s cock one slow, experimental stroke before leaning down and pressing his tongue against the head of it. Bret cursed and held onto the sheets on either side of him. Jemaine licked at Bret’s cock a few more times, eliciting more never-before-heard swear words from Bret, then took him in his mouth. Bret sounded like a complete wreck of pleasure, but Jemaine realised he wasn’t touching him back. Jemaine knew why. Bret didn’t want to take that little bit of control away from Jemaine. Even on his back with his cock in Jemaine’s mouth he was being thoughtful. Well. Enough of that. He released Bret’s cock just long enough to say, ‘It’s OK. Put your hands on my head. Show me how you want it.’
Bret didn’t need to be told twice. He held Jemaine’s head there, fingers curling in the other man’s hair, and it was good, amazing, too good for comfort, actually...
‘Jemaine...I...you’d better...oh...’
Jemaine moved off Bret’s cock again and looked up at Bret with eyes dark with lust. ‘I want to make you come like this,’ he growled, and then he was sucking again with renewed determination, and it was all too much for Bret. Undone, groaning his lover’s name, he spilled into Jemaine’s mouth. He was still shaking, still feeling the aftershocks, when he felt Jemaine’s tongue in his mouth and the taste of himself as Jemaine kissed him. ‘I...I’m sorry,’ he mumbled between kisses, ‘You never...came...did you?’
‘Doesn’t...oh...doesn’t matter...got forever, you said...’
‘No, I want...’
‘What?’
Bret pulled away a little and looked into Jemaine’s eyes. ‘Same as you,’ he said. ‘Everything. Right now.’
‘...What?’ – Jemaine’s voice cracked embarrassingly.
‘I’m...I’m just so angry with myself. That I didn’t notice you first. Before...him. You know?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ mumbled Jemaine, unconvincingly.
‘It does. I mean...it doesn’t, really, but...what I’m trying to say is...from now on I want to do everything with you first.’
‘Well...good. After that, I was kind of counting on it.’
‘Yeah. And...and that includes...you know.’
‘...Do I?’ – Jemaine sounded genuinely confused.
‘Yes. YOU know.’ – Bret tried to make his face look significant. He succeeded in doing very big eyes.
‘Right. Yes.’
‘...Do you know?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’
Bret sighed, his expression a strange mixture of pained and determined. ‘I mean...sex.’
‘Oh. But didn’t we just...?’
‘No. Like...sex-sex.’
‘Like...guy-on-guy sex?’
‘Um...yes. I think so. You-on-me sex.’
‘Oh.’
They had forever. It didn’t stop them making the most of their first night.
* * * * *
MICROLOGUE
Kieran wandered the streets of Chinatown without much hope of inspiration. He’d not painted much since the escape of his muse. He’d taken a couple of Polaroids of women in various states of undress and various levels of consent, but it wasn’t the same. He’d actually become a little attached to the silly boy, which wasn’t like him at all. He shook himself. He needed coffee, tout de suite. He was just about to enter an appropriately bohemian-looking coffee shop when his eye was caught by a vision, shining from across the road. He gasped. Inspiration!
Kieran crossed the road in a daze and grabbed the hand of the figure whose beauty had so enchanted him. ‘Are you busy?’ he asked, breathlessly.
‘Yes,’ said the figure.
‘I’m sorry...can I please trouble you to talk to me for a moment?’
‘Well...’
‘It’s just...your colouring is so exquisite. What would you call that colour?’
The figure smiled knowingly. ‘You’d be surprised how few people ask me that,’ he said. ‘I call it, “Electric Copper”.’
THE END! :D
‘...Jemaine?’
As soon as he said it, he knew he was wrong. The guy looked uncannily like Jemaine, right down to the gap in his teeth, but it wasn’t Jemaine. He had long hair for a start, no glasses, and a bit of proper facial hair, nothing like the fake beard Jemaine had stuck on when he’d been trying to impress Brahbrah. Unless Jemaine had grown an actual beard since this morning, it couldn’t be him. Beyond that, the weirdly familiar stranger had a cool, calculatedly casual, almost beatnik look about him, and moved with a kind of loping grace that was not like Jemaine at all. The stranger looked behind him, as though trying to work out who Bret was talking to, then turned to face Bret. ‘No,’ he said, and even his voice was like Jemaine’s, though not quite. More like a natural, effortless version of the voice Jemaine used when he was trying to chat up a girl. ‘Kieran Vollard,’ said the man in his soft, deep voice, ‘Artist’. It took Bret a while to answer, because the sound was so musical and so unnervingly familiar he forgot to listen to the words.
‘Uh...sorry...I thought you were somebody else.’
Bret tried to avoid Kieran’s gaze. It was intense, focused, and a little dark, and it was weird being looked at that way by a man who was the spitting image of his quiet, shy friend. He looked at Kieran’s shoes. He heard a polite cough and looked up again.
‘And you are...?’
‘Oh. Bret. I’m Bret.’
Why exactly was he exchanging introductions with a random guy in the middle of the street? Kieran held out his hand and Bret took it, numbly. Kieran didn’t shake Bret’s hand. He held it gently but firmly in his own, still studying Bret’s face. ‘Enchanting,’ he murmured.
Bret didn’t move, even though he wanted to. He felt like a rabbit, caught in headlights. ‘Er...what?’
‘Of course, somebody must already be using you, bone-structure like that...’
‘Er...’ – Bret tried to think of anything to say other than what he’d already said. No luck. ‘...what?’
‘What are they paying you?’
‘The...sign people?’
‘I’ll double it.’
‘Double what?’
‘Triple it, then. Don’t deny me, Bret, I simply must have you.’
Bret finally pulled his hand away. ‘Look,’ he said, uncomfortably, ‘Kieran, is it? I don’t know what you want with me, but...’
‘What I want? Isn’t it obvious? I want to paint you.’
‘You want to...’ – understanding and relief blossomed on Bret’s face. – ‘...Oh. Well I’m sorry, but I don’t think...’
‘Don’t think. Just feel.’
‘Um...yes, well...’
‘Just consider it, Bret. That’s all I ask. Here’s my card.’
Kieran snatched up Bret’s hand again before he could pull it back, and pressed the folded card into his palm. He used his other hand to close Bret’s fingers around it. Bret felt like he must be blushing terribly as Kieran held his hand in both of his own. Then, as though coming out of a dream, Kieran dropped Bret’s hand, looked at him one more time and strode off. Bret was left reeling.
* * * * *
‘That’s not really news, though, is it?’ said Jemaine, bored. ‘I’m not that unique-looking. Probably loads of people look a bit like me.’
Bret sighed. ‘He didn’t look a bit like you, he looked a lot like you.’
‘Meh. So what was he like, this long-haired, twenty-twenty-vision me? Did he act like me?’
‘No. He was friendly. And...weird.’
‘Friendly and weird.’
‘Weirdly friendly. He wanted to paint me.’
‘...Paint you? Why?’
‘I think because I’m enchanting. With a good bone-structure.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you fall asleep on the way home from work, Bret?’
‘I didn’t dream it! Look, here’s the card.’
He took the card out of his pocket and showed it to Jemaine. Jemaine regarded it with minimal interest.
‘So...do you think I should?’ prompted Bret, when Jemaine said nothing.
‘Should what?’
‘Pose for him.’
‘No. No, I think that would be weird.’
‘He offered to pay me triple what the sign people are paying me.’
‘Really? I...I think that just makes it more weird, man.’
‘Why?’
‘Well...why should he want to paint you that much?’
Bret shot Jemaine a hurt look and shuffled off to the bedroom. Screw tea and cool baths. He needed to sleep.
* * * * *
Bret wasn’t seriously going to take Kieran up on his offer. Of course not. It would be weird. Still, he kept the card in his pocket and looked at it every now and then. Especially when the heatwave didn’t let up and he found himself out on the street again, holding up a heavy sign, feeling like he was made of nothing but aches and sweat and frustration. Triple his current pay. For what? To sit in someone’s house and let them draw him? Big deal. Really, it needn’t be that weird.
He made the decision to go for it without even knowing why. It was unplanned. On the way to work one morning, he just took a detour and wound up at the address on the card. His first thought was that this Kieran guy must be a pretty good artist to afford a place like this. The house was huge, set apart from the city in grounds that looked like a park. The front door was large and intimidating, made of dark wood. Bret knocked nervously. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. It was crazy. The guy was clearly overly friendly. Who knew what he’d ask for in return for the money?
The door opened with an ominous creak. There stood Kieran, dressed in a black bathrobe and towelling off his hair. Bret felt his face heating. Not only shouldn’t he be there, he wouldn’t even be wanted there. Of course, not everybody was up and into their day yet at this time of morning. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I’ll just...’
‘Bret,’ said Kieran, and the name sounded rather noble and beautiful on his lips. Bret shook his head, though he wasn’t sure why. ‘You’re here.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t...’
‘Welcome to chez Vollard. That’s French for Vollard’s house. Don’t be alarmed by my avant-garde mode of speech – that means, clever and futuristic – I speak over three languages, some of them to a conversational level. But don’t be intimidated. I’m a very surprising man.’
‘Um...yes,’ agreed Bret, bemused.
‘Come in. I just finished my daily meditation and herbal jacuzzi.’
Bret followed Kieran into the house. It was dimly lit – what his aunt used to call, ‘mood lighting’ – and brimming with exotic-looking statuary and paintings, candles, lanterns, sprawling plants and art materials. Bret felt like he’d stepped into a Sinbad movie. It was pretty cool. He was so intrigued that he had already followed Kieran through several rooms, taking several turns in both directions, before he realised that he had no idea where he was in relation to the front door. He suddenly felt vulnerable and a little scared. It was time to assert himself, though it didn’t come naturally.
‘Look,’ he said, loudly, making Kieran stop and turn to look at him. ‘I don’t know exactly what you had in mind for today...’
‘I never make plans. Inspiration is a capricious mistress. One day she demands a photo installation. The next, mud sculpture. Have you ever seen an anatomically pristine female body made entirely of mud?’
‘Um...no.’
‘Neither have I. But I could make one. The power lies in these hands.’
Kieran held up his hands. So much like Jemaine’s. Bret shook himself. Kieran was very difficult to talk to. ‘Look,’ he said again, ‘I...I’m just gonna tell you straight off...I’m not comfortable with, you know...’ – he lowered his voice – ‘...nudity.’
‘I’ll dress, then. Before we begin.’
‘Er...’
‘Pity. Inspiration is like sunshine. It feels so much better kissing naked skin.’
Bret’s mind wandered back to the day before, stifled and sweaty in his clothes. Then he remembered the somewhat alarming situation in hand. ‘I meant I didn’t want to pose nude. Were you...I thought you just said you were...you weren’t going to...strip...to paint me?’
Kieran shrugged. ‘Don’t ask a bird to show you its flying schedule,’ he said, enigmatically. ‘A bird flies when it needs to. Do you like animals, Bret?’
‘I love animals.’
‘...Wonderful.’
* * * * *
‘This is my studio.’
Bret looked around the room. It did indeed look like an art studio. Strange pieces – presumably Kieran’s own work, since they were mainly of himself – were scattered around the edges of the room. By a large window there stood an ornate wooden chair, facing what was actually a chaise longue but which Bret mentally identified as a ‘funny couch’. ‘A drink?’ asked Kieran, like it was some kind of test.
‘Um, do you have any water?’
Bret instantly realised what a stupid question that was. Even his own pokey little flat had sinks with running water, albeit water that sometimes ran upwards. Of course Kieran had water. As the artist wandered off to fix Bret a drink (he’d half expected a butler or a fleet of umpa-lumpas to appear), Bret mused on how much like a child he felt in this strange place, with this strange man. The sheer scale of the house, and its opulence, made him feel very small and plebeian, like a kid visiting a rich old relative. He felt he ought to behave himself, be quiet and polite and not touch anything. He was staring at a sleek, waxy yucca plant in the corner, not really seeing it, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, and turned to see Kieran holding out a glass of water whose sides had misted from the ice inside.
Kieran was dressed now, in black as usual, and wearing a half-quizzical, half-amused expression that Bret took to be the Kieran equivalent to a smile. Not for Kieran the goofy grin that Jemaine sometimes sported, the one that coaxed Bret out of his stubbornest bad moods. ‘Thank you,’ said Bret, quietly, taking the glass. The cold of it was a delicious shock to his system in the still-uncomfortable heat. As soon as he put the glass to his lips he realised just how thirsty he was. He drank the whole glass down in one go, then let out an unabashed sigh of pleasure before abruptly remembering where he was. He coughed and wiped his mouth self-consciously with the back of his hand. Kieran was watching him again. He could tell, though his own eyes were fixed on the floor.
‘Sit,’ said Kieran. Bret hesitated. ‘Here,’ Kieran prompted, ‘on the chaise longue.’
‘The what?’
‘On the fainting couch.’ – he made a short appreciative sound, as though savouring some delectable morsel. – ‘You’re so wonderfully unschooled.’
‘Hey!’ said Bret, offended. Still, he sat down on the funny couch as Kieran had directed. ‘So...’ he went on, ‘You’re just going to paint me. Right?’
‘I’d like to sketch you in charcoal, first.’
‘OK. And...three times my usual pay?’
‘Money is nothing. I’d give my soul to sketch you.’
Bret felt a heady mixture of pride and squirming embarrassment at this unprovoked compliment. The result was what he was sure must be a truly epic blush. If things went on this way, he just hoped Kieran had a lot of red paint. ‘So...how do you want me?’ he asked, trying to ignore the way the words sounded to him.
‘Relax. Put your feet up. I want you natural. Comfortable.’
Bret did as he was told, but muttered under his breath, ‘Yeah, well right now comfortable isn’t natural.’ If Kieran heard him, he didn’t let on.
‘There. Lay back.’
‘Hm.’
Kieran looked over the plainly uncomfortable figure before him with a mercilessly studious eye, taking him in, mapping every curve and line of him. Bret swallowed. He felt a fluttery feeling in his chest and stomach. Kieran’s gaze was so unflinching, so intense and almost...hot. And his body language was so open. He had never looked less like Jemaine, and for this Bret was grateful. He wasn’t sure his already weirded-out brain could have coped with his best friend’s spitting image staring at him like that. He had seen Jemaine intense, of course, from time to time. Working out riffs on his bass, or listening to music. In an intangible, never-spoken kind of way, Bret even quite liked to see his friend so absorbed. But that was a Jemaine-ish kind of intensity, quiet, self-contained. Manageable. And, of course, never directed at him. He closed his eyes to block out Kieran’s scrutiny.
As soon as Bret’s eyes closed, his thoughts began to swim a little, dreamy and disconnected. The heat had made him lethargic. He toyed with the idea of peeking to see if Kieran was still looking at him, but his eyelids were heavy and the “fainting couch”, as Kieran had called it, was deceptively comfy. Maybe I am fainting, he thought for a second. But no. Not fainting. Just...falling...asleep...
* * * * *
‘Bret.’
Nothing.
‘Bret.’
‘Mnm, shut up, Jemaine, ‘m sleepin’...’
‘Bret, it’s one o’ clock.’
Bret blinked twice, disoriented, then jumped up. ‘I wasn’t asleep!’ he said, uselessly, then, ‘...Do I have a couch-print on my face?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. You didn’t leave a face-print on my couch.’
‘...No,’ said Bret, uncertain whether this was an attempt at humour.
‘Do you know who used to own this couch, Bret?’
‘The...couch shop?’
‘Tracy Emin.’
‘Really?’ – He thought about asking who that was, but he already felt enough of a philistine.
‘If you’d rubbed off any of the signature stains I’d have been beside myself.’
‘...Stains?’
Humour? Not humour? Deadly serious? He had a creeping suspicion that it might be the latter. Just for safety’s sake, he stood up.
‘Ebay, Bret,’ said Kieran, sagely, ‘Ebay. It’s a modern miracle.’
Bret thought it was safe to assume that Ebay was where Kieran had bought the couch, though his speech was so offputtingly non-linear that, to be honest, he could have been talking about anything. ‘...Right,’ agreed Bret.
‘So. How much do I owe you?’
‘Oh. You’re...you’re still paying me? Even though I slept for like...six hours?’
‘I hate money. It’s only good for houses and cars and pools and personalised bath towels and Tiffany lamps and purchasing the services of beautiful women.’
‘...’ said Bret. He thought it best.
‘So? How much?’
Bret told him. Kieran reached into his pocket and pulled out more money than Bret had ever seen. Bret’s eyes widened as Kieran counted out the amount he’d told him into his hand.
‘Um...wow, thank you,’ said Bret, staring at the money in his hand. He was rich.
‘The same time tomorrow, I hope.’
‘Oh, but...really? Because...I dunno, I thought this was gonna be a weekly or a one-off kind of...you’ve actually given me three weeks’ pay, not three days...’
‘And the same tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that. Please. It’s worth it, to immortalise you.’
Despite himself, Bret smiled. He wasn’t used to compliments. He had a fleeting thought that he wished Jemaine would compliment him like that. Well, not like that, obviously. Not in a weird, slightly creepy, kind of gay way. More in a mate sort of way.
* * * * *
No such luck. When Bret got home, there was a frosty atmosphere in the apartment. Jemaine, sitting on the couch, glanced up at him, then looked away again. He looked subdued and pensive. In Jemaine, this was rarely a good thing. ‘Are you OK?’ asked Bret, in the tentative, gentle voice one might use on a small child who has fallen over and not yet cried.
‘Your work called.’
‘Oh.’ Flip.
‘Said you didn’t turn up today.’
‘No...right. What did you tell them?’
‘Told them you were sick. Of course.’
‘Oh, good. Thanks, man.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Are...are you being cool again, Jemaine? Did you find some more hair gel?’
‘Nah. Not sure I can really pull it off. Not with my bone-structure.’
‘...Ah.’
Jemaine looked quietly but disproportionately angry as he went on. ‘You were there today, weren’t you? You went to see that...artist guy. Who looks like me.’
‘Yeah, so what?’ – Bret tried to come across both casual and authoritative. He achieved neither.
‘So nothing. Nothing. I don’t care.’
‘Yeah, well...good.’
‘You know you’re on the way to losing your job? If you go back there...’
‘I missed one day!’
‘But you are going back there. Aren’t you.’
Bret didn’t bother to answer. After all, it wasn’t really a question.
* * * * *
It sure beat holding a sign. After a week of Bret being a no-show, Eddie gave up on his star worker and gave his job to someone else. Jemaine reported all this in the same dull, slightly angry tone. Bret couldn’t understand Jemaine’s attitude to his new job. Yes, it was a little unusual, but it was well-paid and easy and the hours were good. If he was honest, Jemaine himself didn’t understand why it made him so edgy. There was just something wrong about Bret spending all this time with one guy, a guy who was paying him fortunes just to look at him. And as for Bret’s bizarre insistence that the man was his own double, well...it was just all too weird.
Sitting for Kieran’s sketches got easier as Bret became accustomed to the other man’s strange, forward manner. Still, sometimes Bret wondered when Kieran would finally finish his sketches and get around to painting him. Part of him hoped it would be soon. Part of him was enjoying the money. And perhaps, deep down, a little part was enjoying the attention. After two more embarrassing nodding-off episodes, Bret even gave up closing his eyes.
* * * * *
It was another hot, sticky day. Bret shifted restlessly in the velvet armchair that was, for today, his pedestal. He knew Kieran’s studio off by heart now, having studied it over and over while avoiding Kieran’s ever-present gaze. Now, at last, (and only because the easiest jobs are usually also the most boring), he allowed himself to surreptitiously glance at Kieran. First, the hair, neither sleek nor scruffy, a shade lighter than Jemaine’s (and yes, of course he was comparing him to Jemaine – how could he not?). Now Kieran’s eyes. Bret watched them for a moment before Kieran, with almost psychic accuracy, looked up and caught his gaze. Kieran’s hand stilled on the paper. Bret swallowed, butterflies dancing illogically inside him. Then, just as quickly as he had looked up, Kieran returned his gaze to the page and continued sketching. Bret let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He felt hot all over. Squeezing his eyes shut, he placed the moment of eye-contact carefully into his mental box of things to be forgotten and never spoken of again. When he opened his eyes again he saw Kieran brush his hair out of his face, leaving a smudge of charcoal like warpaint on his cheek. Bret shivered.
This ought to stop, he thought, but despite his own sensible advice he continued to covertly study the artist at work. There was his mouth, slightly open to reveal that maddening gap between his front teeth which Bret had thought unique to Jemaine. His neck was half in shadow, somehow putting Bret in mind of old noir movies. His forearms, where the sleeves were rolled up, were much like Jemaine’s (except that Jemaine would never dress like that). His hands always seemed active, even when they were still. Occasionally he would look over his progress, and then he’d rest one hand on his thigh. There were grey charcoal smears there, paler than the black of his trousers. He always sat with his legs very far apart, Bret had noticed. Or, he corrected himself, not so much noticed as...what’s less gay than noticed?
Bret hardly realised where his gaze had dropped to, until he saw something that made him look away so quickly he thought he might get whiplash.
No. Surely not. Bret felt dizzy and a little scared, as though he’d just realised the drop on the rollercoaster was taller and steeper than he’d thought. Disbelieving his own eyes, he forced himself to glance back. Oh flip. Oh god. Between Kieran’s spread legs there was a large and unmistakeable bulge. His trousers were tight and Bret could see the shape of it, clearly defined and pushing brazenly against his fly. And why, why was Bret still looking? It took him several moments to notice that he could no longer hear the sweep of charcoal on paper.
Kieran had put both book and charcoal down, and was sitting with his legs still spread and his hands on his thighs, looking at Bret with mild interest. ‘Does it make you uncomfortable, Bret?’ he murmured in his low, purring voice. Bret squirmed but didn’t answer. ‘Let’s not be coy,’ Kieran went on. ‘We’re all boys, aren’t we? You have one too. Clothes are just silly masks for a race of children. We all know what’s underneath.’
‘...Yes,’ said Bret, quietly mortified, ‘but mine’s not...you know...you seem to be...’
‘Rock hard,’ provided Kieran.
‘Um. Yes.’
‘I’m not going to censor myself for you, Bret. Art is a very erotic process.’
‘Kieran...’ Please talk about the weather, or TV, sports, anything other than this...
‘The brush, the pen, the charcoal,’ – he held up the charcoal in his hand – ‘they’re all just vehicles for the life force.’
‘...what?’
‘Vigour. Passion. Fire in the blood. Basically they’re all substitute dicks. Not that I need a substitute, of course...but these work much better on paper.’
Bret stood up. He had to leave. Now. ‘This way I capture you for posterity,’ Kieran went on as Bret shuffled past him, silent, eyes trained on the floor. Though Bret tried not to listen, as he fled he just overheard Kieran’s last words: ‘But if I just wanted to etch something onto your memory, beautiful boy...oh, the art I could make of you...’
* * * * *
‘Jemaine,’ whispered Bret from his bed. There was no answer. ‘Jemaine,’ he said again, ‘are you asleep?’
‘Yes,’ came the grouchy, muffled voice from across the room.
‘Jemaine?’
‘What?’ – Jemaine remained facing the wall. He didn’t take kindly to being woken in the middle of the night.
‘Can I...ask you something?’
‘...Yes,’ said Jemaine, a long-suffering tinge to his voice.
‘What would you do...if a guy was looking at you...and you could tell he was...um...turned on?’
Jemaine moved onto his back and looked at the ceiling, blurry without his glasses. ‘By me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘Why’d I ask, or why’s he turned on by you?’
‘Why’d you ask?’
‘It’s just hypocritical.’
‘...What?’
‘You know, just say this happened, what would you do?’
‘Hypothetical,’ corrected Jemaine with a yawn.
‘Yeah. So what would you do?’
‘I don’t know. I guess...be flattered but tell him I’m not interested? It’s never come up, and it’s not likely to happen to you either, so I wouldn’t...’ – The last word petered out into nothing. Something had clicked. ‘Oh...my god...’ said Jemaine, too quietly for comfort, ‘This is about Kieran, isn’t it?’ – Bret didn’t answer. He felt guilty and sick, though he had no idea why. Jemaine was shaking his head, either in disbelief or to clear the image from it. ‘You let him...you let him...’
‘Hey, he couldn’t help it! What was I supposed to do? It’s not that weird. Is it?’
Jemaine turned violently back to face the wall. ‘It is that fucking weird,’ he said.
* * * * *
‘What’d I do? Shit! I’d run to the hills!’
‘Yes, I thought you probably would.’
‘I mean...shit, man, what kinda weird-ass question is that?’
‘It’s a hypothetical question.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe they do things differently in Hypothetica...’
‘What?’
‘Seriously, dude. Run to the fuckin’ hills.’
‘...Thanks, Dave.’
* * * * *
‘Turned on? Like...tuned in? Hip? Cool?’
‘No! Like...you know...hard.’
‘Ah. Well.’ – Murray covered the intercom with a hand and leaned in close to Bret. ‘I’m glad you came to me first,’ he whispered, loud enough for Greg to hear him quite well without the need for an intercom. Bret didn’t contradict him. He didn’t want to be demoted to a stranger again. ‘I happen to have a fair bit of experience in this area.’
‘...Really?’
‘Yes, and the answer is, when a really hard guy is giving you the eye, don’t make eye contact, don’t engage him in conversation, find a crowded place and talk to a policeman.’
Bret rubbed at his forehead and sighed.
* * * * *
‘Seriously?’
‘...Yeah.’
‘Woah. God, that’s hot.’
‘No it isn’t. What is? Nothing’s hot. This is just hypothetical.’ – Bret was getting good at that word. He was also getting kind of sick of it.
‘Sure,’ grinned Mel, poking Bret playfully/inappropriately in the ribs. Bret flinched away. ‘Very hypothetical. Jemaine told me about your little modelling Job. That Kieran’s a lucky guy. Maybe we should switch, right? He can have Doug and I can keep you?’
‘Um...’
‘I’m kidding!’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m not.’
‘...Oh.’
‘I am. I don’t have that kind of money. Maybe if someone gave me a raise on my housekeeping...’
‘When that promotion comes through, honey,’ said Doug, placidly.
‘So,’ said Bret, trying hopelessly to steer the conversation back to his question, ‘what would you do?’
‘Touch it,’ said Mel, a wicked smile on her face. ‘He might have been lying. Better touch it and make sure.’
‘I don’t think he was lying. It was kind of obvious.’
‘Touch it anyway,’ she said, in a voice that suggested she was amazed Bret hadn’t decided upon this course of action without her help.
‘I don’t really want to. I’m not really very interested in another man’s...’
‘Hey! Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,’ admonished Mel. Somewhat disturbingly, Doug nodded his agreement.
‘...and even if I was, it’d be too weird. He looks just like Jemaine.’
‘...’
Mel’s eyes had glazed over. This was Bret’s signal to leave. The bottom of the barrel well and truly scraped, he began to wander home.
* * * * *
‘Go on, then,’ said Bret. His arms were crossed. Evidently, he was in defensive mode. ‘Tell me you knew I’d come back.’
‘I didn’t know. I hoped. I know the average person can’t handle art at its rawest. I hoped you weren’t an average person.’
‘Yeah, well...I am average. But I’m also poor. I need the money and I don’t want charity.’
‘I don’t give charity. Except to puppies. Puppies with sad faces. I can’t resist those adorable little bastards.’
‘...Good. So. Let’s go to the studio.’
‘Not yet. I have something I want to show you.’
Bret grimaced. ‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ he said, ‘I still haven’t got over the last thing you showed me.’
For the first time since they had met, Kieran smiled. It was a real, unaffected, genuinely amused smile, accompanied by an almost shy tilt of the head that made his hair fall in his face. The smile was identical to Jemaine’s, and Bret was surprised and a little ashamed at how sunshiney it made him feel. ‘Well,’ chuckled Kieran, ‘I’m flattered.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Bret, stonefaced but holding back a smile.
‘I do. But come with me. This will be something you’ll like, I promise.’
Still sceptical, mentally preparing himself for something so avant garde he couldn’t fathom it, or so inappropriate he couldn’t stomach it, Bret followed. They wound through the impossibly large house until they reached a surprisingly modest back door. Kieran unlocked it and ushered Bret through.
Bret gasped in sheer delight. All around the sprawling gardens, hopping or sleeping or nibbling at the flowers, there were...
‘Rabbits!’ grinned Bret, as if Kieran might not have noticed. Bret was shifting from foot to foot, excited as a kid on Christmas morning, dying to be given permission to pet them.
‘Go ahead,’ smiled Kieran, fondly, indulgently. ‘They’re quite friendly.’
Bret didn’t need to be told twice. He walked out onto the lawn, almost forgetting Kieran existed. One rabbit, a little long-haired, flopsy, mottled thing, nibbled on his shoe. ‘Oh, you’re my favourite,’ he sighed, bending down to pick the bunny up. He cradled the rabbit in the crook of his arm and stroked its soft fur, cooing baby-talk at it, forgetting he wasn’t alone.
‘He likes you.’ – The words were murmured right in Bret’s ear. He felt them as hot, damp breath, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Somehow, while Bret had been distracted, Kieran had crept up behind him. They weren’t touching, but Bret could feel him there, as though their bodies were magnetic and close enough to feel the pull. A faint, sinuous scent of leather and patchouli was messing with Bret’s head, making his heart beat too loudly and a little too fast. He tried to control his breathing. He couldn’t understand why Kieran’s proximity should throw him into such an uncharacteristic panic. Except that – and this was the worst thing of all – part of him knew full well that if it were a girl behind him, he’d have no problem understanding. ‘Beautiful creature,’ murmured Kieran, his velvety voice and the scent of him stroking at Bret’s senses. Then there was a brief thrill of sensation that made Bret catch his breath. He looked down and saw Kieran’s hand affectionately scratching behind the rabbit’s ear. Their hands had touched. Accidental? The hell it was. Kieran meant to do it. This was all an excuse for...for what? What did Kieran want with him? How much? And Bret wasn’t even interested, he wasn’t. Boundaries, he had to set some boundaries. Funny, he thought he already had. He put down the rabbit and moved away from Kieran as easily and naturally as he could. Out of the reach of his breath and his scent, everything seemed more manageable again.
‘Thank you, Kieran,’ said Bret, his voice level and emotionless. ‘That was very thoughtful. Now draw me, please. I told you I don’t want charity.’
‘That wasn’t charity. The pleasure was all mine.’
‘Let’s keep to business, shall we? I don’t think anything else is really...appropriate.’
‘As you like. You keep to business.’
Bret breathed a sigh of relief and began to walk back towards the studio. But behind him, in a voice that was quiet but obviously intended to be overheard, Kieran muttered, ‘But you can’t stop me finding business pleasurable. It’s always a pleasure with you.’
Bret ignored him. What else could he do?
* * * * *
Bret went straight to bed when he got home. He wanted oblivion, and the sweet idiocy of night-dreams. Daydreams were too lucid. He couldn’t conjure up an image strong enough to blank out the memory of being excited by another man’s closeness and touch. And not just any man, but stupid Kieran, who just would have to look pretty much exactly like stupid, stupid Jemaine. His best friend. He had practically been turned on by his best friend.
Thankfully he fell asleep quickly, but his dreams were not of giraffes in wigs or spaceships made of ice cream as he’d hoped.
* * * * *
Bret lay on the chaise longue, naked but also clothed, which made perfect sense and needed no explanation. Kieran was sketching him, his hot gaze like a firebrand on Bret’s naked-clothed skin. Bret inwardly cursed his financial dependence on this infuriating man. Who did he think he was, that he could make Bret so vulnerable and remain so impassive himself, even while talking about sex, even with his legs spread and his cock hard? He deserved to be taught a lesson. A taste of his own medicine, that was what Kieran needed. So Bret lifted his head and fearlessly looked into the other man’s eyes. They’d just see how Kieran liked being an object to be studied. He stared into Kieran’s eyes and Kieran stared back, and Bret felt that magnetic pull again, like before but stronger. He stood up and stepped towards the artist, and it felt good to be the one standing. Though they weren’t far apart it seemed to take forever to approach the seated man, but Bret was undeterred by the syrupy consistency of the air between them. He moved forward slowly but surely, until he was standing over Kieran and Kieran was looking up at him with an expression of uncertainty. And, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, Bret bent down and kissed him...
* * * * *
Bret woke in a cold sweat from what was either a nightmare or a wet dream, and hopefully the former. He suspected dully that it might have been the latter, had he not awoken when he did. It was dark now – it had been still daytime when he went to bed – and he could hear Jemaine’s soft breathing in the bed across the room. Jemaine. Dear, familiar, grumpy, annoying Jemaine. If only he didn’t look so much like Kieran he might have been an anchor to hold onto in this sea of weirdness. There was a rustle from the other bed, and Jemaine rolled over so that he was facing Bret. He looked so endearingly vulnerable in sleep, his glasses left on by accident. Really, he wasn’t that much like Kieran after all, was he? Kieran would never let his guard down like this, not even in sleep. He probably slept with his eyes open, hanging upside down like a bat. Bret suppressed a giggle at the thought.
He was pleasantly half-awake, half-asleep, and looking at Jemaine seemed like a good idea. Jemaine’s eyelashes fluttered a little every now and then against his cheek, so Bret supposed he must be dreaming. His lips were slightly parted. Those lips. Unique, surely. Surely Kieran didn’t have lips quite like that. Bret couldn’t remember, and to be honest he didn’t want to think too hard about it. No, he was definitely right. Kieran couldn’t have lips like Jemaine’s. Nobody did.
Sweet lips. Sweet Jemaine. Sweet, security-blanket Jemaine, with the glasses and the kinda messy hair and the complete inability to hide his feelings. Bret was terribly grateful for him, all of a sudden. He was a great comfort to Bret, even when he wasn’t trying. Which was good, because he didn’t try very often. Usually he was a bit of a dick, to be honest, but at least he wasn’t always in control like Kieran. He pretended to be, sometimes, but he wasn’t. Bret could always see right through him, could always get to him if he wanted to, to spite him or to cheer him depending on his own mood. And maybe it was selfish to enjoy that, but there it was. It was nice to have some measure of control.
Bret sat up in bed, still watching Jemaine. He felt restless, but in a lazy, dreamy kind of way. He felt like talking to his friend, but he didn’t want to wake him when he looked so peaceful. So he got up, almost sleepwalking, and went over to Jemaine’s bed. Jemaine sighed and fidgeted a little, then settled again, his breathing soft and even. Then, all at once, on a whim that he would have stifled and forcibly forgotten in waking hours, Bret leaned down and gently touched his lips to Jemaine’s. Jemaine moaned softly in his sleep and, against all reason, kissed Bret back. Bret had meant (as much as he had had a plan at all) to withdraw as soon as his lips touched Jemaine’s, but suddenly they were kissing – a real kiss. A good kiss. Jemaine’s mouth moved so sweetly, gently capturing Bret’s lower lip and then releasing it, doing it again, once tentatively dipping his tongue into Bret’s mouth but withdrawing it as though, even in sleep, he was a little scared of going too far.
It was Bret who broke the kiss, scared that if it carried on he was bound to make sounds that would wake Jemaine. As soon as they parted, the insanity of what he (or they?) had just done hit Bret hard. He put a hand over his mouth and backed away to his own bed, falling onto it when it hit the backs of his knees. He got under the covers and closed his eyes.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t. It was part of the same stupid dream. No way he had kissed Jemaine.
No way he had enjoyed it.
God, that kiss.
Bret tried valiantly to ignore the fact that he had an erection. Half-asleep as he had been, he wasn’t sure whether it was the result of the dream or the kiss. Or the dream followed by the kiss. Or, he corrected himself, the dream followed by the other dream. Either way, he was aching. Aching with a need he had to suppress and couldn’t. A longing just to forget for a moment that it was Jemaine in that bed. To go back there and close his eyes to block out the reality of it, and just feel those lips again, that tongue, hear more of those sweet, slightly inhibited moans that meant the other person was turned on too and trying to hide it. And more, he wanted to wring other sounds out of the other person (the anonymous person who definitely was not Jemaine), sounds of need, urgent sounds accompanied by hands clutching at him, at his hair, at his hip, pulling him in closer...
Bret groaned and covered his head with the pillow. These thoughts were not helpful, and moreover, not allowed. He was still hard, more so than before, and aching to touch himself. But he wouldn’t do that with Jemaine in the next bed. What was he, some kind of animal? So he ignored it as best he could and counted a million and seven sheep. Mercifully, when he finally slept, he slept too deeply to dream.
* * * * *
Bret woke up horny. He took a shower (cold), and was still horny. He got dressed horny. He ate breakfast horny and brushed his teeth horny. He concluded that he was unlikely to get any less horny any time soon. Fortunately Jemaine was still in bed as Bret sat at the kitchen table, trying to simultaneously fathom and forget the events of the night before, and to decide whether he could face going into work. He couldn’t keep that half-asleep kiss with Jemaine out of his head. He wanted to brush it off but it lingered, an unbearably sweet sense-memory on his lips and tongue and deep inside him. Because the fact was, it had been the single most erotic kiss of his life. Sally had been his benchmark for hotness because, well, of course she was, but she had never kissed him like that. No girl ever had. Sally kissed like she was posing for a photo. Coco, like she was on a diet and nibbling on a dry biscuit to tide her over. Last night’s kiss had been so different from that, so focused and uncomplicated just for a moment, a kiss for the sake of a kiss. The slow, sleepy sensuality of it was, even now, making his cheeks burn with the memory. He licked his lips and remembered the tentative sweep of Jemaine’s tongue. He was in hell.
Bret groaned, head in his hands, then got up, picked up his bag and hauled himself out of the door. He might as well just bite the bullet and get to work. He’d just agonise over it and then come to the same conclusion anyway. He was broke without this job. Calling it ‘work’ and a ‘job’ sort of helped. It played down the implied creepiness of the situation. Not that Bret found Kieran creepy, as such. Weird as all hell, yes, and wildly inappropriate. Also unnervingly compelling and (though he was damned if he’d admit it to himself) sexy.
Admit it, Bret.
No. Shut up.
Admit it, repeated the admonishing voice in Bret’s head, which sounded suspiciously like Jemaine. He couldn’t help putting familiar voices to his various interior monologues. Murray was the angel on his shoulder. Dave was the devil on the other. Greg kept his shopping lists.
Come on, admit that you like him.
I like him as a friend.
You don’t. You think he’s probably a bit of an asshole. But you fancy him.
I do not. He’s a man.
You’ve thought about him.
That doesn’t mean anything. Thoughts don’t count.
You’ve pictured it.
...
You’re picturing it right now, aren’t you?
...Yes. Flip. I’m screwed, aren’t I?
Pretty much. Good luck with that. Later, let’s talk about that time you kissed me.
Oh, god.
* * * * *
It seemed that, for once, fortune had smiled on Bret. Kieran had finally decided to paint him, so he was hidden behind the easel for the most part, only glancing out to look at his model. Relaxing, Bret began to feel like everything might start going back to normal again. He was almost giddy with normality. Emboldened, he decided to try that well-tested weapon of the awkward man, small talk.
‘So,’ he said, as Kieran continued to paint, ‘what do you like to do outside of art?’
‘There is nothing outside of art,’ said Kieran, earnestly.
‘Right. But...do you have any hobbies? You know...pastimes? Leisure activities? That you do? Do you...run, or...I dunno...bake? Collect stamps?’
‘I like to swim,’ said Kieran. Bret tried to block out the shamefully instant and vivid image that appeared in his mind – Kieran stepping out of the pool, shirtless and dripping wet. ‘I have my rabbits,’ Kieran went on, ‘and beyond that...I like to fuck.’
Bret spluttered. ‘Sorry? I thought you just said...’
‘Sex. Sexy sex. Either with another person or just...’ – he swept a hand out in front of him in a gliding motion – ‘...flying solo.’
‘...Oh,’ said Bret in a weak voice. ‘Wait...solo?’
‘Yes,’ said Kieran, rolling his eyes and performing an obscene explanatory hand-gesture, ‘solo. Not...shocked...are you?’ – he smirked behind his easel.
‘...No,’ lied Bret.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never let yourself enjoy that beautiful body of yours. It would be a crime.’
‘No, I have,’ said Bret, quietly, blushing, wishing the ground would swallow him up.
‘Ah, but have you really?’
‘Yes!’ said Bret, not really knowing why he was admitting it at all, let alone insisting. Maybe he was fed up with Kieran seeing him as such a complete innocent.
‘And what did you do, hmm? What did your elaborate self-love sessions entail?’
Bret was bewildered. What a question. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, ‘You know...’ – He attempted a weak, embarrassed approximation of Kieran’s obscene hand-gesture.
‘Is that all?’
‘Well...’ said Bret, despite a strong suspicion that he’d soon regret it, ‘What else...is there?’
‘Masturbation is an art, Bret. When I masturbate, I take the phone off the hook. I don’t accept any distraction for at least an hour.’
‘An...hour?’ – Surely masturbation was the work of minutes, seconds if he was particularly horny.
‘Why rush it? Imagine a play that was nothing but a quick mumbled summary of the plot and a clumsy, hurried finale. No. Three full acts, a standing ovation and not a dry seat in the house, that’s how to do it. I could...show you...if you’d like...’
‘No!’ cried Bret. He tried to compose himself. ‘No,’ he repeated, ‘I’m not interested in you that way. Just...paint me, OK? You paint, we’ll talk, it’ll be...normal.’
‘Right,’ said Kieran, disappearing behind the easel again, ‘I’ll paint. And talk.’
‘Good.’
‘So,’ said Kieran, conversationally, as he painted, ‘I lie down and close my eyes first, and feel my breath inside me, moving: in...out...in...out...in...’
Bret fidgeted in his seat and tried not to make a sound. God, how could a description of breathing sound so dirty? He felt a little panicked. Kieran was going to talk about touching himself, all in his unique, vivid, licentious way, and here was Bret, already turned on by the preamble. This could not be good. ‘Can we talk about something else, please?’ he muttered. Kieran didn’t hear, or pretended not to.
‘I push my shirt up. Feel my hands on myself, on my stomach, still, centred...but such power in them. Power to create. Power to make me cry out in pleasure and spill over my fist...but not yet...’
Bret felt a little sudden spark of arousal at the thought of Kieran coming hard over those paint-stained hands, and then a secondary ache, low and keen, at the thought of him teasing himself and denying himself that release. Bret was already half hard. He suspected the rest of his blood had gone to his face. Sometimes he felt like he was being paid to be embarrassed.
‘When I’m ready I take my shirt off. I explore my torso – the maleness of it, flat and hard and powerful...I play with my nipples – rub them, pinch them, roll them between thumb and forefinger...has anyone ever done that to you, Bret?’
‘Hngnh,’ said Bret, and then, realising that it was not any kind of adequate response, ‘Er...no.’
‘Your lovers have done you a disservice, then.’
‘Eh?’
‘You should try it. Seriously. It rocks.’
‘...Oh.’ This wasn’t happening. They were not having this conversation.
‘I let my hands trail down...’
‘Oh, god.’
Kieran smirked. Bret mentally cursed himself. That had definitely been out loud. He didn’t want to let him know he’d got to him.
‘But I won’t touch my cock. Not yet, even though I’m more than ready. I put my hands on my thighs, feel them through my trousers, maybe scrape a little with my nails...Yeah...’
Bret was trying his best not to appear in any way turned on by Kieran’s words. He counted his breaths, trying to keep them measured and even, not shaky and ragged as they threatened to be. He had tried to surreptitiously pull his t-shirt down over his erection (now fully hard and rather uncomfortable in his jeans) but had to settle for draping his arm over his lap. Kieran didn’t mention the fact that Bret’s pose had changed, which was both fortunate and highly suspicious. It took his last bit of attachment to his pride not to allow his arm to drag a little against his crotch. There could be no accidentally-on-purpose. Not today.
‘...over my balls, my perineum – look it up in your dictionary – not touching my cock until I think I’m going to die with need...’
Bret thought he was going to die with need. He shifted a little and felt the tiniest bit of glorious friction on his pent-up cock. He bit his lip and forced himself to stop moving.
‘Then I touch it, stroke it through the material, slowly, steadily, over and over, until the precome soaks through...’
God, he has no shame, thought Bret – how can he talk about things like that?
‘That way, when I finally undress completely, when I finally get my hand around it, it’s so slick it’s like I’m thrusting into somebody’s tight, willing body...then one stroke, two, maybe three...and I’m coming like a fucking volcano. That’s sex magic, Bret: making a volcano erupt by rubbing a snake.’ – He laughed at his own joke.
‘And I suppose,’ said Bret, shakily, barely aware he was saying it out loud, ‘you call it your “essence” and use it to paint with.’
‘...Now there’s an idea. Maybe one day I will. Maybe a nice conceptual abstract. All over your stomach and chest.’
Bret snapped out of it, suddenly sickened and scared. He glared up at Kieran and stood up, knocking his chair over in the process. He was still hard, but he was angry too. ‘Right!’ he shouted, ‘That’s it! That’s...enough, that’s just...who do you think you are? You think I’m gonna just let you...flip. You are sick. You’re just sick. Just cos you get off on having an audience, doesn’t mean you can...’
Something like delightful revelation dawned on Kieran’s face. It was unnerving. ‘Oh, Bret,’ he said, fondly, ‘you think I’m an exhibitionist? Bless your heart.’
‘You trying to tell me you’re not?’
‘Oh no. Like all artists, I’m a voyeur.’
‘Meaning?’ asked Bret angrily, hoping for an explanation and not just a definition. He wasn’t that naive. Kieran got up and approached him. Bret could smell that devastatingly alluring leather and patchouli smell again, with a feral undertone of pure sex. He couldn’t move away. His cock throbbed. Kieran moved till they were almost touching, then leaned in to murmur in his ear.
‘Meaning, I don’t get off on having an audience. I get off on watching you squirm.’
Bret felt humiliated, but also helplessly aroused. He was afraid of what he might let Kieran do. He said nothing, so Kieran went on:
‘Christ...you’re just so responsive, aren’t you...trembling...’
Bret was panting and his legs felt weak. He wished he had something to hold onto. He was damned if he was going to hold onto Kieran.
‘What if I was to bite your neck now? Hmm?’
Bret let out a little broken moan. He felt Kieran chuckle against his neck, then the slightest brush of lips, the slightest scrape of teeth. ‘Fuck...’ he whispered.
‘Oh, yes...you’re so delicious...I can hardly bear to ration myself as I’d planned...’
Abruptly, Bret pushed Kieran away. Kieran stumbled, caught off guard, and nearly fell. ‘Ration yourself?’ repeated Bret, ‘Like I’m just some...commodity? You can take what you want and save some for later? Is that it?’
‘I’ve told you before,’ said Kieran, coolly, ‘I don’t expect anything from you. I just hope.’
‘Yeah, well stop hoping,’ said Bret, gathering his things haphazardly and heading for the door. Kieran didn’t follow him but smiled smugly as he left. He hadn’t got into Bret’s pants, not yet, but there was no doubt he’d got right under his skin.
* * * * *
Times were hard, chez McLegnie. Eddie wasn’t inclined to offer Bret his job back after the long absence, and had even gone so far as to refuse to call him anything other than ‘princess’ when they talked. Bret wasn’t sure whether this referred to his modelling stint or an inference that he felt that sign-holding was below him. Either way, it sucked. Now his days were spent handing out resumes all around town. And the truth was, he had got used to better. Worse still, Jemaine was still hardly talking to him.
Bret was still lost in his thoughts when he collided with a person coming in the other direction, spilling his pile of resumes all over the ground. ‘Damn flipping flip!’ he cursed, and dropped to the ground, partly to pick up the papers and partly to avoid the eyes of the stranger who had just been treated to his embarrassingly creative non-swearing. ‘Ha,’ he thought, wryly, ‘the last person I crashed into like that was...’
‘Bret, let me help you.’
Kieran. Fantastic. Just great.
‘Kieran,’ said Bret, coldly, allowing the other man to collect up some rogue papers and thrust them into his hand.
‘I’m so glad to have found you.’
‘Yes, well...’ – Bret was itching to leave.
‘I feel so terrible about the way we left things.’
‘The way you left things,’ corrected Bret, his indignance momentarily eclipsing his desire to ignore his former employer.
‘Yes,’ agreed Kieran. ‘But...Bret, you have to understand. I know I acted wrongly, completely unprofessionally, but I...when I’m around you it’s so hard not to want you. You are so irresistible, and you don’t even know it. But I regret that I let that get in the way of us, just when we were starting to be...’
‘To be what, Kieran? What were we starting to be?’ – Bret didn’t have time for this.
Kieran seemed to slump, defeated. Right on cue, Bret felt guilty. Good old familiar guilt mechanism, kicking in. ‘Oh, Bret,’ sighed Kieran, and Bret forced himself to look for a staged sheen to the apparently sincere tone, ‘I would so love it if we could be...friends.’
‘...Friends?’ – It was just what Bret wanted to hear, though he hadn’t realised. Jemaine didn’t seem to like him much anymore. Here was a friend offering himself up on a plate – a friend who looked and sounded enough like Jemaine to offer a little comfort just by being there. But this was the man who had hinted heavily at using him. Using him to coax and tease himself, using him as part-muse, part-sex toy. Still... Bret did want a friend. He needed one, badly. A friend to pick up his dropped papers, to compliment him, to validate him. It was easy, so easy, too easy to forget the bad things. ‘But...if we were real friends, you know, there’d be no more of this...’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Kieran, hastily, cutting Bret off. ‘Nothing untoward. Just mates, hanging out together.’
‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart,’ said Kieran, solemnly doing the appropriate action.
‘Well...OK. Sure. Friends.’
Kieran smiled his Jemaine-smile. All was right with the world. ‘Now,’ he said, conspiratorially, ‘I have something I want to talk to you about. Come with me.’
He grabbed Bret by the hand and pulled him into a cafe. It was warm inside, full of steam and the smells of coffee, tea and chocolate. Kieran sat Bret down and went to order. He returned with an espresso for himself and a cappuccino for Bret. Bret liked the smell. Ate the foam, heavily dusted with chocolate. Left the coffee. ‘Right,’ Kieran began. ‘Here it is. No bullshit. I need my muse. I can’t create without you. I need you to come back and pose for me.’
‘So all that “friends” stuff...’
‘No! No, I do want us to be friends. I just need to keep painting you.’
‘Kieran, I can’t...’
‘I’ll be entirely professional. I promise. It will be hard, but I’ll do it.’
‘No funny business?’ asked Bret, reminding himself disconcertingly of Murray.
‘None at all. I won’t even touch your hand. Not even your hair. I won’t even hug you. Though, you know, that stuff isn’t really out of bounds between two friends...’
Kieran’s voice and his earthy, animalistic scent were starting to cloud Bret’s mind again. He was gazing at the couch cushion, or rather at the small portion of it that was visible between himself and Kieran. Damn that magnetic pull. After all his anger at being used, after all his insistence that Kieran keep things platonic and professional, his hand was shaking with the effort of not sneaking onto Kieran’s thigh. A touch of the hand or the hair. A friendly hug. Really, it was unkind of him not to allow Kieran that much. ‘No, that stuff’s...OK...’ murmured Bret, as a hand crept into his hair. He shivered. Kieran smiled a smile that was nothing like Jemaine’s.
* * * * *
Bret closed the door behind him and leaned on it, sighing. He was angry with himself, and happy, and smug, and exhausted, and energised, and mildly amused by the absurdity of his own mixed emotions. He had begun something, or rather Kieran had, and he had no idea where that thing might take him. Really, he wasn’t sure what he’d given Kieran license to do. Certainly more than he’d intended. Now, more than anything, he felt restless. Small, near-platonic touches laced with unspoken promise had left him frustrated, unsatisfied. Wanting. Wanting what? He wasn’t sure. But if he couldn’t get rid of this nervous energy soon, he’d have to resort to running round and round the room. Maybe the exercise bike?
I don’t want exercise.
Not THAT kind of exercise.
What?
It dawned on Bret with uncomfortable certainty that what he really wanted was only likely to be provided by Kieran. His mind drifted briefly to the sleepy kiss he had shared with Jemaine, but he smothered the thought before it could become a fantasy. It was hardly shared, after all.
So here was the dilemma. He felt a sweet, maddening ache of want, and he could do something about it himself, he could...except that that would mean admitting to himself that he had been turned on by Kieran in the café. He felt suddenly tired. Fed up. Why all this denial? So what if Kieran was a guy? Bret wouldn’t exactly be the first dude to find himself in this position. And so what if Kieran was potentially no good for him? Chastity hadn’t exactly been treating him great, either. Why not? Why not take a risk?
The ache was still there, and Bret’s mind wandered back to Kieran’s gloriously vulgar description of masturbation as an art. Interesting. Bret didn’t know much about art, but he knew what he liked.
* * * * *
Jemaine pushed the unlocked door suspiciously. It opened without a sound onto a silent room. Robbed? Cleaned out by Bastard Australian Girls again? Bret taped to the wall? He peeked in. Everything seemed to be in place. Had Bret gone out without locking the door? Probably couldn’t wait to get back to that creepy little...huh?
There was a small sound from the bedroom – an exhalation of breath. Maybe Bret was asleep. Jemaine tiptoed to the bedroom. Bret was lying on his back on the bed, his t-shirt rucked up a little and his hands on his bare stomach. His eyes were closed. To all intents and purposes, he looked asleep, but something about the picture stopped Jemaine from leaving, or from going and lying down on the other bed beside him. Instead, he watched, trying to work out what was wrong with the scene in the room. Perhaps Bret’s breaths were a little too measured and deep. Perhaps his expression was just a little self-conscious, though he obviously thought he was alone. Whatever the reason, Jemaine was suddenly sure that Bret wasn’t asleep. Meditating, then? Since when did Bret meditate? Probably Kieran’s stupid idea. Stupid Kieran.
Then Jemaine noticed that something had changed. Bret’s thumbs were moving, just a little, barely noticeably, against his bare skin. Jemaine swallowed. He watched as Bret’s fingertips began to move in earnest, tracing lazy, random patterns an inch or so above the waistband of his jeans.
Oh God.
Jemaine’s stomach clenched a little, as though the touch had been transferred somehow from Bret’s body to his. The feeling was not unpleasant. Actually, it was all too disconcertingly pleasant. He couldn’t do this. No matter what forbidden things he had thought about sometimes, no matter how much stamped-down desire had haunted him (for months now, so many months he’d lost count), he could not do this. But his eyes didn’t leave Bret for a moment. He hovered in the doorway, ready to hide.
In a swift, impatient movement Bret pulled his shirt off and dumped it on the floor, before laying down and closing his eyes again. Jemaine hid, his heart pounding. When he was fairly sure of not being caught, he peeked in again. Bret’s hands were on his chest now, rubbing slowly as though to map every contour of himself. Jemaine watched, his mouth dry and half-open. He couldn’t imagine ever touching himself like this. Actually, up till now he would never have imagined Bret doing so. And he’d be lying if he said he’d never pictured it – Bret in the shower or curled under the bedclothes, one sure hand wrapped around himself, stroking and stroking...
A sharp little cry snapped Jemaine out of a burgeoning fantasy. Bret was biting his lower lip as with one hand he stroked and pinched at a hard nipple. The other hand was on his stomach again, shaking a little. His hips bucked very slightly, and Jemaine noticed the unmistakeable bulge in his jeans. Jemaine’s mind was taking over, inundating him with teasing flashes of fantasy that he smothered before they could develop.
My mouth on his mouth...licking clean salt sweat from his neck...something visceral, something raw and right about denim-covered cock against denim-covered cock, moving and rutting...Bret beneath me, needy, unravelled, completely wanton, eyes tight shut, sweet panting mouth, dark curls stuck to his forehead with sweat, moaning my name...
Jemaine realised he had started palming his hard cock through his jeans. He stopped, in an agony of mixed guilt and need. Bret’s hands were on his thighs, rubbing, squeezing, and Jemaine thought he knew what came next. He was wrong. Without warning (and really, what warning could he possibly have given?) Bret angled his hips slightly upwards and began to gingerly stroke down between his legs. He whimpered a little as his hand slid over his balls and lower. He swore under his breath as he began to stroke almost roughly, back and forth, between his still-clothed buttocks. And Jemaine couldn’t stop himself. A hopeless, hungry sound spilled from him before he could stifle it, and Bret flinched, his hands moving to his sides and his eyes snapping open. Jemaine hid again, shaking and holding his breath. In the tense quiet, he heard Bret’s panting breaths and had to stop himself from moaning again.
Near-silence for a while, and then a shuffling, rustling noise. Either getting up to check what the sound was (no, no, no!) or...maybe...taking clothes off? It was some time before Jemaine mustered the courage to look, and when he did he almost gave himself away again. Bret’s hand was finally on his cock, but he was rubbing himself through the fabric of his underwear, and so slowly it would have looked like he didn’t care whether he ever came or not, were it not for the palpable tension in his shaking body and the small sounds escaping him.
Jemaine had thought that the terror of being almost caught would put a dampener on his arousal. Once again, he was mistaken. And as Bret stroked himself, slow but hard, over and over, it dawned on him that if he knew how this was going to end for Bret, he ought to have a pretty good idea how it would end for himself. Panic set in, but it did nothing to curb his desire. How could it, when Bret was now groaning at every stroke?
Shit. I’m going to come like this, aren’t I, clutching the wall, biting my other fist to stop me saying his name...no, I can’t...Bret, Bret...don’t think it, you’ll end up saying it out loud...
Bret was just reaching under the waistband of his underwear when, against all odds, an almost feasible idea shot into Jemaine’s head. Tearing his eyes away from the dangerous vision before him, he crept back to the front door and slammed it. He heard a little cry and a hurried shuffling noise from the bedroom, and even through his panic and arousal realised that, had he not been watching, he wouldn’t have suspected a thing. Without waiting for a greeting from Bret he quickly went into the bathroom and locked the door.
Jemaine stood in the bathroom for a moment, wondering what he was going to do. Then he realised it was pretty much a foregone conclusion. Why agonise over it? He flicked open the button on his jeans and unzipped them, pushed them down a little way along with his underwear, and began to touch himself. There was nothing artful or teasing in his movements. He came suddenly, roughly, and it felt like the orgasm had been torn from him. He tried not to see himself in the mirror as he cleared the evidence of what he had done.
* * * * *
Dinnertime was customarily quiet and cold. Bret hated that. Since he had resumed his job with Kieran, Jemaine’s manner had gone from standoffish to icy. Bret tried his best to persuade himself that things might be looking up. He had engineered something which would be, he supposed, kill or cure. ‘So,’ he began, as naturally as he could, ‘I thought maybe it was time that you, er...met Kieran.’
Without looking up, Jemaine abruptly threw his fork down. It bounced loudly off his plate and onto the floor, carrying a forkful of macaroni cheese with it. He made no move to retrieve it. ‘What?’ he asked, evidently through gritted teeth.
‘Uh..well...you know, you’re my friend, he’s my friend...’
‘He’s your friend?’
‘Yes, of course he...’
‘That perverted, pretentious...’
‘Hey! Just cos he’s...just cos he used to be attracted to me doesn’t make him perverted! You’ve never even met him! At least he’s nice to me. You used to be nice at least some of the time. You could learn something from...’
‘I am not meeting him.’
‘You are, actually.’
‘You can’t make me meet him.’
‘I can. I did.’
‘...What?’
‘He’s coming round. Now.’
‘What?!’ – Jemaine jumped up, unreasonably panicked. – ‘What do you mean now? When now?’
‘He’s due here...’ – Bret looked at his watch – ‘...five minutes ago.’
There was a knock on the door. Perfect comic timing. Jemaine shot a furious look at Bret and disappeared into the bathroom. Bret opened the door. Kieran leant coolly in the doorframe, wearing a wolfish expression that made him, Bret thought, even more disarmingly attractive than usual. Bret had only a moment to register the rush of blood to his face before he was scooped into a warm hug that lasted rather too long to be strictly platonic. This was compounded by Kieran murmuring into Bret’s ear, ‘You look stunning’. Bret extricated himself from the hug, looking flustered, and escaped to the kitchen to fix Kieran a drink.
Kieran was on his way to sit down when he was shoved hard up against a wall. He hit the wall hard, but made a point of not reacting. He focused on his assailant. ‘Jemaine, I presume?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Kieran Vollard. Artist.’
‘I said, shut up.’
‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘I want you to keep away from Bret.’
‘...Ah,’ said Kieran, all the pieces of the jigsaw suddenly falling into place. So the friend was in love with the muse. Hence the bitterness. How very crass. ‘How very gallant,’ he said, his tone patronising. ‘But I assure you, my interest in Bret is purely artistic.’
‘Liar.’
Kieran didn’t answer, but smiled in a mock-innocent way. Jemaine was disgusted and (he was beginning to realise) entirely helpless to do anything about it. Finally, sensing little real fight in Jemaine, Kieran decided it was time to push the hapless friend a little further.
‘Bret is the perfect model,’ he said, wistfully. ‘So beautiful. And so very pliable.’ – he intoned each word as if it were delicious. Jemaine shoved him again, his head colliding with the wall with an audible crack. He just smiled. ‘Oh, Bret was right about you,’ he murmured. ‘So much like me.’
‘I am nothing like you,’ said Jemaine, fiercely.
‘Oh, but you are. We both know it. Bret has the face of an angel and a lovely, innocent little heart to match. I know. And you know. But you...oh, you have something else entirely. Like me. Features a little too deep set to be classically handsome, perhaps, but such fire in you. Such passion. And in your case, so delightfully bottled up that the slightest provocation might start a blaze. Ohhh, yes...’
Jemaine swallowed. His grip on Kieran loosened as his hand began to shake. There was real fear in his eyes, but he couldn’t look away.
‘Jemaine,’ Kieran went on, ‘Have you ever heard of autosexuality?’
No answer. Kieran smiled.
‘Imagine it, Jemaine. You and almost-you.’ – He slid a hand onto Jemaine’s hip, up onto his waist, inching under his shirt. – ‘With every button undone, new similarities or differences exposed. I see that fire in you, even if he doesn’t. Makes you kind of wild. And very fuckable.’
Jemaine reeled back, pushing Kieran away again as he did so. ‘No!’ he shouted, then remembered to keep his voice down. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t want you.’
‘I know,’ said Kieran, suddenly cool and disinterested. ‘I know exactly who you want. And here’s a word of advice, because I’m a sporting man. He’s an innocent. He’s never in a million years going to make the first move, no matter how many times you’ve jerked off to the idea of it in your sad little single bed. So you’d just better take him while you still have the chance. Because if you don’t, and soon, I will. He’s fair game. But don’t pout, now. I’ll make it good for him. Far better than it would be with you. He deserves a man who knows what he’s doing, don’t you think? Really, it’s a good thing you don’t have the balls to take him for yourself. Best for everybody. Well. This has been nice, but I think I’d better leave you to your thoughts. Give Bret my regards, won’t you?’
And Kieran left. Jemaine felt numb with anger. And numb, too, because he knew that what Kieran had said was true.
* * * * *
After his encounter with Kieran, Jemaine’s first and most profound instinct was to get in the shower and scrub and scrub. He ignored it. He wasn’t going to become a cliché for that cocky asshole. Still, for hours afterward he was sure he could smell the bastard on him. He’d told Bret that Kieran had remembered a prior engagement and left in a hurry. ‘Yeah, right,’ Bret had said. ‘You were rude to him, weren’t you. You said something to upset him.’ – and Jemaine, being Jemaine, had just clammed up. Because how could he say anything? How could he, when his own secret was so much more devastating? Kieran wouldn’t think twice about outing him. The scene ran through his head, vivid as a fever-dream.
‘Is this true, Kieran? You’ve just been trying to get me into bed?’
‘Jemaine told you that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow. I guess he really can’t stand any competition.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well I knew he had a thing for you, of course, but I thought once I’d promised to keep it professional he’d leave us alone.’
‘What? No, you must have made a mistake. He doesn’t have a thing for me, we’re just...’
‘Oh, God, you didn’t know? Sorry. But...I thought it was obvious.’
‘You thought WHAT was obvious?!’
‘The man’s obsessed with you! When I came round that night he just came at me out of nowhere. Slammed me against the wall. He was trying to make me promise I’d never see you again. It was actually kind of scary. Creepy too, to think of him living in the same house as you all this time and just secretly lusting after you. I mean...he’d have seen you sleeping. Seen you undress. Do you always remember to lock the door when you take a shower?’
‘No. You’re wrong. I don’t know how, but...’
‘Well, maybe. I guess we’ll never know. Unless...does he keep a diary?’
‘...Yes.’
‘Does he have a lock on it?’
‘No.’
‘...Do you know where it is?’
Jemaine shuddered at the thought. Of course, there was one possible scenario that would break him far more quickly and effectively.
‘Bret, I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, but Kieran’s only after one thing. He said as much. He’s trying to get you to have sex with him.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
Jemaine felt tears sting his eyes and rubbed at them angrily. It was very possible that Bret knew exactly what Kieran was up to, and wanted it. No, no, no, no, no...
Just to add to the messed-up hell that was Jemaine’s world, he now knew for sure that his feelings for Bret weren’t just a blip in his heterosexuality. Because, God help him, for a second Kieran’s seduction had affected him. The anger with which he remembered the encounter was edged with something he really didn’t want to acknowledge. A brief but undeniable frisson when the artist’s fingers had brushed his bare skin. The hard, untempered masculinity of Kieran’s body. The rush of power he’d felt from being the one doing the shoving and the restraining, however illusory his handle on the situation had turned out to be. Basically, it had been the closest he’d ever come to a gay encounter outside his dreams, and he hated that it had had any effect on him at all.
That night, for the first time since he’d caught Bret touching himself, Jemaine didn’t have a borderline wet dream about his friend. It was much, much worse than that.
They were back in the living room, he and Kieran, and Kieran was up against the wall. But this time, Jemaine was just pummelling him ineffectually with his fists, shouting, ‘I hate you,’ over and over again.
‘You only hate me because Bret likes me better than you.’
‘He doesn’t! You’re lying!’
Jemaine punched Kieran in the mouth. The force of it nearly turned the artist’s head around. When he looked back at Jemaine he had a split lip and a wild look in his eyes. He tentatively ran his tongue over his wounded lower lip. There was blood on the tip of his tongue as it disappeared back into his mouth. He smiled an oddly satisfied smile. ‘Oh, such fire in you,’ he said.
‘Bastard,’ spat Jemaine, ‘I’ll show you fire.’ – and he roughly grabbed a handful of Kieran’s hair and kissed him hard on the mouth. It was a brutal kiss, intended to hurt. He tasted blood, and relished it. ‘Autosexuality, right?’ he whispered harshly against Kieran’s lips as he fended off the other man’s hands (were they pushing him away or pulling him closer?). ‘This what you had in mind?’ – he bit at Kieran’s lower lip, and smiled to hear the artist hiss in pain.
Jemaine let go of one of Kieran’s wrists and reached down between them. ‘You don’t waste any time,’ Kieran observed, panting a little. His hand was sneaking onto the back of Jemaine’s neck.
‘Don’t fucking touch me,’ warned Jemaine. Kieran’s hand only tightened around his neck. In an instant, Jemaine flipped the other man around, the offending arm twisted painfully behind his back. The small part of Jemaine’s mind that was watching this scene, half-aware that it was a dream, was almost impressed. He guessed he’d watched enough cop shows to know, at least in theory, how to defend himself. ‘I said,’ he repeated, ‘don’t touch me. I don’t want anything from you.’
‘Then what’s this for?’
‘Always in control, aren’t you?’ Jemaine said, quietly but fiercely against Kieran’s neck. ‘Well not this time.’
‘So what, you’re going to rape me? Because you know, it’s not rape if it’s consensual.’ – he ground his arse lewdly against Jemaine’s crotch. Jemaine slammed his head into the wall. It sounded hard enough to give the guy concussion. But Kieran just growled, ‘Look at you. All this aggression. What would he say?’
‘Who cares? I’m never gonna have him, anyway. Just cos I didn’t ever try to use him. Just cos I’ve got something to lose. You stole my best friend.’
‘So what do you want out of this, exactly?’ – Kieran actually sounded bored.
‘I want to see you helpless. I want to bring you off like this and leave you spent and humiliated with your limp dick hanging out. I hate you.’
And the part of Jemaine that was aware looked on in horror as he unzipped Kieran’s trousers and began to roughly stroke and squeeze him. And Kieran wasn’t humiliated. He was smiling. Smiling like he’d planned it all. All at once the dream took on the panicked feeling of a nightmare. Wake up, wake up, wake up...
Jemaine’s own panicky noises woke him. He felt himself thrashing about, and stopped. ‘Shh,’ said a voice, ‘It’s OK. You’re OK.’ – The sweetest voice. Jemaine just wanted to lie there, eyes closed, and listen to that voice forever. Then, oh God, a cool hand rested on his forehead. For a moment he wanted to weep with joy. Then he remembered. He remembered that, even if Bret did care that he was having a bad dream, nothing had actually changed. Kieran was still going to take Bret at the first opportunity, and Jemaine’s heart would be broken. He turned away from Bret’s touch. He half imagined he could hear Bret crying. Stupid, to imagine Bret crying over him.
* * * * *
‘Tonight,’ said Kieran, in that dramatic tone that made him sound half-schoolmaster, half-ringmaster, ‘body painting.’
‘Er...what?’ said Bret. He had gone to Kieran’s that night (night, mind you, not day, on Kieran’s request), truly believing that he could and would do anything the artist suggested. Now, all of a sudden, he felt as exposed and nervous as he had on that first day, seemingly so long ago, when he’d fallen asleep on the chaise longue from closing his eyes to Kieran’s intense gaze.
‘Body painting,’ repeated Kieran, though he knew Bret had heard and understood what he said. Just for emphasis, he added, ‘painting on the body.’
‘No, but...I kind of said, didn’t I...about the whole no nudity thing. It, er...still stands.’ – He didn’t sound nearly as resolute as he wanted to.
‘Oh Bret, you needn’t be nude,’ said Kieran, reassuringly, moving to breeze past Bret towards his paint cabinet. Bret breathed a sigh of relief that was cut short when Kieran paused right beside him to murmur low in his ear, ‘...as much as I’d like to run charcoal-covered fingertips up your thighs until you begged me to go higher...’
All the blood rushed to Bret’s face, which, all things accounted for, was probably the safest possible result. ‘Don’t,’ he muttered, without much conviction. Kieran rifled briefly through his paint cabinet and brought out what looked like a large and complicated ladies’ powder compact. ‘Is that make-up?’ asked Bret, confused.
‘A body-paint palette. My own design. Compacted powder-paints of all colours. Very good for finger-painting.’
‘...Uh...’ said Bret, his mouth going dry. Then he repeated, ‘I’m really not taking my clothes off, you know.’
‘I know. I’ll just have to see what I can do with your face, arms and hands. And your neck...’ – The way he said ‘neck’ sounded (to Bret, at least) suspiciously like the way a vampire might say it.
‘Right. That’s...I guess that’s OK. So where should I sit today? The couch again, or...?’
‘The chaise longue?! Fingerpaint on Tracy Emin’s chaise longue? Bret, how could you? No, not there, and not on my chair either. I’ll put some paper down here on the floor.’
Kieran did so, his face so studious that Bret was reminded uncannily of Jemaine working out chords on his bass. The thought sent an unexpected tremor through him. Jemaine. His fingertips would be rougher than Kieran’s. He’d probably be rougher than Kieran, too. Unpractised. A little confused and angry with himself for doing it. God, thought Bret, I miss my best friend. His mind drifted back to reality when he noticed a Polaroid camera sitting suspiciously on the floor beside the paper island Kieran had made.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Well, if I create something good tonight, I’d like to capture it,’ Kieran reasoned. His voice was all innocence.
‘Oh. OK. So I just...sit on the floor, now?’
‘You just sit on the floor. Legs out in front of you will probably be best.’
Bret sat, feeling foolish. He interlaced his fingers on his lap, and stared at his hands awhile before mustering the nerve to look up at Kieran. The artist looked incredibly tall from Bret’s vulnerable position, so Bret was relieved when he dropped to his knees. Relieved, that is, until he started studying Bret as he had before, up close this time. Kieran’s avid eyes flickered between Bret and his paint palette. Finally he settled on a rich plum-purple. He swirled the pad of his thumb round and round over the block of chalky powder paint. Then he grabbed Bret’s hand in his own, turned it so it faced palm-up, and began to rub the paint in small, languid circles onto Bret’s palm.
Bret swallowed. He felt like he’d just missed a rookie manoeuvre in a game of chess. The touch on his hand was terribly erotic. And Kieran knew it. Bret knew he knew it. But wasn’t this perfectly within the rules? Nothing untoward about it whatsoever. It was all just part of the artistic process. Kieran would claim innocence. Or maybe he wouldn’t. It didn’t really make any difference. The fact remained that if Bret admitted to being uncomfortable with this, he was a prude. And if he admitted to being aroused, he was a pervert.
The circles were spiralling wider on Bret’s palm now, and he was relieved when, finally, Kieran turned his hand over and began to paint the back of it a vibrant turquoise. His relief was short lived, however. Kieran began to stroke the paint over each of Bret’s fingers in turn. He stroked slowly up and down. The action was so obviously metaphorical it was absurd. It couldn’t have been more plainly euphemistic if Kieran had actually said, ‘This is what I’d like to do to your cock.’ – All the same, Bret was rather grateful that he didn’t.
He looked at his hand. It looked like a kid’s who had been making handprints. It was colourful, but was it art? He had little time to contemplate this before the whole process was resumed on his other hand. It seemed like ages before the second hand was finished, covered in chalky magenta and orange. Bret’s sigh of relief was cut off when Kieran’s fingertips began to drag slowly and gently up his forearm. The sound he actually made was far too easy to read for comfort. Kieran smirked. Bret suddenly realised the extent to which he was trapped here. Kieran was going to touch him. Kieran was going to touch parts of him that shouldn’t get him so worked up, innocent, untested little erogenous zones that would drive him crazy. Kieran was going to touch him excruciatingly slowly, unbearably gently, and Bret was going to be good and quiet and let him do it, because calling attention to it meant losing the game.
Kieran traced slow patterns up and down Bret’s arm. Bret trembled, trying hard to control his breathing. Kieran seemed to be paying special attention to the delicate hollow of Bret’s elbow, making tiny circles there with feather-soft touches of his fingers. Bret’s eyes were shut tight and his mouth half open in a silent moan of desire. ‘Stop it,’ he whispered, hardly trusting himself to talk.
‘Stop what?’
‘I can’t...just paint my face or something. Not there.’
‘Why?’
‘I...I’m ticklish.’
‘OK. Alright. We wouldn’t want you getting too ticklish...too soon. Would we.’ – Kieran smiled knowingly. Then he wiped his hands on a rag and re-applied some sea-green paint to his thumb. Seemingly all of a sudden he was terribly close. Bret could feel his warm breath and smell him, oh god, that damned animal smell, like adventure, like sex. ‘Close your eyes,’ ordered Kieran.
‘...Why?’
‘I’m applying some paint to your eyelids,’ said Kieran, his tone suddenly disconcertingly professional. ‘Don’t worry, it’s as harmless as eyeshadow.’
‘I don’t wear eyeshadow, either,’ Bret pointed out.
‘Eyes closed.’
Bret obeyed. He felt Kieran’s hands cupping his face, tilting his head slightly from left to right as though looking for the perfect angle. Then he felt the pad of a finger sweeping gently over one eyelid, then the other. A pause, and then it happened again. The soft brushes of Kieran’s fingers spread outwards, over Bret’s face. It was almost relaxing. Fingers brushed his cheekbones, teased at his hairline, slid down his nose. Then Kieran’s thumb brushed over Bret’s lips. Bret inhaled a shaky breath. His lips were parted and for a mad moment he fantasised about Kieran’s fingers dipping into his mouth. No such thing happened. Instead there was a longer than usual pause, and he finally heard Kieran’s low voice murmur, ‘You can open them now.’
Bret blinked. He’d almost fallen asleep again. Kieran was holding up a mirror and Bret peered in, curious to see the artist’s handiwork. He laughed, then smiled, looking at himself from every angle. ‘Wow,’ he said, happily, ‘I look just like Bowie!’
‘Who?’
‘David Bowie!’
‘...Is that a musician?’
Bret looked at Kieran like he’d just grown an extra head. ‘Wait...you don’t know who David Bowie is?’
Kieran waved his hand dismissively. ‘Oh, I don’t follow pop music,’ he said.
‘...Oh.’ – That was weird. Weird that Kieran didn’t know David Bowie, but weirder that it mattered so much to Bret. He supposed it was because Kieran was his only close friend now. Jemaine would’ve been really excited to see this. Bret sighed distractedly, but if Kieran was good at anything, it was taking Bret’s mind off Jemaine. Kieran’s hand was in his hair all of a sudden, gently pulling his head back. Bret whimpered.
‘Sorry, did that hurt?’
Bret shook his head. Kieran began painting Bret’s neck, his fingertips drifting down just beneath the neckline of Bret’s t-shirt. Bret was breathing a little more heavily than was strictly proper, but he couldn’t help it. ‘Sorry about the heat,’ murmured Kieran as he continued to work on his masterpiece, ‘the air conditioning’s gone.’
Really. Has it really. What a surprise.
‘I understand your reluctance to make yourself too...vulnerable. But perhaps...in the circumstances...you might like to take your shirt off?’
Screw it. Bret knew where this was going. Why prolong it? He went to pull off his t-shirt, but hesitated. ‘What about my make-up?’
‘It’s not make-up, Bret, it’s art.’
‘What about my...art?’
‘It all adds to the effect. Art’s a living thing. No point keeping it caged.’ – As Bret pulled his shirt off he thought he heard Kieran add, softly, ‘...just like desire.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. May I have your permission to continue?’
Bret took a deep breath, steeling himself. ‘...Yes.’
He leaned back on his hands, closed his eyes and gave in. Too hard now, too much trouble to worry about whether or not this was any good for him. It felt good. Kieran’s clever hands were all over him, tracing patterns, smearing the paint over his collarbone, over his nipples, and down. He exhaled, and it almost sounded like a sigh of pleasure. ‘You look so beautiful like this,’ murmured Kieran. ‘Like there was never any you before my fingers shaped you.’
Bret was silent apart from his shaky breathing.
‘When are you going to admit that you want me?’
Bret didn’t respond other than by biting his lip. He was fighting his body’s instinct to answer in the affirmative. He felt Kieran flick open the button on his jeans. Kieran’s hot hand slipped under the waistband, teasing. Bret squirmed and whimpered. ‘You want this,’ Kieran went on. ‘So do I.’ – He was stroking over and over, dangerously close to Bret’s erection and inching closer. Bret could no longer keep quiet. He panted and moaned, and Kieran breathed, ‘...Perfect.’
And all at once the touch was gone. Bret’s eyes fluttered open to see a smug Kieran standing over him, shaking the Polaroid picture he’d just taken. ‘This is just what I was hoping for,’ enthused Kieran.
‘...But...what?’
‘Oh,’ smiled Kieran, his tone predatory. ‘You want more?’
‘Well, I...’
Kieran dropped to his knees by Bret and put a hand under his chin, leaning in as though to kiss him. ‘I could give you more,’ he murmured. ‘I know you want it. You just have to do one little thing for me.’
‘What?’ whispered Bret, staring at Kieran’s lips that were so uncannily like Jemaine’s.
‘Beg me.’
‘...What?’
‘You heard me. You’re close enough. Why don’t you beg me.’
‘I’m not going to beg you.’
Kieran shrugged. ‘Too bad,’ he said. ‘Could’ve been fun.’
He sat back and watched Bret collect his things and disappear into the shower. That was a shame. He’d been certain Bret would crack. Maybe he was made of stronger stuff than Kieran had anticipated. Never mind. He was going to have Bret on his terms one way or another. The little innocent was hooked so bad even this wouldn’t put him off. Kieran smiled and poured himself a glass of wine.
*****
Bret stood at the door, contemplating whether to knock or to finally follow Dave’s advice and run to the hills. He had compiled a mental list (dictated in Greg’s voice with angry interjections from Jemaine) of Kieran’s pros and cons. Kieran was sexy. Bret had admitted as much to himself, after much soul searching. Sexy and unpredictable. Now unpredictable was exciting. It was also more than a little unnerving. Kieran was fun to be around. He made Bret feel like he could try things he’d never even considered before. But were they friends? Real friends? Were they deep, unbreakable soulmates? No, they weren’t friends like that. The lack of that connection was hard to ignore, when he’d had it and lost it – and never appreciated it until it was gone. Jemaine. Bret shook himself and tried to focus on the pro-con list. Next item: last night. Bret hadn’t liked at all that sudden, subtle change in Kieran’s attitude, when he’d told Bret to beg. He didn’t like being in that position – Kieran the artist, Bret the muse. Kieran the teacher, Bret the student. Kieran the master, Bret the pampered or punished pet. That wasn’t right.
Still, it was with a kind of nervous excitement that Bret found himself back at his master’s door and knocking at it. He wouldn’t beg, that was for flipping sure. But he did want more. Kieran opened the door and flashed a wolfish grin that made Bret feel like giving in there and then. His black shirt was undone, and Bret caught himself eyeing Kieran’s bare torso covetously, wanting to touch him, to rake his fingers through the hair on his chest, to trace the line of his hipbones. He was shocked at himself. A sudden, unprovoked thought entered his head: God, does Jemaine look like this? Under his comfy thrift-store clothes, is his body so...so...
Bret blinked and shook his head, then raised it to look at Kieran’s face. Kieran was looking at him with an expression that was simultaneously amused and seductive. It would never have occurred to him, Bret knew, that his muse had eyes for anyone but him. He reached out and took Bret’s hand, then turned and walked through the house, leading Bret behind him. ‘Just a pet,’ Bret thought, but his heart was pounding with excitement. ‘I thought today we’d take the day off and enjoy a little...inspiration,’ said Kieran, conversationally.
‘Inspiration?’
‘Yes, get out in the sunshine, have a drink together, just...chill.’
‘...Just chill.’ – Bret’s default setting around Kieran was suspicion. He wasn’t stupid.
‘Exactly.’
Kieran grabbed a bottle and two glasses as they rushed towards the back door. Bret half felt like he was dreaming, as though Kieran with his strangeness and unerring air of authority were in charge of time itself, making everything go just a little too fast. Before he knew it they were in the garden, in the gorgeous sunshine, with cool grass beneath them and Kieran’s rabbits hopping about them. ‘Ah...’ sighed Kieran, throwing his head back. Bret watched, hopelessly hooked. Suddenly there was a drink in his hand. He eyed the greenish liquid suspiciously.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘Just a little love potion,’ grinned Kieran.
‘Seriously, what is it?’
‘Just drink.’ – Kieran took hold of the glass and poured some of the liquid inside gently into Bret’s mouth before he could stop him. Bret licked his lips.
‘Funny. Tastes like liquorice.’ – He took another sip, and Kieran smiled. Oh, that smile...
‘Shall we sit?’ suggested Kieran. Sitting sounded good. They sat beneath a tree. ‘Take off your shoes,’ said Kieran. ‘Feel this – nature under your feet.’
Bret kicked off his shoes and socks. He felt good. Relaxed. All of his worries were melting away in the heat of the warm summer day. The tree felt good and strong against his back. The grass felt good and cool and damp under his feet. Kieran’s arm felt good and warm against his. He realised he’d drained his drink already, and placed it clumsily in the grass beside him. He was silly to drink it all so quick, he supposed. It would go to his head. Kieran hadn’t touched his. Still, no matter. ‘This is...this feels...nice,’ he said, finding the words a little difficult to enunciate.
‘Yes,’ agreed Kieran. ‘How’s your drink?’
‘All gone. I think it might’ve gone to my head a bit, already, though. All gone to my head.’ – This struck him as terribly witty, and he laughed. Then he laughed at himself laughing. He turned to Kieran, whose face was very close. ‘Hi,’ he smiled.
‘Hello. Feeling good?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Yes. Can...can you hear that? Does my voice sound funny to you?’
‘Your voice sounds perfectly delightful to me.’
‘Yeah...no...but...you know, like...somebody else is saying it? Or it’s me, but...far away?’
‘Just the heat making you drowsy. Rest against me.’
‘Mmm...’ – Bret slumped lethargically against Kieran, still smiling. He noticed that Kieran’s hand had moved onto his own and was stroking it, softly, sensually.
‘I think it’s time we...took our relationship to the next level,’ murmured Kieran.
‘Huh?’ - Bret squinted at a bird, silhouetted against the sun.
‘I know my teasing’s been hard on you. It’s been hard on me, too.’
Bret snorted. ‘Ha! You said “hard-on”...’
‘...Yes. Well, I suppose that’s apt. Perhaps it’s best not to talk, hmm? Kiss me.’ – He put a hand on the back of Bret’s neck to guide him, and kissed him on the lips. Bret felt his body light up, but in a strange, disconnected way. He heard himself moaning. Feeling lightheaded, he broke the kiss. Kieran was panting, his eyes wilder than ever. ‘The first moment I saw you,’ he said, his face buried in the crook of Bret’s neck, ‘I knew I had to have you.’
‘...have me?’
‘Yes. And my instinct was so right with you, Bret. You’ve been perfect. Just the perfect mix of responsive and reluctant. Enough of a challenge to add spice to the game, but not so much that I ever suspected I’d lose.’
‘Uh...what?’ – Bret couldn’t quite compute Kieran’s words. Not with his head swimming and that mouth on his collarbone. Was his shirt undone? When had that happened?
‘Your body, Bret, your beautiful body, is made for pleasure. Give in to it. If there’s something you want, something you really need, body and soul, go ahead and take it. Life’s so short. Take what you want before it’s over...’
Clarity flashed like white-hot light through the haze of Bret’s mind. ‘Oh...oh God...’ he slurred, ‘You’re right! Kieran, you’re right! I’m sorry, I’ve got to...got to go...thank you!’ – and he stumbled barefoot away from his seducer. In years to come, Kieran would often wonder what it was that made him let the boy go.
* * * * *
Bret practically fell through the door. ‘Jemaine!’ he called, ‘Jemaine! Jemaine!’
‘Bret?’ – Jemaine hurried into the room, his bad mood put on hold by the apparent urgency in Bret’s voice. He looked at his friend. ‘Why aren’t you wearing any shoes?’
‘Am I? Am I not?’ – Bret looked down at his feet. ‘Oh yeah. Must have left them...in Kieran’s garden.’
‘Bret, are you...drunk?’
‘I think, maybe...a little bit.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ scowled Jemaine, disgusted. He’d sworn a lot more since Kieran came on the scene. ‘How much have you had?’
‘Just one drink.’
‘Just one? You sure? You shouldn’t be that drunk on just one.’
‘Yeah. Must’ve been pretty strong, though, because...everything’s further away than it is.’
‘...What?’
‘Or...closer? Either further or closer. You know?’
An expression of sick realisation fell over Jemaine’s face, and he steadied himself on a chair. ‘Oh, no...’
‘What?’
‘That fucking...Jesus, Bret, how could you be so stupid? How could you let this happen?’
‘Let...let what happen? Are you OK?’
‘Your new best friend Kieran has spiked your drink, and no, I’m not fucking OK, because I don’t know what he spiked it with, and I don’t know whether you just need to sleep it off or if I should make you be sick or take you to a hospital, or...’ - Jemaine looked close to tears.
‘No...no, he wouldn’t do that...’ – Bret’s voice grew uncertain. He did feel pretty weird. More like a few hours after he’d taken those acids that one time than any time he’d ever been drunk. Jemaine was gripping his shoulders hard.
‘Look at me,’ said Jemaine, urgently.
‘Yes,’ smiled Bret. That was exactly what he wanted to do. He looked hazily into Jemaine’s eyes.
‘Did he...did he...do anything to you?’
‘Kissed me.’
Jemaine winced, but carried on with forced calm. ‘Anything else?’
‘No. But he said something, Jemaine, something fantastic!’
Jemaine’s hands dropped from Bret’s shoulders, the fight suddenly going out of him. ‘Yeah,’ he said, dully, ‘I bet it was sheer poetry.’ He turned away and wiped his eyes discreetly.
‘He said...if you want something, if you really really want it a lot...you should take it. So I came home.’
‘...I don’t understand.’
‘No, neither did I until just now, but it’s so obvious, Jemaine. The thing I really really want more than anything...is you.’
Jemaine stood silently for a moment with his mouth open. Then he closed it abruptly and said, ‘No.’
‘I...No? What do you mean no? You don’t know what I want. I want you.’
‘You’re crazy. Worse. You’re fucking stoned.’
‘But I mean it! Kieran, he was just a...what do you call it? Oh...a....substitute! A substitute for you, because he looked like you and you were acting like you hated me all the time, and...’
‘Just go to bed. You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘I do! I’ve never been so clear! I want you and I know you want me too. It just makes sense. All those times you sabotaged my dates. The way you got so jealous of Kieran. You like me. You more than like me. Don’t you?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Stupid like a fox. It’s in your eyes. You’ve never been able to lie to me. And that’s cos we’re connected. You and me. You and me forever. Kiss me...’
‘You’re embarrassing yourself, Bret.’
‘Come on!’ – He began to tug at Jemaine’s shirt. Jemaine pulled away. ‘You know what Kieran says?’
‘Oh, fantastic chat-up line.’
‘He says the body is made for pleasure. Your body. Your beautiful body...’
‘No!’ shouted Jemaine, pushing Bret away rather harder than he’d intended to. Bret fell like a rag-doll onto the couch and stared, shocked, at his friend. ‘No, it’s not!’ Jemaine went on. ‘Maybe it’s OK for him, for an artist, but not for you and not for me! The body’s made for carrying groceries, for...taking a walk, playing a gig, eating breakfast, taking the trash out. And yes, sometimes for sex, but that’s the biggest joke of all, that’s just a great big fucking red herring, because you know what? You’re not even supposed to enjoy it that much. You just wait half your life for a girl to do it with you and then when she does it’s not even that good and you know what you do then? You damn well accept it and you’re grateful for it because if you...the one person that you...the one who really....gah.’ – his shoulders slumped. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me,’ said Bret, more clearly than before.
‘Go to bed.’
‘Not until you finish what you were saying.’
‘...Fine. Not like you’ll remember it tomorrow, anyway.’ – Bret took a deep breath. In his hazy way, he could feel that something very important was about to happen. Jemaine opened and closed his mouth several times before he finally said anything, apparently uncertain how to put it. At last, he said, very quietly, ‘When the only person that really matters, that really makes you feel good...when the only one who really turns you on is so out of bounds your whole life could fall apart if you pursued anything with...with her...you just don’t. No matter how much you want to.’
‘You hesitated. Saying “her”. You hesitated.’
‘Go to bed.’
‘Fine. But you did hesitate.’
Jemaine was already halfway to the bedroom. ‘Shut up, Bret,’ he said, just loudly enough for Bret to hear the tears in his voice. ‘Just shut up.’
* * * * *
Jemaine was woken by a groan. ‘Hungover?’ he asked, not without some smug satisfaction. Bret had given him hell last night in his drugged-up state, and deserved whatever the spiked drink wanted to serve up to him this morning.
‘Oh...god...yuck. Not fair. Only had one drink. Turn the light off!’
‘It is off.’
‘Close the curtains.’
‘They’re closed.’
‘Turn the sun off!’
‘Alka seltzer and a glass of water by the bed,’ said Jemaine in his customary bored monotone. He hoped Bret wouldn’t twig that he’d put it out ready for him. He’d had hardly any sleep, checking on Bret through the night. It was a quiet day, as it turned out. Bret spent most of it trying to feel vaguely human again. Jemaine kept out of his way. It was not until late evening when they sat on the couch watching new popular spin-off series ‘The Cat Show’ that they addressed the matter that had been hanging over them all day. ‘...You know last night?’ asked Bret, apropos of nothing and staring resolutely at the TV screen.
‘...’
‘I said, you know last night, Jemaine?’
‘That dark time before this morning? Yes, I’ve heard of it.’
So he was going to play ignorant. Well, Bret had expected as much. ‘Well...the thing about last night is...I remember it.’
‘...Oh.’
A long pause. ‘All of it,’ added Bret, significantly.
‘Right. You know, I don’t think this show is as good as the Dog Show. Too many cats.’
‘And Jemaine. Jemaine? Jemaine, listen to me!’
‘I am listening!’ shouted Jemaine, too loudly, turning roughly to face Bret.
‘...I meant what I said. Last night. It wasn’t just the spiked drink. That just...opened the floodgates. I meant everything.’
‘Yeah, well, so did I,’ said Jemaine with difficulty, and he turned back to face the TV.
‘But I don’t understand! You like me and I like you! What’s keeping us apart now?’
‘I don’t like you!’
‘You said it. You can’t un-say it. I know.’
‘You know nothing.’
‘Jemaine, you know...you know that cupboard in the kitchen, third one from the left?’
‘I...what?’ Jemaine looked back at Bret despite himself, confused.
‘Well, you know how we hardly ever open it? Because...once you open it...it’s really hard to close again?’
‘It’s not impossible to close,’ said Jemaine, his voice set.
‘It’s not a perfect metaphor.’
For a while there was uneasy silence. Neither man looked at the other. Finally, exasperated, Bret said, ‘At least tell me why you won’t be with me.’
Jemaine closed his eyes and sighed. Then, eyes still closed, he murmured, ‘I hate...I hate being out of control. It’s bad enough with girls. Always wanting more from you than you can give. Changing you. Telling you what to wear. Telling their friends about you so that they can have a good laugh comparing their boyfriends’ bodies and bank books. And then you, Bret. Then I had to fucking fall in love with you, and look at you and just feel so helpless, and I hate feeling helpless! Not trusting myself to get too close to you. Not being able to control how I felt when you were around, when you were gone, when you were out with women, and with him. What I feel for you...I just can’t handle it. It’s too much. Too intense. It stops me being in control. I wish it would just go away.’ – He put his head in his hands, too mortified to cry.
Bret was shellshocked. Poor Jemaine was so messed up by all this. And god, he was amazing for admitting all that. So brave. Brave and wonderful. Bret realised in that instant that he more than wanted Jemaine. And in that instant, too, he made a decision. ‘OK,’ he said.
Jemaine looked at Bret like he’d gone mad. ‘OK?! How can any of this possibly be OK? Were you even listening to what I said?’
‘I was listening, and my answer is, OK. You can be in control.’
‘...What?’
Bret looked at Jemaine with his bravest face, though inside he was not so confident. He figured that after that difficult confession, Jemaine needed him to be brave enough for both of them. ‘I just want you back. I don’t care how. So I’m putting you in control of this. If you can’t handle being more than friends, then we’ll just be friends. But if you wanted to...well, you could go as slow as you wanted. Or, you know...not so slow.’ – He looked down shyly. Jemaine swallowed.
‘So...you’re...’
‘Giving you free reign. Complete control. You set the pace. I’ll run with it. Whatever you decide to do or not to do.’
‘...Oh.’ – Bret’s heart soared. It was only one syllable, but there was a definite tone of interest. ‘But...what if I did something you didn’t like?’
Bret thought about this. He’d not considered the possibility. ‘Then...I guess I’d just tell you I didn’t like it. But I wouldn’t make a fuss about it or make you feel bad. And...I really can’t imagine me not liking anything you could do to me.’
Jemaine swore again under his breath and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Bret smiled to himself. He knew Jemaine well enough to know that that was not a dismissal. He could practically see Jemaine’s overriding thought scrolling across his forehead. And the thought was, ‘This shit just got real’. He came back into the living room with his tea cradled in his hands like a security blanket. He gripped it tight for a few moments, as though wrestling some inner demon, then relaxed a little, and placed it in front of Bret. ‘I...I thought we could start up the cup roster again,’ he muttered, smiling weakly. Bret had never seen anything as beautiful as that tentative smile.
‘I’d like that,’ he said.
‘Don’t do that. Don’t be extra-nice to me. You always hated the cup roster.’
‘Yeah, well, right now I like it. Feels like old times.’
‘Yeah,’ smiled Jemaine, just a little easier than before. Bret himself could not stop smiling as he sipped at his tea. He didn’t notice Jemaine struggling to muster the courage to ask one more question. Finally, he blurted it out. ‘Bret, what if I go too far?’
Bret’s eyes widened, but his smile didn’t wane. In fact, surprise quickly gave way to an almost mischievous expression. ‘Oh...’ he breathed, ‘do you...do you think you might, then?’
‘I don’t know!’ cried Jemaine, uncomfortable. ‘Don’t say things like that! You’re making me feel under pressure again! I might not do anything!’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to. What I meant to say, though, was, er...well. You know, with Kieran, there was always this feeling of risk. I didn’t know what he might do, and...I think I always knew deep down that if he wanted to do something he wasn’t above just doing it...whether I was comfortable with it or not. But you...I know you’d never try to get me to go all the way if I didn’t want to.’
‘Of course I wouldn’t!’
‘I know. And that...well, it kind of...makes me want to let you.’
Jemaine made a small incoherent noise and held onto the back of the couch for support. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘Rules. Rule one. You can’t talk like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘It’s leading. You were trying to turn me on.’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Bret in a small voice.
‘...Oh.’
Awkward silence. Then Bret prompted, ‘Rule two?’
‘Right. Rule two is, you can’t touch me. I can touch you, but you can’t touch me.’
‘OK.’
‘And rule three...you can’t...respond too much if I do touch you. Like...make sounds, or tell me you like it or anything like that. You can tell me if you don’t like something, but not if you do.’
‘Why?’
‘And rule four: you can’t ask questions.’ – He didn’t want to admit that the idea of Bret actually getting excited by his touch turned him on beyond all reasonable bounds and left him feeling helpless again. Bret just nodded and smiled, looking like a kid at Christmas time.
* * * * *
The Cat Show episode Murray’s mum had videoed was starting to get old. Then again, neither Bret nor Jemaine were really watching it. Bret stole a glance at Jemaine, only to find that Jemaine was gazing at him. He turned back to face the TV, his cheeks burning. He suddenly felt all off-kilter. Butterflies fluttered madly inside him. He was shocked that he should react so strongly to just a look.
‘Bret?’ said Jemaine.
‘Yeah?’
‘Can I...?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hadn’t finished.’
‘I know. But yes. You can do anything you want.’ – Bret’s words tumbled nervously over one another.
Jemaine huffed, exasperated. ‘Now I feel pressured again! Feels like you expect me to go all Kieran on you, and I’m not that, that’s not me!’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you. Please. Say what you were going to say. I’ll shut up.’
‘...Hmm. Oh, fine. I was just going to ask...gah, I’m embarrassed now!’
‘Oh.’ – Bret frowned, unable to hide his disappointment, but he didn’t complain. Jemaine looked at him, cast one hopeless look to the heavens (or rather, the ceiling), and took one deep breath.
‘Can I hold your hand?’
Bret closed his eyes and smiled. This was slow and awkward and difficult, but nothing had ever felt so good, so nourishing. A word popped into his head and to his surprise it hardly scared him at all: love. ‘Yes,’ he said, and then Jemaine’s large, warm hand was on his. Their fingers interlaced. Bret’s eyes remained closed and the smile never left his face. Jemaine saw it, and instantly caught Bret’s smile. Grinning like a loon at his apparently blissed-out friend, he instinctively stroked just a little with his thumb. Bret gasped quietly and his hand twitched slightly.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Jemaine.
‘N-no...that was...OK. I mean I’m not supposed to...but I’d tell you if I...didn’t like it.’
‘Oh.’ – Jemaine stared at Bret. The relaxed, happy expression had returned to his face, but Jemaine couldn’t shake the feeling (part panic, part excitement, part curiosity) that his small gesture had caused that brief upheaval. He began to stroke again, watching Bret’s face. Bret bit his lip. His hand was trembling. Jemaine stopped when he realised he could hear his own breathing, a little shaky and audible even over the sound of the television. ‘I think perhaps that should be...it...for tonight,’ he said, still holding Bret’s hand.
Bret sighed, not letting go until he absolutely had to. ‘OK,’ he said. Then he added, ‘Look. I know you said I wasn’t allowed to touch you, but is it OK if...sometimes...I might at least ask if I can do something?’
Jemaine squinted, confused. ‘I think you just did,’ he said.
‘Oh. Right. Sorry.’
‘But I guess that’s OK. I mean...It depends. What were you going to ask to do?’
‘Please can I just give you a little kiss on the cheek? Just a peck? I feel like it’s the right time for that. You know?’
‘Just on the cheek?’
‘I promise.’
Jemaine swallowed nervously, then nodded. Bret leant in and kissed him softly on the cheek. His lips lingered just a little, and then he rested his forehead against Jemaine’s temple. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. He felt tears welling up, and let them. Never in his life had he wanted so much to say the words, ‘I love you,’ but he didn’t. Not yet. Jemaine wasn’t even close to ready. He let himself breathe in the warm, familiar scent of Jemaine for a moment before pulling away and wiping his eyes. Jemaine squeezed his hand.
‘This was a good idea, Bret,’ he said gently. Then he released Bret’s hand and stood up. He hesitated for a few seconds, and finally laid a hand on Bret’s head. It was barely a stroke – he’d done enough scary stuff for one day – but it made Bret’s heart swell with joy. Jemaine went to the bedroom without saying goodnight, but Bret didn’t worry. The affectionate hand on his head had said it all.
* * * * *
There had been a hell of a lot of hand-holding over the past three days. Bret loved it, of course, but was increasingly worried that his own perception of it was very different from Jemaine’s. He’d worked himself up so much over Jemaine that the slightest touch was turning him on far more than it ought to. And Jemaine, though nervous, seemed pretty much unaffected. Maybe Jemaine’s feelings were purely emotional. Asexual. Bret thought he might die if he knew Jemaine didn’t want him that way at all. But he wasn’t going to throw this away for anything. He was pondering this on the bus on the way home from a band meeting. There were no free seats, and as many people standing as could possibly fit onto the bus, so they were forced to stand close, Jemaine directly behind Bret. Bret could feel the other man’s body behind his, tall and broad and...guh, damn it! Kieran was nothing. He’d never wanted anybody like he wanted Jemaine. Bret groaned quietly.
An echoing sound behind him made Bret’s stomach turn over. ‘Don’t do that,’ said a voice in his ear, an urgent whisper. Bret was undone. He couldn’t stop himself leaning back a little to feel Jemaine pressed against him. He let out a shaky breath, trying not to make a sound as he felt undeniable evidence that Jemaine’s feelings for him were not asexual. ‘Fuck, stop it,’ whispered Jemaine with even more urgency than before. Bret felt hands on his hips, pushing him away. He scooted forward so that their bodies were no longer in contact, but the hands remained resting on his hips. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He wondered if anyone else on the bus was aware of the erotic drama playing out between the two of them. He really hoped not. This felt decidedly private.
‘Sorry,’ said Bret, quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t.’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Jemaine, unsteadily. ‘I just...oh, god, you were so close and I couldn’t...Oh, thank god, that’s our stop!’ – Jemaine’s hands dropped from Bret’s hips and he pressed the bell several times. Some people turned and gave him a dirty look. When the bus stopped he pushed past Bret and didn’t talk to him for a good half-hour. That night, though, when they were watching TV, he took Bret’s hand in both of his and kissed it. Very quietly, he laughed to himself and murmured, ‘You know, earlier on the bus...it was kind of fun, wasn’t it?’
Bret laughed incredulously. ‘Fun’ was not quite the word he would have chosen for it. ‘Really?’ he said.
There was a long pause, so long that Bret thought Jemaine had decided not to answer. Then Jemaine said in a low, careful voice, ‘I know this is going kind of slow. And I do need it to. But...I am really interested, you know? Not just...in theory. What I mean is...don’t give up on me.’
‘Jemaine, I won’t. Never. I lo...’ – Bret shut his mouth quickly. Jemaine stared at him.
‘Say it.’
‘...I’d finished.’
‘No you hadn’t. This is really hard for me, you know. But that’s just the way it is. So if it’s hard for you too, OK. Man up. Say it.’
Bret looked at Jemaine like he’d never really seen him before. The man was more than attractive to him at that moment. He was amazing. ‘I love you, Jemaine,’ he said.
‘I love you too.’
They exchanged shy kisses on the cheek. Neither of them slept very well that night. They were too excited.
* * * * *
Bret was washing the dishes when he heard, or perhaps felt, Jemaine enter the room. This would not be so very notable, were it not for the fact that he seemed to have developed an unfortunate pavlovian reaction to his friend. These days, when Jemaine was anywhere near him, his body and his emotions seemed to go haywire. So there he was, elbow-deep in washing up water, suddenly horny as hell. He stopped what he was doing, inadvertently holding his breath. As far as he could tell Jemaine wasn’t moving, just standing in the kitchen behind him. Why? Was he watching? Trying to decide what to say? And if he was trying to decide what to say, was that a good thing or a bad thing? Was he composing sweet nothings or a breakup speech? Breakup. That would be a joke. What did they actually have to break up?
Everything.
Bret was still caught between agonizing and horny when he suddenly found himself turned around. There was Jemaine, looking nervous and determined and strange, his hands on Bret’s waist where they had spun him round. Bret opened his mouth to ask what was happening.
‘Shh,’ said Jemaine. Bret shut up. Jemaine’s hands moved from Bret’s waist to his face, thumbs stroking tenderly at the other man’s cheekbones. He licked his lips and took a steadying breath. Then he moved in and kissed Bret. It was, Bret felt, the most intensely passionate thing he had ever experienced – as though Jemaine were trying to express in one kiss everything he wasn’t brave enough yet to say. Jemaine was making little, half-stifled, urgent sounds, his hands trembling as they stroked Bret’s face and ran through his hair. Their mouths had been closed – barely – but Bret could no longer stop himself making noise. His lips parted in a moan of desire. ‘Bret, please...’ moaned Jemaine against Bret’s lips.
‘Yes, anything...’ panted Bret.
‘Making noises...the rules...don’t react...’ – Jemaine’s words tumbled out in no particular order between kisses. He distantly hoped they made some sort of sense. Bret pulled away and looked at him, eyes dark with desire. Jemaine closed his eyes.
‘Kiss me properly. Shut me up.’
Jemaine opened his eyes, indignant. ‘What, I wasn’t kissing you properly before?’
Bret grinned mischievously. Jemaine couldn’t help but grin back. This time, when Bret opened his mouth to reply, Jemaine swooped in and kissed him again. This kiss was a whole new kind of passionate. If the first kiss had been an outpouring of emotions, this one was pure heat. Bret was pushed back against the sink, dishwatery hands moving to Jemaine’s back as he felt their bodies pressing together and his friend’s tongue stroking against his own. Hands were suddenly scrabbling at the bottom of his shirt, pushing it up, pushing underneath, somewhere between amazing and almost-too-ticklish on his stomach and sides and hipbones as they kissed. And then Jemaine pulled away.
‘Uh...whuh...?’ managed Bret, reaching out for Jemaine. Jemaine took his hands in his own shaking ones, still breathing heavily. Bret could feel Jemaine’s pulse racing.
‘Sorry. Sorry. I...That was getting kind of...more than I’d anticipated. You know?’
‘I guess. Yeah.’
Jemaine looked wretched. ‘I’m so sorry for messing you around like this,’ he said.
‘’s OK,’ mumbled Bret, unable to hide his disappointment. Then he took a deep breath, and snapped himself out of it. ‘You’re not messing me around,’ he said, ‘you’re doing what you need to do. That...well, it was...flipping awesome. Amazing. You’re amazing. And yes, I want more, I want...I want you...but you know I’ll wait. I can. I will. I’m good at waiting, you know, cos of my...mould farm.’ – Bret frowned. Somehow that had started off romantic and mature but turned out a bit weird.
Jemaine smiled. ‘You’re amazing.’
‘Yeah. We’re both pretty amazing. Especially you.’
‘And especially you.’
* * * * *
Bret had been listening to Jemaine’s breathing. It sounded like awake breathing. Sure enough, after some time, Bret heard a quiet voice:
‘...Bret?’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s me, Jemaine.’
‘Good. Anyone else in our bedroom at night would be weird.’
‘Right.’
‘Like that time Eugene...’
‘...yeah.’
‘...and that time Mel...’
‘...yeah. That was definitely a bit weird.’
‘That was very weird. The bit with the robot was especially weird.’
‘...I think you might’ve dreamt the bit with the robot.’
‘Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. And the bit with the whipped cream?’
‘No, that was real.’
‘Oh. Yuck.’
‘Yeah...anyway. Bret.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Can I come...hold you?’
‘Oh. Yes. Definitely, yes.’
‘In your bed?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You sure?’
‘Come into bed, man.’
Jemaine got up and negotiated the short but intimidating distance between his own bed and Bret’s. He paused briefly before getting under the covers and looking at Bret’s face. It was a little blurry, since he wasn’t wearing his glasses, but it looked happy. ‘Hey,’ he said, smiling.
‘So...how do you want to do this? You wanna face me, or spoon me, or...?’
‘Just...here. You could...put your head on my chest.’
Bret rearranged himself around Jemaine until he had his head resting on the other man’s chest with Jemaine’s arms around him. So safe, so warm and lovely, but so distractingly sexy, too. He found it kind of turned him on that Jemaine was bigger than him, and mingled with the comforting feeling of being held was a kind of niggling curiosity. It had been so hot, when Jemaine had pushed him against the sink that time, that tall, solid frame against him, all flesh and desire and love and pent-up emotions pouring out into him. He sighed loudly, and felt Jemaine kissing the top of his head. ‘This is...nice,’ he murmured. And it was, really. Frustrating as all hell, but really, more than nice.
‘Could be nicer,’ murmured Jemaine, and Bret looked up at him questioningly. Jemaine pulled him up a little so that their lips could connect. It was a slow, tender kiss. Bret moaned, and Jemaine didn’t stop him, just slipped his tongue in and deepened the kiss. But when Bret’s hands began to move over his chest and lower, he grabbed one hand and stilled it. ‘I...I can’t...’ he stammered.
Bret sat up, and looked at Jemaine. ‘You can.’
‘But I...’
‘Look. I will wait forever for you if I have to. If you really need that, then I will. But I think...I think you’re just talking yourself out of something you really want. Not want. Something you need. I can understand not wanting to be out of control, not wanting to be put in a position where you can’t say no, but...this isn’t just sex, is it? I mean, it wouldn’t be. If we were having sex. It wouldn’t be just sex. It’d be love. And that’s not about who’s in control. It’s not. It’s about two people being together. Being happy. Being...complete. And you know, I’m just as vulnerable as you are, here. You make me feel totally helpless. But you make me feel safe at the same time. Cos I can’t stop myself feeling like my world’s turned upside down when I’m near you. But I know you’d never use that to hurt me. And you know I’d never use your feelings against you. So...yeah. Sorry, that kind of turned into a rant.’
Jemaine stared at Bret, an expression on his face that Bret had never seen before. ‘What?’ asked Bret, nervously.
‘I want you,’ he said, simply.
‘...Oh.’
Jemaine pushed Bret gently but firmly down on the bed and followed, lying between his legs and kissing him. He growled when he felt Bret’s erection pressing against his own. ‘God,’ he moaned, between kisses, ‘don’t know...what to do...want...everything...all of you...all at once...right now...’
‘Don’t...have to rush...got forever...’
‘Take your shirt off.’
Bret quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head. Jemaine put a hand on his chest and began to stroke gently. The hand moved nervously but sensually over his nipples, through the sparse hair on Bret’s chest, down his torso and onto his stomach. Bret squirmed and moaned, biting his lip. Jemaine’s hand stilled for a moment before slipping down lower and stroking Bret through his underwear. ‘I know what I want,’ murmured Jemaine. He eased Bret’s boxers down and held Bret’s cock in his hand. Bret whimpered. It was hard yet velvety-soft, a drop of precome welling up and spilling over as he held it.
‘Jemaine, please...’
Jemaine gave Bret’s cock one slow, experimental stroke before leaning down and pressing his tongue against the head of it. Bret cursed and held onto the sheets on either side of him. Jemaine licked at Bret’s cock a few more times, eliciting more never-before-heard swear words from Bret, then took him in his mouth. Bret sounded like a complete wreck of pleasure, but Jemaine realised he wasn’t touching him back. Jemaine knew why. Bret didn’t want to take that little bit of control away from Jemaine. Even on his back with his cock in Jemaine’s mouth he was being thoughtful. Well. Enough of that. He released Bret’s cock just long enough to say, ‘It’s OK. Put your hands on my head. Show me how you want it.’
Bret didn’t need to be told twice. He held Jemaine’s head there, fingers curling in the other man’s hair, and it was good, amazing, too good for comfort, actually...
‘Jemaine...I...you’d better...oh...’
Jemaine moved off Bret’s cock again and looked up at Bret with eyes dark with lust. ‘I want to make you come like this,’ he growled, and then he was sucking again with renewed determination, and it was all too much for Bret. Undone, groaning his lover’s name, he spilled into Jemaine’s mouth. He was still shaking, still feeling the aftershocks, when he felt Jemaine’s tongue in his mouth and the taste of himself as Jemaine kissed him. ‘I...I’m sorry,’ he mumbled between kisses, ‘You never...came...did you?’
‘Doesn’t...oh...doesn’t matter...got forever, you said...’
‘No, I want...’
‘What?’
Bret pulled away a little and looked into Jemaine’s eyes. ‘Same as you,’ he said. ‘Everything. Right now.’
‘...What?’ – Jemaine’s voice cracked embarrassingly.
‘I’m...I’m just so angry with myself. That I didn’t notice you first. Before...him. You know?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ mumbled Jemaine, unconvincingly.
‘It does. I mean...it doesn’t, really, but...what I’m trying to say is...from now on I want to do everything with you first.’
‘Well...good. After that, I was kind of counting on it.’
‘Yeah. And...and that includes...you know.’
‘...Do I?’ – Jemaine sounded genuinely confused.
‘Yes. YOU know.’ – Bret tried to make his face look significant. He succeeded in doing very big eyes.
‘Right. Yes.’
‘...Do you know?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’
Bret sighed, his expression a strange mixture of pained and determined. ‘I mean...sex.’
‘Oh. But didn’t we just...?’
‘No. Like...sex-sex.’
‘Like...guy-on-guy sex?’
‘Um...yes. I think so. You-on-me sex.’
‘Oh.’
They had forever. It didn’t stop them making the most of their first night.
* * * * *
MICROLOGUE
Kieran wandered the streets of Chinatown without much hope of inspiration. He’d not painted much since the escape of his muse. He’d taken a couple of Polaroids of women in various states of undress and various levels of consent, but it wasn’t the same. He’d actually become a little attached to the silly boy, which wasn’t like him at all. He shook himself. He needed coffee, tout de suite. He was just about to enter an appropriately bohemian-looking coffee shop when his eye was caught by a vision, shining from across the road. He gasped. Inspiration!
Kieran crossed the road in a daze and grabbed the hand of the figure whose beauty had so enchanted him. ‘Are you busy?’ he asked, breathlessly.
‘Yes,’ said the figure.
‘I’m sorry...can I please trouble you to talk to me for a moment?’
‘Well...’
‘It’s just...your colouring is so exquisite. What would you call that colour?’
The figure smiled knowingly. ‘You’d be surprised how few people ask me that,’ he said. ‘I call it, “Electric Copper”.’
THE END! :D