Work Text:
There were ants in the apartment. Jemaine first discovered them one rainy morning in the kitchen, mounting what appeared to be a full-scale invasion on Bret's half-eaten free sandwich. They cleared out all of the food they could afford to get rid of, which wasn't much, and Bret, feeling responsible for leading the ants in in the first place, tentatively began peeling them off of the countertop with strips of sellotape. He winced every time the tiny, still-flailing black bodies came up on the tape, his face a grimace of horror and regret. Jemaine noticed.
"Hey, Bret," he said, as gently as he could manage, "Don't worry about it. They're not really animals, and besides, they're competition. They're going to eat our food if we don't get rid of them."
Bret narrowed his eyes, stomach growling like some kind of tiger with a throat infection. "Well, when you put it like that..."
And right when the two of them were getting into the swing of harvesting tiny black bodies from any and all flat surfaces with the dwindling supply of wide, sticky tape, the phone rang.
"Emergency band meeting." said Murray.
"That's just what we wanted to hear." Jemaine replied, but the double-sarcasm went right over Murray's head.
-------------------
"We need more tape."
"What? Bret, this is the third roll this week. I'm going to have to start charging Tape Insurance, in case my boss finds me out. Do you have any idea how much trouble I'd be in?"
Bret swallowed. He hadn't really thought about that; Murray's office had always seemed like an unlimited supply of all things useful and administrative, from pads of yellow paper for their song lyrics to paper clips to get them back into the apartment when they had both managed to lock their key on the wrong side of the door. Was it really a crime to steal office supplies? Maybe that was why Murray's building had such troll-like security guards. New Zealand really couldn't afford to loose even a paper clip. Flip, they'd been stealing from their own country!
As he often did when confronted with unplanned band meetings on a Friday afternoon, Murray looked tired. "Bret," he began, "Maybe if you guys could write some new songs, I'd consider giving you some tape for whatever this project is. What is it, anyway? Is it a dummy to deter Mel?"
"No." Bret and Jemaine chorused. They looked at each other, neither finding the moment as funny as Murray seemed to. Bret sighed a long-suffering sigh, and said, "There are ants in our apartment, Murray. We've been killing them with our bare hands."
"And tape." Jemaine added helpfully. Bret glared at him in an entirely unreasonable manner, or so Jemaine thought.
"For goodness' sake, why didn't you two tell me this earlier?" Murray looked even more fed up now. "Is that why you haven't been writing any songs? Because you've been distracted by trying to act all butch by killing a bunch of ants? You'd better be careful…That kind of insensitive killing could cost you your female fanbase." He nodded sagely.
"Murray," interjected Jemaine, "They're eating our food. And yes, I suppose you could say they're distracting us."
"Well," Murray looked suspiciously like he had an idea, "I think I can fix one of your problems."
They still had their maps of the city, and Murray had what he called 'connections'.
--------------------
They stopped off at the ant-ridden apartment to pick up their guitars and other necessary provisions to get them through the storm.
"Man, he really wants that song, doesn't he?" Bret murmured, perplexed, as he packed up his guitar, "Saying we can't come back to the apartment until we stop by his office and play it for him."
"Yeah, he sounded pretty serious. Wonder why he doesn't want us to bring our amps--" Jemaine sorted a couple of unmarred chocolate bars from the pile of rations they'd been keeping beneath Bret's mold farm, since the ants seemed deterred by the mold. Bret shrugged, pulled on his second sweater, and they set out.
"This is fun, isn't it? Two best friends, out on an adventure in the rain?" Jemaine grinned hopefully, trying gallantly to lift Bret's sullen mood, doubtless brought on by a combination of ants, cold, and--
"Flip," muttered Bret as they stepped out of the apartment, "Is that Doug's car?"
---------------------
"Oh, look, you're matching!" squealed Mel, pointing wildly through the blowing sheet of rain, "Look at your adorable little booties!" she cooed.
"They're not booties." Jemaine replied stiffly, "They're Wellington boots."
"Oh, really?" Mel's eyes could not have gotten any wider, "It is really wet and cold today, isn't it? Mmm, I'm shivering. You two are going to have to find some way to keep warm, especially you, Bret, you're so thin. You know, water makes everything sexier, don't you think? Doesn't Bret look great like that, with the water running down his face?"
"No." they chorused. Mel looked unconvinced. "So, where are you two rogues off to?"
"To band practice. By ourselves." Jemaine added meaningfully, "Murray wants us to write another song."
"Oh, wow!" Mel exclaimed, "That's so exciting! I love your songs, and I can't wait to hear what you two come up with! Gee, it sure is cold out here…Keep Bret warm, won't you, Jemaine?"
She leaned toward Jemaine, and whispered conspiratorially, "Do you want to know a secret?" Jemaine fervently shook his head.
"The warmest spot in the human body is the rectum." Mel gave a knowing smile as Jemaine recoiled. "Er, thanks, Mel, but we've, we've really got places to be—"
"Right." Bret came to Jemaine's rescue, squinted at Mel through the rain, "And did we happen to mention it's raining?" They attempted to slosh politely onward toward their final destination. Despite only being directed there by Murray's confused knowledge of the way streets ran and a soggy map, Bret seemed to coax a short cut out of the very bricks of the apartment buildings, and soon they were headed in a very straight shot toward the building Murray insisted they were to practice in, away from what he had dubbed the 'ant distraction'.
------------------
Jemaine tried to pretend that he didn't notice the way that Bret's dark curls had tightened in the rain, the ends clinging to the back of his neck, the way the water trickled down his neck in iridescent droplets. Water made everyone sexier. He wondered if that was the secret--just dunk any old girl in the swimming pool, and she'd be perfect. But wait, here was Bret, who had inspired all of this thinking, and he wasn't even a girl. Best not to think about him. Maybe, he reflected, he was doing that thing again. What was it Bret called it? Misinterpreting his feelings. And there, he had gone exactly twelve seconds before he was thinking about Bret again. Bret, his best friend in the entire world.
"Bret," he said haltingly, after a moment more of walking through the rain, "Do you think you could help me with something?"
"Sure, man," Bret tucked a curl behind his ear, and Jemaine once again tried to pretend he wasn't fixating on the perfect shape of that raindrop as it rolled down his friend's jawline. "What d'you need?"
Jemaine swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Er, well, this might be a bit weird, but I need someone to help—er, well, interpret my feelings." Jemaine stopped, tasted the words on his lips before he said them, wondering whether they would sound too gay. Of course, words sounded different in his own head, so he eventually went ahead and said them anyway, "See, it's a bit weird telling you about them, though, Bret, because, well, they're about you. The feelings, I mean." He winced. That definitely sounded much gayer coming out of his mouth than inside his head.
Bret quirked an eyebrow. "What sort of feelings?" Jemaine was just gearing up to confess when suddenly, a few steps ahead of him, Bret waved the soggy map and called out, "I think this is it, mate!"
It was a tiny white door, unmarked, down a slippery flight of stairs. Bret tried the door, and it was, surprisingly, unlocked. Bret stuck his head in, then immediately poked it back out, coughing.
"It reeks of hair products in there, Jemaine," he managed between coughs. Jemaine frowned, backed up a pace or two, and squinted at the sign over the door.
"I think it's a salon." he said absently, "You know, where the ladies go to get their bikinis waxed."
"Right. We're writing a song in the basement of a salon?" Bret looked, if possible, more perplexed, and definitely uncomfortably wet.
"Don't think about it." Jemaine said breezily, "Just go on in, I'm getting drenched out here."
"Flip," muttered Bret, lugging his guitar down the stairs and into the dimly lit basement, "I'm flippin' freezing." Jemaine opened his mouth to offer Bret his jacket, realized it was soaked through as well, and settled for rubbing his hands up and down his forearms and looking around. His eyes settled on the rickety shelves
"Oh, look!" Bret's eyes lit up, "They've got a tape deck down here! It's massive, look at it!" Bret ran his fingers gently over the dusty silver buttons, already groping in his pocket for his Bowie tape, the one he took everywhere with him. Ziggy Stardust on one side, Station to Station on the other. In Bret's eyes, unbeatable.
Bret, you've got really nice hands. Jemaine tried that sentence out in his head, and decided that it didn't even fall into the category of friendly compliments. Furthermore, he decided he didn't care. "Bret," he began "You know what I was saying earlier?"
Bret frowned, turning away from the tape deck as the music began to play, softly, "Yeah." Bret's foot was tapping, almost unconsciously finding the drum beats, and his body was swaying, and Jemaine wondered if this was how he planned to keep warm. Maybe, instead of writing songs, they ought to have a dance party. He stepped toward Bret, his red wellies lining up instinctively across from Bret's on the cold gray floor, and Jemaine forgot entirely what he had been trying to say. "Well, I think that, maybe, my feelings would sort out if I were warmed up a little. Maybe we ought to have a dance party."
Bret quirked an eyebrow, his breath forming a cloud in front of his face, "But Murray said we weren't allowed to make too much noise...He said it would disturb important people upstairs."
Jemaine rolled his eyes to the heavens, "Important ladies in their bikinis, maybe." Jemaine thought about that for a minute. Angry chicks in bikinis. Maybe it would be best to just heed Bret's warning. "We could just dance to the slow, quiet songs, maybe...Or, wait, that would be weird." Jemaine frowned, remembering how close he'd been to being all touchy-feely earlier. And yet, there was Bret, looking so shivery and wet and, for lack of a better word, vulnerable. Bugger, maybe Mel had been right.
“No,” Bret spoke up, “It wouldn’t be weird. I used to dance by myself all the time when I was younger. At least we’ll have partners. That’s how dances are supposed to go, isn’t it?” He looked up at Jemaine.
“Yeah,” said Jemaine gruffly, reaching for Bret’s hands, somewhat damp, but still, Jemaine discovered, warm as fresh cinnamon buns. He placed Bret’s hands on his shoulders, and, somewhat tentatively, spanned his own large hands across Bret’s waist. Bret tilted his head back slightly, rain running down his neck to pool above his collarbone, and Jemaine thought he had never seen anything that perfect, gay or not.
“Hey,” said Bret, practically looking at the ceiling as they swayed unconsciously to the drum beats, “What was it you wanted to tell me earlier?”
“Oh.” Jemaine grinned, inching closer to Bret, and nearly treading on his foot, but achieving his goal of pressing their jean-clad thighs together, “I was wrong. I wasn’t going to tell you much of anything…But, can I show you something?”
Jemaine could have sworn he heard Bret’s breath catch, “Sure, man.”
Jemaine leaned in close, his breath coming fast and shallow. He pressed his lips carefully to Bret’s warm mouth, and Bret shuddered beneath his hands and kissed him back, a clumsy combination of rainwater and beard and teeth that was, in Jemaine’s eyes, unbeatable.
“Wow,” murmured Bret, when they came up for air, “Where’d you learn that?”
“Dunno, really,” Jemaine answered, suddenly sheepish, “I was about to ask you the same thing, actually.”
---------------------
For a while, they simply sat together, Jemaine's arm draped across Bret's thin shoulders, as the rain pounded outside. This was how it was supposed to be, Jemaine thought. Bret needed someone to protect him, out there in the big, scary world, where anything could happen to such a fragile, animal-loving guy. There were leather-clad gangsters and girls (possibly in or out of leather) and…bugger, Mel had been right. He nudged Bret gently, and Bret stirred as though from some sort of contented Jemaine-induced trance. He raised his head, but before he could get too carried away, Jemaine spoke up. "Mel was right, you know."
"Aw, wasn't she?" Bret sounded anything but dismayed, and snuggled a bit closer. "We'll have to figure out a way to thank her." He reached for his guitar, and with Ziggy Stardust crackling through the ancient tape deck, the two set to work.
-------------------
"We've got a new song for you lucky people." began Bret, "This one's for Mel, who's come to all our gigs. We'd like to say thanks." A squeal from the front row. Bret started out, his delicate hands strumming an equally delicate guitar melody. They saved their favorite verse for last, and they sang it together, a capella, as the lights faded:
"We don't have to do as you say
We're feeling oddly assertive today
But that certainly doesn't make us gay
…Just in love."
Jemaine finished, mumbling the last line, his lips still close to the microphone, his dark eyes fixed on Bret. Both men were flushed and smiling, and Mel couldn't have been happier.