Here (Bret/Jemaine) PG-13
Pairing(s) in the story: Jemaine/Bret (Flight of the Conchords)
Author Name/Pen Name: Lye
Author LJ Name: lye
Disclaimer: I do not own Flight of the Conchords.
Title of story: Here
Rating of story: PG13
Word count of story: 1,534
Chapter: 1/1
Brief summary: Jemaine and Bret arrive in America, finding some things very different and some things the same.
Edit: Check out taconaco's lovely illustrations here, one of them is even based on this fic!
As it turns out, packing up your limited personal assets and moving to America on a whim is a little more complicated an adventure than originally assumed. Nobody they knew from home had ever really gone anywhere, so they became sort of the local buzz. Their going away party had a great turnout (eighteen people), but that could have been largely due to the box of complimentary erasers they had at the door.
Bret drank almost as much as he had at his moms sixtieth birthday, despite the fact that Jemaine had warned him that flying with a hangover probably wouldn’t be the best feeling in the world. He stopped on his second glass of champagne, but unfortunately for him, that was two glasses too many. Bret had never really had the stomach for drinking.
“I told you,” Jemaine muttered from his spot outside the bathroom door the following morning. He heard another of Bret’s dry wretches and checked his watch, looking miserably at the pile of their luggage stacked beside him. Jemaine was certain they would never get to America at this rate.
Luckily, Bret had made a bit of a recovery and they made it to the airport in the nick of time. They were the last ones to be seated on the plane, collapsing into their cramped seats and gasping for breath. Jemaine was still pretty upset that Bret had jeopardized their big plan, but he couldn’t stay that way with his friend grinning excitedly beside him, chest rising and falling quickly, looking ashen faced and like he might throw up again at any moment.
“They’ve got bags for it,” Bret informed him, somewhat in awe, holding up a folded bag that was evidently there especially for mid-flight vomiting emergencies. Jemaine cringed at the thought and pulled out his walkman.
They arrived in America after almost a day in the air. Bret hadn’t needed the barf bag, but kept it anyway as a token. America rattled Jemaine at first, though he kept it to himself. He and Bret walked side by side through the airport, guitar cases slung over their backs and luggage bags dragging behind them across the floor. “We went back in time,” Bret pointed at a huge world clock looming above them. Jemaine grunted in acknowledgement and turned a cautious eye to the people bustling around them. They were quiet for a few minutes, taking it all in. “Where should we go?” Bret asked. Jemaine wasn’t sure he was ready to leave the airport just yet.
After a terrifying couple of nights on the living room floor of their old flat mate’s distant cousin, they found a flat of their own. The cousin-woman (a forty-something single mom named Amanda) had been terrifyingly interested in Bret. She followed him around and took every chance she could to touch him, flirting relentlessly with him and even offering to let him sleep in her bed. Bret politely declined and remained oblivious to the attention for the whole three days they stayed. Jemaine noted for the first time that things in America weren’t so different than they were back home. It was somewhat comforting, but somehow disappointing.
Their flat was small, but they were pleased with it. “Which side of the room do you want?” Jemaine asked absently, as he rifled through his bag for pair of clean shorts. He looked up a few moments later when he hadn’t heard a reply. Bret was surveying the room from the wide doorway, hand on his chin and eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. Jemaine stared, waiting for a response.
“The window side, I think,” Bret said slowly, turning to Jemaine for confirmation that his decision was okay. Jemaine nodded in agreement, even though he secretly wanted that side, too. He didn’t have it in him to deny Bret his choice, though. “Doesn’t really matter right now anyway, though, does it?” Bret continued, finally stepping into the room. “We don’t have beds.”
They spent their first night curled together on a bed made of dirty laundry and damp towels. They tried unsuccessfully to keep some space between them, but the makeshift mattress was too small for such a luxury.
“I didn’t think it would be so cold here,” Bret’s voice pierced through the relative darkness. “For May, I mean,” He added. The streetlamp outside their window illuminated the room just enough to emphasize how completely empty it was. They slept in Bret’s corner, under the window, just so they wouldn’t feel so exposed. It’s not like they believed masked shadow monsters with ninja capability would be attacking them in their sleep or anything, but it just never hurt to be careful.
“Yeah,” Jemaine offered, pulling an old t-shirt up over his shoulders. He wasn’t cold, but it felt strange to him to sleep without a blanket. Bret shivered once, a long shuddering one, and Jemaine responded instinctively by turning onto his side and spooning up behind him. He pressed his face into the damp towel underneath them to keep from awkwardly breathing down his friend’s neck. That wouldn’t have been an issue if Bret’s hair was longer, or perhaps if he had a wig or something on. Jemaine mused about the possibilities.
The room was silent for a few more minutes, until Bret spoke up again. “Do you like it here, Jemaine?”
Jemaine wondered if he meant here in America, here in New York, here in this flat, or here on this soggy towel bed with Bret. He knew the answer to all four. “Yes,” his voice came out muffled by the towel, so he turned his head away from it and repeated himself. “Yes.”
“It’s a bit loud. Louder than New Zealand, at least.” Almost on cue, a car alarm started going off outside their building. The sound seemed amplified inside their empty flat, resulting in an uneasy feeling in Jemaine. He rested a hand on Bret’s side, just to comfort himself.
Bret yawned and shifted a little before carrying on. “How do you think everyone’s carrying on back home?”
Jemaine realized with sudden guilt that he hadn’t even thought about their friends and family back home since they boarded the plane. Bret had been dominating most of his thoughts. Well, and the band of course, though technically that included Bret as well.
“They’re fine,” Jemaine answered with conviction. When Bret didn’t respond, Jemaine snuggled in closer and rested his chin on his friends shoulder. “We’ll call your Mum tomorrow and she’ll tell you.”
The car alarm stopped and silence hung over the room again. Jemaine became distracted by his hip digging into the floor. The towel bed was almost completely useless. He wondered fleetingly what time it was, how long they had been laying there. They should have bought a clock, maybe.
He had just about drifted off to sleep when Bret turned himself over, violently and ungracefully, and pushed Jemaine flat onto his back, before draping an arm and leg across him. Jemaine winced as Bret’s boney chin dug into his chest. He waited for some kind of explanation from his friend, but none came.
Jemaine was, if possible, more uncomfortable than before. His T-shirt blanket had bunched up and was now just sort of lying across his neck and Bret had half pushed him off the bed, so his entire right side was freezing from the floor.
“Do you like it here, Bret?” He asked, trying to casually move them into a more central part of the towel bed.
“Yes,” Bret answered sleepily.
“Here in America?” He elaborated.
“Uh huh,” came the reply, accompanied by another big yawn. Jemaine could feel it through his shirt.
“Here in New York?” Jemaine shoved him a little bit, nearing success. He felt warmer already.
“I like New York,” Bret snuggled into him more, if possible.
“And you like this flat?” Jemaine had made it completely back onto the bed now, and began adjusting his T-shirt blanket.
“S’a great flat,” Bret scratched at the side of his nose before resting his hand on Jemaine’s chest.
“And you like it here?” Jemaine asked, realizing his voice sounded a little bit strange.
“I already said that,” Bret shifted to look at him.
“I meant like, here, on this soggy towel bed.” Jemaine paused, gaining the courage to elaborate, “With me.”
The silence returned. Jemaine half wished the car alarm would start up again.
“Yeah, man,” Jemaine felt a wave of relief wash over him. Not only because Bret had stopped stabbing him with his chin, but because his friend was smiling down at him. “It’s my second favorite part of America.”
“Second?” Jemaine arched a brow, a little bit hurt that he came second to something.
“The puke bag,” Bret offered as an explanation, laying his head down again, this time his cheek lay against Jemaine’s chest.
“Technically those are world wide. And you got it in New Zealand, anyway.” Jemaine countered, getting comfortable again, too.
“Oh,” One final huge, cat-like yawn on Bret’s part. “I guess this is my favorite thing, then.” Jemaine felt a hand rub carefully back and forth across his chest.
“It’s mine, too.” Jemaine smiled, resting his hand over the moving one.
--
Feedback would be much appreciated!
Author Name/Pen Name: Lye
Author LJ Name: lye
Disclaimer: I do not own Flight of the Conchords.
Title of story: Here
Rating of story: PG13
Word count of story: 1,534
Chapter: 1/1
Brief summary: Jemaine and Bret arrive in America, finding some things very different and some things the same.
Edit: Check out taconaco's lovely illustrations here, one of them is even based on this fic!
As it turns out, packing up your limited personal assets and moving to America on a whim is a little more complicated an adventure than originally assumed. Nobody they knew from home had ever really gone anywhere, so they became sort of the local buzz. Their going away party had a great turnout (eighteen people), but that could have been largely due to the box of complimentary erasers they had at the door.
Bret drank almost as much as he had at his moms sixtieth birthday, despite the fact that Jemaine had warned him that flying with a hangover probably wouldn’t be the best feeling in the world. He stopped on his second glass of champagne, but unfortunately for him, that was two glasses too many. Bret had never really had the stomach for drinking.
“I told you,” Jemaine muttered from his spot outside the bathroom door the following morning. He heard another of Bret’s dry wretches and checked his watch, looking miserably at the pile of their luggage stacked beside him. Jemaine was certain they would never get to America at this rate.
Luckily, Bret had made a bit of a recovery and they made it to the airport in the nick of time. They were the last ones to be seated on the plane, collapsing into their cramped seats and gasping for breath. Jemaine was still pretty upset that Bret had jeopardized their big plan, but he couldn’t stay that way with his friend grinning excitedly beside him, chest rising and falling quickly, looking ashen faced and like he might throw up again at any moment.
“They’ve got bags for it,” Bret informed him, somewhat in awe, holding up a folded bag that was evidently there especially for mid-flight vomiting emergencies. Jemaine cringed at the thought and pulled out his walkman.
They arrived in America after almost a day in the air. Bret hadn’t needed the barf bag, but kept it anyway as a token. America rattled Jemaine at first, though he kept it to himself. He and Bret walked side by side through the airport, guitar cases slung over their backs and luggage bags dragging behind them across the floor. “We went back in time,” Bret pointed at a huge world clock looming above them. Jemaine grunted in acknowledgement and turned a cautious eye to the people bustling around them. They were quiet for a few minutes, taking it all in. “Where should we go?” Bret asked. Jemaine wasn’t sure he was ready to leave the airport just yet.
After a terrifying couple of nights on the living room floor of their old flat mate’s distant cousin, they found a flat of their own. The cousin-woman (a forty-something single mom named Amanda) had been terrifyingly interested in Bret. She followed him around and took every chance she could to touch him, flirting relentlessly with him and even offering to let him sleep in her bed. Bret politely declined and remained oblivious to the attention for the whole three days they stayed. Jemaine noted for the first time that things in America weren’t so different than they were back home. It was somewhat comforting, but somehow disappointing.
Their flat was small, but they were pleased with it. “Which side of the room do you want?” Jemaine asked absently, as he rifled through his bag for pair of clean shorts. He looked up a few moments later when he hadn’t heard a reply. Bret was surveying the room from the wide doorway, hand on his chin and eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. Jemaine stared, waiting for a response.
“The window side, I think,” Bret said slowly, turning to Jemaine for confirmation that his decision was okay. Jemaine nodded in agreement, even though he secretly wanted that side, too. He didn’t have it in him to deny Bret his choice, though. “Doesn’t really matter right now anyway, though, does it?” Bret continued, finally stepping into the room. “We don’t have beds.”
They spent their first night curled together on a bed made of dirty laundry and damp towels. They tried unsuccessfully to keep some space between them, but the makeshift mattress was too small for such a luxury.
“I didn’t think it would be so cold here,” Bret’s voice pierced through the relative darkness. “For May, I mean,” He added. The streetlamp outside their window illuminated the room just enough to emphasize how completely empty it was. They slept in Bret’s corner, under the window, just so they wouldn’t feel so exposed. It’s not like they believed masked shadow monsters with ninja capability would be attacking them in their sleep or anything, but it just never hurt to be careful.
“Yeah,” Jemaine offered, pulling an old t-shirt up over his shoulders. He wasn’t cold, but it felt strange to him to sleep without a blanket. Bret shivered once, a long shuddering one, and Jemaine responded instinctively by turning onto his side and spooning up behind him. He pressed his face into the damp towel underneath them to keep from awkwardly breathing down his friend’s neck. That wouldn’t have been an issue if Bret’s hair was longer, or perhaps if he had a wig or something on. Jemaine mused about the possibilities.
The room was silent for a few more minutes, until Bret spoke up again. “Do you like it here, Jemaine?”
Jemaine wondered if he meant here in America, here in New York, here in this flat, or here on this soggy towel bed with Bret. He knew the answer to all four. “Yes,” his voice came out muffled by the towel, so he turned his head away from it and repeated himself. “Yes.”
“It’s a bit loud. Louder than New Zealand, at least.” Almost on cue, a car alarm started going off outside their building. The sound seemed amplified inside their empty flat, resulting in an uneasy feeling in Jemaine. He rested a hand on Bret’s side, just to comfort himself.
Bret yawned and shifted a little before carrying on. “How do you think everyone’s carrying on back home?”
Jemaine realized with sudden guilt that he hadn’t even thought about their friends and family back home since they boarded the plane. Bret had been dominating most of his thoughts. Well, and the band of course, though technically that included Bret as well.
“They’re fine,” Jemaine answered with conviction. When Bret didn’t respond, Jemaine snuggled in closer and rested his chin on his friends shoulder. “We’ll call your Mum tomorrow and she’ll tell you.”
The car alarm stopped and silence hung over the room again. Jemaine became distracted by his hip digging into the floor. The towel bed was almost completely useless. He wondered fleetingly what time it was, how long they had been laying there. They should have bought a clock, maybe.
He had just about drifted off to sleep when Bret turned himself over, violently and ungracefully, and pushed Jemaine flat onto his back, before draping an arm and leg across him. Jemaine winced as Bret’s boney chin dug into his chest. He waited for some kind of explanation from his friend, but none came.
Jemaine was, if possible, more uncomfortable than before. His T-shirt blanket had bunched up and was now just sort of lying across his neck and Bret had half pushed him off the bed, so his entire right side was freezing from the floor.
“Do you like it here, Bret?” He asked, trying to casually move them into a more central part of the towel bed.
“Yes,” Bret answered sleepily.
“Here in America?” He elaborated.
“Uh huh,” came the reply, accompanied by another big yawn. Jemaine could feel it through his shirt.
“Here in New York?” Jemaine shoved him a little bit, nearing success. He felt warmer already.
“I like New York,” Bret snuggled into him more, if possible.
“And you like this flat?” Jemaine had made it completely back onto the bed now, and began adjusting his T-shirt blanket.
“S’a great flat,” Bret scratched at the side of his nose before resting his hand on Jemaine’s chest.
“And you like it here?” Jemaine asked, realizing his voice sounded a little bit strange.
“I already said that,” Bret shifted to look at him.
“I meant like, here, on this soggy towel bed.” Jemaine paused, gaining the courage to elaborate, “With me.”
The silence returned. Jemaine half wished the car alarm would start up again.
“Yeah, man,” Jemaine felt a wave of relief wash over him. Not only because Bret had stopped stabbing him with his chin, but because his friend was smiling down at him. “It’s my second favorite part of America.”
“Second?” Jemaine arched a brow, a little bit hurt that he came second to something.
“The puke bag,” Bret offered as an explanation, laying his head down again, this time his cheek lay against Jemaine’s chest.
“Technically those are world wide. And you got it in New Zealand, anyway.” Jemaine countered, getting comfortable again, too.
“Oh,” One final huge, cat-like yawn on Bret’s part. “I guess this is my favorite thing, then.” Jemaine felt a hand rub carefully back and forth across his chest.
“It’s mine, too.” Jemaine smiled, resting his hand over the moving one.
--
Feedback would be much appreciated!