Kisses (Bret Mckenzie/Jemaine Clement, RPS) PG-13
Pairing(s) in the story: Jemaine Clement/Bret Mckenzie (RPF, Flight of the Conchords)
Author Name/Pen Name: Lye
Author LJ Name: lye
Disclaimer: I do not own Flight of the Conchords. I don't own any people, actually.
Title of story: Kisses
Rating of story: PG13
Word count of story: around 2,000
Chapter: 1/1
Brief summary: Neither of them can agree on their first kiss.
Notes: Hi again! This is unbetaed and written all in one sitting so I hope its okay.
This thing between them began in college. Bret found it difficult to pinpoint when exactly, but he imagined it was about thirty seconds after fate divided them into the same group for their drama exercise. It couldn’t really be defined as ‘love at first sight’, but he did remember Jemaine said something so obscenely hilarious that there was an aching reminder of his laughter in his stomach muscles the next day.
If there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that he needed that guy around.
-
A bunch of them moved into an old house on the edge of the campus with the intent of putting on a show there. It was drafty, there was always a lot of noise (from their house and the surrounding ones), and Bret’s door was warped enough from time and weather conditions that it never really closed. Jemaine’s door rested off of its hinges, just beside the doorway, rendering it pretty much useless.
It was here the two of them grew accustomed to the kind of late night jam sessions that would bleed into the late morning. It was not uncommon for their roommates to wake up for class and find the two of them squeezed together on the couch, surrounded by a sea of beer cans, deeply involved in some song they wouldn’t remember come afternoon.
Jemaine liked how Bret’s leg rubbed against his when it bounced dutifully along to the music. It never stopped, and he liked it that way.
-
Neither of them can agree on their first kiss. This is a disagreement they get into every now and then. Jemaine remembers it as happening in the kitchen, during one of the house parties they and their flat mates hosted. Some of end of term thing that had had a fairly decent turnout. He doesn’t remember what he was wearing, but he knows for a fact Bret was wearing some ill fitting hooded sweatshirt, his jeans with the knees worn out, and mismatched socks (one black, one white). His hair looked a little wild, and Jemaine thought he was still the most beautiful person in the house.
Halfway through the night he walked into the kitchen to find the bottom half of Bret sticking out of the fridge, one leg on he ground and one stuck straight out behind him for balance. The crashing sounds echoing out of the freezer box were not promising.
“Bret?” The older man spoke around his beer bottle, taking a final swig and watching his friend curiously.
Bret jerked, startled at the sudden company, and smashed his head on something heavy sounding before immerging from the refrigerator. “Jemaine,” he responded, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.
Jemaine just smiled fondly, unspeakably glad to have his friend all to himself for a minute. At these kinds of things Bret usually spent the whole night making the rounds, socializing with everybody he could. Jemaine tended to be a little bit shyer, preferring to let the fruits of the party come to him.
The messy haired man bumped the fridge door closed with his hip and hoisted himself up on the counter, continuing to rub furiously at the back of his head before looking his hand over. “Feels like it’s bleeding,” he announced in a drunken slur after about a minute of silence.
Jemaine crossed the room, worried about his friend but thrilled at the opportunity to get close to him. “Can I see?” he asked, reaching out cautiously. Bret nodded and Jemaine rested a hand on either side of Bret’s head, pulling him enough so that he was bent forward and Jemaine could inspect the back of his head.
He ran his fingers slowly through the dark curls, being careful not to press too hard against the tender patch. He knew it wasn’t bleeding, but he continued to inspect anyway.
“I’m gonna fall,” Bret mumbled, holding tightly to the edge of the counter, balancing at the end of it to lean towards Jemaine. He released his grip with one hand and moved it to rest on Jemaine’s shoulder, to keep from pitching forward. He let out a drunken little titter.
“You’re not going to fall,” Jemaine moved in closer, stopping when his legs bumped the counter. Bret’s legs had spread obligingly to make room for him, and Jemaine nestled himself in there, hands still resting on Bret’s head.
They stared at each other silently for what felt like an eternity. After a while Bret began to slowly move forward, with the intent of resting his swimming head against his friend’s broad shoulder.
“Did you have fun?” Jemaine finally broke the silence, startling Bret back into his previous place.
“What?” Bret’s face exhibited only drunken confusion.
“Tonight. The party,” Jemaine clarified. “Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah,” Bret answered, starting to move forward again, eyeing Jemaine’s shoulder like it was his pillow.
“Drink a lot?” Jemaine nudged him back away gently, watching his face.
“Yeah,” Bret laughed again, leaning against Jemaine’s restraining hand.
“Are you going to remember this tomorrow?” Jemaine asked. Bret didn’t seem to be noticing how serious his voice sounded.
“Tomorrow?” Bret blinked again, thinking hard. “I don’t-” Jemaine relieved him of attempted coherency by grabbing the front of his hoodie and bringing him in for a bruising kiss.
Bret didn’t respond immediately, but Jemaine soldiered on regardless. If this was a bad thing, and Bret wanted to hate him forever for it, he figured he should at least get the most out of the situation that he could. Jemaine moved one hand to the back of the younger man’s neck, holding his head firmly in place as he continued his devouring kiss.
Eventually, Bret caught up with the situation, and after letting out a muffled moan into Jemaine’s mouth he responded with equal enthusiasm. Their tongues battled and their hands roamed, and Jemaine was just about to rid Bret of his large sweatshirt when a female voice (which Jemaine recognized as Bret’s current girlfriend) called from the living room, “Bret, where is that beer!?”
Jemaine pulled back and Bret, with eyes still closed and lips still moving, tried to follow him.
“One second!” Jemaine called back on his friend’s behalf, pushing Bret back with one hand and reaching towards the fridge with another. After making sure Bret wasn’t going to fall forward he let go and sought out two beers, setting them on the counter.
Bret watched him, swaying slightly with drink, rubbing absently at his lips. Jemaine ignored the sick feeling in his stomach and grabbed Bret’s face, pressing a quick kiss to his lips and grabbing him by the waist, helping him down to his feet.
“Take this-” He muttered, picking up one of the beers again and shoving them into Bret’s hand, “To her.”
Bret didn’t make a move to leave; his previously clouded gaze seemed sharper all of a sudden.
Jemaine shifted impatiently. “Go,” he prompted with a slight push. Bret didn’t move. “You should go,” His tone softened, but still there was no result. “We’ll see each other later,” He tried, eyes pleading, and Bret nodded slightly.
“I’ll see you later,” Bret said, turning hesitantly. He looked over his shoulder once more before disappearing out the door, where his return to the party was met with a roaring applause from the rest of the guests.
“Later,” Jemaine sighed and picked up the remaining beer, heading out the back of the house.
-
To Bret’s recollection, their first happened in the same house, but a different room. It wasn’t a regular occurrence, but one of their flat mates was having a girl over and he’d requested the living room and ‘some quiet’ in the house. They hid out in Bret’s room, since it had the closest thing to a functioning door, and held their silent guitars dejectedly in their hands.
Conversation flowed as naturally as it usually did, but what few inhibitions they may have had drifted farther and farther out of their minds with each beer.
The two lay side by side on Bret’s glorified bed (a single mattress tossed haphazardly in the corner of his room). Bret stared at a large crack in his ceiling, and Jemaine snored softly beside him, having passed out.
The breath tickling his neck was driving Bret crazy. Jemaine being so close was, frankly, quiet distracting. It also elicited a certain response that his normally inquisitive mind didn’t really want to delve further into. His heart was beating faster than normal and shifted uncomfortably, turning to face his friends sleeping face. His brow was relaxed, his eyelashes resting peacefully against his cheeks, and his lips were parted and in a soft, sleeping sort of pout.
“Hey Jemaine,” He whispered, watching for a response. When he got none, he tried again, a little louder. “Jemaine,” Bret shuffled just a little closer.
Jemaine let a half moan, half groan in response, which Bret was certain meant his subconscious was trying to make Bret think he was paying attention, when he was clearly still fast asleep.
Bret brought a finger to his own mouth, rubbing it along his lip as he stared at his friend. If he were to kiss those lips, just once, there was no way Jemaine would have to find out. He could just do it, appease his curiosity, and that would be that. He rubbed lips again, gave himself a brief nod, and pressed his lips against his sleeping friend’s. Jemaine’s lips remained lax as Bret’s carefully moved against them, but as the common sense part of Bret’s brain was replaced by the lust fueled part of it his end of the kiss became more hungry. He wasn’t aware of what he was doing until he realized Jemaine’s lips (and, good God, his tongue) were responding in kind. Jemaine moaned once, shocking Bret into breaking the kiss and rolling over, pulling the blanket up to his ears and forcing his eyes shut. He listened to Jemaine shuffle about for a while, too afraid to roll back over and look at him. He may have felt a hand on his back, but his entire body was buzzing so much he could have imagined it.
The next morning Bret was sipping his tea and flipping through the paper when Jemaine walked in, stopping just inside the doorway. “I had a really weird dream last night,” he said, scratching his bare stomach and looking pointedly at the younger man.
“Oh?” Bret offered a noncommittal reply, eyes not leaving the paper.
-
Neither of them is really right about the first kiss thing, and if a third party had been privy to this information they would have probably pointed that out to them. Bret’s recollection of Jemaine’s first attempt is a fragmented and drunken blur, and Jemaine’s memory of Bret’s first try extends only to the part where Bret chickened out and rolled the other way.
Luckily, first kisses don’t matter as much as all of the amazing ones that have followed. Kisses intended for good luck before a gig, soothing kisses after some of the bad ones. The ones in the rain, or on the beach. The first kiss of the day, and the last kiss of the week. The thankful kisses, and the apologetic ones.
Bret likes the ones that fill the lazy days off, though they don’t really get days off anymore. Jemaine has become partial to the traveling ones, celebrating the crossing of each border.
He sits down next to Bret on the couch in the bus’s lounge. Bret is distracted by the television, but unconsciously leans into his partner anyway. “Bret,” Jemaine gets his attention with a pat on the knee. “For Pennsylvania,” He grins and catches Bret’s lips before he can respond.
“But we’re in West Virginia,” Bret says, leaning up and adjusting Jemaine’s glasses a little bit.
“Are we?” He chews his lip for a second and shrugs, leaning back down. “For West Virginia, then,” he smiles, and Bret returns it.
They kiss again, simply because they can.
--
Feedback would be much appreciated!
Author Name/Pen Name: Lye
Author LJ Name: lye
Disclaimer: I do not own Flight of the Conchords. I don't own any people, actually.
Title of story: Kisses
Rating of story: PG13
Word count of story: around 2,000
Chapter: 1/1
Brief summary: Neither of them can agree on their first kiss.
Notes: Hi again! This is unbetaed and written all in one sitting so I hope its okay.
This thing between them began in college. Bret found it difficult to pinpoint when exactly, but he imagined it was about thirty seconds after fate divided them into the same group for their drama exercise. It couldn’t really be defined as ‘love at first sight’, but he did remember Jemaine said something so obscenely hilarious that there was an aching reminder of his laughter in his stomach muscles the next day.
If there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that he needed that guy around.
-
A bunch of them moved into an old house on the edge of the campus with the intent of putting on a show there. It was drafty, there was always a lot of noise (from their house and the surrounding ones), and Bret’s door was warped enough from time and weather conditions that it never really closed. Jemaine’s door rested off of its hinges, just beside the doorway, rendering it pretty much useless.
It was here the two of them grew accustomed to the kind of late night jam sessions that would bleed into the late morning. It was not uncommon for their roommates to wake up for class and find the two of them squeezed together on the couch, surrounded by a sea of beer cans, deeply involved in some song they wouldn’t remember come afternoon.
Jemaine liked how Bret’s leg rubbed against his when it bounced dutifully along to the music. It never stopped, and he liked it that way.
-
Neither of them can agree on their first kiss. This is a disagreement they get into every now and then. Jemaine remembers it as happening in the kitchen, during one of the house parties they and their flat mates hosted. Some of end of term thing that had had a fairly decent turnout. He doesn’t remember what he was wearing, but he knows for a fact Bret was wearing some ill fitting hooded sweatshirt, his jeans with the knees worn out, and mismatched socks (one black, one white). His hair looked a little wild, and Jemaine thought he was still the most beautiful person in the house.
Halfway through the night he walked into the kitchen to find the bottom half of Bret sticking out of the fridge, one leg on he ground and one stuck straight out behind him for balance. The crashing sounds echoing out of the freezer box were not promising.
“Bret?” The older man spoke around his beer bottle, taking a final swig and watching his friend curiously.
Bret jerked, startled at the sudden company, and smashed his head on something heavy sounding before immerging from the refrigerator. “Jemaine,” he responded, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.
Jemaine just smiled fondly, unspeakably glad to have his friend all to himself for a minute. At these kinds of things Bret usually spent the whole night making the rounds, socializing with everybody he could. Jemaine tended to be a little bit shyer, preferring to let the fruits of the party come to him.
The messy haired man bumped the fridge door closed with his hip and hoisted himself up on the counter, continuing to rub furiously at the back of his head before looking his hand over. “Feels like it’s bleeding,” he announced in a drunken slur after about a minute of silence.
Jemaine crossed the room, worried about his friend but thrilled at the opportunity to get close to him. “Can I see?” he asked, reaching out cautiously. Bret nodded and Jemaine rested a hand on either side of Bret’s head, pulling him enough so that he was bent forward and Jemaine could inspect the back of his head.
He ran his fingers slowly through the dark curls, being careful not to press too hard against the tender patch. He knew it wasn’t bleeding, but he continued to inspect anyway.
“I’m gonna fall,” Bret mumbled, holding tightly to the edge of the counter, balancing at the end of it to lean towards Jemaine. He released his grip with one hand and moved it to rest on Jemaine’s shoulder, to keep from pitching forward. He let out a drunken little titter.
“You’re not going to fall,” Jemaine moved in closer, stopping when his legs bumped the counter. Bret’s legs had spread obligingly to make room for him, and Jemaine nestled himself in there, hands still resting on Bret’s head.
They stared at each other silently for what felt like an eternity. After a while Bret began to slowly move forward, with the intent of resting his swimming head against his friend’s broad shoulder.
“Did you have fun?” Jemaine finally broke the silence, startling Bret back into his previous place.
“What?” Bret’s face exhibited only drunken confusion.
“Tonight. The party,” Jemaine clarified. “Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah,” Bret answered, starting to move forward again, eyeing Jemaine’s shoulder like it was his pillow.
“Drink a lot?” Jemaine nudged him back away gently, watching his face.
“Yeah,” Bret laughed again, leaning against Jemaine’s restraining hand.
“Are you going to remember this tomorrow?” Jemaine asked. Bret didn’t seem to be noticing how serious his voice sounded.
“Tomorrow?” Bret blinked again, thinking hard. “I don’t-” Jemaine relieved him of attempted coherency by grabbing the front of his hoodie and bringing him in for a bruising kiss.
Bret didn’t respond immediately, but Jemaine soldiered on regardless. If this was a bad thing, and Bret wanted to hate him forever for it, he figured he should at least get the most out of the situation that he could. Jemaine moved one hand to the back of the younger man’s neck, holding his head firmly in place as he continued his devouring kiss.
Eventually, Bret caught up with the situation, and after letting out a muffled moan into Jemaine’s mouth he responded with equal enthusiasm. Their tongues battled and their hands roamed, and Jemaine was just about to rid Bret of his large sweatshirt when a female voice (which Jemaine recognized as Bret’s current girlfriend) called from the living room, “Bret, where is that beer!?”
Jemaine pulled back and Bret, with eyes still closed and lips still moving, tried to follow him.
“One second!” Jemaine called back on his friend’s behalf, pushing Bret back with one hand and reaching towards the fridge with another. After making sure Bret wasn’t going to fall forward he let go and sought out two beers, setting them on the counter.
Bret watched him, swaying slightly with drink, rubbing absently at his lips. Jemaine ignored the sick feeling in his stomach and grabbed Bret’s face, pressing a quick kiss to his lips and grabbing him by the waist, helping him down to his feet.
“Take this-” He muttered, picking up one of the beers again and shoving them into Bret’s hand, “To her.”
Bret didn’t make a move to leave; his previously clouded gaze seemed sharper all of a sudden.
Jemaine shifted impatiently. “Go,” he prompted with a slight push. Bret didn’t move. “You should go,” His tone softened, but still there was no result. “We’ll see each other later,” He tried, eyes pleading, and Bret nodded slightly.
“I’ll see you later,” Bret said, turning hesitantly. He looked over his shoulder once more before disappearing out the door, where his return to the party was met with a roaring applause from the rest of the guests.
“Later,” Jemaine sighed and picked up the remaining beer, heading out the back of the house.
-
To Bret’s recollection, their first happened in the same house, but a different room. It wasn’t a regular occurrence, but one of their flat mates was having a girl over and he’d requested the living room and ‘some quiet’ in the house. They hid out in Bret’s room, since it had the closest thing to a functioning door, and held their silent guitars dejectedly in their hands.
Conversation flowed as naturally as it usually did, but what few inhibitions they may have had drifted farther and farther out of their minds with each beer.
The two lay side by side on Bret’s glorified bed (a single mattress tossed haphazardly in the corner of his room). Bret stared at a large crack in his ceiling, and Jemaine snored softly beside him, having passed out.
The breath tickling his neck was driving Bret crazy. Jemaine being so close was, frankly, quiet distracting. It also elicited a certain response that his normally inquisitive mind didn’t really want to delve further into. His heart was beating faster than normal and shifted uncomfortably, turning to face his friends sleeping face. His brow was relaxed, his eyelashes resting peacefully against his cheeks, and his lips were parted and in a soft, sleeping sort of pout.
“Hey Jemaine,” He whispered, watching for a response. When he got none, he tried again, a little louder. “Jemaine,” Bret shuffled just a little closer.
Jemaine let a half moan, half groan in response, which Bret was certain meant his subconscious was trying to make Bret think he was paying attention, when he was clearly still fast asleep.
Bret brought a finger to his own mouth, rubbing it along his lip as he stared at his friend. If he were to kiss those lips, just once, there was no way Jemaine would have to find out. He could just do it, appease his curiosity, and that would be that. He rubbed lips again, gave himself a brief nod, and pressed his lips against his sleeping friend’s. Jemaine’s lips remained lax as Bret’s carefully moved against them, but as the common sense part of Bret’s brain was replaced by the lust fueled part of it his end of the kiss became more hungry. He wasn’t aware of what he was doing until he realized Jemaine’s lips (and, good God, his tongue) were responding in kind. Jemaine moaned once, shocking Bret into breaking the kiss and rolling over, pulling the blanket up to his ears and forcing his eyes shut. He listened to Jemaine shuffle about for a while, too afraid to roll back over and look at him. He may have felt a hand on his back, but his entire body was buzzing so much he could have imagined it.
The next morning Bret was sipping his tea and flipping through the paper when Jemaine walked in, stopping just inside the doorway. “I had a really weird dream last night,” he said, scratching his bare stomach and looking pointedly at the younger man.
“Oh?” Bret offered a noncommittal reply, eyes not leaving the paper.
-
Neither of them is really right about the first kiss thing, and if a third party had been privy to this information they would have probably pointed that out to them. Bret’s recollection of Jemaine’s first attempt is a fragmented and drunken blur, and Jemaine’s memory of Bret’s first try extends only to the part where Bret chickened out and rolled the other way.
Luckily, first kisses don’t matter as much as all of the amazing ones that have followed. Kisses intended for good luck before a gig, soothing kisses after some of the bad ones. The ones in the rain, or on the beach. The first kiss of the day, and the last kiss of the week. The thankful kisses, and the apologetic ones.
Bret likes the ones that fill the lazy days off, though they don’t really get days off anymore. Jemaine has become partial to the traveling ones, celebrating the crossing of each border.
He sits down next to Bret on the couch in the bus’s lounge. Bret is distracted by the television, but unconsciously leans into his partner anyway. “Bret,” Jemaine gets his attention with a pat on the knee. “For Pennsylvania,” He grins and catches Bret’s lips before he can respond.
“But we’re in West Virginia,” Bret says, leaning up and adjusting Jemaine’s glasses a little bit.
“Are we?” He chews his lip for a second and shrugs, leaning back down. “For West Virginia, then,” he smiles, and Bret returns it.
They kiss again, simply because they can.
--
Feedback would be much appreciated!