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It starts as just a way to pass the time on rehearsal day, something to keep them from going out of their minds with boredom while the cameramen shuffle around and lights are minutely adjusted. Richard is always too impatient to sit still, so he wanders around the studio, poking at things he shouldn't and annoying the crew, whereas James and Jeremy, being admittedly lazy sods, sit on the news set or lounge against one of the cars, listening to Jeremy's iPod, one earbud each.
The first time it happens because James spills tea over the crossword in the morning. Which means that later, when they have to pause for the cars to be moved around, he's left without his usual method of distraction. He won't have quite enough time to go outside and have a cigarette, most likely, and if Andy has to send someone to find James he'll grind his teeth, and it just isn't worth it. So instead he settles back against the side of the BMW, idly aware of Jeremy pulling his iPod from his pocket as he does the same. Richard, as usual, wanders off.
James watches the crew scurrying about, amazed once again with their general competence (it's a stark contrast to the utter incompetence of the three presenters, which is only slightly exaggerated for the purposes of entertainment). From beside him comes a bass beat, and the tinny sound of a snarling guitar, not quite audible enough for him to recognize the tune. James turns his head and gives Jeremy an amused look.
"What?" says Jeremy, just a bit too loud, and James shakes his head.
"Nothing. Just--" he pauses to let Jeremy pull one earbud free so they can communicate without shouting, "—I can suddenly imagine you as a teenager, turning the knob on your stereo up to eleven until the whole house shook."
"If it's too loud, you're too old," Jeremy says, and James laughs.
"I rather think I've owned up to being too old some time ago."
Jeremy grins. "Oh, I don't know. You still like The Floyd, don't you? Which means you've got a bit of youth still left in you somewhere, surely."
"Don't call me Shirley," James jibes back, mainly because the joke is obligatory.
Jeremy snorts, then holds out the earbud. "C'mon."
Ah, why not? James thinks. Nothing better to do. He takes the earbud, then shuffles closer and lifts it to his ear, smiling as soon as he gets it close enough to hear the pulsing, deep riff of Whole Lotta Love. Jeremy's shoulder is warm and solid against his own. They both settle back against the car, and within a minute Jeremy's foot is tapping along with the song.
-----
The next morning James leaves his crossword in the office, and when they pause between rehearsing two segments, Jeremy offers up his left-hand earbud before James can say anything. James grins and takes it, quietly pleased. After that, he stops bothering to bring in the crossword at all.
Sometimes they listen to loud rock, heavy on the guitar and the drums, getting them both worked up for the day ahead. Sometimes it's Jeremy's beloved prog rock – no concept albums, because being interrupted seven minutes into Thick as a Brick to go and stand by a Rover ended up leaving both of them cranky all morning, but things with a lot of ridiculous keyboard sound that make James grin. Sometimes it's new stuff, things Jeremy's kids have been listening to that he thinks are relatively good, or things he's heard on the radio.
Some of the time, when they're just back from traveling, Jeremy just puts his iPod on shuffle and they listen to whatever serendipitous combinations the electronics throw at them. But more often he has a playlist, a particular sequence that he's decided the two of them need to hear, designed for some purpose that James can never quite figure out. Still, Jeremy's taste is – he hates to admit this – not entirely shit, so he doesn't complain. Much.
And then every so often Jeremy will come up with a song James hasn't heard in a long time, something that brings back a flood of memories, and he'll sit or lean back with his eyes closed, watching memories rolling across his vision – awkwardly asking out Nora Mitchell from next door (Elenore by The Turtles), sitting on the back steps of the church at Whiston on a rare, hot summer's day, sweating in his choirboy robes (House of the Rising Sun by The Animals), the day his flute teacher had told him he was rubbish and he'd practiced angrily in his bedroom for three hours straight (Too Old to Rock And Roll, Too Young to Die by Jethro Tull).
It isn't until they've been doing this for months that James wakes up one morning and realizes, over toast, that it's become a habit, that he's actually looking forward to leaning in and peering over Jeremy's shoulder at the iPod screen, to finding out what Jeremy is going to play for them today. The thought is faintly disturbing. Clearly doing that last stunt for the show shook some of my brains loose, he thinks, and deliberately listens to Chopin on the drive out to Dunsfold, just to clear his mind.
It doesn't work, particularly, and by the time he arrives at the track, and has his tea, and teases Richard about his hair, the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach has grown slightly. Jeremy is late, and the anticipation makes James nervous.
When Jeremy does appear, though, he seems perfectly normal, and breezes through with a wave before cornering Andy to ask about something or other. James feels strangely disappointed, though he's not sure he can put his finger on what he'd been expecting. Still, eventually he manages to put all that aside and focus on the rehearsal, and after they've been working for an hour or so he's almost forgotten about the weird feeling from earlier in the morning.
Finally Andy calls a halt in order to change something with the cameras that James doesn't quite understand, and while Richard goes off to prod at the Aston on the other side of the studio, Jeremy hooks his head towards the news set and holds out one earbud inquiringly. James nods and follows him over.
Today Jeremy's apparently decided on some classic Yes, Going For the One, which is one of their best albums, and it means that once they're settled in James doesn't care that Wilman is shouting at someone, or that later when they film the piece about the Audi he'll have to say some of the genuinely stupid things that they've scripted. Instead he rests his head against the vinyl of the seat and listens, eyes tracing the abstract shape of the beams across the ceiling of the studio, not thinking about anything in particular. After a moment his fingers start to twitch and he lets them tap across the top of his thighs, playing out the keyboard part of Wonderous Stories as best he can remember. It isn't perfect, but he used to do this on his school desk during class for hours on end, and somehow his hands remember mostly how it goes.
When the music fades he stills his hands, and looks over to find Jeremy gazing at him bemusedly.
"Can you really play that?" Jeremy asks. James flushes, even as the next track starts. Jeremy reaches over and dials down the volume without really looking at it.
"'Course," James says, and then, more honestly, "Well, I could once. Rick Wakeman's one of the major reasons I took up piano in the first place – don't laugh."
"M'not laughing," Jeremy says, but there's a smile in his voice that James can hear even over the faint sounds of Awaken. "I just though you'd've said it was Bach or something."
"That, too," James admits. "I do love classical – it's so..." he struggles for the right words that will express what he means without making Jeremy laugh at him too much. "It's well-ordered. It's how music ought to be. It's... it's easy." He waits for Jeremy to start taking the piss but instead Jeremy just tilts his head and doesn't say anything. James keeps talking, looking down at his hands. "Whereas rock is... is how music is, not how it ought to be. It's raw and real and difficult. But that doesn't mean I don't love it just as much."
There's a pause, and when James can make himself look up he catches the tail end of something just flickering out of Jeremy's expression. Then Jeremy grins.
"We should have a prog rock band, seriously this time."
James snorts, because Jeremy suggests they start up their band about every four months, and they've yet to actually do anything about it. In fact, he's pretty sure that the last time Jeremy had picked up his drumsticks there had been dust on them.
"You're a far better DJ than you are a drummer," James says without really thinking, and then immediately backtracks when he realizes what he's just said. "That's not saying much, mind you." But Jeremy is grinning, and there's the faintest flush spreading over his cheeks, and James feels himself smile stupidly back. For all of Jeremy's bluster and ego, there's something about the way he takes a genuine compliment that always makes James go warm inside. "Anyway," he says, feeling a bit embarrassed, "shut up, I want to listen to the rest of this. We're coming up on the best bit."
Jeremy rolls his eyes but turns the volume back up, and James settles back in his seat. A few moments later his fingers start tapping again, and Jeremy's leg presses against his own briefly just before, across the studio, Richard sets off the Aston's car alarm.
-----
Driving home that evening, prompted by some impulse he doesn't quite understand, James switches the radio over to a rock station, and finds himself mid-way through the Stones' Beast of Burden. But it doesn't feel right here, sound feeding into both ears, without the warmth of Jeremy next to him or the shifting of the seat beneath him as Jeremy taps his foot not quite on the beat. Even though the song is louder and in stereo now, it's not quite as vivid as James thinks it ought to be. If Jeremy were here, he'd surely be crooning "such a pretty, pretty, pretty girl" and "come on, baby, please, please, please" in that hoarse way of his, ridiculous and nonetheless compelling. James can imagine it easily.
Jeremy, James realizes, somehow makes everything around him more real, more vital and memorable. The moments when he's not around always seem paler by comparison.
James analyzes that thought, comes to the conclusion that he'd really rather spend all of his time with Jeremy, even when he's being infuriating, and then curses right over Mick Jagger singing "put me out of misery."
"I am a complete numpty," James says, and curses again just for good measure. "Fucking shit-arse bollocks!" Because you don't think something like that unless you've got feelings for someone, do you? No, of course not. And he does, if he's honest, think Jeremy's smile is rather lovely. And his arse. And his--
Mick sings, "never, never, never, never, never, never, never be," and James hits the button to switch Chopin back on again with such force that he bruises his finger.
-----
The next few days are decidedly strange. James can't stop himself looking at Jeremy out of the corner of his eye, from turning things over in his head and trying to figure out when it had all gone tits up. Probably, he decides, somewhere around the time they'd gone to Vietnam and made total arses of themselves and had an amazingly good time, and Jeremy had actually enjoyed biking, and they'd sat watching the sunset on that floating bar and James had been happier than he'd ever been in his entire life. Which was, James reflects with some surprise, over a year ago.
So I appear to be both thick and masochistic. Brilliant.
On Friday they go round to the pub with Richard and Andy and the rest of the crew. Jeremy slides into one side of their usual booth, and before James can dither too much Richard and Andy sit on the other side, which means James has to sit next to Jeremy. He sits down, trying not to look suspicious, and wraps both hands around his pint.
Richard launches into a monologue about Indiana Jones, prompted by Jeremy's earlier ridiculing of the hat Richard had brought back from Bolivia. Jeremy counters with a sentence that involves the words 'enormous' and 'sodding' and 'wanker,' and the whole thing devolves into an argument complete with waving hands and the intermittent flicking of coasters. Jeremy is utterly in his element, and James sits back to watch the whole thing unfold, trying to stay merely amused and not focus on the way Jeremy looks devastatingly sexy when he's poking a finger into Richard's face. This may be a bit of a failure.
Absurdly, James finds himself wishing they had an excuse to sit closer, like they do at the studio because the cord of Jeremy's earbuds is so short. Jeremy is always warm, and he usually smells like cheap aftershave and smoke, but in a way that James finds weirdly comforting.
Bollocks.
James gets up to grab another round of beers, and when he comes back he hesitates just for a second, then sits down a bit further over into the booth, hoping Jeremy won't notice. Jeremy flicks a glance at him out of the corner of his eye but doesn't stop arguing as James slides a new pint to him over the wood of the table. Their elbows nudge against each other, and James is suddenly, achingly aware of the dusting of dark hairs on the back of Jeremy's arms. A spike of arousal flashes violently through him.
Double bollocks.
-----
They don't see each other over the weekend; James is too busy with finalizing the Toy Stories material to have much time to spare, and he's a bit grateful for the time to come to grips with this whole new, confusing thing (coming to grips with it apparently involves an intense masturbatory session followed by a lovely long daydream about the two of them cuddling in bed together with a shared cigarette afterwards, all of which leaves James exhausted and vaguely horrified with himself).
By Tuesday he's come to two conclusions: number one, that he definitely does have big stupid feelings for his big stupid friend, and number two, that if he doesn't get a hold of himself he's going to give it all away with a poorly timed glance. Which would be a disaster.
He rolls around to the track at about nine, determined to be completely natural, and then ruins the whole thing by staring when he walks into the portakabin and finds Jeremy with his sleeves rolled up, licking jam from his fingers.
Christ, James thinks, jerking his gaze over to the window and willing his erection away. Not now!
"Morning," Jeremy says cheerfully, the word a bit muffled by the fingers in his mouth.
"Morning," James says weakly, and busies himself with the kettle.
One of the runners shows up before long and drags them into the studio. James loses himself in the back and forth of rehearsal, focusing on trying to argue himself out of some of his more ridiculous lines, and he's successfully distracted until they pause two hours later for the director and the sound supervisor to have an argument. Richard disappears into the back room. Jeremy slopes off towards the news set, and James follows, half because he knows it'll look weird if he doesn't and half because he doesn't want to give this up, doesn't want things to change just because he's gone weird.
They sit, and Jeremy offers up one earbud with a crooked grin. James takes it, and though he finds it warm from the body heat it had absorbed while being in Jeremy's pocket, he resolutely doesn't react as he slots it in.
The first thing Jeremy has queued up is Walking on the Moon by The Police, which makes James grin, remembering his trip into space, remembering the shivery sensation of being able to look down on absolutely everything in the world. Even now he can still remember exactly how it had felt, that bone-deep awe that had swept through him. He closes his eyes, the emotion making him feel a bit raw despite the fact that he'd already displayed it on national television. He doesn't want to have to bare himself to Jeremy, not now, not when Jeremy's so close, smelling tangy and looking tousled and ridiculous and absolutely lovable.
When that song ends James doesn't immediately recognize what comes up next, and he opens his eyes and reaches for the iPod, only to discover that it's Will Young's version of Light My Fire. James snorts before he can stop himself. Jeremy grabs for the iPod to hit shuffle, looking embarrassed, but James stops him by tightening his grip around it and tapping one finger on the back of Jeremy's hand.
"No, no," he says. "It's fine. I don't mind." Still, he can't resist the opportunity to tease Jeremy about his homosexualist taste in music. "You're not fooling anyone, though," he says, grinning.
Jeremy's mouth twists in rueful amusement, but then he flicks a glance at James out of the corner of his eye, and licks his lips nervously. "Maybe I'm not," he says, low and careful. "Maybe I'm tired of trying to fool you."
James' stomach goes hot, and then cold, and then hot again. Does that mean what I think it means? He steals a look at Jeremy's face, which is wary and guarded, and decides it definitely does. Oh, god.
Stop it, he tells himself firmly. Just because he… He can't even finish the sentence in his head. Anyway, it doesn't mean he'd want to with you.
"That's, erm," he says. "That's... I'm glad you told me?" he finishes weakly. Now it's Jeremy's turn to snort.
"Anyway," Jeremy says briskly. "Not important. Just thought I should mention it." But there's something in his eyes just before he looks away, something that James can't help but interpret as disappointment. Like Jeremy had been hoping for a different reaction. The Will Young track ends, and James, still confused, looks down at the iPod to discover that the next track is Pale Blue Eyes by The Velvet Underground. Pieces of things begin to fit together in James' mind.
Oh. He feels suddenly warm all over.
Jeremy, he realizes, has been wooing him. For... a while, actually, and so subtly that James hadn't even really noticed. James starts to say something, then stops. Maybe, since Jeremy has been using the music to try and get his message through, maybe James can do the same in return.
"I've always liked this song," James says quietly.
"Mmm?" says Jeremy.
"But there's one I've always liked even better," James says. He shifts his hand so that he can get at the iPod screen. "I'm sure you've got it on here." He taps through a series of menus until he can find what he's looking for, hits play.
The soft notes of the electric piano start up, and it's clear from the way that Jeremy's face changes that he recognizes it right away. "Oooh, you make me live," Freddy Mercury sings. "Whatever this world can give to me. It's you, you're all I see." Jeremy's eyes are on James' now, intense and bright.
"It really, er, resonates with me," James says, wincing inwardly when he hears how stupid that sounds.
But Jeremy just says, "Me, too," sounding cautiously hopeful.
"We could discuss it tonight if you fancy coming over," James suggests nervously. He swallows, and presses his leg against Jeremy's where they rest together in the middle of the bench seat. Jeremy presses back, and James feels his heart thump hard in his chest.
"I'd like that," Jeremy says, and then he lowers his voice, and shifts one hand to rest tentatively on James' knee. "James are we... on the same page, here?" His hand is warm and strong and surprisingly tender, and James' breath leaves his lungs at the thought of Jeremy touching him like that in other places. Places without clothing. He reaches over, mindful of the fact that they're in the middle of the studio surrounded by people, and squeezes Jeremy's hand briefly, savoring the feeling of skin on skin, however little of it there is.
"Yes, definitely yes."
Jeremy's expression goes from hope into stunned happiness, and the two of them grin at each other for a long moment before pulling their hands away.
"Tonight, then," Jeremy says, voice low and full of promise.
"Yes, good," James says. He still can't quite believe this is happening, but he'll be damned if he's not going to take the chance.
"You," sings Freddy Mercury, "you're my best friend," and then the track is over and a new song begins.