"None More Gay", a This Is Spinal Tap fanfiction story by Lamia.

This story is set just after Nigel leaves the band. Rated PG, slash and angst. No beta readers, as usual.

Please review. These characters aren't mine except for Marisioux, so please don't sue!

Nigel's heart felt like an embarrassingly small model of Stonehenge that had been trod on by a dwarf.

He never could have imagined that the day would come when he would leave the stage in the middle of a gig, but he never could have imagined that the day would come when Spinal Tap would be playing a weekend dance at an American Air Force base and his wireless guitar would start picking up air traffic control chatter in the middle of "Sex Farm". Now he was back at the hotel alone, sitting on the side of the bathtub and trying to make sense of things.

It was all Jeanine's fault. Nigel tried to be fair, but he felt certain that even the most disinterested outside observer would agree that the woman was a meddling bitch of the worst kind. Were anyone to ever write Nigel's autobiography or some other kind of story about his life, she would surely be the cobra-eyed villainess of the piece. No exaggerating would be needed to paint her as a shrieking harpy.

Jeanine was the sort of woman who'd take a man off sugar, force him to wear ridiculous homemade novelty sweaters, try to manage his band, and put herself between him and his best mate. David was a rock god, but Jeanine had done her best to turn him into a yunik. Younick. Unic. Dammit. A man with no balls.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Nigel thought thoughts that he'd thought he didn't want to think about before. He knew now that he had been in love with David for years, but he had been as confused about his own feelings as if he were trying to remember the correct notation for feet and inches. It wasn't as if Nigel didn't like girls. He'd slept with women before. Lots of them. Sometimes lots at once. He was a rock star, and rock stars do that kind of thing all the time, especially in those days.

But none of those women had really mattered to Nigel before. Now he knew why. When it came to David, how much more gay could he be? None more gay.

David! Oh David! With his flowing golden hair and amethyst blue eyes, unless amethysts are the red ones. But in the topsy-turvy world of rock and roll, they'd had plenty of red-eyed mornings. They had often been up all night together, but never for the reason that Nigel might have wished had been true if he had so dared to wish what he truly wished.

Nigel cried for about twenty minutes, then blew his nose on some toilet paper. He flushed it down the loo (that's how they say "toilet" in England).

Nigel wanted David with the burning passion of a thousand Bic lighters held aloft for an encore. If given the chance, Nigel knew that he would be good for encore after encore with David. There was nothing so kinky, strenuous, or physically implausible that he wouldn't do it and enjoy it. Yes, even that. That too. And that. Well, he wasn't sure what David weighed these days, but Nigel had been working out so he'd be willing to give that a try as well. He was sure that they would both be naturally and instinctively good at pleasing one another no matter how exotic or potentially painful the act.

His mind began to wander to thoughts of how David could be his, fantasy situations where Jeanine was out of the picture and he could finally speak the truth about his truest feelings. Maybe Jeanine could die in some horrible accident, and Nigel could be the one to comfort David. Or maybe while on tour in Alaska or Siberia they might become trapped in a cabin during a snowstorm with nothing but a single blanket and each other for warmth.

Or maybe they'd both get really drunk, and...but no, that had happened countless times already, and nothing had ever come of it but vomiting and headaches. Same for all the times they were in the hot tub together. Not the vomiting and headaches, not usually, but always the no sex. Even when they had shared a flat in London during David's "experimental" lipstick-and-rouge phase, when he brought home Italian sailors to share the hide-a-bed, he'd never treated Nigel as anything but a friend. A non-sexual kind of friend.

Nigel's thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock on the bathroom door.

He heard a woman voice. "Nigel, are you in there?"

"Marisioux? That's you, idnit?" Marisioux was a very beautiful American groupie they had met in Milwaukee. She was gentle and modest and tended to stay in the background, away from Marty DiBergi's camera crew, but everyone knew she was the nicest and loveliest groupie in the Midwest, maybe even in the whole country. She was pretty enough to be a model, and she was a good singer too. And she could play the piano and the guitar and the bagpipes. Nigel had thought she should be their opening act, but she was too shy to sing in front of a concert crowd even though their concerts had not had so many people recently.

"Yes, it is me. Can I come in?"

"Okay."

The door opened and Marisioux entered, smelling of roses, lilies, lilacs, crocuses, marigolds, poppies, violets, roses, lavender, and chocolate-chip cookies. Her willowy hair wafted gently around her beautiful and gentle face. Her gentle emerald green and gold eyes looked sad. She sat down gently on the side of the bathtub next to Nigel.

"Nigel, I did not want to tell you this before, but I have a special power. I can sense other people's feelings and sometimes I can foresee the future. I know why you are hurting. It is David, is it not?"

Nigel couldn't speak. He only nodded, then cried for another ten minutes. Marisioux held him to her chest, but not in a sexy way. She was very young, but she seemed more like a mother to Nigel. Not a mother who won't let you stay out past ten and yells at you to turn the TV down and get off the computer and go to bed for god's sake you've got school tomorrow and you don't get credit for writing Internet stories you know, but a nice and gentle mother who cares when you are sad.

Finally Nigel sobbed "He doesn't love me at all!"

Marisioux gently stroked his auburn mullet. "Do not be so sure about that. People show love in strange ways sometimes."

"I can't stand to watch him with her anymore. She's ruined the band. I'm going away."

"It is good to have time to yourself. Do you have somewhere to go?"

Nigel sniffed. "Yeah, I have a friend who's a doctor. Well, he's not really a doctor, but he plays one on TV, don't he. So that's almost the same. I met him in California and he said I could stay with him anytime, so that's where I'm going."

Marisioux nodded. "That sounds like a good idea," she said in her beautiful and gentle voice. "But do not be surprised if you receive some unexpected news. A new day dawns in the East. Fortune may smile upon you and David yet."

Nigel did not think so. He knew his career with Spinal Tap was over forever. He wished that he had been a drummer, so that he might spontaneously combust or die in some other tragic way and so end his torment. But as lead guitarist, Nigel knew it was not his fate to die young. Instead he must live with his pain and suffering, and the pain of suffering, and the suffering of pain.

Nigel splashed some cold water on his face. That was the most powerful drug in the world, cold water, because it wakes you up. He felt as lost as he had at the Xanadu Star Theater in Cleveland when they had been unable to find the stage, but he knew what he had to do.

Marisioux helped him to finish packing his suitcases and called a taxi for him. Soon Nigel was on his way away from Seattle, David, Jeanine, Spinal Tap, and the shattered pieces of his broken dreams that had been crushed beneath the boots of an uncaring world.

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