little t&a

smokin', mopin', maybe just hopin'

Paul fretted and complained ad-nauseum. He didn't want to see the psychic this soon; it was too much pressure. He didn't have any clothes. Or rather, he had clothes, just nothing he wanted to wear. Gene knew he had at least two dresses—the black floral with the bell sleeves from his drag birthday party back in January, and a black polka-dot number from another party—and a substantial assortment of women's blouses. What he didn't have, and what Gene knew for a fact he didn't have, was anything that fit correctly. No pants that would've worked. All Paul's blouses and dresses were cut far too widely at the shoulders for him now. He'd be drowning in them.

"Look, Paul, you can't run around in a bathrobe all day," Gene countered, although he suspected that was what Paul had been doing for most of the last five days. "What did you wear to Peaches?"

"The dress from my birthday. It's in the washing machine."

"Are you even wearing underwear?"

At any other time, with a girl that looked like Paul, the question would've been a teasing come-on. Right now, it was a serious indictment of his hygiene.

"I have on boxers." Paul shot him an aggrieved look as he said it. "What's it matter to you, anyway?"

"They're probably about to fall off, is why it matters." Gene grunted, trying to think. "What shoes did you wear out?"

"I stuffed some heels with tissue paper."

That was a start, at least. Gene sighed.

"You'll feel better with real clothes on. And I'll feel better when your tits aren't falling out of your bathrobe."

Paul glanced down reflexively and bit his lip, untying and then retying the robe a little more snugly.

"I'll get the other dress," he mumbled, padding out of the kitchen without a backwards glance. Gene watched him retreat, waiting until he heard the bedroom door shut before he got up and opened Paul's pantry door again, pushing past the groceries he'd already shelved.

He didn't really expect to find anything good in there. Paul was almost pathologically afraid of gaining weight. He was always at his worst about it right before tours, too. Gene would catch him at the pool, staring at his chest and stomach like they'd personally offended him just by existing at all. He honestly seemed to think he could starve his way into a set of abs. The burden of being the band's sex symbol, Gene supposed, pushing aside some packages of instant ramen and TVP (weird, if Paul was trying vegetarianism, that'd just add another expense to their tour budget—not that they'd have a tour if he didn't get fixed) to find a small, shameful stack of Hershey's chocolate bars.

He deserved something after the stress and frustrated arousal of the last hour or so. Gene took the entire stack of candy back to the kitchen island. He hadn't even sat down before tearing into the first chocolate bar, and he'd only gotten two rows of it down his throat before Paul reemerged, in the black polka-dot dress from the drag party.

For a minute, Gene forgot he was eating.

Oh, the dress didn't fit right. Too baggy in the shoulders, as expected, and the style was frumpy, not really showing off his figure much, besides his chest, still not contained with a bra. But Paul looked... pretty good. Definitely better than he had in the bathrobe. His curly hair was a lot less matted, and it seemed like he was standing a bit straighter.

"Cute."

Paul shifted uncomfortably.

"I still don't want to see the psychic today."