little t&a

i remember what she said

Paul and Gene didn't talk much for a long time after Peter left. Just sat in the living room half-watching T.V. Gene ordered a pizza about three or four hours later. Paul ate a single piece, drank two Tabs, then tried to head back to his room like a forlorn kid.

"Hey," Gene said, taking his arm as he got up to leave.

"Gene, he didn't know me. I've known him for five years and he didn't have a clue."

"You couldn't have expected him to." Gene swallowed. "He was trying to stick up for you."

"I didn't think he cared that much."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I'm serious."

"Paul..." Gene stared, shaking his head. "Paul, you two used to talk every damn night. It was obnoxious. You were like teenage girls."

Paul snorted.

"Yeah, and I was the frontman of KISS, too, but look how that turned out."

"You're still the frontman," Gene rattled out, irritably. "What's with you? Did you really think Peter didn't give a shit about you?"

"Right now, I wish he didn't. He's gonna be looking for me all over town." Paul took a deep breath. "I blew it. I dunno why I even tried to tell him."

"If we can get this reversed quickly enough, it won't matter."

"It will. Peter'll be all hacked off and telling me about how my girlfriend was cheating, then I'll have to figure out some lie—blow him off—"

"Don't worry about that right now."

"I'm tired of blowing Peter off. I can't keep this up. If I run into anybody else I know while I'm like this, I'm gonna screw up."

"Paul—"

"I won't do it on purpose. But I'll do it. And maybe nobody'll figure out who I am, but they'll know something's wrong. And—"

"We'll get you fixed before that's an issue. I'll—shit, I don't know. I'll make up an excuse for Peter." What he could possibly tell him, well, Gene had no idea. With any luck in the world, Peter would get a few lines in him and forget all about this afternoon. With any luck. Right. "We might as well get ready for the club. You still want to go, right?"

Despite himself, Gene didn't think Paul looked like he was in the shape to go. He had that steeled-up look about him that Gene had seen before, after phone conversations with newly-minted exes and conniving execs and, sometimes, after talking to his parents. He'd keep going, after, but it'd be bitterly. And bitterly was not how he wanted Paul approaching the nightclub. Especially not in the form he was in right now.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"I've been like this for six days. I don't want it to be seven."

"Paul, are you—"

"I'm sure. I'm positive. Aren't you?" Paul's mouth twitched, as though he were about to say something else, then his lips pursed and he turned on his heel. He didn't slam the door into his bedroom, but Gene could hear the sound of him locking it. It stung.

Gene changed clothes in the guest bedroom. He hadn't tried too hard at the punk bit himself, and he knew he wasn't convincing in just a leather jacket and a black tee, and a pair of plaid pants. Nearly half his purchases. Hopefully, the rest wouldn't see the light of day. Paul's guest bedroom was furnished with a weird scattering of Paul's stuff—on the nightstand were a few notepads filled with his standard dick drawings and caricatures, and the mirrored dresser was loaded with tour knickknacks. Gene picked up a small rag doll some fan had made of Paul in full Starchild regalia, finding tubes of mascara and eyeliner underneath where the doll had lain.