little t&a

she said, 'my, my, my, don't tell lies'

They didn't waste time. Well, they didn't waste much time. As expected, Gene was starting to get flocked again, even though they were trying to head straight to the bar. Gene didn't really like to push past people, if he could help it—Big John was usually there to do it for him—and Paul, to his credit, wasn't stomping on his foot now that they were in the club. He just kept shooting Gene pissed-off looks as the fans stammered at him and gave him napkins to sign.

It was hard to hear any real talk outside of the blare of the band. Gene was just scribbling on napkins, barely offering a nod to whatever the person in front of him was telling him. It wasn't until they made it to one dingy corner that he could actually understand the conversation around him.

"Who's he got with him?"

"She's kinda pretty. I don't recognize her."

"Maybe she's another singer? You think he's trying to promote her?"

"Promote her? That's so cute..."

He'd gotten used to people talking about him while he was in earshot, but not quite like this. He'd had starlets hanging off his arm before, dated some of them, even. The gossip was just to sell magazines; it hadn't ever bothered him. But it was strange, being the only one who knew full well who was actually standing next to him. It was really strange.

He turned to tell Paul that, but Paul spoke before he could.

"God, I had no idea."

"No idea about what?"

"About how much it has to suck dating any of us." Paul let go of Gene's waist, finally, going for his hand instead. His fingers curved around Gene's with an odd abruptness, as if Paul was afraid Gene would pull his hand away if he lingered too long. "Never mind marrying. Lydia deserves a fucking medal. Jeanette, too."

"You don't get very public with dating."

"Yeah, but... anything out and about. Banquets. Gala shit where you've gotta bring somebody. We end up shaking hands and taking photos and talking about business, and they're... what're the girls doing? Nothing. They have to just sit through it."

Gene was distracted out of an immediate answer. Distracted by something even less comfortable than Paul's legs in the fishnets or the tightness of his cotton tee. Distracted by the hand in his. Paul's hand wasn't really that soft or terribly small, but it fit well enough in his. How long had it been since he'd genuinely held hands with a girl? High school, or maybe sophomore year of college. By the time Wicked Lester rolled around, he'd long since stopped being that sentimental. And by the time KISS started, it was all carnal. It hadn't felt empty, either; he hadn't felt like he was really missing anything by jumping straight to the best part—

He could have sworn Paul gave his palm a brief squeeze, lifting him back into reality. Paul definitely was throwing him a raised eyebrow, corner of his mouth lifting up quizzically.

"Gene?"

"Oh. Are you having that bad a time?"

"Not when I think about how they've missed out on half the autographs." Paul laughed dryly. "Come on. You've put me through enough tonight. You owe me."

"What do I owe you?"

Paul started to smile.

"A drink."

"Paul, that's a terrible idea."

"I've got to look like I'm at the bar for a reason, right?" Paul shrugged. "C'mon. I only want one."