little t&a

my, my, my, don't tell lies

Gene woke up late the next morning to Paul's head resting against his chest. Paul's right hand was dipped underneath his boxers again in his sleep—Gene bit back a rueful grin at that, getting up out of bed as carefully as possible, trying not to wake him up. He got dressed—on top of the CBGB attire, he'd bought a regular pair of jeans and a collared shirt at the boutique, among a few other things—and left the room, digging around the main area of Paul's house until he found the phone book. From there, he dialed a bakery. They didn't deliver, of course—but they would for Gene Simmons.

Less than half an hour later, he returned to Paul's bedroom with a white paper box and a glass of milk.

"Morning, Paul."

Paul grunted a bit, kicking off the covers.

"Morning."

"Don't get up. I got you breakfast in bed."

"You—" Paul started, then shook his head, reaching over the bed for his wallet on the nightstand. His shirt hiked up with the movement, exposing one bare hip and a few small moles. The boxers, as always, were barely hanging on. Might've held up a little better if the drawstrings weren't untied. "Lemme pay you back. You've been buying all my meals lately."

"Don't say that until you open the box."

Paul did. There were only four regular glazed doughnuts left. Sprinkles and scrapes of chocolate against the corners and bottom of the box were the only intimations of the rest.

"Gene! Did you—were there twelve in—"

"Were is past tense."

"Gene!"

"It'll be fine. We'll be back on tour in a few weeks. I'll lose all that weight jumping around onstage."

"If you don't gain even more," Paul grumbled, eying Gene up and down, shaking his head. He hadn't gotten out of bed, as requested. He reached for the box and set it on his lap, taking a doughnut and carefully leaning over the open box as he ate it, to keep any bits of sugar off the covers. Gene climbed into bed beside him. "You... you really think we'll be back?"

"We'll be back."

"But what about that groupie?"

Gene reached over for a ninth doughnut. Paul swatted his hand away irritably.

"Easy. We'll call up Studio 54 beforehand. Have the owner tell all the doormen to be on the lookout for her, give them her name and description. We tell them to get her straight to the VIP lounge as soon as they see her, because Paul Stanley wants her."

"That makes me sound like a creep." Paul dragged a finger down the inside edge of the box, gathering up the chocolate on his finger. He licked it off absentmindedly. "And then the doorman tries to take her directly to me, only he can't find me because he's not looking for—"

"Okay, how about this, we say you and I want her, but you're too shy, so if they'll just take her to me instead, that'll be perfect."

"Too shy, my ass," Paul snorted. "Gene, you're the one that won't do threesomes."

"You all act like it's a badge of shame."

"It kind of is." Paul took the last bite of his doughnut, and reached for another. "You take six or seven up to your room and you only make it with one of them at a time."

"Who told you that?"

"Peter."

"How would he know?"