little t&a

when you're done, you should go to bed

The call to Steve Rubell (or rather, his secretary—Steve, apparently, didn't get up any earlier than two in the afternoon) wasn't the only one Gene made that morning. At Paul's urging, Gene called to have clothes sent over from his house, and a handful of standard accessories. He felt a little bare wearing only his skull ring. Paul kept attempting to advise him as he tried to piece together an image- and Studio 54-suitable outfit from memory of what was in his closets. In the end he just settled on an outfit comprised almost entirely out of black leather. A vague step up from his CBGB outfit, at least.

"You think I should go to another boutique?" Paul asked as soon as he'd hung up. He'd changed into jeans and a low-cut, frilly purple blouse, more of yesterday's purchases. He kept fiddling with the floppy bow in the front, untying and retying it as he spoke, moving it to the side, then the middle. Sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, he looked like a nervous kid, tapping one bare foot against the floor.

"Not unless you want to."

"I dunno. Nothing I have is going to pass muster."

"Didn't you buy a dress?"

Paul grimaced.

"It wasn't anything special. Do you know how many people they don't let in to Studio 54, just because of the outfit?"

"Paul, you know we'll get in."

"Yeah, we'll get in, but the press is out there every night. There's gonna be pictures, Gene."

Gene hesitated. Except for when they'd found Carol's old apartment, Paul's mood seemed to improve, at least a little, whenever they'd ventured out. He hadn't seemed to mind getting clothes that much—sure, he'd taken forever about it, but that wasn't abnormal—and he hadn't picked out sackcloth and ashes for himself, either. Minus the bow, the blouse was something Paul probably would've worn in his regular body, even, except Gene would've been greeted with a hell of a lot of chest hair instead of cleavage.

"I think what you've got on is probably fine."

"You haven't been over there. It's picky as hell."

"We're in KISS, we'll get in."

"I don't want to just get in! I—" Paul shook his head. "God, you don't understand."

"What's there to understand?"

"There's getting in and then there's looking good, Gene. Looking like you belong."

Gene tilted his head.

"Do you really want to belong at Studio 54?" Gene had heard, from admittedly irreputable sources, that Rubell would hand out coke at the VIP entrance like it was balloons at the carnival. The basement was supposed to hold nothing but orgies. Yeah, Paul liked to dance, and he liked to rub elbows with people outside of KISS' questionable echelon, but he wasn't a drug addict, and he wasn't a heavy sex fiend. Two things that were practically prerequisites for that place.

"I wanna belong somewhere," Paul said abruptly, and then shook his head, as though he hadn't really realized he was speaking out loud. "I—what I mean is, I don't wanna come off like I'm some chick you yanked off the front row 'cause she showed you her tits."

"You don't come that cheap, Paul."

"Oh, shut up. You get it, right? You get it."

Gene kind of got it. The closest he could come was envisioning going onstage without the makeup. The one protective shield between fantasy and reality. A funhouse mirror it'd be suicide to step away from. It wasn't that they were shittier musicians without a bunch of paint and leather on, any more than Clark Kent stopped being faster than a speeding bullet once he put on his glasses—but it ruined the magic. Flattened the ego.