little t&a

don't say hi like a spider to a fly

There were a few things Gene hadn't exactly thought he'd live to see. One was the fall of Communism. One was decent oil prices. One was Paul Stanley attempting to shove Ace Frehley bodily into the doorframe.

At least, that was what it looked like Paul was trying to do. Gene hadn't gotten out of the car nearly fast enough to catch it all, hampered by the car lock he'd thoughtlessly left on and the milkshake he'd been in the middle of (they'd picked up Dairy Queen on the way back from the boutique). By the time Gene got to the front yard, Paul had Ace by the shoulders and was screaming obscenities.

By the time Gene got to the front porch, Peter had yanked Paul away from Ace and had one of his arms locked behind his back. Paul was trying to trip Peter, one foot twisting behind Peter's ankle as he leaned back against him. Ace stepped forward, trying to pull them both apart, only Paul's fist flung out and nearly connected with his jaw. Peter, meanwhile, was still screaming.

"You crazy bitch! This isn't your house! This is his house!"

"It's my goddamn house!"

"You got some nerve! You think 'cause you fucked the guy you've got a right to his place?!"

"Pete, let go of the girl! C'mon and calm down! Both of you!" Ace yelled out.

"Ace, you lousy son of a bitch!"

"Hey, hey, we barely know each other—"

"Stop it!"

Gene wrenched away Peter's grip on Paul's arm, relying more on weight and suddenness than strength. Peter immediately went for Gene instead—Peter was a much smaller guy, but meaner and still more savvy, for all that it had been years since he'd been in a fight—but Gene grabbed him before he could. Paul just barreled over to Ace as soon as he was free, pinning him against the door, standing on his foot to keep him in place. Ace looked like he was torn between being bewildered and bursting into laughter.

Peter didn't fight off the grip much, which surprised Gene. Maybe even he realized that a skull fracture on the cement front porch would be like setting fire to KISS' ticket sales. Gene held him there, barking at Paul as he did.

"Leave Ace alone!"

"Leave Ace alone? His credit card's in my fucking door!"

"Let him alone! Let him alone right now."

"Gene!"

Paul hesitated, then backed off from Ace. As soon as he was halfway sure Paul wouldn't jump back on him, Gene let go of Peter, who whirled on both of them.

"We're not trying to steal Paul's shit! We just wanna know what the fuck is going on here!"

"We—" Gene started, only to be interrupted by Ace.

"Where's Paul at?" he said quietly. Gene's head snapped towards Paul, praying he'd read the look in his eyes. Praying he'd realize he couldn't blow it. Peter already hadn't believed him once. There was no way—there was no sense in trying again.

But that wasn't all of it. Even if somehow Ace and Peter believed Paul, what good could they do, anyway? The two of them would just screw everything up worse. It wasn't a thought borne out of practicality; it was self-righteous, maybe even selfish. Part of Gene wanted to keep being the only one who knew.

It turned out that it didn't matter what Gene wanted. Paul just glared back, snapping out his answer before Gene could even try to stop him.