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Chapter Text

The security guard hated men who had long hair and wore makeup.  Which was unfortunate for the aspiring rock band who had been using the bar manager’s office as a dressing room, and now found themselves barricaded in it.

Gene had positioned himself in front of his three band mates.  “We’re okay, he’s just trying to scare us,” he said.   Gene, the only one without a father, had taken on a protective role over Paul when they had first met, and that had naturally extended to the other two.

“I’m gonna kill you queers!” the guard shouted, banging on the door.

Peter pulled a knife out of his boot.  “Ever been in a street fight, boys?”

Paul was certain Peter was not referring to the fights in the street he had regularly found himself in as a kid.  Even so, he had been defending himself against bullies since he was 5.  He clenched his fists in anticipation.

“Sure have.”  Ace didn’t have a knife, but he’d picked up a chair.

Gene had never been in a fight in his life.  His defense was in being 6 foot 2 and scary looking.  No one had ever wanted to mess with him.

There were some muffled noises behind the door.  A key turned in the lock.  Peter brandished his knife.  Ace held out his chair.  And Paul gripped Gene’s arm in terror.

The door opened and the bar manager walked in.  He wasn’t at all shocked to see the band he had been hiring for the last few months prepared to fight for their lives.  Just a normal Saturday night in Queens.

“He’s on the door now, you guys don’t need to worry.  Get yourselves ready, the line is already stretching down the street.”

As he shut the door behind him, Gene rested his hand on Paul’s back.  “You okay?” he asked gently.

Paul looked up at him and nodded with a small smile.  “Yeah.”

It probably wasn’t the best night to try a new makeup design, but Paul had been waiting all week to try this.  Up until now he’d been doing the glam look, heavy eyeliner and lipstick, but he wanted the same black and white face paint as his bandmates had.  And he had finally decided on a design.

As they were putting on their makeup, the phone rang.  Gene reached for it.

“Gene, you can’t answer his phone!”

“Sure I can, he’s being nice enough to let us use his office as a dressing room, it’s the least I can do for him.” Gene switched to his work voice.  “Good evening, Coventry Bar.”  Then. “Yes, there’s a band on tonight.  KISS.  Best band in New York.  You won’t want to miss them before they head off on their world tour.”

“Fuckin’ liar,” said Peter, when Gene got off the phone.

Gene shrugged.  “It’s not a lie if It’s gonna happen eventually.”

Paul scowled at his reflection in the mirror and wiped the makeup away.  He had lost count of how many times he had tried.  But stars were one of the hardest shapes to draw and make even, and it was only harder when he was trying to draw it on his own face.

But finally he got it right.  He spun around in his chair and faced his band mates.  “How’s that?” he asked.

Gene looked up.  And his heart nearly stopped.  Although the makeup covered Paul’s face, it still somehow managed to emphasize his features.  His large, dark, expressive eyes, his full lips, his delicate jawline and high cheekbones.  It hit Gene like a train.  How had he never noticed before?  Paul, his best friend, was …

Beautiful. 

But all he said was, “Looks good.  What about the other eye?”

Paul looked away and shrugged.  He really didn’t want to do all that again.  “Nah, I’m too lazy,” he said, and almost without realizing it smoothed his hair down over his ear.  The other guys could have symmetrical makeup because their faces were symmetrical.  But his wasn’t.

Something had happened.  Something was different.  It became apparent during the show that night.  Paul was much more confident, more animated on stage.  Pouting, shaking his hair and his shoulders, prancing across the stage like a tiger.  Gene couldn’t take his eyes off him.  Four years they had known each other, and Gene had never seen this side of him before.  He had to admit he had been apprehensive about Paul being their front man.  He was, after all, the quietest, the shyest member of KISS.  But that star on his face had changed him somehow.  He was like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly.

Once the makeup was off he slipped back into the caterpillar.  “You were real good tonight,” Gene murmured to him as they packed their gear back into the hired van.

Paul looked at him with big, surprised eyes.  Gene didn’t give compliments lightly.  The happiest smile Gene had ever seen stretched across his face.  His eyes shone, his cheeks dimpled.  Then, aware he had revealed too much, Paul bit his lip and looked away.

“Thanks,” he mumbled shyly.

It was just as well Gene’s hands were full.  He wanted to touch Paul, pat his shoulder or head or back.

He did briefly get to touch him while they were walking back to their loft after returning the van.  As they passed the usual group of guys who whistled and called out to Paul, he stepped closer to Gene, so close that Gene could feel the warmth from his body, and their shoulders brushed together.

Last year, when Wicked Lester had ended, Gene had gone hitchhiking upstate to find a new guitarist and, not wanting to be left behind, Paul had insisted on going with him.  There had been one group of guys they got a ride with that Paul had been scared of and Gene had reassured him that he wouldn’t let anyone hurt him.  Ever since Paul had looked to him for protection.  Gene thought it was like having a little brother to watch out for, but sometimes it was like having an annoying, clingy little brother.  After all, Paul was 21 now, 6 foot and quite powerfully built.  Gene was certain he could take care of himself.  And whether it was guys like that security guard, who thought they were tough and shouted slurs and threats at them or the guys who whistled and shouted, “looking good baby,” Gene would sometimes say to Paul after, “Of course they think we’re gay with you leaning on me like that.”

Today it didn’t bother him.  Gene had to fight back the urge to put a protective arm about his friend. 

Facing each other in the elevator, Gene could see why the guys whistled.  Those eyes.  So easy to get lost in.  They were intense, like Paul was trying to tell him something he didn’t have the words for.  Embarrassed by his thoughts, Gene dropped his eyes to the neck of Paul’s t-shirt where the curls of his chest hair were peeking out.  Focus on his masculinity.  Not on how beautiful his eyes are.  And not on his lips.  Gene wondered if they were as soft as they looked.  What would they be like to kiss?

FUCK!  Simmons, pull yourself together! thought Gene.  He’s your best friend, your brother.  He doesn’t have tits!  He has more hair on his chest than you do!

Gene’s problems hadn’t even started.  After their shows Paul would stay with Gene at the loft where they rehearsed, and Gene lived most of the time.  It was easier than travelling back out to Queens and waking up his parents, or God forbid, his baby niece (call her your sister, his mom would say) when he got in well after midnight.  Gene only had his bed in the loft, but they were mature enough to sleep in the same bed in a completely heterosexual way.  But with the thoughts that had been running through Gene’s head tonight, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Trying to keep his mind occupied, Gene chatted away about nothing in particular as they stripped down to their t-shirts and underwear and climbed into bed.  Paul was used to his constant need to talk.  He usually found talkative people stressful, as he had to focus on keeping up with the conversation.  But Gene didn’t expect him to, he just kept chatting until he turned out the light.

“Night Paul.”

“Night.”

As Gene lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, he had never been so aware of Paul lying next to him.  The warmth coming from his body.  His scent.  God, he smelt good.  Gene dug his nails into his palms.  Think unsexy thoughts, he told himself.  But all he could think of was Paul laying underneath him, looking up at him with those big, beautiful eyes, his mouth on Gene’s neck, his chest, kissing lower and lower until . . .

FUCK!  Gene could feel his cock starting to harden.  Stop it, he thought.  Then he had an idea.  Gene was a firm believer that everything he wanted his sexual partners to do, he should also do.  He wanted a girl to suck his cock?  Then damn right he was going to eat her pussy.  Not that that was a compromise.  He’d happily eat pussy without getting a blowjob in return.  So if he wanted Paul kissing his chest, he’d have to kiss Paul’s, and get a mouthful of chest hair in the process.  If he wanted Paul giving him head, he would have to suck Paul’s cock as well.

Gene knew he was in trouble when that thought only made his cock grow harder.

Chapter Text

The rehearsal had descended into pandemonium, as the four faced off against each other.  Paul and Gene versus Ace and Peter. 

Ace was frustrated about how much rehearsing and how little partying they were doing.  “We’re fucking practicing more than we actually play!  I don’t mid blowing off my friends’ parties for an actual gig they can come to, but a fucking rehearsal?”

“We have to be good at playing otherwise no one will want to come and see us,” Gene tried to explain.

“What’s more important, some party, or playing the Garden?” asked Paul, for whom there was no doubt.

Sharing Ace’s frustration, Peter joined in.  “You talk a lot of shit about playing Madison Square Garden and doing fucking world tours, but we can’t even get a fucking gig in the city.  I’ve gone from playing clubs in Brooklyn to playing clubs in Queens.  That’s not a fucking improvement!”

Gene gripped his hair in frustration.  “I’ve been calling around the city clubs!  I’m fucking trying to get us a gig.”  He picked up the gig guide from the newspaper where he’d circled the phone numbers of the clubs. 

“Nice stars,” said Ace, noticing the galaxy drawn in the margins.

“That was Paul.”

Ace glanced over at him.  “Practicing your new makeup?”

Paul smiled shyly.  But then Peter picked up the rest of the paper.  “We should be fucking grateful he didn’t put a giant cock on his face!  Look what he fucking did to Nixon!”  In the photo the president had been giving a speech, but thanks to Paul’s artwork, the microphone was now a penis.  As the three looked, they saw more dicks scattered across the pages, in various stages of hard and soft, some attached to photos of various politicians, others free floating.

“Fuck me, Paul, you are wasted in KISS, you could get a job illustrating gay porn with this talent!” Peter exclaimed in awe.

Cheeks burning, Paul tried to snatch the pages off him as Ace undone his pants and pulled out his dick.  Again.  He never needed much encouragement to do that.  “Hey Paulie, I’ve got something you can draw, loooooooooook,” he taunted, waggling it, as Paul stubbornly averted his eyes.

“What?” he said.  “It’s a dick.  I’ve seen one before.  If you had something interesting there, like a pussy, I’d look.”

Peter laughed hysterically.  “Are you saying you’ve seen a dick before, but not a pussy!  You sure you don’t prefer guys?”

Ace laughed too.  “He’s a virgin!”

Gene could see Paul was starting to get upset.  “Lay off him, you guys,” he said.  “He’s sensitive.”

Paul could feel the frustration tightening in his chest and the tears building up behind his eyes.  You’d think he’d be used to being teased by now.  But no matter how many times it happened it never got easier.  And he was in the same band, sharing his dream with these idiots.

Of course he’d seen a dick before, he had one.  And no matter how many pussies he saw, he’d always be up for seeing more.  To keep the tears from falling he exploded.  “I’m not gay!” he shouted at Peter, scrunching up the page and throwing it at him.  “I’m not a virgin!” he shouted at Ace as another wad of paper went flying.  “And I’m not fucking sensitive!”  The remainder of the paper hit Gene.

“Are you sure?” Peter laughed, throwing the paper back at him.  “I’m married.  Ace has a girlfriend.  Gene’s has a new girlfriend every week.  But I’ve never seen you with a girl.”

“Why would I bring a girl around you idiots,” Paul snapped.

“True,” said Ace.  Bored with teasing Paul, he decided Gene would be a more challenging target.  “No one should bring a girl anywhere near Gene.  Peter, would you trust him with your sisters?”

Peter scoffed.  “My sisters are tough Brooklyn girls.  They’d kick his ass any day of the week.”

The thought of anyone kicking Gene’s ass was unbelievable, especially the tiny Criscuola girls, and the conversation soon moved on to other things, and teasing Paul was forgotten.  Except by Gene.

After Ace and Peter had left, Gene turned to him.  “Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked gently.

“’Bout what?”

Gene gestured toward the dick drawings.  “Do you … you know … like guys?”

Paul rolled his eyes.  “Not fucking you too.  How many times do I have to say it.  I’M NOT FUCKING GAY!”

His vehement response left Gene feeling oddly disappointed.

“It’s okay if you are.”

Gene’s soft voice was soothing, not mocking, and his eyes were gentle.  Paul stopped shouting.  “I know.  But I’m not.”

“Paul.”  Gene longed to hold him, to tell him it was okay.  Okay to be attracted to other men.  Okay to be attracted to your best friend.  He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Paul … or himself.

“I gotta go to work,” Paul mumbled.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  So Gene knew Paul wouldn’t be returning to the loft that night.

Once he’d gone, Gene picked up the crumpled papers, and smoothing them out, looked at them.  They were very well drawn, not cartoons or scribbled pictures like he’d seen in bathroom stalls, but realistically depicted, including the balls, right down to the veins and hair.   He knew Paul liked to draw, but he had never seen him draw anything like this.  Where had he learnt to draw them?  Were they modeled off his own dick … or someone else’s?  The first thought excited Gene as he pictured Paul naked in front of the mirror, breathing heavily with arousal, long delicate fingers exploring his body.  The second caused his stomach to sink as he pictured Paul, still naked, still aroused, lying underneath a man who wasn’t him.

Chapter Text

Warm wet kisses.

Hot bodies pressed together.

And his cock, throbbing, aching with desire until …

Gene awoke with a start.  With his heart pounding so hard it vibrated through his whole body, he reached across the bed, not remembering if Paul had slept over.  No, he was alone.  Which was probably just as well, he thought, slipping his hand under the covers, between his legs, flinching at the sensitivity and the wetness.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had a wet dream.  He didn’t even know adults still had them.

Wiping himself with the far corner of the sheet, Gene rolled onto the clean side of the bed.  The side Paul usually slept on.  He would have to change the sheets; he couldn’t have Paul sleeping in cum-stained bedding.  But the faintest hint of his cologne lingered in the sheets and Gene didn’t want to lose that.  Breathing the scent in, he tried to recall the dream.   Already it was hazy.  Paul had been lying under him, and they had been rubbing against each other.

Gene pressed his hands to his eyes.  He had to get these thoughts out of his head.  It was never going to happen.  There was too much at risk.  If he made a wrong move, he could lose his best friend and break up his band.  Gene knew what advice Paul would give him.  He was always more cautious than Gene.  On their hitchhiking trip, they had stayed with some girls.  Gene had wanted to make a move on one of them, but Paul had told him not to, that she might not like it and they would get kicked out in the middle of the night.  Gene had approached her anyway, and got some sweet, sweet loving out of it. 

Was that the problem?  At the age of 23 had he already slept with too many women and was bored with them?  Was that why he suddenly needed a man in his bed?  Gene briefly thought about going to one of the gay bars, trying to pick someone up there.  But that thought didn’t turn him on.  He didn’t want some random man.  He wanted Paul.

Longingly, yearningly he hugged the pillow, wishing for someone he couldn’t have.  And into the night he painfully called his name.

“Paul.”

 Across the river Paul was unable to sleep.  He lay in a tangle of sheets and blankets, untucked and twisted from his tossing and turning.  Curled up on his side with one hand tucked under his pillow, he stared into the darkness absentmindedly plucking at the strings on his guitar which was leaning against his bed.  In frustration he sighed to himself.  Why had he let the others see those drawings.  He hated being teased, especially in front of Gene.

Gene.

It was all so confusing.  He’d been stared at all his life because he was a freak, so of course it was flattering that people were now looking at him because they found him attractive.  Even when men looked, although he did find that a bit intimidating.  But, despite what Ace and Peter liked to think, he wasn’t attracted to men.

Except one.

Paul had never really had friends before, a side effect of his birth defect, shot-to-pieces self-esteem, crippling shyness, social anxiety and just being too different for the world he had grown up in.  So he didn’t know, was it normal to think about your best friend in the way that he had been thinking about Gene lately.

How had it even started?  It wasn’t like he looked at Gene, thought Fuck, he’s hot, and fallen in love.  He hadn’t even liked Gene when they first met.  Gene was loud, obnoxious and thought he was the most important person in the world.  He reminded Paul of the popular kids at school who laughed at him.  But Gene was also the first person Paul had met who was as committed to a career in music as he was, so Paul had reluctantly swallowed his pride and joined Gene’s band. 

And over the next year or so something changed.  Paul found that instead of rolling his eyes when Gene cracked a joke, he laughed.  He even started to feel a sense of excitement when he knew he would be seeing Gene.  Gene hadn’t changed.  He was still loud, obnoxious and thought he was the most important person in the world.  It just didn’t bother Paul as much.

The current feelings had been even more gradual.  Paul found he was craving Gene’s attention, so much so that he would deliberately do things to annoy Gene.  A frown in his direction or a low warning growl of Stanley, was preferable to being ignored.  But the best moments were when Gene smiled at him, or complimented his playing, or, rarely, hugged him.   Although Gene wasn’t a hugger, he had hugged Paul a couple of times, if Paul was especially upset about something, or if they got overly excited.  He longed for Gene to touch him.  Even a little hug about the shoulders made him happy.

By the time Paul realized that he was in love with his best friend, he also realized that he had been for a while. 

He didn’t even know what the initial attraction was.  He had gone over it in his head so many times, and the only thing he could come up with was that he loved the way Gene made him feel.  Special.  Worthy.  Important.  Gene listened when he talked and didn’t laugh at him and even when he didn’t understand, like when Paul was in one of his moods, he tried to understand.  Gene was the only person Paul had ever felt completely accepted by.

Although he wasn’t a virgin, the reason the other guys hadn’t seen him with a girl was because he had never had a girlfriend.  One night stands and brief flings and convenient hookups were easy.  But, although Paul loved the idea of being in a relationship, the communication required sent him into a panic attack.  Was that why he was attracted to Gene?  Paul would still shut down if the conversation got too personal, but he found it easier to talk to Gene than anyone else.

These feelings had freaked him out.  He had never felt that way about another man before.  He tried to make sense of them.  It must be that he was so unused to being treated with simple decency and kindness that he mistook it for something more.  Gene wasn’t even that good looking.  So Paul started looking harder at his friend, trying to convince himself that the attraction was not there.

It didn’t work.  The opposite happened.  The more he looked at Gene, the more attractive he found him.  He saw what he hadn’t seen before.  Gene’s lips were much fuller than his, Paul had to pout to get the fullness he wanted.  He had a nice shape to his face, incredibly long eyelashes, and a beautiful smile.  Cheeky, yet kind, with an endearing way of scrunching up his nose.  His eyes were smouldering and intense, Paul had spent many hours in front of the mirror trying to get that same look, but he only succeeded in looking haunted, like he had a tragic backstory.  Which he did, but he didn’t want people knowing that.  It wasn’t romantic, like a hero from a book or movie, just sad.

Paul’s only complaint about Gene was that he was taller than him.  Two and a half years older and two and a half inches taller, Paul had thought when they first met.  And he was never going to catch up.  He was never going to be what Gene wanted.