Work Text:
Outside Casablanca Records, 1973
"Gene."
Paul's footsteps halted. A nervous hum escaped him.
"What?" Gene turned, brow raised, finally noticing the blue denim berret perched on Paul's head—a look toeing the line between hippie chic and Village queer.
"Nothing… Just… Maybe I'm being paranoid—"
The kid's shrug was all jittery angles. Classic Paul. Like nobody ever taught him how to unclench. Gene bit back the urge to say relax, for the love of god. Instead: "Spit it out, Paul. You've got somethin' rattlin' in that skull."
"D'you think… KISS'll make it?" Paul tried to laugh it off, but the words hung heavy. Anxiety bled through like a busted dam.
"Why?" Gene fully pivoted, hands planted on his hips.
"Forget it. Stupid question." Paul sighed. A breeze ruffled his hair, and he flinched, slapping a hand to his cheek like the mild wind bit colder than winter.
Gene knew Paul was hiding shit. But he'd play along. "It'll work. Guaranteed."
Paul's head snapped up. "Guaranteed? Remember Wicked Lester?" His frown said nice try.
"Paul—PAUL. forget Wicked Lester for a second. Tell me - do you trust me?" Gene slung an arm over his shorter bandmate's shoulders. Paul felt bonier than last week. Childhood demons still gnawing at him, no doubt.
"I… guess?" Paul side-eyed him, doe eyes widening.
Guess? Gene's jaw twitched. He bulldozed past it. "Then if I say KISS'll make it, it'll happen. Simple as that."
"Bull. Shit." Paul twisted free of the grip, crossing his arms. "Sometimes I swear you're certifiable."
Gene grinned. The pout in Paul's voice meant it was working. "And you teamed up with a lunatic. Makes you crazier than me."
"Shut up."
"Face it—two more nutjobs are waiting in that studio right now. We're all in this circus."
"No we're not, Gene."
"Yes we are, Paul."
Paul's arms dropped. Defeat.
Gene pressed harder. "Know what I do when doubt creeps in?" Paul's stubbornness wasn't a flaw—it was fuel. The kid'd claw his way to the top or die trying.
"You don't get doubt."
"Sometimes I do."
"Please. Your mom'd smother it with a hug. 'My Gene's the best! My precious boy!'" Paul mimicked Gene's mother's thick Hungarian accent."She'd frame your ego in gold if she could."
"Hey—" Gene blinked, thrown. "Ma's like that with everyone. Heart of gold, that woman."
"Your mom called me a 'bum,' Gene."
"C'mon, she adores you."
"Real sweet how she shows it." Paul's smirk was brittle.
"Parents baby their own, It's common." Gene's grin softened, rare and genuine. He reeled Paul back into a half-hug, rocking them like idiots on a playground. "Bet yours do the same."
Maybe. Not that Gene'd know. He'd met Paul's folks twice. Paul'd survived three dozen dinners with Mrs. Klein's backhanded "compliments".
"They won't, Gene. They'll just tell me what a stupid decision it was to drop out of college." The sarcasm and sensitivity vanished instantly, leaving only a faint sense of loss. "Someone like me could never be a rock star." Paul turned slightly away, hiding his expression from Gene.
"Sorry."
Paul hadn't talked to him about this before, but that was just Paul—always holding too much back. It had never been an issue in their relationship over the past few years. Gene didn't care; they weren't married, didn't owe each other their deepest secrets. Gene figured their shared goals were enough.
"You're not really sorry, Gene. I've known you long enough." Paul still refused to turn around. His voice was thick and muffled, his nose stuffy.
But clearly, that wasn't enough now. Paul wasn't like Gene's past partners. None of Gene's old experiences applied to him.
"I…"
Paul's sullen voice cut in again. "See? You hesitated."
Paul was absolutely unlike anyone else. Gene silently reached out, grabbing Paul's arm to turn him, hesitating whether to pull him into a hug. "Listen, Paul. Okay… I didn't expect any of this, but I am sorry." He took a step closer, tension easing slightly when he saw no tear tracks on Paul's face. "I didn't know… Is this what you've been afraid of all along? You're running from your fear? That's your motivation?"
"Not entirely. Part of me really wants success… and another part… another part is afraid they might be right." Paul swallowed hard.
"No, Paul, they're wrong." Gene tried to make his voice soft yet firm. He was definitely lacking experience in this area, but he could make it up. It wasn't too late. Everything just needed the lead singer to give him a chance.
Paul's hand tightened on his own arm, knuckles as white as his face. "If this doesn't work, Gene…" His voice suddenly broke, trembling and choked, making the bassist's heart sink even as Paul fought to control it. "If KISS doesn't make it… I can't go back. Can't afford any more failure. I'd die."
Gene was stunned. Where did that extreme thought come from?
"You never…" Gene started, his voice dry. His tongue suddenly felt too long for his mouth. "You're hiding something, Paul. But you… you know you can depend on me. So…"
"So what? Don't wanna sound like a pussy with all that mushy stuff, Gene?" Paul rubbed the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, letting out a dissatisfied snort.
"Me? No, no, no. This isn't about me. Don't change the subject."
Yes, Paul wasn't the only one holding back. But Gene refused to talk about that. He'd rather deal with Paul's bad moods—that was simpler. Talking about himself was a whole different story. Too messy. It'd slow down his decision-making, clog his brain.
Time was money, and Gene liked to focus on the present. What he needed most right now was money. He really needed to speed up this fame thing. Of course, with Paul.
"You can depend on me, Paul. You know that." Gene's heart pounded. He desperately framed it as a business proposition.
Gene felt nervous, awkward, and… yearning. What if Paul refused the offer? His desire felt like a net tightening around his heart. He craved that pass into the singer's inner world, craved to see those stars shining in his big, downturned eyes again. Gene had seen it before. He wanted to see it again, would do anything for it…
But that was just a poetic way of thinking. The core intention was still the band's future. Gene wasn't mixing in any personal feelings. At least, that's what he told himself.
Paul couldn't help but laugh at the bassist's forced composure. The dark clouds in his heart were starting to lift. "Alright. I promise I'll try to toughen up."
"Huh?"
"I can't do it now… but someday, maybe you'll need to depend on me too." Paul met Gene's gaze. A familiar spark flashed in his eyes.
…
"Aha! See, you're the pussy one!" Gene yelled, as if that could blast all his earlier tangled thoughts into oblivion.
"Got it. You're allergic to romance." Paul rolled his eyes dramatically, just so Gene would see. "Can't imagine what women see in you."
"Oh, you wouldn't understand~" Gene grinned, flicking his famously long tongue suggestively.
"I wasn't talking about sex." Paul scoffed, then gave up and took a few steps toward the door, his high-heeled boots clicking sharply on the floor. "Are we going in now? I really hate being late."
"Yeah, yeah." Gene agreed quickly, hurrying to catch up. He started wondering again: Had he and Paul just exchanged a promise? The more he thought about it, the more confused he got. Gene touched his chest over his heart. He was pretty sure he was coming down with some unnamed heart disease.