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Night. Gene's arms felt like lead weights. All he wanted was for pushing open his front door to be the last thing he had to do today. No band, no bar gigs, no students... not even a woman. Bed. That was Gene's only demand right now.
Ah, home. As warm and wonderful as ever. Warm? Had he left the damn heat on this morning? The temperature in the air wasn't an illusion—someone had broken into his house.
"Hiya, Gene!" The culprit sat on his living room couch, turning to wave enthusiastically.
Gene would know that voice anywhere, even on his deathbed.
"You broke into my house, Ace." Gene's voice was flat, simply stating the obvious fact. He didn't have the energy to muster anger at the spaceman's uninvited presence.
"I wrote a song, Genie. You gotta hear it, man... I want you to be the first!" Ace completely ignored the meaning behind Gene's words. He was an alien who just didn't get Earth etiquette.
"Not now, Ace." Gene rolled his eyes. God, his eyelids were twitching with exhaustion. His brain slowly churned to life: Ace wanted him to be the first listener? Not Paul or Peter or someone? That was unusual. Too bad Gene didn't have the strength to dwell on it. He was determined to ignore Ace and head straight upstairs to bed.
The stairs to the second floor were steep, but to Gene, they looked beautiful—his warm bed was calling him. Until Ace blocked his path, a look of confusion mixing with the drunken haze on his face. "Gene? Buddy, you hear me talkin'?"
Ace being drunk wasn't exactly news—he was a boozehound, and Gene was long past surprise. But him being drunk in Gene's house was different. Gene wouldn't stand for it. "What the hell... is this? Ace, you broke into my place and got yourself plastered?" A roar erupted from Gene's chest, startling even himself. Ace clearly jumped too.
"Hey! What's my problem? It ain't like your house is holy ground or somethin'..." Ace flinched backward, protesting weakly. "I worked real hard today... I'm just wiped, needed a little comfort."
Gene's gaze landed on the dark stain soaking Ace's shirt collar. He smelled of tobacco, cheap booze, and some weird, pungent spice—probably just dropped off some Middle Eastern fare in his cab.
"Fine. You got your comfort. I need mine." Gene looked away. The last thing he wanted right now was to deal with his guitarist's problems. He didn't have time for Ace's cab adventures today, nor the energy to play moral judge. "Now move. I need my bed..." The lure of sleep was so strong Gene was almost willing to let Ace keep drinking in his living room.
"Nuh-uh, no you don't... Please, please, Genie... You gotta hear this..." Ace's skinny arms wrapped around one of Gene's legs like a vice, and he plopped down onto the floor like a petulant child.
Anger simmered in Gene's chest. He briefly considered the logistics of finding a new lead guitarist.
"I'll make coffee, Genie! Please... For me? For KISS? You can stay awake, just for a little bit... I promise, soon as it's done, you can crash... Genie, Genie..." Ace mumbled Gene's name into his pant leg, head resting against his thigh, fingers clutching the fabric tightly.
…
"If this song doesn't blow my goddamn mind, I'm kicking your ass from here to next Tuesday. You hear me, Frehley?"
Gene wasn't really asking. Because a surprised yelp escaped Ace as Gene grabbed his arm and hauled him roughly off the floor. The skinny lead guitarist was lifted like a sack of feathers by the taller bassist and unceremoniously dumped onto the couch.
"Coffee…"
"Forget it. After the last fire incident, you're permanently banned from the kitchen." Gene's mouth twisted into a grimace at the memory. He decided to handle the coffee himself. Without hesitation, he scooped twice the usual amount of grounds into the pot.
"I swear it's worth it!" Ace's soft face flushed even pinker, amber eyes sparkling with excitement.
Gene finished the task and looked up just in time to see Ace scrambling off the couch. He dropped to his knees on the floor, jutting his skinny ass in the air as he fumbled with his guitar case. Wait... did Ace drive his cab with his guitar? No, impossible. Where would he even put it? Would he explain to every fare that the cab was technically over capacity because he was a damn rockstar and his dreams took up the back seat? People would think he was nuts. Which Ace wasn't... exactly. Though he came damn close.
"So… you brought your gear on shift?"
"Ack! Me? Hell no… Genie, you losin' it? People'd think I was crazy…"
For some reason, Gene felt relieved hearing the denial.
A moment later, Gene returned with two steaming mugs of coffee and set them down. "Ready?" He wasn't entirely sure Ace could manage his gear properly in his current state.
"All systems go, Curly~" Ace, who'd dragged over a barstool at some point, gave Gene a thumbs-up from his perch, guitar cradled in his arms.
Gene nodded, gesturing for Ace to begin.
Then Ace bent his head and started playing. Gene, mug halfway to his lips, froze. Because the bassist distinctly heard Ace start to sing along with the melody:
My heat is broke and I'm so tiredI need some fuel to build a fireThe girl next door, her lights are out, yeahThe landlord's gone, and I'm done and outOoh, it's cold gin time againYou know it'll always winThat keeps us together...
As the last note faded, Ace set his guitar down and flopped onto the couch beside Gene. "So?" he asked, eyes wide with anticipation.
Gene took a deliberate sip of coffee, studying Ace. "Let me get this straight… You worked all day, came home dead tired, found your heat was busted, your landlord was gone, and even the cute girl next door was out. Couldn't stand being there, so you grabbed your axe, ran out, bought a cheap bottle of gin at the corner store, and somehow your genius brain decided the solution was to break into my place, turn on my heat, and get shitfaced on my couch."
"You… you're a damn mind reader, Geno! Spot on!" Ace's mouth formed a perfect ‘O' of surprise, and he clapped his hands together erratically.
"You idiot, I didn't need to read your mind! You wrote it all down in your damn lyrics!" Gene pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Oh yeah? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!" Ace's wild, cackling laughter assaulted Gene's eardrums and nerves. Just as Gene was about to snap, he felt a weight slump against his shoulder. He turned his head to see Ace's head resting there. "So… what'd ya think? You like it, Curly~" Gene thought Ace winked, or maybe he was having a stroke—the right side of his face spasmed violently.
"Which part? Breaking into my house and getting hammered? Hate it. The song? Love it."
"HAHAHAHAHA! Cat says you got no sense of humor… shit, I can't… my stomach…" Ace shook with laughter, collapsing against Gene, half his weight pressing onto him.
Gene had never met anyone quite like Ace. Nobody was that weird. His very entrance into their world had been bizarre. He'd barged into the audition, plugged in his guitar like the guy before him didn't exist, and just started wailing. He had this face that looked like a mix of European and Asian, wore one red sneaker and one orange one, and spoke with a thick Bronx drawl: "Name's Paul Frehley, my friends call me Ace. I'm from the Bronx, New York, but really, I'm an alien from the planet Jendell… but hey, who's gonna believe that? HAHAHAHA…" Even now, Gene couldn't figure out his logic, how that weird alien brain of his operated.
"Somethin' on my face…?" Ace met Gene's stare for a long moment before rubbing his own cheek suspiciously.
Gene grabbed Ace's wrist, pulling the alien's hand away from his face. "I don't get it. Why me for the song first?" He felt like an overprotective parent worried his kid would scratch himself.
"Ah~ 'Cause I wanna give it to you to sing! So I needed to know if you liked it… Good thing you did, or I'da flushed it down the crapper! HAHAHA…" Ace's palm was sweaty.
"I don't get it. Why me? You wrote it, you could sing it yourself."
"Me? Nah… I sound like shit. Like a goddamn pubescent kid…" Ace sat up straighter, pulling his hand free. A bottle of gin seemed to magically appear in his left hand. "Aw, hell, it wouldn't work. Too weird…" He took a swig.
Gene watched Ace closely, catching a crack in his usual lazy, devil-may-care facade. "So what? Paul screams like a high school girl half the time, Peter sounds like he started smoking at eight years old… Me? I dunno. Sometimes I think I sound like the Cookie Monster." Gene didn't call him out directly, deciding to tuck that vulnerable moment away.
"...HAHAHA! You win! Can't argue with any of that!"
Compared to that flicker of insecurity, Gene admitted he preferred Ace's laughter. "So if we can all sing, so can you, Ace. It's no different." Gene took another sip of coffee, his voice coaxing.
Ace let out a short bark of laughter and nudged Gene. "Oh… thanks, Geno… That's… real nice of ya. Maybe… someday." He slid back into his usual persona, slumping comfortably against the couch cushions.
"Good. Song problem solved. Time for the next topic." Gene set his mug down and rubbed his chin.
"Mmm… yeah? What's next?" Ace yawned, looking suddenly drained.
"You owe me for the heating bill."
"Ouch, Geno. That's cold."
"Don't worry. I'll send you the bill."
"......"
--
"That's it?" Paul shifted his weight, the arm propping his head starting to ache.
"That's it. You heard the whole story." Gene looked in the mirror and applied black paint around his eyes.
"But why did he play it for you? I still don't get it." Paul pouted slightly, sounding like Gene had deliberately stolen Ace away.
"Singing a drunk song to the guy who doesn't drink? What's funnier than that?" Peter snorted, turning away from his own mirror to join the conversation.
"Hmm…" Peter's comment seemed to sway Paul, who chewed on it thoughtfully.
Gene shot Peter a grateful look. Peter nodded back in understanding. Gene glanced at the clock on the wall. "Speaking of Ace… We go on in ten. Anyone seen him?"
Paul pursed his lips, eyes wide with faux innocence. Peter just shrugged.
"I'm gonna kill him." Gene's vision darkened. He clenched his fist in the air.
THUD! The dressing room door burst open. A figure with a guitar slung over his back, a duffel bag across his chest, and a giant McDonald's paper bag over his head stumbled in, shouting, "Hey-hey-hey! Space Ace reporting for duty! Hope I ain't late!" Two holes were torn in the bag, revealing bright, mischievous eyes.
"You just saved your own ass, Ace." Gene stood, straightening his costume, and impatiently waved Ace towards the mirrors. "Now get that stupid thing off your head and get your makeup on. You got ten minutes."
"Actually, I just need to change my boots." Ace whipped the bag off. His real face was revealed, the silver star-shaped makeup around his eyes gleaming, black lipstick perfectly intact on his full lips.
With the band's most unpredictable element accounted for, Gene relaxed a fraction.
Ace wasted no time, frantically pulling thigh-high platform boots out of his duffel bag. Getting his long legs into them wasn't the problem; zipping them up was another story. Paul and Peter had already headed for the stage, leaving only Gene still in the room.
"Genie? Little help?" Ace called out.
Gene moved without thinking, quickly zipping up the stubborn fasteners on each side of the boots. He then hooked his hands under Ace's arms and hauled him upright. The platforms put Ace almost eye-to-eye with Gene. Gene looked up and found Ace already looking back at him.
As they held eye contact, a thought seemed to strike Ace. A grin spread across his face. He grabbed Gene's arm, leaned in close, and whispered the idea directly into the bassist's ear. Then, leaving Gene momentarily stunned, Ace breezed past him like nothing happened, heading for the stage.
"I think when we do 'Cold Gin'… you should lick my neck."
Gene's brain short-circuited.