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The hinges of the wooden door groaned as it opened and then shut. "Quiet day," Gene thought, stepping into the rehearsal room.
"Geno!" A familiar voice sliced through the air.
The quiet lasted less than a second—a new record. Gene took a deep breath and turned around. "Hey, Pete."
Thumping footsteps approached with a rhythmic beat. "Would you believe it? Our mugs are on the cover of some gay mag!"
Gene unhurriedly took one of the magazines. "I have eyes, Peter," he drawled, weighing each word. "I see it."
Peter yanked himself up onto the bassist's shoulder, practically levitating off his heels. "And... what the hell?" He craned his neck, jabbing a finger viciously at his own kitty-cat face on the cover. "My makeup looks nothing like this!"
The drummer's booming voice was like a string of firecrackers tossed into a metal bucket. Gene tilted his head slightly, wiggling his pinky in his buzzing ear to dispel the annoying aftershock. "Maybe they think you're a type, Pete."
"Oh, shut up, and stop callin' me 'Pete'!" Peter's heels hit the floor as he complained.
"I don't see why you're makin' such a fuss." Gene snapped the magazine shut, flipping it over to glance at the price—he couldn't help thinking, Is that all our faces are worth? The thought almost made him share Peter's sense of insult. "Hmm..." He shoved the magazine back into Peter's arms. "Tell me, Peter, didn't you have a blast playin' those silly games with Ace?" The drummer rolled his eyes and flung his arm up, sending the magazine slapping to the floor, pages scattering.
"That's completely different!"
Gene turned to look at Peter. Hands on his hips, eyebrows practically at his hairline, his expression screamed, Are you serious?
"Don't look at me like that!"
Gene stifled a laugh, shook his head, and cleared his throat. "Y'know..." He abandoned the direct approach, not wanting their drummer to explode—mostly to avoid catching shrapnel himself. "I hear some folks dig your... type, Peter."
"Me? My type? Whaddya mean?" Peter frowned, muttering. "The Catman thing means 'You mess with me, I scratch your eyes out'... I don't get it."
"Let's just... take this one thing at a time..." Gene gestured for Peter to calm down. Usually, he had no patience for Peter's ramblings. Explaining things to him was tough, especially when he was emotional, and Peter was always emotional. "I mean, some people like animals, might have a... y'know, a thing for them—" But today, for some reason, maybe he was in a good mood, Gene had the patience to "bestow" a few pearls of wisdom.
Peter cut in sharply, "What kinda sicko gets a hard-on for an animal?!"
"We never know, Peter. We just never know." A smirk tugged at Gene's lips.
The drummer fell silent.
...
"Goddamn bastards..." The little drama ended with Peter stomping a few times on the magazine cover. A final, petulant kick sent it skittering under the couch.
The bassist couldn't help but laugh out loud, quickly earning a punch to the chest from the drummer, accompanied by a curse of "You piece'a shit!" Gene coughed, clutching his chest, but his laughter didn't let up.
--
Later that same day, Gene returned alone to the hotel. He stopped downstairs to call his mother. Hanging up the receiver, his gaze swept over the newsstand by the payphone and locked onto a stack of unsold magazines in the corner—the familiar cover, four familiar faces.
Hands in his pockets, he ambled over. A grin spread across his face as he looked at the cat face on the cover. Yeah, the image did make Peter look... cuter. If you thought about it, his and Peter's makeup were the most complex of the band's. Especially the Catman. It had defined features, sketching out a vivid face that seemed to grow Peter right onto the mask. Black whiskers and lines under the eyes framed his cheekbones, a silver nose-tip lit up the features, and that slash of red lipstick held a hint of simple sinfulness...
"Want one?" The newsstand vendor hesitantly picked one up and thrust it towards Gene's nose. His eyes darted over Gene's long hair, red scarf, and heeled boots, lips pressed tight as he swallowed whatever comment he wanted to make.
"No, thank you," Gene declined politely, turning towards the hotel. He suddenly felt hungry, craving something sweet. Maybe Peter would have what he needed...
His steps paused for a second.
...He meant, Peter might have some candy or cookies. Lydia was always stuffing them into every corner of his suitcase.
With that thought, Gene's legs started moving again.
He unlocked the door to find the room empty. Gene called Peter's name into the air a few times, eyes scanning around. He cautiously pushed open the bathroom door sideways—not there. He crouched and yanked up the bedskirt—not there either... Huh. Only then could Gene confirm Peter really wasn't in the room. Though he wouldn't admit it, the bassist was actually pretty easy to spook. He looked at the empty bed beside him, plopped down onto his own, and found himself almost wishing Peter would jump out from some corner like usual and scare the hell out of him. Gene tugged at his collar, unwound the long red scarf from his neck, and tossed it aside, feeling an unexplained irritation. He forced himself to lie down, closing his eyes to rest for a while.
Not long after, the lock rattled. Peter's shaggy head appeared. He was still wearing the dark blue vest and unbuttoned polo shirt from the morning, his drum key and cross necklace hanging on his chest. Spotting Gene lying on the bed, he immediately recoiled. His hand flew up dramatically to cover his eyes, like he'd seen something filthy. "Oh, shit! You gettin' 'business' done?"
Gene shook his head as he sat up. "No, Peter, I didn't bring a girl back."
"Oh." Peter lowered his hand with a sigh of relief and walked in. He was wearing his favorite pair of tight, dark and light blue denim patchwork jeans—maybe a little too tight. "Pretty rare, findin' you here all alone." He flopped casually onto his own bed, using his feet to push the heels off his sky-blue sneakers, which landed on the carpet.
"Mm, kinda hungry. You got a Snickers?" Gene's gaze returned to the drummer just as Peter grabbed a pillow and hugged it to his chest.
The pillow flew back onto the bed. "Lemme look." Peter scrambled off the bed and started rummaging through his luggage. "Uh... no. I mean, nah. She didn't pack me any Snickers this time."
Just as the drummer was sneakily tucking a chocolate bar into his crotch, Gene caught the movement. "Oh yeah? What's that in your pants then?"
"Oh this？My dick." Peter shot upright, trying for a casual tone. "Wanna meet The Spoiler?" He deliberately straightened up, puffing his chest out, hands on his hips. The Snickers bar tented the front of his jeans at a ridiculous angle pointed towards Gene.
Peter pulled stunts like this sometimes—streaking around the makeup room naked and draping his dick over people's shoulders to mess with them. Gene was his favorite target. Every time Peter put The Spoiler on Gene's shoulder, he'd just get a horrified yell to take it away. But given their Demon insisted on changing clothes in the bathroom alone, like his body was some sacred relic not meant for mortal eyes... it kinda made sense...
As usual, nothing seems to have changed. Gene just stared blatantly at their goofy drummer's crotch for a long moment, instantly understanding the plan.
"Yeah, I don't mind sayin' hello."
This made sense?
"What? Uh, you sure... you, no, you sure you want me to—"
"Yeah, Peter, let's meet," Gene cut him off swiftly, his gaze lifting to the smaller man's face with keen interest. "Y'know, maybe we can shake hands, grab some dinner or somethin'."
Peter cleared his throat, confusion plain as his search for clues failed. "No, I ain't lettin' you—" His socked feet stumbled, even taking a step back.
Gene seized the moment and stepped forward immediately. His height advantage became glaringly obvious. "Scared, Peter? What're you hesitatin' for?" He could hear the amusement in his own voice. Things were going a little off-script. Gene took another step closer, unsure why he was doing this, now well inside anyone's personal space bubble.
"Hey, back off! You sick bastard, too... close!" Clearly, Gene had pushed their volatile drummer too far. Peter shoved defensively at his chest, trying to make Gene step back.
"I just want the Snickers, Peter. I saw what you did."
Honestly, from this angle, Peter looked even smaller. It sparked a dark thought in the bassist. He could hear the drummer's muttered threats, but they sounded distant, muffled. Almost without thinking, he grabbed Peter by the hips and shoved him against the wall near the window.
Peter slammed into the cool, hard surface with a gasp. "The fuck—?!" His eyes went wide, heart leaping into his throat.
...
In bed, groupies sometimes asked for rough sex. Gene usually brushed it off. He'd tried it once, way back in the early days. The woman grabbed her shoes and ran before she'd even gotten her work clothes back on. People thought they knew things when they saw the four of them on stage, faces painted, heads banging. Girls slipped backstage, into the dressing rooms... they came for the Demon on stage. Every time Gene cupped their chins, looking at those different faces, different races, different expressions... they didn't know. They didn't know who Gene was. He could never let go like this. Without the makeup, no one absolved him. Even the guys closest to him—his bandmates—were either too sensitive to hurt or too drunk to take seriously...
Until his center of gravity lurched forward violently, a strength possess wrenching at his collar: "Let go, asshole, or I'll put a bullet in your belly..."Peter's eyes burned with fury, teeth clenched as he ground out the words.
This.
"Gimme what I want, and I'll let you go," Gene said, his throat working.
Peter glared into his eyes for a long moment before finally releasing his collar. Huffily, he undid his belt, fished the Snickers bar out of his pants, and shoved it into Gene's hand. "Take it! Christ, all this for a goddamn candy bar? "
Gene's palms were sweaty, and he relaxed a little.
Drummer strode off and climbed back onto his bed, putting distance between them again. "You really are addiction', Gene, y'know that? It's funny that I'm the one saying this!" Strangely enough, yet very Peter, his anger flared hot but burned out fast—within moments, he wasn't pissed off anymore.
But y'know what Gene was thinkin'? He looked down at the Snickers bar, thumb rubbing the wrapper. It radiated a weird warmth. Funny thing was, he'd only meant to tease Peter at first. Now though? He was seriously considering taking a bite outta that chocolate bar—even though he knew damn well he shouldn't.