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ohblackdiamond · 8 months ago

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bite the hand that bleeds (ace/paul, pg-13)

Summary: Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again.

Paul gets an unexpected art collector at a gallery show, and ends up entertaining his old bandmate for tea.

Notes: Part of a fic swap with @elrohare (prompt: afternoon tea). Please check out her lovely Whenever You're Ready (I'm Here) for a beautiful take on the same setting.

“Come now, gentlemen Your love is all I crave You'll still be in the circus When I'm laughing, laughing in my grave” -“Memo from Turner,” Mick Jagger

Forty meet and greets, that’s the evening’s agenda, with room for maybe five or six impulse buyers at the tail end. Christian, Wentworth’s president, sends him a hard copy the morning of, with notes, though he usually only glances over it. He only really keeps an eye out for the special requests, so he can remember they’re coming up– maybe someone with cancer, or a whole family wanting a picture with him, or a video message to a kid barely out of basic training and stationed overseas– but the bulk, the very bulk of the meet and greets are simple, easy to handle. A couple signatures, a couple pictures, and a smile, and they’re mostly on their way. It takes so little to make them happy, so little. The kids never really changed– they just went from piggybanks to 401ks.

Forty meet and greets. He likes doing these much better than the ones for KISS. He likes not sharing attention with Gene. Most especially, even now, he likes the girls, not for anything carnal, but just that small, secret pleasure of still being wanted at the tender age of seventy-two.

He scans through the list, though he never remembers the names, just some of the faces. The names give their age away anyway, Generation X’s finest crop of Lisas and Erics and– hm, a Paul, too. A Paul Daniel.

It’s just coincidence. He sets his agenda down on his hotel bedside table and tries to think no more about it. He’s got four hours to kill before he needs to get down there, anyway. Maybe he’ll order something on his phone. He taps the screen, checking his messages first. One from Erin he’ll answer later. One from Gene from about a week ago he still has no intention of answering. The phone vibrates in his hand as he’s just about to set it aside– a call, not a text. Christian.

“Hello?”

“I hate to bother you, Paul, but it’s about the event,” Christian says. He sounds a little scattered. Paul resists the urge to snap back at him– of course it’s about the event– letting him go on. Sometimes it’s hard to summon up the energy to respond much. Sometimes, even four months out from his last show, it still hurts to talk. “One of the people on the guest list.”

“If you’re thinking there’ll be some trouble, then you can handle it.”

“It’s not the usual trouble.” After ten or more years of this, Christian ought to know the usual trouble well enough by now. The stalker types, the seriously unhinged ones that believe that buying a painting entitles them to his true friendship, or more. The expectant ones, the oversharing, desperate ones, the nuts that have to be escorted out. Usually the high price of admission keeps them away, and usually, Paul doesn’t get told they even tried to make an appearance. He has people for that. He should have people for that. “All I can say is that I’m sorry. We had one of our new consultants– she just started two weeks ago, and she– well, you know how it is, she’s only twenty-four, she had no idea–”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you had a buyer you may not want.”

“Please don’t tell me Eddie Trunk got his fat ass over to D.C.”

Christian actually manages a snort, but the next words make the breath catch in Paul’s throat.

“No. It’s Ace Frehley.”

–

Paul tells Christian he’ll call him back when he ought to tell him to issue Ace a refund.

He hasn’t seen Ace in six years now. Oh, he’s seen Ace– in a parade of humiliating Tiktoks and Youtube shorts, slurring interviews, horrific concerts– but he hasn’t seen Ace. He’s heard from Ace– the occasional, completely unanswered text– but the last time he listened to him on the phone was months back. Ace’s Hail Mary, his final, desperate attempt to get let onstage for MSG. Ace had fumbled it. Ace fumbled everything.

Now all that doesn’t matter. KISS is over. The makeup sold. Paul won’t ever tour again. The big payout Ace had hoped for evaporated. All that Ace could possibly want, could possibly hope for, are the last scraps of Paul’s generosity. Paul’s mouth twitches as he thinks about it, and then he reaches for his phone again.

“Have you contacted him? When did this happen?”

“Not since the purchase. That was two days ago.”

“And no one checked until now? You had Ace Frehley buy a painting and nobody noticed for two days?”

“It was on his girlfriend’s credit card.”

“That’s fucking pathetic.” Cancel it. Refund it. That’s what he should be saying. “He does that shit to people. Uses them for whatever favors he can. Uses them all up.”

“What do you want us to do?”

Paul exhales.

If it was refunded, Ace would go to the press. Ace would tell every damn news website in the world that Paul Stanley wouldn’t sell him a painting. He’d get all sorts of publicity. The avatars had gotten bad press, not that Paul gave much of a shit anymore, but if Ace capped it all off, had someone else spin it just right… fuck. It could go so well for him. Ace could play it off like a spat-upon peace offering, and he, Paul, would come off like a bitter asshole, denying him not just the band, but five minutes of his time. He couldn’t win. He wouldn’t be able to win.

“Call him up. Tell him he’s not coming to the gallery.”

“All right.”

“But tell him he can meet me in an hour in Entyse.” Paul doesn’t even question if they’ll get him on the line. Or if Ace’ll show. “There won’t be any trouble.”

“Okay. Paul, again, all I can do is apologize–”

“What for? I was headed there anyway.”

He hangs up. His phone’s buzzing within ten minutes, texts, this time, and then a call, but he doesn’t so much as glance at the screen. He knows who they’re from.

–

Paul walks into Entyse without a reservation and gets seated immediately. It’s not much of a power play; there’s not been any satisfaction on his part in things like that for, oh, forty-five years now. Especially not when Entyse is just the Ritz Carlton’s restaurant, and he only had to head downstairs from his suite.

They offer him the menus, but all he takes is a Coke and a water. He’d half-expected Ace to get there before him, half-wanted to see him wandering in, all stupid bravado, looking around for the front of house, aware that he’d cheated himself out of every rockstar perk Paul’s going to have the rest of his life. But five minutes, then ten minutes pass. Paul’s just about to get up– he can feel a couple eyes on him at this point, wondering, probably, why he’s alone, with a solid half of them not knowing who he is, probably more– and then he sees Ace out of the corner of his eye, getting led to his table like a pensioner to his nursing home bed.

That’s not fair. It’s not, unfortunately, even true. Ace is walking about as well as he ever did, which isn’t well at all, struggling against his own instinct to pigeon-toe. He looks fine. He’s lost some weight over the last couple years. He’s in jeans, a black leather jacket, and a cheap Hello Kitty button-down. And sunglasses, which he yanks off as soon as he sits down, pushing them aside on the table.

“Hey, Paul,” he says.

“Hey.”

It’s not the start he wants. The waiter’s given Ace the drink menu– Ace flips it over immediately and hands it back– and goes into the lunch options, but Ace interrupts him.

“How about tea?”

“The afternoon tea, sir?”

Ace points over to the table across from theirs, where six or seven teenage girls in puffy pastel atrocities are giggling over some tiered tea trays.

“Yeah, what they’ve got.”

The waiter seems completely unruffled. Paul narrows his eyes, looking at Ace– specifically, he’s looking for Ace’s phone– but if he’s got it on him, it must be in his pocket. The waiter pulls out the afternoon tea menus.

“We have two options for tea. The afternoon tea, and the royal tea. Your selections of sandwiches and sweets are completely customizable. The royal tea does include a glass of rose wine and–”

“Paulie, he’s trying to upsell you,” Ace says with a snort.

“I don’t remember saying I would pay.”

“You invited me. And I did buy your painting. That’s how it works, right?” Ace turns to the waiter after a quick glance at the menu. “Gimme the afternoon tea. Uh. Darjeeling. Don’t gimme any of the cream puffs or mousse, all right? Just, uh, substitute in more of the scones.”

“And you, sir?”

Paul had been about to get a salad just to spite him, just to show how little time he wants to spend entertaining him here. Afternoon tea– God, it’s comical. Ridiculous. His youngest had that at her birthday party about three years ago. What the hell is Ace doing? What’s he trying to accomplish?

He doesn’t know.

“I’ll take the upsell. And jasmine tea. No substitutes on any of the stuff on the tray.”

The waiter nods, heading off at that brisk pace. Ace pushes his hair back behind his ear, and smiles.

“You got a good crowd coming?”

“Yeah. It’s a good crowd.”

“’S good. I used to sell my art, too.” Ace is so matter-of-fact that Paul can almost feel his own blood pressure start to rise. He can’t ever outright call out arch meanings with Ace, the way he can with Gene, for all he’s sure they’re there. Ace doesn’t have those tells that Gene does. “It was all on the computer. I used to really like to tinker with it. Now all you gotta do is click and put a filter on it.”

“Not very tactile.”

“Nah. I got settings on my– on my webcam now, for when I do interviews. Barely even gotta put on any makeup with how well that filters out all the imperfections.” Ace peers at him. “I could show you sometime. I guess now that KISS is done you–”

“Cut the crap, Ace, and tell me what you want.”

“Nothing.”

“Cut the crap.”

“What’d you get the upsell for, Paul? Since when do you gotta have a drink to deal with me?”

Paul doesn’t answer, just grabs his Coke and takes a long swig. He used to be able to do Gene this way. Silent treatment him for hours and hours. This last tour– the last tour– it had gotten unbearable for both of them. Each show another nail in the coffin, a relief as much as it was an agony. Another shaving down of whatever was left of their friendship.

He hadn’t even seen Gene since the last show. It hadn’t even occurred to him until just now.

Ace takes a couple sips of his water. He’s not looking at Paul. His gaze is towards those teenage girls.

“My fiancee’s got a girl about that age,” he says quietly. “She’s got a friend that dresses kinda like that, real frilly. She brought her over to the house once. Call themselves Lolitas or something. I don’t get it.”

“It’s Japanese.” Two words more than he’d meant to give him.

“Oh.” Ace nods, glancing briefly at his own shirt. “I’d like to get back over there someday. I dunno that I will.”

Probably not. Ace can’t afford to tour outside of the States. Paul tries to swallow his next comment, but he doesn’t manage.

“I’m not touring again, Ace.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not helping you tour.”

“I’m not asking for that, either.”

“Then what are you–”

The waiter reemerges, first with their teas and then, immediately afterward, with the trays, laden with tiny sandwiches and sweets. Ace’s grin only widens, and he immediately snatches the smoked salmon sandwich from his tea tray and sticks the entire thing in his mouth. One bite.

“Fuck, that was good. Are you still on the vegetarian bit? Can I have yours?”

“No. No, I’m not.” Paul takes his own salmon sandwich from his tray just to spite him, eating it more slowly. But three bites and it’s just as gone as Ace’s. Pretty good. It occurs to him, briefly, that Ace probably thinks Olive Garden is fine dining at this point in his life. It would be sad if he hadn’t done it to himself.

Ace moves onto the quiche. This one, he cuts up into raggedy thirds, stabbing each with his fork.

“Caramelized onions on top. Y’know, my manager, he’s something of a chef, but–”

“Tell me what you want, Ace.”

Ace pulls out his phone. Paul stiffens before he realizes Ace is just checking his texts.

“You never answered me. I didn’t think you would.” He lifts his eyes from the phone, setting it down on the table, face up. Ace’s got the font set as large as he can get it. Same as him. “What I want is company, Paulie. I want your company so damn bad I’ll pay you for it.”

“Like hell. You want an in.” The salmon feels like it’s about to come back up in his throat. “You want me to endorse you.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You want a photo with me. Maybe a soundbyte for Youtube.” Paul forces himself to exhale. “Your album barely sold. KISS is gone and you’re still out there in the clubs. So you want a little more buzz. Maybe I’d help you get ten more butts in the seats at those fucking dive bars you play–”

“I’m not at fucking dive bars.”

“When was the last time you sold out an arena? I’ll wait. No. I know.”

Ace’s mouth is pinched, face just a little flushed. He eats the pieces of his quiche in rapid succession, then starts savagely on the remaining sandwiches, just grabbing them off the tray and stuffing them in his mouth. Then he starts on the tea, taking a quick swallow without the cream and sugars Paul remembers him always adding in.

“Same as the last time you didn’t sound like shit.” He grabs the tongs, dropping in three sugars, then the cream, stirring them, eyes full on Paul’s face, daring him to get up, daring him to leave. “Gene told me what happened to you, back when we toured Australia together. I know all about that.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“You ruined yourself and then you blamed him with it. And he believes it, too. That’s the funny thing.” A swallow. “He was about in tears when he told me. Gene’s a snake, but he’s better than either of us. All he hasn’t sold off yet is his conscience.”

The tea trays never looked so comical. Silver tiers, pastel sweets, bright-colored sandwiches. He’s focusing on them because there’s nothing else to focus on. Only that Ace wants him to go. Ace wants him to go so that he can feel like he’s won. But Ace hasn’t won anything. His whole life he’s given up everything he ever had like a goddamn fool, then begged the whole world for their scraps. He can’t get front row. He can’t get the Ritz Carlton. He’s lucky he got fifteen minutes of Paul’s time.

“Gene’s a liar.”

“Not about that.” Another swallow of tea. Paul expects another sharp accusation, but Ace just swaps tactics like credit cards from a billfold. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Just like it doesn’t matter what I play like when I go out there. You… you and Gene took me to see James Brown, for my birthday that time. I remember seeing that old man out there, seeing them put all the capes on him, I thought, they should put him to bed, don’t put him out there, he’s a-a fucking dinosaur, now– but they did. ’Cause he didn’t know what else to do with himself. All he could do was sing all the old songs. Put on the capes. Be a joke.”

“You’re the only joke here.”

“We both are.” Ace keeps eating. Almost all the sandwiches are gone from his tray. He’s onto the scones. “I don’t want an in, Paul. I just want someone I can talk to.”

“Talk to Gene.”

“I can’t.”

“Talk to Peter.”

“He won’t.”

“Why me?”

Ace finishes off the scone. There’s a little butter smeared across his lip.

“You know why.”

It’s the music business. The music business. I don’t owe you friendship. I don’t owe you anything. Doc’s adage, the one he’s scrawled on one of his paintings, there in the gallery, burns somewhere in his heart: quality time remaining. Like he’s a bomb about to go off. Like someone’s subtracting his last breaths down. Quality time remaining and in just a couple hours, he’ll be spending that time doing those forty meet and greets for fans that want a moment and a picture and a couple autographs. Fans that only know him from the magazines and interviews and two hours at a time in a couple hundred concerts, but think of him like a brother, like a lover, like a demigod. Ace doesn’t know him, he wants to insist, but that’s a lie. Ace knew him when he was no one.

Ace knew him when the Hotel Diplomat was the best they could manage. When they hauled their gear in a milk truck. When the KISS t-shirts were iron-ons they cut out themselves. When Bill was signing them onto Casablanca. When every show was a rush of adrenaline, instead of a slog. When it didn’t hurt, when he could bounce back from anything, just anything–

(when)

Long skinny legs spread across a cheap yellow duvet. A girl’s head between them. The room assignments had swapped; Peter was rooming with his wife, and Ace, Ace was lying there, getting head from that girl as Paul stepped out from the shower.

(you want in on this, paul? and his finger crooked, beckoning lazily)

(and he did. and he did. that was the first sidle into something new, something filthy. he had taken the girl from behind while she sucked off ace, but it was only after she left that it really mattered. it was only after that that they’d fooled around together, feigning drunk after only three beers apiece.)

(you want in on this, paul?)

Those same legs in faded jeans, close to fifteen years later. No girl this time but the hotel might as well have been the same. Ace’s fortunes had declined even worse than KISS.’ And yet he’d had enough reason to spend the night with him, after the Limelight show, without a girl there for that edge of rockstar excess.

Another ten years. Another scattered handful of moments. Ace high on pills. Paul edging on the verge of divorce. The disgust had started to fester long before then, disgust and awareness. Ace was throwing it all away again, casual and careless. Ace wasn’t what he wanted, in or out of bed, and he never had been. He was still just some crude kid from the Bronx that played guitar better than him, that crashed cars, that drank himself to stupors, only then he was nearly fifty instead of twenty-five.

He couldn’t change. Just kept making the same mistakes. Just kept playing the same old chords, the same chords anyone could play. He’d proved that afterwards, hadn’t he? He’d proved that. The fans had taken Tommy for twenty years. Ace had never been special at all.

Paul tries to think that. Tries to assure himself of that. But looking Ace in the face stops him cold. There’s defeat there, sure. But there’s a spark in those dark, hooded eyes, too. There’s a spark that no stupid tea outing and no amount of barbs from him could ever manage to completely extinguish.

It’s a spark he remembers, and for the barest sliver of time, it’s just enough to almost make him look young.

“Maybe I’m better off trying them. Gene’s not so sore at me anymore.” Ace lifts a macaron from his tray. “He’s still the one paying his old band.”

“I know.”

“Peter’ll let it all go if I visit him.”

“He would.”

“It’s just you I wanted, that’s all.” Ace gets up, having to lean against the table in order to stand. He reaches for his Gucci purse, hooking it to his shoulder. “It’s always been you.”

“Ace–”

“Don’t let them get too weird with you at the event. Pretend you can’t hear ’em.” Ace’s words are only a little dry as he crunches the macaron, then reaches for the remaining scones, wrapping them in a napkin. Paul’s stomach starts to twist. All the fight seems out of him, all the acidity, all the hope. In tearing Paul up, he tore himself up, too. Mutually-assured destruction. “Your girl that sold me the painting, she said–”

“Which one did you buy?”

He says it suddenly, barely realizing it’s out of his mouth until Ace answers.

“What?”

“Which one?”

“The, uh, one of the abstracts.”

“Which one?”

“The blue and purple. Anyway, she said–”

“Sit down.”

“Paul–”

“Finish off the food. I will, too.”

“I’m not–”

(i want)

“You’re coming with me.”

“Paul, c’mon, I know you don’t wanna, not after–”

“I do.”

A couple of old men drinking tea in the Ritz Carlton. A couple of young men under the covers of a Motel Six. Age shattering vocals, crippling fingers. Bitterness seeping in from every raw deal and every undercut and every canceled show, a lifetime of old pains without a salve. And yet, as Ace sits back down, easing into his chair, reaching for the strawberry on top of the tea tray, Paul finds himself almost ready to let it all go.

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley #ace frehley #ace frehley x paul stanley #stehley

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ohblackdiamond · 4 years ago

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“you win again” fic tidbit (ace/paul, 1988) (pg-13)

I mentioned that this story was in the works awhile back. It’s about 40 percent there, I’d say. I stuck it under a cut because it’s a bit long. There’s a very obvious gap between the second and third parts that needs cleaning up, but the gist is there.

teaser: The truth is, his own distaste for the era makes it obvious he’s not a part of it. Paul can’t keep up with what’s in now, and that’s the surest sign he’s out. Thirty-six is too close to forty. Too old to play the game. He’s square. He’s fucking square.

“you win again”

by Ruriruri

No one knows the man he may become when he loses his self-respect. —Camille

There’s nothing to recommend the Cat Club. The big names don’t come here, just the has-beens. The security’s perfunctory. The parties laughable. But Paul comes anyway. Frequently. All the Cat Club asks out of him is a shave and a bit of halfassed charm, and all he gets in return is a drink and maybe a lay and the vaguest passing memory of the way things used to be.

Studio 54, the Ice Palace, all the old haunts are carcasses. Paul’s heard that the Limelight’s in now, their club owner some one-eyed, painfully straight Canadian, which is a sure sign the scene’s got to be dead in the water. Kids ten, fifteen years younger than him run the promotions. The shit that he remembers, aquariums underfoot at the discotheques, coke handed out at the door, orgies downstairs, all that’s gone. The big clubs get their pull from day-glo bright mascot characters and raunchy freakshows, pure excess that makes for a lousy bedfellow with AIDS and designer drugs. He doesn’t understand the appeal. He gets cynicism; he gets hedonism. But the nihilism he finds utterly repulsive.

The truth is, his own distaste for the era makes it obvious he’s not a part of it. Paul can’t keep up with what’s in now, and that’s the surest sign he’s out. Thirty-six is too close to forty. Too old to play the game. He’s square. He’s fucking square.

The lines on his face aren’t too bad. His cheekbones are maybe more prominent than they need to be. Paul’s watched Gene’s weight fluctuate over the years and hated the way it scared the hell out of him. They’d sworn to each other way back that they’d diet off at least twenty pounds apiece before they’d dare get a real band together. Paul’d kept that weight off, and more, but to Gene, it’s just become another mostly tossed aside tenet. The way he looks doesn’t matter to him. Maybe it shouldn’t anymore. He’s had Cher and Diana Ross and he has Shannon Tweed now. Great girls, all of them, better than the vapidly beautiful women Paul’s tried to make a go of it with. If Gene can attract all of them without giving a shit about his weight or his looks, maybe Paul ought not to care so much.

Except, as always, Gene’s looks just aren’t the appeal. Gene’s being in a band isn’t even exactly the appeal, no; Gene would probably still be stacking away entire albums of Polaroids if he were a senator or a school superintendent. Gene’s appeal is Gene. The total package. Confidence glimmering like grease on a burger.

Paul’s no total package of anything. Some assembly required. Batteries not included. His looks get him into beds, sometimes, and his personality gets him right back out of them before too long. Twenty-one years with Hilsen and there’s still nothing he can do about the latter, but he can at least try to preserve the former.

But what really bothers him about his mirror’s reflection isn’t the age imprinting itself on his face, or the three or four grays he plucks every month, or even the way his hair’s gradually gotten thinner, the curls more like frayed wires, brittle from years of dye and bleach and teasing. It’s the look in his eyes. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of something wholly desperate in them. And it’s not just in scattered, low moments on tour or in the privacy of his own bathroom. He’s caught that look playing back tapes of himself guest-VJing and interviewing on MTV. It’s the look of somebody—somebody scraping for relevance.

He’s ashamed of that. Ashamed because that look got in his eyes so fast, ashamed because he wasn’t able to savor those scant moments of being on top. He remembers thinking ten years ago, so cocky and self-assured, that the Stones were getting sloppy and long in the tooth, that maybe they needed to bow out before they got to be a bigger embarrassment onstage. They’d come out with Some Girls later that year, so what the hell did he know. What the hell did he know about anything.

There’s legends, real legends. Real greatness. There’s rockstars and then there’s rock gods. Chuck Berry. Muddy Waters. The Beatles, the Stones, fuck, even the Beach Boys with their obnoxious California sound created something eternal. KISS hasn’t. KISS won’t. KISS peaked at lunchboxes and pinball machines, and KISS descended—well, KISS is still descending. It’s just a matter of time before Gene lets the whole enterprise fold like a lawn chair.

Too close to forty, Paul takes a seat at an empty table and orders a Pepsi, and he tries to look for a girl the way a security guard might look for a shoplifter. His vantage point isn’t great. The crowd isn’t great. But maybe there’s someone he could waste his time with, someone that would humor him for an evening.

He hasn’t had that in longer than he wants to admit.

Oh, he’s with people. He’s with Samantha, but the age gap depresses the hell out of him. There’s always that tacit understanding between entertainers, anyhow, the knowledge that they’re both going to fool around on each other that goes almost unmentioned. Sometimes he wants to make a clean break of it, start something sincere, whether with her or some other girl, stripped away from the publicity rags, but then his own lonesomeness gets the better of him. Like right now. It’s just not enough to be wanted by one girl when he used to be wanted by thousands. It’s not enough to fill two-thirds of an auditorium when he’d once played Madison Square Garden.

It’s just empty.

He sees a tall, pretty blonde before too long, by herself and practically poured into a sparkling silver dress, hair wildly permed. He’s about to make a move towards her when he hears a sound that stops him dead in his tracks. It’s not so much a laugh as a cackle. He hasn’t heard it in two years at least, but he’d recognize it on his deathbed.

It’s Ace Frehley. Ace Frehley, here at the Cat Club.

Paul’s never known Ace to go anywhere unaccompanied. Now’s no exception. Standing with him is some long-haired guy that Paul doesn’t recognize from the rock scene. Not that that means much, these days. Ace’s arm is looped behind the guy’s shoulders, though the guy doesn’t seem too comfortable with it. Paul purses his lips, trying to gauge their relationship from fifteen feet away, but it doesn’t end up mattering. Ace spots him after not even five seconds, and stumbles to him, with the guy in tow.

“Paul! How are you, man?”

“Ace,” he says, standing up on automatic, reaching for Ace’s free hand. Ace’s palm is damp in his.

“Oh, oh, lemme introduce you, Paulie, this is--” and Ace untangles his other arm from the guy, “this is Gordon. Gordon, y’know who this is.”

“Paul Stanley,” Paul says anyway, offering his hand again. Gordon takes it with all the cursory indifference of being introduced to a fourth cousin at a funeral.

“Gordon plays keyboard,” Ace says. “He’s real good.”

“Cool.” Paul can feel his mouth twist a bit. It’s petty to already be bristling a bit, only a few sentences in, but he can’t seem to stop himself. He’s so used to faking being cordial that the words still come out warmly enough to his own ear. “C’mon, have a seat. Plenty of room.”

“He’s using you.”

“I know.”

“Don’t you care?”

Ace shrugs.

“I’m running low on friends, Paul.” A quick quirk to his mouth. “Maybe you are, too.”

“I only ever had the one.”

“Bullshit. You still got at least three, if you want them.”

“I’ve got a place in California. This is just a rental,” Paul lies. He owns this shitty apartment outright. “My parents are getting older, y’know, it’s good to have somewhere close by. And Ericka--”

“She’s gotta be in high school now.”

“She’s graduating in May.”

“Shit, man.” Ace shakes his head. “Monique’s gonna be eight this year.”

“I’ll send her something.”

Ace waves his hand absently.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“C’mon, let me--”

“You ain’t sent her anything in six years. Don’t start now.” Ace pauses, glancing at Paul in a flickering, fleeting way, and then he shakes his head. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean it bad.”

Paul doesn’t say anything else for awhile, just crosses over to the kitchenette and opens the refrigerator. He takes out two Diet Cokes, handing one over to Ace, who looks at it before handing it back.

“’S fine. I’m not thirsty.”

“I don’t have any alcohol, Ace.”

“I don’t really want it.”

“You don’t?”

Ace shakes his head.

“What do you want?”

“Dinner and a movie, Paulie.” Ace’s mouth quirks up. “Dinner, we’ll have some of your fucking Lucky Charms; movie, we’ll put on an porno.”

“Ace--”

“What’ve you got, anyway?” And he’s scurrying to the T.V. set. Beneath it is his tape player and a few stacks of movies still in their packaging. His workout tapes. And there--

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley #ace frehley #ace frehleyxpaulstanley #stehley

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