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cesailee · 6 days ago

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[Paul/Gene] Room Service

Blondes, brunettes, raven-haired beauties, and fiery redheads – Gene always appreciated the full spectrum of womanhood. A gorgeous girl, putting the prime of her life on display in the glossy centerfold of Playboy, didn't care who eventually picked up the magazine. Her youth was like dew at dawn in high summer – if it wasn't shown off right then, it would vanish the moment the first rays of sun pierced her.

Luckily, Gene remembered them for her. All it took was a quick phone call, and she'd be invited to grace the pages of his Polaroid album.

That's what Paul saw when he walked into the room, but it wasn't what concerned him. "Any news?" They'd maxed out Bill's credit card, new tour money wasn't coming, and now they were all stuck, dead in the water at this grimy motel.

"Nope. Just realized the chick on the back cover of page 23 is the same one who was in my bed the day before yesterday." Gene shook his head at the dial tone buzzing in his ear and tossed the magazine carelessly onto his lap.

"What?"

Paul frowned, his gaze dropping to the Playboy on Gene's thighs. Finally, he processed what Gene had said.

"Hefner's daughter just started working at her dad's company... Huh. Interesting." Gene ran a hand over his chin, rough with the stubble he hadn't bothered shaving. It looked a little messy, sure, but with no tour on the horizon – Bill was too busy fighting with Neil – the band was grabbing some rare downtime.

"Gene." But not everyone was enjoying the break. Paul's lips were pressed into a tight line.

"You know... maybe I could get her number."

"GENE!"

Gene couldn't be bothered lifting his eyelids much, so he just tilted his head back using his neck. Paul's wild curls sprang out like coils gone haywire. Dark bags hung heavy under his eyes, and the collar of his white bathrobe was rumpled, its loose belt knot offering weak support around his waist.

"God, Paul, when did you last sleep?"

"Why don't you ask Ace and Peter? They were carrying on all night like a couple of horny dogs locked in a cage."

A knowing smirk spread across Gene's face. "What did those guys score?" He drawled, letting the question hang. "...Room service?"

"A pair of big-titted twins, gone by 1 AM. Don't ask how I know..." Paul slumped onto the edge of Gene's bed, rambling from exhaustion and frayed nerves. "I was the one running around apologizing for the racket! Who knows what kind of people are in this dump, Gene? We could get fucking shot by gangsters! Couldn't they keep it down for five minutes? Same damn noise at 3 AM, not a fucking decibel quieter!"

"Honestly, gangsters showing up might be easier." Gene raised an eyebrow, steepling his fingers against his lips, adopting that signature annoying tone he'd used a thousand times before. "We'd just throw Peter at 'em. Like the Avengers throwing the Hulk."

"You're not serious, right?" Paul shook his head, his wide, worried eyes fixed on Gene's face.

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not." Gene kept it vague, not wanting to kill the joke, but catching the genuine fear in Paul's big eyes, he also knew he shouldn't stoke it. "Paul, actually I—"

"Yeah," Paul cut him off, clearing his throat and speaking slowly. "At least bring Ace. That laugh of his is pure magical damage..."

"STANLEY!" Gene's laugh caught in his throat, his grin stretching almost painfully wide. "Damn, you're not as nice as I thought, are you?"

"You think you're the only one who's ever wanted to strangle them, Gene?" Paul rolled his eyes dramatically. "Haven't I had the same damn thought?"

Rarely did Gene's mind slip its leash. This time, it conjured the image far too vividly: Paul, arms like King Kong's, grabbing Ace and Peter by the scruffs of their necks, hoisting them up like ragdolls... He burst into a coughing fit of laughter. Paul turned away, chuckling too, letting the stupid moment hang. When the laughter finally died, the room plunged into silence. Both men retreated into their own thoughts, sifting through the conversation for any shred of usable intel.

"Seriously, Paul, I didn't mean..." Gene started, his voice flat.

"I know. Me neither," Paul sighed. "They're just a couple of dumbasses, at the end of the day."

"Uh-huh."

......

For the next ten minutes or so, neither spoke. Gene picked up the magazine from his lap again but didn't really read it, his gaze drifting toward Paul on the bed. The singer lay on his side, curled in slightly, offering Gene the vulnerable line of his back. Gene wondered if he'd finally fallen asleep – then, as if hearing the thought, Paul shifted his hips beneath the robe, eyes still closed as he rolled onto his back. He cautiously opened his eyes, his wandering gaze colliding with Gene's like a plane crashing straight into the tarmac. He licked his lips, awkward. "Alright, fine. I can't sleep."

"Figured. Something else on your mind?" Gene asked idly. He often didn't know why he bothered filling the silence; maybe just habit, not wanting Paul's words to hang unanswered.

Paul, however, perked up. He flipped onto his stomach on the covers, feigning nonchalance. "So… this Hefner daughter. She hot?" The angle made his fuzzy chest practically spill out of the robe.

"Who?" Gene blinked rapidly, then chuckled, amused. "She's a blonde, Paul."

Paul's lips thinned, annoyed at being read. "Didn't ask that."

"Alright, my bad," Gene conceded, standing up and planting his hands on his hips. "I just assumed you'd gotten laid at least once on this trip. That brunette who slipped into your room the night before last?"

"No... Yes. The black-haired undergrad," Paul groaned, dragging a hand through his hair before biting his lip, looking utterly stressed. "Except Peter apparently had her fed before I even got out of the shower. Left me to fuck my fist in the bathroom."

"You know, I never understood why you—"

"—Why I share with Peter? It was fun, at first. Supposed to be. Not anymore. Selfish bastard!"

Gene nodded slowly, eyes narrowing with a knowing glint. "Right. Got it."

"Thanks. Feels better just… saying it out loud," Paul muttered, residual anger simmering.

"What you need," Gene stated abruptly, "is a volunteer."

"Uh... huh?"

"I said I've got a solution for you. To unwind."

Paul froze for a second, then scrambled up so fast he nearly slipped, his shriek piercing Gene's eardrums: "No! Oh hell no, you are not pulling that stunt again! I am not sleeping with a hooker!"

Was he actually going to bolt? Gene felt a sting of offense. He exhaled heavily. "Who said anything about a hooker? That was a mistake! Ace was just…" Just mentioning Ace's name made Gene's head throb. "Can we please bury that? And you really think I'd get you a hooker? Me? You?"

By the time Gene realized he was yelling, Paul had gone quiet. The singer sank back onto the edge of the bed, sniffing lightly. "So… you got someone in mind?" he asked, voice small.

"Obviously. A better option. Me."

Paul's eyebrows shot skyward for a split second before crashing down. His mouth fell open. "You've gotta be kidding me…"

"I'm not." Gene swallowed. Okay, maybe he wasn't entirely sure, but the bassist was a born pragmatist – propose the solution first, figure out the details later. "It's the most logical solution right now. I volunteer. You, me. Today. This room. Nothing more."

Gene laid it out like he was discussing album profit margins with Bill – clinical, almost comically serious. Somehow, that absurdity eased the tension coiling in Paul's shoulders. He hesitated. "So… I… what is this? Room service?"

"If that's what helps you wrap your head around it, sure," Gene replied, his words measured, neither urgent nor overly eager. He didn't want to scare Paul off or layer this with weird meaning. Both outcomes were equally bad.

"Screwing your best friend probably doesn't feel like any kind of service, GENE!"

"For God's sake, I was just using your word," Gene retorted, feeling his resolve waver. If Paul pushed back now, if he voiced one more protest, Gene knew he'd apologize and drop it. He could never force Paul into anything. He wouldn't want to. It never ended well for either of them.

Unaware of the power he wielded in that moment, Paul just twisted a strand of hair around his finger, the black nail polish chipped. "Okay. This thing… Jesus Christ… I mean how… how does this start?" He sounded deeply apprehensive, yet his decision was made.

The moment the words left Gene's mouth, his whole demeanor shifted. A mischievous grin spread across his face. "Take off the robe."

"What?! GENEEEEE! Jesus, give me a minute to process, will you?" A high-pitched, almost feminine shriek escaped the singer.

"Fine. Take me to a fancy restaurant. Fill my belly with everything on the dessert menu," Gene shot back without missing a beat.

Paul gave the bassist one last look, then stood up silently. He tugged loose the robe's flimsy sash knot, letting the garment slide to the floor. "Now what?"

"Not reconsidering the dessert option?" Gene's gaze drifted pointedly over Paul's hairy chest.

"Nope. I'm on a tight schedule," Paul stated flatly, his voice devoid of inflection. Was it the humidity? Gene's stare prickled his skin, raising goosebumps he tried to ignore.

Gene laughed again, but this time without the edge of mischief, just pure curiosity. "Why are you so tense, Paul? I've seen you naked on stage hundreds of times."

He was right. By halfway through any given show, Paul was usually stripped bare, his sweat-slicked chest gleaming under the lights. But that confidence clearly didn't translate to this setting. Now, Paul felt ridiculous for his own shyness.

"I don't know, okay? I just don't! Just do whatever it is you're gonna do, Gene, and stop asking me questions!" Paul crossed his arms defensively over his chest. What was he expecting? That Gene would suddenly charge across the room like a linebacker making a touchdown, tackling him to the bed? He'd be crushed under the bassist's bulk. Paul quickly banished the image. He turned his head, surprised to find Gene hadn't moved an inch. He was still standing there, watching Paul, but now with a deep, concentrating frown.

"What are we waiting for?" Paul asked, though a sinking feeling told him he already knew.

"Uh... I'm not entirely sure how to start this?"

Paul looked ready to shatter. Instinctively, he bent to snatch the robe from the floor, desperate to cover himself, humiliation burning through him. Gene saw the panic flash and quickly closed the distance between them, reaching for the robe Paul was clutching.

"What are you doing?" Paul didn't let go, tightening his grip instead, his eyes blazing up at Gene.

Before it could devolve into a tug-of-war, Gene tried to soothe him. "Stop, okay? I'm just thinking—"

"It doesn't matter, Gene, don't you get it? This is idiotic... Me being here like this, agreeing to... Christ, I'm such an idiot." Paul cut him off roughly, clearly wanting to bail – to stomp out, swallow his pride, lock himself in his own dingy room, and not emerge for the rest of the day.

On one level, Paul was right. Gene hadn't truly expected him to say yes. On another, Gene was notorious for his hetero exploits; intimacy with another man was uncharted territory. He wasn't Ace, who'd kiss anyone within reach after three beers. Hell, Gene didn't even drink.

So, would it be a terrible idea to go knock on Ace's door for pointers right now?

"You don't have to do this for me, Gene," Paul said softly, as if reading his mind. His grip on the robe slackened. He'd just go back to his own bleak room with its peeling, yellowed wallpaper and jerk off like a pathetic loser. What was one more time?

"No. You're staying here. With me." Paul's resignation hardened Gene's resolve. He didn't need Ace. He had experience with women, didn't he? All he needed now was a little imagination. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to convince himself Pauline Stanley was just a particularly fuzzy, flat-chested chick.

"You—"

He let instinct take over. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to Paul's. Reality hit him like a freight train. This was no fuzzy chick. The scrape of stubble identical to his own against his cheek. His hand brushing against something unfamiliar and solid beneath the thin fabric of Paul's underwear as it slid down the inner thigh. And worst of all, the overpowering, distinctly male scent of Paul's Aramis cologne invading his nostrils, making his skin crawl.

We should start over. Gene swallowed the words. He pulled back just enough, catching the harsh puff of Paul's breath against his face. Suppressing the frantic thrum of his nerves, he kept his voice low, coaxing. "Let's get on the bed, okay? Come on."

The only blessing in this whole grimy motel was the bed. The mattress was reasonably soft, and big enough for two grown men... well, maybe for Peter and Ace – one was wiry, the other slight. For Paul and Gene, it was a tighter fit.

"Ow! Gene, my hair... now my foot, no, not that way, ah...!" Paul yelped and complained from beneath him as Gene maneuvered clumsily on top, muttering apologies. His mind raced until, abruptly, Gene slid down the bed. His feet found the floor again, his face now hovering less than a foot above the thatch of dark hair on Paul's stomach.

"Gene?" Paul propped himself up on his elbows, his voice tight with nervous inquiry.

"I've got this, Paul. Taking your shorts off now," Gene announced with forced gravity, striving for calm even as his heart hammered against his ribs. He shifted lower. His palms were slick; he wiped them surreptitiously on the bedspread before finally gripping the waistband of Paul's briefs. He steadfastly avoided looking at the center.

Gene was regretting falling back on autopilot. Normally, he'd lift the girl onto the bed, slide down teasingly, dramatically, until he was between her legs, declaring he wanted a taste, letting his tongue flick against her belly and the edge of her panties before catching the elastic with his teeth to pull them down... Yeah. Gene did that. Except his mouth didn't find smooth, damp skin, a clit, a slit. It found something concrete, undeniable – the head of Paul's cock. Unfamiliar shape. Unfamiliar heat. Not as bad as he'd feared, but utterly without illusion.

"GENE!"

Paul's joyful murmur of Gene's name feeling almost unreal—until Gene felt his own cock stir against his thigh, a visceral confirmation of reality. The bassist was debating whether to move his tongue when Paul's hand slid up to cradle his head, gently pulling him away. Paul sounded breathless, stumbling over his words: "Listen… you don't, you don't have to do that, Gene... I appreciate you being good to me, but come on up here."

Gene didn't protest. The moment he processed the words, shame caught up with him. Worse, Paul was visibly hardening beneath him. Gene scrambled back on his knees, took two deep breaths, and climbed back onto the bed, acutely aware of Paul's eyes tracking his movements. Paul's hand drifted to the hem of Gene's T-shirt. "Maybe you didn't notice… you're still dressed…" Paul's large hands pushed the fabric upwards, grazing the soft curve of Gene's stomach. Gene's body betrayed him with a faint, shameful tremor.

Luckily, Paul didn't seem to notice the tremor; he was momentarily distracted by the newfound softness. "You really need to cut back, Gene," Paul grinned, no malice in it, his palm lingering and idly stroking the flesh.

"Don't judge me, Paul. Every bite fuels the riffs and the harmonies. You think I'd be this good without the sugar cookies?" Gene huffed, wrestling the shirt off over his head as he retorted.

"I don't think so."

Sugar cookies hadn't written Deuce, but Gene clung to the childish logic anyway. Shedding his pants, he lowered himself again, pressing kisses and murmuring lyrics into the skin of Paul's neck. "You know your man is workin' hard, He's worth a deuce…"

A smile touched Paul's lips. He tilted his chin back, offering more skin, fingers tightening in Gene's hair as small, breathy sighs escaped him.

Gene pressed on. The singing stopped. His hand drifted down to Paul's chest, fingers combing through the thick thatch of hair, accidentally brushing a nipple and drawing a soft groan. Gene bit his lower lip, discovering an unexpected fascination with the scene unfolding. He still wouldn't say he was interested in men, but this – with Paul – wasn't bad. Not at all. It felt strangely natural. His mind flashed back to their first meeting: a young guy in a striped jacket that looked thrift-store bargain, hunched over a classical guitar, long hair curly but not yet exploding into its full chaotic glory. Back when he was still Stanley Eisen. He'd looked up, and those big, soulful brown eyes had momentarily stolen Gene's words and tangled his tongue. Even as Gene, in the next five minutes, played an original tune and bragged – rather stupidly – about his songwriting prowess, he regretted every awkward second. What was he doing? His desperate desire to impress the young man only earned him a slight downturn of the lips and a cool gaze: "Yeah? I don't think so."

I don't think so. Just like Paul had said earlier, but a softer version now. The words were a quiet breath against Gene's lips, a low hum vibrating in Paul's throat. Secrets of life and nature seemed to shimmer in those eyes, framed by absurdly long lashes that brushed the air like they were meant just for him.

Nothing compared to this. It felt right. Utterly right.

Yet the spark igniting in Gene's mind remained unseen by Paul. Instinctively, Paul spread his legs wider, the persistent ache between them impossible to ignore. He shifted his hips subtly, seeking relief. He appreciated Gene's careful attention, the slow build… but sometimes slow tipped over into frustrating.

"Gene, are you… are you gonna…?" Are you going to continue? Paul was startled by the raw huskiness, the sheer want in his own voice.

It jolted Gene out of his reverie. He mentally apologized. His hand slid down, finally wrapping around Paul's straining length. His teeth found the singer's collarbone for a gentle, testing nip, satisfied to feel Paul's body stir restlessly beneath him.

"Gonna leave marks..." Paul managed, his hands pushing weakly against Gene, each fragmented word fighting through rapid swallows and ragged breaths.

Fuck the tour, Gene cursed silently. Paul's relentless professionalism was grating on him for the first time, made worse by the grudging admission that the singer was right. This band needs at least one clear head... That old refrain, usually aimed at Ace and Peter's antics, suddenly rang hollow. Gene finally understood something else – the allure of unchecked madness, the illicit thrill of breaking the rules surging hot in his veins.

"Fuck the tour." He snarled it aloud, sucking hard on the skin above Paul's collarbone. A bruise would bloom there, purple and unmistakable. Fine. Makeup can hide it, he rationalized. Paul's short nails dug into his back, a sharp cry escaping as pleasure coiled tight. Gene knew his partner understood the message. They both did. The strange, potent energy that existed solely between them crackled in the air.

So when Paul pushed against Gene's shoulders and sat up, Gene let him. Before Paul fully registered his own actions, his lips found Gene's, leaning into him, rolling them over. Palms pressed flat against the bassist's solid chest, feeling the strong, frantic heartbeat thrumming beneath. Gene wrapped an arm around Paul, pulling him close, letting his lips melt into the kiss, his body yielding to the embrace. Did demons have human hearts? Or was this unexpected gentleness reserved just for him? The thought sent blood rushing to Paul's face, feverish and bright. He squirmed urgently, shifting to straddle Gene's thighs, deliberately grinding his hips down against the hard length beneath him.

Two low groans tore from Gene's throat. He forced his eyes open, determined to watch Paul moving above him, hands gripping the singer's waist, thumbs occasionally brushing circles of affection. Even though he desperately wanted to shut his eyes, to lose himself completely on the sweet, agonizing rollercoaster ride. But nothing compared to the sight before him – the glowing face framed by wild curls, an expression mingling vulnerability and fierce resolve that felt almost sacred; lean muscle stretching like calm rivers under skin; and between them, the flushed, glistening head of Paul's cock. Christ, how could anyone be this beautiful? Gene could think of no explanation beyond a miracle, crafted by God's own hand.

Paul sat up a little straighter, looking down with satisfaction at the damp spot forming on Gene's briefs. He hooked his fingers into the final barrier separating them and tugged it down. Skin met skin, cock pressed against cock. Gene's head fell back hard onto the pillow, a string of breathless, blasphemous curses tumbling out. Paul arched his neck, gasping as the direct contact sent shivers through him.

The intensity doubled. Gene's erection slid hotly alongside his partner's, Paul's larger hand wrapping around them both, rubbing and stroking. Paul had gained a little weight on this tour; the hips grinding against Gene's thighs felt fuller, the muscles at his waist softer. Too many stolen candies, not enough excuses made, Gene noted silently. But the bassist wouldn't comment. He was reaping the rewards; he had no complaints.

Eventually, coherence fled Paul entirely. Exhaustion and weeks of frayed nerves sapped his stamina. His movements slowed. It was time for Gene to take charge. He sat up, wrapping an arm firmly around Paul's waist, pulling the singer flush against his chest. Gene's hips began to piston upwards, driving against Paul. The headboard slammed against the wall in a frantic, stuttering rhythm. Who was next door? To hell with it. Gene's hand slid down, gripping their cocks together, pressing them tight against his own abdomen. Paul whimpered loudly at the sudden friction, the new pressure.

"Gene… fuck…" Paul's chin dug into Gene's temple, arms locking around the bassist's head, his breathing ragged, verging on hyperventilation.

"I know, I know… Got you, Paul…" Gene murmured soothingly, his tongue flicking out to taste the bruise he'd left on Paul's collarbone. Salt sweat mingled with the lingering scent of Paul's Aramis cologne – a heady, masculine musk that made Gene's thoughts tangle, threatening to drown him in its strange, intoxicating sweetness.

As Gene thrust upwards, his hand worked faster over their joined lengths. Paul's hair tumbled between them, strands tickling Gene's face. A realization struck Gene, sharp and undeniable: no matter how he'd pretended otherwise with women, he'd never been here before. Never so utterly lost. His thoughts fractured, impossible to grasp. Past encounters were effortless transactions, a tally of conquests, necessary releases. He'd bring them in, watch long limbs sprawl like butter melting on bread, known exactly what they wanted, and given it. Confident amidst their sighs. That confidence was gone now. Gene felt utterly bewildered, unnervingly tense. Even as he moved, even as Paul raked desperate lines down his back, he felt flogged by some unnamed force.

Bewilderment, tension, and raw excitement twisted together, binding his thoughts. But Paul was clearly teetering on the edge. Gene forced his mind blank, attacking Paul's neck with renewed fervor, his own groans growing louder. Sweat trickled down Gene's temples. His wrist ached. Paul's constant, gasping cries of his name sent electric shocks across his scalp.

Then, as Paul slammed his hips down with near-frantic force, Gene roared – a low, guttural sound. He tightened his grip on Paul's cock, stroking hard and fast. So good… In this goddamn motel, amidst their desperate hunger for fame, with Paul crying out his name with such raw need – it suddenly felt immense, overwhelming. A silent scream locked in Paul's throat. His sweat-slicked body went rigid for one suspended second. Warmth spurted onto Gene's chest and stomach.

Something unfamiliar clenched in Gene's own chest. His fingers trembled, barely grazing the tip of his own cock. His lips quivered. Dazzling white light flooded his vision as his body convulsed, spilling over Paul's hand and stomach.

"Sorry… got some on you..." Paul mumbled, his nose brushing Gene's forehead, his voice thick with sleep and a touch of embarrassment.

Steamy dampness clung to both of them; neither felt like moving. Gene's eardrums still throbbed faintly from the intensity of his climax, making Paul's words take a moment to register. He became aware of the unmistakable mix of sweat and semen cooling on his skin. His hand slid to the back of Paul's neck, a faint smile touching his lips. "I decorated your stomach too. So we're even."

A nervous chuckle escaped Paul. Gene resolved to treasure this moment – a shy Paul Stanley post-coitus was a rare and priceless thing.

Gene wanted to kiss him. His control, already frayed, snapped. The hand on Paul's neck gently cupped the base of his skull. Surprise flickered through Gene as Paul's mouth parted in anticipation before he even leaned in. The bassist's agile tongue slipped past, sweeping the roof of Paul's mouth, finding the waiting tongue and tangling with it. Their stubble scraped cheeks, but it didn't matter anymore. More surprising still, Paul actively cradled Gene's face, taking the lead, sucking the bassist's lower lip and grazing it with a tiny bite. Little sparks crackled along Gene's nerves. When Paul finally pulled back, a dissatisfied grumble escaped Gene's lips. Paul smirked at the reaction.

An itch crawled under Gene's skin. Petulantly, he tugged Paul's arm, trying to pull him back for another kiss. That's when the knock came.

"Gene! You in there?" Sean's voice filtered through the door.

Both men froze. The lingering haze of desire evaporated instantly. Gene snapped back to full awareness, clearing his throat. "Yeah. What is it?"

"Can I come in?"

Gene glanced at Paul. The singer stared back, wide-eyed and panicked, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

"Not a good time, Sean. Sorry."

"Right," Sean drawled, the theatrical shift in tone practically carrying the eye-roll Gene knew was happening. "Anyway, just came to tell you we're rolling out first thing tomorrow. Better start packing... And if you see Paul, tell him? Can't find the guy anywhere."

"Thanks, Sean. Will do." Gene grinned shamelessly at the flush creeping up Paul's neck.

"Oh, and… my apologies to the lady inside for the interruption. I'll just… be going now. Adieu!"

Gene's grin threatened to split his face. Paul punched him hard on the shoulder.

"Ow—!"

"I'm going!" Paul raked his fingers roughly through his hair twice, scrambled off the bed, and snatched his long-abandoned robe from the floor.

Gene knew he couldn't stop Paul. Besides, the moment was broken. Paul didn't need to stay.

"Satisfied with the service?" Gene couldn't resist teasing anyway.

Paul shook the robe out sharply in the air, scoffing. "Depends. You charging me?"

"Friends and family rate-5 bucks."

Paul pulled the robe on, his eyes snapping back to Gene's face. He shook his head in disbelief. "You're a cheap hooker, Gene. A cheap hooker."

"And you slept with a hooker, Mr. Stanley," Gene retorted, his long tongue flicking deliberately over his lower lip as the familiar, arrogant smirk settled back into place. "Guess we both learned something new today."

#kiss band #fanfic #gene simmons #paul stanley #1970s #gene simmons x paul stanley #peter criss #ace frehley

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cesailee · 13 days ago

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[Peter Criss] A Man Grows Old

生命的大风吹出世界的精神，

唯有老年人能看出这其中的摧毁。

The great wind of life blows through the world's spirit;

Only the old can see the ruin in this.

——西川《一个人老了》

"What a load of bullshit."

Peter shook his head as he approached the couch, resting his hands on its back.

Gigi set down the remote and turned, surprised. "What about? The news?"

"People," Peter said, annoyed. He ran a hand through his hair, then abruptly froze. The last time he'd gotten a haircut, he'd just asked for his usual trim. The barber, a young guy maybe in his thirties with short, neat hair as sharp as his movements, had combed across Peter's scalp… Now Peter remembered the offhand comment: "Can't take too much off, or the gray will show." Maybe to anyone else it was just a normal thing to say about an older guy, but Peter knew he'd been fighting his damn gray hair most of his life.

That was also the time he'd stopped asking them to dye it black.

"What's Elon Musk done to get under your skin now?"

His wife's giggle grated on him. Peter shuffled his way around the couch – left foot step, right foot shuffle-step – until he reached the other end and sank down. Basically, he just bent his knees and let gravity drop his backside onto the cushions.

It was a comfortable little couch, the one they'd chosen – he and Gigi. Partly because it was on sale; partly because it was small. Around five or six years ago, Peter had stopped bothering to see anyone. Yeah, yeah, he'd finally become that crotchety, shut-in old asshole.

Gigi rested her hand on his knee, just to get his attention. That's why the couch was small. It didn't need to hold many people. Just him and his wife was plenty.

"Did you take your meds, babe?"

"Don't know…" he mumbled. Damn it, was he getting Alzheimer's or something?

"Which ones are we talking about?"

His wife patted his leg and stood up knowingly. "Got it. I'll fetch them." Yeah, if you had a wife 22 years younger who loved you, you were lucky.

After he swallowed a handful of pills – maybe some vitamins mixed in there too – they sat back on the couch watching the news for a while. Gigi's leg pressed against his, feeling strangely secure. Peter relaxed a little. He set his mug down on the coffee table, spun it a few times so the doodled side faced him. He didn't realize when he'd started doing that. Peter took a deep breath and leaned back, but it wasn't long before a wave of gloom caught up with him. Not physical this time.

He mumbled vaguely, "Sorry about earlier… how I talked…" while fumbling for his wife’s hand with his slightly withered fingers. Then he smiled as Gigi’s hand instinctively turned palm-up and clasped his.

"You were in a mood. I know," she said. If she’s lightly shaking our hands now, is that too much coddling? "But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook that easily." Her voice lifted playfully as she gave his hand a squeeze. Good—now she’s playing along.

Peter chuckled immediately. "Oh, come on… You love me. You know you do." He turned to find Gigi already watching him. Without a second thought, he leaned in and kissed his wife’s lips, drawing a laugh from her.

Having a small garden meant you were practically outdoors. Especially with that little man-made pond at its center – a converted swimming pool. The visits from little birds and squirrels (whose names Peter never bothered to learn) were always welcome. He'd even hung a bird feeder on the stand. The folding chair was his constant companion out there, letting him sit with a sketchbook and pencil in hand. It had been so long since he'd drawn anything, he had no idea what to sketch. It was Gigi who had practically shoved the sketchbook and pencil into his grip, like she was handing crayons to a child.

"I'm heading to the grocery store. You coming?"

"No. Don't feel like it."

She seemed oddly relieved.

"Well then, go draw something. When was the last time you sketched?" Gigi brushed the dust off the sketchbook she'd unearthed earlier and handed it to Peter, along with the pencil.

"What? I don't—"

"Take your pills, okay? See you later."

The click of the door closing punctuated the end of the conversation.

Damn… Couldn't even be bothered to give me a kiss goodbye. Women. Just then, something landed with a soft thump near his feet, nearly hitting him. He looked down. It was… an apple? He picked it up. What the hell? He didn't think they had an apple tree or anything. He glanced up at the sky, clueless.

He studied the apple in his hand for a moment – plump and rosy red. Scratching his head, he pushed himself up using the coffee table. Walking back inside, he set the sketchbook and pencil down. How long had it been since his wife left? Peter had no sense of time. He wanted to call Gigi. He put the apple aside and fished his phone out of the nightstand drawer.

"Didn't I just charge this yesterday?" he grumbled at the dead screen, digging around for the charger cable and plugging it in.

Perched on the bed' s edge, he stared blankly until the screen lit up. Thank God. He hated feeling like a dinosaur. An alarm chirped from the nightstand—med time. He pushed off the mattress, found his mug in the living room, then located his pill organizer. Gigi' s neat handwriting labeled each compartment: dosage, time. He yanked off his glasses, squinting at one label: Take with food. Ah. That one.

The clock on the wall ticked steadily. Peter sat on the couch for a long while, just… drifting. How much time passed? He didn't know. When he snapped back, he blinked rapidly, not even sure when he'd zoned out. His lips felt dry. He reached for his mug – the tea had gone cold. He sighed, shuffled into the kitchen to boil some water for a refill, and leaned against the island counter for a moment. With nowhere else to go, Peter drifted back to the couch. Wasn't this spot becoming his permanent residence? He sank into Gigi's usual seat. Absently, he spun the mug on the side table a few times until the doodle faced him. It was too quiet. The silence felt way too lonely. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

He flipped through channels aimlessly. Most of what was on held no interest for him. His free hand hovered over the steaming mug. Peter turned his palm upwards, letting the warm vapor lightly dampen his skin. The veins on the back of his hand stood out, pronounced and winding, like the dry beds of ancient rivers. He missed the feel of Gigi rubbing lotion onto his hands in the mornings. His skin was getting dry again – rough, flaking. The dry lips were just the start.

Thud-

Peter opened his eyes. His arm, stretched out and dangling over the edge of the bed, felt weightless, his palm empty. He sat up, grabbed his glasses from beside his pillow, and put them on. It really is a big bed, he noticed, especially with his wife gone.

Peter looked down over the side of the bed. He must have fallen asleep holding that apple from the garden; its absence now meant it must have rolled underneath.

I should get it out. He hesitated. Can I? Peter wasn't just thinking about the apple; he was calculating the cost of the physical maneuvers involved. Bend down, sure, but that wouldn't be enough. He'd have to get down on his knees, wouldn't he? Could his joints handle that? What if he ended up lying on the floor, unable to get up? An old man sprawled on the floor, clutching an apple—the image flashed through his mind.

"Dammit," he groaned, the sound unnaturally loud in the empty bedroom. The thought of giving up settled over him like a thin veil—too much trouble, too risky, just an apple. Wait for Gigi to get back and let her pick it up. It seemed perfectly reasonable, and he felt himself relax almost immediately.

But another voice, quieter yet more stubborn, whispered from deep within: Just an apple. Can't I even pick up a single apple? That faint resistance pricked through the veil of resignation like a needle. A sudden surge of determination, almost petulant, rose in him. He needed to prove something, if only to himself.

Besides, that apple—that uninvited, suspiciously plump red apple—was down there. Like a silent heart sinking in deep water.

Peter took a deep breath, like starting up a rusty old machine. He broke the movement down into countless careful steps: First, slowly shift his body until his hips were fully on the edge of the bed. Feet tentatively found the floor, relishing the solid feel of the ground beneath them. Then, pressing his hands firmly into the mattress, he leaned forward, transferring some of his weight onto his feet. His knees gave a faint protest, but he ignored it.

The critical bend was next. He didn't try to swoop down like a younger man might. That was far too dangerous. Instead, he adopted a safer, more humiliating strategy – he lowered himself slowly, almost vertebra by vertebra, while carefully bending his right knee, lowering it down, down further, until his kneecap lightly touched the cool floor. Damn, it still felt undignified, even though he thought he should be used to it by now. His left leg remained half-braced, offering meager balance. The whole process unfolded in agonizing slow motion, his entire focus channeled into controlling every muscle, every breath.

Sweat beaded at his temples. One hand gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles whitening with the strain, while the other reached down into the darkness beneath the bed. Fingertips probed through dust, brushing against fuzzy clumps of lint, a long-lost pill… and then, finally, they touched the smooth, cool, firm sphere.

"Ha!" A short, puff of air burst from his throat. He pressed his body tighter against the floor, stretching his arm further, fingers nudging the sphere until he slowly rolled it out. As the apple, now dust-speckled yet still vividly plump, lay fully exposed in the light, Peter felt a strange warmth surge from his chest straight to the crown of his head. He'd done it! No fall, no sprain, no calling for help! A long-lost, childlike sense of pure accomplishment instantly enveloped him, making the corners of his mouth lift uncontrollably into a grin. He even felt the urge to punch the air in victory.

He stayed frozen in that awkward, one-kneed crouch, the apple clutched tightly in his hand like a recovered medal. He looked around. The bedroom was utterly silent, save for his own breathing and the faint, distant chirping of birds. Sunlight sliced through the gap in the curtains, laying a bright band on the floor where dust motes danced soundlessly in the beam.

This excitement, this small triumph, had no witness. Gigi was at the grocery store; the neighbors were behind their garden fences. The room held only himself and his stubbornly beating heart. That triumphant "Ha!" he'd let out suddenly felt foolish now, like an old fool performing a soliloquy to an empty room.

A sharp sense of loss doused his excitement like cold water. He looked down at the apple in his hand, its red glaringly bright. What had he risked so much for, expended so much effort, just to retrieve an apple that had rolled under the bed? What kind of "accomplishment" was this? To anyone else, it would seem trivial, maybe even slightly ridiculous – an old man spending minutes on his knees just to pick up a piece of fruit. That was all. No one would applaud. No one would clap him on the shoulder and say, "Well done, Peter." This realization brought a flush of embarrassed shame, as if that intense burst of joy had been stolen, an inappropriate frivolity for a man his age.

He gave a self-mocking twist of his lips and muttered under his breath, "Crazy old fool…" Gripping the bed edge, he began the process of pushing himself up from the floor, moving even slower and with more effort than when he'd bent down. Only now did the ache in his knees and the stiffness in his lower back announce themselves clearly, the price exacted by his little "adventure."

The apple lay cool and heavy in his wrinkled, age-spotted palm. He instinctively rubbed his thumb over a smudge of dust on its surface, the pad of his finger registering the taut smoothness of its skin. Peter stared down at it. The sunlight illuminated a small, bird-pecked looking blemish near the top. A complex feeling – weariness, satisfaction, and an inescapable loneliness – settled over him. The meager confidence gained from successfully retrieving it dissipated like morning mist in the absence of anyone to share it with.

Silently, he slipped the apple into the pocket of his robe. He felt its solid weight press against his thigh, like carrying a small, unspoken secret no one else could understand – or needed to. In the living room, the news anchor's voice droned on, reporting distant wars or elections, things that felt infinitely farther away to him right now than retrieving a fallen apple.

He wished Gigi would hurry back.

#kiss band #peter criss #fanfic #old peter #2020s #slice of life #gigi criss

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