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ohblackdiamond · 5 years

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the end of the world tour (kiss/endgame crossover, r) (part 2/5)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

In this chapter: KISS begins its training regimen. Unfortunately, there's no Rocky montage.

Or, four washed-up former rockstar superheroes don the spandex of old in a last-ditch effort to save an already half-gone world. They just need a little support from a billionaire who’s not too keen on KISS interrupting his private life. Somewhat Endgame compliant.

The old wooden box looked just the same as it always had. Just as ordinary as ever. Not the barest smear of dust. Gene cracked it open almost casually, setting it down on the living room table, the talismans of Khyscz glowing too brightly in the dim room. Better preserved than any of the four of them. Of course they were. Peter took a deep breath, just staring at the talismans, hand hovering over the box.

“They’re not gonna eat you,” Ace said dryly.

“I know that,” Peter snapped. “Just give me a second.”

Aside from the glow, the talismans never had looked too special, anyway. Crude little carvings of a cat head, a star, a dragon, and a lightning bolt. Like an elementary school kid’s art project. They didn’t look as though they’d give any more powers than the Superman curtain they’d obsessively hung by their dressing room for decades. But they had. But they did.

Peter could swear he felt electricity start to course through his fingers. Should’ve been exhilarating. Instead, it was frankly terrifying. He could feel three sets of eyes right on him, expectant. And why shouldn’t they be? He’d been the one to push it, insist that they put their powers to decent use. If he got cold feet now—if he couldn’t even take hold of his own talisman, well—

“Okay, we’ll do it on three,” Paul said from behind him. He was breathing hard right up against Peter’s ear. Nerves as shot as always. Peter had never been quite so grateful for someone else’s terminal case of anxiety. Paul stuck his hand out to the box, Gene and Ace following suit. “One, two, three—”

Peter’s fingers closed around the cat talisman and the world went white around him.

Briefly. Just briefly.

Then he opened his eyes.

He was back in his Destroyer outfit. Every last rhinestone on the jumpsuit intact. The layered, crystal-studded choker, the huge cross necklace, the six-inch platforms. The dry, cloying feel of greasepaint and talcum powder spread across his face, a face that barely had any crevices or wrinkles for the makeup to sink into.

He dropped the talisman back into the box, where it managed a few more pulsating twinkles before the light faded. Then he yanked off his gloves, surprised at his own shock at what he saw. Not the knobby, swollen fingers he was used to. No arthritis or carpal tunnel or tendonitis. Nothing. He felt like he could play a twenty-song setlist the next five nights in a row. He felt like he could do anything, any fucking thing he wanted, bounce back without even the remote fear of injury. Each movement felt crisp and painless. That underlying ache that’d plagued him so much longer than he’d ever confessed to any of the guys was gone.

Peter’s palms were starting to sweat. He shoved the gloves back on, insanely, trying to force an evenness to his breaths that he couldn’t manage.

“Holy shit,” he said, shaking his head. Nothing else really encompassed it. Shit, he could almost, almost understand why the other three had misused the talismans now. So much pent-up energy, he felt like he was high off his own breathing. The urge to laugh, to cry, something, was digging a furrow within him.

Behind him, he could hear Ace cracking up. Peter turned around, slowly, almost as if he was afraid of what was behind him. Which was ridiculous. He’d seen the guys before. He’d seen Gene and Paul the way they used to be just yesterday. He knew all three of their costumes and faces and makeup nearly as well as he knew his own. There was just this weird feeling somewhere in his gut that as soon as he took a glance, the deal was on. Like when they’d signed their first contract. Like when they’d first closed their hands around the talismans in ’73. No turning back.

He faced Paul and Gene first. Unsurprisingly, they both looked remarkably better when they weren’t in the middle of fucking random girls. He stared from Paul’s asymmetrically-painted face, the black star over his right eye, to the nearly-batwing swoops of black paint that spread from Gene’s forehead down almost to the tip of his nose. Then there was Ace, behind both of them, the silver starbursts making his face practically gleam.

He didn’t know how to describe it. Seeing the guys like that. It took him back—it took them all back, decades upon decades. The nostalgia trip of the Reunion Tour hadn’t been like this. Nothing could compare to this.

“You look great, Cat,” Ace said, offering his standard thumbs-up. But there was a warmth, a sincerity to his expression. Those brown eyes held some fondness, maybe. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that look cross Ace’s face for longer than a few seconds. “You ready?”

Peter nodded. Ace kept his hand extended, fist out, hovering in the air. It took a moment or two for Peter to catch on and reach out his fist to meet Ace’s, then Gene and Paul immediately following suit. It took a few tries before all four of them managed to connect for the fistbump simultaneously, but they managed, amid a few headshakes and snorts. Then the room just went dead silent, the four of them just staring deflatedly at each other. The same stupid hesitation that had kept Peter from grabbing the talisman straight off was paralyzing them all again. No, it wasn’t just that. Sure, the talismans could dredge up the true selves of the holders, something Peter was slowly starting to realize was insulting to each of them, but they couldn’t make it ’73 again. They couldn’t put KISS in that old team mindset. That wasn’t part of their magic.

“Is anybody going to say anything? C’mon, somebody pump us up,” Peter said finally.

“I forgot all our catchphrases,” Paul confessed.

KISS’ last intense experiences with personal trainers had been over twenty years prior, getting in shape for the Reunion Tour. They’d been expensive, and the overall effect had left a lot to be desired—probably because the routines had been more about avoiding fat Elvis comparisons than strength training. But this time was different. A haphazard blend of Tae-Bo workout videos and P90X DVDs, protein shakes and energy bars, Nordic Tracks and barbells soon littered the entirety of the basement, crowding out the KISS memorabilia that had crept into the corners. Paul and Gene had cancelled out indefinitely on FER, despite being hounded on a near-daily basis by both the girls and the program.

The workouts were the easy part, really. The superpowers were hazardous.

As it turned out, after forty years of disuse, Gene’s firebreathing abilities weren’t much more than enough to light a menorah. Ace’s teleportation had fared a little better—but he wasn’t getting any farther than the city limits of New Haven without an extreme amount of effort. Paul’s eye beam still had great accuracy… and a range of about three feet.

“Can you still do that other eye thing?”

“What other eye thing?”

“Seeing the future.”

Paul just rolled both eyes.

“Ace, I hate to tell you, but most of those premonitions were vague to begin with.”

“I’m pretty sure you used them to bet on Secretariat in ’73. I only remember ’cause you made us all put in for it.”

“Yeah, but that was so we could afford to rent out that ballroom. And the odds were 3 to 2, so we had to put up a lot to get the benefits.” A pause. “See, Peter, we’ve definitely abused the talismans way before the FER thing…”

Peter grimaced but let it go. His powers weren’t in good shape, either. Catlike reflexes, sure, if the cat had been dosed up on morphine prior. The claws were… just okay. Ace had joked about getting a scratching post for him at some point, when a lot of practice was probably the only thing that could improve them. Any of them.

“It doesn’t make sense. We never had to work on them before. The powers were just there.” Peter was staring dismally at his target—a pink rubber head and torso, mounted on a heavy stand—and absently slashing its face up as he spoke. “One day we were at band practice and the next day we were—what was that Superman shit, Gene…”

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

“No, we did better than that, we could fucking fly.” Peter glanced at the other three. “Has anyone even tried that one yet?”

“I’m too depressed with what we have tried,” Paul said dryly. “And I really don’t want to break a leg.”

Ace shrugged.

“I think we just gotta be patient with it, y’know? Maybe it’s a mental block. Maybe we’re putting limits on ourselves.”

“Since when have any of us ever done that? Look, man, we want this. All of us want this.”

“Could be the problem. We’re too anxious, I dunno.”

Not the most satisfying explanation. Gene started digging through his VHS collection for news clips of their crimefighting activities, and they added reviewing the tapes onto their training activities. They were even slowing the tapes down to get the hand movements and gestures exactly right—it was weird; all of it was weird. Copying poses they’d done forty years prior. Even, occasionally, copying catchphrases in an effort to get the proper intensity. It felt kind of stupid. Paul seemed like the only one who’d really get into the catchphrase bit—then again, he’d done the same stage raps for decades without losing an ounce of enthusiasm. Maybe to him it felt like he was pumping up an invisible crowd. Gene, unsurprisingly, seemed to enjoy imitating the poses.

But the only things that always felt entirely right to Peter were the outfits and makeup. Sure, it wasn’t bad, staring at a mostly-lineless face in the mirror before starting the day’s training, just like it wasn’t bad, diving into a punching bag without worrying about arthritis, but honestly, a couple stolen hours of youth were secondary to actually feeling like part of KISS again.

It just hadn’t felt the same over the last five years. Living together, being together—without performing together or crimefighting together. It had been like playing house in a morgue. Not always. Not every day. But the difference was palpable. The occasional jam sessions they’d do in the basement couldn’t compare to how it felt to really be working together again.

Peter was doing a few more chinups out back when he heard the familiar, giddy sounds of Ace’s laughter from further out in the backyard. Gene and Paul had already gone back inside, Gene exhausted after managing to spit about a two-foot column of fire, his best effort yet, and Paul taking the opportunity to volunteer to make dinner. Just as well.

“Pete, Pete!” Ace was bounding over, looking as apt to trip in his boots as ever. Peter immediately let go of the bar. “I got it, I got it.”

“You’ve got what?”

“I’ve got it unlocked.” And a big, goofy grin. “I had to let you know first. You’ll never believe this.”

“You’ve got your teleporting under control?”

Ace laughed.

“Even better. Trust me.”

“You got the shooting lightning with your hands thing back.”

“Better.”

“Jesus, Ace, just tell me, would you?”

“You know how we keep ending up in the Destroyer outfits, right?”

“Yeah?”

They weren’t bad outfits, exactly. They’d been famous enough to be reprised for the Reunion tour. Peter hadn’t ever minded his any, at least, even if the jumpsuit did feature a gigantic bedazzled arrow pointing straight to his crotch.

“I figured out how to change costumes.”

Peter couldn’t bite back a groan.

“That’s what you’ve got unlocked?”

“Hey, it’s great! You haven’t even seen yet! Look, look, which one do you want? C’mon, I’ll let you pick. Love Gun? Dynasty?”

“KISS’ first tour.”

“You’re no fun, man,” Ace retorted, but he nodded, idly cracking his knuckles. For a second, nothing happened. Then there was a flash of blue smoke, and Ace was standing there in the comparatively plainer black leotard, v-shaped chestpiece, corseted belt, and lightning-bolt boots from their first tour, looking intensely pleased with himself. “What do you think? Pretty good, right?”

Peter managed a few mildly begrudging claps, eyes locked on Ace’s waist. Fuck, he’d forgotten how skinny the guy used to be. The corset belt just accentuated it. If Ace noticed where he was looking, though, he didn’t acknowledge it, breathing out a low sigh.

“You’re not excited.”

“Look, Ace, changing outfits is not gonna help us fight—”

“I think it is gonna help us fight.” Ace’s face was scrunched up slightly. “See, I thought about it. Why Destroyer? We didn’t completely quit the crimefighting gig until, well.”

“Until I left.”

“Yeah. And that was in ’80. Destroyer was ’76.” Rocking back and forth on his heels like a Sunday School kid, clearly unused to this costume’s boots, Ace grabbed his arm. “Think about it. What happened in ’76?”

“You got married.”

“Well, yeah, but—nah, c’mon, Peter, I thought you’d get it right off. ’76 was when we came out with ‘Beth.’ When we started getting really huge.”

Peter nodded, still baffled.

“It was the last hurrah before things fell apart, y’know? It was the last time we were really all cool with each other, all four of us. That’s why Destroyer’s what we got stuck with. And I’ll bet that’s at least part of why all our powers aren’t doing so hot.” Ace squeezed Peter’s arm. “We’re in stasis.”

“You think that’s really it?”

“I think we gotta… okay, lemme put it this way. I think we all gotta trust each other more.”

“Ace, we trust each other plenty. You and me, we—”

“Yeah, see, that’s the problem. ’S not just you and me. It’s Gene and Paul, too.” Ace paused briefly, letting go of Peter’s arm. “We always kinda acted like we were on one side of the fence and they were on the other, and—”

“Aren’t we?”

“Uh-uh. Can’t work like that anymore. Four who are one, Pete.”

“What, do you want us all to have some stupid heart-to-heart bullshit sessions?”

Another puff of blue smoke. Another costume change. This one to the loose silver dress he’d worn during the Hotter than Hell photoshoot. Peter stared, shaking his head, but Ace shrugged amicably. “Nah. We’re just gonna swap room assignments. Lemme go tell Gene.”

Peter hadn’t shared a bed with Paul since 1974, and every moment spent lying two feet from him now only reminded him of why.

It wasn’t that Paul drooled or snored or anything like that. He even kept his hands and his hard-ons to himself. Peter couldn’t recall ever waking up to Paul sleepily attempting to spoon him. No, Paul just…

Given too much proximity, Paul just got on his nerves. And the feeling was mutual. And the feeling had been mutual, off and on, since about 1980.

It hadn’t always been that way. They used to go on vacations together back in the seventies. Hawaii, France, all sorts of shit like that. Used to spend hours talking on the phone when they weren’t on tour, like high school girls. Paul had almost been some kind of needy but semi-sweet little brother to him, until Peter’s cocaine habit had turned into an obsession, Peter’s song had turned into their biggest hit, and Paul’s fragile ego couldn’t take any of it. That was Peter’s opinion, at least.

KISS’ downward spiral turning into an outright crash landing after Peter’s firing probably had a lot to do with it, too, at least on Paul’s part. Gave him someone concrete to point to as the beginning of the end. Peter hadn’t exactly watched with relish as KISS sunk under the weight of its own leather heels without him, at least not for those first few years—he’d been too busy watching his own would-be solo career implode. At least KISS was still able to release albums, even if their sales were depressing as hell. Half of Peter’s records couldn’t even get a U.S. release.

He and Paul didn’t really talk to each other much the whole rest of that decade. Instead, they’d sniped at each other through the press over everything from drug use to (lack of) musical talent starting in the late eighties, made vague amends just in time for the Reunion Tour, and then… well, then, they’d unleashed their autobiographies on each other and the world like a plague of mosquitos. Committed to print every single instance either of them could think of that made the other one look like a hack, a degenerate (not overly difficult), or worse. Peter liked to think Paul had given him plenty of material with each pre-concert pants-stuffing and his tendency to doodle disembodied, veiny dicks while on tour. Unfortunately, Paul had shot right back with more tales of Peter threatening to quit the band and sabotaging concerts than Peter could count.

The too-accurate-to-be character assassinations didn’t make things tense in the house anymore, but to say they weren’t something they were both still sore about would’ve been a lie.

Of course, it didn’t help that Paul currently had a large, framed poster of himself mounted on his bedroom ceiling. It also didn’t help that the whole room smelled faintly of cologne. Or that there was a clear dent in the wall from those stupid FER extracurriculars of his.

Peter had turned in early, or tried to. Paul had actually seemed amicable, at first, moving a bunch of sketches out of the bedroom and dusting off the nightstand. Confirmation of what Peter already long since knew. Paul still didn’t actually sleep in his own room.

He wondered how Ace and Gene were doing. Ace had always really hated sharing hotel rooms with Gene because of how much of a slob he was, but most of Ace’s animosity towards the guy had been a front at best. Honestly, Ace had always kind of dug Gene, though why, Peter didn’t know. Probably because Gene wasn’t neurotic like Paul or hotheaded like Peter himself was. Probably because Gene was as close to well-adjusted as a rockstar could manage. Gene saving Ace from drowning twice on tour probably hadn’t hurt.

Now here Peter was, lying in bed with just the lamplight on, not sure whether to be looking at Paul-on-the-ceiling or the actual Paul next to him. Ceiling Paul was in full Starchild makeup, of course—with his cheek resting against a blood-streaked guitar, looking doe-eyed and winsome for the camera. Actual Paul was decidedly worse for wear and tear and smelled like toothpaste.

“Why is that even here?” Peter had to point. Unnecessarily.

“Pretty beautiful guy, right?” Paul grinned. “I used to have a mirror on the ceiling back in California.”

“Used to? What, did you start scaring yourself?”

Paul bristled.

“Erin said it was a little embarrassing.”

“A little?” Peter shook his head. “I think the poster’s worse. I got two pairs of eyes staring at me from different directions.”

“Just pretend it’s a threesome. I’ll even do the vocals.”

“Fuck, no. Take that thing down.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I put it there myself—”

“I don’t care. I’m not sleeping with both of you.”

Paul started laughing, and got up, digging around under the bed and yanking out a sketchbook. He tore part of a page out, then wandered off, returning a minute or two later with a roll of tape.

“Cheer up, I’m about to fix it.” Peter watched as Paul stood up on the bed and started taping the piece of paper to his own face on the wall. Peter exhaled, vaguely relieved, until Paul climbed back into bed properly and he realized—

“You left the eyes!”

“Well, yeah, I always thought they were the best part—”

“Paul, you fucking egomaniac! Cover up the whole thing!”

“If you don’t wanna see it, then turn off the lamp.”

Peter had been about to do it, but Paul’s stare on him was so amused that he kept the lamp on out of spite. Paul kind of shrugged and stretched, eyes moving back to the poster on the ceiling before long.

“We’re getting a lot done, I think. I’m proud of us.”

“You’re proud of Gene.”

“I’m proud of you, too, Peter.” He paused. “I am. I’m proud of all of us.”

“Forget it. Every time you force out a compliment, it still sounds as canned as Fancy Feast.”

“Pete, I’m trying here.” Paul shifted. God, he was directing every single comment up at the ceiling. Frustrating as all hell. It just made Peter stare at him all the harder as Paul continued. “I think Ace is right. I think we won’t be able to do any real superhero shit until we fix our relationships.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They’ve been better. You remember when we first talked about moving to Connecticut during that one board meeting?”

“Yeah, ’cause we’d save so much a year on taxes if we were living there instead of in New York.” Despite himself, Peter couldn’t help but laugh.

“We were gonna go all in and buy one house together. But the board shot us down. They said that was too obvious an abuse of a loophole and we’d just pop in like it was a vacation home. Said it wouldn’t fly for state taxes. Thing is, we probably would’ve done it, back then. We would’ve actually lived together, at least sometimes.”

“We’re living together now, Paul, I dunno if you noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Paul was still looking away. At the bookcase now, instead of the ceiling. His voice was softer. “I’m real grateful.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah.” Paul shifted. “Look, I… I was a mess. After. Shit, I’m still not doing great. If Gene hadn’t come over that night five years ago, I…”

“You wouldn’t have.” Peter swallowed. “Hell, no. You’d never deprive the world of your own face like that. Much less yourself.”

Paul laughed softly.

“Whole lot of good a face does without a family. I was thinking about it. I was thinking, I finally had my life together and now I don’t. Now it’s gone. Now it’s all gone.” An exhale. “Thank God I couldn’t shut my mind off long enough to get out of bed. Much less do anything serious. I just—lay there. Then there’s Gene pulling up to my place and pretty soon I hear him running up the stairs, yelling because I haven’t answered the phone. Says he knows I haven’t disappeared. He throws the bedroom door open, right, and tells me to get my ass out of bed and—”

“And?”

“And get in the car, because we were going to your place.” Paul took another breath. “I ask him, how do you even know Peter’s alive, and he says Ace just updated his twitter and he’s over there with you now. Then he throws me his phone and tells me to text both of you right now and say we’re coming.”

“I barely remember when you showed up.” Paul flinched, and Peter added, quickly, “It’s like you said. I was pretty fucked-up, too.”

“You sure were. When I walked in, you were wrapped up in a blanket next to the fridge.”

“Paul, you wandered around in that stupid blue bathrobe for two weeks. Ace was trying to attach car fresheners to your neck.”

Without turning to look at him, Paul flipped him off. Peter returned the gesture.

“Shit, forget me trying to tell you something important, then.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to being fucked-up after—”

“Okay, okay, fine. You got me. Anyway, that whole drive over… it was… God, it was horrible. Gene’s not that great at driving and… all those cars everywhere, just crashed alongside. I don’t know how we made it. At first, I kept trying to grab the wheel, can you believe that? I was so sick of seeing everything because every empty car made me think of—”

“I know. I know, Paul.” Peter swallowed. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do have to tell you. I haven’t told you anything in nearly forty years.” Paul shook his head. His dark eyes were watering up. “Gene had to pull over at one point. He looked like he wanted to smack me. He told me my parents hadn’t fled Nazi Germany and his mother hadn’t survived the Holocaust just for me to try and kill us both. I told him he was a fucking asshole. But after that, I stopped trying to take the wheel.”

Peter didn’t know how to answer, or even if he should try. Part of him wanted Paul to just shut up, not bring any memories of five years ago back. Not to dare. Every time he thought about it for too long, every time he thought about Gigi, watching her fade out in front of him, calling Jennilee, calling Lydia, getting nothing—nothing—he wanted to vomit, even now. He wanted to smash up everything, everything, in a desperate, stupid bid to bring them back, or bring him to them.

He probably would’ve by now. Would’ve been another of those cracked-up hellraisers that’d committed suicide by cop or by mob by the millions, if it wasn’t for Ace coming up to his door, and Paul and Gene following suit only a day later. He could still conjure up Ace rapping at the door, yelling his name. Deep down, he’d known all along that Ace hadn’t disappeared, the same as Gene had known Paul hadn’t. A connection that went past living together on the road for over a decade. A connection that went past friendship and supernatural talismans and into something else. Peter’s throat felt heavy and hot, each swallow harder to manage.

“He saved you.”

Peter heard a sharp inhale of breath from Paul, and then, finally, quietly—

“Gene’s been saving me for fifty years. He still doesn’t realize it.”

“You saved him, too.” Peter shook his head. “You never really give yourself credit for anything that isn’t KISS.”

“I dunno about that.” Paul pointed dryly to the poster on the ceiling.

“Still KISS. Have you ever taken a picture of yourself out of the makeup that you actually liked?”

“Don’t change the subject, Pete—”

“I’m just curious—”

“Don’t be. Look, what I’m trying to say is, I owe Gene a lot. I… I owe you and Ace a lot, too.” He shifted. “I want you to know that.”

“Just the last couple years. I know we’re not in Gene’s category.”

“Now you’re the one not giving himself enough credit.” Paul closed his eyes. “You know, after you guys were gone, I got the same question every damn interview for years. ‘Do you miss Ace and Peter in the band? Do you miss KISS being on top? Do you miss crimefighting?’ And every time, I’d have to say no. And every time, I’d be lying through my teeth.”

“That was always a stupid question. We all missed KISS being on top.”

“That wasn’t all I missed.” Paul hesitated. “I had a better time when it was the four of us than I did with anybody else. Here or onstage.”

“I did, too."

Paul was back to looking at him again, tongue just slightly past his lips for a brief moment, a nervous gesture Peter hadn’t seen out of him in years.

“I’m sorry about calling you a miserable asshole in my book,” Paul said quietly.

“I’m sorry I called you a bisexual pants-stuffer in mine.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Neither were you.”

---

They talked a long time after that. Long enough that Peter forgot to turn off the lamp before falling asleep, and by the time they both woke up and slogged down the stairs, it was past ten and Ace had—actually made breakfast. Gene was at the table scarfing down a stack of omelets three deep. He’d added maple syrup like a heathen, turning the omelets into islands soaking in the sticky gunk.

“Curly,” Ace drawled out, waving with his spatula. “Didja have fun last night?”

Peter had come down in nothing but pajama bottoms. Paul had just tied his bathrobe around his waist. Neither of them had shaven. Both of them looked like they were ten seconds from passing out in their chairs. Peter managed a noncommittal noise that wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy Ace.

“C’mon, I gotta have details, man. Paulie, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Don’t call me Paulie before noon,” Paul mumbled, reaching for his glass of orange juice. “Just give me an omelet.”

“Was it that bad?” Gene, through a mouthful of food. “Ace and I had a good time.”

“I haven’t stayed up past four in probably twenty-five years, unless I was on tour,” Peter managed.

“That’s only because you were smart enough to stop having kids in the eighties,” Paul said with a grimace. “Ace, you’re about to burn—”

“I got it, I got it,” Ace said, flipping the two omelets over, smushing them both briefly with the spatula before dropping one each on Peter and Paul’s plates with a wink. “We’re getting somewhere. I can feel it.”

Peter nodded, then dug into his omelet. Not too bad, surprisingly. Fluffy enough, and mixed in with enough bacon and cheese that the near-burnt exterior was forgivable.

“Costumes and powers and press releases. That’s where we’re headed,” Gene intoned dreamily, gulping down a glass of apple juice.

“We’re going to do a press release?” Peter asked. Immediately, he glanced accusingly at Paul, except Paul looked as bewildered as Peter felt.

“Gene, seriously? That’s a terrible idea. Let’s just approach Stark directly like we’ve been saying all along.”

“Since when does KISS do anything without fanfare?” Gene reached over the table, grabbing the maple syrup, thoroughly drowning what little was left of his omelets. “I’ve been in contact with a couple of journalists. We might get that second Rolling Stone cover.”

“I don’t care about the cover—”

“C’mon, Gene’s right.” Ace was flipping another few omelets as he spoke. One was dribbling and burning onto the stovetop. “We could use the attention here. Make us seem legit.”

“You want to do a tell-all? Demonstrations?” Paul shook his head. “Nobody would believe that stuff out of us anymore. They’d say it was just theatrics.”

“Exactly. They’ll think we’re being tasteless. Or trying to figure out if anyone wants to see us tour,” Peter said, eating another bite of his omelet. Beside him, Paul winced.

“We’re always tasteless,” Gene retorted. “It’s our trademark.”

“No, our trademark is being shills. Well, yours and Paul’s, anyway—”

“Pete—” Gene started again, then shook his head. “Listen. I’m not saying we have to do it now. And I’m not saying it has to be a big deal. But we need to let the public know we’re back, and we better do it soon.”

Soon turned out to be two weeks later. Not even the Rolling Stone cover they’d coveted years ago, either. Instead, all they’d ended up with was a short blurb of an online article. Up top was a vintage photo of them in full costume, posing around New York. Beneath the text was a picture taken just for the article—out of costume, standing with their arms around each other. The peace sign Ace was flashing with his free hand didn’t make the disparity any less depressing.

KISS Makes Up (Once More, With Feeling)

The acrimonious quartet of sometimes-superheroes, mostly-rockstars has been out of the public eye for the bulk of the decade. Best known for their outlandish costumes, Kabuki-style makeup and bombastic shows, KISS’ latest exposure leaves much to be desired. The glam-rocker baby boomers met with Associated Press—customary platform heels of yesteryear swapped for crocs and loafers—right in their backyard.

“Oh, we’re prepping for a final tour right now,” bassist and proverbial face of the band, Gene Simmons, 70, insists with a smile. “KISS is here. No stage needed.”

KISS’ most successful tenure, from ’73-’80, saw an unheralded intermingling of crimefighting and commercialism. “We’d put ourselves on anything,” frontman Paul Stanley, 67, admits. “Lunchboxes, thermoses… I can’t tell you I’m ashamed of it, because the demand was there. And in many cases, it continues to be.” While Stanley’s coy on the numbers, KISS remains profitable enough that the four original members enjoy a luxurious New Haven estate spanning eight acres. Much of their backyard space, however, is reserved for esoteric training. The lawn is covered in holes and debris, and the band refuses to offer a proper explanation.

“Let’s just say we’re getting our game faces on,” is almost all Ace Frehley, lead guitarist, 68, will admit to. “This isn’t just for the fans anymore. It’s for everybody.” Drummer Peter Criss, 73, barely elaborates, “We spent the last five years the same way everyone else did. Then we woke up.”

He isn’t clear on what waking up entails. KISS’ stint as superheroes has long been overshadowed by their rockstar antics and market oversaturation. Poor ticket sales and IRS run-ins forced a return to the makeup and spandex in the late ’90’s and the readmittance of Frehley and Criss to the group, only for the original KISS to fracture again a few years later amid infighting and contract negotiations. But if the destroyed state of their backyard is any indication, KISS is planning something—even if they’re only manufacturing their own smoke bombs.

“What the hell kind of article is this?”

“Luxurious New Haven estate, my ass, Gene. We’re here because of the taxes.”

“I know you didn’t want a big reveal, but shit, now we just look like a bunch of lunatics! Blowing up our own yard… throwing in our ages like we’ve gone senile…”

“They didn’t even mention my spaceship,” Ace muttered.

“They did, that’s the ‘debris.’” Paul closed his eyes. “We spent a whole hour with the guy and he yanks one quote from each of us. This isn’t going to make anyone take us seriously.”

“It’s not supposed to,” said Gene. “It’s just supposed to make them talk.”

“They’re not going to talk! This isn’t like the seventies, Gene! We’re not getting a follow-up interview to explain ourselves! Not unless this really blows up—”

“It doesn’t have to blow up. All we need is the right people reading it.”

Over the next few weeks, there was talk. There were snickers, at least. Peter got the groceries on his assigned day, as usual, with Ace in tow, cheerfully piling twelve-packs of soda into the cart amid the protein powders and energy bars. Ordinary enough, until the teenage girl at the check-out counter a few feet away looked at both of them smugly.

It wasn’t that Peter wasn’t used to being recognized. Despite how defeated the world had become, he’d still occasionally get asked for a selfie, even while doing the shopping. Especially when one of the others was with him. He’d oblige. They’d always oblige. Gene, Paul, and Ace hadn’t toured in five years, and for Peter, it had been even longer. Funny how being as thoroughly away from the spotlight as they’d been made them all way more receptive to what fan reaction they received.

But this wasn’t a typical fan reaction. Those, he could deal with. A guy coming up to him, telling him he’d been sober for five years now, or saying he’d gotten checked for breast cancer because of him, or a girl telling him she was named after “Beth”… all that was fine, even good. Stuff he was grateful to hear. But this girl was different. It was the sneer that threw him, the way she suddenly pointed a finger at them and waved her coworker from the other counter over. She hurried to her, they mumbled something Peter couldn’t quite get at, and then, walking up to them, said—

“We wanna see the holes in your yard.”

“The holes—”

“Yeah.”

Peter looked the girls up and down. He hadn’t been heckled since he’d done his club tours. He never had quite figured out how to take it on the chin.

“Sure. We’ll bring you up there, right, Petey?” There was Ace, abandoning the cart to get a little closer, smiling. Peter shot him an aggrieved look.

“You will? What, in your spaceship?” The first girl snorted.

“Nah, nah, it’s still out of commission. You wanna take my hand, though? Yeah, there you go, you hold hers—”

“Ace, the hell?”

“You too, Pete. Yeah, right, okay—”

Peter realized what Ace was about to do about a second before he saw an abbreviated flash of Ace’s old Destroyer costume and felt his guts try to lurch past his skin. Then all he saw was their backyard—Paul and Gene nowhere in sight, thank God. Peter let go of Ace’s hand as soon as the lingering, nauseous feeling from the teleport passed, indignation spreading like butter across his face.

“What the fuck? Ace, you can’t teleport a couple of kids just because they made fun of us!”

“Oh, my God, oh, my God!” one of the girls screamed, grabbing the other one, who looked as if she was seconds from puking. “Where are we? We’re not on break! We’ve gotta get back to the store!”

“Didn’t you wanna see the holes in the yard first?” Ace sounded as lazily amiable as ever, already pointing at the nearest lawn damage. “I think that one was Gene’s, I dunno how, but—”

“Where’d the other fat, old guy go?”

Ace started cackling and waved his fingers as the girls stared.

“Holy shit,” one of them whispered, stumbling backwards. “Holy shit!”

“Ace, put them back!” Peter yelled.

“Okay, okay…” Ace reached over, offering his hand back to the girls. “I’ll getcha back, just—"

Two cut-off yelps and the three of them vanished. A few minutes later, Ace popped back into the yard alone, bags in hand.

“I got the groceries, Petey.”

“What about the car, idiot?”

Ace winced.

“I can’t teleport a car, man. That’s a couple thousand pounds, y’know? It was kinda hard just lugging you and the girls, if I’m gonna be honest…”

“Then drive it.” Irritably, Peter dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Ace, who barely managed to catch them. So much for all the training. Ace sighed.

“Pete, sometimes you’re really no fun.” Fifteen minutes later, Peter watched from the window as Ace pulled back into the driveway. He was back in the house before long, out of costume, stepping right into the kitchen where Peter was waiting, plastic bags full of groceries still on the table.

“Why did you do that, Ace?”

“They were pissing you off.” Ace shrugged, then noticed the table. “Hey, you didn’t put up the groceries.”

“I brought them in. Figured you could handle them after that stunt.”

Ace looked as if he were about to argue, but then he just shook his head.

“All right, Cat, I’ll get ’em.” He stretched absently, yanking out a pack of Pepsi. “That shit takes a lot out of you, a couple times in a row like that… I needed the practice.”

“You could’ve practiced with us anytime! Hell, you have!” Granted, the last few times had gotten a bit more involved than Peter might have liked. About a week prior, Ace had teleported himself and Peter both to the dim destination of “as far as he could go.” That destination had turned out to be an apple orchard in Pennsylvania. Whatever else was going on, Ace’s powers were definitely getting stronger.

Peter’s were, too. He’d never had as much to show for them, nothing too flashy about most of what he’d been granted, but he had managed to slice the last several rubber dummies to shreds without much effort. Gene was about to cause infernos now. Paul’s eye beam had mostly gotten its old range back. Peter didn’t honestly know if all that was enough, if it could make them formidable enough for the likes of Stark and whatever was left of the Avengers to take notice, but he hoped it could be.

“I know. Guess it was kinda mean, but… I wanted to try it on someone who wasn’t expecting it, y’know? In case we had to fight somebody and I had to take them out of the area or whatever.”

“Is that why you made us all hold hands?” He’d never needed to before. Proximity was enough for Ace to catch someone else in a teleport.

“Nah. I just wanted them to feel like they had something to do with it.” Ace grinned. “And maybe I wanted to cop a feel off of you.”

“All you did was hold my hand, asshole.”

“Aw, Petey. I had to keep it classy.” And a wink. “… There’s another reason, too.”

“For the hand-holding?”

“Nah, for borrowing the girls.” Ace stuffed a box of protein powders into a cabinet with a wince. “Gene was right about the article bit. But it never was the press that got us started in the first place. ’S always been word of mouth. ’S always been us doing stupid shit like wander around Manhattan in full fucking costume before people even knew who we were. You really think those chicks are gonna stay quiet about what they just saw?”

“Ace, if we end up with a bunch of assholes stopping by the yard—”

“Hey, hey. We gotta play the game. We said KISS was back. Now we just have to prove it.”

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #peter criss #gene simmons #ace frehley #paul stanley

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fashiontrendin-blog · 7 years

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How to Wear a Bright Yellow Blouse 5 Days in a Row

http://fashion-trendin.com/how-to-wear-a-bright-yellow-blouse-5-days-in-a-row/

How to Wear a Bright Yellow Blouse 5 Days in a Row

Born in London and raised in Ghana, Natasha Nyanin is the creative mind behind The Ecstatic Flash. In this installment of 5 Days 5 Ways, she chronicles the journey of one yellow Tome blouse over the course of a recent work trip to Costa Rica. Scroll down to see how it went.

Despite my desire to be the perfectly put-together traveler who struts through the airport clad in imperturbable grace, I am, instead, the one you see at the check-in counter immersed in my hurried ritual of rearranging my clothes in an attempt to defy the laws of physics and reduce the weight of my luggage — because I am also the one too cheap to pay the penalty.

I am Natasha Nyanin, a writer and creative consultant who does not know how to pack light. When Amelia approached me with the idea of styling one item of clothing five different ways for five days, the memory of hand-carrying a six-pound silk taffeta robe aboard a flight from Casablanca to New York was still fresh. I thought it would present the perfect opportunity to whittle down the weight of my luggage on a work trip to Costa Rica.

Of course, I picked the lightest item possible — a yellow silk Tome shirt with blouson sleeves — and then proceeded to weigh down my luggage with myriad options with which to style it. So, you see, I defeated myself from the onset. At least I had an excuse: Four projects, one story to research and a wedding to attend in the space of five days demanded a girl have her options. Photographer Colby Blount and I stayed at Florblanca resort in Santa Teresa, Costa Rica: a conglomeration of villas a stone’s throw from the ocean’s roar. Inspiration abounded.

Day 1: Travel Day

I am living what I like to call my “Year of Yellow,” and as such, the hue had to make its unalloyed debut in the drama that is Travel Day. I usually travel in some form of a suit, but I don’t always do so as an incarnation of Katt Williams. This time I did, going full-tilt monochrome yellow in a Zara suit and comfortable Rothy’s flats. My travel suits are, in my private little fantasy, a petit homage to Yves Saint-Laurent’s Le Smoking and the influence that moment in fashion had on me personally.

The Tome blouse here exists only as a whisper, a suggestion, yet enough to make a statement. To address the small matter of the bitter New York cold, I broke up the sunny color and added texture with a brown teddy bear coat from Ducie London.

Most importantly: How was I going to transport a working closet to Costa Rica? Enter three carry-ons that I find as perfect in their practicality as their presentation: Lotuff Leather’s No. 12 Weekender is androgynous and all-American; Mansur Gavriel’s new travel bag speaks deliciously to my delusions of being a minimalist; and the suitcase sample from Globe-Trotter is steeped in history and yet somehow quite modern. I find each piece of luggage speaks to aspects of my personality and the confluence of the three serves the practical purpose of allowing me to pack far more than I could ever need for a short trip. And so the stage is set for the comedy that is traveling United Airlines.

Day Two: Lounging

To say I have no aversion to color would be an understatement, but I live for the simplicity of monochrome ensembles in crisp white or dominating black. Our home for the stay, Florblanca, inspired this look, which brings together the freshness of white and the joie de vivre of print: large swaths of uninterrupted color pitted against a swirl of pigments in a headwrap by Brazilian swimwear designer Adriana Degreas. The wrap skirt, with its whimsical ruffles, seemed apropos for Costa Rica. The white Zara crop top (acquired for £5 in a long-ago sale), worn back-to-front as a bolero, was a spur-of-the-moment addition as we walked out of the door of our villa.

Day 3: Married to Yellow

“I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way.” – John Keating, Dead Poets Society

This corny quote is a cardinal point in my style. I don’t have a huge wardrobe — in fact, most of it’s in storage as I make a transition from my life as a Centers for Disease Control Scientist in Atlanta to a What-Exactly-Am-I? in New York. So I re-wear my clothes with pride, and am not married to what an item is advertised to be. I wore this yellow dress — which my Atlanta seamstress, Miss Anh, fashioned out of six yards of Marc Jacobs silk chiffon in the spirit of Rihanna’s ruby red Giambattista Valli dress — while Colby and I were working in Tuscany last autumn. When I was invited to an old friend’s wedding in Costa Rica (which I used as an impetus to devise this working trip), I loved the idea of wearing it against the greens and blues of a tropical beach.

Inspired by the prior day’s look, I decided the Tome top could be worn as a headwrap to re-contextualize the dress. (One of the best things about being African is learning the joy of headwraps at an early age.) I don’t wear earrings often, but I find this pair, given to me by Brazilian jewelry designer Bia Daidone, to be elegant with an unmistakable presence.

Day 4: Horsing Around

Borrowing Delpozo’s notion of unexpected color-play (or perhaps inspired by a pack of Starburst), I paired this geometric jacket, which the brand loaned me, with yellow and pink and ecru and navy and a hint of maroon for an afternoon spent riding through the Costa Rican rainforest. In the spirit of equestrianism, I thought the Mansur Gavriel travel bag would make a fine complement; it reminds me of the rigidity of saddles and saddle bags. I did not wear heels to ride (though the ridiculous idea did cross my ridiculous mind), but had I been sporting this ensemble on any other terrain, my much-loved navy No.21 bow mules would have been the shoe of choice. For all its cliché-laden implications, riding my mare, Blanquita, against the backdrop of the setting sun was the perfect benediction to our quick stay in Costa Rica.

Day 4, Part 2: Not Fishing for Compliments

In my opinion, there’s little quite so ladylike as a blouson sleeve. Ocean-bound for a morning of fishing, comfort and sophistication had to find their middle ground. The Tome top is worn here in its purest form over a white, wide-legged jumpsuit by Cinq à Sept. The hope with this look is that sophistication is borne of simplicity. But still, for a bit of added spice (and to keep the sun out of my eyes when I wasn’t saving the hat from the wrath of the wind), I added this jumbo hat seen ubiquitously atop the heads of market sellers in Ghana, which I implored my mother to source and send to me before a trip to Chile last year. Who knew yellow matched tuna so well?

Day 5: City Mouse

Back in the city and hitting the pavement running with one more day of yellow-blousing to go, I reverted to my uniform. I wear these black stretch leggings from Club Monaco like it’s my job, just as I do these sensible Jimmy Choo boots, which are the only pair of boots I own.

To mask the unflattering waistband of the leggings and to break up the blouse and the bottoms, I added a velvet and gold belt from Tara Jarmon, which I adore for its vintage-feeling clasp. But this look is truly anchored by the coat, which was made for me in 24 hours by the sweetest seamstress in Fès, Morocco named Bouchra. I’d been ambling through the medina searching for lining for a cape (long story) when the fabric merchant, Rais, pulled out 2.5 meters of striped wool to entice me. The minute I saw the wool, all I could see was a coat, and so Bouchra sewed the dream into reality.

Wearing the same blouse all week was more than an exercise in creativity, it was a study in sustainability: a reminder that I can make so much out of one thing. Most importantly, having to analyze my approach after the instinctive process of throwing things together made me realize just how incidental clothes are in my life (well, as incidental as something so deliberate can be). I’ve always thought of getting dressed as a situation in which the whole transcends the sum of its parts. Yet, in parsing the parts, I found that the memory each piece carries within it — whether a crazed day in Fès or the sound of a piano at my first Delpozo fashion show — holds the most water. Realizing that these pieces culled from all over are the threads that link my world and dissolve its borders brought me so much joy. It reminded me of my favorite quotes from The English Patient:

“We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we’ve entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we’ve hidden in – like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. Where the real countries are. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men…That’s what I’ve wanted: to walk in such a place with you. With friends, on an earth without maps.”

Photos by Colby Blount. Follow Natasha at @natashanyanin.

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