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ohblackdiamond · 5 years

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times upon this star (gene/paul, nc-17)

Amid KISS’ faltering fortunes in the late eighties, Paul confronts Gene.

There’s this dream he keeps having. They’re in the studio again, the old gang again. Ace and Peter looking affable, maybe almost sober. They’re recording demos at The Electric Lady.

Ace is whistling off-key between songs, a wad of chewing gum in his mouth. His guitar work is flashier than it’s been in years, flippant imperfection, and Peter isn’t asking for ideas on the drum fills. It’s quiet work, too quiet, not much talking except for when someone decides they need to start over. No bickering or bitching, just pure focus, the way things used to be when they were hungry for it, really hungry for it, and sixty bucks a week was a princely sum to do what they loved.

Paul’s guitar feels as worthless as a lead pipe in his hands and he keeps missing cues, but no one says a word. His fingers are slick against the strings and his voice doesn’t have its usual strength. It’s like he’s trying to sing through a vat of molasses. Nobody comments. He’d think they didn’t notice, except they glance at each other every so often, maybe in concern, maybe in pity.

“I don’t remember this one,” Paul finally confesses, and Peter glances at him blithely, sort of smiles.

“You should. You wrote it.”

“I don’t remember it at all.”

Ace repeats the intro and then waits; they all wait, standing around him like his teachers in elementary school, hovering at his desk, expecting an answer when he never heard the question. Pay attention, Stanley. You’re brighter than this. We know you’re brighter than this. He’s cornered. He’s smothered.

“Can you get it back?” Gene asks, and he doesn’t sound concerned, doesn’t sound concerned at all, and Paul wakes up in a cold sweat.

***

It fades, though; it always fades. Morning always comes, or early afternoon, and he finds his off-tour routine again, a workout, a shower, a fussy half-hour just picking out clothes. A call to Pam, whose indifference chews through his ego like a termite infestation. Lunch and dinner and then he haunts the more exclusive L.A. clubs with the regularity of a dialysis patient. The crowd’s getting younger, or maybe he’s just getting older. Next year forty’ll stare Gene square in the face, and Paul’s not as far behind as he’d like to be.

Too old for this. Too old to be this lonely, and too young to feel like this much of a failure. After half an hour on the dancefloor he heads to the club’s restroom just to check his reflection, retouch his eyeliner. Hope for something new. He’s surprised when he sees Gene walk out of a stall through the corner of his eye as he’s dragging his fingers through his sweaty curls, trying and failing to revitalize them. Gene’s no drinker and he’s even less of a dancer, so he must be here for the same reason as Paul himself is: just looking for a night’s lay.

“Gene,” he says, and he feels a little warmer, even turning around from the mirror to greet him. “I didn’t think you were still in town.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You keep yourself busy.”

Gene shrugs and washes his hands.

“Want a wingman?” Paul says nonchalantly. “I mean, not that you’re exactly picky, but…”

“Hell, no.” Gene’s looking at the mirror now, frowning at his own face. Paul wonders if it’s for the same reason as him, if age is starting to worry him, too, but then Gene just wipes a stray smear of lipstick off his cheek with a paper towel. “I know how you operate, Paul. You’ll duck out.”

“And leave you with both of them. Not that bad a deal.” He’s trying too hard to keep it easy, keep it light. The strain’s just beneath the surface. Gene, thankfully, doesn’t seem to question it, apart from a slightly furrowed brow. “Come on, why not? Let’s talk up some girls together.”

It’s as close as he can manage to begging for a dose of that old nostalgia. He never shared girls with Gene the way he had on occasion with Ace and Peter. Gene’s appetite, however enormous, was oddly vanilla, or maybe he just didn’t want competition. But they had, early on, helped each other out, before the girls became something automatic, something ordinary. Back when they had to share hotel rooms during their first few tours. “Gene majored in theology, he’s educated—no, really—” he remembered saying once to some giggly, half-high college girl after a show. “And a cunning linguist, just look at that tongue—” God, somehow the old, stupid line had worked well enough that Gene had made it with her that night, evidenced by the moans he heard from his hotel room a couple hours later and Ace’s disgusted banging on the door (“get another room, Geno, Jesus—”).

“I’m not here for that tonight.” Gene pauses. “There’s a producer here I’m trying to meet. You’ve probably heard of him, he’s—”

That shit again. Paul can feel his expression twitch before he forces it back into stiff neutrality. It’s a face he’s spent years perfecting, through all the mocking interviews and press conferences, utterly straight and utterly unruffled, except it’s paper-thin in front of Gene. Or it should be.

“Okay. Cool.”

“Don’t get pissy. It’s business.”

“I said it’s cool, Gene.” Paul pockets his eyeliner and heads to the door without a wave. “Have fun schmoozing.”

He doesn’t wait on Gene’s apology. He knows he won’t get one as he gets back to the dancefloor, feeling seedy, feeling wasted even without a drop of alcohol. There’s a girl, all fluffy red hair and a preening little smile, and he starts to chat her up on automatic, smooth over his frustration in the easiest way he can.

He stops when he realizes she has no idea who he is.

***

He doesn’t even turn on the radio on the drive home, no more than twenty minutes later. The housekeeper’s gone for the night, but she remembered, at least, to leave the light on in his bedroom. Another sentimental holdover from when he was on the road so often he wanted every hotel room to feel like home, at least a little, wanted the light on to greet him when he came back. Back then, the light was rarely the only one welcoming him back.

It’s too early for bed still, but he finds himself there anyway, lying on top of the covers. A month ago, during the shoot for The Decline of Western Civilization, that bed was covered with blonde Playboy models. Hired hands all. “You can do it,” he’d said to the camera, lazy and smiling as the girls sprawled over him like vultures to a carcass. “I did,” he’d said, the implication obvious—you can make it, you can have what I have. Another fucking lie, as potent as a morphine drip. He hadn’t made it. Hadn’t been a blazing success, much less a legend. Just a spark for everyone else to copy. He hadn’t done a damn thing but kept KISS on life support for the last eight years.

He doesn’t hear the car pull up, but he sees the lights from the window. It’s Gene’s. Paul comes downstairs, has the door open before Gene can even ring the bell.

“Get anywhere with that producer?”

Gene doesn’t take the bait.

“Far enough.”

“Are you going to come in?”

“I can only come where I’m invited.” Gene says it straight-faced enough that Paul nearly cracks a smile at the reference despite himself.

“Come in, then.” Paul shuts the door behind him. Gene makes himself at home, walking to the living room where KISS’ gold albums hang like a dead pharaoh’s playthings. He’s leaning in to inspect them as if he doesn’t have the same ones at home. Paul watches him from just inside the door, just watches, just waits, until Gene turns to speak.

“Paul, come here.”

He heads over to where Gene’s standing, looking tired, looking bored. Gene��s only other mode these days, looking disgusted, must be out of commission for now.

“You’re acting like I shot you. You keep acting like I shot you. Snap out of it.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve been in my band for fifteen years, Paul. Don’t tell me to shut up.”

“Your band.” Paul starts to laugh. “It’s your band now? Well, why the fuck not. Your shitty movies, your shitty marketing—your shitty band. Take it.”

Gene shakes his head, rolls his eyes.

“I don’t care what’s gotten into you, you need to calm down.”

“What’s gotten into me is my partner taking half the credit when I put in all the work. What’s gotten into me is you blowing me off for—”

“When have I turned you down, Paul? Name it. Name one tour I said no to.” Gene’s voice was starting to rise out of that customary even tone, that fake-intellectual enunciation he used to override his New York accent. Slivers of it were coming back like sea glass washing ashore. “In fact, name one concert I was even late for.”

“Name one song on the last four albums you actually fucking wrote yourself.”

Gene doesn’t answer, and somehow, that’s worse than if he’d tried to defend himself. But it just confirms what Paul’s known for years. Tossing money at some wannabe songwriters to ghostwrite his stuff. He’d get someone else out there playing bass for him if he could. And why not? KISS is a dying investment, hemorrhaging funds. A band that can’t keep its members, much less a crowd. A band that has to beg for MTV coverage. Any businessman with half a brain would cut out.

Any businessman.

But any friend—

Paul swallows.

“Forget it. Just forget it. It doesn’t matter if you’re in Hollywood or Queens. You’re still the same asshole that used to chase pennies down the street.”

There’s a flash of something like pain in Gene’s dark eyes then. Something like shame, as if he’s been ashamed of anything in years—but he is ashamed, ashamed of the scars of childhood poverty. Ashamed they’re still there, still motivating him, leaving him restless and anxious no matter his millions.

He shouldn’t feel any satisfaction in hurting Gene like that. But he does until Gene finally responds.

“And you’re the asshole that threw them.”

“Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit.”

He’s barely aware until after he’s done it that he’s pushed Gene up against the wall. Gene’s bulky, broad in a way he hasn’t been since they first met. He never works out. Never does a damn thing onstage anymore but obediently rock his head to the beat and stick his tongue out for the kids. It’s easy enough to hold him there, hand clenched around his shoulder. It’s easy enough until Gene yanks him forward, weight against strength, turns him around, and Paul’s back suddenly finds the wall. Above him, the framed gold records rattle on their mountings.

He wishes they’d shatter.

Gene’s breath is ragged against Paul’s ear. Closer than they’ve been since their last interview, pushed together like puppets on camera. Closer than they’ve been since their last concert, leaning into the same microphone.

(can you get it back)

(would you want it back)

Paul inhales the mix of cologne and sweat on Gene’s skin, so reminiscent it’s painful. His own breaths are an uneven rattle that only get faster the longer he’s pinned there, seconds that seem to stretch and tangle. He doesn’t protest—maybe that’s what Gene expects, what he wants—and doesn’t bother with a struggle. Doesn’t want to.

“KISS is all I have, Gene.”

“I know.”

“You’re all I have.”

“I know.”

Gene drops his grip on Paul’s shoulders. Quickly, Paul reaches over, grasps Gene’s wrist before he can turn away.

“Don’t go.” It’s pathetic. It’s so pathetic he wishes he could swallow the words up, but they’re spilling out like water. Any longer and he’ll be babbling like a child. Any longer and he’ll erode, past the remnants of Paul and the failed ghost of Starchild and right back to Stanley Eisen. Right back to the kid Gene first met, that fat eighteen-year-old kid with no right ear and no confidence at all.

Right back to who he always was.

“Please don’t go.” Both hands now, grabbing onto one of Gene’s arms, stroking his skin. A creature comfort he shouldn’t be so starved for. Paul can feel the flush in his face as well as he can feel the disgusting lump in his throat. Contact, just a little contact, just a little warmth. None of which he expects Gene to provide. Paul can’t even bear to look him in the eye. He knows damn well what expression has to be there, the pity, the revulsion. Gene despises weak people. Weak people like Peter and Ace, slaves to addiction. Weak people like him that couldn’t move forward and couldn’t change, kept shoving out the same desperate routines for a shrinking audience.

It’s a surprise, then, when Gene’s hand closes roughly around his. It’s a surprise when Gene’s chapped lips meet his neck and he whispers four words against his skin.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Gene’s kissing his collarbone, neither tender nor harsh but familiar, oddly familiar, as if this isn’t the first time he’s touched him like this, pushing back Paul’s hair with his other hand to expose more of his neck. Paul can’t believe it, brown eyes wide, heart pounding a hotly confused cadence. There’s no way in the hell this is happening. It doesn’t make sense. Any second now and Gene’s going to throw it all in his face, going to laugh and leave him here after all like a stupid, desperate groupie—any second, he’s just waiting on Paul to kiss back, touch back—and he won’t allow Gene that; he won’t allow Gene that—

“Gene, I’m not one of your whores.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not—I’m not giving you ammunition to hurt me.”

“Hurt you?” And now Gene’s pulled away enough to stare at him, looking bewildered. He’s still clasping Paul’s hand. “You think I’m trying to hurt you?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No! Shit, Paul, I’m trying to help!”

Unreal. Absolutely unreal. Paul wants to say Gene can’t pull that shit with him. He’s not a groupie, not a Playboy playmate. He isn’t someone who’s going to be gone in the morning; he’ll be there, defiantly there, tour after tour, album after album. Whatever happens is going to matter, and keep mattering, whether or not KISS collapses. Whether or not Paul does.

He wants to say a lot of things, but his lips meet Gene’s instead.

That’s all it takes. Gene’s claiming, already claiming, mouth hard and heavy against Paul’s, tongue probing for an entrance Paul hesitates to offer, at first. Fifteen years on the road taught him all he ever needed to know about how little an opening Gene needs to make it with a girl. But to make it with him—he’s panting already, lips parting, anticipation and anxiousness merging. He wants to know. He wants to feel. Gene’s tongue slips in easily, hot and eager, and his chest is pressed against Paul’s, bearing down on him against the wall. Paul finds his footing gradually, almost shyly, tongue flicking briefly against Gene’s mouth, but before long he’s caught up in it, too. Before long, his arms are locked around Gene’s shoulders and their hips are flush, shoving together in an erratic, desperate rhythm that’s making Paul groan and Gene chuckle lowly. The fears, the paranoia, they’re melting into simple want.

Then Gene’s hand goes to Paul’s Levi’s. Nothing bespoke, nothing custom. Just a tight pair of jeans, erection outlined and straining painfully against the fabric. Snap. Snap. Then the zipper sliding down. Paul can hear his own words reverberating in his brain, said on over a hundred stages now, the Love Gun intro—(i said to her i said i’m a little shy)

(i said honey)

“I have a bed, Gene,” he finally breathes out, and Gene laughs.

“All right.”

The light’s still on in his bedroom. Of course it is. Gene doesn’t turn it off when he walks in after Paul, and that surprises him. Even early on, Gene wouldn’t shower or get dressed with the rest of the band. Paul had suspected prudishness, or maybe even some weird intimidation. He’s never seen Gene any closer to undressed than on the seventies album covers. So he’s curious, intensely curious as he gets on the bed, starting to unbutton his shirt too quickly to be teasing.

Not quickly enough for Gene, who’s on top of him almost immediately, finishing with the last of the buttons. No undershirt beneath—he’d been looking to get laid, of course—and Gene’s fingers course down Paul’s hairy chest, admiring the muscle beneath. Paul shivers, reaches out to start peeling off Gene’s shirt, except Gene brushes his hand back. Paul’s lips purse, and he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna fuck with your clothes on.”

“Just want to get a better look at the view first.”

“You’ve seen that v—ah.” Gene’s hands are back to Paul’s jeans, tugging them down along with his boxers. Paul kicks them to the floor, watching his bandmate with a sudden nervousness, glancing away as soon as Gene’s eyes meet his. He can feel Gene’s stare on him, traveling down from his mussed hair and streaking eyeliner down to his broad chest on down to his cock. Thoroughly exposed. He feels like those girls must when they’re being assessed, except Gene doesn’t assess, just glances and decides that a pair of tits are good enough. That’s what Paul had always assumed from the Polaroids. But there’s something Gene likes there, there has to be. There has to be because he’s starting to smile.

Being watched, if anything, is making his raging hard-on worse than ever. An audience of one he’s playing for now, an audience he never thought he’d court. Paul reaches for Gene’s slacks this time and Gene lets him, the button and zipper undone with casual deftness. He’s not wearing underwear. Like hell he was meeting a producer at the club. Right now, though, Paul can’t find it in him to mind.

“Have you done this before?”

“Fuck, no. Have you?”

“No.” Gene looks vaguely surprised at the admission, stops in the middle of licking a stripe down Paul’s throat, and Paul adds, “I mean, sure, I’ve had opportunities, but…”

Gene snorts.

“Ace is a catastrophe, not an opportunity. Give me the lube, then.”

Paul has to reach out awkwardly to get it out of the bedside table without pushing Gene off him in the process. Gene’s not exactly helping things, either, still pawing all over him, exploring every inch of his skin with his tongue and fingertips, tracing the jutting contours of his hips and his flat abdomen. Every inch except his cock. It’s distracting as hell, but it’s agonizing, too. He’s never let someone rove over him like this for very long. Not Pam or his litany of one-tour-only girlfriends, certainly none of the groupies that tried to worship him for a half-hour at a time. It would have given them too much control. He’d always redirect them out of their own caresses by turning the focus back on them. Insist they were the prize he was paying homage to.

Now Gene’s doing it to him.

“Hold on—here—”

Paul’s hands are unsteady as he twists open the cap and hands it over. Gene takes the lube and finally yanks off his own shirt, throwing it on the floor. Paul’s not getting the greatest chance at taking a look at Gene from this angle yet, given he’s still bearing down on him, but he’s surprised at what he does see. Oh, Gene doesn’t hit the gym, but he hasn’t gone completely to seed, either. He’s filled out; there’s that intimidating factor to him still, that raw physicality in his presence that’s driving Paul’s pulse insane. Gene doesn’t depend on the girls or the albums or the tours to keep his ego sated. He doesn’t define himself by the trappings of the band. He just is.

Before long, Gene’s pumping Paul’s dick in a rough sort of rhythm, at first ignoring his own erection, which brushes against Paul’s leg in brief moments that turn more intentional by the second. Paul tilts his hips up desperately into the movements, letting him rut against him, grabbing his bandmate by the shoulders, by the hair, thinking Gene might not go for more, thinking Gene might back out. He can’t quell that insecurity entirely, but the bursts of pure, mounting pleasure are enough to silence it. His teeth catch Gene’s lips half on accident the second before Gene slides a slick finger inside him, and he grunts a little in surprise.

“You okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine, I’m great.”

Gene raises an eyebrow.

“You’re nervous as hell. Look, if you’re not up to this—”

“I’m up to this.” Paul exhales, manages to grin through his needy consternation. His dick’s throbbing painfully, Gene’s pause only adding to the tension. “You’re just not the girl I thought I’d be taking to bed tonight.”

“Who’s taking who to bed now?” Gene laughs, adding another finger, crooking it inside him; this time, Paul rocks into it, the pressure, the feeling of fullness weird but not unpleasant. “Lift your legs up. There, yeah.”

Paul’s fingers tighten in Gene’s hair, yanking as Gene adds another finger, splaying them, pumping in and out experimentally. He knows Gene’s just trying to prepare, but it’s maddening, the buzz in his brain only getting worse the longer he’s doing it. The vulnerability’s driving him out of his mind, but so is the need, so is the odd reassurance that Gene’s doing his dead-level best. It’s strangely nostalgic, the look of concentration in Gene’s eyes, that look he had back in Wicked Lester and in the early days of KISS, that intense dedication. Paul never would have thought that look would ever be turned toward him.

His nails bite into Gene’s bare shoulder as he tugs him forward, as if there’s any space between them left. Gene’s dick is still a heavy insinuation against Paul’s thigh, and he’s craving it, craving that fulfillment.

“Go ahead.” Paul’s voice is throaty, breaths a heavy cadence against Gene’s neck. “I’m ready.”

***

There’s this dream he keeps having. They’re in the studio again, the old gang again. Ace and Peter looking affable, maybe almost sober. They’re recording demos at The Electric Lady.

His guitar feels like an extension of his body, all exquisite power, barely leashed in, and every note from his throat is clean and effortless. Gene glances at him in approval.

“Looks like you got it back,” he says, clasping an arm around his shoulder, and Paul starts to smile.

“I think so. I think so.”

#kiss band #gene simmons #paul stanley #gene simmons x paul stanley #kiss fanfiction #paul you magnificent bastard i read your book

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sevenfists · 6 years

Note

Glasses Geno is Sid's sexuality now too...🤓❤️l

Geno was predictably enthused about the glasses, because he was enthused about everything. There was only one pair, and so after Sid was done filming his part, he had to go down the hall to find Geno, who was having his hair artfully arranged by the makeup lady. He already looked stupid but undeniably good in his grandpa sweater, and it got worse when he slid the glasses onto his face.

“How I look?” he asked, grinning at Sid. “Good, right?”

Jesus. “You look like a nerd,” Sid said, which was true.

“Like sexy nerd,” Geno said, still grinning.

“You’re a sexy librarian,” Rusty said, halfway into his Santa costume. “You work at the reference desk, and you’ve got the whole Dewey decimal system memorized.”

“That’s, uh, that’s a pretty specific fantasy there, Rusty,” Sid said.

“Rusty likes nerds!” Geno crowed, and then yelped as the makeup lady got too aggressive with the comb. He had a tender scalp and was always a baby about it.

Sid was technically done for the day, but he hung out to watch Geno film his bit, goofing around with the bar of soap and giving the camera guys a hard time. He had—okay, maybe sort of a crush on Geno, and also a lifelong appreciation for glasses, and the two were colliding now in a pretty unfortunate way.

It wasn’t, like. A fetish. He didn’t watch glasses porn or anything like that. He just liked how glasses changed a person’s face. Geno in glasses looked like someone who had a bunch of cats and houseplants, who would be interested in the podcasts Sid listened to instead of making fun of him for being boring. Like maybe he would want to spend the night and let Sid make him breakfast in the morning.

He was so screwed. He had known Geno forever, but they’d never been single at the same time before. He kept waiting for his crush to go away, but instead it was just getting worse, and after three months he was starting to feel like he needed to maybe say something to Geno, so he could get shot down and move on with his life.

“Okay, let’s do one last take from a different angle,” the director said.

“My jaw hurts!” Geno complained, laughing. “This soap’s too big, give me smaller.”

“Open wide, G,” Sid said, trying not think about other circumstances under which Geno might complain about an aching jaw.

“You think you do better? Okay, come here,” Geno said to him, holding out the soap.

“Sid’s already done his filming,” the director said.

“One take,” Sid said. “Guess I’m better at acting than you are, eh?”

Geno stared at him, eyes and mouth wide with outrage. “You—Sid!”

Nobody else was looking at him. Sid succumbed to impulse and stuck out his tongue.

Geno grinned and shook his head, and unhinged his jaw once more for the soap.

+ + +

Jen emailed them some of the raw footage a week later, when they were on the plane heading out to Vegas. Sid watched it on his phone as soon as he got the notification. Geno was really cute on a day-to-day basis, and in a playful mood, and wearing those glasses, he was custom-designed to push Sid’s buttons.

He really needed to get over this.

“You watching the Christmas video?” Tanger asked him from across the aisle. “I look great, don’t you think?”

“Hideous,” Sid said, and barely managed to dodge the pack of peanuts Tanger threw at him.

He wasn’t at all ready to play Flower, but he knew the other guys were taking their cues from him to some extent, and he had to keep it together. He managed pretty well until two-touch right before the game, when it hit him all at once. He excused himself and went to find a dark corner where he could focus on his breathing for a few minutes and get his emotions under control.

He was a little surprised when Geno came to find him. Geno was usually pretty oblivious to people’s meltdowns and didn’t offer much in the way of support. Sid didn’t have a problem with that; Geno’s job, as far as he was concerned, was keeping his own colossal emotions in check. But Geno was here now, hovering at a safe distance, frowning, his sleeves pulled down to cover his hands.

“You leave game,” Geno said.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Sid said. “Just, uh. Needed to take a breather.”

Geno drifted closer. “You upset about Flower?”

Sid exhaled shakily. “I’m fine. Just another game, eh?”

“I’m upset, too,” Geno said. He tugged on the brim of Sid’s cap and then slung an arm around Sid’s shoulders. “It’s okay to be sad. We play hard, do our best. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Sid said. Geno was so warm. Sid leaned against him, just a little.

“Come back to game,” Geno said. “Horny is cheat, we need captain for yell at him.”

Geno didn’t take his arm away as they walked back toward the two-touch commotion. Sid enjoyed it a lot, too much. His crush wasn’t easing up. He needed to say something. He knew Geno well enough that he was pretty sure Geno would let him down easy and without freaking out, but things would probably be awkward for a while. But Sid refused to pine away foolishly for months. He could handle rejection.

He would tell Geno before Christmas: get it over with, and then go home for a few days to eat his mom’s cookies and feel sorry for himself. And then he could put it behind him at last.

+ + +

Sid had decided to throw a casual holiday party for the team and his local friends. It had seemed like a great idea when he sent the invitations around before American Thanksgiving, but the day before the party, bleary after a late-night flight home from Colorado, he was tempted to text everyone and cancel.

He didn’t, and he regretted it immensely when Geno showed up for the party half an hour late and wearing glasses.

“Wow,” Hags said when Geno came into the den with a plate of food in one hand and a glass of punch in the other. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s not my fault, okay,” Geno said. “I get new contact lenses, they’re not right, I don’t know.”

“So you decided to go all Revenge of the Nerds on us?” Phil asked.

“You make fun? Fuck you, Phil!” Geno said. “It’s hurt my eyes, okay—”

Sid stopped paying attention. The glasses didn’t look much like the ones Geno had worn for the holiday video. The frames were smaller, black and square. But the effect was the same and just as devastating. Geno was wearing an ugly Christmas tree sweater that probably wasn’t ironic in the least. Sid wanted to heavily spike his punch and try to lure him beneath the mistletoe.

He wouldn’t. But he really wanted to.

He was a terrible host that evening. Geno’s sweater was probably really soft. He had taken off his shoes when he came into the house, and his socks had reindeer faces on them, Geno’s long toes stretching out the red noses. Sid kept the punch bowl filled and set out more food when the trays got depleted, but otherwise he was a distracted mess. He kept going into the laundry room to give himself a few minutes to calm down. His guests were going to think he’d picked up a stomach bug.

Geno was in the kitchen the third time Sid emerged from the laundry room. He flashed Geno a tight smile that probably looked more terrified than happy and sidled on through to the living room. But Geno followed him, and sat down on the sofa beside him, and stretched out his arm along the back of the couch, behind Sid’s shoulders.

“Okay, Sid?” he murmured, and knocked their knees together. “You quiet tonight.”

Sid forced a smile. “Fine.” Geno’s glasses really complemented the shape of his face. He looked like a good person to curl up with in front of a fireplace to drink some hot chocolate and maybe exchange a few chocolatey kisses.

He was tormenting himself. He needed to stop.

He sat stiffly beside Geno for a few minutes, holding himself carefully still so that his thigh or shoulder wouldn’t accidentally brush Geno’s. Geno was sitting really close. He didn’t move his arm away. Sid drained his glass of punch and said, “Refill,” and made his escape.

He drank enough to get giggly, which was always embarrassing, but at least it helped the night go by faster. People started to trickle out at a reasonable hour, because they had a game the next day, and Sid started cleaning up in the kitchen to hustle the stragglers along.

“You need help?” Geno asked, and Sid turned to see him in the doorway, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows, a stack of dirty plates in his hands like he was Sid’s hot and thoroughly domesticated boyfriend and wanted nothing more than to help Sid clean up after their joint holiday party.

“I, uh,” Sid said. He was too drunk for this. “I’ve got it. I’m fine. Thanks. You don’t need to help.”

“Hmm,” Geno said. He came into the kitchen and started scraping the plates into the trash. “You sure you okay?”

“Yeah,” Sid said, and then, “No.” He only had three days left before his self-imposed deadline. He might as well get it over with. “Geno, uh. I have something I need to tell you.”

Geno set down the plate he was holding and turned to face Sid, slouching against the counter. His legs were so long. He raised his eyebrows. “Okay?”

Sid’s stomach felt tight. His heart was pounding, and he felt it mostly in his belly, the artery there throbbing heavily. This was going to be so fucking embarrassing. He was grateful for the punch. “I, uh. I’m interested in you. Romantically. And I just need to tell you so I can get over it.”

“What?” Geno said. He straightened up. His face looked—

Sid ducked his head. He couldn’t bear to watch Geno’s expression. “It’s only been a few months, I haven’t been—I didn’t want it go on too long. I won’t be weird about it. But I thought I should tell you, in case I’m a little weird about it.”

“It’s glasses?” Geno asked.

Sid risked a quick glance at him. He didn’t look mad. Maybe he was smiling a little, but that wasn’t possible. “What?”

“You like glasses,” Geno said. “That’s why.”

“No,” Sid said. “I mean—I like the glasses.” His face was so hot. He was thirty, for Christ’s sake. This shouldn’t be so difficult. “But it’s not just the glasses.”

They weren’t standing too far apart. Sid’s kitchen wasn’t that big. Geno took a few steps and then he was right there. Sid felt like he was underwater, everything slowed down and refracted as Geno reached toward him and put one big hand on Sid’s shoulder. His thumb brushed the side of Sid’s neck.

“I see you look at me,” Geno said. “When we make Christmas movie. And maybe I wonder a little.”

Sid squinted at him. “Did you wear glasses tonight just to fuck with me?”

“Maybe,” Geno said. He smiled. His thumb moved again, and this time Sid couldn’t tell himself the touch was accidental. He raised his other hand and cupped Sid’s jaw. “Sid,” he said, hushed.

Sid didn’t know if there were still other people in his house. He didn’t fucking care, not when Geno was looking at him like that. He tilted his face up and hoped his expression conveyed exactly how desperate he was for Geno to kiss him. Geno was too tall for him to take matters into his own hands.

Geno breathed something that might have been Russian and bent his head, angling down toward Sid in the perfect position for kissing. But a kiss didn’t come. Geno hovered there, breathing against Sid’s lips, his long fingers so careful on Sid’s face.

Sid was shaking a little. He lifted his chin that last little bit and pressed their mouths together.

“Sid,” Geno murmured, and Sid hooked one arm around Geno’s neck to hold him in place so they could kiss for real, slow and soft. Geno’s lips were full and a little rough and nothing had ever felt this good, nothing.

When they broke apart at last, Sid turned his face against Geno’s neck and clung to him. Reckless joy welled up inside his heart. “I never thought, uh.”

Geno held him tight and close and pressed kisses against his hair. “I never think. Oh, Sid.”

“Let’s go on a date,” Sid said. “After Christmas. I’ll take you out.”

“Okay,” Geno said. He drew back and touched Sid’s cheek. His expression was as open and awed as Sid had ever seen it. Christmas had come early, and maybe every day would feel like Christmas for the rest of Sid’s life.

It was too soon to say any of that. He pressed a kiss to Geno’s jaw. “I won’t even make you wear the glasses,” he said.

#replies #shenanigans #ficlet #Anonymous #sidgeno #sevenfists replies for blacklisting purposes #don't look at me

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nomorelonelydays · 7 years

Text

anon fic submission

I just watched ten episodes too many of Grey’s Anatomy and felt the need to write something over dramatic w Sid and Geno so this happened. I didn’t know where to put it so here it is.

******

Sid hears the front door slam shut. It’s eleven at night and storming, the perfect horror movie set up. His panic only lasts for a moment, though, as he recognizes the frustrated breathing come from his foyer.

“Geno?” Sure enough, his hulking best friend stomps into the kitchen and drops into one of the bar stools with his head in his hands. Sid edges closer. “G, what happened? Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer at first, seemingly too concerned with controlling his breathing. Sid delicately lays his hand on Geno’s shoulder and immediately feels the tension there ease just a little bit.

“We break up.” It’s barely above a whisper, Sid can almost convince himself he imagined it, but no. He says it again, louder this time. “We break up.” It’s shaky and Sid can tell he’s holding back tears so he takes a seat next to Geno figuring he’ll be here for a while.

“You and Lana?” Disbelief permeates his voice, and for good reason. He thought this was it. He thought Geno had finally found someone he could be happy with. But Geno nods. “But I thought you said she was the one? It was going so great. She even went with you to Russia to meet your parents.”

“I know.” Geno almost growls. “I was there.” He takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I just frustrated. I’m think she was it. But she not agree.”

Sid rubs his hand in circles on Geno’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” That doesn’t feel like enough. He knows it’s not enough; he’s done this too many times before. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I just,” he says something in Russian that he knows Sid can’t understand. “I not mad at Lana. She say I make her feel… second cello?”

“Second fiddle.”

“Yes, that. She say she feels like that, and she not want to feel like that if we serious. So she leave.”

Sid snakes his arm fully around G’s hunched shoulders and squeezes. “I’m so so…” Geno cuts him off.

“There just always something. Nina say her parents not like me cause I too loud. Meredith say she think I not ready for commitment. Sophie tired of my accent! And now Lana. Is like no one can love me. They get to know me and they not like real me.”

“Geno! That’s not true. You know that’s not true.” What Sid wants to say next is “I love you. I’ve always loved you.” But he can’t. What he says instead is, “There’s someone out there for everyone. You just…you just have to wait for them to come along.” It’s old and it’s tired and Geno suddenly shrugs Sid’s arm off in response and stands up, pacing the kitchen. “You’ll see. You just have to wait.”

“Sid stop.” He sounds angry. Sid doesn’t understand why.

“It’ll happen Geno. Don’t…don’t give up.”

Geno stops in his tracks. “That so easy for you to say.”

“G, what? I don’t…” “You been with same guy since we were in high school! You fucking married him! You not get to say there someone out there for me. You not even have to try to find your person. Is not that easy for me. Not when the one person I want always taken. Have to find someone to fill hole in my heart.” Oh. The air freezes. Sid holds his breath. Geno looks away from Sid, focusing his attention on Sid’s oven. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I should go. Sorry, Sid.” He walks off, picking up his keys as he passes Sid without making eye contact.

“Wait, G.” He stops but he doesn’t turn around. “I…I don’t love him.” Sid watches Geno as he hears a sharp intake of breath. “Not…not anymore. Not for a long time, I think.” If Geno gets his big emotional moment, then Sid figures there’s no better time than now for him to have his. “Especially not lately. It’s hard. He’s gone so much on business trips. And…and when he’s here he’s distant. It’s like I’m not even here. Like I’m just here to check a box in his life. I just… I think I stayed with him because he was safe. Because he was someone I could point to and think, ‘he loves me, I’m lovable and there’s the proof.’ But I don’t think that’s true anymore. Not how I want it, not how I need it to be. I’m not easy. I know that. But I always thought Jack could handle it. Even that Jack loved me for all my weird whatever. But I don’t think he does. And I don’t think I do either.” Sid sighs. It felt like a shaken soda bottle that had just been opened. He hadn’t meant to say that much, but once he started he just couldn’t stop. He’d been holding it in for so long. Geno finally turns around.

“Sidnyushka…” It had been their little joke from all those years ago back when they first met in their sophomore year of high school when Sid had wanted a Russian name. Now, though. Now it felt like more. Geno takes a step forward.

“Geno, I…,” Sid closes his eyes and inhales as deeply as he can. “I love you.” There. He said it. “I’ve loved you for forever.”

“Why you never tell me?” The room feels like it drops several degrees as Geno inches even closer.

“Because…if I told you, I could’ve lost my best friend. But I also could’ve lost Jack. I…I may not be in love with him anymore but he’s still Jack. He’s constant, safe, dependable Jack. But that’s not enough anymore. I need someone I’m in love with. I need you, G. Please.”

“I can’t… Sid… I’m love you for so long, you not understand. Ever since we won the hockey state championship senior year, I know that you were it. But you wanted Jack. You were always wanting Jack.” This time, Sid takes a step forward until he’s almost chest to chest with Geno.

“I want you, G. I love you.” He feels like an anvil has been lifted off his chest. It’s everything he’s wanted to say for years, everything he kept bottled inside for… for what? Decency? To preserve everyone’s feelings but his own? He laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. “I love you.” Sid wraps his arms around Geno’s neck, pulling in for a hug and burying his face in G��s neck. Geno eagerly wraps Sid up with his strong arms, making Sid feel the warmest he’s felt in ages.

“I love you too, Sidnyushka. My Sidnyushka.” Geno pulls away a little bit so he can look down at Sid and smile his big dumb grin that Sid loves so much. They stay there like that, wrapped in each others arms and smiling for what feels like a lifetime. But then Sid realizes. He has to tell Jack. The smile falls from his face.

“I have to tell Jack. I can’t… I can’t keep leading him on like this.” Geno cups Sid’s face with one of his large hands. “You should probably go. I think,” he nods to himself. “I’m going to call him right now.” Geno nods and goes to take a step back. “Wait. I…” He raises up onto his toes and presses his lips to Geno’s. He returns the kiss in kind, slowly, gently sliding his lips over Sid’s. It’s everything Sid had hoped and dreamt of for years and more. He pulls away. “For the road.” Geno smiles at him, stealing one more kiss as he steps back and turns to leave.

“I love you, Sid.”

“I love you too.” Sid watches Geno leave and hears his car start up and drive off. He looks at his phone sitting on the kitchen island and sighs. He picks it up, his thumb hovering over Jack’s number. He knows it’s going to be hard, leaving such a huge part of his life, but he knows it’s the right thing to do. Sid has hope for the future, and he clings to it as he dials the number.

#anon fic #NICE #NICE NICE NICE #sidgeno #submission

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