***This is a continuation of the story from Kiss: Casablanca High School, so read that first if you want! It's not necessary to but it would help***
It's been five years since anyone's heard anything from Gene Simmons, and at this point Paul Stanley...
There was the distinct sound of someone trying to quietly take the lid off a plastic cake container in the middle of the night and I sat up in confusion, looking around before walking silently to the kitchen. I flipped on the light, staring at Eric and folding my arms across my chest. He jumped, setting down the fork slowly, face turning red. "B-Bruce! What are you...what are you uh...doing awake?" he asked after a pause. I raised an eyebrow, looking at him. "See I was actually going to ask you that question."
His face grew even redder and he shrugged, trying to stealthily put the cover back on the cake. "Uhm...you know. Just uh...couldn't um..." He trailed off, face crimson at this point. "Eric, it's two in the morning. What the hell are you doing?" I said with a sigh. "I was hungry. Sorry," he mumbled, looking at the ground. Frowning, I sat at the table across from him. "Yeah, you've been eating a lot less lately. You feeling okay?"
He shrugged again, running a hand through his hair. "I just uh...I mean you know how I am, I can eat a ton and so like I...I feel bad eating so much because like you said that you got anxious around food and stuff and like...but like I'm still hungry."
"So what, you just eat a lot at night?" I asked after a pause. He shook his head, looking hungrily at the cake. "No, just tonight I felt really really hungry and also it was a good cake so uh...yeah. Sorry I woke you up though, I really didn't mean to."
"No, no you didn't, I was just up. But Eric seriously, listen. Eat what you want, or what you need to. Don't worry about me, I'm fine, really. It doesn't bother me to see other people eat, it just bothers me when I eat that type of stuff. Eat as much as you want to. Just not at two in the morning. But also go to bed, we're having people over tomorrow."
He gave me a grin, yawning. "You're right, you're right. All four of them are coming over?" I nodded, steering him back to our room. "Yep. So we are gonna have to go get more food. But for now, goodnight."
Ace and Peter arrived first the next afternoon, quickly followed by Paul and a still tired Gene. "Hey you guys want cocktails?" Eric asked, already heading for the kitchen area. There was a chorus of yeses and a shrug from Gene. "If you got one without alcohol, I'll take that!" he said. Eric gave him a thumbs up, setting to work while I checked on the dinner.
"Eric how long does it take you to make a damn cocktail?" Peter called. "Shut up I'm working on it!" he shouted back, and I had to bite back a snarky comment as I added more sauce to the meatloaf before heading back to the living room.
Eric walked out of the kitchen area several more minutes later, carrying a tray of glasses. "Alright here, just take whichever one you want. Oh except the red one, that's for Gene!" he said cheerfully.
"Ooh I want the green one," Peter said, taking a long sip before his eyes widened and he looked at Eric excitedly. "This is delicious! Why have you not made these until now?!" he cried. I took a sip of the old fashioned he made me as Eric shrugged. "I dunno. Just haven't had the stuff to do it yet because none of y'all have liquor, you guys just have booze."
Paul picked up the glass filled with pink liquid, grinning. "This looks like Pepto-Bismol," he said, and Eric stuck out his tongue at him. "It's called a pink squirrel and if you don't want it you don't have to have it," he grumbled. Paul took a hesitant sip before his face lit up. "Oh shit this is good!"
Ace grabbed the bright blue one, wide smile only getting wider while Gene took the red one and Eric took a sip of his own foamy drink. "So what all did you make?" I asked, taking another sip. "Well Gene doesn't drink so he's got the Shirley Temple, Peter's got a grasshopper, Paul's got a pink squirrel, Ace has a blue Hawaiian and I've got a brandy Alexander and you have your usual old fashioned because you're boring," Eric said happily. I raised my glass in his direction, grinning. "Thanks for that, man. I do love old fashioned."
"How the hell do you know how to make all these? I've never even heard of half of them," Paul said, taking another sip. "A lot of them are older cocktails, like from the 50's. My parents would make them a lot because my grandparents did and I just kind of picked it up as I got older. Plus I like sweet things and these are sweet and they taste good. Like Peter's has ice cream in it." Peter nodded, taking a long sip. "Oh man no wonder it's so good. Babe we gotta start making some of these. Make a note to put liquor on the grocery list." "Mmhm," Ace mumbled, giving him a quick kiss before taking another sip.
After eating dinner, which turned out surprisingly well, we all sat around the table and played poker. As the night went on Eric started winning more and more money while the rest of us started getting more and more frustrated. "Thissh'sh shtupid," Peter slurred, throwing down his cards. Giggling, Ace leaned over and kissed him. "You just suck at poker, love. We all do, except for Eric I guess. Anyway, it's past three so I'm gonna take him home!" he said, dragging Peter to his feet.
"Yeah the wife will kill me if I'm gone for too long so I'm gonna head out too, thanks for hosting, it was fun!" Gene said. After Paul said goodbye too and they had all left, I turned to Eric, raising an eyebrow. "Okay but seriously, how are you so good at poker?" Eric grinned, shaking his head. "I'm not, you guys are just really bad!" "How so?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest. His smile only got bigger.
"Okay well Ace has a terrible poker face, he's super easy to read. Paul always mouths the cards he has so if you can kind of read lips you can for sure beat Paul. You're super cautious so you always fold if you have a bad hand. Gene still hates losing money so he'll never bet to the point he'll go below $20 from what he started with unless he has a really good hand. And the more Peter loses the more frustrated he becomes which means the more he drinks which means the sloppier he plays which means--" "The more he loses. You sly little fox, I hate you."
He started on the dishes, eyes twinkling. "I know you love me, don't lie." I heaved a sigh, putting away the leftovers. "Yeah, I know, I know. Shut up."
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