little t&a

keep fidelity in your head

Paul didn't so much as shower after they got home. Just swiped the makeup remnants off his face with a washcloth, kicking his shoes to the side in his bedroom. Gene followed him in, and his stare on his back felt like a laserbeam pointed at his spine. All heat, melting him down to nothing. He felt weird. No, he felt horrible. Over the girl, over his chances, over everything.

"Do you need anything?"

Paul turned around when Gene said it. His throat was tightening up.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. Do you want to talk?"

"I'm not really a chick, Gene, I don't wanna fucking talk everything out."

"All right, okay." Gene actually looked away. "I'll be in the guest bedroom."

It should've felt better, watching Gene going away of his own volition. Should've made Paul felt less zeroed-in on. Freer. But free to do what? Lay in his bed the same way he'd done for nearly a week now? He'd still have to contend with Gene tomorrow. Gene wouldn't let him go to Studio 54 alone. And he would be right not to. He'd be right. All the shit he'd taken for granted, going places without needing someone else there—he always wanted someone else there, he despised being alone, but that was different from needing. He'd hitchhiked the Catskills. Stayed over at barns and apartments and roach-infested hotel ballrooms, sleeping next to people he didn't know, never fearing anything worse than lice for his trouble.

He couldn't do that now. Couldn't be cavalier. Gene had kept everything okay. Gene letting his identity slip meant he'd only gotten the one comment on his tits. Nobody had harassed him. He'd even had some fun watching the band, jumping around and remembering. But he knew, deep down, that wouldn't have been the case otherwise. He knew, on his own, he'd have come off as just the target Mary-Anne thought he was.

He knew Gene had protected him before that, too. Years of it. Sitting next to him during interviews. Repeating questions. The few times he'd gotten loaded, Gene had taken care of him, kept him from ending up—well. But that hadn't felt so bad. He hadn't felt so useless then. Hadn't felt like he was a load Gene was lugging around. A problem Gene was forced to resolve, because Paul couldn't do a damn thing on his own. At this point, he was purely decorative. Fundamentally useless. Couldn't even—

He'd only had one good night since it happened. Only one night where he really hadn't felt too bad while lying in bed, if only for a bit. The memory of it, the slickness against his fingers, was shameful but comforting. He couldn't be angry at Gene for looking at him the way he did, for getting weird, for getting jealous, not when he'd been trying to play with himself while he was lying beside him. Not when Gene was responsible for most of what little peace he'd ever felt. In the last week or before.

Something in his stomach twisted, and he got up, got something out of the dresser, and headed for the guest bedroom. Gene was there, looking through the stuff on his table. He'd only taken off the jacket and his shoes.

Paul took a sharp breath, and then he held up what he'd retrieved from the dresser. Another pair of pajama bottoms.

"You forgot these."

"Oh." Gene glanced at the pajamas, and then at Paul, holding his hand out for Paul to toss them over. Paul shook his head.

"These are... these are a new polyester blend, right. Real high-tech. Room-sensitive."

"Room-sensitive?"

"Oh, yeah. If you put them on anywhere outside of my bedroom, you break out in hives."