little t&a

sit up, fed up, low down, go 'round

"You look," Gene said, throat drier than sandpaper, "really good."

Good was an understatement. Paul looked hot. The light blue of the dress made a good contrast against his still-suntanned skin. The neckline made up for the dress length, providing more cleavage than Gene had seen out of Paul since he'd first met him on the front porch in the bathrobe. The heels accentuated his legs—even as a guy, Paul had always had nice legs—but for maybe the first time in three days, Gene was paying more attention to Paul's face than his body.

It wasn't like he'd done anything wild with makeup. Blush, red lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara. Except for the eyeliner maybe being a bit heavier, it was about the same look as the night prior. But Paul seemed happier. Relaxed. There wasn't that tightness to his jaw anymore or that tension to his mouth. And that was a surprise, given the stilted way their dancing earlier had ended. Gene thought Paul might have been sore or tetchy, or at least awkward, but he'd just carried right on. Those sad brown eyes of his didn't look sad at all, for once, and if Gene were sentimental, he would almost have said they were sparkling.

Maybe he'd just liked sharing a few dances with Gene. And maybe tonight really was the night that this would all be over. Every bit of it. Back to normal life for them both, touring and signing and interviewing. Back to life a hotel room away from each other. He'd be stupid to regret the change. Just stupid.

"You're not half so bad yourself, Gene." Paul crooked his head as if he hadn't seen variations of his outfit at least a dozen times over just this year. As if he hadn't been suggesting half of it while Gene had asked for the clothes to be sent over. Black leather everything, including the pants—something he already was regretting bitterly. Silver accessories. A belt with a spider encased in enamel as the buckle plate. The public demanded a monster movie out of Gene even when he got off the stage.

"That's generous." The limo was already idling in Paul's driveway. "You ready?"

It took a few seconds for Paul to answer. He wasn't looking at Gene, at least, not directly in the face; it almost seemed as though Paul was scoping him out, assessing him like there was something new to assess. Gene would have called him out on it, except during times like this, he never was sure if it was Paul's hearing or Paul's daydreaming to blame.

"Yeah. Let's go."

The limo ride was uneventful. Gene decided he didn't care for Studio 54 long before they pulled up to the VIP entrance. He decided that through the line wrapping around the building for what seemed like miles, the garish outfits of the wannabes begging for admittance, and the weird air of desperation mixed with eagerness that seemed to permeate through the limo windowpane. It made him feel itchy. Beside him, Paul had spent a bit of time doodling peace signs and dicks in the misted-up windowglass like it was a school notebook. His good mood didn't seem to dampen until the limousine stopped, and he saw the press, out there already, all cameras and notepads.

"Gene—"

"It's fine, I've got my bandana." He'd forgotten to ask for it over the phone, but it'd been in the box of clothes for him anyway. A couple of them, actually. "Do you want one?"

Paul shook his head.

"No, it's okay. Switch spots with me, would you?"

Gene swapped obligingly. The limo wasn't roomy enough to avoid Paul brushing up against him as they traded seats. He caught the woodsy scent of Aramis cologne in Paul's hair, just another indication of what he'd spent three days pounding into his head now.

"Want me to hold the door for you, too?"

"God, no."

Gene laughed, and got out first. The bandanas always made him feel like he was about to rob a bank. Every so often, they'd get goofy with it, find weird headgear—knight and astronaut and football helmets—but for the most part, bandanas and scarves were enough out in public, real public. Places where they wanted to be seen, under normal circumstances. The first half-dozen camera flashes were blinding as always. He helped Paul out of the limo, hovering over him as he stepped out. Part of him wished he'd thought to bring a jacket, but maybe that would've made it worse, provoked the paparazzi more, if he'd tried covering Paul up too much.