out on the street for a living, picture's only begun

2. Nothin' To Lose

17/09/1975

"Please, you have to have seen them, somebody around here has to have seen at least one of them somewhere!" Gene pleaded with the latest person that just so happened to walk past him – but said person merely shook their head, almost out of pity, before continuing on their way, not even sparing the despaired bassist so much as a second glance.

Gene closed his eyes and sighed softly in defeat, scuffing one trainer-clad foot along the edge of the pavement as he fiddled with the hem of the slightly faded, dark gray KISS shirt that he'd bought in some local shop, the name of which he couldn't quite remember, the day after the fire. His stage costume may have been abandoned in some shady alleyway on the other side of town that he had just so happened to walk past, his makeup may have long since been washed off in a tiny public bathroom, but deep down Gene had known that to many, he was still KISS' blood-spitting, fire-breathing Demon of a bassist, so it had just felt right to buy the shirt once he had seen it... especially since he'd spent five entire minutes sat cross-legged on the shop floor with the shirt in his lap, running his fingers sadly over where his bandmates' faces were printed boldly onto the dark fabric, reminiscing quietly about the day that that particular picture had been taken.

Ace had been running a little ways ahead as per usual as the band had made their way to the photo studio where they had been scheduled to spend their afternoon, stumbling and almost falling in his platform heels practically every other step, but never seeming to mind his inability to stay firmly on his feet. Gene could still remember how the sunlight had hit the Spaceman just right, making the silver paint on his face seem to glimmer like a thousand stars.

Peter had been laughing at Ace's constant stumbling, yet had still been ready to dash over and help his best friend back up if he had actually fallen. He'd also been idly drumming random rhythmic patterns in mid-air as he walked, on one occasion accidentally hitting Gene in the arm as he spun around whilst still walking. The bassist could recall, clear as daylight, how the Catman had been silhouetted by the bright midday sun, only serving to accentuate just how small the drummer was compared to the rest of the band in their platforms.

Paul had had one arm slung casually around Gene's shoulders as they walked, pulling his best friend close to his side as they'd chatted idly about all manner of things: plans for the upcoming album, changes that they might have been able to make to improve the stage show, new song ideas that both of them had come up with over the prior couple of days, and so many other things, that, looking back, Gene couldn't quite recall. What he could recall, however, was how warm Paul had been, pressed against Gene's side the way he was – a welcome contrast to the cold, biting winter air that had enveloped them – and how the weight of his arm around the bassist's shoulders had been familiar, almost comforting.

Oh, how he longed for that weight now that everything had fallen apart.

Gene opened his eyes again, shaking his head slightly before glancing around, filled with a brief wave of false hope. There was, however, still no sign of his bandmates anywhere to be seen. The bassist wasn't quite sure why he was still trying to track them down, he'd essentially been told that there was practically no chance of them still being alive by at least a dozen different people at this point after all, but for some reason he still kept on looking, just like he had every day since the fire. He wasn't going to give up on his bandmates, not unless he knew for certain that they were dead.

Abruptly, someone, collided with him, almost knocking him over and inadvertently distracting him from his near-constant search. He whipped around, fury blazing in his eyes, fully prepared to let loose on the culprit – but the look in the man responsible's eyes made him stop in his tracks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the man said hurriedly, apologetically, "I didn't mean to do that, I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going, oh, I'm such a shmuck-"

Gene put his hands on the man's shoulders, the closest thing to a smile he could muster at the moment on his face. "Hey, buddy," he said softly, "it's okay, I'm not mad at you, just... breathe for a second, yeah? Calm down – like I said, I'm not mad."

The man looked up with the sweetest, softest, most adorable smile that the bassist had seen in his entire life. It honestly made the few remaining pieces of Gene's shattered heart melt into tiny little puddles. "Thanks," he said, eyes shining with relief as he panted ever so slightly, "you just looked really mad when you first turned around, that's all." He shook his head in an attempt to get a few stray strands of hair out of his eyes, his massive cloud of dark curls bouncing wildly as he did so. "I'm Paul, by the way," he added enthusiastically, "nice to meet ya!"

Gene flinched visibly, tears filling his eyes and threatening to spill from them, and Paul's sunbeam-like smile quickly faded. "Aw, no," he murmured, cautiously resting a hand on Gene's arm, "hey, what's wrong?" Gene didn't say a word, just started crying softly into his hands, and Paul frowned. "No, please, don't cry," he said gently, wrapping his arms carefully around Gene and letting the bassist cry quietly into his shoulder.

"Sorry," Gene said shakily after a little while, pulling away and wiping rather futilely at his eyes, "it's just... I have – well, had – a friend named Paul. We were staying at that hotel, the Sunrise, when it burnt down a few days ago." His shoulders started to shake as tears trickled down his face all over again. "I haven't been able to find him since the fire..."

Paul smiled sadly, lips trembling slightly as his eyes grew almost wistful. "I was staying there too, actually," he said softly, "and I lost a dear friend of mine in the fire as well." Paul's head dropped, his hair almost completely obscuring his face from Gene's view as he put his head in his hands and began to cry silently.

Gene cautiously pulled Paul in for a slightly awkward hug, his head leaning on the bassist's chest. "Thanks," Paul said softly, sniffling slightly, "I actually really needed that, um... wait a second, I never asked you your name, did I?"

The bassist laughed briefly. "I'm Gene," he said with a slight smirk. gauging Paul's reaction, "Gene Simmons." Paul took a step back, and his eyes widened slightly. "You're not...?" he gasped, hand covering his mouth, and Gene couldn't help but smile. "Oh, I am," he said with a smirk, sticking out his tongue as if to prove a point, "I'm that Gene Simmons."

Paul opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the rather loud conversation of somebody walking past them. "Did you see that odd guy in the café?" they said to the friend they were with, not even noticing the way Paul and Gene were both watching them, "the one in the crazy outfit and the cat makeup? I swear he's been there for three days now, what a weird guy."

Gene's heart felt like it skipped a beat. It sounded like they were talking about... but it couldn't be, right?

"...Peter?"