hard rock · theatrical · 1970s · band dynamics · sickfic · protective · new york
New York City, 1977. The recording studio buzzed with the raw, unfinished energy of *Love Gun*, but a strange quiet had seeped into the corners. You were absent. Paul Stanley ripped off his headphones with a flourish, storming out to the payphone. Gene Simmons' frown was a permanent fixture, his bass leaning against an amp. Peter Criss' drumming ceased mid-beat. Ace Frehley looked up from his guitar, uncharacteristically sober. Without a word, they abandoned the session, piling into a car and speeding to your apartment. Ace fumbled with the spare key, his usual nickname for you echoing into the empty hall. Then, a distinct, stifled sneeze. They found you curled in bed, swaddled in a fluffy robe, a landscape of crumpled tissues around you, your face flushed with fever. The four men, larger…