Somehow, they’d managed to pull it off.
“WAAAAAGHHH!”
Kengo screamed, and the (strangely lifelike) demon chased him and Icewolf down a cobweb-strewn, bloody corridor, from one den of horrors into another. In the lobby–decorated to resemble the foyer of a haunted mansion–a bow-tie wearing Scully and his skeleton crew handed out spooky-themed canapes to those less eager to experience Deadboy’s house of horrors.
What had been a dry, dusty, disused barn had now become a haunted house befitting a gore-fiend. Or at least, that’s what everyone told Deadboy–strangely sullen and distant–and doing his best as master of ‘scare-amonies.’ His velveteen tux was not his usual manner of attire. He tugged uncomfortably on his sleeves. Still, Victor had insisted. Deadboy was only used to turning heads when he was yanking dude’s necks back–to turn heads for being ‘appealing’ was as alien a sensation as anything else he’d experienced the last few hours of his miserable little life.
Daemian swiveled his wine glass and cast a glance at El Amante, off-werewolf duty, speaking to a fishnet-sporting Iggy Astro in the corner of the ‘parlor’. Victor caught his eye and gave him a ‘thumbs up’.
The door to the inner sanctum opened up, depositing a slime-drenched Icewolf in front of Brax, pinning photos of all the other Spellbreakers who had been scared witless at the end of the haunted adventure.
“Grrrr…it is ten dollars for a commemorative photograph of your ceaseless torment.” The demon sniffed. “Act now and receive a complimentary, souvenir glass.”
Icewolf grimaced. “Nah, I don’t want my fans seeing me covered in goo.”
“Nothin’ they haven’t seen already,” Colt–dressed like a certain, famous, grave-digging, pro wrestler said, approaching his student. “What do you think of my new outfit? The idea just came to me. Thinking it could be a good heel look. Whaddya’ say, Deadboy?”
“Huh?” Still distracted, Deadboy whipped his head over to his boss. “Er…yeah. Real spooky.”
Colt beamed at Icewolf. “See? I got the seal of approval from the Prince of Darkness. I’m thinking of calling myself…the Funeral Man! Nah. The Coroner? Grave Digger? Executor of the Affairs of the Recently Deceased? I’ll need to workshop some names. Anyways, DEADBOY!?”
Finally, Deadboy flinched. He’d heard his name called like that by Colt before. It usually didn’t end well for him. “Er…yes, boss?”
Colt placed his hand on Deadboy’s shoulder. Lucky for him, it didn’t turn into a nerve claw. “Boy, I’m proud of you. You done good, son. Also, your hair looks good slicked back like that.”
Daemian cocked his head to the side. Was this a treat, or a trick|? “Huh? Really?”
“I don’t sugar coat shit and call it cupcakes, boy. I’m stone cold serious.” Colt snapped his fingers.” Stone Cold! Wait, that’s a good one. Stone Cold Colt? Yeah, I need to workshop this a bit more…”
With Colt distracted by his own genius, Daemian saw an opening and took it–slinking away from all the ghouls and guys, and making his way towards Victor. Iggy had gone to get punch.
“You…okay, big guy?” Daemian started.
Behind his signature mask, Victor’s eyes smiled. He brushed his hand over Daemian’s hair, and the ornery Aussie allowed it. “I’m just happy to see you happy, Daemicito.”
“Yeah, but…” Daemian flicked his eyes upwards. I was talking about you. Since becoming briefly bonded with Victor, Daemian had gotten deeper insight on the luchador’s powers. He could read emotions, allowing Daemian to speak to him in a way that was near-telepathic.
“I’m fine,” Victor answered, blankly. “You know me. Masks. I’m…all about masks.”
The emotional fatigue in his voice was palpable. It even nearly moved Daemian.
“Vicko…I…”
The handsome Mexican shook his head. “Hey, it’s your birthday. Don’t focus on me.”
“So…so what?” Daemian stammered. “I don’t even really like my–”
“Hey everyone!” Victor suddenly called out to the room, his voice booming. “Gather around! It’s present time!”
He may as well have dropped his dack and whipped it out right then and there (not that Daemian would have disapproved). A wave of embarrassment washed over Daemian. He hated his birthday just as much as he hated being the center of (positive) attention. He also hated being used as a smokescreen.
Daemian’s eyes briefly turned demonic black. “Oh no, you don’t you fucker–you don’t get to shirk your emotions by making other people happy all the time!”
Victor flashed him a sheepish grin. “But it’s better than scaring them for the same, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t over!” Daemain shook his fist at him. “This is…hey.”
Someone had forced a small, pink-wrapped gift box into Daemian’s head. Looking up, Daemain saw that the person in question was Iggy Astro, who had no doubt come to their lover Victor’s aid. The pink-haired heel–who had shown up knowing full well Daemian’s love of all things macabre–smirked at his compatriot, waiting for him to react.
Damiean looked down at the box, then up at Iggy. “Wazit?”
Iggy blew a strand of hair out of their androgynous, attractive face. “I believe you would call it a ‘birthday present’. Foreign concept, I imagine. Open it, dingus!”
Scowling, and annoyed at all of this strange, new, positive ‘attention’, Daemian shredded the glittery wrapping like a wild animal and opened the cardboard box. After a period rummaging around, he withdrew what looked, at first, like a rather withered root vegetable.
Icewolf, standing close by, noted the sewed up mouth and eyes. “Ew. Hella gross.”
The human remains dangled from Daemian’s hand. He looked at them like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. If this rock star heel intended to get him to cry, they were doing a damn good attempt at it. “AN…ACTUAL SHRUNKEN HEAD!?
Iggy shrugged. “Sourced ethically, of course. I had some help, of course.” Iggy pointed to the small card at the bottom of the box. Daemian picked it up and read it.
My Dark Prince,
Since I cannot be there on your special day, I hope you do not mind giving you some well deserved head.
That was a joke that Iggy came up with.
I would never stoop to such innuendo.
However, I imagine you appreciate the sentiment.
With love,
Your Tiger
Joey
Love. What a four letter word. And probably the one least spoken by Daemian, who realized then–holding back the swell of emotions–that he had quite literally descended into the depths of hell just to rescue the people he held dear (and possibly kicked off an intra-demonic conflict in the process…but that had yet to be seen).
“Mate. Iggy.” Daemian did his best. “This is…the best thing anybody has ever gotten me.”
And then, surprising both of them, Daemian (head still dangling in hand) wrapped his arms around Iggy in a tight embrace.
Iggy turned red. “Oh…ok…we are hugging now.”
Daemian smiled. “Shut up and hug me back before I break your neck. You’re making me look like a sap.”
“That’s more like it,” Iggy said, returning the gesture. He let Daemian go before it got too embarrassing for the two of them.
“I better put this away before I spill goon on it,” Daemian said, swinging his head.
“Goon?”
“Not that kind of good. But hey, the night is still young!” Skipping away like an excited, little kid, Daemian vanished into the shadows of the haunted house.
Now, Iggy only had questions. He turned to Victor, who had been too-quiet this entire evening.
“What exactly happened, belo?” Iggy asked.
“I’ll...tell you later.” The luchador, uncharacteristically uncomfortable (had everyone switched personalities tonight) swallowed. “Er, a boundary check, if you will? I want to check up on something.”
Iggy scrunched up his face. “Oh, I know that voice. A hall pass, I take it?” He crossed his arms. “I guess you can have some fun. Very well. Who are you making scream tonight?”
Victor bit his lip and leaned in to whisper.
Iggy’s eyes darted back and forth, then grew wide. “NO FUCKING WAY. Ahahahaa! Of course. Just because it’s FUNNY.”
Victor went bright red. “Not so loud!”
As the party winded down, and Daemian dismissed his skeleton crew to go have fun, Victor found Daemian mopping up the fake blood (at least, he hoped it was fake) in the corner of the slaughter house room. Victor insisted he help. The two got to chatting.
“Can’t believe I’m not even drunk,” Daemian said, laughing to himself. Tonight was a success. And nobody died. Which was either a good thing, or a bad thing. “Probably the first birthday where I haven’t gotten blitzed and ended face down in the bog!.”
“Probably for the best,” Victor said with a shrug. “How do you…feel?”
Daemian propped up the mop. Brax had already gone to bed. Well-earned rest. It was just the two of them now…and Daemian knew he could trust this big idiot with just about anything at this point.
“Loved,” Daemian said, blankly. “It’s…a weird feeling. Look, I haven’t turned face, if that’s what you’re thinking!”
“Hahaha, I wasn’t thinking anything!”
Daemian’s eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “Oh, and by the way, mate, I also haven’t forgotten about you. All of what happened.” Shit, I don’t have my empathy flashcards on me. What’s the one that Joey is always telling me I should try out? “I’m sorry? It must have been a lot?” He spoke as if he was talking in a foreign language.
Victor laughed. “Are you sure you are not Daemian, and not a demonic doppelganger?.”
“Well.” Daemain shrugged, nodding to his companion. “I learned from the best. The King of Love and the Prince of Darkness. We were bound to overlap eventually. This is turning into a wrestling match of who can face their emotions first, mate, but I’m not gonna press you.”
“No…you’re right.” Victor sighed. “I never thought much of my biological father. All I had to go on was the legacy of my mother’s husband, and the uncles who raised me. Now…I don’t know. I can choose to wallow in anger and sorrow. Or I can let this fuel me.” Victor’s fists tightened into balls. “I will speak to my father again. And I will get answers.”
“Life is not always that simple, mate. Take it from me. But if you ever want to go back to Gehenna, I can open a shadow corridor…”
“No. Fate brought us together the first time. It will happen again. When the time is right.”
“Okay good, phew, because it would be really really dangerous.”
The floor was wet, but clean, which meant Colt wouldn’t tan Daemian’s hide for leaving the place a pig sty…whatever that meant. Daemian plopped down on top of a coffin and sighed, contented and tired.
“So. That was…fun, I guess. You know, besides the parental trauma and near death experiences.”
“That it was!” Victor said, merrily. “I haven’t given you a birthday gift though.”
Ugh, all this sweetness is gonna give me diabetes. “Aw mate, you’ve done more than enough.”
“But doesn’t the Prince of Darkness deserve a good shock!”
“Shock? Ha! Mate, nothing shocks me.”
Victor smiled. Then, carefully reaching behind his neck, he pulled off his mask.
Revealing his face.
Time froze. Daemian’s eyes, wide as dinner plates, took in the sight of an unexpectedly beautiful man, with big lips, a flat, handsome nose, coal-eyes, thick eyebrows, and a heart shaped scar that encircled his left eye. His face was smooth (all that masking up must have done wonders for his pores, Daemian thought) and characteristic of his indigenous heritage. Victor was more pretty than rugged or handsome, as Daemian had always expected. Now he knew why he kept the mask on–he would have competed with Iggy for beauty.
Daemian picked his jaw off the ground. “Except…that.” He swallowed. Was he about to die? For real? “You’re…prettier than I expected, mate. BUT THE MASK? You aren’t gonna kill me, are you?”
“No!” Victor said. It was so weird to see him talking, maskless. “I’ve been thinking. I have always seen this mask as a shield. But perhaps it has been something I have hid behind for too long. Almost like a second skin.”
“Creepy metaphor. I like it.” Daemian took a deep breath. “What…does this mean?”
“Oh, nobody will know my identity in-ring, of course. That is the luchador’s way! But…among those I love and respect and trust…perhaps it is time they got to know the real me.”
Daemian swallowed. This was weird. He felt all tingly. “I…like the real you,” Daemian said.
“And I like you.” Victor approached Daemian, with respectful hesitancy. “White Tiger and you have…an arrangement, yes?”
“Yeah, sure, why do you ask?”
“Because he is the one opponent I do not think I would want to face for…doing this.”
Victor pressed his lips around Daemian’s, before the baffled Aussie even knew what was happening. It was like taking three shots of hard liquor back-to-back, or being punched in the face with flowers. When Victor stuck his tongue in, it felt like one of the many many times Daemian had gone to hospital–pure morphine. He felt his eyes roll in the back of his head, and his pants….grew immediately tighter.
Victor pulled back.
“Oh…” Daemian said.
“Did you…like that?”
Daemian pretended that he didn’t, ignoring the high he was feeling. “Please, I’m immune to your pretty boy charms.” He sniffed. “You taste like strawberries.”
“And you taste…” Victor started. Then stopped. “Well, you’ve very hot.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Daemian stared at his former opponent, rival, friend…and now…???
Then, he pounced. Victor caught him in a tight embrace, while Daemian wrapped his legs around his waist (he knew the big guy could take it). He would show the prettyboy who was boss! With his tongue, that is…
Daemian had enough sense to pull back. “We tell no one,” he demanded.
Victor smiled. “You got it. Now, let’s find somewhere a bit more private, shall we? My bad, bad boy.”
“Happy Halloween.”
“And happy birthday.”
The End
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