The strong hands of Ken Anderson usually gripped a microphone as tight as possible, but tonight they'd been through a sea of red, and sunk to the root in dirty blonde hair, dragging the other man through the empty hall way. A hurried scan of the room proved it to be empty, he tossed the older man onto the floor tiles; his sharp voice demanding he get back up and sit on the bench.
Ken's footsteps stalked around him like the prey that he was. His heavy, bruised eyes closed, an exhausted gasp choked down his throat, hair nearly ripped from his skull as he was thrust back, crashing to the hard unforgiving floor that now had a beautiful crimson pool of blood formed on it. He opened his eyes on demand, and stood up on his foal like legs as soon as they managed to gain the strength to heave two hundred and sixty pounds back up. He learned not to flinch when "Chris" was whispered just loud enough for him to barely hear it. His spine learned not to send shivers through his body. His iris not taking over completely when fear sunk in. They didn't need to, it became a natural feeling.
He almost knew it would happen as his throat was enclosed, Ken's hands felt like a vice. The crash was barely audible to him, he could feel the dent his body had made when it was slammed against the lockers, which eventually broke under the weight and pressure. Release always seemed to come too soon, it always did; and arms fixed in a loving embrace around his battered body instead of bolted to his neck, and with a chuckle his lips pressed against his blackening thin lip with absolutely no appeal at all. He closed his eyes, a white salvation taking place, allowing him to relax into his arms.
Their kiss hadn't lasted too long when the blood from his previous baptism decided to trinkle down from his nose, and burst from the cracks in his aching lips. He opened his eyes slowly, escaping the white haven. Emotionalessness reigned for several taunting moments. This was either a gateway to new punishment, or to more love. He prayed to his sinner that he would be rewarded for his wine.
Jericho dropped to his scraped knee's, glancing up at him with a nod before his head bowed. There was one last commandment before it was time to change and get ready for the ring.
He was thrown out of the room, dressed in his new attire for tonight. His body was far too revealing in all of his older versions, but this hid the crucifixion best it could. Everybody knew to not ask about it, some still did out of spite and the fact that they just didn't like him. He waited impatiently for his cue - the faster this match could be over the sooner he could be back in his lover's arms. He smiled at the thought and waited for the lights to go out.
Getting thrown around the ring was nothing. At least, half the time it looked like nothing. Now everything hurt, his skull took the worst of it and blood was fast to come. He knew he was supposed to block the oncoming hit, but being distracted as he was, and highly disorientated he couldn't. His matches were winding down to the last fast. A losing streak, some segments, nothing too big. He would do anything for his love, and that included leaving his job and music career far behind. He was pinned, the bell rang, and he woke up... backstage.
Ken Anderson hadn't been anywhere to be found, long gone to find something newer to keep his intrigue. Several stood, gathered above Chris, praying and worried until the dead risen back to life, eyes opened to the light and quickly saddened as he avoided each face that wasn't evil disguised. Burning voices merged with heavy vertigo, he stood on his own, shoving away arms that reached out to him. He couldn't remember walking down the halls, or how he'd gotten into the locker room, or why he had reached up to fix his hair, and found his hand soaked in his own crimson wine.
He couldn't remember whose faces had been staring him down as he pushed the door open, the light inside blinding him as the vision of his life reflected in his eyes, wanting nothing more for them all to leave so that he may step before the man four years his senior. Each sinner had shut conversation down, the first to leave he wouldn't even have been able to name, even with trade mark cowboy hat, and tattooed lover in tow, shoving him clear out of the way and against the door frame. The seconds gray eyes pierced through him, he didn't have to tell him to drop dead aloud, his venomous eyes said it all, his own escort attached to the viper's hand, the much larger Leviathan carefully avoiding even merely touching him, and those behind him not wanting to give him so much as a glance, with the exception of the snake's two prodigies, shoving him between each other, taunting him as their hyena-like laughter echoed in the locker room before their leader called them away.
Weak arms wrapped around his own savior, Jericho's blue eyes dancing with apology for anything he could think of. He bowed his head to Anderson and awaited his command; he idled, sitting patiently before the larger former superstar pried him up, leading him out the doors and through the halls that made him feel incompetent to cross by himself. The limo doors opened, the two sat in silence before Jericho looked up at his lover with a smile fixed on his lips – kisses always meant everything was alright.