I hate how people look at him, with judgmental, condemning eyes. I know sometimes they look to me like that too, but I don't care. They misunderstand him. They whisper when they think he can't hear them. They call him a monster. I can see the sadness there, flickering dully in his captivating silvery eyes. They move to me, those diamond-like facets, and hold my gaze. Both of us know we're the only ones who fully understand each other. It's a comfort that only we can give to one another, a deep treasure, one that I would never trade. Our trust in one another is steadfast, it has to be. I'm so in love with him, and the way he loves me. No one has ever loved me as fully as he has.
I lean against the lockers, feeling the cool metal press the cotton of my shirt against my shoulder blades. I watch him under my lashes. His back is too me, as he sits on the bench, shirtless. I admire his tanned skin, the defined bunches of muscle, the swirls of intricate art—sometimes I trace the ink with my fingertips, and it makes him smile. I love it when he smiles, and the fact that I'm one of the few people who can make his lips curve like that is both beautiful and depressing all at the same time. I just wish they didn't look at him the way that they do. I just wish they didn't force that hard frown upon his lips. I wish they could see him the way I do. He tells me it doesn't matter, that as long as I see him, that's enough. But I know it hurts him.
With a sigh, he hoists himself up from the bench, and strides over to me. My eyes can't help but watch the graceful movement of his legs, and the way his jeans hug those strong, gorgeous, thighs. I love when my face is buried in them, I love to be good for him and make them quiver. He deserves it for being so good to me, and for taking the words they spew at him, sick, twisted, disgusting, disturbed, and letting them roll off his back like drops of cold, cold rain.
He stands close to me, and I tilt my head to him respectfully. His slender fingers slide under my chin, and angle it up, so we can see each others faces. See, they don't see him when he's gentle. They don't see the love between us. They just see his marks on me, and the collar around my neck, and they damn him. They damn my angel. They look at me with sorrowful eyes, and they think I need rescuing—they don't understand that I'm already saved in him.
His lips press softly to mine, and his fingers move down, to the special strap of leather around my neck. He knows this is the hard part. It doesn't matter to me how many times I prepare myself for the ring, this is always the worst of it. I can't wear this when I wrestle. I close my eyes, and enjoy the touches of his fingers at my throat, tracing the circular line of the collar, moving over it, fingering the pendant that hangs affixed to the leather.
"It's okay baby." He whispers, bringing a curve to my lips. I don't like to be without it, but he makes it all better. He makes it easier.
His hands shift to the back of my neck and unlatch the buckle. I feel the loosening of it, how it falls away from my skin like the limp arms of a reluctant hug. He slides it away, and the ends trail ticklishly over my skin, and it's off.
I open my eyes, and see it held securely in his hand. He's looking at it with a respectful gaze, tracing the tip of his finger over the silvery pendant and the hairline letters etched upon it which spell his name 'Randy' upon the heart shape. The metallic symbol means as much to us as any wedding band, and probably more. His eyes move back to me, and one of his hands meets the naked skin of my throat, and caresses it.
"It won't be long." He says, his voice so comforting, and reassuring. He turns to his locker and places it carefully on the top shelf, and closes the door. "It's safe, no one will touch it, and when we're done I'll put it back where it belongs." He says, and he kisses my lips, nipping with his teeth.
I nod my head, knowing his words are true, and they are.
After the show is over, we're back in our private locker room, just the two of us. I'm trying not to be so impatient, but I find myself fidgety, my eyes glued to his locker, wanting him to put our symbol back on me. He does, and as he slides the strap into place, and secures the buckle at the back, it takes me back to the first time that precious leather touched my skin. I earned it from him, and he had it made special for me, down to each minute detail.
Only the best for my Cody, only the best for my sweet boy.
I can hear him saying those words, as I knelt. I cried when he put it on me, and I do every time. It fills my heart to know that he loves me that much, that he loves me so much to call me his—that's the greatest peace I have ever known. He holds me, and he kisses away my tears, and he whispers against my ear in the quietness of our locker room: Mine.
Our fingers twine together, and together we walk out to face the eyes that judge us. They dare to call him a monster, and to think that I deserve their pity. I just pity them. Randy and I have an intimacy, and a bond that their sad hearts will never know. I pop the top two buttons on my shirt collar as we walk through the unfilling arena. I want them to see it, I'm proud of the symbol I wear—there is no shame in it. I reach up to touch the pendant, the heart shape melded against my fingertips. I know his name is there, and yes Randy, I'm yours.
I'm always yours.