Tag Teaming The Demons
Adrenaline coursed through corded veins, and his sculpted muscles flicked and twitched with anticipation that would not show on his expressionless face, but maybe within the cold, still, depths of his silvery eyes if one were able to look long into them. For many long nights Randy had heard, and felt, and desired, but he had waited. He coiled in the shadows to watch a man who also shared the shadows. In and out of them they both sank and emerged again, one watching the other, waiting for acknowledgment, but never finding it. Kane had to know. Just as Randy knew it, Kane must.
The voices often took his mind, and made it a twisted, possessed thing of their own. Sometimes he tried to hold on as long as he could, but the ghosts inside his skull would work away until his grasping mental fingers were pried away, and their entry was stolen into him. Other times he just let them, surrendered to their whims and hauntings, and let them fill his being with all the things he could not possibly understand.
But Randy had understood one thing.
One night that slept back now months ago in time, he had lain naked on his bed, barely feeling the cool kiss of his sheets against his hot skin. He barely saw the texture of the milky white ceiling above him. He barely heard the thump of his own heart. All was drowned out and taken hostage by the barrage of voices, pleas, screams, moans, demands, cries, voices toppling in upon voices, blotting out all else. But that night, out of the roiling sea of sound, one came clearer than the rest and he lay there shocked by the silence that fell like a heavy curtain over the inner asylum of his mind. It was as if a page full of jumbled typing had been bleached back to an unmarred white, bright and blinding, and beautiful in its raw nakedness. Randy could not remember the last time such a hush had ushered the voices away.
He closed his eyes, revealing in the calm. The feeling was so foreign but not unwelcome. The voices and lack of understanding or ability to properly deal with them had made him into a man prone to fits of rage that to his colleagues were as inexplicable and terrifying. Any friend he might have had was eventually driven away do to his increasing unpredictability and his unstable mental status. They admired him from afar, as he strode so carefully through their lives, as if he was a sleek predator on the hunt, and their unvoiced fears were that they were the prey. They dared not come near to the object of their sexual fantasies. To their roving eyes, he was an aloof and god, who would deal out snap and deal out plagues of insanity upon them. What lie beneath his perfect exterior was a hell that Hades himself would not dare to imagine, and so no mere mortal wrestler would even attempt to save him.
Maybe he could not be saved.
But that night there was silence. For hours, it seemed, the quiet washed over him like the sweetest baptism. For hours there was nothing, and then out of the endless white depths of his cleansed psyche, a new voice rumbled to life.
Who are you?
Three simple words, the familiarity in which they were spoken was immediately recognized by the one who heard them.
Kane. Randy said the name in his head, and not as a question—because he knew that it was Kane. He lay still, waiting for the voice to respond, but nothing more ever came from it. Randy sat up and got to his knees, on top of the pillows at the head of his bed, and he faced the wall that the beds headboard rested against. This wall was shared with another room, and an overwhelming feeling told him just who was in that next room. He laid one palm against the plaster wall, and then the other, his mind still quiet, his ears hearing only his own breathing as it rose and fell from his sweat slicked chest.
In the next room, Randy's very actions were being imitated. The man who had lain on that bed, also trying to quell his own set of raging mental demons, had felt the same urge to turn to that shared wall, and rest his palms against it. Kane did not know who was on the other side, but he felt a presence, a very strong aura, and the calming feeling of hands against his, even though when he looked with his mismatched eyes, there was nothing but a plain white wall.
Randy had waited, watched, coiled in the shadows like the serpent his nickname was born from. His silvery eyes kept tabs on Kane, meticulously recording his every movement and detail. There was something in that man—no he was not a monster, monster was a cruel name that fearful people hung on the shoulders of something they did not understand—something in that man that understood the things that were within Randy as well, something that canceled them out, and made the madness null.
Searching out that elusive peace had become an obsession for Randy. He craved another lull in that mental storm the way damned men in hell scream endlessly for that one drop of water. The need to connect with Kane once more consumed him, and so did the voices. They became steadily worse as his desires and lusts increased. It was as if those faceless specters knew too, that Kane was some sort of power that would overwhelm their circuits and shut them down. Whatever they were and whatever they wanted from Randy had never been clear, but now one thing was—they did not want to be muted. Randy's time was growing dear, because with his increasing insanity, came bad things, and even worse threats from his boss who would be rid of him soon if Randy could not get a hold of his rage, of his emotions, of his mind. He had never been so out of control, and he vaguely aware that he had begun to hurt people.
It was just like now. He couldn't remember how he had frightened everyone out of the locker room, but he had. They had all vacated and left him alone to lurk in the shadows and wait. Kane had not yet come, but Randy knew that he would. He felt it, just like that night in his hotel room, he had felt those large hands pressed to his, and had seen unmatched eyes staring back into his depths of silver.
Kane moved into the locker room, glad to find it was deserted. He was better at handling people than he used to be, but it was still down pretty low on his list of tolerable activities. So many of them rubbed him the wrong way, and none of them understood him. The Big Show had become his closest friend, but even then, there was some door that still remained closed between them, which kept them from connecting on some deeper level of friendship. Of course, there was his brother, but that relationship was tumultuous at best. Both men had decided there was too much baggage from a broken childhood to allow them the true closeness that most brothers share.
It was the misunderstanding that others showed him that led him after every show to wait in more private places until all of his coworkers had cleared out of the locker room. He did not appreciate their stares, their silent questions, or their stupid laughter and easy happiness which they found in one another. Even though he now knew that his face and body—once thought to be twisted and marred with terrible scarring—was unmarked, there were still moments of doubt that needled into his mind and made him wander if the smooth skin he saw was not some coping method-mask placed onto the mirror by his dark and troubled mind. Sometimes he longed for his old mask again, the comfort of it to him like the security a fearful child finds when he holds his favorite blanket at night time. Sometimes inanimate objects can repel more demons than prayers or religion, both things of which Kane had no use. No deity would save a tormented creature such as himself. There was too much darkness in him. He had long ago resigned himself to the reward of the damned, which was the only fate he was sure to ever find.
He made his way quietly through the room, and sat down on the bench to unlace his boots. Those were placed aside, and next he peeled his tights away, finding some relief at least when the clinging fabric was off of his hot skin. He draped the black and red tights over his boots, and then moved towards the row of lockers. With a sigh he opened his, the door giving out a whine of protest. He rummaged through his things and moved towards the showers, a towel slung over his shoulder, and a bar of soap dwarfed in his large hand.
The big man whirled around, his eyes darting around the room and seeking out any left over coworker, but even as he did so, he was sure he had heard the voice within the confines of his own skull. It was a phenomena that occurred often, but there were usually many voices, not just one so clear as this one. He took the towel from his shoulder and wrapped it around his waist. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and several moments passed as he internally debated with himself as to whether or not he should say anything. The more he talked to himself, the more it served to rile up the demons within and soon their voices were screaming and clattering like raucous gongs and clangorous bells.
He clapped one hand to the side of his head, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment against the pain they were intent on causing him. Tonight the voices were strong, and had a notion it seemed, to tear his very skull apart. He hated them. He fucking hated them, and they wouldn't leave him alone. These demons had haunted and hunted him since childhood, maybe even before, and through many years of carrying them within his psyche he had never learned to deal with them. They were his constant tormentors, the nightmare that replays each time sleep is sought, the infected splinters that are wedged far too deeply to ever be removed, they are the long, sick, shadows that come with the pale light of the moon, and they can never be untethered from the one who is cursed to bear them.
With a roar of frustration Kane turned towards the row of lockers and slammed his forehead down into one of them. The jolt seemed to reverberate through his entire body, but it barely gave the voices pause. Still they whirled and swirled like a madman's hurricane. He could feel the drip of blood trickle over his brow. His palms lay flat against the cool, smooth surface of metal doors. The towel at his waist slacked and slid down, hanging precariously from one hip and revealing part of his milky-white ass. His eyes stayed shut, squeezed tightly as if that could diminish the voices. His lips pulled back from his squarish teeth in a silent grimace, as his breathing swelled and released in his pulsing chest.
Kane did not hear the soft pat of bare feet along the bathroom tiles. He could not possibly hear something so faint over the roar in his head.
Randy approached Kane, the screams inside his skull roaring to double capacity. It was as if they knew their silence was imminent and were doing everything possible to put halt to their own demise. It felt like existing in a dream, as the room seemed to lilt drunkenly to one side and then the other, but Randy did not stumble. Even so topsy-turvy as the locker room had become, in fun house fashion, Randy did not once step from the stride of strong, determined, grace that he carried himself with. His beautifully muscled legs carried him forward, working inside the confines of flesh hugging jeans that complimented Randy's lower body in every way possible. His upper body was bare, his tanned skin a rich contrast to Kane's fair complected form. The voice roared, consuming, but Randy was determined to win, and once he set himself on such a course, he did not stray until victory was firmly clenched and writhing beneath his champion's grasp.
But tonight was not about becoming champion of a small, four cornered splotch of canvas. Tonight was not about grasping a belt of fake gold and hoisting it above his head with pride, with a sneer, with a pose that rivaled that of godly marble forms sculpted by the great artists of the Renaissance. No, tonight was a different sort of victory entirely, and one he would relish in more than all the others.
"Kane-Kane, it's me...Randy."
Kane pivoted and grabbed at a corner of his towel, barely keeping it from sloughing completely away. He snarled, his hairless brow drawn into a heavy connotation of his annoyance at having been disturbed from his shower...not only by Randy, but by his own voices as well; Randy was sure of it.
"What do you want?" Kane spat, his deep voice enunciating each word carefully as was his way of speaking most often. How he could do it with so many cries threatening to explode his smooth white skull was a mystery, but he did. One large hand came to rest against the side of his head, a groan escaping his tightly clenched teeth at the pain.
"I want what you want." Randy said, cocking his head as he watched Kane from such intense a gaze. "I want them—I need them—to shut the FUCK up!" Randy moved closer to Kane in a quick action that was nearly like a sleek predator springing from a brushy hiding place onto the prey of its choice, but Kane was no prey of Randy's. They were equals, they were one in the same, something which Randy had failed to comprehend until very recently. Randy's hand covered Kane's, his palm resting against the pale ridge of Kane's knuckles and the long clever wands of his fingers. "Look at me." Randy hissed.
Kane was grimacing in a silent cry of agony, and it was an excruciating pain that Randy felt as well.
"Look at me now."
Kane struggled to open his eyes from the tightly closed slits they had become, as if not seeing would somehow protect the inner hell of his mind from imploding. His bi-colored eyes focused on Randy's, the younger mans irises like dark and glowing moons.
"They're trying to destroy us now. They know that we're...we're like keys for one another. Humans are nothing more than keys to lock or unlock various doors within and without of our own varying realities. Kane, listen to me. Listen to me. Our minds...in our heads...there's some door that's opened and it allows this parade of shrieking, screaming, snarling, sniveling, sobbing, pestilent, voices into our psyche. We will never find peace until those doors are closed, until they're locked. You understand, Kane—you have to understand me. You see, you and I are alike, and we are each others keys."
"How...HOW!" Kane roared, grasping the back of Randy's head and pressing their foreheads and noses together. Kane was a tortured being who had endured more than his fair amount of suffering in his lifetime, but the pain now was nearly more than he could bear.
"Give me your hands!" Randy held his palms out, and Kane's pressed against his. Their fingers linked, but the gesture of unity did little to quell the tornado of screams that deafened each man from within. "We have to be closer!" Randy shouted, though the room was eerily silent, to both men it was full of drowning noise.
The two men wrapped their arms around each other, holding one another against the apocalypse of demonic cries. Kane shouted, the sound of his own voice ripped from his throat and tormented as he cursed.
"Not enough!" Randy shouted, clinging to Kane, his fingers gripping at the strong and bunched muscles of the larger mans back. "We need to share a more intimate bond! We..." Randy's words were cut off, usurped by Kane's lips covering his. "Yes..." Randy hissed against the set of lips pressed to his own, and then he forced them open hastily and slid his tongue inside. This was what they had to do. There was no deeper intimacy than skin to skin, one filling the other, coming together in the ultimate union of two bodies and two souls.
Kane's hand reached to the space of fabric between Randy's legs and eagerly rubbed at it. Randy's arousal was brought to life quickly, the blue cloth tightened unbearably around his impressive manhood. The voices continued their screams, raging onwards and upwards as each man became more and more aroused. Randy's mouth and tongue worked at Kane's bulging neck and his muscled shoulders, teeth raking, tongue generously licking hot wet paths, lips sucking pale skin into deep purple hues. Both men moaned out their pleasure, though neither were able to hear it, they could more than feel it. Randy's hips jutted forward, bucking to meet Kane's skilled hand. His jeans were constricting him to a point that he could scarcely breath, and he began to fumble with his belt, groaning and cursing against Kane's sweat and saliva slicked skin.
Kane's large hands knocked Randy's out of the way and freed him of his jeans, sliding them down the thickly muscled curves of Randy's beautiful thighs. Those thighs spoke silently of such power, and jutting above them was Randy's cock standing long and thick, gorged with his need.
Randy kicked his jeans and underwear off to the side, turned Kane, and pressed him up against the lockers. The fuzzy towel willing gave up its battle to cling to Kane's waist, and the thing which had become a tent at Kane's front curled into a submissive terrycloth bundle onto the tiled floor. Randy leaned weakly against Kane's broad back, becoming overwhelmed with the voices. Sweat poured from both bodies, a combination of their lusts and their struggles to fight through the sensory overload that now caused thin trails of blood to leak from their ears and drip like horrible cursive script down the corded columns of neck.
"Come on!" Kane growled, his voice sounding more like that of a wolf than anything human. It was raw and demanding, and it spurred Randy on.
Randy gripped Kane's slender pale hips, and Kane planted his feet widely apart, making himself more than available for what had to be done. Without time for prepping, Randy plunged in, burying his legendary length completely inside the tight, hot, confines of Kane's writhing body. Kane's cry as the the thick cock ripped through him was enough to momentarily rise above the chaos of their doubled voices. Kane pressed his forehead against the cool lockers, but they did little to subdue anything he was feeling. His long lean legs felt weak, and his lower back felt on fire from the sudden invasion of Randy's massive erection. Kane's own cock was rock hard and already dripping with a thick and sticky prelude to a building release, that would no doubt put all previous orgasms to shame and maybe—just maybe—give him the silence and peace that he so desperately craved.
"Fuck you!" Kane screamed to the voices, as they continued to pound, and plunder, and rape both men of their lives. "Fuck you all! Randy...fuck me. Do it!"
Randy's grip tightened around Kane's hips, and he did.
Skin pounded skin, and again and again Randy's hammering member found the sweetest spot inside Kane's tight, clenching, body driving them both into a maddening frenzy that left them drenched in sweat, muscles aching, straining, mouths hung open in silent cries of intense pleasure as the voices began to slack, just slightly, and the torrent of hell around them felt as though it was being forced to back off, though it tried to grip and cling to them, and drag the two mens inner beings away with them for good. Randy could see within Kane's mind, and Kane within Randy's mindscape as well. They were terrible and each a greater hell than the actual place could possibly be. In the very back of all the darkness, the slight form of iron doors could be made and both men rushed on for them, driving as hard as their sex, battling to reach the thing which would close their minds to their demons, as they battled to their climactic union.
Kane stumbled forward within the chaos of Randy's psyche, his pale hands grasping at the heavy door. He leaned with all his might, pressing his weight against the door. In Kane's psyche, Randy fought towards a door as well. It's gate was twisted blackened iron, with spear-like spires reaching gothicly upwards. Randy leaned his frame onto the door, and it wailed against its hinges as it moved, swinging forward, swinging forward to close in upon the black world which would be allowed no longer to leak through.
Randy forced on, pounding in and out of Kane, until both men came with a twin explosion that rivaled the rupture of Mount Vesuvius. Doors closed at the same time, slamming forcefully with echoes that swept up the remaining demons in waves and obliterated them into voiceless ash that would rain down onto cleansed mindscapes, and be swept away into the bin of all things forgotten.
Both men collapsed onto the tiled floor, Randy on top of Kane, their breathing erratic and heavy with their efforts. After many minutes, Randy finally found the strength to slide his softened self out of Kane's body, and he rolled to the side. Kane rolled onto his back as well, tears hung at the corners of his unmatched eyes, but he hardly cared.
Kane and Randy lay together on the locker room floor, staring up at the ceiling.
And they heard absolutely nothing.