by Anthology
They got up and brushed snow from one another’s pearl ski jackets, which shimmered with iridescence in the bright sunlight. Angelo pulled his iPhone from a pocket and took selfies with Mickey using Purgatory Village below as their backdrop. Mickey pointed at something, and they ventured off the trail and disappeared into a stand of snow-covered pine trees.
Damon stood and skied over to the snow angels they’d made. Using a ski pole, he adorned one’s head with a pair of devil horns. Then he inhaled the crisp clean air and gazed up at the crystal-clear blue skies. He was on top of the world. This was as close to heaven as any soul could get. They’d both loved his latest one-man play. Last night, Angelo had been so insistent on reading Afterlife that Damon had finally caved and handed him the script. He’d expected Angelo to gloss over it in half an hour and toss it onto the kitchen table. But instead, this morning he’d burst into Damon’s bedroom and woken him with, “This is better than Hellions!” He’d made him and Mickey convene in the living room on the love seat, and then he’d opened the script and read.
God, his interpretation was sick, twisted, and brilliant. He’d felt as though Angelo had invaded his psyche with a searchlight and nothing he viewed in the harrowing terrain had disturbed him. Except Damon’s writerly excesses. Angelo had pruned curse words, sanded down aggressions, and jack-hammered surfaces that were too hard in order to expose the hero’s vulnerability. Those were the moments that took Damon’s breath away. He’d wanted to rise from the love seat, grab hold of Angelo’s head, and kiss him more deeply than he’d ever kissed anyone. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt those urges. He’d never told a soul how he’d burned for Angelo in Ann Arbor. He’d kept his desires secret because Angelo had felt no desires for him whatsoever. He’d always been so aloof, never showing an iota of romantic interest in him, or a speck of jealousy whenever he’d bring home a stranger.
As Damon had led whichever hookup to the bedroom, Angelo had been impervious to his furtive looks. This could be us. Why isn’t he you? He’d think of Angelo out there studying or watching TV on the couch as they undressed. He’d stall with light foreplay until he heard Angelo settle into bed on the other side of their meager bedroom wall. Then he’d let the real action begin. He’d always make sure he and his bedmate were loud. If he couldn’t be thrusting himself inside Angelo’s enticing body, he wanted to be inside his head and make his soul burn with his words and sounds. But it hadn’t worked. Angelo had never said anything about the noise. So he tried a new tactic and added gratuitous nude scenes to Hellions after Angelo was cast as the lead. He’d planned to hover during dress rehearsals, devour him with his eyes, and see if he could finally create sparks. But damned if Angelo hadn’t quarreled and flat-out refused to undress. Oh how he’d burned to torment Angelo for denying him. He’d raged and demanded that Angelo be cut from the cast. Angelo had gone silent and stared at him—crushed, betrayed, and heartbroken. He’d poured his whole soul into the production. The cast and crew had gotten pissed and revolted. Everyone—even Angelo’s understudy—had threatened to walk if Angelo was cut. Damon had cursed everyone but had backed down. That was the day he resigned himself to the fact he would never have Angelo for his own.
God, how could he have been such a fucking prick to him?
“Hey, what did you do to my angel?” Angelo had quietly returned from the pine trees and was pointing a ski pole at his snow angel’s horns.
“It was too good for me.” He averted his gaze from Angelo’s heavenly blue eyes.
“You know he only goes for fallen angels, Angelo.” Mickey smirked as he got into his skis. “He must be miserable standing on Paradise Trail.”
Angelo pierced the snow with his ski poles, all set to push off. “Ready to return to Purgatory, demon lover?”
Damon simply nodded.
Mickey glided over to his side. “Hey, don’t look so gloomy, buddy. I know Purgatory’s not as exciting as hell, but there’s gonna be a wicked masquerade ball tonight.”
Angelo pushed off, and Mickey followed. Damon, however, suddenly stabbed his poles into the hard pack and held fast to the mountaintop. He wanted time to run backward and stop at the moment before he’d put horns on Angelo’s snow angel. He did not want to inch forward and succumb to the claws that would pull him down.
Angels and Demons’ Masquerade Ball
WHILE DAMON grimaced and adjusted the shiny gold suspenders cutting into his shoulders, Angelo and Mickey bobbed their heads and chanted along, off key, to AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. Mickey raised his glass in salute and slurped down the last of his mighty fine wine.
“Janey Mac! Yer glass’s empty, Mickey Mouse!” exclaimed Jeremiah, the bullfrog who’d befriended them with a jug of Purgatory Pink. He poured Mickey more, set down the jug, and they clinked glasses, toasting the ballroom populated with cherubs, devils, seraphim, goblins, archangels, and fiends.
The young Irishman was one of the few rebellious souls like himself who’d flouted the ball’s angel and demon dress code. Mickey had donned jumbo mouse ears, ample red shorts, blimpy yellow shoes, and fat, padded white gloves, while Jeremiah wore a pickle green jumpsuit topped with a frog head that had a cutout showing his cute face. Over the jumpsuit, he sported an apple green sweater vest stitched with a cartoon graphic of a leprechaun riding a rainbow, buckaroo style. Angelo had playfully poked the leprechaun with Damon’s pitchfork when Jeremiah introduced himself. Mickey could tell Angelo really liked Jeremiah, but he seemed to irk Damon. He’d caught Damon glowering at the Irishman several times from underneath Angelo’s golden halo. He wasn’t sure what was going on with Damon. He’d been in a foul mood ever since they’d left the summit of Paradise Trail. He was surprised he’d gotten him to agree with his idea. When he’d come out of his bedroom and seen Damon and Angelo in their costumes, he’d cried, “You two cannot wear the same thing you wore every bleeping Halloween in Michigan. Go switch!”
As Highway to Hell faded, the DJ blasted Three Dog Night’s Joy to the World. Jeremiah whooped and hopped and sloshed wine from his glass. He flung an arm around Angelo and in his Irish brogue exclaimed, “Give me the shift, lad! Make me yer bolloxed prionsa!”
Angelo laughed and looked at him, puzzled. “I can’t understand a single word you say.”
He turned Angelo loose and gestured at all of them. “Let’s dance, fellas!”
He bounced toward the dance floor, glass in one hand, jug in the other, and Angelo followed, brandishing Damon’s pitchfork as he sipped from his wineglass. But Damon stayed put.
“C’mon, have some fun.”
“I don’t feel like dancing.”
“Too bad, I need a partner.” Mickey grabbed Damon’s hand and tugged him through a throng of devils and demons onto the dance floor. Jeremiah jigged with Angelo among a pack of rowdy hellions. Angelo spun, making Damon’s red cape flare, and he laughed and held out his empty glass. Jeremiah paused and poured him more wine from the jug.
Mickey let go of Damon’s hand and coaxed him into a half-hearted dance. God, he looked miserable, soberly gripping his empty wineglass. He’d spilled Purgatory Pink on Angelo’s ivory ribbed tank top, and Angelo’s enormous, fluffy, white wings had drooped and gone crooked on his back.
As Joy to the World faded, the DJ cooed, “Let’s slow things down now with a little Dolly Parton.”
Haunting, mournful notes picked on a bluegrass guitar filled the ballroom. There was every kind of unholy pairing of angels and demons on the parquet floor as Dolly began trilling Stairway to Heaven. Angelo glanced in their direction and fixed his gaze on Damon. Oh yes! He wanted to dance with him.
“Go dance with Angelo while I dance with Jeremiah.”
“No.”
Shit, Jeremiah was eyeballing Angelo. Mickey knew Angelo was charmed by the cute Irishman. If they slow-danced, their chemistry and all the Purgatory Pink they’d drunk would likely land them in bed together. All his hopes for a match made in Purgatory between his two friends would die if he didn’t move fast
.
Mickey rushed in for the cock block. In his highest, cutest Mickey Mouse voice, he exclaimed, “Dance with me, Froggy!”
“What’s the craic, Mickey Mouse?” Jeremiah threw an arm around him, conking him in the kidney with the wine jug.
Angelo walked away.
Mickey draped an arm over Jeremiah’s shoulder. They swayed, awkwardly clutching their wineglasses, and slowly rotated until Angelo came back into view. He’d gone to the edge of the dance floor. Damon was facing him, and it looked as though he had his arms crossed. Had Damon said something to make Angelo scowl? Or were the masquerade ball’s shifting lights and shadows playing tricks with his makeup and the demon horns protruding from his forehead? Damon shifted his weight, and Angelo’s big fluffy wings tilted and drooped even lower on his back.
The banjo picking suddenly picked up pace, and Dolly belted a high, sorrowful note that stirred Jeremiah’s passions. He cha-chaed, drew Mickey to his chest, and half turned. Mickey craned but could no longer see his friends. He felt like a chicken on a slow rotisserie as he waited for them to come back into view. He hoped he’d spot them across the dance floor in each other’s arms, swaying to Dolly too. But he feared he’d find them arguing, or worse, looking for snow to mash into one another’s face. However, when he and Jeremiah had finally rotated 180 degrees, he found neither. Angelo and Damon were gone.
“Shit, my friends ditched me.”
Jeremiah stopped dancing and gazed at him, his big green eyes filled with concern. “Shall I help you find the lads?”
He shook his head. Whatever Angelo and Damon were doing, he was sure the cute Irishman’s presence would only stir trouble.
Purgatory Village
FROSTY AIR stung Angelo’s bare ears as he lurched out of the masquerade ball. He whirled like a dust devil, looking all directions. Where the hell had Damon gone? He abruptly halted, but the world kept spinning. He shut his eyes, fighting the undertow of Purgatory Pink. He heard a distant, faint shout of a man. He whipped around and searched the horizon. All he saw were ghostly snowcaps glowing in moonlight. He shivered, clutched Damon’s cape, and wrapped himself tight in the thick, satiny fabric. Maybe he’d gone back to the townhouse.
As Angelo crossed Purgatory Village, he wondered what the hell was the matter with Damon. No jokes, clever cracks, or snide remarks all night long. No ironic or dramatic reactions either. The more people had tried to engage him, the more he’d withdrawn. He was not the same man he’d been this morning. Damon had glowed while he’d watched him read Afterlife.
He swung Damon’s pitchfork and toppled a mound of snow. Why was he being so damned aloof now? When he’d gone to the bathroom to re-glue a devil horn he’d sweated loose on the dance floor, Damon had up and disappeared. He’d circled the entire ballroom but had found him nowhere.
In the distance, a low voice hushed someone’s laughter. He scanned the darkness. The noises must have come from the clouds of steam billowing off the lodge’s heated pool. He hurried across the village plaza and descended stairs to the pool deck. Two angel costumes lay in a heap on the wooden planks. He squinted, and through the steam, he could make out the silhouettes of two men. They bobbed in the deep end, kissing. Beyond them, someone lay in a lounge chair, staring up at the sky. Angelo walked over and found Damon shivering in his tank top. His halo was still above his head, but he was clutching his big, fuzzy wings to his chest for warmth.
“What’s the matter with you? You’re gonna catch pneumonia and die.”
“So be it.”
Angelo knelt and touched his arm. “Jeez, you’re like ice! Let me warm you up.”
He put down his pitchfork, untied the strings at his neck, and settled on the lounge chair. But when he tried to drape Damon with his cape, Damon abruptly rose, still clutching his wings.
“Janey Mac! I ain’t just ossified. I did see ya crossin’ the plaza!”
Angelo looked over his shoulder.
Jeremiah grinned at them from inside his frog costume and staggered to the edge of the deck. He plopped his jug of wine into a pile of snow.
“You lads fancy a swim?”
Angelo turned back to Damon, who was eying Jeremiah. His face was inscrutable.
“You want to join him?”
For the first time all night, Damon gazed directly at him. “Do you?”
“Feck, I ain’t been this frostbit in donkeys’ years!”
Angelo glanced over his shoulder again. Jeremiah had stripped off his costume and was hightailing for the steaming pool butt naked. He jumped in with a quiet splash.
“Well?” asked Damon.
“I asked you first.”
Their eyes met, and neither of them flinched. Heat sparked inside Angelo in spite of the frigid night air. Damon’s stare was kindling his desires. He wanted all the barriers that had always kept them apart to fall. Damon had done his part by giving him Afterlife to read. With his words, he’d exposed himself in a way he never had before. Damon had shown him the vulnerable heart beneath his wisecracks and bravado. Now he wanted to purge his own old sins, the ones that had always kept Damon from seeing the truth in his heart. He wanted Damon to know he’d always secretly burned for him.
He got up from the lounge chair. He unbuttoned his crimson shirt and let it fall from his muscled shoulders onto the pool deck. He removed his shoes and socks, unbuckled his belt, and slid off his pants. Then he hesitated. He could feel his cock growing hard inside his briefs. What if Damon used this moment to ridicule him? What if he’d been completely wrong about what Damon had felt while he’d read him Afterlife? Was it too late to back out now?
No, he had to do this.
He shut his eyes, tugged off his briefs, and felt his cock bob to full attention in the freezing air. He quickly turned away and headed for the steaming pool.
“Come join us,” he called, hoping with all his heart that Damon would.
He dived headfirst into the deep end and relished the rush of warm water on his skin. Until he realized Damon’s horns had come unglued from his forehead. Not sure if they’d sink or float, he dived downward and searched the blur around him. Seeing nothing, he pushed himself to go deeper and scanned the pool’s bottom. Again, he found nothing. He could no longer hold his breath, and his head hurt from the water’s pressure, so he surfaced. He hoped he’d see horns bobbing on the water, but they weren’t there either.
Jeremiah dog paddled toward him and pointed toward the steps to the plaza. “Where’s yer man headed?”
A pang filled his chest as he squinted skyward. Through clouds of steam he saw Damon ascending the stairway in his halo. He didn’t look back when he reached the top. He simply disappeared into the dark night.
Pandemonium Trail
DAMON GRIPPED his ski poles fiercely and struggled to control his downward momentum. He could no longer see Mickey, who’d blazed out ahead of them. He’d be damned grateful when this run was over. With a double black diamond rating, Pandemonium was far more difficult and rough than Paradise. The trail wasn’t well groomed, had exceptionally steep slopes and harrowing drop offs, narrowed at the worst possible locations, and was plagued with pine trees that would split him in half if he hit one. To make it worse, snow had melted in patches and turned to blocks of ice.
He squinted in the fierce wind and tried to keep his eyes fixed ahead on the long, bright scarf fluttering from Angelo’s neck. The crazed fool was descending the trail like a daredevil. The streamer of crimson he wore was the only color Damon could see. A storm was moving in fast. Wind gusts had rocked their ski lift chair on the way up to the trail summit, and the skies had turned completely grey. Clouds were so thick now that no sunlight was getting through. There were no shadows on the snow. He couldn’t see bumps or gauge the gradient.
His skis went wild as they hit another block of ice. He gritted and strained every muscle to keep from wiping out, and then whooshed left to avoid another cursed pine tree. Damn Mickey. He’d been the one who’d dragged them up here. Neit
her Angelo nor he had wanted to ski today. They were both tired and hung over. But he guessed they’d both felt guilty for abandoning Mickey at the masquerade ball. Damon wished he hadn’t. Seeing Angelo strip and dive into the pool, raring to have sex with someone other than him, had burned him up. His cock had grown rock hard at the sight of Angelo naked. He’d thirsted to get in the pool with Angelo, taste rosé on his tongue in the billowing steam and feel his muscles and chest hairs grazing his body in the warm water. He’d ached to lose himself in emotions for the one he truly loved. Then he’d seethed, wanting to call him every kind of derogatory word for desiring that loathsome Irish guy. But all he could do was turn around and coolly walk away. He’d vowed never to torment Angelo again.
The trail bent ahead, and he lost sight of Angelo’s scarf. When he cleared the curve, he still didn’t see it. Shit. Where’d he gone? He dug his skis into the snow, planting his pole hard, and swerved to a stop. He scanned for fluttering red farther down the trail. Nothing. Maybe he’d gone off trail into that thick stand of pine trees to the north to take a leak. He made his way to the trail’s edge and saw numerous ski marks heading that direction. He stepped off trail, glided over to the trees, and scoped the gaps between their trunks. He saw no one. He decided to return to the curve where he’d lost sight of Angelo. He glided back to the trail and sidestepped up the slope until he stood at the edge of the bend. He looked southward, down the mountain’s steep, rugged declivity. A crimson gash marred the snow about fifty feet down. Angelo lay twisted at the base of a pine tree.
“Oh god, no.” He quickly released his skis. “Angelo!”
Angelo didn’t move.
Damon’s legs shook mightily. He was terrified Angelo had suffered a fatal fall. God, he had to get down there. Could he get off the trail and down the escarpment to him without killing himself? He squinted at the crimson scarf and struggled to pick out the best path to him. No way could he climb down the first twenty feet. The slope was too steep. He’d have to slide down on his ass and hope the snow was soft and deep.