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A drop of sweat ran down his neck while staring at the dark figure lurking in the dark shadowy corner of his backstage resting room.
The show was over. And he also did a spectacular Bis (Encore!) for the crowd’s enthusiasm and pleasure. So, he thought he deserved some rest, right?
His wish was accomplished, as he much yearned. So the rockstar told the rest of the staff to leave him alone for a few minutes in the backstage room, for him to take a breath or two in private. The grey dark armchair and sofa above that ridiculous zebra skin carpet did - again - make him sick, he wasn’t fond of any kind of stripes, specially real striped animal skin which was something he just couldn’t deal with.
Too many traumatic experiences always end up with this kind of shitty repulse for normal things. He should talk to his manager.
He had to go out to meet the fans for photos and autographs in a few minutes. As usual. But he needed to take a break first.
He arrived in the resting room groaning and mumbling about some mistake the main guitarist ended up doing with his perfectly set and elaborate symphony of chords - taking out the boots and heavy chains from around his shoulders. Sighing in relief with the feeling of less weight over his weak body.
The exhausting performance on stage didn’t ease his scared high jump once he spotted the tall and dark being leaning over the opposite wall of his mirror. The lurking bastard’s reflection staring back at him. And, if anything, the high pitch scream he made was even more lively than any of his main falsetto.
Slys, the rockstar, lost balance and fell, ungracefully on the floor - crawling backward to put some distance between that shadow-man and himself.
The dark being had blood-red eyes and a shark-teeth smile. His laugh sounded evil, and it made Flug shiver instinctively.
He tried to speak, but he couldn’t.
He tried to get up and run, but he also couldn’t.
He could only stare back at that tall man, or creature, leaning over the wall, now, in front of him, playing with some kind of a walking-stick, smiling at the musician, with those red eyes and thin pupils, blinking now and then, reminding Flug that he’s real .
That, this , is no hallucination.
But - even with Flug’s sudden blurred vision and difficult breathing - he could have guessed it wasn’t fake.
He had been surprised by many crazy fans inside many backstage rooms before, he could tell.
And then he passed out on the striped carpet he so much hated.
Once the rockstar woke up again and finally noticed where he was, he groaned. Extremely unpleased.
For all the places possible for him to be dragged to… really.
He wished with all his might that his kidnapper was just making a prank, he was mistaken and they were actually in a butchery or a dark basement full of sharp weapons.
He’d rather die in any other place than in a fucking church .
“Please, just make it quick ,” Slys said, head dropping forward - his chest, arms, and waist were tied up in a chair, right in front of the altar.
He noticed that he was barefoot once he tested if his feet were also held to the chair’s legs - and it made sense, because he had taken his boots off before being kidnapped - and realized, thankfully, that his feet and legs were free.
It gave him a false sense of security because he could at least kick something if the creature approached him.
Although… the place was completely empty, with the exception of a few candles on the Church’s main candle-holder above the Altar’s ceremonial desk. It wasn’t completely dark, because the moonlight was illuminating the insides of the Church through the many big windows on the walls and the ceiling.
His vision wasn’t blurred anymore, and he took a deep breath - exhaling a thick misty breath, usually common to notice when you are in cold places, or maybe in cold cities in the north at this time of the year…
But not in Costa Rica .
“ ...Where the fuck am I?” He mumbled low, confused.
The tall man, whose silhouette was nothing but pitch-black, emerged from the shadows just ahead. Two blood-red eyes stared at him sharply, and Flug felt shivers down his spine.
The evil laugh from before reappears, echoing off the church walls. The sound made the musician even more scared.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Slys.” That voice. Hoarse. Harsh-Sounding. Similar to the one Flug had only met when he was visiting former musicians who had been retired for having caught throat cancer for so much guttural-singing. It creeped him out. “You are in the Deeps. My church more specifically.” He had so many questions. “I apologize in advance for the coldness, I know you are not fond of low temperatures.”
Indeed, he was not. But how does that person know it was beyond Flug. And the polite way he spoke made it all the more disturbing.
First of all, was that shadow a person? As far as he knows, humans don’t live in the Deeps. Unless… Deeps is a city he’s unaware of.
“Why did you kidnap me?” He asked, trying to identify if he recognized the pitch-black-skinned person hidden in the dark. “Is it about the press? The satanic cult I denied participating in? Or does my agent owe you money?”
The laugh sounded again, making Flug chill once more.
“No, no.” He saw a dark hand wave around. And, with a step forward, he saw the person was outing himself from the shadow. “In fact, I'm one of your biggest fans.”
The man, very well dressed in a dark cassock, black and red, like his skin and eyes (and hat, apparently), took a few more steps so that he could be next to the human seated and tied to the chair.
Flug’s eyes widened as he got confused.
“I literally sing about how much I hate priests. Having one as a fan doesn't seem like a plausible thing to me…” He argued, completely disbelieved, then, he groaned with how tight the ropes were around his middle. “unless I'm a sacrifice, which explains the place and that attire.”
Clearly, the man with black clothes understood the musician's skepticism - it was, in fact, a very uncommon thing to happen.
Still, he looked slightly uneasy to hear that.
“Perhaps I exceeded myself, sorry.” He began, walking around the chair to untie the man, cutting the ropes. “Don't be fooled, Churches are just titled by humans as God's house - in reality, it houses any kind of entity. Even the bad ones, oddly enough.” He kept going, talking, like Flug was there for a tea party. Then, he stood in front of him again, gesturing to himself. “Anyway, yes, I am a priest who likes Death Metal.”
Flug shook his head, completely incredulous. That didn't make any sense to him.
“ Bulshit .” It was impossible for that to be true. “Prove me you're really a fan.”
The black priest hummed, surprised for the daring of such a small puny human held hostage a minute ago.
He grinned.
“Why, of course.” And then he shrugged. “My favorite song is the “Burn The Clergy”. I also love “The Haunting Memories” because of the drama and the new way you introduced the melody to your style of Metal.” Those weren't even his most famous songs, but it was definitely one of his creations. He remembered the anguish of writing each one of them, and how much they meant to him like so many others. He became serious looking at that dark-skinned man proving himself to be, for real, one of his biggest fans. “The whole album of “I ate the wolf among the herd of sheeps” have many masterpieces and I can’t pick the best among them - Urgh , except the “Embracing the darkness tonight”, because I can't stand the sound of that vibrant-green haired singer you made a feat with. Your lyrics are great, though, as always.” Flug remembered that partnership, and how much they both ended up fighting. He hated the fact that that song was successful because he would have to call her more often to participate in shows. “Also, I was cheering for you when “Hematolagnia” made the top three and almost got an award. Your agent should have bribed the judges. If I could, I would have definitely done that.”
Those were really detailed information regarding your songs that ordinary people who didn't look deeper into all of your albums might not know. But the fact that this priest knew so much only made him even more confused. He was almost irritated by the situation.
He hated priests, he hated the clergy, he hated catechesis, he hated the church and he hated any other member of that shitty religion that destroyed his childhood, separated his parents' marriage, abused him physically and psychologically, consumed all his Sundays and holidays, abused him constantly for being just a curious child and still blamed him that all the wounds and marks were just evidence of the necessary punishment for sins he was forced to commit by old men in religious attire. On his knees, blindfolded, bound and gagged, or even unconscious.
He will most possibly never be able to accept that a priest likes his music.
“ Fuck , you might really like my work but…” He’s not usually rude to fans, but at this point, it doesn't make any difference to him. “If you're part of that ill group of disgusting people, I can’t help but hate you with all my might.”
The black priest hummed again, slightly upset.
He thought his actions were all appropriate.
That hadn't been the expected result he wanted - but also, the first impression the musician had of him wasn't the best either. He had, on top of everything else, kidnapped him, after all.
But, well, that's exactly why the kidnapping was necessary for. In case attempt number one didn't work.
At first, that black priest didn't think anything would evolve from his personal taste for heavy, rancor-filled, metal music. But then, after a few interviews, he realized he was already obsessed with that human. He's never had a crush on anyone before. He’s not completely natural, nor normal, nor human, so it never happened to him.
This… weird urge to make that specific man happy. Just because he’s hardworking and cute .
“I thought you'd be thrilled with the idea of having a priest on your side, so you might not have understood how special I am.” He explained, taking more steps back and leaning on his cane. “I really like you, which, yes, is a sin . But my sins are not inspected by God, because I work for another type of entity that authorizes me to punish sinners ruled by him . So, if you wish, I can get the head of any priest you want as a gift.” The black man gestured. “ Literally .”
Widening his eyes, Flug was surprised by the offer. It felt macabre and, at the same time, too real.
“Are you serious?” He asked, in a low voice, dry throat, chest tightening.
The black priest grinned, adoring that astonished expression on his pretty human face.
“And if I get a date, I can do even worse.”