When he finally greeted the small group of soon to be lookalikes, he already had a majority of the white base down. His eyes and lips lacked any black, as did his ears. His look was bare bones, and this was the most exposed you had ever seen him.

The others filtered out shortly after Danhausen greeted them. Not long after that, it was just the two of you. Which wouldn't be so bad, if not for the fact that you and Danhausen had history.

That word made it, perhaps, sound more than it actually was; stolen glances, his lingering presence which always seemed to find you, a shared hotel room because everyone else refused to bunk with him. You shared moments that left you with far more questions than answers.

On one occasion, you recalled reaching for something in catering at the same time as him, your hands touching. It was electric. Neither of you moved initially, gazes meeting with a snap — not a challenge by either of you, more so a question. His hand was calloused against the soft back of yours, goosebumps erupting across your skin as he moved just enough to send a jolt through you. You even blushed.

It was the unreadable expression on his face that had you withdrawing first. You apologised and offered the plate to him, but he simply dismissed you with a daft wave of his hands and his insistence that you took it. So you did, gratefully bowing your head in thanks. You had gone to walk away then, remove yourself and calm your thumping heart.

Shamefully, maybe even pathetically, you had thought about that daily since. In your embarrassment upon realising that not only had you blushed like an idiot, but that you had also gawked openly to his face, you had taken a step back from him.

It was respectful. Or, at least, it was meant to be.

Danhausen had noticed your withdrawal. Of course he had. How could he not when you stopped greeting him with a huge grin? Or when you stopped chatting to him in the halls of whatever arena you were at? Or, hell, even when you became less frequent in replying to his texts?

The logical step to fix it was to invite you to join his Wrestlemania debut. He had given you a long spiel about it, ironing out unrealistic details (a car? Who'd give him a car inside?), before asking you to don his face paint and join him and the others as a minion.

Well, he didn't say minion. He had actually said your name followed by —Hausen. If you weren't so eager to agree, you actually would've noticed that you were the only one he had given an actual name to.

So there you were, makeup brush in hand and alone with the man you had been avoiding. You felt embarrassed by how long this makeup had taken you, but you just wanted it to be good. You wanted to make him proud. After all, this was like a fresh start, right? He was too involved in Wrestlemania to remember what had happened… well, that's what you told yourself, anyway.

By the time you began to fill in the black of your eyes, Danhausen was finished. He stood quietly, head moving side to side as he observed his handiwork. Then, satisfied, he nodded to himself. You kept glancing down into the corner of the mirror he occupied, exhaling a quiet sigh of relief when he disappeared from view.

Settling back onto yourself, you continued filling in the black, going as quick as you could whilst being entirely conscious of ruining it. Muscle memory guided the brush back down to the pot of black paint, and you damn near jumped out of your skin when a voice spoke:

“Let Danhausen help you.”

He was right beside you. So close that you could feel the heat radiating from him against your thigh. His tone lacked any of the usual manic excitement that seemed to consume him, and that made you flush warm. You looked at him, wordless for a few seconds, before shaking your head in a pitiful attempt at telling him no.

“That's okay, I'm almost done.” The moment that left your mouth, your eyes closed in a small grimace. That was a stupid, embarrassing lie.

When your eyes opened, Danhausen had a hand extended. He glanced down to the brush in your hand, a silent request that felt more like a command.

“Your eyes are wonky. This one is much lower than this one.” Impatient, he reached down, grabbed the brush, and pried it easily from your fingers. “Just sit there and look pretty for Danhausen.”

His nonchalance should have kept your mind from wandering. That was just him, after all. He was weird, said things he didn't mean. But all you heard was that he thought you were pretty. You swallowed thickly.

Turning in your chair, you watched as he dipped into the black paint, studied your face with an intensity that had your breath catching, and then began to correct your work. His hand ghosted your face, exuding an intoxicating warmth that you were sure was inhuman. His head tilted in apparent concentration, and you swore you saw his gaze avert before he spoke again.

“You've been avoiding Danhausen. Why? Has he upset you?”

If you didn't feel forced into place, you would have sat back and laughed nervously. Instead, your eyes widened a fraction and you exhaled heavily through your nose.

“I'm not avoiding you—”

“—what would you call it, then? Enlighten Danhausen, please.”

His tone was measured, carrying weight that had your heart rate skyrocketing. He didn't sound angry, but you couldn't help but think he was given how uncharacteristically quiet he was being.

Silently, he beckoned you to close your eyes, allowing him to colour in the expanse of black you had been struggling with. Thankfully so, too. You didn't particularly feel confident while staring into his eyes.

“You've not upset me, Danhausen.” You began to reply, pausing to swallow the lump in your throat. “That's not it at all.”

Danhausen paused. It was only for a fraction of a second, barely noticeable if you weren't already so tapped into his every movement. “I haven't?”

That most definitely hit something deep within you, a sorrowful realisation that the entire time you were being stupid, he was battling with the idea that he had upset you. You briefly thought about the times you had seen him in, now you knew, deep thought backstage.

Even the cryptic conversations he'd had with CM Punk started to make sense. They weren't Danhausen simply being weird, they were Danhausen trying to figure out what he had done wrong.

“No, it's just—” You paused as he moved to the other eye, his hand brushing your lips and making you feel nervous. “I felt embarrassed because of what happened in catering.”

“...what happened in catering?” He asked, frustratingly innocent. To the point you thought he was joking.

“When we went for the same plate.” You said simply, quiet.

“Ooooooh, that?” The casual, almost dismissive way of which he said that left you feeling far more embarrassed than before. “I got a plate after you left! Lots of meat, some grapes, even some cheese like they have in France. Oui, oui.”

His horrible attempt at a French accent at the end actually made you smile. Danhausen pulled away from your face, dipping back into the black and wiping the excess onto the back of his hand. He was smiling at you as your eyes met, muted and soft and genuine.

In that small moment, you decided that he truly had no idea what you were referencing. And even if he did, he was giving you an out. So, perhaps foolishly, you refrained from explaining that him touching your hand had sent you into flustered schoolgirl territory.

Before you could reply, he was back on you; brush at your lips, he was taking his sweet time drawing on the outline of his face paint. He leaned in close. So close that you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your face.

“You'll stop avoiding Danhausen now, yes?” His words were akin to a whisper, intimately tuned to your ears as if telling you a dire secret. When you gave a small nod, his grin widened.

“You're going to look spectacular next to Danahsuen!"

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