Skidding across the announce table went just fine – the usual shit poked and prodded, but that was normal – the long flight across the table led to the floor, which was fine, and culminated in an abrupt landing into freshly vacated chairs; no, it was the legs of the chairs that were the problem. Nick had always been able to keep track of which end was up no matter how quick the flip or sharp the spin, so he certainly wasn't too disoriented to prepare for what was next. His hand, however, was stuck between the legs of two of the announce chairs. That, well – that was absolutely preventing him from further preparation.
Yanking harder only led to the chairs gripping deeper into Nick's hand. Their legs had him caught behind his knuckles, across his palm, and he couldn't work any part of himself through the space. One chair was angled down, the other up, effectively levering their legs across each other with his hand trapped in the gap between. Pulling forward just brought the chairs further forward into him, which didn't do him any good. Nick knew he'd just end up getting kicked back into the chairs when the blows came, and coming they were. If he was going to minimize the impact of the impending kicks, it was going to be either by bunching into a turtle on the floor or reaching across himself in an awkward, off-handed block. Neither made for good television, and nobody stage-side had yet figured out that he needed at least one chair moved before his fingers went from red to purple.
None of this was obvious to the two-legged jar of mayonnaise trundling toward him at high-speed, leaving Nick with the unpleasant task of deciding whether de-gloving his fingers was an acceptable alternative to getting his orbitals broken by a boot he couldn't properly defend against. Normally, he'd have no problem absorbing half the move and selling the hell out of it, but with his tilted position on the floor, "half" wasn't an option. This was going to be full-throttle footwear, times three. 'Off-handed block, check. I'm going to look like such a pussy. Great job, Nemeth, you lose to a fucking chair.' Complicating matters was the not-so-negligible fact that his opponent tended to work with all the finesse of a bulldozer. There wasn't much hope he'd see Nick was trapped on the floor and thus stop after one kick, or pull up more than usual and launch into theatrics and ranting rather than physical antics.
Nope. Physical antics were Stephen's schtick. Beat the fuck out of the problem – or opponent – and bumble around the microphone later, if at all. Nick knew he was supposed to lose; it was all part of the build-up to their match at the next pay per view, so it wasn't the idea of losing that bothered him. It was the idea of taking three solid shots to the head from a person who really should have known better that bothered him.
"Birds, Brena? Hazel's birds?"
She stopped raising the head of the hospital bed and the high-pitched noise stopped along with the motion, silencing the chirping that filled the room.
"No, Uncle Deaglan. It's just the bed. Something's stuck. I have to call maintenance."
"Hazel, Brena. Hazel. Here! Where? Hazel!"
Brena sighed, smiled, shook her head, and continued raising the head of the bed – just as Deaglan continued repeating himself about Hazel and her birds. On the one hand, her uncle had just uttered the most words he'd said in a week. On the other, the words were complete babble about his dead wife and her pet parakeets, and he'd also let slip that despite being in the same neurological center in Philadelphia for months – coming up on a year since the project had started – he had absolutely no idea where he was.
Smoothing down his hair and reaching for his hand, Brena gave it a gentle squeeze once she located it under the sheets and blankets. "Uncle D. Focus. Breakfast, day clothes, and then let's go to the community room. I'll find a book for us to read." Settling in on the edge of his bed, she pulled the overbed tray closer to them both, and set about stirring creamer into his morning coffee and shaking salt onto his scrambled eggs. Deaglan hadn't been able to feed himself for over a year; it was one more indignity his Alzheimer's had visited on them both. Lifting his hands to the edge of the tray – he no longer could coordinate that movement, or many others – she marveled at how tissue-paper thin his skin had become; even the gentle pass-and-back motion of her thumb across his hand caused it to crepe and bunch as though it would tear.
"Not quite what you thought old age was gonna be, huh, Uncle Deaglan?" Brena's voice was down to a whisper, but it wouldn't have mattered. Her comment would have been gone from his mind as quickly as it entered, assigned no more importance than the color of his quilt or the fabric of the curtains in the room. "It's okay. We're gonna do the best we can here – so is Magee, that's why you picked this place – and in the end, it's gonna help people." Brena looked over at the empty bed in the room, then out into the hallway. "It'll be exactly what you wanted, Uncle D. I wish you could remember."
Woozy might have been a good word to describe the rest of Nick's evening after the match, at least at the outset, but he quickly progressed well past that degree of churning and moved on to a different roller-coaster speed. Stephen hadn't bothered apologizing; instead, he'd giving him a solid ribbing backstage about being both too dumb to take a bump properly and also getting his ass handed to him by a pile of office furniture. That, of course, was followed by an arrogant speech about selling properly and knowing how to give the crowd a show. Nick had half-listened; the squeal in his ears prevented him from clearly hearing much of what was being said. He walked away after a good five minutes of insults, which earned him a full water bottle directly to the back of the head, also courtesy of Stephen.
'Three. He planted that giant fucking boot in my face three fucking times. Didn't he? Not. Necessary. And now the back of my head hurts. That was a full bottle of water. He's gotta have good aim on top of everything else, am I right?' Nick's palm had started to bruise, and his constant pulling and jostling had given him scratches and cuts across the backs of his fingers. Medical was more concerned with the concussion screening than the finger scraping, and suffering through neuro-check after neuro-check was tedious at best and nausea-inducing at worst, though Nick reasoned he should be used to it after the car accident and the concussions that sidelined him for months. 'This doesn't matter. I can't be out now, and I can bullshit my way through this, anyway. All the right answers, from all the wrong injuries. Just have to make sure I don't lean too far left. Er, right. Left?'
It took longer than normal for Nick to get through his shower at the arena and then pack his bag – he was concerned he was forgetting things – but he'd managed to coordinate a ride with Claudio before the show began, who was one of his more patient friends. He'd watched the match between Nick and Stephen on the monitors backstage, along with several other members of the cast and crew, and while they were all acutely aware of Nick's trapped hand, there wasn't anything that could be done until the information was communicated from backstage out to a ringside stagehand who could slip in and make an adjustment. Stephen, assuming he was as professional as he proclaimed to be, should have seen the problem and corrected for it, but he kept on with the match as planned.
"You...are sure you are okay?" The slow shower had now turned into slow walking, which gave them time to talk. Banter about crappy catered food and cheap ring gear gave way to a thin silence, and Claudio knew he had to ask. Nick's feet were starting to scuff and drag, and walking seemed like more and more of an effort to coordinate for him.
"I'm good, C. Just tired, and sore as shit. You know what it's like being in the ring with that asshole. His idea of pulling a punch means pulling back further to hit you harder."
"Yes, and that is why I ask. You are...not like yourself. Surly, yes, but also disorganized. Disoriented? Unsettled."
"He punched me, C. What do you think I'm gonna be like?" Slowly, lifting bags and gear into the trunk of the rental, and even more slowly descending into the passenger seat – all of which concerned Claudio, especially given Nick's unpleasant and lengthy history with concussions – Nick groaned and stretched his neck out, trying while not-trying to crack it.
"Nick...Stephen did not just punch you. Do you not remember what happened?" Stephen slid into the driver's seat, closed the door quietly, and waited for his friend's response, not daring to turn the car on. "Truly, my friend. The match. Tell me about your match tonight." 'Can you tell me about your match? Or has something happened?'
"You're really gonna sit there and tell me Stephen didn't punch me? Dude. Come on. All he ever does in the ring is punch people. And kick people. And then throw them out of the ring. Guess what he does then? He punches and kicks them." Nick finally succeeded in wrenching a pop out of his spine, followed by one in his neck, and Claudio winced. "Can we quit with the third degree and go, now, or do I have to say the alphabet backwards, too? C'mon. Turn the car on and let's go."
"Yes, yes. You cannot fault me for worrying, Nick. As you said, he works stiff." 'You cannot take many more chances with blows to your head. It will end in blows to your career. Or just an end to your career.' Claudio shot Nick a sideways glance as they drove, Nick clinging to the seatbelt strap as though it was going to anchor him to the seat. His eyes were crushed closed, and he looked very much like a person working to keep from throwing up. "You also look like you are going to be sick. Did you let the doctor look at yo-"
"Just trying not to fall asleep, man. It's all good. I'd be shitty company if I dozed off, right?" Nick winced and wavered in his seat as Claudio made a sharp right followed by a bump up into the hotel's parking garage and a further series of spiraling turns leading them up into the center of the structure. "Tell me we've got private access? I don't wanna deal with a bunch of screaming people."
"Of course! Of course. Seventh floor. Lucky number, no?"
"Lucky if I can score some sleep, C."
"A change for you, Nick. Not usually what you talk about scoring, eh?" Claudio tried to lighten the mood between the two of them, but watching Nick stagger out of the car and down the hotel hall gave him an odd, warning twinge, nagging at him to keep an eye on his friend. They had separate rooms, though – not much Claudio could do there, other than make sure Nick made it in the proper door.
"You are sure you will be fine?"
"Claudio. Relax. I just need some sleep. I said it's all good. It's just gonna be a rough couple weeks til the pay per view. Stephen's gonna overdo it on everything. That's just how he works. He just got back, he wants to make sure nobody forgot his pasty white ass while he was gone."
"He works like an ass, you mean."
"Glad you said it and not me, C. I'll catch you in the morning."
Nick shut the door gently, not wanting to fire any more noise through his brain than was necessary – he swore he could hear his own heartbeat, even hear people across the hall breathing. Falling across his bed, not bothering to move the sheets back, he shoved himself up toward the pillows as much as seemed reasonable, until the effort started to give him a headache. 'When I'm late tomorrow – and I will be – Claudio will come get me. Whatever. Sleep.'
After breakfast, Brena managed her uncle from his bed to a wheelchair with the help of a gait belt and arms that were solidly used to the work. There were CNA's and technicians who were supposed to do the lifting for her, but they rarely had a chance to intervene. Her days and nights were spent at Deaglan's side, only leaving when there was a procedure at which she couldn't accompany him, or he was sleeping off a sedative and she had enough time to sneak home for clean clothing and a shower.
In moving him, she had to put his hands on her shoulders and remind him to hold on – every time they changed rooms, changed activities, even sat further up in a chair, Brena had to make sure she accounted for his every motion and position so he didn't slip or get overwhelmed, not that she was ever sure he understood her. Sometimes she'd dance with him in the day room, holding him up entirely and swaying slowly if a nurse had been kind and left an LP running on the phonograph in the corner. Deaglan always smiled, even if it was a drifting expression, and Brena lived for the small things that showed his personality still lived on. Today was not to be one of those days – at least, not this early in the morning; now, the day room was quiet – so she settled for picking a book off the shelf, organizing pillows and cushions in a window seat, and lifting Deaglan back into the sun-warmed heap, finding a blanket to keep over his lap. 'The sun might be warm, but the windows are frosted solid. April weather, funny thing.' Brena curled in next to him and began to read out loud, making a mental note to put a record on the phonograph after lunch.
When she was younger, too young to ever be really sure when, her mother and father lost their house and bounced from one set of relatives to the next, eventually moving in with Hazel and Deaglan in their brownstone. It was across from a florist and above a bakery, and Brena always loved the Russian comfrey and bellflowers in the florist's windows, along with the scent from cinnamon rolls that would float up through the floor. She had fond memories of her aunt and uncle dancing with each other as the phonograph played in their living room, especially at Christmas, and could still picture the snow flying past the parlor windows as 'Fairytale of New York' – even though they lived in Philadelphia – or 'The Carol of the Birds,' or, if it was late enough at night and enough sherry had been passed around after dinner, ' That Night In Bethlehem' sounded through the room. Deaglan was always sure to dip Hazel more than a few times in front of the Christmas tree as they spun and box-stepped through the glow of the tiny lights. It made Brena's parents' arguing in the kitchen a bit more tolerable. She could imagine Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers – a fairy tale in Port Richmond, Philadelphia – even if Deaglan and Hazel didn't look like them at all. Then, it was easier to pretend her mother and father were simply background noise, a television left on too loud in the brownstone next door. And so she wrote, as soon as she could find locking diaries small enough to hide from her parents, and words delicate enough to describe her aunt and uncle, about how wonderful it must be to be so in love.
Now, all Deaglan remembered about that part of his life were Hazel's birds and her name. The books Brena read were all read in hope; she'd sneak sidelong glances at Deaglan while she spoke, hoping to see some sort of recognition on his face, but there was none. She looked for the same flashes when she spooned his ice cream – spumoni – into his mouth for dessert after dinner, or loaded him into her dying SUV and drove him to the battered benches by either the Schuykill or Delaware Rivers, depending on the weather and her mood, to watch the gulls and river-walkers. If he had the patience, could tolerate the frustration of not remembering places or people, or the clinic's tests hadn't aggravated him, they'd go to JFK Plaza or Rittenhouse Square and walk for a few hours, just so she could talk to him about colors and shapes, the scents of flowers, the way sunlight looked as it passed through clouds.
Brena longed to take him out to a meal, though his favorite pub was anything but, anymore. The space was too small, the sounds and scents too overwhelming, and every cheer from the bar caused him to jump and flinch. For a time, he'd missed cail and rugby until Brena had figured out how to stream the games on her laptop. Then, she'd lay in Deaglan's hospital bed, tight against his side the same way he'd done with her when she was a girl and scared of her parents – first, their arguments, then their disappearing without her, and then, the terror that they'd come back and ruin it all – tilting the screen just-so for him, silently cursing the time difference, and hoping against hope that he'd remember a cheer or team color if she prompted him correctly – but knowing deep down he wouldn't. Brena had to learn to see things through his eyes, if his eyes saw anything at all. If they didn't, she reasoned, she had to learn how to make them see again. 'You – and I – agreed to this because you loved cail and rugby so damned much, Uncle D. Please, let this be worth it in the end. Let it be a help to someone, like you wanted.'
The next morning hurt worse than Nick wanted it to, especially with Claudio's incessant pounding on the door.
"Nick! Nick, you must open the door now. I have waited as long as I can, but you must wake up!"
At first, he couldn't figure out how to pack, then he realized he didn't need to pack as much as he needed to change his clothes, and then he absolutely had to make the Claudio stop pounding. 'Door is easiest. Open the door.' Stumbling toward the door, half falling onto it, he managed to let Claudio into his room, being sure to push him away from the light switches as he entered.
"My God, Nick, you are not well. You must go back to the doctor today. You cannot work like thi-"
"Nah, I'm good. I just slept funny. Why are you so worried?" Nick couldn't remember going out the previous night, so he had no idea why he felt like he had a hangover. There was no smell of stale perfume, no beer bottles or half-empty fifths on the dresser, and his bed was empty save for him. Unless he'd brought back a woman who had left his room without waking him or mooching his phone number, he couldn't think of a single reason why he felt like a complete bucket of shit.
"Your sleep does not look like it was fun, Nick." Claudio deadpanned, but his voice held no small amount of concern. Nick looked absolutely haggard.
"Dude. Just help me make sure I have all my shit. I'm tired. I don't wanna forget anything." Nick continued scanning the room – for what, he wasn't sure – but nothing jumped out at him. Trying not to rouse any suspicion in Claudio, he turned slowly to him and thought of how to ask about the night before without sounding like an idiot. "Guess I already forgot her name, huh? Or I never got it?" Nick tried to nudge Claudio with an elbow in an attempt to be both pridefully manly and conspiratorial, but he knew the smile pasted across his face looked fake and his effort was failing.
"Whose name, Nick? Someone came over after you went to bed?"
"Oh...uh, well...I figured since I've got a headache, I probably tied one...or three...on last night. Right?" Nick dragged his hands through his hair, trying to scrub memories both in and out.
"No, Nick. You said you wanted to go to bed, and as far as I know, you did. I was next door; I did not...how to say this delicately...hear anything that would mean otherwise." Claudio cleared his throat. "You did not leave, at least. And I do not think anyone came in."
"Just forget it, man. It's cool. She probably took off quick." 'He can't be right. I can't feel this shitty without drinking. Or fucking. Or drinking and fucking. I can't have a concussion. Not again.'
"She does not exist, Nick. You are hurt, my friend. Stephen –"
"Just let it go, okay? I'm fine. Stephen was definitely not involved with anything in my hotel room last night. And I don't wanna hear any shit about being hurt, or my head being fucked up. I already know that's what you're thinking."
Claudio was skeptical, but quieted down and helped Nick pack, waiting patiently while he banged around the bathroom changing his clothing and washing up for the morning.
"Come. We have a plane to catch." Claudio tapped at his watch; he hated being late and rushing through airports.
"Perfect. Sounds like mid-air hell. Any chance we can drive this one?"
"Not unless you want to miss the event today...and tomorrow...and the day after that. You said you needed sleep, you should sleep on the plane. It will be good for you!"
Nick shook his head at the idea, and immediately regretted it. The walls began to whirl again, and his hands didn't know if they should clutch to the sides of his head or dig into the wallpaper as though grabbing the stripes might force the world to hold still around him. 'Claudio, you're not allowed to have a point. This fucking sucks. I can't go through this again.' Trying to play it off as nothing, Nick lurched forward and grabbed his bags, hoping to turn vertigo and nausea into momentum and enthusiasm.
"Nick, my friend. Please. I do not think this is good for you." Claudio's hand closed on Nick's shoulder, slowly pulling him up to vertical and turning him around. "You cannot, must not, go on like this. It is not safe for you, but this is madness for the people you work with. Anything could happen, to you or to them. Do you want someone to get hurt?"
"C., really. I appreciate the concern. I get you, I get where you're coming from. I know it looks bad, but seriously – I'm just out of it because I'm tired. Must have been one hell of a party last night." Seeing the look on Claudio's face, Nick's resolve cracked slightly, and he rolled his eyes – a move a regretted, since the ceiling seemed to move with them. "But...you're right. Stephen didn't exactly go easy on me. I'll see the doctors again when we get there. Deal?"
"A half-assed deal, as you would say, but one I will accept. Now, we will go." Claudio sounded massively unsure, especially knowing that another match with Stephen was scheduled for Nick that night.
The tilt and shift of takeoff and landing, the pressure changes in the cabin, and the plane's brief bout with turbulence further loosened Nick's tenuous grasp on reality. He tried for sleep, but ended up half-rolled over in his seat, head tucked down onto his shoulder, willing himself not to dry-heave. Nick did keep his word when they landed, going to the doctors at the arena and asking for another once-over before he prepped for his match that night. It helped that Claudio physically dragged him down to medical; otherwise he wouldn't have gone at all, both out of sheer stubborn will and a complete inability to remember where, exactly, they'd been set up for the night. Medical might have been in approximately the same place in every arena, but he had no idea where, exactly, that place was. 'Fuck friends, man. I don't need this shit right now. Talent Relations and Medical don't need to be thinking I can't handle my shit, or that something's going wrong.'
Medical was much more thorough this time, holding up card after card, using dozens more lights than they'd used the last night, having Nick tilt his head in what felt like hundreds of directions followed by a barrage of questions that seemed designed to make an Oxford scholar take pause. Nick forced himself to focus, forced himself to breathe, to move slowly but not too slowly, and be deliberate in everything he offered as a response to the medical team, knowing that his slot at the pay per view was riding on everything he did or didn't do while he was in the exam room. Again getting the all-clear, though with an interminably long series of warnings and limitations attached to it, Nick shot Claudio a dirty look and headed back toward the locker rooms, wishing he hadn't stood up quite so quickly from the exam table. 'Pyro tonight is going to be oh-so-fun. Meaning: painful.' He redoubled his efforts at wishing when he ran into Stephen in the halls on the way to the back. Stephen's idea of a greeting was a slap to the back of Nick's head – the intention was initially playful with only a dab of malice, but the pain was searing and Nick couldn't help his eyes from watering. He hissed and grabbed at the back of his head involuntarily, his vision sparking blue and purple.
"Oh, come on, I didn't even hit ya that fuckin' hard. Be a man. Or are you gonna be cryin' on camera tonight, too?"
"Ease off, Stephen," Nick rubbed at the back of his head, "And I mean that when we're out there, too. You didn't see that I was hung up last time; it's not gonna be a head-up-the-arse match, okay?" 'My eyes shouldn't do that. That's not good.'
"Ya know, I'm beginning to think you might legitimately dislike me, Nemeth." Stephen smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes and left his face looking unnaturally cold. "Should the feeling be mutual? I thought we were gonna have a good working relationship, but if it's gonna just be two guys poundin' the hell out of each other, ya might wanna watch out. You're gonna be on the losin' end of that one."
"Doesn't your hair have an appointment with a can of Aqua-Net, Stephen? Fuck off down to makeup while you're at it, they need to put another layer of Casper The Friendly Ghost on you." Nick thumped his way past Stephen, their shoulders banging together. The impact did nothing to ease his anger, headache, or the ringing in his ears, and for a second he had no idea where the locker rooms were. Instead, he just walked away until he came to catering and found a chair to sit in while he peeled the paper label off a bottle of water. 'I can just wait here til I see someone I can follow to the back. Maybe I'll see Claudio. I don't wanna actually ask anyone where to go. I'll look stupid.'
Looking stupid was one thing. Nick was more concerned with figuring out how hard he'd been kicked the night before – he really couldn't remember, but Claudio said it had happened, so he had to take his friend at his word – and devising a plan to deal with it between that night's match and the upcoming pay per view. He could always ask for time off after. He just had to make it through now, which included calming down, determining which end was up, and devising a plan to last six – or was it seven – minutes in front of a live audience.
The match went like shit. It couldn't be helped. The beginning was sloppy, but the majority of that could be blamed on Stephen. Nick was agile enough that even with a compromised sense of balance and feet that didn't want to listen to the rest of him, he could coast well enough through their opening maneuvers. The more Nick was able to block and dodge, the more frustrated and irate Stephen became, and the edgier Nick got in response – he could see the irritation building on Stephen's face. 'And that means something's about to go wrong. He gets mad, he overreacts, he fucks up.' Nick tried locking him up in a corner, gritting out an angry 'Slow! Down!' as a command and not a suggestion, but it went ignored.
As soon as Stephen forced Nick back out of the corner and charged at him in the middle of the ring, he knew something was off. He saw Stephen's leg come up, and Nick knew he'd taken one step too far, was eight inches in too close, and took the bulk of the kick under his jaw, snapping his head back. 'Since when can't I judge distance? I know how tall that asshole is, I could have checked back. Maybe he came in too far and-' and then row after row of stage lighting flew over and past his eyes as he fell backward. Nick felt the back of his head slam into the mat and bounce off twice before his vision went white – in part from the pasty tonnage covering him for the pin, and in part from the stimulus overload flooding his brain, the last thing that ran through it being a trainer – Nick couldn't remember his name, a fact that terrified him before he momentarily blanked out – telling him, 'Tuck your chin! Nemeth, you're gonna end your career doing shit like that!' Claudio, again watching backstage, winced, and moved to meet Nick as he shuffled behind the curtain, his feet again refusing to cooperate fully with him.
"You already know what I am going to say, my friend."
Nick pushed Claudio back, doubled over, and leaned against the wall before throwing up, managing to hit only his own boots with the spatter, instead of covering both his and Claudio's. Unfazed, Claudio simply motioned to a stagehand for a towel and passed it to Nick, waiting patiently for him to stop heaving and compose himself.
"I don't wanna," he hacked out, "Hear a lecture right now." Nick finished, toweling off his boots before trying to clean off his face.
"And you will not, as long as you go back to medical." Claudio smiled. "And as long as you stop being such a woman. You clean your boots before you clean your face? Good God, man."
"I've got some shit to film. Then I'll go. Just leave me alone." Nick stumbled off, shoving Claudio again, trying futilely to remember his way back to the locker rooms for the second time that night, knowing he needed to look at a script. He couldn't recall exactly where he'd left his script, or if he'd even brought his copy with him, only that he had to find it and meet Renee...somewhere...to say something. And that he should probably brush his teeth before he went.
Claudio puzzled over the second shove from Nick. It was needless aggression; the two men had always teased each other about their gear and boots, so the first push made sense. Beyond that, Nick was well used to his friend's constant concern over his ability to attract head injuries like a magnet, so a second shove was pointless. "Something is not right with you, my friend. Medical is not an option, tonight. Either you will find them, or they will find you." Claudio walked down to the small exam room himself and explained what was going on, not wanting to ruin Nick's chances at a slot in the upcoming pay per view, but also not wanting to see his friend spend months – or longer – sidelined by a high-grade concussion he refused to take care of, or worse, didn't realize he had.
Nick faked his way through another concussion screening that night, though barely – Renee went to medical herself, saying Nick had been erratic during their shoot, botching lines and being a generally irritable jackass as opposed to the generally goofy jackass he usually was. Even she felt something was 'off' with him, and was concerned about his well-being. Once they and the doctor cornered Nick, he'd blown up at all of them as much as he could without giving away that his friends were right in their assessment, saying he was fine and they were overreacting, and then proceeded to do everything in his power to prove his point. All of the lights and tilts that he was put through were torturous, but he forced himself to swallow down his ever-rising stomach and focus on the pay per view.
He also focused on making sure Renee and Claudio didn't see him throw up after the neuro-checks, and was quick to run to the locker room ahead of Claudio after the doctors were done. Dealing with bulemic female talent over the years had given him a decent idea of how to cover for the sound, and he made sure to flush before retching.
Of course, Claudio wasn't buying it, and the ride to the hotel was stonily silent at its outset. Nick knew he couldn't chance driving himself because of how dizzy he was, and so considered finding a different ride for the next day. He dropped the notion as fast as it came to him; it would only make his friend more suspicious that something was wrong. Sighing, he resigned himself to being chauffeured by an irritable Swissman, whether or not he liked it.
"You know," Claudio cut into Nick's thoughts, "You have a match tomorrow night, as well. And the night after that. And after that."
"Oh? And?" Claudio's tone was so flat that Nick had no idea where the conversation was headed, or if it even was one.
"And I am not going to be a happy European if my fake Californian friend fucks up."
"I'm from Florida."
"And he misses the joke about Hollywood. See? Something is wrong with you. Go to bed. I am not amused with you and your antics."
'And I'm not amused with life, right now. Someone please check me out of life, party of one.' Nick struggled up to his room, the swirling turns in the parking garage along with the springy, high-speed ride on the elevator conspiring to wreak further havoc with his sense of equilibrium. Much like the night before, he simply fell across the bed and into a nauseated sleep, this time not even bothering to climb toward the pillows or kick his shoes off.
"Do you see yourself?"
Nick turned his head as much as he could, not realizing Claudio had followed him into his room. "Huh? Why the fuck are you in here? I'm good, man, I'm just tired."
"You are a disaster. You are angry with people. You could not remember being kicked in the head last night. You were kicked in the head again this night. You shoved me for no reason in the hallway, you were curt with Renee, you-"
"Wait. I did what? And who kicked me yesterday? I got hung up in some chairs, it was just my hand."
"Good God, Nick! You do not remember? You truly do not remember?" Claudio looked horrified. "Nick, no. No more of this. You must take time off. If you take time to be well now, then you may be able to keep your slot in the pay per view. You cannot even remember things from this evening!"
"Claudio, I'm trying to take time to go the fuck to sleep. Get out of my room." Nick turned his head back to its original position, tried dragging one shoe from a foot, then gave up entirely. Turning his head that far made him lose track of where he'd left his feet.
Throwing his hands in the air and slamming the door on the way out, Claudio stalked back to his room – a short stomp, indeed, as he was next door to Nick. A few minutes later, and he was treated to the sound of Nick retching in the bathroom, followed by what sounded like him falling in the shower. Claudio threw his own shoes at his door in frustration, sat on the edge of his bed, and thought for several minutes – a complete lack of ideas coming to him. Giving up, he decided he'd be better served by thinking with a beer in hand, and opted to kill time in the hotel bar, rather than sit in his room and listen to Nick self-destruct next door.
Hours later, having returned to his room, Claudio paced irritably before setting the alarm on his phone, finally deciding that he'd leave Nick to his own devices in the morning even though it was unlikely he'd make it to his media appointment on time without help and reminders. He even mulled asking for a match with Nick the coming night; management was more open to performer requests at house shows and Claudio thought he might be able to demonstrate the depth and breadth of Nick's problem if he had him in the ring. He was snowing medical, that much was for sure. There were bad matches, and then there were matches so awful that even Talent Relations had to take notice. "I hate to prove a point in this way, my friend," he announced to the room, "But you leave me little choice. You are a fool, and now you will be a fool with the attention of the people running the show." Claudio settled into bed, but sleep was slow in coming.
Running – literally – toward the broadcast building, Nick couldn't remember how much money he'd passed to the cab driver as he left the vehicle, even though it was only seconds earlier. 'Probably too much, but fuck it. I'm late. I'm so late. I'm never late. Claudio didn't get me! Claudio didn't get me? The PR Department is gonna kill me. Have I ever missed an interview? I don't know how to fix this. Can the station record me for later?' As it happened, the station's answer was no, Nick couldn't be recorded for later. The radio station's programming director started tearing into him about punctuality and professionalism – there wasn't often anyone close to a 'big star' available for media in that particular town, so to miss the interview was a major blow to the station. Nick, lost in the moment, already angry with himself for missing the appointment, tore right back at the programming director. In a fog, almost as though he was watching himself from outside, he could hear himself screaming at the man, towering over him, stabbing a finger toward his face, something about not knowing how to pre-tape, save for later air-time, wasting his time, and then he was back out the door, not having the slightest clue where he was at or where he needed to go.
'Out. Out out out I just need to go OUT why was I yelling? I already fucked up by missing the interview; now that guy is gonna call Media and my ass is so very much grass that it's astroturf.' Unable to sort out why his moods were swinging so wildly back and forth, Nick collapsed onto the edge of a concrete planter across the plaza from the broadcast building, cradling his head in his hands. 'This can't happen again. It can't. I lost so much time – I lost whole things, places, people – it's not going to happen again. I just need to make it through the pay per view. Then I can ask for some time off. Or an easier storyline. Anything. I just have to slow it down.' Breathing deeply, positive he could feel his pulse against his palms as he pressed them tighter and into the sides of his head, Nick checked his watch and decided, once again, he needed to get a cab.
'Keep telling yourself he's one of the safest guys you've ever worked with. Keep telling yourself that. Tonight won't hurt as much.' Nick tried to reorganize himself on the bench in the locker room so that he could pull his legs up to his hands, rather than having to bend down to lace his boots. Leaning made the entire world lean precariously on its axis, and he didn't want to be nauseous before he went out to the ring. This night, at least, he was being spared a match with Stephen. Instead, The Powers The Be had decided to have him face Claudio – a match that left Nick wondering if Claudio hadn't made the request himself. The venue was crowded; Nick hadn't ever left the small town where he'd started the day, and the sting of botching the radio interview had lingered well after he'd arrived at the arena – the dressing down he'd received from Media Relations was loud and direct, beginning nearly immediately after he'd walked through the doors. He found himself having to force his eyes to focus, to force his ears to stop squealing and hissing so he could listen to what was being said, in case there was a fine or suspension attached to his mistake. Luckily, it seemed the worst thing to come from his error was the stern talking-to he received, and he found himself asking more than once if that was all.
Stretching, trying to jog in place a bit – and then quickly deciding against it, as it made his stomach lurch in ways that were horrifying and unpredictable – Nick prepared to go out to the ring. He was up second – or was it third – with Claudio, so he had to be ready. The town was certainly ready for him – a small building and a rowdy crowd spelled disaster for his thumping headache.
Despite what he'd told himself, Nick wasn't anywhere near ready. The match was beyond sloppy; Nick knew Claudio had moved past 'carrying him' and was firmly into the realm of 'What the hell are you doing?' The sad, funny, sick thing was, he was actually trying. They'd talked about moves and sets before the match and had several things planned, but Nick couldn't bring them to mind. The things they tried to coordinate on the fly ended up being transitioned into rest holds while Claudio whispered, again and again, what was supposed to happen next. Nick couldn't judge distance, couldn't bring his hands up fast enough, and was missing offense as well as defense. The only thing he was doing well was selling his frustration. Claudio, however, was having a hard time bottling up his fear. Nick was supposed to go over the top rope, feign a hard landing, and follow it up by being thrown into the steps. Normally, it wouldn't be any cause for concern, but Claudio had watched his friend stumble, stagger, and generally slop his way through their match. He wanted to cancel the maneuver entirely, but knew Nick wouldn't go for the change in plans – or wouldn't remember that they'd changed the plan at all, and would be likely as not to simply throw himself over the top rope, with or without an assist.
Claudio tried to put no more force than was necessary into 'throwing' Nick towards the steps once he'd gone over the top. He didn't want to hurt him, and had no idea if he could tolerate the maneuver. Besides, Nick had done a good enough job of hurting himself during the match; every bump looked brutal. Fate, however, had a strange way of intervening, and the intervention came in the form of a poorly-tied right bootlace. Both men had watched as it finally came undone as Nick hurtled toward the steps, his left foot coming down on top of it, catching his legs up short and causing him to slam the top of his head directly onto the edge of the steps, again blacking him out momentarily and opening a long, thin gash across his scalp, dying his blonde hair deeply red. Chaos ensued; Claudio refused to go for anything that even vaguely resembled a pin and instead charged at his friend's prone figure, trying to shake his shoulders and rouse him. Paramedics and black-shirted technicians rushed the area, towels and medical kits in hand, a stretcher not far behind, and distantly, a bell rang, signaling the end of the match that realistically never should have happened in the first place. The fans, initially rowdy, sank into a stunned and edgy silence as Nick was strapped to a backboard and lifted onto a stretcher, not knowing what to do in the wake of something that had gone from campy, somewhat fake fun to real, life-altering terror, with Claudio running alongside the stretcher the entire way to the back.