The hotel is bizarrely quiet for having so many wrestlers under its roof at one time. Spud exhales, walking around floor after floor, looking for someone... anyone to keep his mind off of things. It's lonely, without Ethan, without Dixie, without his former friends and colleagues to spend time with. As much as he appreciates Angle rehiring him, things just aren't the same and he's not sure if maybe things wouldn't have been easier if he'd gone back home to England after all. He's struggling, he knows it, and thinks everyone can see it too, but no one tries to help him. Leaves him in this awful solitude and ignores his strained expression, how hard he tries to grab onto anything, anyone who shows him the smallest kindness.
He had worked under Dixie for so long that mostly everyone hated him, failed to buy his apologies and attempts at being a better, more humble person since being knocked repeatedly off of his weak pedestal. So it's not really a surprise when he hears music and follows it up onto the roof of the hotel, everyone up there, having a good ol' time. Ethan isn't here, but literally everyone else is and it leaves Spud feeling choked.
Spud exhales. Inhales. Smells the food, the good cheer in the air as wrestlers and knockouts mingle and laugh, indulging in drink and sun while they pass time before the next event. He's trembling, trying not to completely crack up while he watches everyone. No one notices him, seems to look straight through him whenever they walk around. He hadn't been invited. It hurts somewhere deep inside that he's so disdained. That he has no one to thank for this but himself.
He closes his eyes, turns away from the merrymaking behind him, and stares out over the Orlando skyline, lost in thought. It's beautiful, and he can see a couple of lakes from here, the water glistening in the sun. He shivers a little and wants to see it clearer, the ledge built high enough that he can't even rest his arms over it comfortably, so he grips the rough surface and hoists himself up, exhaling shakily as the toes of his sneakers finally gains purchase against the side and allows him to scramble the rest of the way up, holding his hands out to balance himself while he looks out at everything sprawled out before him, ignoring the wind picking at his clothes, at his hair. It's frightening, when he allows himself to think of a fall from this height. It's beautiful, the trees and buildings, the lakes and bridges visible as far as the eye can see. Makes the danger worth it.
He exhales wearily, watching boats ease lazily along one of the lakes- when the wind picks up. Knocks him off-balance just enough that he feels like he's falling, voice frozen in his throat with fear. He struggles to regain some equilibrium, but he's flapping his arms wildly and it's not helping, his balance completely shot as he tips towards the gaping expanse below him. He trembles, anticipating the weightlessness of his body falling, slamming into the concrete pavement below, never moving again-
When something curls around his midsection and drags him back over the ledge onto the solid roof. He swallows hard and digs his fingers into the over-starched white shirt, gasping deeply. "Wha-..." He recognizes the fingers gripping his shoulders tightly, he recognizes the shirt. Forces himself to look up and swallows, overwhelmed by the angry, disquieted gaze staring back at him. "Eth- Ethan," he breathes out, forcing himself to look away, still shaking too hard to properly disengage from his former best friend. "What-"
"What the hell were you thinking?!" Ethan demands, shaking him. "Were you trying to kill yourself?!"
Anger flickering to life within him once more, Spud's teeth gnash together and he stands up at his full height, glowering at his former best friend. "You expect me to believe you'd care if I did? I would've thought you'd find it to be a victory, Ethan. You've been enjoying my torment, physical and emotional, for months. So you don't get to act like my death would matter to you in the slightest." Somewhere deep inside, he realizes that the chatter has stopped, the music has quieted. Everyone is watching them quietly, eyes wide, drinks and food frozen halfway to their mouths.
"I never wanted that-" Ethan refuses, his grip weakening as he searches Spud's face. "I never wanted this-"
"You have a weird way of showing it." He casts tired eyes at the people watching them quietly and pulls away from Ethan. "I need to get out of here." Fresh air is too much now, he wants to lock himself up in a room, bury himself under some sheets, and try not to hyperventilate over how close he came to dying.
Spud swallows hard as he walks past the group of people, their party completely ruined now. Thinks in any other circumstances, he might feel some sense of accomplishment at that, but he can still feel Ethan's fingers on his skin, and it leaves him itchy and yearning for what he'll never have again. So he walks back to his room and unlocks it, sinking back against the door once it slams shut behind him and buries his face in his arms after draping them over his shaking knees. Tears and sweat mingle down his face as he struggles to breathe, exhaustion and sadness weighing him down until he falls asleep.
When he wakes up and shifts a few hours later, he realizes it's dark and begins fumbling around for a light just to hear something crinkle under his hand. His brow furrows as he slowly lifts the note that appears to have been pushed under the door, staring at the familiar handwriting there. You have plenty of reasons to never want to call me again, Ethan's haphazard scribble reads. But if you need to talk... if you need help... these people are apparently good. Spud recognizes the number that follows, a helpline for those considering suicide. Frustrated, Spud pulls his phone up and accesses his contacts, opening up the text folder to send a scathing response to Ethan. I am not suicidal, he begins the short missive. Considering how obsessed you are with the thoughts of me doing something like that, perhaps you need psychological help more than I do.
He reads and rereads the words on his screen, eyes dark and stormy as dread pools in his stomach. He swallows hard and closes his eyes, thudding his head back against the door, before erasing the entire unsent message and, switching over to his contacts list, painfully enters the phone number from the note, fingers twitching as he sits there and regulates his breathing wearily, staring at the information. 1-800-273-8255, he mouths soundlessly a couple of times, fighting against the negative thoughts and impulses within him still, each number a struggle to input.
Days later, when he arrives at the week's event, his eyes a little clearer, face not as pale, and even a few people bother to say hello to him as he walks down the hall, he smiles weakly and finds his phone in among the mess of things he'd stuffed into his bag just to make it here somewhat on time. Finds Ethan's number again and types simply. Thank you.