The englishman had "fragile" tattooed all over him, his arm in a sling and sitting on the locker room bench, body slumped against the lockers where he had been deposited after the hospital visit. Dispair painted in his royal blues as he stared off at nothing in particular in the ceiling corner, he sighed raggedly, breath choked from the unknown amount of time spent crying. Crying. Eyes and cheeks alike having long grown numb to the salt tinged tears crawling down his face. fuck... FUCK. Why now? The brits own well being wasn't what had the man so down... it was wrestlemania, the one night a year the superstars dreamed about... and he would be missing it. The title had been as good as his... and now?
"How ya doin boy-o?" Wade's eyes stay trained to nowhere as that irish accent flitters through his ears, slicing his canals. He thought only momentarily of wiping his pathetic tears from his face, but they had mostly dried by now and so he didn't move at all, letting the redhead cross the room. He felt the bench shift and heard it creak under the added weight as Sheamus settled his bulk next to Wade.
For a long time Sheamus was silent, partially waiting for a response from the distraught Brit and partially thinking of what to say. What could you possibly say at a moment like this? The irishman had known the brit for years, since before they both were set loose in the power company known as WWE and never had he ever seen the usually brash brute so torn up. He knew wrestlemania had been ripped from Wade and there was nothing that his friend could do about it. He knew Wade would trade his very soul to be out there on the grandest stage of them all, reigning as only he could. And he knew it killed him to be denied his spot. Sighing and running a hand down his mouth and red facials Sheamus just looks to the ravenette, Wade was dying inside.
Barrett can't even manage a sigh, suddenly feeling so small in front of his european comrade though he didn't want to admit that that was the reason why. His good hand slides across his lap to wrap around the damaged one and he gripped it tight, jaw tensing at his own helplessness. Letting his eyes close, he dropped his head, dark unruly curls waterfalling over his face. The reigns that Sheamus held on his emotions always easily swayed, he sent an apologetic look to his friend, resting his hand on the starched slacks of the englishman.
"It's not the end yanno, fella." He couldn't even force himself to smile, not even for Wade, the dark haired villian's mood staining the entire room. A strong, pale hand reaches out to the broken man, resting under his chin to bring his haunted blue eyes to meet his blue-greens "I'm sorry...". Partially leaning his large frame in and partially drawing the english to him with his hand on his chin, the irish kissed him, lips on lips, breath on breath, unending this misery.