Alberto stares up at Old Trafford, releasing a vague sigh. He's interested by the history, seeing various Manchester United paraphernalia, all of it, but... it feels void. Nearly meaningless. He had always been a Real Madrid guy, and he and Ricardo had spent a good portion of their years together in what the ring announced deemed a "friendly feud" over their preferred football teams, so to be here, alone, now... He shakes his head and leaves, relieved to slip into a taxi that heads directly to the arena for the evening's WWE event.
He hesitates outside of the general manager's office, grimacing as their loud voices already echo out. Shaking his head, feeling another headache forming, he turns sharply on his heel and leaves, not even caring really if he has a planned match or not. Techs will notify him in time, but for now, it's the last thing on his mind. With nowhere else to go, he enters the locker room and sneers as silence takes over the room, whispers slowly growing in volume. He doesn't need to really focus to know what they'll all going on about- it had been a main source of mockery this whole European tour. His illness, and claims of injuries, had sent many derogatory comments his way, no matter how he had glared each superstar who'd dare approach him down.
It had been a dumb thing to say, he knows, especially in this ruthless, cruel business, but it's too late to go back and change things now. Gears begin turning as the three arguing people supposedly in charge tonight decide to put Cena in a match against both Cesaro and Swagger, the Mexican aristocrat sneering as he gets to his feet and wanders to the gorilla position, snapping at a tech until he obligingly hands over the flag that Alberto pays him a bit extra to keep safe in a clean place far away from the main locker room. He interrupts the match and sneers as it pays off- Cena starting to lose that little bit of an edge he'd had at the start of the match, distracted by Del Rio's appearance.
He watches the rest of the match from the commentary table, careful not to repeat the same nonsense that had happened the week prior, and when Cena wins, he grabs a chair and attacks Cena with it, brutalizing him until he's down and vulnerable... Wrapping the chair around his arm, he hesitates for a moment between kicks, shaking his head of the memories of doing something painfully similar to Ricardo the last time he'd seen him at an event, disgust and self-loathing whirling around within him once more before he regains control and kicks him again, then twisting around into an armbar, trying to wrench back and break Cena's arm, smirking to himself as he imagines the man getting stripped of the title and it returning to its rightful place around his waist.
That is, until something large and harsh slams into Del Rio, breaking him away from Cena and throwing him out of the ring. He backs away even further as soon as he realizes it's Big E, panting for breath and feeling a little off as he glowers up at the larger man. Shaking it all away, he storms into the general manager's office yet again and, ignoring what had just happened with Big E, tries to brag about what he did to Cena... until Vickie suggests placing him in a match against Big E, Kane urging him to make the large man feel the same way Cena had.
To his great relief, though Big E manages a terrific amount of offense against him, Del Rio scrapes out the victory with an armbar, although his own back and arm are throbbing after everything he'd endured. He stands on the top rope and sneers at the crowd, arm held protectively to his chest as he tries not to give in to the agony radiating from his back. Thankfully, the trainer doesn't keep him for long, seeing nothing seriously wrong with him. Some ice and painkillers and an urge to take it easy for a bit, and he leaves for the hotel, wanting sleep and not much else.
It doesn't escape his notice that his claims from the week before are coming true, his arm and back throbbing in time with his knee, which had been an off and on problem since around the time Ricardo's ankle was broken. At least when his ring announcer was around, he'd had a distraction from his own pain, a reason to carry on, but... now... not so much. All he has is his motivation to regain the World title belt, and even that is wearing a little thin at this point.
He would never admit it aloud, especially to the peasant idiotas in the WWE universe, but being champion with no one to enjoy it alongside him isn't very enjoyable...
Ricardo tilts his head, eyes gleaming as he stands outside of the hotel, staring up at the architecture surrounding him with a smile. Mike and AJ had looked like they could use some privacy so he'd ventured here, taking in all that he could see. All too soon, he'd be returning to Florida, and he wants to experience as much as he possibly can. The weather's a bit cold, grey and rainy, but it's England. He was expecting as much. He's still leaning against the building, trying to figure out what he wants to do first, when the entrance to the hotel opens with a snap next to him and he instinctively looks over, startled at who would be so rough with the door- just for his breath to catch in his throat.
Alberto Del Rio is standing just feet away, his eyes distant and dull as he stands uncoordinatedly in the middle of the sidewalk, muttering to himself too low for Ricardo to catch what he's saying. After a moment, he turns slowly and stares right at Ricardo, the younger man immediately feeling like he's being strangled under the weight of his gaze. But, beyond his understanding, Alberto's eyes light up and he takes a couple of steps towards the ring announcer. "Mi amigo," he calls out. "There you are."
Feeling like he's in some sort of alternate universe, time slowing as Del Rio approaches, Ricardo swallows and backs away warily. "Wha- what?"
Alberto's smile slips as Ricardo takes a step back with every forward motion he himself makes, his brows furrowing. "Mi amigo? I've been looking for you-"
"Why?" he asks, skirting the wall of the hotel, shaking his head. "I don't understand-" Ricardo's words die away as Alberto continues to follow him, a strange look in his dark eyes. "Stop, just- just stop, por favor," he pleads lowly, his fingers beginning to fumble for his phone as he realizes that Alberto's not listening to his request. He thinks he may need to call Mike, interrupt his time with AJ, if Alberto doesn't back away, but before he can pull the device out of his pocket, time begins to speed up all over again, Alberto's eyes still fixed on him when he seems to trip over thin air and-
Forgetting all about his phone, the ring announcer instinctively reaches out and catches the older man as he falls, the forward motion bridging the distance between them and sending him right into Ricardo. "Whoa," he hisses as his back slams into the wall, remembering many times in the past he'd had to support the older man and how difficult it'd been, considering he's got a good few inches on Ricardo, not to mention just how muscular he truly is. He's about to push him off and try to continue leaving when something registers with him- despite the chill in the mid-morning air, heat is radiating from Alberto in waves and he seems incapable of regaining his footing, all but melting into Ricardo's hold the longer they stand there. "Al- Alberto?" he whispers, trying to shift him enough that he can look at his former employer's face. "Alberto? Hey- hey..."
What he can see isn't good- his eyes are hooded underneath his lashes, a slight flush disrupting the paleness of his skin finally registering with the younger man. "Maldita sea," he breathes out, trying to support Alberto and once more reach for his phone. It's all too much and he feels his own feet starting to slip on the misty pavement. "Ay," he groans, finally giving up on the phone and supporting Alberto fully. He knows he can't drag him all the way through the lobby and back to his hotel room on his own when he's all but limp against him as he is, but... Closing his eyes, he cradles the older man closer to him, in disbelief that, after so much time, he still finds himself in such a predicament, having to help him and... If he was a lesser man, he'd have just left him here as Alberto had left him behind so many times in the past, but... he's not, and he can't. So he comes to a quick decision. "Alright, just hang on," he mutters to him, shaking his head at what he'll have to do just to be able to make that call.
Back still against the wall, he sinks down the wall, having to sit against the cool concrete while Alberto's motionless form presses against him, his ragged, hot breaths brushing against Ricardo's throat as he adjusts the Mexican aristocrat's head to rest in the crook of his neck. This frees his arm enough that he can reach into his pocket and finally pull the cell phone out, closing his eyes as he dials Mike. It rings a few times and he wonders what he'll do if Mike's just too distracted to answer, but finally it clicks. He doesn't even wait for Miz to say anything before he's spitting out, "Mike, I need help. I'm outside of the hotel and- and... It's Del Rio, he's sick, I don't know... I just... please hurry." He doesn't even wait for an answer before he hangs up and resumes holding onto Del Rio, automatically rubbing soothing circles against the older man's back through his dress jacket, remembering distantly how it would comfort him in the past.
They're still sitting there when Mike storms out of the hotel entrance, his troubled blue eyes immediately falling on Ricardo and Alberto's slumped forms. "Hey, hey," he hisses, rushing over to them and kneeling down in front of the former ring announcer. "What the hell happened?!"
"He's sick," Ricardo breathes out. "I- I was just standing there, and he came out and started talking to me like... like it was before again, said he was looking for me and... kept calling me amigo." He swallows away tears and shakes his head. "I was trying to get away and he just- it's like he tripped over his own feet, and just started to go down... He knocked into me and I just... I grabbed him but I couldn't call for help or anything while trying to keep him upright, so..." Getting the gist, Mike nods and holds a hand up, resting it on Ricardo's once his rambles die away. "I don't know what to do," he cries out anyway.
"It's ok, don't worry. I'm here now." Mike leans forward and rests a hand on Alberto's neck, wincing. "Damn, he is running a pretty high fever by the feel of it. Ok," he breathes, gripping Alberto by the shoulder and gingerly levering him off of Ricardo. "Let's get him moved, we'll get him inside and see what we can find out. The trainer's around, we'll give him a call and see if this is something that can be handled here or... at the hospital." As Ricardo scrambles to his feet, still leaning over his former friend with a worried look on his pale face, Miz smiles up at him weakly. "He's gonna be fine, man. Can you help me with this though?" Nodding, the younger man scrambles to grip Alberto's other arm and together they get him back on his feet, watching worriedly as his head falls limply forward, hooking his arms around both of their shoulders to support him inside. "Just take it a step at a time. We'll get him inside, settled, and then notify the trainer."
"Si," Ricardo breathes, eyes still prickling with tears as he remembers all of the times in the past he'd had to do something similar to this all on his own. Things had changed so rapidly once he and Mike had become friends almost a year ago- he's not sure what he'd do without the Awesome One, and his support or the support of the other people he had helped Ricardo to gain connections to, like Alex and Morrison... They drag Alberto through the lobby and into the elevator to ride up to his floor, which they only figure out the number to as the doors close when Mike tugs his keycard out of his pocket, finding that it says 6-1.
Only leaving them to examine the elevator panel once he's sure that Ricardo has a secure hold on the older man, Mike takes a painful breath and presses the button to take them to floor six, closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself before returning to Ricardo and Alberto's side, once more taking the older man's arm and helping Ricardo to support him. "Doing alright?"
"Si," the shaken man nods, glancing over at his friend. "Do you think... it's something serious? Maybe we should've called a taxi, taken him to the hospital... It, it's just... he doesn't get that ill too often, so I don't... know what this is..."
Mike grimaces as he examines the pale Mexican aristocrat, shaking his head. "No, man, I think we're doing the right thing. If something is seriously wrong, the trainer'll catch it and tell us what to do." For a wild moment, he remembers what Del Rio had said about losing the title to Cena, wondering for a moment if perhaps he wasn't just telling lies, if perhaps he had been that sick and the locker room had been deriding him for a legit medical concern, but he had looked alright, seemed his usual obnoxious self... until this moment, that is. Finally the elevator reaches floor six and they stumble off of the car, Alberto hanging limply between them. Ricardo unlocks the door and they awkwardly enter the room, Mike hesitating only long enough to turn the light on, before they walk the rest of the way to the bed where they ease the man down.
Ricardo twists his hands together before reaching out and resting his fingers lightly on the older man's face, biting his lip at the heat that is still radiating there. "Ay, Alberto. What is going on?" Mike watches them as he steps aside to call the trainer, his eyes dark as he once more ponders telling Ricardo what Alberto had relayed to him only a week prior. Ricardo shakes his head and leans over, gripping the bedding and wrapping it around Del Rio's prone body, trying to keep him from catching a chill and also thinking perhaps if he's kept snug and warm, it'll break his fever faster.
He's incapable of sitting still, pacing back and forth from the bed to the bathroom every little bit, rewetting a wash cloth that he keeps applying to Alberto's forehead, trying to reduce or completely knock his fever out, when the trainer finally arrives, calmly urging Ricardo to sit down while he examines the Mexican. His eyes fluttering around the room, looking for somewhere to sit, finally settles in awkwardly on the edge of Del Rio's bed, flushing when the trainer looks at him. "My presence... seems to be comforting to him," he finally mutters anxiously, noting how, yes, the older man had seemed to be calmed somewhat by his voice or touch, even after all of this time.
Shrugging, the trainer goes right to work, examining him and checking his vitals. It seems to take forever before he finally concludes his examination, looking up at the other two men. "Well, he needs to break this fever, but yes, he'll be fine."
"What's wrong with him?" Ricardo whispers, voice young and eyes wide as Mike squeezes his shoulder, both watching the trainer closely. "He doesn't have an infection, or- or-..."
"No, no, it doesn't appear to be anything like that," the older man shakes his head, smiling slightly when Ricardo relaxes. "My best guess, jetlag. Mixed in with a fair amount of stress. Even with my post-match examinations of him the last few weeks, the main thing I've noticed is he's been extremely tense and anxious. He's always been that way, you know this as well as anyone..." The ring announcer nods, his lips pressed tightly together. "Well, it's only gotten worse since he lost the World title to Cena. I've tried suggesting methods he could use to relax, calm down, but it doesn't appear he's attempted them."
"Sounds about right," the younger man nods, glancing over at his former friend with a worried stare. "He... he hated relaxing, always said... he despised sitting around, that he needed something to do... Wrestling used to relax him, but..." His words fade into nothingness, none of them needing it vocalized: This had clearly stopped being so months ago, and Mike's pretty sure they're all guessing the general time that it had happened: Somewhere between July 2nd and August 5th... when, Mike adds mentally, he had decided to let Ricardo go.
The trainer clears his throat and stands, smiling wearily at them. "Anyway, my best guess is he'll be alright. But I'll leave this thermometer with you... if his fever rises, give me a call. In the meantime, keep him hydrated, warm, comfortable. Continue doing what you're doing." He claps Ricardo on the shoulder, nodding at the washcloth still covering Del Rio's forehead. "I'll check in in a couple of hours."
The ring announcer swallows and nods, watching blankly as the man leaves the hotel room. He closes his eyes and releases a soft breath before once more going to resoak the wash cloth, pressing it against Alberto's forehead. "Mike?" he asks after a few moments. "Do you mind... checking his bag, seeing what warm clothes he has in there? His dress clothes aren't- aren't thick enough..."
"Sure, man," Miz agrees, moving over to the bag left abandoned by the wall, digging through it. Short sleeved shirts, too many suit jackets and slacks to count, and some work out clothes, fill the interior, and he frowns, glancing over in exasperation at the older man. Searching the side pockets just in case, he's about to give up on finding anything warm when his fingers brush against something cool and hard, like plastic and... He swallows and grips it, tugging it out completely. "No way," he whispers, relieved when Ricardo doesn't seem to hear him. He stares down at the action figure, recognizing it immediately as one from a series that he has an action figure in as well- Ricardo's newest figure, with a red, green and white bowtie, unlike the Build a Figure that had been released a year ago. He swallows and shakes his head, rolling his eyes in exhaustion before carefully pushing it back into the pocket he'd found it in and zipping it up. "I can't find anything suitable," he says. "It's just short sleeved tops and dress clothes. Ricardo-"
The younger man is already shaking his head, staring down at the unresponsive Mexican aristocrat. "You always were horrible at packing for these things," he breathes out. "When I finally took over for you..." He shakes his head, not wanting to go there. Not now. "Mike, watch him for a few minutes. I'm going to go see what I can find in my own bag."
"Alright," Miz agrees, watching, subdued, as Ricardo leaves the room hurriedly, obviously trying to keep his emotions in check at least while he's in Alberto's presence. Turning back to the bed, he watches Del Rio sleep for a few minutes before sitting down on the edge of the bed. "You're an idiot," he tells him simply. "Utterly stupid."
Ricardo returns about ten minutes later, looking only slightly more in control of himself. He has a thick sweater and familiar black sweatpants in his hands, resting them next to Alberto as he levers the older man up, untucking the bedding from around him. Mike watches, frowning, as he sets to work, tugging the suit jacket off of Del Rio's shoulders and going for the buttons on his shirt as if he's done such things a million times before. Except that this time, his fingers are shaking and he can't get a good grip on the tiny circles, Mike finally standing and resting a hand on Ricardo's, stilling them. "No, no, I have it, Mike. I- I can get it on my own-" he struggles to say, his breath hitching.
"But you don't have to," he mutters back, smiling sadly down at the ring announcer as he begins to help him, quickly undoing the buttons and pulling the shirt off of Alberto, moving to work on his pants while Ricardo shakes out the thick, blue material of the sweater he'd brought up, quickly tugging it over the Mexican aristocrat's head and getting his arms in the sleeves so he doesn't lose what little heat he gained while wrapped up in the sheets, looking up to find that Mike already has the slacks laying off to the side and just finished pulling the sweatpants up his legs.
"Gracias," he whispers faintly, pressing his hands together in no lack of anxiety as Mike smiles at him, both of their eyes flickering over to Alberto as he sleeps on, worryingly unaware of what all they'd just done to get him into the clothes while he was in repose. "Do you think he'll be ok?"
"Yeah, I do," Miz nods. "How could he not be when you're the one keeping an eye on him?" Ricardo smiles slightly, but he still looks so torn and miserable that Mike's heart breaks all over again for him.
The next few hours are spent with Mike watching quietly as Ricardo sits close to Alberto, repeatedly rewetting the wash cloth, helping him to sit up and drink from a bottle of water, soothing him whenever he mutters or tosses in his fevered sleep, doing whatever he thinks would help the Mexican aristocrat to feel better. At one point the ill man opens his eyes and looks around blankly, seemingly unaware of their presence, even when Ricardo rests a hand on his forehead and tries to ease him back into sleep. "Please, Alberto, you need to rest, to break this fever. Come on," he whispers to him, face tight with worry. But no matter what he says, Alberto doesn't react to it, his eyes flickering here and there as if he's still searching for something. Mike has no idea how to help when finally something seems to click with Ricardo and he rests his forehead against the older man's shoulder, shaking harder still. When he finally pulls away, there's some terrible sort of determination in his gaze. "I know what you want, don't I?"
Mike's about to open his mouth, say something, when Ricardo beats him to the punch. "Relax, El Patron, you're ok. I'm right here. Por favor, close your eyes, rest... you'll feel better, I promise." This works as Del Rio's searching gaze finally falls on his former ring announcer and, just like that, he relaxes, sinking back into sleep as the younger man sniffs and rests him against the pillows, all but falling off of the bed as he stumbles away, heads for the bathroom. Mike tries to catch him but he shakes his head desperately, clearly needing some time to himself, which Mike gives him, swallowing roughly as he stares at Del Rio with a grim look in his eyes.
He's not sure when exactly Ricardo sinks into a restless sleep of his own after he come back out, now laying close to Del Rio, who is only a little bit cooler than he'd been at the start of this madness. But when Mike does register this fact, he takes over for the younger man, changing the wet washcloths, keeping an eye on Alberto's temperature, even tugging the sheets and comforters back up whenever Alberto tosses them off of himself in a fevered fit. He also takes the first opportunity to wrap a blanket around Ricardo, who mumbles and snuggles into the fabric, his face still tight with worry and fretfulness.
The sun has just risen, the city beyond these four walls buzzing to life, and Mike is wondering if AJ is missing him as much as he's missing her when he idly rests a hand on Alberto's forehead, blinking in some surprise. His forehead is clammy, sweaty and... He leans over and taps Ricardo on the jaw, hissing his name. He jerks awake and stares up at Mike in some horror before turning to look at Del Rio, some of the fright leaving him when he finds his former employer still fast asleep, breathing in and out easily. He turns his gaze back to Mike, about to ask, when the Awesome One snags his hand and rests it on Alberto's forehead, allowing him to feel what he'd discovered. Ricardo's eyes light up slightly as he realizes, it all piecing together for him. "His fever broke?"
"I should say so," the man whispers, fumbling around for the thermometer. "Felt like you should be awake to do the honors." Ricardo chuckles weakly before sticking the small device in Alberto's ear, both of them holding their breath until it beeps. As he tugs it out and stares at it, Mike shifts to read it over his shoulder and they both release a soft breath, turning to look at each other. "Good God, finally," Miz whispers, his shoulders slumping as Ricardo nods, pushing the thermometer back onto the bedside table, Alberto's temperature finally all but normal, his fever finally giving up to their constant attempts. "I'll call the trainer and let him know."
"Thank you," Ricardo mutters, not looking as the Awesome One grabs his cell phone and moves aside to handle the conversation without disrupting either man. He's watching, none-the-less, as the ring announcer leans over his former employer and adjusts the sheets to make up for his restless shifting overnight, grimacing. "You're better now, Alberto... which means I need to go soon." He rests his trembling hand on the other man's chest, shaking his head. "But this can't happen again. I'm not going to be here to catch you, and Sofia- Sofia can only do so much." He chokes back a sob, trying yet again to hold it together as he forces the words out. "You- you have to take better care of yourself, El Patron. Por favor, cuidar mejor de ti mismo."
Unable to brush it all away any longer, he pulls back from the older man and stumbles towards the door, breathing heavily as Mike finishes talking to the trainer, joining him as soon as he's hung up. "Hey, man. Hey, it's ok." He rests his hands on either side of Ricardo's neck, squeezing gently. "Go out in the hall, get the elevator for us... I'll finish up in here and meet you out there, alright?" When the younger man nods mutely and goes outside, Miz turns slowly back to Del Rio and hisses out a faint breath. "As I said earlier... idiot," he tells him grimly.
He feels like he's been thrown into the washing machine and spat back out when he opens his eyes a couple of hours later, Alberto groaning and grimacing against the bright sun pouring into the hotel room, staring up at the ceiling blurrily until... Wait, what? Hotel room? His memories are scattered and fuzzy, but he does remember leaving this room... "How did I get back here?" he mutters aloud, struggling to sit up. The bedding wrapped snuggly around him feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, his clothes are tangled against his limbs, and nothing feels right. "What is going on?"
He's still trying to figure all of this out when there's a sharp buzzing sound again, one that he thinks is what dragged him out of the endless, black sea of sleep earlier, and he swallows, grabbing for it just to realize it's coming from his cell phone. He groans and discovers it's his alarm clock, automatically shutting it off before it could make that God-awful noise again. He's about to stand up and try to figure this all out when a slip of paper flutters away from his phone, landing against his wrist and attracting his attention. "Eh?" he mutters, hoping it's not from some desperate fan or...
His thoughts die away as he stares at the words filling the page, recognizing the handwriting after a few words. "No way..."
Del Rio,
Just wanted to let you know if you don't figure out a way to return those clothes to Ricardo- your precious little plan be damned- I will hunt you down and tear through your luggage until I find them myself. He's already lost more than enough thanks to you lately.
Miz
BTW: You have an hour and a half to get to your morning autograph session... you're welcome.
He stares at the note, perplexed, before his eyes widen in terrified realization. "Ricardo...?" Running a hand absentmindedly against the soft blue sweater covering his upperbody, he recognizes it... as one of Ricardo's more comfortable, warm pieces of clothing that he always brings whenever they go to a chilly area for the WWE. The pants too, of similar material to the sweater, but a darker shade of blue, almost navy... He closes his eyes and swallows, echoes of words spoken to him distantly returning in bits and pieces. The note hadn't been a lie or Mike just getting under his skin in a faulty attempt to get him to confess to Ricardo- the younger man had actually been here, helping him? But why...?
More memories come back with a rush, as he recalls leaving the hotel, feeling dizzy and hot and not understanding why until he'd ran into Ricardo outside, all of his confusion fading away as soon as he'd locked eyes with the younger man. Things turn hazy from that point on, only vague memories here and there and... He groans, closing his eyes as he sluggishly pieces together what must've happened. How, after all of this time, the younger man still can't leave him to suffer alone, despite his own suspicions that it's exactly what he himself deserves. "Mi amigo," he sighs, twisting his hands in the sweater but careful not to tug or stretch out the fabric. "Lo siento, no matter what my intentions are... I continually drag you down into pain and terror, don't I?"
He's feeling slightly better by Smackdown, though he can tell that he's still pale and wan, his eyes dark and hollow whenever he looks at himself in the mirror. Thankfully the trainer allows him to stay once he hears that Alberto's not there to compete, merely wanting to challenge Cena to an arm wrestling match after what had happened on Raw, wanting to do his level best to capitalize on his injured arm, even if he's not strong enough to wrestle an actual match now.
But this weakness comes back to bite him in a big way when Cena accepts his challenge and beats him within seconds- not once but twice, only adding to his disgust and embarrassment. "No, no," he hisses, taking the opportunity to attack Cena, leaving him vulnerable to further attack with a steel chair. Except that it doesn't work like he'd wanted it to, only getting a few kicks in on the item while it's wrapped around Cena's good arm, trying to completely ruin any chances he might have for the upcoming pay per view, when Cena rallies... only long enough for Del Rio to slam him into the table that had been used for their arm wrestling contest.
He laughs as he leaves, feeling a little redemption even as he staggers, still a little weak from the fever, not to mention everything else from this week.
El Patron, cuidar mejor de ti mismo, por favor.
He closes his eyes against the memory of that whisper from his former ring announcer, smiling warily. "That's the plan, Ricardo," he breathes out, turning and disappearing backstage as trainers and referees try to assist Cena in the middle of the ring. "And of you too, mi amigo."