After a week of feeling anxious and bitterly tired, Miz picks his cell phone up and stares blankly at it for a moment. His fingers move of their own accord after awhile, dialing a familiar number. As it rings, he holds his breath and waits for the expected answer. When it comes, he sucks in a deep breath, closing his eyes tightly. "Hey, wanna come over for awhile, hang out before we have to leave for the pay per view?"
Within a couple of hours, Alex Riley is entering his house with his duffle over one shoulder, already packed and ready for Texas. Miz nods in greeting at him and tells him where to put his things. As soon as Alex emerges from the guest room, Miz is settled back on the living room couch, a beer in hand. He's the picture of annoyance and Alex approaches carefully, wiping his hands on his pants before sitting down across from him. "So... what's with the invite, Miz? That's not like you," he says, trying to find a way to word things so as not to offend his NXT pro. He's far from privy to Miz's dealings with Morrison but he suspects that the other half of the tag team champions has something to do with the tension that's been bleeding from Miz since Monday night.
The Ohio native shrugs uncomfortably, casting a glance around the room. "It just felt too... large around here, I was getting restless," is all he says. Alex watches him quietly, a pang of uncomfortable sadness striking him suddenly.
He obviously wasn't around for it but he knows the history, has watched WWE for about as long as he can remember, witnessed from afar as Miz spent a lot of his career a loner before teaming with Morrison. Their split was far from friendly, and their forced reunion wasn't much better- even though Morrison went along with it, Miz fought it just as hard... But something changed when they won the tag titles. Miz actually seemed... agreeable to the situation he had found himself in for awhile, stopped complaining about Morrison quite so much... even so, old tensions resurfaced due to Daniel Bryan, of all things, and now it appeared they were back to square one in the push-and-pull going on between them.
He shifts on the chair and leans forward, attracting Miz's attention. As soon as they're staring at each other, Alex raises his eyebrows at him. "Wanna talk about it?" He fully expects a flippant answer, some mocking response, but instead, Mike's brow furrows as he watches him, as if honestly considering the request.
"There's not that much to talk about," he mumbles after a minute, eyes dropping to the rich brown pattern of his carpet.
Alex sighs, leaning back into a slouch, arm slung over the edge of the chair. "You invited me here for a reason," he insists after an awkward pause. "To fill the silence, to bitch at, whatever, but I'd rather not just sit here while you stare at the carpet, man." When Miz looks up, a pissy look on his face, A-Ri raises his hands in a consoling motion. "Look, I know I'm your assistant and I'm grateful that you found a way to keep me in WWE after Kaval stole the win on NXT season 2, but this isn't exactly Raw, man. You know I'll have your back whenever you need me, but sitting in your living room, watching you pout over John Morrison of all things isn't exactly in my job description."
Miz's lips twist and Alex prepares for the man to lunge at him, scream at him to get out, tell him he's fired, something, but instead all of the fight goes out of him within moments, his body limply falling back against the couch he's selected as his own for this conversation. "You're right," he mumbles, sighing out a deep breath that seems to deflate him even further.
"I am?" Alex asks hesitantly, honestly worried now. This is as out-of-character for Mike as he's ever seen him. What went on with him and John? he wonders, almost breathless as Miz shifts awkwardly on the couch.
"Don't let it get to your head," he says, too tired to sound properly caustic with the comment. After a few moments, he looks Alex in the eye. "You want me to talk? Fine, I'll talk. Yes, I invited you over here to fill the silence. Outside of obligations to the WWE, all I've done is sit around and think and wonder and honestly, I'm a little tired of my own thoughts- which, yes, never happens." He stands now and walks over to the opposite wall, crossing his arms as though to protect himself from something. "This damn email GM," he continues. "He's ruined everything. I was fine with being by myself, or just having you in my corner, because it was all business. Who needs friends, after all? It all ends in anger and blood anyway, because in the end we all want the same thing- fame, or a title, or prestige or just whatever. Alliances should be just that- temporary fixtures used to push one onto the next thing, maybe used to get a tag team title run under your belt until you get enough momentum to move onto the next step."
Alex watches, wide eyed, as Miz runs his fingers through his hair, his back still to his protege. He's never heard the man talk like this, intense and impassioned. Even so, the bitterness and anxiety bleeds through the words too, making Riley's head spin at the maelstrom of emotions. He couldn't respond if he wanted to.
"But then I'm forced into teaming with Morrison- and yeah, it brings back memories. Even though it wasn't all great, happy times, two years are hard to brush over as nothing. We did everything, competed against each other, helped each other through injuries, traveled together, won slammies together, defended each other... I hate it but yeah, we were friends." He spits the word out like it's poison, his shoulders tense as he slaps a hand against the wall. "And y'know, for awhile, that was fun- it was good. I... didn't mind it, but then... all the talk about how Morrison was the next big thing, like John was the only reason I was still in this business. And he ruined it, in the end- if he had just stayed out of my match, I could've won, but no... he got involved and I was drafted." He stops talking, his breaths coming out in rapid exhales, sharp inhales that almost makes Alex dizzy just listening to them.
"Do..." he says, voice a little high pitched as he realizes that yes, that did just come out of his parted lips. His fingers tighten around his jean legs as he clears his throat, uncertain if he should even interrupt Miz's dialogue, but unable to listen to a word more, his head buzzing with everything he's hearing. "Do you think if things were reversed... if you had done something to get Morrison drafted, would he have attacked you? To, ah, to get noticed?"
Here Miz finally turns, pressing his back against the wall to face Alex. There's a solemnity on his face as he considers his answer. After a long moment, he shakes his head. "No, I don't think he would've." It's honest, almost hurts with its bluntness. "He's stupid loyal sometimes."
Alex swallows at the deep, dark look in Mike's eyes but chooses to continue, wanting to get him out of the past. "And now? What happened last week?" he wonders.
Miz shifts. Looks around at the soft, mid-afternoon sun pouring through the blinds, casting shadows on his rarely seen and even lesser used furniture. Remembers the look in John's eyes as he stormed from the locker room after that one erronous statement. The cold feeling in his chest that challenged the chill of the late September evening as he looked at the abandoned rental car, keys digging into his palm almost masochistically. "The GM," he mumbles. "Pitting us against each other. It was just... too familiar."
"Do you think he could still turn on you?" Alex wonders after some thought.
"No? I don't know?" He huffs and rests his head against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "A lot can happen in almost a year and a half. I'm not sure what he's like anymore- if he's still the same loyal idiot I tagged with back then, or if..."
"If?" Alex asks, but Miz refuses to answer.
"You know," he says after a few minutes, a shadow of his former cockiness returning, "if the whole WWE thing falls through, you should look into becoming a psychiatrist." He smirks as Alex rolls his eyes at him.
It's obvious early on Sunday that Morrison is avoiding Miz. He doesn't even see the man until just before the triple threat match, when they're all lurking around the shadowy gorilla position, waiting for their individual cues. Alex Riley also is nearby, making sure neither man goes after Miz. The match goes as Miz expects, with Bryan and Morrison at times working together against him and at times against each other. Morrison is obviously still angry about last week and takes it out on Miz, but ultimately is the reason that Miz retains again.
They're both down near the ramp, Miz and Bryan attacking each other viciously when they seem to spot movement above them at the same time. His eyes lock on Morrison's silhouette as he climbs up the large set surrounding the titantron. He can't help the strike of fear that stabs through him as Morrison struggles to maintain his balance, obviously planning on doing something wreckless and stupid. Strangely enough, all of the fear isn't for his own wellbeing... He huffs out a pathetic little laugh as he freezes, too jumbled and shocked to move. It's his birthday, he remembers suddenly, mirthlessly.
Bryan takes most of Morrison's weight but he's not exempt from the pain, air forced from his lungs as Morrison lands on them, immediately scrambling away as if on fire, his hands bracing his rib cage. How Miz gets back to his feet, he's not sure but he just wants this match over with, so he grabs Morrison and quickly positions him for the skull crushing finale on the hard floor next to the ramp. As soon as he's done, he turns his focus to Bryan. He's still down, licking his wounds from Morrison's highflying move, easy picking. Miz is on top of him within seconds, punching him down into the ground until he tires, his head clearing a bit.
As the ref slides into position, he grabs Daniel's arm and twists it at an angle that most arms should not go to, digging his knee into Bryan's back. He plants his other foot onto Daniel's leg, grinding his ankle into the floor and causing the stuck man to scream and thrash about. It's an awkward position to be in due to Bryan's one free hand, which is flapping around desperately, trying to grab or punch at Miz, but he's too far away and finally, finally the man taps crazily, his trapped arm tightening all the more as the referee calls it. Miz still doesn't release the hold, wisps of thoughts running through his frenzied mind. If Bryan had just minded his own... Morrison defended him... I'm so sick of his face... The US title stays with ME!
The referee's words are not breaking through, all he can focus on is Bryan's weakening yells as he clings to the hold, willing his arm to break, his ankle to shatter. What does register, however, is a referee helping Morrison walk past them and Miz's attention shifts to the pained look on John's tired, sweaty face as he's helped to the back, obviously still feeling the effects of that drop off of the titantron area. He drops the hold right then, referees sighing in relief as they roll Bryan out of Miz's reach.
He pulls his title belts out of the referee's hands, Morrison's tag belt as well, and his briefcase, before stumbling to the back. He pauses as soon as he reaches the back, John no where in sight. Alex Riley is there, however, and reaches out to help him carry the collection of gold. "Miz-" he's starting to say before Miz lunges forward and grabs Morrison's title from his grip.
"No," he mumbles. "I can carry it." Alex looks hurt for a moment but Miz can't care right now- things are still tense and horrible between them, and Alex has been helpful the past week, but the tag belts just... look wrong in anyone else's hands.
After an awkward moment, Alex pats him on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go find the trainer's room."
"Yeah," he nods. Wonders how Morrison's doing the whole time they walk down one hallway after another, if maybe the SCF was just a little too much after that long, hard fall his partner took.
They get turned around, the strange arena confusing Riley and Miz too caught up in his thoughts to be much help, so by the time they arrive at the trainer's room, Morrison is long gone. Miz sighs, succumbing to the trainer's examination.
He's sore but ultimately ok so the trainer lets him go within minutes and he follows Alex to their rental car, a distinction that makes his throat strangely dry as he slips into the passenger side and lets the kid drive them to the hotel that WWE's selected for the majority of them this week. They're heading for the elevator when he stops, something pulling at him.
"Mike?" Alex asks, holding the elevator for him. "You ok?"
He nods, trying to figure out what it is. "Yeah. Uh, you go ahead. I'll be up a little later."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Go ahead."
Alex shrugs, his lips pursing, as he removes his hand and steps back, letting the doors close.
Miz stares blankly at the garish red wall in front of him for a moment before turning. Raw's tomorrow and he tries not to do this before any event but it's been a long, torturous week and he just really needs a drink. Thankfully there's a bar only a few feet away so he walks in that direction, sighing tiredly. He's about to slump at the bar when he blinks, his eyes falling on a familiar form slouched in the corner, long brown hair shielding the man's face from the people scattered around the room. He automatically corrects his path, taking the seat next to John. He quietly drops his bag on the floor next to the stool, his lips twisting as the sound of their belts clank together inside. He loves that sound.
Morrison doesn't respond but Miz can feel his eyes on him, his hand tightening around the glass in front of him.
"What can I get ya?" the bartender asks.
"Vodka," he requests after a minute, peeking at the brown liquid swirling around in John's glass. "Dry."
As he waits, John shifts slightly and swigs more of his drink down. "What are you doing here, Miz?" His voice is low, tense. Whether from the after affects of last week or whatever pain he's feeling after the match tonight, Miz is unsure.
"What's it look like? I'm getting a drink." Miz regrets his words as Morrison tenses even more, his hand so tight around the glass, it looks like it could shatter at any moment. He's really not in the mood for this, so he's relieved when the bartender returns with a glass and pours his drink. As soon as he's turned to another customer, Miz tries again. "You ok?"
"What do you care? Because I'm the only way you can cash in your precious briefcase? Don't worry about me, Miz. I've taken care of myself before you, I will long after you."
Having his own words thrown back in his face feels like a cruel, hard slap somehow and his eyes close as he ponders how it felt to Morrison not even a week ago to be told that, especially after doing who-knows-what just to get them the tag team title opportunity a few weeks back. The vodka suddenly looks vile and ugly in his hand but he forces himself to swallow another sip, brain working feverously for a way to fix this despite his still being too prideful just to say what really needs to be said to the man sitting next to him.
His train of thought stops as he realizes that Morrison's trembling next to him, his hand shaking just enough that his glass clinks against the bar and he's not sure if it's physical pain, anger or something else making him react like this. It's suddenly all just a little too much and he doesn't want to know. He quickly stands, vodka forgotten, and digs into his bag. Morrison's tag belt is easy to find, waiting on the top of the pile, and he carefully lays it down on the stool he's just abandoned. He drops a $20 on the bar and motions to the bartender. "For mine, and his," he adds, motioning to Morrison's glass. Before his tag partner can decline, he turns to leave. Inches away from the exit, he stops and clenches his fists, turning to look John in the eye once more. "Happy birthday." Feeling stupid and a little pathetic, he spins back around and continues on his way, his now noticeably thinner bag thudding against his side with each step towards the elevator.
The next night, Miz stares up once more at the lights after Morrison eliminates him from the 20-man battle royal. He slams his fists against the floor and surges to his feet, oh so tempted to reach in and drag the betrayer out of the ring by his beard and show him how it feels but common sense somehow prevails and he allows a referee to motion him to the back, where he meets up with a sympathetic Alex Riley.
"I don't know why I bother," he snaps at him, tearing the wrist tape off of his arms viciously. "To think I was actually feeling... well, I don't know what I was feeling last night! It doesn't matter now!"
It's obvious by Alex's eyes that it does, very much, but he wisely keeps quiet, his gaze heavy on Miz's back as he slumps down on a bench and finishes pulling the tape off, movements a bit more subdued now. "Dammit," he mumbles repeatedly. "Why can't anything just be easy for five frickin minutes?"
