Thirteen months ago, Mike "The Miz" Mizanin had been on top of the world- US champion, WWE champion, Alex as his protege, Money in the Bank winner and heading into Mania where he would defeat John Cena in the main event. Things were slowly starting to spiral, starting with Alex's however brief firing- that had led to the special contract Miz had had to work out for him to get around the Anon GM's shenanigans- and losing the US title to Sheamus, but he was too captivated by his own ego at the time to even see it.

Even so, when he leaves John Laurinaitis' office, he's relieved that Alex is off doing his own thing, a strange energy thrumming through him. The US title is far from the prestige he thinks he deserves- a Heavyweight champion falling back to competing for one of the secondary titles?- but he has many fond memories of that belt, it being the focal point of the start of his road to the WWE title way back when, and even the start of his patching things up with Morrison, so he can't completely spit at the match he's been given this Sunday.

He's passing by a monitor when he freezes, seeing Alex talking to Chris Jericho, who roughly shoves him off towards a locker room. He pauses, eyebrows raised as Jericho blocks Alex from knocking, finding the door to be opened a bit. Pushing it open further, he reveals Punk talking on his cell phone as he sips from a plastic glass, a bottle open next to him. A liquor bottle, that is. Mike scoffs, disbelieving. Many guys had, over the years, tried to get Punk to betray his straight edge ideals, ordering him this shot and that, just to get it thrown back in their faces, literally. The man had an uncanny alcohol sensor, not taking a sip of something if it even smelled a little off. "What a fake," he mutters as commercials resume.

Alex joins him a minute later, looking a little amused. "Hey, Mike."

"Hey." Miz considers telling him about what Laurinaitis had told him but decides not to, instead focusing on what he'd just watched. "So friends with Jericho now, are we?"

"Not really." Alex just grins, ignoring Mike's silent cues to tell him more. "So what's up with you?"

Two can play this game, he decides, lounging back against the cool lockers behind him. "Not much."

"Did you talk with Laurinaitis tonight?"

"Nah, didn't see the point. Why bother, so he can just tell me nothing for you tonight! again?" He ignores the sympathy on Alex's face, watching the TV stubbornly. Only a few minutes have passed when the show comes back on, Jericho already in Laurinaitis' locker room, demanding Punk be put through a sobriety test. "Good God. Am I the only one who realizes Punk is as drunk as I am right now?" He looks up to find a smirk on Alex's face and immediately swats him. "What?"

The smirk growing, Alex just shakes his head. "You'll see."

Mike rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "I hate when you do this crap," he tells him huffily.

"No you don't."

He doesn't, really, but there's no way he's telling the younger man that, nah. Instead he stays stonily silent, not even responding when awhile later, they announce his US title match on the Extreme Rules pre-show Sunday, keeping his eyes on the monitor instead of Alex's gaping face.

"You liar!" the former NXT rookie exclaims, nudging him. "You did talk to Laurinaitis!"

It's Mike's turn to smirk as he glances over at Alex. "He called me to his office," he says calmly. "While you were looking for Jericho, apparently."

Alex rolls his eyes before sobering, glancing from the TV screen back over to his friend. "So... the US title. How do you feel about that?"

Miz hums, standing up. "I feel... well, I'm not sure yet. It's a little weird, I guess, considering a year ago I was headlining Wrestlemania as WWE champion and now I can't even make it onto a pay per view like Extreme Rules. But I did adore that belt, it was the start of my career's upswing, you know? Maybe it can be again."

"You were on the top of the world when you held it," Alex nods quietly, remembering those days fondly. Mike had begun to repair his friendship with Morrison, leading Alex into eventually gaining one of his own closest friends in the business, had been tag team champion, US champion and WWE champion all at the same time for a little while, and things just... clicked well in those days. Now, not so much, for any of them. Morrison of course is gone, and Alex and Mike both are floundering in "barely used" territory. He sighs quietly, smiling up at the other man. "Good luck, Mike."

Awhile later, Mike scoffs knowingly as the sobriety test segment starts and Punk comes out, talking a little slurred and walking awkwardly. Alex remains silent when he fails at the alphabet test and walking in a straight line, repeatedly asking for another attempt after another. Finally one of the police say he's definitely drunk and Teddy Long urges the men to leave, Jericho repeatedly demanding he strip the WWE champion of the belt. Teddy is obviously reluctant but does so, holding the belt uncomfortably as Jericho starts yelling at him to hand it over.

Alex looks over, finding Mike totally taken with this, his eyes locked on the TV as this drama unfolds, his lips parting in surprise as the belt is just a fingertip away from Jericho when- Punk starts asking for another chance, pleading that he can do it this time. The other two freeze as he begins to recite the alphabet backwards, even walking the line at the same time. Mike slaps his palm against his face as Punk begins to attempt to moonwalk, looking over at Alex with an exasperated gaze. "I knew it!" He glares as Alex begins to laugh at him. "What?"

"I saw your face, you totally fell for it for a minute."

"Ugh!"

Two hours later, Mike drops onto his bed, in sweatpants and a hoodie as Alex thumbs through the TV channels for something to watch. Despite having been in America for two days by now, he still has a bit of that European chill deep in his bones and can't help shivering slightly. "Anything?"

"Not right now," Alex sighs. "It's alright, though, we can make our own entertainment."

"Yeah, su-... wait, what?"

The taller man laughs, leaning over the edge of the bed to pull out a basket that looks vaguely familiar. "I think some people already got their hands on it, but most of it is still here, as far as I can tell."

"Is that...?" Mike leans closer to Alex's side of the room, his eyes widening as his earlier thought is confirmed. "You swiped that booze basket Punk passed off to Mathews! After Brock beat him down?" A look of appreciation on his face, Mike shuffles over to Alex's bed and smirks. "There may be hope for you yet, grasshopper." He ordinarily wouldn't consider such a thing but their flights aren't until the next afternoon and for once he has no media until Friday, so getting wasted and forgetting his conflicted feelings about his career and everything else sounds really good right now.

A-Ri grimaces at him. "Stop teasing me or I won't share with you."

"As if," Miz mutters, searching through the basket. "Damn, Jericho really went all out on this thing."

"I dare you to try saying the alphabet backwards in about... hmmm, an hour."

"Oh please! Like I'd give you the opportunity to film me making an ass of myself and post it to youtube or something," the former WWE champion exclaims, glaring at him.

Alex smirks, it slowly slipping from his face as another idea comes to him. He's not sure how well it'll go over, but it slips from his tongue before he can really think it through anyway. "Maybe we can call Morrison instead then." Holy crap, I'm not even drunk yet, he thinks, chastising himself. Neither had talked that much about the former Dirt Sheet host after the week following Wrestlemania... with both being ridiculously busy on the international tour, Alex hadn't thought that much about it but now that they're home and the words have slipped past his lips, he can't help but wonder if there's more behind it as Mike freezes, a thoughtful look on his face. "Sorry, Mike- I wasn't..."

"No, I think we probably could." He smiles a little, shaking his head. "For one thing, he seemed fine towards me after the improv show, and for another, he won't pass up the opportunity to mock us later on for drunk dialing him, right? Let's do it."

Alex grins so wide it almost looks painful. "Great! Let's get this thing started then." He looks down. "Oh, wait. We need glasses..."

Mike laughs as Riley gets up, looking through the room for something to drink from. Leaning back against the headboard, he considers the coming week and smiles, crossing his arms behind his head. It's all just a little weird but he has a US title opportunity, a friend willing to share stolen alcohol with him, and another across the country who he'll be talking to on the phone soon. Not bad, all in all.

Alex finally comes back with a styrofoam cup that looks like it came from the coffee maker with the hotel logo on it and a WWE tumbler with Miz's image on it. "Wait, you have one of these?" he demands, snatching the tumbler from Alex's hands. "Holy crap."

"Oh, come on. I'm sure you own at least ten of them." He rolls his eyes, trying to determine which bottle he wants to tackle first.

"Of course, but that's me. Do you miss me that much when you're in Florida?" He grins as Alex looks up, suddenly lunging. "Hey!" In a blink of an eye, the alcohol basket is out of Mike's reach, now resting with Alex at the end of the bed. He pouts. "I was kidding! Bring that back!" They glower at each other for a few moments before Alex huffs, dropping the basket in the middle where they both could reach it. "Damn straight."

"Shut up." A couple minutes pass before both men laugh at their own stupid bickering, same as it'd always been even back when they were mentor-protege in NXT, the only difference then it'd been about suits and other ridiculous things. "To Sunday," Alex finally says once they've calmed down, holding up his glass of amber liquid.

"To Sunday," Mike echoes, clicking his tumbler against it and toasting the future.