Another week, another hotel. He's not in Los Angeles right now, too busy doing media for various things. He's so tired after going from place to place for this interview and that photo shoot that he's not sure which city he's still in, just that the hotel room he's in actually has a nice bed with a sinfully comfortable couch and oh God he wouldn't get up from either even if the building was burning down.
I probably shouldn't think like that though, he decides. Knowing my luck, it'd probably happen. He's still sprawled across the couch, half-dozing, when his phone goes off with Twitter alerts from WWE. One of which includes a link to Superstars. He frowns at it before accessing it from his ever present laptop, relieved just to have something to listen to while he rests. No matter how tired he is, he still hates the silence that comes from being alone on one of these press junkets.
Eyes closed, he listens half-heartedly through Beth Phoenix vs Alicia Fox, and Tensai's entrance. Only Downstrait suddenly pouring from his laptop speakers sends him into a sitting position, gaping at the laptop in surprise as Alex Riley comes down to the ring. Ah, man. He shakes his head, grimacing. Can't have one afternoon without... He sighs, pushing the laptop back so he can see it easier, molding into the couch cushions as the action begins. Tensai gains the advantage early on, holding it through the match until finally winning with a definitive splash that probably will leave Alex with some hurting ribs for awhile. The only relief is that there is no blinding green mist or claw to the forehead to follow, leaving Alex unconscious and vulnerable while no one's around to help him.
Mike sighs, examining his fingers. Even when we're pissed at each other, I still just wanna be there for him when bad stuff happens... and John. He slaps the laptop shut, relieved when Superstars cuts off in response, the sound dying abruptly. "This can't keep going on..." He stares glumly at his phone. "I just don't know if I can be the one who stops it." Every time his fingers inch towards speed dial 3 or 4, he hesitates, pride getting in the way of him actually connecting the call. "Dammit..."
By Saturday, he's pressed the speed dial buttons so often that he's not sure which is more tired, his fingers or the 3 and 4 on his phone, but he just can't bring himself to actually connect the calls, not sure what he'll find on the other end. He knows generally what Alex is doing, thanks to Twitter and just generally seeing him around at house shows or whatever else, but Morrison... the man barely tweets since leaving WWE and when he does, it's usually to talk about his stand up comedy gigs and sometimes Melina's dog. He has no idea really what's going on with the man, and it irks him.
None of this is helped when Zack Ryder tweets about, of all things, The Dirt Sheet late Saturday, after the house show held that night has ended. He's sitting alone in his hotel room, frowning down at the twitter app on his phone, shaking his head. "Idiot," he mumbles, something itching beneath his skin at the implication that that tweet holds- Z!TLIS, with its 69 episodes now about to outdo The Dirt Sheet's run as WWE's longest running web-based show ever at 70 episodes. He shakes his head, grimacing. As he puts his phone down, trying to quell his sudden need to go to Youtube and watch the old episodes of him and Morrison when they were actually best friends still, he leans over and buries his face in his hands, even more miserable than he was before. "Dammit, dammit, dammit. Why did he have to go and make me think about that?"
He's left off of Raw again that following Monday, disgusted with the fact that by now it's just feeling something close to normal. He hates himself for losing his will to fight after months of being overlooked, so out of his depth in not knowing where to start fixing things. Kicking the tire of his car roughly, he breathes heavily through his nose while tugging at his short hair with trembling fingers. He's pacing along the parking garage, unwilling just yet to leave the long since emptied arena and return to his just as dark and lifeless hotel room that will hold him until his flight out of there. "Hell," he whispers, sitting down by the rental car and taking a deep breath. The only good thing about tonight is that Mr McMahon will return the following week, promising to evaluate Laurinaitis' career. The whole locker room had perked up at this news, all of them suddenly gaining a tentative bit of hope.
When he finally decides to leave, he's surprised to find it's close to 1 AM, the city just barely buzzing around him as he drives towards the hotel. Stopping outside of the hotel, he parks and peers up at the lights gleaming from the various rooms, taking a breath. Everything had felt so differently even just nine months ago- all of them blissfully unaware that he would become an afterthought in the business or that Morrison would be fired within weeks.
He sighs and finally pulls himself out of the car, still staring up at the dark little space his own room's window is taking up, when his phone vibrates against his hip to notify him of a text message. Pulling it out of his pocket, he stares at it, his eyes lighting up when he realizes they're tweet alerts from Morrison's account. Since not being able to see the men face to face without tension overwhelming each word spoken, these had become his only chance of keeping up with John or Alex. One of his biggest reliefs from the past week was that Alex hadn't tweeted at all about Eve; getting close to Laurinaitis' executive assistant would be the worst thing possible for A-Ri and his already tumultuous career. After all, it hadn't done Zack any favors.
His relief at seeing some news from his former tag partner is quickly shattered as he reads the tweet asking for fans to help him name a new wrestling federation in Southern California. Subsequent tweets say that Morrison will be wrestling for this federation the following weekend, his lips twisting in a derisive sneer. "How cute," he snarls at his phone before stuffing it back into his pocket, ignoring the few other alerts that he gets as he walks to the elevator. He's almost tempted to tweet a mock reply to the other man for a name suggestion but can't even bring himself to do that, bouncing the back of his head against the mirrored back wall of the elevator.
He's relieved that the elevator is empty at this late hour, his eyes downcast as it clicks up floor after floor. His emotions are so all over the place, exhaustion and loneliness warring with anger and bitterness, adding to his confusion because underneath it all, he's honestly happy for Morrison- that at least one of them can still wrestle on his own terms, even if it's for some start up, no-name (literally) California Indy fed, and not stuck floundering while under Laurinaitis' thumb. At least he seems happy, he thinks grimly, closing his eyes as the last shred of hope within him that, should Laurinaitis get fired the following week when Vince returns, Morrison would be waiting to return to the WWE slowly fades away.