When you work for the WWE, plans tend to change on a dime. But, John figures, they had had a little time for the whole holiday thing Mike and Alex had tried. It had started off as planned, at least. The three had stayed up late Tuesday, catching up and watching crap television into ridiculous hours of the morning, just to pass out in various parts of Mike's living room. All three stir, Mike reaching up to slap at his phone as it goes off at barely 7 AM, his I Came to Play theme filling the room. Realizing it's not an alarm clock going off, he fumbles for it and squints at the screen before glancing over at his friends. Untangling himself from the blanket he'd awoke to find himself wrapped up in, he stumbles into the kitchen and answers it as quietly as he can.
He's just returning, an annoyed look on his face, when Alex's phone goes off, his theme sounding even louder than Mike's had just moments earlier. "Oh, my God," John groans from where he's sprawled out across a couch, one arm slung over his face. "What's going on?"
Alex doesn't even bother getting up, just grabs for the small device and holds it to his ear, blearily greeting whoever's on the other end. "Alright," he finally mumbles after a few minutes. "Yeah, sure. I'll be there."
Mike raises an eyebrow. "Were you called to make an appearance on Smackdown too?"
Alex sits up and fumbles around with his phone, finally clicking it shut. "Smackdown? No... I have a match on Superstars tomorrow. I gotta go."
John blinks as both begin to talk quietly, totally forgetting him as they prepare to rush off back to their careers. He swallows heavily. They're both in too much of a hurry to say or do anything, this whole holidays thing all but forgotten as they grab their mercifully unpacked bags, call the airport to confirm their last minute flights and head out on their way.
It's only when Mike wanders by the couch and spots John watching them with a blank look on his face that it seems to hit him. "Oh, God, John. I'm sorry. We have to go." His eyes are wide and horrified, guilty, and John shrugs, uninterested in making this whole situation rougher for either Mike or Alex.
"It's alright."
"You can hang around if you want, the fridge still is full of a ridiculous amount of food... you know?" He looks so fretful and hopeful all at the same time that it gnaws at Morrison just to look at him, well aware that Mike still feels some guilt at how his time in the WWE had ended only a few weeks ago.
"Don't worry about me," he insists, sitting up. "Either of you. I'll be fine. Just go... do what you do, alright? Good luck in your match, Alex. You too, Mike." He hopes his awkwardness doesn't bleed through; he does mean them both all the best in the world, it's just hard and weird to be sitting on the outside looking in as they leave. He doesn't miss the traveling through the holidays or anything like that, but the abrupt lack of competition and drive in his life is so startling, he's not sure what to do with himself just yet.
As soon as they're both gone with quick Merry Christmases, and further urging to make himself at home while Mike's gone, he steps away from the door and takes in the quiet, empty house with a grimace. Only a few moments pass before he grabs his jacket out of the nearby closet and, pausing only long enough to make sure the place is locked up tight, is on his way back to his own apartment before the strangeness of being in Mike's place without Mike or Alex can bleed through his pores and make him feel even worse.
Why Mike had been summoned to Smackdown, he never entirely finds out- Teddy Long has no plans for him, doesn't even seem all that aware that he had been called, and in the end just leaves him to his own devices. Which allows him to do what he always does when he's unhappy- crash the show. So he vows for maybe the third or fourth time in the last two years to stay in the ring and not allow anything else to happen until he has a reason to actually be here. All the while, he can't help but think if he had known this is the best that Teddy Long could come up with for him, he would've stayed in LA and had a little more time to spend relaxing at his place with Morrison before going to Ohio.
He's bored and rambling and with his thoughts already on Morrison, that ends up being what he talks about- his attacks against Truth and, yes, Morrison too. He hates rewatching the footage as it replays on the titantron but it is what it is, Morrison's idea on top of that, and there's no going back now. He struggles to stay on track, talking himself up as always, but his heart isn't really all that in it. All of his thoughts and emotions are derailed, further, when Sheamus' music hits. Sure enough, it's his opponent for the evening and he tries, he really, really tries, but he's distracted and all the offense in the world doesn't seem enough to keep the "Great White" down, so he's down and getting pinned before he can even focus for longer than a second, his head throbbing as Sheamus' music begins anew to mark his victory.
Merry friggin Christmas, Miz, he thinks to himself as he staggers up the ramp afterwards wondering how he could go from main eventing TLC six days earlier to this.
Christmas passes smoothly enough but he's still feeling off by the time Monday rolls around and they're back at it by Raw. Alex doesn't say anything, but it's obvious he notices, his eyes tracking each move Mike makes. He painfully bites his lip, not wanting to snap at the kid. With Morrison gone, he's more self-aware, consciencious of what he does or say; friends may come and go in the business but it doesn't hurt any less, especially when you only have a select few as it is. There's a weird vibe in the air, adding to his confliction, and God, he just hates it all.
So by the time Cena comes out and he's babbling about Kane, Mike's anger is at an all time high. He wants to smack someone, wants to yell, scream, pitch a fit; something, anything to make his very veins stop itching. He heads to the ring, distracts Cena, challenges him to a Wrestlemania rematch. He wants to beat him on his own this go around, without Rock's heavyhanded influence on the match. He's Mike The Miz Mizanin, dammit, he doesn't need to win any match via Rock Bottom. No way, no how. Except that the Cena Sucks, Let's go Cena, chants that Chicago are throwing around are in his head, echoing off the rafters and through his very skin like razors. Yet again, he's disgusted to find he can't focus, the few moves he manages sloppy and distracted. He sees an exit and he takes it, relieved to get out of the ring and finally, finally rant and yell, not about what he truly wants to, never what he needs to, but random stuff. Old stuff, stuff that he had mostly forgotten due to everything that had happened the past few months.
He doesn't even stop when the ten count is finished and he's counted out of the match; he only just barely stutters to a conclusion when horrifyingly familiar music hits. The Truth Shall Set You Free. Ironically enough, he had so very rarely told the truth since Money in the Bank 2009, between the whole act with the Anon GM, faking his whole issues with A-Ri, the tag team with Truth, and now this whole charade tonight, that it leaves him blindsided, too distracted to mount a good offense or defense as his former tag partner lunges at him almost from nowhere, sending him back in shock. They brawl, Mike trying his best to regain control, but Truth is crazier than usual, sending him repeatedly into the barricade wall, the announcer's table, the steel steps. Any time he tries to move, get away from the steps that are cutting uncomfortably into his shoulder, anything, Truth would grab him and start pounding on him yet again. He finally gives up, just watching wide eyed and scared as his former tag partner vows to do this to him week in and week out, drawing the so-called fun out as long as he can. A bottle of water to the head later and Mike lays, sagging, against the cold steel, wet and throbbing all over, sensing more than seeing as Truth finally leaves.
A ref finally collects him after a few shocked, quiet moments, and leads him to the back, a second quickly joining them to support him as his legs sag half way up the ramp. Alex is waiting at the titantron, smoothly taking over for the referees as he carefully slings an arm around Mike, taking his weight and holding him up as they make their way to the trainer's office. "God, Mike," he whispers, pulling his hand away just enough to look at the dampness covering it. He pales, realizing it's not sweat or water, but pink tinged blood. What he can see of it from this awkward angle is already bruising up badly. "Your shoulder..."
"It hurts," the former world champion groans, shifting beneath Alex's hand. "Dammit... can this week get any worse?" Alex sighs, relieved that the trainer's office is relatively close to the gorilla position, carefully easing Mike down the hallway as they reach the doors. "Thanks, Alex." His eyes are fluttering tiredly, the adrenaline from his anger and the beatdown crashing down around him. Each step is a chore, Alex having to maneuver him carefully to keep him from faceplanting and hurting himself worse.
"You're welcome, Mike. Any time... You know that, right?"
There's a faint, exhausted smile on Mike's face as he nods, relieved that he still has Alex, out of everything he's lost lately. "Right."