John Morrison defeats Shelton Benjamin to become inaugural WWFX champion
Miz stares blankly at the mobile web browser, a miniature picture of his former tag partner with the title flickering on the screen, surrounded by a flood of confetti and looking happier than he'd seen him in a really, really long time. As happy as he is for his friend, he can't help the jealousy that also wells up within him. He's dedicated himself to winning back the WWE title but there Morrison goes, wrestling merely one time and walks off with a title- granted it's some barely known indy federation and not even close to being in the same league as the WWE or World Heavyweight title, but hell if it doesn't even look better than the title belt that never quite recovered from Cena's influence, still "boasting" the spinner design from years ago, even if the picture he's looking at is grainy.
It's Saturday morning and he has some media to get to before the weekend's events but for now, he settles back against the cheap hotel pillows, fumbling around for his cell phone. Finding it, he hesitates only long enough to check the world clock on his phone- Manila, Philippines: 8 PM- before dialing. Leaning back and closing his eyes, he listens to the ringing noise with a slight frown. He's probably out celebrating, he thinks, preparing to hang up before voicemail clicks in.
"Hello?"
He chokes slightly, sitting up straighter at the familiar voice. "Oh. Hey." He can hear the sounds of the Philippine nightlife in the background but there's soft mumbles and other distorted noises before quiet reigns a few moments later. "Morrison?"
"Yeah, hey, sorry, I couldn't really hear where I was at, so I had to find a quiet corner. What's up?"
Mike smiles a little, grimacing as he brushes a hand through sleep mussed hair. "I just heard the results of your match last night. I, uh... congrats." He wonders if he sounds as awkward as he feels, his teeth working over his lip, hoping that he at least sounded sincere because despite his negative feelings about his own career and envy towards Morrison not being held down by WWE's system anymore, he is honestly happy for the other man.
"Thanks. It feels good, you know? I can't remember the last time I felt good like this after a wrestling match."
Miz closes his eyes, sighing softly. I wonder how much of that I was a catalyst for... "I'm glad, man. Regaining your passion for something is always a good thing."
"Yeah." An awkward pause later, John clears his throat. "So how are things going for you? I heard you're in the Elimination Chamber."
"Yeah, I am." He takes a deep breath. "I'm not done going after the WWE title. I want it back, you know?" It may feel like a tarnished goal, after everything that's happened recently, but it's any given competitors' dream and he can't see any other way to spend his career; he's had one taste of gold and all he can focus on is achieving that accomplishment yet again.
"Sure," Morrison agrees, sounding a little weird. Before Mike can think about it too much or say anything, he continues talking. "Maybe 2012 will be both of our years, huh?"
"Of course it will be," Mike nods tiredly. He wonders if he sounds as false as he feels.
That Monday, he's working on wrapping his hands up in wrist tape when Alex drops down on the bench next to him, dressed yet again in street clothes. Mike doesn't blame him, no point in wearing out his wrestling gear needlessly when he never has a match, Laurinaitis seemingly content to overlook the younger man week in and week out. He feels bad for him, but with his own issues, he can't do anything to help him at this time. Ever since his firing months back, he'd had a strange sensation of walking a very thin line himself, despite decent showings in the Rumble and various title shots before and since. Especially with most of the staff still unwilling to look him in the eye after the various beatdowns he and Truth had orchestrated against them months ago. "Did you hear about John?"
"That he won that title belt in WWFX? Yeah. That's great." He watches Mike's lack of reaction and frowns. "Isn't it?"
"Sure it is, he sounds happier than he has in a really long time. I guess getting fired was the best thing for him right now."
A squirmy feeling creeps up Alex's spine as he stares at him. "Um, Mike-" Their conversation dies away as both hear Mike's name on the TV, Jericho going on and on about how everyone in the locker room is a Chris Jericho wanna-be, Mike's frown turning nearly murderous.
"He did not," he snaps, standing up. "Did he call me a wannabe? Really?" They listen to the rest of the promo, unsurprised when CM Punk interrupts. The silence that follows is surprising, however, as Punk just smirks at Jericho, slowly dropping the mic to the ground and leaving the way he came, effectively turning the trolling, as it were, around on him. "So this is captivating TV now, I guess," he mumbles, finishing with his wrist tape and tearing it off quickly before leaving to prepare for the six-pack match.
His focus is off from the start, he can tell, the match not flowing as smoothly as he'd like. He can't tell for sure but it feels like everyone's just a little bit off but everything feels so much worse for him until finally he's thrown out of the ring. He's struggling to get to his feet, barely getting a minute to catch his breath, when Truth flies over the top rope towards him, just grazing him as he instinctively reaches out for the other man as he falls. He topples off balance and hits the floor, staring up at the skylights while struggling to catch his breath as the action continues on around them.
He tries to continue on after Truth's dragged out of the match by worried trainers and referees. Funny, they barely looked twice at me after my shoulder injury... It doesn't last very long, however, as his lack of focus eventually costs him the match while Punk and Jericho's rivalry grows, Jericho stealing a victory from Punk. He immediately trudges to the back, cringing as Eve's annoying screams echo through the arena from the titantron feed. "Come on, let's go," he snaps at Alex, quickly grabbing a shirt and throwing it on, followed by some jeans. "I want to get out of here."
"O-ok," the younger man agrees, quickly grabbing his things and following him. After they arrive at the hotel, Mike drops right into bed and stretches out, disinterested in doing anything. "Hey, do you want something to eat from the bar downstairs?" He shakes his head and Alex cringes worriedly. "Ok, I'll be back in a few minutes then. If you change your mind, call me."
"Yeah, sure." He rolls over, away from Alex's line of vision, and releases a deep, shuddery breath, overly aware of the other man's gaze on his back. "Just go, Alex. I'm fine."
Flushing, Alex leaves quickly. As soon as he's out of the room, he pulls his cell phone out, leaning against the hotel door. It only rings a couple of times before clicking in. "Hey, John. I know you probably didn't watch Raw tonight, but..." He pauses, biting his lip. "Oh, you did? Yeah... I think, um, think he needs help. This isn't good, you know? He's been running himself ragged, and..." He stops, closing his eyes in relief. "Oh. Ok, yeah, sure. I'll make sure he does that. See you soon, then." He sighs, clicking the phone shut, glances worriedly back at their room once more as he heads for the elevator.