Life Experiences

"Yeah, no problem." Chris shrugged, and stopped the car. They were in the arena parking lot, going straight in for tonights show. He popped the trunk and grabbed his bag with his ring gear in it, and left it open for Heath to get his things as well. He tucked the key into his pocket and headed into the arena.

Once inside, he avoided anyone he could, and if spoken to he answered with quick, simple, responses. He wasn't here to shoot the shit with anyone, he was here to do his job and do it well--do it the best--because he needed to get back to being 'the best in the world at what I do' as he was fond of saying often. Those words meant nothing however, if he was constantly bombing out. But his head was in the game now, and there would be no more failure. He was ashamed of the way he had left the WWE, clearly distracted and spiraling downwards, and he meant to do all he could to make sure that was over with. He moved through the lobby, through the halls, and found the locker room down stairs. He ducked in and peeled off his tight fitting t-shirt, distressed designer jeans, and his favorite pair of boots. He folded them all up into his locker, and then dressed himself in one of his suits.

He moved past the few people who were in the locker room this early, his hips swaying with his steps. He peered into a mirror hung over one of the sinks, and adjust the knot on his tie. Everything had to be perfect, or it was not acceptable.

Heath is in the process of smoothing out a wrinkle in his tights when he sees Jericho walk by. He flashes the blond an absolutely brilliant grin. "Break a leg out there tonight, Chris!" He calls out, giving him a big thumbs up. As always, he watches the other matches intently, but he does pay special attention to Jericho. When he said he was the best in the world, he wasn't lying. It's a pleasure to watch the way he moves, how he gets the crowd rabidly angry.

For his own tag match, Heath feels extra motivated. The crowd is still hot from Jericho's bout, but Heath doesn't want to coast on that heat, he wants to fan it; he wants to double it. Heath wrestles like a man possessed, throwing everything he's got into the match until the crowd is beyond incensed when he scores the win for his team. His adrenalin is running so high that he doesn't even notice when someone whips their soda cup at him.

He makes his way backstage, feeling like his feet aren't touching the ground.

Chris was dressed in his street clothes and toweling his blond-tipped hair dry, when his phone began to vibrate on the bench next to him. He snatched it up and saw the boss man himself was ringing. "VINMAC" The phone simply stated, and he answered. The conversation didn't last long, but as it drew on, the scowl of annoyance on Chris's handsome features grew heavier, and his blue eyes flashed their dislike darkly. With a begrudged agreement, he ended the call, barely allowing Vince to get out his 'goodbye' before hanging up.

Vince had told Chris that he wanted him to mentor one of the younger guys. Chris didn't mind doing it so much behind the scenes, or when he'd had a rookie on NXT, but NOW was not the time. He was here now to focus on his own career. Granted it was now the career of a veteran, and perhaps he had nothing left to prove, he did not agree. Before his downward spiral and leave of absence he would have agreed that there was nothing else he really needed to do with his wrestling career. However that bleak and shameful period had left a smudge on his career that made him want to--no need to get back to work for his own benefit and restore his legacy to something that was shining like a polished bar of gold, not lackluster and worthless like a dirty, time-faded penny.

But now Vince, the big kahuna, demanded his demands, and in this world one had to pretty much jump where ever Vince pointed to, even if he pointed to a trash compactor or the bowels of hell. Chris angrily tossed his towel onto the bench, grumbling as he grabbed his comb and hair gel to finish off his beloved hair. His reflection glared back at him the whole time, his eyes set into narrow, slits of roiling blue, and his lips scrunched together in a tight line. He let the list of names parade through his head, mentally tossing out the ones he wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. He slowly dwindled down the list of rookies until a few prospects remained. Heath was one of those prospects.

Chris bit his lip as he considered. He wiped the excess gel off of his comb, and tossed the brown paper towel into the trash bin. Heath was a nice enough guy. Chris had learned that in a short period of time. He also liked what the kid did in the ring, and the way he presented himself. Heath was still far from being the caliber of star Jericho was, but he had grand potential. If Chris chose Heath he knew he could help mold the kid into something they could both be proud of. However, it would be dangerous.

It would be dangerous, said a tiny voice in the back of his head, because you like him. You liked him that night in the bar, and you still do. Maybe just a little, but you can't deny that flick of attraction--a quick burst like flint scraping together and shooting of a spark. Maybe you haven't noticed it Chris, but me...the little voice in the back of your head...I know. And you can't ignore me, or Heath, forever.

He gave his head a shake. He had promised himself that he would not shift his focus from his career towards personal feelings. He still hurt from the last time that had happened, and he did not want the same pain to not only tear open wounds that were still fairly raw, or to create new ones.

He would just keep it professional, that was all he had to do.

Chris slipped his comb back into his bag and tossed it over his shoulder. He had almost forgotten that he'd driven Heath to the arena that night, because of the rental car mess up. That meant Heath would need a ride back to the hotel, although the red head could most certainly get a ride from someone else.

Chris left the locker room, a few guys only left milling around and gathering their things. He glanced up and down the hallway, looking for Heath. When he didn't see him he went out to the parking lot, where most of the cars had deserted their spaces and filed out of the lot. Heath was standing near Chris's rental. Jericho popped the trunk with the button on the key ring, and slung his bag inside.

"I choose you." Chris said, as he walked past Slater and ducked into the drivers side of the car. He waited for Heath to get into the car. What was he going to say, no? Yeah, right. No one said 'no' to a chance to train with Chris Jericho if he had any sense about him. He was after all, the best in the world at what he does.

"Me? You did...? I thought you woulda gone with Wade." It's all Heath can manage. He's quiet as he drops into the passenger seat, lost in thought.

While getting ready, he'd heard rumblings about the new veteran and new guy team ups. Heath had been too focused on his upcoming match to pay much attention to that sort of thing. Oh sure he can poke fun at himself and play a goofy character. He has no problem being the butt of the joke, but when it comes to the technical side of things, what he actually does in the ring, he takes that deathly serious.

After his match, as he was getting ready, the pro-to-rookie pairings were already being re-established. Heath feels a little nervous about this. Of all the people on the roster, Jericho had chosen him? Probably the most multifaceted guy on the roster had picked him to mentor, the kid who'd been irritating the crap out of him the whole time.

Heath suddenly feels under dressed in his jeans and T-shirt. He knows that's only an aspect of Chris' character, but this was all too much. He's torn between trying to figure out what this all means and ignoring the deeper thoughts and just being happy as hell that he got paired with someone as awesome as Chris Jericho.

Heath fidgets in his seat, plucking at a loose thread that dangled on the seam of his jeans. "So," he begins awkwardly, licking his lips. "I mean, d'you have any idea what this all means?" He's heard rumors about everything from match analysis to rooming together to traveling together. And the scary thing is that in the WWE, that sort of thing isn't unfeasible. He looks over at Chris.

Chris started the car and drove them the few blocks to the hotel they were staying at. He shut the car off with a small sigh, thinking over the rest of what Vince had told him. He glanced over to Heath. The lights in the parking lot against the shadowy sky of late evening was making Heath's face look glowy, and his reddish hair like strands of fire.

"The big V says me and my rookie have to room together, so...I hope you don't snore, Slater."

Heath shakes his head. "No, no sir, not at all. Well, Wade says I do, but with ears as big as his--" He cuts himself off. At this moment he doesn't want to a: badmouth Chris' old rookie and b: make an ass of himself. So he falls quiet, but his nervous energy is soon expressed in other ways, fidgeting in his seat, plucking at imaginary wrinkles in his shirt, fussing with his hair, tying it back and untying it a couple of times. His leg also bounces nervously, rocking the car slightly.

Jericho left Heath in their hotel room for a night of partying. He had promised himself no major distractions with his comeback, but he didn't consider this to be a distraction. He knew his limits, and he knew better than to end up with anyone on his arm, or any other part of his body at the end of the night. He told himself that he did have such self control, even when trashed. Chris was one who would never admit to getting as drunk as he did. In his mind he never surpassed 'a good buzz' but in reality...it was easy to see that Chris enjoyed his alcohol.

After he'd had enough of barhopping, flirting, headbanging, and anti-fans picking nonsense fights with him, he made his way back to his hotel and the room that Heath was sharing with him. It took him several tries to get his card to work and unlock the door, and when it finally did, he nearly fell inside. It took him awhile to achieve the simple task of getting his shoes off at the door, and when he finally had them off he almost tripped over them. He muttered something sluggish and slurred to the offending things, and lurched towards the bed, singing a snatch of some heavy metal song that was spinning around his head at the moment.

Chris crawled onto the bed, seeming to forget that anyone else was in it, and collapsed on top of Heath.

"Mmmmph hi. Wha...s'a guy in my bed."

Heath had chosen to stay in tonight, demurring on a few offers to head out for some drinks. He knows that Jericho holds himself up to a high standard. He prides himself on being one of the best ever and Heath is determined to make a good first impression. That means going to the gym hungover is probably not that great of an idea.

And if he's honest with himself, his body could probably use the breaks. He's a little banged up, nothing really worth complaining about, mostly just the persistent aches that came with this job. The extra sleep certainly won't hurt him at all. And it comes easily, he was half asleep before Jericho left the room.

That is until the body falls against his own. He awakens with a start, smelling the booze before he recognizes the voice. Recollection comes back a few moments later and he squirms a little. "Actually, you're in my bed."

Heath's mind is racing, trying to figure out how the hell to get out of this situation. Sure it's nice - really damn nice - to be in bed with Chris Jericho, but the man had made his feelings plainly obvious the other night; he wasn't interested. And being drunk didn't change anything. Heath keeps his hands firmly to himself, eventually sitting on them, lest any movement be misinterpreted. Now adjusted to the dark, his eyes comb around the room, finally settling on the couch. Yeah, that'll do. It's just a matter of getting there without using his hands or looking at Chris or thinking about how good this feels and yes, that's not helping, stop thinking....

Gritting his teeth, the redhead starts to scooch his way off the bed.

Chris curled his arms around Heath, clinging to him as if he were some giant ginger teddy bear. In his drunken sleep, he knew no better, only that it felt good to have the warm body close to him. He mumbled something incoherent, and pouted. Even asleep, Chris Jericho managed to pout, although it looked a bit softer than usual. Maybe he didn't want to be involved with anyone on close terms while he was awake, but while he was asleep and impaired, his defenses were down, and he wanted what he wanted. Heath might not be able to make it off the bed as he'd hoped, at least not until morning.

The way Heath sees it, he has two options: Wake Chris up and deal with a grumpy, cranky, hungover pro in the morning or just lay here quietly, keep his hands to himself and try to get some sleep. Really, there aren't many other options. Heath takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and draws the blankets up around them.

Though he does his level best to keep his hands to himself, once he drifts off, he puts his arm around Chris' waist, drawing him close. It's been a while since he's gotten into a relationship. He's chosen to focus on getting his career started. Relationships made things complicated, so he'd simply abstained for the time being.

But right now, comfortably asleep, he doesn't mind. It's just sleeping. It won't lead to anything. Chris has made that abundantly clear.

Heath sleeps deeply and more peacefully than he has in a while, cuddling with Jericho as much as he can.

Chris awoke the next morning, nursing a headache. As soon as his blurry vision came into focus, he saw what he had only vaguely realized that he was cuddling with-another man. Not just any man, but Heath Slater, his rookie. Chris groaned, rolled over away from Heath, and rubbed at his eyes. At least he was still dressed...then maybe nothing had happened between them, other than sleeping. Chris couldn't quite remember, and he mentally cursed himself for enjoying things found in bottles a little too much. He nudged Heath until he woke up.

"Wake up, assclown."

Of all the things he's good at in life, waking up gracefully is not one of them. He utters a half whine/half grumble of protest, then rolls on to his belly, his head turned away from Chris. He grumbles and mumbles a few things, mostly nonsense, but quite a few unkind words until he eventually rolls on to his back again and sits up, combing his fingers through his hair to try and untangle it a little.

Momentarily forgetting he has someone sharing the bed with him, he grunts and stretches, arching his back, causing his t-shirt to ride up, exposing a line of trim stomach. He finally forces his eyes open, blinking the sleep from them. When he sees only a blurry outline next to him, he yelps in surprise, moving to scoot back, but finding only empty air, he curses as he falls right off the side of the bed.

Chris leaned over the bed, peering at the Heath-lump that was on the floor. He regretted it the moment he did it, because a wave of nausea rolled his belly. He flopped back onto the pillows, groaning. He should be used to hangovers by now, as Chris was a regular drinker, but sometimes they still really beat the hell out of him. He propped himself up on one elbow.

"You okay down there, rookie?"

"Fine." It takes him a moment to regain his bearings and he gets to his feet, stretching out again, rolling out a kink in his shoulder. Taking one look at Chris, he knows that breakfast is out of the question. Dealing with a hangover is bad enough, Heath knows not to add food to the mix just yet. "Ain't the first time, won't be the last."

Having showered last night, Heath starts to get dressed instead. "Bathroom's all yours, if you need it," he says with his back to Chris, stripping off his shirt and digging through his bag for another. He settles on a light grey dress shirt and a pair of black jeans. It's nondescript to throw off fans and dressy enough to accommodate the dress code. He opens his mouth again, intending to ask what the itinerary is for the day, but figures Chris probably isn't in the mood for that.