(Note: Incredibly old, unspellchecked, beta'd, or even proof read… 6/30/2010)

Heaven's High-Flier. Defying gravity, and the average person's tolerance to see someone so positive about everything. Taking his audiences soaring into the air; agility and energy getting only minutes to hardly drain from his core with every gasp-worthy Shooting Star Press and Moonsault. His effervescent cheery smile lit up no matter what, diving off cloud nine with dazzling brown eyes. Every energy drink and coffee would love to harness even an microscopic fragment of his zest. Happy. Optimistic. Evan Bourne.

His head was tilted to the side, ear almost to his shoulder and lips pursed together in a failed endeavor to cease grinning. His vigilant eyes staring up adoringly at the much larger man and standing just a little too close as the other wrestler emptied his locker back into his bag, having disregarded the small high-flier for what he had been sure was a very long five or ten minutes. Everything seems longer when you're waiting for it to stop.

For those still in the very occupied locker room, dressing or not-so-much, and those still showering, it had been an entertaining sight to see the perky young star finally going up to the "Moscow Mauler" – and with such an endearing nickname why wasn't "Evan from Heaven," with his cheery smile, and overly optimistic aura, nervous about going up to the serious Russian?

Evan had confessed to a fellow Superstar that when the Russian had come to ECW he was taken aback by the man, and when that spread to the entire locker room it had every last person raising an eyebrow over what he would have seen in him, mocking him, and pulling various pranks. The rumors began, and it seemed that every last person on every brand was aware of Bourne's then unexpressed love – except the Russian.

Still being completely ignored, he patiently waited... right beside him. His crush finally glanced at him, only for a moment, and no amount of the Russian's superior training could have helped him block the kid from attaching himself to his abdomen and hugging as tight as his little body could.

The rest of the locker room had stopped doing their own things and fell silent to watch the new spectacle: they were all waiting for Evan Bourne to get that cheerful smile punched off his face and choke on his triumphant, encouraging voice. With him attached like that, it had to be all downhill from there...

Surprisingly, the Russian made no instant attempt to throw him against the locker and beat the life out of the poor kid; probably because he was in some state of shock.

The Soviet Cyborg: trained to exceed being the best. Possibly the most dangerous and powerful man in and outside of the ring. The personality of a boulder, possessing cold, sharp eyes with the dead-set similarity to that of a great white shark; and serious in every instant. Un-amused expression never changing, and hardly ever uttering a word. Silence ever daunting. Seldom had been any actual emotional reaction, and even then left unannounced or acted upon. Vicious. Unforgiving. Vladimir Kozlov.

His stern expression twisted to a very minor degree of confusion. His deadly eyes had only seemed to change to show his confusion as the high-flier failed to remove himself after a detestable amount of time. With his arms still up at his sides, he could have very well been contemplating he best way to eliminate Evan "air" Bourne with out getting himself the "future endeavor" notice.

Finally, one exhausted sigh soon after that could only come from realization that he would be going back to his hotel room, walking with other Superstar still attached, and attempting to scuff him off against anything like something stuck on the bottom of a shoe; the smaller man released himself.

"Hi!" he cheered, introducing himself, and his gift. "I'm Evan!" he nodded, continuing on with revealing that he'd been crushing on him for quite sometime, and carrying on with it until the locker room door opened to the Russian's humiliation.

William Regal, followed by Ezekiel Jackson, snorting and snickering at the sight of Evan Bourne clung to their team-mate and going momentarily silent before bursting into hysteric fits of laughter as Bourne excitedly informed them to "meet" his "new boyfriend."

Before the older men had a chance to speak, Evan, with his hands firmly pressed to his hips, very politely told the laughing men off, insisting that Vladimir had indeed asked him to be his boyfriend moments before they walked into the room. He grabbed his bag, saying good bye to his friends and wrapping around the Russian's large arm, allowing him barely a second to grab his own bag and head to the parking lot.

They stood there awkwardly standing on the loading dock, before Kozlov finally pried Evan's arms off, stared down at his glowing, ever admiring face, with that fantastic grin plastered there and remained unaltered by it. He shrugged to himself and headed towards his rental car, stopping suddenly and hardly budging as the twenty-six year old tripped into his back, he looked over his shoulder, staring at him again and motioning like he would a dog to stay put, and started back to his car.

Kozlov sets to unlocking the car, when Evan charges down the ramp to the car, yelling for "shotgun" even if they're the only two. He leaps into the front seat, shoving his bags into the back and minding the Russian to put his seatbelt on with his cheery "safety first" moniker that would drive almost anyone up a wall.