Black frames cover wet brown optics, the city lights reflecting back on the glass until they turn back to a disgusting liquid in a different sort of glass on the bar counter top. He likes the music, it is a little distasteful, and not something he would normally listen to - but the beat is nice, and his friends and co-workers dancing offer a bit of a distraction while the liquid magically clears his thoughts.

He is making wishes on the glass his friends had set down in front of him, as if it had been birthday candles, only these particular wishes had not been coming true… He was forgetting, minor details at least, and that was good, it was a start… but with it came the price of feeling unbearably sick, and so painfully aware. He is distracted, and that is better, it is a part of that start he is desperately searching for; that his friends had promised him of. He had not been "out" in a month, but instead searching desperately for a lost love that he followed overseas to Eurasia to be met with the rejection he finally seemed to comprehend. This just was not the way life worked out in the fantasy-like world of Evan Bourne.

He has gone from the pure bliss of blind, dumb love, to swiveling side to side on his bar stool while a bar tender filled his glass up with the petroleum that he hates. It feels awful going down his throat, it smells horrible, and it feels strangely warm - and ice was no aid. They promised they would take him back to the hotel if he had passed out - where was the passing out?

The jello shots that Ziggler has look much more delicious. It seems as if everyone has something that at least looks tasty. While he is stuck with a drink deceiving him as apple juice; even the Jägerbombs that Ryder is passing around look fun to try, setting them up in a domino form just down at the end of the bar.

When his framed eyes leave his glass to look out of the window, he stares at the simple street lamps lighting the pavement of sidewalks and streets. The beads of rain sliding down the glass clouding his view of the not-so-scenic dump. He just wants to pretend that he's backstage again, eating a slice of pound cake off the Styrofoam plates while he waits for his match, watching the ruthless Russian defeating each and every opponent put in front of him within seconds, everyone was afraid; but he wasn't.

He was… in love. The man of his dreams never smiled, and he can remember trying to talk to him, hoping to get his attention, pretending that he did answer, and carry on the one-sided conversation until finally a few words of broken English spoken his way and every day became his Valentines Day. He remembers the day that he was accepted as a boyfriend - not realizing that he had just called himself that, that the large man did not realize what he was doing for so long, clinging to his arm and following him to shows and hotels. That awful Englishman had been harassing him backstage, telling him to leave the Soviet Cyborg alone; that he was just merely a distraction, and that he did not have any feelings for the high-flier. William Regal had told him to leave, but Kozlov stepped in and made it "clear" that Evan was just fine being at his side. This had to be love; it was to him, anyway. Where had everything gone wrong?

He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a hard gulp - not wanting it to linger for too long on his tongue. Where had the effect of forgetting gone, that effect everyone promised? He was just remembering more…

He closes his eyes as he struggles through a sip, swallowing hard and grimacing as he sets it back down on the coaster. How could they fire his Kozlov? How could he leave and not take him along? He pretends that everyone is wrong, that everything is still good; he can leave the business too, not go insane with heartache and that the Russian took him everywhere he went; that he was still very much loved. Imagination was failing him horribly tonight, and he had a reputation for being the happiest person around - why was this happening?

Maybe it was better to pretend that this had never happened. He never wanted to wrestle; he never joined his high school team and never joined a wrestling school. He stayed with his studies and graduated with a higher degree, never tried to accomplish his dreams and kept with his little mailbox company. Maybe even building it into an empire. Everything was average, normal and good; nothing special, just decent. He is not Evan "Air" Bourne, just average Evan Bourne. No one notices his face, and he never noticed that he was in love with a Soviet war machine; Kozlov did not exist in St. Louis; they would have never met, and he would have never been heart broken and alone. Maybe pretending just was not going to work tonight… He settles for focusing on the rain, streaming down the glass like his tears beading just above his waterline.

The storm had not let up. The whole day had been bright, clear skies and a beautiful sun that offered much warmth in the chilly fall weather settling over the state. The trees around the arena rustled with squirrels and birds readying for winter, leafs falling on the ground with the cool breeze wafting through them. A beautiful scenic view that made a run through the nearby park a perfect reason to skip the hard gym work. By the time the event had started, somewhere in between most likely; the rain had started to pour from the skies with out letting up.

It drenched the fans as they had dispersed from the arena, scattering in different ways like the puddles of rain being hit by the cars speeding past the bar, the tires causing each puddle to explode onto the sidewalk and splash onto the heels of a limousine chauffer.

A white umbrella pops up from above the opening door, catching the rain from pouring down onto the owner of gorgeously polished Armani loafers that step out onto that wet sidewalk. A personal assistant is sodden with water, carrying the large umbrella over his employer, and failing to hold it anywhere near over himself. The assistant guides the umbrella to the entrance of the bar, allowing the other man to enter with out a single drop of water touching anything but the bottoms of his white loafers and the matching scarf around his neck that blew around in the wind behind them.

Chestnut eyes take a quick scan of the room, an unamused scowl taking the place of a multi-trillion-dollar smile. He questions his fellow superstars with self-assertion, not caring for whose conversations he was to interrupt; another scowl taking place over a gorgeous smile when his search comes up empty handed. He turns to his drenched assistant, having him kick someone from the bar so that they may take a seat there and wait for whoever it was he had come to this dump looking for. His very presence shoos away the other stars with annoyance, scattering off to the dance floor or anywhere that he just was not in the general area of. The assistant is quick to start barking orders in mixed languages to the woman behind the bar counter, failing to hold any interest of the other man whose eyes have fallen down on the lone superstar, pawing around with a straw in the undecorated malt glass. Maybe at loss for any conversation, or that he had been annoyed with the man he had came with for his scarf having a few droplets of moist rain on the fringed ends, irritated with his new loafers being wet, or just exasperated with the constant companionship with him. He ignores the conversation the assistant attempts to start with him in their own language, waving him off with a careless, cursory, fleeting wave of his hand; instead introducing himself to the small high-flier on the chair beside him… not that he had to introduce himself, the younger man knew who he was - everyone had.

Their brown eyes meet, one holding expectancy, and the other completely wiped of every emotion he was known for; it took less than a second for the other to catch on to the distraught little superstar. For some reason, he is taken pity on by the reigning champion who starts a conversation with him, his voice bearing an upwards inflection meant to cheer him up.

He starts by simply talking of himself, his accomplishments in the past, his social status and that car he had flown in for him to ride in tonight - an antique jet black Rolls Royce that had been parked just outside. It was more than likely stunning the people passing by on the streets. Surely, the people in the corporate buildings above were looking down on it from their office windows in a confused and gathered cluster; asking each other if they knew anything about why it was there, parked so carelessly outside a bar as if it had been an unlocked, dirty and trashed Volvo. It sparkled under the street lamp, the freshly polished wax job offering a bright gleam that bounced from each curve, and the way the rain just beaded and slid right off like turpentine.

Almost more importantly, he one-sidedly discusses his current title reign as champion. He reveals that he had come to find the man he had won it from - Cena, no doubt, - to pick a second fight to prove his reign during the other's rematch.

The bar did have some karaoke thing going on, and "The Champ," Cena, would not ever be known to miss out on that… even if he did have to share with a heavily intoxicated Ziggler singing "Everybody's Working For The Weekend," and Ryder belting out Hasselhoff's "Jump in My Car."

Taking notice that the little superstar was not giving him his full attention, he spins his topic in mid sentence. He asks his question first in Spanish, being met with slow batting eyelashes that gave him the simple signal that his words had gone unrecognized, he asks again in English, a hint of an annoyed tone following suit.

The younger man silently wonders where he had learned to be friendly and have concern for others in the past two minutes; surely that was not one of the aristocrat's natural traits… but he can feel himself smiling a bit on the inside - there was no doubt that he certainly looked handsome and so very charming, but if his drink had become any example tonight: looks were very deceiving.

Bourne contemplates it for a few minutes, wondering if getting into this with yet another person was something that he wanted to do; but he answers politely, never one to be rude even in his worst of moments. He replies that nothing is wrong, which is just so clearly a lie that he admits to being upset over the inevitable breakup of himself and Vladimir Kozlov. It felt good to tell somebody new, for whatever reason that had been, it was so pathetically therapeutic.

He can feel himself being studied: every inch of his body feeling vulnerable and painfully conscious. He is aware of just how bad he looks right now, his eyes, cheeks and nose red from crying and toting a tissue box from Laurinaitis' office all day. Another question rings through his ears, awakening him from his induced panic of looking so awful, that he almost does not catch it. He admits again, not being in the mood to dance with his friends who had been out there making fools of themselves, and more over: they simply hadn't asked, not that he wanted to dance, anyway… his mood meant was no time for dancing. He watches the larger man get up from his stool, and knows that he had bored him completely. He just was not expecting his arm to get grabbed and be hauled toward the dance floor. Before he knows it, he is watching his announcer tip the DJ just to play his favorite song, as being rude just did not work in the same ways cash could.

It is a Latin song that he does not know or recognize. He does not have a clue what they are singing about, but it's upbeat, as they usually seem to be. He dances reluctantly, following the lead of Alberto Del Rio. If that man was so handsome, being the deserving winner of a Dancing with the Stars season seemed to come as an obvious no-brainer.

The way he moves and leads him is so organic; he is swift and precise with years of expertise that shine brightly. He doesn't dance the way any one else does, that's for sure… and for the first time, Evan Bourne realizes that his problems are all but forgotten, and he hadn't needed a drink to accomplish that. He feels himself smiling for the first time as Del Rio spins him, sweeping him off his feet in the very motion and catching him so adroitly with one arm just below waist level. His eyes are wide as he looks up at him, a mixture of shock and awe plastered as his only expression as he's spun a second time just up to his feet and pulled to that powerful chest scented with the most magnificent of colognes that drive his senses wild. He gives him that signature wink and tosses his head back as he laughs.

There is just something about that smile, that laugh and that autographed wink that makes Evan's heart race. He can feel the blush spread like wildfire across his cheeks when he realizes that Del Rio can most likely feel the way his heart is pounding in his chest… and that just earns him another one of those extraordinary smiles as he leads him back to their seats at the bar.

Evan picks his drink up for the first time with out feeling so miserable; he takes another hard, disgusted long gulp of it, just nearly finishing it when he sets it back down with a poorly suppressed contortion of his face. Just as fast as it hits the napkin-coaster, it is plucked back up by Mexico's finest export who takes a taste of it with out question. The second he tastes the still unfinished whisky he sits it in front of Ricardo with out turning to face him, and again waving for him to be quiet.

With evident knowledge, Del Rio sets to explaining that it is the cheapest tasting scotch he has ever had the displeasure of having touched his very refined palate; and from the look on Bourne's face, he sums up the poor distillery for why he had not liked the drink.

For Evan, it seems to him as if he no longer had any ability to make any white lie or innocent walk-around reasoning to his new company. The truth was just pouring out of his mouth and he could not contain it. He admits quietly, and with embarrassment lingering unmistakably in his voice, that he just did not drink things like this - ever. This confession earns him a laugh, and some words in Spanish that he is not sure of the context… stuck wondering if he was laughing at him or just displeased. He realizes that being displeasing to Del Rio is the last thing he would want to do right now.

Everything seemed to improve with a captivating smile and a signature wink from Alberto Del Rio. Distracted in his own thoughts, he does not catch him speaking to the bartender who sets down the drink he had ordered for him.

With his first sip of the flavorful concoction, he realizes he just may be falling in love all over again, and maybe this was supposed to be the way things worked out. He wonders what would have happened if he never picked up his suitcase of a few changes of clothes and ring gear sitting next to his front door in St. Louis, if he just laid in bed the same as Saturday. That Morrison had not called and motivated him to actually get up and go to the show, that he couldn't let Kofi down as his new tag team partner, that he gave Laurinaitis the same reason that he was emotionally drained about his relationship; he couldn't even think about competing - and that much was the entire truth. He did not figure that he could make it through another Monday night alone.

He blinks at it when he comes to attention when it clicks on the counter, replacing that awful malt glass full of gasoline; instead, it is a pretty, tall stem glass with a cute blue umbrella on the top sitting across from a pineapple wedge. The liquid is a pale yellow, thick with a slushy like texture that he observes while he swishes the red straw around in it. He loves Piña Coladas… but Del Rio probably already knew that.