Steel eyes jolt open, fluttering, shifting to physical surroundings quickly; "Why did you come back?" His voice was so low that his breath drifted across his own bare chest, taken away by the warm air circulating from the delicate speed of the ceiling fan. Unsteady, rigid fingers clutch at the sheets on the mattress, attempting to get a grip with trembling hands to help rise a two hundred pound body of deteriorating muscles to sit up in it's was unexpected but wonderful; coral lips pungent with whisky, pressed against pale, thin lips. He could feel familiar arms with the sleeves of a powder blue dress shirt rolled up around elbows burry into his waist and back, securing a trembling, unintentionally writhing body with the delicacy of holding a fragile teacup. Their lips had pressed together in a form of silent speech between them; the soft sound of pulling apart, wet and soft.
The Viper's tongue moistens his own lips for a moment, his husband and lover breathing out a sigh of relief catches to his lungs; unintentionally breathing a form of new life and hope into him while optics of ocean pools and stormy skies meet as if for the first time. Swallowing hard, The Viper buries his head into the crook of his lover's neck, hiding beneath the open collar of the work shirt and nudging against a silk cream colored tie covered in grotesque paisley body shakes, stiff, hard, uncomfortable and inflexibly against the soft body it's pressed against, against his wishes, his body moves involuntarily to it's own accord. He swallows hard, shifting his neck against the other's before his movements ceased to a soft touch. The cool exhale coming from his lover's nose sends cold chills down his pull apart, slowly and unsure, watching each other's every moment. Finally, the older man stands up and walks toward the door, the floorboards beneath stained carpet creak, sounding like canons going off in the silent room. It startles the once powerful Viper, he searches for words and only comes up with a name: "Michael?" he asks desolately, looking up from his slumped position on the bed, hardly holding himself up in a sitting position that looks as if it will eventually give under it's own weight. When he finally stands, it's a slow, unassisted and imbalanced struggle to the dresser and closet, a simple white wife beater that had seen better, fresher days, and thick zip-up self-merchandising hoodie that had possibly fight tightly and proudly over a once gorgeous body. Orton stumbles as he dresses, feeling blue eyes that had been on him suddenly leave; an act of pity or possibly contempt, he assumes. he detracts himself into the soft fabric's offer of warm comfort.
There's no offer of aid until his hand is linked with the announcer's; he leaves the room with his husband for the first time in months to face this empty home that had once been full of love until things outside of his body destructed to seemingly match the way things ended up. He was never one to talk too much, but now he has so many questions that go unspoken, and the words that come out are jumbled, mashed and unintelligible to a man smarter than he; and they go hushed.
He's focused on his own feet, the way they need to be guided is pathetic and he lashes out, freeing his own hand and shoving the other man away, he stumbles with out the guided coordination to walk with and his ears fail to recognize the falling items in the hall that he ends up moving into as he chases after a beautiful laugh ringing in his ears, though when he reaches the vacant room his vision guides him to, it's just as abandoned as everything else had been."Codes?" His voice is a hard whisper, each syllable hard to rise from his vocal chords that leave him coughing and held once more by the smaller man. Allusions were beautiful, needed things these days when he was alone, rotting in his own filth the majority of the time. Rhodes was just one of those things that haunted the house; and a new excuse for the absence of the real person is made up by the commentator who seems to come up with a new explanation at any time; they might have been interchangeable with the reasons for the absence of DiBiase.
The escort down the staircase isn't without difficulty of a few almost-falls and slip ups; and the bedroom was looking like a much safer place to stay put; although with a few breaths outside of it, there was a distinct relief of oxygen not pungent with stale decomposition, and the sudden freshness was welcomed. Without much awareness to getting there, he sits quietly on the cushioned bench in the breakfast nook, hands fidgeting and shaking on the table.
Blue eyes watch a frail ghost of the Legend Killer, jerking as if possessed; fatigue and insomnia long settled into his facial expression which he had now deemed strange due to the excessive way he slept, with nothing else to do, and never leaving the house, there wasn't too much else to do, he guesses. Cole settles into the bench beside him with two cups of coffee.
"I've thought about it," his loudmouthed voice is quiet and he speaks as he exhales. From the look on his lover's face, he guesses that the man has finally taken his relaxed attire into question, shirt half unbuttoned and untied tie around his neck, the tequila he had spilled on himself while out with Mathews and Layfield was noticeable to his own senses now after being long-forgotten. "I'm sorry," these words fix everything so simply; his long absence is forgotten with such simplicity that he chalked it up to illnesses effects, rather than unconditional places a hand on top of Randy's, fingertips moving across the tattoos on his wrist before linking their fingers together. A conversation six months ago hadn't been forgotten by either man, the graying commentator with no intention of ever listening to the one he loved, but things had distorted so severely. He fishes through his pockets before getting up to retrieve his blazer from the staircase sits down at the table, a small vial placed between the two. The Viper inches his hand toward it before it's retracted, and opened, half of the powdered content dumped equally into each mug. Cole protects his mug when Orton goes to grab it from him, defending it feverishly. He sighs heavily and offers an explanation: with out Randy Orton, he is nothing: alone and abandoned. His word choices are immediately corrected; he hadn't truly meant to separate himself from Randy for so long - he needed time to think, even if that time had been a little too long. No one else truly cares for the announcer like Randy has and he accepts the decision.
Gray eyes watch the red coffee stirrers dance around the brown liquid, mixing in the white powder like French vanilla flavoring. The cup is slid in front of him, optics following it as it slides across the polished wood. There's only silence as they drink; Cole's freehand waiting on the table while Orton is struggling to swallow liquid in his mouth, embarrassed as a small amount dribbles down his chin and the commentator moves closer to the former champion, taking his hand as the emptied cup is placed down on the table."I'm scared…" Cole observes quietly when he looks at his own emptied cup and empty vial that's daring to roll off the edge of the table. He closes his eyes only to reopen them when Orton's rigid hand finds it's way to his jaw line, tilting his head up and he dips down, kissing him, feeling the warmth of his lips and the masking scent of coffee clearing his own alcoholic breath. The moment he knew nothing would ever be the same, and perhaps there should have been a note left of some sort, an explanation for his lover's fans, and an "You're Welcome" notice on his own part, his thoughts are captured and thrown out when he falls for his man so simply again, and maybe he would have never left in the first place had he remembered he could kiss like this, that his once pure lips suddenly had this artistic skill when they met Orton's, he was his. This was kind of kiss that Michael had come home for; his heart had started to pound, whether from the poison or just the same desire he felt when he first tried to ask the man on a date. They had understood each other. Blue eyes flutter, half lidded to catch a glimpse of gray steel now clear of nightmares, fear and fatigue, that drives his kiss deeper; both tasting a sense of a freedom soon to come. He could feel the tension in Orton's body ease like he was some sort of cure for the disease. The Viper was finally at ease, and himself as well.