Disclaimer: I don't own or claim ownership to any WWE Talent.
Rated: M
Warnings: slash, language, etc.

May 3, 2014

One year. One year ago his life had changed. He hadn't had contact with any of his friends during his time. So much had changed; he knew deep in his gut this to be true. A worn hand ran over a thick black beard. It itched something awful from the heat wave striking Chicago the past few days. He'd been sweating, and from past experience sweat made him itch wherever he had body hair.

He flicked his long black hair out of his face and continued on writing on the wall. The fact that his writings and various other scrawls were washed away once a week didn't deter the man. Writing was the only way to achieve any means of entertainment and sanity being locked in a cell for most of his days.

Dirt-encrusted fingernails scratched at the thick beard, annoyed. It felt like there were bugs crawling around along his jaw.

Jail had done him in poorly. However, he was being released on good behavior 3 months early. It would have been earlier had he not threatened to stab another inmate in the throat with a plastic fork half a year ago. During his 13 month stay, he had gone from 220 pounds down to 170. He never got used to jail food, and soon started to waste away. His eyes looked even more tired than they ever used to. A dark, gray ring surrounded the dull emerald eyes. More often than not, his eyes were swollen, as if he had spent the past night crying.

He hadn't been able to test it, but he was pretty sure his tongue piercing had closed up. He'd had his lip pierced for over ten years, so the hole was still there, thankfully. His ribs showed through his skin vividly. An almost opaque gray tone had set into his skin. A lot of his muscle had been absorbed by his hungry body, leaving him with little energy.

The most prominent change was definitely the hair. He hadn't had a beard in quite a few years this extensive. Shaving with cheap, jail razors made his face one giant scab, so growing it out had been the easiest option. When he was put in jail, his hair had been shaved down to his skin. Now, he sported long hair akin to when he debuted in WWE.

When his PO had told him two weeks ago that he was being released on good behavior soon, he sprouted up with a newfound burst of energy. However, that hope and excitement dwindled with each day that passed and he was still locked inside his 10' by 10' room.

Today, he was hoping more than ever that it would be the day he was released. A growing, gnawing anxiety was building up in his body at the realization that many things had obviously changed over the past year. Thoughts about Chris and his whereabouts came to mind, as did how Adam and Jay would look at him now. Would they even spare him a passing glance? If he were in their shoes, he didn't know if he could forgive that. Most importantly, though, was Adam still paralyzed? Despite the fact Phil remembered nothing of that night, he was still held in jail because of what he had done. To make sure that never happened again, and without even needing anger classes to do so, he taught himself yoga and meditation. It helped him calm down and find his inner peace, similar to finding ones feng shui.

A few more hours passed. At long last, however, he heard his name being called over the loudspeaker. He quickly reassembled his belongings and waited at the door for it to be unlocked.

He handed his sheet and toiletries to an officer, and in exchange received the things he was arrested with a year ago. Among the items was his wallet, his favorite pair of jeans, running sneakers, a Cubs t-shirt, his iPhone 5, his piercings, and his car and house keys. It all looked so foreign after not seeing items like these for a year.

He took his clothes into the bathroom and changed. To his relief, none of his holes had closed, so he put his jewelry back in. He handed over his jumpsuit and shoes before gathering his other belongings and leaving the jail.

The city instantly overwhelmed him. The sun hurt on his pale skin and burned a hole through his eyes. People passed at a fast rate, and he felt his anxiety levels soar. Fumbling around in his pocket, he took out his phone and tried to turn it on. It was dead. What had he been expecting?

With a wary sigh, he started walking down the street like a fish swimming upstream. He stumbled upon a Starbucks, and he went inside. The coffee shop was hectic, but not nearly as bad as the streets. Phil took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty before he ordered himself a coffee. He sat down in the corner and saw a man on the adjacent couch with a phone charger sticking out of his messenger bag.

"Excuse me, sir, do you mind if I charge my phone for a moment? It's completely dead and I need a ride home," Phil asked carefully. He felt odd talking to civilians.

"Not a problem," he answered. He dug his charger out of his bag and handed it over to Phil. With a thankful smile, he plugged it into the outlet near his chair and plugged it into his phone. He let it sit on the arm of his chair and charge while he sipped his coffee.

Once it turned itself back on, Phil opened it to find 6 voicemails and a "100+" bubble on his messages. He looked through them briefly before deleting them all before he moved on to his voicemail. To his frustration, they were of no importance to him.

He took the phone in hand and looked through his list of contacts. Who could he call?!

"I'll give Chris a try," Phil mumbled under his breath. Another habit he'd picked up in jail was talking to himself.

Phil hit Chris' number and nervously brought the phone to his ear. He listened to it ring, and ring, and ring. Finally, on the last ring, he heard the phone pick up.

"Chris?" he asked tentatively into the speaker.

"How are you calling me on your phone?" Chris asked slowly.

"I got released early on good behavior. You'd have known if, y'know, you visited sometime," Phil bit a little too harshly. He sucked in a breath before continuing. "I was wondering if you could come pick me up? I don't know where my car is."

The other line was silent for a moment. "A lot has changed since you were sentenced," Chris told him quietly. "The house was sold. I live in an apartment in Florida now."

"Guess you can't get me then, hm?" Phil mused. "Well, are Adam and Jay in town still?"

Again, Chris paused. "I… I don't think Jay would want to see you, Phil."

"Why not?" Phil asked.

Chris sighed. "Whatever. Call him. I've got things to do, yeah?"

"Sorry," Phil mumbled. "Bye."

Chris hung up before he could reply. With a sigh, Phil rubbed his face and called Jay's phone.

"Why are you calling?" Jay answered bitterly on the second ring. "Don't you think you've ruined my life enough as it is? Now you've got to fucking rub it in my face, don't you? Fuck off, Phil. I hate your fucking guts."

Phil swallowed uneasily. "What are you talking about, Jay?"

Jay chuckled angrily. "That little paralysis you put Adam in? Yeah, he's been a vegetable for a year now. The doctors thought he'd get better, but he only got worse. He can't feed himself, he can't breathe himself, and he can't go to the bathroom himself. He lays there, a tube forcing his chest to rise and fall. Another tube forces formula into his stomach. And another tube collects his shit and piss. I don't give a rat's ass if you 'don't remember' what happened, you fuck face. I never want to see you again. Don't call me again."

Without giving Phil any time to respond, he hung up. Phil brought the phone down slowly and instantly felt a wave of guilt surge over him. He hugged his knees to his chest and buried his face in his legs. Quiet tears fell from his swollen eyes and left little marks on his jeans.

With a 62% battery, Phil returned the charger and left the store. Where would he go? He literally had nothing, if what Chris had said was true. He hailed down a taxi and gave him the address to their house. To his dismay, he saw it had been sold, and a soccer mom van sat in the driveway. Not wanting to seem like a stalker, Phil started to walk. He pulled his phone out and called Chris again.

"Yeah?" he answered with.

"Why did you move to Florida?" Phil dared to ask.

"Because my boyfriend lives here," Chris responded.

That right there was Phil's worst fear from the start. Once he had finally realized he was gay, Phil never even got to love him again. He moved on to another guy and left Phil alone. This was his worst fear when he had decided not to tell Chris many months ago following his car accident. Adam had warned him. Jay had warned him. And he hadn't been listening.

All at once, Phil fell to the ground. His heart started beating erratically, and his limbs started shaking. He had to hold the phone with both hands to avoid dropping it. His stomach flipped and he felt bile rise in his throat. A burning wave of regret coursed through his veins, ripping them to shreds in the process. Tears collected in his eyes and fell with no other provocation. It literally felt like his world had turned upside down.

"Yeah, you've got a boyfriend now?" Phil asked. His voice shook despite himself and tears fell down and got stuck in his beard.

"Yeah," Chris answered like it should have been obvious. "You do remember Justin Gabriel from work, right?"

"That little rookie who looks like a werewolf? I know him."

"That 'little rookie' is now the Intercontinental Champion, and one of the number one contenders for the WWE title," Chris boasted with pride. "I'm the World Heavyweight Champion."

"Congratulations," Phil said with a watery smile despite himself. "I'm glad you've gotten over me so easily, too."

"You know, Phil, when you hide the fact that we were in a relationship for over five years and you didn't think to tell me once I couldn't remember it makes it fairly easy to get over you when you're taken out of the picture."

"But…," Phil stammered dumbly. "Did- did you ever love me?"

"It doesn't matter who I loved. I love Justin now, and I don't need you. Your stuff is in a storage room in Chicago. I'll e-mail you the address and the PIN. Good luck getting somewhere to live."

Chris hung up on him again. Phil locked his phone and cried into his skinny hands pitifully. His worst fear was now a reality, and it was all his fault, and there was nothing he could do about it.

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