"Dean," Roman Reigns said, leaning towards a reflected pair of brown eyes. "I don't know how else to say it, so…I just will. I need you."
His fingers curled around the countertop's edge. "I need you. Right here. By my side."
Roman's head drooped and he gave it a shake, hating the way he sounded. How weak he was portraying himself. What the hell was his problem? Everything he felt was perfectly clear…yet the moment his emotions touched areas outside his heart, his mind, they became jumbled, slashed to pieces in a blender, and he couldn't make sense of any of it.
"Look, I don't care what they say, alright? They can't determine our relationship. No one can. Not Lesnar, not the fans, and sure as hell not Stephanie. I can't…" Roman sucked in a breath, lifting his head, drilling a gaze into his own troubled face. "I can't do this without you, man. I can't…I can't lose you. I cannot."
Sad tale true. Dean had been there with Roman the whole time. The Shield and beyond. Survivor Series and more. Why was he letting the opinions of others get to him? He'd never betray Dean. Never. Stephanie wanted to play games, she was about to get schooled. Ambrose and him were tight. Best friends. Family.
But Roman didn't want just that.
Somehow with Dean, he had everything, and with Dean, he wanted more.
And hell, tomorrow was Valentine's Day. Day of love and affection and all that crap. Might have been the perfect time to do it. Why wouldn't tomorrow be the perfect day to tell Dean these things?
Because why would any day be a good day? That could change everything.
It could ruin everything.
"We're indestructible, we are untouchable," Roman was ensuring himself and a man who wasn't there. "Nothing can take us down."
He believed it.
Did Dean?
Didn't matter. It was ten-thirty and in grown-up world, that was late. Flight early tomorrow. More traveling. More matches.
He was tired.
Tired for reasons beyond the physical.
Sleep. Needed to sleep.
Roman shut off the lights in the bathroom and flicked a lamp off, leaving himself alone in the dark. Sometimes he and Dean would share a room. Other times, if Dean didn't mention it, they'd go their separate ways just for a night or two.
He wiggled under a sheet and cotton comforter. His head hit the pillow.
His head hit the pillow.
What a night. Dean Ambrose had beaten Rusev tonight with his faithful dame Lana supporting him, sobbing over his fallen body. Dirty Deeds had done the trick. Dean was ready to sleep off the pain and begin anew tomorrow.
The room was a bit stuffy, but he couldn't sleep without a blanket anyhow. Bed seemed too big. It was better than the floor. When the Shield was still a thing, he'd opted for the floor on more than one occasion to give his teammates beds to themselves.
Ugh, the Shield. Change the subject, mind.
Well, now it was fixed to his brain cells by thread.
If he thought about it long enough, Dean could still feel every spurt of pain from all parts of his body that had taken a hit that night.
His back, especially.
The thrust of a figurative knife in his back that still managed to hurt physically.
Ugh, stop it, he groaned inwardly, turning over on his other side. He crushed the pillow in his fingers, imagining it to be Seth Rollins's neck. It didn't help.
God, was it hot in here.
Dean kicked the blanket off. Okay, new plan. Sleep just like this.
He folded his hands on his belly and stared at the ceiling, finding images in the lines of the pattern the way children found shapes in the clouds. Though the images he found weren't imaginary. He'd seen them before. Real life was a bitch sometimes.
"OH MY GOD!" Michael Cole had cried.
"You sold out! You sold out!" came the crowd in waves.
"Ugh, fuck," Ambrose growled. He flopped onto his stomach, mashing his face into the pillow. Why, of everything in the world, was this keeping him awake? It wasn't thoughts of Paul Hayman or his "client", "Brrroooooooock Llllleessssnnnaaaaaarrrrrr." It wasn't thoughts of Fastlane or a potential title match he could have against Triple H himself at WrestleMania.
It was the Shield.
It was Seth Rollins.
And Roman, of course.
Roman, who'd gone down first. Hadn't seen Seth coming. To this day Dean wasn't sure what was worse: witnessing all he'd seen, watching his best friend get hit from behind…or to be totally in the unknown like Roman had been. Not knowing what would happen until it was too late.
The memory burned in his head like a branding iron had permanently brandished it there.
Maybe he'd been asleep for a minute or two, but Dean jerked in bed, eyes popping open. His form was perspiring, clothes reeking. His eyes stung like mad. He wiped away a blend of salty tears and sweat.
Dean sat up in bed. There's gotta be a reason for this shit. I may be out of my mind but I'm not tortured. Not this bad. Not too often.
He looked at the clock. Twenty past eleven.
Maybe a shower would help relax him, because he sure wasn't getting to rest anytime soon.
He couldn't sleep.
He couldn't sleep.
Roman's eyes were closed but his brain was active. All thoughts were concentrated on Dean. The sorrowful look they'd exchanged when Stephanie announced the two of them would compete against each other—and Brock Lesnar—to be the number-one contender for Hunter's title. Same look they'd traded when learning they'd have to fight each other over that belt.
It hurt Roman so much to hurt Dean.
He could act strong all he wanted. Put business before personal affairs, whatever he had to do to succeed.
That didn't mean he was okay with it.
Dean was his everything. Who else in the company knew him so well? Not even his cousins Jimmy and Jey could say they had with Roman what Dean had with him.
Primarily because the Usos were blood relatives, family, and Dean was so much more.
He couldn't leave Dean alone.
It had been hell to watch him go after Lesnar, bait him into a fight—then Lesnar charge right at him. Roman had told Dean he'd let him handle the Beast Incarnate alone, but how long was Roman expected to stand back and let Lesnar beat the shit out of Ambrose? It was too much. Roman couldn't handle it.
He'd forced himself to face Dean Ambrose at Survivor Series for that title belt.
How could one muster such emotional strength again?
Lesnar sure didn't have a problem with wailing on both of them. Brock despised Ambrose, especially now, and he'd always had beef with Roman.
And Roman would gladly break Brock's arm if he annihilated Dean like that again, before their time.
"You're crazy," Roman had told him that night.
Didn't he know it.
Didn't he love the guy regardless.
Roman looked at his phone, charging on the nightstand beside the alarm clock which indicated it was past midnight now.
He considered texting Dean.
But he was probably fast asleep by now. If not, he was counting punching Seth Rollins in the face.
Roman grabbed the phone anyway. Swiped it to unlock. Smiled briefly at his wallpaper—a picture of Dean and himself hugging after Roman had won the WWE World Heavyweight Championship, the second time—then pulled up his messages app.
Typed Dean's name in the "To:" box.
Printed a short message one letter slowly at a time.
[I miss you right now.]
But he didn't send it. He thought simply typing it would be enough to make himself snap out of this fantasyland that Dean somehow missed him right now, too. And would want to come by his room and talk. Maybe even lay together, take comfort in the company of one another until Roman could finally sleep.
But no. His delirious brain still wanted to send it. To see what would happen.
But this isn't all gonna come out over a text.
Roman closed the app and returned his phone to the nightstand. He pressed his hands over his eyes and sighed, which almost sounded like a growl.
Long night ahead.
He just couldn't sleep.
This wasn't working.
This wasn't working.
Dean stayed in the shower for nearly half an hour. He'd washed his hair twice and let cheap, runny hotel soap glide down his stark muscular figure. The scorching water ridded him of some of the pain. Now if only there was medicine available right away to heal his broken mind, too.
What did all of this mean? Was this happening for a reason?
Outside the shower, he focused on the steamy mirror. He drew his notorious symbol, the A and the D, with a finger. Then he doodled Seth's new mark, the SR, and wiped it out with his hand.
Fuck you for ruining me. Fuck you for never letting me trust anyone again.
But that wasn't true. He trusted Roman.
Even if a time of war, he trusted Roman.
Even when the battle was theirs and theirs alone, he knew Roman would never let him down.
Roman was, quite literally, all he had left.
If Roman and I don't make it past this, I'm gone. That's it.
This year he should have learned how to believe in himself. Trust himself and nobody else. Hell, Roman should have been the one to teach him that lesson, if not Rollins. Spare no one, Spear everyone, isn't that how it goes?
Dean sucked at Spears but he'd Dirty Deeds his way through every adversary.
Roman included.
But ugh. Why?
Did he really deserve this shit? Pitted against his one friend left in the world?
Maybe that's why the Shield was a substantial thought.
Maybe he feared losing Roman because it was a possibility.
"No," Dean said, laughing at himself. "Roman would never. He'd never."
"The two of you certainly didn't see it coming with Seth Rollins," Stephanie's voice tolled in his head.
It drove Dean to punch the mirror. The glass quivered at the force. His neighbor might have just pissed the bed out of fear. Dean's knuckles ached.
"You're right, Steph, I didn't," Dean mumbled. "But it ain't happening again. It ain't."
He trusted Roman…right?
You trust Roman the way you trusted Seth. Look how that turned out.
Stephanie hadn't spoken these words in particular to Roman and Dean that night, but he was hearing them in her voice anyway.
"No!" Dean said again. He leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor, fists over his eyes. "I won't let anyone break me. Never, ever again."
Nobody could.
Not Lesnar or Roman or anyone.
But Roman was already in him.
Roman had earned his place long ago. Proven himself a wonderful friend. The best a guy could have.
Who was anyone to say that could be taken from him?
The pain was back. His hand throbbed from punching the mirror, his heart ached from these distresses, now his head was hurting. Great.
His head hurt.
Roman was stiff as a deadman yet still awake. Still.
He grabbed his phone again and typed out a bunch of messages for Dean that he'd never see.
[I miss you so much.]
[Why don't you come to my room?]
[I can't sleep.]
[I need you.]
[You may be the Lunatic Fringe but I'm feeling kinda crazy myself.]
[Can I just hold you for a little while?]
[What if I told you I think I'm falling for you? You'd probably laugh, huh.]
[It kinda scares me that you matter this much.]
[We're gonna make it, okay? Don't worry.]
[Hey.]
[I'm always gonna be there for you.]
[I need you.]
[I need you.]
[I need you.]
[I need you.]
[I need you.]
It was a quarter after one. He was no closer to sleep than he'd been all night.
Sleeping now would do me no good. Even if I could, I'd only get a couple of hours before my alarm goes off and I'll be all groggy.
Roman held a pillow, pretending it was Dean. No good. Roman was accustomed to his feel, his look, even his smell. Often it was unpleasant, teeming with body odor, but it never stopped Roman from squeezing him tight so often before, after a match.
Dean was perfectly imperfect in that way.
Roman loved the hell out of him.
"Sure," Roman sighed, staring at the ceiling. "Why not?"
He loved Dean.
Okay. Progress. He'd accepted it for himself.
He had the entire time. He'd loved Dean all along.
Now it was a matter of telling him? Maybe?
Sleep first. Make crucial, possibly life-changing decisions later.
He lay in bed. Felt like an eternity.
Sleep wasn't coming to him.
Fuck it.
He gave up.
Roman pushed out of bed and turned the light on. He paced the floor of his lonely hotel room, fingertips pressed together, wondering how this could happen.
Maybe I take him to breakfast tomorrow before we get to the airport. Lay it all on the table. Leave the ball in his court.
If it didn't work out, it would make for an awkward plane ride.
An awkward profession.
How to shake that one if things fell apart because of his decision?
Just go to bed, Reigns. Stop being an idiot and go to bed.
No. Been there, done that. Well, attempted that. He decided to try something else.
It wasn't a text this time.
Roman pulled on slippers over his feet and stepped out of his room. The hallway was eerie quiet. The gentle hum of fluorescent lights walked him towards Room 412. Where he'd wished Dean a goodnight before retiring to his own room, hours ago.
He rapped his fingers tenderly on the door and waited for Dean not to answer. Of course he wouldn't answer. He was asleep.
If you answered right now, I'd tell you everything. I don't care how late it is or how stupid I sound. I'd tell you right here, right now, what you mean to be, Dean Ambrose.
But he wouldn't. So Roman couldn't.
Roman turned to go back to his room.
Something held him here.
The presence of Dean, just a door and some several steps away.
Don't wanna leave.
He didn't have to. Nobody else was around.
Roman sank to the floor like an anchor in the sea, back against the door. He'd fall down backwards if Dean were to pull it open right now.
But he wouldn't.
Roman closed his eyes.
Dean closed his eyes.
He worked alone to banish the demons, cast out the harrowing thoughts, but they were ceaseless. You're going to lose Roman because this world sucks and life is a bitch and humans are disgusting and you can't trust anyone. Might as well leave now before he has the chance to leave you.
Leave Roman? That sure wouldn't work. He had to see the guy every day, work with him. Dropping Roman would be as easy as getting over what Seth did.
It's not worth getting your heart fuckin' broke again, so hurt him before he can hurt you. First strike. Protect yourself.
It would take time but maybe he could do it.
Wouldn't be easy but he was already skating on paper-thin ice as it was, sticking to Roman's side. How long before he pulled a Rollins and went all treacherous bastard on him?
You're risking more damage by the day. Just step away before…
Dean had dressed himself after his extended shower but he hadn't reached the bed again. He'd crawled to the four corners of his room, unable to stand another way. Now he was by the door, back to the wall, head tucked between his knees, arms shielding his exposed neck from no danger at all.
Leave. Just leave. Be the strong one and bail. What a fuckin' oxymoron that is. But it's the only way.
Seth Rollins forcing the Shield to disband was what drove Roman and Dean so close together in the first place.
Was he really so ready to walk away from it all?
It wasn't about a championship or recognition for his talent or glory or fame. He was already a champion in the company, so what would another belt do for him? Make him feel better about the walking insane asylum he was? Mend the holes Stephanie was trying to poke in his relationship with Roman?
The bitch had a point. He hadn't seen it coming with Seth. At all.
Back then, he expected Roman to pull some sort of shit like that long before he ever thought Seth…
A lone tear skimmed down his red cheek. Dean rested against the wall.
Bail.
Roman rested against the door.
Stay.
Two inches separated two exhausted superstars who needed each other more than either could possibly comprehend.
Hours crawled past.
Roman was starting to nod off. He felt no better but decided a bed was more comfortable than a door frame. He pushed himself to his feet and trudged back to his room. Sleep tight, Dean.
Dean sensed something. Some nearby motion going down out of sight.
Was he alone?
Dean pulled himself up with two hands on the doorknob, fumbled with the golden chain lock, and heaved the door open.
Roman's door closed behind him as Dean poked his head into the hallway, glancing from side to side down the stretching corridor.
Had that been Roman?
No way. Couldn't have been. What were the chances?
Had to have been another guest. Awake…this late?
"Screw it," Dean said. He had to find out. If he woke Roman up, whoops, sorry about that, man. I've done weirder things in my day than text him so late.
He recovered his phone from his bag and cranked out a quick text.
[Was that you?]
Roman flopped back onto his bed. His head hit the pillow. Sleep, goddammit. Sleep.
His phone buzzed.
Roman's heart skipped a beat.
No way…
He checked the message and sure enough.
[Was that you?]
"Yes," Roman answered aloud. No time to reply over text. Dean was awake. Shit, I hope I didn't wake him up.
Roman pulled the door open.
Dean was there, hand in the air, ready to knock.
"Hey," he said.
Roman soughed in tremendous relief. Suddenly the world made sense again, just seeing Dean there. "Hey."
"What's the matter?"
"Can't sleep."
"Yeah? Me neither."
Dean's eyes were beautiful, albeit wilting. Swollen? Had he been crying? The hell was going on?
It didn't matter. What mattered now was Roman could solve it. He could help.
Roman couldn't remember how to speak. His brain might have been fastening words into sentences all night but now everything evaded him. "Uh, do…do you wanna—"
"Yeah. I do," Dean said. He invited himself inside.
Roman watched him cross the room. His destination was the second bed. He yanked the comforter off, then stared the mattress down like he was contemplating this idea.
"I'm in this one," Roman said, wandering back towards his bed. The ball was in Dean's court.
Dean stared over at him. Looked at the impression of Roman's physique compressed into the bottom sheet, the blanket drawn back. Looked back at Roman.
"Okay."
Roman still hadn't words, but he didn't need them. He could tell Dean all he wanted to say without saying anything at all. In the first bed they'd ever share together, Roman spoke with open arms that folded over Dean securely. With fingers that rubbed Dean's cleansed skin. With lips so close to Dean's drying hair, the nape of his neck, that it was a fight not to kiss him goodnight anywhere. Roman's fingers found their way into Dean's, and Dean held Roman's hands over his stomach.
Dean's mind relaxed. He knew the truth. No longer would his own thoughts manipulate him.
Roman's mind relaxed. His love was certain. No longer would he run from what he wanted.
I'm never letting go, Dean.
Don't ever let me go, Roman.
I need you.
I need you.
Sleep would come tonight after all.
Pleasant dreams.