A/N: This is the same story I posted on Tumblr yesterday, with a couple of quick tweaks.
CrossFit
Squat, brace, lift.
Drop.
Do another.
Climb, pull, raise.
Drop down.
Do it again.
One step, another, run.
Keep going.
Don't slow down.
Lungs burning, muscles shaking, nausea haunting every swallow.
Past the point where endorphins can save him, but he pushes on anyway.
Two hours.
Three.
It's time away, time to move, time to do, time to stop thinking, to leave everything else outside the door, and just work for a while.
Easy rhythms in all these reps, something hypnotic.
Feeling of accomplishment every time he's able to hoist himself up on the rings and hang there, sense of pride in being able to add an extra plate or two to the weight bar and lift it, thrill of victory every time he reaches the top of that rope.
Here, in this gym, in this this ugly square room with its ripped-up cardboard box charm, here's where he's free.
Easy rhythm in all these reps, something to get lost in.
Feeling of untoucability every time he steps into the ring and raises his hands, sense of power every time he lifts someone up and smashes him back down onto the mat, thrill of victory every time he hears he hears the bell ring.
There, in the ring, in arenas where thousands of fans scream electric every night, there's where he's alive.
Easy rhythm in all these reps, something to clear his mind.
Feeling of frustration every time he's alone in a room with his teammates, sense of dread every time they have to cut a promo, thrill of victory every time they're able to get through something without fighting.
Lift and drop:
"We're elevating Roman above you and Dean," they said. "It's nothing personal. You guys have done a great job, but Roman is the one Vince wants to push. You two will get your shot somewhere down the line, probably. But for the next few months we're going to move Roman to the center of the Shield – the leader, the protector. You two will be his backup. Kind of like the Wyatts."
("The Shield has no leader. We work for each other.")
Brace:
Seth smiled. "Congratulations, man. That's awesome."
Roman shook his head. "I'm – damn. I don't even know what to think."
"Like you didn't know it was coming," Seth said. His stomach burned, but he kept right on smiling. "You were always gonna be the man."
"Yeah," Dean put in from his place by the window, "you were. Congratulations."
He wasn't smiling.
Roman frowned. "Hey, man-"
"No, seriously," Dean said over him. "Congratulations." There was more color on the walls than in his voice. "You are the man." He started to head to the door, but paused. "We should head up. Lead the way, Rome."
Roman glanced at Seth.
Seth just shrugged: if there was going to be a pissing contest over this, he sure as hell wasn't about to get involved.
("We're a cohesive unit.")
Tense:
"I'm the baddest man on the planet," Dean said, ego and anger wrapping like razorwire around the words. "I got the only title the Shield has left."
Roman glared at him. You're a bug, that glare said. I'm gonna squash you.
Seth glared at them both.
They didn't notice.
They never did.
("We're as strong as we've ever been.")
One step. Another:
Roman stepped forward.
Dean stepped back with Seth.
Roman and Dean put up a front of civility.
They smiled knives at each other and spoke sweet words that were sharp as the edges of broken bottles.
And Seth stood in the middle, watching it all.
A kid watching his parents heading for a nasty divorce, one cutting remark at a time.
("We are the most efficient, effective, dangerous unit in this industry.")
Two hours.
Three.
Three hours of freedom.
Three hours when he doesn't have to stand there and watch the cracks spider-web across the foundation.
xXx
Seth's shaking by the time he's done, subtle vibrations he can feel along his spine as he walks out of the Cross-Fit box and heads across the parking lot. Cool air kisses his sweating, overheated skin. He doesn't hurry.
The SUV is just up ahead: sullen black, and slouched alone along the curb like some unwanted dog.
Roman's in the driver's seat. He's got his phone out and is doing something on it.
Dean's in the passenger seat. He's just staring out the window.
Seth opens the door and climbs into the kind of silence that roars.
He slides to the middle seat and says, "How we doing, guys?"
My friends.
My brothers.
Roman puts his phone away and says, "Great, man. How was the workout?"
The endorphin rush and all that comfortable, rhythmic amnesia have already worn away. Reality, with all its burning and aching and fatigue, seeps in all the way down to his marrow. He sinks back into the seat with it and says, "Brutal."
"Gonna burn yourself out if you keep working out like that," Roman says. "Three hours?"
Dean flicks a narrow glance and a cutting little smile Roman's way. "What, are you gonna tell him how long he can work out now, too, fearless leader?"
"I'm just worried," Roman says solidly. "About my friend. My teammate."
"What, and I'm not?" Dean looks around. Says, with something that actually sounds halfway like concern, "You all right, man?"
Like always, Seth wants to yell, wants to rage at them, wants to tear them both apart to try to put them back together. They trained together, they traveled the world together, they fought together.
But as equals.
Now they're not equals, and that's something Seth isn't sure he knows how to fix.
It's hard to keep a foundation from cracking apart on unlevel ground.
So, like always, he just smiles.
"Yeah," he says, "I'm good."
Dean gives Roman a jerky 'there, see' shrug, and goes back to staring out his window. Roman's hands are strangling the steering wheel.
And Seth, he's already thinking about adding a couple more plates to the weight bar next time.
End