Takes place just before the 2016 Royal Rumble. Cross-posted to AO3.
He stands out on the balcony, his hands loosely gripping the rail as he stares out at the blinking lights of a city he doesn't know.
Goosebumps rise along his skin as the wind blows over him, ruffling through his hair and crawling over his body.
He should be in bed; it's late, close to three AM by his guess. He should be lying next to Roman, listening to him snore into his pillow and feeling the weight of a familiar arm thrown across his chest.
He should be trying to sleep, curling his body around Roman's like Roman is his anchor, the only thing keeping him grounded. He should be feeling the kiss pressed against his temple when Roman wakes and realizes he's there, pulling him closer, like Roman actually needs him.
But instead, he's out here, barely dressed, his forearms rubbed raw from constant scratching, the way he does when he's thinking.
He thinks too much, for someone who cares very little.
Never in the ring, no. When he's in the ring, everything is pure instinct and adrenaline, a fire in his lungs and in his body consuming him, propelling him. It's how he's survived this far, how the Intercontinental Championship is securely tucked away in his bag. Squeezing his eyes shut, he can see it, even; the sparkling gold of the plates, the pristine white surface of the belt.
He hardly touches it when he's not on camera, not working; even though it's his, he feels like his fingers will sully the surface, like the gold and white combination is too pure for someone like him. He usually just keeps it in his bag, although sometimes, he lets Roman carry it, too, the WWE World Heavyweight Championship over one shoulder and the Intercontinental Championship over the other, and it looks right. And Roman would smile at him, ask him what he was looking at, and he'd respond with a gruff "Nothin'," because he can't tell Roman he's the most beautiful champion he's ever seen.
He thinks Roman deserves all the titles in the world.
Hell, he'd give the Intercontinental Championship to Roman, just like that, without a match, if he hadn't fought tooth and nail for the damn thing. He'd craved championship gold so badly; Roman got a taste of the WWE World Heavyweight Championship, and Dean longed for something to show for his work. It had been so long since he'd had the United States Championship, so long since he had earned the WWE World Heavyweight Championship himself, though he never actually won it.
So he fought, fought like the match was the most difficult battle in a never-ending war, and when it was all said and done and the Intercontinental Championship was in his hands, and no one was telling him that it wasn't his, no one was telling him he won by disqualification so the title wasn't his, he felt almost whole.
And then the next night, Roman won his WWE World Heavyweight Championship back, and Roman came to him in the hotel room with the title in his hands and dried tears on his cheeks. He had grinned at Roman, said "Congrats, champ," and Roman set his championship next to the Intercontinental Championship, and they marveled at how right it looked for the two championships to be together, lying on the desk in their hotel room.
And they let their exhausted happiness seep from their bones and into the sheets of the bed, Roman lying underneath him with hands tight on his hips, hard enough to leave bruises, fucking into him agonizingly slowly and staring up at him with a reverence that didn't feel appropriate for someone like him, but he just stared back, like they belonged together.
And when Roman came, moaning his name and making it sound like the most sinfully delicious word one could ever speak, he took in every part of Roman's beautifully flushed face, the sweat that glistened on his skin and the way he was still looking at him with such awe, and he wrapped a hand around himself and made himself come, his impurities spilling out across Roman's chest as he let Roman's name slide off his tongue.
He smiles bitterly as he thinks about it; it reminds him of days that feel like forever ago, when the United States Championship was wedged between the two Tag Team Championship belts, when they would get a room with two beds and still try to cram all three of them into one bed.
It reminds him of winning the United States Championship, of being taken to the hotel room afterwards and being touched with what he thought was love, being taken apart and put back together over and over again under Seth and Roman's hands, as they told him how proud they were of him, and Seth had whispered that he loved him, Roman echoing the sentiment softly, and he swore that was just sweat in his eyes.
He had thought of that night when that steel had collided with Roman's back, when Seth had destroyed the two of them in the most visceral way he knew, when Seth whispered to him that he'd never really loved him. He had laid in the hotel room bed that night, his body aching and shaking as he sobbed silently, being wrapped in Roman's arms doing nothing to soothe him as he wondered why he had ever let himself love someone.
He wonders how Seth is doing, if it bothers him that Roman has the biggest championship in the WWE now, Roman the only one in the company who truly deserves it. He wants to tell Seth he'd never really loved him either, but that would be a lie, and nowadays his throat closes up on lies, because he can't be like Seth.
He wants to tell Roman he still loves him, wants to tell him he'll never do what Seth did, but maybe Roman doesn't love him at all, and maybe Roman will leave him, betray him, just like Seth.
He opens his eyes and stares out at the city, his fingers gripping the rail tight enough that his knuckles are turning white, and he jumps when he feels a presence behind him. Roman's behind him, his hands on his waist, pressing soft kisses into his shoulder.
"Come to bed," Roman murmurs, and he lets Roman take his hand, guide him away from the city lights and back into their temporary home.