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Roman wants to do a lot of things to Seth.
Or, more to the point, since that night in June, he's wanted to make Seth do lots of things: Hurt (as much as Roman is). Bleed (the way Dean's been doing, an open wound Roman can't seem to help stanch). Explain (make things make sense the way only Seth ever could). Apologize (for the chair, for the look on Dean's face, for the empty space in their bed). Take it back (pathetic as it is, sick as it makes him, this is what he wants most from Seth).
There's a whole laundry-list of shit he'd make Seth do if he could. Right now, though, he'll settle for making him come in those stupid latex pants.
It's not the best idea he's ever had, letting himself be alone with Seth, be this close to him outside the ring. He already knows he's going to regret it later about a dozen times more than any satisfaction he'll get out of it in the moment.
But, the moment finds him in Seth's personal dressing-room, crowding him against the full-length mirror fixed to the back of the door, the glass fogged around Seth like a halo in every place his bare skin is pressed to its surface. One hand twists into Seth's hair, jerking his head to the side while the other pins his wrists to the glass above his head. He could free his hands with little more than a twist of his wrists, and they both know it, but he stays put, a smirk on his lips and a growing bulge making itself known against the thigh Roman has jammed high and hard between his legs.
“Miss me?” Seth says, and Roman thinks he means for it to come out as a taunt, the way all of his words to them have been since Plan B rolled out, but instead it's a little raw, a little breathless. Sounds like nothing so much as the pitiful truth that it is.
Roman catches his own reflection in the sliver of mirror between Seth's neck and his bent elbow. His eyes are dark and his face doesn't hide anything - not from himself and certainly not from Seth. He doesn't waste any words; Seth will see right through them anyway.
Instead, he gives Seth's hair a sharper tug, tipping his head further, exposing more of the long line of his throat, and lowers his mouth to the curve of soft skin and hard muscle where Seth's neck joins with his shoulder. Seth draws in a sharp breath at the touch of his lips, and it's familiar, just like the salt taste of his sweat and the spicy notes of his soap and the heat of his body through Roman's own gear everywhere they touch.
Only, lots of things are different now, too. One of them being that he doesn't have to give a damn about how Seth will explain the marks on his skin to production. The man himself has put an end to the days when he would have trailed gently down his body to suck his kisses onto the places that would be covered by his gear, spots that could be their secret. Now, he wants the whole world to see that Seth isn't untouched, that he can be blemished and branded and made vulnerable like the rest of them.
He nips a punishing bite of a kiss into the skin under his lips. It's not hard enough to draw blood, not nearly as savage as he's wanted to be – tearing and rending at Seth until his golden flesh is as shredded as Roman feels underneath his ribs– but it's enough to pull a sharp noise up out Seth's chest, his hips jerking sudden against Roman's own. Enough that he'll be walking around with a bruise for days, evidence that Roman once touched him, left his mark.
Seth does break his grip, wrenching one wrist free, but instead of shoving Roman away, he only winds that fist into Roman's hair, keeping him at anchor against his neck, even as he rolls his body away from the mirror and into Roman's touch.
Maybe he wants this to leave a trace, too. Roman doesn't know what to do with that idea, but Seth makes it easier to quit thinking about it – or much of anything else – when he shifts his hand loose from his hair to scrape blunt fingernails across the back of his neck.
Seth makes the shuddering, breathy sound that, from the first time they fooled around back in some FCW locker room, has always meant that Roman's on the right track. He lets Seth's other wrist drop and finds a sigh escaping his own throat without his permission as that hand skims down his side, fingers insinuating beneath the bottom edge of his vest, pressing urgently into his hip.
He doesn't know what he's doing here. Should be in the shower. Should be raiding catering with Dean. Should be doing literally anything that won't make Dean look at him, equal parts pitying and betrayed, when he fesses up in the car later.
He doesn't know what he's doing here, but when Seth pulls against the fist in his hair, his face tilting to ghost short, hot breaths over Roman's cheek, he realizes that he doesn't know how to do anything else.
Seth squirms, seeking more friction, grinding against him as best he can, the shiny, stretchy fabric of his pants making a ridiculous, unsexy squeak against the glass. It's the kind of thing that would once have cracked them both up, laughing soft kisses into each others' skin, but there's no lightness between them now; Seth has seen to that. So, Roman just moves him away from the mirror, willing himself not to look at their reflection, as he steers him by the hair and by a couple of fingers tucked into his belt, positioning him against one of the walls.
He reaches down to palm over the bulge of Seth's cock, taking grim satisfaction in the way Seth pushes up into his hand. Seth's hands resettle at Roman's own belt, fingers working at the buckle.
“No.” Roman pushes away, opening up space between them, leaving Seth to wilt against the wall, sweating and taut. Not that he isn't feeling it, too: blood buzzing in his veins, hard and a little shaky. But Seth doesn't get to take him apart like that anymore. Doesn't get any more than Roman is stupid enough to offer up to him, which doesn't include softness or secrets or the touch of hot skin or any of the other little intimacies they used to trade.
“Have it your way,” Seth says, dropping his hands with a shrug, like it's no skin off his nose if Roman wants to lie to himself about how much control he still has.
He wants to wipe the knowing smirk off of Seth's face. Wants to knock him as far off-balance as he's been rocked since the night after Payback. Just wants. He surges forward, the blade of one forearm resting against Seth's rubbed-raw throat while he reaches down to the place where his cock fills out and strains against the sleek gear that separates them.
Probably, it would be easier, and better, if he unfastened the pants, took Seth's length out and worked him with a fist. He doesn't because that's not what this is about. He's not sure exactly what it is about – embarrassing Seth? taking away his slick composure (even if only Roman gets to see him stripped of it)? making sure Seth will have to remember what he's left behind (at least until he peels out of his sticky clothes)? – but whatever fucking terrible idea he's playing out here, it's not about making Seth feel good for it's own sake.
Which doesn't mean that's not a side effect. Seth rocks steady against the heel of his hand, actually whining when Roman presses fingers hard against him. His throat works under Roman's arm in a hoarse refrain of, “c'mon, c'mon, c,mon,” that still has a more direct line to Roman's cock than he wants to acknowledge.
When Seth finally tips over the edge, it's with another unsteady buck of his hips, cock pulsing under Roman's hand and the unnatural material of the pants. He takes his hands away from him once it's finished, and Seth slouches against the wall, still breathing hard, eyes falling back to Roman's belt.
“So, am I reciprocating, or do I still have too much blood on my hands to be allowed to touch you?”
“I don't want anything else from you,” he grinds out, breaking for the door. Which doesn't say anything about what he might still need. Even Seth has the decency not to call him on the difference.