Allowing himself to lay completely on the floor, Roman stays quiet, his heart feeling like it’s about to lurch forward in his chest and up his throat, though he ignores the reasons why that are flittering through his mind like a movie. He feels tired to the bone and soaked from sweat, and as his eyes slip close, he inhales deeply, letting himself hold onto his breath for as long as he can before releasing it, arching an eyebrow at the younger man’s words and snorting.
He doesn’t say anything though, remembers how, once upon a time, Rollins used to have as much confidence as he could, how it made Roman sick to his stomach to see because the person he knew was no longer there. Seeing the man not as confident as he had been, once upon a time, took some getting used to for Roman, and he wasn’t sure where he could really go from there.
But of course, Rollins wouldn’t ever know that. Nope, the man wouldn’t be aware of his thoughts for as long as Reigns’ lived, because Reigns always believed he would never allow the younger man to see how much everything had truly affected him. Ambrose - Ambrose wore his heart on his sleeve, which is why it was so easy for the man to go after Rollins once upon a time and forgive him just as easy. But Roman himself? Definitely not.
“Y’probably would have won if you had gone it alone, really,” he admits softly, frowning as he remembers the way he had interacted with the other man, how he had told Jordan that he essentially didn’t belong. He blames himself, wonders if maybe he had just humored Jason, the other man wouldn’t have tried to interact with Cesaro and Sheamus.
“I really don’ think we’re in the mood for jokes anyways,” he snorts, rubbing his face tiredly before looking at the younger man carefully. “Y’know you don’t have to be alone anymore, right?”
They were rough. The pad of one finger passing slow circles over the outside of his opposite palm —— doing his own dirty work, now, the calluses were heavy and distracting to the touch. A steadfast reminder that things were different, now, for a reason. Not that that changed anything. Still clawing his way back into a position of acceptance. Repenting. Just as much of an act as everyone thought it was, though, perhaps, the angle wasn’t what they expected. Snakes don’t change. If they strike once they’ll strike again. Given the right motivation, Seth wasn’t entirely confident he’d not go for an opportunity if it presented itself. Likely why eye-contact was vehemently avoided whenever Roman voluntarily gave it.
He voluntarily gave too much. Not just Seth’s opinion.
“Maybe,” labored loose as he stood, the consideration was punctuated with grunt enough to broker a theory that he didn’t wholly believe that. Shirt twisted high and shirked, peeled free and tossed into a waiting bag that didn’t reciprocate his disappointment the way he had wanted it to. “The kid’s lucky he’s injured already.” No one was lucky to be injured, a notion Seth understood intimately in spite of preaching otherwise. “I’d break his neck myself if he wasn’t.” He meant that, even if there was uncertainty as to how much.
Relearning to be grateful wasn’t as seamless as it ought’ve been, evidence in Seth’s forward slumping shoulders when Roman continued. Thankful didn’t cover his relief in having his back to the guy, face pulling a temporarily disgruntled expression before smoothing out into where it’d meant to go. Mirroring the cadence of his voice, the choice was made to focus on his own hands and what they were doing, shuffling items from one side of his bag to the other, rather than pay mind to the eyes felt prowling over him. Up the curve of his spine... across the span of his shoulders. The nape of his neck. The back of his skull. Roman was good at that.
“Yeeeaaah,” dragging on, the word lacked confidence and belief. “Old habits I guess.”
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