Chapter Text
“The hell kind of extended grooming ritual are you running in there, John?” Randy called from the bed, voice loud enough to carry through the door. He was leaning back against the headboard, one arm sprawled behind his head, the other drumming idly against his thigh. Cena had been holed up in there for a solid hour, the faint hum of running water and occasional clatter of toiletries drifting through the cracked door.
Why the man couldn’t just be normal and spend a reasonable amount of time in the bathroom was beyond him. No, John Cena had to be a walking self-help manual and just had to turn hygiene into a damn art form.
“Bwashrahth!” came the muffled reply, followed by an aggressive rinse-and-spit.
Randy smirked. “I’ll take that as a yes, you’re still brushing your teeth—going on hour two and still counting.”
A beat of silence followed, then the sound of drawers closing, the faint hum of a hairdryer, and Randy could swear he heard a whiff of cologne being spritzed. He rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his brain.
Randy sank deeper into the pillows, the soft creak of the mattress grounding him as his mind wandered. Falling into domesticity with Cena had been effortless and comfortable. Two words Randy wouldn’t have dared associate with himself a few months back. Hell, a few months ago, he was still chasing ghosts—Cody’s ghost to be specific, and drowning in the mess he’d made trying to hold onto something already gone. Pining for Cody hadn’t been his finest hour. His recklessness had sparked a shitshow of broken trust, bruised egos, and a heart that refused to let go even after Cody had moved on with Roman of all people. He’d accepted that he’d been outgrown, but the ache in his chest lingered, and Randy had resigned to a life of brooding solitude.
Until John Cena barreled into his life with that infuriating, contagious cheerfulness, somehow, John had seared the walls off any emotional barricade Randy had built and flipped Randy’s world upside down in the best way possible. Now, as a quiet contentment warmed his chest, Randy couldn’t help but feel grateful for the comfortable peace John brought.
The mattress dipped as Cena finally emerged, pulling Randy from his thoughts. John crawled up the mattress, damp hair tousled, face clean, smelling faintly of mint and cedar. He pressed a chaste kiss to Randy’s lips that left Randy chasing after it before Cena pulled back.
“That,” Cena said with a smirk, breath cool against Randy’s lips, “is why I was in the bathroom. Make-out hygiene.”
Randy huffed a laugh, trying to grab him again, but Cena slid down beside him instead, shoulder pressed to his, acting all innocent.
“Tease,” Randy muttered.
“Flatterer,” Cena’s grin widened, those damn dimples that Randy’s favorite thing in the world crinkling his face in that heart-stopping way.
He pulled out his phone, the screen’s soft glow casting shadows across his features as he began his nightly ritual of checking through notifications. If there were urgent ones, they were responded to at night before the lights went out. Something Randy utterly despised, seeing as that time could be spent on far better, far more entertaining things.
Peering over John’s shoulder at the offending phone, he didn’t hesitate to express his opinion on the ritual. “I will never understand why you and Cody are in so many groups,” he said flatly. “Although I’ll give Cody this much credit—at least he doesn’t open half of them. Unlike you.” He nudged Cena’s arm pointedly. “For example.”
John’s fingers flew across his phone screen, a blur of motion as he typed with relentless focus. Without pausing, he tilted the phone out of Randy’s prying view, then, with a playful smirk, propped it and his hands on Randy’s head, nudging him down until his face was practically buried in John’s lap.
Randy grunted softly, the warm cotton of John’s sweats brushing his cheek. He lifted his head, sending the phone tumbling from John’s grip to the far side of the bed, where it landed with a muffled thump against the comforter.
John sighed dramatically, leaning over to retrieve it. “Real mature,” he muttered, though the fondness bleeding through his tone completely undercut the reprimand.
“Come to bed,” Randy said, voice dipping into a low drawl that could’ve been mistaken for a plea if it wasn’t so lazy.
“I am in bed.”
“But you’re not focused on being in it,” Randy countered, tone sharpening with mock-seriousness. “Or on me. I assure you, Dimples, those people you’re texting don’t kiss half as good as I do.”
That earned him a snort, a small victory achieved. Cena’s lips twitched; the laughter caught halfway between resisting and surrendering. “You know what you need, Randal?” John asked, finally tearing his gaze from the screen. “A friend.”
“I have friends—” Randy started, already defensive.
“Cody doesn’t count.” John interrupted. “Cody’s everybody’s friend. I should know. We’re in what, two hundred and forty-seven mutual groups together?”
Randy folded his arms with a huff, muttering something petulant under his breath, the words lost in the rustle of sheets. John’s side-eye caught him, and he slung an arm around Randy’s shoulders, pulling him close until Randy’s head rested against his shoulder. The kiss John dropped on his temple was warm, distracting, and absolutely infuriating in how easily it disarmed him.
“Don’t grumble,” John murmured, soft laughter hidden beneath the words. “Some human contact would do wonders for you.”
Randy’s hackles rose, his brows knitting together. “Hey! I do human contact aplenty, thank you very much. How else am I supposed to get a good grip around their necks when I’m RKOing them into the mat?”
The sheer absurdity of the declaration yanked a delighted laugh from John, his head tipping back as the sound filled the room, bright and unrestrained. Randy’s deadpan expression only fueled it, and John’s laughter bubbled up again, his fingers swiping at a stray tear glistening at the corner of his eye.
“Oh my God, Orton,” John managed between chuckles, his dimples deepening.
Randy stared at him, unimpressed. “I don’t see what’s funny.”
“Exactly,” John said, cracking up again.
Randy rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest upward curl, reveling in the easy, domestic banter they’d somehow perfected.
John’s phone pinged again, and he lifted it. “Whoa,” he said, his laughter dying abruptly, replaced by wide-eyed surprise.
“What is it?” Randy asked, curiosity tugging at him despite his best efforts to seem aloof.
“Roman proposed,” John said, his voice soft with disbelief as he scrolled, eyes glued to the screen.
Randy snorted, already familiar with this story. He’d worn that same expression months ago when Cody had first told him the merry-go-round tale of their proposal swap. That moment had cemented it for Randy: Cody and Roman were two sides of the same damn coin, perfectly matched in their madness and somehow making codependent indecision look romantic. He wasn’t sure he could handle John pulling that kind of indecision. Hell, he barely survived John’s group chat obsession.
“Yeah, that was ages ago,” Randy drawled, leaning back against the headboard. “Cody said no, though.”
“What?” John Cena looked perturbed, “Why?”
Randy shrugged in Cody Rhodes-related resignation. “Apparently, Roman had also said no the first time Cody asked. Tit for tat.”
John’s face crumpled in confusion, one eyebrow arching higher than the other as he grappled with the sheer absurdity of the tale. The expression lingered so long Randy half-expected it to freeze that way, leaving his boyfriend with a permanent mask of bewilderment.
Then, slowly, Cena shook his head, his gaze flicking back to Randy, still tinged with contemplation. “Then why is there a screen grab of Cody’s ring floating around?” he said, precisely drawing out the words.
Randy’s smirk vanished. “What?”
“I mean, unless this isn’t Cody’s hand.” John peered at his phone, pinching the screen to zoom in on a gleaming silver ring glinting against a backdrop of familiar knuckles.
“Gimme that.” Randy snatched the phone from John’s grip, yanking it close enough to graze his nose. He could already hear the exasperated sigh brewing in John’s chest, the prelude to his usual rant about Randy’s stubborn refusal to get glasses. His eyesight was a sore spot, and Randy had no intention of indulging John’s nagging tonight.
“What the fuck?” Randy cut in, voice loud enough to derail the oncoming lecture.
“What?” John leaned in, craning to see the screen. When he couldn’t get a clear view, he shoved the phone from Randy’s face, his fingers brushing Randy’s cheek in the process. “Lemme see.”
“What the actual fuck?” Randy thrust the phone back at John, then flailed for his own, twisting against the sheets until he pried it free from where it was wedged between his hip and the mattress. The springs creaked under his shifting weight as he jabbed at the screen, pulling up Cody’s number. His jaw clenched tighter with each unanswered ring, the faint buzz of the call vibrating against his ear.
“Hello.” Finally came the groggy reply from the other end of the line. It was three in the morning, after all, not that Randy particularly gave a damn. Sleep schedules were for people who weren’t discovering breaking engagement news about their best friend through John Cena’s phone screen.
“Really, Randal? It’s three a.m.,” John scolded from beside him.
Randy gruffed, glaring at the phone and hoping Cody could feel it through the receiver. “Rhodes, if the rumor going around is true, and it turns out I found out about your engagement in a gossip rag—”
“It’s not a gossip rag—” John interjected in a defense that Randy painstainkingly ignored. His fingers twitched toward his phone as if to pull up the offending group chat to prove his point.
“—I swear to Christ, Cody, I will be very pissed.” Randy finished.
A rustle of fabric… sheets, Randy decided, because anything else was too much to consider, came through the line, followed by the faint creak of a mattress. Cody was sitting up now, his voice still confused and heavy with sleep. “Randy? John? Is that you? What time is it?”
“Hey, Cody, did we wake you?” John leaned closer to the phone, his voice warm.
“You’re engaged?” Randy cut in, still laser-focused on the only important detail.
“Well, yeah,” Cody mumbled.
“Yes, we woke you?” John asked at the same time Randy barked, “Yes, you’re engaged?”
There was a crackle of static and a long, stunned pause before Cody replied again. “…Yes?”
“Are you asking me or telling me, Rhodes?” Randy snapped impatiently.
“Don’t yell at him, Orton,” John said, giving Randy’s arm a light smack. “You, of all people, know how hard it is to form coherent thoughts thirty seconds after waking up.”
Randy huffed. He was so not a morning person, more like a hurl the alarm clock at whoever dares touch the curtains kind of guy. The only thing he ever wanted after sleep was more sleep, not a moral lecture from Captain Positivity.
“Yes, to both,” Cody’s voice came again through the speaker, groggy and defensive. “Can’t we discuss this tomorrow?” His tone climbed into that whiny register Randy always swore he’d knock out of him one day.
“Of course we can,” John said brightly. “Congratulations, Cody!”
“No,” Randy barked, first to the phone, then whipping his head to glare at John. “No.” He turned back to the phone, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Cody, you owe me an explanation for why I’m apparently the last to find out Tribal Hothead proposed. I thought we were friends.”
There was a beat of silence, then Cody’s guilty little, “Randy…”
Randy smirked in triumph, mentally chalking up a point on his scoreboard. Guilt-tripping Cody was a guaranteed way to keep him talking. John’s unimpressed side-eye, however, told Randy he’d been caught.
“…In my defense,” Cody continued, his voice clearing as he shook off sleep, “Sami walked in, like, two seconds after Roman proposed. Whatever’s going around is definitely because he and Jey found out first.”
“There’s a picture of the ring going around; your hand might just be more famous than you are right now,” Randy said, his voice a mix of disbelief and glee.
“Oh, come on.” Cody winced audibly. There was a pause, followed by a shuffle that sounded suspiciously like him fumbling for something, or possibly smacking Roman. A low murmur followed, too muffled for Randy to catch. Then came a bit more shuffling, like Cody’s phone was scraping against fabric.
“Orton.” Roman’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding, somehow wide awake, even though it was nearing four in the damn morning. Randy blinked, momentarily wondering if the man ever rested.
“Well, if it isn’t the culprit himself,” Randy shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Hauling proposals about without first passing through the proper channels. You’re really letting this power go to your head, Chief Hothead.”
“Hey, Roman.” John leaned closer to the phone with his usual casual warmth, starkly contrasting Randy’s needling.
“It’s 3:35 A.M.,” Roman said, tone bone-dry, ignoring John entirely.
“That’s what I said,” John murmured to Randy, looking satisfied at being proven right about something so trivial.
“Cody will speak to you tomorrow,” Roman said, each word carrying an infuriating authority that made Randy feel like he’d just been dismissed from class.
“I don’t want to talk to Cody, I want to talk to you,” Randy countered, unbothered. “I could have sworn I recently got a shovel with your name on it. It’s somewhere in the garage—I could dig it out if you like.”
Roman’s response was calm and final: “I’m ending the call now. Let my fiancé sleep.”
“Bye, Cody!” John called cheerfully into the speaker.
“Bye, John!” came Cody’s equally chipper response, before the line cut off.
The silence that followed felt oddly peaceful, until John turned to Randy, his grin growing wide and infuriatingly tender. “Awwwn, he called Cody his fiancé.”
“He is his fiancé,” Randy muttered, tossing his phone somewhere that would definitely frustrate him, come daybreak.
“That’s not the point—” John sat up slightly with a sigh, still smiling like a fool. “You just sit there in your Grinch chair or whatever the non-holiday equivalent is—and let the rest of us swoon over the sappy, romantic stuff.”
Randy snorted, reaching over to flick off the bedside lamp. The room plunged into soft darkness, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. He slid down the bed, tugging John with him, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend’s broad shoulders and pulling him close. The warmth of John’s body against his was grounding. “Sappy’s a damn accurate word for it,” Randy murmured as they settled, his voice softening.
John hummed against him, clearly too amused to argue. The room fell into a comfortable quiet, the soft rhythm of John’s breathing syncing with his own.
A few minutes passed before Randy’s low voice rumbled out of the dark. “What would you do if you proposed and I refused?”
John burst out laughing so loudly it startled Randy. He tipped his head up, amusement glinting sharply in his eyes that did not at all bode well for the hypothetical Randy in that scenario. “Randal, I would like you to associate saying no to a proposal from me with immediate death,” he said with enough edge that Randy knew there was at least some truth in it. “And that’s all I’ll be saying on the matter.”
Randy cracked a slow, amused smile, his fingers tracing lazy circles on John’s back. “Noted,” he murmured, eyes drooping as he burrowed deeper into John’s warmth, the steady beat of his boyfriend’s heart lulling him toward sleep.