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Summary
He knows other things too. Like where Dean will be. Still sweaty, hair a mess, driving Roman up the wall with his after-show jitters as he shimmies and twitches and throws punches at the air rather than getting into the shower like he ought to. Dean, with his obnoxious grin and offensive jokes and low gravelly come-fuck-me voice and the way he spreads his legs in catering when he thinks Seth is watching (which he isn't), his hand sliding towards his crotch, deliberately and provocative, showcasing everything Seth's not allowed to want.
And he doesn't want Dean Ambrose. That'd be pathetic and he's not. That's not what this is and not why he's heading straight for the out-of-the-way locker room where he knows they'll be.
They're sitting down, face to face on the low bench, Roman helping Dean remove the tape from his hands. It looks casual and intimate at the same time, sparking another wave of, of fury, and it's gratifying to see them jump when he slams the door open, sending it crashing into the wall.
Roman looks him up and down. "Is that glitter?"