I'm back with a new Ambrollins story! The title and plot were inspired by the song from London Grammar. It's a beautiful song and I highly recommend you check it out. Depending on how well this goes over, I may very well add a chapter or two to this. I don't know just yet, but that is my intention for this story. Please let me know what you think of this with a review! It'd help me out big time :)

Life couldn't be sweeter for Seth Rollins. He was a few short nights removed from the biggest night of his life where he'd won the one piece of gold he'd dedicated his whole life to, the WWE World Heavyweight Championship. It was more than just a title to Seth. It was validation. It was a symbol that all of his hard work, sacrifices, nights slept in cars, injuries and setbacks paid off. His neck surgery had meant something. It meant that he'd proven to the entire world what he'd known along, what he'd known for years. He was the best thing this company had to offer. He'd outworked everyone, everyone, to get to where he is. He had to bleed his way into honing his craft and outshine them all. He'd trained relentlessly to be a smooth sailing machine inside that ring. He made and broke alliances to get ahead. He manipulated people like a puppeteer to get his way. He was cold and calculated and heartless but it worked. His ambitions had become a reality. Through it all, he'd left it all on the line. He deserved his. He deserved this, and no one could've told him otherwise. His job was his life, in every possible way.

His choices came with solitude. He had no friends backstage. He was looked at with repulsion from fans and coworkers alike. He'd lost their respect for who he was as a person. The few people who tried getting closer to him wanted to reap benefits from the Authority. The calls and texts he received were strictly business. He had no love life. His hotel rooms were just a little bit colder. No one ever warmed his beds. No one had in almost a year. The only affection he'd known had come from his family and dog. He was alone. But that was alright. He worked better alone anyway. He had no problem being by himself. He'd know no distraction that way. No impulsions would overcome him and derail him from his aspirations. His sole focus would be on his career, on the legacy he was leaving behind. He was the man now. He held the most prestigious championship in all of wrestling. He had a target on his back. His peers hustled to face him. The spotlight was on him. All eyes were on him. It was all about him. He was the one. And it felt good, so damn good.

He wasn't a robot, though. He wasn't senseless, contrary to popular belief. He was a man, a man with needs. He too needed to feel. His emotions weren't frozen in cold hard stone, never to be tapped into again. They couldn't be. He was human. His form of reprieve was found in somber, low-key bars. He was a mere shadow there, blending in the masses, completely incognito in the night. His physique and good looks were more than enough to attract beautiful, lonely girls to him, like moths to a flame. He would smell the desperation on their skin as he traced it with his mouth. Their loud screams in the dark sent him deeper into a world far from reality. As he pounded hard in them, eyes tightly shut, he would think of a time where he'd known the warmth that'd become so very foreign to him. He would think of a time he would be deep inside tightness that constricted his chest and lungs to the brim. He would think of a time where the press of lips against his skin made him burn in flames. He would lose himself in a time where the sheer gaze into blazing blue eyes stole his breath more than the movement of their bodies against each other. He wouldn't see the girl beneath him. He would see him instead.

If they'd gone back to his place, they would leave before dawn was upon them, no matter how late it was. Seth would make sure of that. No one would share his bed. No one would spend the night with him. It wasn't about them. It was impersonal from the start, and it would be impersonal when it was all said and done. He considered his time with those girls as an arrangement that benefited them both, each in their own individual way. Business as usual.

As rewarding as it was, being the company's top champion was far from easy. WrestleMania week was a marathon in and of itself. But after his victory on Sunday night, his schedule had become even more hectic, which Seth didn't think was possible. In between wrestling several matches, countless media appearances, successive flights and fleeing from Brock Lesnar, he was worn out. Exhaustion had seeped into his every bone. He was overjoyed to finally be able to get some rest soon. The Smackdown tapings had officially come and gone, which meant the talent were flying out home the next day. He was in dire need to get some calm and serenity after the whirlwind his life had become. His muscles were aching as he dragged his bags through the lobby and up to his room. The grey hallways had long become deserted. Seth was the last to leave the arena, as had been the case for months. He slid his keycard and entered his room, neatly setting his luggage in the corner of the bedroom, right by the closet. He had already showered back at the arena. All he needed was slip out of his clothes and call it a night. He was too spent to appreciate the suite that Triple H and Stephanie had booked for him, despite the fact it was more luxurious than anything he'd ever experienced in his life. The windows gave way to a breathtaking view of the city. The hot tub placed in the middle of his bathroom was awfully alluring, yet all Seth wanted to do was hop in bed and turn on the plasma screen. He took off his clothes and folded them, placing them on a nearby chair. He flung on a pair of sweatpants and made a beeline for the plush master size bed.

He sighed as he plumped down onto the mattress. It dipped effortlessly under him, his body melting into it. It was truly more comfortable than his own. After responding to texts and doing the roundup of his Twitter feed, he locked his phone and set it on the bedside table. He turned off the lamp hovering over his bed, submerging his room in darkness, save for the light coming from the television screen. Try as he may, Seth couldn't bring himself to fall asleep. He was more than accustomed to it. Sleep rarely came to him. His brain was constantly working, constantly keeping him up. He would never stop thinking about the future, his next move, his legacy, and the overwhelming amount of responsibilities that had been piling up on him. He spent his nights plotting and strategizing. He didn't know how to knock that habit off, even for his own good. It was in his nature, etched in his blood. It was what worked for him.

Hours bled into each other. Seth was tired but was wide awake. He'd given up trying to drowse away. Laying down was futile. He sat against the headboard, leaning his back against it, his head resting in a nest of pillows behind him. He tried his best to get into the movie playing, but for the life of him couldn't. Suddenly, he heard his phone vibrate. He ignored it at first, thinking it was simply a couple of notifications he'd received. The beeping continued though. Someone was calling. Seth quirked an eyebrow in confusion. Who'd want to call him at three in the morning?

He reached for his phone and nearly dropped it when he saw the number calling. He furiously blinked to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. He'd deleted the number from his contacts book, but seemingly not from his memory. He probably never could.

It was Dean Ambrose.

Dean Ambrose was calling him for the first time in nearly a year. It came completely out of left field that Seth thought it must've been a mistake on Ambrose's part when the call went unanswered. But when the phone went off again, Seth was proved wrong. He clutched his phone with both hands in front of him, nervously fiddling with it in his lap.

In truth, Seth had an overflow of reasons not to pick up. He didn't owe Dean Ambrose anything, much less answer his call. Unless he was in a hospital somewhere, dying, and he was still an emergency number of his', that lunatic had no reason to call him at all. He left his past just there, in the past. He didn't dwell on it and didn't acknowledge it. And Ambrose was part of that past. He didn't want, in the least bit, risk partaking in Dean Ambrose's late night mind games. Lord knew he didn't have the mind or energy to. Not to mention it was three fucking o'clock in the morning.

But Seth wasn't one to lie to himself. He couldn't deny that his stomach had flipped at the sight of those familiar digits, that his heart beat just a little bit faster, that a pang of curiosity tingled all the way through his fingertips. Worst case scenario, if it was the mental anguish he'd expected of Ambrose, he'd hang up at the drop of a dime. By the time his phone rang for a third time, his decision was made. He hesitantly pressed the answer button, putting on his best sleepy voice. He'd keep it as short and to the point as he possibly could.

"Hello?"

"Don't pretend like you were asleep."

Seth was placated on the spot. Ambrose's tone was so damn confident, like he knew there was no way he could be wrong. He should've known he couldn't fool Dean of all people. He'd practically lived with him day in and day out for the better part of two years. Seth could pretend to not know who this was, be outraged that someone was badgering the champion at this time of night, patronizing him that way. But he knew it was too insulting, to both of their intelligences.

"What do you want, Ambrose?" Seth kept his voice cold and hostile, already annoyed by him. This was all he would give Ambrose. Cold and hostile.

"Why are you calling me Ambrose? The cameras aren't rolling, Seth."

It seemed as though Seth's initial instinct was ringing true. Ambrose just wanted to mess with his head. He wasn't about to have it.

"I don't have time for your shit."

"Do you have something better to do right now? Other than overworking the fuck out of your brain and staring at the wallpaper, of course."

He had Seth pegged once more. Seth had to put a stop to that right now. It was pissing him off.

"It's a more rational way to spend the time, that's for sure." Seth retorted, rubbing his left eye with the back of his wrist.

"I don't do rational."

"Oh, trust me, I'm very aware."

A few moments went by in silence, and Seth wondered if Ambrose had dozed off on him.

"Why don't you wanna talk to me? I wanna talk to you." Ambrose suddenly asked.

Seth was slightly taken aback by his statement. Something in Ambrose's voice wasn't quite right. It had shifted. It wasn't the same as it'd always been. There wasn't the antagonizing whine he used to mock Seth. This wasn't the brash, unshakeable Dean Ambrose who taunted him at every corner and every turn, the one who got off on tormenting him with bravado and pride. No, he sounded different. He sounded almost defeated, broken down. Something about that wasn't quite believable to Seth. Something was off, because he never expected Dean Ambrose to show him that side of his' ever again, not since he put him down with a chair last June.

"Are you drunk, Ambrose? Or did Harper powerbomb you through that table a little too hard?" He'd seen him put through a table by Luke Harper earlier in the night. He had closely watched the scene unfold on the monitor of his locker room. Seth called it scouting the competition. That bump looked rough as hell, especially considering that Ambrose had gone crashing through a table off the top of a ladder just a few days prior. Served him right for being a loose cannon with total disregard for his body, he had thought.

"I haven't had a single drink tonight." Ambrose answered with a neutral, assured voice. Seth could tell he was trying to prove a point. He wasn't lying. Seth really didn't know what to say.

"So why did you call me? You could've called Reigns."

"I know for a fact that he's asleep right now and you're not."

"And you had no one better to call? You hate the fuck out of my guts, remember?"

Ambrose chuckled, a dim, bitter chuckle. "You know damn well that isn't true. You know it can't ever be true."

Seth was at a loss for words. He didn't know if he was being pranked, if he should just hang up right there and then. But he knew all too well that he was intrigued, too intrigued to walk away from the call now. Silence elapsed once more. It unnerved Seth.

"Roman isn't you. No one's you. You know that."

Seth let out an audible sigh. He was between a rock and a hard place. He knew that if he continued this conversation he'd be swallowed down a whirlpool. He'd swirl down like an anchor in deep sea, with no one to pull him out but himself. That was how the tale had gone every time he and Dean Ambrose were together, just the two of them alone. He was painfully aware of that fact, and yet Seth feared he had already started his descent down that whirlpool, just from answering Ambrose's phone call.

"He's not you. I wanted to talk to you." Seth's blood was pumping heavier in his veins, the thump echoing in his ear.

"You got on just fine without talking to me for a year, didn't you?"

He could hear a sad laugh escape Ambrose's mouth. "Not as well as you think I did."

Seth shut his eyes tightly, swallowing in a deep breath. He was helpless.

"Why did you call me, Dean?" Seth asked with a softer tone, as though he had exhaled any harshness engraved in his voice with that deep breath.

"I'm tired, Seth."

"I don't see how that's how my problem anymore." Because it wasn't his concern anymore. It wasn't. It couldn't be. He was his own biggest preoccupation, his only preoccupation. Not Dean Ambrose. That was the way it'd always been, and that's the way it would always be.

"I'm tired, Seth. So tired." Dean repeated, ignoring Seth's statement. Somehow, Seth knew, with conviction, that Dean's words held a heavier meaning. They weren't shallow. They implied something else, something deeper. But Seth didn't want to prod. He wouldn't give into the itch to prod.

"I can't help you out."

"I need you, Seth." He could hear heavy breathing on the other line, while his own breathing wasn't even. His breath wasn't supposed to hitch at anything Dean said, not now, not ever. Dean needed him when he was tired. Not Roman, not anyone else. Him and him alone. It shouldn't matter to him. It really fucking shouldn't. "Times like these I need you, Seth. I've always needed you in times like these..." Seth raised his left knuckles to his mouth, unable to form a sound. "I miss you. Fuck, I miss you so much..."

Seth's heart was hammering through his chest. "Dean...I-"

"Just come to my room, alright? Come to my room. Room 308. I need to see you."

"Dean, I can't..."

"Just come, okay? Please come. I'll be waiting. I'll be waiting for you, Seth."

The line went off. Dean had immediately hung up. He clearly didn't want to hear what else Seth had to say. He wasn't giving him a choice in the matter. Seth was left staring at the phone he had lowered from his ear. He put it down on the mattress next to him. He stirred from his position, throwing his feet onto the floor. He sat on the side of the bed, head cradled in his hands as he rested his elbows on his thighs. He was torn to shreds. He had never expected his night to evolve the way it had. Never had he anticipated Dean Ambrose, his now sworn enemy, calling him, begging him to come see him, telling him he needed him, telling him he missed him. The shock of it all hit him like a sword, going through him and splitting him in two. His head was reeling.

It was clear in Seth's head what the obvious choice was, the right choice. He unquestionably needed to reject Ambrose's invitation, send him packing and tell him to never look his way again. He wasn't his keeper. He wasn't a fucking babysitter. He was the WWE World Heavyweight Champion, and Ambrose was nothing more than a long gone shadow in his rearview mirror.

But a force, much stronger than his common sense, was pushing him the opposite direction. It was telling him that deep inside, rejecting Dean wasn't what he wanted, that he wanted to find out what was wrong, that he should go see him, had to go see him just because it was Dean. It was Dean.

As though floating on air, his limbs moved on their own, moving to his bag and picking out the first random tee shirt he could find. With each step closer to Dean's room, Seth was excruciatingly conscious of the fact that he would come to regret this decision the next day, if not the next hour. He had lost his mind. He knew he had. Yet each step taken across the hallway and down the stairs was beyond his control. Beyond his explanation. Every fibre of his being was at war with the other. Alarm bells were resonating through his head. But all he could do was move forward and closer to Dean's room. It was infuriating. It was so wrong. He couldn't help it.

Standing in front of the 308 plate felt surreal. Seth couldn't believe he was doing this. He stood there for a good minute, looking at the carpet beneath his feet, calming himself before the storm. Stepping through the threshold meant he would slide down that dreaded whirlpool. He'd be beyond saving. His sanity had always been no match for Dean Ambrose.

The three tentative knocks on Dean's door mirrored the beats of his heart, slowly but surely pounding in his chest. His gaze was focalized on the floor, his forehead skimming the wooden door. A short few moments later, he heard the click of the lock and before he knew it, he was looking up into reddened eyes, the normally vibrant blue irises sunken in, the bags underneath them visible. Despite that, Seth saw the faintest of twinkles in them as they locked gazes.

"You're here."

"I'm here."

Dean must've not been sure that Seth would show up, the expression on his face vaguely surprised. Dean further opened the door, just enough to invite Seth in. He walked back to his bedroom and Seth followed behind. It was much smaller than his'. He couldn't see much in it. It was completely muted by blackness, the only light coming from the bathroom. Seth watched in silence as Dean slid down the wall adjacent to it. He rested his head against it with a loud thud, one that didn't seem to perturb Dean in the least. With a forearm pressed over his forehead, covering his eyes, he patted the spot next to him with his left hand, beckoning Seth to join him on the floor.

"You know you have chairs and sofas for this, right? That's what the whole sitting concept is about."

Dean slightly moved his forearm, cracking an eye open, his chest puffing up. "What, are your sweatpants too royal to sit on the fucking carpet?" He protested, releasing an exasperated sigh. "Just come sit next to me, Seth."

Apprehensively, Seth made his way next to Dean, gingerly sitting on the floor cross-legged, doubts creeping up the whole time. He intertwined his fingers, watching as they fidgeted uncomfortably together. He turned his head towards Dean, studying him for a quiet moment. His head was still against the white wall, eyes closed, chin tilted up, his hands now placed at his sides, his legs extended in front of him. His forehead was wrinkled effortlessly, as if he'd been born with them. The contours of his face were protruding, more visible than usual. His shoulders were limply dangling down. His whole body was giving out just how worn out he felt, an illustration of unadulterated fatigue to the point of almost freaking Seth out. Almost.

"Did you let the trainers check up on you? See if you had a concussion or something?"

Dean opened his eyes, narrowed enough to focus on Seth. "Yeah. Yeah, they did their tests. Said that I escaped a concussion through the skin of my teeth and that I should lay low for a while." Dean responded, his eyelids collapsing once more.

"You should get a second opinion... Y'know, just to make sure."

"Nah. Don't need a second opinion. I'll be just fine."

"It's for your own good."

"Said I don't need it."

Debating with Dean Ambrose was useless. It more than likely never led to anything. It was frustrating. "You're still too stubborn for your own good..." Seth mumbled, almost to himself. But Dean heard him and opened his eyes, wider than before, staring intensely at Seth. The most faded of amused smirks appeared on Dean's face. "But you don't care about that."

Dean's response flustered Seth. "I don't. I don't care. I mean, it-it doesn't affect me, so..." Seth was trying his very hardest to stay poised. "I don't care."

Dean simply stared at him, searching his face for something, unsettling Seth in his own skin. "Yeah, I know." Dean held his gaze for a few seconds longer before returning to his former position, his eyes facing the ceiling.

Seth didn't know how long they stayed like that, wordless, each of them in their own bubble, Seth motionlessly looking at the carpet ahead of him. His nerves were twitching, and through stolen glances, he could tell Dean didn't reflect his anxiousness.

"My head hurts so fuckin' bad," Dean expressed out of the blue.

"If you just listened..." Seth got no answer to that. Instead, Dean just brought his head down to Seth's level, fixating his brown eyes on his'. They were coated with haziness yet perfectly anchored on Seth in their own mysterious way.

"You look good, Seth. You look really fucking good."

It was too much. It was suffocating, and he knew a big part of it had to do with the words going through his ears, capturing his breath on the way out. He couldn't do this anymore.

"Why did you want me to come over, Dean?"

Not a single nerve in Dean's face so much as twitched. He was static. The only thing remotely swivelling was the heat pooling in his eyes. "I'm tired, Seth." Dean was reiterating what he'd said over the phone. It strung Seth's uneasiness to no end. He couldn't stand to look at Dean anymore.

"But what does it have to do with me?"

"Because I'm tired, Seth." Seth was about to blow a gasket. But his anger immediately simmered down when Dean spoke again, listening closely. "All I do is fight. I fight and I fall flat on my ass. I fight and I never win, I never fucking win. I put my fucking life on the line and I get fuck all. I fight for the Intercontinental Championship and I get thrown off a fucking ladder and crash through tables. I fight for the honor of my family or whatever's fucking left of it and get electrocuted. I fight for you and..." Seth couldn't not look at Dean anymore. He was strained, his voice a murmur yet full of resentment. "I fight for you and what do I get. I get my head put through fucking cinderblocks. I get fucked over every chance you got. I fought for you and I lost, even though you were the most important thing in my life. You-you meant everything and I lost. I lose all the time and I'm sick of it..." Suddenly, Dean was scooting closer and Seth forgot how to breathe, feeling his own eyes soften. Looking at Dean was too much, his head helplessly dipping down. A gentle finger traveled up the side of his jaw, smoothing over his beard, leaving trails of fire behind it. It angled his face towards Dean's, pulling his eyes towards his' like a magnet. He was lost in them. "I'm tired of losing, Seth, so tired..."

Dean was inching nearer to him, slowly, gradually. Seth couldn't bring himself to pull away, couldn't bring himself to even move his hands, too hypnotized by the man in front of him, too entranced by the words that had left his mouth, directed to him. Dean was so close. His hand was cupping his cheek, his face softly tipped to the side. Their noses touched. With one final look in each other's eyes, Seth's eyes fluttered shut, sensation smoldering him. Dean's lips closed in on his', the sweetest, softest press of lips he'd ever felt and Seth whimpered. The touch of their lips was so overwhelming, washing over him in waves. Their mouths simply touched as they breathed together. The warmth was so familiar, so tempting, so damn welcoming. It felt like home. It was so easy to give in. To lose himself in the incredible, mesmerizing, spellbinding feeling that was Dean and his eyes and his lips and his body and his everything. It was so easy to go back there again, to live it again. Too easy.

But as Dean pursed his lips to kiss Seth, Seth lowered his head. He couldn't. He couldn't commit to the dive, couldn't take the full plunge. He didn't have it in him. Dean was frozen in place, his lips coldly laying against Seth's temple. Seth shuddered, scurrying away from Dean. He chanced a look at Dean's eyes. They'd turned ice cold, distant, unreadable, so different from what they'd been mere moments ago.

"You should get some rest, Dean." His voice was a quivering whisper. Dean's eyes faltered, plummeting down. He quietly nodded, a lifeless movement. Seth was pretty sure he was a second away from faltering too. They couldn't be in the same room when it happened. They just couldn't.

Seth straightened up, lifting himself up from the ground. The sight of Dean like this, drowning in a sea of despair and defeat, felt like knives thrown through him. He couldn't stand it, couldn't deal with it. He didn't have the guts to. And he knew it. He had to go. He couldn't witness this anymore.

"Take care of yourself, Dean."

Seth turned his back to Dean, hurrying out of the room, without a last glance over his shoulder. He forcefully grabbed the door knob, holding onto it like it were his lifeline, the only thing that could physically ground him. He pushed down on it, jostling past the threshold before noiselessly closing the door behind him. Instantly, he hunched over. He was worse for wear. It was as though he got punched in the stomach, gasping for air, his chest violently heaving up and down. He hadn't felt this way in such a long time, hadn't allowed himself to be consumed by feelings and emotions since he'd turned his back on the man on the other side of the door. He too was tired. So tired. His legs buckled as he slid down the wall, sitting there until he lost track of time.

He was tired too.