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Pat has one hand clutching a bottle of champagne and another fisted in Hoff’s collar as he empties the bottle down his friend’s throat when the tap on his shoulder comes. At first, he ignores it. Whichever one of his teammates wants a photo or chat with the captain can wait until he finishes his supremely important task, but the tap comes again, this time coupled with an imperious clearing of the throat.
Pat groans inwardly. Some of his teammates can put on airs but none of them could sound so self-important if they tried, so he already knows he’s going to find a Cricket Australia official when he turns around.
It’s an alpha, male, and he somehow looks both vaguely disgusted and supremely bored by the revels in front of him. Pat wants to put both his hands on his shoulders and shake him, say we just won a World Cup! but he manfully refrains.
Instead, trying hard to sound as captainly as one can while wearing most of a champagne bottle, he says, “Yes?”
“You'd previously relieved BCCI of the duty of dropping their omega off. Will you be picking him up or should we send someone over?”
For a second with Pat’s world tilting under the weight of alcohol and the sheer delirium of being a World Cup winning captain, he’s not sure what the CA official means. Then as reality crashes in, he abruptly lets Hoff go and has to catch him by the shoulder to stop him from toppling over.
“I’ll go,” he says, grimacing down at his ruined clothes. “Can you call a car while I do a quick change?”
The alpha eyes him like it’ll make no real improvement but nods his acquiescence.
*
Pat and Virat had talked about it idly, in the early days of the bets and their marriage. If it came down to a game between India and Australia, Pat should request him. Pat had agreed because it made sense. Like as not, he and Virat would end up in the same bed anyway if they were playing together and it’d spare any other omega the stress.
In nearly a decade though, Virat hadn’t had cause to come to the Australian dressing room. India had won all their BGT fixtures and had lost all their major games to other countries in ICC tournaments where there was no question of Pat allowing Virat to be bet. It had still been hell on Virat and Pat had stayed up with him on those nights, in person or on the phone, feeling him lose his mind through the bond but holding on to the knowledge that Virat was at least safe and sound.
And then comes the Cricket World Cup ‘23, hosted by India herself. Pat’s not really thinking about who might lose, he’s too busy worrying about winning.
He’s riding home from the Semi Final, when his phone lights up with Virat’s name. He nearly drops it twice in his enthusiasm to pick up.
“Hey there, winner,” Virat says, voice warm with pride.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Pat says, unable to stop smiling even though he can barely hear his husband over the deafening chaos in the bus.
“Great work today. A 3-for! I think they robbed you of that POTM, honestly.”
Pat laughs. “No, it was well deserved. And I don’t mind who gets the accolade as long as I get to play you in Ahmedabad.”
Pat reaches up to touch his neck, where a bond mark would’ve been if he’d been an omega. Virat must be doing the same because Pat feels a wave of foreign apprehension through the bond.
He’s wavering over whether to offer encouragement or not (on one hand, this is his husband, on the other, this is also his competitor who beat him earlier this series, a sting that has not yet faded), but before he can decide, the nerves fade and Virat’s determination unfurls through him instead. He smiles, he can’t help it. This is the omega he fell in love with, bloody minded and stronger than any alpha Pat’s ever known.
“Listen,” Virat says. “Make sure you request me for the bet, alright?”
“Oh,” Pat says, having completely forgotten about the bet aspect. “Yeah, right, of course.”
“Right.” Virat says. “Alright, I gotta go, early start tomorrow. Have fun with the boys but don't stay up too late, alright? I want you in fighting spirits in Ahmedabad.”
“I will be,” Pat promises, smiling.
*
Virat’s right there on the field when Maxi hits the winning runs, of course, and once Pat’s teammates are done piling on him like puppies, he goes to Virat.
Even after all these years, it's a little strange to meet face to face after playing against each other, when one’s victory inevitably means the other’s loss. And this isn't just a test series but the World Cup. Pat feels his smile grow unwillingly at the thought but does his best to temper it. Virat, on the other hand, is surely forcing his. They are both relieved when they hug and get to hide their faces.
“Congratulations,” Virat says softly, his face tucked into Pat’s neck. “I am so proud of you.”
Pat touches his fingers to his omega’s bond mark, trying to share some of his impossible joy and take some of the weight off Virat’s shoulders. “Congratulations yourself, POTT. I'm proud of you, too.”
Virat's pulling away even before he's done speaking. “Thank you,” he says, with shiny eyes, leaning up for a quick kiss. “Go be with your team now.”
Pat pulls away slower but Virat nudges him to help him along. “Go,” he says, more insistently. “I need to be with my team.”
Pat lingers for another kiss but goes.
*
Pat does the necessary paperwork as soon as it comes in. It's routine by this point. He gives his assent for Virat to be bet, he designates his team’s omega: Marnus again, who’d insisted he didn't mind and that rather, he’d be glad for the chance to hangout with Shubman.
So imagine his surprise when he's pulled into Cricket Australia's rooms.
“Am I in trouble?” he jokes, pulling up a seat without waiting to be asked.
Chairman Mike Baird is the only one there, toying with a glass paperweight. He looks amused: he's always liked his players to show a little entitlement.
“No, lad,” he says, laughing. “On the contrary, you're doing real well, which is the problem, you see. My secretary tells me you've requested your bonded omega be sent if we take the Cup.”
Pat tenses. Baird’s not too bad, generally, one of those alphas stuck in transition. He'll back their omega players just as he will their alphas but he's also not quiet about his enthusiasm for the bets. “Yes, is there a problem?”
Baird leans in, “Now, you be honest with me, son. Is this coming from him? Did he beg you to spare the other omegas on the team? Oh, I bet he was real convincing about it, all pretty on his knees but this is just between us, son, say the word and I'll gladly play the villain and tell the BCCI that CA demands more for its players than a bonded omega.”
The suggestion had come from Virat with the intention of sparing the other omegas on the team, this much was true. But Pat was no longer in the business of making Virat beg for something he would gladly grant. And why wouldn’t Pat want it, too? Time with each other was rare enough that Board ordained time spent together was something like a blessing. Right now though, he wants nothing more than to snatch the paperweight out of Baird’s hands and smash it into his skull. Instead, he makes himself smirk.
“No,” he says. “He doesn’t get that kind of say, I wanted to request him.”
Baird’s face twists. “You've gotten soft, Cummins. This is no biannual test series, this is the fucking World Cup. You could have your pick of omegas and you want the one you already have.”
There is no one Pat wants other than Virat. His quickfire husband, his unfunny jokes, his protectiveness, his talent and his blooming, wondrous love. But saying that to Baird would not go down well. He makes himself choose his words carefully.
“Mike, you have a bonded omega, right?” Baird nods. He has several, if Pat remembers correctly. “Then you know no other omega measures up. And honestly, who wants to go through all the trouble of coaxing him to put out after a loss? I figure a little reminder of his place and some StimMax will do him a world of good. And I know this means the others will go without, but I’m the fucking captain, aren’t I? It ought to be my choice.”
Finally, finally, Baird’s smiling. This is the sort of reasoning he understands, not protectiveness or love or even basic human decency, but greed and selfishness. Pat feels his usual pang of horror at the idea that this was the sort of alpha he could’ve turned out to be, had he not had Virat and Starcy and a hundred other good influences.
Baird rises and claps Pat on the shoulder. “Seems like I misjudged you, son. Win the Cup and we’ll give you your omega, trussed up and ready for you.”
Panic sparking, Pat says, “Oh no, tell BCCI to leave him in his rooms. I’ll collect him myself.”
Whatever this means to Baird, it makes him smirk. “Alright, son. But try and leave him in playing condition, eh? Winning’s never as fun without a pretty face on the losing side.”
Nauseated, Pat takes this as his cue to leave.
Later, Virat asks him if the application went through. Pat buys himself some time by kissing his forehead. With his cheek against Virat’s temple so he can’t catch Pat’s expression, he says, “Yes, of course it did.”
*
Pat has to stop by the BCCI rooms before he can actually take Virat home. Outside their door, he closes his eyes for a second. It feels like all the joy of winning has leeched out of him, replaced by something dark and bitter. He'll need to console Virat, make his excuses to his teammates, and on his first night as a World Cup winning captain, go to bed early. He's not complaining, mind. Right now, all he wants to do is discharge his obligations and go the fuck to bed with his husband curled around him.
The BCCI rooms are quiet, disappointment palpable in the air. Pat feels a pulse of vindication that he hopes is not too discernible to Virat through the bond. He’s led to a room with officials he does not recognize and Jay Shah, whom he does. Shah is one of the rare alphas vile enough to leer after a bonded omega and while he’s never done anything but stare and touch Virat in ways that are mostly innocuous, Pat still feels the urge to pull off and punch him every time he sees him. Regrettably, Shah is Virat’s boss, so he makes himself nod cordially instead.
“Cummins!” Shah is smiling grandly. “Here to pick up Virat?”
“Yes,” Pat says shortly. “I’ll return him in the morning.”
“Oh, no need.” Shah shakes his head, the gleam of envy clearly visible in his eyes. “He’s your omega, keep him as long as you like.”
I need to be with my team, Virat had said. Feeling like he might do something truly unwise if he stays in the rooms a moment longer, Pat nods and turns to go.
“Wait, hold on,” Shah calls. He nods at an omega in the room who crosses the room to hand Pat a package. “Don’t forget your StimMax.”
He’s smiling, practically salivating at the thought of Virat, drugged and pliant, delivered to the door of adrenaline filled alphas. Pat’s instinct is to recoil and thrust the StimMax away from him but he remembers himself just in time. “Yeah, thanks,” he says, stashing it in his coat pocket, resolving to throw it away in the first public trash can he finds.
*
Pat hates the bets. Hates how they sour every win and twist the knife deeper with every loss. Although he'd heard rumours about them for years, the first time a CA official had come to take Starcy away, Pat had been surprised. It'd seemed too barbaric to be true, something too medieval to belong in their brave new world where omegas played for their countries and stood toe to toe with alphas. His hatred had only swelled with each bruise on Starcy when he returned, quiet and distant.
But Pat's hatred is nothing compared to what burns in Virat’s chest.
The night after the Champion’s Trophy 2017, when Hardik is sent off to team Pakistan, it's Pat who has to put a restraining arm around Virat as he tries to go after him and then hold him as he rages, then cries and then finally, passes out in the dawn hours.
Pat smoothes his hair back, tries to soothe him through their bond and keeps him safe in his embrace but it all comes to naught when Virat catches sight of Hardik’s bruised and broken body.
“I’ll kill them,” he swears to Hardik and despite his conciliatory grip on Virat’s shoulder, Pat can’t help but agree. The bets are despicable to begin with but to cause such physical harm to an omega is unforgivable.
Virat is subdued and quiet all day. Pat does his best but it’s hard enough to get him to eat, much less improve his mood. It isn’t until they’re packing for the flight home that he speaks.
“I thought I was making things better,” he says, voice hoarse, either from not speaking all day or from screaming yesterday. Pat waits him out.
“I knew I was good, better than good, better than every alpha on the field,” Virat says, eyes distant. “And I thought if I was the first, if I could just show them that omegas could hold their own, it’d open up doors, make lives better. Turns out, all I’ve done is find new ways for omegas to be hurt and exploited.”
Pat drops the socks he’s holding to crowd Virat in his arms. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart.”
“No,” he agrees but his smile is so bitter, Pat’s heart wrenches in his chest. “But there would be no Hardik or Siraj or Bhuvi, if it weren’t for me. You should let me be bet next time, it's only fair.”
The floor drops out from under Pat.
“Sweetheart,” he says. “We’ve had this conversation, haven’t we?”
It hadn’t been pretty the first time and Pat desperately doesn’t want a repeat.
Virat nods. “Yes, I remember what you said. About consent. But I’m bonded. They won’t want me that way.”
“They beat Hardik black and blue, baby,” Pat says. “And they’ll do worse to you.”
Pat has thanked his lucky stars every single day that he and Virat were bonded long before the bets transferred to playing omegas. He does not dare consider what an opposing team might do to Virat, mouthy and talented and aggressive, nothing at all like what omegas are supposed to be. Frankly, had he not been Virat’s bonded alpha, he’s not sure he wouldn’t have been tempted to shove him around a little.
“Better me than anyone else on the team,” Virat argues and Pat has to close his eyes to hold in what he wants to say, which is that Pat would burn them all to keep Virat warm. Virat can probably still read it off his face, because he sags in Pat’s hold, the fight having gone out of him suddenly.
“The worst part,” he says, in a barely audible whisper, “is that I’m glad they bonded us. That you’ll say no for me. I’m supposed to protect them, instead I just sit here and watch and I’m so relieved, I can barely stand myself.”
“You changed the world for them, Virat,” Pat says. “Now they’ve got their own battles to fight.”
Virat says nothing, and Pat can’t tell if it's disbelief or shame that has stolen his voice so he kisses Virat’s dear head, and says, “Come on, we’re going to miss our flight,” and they go back to packing.
*
Room? is all Pat texts Virat when he gets to the hotel but they've been doing this enough years that Virat sends him the details without further questions. He's standing outside the door when Pat gets there. There's no awkwardness this time, Pat feels no inclination to smile at all.
“Hey, congratulations again,” Virat says, reaching for a hug that he gladly returns. Virat smells like a familiar cocktail of scents, like he’s spent the evening cuddling his team. “Not sure the team would want to see you, thought I'd wait outside.”
The room behind him is completely quiet unlike his own, where his team is partying like there’s no tomorrow. Pat feels little triumph this time. He likes winning but he’s been on the other side of it enough times that he feels no joy in watching other people lose. Instead he says, voice soft as he can make it, “Probably for the best. You alright?”
It’s not really a fair question, given that he can clearly see Virat’s not. His face is drawn, lines that Pat normally never notices standing out starkly. He looks up and flashes the media ready smile he’d perfected in his worst years but he won’t meet Pat’s eyes.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Alright,” Pat says. “Should we go to my rooms?”
Surprise flashes across his face, then embarrassment. “I should stay,” he says. “Look after the team. Make sure no one puts a gun in their mouth.”
His voice is humorous but his smile is a little too forced to be wry. The unfairness of it all dries Pat’s throat. Could they get away with staying in this hotel? Probably not. It ought to make little difference but the Board wouldn't like it, too much of a reminder that this exchange was more comfortable than the rest.
“You can’t stay,” Pat says, finding mastery over his voice somehow. “The bet…”
Something goes out of Virat’s eyes at the mention of the bet and Pat reaches out meaning to touch his hand or grab his shoulder or do anything but Virat is already turning away. “Right,” he says finally. “Just let me say bye.”
He leaves the door open behind him when he enters the room, so Pat leans on the doorframe to watch.
The younger ones get head pats and hugs. The older ones get squeezes on the shoulder. KL, Virat’s first real adoptee and old enough to remember the rocky patches in Pat’s marriage to Virat, looks mistrustfully at Pat over Virat’s shoulder but lets him go easily enough. Siraj clings a little but Virat disengages himself kindly, ruffling his hair affectionately. Virat says something to Rohit which Pat can’t hear, but would bet his entire fortune is along the lines of ‘take care of them’ then he claps Rohit on the shoulder as well and turns to leave.
When he catches Pat’s eye in the doorway, he smiles a little, all instinct. It drops away soon enough but Pat is heartened by the reminder that Virat doesn’t hate him for this.
*
Outside his door, Pat takes a moment to well and thoroughly curse his past self. Gujarat being a dry state, they'd decided to stick to the hotel to celebrate but Pat should’ve remembered the bet, should’ve insisted they party in someone else's room.
Now with the music and hollering audible down the hallway, he turns to Virat with a wince. “Listen…”
“Of course, you let them have your room,” Virat says with a fond eye roll.
“I can kick them out,” he offers, with no little dread. For one, that’ll take hours, for another, they’ll lord it over him for the rest of his life.
“Go get Marnus’ keys,” Virat suggests instead. “He’ll end up bunking with Steve anyway.”
“Smart,” Pat praises, shouldering the door open. He doesn’t invite Virat in and Virat doesn’t offer to come.
Entering his room, Pat can’t help but smile. His team is jubilant and he can see it in the way the dancing and drinking have gotten sloppier. When they notice their captain, the noise goes from loud to cacophonous as they cheer and exalt him. “Where have you been?” Starcy demands, followed by Trav’s, “Wait, I thought you were here all along.”
Pat waves them away, knowing they’re in no state to remember, even if he does tell them. Marnus is holed up in a corner with Steve. Thankfully they’re just talking, although Pat’s eyes have been seared enough times that it would make little difference. Knowing that trying to have a conversation in this din is futile, he just grabs Marn by the elbow and drags him out.
Outside, Virat is on his phone, scrolling through it idly, shivering a little. Pat spares a second to hope that Virat isn’t looking himself up, drapes his jacket over Virat’s shoulders and turns to Marn.
“Give me your keys,” he demands. Marn, eyes darting between him and Virat, hands them over without question. The door opens behind them again and Steve staggers out, looking a little confused and very drunk.
“What are you doing, Cummo?” he complains. “Marn and I were talking!”
He brightens when he spots Virat. “Virat!” he exclaims, happily. “Excellent performance in the tournament, mate.”
He goes in for a hug as is customary between them but Virat flinches away.
For a second, they all freeze. Virat is, frankly, one of the touchiest omegas Pat knows. It’d driven him crazy in their early years, how Virat would jump into the arms of any nearby teammate, alpha or beta to celebrate a wicket or to console someone for a loss or simply because he felt like it.
So to have him back away from a hug is, to say the least, unexpected. Hurt floods Smudge’s face followed by guilt as he puts two and two together and backs away. “Wait,” Virat calls, holding out his arms, his voice touched with desperation but his smile much more convincing than the ones he’s been putting on for Pat all evening. “Come here, you surprised me, that’s all.”
Steve smiles tightly. “I should get back to the celebrations,” he says. “Have a good one.”
He disappears inside. Marn sighs heavily and gives Virat the hug he’s still awkwardly poised for. “Don’t mind him,” Marnus says. “He’s just–” Grappling with the relation that you can be the finest player in a tournament, with a trophy to prove it, but still be traded like cattle, Pat fills in. They’re all aware of the bets, they’ve been part of them one way or another. But it is a blow every time. Pat understands.
Virat laughs. “Yeah, me too.” He squeezes Marns’ shoulder. “Go,” he says, kindly. “Celebrate your win and tell Smudge not to worry so much.”
Marnus gives him another quick squeeze and goes.
Virat turns to Pat, all the lightness he’d summoned for Smith and Marnus gone, the same weariness on his face that Pat feels in his bones. At once, Pat feels privileged to see Virat’s naked face and the same irritation at the world that dogs his heels all the time.
In another world, he’d have gone by the Indian team’s hotel to give Virat a quick consolatory hug and then partied with his team until he blacked out. He would not have been forcing a quiet, subdued Virat into his bed, when he clearly wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
In Marnus’ room, Pat strips with quick efficient movements, ready to go to bed and have this day be over. “Do you want the sheets changed?” he asks. Marnus must've barely been in here, they don’t smell like anything but the citrusy detergent the hotel must use, but still.
When he turns around, all Virat has done is take off Pat’s jacket and folded it over one arm. He’s looking intently at something in his other hand. Pat withholds a sigh. Just once , he prays to whoever might be listening, I just want it to be easy one time.
“Whatever they’re saying on social media, Vi,” he starts to say, before realising that Virat isn’t looking at his phone but the StimMax Pat had thoughtlessly stashed in his jacket which he had then handed to Virat.
Ruthlessly, he wrestles the welling panic in his throat into submission. “I was never going to use that, sweetheart.”
“I know,” Virat says, smiling a little. “Give me some credit. Did CA give it to you?”
“Yes,” Pat lies, knowing even as he makes the effort that his face is too wide open and Virat can read the truth off it just fine.
“Ah,” he says. “The BCCI then. Bet Shah handed it to you personally.”
Seeing as this is not far from the truth, Pat says nothing.
Virat meets his eyes for the first time all evening and Pat loses his ability to lie even to himself. He has to admit that Virat is not coiled so tight because he’s devastated at losing the Cup or because he’s furious at being bet to Pat and hurt that Pat actually came to collect. He has to admit that the chill he's been feeling across the bond all evening is because Virat’s afraid .
“Come now,” Virat says, quirking a half smile at whatever look is on Pat’s face. “Don’t look like that. We both know you don't need to drug me.”
Pat doesn’t. But tonight, the BCCI and CA have made sure that Virat knows that if Pat did drug him they would not lift a finger to help. In fact, they would provide him with the tools.
It’s not that Virat’s unaware of this, of course. He’d been a young, World Cup winning omega when the BCCI had threatened to end his career if he did not marry an alpha of their choice but, of late, he’s not had many reminders. Maybe he thought his fame and talent and years of faithful service to the BCCI had exonerated him. Maybe he thought being married to Pat meant that he escaped being the BCCI’s pawn, at least, even if it meant belonging to Pat, not with.
In the early years of their marriage, when the cloying closeness that the bond demanded had largely worn off and Virat had gone from the sweetest thing Pat had ever laid eyes on to bitter and avoidant, Pat, who'd been barely more than a child, desperate for attention and validation, had been wounded deeply. Coupled with Virat's swift rise to stardom and his own stuttering career, it'd driven Pat to actions he was not proud of. Virat has long forgiven him but Pat regrets every thoughtless action, every cruel thought, every smug word he'd ever said. He remembers particularly the heats. To heat with your bonded omega was pleasure beyond compare but it'd disturbed him how Virat could barely stand the sight of him one day and want him so intensely the next, so he’d let Virat delay them until they came on with the intensity of a supernova.
With all his injuries, Pat had thought he understood what it was like for your own body to betray you. He’d counted himself better for the knowledge but never really applied it to Virat and his biology.
Abruptly, Pat wants to cry. This is ridiculously unfair because this isn’t remotely Pat’s tragedy. It’s Virat’s and Starcy’s and Maxi’s and billions of others’. Pat is simply the complicit bystander. It’s not that he doesn’t want to fix it, he works with NGOs to put omega children in school, makes donations to rehabilitate omegas in abusive marriages, and always, always takes the time to speak with budding omega cricketers and encourage them but it is simply not enough to wash the blood off his hands. Even with all his money and influence, he can’t even assure the safety of his own husband. In fact, he signed it away just a few days ago.
“I won’t ask for you ever again,” Pat says. He means for it to come out with conviction, but he is just so tired. “It should never be this way between us again, enforced by the Boards.”
It had begun that way for them, of course, but with care, they had managed to make something good out of it. There was no reason to reopen old wounds.
Virat is trying his best to frown but Pat can read the liquid relief in his face just fine. “And so it should be someone else?” he says, breathlessly. “Someone who doesn’t have a mate on the team, who’ll be forcefed StimMax and sent here, out of their mind with fear and want? An accident waiting to happen?”
Pat should feel stricken, instead, Virat's weak protest only fills him with more determination. He says, “Things are different now, no one’s getting hurt. So if that’s what it has to be, then yes. ”
Virat sits down on the bed, puts the StimMax down delicately beside him and then drops his head into his hands.
“You should go,” he says, face angled away so Pat can’t see the tears that are thickening his voice. “Celebrate with your team. It’s not every day you win a world cup, you know?”
Pat wishes he could say I want to stay. Please don’t make me go. I would never hurt you. But the truth is, he has hurt Virat and continues to hurt Virat simply by existing and having ownership over him. He cannot stop seeing Virat’s white knuckled grip on the StimMax. If Virat wants to be alone, Pat would be the worst kind of person to demand his company.
With a kiss to Virat’s head, Pat goes.