Chapter Text
Sergio taps his fingers against the steering wheel, watching the rain streak down the windshield of his Porsche. The parking lot of Valdebebas is mostly empty now, the floodlights casting long shadows across the wet asphalt. Training ended hours ago, but he's been sitting here like a fucking idiot, staring at his phone and waiting.
Waiting for what, exactly?
He knows what he's waiting for. He's just not sure he wants to admit it.
The screen lights up with another notification. Another like on the photo he'd posted three hours ago. The one where Luka is laughing at something, his head tilted back, that ridiculous gap-toothed smile on full display, and Sergio's arm is draped over his shoulder like it belongs there.
Like they're together.
He scrolls through the comments. Most of them are fans losing their minds. Are they dating? Is this a thing? Ramos and Modrić would be so hot together. But he's not looking for those.
He's looking for one specific username.
FernandoTorres9.
Nothing.
Sergio tosses the phone onto the passenger seat and rubs a hand over his face. This is pathetic. He's a 26-year-old man, and he's sitting in a parking lot like a teenager waiting for his crush to text him back.
Except Fernando isn't his crush. Fernando is his ex. His complicated ex. His I-thought-we-were-going-to-be-together-forever-until-you-fucking-left-me-for-Liverpool ex.
The phone buzzes again. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself.
It's just Karim asking if he's coming to the team dinner tomorrow.
Sergio types back a quick sí and tosses the phone again. He's being ridiculous. The plan was solid. It was supposed to work.
He'd noticed Luka about three weeks ago. The new signing from Tottenham, small and quiet, with those big brown eyes that looked at everything with a mixture of wonder and wariness. The Croatian kid who barely spoke Spanish and kept to himself, who looked lost in the locker room full of larger-than-life personalities.
Sergio had seen an opportunity.
It hadn't been hard to approach him. Luka was desperate for connection, for someone to make him feel welcome. A few kind words, a pat on the back, a "you're doing great, mate" and Luka was looking at him like he'd hung the moon.
Sergio hadn't felt bad about it. Not at first.
He'd started inviting Luka to dinner, to coffee, to everything. The team noticed. The media noticed. Photos of them together started popping up everywhere. Sergio made sure of that—always positioning himself close, always touching, always smiling.
Sergio Ramos, with his arm around the new kid, looking for all the world like a man in love.
And Fernando had to be seeing it. He had to be.
The phone buzzes.
Sergio grabs it so fast he nearly drops it.
FernandoTorres9: I see you've moved on quickly.
His heart stutters. He stares at the message, reading it three times, and then a slow smile spreads across his face.
Fuck yes.
He types back with shaking fingers, trying to sound casual, trying to sound like he hasn't been waiting for this exact moment for weeks.
SergioRamos: What are you talking about?
FernandoTorres9: Don't play dumb. You've been posting pictures with him nonstop.
Sergio can practically hear Fernando's voice in his head. That clipped, annoyed tone that always came out when he was jealous.
SergioRamos: You mean Luka? He's just a teammate.
FernandoTorres9: Luka? Hmmmm
Sergio's thumb hovers over the keyboard. This is it. This is the moment he's been working toward. He should say something cutting, something that will make Fernando hurt the way he hurt Sergio when he left.
Instead, he types: Why do you care?
The response comes quick.
FernandoTorres9: I don't. Just making an observation.
Sergio snorts. Bullshit.
He's about to type back when another message comes through.
FernandoTorres9: But if you're free this Friday, I'm in Madrid. We could meet. That place we used to go to.
Sergio's breath catches.
The place we used to go to.
The little Italian restaurant tucked away in the backstreets, the one with the red checkered tablecloths and the candlelight. The one where they'd had their first date.
The one where Fernando had broken up with him.
SergioRamos: Okay. Friday. 8pm.
He hits send and drops the phone into his lap.
His chest feels tight.
The next morning, Sergio walks into the locker room with a bounce in his step. He's still riding the high of Fernando's text. Still turning over the details in his mind. Friday. 8pm. The Italian place.
It's happening. Fernando wants him back. Everything is going according to plan.
"Good morning, Sergio!"
He looks up to see Luka approaching him, that bright smile already in place. The kid is practically glowing this morning, his cheeks pink from the cold Madrid morning, his hair slightly mussed from his walk in.
"Hey, Luka." Sergio gives him a quick pat on the shoulder. "Ready for training?"
"Always." Luka bounces on his heels slightly. "I was thinking, maybe after training, we could—"
"Oh, sorry, I've got plans."
The words slip out before Sergio can think about them. He sees the flicker of disappointment cross Luka's face before the smile is back in place.
"No problem, no problem." Luka waves a hand like it doesn't matter. "Maybe tomorrow then?"
"Yeah, sure, tomorrow."
Sergio turns away to start getting changed, and it's only then that he realizes the weight of what he's done.
Tomorrow doesn't work either.
Friday definitely doesn't work.
Actually, now that Fernando's back in the picture, probably no days work.
He's going to have to cancel on Luka. And soon.
"I can't believe you actually got him to text you."
Sergio grins at Karim over the table at the team dinner. The restaurant is loud and crowded, full of teammates and journalists and fans trying to get a glimpse of the players, but Sergio's barely paying attention to any of it. His mind is still on Fernando.
"I told you it would work," Sergio says, taking a sip of his wine. "Post enough pictures with someone else, and Fernando's possessive nature would do the rest."
"Yeah, but the Croat?" Karim shakes his head. "You're using him, man."
"Using is a strong word."
"Snrt. What would you call it then?"
Sergio opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Because Karim's right. That's exactly what he's doing. He's using Luka as a prop. An accessory. A tool to make his ex jealous.
And Luka has no idea.
"He's just... he's there," Sergio says finally, the words feeling hollow in his mouth. "I'm not hurting him. He's getting free meals and someone to talk to. It's fine."
"Does he know that? Because I saw him looking at you earlier like you’re holding his entire universe in his hands."
Sergio glances across the restaurant. Luka is sitting with some of the other players, his head tilted as he listens to something Iker is saying. But every few seconds, his eyes flick toward Sergio. And when they do, that same hopeful, adoring smile crosses his face.
Sergio feels a strange twinge in his chest.
"Tomorrow," he mutters. "I'll talk to him tomorrow."
–
He doesn't talk to him tomorrow.
He doesn't talk to him the next day either.
Or the day after that.
Thursday night, three days before the dinner with Luka, two days before the dinner with Fernando, Sergio sits in his apartment and stares at his phone. He's got Luka's number pulled up, his thumb hovering over the call button.
Just call him. Tell him you can't make it. Family emergency, whatever. It'll be fine.
But the words won't come.
He's been thinking about it all week. Thinking about how Luka's face is going to fall when he hears the news. Thinking about how the kid came to Madrid knowing no one, with nothing but his talent and his determination, and Sergio had been the first one to make him feel welcome. The first one to make him feel like he belonged.
And now he's going to take that away.
Fuck.
Sergio tosses the phone onto the coffee table and leans back on the couch. This was supposed to be simple. Make Fernando jealous, get Fernando back, move on with his life.
He didn't factor in that Luka might actually be a person. With feelings.
"I'm not going to feel guilty," he tells the empty room. "I'm not."
The guilt settles in his stomach anyway.
"Sergio, you look terrible."
Sergio glares at Cristiano from across the training pitch. "Thanks, mate. Really appreciate that."
"I'm serious. Did you sleep at all last night?"
No. He did not sleep at all last night. Because he spent the entire night scrolling through his phone, looking at photos of Luka with the team, looking at photos of himself with Luka, trying to figure out how he's going to break the news.
He's been putting it off for days now. Making excuses. Avoiding Luka's questions about their plans. The whole situation is a mess, and he's the one who made it.
"Look, I just need to tell him," Sergio mutters. "I need to cancel, and he'll understand, and then—"
"Then what?"
Sergio doesn't answer. Because he doesn't know.
That afternoon, Sergio finds himself outside Luka's apartment.
He's been here a few times—dropping off food, picking Luka up for dinner, pretending to be the perfect, attentive partner. The building is modest, like everything about Luka. No flash. No pretense. Just a small, clean apartment that smells faintly of the Croatian tea Luka always offers him.
Sergio raises his hand to knock.
He stops.
Come on, Sergio. Just get it over with. Tell him you can't make it. Tell him anything. Just don't—His hand freezes mid-knock.
Because the door swings open.
And a man walks out.
A tall man. Dark-haired, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that could cut glass and a nose that looks like it's been broken more than once. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and his eyes—big, blue, piercing—are staring directly at Sergio.
Sergio blinks.
The man blinks back.
"What the—" Sergio starts, but he doesn't have the words. Because what the fuck is this? Who is this guy? Why is he coming out of Luka's apartment? Why is he looking at Sergio like Sergio is the one who's out of place?
"Tko je na vratima?" A voice from inside the apartment. Luka is speaking Croatian from the back.
The man looks over his shoulder and answers in the same language. His voice is deep and calm, with a slight rasp that makes Sergio's hackles rise for reasons he doesn't want to examine.
Luka appears in the doorway.
He's wearing a loose grey sweater that hangs off one shoulder, and his hair is slightly wet, like he just got out of the shower. His eyes widen when he sees Sergio.
"Sergio? You're here..." He glances between Sergio and the mysterious man, confusion written all over his face. "What's happened?"
Sergio's brain short-circuits.
He's still staring at the mystery man, taking in every detail. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. He looks like he just stepped out of a catalogue for sexy Croatian lumberjacks, and he's standing in front of Luka's apartment like he belongs there.
Like he and Luka are... whatever.
"Sergio?" Luka's voice breaks through his thoughts.
Sergio coughs, tearing his gaze away from the man's stupidly perfect face. "Ahh... actually," he starts, his mouth dry. He has a plan. He had a plan. But now there's a stranger standing here, and Sergio feels like he's been punched in the gut.
He forces himself to speak. "I was going to tell you on the phone, but I didn't want to be rude. So I'm sorry, but I have to cancel our Friday plans. Family emergency."
The lie tastes bitter on his tongue.
I am such an asshole.
But Luka doesn't look upset. His face softens, and he nods like he completely understands. "Ahhh... no worries."
Then he turns to the mystery man and says something in rapid Croatian. Excited Croatian. Like he's happy the guy is here. Like he's happy to introduce them.
"Sergio, this is my friend, Vedro." Luka gestures to the man. "You might know him, he's Vedran Ćorluka. He just arrived here to visit me."
Sergio's mind is blank.
Vedran Ćorluka.
He's heard the name. Of course he has. Centre-back. Former Tottenham. The guy Luka used to play with before he came to Madrid. The guy who—Sergio's brain catches up—has been all over Luka's social media for years. Arm-in-arm. Laughing. Touching.
The way Luka never lets anyone else touch him.
Oh.
The man—Vedran, apparently—extends his hand. "Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you." His accent is thick but his English is perfect, and his voice is deep, that same calm, measured tone from before.
Sergio stares at his hand.
He should shake it. That's what normal people do. But his hand won't move, and his brain won't work, and all he can think about is Vedran coming out of Luka's apartment looking like that, with his wet hair and his comfortable clothes and his I-just-arrived-to-visit-my-friend explanation.
Sergio finally takes his hand. The grip is firm, dry, and he realizes in that moment that this guy—this tall, dark-haired, ridiculously good-looking Croatian—is exactly the kind of threat he should've seen coming.
"It's okay, Sergio." Luka's voice is light, almost amused. "Family is more important. I can show Ćarli around Madrid while he's here."
Ćarli.
Sergio's jaw tightens at the nickname. The intimate, easy way Luka says it. Like he's been saying it for years. Because he has been saying it for years.
Sergio forces a smile. "Great. That's great." He's already backing away, trying to escape this nightmare. "I'll see you at training."
He's halfway down the hallway when he hears Luka laugh at something Vedran says. He glances back. They're talking in Croatian again, close together, their heads tilted toward each other like they share a secret language.
Because they do.
Sergio doesn't sleep that night.
He spends hours scrolling through his phone, looking up Vedran Ćorluka. Dinamo Zagreb. Tottenham. The Croatian national team. Photos and videos and interviews.
Every single one of them features Luka.
Snuggling after matches. Posing together in their national team kit. Luka's arm around Vedran's waist. Vedran's hand on Luka's shoulder. In every photo, they're touching. In every photo, they're close. In every photo, they're smiling at each other like no one else exists.
What the fuck?
He scrolls further. Interviews where Luka calls Vedran "my best friend." Videos of Vedran rescuing Luka from reporters. Old photos from their Dinamo days, when they were barely out of their teens, looking young and happy and together.
Are they together? Were they together? Are they together now?
Sergio throws his phone across the room.
This wasn't part of the plan.
The plan was simple. Make Fernando jealous. Get Fernando back. Move on with his life. Luka was just a means to an end, a prop, a tool. He wasn't supposed to be a person with a past and a best friend.
But the way Luka looked at me, Sergio rationalized.
The thought hits him like a truck. Luka looked at him that way. With hope and adoration and want. And Sergio used that. He used Luka's loneliness and his need for connection, and now—
Now some other guy is standing in his apartment, calling him pet names in Croatian.
Sergio doesn't get up to retrieve his phone.
He stares at the ceiling instead. The cracks in the plaster that he's been meaning to fix for months. The water stain in the corner that he keeps telling himself isn't mold. The ugly light fixture that came with the apartment and he's never bothered to change.
His phone is on the floor, face-down, and he can't bring himself to pick it up.
Because if he picks it up, he'll look at those photos again. Vedran and Luka. Luka and Vedran. The way Luka's hand rests on Vedran's chest in one of them, casual and familiar, like he's done it a thousand times. Because he has done it a thousand times.
Sergio closes his eyes.
He's being ridiculous. This is fine. Luka having a friend is fine. Luka having a close friend is fine. Luka having a friend who looks at him like he's his morning light and calls him pet names in a language Sergio doesn't understand is—
It's fine.
Sergio opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling again.
He's delusional. He knows this about himself. His mother told him once that he was born with too much confidence and not enough sense. He'd laughed at the time. Now he's not laughing.
Because the thing is—
The thing is, Luka looks at everyone like that.
Sergio sits up slowly, the realization creeping through him like cold water. Luka looks at everyone with those big, impossibly soft eyes. The way he looks at Sergio is the same way he looks at Iker, or Karim, or the ball boy who fetches his water bottle. It's just Luka. It's just how he is.
Isn't it?
Sergio drags a hand over his face. He's been so sure. So certain that Luka wanted him. The way Luka's face lit up when he saw him. The way Luka always leaned into his touch. The way Luka made him feel like he was the center of the universe.
But maybe that's just Luka. Maybe Luka makes everyone feel like that.
The thought should be a relief. It should mean Sergio isn't leading Luka on as badly as he thought. It should mean Luka's heart isn't going to be broken when Sergio inevitably fucks off back to Fernando or whoever.
Instead, it makes Sergio feel like he's been punched in the gut.
Why does that bother me?
He's still staring at the ceiling when his phone buzzes again. He ignores it. He's not ready to see Luka's name. Not ready to see photos of Vedran's stupid handsome face. Not ready to admit that maybe—just maybe—he's been the one caught in this game all along.
The next morning, Sergio shows up to training looking like he hasn't slept in a week.
Because he hasn't. Not really. He spent the entire night going through Luka's Instagram. Every post. Every photo. Every comment.
Luka with the Tottenham lads. Luka with the Croatian national team. Luka with Vedran, always with Vedran, their arms around each other, their faces pressed together, their smiles wide and genuine in a way that makes Sergio's chest ache.
And the comments. All the comments.
Are they a couple?
No, they're just best friends.
Croatian bromance!
Look at how Vedran looks at Luka. Goals.
And yet—
Luka's hand on Vedran's thigh in one photo. Vedran's hand on Luka's neck in another. The way they looked at each other in the team photos, like they were sharing a secret that no one else would ever understand.
They're just friends.
He looks at everyone like that.
You're imagining things.
Sergio drops onto the bench in the locker room, his head in his hands. He's still in his street clothes. He hasn't even started changing. He can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything except replay last night's spiral in his head.
"Sergio? You okay?"
He looks up. Luka is standing in front of him, his head tilted, those big brown eyes filled with concern. The same concern he probably shows everyone. The same concern he showed Vedran.
It doesn't mean anything.
"I'm fine." Sergio's voice comes out rougher than he intended. "Just tired."
Luka nods. "I get it. I couldn't sleep either. Too much on my mind."
Too much on his mind. About what? About Vedran? About the fact that Vedran is here, visiting him, staying in his apartment?
Sergio forces himself to breathe. "You okay?"
"Better now." Luka's smile is soft. The kind of smile that makes Sergio's stomach flip. "Having Ćarli is here for a week. I've missed him so much."
Of course you have.
"That's good." Sergio's voice is flat. He can't help it. "I'm glad."
Luka studies him for a moment, those eyes too perceptive, too knowing. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I said I'm fine."
The words come out sharper than he meant. Luka's face flickers—surprise, hurt, then carefully blank. He nods. "Okay. I'll see you out there."
He walks away.
Sergio watches him go. Watches the way his shoulders are just slightly hunched now. Watches the way he doesn't look back.
You fucking idiot.
He's spent weeks telling himself this was all part of the plan. That Luka was just a tool. A prop. A means to an end.
But now he's sitting in a locker room, his world spinning off its axis, because Luka isn't the one who's caught.
I am.
The crisis hits him like a wave.
He's in the middle of training, running drills, and suddenly everything clicks into place.
Luka's big brown eyes don't mean anything. They're just Luka's eyes. Luka's smile doesn't mean anything. It's just Luka being Luka. The way Luka looks at him doesn't mean anything.
It's just how he looks at everyone.
So if Luka doesn't actually want him—
Then what the fuck has he been doing for the last three weeks?
Sergio's legs nearly give out. He stumbles, catches himself, tries to focus on the drill. But his mind is somewhere else entirely.
All those dinners. All those coffees. All those photos he'd staged to make Fernando jealous. All the time he spent with Luka, pretending to be interested, pretending to care.
What if Luka never even noticed?
Sergio's stomach turns.
He's been so sure. So certain that Luka was falling for him. He'd seen the signs—or he'd thought he'd seen them. The way Luka leaned into him. The way Luka laughed at his jokes. The way Luka's face softened whenever he walked into the room.
But what if that was just Luka being friendly? What if Luka—who was new, who was lonely, who was desperate for someone to make him feel welcome—was just responding to Sergio's attention the way anyone would?
What if I made the whole thing up in my head?
Sergio's chest feels tight.
He thinks about all the times he touched Luka. The casual hand on the shoulder. The arm around his waist. The way he'd leaned in close, breathing in Luka's scent, telling himself it was for the plan.
What if Luka hated it? What if Luka was just too polite to say anything?
No. The thought is visceral, immediate, wrong. Luka hadn't hated it. Luka had leaned into it. Luka had sought him out. Luka had texted him at all hours, asking how his day was, telling him about his day, sharing small details about his life that no one else knew.
But maybe that's just Luka. Maybe Luka is just an open person. Maybe Luka shares himself freely with everyone.
Maybe I'm not special at all.
The thought makes him want to throw up.
He spends the rest of training in a daze.
He fucks up drills he's done a thousand times. Misses passes. Runs the wrong direction. All the other players are looking at him like he's lost his mind, and maybe he has.
Because the truth is—
The truth is, Luka's life didn't start in Madrid.
Sergio had been so wrapped up in his own plan, his own scheme, that he'd forgotten Luka was a whole person before he showed up at Valdebebas. Luka had a past. Had a life. Had friends who knew him better than Sergio ever could.
Vedran.
Sergio grits his teeth at the name.
Tall, handsome, apparently perfect Vedran. Who knows Luka's language. Knows Luka's history. Knows Luka in ways Sergio never will.
Who Luka called on. Who Luka was happy to see. Who Luka looked at like he was the most important person in the world.
The way Luka used to look at me.
Sergio's jaw clenches.
Fuck.
He's in the shower now, alone, the hot water pounding against his shoulders. Everyone else has left. He'd told them to go ahead, that he'd catch up. He needed to think.
Which is ironic, because thinking is the last thing he wants to do.
Because every thought leads back to the same place.
Luka doesn't want me.
I just imagined the whole thing.
He slams his palm against the tile. The sound echoes in the empty shower room.
He's been such a fucking idiot.
He's watching interviews. Old ones. Croatian ones. No subtitles, just pure Croatian blabbering that he doesn't understand a word of.
But he watches anyway. Because Luka is in them. Luka is laughing, talking, gesturing with his hands in that way he does, and Vedran is always nearby. Always touching. Always looking.
Sergio watches interview after interview. Luka and Vedran. Vedran and Luka. Their shared history stretching back years, decades, a lifetime that Sergio will never be part of.
The way Luka smiles at Vedran in one of them—wide and open and real, not the polite smile he gives the press, not the guarded smile he gives strangers.
He's never smiled at me like that.
Sergio scrolls to another video. This one is newer. A Croatian interview posted a few months ago. Luka is talking—animated, excited—and Vedran is laughing at something. They're sitting close, so close, their shoulders pressed together.
Vedran says something and Luka throws his head back and laughs. The sound is bright, pure, happy. Vedran reaches over and touches Luka's neck, casual and familiar, and Luka doesn't flinch away.
He leans into it.
Sergio watches the video loop. Watches Luka laugh. Watches Vedran touch him. Watches the way they move together like they've been doing it forever.
They have been doing it forever.
Sergio closes the laptop.
His hands are shaking.
I've been such a fucking idiot.