Chapter Text
Real Madrid vs FC Barcelona, 3/2/2013
18:00
RMA 1–1 FCB
Sergio Ramos clicks his tongue over the sounds of screams and cheers across the stadium; starts to feel the familiar burning frustration building up within him as FC Barcelona’s Lionel Messi scored an equalizer. Of course it had to be him.
He remembers the moments before the goal.
Faster, faster!
Legs screamed in protest as Sergio ran with all his might in a desperate attempt to catch up; sheer relief rushing through him once he stopped in front of the man. Messi, having now slowed down, darted his eyes to find an opening.
This was easy, he could block this, could kick it away; the ball was right in front of him—
As if reading his thoughts (he likely was, Sergio swore—to the chagrin of his fellow teammates—that the 170 cm gremlin was some sort of alien trying to assimilate as a human through the power of football and annoyingly good kicks), Messi swiftly angled his shot slightly to the left and Sergio twisted behind, dread rushing through him, as the ball shot past him and, just barely, grazed the goalkeeper. It went inside the net.
They were tied now. Not even fifteen minutes had passed since Real Madrid’s first goal against Barça, and they were already tied; he had believed they would be able to at least keep their lead until halftime but that was apparently wishful thinking on his end.
Fuck.
Sergio presses both hands against his eyes, stopping as black and white spots started to appear in his line of sight. Blinking rapidly to clear it, he let out a heavy sigh.
He’s angry—at the goalkeeper, the opponents, himself. A shot easily blockable (he knew it was, had even prepared for it) but he’d done the exact opposite. Stood there frozen like a new-born deer right as Messi found the opportunity to shoot—he recognized the gleam in his eyes, a gaze that spoke of certainty—and upon that realization, had tried to extend his leg—tried to do anything really—to block but it was already too late.
Sergio chances a look to his right: their opponents were celebrating.
He desperately wants to punch something.
Muttering expletives, he bends down to loosen his shoelaces and retie them again. Gathers a slow anchor of air into his lungs. A shaky inhale and an even shakier exhale. In. One two three. Out. Repeat. An attempt to calm down his racing heart, the adrenaline thrumming inside his veins, the urge to lash out, and—
It doesn’t work. Never has in the first place. Why Sergio even bothers trying those shitty breathing exercises recommended by the team’s psychologist, he didn’t know.
“You okay?” A familiar voice pipes up in front of him, deep with a hint of raspiness. Sergio could hear the hesitance in those words.
Lukita, his mind supplies. He promptly stands back to his full height, watches as Luka’s head automatically tilts up to look at him; wide brown eyes swam with worry while one hand tugs at a strand of hair left astray. Sergio follows the motion attentively; he traces with his eyes the sinewy muscles shifting under the sleeves of Luka's shirt as he lifts his arm, the light sheen of sweat resting on his forehead, before settling his gaze on the signature black headband that was currently holding the thick curls in place.
Luka follows his gaze and quickly drops his hand. Shifts his feet, head now slightly askew to the right. A small habit of the Croat, Sergio had come to identify earlier in the year, whenever he was nervous. Where blond strands would’ve fallen, creating a barrier to shield his embarrassment, the band prevented that. As a result, Sergio is given a front row seat to the light flush dusting his cheeks. For some reason, he’s mesmerized.
It looks good on him, his brain helpfully provides.
What. Why did he think—
“Sese.”
The calling of his nickname snaps Sergio out of his momentary daze.
“Luka,” he said dumbly, “say that again?”
"I said if you were okay," Luka repeats loudly, firmer too. "You didn't look good after Barça scored and was wondering if you were still"—he gestures uselessly with his hands—"feeling like that."
Was he worried about Sergio affecting the team's performance? "I'm fine," Sergio automatically says. He didn't want to upset Luka nor did he like to make him worry, and forces out a reassuring smile. "I'll make sure not to let it affect my or the team's performance for the rest of first half, if you're worried about that. I know how competitive you are, how you like to win. So, I'll be on my best behavior. I swear, Lukita."
Luka makes a weird noise, clearly not liking his answer, and then goes quiet. Sergio waits patiently for him, understands that him being silent wasn't because he had nothing to say. It was the opposite. Through the countless talks they'd had—be it on the phone or hotel, with some having lasted hours on end—the Croat had always been meaningful with his responses. To show that he was being attentive, that he cares. So, he watches as Luka frowns, indecision apparent on his face and is ultimately surprised when the smaller man coughs out a quiet “Never mind” and scurries away.
Sergio does nothing but sees the back of the midfielder grow smaller. Unexpectedly crestfallen (and still brimming with anger), he begins walking back to position.
“Hey!”
His head lifts to see Marcelo jogging over, a relaxed expression rests on his face as he approaches Sergio. Standing in front of him, the man flicks his forehead. “Chill dude, it’s still the first half; we’ll get the lead.”
Sergio let out a noncommittal hum, absentmindedly rubs the spot that recently became the latest victim to Marcelo’s physical affection; he isn’t in the mood to banter with the Brazilian defender. Nevertheless, the man took that as an answer to continue talking.
“Maybe it really is time for an early substitution, I can practically feel your anger and self-deprecating thoughts.” Marcelo fake shivers, a yelp escaping his lips as Sergio shoves him none too gently. Steadying himself, he shot back a glare. “Not cool, you’re so lucky I consider you my best friend. Actually, on second thought, you should be lucky that I’m still your friend, even after the whole story your drunken miserable self at 1 AM decided to tell me involving Fernan—”
Ah, Marcelo and his tendency to ramble. Although he usually finds it endearing, the Sergio at this time and place could only handle so much.
“Just get to the point.” He grits out, fingernails digging into his palms. Red card be damned, he definitely wanted to punch something, or rather, someone now. Someone who was 174 cm tall and conveniently standing right in front of him.
As if sensing the killing intent emitting from the other, Marcelo inches away backwards.
“Okay, okay! That was uncalled for.” Marcelo admits, raising his hands in the air. “But, seriously man. We’ll make it through. With you as our defender? The insanely good strikers and midfielders in our team? We always do. One tiny mistake isn’t going to derail this match, let alone Real Madrid’s effort this season. Trust me.”
Trust me.
And as corny as it sounds, Sergio did trust him. Trusts him so much that a wave of calm passes through his body, hands that were unconsciously clenched into fists now relaxing at his side—Marcelo always has that effect. Whether the man knew it or not, he never failed in his endeavors to ease Sergio’s nerves.
With a much clearer head, a swell of guilt rushed in to replace the anger. Guilt with how unfairly he was treating Marcelo. For acting so cold, so distant to a friend who was trying to help.
Sergio comes closer and gently nudges the Brazilian, offering a small grin. “I know this is very off topic, but your wife is incredibly lucky to have you.” (I’m sorry.)
Marcelo easily returns the olive branch with an even bigger smile. “And I’m incredibly lucky to have her.” (No worries.)
_____________________________
45:00
A sharp whistle blew. Half-time already.
Besides the few close encounters, which he and Pepe managed to effortlessly defend against (nothing satisfies him more than seeing the telltale signs of frustration on Messi’s face) or the fake flopping on the ground from the Barça players in an attempt to gain some free kicks, it hadn’t been as eventful after the opposing team’s goal.
Sergio grimaced.
The first half could've gone worse, he surmises. So, a tie wasn’t too much of an issue given the circumstances. Still, the faint emotions of disappointment-irritation-anxiety cycled in his mind.
He briefly wipes away the beads of sweat racing down from his temple and begins crossing the field. On the way, he pats Karim’s shoulder in support. Suddenly, a toned arm slung over his own right shoulder heavily, almost throwing Sergio off balance.
“So, how’s my most favorite person in the whole wide world doing right now?”
Sergio rolls his eyes in lieu of hello. “I seem to remember you telling me many times that your most favorite people are Clarice and Enzo.”
His retort receives a (lovingly) pinch on the arm from the Brazilian.
“Fine, how’s the most moodiest player ever in Real Madrid doing right now?” he corrects, giggling as Sergio pokes the left side of his stomach in response. “What? You’ve been acting like a kicked puppy ever since the midget scored.”
Sergio was about to respond back with an “I’m fine, don’t worry” until his mind processes the words being said.
A kicked puppy? Sergio thinks incredulously. “I—I do not…a puppy?!” he splutters, a prickle of warmth crawling up to his neck. “Since when was that ever a thing?”
Marcelo gives him a long-suffering look.
“Uh, since forever. Get with the program, mi hombre.” Marcelo retorts. He begins to explain, fast and eager, when Sergio continues to stare at him in abject confusion. “Initially, it was an inside joke of mine—I think, hm, give or take, a couple months after I joined—because of your long hair.”
Marcelo regales the story. When he officially joined Real Madrid in 2007, nineteen and all awkward edges, Sergio was the one to reach out. He’d been the only person standing at the entrance of the training complex, had called out his name, eyes crinkled in the corners. The man’s attention, however, was laser-focused on the brown strands of hair bouncing from behind as Sergio jogged over to him—and almost tripped in the process—with a huge grin, canines in full display. Held his hand out to shake and rather than the standard, “Hey, I look forward to playing with you”, Marcelo had blurted out instead, “You're like a golden retriever!” Thus, cementing his first conversation with his fellow defender.
Through the retelling from Marcelo’s perspective, he could practically hear the fondness in his voice. Sergio felt his cheeks flush an even deeper red—but not from embarrassment. It was something deeper. Foreign. An emotion he couldn’t quite place.
Because Sergio remembers. Remembers but thought of it as nothing more than a passing occurrence and not…not a memory that held weight. And certainly not to someone else—but it had been something for Marcelo. Enough to where even six years later, he would recall the story with such affection.
Sergio feels his heart ache.
He stops abruptly. Marcelo stops as well, voice fading into silence. Must’ve seen something in his expression because there was an odd tone when he spoke again.
“I have a feeling you’re just now finding out about this.”
I am but it’s not because of that, Sergio thinks. Yet, he makes no move to speak.
It isn’t unusual for him. To be quiet, that is. But to Marcelo? Never. A mischievous quip, a hum, a physical touch—anything to indicate he was listening. To not respond to him meant somewhere in the conversation, Sergio had felt strongly about something, strong enough to render him mute. The arm around his shoulder tightens, a familiar anchor. Marcelo seemingly comes to the same conclusion as well.
Curse Marcelo and his perceptive ass.
His jaw tenses reflexively; Marcelo hounds in at that motion. “You seem…upset,” he carefully says, directly peering into his eyes—Sergio can’t look away entirely, never can when it comes to his close friend. “Did you not like being called a puppy?” (There’s something more to it, right?)
I’m not upset; Sergio wants to protest. But how could he tell him? How could he ever explain to Marcelo that it wasn't about being called a puppy that had his throat tightening, his heart weeping in joy?
“What sane person likes being called a dog?” Sergio answers weakly instead. “How’d that even spread, anyways?” (Don’t press any further than this, please.)
Marcelo opens his mouth, closes it again. He sighs, accepting the bait. “Puppy! There’s a difference…and well, when I said it was supposed to be a thing between me and only me, I really meant that…probably let loose to someone—think it was Chris, he can never keep his mouth shut—when I was drunk, the rest of the team caught on, and it sort of…stuck.” (Fine, but we’re revisiting this soon.)
That’s…okay. He could handle that. (A part of him foolishly hopes Marcelo forgets.)
Sergio hums at his explanation. “Well, if I’m a puppy, you’re definitely a chihuahua, always barking.” Gently shrugging off the other man’s arm, he starts walking. Marcelo follows soon after, complaining along the way. They enter the locker room.
“A chihuahua? You’re so not cute,” he whines, flopping dramatically on a bench next to Cris, his arm smacking him in the process. The striker grunts and immediately gets up, leaving. Marcelo sticks his tongue out. “I’m your number one best friend and you treat me like this?”
An obvious attempt to cheer him up, and an attempt that was very much working.
“You’re not even my ‘number one best friend’ to begin with,” Sergio retorts with a playful smile, taking Chris’ spot.
He expects some resistance, some more whines but Marcelo seems to agree, flashing a knowing smirk. “You’re right. Your Lukita takes the first place spot, si?”
Lukita.
At the mention of the nickname, Sergio’s head whips around the room, trying to find any signs of the midfielder: short stature, blond hair, and the number 19 etched on the back of his jersey. But his search is to no avail.
He’s then reminded of the awkward and short-lived conversation between the two of them from earlier. The strange look that appeared on the other man’s face before he ran off.
Maybe he’s avoiding Sergio. That brings an unknowing pang to his heart. “I don’t know,” he replies somewhat dejectedly, after a beat, unsure of what else to say.
Marcelo’s expression changes to that of surprise, a question forming on his lips until another voice enters. “Lukita? What about him?” Kaká interjects; he stands in front of them with both eyebrows raised in interest. “Wait, is this about cuqui and his oblivious—”
Marcelo shakes his head and flashes a frantic cut-it-out motion across his throat, effectively putting an end to Kaká's question. The two Brazilians engage in their mental exchange with their eyes, and Sergio sees Kaká’s face morph into realization, before they launch into rapid-fire conversation.
“How… can’t believe…seriously…”
“Bro…tried…Sergio…didn’t work…”
Sergio catches some fragments of their talk, hears his name being said multiple times but ultimately gives up. “I’m right here,” he huffs indignantly. Portuguese was way too difficult for his Andalusian brain to understand. “And I’d prefer it if you included me in your conversation.”
Both go silent, Marcelo has the decency to be sheepish, as if now remembering that he and Kaká’s topic of interest was quite literally sitting beside him. “Sorry, we were just talking about, ah, your—”
Laughter from the entrance drowns out his friend’s voice, catching Sergio’s attention as he turns to the noise.
There, he sees Álvaro and him.
They walk side by side, sporting matching grins, as they take a seat at the edge of the bench. Another remark from the goalkeeper has the Spanish defender burst again in laughter, arms clutching his stomach.
All feeling of calm was erased once he remembered. Sergio’s body automatically tightens in memory of what went down in the first half; his hands curled into fists as a veil of red haze rests over his eyes. Although not as frustrated as last time, a spark of irritation wells up inside of him.
He misses the twin looks of alarm from his friends.
“Remember what I said earlier,” Marcelo whispers urgently. Sergio feels him lightly grasping his wrist. “Seriously, I don’t think it’s a good idea to—”
Sorry, Marce.
“Diego, what the hell was that?” Sergio barks out, eyes sharpening to the goalkeeper in question. He stands up, ignoring Marcelo’s exasperated “Sergio!”, and stalks towards him; didn’t care if the man in question towered him by a good thirteen centimeters, anger clouds his vision and mind.
Everyone stopped at what they were doing and as if sensing an impending fight, began scurrying off. Some mumbling excuses, the rest departing in silence. Álvaro takes one quick glance at Sergio, claps Diego’s shoulder in pity, and then leaves.
From his peripheral vision, he saw Kaká pause, saw the internal turmoil of whether to back away or try to defuse a situation that requires delicate precision. Before he could decide, Marcelo grabs the collar of his jersey and pulls, shaking his head at him (and Sergio in disappointment) as both exited the room.
He’ll make it up for him somehow.
Diego startles, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, as he glances at Sergio and then the empty locker room. “The hell was what?”
“You know what I mean. The goal you let Messi have!” He spats out.
“You’re still caught on that? Sergio, it’s not a big—”
Not giving Diego any time to respond, Sergio presses onwards. “I guess this match, this team, didn’t matter much to you cause that might’ve been the shittiest attempt at a save I’ve seen in my entire life playing football.”
No sooner had the words rang out through the empty locker room did he immediately regret it.
Sergio freezes, inhales a sharp breath. Diego also freezes, looks at him funnily. “Sergio, tell me you didn’t mean it,” he says, voice oddly winded.
He didn’t mean to say that. In the heat of the moment, Sergio knows he’s more volatile, more prone to throwing hateful spiel that serves to cut, to maim, to hurt.
Lips opening and closing. I swear I didn’t mean it. Please, I’m sorry I’m really sorry refusing to come out.
C’mon, say something, anything—
Diego stood to his full height, ears red from a mixture of embarrassment and hurt. His gaze hardens as he takes Sergio’s prolonged silence as a truthful admission of how he actually feels towards the man. “Fuck you, man! It’s not like we’re down three goals—we’re tied. I didn’t allow those Barça players any other chances to score after—”
Great job making the situation worse than it already was. Sergio tried to interject with an apology.
“Diego, I know, I’m—” he starts, but the goalkeeper keeps on going.
“—and if you’re going to blame me then it’s also partly your fault. You were given the chance to kick the ball away, yet you didn’t.”
Sergio paused, not expecting anyone else than himself to have noticed that mistake.
Okay, fair.
He was right but Sergio never knew when to double down in acquiescence. For some inexplicable reason, he felt the intense need to defend himself—gone was the urge to apologize.
Sergio juts out his chin. “Regardless of if I had the chance or not, the ball would’ve come your way! Your body should be able to block that! Maybe work on your reflexes so you—”
Diego let out a derisive scoff, short and hollow. “My reflexes? That’s hilarious coming from you.”
Both men still.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Sergio voices out verbatim, daring the man to elaborate.
Diego, upon realizing the mental corner he's now backed himself into, widens his eyes. Sergio decides to take a step closer. However, a firm hand grasps his elbow from behind and Sergio instinctively turns around. “Don’t touch me, you—oh, Luka.”
“Sergio.” Luka gently admonishes as a greeting. The smaller man wore a bemused smile, the hand that grasped Sergio now rests lightly on his hip and the other, reaching up to tuck away the wispy locks of blonde hair coming out of his headband.
Sergio's mouth dries up at the action; his anger momentarily chips away—replaced by a feeling of affection reserved only for Luka—as he continues to stare unabashedly. For the sake of his own peace (and Diego’s safety), he chose to ignore the fake gagging sound from behind.
If Luka was made aware of it, he paid no mind.
“Saw the rest of the guys out on the field even though there’s eight minutes left,” Luka said with a pout. “Asked around why the two of you were still in the room but nobody would give an exact answer either. Heard some noises too, so here I am.”
Fuck. Fuck.
Has time really gone by that fast?
And as if now sensing the hostile atmosphere, Luka raises one eyebrow, sweeping his gaze back and forth. Saw the wound up stance from Diego, the clenched fists from Sergio, and the closed-in distance between the two. Sighing, he crossed his arms.
“What happened?”
Those two words snapped Sergio out of his trance; yet he made no move to talk.
How could he?
Haha got mad over my own mistake and decided to take it out on Diego, even though I promised our psychologist that I wouldn’t be doing that anymore. So silly of me. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Lukita!
Diego also stays quiet.
Luka, noticing that neither of them would speak up, pinches the bridge of his nose. “All that baaing earlier and now you both are acting like—like, I don’t know, two scared goats awaiting punishment from their owner or something.”
Sergio was quite fond of Luka’s analogues—somehow, he always related them back to his childhood shepherding days. He felt the corner of his lips lift unconsciously.
The Croat clearly did not return the same sentiment and scowls, patience thinning out as he jabs Sergio’s chest one time with his index finger. “Explain.”
Shit.
His attempt at an explanation went poorly, of course.
“Well, Barça’s Messi equalized and I was…disappointed, to say the least, that Diego was unable to block such an easy shot.” He could practically feel the look of disbelief from behind. “I got mad at myself too…Marce, ah, was able to calm me down for the rest of the first half but then I…saw him again. Got you know...”—he gestures at the air, mouthing ‘boom’—“again. Said some…not so nice stuff to Diego and—yeah.” Sergio finishes lamely.
Thinking about it now, how this whole situation transpired felt both incredibly childish and immensely one-sided on Sergio’s end. Luka seems to agree, going by the tight-lipped nod he gave to Sergio, which was quickly replaced with an impassive expression as he glanced at the goalkeeper.
“Diego?”
Sergio turns to the goalkeeper and catches the tiny glare Diego gave him before the man answers Luka.
“Yeah, cuqui here definitely ‘said some stuff.’” He air-quotes. “Said I didn’t care about the team, shouldn’t call myself a part of Real Madrid over one fucking goal from our opponent.”
Ouch. While not the exact words Sergio had said, if he was in Diego’s shoes, he would have reached the same result.
Luka’s pupils widen slightly. He opens his lips to deny it, but the man continues.
“But it’s—it’s whatever, Luka.” Diego huffs out. “S’not the worst thing someone has said to me, and I really don’t want it to affect the mood of our team for the second half.”
Although Luka slowly nods in agreement, his eyes have a sympathetic gleam. “Diego, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it,” he said lightly, shifting over to touch the man’s forearm in comfort. “You know how he is when things don’t go exactly the way he assumed it would. Right, Sese?”
Luka stares at him, a stern look on his face. I’m giving you a chance, idiot. Go apologize or else you’ll regret it.
And he was right. The moment Sergio had let his emotions get the best of him, had let the words fly unfettered, he knew he would come to regret it almost instantaneously.
He took a deep breath.
“I’m really sorry.” He starts off earnestly. Sergio pauses, thinking over the correct words to say next. He needed—no, wanted—to make things right between them. “I got mad, too caught up in my own emotions, and shouldn’t have put all the blame towards you because…”—he swallows nervously—“because you were right. I had enough time to kick the ball away and I didn’t.”
A gentle touch to his elbow. He raises his eyes to meet Luka’s, who stares at him in subtle encouragement. That opens the floodgates.
Sergio wrings his hands. “I—I panicked, stood there like an idiot and—anyways, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m a grown adult, shouldn’t be acting like a toddler, shouldn’t have…I don’t know. I’m sorry…for fucking up your mood, the team’s mood, anyone’s mood really. Everyone always sees me as this time bomb waiting to explode and I, fuck, maybe they were right.”
He hears the sharp inhale from Luka, followed by a quiet, “Sese.”
Sergio ignores him (it’s the truth after all), head bowing down in shame.
“Again, I’m just really sorry. I’ve said some horrible things that I can’t take back and Diego, it’s totally fine if you hold a grudge and hate me forever and…” Sergio’s rambling ceases once he feels latex gloves lift his chin up to meet the other’s gaze. He blinks up owlishly at the man, heart thudding out loud in his chest.
Diego gives him a lopsided smile.
“Sergio, you can be…difficult to work with at times—an asshole if we want to be accurate.” He corrects. Sergio gives him an affronted look and the goalkeeper chuckles at that. “But it is because of that…how so uniquely you it is in how you express yourself and your redeeming qualities—your sincerity—that I can’t stay mad at you.”
Sergio stands frozen, mouth agape, as he processes the words.
Does that mean…
A rush of pure, sweet relief races through him.
He doesn’t hate me he doesn’t hate me he doesn’t—
“So,” he hesitantly says, tendrils of hope blooming inside of him, “we’re good?”
Diego rolls his eyes in exasperation and ruffles Sergio’s hair. “Yes, cuqui, we are good. Anyone else and I would’ve beaten their ass already. It does not help that you look at me with those puppy eyes—can’t even let me stay mad for a day.”
And as if perceiving the imminent attack affection from Sergio, he hurriedly tacked on. “I’ll be taking my leave now.”
Giving a nod of thanks to Luka, he ran off to the field. Only Sergio and Luka remained.
Luka clears his throat.
“Lukita!” Sergio exclaims, a bit startled. He’d forgotten about him, too focused on Diego’s response and his, admittedly, embarrassing breakdown that the two witnessed not long ago. Turning to him, he gathers the smaller man in his arms and kisses his left cheek. “This went well thanks to you!”
And it did. Always. His cool, calm, and collected Lukita. Infallible and there to support Sergio—even in times when he knows he doesn't deserve it.
“You really are like an overgrown puppy.” Luka says in wonder, his face smushing against Sergio’s chest (which hid the slight flush that paints his cheeks) as he returns the hug. “Eager and gives out way too many licks.”
Even then, his voice was laced with affection.
________________
Luka left soon after. Said something about wanting to give Sergio space, to allow him the few minutes left of their break to compose himself.
Sergio was grateful for that.
He slaps his cheeks and murmurs under his breath. “You got this. Let’s win for Real Madrid.”
Sergio walked out of the locker room and to the field. He gave a small nod to Diego (who nodded back) and a thumbs up to Marcelo (who gave a thin smile in return and quickly faced his body away from him). The latter didn’t seem to be in the mood to reconcile, judging by how dismissive his response was.
A faint throb pulses against his skin. He’ll need to talk to Marcelo after the game, preferably with lots of booze available.
Catching sight of Kaká, he ran over to him. “Kaká!”
The man spun around, brows knitted into a frown as he looked up and down at Sergio. A silent assessment to assuage his mood.
“Sergio.” Kaká greets him cautiously. “I got dragged away by Marce before I could…you know.”
Sergio winces. Right. Everyone was most likely wary with him, given that the whole commotion occurred just fifteen minutes ago. He couldn’t fault them for that—even he was afraid of himself sometimes.
“Dunno about the situation now, but the atmosphere in that room seemed very…high-strung.” Kaká continues, concern evident in his voice. He awkwardly rubs his nape. “Overheard Diego saying he was fine after he came out, which is a relief, but wanted to make sure you were too.”
Oh.
He was worried. Despite knowing Sergio was the one at fault, he had been worried.
A sudden surge of friendly affection flourishes right behind his ribs.
“Sorry about that, it won't happen again,” he said quietly, one hand covering his mouth as he leans in closer to Kaká. “Me and Diego are fine, though.”
The midfielder blinks at that, lowers his voice to match Sergio’s. “Yeah?”
He nods. “Yeah, apologized and all that.”
“And?”
“And?” Sergio echoes. “Yes, he accepted it—oh, don’t give me that look. Trust me, I was literally there, I’m just as surprised as you are given how bad my apology was—”
“I bet it was,” Kaká interjects with a teasing tone.
Never mind, he hates him.
Sergio gives him the middle finger. “Anyways, he said something about me being an asshole but that me being an asshole is also good? Also, how I have redeeming qualities that somehow excuse my shittiness—whatever that means.”
Kaká stared at him; a brief pause passed between them. Then, the midfielder proceeds to burst into peals of laughter. A few heads swivel towards the noise—Luka included. He wipes the tears from the corner of his eyes, while Sergio resists the urge to shove the man.
“Vete a la mierda, hiiiijo de tu madre. Why are you even my friend?” Sergio laments dramatically.
“Love you too, man,” Kaká says in between giggles. He waves away the players’ curiosity and nudges Sergio with his elbow. “But I know exactly what he means. Thanks, I needed that.”
“Glad to see my suffering gives you joy.”
The midfielder lets out another cackle in response.
It was a comfortable silence until Sergio’s mind randomly supplied an image of Luka. Almost like an afterthought. “Lukita was there as well.” His eyes then drifted to the midfielder, who was conversing with José—both leaning towards each other. An involuntary frown surfaces on his lips. “He was worried about us, I think.”
Kaká follows his gaze and upon seeing who Sergio’s current object of attention is, purses his lips. A pensive expression takes over his face as he stares at Sergio, Luka, and back to the defender again.
Like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.
“Yeah, that sounds like him,” he eventually says. “Though, I'm pretty sure he was more worried about you than anything, really.”
“Me?” Sergio looks back at him in bafflement.
“Yes.”
At Kaká’s confident tone, Sergio shakes his head. “Lukita worries about a lot of people besides me—you, Marcelo, and Casemiro, to name a few. Says he doesn’t want it to affect the team morale too much, nothing special.” He denies vehemently.
Kaká crosses his arms, disbelief apparent in his stare. He thought about what had transpired. About Luka. Luka, who approached him from outside with unsure steps after seeing everyone, but Sergio and Diego, walk out from the locker room. Had bit his lips, and in an uncharacteristically timid voice, asked him, “Is Sergio okay?” and not “Is Sergio and Diego okay?” or “What’s going on?”
“How he worries about you,” he slowly starts, “is completely different than how he worries about me and the rest of the team. Trust me.”
First Marcelo and now him? What was up with them and trust?
Sergio groans. “You—you cabrón, you’re not making much sense here.”
Kaká only replies with a vague answer, a shit-eating expression on his face. “Or maybe it’s just you who’s not getting it, Sese.”
Sergio physically and mentally recoils. Apprehension crept up with how casually Kaká said it. Sese. It was a nickname—nothing more, nothing less. Yet, somehow, it felt like a secret everyone was privy to.
Everyone except for him apparently.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s exactly what I mean, Sese.”
Again with the tone, the intimacy of it. “Don’t–don’t use that nickname!” Sergio stutters, blood rushing to his cheeks. “It sounds weird coming from you.”
“‘It sounds weird coming from you,” Kaká parrots back, an incredibly smug grin on his face. “See, you’re proving my point.”
“I’m not ‘seeing’ any—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a sharp whistle rang in the air, signaling the start of the second half. Kaká lets out a singsong, “You’ll figure it out”, and walks away. Sergio could only look at him in utter bewilderment.
Fuck.
Sergio goes to his position and breathes in deeply, his conversation with Kaká put on the backburner as the match resumes.
It’s showtime, baby.
________________
An accidental handball. The linesman lifts the checkered flag up, followed by a brief whistle.
“Accident, mi amigo. It was an accident.” Sergio raises his hand in the air and grins, pearly white on display and predicting the referee’s response. “Swear it won’t happen.”
The referee rolls his eyes, raising the yellow card in the air. A mixture of cheers and boos echo across the stadium. The play resumes.
“Idiota! We can’t risk you getting another yellow card!" Fábio shouts from the left.
Sergio lazily waves him off. “Okey, okey.”
________________
Sergio stops running after he hears the whistle again.
What is it now?
He crouches down, eyes roaming around the field. Sees someone drop to the ground, rolling in pain. Sergio catches the number.
15. Michael.
Concern and indignation courses through his veins as he ran to his fallen teammate. However, when he got there, Michael was up and attended to by a medical staff at the sidelines.
Sergio subconsciously gnaws on his lips. A hard clap on his shoulder from Pepe startles him back to clarity.
________________
82:00
The ball goes out of play by Barça’s number 3.
Sergio saw Luka as he run to the corner, preparing for the kick, and then glanced over at Real Madrid’s bench: Mourinho was gesturing at him to move up faster to the penalty area on Barça’s side.
So, he did.
As he stood there, body tensed and apprehension inside his stomach, Sergio’s eyes met Luka’s own. The Croat gave a crooked smile, and Sergio felt that same flutter of affection from earlier.
The whistle sounds again.
Sergio saw Luka’s look of determination, saw the beautiful kick arched in the air from well-sculpted calves, saw an opportunity, takes it, and—
The roar of the crowd only grew louder as he slid his knees on autopilot in celebration.
Turning around, a familiar weight crashes into him and both go tumbling down to the grass, his arms immediately brackets above as more players decide to join in on the pile. Sergio’s mind feels hazy, a bit faraway—can’t process what he’d just done to turn the tide over for Real Madrid, for his team. It isn’t until he hears “Sese!” that Sergio breaks out of his stupor and lifts his gaze to meet that of Luka’s. Looks—no, drowns—into the ocean of those soft brown eyes, eyes that glittered with unbridled joy, as the man above him continues chanting his name like a prayer, continues pressing his lithe body against him, continues—
—and all of the sudden it’s like time has stopped, has finally decided to grant him mercy, when he realizes with a terribly startling clarity,
Oh, I think I’m in love with you.
He hopes, prays, that Luka attributes the sudden, frantic thrumming against his ribs—the brilliant red rushing to his face, neck, everywhere—to the exhilaration of being the one to score a winning goal.
Eventually, the pile of sweaty players disperses, and he feels Luka also begins the process of disentangling their bodies from where they lay chest to chest, heart to heart. He’s careful about it too, delicately unclasps the hands around Sergio’s nape, removes the toned calves pressed against his knees, and ends the ritual by brushing back the short brown strands of hair stuck to his forehead in an almost instinctual manner. All of it done with such deliberate precision; like Sergio was worth caring for, worth the gentleness that normally didn’t come from the package deal of being a football player.
He even offers a hand for him to grab, because of course he does. Luka—brilliant, selfless, and kind Luka—who’s blissfully unaware that Sergio Ramos was currently facing the mortifying ordeal of being in love with him.
90:00 – Final
RMA 2–1 FCB
K. Benzema (6’) L. Messi (18’)
S. Ramos (82')