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There is very little Sergio can hear past the dull thudding in his ears, the pounding headache, and the words tumbling muffled from his mouth, mixed among screams, commands, or curses hurled at others or himself. Even after playing football for years, matches like this never fail to stress him out, which sometimes can be a blessing: his entire body on high alert, maximum state of attention, watching every centimeter of the pitch, keeping track of the players' movements, the spaces he has to cover while intercepting a ball, supporting his own team's movement, and putting in a tackle maybe just a little too aggressive to cut a promising counterattack at the root.
In other cases, it’s the cause of his disaster, of the team's disaster. A tackle that's way too violent, a foot too high, an elbow colliding with a chin that just happened to be in the way; it's a movement without a trigger, he swears, even though he doesn't know if the VAR is reviewing his studs on the opponent's calf, the elbow that hits the chin hard enough to draw blood, or his torso crashing into the other player's, sending him rolling to the ground with one hand clutching every single part of his body that Sergio struck, because it was all of those things at once and, regardless of which one the referee saw, the red card is raised into the air.
Already familiar, already his companion, to be honest. Familiar in the same way lying down on the turf to sing the anthem is, casual like greeting opponents with a firm handshake that feels more like a threat than an act of sportsmanship. The bright, flashy card that brings the sentence with it is already Sergio's friend, already expected and anticipated.
Even so, it never fails to shock him. Not the surprise, because the red is never a surprise and, bitterly, almost never unfair. But Sergio doesn't care about fairness, even though the referee is supposed to promote it; bringing that concept in here would make his team's defeat fair, would make it fair for the opponent to score 7 more goals just for how they’re playing and swallowing Real Madrid's players whole. At the end of the day, football isn't always fair, Thank God, though with Sergio, it always has to be.
Now, he can hear loud and clear the crowd's cheers for the referee's decision, the boos as he walks across the pitch drowning out the words of the few teammates who try to speak to him, maybe cursing him out even more or talking nonsense like "your foul was worth it, man, we're gonna turn this around, we're going for the remontada"; it's all too scrambled for him to hear or comprehend. The rival fans' chants enter his head and make his entire body boil with even more rage; he should be used to this by now, learned how to deal with it. Sadly, he thinks he never will.
There is a ball resting on the edge of the pitch, placed there for throw-ins. He looks at it innocently, almost calling out to him, and in the heat of the moment, Sergio isn't going to deny that request. The tip of his boot finds the center of the ball, sinking into the leather and launching it upward. In a second, the stadium goes silent and there isn't a single thought passing through his mind as all his anger pools into his leg and vents out in the kick, sending the ball to God knows where.
In the next second, the crowd's noise shifts into gasps of surprise, a wave of concern takes over the air, and there's the dull crack of the ball striking something. Or someone.
At the mouth of the tunnel, the entire Real Madrid bench stands up, walking to the edge of the pitch to look up into the stands, mirroring the gesture of everyone on the field. The game is paused because all the players, coaches, staff, and ball kids have their hands on their hips, necks craned toward the exact same spot in the middle of the crowd, mouths open in a surprised "O," some sporting furrowed brows, an expression of pain, empathy.
Sergio is the last one to look, and when he does... holy shit.
There's a small commotion in the middle of the crowd, clustered people surrounding a single spot that Sergio spends a long time staring at fixedly to understand what it is, but there are too many bodies in front of him, hands touching and trying to help whatever is down there.
When they move out of the way, Sergio feels the stares on him first as he narrows his eyelids to get a better look. He feels pinpricking gazes on the back of his neck, from the other players and the whole stadium, judging him, cursing him.
And only then does he understand why and... holy shit.
A young man in the stands, a young man with his hand over his nose, which is spurting blood across his face; the red already smeared on his white shirt spills even further and soon drips down past his mouth to his chin, where it endlessly splatters onto the rest of his shirt, and his sneakers for sure.
From a distance, he can make out the long hair falling over his shoulders, blonde now stained with crimson; he still has both hands on his face, so it's hard to see his features, which are definitely clenched in pain. Sergio feels sick immediately; it was his kicked ball that hit him, it was his fit of rage that ended with a fan bleeding in the stands.
When he moves to try to get closer and apologize, the fingers are pulled away from the fan's face; unbelievably, the afternoon sun hits that exact same section of the crowd the exact second the face is revealed to Sergio. Illuminated by the sunbeam, and even with his whole face painted red and sporting an expression of pain, in Sergio's eyes, he looks like an angel.
The whole world around him freezes, moving in slow motion as their eyes lock; the man looks at him from behind wide orbits and Sergio could swear he is flying.
Until a hand grips his shoulder and keeps his feet firmly on the ground.
“Get out of here, man. Don't take another card.” Marcelo pushes him while saying in his ear, snapping him back to reality. “Come on, Sergio. Walk.”
He tries to fight the push steering him toward the tunnel, trying to keep his head up to look at the man in the stands who is already being led away by staff.
“Wait! I need to go over there. The fan-” He points his arm toward the spot in the stands and then for a second catches Marcelo's gaze, which holds nothing on his face except irritation and exhaustion.
“Forget it, man. He’s gonna get treated. Get your ass to the locker room, don't start any more trouble.” He finally manages to shove him completely into the tunnel, and Sergio is suddenly surrounded by white walls, overwhelmed by his own thoughts and with only one thing hammering in his mind:
I need to find him.
His mind works in a whirlwind, trying to think of the protocol for a struck fan, something he never thought he would be the cause of. He walks quickly through the corridors, stopping people, asking rapidly for any news regarding the man in the stands, where he was taken, if he's being helped or not.
Passing like a blur, he almost misses the open door of the medical room. He would’ve walked right past if the scent leaking out hadn't completely captured his attention, the aroma creeping out from the doorway and pinning Sergio's two feet to the floor while making his heart hammer hard in his chest.
Holy shit.
He starts backing up toward the room, step by step, almost as if he were scared, as if looking in there and seeing who owns this pure, sweet scent would be a sin, a depraved act. Getting close enough to see, the man is in there, sitting on the edge of an exam table with a doctor in front of him examining his nose. His neck is stretched upward, exposing his throat even if that wasn't the intention; the pale, smooth skin catches Sergio's attention like a man seeing legs for the first time in the 1500s. He stares so slack-jawed that he barely notices the man's irises shifting from the ceiling to the corner of his eye, sneaking a peek at Sergio standing in the door. With the realization, the eyes snap shut tightly, muttering something in a language Sergio doesn't know. Just the brief possibility that the man had seen him and for some reason (maybe the ball to the face making him bleed right now) that caused him enough repulsion that he couldn't even look at Sergio makes his entire world collapse. His confident posture gives way, and suddenly he feels like an abandoned puppy in the rain.
The doctor notices his presence and steps back from the young man, turning toward the counter.
“Eh. Sergio, I think you better-”
“I-... I want to apologize.” He cuts the doctor off, not wanting to hear any suggestion that he should leave because just the possibility of Sergio turning around and walking out while the man with the wide eyes opens them and looks back at him, mouth slightly parted while looking confused and smelling so damn good it drives him crazy, the scent of an omega driving him out of his mind; there is nothing on earth that could drag him away from there.
The doctor shuts up and shrugs, turning back to the counter to fiddle with some gauze and cotton. The man is still watching him, doesn't look irritated or hurt like Sergio somehow imagined; on the contrary, he doesn't look like anything. His face is almost impenetrable, showing zero emotion and yet looking adorable with the tiny trail of smeared blood now turned pink under his nose. He just stares at him, giving Sergio zero confidence to do anything except stare back.
Even though he came all the way here to apologize, here, standing before the glowing glare and the mutually killer scent of the man, he can't say a single thing. He feels his dry lips, his scratched throat, and not a single shred of voice escapes his parted mouth, looking at the omega on the table like a fish out of water.
They must stay like that for a while, but Sergio's gaze drops and finds the shirt completely stained with blood, from collar to hem, and something clicks in his mind.
“Y- your shirt- Wait, I'll go get another one,” Sergio speaks hurriedly, taking steps backward, and before leaving, reaches his arm out toward the omega on the table. “Don't go away. Please. I-I'll be right back. Uh... with a shirt.”
He doesn't wait for an answer and sprints out of there as fast as possible, wanting to also rid himself of the feeling of utter ridicule for what he just did. At the first corner of the hallway, he has the urge to bash his head against the wall, wondering how he was so idiotically paralyzed in the other man's presence. At the next street corner turn, Sergio imagines courting him properly, even though he has no idea how to do that. After turning once more, walking down the hallway to the locker room door, he plans to head back to the room, pull up a stool to the table, introduce himself properly, let the omega speak, apologize and beg forgiveness for hitting him, and take advantage of the height difference to propose to him.
My God, how had he been an idiot yet again? How was he going to tell his pups that he hit their mother in the face with a ball? He will never forgive himself.
He enters the locker room slamming the door, without even realizing his teammates are startled and looking at him, though he remains oblivious to the deathly atmosphere in the locker room. Sergio doesn't feel that way; he isn't the least bit down, quite the contrary, he thinks his life just started.
He searches quickly among the pile of clothes for his spare jersey. When he finds it, he holds it in his hands, stretching it in front of his face and sniffing to check if it smells bad, thinking there is no way he can make an even worse impression on the omega. That's enough to banish the thought of rubbing the shirt against his neck, infesting it with his pheromones. No. That would probably make him too nauseous; Sergio is sweaty and dirty with grass and dirt, it's bad enough that he has to introduce himself like this, the omega doesn't need to take some of his bad odor home too. Because of that, he sprays a bit of perfume on it, just so he doesn't leave it completely scentless either.
He leaves the locker room at the exact same speed he entered, passing and overtaking people in the hallway as if he were in a race, almost slipping and having to brace against the wall when he takes the first hard corner without realizing he had to slow down that much. With his body full of determination, he pushes off the wall to resume running and reach the medical room as fast as possible, but before he can take even two steps, his body collides with another solid thing. The contact is abrupt and sudden, but vanishes just as fast as it arrived because the other body was flung across the hallway, hitting the wall with a dull thud. When he turns around to apologize, Sergio wishes he could die.
The omega has one eye closed, an expression of pain while massaging his head and adjusting the cotton in his nose with his free hand.
Sergio is going to bang his head against the wall until he gets a concussion. That's what he deserves.
“I'm so sorry! Oh my god. Forgive me. Please. I'm so sorry, I didn't see you,” he starts, babbling so much he doesn't recognize the words tumbling out of his mouth. He approaches the omega, who looks startled by the sudden yelling, even more so by the jumbled, almost unintelligible words. “I beg your pardon, please. I'm an idiot, that's all. You're so small- Oh God. I'm sorry. And I didn't mean to-”
“It's fine. It's fine,” the omega speaks for the first time, interrupting him and putting a hand between them to stop Sergio from getting any closer. Which aches absurdly in his chest, but that's almost imperceptible when the husky voice reaches his ears. Passing through his eardrum straight into his brain, making him melt completely. Sergio can't think. His head is totally blank and he doesn't even feel like a human being anymore.
He brings the hand still holding the shirt up to his face, pressing it hard against his forehead while whispering softly in an attempt to kill himself.
“You're such an idiot. Jesus Christ. You don't deserve any of this, Sergio Ramos. Give up your dreamns and die. You stupid bastard-”
He hears the sound of a sneaker scraping on the floor, moving away, and opens his eyes immediately, coming face-to-face with the omega's back as he walks away and leaves.
And Sergio must have genuinely lost his mind, because there aren't two seconds of thought before he speeds up like a madman until he blocks the man's path, startling him and making him hop slightly so they don't crash again.
“Where are you- I still need to give you the shirt. I apologize for ruining yours.” Sergio looks down, sweeping his eyes from the bloodstained collar up his neck, forcing himself with all his might not to stare at the skin and look crazy. He manages to hold back and finally reaches the omega's face, the most beautiful one he's ever seen in his entire life. The small eyes, the bags under them, the hollowed cheeks, the big nose, and the tiny mouth. The long blonde hair framing each of his features to perfection, making him look so unreal that Sergio feels like he's committing a crime. This isn't a vision for him to enjoy; no, this is meant for sin-free people who had a good life on earth, because a vision like this is the kind of thing you only get when you arrive in heaven. “Madre mia.”
The man below him keeps staring at him the exact same way he did on the table, although now he looks a little more scared, maybe because Sergio is looking at him like a lunatic. He clears his throat, glancing downward for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “Um. It's fine, I- I was already leaving.”
The accent. Jesus Christ. The accent.
Sergio is going to die right here.
The omega takes a step to the side, trying to slip past and get on with his life, but Sergio's hands act first, grabbing his shoulders to keep him in place and letting go immediately at the startled look he receives.
Sergio screwed up everything he did today, for the love of God, can't he get a single thing right?!
“Please. Let me apologize. Please.” He speaks as calmly as he can, hands clasped in front of his chest as if praying, walking on eggshells and feeling strange about himself due to the soft tone of his voice. “Just-”
A crowd noise cuts off his speech, distinct conversations nearing down the corridor along with the sound of equipment being carried, and Sergio doesn't need much to know that those are the damn usurpers hunting him down.
He looks around in a panic, searching for an exit that won't make him run straight into journalists, let alone force him to say goodbye to the omega who finally stopped to listen to him. A storage room door right beside them looks very convincing, even though he knows it's a very, very stupid and unchivalrous idea.
“You- We- Please. It's just-” He tries to explain as he opens the door and, gently, with the softest touch he can muster on the omega's shoulder, tries to guide him inside. “I won't do anything. Please. I just want to apologize. Please- The journalists. They-”
The man huffs, suddenly flashing a mask of irritation previously hidden. His face transforms into a sterner, harder expression, and Sergio swears he can't hold back the hurt squeak escaping his throat.
“What do you want?” he asks, sounding annoyed and completely out of patience.
Sergio clasps his hands again, praying and begging humiliatingly. “Get in here so they don't see us. There's no other place. I promise. I won't- Nothing's gonna happen. Nothing. Nothing. I swear-”
The omega huffs once more, rolling his eyes and stomping heavily on the floor until he steps into the storage room with Sergio, slamming the door shut behind him with a loud thud.
The lighting is dim, but he can still make out his features perfectly, especially now that they're sharper, an expression finally showing on the pretty little face, even if it's pure anger.
“What?” the omega asks, direct and angry.
His mouth is dry again, paralyzed once more with no clue what to do. The scent is stronger now, the two of them isolated in a tight space functioning almost like a trap. Sergio is entirely immersed in the perfume, piercing his nostrils to the core, reaching straight into his brain and acting as powerfully as a drug. He closes his eyes and has to lean an arm against the wall to keep from falling.
He hears a surprised gasp and then the sound of a slap against skin. He opens his eyes to see the omega with a hand on his neck, covering his glands, then meeting his face with yet another unlocked expression: surprise and, almost, shyness.
“Sorry. I- I had to take the patch off, it had blood on it, it was bothering me,” he speaks awkwardly, stepping back a bit. Now realizing that his entire aroma takes over the small room and is definitely driving Sergio insane. Not that he's complaining in the least. “I'm going now.”
He turns to grab the doorknob, but is stopped once more. Sergio blinks with difficulty, opening his mouth trying to gasp for air to regain clear and rational thoughts. Trying to banish from his head all the crazy things that sweet scent makes him think about doing.
“No! It's nothing. It's fine. It's fine.” He tries not to sound so desperate and out of his mind, not wanting to invoke even more distrust to make the omega feel uncomfortable, as if being in a cramped room with an alpha who just hit him twice wasn't already reason enough to make him want to run away as fast as possible.
He hears murmuring on the other side of the door, suddenly regaining his senses and remembering why he's here in the first place.
He takes a deep breath, blinking a few times and puffing out his chest to project and try to convey confidence and sincerity. “Look. I am so sorry for hitting you. I know it's not justifiable, that it was reckless, and I really wasn't aiming at you at all. If I had a time machine I'd go back and never have kicked that ball. I swear. It was never my intention to hit a fan, and I am deeply sorry for making you bleed and ruining your stadium experience. Forgive me, please.”
He finishes his speech breathless, taking a deep breath and waiting anxiously for a reply. He never could have guessed that all his speechifying would yield only a tiny snort, a small shrug of the shoulders, and a smile so subtle on his lips that his teeth don't even show.
The expression he makes must be even funnier because another chuckle comes out, confusing him even more.
The omega takes the shirt from his hand, the one he didn't even remember holding anymore, but lets go of immediately upon feeling a simple brush of fingers so ghostly he might have just imagined it. The man looks at the shirt once he has it in his hands and then raises his gaze back to Sergio.
“It's fine. It was ridiculously stupid, but you're an alpha. No surprise. I was just unlucky.”
Huh... What?
Sergio's face twists even further in confusion, narrowing his eyes and forming a pout on his lips while his eyebrows follow the same path and knit together, forming a crease between them.
“Pardon?”
The omega doesn't seem to understand the reason for the confusion, maintaining an almost bored expression on his face, as if explaining something to a child. “It's to be expected from an alpha. You guys have some anger issues... You especially.” He shrugs, attaching zero importance to what he just said.
The last part is whispered, quiet enough to almost go unnoticed if Sergio weren't so ridiculously attentive to every single word. What was that omega talking about, that Sergio is out of control?
Is it a lie? No. Has he heard it a million times? Yes. Does it go in one ear and out the other like every other time? No.
It affects him deeply to know this was his first impression of him, knowing the love of his life thinks he's unhinged for being an alpha, for having visible anger issues on the pitch and being known for trying to murder people over football. It aches in his chest to know the omega has this idea of him, making his whole body deflate, and he feels more disappointed with himself than he's ever felt.
“I'm sorry.” It comes out low and ashamed; he looks down, lacking the courage to meet the omega's gaze.
“What?” He feels the confusion in his voice, imagines the furrowed brow and the subtle twist of the mouth with misunderstanding stamped across his face.
“Sorry for being an alpha.”
There is a moment of silence. A long, agonizing second of silence where neither of them speaks. Only the sound of breathing, of Sergio's sniffles, and maybe the small, dejected purr settling in his throat.
He feels deeply ashamed, discouraged with life, and like a walking failure. He doesn't want to make that impression on anyone, certainly not the man of his life, but there's no way to stop it anymore. The first time they meet, he let his entire irascible side show during the ninety minutes on the pitch that he didn't even finish, got a ridiculous red card, and on top of that assaulted his omega twice, who now kicks him and rejects him. It's his fault. Sergio is stupid and deceitful. He's going to die alone.
“What? Y- You're apologizing?” the omega speaks, almost choking with surprise and disbelief.
Sergio looks up, knowing he has a completely dejected expression on his face. He speaks with the broken, soft voice of a puppy who knows it did something wrong. “It's all I can do. Forgive me, please. I'll change, I promise.”
The omega lets out an unbelieving laugh, arching his eyebrows. “You'll change?”
“For you.”
“What?”
“I'll change for you,” Sergio repeats, suddenly feeling a sudden wave of confidence and straightening his posture, puffing out his chest and speaking with the highest authority he can muster, completely secure in his promise. “I'll change so you'll forgive me. I won't be a stupid alpha anymore and I'll go to therapy for my anger issues.”
The man in front of him looks at him as if Sergio is growing a third head, completely confused and lost. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to be with you and I'll do anything to make that happen. Anything. I'll wait as long as it takes.”
Another minute of silence; the omega seems to have lost the ability to speak, watching him slack-jawed with the most confused expression Sergio has ever seen on someone's face.
Finally, a breathless laugh escapes his mouth.
“You are a stupid alpha,” he says, though Sergio can see he's holding back a smile and maybe it's just because he's going crazy, but he swears he also sees a light blush appearing on the hollowed cheeks. “I'm keeping this shirt to sell it, but just so you know, you're an idiot and I'd return it if I could.”
Sergio's confidence crumbles once more, plunging back into depression and letting all the confident facade he built die away. “What did I do?”
“Huh. You hit me with a ball, made me bleed, locked me with you in a... storage room? And now you say you want me? Is your head full of air?” He lists them off and Sergio shrinks further and further, feeling absolutely defeated without any hope that he'll pull out of this absurd sadness overtaking his body.
The omega turns to leave, and Sergio's fingers wrap around the hem of his shirt, pulling him close without thinking. Bringing their bodies closer than they've ever been, he sees him widen his eyes and grab the hand holding his shirt to stop him from pulling him any closer. Although Sergio can't think of anything else.
“I'm sorry, please. I- I am deeply regretful, I was stupid and- No. I am stupid and always will be, it's my nature, but I'll change it for you. I swear I will.”
The man tries to break free, but Sergio still maintains his grip on the hem of his shirt, not caring if he's staining his fingers with blood. “It's fine. It's- Don't cry, please.”
“Tell me what to do, anything, I'll do it. To have you. Nothing will be too much. The possible and the impossible, just tell me and I'll do it.”
Sergio doesn't even sound like himself anymore. More pathetic and insecure than he's ever felt in his life, truly willing to do anything that he can barely put into words, but judging by the omega's gaze softening and the almost dangerous expression taking over his face, it must be working.
“Okay. Fine. Calm down.” He breaks out of the grip little by little, patting his chest as if calming him down, and just that simple touch is enough to light Sergio up entirely. “Let's take it easy, alright?”
“We will? We- We will? The two of us, you and I?” He feels happy again, hopeful, and his body completely ablaze with the excitement taking over at the mere possibility of them going together.
“Relax.” The omega calms him down once more, sounding like he's losing his patience again. “We'll- We'll look into it, alright? Let me go.”
Sergio doesn't even care if the omega is walking away, stepping slowly toward the door and turning the knob with all the care in the world. There is a minimal possibility of them ending up together, of Sergio genuinely having a chance to court him and make him the mother of his children. Just that tiny hope is capable of sweeping away any doubt, any insecurity.
He blinks twice and is already alone in the room. Still staring at the spot where the omega was, his fingers clenching where the bloodstained fabric used to be. The charm is still there, the scent still wrapping him in a peace he can't let go of, the feeling of fulfillment and certainty taking over his body and leaving him with nothing else in his head except the sensation that he is completely in love.
꧞ ᰓ
The message arrives when he is already lying in the hotel bed, freshly showered, wearing the comfortable and soft bathrobe, still feeling like he's on cloud nine:
marcelo
ridiculous card ugh holy shit
gareth
nothing new under the sun
iker
just that ball to the face which was insane
so many places for him to hit and the idiot goes for the FAN
marcelo
even if it was planned it wouldn't have been this stupid
but they're already talking
check this out
Red for Ramos and Rescue in the Stands https://www.marca.com/futbol/real-madrid/2016/red-ramos-rescue-stands.html
Sergio's finger moves so fast he thinks he might get tendinitis. He reads everything without paying attention, his eyes darting quickly to search for a single thing.
The omega didn't give an interview, but was seen leaving the stadium with his shirt in hand, and Sergio never thought he'd be thankful for this, but good thing the internet pests are absurdly smart and get details and info on everything and anything. Not even the poor man had escaped it.
There's a link to an Instagram for a coffee shop, apparently located in downtown Madrid. Before Sergio needs to search too hard, the pinned post is catchy artwork introducing the employee of the month.
And there he is.
Smiling shyly in the company photo, looking more handsome than ever with the soft filter applied to his picture. His name highlighted and followed by a ready-made congratulatory message for being a dedicated and exemplary employee.
He already knows where he's getting his coffee tomorrow, and the day after, and next week, and next year, and for the rest of his life.
He falls asleep whispering thanks to the heavens and with a promise repeating on his lips like a manifestation:
“Luka Modrić, you are still going to be mine.”