Chapter Text
“There’s a lot of press outside.” Toni says, looking uncomfortable.
Sergio doesn’t answer, doesn’t comment on how Toni is pointing out the obvious. He can see them very well through the blinds, the mob of reporters downstairs, surrounding the gate like an army laying siege to the castle where they know their prize is waiting.
And Sergio is a prize today, isn’t he? Even more so than usual, he’s never really out of the spotlight, can’t go anywhere without people following him, waiting to document his every move, every mistake, every blunder and every stumble. But it’s worse now, so much worse, and Sergio has only himself to blame.
Toni shifts a bit closer, a tiny bit, less than a hand’s width, but Sergio stiffens anyway - and Toni notices. He freezes immediately, and Sergio only relaxes when he knows Toni won’t come closer. This is good, Toni’s good right where he is. Close enough so Sergio can see and hear and smell him, but not too close to make Sergio feel crowded. Piqué, over in the opposite corner furthest away from Sergio, hasn’t made any attempts to come closer at all.
It’s fine. Sergio doesn’t want him close anyway.
“What can I do?” Toni asks, voice pitched low so Piqué won’t hear - at least they can all pretend he can’t hear.
Sergio doesn’t answer - what could he do? What? - and just listens to Toni’s voice. His accent makes his words sound stilted and formal, but Sergio knows Toni, he hears the underlying worry and helplessness. And yet Toni doesn’t crowd Sergio, doesn’t try to wrap him in a hug like Casemiro did before Sergio punched him in the face, freaked out and scared and feeling queasy at the mere thought of someone, anyone touching him. They all backed off then, all the Alphas in Real’s pack, but it was already too late.
Here they are. Sergio’s neck burns, the mating bite is throbbing fiercely. Piqué bit deep. At least it’s no longer bleeding, but even so Sergio is always aware of the bite. It throbs with every beat of his heart, his blood seems to pulse against the bandages, hot and fiery and ever present, a constant reminder of what happened. Of how stupid Sergio was…
Sergio presses his forehead against the cool wall next to the window and swallows, hard. Piqué, over in his corner, doesn’t move, a sullen, seething presence Sergio does not want to feel, but is always aware of. He can’t not be aware of him, can’t ignore him. Not anymore. Never again.
Toni notices Sergio’s mood, could probably tell it even without the pack bond they share, but he doesn’t try to come closer to comfort, even though Sergio knows he wants to. This is why he wanted Toni here and not any of the other Alphas. Toni is a friend, but he’s distant in a way, very aware of other people’s boundaries. Maybe it’s a German thing, to keep your distance from anyone outside of family and very close friends, to shake hands rather than hugging, and to always be aware of someone’s personal space and to be very protective of your own. Certainly when Toni joined Real he was uncomfortable with being hugged, especially by Omegas. He’s better with it now, will let himself be hugged and kissed and even, occasionally, with the young ones, will instigate a hug himself. But he’s still distant, still mindful of personal space and boundaries. Any of the other Alphas on Sergio’s team would long have tried to hug Sergio, to wrap protective arms around him and shield a packmate from harm, but Toni doesn’t. And Sergio appreciates it more than he can say.
He doesn’t want to be touched right now. Not by anyone. And certainly not by Piqué.
Sergio sighs, feeling more than hearing Toni shift minutely, the Alpha’s protective instincts flaring. Over in his corner Piqué raises his head. Sergio ignores him.
“Nothing.” He says quietly, finally answering Toni’s question. “You can do nothing. They all know already anyway - everybody knows. The whole world knows…”
Toni shifts again and lets out a slow breath. “Sergio…”
“It’s fine.” Sergio smiles, grimaces. He was so stupid. And now…
A commotion by the door, Sergio turns his head to see what’s going on. Toni takes a step to the side, placing himself between the door and Sergio, Piqué starts to move towards him but jerks himself to a stop, looking annoyed. Instead he turns and walks towards the door. Sergio looks after him and wonders if Piqué was annoyed because he found himself automatically moving towards his unwanted new mate, or if it was because it was Sergio he was trying to get to. Not that Sergio cares, by the way. He doesn’t need Piqué protecting him, he doesn’t want Piqué protecting him. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want any of this shit.
Stupid, he thinks. How could I have been so fucking stupid.
He stares, unblinking, unseeing, at the crowd of reporters outside. It’s growing, there’s even more of them now. Sharks, scenting blood in the water. Vultures, circling. Hyenas, sniffing around, waiting for the prey to appear. Sergio does not want to go outside. But he’ll have to, soon. No way around it. And then the whole world will know.
“Sergio?” He turns his head - Toni again, reaching out a careful hand, but not touching. “They - they say you need to leave now. There is a car downstairs. Security is going to push the press back, but they, the, um, the PR people say you need to go before even more show up. Maybe even helicopters…”
Sergio grits his teeth. “Right. Where am I going?”
Toni looks uncomfortable. He throws a look towards the door, where Piqué is standing, arms crossed, face dark, every muscle stiff with anger. “His place.” Toni says quietly. “They say it’s the best. And you need to talk. They - they say I can’t come.”
Sergio closes his eyes. Opens them again. Takes a deep breath, then another. “Of course not.” He says quietly, and hates them. Hates Barca’s PR people who think it’s a smart idea to make him go to Piqué’s house, his den, instead of to neutral ground like a hotel room. Hates Real’s PR people for not having his back. Hates Piqué for what he did, hates Toni for not being allowed to come… and hates himself for how fucking stupid he was that he went and got himself fucking mated by fucking Gerard Piqué . This is nothing but one giant, fucked up shithole of a situation… and that’s putting it mildly.
But Sergio knows: there is nothing he can do right now. Not a single damn thing. He’s stuck . And while he wants to rant and rage and fight and resist, he knows it won’t help. It’s happened, it’s done, and they’ll have to figure out how to deal with this. How to fix it. How to clean up this mess and fix it…
Toni’s face is a mask of worry and embarrassed helplessness when Sergio turns to face him fully. He doesn’t resist when Sergio, carefully, leans in to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, wraps an equally careful arm around Sergio’s back and gives him the lightest, most careful and apologetic hug Sergio has ever gotten from any Alpha. Sergio manages a hint of a smile when Toni lets him go, but it drops away as soon as his gaze falls on the door. Piqué is standing there, face dark, eyes furious, and Barca’s PR people are there as well. All of them Alphas, all of them sneering.
Right. Sergio raises his chin, steels his back. Meets their gazes head on, not cowering, not backing down in the slightest. He’s Sergio fucking Ramos, the Omega who made Captain of the best team in the world, and they don’t scare him one bit.
Sergio snarls at them as he walks towards the door and then sneers too when he sees some of them take a step back. He shoulders his way through the PR people, hating that he has to, that they don’t just let him pass. Piqué follows him out the door.
He doesn’t say a word and doesn’t try to touch Sergio at all while they walk down the stairs, towards the press. Towards the mayhem that is waiting, the sharks eager to bite into Sergio’s tender flesh. The vultures that are circling, circling… through them, head ducked low to avoid the camera flashes, ignoring the curious and insulting and sometimes downright degrading questions they yell out. Security is there, but they have a hard time holding the press back, eager as they are with the scent of blood in the air. Sergio ducks low, pushes forward, fends off grabbing hands and vicious comments, and gets into the waiting car as quickly as he can. Piqué follows right behind, slams the car door shut, but it doesn’t drown out the voices outside, getting louder and louder and closer and closer and -
“Just fucking drive!” Sergio yells and, thankfully, the driver obeys, with screeching tires the car shoots off towards the street. Sergio puts his hands over his face and moans, scared and worried and fucking helpless. So fucking helpless. What is he supposed to do now? What? What can he even do? Nothing… Sergio can’t think of a single thing. He’s… lost. Helpless. Lost. He needs… needs…
The car ride is silent. Piqué doesn’t touch Sergio once for the entire ride. It’s fine. Sergio doesn’t want him to anyway, really.
It’s fine.