Alberto suspects it's what he deserves. This abrupt loss of his World title, having to walk back through the halls empty handed, and with no one by his side to soften the blow. That perro, John Cena, he thinks grimly. He doesn't even catch a glimpse of Ricardo on his way back to his room, because the younger man had opted to remain at the hotel. Watch the PPV from there, since he was still in the process of catching back up with his training and had only traveled out to keep Alberto company.
As lonely as the arena feels without him, Alberto is almost glad he's not here to perhaps get caught up in the maelstrom of his rage as he angrily collects his things from the World champion's locker room for the last time, staring around at what soon will be cluttered by Cena's nonsense. He releases a heavy breath and stares darkly at the monitor before seeking out his phone, thinking perhaps he could call Ricardo, try to calm down through a quick conversation with him... but he pauses, seeing text alerts from Twitter flashing there, and accesses the messages, wondering what could possibly be said from someone important enough to be on his alert list- Ricardo, and Memo, and a scarce few others-
All possibilities are wiped from his mind as he sees what had his phone lit up. A tweet, from Ricardo... congratulating Cena, and thanking him. He pales, shakes his head and rereads it, trying to convince himself that his mind's playing tricks on him, that he's so far addled from the loss and the physicality of the match that he's just imagining things... but no, the words are still there, still as damning as they were a moment earlier. "Ay, no," he mumbles, sitting down heavily. He only remains for a brief while, however, knowing that he needs to leave, that soon techs will be by ensuring that he's vacated the so-called new champion's locker room.
He wanders, once he finds himself out of the room, his bag dangling from his hand. Down hallways, through groups of staff making sure the show concludes successfully, outside. His car is nearby, he can see it gleaming in the lights overhead, but he walks past it and down a sidewalk, not minding the weight of his bag in his hand or the people who recognize him and mutter, whispering behind their hands. Some yell at him, but he doesn't stop, nor turn to look. All that keeps replaying in his mind is Ricardo's tweet to Cena. Has he secretly been bitter towards me this entire time, or is he merely just holding true to our professional dissolution? He walks until his legs throb, already aching from the match, then has to turn around and backtrack to the arena to get his car, but he barely notices because, really, it's always been the emotional agony that has far exceeded the physical.
Their hotel room is dark, quiet, when he limps inside, and he's vacantly thrown to see that the clock says it's nearly midnight. He releases a faint breath, drops his bag by the door and wanders inside, comforted immediately by the familiar sound of Ricardo's steady breathing. But the former ring announcer isn't in the bed, and Alberto's eyes furrow as he tracks each inhale and exhale, finally spotting him nearby on the sofa. He smiles faintly, knowing that he sits up for Alberto and tends to fall asleep if he's out too late, wandering closer to him with a sad gleam in his eyes as he wonders how many times he's come home to a similar sight. Resting his hand on top of Ricardo's head, he strokes his hair lightly and leans in, kissing his forehead before he spots the iPad resting on his chest.
Tugging it from his slack fingers, he settles it on the nearby table and sits down next to Ricardo, unsurprised when he automatically curls in close to Alberto, his fingers tangling into the folds of his scarf. Somewhere along the line, the ring announcer must wake up because he murmurs, "El Patron?"
"Mm hmm." They sit quietly for a moment, Ricardo's breathing warm against Alberto's throat, the Mexican aristocrat's fingers gentle against his scalp, but finally he pulls back- not enough to escape Alberto's touch, but just enough to look up- and catches his eye.
"I'm sorry you lost tonight."
Alberto says nothing for a long moment, his fingers stilling against Ricardo's hair. "Right," he says lowly, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the couch, suddenly exhausted to the bone. He reconsiders having not just going to bed and leaving Ricardo to sleep here.
Ricardo's eyes widen at the subtle disbelief in his voice before glancing at his iPad. Realization and shame courses through him as he realizes. "Maldita sea, I forgot- you have text alerts on your phone."
"Si," Alberto confirms wearily.
"I- I... No, no, no, El Patron, I deleted those tweets! I realized how pathetic it was, I- they're gone, I swear to you. I didn't... didn't mean it like that, I just thought it would confirm to people that we are truly done and over with on a professional level. I don't enjoy for one moment that you've lost your title, I know how much it means to you, por favor-" He scrambles, leaning over Alberto to collect his iPad and show him that he's being honest, the tweets are gone, but Del Rio doesn't let him move, wrapping an arm around his chest and holding him in place. "Eh, El Patron-"
He chuckles slowly and shifts to look at Ricardo, a tired smile on his face. "Relax, mi valiente. Yes, at first the words were like a punch to my gut, but I do not hold them against you. I realized what you were trying to accomplish while I was driving here... Besides, after everything I have done and said that hurt you since we orchestrated this entire thing, I have no place to hold an impulsive tweet against you. Especially one that you apparently deleted as soon as you realized how wrong it was." He lightly strokes his fingers down Ricardo's palm and leans closer to him. "Just, no matter what happens from here on..."
Ricardo blinks, shuddering a little at the squirmy, tickling sensation traveling down his wrist, while staring at Alberto. "Si?"
"Never tweet anything pro-Cena again, si, mi valiente?"
"Si, definitely not," he agrees easily, smiling when Alberto kisses him.
"Let's go to bed now, this sofa is horrible." Alberto smiles as Ricardo nods eagerly and gets off of him, holding a hand out to the older man. Lacing his fingers with Ricardo's, he allows himself to be pulled upright and the two of them walk side by side to the bed to get some proper sleep before Raw tomorrow, Del Rio determined to get his title back somehow, someway.