Friday had been stressful enough but the next night makes it all much, much worse. Alberto Del Rio is attempting to relax in a bar, watching UFC and trying not to only dwell on how much he's missing the constant presence of Ricardo by his side, remembering all of the events they'd watched together over the years, usually having friendly wagers over who would win or lose the numerous contests. It's not the same but he's trying to keep up the pretense by being his usual self, acting up his investment in each match, when he feels eyes on the back of his neck. Not a foreign sensation, considering; he still finds himself looking around, but doesn't see anything out of the ordinary so he turns his attention back to the large screens.
Between matches, he gets tired of sitting there so, standing, he heads for the bathrooms on the other side of the bar to splash some water on his face when he accidentally bumps into someone near a pool table, turning as they apologize to him. As soon as their eyes lock, however, he realizes with a shock that it's The Miz he's just stumbled into, the shorter man quickly rescinding his apology with an angry sneer. Alberto glares down at him, this the last thing he needs tonight. "Do you have a problem, Miz?" he asks, barely focusing on what he's saying- insulting the game they're visibly about to start- as he glances around, curious about where Ricardo is now, if he's here too...
Unfortunately, Mike notices this and steps into his line of sight. "Looking for someone? Maybe Ricardo? You think I'd put him within your reach ever again, so you can finish what you started two weeks ago?" His laughter adds to Del Rio's turmoil after this and the Mexican aristocrat snarls, trying to hold his temper in as he reminds himself that Mike had been there for the ring announcer without fail since he'd made his decision almost two weeks earlier, finally stepping up and being the friend to the younger man that he can't be any longer.
But when Mike starts talking about Ricardo being too good of a friend for him, Alberto snaps back about Mike's own track record, remembering how hurt Ricardo had been upon the fallout of the commentary nonsense for Main Event while he pointedly looks over at Riley and Morrison, who are watching their argument on the other side of the table, tense and waiting in case Mike should need their assistance.
"He forgave me for what I did because I never EVER threw away everything he did for me by trying to kick his head off of his shoulders!" Mike responds heatedly, eyes flashing before he glances around and shakes his head, pushing past Del Rio towards the exit.
Alberto looks around as well, noticing how people surrounding them are watching, squinting warningly at them. "Mind your own business, peasants," he snaps before following the Most Must See Superstar outside, slamming the door open and pushing him. "You don't know what you're talking about, perro!"
Mike stumbles but regains his balance, turning back to Del Rio and demanding an explanation from him, but Alberto is so angry, he can't think straight, much less figure out what to say that wouldn't risk everything he'd put into motion regarding Ricardo. "I thought so," he mutters, trying once more to leave, but something, red hot anger, comes over Alberto: He lunges out and grabs him by the arm, spinning him around again.
This proves to be a mistake as Mike swings out instinctively in response, landing a solid punch to the side of Del Rio's face, staggering him and sending him into the bar's brick wall, where he slides down, the rough surface scraping against his skin unforgivingly. He slumps there for long, speechless moments, touching his face carefully while staring up at Miz in shock, his whole face throbbing. This wakes him up from the fog of anger, remembering sharply that for once he doesn't want to fight Mike, especially when he's probably the main thing holding Ricardo together right now. Besides he notes then that others have come out to watch, and as Mike gasps for breath over his prone body, his eyes dark and troubled, the members of 3MB get between them, separating them long enough for John and Alex to get ahold of Mike and drag him away from the bar.
"You alright?" Heath asks Del Rio, who's still barely focused on anything outside of the swelling he can feel already growing along his eye and cheek, breathing deeply as he tries to contain his rage while watching Miz and his friends stumble away. "What the hell was his deal anyway?"
Grunting, he forces himself back up to his feet after a few more moments and looks dispassionately at the three men, relieved to see that the rest of the crowd had returned inside, growing bored once the fight had ended about as quickly as it'd begun. He replays the past ten minutes in his head and sucks in a deep breath, shaking his head. He nor Mike have the best control of their tempers, and Ricardo had always been the one to pay in the past. Not this time, he thinks, taking a breath. "I'm fine. And I'm going to make you three a deal," he grits out, finding that even talking that little amount hurts, his whole face feeling raw.
"What kinda deal?" Heath asks, immediately intrigued as dollar signs float in front of his eyes.
"I'll pay for... for recording sessions at a local studio for you three if you do something in return," he says, struggling still to focus his vision as 3MB discusses his offer.
"What do you want us to do?" Jinder speaks up, glancing over at his other bandmates with a smirk as they clap him on the back, in agreement that they want this.
"Want you each to spread stories of what happened here tonight to explain this," he spits out, vaguely waving a hand at his own face, aware that it's going to look pretty rough in the morning, if it doesn't already. "Whatever details you feel the need to tell, just make it believable. And keep Miz's name out of it. Comprehende?" The three men all look confused but nod readily as soon as they see the green of his money, Del Rio leaving individual stacks of it in each man's outstretched hands. Mumbling in Spanish, he staggers to the parking lot and locates his car, sitting behind the steering wheel and breathing deeply until he feels more stable, his eyes not crossing any longer. He has no love lost for Miz, far from it, but the last thing Ricardo needs is to lose another key piece of support in the business because of something so stupid.
So he keeps his head down, barely discusses what happened or the various stories that 3MB pass around, and sneers through the lingering pain when commentary at Summerslam claims he received his black eye from the Unprettier Christian had hit on him the Friday prior. He smirks further when he notices the Mexican flags he'd demanded be put on all four corners for his matches from here on or else, mostly just to distract the nosy tech backstage who had tried to ask him which of the stories about what had happened to him were true. He ultimately retains his title belt, defeating Christian, and even though he'd received a broken nose on top of everything else, he can't help but feel relief. Addressing the crowd, he goes on about what a good night it is, that he is still champion, their hero. The Latino community's hero... and yes, he had tried, since before Swagger, to be a good champion, despite everyone cheering for Ziggler and even Swagger, at times, no matter every malicious thing the xenophobe had done to Ricardo and Del Rio around Wrestlemania. The crowd doesn't seem to really take to it, but he shrugs it off, returning backstage. They'll see in time, he thinks determinedly, clinging to the title as tightly as he can.
He's on his way to his personal locker room when he looks up from the hallway floor for the first time all night, wrestling boots skidding against the tiles as he realizes, stares at the room next to his. It's marked with a simple name plate that says Summerslam Host, Del Rio wincing as he approaches the door, swallowing thickly. He knows Ricardo had been in the building, aware of the man's Axxess schedule, and he wonders if he's inside with Miz or Alex... if he'd even bothered watching his match, listening to his promo, or... He closes his eyes and rests his sweaty hand against the wood, his eyebrows furrowing sadly as he wishes things could be simple again, so he could just run inside and talk to the man, be comforted by him as he had so many times in the past.
"Ay," he grunts, sadly aware that it's impossible as he pries himself away and disappears into his own locker room, shaking his head.
His face is nothing but throbbing pain the next morning, his eye blood red probably from a burst blood vessel and he grunts, staring at himself in the mirror. "Gracias, Miz," he grumbles, trying to make himself look as presentable as possible. Well, no one would be able to deny I'm a fighting champion, he decides with glum pride while collecting his things to head to the arena.
When he arrives, he's relieved to see his match for the evening is against Sin Cara, barely blinking at the lack of a challenge that particular man provides him. That is, until he dives out of the ring onto Del Rio within the first minute of their match, clonking their heads together and only adding to Alberto's growing frustration and pain. He all but explodes when the match is stopped almost immediately after Sin Cara calls for the referee, the trainer coming to check on him. Rolling back into the ring after them, Alberto kicks his opponent violently, barely minding as the referee pushes him bodily away, screaming at him.
I can compete with my face looking like this, but he can't even work through a broken finger? Patetico! he thinks, chest heaving with annoyance until finally Sin Cara's dragged out of the ring. Del Rio immediately motions for a mic, once more telling the crowd how he's their hero, about to speak further when something interrupts his thought process- a familiar voice, his breath seizing in his chest as he looks up the ramp, finding Ricardo standing there for the first time in two weeks exactly. It's the first time he's seen his best friend since that slight glimpse outside of the hotel room the week prior, and he can't understand what the younger man is saying for a moment.
Until it clicks, Alberto unable to do anything but watch on, his face dark and sad as Ricardo explains that Del Rio is no hero to him, nor to the Latino community. That he is happy to not represent Del Rio any longer, that he has found someone else to stand alongside, someone who will truly stand for people. When Rob Van Dam's music hits, Alberto can't comprehend it even as the highflyer comes out and smirks down the ramp at him, heading down towards the ring to confront him. He can barely take his eyes off of Ricardo, the smile on the man's face that he hadn't seen there in a very, very long time, but he's forced to when RVD rolls into the ring, Alberto meeting him with punches and knees, trying to keep him down. However his lingering shock works against him, Van Dam quickly regaining control and spinkicking him in the skull, Del Rio floundering as he hits the mat and hurriedly leaves the ring, unable to do anything but watch from the ramp as Ricardo joins his new associate and the two of them stare down at him from the ropes, taunting him with the thumb motions in concert.
Alberto staggers up the ramp, hugging the title close to his chest as he tries to get away from the vision of his best friend working alongside one of the many targets on his back- the very man he'd lost against the night he'd attacked Ricardo so viciously, tears prickling at his eyes, only adding to his pain as the salty liquid irritates his injuries.
The rest of the night is a blur, Del Rio going through the motions as if underwater, barely registering anything around him. He swallows hard when he sits down in the rental car driver's seat a little over an hour later, glancing over at the empty seat where Ricardo would ordinarily sit. Wonders if this means he'll be traveling with RVD, splitting hotel rooms with him, perhaps even moving back to LA to be close to his new client. As hard as the past few weeks had been, the very thought of Florida as a whole without even the knowledge that the younger man is nearby hurts worse than most everything else he'd had to do alone since he'd left him behind in the trainer's office. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," he breathes out, clenching his hands around the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white. "Por que... Ricardo... I just wanted to... to... free you. I didn't mean for you to hate me so thoroughly... Though I suppose I don't blame you."
He shudders and slowly pulls out of the parking lot, driving towards his hotel room, his emotional pain making the physical seem like nothing.
After keeping to himself as much as media events will allow, he slips into the Smackdown arena that Friday, once more keeping his head down as he ventures to his locker room. He remembers this place well, it being the very arena he had debuted in three years ago with Ricardo by his side. It had only clicked with him when he'd begun to drive here after Raw that it had been this city, this date, somehow making this whole week feel ten times worse. His face is slow to heal, the black eyes still dark and ugly, but much worse than that, the last thing he wants is to run into Ricardo and/or RVD right now, here, only just noticing the rematch against Christian listed on the board near the gorilla. He gingerly touches his nose, remembering how badly that match had exacerbated his injuries, not looking forward to seeing what the rematch will do.
Thankfully, it's not as grueling as the Summerslam match had been, though it's not as short as the match against Sin Cara, despite his intentions. He even forgets about his face for a bit, desperate to put Christian away, headbutting his opponent repeatedly and dazing himself. When another pinfall attempt gets him nowhere, he strikes out and slaps the Mexican flags he'd demanded to have off of the ringpost on one side, glaring down at the scattered remnants on the floor in some annoyance. Applying the armbar from the turnbuckle, he struggles on until Christian finally taps, relieved to leave the man sprawled lifelessly on the mat as he once more addresses the WWE Universe, going on in some spiel about how they're peasants, should follow him, barely paying any mind to his own words as his face throbs anew with each utterance, eyes watering from the pain and unceasing bright lights overhead.
He's almost done, about ready to leave the ring, holding his title up in success, when he hears again- familiarity, the voice of his ring announcer mockingly saying his name. He looks up and over, watching as Ricardo walks out onto the ramp, telling him to stop, that he nor these people would be following him. Nor would this man, who, he makes sure to add, doesn't look down on people... Alberto swallows, unable to look away from the grim look in Ricardo's eyes at these words, only distracted when RVD comes out, the two men walking together towards the ring. He's about to turn, get out of there, when he's met by a dropkick from a lurking Christian, who then trades places in the ring with Van Dam.
Del Rio is prone, holding his face, as RVD appears over him, disappearing for only a moment before landing on top of him in a brutal rolling thunder where most of his weight lands on Alberto's arm, the world champion quickly escaping the ring and flopping onto the ramp, unable to do anything but watch as his best friend collects his title from where he'd dropped it in the melee. He can do nothing as the two men mock him from the ring, Ricardo and RVD holding onto his title as he struggles to his feet, still watching in disbelief as Ricardo urges him to come take his belt back, Alberto's strength leaving him as he once more drops to his knees on the ramp, eyebrows furrowed while he grips his throbbing arm.
He rages backstage, kicking everything in sight until the referee from his match against Christian approaches him, looking hesitant. "Eh, Del Rio?" When the champion spins around, face bruised and wet, a conflicting combination of anger and sadness in his dark eyes, he flinches away but holds out the gold belt that had been Alberto's dream since he'd first been signed to WWE, swallowing as the man braces himself to keep from losing it on the referee, reaching out for it. "Ricardo Rodriguez asked me to give it to you." Alberto stares at him, thinking perhaps his friend had begun to regret his actions, when the referee continues to talk. "He, uh, also asked me to give you a message... that RVD will be wearing that belt soon, once he beats you at Night of Champions."
Alberto's hope dwindling, he merely stares down at the referee until he scampers away, leaving the champion with his belt and heavy thoughts, feeling nothing but agony as he trudges back to his locker room, wanting just to leave this place, his thoughts and feelings, and the memories here behind. Alas, it isn't to be.
He's once more outside of that bar, the whole place looking strange and unlike how it had that night that Miz had laid him out, leaving him laying against the bricks, but he can just tell that's where he's at, though he can't see some of it fully, as if in a fog. But it's clear when something presses against his throat, leaving him struggling to free himself, his breathing hindered as someone leans over him, digging their knee against his wind pipe viciously.
He scrabbles, clawing at the person's pants, when it clicks with him, the rough feel of dress pants- Ricardo's dress pants, suddenly able to see the ring announcer clearly as he stares into Alberto's eyes, an unusually evil sneer on his young face. "El Patron," he mocks. "Is there something wrong? Do you miss me?"
He can't answer, unable to do anything but stare as Ricardo peers down at him, eyes cast in shadows. He sees no kindness anywhere.
"I don't miss you," the ring announcer spits out. "Who could ever miss a spiteful, unlikeable person such as you?" His knee disappears, hands replacing it as he leans in closer to his former employer. "Miz was right, you are a horrible friend. You deserve to be left with nothing." Pushing him until he slumps against the side of the building bonelessly, he turns without a backwards glance and lifts something from the ground, walking away from Del Rio as he stares on helplessly from the ground, unable to do anything while Ricardo walks further and further away.
"No," he moans, blinking- just for RVD to appear, Ricardo stopping in front of him and handing the item in his hands over, Alberto realizing with a shock that it's his title, Ricardo lifting the highflyer's hand in victory as somehow Del Rio can see the nameplate perfectly even from this distance, the three words gracing it now reading Rob Van Dam.
"NO!" he yells out, thrashing harder and waking up on a strangled gasp, fighting out of the sheets and sitting up wildly, staring into the darkness as he struggles to catch his breath, scrambling at his throat until he realizes- he's in bed, not outside some bar and he hadn't seen Ricardo since leaving the arena earlier. Still, he feels desperately unsettled and he flicks a lamp on, relieved when its light immediately reflects off of the title belt on the bedside table, Del Rio sinking back against his pillows as he cradles his face in trembling hands, remembering the look on his former ring announcer's face, the words he had spat in the dream that Del Rio can't deny. "What have I done?" he murmurs, shaking.
