Alberto sighs tiredly as he stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom, resting his hands on the World title. No matter how confident he may appear, deep down inside he's aware that Sunday may not end well for him. He's alone, facing Cena, someone who he'd struggled against many times in the past. But now his title's on the line and he can't stand thinking of losing something else, giving him even less to hold onto to keep it together in this business. Yes, he had seen Ricardo at the performance center and it seemed like the plan he had put into motion nearly three months ago now was finally going in a positive direction, the younger man working hard to better himself in the ring. It had even inspired him to leave his scarf behind for his former ring announcer, remembering the promise he'd made him almost a year ago, but he wishes that he could do more to help him, make the long road in getting a true foothold in the business easier.
After a long, tense weekend, most of it spent in the basement of his house, where he has a custom gym, trying to prepare in every way possible for his match against Cena where he doesn't come close to working all of his frustration out before he has to leave, he arrives at the Miami arena and stares up at it, remembering months ago, winning the World title here in the first place to avenge Ricardo when the Big Show wouldn't leave him alone, partially thanks to the general manager's incompetence. It feels like it's been more than a decade ago, forget barely being a year ago... so much has changed since then. He wanders the halls, remembering that night, declaring himself and Ricardo the World Heavyweight Champions, and releases a shaky breath, certain that, wherever he may be tonight, his former ring announcer is probably also recalling it, though he doubts as fondly as he himself is in this moment.
Less than ten minutes later, his thoughts are confirmed, his steps slowing to a stop as he stares at his phone, another tweet alert from Ricardo... reflecting, same as he had been, on how Del Rio had won the title here, and questioning if perhaps he'd lose it here as well. His hands tighten around the phone, pain in his eyes as he stares at it, shaking his head grimly. He knows that a part of Ricardo may be wishing for it, and he understands on some level that he probably deserves as much, but it still hurts to think about. And it only gets worse when his match against Cena starts. He tries to fight, he does, but even with his determination to focus on the man's arm, and the level of success he achieves doing this, it doesn't change the end result. STF twisted around into the armbar just to be reversed into the Attitude Adjustment and it's all over, Del Rio's title reign slipping through his fingers as Cena wins the match and the championship.
Alberto walks numbly up the ramp, through the back, to his locker room- which, he realizes blankly, isn't his locker room anymore, his automatic access to a personal locker room disappearing along with his title and everything else. Changes into street clothes and collects his things in a fog, leaves the building and stares dully at his car for a long moment before turning sharply on his heel and walking down the street. He doesn't remember walking the whole way back to his house, nor entering the security code to open the gate, or trudging up the long, curving driveway to his front door.
He does, however, blink back to awareness when the door is pulled open before he can finish unlocking it, Sofia staring at him from the doorway. "Senor!" she cries out, troubled. "Did you... walk here?" She reaches out for him and drags him into the house, gaping. "You're freezing!" She rubs his arms through his dress shirt worriedly, staring up into his dark, lifeless eyes. "Senor, where is your car?"
"I left it," he mumbles as she draws him into the living room, leading him to the couch. She suspects that it's a good thing, considering how out of it he appears, but still... Bustling around, she finds a blanket and wraps it around his shoulders, trying to warm him back up. Not that it's bitterly cold outside, considering it's Florida, but still, it gets chilly enough at night, partially due to the proximity to the ocean.
She's more worried that he seems unaware of just how cold he had gotten. "Senor, you should've called me, I would've come and..." He shakes his head against her and she falls silent, holding him closer. "Never mind," she breathes against him, still trying to work the chill out of his skin. "It's ok, you're safe." She had been watching as he'd lost, knowing immediately that this wasn't going to end well. "Come, come." Pulling him once more to his feet, she leads him into the bathroom and prepares a warm shower for him, knowing that that'll be the best way to warm him back up, help him to hopefully relax and get rid of whatever soreness the match and that walk had caused him before settling him into bed for the night.
Standing outside of the room, listening to the water running behind her, she sorts quietly through his things and hears when his phone beeps a missed text alert, digging it slowly out of his pocket. Not intending on invading his privacy, she carefully presses a couple of buttons, trying to keep it from making noise and disturb him once she does get him to rest. She gasps softly when Alberto's missed alerts pop up and she realizes that it's a text from twitter... from what has to be Ricardo's account, the younger man thanking Cena and congratulating him. Her eyes fill with tears as she glances behind her at the door, pondering what Alberto would think if he should read this. Tempted to delete it, spare him from this at least tonight, her fingers hesitate over the menu options.
Closing her eyes, she presses the button, watching as the phone flashes the words message deleted. Poking it back into the folds of his shirt, she turns as it falls silent in the bathroom and moves to help him, her heart heavy.
Early the next afternoon, Alberto traces the beach quietly, staring out at the ocean as it laps against the sand. When he had woke up, nothing had felt the same, muted and bland, empty. He barely remembers the night before from that moment after his shoulders had been pinned to the mat, though his body is sore enough to prove that what he does remember is true- leaving his car behind and walking all the way home, allowing Sofia to take control of everything like Ricardo used to after an event when he was just too overwhelmed or exhausted to care about his own well-being, like after when Ziggler had cashed in, or any of his various losses to Sheamus or Orton or...
He closes his eyes. Sofia had been busy the night before, it seems, not wanting his car to be towed but also unable to leave him in such a state. Best he could piece together, she had called one of the WWE techs and convinced them to drive it back, paying them some unknown amount to recompense them. He smiles wryly, remembering the look in her eyes as she explained to him how his car had gotten back home safely. "You've been hanging around me too long, Sofia."
"I learned from the best, is all, Senor."
He shakes his head, sighing tiredly. I am far from the best, Sofia. That is evident... He also suspects that she did something she couldn't quite bring herself to admit to, realizing as soon as he'd gone to Ricardo's twitter profile that morning, as he had every day since August 5th, that a tweet from him had been missing from his phone. A glitch on Twitter's end, yes perhaps, it wouldn't be the first tweet not sent to his phone, which is why he had begun going to his profile like this in the first place, but he just has a feeling. Either way, he can't be mad at the housekeeper, aware she was just scared due to the state he was in the night before and trying to help him. And he can't be completely mad at Ricardo either, understanding how he feels and suspecting he would feel the same if he'd been in the younger man's shoes. Despite feeling betrayed at Ricardo congratulating and thanking one of his most annoying rivals, he knows that Ricardo's own degrees of betrayal goes much deeper than Alberto's, it being his actions and plans that had inspired all of this after all.
He's so trapped in his own thoughts and hazy memories that he doesn't look away from the crystal blue ocean until he notices movement behind him, turning sharply as though expecting an attack. The beach is all but abandoned at this hour, and he had thought he was alone, but... no. Even worse, he recognizes the people sitting higher up the sand, squinting towards Alex Riley and Ricardo before his brain catches up with the rest of him and he turns back around, not wanting to be spotted. After a moment he glances over his shoulder, realizing that Alex had gotten up and is walking towards where a line of cars are parked, leaving Ricardo behind.
Alberto blinks and looks at where his friend is sprawled out on a towel, not moving as Riley walks away from him. Every instinct in Del Rio tells him just to go, leave all of this behind and not risk frightening the younger man should he be spotted, but the longer he stays there, the more he realizes Ricardo is still and quiet, as if... Before he can stop himself, he walks the feet that had separated them and swallows, finding the ring announcer fast asleep, more than likely lulled by the sounds of the ocean and the steady warmth of the sun. Things that had always successfully soothed him in the past. He watches him for a moment before noticing a partially melted ice pack on his arm, Del Rio frowning down at it curiously as he kneels down next to him, hesitantly reaching out for the pack and easing it off of his flesh so he can look. "What's this, mi amigo?"
But he can tell as soon as the pack is gone- the younger man's skin is red from the ice, yes, but swelling and inflammation around his elbow is visible and Alberto closes his eyes, recognizing some of the damage his armbar can cause. "Ay, Ricardo," he grunts, shaking his head. He glances at him, finding him still asleep, though his brows are beginning to furrow. "I imagine your training has exacerbated what I did to you weeks back? Lo siento, mi amigo... I never intended on hindering your goals like this..."
One thing that Alberto had decided upon over the many years he'd been competing was if he was going to learn how to completely destroy something, he should also take the time to learn how to repair it... and so he had watched trainers, listened as they explained the right ways to manipulate the ligaments and muscles in arms, how to implement massage and numerous other techniques to ease pain and discomfort in the joints. He hadn't used this knowledge in years, having no need to, but he calls back on it now, glancing over at his best friend as he slowly begins running his hand over the other man's elbow, carefully searching out various problem areas, closing his eyes as he focuses on what he's doing, listening to Ricardo's breaths. "I never took the time to learn how to do this sort of thing during all of your neck injuries... or for your ankle... and I regret that now," he tells him. "And I may not know how, if it's at all possible, to repair our friendship without risking what I want for you, but I can do this much for you. I hope it helps, mi amigo."
He continues to work, careful not to wake him up, until the sound of a car door slamming echoes down the beach. He quickly recoils and picks the ice pack up, dusting sand off of it before replacing it on Ricardo's elbow. He turns fretful eyes to the younger man, relieved to find that he'd slept through all of that, before scrambling to his feet. "You'll be alright, mi amigo. Continue training and getting stronger, everything will work out for you, I have no doubt." All too aware of how time is slipping through his fingers, he walks quickly down the beach and finds a towering pile of rocks, stepping behind it and taking a breath as Alex rejoins Ricardo, resting a hand on his arm and lightly shaking him awake.
He can just hear from this distance as the ring announcer stirs and groans, looking around. "Alex?"
"Hey, man, I went to get some stuff from the car, since neither of us felt like carrying the cooler all the way down here. Got a... slightly less mushy ice pack for you. Some water too. Want anything?" he asks as he removes the ice pack and places the still frozen one in place on Ricardo's elbow.
"Wait a minute," he mutters, shifting his arm. "It doesn't hurt like before." He blinks at it before turning to look at Alex. "It actually feels... pretty good. I guess the ibuprofen and ice finally worked?" But Alberto can see a suspicious look on his face as he gingerly rotates his arm, like he doesn't believe his own words.
Not wanting to get caught, he traces the rocks further down the beach until he feels like he can leave without getting spotted by either man. He wanders around a little longer until he glances down at his watch and realizes that, even if he leaves now, he'll be a bit late for Raw. "Not that it matters," he mumbles, heading towards his car as he reflects on having to walk into that arena empty handed and share a locker room with the others, something he had never had to do without Ricardo by his side.
He hates every second of it.
Del Rio's boredom and disquiet continues on for the next few days and on Wednesday, he finds himself sitting at home, flipping through TV channels, trying to find a way to block out the silence of his house and the buzzing between his ears, wanting not to dwell still on everything he's lost or thrown away the last few months. He comes to a sudden stop on IonTV, finding Main Event on there, that stupid Los Matadores team standing in the ring, their little bull doing whatever nonsense he does, when... the camera turns and Alberto's breath catches as he realizes their opponents are that Los Locales team yet again, watching closely as the match carries on.
There are numerous tags on either side, both teams going back and forth on exchanging offense, Del Rio only distracted somewhat when Josh mentions to Miz that he'd seen him talking to Los Locales, rolling his eyes when Mike admits that he'd understood very little of what they'd said, calling back to the four years of Spanish he'd taken in high school, it reminding Alberto all too easily how that failed venture on the commentary table had hurt Ricardo, until he had interceded and convinced him to let it go, that it wasn't worth it if that was how Mike was going to act... He shakes his head, not wanting to go back down that road, all too aware that Mike's been much better to Ricardo since than Del Rio. Turning his attention back to the match, he watches as El Torito eventually gets involved and takes out Uno on the outside, leaving Dos to eat the loss as the Los Matadores celebrate, even Mike looking wary of the bull as he jumps up on the commentary desk.
Once it ends, he sighs and shuts the TV off, shaking his head at the lingering memories that Mike's comments had brought up, not helping him in forgetting even for a few minutes. He closes his eyes and releases a deep breath, leaning back against the couch as he remembers the feel of his friend's arm, still showing the lingering affects of what he'd done to him over the last month. "I hope you're feeling better, mi amigo. Happy Halloween."
After a depressingly quiet Halloween, his first one without Ricardo, who had loved the holiday and spent hours carving pumpkins or watching as many horror movies as he could fit in around their WWE schedules, Alberto makes the drive to Smackdown. He even pulls up in the arena's parking lot and stares up at the building. But that's as far as he gets. He had been avoiding doing anything that would require him to be in the main locker room with all of the other superstars, missing his personal locker room. Yes, he had been forced to spend time there in the past when even his influence and money couldn't open up a personal locker room for him, the accommodations much better the couple of months he'd been WWE champion back in 2011. And the three months he'd spent as World champion the first time, and the four months now, in that room, had been both some of the best and worst times of his career.
In the past, he would ordinarily have had Ricardo go and convince the general manager to set aside a room specially for him, designed just the way he likes it, but he's alone now and he's much too subdued and tired to want to hash over yet another insignificant detail like that with Vickie Guerrero, especially after the past few weeks, his blood boiling as he remember her glee at degrading him when it came to the John Cena subject to begin with.
So, shaking his head wearily, he starts the car back up, drives out of the parking lot and turns towards the highway that will take him back to his home in Miami. He doesn't look back once.