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“Dunno what I’m doing anymore.”
Ruben sighs. “Joao..”
“No. I- I don’t know how els to say it, I.. I can’t go back to Atleti. I can’t go back to- to Madrid, I-I can’t.”
“You don’t have to. You- you can force a move, you can-“
“The- the fans hate me. Have you seen? They hung a fucking effigy of me outside the stadium. They’d kill me befode I could even request a transfer, I-“
“Then stay at Barça. Stay and- and let them help you.” Bernardo suggests. Joao just laughs.
“You don’t understand. Not- not every club has City money, you optimistic fuck. It doesn’t- it’s not that easy.”
“Does it have anything to do with Cristiano?”
Joao had forgotten Diogo was even there. He whirls, screwing his eyes shut. “I-I.. No, of course not. I’m- I’ve moved past it, okay? I’m-“
“You were yelling in your sleep,” the Liverpool man interrupts, his eyes narrowing. “You were yelling his name. You were terrified-“
“Shut up, He spits, “you- you don’t know anything. You can’t possibly-“
“He’s a monster. I can know that- we all know that.”
Joao screws his eyes shut. “What is this, an intervention??”
“You called us here.”
Joao glares across the room at Ruben, who is still leaning against the AC unit with his perfectly innocent, kind look. Bernardo, on the other hand, was pissed.
“We’ve seen what he does to you- the whole team has. They worship him like a god in Madrid. Is that-“
“YES! Yes, of fucking course it’s a reason, I can’t- I can’t go anywhere without seeing his face. Yeah. Yeah, it is, are you happy now?”
Diogo walks up behind him, puts a hand on his shoulder. Joao doesn’t even think, whirls around with a hand outstretched and-
“Oh my god.”
“Joao, what the fuck?!”
“Dio!”
It’s a blur. All of it- the world spins around him as Diogo crumples to the floor, and suddenly he’s shoved aside into the wall as two of his closest friends rish to Diogo’s side.
Joao liked Diogo. He really did- they’d been friends for years, roommates for half that time.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
Joao snaps back into reality, eyes blown wide as Bernardo gets off his knees and shoves him back into the wall. He can’t move, wouldn’t fight back if he could as Bernardo, in a furious mix of Portuguese and English, starts screaming at him.
It’s only then that it finally hits him.
Diogo was on the ground.
Diogo was barely conscious.
Joao had punched him.
“Bernardo, calm down, he-“
“NO! You don’t fucking hit your friends, you fucker! I get it, your boyfriend or whatever is a shithead and doesn’t want you, and nobody at Atleti wants you, but that gives you no right to PUNCH Diogo, you fucking piece of shit!”
The voice fades. The voice fades because Joao’s running, he’s flinging the door open while muttering an incoherent stream of “imsorryimsorryimsorry,” but he doesn’t cry.
He doesn’t.
He hears Bernardo shouting at him as he half-sprints, half-stumbles down the hall.
Atleti doesn’t want you. Cris doesn’t want you. Atleti doesn’t want you. Cris doesn’t-
“Jesus.”
He needs a voice he recognizes- that’s what he tells himself. What he makes himself believe is the real reason he stumbles into Cristiano Ronaldo’s hotel suite, the older man characteristically shirtless as he catches the tumbling man in his arms.
He knows Cris will still be angry after Joao’s disobedience in telling his friends about their relationship. He knows that, his mind trying to tell him ghat the second Bernardo realizes what he’s done, he’ll freak out, come looking for him.
But he doesn’t stop. Lets Cristiano pull him into his arms, run his hands through his hair soothingly.
“See? I told you,” he says, “they do not understand. Nobody understands what we have,”
If he was thinking straight, maybe Joao would think it was funny that Cris assumed their only topic of conversation had been the Madeiran, that he had to be the reason for their dispute. It was true, partially.
“‘m sorry,” he sobs, “‘m so sorry. ‘m sorry.”
“Good. I’m glad you understand.”
And then a familiar pair of hands wrap around him and drop him onto a too-soft matress, before coming to rest around his neck.
“Wait- no, no, please, I said I’m sorr-“
“Just relax,”
“Cr- no, please, wait-“
And then they tighten. They tighten around his throat and the only thing Joao can see is Cristiano’s irritated face as, almost immediately, his vision blurs.
He tries to plead, silent words streaming past his lips in a weak attempt to reason with the man. His eyes fall shut and, even in his half-conscious state, he feels his trousers being pulled down and off of him, feels the way his boxers are torn away.
“This is a mercy.” He hears, “I am helping you. If you were awake, it would be far worse. Do not worry, little bird- it will be okay.”
“Please,” he whispers, his hands clawing at Crietiano’s in desperation as the gaze settles in.
“You told me you understood. So you need to be punished, no? You must understand. This is for your own good.”
“No- no, please, please,”
“Joao. Relax. It will all be okay.”
Those are the last words he hears before his world fades to darkness.
———
“You fucking IDIOT!”
Bernardo winced as Diogo shoved him back, fury in his eyes. “He was finally opening up. He was finally- he was finally talking.”
“He- I’m sorry, oh god..”
“You sent him into his arms- you fed him to that bastard on a fucking plate! Do you have any idea what- what he’s gonna do to him? He-“
“Dio. Stop.”
Diogo doesn’t want to stop. He wants to rip Bernardo a new one, wants to scream at him until he begs for forgiveness- but not from him, never from him.
From Joao.
“You told him that nobody wanted him. You told- fuck. Oh my GOD, how-“
“I- I wasn’t thinking! I- he just- he hit you and-“
“And it wasn’t his fault! He didn’t hear me. He didn’t know I was coming- but you wouldn’t know. If you saw the things that- that bastard did to him, you’d understand it. Why- why he’s jumpy, why he’s always so fucking afraid. He was scared, Bernardo, and instead of comforting him you screamed in his face!”
Ruben winces, steps between the two men. “You two arguing won’t do anything.”
“Yeah? Then let me fucking-“
Ruben slams a hand over Diogo’s mouth, and the Porto man glares up at the defender, whose eyes are hardened.
“You can do that later. But- but right now, let’s get Joao, yeah? Where-“
“Cristiano’s. It’s the only place he’d go. Fuck- shit!”
It was like some sort of realization fell over all of them at once.
“He’s gonna be so pissed,” Joao had said, “He- he doesn’t want me to tell you. Any of you- he’s gonna be so angry, oh god.. I- I shouldn’t-“
“No. Joao, please-“ Ruben had pleaded, before Diogo interrupts. “Talk to us. We can deal with Cris later, please- you’ve not said a word to anyone but fucking Ronaldo in three days.”
“He’ll kill me. He knows, he- he’ll know, he probably already does, oh god he’ll-“
“Joao,” Bernardo had sighed. “We won’t let him hurt you. We won’t.”
“You don’t understand,” the youngest of them had insisted, “you- none of you understand. He won’t kill me, he’ll- he’ll do something worse. I know it.”
“Joao-“
“No. No, I- I need to go now. I need to-“
Ruben had stepped in front of him as he turned to leave, watched as he’d crumpled to the floor and sobbed like a maniac. Took him in his arms, rubbed a comforting hand over his back.
“Shit,” Diogo hissed. “Oh, shit, shit-“
Nobody was thinking anymore.
They all bolted- it wasn’t hard to find Cris’s room. It was common knowledge- he got the suite on the floor above, near all the coaches.
The walls were soundproofed up there.
“Shit,” Ruben mutters. The three men round the stairs as quick as they can, their hearts beating in tandem, a rapid, heavy pace.
“What if he’s-“
“Don’t,”
“But-“
“No. No, he’s gonna be okay, he’s fine. Has to be.”
“He- he has to be.”
———
Pain.
It was all Joao could feel. His arms, his back, his legs, his head- god, his head.
He knew he was bleeding. Knew that the wet liquid matted in his hair and dripping down his thighs was intentional, a means of leaving a mark.
It burns.
It’s all he can think- he can’t open his eyes, definitely can’t move his limbs. And there’s a hand in his hair, he can feel it.
“See? Was not so bad,”
The voice sounds like it’s from another planet. Like one of those videos of people shouting into a canyon, their voices bouncing off walls- that what it sounds like.
“You are-“
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang-
“Shit.”
And he’s hauled up again, the pain exploding once more. He’d scream if he could.
He can barely make out what’s happening. Hears a door opening, and then a dull pain shooting through his body as it hits the ground, before whatever but of light he’d been able to see through his eyelids disappears and a lock clicks.
He lets the darkness take him again.
———
“It’s one in the morning,” Cristiano sighs as he opens the door, “What-“
“Where’s Joao?”
“..Huh?”
“Joao. Where is he? What did you do to him?”
Cristiano’s always been a manipulative bastard- the three of them know that. Ruben has to keep a hand on Diogo’s shoulder to keep him from lunging into the room.
“I..I’m sorry? I don’t understand-“
“Where is he?! Open the fucking door-“
Ruben sighs. “Cris. Can you please let us in? Dio and Ber are just- they’re worried.”
“I understand. What happened to Joao?”
“We can’t find him.”
Cristiano’s eyes widen. His shock is.. convincing. It’s incredibly convincing.
“You hurt him. You- Let us in or-“
Ruben shoves Bernardo back, similarly to what he did to Diogo.
“Cris.”
“Ruben, I’m.. sorry. I’ve not gotten much sleep and I need to be ready for the game tomorrow.”
“Surely a quick look wouldn’t hurt?”
“I’m afraid not- he isn’t here. I can call security for you, help you look.”
Now, neither Diogo nor Bernardo were large men, per se. A poachy forward and a number 8 have no reason to be necessarily huge- but, both being under 5’10, they have other strengths.
For example, as Bernardo demonstrates by leaping over Ruben’s arm and racking Ronaldo to the floor, jumping.
Ruben doesn’t stop him this time.
Diogo considers assisting him, but it seems the City man has it covered. Despite their half a foot height difference, Ronaldo’s covering his face and crying out as Bernardo’s fists rain down.
“Check the bathrooms,” Ruben says, “I’ll get the bedroom.”
Diogo nods. “If- if you find him, don’t- don’t touch him.”
“Got it.”
And they split.
———
“—can’t find him—“
“—not be here?—“
“—iogo, calm down—“
“—already fucking killed—“
“—nowhere else—“
“—shit!—“
Joao can barely make the words out.
His head is against some wall, and all he can feel is the vibrations as heavy footsteps echo around the room. Their shouts get louder, the fear amplifying tenfold after each empty room.
“Oh god. Ruben, what if he’s- oh god..”
Diogo. Oh, god- it’s Diogo. Diogo’s crying. Diogo’s crying because of him.
Joao tries to suck in a breath and scream- all that comes out of it is a gargled mess and the feeling of molten nails down his throat.
“Jo? Jo- please, if you can hear me, just- something. Anything, to- to let me know you’re hear, I-“
He wants to. He wants to, and they’re so close, and they’re right on the other side of that fucking door and-
“I fucking told you he wasn’t here, you psychopaths!”
And then it’s Cris again.
“Shut up,” Diogo spits, “Tell me where he is. Tell me where-“
“He isn’t here! You’re fucking insane, all of you!”
No. No- he’s here, he’s right here, don’t leave, please don’t leave-
“He might not be here, Dio.” Ruben sighs.
“No. No- you’re wrong. You’re wrong!”
He doesn’t know what it is, where it comes from- the tiny bit of strength that allows him to lift his head up- just a tiny bit, less than two inches- and drop it back down. It makes a tiny, tiny thud as it hits the door.
“You- did you hear that?”
Ruben’s recognizable sigh repeats. “Diogo. He.. We’ve looked everywhere-“
“No- you- I heard something. Bernardo, shut him up!”
There’s a cry of pain, and then it falls silent again. This is his chance, this is- this is his opportunity-
But he can’t.
No matter how much his mind screams, how much he tries, he can’t lift his head. He can’t. He tries- so, so hard, but nothin happens. He doesn’t even notice the sob leaves his lips.
“THERE! That- it happened again. You heard that, right?!”
“..I- yeah. I did. Joao? Joao-“
“You son of a BITCH, where are you hiding him?!”
That’s Bernardo’s voice- it only then dawns on him that they’re all there. That Bernardo and Diogo had been screaming at him and practically unconscious respectively less than an hour ago, and here they are, searching for him.
“He isn’t here,” groans that damned voice. Joao feels the tears slip down his cheeks once more as more thuds sound throughout the room.
“Jesus- don’t kill him, Ber,” Ruben mutters. “I- I’ll check the bedroom again.”
———
Diogo is the first one that spots the toy chest.
There’s a padlock on it, and it’s shoved up against a wall and covered with clothes haphazardly, almost as if someone was trying to cover something.
He rushes to it, clears the clothes off the top. “J-Joao? Joao..?”
There’s nothing. For a solid thirty seconds, there’s nothing.
And then it happens again- the airy, squeaked whine. And it’s close. And it’s right fucking there.
“Oh my god. RUBEN! RUBEN!!”
The defender is beside him in seconds. “Is he-“
“He’s in here, he’s- YOU BASTARD!” Diogo screams, half-sprinting back to where Bernardo had Cristiano flat-out and bloodied.
“There’s no key, you bitch,” he mutters, one eye swollen shut. “You had your chance. You fucked it up. He came to me.”
Diogo’s fist is swinging before he can think.
———
There’s light.
It’s just a crack, and it’s accompanied by the ear-shattering sound of wood splitting, but there’s light.
“Oh my god,” he hears, “I can- I can see him. Keep-“
It’s a strange sound- a smash mixed with a crack, and then there’s more light, and more, and more-
“Slow down, you’ll hit him with he shards!”
“There’s no other fucking way to get in! Just- just-“
“Do you think you can get him out yet?”
“Not without cutting him on the wood.”
“Then- then hurry up!”
“You just told me to slow down!”
Smash. Crack. Smash. Crack. Smash-
Crack.
“Get- oh.. oh my god. Oh my- get him out, get him out!”
And then there’s hands on him again. And he’s no longer scrunched into a ball in a tiny enclosed space, and he’s being laid gently on a soft surface, but the pain. God. The pain is terrible.
“Check- oh.. god- does he have a pulse?”
“Yes. He- he’s breathing.”
A hand wraps around Joao’s own, squeezes far too tightly. “Estamos bem aqui, estamos bem aqui,” the voice repeats, “Eu estou bem aqui.”
We’re right here. I’m right here.
“Get- we need to get him back to his room. There’s-“
“I’ll go to the physio room,” Bernardo’s voice croaks, “I’ll meet you there.”
It’s the last thing he hears before he fades again.
———
When Ruben pulls him from the toy box, Bernardo has one thought in his mind.
Joao is dead.
He killed him.
Bernardo sent him to Cristiano. Bernardo killed him.
And then Ruben lays him down, presses two fingers to his neck and nods.
“Does he have a pulse?”
“Yes. He- he’s breathing.”
And Bernardo collapses.
Joao’s completely naked, a violent, ugly bruise wrapping all the way around his neck. It’s shaped like hands. It’s shaped like Cristiano’s hands.
The conversation swirls around Bernardo, and he takes his out the second he gets it. Offers to get medical supplies, and sprints out so he can cry on his own.
Ruben has an arm around Diogo and another on Joao’s forehead, both hands shaking. Diogo’s just crying.
They both seem to notice his legs at the same time.
The yellow-green bruises running down his thighs, mixing with blood that trailed up the insides of his thighs and stops at- oh god.
“No,” Diogo chokes out, his hand gripping Joao’s tighter. “No, nonononono-“
“Dio-“
“He raped him. He raped. him, oh my god, he raped him-“
“Di..”
“Joao. Joao, wake up, please, please-“
But he doesn’t. No matter how much he begs, the fucker doesn’t open his goddamn eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” Diogo mumbles, dropping his head to Joao’s chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m so-“
And then there’s a hand. It’s running through his hair, resting at the back of his neck.
He looks up, but Ruben’s on the other side of the couch, eyes wide.
And then Diogo trails his eyes back to Joao, and his arm is around him, and he starts bawling.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry we- I promised you he wouldn’t hurt you again, I promised, I promised.”
Joao just sniffles- it’s barely audible, but Diogo hears it, head pressed to his chest.
“Dio,”
“Ye-yeah, Jo? I-“
“No’ y’r faiul’.”
And with that, his arm falls limp again. Diogo grabs it, crying out. “No- no, wait. Don’t- open your eyes! Please! Please, no, no- don’t go- don’t-“
“He’s not dying, Dio,” Ruben whispers. “Don’t.. just- let him rest. Let him-“
“I’m gonna kill him,” Diogo mumbles, slowly standing back up, pulling his hands off Joao’s still bare body. “I’ll kill that fucker with my bare hands and-“
They look up at the same time, eyes drawn to the same thing- or, more accurately, lack of a thing.
Because, despite the blood splattered on the wall by the door, Cristiano Ronaldo is gone.
———
Warm.
It’s the first thing Joao’s brain is saying when he comes to once more, when he feels the tingling sensation in his fingers as feeling slowly returns to his limbs.
The pain is less. A lot less- too much for it to be natural, but, hey. He’ll take less pain any day.
“He’s awake,” he hears. It’s just above a whisper, but immediately the warmth triples as some sort of weight piles on top of him.
“Bernardo, you’re gonna strangle him-“
“I’m so sorry,”
It’s whispered in his ear like a wish. “I’m so sorry, I- we want you. Don’t care about- about Atleti or that- that fucker. We want you. We- need you, so- so.. please be okay. I’m so.. I’m so sorry.”
“Ber,” this time it’s Ruben’s voice, “It’s not your fault. Give him space.”
It’s too bright.
That’s the first thing that he thinks when he finally successfully pries his eyes open.
“..Wh..Where-?”
“You’re back in your room,” Ruben says softly, “Diogo’s in the lobby. He’s getting you food. Can you hear me okay?”
“..Mhm. Feel weird.”
“I.. yeah. We- we- it’s been nearly six hours, you were on some pretty heavy pain meds. We had to take you to the physio- you were.. torn. In- down there.”
Joao winces, tears slipping down his face once more. “..’urts,”
“I- I know. I know, but you- you’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be alright.”
He barely hears the sound of the door opening, doesn’t realize it has until the Porto man he’s doomed with on away nights for years appears in the front hall, eyes wide and a plate of food in hand.
“..Oh my god- Joao-“
Diogo drops the plate, rushing forwards and taking the younger man’s head in his hands.
“Oh god. I- I didn’t- I thought you’d never wake up. Oh my god..”
Joao opens his mouth, but all he can form is a sob. His tongue feels like a rock, his throat burns, his eyes hurt-
“Please don’t cry,”
Joao sniffles, shakes his head. “‘m fine,” he whispers, “‘m fine.”
“No,” is the response he gets. “No, you aren’t. You- you were torn, Jo- bad. Really bad.”
“I- It’s.. it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. ‘s fine-“
“No! No, it’s not, you-“
Joao winces at the shouting, the action immediately making Diogo screw his mouth shut.
“I’m sorry. I- I’m not mad at you, okay? Nobody is.”
Joao’s eyes trail up to the gasp beneath Diogo’s eye, still raw and red. He winces again.
“‘m sorry.”
“No- Joao, don’t. You’re okay, I’m okay- you are gonna be okay. Promise.”
Joao doesn’t even notice when Ruben moves, Diogo slotting into his place. Joao drops his head to the Liverpool man’s thigh, a weak sob torn from his lips.
“It hurts. It- everything hurts.”
“I know,” Diogo whispers, tears welling in his eyes as he brushes the younger man’s hair from his face. “But- but I’m here. We’re all here, yeah? You- you’re gonna be okay.”
“..Y’promise?”
Diogo nods weakly, hand coming to cup Joao’s chin.
“Yes. Yes, I- I promise.”
That’s all Joao needs to hear, before his eyes flutter shut again.
“Okay. Just- get some rest, yeah? Just sleep.”