Work Text:
Morristown, 19 July
The cab's door clicked open with a soft sound. Nico got off with a sluggish move and didn't even spare a glance at the retreating vehicle. He let his feet wander without thinking until they stopped in front of a wooden bench. It creaked faintly when he lowered himself on it with a deep sigh.
He finally had time to look at the surroundings. The park was empty as far as he could see, save for the sounds of the breeze through the leaves and the low hum of lights along the path. New Jersey in summer was humid, and even in the cooler night air, it still carried that sticky warmth.
This American town—what was the name again?—was decent. He had stupidly thought every corner of the States either looked like NYC or LA. Bustling, rushing, full of rhythm and noise, moving very fast with its lively people. Kansas City was a bit slower than those mega cities, but it wasn't the same as this quiet, homey town that he'd called home for the last few days. It also had a nice park.
Unfortunately, what he felt right now was far from nice.
He shouldn't be here. He should be at the hotel, maybe drinking with other seniors or just calling his family, mourning the defeat. Instead, he'd slipped out past the tight security (thanks to the average zero football knowledge of those Americans and his unrecognizable name), hailed the first cab he saw and asked the driver for the nearest park.
His mind is floating back to the match. The final against his home country.
It'd been so close. 120 minutes and Argentina could have the fourth star.
Nico closed his eyes, pulling his hoodie more down as the burning memory rushed in without permission.
He wasn't playing at all, tucked in on the bench in his pre-match kit under the purple bib, watching his teammates fighting tooth and nail for the fourth title. He didn't even feel hurt at Enzo's red card or when Spain's winning goal tore the net. What hurt him more was the fact that he watched it all unfold from the bench, couldn't help anything, couldn't at least try to make a contribution.
No tears had fallen from his eyes, not even when he watched Messi's eyes shining with sorrow as the team faced the sea of white and blue with runner-up medals hanging around their necks like a badge of shame.
"Don't take it seriously, pibe. Whoever wins on Sunday still makes you win, since you're technically both."
Licha's words days ago came up to his mind, and Nico let out a hollow laugh. If only he could take it as easy as it was being said. His phone suddenly buzzed, but Nico didn't bother to check it. Probably some of the staff, Licha or Lea Paredes. Could be his mother too. Obviously not Paulo since that man must be too sad to call right now.
"I love both countries, but I decided to represent Argentina. I think it's the country that represents me the most, because of how football is experienced there and because of my father."
His own words years ago echoed in his head and felt like thousands of needles into his skin. His mother could have a world champion son if Nico had chosen Spain instead. But he insisted for Argentina, promising to make Álvaro proud even if he didn't represent his country.
He'd promised to make Paulo proud. But now he had let Leo Messi down, the fans in the stands down. He let the country he'd been trying so hard to prove he belonged to down. And obviously, he also let his father down.
Maybe he didn't deserve any country at all.
The sounds of footsteps against gravel approaching closer, but Nico was too checked out to even lift his head. The scent of olive leaves faintly wafted his senses when a hand touched his shoulder gently. "Nico."
Nico finally lifted his head up, his hood slipped, staring emptily at the far sight, but his eyes widened when his vision came to focus on the figure before him. "...Mamá?"
Álvaro stood there, still in his Spain fans-issued jersey he wore to attend the match as an ex captain of Spain. It was a strange sight, watching his mother in an unnumbered jersey. A dark blue hat placed backward on his head was the thing that convinced Nico he was real.
A flash of mixed feelings went through Nico's heart because it reminded him how his mother had never experienced a World Cup final. Suddenly he was back to 2022 when he watched Álvaro's teary eyes through the screen. His mother scored the most goals for Spain at that edition but was forced to watch his team get eliminated by a heartbreaking penalty shootout against Morocco. And now, when his country was at the peak, Álvaro didn't make it.
Mierda. Nico felt bad about how he was mourning his own failure earlier. It was nothing compared to his mother's.
Álvaro sat down without words besides him, close enough that Nico could feel the warmth radiating off him. The Omega's eyes were soft when he met them, and Nico tried to look away when his mother's hand held his face in a gentle grip, the double dark bands on his forearm gleaming under the dim light. "Stop running away, mi niño," he murmured.
Nico still cast his gaze down and let out a wet laugh. "No one's running away."
Álvaro's fingers moved to brush Nico's jaw. "You left the hotel alone and are sitting in some random park, looking like some heartbroken boy." He paused, his fingers stilled for a breath, then pulled back. "That sounds like a run for me."
Nico finally met his eyes. His mouth opened, trying to defend himself, but all he could manage was a weak sound. "It was so close."
"That's football," Álvaro said softly. "Sometimes you do everything right and it still isn't enough. That doesn't mean you failed."
"You... you shouldn't be here." Nico swallowed hard. "Why—how'd you find me?"
"I came to your hotel and Paredes said you disappeared. I had a feeling I knew where to find you." The Omega replied, "You used to run to parks when you were upset." He looked at Nico with those warm brown eyes that always saw too much.
Wetness pricked at the corners of Nico's eyes. He rarely cried and could count on one hand how many times he had, the last being months ago when he missed a last-minute penalty for Como. So he blinked it back harshly, refusing to let the tears fall.
It's too late, the dam of pent-up emotion already broke as a single tear escaped his eye. "Mamá," he whispered, head lowered. "I'm sorry."
Álvaro blinked. "Sorry for what?"
"For not choosing Spain." His voice broke, his usual cold, composed expression was nowhere to be found, replaced by sheer vulnerability. "If I had... if I'd just, you could have a World Cup winner son—" His voice trailed off, his throat tightening from the effort to hold back his tears. "Now I can't even make Papá proud. I let Argentina and him down. Maybe I am a disappointment for you both."
Nico squeezed his eyes shut and let his head drop as the confession slipped out his mouth. He hated crying, hated to let his heart be read, wanted the ground to swallow him whole so he could escape from the disappointment and pity he was sure were all etched on Álvaro's face. For a long breath, the only sound was his own shaky breathing and the faint rustle of leaves around them.
A soft and wet laugh broke the silence. Nico's head snapped up.
It came from his mother. Álvaro was laughing, really laughing, but Nico caught the shimmer in his eyes that told it was a helpless kind of laugh. "Nico," he finally said, shaking his head. "Do you hear yourself?"
"I... what?"
"Let me get this straight," Álvaro said, holding up his fingers and ticking off points. "You think you're a disappointment because you chose Argentina. You think you let your father down because his country lost. And... you think you make me upset because you didn't pick Spain, which won right now."
Nico opened his mouth and closed it right away. "I mean... yes?"
A ghost of a smile appeared on Álvaro's lips. "Nico, I had my whole career hoping to win a World Cup. I didn't. Dios, I had even only participated once." He paused, fresh tears shining in his brown eyes. "It broke my heart, I won't lie. But do you know what made it better?"
Nico only shook his head weakly.
"You." Álvaro turned to look at him, and Nico could see a tenderness flashed on those dark irises. "Watching you grow and play like us." He finally reached out, brushing a stray blond lock from Nico's forehead. "You think I care about a trophy, a gold medal, more than that? More than you?"
"But I—"
"I didn't get to lift the World Cup." Álvaro's voice was gentle. "But I got to watch you become a World Cup finalist as a twenty-one-year-old. I got to see you wear that Argentina jersey with pride, fighting for something your heart genuinely chooses." His hand cupped Nico's cheek again. "That's worth more than any trophy."
The words made something fell open inside Nico's heart. When he spoke, the words came out small and fragile from his trembling lips. "But I didn't even play. I was on the bench the whole time."
"You were in the squad and earned your place." His mother's voice was firm. "Even if you never stepped on that pitch, you still made us proud. Every single day."
Nico's chest tightened. "Does papá... does he really not blame me?"
Álvaro really looked at the young Alpha's face, noting every familiar feature it inherited. "Why should he? He's already a world champion himself." He paused, and Nico felt those glistening brown eyes gaze through his soul. "Having his own blood and flesh playing in the World Cup for his country is more than enough, Nico. He's proud, really proud of you."
A sob tore out of Nico's throat as he collapsed into his mother's arms. All the pressure of the tournament, the fear of not being enough, the guilt, and doubt and shame all came pouring out into ugly tears. Álvaro caught him easily and pulling the young Alpha close, pressing the boy's head against his shoulder. He cradled the back of his son's head with one hand like he could shield Nico from the world, letting his calming scent wrap around them. He kept holding Nico through it, gentle hands rocking Nico as if he were fourteen and crying from getting tackled back then in La Fábrica's cadete team.
"I'm sorry," Nico finally let out a whisper, stifled against his mother's shoulder. "I'm a grown-up and still crying."
"Nothing wrong with it, corazón." Álvaro's voice was a warm murmur against his hair. "There's no shame in crying, remember? You're just a human."
They stayed like that for a long time, long enough that the night air grew cooler and Nico's sobs faded into faint sniffles. Eventually, Nico pulled back, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "I'm sorry," he said again, his voice hoarse. "I got your jersey all wet."
Álvaro looked down at the damp patch on his shoulder, still faintly smelled of Nico's orchids scent and laughed. "Ay, niño. It's just a fan jersey. Not that I would be angry if it isn't."
Nico let out a watery laugh. "Thanks, Mamá. Really generous of you."
"I'm a generous man," Álvaro grinned. "Now, listen to me." He took Nico's face in both hands, forcing those green eyes, looked slightly greyish from the tears and streetlights that were very reminiscent of a certain Argentine to meet his. "You are not a disappointment. You are my son, and I am so, so proud of you."
Nico's eyes welled up again. "Even though I chose Argentina?"
Álvaro's smile was soft. "Especially because you chose Argentina." He tapped Nico's nose. "Do you know how brave that was? Choosing what your heart really wants?"
"But people said I still don't sound Argentine enough."
"They are idiots." Álvaro's tone was matter-of-fact. "Your father once said an Argentine can speak with whatever accents he wants." He smiled, those faint dimples lit up his face like they always did when he talked about Paulo. "You're Argentine because you chose to be. That's all that matters."
Nico felt his lips tugged into a smile despite himself at the mention of his father. He wondered what that man would do across the Atlantic. "I'm gonna call him later."
"You should. Now, come on." Álvaro stood up, pulling Nico to his feet which the made the boy sniffled. "We're going back to the hotel. You're gonna take a shower and eat something. Then we're gonna call your father."
"He's probably asleep."
"He's definitely not asleep." Álvaro argued. "He'd be crying and watching the highlights on repeat like a masochist. He needs to hear your voice."
"Yeah."
Álvaro threw an arm around Nico's shoulder as they walked side by side. Nico took his hand and placed it at his chest, the wedding band felt cold againts his skin. He stole a glance at Álvaro, smiling at the way they almost at the same height. His mother still had a few centimeters on him but he loved it. It still meant he could easily look at Álvaro's eyes without ducking his head like he'd always done when walking with papá.
A hard squeeze on his shoulder made him came back from his muse. Álvaro was looking him with such an amused look, lifting one brow playfully. "You are thinking about Paulo."
Nico kept his expression calm. "I'm not."
"You are, hijo." Álvaro grinned, the corner of his eyes crinkled. "You are about to laugh at his height again, aren't you?"
Nico felt his neck warmed and couldn't help but chuckle. No point lying to his very perceptive mother. "I just... love to walk with someone my height more."
A bright laugh escaped Álvaro, and he pinched Nico's cheek lightly which earned a whine from the boy. "Don't let your father hear this. He might be smaller but he would fight the world for us." he grumbled, though there's no real heat in his tone. "Besides, he's the one who gave you the pretty face and green eyes."
Nico snorted. "Yeah, and thank God he married mamá. At least I got decent height because of you."
"Nicolás." Álvaro warned. His voice having an edge of seriousness, but his face remained kind.
"I'm stopping." Nico pressed his lips into a thin line, though it didn't last long because he had another topic. "You should be celebrating with the team."
Álvaro turned his face. "Oh. I do." He unexpectedly lifted his cap and put it on in the same backward style on Nico's head. "I even got on the pitch and hugging Yamal for a long time. Hugging few others too." His lips twitched. "But I want more hugs from you and your father."
"I hate hugs." Nico said flatly.
"Oh really?" Álvaro pulled the boy into his embrace as they reached by the street. "I'm gonna hug you all night and telling stories before tucking you on bed."
"You can't be serious about that. I'm twenty one, Mamá." Nico huffed and rolled his eyes, but soon his face slipped back into his usual calm and composed facade as he stopped a cab. They climbed to the seat and it was Álvaro who'd given the address to the driver.
Nico pulled out his phone and unlocked it, wincing a bit at the brightness, his eyes still felt tight and sore from crying. The first message that popped out was none other than from a contact named Papá 🫡❤️.
He put on his airpods and played the voicenote.
"Nico, can you call your mother? He didn't answer my texts nor my calls." Paulo's soft voice was slightly hoarse as if he had just finished crying, yet full of concern and fondness. "My God, I really worried of him. But... uh, yeah..." The voice faded, followed by a slow exhale. "Take your time. I know you are in your own... emotion."
Nico felt something warm bloomed in his chest. His father always being a gentle, loving Alpha for Álvaro, something that had taught Nico he could be all soft and loving and still no less Alpha. He wanted to be like him so bad.
He paused the voicenote, knowing that the rest was likely his father assuring and consoling him about the defeat. He would listen to it later when he's in the mood for melancholy. Right now, he just want himself get drowned in his mother's scent. He leaned againts Álvaro's shoulder and closed his eyes. "Papá sent me a voicenote."
"Eh? What did he say? Bet he's crying." His mother replied. "I put no disturb mode on my phone."
"Figured. He just worried why you didn't text him back." Nico said lazily, eyes still shut.
He heard Álvaro exhaled heavily, as if he was exasperated. Nico then pulled himself away and propped himself on his knees. He turned his face to the side and facing Álvaro fully. "I think there's a bright side on this."
Álvaro narrowed his eyes. "My boy's already in wise mode, huh?" An amused smile on that sweet face. "What's the bright side, sweetheart? Tell me."
"Since Spain won, that means I didn't get kicked out and still eat your pasta," Nico said shamelessly. "That's something I should be grateful for."
"Ay, mi príncipe." A helpless chuckle lit up Álvaro's face, and suddenly a warm kiss was planted on Nico's cheek before he could process it. "I will make you and your papá every pasta in the world." His voice lowered as he leaned closer. "With one condition."
"What's it?"
A very suspicious yet sweet smile appeared on the Omega's lips. "Both of you gonna sing 'un beso y una flor' while wrapped in the Spanish flag like a true Spaniard."
Nico felt his stomach drop as his eyes widened. "Uh, no, I mean... Papá and I are loyal—"
"A champion can do whatever he wants, hijo." His mother's eyes gleamed with playfulness. "And I want that."
"I would never." Nico complained, shivering exaggeratedly.
Álvaro's giggle sounded like a very annoying music. "Oh, come on. You are Spanish too, you can celebrate a little."
"No way!" Nico looked horrified, putting on his airpods again and blasting random Quevedo's song on his playlist to swallow the noise. He opened his Instagram, chosing a pic of the Argentina national team with the runner-up medals. But this time, he felt his chest loosen a little and a tender, relieved smile appeared as he typed the caption.
Today more than ever, I'm proud to represent this country, this team, and to be part of a group of incredible people who live and breathe these colors and give their all every moment. All I can say is thank you. I promise to give absolutely everything I have to bring this cup back to Argentina. Congratulations to Spain and all Spaniards.
Aguante Argentina siempre en las buenas y en las malas! 🇦🇷❤️
His thumb pressed sent.